#hehe i thought they would be!
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grapecaseschoices · 12 days ago
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ooh what about 6, 7 and 9 for any ocs of your choosing (from the love ask game) 🥰
gonna do my dee ayy kidlets, the so called 'world staters' only tho.
6. Has your OC ever had their heart broken? Have they ever truly recovered?
Haldi (dao): Yes. In a sense, yeah. I think the what ifs might have haunted her more if she didn't have a whole blight and the familial heart-break weighing more. In a world where she was still princess and in Orzammar, having to let go of Gorim would have stung more.
Noah (da2): What is recovery when you're still with the cause of your heart-break? Don't worry, after his mother and his siblings and Isabela's nonsense, Anders isn't that big of a deal. haha. ha. oh boy.
No, I kid that is still a huge a heart-break and they're ... dealing together. So, I suppose it depends on what your parameters of 'recovery' are.
I suppose the Biggest Heart-Break Was Himself All Along. You know, the sense of failing those in his care.
Kendis (dai): Isn't DAI just a huge time line of heart-break for the Inquisitor? ROFLMAO. Regardless of who you romance, but particularly if you romance SOLAS AND BLACKWALL! ahem. Which funnily enough, the former bestie and the ex possible bf. Well. I mean. Nothing blew up, so I'd say they're handling and recovering from that shit rather well. I mean ... it is too black and white to say yes or no. I feel Kendis is doing their best to move on, but it is like an old injury. some days you can spend so long without it acting up you never think about it, some moments it twinges, and others ..... on the really and extremely bad days .... I think Kendis has made more peace with Blackwall because there was a ... 'satisfying' aftermath. She hurt him verbally and they've convinced themselves it's nothing. It is more ... sour with Solas, but thankfully they refuse to let him steal their happiness. They refuse to be him [well, this is all pre da4]
7. What is the most romantic gesture your OC has ever performed? Alternatively (or additionally), what romantic gesture would they most like to perform?
Haldi: Is not dying to save the world not enough?
Noah: Is not killing him when he fucked up the world not enough? ROFLMAO QWERE lmao.
Haldi: I think the warden remembering what the ros said and getting them signfiicant things, is quite the romantic gesture. I feel Haldi would do it with a bit more [private] fanfare.
Noah: I feel Noah does grand things that are just grand but are considered romantic because they're together. I feel they're certainly intimate and understanding gestures -- something that proves they're long married old men even though they've been dating just a bit. Like restocking Anders' clinc with some good shit. Had Varric and Isabela corrall him away and got on it. Welcomed Anders with a space of his own when he moved in, and also with plans to adopt a baby kitten.
Kendis: Fought a whole ass duel. LMAO. And that was BEFORE they were serious serious serious. Need I say more?
I actually feel the stuff the inquistor does for Josie is on par with Kendis, sorta like how the Warden's fit Haldi -- fighting a duel, taking her to the opera. Except there would definitely be more fanfare and less privacy about THAT [well outside of the duel, though they loudly told the war council that they fought and won a duel. just for the various reactions. leliana was nice enough to act a shocked]
I think Kendis would lean on Noah doing "regular" stuff as grand gestures of romance, except like I mentioned with Kendis it would be with flair~ Dragging Josie from work for dinner in a tavern is a regular romantic gesture [in Josie's it is lowkey grand, bc awwww kendis~~~] but dragging her to a fancy place reserved thanks to viv followed by a shopping trip? that's more grand. arguably kendis could go bigger, if they had the time.
9. If your OC were ever to fill out a Dating Site (or pamphlet or newspaper) profile, then what would they include?
I don't think any of them would, lol. Haldi because the Dating Site is the shaperate I'm sure or wheoever is keeping track of bloodlines. Noah because he never had the time being Malcolm 2.0 for his family and I guess Dad to kirkwall or whatever. Kendis because it would never be her thing.
