i occasionally read and reblog stuff. i also write sometimes.
masterlist ♡
fandoms (in no particular order): supernatural, marvel, the 100, the marauders, teen wolf, 5sos, stranger things, ahs.
disclaimers:
i am an adult, but i will not be reblogging/writing smut.
i’ve previously written fics on another blog, but i no longer associate with the fandom that some of the fics featured due to recent events coming to light. i’ve either changed the person or made them ambiguous and reposted them here.
if i write a work featuring real people, it is not about them as a real person. i take their likeness and create a character.
summary: regulus has a horrible nightmare and can’t sleep, luckily you’re there to hold him and remind him of who he truly is.
warnings: regulus is a black cat animagi, mentions of nightmares, emotional distress, implied trauma and childhood abuse, brief self-deprecating thoughts, comfort.
Regulus could barely feel the cold hitting his body now that he was in feline form. He slipped out of his dormitory and padded through the sleeping corridors, a shadow within shadows.
This was no unusual occurrence. He had long grown used to sneaking out past midnight, shifting into his small black form to curl against you. But tonight, something was different.
It had been four months since you began dating, though it felt both shorter and longer in the way time distorts around tenderness. You were used to his quiet nature, to the way he sometimes arrived in silence and simply breathed beside you, needing no words. But you had never seen your boyfriend this fragile.
From the many nights he had come padding across your floor, you had memorized every proud little stride his feline body carried. You knew the sound of his paws before they reached your door.
Yet tonight, when you heard the faint mewl and turned toward the shadowed corner of your room, there was a tremor in his movements.
His tail hung low, his ears drooped. He looked broken in a way that felt wrong for something so small.
You were out of bed in a heartbeat, whispering, “Oh, Reggie, I didn’t expect you tonight—”
Before the sentence could finish, the cat was gone. In his place, Regulus stood for only a breath before collapsing forward into you.
The force of it sent you stumbling back onto the mattress, his body pressed against yours. He was shaking, arms wound tightly around you as if trying to anchor himself.
You felt him tremble again, the words splintering in the air between you. He pulled back enough for you to see him, and even in the dim light his eyes gleamed with something raw.
There were nights when Regulus looked untouchable, every line of him composed and restrained. Tonight, his composure had shattered.
You could feel his hands fisting the fabric of your nightshirt, the tremor in them betraying everything he wasn’t saying. His hair brushed against your neck, cold at the ends, and the scent of rain and sleep clung to him.
You didn’t speak at first. You just held him, one hand at the back of his head, the other pressed between his shoulder blades, feeling his chest rise and fall in quick, uncertain patterns.
“Regulus,” you said quietly.
He didn’t respond. His grip only tightened. You could hear the faint catch of his breath, the effort it took to keep it steady. You waited a moment, then tried again, softer this time.
“What’s wrong? You’re worrying me.”
Nothing. Then, finally, a muted, “Nothing. I just—” His voice faltered. “I just needed to see you.”
You brushed your thumb across the back of his neck, tracing the line of tension there. “Did you have a nightmare?”
A pause. Then a small nod against your shoulder.
You exhaled slowly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know,” he said after a moment, voice so quiet it nearly disappeared. “It was… strange.”
He lifted his head slightly, eyes unfocused, glassy with exhaustion. “I was back home,” he murmured. “In that room with the green curtains. The one she never let me leave until I ‘learned how to behave.’” The faintest bitterness touched his tone before he looked away again.
You didn’t need to ask who ‘she’ was, you already knew who he was referring to.
“She was there. And she said—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “She said you’d see it too, one day. The same thing she always did.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “See what?”
His jaw tightened. “What I am.”
You frowned. “And what are you, then?”
He let out a breath that was more like a laugh, but it carried no amusement. “A coward. Weak. Whatever word she preferred that day.” His voice was clipped, restrained, as if he were trying to make the words sound less personal than they were. “She used to say people only stay until they realize it.”
You stayed quiet, not filling the silence. You reached for his hand instead, threading your fingers through his, grounding him.
“She was wrong,” you said after a moment, steady and certain.
He glanced at you then — that careful, uncertain look he gave when he wanted to believe something but didn’t dare to. “You can’t know that,” he murmured.
“I do,” you said. “I know you.”
His eyes lingered on you for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to argue or surrender. He finally exhaled, quiet and shaky.
“Je suis désolé d’être comme ça,” he whispered, voice muffled against your skin.
Your brow furrowed, but you didn’t move. “What was that?”
He hesitated, then lifted his head just enough for his words to reach you clearly. “I said I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For being like this.” His throat tightened around the words, as if they hurt to say. “For making you see it.”
“See what?” you asked quietly.
“The mess,” he said, a humorless huff escaping him. “The parts I try to keep locked away. I didn’t want you to see that.”
You leaned forward instead, letting your forehead rest against his temple. “Look at me,” you said.
He hesitated, then did. His eyes were red at the corners, lashes still wet. You could tell he hated that you saw it.
“What do you see?” you asked softly.
He blinked, confused. “What?”
“When you look at me,” you said. “What do you see?”
He swallowed. “You.”
“Good,” you said. “That’s all I see too.”
He stared at you for a long time, silent. His jaw moved like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.
You sighed softly, your fingers brushing through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. The strands were still damp with sweat, still tangled from the restless tossing that had driven him here.
“I see you, Regulus,” you said quietly. “I see someone who’s so smart. So brave. Someone who pretends not to care but does, more than anyone else I know.” Your voice trembled just slightly, the truth of it sitting heavy in the air.
“I see someone who’s capable of so much love. And I know it’ll take time for you to heal from everything that hurt you. But that’s okay. Because I’ll be right here. Always.”
For a moment, he didn’t breathe. His eyes found yours, and there was something so raw in them that it almost startled you — something that made you think the universe might’ve put all its stars in his gaze just to see what you’d do with them.
He swallowed once before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “Will you stay until then?”
You smiled, soft and certain. “Yeah, Regulus. I will.”
He closed his eyes, and when he leaned forward again, it wasn’t desperate anymore. It was quiet and steady. His arms tightened around you, holding you like something sacred.
After a while, you shifted slightly, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone where a tear had dried. “And, Reggie?” you murmured.
He hummed against your neck. “Yeah?”
You smiled faintly, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. “Even if you hate yourself,” you said, voice low but firm, “I’ll still love you for the both of us.”
Something in him eased at that. His body, tense for what felt like a lifetime, finally softened.
“Je t’aime,” he whispered, almost like a confession, his breath warm against your skin.
You laughed quietly, the sound melting into the stillness. “Yeah, yeah,” you said, brushing your hand through his hair again.
“I ‘je t’aime’ you too. Or whatever that French shit is.”
He smiled against your throat, the kind of smile that only showed when he forgot to be careful, and pressed a kiss just beneath your ear.
The room went still after that, the night quiet but full. And for the first time in a long while, Regulus let himself rest.
summary: imagine being trapped in the mines as the wendigo chases both you and peter. you're injured and cut up. both of you are hidden, you're terrified and peter keeps watch to make sure the monster doesn't find you two. so in the adrenaline of the moment you silently begin to confess to him incase you never get the chance too.
tw: angst, injuries, blood, peter is 18 in this, did they escape?- idk man
notes: hiii, hope you all enjoy this! it's my first peter fic and i'm happy how it turned out and i hope you're happy with it too.
(check out my masterlist!)
"HURRY UP!!"
you held onto his hand tightly as you both ran through the narrow tunnels. the air around you was cold, stale, thick with dust and the sharp scent of iron. your leg throbbed in pain from the gash below your thigh– blood sticking to your jeans, but you wouldn't risk even the slightest whimper. the only thing separating you from death was a wall of jagged rock and peter's trembling hand tightly gripping yours.
he knelt down besides you in the cold darkness of the mines, one eye always peering past the crevice of echoing screams– sharp clatters of claws on stone, the chittering breaths of the creature that wouldn’t stop hunting.
the wendingo was close. you could feel it.
tears continued to cloud your vision as you covered your mouth tightly, not even letting out a single shaky breath behind your hands. peter gently wiped his face, it was dirty, cut above his head that seeped blood.
his other hand slowly raised, signaling you to stay quiet. his fingers were shaking.
you leaned back against the cold, hard rocks, blinking tears away from your eyes— whether from pain, fear, or both, you didn’t know. the only light came from peter’s busted flashlight, dimmed and angled low between your feet.
the silence between you both stretched like a wire pulled tight.
you could hear your own heart beating drums in your ears. if this was it— if this was how it ended— you couldn’t go without saying something. not to him.
you turned your face toward him. barely a whisper escaped your quivering lips.
"p-... pete..." you whisper out, breathe shaky as you slowly and silently crawl towards him. the tiny pebbles poked your palms as your hands as they felt their way towards him in the dark surrounding area you hid in. "...i-if we don't make it out here–"
"don't say that... don't–... listen to me." peter said cutting you off immediately, putting the flashlight quietly onto the ground and reaching to hold your face, gently cupping your cheeks. he rubbed away the dirt and blood from your face, and looked into your eyes, glossy— not filled with hope. just terrified for the inevitable.
he tensed, eyes flicking back to you, then back to the dark, listening.
"they're gonna send help... we just gotta make it out of here by dawn..." he whispered, still cup your face. you gripped your dusty puffer jacket, tears slowly streaming down your face as you looked down and then back up to meet his eyes.
those comforting eyes of his. they were so sweet. the highlight of all your moments everytime he talked to you.
his smile was warm too. it was so contagious that even when you were upset he'd still be able to make you smile. you loved that about him.
you loved everything about him.
you swallowed hard, heart stuck in your throat. you had to say it. just say it.
"i-i... i have to tell you something. something i didn't know if it would matter or not— but it does now... " you continued to whisper, placing a hand over one of his that still held your face.
you flinch at the ear screeching scream of wendigo and you immediately wrap your arms around peter. you just held onto him, gripping onto his coat and burying your nose into the crook of his neck. he just sat still before wrapping his arms back around your waist, peter just held you you close to him. nose slowly burying itself in the mole of your hair.
still, no words from him. he looked torn between telling you to be quiet and wanting to hear you out.
you just held your breath, and slowly brought you mouth to his ear. he could hear you teeth clattering against eachother, didn't know whether it was out of how cold it was or how scared for your life you were.
"i… i like you. i think i’ve liked you for a while... i actually think i'm really inlove with you pete."
there, you said it.
his shoulders slowly dropped, like the weight of everything was sinking into his mind. his gaze finally turned to you, soft and sad in the low light.
you gave a weak smile through the pain. “i never told you because... i thought you really liked mj— I would see the way you smiled at her. plus... she's so pretty and i wouldn't blame you if you did... i just needed to tell you."
peter was silent for a long period of time. you thought this was it. this is how you die with a ruined friendship. what a way to go out right?
"i always thought you liked harry..." he whispered back into your ear, still hugging you. still staring into space.
it made you freeze up at his words as you continued to hug him. you pulled back, looking in his eyes. he just looked up at you, lip slightly quivering. "i always was in love with you... i've always seen mj as a friend... but the way you'd look at harry—... i just assumed—"
before he could finish, you just softly pressed you lips against his. it felt cold for a moment but then eventually felt the warmth rise between you two. his lips were soft against yours, it felt desperate. it felt real. it felt like it would be the first and last time you two would hold eachother.
you pulled away tears still in your eyes and he smiled sadly at you still holding your cheeks.
"… we’re getting out of here."
he leaned in closer, eyes shining despite the fear. "listen to me... you’re gonna tell me that again. somewhere with way more daylight and way less murder."
a claw scraped against rock nearby. you both froze.
peter turned back to the opening, body shielding you instinctively. his jaw clenched, voice low and firm.
"stay quiet. i’ve got you."
and in that moment— even as the monster closed in— you believed him.
-peachessprincess is the creator of this work. please don't paste my work onto any other site
Four Times Foley Tried to Set You up on a Date, and the One Time It Worked
Pairing: Steve Harrington x reader
Summary: Foley is your loyal, normally well-behaved, canine companion. Except, when he encounters a handsome stranger on the street, he turns into an overexcited ball of fur...and you suppose you can't really blame him.
Tags/warnings: 4+1 trope thingy; fluff (hopefully of the tooth-rotting variety ♡); cursing (like, two itty bitty words); basically Steve being a ray of sunshine but add a dog in the mix
Words: 3562
A/N: Inspired by all the Joe content out there involving doggos and how genuinely happy they seem to make him. I suspect Steve would be much the same.
Fic below the cut or on AO3
Attempt No. 1
“Foley! No!” Before your reflexes have time to react, the leash slips through your palm and is skidding behind a blur of golden-brown fur. You watch in horror, stomach in your throat, as your beloved dog beelines for a man up ahead on the sidewalk.
Two wide paws rear upwards, and a wet, pink tongue lolls out as the canine practically barrels into the stranger. You rush over as quickly as your legs will carry you, trying to snatch the collar of your four-legged companion. Foley, however, is too quick, managing to dodge your attempts. But as you look upwards in exasperation, you notice that the man hasn’t recoiled. He hasn’t started yelling at your dog–or you, for that matter. Instead, he’s laughing.
Dumbfounded, you watch as he praises the pooch with honeyed words like “hey buddy!” and “what a good boy!” all the while rubbing the sides of Foley’s head. The smile plastered across the man’s face is one of pure joy, and Foley is absolutely gobbling up the attention. Your dog dances on his hind legs and desperately tries to plant slobbery kisses on this random person.
Snapping yourself back into action, you finally grab hold of the leather collar and pry Foley off the man. “I’m so sorry, sir!” you exclaim, looking up into what you now notice is a pair of shining hazel eyes. “He never does this!” It’s the honest truth; whether the man will choose to believe you is another story.
But he simply laughs, all rosy cheeks and crinkled eyes. “Not to worry!” he assures. Foley continues to resist you as the stranger adds, “He’s a lovely dog!” A playful ruffle of your golden retriever’s ears has the canine’s tail smacking into your legs like a metronome. “Bye, buddy!” the man says as he squeezes past you and Foley on the sidewalk. Your dog yips happily, standing at attention until the guy is out of sight.
Baffled by this odd occurrence, you make the journey back to your apartment. Foley sticks tight to your side, quietly eyeing each passer-by as you go along.
Attempt No. 2
The whining absolutely breaks your heart. It’s such a long, drawn-out, and pitiful sound. The whole walk to the clinic sounded exactly like that too, and you wouldn’t be surprised if people on the street were ready to jump to the nearest payphone and dial the ASPCA. Foley not only sounded like he was being abused, but he deserves an Oscar for having looked the part as well. He managed to tuck his tail impossibly tight between his legs and hang his head meekly with the biggest, saddest puppy-dog eyes you have ever seen. And once you were inside the vet’s office, the scene wasn’t much different, either. Going to the vet, even for routine checkups, is the worst experience of your Foley’s little life.
He clings tight to your side, back end tucked as far under your chair in the waiting room as he will fit. If the glass-pane door beside you was open, you’re sure he’d be begging you to leave. In an effort to comfort him, your hand reaches down to soothingly stroke between Foley’s ears. He presses up into you, appreciating the love.
The minutes are ticking by when, all of a sudden, a loud bark sounds off next to you. A golden-brown flash springs upwards before it crouches down, butt in the air and head pointed towards the door. Foley yips again, tail beating back and forth, happy as can be. You jump to your feet to calm him down while annoyed glances from other patients are being shot your way.
Then he bounces again, releasing another shrill bark before rearing up on his back legs, paws against the door handle. And that’s when you notice him. The same guy from the other day, just out and about minding his own business.
The man’s attention turns towards the muffled barking and silhouette of an excited dog vying for his attention behind the glass. Recognition hits when he sees you trying to pry Foley down. It makes him stop in his tracks and smile. He’s actually beaming at the sight of your dog making you look like a gigantic fool in public…again.
The man bends at the knee in order to get a better look. He rakes a hand through his dark brown hair and waves at your pup like he’s a little kid. Foley’s tongue darts out, smearing against the glass door out of pure joy.
And then the stranger turns his focus on you. His eyes soften as he gives you a shy wave. You manage a little wave of your own before reality reminds you that Foley is still causing an absolute ruckus. And as if suddenly remembering something himself, the man checks his watch before giving Foley a final wave and striding away. Though, you don’t miss out on the fond glance that is cast over his shoulder as he continues down the street.
Once the man is out of sight, Foley returns to cowering beneath your chair until the vet eventually calls his name.
Attempt No. 3
Foley sits obediently at your side, big brown eyes laser-focused on the transaction taking place above him. Strings of drool seep from the corners of his mouth. He begins to pant, pink tongue rising and falling, yet he still remains unmoving at your side.
A man in a white apron hands you a small vanilla ice cream cone from the cart he operates on the park pathway. You thank him and turn to Foley, ready to give your pup his favourite (albeit rare) summer treat. But, just as you’re about to bend down, Foley’s ear suddenly twitches in the opposite direction. His black nose wiggles, and then his head swivels rapidly towards the perceived sound. Immediately, the canine is overcome with anticipation, practically vibrating in place. Luckily, you have half a mind to tighten your grip on his leash, because it soon becomes evident what–or rather who–Foley’s senses have picked up on.
Deep in concentration with chestnut locks sticking to the sides of his face from perspiration, the same guy that Foley has gotten all worked up over twice before is jogging directly towards you. Adorned in grey sweatpants and a yellow sweatshirt, his laboured breathing is steadily focused through pursed lips.
By now, Foley is barking up a storm, the ice cream guy has wheeled his cart away, and you’re left frivolously trying to maintain a hold on the leash. “Heel!” you command to no avail. Exasperation over your abnormally disobedient companion is written all over your flushed cheeks.
Barking causes the man’s concentration to break, and as he recognizes Foley, the giant grin that you’re now used to seeing spreads across his features. He slows his jog to a halt in front of the pair of you. That brilliant smile that’s all teeth shines upon you before turning to the fur ball in front of him. “Hey, boy!” he coos, showering Foley in pats and rubs. The pooch devours the attention, unlike the ice cream that's long since forgotten.
“Again, I’m sorry!” Your apology comes as Foley headbutts the man again and again, wiping his slobber all over the poor sucker’s pants. “Foley!” you groan in defeat.
“Nah, it’s cool.” The man bends and allows your dog to deliver him wet kisses. “It’s actually a nice ego boost.” He glances back up to you with a wink that makes your tummy somersault. Straightening and maintaining those hazel eyes on you, he offers you a hand that’s not kneading Foley’s ears. “Steve,” he smiles.
A silent “oh” parts your lips as you awkwardly juggle the ice cream cone into the same hand holding the dog leash. Steve chuckles on your behalf as he attempts to steady Foley at his feet.
