#long winded way for me to get to the anon who named names about that big blog

[urhoneycombwitch]

I know what they call you.

🍯 honey flavour: You’re a little lost in your head. Eddie wants to find you.

🐝 the bees: Eddie x shy!Reader, best friends Steve + Robin

wc: 11k 

cw: alcohol/weed used as a social crutch, R is hassled by a guy at a party (but her boys back her up), brief vomit mention, implied bad home life for R, light SH by way of tight grip, PTSD, R has breasts+V, praise kink, oral (R receiving), one (1) spank, multiple orgasms (R), soft dom!eddie, overstim, coming in pants (E)

foreword: The healing properties of good head <333 Anyways I labeled this R “shy” but she’s more… introverted? Reserved? this one goes out to the weird and off-putting girlies who have a lot to say but are kinda quiet instead. Timeline may be a bit wibbly but designed it to be early 4th-season era, with R (early 20s) having played an undetermined part in the various Upside Down battles from seasons previous.

Loosely based on this anon every1 say thank you anon!

___

It’s spring break, 1986, and you’re cursing the name of your so-called “best friend” Robin Buckley.

You didn’t even want to go to this stupid kegger in the first place, arguing with her the whole ride over from Steve’s backseat.

“Don’t you think it’s totally lame that you’re basically being chaperoned by two gap-year losers?” you’d said, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the console, seatbelt pulling taut across your Rolling Stones tee. “You’re a big girl, Robin, you don’t need Steve and me to babysit you anymore.”

Robin began protesting but Steve interrupted, tapping at your forearms without looking away from the road- “Sit back, wouldja, that’s not safe. And for the record, it’d only be lame if we were, like, thirty and still going to high school kickbacks. Gap-year drinking parties are a rite of passage.”

You’d sat back against your seat with a huff, arms crossed, unconvinced until Robin turned those big pleading eyes your way over the back of her seat. “You wanna talk about lame? Lame is me getting anywhere within a 60-foot radius of Vickie. I am totally hopeless around that absolute beauty.”

She’d twisted in her seat and reached for your hand, and you gave it to her grudgingly (the two of you ignoring another of Steve’s gripe about vehicular safety) as she said, “You’re like, the best wingwoman I’ve ever met. Please come to the party and help me avoid the natural disaster that is me running my mouth.”

Robin wasn’t just being generous- you were a killer third wheel. Especially when alcohol was involved: the walls that you naturally upheld around your introverted demeanor by day turned liquid as whiskey by night, often scoring you major cool points with your friends for things you barely remembered doing the day after. 

So you’d relented, and in turn resolved to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible (in the name of Robin’s aid, of course), but turns out your best friend didn’t even need your help in the first place; within 5 minutes of setting foot in the crammed house party Robin won a spot right next to Vickie on the living room couch, starry-eyed gaze saved only for the redhead that bore no room for your intervention.

Three shots ago, the situation would have struck you as funny, but it’s been a lonely time (what with Steve abandoning you, too, in favor of chatting up some college blonde); drifting from packed room to packed room, sneakers sticking to the floorboards, winding through throngs of sweaty dancing students just to keep on top of your alcohol consumption.

Kind of like hunting in the wild, you muse, leaned against a wall with red solo cup in hand. Flirt with Amy Thacker and her low-cut blouse to access the watering hole (Mystery Punch, green both in color and flavor); let Lenny Baker put his paws on your waist to gain entry to the standing liquor cabinet. The stuff of nature docs.

If this dimly-lit Hawkins party is the savanna, then you are the antelope- grazing on snacks, never staying in one spot for too long, minding your own business and staying way the hell away from the lion’s den (the group of jocks in Hawkins Tigers polos).

Unfortunately, you push off the wall in search of a refill at the same time Lenny Baker decides to sidle up to you, nearly knocking the cup from your grasp when he bends his thick head to shout in your ear above the music. 

“Great party, right?” His arms are crossed above his tank of a chest, blocking you from a smooth exit via the kitchen archway.

“If you’re into drunk teens, I guess,” you say back, pointedly, licking a stripe up your wrist from where the punch had sloshed onto your bare arm. 

When you look back up Lenny’s still standing there, watching you with a hungry edge that’s starting to make your well-honed antelope-sense tingle. As you not-so-subtly cast your glance around for Steve, Lenny leans in again, close enough to give you a sour whiff of his breath. “I’m legal, if that’s what’s got your panties in a twist. And what’s wrong with having some fun?”

“I’m not into having fun with douchebags who ‘roid away their remaining brain cells to bully my friends,” you retort, flatly. You doubt this guy knows you’re connected to the Hellfire group (de facto sitter, second only to Steve), but the insult seems to land anyways. 

Lenny scoffs, going for a low blow to offset the sting of his bruised ego- “If you’re trying to play the part of slut, you were doing a way better job earlier.”

What the meathead hasn’t picked up on yet is your absolute lack of care about him- or anyone else at this stupid fucking party, for that matter. Besides Robin and Steve, obviously, but they’re equally indisposed at the moment. You’re feeling bold enough that you could play dirty: throw the dregs of your drink in his face, make a real scene- but the shots from earlier are hitting you sideways and you’re not entirely confident in your ability to multitask. 

So instead, with a wink, you tell him, “At least this slut knows when to quit,” and turn on your heel, abandoning the kitchen escape route for a closer door that leads to the back porch.

You suck in lungfuls of cool night air, trying to clear the fuzz of booze from your vision. When you don’t hear any angry footsteps following in your wake, you sink against the wooden bannister and tip back the last of your drink in one swallow. Maybe Steve doubled back to the car…?

With your empty cup left neatly on the railing, you set off down the couple of steps that separate you from the grass, except the toe of your shoe catches on a hidden groove in the wood, and nothing is within reach to grab onto as you trip and begin to fall.

The stumble should have ended with you facedown in the dirt, but something- someone- solid breaks your downward path, catching the upper half of your body in a sturdy hold even as your legs twist around themselves.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, I gotcha. You okay?”

The voice is instantly familiar, one that you’ve heard ringing out from underneath the drama room door on countless occasions as you’ve waited on your various child wards to wrap up their D&D sessions.

Eddie Munson is holding you in his leather-clad arms, larger than life with that big cloud of hair and doe-eyed gaze matching yours. He helps you stand, properly, dropping his hands once you’re stabilized and taking the warmth of his palms with him. 

“You okay?” he asks again, tilting his head, looking at you with fresh concern from under that mop of bangs. “Looks like you had a lot to drink.”

“Thanks, Dad,” you drawl, bravado flooding back in. “Am I really gonna get a fucking lecture on drinking from my local drug dealer?”

Instead of rising to the bait or bristling at your tone, Eddie grins- delighted, wolfish- before letting out a low whistle. “Who coulda guessed: resident Shy Girl has a mouth on her.”

You twist said mouth into your own smile, one that you hope is coy and charming and not dorkily lopsided (because you stopped being able to feel your face after that last drink), and coo, “You thinkin’ about my mouth, Munson?”

He laughs- a full, vibrant sound that lights up the night. There’s a flutter in your ribcage, knocking up a frenzy at the noise, like it wants to get out and at him, but you tamp it down and play it cool.

“You’ve only seen me in the cold, unforgiving light of day,” you continue, as Eddie rifles through his pockets, surfacing with a pack of cigs, eye contact yet to be broken. “My nighttime alter ego is a real riot, all liquored up.”

“Well, I happen to think you’re a riot in the sober light of day, too.” Eddie shrugs a shoulder as he flips the lid of the cigarette box.

You’re unsure if he’s messing with you- he’s gotta be, right? The only meaningful interaction you two have had in the past handful of years has been through the courtesy of the children in your respective care- a few surface-level conversations during carpool pickup, some flirting on his end that you’ve always been too skittish to return. 

Well, until now, you guess. Maybe this is a good thing, him seeing you like this- it’ll either scare him away, or you’ll finally make good on the quiet crush you’ve been harboring.

You’re about to speak again when the porch door opens with a bang; you and Eddie swivel at the same time to see Lenny clomping noisily towards the steps, voice booming out over the thrum of bass back inside- “This freak bothering you?”

You look between the metalhead and the jock, eyes wide and mocking as you call back, “No, but you’re starting to!”

“Jesus, talk about poking the bear,” you hear Eddie mutter behind you, but your focus is taken up by the fact that Lenny is tromping down the steps and reaching out to grab your upper arm, his cold and clammy palm taking up a sizeable amount of space.

You can feel that rage, simmering and easily accessed, start to crawl over your skin. You stand your ground in the face of someone much larger than you, sneakers planted firmly, chin tilted in defiance- I’ve killed monsters in alternate dimensions, asswipe. You might’ve scared me back in high school but now I dare you to fuck with me. 

Before Eddie can jump to your defense, you’re already going in for the bite, voice dripping with derisiveness. “So glad your right hand found its way off your dick for a change, Len. How about you do me one better and take it far, far away from here?”

Lenny’s face is almost purple with anger as his grip tightens, and you feel Eddie moving in at your back- to do what exactly, hard to say, ‘cuz Lenny’s got about 60 pounds on the lanky DM- but just as fast as the tension has ramped up, it gets diffused with the arrival of one Steve Harrington from around the corner of the house.

He cuts a smooth path through the grass to your other side, Robin’s sweater slung over one arm, twirling his car keys in neat loops around his finger, boasting a casual demeanor that doesn’t match up with the steely look he’s giving Lenny. “You heard the girl, Baker. Time to am-scray.”

Whether it’s the rumors of Steve’s nail bat or the manic look in your eyes or the fact that he’s outnumbered, Lenny’s got plenty of reason now to drop your arm. 

Which he does, spitting one last “bitch” at you before hulking off into the night.

The anger in you recedes like a wave. You breathe out a dry laugh, then turn back to the boys, clasping your hands over your heart with faux-dopeyness. “My heroes. How will I ever repay you?”

“Shutting up, for a change, would be a great start,” Steve grouses over the sound of Eddie’s cackles.

“Holy shit. Can’t believe your girl’s feistiness almost landed me in the hospital.” Eddie shakes his head, plucking a cigarette out and sticking it between his plush lips.

“She’s not my girl,” Steve says, even as you wind your arms around his chest from behind, tucking your chin over his shoulder. “She is, unfortunately, my problem.”

“I love when you two talk about me like I’m not here.” You simper at Eddie from your draped position.

He’s watching you with a fondness that feels overly familiar, through the haze of smoke streaming from his nostrils as you pat the chest beneath your hands- “Don’t worry about ol’ Stevie boy. He’s turned into quite the good guard dog after the whole Russian mall takeover last year.”

“Aaaaand that’s enough talking from you,” Steve says firmly, twisting out of your arms and putting his own around your waist. “Say goodbye to your new buddy, we’ve got a Robin to collect.”

As Steve steers you towards the direction of his car you wave at Eddie, a motion that he returns, his rings glinting in the porch light.

“Christ, you really are somethin’ else with some drinks in you,'' Steve fusses, helping you into the backseat, hand shooting up to block the door frame before your head can collide with the metal. “Did you seriously have to bring up the Russians?”

“He probably thought it was a joke, Steve,” you say, exasperated and fighting the twisted middle seatbelt with uncoordinated hands. “You know… those things that you tell people when you wanna get in their pants?”

The crack was aimed at Steve’s recent string of strike-outs in the dating department, but he throws it back at you. “You’re trying to get in Eddie Munson’s pants?”

“No,” you sputter, indignant and feeling suddenly too hot. 

Steve knocks your still-struggling hands from the belt, clicking you in himself, before pointing an accusatory finger in your face. “Stay here while I get Robin, and no throwing up in the Beemer.”

He shuts the door, Robin’s sweatshirt hanging from one shoulder while he stalks back into the house. 

You let your head fall back against the seat and close your eyes, bright cherry embers of cigarettes between lush-lipped curves dancing behind the dark of your lids. 

___

You manage to avoid throwing up in the BMW, saving the worst of it for the downstairs toilet of the Harrington house after Steve drags you and Robin indoors. Once your body is purged of the spirits, you collapse into your usual side of the guest bed, sweaty and exhausted, murmuring an apology to Robin who squeaks at the rocking movement of the mattress. In a few minutes, you’re lulled to sleep by the gentle snores of your best friend.

The morning sun is a very rude awakening, Robin apparently having forgotten to close the blinds before leaving with Steve for their shifts at Family Video. There’s a full glass of water on the bedside table and a few loose Tylenol tablets, the word “DRINK” sprawled on a sticky note in Steve’s handwriting.

You wince, down the meds along with half the water, and start the search for your sneakers.

When you’d signed up to protect a bunch of teens at the end of the world awhile back, it had seemed like a one-time gig. But now, here you were a few years later, loading yourself into your curb-parked junker to willingly cart around the same kids.

While wearing yesterday’s clothes. Even with the sprays of cologne that you’d stolen from Steve’s dresser, you’re pretty sure you’ll be fooling no one.

Evidenced by your first stop in east Hawkins for Dustin Henderson, who clambers into the front seat with a scathing appraisal. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” you reply, shifting the gear to drive and grimacing at the subsequent squeal of metal that pierces into your left temple. “Learn from my mistakes as a washed-up twenty-something and cool it on the teen drinking, all right?”

“Washed up though you may be,” Dustin intones sagely, digging through his backpack and producing two brown-paper bundles, “you are now one Claudia Henderson Breakfast Sandwich Deluxe richer.”

You take the proffered sandwich gratefully, steering with one hand to peel back the oil-stained paper from the still-warm bread. “God. Is your mom looking to adopt?”

“She’s kind of got the perfect child already, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground for ya,” Dustin says around a mouthful of cheese and egg.

The solid breakfast helps your stomach ease back into a place of normality, but with your next stop adding two more kids to the mix, the rowdy bickering that follows puts that Tylenol to work.

“You’re an idiot,” Max is saying to Lucas over the sound of his indignation in the back seat. “You seriously think Indiana Jones would win against Supergirl? She can shapeshift, and she has heat vision.”

“All I’m saying is, it’s really hard to see a whip coming.” Lucas is stretching the limits of his seatbelt in his earnestness to get his girlfriend on his side.

It doesn’t work- Max rolls her eyes and taps at your shoulder. “Help me out here. His logic is totally shit, right?”

Making a turn onto the main road, you nod your assent without looking back. “I think you should listen to your very smart girlfriend, Lucas.”

Max makes a triumphant “hah”, and Dustin adds fuel to the argument’s fire when he drags in some other comic book character that you’ve never heard of. 

You hazard a glance in your rear-view mirror at Max, who’s too busy dishing out an enthusiastic rebuttal to notice. Her auburn braids swing with the movement of the car, and you wonder if they were done by her mother before work or if Max had to rely on her own hair expertise again. 

You’ve got a real soft spot for Max, always have. While you both have plenty of cause to bond over shitty home lives, it’s also Max’s brash and defiant attitude that drew you to her. She’s got the bravery you can only hope for, something that you are sure to tell her frequently, even though the compliment is hard for her to take.

You score a parking spot that’s right in front of the arcade, calling after the kids already scrambling out of your car that you want to leave at noon, sharp. They all give some form of distracted acknowledgement before disappearing into the building, so you figure the earliest you'll be getting out of here is noon-thirty. 

Not like you have much to do today, anyways, besides bother Steve and Robin at work- since the arcade is conveniently located right next to Family Video, it’s a perfect excuse to wait out the kids’ spring break activities in the company of your nearest and dearest.

You’re cutting a swift track up the sidewalk when you nearly collide with Eddie Munson, for the second time in less than 24 hours.

“Hey!” He beams at you, a wide, easy thing that fits on his face so well, like it was made to be there, boyish dimples digging in. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” you agree, trying to smile back but probably landing somewhere in the grimace region as memories of last night float to the forefront of your mind. Small talk. You can do it. Say something. “Um. Were you getting a movie?”

“Nah.” Eddie shakes his head, hooks a thumb at the Family Video doors behind himself. “Keith’s one of my regulars. That guy might actually smoke more weed than me.”

You hum mildly to show you’re still paying attention but really you’re looking at Eddie’s hair, dark curls that shift with each of his movements. His hair isn’t black, like you’ve been led to believe this whole time- with the morning light shining through, highlighting the halo frizz around the edges, it’s actually a deep, chocolatey brown.

Similar to his eyes. Which are trained on you. Because you haven’t talked in a weird amount of time and are now just openly ogling his hair. 

Before you can open your mouth to apologize Eddie asks, “You wanna smoke?”

You nod, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically, and then stretch on your tiptoes to peer around Eddie’s frame at the Family Video sign. “Yeah, but we gotta be fast unless you want the Wonder Twins joining us.”

His grin slips into a smirk, and he winks before taking your hand in his. “A quickie, then.”

That fluttering thing in your ribs is back. The metal of Eddie’s rings are cool against your palm as he leads you around the side of the building, dropping your hand once you both are leaned up against the red brick.

Trying not to outright stare again, you watch from the fringes of your vision as Eddie lights up and breathes a cloud of smoke into the air. His nails are painted black- they weren’t last night. An image of him- hunched over a kitchen table, tongue sticking out of those pillowy lips in concentration, a nail polish brush held in his long fingers- flits across your mind.

Eddie holds the cigarette out, filter-side towards you, and you shake your head lightly. “No thanks. I don’t actually smoke, I just wanted to talk to you.”

Eddie glows. Before he gets the wrong idea you start explaining, arms crossing tight over your chest in unconscious defense- “I wanted to talk about last night. And say I’m sorry. I’m not usually so…”

“Badass? Charming? Hot?” Eddie fills in when you trail off, taking in another deep drag of smoke. 

Christ. You feel heat rushing from head to toe as you ward off his flattery, nails nipping into your upper arms. “I was gonna say… talkative? I guess? I’m normally not one to pick fights, but Lenny was being a dick and I don’t like the way he treats the kids, or you, for that matter, and I was drunk and mouthy but that’s not an excuse to drag you into it and I’m sorry-”

“Hey, hey.” Eddie’s tone is soothing, low, cutting smoothly into your feverish confession. He reaches out and strokes the back of his knuckle across your hand, tiny half-moons from your nails leaving their impression as you soften your grasp on yourself.

He doesn’t seem to mind that you can’t look anywhere but at your sneakers planted in the gravel as he says, “You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. I’m a big boy, I can handle myself when it comes to dickwads like Lenny Baker. And I would say that rescuing fair maidens is part of my job description, but…”

Eddie stubs the half-smoked cigarette out against the brick, flicks it to the ground, and waits until you look up at him again before saying “You don’t seem like you’re in need of any saving.”

That flutter, again, as you hold his eye contact for as long as you can stand it. 

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “There she is.”

Mortified, you resist the urge to scream into your hands as you push off from the brick, instead squeezing them into fists at your sides. “Oh-kay. Well. I better head inside or Robin will send out the search party for me.”

Eddie lets you walk past him, but just before you turn the corner he says, “I’m across from the Mayfields in Forest Hills if you ever want some company. Or some good weed.”

Footfalls from his thick-heeled boots recede into the distance, and you take a minute to calm your breathing before pushing your way through the doors of Family Video.

Steve’s stocking a shelf of New Releases at the front of the store, vest-clad torso faced away as the bell above the door signals your entrance. On autopilot he monologues, “Welcome to Family Video, let us know how we can be of service.”

“Aw, I miss the days when you were forced to say Ahoy, mateys!” You tease, Steve turning to give you an irritated frown as you prop your hip against the register counter.

Robin clacks away on the computer, hitting the Enter key a little harder than necessary as she says, “You’re about one mall fire and a bajillion NDA’s too late to ever hear that shit again.”

Keith must be lurking around in the back office, ‘cuz the three of you only refer to last year’s cataclysmic series of events as a “mall fire” when you’re talking in code. 

Or if you’re trying to be funny. But based on the dark circles under Robin’s eyes and the harried way Steve’s shoving a hand through his hair as he drifts towards the counter, you surmise that the three of you are very much on the same page this morning with regards to humor and hijinks.

“I didn’t know it was possible to be this hungover,” Robin groans, sinking her hand into a torn-open Skittles bag and popping a handful into her mouth. “Sugar is supposed to help, right?”

You snort, fiddling with a stack of paper brochures as Steve leans against the counter. 

“Had any more run-ins with the town riffraff?” He asks, feigning casual, honey-colored eyes roaming around the shop.

“I’m visiting you, aren’t I?” You shoot back, unreasonably defensive. 

“Another point for the pretty lady, and Harrington strikes a zero,” Robin totals in her best sports broadcasting voice. “What the hell are you talking about, Steve?”

“Drinky McGee over here was spilling her guts last night to none other than Edward Munson,” Steve replies, looking satisfied when Robin’s eyes bug dramatically.

“Eddie?” Robin hops off the stool, sliding her hands from the other side of the counter to stop your own from ripping the brochures to shreds. “And what, pray tell, were you spilling about with Eddie Muson?”

“Nothing.” You pull your hands from Robin’s, rolling your eyes as if the stakes are low, when in fact the stakes are as tall as the Empire State Building. You can practically hear the wind whistling from this height. “I wasn’t… we barely talked. He was backing me up when some jock started messing with me. That’s all.”

Robin whirls on Steve with animosity- “You left her alone long enough for some meathead to get involved? Jesus, Steve, the hell is wrong with you?”

“Like you shacking up with Vickie after two Tears for Fears tracks is any more responsible!” Steve snaps.

Having spent enough time with both your friends to know their propensity towards petty arguments, you slap a hand against the counter to derail. “Hey! Both of you knock it off. It’s fine, I’m fine, we survived yet another night out on the town unscathed. Let’s just… drop it.”

Steve looks properly chastised, but Robin gets a glint in her eye that confirms she’s not thrown off the scent so easily. 

“You know what they call him, right?” she asks you, lowering her raspy voice even further.

“Eddie The Freak Munson,” Steve supplies, but shrinks noticeably when Robin gives him a withering look. “...not that, then?”

“Of course you, Steve The Hair Harrington, would only know him by that name.” Robin shakes her head, disapproving, before turning back to you with a wicked grin. “Word on the street holds Eddie The Munch Munson in very high regard.”

Steve scoffs at this, but you blink, uncomprehending.  “Munch, like… he eats a lot of food?”

You feel very suddenly and violently ganged up on when Steve and Robin give you mirrored quizzical looks.

“No, babe,” Robin says, slowly. “Munch as in he eats pussy.”

“Jesus christ.” Heat courses through you as you scan the empty store, even as Steve chuckles and says, “You really are a prude.”

A skittle sails airborne into the side of his temple and he flinches, Robin coming to your aid. “That’s no way to talk to a lady, Steven.”

“I’m so not a prude.” You’re quick to jump to your own defense. “I just… didn’t know what that meant.”

You’d had a boyfriend for 6 months your sophomore year of high school, Ben- nice enough guy, but you’d mostly dated as an excuse to get all your firsts out of the way. Some laid-back hookups have occurred since then- it’s not like you’ve been chaste all these years, for fuck’s sake.

But you certainly wouldn’t give any of those boys a prize-winning nickname for their ability to eat you out. 

“It’s all baseless gossip, right?” Steve grabs a nearby wheeled cart and pushes it to the New Releases, resuming his shelf stocking. “I mean, what the hell else are small-townies good for other than trading lies like baseball cards.”

“I dunno,” Robin says, thoughtfully, sucking at her front teeth. “If the token lesbian is hearing about it, then he’s gotta be some sort of sex god.”

Steve’s making a snarky comeback, but you can’t hear him over the whistling in your ears.

You stare blankly out at the parking lot, one hand absently crunching at a brochure, trying really hard to think of anything but those plush lips and all the places you want them. 

____

Ever since the events of last year ripped a hole in your found family’s world, you make it a weekly habit to visit Max.

You’re always armed with some excuse- made too much pasta, please take it off my hands and put this tupperware in your fridge; I was on my way to the thrift store and thought I’d stop by, wanna come with and help me pick out some new jeans?- so that it’s harder for Max to deny your company. Slowly, over the last handful of months, by way of secondhand book offerings and slices of leftover pizza, Max has let her guard down enough to let you in. 

Even on days like today, when her demeanor suggests active disdain (calling you “mom” with a caustic bite when you ask after her last meal, rolling her eyes when she finds you doing the leftover sink dishes), you don’t take it personal. Her coldness towards little acts of kindness is due to the shitty way other people have failed her. And plus, you’ve put in enough effort to be able to see the warm side of Max Mayfield.

Like now, for instance- she’s giving you a bone-crushing hug on your way out, freshly-braided hair pressed tight to your sternum as you hug her back and sway in the doorway. The hug is quick and fierce, over in seconds as she slips back into practiced indifference

“Stay out of trouble this week and I’ll buy you a pony,” you joke as she pulls away, and the smile that she cracks makes it all worth it. 

“Make it a racehorse and you’ve got yourself a deal,” she says, giving you a small wave before closing her front door.

You walk down the dirt path to your parked car, keys in hand. Tonight’s schedule is that of a responsible, sensible young adult- the classified ads on your desk at home need trawling through, and a laundry pile the size of Hoosier Hill waits expectantly on your floor.

But there’s this crawling under your skin, a feeling that tends to flare up every so often, a craving for some sort of release gnawing at the edges. Usually the cure is sad music and masturbation, or some of Steve’s parents’ wine and a cheesy romcom. 

Or weed. That tends to work, too.

You’re shoving your keys into the pocket of your denim jacket and walking across the way to Eddie’s trailer before you lose your nerve, scuffing your sneakers against his porch while you knock.