For all of them it would have to be done by others ... well, maybe not Noah. It probably started as a joke from Varric and then Merrill and Isabela semi-seriously started doing it before he took it over as a haha heehee relax joke thing .... until Anders swiped right lmao.
What would he include? I feel so many pictures of him with his loved ones but he's almost always slightly out of frame or if he is fully in, it is blurry.
a short list about love
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odoraful · 4 months ago
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𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒
even in their relationship with you, they still have their moments of jealousy every now and again
⟡ content: zayne/sylus/xavier/rafayel x gn!reader; established relationship; luke & kieran appearance in sylus’ scene; new receptionist in zayne's scene; andrew appearance in xavier's scene; a little silly and a lot fluffy; 0.8–1k words per scene
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ZAYNE ⟡
Every situation requires an assessment to determine the most logical course of action. Zayne embodied this statement in his work, and even in parts of his relationship with you. One such part was when it came to jealousy. In all his assessments, 99% of the time, there was no threat, and, therefore, no intervention required. In any case, if a guy were to approach you in such a way, he trusted you entirely as well to not entertain him. However, as he opened his office door to call you from the waiting room, he was confronted by that 1%.
The new receptionist hired to work alongside Yvonne was young, charming, and far too friendly. Especially towards you. You stopped by quite regularly. Sometimes for your scheduled check-in appointments, and oftentimes to simply visit Zayne during his downtime. That was enough for the young man to recognise you, his energy ignited by your presence.
Zayne could only see your side profile as you stood by the receptionist desk, engaged in a conversation with the young man. You appeared to be all smiles with him today. Whatever story he was telling seemed to be so thrilling. Zayne’s face remained calm, aside from the twitch of his jaw when he clenched his teeth. If anybody had been watching, they would have likely jumped at such a sign of vexation by the cardiac surgeon.
Until that point, he thought he had known what jealousy was. He had read it in books and seen it in TV shows, all of which portrayed jealousy leading to several outbursts and stand-offs. However, as he felt something rising from the pit of his stomach and burning in his chest, he understood that the purest kind of it now flared inside him. It was a dangerous emotion that clouded his mind and, before he knew it, his feet had carried him right to your side.
Mr. Chatterbox regarded Zayne with disbelief at his approach, standing up to properly greet him.
“Doc! What a rare sight seeing you personally greet a patient at the desk.”
Zayne paid only a cursory glance and the slightest nod of acknowledgement to him before his attention was narrowed on you.
“If you’d like to come in now, Y/N,” Zayne said, his voice smooth and warm.
You nodded. “Of course.”
As you walked, he placed his hand at the small of your back, pulling you closer to him by just a fraction. He turned his head to the side, enough so the young man could see his sharp eyes. Zayne wasn’t one for outbursts, so he hoped this calculated display was enough of a warning.
Watching Dr. Zayne disappear with you into his office, the receptionist muttered to himself, “Why does it feel chillier in here than before?”
Yvonne, a bystander to everything that just occurred, quietly approached her freshly hired colleague from behind. She delt a swift smack on his head with the edge of her palm. He yelped out in exaggerated pain, rubbing at the spot as if she had just given him a bruise.
“Could you be anymore oblivious…” she sighed, shaking her head. Her gaze then turned fiery as she began to scold, “And how many times have I told you to stop yammering around patients!?”
At the sound of Yvonne’s voice, he immediately redirected his efforts. Not even addressing his colleague’s prior criticism, he clasped his hands together.
“Miss Yvonne! How are you doing on this lovely–”
“Fax this, please,” she interrupted, holding a referral letter up directly to his face.
He gave a mock shiver, taking the paper from Yvonne’s hand. “So cold in this division.”
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“It seemed like you were making good conversation with our new hire,” Zayne commented, closing the door behind him.
You breathed a laugh. “He’s quite chatty. I guess it’s good to have someone so energetic working at the desk.”
