#Harts on the Scent | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 8 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.

TAGS:

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iamnotoriginalphil · 9 months ago

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Hii I have an unwell organized prompt:

Melissa and the reader at a game, there is a kiss cam, they kiss, the reader gets scared ‘cause someone can notice she really likes Mel. A lot of comfort please and thank you ❤️

The Kiss Cam

Words: 2.6k

Warnings: Like one swear word

The problem, you were beginning to realise, was that you were incapable of saying no to Melissa. She looked at you with those green eyes and asked you in that voice and you just melted, letting her do whatever she wanted. You’d agree to anything if she only asked you with that small smile you’d grown to love.

All of which meant you were squeezed into the stands as a hockey game was played below on the ice. Her arm was pressed to yours and you could hear her shouting down at the players. When she’d asked in the staff room if you’d come with her you’d nodded, not considering the fact you hadn’t ever watched a hockey game in your life.

The air prickled at your skin, cold enough to make you shiver and curl up in your coat. The crowd was loud and there was the scent of popcorn and processed meat on the air. Melissa kept leaning closer, whispering in your ear, explaining the game to you. None of it was sticking in your brain, not with her so close, her breath warming your skin, her hair brushing against your shoulder. You wanted to freeze the moment, live in it forever.

Surging out of her seat, she cheered as the puck found home in the back of the net. She looked down at you, wide smile on her face and you couldn’t help but grin back. It was like the rest of the crowd wasn’t cheering, fading away as you stared up at her, nothing but her real to you. Sitting, her arm pressed to yours, warm in the otherwise cold air. You found yourself leaning into her warmth, not able to help it. Every atom of yours wanted to be close to her.

“Watch Hart in goals. He won’t let a single one in,” she murmured in your ear, pointing down one end of the rink.

You looked where she was pointing, not sure you were seeing what she was. Sure, the goalie was stopping the other team from scoring but you couldn’t see whatever skill Melissa was seeing. Still, the feeling of her breath against your skin was sending your heart into a frenzy.

A cheer went up from the crowd and you couldn’t figure out why. No one had scored a goal. You’d been watching to make sure you didn’t miss it again.

“I can’t wait to see which dumbos they get up on there.”

She nudged you, nodding up to the big screen above the rink. A kiss cam. You laughed, watching a couple kiss, the man shoving his tongue into her mouth. Melissa tutted, shaking her head and she lent back, arms crossing over her chest. You did your best not to notice the way it pushed her ample chest upwards.

It took her elbow nudging you to notice that the image on the screen had changed. In fact, it had changed to two very familiar people. Your cheeks heated immediately, shaking your head at your own face displayed for the entire crowd to see. Melissa chuckled under her breath, arm snaking around your shoulders.

“Come on then, hon,” she said, “pucker up.”

You wanted to argue but then thought it would look even weirder if you didn’t. Would everyone know about the crush you’d been harbouring on Melissa since the day you’d met her if you didn’t? Would she know?

Rather than continuing to think about it, you let forward until you felt the warmth of her breath. Her lips were soft when they brushed against yours. You made a small noise when her tongue ran along your bottom lip, leaving you breathless and head spinning. A cheer went up from the crowd and you pulled back, practically jerking away from her.

You felt your cheeks burning and your entire body was an electric wire. You looked away from Melissa, not sure you could handle looking at her when you could still feel the press of her lips lingering on yours. You look a long sip from your soda, looking down at your feet.

She shouted something down at the ice and you sighed, shifting as far as you could from her in the tiny seat. She was so close, her perfume wafting towards you. You glanced down at the ice then back at her. She was so beautiful and yet you knew none of it was for you. Of course it wasn’t. Melissa would never like you like that. She could have her pick of people. No way would she choose you.

A gross feeling settled in your stomach. You shifted in your seat again. You didn’t like the way your skin felt or the beating of your heart. You swallowed past a lump in your throat, doing your best to push down the rising feelings in your chest. It was all feeling overwhelming and you could taste her on your lips. You needed space.

You needed to get out.

“Sorry,” you whispered to her, “I have to go.”

You stood, ignoring her surprised look, doing your best to shuffle past the people sitting in your row. She called after you but you ignored it, speeding up until you reached the stairs. You weren’t running but it was a close thing as you did your best to put some distance between yourself and Melissa. You couldn’t stand spending another moment sitting so close to her when the ghosts of her lips were haunting you.

Pushing out of the arena, you hurried out into the parking lot, frantically digging through your bag for your keys. Someone shouted your name behind you. Squeezing your eyes shut, you dug further, desperate to find the cool metal you needed. A hand grasped your wrist, turning you until you were staring into fiery green eyes.

“Oi, what gives?” Melissa demanded.

“I’m sorry, I just… I have to go. I’m not feeling well,” you said, not quite lying but definitely not telling the truth.

“You sure or was kissing me that bad?” she asked.

“No,” you yelped. There was no way you could admit that kissing her had been that bad. Or rather, than had it had been the opposite of bad and if you weren’t careful she’d figure out how much you wanted to d it again.

“I know you probably didn’t want to kiss me but this is just childish. You can’t avoid me when we work together. I thought we were friends, hon.”

You hadn’t noticed before, but looking up you found pain swimming in her eyes. Her fingers tightened for a moment before she released you, practically throwing your arm back at you. Her lips pressed together and the anger returned to her eyes.

“I’m not some schmutz you can trick. I know someone like you wouldn’t be interested in me but you could have pretended not to be disgusted after kissing me. You should have just said no,” she said.

“I wasn’t disgusted,” you said, “I’m not disgusted at all.”

“Then what’s going on? You couldn’t get away from me fast enough. You wouldn’t even look at me afterwards.”

She crossed her arms, glaring at you, waiting for your answer. There were no words, nothing you could say that would explain your behaviour. Running off had done the exact opposite of what you’d been hoping. There was no way she wasn’t going to figure out that you had to leave or else you might do something stupid like kiss her again.

“You got nothing to say?” she demanded.

You silently shook your head. Her nostrils flared, staring at you hard enough to crush your lungs. You opened your mouth but nothing came out. She scoffed, storming past you, her shoulder slamming into yours. All you could do was watch her retreating back before it hit you why your car keys hadn’t been in your bag.

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself.

You chased after Melissa, doing your best to ignore the way the denim of her jeans clung to the shape of her ass. She was doing her angry walk and you were terrified to make your request to her.

“Melissa,” you said, gently touching her shoulder as you caught up to her.

“What?” she snarled, turning on you.

“You’re my ride,” you said, doing your best not to cower under her glare.

“You can find some other way to get home,” she snapped.

“Mel, please,” you said.

“Don’t call me that,” she said, taking a step away from you.

You hadn’t meant for the nickname to slip from your lips. You hadn’t ever called her that in real life. In your head, sure, but to her face was a whole other matter. Being too familiar with her was the first step down a road that terrified you.

All those months working at Abbott and you’d found yourself slipping, letting more and more of your guard down around her. It was impossible not to. You were drawn to her. Her eyes would sparkle and she’d smile at you and you were a goner.

“Sorry, I just… Please. I’m sorry. I reacted badly and I didn’t mean to. But it’s not about you. I promise,” you said.

“Then what is it about?” she demanded.

“It’s… hard to explain,” you replied, curling your arms around your body, hoping to hold yourself together.

“Try.” Her voice brooked no argument. It was either saying something or lose her forever.

“Fine but… promise me this isn’t going to change things between us. It’s my problem to fix. I don’t want you to hate me,” you said, anxiety curdling in your stomach.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

You took a deep breath, arms tightening around your body until you could feel the squeeze. She was watching you intently. You couldn’t look at her, staring down at your shuffling feet.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to kiss you or that I didn’t enjoy it. In fact, it was the opposite. I like you. Like, a whole lot. And I thought after kissing you then you’d realise how much I like you which in retrospect has worked out really badly for me since now I’m telling you. But the point is, is that I’ll get over it since you clearly don’t feel the same way and nothing has to change with us and we can just forget about it. Because it’s not about you. It’s all my fault.”