Finally, you accept his greeting and respond with your own name. Steve’s palm feels so natural in yours; his fingers curl around yours firmly, yet with gentle care. It almost feels–
Suddenly, Steve begins vibrating back and forth, which makes his hand slip unceremoniously from yours. Your silly pup is now drumming a steady rhythm with his tail against Steve’s legs. The two of you can’t help but share a lighthearted laugh.
“I’d love to stay and chat,” he says as the laughter fades, raising a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. “But I have to finish my run and head home.”
As nonchalantly as possible, you respond with an “of course” before reaching over to nab Foley by the collar and pull him off of your new acquaintance. The man delivers the two of you a friendly wave before resuming his pace.
As he jogs off into the distance, you try not to think about the way Steve’s eyes smile with the rest of his face or how a trickle of sweat had run down the expanse of his freckled neck. And Foley makes double sure of it by sitting in front of you with pleading eyes fixated on his ice cream cone like nothing had happened at all.
Attempt No. 4
Had Steve been consuming your thoughts more and more frequently since your last meeting? Kinda…well, okay…Yes.
He was obviously handsome. Gorgeous eyes. Dark hair. Strong jawline. And it really didn’t matter what he wore either, be it the business-casual outfit he sported while passing by the vet’s office or the old jogging clothes lined with sweat. But the thing that your mind kept coming back to was that stupid smile that emerged around Foley. It popped up in your head more times than you care to admit. You don’t know what it is about this guy, but you simply can’t shake him from your brain.
And what the heck was up with Foley? You even tried asking your pup why Steve gets him so excited. But the only answer you were met with was an adorably curious head tilt that turned into him flopping onto his back, four paws in the air, begging for a belly rub. Foley’s reaction to Steve, and the fact that it had happened three times in three separate locations, was so bizarre. Surely it was impossible to bump into the same guy multiple times in such a big city like that…
It's evening, and you and Foley are out for a stroll. The sun is past its peak, and the air has cooled, making it perfect for a walk. The sidewalks still bustle with people going to and fro. Foley keeps perfect stride with you. He sticks close when you pass sketchy characters and doesn’t react to the grabby hands of little kids. He’s acting like his usual self–the poster child for obedient pups-and you couldn’t be prouder!
Rounding the corner, Foley’s nose hits the pavement. The black button on the front of his snout works furiously, the sniffing sounds growing louder.
“What’s wrong, boy?” you ask your companion. But then he’s tugging, paws wanting to move faster and farther than his leash will allow.
You strain trying to keep up as Foley yanks you closer to a bus stop. A happy bark and a glance upwards make you realize what has set Foley off.
Oh. My. Again?
And then there’s Steve. Dressed in a casual polo and jeans, he sits on a bench at the bus stop. The first bark has him peering over his shoulder; that signature smile, which lights up his handsome face, appears not a moment later. Steve’s posture straightens as Foley bounds up to his side, only to reach forward and deliver loving pets to your enthusiastic pup.
“And so we meet again!” He grins at you, still showering Foley with affection.
“Indeed!” you reply, matching his banter before swapping to a more apologetic tone. “But I swear I don’t know why he acts this way around you! He doesn’t even get like this around my relatives!”
Smooth, gentle laughter fills the space between you. “Like I said before,” Steve’s eyes catch yours. “I honestly don’t mind at all. He’s not being bad; he’s just very sweet.”
The compliment warms your cheeks, tinting them pink. “You’re too kind, but we keep interrupting your day.”
Steve scoffs with no heat. “It’s nice to see some familiar faces.” He then offers you a smile that melts you where you stand.
The moment lingers; gazes are locked. Your heart ticks up in your chest. “So, uh…” he runs a large hand through perfectly styled hair. “I’m just waiting to catch a bus downtown to do some errands. It won’t be here for a while, so if you want–if you don’t have anywhere to be–you’re welcome to stay and chat for a bit.”
Your eyes widen. Did he just ask you to stay? Stay, as in, he’d like to talk to you?
You honestly don’t know how he does it. Steve’s got this effortless confidence to him that’s laced with a hint of shyness, almost as if he doesn’t know how smooth he actually is. Couple that with your brain’s recent hyper-fixation, and it’s impossible to say no.
Taking a seat next to him on the bench, Steve shifts so that his torso is aligned with yours. Foley takes up residence between Steve’s legs, pressing himself in close and laying his head on the man’s lap. Steve doesn’t complain one bit; rather, he threads Foley’s silky ears through his fingers as the two of you begin to talk.
The conversation is effortless. You learn that Steve is from a small town in Indiana and moved to a big city to experience something new. You speak about careers and aspirations, and your stomach flutters when you learn that Steve’s vision for the future isn’t that different from your own. In fact, Steve makes you feel completely at ease. There’s no need to hide little facets of yourself, not when he seems to be accepting of every little part of you.
You and Steve are completely engrossed in conversation when Foley suddenly gives off a whine. Big dark eyes peer up at Steve, sad doggy eyebrows twitching as he seeks undivided attention. Steve, ever the pushover for that adorable face, gives Foley a reassuring pat on the head.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he begins, returning to stroking your dog’s ears. “How did you come up with the name ‘Foley’?”
Affectionately, you grin down at the canine before turning your gaze back on Steve. “I wanted this calm, sweet, loyal dog. Someone I could rely on and who could make me feel a little safer while living alone. And don’t get me wrong, he’s like that ninety-nine percent of the time…” Your voice goes deadpan. “Except for when he’s around you.”
Steve blows a laugh through his nose, clearly caught off guard.
“Anyway,” you continue, nerves consuming you, “when he was a pup, I thought a police officer’s name would be the right choice. So, I chose the one from Beverly Hills Cop.” Your eyes are in your lap, where your fingers toy absentmindedly with the end of Foley’s leash.
Steve’s brows pinch together. “Have you ever watched the movie?” His question draws your eyes back to his. Though non-judgemental, Steve does appear skeptical.
You stammer. “Uhh…no. I just really like the song.” After saying it out loud, you realize how dumb you must seem. But Steve’s face confirms none of that. Instead, he’s beaming again.
“Axel F is the charismatic, cheeky one… and sometimes he’s a bit of an asshole.”
Now it’s your turn to laugh. You peer down at Foley, who has resorted to head-butting Steve’s hand for more of the spotlight. “I guess that explains a lot,” you tease. “If I wanted a calm pup, I shoulda named you after the sheriff from The Andy Griffith Show, huh, boy?”
Foley snorts his disapproval and Steve knocks his shoulder playfully against yours with a dazzling smirk.
Suddenly, however, something catches Steve’s eye, and he stretches to look out above your head. Squinting, he attempts to focus on something in the distance. He casts a quick glance at you, lips turning downwards into a frown. “I think my bus is on its way.” His tone deflates of all its previous joy. Your heart sinks with it.
Steve’s hazel eyes lock onto yours, words racing against the clock. “Look,” he begins. “I really enjoyed talking with you and…” A pause. A bite of his lip. An unsteady intake of breath. You hang on every little movement. “Well, maybe we could meet up again sometime? We could finally get you watching Beverly Hills Cop?” A hopeful gleam appears in his eye, and you notice the way his lips curve to cradle the gentlest of smiles; the pair of freckles on his cheek shift along with them.
An involuntary smile of your own makes its way across your features. Your heart beats out a rapid lub-dub against your chest. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Steve’s eyes crinkle at the corners, delight and what just might be relief washing over him. “Great!” he chimes just as the bus arrives at the stop. He stands. Foley mirrors his actions. “Here’s my number.” Steve recites the digits as he makes his way towards the open door of the bus. “Gimme a call!” He then gives Foley a final pat on the head before ascending the steps onto the city bus.
Just as the bus doors are about to close, Steve turns back to give you a wave. But it’s the beaming smile that he flashes at the same time that will linger in your mind long after you and Foley get back home.
The One Time it Worked
Holy shit! Steve, the random guy your dog has been obsessed with for the last several weeks, asked you out!
Throwing caution to the wind, you didn’t end up waiting long before giving Steve a call–unwritten dating rules be damned! And Steve had been just as eager when he picked up at the other end of the line. The two of you made plans for a movie night in the park; Foley, of course, was invited too.
And Steve, as it turned out, is an absolute gentleman. He had requested Beverly Hills Cop be shown that night and had assembled a picnic for you to share: homemade treats and sandwiches for the humans and Pupperoni for the canine.
The two of you spent the evening nestled close on a blanket, eating and laughing along with the film. Foley lay between you, softly chuffing at each mention of his name on screen.
Once the movie had concluded and the picnic had been packed up, Steve escorts both you and Foley home. He stands in front you on the stoop of your building, bathed in the soft yellow light from the porch lamp overhead. Wisps of chestnut hair appear golden as they flutter in the gentle breeze.
“So, this is me,” you state nervously. Staring up into his eyes, you observe how flecks of green marry with swirls of amber. “I had a really great night,” you add, voice softening, sincere. “Thank you, Steve.”
Steve’s eyes form crescent moons as they peer back at you. “I had a great time too.” His words are spoken so low that they’re almost a whisper. “I’d really love to see you again.”
Your teeth capture your bottom lip, trying to suppress the giddy grin that threatens to form. “I’d like that.”
Steve’s pupils darken, eyes wandering to your lips before slowly easing their way back up to yours. The two of you draw near, orbits closing in. Steve’s hand caresses along your cheek; fingers slip behind your hair. His nose brushes yours, eyelashes flickering as he searches for any sign of apprehension. You press your body closer to his, giving him his answer.
Tender lips then meet yours. A warmth radiates through your chest and peppers its way down your spine. You melt together like two halves of the same whole.
You could stay wrapped in Steve’s embrace forever, yet the kiss is brought to an abrupt halt by the whines and needy whimpers of the golden retriever at your feet. The absurdity has Steve smiling against your lips, forehead resting on yours. “Never a dull moment with this one around, huh?” he chuckles before reluctantly drawing back.
Reaching down, you lace your fingers with his. “Nope. That’s for sure!”
The night ends with Foley being showered with affection and the promise of many more evenings like this to come.
One Year Later
Nighttime had settled over the city, and in a tiny apartment, two people lay cuddled in a cozy bed. The man, with dark brown hair and shining hazel eyes, peers down affectionately at the person he loves, resting their head on his chest.
An arm holds your sleepy form close, warm and safe and already drifting off towards a pleasant sleep. At the foot of the bed lies a golden retriever; his soft muzzle nestled lazily on two front paws. He, too, begins to doze as the day draws to an end.
The man glances down at the canine at his feet. “Thank you, Foley,” he whispers before placing a tender kiss to the top of your head and switching off the light.
Hopefully you enjoyed reading this one! Feedback is loved! ♡
Main Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist
summary ۶ৎ you're suspicious over finnick's sudden clinginess.
warnings ۶ৎ allusions to finnick's prostitutions, finnick's awfully clingy
word count ۶ৎ 2.5k
author's note ۶ৎ mi bday special cuz im officially an adult in 42 mins ( ｡ﾟДﾟ｡)
There’s a shift in the air.
You could feel it from a thousand miles away. Hell, it’s like you have a sixth sense when it comes to Finnick—an internal alarm that goes off the second something is off with him. And this morning, it rang the moment you woke up.
Finnick’s arms were wrapped too tightly around your waist, his body practically fused to your back, his nose buried so deep in the crook of your neck it felt like he was trying to melt into you. You didn’t even have to open your eyes to know: he’s hiding something.
The problem is, you can’t figure out what.
It started with how hard you had to work just to get him out of bed. He clung to you like a lifeline, whining and pouting like a lovesick teenager. His sea-glass eyes held a look that was too intense for just morning cuddles, and when you cupped his face and asked what was wrong, he only gave you this goofy, love-drunk smile before pressing soft, distracting kisses to your lips. “Breakfast can wait,” he mumbled, flipping you over with too much ease for someone who looked so emotionally frazzled.
Then came the kitchen.
Your house is small, especially the kitchen, tucked into your inherited little wooden beach cottage, filled to the brim with mismatched pots and hanging herbs. Two people don’t fit in there, not without bumping hips and brushing arms—and Finnick? He was practically glued to you. Wherever you moved, he followed, hands around your waist, his head nestled in the crook of your neck again like he was trying to memorize your scent.
It would’ve been sweet if you weren’t so damn hungry. And if you weren’t still recovering from the thirty minutes of relentless affection earlier.
At one point, you spilled batter down your shirt from how many times you bumped into him.
That was the last straw.
You turned around, firm hands on his broad shoulders, brows raised in tired disbelief. “Baby,” you said, tone edged with warning. “Will you please just sit here and look pretty?”
He let out an exaggerated huff but nodded quickly the second your brows lifted higher, that signature ‘don’t test me’ look you’ve perfected over the years. He pressed a kiss to your nose—loud and wet and obnoxiously smug—and plopped himself down in one of the wooden chairs with a dramatized sigh. You backed away slowly, eyes narrowed, watching him as if he might leap right back up again the second you turned around.
He sat there like nothing was wrong, like he hadn’t been acting weird as hell since he got back last night.
Now it’s afternoon, and you’re curled up in the pink nook by your bedroom window, knees tucked under your chin, your fingers holding a book you’re not really reading. You’ve been trying to research flowers for your garden. Finnick built you a greenhouse just last month—white picket fence and everything—because you mentioned once, half-asleep, that you wanted to grow your own vegetables. Tomatoes. Garlic. Onions. Anything so you wouldn’t have to keep hauling yourself down to the market every few days.
It took him a day and a half to build it. Just showed up grinning with dirt on his cheeks and a ribbon tied to the gate latch.
But today, your mind can’t focus on gardening.
You keep replaying everything from the moment you woke up. The bed. The kisses. The slow, almost too tender sex. The shared shower—where Finnick insisted he wash your hair. The way he kept looking at you like you might disappear if he blinked too long. He’s always been affectionate, yes, but this was different. This wasn’t just clingy. This was like he was terrified.
He finally left the house an hour ago to swim, saying something about not missing his daily laps. It took you twenty-five minutes to get him out the door. He kissed you repeatedly. Begged you to come with him. Told you it wouldn’t be fun if you weren’t there. And when you refused—because, frankly, the ocean is freezing and you’re not trying to die today—he pouted like a child and dragged his feet all the way down the porch.
You shake your head, trying to will the thoughts away. Surely, if it were something serious, Finnick would’ve told you by now. He’s never kept things from you—not since the night he finally told you what the Capitol really made him do during those long absences. Not since he looked you in the eye and admitted the truth with shaking hands and a voice that barely held together.
You didn’t flinch, judge or looked at him differently. You just held him. Because you were glad that he let you in. That he trusted you enough to share the darkest parts of himself.
You love Finnick. That much is undeniable. Sometimes you think about where you’d be if you hadn’t met him two years ago—and the image is always darker. He pulled you out of a hole you didn’t even know you were sinking into after your parents died in the fire at District 4’s fish market. It was a freak accident—took several others too, including Finnick’s uncle, the last family he had.
So yeah. It’s an understatement to say you’re worried about him.
You glance down at your notebook and realize, with a tired blink, that you’ve scribbled “causes of Finnick’s sudden clinginess” instead of “causes of pest infestations in a garden.”
Your pen stills, and you blink—once, then again—staring down at the page as the weight of it all finally settles in. Even now, with two rooms and a closed door between you, you can still feel him—his presence like gravity tugging at your chest.
Before your thoughts can spiral deeper, the door creaks open and Finnick steps into the room.
He’s a mess. A towel is draped over his head, soaked and sliding halfway down his neck. His bronze skin is glistening with seawater, droplets trailing down his bare chest and soaking into the waistband of his shorts. He’s left a winding path of damp sand from the hallway, every step tracked in prints that smear slightly with each move he makes. His feet are bare and his curls are still dripping, little beads of water falling onto the wooden floor.
You stare at him from the window nook, frozen for a second, your book slipping slightly from your lap.
He looks at you like he hasn’t seen you in years.
Then, without a word, he crosses the room, moving with that same effortless grace he always has—except this time it’s less like a flirtation and more like a need. When he reaches you, he doesn’t pause or ask permission. He just climbs right in, damp and heavy and all saltwater heat, stretching himself across your curled-up body like he belongs there. Like he has to be there or he’ll unravel.
You grunt under the sudden weight, your hands instinctively bracing against his slick shoulders. “Finnick—”
He silences your protest with a peppering of kisses across your face. Cheeks, nose, forehead, chin, lips—he leaves no space untouched. Each kiss is frantic, uncoordinated, wet with ocean and something deeper—something you still can’t name.
“I missed you,” he mumbles between kisses. “God, I missed you. I was only gone for an hour and I missed you.”
“Finnick,” you laugh breathlessly, tilting your head back as he continues his unrelenting affection. “You were literally just—hey! You’re soaking the cushion!”
“Don’t care,” he mutters into your neck, arms wrapping tight around you like you might disappear if he lets go. “You smell better than the ocean.”
“Finnick,” you say again, softer this time. There’s a flicker of something uneasy in your chest, something too big to ignore anymore.
You push him back just enough to see him clearly, your hands moving up to cup his cheeks—firm, steady, squishing them together until his lips pout in that ridiculous way that practically begs to be kissed. It takes everything in you not to give in to the urge.
Instead, you hold his gaze.
His sea-green eyes blink at you, wide and soft, still wet at the lashes.
“What’s wrong, baby?” you finally ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
Finnick blinks at you, lips still squished between your palms. He gives a pitiful little hum, eyebrows raised innocently like he’s got no idea what you’re talking about.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, words slightly muffled through his puckered mouth. “I just love you, that’s all.”
You narrow your eyes. “Mmhmm.”
He tries to lean forward again, aiming another kiss at your jaw, but you tighten your grip on his cheeks and pull back just enough to stop him.
“Nope,” you say firmly. “We’re not doing that.”
His brows knit together, the pout deepening. “Doing what?”
“You trying to distract me with kisses and charm so you don’t have to answer.” You tilt your head, voice still teasing but firm beneath it. “We can sit like this for the rest of our lives if we have to. I’ll hold your face hostage, Finnick Odair. Don’t test me.”
A beat passes.
Something shifts in his expression. The smile fades. His mouth relaxes under your hands, and his eyes—those heartbreakingly beautiful eyes—drop slightly, losing the usual glint of mischief. He swallows hard, and when he looks back up at you, it’s like something inside him finally gives way.
“I had a dream,” he says quietly, almost like he’s ashamed of it. “Last night. You died.”
The words hit you like a jolt, but you don’t move, don’t flinch. You just keep your hands on his face, grounding him.
“You died,” he repeats, voice cracking slightly. “And it felt so real. I woke up and—I couldn’t breathe. I thought I lost you. I thought—God, it was so stupid, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how I waste so much time just… assuming you’ll always be here.”
