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puck-luck · 8 months ago

Note

luke x older reader anon again! congrats on 1k! submitting the same request, with hearts and prompt 25 🫶🏻

warnings: unprotected p in v, age gap (not major.), religious themes & motifs, pining, childhood friends to lovers vibes, best friend's brother ofc, jealousy, occasionally insecure statements from luke, really just the sweetest sex you can imagine. i LOVED writing this. hence... the length.

WC: 4,351

You’ve been friends with the Hughes boys as long as you can remember. The first time you met Quinn, it was during your first pee-wee skate.

Your dad was a big hockey fan, so he wanted to teach you how to skate. The debate had been between figure skating and hockey– your mom loved gymnastics, dance, and figure skating, having been an artistic athlete herself. Your dad wanted you to skate regardless, but hockey felt more suited for your talents. You were a competitive child– and territorial over your toys– so your dad thought it would translate well into a hockey environment.

He took you to the Olympics in Salt Lake when you were three years old. You went to see figure skating and two of the United States hockey games– one for the men and one for the women. To your dad, it wasn’t a surprise how your eyes grew into saucers when you watched your first live hockey game.

He’d enrolled you in peewee skate the following week. There were no girls-only leagues, so you were put into a coed league. Quinn was in the same league. You became very fast friends– you liked to talk, your new little buddy liked to listen, and then you finally got him out of his shell midway through the season and your friendship was fully cemented. Actually, the second you learned his last name was Hughes– like Sarah Hughes, who won the Olympic Gold in single’s figure skating when you were in Utah– he was stuck with you. Just because you’d preferred hockey didn’t mean you didn’t love ice skating, too. It just wasn’t your passion.

You and Quinn stayed in touch after that peewee hockey season, enrolling in the same league and requesting to be on the same team until you both graduated into the boys- and girls-only leagues. You still remained friends, staying in contact as best you could when he moved to Toronto. You’d send letters back and forth and you became a pro at interpreting Quinn’s boyishly terrible handwriting. He’d tell you about his brothers, his parents, his school, and his hockey teams. You’d keep him updated on home, but then it stopped being home to Quinn. Soon enough, you were only talking about hockey and family. ‘Did you see that Crosby won the Hart Trophy?’ ‘Yeah! Ovi got the Calder though, so we’re still on even playing field. Canadian boy.’ ‘Hey, Ovi is Russian. Choose a real American and get back to me.’

It wasn’t long until you secured an invitation to visit the Hughes during the summer. You and your family went up to Toronto to visit them and you got to play with the Hughes boys for a whole week. It was so much fun, so the next summer, you begged to invite them to your place for a week.

The tradition continued for years, alternating houses and hometowns. You and Quinn both applied to Michigan– he played hockey, you did not. You were a good player, but you’re more of a beer league girl. You weren’t recruited to play college hockey– which, for a while, you thought was weird, because there are so few female hockey players in America. You’re hoping that your lack of recruitment means that there are hundreds of amazing women who are better than you at the sport, and that helped you accept your fate. After all, Quinn would sometimes bring you to the rink when it was empty. You’d get to play for a little while– and it was nice, in college, to have someone who knew you so well.

A lot of people assumed that you and Quinn were together, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Quinn was like your brother. There was that weird month when you were thirteen and you’d gone to visit him over the summer and you’d thought, maybe… but it turned out that you were just thirteen and confused because of your rampant hormones and puberty. Quinn is just your friend, your best friend.

All of the brothers were pretty off-limits. You’d seen the way girls had started flirting with Jack as he’d entered his teens. You’re able to admit that he’s a cute boy. Luke was an absolute sweetheart, always trying to play with Quinn (and, by extension, you) as you’d grown up. You felt so fond of Luke in a ‘look at how precious he is, I need to protect him’ sort of way.

And then, last night at the lake house, he’d helped you line up a shot in pool and kept his hand on the small of your back when you bent over the table, and your mind had been spinning ever since.

You can’t tell Quinn, obviously. That’s his baby brother. You’re not even sure how you feel about it– Luke’s always been your little buddy. Now, he’s over half a foot taller than you, so he’s not so little anymore. Still– he’s four years younger than you and Quinn. It’s the equivalent of a freshman hooking up with a senior and you feel icky.

Regardless, you can’t keep your eyes off of him. He likes to twirl his fork between his fingers when he’s done eating dinner. He’ll spread his legs and sit forward when he’s playing video games with his brothers. An absent-minded, crooked smile falls on his mouth every time he’s only half-listening to you or the other boys. It’s paired with a look in his eyes that you can only describe as warm and content. In twenty-four hours, you’ve noticed more things about Luke than you’ve ever seen before.

He’s grown up. It’s still a little weird to you, but he’s 21. You’re still 24, even though your 25th birthday is slowly creeping forward. You find yourself justifying the three year age gap, persuading yourself that it’s fine to look at Luke like that, but then you catch yourself and look away. You’re pushing the idea out of your brain.

But he’s goofy, and cute, and so sweet. He’s the same Luke as always, but you’re seeing him in a brand new way.

You’re able to keep yourself at bay for over a week. The boys throw a party and invite some girls over. Normally, you’re not jealous. You’re calm. You don’t care.

Across the room, there’s a girl flirting with Luke. She’s got a hand on his arm and you’re nursing a drink, seeing red. You’re using Jack as a shield, but you’re still able to look over his shoulder. You think you’re being slick, but it turns out… you’re not.

“What are you looking at?” Jack laughs, tilting his head at you exaggeratedly before turning.

Unfortunately, you know you’ve been found out. There’s only one thing that would have you glowering in such a way. Nothing else in sight is nearly as interesting as Luke and the girl beside him. Jack clocks it right away.

He turns back to you with a tight, knowing smile, like he’s trying to hold back laughter. He pushes his tongue into his cheek and quirks his eyebrows at you.

“Interesting,” Jack says, swirling his drink in his solo cup and then bringing the rim to his mouth. He maintains eye contact as he sips.

You pop the bottom of the cup, making the drink splash into Jack’s face. “Fuck off.”

He wipes his mouth and crosses his arms, cradling the drink in the pocket of his elbow. “You and little Lukey?”

You grind your teeth and glare at him in the most menacing way you can. Jack has known you for too long to be intimidated by your glares. He also never really cared that much in the first place– he’s too shit-eating to be concerned about the repercussions of his words.

Jack smirks some more. “Don’t worry,” he says, popping his jaw like he’s turning a piece of gum over in his mouth. “Your secret is safe with me.”

You clench your teeth and continue glaring. You suck your cheeks in and bite down on the inside of your mouth, lips curling with annoyance.

“You know, he wouldn’t mind if you went over there and staked your claim,” Jack says with a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t think he’d be upset at all.”

“Fuck off,” you repeat again.

“C’mon, Y/N.” Jack pushes your shoulder lightly, jokingly. “You’re being obvious.”

“Quinn’ll kill me. And– it’s Luke, Jack.”

“So what? It’s not weird. We all grew up together. We’re all around the same age. It’s not a big deal. He’s had a crush on you forever.”

“It’s different,” you sing-song. “He’s younger than me.”

“Let’s go, Cougar,” Jack teases, reaching up to high-five you.

You don’t take it, instead deciding to punch his stomach.

Jack doubles over like you actually wounded him, but straightens up smiling. “You oughta go make him jealous.”

“You’re pissing me off.”

“Dude, I’m serious. Let’s go flirt with Trevor or something. Someone who Luke thinks you’re better than– I guarantee he’ll be over here in a second.”

Jack actually tugs you toward Trevor and explains the plan before you can even get a word in. So much for keeping your secret. Trevor, to his credit, is a very willing subject. He keeps a hand on your waist during the whole conversation and you do your best to ignore the niggling desire to look over your shoulder at Luke.

Turns out, you should’ve been worried about Quinn.

“Get your hands off her, Zegras,” Quinn snaps, pushing Trevor’s hand off of your waist and stepping between you. “You’re not allowed to fuck my friend.”

If that’s how he feels about one of his friends touching you, then you feel a bit faint at the idea of Quinn’s reaction to Luke getting together with you. That might seal the deal– you really can’t fuck Luke.

“I’m not fucking her,” Trevor says. “We’re working an angle here, Quinn.”

Quinn scoffs. “Yeah? What angle is that, Trevor?”

“We’re trying to make Luke jealous, hello?” Trevor says like it’s obvious.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face in your hands. “Trevor, you fucking moron.”

“What?” Quinn demands, but his look turns into sheer bewilderment. “You’re doing this for Luke?”

“I’m going to bed,” you announce, stomping away.

Trevor, somehow, is free to follow after you. Quinn hasn’t stepped in to stop him. You wish he would. He’s probably too confused. “This is good,” he says. “He’s definitely going to see us going upstairs together. Hold my hand.”

“No.”

“Dude, it was working. Luke was looking over at us the whole time.”

“I don’t care, Trevor.”

“Don’t you want him?”

“Not like that,” you hiss between your teeth. “I don’t want to make Luke jealous. I want him to come to me because he wants to, okay? Go downstairs. I don’t want to be with you right now.”

Trevor holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright. I’ll go. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You disappear into your bedroom, changing into pajamas and climbing into bed. It’s nice to have your own bedroom in the lake house that Jack and Quinn bought with their NHL salaries, but tonight it’s bittersweet to be able to hear the party going on as you lay in bed. It’s not at all like when you fall asleep during a holiday party and your parents put you to bed, and you can still hear the laughter of the guests in your dreams. Now each bout of laughter reminds you of her, the girl whose hand was on Luke like she already owned him, and you wonder if he’s making her giggle with his stupid corny jokes.

God, last week you didn’t even like Luke. Now you’re burning with jealousy– or maybe it’s the fires from Hell, because you’ve got a completely inappropriate crush on your best friend’s little brother. You can never come back to the lake house like this, at least not until you’ve gotten over this shit. Why are you so affected? It’s Luke, for fuck’s sake.

It’s Luke again when someone comes knocking at your door. You thought it would be Quinn, ready to chew you out or question you extensively about this crush. To your surprise, the problem himself appears.

“You okay?” Luke asks, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. His silhouette is burly and big and you have to close your eyes to shake the pang of emotion that penetrates your chest.

“Just tired,” you reply quietly. “Couldn’t stomach the party anymore.”

“Did Trevor say something to upset you?”

Quieter: “No, Luke.”

He hovers silently. You can hear the cogs in his brain turning. His pitch matches yours when he speaks next, although his tone is much more melancholic than despondent. “Are you mad at me?”

You hesitate for a second too long. You’re not mad, but you’re certainly taken aback by the uncertainty in his words. “No, Luke,” you say again, but this time the pang that goes through your chest is more familiar. You don’t want to upset him. You’ve always wanted to protect Luke from the world, but now you’ve made him unsure and insecure. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Luke asks, and you have to take a shaky breath. He sounds so small. It’s like the time that you didn’t let him ride bikes with you and Quinn to the store, even though he begged, and then he cried and ran to his mom. After seeing Luke’s puffy red eyes and resolute determination to ignore you for the rest of the night, your soda and candy bar didn’t taste as good. In fact, they tasted a bit like cardboard. You ended up throwing half of the bar away and going home early. You swore you’d never make sweet little Luke feel that way again.

“You wouldn’t get it, I don’t think,” you tell him quietly, pushing yourself up in bed and resting on your elbows. You take a deep breath and look at him, sure that he can see the way your chest rises and falls.

