#Harts on the Scent | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rapturously · 17 days ago

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“ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒, 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒. ”

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ paul (the lost boys) x fem!reader.

┆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: an encounter with a familiar face at the boardwalk’s video store leads to a night you’ll never forget.

˹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 9.0K.

˹ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), porn with plot, loss of virginity (reader), vampire antics, hint of bloodplay, paul thinks about killing the reader (briefly), dirty talk, making out, pet names, breast play, hair-pulling kink, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, scent kink, groping, p in v sex, unprotected sex, cowgirl position, finger sucking (brief), catching feelings, cumplay, cliffhanger ending.

˹ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫��𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was a really good way to come back! I am trying to improve my writing and I felt like this was a good warm-up for what’s to come! I hope you guys enjoy! thanks for your support!

SALTWATER KISSES PEPPER AGAINST YOUR CHEEKS WITH THE GENTLE ROLL OF THE TIDE, WHERE THE OCEAN BRUSHES WITH THE SANDY SHORES OF SANTA CARLA. BONFIRES FLICKER THROUGH A STARLIT DUSK, SURROUNDED BY THE SWAYING BODIES OF ROWDY BEACHGOERS.

Smoke stings your nostrils, the pungent haze of marijuana intermingled with scorched driftwood. A seaside breeze drifts across your shoulders, barely covered with a chiffon shawl as you search the growing crowds for your friends.

Santa Carla was unlike anything you’d experienced before, a nocturnal den crawling with so many unfamiliar faces. You had moved here during the peak of summertime, where school wasn’t in-session and each evening was an endless party.

The lukewarm bottle of Redhook swayed within your hand, half-consumed as you tossed it into the nearest bin. Your steps are sluggish as you wander along the beachfront, finding yourself drawn into the fray of a bustling crowd.

It was almost a different place altogether — day versus dusk, where the boardwalk transformed into a haven for the misbegotten. Wedging yourself into the crowd, you catch a glimpse of some local hair-band performing on the stage.

A hand grabs at your hip, causing you to yelp as you swivel, meeting the exuberant eyes of your friend, Chloe. “There you are!” She exclaimed, nose crinkling in amusement. “Jesus, you scare easily!”

With a nettled huff, you turn, noticing the glossy sheen within her gaze — too much to drink. “You grabbed me,” You insisted, barely able to hear her over the rancor of the crowd. “What’s going on?” Your inquiry nearly dissipated into the background.

“Devin wants to check out that stupid video store, do you want to come with? It shouldn’t be long!” Chloe chimed, catching the wandering eye of some sleaze through the crowd. She waved, but you seemed entirely disinterested.

“Yeah, it’s getting too loud over here,” Following her lead, she grasped ahold of your hand, polished nails snagging on your bracelet. There is a noticeable sashay in her steps. “How much have you had to drink?”

“God, you sound like my mother! I’ve had a few, but I’m fine! Devin is taking me home,” She mused, and you happened to roll your eyes. The position of matriarchal friend had involuntarily fallen to you, not that you minded. “Come on!”

Shuffling through the sand, you make your way up a flight of wooden steps, and you are thankful for the distraction. The rancor of rock music dissipates, devolving into the ambiance of fairgoers and stereos, instead.

Before you moved to California, you wouldn’t have dared to set foot in a place like this — but age and assurance bolstered your confidence. You enjoyed going out to these beachside promenades, even if it wasn’t always your scene.

The eclectic nightlife and view of the beach were satisfactory enough for you, with enough entertainment to last a lifetime. Neon lights from overhanging signs buzz with shades of pink and green, blanketing the boardwalk in an array of vibrant colors.

Video Max was a hotspot in Santa Carla — you’d been there more times than you could count since the move. The idle hum of Corey Hart filled the silence, trickling in over the store’s radio as Chloe hauled you inside.

Devin waved from across the shelves, clutching a copy of John Carpenter’s Halloween in his hand. “Thought you guys got lost!” He piped up, offering you a friendly smile. He was a good friend, and you’d been trying to nudge him toward Chloe since you joined the group.

“Almost,” You mused, feeling Chloe release you from her vice-like hold. It allowed you to peruse the shelves, absentmindedly scanning for any movie that happened to snag your attention. “Halloween isn’t for a few months.”

With a snort, Devin waved a hand in dismissal. “Never too early for scary movies,” For a moment, you watched his gaze shift elsewhere, past you and toward the door. “Jesus, have you ever seen anything like that before?”

Perplexed, you couldn’t help yourself, attempting to crane your head to peer over your shoulder. Much to your chagrin, your staring wasn’t entirely subtle, directed toward the group of guys filing into the video store.

Eccentric was certainly a term to describe the four, who moved in an eerie synchronization, like a pack of wolves prowling for prey. At the helm, the platinum-blonde bore a smug smirk, leading his flock into the fray, closely followed by the dark-haired one, whose expression was indiscernible.

The blonde pair reminded you of chortling hyenas, with the shorter one maintaining a curly mullet and a cheshire grin. It was the taller blonde with crazed tresses that ensnared your attention, his hair disheveled, reminding you of a lion’s mane. His overcoat and stressed, white jeans stuck out like a sore thumb.

The Boardwalk Boys — their infamy was something of a legend in Santa Carla, according to Chloe.

Through parted lips, you turned away, knowing you’d ogled for far too long. Instead, you made small talk with Devin and Chloe, tugging your shawl tighter around your shoulders. “Hey, how long are you guys planning on sticking around?”

“Not sure,” Devin rubbed the back of his neck, nearly catching Chloe from swaying into one of the shelves. “Might need to get this one home, as soon as possible.” He sighed, tone indicative of playfulness instead of exasperation.

“No,” Chloe whined, hanging upon Devin’s arm with an exaggerated pout. She glanced at you, eyes alight with bewilderment and intrigue before she leaned over, ushering you closer. “C’mere.” She whispered.

Concerned, you leaned over conspiratorially, palms planted against the top of the shelf. “You are painfully drunk,” You murmured, unable to mask your laughter as she patted your cheek, manicured nails tapping at your skin. “What, what’s wrong?”

“He’s staring at you,” She murmured, and before you could try to turn and look, she held you in-place. “The blonde one with the stupid overcoat, he keeps checking you out.” Chloe snickered, wiggling her eyebrows.

“What?” The bitter sting of disbelief rippled throughout your chest, a crippling denial that often permeated most of your interactions with boys. You found it hard to believe that one of them would have an inkling of interest.

Devin appeared mildly worried, throat bobbing as he dipped closer, brows furrowing together. “Twisted Sister motherfucker,” He uttered, confirming Chloe’s observations with one snarky remark alone. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you.”

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, a bundle of nerves made residence within your stomach, gooseflesh raking across your spine. Your resolve splintered at the seams, perspiration breaking out upon your palms.

It was almost as if you could feel his gaze boring a hole through you, a heat so foreign and intense that your throat grew tight. In an attempt to relieve a sliver of anxiousness, you picked at your bracelet, gritting your teeth together.

“Should I say something?” There wasn’t anything inherently malicious about the stranger’s oppressive stare, but you could feel it. Chloe shook her head, prepared to encourage you to go and talk to him until the sound of voices grew closer.

Your streak of charisma seemed to wither then and there, shriveling away like dying leaves. Words turned to ash upon your tongue as the blonde happened to approach, lingering a shelf away as to appear inconspicuous.

“He’s cute,” Chloe slurred, a mischievous twinkle within her eye, a subtle hint for you to relax. Devin appeared less than enthused with her astute observation, but let it rest. “Definitely say something.”

“We need to get you home,” Devin murmured, a twinge of suspicion rippling through him. Anyone who frequented Santa Carla knew about the Boardwalk Boys, but one look alone, and something about them was unsettling. “You okay?”

Steeling yourself, you happened to nod, offering Devin a nervous smile. “Peachy.” With a steady exhale, you turned around, greeted by the wolfish grin of the lion’s mane blonde. He looked as if he had been ripped straight from a metal band, with some savage element to him.

Cerulean hues pierced through your own, stale cologne wafting from him. The cropped, mesh top he wore beneath the seemingly-archaic overcoat caught your eye, offering a teasing glimpse of his musculature.

He was unlike anyone you’d seen before, something peculiar — a wild card, whose charisma bled through from his grin alone. “Kept wonderin’ if you were gonna hide from me,” He crooned, head canting to one side. “I’m not mean and scary, promise.”

“Sorry,” Through a mumbled apology, you felt your features warm, as if you’d stepped into an open flame. Something about his very presence seemed to latch its talons into you. “I guess I got a little shy.” You confessed.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” His attention shifted to Devin and Chloe. “You mind if I steal her from you?” There was an unusual sincerity within his tone, laced with amusement. “S’long as it’s good with you, ‘course.”

Unexpected chivalry was the last thing you envisioned from this stranger, but you weren’t about to protest, glancing at Devin and Chloe. “You should probably take Chloe home,” You prompted, chewing at the inside of your cheek. “Tell her to call me tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Devin nodded, partially carrying Chloe against his side. “Be careful, okay?” His pointed statement was primarily directed at your new companion, who playfully crossed his hand over his chest.

“Swear on my life, bro.” His lopsided smirk and chortling was borderline infectious, hues glittering with bemusement as Devin nodded, albeit begrudgingly. You watched as your friends departed Video Max, leaving you to your present company.

Flicking a nail across your bracelet, your attention resumed its full concentration on the man before you, whose wicked style intrigued you. “What’s your name?” Introductions were more awkward than not, but he seemed well-adept at navigating these things.

“Paul, but you can call me anything you want.” His flirtatious nature wasn’t lost upon you, precocious like a playful imp. He stepped closer, leaning against one of the shelves in a casanova manner, eyes beginning to crinkle.

He was endlessly charming, even if you found his pick-up lines to be somewhat outdated. A brief huff of laughter escaped you as you extended your hand, treating him to a sweet smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Paul.”

Your name was freshly emblazoned on his mind, with no intention of fading away. There was something inherently tender about you, a warmth rarely found in this pit of depravity. He liked that, your innocence — it was hard to control himself.

Piety brought out the predator in Paul, whose boisterous personality was something of a magnet to you. Admittedly, he hadn’t seen you before — put a face to a name, let it drive him insane. Your smell was tantalizing, a rich concoction that made him salivate.

Paul stepped closer, weaving around the shelf’s corner as he made residence within your space. Your brief inspection of his attire brought about a multitude of peculiarities, from the tarnished medals clipped to his jacket, to the tattered holes across his white jeans.

“Real nice to meet you, babe,” He crowed, hues shamelessly flickering over your frame. There was a softness to you, unspoiled and supple, akin to some gift that he longed to unwrap. “Wanna ditch this place, head outside?”

The innocuous pet name was merely an extension of his flirtation, something you reveled in. Molten heat swirled within the pit of your stomach, like a flock of butterflies, making you preen with excitement. “Yeah, why not?”

Lodging a toothpick between his teeth, Paul threw an arm around you, palm gently pressing against the small of your back as he guided you outside. The friends he’d come in with glowered as he passed, causing you to subconsciously move into Paul’s side.

As dusk furthered into the later hours, the hour of the bat, the crowds had started to thin. A cluster of scrappy motorcycles sat several feet away, along the wooden bannister. “Don’t mind my brothers, they’re just jealous.”

Brothers? The thought is perplexing — there isn’t much of a resemblance between the four of them, but you settle on the logical path of adoption.

“Jealous?” Incredulity ripples through your tone, as saccharine as sugar. Paul snickers, amused by your own obliviousness — it’s sweet, your humility, but he doesn’t seem surprised. “Why?”

“Why d’you think?” Paul steered you toward the bannister, making himself comfortable at your side. A feeble heat wafted from you, accompanied by the thick haze of your scent. It stung his nostrils, producing a dull burn within his throat.

“Oh,” He got the girl, you think, folding your arms to let them perch atop the railing. “I’ve heard about you guys — the Boardwalk Boys. I didn’t know I’d be speaking to a celebrity tonight.” You teased, tone jocular.

Through a guffaw and a wild grin, Paul nearly bumped his hip into you, twisting the toothpick between his teeth. “We got a bad reputation for bein’ troublesome,” He mused. “Hope you’re not thrown off by that.”

“I’m not,” You insisted, despite your initial hesitation. Casting judgment on someone you knew little about wasn’t fair — and Paul was the most intriguing person you’d spoken to thus far. “Where do you and your brothers live?”

“Don’t have a house,” Paul seemed nonchalant about this fact, placing a boot up upon one of the lower rungs. “We jus’ live in a cave on Hudson’s Bluff — party and slum it.” He noticed the look of astonishment on your face. “Totally legal, by the way.”

Through a furrowed brow and warm features, you canted your head to one side. “You live in a cave? Doesn’t that get —”

“Dangerous?” Paul interjected, grinning like the cat who’d caught the canary. He slithered closer, throwing an arm around your shoulders, ring-adorned fingers tracing over your arm. “Nothing about me is tame, baby.”

Biting back a hiccup, you felt yourself becoming unabashedly smitten, chewing at the inside of your cheek. There was nothing civilized and demure about Paul, who was as wild and unpredictable as they came. The juxtaposition to your pious demeanor clashed with his — in a good way.

