Pick your poison, babe, I'm poison either way

"May your heart remain breakable but never by the same hand twice"

[enchantedmoonlight13]

♡Julia/Ju, she/her, May 6, I'm taurus baby, Adult, Swiftie, directioner, book lover, horror movie intusiastic, hopeless romantic or just hopeless sometimes, I love the paranormal world, Haunted Nights Project, Frear Sam and Colby are my favorites

Moodboard made by the lovely @fangirlposts

Don't be a dick or you'll be blocked

Fic Rec:

Stranger Things / part 2

Misc characters

Dividers by saradika-graphics

[enchantedmoonlight13]

imgonnagetyouback

Told my friends, "I hate you but I love you just the same" Pick your poison, babe I'm poison either way

[makemeyours-29-deactivated20241]

"Are you good in bed?" No, I can't sleep.

[enchantedmoonlight13]

It's a Love Story Baby, and She Said Yes!

A little something for @bumblebeeswrite for @fredhechingerfrenzy fic exchange. Hope you like it. and the best friend character Rose is @punkrockmlchael 🩷

Important note: English isn't my first language

Divider @/strangergraphics

Wc: 1148

Tw: none a small use of (y/n)

Thanks Roz babes for editing and helpinge figuring out how finish this fic I'll always be grateful for you 🩷💐

Sorry that that me so long to post this 🤡

You sighed heavily, looking at your cup of coffee. The stress of planning the wedding was consuming you, but that didn't mean that you weren’t happy. Quite the opposite, really. You were over the moon to be marrying the love of your life, Jason Hochberg. It was just the last minute decisions about everything regarding the wedding that seemed to be getting to you whether you wanted to truly admit it or not. And Jason noticed, in fact, he always noticed when you were off or stressed in the slightest.

Jason looked at you, a worried expression plastered on his face. He knew you were overwhelmed, he knew you were struggling and he knew you needed a distraction. Which is exactly why he planned to do something special to distract your mind from the wedding plans for a while… whether you accepted it or not.

"Sweetheart, I have something for you and I won't take no for an answer,” Jason started, smiling at you. “You are going to spend the day at the spa with your best friend. Don't worry I have everything planned. In fact, she should be here in a few minutes." You started to protest, you had so much to do still for your wedding. It was only one week away, the day was approaching quicker than you wanted to admit. Jason quickly cut you off, stopping you in your tracks. "Love, no. It's your day off from work and from wedding planning."

You stopped for a second, looking at him with so much love and joy. You really did get lucky with him, huh?

You and your best friend had an amazing day at the spa, which did make you forget about all the stress and every little wedding-related detail for at least a tiny amount of time. And even though your best friend, Rose, didn’t know it… you sure were glad that you had an amazing best friend who was willing to plan with Jason and drop everything to spend the day with you. When things became too heavy, too complicated to deal with, or when you just needed a good laugh or shit talking session, she was always there. That solidified your decision too, you definitely made the right decision when it came to asking Rose to be your Maid of Honor for your special day.

After a fun and relaxing day at the spa, you both went back to Rose’s house to watch a movie and unwind, enjoying the last little free time before you went back to wedding mode. But during the entirety of the movie, your mind was wandering elsewhere… a fond memory that was definitely going to be incorporated into your special day somehow, even if it was just in your vows or to Jason alone.

You and Jason were lounging on the bed, watching movies together as you typically did on a lazy Saturday night. Your head was resting on his chest while he played with your hair, enjoying the peaceful moment between the two of you away from your crazy lives. After some time, you paused the movie and sat up, looking at Jason.

“Have you ever stopped to think about the future?” You asked, eyes searching his.

“Old, full of wrinkles and proud of it?” Jason laughed, looking back at you.

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” you sighed, looking at him. “I was more so talking about having kids… marriage even, that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, I knew what you meant, baby,” Jason smiled, “of course I think about all of that. Do you?”

“More than usual.” You admitted softly.

“About what? Kids or Marriage?”

“Marriage. I mean, you know, usually the man is the one who proposes and we’ve been together for a while so I guess… I’ll just get straight to the point. Jason, do you want to marry me?” You asked, looking at him.

“Damn it, baby, you just ruined my plans.” Jason laughed, shaking his head. He got out of bed, standing carefully before he dug through the nightstand drawer. He pulled out a small velvet box, turning it over in his hand before handing it to you.

“What is this?” You asked, surprised that it had been hidden so close to you this entire time.

“Open it and find out,” he said with a smile.

You opened the box slowly, a stunning ring staring back at you. It was breathtaking, one straight out of your dreams. Jason had taken all the notes you had given him months earlier and, well, he did good.

“What…” you asked, looking up at Jason with a small grin.

“I was planning to propose to you but, well, since you asked… figured I’d give you the ring now. If you want it, that is.”

“It’s beautiful,” you said softly, admiring the ring as you slid it onto your finger slowly. “I really wasn’t expecting this…”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to propose to me, but here we are. And to answer your question, yes, I do want to marry you.”

"Hello, I'm talking with you, and you’re just staring at nothing.” Rose said, tossing a piece of popcorn at you. I bounced off your shoulder, landing beside you on the couch.

“Sorry, I was thinking about the night that Jason proposed,” you said softly, clearing your throat.

“You mean the night you proposed,” Rose said, laughing.

“Well, yeah but… he’s the one that gave me the ring...”

—

On the wedding day everything was perfect like you and Jason had wanted. You looked in the mirror, smiling to yourself before putting on the finishing touches. Rose helped you with your veil, adjusting it perfectly before your father came to get you to walk you down the aisle. Jason was waiting in the backyard with all of the guests, a nervous wreck as he stood there. It was finally time.

