#brightly colored wildflowers

[whatnext10]

Indian Blanket Flowers are Big and Brightly Colorful

Indian Blanket Flowers are Big and Brightly Colorful features a beautiful flower that, to the author/artist, signifies the start of summer. It goes on the provide some basic facts about the plant and the flowers.

Indian Blanket Even though it’s not officially summer yet, summer has arrived in Florida. Temperatures are warm, we’re starting to get afternoon showers, and the Indian blanket flowers (Gaillardia pulchella) are starting to bloom. I discovered some of them in the median on one of our larger roads last week. They were growing among a bunch of tickseed flowers (Coreopsis leavenworthii) and it was…

[scuderiahoney]

Color Theory

Oscar Piastri x artist!reader

Masterlist

Summary: Oscar’s an old friend of yours. This time when he comes home to visit, things get messy. Word Count: 6.6k

Warnings: alcohol, mild drug use, sexual content 18+ MDNI, overuse of color descriptions

It’s summer in Australia, your favorite time of year despite the overbearing sun and the overwhelming heat. Sweat spikes on your brow, but the sunlight that pours through the windows makes you happy. The door to the back garden is open, the smell of wildflowers blowing in with the breeze. You can hear your roommates chattering in the other room. You hold a paint palette in one hand, a brush in the other. There’s something just slightly off about this piece, some part of the light you’re not capturing quite right. You step back from the painting, trying to get a better view of the whole picture.

Someone calls your name from inside. You ignore them. By the third time you hear your name, you give in, setting the palette and brush down and heading inside. You’re still wearing your apron, covered in paint marks.

Lizzy, one of your roommates, smiles at you. “How’s it going?”

You sigh heavily. “Can’t get the light right.”

She nods in understanding. “We’re ordering pizza. Oscar’s on his way. Thought I’d give you a heads up in case you decide to try painting in your underwear again.”

You laugh. “It was one time,” you say defensively. “It was hot out and I was trying to become-“

“-one with the art, I know, I know,” she teases. “Just giving you a warning!”

You lean on the counter and let out a long breath. “It’s gonna be weird, isn’t it? Him being here?”

Oscar’s an old friend of yours, and your roommates, too. Old, like preteens old. He left for the UK so long ago that you’d probably barely remember what he looked like if it weren’t for video calls and social media and now, his face being plastered everywhere. You’ve kept up, have stayed friends through it all. But it’s the first time you’ll be seeing him in person in over a year, the first time he’s ever going to visit your shared house, the first time since… since he became Oscar Piastri and not just Oscar.

Lizzy shrugs. “Only weird if we make it weird, right?”

She’s right, to a certain extent. Your other roommate, Leo, shows up with Oscar in tow, and you do your best to not be weird about it, and you think it works. He greets you and Lizzy with long hugs. He smells like sea salt and something warm. His body’s much more firm and filled out than he was the last time you saw him, which makes sense, you suppose. He still smiles like golden yellow sunshine, though, crinkled eyes and round cheeks and that near permanent blush on his face.

The pizza arrives shortly after he does, and you all settle into the living room to catch up. Oscar tells stories about racing, about his first year in F1, about his teammate and his competitors. You’ve been keeping up with the races more than you ever did before- Leo always wanted to watch but you hadn’t cared that much before it was Oscar, before the guy in the orange car was the same kid who used to finger paint with you in the backyard, your mother worried about the mess. Now you sit glued to the TV most Sundays.

In turn, you, Lizzy, and Leo update Oscar on what he’s missed. All about your family lives, your jobs, your other friends he’s lost touch with. He listens intently to each story, the way he always has.

“What are you doing for work?” He asks, nudging your knee.

You sigh dejectedly. “Nothing fun.”

He pouts. Leo elbows you and speaks up, though.

“She’s still painting, though,” he says brightly. “You should see the sunroom.”

Oscar’s face lights up. “Is that your studio? You always said you wanted a sunroom.”

He’s always been one of your biggest supporters when it comes to your art. He’s the one who’d join you in the art room at lunchtime in school, eating his lunch at one of the counters while you worked on your latest piece, unable to put the paintbrush down. He’d attended all your art shows, had bought you paints and brushes and sketchbooks for birthdays and Christmases, and had even posed for a portrait you’d been required to paint for class. He’d had a hard time sitting still for that long without falling asleep.

You nod with a smile growing on your face. “Living the dream with that one.”

The night slips away from all of you, caught up in conversations about everything under the sun. You find yourself feeling sad when Oscar goes to leave. He does it with hugs and a promise to be back in a few days. When he leaves through the front door, you feel that emptiness again, that hole that’s never healed quite right after he left.

Lizzy sees it on your face and squeezes your shoulder. “He’ll be back.”

Two days later, you’re deep in painting mode, eyes beginning to ache as you stare at the canvas in front of you, when there’s a noise from the sunroom doorway. You turn and find Oscar standing there, eyes wide, brows raised. He chews on his lip sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he says, quietly. You hold back a laugh. “Leo said to come over and just let myself in, and I heard a noise, and- sorry-“

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, tilting your head and smiling. “Leo should’ve told you, he ran to the store for drinks.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, and his shoulders drop. “Right.”

“You’re welcome to hang out, though,” you say, nodding at the chair off to the side in the sunroom. “Don’t want you getting bored all by yourself.”

He hesitated. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

He never would have questioned it before. He would’ve already been sitting, would’ve already known what you were painting, would’ve helped you get your palette set up. It’s different now. He’s been gone a while.

You jut your chin towards the chair again and wave a paintbrush in that direction. “Please. You’ve never been a bother.”

He was always the only one of your friends that you allowed to watch you paint. He knew when to stay quiet, and when you needed the background noise of his voice, without ever having to ask. He shuffles over to the chair and sits down. Oscar’s gaze dances through the room with wide eyes, and when you turn back to the canvas, you can feel him watching intently.

“What do you think?” You ask, just to break the silence. You gesture at the paintings lined up around the room. “Have my skills improved?”

He lets out a slow breath. “They’re amazing,” he says, and your heart twists in your chest. “I’m so glad you kept up on it. That you didn’t lose your… you know. Passion. Sounds cheesy, but I mean it.”

You nod. Most of your friends and family had spent your teenage years trying to convince you to learn any skill other than art. You’d continued pouring yourself into the paintings. Oscar had been one of your only cheerleaders through it all.

“It’s not easy,” you admit. “Bills and shit, you know? Real adult stuff. But I’ve been trying to get into some galleries recently. I don’t know if it’ll ever be something I can make a living off of, but I’ve gotta try.”

Oscar nods in understanding. “How about when I win my first championship, I’ll make good on my promise?”

You laugh. There’d been a night just before he’d left for the UK where the two of you had stayed up late, out far past curfew at the local park. You’d laid under a tree next to him, giddy on the high of breaking the rules and the late hour. He’d told you all about his big dreams. About F1 and championships and how he was going to make it big. And when you’d asked if he’d remember you, he’d smiled and turned his head towards you, eyes wide in the pale moonlight, nose nearly touching yours.

“I’ll use my money and open a gallery,” he’d promised. “And I’ll fill it with all of your paintings.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “Even the bad ones?”

He’d nodded, so seriously. “Especially the bad ones.”

Now he sits next to you in your makeshift studio, so close to reaching his dreams. You can only hope you’ll get there, too, someday.

There’s a party at your house that night. There’ll be more people there than usual, wanting to talk with Oscar and taking up his time. But for now there’s just you and him in the studio you’ve always wanted, the one you talked about under the tree in the park. You’ll take what you can get.

Oscar finds you later at the party, in the back corner of the backyard. The sun is nearly gone, the last bits of daylight slipping away. When he walks up, you’re leaning back in an outdoor armchair, and you smile hazily up at him and hold out the joint you’d been smoking.

He shakes his head. You pout.

“I get drug tested,” he says, and you suppose that’s understandable. “And I think my trainer would kill me over the lung damage.”

“It’s just once,” you friend says next to you, “can’t do that much damage.”

“Oscar’s a high performance athlete,” you tease.

Someone finishes the infamous Daniel Ricciardo quote for you, complete with the sound effects. You’re not really listening, more focused on how Oscar rolls his eyes as he sits down on the arm of the chair. You tilt your head to look up at him.

The late sun is hitting the bridge of his nose, a bright orange band against his freckled skin. He blinks at you with thick lashes, and you wonder how you’d capture the look on his face with paint- the softness of his cheeks, the care that sits heavy on his browbone, the restlessness in the curve of his mouth. You don’t like to do portraits- Oscar’s one of few people you’ve painted, but it was years ago. He was a skinny kid with a bad haircut. Now his jawline is chiseled and sharp, and his hair falls over his forehead in a soft swoop. He's pretty.

He cocks his head at you. You’ve been staring too long. You force a giggle and nudge his knee. He laughs right back.

You’re not sure how he ends up squished into the chair with you, his arm over your shoulder, his bare thigh pressed to yours. You think maybe it was your doing- you grabbed his arm, pulled him until he sunk in next to you. The sun is gone, now, the evening chill taking over, and it’s nice to have him next to you, keeping you warm. His cheek is pressed to the top of your head.

“You can go, you know,” you say quietly. Most of your friends have abandoned the corner you’re in, moving to the lit back deck, or the firepit area. You and Oscar have stayed put, though.

“D’you want me to go?” He asks.

You shake your head. He laughs. “I just don’t wanna take up all your time,” you say with a shrug.

His fingers play with the ends of your hair. “I’m right where I want to be.”

You curl in closer to him. You’re right where you want to be, too.

Eventually, the two of you rejoin the group. He stays glued to your side most of the night, though. His shoulder presses against yours, and in turn, you lean against him. He grows quieter as the night goes on. That’s when you remember that his time spent with you while you were painting wasn’t just for your benefit. He’d been a quiet kid- popular, but easily exhausted by socializing. He’d liked the solitude and comfort of the art room nearly as much as you had.

In the backyard full of your old friends, he seems content to stay stuck on you. When he shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, you wiggle one of yours in alongside his, hoping you’re not crossing a line. Or maybe, really, you’re hoping it’s a line he wants you to cross. When he knits your fingers together, you sigh happily.

People leave one by one, with hugs for Oscar and promises to watch the next season. He says goodbye to them and then returns quickly to your side. Soon enough, Lizzy shuffles off to bed, and then Leo stretches and does the same, and it’s just you and Oscar. You hide a yawn. You don’t want to go to bed, not yet.

He squeezes your shoulder, his arm around your back, now. He has his cheek pressed against your temple. For a moment, you wonder if you could stay stuck to him long enough to keep him here. If eventually, the two of you would fuse together. That’s probably just your wavering high speaking. He mumbles something into the side of your head. You break from your staring at the coals and make a noise of confusion.

“Missed you,” he says. “Sorry I haven’t…”

This feels like too heavy a conversation to have now, when things have felt so good and warm all night. You know it’s coming at some point, but you’ll avoid it all costs. You turn further into him and wrap an arm around his middle, and let your eyes fall closed.

“I missed you too,” you say, rubbing your thumb against his rib cage through his sweatshirt.

The two of you sit quietly for a few moments. Then, you say, “you know, I still have that portrait I did of you. How many races d’you think you need to win before I can make some money off that?”

He laughs into your hair. His hand has fallen to your side now, and he squeezes- you nearly gasp at the feeling. “I was a scrawny baby in that painting. Nobody wants to buy that.”

You giggle against him. “You were a cute scrawny baby, though.”

It’s not something you would have said all those years ago. You’d have never been caught dead admitting that you thought he was cute. But now… in the safety of the backyard, in the darkness, pressed against his side…

“You’re cuter now, though,” you say.

“Yeah?” He asks.

You nod confidently. He slips his other hand from his pocket. It comes up to hold your jaw, gently. You hold your breath. He tilts your face up towards his.

“You’re prettier than ever,” he says, softly. “And I thought you reached the limit a long time ago.”

His lips are on yours within seconds, then. It’s not the first time he’s kissed you. By now, you know it probably won’t be the last. You let it happen, opening up for him. You slip your tongue past the warmth of his lips. His hand cups the side of your face as that warm feeling melts across your skin, the one that only he brings. You’ve been searching for a replacement since the last time this happened. Nothing comes close.

He uses the arm around you to pull you into his lap. You reach up and thread your fingers into his shirt, something to anchor you in the swirling feeling of him on and around and against you again. His hands fall to your hips, trying to do the same. He kisses like Australian summers, hot and long and sunny and bright orange. His touch leaves sparks behind everywhere he goes.

When you finally break away for air, his hair is a mess, and your lips feel puffy. He grins sheepishly at you. You chew on your lower lip as he brushes a finger over the arch of your cheek.

“Sorry,” he says. Always apologizing. You know he’s not sorry for kissing you. He’s sorry for how this will eventually end.

“Don’t be,” you say, quietly. “Please. Let’s just…”

He nods, then swallows before he says, “okay.”

Then he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple. You giggle at the feeling and let your fingertips dance against his face and neck. He muffles another laugh into your skin.

“Missed you,” you say again.

“I missed you too,” he says.

He walks you inside. You think about inviting him to stay the night, but you think that might be a bad idea. Instead, you give him a hug and watch him walk out the front door, into the only black and blue night.

…..

You meet up with him and a few other friends at a bar a couple nights later. You walk over from your house with Lizzy, who either doesn’t notice your nervous energy, or is nice enough to just not mention it. You shouldn’t be nervous. It’s the people you’ve known for years, and it’s just Oscar. There’s no reason to be nervous.

Except for the still fading hickey he left on your neck, covered by strategically placed hair, and the way you feel his lips on your every time you close your eyes. Yeah. There’s that, sure.

The bar is crowded even before all of your friends arrive. Oscar comes in with Leo, having been out all day while you and Lizzy had to work. There are at least five people there who are acting like they haven’t seen Oscar in years, even though they were all at the party a few nights ago. You try your best to hide your jealousy. He has other friends. He probably likes them way more than he likes you, anyways.

He finds you later, standing at the bar, waiting to order a drink. He’s just- there, all of the sudden, warm shoulder pressed to yours, elbows on the countertop. He smiles softly at you when you turn to him, and he leans into you.

“Hi,” he says. “I was looking for you.”

You want to laugh, because surely he wasn’t, but- there’s something so serious in his eyes. You lean into him in response, just to watch him raise his brows and smile wider. There’s a little mole on the swell of his cheek. You want to reach out and touch it. You refrain.

“I’m here,” you finally say, nodding towards your crowd of friends in the corner. “You’ve been a busy man tonight.”

He sighs, heavily, like it’s been difficult for him. It probably has been. He’s a quiet person in general. Not one to really like being the center of attention. You wonder if he’s exhausted as easily by it now as he was before, or if his years of podium celebrations have dulled the sensation a bit. Wonder how much of your Oscar is still left, under the facade.

He chews on his lower lip lightly, and you smile softly. That’s an old habit. That’s one you recognize. You also think of the night by the firepit, how you’d pulled that same lip between your own teeth, and the noise he’d made in response. Your face grows warm.

The bartender finally turns to you. Oscar orders for both of you, because of course he knows what you’re drinking. Then you follow him back to the crowd of your friends. When he grabs your hand to pull you along, you don’t complain. You just squeeze his fingers in response.

You stumble out of the bar with him, hand in hand, hours later. He’s insistent on walking you and Lizzy home, claiming that Leo won’t be enough to keep an eye on the both of you. You’re just happy to have his fingers locked with yours, to have his shoulder brushing against you as you both sway down the sidewalk. It’s comfortably warm outside, and you hum to yourself as you walk, listening to Lizzy and Leo arguing about nothing important.

Your journey home is stopped by Oscar, who stops in his tracks suddenly. You turn back to look at him. He’s staring across the street, where there’s a neon sign lit up in the window, the word Pizza flashing like a beacon. You laugh as he tugs on your hand.

“No, come on, we’re going home,” Lizzy calls out.

“I want pizza,” Oscar says in response, deadpan.

You turn to your roommates and shrug. “He wants pizza.”

Lizzy sighs. “I want to go home.”

“You guys go,” Oscar says with a dismissive wave. “I’ll make sure she gets home safe.”

Less than ten minutes later, your legs are stuck to the vinyl of the pizza parlor booth, knee bumping Oscar’s underneath the table. There’s a pepperoni pizza between the two of you, far too much for you to actually finish.

“Yknow,” he says, waving a piece of pizza around in the air. “Logan dips his pizza in ranch.”

You laugh at the disgusted look on Oscar’s face, at the way he says ranch. You take a sip of the soda he insisted on buying for you, along with the food.

“Bet it’s good,” you admit, shrugging.

Oscar wrinkles his nose. “I’m not a picky eater, but… isn’t pizza good enough on its own?”

You shrug, pretending to think deeply about it. Except that Oscar knows you well enough to know you’re pretending, so he starts laughing. And then you follow suit, doubled over in the booth, grease from the pizza on your fingertips.

As his laughter fades, he presses his knee against yours. It feels deliberate.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he says.

Something twists in your chest. “Missed you, too, Osc.”

Your friendship goes through cycles. When he’s here, it’s almost like nothing has changed. But when he’s gone… the two of you aren’t good at long distance friendship. Or maybe, really, you’re better at it than most. You can go months without talking and pick up like nothing has changed. The tough part comes when he’s here, within reach, and then he leaves. That’s the moment you dread, the part you don’t handle well. It would probably be easier if you stopped kissing him every time he came home. But you look across the table, and his lips are soft and cherry pink and slightly shiny from the pizza, and you know that would be impossible.

“I’ve missed you too,” you say, because you know he needs to hear it even if he already knows it. “I was worried that maybe now that you’re in F1, you’d gotten too important for… us.”

You really mean me, but it feels a bit too much to say out loud. You think he knows, anyways. He reaches a hand across the table, lays it over top of yours. There’s a sad smile on his face.

“I could never,” he says, eyes drilling right into yours. “Promise.”

He walks you home, hand in hand. The front porch light is on, probably Lizzie’s doing. He insists on coming all the way up to the front door, which is sweet and does absolutely awful things to your brain. Because he’s right there, his hand in yours, and you’re fumbling for your house key in your purse, but really you’re thinking about kissing him. When his fingers squeeze yours, you give up on the key and turn to him.

He knows it’s coming, you think. When you cup his face in your hand, he’s already leaning in.

The kiss is softer, messier, than the other night. You’re both still a little tipsy. But it’s less frantic, more comfortable. His other hand falls to your hip, and you lean back against the front door to your house and melt into him. He presses against you, warm, firm muscle against every curve of your body. You don’t want this to end. You want to wrap your arms around his neck and beg him to stay right here, to never leave, to come back to you.

He pulls away first. You try to kiss him again, hands tugging at his hips as he pants through reddened lips.

“You’re drunk,” he mumbles.

You shake your head no. “Not that drunk.”

He leans in close and kisses your cheek. “This is a bad idea.”

That makes your gut twist, makes your chest hurt. You roll your eyes and turn away so he won’t see the way your tears well up. He’s right, you know, but it hurts to hear it.

“I care about you. A lot,” he says, quietly. “And I… if things were different…”

“I know,” you say, because you do know. “Yeah. Bad idea. You should go.”

You leave him standing on the porch and disappear inside the house. When you lay down in bed, you lay awake for hours, swirls of color dancing behind your eyelids.

…..

The next night, you find yourself in your studio, alone. There’s paint on the canvas in front of you- not the good stuff you’d normally use, but the cheap kind you keep on hand for moments like these. Children’s finger paint, runny and thin and non-toxic. It’s running down the palette and dripping down your wrist. You’re in a pair of shorts and a sports bra, and frankly, you’d probably be wearing less if you didn’t know your roommates were due home eventually.