He looks surprised to see you, dark brows raised, leaning into the palm he’s got on the doorframe- “Oh shit. Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply, tracking one foot up the back of your calf, feeling timid under his gaze. “Do you… can I buy some weed?”

When he nods, you duck under his arm and drop to one knee on the carpeted floor to untie your laces.

“Shit, sweetheart, don’t go to all that trouble.” He lets the door close, enveloping you both in the moody lighting of his trailer. There’s a radio playing the local rock station dimly from one of the bedrooms, and as you toe off your shoes you notice a gleaming black guitar leaned upright against the couch.

“Do you play?” You drift over on sock feet to gently brush across the strings, a faint and discordant noise rising and fading underneath your fingertips.

“Yeah.” Eddie’s voice comes from just over your shoulder as he watches your gentle fingers on his prized possession. “I’m in a band, actually. You should come see us play sometime.”

“That’s cool,” you say earnestly. “I remember when you got in trouble for that talent show performance- your band was totally swindled out of first place, if you ask me.”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you hazard a look at him over your shoulder and find him staring at you again, something you’re still not used to, giggling out a little “What?” as his eyes stay on your face.

“You’re pretty, that’s all.” The Dio logo on the front of his tee ripples when he shrugs a shoulder. As if he knew it would embarrass you, he leaves no room for your disagreement, turning away into the kitchen, stretching tall for the metal lunchbox on the top of his fridge.

His shirt lifts with the stretch, a flash of stomach lined with a trail of dark hair that makes you swallow back the gathering saliva in your mouth. 

“So, weed,” he’s saying as he pops the lid on the box, shaking out a small bag of fuzzy-looking green clumps. “I can set you up with a couple of days’ worth, if you want.”

“That sounds good,” you reply, mustering courage to drift to Eddie’s side, pretending to assess the baggie he’s holding, committing to memory the way his long fingers deftly pluck apart bud from stem. “That way I can come back and buy more.”

His fingers pause, halfway to the metal grinder nestled in the lunchbox as he says, “You know, you don’t need to use weed as an excuse to come see me. I think we’ve already established I like lookin’ at ya, so you’d be doing me a favor if you came by more. Just to hang out.”

This offer sits between you as he grinds the weed down, then tips a stripe of it neatly across some rolling paper. His dexterous fingers pinch and tuck until a joint takes shape, a small strip of the paper poking out.

He holds it to your lips, brown eyes shimmering with warmth as he waits. 

A Stevie Nicks song starts up on the radio, muffled by the trailer walls but crooning through all the same. This close to Eddie for the first time, you can smell him- balmy and spicy, like bergamot and Irish Spring. 

You lean into the joint, licking across the paper in one unbroken motion. Your tongue catches on Eddie’s thumb when you pull away, and there’s a salt-warm taste that settles in your mouth.

“Good girl,” he says, in that low-toned voice, and you have to fight to keep your thighs from pressing together in your jeans.

“Wanna smoke here?” Eddie smooths the spit-damp end of the joint down, giving the end a twist. “Good way to test out the merchandise. First one’s free.”

You shake your head as he extends the joint- “I’m definitely paying you, Eddie. And no, I can’t smoke here.” With you being the unspoken addition to that sentence. 

“Aw, shucks, sweetheart,” he drawls, devilish grin creeping back in, “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

His brows shoot up again, then waggle, obscenely. “Afraid I’m gonna be too tempting to resist once you’re in the clutches of the Green Dragon?”

Something like that, you think, wryly, but that fluttering is back and you really want to shut it up, so against your sensible, better judgment, you take the joint from Eddie’s hand.

“Got a light?”

You haven’t smoked in over a month, and with your tolerance so low two hits is all it takes to get you sprawled out on the living room floor, arms akimbo like you’re making a carpet snow angel.

Eddie’s a bit more restless in his high, plucking melodious and listless tunes from the couch with his guitar, one foot propped on the coffee table near your head.

Feeling loose-limbed and confident, you stare unabashed up at Eddie. He’d put his hair into a low bun, earlier, and there are a few dark tendrils swinging free around his neck with the rocking movements of his body to the music. 

He hits a snag, string buzzing out a dissonant noise. “Can’t focus with you lookin’ at me.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, except you’re not at all. “Now you know how I feel all the time.”

He sticks his tongue out at you, your girlish tittering in answer; you pat the carpet beside your hip. “Come lay with me.”

His body responds easily to your request; Eddie props the guitar back up against the couch and stretches out next to you with a sigh, a wave of that smokey sweet smell coming with him.

Under your weed-filtered view, the popcorn ceiling above you is moving, whorling and undulating in the muted light. You’re feeling gutsy and sure of yourself as you ask aloud, “Do you really think I’m pretty?”

Your head turns so you can meet Eddie’s eyes, which are dancing across your face- cheek to lips to nose back up to eyes- and he doesn’t make a joke, this time, his words coming with weighty seriousness.

“Yeah, I do. I think you’re beautiful. Always have.”

“Always?” Your echo is a soft and seeking thing.

“Yeah, always,” he confirms, simply, as if it’s a fact of life. “Woulda made a move sooner, but you always seemed so…”

“Unapproachable? Aloof? Bitchy?” You fill the gap in his speech with adjectives that have been used to characterize you in the past- usually by boys in the heat of an argument over inconsequential things that have been lost to time, only the labels sticking around. 

Eddie gives you a reproachful look. “No. I was gonna say, you seemed like you were always in your own world.”

This throws you for a loop. Neck on a swivel, you look back up at the ceiling as Eddie continues.

“I wanted to get to know you more, but I’ll be the first to admit I was intimidated by you. I mean, you’re way out of my league-” Eddie ignores the sardonic snort you give to this- “-and I just assumed asking you out would've ended with an epic crash and burn.”

The ceiling stops swaying, and you swivel back to hold Eddie’s eyes again, the weed making honesty easy. “I always kinda thought you were beautiful, too.”

Awash with the bravery that only comes from being in an altered state, you keep the momentum that’s aided by Eddie’s soft smile and push up on your elbows. 

“I know what they call you.”

Eddie blinks up at you, then slowly, slowly, pushes himself up onto his elbows too. “Yeah?”

It’s a taunt, a dare, an I bet you won’t.

Shows how much he knows. When you’re drunk or stoned, he’d be hard pressed to find a bet you can’t win.

You say it, unwavering. “Eddie The Munch Munson.”

His lips fall open, leaning in towards you as if drawn by a magnet, and you think he’s gonna kiss you until he falls back against the carpet, scrubbing his hands down his face. “Shit. Fuck. We can’t do this.”

“Why not?” You’re a little taken aback, ‘cuz while it’s not an outright rejection, Eddie’s upping the drama, hands pressed into the sockets of his eyes, groaning as he tips into your side.

With his forehead pressed into the curve of your shoulder, he says softly, “I think we’re both a little too stoned to be thinking clearly. And I really, really want you to think clearly when it comes to this.”

“Comes to what?” You’re egging him on now, trailing your fingers up his bicep, coy and angelic. 

He rolls away from you, making a pained noise with his face smushed into the carpet before pushing himself off the ground. “You know what, princess. New topic, for the love of god. You hungry?”

You are, actually, and when he extends his hand to help you up, you take it.

Eddie whips up a box of mac and cheese while you sit on a counter nearby, conversation engaging and fluid as he cooks.

Between interjections of ‘scuse me, angel, gotta get into this cabinet and can you take over stirring for a sec? you answer all his questions. You tell him your favorite bands, the states you’d visited on a road trip when you were six, even giving him the whole “my mom’s a nice enough person but we don’t get along” spiel that you don’t usually get to until a third date.

If that’s even what this is. He’s scooping steaming noodles into two bowls, passing you one, leaning up against the counter closest to the one you’re sat on. Your knee rubs against his ribcage as you eat.

In between chews, he lets you ask about himself- his favorite bands, the states he’s never been but wants to travel to someday, the highlights of his golden years with his mom that he misses every day.

There’s a quiet lull, after your bowls are scraped clean and set aside. He helps you off the counter and tells you to pick out a movie; you load The Black Cauldron into the VCR and settle into the couch cushion.

Eddie puts an arm around you, lets you play with his hands for the bulk of the film, running your nails methodically across his palms. 

By the last act of the movie, you can feel your high beginning to fade, taking your courage with it; when the credits roll, you’re ready to call it quits and sleep off the hangover in your own bed.

“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Eddie asks, following after you as you tug your sneakers back on in the hall.

“Yeah, Eddie, I’ll be good. Thanks for the weed,” you say, pulling your jacket tight around your frame. “And for the- for everything.”

The smile appears again; the one that cuts deep dimples into his cheeks as he watches you step onto his porch.

When he says your name, you turn, keys in hand- “Yeah?”

Leaning into the doorframe like he had earlier, he cants his head, streetlight a warm glow across his cheeks. “You wanna know where I got my nickname, you come back in a few days. Sleep on it tonight.” And then he closes the door.

___

So, technically, he told you to come back in a few days, and showing up less than 24 hours later has to hint at being some sort of desperate. 

Which, fuck it, you kinda are, at this point. Frankly it’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long what with the whole being plagued with visions of Eddie Munson’s hands and lips and hair and that stupid fucking nickname every waking and dreaming hour you’ve spent apart. 

While you can appreciate the honorable nature of Eddie asking you to make a clear-headed decision, you’re wishing for a hundred things to take the edge off as you change out of the PJ’s you’ve been moping in all day.

Black tights stretch over your calves as you think of the whiskey you mom keeps hidden in the downstairs cabinet; denim miniskirt smoothed over your hips as you long for a deep hit of weed; hands shakily plucking your black tanktop into place as the urge to be anything but sober gets swallowed down. 

You make the ten minute drive to Forest Hills in silence (relative to the weird engine noises your hunk of metal car decides to make), wracking your brain for silver-tongued excuses but instead drawing blank after blank.

By the time you’re rolling to a stop in front of Eddie’s trailer, you still have no idea what you’re gonna say to him- only that something needs to be said. Max is at the Sinclair’s for the night, one less person to worry about witnessing you slamming your car door shut and walking right up to Eddie on his front steps.

He’s wearing a pair of overalls, grease-stained, shirtless underneath- the tail end of a larger ink piece peeking out against his ribs. There’s a lone bike tire on the ground, held steady by the spokes his boot rests on as he wrenches the middle hub, biceps rippling and flexing with each movement. 

Certainly a sight that would have stopped you in your tracks, on any other day. But you’re determined to have it out with the returning wingbeat behind your navel, planting your Converse in the gravel just before the first step that Eddie’s sat on.

He doesn’t seem surprised to see you this time, instead giving you a lazy smile on a half-tilt, wiping the tire oil from his hands onto the front of his overalls.

“What brings a fair maiden such as yourself to this ugly neck of the woods?” Eddie leans the tire up against the steps and rises to greet you.

You’re gonna lose what little nerve you have left if he touches you so you act quick, speaking as you cross your arms- “I need to tell you a few things.”

That stops him up short, just a few feet away as he inclines his head, hair loose around his bare shoulders. “I’m nothin’ but ears.”

A wet, rattling breath catches in your chest. You give a cursory scan around to confirm that the rest of the trailer park citizens are indoors, soft lights from rows of windows luminous against the darkening twilight sky.

“I have a… a thing,” you start, unsure of where to begin, really wishing you’d come up with a polished script on the ride over instead of being forced to flounder through for the right dialogue. “It started last year. With the mall fire?” 

When Eddie nods his understanding, you continue, in short starts and bursts, like you’re fighting with the words before they come out.

“Something… happened. To Robin, and Steve, and to- to me. It was really bad, for awhile, and then it got better, but I’m still…” your hands squeeze tight into the flesh of your upper arms, nails stinging. “I’m fucked up from it. And the only way I can talk about it is if I’m fucked up, too. S’why I can only hold a conversation when I’m drunk or flirt while I’m high, like there’s this bad thing inside of me that I can’t look at when I’m sober-”

There’s a frantic edge that’s slipped in to your voice and Eddie steps towards you, as if to soothe, but you’re not ready to give in yet so you take a step back, choking out the last few words- “I just- I wish I could tell you everything, but I can’t, not yet, and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

From somewhere in the forest behind, a bright chorus of crickets swells as you fix your focus on the ground, as Eddie’s boots crunch forward on the gravel, toe-to-toe with your sneakers.

He moves carefully, as if worried that you’ll spook- lightly brushing his fingers across yours, drawing your awareness to the fact that your nails are dangerously close to drawing blood, a sigh as you release.

“Thank you for telling me.” Unlike your own voice, his is low and sure as his thumbs brush against the red half-moons in your arms. “You’re really brave, you know that?”

He doesn’t leave room for you to dispute this, instead tracing the underside of your jaw with his knuckle, forcing you to hold his gaze, those deep brown eyes soft with empathy as he says, “I don’t have any expectations of you, ‘kay? I’ll be all ears when you need me to be, but you don’t have to spill all your secrets every time you come around. You wanna just watch shitty cartoons and keep my couch warm, that’s fine by me. Nothin’ else needs to happen.”

And it’s his acknowledgement of your admission, his softhearted way of letting you know that nothing needs to happen, that makes you brave.

Brave enough to tilt your chin into the lift of his finger as you say, “I didn’t just come here to apologize.”

You watch his Adam’s apple bob against the taut vein in his neck as he swallows, hard. 

“Yeah?”

When you nod, Eddie blows out a breath and turns on his heel, motioning you to follow him up the stairs. 

Your eagerness is obvious as you scramble up the steps after him, heart starting to thrum in tandem with the flutters as he shuts his front door behind the both of you.

“Take your shoes off,” is all he says, in a low, strained voice, before turning into the kitchen.

Obedient, you drop to one knee and jerk apart your sneaker laces with trembling hands. 

Now on nyloned feet, you step onto the linoleum tile of Eddie’s kitchen. He’s faced away from you at the sink, taut lines of his shoulders rising and falling as he washes his hands.

“You’re sober?” He asks, still at the sink, drying his hands on a patterned teatowel. 

When you realize he can’t see your nod, you speak- “Yes. Yeah. As a judge.”

A soft exhale through his nose, amused, as he finally turns to face you. Eddie’s eyes do that hypnotizing dance- skipping from your chin to your eyes to your lips back up again- and you let him, feeling exposed to the point of nakedness with the intensity of his focus.

“I want to hear you say it.”

The sentence winds through the air, joins the wings in your stomach, sits low in your belly as you shift your weight from side to side, a gentle rock to ease your flayed-alive nerves. 

You say it. “I want your mouth.”

Eddie takes a step closer, nearly toe-to-toe with you again. Over the familiar layer of bergamot and fresh hand soap he smells like the outdoors, and faintly of mechanic oil, hearty and wild.

“Where?” It’s a single word, but with so much weight- suggestive, a taunt, an offer.

You breathe him in, eyes fluttering closed, ‘cuz brave as you’ve been it’s still hard to say some things while looking at him. “Want your mouth… on me.”

He crowds into your space, one hand gliding smoothly to set against your waist, the other fitted against your neck, tapping a thumb to your lips.

You part them, passive and wanting, but he doesn’t press his finger to the pad of your tongue like you’d hoped. Instead, he lets his thumb stroke to the corner of your mouth to make room for his own. 

“Where?” he asks again, this time into your mouth. You can feel the tip of his nose graze yours, pinpricks of his hair tickling your cheeks. 

“Please,” is all you manage this time, awash with heat when you feel his smile form. 

“S’okay, sweetheart. I’ll work you up to it.” It’s a touch condescending, skirting that fine line between tease and mean, the same tone of voice that has your thighs pressing together.

And then, he gives you what you asked for. His plush lips- the ones that you’ve been fantasizing about for what feels like eons- are pressing against yours.

It’s a kiss that starts chaste, tender, but soon devolves into a heady, fevered thing when you push your tongue past the seam of his lips. He melts into you, using the hand he has on your face to keep you steady as he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, grazing his teeth into the plush of it before going back to twining his tongue with yours. 

There’s an audible wet click as he pulls away, both of your chests heaving in the quiet that follows; Eddie rests his forehead against yours briefly to catch his breath, and then he’s tugging you down the hall and into his room.

It’s pleasantly messy and lived-in, posters and photographs taking up most of the walls, guitar cables snaking and criss-crossing atop his dresser. You take a seat on the bed, hands tightening into the flannel duvet while Eddie begins to undo the buttons of his overall straps.

Wholly fascinated, you watch as he pushes the thick material from his body and kicks it to the side, leaving him in just his guitar pick necklace and a simple pair of black boxers. Now on full display, you drink in the sight of the most skin you’ve ever seen of his- tattoos at his chest and arms dark against the rest of him, pale and gleaming softly in the yellow light of the bedside lamp. 

You’re trying to figure out if the larger piece on his ribs is a dragon or some other mythological creature when he moves in to sit next to you, his kisses erasing all thoughts.

Eddie’s making these throaty little noises as you kiss; his hands track lines from your hips to your sides to your shoulders, your chest unconsciously pressing into his touch. 

When his thumb catches on the outline of your beaded nipple through your shirt, he hisses lightly, drawing back to look at you again- “Is this okay?”

You nod, but he doesn’t seem satisfied with that, tsking as he swipes with his thumb again, watching closely as you react silently to the touch.

“Hard to tell when you’re enjoying yourself if you’re quiet as a churchmouse,” Eddie says, in a tone that’s reminiscent of training a pet. “You gonna let me hear you?”

Your teeth catch on your lower lip as he thumbs across your nipple again, shockwaves coursing into goosebumps as you choke out, “I’m not s-so good at that. Not without- fuck- weed..”

Eddie huffs a laugh, a little derisive but you figure he’s probably got the right, seeing as how you’re this worked up and he’s barely touched you.

“You’re plenty good at this sober, sweetheart. Want me to prove it?”

His hand falls from your breast, extricates one of yours from the covers, and slides it up the meat of his thigh- then to the front of his boxers.

The first noise you make for him is a small gasp, one that matches his own as you cup your palm over the thick jut of his hard cock.

“Told you,” he says, sounding strung-out, his hand still closed around your wrist, “You’re doin’ just fine at working me up.”

You wrap your fingers around the bulge as best you can with the fabric of his boxers separating skin from skin, gaining confidence to explore as his grip on your wrist loosens. The black ink at his ribs expands and shrinks with the bellows of his breath, jolting and stuttering with each stroke of your hand.

Just as he’s drawing in a breath to speak, tightening his hold around your wrist in warning, you still your movements. Delicately, slowly, you slide out of his grasp and take his wrist in your hand, placing his palm on your own thigh.

The whole “reciprocating pleasure with sound” is still a hard one to give in to; maybe you can compensate for your hesitancy by showing instead of telling. You guide his hand up, into your skirt, parting your thighs until his fingers find the wetness soaking through both your panties and tights. 

“Fucking… jesus.” Eddie moves with the fluid surety that you lack, middle finger running up the seam of your clothed pussy, your hips jerking reflexively when he catches against your clit. “This all for me, princess?”

In answer, you lean to bury your face into the crook of Eddie’s neck. He lets you, taking the opportunity to hook your leg over his thigh, spreading you out as much as your fitted denim skirt will allow.

You pant into the column of his throat as he strokes you through the light layers, the fabrics grinding friction into your clit caught under his fingertip. He rests his chin on the crown of your head, cooing praises that have your stomach muscles tensing.

“That’s it, good girl, such a good girl for me.”

Your clit is throbbing now as he rubs you in small, quick circles, and you’re so close to falling over the edge that you have to pull his hand away.

Eddie picks up on your unspoken plea; he tugs the skirt down your hips then tosses it blindly over his shoulder, reaching for the edge of your tights. He slips them down your thighs, your calves, peeling them off you with reverence. When all that’s left is your best pair of satin panties, he maneuvers you up against the headboard and stretches himself flat on his stomach, nose pressing into your core.

That heat has come back, flashing through you with a vengeance as Eddie mouths at your pussy through the satin, sloppily but with purpose enough to have your cunt clenching around nothing.

You stay up on your elbows, watching that mane of dark hair bracketed by your thighs, but when Eddie pulls your underwear down and off your ankle your weight falls back against the mattress.

The flat of his tongue licks a wide stripe from your weeping hole up to spread the wetness around your clit. When he sucks the bundle of nerves into his mouth, your head presses back into the covers, hands grappling above you for something to anchor your grasp.

When Eddie flicks the point of his tongue against that bright spot of nerves your hands find a pillow to grip, and when he moans into your pussy the vibrations have you instinctively pulling the pillow against your face, teeth biting into the fluff, masking the whine that would have been loud in the otherwise quiet room.

You think you might be able to get away with this setup (what with Eddie seemingly focused on making you explode into a million little pieces) but there’s a sharp smack before the outer skin of your thigh is burning, white-hot from the kiss of his rings.

Eddie’s mouth leaves you only for the time it takes for him to rip the pillow from your grasp and scold, “Uh uh, none of that, c’mon,” and then he’s back at your clit, suckling with renewed vengeance.

There are little stars bursting at the edges of your vision, your hands shooting down to grip at Eddie’s hair when he pistons the point of his tongue against you again. Your hips are subtly bucking into his mouth, shaking thighs involuntarily closing around his ears. Normally you’d be concerned about Eddie’s air intake but going off the moans he’s burying in your pussy, you’d hazard a guess that he’s really into it.

As if in confirmation, he pulls off your clit with a wet pop, laving his tongue up the junction where thigh meets pelvis, voice sounding wrecked- “Doin’ so good, sweetheart. Fuck, you got me so hard. Gonna blow a load in my boxers like a teenager, y’taste so good. Gonna let me hear you? Hm? Wanna hear you.”

You’re dizzy with want as you prop yourself on your elbows again, mouth falling open as Eddie sinks two of his fingers up to the ringed knuckle inside your velvet walls.

His other hand comes to rest on the soft curve of your stomach, pinning you in place, before he looks up at you, black pupils nearly eclipsing the chocolate brown. 

“What do you want?” he asks again, patiently, as if he doesn’t have two fingers nestled inside your cunt.

Your efforts to grind into him are stopped with his firm hold on your middle, and he tuts at you again- but instead of a reprimand, he seems to soften a bit.

“C’mon, angel,” Eddie says, with such tenderness that makes tears prick at the corner of your eyes. He presses his lips to the inside of your thigh before encouraging, “Lemme hear you say it, and I’ll make it so good for you. Promise.”

“Want you to make me come. Please.” Your voice is unsteady, but it’s audible enough.

Eddie rewards you by sinking his fingers further, to the hilt, heel of his palm catching against your clit. When you let out a warbling moan, he nods- “That’s it,”- before setting a steady rhythm for fucking his fingers up into you. 

“Fuck, Eddie- fu-uck…” you’re trying, really trying to stay in the moment and not get caught up in the noises you’re making- for him. 

When Eddie reattaches his mouth to your throbbing clit and angles his fingers to hit into that soft, spongy spot with each thrust, you feel waves of pleasure start to wash through you. There’s just time for a choked “Shit, Eddie, you’re gonna make me cum,” before you’re spasming around his fingers.

Somehow, you manage to stay on your elbows, bracing your body through the convulsive shocks, white-hot stars joining the wingbeat rhythm as Eddie takes you apart with his mouth and fingers.

He moans, long and low, fucking you through it and then some- your orgasm has been completely wrung out when you push at his forehead, whimpering at the overstimulation. 

“No, baby, one more, please. Gimme one more,” Eddie lifts his head to plead with you, sweaty bangs glued to his forehead- and then he’s back between your legs.

It’s this moment that makes you retrospective. Sex with boys, in the past, has always been a quick means to an end: a few minutes of foreplay, tamping down your own pleasure for the sake of blowing off some steam. 

But now, pleasure was being given to you in spades by Eddie Munson, and you wanted to give it back to him.

You come on his tongue and fingers, again, stomach tightening beneath his warm palm, and this time you really loose the sounds caught in your chest: a strangled mix of your bliss-soaked whines with his name, Eddie Eddie Eddie. 

You feel the bed frame jolt below you both as Eddie’s hips thrust into the mattress in a frenzied tempo.

“Fuck me.” He pulls away, finally, panting into the side of your knee. He rests his head against your leg, lips tinged pink and shining wet, gazing at you with lust-blown eyes. “You are so fucking hot. Holy shit.”

Bashful as your peak wears off, you pull him forward so you don’t have to look at him when you whisper, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, princess,” he says, slumping against your chest and into your arms. “That’s going straight to my long-term spank bank. Number one. For sure.”

You slap playfully at his shoulder, and he rises on his elbows to kiss you- once on the lips, twice on the cheek- warm palms on the outside of your shoulders. 

“Are you… d’you need any help?” you ask, reaching to tuck his hair behind his ears, feeling the crush of insecurity leech in. “I dunno if you even- I mean, did you…”

From all the physical activity, your breasts are half-spilled out of your bra, and Eddie bends to kiss at the tops of them, affectionately, shaking his head as he goes. “There is no world in which I would’ve lasted, just now. Very noble of you to assume, though.”

He grins at your giggle, then says- “I dunno about you, but I need some new underwear. Wanna borrow a pair of my boxers? Bet you’d look cute.”

________

Later, when you’re both cleaned up, dressed, and full from a pizza delivery, Eddie invites you outside for a smoke.

You sit with him on the porch couch, legs slung over his, a big flannel blanket shared over both your laps while he smokes with the hand that isn’t on your thigh. 

There’s a crunching of wheels on gravel, and Max Mayfield’s bike lamp cuts through the dark.

“Hey, Heavy Metal,” she calls out, undoing her bike helmet and leaning her bike into its kickstand. “Are you done fixing up Lucas’s tires or do I have to keep hauling my ass all the way across town to see him?”