“Are you ready, my sweet girl?” Your dad asked, hiding his tears with a small smile.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment all of my life.” You smiled back, taking your father’s arm carefully.

You made your way to the backyard, Jason’s breath hitching when he saw you. The moment he laid eyes on you, dressed in your beautiful wedding dress he couldn't hold back his tears. They formed in his eyes, threatening to spill as he smiled at you. And you smiled back, tears actively spilling down your cheeks as you walked with your father. Because this was your fairytale wedding, and everything was perfect.

“Take care of my baby girl,” your father said to Jason, patting his shoulder gently.

“Always, sir. I will take care of her and love her the way she deserves.” Jason nodded to his soon to be father-in-law.

You and Jason shared a smile, preparing for the rest of the night and more importantly, the rest of your lives together.

[enchantedmoonlight13]

hii

Lexi my love, hi 💕

[enchantedmoonlight13]

I need my own Taylor swift that can just play at events live. She should totally clone herself 😪

Yes please, it's a dream

[prettyboyprettyeyes]

✨soft asks✨

What song makes you feel better?

What is your go to comfort show?

Reading or writing? Why?

Whats your favorite feeling?

How do you like to take care of yourself?

What’s your favorite candle scent?

Who do you feel most like yourself around?

Whats a fabric/texture that’s nostalgic for you?

Best childhood moment?

When was the last time you laughed so hard you cried? (or just felt really good afterwards)

Do you have a comfort item? Tell us about it!

What calms you down?

Bath or shower to relax?

Whats something upcoming that you’re excited for?

Comfort food?

What’s something you want to create soon?

How do you feel best loved?

What age in life do you think you’ll feel most yourself at?

Have you ever written or received a love letter?

Tell us about a memory you hold close to your heart.

Tea, Coffee, or hot cocoa?

Name of your favorite playlist?

Have you ever received flowers?

Who is your bestfriend?

If your soul was a color, what would it be?

If you could live anywhere with anyone you want, where would it be and who would you bring?

Do you like to garden? Have you ever grown something?

What are you proudest of?

Are you a kind person?

What do your hobbies look like?

[punkrockmlchael]

Tonight is Different

Warnings: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Yearning, And they were Roommates, Roommates to lovers, Friends to lovers, some kissing, some suggestive language but nothing explicit

Word Count: 2076

This was written for @fredhechingerfrenzy fic exchange for the lovely and amazing @mrprettywhenhecries <3 i love you joz and i hope you like it! thank you to @romantic-genocide and @enchantedmoonlight13 for reading this over for me!

The slamming of the front door echoed through the small apartment, making Danny jump slightly from his comfortable spot on the couch. He quickly paused his video game, some random first person shooter game he had found and swore he was good at (he wasn't), and took his headset off, tossing it to the side gently. He heard you grumbling under your breath and swearing to yourself before he had even seen you. That in itself was a true indication to him that your night definitely did not go as planned or hoped.

You were supposed to be out all night tonight, at least, that's what you had told him. Told him that there was a chance you weren't even coming home tonight and would be staying with a 'friend'. But Danny knew better. The little black dress you had on when you left didn't scream going out with the girls for dinner and cocktails. It screamed going out on a date with the hopes of getting laid. And, he couldn't really blame you, per say. The two of you had a weird dynamic. Best friends since the beginning of high school, been through all the breakups and the makeups and all the awkward moments that ensued during those four years and beyond. And while it was great having all that history and literally knowing everything about each other—literally everything, you and Danny got way too close last year when he had food poisoning in your small one bathroom apartment—it was awkward when it came to inviting over a potential romantic interest.

Every guy you brought home just assumed you would cheat on him with Danny, and every girl he brought home assumed he would cheat on her with you. Something about male and female roommates made others want to turn and run the other way. That was actually the real reason he and Allie had broken up; she hated that you were always around and that Danny didn't want to move out and live with her. There was too much commitment that way, at least, that's what he always said. Said that if they ever broke up and they were living together it would be to hard to leave and go back to how it was. So he stayed. With you. Told Allie he was done with her and their relationship and never looked back.

Part of you had hoped and wished that after the breakup something more would happen between the two of you.

Something.

Anything.

And while he wouldn't necessarily admit it, Danny felt the same way.

The flirting between you and Danny became more frequent after Allie was out of the picture, the looks and touches lingering longer than they were supposed to. The air always seemed to be filled with this underlying tension that was never spoken about or acknowledged. Because, quite honestly, if the two of you ignored it completely, it wasn't there, was it? The looks, the touches, the lazy nights on the couch with your legs over his and his arms around your waist all meant nothing, right? And the late nights in the kitchen when you made hot chocolate with extra mini marshmallows and a touch of peppermint syrup while Danny stood behind you, arms draped around your waist and resting on your stomach with his chin on your shoulder were just platonic moments… right? Never anything more or romantic. Never.

Nights like these with small moments like this too—when you came home upset and frustrated over a failed date, over being stood up or some stupid excuse they'd given about why they couldn't make it to the date five minutes after it was supposed to start. You had given up on getting your hopes up but that didn't make the sting hurt any less each time it happened. And while Danny never truly judged to your face, the walk of shame past him back to your room was really always the worst part of the whole experience. You would walk past him, completely silent as you moved across the carpeted floor into your room, only to emerge a few moments later in your sweatpants and one of his hoodies. You'd curl up on the couch beside him, watching him play video games and lose at them each and every time. Neither of your dared to speak, it was always unspoken as to not ruin the peace or make it awkward. That was one thing about your friendship with each other that you enjoyed and hate simultaneously, if there was never anything to say, you both just let the silence fill the gap.