Oscar’s leaving tomorrow morning. At this point, the last you’ll see of him for a while will be when you left him on the porch. You swipe a bit of blue on the canvas. You’re not really painting anything, just trying to put color to the feelings. He’s leaving and he’ll be gone for a while again, and things are weird again, because he kissed you and then you kissed him and now he has to leave. You add a swipe of orange. Papaya, you think, gritting your teeth.

You wonder if things really would’ve been different. If he’d stayed, would you be together? Would he love you the way you want him to? Maybe. Or maybe, no matter the universe, this is how it ends. Maybe there’s always a bigger dream waiting. Maybe you’re not enough for him.

There’s a knock on the door. There’s red paint on your fingertips.

“Busy,” you call out.

Someone sighs. You freeze, hand halfway to the canvas. It doesn’t sound like Lizzy or Leo.

“It’s me,” Oscar says. “Can I come in?”

You huff. “Sure.”

He opens the door and blinks owlishly at the sight of you. You know you probably look crazy. He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. The silence is deafening. Paint runs off the palette and onto your leg.

“Rough day?” He asks, because he knows.

You laugh bitterly. “You could say that, yeah.”

“I’m-“

“Don’t apologize,” you say with a sigh. “I’m not sorry.”

“No?”

“No,” you say. “I’m just… frustrated.”

Frustrated that he gets to live out his dream while you wither away in the hot Australian sun, waiting for your chance. Frustrated that every time he comes back it sends you into a tailspin. Frustrated that he’s leaving again. Frustrated with yourself for kissing him, frustrated that you want to do it again.

He crosses the room and stands next to you. You watch his shaky fingers drag through the mess on the palette. Then he reaches out and drags them through the mess on the canvas. He’s the only one you’d let do that, the only one who’d be brave enough to even try.

You follow suit, dip a finger in the yellow and smear it in a line over the canvas. Oscar’s finger falls to your wrist, scoops the bright blue from your skin and draws a squiggle with it. Cadmium Yellow and Phthalo Blue mix on the canvas and turn into envy green. Oscar dips his hand into the Cobalt Violet and draws a line of it up your arm like a bruise. You laugh and pick up the Ultramarine Blue to match the empty feeling in your chest. It leaves behind rivers on his cheeks when you hold his face in your hand and kiss him. Gently, first, and then with all the color you can muster up. You drop the palette on the floor. It splatters everywhere.

You wonder how you’d go about painting this. Red for the brush of his tongue, the bite of his teeth against your neck. Blue for the way his fingers dig into your hips. Bright pink for the way he moans into your mouth, breathy and broken and oh-so-lovely. The way you drop to your knees is lavender purple. The feeling of him heavy on your tongue, the way he sighs over it, is sunflower yellow.

He gets paint in your hair when he pulls you off of him, and then he sinks to his knees with you. You think about suggesting the couch, but then he’s pulling you all the way down onto the floor and you can’t bring yourself to protest. He cleans the paint from his hands first, always a gentleman. Then his fingers slip into you in a rush of an orangey-yellow feeling, one that turns more and more pink with each press of his hand, each swipe of his thumb against your clit. And when he finally presses his cock into you, it’s the brightest burst of sky blue behind your eyelids.

The colors melt together in your mind. You’d never be able to put this onto a canvas- not the way he breathes so heavy in your ear, the way his fingers drag against your skin, the way you shake as you clench around him and he spills himself inside of you. There’s no way you’d get the color right.

You drag him upstairs afterwards, both of you giggling, and you gasp when you hear the front door open just as you pull him into your bedroom. You head for the attached bathroom first, drag him under the hot spray of water and watch the rainbow mix into brown and wash away down the drain. There’s paint crusted in his hair and yours- you do your best to scrub it out as he leans heavily against you.

You don’t even bother asking if he wants to stay. You just drag him to the bed and toss him a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants you think are Leo’s. He doesn’t question it. You can hear your roommates downstairs talking. You wonder if they know.

Oscar flops onto the bed and reaches for you, tugging at the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing. You go easily, willingly, eagerly. He wraps you up in his arms and presses his face into your neck.

“I…” he starts, then cuts himself off.

“I know,” you murmur, because you do. “Me too.”

I love you. I wish it was different. I would stay if I could. I’ll miss you.

You wake up in the morning to his lips against your cheek. You drag yourself out of bed to walk him to the door. Your chest aches, and the feeling is a color that you can’t quite put your finger on. Someone’s there to pick him up and take him to the airport, take him far away for a long time.

He kisses you on the forehead and squeezes your shoulder. “I’ll see you soon,” he promises.

You nod and lean up to kiss his cheek. “Yeah. See you soon.”

The ache he leaves behind is a muddy mix of all your favorite colors.

…..

Six months later, you stand in an art gallery full of people. Your paintings hang on the wall nearby. You sip your drink and try to pretend like you’re not waiting and watching their every little reaction. Like you’re not searching for validation in the faces of strangers.

It’s strange to have these paintings hung up for everyone to see. When others look at them, they see pretty landscapes or flowers or a simple still life. They don’t know the meaning of it all.

You step away to grab another drink, something to quell the anxiety rising in your chest. When you come back, the one person who might just see through the facade is standing there, staring, wide eyed.

You swallow tightly and walk up next to him, and let your shoulder bump into his. “You made it.”

Oscar’s eyes stay trained on the paintings, but he leans into you. “Of course I made it.”

You want to tell him that there’s no of course here, that you’d invited him without really expecting him to show up. You keep your mouth shut though. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that he is here.

“What do you think?” You ask, quietly.

The truth is, of all the people in the gallery, his opinion is the one that matters most. You wonder what he sees when he looks at the canvases. Does he see the rays of sunlight on a table for what they truly are- a poor recreation of the sun on his skin? Does he realize that the deep purple of the plums in the still life matches the bruise on your knee that lasted for weeks after that night in the studio, the one you’d press your thumb into when your heart ached? There’s the painting of the orange lilies, color matched to the papaya of his car and race suit. There’s a painting of an empty table setting, a painting of a wide open blue sky over the backyard, and most telling of all, there’s the fabric study of his t-shirt, left behind, draped over the chair in the studio.

The collection is the closest thing to a portrait that you’ve done in years, even though there are no people in it. It’s the closest thing to a self portrait that you’ve ever done. Does he know?

His hand brushes against your elbow. He points at the empty plate on the empty table. “That’s how leaving felt for me, too, you know.”

You could cry, just knowing he understands. Instead, you nod and lean into him. You have people to talk to, art critics to impress and studio owners to try to convince, but the truth is that Oscar will always be the only one who truly understands. You stay with him for just a moment longer.

He stays the whole time, even as people begin to leave and the catering staff starts clearing the tables of food and drinks. You find him after you’ve had the last of your conversations with the important people. He’s standing near the door, looking only slightly out of place, scrolling on his phone.

“You didn’t have to stay the whole time,” you say.

He shrugs and smiles. “I know. I wanted to. There’s a pub down the street, it’s one of my favorites. D’you have time for a drink?”

You nod and pout. “Maybe some food too? M’starving.”

He nods eagerly in agreement. He leads you out of the gallery, holds the door for you and everything. The cool London night air hits you like a blast as you step outside.

Right. You’re not in Australia.

It’s a strange feeling, being here with Oscar- his chosen home for all these years, and yet it’s the first time you’re seeing it with him. He reaches for your hand on the sidewalk and tucks it into his jacket pocket, right alongside his. The pub isn’t far- when you get there, it’s crowded and warm, and he helps you slip your jacket off your shoulders. You smile at him in thanks. When he smiles back, your heart skips a beat.

Ten minutes later, you’re at the bar, beers in front of each of you and a pile of chips between the two of you. Your knee is pressed against his under the countertop. He’s smiling at you, his face lit up golden yellow in the inky gray light of the bar.

“So. What did you really think?” You ask, leaning towards him.

He shakes his head, almost disbelievingly. “The same thing I always think. Your paintings are amazing. It was like I could feel it, you know? Like I’m staring at, I dunno, fucking plums, but feeling something completely different.”

You nod, chest feeling tight. You’re unsure of what to even say. How to explain to him that maybe he’s the only one who feels that, because all the paintings are about him. You think of the portrait you did all those years ago, sitting in your storage, and how it doesn’t even begin to do him justice.

“How much?” He asks, and you blink widely. “I wanna buy them. I want- yeah.” He has this dreamy, hazy look on his face. “Can I buy them? Or even just one-“

“Osc,” you murmur. You reach out and press your hand over his on the countertop. “You don’t have to do that.”

He tilts his head at you, and when he speaks, his voice is almost raw. “I meant what I said, you know. The plate. That’s how I’ve felt. All of the art, it’s… you know.”

“I know,” you say. “But they’re not for sale.”

He deflates. You squeeze his hand and try not to grin too widely. “Right,” he says. “No, of course, sorry. Just thought it might be cool to have some of them in my apartment. We could get prints made, right?”

“Sure. “ you pause and take a deep breath. “The gallery wants to extend them,” you say, and his face lights up again. “The curator spoke to me after the show. She wants to keep them up for a few months.”

“That’s amazing,” he gushes, leaning over and pulling you into a hug so tight it almost topples you off the barstool. “Oh, wow, baby, that’s- and I could go see them, then, even when you’re gone?”

You laugh against his chest. “Yeah. Sure. Or, um…”

He freezes, the hand that had been sweeping up your back stuck in place. He’s holding his breath. You might be too.

“They offered me an artist’s residency,” you blurt out. “They want me to come stay for six months, maybe longer if it goes well. Work out of their studio, show art, teach some classes.”

Oscar’s voice is breathy and high pitched when he says, “here?”

You nod against his chest. “I mean. I’d have to find an apartment. And move all my stuff. And probably break Leo and Lizzy’s hearts.”

“But you’d be here,” he says. “Here, like… it took me twenty minutes to get here tonight. And you’d- this is what you’ve dreamed of, isn’t it?”

You nod, eyes burning with tears. “Would that be okay?”

Oscar laughs- you feel it more than hear it, in the shake of his shoulders and the rumble in his chest. “Yeah. I could live with that, I think.”

He kisses you in the bar, nearly pulls you off the stool with the force of it. You kiss him right back, bracing your hand on the countertop, not a care in the world who sees it. Fireworks light up behind your eyes like splashes of paint.

…..

There’s not a sunroom you can turn into a studio in your new apartment in London. It’s a smaller space, and you end up doing most of your painting at the main studio anyways. But Oscar is there, perched on the edge of a table watching you paint whenever he can. And in the entryway of your new place, you hang up the old portrait of him, right next to a photo of the two of you taken just after you moved to London.

In the photo, his arm is around your shoulders, his lips against your temple. He’d asked you to be his girlfriend officially seconds after it was taken, but there’s a light in both of your eyes that tells you it was inevitable, really. It’s something in the way he’s smiling, in the way his cheeks burn red and his lips are pink and the way you smile at him, too. Like you’ve both known it all along. That the two of you have always been complementary colors, just waiting for the right moment.

a/n: been working on this one for a while finally got it! hope you enjoyed thanks for reading!

Taglist: @4-mula1 @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @ggaslyp1

[frantic-fiction]

Beg 18+

Pic Credit: astarionposting

Astarion x F!reader

Summary: Astarion asks for more blood, you make him work for it.

Warnings/Tags: Smut MDNI, fingering, begging, slight overstimulation, sub!Astarion, switch!Astarion, Druid!Reader

Word Count: 3.8K

Masterlist

"There you are, darling,"

Astarion hovers above you as you sit cross-legged in the grass by your tent, his shadow blanketing you, blocking the sun's warmth. You hum in acknowledgment, but your focus is solely on your book. A delicate finger dangles in front of the vampire, who audibly scoffs but otherwise stays silent and waits, patiently observing. 

You pick at the skin of your lips absentmindedly with your teeth as you flip the page. You can feel his eyes on you, taking every inch of your body in with his wandering gaze. Shifting in the grass, you continue to read, relishing the impatience dripping from Astarion, smirking when each flick of the page elicits a huff of annoyance from the vampire.

Once your chapter finishes, you mark your page and lean back on your hands to look up at the man with a quizzical arch to your brow. "How can I help you, Astarion?" 

His annoyance melts like ice in the sun as a sultry smile stretches his lips. "Can I not simply want to see your enchantingly beautiful face?"

You snort, "You have barely spoken to me since the tiefling's party. So I'd say you want something." Standing, you brush off the dirt on your pants and move to store your book away.

"I have to!" Astarion balks, pressing a hand to his chest in a dramatic display. "Besides, we have been incredibly busy running all over the gods damn wilderness since you and everyone else seem to want to play the hero."

You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest, a playful retort poised on your tongue. "I'm terribly sorry that some of us have morals and a conscience," you tease, your gaze meeting him with a mixture of challenge and amusement.

"Oh, I have morals, my sweet," Astarion purrs, leaning into your space, his breath chilly against your skin. "however, mine sway towards the more sinful side."

You suppress the shudder that trembles through your body. Astarion always has a way of reducing you to a mumbling, blushing mess with only a few salacious words. It's like he holds the key to pulling you apart and leaving you consumed by him, and he knows it, too. But you're not giving in that easily. There's something he wants. You can see it in his eyes, and he's not going to get it without working for it.

Putting your hand up, you interrupt his following flirty remark. "Did you want something? Or are you just here to interrupt my free time?"

Astarion looks at you in shock, mouth open to speak, but no words seem to want to flow. His eyebrows furrowed, and a smirk stretched his lips. Leaning on one hip, Astarion flicks out his hand, idly looking at his nails. 

"Yes, actually, I have a list. Coin, sex, blood, revenge," Astarion counts on his fingers, his tone dripping with amusement. "Certainly not in that order, and I could go on, but what I came here for specifically is something that might be better…" Astarion looks around the camp, taking mind of everyone. "Discussed in private."

Having a hunch on where this would lead, you stifle a laugh, a plan forming in your head. "Then lead the way." You motion for him to walk, smiling brightly at the vampire. 

Astarion nods smugly, obviously feeling like his plan was going just as he attended. He escorts the two of you past the others' tents and deep into the woods. Your hunch seems more viable as the brush becomes thicker and the symphony of nature's melody replaces the still air. 

After a few minutes of walking in relative silence, the two of you break into a small clearing. Its grass has spatters of bright patches of wildflowers, and the colors of oranges, pinks, and blues contrast against the expanse of green. There's a small pond on the far side, and cattails and pond reeds sway in the winds. A deer is grazing the water, but sensing Astarion as a predator; it quickly retreats to the woods.

Paying more attention to the scenery, you had yet to notice Astarion stop mid-step and swing on his heel. You stumble slightly into his chest. "I believe this spot will do nicely," he declares smugly as you step back.

Taking a step back, you quickly recover, "And why are we here exactly, Astarion? I was quite enjoying my book."

For a moment, uncertainty flickers across Astarion's features before swiftly being concealed behind a facade of confidence and a devilish smile. Turning away from you, he strides further into the small alcove.

"Are you so eager to escape my company, my dear?" he counters playfully, eyes scanning the clearing. "I thought you would like this little spot. I had no idea how beautiful the woods could be." 

"You're stalling," you accuse.

"Am not!" Astarion's voice echoes against the canopy.

Folding your arms over your chest, you give Astarion a pointed look.

The vampire sighs deeply, shoulders slumping. "Gods, this is embarrassing," Astarion mumbles under his breath so low you barely catch it. He combs a hand through his tousled curls, not bothering to turn back to face you. "Fine, yes, you see… I'm hungry, darling. Starving, actually."

Of course, the prick ignores you for almost a week to ask you for a bite. After what he did, he thinks he can call on you like his personal snack pack. Oh no, he's going to have to do better than that.

"Then hunt." You smirk, "Or did you need me to ensnare something for you?" 

"Excuse me! I am perfectly capable of hunting!" Astarion snaps his head back and storms toward you. "It's these bloody woods; there's barely any fauna in the cursed thing."

His outburst has the surrounding animals scurrying, and before you can open your mouth to utter a mocking retort, Astarion grabs you by the waist and pulls you flush against his body. You yelped at the sudden force of his moments, your hand catching yourself on his chest. 

"Don't make me say it," Astarion breathes against your ear, his hands trailing teasing paths down your sides. 

"Astarion," you chuckle, feigning ignorance. "I don't understand what you're implying. If you want something, you'll need to say it."

Astarion nuzzles against your neck with a groan of frustration, his lips brushing against your skin in a maddeningly gentle caress. "Darling, may I have a taste?" He murmurs, the scrape of his fangs against your flesh nearly causing you to relent. "I'm famished, and your blood… Gods, it's intoxicating. I promise to make it just as pleasurable for you."

How easy it would be to say yes. Let him take what he wants and wait for the next time he wants something from you. But you weren't his little chew toy, just waiting for whenever he deems you worthy enough for attention. No, he needs to learn. 

"Beg." You demand, twirling out of his grasp and pushing him away gently.

"What?" Astarion pauses, disbelief written across his face as if he misheard you. 

"Beg." You repeat, your words slipping from your lips mockingly slowly.

"Are you serious?"

You meet his gaze with unwavering resolve, waiting for him to comply. As realization dawns, Astarion's expression shifts to amusement.

"Joking doesn't suit you, dear," he scoffs, his laughter echoing through the clearing. 

Silent and persistent, you hold his gaze, a smirk playing at the corner of your lips. His eyes drift to the faint scar beneath your chin, a silent reminder. Wetting his lips, Astarion clears his throat before looking at you, clearly trying to grapple for the upper hand.

"Must we really play this song and dance?" He asks.

"If you want my blood, this is how you'll get it."

You hold firm, with your arms crossed over your chest. Astarion stares at you as if seeing you for the first time, and a mix of emotions storms behind his eyes. His body seems to deflate, coming to terms with the fact that you won't back down. Licking his lips, Astarion swallows hard and opens his mouth to speak.

"Darling," he murmurs through gritted teeth, his posture betraying his inner turmoil. "Allow me a taste of your exquisite blood. I'm starving and beg for your mercy."

"On your knees," you command softly, relishing the power that surges between you. "And I want a please this time."

Astarion looks at you with wide eyes. "Must I degrade myself further?" The anticipation in his voice betrays his reluctance to give in to you. "You've already gotten what you've wanted."

Biting your lip, you step closer and delicately cup his jaw, your touch gentle but commanding, and bring Astarion's lips tantalizingly close to yours. "I'll let you have your fill of my blood and more if you want. But only if you're a good boy and listen." Astarion breath leaves his lungs in a shuddering gasp, all fight seeping from his body.

"You are a cruel woman." 

With a resigned sigh, Astarion sinks to his knees. His silver curls reflect the golden light filtering through the forest canopy. His back is pin straight, and his neck is arched up to look at you with his deep crimson eyes. You can't help but focus on the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows again.

"I beg, please allow me the privilege to taste your tantalizing blood," he starts, but you zone out the rest of his words, focusing more on Astarion himself.

You focused on how his shirt hugs his chest, the cotton straining in some places while loose in others. You noticed how blue his veins are, just under his pale skin. You see how his pants seemed tight in the front, something stiff straining against the thick fabric. 

Wait. Oh. Now that is interesting. 

You pounce before you can think things through, mind moving more on instinct than anything else. Astarion's plea for you is replaced with a yelp as you push him on his back and straddle his lap.

"Wh-what are you?" he stutters before letting out a pathetic moan he will most certainly deny later. 

You capture his mouth in a heated kiss. Your tongue runs over the seam of his lips, and when Astarion allows you access, you lick into his mouth. Your tongues twirl in a practiced dance as you deepen the kiss. Astarion groans into your mouth. A hand moves up to cup your head, fingers combing through your hair. 