That sensation within Zayne turned molten, though, you couldn’t have known with the coolness of his palm. What would be his intervention here? Maybe he needed to have a stern conversation with the young man, or perhaps he had to be more obvious in his affections towards you. He could never match the energy the receptionist had, so it would be impossible to achieve such a feat.
In his momentary stewing, you let out an uncertain hum.
“To be honest, he kept talking about himself... it was a little overwhelming,” you confessed sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck with your hand. “I couldn’t be impolite to him, so I just smiled and nodded at whatever he said!”
Instantly, Zayne’s mind cleared. His jealousies dwindled into nothing more than ashes. A part of him even felt silly at how intense he was feeling just a few seconds ago.
Unexpectedly, he rested his head on your shoulder with a sigh. Your eyes widened with confusion before you chuckled.
“Isn’t this a bit unprofessional, doctor?” you teased.
“Feel free to file a complaint to the hospital’s human resource division,” he retorted, not missing a beat.
Your mirth readily turned into concern at the affectionate display.
“But seriously, Zayne, is everything okay?” you asked, poking at his cheek.
Zayne lifted his head. He seemed to be, surprisingly, relieved. Though, you couldn’t figure out what exactly he would be relieved about.
“Yes, everything is perfect now.”
SYLUS ⟡
There was nothing that a deathly glare or a good shove couldn’t do to resolve Sylus’ jealousy. Warding off any unsuspecting parties was his speciality, especially if it involved them getting too close to you. However, the leader of Onychinus was thrown for a loop when his very own henchmen were sparking these feelings.
“You are… going out with Y/N today?” Sylus spoke slowly, as if sounding out syllables to a baby. “Is what I’m hearing correct, Luke?”
Kieran not-so-subtly kicked Luke in the shin. Luke stifled a groan. Rather than be on their way to Linkon (and to you), they were here being confronted by the boss. It was an unfortunate slip-up from Luke as they were about to leave, which caused Sylus to sternly halt their exit.
“Yes, boss.” Luke replied, trying to stand up straighter with only one good shin.
“And for what reason exactly?” Sylus asked.
Luke resignedly sighed.
“They wanted someone to–”
“Help clean their apartment!” Kieran quickly finished.
He turned and gave a pointed glare to his twin brother. You better follow along, it seemed to threaten.
Luke began nodding profusely, “Yep! Gosh, boss, you wouldn’t even believe the mess!”
“This type of menial work was probably too peasantry for you–”
“So, they invited us instead!”
Sylus’ henchmen stood there, looking quite proud of themselves and their innocent display. Sylus rolled his eyes at their dramatics. Luke and Kieran could do any task Sylus asked, no matter how dirty, and yet they were quite terrible at lying. Maybe he needed to teach them some skills in deception later. He dismissed them sharply with a wave of his hand.
“Go. Make sure to return before I leave this evening.”
The henchmen bowed, preparing to scurry away, but before they could, Sylus spoke again,
“Don’t take your eyes off them for even a second, do you understand?”
They turned back to Sylus and nodded, bowing once again.
“And–”
Sylus’ continual interruption of their exit left them in an awkward position right at the threshold of his office.
“–they don’t enjoy mopping, so I trust one of you will play the gentleman and take up that task.”
“You got it, boss.” Luke and Kieran said in unison before finally departing.
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Sylus was planning on sleeping before your date in the evening, but that was completely out of the question now.
Hanging out with Luke and Kieran? To, supposedly, clean? He knew what they had told him was a lie. However, a small, burning part of him was frustrated. If that had been the truth, he naturally would have been the far better partner. With the time you had shared together, surely you had not so quickly found his own company lacklustre in comparison to his henchmen. He could have been in your apartment, with you, cleaning together. Instead, he was in his mansion, alone, and grumpy. Grumpy enough to open his tablet, and switch to his camera feeds connected to Mephisto.
