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hischierhoney · 5 months ago

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I Know Places

Jack Hughes x actress!reader // masterlist

title & inspo from I Know Places by Taylor Swift. written for the Eras Tour fic challenge! thank you to @comphy-and-cozy and @wyattjohnston for putting this on!

Summary: When the press catches Jack leaving your place, things seem set to crumble. But Jack has different ideas. 4.2k words

Warnings: mentions of press/pressure from the media, some mild angst but it’s fixed by the end!!

It’s past 2am when you stumble your way into your New York City townhouse, eyes bleary and tired, limbs even more so. The lights are off, besides the one in the hallway, and you don’t bother to turn any of them on. You just shuck off your jacket and shoes, shuffle your way down the hallway, up the stairs and straight into your bedroom. There’s one thought in your brain, and it’s bed. Warm, cozy, soft, full of blankets and pillows and a man-

You nearly scream at the sight, the gentle slope of shoulders under your fluffy comforter. You press your hand to your racing heart as it all comes flooding back. You, on a layover between Los Angeles and New York, stuck in an airport for longer than planned, on the phone with your boyfriend Jack Hughes.

Jack, who’d promised to pick you up from the airport until your flight got delayed. Jack, who has morning skate at 7am and needs his sleep. Jack, who, in a moment of sleep deprived, airport lounge tequila induced delirium, you had told about the key you keep in a potted plant, and suggested that he let himself in. Suggested he crawl into your bed and fall asleep. Just in the interest of sleeping next to him, of maybe having a couple moments with him in the morning.

You don’t get much time with him. Not nearly as much as you’d both like, at least. The two of you are too busy, too full of your own obligations, with his job and your job. Star hockey player and America’s sweetheart actress- it’s like a pairing from one of those Hallmark movies, the ones with perfect houses draped in fake snow that look like they’d smell like warm cookies. Except this is real. And he’s here.

He looks peaceful, you think, as you pad across the room to be closer. His cheek is smooshed against the pillow, on his stomach on the bed, laying in a spread eagle position that’s going to leave it difficult for you to find any space. His lips are parted slightly, soft breaths puffing out between them. Jack sleeps like the dead, you’ve found, from the now many times you’ve slept in the same bed. He says he’s trained himself into it, with hockey and all. You’ve witnessed his pregame naps, watched him fall asleep in seconds flat. It’s impressive.

You make your way to the bathroom, doing what little you can muster of your nightly routine. When your eyes start to close on their own accord, you shuffle your way back to the bed, in your pajamas now, and study the scene. How best to handle the boy in your bed, how to fit yourself against his body so that you can finally fall asleep like you’ve been aching to do.

Before you get the chance, there’s the shrill sound of a phone alarm, and Jack sits bolt straight up in bed. You stumble over your own feet, hand over your heart again, breath stolen from your lungs. Jack scrambles for his phone. It’s 2:30 am.

He’s rubbing at his eyes when he scans the room and finds you. Then he mirrors your position, eyes wide, hand over his heart.

“Why th’ fuck are you already here?” He mumbles out.

You choke on a laugh. It’s a hell of a greeting. “What?”

He groans. “Set an alarm. T‘go pick you up.”

You blink at him, half his face illuminated in the pale moonlight that spills in through your window. There’s a soft breeze that ruffles his hair and makes him shiver- he’s left the window open slightly, the way you like to sleep. Goosebumps raise on his bare skin. You tear your eyes away.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, bewildered. “I told you to just go to sleep.”

“Yeah, but. I set an alarm,” he repeats. He digs the heel of his palm into his cheek, his lips pulled into a pout. “For 12:30. So I could pick you up.”

You cock your head. “Well, it’s 2:30, so I think you set the wrong alarm.”

He groans loudly, brows furrowed, and then lets out some string of gibberish. He checks his phone again, then sets it down on the nightstand. You watch with curiosity as he flops back down onto the bed, on his back this time, blankets pooling around his waist. He’s bare from the waist up. Not for the first time, you have the urge to press yourself against every inch of his skin.

He seems so untouchable, here. Like in this room, he’s only yours. It’s a heady feeling, to watch him sigh and pout about missing his chance to pick you up from the airport. It’s private, normal, domestic. So few things in your life fit any of those descriptors. It tugs at your heartstrings.

“C’mere,” he calls out, spreading his arms across the mattress again. “Come cuddle.”

You don’t argue. Sleep tugs at your bones the second your head hits the pillow. He tugs at you until you’re plastered against him, the heat of his sleep warm body spreading over you. When he ducks his head to kiss the crown of yours, you sigh happily.

“How was th’ flight?” He asks, his voice still laden with sleep.

“Fine,” you mumble. You’re not really in the mood to talk about it. “Missed you.”

He laughs lightly, his chest rumbling with it under your head. “Missed you more.”

You feel his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up towards his. You blink through your exhaustion to meet his gaze, and you sigh happily when he kisses you, for real this time. His lips are warm and soft, his little bit of stubble scraping against your skin in an almost hypnotic fashion. This is why you told him about the key. You wanted to come home to him.

The rest of the world melts away, and you’re left with just Jack.

….

You wake up at 11:30 the next morning to an empty, cold bed, a hoodie folded neatly on the end of the bed with the number 86 on the shoulder, and a barrage of notifications on your phone. They’re still rolling in, chiming every so often. Your heart lurches.

There are a billion from your manager- something about being careful and bad look and you didn’t even get in until 2:30 so why was he there- and your stomach sinks even further. When you open twitter, there it is. A grainy, blurry set of photos, of Jack’s shoulder and back as he leaves the townhouse, his overnight bag slung over his shoulder, his white sneakers bright in the blue early morning light. You can’t see his face in any of them, the hood of his jacket pulled up around his head, which is topped with a beanie and sunglasses. He’s almost unidentifiable, but you know the internet. They’ll figure it out.

It’d be easier if you’d never been seen with him in public before, but you have. Months ago, now, at a charity event hosted by a mutual friend. There’s been a photo of you and Jack from that night, chatting away near the bar in the venue, smiles on both your faces. There’d been a barrage of posts and notifications, then, too- eager Devils fans who were excited to see you talking to him, eager fans of your own who had similar feelings, the other way around. And a text from your manager, reminding you of your upcoming movie, of your male costar who you were supposed to maybe-potentially-possibly be in love with. For the press. For the ratings. But Jack had captured your heart that night, with a teasing joke about Hollywood and a soft little grin on his face, and you’d been unable to forget him.