He leans into your touch then, like he needs it to keep going.
“I realized I can’t do that. I don’t want to waste a single second. I don’t want to go another day without making sure you know how much I love you. How much you mean to me. Because if something happened to you and I didn’t say it enough or loud enough or clear enough…”
His voice trails off, and then he breathes out—soft and hoarse, like the weight is finally leaving his chest.
“I’d rather spend one tomorrow with you, making sure you know I love you,” he whispers, “than a thousand tomorrows without you… and never get the chance to say it.”
You stare at him, heart squeezing painfully, lips parted—but the words don’t come. Not right away. Because what do you even say to that?
You don’t say anything right away. You just release his face with the gentlest touch, then open your arms and pull him into you—tugging him into your chest like you're trying to shield him from the very world that haunts his dreams.
He doesn’t resist. He folds into you like a tide pulled home, arms locking tightly around your waist, his cheek pressed into your shoulder. He holds you like he thinks you might vanish again. Like it’s your last night together. And it breaks something inside you.
You run your fingers through his still-damp hair, slow and steady, the same way someone might soothe a frightened animal or calm a child after a nightmare. He trembles once. Just once. But you feel it. And it makes your chest ache.
“Finnick,” you murmur softly, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “I know you love me.”
His arms stiffen slightly, like he’s unsure if you’re just saying it to soothe him, but you pull back just enough to see his face, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
“I know it,” you repeat, firmer now. “Not just because you say it. But because you show it.”
You smile faintly, eyes locked on his. “You built me a greenhouse in less than two days just because I said I wanted to grow tomatoes. You kiss my forehead every time I fall asleep reading. You get up before sunrise to untangle my wind-chimes when the sea breeze knots them up. And when you think I’m not looking…” Your voice catches a little. You look at me like I hung the stars in your sky.
His eyes are glossy now, red at the rims, but he doesn’t look away. You don’t let him.
“You’ve already told me you love me a hundred different ways, Finnick. Even when you don’t say it.”
You rest your forehead against his, nose brushing his as you close your eyes. “So next time you have a dream like that… just wake me up. You don’t have to wait. You don’t have to hold it in. I want to be the person you can fall apart with. Okay?”
Finnick nods, slow and silent. And then he kisses you—not with urgency this time, not to dodge or distract—but like he’s memorizing the shape of forever on your lips.
It’s warm and slow and almost shy, like he’s still trying to believe you’re real. His lips move against yours with a tenderness that steals your breath, his hands trembling slightly as they cradle your waist, holding you like something precious. Like something breakable. Like he’s scared he might crush you if he holds too tightly, but terrified you’ll slip away if he doesn’t.
You kiss him back just as slowly, threading your fingers into his damp curls and brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones, tasting salt—maybe from the ocean, maybe from him. Neither of you pulls away. Time stops. The only sound is the faint ticking of the old wall clock in the corner and the hush of waves crashing somewhere in the distance, just beyond the house.
When you finally part, it’s only because you both need to breathe. Finnick leans his forehead against yours again, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers. “Ever.”
“You won’t,” you whisper back, just as fiercely. “You’ve got me. For as long as you want me.”
His eyes flutter open. “Forever, then.”
You smile, tears burning quietly at the edges of your vision. “Forever sounds just right.”
He pulls you in again, tucking your head under his chin, wrapping himself around you until you can barely tell where you end and he begins. His heart beats against yours like it’s trying to speak a language only the two of you understand. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. Heavy with everything that didn’t need words.
You stay like that for a while. Wrapped in each other. The sun dipping lower through the bedroom window, casting everything in a soft amber glow. Outside, the waves keep crashing. Inside, he’s holding you like he’ll never let go again.
clanging of the dungeon cell bars wakes you from an unsatisfying sleep. you turn your body to face the door just as several guards open it. taking advantage of your drowsy and sleep-deprived state, they approach you without a concern. you feel no urge to attack.
one of the guards places their large hands on your shoulder, pushing you to lie on your stomach. you see the legs and shoes of the guards around you as metal encloses your wrists. they pull you up, tugging you along up the stairs and through the maze of the castle. in your delirious state, the doors of the aplenty hallways blend together into one shade of brown. when they tug you outside, you are blinded by the sun, deprived of light.
the horizon of sherwood forest is the first thing that you see past the rush of light. the tops of the trees are barely visibly behind the tops of the buildings housing the people you helped. the guards only pause for a heartbeat before continuing their lugging. there is a guard in front of you and two beside you as they escort you in a practiced manner. the gallows are in the center of town, a reminder to all citizens to keep in line. though, only the top of the wooden structure is visible past the crowd standing around. some are unfamiliar, but others are recognizable allies. there are tears in some of their eyes when they meet your defeated gaze, forming a pit in you. ashamed, you look down at the ground, the shackles around your wrists digging into your back. you follow the guard leading you up the wooden stairs and stand before the grand audience. the king stands on a platform on the other side of the crowd, a horrid smile blessing his wrinkled face. the sheriff is already on the platform next to the box to be stood on. you can’t bare to look at him.
most of the guards that led you to the gallows leave to maintain the crowd, allowing the next guest to climb the stairs of death. little john steps onto the platform. he has noticeable bruising on his face and he looks as if he was torn apart and tortured. you look down, seeing some drops fall from your eyes and dampen planks of the floor. you feel his presence next to you and you face him; he’s already looking at you, two guards surrounding the both of you. sniffling quietly, you mouth, “i’m sorry.”
little john shakes his head faintly. “i’m not,” he mouths back, and your eyebrows furrow. “i’m thankful, kit.”
you mouth purses as tears line john’s cheeks, and you have to look away to prevent yourself from breaking fully.
the crowd silences as the king forces their attention onto him. “welcome, taxpayers of nottingham!” you scoff lightly at his title for his people. “today, we’re gathered to witness the execution of two of nottingham’s most… determined criminals.” he looks directly into your eyes from across the crowd. “robin hood and john the giant. they are being charged with countless crimes, of which there is theft on grand scales and the kidnapping and torturing of my son, prince timothée chalamet.”
the king waits a beat for an applause that never comes. the audience is unreactive to the king’s pleasures, but he continues nonetheless. “let’s commence! first, the hanging of the outlaw known as robin hood.”
with the king’s gesture, the sheriff approaches you as the guard to your left unshackles you and grips your wrists. they escort you to the box, the sheriff putting the loop of the noose over your head. “goodbye, robin hood.” he whispers before smugly standing next to you. he gets to kick the box from under your feet as soon as the king gives word.
the word doesn’t come right away; however, as the king revels in the suspense. how you stand helplessly, waiting for his mercy to release you. as he is about to announce your death, there is a lone voice in the silent crowd, “stop!”
the audience part to reveal the voice. timothée stands, breathing heavily and bruised. you can’t help but gasp, the rope scratching at your neck and tears pricking. timothée steps closer to the platform, raising his hands. “they’ve done nothing wrong, they only look out for the people of nottingham. how can you charge someone with death for only helping people?”
timothée turns his head to face his father, who hides his surprise with a cool expression. “robin hood is being charged with grand theft and the kidnapping and torturing of you! my son,” the king eases into a gentle look as if he put on a mask. “you’re suffering. you’re the victim.” there are quiet murmurs amongst the king’s supporters, calling timothée ‘brainwashed’ and the nickname ‘stockholm nut.’
timothée takes in a shaky breath when he realizes that no speech would change his father’s mind. he faces you once again, biting his lip before lowering his hands. without a second beat, he unsheaths a hidden dagger from the waistband of his pants, throwing it at the gallows. the dagger digs into the wood just above you, tearing the rope and freeing you. “RUN!” he yells before the crowd swallows him.
you stand for a moment, trying to look for timothée, but you don’t see him. you quickly turn to your right, seeing the sheriff stunned. you hop off the box and kick the sheriff in the stomach, knocking him off the platform. the guard that escorted you aims his crossbow, but you duck before it hits you, the arrow whistling in the air. you straighten again, approaching the guard as he reloads his weapon. before he can load the next dart, you rip the crossbow from his hands and throw it off the platform in the opposite direction from where the sheriff landed. the guard looks for help before you swipe his legs and he plummets on the planks. the guard next to john holds him by the collar with his crossbow aimed at his temple, but you approach him with adrenaline rushing through your body, dismissing any fear you might have felt before. you punch the guard square in the nose, hearing the cartilage crack. you shake your hand and smile at little john, but the rope that’s still around your neck is tugged. your hands fly to the noose, trying to provide oxygen to your body again. the guard drags you by the neck to the ground and chokes you. you try kicking him with the heel of your boot, but you can’t reach.
the pressure around your neck is suddenly alleviated, accompanied by a groan from behind you. you turn, seeing little john standing over the guard. “we have to go now,” you remove the noose from around your neck, running down the stairs after little john. his hands are stuck behind his back, as he is still handcuffed, but he runs to straight in the direction of sherwood. “(y/n)!” he calls when he realizes that you’re lingering by the crowd.
“we can’t leave timothée! he saved us!” you begin to yell his name.
“we can’t stay here! they’ll catch us again!” little john walks in front of you. “please.”
your breathing becomes frantic. little john can’t be more right, you can’t afford to stay in nottingham after the stunt that timothée pulled. but, timothée can’t stay either. “TIMOTHÉE!” you screech before little john nudges your shoulder. you run to sherwood, but not before screeching his name repeatedly.
your voice is raw by the time you reach the edge of sherwood. little john weaved through town to lose the trail of guards, and you followed him. once you’re in the safety of sherwood, paces from the edge of the woods, you collapse onto the grass. john sits on the ground, bending his legs to loop his arms through so they are in front of him. you notice the red around his wrists as he inches closer to you, hugging you by placing his arms over your head and pulling you close. with the first comfort you’ve felt in what seems like years, you begin to sob into little john’s shirt.
“shh, kit,” little john whispers, slightly rocking you. “it’s okay. we can’t let them know we’re here. we’re in the forest, you’re safe in sherwood.” you cover your mouth with your hand, trying to suppress the sobs coming out. your tears don’t cease to stream, and your shaking hand becomes wet. “kit, look at me.” little john straightens, restrained hands still wrapped around you. you look up to meet his eyes, a conflicted look in them. “breathe with me, count to three.” john takes in a dramatically deep breath, gesturing for you to breathe with him. he developed this breathing method for whenever you got overwhelmed.
you let a small smile form on your face as you mimic his breathing, pulling yourself together for a moment. repeating the breathing exercise, you look around for a rock to break john out of his shackles. john lifts his hands from where they rested by your back and places them on the ground, separating his hands to reveal the chain between them. you find a suitable rock and, still breathing in the emphasized steady pattern, hit the chain with the rock until john is able to separate his hands. “thank you.” he hugs you properly.
you nod, unable to speak through your breaths, and john stands. you try to stand as well, but you nearly collapse, john barely catching you by the shoulders. your breathing quickens and you panic. “let’s go home, yeah?” you nod rapidly, letting little john pick you up. your arms wrap around his neck and he supports your legs. the metal of his shackles digs into your thighs, but you’re too exhausted to care. with your head nuzzled in little john’s neck, you fall asleep.
“(y/n),” a whisper wakes you, causing you to mumble. “we’re at the camp.” you drowsily lift your head to look around. lit by the setting sun, the camp is just as you left it. firepit containing hints of ash, john’s clothing line still between the trees, the chest of your belongings still lined with moss.
john sets you down by the logs, starting the fire. he places pre-cut logs on the fire and begins working on lighting it. you close your eyes, focusing on your breathing until you feel the warmth of the flames and little john next to you. “some berries from the bush. please eat, kit.”
little john places a handful of berries in your tremoring palm, and you slowly place one in your mouth. the juices pop as you chew, and the taste feels too sweet for how you feel. you fall into a fetal position, head landing on little john’s lap. you glumly place another berry into your mouth as john strokes your hair. you stay like this as you eat your berries.
once all of the berries are gone, you’re left to watch the fire crackle. you think back to nottingham, to timothée. “john,” you think aloud. little john hums. “why did he do it?” you ask, thinking about the dagger.
there is silence as he thinks of an answer. “i don’t know. tim put us before himself, though. i respect him.”
you sniffle, rubbing your eye with your sleeve. suddenly, you’re cold. you reach to cuddle into your cloak, but realize that you no longer have it. “bear,” you let out before breaking. “you’re all i have left.” your cloak was taken from you, your bow was broken, your purpose is now impossible, and timothée is gone. “what are we going to do?”
little john sourly attempts a laugh, but it sounds more like he is choking on his words. “i’m not going anywhere, (y/n). i’ll take care of you, we’ll take care of each other together. we can run away, leave nottingham and travel. we can get jobs, and i can whittle you a new bow, greater than the one you had before.” you cry into john’s pant leg until you hear a sound in the distance.
you immediately silence, pressing your palm over your mouth and nose as you look up at john. his face is alert, looking in the direction of the noise. he soundlessly stands, grabbing your hand gently and leading you to the overgrown shrubs that line your camp. john’s grounding grip on your hand doesn’t falter as you both crouch in the grass, listening to the noise.
“(y/n)? john?” the noise grows into a voice. immediately, you jump from the shrubs, recognizing the voice. standing in the amber light of the fire is timothée.
he’s still dressed in the oversized white long sleeve that he had on when he saved you, but it now is littered with holes. his pants have patches of mud, and his hair is disheveled. there is a trail of blood from his head and down his temple, but he smiles nonetheless.
“timothée!” you yell, running towards where he stands, but you trip and fall hard onto the grass. you sit up as timothée falls to the ground in front of you, pulling you into an embrace. your face presses into his chest and you can feel his face in your hair. you hug him like you’re holding on for dear life, as if timothée is the antidote to the deadliest poison. “i thought i lost you,” you hiccup against the cloth of his shirt.
timothée holds you impossibly tighter. “i couldn’t lose you, cupid. i saw you at the gallows, and i didn’t know what to do. days ago, a woman visited the castle saying that she was my new tailor. the guards allowed her into my room, and she said that she knew you. she had john’s knife and gave it to me. whenever i was alone, i’d practice throwing the dagger. i only had one chance to cut the rope, or else–”
“but you did it.” little john cuts timothée off. “thank you, tim. from the bottom of my heart.”
timothée airily laughs. “i couldn’t lose you two. you’re so important to me.” you feel timothée’s hands move, rubbing your back soothingly. “(y/n),” timothée pulls away. you look up to his face, seeing the tears that trail on his cheeks. timothée gently places his hands on the sides of your face, waiting for you to pull away, but you don’t. you lean into him, and he meets you halfway.
when little john described what his first kiss was like with a girl in school, you thought he was ridiculous. he said that kisses were magical, that they could cheer you up instantly from any sour mood. you didn’t believe him until you were kissing timothée. you’re the first to pull away for air, nudging his nose with yours. a genuine smile appears on your face, cheeks straining from your exhaustion. timothée takes in a deep breath, hands still on the sides of your face. you can see his eyes shifting, looking all over your face with a smile. “you hit me with an arrow.” your face contorts in confusion. “cupid, i’ve fallen for you. hard.” the confusion instantly falls as you realize what he is saying, eyes widening in surprise. “you have a heart of gold, always putting everyone before you. when you had the chance to run and save yourself, guaranteeing that you’d be free, you didn’t. you saved john. you saved me.” your lips purse, tears continuing to fall at his confession. timothée wipes away your tears, whispering, “you don’t have to say anything, i just–”
you cut him off with a gleeful laugh. “oh, timmy. i love you. oh, god, i love you.” timothée’s smile widens, any wider would have cracked his lips. he whispers how he loves you before pulling you in again, arms holding you close by the waist. you wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. he pulls away with a laugh of pure joy, kissing your nose before embracing you, kissing the top of your head.
little john cheers, laughing and clapping. “i called it! i knew you were flirting with him!”
“oh, shut it, beanstalk.” you turn your head to face little john, your cheek on timothée’s chest. john has a bright smile on his face, happy for you.
you eventually sit on the logs around the fire between the two most important people in your life. you watch the ambers of the fire dance in the night sky, resting your head on timothée’s arm. his head rests on yours while your hand scratches and twirls the hair at the nape of his neck. “where are we going to go next?” little john asks. “we can’t go back to nottingham.”
“a place where none of us would be recognized, i guess.”
“i’m not the popular prince in my family, so i’m not the problem with that idea.” you snort. “little miss notorious outlaw here is the problem.”
“hey!” you teasingly poke the back of timothée’s neck, making him laugh. “you’re the famous prince, notorious for succumbing to stockholm syndrome.”
“who’s fault is that? you’re the one with the powers, cupid.”
you laugh, a silence falling over you. though timothée tries to lighten the mood, you can’t help but think about the seriousness of his actions. “timmy, you threw away your life to save us.’
“there was nothing to throw away.” he kisses the top of your head. “the best moments of my life all were in the months i spent in sherwood with the two of you. i was never happy in nottingham, and i never would be. there is nothing for me there except a life of wishing for more.”
you lift your head, resting your chin on his shoulder. “then let’s find us a home, my love.”
—
you wake up, stretching and cracking your limbs underneath the warmth of the covers. who knew that sleeping on a mattress was better for your back than sleeping on the forest floor? you lift the duvet off of you, breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread. you sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes with the sleeve of your lightweight shirt. you stand up from the bed, slipping on a pair of pants before you pad out of the room and into the connected store in just your socks.
“morning, cupid.” you yawn, meeting the eyes of your partner. timothée smiles brightly, wearing an apron. his brown curls are freshly trimmed, but still wild in nature. you notice a streak of flour on his cheek. you walk up to him, pulling him into a hug. “not a shoe day?” you laugh, pulling away to brush the flour from his cheek before you kiss him.
“morning, my love.”
timothée hums contently, squinting with joy. “i love your accent, mon ange.”
“i know.” you hold his cheek, pecking him with another kiss. you walk to the hanger in the hallway, pulling a light overcoat off of the hook. the coat is green, but with personal designs mirroring the nature of sherwood identically. the coat was a gift from timothée made by marian. the coat purposely has no hood, as it doesn’t need to conceal you. you’re happy, helping people legally.
“timmy, have you opened yet?” you yell from the hall. timothée answers with a no. you walk across the floor of your store to the entrance, flipping the open sign and unlocking the door of your bakery. “i’ll take care of the muffins, darling. we still have the premade batter, right?”
you walk to the counter, but your mission to bake the best muffins is interrupted by the bell of the entrance door. you turn around to see little john and marian walk into the bakery. you scoff playfully, “of course you walk in just as we open.”
little john throws his hands up in mock offense. “well, we have to get the freshest bread! look at tim, hard at work to bake just for us!” you laugh, pulling little john in for a hug. “how are you, kit?”