“I’ll have it done tomorrow, Red,” Eddie calls back, giving her a salute.

Halfway to her door, she remarks, “You two are gross, by the way,” 

You cross your arms in the sweatshirt Eddie loaned you, slipping into irksome older sister mode easily. “So how’d it go with your boyfriend, tonight, Maxine?”

She flips you both off, but you catch the smile on her face before the front door bangs shut behind her.

Eddie chuckles, smoothing his palm up your thigh, then takes another drag. “You gotta come night smoke with me more often, angel. The streetlights suit you.”

“Gonna get me hooked on nicotine, too?” Your sock foot pokes him in the ribs and he tuts, snapping it up in his free hand and digging his thumb into the arch of your sole.

“Fuck no, your teeth are too pretty to ruin. Want you to come keep me company while I destroy my lungs.”

Another cloud of smoke lifts dreamily around Eddie’s face. His thumb is working wonders on the tense muscle of your foot as you tip your head to rest on the back of the couch. With the nearby streetlamp, his profile is cast in a warm glow; you do a dance of your own, eyes taking in the strong slope of his nose, tracking down to his lips, back up to the wild curls at his temple.

Eddie feels you staring, turns to fix you with a quit it look that you can’t help but laugh at- “What, so you’re the only one who’s allowed to stare?”

“That’s right,” he confirms, leaning forward to set his cig in an ashtray, bullying his way into your space, rings cold under your chin when he tilts your face towards his- “Gotta pay the piper for that obvious violation, sweetheart. Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

This time, when the flutter within you kicks up, you have a place for it to go- melting softly into Eddie’s lips. 

___________________

I wrote the last third of this while blasted please don’t judge too harshly lmao

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this one came out of no where.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s uncharacteristically grim on the plains of Debray. Rains pelt the tall green grasses, flattening them in a slanted downpour that dims the horizon. Clouds blot out the daylight and lend to atmosphere of unease in the warring lands. 

Behind the castle walls, one can forget about the bloodshed staining the counties red, though it is all the dukes and his audience can speak of. The lords that bluster through those gates, sometimes at the toll of morning, some in the black swathes of night. You can’t count them all, you can name even fewer, but they come anon and leave just as brusquely. 

A peel of thunder shakes the land and a dark line limns the curve of the horizon. What appears first as a storm cloud advances quickly through the fields, appearing more clearly to the naked eye, distant nonetheless. Men. Another party fast on the approach. 

The alarm goes up at a man’s holler. Ethred, man at the gate hollers to the other men in mail. Niam peers out from the vantage of the tower and calls back down. A hush falls and bodies scurry all around, metal clinking and boots crunching. There’s something amiss. Something you can’t quite place. 

You turn away from the window, the steam rising from the basin in your hand swirling around your head. You carry on down the corridor, wool skirts around cautious steps as you balance the swaying water in the vessel. You approach the lady’s door and give it a rap with your knee. Merinda, another handmaid, opens it from within. 

You enter without a word and place the basin on the vanity table. The duke’s daughter preens herself with a painted fan, fluttering her lashes at her reflection as her curls spill down her long back. She tilts her head this way and that. She snaps the fan shut and puts it down, touching her soft brown cheeks with a devilish grin. 

“Do you know what father mentioned last eve?” Jazlene asks with a vain flutter of her lashes. 

“What did he mention?” Her mother, Lady Rezlyn prompts lazily as she plucks another cherry from a dish heaped in fruit. 

“A husband,” the daughter grins coyly at herself, “it is well due, isn’t it, mother? Who do you think it might be? Lord Gai, perhaps? He is young still.” 

“Perhaps the Earl of Mesafin,” her mother taunts back to a disgusted gasp. 

“Do not,” Jazlene pouts, “I could never... I am much too pretty for that haggard beast.” 

“Well, then, who might you have, precious?” Rezlyn goads. 

There is a clamour in the hall that keeps the younger of the woman from answering. She rolls her eyes and darkly glare at the door. You peer back behind your shoulder as a wail goes up carrying her father’s name; ‘Lord Dustan!’ 

“What is all that?” Jazlene whines, “as if it isn’t enough with the rain and the winds. It is summer!” 

“It’s always summer in Debray, darling,” Rezlyn scoffs, “otherwise I’d have never married your father. Pray you don’t hook yourself a winter lord.” 

You peek over your shoulder as you stand near the door, in your vigil, awaiting your next order. You face the ladies again as the elder continues to feast and the younger fusses over her thick brows. You scrunch your lips back and forth, a habit that often has your jaw aching. 

Jazlene turns to narrow her eyes at you, “what is it then? What has you making faces?” 

You bow your head, appeasing her ego, “my lady, there were men coming. A party approaching from the north.” 

“There are always men,” she shakes her head, “who was it then? Anyone I should wear silk for?” 

Her mother laughs, “I warn you, daughter, that trite tongue will not endear any husband.” 

“I do not know, lady,” you answer. 

“Ugh, useless, must I work as my own handmaid?” Jazlene tisks, “come, pin my hair. Merinda find me a gown. Mother... wipe the dribble from your chin.” 

“Eh, watch yourself,” Lady Rezlyn rises and wipes her lips with her sleeve. She wears muslin in a dark shade of burgundy, embroidered with little copper finches. “Or hope you marry above me before you lash that tongue at me.” 

Jazlene merely trills with laughter. You take the pins and work at twisting her fine curls into place. Merinda brings to her a dress of teal satin and is promptly shooed away, “something pink. It brings out my bosom.” 

You ignore her bawdy jest as her mother harrumphs. You work in quiet tandem with the other handmaid. You add a touch of paint to the lady’s cheeks and kohl around her eyes. You tint her lips with pigment and she pushes out her lips at the mirror. You help Merinda dress her, pulling the noble daughter’s corset tight enough to leave her lightheaded. 

The pair of ladies, elder and younger, leave the chamber with you at their skirt tails. They sweep through the corridors with chins up. They are queens in their own minds. Their fine dresses and sparkling gems are untouched by the disparity of war. The lives lost are squares on a game board, tawdry talk for men in their studies. 

“Lord Dustan,” Lady Rezlyn mimics the earlier call for the lord of the castle, “my husband. Dear, dear husband!” 

The women go to the banister and look down upon the great hall as the flurry continues below. You and Merinda loom behind, not daring to stand at a level with the pompous nobles. You have never volunteered yourself for their impetuous lashings. 

“Woman!” Dustan booms back up, “do not trouble me now.” 

“Oh, has another lord come? Perhaps a suitor for our lovely daughter--” 

“Cease!” The duke demands hotly, “now is not the time for womanly games.” 

“Tell me it true, husband, she will be an old maid before you find a suiting son-in-law--” 

“Go away to your chambers. Now. The men who come are not to be trifled with and you lot do trifle overly much!” 

“Bah! Oh do not be so uncouth!” Rezlyn decries. 

“Father, please, is it a husband?” 

“Go before I send my guards up to put you away like thieves in a dungeon. Hear me when I warn you that this does not concern you. Not as yet,” Dustan snarls, “you would spoil this war with your puny concerns.” 

“Ugh,” his wife puts her hand to her forehead, “he does tax me. All I ask of him is to take care of us, daughter. As any husband should.” 

“I should have your lips sewn shut!” Dustan rebukes hotly, “be gone before I find a tailor.” 

The women share an aghast look. The turn back to flutter away in their skirts. You and Merinda follow them to the drawing room, closing them in as they fall onto the velvet cushions. Jazlene reclines dramatically on the chaise as her mouth mopes on a sofa. 

“Shall I be alone forever, mother?” Jazlene snivels, “why won’t he let me marry?” 

“He only wants to find the right man, that is all, darling,” Rezlyn coaxes. “He is overprotective and that is good for it means he will find a husband for you with a similar bearing.” 

“Such sweet words cannot convince me. He punishes me. When all my lady friends have wed and borne a whelp or two, I remain with the dust and stone.” 

“Do not be theatrical,” Rezlyn girds, “you are silly.” 

“I am not silly, mother. I am afraid. I am twenty and three and I have no suitor. I have only a war butchering any man who might have my hand. Why must this go on? Why must I suffer for the gripes of stubborn kings.” 

“We cannot fear. This war will be won and you will have a knight for a husband. Isn’t that better? To have a warrior you can be proud of than some bookish lord in his tower?” Rezlyn stands and moves to sit with her daughter, petting her as she cooes, “oh my beautiful, no man can resist you. You will see.” 

⚔️

Some hours pass with the restless women, pacing and chattering, about careless things beyond marriage and war. Like needlework and a banquet that should be had upon the truce. Would that the day would come sooner. 

You and Merinda stifle yawns that pass between you. The act is contagious as you stand in the tedium of the wealthy and wait for a duty to be called upon you. The hours you spend watching the women preen and swoon make you envy the stable boys and the shit shovelers. 

The noise beyond those walls continues. You heard the moat open and the clopping hooves of horses, even the clatter of carts. The voices had since hushed but footfalls carried back and forth. The wordless activity betrays an air of impatience, almost of nervousness. As the ladies within mirror the sentiment. 

Finally, as the windows darken and the candles burn brighter, a knock shakes the door. The ladies snap their heads around. Merinda is asleep on her feet as you move first. You open to a man in grey and black waits on the other side. He is not Lord Dustan’s. 

“The duchess and her daughter,” he garbles through a mouth that sounds full of salt. 

You dip your head and look to the ladies in question. There is a tension, of unease, of unknowing, of excitement turned to dread. This is not as it has been. There is not call to the dinner table. There is no buoyant introduction of a lord Dustan met as a young scamp. There is silence and fear. Has someone died? Has a battle been lost? 

The women emerge and greet the man with niceties and tight-lipped simpers. He does not pay them heed as you and Merinda exchange looks. You trail after the ladies but the man stops. He turns back, a hand on the pommel at his waist, and sneers, a furrow in his brow. 

“One of ya,” he grits. 

Jazlene says your name. She must’ve noticed Merinda swaying on her feet. If she even cares so much about a maid. You keep your head down and follow as they press on. Down the corridor and around the duke’s study, recently deemed his war room. You’ve never been within. It is not the domain of women. 

The grey and black soldier thumps on the door. Mother and daughter clasp hands. Even they can sense the unusual frigidity. The door opens from within. It is Lord Dustan. He wears a serious look on his lined face. The ladies are beckoned in and the soldier nudges you after them as you hesitate. 

Lanterns light the space from the desk at the rear of the chamber. The large table draped in maps, wooden horses, and little wooden pucks stands central on a thick rug. A figure stands behind it, head down as his burly and broad silhouette seems to sop up the shadows. 

The ladies follow the duke to stand across from the man. His head is down as he slides a horse along a road on the map. He stops it and grips it tight. He looks up and the lantern light dances on his features. You suck in a breath, as the rest do, stunned by his appearance. 

His hair is white, his eyes are a goldish yellow, pupils deep pools of black, and his square jaw is just as thick as the rest of him. You have never seen a man like him before, but you have heard of one. Of him. King Geralt of Rivia. 

You stand in similar confusion to the ladies. Their silent confoundment is broken by Duke Dustan as he nears the table. He sniffs and presses his fingers to the table top. 

“Your highness, my wife, Lady Rezlyn, and my daughter, Lady Jazlene,” he introduces. 

The women glance at each other then curtsy to the white king. He watches them dully. You fold your hands, taking it in curiously. It is rather something to witness the scene. You are so unimportant as to not be a part of it. 

“Your highness,” the recite, “it is...” 

“An honour,” Dustan finishes for them, “of course it is. We fondly welcome you and your allyship. We hope that we will be essential in ending this war. In helping you attain the peace you have so valiantly fought for--” 

The king raises his hand to silence the lord. You can’t help but quork your head. Allyship? But King Geralt, he is of Rivia, he is of the hinterland, he is the one who invaded the summer country and bid it his own. He is the foe. That is what they told you. 

“Enough...” the king speaks in a silty tone that scrapes in his throat. His eyes wander over the women and narrow. You wince as your own meet his golden irises and you shy away, putting your chin to your chest. That’s a mistake. “...words.” He slaps his hand down, “you do not win wars with words.” 

“Yes, your highness, you are correct. I know it well. It is why I invited you here. It is the very reason I made my entreaty. You have my men, they will win this war for you.” 

The king is hardly impressed by the fact. He looks back to the table and moves the horse further before turning it back. He knocks it over and stands completely straight. 

“And the daughter of Debray, your highness. To have a wife of summer’s blood, men will bend the knee. If you show them you do not mean to eradicate but to join with them,” Dustan moves to stand closer to his daughter, “isn’t she a fine queen for a fine kingdom?” 

Jazlene swoons and falls against her father. She’s fainted. Rezlyn grabs onto her other shoulder and you peek up at the chaotic scene. You come forward to help, snatching a pillow from the single couch, and you place it under Jazlene’s head as they lay her down on the floor. 

A shadow shifts as Dustan and Rezlyn fuss over their daughter, fanning and calling to her. You look up as darkness clusters over you. You see the king staring down at the scene. No, not them. He staring at you. Before he can reprimand you, you put your head down. 

You must quit that lest you find yourself at the wrong end of a switch. 

[samandcolbyownme]

TRIGGER WARNING: This one shot will contain mentions of a knife. If you are at all uncomfortable with that type of thing - PLEASE SKIP THIS CHAPTER!

Summary: Anon request - "Jake smut with knife kink????"

Warnings: SMUT18+, KNIFE PLAY!, strong language, teasing, hair pulling, scratching, biting, dirty pet names, unprotected sex, begging, praising, use of a knife during sex, maybe some breeding kink, filth.

Word count: 3.9k | not edited

I will going off the 'trying every fast food fried chicken sandwich' video on Johnnie's channel, but I will be adding some stuff to make you fit into the story - but I did shorten it a lot to not make it as long. Enjoy !

You sat in the chair behind the camera as Jake and Johnnie prepared to start recording. You and Jake had plans to hang out, but he totally forgot he already had a date with Johnnie to rate chicken on a scale of one through five.

"Have you ever wanted a chicken sandwich-"Jake cuts Johnnie off, "yeah." Johnnie continues, "well now you can-"

Jake stares into the cameras trying not to laugh, "yes."

"Well today -"

Jake interrupts him again, " yep."

Johnnie says nothing else as he leans over and grabs, what looks to be the handle of a knife. You and Jake both stare at him as he struggles to open it. You watch as Jake closes his mouth and reaches over to take it from Johnnie's grasp.

In one swift flick, the silver blade pops through, revealing its sharpness. Johnnie raises his hands, "Okay. Okay. Take it easy."

You felt relieved that Jake was staring at Johnie while holding it because that gave you time to get your cheeks back to a normal color. That was one of the hottest things you've seen Jake do, even if it was just as simple as him opening that knife.

It still got your mind going and blood pumping a mile a minute.

Jake glances at you as he sets the open knife on the table and you smile at him, sitting up as he looks away because a nasty and dangerous, yet super sexy thought, sneaks its way into your mind.

You don't even know how Jake would react to what you just thought of, but you knew that you weren't going to stop thinking about it until you got an answer from him.

You pull yourself from your thoughts and wind up listening to a very strange, yet normal Jake and Johnnie, comment, "..and and we're gonna be putting lots of meat in our mouth and we're-"

Your weird look turns into quiet laughter behind your hand as you watch Jake's face change quickly into a caught off guard confused stare.

He blinks a few times and looks at you and just shakes his head as Johnnie continues to ramble on. Then, the conversation turns into dissecting frogs before Johnnie says something about his merch.

"I'm proud to be an Americas favorite lady.." Johnnie sings and you just stare, thinking about why you agreed to sit in on this when you knew it was going to be hard to be quiet.

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

"Alright, the first one we're trying is- mm-blah- uh- fuck." Johnnie looks down and Jake points to him, "Ha. You stuttered this time. Ha, ha."

You watch as Jonnie stares at the table for a few seconds in silence before he reaches for the knife again, and your eyes instantly move to Jake.

Jake watches as Johnnie struggles again and you pull your bottom lip between your teeth as Jake reaches over, waiting to watch his thumb slide up to open it once again.

"It's got a child lock on it." Jonnie says right before Jake takes it from him, popping the blade out of the top.

You don't know why, but you are so turned on by Jake opening the knife. You thought the first time was bad, but the more he does it, the more you feel like you can't breathe.

Jake closes the knife and hands it back to Johnnie, watching as he finally figures out how to open it. Jake raises his hand as he laughs, "Okay, okay. Now I'm scared."

Jake glances over at you and back to Johnnie, "Now I'm scared."

"Who stuttered what?" Johnnie asks in a funny voice and you can't help but laugh.

"Let me see that." Jake says and your eyes snap back to his hand that's reaching out for it, "Let me see that."

"Wait wait wait." Johnnie says and Jake drops his hand, "Come on. It's not a toy."

"Well it's real, it's dangerous, and illegal." Johnnie says and that just fuels the fire.

You watch as Jake takes the knife, laughing as he sets it down. You look up, eyes meeting his as he sets it down and you tilt your head with a smile.

He squints his eyes, picking up that there's something going on with you and you cross your leg over the other as you lean back against the wall.

He smirks slightly before going back to doing the video.

Every time Jake laughs, you smile because it's like you fall in love with him all over again, even the weird comments, you can't help but love him more.

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

You have your head resting on the wall, watching Jake do his reviews when all of a sudden your eyes go wide and your hand slaps over your mouth.

Jake looks at you, tilting his head before looking over his shoulder.

"Hello!" Johnnie, or as you call it, his alter ego, Timmy yells. Jake's eyes go wide and he snaps his head back to you, "Oh.. my god."

Jake covers his mouth as Johnnie walks up, grabbing the sandwich, "Chicken sandwiiiiich." He screams as he clings to it for dear life.

Jake's hand is still over his mouth, "Oh my god. No way."

Johnnie continues to scream before taking an obnoxiously loud bite. Your hand slowly moves off of your mouth as you try to contain in the laughter.

You were super turned on, ready for this video to be done, but now thanks to Timmy, you were no longer focused on Jake dragging a knife across your neck.

"Holy shit." Jake lays a hand on his chest and drags it down to drop it into his lap as Johnnie slowly walks up to him, "If I just sit still, he won't know I'm here."

Your eyes flick back and forth from him to Johnnie, "oh my god. This isn't real." You whisper into your hand, "Holy fuck."

It's quiet, all but the sound of Johnnie eating as he walks up to Jake. Jake's eyes are on you, fighting to not look at Johnnie.

Johnnie leans down, "Want eat?"

Jake laughs, "No." he turns his head to look at Johnnie, "Get back." Johnnie moves back and yells something that's muffled by the food in his mouth before touchdown slamming the sandwich onto the floor.

Jake's mouth drops as he leans over, looking at you for help. You shrug, "I don't know what you want me to do. We just have to.. wait it out."

Johnnie leaves the room and you sit there staring at Jake, "What the fuck was that?" You watch as his fingers drag on the table against the knife and he looks up at you, "I'm going to stab him."

You laugh slightly, "Oh my g- Jake. No you're not going to stab him. He can't help it." You hold back your laughter as Johnnie walks back into the room.

And that feeling you had before returns, all it took was for him to touch the knife.

"Anyways." Johnnie says walking back into the room, like nothing even happened.

Which makes it a lot funnier.

You lean back against the wall, falling back into your thoughts after Johnnie's little Timmy outburst.

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

Johnnie picks up a hammer, holding it up and Jake quickly picks up the knife, giving you a quick glance. 

You bite down on your lip, watching as he brings it up and opens it with no trouble.

You wanted him. And you wanted him to play with it, press it up against your neck.

Drag it down your body.

You wanted him to tease you with it.

Do whatever he wanted to you with it.

You never thought you'd bring a knife into sexual pleasure, but hey. Things can change, right?

A short time later, they wrap up the video and Jake stands up, "I hope you know you're cleaning this up yourself."

"What? Why?" Johnnie groans with a laugh, "No, don't answer that. I had an outburst didn't I?" He hangs his head and sighs loudly.

"I swear to god you're schizophrenic." Jake shakes his head and turns to face you, "Ready to hang out?" You nod, "Yeah, but first.." you lean around him and grab the knife off the table, "Close this for me."

He gives you a confused look but complies, taking the knife from your hand, closing it with ease, "Can I as-"

You cut him off, "Not here."

He tilts his head, "You're being weird."

You roll your eyes, "If anyone's weird here it's-"

Johnnie lets out a random scream and Jake spins you around, "Let's get out of here before he sees us." He pushes you forward and you walk out laughing.

Jake lays his arm over your shoulder, "So are you going to tell me what's brewin' in that noggin of yours.. or do I have to guess?"

You bite your lip, resting your head back onto his arm, "I mean, you can guess."

"Does it involve sexy time?" He wiggles his brows and you laugh, "that's not a guess, but yes, babe."

He pushes open his door and walks you in, turning around to close it.

"Okay. I'm just.." you sigh, looking up at him, "I'm just going to say it because it's a pretty.. wild request."

He holds up the closed knife in his hand, "It doesn't have anything to do with this.." he dangles the knife in his fingers, "..does it?"

You bite your lip, locking your hands together behind your back, "I told you it was a wild request."

He purses his lips together, eyes moving to the object in his hand, "You.." he laughs slightly, looking back to you, "You want me.." he points to the knife, "To do.. what exactly?"

"I'm not asking you to stab me, Jake. Just.." you walk up and take the knife from his hand. You try to get it open, "there really is a child lock on this isn't there."

Jake smirks and takes the knife from your hand, holding it up between your bodies and he flicks it open.

Your eyebrows raise and you bite your lip, "Uh huh." You nod, "You are so hot when you do that."

He smirks, looking away and back to you with a smile, "Oh shucks." He raises his shoulders and tilts his head all cute.

You move closer to him, wrapping your hand around his wrist, "I just.." your eyes move from the knife in his hand, up to his eyes, "I want you to, I don't know, intimidate me with it.. tease me with it."

"Isn't.. this a little bit dangerous?" He stares down at you and you shrug with a slight smile, "I mean, yes it's dangerous." You grab his shirt and move closer to him, "But that's what makes it fun right?"

A smirk toys with his lips as he brushes hair from your face, "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't. I trust you." You tilt your head back, "We don't have to if-"

The sudden gentle graze of the blade across your cheek shuts you up instantly.

Jake's eyes bounce from your eyes to the knife resting on your cheek, "You know.. you have such an angel face." He bites his bottom lip, "But these thoughts you have, baby.. they're the devils thoughts."

He bends down, quickly lifting you up. Your legs circle his waist and you look down at him, "Only for you, baby."

He smirks, "I sure hope so."

He walks you over to his bed, moving his hand with the knife before letting you fall backwards onto the bed, "What do you want me to do?"

You lean up onto your elbows, "You're holding the knife, babe. You're in control."

"Oh shit. Okay." He laughs slightly and twirls it in his fingers, "if I see blood." He points the blade towards you, "I'm stopping."

"Deal." You smile and lay back, watching as he moves in between your knees after taking off his shirt. He drops his hand, dragging the point of the blade gently down your fishnet covered thigh.

He reaches up to undo your jean shorts, slowly pulling them down your legs until they're off and dropped to the floor.

You watch as he picks up the knife, slipping the sharp side of the blade against each thin piece of fishnet, cutting all the way up to your hip.

He moves to the other side, "I hope you didn't like these."

"I have more." You glance up at him, biting your lip as you feel the loose fabric sliding off your legs. He moves up, leaning down to press his lips against yours.

"How do you-" you reach over, pulling his hand with the knife over, "Just.. like. This." You lay the blade against your neck, "Just enough pressure for me to feel it."

"You're fucking crazy." He smirks and you tilt your head back, "You love it."

"I love you." He pulls the knife away, crashing his lips into yours. Your lips move in sync as his hand slips under your shirt, a small moan slipping from your lips as his fingers twist and pull at your nipple.

"Please don't tease." You whimper out.

He sits up and pushes your shirt up. He reaches over picking up the knife and dragging it down your torso, "I thought that's what you wanted?"

You fight back a smirk, knowing he's right, "Mhm."

He smirks, slipping it into the thick band of the fishnets, "Thought so."

With a swift swipe up, the band splits. He finishes cutting the fishnets and pushes the loose pieces away.

He spreads your legs more and you bite your lip as you feel the blade rest against your clothed pussy. Your eyes lock onto his and he drags it down, "Jake.."

Your words are barely audible, "P-please."

Your adrenaline was pumping. Any second that blade could puncture your skin, but the amount of trust you have for Jake, especially when it comes to you, make it even better.

"Please what, baby?" He drags the knife gently down the inside of your thigh, "Where do you want it?"

"Anywhere.." You breathe out, "I just.." you whimper as he presses the flat side against your clit, tapping a few times. He tilts his head, continuing to tap, "You just what, baby?"

"I need you." You move your hips slightly, "Please."

He leans down, kissing up your torso, "Fine." He rolls over, sitting his back against the headboard, "But you're ridin'."

You sit up, slipping your shirt up over your head, "okay." You smirk at him, kicking off the torn fishnets before moving up to straddle him.

He reaches behind you, making sure to gently drag the blade down your spine. You arch your back slowly, pushing your chest out and he kisses in between your boobs.

"You are so fucking hot." His other hand moves to grip your ass, squeezing before sliding it around to pull the band of your panties outward.

He drags the knife over your hip before slicing the band of your panties. You watch as he moves to the other side, cutting it and letting it fall between your legs.

He looks your body up and down and slides his hand up your back, gripping the back of your neck before pulling you in for a kiss.