"Astarion," you purr breathlessly, rolling your front against the vampire's growing bulge. You press your body closer against his, practically willing yourself to melt into him. "Did begging for me get you all excited?"

"Excuse you? No! Don't be ridiculous," he tries to deny but fails when another moan rakes through his chest with another turn of your hips. 

"Look at you, all hard and needy." You lick up the column of his throat, stopping to playfully bite at his ear before whispering. "Do you like being my good boy, Astarion?"

"Shit! You're being ridiculous," Astarion pants, his hand tightening on your hips to cease your ministrations. "You're rubbing against me like a desperate virgin. Any man would get aroused."

Humming calmly, you sit back on your haunches and remove your shirt, tossing the garment into the bushes. Astarion's eyes immediately wander your exposed skin, drinking in the sight of your body. You take your bra off and trail your fingers over your nipples. Astarion lets out a pitiful groan.

"That's disappointing," you pout out your lip, trying to conceal a smile. "I was going to reward you for being so good." 

"Darling, I think this is reward enough, so long as we end this with my teeth in your pretty neck."

"That's good to know," you chuckle, trailing a hand down the valley of your breast and over the planes of your stomach, stopping just shy of your waistband. "I'll enjoy this reward for both of us.

Astarion's brows scrunch slightly in confusion before zeroing in on your hand as you teasingly slip under the waistband of your pants and past your folds. Sighing softly, you begin to tease your clit with the pad of your finger, staring down at Astarion, who looks as if he might just have an aneurysm.

He cools his features with a smug smirk, idly trailing his hand up your side. "A show and then dinner? My dear, you're not as good at this teasing as you think, but I admire your effort."

One of Astarion's icy hands works up to your side, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The other grips your hip and begins to rock you against his stiff erection. You involuntarily gasp at the friction, allowing the vampire a moment of control.

Astarion ruts against you, letting out a grunt when you grind down with equal enthusiasm. Then suddenly, Astarion's hands are ripped from your body and pinned to the ground as you rise further, removing any contact between the two of you.

"What?" Astarion exclaims before looking to the side. Little vines sprout from the ground, binding his hands to the hard earth. "Gods, you wretched thing." 

Clicking your tongue, you grin wickedly down at the trapped man. "Only good boys get to touch."

"Darling, must we continue this?" Astarion groans in frustration, tugging at your vines, annoyed when they don't give. "We both want this. You're the one making things difficult."

"Maybe, but only because I love hearing you beg for me. Now, unless you're going to give me what I want." You resume your ministrations, moaning as you dip a finger into your neglected hole. "Keep quiet,"

"At least remove your trousers!"

"Don't make me gag that pretty mouth of yours, Astarion." 

Astarion fumes from underneath you, but you can see the cracks forming, the dilated pupils, the rapidly falling chest as he pants for breath he doesn't need, and the way he tugs against his bindings even though he knows nothing will give. You know he'll break. He already did once he had a bit more incentive.

Adding another finger, you start to pump in and out of your dripping cunt; an audible squelching noise can be heard with each dip of your hand. You moan, dropping your head back. Circling your puffy clit with your thumb, you rock against your hand, your other one snaking up your body to tease your breast.

"Astarion," you breathe out, smirking when you hear the man's frustrated groan. "Gods, I'm so wet, making a mess, squeezing my fingers so tight."

"You are killing me all over again, sweetheart," Astarion cries; his hips are desperately trying to move against you, but another vine wraps around his stomach, holding him down.

"Just say the word's Star," you say, pinching your nipple and rolling it between your fingers. A whine rips from your throat when you curl your fingers up and hit that spongy spot, which has a familiar burning sensation that starts coiling in your gut. "Fuck, say the words, and it could be you making me feel this good. Won't you be my good boy?" 

"Gods," He bites back another moan, slamming his head in the dirt. 

"I'm so close," you whimper, moving your thumb faster against your clit. "Just imagine it could have been your cock I'm clenching around, not my fingers. Could have been you that's making a mess of me." Looking down, you see Astarion all flustered, mouth agape, and hair a mess of frizzy curls, his whole body practically buzzing with need. It was enough to send you over the edge cumming around your fingers with a choked sob. 

This finally broke the man. "Fine, okay! Please, please let me go!" Astarion pleads, voice ragged and needy. "Just let me touch you. I'll do anything you want, please. Gods, please, please, please!"

Suddenly, the vines vanish, and your lips are again on his. Astarion's pleas muffle against your mouth and quickly morph into a satisfied grunt when he bites his lip. Now that he's finally free, Astarion's quick to roll the two of you and pin you against the cold earth. Nestled between your thighs, Astarion starts mindlessly tearing at his clothes, his mouth trailing sloppy open-mouth kisses down your neck and to your chest. 

"You are an evil woman." Astarion murmurs against the skin between your breasts. Slipping one of your nipples into his mouth, he begins to suck, and you gasp, arching your back into him. 

"Astarion, fuck!" 

A hand curls into his hair, your nails raking against his scalp, causing him to hum against your chest, sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine. You feel his hands move to your pants, tugging them down your hips, dragging your drenched underwear with them. 

A cold finger trails through your warm cunt, and you shiver at the feeling. "I must admit, darling, I quite like it when you take charge, but," His voice rumbles against your skin, and you whine at the feeling of his fangs teasing your swollen nipple. "My patience has grown thin, so if it's okay with you, your good boy will take his reward now." His finger teases your entrance, barely dipping in.

You clench, choking on the gasp that bubbles up your throats. "Yes! Gods, please fuck me!" 

Astarion cups the back of your head and kisses you deeply. Feeling his hard cock swipe through your cunt, your gasp into his mouth, your hand coming up to hold his face. He presses into you, and you pull away from his lips, moaning at the stretch of his cock, filling you to the brim. Astarion peppers feather light kisses over your face and neck as he bottoms out and waits for you to nudge him to continue. 

Throwing one of your legs over his shoulder, Astarion pulls out almost entirely before impaling you again and sets a steady pace. A pace has your toes curling and you feeling breathless with each delicious drag of his cock against your walls. You don't think you'll get over the feeling of Astarion inside you, feeling the ridges rub against you in all the perfect ways as if he has the only manual to tear you apart with mind-numbing pleasure. 

"Ugh-Always so tight," he grunts into your neck, "So perfect, just for me."

"Astarion!" You dig your nails into his shoulders and buck against each of his thrusts. "Faster, please!"

Astarion picks up the pace; your collective sounds of pleasure mingle together in the air, and the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes around the clearing. Astarion's forehead drops against yours, and both of your noses brush against each other as he breathes in every whimper and moan of ecstasy you give him with each drag of his cock against your walls. Snaking a hand between your conjoined bodies, his nimble fingers swirl around your clit in time with each grind of his hips. 

Another moan rolls off your tongue, and soon, that warmth blossoms once again in the pit of your stomach. "D-don't stop," you plead, hands running up his chest to wrap around his shoulder. "M' close." 

Astarion nuzzles at your neck and inhales your scent, groaning at a particularly tight squeeze of your cunt. Even after all the begging and pleading you put him through, he still silently asks before he takes a bite. The thought warms your heart and is something you'll have to reflect on later. 

"Yes! Please, bite me!" You whimper, clutching the back of his neck and pressing him close. 

The sharp sting of ice pierces your neck, and you cry out against the pain. Astarion pays special attention to your clit, applying pressure and dragging his thumb around the swollen bud, his way of helping you through the initial sting. After a moment, the pain resides in mind-numbing pleasure, and soon, everything becomes too much. 

Astarion consumes you. His hand caressing your body, his mouth lavishing your neck, his cock hitting you perfectly in spots only he seems to know how to reach. It's all too much, and soon tears prick at your eyes, and the heat in your lower stomach bursts, draining lava into your veins. Your nails dig into the flesh of Astarion's shoulders as you scream out his name, body spasming around the pleasure that courses through your body. 

This seems to be enough to push Astarion over the edge with you. Still drinking mouthfuls of your blood, Astarion is rutting into you, grinding your pelvis against the solid earth. His moans hum against your skin, and his thrust becomes sloppy before a rush of heat gushes inside you as Astarion cums.

With a few more gulps of blood and a few more thrusts of his hips, you whimper with overstimulation. Astarion removes his mouth from your body, licking any stray droplets. He rolls onto his back, dragging you with him until your head is lying on his chest. You whine at the loss of fullness, cringing at the feeling of your combined release that begins to drip down your legs. 

"That was…" Astarion trails off, seeming to be at a loss for words. 

"Way better than the tiefling party." You mumble against his chest, smirking at the snort he makes.

"Yes, I would be inclined to agree."

"So you admit it," you tease, trailing your thumb over Astarion's nipple. "You liked begging for me."

"I wouldn't… mind if you took charge again," Astarion says, skirting around your claim.

"Whatever protects your ego." You tilt your head up. "Hey, Star?" 

Astarion hums in acknowledgment, but his eyes are closed, his body seeping into a comfortable stillness. You note something he didn't allow himself to do at the party. Reaching your hand up, you run your fingers along his jaw, coaxing his eyes open.

"Next time, don't ignore me for a week to ask for my blood. I don't want you hungry. I care about you." 

Astarion seems to freeze at your words as if he's never heard a caring word said to him. The thought alone makes you want to hunt this Cazador down and flay him for all of Baldur's gate to see. 

Astarion opens his mouth to speak, but no words escape. He clears his throat and tries again. "Yes, that will certainly make things easier from now on." 

The two of you lay there in silence, just enjoying the feeling of each other's skin against the other. Soon, when the sky turns to ombres of blues, pinks, and purples, you decide it's time to return to camp. Astarion is quiet for the journey back; an air of contemplation clings to his being. You don't push. Goodnights were said, and you parted ways, feeling like something had changed. Everything may have changed.

Heya, it's been crazy, but I finally got some time and energy to finish up this piece I've been working on for a while. I hope Astarion's not too out of character for as earlier of act one, I just liked the idea. I hope you all enjoyed, let me know what ya thought!

Taglist

@heartfully10 @ayselluna @marina-and-the-memes @anixson @canonicalchaoticneutral @toadsbitch @meulinkitten-blog @ambr4armr @lotusandcrystals @venussakura @synapticjive @skittleabyss @asterordinary @lariatbunny @whispering-depths @butchboi-chihuahua-slumlord @darkest-part-of-the-forest @queenofcarrotflowers-s @sessils @d20bunny@cherifrog@ophelia-ophelian @bgthree @darlingxdragon @mothynyx @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf @babyqnn @mmendez0124 @kokoyu-art @lilah-asteria

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[oatmilkriver]

the chief's kid- eddie munson

pairing: eddie munson x gn!hopper!reader

summary: eddie munson has never been the tyoe to meet the parents. so when you ask him to meet your dad, he's nervous... especially cause you're the chief of police's kid.

warnings: food mentioned, slight upside down mention, Y/N used, no physical descriptions

word count: 1,197

author's note: this is the first fic i've uploaded!! so notes are greatly appreciated, and if you have any advice please dm me!

Eddie has never been this nervous in his entire life. And he’s fought off demobats. But here he is, still sitting in his van that’s parked in front of your house. He adjusts his hair through the rearview mirror in an attempt to tame his curls and takes a deep breath before getting out. He walks up to your front door, looking at the two flimsy bouquets in his hands. Just as he raises his fist to knock, the door swings open, revealing a very intimidating man. An intimidating man Eddie has met a couple of times: Chief Jim Hopper.

Eddie looks up at your dad, his face set in a scowl, looking Eddie up and down before he is pushed gently away. Now he is met with your smiling face and Eddie remembers to breathe again, a small smile showing on his face.

“Come in, I’m excited for you to meet my sister!”

You say, grabbing Eddie by the arm and pulling him in. You run off down the hall, leaving Eddie to look around your house. It’s cute... cozy. Eddie walks into the living room, staring at the family pictures on the wall, laughing softly to himself seeing a picture of a little you with ice cream all over your face, smiling brightly at the camera.

He then hears someone clear their throat behind him, reminding Eddie that he’s not alone.

“So,” your dad says from the kitchen. “You and my kid, huh?”

Eddie doesn’t have the courage to speak up, his throat suddenly very dry, so he just nods. Before anyone can say anything else, you walk into the living room, arm in arm with a younger girl.

“Eddie, this is my sister, El,” You smile at your sister briefly before looking back at him, “She’s the one with the superpowers everyone keeps talking about.”

Eddie walks up to the two of you, a smile on his face.

“Hi El, I’ve been wondering when I’ll meet this super cool sister Y/N keeps talking about” Eddie smiles and hands El one of the homemade bouquets in his hand. “I picked these for you.”

Eddie then turns to look at you, handing you the other bouquet, “And... these are for you.”

You smile at the bundle of flowers. A colorful bunch of wildflowers that you recognize grew on the side of the road next to the trailer park. You grab his hand and kiss his cheek, muttering a ‘thank you’ and leaving Eddie blushing.

Hop clears his throat, bringing everyone's attention back to him.

“Dinner’s ready” Hop huffs out, holding a tray of food and placing it on the dinner table. You quickly walk to help him out, after placing El’s and your flowers in watered vases. El walks to the table with Eddie, tapping his shoulder.

“Can I sit with you during dinner?” El asks, almost nervously. Eddie smiles and nods.

“Of course! It’ll be exciting to sit with a real-life superhero.”

El giggles and sits down as you and your dad bring out the last of the dinner. Once everyone is seated, plates start getting moved around and dinner officially starts. And it’s scarily quiet. Eddie keeps glancing at you from across the table, his nerves setting in whenever he feels your dad staring at hm from the head of the table.

The truth is, Hop doesn’t actually hate Eddie, despite his behavior. Sure, he’s arrested him a couple of times, but he still thought Eddie was a good kid. He knew that his childhood was rough, and he wasn’t the most popular in school, so yeah, Hop didn’t hate the kid. He remembers the first time he arrested Eddie. Little 13-year-old Eddie who got caught vandalizing the side of a building. Hop just wanted to scare him, so he drove him home after an hour of holding. Hopper wasn’t expecting Eddie to pipe up from the backseat, asking if he could keep the handcuffs. But he let him none-the-less.

But the idea of Eddie dating his kid, the idea of anyone dating his kid didn’t sit right with the old chief. He was scared that his eldest would want to spend less time with their old man, before slowly stop visiting altogether. Especially all that’s happened in the last couple of years, Hopper wanted to keep his family as close to him as possible. Even if that means scaring the poor metalhead away.

Eddie continues to eat in silence, looking at you, silently asking what to do. After a shrug in response from you, Eddie decides to try small talk, hoping to get your dad to approve of him.

“This is really good, Ho- sir, um, Mr.-” Eddie stumbles, suddenly not sure what’s appropriate to call your dad.

Hop takes a drink, raising his glass to his lips in an effort to hide his smile. He’s glad that he’s able to make the boy nervous.

“Hop is fine, kid.”

Eddie lets out a relieved sigh, seemingly not embarrassing himself completely.

From that point on dinner went by smoothly. Small conversations were made, laughs were shared, until all the food was gone, and everyone’s bellies were full. El was talking to Eddie about what he should do for his next DND campaign, telling him to mess with Mike more.

When it was time for Eddie to leave, you walked him to the door, kissing his cheek as he blushed like he always does. He says goodbye to everyone, El even giving him a hug, before he walks back to his van.

Halfway there, however, he hears the front door open again. He turns around, expecting you to be there but is surprised at the site of your dad walking towards him.

“Wait up kid, wanna talk to you real quick”

Eddie gulps, fidgeting with his rings as he anticipates what your dad will say. Eddie’s expecting ‘stay away from my kid’, ‘like I’ll ever let a freak date my child’, or anything else that’ll break Eddie’s heart.

“Are you serious about this? About dating Y/N?”

Eddie was not expecting that. Especially not expecting Hop to say it with so much care.

“Absolutely, I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” Eddie responds, cheeks turning red at the truthful declaration.

Hop just nods, looking at Eddie for a moment before holding his hand out to shake. Eddie stares at it for a second before moving quickly to shake it.

Hop stares at Eddie before speaking again, “Take care of them. Because if you don’t, I’ll find you”

He says this seriously, but with the ghost of a smirk on his face.

Eddie nods quickly. But he’s not that scared of the threat, knowing he could never hurt you.

Hop gives Eddie a small smile, nodding his head before moving back to the house. Eddie smiles as he gets into the van. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he could win over the chief of police, much less get his approval to date his kid.

Eddie is still grinning the rest of his drive home, planning on keeping his promise to take care of you, hopefully for the rest of his life.

thank you so much for reading!! notes are greatly appreciated, especially reblogs and comments! ♡

[azsazz]

Cupid's Chokehold

Azriel x Reader

Summary: You are a Cupid, a nearly extinct creature of Prythian. When you get caught trying to shoot Elain with your arrow, well, it's a little hard to explain what you're trying to do.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 2,966

Notes: is it finally time for this?! 😍😌

[Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7]

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You take aim, an arrow notched in your bow, string drawn taut to your cheek, focused solely on your target: the female in the lilac dress as she snips wildflowers at their stems, collecting them for her bouquet. The tall orange-haired male that’s pretending to read under the weeping willow is as much of a metaphor as you’ve ever seen, watching her longingly. You take a calming breath, making sure your sights are set right where you want the bolt to follow.

The string of your bow starts to slip through your fingers as you’re about to release, but your hold tightens and your breath and body stills as a cool, sharp blade is tucked into the underside of your throat.

His breath is hot in your ear as he growls, “Put your weapon down or I’ll slit your fucking throat.”

The low baritone of his voice sends shivers crawling up your spine as you straighten, the cold knife against the swell of your throat awakens all of your senses as he presses down with warning.

You watch as the male beneath the tree’s head perks up, his metal eye gleaming in the light of the setting sun as he scans the area, alerted. Surely he hasn’t noticed you, but his gaze falters in your direction, brows furrowing as he stands, calling out to the female in the pretty dress, ushering her towards the house with a final survey of the yard.

You let the arrow relax in your grip, moving your bow down to your side where the male behind you snatches it from your hands, still a steady hold on the weapon pressed to your neck. A single movement would have the blade tearing into your flesh.

Biting your tongue and curling your fists, you hold back a frustrated noise. You’d been trailing them for weeks. The young female always tucked inside the large estate or in her gardens, while the male watched from the windows above. He must be a traveler, for he doesn’t look like he’d belong to this court, with his autumnal colored clothing and the fact that you’d only seen him on a few occasions, but the two were never together.

You knew they’d have a great relationship with a little help from you.

“I don’t mean any harm,” you raise your hands in surrender, flinching as you hear him toss away your weapon. The clang from the metal of your bow has you hissing as his knife cuts a razor thin line across your throat and you stumble back a step into his hard chest.

He grabs your arm with a firm grip, sheathing his weapon at his hip as he restrains you, pinning you flush against him. He ignores your sweet scent that puffs up when he does, mind going cloudy with it for a second, glaring down at the top of your head.

“Your weapon proves otherwise,” he grunts. You try to crane your head up over your shoulder to look at your assailant but the sun is shining too brightly for you to make out his features.

You gasp as blackness sweeps up, consuming the both of you, slipping you into the folds of shadow and darkness. Your hands grasp for something to hold onto, the feeling of falling through a void takes the breath from your lungs but he’s holding your wrists in one of his and there’s nothing for you to clutch to.

Your knees buckle as the floor returns beneath your feet.

He wrenches you up, arms twisting painfully behind your back until you’ve regained your footing, and then he’s shoving you away from him.

A murmur of something in a language you don’t understand has the faelights turning on, ever so dimly. Squinting, you can barely make out anything in the room, even the male seems to have disintegrated into the blackness. You search the darkened room for anything, for him, to come back, just so that you’re not alone, when your eyes snag on the wall of gleaming, polished weapons hung nicely – menacingly – and ready for use.