Your confession tumbled clumsily from your lips, landing in a pile at your feet. You held your breath, frozen under her watchful gaze, not able to look at her properly. Your arms tightened again, digging into your ribs uncomfortably, keeping you on edge.

“What are you talking about, hon?”

A warm hand closed around your forearm, tugging it away from your body. You let her, your problem with saying no to her rearing its ugly head once again.

“It’s just a silly crush,” you said, wishing it was true, “I’ll get over it.”

“You’ll get over it? You think that’s what I want?” she asked.

“Don’t you?”

You peered up into her face, trying to figure out what it was she wanted you to say. She wasn’t quite meeting your eye, looking at something over your shoulder. Her fingers were pressing into the vulnerable skin on the underside of your arm and it was making you both breathless and on edge.

“I might not,” she replied, still being evasive.

“Okay, well, I don’t really know what you want now,” you said.

You didn’t like the way uncertainty stuck to you. You tried to tug out of her hold but she only held on tighter.

“Mel,” you said, “what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to tell you something,” she replied, “just give me a second.”

You waited, the anxiety in you creeping up. You’d basically exposed your hand to her and she was leaving you to stew in it. The silence was deafening, a pressure pushing against you until you wanted to curl into a ball and hide. The longer it drew on, the more you wanted to pull away from her.

Not if this was just about her rejecting you.

“Look, Mel, I-“

You were cut off as her lips pressed to yours again. Freezing, a million thoughts ran through your head, the loudest of which was that whatever was happening was some kind of prank or delusion. The hand on your arm pulled you closer until you felt her warmth seeping into your body.

“Mel,” you mumbled against her lips.

She drew back from you, hurt flashing over her face before anger replaced it, a mask to cover her vulnerability. You weren’t sure what to do, if you should reach out to her or not. Your indecision seemed to seal the deal for her. She grabbed her hand back, drawing away from you.

“No, wait,” you said, grabbing her, “I don’t understand.”

“I like you too, hon,” burst from her lips, the anger and the hurt mingling until it was like a spear she was throwing at you.

But it landed like a caress against your skin.

“You like me too?” you asked, not quite able to believe it.

“I asked you to spend time with me on a weekend,” she answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Was this a date and I didn’t realise?” you asked.

“Hon, you’ll know when I take you on a date,” she replied.

“So you wanted to kiss me then? You don’t care that I like you?” You needed to be sure.

“I care that you like me a whole lot, hon,” she said, “just not for the reasons you think. I want you to like me. I just didn’t think you did.”

“But you kissed me,” you protested.

“For the kiss cam. Those chumps in there boo anyone who doesn’t kiss. I thought a quick one would be better than that,” she replied.

“You brought your tongue into it,” you accused her.

“Yeah, because you’re hot and I thought you might like it. And if you liked it maybe you’d say yes to going out some time,” she said with a small shrug. You felt your lips tug up into a smile.

“How about you try kissing me again and we’ll see if that works,” you suggested.

Her hands were gentle as they came up to cup your cheeks. You waited, holding still until her lips brushed against yours. You lent into her, your tongue running along her lower lip in a mirror of hers earlier. Her mouth opened under yours, tongues brushing together. You moaned into her mouth, hands landing on the curve of her hips, pulling her closer.

Loud cheering startled you, a group of people bursting from the door of the stadium. You jerked back from Melissa, staring at them over your shoulder. With her hands still on your cheeks, she turned your face back towards her, laying another searing kiss on your lips.

“Come on, hon. I’ll drive you home,” she murmured against your lips.

“Or maybe you could take me out to dinner,” you said.

“I’ll think about it,” she said but she was smiling at you with a twinkle in her eye.

Her fingers threaded through yours, tugging you towards her car. There was a bounce in your step as you followed, biting down on your bottom lip to try and contain your smile. You did a really bad job of it.

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti imagine

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1k1ga1 · 1 year ago

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Hello hope you are doing well, I am not quite sure if you are taking requests but if you are could you please write Yandere Deon hart i'm not that kind of talent

❝𝑇𝑂𝐺𝐸𝑇𝐻𝐸𝑅 , 𝐴𝑇 𝑆𝐾𝑌𝐹𝐴𝐿𝐿…❞

━━ 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐖𝐀 💭 𝐈’𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓

━━ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 💭 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐗 𝐆𝐍 ! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

━━ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 💭 18+ , 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 , 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 , 𝐓𝐎𝐗𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 , 𝐔𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐑

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 never had the time to truly give the idea of a romantic relationship any thought. he’s a busy man, having grew up in a disorganized family and forced into the army at a young age, all that he had ever known was the cruelty of others and the rustic scent of blood. even when he crawled his way into the hero’s group, there was only ever more bloodshed and sacrifices. he’s only ever been exposed to war, not the affection which one shares with their lover.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 honestly expected his life to stay that way. what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, and having never experienced the gentleness of a lover, he never cared much to yearn for one. he already has his hands full enough with playing spy for both the lunatic emperor and the clingy demon king, all whilst trying to survive. it’s not like he’d ever have time to fall in love with anyone, right? well, that’s what he thought, until you came along.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 singled you out from the rest of his subordinates immediately. you had been assigned as his assistant. you, a demon that could easily overpower a weak human like him. you, a demon that was supposed to be bloodthirsty and cruel. and yet despite being a demon, he’s never met anyone as perfectly human as you.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 thinks you’re more human than demon when you smile at him so sweetly, exchanging kind gestures every now and then as an appreciation to your commander. you’re always going out of your way to take care of those around you, always smiling and complimenting and humming with that ridiculously melodious voice, the same voice that would call out his name so excitedly. you were never like the other demons who were constantly seeking to test their powers against him or were blindly subservient to him, although you didn’t quite see him as an equal either. you simply saw him as someone who “works hard and has a respectable work ethic. someone admirable.”

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 fell hopelessly in love with you right then and there, a metaphorical pink cupid’s arrow shooting through his heart at just how absolutely precious you are. it truly baffles the commander just how you could manage to be so wholesome despite hailing of the demon race.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 finds himself quietly pining for you after that moment. he’s not very experienced with the concept of crushing on someone or falling in love, therefore he’s absolutely clueless on what to do with his feelings or how to act on it. he doesn’t know what course of action he should take, and it’s not as if he could just ask one of the demons for advice. he’s left completely in the dark, yet there was still an instinctual human need to be closer to the object of his affection, and so the commander finds himself loitering around where he would usually spot you, hoping to catch a glimpse of your sparkling smile within the nest of havoc.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 is satisfied with just catching glimpses of you for a while. it’s enough for him that he could see your smile almost everyday, that is until you pick up on his regular appearances around the places you often visit and instead of calling him out on it or attempting to murder him, you instead invited him to chat with you.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 slowly but surely grew on you, and your little chats with your commander here and there gradually grew into longer conversations with topics focusing more on yourselves than the fleeting events around you. on some days, you even find yourself loitering in your commander’s room late into the night to continue whatever deep conversation the two of you were having. occasionally, you’d fall asleep and spend your night in his room, and deon never had the heart to disturb you, so he just let you be. although more often than not, the moment you’re asleep, deon finds himself quietly admiring you. he doesn’t do anything more than that at first, merely noting the way you breath and the murmurs you would say sleepily. it was honestly just heartwarming to him.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 considers you his close friend after all that time the two of you spent conversing and learning more about each other. you’re his friend, so he wants you to stay closer to him and spend more time with him. you’re his friend, so he wants you to move your room closer to his’. you’re his friend, so he wants you to always stay by his side every minute of the day. you’re his friend, so it’s fine if he gets a little possessive, right?