Your hands move to the sides of his neck as you grind down on him, earning a low groan.

Your hands slide down, undoing his jeans before moving off of him so he can kick them off. He moves his boxers down and pulls you back over, "I hope you know, I love watching you ride me."

He spits into his hand, moving it down to rub the outside of your pussy. You moan, gripping his shoulders as his fingers move to rub circles on your clit, "Fuck."

He moves his hand to hold his cock steady, "go ahead babe."

You let out a loud moan, clenching around him as you sink down onto him. Your moan is cut short by a gasp from the knife against your neck.

"Why didn't I think of this?" Jake groans as you slowly move up and down, "This is fucking.." he groans, eyes gawking at the knife pressing against your skin, "Do you like it?"

You moan out, "Yes, yes."

"Tell me what you like, babe." Jake moves his hips upward and you sigh, "I love how you hold this knife against my skin."

"You look so fucking hot." He drags the knife down your neck and over your boob. He moves with your motions, pressing it a little harder into your skin.

You let out an excited whimper as you dig your nails into his shoulders, biting your lip as you roll your hips into his, "Jake.." you moan out, "You feel so good." 

He tilts his head back and you act quick, taking the knife from his hand and pressing it against his neck. His eyes widen slightly as his hands move to grip both of  your hips, "Fuck." He swallows, keeping his jaw up, "You're such a demon." 

You giggle slightly, a moan following quick as you sink all the way down, letting his cock rest inside of you, "You're so hot." You lean in, pressing your lips to his as you gently drag the knife down his skin. You replace the blade with your lips, sucks a mark into his skin which earns a low groan from his lips. 

He slides his hands up to the front of your shoulders, pushing you back as he leans forward. He pins your wrist down by your head before he starts thrusting into you, "Fucking shit." 

You arch your back, moaning loudly as your legs tighten over his thighs, "J-Jake." You gasp, "So c-close." 

He slips his hand up, taking the knife back into his possession. He leans down, holding up his weight on his forearm as he drags the knife down the side of your torso, "Cum for me." 

Your breathing shutters as the knife grazes over your skin. Your eyes roll back as you tilt your head back, whining loudly as he kisses down your neck, biting and nipping at your skin. He proceeded to give you a matching hicky, groaning lowly as he feels you tense around him. 

You let out a loud moan, digging your nails into his back as you cum. His thrusts slow down as he guides you through your high and then come to a stop, "Hands and knees baby." 

Jake pulls out, sitting all the way up to watch you lazily roll over. He lays a hand on your hip, biting his lip as his eyes gaze down to your soaked pussy on display, "You're so fucking wet." He brings the knife up, dragging it down over your ass and tapping it gently against your pussy. 

You gasp, trying not to move. Your fingers ball up the comforter underneath you, whimpering as you grow more impatient for him to be inside of you again.

"Please.. you whimper out, "Jake.." your words are breathless and Jake loves it. 

"Please what?" He moves the knife up, dragging it down over your other cheek. 

You sigh, "I need you." 

He rises up to lean down, pressing his lips against your shoulder, "I want to cum in you so bad. Fill you up completely." He groans at his own words, "Fuck, you would look so sexy pregnant." 

Jake has never said anything like that before. You guys were always careful, you didn't think he was thinking about anything like that. 

"W-what?" You ask, making sure you heard him correctly. 

"You heard me." He leans up, dragging the knife down your spine as he moves his hips to rub the tip of his cock against your pussy, "Would you like that?" 

You push your hips back, biting your lip as you try and think, but your mind is so scrambled right now, "I-I-" you gasp as he thrusts into you, knife pressing into your skin, "Yes." 

"Yes what, y/n?" Jake reaches up, gathering your loose hair into his hand, "want me to cum in that pretty pussy of yours?" 

You nod against the hold he has on your hair, letting out a whine when he pulls harder, "Fuck, yes. Yes. Yes!" 

Jake bites his lip harder as he starts thrusting, groaning as he watches you push your hips back to meet his thrusts.

He drops the knife, moving his now free hand to grip your ass, "That's it."

He lets go of your hair, moving it back to lay on your hip, fingertips digging hard into your skin, “Fuck, I’m so fucking close baby.”

You moan in response, moving your hips up and down repeatedly until he grabs them, pulling you fully down onto him as he pushes all the way in.

You squeeze his cock, moaning as you feel him coating the inside of your pussy white.

“Fuck.” He sighs, “That was surprisingly fun.”

You laugh as you lay down on his bed, “It was.” You look back at him, watching as he picks the knife up to close it.

“Open it, again.” You bite your lip as you watch him smirk, switching the blade open, “Wanna see me do it again?” He jokes, but you nod, “I could watch you do it all day.”

“Really?” He asks with a laugh, “What’s so hot about it?”

You sit up, “Just you.. and that knife.. it just.. gets me going.” He moves to stand in front of you, resting the blade under your chin, “You know I can’t let Johnnie touch this again, right?”

“I would hope not.” You smile and lick your lips, “That would be kinda weird now that it’s been on .. places.”

Jake laughs and closes the knife, “Yeah, that’s going to the dresser drawer with its new friends.” He walks over, opening the drawer that you store all of your other sex toys in.

You shake your head, “I’m stealing a shirt.”

“Yeah, take whatever you want babe.” Jake smiles at you as he shuts the drawer. As you go through his closet, there’s a knock on the door, “Jake, where’s your knife? I want to practice opening it. I can beat that fucking child lock.”

You and Jake lock eyes and it’s instant laughter.

Johnnie is silent for a few moments, “You didn’t have to laugh at me, holy shit.”

“Sorry Johnnie.. that knife is out of commission.” Jake yells as he tries not to laugh.

“Aw, did you break it? Stupid fuck.” Johnnie yells and Jake sighs, “You’re the stupid fuck, but yeah I guess I broke it.”

Jake looks at you, shaking his head as he smirks.

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

I know this was long awaited, so I thank you for being patient and for reading. I hope you enjoyed 🖤

Likes and reblogs are appreciated!

[goldensunset]

💎 lokiss

🔁 traumaadcaelum Follow

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💎 lokiss

i think a snickers would’ve fixed baldr tbh

🙅 traumaadcaelum Follow

hi! can you NOT make jokes about the worst massacre that’s happened here in centuries?? my girlfriend was murdered that day but i guess people like you just love taking advantage of tragedies for funny internet clout. i hope you lose your heart in another world.

💎 lokiss

she baldr on my dr until i bald

#get off my post i literally lost someone too

479 notes

💐 my-other-car-is-a-keyblade-glider

my missing brother, brani, is finally back!!!! i’ve been so so worried for forever. thank you everyone who prayed with me 🙏

#he is acting a little weird though if i’m being honest #freya speaks

5 notes

🌸 dandelioneater

🔁 the-fourteenth-original-darkness

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🍎 valkyrie-of-dreams Follow

sometimes i feel like my taste in men is bad and then i remember there are multiple secret societies entirely dedicated to thirsting after master brain

🔑 its-kee-not-kai

you ever see a post that just looks like someone swinging a keyblade at a flappy bugs nest

#kingdom hearts grant me the serenity to not look at the notes #courage to not look at the notes #and wisdom to not look at the notes

56907 notes

🌕 tardyfleetfoot

Asking for a friend what do you do when a cable car stops in midair and starts shaking and swaying on the wire while you’re in there up there way high above the ground? Time sensitive question asking for a friend.

3 notes

🌚 the-fourteenth-original-darkness

🔁 my-other-car-is-a-keyblade-glider

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🧜🏻‍♀️ ieatchesspieces Follow

let’s explore the nearby abandoned towns together!

108500 notes

🔑its-kee-not-kai

🔁 master-odin-retire-challenge

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💍 ladyofsilver-fountains Follow

it’s really awful how people are acting like it’s illegal to have a sense of humor anymore. even in the wake of tragedy, humans have always been humans. plus it’s been almost a year now. life goes on, you know?

👢master-odin-retire-challenge

the context for this post is op lost their job and reputation because they laughed at the funeral of a little girl named vör when the person giving the eulogy couldn’t be bothered to learn how to pronounce her name correctly. please for the love of light stop blindly reblogging things like this.

#oh ewww i hate people

239 notes

🌘 xehanerd

to the anon who just sent that long-winded ask: my blog is my space. if you don’t like what i post then move on.

#xe.post #delete later

0 notes

🌘 xehanerd

🔁 dajokerofscala Follow

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🌗 balancewillprevail Follow

It drives me insane whenever people frame it like Baldr 'succumbing to darkness' and going crazy was inevitable. Sure, darkness played a part in that tragedy, but it completely overlooks the reality of how Master Odin failed to take care of that child at every step of the way. The boy was lost in grief, and the adult who was supposed to take care of him shoved him in an asylum-like room alone? Are we really going to leave that part out in favor of pushing the narrative that people prone to darkness are simply evil at heart? He could have lived a happy life being himself if he had been supported and nurtured. It didn’t have to be this way.

🌕 tardyfleetfoot

Right? We could have saved him from his darkness! He was our friend….

🌗 balancewillprevail Follow

That’s… not at all what I was saying, but I suppose a stupid comment like this is to be expected from somebody with ‘darkness dni’ in their bio. Thanks for trying.

🐓 everyoneshutupplease Follow

‘darkness played a part in that tragedy’ not you sugarcoating what happened for the sake of pushing YOUR narrative that the thing that’s been killing people since the dawn of time can possibly be anything but toxic. how many people have to die before people like you get in touch with reality???

🌗 balancewillprevail Follow

Sounds about right from someone who went through the Scala Ad Caelum public school system. Have you ever tried reading a book other than what was assigned for class? Please check your natural-light privilege and ignorance. Thanks.

🪐 fenrir-fanatic

look out lads we got another conspiracy theorist ‘homeschool your kids’ dork lmao

🌗 balancewillprevail Follow

And do you read anything other than sigurd x reader fanfiction, based on the first seven posts on your blog?

📈 whats-your-favorite-staircase-to-heaven Follow

the notes on this post were so toxic staff just axed ‘em

#sent to me #thank you joker

0 notes

[intoxicated-chan]

hear me out: alejandro and ghost love triangle where the reader is dated one but one is also her ex, w the reader and during valeria’s interrogation, valeria possibly winding alejandro and ghost up with the reader?? angsty ending? thanks!

A Welcome Home Surprise

♡o。.✿ฺ Paring // Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader x Ex!Alejandro Vargas

♡o。.✿ฺ Summary // Now with Task Force 141 and forgetting Alejandro, you’re ready to start a new life with Ghost. But when you’re called into Las Almas, Valeria has just the surprise for you.

♡o。.✿ฺ (A/n) // You are speaking my mind anon! Thank you very much for requesting. Also I wasn’t sure how much angst you wanted so apologies of it isn’t as much as you wanted. Also ignore the two dots, Tumblr was being stubborn and kept removing the first paragraph so this was the only way to stop it.

♡o。.✿ฺ Word Count // 1.4k

♡o。.✿ฺ Content Warnings // Female reader, jealousy, angst, description of cheating, light sexual themes, swearing, violence, ooc Ghost and Alejandro, small mentions of death…

Part 1 | Part 2 (Coming soon!)

.

.

Some people would ignore their ex whenever they see them sauntering out in public, then they’d find ways to silently tell the ex they are much happier without them and so on. Now you would’ve done any of those things if it was an ex but in this case, it wasn’t. You were part of the Task Force, you couldn’t act like a normal person and avoid their crush. You share a base with him, you are friends with his best friend, you have to face him like an adult, and like your relationship with Alejandro never happened but Alejandro really didn’t see it that way.

Now you wouldn’t call it jealousy… Soap enjoyed learning background information of soldiers from other soldiers, in this case, Alejandro and Rodolfo were talking about you and your time with them. Alejandro seemed to be dropping hints whenever Ghost was close or was listening in, there were certain times that Rodolfo had to tell Alejandro off for trying to say something stupid. You swear that if Rodolfo hadn’t, Ghost was ready to pummel him. Okay you will call it jealousy. Considering the amount of times Rodolfo had to apologize on behalf of Alejandro seemed to make Ghost even angrier.

You left the Mexican Special Forces because Price offered you a place in his Task Force, a place where you could get far away from Alejandro. It was just days when you ended your relationship with Alejandro and Rodolfo was sad to see you go but understanding. What ended your relationship with Alejandro? He cheated on you with Valeria. He swears that he was a mistake and that she came onto him, even though it was Valeria, she spoke the truth to you, it had been going on for almost three months. You didn’t bother to hear anymore words out of his mouth, you packed and left for Rodolfo’s place.

“It wasn’t just the three of us.” Valeria spoke aloud, proudly and without a single ounce of shame, “Your girlfriend was with us.” Looking at you and Ghost, “I remember the part when Alejandro announced their relationship to us. I couldn’t keep my excitement to myself and continued to talk.”

“That was years ago Valeria.” You spoke, arms remaining crossed and standing beside Ghost.

“Sure it was years but we all made bets… Who was gonna propose? How long would they last? How many children will they have?!” Valeria laughed loudly, “Can you guess which one I made?”

Alejandro could only shake his head as he thought of something stupid, it took Rodolfo glaring at him to not say it, “(Y/n)’s right, it’s been years now, we both moved on.”

“Oh you’re calling her (Y/n) now?” Valeria points at Ghost, “I thought only he could do that?”

“Many people have the privilege of calling me by my first name.” You corrected her.

“Like Rodolfo? Just what you were doing over at his place?”

“(Y/n) needed a friend, she was there so I can help her.” Rodolfo answered swiftly, making Valeria scoff.

“A friend? Just how many people have you slept with?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying, no need to over react.” Valeria leans back on her chair, one leg over the other, “Tell me Fantasma… Does she moan his name? Does she beg for Alejandro?” (Ghost.)

“Valeria, eso es suficiente.” (Valeria, that’s enough.) Rodolfo tries to stop her.

“How do you make her feel in bed? Are you better than Alejandro?”

“Valeria!”

“Maybe I should try you myself!”

“Valeria!” Rodolfo and Valeria are in each other’s faces, he takes a few steps back and leans up against the wall.

Graves pushes Valeria back to her seat, “Everyone out.” He orders.

It took you a matter of minutes to get lost within the base, but you weren’t alone. Ghost remained by your side, silently as you two found yourselves in your old office. Your fingers grazed the desk as you then picked up the framed photo that was still there. You pulled the photo out and began ripping it to pieces, leaving the mess on the desk.

“Alejandro can pick up the pieces himself.” You mutter, taking a seat in your old chair as Ghost remains standing, “And if you’re gonna ask me If I’m alright, No I am not even close to being okay.”

“Wasn’t thinking about it.”

“But I saw it.” Your vision becomes blurry as tears form in your eyes, “We shouldn’t be talking about this now, we need to find that missile.”

As you stand and walk towards the door, Ghost grabs your arm, “We are talking about this. (Y/n), you are not okay. Valeria brought up your past relationship, I can see why that may upset you but that doesn’t give you the option to shut me out.”

You open your mouth to apologize but the door opens suddenly, Alejandro standing there with his eyes wide open, “We’re in the middle of looking for a missile and you two are here fucking?!”

“Piss off Vargas!” You pull your arm from Ghost release and push Alejandro back, “What the hell are you doing here anyways?”

“Should I be asking you that?”

“If you have no reason to continue this conversation then we’re leaving.” Ghost interrupts you two, “Let’s go (Y/n).”

“You’re not going anywhere with her!” Alejandro pushes Ghost back roughly.

Ghost doesn’t push back, he remains still, “I still can’t believe that you still can’t get that you and (Y/n) broke up, it’s done, you two are over. Get that through your thick skull.”

“You think you know (Y/n) better than me, pendejo? I’ve known her since we were kids, I’ve been with her through her toughest times.”

“And look where that ended up. You broke your promise and didn’t stay faithful to her, Rodolfo has to warn you not to do anything stupid, and the woman you cheated on her with still doesn’t love you.” Ghost scoffs, “Look around you Alejandro, does she seem happier with you or without you?”

“That’s-” You’re cut off, taken aback as Alejandro manages to tackle Ghost to the ground. You stare at them for a soldier minute, watching them struggle against each other, hearing both curse each other out, hearing their fists make contact with each other’s faces.

You pull your pistol out and fire it once, the loud ringing noise of the gun makes them stop, “The hells the matter with you?!” You shout, shoving the pistol back in its holder. Ghost kicks Alejandro off him, “I can’t even say I’m surprised at you Alejandro!”

“Surprised?!” Alejandro shouts back, standing to his feet.

“You’re going to get disciplined for this.” You warn.

“¡Te estaba defendiendo!” (I was defending you!)

“Defending me?! That was all about your damn ego!” You help Ghost to his feet, “You weren’t even close to defending me! It’s all about Alejandro getting what he wants and treating me like I’m your property! Get the hell out of here! Go!” Before you could turn your attention back to Ghost, you make sure Alejandro is completely gone.

You cup his face, “I would lift your mask but you aren’t safe in the open.” You spoke softly, “Does it hurt?”

Ghost shakes his head, “He did get in some punches. I could use some help.”

“I would love that but…”

“I knew something was wrong.” Ghost mumbles.

“I think we need a break. Looking for the missiles is one thing but with my ex getting in your face, it shows that he’s going to continue his act.” You hug Ghost, “I don’t want him tearing this up.”

Ghost returns the hug slowly, hesitating whether to tighten the hug or not, “I understand but know that I’ll be waiting for you and even when you’re not ready, I’ll still be here.” You knew what he truly meant, with Ghost’s background, you don’t blame him for having difficulty saying the words I love you.

You understand his actions, his acts of service to show his love to you. You don’t need Simon to say, “I love you Simon, I always will.” Ghost would endure the pain in his heart when you moved from his grip, just a few seconds longer, but he knew that you’d come back, he just hoped that the battlefield wouldn’t take it away.

© Intoxicated-Chan, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform without permission.

[midnight-pluto]

TAG — diluc r.

TROPES: childhood best friends, fluff, slight angst at the end

UNIVERSE: canon-ish

PAIRING(S): diluc x gn!reader

WARNING(S): mentions of alcohol

A/N: shoutout to the anon who helped give me the inspo for this <3

AS LOYAL PATRONS of The Angel's Share, your parents were frequent attenders of all of Dawn Winery’s events - wine tasting, birthdays, or just simple celebrations they were there.

However at your age, you couldn’t drink more than half of the menu and didn’t want to converse with drunken adults. So you were forced to sit inside under the supervision of the maids.

Mindlessly sipping on your juice while looking at the crossword puzzle given to you by the maids as your source of entertainment, you try your best to block out the loud talk outside.

What caught your eye though was a boy quickly going down the stairs, his socks sliding against the wooden floor and making his way over to the woman who was watching over you.

Gently tugging on her skirt to gain her attention, he speaks to her but softly enough for the laughter outside to block it from reaching your ears.

‘Red hair… is that Crepus’ son?’

Smiling softly at the boy, she points over to you leading to two pairs of eyes looking in your direction; straightening up under their gaze, you look to your left and right and point to yourself.

She simply chuckles and nods, giving the boy a soft push in your direction to which he followed and sat next to you on the sofa.

“Hi, what’s your name?” he asked.

“Y/N,” you reply simply, “What’s yours?”

“Diluc.”

“Cool,” you nod, not knowing what else to say.

“Cool,” he replied, also not knowing what else to say.

After a minute of silence you ask, “What do you think they’re talking about out there?”

“Who?

“The adults,” you remark blandly, “Bet it’s about wine.”

“It is a wine tasting event,” he responds, “My dad’s made another drink.”

There was a long silence for a moment. That was until Diluc had invited you to play tag outside since he was getting bored sitting around the house.

Accepting his invitation, he grabbed your hand and walked out the front door and into the vineyard where that game would begin.

“Why don’t we play hide-and-go-tag? I don’t like running a lot,” you offer, not the most thrilled at the thought of running in your nice clothes and then potentially getting stained.

“Mm… alright,” he agreed, and began counting.

“…9…10! Ready or not, here I come!” he announced, softly walking on the grass below his boots, and searching in between the lines vineyards for any sign of you.

After a few minutes of searching in between the vineyards he decides to search the crates next to the sign displaying the fact that there was currently an event taking place.

As he approached the crates he saw your figure dash out of the opening between the sign and the crates the other way yelling:

“You’ll never catch me alive!”

Causing the adults in the area to pause and observe what was occurring. Seeing your silhouette outlined by the lanterns glow run past them, and immediately seeing another - catching a glimpse of red hair - sprint after you, automatically understanding the situation.

“Careful! Make sure to not trip - it’s so dark right now,” a voice called out to the both of you.

“We know!” Diluc shouted back, steadily gaining on you.

Hearing his voice so close to you causes your adrenaline to spike and run faster than before, wind blowing against your face and in your ears.

Making a sharp turn you run towards the nearby lake, careful of your footing as to not fall flat on your face and to get dirty. You eventually get near the water and inhale sharp breaths once you get there.

You eventually hear another tired voice pant out, “Tag.”

Diluc was breathing harder than you, weakly touching your shoulder as to make sure you knew you were tagged and now it.

Your legs were to tired to hold you up and you sat on the sand, breathing slowing down. Diluc soon followed with an ‘oof.’

“We should just stay here,” you breathe out.

“Sounds good,” he sighs.

KNOCKING ON THE door of Dawn Winery as politely as you could, you immediately started speaking the moment the door was answered.

“Hello mr. Crepus, I would like to know where my favorite one of your sons are.”

“Hey! That is so rude,” Kaeya spoke up, pouting by the stairs.

“He’s upstairs in his room,” the older man replied, moving to let you in.

“Don’t worry Kaeya ‘cause Diluc’s about to get yelled at,” you say while speeding up the stairs.

Kaeya took a long look at his adoptive father, “Are you really just going to let them do that?”

“Eh, Diluc needs these kinds of things at his age.”

Slamming his door open with a loud, “Diluc!” caused the boy to jump and sit up in his bed and snapping his book shut.

“Diluc,” you stared at the boy in front of you dead in the eyes, as you silently shut his door - a stark contrast as to how you entered his room, “Why didn’t you tell me you got accepted as a knight of Favonius?”

“I- see, you were really busy with your studies and I didn’t want to bother you-“

“I don’t care about my studies!” you flopped onto his bed, “Well, not as much as you getting accepted into the knights, but still!

“We’re only ten, and here you are getting accepted into the knights! You should’ve told me,” you say a lot more calmer now, sitting on the edge of his bed as he shuffles to sit next to you.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he relents, “I promise you’ll be one of the first ones to know when something like this happens again.”

“Pinky,” you tell jokingly, holding yours out.

“Fine,” he huffs out, wrapping his pinky with yours.

“Your it now,” you say with a smug expression on your face.

“Oh my-“ he groans, taking his pinky away from you a taking back his book to read.

The game of tag has been going on for years now, non-stop with random time intervals and rules now added but it’s still a fun nostalgia piece to do.

“What’re you even reading this time around,” you ask, looking at the faint words of the book cover. “The Legend of Vennessa,” you read aloud, “Again?”

“Why not?”

“Fair point I guess, but still. You’ve read that like, what? Five times already?”

“It’s a good book!”

“Whatever,” you sigh.

“Don’t act like you haven’t read a book five times before,” Diluc points out, “Hex and Hound? That has like eleven volumes. How do you even have the patience?”

“No, I can’t get my hands on the last two volumes. It’s sold in Inazuma, I can’t even borrow it from the library like the rest of them,” you huff out.

“That’s tough man,” he remarks.

“It really is. It was left on a cliffhanger too!” you groan.

“What’s a cliffhanger again? I forgot,” Diluc asked, sweat dropping at the look you gave him, “What? I don’t read that often nowadays.”

“You’re left hanging. Dangling on a cliff. With no one to save you.”

“…do you think that’d be something that would happen to me if I’m on duty as a knight?”

“Diluc!”

"SO, CALVARY CAPTAIN now huh?" you teased, leaning your back against Diluc's shoulder.

You were under the tree under Windrise, and just as he had promise four years ago, you were one of the first to know about his promotion. Resting against the bark you watch as he methodically brushes the horses light brown coat.

"I suppose," he chuckles.

"Making history already; youngest calvary captain ever in the Knights of Favonius, heir to Mondstadt's wine industry, and is a vision holder! How does it feel?" you asks playfully, holding a windwheel aster you plucked from the ground and putting it near his face so he could talk into it.

"It really isn't that much-"

"Ah, oh so modest as ever" you laugh softly at his face because of your interruption. Blowing air into the red flower makes its petals spin slowly, "So, is the official Calvary Captain going to show me how to ride a horse or what?"

"So that's why you brought me here." Diluc nods in understanding with an amused look on his face, "Well, you better get up if that's what's going to happen."

"Wait I was just joking-" you couldn't finish your sentence until you were pulled up by him, clutching on the windwheel aster tighter as to not drop it.

Thankfully the horse Diluc had ridden to arrive at

Windrise was laying down so there wasn't that much of a difficulty.

Just as you were adjusting to your new seating arrangement the horse suddenly stood up, making you fall forward only to have your face meet with Diluc's back and grabbing onto the edges of the saddle for stability.

Straightening up, you see your friends face looking at you with a small smile and gently taking your hands off the saddle to place around his waist.

"So you won't fall," he explains, glancing at your widened eyes.

Feeling your heart beat faster you look towards your left at the shallow river created by the waterfall as a way to not gawk at his sheer amount of nonchalance at pulling you closer.

Shifting forward, your press your front against his back as the horse begins to trot forward.