You swallow harshly. A torture chamber.

And there. He’s standing leisurely against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest, just…watching you.

“I mean it,” you stutter, hugging yourself firmly. You’re sure that you can see your breath frosting in the cool air. “I wasn’t going to hurt them.”

You’re not sure why you’re trying to explain yourself. Clearly this male is an act first, ask questions later type, but there’s something about those dark eyes glowing in the soft blue light from his stones that makes him even more threatening.

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t move from his spot and it leaves an unsettled feeling in your stomach. You’re frozen beneath his gaze, pinned to your spot by it, not that you’d dare to move anyway. In fact, you’re lucky you’re not chained to the large stone table separating the two of you.

It’s a stalemate, him staring at you while you stare back at him. Your teeth clack together from the chill that’s burrowed its way into your bones is the only sound to be heard.

He can’t say that he feels bad for the pretty female he’s caught. You were trying to kill Elain after all. Eventually he straightens, eyes flickering with something that’s gone too quickly for you to make out. He takes a step closer to you and you take one back.

“Come here.”

“Why? So you can use one of those knives to carve me up?” You retreat another step as he advances, eyes glimmering with sick delight at the chase you’re giving him.

“No,” his tone lowers further, “But I will if you don’t.”

Your jaw aches from trying to stop your teeth from chattering as you weigh your options. Walk directly to him and face the brutality of his bare hands or, you think, eyeing the wall of torture weapons, retreat further and feel the wrath of the metal against your skin, forged for sadistic truths.

He doesn’t care. Either way he will get what he wants.

But today is not the day he gets to interrogate the beautiful female sneaking her way across his lands.

You step forward, keeping your eyes locked on his. You’d like to reach for a weapon on the wall as you pass but it’s so cold you can’t feel your fingers, and surely you’d be stopped before you could land a well placed blow.

If only you had your bow.

When you’re within arms reach he grabs you again, the same darkness swallowing you once more.

You yelp, wrapping your arms around his neck and holding on for dear life, your icy fingertips pressing into the skin at the nape of his neck has his breath hitching in his throat though you are unable to hear it over the racing of your heart thrumming in your ears.

Light blinds you as the shadows disperse. You squint against the brightness, releasing your captor and retreating, getting a good look at him once your eyes adjust.

He’s a handsome male, dressed in fitted fighting gear that leaves little to the imagination, his taut muscles straining beneath the fabric. His hazel eyes glow, marking each and every movement you make, where your eyes roam across his body, widening when you see his wings. It’d been too dark in the chamber to see them, but as they’re tucked tightly behind his back, well, you’d never quite seen anything like them before up close. They certainly are not like your own, hidden away.

The door creaks open and it’s then that your attention is drawn away from the captivating male. Two more enter, filling the room with even more dangerous auras. One, who looks like he holds all the power of this court, violet eyes acknowledging the male beside you, and the other, taller than both of the others, sizing you up as soon as he enters.

It’s apparent that they are from the same lineage, with their dark hair and caramel skin. They have the same wings, though you think that the warrior who’d stopped you has the biggest ones.

You thought the Lord would be the one to speak first but it’s you who’s blurting out beneath their heavy gazes, “Where’s my bow?”

“What is your name?” he counters, as if he’d been waiting for you to break the silence. Why, you didn’t know.

“(Y/N).”

“Welcome to the Night Court, (Y/N),” he greets. “I’m High Lord Rhysand, and this is Cassian. I see you’ve already met my shadowsinger.”

Shadowsinger? What the hell is a shadowsinger? You wonder, but glancing at the male beside you, the tendrils of inky smoke curling around him protectively, you see his connection to the shadows. Singer though, you doubted it.

“My bow,” you inquire again.

“Your bow,” Rhysand echoes, picking at a piece of lint on his finely pressed coat. “Ah, yes, what an interesting weapon indeed.” He reaches into the folds of space, your gleaming weapon appearing in his grasp, the honeyed metallic soaking up the sunshine streaming through the windows. “For something made almost completely of gold, it sure is light.”

Your brows furrow at the sight before you. You’d never seen magic quite like this before, how he could manipulate the air around him into a pocket world for his–your–belongings. 

“It’s not a weapon,” you protest, stalking towards the male to retrieve your beloved longbow. The two males look like they’re ready to pounce on you but the High Lord only smirks and just as you’re about to lunge for the curved gold it disappears again.

“If it’s not a weapon why does it look like one and why was it pointed at my sister-in-law?” Rhysand muses, walking around you to sit on the edge of the fancy oak desk, leaving you standing between his two guards.

All on purpose. You’re already playing right into his hands.

You refrain from speaking. Your bow can be used as a weapon if needed, though its intended use is not to harm, but the opposite.

The males violet eyes glimmer at your silence, “This will be much easier if you speak. Unless you’d rather go back to Azriel’s chamber?” he ponders coolly. 

You eye the male at your side again. Finally, a name to go with the stoic face that has been threatening you. Azriel.

“Give me back my bow and I’ll leave,” you reason, trying to keep your voice steady as you turn back to the male in charge. You don’t need to shoot your arrow at the female in the garden. There will be other challenging cases.

But none as interesting as those two.

He tuts, swinging a leg back and forth, a well practiced feline smirk gracing his lips. “That’s not how this works. Not until you give us some answers.”

“Like what?” you ask, catching your lip nervously between your teeth. You’ve never been caught before, and by someone so powerful. The males reeked of power, protectiveness, scrutinizing you under their harsh gazes and towering over you like a child. It’s unsettling to say the least and your stomach twists with worry.

“What are you doing in my land? Following my sister?” he questions again. Your skin crawls at the gentle caress of him inside of your mind, testing your walls.

You cut him a harsh glare that has Azriel angling into you, prepared to catch you should you decide to strike.

“Yes,” you admit, though you don’t release the information that you’d been roaming his land undetected for weeks, “It’s my job.”

“And what exactly do you do that involves a weapon if you don’t intend to kill anyone?” his tone is clipped, his eyes hardening at the thought of you murdering Elain in his own gardens.

“I’m a Cupid.”

“A Cupid?” he asks incredulously, eyebrows itching to twitch into a furrow. The way he says it feels condescending and your cheeks heat as you look towards the ground.

“What the hell is a Cupid?” Cassian blurts, his curiosity getting the better of him. He sounds genuinely concerned, like he’s going to catch something from you. He shifts wearily away as he looks between his friends, regarding their own confusion.

“A Cupid is a being made of love and desire,” you explain, glaring at the male. You’re sure your entire face is redder than the siphons littering his leathers. “Our arrows are conduits of attraction and affection. They form this sort of bond, once the two parties are struck. You call it a mate, I believe. You haven’t heard of us because we’re a rare breed and not so easily caught.”

“You must not be very good at your job then, if you’re standing here before us,” Azriel comments. His voice is even but you can hear the clear pride of how well he thinks he’s done.

“Or maybe you’re too good at yours,” you bite back and the apathetic male raises an eyebrow slightly.

“Why didn’t you shoot your arrow at Elain weeks ago?” the High Lord presses.

You blanch. You hadn’t figured they’d known about you being in these lands for that long. They were powerful beings indeed.

At your surprise, the handsome High Lord continues, “I am not a monster, I let creatures in my lands be unless they threaten my people.”

“What about their kind?” You gesture to the two males flanking you. You’d seen exactly what their kind could do when you were up in the bitter mountains, following Elain and her sisters as they visited a friend.

It was horrible, what you’d seen. The males took whatever they wanted, treated their women less than filth, their wings clipped and forced to do chores. You’d left at the sight of a young female screaming and fighting so they wouldn’t clip her, throwing up in the bushes outside of the camp. 

You would kill anyone who would try and touch your wings, hidden now as they always were when you weren’t flying.

Darkness fills the room, choking you as the stars in Rhysand’s violet eyes wink out. Clearly you’ve overstepped, insulted the King of these lands with your words. A challenge.

“You know nothing of my court,” he growls and you gag, staggering backwards, tripping over your feet as your hands claw at your throat, the inky smoke constricting your airway. When he’s sure you’ve understood not to insult him again, he releases you, spluttering and coughing, gasping for air.

“I didn’t shoot her,” you wheeze, figuring that you better start talking before he really decides that it will be easier to kill the intruder in his lands, “Because they have to be struck together, by the same arrow. If I only hit the female, I'd have to retrieve it and find the male. It’s easier if the two are in one place.”

“I didn’t mean to insult your kind,” you apologize softly but the High Lord doesn’t turn around. Cassian lends you a hand, a soft expression on his face and you take it with an apologetic look which he accepts with a nod.

“Cupids are rare because there are only a few of my kind left. Hunted down by jealous individuals or those that want to use us for bad.”

“Bad?” Rhysand asks over his shoulder. He’s crossed to where he keeps his strongest liquor, pouring himself two fingers full of the amber liquid, knocking it back before splashing some more. You wince, embarrassed that you’ve made him feel this way, but you continue on.

You nod, your face contorted in a tight grimace. “Making the wrong two people fall in love.”

The silence is deafening as he stills, spine straightening as he’s reminded of his own mother and father: mated but not meant to be.

“Why them?” he asks, trying to keep his voice from wavering and there’s no room for arguing or changing the subject. He clutches the glass tighter in his hand. “Why not someone else?”

“He has already been shot, she has not. I’m just finishing the job.”

The tension is palpable, silent but screaming all at the same time. You have a feeling that you’ve said something you shouldn’t have, again, but you’re unsure of what. Azriel hasn’t stopped openly glaring at you and you liked him better when you couldn’t read his facial expressions. 

The shadowsinger scoffs, “What if she doesn’t want it?”

And maybe he’s still mourning the loss of the love he never had, that beautiful sweet sister of his High Lady. 

You cut him a glance, “It’s not my decision to make.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” he explodes and you take a step back at the absolute fury in his eyes. Cassian even goes so far as to take a half step in front of you, shielding you from his brother, whose shadows curl up around his shoulders like a crown of darkness. “You go around shooting people without their consent, making them ‘fall in love’ or whatever bullshit you’re spewing–”

“The Mother wills it,” you grit, interrupting him, hands curled into fists at your sides. This is why you didn’t let people get close enough to trap you, because of the nonbelievers. “They choose whether or not to accept the bond, I just make it known that there is one.”

“Unfortunately I cannot let you shoot my sister with your arrow,” Rhys breaks up the both of you with a scowl.

“I understand,” you nod graciously, “If you get me my bow I’ll be on my way.”

“No,” he says and you swallow thickly, a bad feeling coiling in your gut, “You’ll be staying here for the time being. With us.”

“W-why?”

“Because I have a feeling there’s more to you than you’re letting on, Cupid.”

[meo-on-prairie]

Pulmonaria

Gojo Satoru x Reader

Prompt: “You know there's many different ways that you can kill the one you love // The slowest way is never loving them enough”

Words count: 2844

Tags: ANGST, SO MUCH ANGST, fluff if you take out the James Webbs Space telescope, pain train all the way, not a happy ending, mention of blood and death, idiot to lovers a little too late, it’s not happy, highschool au, hanahaki au

Rambling: if you see this fic as “Pulmo flower” this is the revamp of that lmao, I posted it years ago and deactivated my entire account cuz i was insecure about my creativity, but i’m working on that. By re-releasing what I think is my proudest work. Please listen to “High Infidelity - Taylor Swift” and “Heather - Conan Gray” for this fic. 

/////

XX03 Daisy: innocence 

He gave me a Daisy when we first met— a wildflower he picked at the entrance of the playground, shoving it in my face as I sat on the swing. Grinning from ear to ear when he asks, “will you be my friend?”. And every birthday from then on, without fail, Daisies would be shoved to my face. Those damn Daisies occupied my lungs, took my breath away. 

XX09 Sunflower: unconditional love 

We’re inseparable, attached by the hip. It’s easier to count the times where we’re not together. I don’t know when it started, but he became my air, although sometimes it was hard to breathe, it’s hardest to breathe when he isn't near. The pressure in my chest became so great that it often forced out violent coughing fits. They are often violent and painful, sometimes unbearable, they feel like my lungs are trying to force something out that is incapable beyond reach. Until one day, those violent coughs forced me into unconsciousness. 

White. The first color that I saw when I opened my eyes. Cold and harsh white of the hospital room. the color white, it’s in everything I hate. White is the color of the hospital room glaring at me mockingly, laughing at the fact that I have a weak body. White is the color of snow signaling the arrival of winter and the freezing uncomfortable cold. White is also the color of his stupid hair, a painful reminder of someone I can never have. I hate the painful white color. 

But maybe the color white isn’t so bad if it allows yellow to shine so brightly. The Sunflowers on the table caught my attention from the corner of my eyes, the flowers warmed up the whole room instantly, funny how a speck of yellow can warm up the cold white room. The small note of the familiar handwriting attached to one of the flowers makes the flowers shine even brighter. "Get well soon! :( love and miss you a lot ~ Satoru". Slowly, painfully, I can feel the sunflowers blooming, occupying another space in my lungs, making it harder to breathe, especially without him. 

XX11 Cornflower: young love

Legend has it that Cornflowers were worn by young men in love; if his love was returned they would remain bright and fresh, if not they would wither away quickly. He gave me Cornflowers during freshmen orientation. Everything about cornflowers was annoying, the color was too bright and it hurt my eyes. It's a weak flower and dies easily, withering in two days. It reminded me of how similar I am to it, weak and annoying; both wither away when our love is not returned. But at the same time, it gave me hope… 

“Why Cornflowers?”

“They just look bright and pretty, something vibrant for a new chapter in our life right?”

“Right… of course.” 

Of course, there wouldn’t be any deep meaning to them. Hope is for fools.

XX14 Heather: admiration

November brings around the freezing cold of winter, I have always disliked the cold, it made breathing harder than it already was. When the bell for lunch rang, I quickly packed my bag to go meet up with Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko at the cafeteria.

To my surprise, Satoru wasn’t with them. The three of us went to get food anyway since all the good foods will be all gone if we’re late to the line. Satoru arrived at the cafeteria a few minutes later, with an unfamiliar girl trailing behind him. 

“Sorry I was late, I was trying to convince someone to join us” he explained quickly before turning his body sideways, “We got paired together for a project for Physics, she just moved here so be nice to her.”

“Hi, I’m Areum” she spoke softly, her shyness written all over her face. She was absolutely gorgeous, the soft curls of her long hair framed her face perfectly. She has a small figure, the clearly oversized sweater she’s wearing made her look adorable, a sight for sore eyes. Compared to her I’m not even half as pretty.

“Hello Areum, I’m Suguru, I see you’re wearing Satoru’s sweater,” he said with a smirk, clearly enjoying the blush that quickly appeared on both Satoru’s and Areum’s faces. 

“S-She looked like she was about to freeze over in that room alright?!” Satoru defended hotly. 

“Sure thing buddy” Shoko joined Suguru on the teasing-Satoru-bandwagon before smiling at Areum, “My name is Shoko, by the way!”

I reached my arms out to flick Suguru and Shoko on their forehead, “stop teasing the poor girl!”

“Hi Areum, I’m Y/n, Satoru’s childhood friend, sorry you got stuck with that doofus for a Physics project of all thing” I joked, offering her a gentle smile while ignoring Satoru’s pouty complaints of something along the line of he’s not that bad at Physics.

Areum let out a shy giggle at my comment before sitting down to join our table. The four of us quickly settled into a comfortable atmosphere as we got to know Areum better, asking her the reason for her transfer so late into the school year, among other things. 

The entire time, Satoru’s eyes never strayed away from Areum’s face. His smile got wider every time she laughed. His gaze toward her made my stomach somersault and me feeling nauseous. They’re the same gazes I had toward him. It slowly gets harder to breathe as pressure builds up in my throat. I forced the cough that threatened to escape down, I was probably overthinking it anyway. 

But that feeling of nausea never went away. It only gets worse as the week comes and goes, especially when almost all of the conversations between me and Satoru had always led to her. I started to see him less and less since he always declined invitations to hang out with: “Sorry, I promised Areum that I would study Physics with her.”

Ever since Areum joined our little group, she got Satoru mesmerized. They’re practically attached by the hip, never one without the other. It was suffocating to see them together all the time. But how could I hate her? She was an absolute angel. Always speaking softly and gently, always kind to everyone around her. Hell, she noticed whenever I started to struggle for air when no one else did. I wish I could hate her even just a little bit, maybe then it wouldn’t be as painful.

XX15 Rose: romance  

February 14th, probably the most annoying day of the year. The school ground is littered with pink and red, people carrying flowers, balloons, chocolate, and stuffed animals in different sizes around, blocking up the already crowded hallway. 

Some couples walk around, others busy sucking each other face off in a corner, and god knows what some of those freaks are doing in the bathroom stalls. I wish this day would be over already, everything is suffocating. I make my way through the hoard of people professing their undying love to each other in the schoolyard. Finally, I reached my first-period class, reaching my hand out to tug open the door when I heard my name being called. I turned around to see Satoru with one hand waving in the air like a madman and the other carrying a single pink rose. 

“Y/n! Hi!” He greeted me after coming to a stop in front of me.

“Good morning to you too, Satoru,” I said with a smile.

He shoved the pink rose he’s holding to my face with the bunny smile gracing his lips, “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

I guess some old habits die hard after all, “Thanks, Satoru” I chuckled lightly as I accepted the flower. 

We stood there for what felt like forever until he started, “Y/n, so I----” the bell ring cutting Satoru off.

“Shit, gotta go, my first class is on the opposite side of campus, I’ll see you after school okay? Bye Y/n” He said quickly before running off. 

What was he about to say? Curse that damn bell, I swear that thing has the worst timing. I look down at the pink flower. The pink petals look soft and fluffy, a small pink rose starts to bloom in my lungs along with budding of hope. “No Y/n, you idiot, didn't you say that hope is for fools? Stop it before you get hurt!”. But I know it's already too late, I can't seem to control the smile that's growing on my lips and the fluttering of butterflies in my stomach. 

Maybe... Just maybe... he feels the same way. Maybe I was wrong about his feelings toward Areum. After all, he gave me a rose, the one flower that shouted “love” louder than any other flowers. This could be my chance to tell him how much he means to me. Suddenly, Valentine’s day became the most exciting day of the year. Bringing the rose closer to my nose, I can't wait to see him after school...

When the last bell signaling the end of the day rang, I practically bolted out of the room to meet Satoru at our usual spot. Excitement filled my body, I felt lighter than ever, but also nervous at the same time.

I arrived at the schoolyard to see a huge group of people crowding around in a circle blocking the way to our usual spot. I rolled my eyes as I prepared mentally to push through the crowd. 

With great difficulty, I started to join the crowd and maneuvered myself through the hoard of people while repeating "excuse me" over and over again. Eventually, I reached the other side of the human barrier, I breathed deeply and prepared to do it once again before looking up. The sight that greeted me when I looked up filled me with dread. My stomach dropped and I felt nauseous. The flowers in my lungs are multiplying, making it harder to breathe. I can feel my heart tighten up in my chest. 

Standing in the middle of the circle of people is Satoru, holding a bouquet of red roses, looking as handsome as when I last saw him. Light pink coating his cheeks, there is nervousness in his eyes as he stands in front of Areum, who is having both hands covering up half of her face. Surprises grace her beautiful form. Standing behind them are Shoko and Suguru, they're both holding up a giant sign that reads "will you be my Valentine?" with a glittery cursive font. Both of their faces show excitement as they look at Satoru and Areum. 