Now you’re here, in your empty bed while Jack is at practice or meetings, or something in between. It’s not the first time. But it feels like it could be the last.

Jack’s a private person. You are, too, when you can be. When you’d first gone out with him after that first night, he’d seemed wary of all the precautions you took to hide from the press. You’d smiled ruefully and told him that if this was going to happen, he’d have to get used to sunglasses indoors and private rooms and stay at home dates. You’d expected it to scare him off. It usually did- you can’t blame any of them, really.

But it’s been months now, and Jack woke up in your bed this morning. So the scaring didn’t really work as planned.

Text me when you wake up.

That’s the text from Jack. No emojis, a period at the end, no life to it. You fight the urge to roll over, press your face into the pillow, and go back to sleep. Try again later. Hope this is a nightmare.

You text him back, something equally as lifeless. He’s probably busy, he probably won’t have time anytime soon, so you’ll have to wait until then to figure this out-

The phone rings. It’s an echo of Jack’s shrill alarm hours ago, except he’s not here to rub at his eyes sleepily and smile at you and make you feel better. Now it’s his contact, the simple “Jack” flashing across your screen. You sigh and swipe to answer.

“Hi,” you say. Your voice cracks on the single syllable, gravelly from stale plane air and travel and disuse.

“Hi,” Jack echoes. His tone is warm. Soft.

You swallow. “I’m-“

“-sorry,” Jack says, talking at the same time as you, saying the exact same words. You blink up at the ceiling above your head.

“What?” You ask, a bit bewildered.

“What?” He repeats. “Why are you sorry?”

You blink again. “Why are you sorry?”

He lets out a huff, one you can almost picture. “I fucked up.”

And this is how it goes. You’d thought of all people, Jack would have the decency to do this in person. To wait until you’re not seconds past waking up. That maybe he’d give you a bit to process before he called it quits, before he says what everyone else has said before him.

It’s too much.

You’d warned him, back when you’d seen him for the 7th time. You’d been laying in his bed, half on top of him, drawing patterns on his bare chest with your pointer finger. He’s asked about labels and how serious this was and if you were seeing anyone else, and told you he wasn’t. All very brave of him, really. You’d been afraid to say anything for weeks.

“Not seeing anyone else,” you’d admitted. “Where would I find the time?”

He’d huffed out a laugh and tucked you close. “Can we maybe keep it that way?”

It should’ve been a red flag. Not on his part, but on yours. You know how this ends, you’ve been down this road before, and you’d known, even then, that this wouldn’t end any differently. Things go smooth until the media catches wind, and then they figure out who he is, and then everyone picks apart every little bit of him until there’s nothing left for you to hold onto. You can’t blame them, all the people you’ve lost to this curse.

You hate the media enough yourself. You can’t imagine subjecting anyone you care about to it.

You’d tried to warn him. About the secrecy that would be required, about how if anyone ever caught wind of it, he’d be subject to the worst scrutiny of his life. He’d tried to insist he understood, that nothing could be worse than his rookie year, that this mattered enough to him to put up with the pressure. But now the pressure is drilling down on the two of you, and he’s crumbling, just like they always do-

“I knew better than to leave out that door,” he says. “There’s always a pap there, you’ve told me about it before,” he says. “I was just. I was in a rush, because I was so comfy this morning, and I forgot, so. I’m sorry.”

You frown. “It’s okay, Jack.”

You’re the one who told him about the key. Who let him stay over, fueled by sleep deprivation and the urge to see him, even just for a little bit. You’ve gone and contributed to your own demise. God, you were going to let him pick you up from the airport. What kind of idiot are you?

“Are you okay?” You ask him.

He scoffs. “They don’t even know it’s me.”

Your gut twists, again. “They will.”

“Mm, maybe my powers of camouflage have worked,” he says. “Maybe I’ve stumped them.”

You don’t bother pointing out that if the press haven’t already figured it out, his fans will. Someone’s bound to point out the grainy Devils logo on his hoodie, the characteristic swoop of his hair. Someone’s bound to have followed him to his car, and they’ve probably already looked up his license plate. They’re probably running it through whatever system they use, and even if Jack is leasing the car he’ll still show as connected to it, and then they’ll dig their claws into him.

“They’re never stumped,” you tell him. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Fuck.”

“I know,” he says, voice softer this time. “So. What do we do?”

You pry your eyes open. What do we do? We.

“We?” You choke out.

Jack scoffs. “Yeah, we. I mean. Do we come out and tell everyone, just to take it away from them? Do we lie?”

We. It’s never been a we, before. Not like this. It’s always been flight, never fight. Like everyone before Jack hadn’t thought it was worth it to even try. Had thought you weren’t worth it.

“Jack, you don’t understand,” you tell him. “They’re gonna tear you apart. They’re gonna tear us apart.” Until there’s no us left, you think. “We- we don’t do anything. There’s nothing to do.”

“Not to stop them, no,” he agrees. “But you’ve had this before. How did you and those people handle it? I mean- I can avoid interviews for a while. Nico will take them, he’ll understand. And the All Star break starts soon, so then-“

“They didn’t,” you cut in.

He pauses. “Who didn’t what?”

You sigh, again. “They didn’t handle it, Jack. They broke up with me and left me to handle it and kept going on with their lives. So. Nobody will blame you if you do the same, let alone me. I get it.”

Jack stays quiet for a few moments. The silence hangs between the two of you, heavy and thick. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to say it. Because you always let them do it. No matter how much you’re to blame here, you can’t be the one to end it over this. Not when things were going so well with him.

“I’m coming over,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Just- stay put. Stay there. I’m on my way,” he says. You hear the jingle of his keys.

“I’m not going anywhere,” You tell him.

“Me neither,” he says.

You don’t bother to warn him that there’ll be added media attention, that the place is probably swarming with people with cameras. You don’t think it’ll change his mind- Jack is stubborn when he’s set on something. And it’s a little late, anyways.

He shows up an hour later, probably having had to fight through insane traffic to get there. You’re back in bed, having only gotten up to brush your teeth before retreating to the safety of it. He lets himself in with the key, and you hear him come up the stairs and shuffle over to your bedroom door.

He stands there, haloed by the hallway light. You roll over to look at him, barely able to keep the tears from forming in your eyes. Maybe he’s just waited to do it in person. Maybe he’s trying to let you down easy. It’s never easy. To lose a relationship like this, before you’re ready.