“why are you acting so sentimental? you two were just here last week!” you pull away to hug marian, timothée coming from around the counter to hug little john.
“we do have a reason to come in so early though. john just likes to tease,” marian’s tone is sweeter than usual. her pregnant stomach pokes you as you hug.
“well, i’d like to hear it.” you play along with little john’s bit.
“we’ve thought of a name.” john’s tone is happy, no longer joking. marian holds her stomach.
you clap excitedly. “finally! tell us!” you jump up and down, timothée laughing at your anticipation. marian has been pregnant for a while, but they hadn’t decided on any names until now.
john and marian look at each other before looking back at you two. “robin,” they say simultaneously.
your hand flies to your mouth, timothée’s arm wrapping around your waist. you coo, “john, marian. i’m so honored.”
marian looks down at her belly. “well, after everything robin hood has done for us, there was no other name that felt quite right for our little bean.”
marian and little john stay in the bakery as you and timothée work behind the counter. “any news from nottingham?” you ask, curious. you no longer have ties to the town, but marian briefly visits once in a while. she no longer owns the boutique in nottingham, but opened one in this town. little john works there as her assistant.
“nothing much, except that the sheriff was demoted.” you look up from the muffin tray.
“since marian got the townspeople the gold we kept in that river cave, the people turned against the sheriff. the guard that i gave the insider information to started the revolt against the sheriff, and the king had no choice but to listen to the people.”
you laugh at the sheriff’s loss. “doesn’t deserve to be a sheriff, he’s a cruel person.”
“speaking of cruel people, how’s my father?” timothée leans against the counter with his arms crossed.
“alright, i guess.” marian shrugs. “there aren’t that many people who listen to him anymore, not after the day at the gallows. his guardsmen slowly turned against him, starting with the one who helped little john relay information to me.”
the wind-up kitchen timer interrupts the conversation. timothée silences the alarm and pulls the loaf of bread from the oven, aroma filling the store. little john’s stomach groans. “we did also come for bread.” you shake your head, reaching under the counter and wrapping a loaf, handing it to them.
marian reaches for her coin purse, but you shake your head, pushing the loaf into little john’s hands. “free of charge, i insist.”
the sight of little john knelt on the previously comforting green grass made your skin crawl with fear. never before this moment have you been caught. robin hood is notorious for being slippery—suds aplenty to allow for a slick getaway. this idea, the expectation that you were held to, has now been shattered. the sight of your best friend is shattering.
you drop your bow to the ground without a second thought, as you’d rather save your best friend than your treasured engraved bow. your hands slowly rise up in surrender, though your eyes flicker undetectably to the boy who trailed you. timothée is nearly undetectable, blended with the shadows of nature.
“don’t hurt him” is all that can escape your hidden mouth. your mind races with thoughts and potential outcomes of being caught, but your mouth is too slow to match pace. the sheriff sickeningly smiles, nodding his head towards you. a guard approaches you, roughly gripping your shoulder and pushing you down until your knees buckle. the impact and the brushing of the tainted grass burns your skin.
with you on the ground, but against your wishes, timothée emerges from the shadows. “let them go, i’m not hurt.” timothée’s attempt at civility is accompanied by his raised hands—a sign of peace. “i don’t want them to get hurt.”
“your highness, we’re under orders to capture robin hood and the giant,” the guard holding you addresses timothée sourly.
“i am of royal blood, and i release you from your orders. i’m not hurt,” he repeats, but his attempt is met with the unsettling laugh of the sheriff. his grip on little john did not loosen with your surrender, and the blade of his knife dangerously shifts with his joyful movement.
“the king, your father, gave us these orders. they can’t be overridden.” his face scrunches into a snarl as he removes the blade from john’s neck. a light mist of relief flutters, but fruitlessly. the sheriff turns the dagger and strikes little john in the perfect spot with the hilt. john’s large figure falls to the ground, unconscious.
you struggle to get to your feet, but the guard presses you further into the ground, the cloth covering your knees beginning to moisten through contact with the hidden dirt. “you said you wouldn’t hurt him if i cooperate! it’s me you want!”
the struggle of robin hood widens his cruel smirk. “i only said i wouldn’t kill him.” his gut-wrenching words are followed by a gesture with his knife—a signal aimed at timothée.
the second guard wastes no time as he pushes timothée to the ground, no remorse for abusing the prince. timothée tries to fight back against him, and seeing john’s body with the grass and timothée’s struggles, your veins rush with adrenaline. “don’t touch him!” you throw your head backwards with all your might, causing the guard to fold. you kick him to the ground once you’re free and launch yourself from the ground toward timothée’s flailing body. screaming fills the air as you reach for him, but your arm is crushed into the dirt with a stomp before you can touch his outstretched hand. timothée is pulled away by the second guard.
you retract your arm, pain coursing as you’re pressed into the ground with a boot to your back. the arrows in your quiver snap. you turn your head to see the sheriff standing over you. the guard who was meant to restrain you raises his shoe and stomps into the ground, followed by the sound of wood cracking—your bow. the sheriff tears your hood from your head, bandana falling soon after. your face has been revealed. “didn’t expect robin hood to be a girl.” you fight tears as you look in front of you.
the last thing that you see is timothée’s hand reaching for you.
you regain consciousness before your eyes open, a cold and itchy material pressing into your temple. your eyes open, fueling the pounding in your head, and you’re met with dark concrete lit only with a distant candle by a staircase. the shadows of the barred entrance lines the floor with streaks of black. you sit up, feeling colder than normal. they stripped you of your cloak, leaving you only in your undershirt and pants.
the cell is grimey and decrepit. the imposingly dark stone of the cell is far from livable, no warmth whatsoever. the view between the bars of the door provides a feeble view of outside. you take in a shaky breath before speaking, “john?” your voice is raspy, making you jump. your call is only followed by silence. you are alone.
you press your hands into what seems to be a thin mattress, but it’s just a cloth strewn over a pile of straw. you lift yourself to your feet, but your bruised arm and the pain in your calf cause you to fall back onto the mattress. your arm isn’t broken, but a patch of purple and yellow bruising decorates your skin. your fingers lift your pant leg, seeing that the guards didn’t strip you of timothée’s tie. it is still wrapped around the cut, dry blood surrounding it.
the pressure around your calf is almost comforting as your mind races through the events that led you to this cell. little john was caught and knocked unconscious. timothée was taken by the guards. there is no doubt that you’d be executed, most likely followed by little john’s, but timothée’s fate is unknown to you.
for the first time in years, you begin to cry. frustrated with yourself, you wipe the tears from your eyes with your sleeve-covered palm, but the salty tears continue to fall. you shake with a sob, pressing your eyes into your dirty knees, failure sinking into your soul.
“you’ve caused me plenty of trouble, but i’ve finally caught you. i won, robin hood.” the sudden voice startles you, head whipping to the figure standing at the barred door. you wipe your face as the sheriff laughs. “crying at your loss?”
you sniffle. “you’ll never win.” your statement was meant to be intimidating, but your voice is shaky and he laughs again. you take a deep breath before continuing, “you torture the people of nottingham. you’ll run out of support and gold.” some confidence snakes back and you stand, walking to the bars despite the dull pain and pressure of timothée’s tie. “then what will you do? go into debt and starve alone.”
“shut up!” the sheriff yells and pounds the bars with his rough palms; you flinch slightly at his outburst. “i’ve won! i caught you! you’re in a cell!” he jabs a finger at you through the bars with every exclamation. “no more escaping into the forest for robin hood, only the gallows at high noon! you and the giant will hang for all the trouble you’ve caused me.”
your sore face scrunches into a scowl before you step slightly closer to the bars. the sheriff’s eyes are mad with anger and power, and you spit in his face. “you little–”
“enough, sheriff.” his outburst is interrupted by a cooling voice. the king steps from the staircase and places a threatening hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. “leave us. i wish to speak to the outlaw alone.” the sheriff stares at you, huffing, before he turns on his heel and ascends the stairs.
the king stands in front of your cell calmly, hands clasped behind his back and jeweled crown glittering in candlelight on his greying head. his cold eyes; however, are the most intimidating feature of his wrinkled face. the portrait from the masquerade does not do them justice. all your confidence from facing the sheriff flees at his glare and you back away, sitting on the mattress and pulling your knees up, arms wrapped around your shins. timothée’s tie presses into your chest.
“robin hood.” his tone is laced with venom as he addresses you by nickname. “i hope you find your accommodations fitting.”
“doing just peachy, your highness,” the sarcastic comment escapes from your lips sooner than you can think. the king represses a snarl.
“the giant is in another part of the dungeon. we made sure to put you two far apart.” his comment jabs at your heart—you likely won’t see john until you’re hanging by the neck.
a cold silence blankets the cell as the king observes you, unsteady breaths and huddled figure—a pathetic form of the great robin hood. the king smiles.
your fingers absentmindedly reach for your calf, touching the tightness of timothée’s tie. you think of him, “is timothée okay?”
the king’s smile falls into a scoff. “physically, yes.” you let out a gentle sigh of relief, your worries somewhat answered. “you don’t deserve to be concerned, you brainwashed him.” he steps closer to the bars of the cell, furs of his expensive cloak lit by the distant candle. “what did you do to my son?” his voice is nearly as freezing as his eyes. “did you torture him? starve him?”
you place a hand on the shin of your injured leg. “i showed him how to live. he feels trapped here, all alone. i showed him companionship.”
“you showed him no such thing. you corrupted him!” his suave mask cracks with anger, making his icy eyes momentarily flare with his frenzy. “he doesn’t listen to me anymore. he fights back. i was forced to post guards at his room to prevent him from coming down here and releasing you. he’s gone mad because of you.”
“he was unhappy here!” your voice cracks with a raised tone. “he told me himself.”
“timothée is a prince.” the king takes in a calming, strained breath. “he’s happy with his privileged life. you couldn’t understand him; you’re a criminal that lives in the woods. you kidnapped my son from my castle, from the masquerade i held in his honor, and you ruined him.” the king lines his words with practiced emphasis—a tactic that keeps him with power clenched in his fists.
though, you deflect his deceit, “timothée is miserable here, can’t you see? he thrived in the forest. you just admitted to forcing him to stay here—he wants to leave! don’t you want your son to be happy?”
the king only stares at you. his eyes gaze into you, fear coursing through you. he turns away from you unprompted, but his wrinkled face looks over his shoulder to meet your eyes. “it brings me great joy to know that your body will be hanging tomorrow. good riddance.”
you grip timothée’s tie. “see you in hell,” you hiss. the king looks forward, extinguishing the candlelight and leaving the dungeon in complete darkness, save for a dark blue hue from a small barred window.
it’s impossible to know how long you were unconscious, and how long you will be left in darkness. the only thing that is certain is that you will be escorted to the gallows when the sun blesses the sky. the warmth of the sun now feels like a curse, a ticking bomb.
if this is your fate, would you take back your actions? you shake your head at the question, pressing the clothed heel of your hand into your temple. no, you would still do it again. you not only helped people, but experienced adventures that filled you with joy. little john.
your eyes prick with tears as you think of him, guilt forming a stone in your stomach. he had the potential to move on from the woods, to live a life and writhe in the domestication of a household. now, because of you, he’ll never be able to move on. he’ll never own a house. he’ll never marry marian. he’ll never raise a family.
you fall on your side, landing roughly on the pathetic excuse for a mattress. your calf momentarily sears with the cursed dull pain. you think of timothée. what will happen to him once you’re hanged? will he ever be free? or will he be isolated for the rest of his years? a sob wracks your body as you curl on the hay. the thought of not seeing him tears at you. you spent everyday with him, and the sudden deprivation pounds your head further.
the thought of him is the sole comfort that leads you to an uncomfortable, sobbing slumber.
you pull timothée up from the ground, though the thought to let go of his hand doesn’t come to you. you retreat further into the cave, following the stream of water near the entrance. the stream grows larger and the cave cools. the sound of rushing water becomes louder; your grip on timothée’s hand doesn’t falter. the cave, from where it barely didn’t scrape little john’s head, expands into a grand cavern. there’s an opening near the top of the cave, and water flows from it, forming a waterfall. little john walks towards a pile of rocks, hiding the sacks, while you walk closer to the river. you feel timothée’s steps relax, so you look back to check on him. timothée’s eyes are wide and full of wonder as he looks around the cavern. you can’t help but smile.
the three of you wait by the river, occasionally drinking from the clear stream. a dull pain suddenly attracts your attention, pinpointed on your calf. you lift your leg from where it rests on the gravel. the brown of your pants had splotches of dirt, but you notice drips of blood dying the small pebbles, it coming from a red hole in your pants. you lift your pants to reveal a cut on your calf, dripping blood down into your boot. you gently touch the cut, swearing under your breath as pain shoots through you. the adrenaline of the chase fades, replaced by pain from your bleeding wound.
“you’re hurt.” timothée’s voice invades your thoughts.
“i’m okay,” you try to dismiss him.
“no, you’re bleeding. let me help.” you look at little john quickly, seeing his smirk. you huff at his expression, turning away from the stream and facing timothée and seeing his worried expression.
“just a cut, timmy,” you reassure as he cups water to wash your wound. you don’t outwardly express your pain, but your nails dig into your palms as he touches the cut.
timothée reaches for your pouch, hesitating to wait for your permission. you nod, and he opens it from where it’s attached to your waist. he takes out his old tie and wraps it around your calf, finishing the pseudo-bandage with a tight knot. “good as new,” he smiles, placing his chin on your knee.
you mirror his smile, ruffling his wild curls. “thank you, timmy.”
you sit for hours by the stream. though, it’s hard for you to keep track of time without the sun. the one indicator of time; however, is the rumbling of your stomachs. “we didn’t have breakfast,” murmurs little john.
dread settles in your stomach as your hand presses to your pouch around your waist. “and we left the food at the camp.” your groan is followed by timothée’s stomach.
“i’ll go gather some fruit.” before you can protest against john’s offer, he put a hand on your shoulder. “i’ll be okay, kit. it’s been a while since we escaped, and they don’t know the woods as well as we do.”
“then i’ll go with you!” you shift, placing your palms into the gravel of the cave to push yourself up, but the weight of john’s hand doesn’t give.
“not with your calf. it’s better if i go alone anyway. if they’re even still around here, it’ll be harder for them to catch me alone. they’ll follow your bloody trail back here, and there’s no way i’m bringing timothée.” little john adds the part about timothée with a playful grin.
you loudly exhale from your nose, protesting with your eyes. though timothée wrapped your wound, your calf is still burning with a dull pain. “fine. but i swear, if you get caught or–”
“i won’t. promise.” he smiles, patting your shoulder before standing and walking towards the entrance. “i’ll be back with food quickly.”
“i’ll look after robin!’ timothée cheerfully adds, attempting to lighten the anxious mood.
“more like she’ll look after you, little guy,” john remarks before entering the cave tunnel.
you sit next to timothée in silence, listening to the rushing waterfall. the gravel next to you rustles, caused by timothée standing. he mutters about the cave being chilly and walks to where little john hid the sacks. you watch as he pulls his jacket from one of them, walking back. only then does he notice that you’re watching, and he smirks. you look back at the water, hugging yourself with the sleeves of your cloak. timothée rejoins you on the gravel, sitting noticeably closer. “to preserve warmth.” his arm touches yours, and you feel somehow warmer.
“sure,” you whisper coyly. you rest your head on his shoulder. “so, a prince?” timothée groans, moving your head with a shrug.
“only by blood.”
“by what else would you be a prince?”
“leadership.” timothée sighs lightly. “i’m no leader. i’m the king’s youngest son.” he digs his fingers into the gravel, forming small holes in the ground. “because i’m the youngest of three sons, i’ve got no chance of ever leading. but, since i’ve got their precious blood, i,” he lifts his hands to form air quotes. “must be protected.” his arms drop back down defeatedly. “i’m hardly allowed to leave the castle, pa only lets me go on a chaperoned walk every other week. i’ve got no friends, my family treats me like an accessory, and i have no power whatsoever. i never asked for a life surrounded by castle walls and rare, empty conversations.”
you sense a pause in his speech and you lift your head from his shoulder to look him in the eyes. he has a pained expression as he looks at the ground, and his hand runs through his curls absentmindedly. “i’m sorry that they’ve isolated you, that’s completely unfair. i truly believe you deserve happiness, you’ve got a good heart, timmy.” you smile, poking at his shoulder.
“i,” he looks up from the ground and meets your eyes, flitting across your face. “i feel so free in the woods.” you see his expression lighten as if this confession is releasing a weight. “i’m happy here. i’m not alone, i’m not pressured to be the perfect prince, and i’m not reminded that i’ll never be more. i’m not prince timothée chalamet here, i’m just timothée.” his smile reaches his eyes, the corners crinkling with joy. “just timmy.”
you chuckle at his acknowledgment of your nickname for him. “i don’t like running from the law constantly, especially since death is always so close.” you rub the front of your calf, reminded of the dull pain. “sherwood is really special to me, though. i know it like the back of my hand, and with little john, the forest is home. it makes me happy that sherwood brings you the joy that you deserve.” timothée’s head tilts affectionately, and you feel the familiar—the annoying—feeling flutter in your stomach.
the water of the river splashes closer with an aggressive current. you reach forward and submerge your hands in the cold water, washing the dirt and traces of blood off. you sneak a glance back at timothée and see him already looking at you. anxiety swirls in your gut as you look back at the crystal waters. you exhale through your nose before talking, “(y/n).”
he is silent, so you turn to face him. timothée’s eyebrows are furrowed slightly. “my name,” you clarify, mirroring his introduction. “it isn’t robin. it’s (y/n). i want you to know my name, and i trust you.”
a smile that rivals the sun in brightness forms on his face. “(y/n).” his american tone speaking your name makes your heart jump, and your smile brightens. “the prettiest name for the prettiest outlaw.” you cover your face with the sleeve of your green cloak to block your reddening face from view. with your other hand, you flick some water at timothée before settling back next to him, enjoying the rush of warmth that he radiates.
“if you weren’t an outlaw, what would you want to do?” timothée asks, fueling the fire of conversation to battle the chilling silence.
you laugh airily. “i know it’s kind of ridiculous, but i’d want to own a bakery.” you feel timothée’s head rest on yours. “wake up to the smell of freshly baked bread, greet regulars and talk about their days, get to help people legally.” your chest shakes with laughter at the last part.
“that does sound nice. it suits you.”
“what would you be doing in you weren’t a prince?”
timothée stays silent for a beat. “i’d have a life.” he lifts his head from yours and you place your chin on his shoulder, looking at his side profile. “i wouldn’t be kept in the castle, i’d have things to do with my endless time, i’d have friends, i’d find–” he cuts himself off, as his eyes meet yours.