I held my breath as I prayed for whatever deity above for her to say no. Unfortunately, they seem to hate me with a burning passion. I watch as she nods slowly before exclaiming "yes!". I watch as Satoru lets out a sigh and then smiles brightly. The same smile that can light up the whole room. The same smile that makes me fall hopelessly in love with him. I watch them walk toward each other as people around them cheer loudly. I watch as Satoru shyly gives Areum the rose and she accepting them just as shyly. I watch as they embrace each other with wide smiles gracing their lips and people hollering and wolf-whistling around them. 

I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. The flowers are multiplying too quickly, filling up my lungs, making it almost impossible to breathe. I need to get out of here. I turned around abruptly, forcing my way through the crowd of people. Once I'm out of the circle, I break into a sprint. I ran and ran and ran and ran. I don't know where, I just want to be as far away from that crowd as possible. My lungs were burning from the lack of oxygen, but I kept running until I could no longer hear the cheering of people and dropped down to the ground. 

I tried inhaling to no avail. It hurt so much. Every time I try to inhale or exhale it would feel like needles are being scraped against the walls of my lungs. It's painful, no, fuck that, it's torturous, everything hurt like hell, the pain is agonizing. It makes me want to rip out my heart and lung and throw them far away to ease the pain in my chest. 

Pressure slowly builds up in my throat and it gets itchier and itchier forcing me to let out a cough. That cough is followed by another one, and another one, and another one until I'm coughing uncontrollably. My body doubled over and shook violently as I wheezed for air. I covered my mouth with my hands as I coughed into them. I choked violently before I felt wetness on my hands. 

I pulled my hands away from my face and looked down on them, holding back another cough. In my hand, a pool of blood and flower petals. The warm yellow of sunflowers, the cold white of daisies, and the gentle pink of roses are being dyed by the red of blood. Tears blurring my vision as I throw myself into another coughing fit. More blood was forced out of my body along with more flower petals. 

Suddenly my lungs started to burn even more. I cough harshly as something bigger than the petals force its way out of my throat and onto the floor, joining the existing puddle of blood. A pink rose. Soon enough the more flowers and blood forced their way out of my body to join the puddle of blood under me where the rose and flower petals lie. It hurts like hell with each cough, but... It became easier and easier to breathe after each time. 

When the last daisy fell into the pool of blood, the coughing fit stopped. The burning stopped along with the pain in my chest. The numbness I felt was almost exhilarating. My body felt lighter than ever, it felt like I was floating on clouds. I take in a deep breath and slowly exhale as darkness takes over me. 

XX16 Tiger Lily: “Please love me”

A figure of a man holding a bouquet walks silently toward the cemetery. His lean frame is adorned with a thick jacket to protect him from the harsh cold of winter, his form feels lonely as if a part of him is missing, gone from this world completely. The sun is setting over the horizon, coloring the sky in bright orange and pink. But Satoru couldn't care less, his world has lost all of its colors a while ago. The beauty of this world only appears dull to him, nothing can be pretty in a world without her. 

He walks solemnly through the cemetery, passing by the countless headstones. Until he reached one in particular. The headstone looks relatively new compared to the ones surrounding it. The writing on it read: "Y/n, XX97 - XX15, 'Loving you silently'". 

Satoru kneels in front of Y/n's grave as tears slowly spill from his eyes, blurring his vision. He placed the bouquet of Tiger Lilies in front of her grave, joining the other flowers that were already there from visitors earlier that day. He sat there regretfully silent as tears spilled from his eyes. 

"Hey Y/n, How have you been?" he greets.

"I hope you’re doing well.” He lets out a forced chuckle, "Everyone has been missing you. Especially your mom, she cried everyday for months after you’re gone. She has been doing better now though, so you don't have to worry too much, I’ll take care of her in your stead."

Satoru let out a shaky breath as more tears spilled out from his eyes, “I miss you every damn day, I miss you so much that it’s hard to breathe. Fuck, I can’t look at daisy flowers without crying anymore!"

“I miss your smile that brightened up the whole room. I miss your eyes that held the universe. I miss your comforting voice” he said while choking up as tears fell harder from his glistening blue eyes, "But more than anything, I miss you who felt like home...”

“I’m sorry for being an idiot and realizing when it was already too late, you deserve so much better than my pathetic self” He sobs pitifully.

Satoru sat there with his back hunched over as tears fell endlessly from his eyes. At that moment, he looks small and fragile, as if we would break from a single touch. With each passing minute, it got harder and harder for him to breathe. His lungs begin to burn as the pressure slowly builds up in his throat, forcing him to violently cough up flower petals and blood. When the coughing fit died down, he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the blood off of his lips. Slowly, he stood back up before glazing at the headstone longingly. 

“I’ll see you soon, Y/n,” he whispered with a bitter smile as he began to walk away.

[skz-streamer]

The First Date - Chan

Simptober First Dates M-List

Pairing: Chan (skz) x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff ;))))

Warnings: idk lmk

Notes: AHHHH first oneee sorry its a lil late :))

-please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people

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

In the bustling city where you both lived, amidst the cacophony of everyday life, something beautiful was beginning to blossom. You had crossed paths with Chan, a charming and familiar face from the cafe you worked at. He had been a regular customer, ordering his coffee with a smile that never failed to brighten your day. Little did you know that this routine interaction would eventually lead to a wonderful first date that you would remember for a long time.

It all began when Chan, mustering up his courage, approached you one day. Your heart raced as he casually asked, "Would you like to go out for a picnic next weekend?" You barely knew him beyond the confines of your workplace, but there was something in the way he looked at you, in the earnestness of his smile, that made it impossible for you to say no. You agreed with a shy smile and exchanged phone numbers, your excitement building as the days passed.

As the day of the picnic drew near, you couldn't help but feel a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. What if the conversation turned awkward? What if you had nothing in common? But there was a sense of adventure in not knowing, and you pushed aside your doubts.

The day finally arrived, and the sun was shining brightly. Chan had chosen a picturesque nature park for your rendezvous. It was a place of serene beauty, with winding paths, tall trees, and colorful wildflowers. The air was filled with the soothing sound of birdsong and the gentle rustling of leaves. It was the perfect setting for a first date, and you couldn't help but feel touched by his thoughtful choice.

He was already waiting when you arrived, a warm smile gracing his face as he waved you over. His eyes twinkled as he greeted you, and you felt your heart skip a beat. The awkwardness that hung in the air at the beginning of the date quickly gave way to the comfort of being in his presence.

You both laid out a blanket beneath a majestic oak tree, and the picnic basket he had brought held a delectable assortment of sandwiches, fruit, and a bottle of chilled sparkling water. The conversation started with some hesitance, but it soon began to flow naturally. You discovered that you shared a love for books and a passion for hiking, which made the day even more enjoyable.

As you ate and talked, Chan's smile became more frequent, and his laughter, oh, his laughter was like music to your ears. You found yourself drawn to the way his dimples deepened when he chuckled. It was in these moments that you realized just how much you liked him. The initial nervousness gave way to a sense of ease, as you both opened up about your dreams, your favorite childhood memories, and your quirkiest habits.

The hours passed by, and you couldn't help but feel a tinge of sadness knowing that this beautiful day would come to an end. As you finished the last of your sandwiches, Chan hesitated for a moment, his gaze filled with anticipation. "So... will we meet again?" he asked, his voice laced with hope.

You pondered for a moment, your heart racing with excitement. "Hmmm," you said, playfully, "how about next Saturday, and I'll text you the address?" His face lit up with delight, and you knew you had made the right decision. "It's a date then! Yeah?" he exclaimed, his eyes shining with joy.

"Yup!" you replied with a grin. You gathered your bag and started to walk past him, but before fully leaving, you couldn't resist leaning in and giving him a gentle peck on the cheek. As you turned around, you couldn't see his face, but you could feel his warmth and the way his ears turned red. It was a moment of sweet connection, a silent promise of what the future might hold.

With the memories of that lovely day, you couldn't help but smile to yourself as you looked forward to your next rendezvous. In that serene nature park, amidst the heart-shaped bush and the whispered secrets of the trees, you had discovered something truly beautiful – a connection that had the potential to blossom into something magical. You were going to take it slow, savoring every moment, because you really did like him, and the feeling was undeniably mutual.

Tags: @eee5533 @mixtape-racha @cherry-edibles @ren0325 @felixvsp @hwangrimi @sanriiolino @painstakingly-juno @herarcadewasteland @dabiscrustyfeet @kai-jilee @sungiesoonie  @slvtty4channiee @revelaffee e @buckys-pillow, @staygirl86 @chlodavids @jinnie-ret @bbygrlhannie @rebecca-johnson-28  @turtledove824  @interstellarairwaves @yearofthetiger25 @minhos4thkitty @fiqire e @backintomykpopphaseagain @liknws @tinyelfperson @aaasia111 @yangbbokari @hafsah-ali @sleepyleeji @skzhoes @yamaguchiwestad @leonswifesstuff

[teafairywithabook]

How Redacted Characters Wrap Gifts Pt 2

Here's how I envision various Redacted bois would wrap their gifts...

Demons

Avior: So neat. Matching ribbon and gift tag. If he can't find a matching gift tag, there won't be one. He'll remember who it's for. Doesn't have huge amounts of patience for wrapping, so although he prefers to hand wrap, if it's a difficult shape, has no qualms at all about finger snapping the wrapping!

Regulus: He knows his precious human enjoys unwrapping gifts at this time of year. Unfortunately they're unavailable to do so at the moment. When they're in a better position, however, there's a lot - and I do mean a lot - of gifts waiting for them, hidden away. All perfectly wrapped as they deserve, in sparkly paper. Ready to make them smile as much as they make him smile. Eventually...

Camelopardalis: Uses seed paper. It's colourful and has wildflower seeds in so you can plant it. I nearly gave this one to Huxley, but this kind of felt like Cam would like it too.

Vega: Given that gifts aren't a human concept, he could be persuaded to give someone a token gift perhaps? If they needed something, like a human to feed on maybe. Wrapping might be a step too far.

EMPOWERED HUMANS

Elliott: Uses fabric! Brightly colored scarves, fabric squares, anything he thinks the reciever would enjoy.

Blake: Gets that cheap shit that tears the second you try and use it. Tapes over the holes badly. Pathetic.

Morgan: Tired of this shit already. Uses gift bags. So much easier!

James: Gives gift cards inside greetings cards, written really nicely in fountain pen.

UNEMPOWERED HUMANS

Geordi: Passable. Not quite as bad as Asher, but this is not really a skill Geordi has. Likes to use bio-degradable paper.

Guy: WRAPPING! Oh yes! Will absolutely try to find funny or offensive paper. Be warned. Probably as bad as the contents. Saw a YouTube Short about wrapping a gift in several layers of duct tape, zip ties, paper, staples, rubber bands and thought it was HYSTERICAL! Honey did not.

Aaron: Very civilised. Sits down with everything he needs, some music on and a drink, and spends a whole evening wrapping up in nice normal paper.

Marcus: Tells people he's "donating to a good cause this year" instead of giving gifts and cards. He's a lying sack of shit.

Ollie: Very careful, and you can generally see where he's peeled back the tape to re-stick it because he dropped the tape on the paper in the wrong place.

SPECIAL MENTIONS

Hush: Wasn't sure what was going on, but after Doc showed him and explained the whole thing, turned out to be really good at wrapping. Doc made him wrap all of theirs too.

Adam: He would roll the paper around the gift and roll the tape around it several times, but he can't, because he's FUCKING DEAD IN EVERY UNIVERSE.

Marie: You don't wrap Tupperware. She gives food. She's perfect like that.

Did I miss anyone? Want me to do someone? Let me know!

Happy holidays!

[athena-writes-i-guess]

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Prompt: “You bought me flowers?”

A/N: I was on Facebook or something and I saw this little piece of art of a person taking a bath and their partner hang out with them in the bathroom while they do that. And I just thought it sounded like a cute moment to have with Eddie. So a bubble bath with Eddie!

Candles. Epsom salt. Bubbles. A book. Music. You had everything you needed to have a nice long bath after such a long day. You had worked a double shift at your job as a server and you had gotten yelled at by a few unhappy customers, so you were exhausted. You were excited though that you had the next two days off and thought that you would kick off the relaxing weekend with a bubble bath.

You let out a hiss as you lowered yourself into the bathtub. Your sore muscles almost instantly relaxing against the heat of the water. Eddie always said he couldn’t take baths with you because of how hot you make the water every time, even though you both finally got a trailer with a big enough tub. Sometimes though, when one of you was feeling particularly needy, he would join after the water cooled a little. He would rub your back until you were practically puddy in his hands and he would almost fall asleep as you washed his hair. There were sweet, lazy kisses, and long talks about everything and nothing. More than once you had found yourselves waking up in each others arms in freezing water after having fallen asleep to the soft sounds of one of Eddies mixtapes as it played on a stereo that you would bring into the bathroom just for baths.

You settled into the water and started reading your book, some triller one of your friends suggested. You were so invested in the story that you hadn’t even heard Eddie come into the trailer until he knocked on the door, surprising you and causing you to let out a small shriek. “Are you okay, babe?” You heard him chuckle from the other side of the door.

“Yeah, come on in.” You said with a relieved laugh as you tried to calm your racing heart.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He smiled brightly at you as he walked into the room, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“You bought me flowers?” You asked with a surprised smile as he closed the door behind him and sat on the toilet next to you. He leaned forward and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips.

“Ah, no. They didn’t have any with the colors you liked at the store, so I stopped by the side of the road on the way back here and picked some of the wildflowers for you.” He said as he brought them in front of you to smell before placing them gently on the counter next to him.

“You’re so sweet, pretty boy.” You gushed, Eddie had almost a shy smile on his face as you watched the color creep to his cheeks. Somehow, even after all these years together, calling him pretty boy still made him blush. You smirked at his reaction, loving that you could still act like those nervous 16 year olds who fell in love 5 years ago.

“It’s nothing. You said you had a rough day when you called on your lunch and I’m guessing it probably didn’t get better so I just wanted to make you smile, beautiful.” He said, it was now his turn to watch you flush at his words.

“You always know how to, Eds.” You beamed up at him.

The two of you shared a soft look with love-sick smiles before, “Mind if I jump in there with you, sweet thing?” Eddie questioned, not wanting to push if you didn’t want his company.

“Of course, honey. It’s still hot though.” You warned gently, giggling slightly at the way he jumped up and hurriedly started pulling off his clothes.

“Don’t care. I just want to hold you.” He said, smiling when you giggled again as he kicked off his boxers. You placed your book on the toilet seat before making room for him as he sunk down into the tub behind you. He slotted you between his legs as he pulled you back into his chest to hold you closely to his body. You heard him breathe in your scent deeply before an almost dreamy sigh escaped him.

“You sound like you had a rough day yourself, sweetheart.” You pressed as you placed your hands on his arms as they held you to him, rubbing them back and forth in a soothing way.

“I did, customers were assholes today. Like hey, I’m fixing your fucking car, you could be nice at least.” He scoffed before burying his face into your neck. “But it’s better now that I’m with you.” He mumbled against your skin.

“Well, at least we have the next 2 days off, I say we stay in bed until noon tomorrow.” You suggested, you heard him hum in approval as he started leaving light kisses on your shoulder. “I love you, pretty boy.” You said after a few moments of comfortable silence.

You felt him smile into your skin as he kissed his way up from your shoulder to your ear. “I love you too, baby. To Pluto and back.” He said softly against it. It sent pleasant shivers down your spine and goosebumps to raise on your skin.

“Isn’t it to the moon and back?” You asked as you turned in the tub to face him, still in his arms.

“Usually, for other people. But I love you more than all them. All the way to Pluto and back.” He said with a cheeky smile, putting emphasis on the ‘and’.

You beamed up at him, ‘To Pluto and back.” You agreed, biting your lip lightly as you looked from his gorgeous, big brown eyes to his plush lips and back.

“Come here, gorgeous.” He said quietly, pulling you close to him as you leaned up. You captured his lips in a tender kiss as you both, somehow, fell even more for each other, neither of you knowing that was even possible.

Taglist: @srapalestina @yvonneeeee @cityofidek @anaisweird @mayahawkewife

[jungle-angel]

🤭 Number 45 screeeams Rhett 🌸

YOOOO!!!!!! Abso-fucking-lutely!!!!! So guess what honey?? This one's on me (lol).

Rhett couldn't take his eyes off you as you wandered through the back field near the main house. There was no work to be done that day or in the next few days, the cattle all ready for auction, the horses having been tended to and Abigail, the milk cow, her calves and her mate all wandering happily in the pasture with the little bells on their necks.

His eyes stayed fixed on you in that pale blue and yellow gingham house dress you had made, the very one that showed off your legs and dipped low to reveal just enough of your cleavage when you bent over. You went about picking small handfuls of brightly colored wildflowers, mountain daisies, indian paintbrush, harebells, yarrow, goldenrod, bachelor's buttons, fairy slippers and black-eyed susans. You looked like a dream to him, a wonderful, heavenly dream that he never wanted to wake from.

Rhett sat right up when you lifted the hem of your dress, drawing it up so far that it revealed part of your deep-blue lace skivies. It was only for a minute as you scratched a rather annoying bugbite that had been there for quite a while, but the sudden sight made his inner desire flare to life.

You came back to him, letting out a rather sad little sigh. "S'matter my peach?" he asked.

"I always hate when July ends," you told him. "Means summer will be over and we'll be cooped up in the house for three or four months."

Rhett stood up from where he had been sitting under the tree and drew you to him. "I know peach, I know," he told you.

"Don't get me wrong, I love apple picking, Halloween and all that," you told him. "But I miss the flowers and the heat.....just being able to go outside."

Rhett tilted your chin up so that your faces met, pushing his hat back just slightly so he could kiss you easily. "So whaddaya say," he said, before kissing you again. "We make the most of it and have a little fun?"

You hummed happily as his kiss trailed from your lips to your jaw, Rhett's arms encircling your waist. His hips pressed against yours, the stiff denim of his jeans against the thinner fabric of your dress....and something else with it.

"A little happy now aren't we?" you said with a naughty grin.

"Darlin, ya'll have no idea," he chuckled.

The two of you moved away from the tree and into the tall mix of wild grasses and wildflowers as Rhett carefully laid you down on your back. He nipped at your neck, your collarbone and your breasts, the obscene sucking and kissing noises throwing you quickly into a blinding ecstasy you had become familiar with.

"Please don't stop Rhett," you begged. "Feels so good."

You felt his stubble covered cheeks and jaw tickling the insides of your thighs as he kissed a little trail, lower and lower down to your core, hitting all the right spots he had mapped out in his brain.

"Don't clench on me now, darlin," he chuckled when you squeezed the muscles together in your thighs.

You felt your insides fluttering as he slid your panties off and worked his tongue into your core and the folds around it, Rhett's strong arms hooked around your thighs to keep him off the ground. "God I forgot how good you taste sweetheart," he mumbled.

You could hardly control the moans that were falling out of your mouth. It was a waterfall of moaning, panting and breathlessness that was music to Rhett's ears.

But then it stopped.

"Rhett?" you asked him. "Rhett, why did you stop?"

"Gotta take my pants off," he answered.

You snorted and laughed as Rhett first removed his maroon button-down shirt and then his jeans, freeing the large, throbbing monster-cock that lay in wait for you. You felt him sit you right up and into his lap, his cock sliding into you with ease, much more so than it had done the first time he had fucked you in the back of the truck.

It was a whirlwind of deep kissing and groping, his hands roaming up your dress and popping the buttons on the back to slide it right off. It wasn't long before the two of you were completely naked, Rhett's hips shifting and moving against yours, making you moan with each thrust.

"Jeez darlin!" he exclaimed with surprise. "You're fuckin soaked!"