Your eyes have adjusted enough that you can see the way Luke’s mouth opens, as if to say something, then closes with a shake of his head. You notice his eyes fluttering towards the corner of your room, removing you from his line of vision. “Okay. You don’t have to tell me,” Luke says, biting his lower lip in a dejected and heartbreaking way. “I get it. I’ll go.”

“Luke,” you sigh. “Don’t be like that.”

“No, it’s fine. You don’t wanna talk to me,” he says with a shrug. “We’re not friends like that. I’m not Quinn.”

“Luke.” You push yourself up further, pushing the covers down and criss-crossing your legs. “It’s not that.”

“It’s always that. And if it’s not that, then it’s that I’m not Jack. I just– I don’t want to hear that from you.” Luke shrugs again, always defaulting to that motion when he’s deflecting because he’s big and awkward and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. As if he’s thinking the same thing, you watch him shove his fists in his pockets and keep his shoulders tense.

“Come here,” you request, head tilted and mouth turned down with sadness. You shift your position so that both of your knees are under you and you’re sitting back on your heels. “Luke, please.”

You hold your arms out for a hug, not for the first time in your life, and Luke shuffles over. He takes his time and he refuses to meet your eyes, just stooping down so that he can wrap his arms around your middle. It’s a weird position, given that you’re kneeling on the bed and he’s half-bent over. You can feel the pout and doubt all over Luke’s face, so you reach a hand up to his curls and run your thumb over one of his more perfect spirals. He’s letting it grow out a bit and you like how messy it looks.

“Jack told me something,” you reveal softly, still petting through his hair. Luke stiffens in your arms, but doesn’t pull away. “He said you like me.”

Luke groans and struggles in your grip, even sinking to his knees to try and get out of your grasp. He’s kneeling beside the bed, and you bring your legs around so that he’s situated between them. You keep a hand on his shoulder, the other still playing with his hair. He’s evading your eyes again, looking stoutly at the floor.

“I have feelings for you, too,” you whisper, the admission feeling heavy and wrong and like a knife to the gut. Admittance is the first step, but you just feel silly. “And I don’t really know how to deal with those. You’re– I’ve known you since we were so little, Luke.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Luke says bluntly, a hint of a complaint in his sentence. “You’ve been acting weird because you like me, too?”

“I was upset that there was a pretty girl talking to you,” you say sheepishly. “And I just didn’t want to go along with Jack’s plan. He wanted to make you jealous. Thought that would work.”

“I’m always jealous when you talk to another guy,” Luke tells you like it’s obvious. “I just, kind of, gave up. I didn’t think you’d ever feel that way about me. I thought I’d get over it. Stupid childhood crush, you know.”

“Yeah,” you agree, understanding that you yourself just experienced a similar line of thinking. You said you’d get over it, but you don’t really want to. Not right now, at least, when Luke’s sitting in front of you and he’s got a tentative hand on your calf, rubbing his thumb over the muscle and staring up at you with big eyes. You bite your lip, trying to think logically about this, but all you can do is examine Luke’s features like you’ll never get to see them again. Maybe you won’t– not like this. Not in this liminal space between something and nothing. This is one of those moments that you know won’t last– because the next one will change everything. So, for a moment longer, you just reach out and run your thumb along Luke’s cheekbone, eyes flickering between his cheek, his lips, and his eyes.

“What do we–” Luke loses his words and presses his lips together, looking up at you, expression completely tortured. He turns his head and kisses the side of your knee, which makes your heart split a bit more.

“I don’t know,” you admit. You wish you had a better answer for him. You truly aren’t sure what you can do from here. There are too many things to consider– so you won’t consider them at all.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Luke asks.

A fond burst of laughter escapes from your chest. “Lukey, this is a twin bed. We can’t both fit.”

A pout comes over Luke’s face again. “We can too,” he insists, furrowing his brow a bit. “I’ll prove it. Move over.”

He’s climbing into your bed before you can tell him no. His long and spindly limbs are coaxing you to lay back, then warming you as he holds you tight. It’s a tight squeeze, but that just means that you’re touching him everywhere. It’s nice and you suddenly wish you were facing him, so you roll awkwardly in his arms until you’re face to face. Your noses are nearly touching and Luke is staring at you, really taking you in.

Your eyes find his lips… and then he’s leaning in.

It’s charged with tension and electricity, but it’s soft and hesitant. Neither of you want to test the boundaries and you don’t think this feels quite real. Your stomach is swooping with bats, not butterflies, and it’s exactly what you wanted. This is what you expected when you found yourself imagining kissing Luke this past week, even if you shook yourself out of it because it felt inappropriate. Here, it feels so right that you swear you could start crying from relief. You’ve never felt that way before from just a kiss. Your chest could burst.

When he pulls away, you feel frozen in time. Your eyes are closed and his lips are right there, a hair’s breadth away. You swallow, touching his chest, palm flat.

“Was that okay?” Luke asks.

You nod, then slide your lips over his again.

You come together in a way that can’t be described as anything other than desperate. Your hands touch him in any way they can and Luke’s do the same. You move in tandem like you’ve got a language of your own– an indignant hum from you followed by a sweet “I know” from Luke before he touches you exactly the way you want.

Kissing the whole time, Luke gets you on your back. Your lips only part to remove your shirt, then his. Luke’s big hand cradles your jaw and neck, keeping your head and mouth exactly where he wants them. He guides you with a surprising amount of experience and sureness, although maybe he’s fueled by the same feeling of rightness as you are.

He opens you on his other hand, snaking his hand into your pajamas shorts because he can’t be bothered to remove them. His hips roll against your thigh, his long torso displacing your pelvis from his as he kisses you. He’s big– you knew it height-wise, but now you can feel him against your leg, and you want him to fill you. You want him to claim you, to take you– you want to give all of yourself to Luke. It’s madness and though you’re sure you’ve lost your mind, the crack in your chest that pours out love for Luke has taken control of your body.

After three fingers and a lot of whimpering from you, clutches at Luke’s hair and bruising kisses working in tandem with your noises, Luke works your shorts down. He breaks from your lips so that he can take you in beneath him. He touches your waist and the curve of your stomach, the one that you cringed at for so many years as a teen but finally accepted in your grown age.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says reverently, eyes portraying nothing but sincerity.

You can’t say anything to that, nothing that can match his utterly genuine sentiment or portray how grateful you are that he took the time to say those words, so you kiss him again. You muster up an embarrassingly wanton ‘please,’ which you draw across his lips like a paintbrush.

You can’t get enough of saying his name as he presses into you, his heavy body blanketing yours. You can feel his every muscle move as he works into you and you’ve never felt more like a masterpiece. There were times when you made fun of the phrase ‘making love,’ but sex with Luke feels intensely like you’re creating something tangible by coming together in this way.

The moans and cries that you’re trying to stifle so that no one comes barging in should be enough to convince Luke that this is everything to you. Sweet, sweet Luke– he seems choked up when he says, “They can’t fuck you like I can.” He says the sentence like he has to prove it to you, like you’re not falling apart under his touch. He pleads with you between the words, in the spaces where you can see his breath hitch in his throat.

You’re still not sure where this night will leave you tomorrow morning. Everything, everything has turned on its head. Somehow, you feel a bit like you’ve been leading up to this for a while, not just in the past week. Luke knew it before you did.

“No,” you agree, touching his cheeks and keeping his eyes on yours. “They can’t.” You kiss him briefly, feeling his tongue swipe into your mouth before you pull away. “I’m yours.”

Luke actually keens at that, his arms straining as he shifts his weight to fuck into you harder. Because you’re so close, the bed isn’t moving enough to bang against the walls or creak on its boxsprings, and you’re glad. This is a moment for just you and Luke– you don’t want anyone hearing. You don’t want anyone to be around. You hope that they’ve all miraculously disappeared and you and Luke are the last people in the house, maybe even on Earth.

“I’m yours, I’m yours,” Luke repeats, his forehead meeting yours. You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale, his breath automatically syncing with yours. You’re overwhelmed, but deep in the back of your mind, there’s a voice reminding you about an ancient tradition in Polynesian culture where forehead-to-forehead contact and breathing together is sacred, like you’re sharing the breath of life– like there’s some power in the universe, a god or many, clicking things into place.

He unravels first, fucking you through his release with urgence akin to the sentence he said before. Always trying to prove himself– but Luke has always been enough for you. Maybe not always in this way, but now, there’s nothing he can do to shake your favor. All of the feelings in your heart have been poured out, shared and mixed with his own, and it’s created a puddle– or a bubble– around the pair of you.

It’s been written that sex is when two people come together as one. You finally understand what they mean, joining Luke in the seas of ecstasy.

Sweet nothings and touches like worship follow. Your hands can’t get enough of Luke’s strong figure. He runs his fingertips along your body like he’s in awe of your figure, like he gets to touch a statue so lifelike and beautiful that he can’t believe it was ever a block of marble at all.

The concerns about what will happen tomorrow don’t exist here, in your dark bedroom with Luke stuck to you like glue. For now, it’s just you. Together, breathing, touching, loving– there’s nothing else that could matter. This is it.

note: i have to work on my grad school app in the coming days, so this will probably be the last blurb/oneshot until i finish the application. but, i might get bored of writing that and could pop in to do another smut piece here and there ;) hopefully i'll chat with y'all soon! but i don't want to rush this grad school app LOL

#puck-luck's 1k celebration #puck-luck's fics #andy writes anything🍄#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fanfiction #luke hughes smut #luke hughes blurb #lh43 #nhl #nhl smut #nhl fanfiction #nhl blurb #hockey smut

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ariascoven · 9 months ago

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⟡ INSOMNIA PILLS

PAIRING : agatha harkness x reader

CONTENT / WARNINGS : established relationship, agatha is reader’s wife. gender neutral reader. pure fluff. whiny agatha.

WORD COUNT : 732

MY MASTERLIST | REQUESTED

You were sleeping peacefully, having the same nonsense dreams as always — for some reason, the Gods above decided that you would never have a coherent dream in your life. That is, until Agatha’s shuffling and groaning awakened you. You squinted your eyes and looked out the window, groaning when you saw nothing but pure darkness, the stars sparkling faintly. You turned your head to glance at the bedside clock, marking 2am. Agatha let out an annoyed grunt that almost made her sound like a spoiled child rather than a powerful, centuries old witch. You sat up slowly, rubbing your dizzy head. “Is something wrong, my love?” You were still half asleep, the simple task of speaking becoming a nightmare as your words slurred out in an almost incoherent blabber. Your wife turned around to face you, a childish pout lingering on her lips and eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. “Can't sleep, honey?” She nodded, her expression softening slightly at the concern and affection in your voice. “Come here.”

You shuffled in bed, sitting against the headboard and getting comfortable, arms opening wide in invitation and leaving no room for an answer. Agatha accepted the offer without a second thought, snuggling against you like you're her own personal pillow — not that it wasn't true. Her arms snaked around you to keep you close as she laid her head on your chest, her dark hair tickling your neck. She whined, making you giggle. “What?” She said grumpily, moving her head to glance up at you, that adorable pout still on her lips. You couldn't resist the temptation, leaning down to kiss her tenderly. You felt the annoyance slipping away from her body with a contented sigh the second your lips touched. You pulled back to look into her eyes, causing her to smile. You gently made her lay back down on your chest, your fingers combing through her thick hair softly as you hummed a calming tune, watching as she closed her eyes. Your lips joined the fingers that were tangled in her hair, peppering the top of her head with kisses, your free hand rubbing her arms soothingly.