“well,” you rest your head back on his shoulder. “i know it’s not the best situation, but you’ve got little john,” you place your hand on top of where his rests on the gravel. “and you’ve got me.” you feel his breath catch before his head leans on yours again. his hand turns underneath yours, intertwining your fingers.
“and i’m happy i’ve got you, (y/n). i like being able to say your name.”
you lift your intertwined hands and kiss the back of his hand. “i like hearing you say my name.”
a comfortable silence washes over you, a constant warmth provided by timothée. “hey,” timothée’s head moves. “where’s lj? he’s taking a while, don’t you think?”
your head shoots up from where it rested. “we should find him.”
“with your leg?” timothée asks concerningly.
you stand, ignoring the pain in your calf. “‘s fine.” you miss a step, overcome with pain, but timothée catches you by the shoulders. you can tell by his expression that he knows he can’t stop you, so he offers his hand. you take it, intertwining your fingers once again.
with your free hand, you pull your hood and bandana up, walking with timothée through the tunnel and to the entrance of the cave. “he wouldn’t have gone far, there aren’t that many berry bushes around this area either.” you part the ferns that block the entrance, the green of the forest illuminated by the afternoon sun. timothée walks beside you, not daring to let go of your hand, as you guide him through the shrubs and around the thorny bushes.
the sounds of nature are interrupted by a muffled yell.
you and timothée stop simultaneously and your heart drops. “john,” you mumble, reaching behind you for your ever-equipped bow and nock an arrow. because you armed yourself, you let go of timothée’s hand and he falls slightly behind your panicked pace.
“hello, robin hood.” a familiar voice greets you. your blood runs cold as you realize who addressed you. your head whips around, and you reluctantly meet the eyes of the sheriff.
you aim at him, but something pulls your eyes from your target. at his legs, lj is forced on his knees. the sheriff holds him by his shaggy hair, bycocket gone. the sheriff holds a dagger to his throat. two guards stand on either side of him, pointing crossbows at you.
it wasn’t expected that you’d be in the forest for weeks, dragging along the golden burden. the three of you would walk for hours daily, settling to camp in a different location and always on the move within the security of sherwood. timothée sticks with you and little john, eventually starting to join you for the occasional hunt. little john stuck to being domestic—as he usually tends to do—and prefers scavenging to hunting. together, the three of you venture all over sherwood, showing timothée the wonders of the forest that he’s missed: crystal clear streams; trees that part slightly to reveal mountainous views; fields of tall grass and flowers; dark caves that echo. eventually, timothée begins to walk ahead of the group—when he doesn’t have a turn of carrying a sack. he is utterly entranced.
you decide to settle a few paces from a shallow stream. little john stays to set up the camp, dismissing you and timothée to hunt. these hunts together allowed the two of you to grow closer [little john is convinced that ‘timothée practices his flirting when you’re asleep.’] while your attire stayed the same, timothée discarded his suit jacket a week ago, only wearing it during cold night. his tie ended up scrunched in a ball inside of your pouch. he is now only in a black waistcoat, light grey long sleeve undershirt, and black dress pants. his hair is untamed and remains in a state of wild curls no matter how much he runs his fingers through the brown meadow. since you didn’t think to bring extra clothes—especially clothes for an extra person—you individually wash your clothes in streams. little john tore a hole in his thin long sleeve and timothée’s shirt is starred with small holes from thorny bushes. you stopped wearing your hood around timothée when you’re not hunting.
you and timothée step through the forest together, ensuring to keep track of your path to make it back to little john. while he insists on joining you to hunt, timothée never really hunts, preferring to walk with you and watch you hunt. with your hood and bandana up, you banter with each other while searching for the familiar movement of potential prey. “look, remember that stream?” you suddenly point to a small river.
timothée squints, trying to remember. he hums, and then his eyes widen. “yeah! we were here about a week ago. we’re really just walking in circles, aren’t we?” he looks to you and smiles. much to your chagrin, his smile makes your heart leap. your bandana blocks any involuntary reaction that could be revealed, but you are annoyed that you’ve grown attached to the boy. “robin,” timothée stops, pointing to some brush near the stream. “look.”
you follow his gesture to see a flock of geese near the water. you halt all movements, guiding timothée down to crouch on the ground. you nock an arrow carefully, aiming for the largest bird. you can hear timothée breathe next to you as you release the arrow, killing the goose instantly. the other birds frighten, flying away.
timothée’s arms shoot into the air in victory as you both stand to your full height. he cheers, “cupid, you never cease to amaze me. your aim is flawless.”
“don’t jinx it, timmy.” you leave him and wade through the shallow water and retrieve the dinner, pulling the arrow from the body and shaking it in the water.
“but how do you always hit your target?” he asks as you return to his side and start your trek back.
“can’t afford to miss,” you shrug, smiling at him from underneath your mask.
his ever-present smile grows. “you’ve got pretty eyes, cupid,” he compliments in a quiet tone, looking to the ground after speaking. you can feel your face redden and you don’t dare to remove your bandana.
the goose gently swings with every step you walk alongside timothée. you can’t help but notice him occasionally looking at the bird. “i forget that you’re a noble sometimes. different from leaning on staff in your rich home, aye?” you nudge him with your shoulder.
he groans playfully. “i like it here, and i consider us equals. here, i’m not any different from you.”
“timmy, we aren’t that equal. you’re noble and actually allowed to live in nottingham. if i stay in town for more than an hour i’ll be arrested and hanged the following day,” you scoff.
“maybe one day.” timothée mutters with a small smile. his outlook is hopeful, but you just shrug. as much as you’d love to settle in nottingham, you can’t see yourself living in that town.
you and timothée eventually reach the temporary camp, finding little john sitting by a lit fire finishing a whittled stick. “already finished the spit? i didn’t think we took that long.” you lift the goose to let john see, pulling your bandana off and shaking the hood off.
“you two can take your sweet time.” he waits until timothée turns around to make a heart with his hands. you roll your eyes.
“pluck the damn goose, john.”
“because i get to do everything.” you drop the goose on john’s lap and take the spit from him. little john makes quick work of plucking the bird, making sure that not too many feathers fly away with the wind. you’d burn the evidence once the meat is done cooking. john uses his dagger and cuts away the parts of the goose that won’t be eaten, handing the finished product to you. timothée helps you stab the bird with the stick and holds it above the fire with you, since you don’t have your mounts at your camp. you instruct timothée to mimic your spins, and he follows directions closely.
“hey, tim.” little john leans against a stump. “have i told you the story of when robin nicked her first rich guy?” he shakes his head.
“john, don’t tell that story, it’s ridiculous!” he doesn’t listen to you, though.
“we were in nottingham and there was this man. he was wearing this crisp white and black suit and something in his privileged mind told him that it would be a grand idea to carry around his gold latched on his pants.” timothée snorts, knowing that it’s a bad idea to display your gold so blatantly. “robin saw the sack before i did and told me to go lay on the path without an explanation!”
“you laid on the ground anyway!”
“why wouldn’t i listen to you, kit?” he grins mischievously. “i go and lay on the ground and kit starts hollering for help right in the noble’s direction. the noble was a prick and didn’t stop. robin then decided to walk up to him and beg for his help, pointing to me laying on the ground. i didn’t see his reaction, but he didn’t sound pleased.”
you take over the story. “he turned to look at lj and i nicked his pouch and swept his legs, yelling for john to run. after we got out of there and looked back at the alley, the guy was still on the ground! i thought he might’ve hit his head or something, but he was just so stunned that a girl took him out that he stayed on the cobble path for minutes!” little john laughs at the memory, timothée then laughing with him. you smile at the two boys’ laughter, joy filling you.
the goose finishes cooking and, with no help from little john, cut it into pieces to preserve. you portion the fresh pieces to eat around the fire. the sun casts a dark orange shadow. you sit beside little john, timothée quickly resting beside you.
you finish eating the bird and listen to the crackling of the fire until you feel timothée move. you look to your right and see that he’s squinting in the distance. “what is it?” you turn to try to see what he’s looking at.
“there’s something in that bush. you see?” he gently places his chilled hands on your cheeks, turning your head until you see the bush. you stand as his hands fall, pulling your hood and bandana on and grab little john’s dagger from where it sat on the stump.
you reach the bush that timothée directed you to and part the branches, revealing a piece of paper. you’re hit with a sense of deja vu as you retrieve the paper, pulling down your bandana. you sit back down with the paper in your hands. “it’s a flier, a poster maybe.” timothée and little john look over your shoulder as you straighted the paper. with the help of the campfire. you groan, eyes drawn to the large printed numbers. “they tripled our reward.” little john huffs as you read: “wanted, alive or dead,” you put emphasis on dead, as it’s underlined on the flier. “outlaws robin hood and john the giant. charged with the capture of,” you pause. “prince timothée chalamet.” your arms fall and you look to your right.
timothée’s eyes widen, gaze fixed on the fire in front of him. you forgot that he was technically a hostage. “i forgot about that,” he trails off, almost mimicking your thoughts.
“how could you forget that?” you crumple the flier and throw it into the fire. by this time, the forest was cast in moonlight and darkness. timothée’s expression and pursed lips are illuminated by the fire.
he sighs. “i dunno. i’m the son of the king, but i don’t feel like royalty. i’m more of an accessory to my pa, and i don’t see much of him anyway. i jus’ stay in the castle. i forget that i’m a prince.” he laughs grimly.
“well, your highness, i’m honored to be in the presence of royal blood,” mocks little john.
timothée groans at little john’s remark. “i hate being called that, it’s horrid. please, big jim, just call me timothée. i don’t like feeling above anyone.”
“i’ll start calling you timothée when you stop calling me jim.” little john sets a tone that he knows cheers anyone up, and it works. timothée’s smile returns on his face.
while the two boys banter back and forth, you stare into the flames of the fire, internally debating your feelings. you not only abducted a person, but a prince. you glance quickly at timothée, trying to see the boy that you walk in the forest with. your eyes return to the fire.
little john is the first to fall asleep, groggy from a full stomach. when john’s light snores are audible, timothée leans more on your body. “you’re quiet. what’s wrong, cupid?” he asks, laying his chin on your shoulder. “y’know, i’m still me. the same timothée that you danced with at the party, that you tied up to a tree, and that watches you shoot geese.” you sigh at his attempts to relieve your stress.
“i know, my perception of you hasn’t changed, timmy. it’s just a lot to take in. i mean, we did abduct you!”
“a benefit.” he shrugs off the accusation of crime.
“you’re hopeless.”
“i’m happy.” you turn to look at his face and see him smiling, eyes almost seem smitten.
you ruffle his hair. “so, since you say that you’ve been yourself from the beginning, does that include when you wanted our heads on spikes?”
you can feel his laughter against your shoulder. “maybe,” he says playfully. he lifts his chin, chilling your shoulder. “get some sleep, cupid. we gotta walk some more in the morning, as always.” you exhale through your nose and lay next to the fire. timothée lays next to you as you drift.
you wake up suddenly to unnatural sounds in the forest. you look around and meet little john’s eyes in panic, his trained ears causing him to wake with you. little john stands, sheathes his dagger, and holds each sack of gold over his shoulders as you shake timothée awake. “timmy, we have to go. someone is here.” your tone is a whispered yell. timothée’s eyes open and he groans. “timothée, please.” you can practically sense his stomach dropping when he realizes that you’re serious. you stand, lifting him by the hand. you skillfully equip your weapons and meet little john at the brush where you found the wanted flier, holding timothée’s wrist. you hear a branch snapping and see several guards with crossbows. they yell to halt as you follow little john into the forest. the guards begin to shoot.
you flee the arrows, grip on timothée’s wrist loosening with his untrained and clumsy navigation through the thickets. you repeatedly look behind you, trying to see the familiar brown curls bouncing through the green forest, but little john urges you to follow closely. there are too many guards for you to fight off.
little john eventually calls out for you, gesturing to a wall of stone and moss. he parts some ferns with his boot and reveals a cave. you clamber into the entrance of the cave, hearing the sound of rushing water. you turn again, but your heart sinks when you don’t see timothée.
“john, where’s timothée?” you ask concerned. little john is out of breath as the sacks of gold fall to the stone ground. you crouch at the entrance, light flittering through the ferns that block the opening. you hear a rustle, and dread fills you. it could be a guard.
you nock an arrow and point it at the ferns, bowstring taut with the tension of your grip. timothée breaks through the ferns, crawling into the entrance of the cave panting heavily. you instantly drop your bow and rush to him, helping to pull him into the cave.
“oh, thank god.” you hug him, relieved. “i thought you were caught.” you speak into his shoulder and feel his breathy laughter.
“this is what you guys deal with?” his voice is strained from the lack of air, but he squeezes you comfortingly nonetheless.
the boy from the masquerade lays unconscious on the grass just outside sherwood forest. upon seeing little john standing over the body, panic starts to swell in your gut. you feel your breath quicken. your hands flying to the sides of your face, wrists digging into your temples and fingers gripping your tangled hair. little john silently looks at the boy. “john…” your voice only comes out as a hushed whisper. unprompted, john bends his knees, pulling the body up and over his tall shoulder. “john!” he finally looks at you, his eyes reveal the panic that he’s feeling. “what are you doing?!” you try to yell between your rapid breaths.
“we can’t just leave him.”
you equip your bow and quiver without looking away from john. “why not? i don’t want a hostage! we can’t afford to have another person. not only that, but it’s wrong!”
“kit,” john supports the man on his shoulder with his hand, readjusting. “he saw your face.” his tone is solemn, the weight of the situation pressing further. the mysterious boy saw your face, your bow, your cloak. “we can’t leave him to tell the sheriff. he’ll describe your face and they’ll change the posters. they already have my face, and you’re more notorious. can you imagine how hard it’ll be to live? there would be nothing that we can hide!”
you begin to pace, frustratedly pulling at your hair. you mutter to yourself, fighting between your morals and being able to exist somewhat peacefully. you wouldn’t be able to walk around as another person in town. you couldn’t go to marian’s in another outfit, pretending to be someone you’re not. you’d be isolated in the forest forever. an exasperated yell escapes your mouth, startling little john. “let’s go, (y/n). we can’t stay here.” he steps carefully into the brush as you pick up the two sacks of gold.
you thought that you would split the burden of carrying the half-filled sacks with john. the weight of the coins takes a toll on the speed of navigating sherwood. you are only able to walk for a little before you become too tired, the muscles in your arms screaming for rest. “john,” voice an exhausted sigh as you drop the sacks.
“we’ll stop here. should be fine until the morning.” john gently places the boy on the ground before he gathers tinder and small twigs. his trained eyes know what to use to avoid heavy smoke.
“how long has he been out?” you ask, slumping onto the ground next to his body. “is he alive?” you closely watch his rising chest.
“he’s alive, kit.” john’s voice is slightly distant, digging through shrubs. the boy’s moon mask still blocks his face, slightly ajar compared to when he was in the party. you inch closer, carefully removing it. you feel your face heating up as your eyes rapidly travel the new features. “you know him?” you jump away from the boy and look behind you. little john has a handful of fuel for the fire, a smug smirk on his face.
“no, not really.” you reach into your pouch for a preserved dinner. “talked to him at the party a bit. he was nice ‘n we, uh…” you hand little john a portion as he sits on the ground next to you. “we danced together.”
“you danced?” his tone is mocking, digging into his rabbit portion. you meagerly kick dirt and grass at john.
“he invited me to dance and i was being nice. it was fun,” you pause, taking a small bite. “he thought that i was a man, though.”
little john chokes on his food, coughing and beating his chest. “what?” his coughs and laughter combine.
“we talked about the forest, and he told me robin hood’s a guy. said that he isn’t allowed near here either.”
“well, that rule’s been broken.” after john’s comment, a strange silence takes hold of the makeshift camp. even though your mind is racing, you eventually find yourself back next to the boy’s body. you feel an overwhelming sense of guilt looking at his unconscious body, and you fall into an unsettled sleep.
you wake up after a few hours, the sun barely beginning to rise. you pull your hood up, looking to your side. the boy’s body is against a tree trunk, still unconscious but now tied up. john stirs behind you. “lj, you tied him up?” you stand, looking at his hands. his wrists are tied together with the tie matching his suit. he grunts as a reply. “that’s criminal behavior.”
“well, we are outlaws.” you shoot him an annoyed glare, causing him to sigh. “i didn’t want him running while we were sleeping, or worse.” he gestures to your bow and quiver—weapons. “my only intention for tying the boy up was to protect you, kit. i don’t want to hurt him. i was nice enough to use his cloth tie instead of some roots.”
you rub your eyes, stressed. “i believe you, bear.” you smile at him. “i just despise this situation. this was supposed to be a clean robbery.”
“well, if you didn’t get all buddy-buddy with him, maybe he wouldn’t have been so enchanted by you that he wouldn’t have followed us.” he teases you, revenge for teasing him about marian. “breakfast?” he asks, dramatically rubbing his stomach.
“don’t have much left…” you trail off, grabbing a small portion for little john. as you hand him the meat, the boy’s body stirs against the trunk, his head falling forward. you head shoots to look at him, panicked. you swear under your breath as his eyes open. he groans and looks up, squinting his eyes and scrunching his nose. “are you okay?” you asked, concerned. you don’t realize your bandana is down.
“what happened?” he whines, opening his eyes more and leans his head on the tree. suddenly, he looks around frantically. “where am i? the woods? i’m not–” his arms move against his restraints, legs flailing once he realizes he’s trapped.
“you’re safe, promise.” john speaks up, walking over from the burnt-out fire. you scoff at his tone.
the boy looks around, more confused. “i’m not supposed to be here.” he meets your eyes, recognition flooding the green. “you’re from the party. i saw you… followed you outside… the bushes… in the green–” his legs shoot up in defense. “you’re robin hood! but you’re a girl?”
john jeers, “yeah, robin hood’s a woman. the wanted posters don’t list her as a man, do they?”
he struggles against his restraints more. “what do you want from me? i’ll give you criminals anything, just let me go!”
“i’m sorry. but we can’t,” you sigh. “don’t struggle against the tree too much, you’ll hurt yourself.”
“you know what she looks like. can’t risk that getting out.” little john walks closer to the boy.
“lj…” you warn. you don’t want him to do anything to hurt him.
“what are you going to do to me?”
“ready to go, kit?” john ignores the boy’s question. you nod, sliding your bow and quiver on your shoulder and grabbing the sacks of gold. your muscles whimper. little john releases the boy from the tie temporarily, then retying and throwing him over his shoulder. as he’s doing so, the boy protests, hitting his tied hands on john’s back. his efforts are futile—john doesn’t react.