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 is an over thinker. who could blame him after all the horror he’s had to witness in his youth? he’s always been surrounded by people with ill intentions, those seeking to use him and those seeking to ruin him, yet in the midst of the chaos, there was you; a shining beacon of benevolence, practically heaven-sent with your generosity and beaming smile. yes, that’s right, you really must be an angel. an angel sent just for him, your touch just for him, your voice just for him, your smile just for him — it’s not as though anyone else in this world could be deserving of you.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 develops some odd habits after that realization. sure, he might’ve grown closer to you, but he never found the chance to express his feelings, and they’ve only grown deeper after the two of you became friends. his heart is untamed and clumsy, like a toddler handed destructive power when it barely knew how to walk. he doesn’t see the wrong in manipulating you to constantly stay by his side because “his body is still weak from the battle with the hero.” you’re his angelic friend, so there’s no way you could leave him be when he’s unhealthy, right? you’re always so generous too, so you won’t mind if he snag some trinkets from your room for safe keeping either, right?

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 develops these habits unconsciously, half the time not even realizing what he’s doing before it’s already done. perhaps it’s a true testament to how deep his feelings run for you to the point that he doesn’t even realize that he’s acting on it.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 is still inexperienced, but if by chance he somehow confesses to you about his true feelings, and if you were to accept, than expect his behavior to grow tenfold. deon will get more protective of you. he completely disregards wether you can protect yourself or not, it’s better if he is the one to protect you. oh, and those demon friends of yours, it’s better if you distance yourself from them too, they’re no good influences on your mind. if you don’t listen to his advice the first time, deon has no qualms using his title as the commander to seal those demons manipulating you behind a cell.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 usually doesn’t act on a whim with violent tendencies, but doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty if it’s for his beloved’s benefit. you’ve become the center of his world the moment you accepted his affection, so there’s no way he’d allow anything or anyone to ever lay a hand on you with ill intent.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 is exceptionally needy. he’s constantly clinging to you, seeking for affection like a touch-starved puppy. it’s almost as if he’s seeking out the affection that he couldn’t receive during his childhood, and just who are you to reject his advances when he sadly tells you the story of his past? deon has no problems guilt-tripping you into accepting his affectionate hold, and you’re just too kind for your own good.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓 believes you can do no wrong. it’s not as if you’re a troublemaker like the other demons he’s been forced to meet in the first place, but deon’s so convinced that you must be some perfect saint that he practically worships you. in his eyes, you can do no wrong, but anyone who does you wrong can expect to have a glinting blade swiping at their neck when they least expect it. whatever you say or do is law, and deon will be the faithful servant who carries out your will

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐔𝐓, his other personality that was crafted upon his insatiable bloodlust and ruthlessness, needs some time to adjust to your presence, however he’s more or less the same as the usual deon when he’s not faced with an enemy. demon arut is definitely more protective and controlling of you, always making you the first priority whenever a battle arises. he needs to keep you in his range of sight or else the he goes absolutely mad trying to find you, destroying anything that hinders his path.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐔𝐓 is more sadistic than your usual commander. unlike deon who cares about your image of him and therefore has placed some restraints on himself, demon arut has no such concerns. he openly likes to tease you, almost going overboard with it because he likes getting any kind of reaction from you. he won’t intentionally be malicious towards you, he still loves you after all. however, if you receive a few cuts and bruises from battle or the likes, he will mock your competence and press on a few bruises, only after he’s made a bloody mess of the perpetrator who dared to touch an inch of your body.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐔𝐓 will insist that you train with him so you can polish your skills. as a demon, you’re not lacking by any means, probably even better than the strength of five soldiers combined, however that doesn’t mean that you stand a chance against him. demon arut has beaten entire armies by his lonesome, so don’t be too disappointed when you fail for the nth time. he won’t praise you often, however, he will go easier on you compared to his unrelenting nature on the battlefield. although, it’s not as if you would ever need to put these skills to use and lift even a finger, he’ll always have you as his first priority to protect and get to safety.

━━ ✧ 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐔𝐓 is, like his name suggests, a demon. a demon who’s cruel and bloodthirsty and a hundred times more possessive and easily jealous. he won’t hesitate to make an example out of one of your comrades by gutting them in front of you if you get to chummy with them. well, he won’t hesitate to make an example out of anyone really, even his fellow commanders as long as he gets it through that cute head of your’s what lengths you’re capable of pushing him to.

━━ ✧ 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍, you’re basically holding onto the reins of a catastrophe that could take empires by storm, just be careful not to take your eyes off him for too long or that storm might just ruin you… although, it’s not as if he’d particularly care for your opinion on this matter. the two of you are lovers now, so it’s only right that you never part. even if the sky falls and the world is coming to and end, even in life and in death, the two of you will always be together, deon hart will make sure of it.

#manhwa x reader #yandere manhwa x reader #yandere x reader #im not that kind of talent #intkot #—ichigo 💭#deon hart #demon arut #yandere imagines #male yandere #intkot x reader #im not that kind of talent x reader #yandere im not that kind of talent #webtoon #_𝟏𝐊𝟏𝐆𝐀𝟏_

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damneddamsy · 2 days ago

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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!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

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rottenzombrainz · 25 days ago

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Tokyo Debunker ; Ghouls favorite Bath and Bodyworks Scent

Yes, I know this is niche. Yes, I know a good portion of these characters wouldn't even ever step into a B&B - but this is for funsies! like all headcanons!

Also, for the sake of convenience, I'm ignoring the fact that smells and perfumes are gendered and that some characters would care about that 🌝

warning: kinda super ooc?!??

Frostheim

Jin Kamurai - Definitely one of the Christmas scents. Not a pepperminty one though. Probably Eucalyptus Snowfall

Tohma Ishibashi - Cozy Vanilla Almond.

Lucas Errant - Either a coffee or nutty smell. I'll go with Freshly Brewed Coffee

Kaito Fuji - Gingham. Just basic Gingham.

Vagastorm

Alan Mido - Mahagony Teakwood

Shohei Haizono - Kitchen Lemon or any other citrus smell

Leo Kurosagi - A Thousand Wishes.

Jabberwock

Haru Sagara - Jasmine & Currant

Towa Otonashi - Honey Wildflower.

Ren Shiranami - Green Apple... idk why

Sinostra

Taiga Hoshibami - One of the bar smells like Bourbon

Romeo Lucci - We all know B&B is too cheap for Romi, but if he had to choose something, I'd say he'd choose Honey Apple Champagne

Ritsu Shinjo - Sticking with the bar theme, Champagne Toast

Hotarubi

Subaru Kagami - Japanese Cherry Blossom

Haku Kusangi - Rose Water & Ivy - it feels very Haku

Zenji Kotodama - Moonlight Path for sure

Obscuary

Edward Hart - Fresh Linen to hide the smell of his dirty clothes

Rui Mizuki - White Gardenia or any floral scent, really.

Lyca Colt - Noir

Mortkranken

Yuri Isami - Something herbal with mint or eucalyptus. Therefore; Eucalyptus Mint

Jiro Kirisaki - Vampire Blood. Not just cus its my favorite! I really do think it suits him!

I probably could have done a better job if I drove to the mall and actually went into a Bath and Bodyworks, but I didn't feel like it 😋

#tkdb #tokyo debunker #tdb #tokyo debunker headcanons #hc #headcannons #tkdb hc #be nice its my first headcanon post :(

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muiitoloko · 11 months ago

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Kingsman Chronicles

Summary: Amidst Christmas festivities, a mischievous Eggsy attempts to play matchmaker between Harry and the reader, strategically placing mistletoe to encourage a romantic moment.

Pairing: Harry Hart (Kingsman)× fem!Reader

Warning: none.

In the festive glow of Christmas lights, Harry's house buzzed with warmth and laughter as Merlin, Eggsy, and You gathered to celebrate the holiday. The scent of pine and cinnamon filled the air, and a crackling fireplace added to the cozy atmosphere.

Merlin, clad in a Christmas sweater adorned with geeky references, raised his glass. "To a successful year and a well-deserved break," he toasted, a twinkle in his eye.

Eggsy, sporting a festive jumper that may or may not have had a bit too much eggnog spilled on it, chimed in. "Cheers to that, mate. And to Harry, for surviving another year of saving the world."

Amidst the festive atmosphere, Harry and You found themselves entangled in the unspoken dance of mutual affection. Both hesitant to confess their feelings, a palpable tension lingered between them, amplified by the Christmas spirit that enveloped the room.