Feeling your lover’s heartbeat, you smiled as she snuggled even closer to you, seeking the affection and comfort that only you could provide. Your legs were entangled with hers and you noticed her feet were cold — stubborn the way that she is, Agatha refused to put on socks before bed, even though you practically begged her to, saying the air was getting cold and you didn't want her to get sick. ‘I’m a witch, I’ll be fine. Agatha Harkness doesn't need socks,’ she claimed. The woman drove you crazy with her tantrums, but you loved her dearly. And she loved you, too. You knew it. And so did everyone that spent 5 minutes watching the way she treated you and acted around you. Her caring and affectionate side was reserved to you only, and you would be lying if you said you didn't like that. Even though you often had to reprimand her like a toddler when she acted up in public by starting an argument with a stranger or giving weird looks to random people on the street, your heart grew oddly warm knowing you were the only person that she would actually listen to. Sharon Davis — also known as Mrs. Hart, the name Agatha refused to stop calling her — told the witch to ‘stop staring, it's rude!’ once, which ended up in Agatha ruining the poor lady’s garden. Of course, you made her fix it.

“I love you.” Agatha muttered groggily before drifting off to sleep on top of you. You don't know exactly how much time you spent just admiring your sleeping wife’s features that night, giggling at the way she looked grumpy even as she snored peacefully. You waited to make sure that Agatha was in a deep sleep and there were no risks of accidentally waking her up and unleashing a tired, angry beast before reaching your arm out to turn off the lamp you don't even remember turning on. Probably did that when you were still half asleep, you think, shrugging it off. You found a bit of difficulty to lay back down with the weight of Agatha’s body on top of you, but you managed. You hugged her tightly before whispering in her ear. “Thank you for being mine.”

#written for aria’s coven ♡#agatha harkness fluff #agatha harkness x reader #marvel x reader #kathryn hahn x reader #marvel #agatha all along #wandavision #wlw fanfic #gn reader

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terrorcamp · 5 months ago

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Davechella #9: Thomas Jopson

Here to steward you through your Sunday, this week's two and a half hour Davechella playlist is for Thomas Jopson (aka DJ DollEyes)! 🎶🤯

Listen here:

For last week's Blanky playlist, Ian Hart chose A Case of U by Prince.

We can't wait to see everyone channeling their inner Jopson — don't forget to share your DJ sets using #davechella! 🎧✨

#davechella #the terror #terror camp #thomas jopson #Spotify

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

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CAT-EYES

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

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

WORDCOUNT: 13.3k

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

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

You were sitting in the branches again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until it speaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could outrun him.

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

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

Your lips twitch.

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

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

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

The boar broach winks at you.

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

“Just Johnny—”

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

Blue eyes widen, sure feet faltering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure,” you puff a laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...What was that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Find him!”

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

“Here!”

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your sharp eyes hone in, unwavering in its heat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your thin lips tell him all he needs to know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown, gut swirling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wanted that damn boar broach.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No family?”

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

The man grunts. “M’sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I supposed to be insulted or not?”

“I leave that for you to decide.”

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

Your face softens slightly.

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

And you don’t understand why.

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

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

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

“You called me strange.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re not stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tears slip from over your cheeks.

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

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

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

“Just make it quick.”

John’s lips thin. “Yes, Ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You needed to figure out a way to get out of here.

Pushing your head up from Johnny’s shoulder, your eyes flutter but manage to analyze what little you can see clearly—adrenaline can take care of most of your agony, only leaving a dull ache as your heart continues to rage.

A group of four knights have their hands on their swords, and all of their eyes are on John.

Run, a deep part of you urges. Your legs are still good. Take off—none of them know the terrain like you do. You’ll be free.

You pant, your nostrils flaring with every breath as your sweat trickles off your jawline. Johnny’s grip on you tightens, head shifting back and forth, unknowing where to anchor itself, not understanding which is more important—your state, or your safety.

Free, free, free.

Your mind flashes to an empty house: silent woods. How you would go months without seeing another human face, but that was your own choice.

Wasn’t it?

Your eyes slip to Johnny.

“We’ve been tasked with bringing you back, My Lord,” the first knight says, looking heavily upon the runaway. “We have our orders. Please understand.”

“And I’m telling you your orders are utter shite,” John spits. “So back the fuck up and drag yourself out of this place. Now.” He glares, teeth snapping. “Those are my orders.”

Your arm is numb, and your chest expands as it sits on John’s own. And you think.

You knew you were a selfish person.

There was no debate about it—even when you’d stolen enough coin to feed you for weeks, there was still a part of you that longed for some chase; some challenge to your senses. You liked stealing. You liked the looks on people's faces when they realized they were being swindled for every valuable item they had in their possession. But there was something you liked even more than all of that—a challenge.

Johnny, to you, was that challenge. He was the largest challenge you’d ever faced. A Lord who was running from a bride, a man who held his beliefs higher than praise or standing…a blue-eyed stranger who matches your poking jabs word for word.

“Damn,” your growl, and John takes it as an exclamation of pain.

He grits his teeth and studies you, opening his mouth as his concern grows at the smell of blood.

“We need to tie it off,” he utters. “Bastards made me drop the tartan—I’m sorry, Dearie.”

Your lips are near his ear.

“When I say ‘go,’ run to the left.”

Johnny halts, attention snapping down. His fingers flinch around you, face open until the mask of sudden knowledge flies over it like a curtain. But it’s gone just as quickly—hidden by intelligent eyes that glint.

He doesn’t question you, and, in the crux of your shoulder, you get a near-infinitesimal nod from Johnny’s head.

The guards grow suspicious, all mulling closer by the second the longer you two remain so close—on opposite ends, you feel your heart mirroring John’s in a rapid and ravaging pulse: Thump-thump, thump-pump, thump-pump-thump.

Your attention is split three ways.

One: the rising numbness of your limbs and the heat of your brain. Two: the spread of Johnny’s panting breath across your sweat-slick skin and his hands tightening. Three: knights and the clatter of their armor. How they slide their hands across their weapons like intimate partners—the tension building in a hemp bowstring and the sound of arrows hitting off one another; one taken and played with between fingers so similarly to how you would act.

Your tear-stained eyes glare at the knight who’d shot you, your expression building into an act of hatred.

They take a step forward.

“Cat-Eyes—” Johnny begins to warn slowly.

“Go.” Your words are no shout. They don’t echo off the trees, which all hold their breeze in expectation, they don’t ring in ears except the ones of the man holding you. But they’re like the personification of a sword strike—like the release of an arrow and the impending thump of it hitting home.

The knights dash forward with calls for their Lord to stand down, but John’s already flinched away with a heavy grunt.

You do the same, your plan already formed—you would run the opposite way as Johnny, only slipping off when the cover of bushes had enshrouded the both of you to create two sets of tracks. With any luck, the guards would break off into two groups and pursue the both of you, and you could easily lose yours.

From there, circle back and find John: get your bearings before—

Arms never detach from your waist, and you’re once more tossed into a strong grip.

Eyes bugging, your focus breaks as gravity leaves and your head goes light. Johnny dashes away, and, just as the last time, you’re in his boar-like hold.

“You idiot!” You bark, the only difference to your predicament now is that you’re held in a bridal grip and not slung over his sweaty shoulder. There was only a small sliver of relief before the annoyance overtook you.

Johnny’s body crashes through the leaves, the shouts of the knights following as he gruffly raises his voice to the wind. The trees shake with amusement.

“Thinking you could hand over some directions, Dearie?!”

“Thinking you could put me down?!” You shout back, your arm sparking with pain as your opposite wraps the man’s neck firmly. “Damn.” Your lips twist in response. “My legs work just fine, you know—I wasn’t shot in the arse!”

“Acting like you were,” John grumbles, a branch slapping his cheek before you can. Despite it all, he chuckles wholeheartedly at his own joke.

An arrow whizzes through the air, and you yelp, ducking behind his body even more as your skull fits under his jaw. Your eyes snap to the visible terrain as Johnny’s legs push from one side to the other, running in a zig-zag pattern to avoid any more injuries.

“There,” your brows rise, fighting past the pain to find the familiar slash of a gnarled willow tree that whizzes by in brown and dark green.

Your head rises to see more of the woods, only to be pushed back down by an all-expansive hand as John utters a fast-breathed and firm, “Not the best idea.”

He shoves through brambles, and the sounds of rampaging knights are gaining. The second John sloshes through a low pool with a loud curse, you know instantly where you two are.

“Take a left near the overhang with vines coming down!”

“That one?”

“Yes!”

And so this game continued long after the knights had been lost to the woods, stumbling about without any sense of where they were, and the two of you came to a panting halt an hour later. Deep night was setting in on the second day, and, as your shaky feet hit the ground, John kept a heavy eye on you.

“Steady,” he mutters, sweat pouring off his face; saturating his clothes. He worriedly stares, looking you up and down.

Your vision swirls, the glade around you the exact place you both needed to be. There were hills here—surrounded by thick trenches carved by rivers long dried. The stars were out, and the moon was shining down; one thin trickle of a river was feet away, the sound of water on rocks addictive to your pounding ears.

All of it was null to the way your gut flipped at the humming agony of your arm.

Your hand snaps to the puncture and the flood of blood is enough to leave your fingers dripping with crimson glinting in moonlight.

There’s a heavy ripping sound, and then you find yourself sitting down in the grass as Johnny shoves the torn fabric of his suit into the small river. You hear the splashing as you glance down at your arm before rapidly looking away, biting at your lip as your spine hunches.

“Christ almighty,” you growl, glaring to the side as your fingers quiver. Tears well.

“The arrowhead is keeping pressure,” John hurries to speak, trying to distract you just as his own exhaustion is bare to see. The rung-out fabric is looped around your arm, tying off until you have to strangle down a scream at the tightness on your flesh. “We have to keep it there until there’s enough sterile material to fix it up.”

“Your knights are pieces of work,” you hiss, more from the wound than anything.

John gives a little look, blue eyes darting up until falling.

“Aye, they are.” His strong jaw clenches. “This shouldn’t have happened, Dearie.”

You stare as he finishes up, and you feel his fingertips slipping along your arm. Your eyelids droop, closing as your nostrils suck in shaky air. You take a moment to take in the silence that follows, John’s eyes not straying as your face is illuminated.

He watches the streaks of dirt along your skin, and, in a soft attempt to fix this, he stands and moves to the river once more—cleaning his hands. Johnny takes the rag out of his sporran and wets it, coming back to your body as the grass waves back and forth.

“Let me…” the man says slowly, and your eyes open back up as the chilled item is pushed to your cheek.

Wide orbs staring forward, you swallow as John concentrates on cleaning your skin carefully.

“Infection is my immediate concern,” the man says with a sigh, yet continues as your tongue stays tied; face growing more heated by the second. “But you mentioned it takes three days to the town, aye? That’s not unmanageable with two already under our feet.”

Blood, dirt, and sweat slip away with every drag of the fabric, and, stuck into his suit, that boar broach still sits—crooked now, but still there.

Your attention is momentarily taken by it, and your fingers twitch before you notice how very close John’s face is to yours.

The man focuses, relaying a plan as you’re stuck mute; your arm holding its own heartbeat as the grass shifts.