But not tonight. Tonight was going to be different. That was something Danny was going to make sure of. Because at this point, he was scared of hiding and running from his thoughts and feelings. He just hoped you felt the same way he did.

You mumbled to yourself, walking past him and the couch as you moved down the hall, towards your bedroom likely to change into your gray sweatpants and that god awful blue hoodie that had a burn mark in the sleeve from his attempt to light a candle (not his proudest moment, but, you did look awfully cute in that sweatshirt).

Danny stood slowly, gaining as much confidence as he could muster. Tonight was the night he was going to be there for you with actual words, not just shitty video game skills and a silent shoulder to lean on. Tonight was the night he was going to ensure you never went on another crappy date again, never got stood up again, and never put that much effort into your look to get nothing, not even a little compliment. Tonight was the night Danny was going to tell you what you meant to him and how he saw you—as more than a friend and a roommate.

Tonight was the night Danny was going to finally confess to you… assuming he didn't chicken out first.

With a deep breath and a few physical shakes of his hands, he moved closer to your bedroom door. Stopping in front of the closed door, he weighed out his options. He could knock and see if you let him inside, he could wait for you to come out or he could walk in unannounced. His hand rose slowly, but before his knuckles could make contact with the cold wood you had already opened the door in a huff.

You backed away quickly, startled by his presence. Another thing you hated about Danny, he was silent. Literally, you joked about putting a bell around his neck like a cat so you knew where he was at all times. "Fucking hell," you mumbled, shaking your head. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

He cleared his throat, shaking his head. "Uh, no. Sorry," he apologized. "I just… wanted to come check in on you. It's been a few months since we've like actually talked between work and… dates, and I just," he paused, searching for the right words. "I wanted to make sure you're doing okay."

"I'm fine," you brushed off quickly, walking past him. Your movements were precise, blocking Danny out with two quick words.

He followed after you, walking into the small kitchen carefully, as if to not pop the already tense bubble. He called your name softly, watching as you looked through the fridge for something to eat. When you didn't find anything, the pantry was the next place to look, a box of macaroni and cheese becoming your saving grace for the time being.

You hummed in reply to him, but didn't say anything more. You didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say; that's how it was supposed to be. Just the two of you in silence, ignoring the huge elephant in the room. His breath hitched as you prepared the boxed meal. The domestic sounds filled the space; the water running, the water filling the pot slowly, the slight click of the stove as it turned on, the flame lighting beneath the pot.

You stood in front of the stove, your back to Danny. You stared at the pot of water, waiting for it to boil so you could busy yourself more.

Danny spoke again, your name falling from his lips as he took a step towards you. "Will you please… talk to me?" He asked softly.

"There's nothing to say, Danny." You replied, closed off.

He frowned, stepping closer to you until he was directly behind you. "There's everything to say and you know it. We just keep tiptoeing around these unspoken words and we need to stop doing that."

You didn't say anything, but your shoulders tensed as he stepped closer, filling your space with the slight scent of his cologne and shampoo—something that smelled just like Danny and smelled like home. Danny hesitated for a brief moment before his arms encircled you slowly, his hands moving beneath the fabric of the sweatshirt to rest on your bare skin beneath.

His warm hands touched your cool skin carefully, his fingers grazing over the waistband of your sweatpants. You stiffened more before slowly melting into his touch, your back resting perfectly against his chest. You fit against him perfectly, like you two were made for each other.

Like to universe was trying to tell you that your one true person was here all along and that you should both open your eyes and say something.

Danny repositioned himself, his chin resting on your shoulder as his grip tightened around you ever so slightly. "I'm sorry." He mumbled, his lips grazing over your hair.

Your eyes closed, feeling his closeness before you sighed. "For what?"

"For always letting you go through these days in silence. For not talking to you and not telling you how I truly feel." He paused, sighing softly before he placed a soft kiss on the side of your neck. "Because, honestly, I think I might be in some kind of love with you."

Your breath hitched, your hands slowly moving to rest over his. "Danny," you said softly.

"No, I mean it." Danny's lips mumbled over your neck, leaving a few more soft and sweet kisses on that area. "I'm sorry sick of seeing you like this and I'm so sorry I haven't told you sooner. You, truly, deserve so much more than any of these guys you're going out with can offer. And, I know I not that much better but I'm hoping that just maybe I can show you how you deserve to be treated, how you deserve to be loved and how you deserve to be appreciated."

You shifted slightly, turning around in his grip until you were face to face with him. "Danny."

His left hand moved to your hip, holding it gently before his right hand moved for your face, cradling your cheek gently. Danny tilted your head up, leaning in closer. His gaze flicked from your eyes to your lips before going back to your eyes as he leaned in closer. So close that you could feel his breath on your lips. He hesitated, and gave you the chance to move away just in case. But when you didn't, he closed the gap completely, his lips finding yours in a soft and hesitant first kiss.

You stood stunned for a brief moment before your lips moved with his, your arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer to you. Your lips moved in sync, years of built up tension and lingering looks finally spilling over as your bodies became intertwined in the small kitchen.

Only did you two pull away when you heard the sizzling on the stove, the pot of water for the macaroni and cheese finally boiling over.

"Oh, fuck," you sighed, moving to turn off the stove.

"Leave it," Danny mumbled, "we can clean it later. Right now I just want to show you how much you mean to me." He kissed your lips again, hands gripping your waist. "And let you know that if you wear that black dress again… I can promise it will end up on my bedroom floor."

"Should I go put it on right now?" You teased, kissing his lips quickly.