Paul thoroughly enjoyed living on the edge, an amalgamation of all things untamed and dangerous. Recklessness was fun for him, like the thrill of the hunt. Sometimes, he let the human facade slip enough to rouse suspicion — David didn’t like that.

His touch was akin to a stab of ice, even through your chiffon shawl. A brief gasp rippled through you at the foreign sensation, but it wasn’t unwelcome. Swallowing your nervousness, you happened to stay put, gaze drifting to meet cerulean irises.

“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you’re worried about,” In a valiant attempt to show a sliver of boldness, you found yourself wanting to impress Paul. “I think I can handle it.” Your insistence was cute to Paul, whose nose wrinkled instead.

“I like that fire you got, but you’re shakin’ like a leaf,” Paul teased, reveling in the flustered look plastered onto your visage. Before you could avert your eyes, he reached to tilt your chin toward him, as playful as could be. “You’re real pretty.”

Jesus, he was smooth — a crazed charm that was akin to a siren’s song, dragging you into the depths of his ocean. Compliments accompanied by his suaveness and fleeting touches made your nerves blaze with exhilaration.

Having melted the barrier of strangeness between you both, Paul hovered above you, leaning inward to sniff at your tresses. It was an amalgamation of all things sweet — from something floral to a hint of honey and vanilla.

“You’re …” Ensnared within his incendiary gaze, you found yourself unable to find the words, as if they ceased to exist. A beat of silence gripped you as you considered what to say. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

Most girls he sunk his teeth into weren’t so mesmerized — and if they were, they were often beneath his hypnotic spell. Your awe and bewilderment appeared to be genuine.

Paul laughed, the sound vibrating through him, ripping clean through his throat. He thoroughly enjoyed how smitten you were with him, and the innocuous attention was something he chased after. “You think so?”

Flicking the toothpick aside, Paul noticed the coy smile tugging at either corner of your mouth. It was easy to dip into the recesses of your mind, dig into each crevice for answers, but he chose not to. The unpredictability of it all enticed him.

“Yeah, you just … You’re very fearless, and bold. You don’t care what anybody else thinks of you.” If only you were confident enough to take a page out of his book, you might’ve been the same way. “It’s very attractive.” Your confession emerged as a soft-spoken utterance.

Unable to suppress his growing smirk, Paul’s lips neared the shell of your ear. “You hitting on me?” He purred, able to catch a whiff of your pheromones. It was a wave of something feminine, making his blood boil with anticipation.

The boardwalk became incredibly dismal, mere ambiance serving as a backdrop for your conversation with Paul. You cared little for curfew, little for going home. “I am,” With a steady exhale, you straightened your posture. “Is that okay?”

“Fuck, ‘course it’s okay,” Paul mumbled, lips brushing across the shell of your ear, causing gooseflesh to ice your spine. A clammy chill spread along the back of your neck, breath hitching within your throat. “Prettiest girl here.”

Whispered praise raked hot embers along your spine, causing your stomach to roll with waves of excitement. You were terrified to touch him, lips agape as he tilted your chin, forcing you to hold his stare.

“You’re sweet,” You murmured, tone wrought with disbelief as you mustered a smile, dazzled by Paul’s beguiling visage. His closeness was marked by the unusual chill of his flesh, the brush of his mesh-clad chest against yours. “Paul.”

“Should ditch this place, baby,” Paul’s breath fanned across your mouth, his scent a strange conglomerate of marijuana, sun-dried carrion, and stale cologne to mask it all. “Come and check out the cave.”

A sliver of your being sensed danger, as if your hackles bristled at the thought of going somewhere completely secluded with him. It was easy to dismiss your twinge of paranoia as nervousness, and you did just that.

“I’ll go with you.” With a brief exhale, you nodded in agreement, earning the delight of Paul, who seemed incredibly pleased. His bark of a laugh reverberated throughout his chest as he planted a sloppy kiss against your cheek.

“C’mon, I’ll give you a lift,” His outstretched hand invited you toward his scrappy motorcycle, which seemed similar to a dirt-bike instead of a true Harley or Indian. “I’m a safe driver.”

Despite his faux assurances and oozing charm, some sliver of you felt uneasy. It would just be the both of you, which seemed infinitely more comfortable than having his brothers around.

Paul’s grin never diminished, glinting through the encroaching dark as he settled onto the bike, ensuring that you were situated behind him. “I don’t know if I believe you.” You mused, relieving some of the tension.

His laugh made you smile, like the cackle of a coyote — nothing tame about him. Despite his carefree nature, you enjoyed his company, savored the sense of liberation you felt with him. There wasn’t a need to perform, only exist as you were.

“Believe it, baby, we’re goin’ for a ride,” He mused, revving his bike with a noisy howl. Before he could spin off of the boardwalk, you immediately lurched forward, arms hooking around his midsection. “Might wanna hold on tight.”

Seaborne wind whipped against your cheeks, the night chill seeping into your bones. The silver glow of the moon sparkled across the ocean, framing Paul’s tresses in an eerie light. He was frenzied, screaming into the twilight as he drove across the beach.

A shudder of ecstasy raked across your spine, exhilaration fueled by a stab of fear. You clung to him like a drowning woman, digits tangled into the mesh, feeling the icy plane of his abdomen beneath.

A sharp inhale fluttered within your lungs when Paul’s bike hopped over a log, causing you to tense with anticipation. There was something maddening about his driving — recklessness, excitement, the thrill of the night.

The boardwalk faded into the background, mere sparkling lights in the distance, now dissipated. Hudson’s Bluff was a sprawling forest before one made it to the cliffside, barren with dirt and a sparse tree. The rocky incline that led to the mouth of the cave was steep and jagged.

“Home sweet home,” Paul crowed, guiding his bike toward the mess of boards, caution tape, and flotsam. Driftwood had washed up onto shore, with tattered tarps partially strewn across the cave’s entrance. “Didn’t scare you, did I?”

As he dismounted, he noticed the startled look upon your face, akin to a baby deer lost in the thicket. It seemed to fade once your feet landed upon slick rocks, waves kissing the sediment-laden shores. “Only a little.” You confessed.

Paul snickered, offering you a ring-adorned hand as he wound closer to you, planting a sly kiss along the back of your ear. “Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to,” He murmured, able to detect the spike of warmth in your blood, the hitch of your breath. “You’ll love it down here.”

The cavernous abyss of the cave’s mouth made you shiver, your grip on Paul’s hand becoming uncomfortably snug as he led you down. It was all uneven and perilous, the cave marked by overhanging foliage, moss, and rocky outcroppings.

Within the underbelly of their home, it became somewhat cozy, strewn in countless trappings of the present time, intermingled with that of the past. There were many huge posters of various bands, a portion of the cave carved off for their bikes and workshopping scrap.

“Did something fall underground here?” You asked, noticing the dilapidated fountain in the center of the cave, where slivers of moonlight crept through. Sweeping a digit over the old stone, you collected a century’s worth of dust.

“Used to be an old hotel back in the day, before it collapsed. Some sinkhole or somethin’, David knows the whole story,” Paul replied, tossing a torch into one of the barrels. “I didn’t listen to much of it.” He chortled, gaze fixated upon you.

Worn tapestries hung from the scaling ceilings, crimson velvet tarnished by the passage of time. Much of the decor was an amalgamation from the past and the present, worlds colliding in the depths of the cave.

“It doesn’t bother you, living here?” Perhaps your question might’ve passed as judgmental, but you were simply curious. Paul hopped up onto the ledge of the fountain, able to look down upon you.

“Nah. You get used to it,” Sauntering along the edge, he jerked his head toward another alcove of the cave. “Wanna see my place? Best part of the cave.” He mused, jumping down to land right in front of you.

You began to relax, allowing yourself to lower your guard with Paul. Vulnerability began to waft from you, a semblance of comfort that you couldn’t quite place. “Yeah, I’d love to.” Warmth crept along your spine when he took your hand again.

The cave was much bigger than you thought, with sprawling passageways, alcoves, and concealed grottos that didn’t make themselves known. Paul’s ��room’ was nothing more than a dip in the rock, shrouded by gaudy velvet curtains.

It smelled of marijuana and a hint of cologne, accompanied by mildew and moisture. Disheveled sheets were strewn across a mattress, metal posters covering most of the rock. Mötley Crüe, Cinderella, Warrant, Scorpions, Judas Priest — Paul had an excellent taste in music.

“You’re really into music, aren’t you?” A brief bubble of laughter emerged from your lips as you gestured toward the posters. His stereo and cassette tapes sat atop a rickety vanity, mirror smashed and missing half of the glass.

“Yeah. I play guitar,” Paul was merely a novice, but he wasn’t the worst player in the world. “Metal not your speed?” He mused, gauging your response. Marko labeled him as a music snob, not that he could help it.

“No, I enjoy it. My parents are pretty strict on it, though,” You mumbled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Most of his belongings were scattered — strewn about the room or stacked into disorganized piles. “I like it here.”

Upon first glance, Paul saw you as a meal, a plaything, a means to an end. He intended on feeding from you, given how saccharine your scent happened to be. Blood was blood, but it did have a certain bouquet and viscosity, varying from person to person.

Now, he was beginning to have a change of heart.

Humans were disposable, nothing — piles of warm meat with a bloodstream, something to consume and discard once he had his fill. It was a callous way to think of it, but he wasn’t concerned with the livelihood of a stranger.

Despite the supernatural appeal he had, especially towards you, whatever unconscious effect you possessed was beginning to impact him. Paul lacked the desire to feast, to kill. Instead, it was simply that — the desire to be with you.

For a moment, he considered turning you himself — being like him, an eternal statue bound to his side. Then again, Paul obtained some sick thrill from toying with your humanity, seeing how far he could push his limits.

The fiery burning within his throat became nothing more than background noise, replaced with baser, carnal instincts. Paul’s jaw tensed, and he watched in rapturous silence as you picked up a Def Leppard cassette.

“Wanna listen?” Paul asked, noticing the flicker of excitement within your eyes. Coming from a religious background, rock music was demonized in your household — this was a much-needed break for you.

“If you don’t mind.” Beaming, you couldn’t help but warm as Paul plucked the tape from your hands, hovering beside you as he placed it into the stereo. Love Bites wasn’t exactly a clean song, and Paul snickered at the coincidental lyrics.

With a theatrical groan, he rocked back onto his mattress, listening to the squeak of the springs protest his weight. Paul let himself bask in the moment, tossing his overcoat somewhere toward the alcove’s entrance.

A pang of attraction rippled through you at the sight of him, spread wide with his arms planted behind him, mane of hair making him look like a rockstar. You stood with the shrewdness of a mouse, picking at the frayed stitching of your shawl.

Paul loved your innocence — it made you wildly gorgeous in ways that made his skin crawl. Cerulean hues shamelessly flickered across your form, lips quirked into a lopsided smirk.

“When are you gonna stop bein’ shy and come sit on my lap?” The sharp question was enough to make your knees wobble, heat beginning to pool within the pit of your stomach. Your doe-eyed stare flew to Paul, who seemed entirely unbothered.

Gawking as if he’d asked something offensive, you let your bewilderment show. “What?” It felt like some raunchy dream you’ve had before, but this was reality.

“You heard me,” Paul crooned, extending one hand in your direction. “C’mere.” Fuck, he could smell you — the familiar scent of feminine arousal struck his senses like a gut-punch, causing him to salivate. It was going to be a fight to control himself.

Nervousness dissipated into excitement as you abandoned your lingering insecurities, shuffling forward until you were in between his legs. Your hand found his own, calloused digits smoothing themselves across your palm, reveling in your softness.

Paul brought your palm to his lips, pressing a kiss against the silky skin there. The sharp cadence of your breath made him grin, a chuckle reverberating throughout his body.

“You are so pretty,” You sighed, unable to smother your compliment. There was no one quite as captivating as Paul, whose untamed appearance only appealed to your attraction. “So attractive.”

Amused, Paul appeared flattered by your sweet praise, and it turned him on to the point of no return. Jesus, he wanted you — wanted you for himself. Possessiveness wasn’t something he was familiar with, yet it began to fester inside of him nonetheless.

Coaxing you into his lap, you swallowed the growing lump within your throat, thighs squeezing at either side of his hips. You straddled him, feeling those ring-adorned hands clamor for your waist, caressing into your curves.

“Lookin’ good enough to eat, sweet thing,” Paul crowed, pinching the chiffon shawl between his fingers. “You want to fool around?” Blunt, straightforward — his intentions seemed crystalline.

Another hitch formed within the depths of your throat, gooseflesh prickling along your spine. “Yes,” With an excitable sigh, you attempted to seem subdued, but this was the first time you’d done something like this. “Please.”

Paul’s palms cupped your hips, groping at the pliant flesh through your dress as he moved to kiss you. Carnality bled through his lips, tasting of smoke and the twang of copper. A low groan stirred within his chest as you grasped at his hair.

Dusty-blonde tresses seemed stiff between your fingertips, layered in age-old product that hadn’t been washed out. You found yourself not questioning the strangeness of it, lost within the fervor of his mouth.