“so you’re just going to keep me here with you, huh? great.” you start your travels, walking behind john and the boy. “wait until my pa realizes that i’m gone. he’ll. have. your. heads!” you watch him beat john’s back with every word.
your gut swirls with a whirlpool of guilt watching the boy you met at the masquerade slowly exhaust himself. he eventually goes limp against john’s shoulder and begins speaking incoherently. “what are you saying?” you ask curiously.
the boy looks up. “raclure de bidet. t'es une raclure de bidet.”
“what?”
he scoffs at your confusion. “french.”
your eyebrows furrow. “so, you’ve got an american accent, and you speak french. who are you?” you run your free fingers against the grooves of your bow as you speak. though, the boy doesn’t answer, only muttering more gibberish—french. “i jus’ wanna know your name, stuff about you. ‘m trying to be as nice as possible…” you mutter. john chuckles at your attempts to be civil, causing the boy to move with his laughter. his brown curls bounce.
he suddenly makes direct eye contact, his mouth straight. “you kidnapped me.” his forest eyes bore into yours.
“we couldn’t just leave you! we couldn’t let you…” you try to defend your actions, but you just huff in frustration. you suddenly stop, dropping the sacks of gold. you sling your bow fully into your grasp and reach for an arrow, nocking it. you look around, seeing a light green apple. you angrily shoot at the tree, knocking down the apple. you pick it up, take an aggressive bite, and grab the sacks again.
“can you get me one?” john asks playfully, but you ignore him, chewing harder.
the walk is silent, the only noise breaking it being the crunching of leaves beneath feet, your crisp bites out of the apple, and the occasional tired huff. you and john weren’t used to carrying this much during your travels, but you were able to walk until the sun just passed its peak. you agree with little john to take a brief break, settling near a river to drink fresh water. there’s a small waterfall beating against the river, descending from a stream on higher ground. the sound of the waterfall would drown out any most conversational noise, as with an extra person, you are more on edge than usual. you trust john to know what he’s doing, but you don’t know much about the boy.
you settle next to the river, drinking the water with your hands. the boy’s stomach suddenly growls animalistically. you look at him and see his eyes widen. you, despite your annoyance, reach into your pouch for some preserved rabbit. you give a piece to little john and look at the boy. “look, we’re not trying to hurt you. this is just a bad situation.” you hold out the rabbit. his eyes flick between you and the food. he sees john eating his and lets out a held breath through his nose. he stretches his head forward. you hold the rabbit out for the boy to bite, and he chews. “salty.” lj chuckles.
“it’s preserved,” you talk quietly.
the boy is silent for a few moments, biting more of the rabbit until there is none left and you’ve retracted your arm. he purses his lips. “timothée.”
“pardon?”
“my name. i don’t know why, but i trust your word.” you smile, forgetting that your bandana is down. timothée matches your smile. “and i feel like you guys would’ve killed me at this point. now, can i get a drink properly?” he gestures his head to the river and lifts his tied wrists.
you look at john. “why not?” he shrugs. “he can’t navigate sherwood alone anyway. ‘n you can shoot an arrow faster than he can get away.”
timothée looks worriedly as you untie him. once released, he practically dives for the river, slurping the water. you hold his warm tie. “look, we’ll figure this out. you just gotta understand that we can’t risk you running your american mouth,” john attempts to reassure timothée. he lifts himself from the river, drying his mouth with his suit sleeve and breathing heavily. you reach over and loosely lay his tie behind his neck. the ends of the cloth lazily hangs from each shoulder.
“‘s long ‘s you don’t arrow me in the head.” his voice is breathy, mimicking an arrow with his hand and pointing to his temple.
after the rest by the river, you move on from the waterfall. timothée walks alongside you, and little john carries one of the sacks. the three of you walk until the sun begins to set again, the occasional conversation ruining the silence of the forest. you sometimes glance at timothée, seeing him admiring sherwood forest. he walks close to you, and your shoulders brush together.
once john sees a clearing, he sets his gold down. “there’s berries in these bushes. i’ll get some for us, could you two start a fire before it gets too cold?”
you nod. “lj, being a leader.” you punch his shoulder playfully before gathering tinder and twigs from the brush with the guidance of the orange-tinted sunlight. “y’like the forest? not much to do, but i think it’s nice.”
timothée laughs. “a lot of walking, but it’s so beautiful. this is the first time i’ve been in the forest, and although it wasn’t under the best circumstances,” he nudges your shoulder. “i’m happy to be able to escape for a while.”
“at the party, you said you were a sort of noble.”
he shrugs. “i guess. not my ideal life though. i can’t use gold to buy my way into an adventure, can i?”
“no, you need some outlaws to kidnap you.”
the banter between the two of you continues as you gather fuel for the fire. you show timothée what branches to use in order to avoid a smokey fire and how to light it with a stick. john sits beside you with two handfuls of berries. he distributes the berries evenly.
a casual conversation overtakes the camp, good-nature accompanying the warmth of the fire. timothée is quiet for a moment before asking, “what did you do to become outlaws?” he looks down at the last of his berries. “the posters are all around nottingham, but they don’t exactly say what for. my pa doesn’t like talking about the two of you either, and i’m pretty isolated from the townspeople.”
“we steal, gold mostly,” you gesture to the two sacks hidden behind leaves. “but only to give to the less fortunate.”
“we don’t keep it. we give it to people who need it,” finishes john.
“i didn’t know that. assumed you just stole for yourselves. though i dunno what you’d do with all the gold in the forest.” timothée eats his last berry. “that’s pretty noble of you two. you risk your lives to help against the rising taxes. i admire that.” a sincere smile spreads across his face as he rubs some purple juice from his lips.
“thank you. helping people makes me happy, and i want others to be able to live their lives.”
“so,” timothée brings his knees to his chest. “what’s your real name? i’ve gathered that the giant’s name is lj, whatever that stands for.”
“stands for little john,” john says plainly, and timothée laughs.
“little john? you’re anything but small! should be called ‘big jim,’ that’s more fitting.”
“watch it, little guy.” little john warns, though you can’t tell if he’s being serious or messing with timothée.
“name’s timothée, not little guy.” he looks back at you. “what do you want me to call you?”
you ponder. he knows your face, why not your name? you grow anxious as you meet his gaze. “robin hood,” you panic. only john knows your real name.
timothée groans, laying down on his back. john follows suit, removing his bycocket and placing it on his face. “alright, cupid,” timothée comments.
you sputter at his nickname for you. “g’night, timmy.”
timothée fall asleep in a curled position quickly, muted snores escaping. little john; however, doesn’t fall asleep right away, so the two of you chat.
“kit,” he says suddenly in the midst of a conversation about the distribution plan. “why are you flirting with tim?”
your mouth hangs open. “i’m not flirting with him!” you say in a hushed yell in order to not wake timothée.
“don’t believe you…” he places his bycocket back onto his face. “never seen you act the way you act with him.” his mocking voice is slightly muffled by the worn fabric of his hat.
“i barely know him, though.” you twist a stray leaf in your hands as you mutter.
“doesn’t mean you don’t think he’s cute. i see the way you look at him, even when he was tied up. you slept next to ‘im.” your face scrunches up at his observations and you throw a rogue apple core at his stomach.
without the leaves blocking the sky, the blue is visible—vibrant with hints of pastel orange. cotton clouds highlight the traces of dawn, but the shadow of the castle blocks a portion of the blue. you and little john, with your arms linked, walk toward the entrance of the castle, joining the growing crowd funneling into the castle. all attendants adorn a mask in a variation of colors and shades. this dissolves any suspicion.
you lean slightly toward little john, muttering, “so, this is what the rich does with their time and gold.” little john stifles a laugh, making a sound somewhat of a sneeze. the lady who stands in front of john looks back at him with a dirty look before entering the castle. you follow.
the entry room of the castle is grand, imposing portraits line the walls to make up for the lack of windows. the largest of the portraits is centered in a golden frame. it’s of an older man, an enemy of time. his wrinkled mouth is painted in a perpetual scowl. blue eyes stare straight into the soul, sending a chill down your spine. little john notices your unease and gently squeezes your arm with his hand.
guards line the hallways, leading guests to the ballroom. two stand at the doors, revealing the bustling party inside. masked people dance around the room in extravagant outfits, skirts twirling with the musicians’ notes. tables of every food imaginable serve as a barrier between the fluttering dancers and those observing. the ballroom has an almost orange ambiance, in part due to the pristine wooden floors reflecting the glass chandelier lit with hundreds of candles. “how do you think they lit those candles?” little john asks in wonder. your mouth is agape in wonder at the buzzing, warm party.
little john eyes the food tables. “we should split up, not raise attention to ourselves. i’ll signal you when it’s time.” you nod, skirt grazing the ground as you carefully step toward the nearest wall. people-watching comes with the keen eyes of an outlaw. you watch the dance floor, admiring how free they are. they aren’t bound by the mask they wear; they take the choice for granted. you subconsciously adjust your own mask.
you hear footsteps approaching from your right and swivel your head, expecting little john. to your surprise, it’s an unrecognizable boy. he’s lanky, wearing a black suit jacket with hints of navy and subtle specks of white—as if his suit was the night sky. he has a black waistcoat underneath, and a grey undershirt with a black tie. his dress shoes click against the wooden floors, though louder than your hidden boots. he stands taller than you, but not nearly as tall as little john. bouncy brown curls dance on his head as if they have a mind of their own and enjoy the music. he halts next to you, hazel-green eyes that remind you of the forest peer through his black, moon-inspired mask. “people-watching?” he asks. you nod, tearing your eyes from the lanky boy. “i’m not one that enjoys these parties, but i was forced to come. i thought i’d join you on this side. nicer view.” you look back and see him looking at you, smiling.
“i’m not very entertaining, not really a partier.”
the man laughs airily. “me neither.”
with every word that the man speaks, you wonder why he seems so different from others you’ve spoken with. finally, it hits you. “you’re american?” you look at him quizzically.
he raises a pale hand to his hair—a contrast to the deep brown. “i travel a lot.”
“a noble, then?”
“i guess you could say that,” he shrugs, lowering his hand. he leans against the wall casually, fiddling with his sleeve. the two of you have a casual conversation, and he repeatedly tries to get you to laugh. “hey, you know a bit about me, but i only know that you stick to the walls at parties, have a great laugh, and are pretty.”
you smile at the floor, touching your mask. “i like being around the forest.”
“i could’ve guessed that based on your beautiful dress,” he laughs and you hear him shift. you look up to see him still leaning against the wall, but now facing you. his shoulder rests against the wall instead of his back, curls pressed against the plaster. “my pa doesn’t let me go near the forest. he insist that it’s too dangerous and i’m,” he raises his hands, bending his fingers to form air quotes, “too important to be hurt.”
you meet his eyes. “the forest isn’t dangerous as long as you know how to navigate it. just harmless forest creatures, they don’t bother people.”
“believe me, i think the nature of the forest is absolutely captivating. i’ve always wanted to walk amongst the trees and admire, but he worries about robin hood and his giant friend.”
you blink, stifling a reaction, though your eyebrows raise under your mask. “robin hood and his giant friend?”
the mystery man scratches his nose with his thumb, an unreadable expression pasted on his masked face. “the two guys who rob nobles. my pa always warns me that they’re dangerous and’ll kill me if i go too close to the forest. since that’s where they hide, y’know?”
you squint your eyes at the man, a light feeling of worry blooming in your stomach. “well, if it’s known that robin hood is in the forest, why don’t they just go after them?”
“they don’t bother. the forest is too dense, and the village people don’t know it well enough. robin hood only steals, so they don’t want to risk losing men. the sheriff’s planning on capturing the two of them next time they’re spotted in town. how else would they steal if they don’t go into town?”
you hide your reaction. “i don’t know.”
the music picks up in your silence. “care to dance?” the boy asks, offering his hand. he has nice hands, you notice. you hear him laughing, and you look up with a red face. “thank you.”
“yes, let’s dance.” you take his hand, wanting desperately to forget you just complimented a stranger’s hands. he stops you in the middle of the dance floor, raising his hand in the air and placing the other on your waist. you flinch at the contact, and he quickly removes it. “sorry,” you mutter, meeting his hand with your own. he looks at you, hand still hovering over your hip. you nod, giving him the permission to rest his hand.
the music once again swells and he guides your steps. together, you glide around the ballroom. he suddenly raises your joined hands, twirling you as you gasp. the green skirt of your dress inflates with your conducted spinning, ornaments of leaves highlighted in the candlelight. he stops his spinning and returns his hand to your hip. “too much?” he asks with a sly grin, teeth showing.
you laugh, shaking your head. “it was just surprising. fun,” you reassure. the mysterious man guides you around the dance floor, taking broad steps and avoiding other dancers until the music reaches a smooth end. you grip the lace of your dress, gently curtseying. “thank you for the dance.”
he bows, smile not daring to leave. “the pleasure was all mine.”
your attention is torn away from the boy’s grin when you hear the king. he gathers the attention of all the partygoers, all eyes on the greying man except for one pair. little john scans the crowd, standing near an exit. you turn back to the mysterious boy, placing a delicate hand on his arm. “it was very nice meeting you, sir, but i must excuse myself.” you walk away before he can say anything. as ridiculous as it is, you fear that you’d want to stay with him instead of releasing the sack that’s been carefully tied around your waist.
you reach john as the king begins to speak, talking about his son. you pay no attention, however. you and little john are unnoticed in the density of the crowd. “no guards,” whispers little john as he places a large hand on the door, pushing it open for you. you rush through, followed closely by your companion.
your boots are loud as you walk quickly, allowing little john to lead you. he talks under his breath, presumable reciting the directions that marian found. the vibrations of the ballroom music picks up again, though muted with every staircase you hurriedly descend.
little john suddenly stops in front of a door. “you sure, lj? this looks like every other door we’ve passed.”
“i’m sure. marian told me it was the third door on the right, four floors down.” he reaches for the doorknob, though there’s resistance against his twists.
“obviously it’s locked, beanstalk,” you taunt, reaching into your pouch for your pick. you crouch down and feel around the internal of the door with the lock-pick. you hear john’s footsteps. “stop pacing.”
“don’t blame me, i’m nervous.”
“you’re nervous? this is your plan!” you slightly stick your tongue out in concentration, frustrated with the limited sight that your mask gives you. finally, you twist the knob and open the door.
the vault gleams with a golden hue, a contrast from the dull orange aura of the ballroom. the bright piles of gold is nearly as blinding as the sun at noon. “i was not expecting this much…” you trail off, stepping cautiously into the room. pure fury starts building within you with every pile of gold you spot. “and they just sleep underneath this! they tax the poor people of nottingham to death while the royals are hoarding all this gold!”
little john kicks a rogue coin. “the townspeople can barely scrape by with life, and the royal family lives in luxury with practically a goldmine in their basement. they’re cruel.”
“let’s get on with this.” you lift your skirt, untying the sack from your waist. little john pulls his sack from under his purple suit. both of you crouch down, working to evenly pile the coins into the sacks. you take a little from each pile to not dent them and raise attention to the missing coins. your actions are justified; the royals have so much, they won’t miss the gold. the townspeople need this. “don’t fill them completely. they’ll be too heavy and obvious,” you tell john as you stand with the sack. you tie it around your waist again, trying to level the coins and support the bag by holding your dress. little john ties it around his stomach.
he turns to look at you. “nice butt.” you turn to see that your behind is bigger and slightly lumpy.
you retaliate, “nice gut.”
little john opens the door slightly, looking around the hall before opening it wider, allowing the two of you to slip out of the vault. he leads you up through the basements of the castle, and you notice that the walls of the hall are barren of decorations, a contrast from the heavily decorated entry hall.
you and little john enter the ballroom again, seamlessly navigating the crowd. you walk next to each other, hands on your waist to hide the bulges of the sack and muffle the clink of gold. you get the sudden feeling of being watched. “lj, are we being watched?” you whisper-yell.
“maybe, but not for the reason you’re thinking of. there must be a hundred people in here.” his reassurance didn’t calm your nerve, however. you leave the castle and enter the night. stars litter the clear night sky, the moon bright and full. you check behind you with every other step. “kit.” little john is a bit ahead of you. “i know you’re paranoid, but no one’s there.”
you reach the forest again, seeking the brush where you stowed your belongings. you change quickly, not worried about little john looking, but because of the sinking feeling of being caught. every instinct you have is screaming that someone followed you. as you slip your cloak back on, relishing in the comfort, you hear a strange yet familiar voice. “what the hell are you two doing?”
your heart sinks. you discarded your masquerade mask with your dress, and your bandana was somewhere on the ground. you look to where the voice came from and you see the lanky boy from the party in the darkness. his suit blends with the night, but you can see a confused look in his green eyes. little john panics and runs up to the boy. with the blunt end of the dagger he uses to hunt, he knocks out the boy.
light from the evening sun escapes through the open patches of sherwood forest’s canopy. you settle on a log, watching the freshly-hunted rabbit cook over the fire. you fold your arms, comfortable in the warmth of your cloak. a little before you were deemed ‘robin hood,’ you purchased the green hooded cloak. everyone in nottingham, and possibly further, knows of the generous robin hood and their tall companion. now that keeping your identity hidden is vital to your survival as a wanted person, you’re rarely ever seen without the hood raised to hide the majority of your head, and a black bandana to hide the rest of your face. only when you’re within the safety of your deeply-concealed camp do you feel comfortable enough to breathe without the bandana and release your hair from the constraints of the hood.
you stretch while sitting on the log, removing your trusted bow and quiver from your back. your wooden bow has been your defensive weapon of choice for years, carving it yourself with delicate designs of sherwood forest’s flora and fauna to serve as a reminder of where you come from. your quiver, crafted from worn leather, stands the test of time and long-term use. there was a small hole in the side, but little john took it upon himself to haphazardly stitch it together.
you look over your shoulder, habitually checking on your friend. he pays no attention to his surroundings; however, he is focused on wringing out wet clothes and hanging them on a string between two trees where the sunlight is the most visible. his yellow bycocket miraculously stays atop his head, though its loose fit allows some of his brown hair to sprout out wildly. little john insists on doing the laundry since he is nearly a foot taller than you—standing at a towering six-five—but you believe that he enjoys being domestic. you hope that, in the future, he is able to settle down and not constantly be on the run with you. while you and little john are unable to live in the town of nottingham, you enjoy being within nature and are able to avoid the popular wanted posters for ‘robin hood and the giant’ that are posted on nearly every store and tree trunk.
you rotate the spit over the fire as little john begins to whistle during his chore. “where did you learn that that obnoxious tune from? you’ve been whistling the same notes for a week.” you put on an annoyed tone as you swivel on the log to face him, though you keep an eye on the rabbit.
john thinks for a moment, dramatically putting a finger on his stubbled chin. “somewhere in town i know. either gertrude from the bakery or jefferson the banker.”