"That would defeat the purpose of me trying to get you out of your clothes, wouldn't it?" He smirked softly.

daniel markowitz taglist: wanna join? click the form here! ; @janis01127 ; @keeryhours ; @iitsmandii ; @bumblebeeswrite ; @prettycalla ; @alexa0813 ; @samslvrgirl ; @enchantedmoonlight13 ; @yearsbecomingcool ; @fallout-girl219 ; @kawaii1kitten ; @delusionalbri ; @pridenpestilence ; @starr612 ; @totally-not-your-babe ; @sweetpeapod ; @mrprettywhenhecries ; @ch3eseking94 ; @allylovesrooney ; @super-unpredictable98 ; @qyukko ; @justlooking6789

[strangergraphics]

floral lines/chain dividers part two:

please like and credit if you use, reblogs are appreciated! thank you! 💕

[strangergraphics]

moon & stars themed dividers:

please like and credit if you use, reblogs are appreciated! thank you! 💕

[bumblebeeswrite]

A Crown of Wildflowers | Emperor Caracalla

Hello! This is a fic for my good friend @enchantedmoonlight13 @fredhechingerfrenzy

Hope you enjoy!

P.s. this is in caracalla's point of view so reader is always referred to as 'she'

The palace had a way of swallowing the daylight.

Sunlight still found its way through the high windows of the imperial residence, spilling in bright columns across polished marble and porphyry floors, but it never seemed warm. It struck gilded statues and painted frescoes with all the affection of a magistrate reading a sentence. Every corridor echoed. Every doorway framed another waiting face. Every voice seemed measured before it was spoken.

Marcus Aurelius Antoninus had once believed power would make a man larger.

Instead, it had made every room feel smaller.

Another petition lay open before him, its wax seal already broken by a secretary's practiced hands. Grain shortages in one province. A dispute over taxation in another. Two senators insisting they had been insulted by the seating arrangement at the previous night's banquet.

He skimmed the page before handing it back without comment.

"Caesar?" ventured his secretary.

"It can wait."

"The delegation from Alexandria arrives within the hour."

"They can wait."

"The governor of..."

"They," Caracalla interrupted, his voice even despite the fatigue pressing behind his eyes, "can wait."

The room fell silent.

No one questioned him further.

No one ever did.

That, perhaps, was the loneliest part of wearing the purple.

He dismissed the attendants with a flick of his hand. Sandaled footsteps retreated across the marble until the heavy bronze doors swung shut behind them.

At last.

Silence.

Caracalla remained seated for several moments, elbows resting against the carved arms of his chair. His gaze drifted toward the open window overlooking the palace gardens.

From this height he could see cypress trees swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere below, fountains whispered over smooth stone. Beyond the palace walls, Rome stretched toward the horizon in a sea of tiled rooftops, temples, smoke, and sunlight.

The city belonged to him.

Yet there were mornings he felt it possessed him instead.

A knock sounded.

He closed his eyes.

"Enter."

The captain of the Praetorian Guard stepped inside.

"They're asking for you in the senate."

"Of course they are."

"The matter appears urgent."

Caracalla laughed once.

Short.

Humorless.

"They always believe it urgent."

The captain hesitated.

"My Emperor..."

Caracalla stood.

The movement startled even himself.

"I won't be attending."

"My lord?”

"I said I won't."

"But..."

"No escort."

"My Emperor, that would be..."

"An order."

The captain bowed immediately.

"Yes, Caesar."

Caracalla crossed the chamber toward a narrow side door hidden behind an embroidered curtain. Few servants even remembered it existed. It had once been built as a discreet entrance for members of the imperial household wishing to visit the gardens unnoticed.

Now it served another purpose entirely.

Freedom.

If only for an afternoon.

He traded imperial purple for an ordinary woolen tunic.

The fabric scratched.

Good.

His jeweled rings disappeared into a wooden box.

The golden fibula that fastened his cloak followed.

He tied back his golden curls with a plain leather cord instead of a circlet.

When he caught sight of himself in the polished bronze mirror, the emperor had vanished.

A traveler stared back.

Perhaps a retired legionary.

Perhaps a merchant.

Someone forgettable.

It had been years since anyone had looked at him without expectation.

Years since anyone had spoken his name without attaching a title.

Caracalla.

The word felt strange now.

Almost borrowed.

He slipped through the servants' corridors unnoticed. Kitchen girls hurried past carrying baskets of bread. Stable boys argued over a stubborn mule. Somewhere nearby someone was singing while sweeping the floors.

None of them looked twice at him.

It was… wonderful.

Outside the palace gates, Rome embraced him like a living thing.

The streets churned with motion.

Fishmongers shouted over one another in the markets. Children darted between carts. Bakers carried fresh loaves into crowded storefronts while the scent of warm bread mingled with olive oil, lavender, and the less pleasant odors of a city that held nearly a million souls.

Caracalla walked without destination.

Without guards. Without ceremony.

No one bowed.

A woman bumped into his shoulder while balancing an amphora.

"Watch yourself," she muttered before continuing on.

Caracalla blinked.

Then, to the astonishment of an old fruit seller nearby, he smiled.

He could not remember the last time someone had scolded him.

He bought an apple from the vendor.

The old man accepted the coin with barely a glance.

"No speeches?"

Caracalla asked lightly.

The merchant frowned.

"For buying an apple?

“No."

"Then enjoy your apple."

Marcus laughed quietly.

No speeches indeed.

By midday the city had begun to thin behind him.

Stone buildings gave way to scattered villas surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. The roads grew quieter. Cicadas filled the air with their endless chorus.

The farther he walked, the easier it became to breathe.

Dust clung to his sandals.

His cloak caught burrs from roadside grasses.

A warm breeze stirred the leaves overhead.

He followed no map.