“I’ll use what I have to get you into a doctor. Make sure there’ll be no problems before I get going.” John blinks, tilting his head. “‘Course, that’ll decrease the amount you’ll get in turn.”

“Fortunately for you,” you breathe, voice strained, and blue eyes stick to yours. John pauses, brows slightly pulling up on his face. “I value my own life too much to complain about a man paying for my care.”

John’s rag stays where he placed it, right on the swell of your cheek as, this close to one another, you can see the scar on his chin—one that curves to the muscle and bone.

He was handsome, make no mistake about it. You knew it; you understood it. A lord with morals and the smarts to go along with the strength—now that was utterly unheard of. You liked that, truthfully. Someone who could think, and plan.

And, of course, follow directions.

“You’ll be fine,” John mutters, glancing to the side, yet his head doesn’t move back. He clears his throat with a sigh.

You roll your eyes, moving out and grabbing his hand with the rag. Johnny’s expression startles, arm tensing as you steal the dripping fabric from him. Water runs down your neck.

“I know I am.” You huff, smiling.

You push the rag onto his own face, and begin your cat-like approval of his character, washing away the grime just as he had your own. A blue gaze stays firmly on your flesh, the man’s shoulders loosening until he’s sitting just in front of you. Verident grass whispers in a language like a soft breeze, and you study Johnny’s skin until everything becomes a mosaic of scars and blemishes—stories woven into sinews holding as much history as the tines on an elk or the chipped tusks of a boar.

Two days and he’d become even more of a mystery than he had been before. Or maybe he always had been, and now your previous contentment had grown into an addictive curiosity.

He’d called you Cat-Eyes.

You couldn’t love a title more—not even if Lady were on the table.

“I settle my scores,” you grunt, tilting your head as you push back mud from his forehead, leaning in. “You wash my face, I wash yours.”

“Literally, then?” A sarcastic eyebrow makes you huff.

“Is that not what I’m doing, Johnny Boy?”

“Seems so, Cat-Eyes.”

Your matching glares hold no venom.

Smirking, you lean back after the last swipe at his forehead, pushing Johnny’s skull back as he chuckles, moon-lit visage something you would see scrawled on the parchment of an old story-teller's sketches. A man not made for this age.

Your face softens slowly, and it is a strange thing sitting atop the sharpness of your eyes.

John’s chuckles fade, and his breath catches in his throat.

“You’re an odd fellow, John MacTavish,” you say, here, with blood from an arrow wound drying to crack along your skin.

Your head tilts, eyes narrowing.

John’s lips slowly pull upwards, and the water on both of your faces drips to the listening earth. This place is alive with possibilities, and all of them stem from the growing draw of twisted human souls.

A just Lord and a cunning thief.

A sharp-eyed cat and a strong-bodied boar.

A future and a past—riddled with arrow marks; long sword slashes.

“Well…then I’m thinking we make quite the pair, Bonnie.”

—

The third day was spent on the latter half of the journey. Re-correcting the course and giving the best directions you could with the numb ache of your arm spreading up your shoulder.

But the town came easily as the midday sun rose to crest your heads.

“Want to lean on me?” Johnny asks, standing close by, but you’re already shaking your head.

“Feels better to keep myself focused,” you mutter, grimacing. You look at the entrance to the town, and as you both walk it, the stares are immediate—shocked residents looking at the haggard appearance of two individuals.

“Alright,” John sighs, side-eyeing you. “Just let me know if you’re goin’ to keel over, yeah?”

“Duly noted,” you tilt your head his way. Your lips smirk like a smug child. “You’ll catch me, won’t you?”

Johnny chuckles, shrugging his wide shoulders as his tattered finery is chock-full of brambles and leaves.

“Can’t say no to that.”

The Lord kept his promise—the doctor took the arrowhead, cleaned, cauterized the wound, and sutured you back up. For payment, as you lightly touch the bandaged section of your arm, you find your eyes freezing as a silver glinting reflects off the light through the window.

Johnny hands over his boar broach to the doctor.

Widely staring at the prize being pawned off for your health, your heart stutters in heavy greed.

No, you rapidly think. No, that was the one thing that I—

Your eyes inexplicably snap to Johnny.

The immediate thought is that he looks angry, but, the next and more accurate one, is that he looks sad.

John’s blues continue to follow the broach as it disappears into the doctor's pocket, and you see the weight fall back to his chest and arms—sitting heavy like a stone. The man’s feet shift along the ground for a moment, and he looks like he’s about to say something before he grits his teeth and shakes his head to himself. John grunts, fixing his nose.

You blink, and then your heart twists in on itself for no reason at all.

Or maybe there was a reason.

“C’mon, Cat-Eyes,” Johnny sighs heavily, tilting his head as his arms cross. “Time to see me off, then.”

He walks out the door, and your eyes follow like a loyal dog.

Standing there for a moment, your lips contort your face into a deep frown, sharp eyes gaining a sheen of light anxiety. Yet, there was no mistaking it—it had been said a million times—if there was one thing you could do, it was play a game.

Maybe you weren’t so bad after all.

“Oh my,” you mutter, putting a hand to your head and stumbling.

The doctor starts forward quickly, grasping at your un-injured arm. “Careful now, Woman. Don’t rip my sutures.”

He tells you, getting you fully up as you chuckle, placing your hands above his thigh, fingers twitching on the fabric.

“Apologies, apologies,” you mutter, retracting your hand and cupping it against your abdomen with a meek smile. “Just a little lightheaded. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Best be off, now,” the man grumbles, and you’re out the door swiftly.

Your shoes meet the cobble as you shift your hands into your pockets, shifting your body to look along after the large form that leans against the home waiting for you.

“Ready?” Johnny asks, though his attention is firmly planted on the ground five feet away, lost in thought.

“Aye,” you sigh, nodding your head to the East. “Port’s that way—let’s get this nightmare over with.”

“Hm,” Johnny agrees, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Quite the adventure for a runaway.”

“You can’t have thought it would be easy?” Your brows furrow. “You’re heir to the MacTavish lands.”

“I never said I thought it would be easy,” John moves at your side, a great hulk of honesty. He hands over his attention at last as you fiddle with the smooth item in your pocket. He huffs. “Just that it was an…experience, to say the least. One I’m not sure I’d want to go through again.”

“You’ll miss me,” you say confidently, meeting eyes with a smirk and a cocky shift to your form despite the lessening pain.

Johnny watches. He smiles, eyes crinkling. “Aye. I will.” You pause, expression stilling. The man hums, and you swear there’s something special in the way you can describe his look as delicate.

“You were the one part that I don’t regret,” he says lastly to you as if the words aren’t spears laced with poison.

Your breath gets caught in a way it never has, and John seems not to notice as he pulls ahead, muttering about him seeing the docks. The smell of salt water slaps your nostrils.

The legs under you slow until they’re stopped, and you look after the man as he begins speaking to workers along the port, asking for a spot on the large ships that sit in the water, rocking with the winds.

Your eyes trail, seeing the way he talks with such confidence—openly offering physical labor as his payment for even the dark quarters with the other laborers.

After what seems like hours of watching, you see him shake another man’s hand, and, just like that, passage is earned. He jogs back over, smiling.

You open your mouth to say something, but find the words null and void. You don’t know what to express. For once in your life, everything seems to be moving horrifically fast.

“Well,” John’s expression slowly sombers. “I suppose this is it then. I said you could ask for anything, and, I suppose,” he shifts the sword on his belt off after a moment, looking down at it. He holds the item, testing its weight. “I suppose this is all I have left.” Blue eyes slowly meet yours. “If you’ll take it.”

Always a thief, never a saint.

“I suppose it’ll have to do, Johnny Boy,” you sigh, the pain in your heart outweighing the one on your arm. “Hand it over.”

The sword is transferred and slipped to your waist. Many a man on the docks gives you strange looks, and, you find you welcome it—none could compare to the admiration in Johnny’s.

You lick your lips.

“Do one thing for me, hm?”

“Anything,” John mutters, not blinking.

You move forward, and place a firm kiss to his lips.

The man freezes, fingers twitching at his sides, before he sags and bends into you—his great hand capturing your cheek until all that remains in the sear of his heat and the scent of the earth.

You softly pull away, though not far enough as to where you can’t feel his breath on yours. Gazing into his eyes, you smile the widest you can remember.

“Don’t go running away from another wedding anytime soon. I can only save so many Lords until my reputation gets slandered.”

“You’re ruthless,” John growls, smirking as his eyes glint, looking you up and down. “Little Thief.”

He leans in for another kiss, but your hands only shift above his sporran before you dart back, chuckling.

“Always,” your hands brush his sword on your hip as you walk backward, grinning behind the strange pressure in your heart. If someone asked, you wouldn’t even know how to describe it.

John takes a step after you, face open and raw—an emotion you feel like mirroring if not for your excellent control.

Not yet.

“I’ll take care of this,” you call, patting the weapon.

“Good,” Johnny calls, taking one more step forward before stopping himself. One of the shipmates calls from the dock, and his eyes snap there with a jaw tense. He looks back at you and blinks, brows pulling in. In the heat of the moment, he exclaimed, “I’ll be back for it one day, Cat-Eyes!”

“Lovely!” You yell, back turning. “I’ll be waiting for you then. I do hope you’ll be able to get through the woods, and, please, don’t keep a woman waiting! You’re much too handsome for any of that.”

And then you’re gone.

Johnny stares at where you were, his smile large and his face heated, and after a louder call from the dock, he’s forced to turn and jog to the ship, hurrying up the board until he can stand on the swaying deck with his two feet.

He looks around, chuckling to himself, and still, his eyes shift back to land without fail; hoping for a glimpse—a small shadow.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, the man reaches into his sporran for his rag, intent to clean and set it to dry when he’s able to get the chance to settle in. It’s one of the last items to his name no matter how pathetic.

Yet, his hands touch something far more precious.

Johnny’s body goes as straight as a tree when his fingers caress smooth metal, and, slowly, his grip pulls out the silver of his broach.

It glints in his palm as he sets it there, and his breath is stolen in one great bound of shock and confusion.

“What in the…” He already knows.

Johnny’s feet take him to the railing gently, and his body stands there—torn wedding clothes and all looking over a town that begins to move as the ship sets sail. He holds the broach carefully, not intending to let it go for an age. He just needs to lay low for a while. He needs time.

John smiles.

“I won’t keep you waiting,” he mutters to the moving homes, and he swears he sees the glint of a sword from between the buildings, and two sharp eyes digging into him.

You’re there, of course. Hidden as always.

You want your trees back, and you think that a day of sitting in your Oak is a good idea.

There’s dirt on your face again—your lips are chapped and your face is bitten by the wind; scars and blemishes that time won't heal but make all the more visible as the ages pass by on bird’s wings and cat purrs. Yet here is an action held immemorial.

A gift given freely by a thief is one to be treasured like pure gold, and the man on the ship knows that more intimately than any other as he clips the broach to himself with a hum.

You both watch the other from opposite, distant points until there’s no sun in the sky left to see with. Just a faint hope lights the way: the hope that your eyes will grace each other's visage, at the very least, just one more time in your life.

There was never a story so willing to be experienced than that of a runaway groom and his cat-eyed Thief.

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zolass · 4 months ago

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Detectives Attraction Ch. 03

Top Male Reader x Male Yandere Harem

Managed chapter three, after I didn't know what to do- listened to a lot of Bad Romance from Lady Gaga and shit went well after. For a short information; I have absolutely no fucking clue about how police departments work I tried to look up which rank is highest yada yada also I have no clue how crime scenes work, so take the information with the only aspect of fiction right now.