“it couldn’t have been jefferson, lj. he’s as tone-deaf as a person can get. don’t you remember when you tried to get him to play the piano when we were kids? it was a disaster!” you laugh and john waves his hand dismissively.
he’s silent in thought until he snaps his fingers. “i know who. it was marian, the owner of the new boutique. i was getting my hat patched up from an arrow the guards shot at me from our last gig.”
a coy smile spreads on your face. “marian, aye? when did you go into town without me?” little john’s face subtly reddens, though you have known him long enough to see his blush. “you went out of your way to go into her boutique when you know full well how to patch up an arrow hole.”
“yeah, well…” he stutters. “we were out of yellow cloth! we only have green for your cloak and i needed to pick some more up with the coin that gertrude spared us. her boutique is new too, and i wanted to properly check it out.” you cross your green-clad arms over your chest. “oh, piss off, kit. i’m the oldest here.”
“by three months!”
“three wonderful months where the world was graced with my presence before it had to endure yours.” you throw a piece of bark from the ground at john. “you’re just jealous that i’m the oldest.” little john hangs the last garment on the line and joins you on the log, ‘accidentally’ kicking some dirt on your boot. you shake the dirt onto him before lifting yourself off the log. “and you don’t even enjoy my presence.” you shush him and open the small wooden chest that serves as your storage. you grab some salt and remove the rabbit from the spit, seasoning and portioning it.
“lj, get your rabbit. i have to preserve the rest.” you rip some meat off to put near the corner, preserving the rest of the meat with salt and herbs before wrapping it.
“you know i hate salty food.” little john banters, grabbing his portion and eating it immediately.
you scoff playfully. “well, unless you want the forest animals to all leave because you wanted a fresh meal every night, you should suck it up. the rabbits don’t breed *that* quickly.” with his mouth full of his meal, john puts his hands up in surrender.
you and little john sit back on the log, enjoying the heat from the fire while you tenderly eat your meal. the crackling of the fire and the forest are the only sounds around.
after a while of enjoying the natural music, little john stands. “god, these legs were not made for sitting on a log.” you can hear his joints crack as he stretches, followed by him scoffing. “damn litterers.” you follow his gaze and see a piece of paper stuck in one of the trees.
you instinctively pull your hood on. “be careful, john.”
he brushes you off, standing on a nearby rock to reach the branch that the paper is stuck on. he unravels the paper while hopping off the rock and reads it. “(y/n)!” you panic, pulling your bandana to the bridge of your nose and quickly equipping your bow and quiver.
“what is it? did they increase our reward again?” you look around the dark forest as you rush over to little john.
he lowers his arm so you’re able to read. despite the lowering sun, your keen eyes are able to see the printed text. “a masquerade party hosted by the royal family! they’re celebrating their son because the rich folk don’t understand how the rest of nottingham barely scrapes by. everyone in town will be partying,” he pokes your side coyly. “including the sheriff.” you look up to john’s face, seeing his ecstatic smile.
you sigh, pulling your mask down. “we can’t pass up an opportunity like this. it’ll mean so much to nottingham,” you jab a finger into little john’s chest. “but we’re only stealing an unnoticeable amount. i don’t want them to raise our reward more.”
“deal! the party is tomorrow.” he folds the flier and shoves it into his pocket.
“should rest up before we head out. the trip to town will be nearly a day’s walk.” you mutter as walk back to the fire, laying down a small distance from the flames. “night, big bear.”
you are woken by the sun shining through the canopy and on your face. you sit up from your sleeping area by the fire and stretch, brushing off ashes and fallen leaves. little john is already up, chewing part of his morning portion of rabbit. “morning.” you sit up.
“i hate salty food.” little john walks up to the fire, stomping on the little flames that survived the night. the two of you get to work securing the camp during your trip. little john takes the clothes down from the string and folds them while you gather the few important supplies for the trip. little john puts the folded clothes in an empty section of the chest. “did you get the sacks?”
you nod, gesturing to where you placed the two burlap sacks for the robbery. “i’ve got our food and some spare gold in my pouch. we should head to town now if we want to get there by the afternoon.”
“let’s go, kit.” little john’s tone is excited as he flings the empty sacks over his shoulder. you and little john have the trail to the town memorized, the path being slightly beaten by your repeated travels.
your steps are calculated, boots creating minimal noise as you trace the engravings of your bow. “since you found the flier, do you have a plan?” your voice is more hushed than it is at the camp and your hood is up. you stay aware of your surroundings.
little john huffs. “i was thinking about it last night. we have never been inside the castle, but i’ve seen it before. the palace is real near the other edge of sherwood. we could wander the forest and hide out for a while before we distribute. i don’t want m-” he stops. “i don’t want the townspeople to get caught because of us.” john is slightly ahead of you because of his long legs, but you catch up to him.
you punch his shoulder. “the townspeople? or a certain shopkeeper?” little john doesn’t answer, knowing that you’ll just taunt him further. “we can hide our stuff in the the forest behind the castle, but how are we supposed to get to the vault?”
“we’re sneaky, we’ll figure something out.”
“lj! i want a solid plan! i don’t know about you, but i don’t want to be sent to the gallows. i quite like my life.” you jump over a fallen log as he steps over it.
“you’re so paranoid. when have we ever come close to being caught?”
“how about your birthday last year? when you were cornered by the sheriff and had to pretend to be a tourist visiting nottingham? who vacations to nottingham?”
little john chuckles. “that was one time, yeah? we’ll be fine.” he turns his head, stepping through the memorized path without looking. “no more paranoia, let’s relax! we’re not in nottingham yet.” you sigh, rubbing an eye with your green sleeve. “so, what does one do at a masquerade?” he changes the subject.
“‘s just a party, but everyone is wearing a mask. perfect for blending in. we just have to stop in town and get party outfits.” you smile at little john, squinting your eyes. “we’ll stop at marian’s boutique.”
“you’re such a pain!”
you continue to banter until you’re a few minutes from nottingham. little john knows to not interrupt your listening as you scan for any guards or worse, the sheriff. you pull up your bandana. “marian’s boutique is just behind the bank.” you point to the buildings and john nods. you look up at the sun. “ we were fast; it’s a little later than noon. people might be out, so let’s be quick and stick to the shadows.”
little john agrees, adjusting his bycocket and clutching the sacks on his shoulder. you slouch down, holding your bow and readying your arrows in case you need to defend. the two of you slip out from the forest, silent and hyper-aware of movement. you feel your heartbeat increase, though you try to tune your hearing from the pounding in your ears. the uncertainty of sneaking into town in broad daylight is your least favorite part of being an outlaw.
you reach the closest building, pressing your back into the wall and disappearing into the shadows. you look to your left, breathing out in relief seeing that little john made it as well. you sneak to the other building—the boutique—and carefully go to the front to look in through the corner of the window. surprisingly, no one is inside.
you open the door, letting little john through before shutting and locking it. the bell on the door rings; however, and marian walks out in the center of the store. “hello?” marian’s red hair is mussed and she has scrap fabric around her neck. her face reddens when she sees little john.
“marian!” little john greets her with a smile. she pads towards us, her footsteps silent with only socks hitting the floor. “we need your help.” you stand next to john’s towering figure as he explains the plan to marian, trusting her to keep the plan a secret. marian is one of your most trusted allies, so little john has no hesitation with his explanation. marian nods along, looking up to meet john’s eyes.
when he finishes, she matches his expression. “how exciting!” she claps her hands. “i haven’t had many customers,” she flips a sign on the door of the store to ward off anyone trying to get in. “all the nobles buy their gowns at maurice’s store since my boutique is new. they’d rather stay with what they know instead of taking a chance.”
“we came to you because you have the best clothes!” you laugh at john’s reassurance, holding in a taunt.
“we trust you.” your comment lightens marian’s expression even more. she squeaks excitedly and scurries to the back of the store, gesturing for you to follow her.
“i have a perfect idea for your dress, robin!” marian leads you to the back as little john browses. although marian is one of your most trusted allies, only little john knows your real name.
marian pulls out a green dress, decorated with designs of flora—embroidered leaves and ferns. your bandana hides your smile. “that’s beautiful, marian.”
“and i’ll find you and john masks! you’ll blend in splendidly!” she claps her hands and dives into a cabinet full of accessories. she mutters as she pushes accessories around before jumping up with a mask in her small hand, extending her arm to you. “this is perfect for the dress!”
the masquerade mask perfectly compliments the dress. it mimics two leaves meeting at the stem, light green thread representing veins. “thank you.” marian, still smiling, shoos you and motions to the dress. she leaves you alone in the back. you slip out of your cloak and shirt—though you keep your pants on—and carefully step into the dress. sliding the mask on, you step out into the main part of the store. “how do i look?”
your voice attracts the attention of little john and marian. john had a purple jacket on, black pants, and a light purple undershirt in his arms. marian is holding a matching purple mask. they both are silent as you walk closer, your boots quiet thumps are the only noise as they admire. “you look gorgeous, robin!”
“of course it’s forest themed,” john lightly laughs. “how fitting.”
you crinkle your nose, though the mask only leaves your mouth and eyes to be seen. “you look like the embodiment of purple.”
little john straightens his posture, lifting the clothes in his arms. “why thank you, kit. that’s what i was going for. but, honestly, you look nice.”
you can’t help but smile at john’s genuine compliment. “thank you lj, but don’t get used to this.” you curtsey, lifting the skirt of the long dress to reveal your boots and pants. “i’m quite fond of my cloak and underclothes.”
“yeah, your sweaty crime clothes.”
“you literally wash them constantly! they’re clean!”
marian laughs as little john finishes his browsing. you change back into your clothes, hood and bandana up. marian expertly folds the clothes for easy transport, placing them on a counter. little john places them temporarily in one of the sacks and slings them on his back as you open your small pouch to pay. “oh, no need robin! you and john do so much for nottingham; it’s my pleasure to help you!”
“marian, i insist–” she cuts you off.
“no, i insist. honestly!”
“thank you, marian.” little john smiles as he thanks her.
“we’ll be sure to stop here first when we distribute.”
marian purses her lips, her eyes suddenly lined with tears. “you have such a kind heart.” she scurries from behind the counter and ambushes you with a hug. though you’re surprised at the sudden contact, you reciprocate with a one-armed hug, patting her back. “best of luck!” she stands on her tiptoes and hugs little john before unlocking the door.
you reach the outskirts of sherwood forest once again, following the curve of the woods until you the back of the castle is in sight. “we’ll keep everything in the foliage behind the castle—a clean getaway.” you whisper. “it’s far enough for no one to see.” little john opens the sack that the clothes are in while you hide your pouch and—reluctantly—your bow and quiver. “our camp is on the opposite side of the forest, we should wait to go–” little john cuts you off by throwing your folded dress and one of the sacks at you. “hey!”
“enough of being serious! get dressed for the party!” little john wiggles his arms, an attempt at dancing, before placing his bycocket by your bow and lifting his shirt.
“jesus, john! let me turn around first.” you conceal yourself behind some foliage, taking everything off except for your boots and pants. “don’t look!”
you hear little john’s voice, “kit, you’re ridiculous.” you tie the sack around your waist before putting the lacey dress on, fanning out the skirt. you pull the matching green mask onto your face. john speaks up, “i’m dressed, are you decent?” you answer with agreeance, turning to look at john’s completed look. he’s dressed entirely in purple, though with black pants and a shirt.
“was the undershirt too much purple?” you poke fun at him.
little john shrugs, putting his purple mask on. “marian gave me the black shirt before we left. she knows better.”
normally, you’d taunt him about marian, but your nerves take over as you look out to the castle. the sun just barely begins to set, and you can see a small crowd forming at the entrance of the palace. “this is it. our biggest robbery yet.”
little john senses your anxiety. he places a hand on your shoulder as you lift your lace sleeve to your mouth. “marian told me about some of the castle layout. she says that there is always one door near the ballroom that guards are stationed at. they’ll be attending the party, so it’ll be unguarded. i guarantee it leads to the vault.” you look up to john’s face. he looks down and squeezes your shoulder. “we can do this, (y/n).”
you nod and look back at the castle, breathing in the last moment of serenity lifting your arm to be hooked with john’s. you both leave the safety of the woods and head towards the crowd at the castle.
uses she/they pronouns for the character of robin hood, though purposefully misgendered with he/him as part of the plot.
masterlist ♡
you are known throughout england as robin hood, a mysterious hooded figure who steals from the wealthy to give to the impoverished. your kind-hearted companion little john—although he is anything but small—accompanies you on your adventures. when little john learns of an opportunity to strike big, you venture into nottingham and experience more than just another robbery.
timothée chalamet x fem!reader • established relationship
! google translated french !
masterlist ♡
the tan color of the window curtains illuminate the room, the sweet scent of morning filing the air. your bed is warm and you’re completely wrapped—by your duvet and your partner.
normally, you don’t mind waking with the sun. it allows you to enjoy your morning, making a small breakfast for yourself or surprising him with a meal. however, this morning you wake feeling groggy. you turn your head slightly—to not wake the person sleeping—and see the excruciating time: 6:32 AM. you had only slept for five hours, up late with your partner. groaning, you shift your body and snuggle your face into the person beside you. he moves in his sleep, tightly wrapping his arms around your torso habitually.
you try to go back to sleep, but it’s futile. no matter how hard you close your eyes or how deep you dig your face into his shirt, the light still penetrates through the curtains. you frustratedly groan, laying fully on your back and putting your elbow across your eyes. you feel shifting to your right along with muffled french.
“what time is it?” is the only statement you hear that’s both audible and in english.
you look back at the dreadful clock. “6:49 AM.”
timothée exhales and you feel his both his arms hug you to his chest. “matin ma chérie.” you surprise yourself with how little french you’ve picked up from the years of dating timothée, only knowing a few phrases and terms.
you smile sleepily at timothée, leaning to kiss him quickly. pulling the duvet to fully cover your head, you speak softly, “close the blinds, would you love? the sun’s peaking through.”
the bed vibrates with timothée’s light laughter. when you pulled the covers over your head, you captured some of him as well. “some sun is good for you, ma ange.” he pulls the duvet from his head, and also from yours which makes you squint. he pulls you closer—if that is even possible—and presses feather-like kisses on any accessible skin.
he stops when you run your hand through the mussed hair near his neck. “i look at you and i see the sun.”
“you’re ridiculous,” his lilted voice rises a tone with a growing smile.
“you are my sun, timmy.” you press your hand between his cheek and his pillow, feeling him subtly sink deeper. “the yellow that illuminates my world. you cast the blush of sunrise across my sky, brighten my life with your warmth, banish the looming darkness.”
“baby, you’re cute when you’re half asleep,” dismisses timothée, reaching for your free hand and kissing the palm.
“i’m not.” you tangle your legs in his and kiss his nose, causing a dusting of pink to appear on his face. “both of the suns have woken me plenty. now, i want to shun the sun peaking from outside so i can love my sun.”
“tu es tout pour moi,” timothée mumbles, kissing you quickly before throwing the duvet off his body. he walks quickly, eager to climb back into the warmth of the bed. he momentarily opens the curtains, shutting the blinds behind completely before sliding the cloth back over the window. he does this all while looking at you.
the room is now cast in a comfortable darkness, only lighted by a muted tan. you can still see timothée standing next to the window, though his face is only partially lit. timothée animatedly runs back to the bed, hopping onto it and causing you to bounce. “you’re the ridiculous one!” you laugh as timothée lays on top of you, arms resting on either side of your face.
he kisses your nose. “you, ma chérie, are a poet.” timothée pauses to rub your nose with his lovingly. “you are so, so beautiful.”
you reach to rest your hands on his cheeks, rubbing his skin with your thumb lightly. humming contently, you whisper, “please, just kiss me already.”
timothée leans down with no hesitation, pulling you into a deep kiss. he slips his arms beneath your shoulders, hugging you to his body to pull you closer. timothée pulls away slightly, though he stays close enough that you feel his lips lightly touching yours. “tu es ma vie,” he whispers on your lips before tucking his head into your neck.
timothée enjoys speaking in french, knowing that you don’t know what he’s saying and especially in the morning. it gives him the freedom for complimenting you without embarrassment, and, to your benefit, without hesitation. your hand finds its way back to timothée’s curls, playing and twisting the locks between your fingers. timothée continues to speak in his tongue, a muffled ma coeur reaching your ears. though you know little french, your heart swells with adoration.
one term you did know was one that you were saving to surprise him. “mon soleil.” your speech is hesitant, but timothée’s head pokes from your neck and he rests his chin on your shoulder. you guess that your french was correct, as timothée’s smile grows as bright as the sun.
“je t'aime beaucoup.” he leans his cheek on you, looking into your eyes as he softly speaks. “i wish we could stay like this forever.”
“why not?” you lean your head deeper into the pillow and grab timothée’s hand, intertwining your warm fingers. “you’re not bored yet?”
“no, ma chérie, but we have responsibilities. weren’t we going to clean the house?”
you hum. “maybe.” you try to fight it, but a smile forms on your face.
timothée leans and kisses you again. “but i think we can spare a few more moments.”
“let’s stay here forever, mon soleil.”
timothée buries his head into your neck and moans. “i love it when you call me that. so beautiful.” he rubs his nose on your skin, sighing as he hugs you to his body. you can tell that he’s becoming sleepier again, especially with the sun shut out. “let’s stay here eternally.” his speech becomes slow, laced with sleep and muffled by your skin pressed against his face.
“mhm.” you close your eyes, leaning your cheek on timothée’s head and breathing in his comforting scent. an overwhelming sense of relief and love overcomes you, pulling you into sleep like the tide on the beach. “eternally, like the stars. and how much i love you.”
steve harrington x gn!reader • established relationship
♫ don’t you (forget about me) - simple minds ♫
masterlist ♡
the chime of the entry bell welcomes you into the familiar family video store. it’s become a ritual to walk to family video after your shift at the nearby convenience store every friday evening. you walk straight to the front desk, past one lingering customer, and slap the polished wood. “the service in this place is terrible!” you exclaim with faux annoyance, turning the attention of robin away from a computer screen.