Things were going so well. You think of nights spent in your kitchen, making dinner together, sharing a bottle of wine. You think of all the hockey games you watched from hotel rooms while you’ve been doing press, and the way Jack answered all your questions on the phone afterwards, never letting on how exhausted he really was. You think of breakfast delivered to your door while he was at away games, and the way he spoke so fondly about his family and friends, how they’d all love you and you’d love them. And now, you’ll never get the chance.

Jack, standing in the doorway, sighs.

He makes his way over to sit on the edge of the bed, and he reaches a hand out to rest against your cheek. You sigh in response. Wait for him to open his mouth, for it to hit. You wait, and wait, and-

“The way I see it, we’ve got a few options,” he says. You blink up at him. “We can just go public, take away the hype about it. We could pretend we have no idea what they’re talking about, just ignore it. We could wait for them figure it out and handle it then. Or-“

You sit up slightly, and he pauses. You know the confusion is written on your face. His gaze softens, blue eyes warmer than they’ve ever been.

“I’m not breaking up with you,” he says. “I don’t run when things get tough. Come on, you know me better than that.”

You want to tell him you’d thought that about everyone, only for them to run from it all, run from you, at the drop of a hat. But you don’t, because you can tell from the hard set line of his jaw, from the determined bend in his brow, that he means it. That he’s not going anywhere. At least, not without you.

“I wanna run away from it all,” you tell him. “I want to take you somewhere they can’t find us. I want-“ you cut yourself off with a wry laugh. “I just want you, that’s all.”

A smile creeps across his lips, and he leans forward to press them to your forehead. Warmth spreads over your body, all the way down to your fingertips and toes.

“We can make that happen,” he says. You can feel the smile against your skin. “If that’s what you want. I know a place.”

You let out a laugh, one that’s mixed with tears. But when he lays down in the bed and pulls you close, you’re inclined to believe him.

…..

The “place” Jack knows takes hours of travel to get to. It takes packed bags and ditching responsibilities on both of your parts, and dodging questions from your friends. But as he pulls the car into the driveway, you think it’s worth all the hassle. The house is blanketed in soft, fluffy snow, hanging off the branches of the trees and over the edges of the roof. He opens the garage and pulls in, and when the door closes behind you, you breathe out a sigh of relief.

When he’d suggested his Michigan house as the getaway location, you’d been skeptical. Anywhere that was linked to him would be a risk once they figured out who he was. But he’d told you about the security of the neighborhood, the gate at the entrance, and that they’d never been bothered there before. He’d suggested that the two of you could just stay in the house the whole time, and it wouldn’t matter. The press finding out about Jack is inevitable, at this point. But as you walk into his house, you remind yourself that they can’t touch you here. You’ve left them all chasing their tails in New York City and disappeared.

Besides, the snow is coming down harder now. Even the paparazzi wouldn’t brave the weather.

Jack insists on carrying your bags in, and then he shows you around. The living room is first, decorated with photos of him and his brothers. The house is full of hockey memorabilia, you realize, as he shows you around. But it’s also warm. Personal. Home. There’s a photo of him and his brothers as little kids hanging over a fireplace. It makes you smile, the way you recognize the light in Jack’s eyes, the determination on his face. He hasn’t changed a bit. You’ve been in his apartment in New Jersey, but you know now that this is what he considers his real home.

He takes you up to the bedroom before the rest of the house, so you can get settled. You change into even comfier clothes than your travel ones while Jack heads back downstairs and tells you to meet him when you’re ready.

You call out to him a few minutes later when you pad your way down the stairs, and he calls back from a room you haven’t been in yet. When you walk in, he’s standing at the kitchen counter, setting out a bottle of wine. There are fresh flowers in a vase- Jack had said he’d ordered groceries to be delivered, and he must’ve gotten those, too. It’s a sweet touch.

You walk into the middle of the room and look around, a bit in awe. It faces towards the lake, with a large sitting area connected to the open concept kitchen. The lights are low and warm. Along the back wall, there are floor to ceiling picture windows, giving you the perfect view of the icy lake, the snow covered sloping bank, and the houses that dot the shore all around you. Like a postcard, or a hallmark movie. Jack pads his way across the room to you.

“Oh, wow,” you say, quietly.

He nods, his hands falling to your hips from behind as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “Pretty, right?”

You nod. It’s beautiful. Peaceful. Still. Quiet. A billion other words pass through your mind. But most of all, it feels safe. Like the whole world could be chasing after you, but here, it’s just you and Jack and the snow. You could run out into it, fall flat on your face, and there’d be nobody there to see it. Or to care.

“Can we go out in it?” You ask him, carefully. Not wanting to break the calm. “It looks so-“

“Yeah,” he agrees, eagerly. “I think we’ve got a pair of boots that’ll fit you.”

Ten minutes later, you waddle through snowdrifts that cover your calves in boots one size too big. You can’t bring yourself to care about the snow in your socks, or the notifications on your phone, or the fact that by now, they’ve probably figured out who Jack is. Because Jack is standing in front of you, and you know who he is far more than they ever will.

He’s the kind of person who stays.

He lobs a snowball at you. It hits your shoulder and crumbles, and he laughs. Pure, loud, happy. You reach down with your mismatched mittens, stolen from their bin of miscellaneous outdoor gear, and form one of your own. You look at him, lining up your aim. Look at his flushed cheeks, his wide grin, the way the snow sticks to his hair and melts on his nose.

“Come on baby,” he says, taunting, arms spread wide. “Hit me with your best shot.”

You drop the poorly formed snowball at your feet and launch yourself at him instead. He’s laughing again by the time you both hit the ground, the snow cushioning his fall. He laughs more when he rolls you over and pins you under him. There’s snow seeping down the back of your shirt, and it makes you shiver. And then he kisses you, and the cold doesn’t matter anymore.

Nothing does, except this.

He’s never kissed you anywhere close to the public, both of you too cautious. So much of your relationship has been hidden away. You’d never had a chance like this in New York- no kissing in the rain, under streetlights, no cheek kisses between glasses of wine at fancy restaurants, no holding hands while you walk down the street. But now you’re out under the cloudy sky, surrounded by peace and quiet, and he’s kissing you. You never want to leave this place.

You shiver, again, and he laughs into the kiss. When he pulls away, his eyes are sparkling. You think yours are too.

“Come on,” he says. “We should get you warm before you catch hypothermia.”

He suggests a shower. You agree eagerly and pull him under the spray with you. The cold melts away, along with the rest of your worries.