Also because I gave M/n a last name instead of simply L/n simply is because bro changed his last name- if that is your actual last name- ops-

Content warning: Dead body.

1.9k words

Sitting at his desk after M/n cleaned it, he just sat there, pen in hand tapping it against the wood as he stared at the papers of Alicia Wallace, her basic information were on it– of course they were important but the now lost papers held even more important information of the case.

M/n phone that laid on the desk started vibrating and ringing, with a sigh he grabbed it and looked at the screen, Elias Hart. He picked up the call, with a small roll of his eyes, “Yes?” “Mr. Howard– you need to come to the station,” those were the only words coming from the other side, before the call was cut off. A scoff, before M/n got ready to drive over. Him and Elias Hart weren’t on the best terms– they were coworkers and M/n knew the man meant really well with his job, but he considered Hart a little– soft in some ways with what the work required to do– yes the man was a fellow detective, but M/n can have opinions– right?

When M/n sat foot in the station further down town– he greeted some passing cops with a short nod, until he reached the conference room– which held quite a lot of high-tech equipment. When he stepped in, he only gave a curt nod before sitting down in his usual place, right beside Elias Hart.

“There’s another missing case–” a picture was now on the screen of a young adult, “His name is Konstantine Smith, he’s barely mid twenties and was last seen by his family as he went out to work last saturday,” Commissioner Donovan Hayes spoke, “That’s almost a week ago now– why didn’t the family issued a missing case earlier?” someone asked. “Well apparently Mr. Smith was known to have disappeared a few times before but always returned. He works at the corner shop down the street, in which he was last seen until the end of his shift,” A CCTV footage was played, catching M/n’s and others attention.

M/n leaned back as his eyes were focused on the sped-up footage, he analyzed the footage as well as he could as it played– looking out for anything that could be a lead to the case. “I’ll go to ask his family about any suspicions they might have on their son's disappearance,” M/n spoke up, as he looked at the commissioner, who seemed to study the man before he only nodded.

“Take someone with you,” just as M/n was about to decline, a voice interrupted, “I’ll join him,” none other than Elias Hart spoke up. M/n only pursed his lips as he nodded and stood up, followed by his now partner. As they walked out of the department, M/n decided to speak up with a frown on his face, “Why would you do that?” a shrug from the other, “You’re not a bad detective– I know you want to do good, and these other’s are like starving hyenas trying to wait for any weakness to rip you apart,” Elias spoke.

And M/n knew the other was right, so he simply walked over to his car without answering. Footsteps quickly followed him, before rounding the car which made M/n raise a quick eyebrow before getting in. As they drove through the city, they were driving closer to the more– secured district of Noxhaven which was also where Adrian’s law firm stood. M/n on the other hand lived in the district in which most middle class lived, it was safe to a certain degree it wasn’t as bad as the further outskirts of the city.

The sound of the radio made M/n glance over to Elias, who played around at the volume making music fill the space that was previously only filled with the sound of the engine. E/c were met with honey brown ones, before M/n focused back on the street, until they arrived at the families house.

It was large– easily called a mansion, and for a short moment M/n wasn’t surprised by the sudden disappearance of the victim. A lot of lower class people held grudges against the wealthier people, but it was more of a surprise that Konstantine Smith was out without any protection close by– like someone picking him up.

M/n only said that because he already knew the Smith’s, the first time their son disappeared he was also the one who found him, after that the family had made sure to always send a driver to pick him up and bring him back safely. As the duo walked up the steps, Elias rang the bell which was opened after a short while, in the doorway was a middle aged woman who looked tired with worry and red puffy eyes and nose.

“Oh Mr. Howard– it’s you again,” suddenly the woman stepped out, grabbing onto M/n’s hand, “Please find my son again– you found him once already– please bring me my son back home,” tears welled up in the woman’s eyes, as another pair of footsteps approached the door quickly.

Out came her husband who looked worried, especially after his eyes landed on his wife. M/n greeted the man, who grabbed the woman’s shoulders gently, “Would you like to come in?” the man invited them in, as he led his wife back in. There weren't any questions asked– it was rather obvious why they were there.

Soon after the four were seated in the lavish living room, while Elias had a block and pen out, ready to write down anything, M/n was seated by his side. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I would like to ask if there were any– unusual happenings, any suspicious activities involving your son or anyone close to him– like a friend?” M/n asked.

For a moment the couple thought about anything that looked off in the last days or even weeks, until the woman spoke up, “Oh yeah– Konstantine brought home a new friend that I’ve never seen before– he didn’t stay long, only spoke about how he’ll meet him after his shift. After that we didn’t see our son since, we tried to contact him or asked some of his other friends but nobody knew anything,” the woman’s voice was shaky, tears rolled down her cheek as sniffles left her.

With a few following questions, M/n would have to inform the head of the department that the Smith’s would come by for Mrs. Smith for hopeful visual identification. Just as the duo was about to go back to the car, there was a dull noise from the further back of the house, which quickly got their attention.

As they quickly drew their guns, and moved swiftly to the sound, ready to shoot if whoever that was might be armed. But as they turned the corner, there were only fading footsteps far away, and a body laying on the lawn. Without missing another heartbeat M/N and Elias were on the move towards it, as a loud piercing scream sounded from above them, on a balcony stood Ms. Smith who starred with wide horror filled eyes at the body.

When the body came into complete view, they saw the reason why the woman screamed, not only because the person was dead and half burned, but also because it was Konstantine Smith– the missing son who returned, not as they hoped to.

“Call reinforcement,” M/n said, as he put his gun back into its holster and grabbed a pair of gloves. He squatted next to the body, gently placing his hands on the sides of the head, tilting it slightly underneath the sunlight inspecting the body with a trained eye. “Seems like there’s now only the search after who did this to you huh?” M/n mumbled under his breath as he glanced at the blue eyes deprived of any life.

As the reinforcement came, M/n and Elias went inside the house to look for any clues. When they arrived in the victim's room, they saw that it was cleaned, except that there were traces of blood and a bit of what seemed to be a bit of burned skin that got caught in the carpet that led to the closet.

E/c eyes scanned over the room as M/n walked closer, until he pushed the door to the closet open, it was a small walk in closet, but this was where the body seemed to have been stored for at least 24 hours when not even a bit more. “Whoever threw the body out of the window seemed to have hid the body previously in this closet,” M/n informed his partner, he took a step in while avoiding the blood stain in the carpet. Shining a UV light and IR light, in hopes of finding any fingerprints, as this would be the only thing that could help identifying the suspect, which seemed to be the guy with whom Konstantin had met up with.

When M/n and Elias walked out of the house, leaving the on-going investigation behind them, “I can drive you home,” M/n simply offered before getting into his car, without waiting for a reply. Elias stopped in surprise, before he frowned in suspicion as he got in the passenger seat, “Why would you–” “I’m simply being nice to my partner– can’t I be nice?” M/n interrupted, as he looked over at Elias with a raised eyebrow.

Elias only huffed, before giving his address. At first M/n thought it would be awkward, but Elias quickly distracted himself with the radio, and danced with his hand and a bit of his upper body to the music, while he lip synced the lyrics. M/n can’t deny that he was rather amused by the individual that was Elias Hart.

After he brought his partner home, M/n made his way back home. But he couldn’t help but glance into the rear view, but he saw nothing. With a sigh, M/n couldn’t stop himself from trying to connect this case with the one of Alicia Wallace, but the woman was alive– Konstantine Smith was dead.

Pushing the door open to his home, after shutting and locking it, only then did M/n kick his shoes off and hang his jacket up. Walking over to the bathroom, he quickly stripped himself and started the shower, his phone laid on the sink counter, in case any important calls came through. As M/n stood underneath the hot water cascading down his toned body, he felt how his tense muscles relaxed.

Just as he finished his shower and started to dry himself– a message came through, as he looked at the unknown number he was instantly reminded by the unknown call and the break in. He quickly grabbed his phone and opened it, his eyes scanning over the words– making him scoff and roll his eyes.

‘Heyy, I decided to simply get your number. Hope you had a nice day detective~ -your favorite lawyer xoxo’ was the message that was sent to him. Putting the phone back, M/n continued to dry himself while getting ready to jot down all the informations of the new case. While on the other side of the phone was Adrian, who watched the open chat with the eyes of a hawk– when he saw that M/n opened his message his heartbeat quickened. But after M/n went offline again, Adrian couldn’t help but chuckle, “One day,” he mused, while he took a sip from his wine glass, while his other hand patted the fluffy cat on his lap, “Adrian are you listening?” a harsh voice asked through the speaker of the screen, quickly gaining his attention, “Of course, Sir.”

#Detectives Attraction - zolass #zolass writes #gay #mlm #male x male #male reader #x male reader #top male reader #yandere #yandere harem #male yandere

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moonlight-prose · 1 year ago

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THE WAY YOU SAY GOODBYE

a/n: i have been watching way too much hart of dixie lately and well wade is basically just hangman in a different font. don't try to argue cause you know i'm absolutely right. so i spawned this drabble out of my head as if i were summoning a demon. enjoy my hangman girlies.

summary: if there's a way to say goodbye that has been noted in the history books, hangman will find a way to master it.

word count: 1k+

pairing: jake 'hangman' seresin x f!reader

warnings: semi-explicit, kissing that borders on tongue fucking, he's nasty with it, cocky hangman, spit, again i say he's nasty with it.

Looking up the definition of the word goodbye would come with an endless amount of definitions and explanations. All in varying languages, with meanings so deep they grew like the roots of a tree. Embedding themselves in the earth with life of its own.

The way Hangman said goodbye wasn’t one of those.

He was assured, cocky, and genuinely believed he was God’s gift to this earth. You could see it with how he leaned against the pool table, his legs spread, lips pulled into a you know you want to fuck me smile. And the thing was…you couldn’t deny it. You did in fact want that. You had that. Four hours ago at the crack of dawn when he found his way back into your bed after a run and a shower.

Of course the others around would voice their displeasure and intense disgust if either of you brought it up. So you stayed silent. Sipping a coffee as he argued with Rooster over who had the bigger dick. Or something of that manner. You weren’t entirely focused on the conversation, your eyes fixated on the way his uniform pulled taut across his shoulders.

You were pretty sure that if you peeled the layers of fabric away, you’d find the imprint of your teeth in the muscle of his right shoulder.

Part of you was tempted to search for it. The other part had yet to notice he had stopped talking altogether, his attention on the only thing that mattered. You and your dreamy haze of love.

If he had the time he’d drag you to the bathroom, but everyone was already starting to pack it in for the morning. It would be a long day of training, of listening to the same orders over and over, of picking fights with one another until their patience ran thin. And all he wanted was to say goodbye to you properly. In a way that he’d feel each time you crossed his mind.

“You want a ride?” Fanboy asked, digging his keys out of his pocket.

He nodded. “Yeah thanks.”

“Let’s head out boys.” Phoenix shoved her arms into the leather jacket she’d brought even though the weather outside was warm enough to sunbathe.

He found his mind wandering to the image of you doing just that.

“Alright,” he sighed, standing tall as he reached for the jacket on the back of his chair.

You smiled as he sauntered over to you, his hand gripping your waist as he tugged you to stand up. “You’re going?”