He had asked if his skilled companion could do a bit of reconnaissance at your apartment to confirm what this ragtag trio were doing. As the camera feed loaded, he saw that your home was empty. Internally, he cursed. Mephisto flew down to street level, and, as luck would have it, three familiar people stepped out of the apartment complex. Luke and Kieran were there (wearing face masks and caps that disguised their faces as opposed to their crow masks) along with you.
Sylus sat up in his bed. 
He followed this trio as they walked to a nearby clothing store. Unfortunately, it would be considered odd for a crow to be indoors, so all Mephisto could do was perch atop a bench in front of the establishment and watch the three of you retreat inside behind the automatic glass doors.
Tossing the tablet aside onto the silk sheets, Sylus crossed him arms. If the thought of not being able to clean with you had made him grumpy, then seeing that he was not invited to shop for clothes with you truly made his blood boil with jealousy. As he attempted to get some rest, he thought about casual ways to mention on this evening’s date how he could rent out entire department stores for you if you wanted.
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Sylus tapped his dress shoes rhythmically against the floor, awaiting your door to be opened after he had rung the bell. He had arrived at exactly 5 o’clock to pick you up, and although he was always well put together, he put in a little extra effort on his hair this time.
He heard the door unlock, slowly opening to only reveal your head poking out. He cocked his head to the side.
“Sweetie, are you trying to hide from me?”  
“Mmm, think of it more like I’m building anticipation,” you explained with a grin on your face.
Sylus laughed fondly. He leaned his own head against the wall beside the doorframe, turning to look at you.
“Consider me sufficiently anticipated,” he replied. “Now, may I see you?”
You gestured for him to move back so you could give a grand reveal.
“I just bought this today.”
The door swung open, and you stepped outside.
“How do I look?”
Very little could surprise Sylus; however, you had utterly blindsided him in this moment. You were wearing a dress that Sylus didn’t recognise from your current wardrobe. He knew then that the outing with Luke and Kieran had been to surprise him with a new dress for your date.
Flowy, ruby fabric draped against your figure, reaching down to your ankles. His eyes followed the heart-shaped neckline that framed the pearl necklace that rested at your collarbones, matching the accessory in your hair. All this prepared just for him.
“You look absolutely radiant,” he breathed.
Closing the distance, he snaked a hand around you, toying with the smooth material under his warm fingertips. Seeing how gorgeous you were almost alleviated his earlier frustrations, until he came to a sour realisation.
“Though, I can’t help but be… annoyed that Luke and Kieran saw this surprise before me.”
You bit your lip. Of course, Sylus had figured out what his henchmen were doing throughout the day. His voice grew deeper as his lips brushed against your ear.
“Next time, kitten, you should invite me to go with you instead.”
XAVIER ⟡
It took very little to spark Xavier’s jealousy, as much as the man himself would want to deny it. Strangers, colleagues, and acquaintances could cause his unassuming appearance to transform into a hostile front if they got too friendly with you. But today was another ordinary workday, so there would surely be no situation where Xavier should feel such a way.
There had been a string of quiet days at the Hunters Association that meant that Team Alpha could finally make use of their office. Namely you and Xavier, who usually were assigned to field missions. Your neglected chair squeaked under your weight as you stretched your body, lifting your arms high into the air then relaxing. Twirling the pen in your hand, the words on page about recent energy fluctuations seemed to swirl in your vision. Xavier turned from his own desk to observe you.
“I’m going to get a drink from the vending machine.” He stood up, the wheels of his chair clattering against the hard floor. “Do you want one too?”
“Green tea, please,” you replied.
“Warm or cold?”
“Cold,” you decided. You clapped your hands against your face, squishing your cheeks. “I need to shock my system to wake it up.”
Xavier’s face broke into a smile. “Sounds like a good plan.”
Before he could walk away, a voice called out your name.
“Morning Y/N!”
Xavier narrowed his eyes slightly at the approaching man.