Only instinct.

Perhaps he sought distance.

Perhaps he sought nothing at all.

Hours passed before he noticed the meadow.

It unfolded beside the road like a patchwork of color stitched into the countryside.

Poppies blazed scarlet among tall grasses. White daisies nodded lazily in the wind. Purple blossoms clustered around weathered stones where bees drifted from flower to flower with single-minded purpose.

Marcus slowed.

It was beautiful.

Not because it was grand.

Because no one had arranged it.

No architect had measured these paths.

No gardener had trimmed the edges.

Nature had simply... decided.

A sharp yelp carried across the field.

Marcus turned toward the sound.

Near the center of the meadow, someone had apparently lost a battle with an overfilled wicker basket.

Flowers lay scattered everywhere.

Bundles of herbs tumbled through the grass.

The basket itself had rolled several feet away.

Its owner remained kneeling in the middle of the chaos, one hand pressed dramatically against her forehead.

"...Well," she declared to absolutely no one, "that's embarrassing."

Caracalla found himself smiling before he'd even realized it.

Without thinking, he stepped off the road and into the sea of wildflowers.

The first daisy bent beneath his sandal.

The breeze carried the scent of lavender.

And somewhere ahead, entirely unaware that history itself had just wandered into her meadow, the young woman sighed as another handful of blossoms slipped through her fingers.

Caracalla reached the overturned basket just as its owner managed to rescue a bundle of rosemary, only for three stems of chamomile to escape her grasp and drift lazily back into the grass.

She stared after them with theatrical resignation.

"I think," she announced to the flowers themselves, "I've officially been defeated."

He crouched without a word and retrieved the runaway stems before the breeze could claim them again.

"There."

She looked up.

For the first time, he could properly see her.

Sunlight caught the loose wisps of hair that had escaped whatever practical style she'd attempted that morning. A smear of dirt decorated one cheek, and tiny white petals clung stubbornly to her sleeves. She looked as though she'd walked straight out of the meadow itself, stitched together from earth and sunshine.

Her smile arrived quickly, genuine and entirely unburdened.

"My hero."

Caracalla couldn't remember the last time someone had called him that without irony or obligation.

"You looked like you had matters well in hand."

"I did," she replied gravely. "Then the basket mutinied."

He glanced at the wicker basket.

"It does appear particularly rebellious."

"It waits until I'm carrying entirely too much before making its move."

She accepted the herbs from him, then extended a hand without hesitation.

"My name is Y/N."

Caracalla's eyes flickered to her outstretched hand.

No bow. No hesitation. No searching his face for permission.

Just an introduction.

He took her hand.

"I’m… Marcus."

The lie wasn't complete.

It was simply... incomplete.

"Thank you for rescuing my chamomile, Marcus."

"It seemed deserving of rescue."

"It really was."

Her expression remained wonderfully serious for nearly three seconds before she laughed.

It startled him into laughing too.

The sound felt strange leaving his chest, rusty from lack of use.

Together they began gathering the scattered flowers.

The silence between them never felt uncomfortable.

She worked with practiced hands, separating herbs into neat little bundles.

"Lavender."

She placed one bundle into the basket.

"Rosemary."

Another.

"Yarrow."

Caracalla handed her a cluster of tiny white blossoms.

"What are these?"

She smiled.

"Daucus carota."

"You know every one?"

"My grandmother says every flower has a story."

"And do they?"

"I think people simply stopped listening."

He considered that.

Perhaps she'd say the same of emperors.

Though she didn't know she was speaking to one.

"What brings you out here?" she asked after a while.

"I needed..."

He paused.

What had brought him here?

Escape?

Silence?

A day without petitions?

"...fresh air."

She nodded as though that made perfect sense.

"I come whenever life gets too loud."

"You find flowers quieter than people?"

"Flowers never expect anything from me."

Caracalla lowered his gaze.

No.

They didn't.

The basket was finally full once more.

She stood, brushing grass from her skirts.

"My grandmother will think I got distracted again."

"Did you?"

"Obviously."

She smiled at him.

"But this time I have an excuse."

Caracalla expected that to be the end of it.

Instead, she adjusted the basket onto one hip and asked, almost as an afterthought,

"Are you hungry?"

He blinked.

"...What?"

"I asked if you were hungry."

"I heard you."

"Then?"

He couldn't remember anyone asking him such a simple question.

Not servants.

Not senators.

Meals simply appeared.

No one asked whether he wanted company.

Or whether he'd eaten at all.

"I suppose I am."

"Good."

She nodded decisively.

"I made too much bread."

"You planned that?"

"No."

She grinned.

"I always make too much.”

Her grandmother's cottage sat at the edge of an olive grove, shaded by an enormous fig tree.

It wasn't grand.

It wasn't even particularly remarkable.

Its walls were sun-warmed stone, its roof patched in places with newer terracotta tiles, and herbs hung drying beneath the porch.

Caracalla thought it might be the most peaceful place he'd ever seen.

A tiny gray cat lounged in the doorway.

It regarded him with immense suspicion.

She pointed.

“That's Minerva."

"The cat?"

"The tyrant."

As if understanding she'd been discussed, Minerva stood, stretched dramatically, then wandered away without acknowledging either of them.

"I see what you mean."

"She allows us to live here."

Caracalla smiled.

The cottage smelled of baking bread and thyme.

She disappeared inside for only a moment before returning with a cloth bundle and two clay cups.

"My grandmother's visiting neighbors."

"So we're stealing her lunch?"

"I baked it."

"So you're stealing your own lunch."

"Exactly."

They settled beneath the fig tree.

Bread.

Goat cheese.

Fresh figs.

Honey.

Olives.