He sighed as if you’d asked him the hardest question to exist. “Yeah. I’ve gotta go baby.”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

The soft smile that crossed his lips was enough to have your heart racing. “I’ve got a new bottle of wine, some new desserts to try out.”

He smiled, his hand sliding lower as you listed out a few other things. Some which you had to say softly, lest you bring the wrath of the others. You’d been in that predicament before; you didn’t necessarily want to go back. At least not for a few months. Getting caught at the rocks by the beach was bad enough. Getting caught by Rooster, Phoenix, and Coyote was worse.

Although they couldn’t deny it, they were much happier seeing Hangman in a relationship than out of one.

“We got to go man,” Fanboy said, nudging Payback to get up from where he sat. “I don’t want to get stuck doing extra push ups when your asses make me late.”

Jake chuckled, his eyes dropping to the way your tongue slid along your bottom lip. The idea of dropping in when he got lunch was appealing enough to hold him over for a few hours. At least then he could show you what he’d been craving to eat since this morning.

“Gentlemen. Phoenix. You might want to avert your eyes. I’m about to kiss my woman goodbye.” The groan from behind was enough to set you off in a fit of giggles, your hand sliding into the base of his hair. “C’mere sugar,” he mumbled, grasping the nape of your neck.

To say Jake Seresin invented the art of saying goodbye was an understatement. He made bidding farewell dirty, debauched, and so filthy so as to solidify that moment in your mind for the rest of the day. His tongue slid into your mouth, a soft moan at the taste of your coffee being pressed into the searing kiss, as he tugged you even closer. The breath was knocked from your lungs with each lick into you and you began to wonder if maybe he was thinking of something else entirely.

That only made you grip onto his hair tighter, pulling him close enough to feel the way his hips shifted forward. Not enough to draw attention from the others. Yet you felt as if he was grinding into you without a single item of clothing on.

“That’s disgusting!” Rooster shouted from across the bar.

Yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to pull away. Spit spread slightly down your chin, his teeth digging into the plush skin of your bottom lip, and you felt your knees begin to buckle. Even as he gripped your ass tight enough to leave a phantom touch behind.

He made sure you’d feel him all fucking day.

“Mm,” he hummed, his grip growing tighter. “Your coffee tastes delicious baby.”

You laughed. “You want some?”

“I gotta go,” he mumbled, kissing you again as he licked even deeper into your mouth. His sharp inhale the cause of your heart stuttering.

“So go,” you breathed. “I’m not stopping you.”

He smiled. “Liar.”

“Don’t be rude.”

“Or what?”

Twisting his hair between your fingers, you tugged his head back slightly. Earning you a soft grunt you felt in the base of your stomach.

“Or I find something else to occupy my night.”

“Noted Mrs. Seresin.” He snuck your mug out from behind you, stealing a sip as you hung on him—addicted to his mere presence.

You smiled, biting into your bottom lip as he cleaned you up with his thumb. “I’ll see you later Mr. Seresin.”

“Oh yes you will,” he murmured, stealing a chaste kiss as he swung his jacket over his shoulder. “You can count on it sugar!”

#look i have no idea where this came from #one minute i'm writing for batman and the next i'm down bad for hangman #jake 'hangman' seresin x reader #hangman x reader #hangman x you #hangman x y/n #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #jake 'hangman' seresin #my writing

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writerinlearning · 5 months ago

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𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐲. 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞.

plot: henry is always here for his best friend, but everyone reaches their breaking point eventually. but maybe, just maybe, this is for the best.

pairing: henry hart x fem!reader

show: henry danger

warnings: light mentions of blood, cuts and bruises; implied domestic violence but nothing graphic; henry swearing when he’s pissed off (listen, that boy swears a lot and you can’t convince me of the opposite). also, the part in italics is a flashback from henry's pov.

word count: 6,8k

author’s notes: english isn’t my first language, apologies for the possible mistakes. this piece is inspired by the song Hard from Why Don’t We, and i guess a little bit by the song Treat You Better from Shawn Mendes, so i suggest you listen to the songs beforehand to get the vibe of the story, or read the lyrics to know what it’s about. it takes place around season five of henry danger, to give you an idea of how old the characters are. also, it’s implied that the reader is in a bad relationship, it might be triggering for some people so read it to your own discretion. and if you ever need anyone to talk to, my dms are always open.

henry hart masterlist | main masterlist

Henry lays wide awake in his bed, looking up at the ceiling above him. His hands are flat on his stomach as he lays on his back, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. He knows it’s late at night and that he’ll probably regret it in the morning, aware that he’ll have to wake up around 7 if he doesn’t want to be late for school again. He just can’t seem to get her out of his head. Every day and every night, she plagues his every thought; Y/N, his best friend since kindergarten.

When he’s at school, she’s on his mind. When he’s at work, she’s on his mind. When he lays alone in bed at night, she’s on his mind. No matter what he’s doing, or where he is, she’s always in a corner of his mind. Always. It doesn’t help that she goes to the same school and works in the same place; he’s always catching sight of her, even when she isn’t looking. He doesn’t know how anyone hasn’t said anything to him, or how she hasn’t noticed him staring, because he isn’t the most subtle person in the world when it comes to his feelings for her. He always gets sidetracked when she enters a room, his eyes always linger on her when she walks away, his cheeks always flare up when she smiles, and when she stands close to him, he always pretends to accidentally brush his hand against hers, craving the warmth of her skin against his. Perhaps he is better at hiding his feelings than he thought he’d be; either way, he doesn’t mind. If his feelings are unacknowledged by the people around him, it makes it easier to push down those feelings, forever wondering if they’ll go away; if it’ll hurt less every time she walks away.

Henry lets out a sigh, turning on his side to check the time on his bedside clock. The bright red numbers display 12:15 in the morning, and he groans, burying his face in his pillow out of frustration. He knows he won’t get enough sleep to get himself through the day and that he’ll probably fall asleep in class at some point, and he hates it. He doesn’t really know when his sleep schedule became fucked up; if it had been when he first became Kid Danger when he was thirteen, or if it were since he first realized he had feelings for Y/N. Perhaps a little bit of both, he thinks. He did choose to become Captain Man’s sidekick, but he certainly didn’t choose to fall in love with his best friend. He hates it, but there isn’t much he can do about it; even if he tries to push his feelings away, they’ll always come back to bite him in the ass. It doesn’t help that Y/N already has a boyfriend and, granted, Henry hates the guy, but Y/N seems happy with him so Henry thinks it’s all that matters. If she is happy, then he is happy for her. At least, that’s what he told himself when she first began dating the guy; he went back on his words when he realized he loved her.

Henry closes his eyes as he sighs again, remembering the night when he admitted to himself that he was in love with Y/N. She hadn’t shown up to his birthday party that his parents had thrown, which was unlike her and it had him worried the whole night. Until she showed up, at midnight, on his front porch.

Y/N is standing there, with tears in her eyes as she looks up at him. Her arms are wrapped around herself in a hug, as if she were trying to shield herself from the cold air of the night. Henry doesn’t know what to say, still mad that she wasn’t there for his birthday party, but his anger dissolves into nothing when his eyes drift to the red tear stains on her cheeks. He holds his breath as a sob rushes past her lips, and his arms find her waist to hold her up when her knees almost give out under her weight. He leads her inside, closing the front door behind him with the heel of his foot, and he helps her up to his room where she sits on his bed.

Henry doesn’t have to say anything as he sits next to her and she rests her head on his shoulder, but he is smart enough to understand. He feels his chest tighten when his mind makes him think about what might have happened, that perhaps her boyfriend had laid a hand on her, and he tilts his head downward to look at her. He shivers at the thought, swallowing the growing lump in his throat. He knows it hasn’t been long since she started dating this guy from high school, about a month or two, but she seemed happy with him, and Henry frowns when he thinks about it. His hands move to hold the sides of her face as he shifts in his spot to be facing her, and his eyes flicker to the fading bruise in the corner of her left eye. His frown deepens, not remembering ever seeing a bruise on her face before, but his features soften when tears begin to roll down her cheeks the second his eyes drift back to hers, holding her gaze in his. He uses his thumbs to wipe the tears away, worry flashing in his eyes. Warmth spreads through his muscles when her hands find his wrists, and she wraps her fingers around them to ground herself. Her hands are cold, but her skin is soft against his, and his heart flutters in his chest. Another sob leaves her lips, and Henry moves his hands to wrap his arms around her shoulders to pull her close to him.

“Wanna tell me what happened?” He whispers softly, resting his cheek against the top of her head.

Y/N shakes her head a little, further burying it into his chest as she grips the hem of his shirt, her tears forming wet patches against the cotton fabric. Her shoulders tremble with every sob that leaves her body, but Henry keeps her close to him, using his hands to draw soothing circles against her back. He closes his eyes as he begins to rock their bodies back and forth gently, until her sobs die down and he can hear the slow pace of her breath and her soft sniffles. She’s the one to pull away from him, using the palm of her hand to wipe away her runny nose, and her lips break into an embarrassed smile as she looks down in her lap. One of her hands reaches for something in the pocket of her coat, and Henry tilts his head in confusion when she hands him a small white box with a silver ribbon on it.

“Happy birthday Hen.” Y/N whispers hoarsely, looking at him with a small smile on her lips.

He smiles then, taking the box from her and unraveling the ribbon before he carefully opens the lid. He recognizes what it is; she has the same one, and she gifted one to Jasper and Charlotte too, on their respective birthdays. It’s a permanent chain silver bracelet, one Y/N says is supposed to represent their friendship. Henry knew he would get one from her eventually, because she’d gifted one to their friends, he just didn’t think she’d gift it to him on his eighteenth birthday.

“I love it.” He tells her, smiling.

She smiles back. “C’mon, I’ll help you put it on.”

Henry can still see the sadness in her eyes, and the fading purple bruise in the corner of her eye, but he lets her take the chain bracelet and the pair of cutting pliers provided in the kit. He extends his right arm in front of him, and she puts the silver bracelet around his wrist, using the pliers to cut the chain. He observes as she concentrates herself on sealing the bracelet, making sure it’s not too tight so that it sits comfortably on his wrist. He watches her, and his heart flutters in his chest when her fingers brush against his skin, sending shivers down his spine and he can feel the heat flushing his cheeks. His eyes drift to her face, and he sees that she’s slightly poking her tongue out in concentration, licking her lips after taking a deep breath. His heart begins to race in his chest, and the butterflies flutter in his stomach when she brings the palm of her hand against his to analyze her work on the silver chain. He holds his breath when she glances up to him through her eyelashes, a soft smile on her lips. He hears her let out a small chuckle when he looks away from her, knowing his cheeks are probably as red as a tomato, but he can’t help it; she looks beautiful, wrapped in her black coat and with her hair falling on each side of her face, eyebrows turned into a focused frown as she focuses on the permanent bracelet again. She shifts positions, and her knees touch his, sending a wave of warmth through his muscles. He loves having her close to him, in the comforting silence of his room. He loves observing her, and the little things she does that only he seems to notice. He loves the way her hand feels against his when her palm is pressed against his, and he has to fight the urge to intertwine their fingers together. His eyes drift from their hands to her face again, lingering on her lips a little too long, and he thinks about how it would feel like to taste them; to have his lips against hers, to be kissing her.