He was tall (though not as tall as himself), with ashy hair precisely tousled to reveal his forehead, and friendly eyes. Xavier’s senses heightened in the same way as they would in a battle with a Wanderer. The unfamiliar man had greeted you with such familiarity. Only two words had been spoken, yet it was enough to irk Xavier. If he had called you less kindly, that would have helped to lower his guard.
To his surprise, the man turned his attention towards him.
“Ah, you must be Xavier! I’ve heard much about you.” He extended his hand. “I’m Andrew, head of the Data Analysis sector.”
Xavier stared at Andrew’s hand for a moment—blinking and discerning. Head of Data Analysis… Is this some kind of power move? He gave the hand a brusque shake.
“Excuse me, I need to get some drinks for the two of us,” he said, turning on his heel and walking away to the office’s break room.
Andrew furrowed his brows as he watched Xavier leave.
“Quite elusive, isn’t he?”
You shook your head.
“Maybe when you first meet him. But once you get to know him, you’ll see just how reliable he is.”
The tenderness in your tone came unconsciously to you, but it always happened when you spoke about Xavier to others. Especially towards those who might misinterpret his neutral disposition.
Small talk continued over the next minute between you and Andrew, until he suddenly looked at you with a slight frown.
“There’s an eyelash on your face,” he said, pointing vaguely to the left side of your face.
You used your fingers to swipe across your skin, yet Andrew still shook his head.
“No, no. It’s right here.”
He brought his finger closer to show you exactly where it was.
The dull thud of plastic bottles falling to the ground could be heard a couple of metres beside you. A blinding light zipped through the air, alongside a gust of air that swept your hair back. Before you could even register what had caused this phenomenon, Xavier appeared between you and Andrew. Your wide eyes stared at his hand gripping Andrew’s wrist.
“Xavier?” you called in surprise.
Xavier seemed equally shocked at how instinctually he acted. One moment he had seen Andrew’s hand move closer to your face, and the next he was face-to-face with him.
“I-I don’t know what came over me.” He released Andrew from his iron hold. “I'm really sorry”.
With a small bow, Xavier braced himself, ready to receive the full brunt of anger from the Head of Data Analysis. He shuddered at the thought that this might be reported to Captain Jenna. Instead, Andrew shook his head calmly.
“Don’t worry about it.” He gave an understanding smile, observing your worried expression towards Xavier. “In fact, I do believe this was my bad.”
The abandoned green tea bottles rolled lazily beside the desks, and Andrew picked them up. “I’ll be heading off to my office now, I’ll see you two later.”
Handing the drinks to you and Xavier, you both expressed your thanks. As Andrew left, you turned to Xavier.
“Xavier,” you spoke slowly, “what exactly was that?”
He scratched his head and diverted his eyes from you.
“I saw he was getting too close, and my body moved faster than my head…”
It was hard not to react at how adorably guilty he looked.
What am I going to do with you? You thought, sighing in affectionate amusement.
“I know how it must have looked from afar, but there was just an eyelash on my face that Andrew was trying to point out,” you explained.
Again, you swiped a finger across your face. “I still don’t know where it is though.”
Your movements were halted as Xavier gently grasped your wrist. He leaned in close, examining your face. You felt his light touch against your eyelids as he took off the lash.
“You know, there’s a superstition about this,” he began, handing the lash to you.
“They say if you have a stray eyelash, you can use it to make a wish.”
He cleared his throat, the tips of his ears turning red believing his next words to perhaps sound a little childish. 
“So, I wanted to be the one who would give you that wish.”
RAFAYEL ⟡
Rafayel’s jealousy would make itself known to you the moment he felt it. Though he would hide it between clever, teasing remarks, it was cute to see how clingy he got when it happened. And there was no better situation to provoke such feelings than at a gala hosted by Flux Arts. Admittedly, it was difficult to get the artist himself to attend these gatherings that featured one of his own paintings, so Thomas had to devise a convincing reason for him to go. That reason, naturally, being you. If you were his plus one, Rafayel could certainly face any battle.