Nothing served on silver.

Nothing announced by servants.

It tasted better than half the feasts he'd attended.

Perhaps because no one watched him eat.

"So," She said between bites, "what do you do?"

Caracalla nearly choked on his bread.

"What?"

"For work."

"...It's complicated."

"Those are usually the interesting jobs."

"I manage people."

She laughed.

"No one manages people."

"I've tried."

"And?"

"They rarely cooperate."

"I could've told you that."

He found himself smiling again.

"What about you?"

"I help my grandmother."

"With herbs?"

"And deliveries."

She gestured toward the basket.

"Half these flowers become medicine."

"The other half?"

"Pretty things deserve to exist without purpose."

Caracalla looked toward the meadow.

How many years had it been since he'd allowed himself something without purpose?

Every decision was measured.

Every appearance calculated.

Even smiles carried political weight.

"You look sad."

The words landed so gently they almost escaped him.

"I do?"

"A little."

He stared at his untouched cup.

"I didn't mean to."

"You don't have to mean to."

Silence settled between them.

Not awkward.

Simply patient.

"You know," She said eventually, "my grandmother says some people carry invisible armor."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Armor?"

"The kind that protects you so well it also keeps everyone else out."

Caracalla looked away.

The breeze stirred the leaves overhead.

"I think," she continued softly, "that yours must be very heavy."

His throat tightened.

If she knew.

If she knew who sat beside her.

The armor wasn't invisible.

It was marble halls.

Golden eagles.

Purple robes.

An empire.

"I suppose," he admitted quietly, "it is."

She didn't ask why.

She simply tore another piece of bread and offered him half.

It was such a small gesture.

Yet something inside him eased.

The afternoon drifted onward.

She insisted he accompany her back into the meadow.

"There are still flowers worth picking."

"I thought your basket was full."

"It is."

"So why are we collecting more?"

She looked genuinely puzzled.

"Because they're beautiful."

He couldn't argue with that.

She wandered barefoot through the grass, humming some tune he didn't recognize.

Caracalla followed at a slower pace.

She stopped every few moments to point out something he'd never have noticed.

A butterfly resting beneath a leaf.

A rabbit trail through the tall grass.

Tiny blue flowers growing between stones.

"The world hides lovely things," she said.

"You just have to slow down enough to notice."

He wondered when he'd stopped looking.

Perhaps years ago.

Perhaps the day he became emperor.

She suddenly gasped.

"What?"

"Stand still."

Caracalla froze.

She circled him once.

Twice.

Then reached carefully into his hair.

His heart lurched.

A tiny white daisy emerged between her fingers.

She held it triumphantly.

"You've been wearing this since the meadow."

He stared.

"...I have?"

"I was wondering how long it would take you to notice."

He laughed.

"I suppose not long enough."

She tucked the flower behind her own ear.

"There."

"It suits you better."

"I wasn't asking."

For a fleeting instant, he forgot entirely that beyond the olive groves and rolling fields, Rome waited with its endless demands. Here, he was not the emperor balancing an empire on his shoulders. He was simply Marcus, a man with dust on his sandals, laughter in his chest, and the lingering scent of wildflowers carried on the summer breeze.

Neither of them noticed, far down the road, the faint glint of sunlight catching on polished armor as a small party of riders searched the countryside.

The afternoon stretched toward evening with the languid certainty of summer.

The sun had begun its slow descent, softening the harsh brilliance of midday into liquid gold that spilled across the meadow. Shadows lengthened beneath the olive trees, and the air carried the sweet perfume of crushed grass and blooming lavender.

She had somehow convinced Caracalla that weaving flower crowns was an essential skill.

"It absolutely is," she insisted as she knelt in the grass, nimble fingers threading daisy stems together. "You never know when you'll need one."

"I cannot imagine a circumstance in which that would become necessary."

"That's because you've never had one."

"I fail to see the connection."

She gave him a look that suggested he was missing something terribly obvious.

"Everything is better with a flower crown."

Caracalla glanced down at the mangled collection of stems in his own hands.

"I believe mine has declared independence."

She laughed, leaning over to inspect his work.

"Oh..."

"That bad?"

"I'm trying to decide if it's a crown or a very determined shrub."

He looked at it, then back at her.

"I was never taught."

"Clearly."

She shifted closer until their shoulders nearly brushed.

"Here."

Without asking, she gently took his hands in hers.

"They're too tight," she explained. "Flowers aren't soldiers. If you force them into place, they'll break."

Caracalla watched as she loosened his grip, guiding his fingers with infinite patience.

"You have to leave them room."

The words were about flowers.

He suspected they were about far more than that.

"There," she said after a moment. "Try again."

This time, the stems bent instead of snapping.

"Better."

"Barely."

"It's a beginning."

He smiled.

Perhaps it was.

By the time the crown was finished, it was delightfully uneven.

Several daisies pointed in questionable directions, and one poppy sat proudly where no poppy ought to be.

Caracalla regarded it critically.

"It appears to have survived a small war."

"I think it has character."

"I think it's lopsided."

"So are most people."

Before he could protest, she reached forward and settled the crown atop his golden curls.

"There."

He instinctively reached to remove it.

"Leave it."

"I look ridiculous."

"You look happy."

His hand stilled.

Happy.

The word settled over him like the evening breeze.

How long had it been since anyone had described him that way?

He searched his memory and found... nothing.

Not in years.

Perhaps not since childhood.

She stepped back to admire her handiwork.

"It suits you."

He laughed softly.

"I've worn heavier crowns."

"I imagine you have."

If only she knew.

They wandered without purpose.

She gathered sprigs of thyme while Marcus carried the basket.