Unfortunately, Diluc wasn't one to go slowly. He placed more force upon the saddle's stirrup causing the horse's light trot to a fast gallop.

At the sudden change of speed you let out a small squeak, hurrying your face into Diluc's back and tightening your grip against his waist and the flower you still held.

Feeling your added pressure against his body, Diluc places a soothing hand against yours wrapped around his waist and rubs his thumb against the back of your hand as an attempt to calm you.

"I suppose that this counts as tag, huh?" he asked playfully, continuing to hold your hand in his.

"Yeah! Sure," you reply quickly, trying to get over the fact that you might've developed a crush on your best friend.

EVER SINCE DILUC’s eighteenth birthday, things have never been the same.

The people of Mondstadt have fallen silent, Kaeya’s usual charming nature turned off, and Diluc hasn’t been seen since.

As you were standing by his fathers grave, placing flowers next to it footsteps were heard approaching you. Looking over your shoulder, you catch a glimpse of a familiar eyepatch and blue hair.

“Hey Kaeya,” you say, eyes still fixated on the grave in front of you.

“Diluc’s gone,” he spoke, voice trembling.

“What?” your voice was low, not believing your own ears.

“Diluc has left Mondstadt. He left Adeline in charge of the manor,” he explains, voice void of any emotion.

“Do you know where he went?”

“We… we ended things on bad terms,” Kaeya says as if he were holding back tears.

Hearing his trembling voice, you decide not to push any further. “I see.”

“Thank you, Kaeya, for letting me know,” you turn towards him with a somber smile and walking past him.

“Where are you going?” Kaeya called out to you.

“Dawn Winery. Adeline must know something about Diluc’s disappearance,” you say not stopping your footsteps, “At the very least Diluc must’ve left a not or, something.”

“As stubborn as ever,” Kaeya dryly chuckles.

You were going to find Diluc, that was a fact. In your game of tag you were the last one to be proclaimed ‘it.’ You refused to lose to him, you couldn’t stand it.

You refused to lose him.

A/N: goddam this was a long ass fic ; part 2 anyone?

[oneshotnewbie]

how are you??

i was looking at your list and saw that you write for the walking dead and was wondering if you’d be willing to do a request on it for me? thank you!!

so it’s basically maggie greene (rhee) x teen!reader where reader is like a daughter or a younger sister to her. it’s nothing special or major, but maybe just a cute little story where reader gets sick or hurt and maggie takes care of her and is all motherly/big sister-like with reader?

also reader’s carl’s age, so i think about fourteen then? again, you can change the age if you need to, i don’t mind!

- 🍄 anon

Authors note: Hey, sweet mushroom. I am doing okay so far, I hope you are doing great! At the same time, I hope you like this little story ♥

ᕚ---ᕘ

The world was a shadowy landscape of ruined buildings, deserted streets and the faint echoes of past civilization. The earth, once vibrant with life, now lay in the grip of a post-apocalyptic silence.

In the middle of this desolate scenario, between rusty walls, lived Maggie with her small "family" - a group of survivors who had come together to survive in this unnatural world. Among them you, whose real name had long been lost in the turmoil of time.

It was the icy wind of a wintry morning that intensified the already bitter cold of the Forsaken Land as an ominous cough snaked its way through the silence of the house. Maggie sensed the icy breath of sickness beginning to spread through the ranks of the community. You, who had previously been a steadfast and indestructible pillar of the group, were among those affected and woke up with a feverish chill.

The symptoms appeared quickly: fever, chills and an exhausted look that bore the marks of suffering. But Maggie, a woman with an aura of determination and keen eye for your needs, recognized the gravity of your situation. Your body heavy, limbs aching, and eyes bloodshot from the fever that burned within you like a raging fire. "Hey, how are you feeling today kiddo?"

"Mags, I feel like I've been torn apart by a pack of wild dogs," you whispered, every movement making your body tremble as the older one approached your bed. Your voice, a faint breath in the gloomy silence, betrayed the exhaustion and weakness that the illness brought with it.

She sat down in an empty spot on your bed and gently placed a hand on your forehead. "You're literally burning. I have to see what I can find to help you. Otherwise the fever will kill you," she spoke with a look that told stories of loss and will to survive as her inner turmoil filled the air. "You want to leave me?"

"Just to get you and the others medicine,“ The group had hardly any remedies left to fight the disease. Medicines were in short supply, and the improvised teas offered no protection against the creeping germs. The post-apocalyptic world was not forgiving, and illnesses often became inescapable judgments. But the woman in front of you refused to just abandon you to your fate. Her connection to you was deeper than anyone else's. You had become like a little sister to her, someone she wanted and even needed to protect and support. "Carol will stay with you for the time I'm gone and take care of you. I'll get back to you as soon as possible. I promise."

With one last goodbye kiss, she left you in bed and set off with Daryl to do everything they could to bring you relief while, without her, time blurred into an endless succession of feverish hours and cough-ragged days.

The sun had long since hidden behind the toxic clouds in the sky when the search for medicine became a fight for survival in the shattered ruins of the buildings. The footsteps on broken glass and the constant gusts of wind blowing through the dilapidated shutters seemed to underscore the urgency of the mission.

She searched for medication in numerous abandoned pharmacies and barricaded doctor's offices. Her hands, battered by the cold and the endless digging through rubble, searched for the glimmer of hope amid the devastation until she finally came across locked cupboards, the only contents of which were a few bottles, expired medication and a few blankets. Maggie wasn't discouraged and took everything she could find. With a tenacity driven by her love for you, she returned to make use of what little she had found.

"Here, take this, sweetheart," she said, handing you a handful of expired medication. "It's not much, but it should at least bring down the fever a little." You smiled weakly and accepted the pills gratefully, barely getting into a sitting position. "Thanks. I don't know how I would do this without you."

She waved it off as if it were obvious. "In these times, we need to stick together. No one should wander alone in the dark. Especially not you," she helped you take the pills and then spread an extra blanket over you. "You're like my little sister, y/n. If something happened to you- I would never be happy again."

Over the next few days, your bedroom became a kind of makeshift hospital room and she began to care for you with a mix of old survival instincts and an unwavering caring nature. Blankets and hot water bottles became weapons in her fight against the invisible threat that took over your body.

The wind howled around the corners and an icy storm raged outside as the brunette spent the next few days cooking soups that she laced with fever-reducing drugs. She woke up by your side nightly, placing wet towels on your hot forehead and whispering soothing words into the darkness while you slept. The nights were long and quiet, interrupted only by the patients' wheezing and the crackling of their movements.

The group watched as the woman, who otherwise seemed so stoic and aloof, cared for you tenderly and self-sacrificingly. The others, who otherwise only knew the harsh reality of everyday life, witnessed a love between strangers that became family and that was more precious than any resource in these times.

Time crawled by and the disease tried to tighten its ugly claws. But Maggie's care and love proved to be powerful weapons. You fought against the disease, strengthened by their tireless help and solidarity support.

You lay weak, but your eyes still sparkled with life. In the quiet moments between feverish bouts, you and Maggie found time to talk quietly. "You have to stay strong, y/n. The world may have fallen apart, but we can't let it break us," she spoke as she cooled your forehead.

You smiled weakly, your eyes glassy with tiredness. "You're like a mother to me, Mags. I really can't imagine what it would be like without you."

Maggie just sighed quietly. "You are my family. I can't imagine what it would be like without you either."

The days passed and the illness slowly faded away like the side after a storm. You struggled back to your feet, strengthened by her unwavering belief in survival. The post-apocalyptic world may have been one of destruction and loss, but in this small corner of reality, humanity shone in its purest form, igniting a flame of hope for every survivor who walked the streets of Alexandria.

[eyelessfaces]

heyyyy!! might seem random and I don’t know if you listen to Lana Del Rey at all so feel free to ignore me, but if you do, what are some of her songs that you associate with Oscar’s characters (like Poe, Llewyn, Miguel, Rydal, the Moon boys... whatever, I’m not picky). Love your work btw!

dear anon, you are in luck, you have no idea how much.

I don't listen to lana that much, I do listen to a few songs and appreciate her work but my dear best friend @eatingyouryoung happens to have the oscar + lana brainrot cocktail

when I asked her for help to answer this ask, she happened to have already thought about this and sent me a 5 pages long document she had written about the subject, so there you go:

Llewyn:

In My Feelings

Brooklyn Baby

« Could it be that I fell for another loser

I'm crying while I'm cummin'

Making love while I'm making good money

Sobbin' in my cup of coffee

'Cause I fell for another loser

Get that cigarette smoke out of my face

You've been wasting my time

While you're taking what's mine, with the things that you're doing

Talk that talk, well now they all know your name

And there's no coming back from the place that you came

Baby don't do it

'Cause you got me in my feelings (catch you, it's so much right now)

Talking in my sleep again (you can whistle if you want) »

Rydal:

« Well, my boyfriend's in a band

He plays guitar while I sing Lou Reed

I've got feathers in my hair

I get down to Beat poetry

And my jazz collection's rare

I can play most anything

I'm a Brooklyn baby »

« They say I'm too young to love you

They say I'm too dumb to see

They judge me like a picture book

By the colors, like they forgot to read

I think we're like fire and water

I think we're like the wind and sea

You're burnin' up, I'm coolin' down

You're up, I'm down

You're blind, I see »

California

Lucky Ones

« I shouldn't have done it, but I read it in your letter

You said to a friend that you wish you were doing better

I wanted to call you, but I didn't say a thing

Oh, I'll pick you up

If you come back to America, just hit me up »

« You don't ever have to be stronger than you really are

When you're lying in my arms, and, honey

You don't ever have to act cooler than you think you should

You're brighter than the brightest stars

You're scared to win, scared to lose

I've heard the war was over if you really choose

The one in and around you

You hate the heat, you got the blues

Changing like the weather, oh, that's so like you »

Santiago:

« Boy, get into my car, got a bad desire

You know that we'll never leave if we don't get out now, now, now

You're a careless con and you're a crazy liar, but, baby

Nobody can compare to the way you get down, down, down

I tried so hard to act nice like a lady

You taught me that it was good to be crazy

Every now and then, the stars align

Boy and girl meet by the great design

Could it be that you and me are the lucky ones?

Everybody told me love was blind

Then I saw your face and you blew my mind

Finally, you and me are the lucky ones this time »

On Our Way

Poe:

« Why do I think too much?

You tell me not to worry

Because you're the boss

And you, you got a real good plan

My trouble's all over now

Because you're my man

You don't know what you've done to me

You're heavier than heavenly

Life on the run has set me free, me free now

We're on our way »

Love Song

Miguel:

« Dream a dream, here's a scene

Touch me anywhere 'cause I'm your baby

Grab my waist, don't waste any part

I believe that you see me for who I am

So spill my clothes on the floor of your new car

Is it safe, is it safe to just be who we are? »

Black Beauty

Marc:

« I paint my nails black

I dye my hair a darker shade of brown

'Cause you like your women Spanish, dark, strong and proud

I paint the sky black

You said if you could have your way

You'd make it nighttime all today

So it'd suit the mood with your soul

Oh, what can I do?

Nothing, my sparrow blue

Oh, what can I do?

Life is beautiful, but you don't have a clue

Sun and ocean blue

Their magnificence, it don't make sense to you »

Say Yes to Heaven

Jake:

« If you dance, I'll dance

And if you don't, I'll dance anyway

Give peace a chance

Let the fear you have fall away

I've got my eye on you »

Honeymoon

Steven:

« There are violets in your eyes

There are guns that blaze around you

There are roses in between my thighs

And a fire that surrounds you

It's no wonder every man in town

Had neither fought nor found you

Everything you do is elusive

To even your honey dew »

Prom Song (Gone Wrong)

Nathan:

« Boy, it's late, walk me home, put your hand in mine

At the gate, stop and say, "be my valentine"

You are, by far, the brightest star

I've ever seen, and I never dreamed

I'd be so happy that I could die

You used to say that I was beautiful like Cleopatra

But you the king too, so I would say, "back at ya"

I flip my hair and make you stare and put my makeup on

And make up stories 'bout my life and put on very cherry bomb

And even then, I knew that we were something serious

That you would dominate my thoughts like radio to Sirius »

Pretty When You Cry

Blue:

« All those special times I spent with you, my love

They don't mean shit compared to all your drugs

But I don't really mind, I've got much more than that

Like my memories, I don't need that

I'll wait for you, babe, you don't come through, babe

You never do, babe, that's just what you do

Because I'm pretty when I cry »

Dealer

Jonathan:

« I check it, I wreck it, I turn it around

I gave you all my money, gave you all my money

Gave you all my money, gave you all my money

I don't wanna live

I don't wanna give you nothing

'Cause you never give me nothing back

Why can't you be good for something?

Not one shirt off your back

Why can't you be good for something?

Not one shirt off your back »

Young and Beautiful

Leto:

« Will you still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful?

Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul?

I know you will, I know you will, I know that you will

Will you still love me when I'm no longer beautiful?

Dear Lord, when I get to Heaven

Please let me bring my man

When he comes, tell me that you'll let him in

Father, tell me if you can

All that grace, all that body

All that face makes me wanna party

He's my sun, he makes me shine like diamonds »

National Anthem

here you go :))

« I'm your national anthem

God, you're so handsome

Take me to the Hamptons, Bugatti Veyron

He loves to romance 'em, reckless abandon

Holding me for ransom, upper echelon

He says to be cool but, I don't know how yet

Wind in my hair, hand on the back of my neck

I said, "Can we party later on?"

He said, "Yes, yes, yes" »

[great-and-small]

hey i know this is really heavy but... My pet of 13 years was put to sleep yesterday morning and I was wondering if you have any tips on handling the loss and absence of him. My whole family is struggling really hard and I would appreciate it.

Anon I have been thinking about how to answer this and what words of comfort I can offer you in this time of grief. I have held the hand of so many people through the death of their pet and still I oftentimes find myself at a loss for words. It’s something I think about a lot, so I’m sorry that this is quite long-winded.

I was driving my grandmother to a doctors appointment a few weeks ago and she was telling me about her first dog, a Boston terrier named Guppy that she’d had since she was 8 years old. She told me that during her first year in college she received an unexpected phone call from home out of the blue. In those times, phone calls were expensive and you really only got an unscheduled call when a relative or loved one had passed away. She told me that as she was walking to the room to take the call she had prayed to God that the news on the other end of the line would be the death of her own grandmother, rather than the now geriatric Guppy who had been sick for some time. It was a call about Guppy of course, and my grandma told me she’s been guilty her whole life for wishing that a family member had died instead. She told me that she was intentionally sharing this story with me because she didn’t want me to ever feel guilty if I grieve the loss of my dog more than I do her death someday. She told me that the love of a pet is something different, and losing it hurts in a different way.

This was a morbid story with a morbid sentiment (though entirely in character for my grandma) but it got me thinking about the nature of our grief for pets. They are such constants in our lives that in many ways losing them can be harder to bear than the loss of someone who matters to you in a completely different way. My grandma didn’t love her dog more than she loved her relative, it’s just a different type of grief.

Do not let anyone (including yourself) minimize your loss, because your pet was here, they were important, and your love for them mattered immensely.

So now let me say this; I am so happy that your pet was able to spend 13 years with a family that loved and treasured them. I hope for every single one of my patients to have that safety and warmth and affection, your pet was lucky to be so dearly loved. That said, here are some little things that I will recommend to people who ask me for help in dealing with the loss of their companion.

Take things one day at a time. This sounds like a cliche and maybe it is one but I found it helped me. Try not to think about the future without your pet, but focus on getting through the day, especially in the short term after the loss. Take care of yourself and your physical needs as much as you can.

Actively grieve your pet. By this I mean, dealing with grief is hard work that cannot be ignored or put aside. Rather than shying away from memories of your pet, take the time to purposefully think about them and the life they shared with you. It hurts and it sucks so much, but there is no shortcut through it.

Memorialize your pet. This can be anything, but try to find a way to honor your pet’s memory. Make a painting, or volunteer at an animal shelter for a day, donate old blankets to a vets office in your pets name, make a rock garden, buy a fruit tree and plant it somewhere, put together a photo collage of your pet. Doing little things like this helped me more than anything else when I was grieving my dog.

Talk about them. It seems so dumb but I swear it helps. Talk about what they were like when they were little, what funny things they did to make you laugh, what it meant to have them by your side through all those years. It doesn’t have to be a therapist, but find someone kind who can listen to the stories about your pet that made them who they were.

And most of all please know that someday (maybe not soon, but someday) it will hurt less. In the meantime please be kind to yourself as much as you can.

[paperstarwriters]

Hello hope your day is amazing

I was wondering if you could write a Muriel x florist reader where when Muriel is making his once in awhile trip into vesuvia he goes past the readers shop and she gives him tulips because he looks sad and he takes them but after he's gone they forget him obv but the next time he comes into town it happens again and again until he finally gives the reader myrrh and then they remember all those times and get really embarrassed

My first request!!! Wow!!! Now technically I haven’t had any explicit availability on requests because of classes but, well I may just open them up now! (Of course though not all requests will end up this long 😅)

Also, I just wanna mention, that when I first got this request my day had been a little bit of a mess but this certainly brightened it thanks so much!! 💕💕💕💕

By the way, Anon, I am SO sorry I took so long to write this. It ended up getting really long and then I ended up deleting everything and rewriting everything because I thought it could’ve been better lol—Not an excuse, but I kinda wanna be transparent about these things because it helps me acknowledge that no, I did not magically make a perfect fanfic on my first go, and other authors do not make perfect fanfics in one go.

Also I understand that this has since been requested to someone else now too because I was taking so long, and I really don’t mind, though I feel kinda bad to have been so slow. Unfortunately life just tends to interfere and all that.

Anyways,

A Flower a Day Keeps The Lonely At Bay

Pairing: Muriel x Flowershop!Reader

Warnings: Lack of communication (ie. Muriel being shy), awful & rich customers, who pay the cops to chase you down, Reader also Swears.   Summary: A flower a day keeps the lonely at bay, but two to three more, and I’m here at your door, ever waiting, ever waiting, never sure never sure.

Muriel finds himself making visits outside of his hut a little more frequently than usual, accumulating a small bouquet of flowers made larger by a few flowers at a time with every trip he makes to the market.

The only issue is, he hasn’t exactly paid for these.

Masterlists | The Arcana Masterlist

Word Count: 14, 181

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Muriel watched as red washed down from the coliseum stands.

He should be grateful. The sight should uplift him—should release that tension tied deep in his chest. It should fill his chest with something other than dread.

After all, for once, it wasn’t blood.

Red roses drip down from above, their petals peeling away from the bright blooming flowers, cut in the peak of their beauty fluttering in the wind, catching in the sunlight, and falling onto the hot arena sands, still yellow, still free from blood, now stained with a new shade of red. The audience cheers instead of screams, clapping instead of booing. They throw flowers instead of stones.

All for his opponent.

A foreign fighter from a kingdom not too far away, his opponent bathed with open arms in the rain of flowers and roses, smiling and waving at the people above who cheered and wailed their name in rapt awe and delight.

If he were sitting in the stands, watching the battle from afar, he’s certain he would see how clunky and awkward he had been fighting. Lucio had told him that unlike his usual “criminal” opponents he was not to kill the foreign fighter lest he piss off the other kingdom, and wile he wasn’t sure exactly when Lucio had grown so conscious of other people’s feelings, Muriel had been grateful for the chance not to kill his opponent.

It was naïve of him to assume it was something he could simply stop doing.

With every swing of his massive axe, made to cleave heads from their shoulders, Muriel found himself faltering. With every attack, he wondered if this was the swing that would kill his opponent, if this was the swing that would start a war between kingdoms. His opponent, who had no such qualms, was able to slowly whittle away at his defenses until they knocked him to the sand and pressed a dagger to his throat.

When Muriel was shuffled out of the coliseum to be slotted away into the cold cell they called his room, he watched as the other fighter received a glory he never saw for himself. Armfuls of gifts, boxes of food or sweets, letters sealed with hearts and given with bright grins on their faces, and armfuls upon armfuls of flowers. Sitting in his cell, Muriel watched as his opponent passed by with many servants in tow, all needing to be led by Lucio, as they couldn’t see past the heaps of flowers that crowded their arms.

A flower slipped past someone’s grasp, drifting it’s way into his room. It was rose-like in it’s colour. A deep crimson hue, although the shape of it was a far cry from a rose. He could hope that it was something precious and expensive, from some bouquet of foreign flowers, but Muriel couldn’t help but doubt. Perhaps it was something cheaper, something carelessly held and carelessly dropped into the cell of this careless fighter. Its a thing to be admired regardless, something pretty and colourful to enter his drab cell. He plucks it off of the floor, to cradle it’s delicate petals appreciate the soft, sweet smell of it.

Something sweet something soft, and colourful and kind.

It’s not something that would last very long with him.

Lucio returns past him a few moments later, having led the servants to whatever lavish room he had prepared for the foreigner and their followers. The red flower dropped against the hallway floors catches his eye, and with two golden talons he plucks it from the floor, smiling as he appreciates it’s delicate, feeble beauty. He continues down the hall, not even sparing Muriel a glance, as his footsteps crack against the stone floors.

He’ll throw it away the moment he gets outside perhaps, or maybe even sooner than that. Or maybe, just maybe he’ll get some small little cup and let the flower live just a little longer. It’s doubtful though, considering how easy it would be for someone like him to get more flowers. People gift him things all the time, and whatever he doesn’t receive as a gift, it would be simple for him to purchase himself.

Muriel never received gifts in his life as a gladiator.

After all he’s done, he didn’t deserve them.

He did not deserve flowers.

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Muriel pulled his basket closer towards himself, shifting the strap that attached it to his back to rest more comfortably on his shoulder. Although he initially refused the offer, he’s grateful for Asra’s insistence, and even more grateful for the gift. It’s practical. With it, he can carry so much more materials than he ever had before. Flour, rice, fruits, he can place it all in his basket and leave his hands free to purchase smaller things, like bread or berries or herbs, or whatever else he might need. Most importantly, being able to carry so much at once, Muriel can limit his trips into the market as a once in a month or two journey.

Sure, the basket made him look bigger, only drawing more attention to his broad looming frame, and sure, perhaps it was a bit heavy to carry so much groceries all in one go, but if it meant he’d only have to endure the bustle and crowds of the market less, it was certainly a sacrifice he was willing and ready to make. Even the longer journey the basket imposed on him—since it would not fit into the smaller alleyways—was made more tolerable knowing that he would not have to return for a while.

It’s his saving grace amidst the crush of people yelling and hawking their wares, the inconsiderately placed shops of medicine right beside shops of food where delicious scents make the dizzying medicine smell stronger. The push and shove of impatient customers—all of it is made just a little more tolerable knowing it’d be over soon.

Soon. He assures himself. Just a little further, then I’m out of the market. Just past these next few shops, just a little more…

A blur of bright colours catch his eye. Though it was hardly enough to stop him from walking, he slowed at the sight, unable to help but stare at the little shop squished between and behind a few other stalls. For some other shops perhaps the size would be moderate enough, if only a little squishy to sit inside, but for that shop in particular, it seemed downright tiny, dwarfed by the flowers that seemed to burst from any and every opening it could get, starved for space and sunlight, and with the vivid colours and unruly growth—starved for attention.

He didn’t mean to stop in place, but he couldn’t help but stare at all the pretty flowers before him. Butterflies twitched from where they sat atop flowers, and bees bumbled lazily from flower to flower, all delighted at the sheer variety they had before them to enjoy. Like the many insects around him, Muriel found himself drawn into the little alcove the shop provided, drowned in the flowers and their soft and tender scents.

Setting his basket aside, Muriel let himself breathe. The crush and bustle of the crowds were still there, but a panel from another shop blocked him from their view. An alcove large enough for him to hide him—he never thought he’d find a place like that.

“Hello?”

The voice was by no means loud. It was a far, far cry from anything accusatory or cruel, and yet still, Muriel can’t help the urge to leap up in place and run, the thin branch of flowers reaching over his head, serving as the only thing to stop him from doing so. Careless movement could damage the pretty little things, and even if it would sting, damaging the beauty of something seemingly so abandoned, he’d hate to have to deal with the ire of the shopkeep should he damage their precious merchandise.

—Should he damage your precious merchandise.

Wearing mud-smeared clothing and a pair of gloves, it was clear you were the caregiver of these flowers and therefore, the owner of the shop.

Maybe he should have noticed it sooner—seen the vibrant colours and assumed nothing that bright and big could grow naturally, or maybe he should have looked closer to those openings and noted how clean the curtains of the window—the very one you now leaned out from—were.

“I’m sorry.” he mutters, scrambling to get his things while still taking care not to damage the flowers of your shop.

“No, no. It’s okay,” you tell him, smiling a little as you watch him pick up his basket once more. “You don’t have to go, I’m not gonna kick you out.”

“I’m out of money,” he blurts out in reply.

While technically a lie, there is some semblance of truth in it too. He’s already spent his limit of what he set out to buy today, and he really didn’t want to buy any more, just in case he needed the money for something else more important.

“That’s fine you don’t have to buy anything. It’s a nice place to relax here.”

Muriel nodded, but knowing he’s long since outstayed his welcome, he turns instead, fully ready to leave and let you forget. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to come by this side of the market place again any time soon.

“Hey! Wait!”

Oh no.

What did you want now? Did he break something? He might’ve hit or damaged some of those flowers with the basket, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to accept Asra’s gift. It made it so much harder to not bump into things. Automatically, he reaches for his pockets prepared to out himself for his earlier lie rather than have to deal with the accusations and demands for damaging merchandise.