Later, you’ll drink wine and make dinner and watch some old movie he’s been insisting you need to see. Later, you'll curl up basically on top of him in bed, surrounded by him, feeling more at peace than you have in months. Tomorrow, he’ll wake up before you do, and come back with coffee from his favorite place in town, and wake you up in bed with it, made just the way you like. And you’ll look at him and thank him. Not just for the coffee, but for bringing you to a place that means so much to him. For letting you in on his little bit of comfort.

You won’t have to say it out loud. He’ll already know.

#jh86 #jack hughes x you #jack hughes fanfic #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes fic #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes fluff #jack hughes imagine #nhl fic #nhl fluff #nhl x reader #nhl oneshot #this is shorter than I’d like #jack Hughes oneshot #and I don’t love the ending tbh #but it’s so fine #honey writes

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steveseddie · 3 months ago

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in bloom

written for the @steddiebingo kissing booth mini event | prompt: rose | rating: t | wc: 2,3k | tags: modern setting, flower shop au, wayne is the owner, eddie works with him, meet cute

read on ao3

Work at the flower shop is always a little slow after Valentine’s Day.

Eddie has been helping Wayne at Munson’s Floral Treasures long enough to know this. They’ll still get orders, of course– fancy arrangements for weddings, smaller bouquets for birthdays and anniversaries, but most of these are ordered in advance. They don’t get many people walking in throughout the day, looking for a last-minute Valentine’s Day gift.

Eddie likes to send his uncle home on slow days like this. If there are no deliveries to be made and supplies aren’t coming in, Eddie is more than capable of handling however many customers come in by himself. If he can’t, all he has to do is run upstairs to the apartment and get Wayne.

So far there hasn’t been any need for that today. It’s been almost an hour since Eddie sent the old man away and no one has come into the shop. In the meantime, Eddie answers a few calls, writes down a couple of big orders, and sweeps the floor of the shop before going to the backroom to work on some new arrangements for their window display. In case anyone comes looking for a ‘Sorry I forgot about Valentine’s Day’ gift.

Eddie just got started on the second arrangement when the bell finally jingles.

He puts the shears down and steps out of the backroom, wiping his hands on his apron. “Greetings and welcome to Munson’s Floral Treasures!”

There’s a guy standing in the middle of the shop, facing away from Eddie as he studies the flowers covering the walls. He jumps when he hears Eddie, whirling around and offering a little wave. “Oh, hi.”

God, he’s pretty, Eddie thinks as he takes in the guy’s hazel eyes and soft lips. His eyes travel lower to the chest hair peeking out of the guy’s polo shirt and the way his jeans hug his thighs just right.

Then he remembers he’s working and ogling customers is probably rude. Clearing his throat, Eddie offers him a polite smile. “Can I help you?”

The guy shakes his hair out, running his hand through it to push it back. “Yeah, so, I have kind of a weird request.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Lucky for you, I love weird,” he says, which sounds a little weird and makes Eddie grimace. Jesus, try to be normal, Munson.

But the guy chuckles, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Well, I– I need a bouquet that says ‘fuck you’ in a passive-aggressive way,” he says, his eyes flickering nervously over Eddie’s face.

“That’s it?” Eddie asks with a snort. “Because I promise you, man, that’s not the weirdest thing someone has asked for.”

The guy’s eyebrows shoot up. “No?”

“Nope,” he says, leaning on his elbows and gesturing at the guy to come closer like he’s sharing a secret. “One time a guy came in and asked for a flower arrangement to apologize for breaking into a home.”

A disbelieving laugh tumbles from the guy’s lips. “What? Really?”

“Yup. That was the first time that a sale ended with me having to talk to the police,” Eddie says before pursing his lips. “Actually no, that’d be when I used to deal weed in high school.”

The guy lets out a loud laugh, scrunching his shoulders in a way that has Eddie melting against the counter. Pretty, hot and cute. That can’t be fair. “Well, I doubt my bouquet will involve any police investigation.”

“No?” Eddie asks, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not planning on murdering whoever you’re giving it to?”

The guy’s nose scrunches up. “God, I wish, but no, this is just for my own amusement.”

“Good thing I happen to be in the business of amusing pretty guys,” Eddie says, shooting him a flirty grin, getting all up in his space until the guy’s eyes widen and Eddie pulls back. “Uh, customers! I meant customers, Jesus.”

Luckily, the guy seems far from bothered by Eddie’s flirting. In fact, his eyes sparkle with something that looks suspiciously like interest, his cheeks turning pink.

Most times when Eddie has to put together an arrangement he asks the person to check out the shop while he goes to the work table they keep in the back, but he really doesn’t want to waste a moment with this guy so he says fuck it and starts working on the bouquet right there on the counter.

He can feel the guy’s eyes watching him curiously.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Eddie starts, breaking the silence after a moment. “Who is this going to? Cheating girlfriend? Asshole boss? Shitty family member?”

He glances up just in time to catch the guy staring intently at Eddie’s hands as he works. When he feels Eddie’s attention on him, his head snaps up, the color on his cheeks deepening.

“Uh, no– no cheating girlfriend. No girlfriend at all actually,” he says. Then after a short pause, he adds, “no boyfriend either.”

Eddie almost drops the shears. It has to mean something that the guy wants him to know that, right?

Before Eddie can reply with something stupid like ‘good, do you want one?’ the guy keeps talking.

“You were right about the other two, though,” he says. “My shitty father is also my asshole boss.”

Eddie grimaces at that. Wayne is his dad in all ways that count and working with him isn’t bad, but for a second he entertains the idea of having to work with his father instead and already he’s convinced he’d need a couple of ‘fuck you’ bouquets too.

“Our firm is throwing him a party for signing this big company but they don’t care about how many people he had to fire for that to happen or how many of those so-called business trips he spent cheating on my mom,” the guy explains and Eddie lets out a sympathetic whistle.

“Fuck, man. That’s definitely shitty.”

The guy shoots him a tiny smile. “Yeah, and since I’m expected to attend, I thought I could at least get some enjoyment out of it.” He points at the flowers that Eddie is carefully selecting. “This seemed like a better idea than, like, sabotaging his party.”

Eddie lets out an amused snort. “Yeah, that’s probably smart.”

They fall into comfortable silence with the guy staring at Eddie while he works. This time it’s him who strikes up a conversation.

“So, uh, Eddie,” the guy starts, squinting his eyes to read the name tag on his shirt. “I’m not like, telling you how to do your job or anything but isn’t that a lot of orange and yellow? Aren’t those happy colors?”

“Actually, these orange lilies symbolize hatred,” Eddie explains. “And the yellow carnations symbolize rejection and disdain.”

