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You aren't sure what to make of Muriel.
You've seen each other periodically since the events of the Masquerade—fighting the Devil and emerging on the other side relatively unscathed tends to bring a group of people closer together, after all. Asra's been away for nearly two months, traveling alongside his parents in a bid to reconnect with them, and Muriel has become a fixture at the shop in his absence. You've grown used to seeing him here, cautiously navigating around your wares, taking deliberate care not to knock over or disturb anything. Positioned beside the counter anytime you emerge from a reading with one of the townspeople, almost as if he's standing guard. Buying myrrh (always more myrrh) and barely speaking to you.
If you're being honest, Muriel intimidates you. It isn't the scars or the imposing figure he cuts, all muscle and chest—yeah, it definitely isn't his figure that bothers you. You'd mentioned something about it offhandedly to Portia during a night at the tavern you only hazily remember and she's gone on to tease you about it every time you've seen her since.
Muriel confuses you, leaves you vulnerable and (though you'd never admit it) wanting. You find yourself rambling during his visits, rushing to fill his silences with stories of the places Asra's taken you, the banal interactions you had at the marketplace that morning, the neighbor woman who won't stop pestering you about performing a love ritual for her. Stories he can't possibly care about, that he only replies to in nods and the occasional sympathetic grunt.
You see him every three days, sometimes more, and you can't for the life of you figure out why his visits have become so frequent. Asra must have asked him to keep you company while he's off roaming, or maybe Muriel just feels some sort of obligation, considering recent events, to ensure the shop is protected—no one person needs that much myrrh.
So when he hasn't appeared at the shop in almost a week, you find yourself worried and cold, walking through the forest.
#
You had briefly considered calling out to Asra, asking him what you should do. Six days without seeing Muriel isn't an unreasonable amount of time by any stretch of the imagination—he's reclusive by nature and had probably just grown tired of the constant social interaction you foisted upon him. But the palace fountain is an unreliable means of communication at best, and you'd feel guilty interrupting his time with Aisha and Salim over something so trivial as your unfounded concern for Muriel, a man who, Asra would surely remind you, prefers isolation, a man who avoids venturing into town at all costs.
You decide to sleep on it, and when you wake up just as unsettled and anxious as you were the night before, you pack a bag. Pumpkin bread and some cheeses, a canteen full of a tea Muriel seems to especially enjoy: a lunch you can point to as an excuse for your presence if it isn't welcome. As an afterthought, you throw in a pork bone leftover from last night's dinner for Inanna and some myrrh, a few sachets worth—Muriel had bought it each time he'd come in, perhaps he was out of it by now?
The sun is high in the sky when you reach the edge of the woods. You journey deeper into the woods, confident that some instinctual sense of direction will guide you.
Eventually, it becomes clear that you've vastly overestimated yourself. You've visited Muriel's hut only twice before, always accompanied by Asra. On your own, have no idea what you're doing. You're disoriented, constantly having to catch yourself from tripping over exposed tree roots, distracted by the wind that's beginning to whip through the forest, hissing against your ears and stinging your exposed shoulders. Being alone in the woods overwhelms you with a feeling of hopelessness you didn't expect—the last time you were here, you had seen Lucio in his goat form, stark pale against the greenery. There isn't any risk of a repeat appearance, not anymore, but knowing that doesn't help to make you feel any less unsettled. You rifle through your bag, praying to find a compass buried underneath your meal, something from a previous outing that might help you. Nothing but flattened bread and myrrh.
Desperate and aimless, you bring one of the sachets to your nose, allowing yourself one small indulgence amidst the mess you've gotten yourself into. The resin's aroma is comforting and all too familiar: woody and warm, almost licorice-like. It smells like Muriel.
You inhale deeply again and feel almost reinvigorated, renewed—like there's some force inside you pulling you in the right direction, something undeniably magical guiding you. You feel your body relax, the elements and the discomfort dulling until they're hardly noticeable, and you allow yourself to be led. You follow a small stream for some time before passing through a clearing teeming with wildflowers, winding your way between gnarled trees until you find yourself, imperceptibly, standing on his doorstep.
You only have to knock once on the hut's door before he's there, looming over you, bewilderment clear on his face.
"Muriel." You can't help yourself—seeing him is good, too good. Maybe you missed him more than you were willing to admit.
"What." It isn't a question. He's frowning—should you not have come? This was a bad idea.
Stupidly, you hold up the bag slung across your torso.
"I brought lunch."