He blinks, reminding himself that she already has a boyfriend, that he cannot be in love with her, and he is pulled away from his thoughts when she clears her throat. He looks up to her, and he sees her put a strand of hair back behind her ear when she sits straighter, letting the cutting pliers fall between her crossed legs on his bed. He glances down at the silver chain on his wrist as she brings her right arm close to his, revealing the matching permanent bracelet on hers.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here today.” She says, her eyes flickering to his.

“Why are you here now?” Henry asks her, his voice barely a whisper.

He knows she’s picked up on the worry in his voice, because her eyes drift back to their wrists, and he can feel her tears falling on his skin as she looks down.

“Did he hurt you?”

Henry doesn’t know why his voice comes out with a crack; perhaps because he is afraid of what her answer might be. He doesn’t know why he asked her either, but he wants to know. Because she is his best friend, and he cares about her.

His blood freezes in his veins and his face pales when he sees her nod her head, more tears rolling down her cheeks as sobs leave her lips. His chest hurts as his heart constricts inside, and his breathing becomes shallow. He has to keep himself together because, as she falls apart in front of him, he knows she needs him. He shifts around on his mattress, opening his arms. Y/N takes refuge in them, wrapping her own around his midsection and she buries her face in his chest. He lets out a low sigh, feeling her tears through the fabric of his shirt, and he begins to draw circles on her back in a soothing way. He lays his head atop hers, his cheek pressed against the crown of her head as he gently rocks their bodies back and forth until her cries die down. She deserves so much better than her boyfriend, Henry thinks as he holds her close, wondering what else has been going on that he doesn’t know about.

Henry groans, running a hand over his face as he tries to forget that night, pushing the memory to the far back of his mind. The moon casts its light in his room through the window, and he can see it reflecting on the chain bracelet on his wrist. Four months. It had been four months since then, and Henry still couldn’t understand how Y/N went back to her boyfriend. She says it’s because she loves him, because he’ll never lay a hand on her again, but Henry has been observing her since that night. Because he worries about her, and because he loves her. He would notice the way she’d pull her sleeves down or wear scarves in class when she never wore one in her life before. He would take note of the makeup she wears, when she’d never been one to cover herself with makeup in the first place. He would see how she’d flinch when someone would accidentally hit a locker, or if a door was slammed too hard. He would catch sight of her trying to make herself small in the Man Cave whenever one of them would get angry and raise their voice. He knows that what she wants everyone to believe isn’t true because he sees her. And because he notices the little things no one else seems to pick up on.

Henry turns on his back again, eyes up to the ceiling. Just as sleep is about to pull him in, he hears the familiar creaking noise of his window being lifted open. He sits up on his bed, back against the wall behind him as he searches for the lightswitch of the lamp on his bedside table. Henry blinks, adjusting his eyes to the dim light in his room. He runs a hand across his face as he looks up, a frown creasing lines on his forehead when he sees Y/N tumbling into his room through the window, falling onto his couch to her right. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of her, and he pulls the bedcovers away from his body as he makes his way to the loft area in his room, climbing the couple of stairs before sitting next to her on the couch, his body turned a little so that he can face her. She doesn’t look at him, but he sees the phone in her hand and he hears the soft sniffles that leave her. His arms find home around her shoulders as he pulls her in closer, and his heart flutters when she rests her head against his shoulder. Her phone falls onto her lap, and he can see the blocked symbol next to her boyfriend’s name on her screen. His chest heaves up as a sigh leaves him, and he mentally curses himself. He doesn’t know why he was expecting anything else, but it does not surprise him that she’s come to him. Again.

It’s a repetitive circle, ever since she started dating Gareth, her boyfriend. He’d pull her away from her friends, then they’d have a fight, and Henry would be there to pick up the pieces when she’d come to him and break down in his arms. Days later, Y/N would run back to Gareth as if nothing happened, and Henry would be left with another piece of his heart gone with her. He knows it’s not right, that he should put distance between him and Y/N, but then his mind reminds him of how she’s always been there for him after he broke up with his first girlfriend, how she comforted him and helped him change his mind after Chloe and then Bianca left to do a television show in the woods. She’s always been there for him; it’s only right if he’s there for her. Even if his heart breaks a little more each time she walks away. Because even if she’ll never be his, he’ll always be hers.

Y/N is the one to pull away from him, using one hand to wipe away the tears on her cheeks, and her sniffles pull him out of his thoughts. Her eyes drift up to his, and she cracks a thin-lipped smile. Henry tilts his head, sighing.

“I’m sorry.” Y/N whispers, looking down when she hears him sigh. “I– I should have called…”

“It’s fine, Y/N.” Henry tells her, taking her hand in his. “I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

Y/N chuckles under her breath, looking down at their hands together. The warmth of his skin spreads through hers, and she feels her heart flutter in her chest. She clears her throat, pulling her hand away from his and she looks away from him.

“He said he needed distance, and I had nowhere to go…” She whispers, scratching the back of her neck.

Henry knows what she means; his parents are never really here for him, but hers are never there. They’re always traveling abroad for work, only showing up in Swellview twice a year; one time for her birthday, and a second time for Christmas. So Y/N always spends most of her time at work, at his house, or at her boyfriend’s place.

Henry shakes his head and he scoots closer to her, pulling her hand in his own again. His eyes scan over her features, and a frown creases lines on his forehead when he notices a new bruise on her cheek, and the small cut on her upper lip. He grinds his teeth, biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep his anger simmering beneath the surface. A low sigh leaves his lips instead, and he closes his eyes briefly.

“You know you’re always welcome here.” He says eventually, looking at her. “Besides, I still have the clothes you forgot the last time you slept here.”

Y/N chuckles at that, and Henry swears it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. It’s been a while since he’s heard too; he can’t really remember when was the last time he did, but he knows he’s missed it. His heart flutters when she looks him in the eyes with a genuine smile on her lips, and it’s like the anger in him has never existed. His body relaxes, and he finds himself smiling at her.

“I’ll take the couch,” he tells her. “You can take my bed. Make yourself at home.”

Her smile widens. “Thank you Hen.”

She lifts her free hand, pressing her palm against his left cheek and she tilts her head, leaning in to leave a quick kiss on his right one. Henry feels the heat rush to his cheeks as his breath gets caught up in his throat, and he watches as she gets down the couple stairs of the loft area in his room, heading for the bathroom in the hallway after taking her clothes from his closet like she owned the place. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it in frustration. What is he doing?

When she returns after a few minutes, Henry notices that she has inadvertently taken a shirt of his out of the closet instead of hers. His breath hitches, and his eyes travel up and down her frame to fully take in the sight of her in his clothes. It’s just his shirt, he knows that, but because he’s always been taller than her, it looks like a dress that stops at her thighs when she wears it, and the short sleeves slide off of her shoulders a little. He can see the edge of her collarbone because she has tied her hair in a messy bun to the back of her head, and Henry blinks, his eyes drifting to anywhere but her. She already has a boyfriend, he tries to remind himself. But that selfish side of him thinks it’s not fair; that he should be the one who gets to see her like this every night. He should be the one who gets to take her out for dinner. He should be the one who gets to give her flowers for no particular reason. He should be the one who gets to tell her he loves her. Not that stupid boyfriend of hers; but him.

Henry shakes his head, letting out a low, frustrated sigh. From the corner of his eyes he watches as Y/N slips under his bed covers, leaving her locked phone onto his nightstand before she glances his way with a soft smile curling her lips upwards and carving dimples in the curves of her cheeks.

“You’re gonna be okay?” Henry finds himself asking, settling himself onto his couch with a pillow behind his back.

“You’re giving me your bed for the night,” she chuckles, rolling her eyes. “I should be the one asking you that.”

“N– no, I mean… about Gareth. Are you gonna be alright?”

She sighs, fiddling with her fingers in her lap. “Y– yeah, I think. I mean, I miss him… but he needs space. I– I know he’s trying to be better, but we both needed some air tonight. I needed some air. And he needs the distance, even if only for tonight. But I miss him…”

Henry nods, only half-listening to what she’s saying. He doesn’t understand how she can think about going back to Gareth, when all he does is break her heart every time. He doesn’t understand how she stays with her boyfriend when he keeps hurting her, leaving bruises on her skin. And Henry can see the way her shoulders tense when she mentions Gareth, even without saying his name, and how she keeps fumbling with her fingers, picking at her nails. Y/N always does it when she’s anxious, Henry notices. He always notices the little things no one else seems to pick up on; because he cares. But he doesn’t say anything, because she is his best friend and he doesn’t want to lose her.

“Good night, Hen.” Y/N whispers, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He licks his lips and glances towards her. “G’night Y/N.”

As she turns off the lights in his room, Henry takes one last glance at the clock on his bedside table. 2:05 in the morning. Now he’ll definitely fall asleep in class.

—

The last time Henry spoke to Y/N was two weeks earlier, when she’d showed up into his room in the middle of the night after another fight with her boyfriend. He hadn’t talked to her since, and he’d only seen her at school. She’s stopped coming to work as well, but when he tried talking to her at school, she’d look down on the ground and avoid conversation at all cost. She was ignoring him and Henry was pretty sure her boyfriend was the one making her do it.

“Alright Kid.” Ray’s voice catches Henry’s attention. “You’ve been sulking for the last two weeks. What’s going on?”

“It’s Y/N.” Charlotte says bluntly, and Henry glares at her.

“Oh come on, Char!”

“What?” She crosses her arms, holding his gaze. “You’ve been in a mood since Y/N began ignoring you. And, she stopped coming to work.”

“Oh, so you think it’s my fault she’s not coming to work?”

“I didn’t say I did.” Charlotte shrugs.

“What happened with Y/N?” Ray asks before Henry could reply to Charlotte.

“I don’t know.” Henry sighs, running a hand over his face. “She hasn’t talked to me in two weeks. She’s been avoiding me.”

“Did you do something wrong?”

“Wh– what? No! She came to my place because she’d gotten into a fight with her boyfr–”

Henry stops himself, eyes widening slightly when realization dwells upon him. Of course. He should have known; he should have figured it out sooner. Now that he thinks about it, she hadn’t returned that shirt of his she accidentally borrowed when she came by, and he swears she had been wearing it the next day. At school, where her boyfriend was. Henry groans, throwing his head back in annoyance.

“Stupid Gareth…” Henry mutters under his breath.

Charlotte frowns, having caught on. “What about Gareth?”

“He’s a fucking asshole, that’s what he is.”

“Who’s Gareth?” Ray asks, frowning.

Charlotte begins to answer, but she barely gets a word out as the emergency alarm begins to echo across the Man Cave. Henry jumps on his feet, walking over to the supercomputer. An emergency is what he needs to keep his mind off of everything else. He presses one of the larger buttons on the control panel, his muscle memory guiding his movements. After five years of working as Captain Man’s sidekick, you do pick up on a few things around here. The Man Cave sort of became his second home.

“Captain Man’s emergency line, how may we punch your problem?”

Henry speaks up, taking sight of Charlotte sitting on the chair to his right with her hands roaming over the control panel to try and pinpoint the location of the call, and he feels Ray standing behind him, probably with his hands on his hips as he looks to the screen.

Henry frowns when no one answers, but he can hear them breathing through the phone line. It’s ragged, coming out in hiccups, and faintly in the distance he can discern the sound of objects clattering onto the ground. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, frowning.

“This is Kid Danger speaking, how may I help you?” He tries again, worriedly glancing at Charlotte.