You couldn't deny it if you wanted to. The noises that came from the both of you, your hips slapping together, the slickness, the heavy breathing, it was all unholy.

And you loved it.

You let out a squeaky little cry when you felt something hot explode between your legs, your foreheads touching, eyes shut and your lips just barely brushing together. It took a minute for the two of you to catch your breath, guiding each other down from the dizzying high and waiting for your breathing to even out.

You both lay in that field, skin-to skin with each other, a little sprig of bright red indian paintbrush in your fingers and perfectly content in the moment. "We could always spread some of those seeds in the garden," Rhett remarked when he saw the little red flower.

You chuckled a little and kissed his lips. "Don't worry," you told him. "I have a feeling we've already spread enough seeds out here."

[alexsgrimoire]

Beltane & May New Moon Ritual Script - 2024

Here's the script I put together for my coven's combined Beltane and New Moon ritual that I'm leading this weekend! There were some scheduling issues with the UU Church we meet at and this date was the only one that really worked, so we decided to combine both into one since they're both close to the date and have similar correspondences! If you're using the script, please tag me in it!

DO NOT INTERACT: TE/RFS, TE/HMS, SW/ERFS, TRAN/SMEDS, TRUS/CUM, TRANSPHOBIC, HOMOPHOBIC, EXCLUSIONISTS, CONSERVATIVE, NAZI, TRADWIVES, ANTI-BLM, ANTI-ASIAN, XENOPHOBIC, ABLEIST, ANTI-POP CULTURE PAGANISM

Meditation

Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Feel the air come in through your nose and out through your mouth. Take a moment to center yourself.

It’s a warm spring afternoon. The sky is cloudless as the Sun shines above, illuminating the prairie you stand in. The earth feels warm and tender underneath your bare feet. Wiggle your toes in the grass and feel the wildflowers in various colors tickle your toes and ankles. The fresh breeze smells of roses and honeysuckle, and birds chirp in nearby shrubs.

You spot a circle of people partaking in a dance before you. Colorful dresses and tunics flow in the wind, and flower crowns of daisies and daffodils sit on their heads. They cheer and sing, their voices floating on the wind. As you approach, those nearest you smile kindly and open their arms to allow you to join in. You enter and hold their hands, quickly feeling joy and warmth. You turn with them, the energy transferring from hand to hand.

Your hands release at the height of the energy, and you each dance independently. You use all the power you gathered to dance. Shaking your arms and legs, headbanging, spinning around, whatever brings you the most joy. You dance and dance until you’re worn out, then lie down in the grass and stare at the sky.

You regain your breath, breathing in and out deeply. As the Sun begins to set, the sky has turned from bright blue to shades of pink, purple, and orange. The Sun God starts to depart, taking the youthful energy of the day with Him. The Moon Goddess now enters, bringing the serenity of the night sky and stars. The people you danced with under the Sun lie on the ground with you, softly humming a hymn to welcome Her presence.

The Moon in Her New phase doesn’t shine as brightly as She does during her Full phase. Instead, she offers just a slice of light, letting the constellations and other celestial bodies take their time in the spotlight. Despite Her hidden figure, you can still feel Her energy, a soft feeling of abundance, protection, and love.

As you lie in the grass, think about what you wish to achieve in the coming weeks. What will be the best way to reach them, and what reward will lie in the end? The Moon will grant your wish as long as you put in the effort to achieve it. Don’t forget that you have the power to succeed, and She offers her assistance.

You gently close your eyes as you lie in the grass after setting your intentions. It is time for rest and recovery after a long day with the God and Goddess. You are safe from all danger, protected by those Above and Below. You drift off into a reverie, awaiting what the next day brings.

As we end this meditation, center yourself and take another deep breath. Feel your feet ground you as you return to this plane. Once you are ready, slowly open your eyes.

Chant & Calling the Quarters

We’ll sing “We Are a Circle” now. Feel free to stand, but don’t feel pressured to.

ALL: We are a circle within a circle, with no beginning and never-ending. (x3)

Form a circle deosil around the group with a wand (x1) to the pace of the chant.

Now, to call the quarters.

East/Air Quarter Caller: Guardians of the East, we call upon you to watch over the rights of our Kindred. Powers of knowledge and wisdom, guided by Air, we ask that you keep watch over us tonight within this circle. Let all who enter the circle under your guidance do so in Perfect Love and Perfect Trust. Hail and welcome!

Light the yellow candle.

ALL: Hail and welcome.

South/Fire Quarter Caller: Guardians of the South, we call upon you to watch over the rights of our Kindred. Powers of energy and will, guided by Fire, we ask that you keep watch over us tonight within this circle. Let all who enter the circle under your guidance do so in Perfect Love and Perfect Trust. Hail and welcome!

Light the red candle.

ALL: Hail and welcome.

West/Water Quarter Caller: Guardians of the West, we call upon you to watch over the rights of our Kindred. Powers of passion and emotion, guided by Water, we ask that you keep watch over us tonight within this circle. Let all who enter the circle under your guidance do so in Perfect Love and Perfect Trust. Hail and welcome!

Light the blue candle.

ALL: Hail and welcome.

North/Earth Quarter Caller: Guardians of the North, we call upon you to watch over the rights of our Kindred. Powers of endurance and strength, guided by Earth, we ask that you keep watch over us tonight within this circle. Let all who enter the circle under your guidance do so in Perfect Love and Perfect Trust. Hail and welcome!

Light the green candle.

ALL: Hail and welcome.

Center/Spirit Quarter Caller: Guardians of Above and Below, we call upon you to watch over the rights of our Kindred. Powers of grounding and balance, guided by Spirit, we ask that you keep watch over us tonight within this circle. Let all who enter the circle under your guidance do so in Perfect Love and Perfect Trust. Hail and welcome!

Light the white candle.

ALL: Hail and welcome.

The Story of Beltane & the May New Moon

Beltane, also known as May Day, Walpurgis Night, and Floralia, marks the halfway point between the Spring Equinox and Summer Solstice. The name and festival Beltane are Gaelic in origin, which comes from the words “Bel,” meaning “bright,” and “Tene,” meaning fire, along with the God Belenus, who represents Fire. Beltane is considered the oldest holiday in Gaelic tradition, dating back to at least the 10th century. 

In modern Pagan practices, Beltane represents the Sacred Union between the Mother Goddess and Horned God, conceiving the Harvest Child. The phallic maypole and yonic wreath of flowers and ribbons represent their Rite. As such, Beltane has become a time for fertility and sexuality, and it’s also associated with creativity and love. Bonfires represent fertility, protection, and the longer days of summer, and crops, beauty, and creativity continue to grow.

Beltane is also associated with fairies of Gaelic lore, specifically the aos sí. The veil is thinnest at this time, much like at Samhain, allowing them to pass through. The aos sí were appeased with offerings of food and drink to prevent their troublesome natures and in hopes that they would grant wishes.

Along with Beltane, we also celebrate the New Moon of May tonight. The New Moon is a time for setting intentions, manifestations, and new beginnings. It’s the beginning of the lunar cycle, where the moon is absent from the sky, and the stars shine brighter. The Moon’s energy is at one of Her highest, and it’s the perfect time for spellwork.

The May New Moon is in Taurus, representing creativity, sensuality, and abundance. These values align perfectly with Beltane, creating the perfect storm for intentions in these realms. It’s time to focus on achieving long-lasting results, especially those concerning money. However, the Earth element of Taurus reminds us to stay grounded and practical.

With Beltane and the Taurus New Moon coinciding near each other, the energy is high, promoting growth both in nature and within you. Take this time to focus on the pleasures in life and the abundance around you.

Cone of Power

Now, for the Cone of Power. Stand if you’re able, with hands linked. Left hand under, right hand over. As we chant, visualize the energy swirling around us and channeling into the sky.

ALL: Goddess and God

Moon and Sun

We link hands

And become One

Repeat louder & faster until the energy is built, then call release.

The Maypole Dance

((AUTHOR'S NOTE: I specifically wrote this section to accompany the song "Bard Dance" from the Baldur's Gate 3 soundtrack and this dance pattern. You do not have to use this same source material, and I encourage you to give the ritual your own spin! I'm simply copying/pasting exactly how my script is written.))

As I mentioned earlier, dancing around the Maypole is a Beltane tradition that dates back to before the Middle Ages in Europe, and we’ll be bringing that tradition to life today! Everyone grab a ribbon from the Maypole, and I’ll get my metronome set up.

Set the metronome app for 112 BPM and wait until everyone has a ribbon.

We’re going to split into two groups, 1 and 2.

Count out groups 1 and 2 (every other person) and start the metronome.

This is the tempo we’ll be using for the dance, in counts of four: four beats per measure and four measures for each dance phase. I’ll count it out like this as we dance.

Count "1 2 3 4 / 2 2 3 4 / 3 2 3 4 / 4 2 3 4" along to the tempo.

For the dancing, group 1 will walk to the pole for two measures and then walk back out for two measures.

Give an example with measure counting.

Group 2 will now do the same.

Give an example with measure counting.

Then, we turn clockwise for four measures and counterclockwise for four. And then the dance repeats! Do we want to try it without music and then start with the music?

(IF TRYING WITHOUT MUSIC FIRST: Walk the group through one cycle of the dance, then play Bard Dance on Spotify for the full run time. Count out the measures during the dance.)

(IF STARTING WITH MUSIC: Set Bard Dance on Spotify and play/dance for the full run time. Count out the measures during the dance.)

Simple Feast

Take a moment to ground yourself after dancing, and take the time to think about how you engaged with your fellow dancers. Now is also a perfect time for refreshments, our cakes and ale! We have unleaded, ________________ provided by ________________, and leaded, ________________  provided by ________________. We also have ________________ for cakes, provided by ________________.

Pass around wafers, cups, and drinks.

May you never hunger.

ALL: May you never hunger.

May you never thirst.

ALL: May you never thirst.

Intentions & Bonfire

As this is the New Moon, we’ll set intentions, but this time on ribbons for a Beltane twist! If anyone would like a copy, I have a guide to ribbon colors and their meanings. Cut yourself a ribbon that connects to your intention for the coming weeks. ((AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ribbon color guide can be found here!))

Allow time for people to get/cut ribbons and grab pens.

Feel the ribbon in your hands. Think of what the color means to you and your goals for this lunar cycle phase. Imagine the ribbon tightly wound around a physical representation of your intention, a present of joy and success ready to be opened. When you're ready, write your intention on the ribbon and hold onto it for now.

Light the bonfire.

Bonfires are another Beltane tradition used as a method of protection and purification. Historically, Gaelic people walked livestock between two bonfires and sprinkled ashes over crops. The Fire element is also associated with new beginnings and transformation, which makes it the perfect method to activate intentions! As you toss your ribbon into the fire, visualize its Sacred power bringing your intention to life!

Let everyone toss ribbons into the bonfire.

Dismissing the Quarters & Farewell

Now, to wrap up and thank the quarters.

North/Earth Quarter Caller: Guardians of the North, powers of endurance and strength, guided by Earth, we thank you for watching over the rights of our Kindred. May you be forever blessed. Hail and farewell!

Extinguish the green candle.

ALL: Hail and farewell.

West/Water Quarter Caller: Guardians of the West, powers of passion and emotion, guided by Water, we thank you for watching over the rights of our Kindred. May you be forever blessed. Hail and farewell!

Extinguish the blue candle.

ALL: Hail and farewell.

South/Fire Quarter Caller: Guardians of the South, powers of energy and will, guided by Fire, we thank you for watching over the rights of our Kindred. May you be forever blessed. Hail and farewell!

Extinguish the red candle.

ALL: Hail and farewell.

East/Air Quarter Caller: Guardians of the East, powers of knowledge and wisdom, guided by Air, we thank you for watching over the rights of our Kindred. May you be forever blessed. Hail and farewell!

Extinguish the yellow candle.

ALL: Hail and farewell.

Center/Spirit Quarter Caller: Guardians of Above and Below, powers of grounding and balance, guided by Spirit, we thank you for watching over the rights of our Kindred. May you be forever blessed. Hail and farewell!

Extinguish the white candle.

ALL: Hail and farewell.

The Circle is open, yet the Circle remains as its magical power is drawn back into us. 

ALL: Merry meet, and Merry part and Merry meet again! So mote it be.

Bibliography

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Amanda. “New Moon Rituals for 2024: Anticipate New Spiritual Beginnings.” Thepeculiarbrunette.Com, 21 Mar. 2024, www.thepeculiarbrunette.com/new-moon/.

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[silentauthor96]

For @merlinmicrofic April prompt: "Enough" | Merlin/Arthur/Gwen | 100 words

Merlin watched two of his oldest, closest friends enjoy their romantic walk through the woods. He watched Arthur stop to reach down and pick one of the brightly colored wildflowers blooming across the forest floor. He watched Gwen graciously accept the offered gift, smiling beatifically back at her love.

Merlin watched and hoped that his loves’ happiness would be enough to sustain his own heart. 

...

Merlin wasn't alone in his watching. Gwen and Arthur turned back to watch the man who held their relationship, and their kingdom, together.

“Come along, Merlin.”

“Yes, Merlin! We invited you to walk with us.”

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Destined

Pairing: Medieval! Oromë x Fem. Reader ( Ward of the Crown | Second Person POV)

Themes: Medieval! Ainur | Slow burn | Smut (Lemon)| Soft

Warnings: Arranged marriage | Use of a dagger during the wedding ceremony | Blood | Alcohol consumption | Mentions of injuries | First time | Kissing | Foreplay | Some explicit language | Oral (fem receiving) | Penetrative sex | Cream pie

Word count: 4.6k words

Summary: It was an arranged marriage to the lord of High Tree Hall and Hunter’s Pass, a man of little words, one who was known to be as wild as the forests and deep passes he ruled over. How would he conduct himself on his wedding night?

Rating:🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+ You are responsible for the media you consume. 

Full list of the great noble house of Valinor can be read here.

Rules and tag form here | Prompts for requests here.

It was the height of summer; the air was warm and balmy, and the wind blew in hot even though it was near evenfall. Still, it was glorious. The air was sweet with the scents of wildflowers and pine. The sky was a vivid kaleidoscope of gold and yellow and orange and even pink when the minstrels called at your door.

You were given the finest guest manse on the grounds. Oromë would have preferred to have you housed within High Tree itself, but custom decreed the procession. And that he not see you until the ceremony. 

Your chambers were a hive of activity. Maids rushed to and fro with dresses and shoes and flowers plucked fresh from a nearby meadow, taking great care when laying them out over the bed while you bathed and dressed and fixed your hair. Jewels caught the light of nearby candles and gleamed against your throat and ears and wrists. 

"Are you ready, lady y/n?" Lady Nessa said when she arrived to escort you to the Great Hall and your soon-to-be husband. 

You turned away from a silvered looking glass to face her. "As ready as I will ever be."

Nessa smiled and stood by your side while a maid helped you with the final touches for your dress, fixing your skirt and straightening your veil. Another helped drape a heavy cloak around your shoulders. At the appointed hour, you took your soon-to-be good-sister’s arm and let her lead you from your chambers.

By the time you had stepped out into the light, the horizon had turned into a slow burning ember. Deep blue and purple and black now bled into fiery red and orange. The first stars shone brightly overhead even as the sun slowly dipped beneath the tree line. Over you was a canopy of deep green velvet, richly embroidered with black thread, held up by several pages. Minstrels walked ahead, playing viols, flutes and drums and even trumpets while another page sprinkled white rose petals along the path. Beautiful lamps affixed to the low-hanging branches of nearby trees lit the way. 

The splendor of the moment did nothing to detract from the fact that life in High Tree Hall was nowhere as elegant and luxurious as life at Ilmarin, where the gardens were all neat and well-tended and the white marble halls were a riot of color due to the stained glass windows catching the sun’s glorious light. Here there were gnarled trees and ponds and flowers growing wild all over. The manses were built out of rough-hewn stone and mortar and thick wooden bark. The people that lived here were said to be as wild as their lord. 

Their lord. Oromë was liege lord of Hunter’s Pass and master of High Tree Hall. He had been in need of a wife and had asked the king for your hand after seeing you taking a turn in Ilmarin’s gardens not even half a year ago. After your father disgraced himself as a traitor, Eru stood in his place now. He was able to dispose of your hand to whomever he wished. And you could not say a word in protest. 

"My brother is eager to see you again." Nessa smiled. You dared to glance at her. Until a little while ago, it was Nessa who served as Lady of High Tree Hall. After tonight, that great honor would fall on you. If the lady had been bitter about her change in station, she didn’t show it. "He nearly dug a trench in the great hall by pacing about for what seemed like hours. He is that eager for the ceremony to begin." 

Eager to see me? Cannot wait for the ceremony to begin? You wrinkled your brow in confusion. Oromë barely spoke with you. He did not court you, or bring you little tokens. You could count with the fingers of one hand the number of times he had called on you, and that too only when the king was present. His letters, such as they were, had been brief, and few and far between. 

Nessa looked on expectantly, awaiting your answer. 

"I pray I will be a good wife to him," you say hesitantly. 

Nessa gave your arm a gentle squeeze. "Just as my brother prays to be a good husband to you."

You were not so sure. Oromë was known for his many passions and his wrath, and you felt wholly unprepared. Oh, your mother did talk to you upon your flowering many and more years ago, and of course you had listened to the scandalous chatter amongst the maids. Still, hearing talk of the marital act and actually having to go through with it were two different things altogether.

Will he be gentle, even a little? You wondered. Will he treat me with a kind heart and a tender hand?

The music slowly faded when the great doors of High Tree Hall loomed ahead, and the guards threw them open for the king himself. Eru had been resplendent this evenfall, garbed in black velvet slashed with cloth of gold. A heavy gold chain of linked flames had been draped loosely around his shoulders. His crown, an airy confection wrought out of a rare black metal and studded with emeralds, rested upon his brow.

"My lady y/n," he said and bowed respectfully, before extending his arm. "Shall we go in?"

Nessa gave your arm another gentle squeeze before dipping gracefully to her knees. "My king," she murmured, and rose. "My brother awaits you both."

You swallowed and looped your arm around the king’s, your eyes on Nessa’s retreating back the entire time. A blare of trumpets sounded, and you walked in time with the king. Minstrels took up their instruments again, and this time, a sweet, haunting air filled the great hall while a hush fell over the guests. Your gaze went straight to the proud lord standing by the roots of the great Silverwood tree that stood in the center of the feasting hall.

Oromë cut a striking figure. Tall and lean and fierce, with his thick black hair pulled back into a neat bun, he stood out from all of the others. He had been garbed in hunting clothes—all high boots and leather and light mail and soft wool. Heavy enameled green pins depicting a mounted archer in black fastened a thick pelt at the shoulders. A thin scar ran from brow to jaw, barely missing his right eye.  You took a deep breath and tried not to pay any attention to the guests looking at you. Their looks had been kind, but still, the attention was more than a little unnerving. When you looked back at the tree, you found Oromë looking right back at you. The beginnings of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. A warm flush crept up your throat when you reached the tree and the priestess who would join the two of you together, and Eru placed your hand on Oromë’s.

The ceremony itself passed like a blur. You listened to what was said, and said your portion of the vows. At one point, you could have sworn Oromë gave your hand a gentle squeeze. The priestess then unsheathed a sharp dagger and asked you to hold out your hand, palm facing up. The blade barely pierced the skin, but it still hurt. You watched while she did the same for your new husband. She then joined your hands and bound them with a new ribbon. You watched, enthralled, as your blood and his mingled and trickled, staining the thin strip of white silk a deep, deep, crimson.

"One body!" The priestess then declared to the crowd. "One heart! One soul! Bound as one in the sights of Gods and men! Cursed be they who try to tear them asunder!"