Def Leppard saturated the space around you, ambiance beginning to soothe whatever anxiousness you’d felt before. Paul was a fantastic kisser, tongue swiping across your lower lip on occasion, head canted to deepen the entanglement.

Prying your shawl aside, you let the chiffon garment taper off to the floor, a shiver rolling down your spine. Exposed to the cave’s mild air, your mouth eagerly clamored against his own, feeling one of his hands slither toward your backside.

You felt as if you’d been set ablaze, flesh burning with a carnal intensity, something you hadn’t experienced before. An amalgamation of new sensations began to overwhelm you, the thrill of desire settling into your bones.

Paul brazenly groped at your rump, feeling you up through your skirt with greedy caresses. Each kiss was voracious, stealing every wisp of air from your lungs until there was nothing left but a burning, a longing unlike anything you’d endured before.

“Wait,” Through a breathy sigh, Paul’s lips came to a crawl, piercing hues gauging you through blonde lashes. “I’ve never gone much further than this. Is that okay?” Your inquiry was a softspoken one, laced with innocence.

Fantasy ran rampant as Paul considered your confession, tongue darting to lap across his lower lip. Armed with this knowledge, he knew that he really needed to behave, or else he’d break you.

“Fuck yeah,” He huffed, tracing his palm along the pliant flesh of your thigh. “If you don’t wanna do something, you tell me, yeah? I got some ideas,” Paul crooned, pressing a string of kisses along your jaw. “Think you’ll like it.”

A tremor of ardor rippled through your stomach, evoking a sense of exhilaration. Curious digits found their way to his bare shoulders, exploring the broad muscle there as he kissed his way across your throat.

“Like what?” A sharp exhale tore past your parted lips as teeth nicked your jugular, testing the waters for what was to come. Paul’s smirk was palpable, like an icy brand etched into your flesh.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He purred, toying with your intrigue, enough to make you squirm within his lap. You very nearly froze at the incessant prodding of his erection against your thigh. “Fuck, you smell so good, baby.”

Whatever perfume you happened to spritz on today, you made a mental note to wear it again. Gooseflesh crawled across your spine, thighs involuntarily attempting to clench together as his palm drifted underneath your top.

With a silent insistence, Paul helped you squirm out of your blouse, catching an eyeful of your lace-laden chest. His lips twitched into a wolfish smirk, eyes gleaming with a fervent hunger.

You nearly shrank beneath his piercing gaze, finding that your blouse had made its way to the floor, lost to the moment. The lace of your brassiere was girlish and frilly, though you suspected it wouldn’t stay on for very long.

Paul pressed a string of needy kisses along your shoulder, ring-adorned hand skirting to knead at your breast. A soft moan tore past your mouth, a sound that he had been itching to elicit from you. He teased your nipple over the fabric, watching you squirm within his lap.

“Paul!” A low whine escaped you, one that reeked of neediness, a burning desire that had coalesced into a flame. His mouth found the dip between your neck and shoulder, sucking a hickey into the sensitive skin there.

“Like it when you say my name,” He purred, nose nuzzling along your throat. The sanguine pulse of your blood was tantalizing, like a savory treat being dangled before him, but he resisted. “Gonna take this off of you.” One digit plucked at the strap of your brassiere.

“Mm.” With a noise of approval, you felt Paul move to unhook the garment with swift expertise. The humid breeze that drifted through the cave caused you to bristle, letting him leave you bare. His pupils seemed to expand with excitement.

Fuck, you were gorgeous — Paul was having a difficult time focusing on what part of you he enjoyed the most. “You are so fuckin’ hot,” He growled, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. “What am I gonna do with you, babe?”

A shiver of exhilaration iced your spine, arousal pooling between your thighs, heavier than you expected. Molten heat swirled within your stomach, warmth permeating your features. “Whatever you want.” You uttered, and he happened to grin.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” Paul crooned, dexterous hands wandering toward your ass, pushing you forward until his face brushed against your sternum. His tongue traced a pattern around your breasts, savoring the sweet slick of your flesh.

Swallowing the lump within your throat, your fingers raked themselves through his wild tresses, finding their purchase as he kissed at your chest. A satisfied whine left you, followed by a gasp as he began to suck at your nipple.

Tits were his thing — it elicited some frenzied reaction from him, the softness of your chest; supple and unspoiled. Paul’s digits found your unattended breast, kneading into the flesh there, causing you to moan.

The rough pad of his thumb rolled across your nipple, evoking a squeak from you. His cheshire smirk was tangible against your skin, like a hot brand, etched for eternity.

His greedy suckling dwindled to kisses, planting a string of wet pecks to your chest. “You are somethin’ else,” Paul hummed, a glimmer of lust shimmering within his eyes. “Lay down for me, yeah?” He murmured, planting a kiss against your jugular.

The erratic beating of your heart was born of excitement, a thrill unlike any other. His allure had captivated you, and before Paul’s change of heart, it was the predator ensnaring prey. It was the supernatural attraction of being a vampire.

Without question, you adhered to his request, the obedient human, awkwardly shuffling to recline across the mattress. It groaned in protest, yet you paid it little mind as Paul crawled toward you.

It was animalistic, something that sent a shudder of fear through your stomach, a good fear. Cerulean hues glistened with unrestrained desire, lips splitting into a smirk as he made residence between your legs.

Hands grasped mesh as he tugged his top away, musculature exposed to you, godly in some inhuman way. Arousal sat heavy between your thighs, beginning to drive Paul to madness. He found your skirt, head canting to one side.

“You mind if I get rid of this? Just gettin’ in the way of what I want,” The amorous cadence of his voice made you press your legs together in an attempt to relieve the tension. “Gettin’ shy on me, babe?” Paul teased, prompting you to smile.

“You can take it off.” With a shrewd utterance, you watched as Paul sluggishly tugged at your skirt. The frilly garment disappeared, tossed somewhere behind him. Thin, cotton panties were all that kept you from exposure.

Slinking forward, Paul’s body blanketed yours, arms keeping himself propped up as he gazed down at you, lips quirked into a grin. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?” His mouth found your collarbone, leaving behind a string of hot, wet kisses.

A shaky sigh escaped your lips, laced with the tremor of anticipation as you reached for his tresses. Soft fingers raked through his stiff mane, eliciting a low, satisfied hum from him.

He kissed you wherever he pleased, finding plenty of enjoyment in your body. Your flesh was like silk, akin to velvet, an unblemished surface, all for his own pleasure. Paul kissed his way between your breasts, briefly nipping at your sternum.

The heady, dizzying scent of your arousal continued to scorch his nostrils, a burn of sheer ecstasy. Bloodlust had dwindled into lust — the want he felt for you far outweighed the desire to feed. A soft moan left you when he reached your stomach, hands finding your thighs.

“P—Paul, where …” Embarrassment flooded through you, warming your already-feverish flesh with bashfulness. A guffaw left your greedy paramour, who did not stop his trail of reverent kisses. “You don’t have to.” You squeaked.

Cute — Paul’s mouth twisted into a wolfish grin, cerulean hues reflecting the yearning of a man starved. “I want to,” His enthusiasm bewildered you, and the throbbing between your legs seemed incessant, now. “Fuck, I want it so bad, babe.”

A shiver rolled along your spine, digits idly tensing within his hair as he kissed a trail along your pelvic bone, teeth snagging into the waistband of your panties. An audible gasp ripped through your throat, eyes widening into a doe-eyed stare.

Paul’s hues met yours, lips still quirked into a smirk even as he guided your panties down your legs. He had them clenched between his teeth like a vice, sluggishly dragging them down until they were hitched around your knees.

Your stomach did flips, a whine bubbling from your throat as he pressed kisses along your calf. No man had ever bothered to do something as sultry as this — and you became lost to his lascivious charm.

Involuntarily, you pressed your thighs together, visibly smitten as Paul clicked his tongue. “Wanna taste you so bad,” He groaned, chin perched against your knee. “You gonna make me beg or somethin’?” A bark of laughter reverberated through his chest.

“No, I just — It’s embarrassing,” It was silly, so silly to be flustered over your own anatomy. Paul appeared amused, but he seemed more than happy to placate you, trailing his fingers along your thigh. “What if you don’t like it?”

“I’ve eaten worse, sweet thing,” Paul chortled, like the snickering of a hyena as he kissed your knee, head cocked to one side. “Your pussy is ‘bout to be the best thing I’ve had in months, and that’s bein’ serious.” He assured.

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, and his crass humor seemed to melt away your apprehension entirely. “I don’t want to starve you.” Your own jest made him grin — a full, ear-splitting leer that brought back his wild gleam.

Slowly, you parted your legs, and Paul whistled triumphantly, gluing himself to you with an inhuman haste. His mouth pressed open, wet kisses to your inner thighs, greed consuming him as he chased after that smell.

Your scent had been tormenting him since the moment he strolled into Video Max, and now, he was inhaling it all with glee. “Fuck, you’re soakin’ wet,” Paul groaned, causing your breath to hitch as you reclined into the mattress. “Pretty.”

Without pause, his tongue dragged across your cunt, akin to the burn of hot embers over your slit, an ecstasy that made you writhe. A growl ripped through his chest, one that made you shudder as he lapped at your core.

His tresses became your anchor, something to tether you to him as you tugged, pulled, and fisted at his mane. Paul seemed to enjoy it, nose nuzzling along your mound as he vigorously explored your cunt.

Taut, sinewy hands circled beneath your thighs, coming to perch atop your hips, caging you in against his mouth. He was primal — sloppy and enthusiastic, with little tact to his ministrations. His tongue traveled anywhere and everywhere.

The taste of your cunt drives Paul into a frenzy, like that of a fine stout, ambrosial — he’s intoxicated, hit with a buzz that clouds his mind. Your thighs coil around his head, involuntarily flexing against his temples.

There is a euphoria that swells within you, a fire that demands to be extinguished. Paul’s tongue possesses a mind of its own, eagerly lapping from your entrance to clit. At the first lap along the pearl of your cunt, you cry out.

Unbeknownst to you, Paul could’ve stayed between your thighs for an eternity, with little desire to catch his breath. Control became difficult to grasp, with the feral urge to ruin you taking root, the fantasy spreading like a creeping mold.

Between dizzying, wanton moans and excitable gasps, clawing for each wisp of air, you tug at his tresses with an iron grasp. His lips plant hot, open-mouthed kisses along your cunt, tongue gathering your slick.

Greed was his cardinal sin, a gluttony for you, for every fiber of your being. Cerulean hues flickered toward you, head thrown back, caught within the throes of ecstasy. It only furthered his lust, furthered the festering obsession.

The incessant throbbing of his cock was becoming mildly distracting, enough for Paul to absentmindedly grind his hips into the mattress. The friction made his flesh burn with excitement, lips moving to purse around your clit.

“Taste so fuckin’ good.” Paul’s sultry husk momentarily broke your concentration, heart fluttering beneath your breast as you glanced down. It was as if he ensnared you through eyes alone, ensuring that you watched as he sucked at that bundle of nerves.

With a noisy, pleading moan, your back began to arch from the mattress, springs hissing in protest as you tugged at the base of his skull. You brought him into your cunt, not that he minded, and you were treated to a barrage of messy licks.

A sheen of arousal coats his chin, senses swarmed with your scent; a thick, feminine aroma. Pupils dilate with thinly-veiled excitement as one hand relocates, slithering from your hip to the warmth between your legs.

Time isn’t wasted with Paul as two digits begin to stroke along your entrance, mouth preoccupied with suckling on your clit. With a muted thrust of your hips, you can feel the huff of laughter from your crazed paramour, who pins your hips down with his other palm.

A demanding fire burns bright within the pit of your stomach, arousal coalescing between your thighs, a nectar that Paul consumes every drop of. Your flesh feels unbearably hot, like a fever you can’t sweat out as you approach your peak.

Throaty groans tear through Paul’s throat as he hungrily eats you out, drunk off of your taste. Two fingers ease themselves inside of you, initially sluggish until it turns into something erratic, feeling you clench around his digits.

“Paul,” It almost stole the wind from your lungs; the graze of teeth around your clit, causing you to shudder. With an incoherent string of moans, you continue to babble his name as if it were a prayer. “P—Paul, m’close!” You croon.

White-hot bliss floods your insides, and it only continues to spur Paul on as he pistons his fingers into your cunt. The sensation makes you writhe, an ecstasy unlike any other. He doesn’t slow down, alternating between broad laps of his tongue and sucking at your pearl.

Enraptured, Paul observed you like that of a patient predator, grinding himself into the mattress again. His fingers work against you, thrusting in once more before curling — and that seems to set you over the edge.

With a wave of overwhelming pleasure, you feel your climax hit you hard, like a rush of blood to the head. Uncoiling your thighs from around Paul’s head, you feel sticky, leaving behind the mess of your ardor for him to clean up.

A thin layer of perspiration clung to your skin, glistening through the low light of the cave. A burning sensation stung your lungs as you let yourself breathe, regaining your composure.

Paul lapped at his lips, emerging from between your legs with a cheshire grin. “You’re hot,” He sighed, peppering a string of kisses all along your thigh. “Need a break?” With a cajoling tone, he slithered closer, resting his head against your stomach.