The guy’s mouth falls open in an ‘o’ shape. He leans on the counter and picks another one of the flowers that Eddie has spread out on the counter. “What about this one?”

“Foxglove. They can represent insincerity and deceit.”

The guy nods along as Eddie continues to explain the meaning of every flower he has picked, his eyes sparkling with interest. Flower language is one of the many things Eddie could ramble about for hours, but people usually don’t care enough about it to hear him out. But this guy is listening intently, his chin resting on his hand as Eddie talks.

“And what does that mean?” He asks, pointing at the greens Eddie picked for filler.

“Nothing, that’s just greenery.”

“Oh,” the guy chuckles, ducking his head with an embarrassed little smile. “You– uh, you know a lot about flowers, man. How long have you been doing this?”

“Since I was a little kid,” Eddie says, carefully arranging the greens. “My uncle owns the shop so even before I came to live with him I was helping out here. My dad wasn’t around much, he used to drop me off all the time so Wayne started teaching me how to take care of the flowers, how to make arrangements. Now I also help him with deliveries and stuff.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s nice. I've always liked flowers. And I like doing things with my hands,” Eddie says, wiggling his fingers with a smirk, watching as the guy’s eyes follow the movement.

“They’re good. Your hands,” he says, the color rising on his cheeks when his words catch up with him. “I mean, they look good. What they’re doing looks good.”

A pleased grin stretches over Eddie’s lips. “Thanks, big boy,” he says, grinning wider when the guy’s breath hitches.

“Uh, Steve. I’m Steve.”

Eddie thought he’d have to come up with an excuse to ask for his name, some bullshit about needing it for the receipt, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to now. “Well, Steve, any preference for the wrapping?”

“Um, no. You pick.”

“Alright,” Eddie says, grabbing some green wrapping paper and tying it neatly around the bouquet with a red bow. “All done.”

Steve grabs the bouquet with an awed smile. “It’s perfect. So pretty that no one will know I’m telling my dad he sucks.”

“I aim to please,” Eddie says, grinning smugly.

Steve chuckles, reaching into his jacket for his wallet and sliding a card across the counter. Eddie rings him up as slowly as he can get away with, not wanting Steve to go yet.

By the way Steve lingers after Eddie hands his card back, maybe he doesn’t want to either.

“I should go, let you get back to work,” Steve says eventually. Eddie tries not to look too disappointed. “Thanks, Eddie.”

“You’re welcome, Stevie. Good luck with your dad.”

Steve makes a face but thanks Eddie again before turning around to leave.

When he’s almost at the door, Eddie impulsively calls after him. “Steve, wait!”

Turning around, he raises an eyebrow at Eddie.

“You– uh, you forgot something.”

“I did?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, plucking a red rose from one of their leftover Valentine’s Day bouquets and ducking under the counter to catch up with Steve by the door. “This.”

“For the bouquet?” He asks, tilting his head.

“No, for you,” Eddie says, “on the house.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “Do you give roses to all your customers?”

“Only the pretty ones I really want to see again.”

Steve smiles, finally reaching for the rose. “Well, then,” he says, winking. “I’ll see you, Eddie.”

Eddie grins. “Bye, Steve.”

***

The bell above the door chimes and Eddie pauses his pruning to greet the new customer.

“Welcome to Munson’s Floral Treasures, what can I do for– Steve!” He cuts himself off when he recognizes him, a too big grin appearing on his face.

Steve grins right back, offering a small wave. “Hi, Eddie.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie can see Wayne glancing at them over the shoulder of the old lady he’s currently helping. Eddie knows he’ll have to explain to his nosey uncle why he’s on a first name basis with a customer and why he’s so happy to see him, but he’ll worry about that later.

“You’re back,” Eddie says, turning his attention back to Steve. It’s been a week since the first time he was here and Eddie would be lying if he said he didn’t spend his days glancing wistfully at the door every time someone came in hoping it was Steve. “Here for another ‘fuck you’ bouquet?”

Steve chuckles, following Eddie to the counter. “No, I’m here for something else.”

Eddie ducks behind the counter, resting his elbows on the surface. “Another weird request?” He asks, playfully waggling his eyebrows.

“You tell me,” Steve says, copying Eddie’s position on the opposite side of the counter, leaving their faces only inches apart. Eddie gulps, heat rising to his cheeks. “I need you to deliver a bouquet for me.”

“That’s pretty standard for a flower shop, Stevie,” Eddie says, cocking his head in amusement. “But sure, whatcha need?”

“A bouquet that says ‘do you want to go on a date with me?’”

Eddie blinks, trying to make sure he’s not imagining the little smirk tugging at Steve’s lips. “Oh, um, of course. We can do that!” He says, his voice an octave too high. “What’s– what’s the address for the delivery?”

That smirk turns into a full-on grin. “Oh, that’s easy,” Steve says, leaning even closer. Eddie hopes Wayne is too busy with the old lady to see what’s happening or he’ll never hear the end of this. “Munson’s Floral Treasures– ever heard of it?”

Eddie’s stomach flip-flops wildly. “You tryna ask my uncle on a date, Stevie?” He teases, barely able to keep the giddy smile off his face. “He might be a little too old for you.”

“Maybe,” Steve shrugs, walking his fingers on the counter until they’re brushing against Eddie’s arm. “But I think his nephew might be perfect for me.”

Eddie’s knees go weak from Steve’s words and his featherlight touch on his arm. “I think you might be right,” he says, biting his lip.

Steve’s eyes flicker down for a split second. “So, you’ll send that for me?”

“Yup. Happy to.”

“Great.” Steve grabs a pen from the counter and writes something down on the notepad where they take orders. “Here’s my number. You know, so you can let me know how the delivery went and what the answer was.”

Eddie nods, and with a wink, Steve turns around and leaves.

As soon as he walks through the door, Eddie grabs his phone and dials Steve’s number. He watches through the window as Steve stops and digs his phone from his pocket, a smile twitching at his lips as he brings it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“It’s a yes,” Eddie says eagerly.

Steve peers through the window and shoots him a lopsided grin. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“So can I pick you up on Friday at 7?”

Eddie forces himself not to let a happy squeal or punch his fist in the air because Steve can see him. “Yeah, that’s– that’s good.”

“See you on Friday then,” Steve says, hanging up and waving at Eddie through the window before he disappears down the street.

As soon as he’s gone, Eddie breaks into a grin. He gets weird looks from Wayne and the customers that come in throughout the day but it hardly matters. He has a date to look forward to.