You stood in front of Rafayel’s painting now as he had left you for the moment to speak with Thomas. Even after being exposed to his work many times (both mid progress and completed) they still managed to instil awe within you.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?”
The voice pulled you back into the room, and you looked over at the stranger beside you. He appeared to be slightly older and was likely a wealthy, enthusiastic patron of the gala.
“Yes, it is,” you agreed. “It’s one of my favourites.”
In truth, you favoured it because you were there when Rafayel painted it. From start to finish, he had you at his side. Though abstract, upon closer inspection, one could extrapolate details of a city with glorious towers and vibrant, thriving coral. It held a special place in your heart.
The man’s eyes were glued to the painting.
“Rafayel truly is an artist you get once in a lifetime.”
You couldn’t help but smile at the sincerity in the gentleman’s compliment.
“It’s hypnotising to witness the scenes he creates,” he continued. “He seems to bare his soul in each painting.”
“He is quite an expressive man,” you commented, breathing a small laugh.
From picking out the perfect outfits to the perfect paint materials, passion infused every part of Rafayel’s life, including in his relationship with you. It was one of his greatest traits you adored about him.
The familiarity in your tone was lost on the man, who believed you to only be an admirer of the artist, and not an admirer of a different sort.
The conversation continued, and you discovered the man to be a professor of history. He had discovered Rafayel through his own interest in ancient civilisations such as Lemuria. You couldn’t help but beam with pride listening to the man speak so highly of Rafayel, and the impression his works had left on him. The man soon took his leave, thanking you for entertaining his enthusiastic ramblings.
You were so engrossed that you didn’t notice Rafayel with his arms folding behind you. He graciously gave you a few seconds to detect his presence. Though, his frown grew as you continued to be, supposedly, too starstruck from your earlier conversation with that stranger.
He cleared his throat loudly.
You spun around at the familiar voice.
“Raf! How long have you been standing there for?”
He shrugged with as much nonchalance as he could muster. However, anyone with two eyes could have guessed the annoyance on his face.
“Enough to hear the last bits of your conversation.” He strode to your side, arms still folded tight across his chest. “Found interesting company so soon after I left?”
You closed the gap between the two of you with a step, preparing to explain the true nature of that conversation. Not letting you interrupt his sulking, Rafayel continued,
“I need to be more wary. There are too many people here wanting to whisk you away from me.”
As soon as you walked into the gallery arm-in-arm, people’s eyes were drawn to the two of you. At his mention that you were the centre of attention, you had dismissed it, saying it was him everyone took interest in.
Tilting your head to the side, you placed your hands your hips, almost as if to say: Are you going to let me speak?
Rafayel quickly conceded, spluttering out his next question, “And why were you being so chummy with that stranger, anyway?”
“That stranger said he was a professor of history specialising in ancient cities, and that he’s been an admirer of your works for a long time,” you answered.
Poking at his cheek with your finger, you attempted to remove his pout that remained affixed on his face.
“I was being chummy because he was complimenting your work! It made me happy to hear that people have such high praise for you and your paintings.”
Rafayel’s pout disappeared.
“It just made me think… how proud I am to have you as my partner,” you smiled. “You leave a profound impression on people.”
Your words resonated in his head. He stood motionless, with only the slow blink of his eyes.
His lack of reaction made you flush.
“Ah, that was pretty cheesy, wasn’t it? I’m sorry–”
The apology stopped short in your throat as you were scooped into a tight hug. Rafayel’s arms wrapped around your waist. A few gala attendees looked over at the young couple with admiring gazes, wondering what could have happened that would cause such open affection.
Rafayel nuzzled his forehead into the curve of your neck, mumbling right by your ear, “Jeez, here I was trying to be jealous…”
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o0kawaii0o · 1 year ago
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Spring's Harvest!