Instead, he finds the flowers still intact, and a new one, bright yellow, and mere inches from his face.

“Here,” you say with a smile as you lean out—nearly tipping yourself out—form your shop’s little window. “Take it. Just a little something to brighten your day.”

It’s a simple little flower, with yellow petals like the sunshine that dappled through your flowers and their leaves.

He hesitates, unsure of whether or not to receive your little gift, what your ulterior motives might be, or what he needed to do for this gift, but you had been insistent, slipping the flower into his half open hand before he has a chance to back out. Satisfied with your gift, you smile with a brightness that matches the flower you’ve given him, warm like spring sunshine.

Despite the abruptness of the gift, he manages a small smile, nodding a little in thanks before he promptly turns to leave and finally be out of the market.

The simple yellow flower, with little else it could go, remained in his hand held to his chest as he weaved in between other market-goers. Listening for the sounds of shouting and screaming that never made it’s way to his ears. It’s not like you would remember. It’s not like you would even know.

Technically speaking, he didn’t have to keep it. Honestly, it’s probably nothing more than a ploy to get him to return and actually buy something from your shop, and it’s not like you’d remember him to ask what he’s done with the flower. Not like he could do anything with it anyways. Unlike Asra’s gift, it’s impractical, and Muriel finds himself wondering what you even expected him to do with it.

His fingers trail along the velveteen petals as he walks, appreciating the faint but pleasant smell that sits at the flower’s center. Whatever beauty he finds in it now is fleeting. It won’t last very long, especially since he has no vase to put it in.

It’s just a flower. He has no obligation to keep it.

It’s not like you would remember anyways.

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Shrugging the basket off his shoulders, Muriel makes quick work of putting away the items he’s bought. The bread flour gets tucked into the bottom shelf of the alcove of food he keeps in the house, and the fruits go in a bowl a little higher than that. Finally the bread is placed and covered in it’s own little box. Inanna runs around him welcoming home as he trundles around setting everything into it’s place, tail wagging like a dog. Even as she jumps up on her hind legs to greet him, she's just as careful as he is not to bump into his table, lest the cup at it’s center fall over and spill the yellow tulip it cradles onto the floor.

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Muriel returned to the market a bitter few days later. The basket had made him eager on his last trip, urging him to get everything done and over with so he wouldn't have to be there long, but he had forgotten that the chicken feed needed some extra restocking with the rain season lurking just around the corner. Muriel wasn't technically responsible for Bok-Bok and her friends. They could easily care for themselves as they, and all other chickens scattered in the forest, have been doing long before he had arrived. As a neighbor who occasionally borrowed eggs, however, Muriel had an obligation to lend a helping hand, and he knew full well how difficult the rainy season made it to find berries and seeds. There were of course plenty of worms, but robins and crows were quick to snatch those things up and some days there was just too much water for even the worms to enjoy. In those moments Bok-Bok and company would really need his help, and he was not about to let them down.

He hauls two bags of chicken feed in his basket, the bite of the straps onto his shoulders almost as bad as the bite of the cost into his limited pouch of coins. Technically he’d only really need one bag, but seeing as chicken feed was edible, Muriel was hoping to use at least some of it for his own meal within the coming days. There’d still be plenty for Bok-Bok and the others, but this would make things easier on him for a while as well.

The feed shifts side to side with every step he takes, the shift in weight feels almost hypnotizing, as he walks. It’s an imperfect distraction from the typical sounds and smells and feeling of the marketplace, but it’s a distraction nonetheless. People continue to press against him, and he feels the grains shift to his left. People continue to chatter and talk, the sound of it layered thickly over the sound of crashes and movement and moving creaky objects, and he feels the grains of the bag shift to his right. That awful smell of medicine entwined with fresh bread and he feels—

“Hey!! You!!”

Muriel freezes in place. When his head snaps to the sound of the scream, the rest of his body is already preparing to run away. And yet, when he sees that familiar face—your familiar face—he finds himself unable to move

For the second time within the few weeks he’s been here, he meets your eyes, and your own grow wide.

As if you recognized him.

Just as quickly it appears, it vanishes and you continue to yell.

“Watch your step!” you yell and point to a little spool of ribbon, sitting just where he would have stepped.

Muriel allows himself to relax, following your gaze downwards, taking a step backwards rather than forwards to find a spool of golden ribbon, lined with green that sat just beneath his feet. He’s about to apologize for almost crushing it when you promptly continue.

“I’m sorry, but yeah could you get that? I don’t want someone to step on it and trip like you almost did”

He nods as he bends over, freezing momentarily to shuck off the basket on his back when he feels the grains of feed slip forward. Taking the little spool in hand, he ducks back into the little alcove where your shop resides and hands it back to you, promptly rewarded with a smile flashed his way.

His face warms at the attention, but he doesn’t find it all too bad.

“Thank you. Oh, and here! As thanks.” You pull from behind you another flower—another tulip. It’s orange this time, tinted yellow around the edges. It’s the colour of a sunset, or his warm fireplace at night—the colour of even warmer smiles.

Although he hesitates, he takes this flower as well, bringing it to his nose to drown out the smell of medicine and food swirling together unpleasantly just a few stalls down.

It works better than the rice of his basket had managed at least.

Muriel manages a nod and soft grunt as thanks, trying to avoid the bright smile on your face as he slings his basket back onto his shoulders and trundles off once more. Another flower held carefully between his fingers.

He knows he doesn’t have to take it or keep it.

He knows he still will anyways.

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Asra visits a day or two later, and grins when Muriel is unable to give them their own cup for tea, especially since it was the one cup they had purchased themself. Still, they grin, and even snicker, as if unaware of the turmoil that brews at his inability to be a good friend and give them what’s theirs. Instead, they only fuel the fire of his anxiety and coyly remark that he should get another cup for whoever had given him his tiny bouquet of flowers.

It’s only then that Muriel realizes he could have, and should have argued back.

He still tries, though he knows it’s too late for that.

“How do you know I didn’t pick them myself?”

“Because you don’t tend to pick flowers for yourself,” Asra replies easily, grinning happy and easy, with that familiar glow of mischief in their eyes. “You should make a vase for them. It’d look nice, I think.”

Muriel can feel his face grow hot as he hesitates to refute Asra’s offer, which only makes their grin grow wider and wider in reply. Eventually he sighs, and though he doesn’t make any direct confirmation or denial, Asra laughs, knowing full well what that sigh entailed.

Despite it all, Muriel found himself smiling too.

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Muriel wanders through the marketplace a mere two days since his last visit. He’s without his basket, as he has been for the last handful of times he’s been there, but the journey is still overbearing. Visiting so often within such a short amount of time was quickly giving him a painful headache, and the temptation to just buy some spiced bread or some other delicious smelling food, to drown out the worst of the busy, busy, world around him, was only trumped by the fact that he did not bring any money with him.

Lately, on his last few trips to the marketplace, he neglected to bring any coins, knowing it’d be better for him to focus on saving up for when he really needed the money. Technically he didn’t need the money that much, being fully capable of living off of the forest, but difficult times such as the upcoming rainy season was made much easier when he could just buy the things he needed. For now, however, he’s simply content to wander through the marketplace and shop for inspiration; his only payment being his time, and the need to be there in the first place.

Carving a vase is easy. It should be easy, compared to the other things he’s carved. it’s a pretty simple wooden thing practically a deeper, wider cup with a little flare at the top like a plate. That was something he could carve, but he recalled seeing other vases around the marketplace, and despite himself, curiosity got the better of him and he stopped by to look at the vases other people had made. He’s been returning pretty often much to his dismay, as he kept on realizing or remembering the design of a vase he had only glimpsed at when he returned to the hut. Not to mention how his initial design might not even work anymore.

With every visit he’s made to the marketplace, he passed by or took shelter by your little flower shop on the way back home, and every time without fail, you called out to him. Even on days where he forgot to try and stop by, where he, fully engrossed in some other thing, or the dizzying feeling of the crowd around him, you still called out to him, with some excuse or other for you to offer him a flower. Some days he got a single tulip. Other times he’s received up to three different blooms. He gets a different flower each time, and each time he has to add the flower to his rapidly filling makeshift vase. It’s no longer a cup, but a rather sorry chunk of wood with a hole down the middle and water at the bottom. So busy with his visits to the market, he hadn’t had the time to really work on it.

If he was being truthful, he had been trying to avoid the task. What could he carve that could adequately hold such pretty flowers that you’ve given him? It’s the first bouquet he’s ever received, he wants to make something fitting for your gifts.

With how consistently you give him flowers, Muriel can’t help but forget that you don’t even remember him. He can’t help but forget you don’t really even know him. Not in the way that he knows you. Even if he knows you in sporadic fragments, he still knows you more than you know him.

Perhaps it’s made him cocky. Overconfident in his understanding of you.

Perhaps that’s why he didn’t expect to see you like this.

You are the sun, radiant and bright for your flowers, providing them warmth, providing them light before you give them away to others to illuminate their day or the day of whoever is lucky enough to receive that gift.

Somehow, he never anticipated the fact that maybe the sun couldn’t always be shining.

“I AM NOT PAYING THIS MUCH FOR THIS STUPID SHIT!!!”

Eyes shift away from Muriel towards the loud argument of some overzealous self-entitled noble who failed to recognize that the world doesn’t revolve around them. Selfishly, Muriel finds relief at the distraction bathing in how for once, in the crowd he was not the spectacle to be stared at instead it was—

Oh.

You stand under the barrage of cruelty raised against you and smile. It falters, it twists, but you do your best to maintain your smile, to appease your audience, someone who clearly did not deserve your grace.

“With the amount of money you had outlined—”

“YOU ARE LITERALLY JUST PICKING FLOWERS—CHILDREN COULD DO THAT!! WHY SHOULD I PAY SO MUCH FOR SOME DAISES YOU PICKED?!”

The stranger’s hand slammed on the small windowsill that you usually leaned on rattling the worn material below it. Bees and butterflies fled from their refuge in your flowers and even some weaker flowers toppled over under the stress. Even if he could not see it for himself, Muriel could tell you were trembling, every flower that so much as brushed against you vibrated in place, your fear bleeding into them, as you tried your best to smile despite it all.

If not for the flowers, he’d believe it too.

“WERE YOU NOT LISTENING WHEN I TOLD YOU THAT THESE WERE FOR AN IMPORTANT EVENT?!? YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL THAT I’M EVEN BUYING FROM YOUR PATHETIC LITTLE SHOP!!! IF YOU DON’T GIVE ME SOME BETTER FLOWERS I WILL—”

It’s hard to tell what compels him more, the barely restrained discomfort that you radiate, or the bitter anger that only rises with every wretched word that comes out from the noble’s poor excuse for a mouth. If he were a better person, perhaps he’d go to you first, but just like with any fight, it was foolish of him to assume violence was something he could simply stop doing.

It always came back to him one way or another.

He strode, unthinkingly with every intention to just get rid of the unpleasant nobleman. Whether he was going to punch them, shove them aside and away from you, or simply pick them up and throw them into the nearest canal, Muriel would never know, because thankfully the noble was more cowardly than they had seemed.

All it took was for him to stand behind them, his shadow swallowing them whole as he glared them down before they were scrambling backwards and sputtering threats about money and guards. A hard threat to follow through on considering the stranger won’t even remember him the next day.

He’s tempted to follow the noble as they run. Tempted to chase them down and force them to never do it again. To show them how strong they really were in the face of a cruel world. Greedy wretches like them wouldn’t survive a day in the coliseum.

But would he really be able to stomach dragging them there?

Red flickers in the corner of his eyes, and Muriel instinctively turns, bracing for the sight of blood. Instead he finds flowers, and you flinching with wide terrified eyes, and a smile barely there on your twisted lips.

“Hello,” you say, flatly, only loosely coloured with a false cheer, just barely covering your trembling voice.

“…Hi.” He manages to mutter back. “Are you…okay?”

You relax a little, no longer afraid, but a look of hurt still lingers in your expression, and Muriel doesn’t know if or how he should try to help. Still, you manage to nod, and smile, however sad it may be.

“I’m fine,” you sigh in a way that always preludes a “but”. “It’s just that, he still didn’t pay for the bouquet.”

You gesture to the bundle of flowers a beautiful splash of red all clustered beautifully together. There are a litany of different shades of red and even a few other colours amidst the bunch, each complimenting the other, looking much less like the chaotic spatter that he still had at home. He could see roses amidst the bunch, de-thorned and coloured in hues he’s never seen before. Taller more spindly flowers sit amidst the bunch as well, though he’s unable to tell them by their names unsure if they are true in colour or made to look similar to the rest through whatever magic you were using.

Despite it’s beauty, you glare at it, as if you hoped it could shrivel up and die.

“I used so many flowers for that thing, what am I supposed to do with it now?” another grumble escapes you, sounding almost like a bitter growl. He flinches when you grab a flower and it’s pot, something set out as a display, and snatch it into the confines of your shop. He almost expects to hear the pot shatter, but your hands snap back out to grab another without so much of a whisper of the first pot being set down.

“Don’t you give some of your flowers out for free?” Muriel blurts out, regretting the question as soon as he asked it. Did it sound suspicious? Insulting?

“Those are special situations,” you snap back. “Besides, I do NOT give full bouquets out for free. That shit is expensive you know?! I put a lot of time and effort into them!”

Muriel nods, but he doesn’t think you see, as you carefully yank another bundle of flowers back into your shop, angry footsteps making the remaining blooms tremble from the force of it.

“I put all my hard time and effort growing these flowers! Contrary to popular belief I am NOT just running around in a meadow, picking out little flowers to take back home and sell for cheap! I grow these things myself! I colour them! I mix them together! I’m not some nobleman with access to flower farms and flower farmers!!”

Muriel busies himself by picking up the flowers you have further out for display, and bringing them back towards your shop. He doesn’t know where the door is, burred under flowers and greenery somewhere, but he tucks the display into the nook where he had hid many times before, keeping the flowers from prying eyes and greedy hands.

It’s the only thing keeping him in place really. As you continue to stomp back and forth in your shop, ranting about rich customers trying to cheat their way out of paying for your flowers. Even if he knows it’s not directed his way, Muriel can’t help but feel a growing sense of guilt.

He did that too. He’s doing that right now.

You don’t remember it, and to you it probably seems like you’ve been giving various different strangers tulips, but he has a bouquet of them now—one even bigger than that noble failed to pay for.

He carefully tucks the last of the flower displays away, carefully arranging the flowers so that none stick out and reveal their location to onlookers, and prepares to run away, internally promising to never return and never steal flowers from you again.

What he intends as a final glance your way, hoping to leave while your back is turned, roots him in place instead.

You stand, hands over your eyes, furiously scrubbing as you try to both hide and stop your tears. Torn between running to help you and running away, Muriel stands and stares, as useless to help as the flowers that still surround you.

“I just… fuck,” you hiss, or at least you try to around the hiccups of your sobbing. “It’s just so hard. They demand money from me and then refuse to pay me for my hard fuckng work! What do they even get out of hoarding that much money?”

Why can’t he decide? The choice to help you is as obvious as it was when you were being threatened by the nobleman earlier. And yet, when faced with a problem that he can’t solve with violence he’s stuck.

It really is all he’s good for isn’t it?

You duck behind your window to hide your tears, but he can hear your back hit the wall and the hiss of fabric against stone as you slide down to your knees and succumb to sniffles and sobs.

With little else to say or do, Muriel turns and runs away.

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A moment of terror pulls you from your sorrow as you remember the flower stands you left outside the shop. You’ve already lost a lot of time and effort on the bouquet for the noble who never paid, you can’t afford to loose your display flowers as well.

About to bolt out from the shop to look for them, you glance to the shops beside you wondering if your neighbors decided to be cruel, or if you could see the escaping thief. Instead, you find your flower stands tucked away in a little alcove between your shop and one of the neighboring booths beside it. The flowers are carefully tucked beneath each other, to keep from springing up over the other shop’s crates, and remain hidden from any potential thieves.

It’s not anything grand enough to make you reconsider opening the shop back up for the day, nor does it quell the roll of anxiety in your chest, but it’s enough to make you smile again. Even if only a little.

It takes you a moment to recall that a stranger had been here only moments ago after the departure of the nobleman, but beyond their presence you can’t recall anything about them. You know they helped a little, but the how or why evades you.

Instead you return to work tucking your flowers away inside, before you finally close shop and head back to your garden.

You can’t recall what the stranger’s face looks like, but the fleeting memory of them still lingers in your mind. They remind you, strangely, of tulips.

Perhaps you could give them one next time you saw them. Hopefully you’d recognize them in the crowd.

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Muriel’s fingers sift through the flowers that sit in his little wooden makeshift vase. In a better world he’d be able to give back all the flowers he had taken from you—stolen from you—and you would be able to sell your flowers to people who could pay for and better deserved the beautiful blooms. Instead, Muriel finds many of the flowers already starting to wilt in the vase, petals growing crumpled and stems growing weak. The first flower you had given him was a husk of it’s former beauty.

He shouldn’t have gotten it in the first place. That fleeting beauty would have been better spent on someone better than him. Someone who could appreciate it better with a crystal vase—or even a simple painted clay vase to carry the flowers and show off how pretty they were.

Or just…someone with more money than him. Someone who could actually pay you for your flowers.

Someone…. Someone who would deserve them.

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Once more, Muriel makes his journey into the market, the dizzying smells and feelings and noises made all the more worse by the burden of his objective. Two pouches sat in his pockets both burning through fabric and skin to scorch him to his bones. Every passing jostle against his body had him scrambling to check if both bags were still there, panic flooding him when he forgot that he had moved one of the bags from one pocket to another.

Over and over again scenarios flashed through his mind. He tried to keep himself reasonable, tried to expect the worst so he wouldn’t be disappointed, but hope—ever stubborn, and ever cruel—slipped in regardless of his wishes. He hoped that you’d still like him afterwards, that you wouldn’t ask him to pay for all the flowers he had taken from you, that you’d be happy to be able to remember him, but the truth of the matter was, that he was just another customer. All he had been receiving was a placating smile in hopes that he’d buy from you.

If only he could hate you for that. It’d be so much easier if he could let himself feel like he had been cheated, or wronged, but you were just trying to make money for yourself, just like everyone else. Could he condemn you for that?

The sickening smell of some strong smelling meal with pungent medicine fills his chest once more, and the once familiar need to vomit at the smell grows stronger knowing your shop is only a little further away. His hands gravitate towards the two pouches in his pockets and he squeezes them, hoping that for once the universe would be kind to him and he wouldn’t make some awful mistake like mix them up and give you the wrong bag too soon.

With every step closer he gets to your shop, Muriel recites in his mind what he wants to tell you, his apology for what he’s done and his willingness to not bother you again.

Someone else is already shopping at your booth. Muriel watches from nearby, trying to remember what he needs to tell you while he waits his turn.

“If you don’t mind, I need a few flowers, not too many…”

He just needed to tell you that he was willing to leave you be.

“How many flowers will that be? Oh, and what kind?”

No, no, he needed to apologize first for taking all of your flowers.

“Any kind will do. I just need them for a… friend of mine. They’re ill, and I... I made a promise to them.”

He’d need to explain what had happened as well. Explain how he kept receiving flowers from you, and explain how he’d need to pay for it.

“Oh, I hope they’ll be okay soon, how about this?”

“Oh that looks gorgeous!”

He’d need to tell you about that magic, that kept others from remembering him, and he’d need to….

“…oh, I can’t… I’m sorry, I can’t pay that much.”

“…how much can you pay?”

Muriel watches the old man place a few coins onto the table. It really isn’t much, but telling by the clothes he wears and the stains that litter them, it’s clear that he’s been trying to save up for this. Your own eyes, grow dim at the sight of the meager amount he brings. Would it even pay for a few flowers? Would it even pay for a single flower?

Your eyes flutter closed and your hands grip the flowers as if you were going to yell at the old man, but you’re trembling as well, fighting against something before you look back up and smile.

No. No, no. You can’t be thinking—gossip travels fast in the marketplace, even faster when it’s something of concern or interest to a noble. If that person gets word that you’re giving out free flowers after that stunt you pulled yesterday…

“Alright. Take it.”

…What will happen to you?

“No—wait.” Muriel steps in, his own coin pouch in his trembling hands. “that…how much does that cost?”

It’s a smaller bouquet than what you’ve given him over his many many visits, but he still winces as you take the money. He’s now the one without enough funds to pay you back for your flowers. He’s now the one marring your reputation—making it seem like your prices are something fickle, that someone could just get a bouquet of tulips for free if they looked sad or sorry enough.

Was that why he had gotten all those flowers? You did say some were to brighten his day. Did he truly look so miserable?

The old man smiles up at him, and thanks him profusely as he leaves with his flowers. Muriel manages a smile, but a nagging feeling at the back of his head tells him it looks more like a grimace. When he turns back to look at you, you meet his half-smile half grimace with one of your own.

“Thank you so, so much for that—but you didn’t have to.”

“But yesterday—I saw—heard—” Muriel coughs, fighting the rising warmth in his face. “I heard about that… customer…yesterday. I just.... Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You smile, eyes falling closed as you recall something before you look up to him. “Yesterday, a kind stranger stepped in to protect me. It was…really sweet.”

Muriel forces himself to turn away from your fond expression. For all the preparation that he put in anticipating what he should do when you hate him, he never prepared for what he should do if you liked him.

While your attention is diverted, Muriel begins his attempt to scurry away from the situation before it grows too awkward, but not for the first time, you call out to him, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“Before you go!” Once more he stops and turns. He knows his face is flushed, he know he looks ridiculous, but he turns out of habit to the sound of your voice, like a sunflower to the sun. “—here. Just as thanks.”

Muriel stares at the flower you give him his mind flying back to a small cell beneath a roaring crowd. A rose coloured tulip, the likes of which he’s never seen before, sits in his palm as another gift from you. He’s never seen a tulip this red before. Brighter than the colour of blood.

He tries to hand it back, but your hands sit atop of his and push back, insistent on giving your gift.

You smile when you tell him, “Please, it’s a gift.” But he feels nothing but dread.

Another flower stolen, another bloom he can no longer afford to pay for.

He does not deserve flowers.

He certainly did not deserve yours.

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Muriel doesn’t return to the market. He doesn’t—won’t—need to for a while. The basket Asra had given him really lived up to it’s practical uses. He savors the fresh cool air of the forest, untainted by headache-inducing smoke billowing from medicine shops or blacksmiths or bakeries of sleepy bakers. The hiss and hush of the trees, sounds soothing to his ears rather than the cacophony of chatter, of yelling and demanding from sellers and buyers.

He feels alive and safe in the forest.

At least, more than he had felt when he was in the city—when he was just a child.

A lifetime of struggling for money and food and running from guards called by over zealous nobles was not something that he expected would every leave him. In the same way the blood may never wash from his hands, the dirt and disgust he carried for being one of many strays in the South End would never leave him either. It’s something he could live with though. Something he could endure within the safety of the forest.

…He just never thought he’d be the one causing someone to struggle the way he did.

It’s not the same. He knows that it’s not the same. You have a shop that you are able to maintain—a viable way to make money. With all your flowers, you probably had a garden, you probably had the ability to grow fruits and vegetables that you could eat and rely on when times got tough. And most of all, you are an adult. You can fend for yourself, act for yourself. You don’t need help the way a child does. You can survive.

…but sometimes just surviving just made things worse.

He just made things worse.

What if you were struggling for food? What if you wouldn’t be able to maintain that shop for much longer? What if all those flowers you gave him were what lead that noble to think it was okay to get flowers from you for cheap?

Even if he couldn’t be remembered perhaps people remembered seeing you give flowers away for free to someone over and over again. A free flower every now and then would hardly be anything bad but Muriel had enough to consider it a bouquet.

He had to pay you back.

It might take some time, but hopefully his carvings were appraised better than they were when he was a child. Hopefully more people liked them. Hopefully he could make enough money to pay you back soon.

Wooden animals sit between Muriel’s legs as he carved away at another figurine from a block of wood. It was a little sloppy, as was the other figures, but seeing as he needed to make back the funds at least somewhat quickly, he needed a lot of figures in a short amount of time.

The knife slipped against the wood, and cut into his hand. Deep enough to draw blood, but not deep enough to garner worrry. Not for his hand at least. Blood stained the wood he carved, tainting the wooden flower with a bloody patch of red, soaking into the wood.

Muriel sighed, as the blood seeped deeper and deeper into the pale wood. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to carve the stain away to salvage the flower, he set it aside, and wiped the blood from his hand, and started again against a new block of wood.

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For all Muriel had planned and worried the location and use of a stall was not one of the things he had considered. The market was filled with vendors all squished against each other in an attempt to sell wares. Any of his old places for selling things as a child were either filled by new children, hawking trinkets and other odds and ends, or far too small for him to fit in and comfortably sell from now.

He tried to wander through the busier parts of the market, even amidst the crash and chatter of people around him, but earlier vendors had beat him to the stalls, and no one was willing to spare any space.

Eventually, though he tried to avoid it, he came down to your side of the market, where there were just a little less shops than before. Even here however there was no space that he could take that wasn’t a crushing squish against two other shops.

The familiarly grating smell of medicine and baked goods wafted past him and instinctually he glanced your way, even if he hoped not to see you and gain another flower he needed to pay back.

Only, you weren’t there at all.

Where there was once a little window surrounded on all sides by flowers that seemed to burst out from the room within, there was instead, a green door. Upon closer inspection a thin line divided the door in half so the top could be opened or the bottom could be opened, and he realized that this had been the window you once leaned out from to sell your flowers.