#
The hut is the same as it was the last time you saw it: sparsely furnished, dripping in furs and hides. A fire is blazing, and various whittled woodland creatures are painstakingly arranged on a shelf above the hearth. Inanna, sprawled at the foot of the fire, perks her ears up and crosses the room to as soon as you're inside—you're flattered for about half a second before she's nosing at the bag in your hands and you realize what it is she's after. You dig out the pork bone and gingerly place it into her waiting mouth: satisfied, she lopes away, settling in amongst a pile of furs to gnaw at it.
Muriel disappeared deeper inside the hut the second he stepped aside to allow you in. You take a moment to collect yourself, setting your bag down and working to unbuckle and unlace your soiled boots. The hut is warm, small but well-maintained by Muriel—but you're beginning to doubt your decision to come here. He'd been angry when he'd seen you, standing rumpled and uninvited on his doorstep, and you understand why. You've shown up unannounced, fully aware that Muriel is a person who values his privacy more than anything. You've intruded, and you can see now that you clearly aren't welcome here—
There's a cough from behind you.
You turn. Muriel is standing there redfaced, a quilt in his outstretched hands. You take it, gratefully, taking a tentative seat on the dirt floor of the hut and wrapping it around yourself. He nods, not looking at you, and moves to sit beside Inanna at the hearth.
"I'm sorry." You speak without thinking, hating the way he won't meet your eyes. "I shouldn't have come here without asking—it wasn't right of me to think I could just show up whenever I wanted—".
"It's too late for lunch," Muriel says without humor. He's staring blankly at you now, Inanna's head lolling against his thigh. It probably is too late for lunch—you aren't sure how long you spent walking the woods before you found the hut. It could well be evening by now and you'd be none the wiser.
"Where have you been?" You ask him, toying with a frayed edge of the blanket to try and calm your mind. You're nervous—being here, in his home, is startlingly intimate. And he's about to tell you he's decided he no longer has any use for the shop or your company. He pauses before he answers. If it wasn't for the red glow of the fire, you'd swear he was blushing.
"My ankle. Rolled it. Had to keep it up for a few days. Didn't want to bother you." Your eyes go to it immediately, but he shakes his head, mumbling something that sounds like reassurance. You would've healed him if he'd been at the shop. Kept it elevated and brought him tea. He seems embarrassed—you aren’t sure whether it's because he hurt himself or because of something else entirely.
He's beautiful, in this light. The fire casts shadows about the room but seems to light Muriel from the inside-out, flushing his skin orange and gold.
"I missed you."
You watch him wrinkle his nose at this, genuine confusion clear on his face.
"Why?"
You aren't sure what to say to that. Where would you even start? You miss his presence in the shop—seeing his hulking frame in your peripheral vision and feeling comforted by it. Serving him a new kind of tea and delighting in the little curl of his lip when he doesn't like it, knowing he'll keep his thoughts to himself and drink the whole cup regardless. Being listened to without judgment by someone with no ulterior motives. The fleeting weight of his hand on your back when passing you in the shop, the line of his body under his cowl.
The way he's gazing at you now as if he can see the whole of your internal monologue playing across your face—
Muriel crosses the room to you then, faster than you've ever seen him move, deftly pulling you to your feet and taking your face in his hands. The quilt you'd swathed yourself in is easily discarded, left pooling around your feet. He meets your eyes with shot pupils—you've never had a chance to study him so closely, to stare without fearing being caught. You can feel the scruff on his cheeks against your own, the weight his hands, calloused but warm, so big—
"Have you eaten?" He asks with absolute seriousness, one of his thumbs rubbing a circle against your jaw. You blink.
"Before I left, I think, but I'm not hungry—"
And then he's kissing you, a tender press of his lips against yours. It's soft, so careful, but hungry. You reach up to thread a hand in his hair, desperate to pull him closer, to lick inside his mouth and learn his taste. He pulls away before you're ready for it, looking down at you with wild eyes.
"How long?" He asks, breath hot against your mouth.
"Since the first time I saw you. Maybe before, I don't remember—but a lot, lately. So much, Muriel." The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, your voice high and needy. And it's true, all of it—you've always wanted Muriel, wanted this. He makes you feel things you haven't felt since long before the plague, instills in you an overwhelming tenderness, the likes of which you never anticipated yourself finding again. You want. Whatever he'll give you, whatever he'll let you take. The two of you, hidden away from the rest of the world in this cabin, coming together to build something new and terrifying. You want that, maybe more than you've ever wanted anything.