#steddie #steddie fic #steddiebingokiss #stranger things #stranger things fic #i remember reading a fic with this prompt a long time ago and i thought i’d write it for these two #eddie munson #steve harrington #monse writes

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abyssruler · 1 year ago

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aether, like countless other knights and princes across the realm seeking glory, sets off on a journey to free the princess from the locked tower and slay the fearsome dragon guarding her.

meanwhile, neuvillette is tired of all these humans trespassing into his home and attempting to steal his wife.

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #neuvillette x reader #genshin neuvillette x reader #fem reader #yknow this was meant to be the summary to a one shot i’d been planning since last year #but as always only 5% of the things i write on my notes actually get written #if anyone wants to make a fic out of this be my guest darlings

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hyperballart · 9 months ago

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can’t stop thinking about art and patrick sharing a fleshlight

this is kinda like a continuation of this but i imagine them so horny for each other after they finally broke that “platonic” barrier. let’s say it’s been a couple weeks from the events that took place and you’re away to see family for a bit. ever since you mentioned wanting both of them fucking you at once in the same hole they haven’t stopped thinking about it. they can’t stop thinking about both of their cocks rubbing wetly against each other in your hand, how much tighter and hotter your cunt will welcome them. art dreams of it literally, waking up so hard he’s too dizzy to use his hand—opting for humping the mattress like a bitch in heat until he spills into yet another pair of briefs (his laundry trips were becoming more frequent). and well patrick, he has jacked off so much he feels his wrist will break soon, he wants more—needs more than his hand. so he goes to art’s room one night and proposes something.

this is still new to them, still so fresh and they’re learning to navigate this new dynamic but they can’t hide the longing glances at each other’s lips. what started off as a simple conversation rapidly escalated to patrick pouncing on art and licking into his mouth. they’re out of breath when the brunette separates and begins to rasp out, “i need to feel you against me like that again,” art’s eyes are blown out and he whines quietly, “need that needy cock humping me like it did that night—my hand isn’t cutting it anymore.” and art is a good friend, who is he to deny it?

after fishing themselves out of their shorts and jerking each other off for a bit, art pauses and looks up at his friend, “wait, i wanna do something different. wait here.” patrick sits up and waits for his friend to return with a fucking fleshlight of all things in his hand, taking a seat next to him they stare at the toy in awe for a few seconds,“maybe we can pretend it’s her, you know as practice so we don’t blow our loads the first ten seconds we’re in her.” patrick gulps and nods mindlessly, he doesn’t care as long ass he feels art dripping on him again.

they barely use spit, leaking so much it’s enoughto slide right in the toy. art holds it down on patrick at first, he’s mesmerized, “you’re—you’re stretching it out so m-much, fuck me”, patrick’s hips twitch and he whines out a curse. when art starts to slide in next to him he almost cries.

they’re stretching the silicone toy to its limits, they hold still for a minute or two just panting and looking at each other with half lidded eyes. the first movement is caused by an accidental twitch of art, but as soon as they feel that friction again they lose it. patrick moans out your name, “holy fuck man, you don’t even know—she’s got, fuck, she’s got the tightest little pussy, i don’t know how we’ll fit.” art starts mewling with his eyes closed, “i wanna fuck her so bad, want to fuck her with you so bad—hhghhh.”

they just spit out the first things that come to their minds, how they’ll shove their dicks down your mouth at the same time, how your tits look in that tight tank top you love to wear, the one time you bent over in the tennis court to retrieve something and flashed them your pink panties. what really gets both of them is something that surprisingly comes out of art’s mouth, “wanna—wanna take turns. i’ll fuck her on my lap and pass her to yours so you do the same, just using her to jerk off—oh fuck fuck fuck—“

patrick’s balls are drawing tight, he takes notice just now of how they’re bouncing right up against art’s. he can’t believe this, how much precum is dripping down the fleshlight and how hard they’re both starting to fuck up into it. art has a rule of never coming in his toys because they’re a hassle to clean but that all goes out the window when patrick starts to open his mouth again, “i can feel you artie, cum. cum on me i’m so close, fuck, do you hear how wet that fucking sounds?,” art’s eyes start crossing and he lets his friend be the one to move the fake pussy up and down, “we’re gonna come inside her just like this too, i’m gonna make you fucking eat it out of her right after—“ and art can’t make out anything after that. he cums so hard, harder than the last time if that was possible, and his whole body twitches. patrick finishes just at the same time, and when he pulls the toy back up he holds it over both cocks.

they watch the loads of cum spill out and drip down the lenght of them both, red and spent. they really hope you aren’t too upset about them playing without you, after all you taught them how to share <3

#i’d suck everything out of that fleshlight #GAHHHH the image of both of them humping against each other like that😖#artrick smut #artrick x reader #art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut #art donaldson fic #patrick zweig fic #my writing

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doiliedaze · 16 days ago

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Upright

Warnings: just clumsy reader, sev recentering you, touchy fluff

Genre: fluff

A/n: fluff request from @manfuckthisimout, im so excited for this prompt idea and i love doing request so I hope you like this dovey˘³˘

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The two of you were walking from The Last Drop to your place. You’re known for you’re wobbly walk, it has nothing to do with alcohol at some moments Sevika would prefer it. Ever since she’s known you, she’s notice a slight imbalance to say the least.

She didn’t mention anything at first, not wanting to offend you (shocking coming from her) but as the two of you got more comfortable so has your wobbles.

You might not walk straight and that turned into full blown running into her at moments and you just oblivious to it at times.

Regardless she’s always there to grab your waist or wrist to stir you right!

“At this point I’m gonna strap you to me!” She huffs as she grabs your waist again for the millionth time!

“That’s not the threat you think it is…” You say under your breath as she softly scowls at you.

Sevika holds in her laugh and only lets a smile slip, “you and that mouth” she mumbles. “You love it…and my lack of gravity centering me!”

You make the two of you stop to look at anything that catches your eye and if you have to turn or bend down she’s ready to make sure you to fall over; it’s happened before!

Besides the lane being a dangerous place and you being her girlfriend, this is why she walks you home everyday!

When you bent over to pick up a caterpillar and show it to her, you stumbled over your feet.

Sevika solution is simple to her and embarrassing for you. For the rest of the walk she carried you and that caterpillar despite any of your complaints!

Not trusting you to not bust your ass on your stairs she placed you on the couch and plops down next to you.

Sure to some people this is excessive and annoying but to her, she wouldn’t have you any other way.