And now, flowerless it had been closed.

What happened to you? Did the noble come around and confiscate all your flowers for some crime you didn’t commit? Had he been too late to help you? Too late to fix his mistakes?

He didn’t know how long he had spent staring at the blank walls, taking in all the imperfections he had never seen and never wanted to see before, but it was long enough, that someone inevitably noticed him.

“Hello?”

Muriel nearly leapt up from his place and ran, if not for the person he turned to see.

Still smudged with dirt, with flower petals and leaves caught in your clothes, you stood before him, smiling but confused.

“I’m sorry, did you want something from the shop?”

The bag of coins burns in his pockets, both too heavy and too light for him to hold. He scrambles for an explanation, something feasible to explain away the situation, and allow him to go on his way once more, but his mouth dries with every attempt, and the urge to confess his crimes and get it over with builds high in his chest.

In the end, he abandons his words and shakes his head instead.

With an even more confused look on your face, you shake your head almost dismissively, but a smile still lingers on your lips. It reaches your eyes too, drawing lines across your face from the force of it all. He tries to convince himself that it’s genuine, but the doubt is hard to remove once planted.

After all, you always smile to your customers, even if they don’t deserve it.

“What are you doing here then?”

“I… Just…I’m passing by,” he manages, watching as your smile shifts for a moment. It softens, but it never leaves your face.

“Oh. Where are you off to?”

He glanced away, tempted to just give some non commital answer and just leave before you could ask something else, but he catches sight of your empty shop once more and finds his feet rooted in place.

“I…. I was looking for a space to set up a temporary shop.”

“Oh! What are you selling?”

Since it’d be easier than trying to explain, Muriel reaches into his basket, pushing aside the blanket covers to protect against the sun and the wooden support beams he was planning to use to hold the blanket up, to reveal the wooden carvings that sat beneath it all. He grabs the first one he feels pulling it free and offering it for your inspection.

“Oh! That’s so pretty!” He looks at it in your hands now, one of the flowers he had carved from wood. It’s no tulip, but he’s glad you seem to like it at the very least.

“You can keep it if you want.”

“Really?” you ask, your voice wrung with awe sounding almost almost breathless to his ears.

Despite knowing he wouldn’t be able to tell if you were actually pleased or just smiling, Muriel glances your way, finding that soft smile once more on your lips, as your fingers carefully trace around the center of the flower. He turns away from the sight of it.

“Sure.”

“Oh, hey, in exchange, how about…” Muriel braces himself for the flower you’d always give him. No matter how pretty or soft it’s petals looked he would not accept. He couldn’t, knowing that he’d have to add another flower considering how much he’d need to pay for it.

Instead, you gesture to the shop, and smile.

“Here! You said you wanted to look for a stall to sell your things at, you can use my shop.”

And though Muriel knows full well what your shop looks like, for the first time today he turns and actually looks.

Between two stalls sits the little window, where you once leaned out and smiled at him as he passed. Except, with it’s top “shutter” closed, he could now see it was a door, sitting listlessly against the off-white walls. Around it, where flowers once bloomed, cracks in the stone are so abundantly clear. Exposed for all to see without flowers covering the cracks. Sitting lifeless, colourless, and empty, he little shop seemed even smaller, crowded out by other people’s boxes. A hollow husk of what it had been before.

Or, perhaps it was hollow because you weren’t there anymore.

For all the questions he wanted to ask, all the distress and apologies he wanted to offer, all Muriel can stomach to ask, is a pathetic, strangled, “why?”

Why weren’t you using your shop anymore? Why did you remove all your flowers as if you were just moving out? Why were you letting him use that shop?

Why, even when you couldn’t remember him, did you still trust him?

Why were you kind to him?

Why—

Muriel turns to the sound before you do, the heavy footsteps of armored soldiers marching with that distinct rattle of their shiny armor that only ever meant they were here on purpose, rather than just on patrol.

You catch sight of them a moment later, the same time that they catch sight of you.

And all Muriel can do is stare.

It’s funny really, how, in the past it had almost been second nature for him to run and hide at the sound of clanking armor, grabbing any other children he’d see who had yet to notice lest they get taken by the soldiers seeking to “clean up” the marketplace. But maybe it was all that time he had to spend trying not to flinch and run from the soldiers in the coliseum lest the taunt and tease him while he was helpless to do anything else, or maybe it was the safety net that his gift provided, knowing they could never come for him.

It doesn’t matter anyways. He’s rooted to the ground, helpless to do anything to help you.

A familiar face grins behind their armored friends, looking as pleased as they looked punchable, as if tattling to the soldiers about whatever offense you didn’t commit was something they could be proud of doing. As if they weren’t just some massive coward hiding behind armor and gold.

As if they were really in the right.

He’d scowl if he could manage, but he feels far away from his body, bracing for cold impact of armored hands against mere flesh. Ready to drag him away somewhere cold and dark and alone. Ready to drag him back to the arena.

Instead, the hand that finds him is warm.

Warm fingers thread themselves between his, and suddenly he’s being pulled through the marketplace, just barely able to grab his bag before he’s running between stalls and down alleyways, as the soldiers clamor and shout clumsily crashing through booths and debris in their pursuit.

The both of you are fast, but the soldiers, trained as they are, are faster, and grow closer and closer as you stumble on each other’s feet trying to stick together. You seem to have a destination in mind, but running home with these soldiers on your tail is never, ever a good idea. You seem to know this, but you don’t seem to know how to loose them.

Muriel on the other hand does.

All it takes is a few strides and a squeeze of your hand before Muriel is leading you through the streets, diving down alleyways, and between shops and their carts, before he shoves you into a small dip between two buildings, crowded with boxes and goods from the stalls that sat on either side, and his basket set in front of him for good measure. The two shopkeepers glared his way, frustrated at his strange intrusion, but they fail to notice that he had someone with him, as they often do if that other person is hidden quickly enough. Though their eyes on him makes his skin prickle, they slide off as easily as water on oil, and soon they return to their own business, forgetting that Muriel had ever even existed as their attention drifts away, and they return to attending to their wares.

The crash of soldiers is audible in the distance, and behind him, hands pressed to his back, Muriel can feel you grow tense. Your hands ball up into fists on his cloak, and you press your face into his back as if it may be able to better help you hide from them. It lets him feel you breathe, trying to keep it slow, and deep, trying to relax yourself, but the tremors remain. It makes him want to hold you, take your hand in his to reassure you, tell you that everything will be okay, but when he still trembles at the growing sound of iron on stone and wood, all he can do is stand still and quiet, hoping to all hope that the shopkeepers beside him would not note his presence and, that what little magic he has won’t fail him,

Above all, if everything else fails, he hopes you remain safe.

Their armor glistens in the sunlight, blindingly bright, a distraction and protection he’s fallen victim to many times before. One turns his way, meeting his eyes, and for a moment, Muriel loses his breath. Behind him you tense as well, as if his tension passed onto you. As if you could somehow see through him, and met the guard’s eyes.

He wonders if you had poked your head out from behind him, wonders if the guard had somehow seen you—a scrap of your clothes perhaps, or some sliver of your skin. He hopes to all hope that you had not done so, but he tries to puff up his chest despite it all, use the width of his shoulders to truly make sure you were covered.

And no matter how much he wants to do otherwise, Muriel keeps his eyes open, and stares down not only the guard before him, but also the group behind him, watching and waiting for that moment of recognition, the moment when the guards eyes stopped slipping away, the moment when he’d have to shove the soldier away to let you escape.

To make sure no one was dragged to the coliseum again.

Someone yells behind the guard, loud and abrasive, and Muriel has to keep himself from flinching at the sound. For another moment the guard lingers, eyes still scanning the area, where Muriel stood, as if he wasn’t there at all, for a mere second perhaps, before they turn away eyes still slipping off of Muriel like water against oil. The soldiers continue on hollering and barking as they chase shadows down the street. It’s only when they fade out from earshot that Muriel finally relaxes, and behind him, he can feel you do the same.

It’s an awkward little shuffle around when he steps away to let you escape your confines. Your hand doesn’t quite leave his back so readily, trailing down before falling away, leaving phantom trails of pressure and warmth still lingering on his skin, even if you never actually touched him directly. He tries to distract himself amidst it, focus on getting his basket back on his back. Focus on the possibility of another patrol of soldiers passing by. He doesn’t notice that you had been waving for his attention until you fingers slip beneath the belts across his chest and you yank.

“Thank you,” you whisper-hiss, freeing his belt to capture his hand instead. “C’mon, follow me. I know a safe place we could lay low for awhile.

Your hand is warm in his. Sweaty from running, but warm, with callouses marking the inside of your knuckles. Your rough hands against his own, and yet cradling his carefully with your touch. In his earlier haste he didn’t get the chance to notice that.

You tug, he follows.

–––––––––✿・✿・✿–––––––––

For all that he’s known you, for all the times he’s visited, all he’s ever seen from you were smiles that bent your eyes with it’s fondness, soft as the flowers that surrounded you and vibrant as the sun that fed them.

But that hardly counted as knowing a person.

For all you had forgotten of him, he never really got to know you.

The city grows more glittery and sharp as you tug him towards the decrepit opulence of the flooded district, right along the edge of the temple district where old temples sat in ruin, flooded with water that bent their floorboards and made space frigid during the night. Yet those flaws hardly stopped children from scurrying into the upper levels through windows, standing in the frigid dust laden rooms, and pretending they had a better life.

He remembers doing the same himself, with vivid fondness, trying and failing to climb up the side of the building after soldiers broke all the available climbing structures, that could support his weight. Asra managed on the tiny ledges, and weak remains, but Muriel and many other children struggled to do the same.

Thick walls of ivy, and even a small tree grows there now, the ground having been cleared of tiles to make space for dirt and mud to allow for the growth.

He turns his attention back to you, as you continue to pull him past buildings, littered with new blooms that climbed the walls.

For all that you had forgotten of him, Muriel barely knew you.

–––––––––✿・✿・✿–––––––––

You stop before a fence that looms even above him, coated in greenery, with sharp, rusted metal spikes that jut out from the top of the bushes.

He can see thorns entwined with the green shrubbery, thin and clustered together to make it hard to avoid getting scratched or hurt by any attempt to climb up it, which perhaps, is why it was an area that seemed so abandoned. Unlike the well-maintained gardens of many nobles, what could a trespasser hope to find behind a fence so clearly bursting with nothing but plain shrubs and wayward thorns?

You, clearly, believed otherwise.

Muriel can’t help but wince when you jam your hand into the mess of thorns and bushes, rummaging around the plants in search for something within. He’s tempted to pull your arm out and try to get you to wear something to protect yourself, but you beat him to it, pulling back for a moment to reveal an untouched arm before you reach back in with more intent and care than you did before.

Something creaks, and the wall of ivy and bushes, reveals itself to be thinner than the foliage initially let on.

He doesn’t even need to slip through the greenery as you do to already glimpse the world within, but he does anyways, treating himself to the true magnificence of your domain. Hidden by plants and trees and bushes and thorns sits a world of flowers blooming en masse until they cover nearly every inch of the ground around it, some even spilling out from their designated places to uproot the stone tiles that made up the slim walkways between the spill of flowers.

Most strikingly, Muriel can see the tulips that line the far end of the garden, a splash of sporadic colours all clumped together in a mad swirl, spilling out from their allotted section to infiltrate pathways and the beds of their neighbors.

And amidst them, finally looking at ease, you stand, turning back to him with a smile.

“I’m sorry about that, but… we’ll be safer here for now.”

You close the door, with a gentle thud, and brush the roses around it back into place, slipping a rust-browned lock back into place, and locking the world outside far, far away.

Perhaps he should be worried that you had essentially locked the both of you inside here together, but despite being overcrowded with flowers, the garden seems so expansive he can hardly see it as being locked inside anything.

“Feel free to look around” you tell him. “Just… don’t pick anything, please.”

You flash him a smile, and as quickly as you had astounded him with the beauty of your garden, you turn away snapping your attention back to your flowers, and give him space to marvel in awe at your beautiful garden—to marvel in awe at your beautiful practice. Setting his basket aside, he watches as you crouch down, and procure a pair of shears from beneath a bush, and begin to snip away at the overgrown and wilted plants. The sun shines a halo around you as you hunch over plots of dirt, shuffling your way into the plants, and trying to pry flowers away from each other, to generate distance so one doesn’t starve the other.

It’s hard work, quick to smear you with dirt and mud, but he can see the tension fade from your back as you toil away, a means of relaxing yourself from the tension.

Though questions swirl around his stomach and chest, Muriel decides to give you your space. It’s the least he can do after all.

He wanders, carefully, between the patches of flowers, many intermingled with each other into beautiful messy arrays, some even curling around each other, to enough of an extent, that Muriel supposed you couldn’t separate them anymore. Of course, slow growing as flowers often were, Muriel wondered if you failed to notice how close they had gotten, or you simply allowed them to grow so close to each other.

He approaches your tulip patch. You have so many. Found in nearly every colour, with different patterns on the petals, and different shapes of petals themselves, all crowded into one large plot—and when that plot could not fit any more flowers, you intermingled the tulips amidst other plants, amidst other flowers that seemed to get along well with the shoots of colour.

Although he has never seen the foreign shaped and patterned flowers before, Muriel can’t help but note the abundance of red, orange, pink, and yellow tulips in your garden. A favourite, perhaps? Or perhaps they were in high demand, or perhaps they were just—

“They used to be my parents' favourite.” He turns to look at you, dirt smeared with leaves sticking to the fabric of your clothes. You turn to him and smile. “They liked to give them to each other, as a way to show how much they cared about each other.”

Something in Muriel’s chest flutters. Something else constricts. He really shouldn’t be hearing this—you don’t remember him, you don’t remember what you’ve done.

“I tend to give them out to my favourite customers as well.” Muriel scrambles for his bag. He shouldn’t be hearing this should he? No matter how much he wants to… he shouldn’t. It’s not fair to you. You don’t remember him, you might not even be harboring those kinds of feelings.

After all didn’t you say the flowers were supposed to just... cheer him up?

“Hey, do you want—” Muriel just barely manages to shove the bag into your hands, pressing further to get the bag closer to your face.

The sooner you remember the sooner you can kick him from your garden and be on your merry way, even though his stomach grows tight at the very idea of it. Your garden is beautiful. If he could stay here, or even just visit every so often he would be glad.

As it is, just seeing you smile was enough for him.

Just seeing you smile had been enough for him, but he’s taken too much from you, and he refused to take any more.

It takes you a moment, flustered as you try to protest the strange gift he’s given you, but the memories come soon enough, and rather than push, he finds you grabbing—not only the bag, but his hand as well—and pulling it closer to your face, to take a deep breath, and savor the memories.

It only lasts so long.

You stare at him now, eyes wide and mortified before your hands snap to your face trying and failing to hide you as you still cling to the bag of myrrh he had given you. Muriel closes his eyes and looks away, not wanting to see your enraged or sorrow filled face when you claimed you had been cheated or swindled of your precious, precious flowers.

Instead he hears you giggle.

It’s a nervous sort of giggle, the kind made when someone’s not actually happy, echoing in the hollow cup of your hand as you sink to the floor.

“Oh my gods. Oh gods.” The words slip between your fingers as you adjust and readjust your hands to hide your face. “Oh my gods I am so sorry.”

“What?”

“I gave you, so many flowers…”

The comment sounds like regret—that you regretted wasting so many flowers on him, but your voice doesn’t sound sad, you just sound… embarrassed.

“I am so sorry…”

“W-what?? What for?”

“Isn’t it embarrassing? I keep giving you flowers!” Your volume picks up, and though he doesn’t intend it, his own voice gets a little higher and a little louder in reply.

“Is that bad??” He really can’t focus on his volume when he’s trying to sort out all the questions you are not answering.

“ITS EMBARRASSING!”

“HOW?!”

You groan, half stifled and half agonized before you bury your face back into your knees, leaving Muriel’s mouth to snap shut with a soft clack, gritting his teeth as he silently vows to never open his mouth again—or at least refrain from doing so for a long while. He was too loud. Too close to yelling. He doesn’t blame you for being afraid.

He’s about to apologize, whisper something placating to fix his wrongdoings, but once again, you speak before he can even get a word in.

Or well, you don’t speak. You laugh.

It’s almost a mad cackle. Almost. If you didn’t peer up for a moment, looking so genuinely happy and pleased, he would have thought you had gone insane.

You’re breathless when your laughter bubbles down into hicuups and giggles, leaning your head on your arms as you peer up at him. Of course, he’s too tall for you to look without craning your neck, and that’s so much worse when you’re sitting down. He sits beside you in an attempt to keep your neck from aching, but that only seems to make you giggle more.

“So, how much to I have to explain?” You ask your question teasingly, but Muriel can’t help but notice the strain of sincerity or the way you shake ever so slightly as if scared. You’re still grinning, but he can’t help but take you seriously.

“It…. You spend so much time on your flowers…. Don’t you need the money?”

His question sobers you considerably, that smile falling away from your face. Again, he’s the one who has to tear that from you, who makes you frown instead of smile.

“I can afford to lose a few tulips.”

“It’s not a few.”

You huff, turning away from him, and again, he worries that he’s made you upset. “It’s fine. I have a lot of those ones anyways. Besides, it’s not like I give them out to everyone.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope.”

“What about that old man? You wanted to give those flowers to him for free…”

You roll your eyes, and shake your head a picture of exhaustion, if not for your smile. “Yeah, well, he’s a pretty common customer, and he’s a fellow merchant. I stop by his stall sometimes and I know he doesn’t always have much, but he still wants to give flowers to his friend and all that.” You turn away from him then, tucking your face back into your knees. “Besides, I wasn’t giving him tulips.”

His brows dip again, “Tulips…?”

You sigh, loud and drawn out, tucking your face deeper into your lap. “I… remember how I mentioned my parents?”

“I… I didn’t think I was supposed to hear it…”

“If not you then who?” you gawk, waving an arm to the garden that wraps itself around you. In the beat of silence that follows, the wind rustles through the flowers, and the sound of trickling water meets the melody of a birdsong. It’s so peaceful. It’s so… lonely. Another gust of wind, and though the walls sit thoroughly coated by shrubbery and plants outside, it’s far clearer to see the iron bars from within, a mere gust of wind doing enough to show the cage these flowers have been locked inside of. To show the cage that you...

“You’re the only other person here.”

“I didn’t… I thought you’d change your mind in letting me in here if you realized….”

Once more you tuck your face into your lap, and Muriel has to wonder what makes you so miserable every time he mentions it. “Why would I change my mind after remembering how many flowers I’ve given you?”

“I thought… I thought you’d think I’d stolen them.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “I gave them to you. As a gift.”

“Would you give me them if you knew it was me returning?”

You straighten yourself, turning to him with wide eyes as if he’s said something absurd or unthinkable. He’s about to retract his statement, make an apology for whatever he’s done to offend, but you look away before he does, and though muffled, in the quiet peace of your garden, you’re loud enough for him to hear you.

“Yes.” A pause. You fiddle with a worn patch over the knees of your pants, coated in dirt, and evidence of being repaired repeatedly, it’s a well loved set of gardening clothes. Well worn. Well cared for. “If I knew it was you, I’d give you even more flowers too.”

You huff the words out as if frustrated, and Muriel can’t help but look away.

“Why?” he blurts out the question, immediately regretting it when he hears you tuck your face back into your legs. You had said it was embarrassing. He still fails to understand… how.

“You heard the story about my parents.” This time it’s not a question. With your face now tucked behind your knees and safely guarded by an arm, you wave a free hand in the air, as if expecting him to connect whatever dots remains.

As if it was as easy as that.

“You said that they did so to show how much they cared about each other.” You bury your face deeper into your lap. “But you don’t… You don’t know me.”

At this point you’ve thrown your arm over top of your head now too. Trying to fold yourself up into a little human ball. Was this what was embarrassing? That you had been showing affection to someone you’ve never met before? To someone you didn’t know? But you haven’t known each other this entire time. What made it different now?

The glows over your garden, dappling you in it’s golden warmth. There are structures in place, some tall trees intermixed with the bushes outside, but sunbeams still sneak their way to reach you, as if eager to light you up, to amend the gloom that he’s cast over you. One beam streaks across your arms, and as you peek up at him, your eye glows in the golden light, and like magic, you slowly unfold yourself, to sit normally by his side.

“I… You’re right. I’m sorry.”

That was… “You’re apologizing again.” He means to ask it as a question but it doesn’t come out like it should. Hearing it fill the silence, he wonders if that would have been worse.

“I…” again, your hands come up to cover your face, dragging over your eyes, until they’re cupped around your mouth. You’re hiding again. Embarrassed you had said, but he still can’t figure out—“Look, I’m sorry for flirting with you okay?”

Muriel chokes. You don’t seem to notice.

“You don’t have to take it as flirting at all okay? It’s just… You just looked really pretty and I just wanted to give you flowers because I thought you were nice and you helped me out so many times with all those things, you were really brave and tough and yet so kind, and, augh no, look I’m not… I know I don’t know you okay, I’m not expecting you to fall in love with me over some…silly flowers, it’s fine. I… I’m really sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’m really sorry if this is just…weird. I… look my garden is pretty much all I have! People like flowers but I understand if those were maybe just not your thing, and I know maybe roses would’ve been more fitting, but those are just so hard to take care of sometimes and they’re such an overused gift, I mean I kinda thought someone like you would end up tired of receiving those gifts all the time but that’s because I was assuming that you were interested in relationships like that and—”

You keep talking. And talking, and talking and talking. Circling back to the same statements over and over and over again in new contexts as you somehow say so much and very little at the exact same time. It’s nice though. He likes listening to you speak, even if this seems to make you more stressed out than ever, but most importantly, it gives him a moment to try to collect his own thoughts, to try to get his breathing in check. And when both attempts fail, to try and find a way to fold himself up into something tiny and unseeable.

He waits for a while, hoping that you’d trail off somewhere eventually, that he would eventually be able to interject and direct the conversation away, or just…. Ask if you were… serious…. but every glance his way seems to make you more stressed, and you burst out in another round of apologies and reassurances, and on top of it all another round of compliments, many of which keenly focused on…prettiness.

Particularly him… and… being… pretty.

He doesn’t mean to grab your wrist. Poke you maybe, but he doesn’t mean to grab.

It’s just… hard to tell when he’s trying to hide his warming face behind a hand.

There’s a long stretch of silence.

And of course, you try to amend whatever mistake you think that you’ve made. “I’m so sorry I didn’t—” he has to interrupt you this time.

“No… no… It’s…”

You’re really smart. Very, incredibly clever. Burying his face in his lap sounds more and more appealing by the minute, but as much as he wants to he can’t exactly make himself look as small as you managed beside him. Besides, he just… really wants to know.

“I… you think…. I’m….” He can’t. He just can’t. His mouth opens to try, but his throat falls dry each time. It’s a struggle to get the idea of it into his mind without growing furnace-hot at the thought alone. He is a rival to the sun, by mere heat alone.

Somehow, miraculously, you understand… or at least somewhat. “You’re kind, you’re brave… you’re pretty….” You have to look away as well, lips falling victim to the press of your teeth. “You’re pretty as flowers, really.”

Muriel could explode.

You take his embarrassment as distress, faltering and wincing as you try to amend what had never been damaged. If he could, he’d press a hand to your face to shut you up. But that would mean having to remove a hand from hiding his own face away.

“Sorry! Is that….? Is that insulting? I didn’t mean for it to be insulting like that or anything It’s just you know as a gardener and all constantly working with flowers and everything and—”

“No!” he wants to berate himself for yelling. To feel ashamed for raising his voice but the sound of it is so strangled and sounds more like a helpless yelp than anything, only really serving to make him feel more embarrassed.

It’s Embarrassing…

Have you been feeling this way the whole time?

“It’s just that…” many words want to spring their way out of his mouth all at once, and considering his tongue has yet to master the skill of saying two separate words at the same time, Muriel is just left to struggle. “I’ve never…. No one’s ever… It’s not bad it’s just….” He can’t speak. He’s as effective as if he were mute, eyes practically spinning in his skull, as he tries to look anywhere but you.

Still he manages a glance your way, and it gives him pause to find you staring intently at the ground, a little smile stuck upon your lips.

“Oh.”

You try to hide it behind your hand. And Muriel’s terrified to find his first instinct is to grab your wrist and keep you from hiding away, like some sort of greedy hypocrite. To deprive you of the chance to hide when all he would ever do—all he was ever going to do, would be the exact same thing. It’s greed isn’t it? First for your flowers, and your mild kindness towards him and now—! Now!!

What was he going to do now?!

“Do you want a flower?”

You blurt the words out, slamming your hand over your lips to hide away promptly after. You’re standing now, unable to tuck yourself back into your knees, but your hands are still a serviceable shield. It’s nothing to block the words that begin to pour from your lips, but maybe you aren’t trying to stop that. Maybe it’s just your expression. He wonders at what you look like so flustered….

How greedy.

“I mean It’s just—I don’t know if you want something other than a tulip—I’ve given you so many tulips—I haven’t even asked you about your favourite flower! You know! So I just thought! Just— Any flower you want!! Just one!!”

You scurry off somewhere, possibly off to tend to your flowers for something, trying to busy your hands, or just to get away from him. He understands both sentiments very well as his hands tangle themselves together twisting and pulling as he wearily gets up and looks around your pocket of paradise once more.

He doesn’t really want to take any of your flowers. At least… not pluck them straight off of the ground.

The tulip beds overflow with flowers, and like a moth about to be burnt by the flame he wanders towards it, unable to bite back his urges when he plucks a flower from it’s place.