Blonde tresses stuck out in all directions, wild and disheveled from your constant pulling. You pushed your fingertips across his scalp, and he happened to curl up closer to you. “That was perfect.”

“I’m good at pleasin’.” Paul snickered, pecking another myriad of kisses along your abdomen. He moved off of you, settling beside you on the mattress, stuffing a pillow beneath his head. The front of his jeans did little to conceal his erection.

In a simmering silence, you wordlessly moved to clamor into Paul’s lap, palms embracing the plane of his chest. You traced your fingers through the blonde hair there, noticing the way in which his visage illuminated with excitement.

Silky digits traced the line of his stubbled jaw, past his collarbone and toward the coarse line of his happy trail. “You’re so pretty.” A soft mumble escaped your lips as you touched him wherever you could, feeling his hands knead into your hips.

“Fuck,” Paul grumbled, becoming impatient as he writhed beneath you, erection grinding into your core with fervent intent. “Don’t make me wait, baby.” He sighed, giddy as could be when your fingers found his belt.

A pang of elation rippled through you, ardor seeping into your bones as you sluggishly rocked your hips against him. An agonized grunt rumbled throughout his chest, hands squeezing you tight as you unbuttoned his jeans.

Freeing his cock from the confines of strained, white fabric, Paul bristled, nearly steering you onto him out of sheer desperation. Your fingers coyly wrapped around his member, stroking from base to tip, flush within your palm.

Another hiss of impatience slipped through his teeth, festering with want as you pleasured him. He was flattered that you bothered to return the favor, but Paul was hyperfocused on fucking you until you sobbed.

“Minx,” He mused, catching your mesmerized stare as he flashed a wolfish grin in your direction. You ceased with your toying, sheepishly guiding him toward your aching cunt. “C’mon, just like that.” Paul coaxed, teeth scraping across his lower lip.

It was increasingly difficult to maintain any pious facade with him talking to you like that — resonance little more than a sultry purr, spurring you on. Sluggishly, you lowered yourself onto his cock, the intrusion causing you to moan.

Intermingled sighs of ecstasy drifted throughout the alcove, with Paul gripping your hips like a vice, hard enough to leave bruises. Your nails dug into his abdomen, eliciting a chortle from him as he bucked up into you.

His control was splintering at the seams, feeling your cunt clench around him as he bottomed out inside of you. Your visage contorted into a look of sheer bliss, lips agape and eyes half-lidded as you began to grind against him.

From beneath you, the view was divine — Paul’s hues carefully traced the pliant curves of your breasts, the way your body moved atop him with ease. Your jugular appeared inviting, and for a moment, he was reminded of the burn ripping at his throat.

As you began to move, allowing your pace to become spirited, his thoughts were torn from fractures of feeding to that of pleasure. He was strong enough to move you all on his own, taut digits skirting to your haunches.

“Paul,” You moaned, nails leaving crimson crescents against his chest. His hips happened to clash with yours, cock pounding into your cunt with the lewd clash of flesh. “S—Shit!” A stammered whine escaped you.

Def Leppard filled the void, resonant between the intermingled grunts of Paul and your wanton moans. Deft, needy hands caressed you wherever he could, one palm gripping at your haunch as the other wandered to squeeze your breast.

Pools of dull candlelight bathed you in its glow, ethereal in appearance — he was mesmerized. It wasn’t something that occurred often, being charmed by a human, and yet it happened anyway.

Paul continued to thrust into you, cock nearly kissing your cervix with vigor. Even through his erratic pace, you guided yourself in rhythmic motions along his cock, reduced to a mess of pathetic whimpers and eager cries.

A cacophony of crass noises emanated throughout the walls of his chambers — breathy sighs intermingled with wanton moans, the exchange of flesh for fantasy.

“Fuck, baby,” Paul groaned, the husk of his cadence causing you to shiver in delight. Molten heat churned within the pit of your stomach, arousal pooling between your thighs. “Feels so good.” He huffed.

As if acting upon selfish impulse, you reached for the choker around his neck, hooking two digits into the black fabric as you tugged him up. Pupils dilated with sudden exhilaration, cerulean hues boring into you, as incendiary as an open flame.

Lips clashed together, greedy and hungry — an unfamiliar hunger, one that seemed to sink its talons into you, refusing to let go. You kissed him as if each entanglement would be your last, feeling his teeth scrape across your lower lip.

Paul didn’t seem to mind doing most of the work, feeling your thighs twitch and tremble from exertion. His chest brushed against yours, evoking an animalistic growl from the depths of his throat.

The pace seemed to increase, turning to a wild fervor that filled you with excitement. Your cunt clenched around his cock, bodies sticky with perspiration and fluids, the clash of flesh becoming prominent.

That familiar coil of tenuous heat festered within the pit of your stomach, signaling the encroachment of your release. Without warning, Paul happened to bite down too hard on your lip, and if it weren’t for his restraint, he might’ve taken it further.

“Paul,” Between wanton sighs and needy moans, you grasped at his tresses again, hips grinding against his own. A delicious friction boiled between the both of you, flesh to flesh, driven by desire. “Don’t stop, please.”

One hand skirted to cup his stubbled jaw, able to glimpse a sliver of the untamed side to Paul, the side that captivated you so. He was relentless, stamina borderline inhuman as he continued to guide you atop his lap.

A coppery scent filled his nostrils as a bead of crimson formed upon your lip. Paul bent forward, still fucking you as if it would be his last rut, tongue darting out to lap across your lips.

Saccharine warmth filled his maw for the briefest of moments — your blood, like a fruity bouquet, rich and virile. He hadn’t tasted something so sweet before, and it only made him want more. He kissed you again, with enough passion to make your head spin.

With another lewd clash of his cock slapping away at your cunt, you nearly reeled, moan swallowed by his voracious tongue. It was a messy kiss, fueled by his desire to lap at any drop of blood that oozed from your mouth.

Through a tangle of teeth, tongue, and want, Paul came, bucking up into you as his cock spilled inside of you. An exhale of ecstasy escaped you, mouths parting just enough for you to caress his lower lip with your thumb.

A wicked gleam glistened within his heated stare as he took your thumb into his mouth, pearlescent teeth teasing the fragile skin. A shudder wracked your body, enough to reignite the smoldering desire that now gripped your body.

“Stop that,” You mumbled, albeit playfully as you sluggishly untethered yourself from his lap, thighs scorched by his jeans and the constant friction. It must’ve been late, you realized. “That was …”

“Best you’ve ever had?” Paul teased, a howl of laughter rippling through him. He seemed more than satisfied, something that made you feel better about the whole ordeal. “You’re not gonna run off on me, are you?” He asked.

Curfew was dead and gone — you would face the repercussions come morning. Instead, you happened to try and find your panties, only to notice Paul twirling them around on his hand.

“I’m not going anywhere,” With a huff, you immediately slithered back onto his lap, grabbing them with a flustered smile. Paul had you trapped, caging you in against his chest with a vice-like hold. “Paul.”

“Can’t hear you, sweet thing,” His eyes momentarily fluttered shut, lips curled into a wolfish grin as he squeezed at your rump. You were trying to put your panties back on even still, nose wrinkling with amusement. “Need somethin’ to wear?”

Despite your shrug, Paul moved to find you something adequate. He had a rather extensive collection of ripped band shirts that he accumulated from tourists — none of them possessed a pleasant smell.

He tossed a Judas Priest shirt at you, and while you were in the middle of pulling it on, he was glued to your side again. If you stayed until morning, he would have some explaining to do — or he could drop you at home while you were asleep.

“You’re real pretty,” Paul’s shameless admiration made your flesh warm, a pleasant sensation stirring within your stomach. “You tired? You’re welcome to crash here.” He offered.

“You don’t mind?” Your mother was going to kill you, but it didn’t matter anymore. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning, I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” Despite your reassurance, Paul tossed his head in a show of dismissal.

Admittedly, he could envision you here quite often, vampire or not. There was something about your smell, your blood, your presence — it sucked him right in, even if you were oblivious to it. Paul lounged beside you, watching as you reclined into the pillows.

A beat of silence drifted between the both of you, with Paul ogling you, countenance indiscernible. He seemed a touch surprised when you leaned over to kiss him — a sweet kiss, lacking the carnal intensity of previous entanglements.

“Sleep tight, babe.” Paul mused, watching intently as you fell asleep. Once dawn came, you would find yourself in your own bed, your house — with no knowledge or remembrance of how you got there.

#the lost boys x reader #the lost boys x you #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slasher x y/n #the lost boys 1987 #paul tlb x reader #paul tlb x you #tlb paul x reader #paul tlb #tlb paul #the lost boys fanfiction #the lost boys smut #slasher fanfiction #slasher fanfic

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rothpie · 1 month ago

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❝FIDELITY❞ |part7

MASTERLIST -`✮´- Rafe Cameron x Kook!Reader x JJ Maybank

Summary: Kook!Reader’s world is upended by betrayal, and her only way forward might lie with the most unlikely person—JJ Maybank. But as they build a new life together, old flames and past mistakes refuse to stay buried.

Warnings: mentioning fighting, blood

Selly’s note: Once again, english isn’t my first language🫣🥺 I’m sorry if there’s mistakes💗

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You held your mother’s hand, trying to take deep breaths. Some days were unbearable. Scents alone could ruin your entire day. But then there were the good days, when everything felt just a bit easier, and the smells didn’t seem as overwhelming—they were perfect.

Those were the days when life felt like a rainbow stretching across your world, as if you could eat a thousand candies and never gain a pound. Pure joy, like the kind you felt as a child, when the weight of the world didn’t exist.

Luckily, today was one of those better days. The nausea was minimal—just the usual discomfort you’d gotten used to. The smells didn’t bother you much. Even when you were mildly irritated, you managed to brush it off.

Excitement hummed in your chest. Today wasn’t just any routine check-up—it was the day you’d find out the baby’s gender.

There weren’t many people you wanted with you for this moment. You didn’t even have to ask your mom; of course, she’d be there.

She’d softened her approach lately, you could tell. Regret lingered in her initial reactions, and she was trying to be kinder now. Even though she still thought it was early days, she had been making an effort to meet you where you were.

“You okay, sweetheart?” she asked, her voice full of concern. You nodded, your hand instinctively resting on your stomach.

“Just… feeling a little overwhelmed,” you admitted. She nodded in understanding, reaching out to clasp your hand in both of hers. Her smile was warm, genuine. “It’s going to be okay, I promise,” she reassured you.

Her arm wrapped around your shoulders, and as she pulled you close, a calmness settled over you. She placed a kiss on your temple, and for a moment, you believed her.

Three months and a week in. By all calculations, this was the perfect time to find out the baby’s gender.

You hated the smell of the hospital. But today, you were grateful it wasn’t making you nauseous.

“Shall we begin?” Dr. Hart’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You turned your head quickly, your grip on your mother’s hand tightening. You nodded, signaling that you were ready.

Letting go of her hand, you raised your shirt to reveal your belly. When Dr. Hart handed you a tissue to protect your clothes, you tucked it into the waistband of your shorts without hesitation.

“Alright,” the doctor said calmly, holding up the bottle of gel. “This might feel a bit cold. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

You nodded again, and when the gel touched your skin, a shiver ran through you. The coldness was sharp, but it was soon replaced by the gentle pressure of the ultrasound wand.

Your eyes drifted to the ceiling, trying to center yourself. Why were you so nervous? Finding out the gender made everything feel so much more real, so much more permanent. It was overwhelming, this responsibility. But it was yours to bear. New beginnings were always scary—this was no different. You would adjust. You had to.

The sound of a heartbeat filled the room, breaking through your racing thoughts. Your gaze shot from the ceiling to the monitor.

“That’s your baby’s heartbeat,” Dr. Hart said with a smile, adjusting the screen to show the grainy black-and-white image.

Your hands were clammy as you stared at the monitor. You tightened your grip on your mother’s hand, trying to steady your breathing.

It was real. The heartbeat was steady, strong, undeniable. There was a life inside you. Your baby.

The thought hit you like a wave, leaving you momentarily breathless. Tears threatened, but you didn’t have the energy to cry. You just… marveled. It was surreal.

You closed your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as you tilted your head back.

Your mother’s touch in your hair reminded you of her presence. When you opened your eyes, her face was full of joy, her gaze bouncing between you and the screen. Her smile widened when your eyes met, and it was contagious—you smiled back, despite yourself.

“It’s beautiful,” your mom whispered, her voice blending with the rhythmic sound of the heartbeat. Dr. Hart chuckled softly, nodding in agreement as she continued to examine the screen. “It really is.”

You couldn’t speak. You simply nodded, your focus glued to the tiny movements on the monitor. A lump formed in your throat as you swallowed hard, determined not to cry. Not from sadness this time—this was happiness.

Dr. Hart gestured at the screen, her voice warm and steady. “Everything looks great so far—healthy growth, perfect positioning. And, if you’d like, I can tell you the gender today.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, and without thinking, you nodded eagerly. “Yes,” you blurted out. The word spilled from your lips before you could stop it. You wanted to know with all your heart.