Eggsy, with his own version of holiday cheer and a mischievous glint in his eye, decided to take matters into his own hands. Fueled by the idea of bringing you and Harry closer, he hatched a plan involving strategically placed mistletoe.

First, Eggsy attempted to discreetly place mistletoe over the doorway, hoping that Harry and You would walk beneath it. However, Merlin noticed the attempt and shook his head, muttering about subtlety.

As the festive atmosphere continued, Eggsy's determination to play cupid remained unyielding. Unbeknownst to Harry and You, he discreetly placed another mistletoe near the Christmas tree, hoping to create an opportune moment.

Merlin, observing Eggsy's antics, sighed but decided to play along. "You know, subtlety is an art form," he commented, his tone dry.

Eggsy winked, mischief dancing in his eyes. "Well, Merlin, sometimes you gotta be a bit bold with matters of the heart."

Meanwhile, Harry and You found yourselves drawn closer, the holiday cheer creating a magnetic pull. The unspoken tension lingered, a dance of emotions beneath the surface.

As the clock struck midnight, signaling the arrival of Christmas Day, the twinkling lights cast a magical glow over the room. Eggsy, seizing the moment, decided to make a grand gesture.

"Everyone, gather 'round! It's time for the annual Christmas karaoke!" Eggsy declared, orchestrating a diversion to lead Harry and You to the strategically placed mistletoe.

As the group joined in the festivities, you found yourself standing beside Harry, the mistletoe hanging above like a subtle invitation. A knowing smile passed between you, acknowledging the unspoken connection.

Eggsy, ever the enthusiastic matchmaker, winked at Merlin, who simply shook his head in bemusement. The stage was set for a moment that could potentially bridge the gap between Harry's duty as a Kingsman and the vulnerability of his heart.

Eggsy pointed to the mistletoe with a mischievous grin. "Come on, you two! Tradition's tradition, innit?" he urged, fully embracing the role of the festive instigator.

Harry, feeling the weight of the situation, attempted to gracefully sidestep the expected kiss, insisting that it didn't mean anything. However, Eggsy, fueled by the spirit of Christmas and a dash of mischief, wouldn't hear of it. "Nah, Harry, you can't go breakin' tradition. We're all expectin' it!"

Merlin, usually the voice of reason, surprisingly sided with Eggsy, adding, "Indeed. Tradition must be maintained."

Harry, shooting an exasperated look at Merlin, contemplated how to navigate the awkward scenario. He sensed your discomfort, silently pleading with his eyes for some sort of intervention.

As the group playfully urged Harry to fulfill the Christmas tradition, you surprised everyone, especially Harry, by grabbing his face and pressing a quick, almost chaste kiss to his lips. It was a gesture that held a hint of enchantment, leaving Harry momentarily captivated.

You pulled away, a sheepish smile playing on your lips. Harry, however, found himself pursuing your lips for a moment longer, the unexpected connection stirring a mix of emotions within him.

He, still under the lingering spell of the unexpected kiss, found himself leaning in for another, only to be interrupted by Eggsy's exuberant antics. As Eggsy pulled Harry away, calling him a stud and advising him to save the celebration for a more private moment, you blushed and playfully hit Eggsy on the arm.

"Eggsy, you're ruining the moment!" you exclaimed, laughter bubbling in your voice.

Harry, still caught in the whirlwind of emotions, shot Eggsy a mock stern look. "You have a knack for impeccable timing, Eggsy."

Eggsy, undeterred, grinned. "Just lookin' out for you, mate. But seriously, save the romance for when Merlin and I make our exit. We don't need to witness all that lovey-dovey stuff."

Merlin, observing the playful exchange, raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure if I should be concerned or entertained."

Harry, regaining his composure, chuckled. "Let's indulge Eggsy's theatrics for a bit, and then we can have our private celebration."

As Eggsy continued to tease, Harry stole a glance at you, a spark of affection in his eyes. The interruption couldn't dampen the connection that had sparked beneath the mistletoe. The promise of a more intimate celebration lingered in the air, creating a warmth that transcended the festive chaos.

#harry hart #kingsman secret service #harry hart x reader #kingsman #kingsman fanfiction #eggsy unwin #merlin #christmas #harry x eggsy #colin firth x reader #colin firth

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hircines-hunter · 10 days ago

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WIP Wednesday

👀 I had an idea. Unsure if it’ll make it into the Final Cut. But, having Adelina and Hircine feels certainly doesn’t help! Anyways!

Tagging @thequeenofthewinter @umbracirrus @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @mavariel @madamefluffnstuff

@vivifriend @oblivions-dawn @skyrim-forever and anyone else that wants to join in! Please feel free to tag me! I like WIP and reading and looking at art!

Hircine turned when he caught Adelina’s scent on the breeze. He saw her. Her arms half transformed. Fangs protruded from her mouth. She charged at him, ripping the spear from his hand. She pointed the tip at his chest. He backed towards the edge of the cliff, looking down momentarily before looking back at his Huntress. He felt her rage radiate from every fiber within her. Her muscles coiled and contracted. He sidestepped around the cliff.

Adelina slashed at the air where Hircine had been standing. A growl left her lips as she quickly swung his spear again. ‘She’s carrying Moon- Blessed children!’ She yelled into his mind. She closed her eyes and listened for him. There! She swung the spear again. The tip grazed the Daedric Prince’s arm.

Hircine looked down at the blood that trickled down his arm. “She cured my hunters.”

‘She remained a wolf. Turned another into Moon-blessed. She is having twins!’ Adelina swung again, cursing as Hircine ducked and charged at her.

Hircine grabbed both her arms. She struggled against his grip. She reeled her head back and slammed it forward against his helm, cracking it. Hircine let go of Adelina and took a step back. He threw the skull helm to the ground. His eyes turned red as he grew in size. His face contorted into a wolf head with antlers. His teeth were long and jagged. Too big for his maw.

Adelina let a transformation take over. Werewolf behemoth. She’d never be as large as Hircine. ‘I’m taking her side! Her mother and a former pack mate. We are helping her.’ Adelina pounced at her husband. Her jaw latched onto the crook of his shoulder. ‘You may be my Hart and I your Huntress. I do not agree with this Hunt on her.’

“I am not satisfied with the Hunt—“

#wip #wip wednesday #fic:blood moons #oc:Adelina #Hircine #werewolf oc #Kuri does a writing

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the-golden-comet · 2 months ago

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✨🏴‍☠️Find The Word Tag 🏴‍☠️✨

Avast! My good pal Jamie aka @tragedycoded has tagged me in a word find. You know what that means 😏✨

Time to sail the high seas of Peter Hart 🏴‍☠️💛✨

My words: favor, account, prayer, load.

Your words: destroy, sense, withhold, underneath

Favor

As the rest of the crew holstered their swords and guns, they held the ropes and rappelled down the castle wall. Benjamin shrieked as he felt the floor under his feet disappear, dangling his legs helplessly for a moment before wrapping them around Peter’s waist. Though he didn’t favor this position, he didn’t really have a choice. After all, they were ten stories from the floor, and Benjamin was not prepared to be another bloody mess at the feet of pirates.

Account

“Aye, cap’n.” Davey nodded, helping the crew with their loot gathering as they gathered themselves and their treasures. Thanks to the Seeker’s Medallion, despite Benji’s unwillingness, not a doubloon was left unaccounted for as the island was picked clean. Vultures to a fresh kill, until no meat was left on the sun-bleached bone.

Prayer

Frantically, Benji looked back towards the crevice, shutting his eyes tightly and tilting his head up as if to say a prayer, or to curse his horrid luck. Then, finally mustering the courage, the regal took a deep breath and submerged himself in the salty waters.

Load

Reloading and recocking the flintlock, Captain Hart shot one, two, three bullets into the skulls of the rapidly-approaching creatures. Goldman grabbed his own pistol and began firing rounds into the onslaught as the mildew-scented cave began filling with black smoke billowing from the barrels.