"I—yes. Okay." Muriel rasps, voice rough from a combination of disuse and arousal, breaking you from reverie. Then he's kissing you again, desperate and heady, parting your lips with his tongue and licking. You pant into his mouth, unable to stop yourself from reflexively pulling at his hair. Muriel must like that—it only makes him kiss you harder, nipping at your bottom lip and pressing his body to yours as close as he possibly can. You feel his hands move down to the small of your back, dipping lower until he's lifting you, handily groping your ass as he pulls you to him. After a split-second's hesitation, you wrap your legs around his waist and allow yourself to be held. You've never had a partner who could do this before—you're not small by any means, easily a few inches taller than Asra, with arms toned from years of brewing draughts and tending hearths—but Muriel carries you as if you weigh nothing. It's sort of exhilarating to have a partner who so clearly has the physical upper hand on you.
Muriel walks the two of you over to the pile of furs and cushions that serves as his bed, face buried in your neck all the while. Breath heavy and hot against your skin, he sets you down softly on your back and pulls away. You look up at him from your place among the velvet furs and will yourself to memorize this moment—Muriel looks wrecked. Every inch of skin you can see is flushed red, from the tips of his ears to his broad chest, completely exposed under his cloak. His dark hair is tangled, plastered to his forehead with sweat. You want to reach out, run your hand over the rosy plane of his chest until you know every scar and bruise, memorize the lines of his body until you know him by touch alone. You settle for pushing yourself to a seated position on the bed, hands toying with the edges of your tunic.
"Is this okay?" Muriel nods in response, tentatively reaching down to cover your hands with his own, helping you to pull the tunic above your head. You've barely tossed it aside before his hands are on you again, ghosting over your nipples in a way that pulls an embarrassing, wanton gasp from your lips. You twine a hand in his hair and pull his mouth to yours, sucking and laving your tongue over his bottom lip until he's exhaling sharply and tightening his grip on your waist. You reach blindly for the leather harness that's keeping his cloak intact through all this, tugging at it impatiently. Muriel laughs into your mouth at this, the sound making you smile in spite of yourself, and reaches up to help you. The cloak is discarded quickly then, leaving the two of you pressed together, breathing raggedly and grinning like fools
"What do you want?" He doesn't break his gaze as he speaks, eyes dark and unwavering, and it takes a considerable amount of self-restraint for you not to come undone right there and then. You swallow hard before answering him.
"You, mostly." You can feel a blush spreading across your cheeks but can't bring yourself to tear your eyes from Muriel's. "I—I want to make you feel good. I've wanted that. We can figure out the rest in the morning—just touch me now. Please, Muriel—"
You don't have to say anything else before he's on you, hooking your leg around his waist and catching your lips in a crushing kiss. It feels good, better than you'd allowed yourself to imagine it would be—Muriel's weight on top of you anchoring you to the moment, his tongue greedily lapping into your mouth. You can't help yourself—you arch your back, desperate for some friction, and fuck. Your entire body practically thrums in anticipation—you can feel him, hard and heavy against your thigh. He's—he's big. Fuck. You snake a hand between your bodies without thinking, palming him through the fabric of his trousers. Muriel breaks your kiss, burying his head in your hair and shuddering.
"Let me see you," You plead, replacing your hand with a knee shoved between his legs, grinding up and relishing the way Muriel bears down on it in response. He ruts against you like this for a few moments, his hands moving to grab fistfuls of the furs you lay on. He's out of breath when he finally lets up, exhaling shakily as he pulls himself off you. Even kneeling between your legs he towers over you—you wonder what you must look like to him, laying in his bed with your legs spread, your mouth red and swollen from his kiss. He reaches for his belt buckle, looking almost shy about it, and you resist the urge to reach out and do the work for him. Instead, you lay back, propping yourself up on your elbows for a better view, and allow yourself the indulgence of watching him.
Muriel's hands are clumsy as they fiddle with the belt holding up his pants—you won't ask him to take off the collar, not tonight. The chain had scraped at your chest when he was on top of you, a not completely unwelcome sensation—regardless, you've never seen him without it. He doesn't seem ready to part with it, not yet, and you'll respect that.
A satisfied sigh from above you—Muriel's finally managed to loosen his belt enough to shove his trousers down his thighs. He spares you a glance as he undresses—you give him a smile and what you hope is a reassuring nod—but then his cock is freed, hitting his stomach with a lewd slap, and you lose all capacity for intelligent thought.