You hadn’t even had the time to think about what you wanted. You’d been so focused on the future, on survival, that you hadn’t allowed yourself to imagine this moment. But now, it was here.

“I want to know.”

You didn’t care whether it was a boy or a girl. Healthy was all that mattered. Though, deep down, you couldn’t deny the hope—one you didn’t even want to admit to yourself—that the baby wouldn’t resemble him. You didn’t want the reminder.

You glanced at your mom. Her smile was wide and reassuring, her joy as infectious as ever. You were grateful for her presence. You wished your dad could have been there too, but he was out of town. He’d wanted to come, truly, but work had kept him away.

Still, you appreciated the support they both offered in their own ways. It felt like, for once, life was on your side. You’d prayed for this, and it was happening.

Dr. Hart’s smile grew as she studied the screen. “Congratulations—it looks like you’re having a baby girl.”

Your mother’s delighted squeal filled the room. She practically jumped in place, still holding your hand, her laughter bubbling over. “I knew it! I knew it! My baby’s baby!”

It took you a moment to process her words. A shaky breath escaped your lips as tears welled in your eyes. Your mom’s kisses rained down on your hair, her joy boundless.

A baby girl.

Your little girl.

You remembered your mom jokingly wishing you’d have a child just like you—and now, it seemed, that wish was coming true. You couldn’t stop smiling, even as the weight of the realization settled over you.

Could you handle being a mom? You’d spent so much time worrying about that, you’d never let yourself imagine this moment. But now, all you could see were the possibilities—her eyes, her laugh, the moments you’d share together. It felt so real. So close.

Your mom met your gaze, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She nodded at you, her expression full of pride and love. Her hands cradled your face as she whispered, “She’ll be as strong as you.”

The kiss she pressed to your forehead was soft, and you breathed deeply, letting yourself feel the comfort of that moment.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself relax. You silently thanked the heavens for this moment, for this peace that felt untouchable. Maybe all you needed was to hear your baby’s heartbeat, to know she was thriving.

The steady rhythm of her heart in the background seemed to remind you: no matter how scared you were, you weren’t alone in this.

“She’s very healthy,” Dr. Hart said with a smile, handing you a cloth to clean off the gel. You quickly wiped your stomach, your heart full to bursting.

Your hands trembled as the reality sank in. It was almost too much to believe—like you might wake up and find it was all a dream. But you didn’t want to wake up. You didn’t want to lose this happiness.

With your mom’s hand on your back, you left the hospital, your heart lighter than it had been in months. There was a long road ahead, but for now, you let yourself feel the joy. You climbed into the car, the journey ahead—boats and drives—barely crossing your mind. All you knew was that you’d take every step with a heart full of hope.

You had decided the mainland would be a safer option than the island for a hospital visit like this. It was still the right choice for you. Even if the journey was a bit complicated, it felt secure, and you actually enjoyed it.

This way, everything would be better.

When your mother started the car, you fastened your seatbelt. As your eyes roamed the surroundings, you couldn’t help but admire how beautiful the area was. The idea of building a new life here wasn’t far-fetched; it was starting to feel right.

You couldn't stop imagining all the moments you’d share with your little girl here. A smile crept across your lips as you glanced at a park you were passing. You watched mothers interacting with their children, and the thought of being one of them someday filled you with peace. Knowing that one day you’d be the one playing there with your daughter—it was priceless.

The car slowed down, and your mother gestured ahead. “What do you think about something with a little garden?” she asked, pointing to a row of cottages along the road. “She could run around, and maybe someday we’d even set up a swing.” Her voice was cheerful; she was enjoying the thought as much as you were. You couldn’t help but giggle as your eyes wandered over the homes.

“They look cute,” you said, examining them while your mother nodded quickly, as though she already had the whole thing planned out.

“Don’t they?” she said with enthusiasm. You nodded, starting to believe this really was the perfect place to build a future.

“And it’s a great school district. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable here. There’s even a park nearby,” she added. Her excitement made you laugh uncontrollably.

“Mom, she’s not even born yet,” you reminded her with a chuckle, feeling like she might start saving for college any moment now.

Your mom rolled her eyes, laughing as you instinctively placed a hand on your belly.

“I’m just saying, sweetheart—there’s no harm in planning ahead,” she said warmly.

You kept smiling as you took in the sight of the houses. It was comforting, thinking about your unborn child’s future. Dreaming about her, imagining what life here could be like. The idea of leaving all your bad memories behind felt so good.

Starting fresh in a place where your daughter could grow up far away from the island—away from everyone there—felt right. You liked the thought of not needing to look perfect or hold everything together for others.

There was something about this place. The energy here felt brighter, livelier than the island. The trees seemed greener, the streets cleaner, the homes more charming, the people kinder.

When you reached the marina, you watched your mom park the car. Stepping out, you took a deep breath of the fresh air that hit your face.

You just knew you loved it here. You realized you wanted to stay a little longer, to explore the area, imagining the memories you could create with your daughter. You wanted to dream about those moments, even though they hadn’t happened yet.

You were so excited that you found yourself questioning if it was all real.

As your mom walked toward the dock, you turned around for one last look at the place. No. This wouldn’t be the last time you came here. You felt like you had a lifetime to spend in this place. It seemed better in every way.

It felt like a place where you wouldn’t hesitate to step outside. Even now, the thought of returning to the island brought a heaviness to your chest, as though you were stepping into a dark tunnel. But here, every moment felt bright.

The idea of a home sounded nice—quiet, steady, hers.

Settling beside your mom, you took in the salty sea air. Neither of you spoke much. Instead, you both savored the evening sun and the soothing sound of the waves.

It had been an unusually tiring day. You hadn’t done much, but your whole body ached. The warmth of the sun paired with the cool breeze created the perfect balance, lulling you into a drowsy state.

You didn’t even notice when your eyes drifted shut. But the slight pressure on your arm woke you, making you realize you’d arrived back at the island.

You stretched out your arms and unlinked them. “You can sleep at home, sweetheart. Come on,” your mom said softly. Rubbing your eyes and straightening your clothes, you followed her. Your steps were sluggish as you trailed behind her. You just wanted to get home and sleep until you couldn’t anymore.

If you could, you’d ask them to leave you alone for 24 hours so you could sleep.

As you got back into the car with your mom, you let out a sigh. Normally, you enjoyed road trips, but this time, it felt unbearable. You just wanted to be in your bed—where you belonged. You deserved some rest. After all, you were a pregnant woman.

“Do you think I should move?”

You didn’t know where the question came from. You were just full of doubts.

Your mom took her eyes off the road for a second to glance at you, her eyebrows raised. “Well,” she said, taking a deep breath as she focused back on driving. Reaching over, she took your hand. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

Looking at your hand in hers, you took a deep breath. The sky had grown darker. You leaned your head against the window, fear stirring in your chest. You wanted so badly to move, but there was a part of you that was scared. “What if I don’t feel good there?”

Your mom gave your hand a reassuring squeeze, her voice steady and warm. “Then you come back. We’ll figure it out. We’ll keep trying until we find where you feel right.”

You lifted your head from the window to look at her, meeting her gaze. There was a tender smile on her face.

“Don’t think for a second that our doors will ever be closed to you. Never. If you decide it’s not the right place—even if it’s your first day—you’ve got a home to come back to. Always.”

Warmth flooded your chest. Hearing her say that was invaluable. You knew they wouldn’t turn you away, but still, it felt good to hear. You wanted this new place so badly. But what if it didn’t turn out to be what you’d imagined?

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“There’s no need to be. You’ve got this. And you’ve got me,” she said, her voice filled with quiet determination, as if willing you to believe in yourself.

“We’ll do this whenever you’re ready. There’s no rush.” You nodded, unable to summon the strength to say more.

The car ride was quiet at first. You stared out the window, watching the scenery blur by—cypress trees swaying in the wind, the ocean sparkling in the distance.

The silence in the car wasn’t unsettling. There was a familiar comfort in her mother’s presence. The steady hum of the engine and the slight vibration of the wheels grounded her as her thoughts wandered.

Your eyes drifted to the trees along the roadside, their trunks illuminated in the soft orange glow of the setting sun. It felt as though they were whispering to you.

Your hand instinctively went to your belly. There was a life there—tiny, but growing each day. The thought warmed her, but it also terrified you.

Your mother broke the silence with a gentle tone. “You know,” she began, “do you want to know what I felt when I found out I was pregnant with you?”

The question caught you off guard. Your mother rarely shared memories like this, but her voice invited her in. “Were you scared?” you asked softly.

Her mother smiled faintly, nodding. “Oh, terrified. I was a mess. But at the same time, there was this… hope. Like everything in my life suddenly had meaning. And that hope—it makes you strong.”

Your chest tightened. You turned your gaze back to the window, swallowing hard. “What if I make mistakes?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

Your mom smiled, her voice rich with love. “You will make mistakes. We all do. But that little one? She’ll love you through them. Because you’re her mom.”

Tears pricked your eyes, though they didn’t fall. Her throat felt tight. The words your mom said so easily now felt like the most precious truths in the world.

“Still…” you said. “Should I stay here? On the island? Or somewhere else?” The question tumbled out again, as if you couldn’t stop yourself. You felt like no matter how many times she heard the answer, you’d always feel uncertain.

Your mom paused for a moment before responding with a thoughtful expression. “If being here makes you happy, stay. If you’re somewhere else and happy, stay there. But remember this—home isn’t about the house. You build a home with love, with patience. That little one just needs you to be there.”

Your eyes filled with tears you wouldn’t shed. Somehow, your mom’s words made everything feel possible and terrifying all at once. You nodded quietly, letting the weight of your mother’s wisdom settle into your heart.

With those words, a bit of the tightness within you seems to ease. You glance down at the hand resting on your stomach, and in that moment, your mother’s words give you a small surge of strength.

You hated the suffocating sense of dread that settled over you the moment you stepped onto this stupid island. It felt like the shadows themselves were closing in on you, draining you of air. Like you were already drowning.

As the car entered the narrow roads, the headlights bounced off cracked concrete walls and the weathered faces of old buildings. Your mom gripped the steering wheel tightly, swerving carefully to avoid potholes. The world outside was unnervingly quiet, as if everyone had retreated into their homes, leaving the streets deserted for just the two of you. The faint hum of the radio played in the background, but the silence in the car was far deeper.

You stared out the window, though your thoughts were miles away from the neighborhood outside. Your eyes darted around, catching fleeting glimpses of the world beyond the glass—until something stirred in your peripheral vision.

Something didn’t sit right. Instinctively, you felt it. As if—something was off. “Mom, slow down,” you said, your voice startled but firm.

“I’m not going that fast, sweetheart.” No, it wasn’t about speed. Something was wrong. If you didn’t look back, you thought you might pass out.

“Mom, stop the car.” Your tone was laced with urgency now.

“What is it?” she asked, glancing at you but not slowing down.

“Just stop the car!” you snapped, sharper this time, your eyes still glued to the figure outside. “Please.” At last, your mom hit the brakes.

Your gaze didn’t waver. You recognized that face—though it was barely visible under the dim light. Even if blood and shadows obscured it, you knew. That stupid hair. Those dumb clothes. That ridiculous boot.

“What’s going on?” your mom asked, but you were already opening your door.

“I think I know him.”

You didn’t just think it. Deep down, you were certain. You couldn’t make out his face clearly, but even his posture screamed it was him.

You moved quickly, rounding the back of the car as you heard the distant creak of your mom’s door opening. She called your name, but you didn’t turn around.

Maybe you didn’t catch his attention at first, but something must’ve tipped him off. His head lifted. Your eyes met. And deep down, you already knew.

You’d recognize that stupid mop of hair from a mile away.

JJ was slumped against a wall, looking seconds away from collapsing entirely. One shoulder drooped awkwardly, and his clothes were soaked in blood. When his blue eyes finally noticed you, they weren’t like you remembered. They were dull. Tired.

Your steps quickened, a tight knot of anxiety building in your chest. The first time you’d met him, he’d nearly looked like this too. But not this bad. And now, things were different. You were—friends, kind of.

“JJ.” His name left your lips as you reached him. He smiled faintly, head sagging as you caught him. “What happened?” Panic seeped into your voice.

He looked awful.

His brow was split open, clothes torn to shreds. Bruises—dark and ugly—lined his neck. It was terrifying.

“You should see the other—” he mumbled before his knees buckled. You held him tighter, feeling your mom approach from behind. You shot her a pleading look.

“Mom, we need to get him to a hospital.”

Before she could reply, JJ groaned, attempting to wriggle free. He stumbled. He couldn’t even stand straight, yet he was fighting like a fool.

“I’m fine! I’m fine.”

Was he serious? He could barely walk. His clothes were drenched in blood, bruises painted across his face, and he thought he was fine?

Was he trying to insult your intelligence?

“You’re clearly not. Mom, help me. We’re taking him to the hospital.” But when you tried to steady him again, he jerked back, collapsing onto the pavement. He sprawled there, motionless, eyes shut.

“No. Absolutely not. I said I’m fine.” His voice was barely audible, slurred. Fine? He was out of his mind.