It’s not something he wants it’s just…

It’s stupid….. But……

You return with an armful of various flowers, small simple little things, that fill your arms and get tangled in your clothes, some even worming your way to sit around your shoulders like little faeries peering over at him.

And you offer all that hasn’t attached itself to you, to him.

You don’t even speak, you just shove it all into his arms, like some last ditch effort for… something. As if this was a last ditch effort at all.

The flowers just barely all fit into the crook of his arm, and he’s grateful for once, for being so large. That he can hold so much in one arm alone, as it leaves his other arm free to offer your tulip back to you.

It’s a sign of affection you said. He hopes you understand, because he really can’t stomach speaking right now.

Surely, surely you do… right?

Your eyes go wide as if it was not your own flower he had been offering to you, gingerly taking the little bloom by it’s stem into your own hands.

And when you glance up at him, looking so happy, so giddy and yet trying and failing to hold it all back, he finds that same warm sunshine you’ve offered him when you leaned out your window the first time you met.

It’s so bright, it almost burns. At least, it certainly makes his face burn. He can’t stare at you for long, turning away sharply as he fights the urge to take more than he’s due, to sweep the dirt from your face, pluck the flower from your hand and tuck it behind your ear…. Or…. Something…..

He has to go. He has to leave. His face can’t take much more of this overwhelming warmth.

“I have to—” he begins his retreat muttering as he goes, but you grab him, your hand clinging to the slim portion of his wrist, fingers slipping beneath the cuff, to sensitive skin beneath, as if scared that he might try to tear your hand from his skin.

“Wait you….” Your smile faltered, growing into something sad as you stared at him. “Will…. Will I remember you?”

And for all he wanted to escape, he turns back to you to slip your fingers free from the uncomfortable hold they have on his wrist, to instead take your hand in his own and give what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze. “Yes. You…. Yes. You’ll remember me. So long as you have that pouch I gave you…”

He can see it in your eyes, in the furrow of your brow and how you lean closer to him. You want to know why. What had happened to him, how it happened. You want to ask about the spell that he asked for himself.

But you don’t.

That soft smile glows his way instead, and you squeeze your own hand against his once more.

“Okay,” you say hand already falling slack. “I’ll see you in the market then.” You’re just barely holding on to his fingers now, still squeezing, still trying to let go. “You’ll visit, right?”

He wants to say yes, but you’ll remember him now, and he’d hate to leave you waiting for him.

“The market isn’t really….”

“Ah right." You laugh, though a little awkwardly. "How about here then? Do… do you think you can come back here sometime?”

He nods, not trusting his voice to speak for him. Your fingers are nearly gone from his hand, but you curl them up against his anyways, giving one final squeeze before your hand falls away.

He turns, and with the loud creak of the metal gate marking his departure, he sends one final glance to you, finding you grinning from ear to ear, waving at him as he goes. “Come back soon! I really want to get to know you!”

Tongue tied, and the need to escape burning furiously through his body, Muriel smiles and nods, before he slips through the gate and through the foliage that hides it, already planning the fastest way to get back home, and the fastest way to return to your garden the next day.

–––––––––✿・✿・✿–––––––––

When Muriel gets home his hands are a trembling mess. He misses many times, trying to slip the many flowers he’s received back into the little cup along with the others. Perhaps it’s a bad decision to take up a knife when his hands are trembling this much, but just as much as he shakes with the overwhelming wave of anxiety from talking with you, he trembles just as much with an itch to create.

It’s hard work, and long work, and it’s very far from done when the sun finally sinks down into the sky, but the shape is at least there, and tomorrow he’ll work on scooping out the insides of it to make a vase.

His thumb sweeps over the patterns clumsily carved into the wood but he smiles as he follows the grooves of his work.

A little heart sitting amidst a garden of clumsily carved flowers.

It’s fitting, in a way.

It seems to be where he’s left his own after all.

……

…It…also seems to be where he’s left his basket.

Ah, well, looks like he’ll have to go there tomorrow then, right?

[appeypie]

Did you ever post that Komalink essay that was in your head

I saw you're one post and how you said Zora royalty crush on Link and I might be converted to that ship now 🤭

sorry this took me so much time to answer anon but I WILL GLADLY SHARE IT!!!!

my long awaited KOMALINK TRUTHER ESSAY!!

To start, I adore the parallels between these two... they're both coming of age in their respective cultures! and having a rough time of it, it seems..

They're both very close with their grandmas, though sadly Komali's has passed away... they both have sisters, too!! (or, for Komali, a sister figure. Medli acts very maternal and caring towards him throughout the game, even commenting on watching him grow up saying something to the effect of, "he's grown into a fine young rito, is this how a mother feels?")

Between the coming of age stories, the alive and deceased grandmas, the little and big sisters... they both mirror each other perfectly!!

Of course Komali is going through some major anxiety issues, understandably. link is able to help him through it, which is very sweet to see :)

Before and after finishing dragon roost cavern. I just love the insight this NPC gives us! after Link inspires the confidence in him, he gets so happy!!

At first it's easy to see it as him just simply looking up to link, and I'm sure it started that way, but it starts leaning into crush territory...!

.. EVERY conversation?!?!

Komali's name comes from "hikikomori" in Japanese, which refers to severe social reclusiveness. he seems to be a very sheltered boy who wouldn't have very many friends off island... so who could he be talking about hmm ??? who's the one guy we know he likes off island...? who he wont shut up about....????

There's also this dialogue from a random Rito NPC (sadly I don't have the game caps, but here's it from a text dump):

(If it's too hard to read, it says:

"We used to have such nice breezes blowing through here... Now the air is crazy. I'm positive the strange winds are a result of the wind god's anger. See, there's an important shrine below here that got broken...and now we're paying the price. What cursed luck...

We Rito cannot live without the wind. Before we take to the skies, we always go down and visit the wind god's shrine. That's the way it's always been.")

The Rito and the wind are intertwined... very fitting that the prince would fall for someone who could control it 🥺

And Yes !! LOZ has a pattern of having the Zora princesses fall in love with link...

Since the Zora evolved into the Rito in WW, they decided to mix it up and make it the prince!

We're at the point of this post where I'm out of Ship 'Evidence' and I'm now just throwing images from my files at you. I love this one at the end of the game where Komali is the first one to greet them coming back from what was left of Hyrule (also very exciting for baby me, who was a huge Komali fan)

Link just stares at him...

I also adore how this is the only ship I know where you get TWO!! Height differences. Hard to get a pic of them standing next to each other pre-Valoo scale, but you get the idea

Of course we don't fully know how Link feels about him, but I like to think he was a bit annoyed with him at first (as Komali was with him)... Like why couldn't this guy just suck it up and do what had to be done? It's what Link had to do for his family. But he realized Komali had gone through a huge loss, and his Dad was a little absent. He has this huge sense of duty placed over him, and not much support. Then once he got his confidence back, he was able to really shine! Link could see that!

I feel like I might be missing something, but that's the gist of why I love them so much! Foils that grow to deeply appreciate each other :) cute little themes like royalty falling for Link & the Rito's ties to the wind. they make me so happy. they don't get the attention they deserve tbh

[wayfayrr]

Love your work and househusband has me in a choke hold. But I have an idea what if when a month or two with reader and sage in reader's world with him getting used to it and knowing the ins and outs of reader's life and so getting rid of some of reader's friends who got too touchy for sages taste and when things so perfect as he doesn't have to do hylia's bidding anymore and monsters aren't attacking and people are finally understanding that reader is his and he getting almost all of reader's attention then when he gets back into the house from shopping he finds the traitors (chain) in the living room and now the chain know reader is OK and the bickering between the chain and sage happens again altho much easier since reader is gone at work at times. Like the idea reader works at an office and when tired from work goes to coddle sage.

May I be 👾 anon

Of course you can be 👾!! ✨✨ It's great to have you and I'm glad you like it!! And you're certainly not the only one that househusband Sage has in a chokehold ASDKMFVJFG, the idea of him being all domestic is straight-up addictive.

But for Sage to have everything so perfectly in the palm of his hand only to be reminded of everything if the chain just drop in? It would infuriate him. If there wasn't the chance that his darling could either come home at any moment or that their neighbours could call the police, the chain would be gone. But he can't risk this life that he's earned after everything that disgrace forced him to endure. That he's put so much effort into making it perfect for both of you, taking care of anyone in the way. He had it all. And now these traitors think they can just come and steal you after all of his hard work? like they deserve what belongs to him? they're no better than Hylia herself.

Below the cut is a short snippet of reader getting home to find Sage and the chain, because I just couldn't help myself ASKNDFV

 It’s strange to think how easily Sage has settled into living here now. Seeing as it’s been less than three months and he seems so much happier than he ever did in Hyrule. I still worry about the chain every so often, but now things are starting to look less like we’ll ever go back to them. While it was stressful a couple of weeks ago, now it just seems like everyday life with the added bonus of having someone to go home to at the end of the day. Sage mentioned he was planning something for today, going for some ingredients in order to attempt to make something special. That alone's a huge improvement, given he usually only goes shopping with me. 

Why is there - Is that arguing?

“Sage is everything alright I could hear– Guys? What? When did you get here?”

They, They’re actually here. They’re safe and alive. The shadow didn’t manage to kill them. Although Sage looks like he might. His bags strewn across the floor and his knuckles white from how tense he is. But not before Wind chirped up.

“[Name] you’re alright! We’ve been looking for you for so long!”

“You’ve been looking for me? But surely you should’ve been focusing on… you should’ve been going after the shadow.”

Time’s grimace wasn’t what I needed to see at that moment however, it answers the question enough. He barely took a step towards me before Sage had me in his arms growling at him. Warning him to stay away from me. Like he was before they went missing. The others didn’t take that lightly, not with how openly he was being possessive; with only Rulie being calm enough to try defusing the bomb that is clearly about to blow. “It’s not like we aren’t chasing the shadow, but you’re important to us [Name]. But we can all go back to Hyrule now, can’t we?”

“I mean -” “No. I - We don’t want to go back there. We’re better off here.”

[ponypuffle]

Pairing(s): Apple Jack x GN! Reader

Requested by anon: Can I get Applejack with an S/O who is a member of the pear family? How they met + they turned to “friends to lovers”. The reader is an earth pony and the gender can be gender neutral

Warning(s): none

Edit: For clarification, I changed the request slightly! Reader is not part of the Pear family since Apple Jack is related to the Pears, so instead, I wrote Reader who belonged to a different farming family that is completely unrelated to the Apples. The rest of the story stays true to the request :) A/N: sorry for the long wait! I had this in the works for so long, just didn't know how to end it! So sorry if the ending is rushed as a result!

"You have to try the apple cider!" Everyone told you the moment you and your family moved to Ponyville after your family was able to acquire a nice plot of land for farming. Turns out your move coincided just before apple cider season. 

Thus, your curiosity got the best of you. How could a whole town rave so much about cider of all things? Sure, your family's raspberry jam became quite popular out in the farmers market community in Manehattan, but a whole town? With your saddle bag strapped on, you made your way towards the apple orchard. It was already beginning to near the end of the day, and the line that was so long before had winded down to only a few ponies. 

As you stood in line, you remembered how someone told you the family had supply issues. You almost scoffed when you heard that. It was a drink of all things. It couldn't be that amazing. 

"How can I help ya?" A blonde mare with a southern accent snapped you out of your thoughts as you realized you had reached the front. 

Your ears perked up, hurriedly pulling out two bits from your saddle bag. "Just one cup of cider, please." You said as you dropped the bits in the chest.

The mare nodded and gestured towards a little filly with a big pink bow atop her head. As your cider was being served, the mare took it upon herself to talk to you. "Haven't seen ya in Ponyville. New here?"

"Y-Yeah, just moved here from Manehattan to start a new raspberry farm. Family business, y'know." You weren't expecting such a beautiful mare to notice you.

The mare hummed in acknowledgement. "S'ppose we're neighbors then! My name's AppleJack." 

Before you could get caught up admiring her name, you told her yours. For a complete stranger, she was so kind, a stark contrast to the ponies of Manehattan. 

"Here ya go." She passed the cider over to you. 

You glanced to your right, realizing you were the last one to be served for the day. You decided to stay where you were when drinking your cider, a small part of you not wanting to leave her company just yet. As you took a sip, your eyes sparkled. 

"How is it? Any competition from out in Manehattan?" She asked, her voice laced in confidence as she looked at you smugly. Celestia, she knew exactly what to pride herself in and she wore that pride well.

You shook your head. "No, not even close." You paused to take another swig then sighed in bliss. "Celestia, that's amazing." 

Applejack let out a hearty laugh. "Hope that means you'll come 'round more often then." She sent you a wink then trotted off to the back.

"I think she likes you." The filly sang, causing you to blush. 

Whether or not the filly - Apple Bloom, as you learned, was right, Applejack's tease was certainly correct. You found yourself wandering over to the Apple Family Orchard more often than you'd like to admit, fueled solely by your desire to see AJ. 

"Back to keep me company, sugarcube?" You'd be lying if you said that nickname didn't make you melt everytime AJ said it in that smooth country drawl. As much as you tried to hide it, AJ could see how she affected you, and she had to admit that she loved it. 

You nodded, "Finished all my chores for the day." You watched AJ buck at a tree, the muscles on her forelimbs flexing as she put all her power into the kick. 

AJ hummed in acknowledgement. "You can be my motivation then. If I finish up before sunrise, we can go out for some ice cream."

You had to stop your tail from swishing out of excitement. As AJ's appointed motivator, you cheered her on from the sidelines. You almost wanted to jump in and help, but you realized your body wasn't quite built for bucking apple trees. Sure, you were a farm pony, but for a raspberry field, not an orchard. You almost shuddered when you remembered your attempt to buck a tree just a few weeks ago. The most you achieved was three apples.

This didn't turn out to be a problem, though. AJ took her motivation to heart. She wanted so badly to just get the chance to focus on you and only you. Besides, seeing you all pretty and blushing was enough to give her that rush of energy to finish the job. 

"C'mon, sugarcube. I know just the place." Her tail flicked at the back of your hind legs as she began to trot off. Like a little puppy, you stumbled over to walk by her side before regaining a semblance of composure. Of course, AJ was quick to notice. Celestia, if she could see you everyday as hers, she'd be done for. 

And that's how your interactions went day after day for months. The two of you always tried to find a way to see each other. Both of your determination even had you visiting Princess Twilight's castle a few times whenever AJ was needed, but couldn't quite bring herself to leave you. 

That being said, you eventually made friends with AJ's. After seeing your dynamic with AJ, Rainbow and Rarity always sent a playful tease your way about how AJ had a crush on you. The two always spotted all of AJ's flirting that you somehow always missed. 

"I've never seen her so happy." Twilight chided in when she overheard their teasing. "You definitely have some chemistry with her."

You wanted to believe her friends. They know her best, of course, but a part of you sent a pang of doubt. If she didn't like you that way, would that jeopardize your friendship with her? For the time being, you chose to brush it off. 

Applejack had other plans. She didn't come to your farm often, but after her family heard about her plans, they insisted she took the day off to enact her plan. 

"Ya busy?" You jumped at the sound of AJ's voice as she peeked through the open window of your kitchen. 

"AJ, what're you doing here?" You pouted as you poured the viscous raspberry mixture into little jars. 

AJ laughed, "I can't see my favorite pony?" 

"You could've at least used the door." You let out a huff and stayed silent for a few moments. "I just have to finish lidding these jars and I'll be free, ok?"

"Gotcha." AJ nodded, pushing herself off the windowsill. She decided to wait outside for you, but who knew waiting would build up so much anxiety. What started off as just standing and kicking a few pebbles on the ground turned into trotting around in circles. 

Her heart thumped inside her chest. She had to be honest with you, it was in her core morals after all. She was just unsure how you'd react to it. You were such a cutie pie in her eyes, and an amazing friend above all. An amazing friend wasn't enough for her, though. 

Then, her ears flicked to the side as she heard the door open. There you were.

"What's got you so worked up?" You giggled, eyeing the trodden on dirt beneath her. 

"Have I ever shown you my favorite spot?" She avoided your question with her own. 

You shook your head. "Are you asking so you can show me?" You said in anticipation. 

"Maybe." Her voice was teasing as she began to trot off, gesturing to you to follow with a flick of her tail. 

The walk there was fairly silent with the exception of your occasional questions, but AJ kept her answers vague, teasing you each time with a reminder that this was a surprise. 

When you finally got there, you found a nice picnic blanket laid across the grass and a little picnic basket. Your heart skipped a beat, entranced by how sweet this was.

AJ trotted over to the blanket, gesturing for you to follow. She stared into your eyes then took a quick glance away. "I hope I'm not misreading anything, but I've just gotta tell ya that I'm head over boots for you, sugarcube. I mean, I even brought you to where my parents got married."

"W-What? Your parents got married here?" Your heart was thumping against your chest. 

AJ's eyes widened. "Y-Yeah, but I'm not asking you to marry me — Well, not yet. I mean, if that's what you'd want." She looked down in embarrassment, her hoof digging softly at the blanket. "Jus' thought it'd be romantic."

"N-No, it is romantic! You just caught me by surprise, AJ." You laughed. "And, if things go well — and I'm sure they will, I think I could definitely get behind getting married."

She looked back up to you, her cheeks equally as flushed as yours. She laughed along with you before leaning in to kiss you. When she pulled away, she left her nose gently nuzzling against yours. 

"Now, how 'bout we dig into this food, sweetheart?" 

[writeforfandoms]

🦝 anon hear again. Hear me out. Raccoon shifter who’s life mission upon joining the 141 is to tie a little bright pink ribbon around every member’s stuff at least once. From Price’s hat, to Soap’s belt loop, etc. She has yet to get Ghost though and it drives her NUTS

Also this reader is a religious user of those dissolvable soap tablet things you can use while camping due to her raccoon instincts making her want to have clean hands (Since you can’t wash an MRE)

Also: reverse pick-pocketing weird things into the boys’ pockets. Acorns, rocks, cotton balls, you name it.

Okay but this is so cute???? I am literally squeeing?? Her being all sneaky-like working on tying ribbons onto their things omgggggg its a silent sign of affection, it truly is. It's her way of showing she loves them and claims them as hers. She likes to tie the ribbons onto little things too, or like tuck them into books or inside clean socks. Silly places where they won't find the ribbons until later.

(Definitely don't think about something happening to her, she gets injured or somehow winds up in the hospital. It's touch and go for a bit. Soap finds a ribbon in a pair of his socks and nearly starts crying. Gaz brings his book to read to her while she's unconscious and his bookmark has been replaced with a pink ribbon. He stares at it until Price shows up to switch off with him.)

Oh yeah, she'd use so many of those soap tablets. And wet wipes. Anything to help her clean. The boys make fun of her for it but Price also makes sure she never runs out.

Yes!!! Reverse pick pocketing!! Sneaking silly little shit into their pockets or their packs. One time, as a prank, she managed to fill Price's pack with acorns. So many acorns. She got stuck on KP for a week but it was so worth it to hear the boys just crack up laughing and Price's long-suffering sigh before he started shouting

[l0serloki]

hiiii alexxxx☺️☺️ can i req genshin characters’s voicelines abt their s/o ehehhehe i was the anon who req the first valo voicelines too>:))

Genshin Voicelines about their S/O

(Childe, Lisa, Kamisato Ayaka, Diluc, Arataki Itto, Kaedehara Kazuha)

CW : GN!Reader, pet names, Childe talking about killing (no surprise there), Lisa hinting at sexual themes, thats about it

A/N : OFC ZAE!! Sorry it took so long! These are always so fun to write! Enjoy my little shawty <3

Childe : 

About Y/N -

Y/N? Oh yeah, we go way back. They’ve always been there for me - even taught me a few sparring tricks! Why do you want to know about them? Not planning on stealing my partner, I hope?

More about Y/N -

Y/N may seem all nice, but they pack quite a punch. I can’t tell you the feeling I get when I watch them slaughter hilichurls. There’s this look in their eye.. It makes me even more ready to conquer the world! 

Lisa : 

About Y/N - 

Oh, don’t get me started! My cutie is just so adorable, aren’t they? They’re so talented and strong. I’m so glad to have taken them as a library assistant.. And assistant in other things.

More about Y/N -

Y/N wasn’t always just my partner! When the library was a complete mess, I looked for an assistant. They were so splendid at the job that I decided to keep them! Hahaha, such sweet memories..

Kamisato Ayaka : 

About Y/N -

They’ve helped me so much. Their morals align so well with mine and the time I spend with them.. It rejuvenates me. I couldn’t ask for a better life partner.

More about Y/N -

When Y/N and I first met, I was unusually scared. They seemed too good to be true! Things grew overtime and now I am glad to say that they’re mine.. They are my pride and joy.

Diluc : 

About Y/N -

Y/N? No, I don’t know them.. Huh? You sound surprised.. Haha, you caught me. They’re my partner. I really owe everything to them. Treat them with the utmost respect, alright?

More about Y/N -

Y/N actually helps a lot at the Winery. Half of the top selling wines are flavors they invented. They have quite the crafty mind. It never ceases to amaze me.

Arataki Itto : 

About Y/N - 

They’re wild! Don’t get me started on the Onikabuto fights with them.. If they tell you that I’ve lost 20 times in a row - don’t listen! I’ll always be the one and oni. 

More about Y/N -

When I first met Y/N, my heart stopped! They were so elegant in battle, I knew I had to make them mine. I never once have regretted my decision. Look at my lil’ bug go!

Kaedehara Kazuha : 

About Y/N -

The wind is always sweet when Y/N comes around. They’re such a source of joy for me. We will always find our way back together. 

More about Y/N -

I’ve always believed in fate. There’s a time and place for everyone, and yet, I would give that all up for Y/N. I wish nothing more than to constantly be with them. They’re a blessing to Teyvat.

[saurons-pr-department]

Hey anon, I have screen-shotted your ask because I am going to try stay out of tag/term searches here, which in an of itself probably answers your question XD

So! Thoughts as they occur to me!

I did give the whole first season a watch. Partly out of giving it a chance, partly out of morbid curiosity, like when you can't look away from something awful happening in front of you even when you really want to close your eyes.

What I think is interesting actually, is that my main issues with the show have somewhat changed since I initially watched it. While watching it my only thoughts were "wrong, wrong, that never happened, wrong, wrong, wrong, look how they massacred my boy (gn), wrong!" And while those thoughts themselves haven't changed my main issues have changed to focus more on how it's such a badly structured story (the timelines feel both stretched and compressed in a way that doesn't add anything to the stories being told) and how I don't think it knows yet what it wants to be (it's Tolkien, but it's its own thing, but it's a 'prequel' in the very modern franchise sense of the word to the PJ films, but it's also not those films).

For the structure, I personally wouldn't have put two major stories into one show. I don't think there's the time for that. Both the Akallabêth and the creation of the rings exist as very sketchy narratives that cover extremely long timeframes. Original content was always going to be needed to fill the gaps. But by putting both tales into the one show, I feel they've doubled the amount of gap filling needed while halving the amount of screentime they have for it because there's now twice the amount of canon to cover (tbf, they don't seem to want canon so maybe that's not an issue for them...). To force them to run simultanously and then add original content that isn't just filling the gaps but appears to be completely original, you end up with a story that is both too empty and too full. Nothing is getting the time it deserves. Big moments feel undeserved or rushed. It takes the wind out of its own sails. (and that's without mentioning that these stories running alongside eachother just throws timelines and motivations out of whack, but I refuse to get us all bogged down in the minutiae of my grumblings!)

It's a pity, the story of the fall of Númenor and the creation of the rings have such good parallels, but that would require them to focus on things like religion and politics etc and they seem to be more interested in mystery boxes, so... oh well?

In regards the show's identity crisis, to be fair to them, that's really not that unusual in first seasons. They're not special XD Let's face it, how often have we all been recommended something that came with the caveat 'you need to get through the first few episodes/first season before it gets good and finds its feet'? Especially fantasy and sci-fi that has to establish facts about the world as well as characters in a way a drama set in the real world doesn't. I wouldn't be shocked to learn that the show hits its stride a bit better in later seasons.

However, my current biggest gripe with the show is what I'm seeing in the writers' attitude to storytelling. I can't stand it. The actor for a certain someone whose name begins with H didn't know who his character really was until after shooting the first few episodes. There's the back and forth of is it H or the guy who fell from the sky who'll turn out to be the villain. Sky man even gets some stalkers whose only purpose was to add confusion to this situation and then be immediately killed, no further context. One of the writers (I don't remember who) when asked about deviations from canon said something to the effect of 'we don't want book fans to be episodes ahead'. It's the modern Marvel school of story-telling. It's mystery boxes and twists and fears of spoilers and people knowing what's coming next. That's not how you tell a story. You need more substance than that. Big moments are only interesting if you've earned them with a well crafted lead up. And what's the point of a big moment if it adds nothing to the story in the first place. They had one of fantasy's most iconic villains, why was there a secret? The Second Age is where he's cracking out his most rediculous long cons. The man's twirling his mustache while kicking up his feet and writing 'evil' into every date in his diary for at least a millenium, what does a secret identity add to this story really?

Don't worry, I will move swiftly on from the topic of my boy who is not really my boy before we get in too deep... No one needs to hear that... But do you get my point? Big reveal. No substance.

To add a note of positivity, I actually really like Sky man's music. It's genuinely a really nice piece of music. I also liked that they wanted to add one of the 'original' orcs, that's a cool concept!

Oh! And whoever okayed those American 'stage-Irish' accents needs to be fired into the sun :D