As her words rippled around the great hall, Oromë pulled you close and kissed you deeply. You had expected something that was rough and quick, but when his mouth opened yours, it was in a kiss that was tender and sweet.

"Mine," he whispered first, before adding, "Yours."

You looked on, wide-eyed, while he drew back. Guests broke into loud applause and cheers. You turned to face them, and felt a gentle tug on your hand. It was Oromë. He was trying to lead you to the raised dais at one end. You shook your head and rewarded him with a smile. It was time for the feast.

Again, there were differences. Feasts in Ilmarin were always lavish, but more than a little restrained. Here, the food and drink were served freely to anyone and everyone. Guests dined on thick soups and roast fowl and fish caught from a nearby river. There were flagons of ale and flagons of mead and flagons of a dark, bitter beer for anyone who had a thirst. There was wine too, a curiously light vintage that went very well with most of the food. Candles burned bright even as the great hounds of High Tree spread out next to tables and pelts and slept, having had their fill of scraps. Some guests started to fall asleep where they sat as well. Others wandered out of the hall in pairs of two and three and more, to engage in private amusements of their own. Lady Nessa made herself comfortable between Lady Varda and Nienna and Estë, and could be heard laughing merrily. The king stayed for as long as courtesy demanded before making his own excuses and leaving for the night. The revelry grew louder after his departure. 

Lord Tulkas had been singing the entire time, taking deep swigs of his ale in between verses. An auburn-haired woman clad in simple, soft green wool sat next to him, a pin bearing the bloodied hand of House Tarkil fixed firmly over her left shoulder. 

A captain of House Shield’s guard, you remembered. The one they call lady Meássë.

"Never engage him in a game of drink," Oromë leaned over and whispered. "Lord Tulkas will drink you under the table and continue drinking until dawn."

You believed him. Lord Tulkas was known to be able to hold his drink, and many of the others beside him could not. One by one, they made their excuses until his companion remained. 

"What about you, my lord," you observed after stealing a glance at his cup. "You have not drunk anything besides water all night." 

Oromë’s lips tugged at the corners. "Oromë," he insisted, "or husband, which is what I would prefer. As for my not indulging… well, let’s just say I wish to keep a clear head for what’s about to happen later." 

Your skin warmed. What’s about to happen later, he said. Oromë had been talking about bedding you. You turned to your meal, unsure of what to say. You tried to eat, but the cut across your left palm made it difficult to hold a fork. 

"Just use your hands," Oromë said, tearing a leg off a roast capon to show how it was done. "No one will mind. Eat. Please." 

You looked around the hall. Of those who had been eating, many used their hands. No one said anything. No one even seemed to mind. And the growls in your stomach made it harder to resist. Still, you took care not to dirty your dressing. The food was delicious, and you found yourself eating well from each dish. By the time the cakes and pudding had arrived, you found you could only manage a piece or two of lemon cake. 

Someone found a viol and launched into the bawdy version of "Lady Luck." Tulkas had stopped drinking but continued singing, this time joining in on the new song. Someone else found a flute, and "Lady Luck" soon changed to "Cup of Mead", which in turn soon turned into "Seven Lasses," a song that was even bawdier than "Lady Luck." Someone spilled their ale. Someone else shouted a vulgar joke. You struggled to contain your mirth. 

Guests took to the center of the hall and started to dance, while others clapped in tune. The singing grew louder while maids lit fresh candles. It started to rain outside, and servants rushed to close the shutters. More guests wandered out of the halls. 

Oromë took it as a sign that the time had come. He rose to his feet and extended his hand, and, you placed your hand in his. Few noticed, save for Lord Tulkas. He opened his mouth to say something, but Oromë cut him off with a quick, "Give words to your thoughts, my good friend, and I’ll break your fucking jaw." 

The lord of Stonehearth pouted before chuckling to himself. He leaned over to Lady Meássë and whispered something in her ear. Her cheeks turned a pretty shade of red, but she nodded in agreement to whatever it was he said. They left the hall not long after, arm in arm. 

No one followed either of you in the expectation of a bedding ceremony. Oromë led you around the dais to the chambers set aside for his own use. The walls were so thick, you were told, that no sound carried to the outside. You decided it was a blessing. You didn’t want the others to hear what went on. 

The air within was pleasantly cool. Oromë led you past little rooms and a small hall before guiding you to an airy bedchamber. More candles had been lit, and a brazier had been readied for lighting. He kicked the door shut behind you both. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked. 

The last thing you wanted was wine, or anything else, for that matter. "No, my lord," you said before discretely looking around the room. It was the same as the hall, with a bed made almost entirely out of thick pelts at one end. "My stomach is a roil." 

"Husband," Oromë said. He made no move to leave his place near the door. "Are you nervous?" 

"A little," you confessed, and walked around, not stopping until you had reached a strange but beautiful bow hung up on one wall. Twists of gold and silver wood gleamed with a delicate light all of their own.   

"From fallen branches of the sacred trees in Starfall," Oromë said after a moment. "Lady Varda made it with her own hands after I slew the creature that tried to destroy them." 

"Ungoliant," you replied, shivering. 

"Aye." Oromë came from behind and rested a hand on your shoulder. "Her skull is here. I can show it to you tomorrow if you wish." 

You were curious despite yourself. Oromë had asked you for your hand after seeing you only once and calling on you only a few times. Now he was married to you, and about to take you to his bed. 

"Forgive my lord, but why did you marry me?" You turned to face him. "My father is a known traitor. My family has been disgraced, so why me?" 

"Husband," Oromë insisted a second time, and grew silent for a long while. He finally said, "As for why I chose you… I… I felt something the first day I saw you. I didn’t understand why it was happening. All I knew was that I had to be with you and you alone. It was only by talking to others that it finally became clear. We were meant." 

"But you barely spoke to me!" 

"And I must apologize for that. I… I have never been one for tender words. My sister has tried to teach me… and failed on that score. She hopes you have better luck instead." 

You smiled timidly. Oromë walked over to you, his boots barely making a sound over the smooth stone floor. 

"May I?" he asked when he was close enough to you. 

You swallowed, but nodded and stood perfectly still. 

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he urged, before reaching for your veil. There was a soft ping whenever a hairpin fell to the floor. Your veil soon followed, fluttering to the ground with barely a sound. Your cloak, on the other hand, fell with a soft thud. Your hair slowly loosened as braids and coils came undone. 

"Do you want me to stop?" Oromë asked again, this time reaching out to undo the clasps and fastenings of your gown. You felt it loosening, and you were too caught up with your own growing curiosity to say another word. You shake your head all the same, knowing he was expecting an answer. 

He nodded and slipped the gown off your shoulders and past your waist, letting it fall the rest of the way and pool around your feet. Your stays were next. He helped you out of your shoes and your jewelry. Soon, you were clad in nothing but a sheer silk slip. Goosebumps prickled all over your flesh when you stood there, nearly exposed. Oromë studied you, his eyes darkening with each passing moment. He took your hands and brought them to his lips, pressing gentle kisses over each of your fingers. A strange but pleasant jolt shot up your spine when he kissed your bandaged palm. 

"Would you get into bed?" he said. 

It was not an order but a request instead. You took slow, measured steps, running the flat of your hand over the pelts. 

So soft, you mused. Softer than even the featherbeds back at the palace.

You climbed into the pelts, all too aware of Oromë’s eyes following you the entire time. He proceeded to undress himself, first by slipping out of his boots before removing his garments. Cloak and tunic and mail and leathers soon joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor. You turned your gaze to your lap when the last of his clothes were disposed of and he stood naked in front of the bed. Curiosity got the better of you again, and you dared a glance. 

His back was turned to you, all lean and muscled, and covered in all manner of scars. Even his arms and thighs had not been spared. 

It’s as if he has known nothing but violence most of his life. You looked away once more when he came to bed. "Look at me," he said. 

You obeyed, and found hunger in his deep green eyes. Your own wandered. His black hair tumbled past his shoulders now, and thin patches of more black hair trailed its way down his chest. There were scars all over his torso as well. Some of them looked old and angry. "Did these hurt?" You found yourself saying. 

"In the beginning," he confessed, "They all did. Some worse than others. Do they frighten you?" 

"Yes," you admitted, "I have never seen anyone with such scarring before." 

"Never?" he said, his eyes filled with curiosity. "You never grew close to anyone who caught your eye?" 

"Never," you replied, even as another heated flush crept up your throat. A smirk worked its way across Oromë’s face. 

"Never?" he asked again. "No pretty handmaid caught your eye? No comely stable hand tried to steal a kiss?" 

"No," you said, "The king had his warriors dogging my every step the moment I set foot outside my rooms. And my handmaids were his spies, I am sure of it." 

"I see," Oromë said, as if considering what you told him. 

"And what of you?" you challenged. "I hear you never keep to the warmth of one bed." 

He winced and sat up straight. "I will not lie when I say that there have been others and…" 

"Will there be others even after tonight?" 

"Will you be content with such a life, wife? Being bound to a man who cannot honor his vows?" 

In your heart of hearts, you knew you would never be happy with such a life. "No." 

Oromë nodded. "Just so. As for the others… They will never be a threat to us. And they will not be a threat to you. I give you my word on this." 

And the word of those who lived in these parts was their bond. They would never go back on a promise, not even on pain of death. And he swore the two of you were meant to be. It gave you some small comfort. 

Oromë running his thumb over your knuckles put an end to your thinking. He looked at you again, this time with expectation in his eyes and not just hunger. He had been as nervous as you, though he was much better at masking it. 

When he saw you for the first time, wandering around the gardens of Ilmarin, he thought his body had been set aflame, but the heat was something he had never felt before in his life. That heat had pulsed and spread and filled him with a light that glowed from within. As the days melted into each other, heat and light simply grew, and it was only after he approached Lady Varda and her ladies for their counsel that it became clear. 

"Destined," Varda had said. "The Gods themselves had planned this union. Do not fight it." 

He didn’t fight it. Oromë approached the king for your hand. As the father of the realm and your guardian, Eru had every right to say yes or no. Fortunately for Oromë, Eru agreed to the union and issued a proclamation before the week was even over. Now you were here—in his halls and in his bed. He brushed his hand over your hair and your cheek. He let his thumb trace the lines of your sinful lips. When you rewarded him with a wistful sigh, he leaned in. 

The pelts were soft, but he found you to be a great deal softer. Your lips tasted of the cakes you had earlier—tart and sweet. Your hair slipped around his fingers like water. When he laid you down and found you trembling, he ran his hand over your arm to soothe you. 

"Could you kiss me again," you looked up at him and asked. "It makes everything feel wonderful when you do." 

Far be it from him to deny you! Oromë grinned and kissed you again, this time not stopping until your mouth slowly parted for his tongue. His hands explored every inch of your body, slipping beneath the silks of your slip to run over the warmth of your flesh. He sighed when you moaned into his kiss, and groaned when timid arms slid around his waist. Nails dug into his skin, marring it with little bruises every time he kissed a little deeper and pressed himself a little closer. Oromë found your slip and smallclothes getting in his way. 

"Lift," he commanded. 

There was a soft rustle when your slip was tugged over your waist and arms before being consigned to the floor. Your skin prickled when you lifted your hips, and your smallclothes slid up your thighs before being unceremoniously cast aside with barely a flutter. When you shivered and covered your breasts with your arms, he gently drew them away. 

"Let me keep you warm," he said, before lowering his head. 

He did more than just that. Oromë spent what seemed like ages worshiping your body. His hands may have been rough, but his touch was exceedingly gentle, caressing you as if you had been made out of fragile glass. He kissed every part of you, from the tips of your fingers to the insides of your thighs, not stopping until you were whimpering and trembling beneath him. He went lower, his lips leaving a warm, damp trail all over your breasts and your belly. Not satisfied with even that, he went lower still. Warmth spread just beneath your skin when he pressed his lips over your folds. All you could do was grab at the pelts, fingers digging into soft fur whenever he ran his tongue over your already slick heat. Nothing could be heard but your ragged breaths and his soft grunts. You murmured when sweet tension grew within your belly. It was intoxicating. And so wonderful. All the tales you had heard, all the gossip and scandalous chatter, were nothing compared to what your husband was making you feel—like your entire body had been set ablaze from within. His tongue felt hot and lush whenever it ran over your core. His lips felt so soft whenever they tugged gently at your already-throbbing nub. You were close. So close. It felt like you were on the edge of the precipice, about to fall. Then he drew away, pressing a soft kiss against the inside of your thigh. 

Sheer instincts drove Oromë now. Still, he fought to control himself, not wanting to go too far or too hard the first time. There would be plenty of time for all of that, he decided, once you had grown more comfortable with him and trusted him more. He moved over you, sighing softly when your legs slid open for him. His lips captured yours in a kiss. It was a distraction to take your mind off of what was to come next. 

You felt him. All of him. He moved slowly, piercing you inch by slow inch. There was pain, yes, and discomfort, but his kisses were so sweet and heady and drugging, that you barely paid attention to either. You tasted the traces of you on his lips and tongue, and fount it to be as sweet as his kiss.  And there was pleasure—a slow-building kind of pleasure that pulled you into a dark tunnel of desire. 

"More," you whispered. More was what you wanted, and more was what he gave you. Oromë moved with gentle, rhythmic thrusts, and soon grew drunk on your sweet moans. On your own urging, he went a little harder, a little faster, moaning deeply whenever he felt your walls tighten around his cock. Nails dug into his flesh again, inciting almost otherworldly growls. He dipped his head and kissed you until you were silent, and he lost himself in your sweet flesh. All he could do was feel the warmth of your skin, the heat of your kisses, and the softness of your thighs, even as they scrambled for purchase against his hips. When your hands brushed and curled around his hair and the tips of your fingers glided over his scalp, he lost all sense of control, pushing you harder against the bed with each thrust. 

"I’m close," he whispered against your neck. "Are you?" 

"Gods yes," was all you could manage, raw and desperate. 

When you raised your hips, Oromë found a new angle that allowed him to go as deep as he could manage. His nails dug into your thigh as he set a torturous pace, his cheeks clenching even as you writhed wildly beneath him. A few more moments were all it took before the world went dark in your eyes and your body splintered while your orgasm ripped through you. You couldn’t think or even breathe. All you could do was feel the heat spreading beneath your skin and the bliss that washed over you. You barely heard it—Oromë spilling his seed with a deep, satisfying grunt. 

A hand brushed over your hair. You open your eyes, slowly taking in the room that came into view and the man that still hovered over you. His chest heaved with each breath he took. His eyes had been filled with what looked like worry. Was he worried he hurt you? Was that why he looked so concerned? A slow, satisfied smile worked its way across your face. You lifted a hand and caressed his cheek.   

"Husband," you whispered softly. "There is no need to worry. You didn’t hurt me." 

"Are you certain?" Oromë asked, even as he trembled upon hearing you call him husband for the first time. 

"You didn’t," you insist, too lazy and content to sit up straight. "This night went better than I anything I could have dreamed." 

Relief brought a wide smile to his lips.

tags: @cilil​ @asianbutnotjapanese​ @edensrose​ @wandererindreams​ @floragardeniahope​ 

[ravendruid]

trick or treat👻👻👻

Send me Trick or Treat for a treat <3 Remember when I mentioned I had 3 new AUs? This is one of them.

“Close your eyes, focus on the energy of the world around you.” 

Vax’ildan does as Keyleth says. He focuses on the wind blowing through the open windows, feels the warmth of the flames in the sconces, smells the freshly cut grass outside. Energy surges through him, green and brown if he were to give it colors, and he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know he did it because Keyleth allows a quiet gasp to leave her lips.

“That is wonderful, Mr. Vessar,” The professor says, now standing in front of him with a big smile. 

“Vax’ildan’s fine,” He corrects. The man looks at Keyleth with a knowing look, to which Vax explains, “Keyleth has been teaching me for a few years now. I’m not very good, but it’s something.”

Vax admires the small, wrinkly daisy on his palm. The stem is short and the petals are frail, but he did it. He created this tiny flower himself. 

“You will get there with practice,” the professor says and nods at Keyleth, who expertly Druidcrafted a handful of multicolored wildflowers, before he moves on to other students.

“Let’s try again,” Keyleth’s excitement is contagious. “Close your eyes. Leave out any negative thoughts. In fact, think about what makes you happy and hold on to that.”

Vax closes his eyes again, hands still facing up on the desk. He thinks about his sister and his mother sitting by the fire in their dilapidated cottage, but dark thoughts take over the memory, so Vax shoos them away. Keyleth reminds him again, in a soft voice, to think about what makes him happy, and Vax does. He sees her face clearly in his mind, a smile as bright as the sun. He sees Keyleth laughing by the edge of the lake, shoes strewn about behind her as she splashes the cold water. She has flowers in her hair and smells like summer and strawberries. Gods, he loves her so much his chest fills up with joy and hope. Vax holds on to the image of Keyleth’s smile, the love he has for her, and sends wave after wave of energy to flow to his palms. This time it’s rainbow-colored because Keyleth is nothing but brightness.

“Oh my gods, Vax.” She all but shouts. Vax opens his eyes and sees a full-grown daisy in his hands. The stem is as long as if he had just picked it, with beautiful white petals that stand up tall and proud, not like the other attempts. It’s beautiful, just like Keyleth.

“You did it!” Keyleth jumps in her seat, clapping. The professor runs over to see what the ruckus is all about and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline when he sees the flower in Vax’s hands.

“That is amazing, Mr. Vax’ildan. And on your first lesson, too. You’re a good tutor, Miss Keyleth. I must be careful or you’ll take my place,” He jokes. Keyleth laughs and the sound is enough for Vax to craft another flower, equally as beautiful.

Once they are alone again, Vax breaks the stem of the first flower he made and turns to Keyleth, whose eyes shine brightly with pride. Only she would look at him that way. Vax slides the flower in her hair, behind her ear and smiles. She’s so beautiful and strong, and has no idea how smitten he is.

“What did you think about?” She asks, curious.

“You,” Vax whispers. Keyleth’s smile vanishes into a shocked expression. “Only someone as beautiful as you could create the most beautiful flowers.” It’s when her cheeks redden and her gaze falls to his lips that Vax knows it’s time that Keyleth knows exactly how he feels about her.

[kiliinstinct]

The Forbidden Woods:

A Genshin Impact Au Pairing: Aether/Xiao Urban Fantasy and Supernatural Romance Find on A03: [Here] Special Thanks to @genavere: My beta. Chapter 2:

---

Chapter 1: A House of Dust And Memories

Aether remembered the bird.

It was a tiny thing, perched atop the broken, overgrown altar of stones where he and Lumine had played in their childhood. Confidence born from innocence pulled them to the small clearing where the altar stood, partially shielded by the forest behind their home. They’d been warned countless times to never venture near there, but had regarded the warnings only as general advice rather than an outright rule. 

They never passed into the thicket, after all, what was the worst that could happen? 

The old altar was cracked, crusted in dirt, but it had fueled the twin’s imaginations as they darted about, fighting imaginary enemies or digging for made-up treasures. Over time, it was no longer an ancient, abandoned shrine to them, but a hideout from the rest of the world. And it was theirs. 

So was the bird. 

Aether had noticed it once or twice, observing their antics from a distance. He convinced himself it was a baby who’d only recently left its nest as it was far too small to be anything else. Lumine scoffed at the notion, stating that many birds were tinier than that, and perhaps its nest was nearby. He wasn’t so sure, but lacking any proof (or an attention span willing to focus on being right), he gave it a little wave before resuming their game. 

It was closer the day they decided to clean the area, head tilted and eyes glaring. With gloves equipped, rakes and shovels as their chosen weapons, they attacked the area with a single mindedness only sheer determination could manage.  As they removed old, decaying vines and swept away the undergrowth of dried leaves and fungi, the bird examined them every step of the way.  