Your mom called your name, snapping you out of it. Her expression was a mix of confusion and worry. “Who is this? A friend of yours?” she asked, still processing the scene.

“Yes,” you answered curtly, sparing no details. Stepping closer to JJ, you hesitated, noticing blood trickling down his shirt. The sight made your stomach churn. You weren’t going to stand there and watch him bleed out in the middle of the street.

Behind you, your mom spoke again. “What happened to him? Is he hurt? We can’t leave him like this.”

JJ shook his head weakly, mumbling to himself, “No… just leave me. I’m fine.” His voice was so faint it was barely there. None of it made sense.

“There’s no fine here!” you snapped, your voice harsher now. Even your mom seemed startled. But this wasn’t just for him—it was for her too. “I’m not leaving him.”

Your mom hesitated, then nodded slowly. She didn’t know JJ, but she didn’t need to recognize him to figure out he was a Pogue. “Okay,” she said, her resolve breaking. “Let’s get him to the car. We can’t leave him like this.”

JJ tried protesting one last time, his half-lidded gaze barely focusing on you. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t scared of him passing out—or worse. He looked wrecked. “Fine. But no hospitals. Just...no.”

You exhaled sharply. He wasn’t going to move unless you agreed. Finally, you closed your eyes, exasperated. He was killing you with this stubbornness. He needed help, and yet he was making demands. “Shit— okay.”

This time, he didn’t fight. Carefully, you draped his arm over your shoulder, your mom supporting his other side. His weight dragged both of you down, but you didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was getting him somewhere safe.

Once you got him into the car, you let out a shaky breath. You tried not to see it as some sort of personal moment. He’d helped you before, after all. The car was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and JJ’s shallow breaths. You glanced at him, his head resting against the window, eyes half-closed. You silently prayed he wouldn’t pass out.

“You didn’t have to pick me up,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. At least he was talking. That was something. You turned to him, your expression softening. “And you didn’t have to act invincible.”

Your mom hadn’t fully grasped the situation yet but started driving toward home. You, meanwhile, kept stealing glances at JJ in the rearview mirror.

To say you were worried would be an understatement—you were terrified.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this. Months ago, when you’d first met, he’d been almost as bad. But back then, you didn’t know each other. You were practically strangers.

Now? Things were different. Seeing him like this shook you. It made you realize something.

You considered him a friend.

He wasn’t just the guy who’d show up with supplies when you needed something. Somewhere along the way, you’d started to see him as someone close enough to share pieces of your life with.

Hell, he was one of the four people on this godforsaken island who knew you were pregnant.

You trusted him.

Seeing someone you know like this—bruised, battered, and barely holding on—how terrifying is that?

For a moment, you genuinely thought he might have a brain hemorrhage. You’d tended to him, watched him slip into unconsciousness, and feared he wouldn’t wake up. He looked utterly wrecked.

You didn’t know what had happened. You hated the not knowing, especially because he never asked about you. All he’d ever inquired about was the baby—and even then, he’d respected your boundaries, letting you share only what you wanted. He hadn’t even asked if it was Rafe’s. He could’ve, but he didn’t.

But you couldn’t help your own curiosity. What had led him to this state? You wanted to know. And more than anything, you wanted it never to happen again. He was your… friend. At least, you thought so. He’d helped you as much as you’d helped him.

The hospital was off the table—he made that crystal clear. So, you didn’t take him. But seeing him like this? It shook you.

First, you gently cleaned the blood off his face and arm with a damp cloth. Then you patched up the gash above his brow. When you pulled his torn shirt off, your breath caught. His body was a patchwork of dark bruises, covering nearly every inch. You didn’t want to look too long—it felt intrusive, wrong even.

It wasn’t like last week when he shamelessly changed his shirt in front of you. This was different. He was vulnerable, beaten, and unconscious.

When his eyes fluttered open, you were leaning against the bathroom tiles, watching. His gaze was hazy, like he was trying to piece together where he was. Finally, his eyes locked onto you. They scanned you briefly, taking in the damp cloth in your hand, the bucket behind you, and the open first-aid kit on the floor.

“You didn’t have to drag me here,” he muttered, his voice scratchy and low.

Still talking like an idiot.

You avoided his eyes, focusing instead on the stubborn bloodstain on his forehead. “Right, because leaving you to bleed out on the street was the better option.”

He tried to smirk—of course, he did—but winced instead when you pressed the cloth a little too hard against his brow. You pulled back quickly, a flash of guilt crossing your face, but you didn’t apologize.

“Do you always get yourself into this kind of trouble?” The question wasn’t even genuine. It was more of an observation. Every time you saw him, he was banged up. It was ridiculous. No one got into this many fights by accident.

What if it hadn’t been you who found him? What if he’d collapsed? Hit his head? Then what?

How could anyone be so damn reckless?

“All the time,” he said, his tone laced with smugness. It made you grit your teeth. Was he trying to kill himself, or was he just this dense?

You tended to his wounds in silence, simmering with a frustration you couldn’t quite place. Was it because you considered this idiot a friend? Or because this idiot had come dangerously close to getting himself killed tonight?

When you were done, you began gathering up the dirty gauze and supplies. He shifted, trying to sit up.

“If Nurse shift is over, I’ll be on my way now,” he said, gripping the edge of the tub for support. The first-aid kit slipped from your hands as you turned, catching him just before he fell over.

“Yeah, about that—you’re not going anywhere.”

His brows knitted together in defiance, but you shoved him back gently until he was sitting on the toilet. You needed him to stay put while you cleaned up. Like a dog told to sit and stay.

“You don’t get to decide that,” he snapped.

You threw the last piece of gauze into the trash, pointing a sharp finger at him. “Well, it looks like you can’t decide either. You can’t even walk straight. Stop being an idiot.”

He huffed and fell silent, though his scowl remained firmly in place. He might hate being told what to do, but you weren’t about to let him stumble back onto the street like this. You were better than that.

When you finished cleaning up, you walked over and tried to help him to his feet. Of course, he made it as difficult as possible, practically deadweight in your arms, until he finally relented and started cooperating.

You led him to the guest room and helped him onto the bed. He smirked, gesturing to the large, king-sized mattress. “Nice digs. Didn’t know I rated five stars.”

You rolled your eyes, too tired to engage. He was infuriating sometimes, but there was no way you were kicking him out. Not in this state. He needed time to recover.

“Don’t even think about sneaking out,” you warned, watching him settle into the bed. He didn’t respond, just stared at the ceiling, a blank expression on his face.

You waited for a sarcastic comeback, but none came. As you reached the door, you hesitated, glancing back at him.

You hated yourself for it—for caring so damn much.

“Who did this?”

When JJ finally opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, you heard him exhale deeply. If this was a Kook thing, you knew you could handle it. Hell, you’d even get your lawyer uncle involved if it came to that.

“It doesn’t matter.” His dismissive tone made you take a step closer, stopping about a meter from the bed with your arms crossed. All he had to do was say the word—accept a little help for once in his life. But of course, that wasn’t his style. JJ had to deal with things on his own. Always.

“I can help—”

“You can’t help me!” He cut you off, raising his voice as he started to sit up. For a brief moment, you seriously considered shoving him back down into the mattress. Sometimes you hated him so much—

“Stuff like this happens to Pogues. It’s just how it is. You’re a Kook, so sit back and observe like you’re supposed to. Stop asking questions.”

His words, paired with the attitude he wore like armor, had you rolling your eyes as you let out a bitter laugh. You paced the room, trying to shake off the frustration boiling under your skin.

“Always with this Kook-Pogue bullshit! Since when is helping someone in need such a crime? Was I supposed to leave you to die in the street?”

JJ laughed then, sharp and manic, nodding as if you’d said the most logical thing in the world. “Yes! That’s exactly what you should’ve done! God, you’re so annoying. I can’t deal with you right now.”

And this is someone you called a friend.

That motherfucker.

There wasn’t even a reason for him to be mad at you. You weren’t the one who’d beaten him up. You weren’t the one who put him in this position. You were just trying to help. But this was what happened when you cared for someone who didn’t deserve it.

You stared at him, shaking your head. The disappointment you felt wasn’t just in him—it was in yourself. You’d gone so far as to consider this idiot your friend. It made you sick.

“Don’t worry. You won’t have to see my annoying face anymore. I’m moving to the mainland, jerk.” Turning on your heel, you walked toward the door, ready to be done with this.

JJ could be… JJ. Sometimes that meant he lashed out at the wrong people, taking his anger out on those who didn’t deserve it. He hated showing weakness, hated sharing his struggles. Even though he knew you were only trying to help, he didn’t want you to see him like this. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be seen.

Hearing your name fall from his lips stopped you in your tracks. You turned back to face him, your expression unreadable. The anger that had burned in his eyes moments ago had vanished. He just looked…tired.

“I’m not running away.” His eyes met yours, and the ridiculousness of his statement was almost laughable. He should’ve been apologizing, but of course, he couldn’t even manage that.

“My dad. I’m mad at my dad, not you. I’m sorry. You’re not annoying—well, you are, but not in a way I can’t handle. And… thanks.”

The words spilled out of him so fast that all you could do was nod in response. His constant mood swings—he had to be bipolar or something.

You thought about leaving the room. You hated him, you really did, but at the same time, you understood him. And you hated yourself even more for that. It made you want to throttle him.

You stepped closer to the bed, his eyes never leaving you. “If you ever yell at me like that again, I will bury you right here.” Your tone was sharp, dripping with warning.

A faint smirk tugged at JJ’s lips as he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Stay awake for a while.” He nodded again, but his brows furrowed as he looked around the room.

“How? Is this some kind of anti-tech isolation chamber or something? There’s nothing here to keep me awake—besides you.”

You rolled your eyes, not in the mood to humor him. “Not a chance.”

JJ sighed dramatically, tossing his head back. You knew if you left, he’d fall asleep immediately. And there you stood by the door, arms crossed, debating what to do. His reckless attitude tested your patience more than you liked to admit. You didn’t even know why you were still here. You didn’t want to stay, but leaving him like this felt… wrong.

After the way he’d acted, he deserved every bit of the mess he was in. Honestly, he should’ve been thanking you for not shoving his smug attitude down his throat.

JJ let out a heavy sigh, still staring at the ceiling. “If you’re not leaving, at least hand me that bottle.” He nodded toward the water bottle on the nightstand.

You narrowed your eyes at him, not moving. “Who said I wasn’t leaving?”

Your own bluntness surprised you, but JJ’s smirk only made you angrier. “Of course,” he said lightly, like it was nothing worth debating.

You couldn’t see yourself staying much longer. Not without wanting to strangle him. But as you turned, JJ cleared his throat.

“The mainland, huh? For the baby?”

You wanted to yell at him, to throw his earlier anger right back in his face, but you were too tired. You just wanted this night to end. You’d already dealt with enough of his drama.

“Yes. And by the way, it’s a girl.”

JJ turned to look at you, his eyebrows shooting up as a slow grin spread across his face. “Thank God. Nobody could survive a second Rafe Cameron.”

Normally, that comment would’ve pissed you off, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. He wasn’t wrong. One Rafe was bad enough—no one needed a second.

“If you need anything there, let me know,” he said.

You nodded, knowing he meant it.

The two of you sat in silence for a while. You realized then how hard it would be for him to stay awake with nothing to do in this empty room. If it were you, you’d have fallen asleep immediately.

“So… wanna play games on my phone?”

356 notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 10 months ago

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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damneddamsy · 2 months ago

Text

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part ix)

a/n: on today's episode of Stark angst-fluff, it's all bloodshed and swords. And death.

The gates of Winterfell groaned open, a shadow yawning into the night, and Cregan felt the cold settle through him in a way that wasn’t simply the midnight air. Beneath his calm, the rage lay coiled, ancient and fierce, thrumming with the need to strike. He could feel it stirring, a force under his skin that he’d kept at bay for too long.

Tonight, the reckoning had come, and his enemy came as he’d least expected: alone, at the gates, a twisted mockery of honour that demanded restraint when every instinct demanded blood. His grip on Ice was steady, yet his mind roiled, fixed only on Sylas—the man who had touched what was his, hurt what was his, and now dared to stand in the shadow of Winterfell, the home Cregan had vowed to protect, alone and smirking in the night.

“So,” Sylas called out, his voice echoing mockingly across the courtyard. “The wolf king. Winter itself.”

No allies, no horses, no men. Just one man and the scent of fresh blood dripping from the carcass he’d brought like some cruel gift. The insult seethed in Cregan’s mind. It was more than a challenge; it was a mockery, a claim that Sylas the Grim feared no man, not even the King of the North.

Cregan’s expression remained stony, but his eyes narrowed, catching every sneer and glint of derision. Sylas was baiting him, testing for cracks in his stoicism. But a wolf doesn’t bare its teeth to bark; it saves them for the kill.

“You’ve brought breakfast?” Cregan asked, his voice sharp, restrained. His gaze flicked to the mangled reindeer, its blood staining Sylas’s shoulder and leaving a dark trail in the snow. “Thought you came with more ambitious intentions than a mere dead hart.”

Sylas’s grin widened, yellow teeth bared in something almost akin to amusement. “A civil gift, my king. I don’t need an army. Just a seat by the fire, and the wolf to see to it.”