I will gently tag the following people (no pressure if you have already done a find the word tag. Just poke me in your original post if you’ve been double-tagged ✨)

@gioiaalbanoart , @wyked-ao3 , @alinacapellabooks , @dearunreliablenarrator , @badscientist , @noblebs , @sableglass , @words-after-midnight , @davycoquette , @saturnine-saturneight , @lavender-gloom , @smellyrottentrees , @cowboybrunch , @finickyfelix , @autism-purgatory , @marlowethelibrarian , @paeliae-occasionally , @agirlandherquill , @musicismymoirail , @eccaiia , @rivenantiqnerd , @willtheweaver , @drchenquill , @honeybewrites , @kaylinalexanderbooks , @katenewmanwrites , @houseplantblank , @nczaversnick , @oliolioxenfreewrites , @theink-stainedfolk , @yourpenpaldee , @thecomfywriter , @mysticstarlightduck , @ominous-feychild , @minamaybe , @justabigoldnerd , @pippinoftheshire , +open tag! ✨

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cohlecosa · 4 months ago

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a hart is a male red (rust-colored?) deer over five years old.

it was seen as the most prestigious animal to hunt in medieval times

and was typically sought out by a bloodhound.

scent hounds then tracked the hart

until cornering it.

#rustmarty #webweaving #cohlehart #i offhandedly heard this the other day and this concept really stuck with me.#it ties in so well with the deer imagery that's littered throughout the show. and slots in nicely with rust and marty's dynamic #anyway #kinda nervous to post this but let's see what happens #my posts #meta

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paquerettexx · 4 months ago

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edward hart — valentine

vampire thinks it's so pitiful to be cursed by a human with this thing called love.

pairing: edward hart / reader, m/f

tags: slight angst, it's ed missing you hours, major character death bc ure dead lol

words: 581

[cross posted from ao3]

edward knew exactly why he was feeling reminiscent. it started with the box rui found under his bed, something they got into an argument over which caused rui to grumble and huff, leaving his captain alone. if edward was going to be difficult while rui's cleaning the bedroom then fine! he'll just return later! that's precisely how edward ended up alone again in his bedroom, heaving a sigh as his hands fiddled with the box's contents.

for a proud, powerful vampire, he was feeling nothing but the opposite of that. he was sick- rather, cursed was more befitting of a term. never in his centuries old age would he think a human would curse him, that a mere human would cause him so much pain and anguish. it was all too much even for someone of his stature. this curse was dangerous- it was affecting his heart and making him feel as if it was being ripped into two when his eyes focused in on the photograph in his hands.

it was a photograph, black and white in color, the edged tattered and folded. it looked old, a century or two old, yet it was well preserved for its age. it was amusing how a simple photograph can hold so many memories; to think such a simple non-anomalous thing invented by humans would become so precious to him later down the line– he must be growing old and senile if he's reminiscing about her like this all of a sudden.

it took three years worth of his savings from his measly salary to surprise her. living in western europe as a commoner was a daily struggle, often times earning shillings that aren't enough to live off comfortably- even so, he took a cut of his pay just to prepare this birthday gift for you.

you, who on your twenty third birthday, he took to a photo studio to get your photographs taken. he made sure to dress up better than usual just as he advised you to do the same. it was awkward, staying still in the same pose for a long time yet he reveled in how his hand was snaked around your waist, holding you close to him for an extended period.

he could smell your cheap perfume which he didn't mind, in fact, it brought him some sense of comfort every time knowing that it's you. still, even the vial of your perfume he kept had its scent faded, becoming a useless relic of his devotion to you when you were still breathing the same air as him.

all these love for you- it was suffocating him, choking the air out of his lungs. it was a curse to love a human. it was a curse to love- one that eats away at him for the rest of his eternity. you were the love of his lifetime, yet his lifetime was just a prolonged agony of misery from missing you. he misses you, yet he wishes that sometimes he could forget you. he wonders at times, would he miss missing you?

like a ghost, you were haunting his waking hours. the ghost of you was watching over his decline, his downfall, his spiral of torment. he felt as if you were watching his fall with those beautiful eyes of yours he adores so much, as he plunged into hell alone, the mess that he is now.

oh, his valentine... his decline would be so, so much better with you.

#tokyo debunker #drabble #oneshot #slight angst #edward hart x reader #obscuary #edward hart #x reader

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wingedblooms · 1 year ago

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A rose in the thorns

Remember when Madja told us that the Cauldron made its mark deepest in the mind? And then Sarah showed us this:

The gates to her mind … Solid iron, covered in vines of flowers—or it would have been. The blossoms were all sealed, sleeping buds tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns. (acowar)

Her flowers are described as sleeping buds that are tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns. Feyre describes her mental gates this way just before Elain uses powers that might be connected to mystics. And then, as others have pointed out, Sarah shows us this in the next book:

But Mor scented nothing, saw nothing. The tendril of power she speared toward the woods revealed only the usual birds and small beasts. A hart drinking from a hole in an iced-over stream. Nothing, except - There, between a snarl of thorns. A patch of darkness. It did not move, did not seem to do anything but linger. And watch. Familiar and yet foreign. Something in her power whispered not to touch it, not to go near it. Even from this distance. Mor obeyed. But she still watched that darkness in the thorns, as if a shadow had fallen asleep among them. Not like Azriel's shadows, twining and whispering. Something different. Something that stared back, watching her in turn. (Mor's pov, acofas)

A shadowy watcher in the woods, as if it had fallen asleep in the thorns. That imagery is eerily similar to Elain's sleeping buds. As a seer, she can find and watch others from afar.

"This time, you sent the trembling fawn to find me. I did not expect to see those doe-eyes peering at me from across the world." (Suriel, acowar)

Mystics seek a higher consciousness, to become one with the divine. In tog, beings of a higher consciousness are what characters referred to as gods. And what did we learn about them from the memory in the witch mirror?

They had no forms. They were only figments of light and shadow, wind and rain, song and memory. Each individual, and yet a part of one majority, one consciousness. (eos)

If mystics become one with the divine, then this might mean they become part of that greater consciousness, travel like figments of light and shadow. This could explain why Elain is paired with the half-wraith twins and it’s possible her mystical travel might mimic how Feyre moves when she is connected to the Cauldron through a living bond.

I could not remove my hand. Could not pry my fingers away. I was being shredded apart, slowly, thoroughly. I flung my magic out, desperate for any chain to this world to save me, keep me from being devoured by the eternal, awful thing that now tried to drag me into its embrace. Fire and water and light and wind and ice and night. All rallied. All failed me. Some tether slipped, and my mind slid closer to the Cauldron’s outstretched arms. I felt it touch me. And then I was half gone. Half there, standing silently next to the Cauldron, hand glued to the black rim. Half … elsewhere. Flying through the world. Searching. The Cauldron now hunted for that power that had come so close…And now taunted it. [...] Time seemed to slow and warp. The dark power of the king speared toward us. Toward that clearing where I was neither seen nor heard, where I was nothing but a scrap of soul carried on a black wind. (acowar)

Feyre’s connection to her form is shredded and her tether to the world slips as she is embraced by the Cauldron. She travels with it across the battlefield, a scrap of soul on a black wind, and is forced to watch tragic events unfold. Trapped by the Cauldron, Feyre was not able to step out of its black wind shadow to help, but Elain was.

For a moment, I thought the Cauldron had answered my pleas. But as a black blade broke through the king’s throat, spraying blood, I realized someone else had. Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.” (acowar)

And this is probably why Elain’s rose is half-hidden in shadows next to the Mother. Her Cauldron-blessed powers might allow her to be half-there, half-elsewhere when she becomes part of that greater, divine consciousness.

Her gaze shifted to the carved wooden rose she’d placed upon the mantel, half-hidden in the shadows beside a figurine of a supple-bodied female, her upraised arms clasping a full moon between them. Some sort of primal goddess–perhaps even the Mother herself. (acosf)

It’s possible she used this power to locate the Suriel, which was practice for the main event: answering Feyre’s pleas and taking down Hybern in place of the Cauldron. Her Sight—a truth teller itself—likely activated Truth-Teller, guiding her to exactly the right place at the right time. The question is, since she is not bound like Feyre, did she then winnow (ie, travel like Hope through the Void, light cutting through the darkness) to save her family? And has she continued to help them in this way?