“yeah, yeah. what do you want?” robin’s plain tone alerts the only other customer at the side of the counter, causing his eyebrows to raise. the customer returns to talking to steve, but steve’s gaze lingers on you. he smiles briefly, winks, and continues to help the customer.
you pull a package of skittles from your pocket. “for you.” you bow your head playfully. part of your tradition is to bring robin skittles from the convenience store (which wasn’t initially the plan, but robin was persistent).
robin takes the package and opens it, eating several skittles without a concern for the two customers in the store watching. “the sugar will get me through this closing shift, it’s been so boring.” robin leans against the counter, suddenly knitting her eyebrows together and lowering her volume. “how are you feeling?”
you lay your elbows on the counter, chin resting in one of your hands. both you and max are targeted by vecna, only finding out a few days prior. the kids watch over max, but you convinced the group to let you work a few shifts, as you’d be surrounded by other people and you wanted to keep some aspects of your life somewhat normal. steve and robin were just next door. “i’m doing alright,” you answer, and you flash a small smile to ease robin’s concern. robin silently offers you a skittle, which you accept.
the customers leave the store together with one vhs tape hand-in-hand, causing the chime of the door to ring. now that the store is empty (though, that wouldn’t have stopped him anyway), steve comes around the counter and wraps his arms around your waist from behind, kissing your cheek. robin fake gags (though a small smile spreads at the glee on your face) and returns to a computer while periodically eating skittles. you turn in steve’s arms to face him, your arms lazily around his neck, and he presses a small kiss on your lips. “how was work?”
you shrug. “same old store. i only dealt with one creepy old guy today,” you exclaim, faux excitement dripping.
steve rolls his eyes. “you can always come work here. if there was a guy bothering you, i’d be here.” you push his shoulder before steve glances at the time. “it was a slow day, but i have something to finish in the back. would you pick out a movie? i’ve already bought the popcorn.”
you nod, a wide grin spreading at the freedom of choice steve’s given you. “i have clothes at your house, right?” steve would normally drive you home after your friday movie night, but with recent events and his parents out of town (again), you feel safer staying with him.
“even if you don’t, you can borrow something.” steve suddenly leans in, whispering, “how are you feeling?”
you place a hand on his cheek, trying to reassure him. “stop worrying baby, i’m doing okay. no headaches today, no clock chimes.” you lean in to kiss him. “i’ll tell you the second something feels off, i promise.”
steve thinks for a moment, eyes flitting around your face before nodding and squeezing your arms. “i’ll be back in a few.” steve goes behind the counter once more, opening the door to the back. “pick something good!”
you walk towards the familiar section of popular movies, the display nearest the window. sunlight beams through and lights the tapes naturally. you pick two tapes from the display as you walk along the window, looking for something to catch your eye. as the display ends, a figure suddenly appears around the corner. “shit!” you yell, jumping back. the figure stops moving, it was steve standing several feet away from you with his hands up. “steve! you scared me,” you walk closer to him, clutching the tapes to your chest as he apologizes. “that didn’t take very long. you could’ve helped me pick out a movie.”
steve brushes your comment off. “it was something small, what did you pick out?” he drapes his arm across your shoulders with his hand on your left arm facing away from the window.
you proudly hold out the tapes in front of both of you. “it’s between the breakfast club and back to the future, but i’m leaning towards the breakfast club! thoughts?”
steve huffs. “are there any other choices? i feel like we only watch these movies.”
your eyebrows furrow. “you picked out the movie the last few weeks, and we haven’t watched the breakfast club in so long! it’s so good, stevie, and it was our first date!”
sighing, steve mutters, “alright, whatever.”
you try to fully face him, but his arm holds onto your shoulder. “why are you being like this? you asked me to pick out the movie tonight.”
“so i’m not allowed to have any say in anything?” steve’s tone raises, slowly creeping to the point of yelling. “you’re so controlling, always calling the shots. i don’t need another parent.”
“what the hell is wrong with you? you’re acting like a child,” you match his tone and try to back away from him. however, steve’s grip on your shoulder tightens, fingernails beginning to dig through your sleeve. “steve, you’re hurting me.” the tapes slip through your grasp, clattering to the floor, and you grab the hand on your shoulder. looking back at steve, your stomach drops. his face is spread into a wide smile. the lighting from the window dims, clouds rolling in the sky which cast dancing grey and red shadows. you look to the front desk, but robin isn’t there. the large monitors are smashed or missing, and the polished wood is dirty and stained. the store is completely devoid of life.
panic seeps in your veins, adrenaline rushing through you. you were only ever warned about the upside down, never actually venturing into it. steve never wanted to drag you into this part of his hawkins life, but somehow, you ended up here anyway. you body moves before you can think, elbowing “steve” in the throat with your right arm. his grip falters just enough for you to finally back away. you push open the doors, and sprint through the black and red darkness. you look back at the family video only to see a creature stalking forward. the creature you presume to be vecna, the one that max has witnessed. the one hunting you.
with the minimal light that the upside down hawkins provides, you try your best to navigate through the rubble in the streets, past the crumbling buildings that only mirror the joy of the town. black vines slither and invade upturned, decomposing cars, some attempting to catch your feet. with every panicked breath you take, foreign particles and dust enter your burning lungs.
when your legs can’t take you further and your lungs are on fire, you hide behind a chunk of rubble that formerly belonged to a building. you lean the back of your head on the stone, evening your breaths and listening for following footsteps. however, your racing heartbeat blocks out any trace of you being followed. you open your eyes only to see an ominous red cloud in front of you. peeking behind the rubble, vecna approaches, leaving you to run into the cloud.
this new landscape doesn’t resemble hawkins. instead, structures float in a red sky, towers of vines keeping the theme of red-and-black. a clock chimes, and now you’re trapped in vecna’s mindscape.
“you’re not supposed to be here.” vecna’s voice booms as he joins you. “there is nowhere else to run, my dear.” vecna’s hand raises, causing a tower of vines to come apart, launching straight for your limbs. “no one to save you.” the vines pull you into a tower, and you see two mangled corpses in the same position. you try to squirm, but your attempts only amuse vecna. “you will be my third, then maxine my fourth. a true poem.” a large hand enhanced with long claws lifts in front of your face, power emanating from his scarred and burned flesh. it feels as if he's draining you of life, forcefully pulling at your body with just his mind. the pounding of your head and rushing filling your ears are interrupted by a distant but familiar guitar introduction. it sounds like it’s coming from miles away, yet you still hear it.
won't you come see about me?
i'll be alone, dancing, you know it, baby
steve throws his despised scoops ahoy hat on the breakroom table, striding towards you confidently. he wraps an arm around your waist, leading you to the mall theater. “you didn’t have to leave your shift, you’ll get in trouble. we could’ve just rescheduled.”
steve shakes his head, reaching into the pocket of his tacky shorts to pay for the tickets. “i’ll take any punishment, it’s worth it.” you smile, looking down to hide your flushed face from steve. it was only your first date, but you already felt enamored. you sit next to steve, waiting for the breakfast club to start playing.
tell me your troubles and doubts
giving me everything inside and out
you visited scoops ahoy too often, always just to see steve. you joined in with robin messing with your boyfriend in the breakroom, which you were definitely not supposed to be in. when the familiar song would play on the radio, you would sing along and dance playfully, steve joining you. robin would join occasionally if she was in a good mood.
steve would play the song in his car, annoying the kids while you and him bob your head and sing along. they would groan at any physical interaction between the two of you, but you couldn’t care less. steve insisted that this was the tax for being their driver.
love's strange, so real in the dark
think of the tender things that we were working on
you’re stargazing with steve, sitting next to him on the hood of his car. you’re alone in the middle of a meadow that steve drove into, him insisting that it would be romantic. your song plays softly in the background from his car stereo.
you look at him. he’s illuminated by the starlight, hair styled and a wide smile on his face. his eyes glitter with the reflections of stars. you suddenly feel warm with affection, with love. you reach out, intertwining your hand with his and he looks at you. you squeeze his hand, gaining confidence. “i love you.”
the smile on his face will forever stay with you. it was bright, pure joy radiating from him. a light laugh escaped, he embraced you, kissed your head, and told you he loved you to the moon and back.
slow change may pull us apart
when the light gets into your heart, baby
tears spill from your hazy eyes, lining your cheeks. “i’m not ready to die,” you wheeze. with all your remaining strength, you reach past vecna’s clawed hand and scratch at his fleshy head until his hold on your falters, allowing you to fall to the ground. flesh residue is stuck under your fingernails.
you run. the only instinct you have is to run. a circle of light calls to you from a distance, the music emanating from the vision. you float just above the floor of family video, next to the display of movies. vhs tapes scatter the floor, steve stands in the midst of them, switching between calling up to you and screaming in another direction, all while holding onto your legs.
adrenaline rushes through you as you run towards the light. vecna attempts to throw rubble and broken items around you, but you keep your eye on the circle of light. you run towards the store, towards the music, towards steve.
don’t you forget about me.
you gasp, gravity claiming your body once again. you never hit the floor, but are caught by steve. he collapses to the floor, clutching you to his chest. his hand is in your hair and his face in the crook of your neck. his nametag on his vest digs into you, but you don’t care. you wrap yourself around him, embracing the comfort.
your breathing is unsteady and rapid, lungs still burning. you feel steve’s tears on your neck as he lets himself cry into you. “i thought you were gone.” you kiss his head and breathe him in, a mixture of his cologne and hair products.
the front doors of the store slam shut and another pair of arms wraps around you and steve. “you were in the air!” robin isn’t crying, but deeply panicked. you can tell she had been scrambling by her disheveled uniform and hair.
you lift your head to look at them, steve meeting your gaze but still clutching you. “i’m so sorry,” your voice is hoarse, as if you were screaming. “i thought i was getting better.” you notice that the song is still playing, but muffled. “how did..?” steve’s car is pulled as close to the front door as possible without breaking anything, the car door swung open and stereo blasting “don’t you (forget about me).”
“nancy and i figured out that music helps.”
“we didn’t know if it would work, but we had to try. i had the tape for your song in my car, so i drove as close as possible and robin held open the front door to let the music in.”
“you guys should definitely buy a walkman.” you laugh lightly, bringing a smile to steve’s face.
“that will be our first stop.”
you and steve leave together after saying goodbye to robin, ensuring that you will be with steve and have a walkman ready. you sit in the passenger seat of steve’s car, “don’t you” playing on loop. steve has one hand on the wheel and his other intertwined with yours. with your gaze stuck watching the familiar town, not the hauntingly decrepit version, breathing steadily and listening to the song. the breakfast club sits in a bag along with a brand new walkman and cassette tape.
steve squeezes your hand, making you look at him. “what happened?” he asks gently. his eyes stick to the road, but his eyebrows are furrowed.
“i was just in the store picking out a movie, and you appeared. but it wasn’t you, you kept saying i was too controlling and you were clutching my shoulder,” your right hand ghosts over your shoulder. there’s no physical pain or bruising, but a lingering phantom stays with you in the form of the memory. steve’s eyes flit to you, concerned but stays silent, allowing you to continue your recollection. “i knew it wasn’t you, so i ran. vecna was there, he took the form of you. he chased me through the upside down hawkins. i thought i was going to die until i heard the song.” you squeeze steve’s hand and wipe your tears with your sleeve. “memories flooded me. i thought of our first date, listening to the song together, stargazing. i didn’t want to die, so i ran into the light, to you.”
“shit, sweetheart. we tried robin’s idea as soon as she said it. she was screaming for me, she’s the one who found you frozen. your eyes were rolled back and you were unresponsive to robin shaking you.” steve pulls into his driveway, leaving the car and quickly opening the passenger door to help you out. he grabs the bag from your feet. “i should’ve stayed with you. i knew that you were targeted, but i left you alone.”
“steve, this is in no way your fault. i’m okay, see?” you pull his free hand to your chest, above your heartbeat. steve’s head drops to look at the concrete driveway, but you lift his chin up and kiss him lightly. “let’s go inside and watch the movie. i believe i was promised popcorn.”
steve laughs for the first time in hours, holding your hand with the bag on his arm. he unlocks the front door, leading you in before locking it behind him. he drops the bag on the kitchen counter, pulling you in tightly. “i love you so much,” steve whispers and kisses your head.
the only light that illuminates the wet sidewalk comes from the street lamps that have yet to turn off. the sun has already set, but the moon is covered by rainclouds. you hug yourself, clinging to the small shirt you decided would be a great outfit for a date. even though it near the end of summer and it’s supposed to be warm, the rain cools your surroundings significantly.
you weren’t planning on walking home either, your date was meant to drive you home, as robin dropped you off. you shiver again as headlights brighten your surroundings. the drastic change in lighting momentarily blinds you, and you lift your hand to try to shield your eyes from the headlights. the car slows to a stop next to you, the driver rolling down the passenger side window. “(y/n)?”
the voice is immediately recognizable (despite your recovering sight). a smile spreads on your face and you approach the car, hand still on your forehead and the other hugged around your body. “hey steve.”
steve unbuckles, opening the passenger door for you by leaning over the center console. “do you need a ride?”
you airly laugh before nodding, wringing your clothes slightly before getting into steve’s car. “thank you.” you close the door, rolling up the window as steve turns the heat on in the car.
steve buckles and starts to drive again (after making sure you buckled). “so, what are you doing walking in the rain?”
you sigh, leaning back in the comfortable seat of steve’s car. “i was on a date.” you look at steve as his grip on the wheel tightens. he makes a turn on the street. “robin dropped me off on time, but he was a half hour late.” a sarcastic laugh slips from your mouth as you hug yourself. “when he did arrive, he only talked about himself and his mom.”
“oh, so he’s a catch?” steve remarks.
“it gets better,” you lighten up, entertained by steve’s smug smile. “he even took it upon himself to order a side salad for me! like, what the fuck!” steve laughs with you, grip loosening. “it was so ridiculous. i told him to screw off, and he did. didn’t really think it through because he was my ride home.”
“it’s a good thing that i have nothing else to do.”
you lean your cheek on your shoulder. “you’re my knight in shining armor.” steve waves you off.
the only sounds breaking the comfortable silence are the tapping of the rain and your teeth chattering. “(y/n), you’re shivering really loudly.”
“oh really?” you tease steve.
“i have a sweater in the backseat. i was wearing it earlier so it’s not old or anything. you can go ahead and grab it.” you immediately take his offer, reaching into the backseat and feeling the soft texture of his sweater.
“i’m taking this shirt off, don’t look.” you notice steve’s unwavering smirk. he shakes his head and waves his hand at you. you shrug off your soaking top, throwing it into the back before quickly replacing it with steve’s sweater. the sweater holds a sense of security, warmth, and smells just like steve. you pull at the sleeves with your hands, cuddling into the warmth. “i’m good, thank you.” you look out the window, not recognizing the surroundings past the droplets of rain. “where are we?”
steve shrugs. “i thought you needed to cheer up, so i’m bringing you to the ice cream drive-thru since it’s still open.” you smile widely, placing one of your sleeve-covered hands on his shoulder (after clapping in excitement).
“you’re being so nice! you’re so nice to me.”
steve’s face turns from the road momentarily, giving you a view at his flushed face and goofy smile. “you deserve it.” once you see the building, you recognize it. they have some of the best homemade ice creams, though you used to frequent scoops for unbiased reasons. he pulls into the drive-thru, rolling down his window. “you can get anything, it’s on me.”
you put your finger on your bottom lip, dramatically thinking. “a mint chocolate chip cone!” steve nods, turning to the window to tell the tired worker. the worker soon returns with a cone and a cup in exchange for steve’s cash. he momentarily hands the ice cream to you as he parks. “how responsible.” you tease him, handing him his cup once unbuckles.
“shut up, i don’t want to get into an accident because i was too busy eating ice cream. too close to death when i was working at scoops.”
you unbuckle, turning to face him as you lick your cone. “i’m surprised you can still eat ice cream.”
steve shrugs, bringing his spoon to his mouth. “after all that time spent at scoops, i don’t think i can eat a cone for a while.”
“is that why you got a…” you lean forward (though, steve remains facing forward, eyes widening). “cup of whipped cream? it’s not even ice cream!”
“i told you, i’m pretty tired of ice cream.”
you laugh, pushing his shoulder. “i can’t believe you went all the way here to just get whipped cream!”
steve joins your laughter, lifting his finger to rebuttal. “hey, i paid for that cone! we came here for you, anyway.” you look down, listening to the rain as you continue to eat your ice cream.
“(y/n),” steve interrupts. you look up at him, his face contorted into an unfamiliar expression. you hum, biting into the come. “you got some ice cream on your face.” you lift your hand, wiping at your mouth. “no, here.” steve leans forward, wiping his thumb on the other side of your mouth. his face is so close to yours, the ice cream being the only thing between you. steve finishes, “got it.”
“thank you,” you sputter. steve wears a small smile, eating a small spoonful of his whipped cream. he leans back in his seat, facing forward before muttering something. you tilt your head slightly. “what was that?” you ask, finishing the rest of your cone. steve’s face is illuminated by the subtle parking lot lights and the moon, as the clouds parted.
steve sighs through his nose before sitting up, looking at you as he places his whipped cream in the cupholder. you hold your hands together on your lap. “this is why you should date me instead.” your entire body freezes, eyes widening and heart pounding. steve takes in a shaky inhale at your reaction. “sorry, i’m kind of bad at this.” he anxiously runs a hand through his hair, leaning in slightly closer. “seeing you walking in the rain, cold and alone, i couldn’t imagine ever leaving you like that. i hate seeing you being treated like shit, because you deserve to be treated right. i would treat you right.”
“what are you saying?” you ask, afraid that you’re thinking something that he isn’t. the thought of steve reciprocating your feelings is everything you’ve wished for since you went to school together. you would visit him at scoops so often that you had to swear off of ice cream for a while, and your family video account is now unusually active.
“(y/n),” steve whispers. “isn’t it obvious?”
you feel like your heart is about to burst, a wide grin spreading on your face. “you’re serious?!” you can’t help but release a lilted giggle. “i thought you’d never see me like that! i visit you so often and you’re always so casual.”
steve mirrors your expression, “i didn’t want to ruin our friendship! but you’re oblivious.”
“that’s why i go on dates, to try to move on from you. i thought it was impossible.”
he shakes his head, placing his hand on your cheek. “why do you think i took you to this ice cream place when all i got was whipped cream?”
you blink slowly, though your eyes flit all over his face as he leans in. though the center console remains between you, you lean into steve as much as possible with both your hands on each of his cheeks. you bring him towards you, finally kissing the person you’ve wanted for years. you notice an undertone of whipped cream on his tongue, but you’re overwhelmed by his comforting warmth. after being in the cold rain and eating ice cream, you welcome it. you pull away for air, giddy as you see his smitten expression. “you taste like mint.”
“oh, i wonder why?” you laugh, giving him a quick kiss before turning your head to his whipped cream. “steve, it seems like you’re a bit,” you pause, scooping a little whipped cream from his cup and dabbing it on his nose. “whipped.” a shit-eating grin forms when steve groans.
“i regret this already.” you poke his arm before kissing his whipped cream nose.