Cregan crossed his arms. “My hearth is for allies and friends,” he said with an edge to his words. “My guest’s seat isn’t set aside for those threatening the Lady of Winterfell.”

Sylas laughed, the sound coarse and feral, resonating with the ancient and untamed. He glanced over the quiet battlements, then back to Cregan, as if taking in the walls that had withstood centuries.

“Aye, your pretty princess. Talked you up, she did. She seemed sure you were no ordinary man.” Sylas shook his head in mock disappointment. “I expected a king, maybe even a monster. And here you are, just a boy, wrapped in fur.”

A ferocity flickered in Cregan’s eyes, but his voice was calm, tempered. “And you came here alone, claiming a guest’s right?” His lips curved slightly, coldly. “Bold, for a man who sought to break the North.”

“Bold?” Sylas echoed, a dark gleam in his eyes as he stepped closer. “More like knowing what I want. I want the North, boy. And then more...”

He let his words hang, his eyes glinting with unspoken challenge.

The blood in Cregan’s veins pulsed his hand itching for Ice’s hilt. But he held still. He came alone, Cregan reminded himself. Honour bound him to the rules of hospitality, however, twisted they felt tonight.

“Well,” Cregan replied coolly, though the anger simmered like a fire under his words. “You've come bearing meat and hollow promises, but if it’s fire you seek, you’ll find it. As for the rest...” His lips curled in a threat. “When the last bone on that deer has been picked clean, I’ll feed you to my direwolves—meat and all.”

The wildling smirked, shifting the dead weight on his shoulder with a shrug. He took a step forward, the weight of his insolence heavier than any army.

“Good. I’ll take that fire.”

Cregan watched Sylas with thinly veiled disgust, his jaw tense as the wildling devoured his meal like a starved animal. Sylas tore the meat with his bare hands, juices dripping down his fingers and settling in his beard, where bits of bread and meat clung, smeared carelessly as he bit into the next piece. Each tear, each wet, ripping sound only served to deepen Cregan's revulsion.

This was the man who’d claimed he wanted to take his wife, the one who would lord over his people and his legacy? The wildling seemed a filthy joke of a threat, and yet, here he was.

As if summoned by some inner protest to this vulgar display, the oak door whined open, and Claere entered. She was freshly bathed, her silver hair gleaming in crowning braids, her dragon-riding leathers perfectly pressed—a deliberate contrast to the wildling seated like a beast across from Cregan.

He stiffened, irritation rising as he caught sight of her. It was mere hours past the hour of the wolf, she waltzed in like it was the first light of the morn. He had to make sure her violet eyes held consciousness, that this was not her on another one of her sleep-walking rituals.

He’d told so many to keep her away if she woke, to make excuses or detours, anything to spare her from this savage again. Yet here she was, gliding in as if she were the queen he knew her to be, composed and unnervingly calm. She stepped forward, her gaze briefly assessing Sylas before she met Cregan’s eyes.

She bent down and kissed him—a light press of her lips on his, murmuring, "Good morrow, husband."

That kiss arrested him, a public display she rarely indulged in. Usually, it was he who initiated, who sought the reassurance of her touch. Now, she was sending a message—to him, to Sylas.

Cregan's gaze darkened as Claere settled beside him, her calm demeanor a direct contrast to the storm brewing within him.

“Claere, love,” he murmured lowly, leaning toward her, his voice tight with a warning. “This is no place—”

She cut him off with a light smile, reaching over. “The bread, please? I’m famished from last night.”

The casualness of it jarred him, yet he passed her a slice with reluctant, guarded hands. She spread it with honey, added a thin layer of cheese, and bit into it. Her movements were practiced, graceful—the kind of elegance that felt all the more pointed in the presence of the feral man across from them.

A stillness fell over the room as Claere’s gaze lifted, settling unflinchingly on Sylas. His smirk froze, and for a moment, he seemed to falter, something almost indiscernible slipping behind his eyes as he took her in. The hungry glint in his stare intensified, though his smirk started to die under her silent, unwavering regard. She merely took another bite of bread, the faintest smile tugging at her lips as she chewed, deliberate as it was unbothered.

“Lord Sylas,” she spoke at last, her voice smooth, lilting with a quiet steel. She wiped the edge of her mouth with a thumb. “Come to draw first blood?”

Sylas’s grin returned, wider this time but edged with something darker. “I’d draw the dress off you if I could, little queen.”

Cregan's hand slammed against the table, plates clattering, as his eyes hardened. His voice came in a low, fierce growl. “Filthy cunt—”

Claere’s soft laugh, muffled behind her hand, slipped into the silence. She let it settle before dropping her hand, her expression calm.

“Forgive him, dearest,” she said lightly, glancing at Cregan with a wry sparkle in her eye. “We mustn’t expect manners from a rabid dog who strays beyond his territory.”

Sylas’s gaze sharpened. “Misplaced loyalty.” His eyes flicked to Cregan, then back to her, almost mockingly. “I would be a kinder lord. I never thought I’d see such a shiny thing descend so low... to a Stark.”

Claere’s stare never wavered, her lips curving faintly again, but the edge in her voice was unmistakable. “Descend?” She tilted her head, the movement controlled, slow. “From where I stand, the only descent I see is yours, Sylas. After all, it’s my husband’s home in which you sit. Like a vermin, starved for scraps.”

Sylas's smirk dimmed, his eyes flashing with irritation before he forced a grin that showed far too many teeth. He leaned back, folding his arms.

“Funny words from behind his shield,” he said.

At that, Cregan's hand jolted toward Ice, but Claere placed her own hand over his, a patient, restrictive touch. She met Sylas’s stare, her voice so soft it was nearly a whisper, yet it was unmistakable in its authority.

“Then try your hand, Lord Sylas,” she replied. “But remember this: before you reach for the Iron throne, you’ll need to survive me.”

Sylas laughed, though the gleam in his eye was feral and frustrated. He tore into another bite of his food, his gaze burning into them both. Still, Cregan could feel the shift in the room, the silent power Claere held even as she sat there, composed, calm as she drew her husband’s hand up to her lips in an unexpected, calculated kiss on his knuckles.

And at that, Sylas fell into a strained silence.

The old wildling spat a chunk of bone to the ground, licking the grease from his fingers with a careless smirk. He leaned forward, eyes flickering between Claere and Cregan, a sly gleam in them.

“Didn’t come here just to fill my belly, boy,” he rasped, voice low and rough. “I came with a deal.”

Cregan’s grip tightened on the edge of the table, his knuckles pale against the wood.

Cregan’s hand gripped the arm of his chair, his knuckles whitening. “Don't waste your breath. Your deal holds no interest for me,” he replied harshly.

“You might be.” Sylas grinned, something feral in his smile as he leaned back, chewing on the edge of a grin. “See, I'll give you what you want most—your North, all of it, untouched and free. No raiders. No bloodshed. It's yours, I'll ride on South. The price?”

His gaze slid to Claere, his expression raw with crude intent. “Her.”

The weight of his words settled heavily. Cregan’s face hardened, his fingers flexing on the hilt of his longsword as he met Sylas’s gaze with unyielding fury. “You think I’d trade my wife for your empty oath?” His voice was cold, a quiet danger laced within each syllable. “You think that’s all I want for her? A future of enslavement and shackles?”

Sylas’s smile only widened, his gaze flicking back to Claere. “Peace, on a plate. A truce,” he went on, voice almost mocking. “For the little queen.”

Beside him, Claere sat perfectly still, her calm presence masking the tension rippling through her. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded Sylas, collected, even as his intentions became glaringly clear.

“There will be no trade,” Cregan said with finality, his tone leaving no room for argument. “She is mine, and neither your threats nor your offers will change that.”

Sylas tilted his head, his face a mask of disappointment. “Pathetic,” he murmured, rising to his feet, and towering over them both. “If she doesn’t come with me, I’ll take your home, every inch of it. And when I do,” he said, leaning close enough for Cregan to catch the bitter edge of his breath, “I’ll take your head too.”

“Then I suggest you start taking your aim,” Cregan rose to his feet, stepping close enough that Sylas could feel the threat radiating off him like heat. “Because you’ll have to kill me to take her. And I don't die easy.”

A dangerous smile played at the corner of Sylas’s mouth. He glanced down at Claere one last time, eyes brimming with twisted satisfaction.

“So be it,” he sighed. “I'll kill you first.”

Sylas's grin twisted as he reached down to the table, plucking a sharp bone shard from the remains of the deer meat. With a snap of movement, he lunged, aiming for Cregan’s shoulder.

Cregan’s reflexes were as quick as they were honed, sensing the threat before it even surfaced. He sidestepped the wildling’s strike, his hand latching onto Sylas’s wrist in an iron grip. With a twist, he forced Sylas’s arm down, the bone shard falling to the floor as Sylas struggled against his hold, sneering in frustration.

“Not before the lady,” Cregan’s voice was a low, lethal rumble, his hand shifting to Sylas’s neck. He tightened his grip, enough to make the wildling’s breathing hitch, and leaned close.

Claere simply scooted her chair away from them, taking a short sip of her water.

Cregan’s grip only tightened, his face a mask of simmering rage. “You’ve already overstayed your welcome,” he growled, voice low, deadly. “You want a fight? I won’t sully my ancestors’ hall for the likes of you. We’ll finish this outside.”

Sylas’s eyes gleamed, his smirk twisting into something feral. “Good.”

Without another word, Cregan released him, shoving Sylas back a step. The wildling stumbled, then righted himself, his grin still plastered across his face as he spat a dark glob onto the floor between them. Cregan watched him, gaze cold and unmoved.

“Hope you’re ready to bleed, wolf,” Sylas sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the room heavy with anticipation.

Dawn barely crept over the horizon, casting a grey, ghostly pallor across the courtyard. Cregan stood, his breath misting in icy clouds, muscles taut as he faced Sylas before the towering gates of Winterfell. The wildling was a solid wall of muscle, twisting a brutal-looking axe in his hands, its edge darkened by countless kills. A ring of soldiers circled the two men, their eyes shifting between them with tense anticipation, breaths sharp in the biting cold.

Sylas grinned, a dark gleam in his eye as he rolled his shoulders back, his size and coiled power making him look like a beast unfurling for a strike.

“You're smaller than she made you sound. And here I thought you'd have some big fangs.”

Cregan’s gaze remained steady, unfazed. “I’ve faced wilder beasts than you in these woods.”

Sylas barked a laugh, lifting his axe as he advanced. “All but me.”

The first swing came roaring and fast, almost catching Cregan off guard. He parried with Ice, though the impact sent a jarring vibration through his arms. Sylas was quick and ruthless, and as they traded blows, he drove Cregan back with brute force, step by step, the ground slick beneath them.

Clang. Thud.

Each blow echoed across the silent courtyard.

Their eyes met briefly as Cregan steadied himself, bracing against Sylas’s next assault. Sylas sneered, breathing hard, the wild gleam never leaving his gaze. “Lady Stark spoke of you like you were a god,” he taunted, swinging his axe again. “But it seems she’s only good at telling pretty tales.”

Cregan twisted his blade up to parry, gritting his teeth as the clash of steel echoed. "You talk too much,” he growled, landing a swift kick to Sylas’s chest.

Sylas staggered back a step, laughing. “Soon she'll be telling those tales to our sons by your fire, wolf."

Cregan’s grip tightened around the hilt of Ice, his knuckles white as he steadied himself, but Sylas was relentless. With a brutal shove, Sylas sent him sprawling again, and the ground came up to meet Cregan in a hard, unforgiving blow. He gasped, feeling the sting of steel biting into his arm as Ice slipped free, the blood seeping quickly into the frost-bitten earth beneath him. The soldiers around him shifted, some whispering, others simply watching as their lord was brought to his knees.

Sylas circled him like a wolf sizing up wounded prey, the twisted grin on his face stretching as he tilted his head to the gathering crowd.

“So this is the wolf of Winterfell? Your king?” he sneered, his voice a mocking growl. “Brought low by a wildling. Tell me, Stark—where’s my little queen?”

Cregan staggered to his feet, pain radiating up his arm, vision blurring as he forced himself to keep his footing. Sylas’s eyes glinted with malice, revelling in every faltering step, every gasp of breath Cregan couldn’t quite catch.

“You’d think the witch would have the decency to show,” Sylas taunted, his voice growing louder, pitched to the soldiers listening in. “Or has she slunk away, letting you bleed for her wrongs?”

Cregan braced himself as Sylas closed in, teeth gritted against the pain, his stance unyielding. But Sylas’s taunts sank on him, gnawing at his focus, his strength ebbing as Sylas struck him hard across the chest. The air was forced from his lungs as he dropped to a knee, every nerve searing with the agony of his wounds.

Sylas grinned down at him, his voice a sneering whisper. “Look at you. A beaten mutt. Unfit to rule.” He leaned closer, voice dripping with venom, “Where is she, huh?”

His words went ignored. With one last surge of strength, Cregan forced himself upright, eyes locking onto Sylas, rage and defiance blazing. He was battered, barely able to stand, but he’d face him to the last breath if it came to that. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives, his father had said to him once.