───────┈ · ·

Taglist: @manfuckthisimout @bambishaven @femme-historian @furrytaesss @milanyas @highnfemme @5seos

Dividers- @dollywons

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helleboretea · 1 month ago

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Some Prompts for The Pitt because we need more fics:

Langdon’s mood swings aren’t from addiction- he’s got bipolar disorder and his meds aren’t working/he’s switching meds

A family member of one of the mains is brought in (Mel’s sister, Franks kids, Trinity’s estranged mother, etc) (with something relatively minor, please don’t kill off Mel’s sister or Frank’s kid)

Santos and Garcia had a one night stand shortly before she started at the Pitt

Mel discovers /becomes suspicious about Langdon stealing pills instead of Santos

T4T Robby/ Collins (ftm Robby, mtf Collins), Robby was the one who was once pregnant with Collins kid

Mel comes out as ace/aro

Whitaker’s first time going out with the street team

Yellowjackets au (I crave chaos)

Christmas (or other big holiday day) in the ED

Langdon’s first day back from rehab

Hostage situation

Recovery fluff after a bad shift

Santos saves Langdon’s life

Mohan has a chronic health condition that she’s been hiding

Santos used to be Robby’s foster kid

Mel deals with severe overstimulation

Please add more.

#i’d write them myself but it was basically a miracle I was able to write an 8k word fic in 3 days #and it will never happen again sadly #please I need to read more fics #and I wanna see other ppls ideas maybe I’ll get inspired #the pitt #frank langdon #robby x collins #michael robinavitch #heather collins #dennis whitaker #victoria javadi #mel king #samira mohan #dana evans #cassie mckay #trinity santos

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comatosebunny09 · 1 month ago

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Breakup and makeup sex with Sylus. I need it

You made love one last time because he wanted to remember what you felt like, how you smelled, the curve of your body molded to his, how his name sounded sighed from your lips.

You humored him.

You both cried while you made love, though he was more subtle with his pain. He solemnly smiled as he pushed into you, wiping a tear from your face. You were always such a crybaby—his crybaby.

Things didn’t work out. You were at two different points in life. Weren’t on the same wavelength. Weren’t focused on the same end state. Doesn’t mean you didn’t love him. But love isn’t always enough to keep two people together.

So, you split.

He didn’t want to let you go. Fuck, neither of you wanted to let the other go. But you weren’t happy, and he wasn’t one to keep a bird caged for his selfish entertainment.

Neither of you moved on. Not really.

Out of respect for a relationship that once was, you kept to yourself. A part of you selfishly hoped you’d find each other again.

Sure, there were flickers of intrigue between you and your cute neighbor. Little sparks ignited when you conversed with your handsome coworker. But none of those feelings compared to the ones Sylus gave you—that feeling of your stomach somersaulting like you were descending a hill. Weightlessness and heaviness all at once. A stutter in your chest. Breath corked in your lungs.

You found each other again. Maybe a year or two after your dramatic split. The love never died. That fondness never left his smile; that boyish gleam never abandoned his eyes.

It was innocent at first—dinner between old friends. You both agreed to treat it that way. Take things slowly. Not to jump into anything headfirst. But then he made you laugh—an unguarded, goofy sound you hadn’t let loose in years. And you were so pretty. So gorgeous. You still made his heart pull. Still made his palms clammy and his legs bounce with anticipation.

You fell apart when he took you home. It was embarrassing how quickly you caved. How your mouths crashed together, and you were a mess of clanking teeth and panting and hair and too many clothes in the way as you pushed against each other beneath the soft, jaundiced glow of your entryway, desperate to feel the supple glide of each other’s skin beneath your fingers.

He made love to you like he did before the breakup. Slow, meticulous, reverent. Like he was reacquainting his hands with every part of your body. Burning the image of you into the hull of his mind. You tasted so sweet. Still felt like heaven. Like home. Still sang to him like a siren, your tongue curled around his name in a way that made his hips stutter and his eyes roll back.

You cried again. Laughed almost hysterically as tears streamed down your face, your nails imprinting waning moons into his back. You missed this—missed him. His crybaby. Only for him. Only for him.

He’d never let you slip through his fingers again. The world could come down outside from his decision, but he’d pick you every time.

Edit: this was on repeat in my head. Don’t ask me how it spawned this.

#sorry i got carried away anonnie the music was too good and i got lost in my feelings #i’d love to write a breakup to make up fic someday #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus angst

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solavellan--hell · 2 months ago

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Personally, I would have loved to hear threats to Lavellan from Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain if she romanced Solas, in the same way they threaten Rook’s love interest. It’s highly unlikely that word of their relationship wouldn’t have spread in ten whole years, and it would make sense for them to at least threaten her as a way to provoke him. Aiming for the heart, quite literally.

#dragon age #dragon age solas #solas #solavellan #dragon age: the veilguard #veilguard #datv #this is also because I would love to see him react to that so bad #if any of you have written fics where this happens do slide them my way #please and thank you #if I could write fanfic I’d write about Lavellan getting kidnapped by Elgar’nan #but alas

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otrtbs · 11 days ago

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yall would still love me if i just wrote One Direction fanfic right … like

#u know i have my 8 mutuals and me against the world … ik they’d stand by it #harry styles x female mc shit #maybe i’d dabble in narry… or zarry even …#pov i start writing incrediblely niche die kaiserin and narry fics and boreo vegas fics #and you all ask me about the marauders and i’m like ‘what’s that?’

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coffeebanana · 6 months ago

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Okay like. How did nobody every tell me the there is a BARRIER around the Eiffel Tower you can’t just walk up to it/under…. LIKE. According to my googling there’s been. A fence since 2016 and a bullet proof glass perimeter since 2018 (I believe? Too lazy to google again). So TO BE FAIR it wasn’t there i guess when ml first started?? And miraculously ladybug doesn’t depict the most accurate Paris to begin with. I get that.

But like. WHERE ARE THE CRACK FICS? The “we agreed to meet at the Eiffel Tower after defeating hawkmoth but shit now our kwamis have gone dormant so we need to get in the old fashioned way. CRAP the ticket time I need was sold out on the website. Fuck they won’t me in because i forgot about the blow torch in my emergency grab bag and I couldn’t make it past security. Oh no they’re not even selling summit tickets today WHAT DO I DO? Or, hmmmm we were supposed to meet…at the base. But shit we never clarified what side. Oh no how do I find my partner there are SO MANY TOURISTS”

#kayla rambles #miraculous ladybug #ladynoir #obviously the blow torch thing is marinette shsjsbshshsh #also I say crack fics but. I think I’d write it angsty but then have adrinette bump into each other when they think all hope is lost

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inthehouseoffinwe · 5 months ago

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AU where even after death our favourite Finwëions are being stubborn as ever so a new solution is found. Finarfin just wanted to help his grandson in law.