Islands of grass dotted the expanse, some so crowded with brambles that he could find no safe place to land. The tangles of thorns were a mockery of what might have been - as if Oorid had ever produced roses. Not a single flower bloomed. [...] Run, a small voice whispered. Run and run, and do not look back. The voice was female, gentle. Wise and serene. Run. [...] Run. Was that voice merely all that remained of her human instincts, or something more? She gazed at her reflection as if it would tell her. Something rustled in the thorns of the island, and she snapped up her head, heart thundering as she scanned for that familiar male face and wings. But there was no sign of Cassian. And whatever was in that bramble...She should find another island to head for. (acosf)

This small voice warning Nesta to run also reminds me of Elain’s warning cry to Feyre before she is Made by the Cauldron.

My sisters were shrieking over their gags. But Elain’s cry—a warning. A warning to—To my right, now exposed, Tamlin ran for me. To grab me at last. I hurled a knife at him—as hard as I could. (acomaf)

Sarah planted Nesta’s questions in the Oorid scene to make us wonder. Is this voice something more? And is Nesta’s reflection, her own flesh and blood, a fun hint? After all, who is even better than the spymaster at keeping secrets, and who would’ve known where Nesta was headed? Elain might have defied her sister’s order (like we knew she would) to stay away from the Cauldron and help yet again, a rose bloom half-hidden in the shadows among the thorns. And I bet she will learn a ritual to help focus and ground her movements.

#elain archeron #a rose bloom #half-hidden in the shadows #next to the Mother #seer elain #mystic powers #higher consciousness = no form #figments of light and shadow #half-wraith twins

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damneddamsy · 3 months ago

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renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part ii)

My friend, I am writing this to you from the depths of the forest behind the castle. A thrush builds a nest far over my head while a violet beetle strums a tune, and nearby, a brown hart crosses a brook with her doe. It rains more often, and I stroll in it, wet to my bones. I alone bear witness to the marvels of my home. I cannot sit idle in my chambers anymore when no one seems to care about my whereabouts. Write soon, I eagerly await your tales of voyages on Vhagar. Yours, Aemma.

You should've seen him, the way Aemond Targaryen appeared when he unfurled the little scroll. It was a habit now. He would read and read it, for hours, a single wistful eye going back and forth on the page, mulling over each painstaking word, tracing her name, inhaling the scent of the soil on Dragonstone, before rolling the paper and depositing it with the others in his wooden chest for safekeeping. This letter found him over three moons ago. He had written back, twice, all to be met with nothing. He took to heart the gloom that seeped through the paper, unlike the bewitching girl he had heard from ages ago. She used to speak of collecting dragon eggs, running off with a boat into the sea, and exploring the caves beneath the courts. What was she up to now? What did she look like now? What were they doing to her?

Far away, on Dragonstone, Aemma's days evolved into boredom, a mere observer of the storms that raged. She grew further apart from her still-devoted mother, biding in heartbreak and loss while the princess enabled the household with Prince Daemon. Aemma couldn't help but see her father, Ser Laenor, everywhere. In the salt of the sea, in the misty eyes of his dragon, Seasmoke, in the boats that were docked at the bay, and in the sea glass that washed ashore. She became more disturbed, more evasive, and similarly, more accustomed to her smarting headaches. You could tell the days of her girlhood and absurd adventures were behind her.

There were times when her dear brothers would find a way to shed some light in her life by taking her to the watchpoint to have her see them glide above the ocean, mounted upon Vermax and Arrax. She had once ached for a dragon of her own, but she had given up as the years rolled into others. It didn't seem to matter, nothing changed in the way her family saw her.

Other times, she'd think of her dearest friend, Aemond, across the reach, training hard, fighting battles, riding Vhagar—he felt like a distant dream. A wish that would never quite be. Writing to Aemond brought back serenity to the young princess' mind. The quieter times were behind her. Her getaways were discounted now, but she'd continue to search the island for new excitement just for him. He was a gentle reminder that it was never too late to take action on what she had once dreamed herself to be.

On the morning of her father's observance, Aemma was informed that the princess would like to break bread with her. She didn't know what to expect. So she dressed in her best silks and joined her mother at the overflowing table. Aemma engaged in silence, scraping her fork against the plate, unable to hold her mother's expectant eyes. She wanted to share her troubles, talk about the past, and remember him the right way. Nothing came out except—

"I've missed you," Aemma managed to speak. It was the truth, she'd missed her mother's presence around her dearly.

"Then why have you been shying away from me?" her mother returned, her voice gentle. "Tell me, Aemma. What have I done to receive your silence?"

She met her mother's gaze, stronger now. "Nothing."

Her mother breathed a sigh. "I have not forced it upon you to wed a strange lord. Daemon often prompts me on this, but I refuse it because I know your heart. It belongs to no one but you." She reached across to warm her daughter's cold fingers. "Your brothers worry that your woes have become too deep these days. I share this concern with them, my love. I know you ache for Laenor—"

And the whisper-thin weir broke loose. Aemma's face crumpled into distress, using a hand to muffle a soft cry. She hasn't heard that name around here. No one would dare speak it. This has been a long time coming.

"No, mother," Aemma wept.

"Oh, Em. Even after all these years." Rhaenyra stood up to bound to her side, pressing her daughter into a tight embrace against her chest. "I'm here. Unburden yourself."

"Why doesn't it hurt as much for anyone else?" she asked through her tears, her shoulders shuddering. "Not you, Jace or Lord Corlys. Why me?"

"You loved your father more fiercely than any of us." Her mother stroked her fingers through Aemma's braids softly. "In time, you'll learn to make peace with the memories. Just as we have."

Aemma nodded, eventually finding it in herself to take solace in her mother's careful words. She felt a soft nudge against her stomach, moving out of her mother's arms to touch her swollen belly. Another addition to the family.

"I still want you to take a husband in marriage, Aemma, at your own will and time," her mother said to her, more serious now. She brushed a finger over her tear tracks.

"It does not interest me, mother," Aemma confessed with a sigh. "I've said this plenty."

"Yes, I know."

"Spare me the argument then."

"At the very least a kind, respecting companion who will support you in upholding your duties and protect your ideals, just as your father did for me," she insisted.

"If I were to wed, you would make me a pillar in a dismal court at King's Landing," she tried to explain, but her anxieties piled up to rush out in a mess. "Name me heir to the throne, face all those vile aspersions with a stone heart, and have me mindlessly plough out babes which I don't think I'm capable of for the life of me. I will not be made into a husk of my—"

Rhaenyra caught her chin to interrupt and glared her daughter straight in the eye. "You will not be heir."

She blinked once. "Mother."

"You should be, as my firstborn. I don't deny it. I've fought the very Gods for this privilege my entire life." Her mother palmed her cheek, her expression softening. "But it does not outweigh my oath to you and myself when I first held you in my arms. That I would never subject you to what my father had me brook, a mere political headache until I couldn't see past myself on the throne. I see my misplaced youth in you, daughter, and I want you to prevail for the both of us. Live as you please, captain a ship, voyage as an explorer, and not a tongue will raise against you. I will see to it."

Aemma stared at her mother, her words dripping into her mind one by one. She hoped she heard all of it right.

"For that, Jacaerys will be named my heir," the princess affirmed. "Although, as your brother's kin, you have to take to husband. I cannot have Jace's claim questioned any further. I can only grant you so much latitude on this, not freedom. I am sorry, it's all I—"

Aemma leapt at her mother to swallow her in a delighted embrace. It felt like a warm sunrise after a cold, unclear night, and it carried all before anyone. She pushed her face into her mother's neck, squeezing her as close as to pour her graciousness into her. She would never forgive herself if she were to do wrong by the princess, someone who trusted their years of deprivation and defeat to her.

"Thank you, my princess," Aemma whispered.

Her mother exhaled a laugh, smoothing many kisses against her cheek. "I am all but worthy of you."