Aether was delighted to see its colorful, teal feathers flecked in bits of gold along the edges of its wings. Like little gems that made it pop in comparison to the looming woods around them. 

When he trilled a failed attempt to ‘speak’ in bird language, its feathers ruffled until it gave the impression of a round ball, angrily squawking in response. 

The twins laughed and decided then this pretty bird was also theirs in the same sense the sun was. While they played pretend the bird twittered and hopped from branch to branch, looking over them as they played. It was the tiniest of guardians. 

These were fond memories that faded into the back of Aether’s mind through the years. Tender little treasures he kept to himself for rainy days when the nights were too dark or his loneliness high. He’d set the memories out and reminisce, smiling fondly each time he recalled something new. The days of childhood are short in comparison to adulthood, but that never dulled the sweetness of his memories. Nor did it mute the quiet yearning he felt each time he recalled that luminous bird, shining brightly amidst the foliage of his old home.

A home he was now returning to for the first time in years. 

Once upon a time, its acres were full of life, growing wildflowers and Inteyvats along the border as vegetable stocks grew to heights that towered above him when young. Now, the land was barren, devoid of color, and the house that once held all his happiest memories looked like a sad, decrepit memory. Much like the altar had been.

With the view of his old home full of dust and who knows what else, he wistfully wondered if the bird would still be there. Probably dead,  he thought,  allowing the reality to sink in. It had been far too long since he and Lumine ran through the halls of their old farm, creating stories of wondrous adventures with their shared imaginary friends while exploring every nook and cranny of the family home.   He looked onward, examining the old Ranch Style porch with its chipped paint and rotting wood. Once upon a time it was painted a brilliant white as the smell of the honeysuckles out front surrounded the property. 

Echoes of the past rang in Aether’s ears, a quiet reminder of laughter he once heard in the empty halls and through the open windows. All silent and dark. The nostalgia sank into his bones, begging him to look around in hopes of a familiar glimpse of teal and gold feathers. His shoulders drooped as the memory of laughter and smells of flowers and baked pie from the kitchens faded from his thoughts. 

That part of his life was already gone and to expect a creature from so long ago to still be as they were was ridiculous. 

But the thought didn’t mollify him. Rather it filled him with a disappointment that settled on his tongue like raisins in his chocolate chip cookies. 

“You don’t have to stay here.” 

Aether jumped, startled from his thoughts as he was quickly reminded of his present company. A tall man called Draff, who had kept watch over the grounds since his family left. His breath reeked of beer, but his eyes were clear, examining the grounds with something akin to pity in his eyes. 

“Seriously,” the man reiterated, fixing Aether with a welcoming smile that crinkled the corner of his eyes, “this place doesn’t look too hospitable and Springvale isn’t too far off. I’ve got a spare bedroom you can use while you clean this place up.”

A tempting offer. One that Aether appreciated, but his own smile was distant, closed off as he looked back to the old house. Even the shutters hung off the hinges, looking more fitting of a haunted house than a home. 

That didn’t matter. Not at that moment. While he could accept Draff’s sympathy and run away to enjoy the comforts of a clean house with a warm meal, he grinded his feet into the ground, cemented in place. 

“I can always visit for dinner sometime,” He replied, mischief settling in his smile. “Your treat, obviously.”

“Pfft, if you mean hunted by me, sure.”

“Diona could make the drinks.” Aether joked, recalling the man’s young daughter at home.

Draff chortled, “She’d have both our heads. Besides, aren’t you a little young–”

“I’ve been over the drinking age for five years, Draff.” Aether monotoned, offended.

“Could have fooled me with that baby face.” He boomed a laugh that made Aether’s ears ring. “Did you discover the fountain of youth while you were gone or is it just good genes? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to be more jealous than I already am.”

The laughter was nice. It filled the air with a little more color than the old farm had before, but it settled into a somber silence seconds later. Aether readjusted his travel bag over his shoulder, wondering how soon he could clear a space for sleeping. Beside him, Draff cleared his throat, glancing to his wristwatch as he shuffled quietly back towards his rusted truck.

“You sure you’ll be alright?” he asked, his earlier offer still hanging in the air. “No one said you had to do this alone.”

“Don’t worry about me,”  Aether assured him, a smile plastered on his face as he finally took the first steps past the wrought iron gate, ignoring the tickle of grass that brushed along his ankles. “I’m not really alone.”

“Your cell phone doesn’t count.”

“Video calling Lumine will suit me just fine,” Aether cheered, feeling more grounded at the thought of his sister. “I’m serious. Don’t underestimate a twin, Draff!”

“Yeah, yeah.” The older man rolled his eyes, but his expression was a fond one. It had been years since Aether had last seen him, promising his parents to tend the grounds after their departure.. And while he thought meeting face to face would grow awkward after so many years, he’d been just as friendly as he remembered—if a bit less sober.

Now that friendly face was leaving Aether to his own devices, sliding into the driver’s seat from the passenger side. When the truck’s engine rumbled to life, the hunter turned his focus back to Aether, leaning over to wrestle the window down and shouted a final farewell, teasing Aether’s memories with a warning he barely recalled hearing when he was a child.

“Don’t forget to stay out of the woods! It’s only gotten nastier while you were gone!”

He accepted the warning, coughing as the spinning tires kicked up gravel and dirt into the air. As his one and only friend in the vast radius of his family home disappeared into the distance, his bravado equally faded away. If he were honest with himself, being alone was going to fray at his nerves before the night was over. That he was certain of, but…

Closing the gate behind him, Aether side. It was better not to fall into his doubts.  No matter what, he had chosen to do this. The urge to return before the property was sold was too strong to ignore. Like a compulsion that yanked at his heart and urged him to explore the home his parents had taken him from so long ago. He couldn’t remember why they had left, and all attempts to learn the truth were met with dismissal from his parents. With them now passed, his questions remained unanswered. At some point, he’d accepted he’d never know the full truth and moved on with his life alongside his twin and youngest sibling. They were all they had and what good did dwelling on a home he’d never see again really do? These had been his thoughts right up until they hired a realtor and put the property up for sale. The money they could make off the acreage would be more than enough to cover their student loans and Paimon’s Private School for years. The choice made sense. Right until they began receiving advertisement postcards in the mail, mixed in with shopping ads and bills. He’d almost tossed them out, until the top images caught his attention: a familiar expanse of woods with rolling hills, overlooking the small town of Springvale. ‘A Small Town Riddled in Mystery and Comfort.  Come visit today!’ it read. More had followed, each covering a different aspect of the town: hunting seasons, a local fair coming to town, new shops opening. The reasons were numerous, but not one explained why they were sent in the first place. 

But it was just enough to rekindle the old curiosity Aether long thought dead.  Before he knew it, he was planning his trip and requesting Lumine to hold off on fishing the recent sale. “Just until I get back, then we can sign those papers and sign Paimon up for The Sumeru Akademiya!”  It had taken days of stubborn debates for either of his sisters to agree, but in the end, he proved himself the more stubborn of the three. 

Draff’s warning whirled in his mind. A simple reminder of a well-known myth from his and Lumine’s younger days. Despite the strange foreboding that came with it, Aether couldn’t resist shaking his head dubiously. Did folks out here really still try to scare others with that?

Back then, the rumors of the woods were just that: Rumors. Tall tales to scare the local children into coming home before nightfall. The old town whispers of a cursed fog surrounding the forest were nothing more than stories. 

Hunters came in and out of those woods yearly. Aether remembered their orange vests as they parked on the roadside and ventured through the thicket, guns in hand.  Even he had stepped over the threshold, curious in his boyhood to see the supposed murk the parents feared. And while the hint of a memory he couldn’t quite recall tickled the edge of his senses, Aether knew better than to humor it. His being here today, alive and well, was proof enough the old stories were false; and Draff’s rumor was nothing more than a nod to the past.

“It’s not as if the woods will still be here next year,” he murmured, closing the gate behind him as he withdrew the keys. He looked at the for sale sign plastered against the living room window and sighed. How could he run and hide in Springvale when this was his last chance to say goodbye to the only real home he’d ever had?  

It was better not to fall into his doubts.

Stepping into the dark house, Aether failed to notice the teal feathers of a bird watching from the branches of the nearest tree. Its eyes never wavered as it observed through the windows  the lights flickering on and off Aether’s slumped shoulders. 

[bill-skarsgalactic]

A/N: So, it's been a while since I've written anything, but I've had this concept rattling around in my brain for a few years and figured there's no time like the present to jump back into writing and posting regularly. If you've been tagged in this it's because a couple of you expressed interest in a previous post of mine - you're not obligated to read it (obviously) but if you do, your feedback would be appreciated. As I said before, it's been a while since I've written anything, so keep in mind I'm a little rusty. Apologies if the first part is a bit bland, I'm mainly just setting up the world and the characters.

P.S: If you interacted with my last post but weren't tagged, its simply because Tumblr wouldn't let me tag you :(

Description: Searching for a fresh start in the small beach town of Hemlock Cove, a young nurse takes a job caring for the recently paralyzed and exceptionally bitter Roman Godfrey.

(This takes place after the events of Hemlock Grove season 3, except Roman did not die and was instead paralyzed after his altercation with Peter. I'm not going to touch on much of the Hemlock Grove storyline and will instead be focusing on making this a standalone story)

Pairing: Roman Godfrey x OFC

Warnings: None for this part, but will update as the story progresses.

P A R T I

Hemlock Cove was meant to be a fresh start, a new life in a quaint sea-side town seemed like the perfect remedy to an aching head and a bitter heart.

I naively hoped the saline sea air would cleanse my hidden wounds, disinfect them until the scars healed pink and became nothing more than memories wrapped in scar tissue.

However, as I stood at the edge of the beach watching the black waves roll violently beneath the murky clouds, pregnant with the promise of rain, nothing about the briny ocean breeze felt healing. The air felt thick, weighed down and tasted acrid on my tongue as I inhaled deeply. I swallowed against the offending taste and cleared my throat, willing away the nausea that had accompanied it, before turning my back on the mercurial sea.

Weeks prior when I had conjured up images of what I imagined my new home to look like, I'd expected something vastly different to the gloomy wasteland that greeted me now. A quick Google search had described Hemlock Cove as a small, sea-side town, its cobbled main road dotted with colorful ice cream shops, humble beachwear boutiques and charming vintage stores, however, as I quietly surveyed my surroundings, it was not quite the fairytale beach town I had been promised. As it stood, Hemlock Cove was merely a carcass of what it must have once been, a ghost town filtered in gray-scale with an underlying tone of despair on its breath. If the vibrant ice cream shops and vintage stores filled to the brim with the nick-knacks of yesteryear had ever existed, they were replaced now with drab, sun-faded replicas of their former selves, their contents barely visible behind foggy, glass storefronts. Looking at it now, it was a wonder how the town managed to stay afloat.

A low rumble of distant thunder suddenly pulled me from my thoughts, and I cast a wary look over my shoulder at the looming, gray clouds on the horizon.

Time to go. A storm was approaching and I had no intention of being caught in it.

With my mood as damp as the impending weather, I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag on my shoulder and began the trek up the cobbled street towards number eighty-one Foxglove Lane.

As I trudged up the hill towards my destination, the town of Hemlock Cove appeared to be seeking my forgiveness. As though ashamed of its first impression, the formerly dreary facade of the town below began to slowly give way to lush greenery and between the beach cottages and holiday homes, tufts of brightly colored wildflowers sprung up, their stems waving gently in the breeze. The distant crash of the ocean was muffled now, obscured by evergreens and the ocean itself was now only visible in gaps between the branches and leaves that lined the road. Further up the hill, the more modest cottages became few and far between, suddenly replaced by more modern, stately homes that looked like they'd be better suited to the upper suburb of neighboring Hemlock Grove, here they just looked out of place.

Stopping to stare at one particular monstrosity, my brow creased as I took in the frankly odd design choices. While most of the houses in Hemlock Cove opted for more classic earth-tones and rustic stone walls, this one was painted a deep shade of charcoal. Everything about it was a grotesque display of modern hubris, all harsh lines and sharp angles, not even the kiss of natural, black walnut finishes were enough to save the home from looking alien amongst its counterparts. I couldn't help but roll my eyes, chuckling at the thought of the field day a psychologist might have with the eyesore before me, but my chuckle was cut short as my eyes landed on the metallic, black numbers fixed to the wall beside the front door: eighty-one. Eighty-one Foxglove Lane to be exact, my new home for the foreseeable future.

When I'd first scoped out nursing jobs in Hemlock Cove, the owner of eighty-one Foxglove Lane was the only one that came up, and while details of his condition were vague at best, the job listing described the client as a 27-year-old male, who had been paralyzed six months prior. The position itself required someone with nursing experience, who could stay on the property and see to the client's needs, as well as handle day-to-day chores - a relatively simple task considering food and accommodation came tacked onto a relatively decent salary. However, other than what had been detailed in the job listing, I knew little to nothing about my client... other than his inclination to have his home scream of its own spectacular opulence.

As if only to impress on me the wealth of my new employer, a large, black Mercedes Benz minivan say at the end of the stone driveway, which I skirted around gingerly, careful not to mar the pristine paint job as I made my way towards the path leading to the front door.

Swallowing a new set of nerves that had made their home in my throat, I gripped the strap of my duffel with one hand and rapped succinctly on the door with my other hand, hoping my knock would sound more confident than I felt.

Silence followed for what felt like an eternity, there was no jingle of keys in the lock of shuffling from beyond the threshold, just the crash of waves beyond the tree line and the occasional chirp of a sandpiper. Just as I was considering knocking again, a voice from inside stopped me before I could even raise my hand.

"Come around the side. Sliding door's unlocked."

The voice was that of a young man, I assumed my client, but it was neither friendly nor welcoming, in fact "irritated" was the first word that sprung to mind, and the misanthropic timbre of his voice turned my stomach to knots in its wake.

Unsure of the appropriate response, I settled for a shaky "Uh, th-thank you!", as my eyes wandered up the side of the house, my irises mapping a mental path to where I assumed the sliding door might be. After only a short amount of bush-whacking my calculations turned out to be correct, as I emerged from the foliage and found myself at the foot of a small set of steps leading to a wooden deck that overlooked the beach.

The view from the deck was magnificent and the house stood no further than 50 feet from the beach itself. Standing on that deck overlooking the vast expanse of ocean, the water churning beneath the ever darkening sky, it was hard not to feel like Poseidon himself at the helm of his war ship.

I could have stood on that deck for hours watching the waves crash and churn, but I was hesitant to annoy my client any more than he already seemed to be, so I turned and made my way over to the sliding door, easing it open gently as I reached it.

The curtains were drawn across four of the six glass doors, leaving only a small gap for me to enter through, and as I did, I stepped through into what appeared to be an open-plan living room.

Although I could not fathom why anyone would be inclined to rob themselves of the spectacular view just beyond the glass doors, I couldn't deny the living room was cozy. A small banker's lamp in the corner of the room enveloped the stony, suede couches and raw wood furnishings in a warm, orange glow, giving the room a homely feel. Most modern homes felt cold and unlived-in, but not this one. After a five-hour-long bus journey and an uphill climb, my aching body longed to curl up amongst the scatter cushions and thick, woolen throws that adorned the couch, and fall into a sleep as deep as the murky waters of Hemlock Cove.

A soft, electrical whirring suddenly disturbed the silence of the living room, and I looked up just in time to see a figure appear in the doorway to my right.

Despite the half-light cast from the lamp in the living room, the man in the doorway was somewhat visible to me. In fact, the shadows cast by the small banker's lamp only aided in highlighting his perfectly straight nose and high cheekbones. His thick, brown hair had been pushed back from his brow in a way that looked effortless, as though he'd haphazardly run his hands through it, only for it to settle perfectly. I'd have dared to call him handsome were it not for the look of absolute disdain on his face as he regarded me.

I shuffled uncomfortably before speaking.

"Uh- hi, I'm Faryn Freeman, we-"

"I know who you are," he cut in harshly.

His wheelchair whirred to life again and he backed out of the doorway, leaving me alone in the living room once more.

I guess he wanted me to follow him, so I did just that. Weaving between the couch and the coffee table, I cut across the lounge and towards the room he had disappeared into.

When I stepped inside, I realized we were in what appeared to be his study, and my client was now sitting behind a large, ornate desk, pouring over a pile of official looking papers, a thick silver pen clutched between his slender fingers.

I lingered awkwardly in the threshold, the strap of my duffel bag growing teeth and biting into my shoulder, as I waited for him to acknowledge me. When he finally did, he didn't bother to look up, his long dark lashes fluttered only slightly as he jerked his pen towards a manila folder perched on the corner of his desk.

"Everything you need to know is in the file, your room is upstairs to the left," he remarked clinically, as he scribbled something indiscernable in the margins of the document in front of him.

I charged forward to retrieve the folder, stumbling slightly as my foot caught the upturned corner of the Persian rug. I cursed myself internally, embarrassed by my behavior. I was no longer the shrinking violet I had been growing up, and even in college, I was a professional, a nurse, over-qualified for the job I'd just undertaken, with years of experience working with men who thought they new more than I did, so why in God's name was I allowing this man and his bad attitude to throw me like this?

The feminist in me begged to put him in his place, but more than that I wanted to be done with this awkward interaction and retreat to my quarters where I could unpack and decompress. A lot had happened in a short space of time and I needed a moment to process it all, so if my new boss had no intention of getting acquainted, then I was more than happy to take the high road and seize a few moments of alone time.

"Well, thanks for this," I smiled politely, pressing the manila folder to my chest, "I'll make sure to familiarize myself with all of this," I assured him, giving the folder an emphatic tap with my index finger.

Again, he didn't look up, it was as if I hadn't spoken, and for a moment, I wondered if he had even heard me. Pursing my lips, I began to slowly back out of the room.

"Okay... well, I'll just head upstairs then," I explained, a little louder this time in case he was hard of hearing, "If you need anything-"

"I'll call," he interrupted, punctuating his statement with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Resisting the urge to bolt from the room, away from my new housemate and the dour energy that hung over him like a storm cloud, I turned fully and exited the study at a leisurely pace until I was out of his line of sight.

The stairs were directly to the right of the study and I took them two at a time, my duffel swinging precariously behind me until I reached the landing.

Unlike the lower level of the house the second floor was lighter, the walls were painted a soft, dove gray and the floor was covered in plush, cream carpeting. Despite the gloomy weather brewing outside, a large skylight above my head illuminated the landing giving it an airy feel that wasn't present downstairs.

I drew what felt like the first real breath of air I'd taken in hours and my lungs filled with the scent of wood polish and carpet shampoo.

At the top of the landing to my right was a dark, wooden door and directly across from where I stood was a small, guest bathroom and from there the hallway snaked to the left. Surely my bedroom was down there.

As I walked, I noticed there were no photos on the walls, no family portraits to liven up the stark landing, only grim, moody artwork. A large floor-to-ceiling oil painting of a snake arched in an almost perfect sphere, its mouth agape as though readying itself to consume its own tail, sat opposite the only other door on the landing: my bedroom.

I shivered involuntarily, my lip curled in distaste and turned away from the offending art piece, opening the door to my bedroom.

Upon stepping inside, I was pleased to see that my client's peculiar art choices did not extend to his guest bedroom. The walls were blank aside from a large mirror, and the room itself consisted of a vanity, a double bed and a sage green armchair in the corner of the room. Ultimately, the room seemed as though it had never been touched.

Grateful to be rid of my luggage, I unceremoniously dumped my duffel at the foot of the bed and flopped down atop the covers, the manila folder still clutched to my chest. Now that I had a few moments to myself, I figured it was about time I found out a little more about my client.

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