Fëanor and Fingolfin are being stubborn as ever

It’s been three ages, their wounds are healed, they’ve made up and understood most of their deeds

But they cannot for the life of them get along, and everyone, from Mandos to their children and people, know that if they’re released in their current state, things will go right back to how they were

Even if their people are kept in line by their kids, it’s a very explosive situation

And in all honesty, Námo feels like they’ve put poor Finarfin through enough without this addition

He can’t keep them here forever. The halls aren’t meant to be a permanent residence unless it’s by choice, and they’ve started causing chaos in here too

…but speaking of the sons of Finwë

Finarfin himself isn’t doing particularly well right now. He feels great guilt for his inaction over the last two Ages, especially as Tyelpë and Ereinion turned up with their own tales

Then of course little Celebrian

(Doesn’t matter how much everyone tells him they’d genuinely be lost without him and his actions. The Noldor especially would’ve been outcast and alone. They needed a stable ruler, not another revolutionary. And the work he’s done is more impactful than either of his brothers ever managed)

Not to mention he’s still furious at his brothers despite what he’s convinced himself of

…and misses them greatly.

Truth be told, the Valar owe him a lot.

So they offer him a choice.

Ereinion’s skilled with managing all kinds of people and people don’t have a problem with the kid, so for a time he’ll be the High King

Finarfin is overjoyed at the chance to help his granddaughter’s family. Elrond is dear to many across all factions, and his children too.

…He’s less overjoyed at the news his brothers will be joining him if he agrees.

Nevertheless desire to be of use for once wins out and he accepts.

He gets a week or so to say his goodbyes and prepare for the journey. Asking around, particularly asking the third age elves who’ve recently arrived and Celebrian most of all, gets him the clothes and supplies he needs to somewhat blend in.

They’re still his colours (though he has none) and his symbol is carefully hidden under the cloak.

And he heads to the Hall’s Opening.

“For what it’s worth, Arafinwë, I’m sorry for the additional baggage. We’ve asked much of you, but hopefully this at least will benefit us all.”

Námo is kind when he stands and opens the gates.

“I know you’ve missed them too.”

The soft whisper dissipates into the wind with the Vala and now two figures are walking out. Tall. Broad shouldered. Eyes shining with light.

Clad in their usual blue and red, weapons strapped to their backs and hips.

Fëanaro and Nolofinwë have returned at last.

Before he can say anything there’s a whirl of light and the three elves are swept away.

Aragorn did not sign up for this

A bright flash of light all but blinds him, leaving three figures in its wake.

Three very tall. Very Elven. Figures.

And if that’s not enough, they look strangely familiar. Like he should know them from somewhere.

“That damn Vala! He couldn’t have warned us!”

And now they’re speaking Quenya.

“He did. It’s not his fault you don’t listen to anyone but yourself,” the one clad in blue says viciously.

The third elf, the only one with blond hair, groaned and glared at the two others. Aragorn winced at the look, thankful he wasn’t under it, though neither of the others so much as flinched.

“You’ve been back how long?” He scoffed. “And here I thought I missed you.”

To his credit the one in blue showed some regret and bowed his head. Beside him, the red one huffed, but it was much less heated, and his hands clenched into the leaves around him.

“Forgive me, Arafinwë,” the blue one said.

Aragorn’s hand found his blade. It couldn’t be…

“Depends what you want forgiveness for, Nolo,” was the cold reply, tinged with hurt.

No way.

But it was there. The uncanny resemblance to the portraits he’d seen in his books as a young boy learning his history. This was no doubt Fingolfin, and beside him Finarfin. Which only left-

“My feud with Fëanaro has long tainted our relationship, little brother,” the blue elf- *Fingolfin* replied bitterly, glaring at the third elf. “I’d like to start again.”

“Well I’d like you two to shove your issues aside for once and try and get along!” Finarfin hissed back, and his older brother’s eyes widened. “How long will you keep fighting?! How long will you divide your people, your children! How long will you make them suffer for your egos?!”

Aragorn expected Fëanor to scowl, angrily proclaim his youngest half brother had no right to speak that way, but the elf only glared into the floor. Fingolfin stared into the trees and Finarfin turned away, eyes clouding with pain.

Only to stare right at Aragorn.

“Fëanaro, Nolo. Swords up.”

To their credit the elves immediately stood and followed Finarfin’s gaze to Aragorn. The Ranger carefully stepped into the light as the three sons of Finwë stared him down.

“It is not polite to lurk, stranger.” Fingolfin said in the common tongue and Aragorn vaguely wondered if he’d been taught it in the halls. He put his hands up, free of weapons, and lowered his hood.

“Forgive me, my lord Fingolfin. But I had to identify if you were friend of foe. You appeared in a strange manner wearing faces of old, and the enemy is skilled in his deceit.”

“You dare accuse us of being Sauron’s creations?” Fëanor’s eyes lit with a fell fire and Aragorn would have shuddered was he not accustomed to seeing much worse from his own father. Elrond could be… rather terrifying when he decided he’d had enough of his son’s’ shenanigans.

“He was being cautious,” Finarfin retorted. “Something you could learn from considering how your life ended.”

“I didn’t know what Balrogs were!”

“The great Fëanaro admitting to not knowing something, have the end of days come at last?”

“Some would say his presence here is an indicator of that,” Fingolfin muttered as Fëanor scowled at the blond. The scowl turned to him and he met it squarely. “I said what I said.”

The situation was fast unravelling and Aragorn had Nazgul on his tail. For all his training in Elrond’s house, nothing had prepared him for dealing with three Princes - Kings??? - of the Noldor at each others throats. Sending a prayer that this wouldn’t get him skewered, he whistled sharply and the three elves spun his way. He raised his hands in apology.

“Orcs and other fell beasts roam these lands, my lords. I’d advise a quieter argument?” He grimaced at the two stunned faces, wondering when it would turn to explosive anger that ended the line of Elros once and for all.

But Finarfin tilted his head, a small smile playing about his lips.

“It takes great courage to step between the arguments of the House of Finwë. What’s your name, stranger.”

The Ranger bowed his head.

“The trees have ears, my lord, I’d take you to an Elven safehaven before telling you that. But for now, you can call me Strider.”

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