They skipped stones across the stream until she declared him unfairly talented after his sixth skip.

He insisted it was luck.

She called him a terrible liar.

A pair of swallows swooped low over the water.

The little gray cat, Minerva, appeared from nowhere, accepted precisely one scratch beneath the chin from Caracalla, then wandered off again as though she'd done him a tremendous favor.

"I think she likes you."

"I thought she tolerated us."

"That's practically affection."

Caracalla chuckled.

The sound came easier now.

Less surprising.

More familiar.

As the sun kissed the horizon, they returned to the crest of the meadow.

Rome shimmered faintly in the distance, its temples catching the last light.

She followed his gaze.

"You've been looking toward the city all day."

"I have?"

"As though something there keeps calling you back."

He was quiet for a long while.

"Perhaps it does."

"Do you have family there?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"A wife?"

"No."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"I don't think she'd like me much."

He blinked.

"What?"

"If you had one."

"Why?"

"Because you've smiled more today than you probably have in months."

Caracalla felt something tighten painfully in his chest.

"You notice too much."

"My grandmother says people are gardens."

"And?"

"If you pay attention, they'll tell you what they need."

He looked out across the wildflowers.

"And what do you think I need?"

She smiled sadly.

"Rest."

The thunder of hooves shattered the quiet.

Caracalla was on his feet before he realized he'd moved.

A dozen riders crested the hill.

Their armor flashed in the fading sunlight.

The crimson crests of the Praetorian Guard were unmistakable.

Her smile faded.

The riders reached them in moments.

Before the horses had fully stopped, the captain dismounted and dropped to one knee.

"My Emperor."

Silence.

The word seemed to echo across the meadow.

She looked from the kneeling captain...

...to the soldiers...

...to Caracalla.

No.

Not Marcus.

The Emperor.

Every odd answer.

Every careful omission.

Every moment he'd paused before speaking.

Understanding washed over her face with heartbreaking clarity.

"You..." she whispered.

Caracalla couldn't meet her eyes.

"I should have told you."

"You said your name was Marcus."

"It is."

"You let me think..."

"I know."

The captain remained kneeling.

"The Senate has been searching for you all day. There are urgent matters requiring your attention."

Of course there were.

There always were.

Caracalla looked at her.

"I'm sorry."

She stared at him for another long moment.

Then, unexpectedly, she sighed.

"So."

He waited.

"That's why you didn't know how to braid flowers."

He blinked.

"What?"

"You've probably had servants dressing you your whole life."

A startled laugh escaped him.

Real.

Bright.

Unrestrained.

The captain looked utterly bewildered.

She folded her arms.

"I spent all afternoon wondering how a grown man could be so spectacularly bad at flower crowns."

Caracalla laughed harder than he had in years.

"So it wasn't because I was hopeless?"

"Oh, you were hopeless."

She stepped closer.

"But now it makes sense."

The laughter faded into something quieter.

Something gentler.

"I never meant to deceive you."

"I know."

"You aren't angry?"

She considered the question.

"I'm disappointed."

His heart sank.

"Not because you're the emperor."

She reached up and carefully straightened one crooked daisy in the flower crown still resting on his head.

"Because I don't know whether anything you told me today belonged to Marcus... or to Caracalla."

He swallowed.

"Everything I told you was true."

Her eyes searched his.

"The happiest part of today?"

"The truest part."

"And your name?"

"Marcus."

She smiled.

Small.

Bittersweet.

"I think I liked meeting Marcus."

"So did I."

For just a heartbeat, the empire disappeared again.

There was no Senate.

No palace.

No waiting petitions.

Only a man and a woman standing in a meadow painted gold by the setting sun.

Then duty returned.

It always did.

Caracalla removed the flower crown from his head.

The daisies were already beginning to wilt.

He turned it over carefully in his hands.

It would never last.

Tomorrow, perhaps the next day, the petals would dry, the stems would become brittle, and it would crumble to dust.

Still...

He folded it with extraordinary care and tucked it inside his cloak, over his heart.

The captain rose, still looking thoroughly confused by the entire exchange.

"My Emperor..."

Caracalla mounted his horse.

He looked down at her one last time.

"I hope," he said quietly, "your grandmother never runs out of flowers."

She smiled through shining eyes.

"I hope," she replied, "you remember to stop and notice them."

He inclined his head.

Not the practiced nod of an emperor acknowledging a subject.

The grateful farewell of a man leaving behind the best day of his life.

Then he turned toward Rome.

Several days later, the Senate met as usual.

Petitions were heard.

Arguments were settled.

Decrees were signed.

Life resumed its relentless rhythm.

Halfway through the proceedings, one elderly senator frowned.

"My Emperor..."

Caracalla looked up.

"There appear to be... flower petals on your robes."

A tiny white daisy petal drifted onto the polished marble floor.

The emperor glanced down.

For the briefest instant, the corners of his mouth lifted.

"Leave them."

No one questioned him.

No one understood.

Only Caracalla knew that beneath the weight of purple silk and a crown of gold, hidden safely within the folds of his cloak, rested another crown.

One woven from wildflowers.

One made by gentle hands.

One that had asked nothing of him except to be himself.

The gold crown belonged to Rome.

But the one made of wildflowers...

That belonged only to Caracalla.

And maybe one day, he’d see the wildflower girl again.

[glassbxttless]

Alan Munson

eddie munson x bats (fem!reader), alice & roan munson, alan munson

word count: 900+

summary: Corroded Coffin Fest Day 2: Crop Top | One mister, Alan Munson, stops by and just ruins Eddie’s day.

warnings: an unhappy eddie, a shitty parent

notes: This is a submission for @corrodedcoffinfest! If y’all remember Eddie telling the girls about his parents in this fic— here’s the one where the girls meet one of those said parents. If there’s any mistakes, feel free to let me know!