He doesn’t want to say anything, but his heart leaps in his chest, his heartbeat quickening with every second that passes by. He still doesn’t know where the phone call comes from, but judging by the person’s silence his mind plays him all the worst scenarios he can imagine. Y/N still occupies the corner of his mind, and this phone call is one that is way too familiar for Henry’s liking. A week after his birthday, she’d given him a call, and the beginning had been just like this one.

“Oh, shit… Henry?”

He hears Charlotte whisper next to him, and he turns to look at her when she nudges his side. She points a finger at one of the five monitors of the supercomputer, and Henry follows her finger to the green letters displayed on the screen. He squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. He takes a deep breath to try and calm his nerves. Y/N’s home address is blinking in green letters on one of the computer’s monitors, and Henry feels a shiver down his spine. Why did he have to be right about this?

“Hey, Y/N?” He calls out, ignoring Ray’s confused look. “I– I’m right here, okay? I’m still on the phone with you. Can you– can you leave the house?”

His stomach drops when he hears her whimper through the phone, and he clenches his fists at his sides. Chills run down his spine when he hears more clattering on the other side of the line, followed by Y/N’s quiet sobs. Then he hears footsteps, and something like a window being open and a soft thud as if someone had fallen on the ground. He swallows back the lump in his throat, his heartbeat quickening beneath his chest. There’s a hand on his shoulder, Henry can feel it and when he glances to his left, Ray is there with a worried look in his eyes. He may not show it in the right way because he acts like a man-child more often than not, but Henry knows Ray cares for the kids he works with, including Y/N.

“I– I’m… out…”

Y/N’s voice brings Henry back to look helplessly at the screens. Through the phone, he can hear she’s panting, her footsteps clacking against the ground. She’s running, he tells himself. He lets out a relieved sigh; at least she’s getting away from her boyfriend.

“Can you make it to Junk’N’Stuff?” He asks her, worried. “Or do you need me to pick you up somewhere?”

“I can– Junk’N’Stuff– is fine…”

“O– okay, I’ll– I’ll go up to the store and wait for you, alright? And Ray and Charlotte are gonna stay on the phone with you, okay?”

She doesn’t answer him, but he knows she’s heard him. Ray clasps his shoulder, and Henry takes it as his queue to leave the Man Cave. He knows Jasper has closed the junk store around half an hour earlier, so no one is up there. Henry prefers it that way, because then he’ll have the time alone with Y/N. No one but him actually knows just how bad it’s gotten between her and Gareth, because she always hid her bruises with makeup and for some reason, not even Charlotte had noticed. And his brain keeps picturing the worst-case scenarios, making his heart beat faster as he steps inside the elevator and presses on the store’s up button.

When he’s up in the store, he waits by the front door, eyes darting to the outdoors for any sign of her until he sees her, catching her breath as she leans under a lamppost. He opens the door, and he sees her lift her head when she hears the bells jingling. He notices the look of relief on her face when she spots him, hanging up her phone and shoving it in the back pocket of her pants before she rushes toward him. She stumbles on her feet, exhausted, but Henry is there to catch her, his arms wrapping around her waist to keep her on her feet.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Henry mutters in a reassuring way as he leads her inside.

He can hear her muffled cries against his chest as he closes the shop’s front door with the heel of his foot, and her body trembles in his arms.

“I’m right here.” He whispers as he moves his hands to hold the sides of her face. “You’re safe now; he can’t hurt you.”

At first he can’t see her features, but when he brushes her hair away from her face that’s when he spots her busted lip, and the darkening bruise around her left eye. There is a large bleeding cut across her right eyebrow arch, and a few smaller ones all over the right side of her face, as if something sharp had been thrown in her face. Her cheeks are reddened by the tears that escape her eyes, her lips trembling with every sharp breath she takes.

Henry’s face pales when he takes in the sight of her, his heart dropping. He knows that no matter what he says, or does, she will run back to her boyfriend after a day or two. Like she always does. But the selfish side of him knows that he cannot let her go back to Gareth; he cannot risk her being hurt again. Yesterday it was a few bruises, tonight it’s a few cuts and a black eye, but tomorrow? Tomorrow still isn’t set in stone, but he can’t let her risk her life again; no matter how much she claims to love her boyfriend.

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before he sneaks an arm under her kneecaps and the other around her shoulder blades, picking her up bridal style. He feels her wrap her arms around his shoulders for support, and he feels her bury her face in the crook of his neck. He makes his way around the shop with her in his arms, going towards the elevator in the back shop. With agility, he steps inside the elevator and presses down onto the Man Cave button. He can feel her slow breath against his skin; it sends shivers down his spine, and when he looks down at her, he sees she’s somehow fallen asleep in his arms. He smiles a little, sighing when the elevator dings open, and he sees Ray and Charlotte sitting on the round couch in the middle of the Man Cave, with worried looks on their faces. He shakes his head when they glance up to him, and he dips his chin toward Y/N. Charlotte nods in understanding, but Ray frowns, taking note of the dried blood he spots on the girl’s shirt.

Henry ignores Ray’s questioning gaze as he makes his way to the sprocket, disappearing in the hallway that leads to the few bedrooms the Man Cave has to offer. He walks past the one with a big “DO NOT ENTER” sign hung on the door, well-aware that it is Ray’s room and he will not make the mistake of stepping inside a second time. Then, there is Schwoz’s guest bedroom, and the one his sister Winnie uses when she comes to visit. Henry keeps on walking until he makes it to the end of the hallway, using his foot to push open the door to the last guest bedroom.

Y/N stirs up in his arms just as he puts her down on the mattress, and he sits beside her, smiling when she opens her eyes. The blood on her face is now dry and sticks to her skin, and Henry frowns, standing up without a word to look for a first-aid kit in one of the drawers in the room’s closet. When he returns to the bed with the red case in his hand, Y/N is sitting up on the mattress, leaning against the backrest behind her, and she watches as he pulls out some cotton pads and the antiseptic spray from the kit.

“It might sting a little.” Henry whispers as he brings a cotton to her face.

She nods, allowing him to clean the cuts on her cheeks and across her eyebrow arch, wincing in pain and gritting her teeth. But she keeps her eyes on her best friend, watching as his wrinkled brows carve a line on his forehead, and how his nose scrunches up whenever she lets out a wince. She sees the worry in his chocolate irises when he leans back, his eyes drifting across her features to make sure he’s cleaned every bit of dried blood off of her face.

“Thank you.” She whispers, reaching for his hand.

“You can’t keep going back to him, Y/N.” Henry blurts out all of the sudden, pulling his hand away from hers.

Y/N frowns. “He’s my boyfriend, Hen. And I love him.”

“I know you do, I just– I’m not sure he loves you, too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Seriously, Y/N?”

Henry’s frowns deepens as he stands up, and Y/N’s smile falters, her lips pressed into a thin line as she watches him pace back and forth in front of her, frustratedly tugging at his hair. She shakes her head, heaving out a sigh. Henry stops pacing, hands on his hips as he turns to her.

“Do you know how hard it is?” He begins, scowling. “To be the one to fix you, wh– when all you do is run back to the one who breaks your heart?” He takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’ve been with him for six months, and every time something happens between the two of you, who do you run to? Me! I’m always here to pick up the pieces of your broken heart, and every fucking time you go back to that piece of shit as if nothing happened! I know we’re best friends Y/N, and I know you’ve always been there for me when I had girl problems but, fuck, you’re making this too hard…” He inhales sharply, running a hand over his face.

Henry doesn’t dare to look at her, at first, and he isn’t sure that he wants to. He probably has ruined their friendship but at this point, he doesn’t care. He needed to tell her everything; he needed to tell her how he feels about her, and damn the consequences.

“I can’t keep on pretending that this isn’t hurting me, too.” He sighs, resuming his pacing. “I can’t keep on pretending that watching you getting hurt by the man who claims to love you doesn’t break my heart every fucking time, because it does. It does break my heart to see you hurt.” He stops pacing then, finally looking at her. “I can’t stand to see you getting hurt by him every single time, and I can’t keep on having my heart broken every time you run back to him. So if you want to go back to him, I’m not holding you back, but I won’t be there to pick up the pieces when he breaks your heart again.”

His eyes sting as he blinks back the tears in his tear ducts. He won’t let her see him cry. He inhales sharply, his gaze drifting away to look anywhere but her. The silence in the room is suffocating, and Henry feels his chest tightens with each passing second. He’s too afraid to move, his feet anchored to the ground, and he’s scared of what she might say. He hears her shift on the mattress, wincing a little when she moves around, and then he can feel her standing close to him. Y/N brings one hand up, and he feels the warmth of her palm against his skin, her touch soft on his right cheek. With a soft pressure, she turns his face to hers, and Henry is forced to look at her. Her gentle smile lightens her features, reaching her glossy and bright eyes. Her head is slightly tilted to the side as her eyes roam over his features, her thumb delicately brushing over his flushed cheekbone.

“I can’t keep on being hurt by you, Y/N…” Henry whispers, his voice wavering as he takes a sharp breath.

“I don’t want to be the one hurting you, Hen.” Her voice is soft when she speaks up, and a single tear runs down her cheek. “And I am sorry for ever hurting you. I just–”

“I know…” Henry sighs, defeated. “You’re in love with him.”

“It’s not– it’s not that simple…” Y/N sighs. “I can’t– I can’t just leave him.”

She drops her hand back to her side, sitting back on the mattress’ edge, and she begins to anxiously fiddle with her fingers in her lap. Henry frowns when he no longer feels her touch, and he sits next to her. His hands find hers, and he takes them in his to stop her from torturing her fingers.

“You don’t– you don’t have to do this alone, you know.” He tells her, his tone gentle. “If you want to leave him, I’m right here with you, I promise.”

“I– I’m scared of what he’ll do if– if I leave him…”

“Y/N…” He lets go of her hands to hold her face in his, making her look his way. “You know he’s not right for you. He keeps hurting you, physically. Emotionally too, I bet, because it’s the first time in two weeks that we’re talking. You deserve so much better than that piece of shit.” He smiles when she laughs at that. “You deserve a gentleman that will treat you right, take you out for dinner and give you flowers for no specific reason. I’ve known you my whole life Y/N; you’re one of a kind, and you deserve someone who’ll love you with all their heart. Not someone like Gareth…”

“But, someone… like you?”

Henry falls silent next to her, because as much as he loves her, he didn’t think she’d catch on to what he was trying to tell her. Does he want her to be his girlfriend? Yes. Does he want to be her boyfriend? Also, yes. But he knows the things she’s been through with Gareth, and as much as he loves her, he’s smart enough to know that if she leaves her boyfriend, she will need time to heal from that relationship. He’s willing to wait; for her, he’d wait a lifetime, because he wants nothing more than to see her happy.

“One day. Maybe.” He whispers, brushing his thumb over the cuts on her cheek. “But you’re not alone, Y/N. You have me. And Charlotte, and Jasper. Even Piper, or Ray and Schwoz. I know you, and I know you have the strength to leave him, even if you think you can’t. You’re the strongest person I know, and you deserve to be happy.”

“Okay.” She breathes out, smiling.

“O– okay?”

She hums softly, chuckling when he lets out a relieved sigh. Maybe he was right to tell her how he felt. Maybe he was right to tell her what he thought of her relationship with her boyfriend. Because maybe, just maybe, it opened the possibility of something more. Because maybe, just maybe, one day he would get to call her his.

#henry danger #henry hart x reader #henry hart imagines #writerinlearning

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