Let the lone wolf die. Let him die.

“She burns like the cold,” Cregan said in a painful breath.

The bedchamber flickered with dim firelight, casting shadows over the map sprawled between them. Claere and Cregan stood side by side, alone and cloaked in silence, their eyes fixed on Winterfell’s drawn walls and the ragged paths marking where Sylas’s forces would come. They needed no counsel tonight; only themselves.

Claere's face was unreadable, her gaze shadowed, and Cregan felt the weight of something beyond hesitation. He wanted to pull her close, to let his warmth dispel that cold distance, but he held back, tracing his fingers over the edges of the map instead.

“Sylas will move fast,” he murmured, his tone low and matter-of-fact, though his eyes drifted toward her face. “If he pushes hard enough, he’ll think he can break us here.” His finger tapped the curve just south of Winterfell. “He’ll press his men until they’re inside the keep—close enough to choke us in our own walls.”

Claere’s eyes didn’t waver, her expression carved in something colder than he’d ever seen. Yet, beneath it, he sensed a dread she kept buried. For a moment, he thought she might ask for a different way, to use a slower plan, anything to avoid the fire and fury he saw in his own mind.

But instead, her voice came, soft and impassive. “If he’s brought them all here… then Luna can burn them out. It will turn the tide.” Her fingers brushed along the edge of the map, pausing over the paths the wildlings would take, but her gaze held his. “I don’t see any other way.”

Her solemn words struck him harder than the battles they’d fought. She’d chosen this herself. Reaching across the map, he laid his hand over hers, feeling the coolness of her skin and the fire behind her eyes. He tightened his grip, his voice coming in a quiet murmur.

“Luna’s flames will stop them before they ever reach the walls.” His grip on her hand grew, as if by force alone he could keep the determination he saw in her from wavering. “I’ll take Sylas myself when he comes through. When he sees the fires, he’ll know what’s waiting for him.”

Claere looked back down at the map, though her hand remained within his. Even a blind man could've seen that strength in her, unwavering, yet something in her silence twisted his own resolve.

“You don’t have to do this, love.” His voice softened, the words almost breaking the silence like a plea. “You owe them nothing—not after what they’ve demanded of you.”

She stilled, her fingers brushing a line on the map that led from Winterfell to the wilds beyond. Her violet gaze lifted, meeting his, and her voice came faint but sharp as a dagger.

“I brought him here, Cregan. If Winterfell burns, it’ll be by my hand, not his.”

He took in her words, feeling both pride and a chill he couldn’t shake. There was no stopping her once she’d spoken like that; he had learned this much. He released a slow breath, his hand still on hers, though his grip softened.

“They’ll protest,” he murmured, almost to himself, knowing the lords would sneer at her volatile dragonblood the minute they caught wind of the fire in her plans.

She smirked, a faint, bitter twist of her mouth. “Then let them protest. Their words have always come cheap in our halls.”

There was nothing left to say; they had both chosen.

His voice was a rough whisper. “And when Sylas comes to the gates, he’ll meet me there. Your fire will bring his men to ruin, and his death will be by my hand.”

Her expression softened then, something flickering in her eyes. She gave a slight nod, the unspoken words holding between them as surely as any vow.

“Then let it be us,” she said, her voice quiet but relentless, “and only us.”

Claere’s silhouette merged with the pale light of the oncoming sun, crouched upon Luna’s back. Her silver braid whipped in the frigid wind, streaking across her face as she peered down at the advancing figures below—Sylas’s wildling host, oblivious, like ants on a thread, skittering through the shadows toward Winterfell. Her heart clenched, not only with tension but with a sense of sickened resolve.

Claere took a steadying breath, reaching down to soothe Luna’s scales as the dragon rumbled beneath her, ready, eager, alive with a hunger for the command. This was what she was—she was a weapon of fire and wings.

“Dracarys, Luna,” she whispered, her voice firm, though her mind wavered. Fire, Luna.

Luna inhaled sharply, and the first jet of flame burst forth, tearing through the forest edge. The fire lit up the gloaming, a roar of blistering fury erupting from the dragon’s throat, tearing through trees and flesh alike and consuming everything in its path. The inferno roared so ferociously that Claere flinched, though she held firm, her gaze steeling even as her stomach twisted. Her thoughts churned as she took in the fire’s path below, eyes lingering on the wild devastation.

This wasn’t her—it was Luna, this was her dragon’s fury flowing from her through the fire. She could almost feel her resolve shake as the flames danced in her vision, searing images of charred trees and wildlings scrambling, scattering, disappearing. She repeated the words in her mind like a chant, Luna’s rage, not mine, though she knew even as she said it that it wasn’t entirely true.

Her breath shook as she leaned closer to Luna, coaxing her to move over the battalion attempting to retreat. The dragon’s energy surged as they neared. She stroked Luna’s side, voice soft but firm.

“Lykiri, Luna,” she soothed, her words almost trembling. “Dracarys.” Easy, Luna… fire.

Luna twisted mid-air, exhaling another wave of flame across the retreating soldiers below, sealing off their escape and turning the ground into a seething sea of embers. The dragon’s power coursed through her like a shiver, fierce and foreign, rattling her bones with its wildness.

The fire roared in her ears, and she looked down, on the scattered remains of Sylas’s army, their encroachment on her home, and her family. She watched as the smoke and flames lifted, wrapping Winterfell and Winter Town in a curtain of fiery defence. She took in the devastation below and fought the bile rising in her throat, her mind’s whisper growing weaker.

They came for Winterfell, for her people in Winter Town… they brought this upon themselves.

As the last embers died down, Claere closed her eyes, her voice barely above a murmur as she stared into the inferno, her gaze distant. “Sepār hae Daemon vestās. Lyks māzigon mērī isse perzys, gevie riña,” she whispered. Just as Daemon said. Peace comes only in flame, beautiful girl.

Luna’s fierce eyes glowed with residual heat, the dragon’s heart steadying beneath her. But Claere’s was anything but; her hands trembled as they left Luna’s scales, her mind, her heart now divided as they looked back over the ruins and toward Winterfell, her home now shrouded in the grim peace she had called forth.

Sylas barely registered the smoke rising from the treetops before Cregan advanced with a limp, his eyes dark with a calm that promised violence. The distant shadows of smoke from the burning woods curled into the sky, and for the first time, the feral wildling's bravado faltered.

"Looks like your men weren’t prepared for dragonfire, Sylas," Cregan remarked, his voice a low rumble that echoed across the men around him.

Sylas bared his teeth in a sneer, a wild, desperate glint in his eye. “I don’t need an army to take what I came for, Stark,” he spat. Yet his voice held a shake that betrayed him.

Cregan’s smirk was cruel, almost feral. Every step forward held the essence of Winterfell’s legacy, its unbreakable fortitude, a promise to the blood spilt for his land and kin. He swung his sword with controlled precision, matching his enemy's wildness, each clash of their blades filling the cold air with a raw, metallic shriek. Sparks shot out, tracing wild patterns against the snow as Sylas staggered, his strength now fraying against the brutal tempo of Cregan’s attack.

Sylas’s grip tightened, his movements turning frantic. Blood streaked down his hands, his breaths ragged as he swung, his attacks growing wild and uncoordinated. But he kept a cruel, bloodstained smile on his lips as he glanced toward the trees.

“You think this is over, Stark?” he snarled, forcing the words through grit teeth. “I’ve men coming to gut you like a fish. Soon enough, you’ll be choking on your own blood.”

Cregan’s expression hardened, a cold amusement flashing in his gaze. He nodded toward the columns of smoke, his voice barely a whisper.

“What men?”

Sylas’s sneer faded, his face going slack as realization washed over him. The inferno in the woods, swallowing his last line of defence. His final hope, his reinforcements—gone, turned to ash and embers under dragon’s breath.

Sylas’s eyes widened, and he stumbled back, a denial trembling on his lips. “Dragon cunt.”

But there was no more room for mercy here.

Cregan allowed Sylas one desperate reach for his blade, granting him the illusion of a fighting chance. The wildling lunged, his hands flying to the hilt at his hip, but Cregan shifted in one swift motion, letting his own sword slip to his left hand, then right again, like an executioner judging his swing.

The motion left Sylas exposed, caught off balance, and Cregan moved like the crack of thunder, his strikes hitting with unrelenting force. Sylas staggered, his pride and strength reduced to shallow, desperate parries.

Breathless, Sylas raised his sword once more, a final snarl erupting from his throat as he swung—but it was too slow, too obvious. Cregan ducked under the wildling’s strike, pivoting as he brought his blade up in one final, swift arc, the blade sinking deep into the base of Sylas’s neck. Sylas’s eyes widened as he gasped, choking on the blood pooling in his mouth, his strength bleeding out into the frozen ground.

Cregan held the sword steady, watching the fading light in the wildling’s gaze. When Sylas’s body slumped to the ground, he released his grip.

His gaze lifted to the familiar, haunting shadow of Luna as she swept above Winterfell’s walls—a silent harbinger of peace, however fleeting it might be.

Behind him, voices rose in triumphant cheers, the soldiers shouting to the grey, wintry sky.

"The King in the North!"

"The Winter's Queen!"

The chants rang across the battlefield, a victory anthem echoing off the stone walls and into the depths of Winterfell, where blood had been shed to ensure its unyielding hold on the North. And though the men cheered, Cregan’s gaze remained faraway, fixed on the horizon, where the smoke still curled—a reminder of the price paid for peace.

"The King in the North!"

"The Winter's Queen!"

As the last echoes of victory faded over the frozen fields, Claere soared above the remnants of battle, Luna’s wings slicing through the northern winds, her shadow vast and ominous against the frosted earth below. She descended with the grace of a winter storm, Luna’s silver scales gleaming under the grey sky, and as they landed near the ragged camp of wildlings, the ground shuddered beneath the dragon’s weight.

The wildlings huddled together, the children clutching their mothers’ legs, the old men narrowing their eyes in defiance mixed with dread. Fear rippled through them, but Claere remained impassive, her gaze steady, unyielding—a reflection of Winterfell’s ancient walls.

Some among the Freefolk, their voices hardened with anger and grief, spat curses and slurs at her, calling her “witch” and “murderous southern cunt,” hatred simmering behind the fire-stoked fear in their eyes.

Claere absorbed the words, her face an unmoving mask.

A single thrumming, ear-splitting roar from Luna stilled the camp, silencing even the most defiant. The great dragon’s eyes glinted like molten gold, her breath thick and hot, and the Freefolk felt the implicit warning in every bone.

Lifting her chin, Claere addressed them, her voice cutting through the cold air, calm and regal.

“All who wish to remain in my land,” Claere proclaimed, her voice resonating like a royal decree, “shall find protection here, beyond the Wall. I shall see that a settlement is forged near the Wall’s garrisons, where you may rebuild your lives, under the laws and traditions of the North. Take this as my utmost mercy.”

Her gaze swept over them, cutting through the crowd like steel, lingering on the wearied lines of their faces and the guarded suspicion in their eyes. “But you are Freefolk still,” she continued, her voice unwavering, regal. “Those who choose to return beyond the Wall may go freely, unscathed, provided you keep the peace in return. Understand that this fate was never one I wished upon your people.”

An uneasy murmur ran through the crowd. Many looked to one another, mistrust mingling with a hesitant hope, and one bold voice called out from the throng, roughened and raw.

“Why?” he demanded. “Why would you even care to cross the Wall? Why bring all this ruin?”

Claere’s expression flickered with a shadow of something unreadable, the barest trace of sorrow or perhaps defiance, but her answer was a mystery as if whispered from deep within.

“There are things beyond the Wall that need no reason,” she said. “I came for what lies beyond choice, beyond blood and oaths. Some things demand to be answered. And it's best they remain that way for some time.”

As Claere’s words hung in the frosted air, a quiet ripple moved through the crowd, each face etched with its own choice. Slowly, some of the Freefolk began to turn, gathering what little they owned, their faces set toward the Wall. They were the ones who would return to the wild, to the life they had always known.

But many others—mothers with children clinging close, the elders with their exhausted eyes fixed upon her—stayed where they were, watching the figure of the dragon queen with something like reverence and fear.

Claere took them in, her gaze softening for a fleeting moment, an acknowledgement of what lay ahead for them, and for her. She gave a single, solemn nod, a gesture that was both promise and farewell, and it was enough.

She gave them no further explanation, only that faint, haunting smile that seemed to come from another world entirely. As she climbed back upon Luna’s back, the great dragon unfurled her wings, her shadow stretching over the encampment. A dragon and a queen united in strength, mystery, and resolve. With a powerful beat, Luna launched them into the sky, and Claere looked down upon the land, her silver hair streaming like her own banner.

Below, the Freefolk watched as the Winter’s Queen disappeared into the northern sky, a figure both terrifying and triumphant, half Targaryen fire and half Stark frost.

The last vision of her was etched in their memories—a queen of two bloods, the very image of winter’s heart and fire’s wrath. A ruler, a legend, her name destined to echo in both hearthside tales and whispered fears for generations to come.

I don't know, I feel like I let people down with this. sorry everyone. I really expected more from myself with this.

one more to go, we still have much more to see!

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