"But, mother," she drawled and pulled away to show her the confusion. "How am I to move forward with this?"

"We can do this slowly. I will soon send word to a few great houses in Westeros. Essos, too, if you'd like," her mother divulged, smiling. "You will treat with them until you find someone who agrees with you. I won't bestow you upon them as a broodmare, they will value you as a princess and a lady. Take all the time you need, and satisfy your discretion."

"You make it sound so effortless," Aemma muttered.

"It will be, Em. Don't think too much, speak your mind, if you must. Someone who does not squinch at your wishes is most suited for your hand."

She shook her head. "I am not confident about that."

Her mother kissed her cheek again. "Simply let it happen, my love. Good things will follow."

As it turned out, the word of mouth of insurgency and challenges of Prince Lucerys' claim to the Driftwood throne brought the Dragonstone Targaryens back to their home on King's Landing. The young princes and princess were to stay with the rest of their kin after a long period of separation. A union for the ages.

Soon enough, that word grew old and what delighted the realm was the pleasing news that Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen of Dragonstone was arranging matters with a select few houses to place suitable marriage prospects for her eldest daughter, Aemma Velaryon. At sixteen years of age, her flowering into maidenhood had made her more beautiful. She would eventually draw the eyes of many young lords in the kingdom. Hightower, Blackwood, Arryn and Stark were among the favoured handful.

This matter did not escape Prince Aemond's ears, but he remained impassive to it. It shouldn't bother him, why would it? He knew it was only a matter of time before Aemma would be within these castle walls and he would heed her words before all else. This must be foul play from his sordid half-sister Rhaenyra. The Aemma Aemond knew would never stand for this plight. She would stand before him and remind him of his promise all those years back, they would mount Vhagar together and take to the open seas. Of course, he remembered. He always knew this day would come.

The morning Aemma arrived at the Red Keep, Aemond stood atop the verandah past the courtyard with his brother and sister, his head held high to show his duty and not his deference. But his eye searched and hungrily awaited the sight of her again. What did she look like? Was she as nimble and reserved as they said? That she was the epitome of a true Targaryen princess? Or perhaps—

"Whose eyes does Aemond One-Eye seek?" Halaena droned quietly, taking his attention for a moment. That title irked him.

The carriage was emptied and already making for the gates. Had he missed her arrival? No, she was too hard to miss.

Halaena took his arm, leading him back into the entrance doors. Aemond wavered, his sights still on the courtyard. Why hadn't she come? Where had she gone?

"Come, brother. She'll join us later, I'm sure of it."

He was having none of it. People expected Aemond to simply go about his day as if Aemma's disappearance from the occasion was irrelevant. He was ushered to break bread with his family in a rather torrid affair and train with Ser Criston in the undern when all of his thoughts were linearly on the young princess. Where, where, where.

He sweated out his anguish, battling hard, swinging his sword in lithe twists until Cole's sword was knocked out of his fingers with Aemond's simple outmanoeuvre. While the sparse crowd clapped for him, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two of Aemma's brothers. The bastards of Dragonstone. The ones who cost him his eyesight. He'd been through a world of pain since that night. He would not let that slide, not so soon.

"Nephews! Have you come to train?" Aemond called out, hoping to get something out of them. Any one of them would know where Aemma had run off to.

Jace's gaze sharpened with a black stare as Aemond approached them in fleeting steps. Jace put himself protectively in front of Luke. Aemond scoffed through his nose and dropped his sword on the table nearby.

As if he'd venture to cut the throats of the princes of the realm. In front of all these witnesses. How unseemly.

"Aemma," he declared. Her name left his lips like a plea.

"What about her?" Jace sneered.

Oh, he was not making this easy. "The princess was missing this morning."

"Why would I ever—"

"She went to the stables to see her direwolf," Luke said instead, catching his eye. Aemond wanted to carve out his skin every moment the boy lingered unpunished. "She didn't arrive with us because... she didn't want the attention."

This piqued him. "Why not?"

"Seven hells, Luke," Jace hissed.

"You know how much sister cares for him," Luke mentioned.

Jace sighed, sensing his fairness, and spared Aemond an apprehensive look. "Aemma's not in the mood to speak to anyone. In fact, she should've stayed back. My poor sister had an unfortunate incident attempting to claim the Bronze Fury not long ago."

Aemond wasted no time in tracking down her chambers from her brother's directions. With bated breath, he burst through the doors—"Aemma?"

His dread intensified when he noticed her belongings still stacked in spotless trunks in the corner by the vanity as if she were planning to leave as soon as she came. No, he simply would not allow it.

He carelessly pushed the curtains of the bed aside to find it untouched. The room was freshly scented of lavender oil; she had recently taken a bath. Her cloak hung off the edge of her dining chair. Her gold jewellery was left scattered on the table. She had been here.

"Aemma!" he called aloud again.

"Aemond?" Aemma's delicate dulcet reached his ears.

From the short balcony, she finally presented herself before him, coming between the sunlight and him. Indeed, the rumours were true. Gone was the tempestuous little girl from his treasured memories and instead, in her place, stood a lady so impressive he couldn't believe it was Aemma. She had come into her own beautifully, in the graceful slopes of her breast, waist, nose and lips. There were still traces of that young girl which refused to give way, blessed in her doe eyes, sun-kissed skin and—her hair.

This was what her brothers had vaguely mentioned to him.

Her silvery-blonde hair, that usually flaunted intricate braids or hung in pretty ringlets around her waist, had been completely singed off by dragon fire, all the length and volume lost to a limp mess of curls around her neck. Her mother must have attempted to cheer her up by fashioning a delicate crown of braids around her head.

Aemond didn't care for any of it. She could've stood there with a third eye or a cock in her hands—this was his Aemma, in the flesh. Six years he had gone without her. Nothing could stop him now.

He couldn't contain himself any longer, he strode across the floor to bear her in his arms. As tightly, closely, and intimately as his strength allowed. This had not changed at all, she was as warm as the day she'd parted him.

"It's really you," Aemond exhaled with a faint, incredulous laugh. He spun her around in just as much elation as when he had first dismounted Vhagar and taken to her celebrations.

When he set her on her feet, Aemma had laughed in delight and taken his face into her palms, her dark eyes observing every tick of muscle in his features with a disbelieving smile. Even if his ghastly scar had startled her, she didn't show it.

"I've missed you every day, my friend," Aemma murmured. Gods, you could see his chest swell with satisfaction. It was exactly what he wanted to hear from her.

"How you've grown," he commended, warmly stroking her waist. "So tall and elegant... no wonder all the realm is vying for your hand."

Even the words tasted like poison in his mouth. His expression soured a little.

"And you! I never thought I'd live to see the day your hair was longer than mine own," she exclaimed back, overlooking his mood shift. She held his broad shoulders, measuring the distance between her hands. "You've come to be with the power of a true dragon-rider. I am proud. How goes Vhagar?"

"Insatiable." Much like him right now. "Come with me. I'll fly you over the bay for as long as you'd like."

He'd like to get the word out to the smallfolk, that the princess has been taken to another prince more deserving of her.

"Oh, no. I don't think I can even see another dragon without pissing myself," she told him, her eyes set on their feet. Discomfiture was evident on her face. "I tried to mount... Vermithor upon Daemon's guidance and my hair—" she sadly touched the soft trims around her neck "—I lost it in doing so. If it weren't for him, I would've lost my life, too."

Aemond's arms tensed under her touch. The thought of it was excruciating. What was his uncle thinking, putting such a hysterical little girl in front of a beast as large as Vhagar? And what was Aemma thinking, that such a ferocious beast would bow to someone with her merciful attitude?

She looked up at him, heavyhearted. "Do I look dreadful?"

Aemma could not begin to question that when he had been stricken by her fortitude all those years ago. No burned braids, dirtied skirts, or lost dragons could make up for that.

"I'm certain it'll alarm the lords but not me. You were always glorious to me, princess," he appreciated her, not-so-subtly.

She threw her head back to laugh freely. "Then I must tell my mother to cease this weary pursuit to find me a husband. At least until my hair has grown to an adequate length."