The same pile of laundry has been sitting on the arm chair long enough that it's basically become a permanent part of the furniture. You've been trying to fold the contents of the pile for about ten minutes and somehow, it looks worse than when you started. You sigh, as you shake out one of Eddie's shirts, "I feel like I just folded this one." 

From the couch, not looking away from the TV, Eddie chuckles. "Guess it unfolded itself." 

You glance over at him, “I'm gonna start throwing your shit away." 

"That's fine." He shrugs, taking a sip of his beer. "I'll just start wearing yours. Really lean into the crop top era."

You roll your eyes, abandoning the shirt over the back of the armchair to ball up a sock and toss it at him. It bounces off his shoulder, falls over his chest and down into his lap. He finally looks away from the tv, a smile on his face. "Really? Violence in this house?" 

"Oh, don't you start—"

You're cut off by a door slamming down the hall.

"Ro! If we're late again, I'm not lying for you." Alice calls.

You shake your head and reach for another shirt, it's smaller this time. You hold it up, smiling, it's Roan's. You can hear fast, uneven footsteps bounding down the stairs after her sister's voice. "I'm ready!" She shouts, hopping down the last few steps as she tugs on her sneaker. 

Alice sighs as she appears behind her, her keys in hand, "You're not ready. Shoes, both feet, let's go."

"I'm working on it, hold on." Roan sighs as there's a knock on the door. She pauses, her foot propped up against the wall, half laced. "I got it!" 

"Ro, wait!" You call, moving to put down the laundry in your hands, but she's already there and opening the door. There's a silence that follows. 

"Uh… Who are you?" She frowns. You don't hear much of a response other than a few muffled words. She glances back over her shoulder, "Dad?" She calls, confused. 

Eddie, beer still in his hand, twists at the waist to look over the back of the couch and towards her. His heart drops out his ass when he sees him. "Oh, fuck no." He frowns, pushing himself up off the couch. He places the beer down on the coffee table, shaking his head, loose curls shaking with him. "We're not doing this." He moves over to the door quickly, reaching for Roan and pulling her back behind him. "Inside." 

"What? Why?" Roan counters, only to be stopped by a firm voice she ever hardly hears from her dad.

"Roan Elizabeth. Inside."

Alice tries to peek over her sister's shoulder when she hears the middle name, eyebrows raised. "What's going on?"

Eddie doesn't answer, he's staring straight ahead at the man who's decided to take up refuge on his porch. 

"Hey, Ed." Alan Munson says, like this is just a casual visit. "Hell of a place you've got here." 

Eddie doesn't respond to that in words either, he just raises his brows. 

"I didn't have your number." Al shrugs.

"I know." Eddie snaps. "That was pretty intentional."

You move towards the door then, snaking your way between the girls and your husband as you watch the way Eddie's shoulders climb just a little higher each second he stands in this interaction. 

"Dad?" Alice's voice pipes up behind the two of you. "Who is that?"

Eddie just closes his eyes for half a second, like that question physically pains him to answer. You just slide your hand across his lower back. "No one."

Al exhales and shakes his head, an irritated edge sneaking in, "You gonna introduce me or what?"

"No." Eddie frowns, taking half a step back, moving to swing the door shut.

An unwelcome hand presses against it, holding it open, "Eddie—"

"No." Eddie frowns, stepping forward. "You dont get to walk up to my house with my family inside and act like we're gonna catch up over coffee, it's not happening." 

The girls shift a bit closer to where you're stood behind Eddie. Al's eyes flick past him almost immediately, landing on them. And to a Munson with just enouugh liquid courage running through his veins— that's the wrong move. Eddie moves to block the three of you as best as he can with his body, while you try to usher the girls away from the door. "Don't look at them." 

"Those my grandkids?"

"No."

You slide your hand across his back again gently, "Eds." You try, but he doesn't move. You try again, a bit softer. "Hey."

Al shifts his weight from one side to the other, letting his eyes skim over the entryway. "I'm trying here, kid."

Eddie can't hold back his laugh at that. "It's about thirty years too late."

"Eddie." You say again, much firmer than before. "Look at me."

It takes a second, but you hear him sigh just as his eyes meet yours. You can see all the anger bubbling to the surface, but you also see something else behind those big brown eyes. Something that he still can't shake after all of this time. 

"They're watching you." You say softly and nod your head towards the girls slightly. "We can do this later. Not right now. Not with them right here."

His jaw tightens, but he nods, his eyes fixed on you. "You need to leave." He says, softly. 

Al opens his mouth to speak.

Eddie looks away from you and cuts him off. "No. You don't get some speech. You don't get closure. You don't get anything from me. I meant it before when I said I don't want you in our lives."

And he shuts the door.

[enchantedmoonlight13]

top five (5) songs on repeat

Thanks for tagging me @hotelstares

I Knew it, I Knew You by Taylor Swift

Glitch by Taylor Swift

Man in The Mirror by Michael Jackson

Boys Are Fun by Niall Horan

Delicate by Taylor Swift

Tagging @pepsipoet @chrisssiren @mattsleftball @hauntedhouseofhorrors @ariestrxsh

[enchantedmoonlight13]

hi hi hi sweetheart!! how are youuuuu

Hi love 🩵 I'm doing fine and you ?

[deerilkka]

Reblog if it’s okay to befriend you, ask questions, ask for advice, rant, vent, let something off your chest, or just have a nice chat.

[memesmusingcorner]

Reblog if it's okay to invade your ask box

Always

[girltalk]

maybe peace was worth losing people for