He's thick and leaking precum for you—you did that to him, a truth you still can't wrap your head around. Muriel's proportionate, which is to say: much too large for you to take tonight without extensive preparation and patience, the latter of which you lack entirely. You want everything—and eventually, you promise yourself, you'll work up to having him bury himself inside you.
But right now, you need him in your mouth.
You push yourself to a seated position, placing your hands on the back of Muriel's thighs and urging him closer—he follows your lead, shuffling on his knees towards you, and with some quick repositioning, your face is only inches away from his throbbing cock, close enough for him to feel every stilted breath you take. You look up at him, asking permission—he nods, letting one of his hands fall to your face. where he tucks a piece of your unkempt hair behind your ear.
You wrap a hand around him, finally, pulling his foreskin back until you've exposed his head. You can't help yourself—your tongue darts out to wet your lips and all of sudden you're leaning forward, tongue circling around him as you draw his head into your waiting mouth. Above you, Muriel shudders, his hand moving from your cheek to rest at the crown of your head. You sink lower onto his cock, tongue laving, cheeks hollowed, and he tugs on your hair almost involuntarily. You moan around him encouragingly, pulling off for a second to lick the palm of your hand. You wrap around it his base and take him into your mouth again, moving your spit-slicked hand up and down his shaft, making up for the inches you know you won't be able to take in your throat. Dipping your tongue into his slit, you glance upwards, only to be met by heavy-lidded green eyes. You thought Muriel looked wrecked earlier—you aren't sure you know of a word to describe his current state. His swollen lip is caught between his teeth, doing little to muffle the low groans that escape him. Keeping your eyes locked on his, his cock hot on your tongue, you let your free hand settle on the thick curve of his ass, hauling him closer to you still.
It's an invitation, and Muriel doesn't have to be asked twice.
Both of his hands are in your hair then, holding your head steady as he shallowly thrusts into your mouth, pushing his cock further and further until you can feel it in the back of your throat, until you're swallowing around him and choking a little with the effort of it. You can feel your own cock straining against your trousers, desperate for some kind of friction, can feel the spit collecting at the corners of your mouth. You must look a mess, but all you can bring yourself to think of is the way Muriel tastes, an intoxicating combination of sweat and earth. You focus on the way he clutches at your hair like a lifeline, the way your name falls from his lips in little gasps—like a prayer, like some a debauched incantation. You make yourself focus on breathing through your nose, ignoring the ache in your jaw and taking, by some miracle, more of him, until you can feel your nose brushing the hair at the base of his cock.
Muriel comes suddenly and with a sob, moaning your name as he pulses inside your mouth. You swallow as much of it as you can, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. Pulling away, you suck sloppily on the head of his softening cock, feeling his hands release their grip on your hair and instead begin to stroke your head. He pulls you into his lap the second you're releasing his cock and wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, takes to running his hands up and down your back until you're sure mapped out every inch of you, murmuring affirmations into your hair all the while. You press your lips to the warm column of his neck, allowing yourself a moment to catch your breath.
When he tilts your head up and kisses you, it's devastatingly tender, more intimate than anything you've felt in years. "So good for me," He breathes against your lips, and you find yourself unable to keep from smiling against his mouth. It feels right, being here with Muriel. As if you've been here before, or as if this is where you were always meant to end up. His hands find their way to your waist, holding you snug against him and anchoring you to reality.
"My turn?"
One of his large hands settles on your thigh, and your cock, half-hard and nearly forgotten in your determination to please Muriel, throbs against your thigh at the contact. You wind your hands around his neck, meeting his eyes hungrily.
"Please."
His hands make quick work of your trousers, gently lifting you up to pull them down your ankles before he sets you back in his lap, your exposed cock already hard for him again, aching from the lack of attention it's received. He swipes his thumb over your slit and strokes you languidly, already coaxing lewd whines from your chest. You watch him jerk you off, huge hands rough and warm on your cock, and with his mouth nipping at your earlobe between whispers of praise, it isn't long before you're spilling over his hands, finishing with a high keen.
#
You're boneless in his arms after that, content and exhausted. Your legs remain fastened around his waist, your face buried in his chest as he moves about the hut, supporting your weight with one hand while he fetches a cloth and water, cleans the sweat and sex from you both.
You're drifting in and out of consciousness by the time he settles you back into bed, weary from both the force of your orgasm and the revelations of tonight's visit. You fall into a sound sleep easily, Muriel's body curled around your own, Inanna lazing protectively at your feet—and for the first time in years, you dream of nothing.