That sounded like a great strategy. It gave him enough time to plot a controlled plan to relieve Aemma of this pressure.

"Have you met with anyone?" he asked, his voice calculating.

She made a face. "Not yet. Lord Blackwood has written to my mother. But..." A lightness overtook her features. "After my stay has ended, I'll be heading north to treat with the Lord of Winterfell."

"Winterfell?" He made the word sound like filth on his tongue. "Those vulgar cunts will cut you up and stuff you in a pie before you can wish them good morrow."

She snickered. "Lord Cregan Stark, my mother tells me, is a gentle giant. No older than I am. I hear from my grandsire that he is an honourable king to his people." She twiddled her thumbs to hide a smile. "Lord Stark wrote to me a while ago. He is rather charming."

Aemond couldn't stand her growing fondness for that filthy northerner. "You write to each other?"

"It was only one letter," she denied. "To pursue familiarity? In any case, my family are thrilled. House Stark is an invincible, age-old power."

Aemond sneered under his breath. A mere word of mouth had swayed her affections to the cold deadness of the north. As if Aemma would last a single winter up there. Warm and beaming in that Stark's arms... he wanted to gouge his one remaining eye out and douse it in acid.

His vindictive thoughts faltered to the Aemma in front of him, who was lulling him to immodest thoughts at the way she stroked her finger down the long scar on his cheek. His eyes almost shut at the bittersweet sensation.

"Jace told me what happened that night with you and Luke," she professed, sadness enveloping her expression. "I never got to tell you how sorry I am, my friend. You must've been in great pain."

He gulped down the bile that rose to his throat at the mention, but he maintained his calm demeanour. Instead, he brought her fingers on his cheek to his mouth and, without thinking, lay a delicate kiss.

"Long forgotten," he lied.

He didn't miss the way Aemma's lips fluttered with a sharp inhale and slipped her hand to her side. She massaged the wrist with a flustered chuckle.

"The eyepatch is... different," she said breathlessly.

Aemond was affecting her, quite obviously. Just not enough. He glanced from the corner of his eye, smug, as she walked around him and toward the bed.

"You might not like what lies under it," he said. "Besides, I'd say we match for life now."

If only she read into what he truly meant. She knowingly touched the noticeable scar that cut through her eyebrow with an absentminded smile. "Yes, we do."

He couldn't wait on this any longer. The words were bursting at the seams, coming undone. "I must talk to you at once."

Aemond took her hand to hasten her to sit beside him on the bed. He entwined his fingers between hers and held it to his chest as he asked her, enunciating his words carefully. She watched him with all her focus.

"Do you truly want to be wed? Have they imposed this on you? You can tell me, Aemma, I will do anything in my power to stop this insanity. I will burn down that damned Sept for you if that's what it takes."

She smiled at him. "Don't fret for me. I am content."

"Surely you lie. 'Tis not good for you." They're not good for you, he wanted to say.

"My mother is right, my dear friend. If I can find someone who can understand what I want out of the marriage, I certainly couldn't ask for more. An honest relationship," she whispered intently. "It's all I want."

Her words burned him more intensely than any inferno in the world. Because she never saw him as a prospect. He would make her see him.

"Whatever fucking happened to fighting for your liberties? To not run in the face of adversity?" he snapped, dropping her hand from between his. "You said it to me, did you not?"

"I have done my part. I've deferred it fairly," she stated, slightly staggered at his tone. "This is a resolution."

"You've given up."

"I have not."

"They've turned you against me," he muttered.

"Oh, spare me the theatrics. Am I to remain a maiden all my life?" she asked, laughing.

He reached out to clasp her chin, but he made sure to be gentle how much ever he raged on the inside. Her smile fell to confusion, her gaze flickering to his fingers and then his eyes.

"You said we'd travel the world together. That we'd ride together on Vhagar, feast all we liked, row boats, build tents, see the world's wonders—am I to consign those ideals to nought? Have you filled my head with meaningless fiction?"

She breathed out a short gasp of incredulity before relieving his grip on her in sharp movement. She stood up to slant by a pillar, pushing her head into her hand. She was a picture of perfection toiled in a peculiar sort of misery. Beauty became her.

"We were children," she mumbled. "Priorities shift over time. I am a princess, a Targaryen no less, sans a dragon. I am without worth if not for my mother, and so are my ambitions."

He scoffed. "Maybe to you. I have counted on every letter, every fucking word, you've penned to me like a madman. You've grown a hunger in my heart and now you mean to crush it with your unfeeling hands."

"I don't understand what you want from me," she spoke, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"I want you!" he growled, pushing to his feet.

She turned to stone before him. Perhaps she had not heard him properly. Aemond took a calm breath inward. No turning back from this anymore.

"Wed me, Aemma," he said, surer of himself. It felt right to say those words aloud, in that exact order. He had never imagined saying it to any other lady except her.

Aemma eventually thawed and lifted her head to stare at him. As if she was waiting for something. He couldn't get a read on her. Her immense, dark eyes softened and smouldered and ravaged his mind.

"Wed me and make me yours," he persuaded softly. "I will protect your honour, our dreams, and our future together better than any foul-mouthed, fat swine lordling this realm has to offer. May the Gods help anyone who stands in my way."

"Aemond," she whispered with an edge of hysteria in her voice.

"Aemma," he murmured.

He sauntered closer to her, leisurely dragging his knuckles down her forearm all the way to her wrist. She had the softest of skin, unblemished, kissed by daylight. He elicited a shiver from her, an abrupt action pressing her closer to his chest.

"I've waited a lifetime for this. For us," he confessed. "I have known no other hope that was not you. Now that I have you, my hope is not misplaced."

The little vestige of control he had on his self-restraint began to splinter and then it would be damaging for him to be around her. It was only right to give her some leeway to consider his transparent proposal.

Aemond deliberately stepped away, tucking his hands together behind his back. "But I am a man of virtue. I will never push you to do something you disfavour."

Her lips parted as air shuddered back into her, a hand supporting herself over the stone pillar. She kneaded at her forehead, soothing away a headache.

"I... need to think."

He beamed brightly. "Yes, good. 'Tis a lot to fathom. A night's rest should do nicely. On the morrow, I shall revisit you, and we shall break our fast together."

Her brows furrowed when she understood. "You mean to court me."

"Apparently so."

"You will cause indecent speculation," she warned.

He pursed his lips, unable to contain his amusement. "Hmm. Why can't a prince and his dear niece dine together after all these years apart?"

Aemma uneasily bit her lip.

"We disregard their baseless whispers as we always have."

The hearsay of Prince Aemond and Princess Aemma breaking bread together and alone swept like wildfire around the Red Keep. It was said that among those the news had stunned, it was Prince Jacaerys who had taken this as a slight. Meanwhile, the Princess of Dragonstone and her consort, Prince Daemon, weren't certain of the positive response on this matter. One night, a thoughtful conversation in High Valyrian was heard from their shared chambers.

"Laenor had always sworn that Aemma was for Aemond," she pondered out loud to Daemon. "They've been following each other around since they could walk. We all saw this coming."

"She has hardly met with any other men," he said. "Offer her other options. Taste the local flavours. I hear Lord Stark has been quite pleased. He wrote to her personally, didn't he?"

"Aemond is what she wants," she sighed.

"She takes after her mother," the prince teased. "Seeking out her uncle."

"Daemon."

"Then make her see that the boy is not what he seems. Our girl has purposes that do not conform to his own. She intends to be like me," he chuckled, "and he is loyal to his sword."

"I will not twist my daughter's mind into submission," she grumbled.

"Gently dissuade."

The princess laughed quietly, stroking her pregnant belly. "Or it would do good for us to form an alliance with Alicent and the king. Protect our lineage from within. And with it, strengthen my claim to the throne."

Daemon hummed, mulling it in his mind. "He is only the second son after all. It is that drunken cunt who will be a threat."

"Precisely. I intend to hit two birds with one stone."

you can continue to read part iii here! and here's my masterlist!

hope you like the way this is progressing! do let me know what you'd like to see ~*

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