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luminique · 5 months ago
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lighter is a loser. idc i said what i said. behind all the cool nicknames and stylish glasses is someone who looks at you with so much love in his eyes.
it’s unfair that he is a fire attribute because he always ends up lighting a little bit of his clothes or hair on fire when he gets flustered by you. something about seeing you smile, excitedly laughing to him about your day, has him pushing his sunglasses up a little more and staring off to the side. the rest of the sons of calydon can CLEARLY see right through him though. they knew the ominous undefeated champion had a soft spot but seeing him loosen his red scarf and clear his throat was when they knew he was head over heels for you.
he doesn’t have the best memory but even he’d remember small details about you. what drink you’d prefer, which sunglasses he wore had you blushing like crazy. his love for you is quiet on the outside but deep down, it’s a blazing fire that cannot be contained.
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anxietypopcorn · 7 months ago
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happy device theory guys omg
this is a redraw :)
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cryptic-underground · 1 month ago
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He Used To Be so Bright, Then Life Stole It.
If you squint, you'll see something that alludes to the fic I'm writing. (Which finally has a name, it's: "Ring Around the Pine Tree." Might change it when I ended up posting it, but this is the name I like for now).
I thought of this idea late yesterday night whilst procrastinating writing said fic(still writing Chapter 2, smh(it's like 5k words so far compared to other chapters mere 1k combined)). And I kept thinking about a certain sentence I wrote, then I spiraled. Drew all the sketches the same night, did all the line art upon waking up, and then spent like 4-5 hours colouring and shading them all in ONE SITTING. Without moving from where I was sitting the whole time. I almost postponed the last one for tomorrow because I really wasn't feeling colouring Ford, but then the dark part of my brain was like "what it's just one more and then you're done the whole thing! Then you can do other stuff tomorrow without having one more unfinished drawing sitting around."
So I blacked out, and he was done. The frustrating part was saving all the pngs because I'm insane and did this all on one canva, meaning I kept forgetting to both turn on certain layers as well as turn others off. (I had to resave certain ones multiple times, it was a NIGHTMARE).
The full images because I worked too hard on them for them to be seen for just a second:
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gomzdrawfr · 2 months ago
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Pimple Stickers
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lightningfilledsaber · 1 year ago
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my first contribution to the dunmeshi fandom: Marcille lesbian jealousy
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jasonsbruce · 6 months ago
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avengerdaisy · 18 days ago
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Tim Bradford & Lucy Chen The Rookie 7x06 The Gala
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puppetmaster13u · 1 year ago
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Prompt 167
Honestly, Danny is having such a good time right now. He gets to travel with Ellie, explore space, just have fun. Plus his secondary protector-instincts are having soothed despite him not technically doing any hero-ing anymore. Really his sister had the right idea when she decided she wanted to become a doctor, this is honestly a blast.
And if someone does end up passing away, well, Ellie is always happy to help soothe their spirit and guide them to the Realms where they can reach their respective afterlife. Or become a ghost. 
They are completely oblivious to the fact that there are now legends and entire temples dedicated to them now. Apparently accidental ascension is in fact a thing, as Dan later laughs at them about. 
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wildsaltair · 4 months ago
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Tender Fires
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Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader
Rating: T (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, with a few hints of spice)
Word Count: 6.4k
Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted, @streets-in-paradise, @xiscamoony, @aelondrias
Author’s Note: I'm back with another Maximus fic! This is actually part of a larger narrative in which Maximus escapes the execution attempt and ends up at reader's farm, where she tends his wounds and they fall in love but have to fight their feelings because he intends to leave to keep her safe. As always, this fic is written from the deepest longings of my lovestruck heart, and I hope that love is obvious :) Thank y'all so much for your kind words about the last fic, and I hope you enjoy this one!!
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“You’re up late.”
At your words, Maximus turns his head to look at you, and a soft smile crosses his lips. His features are etched in shadow, flickering with the dancing firelight.
He’s seated in front of your kitchen fire, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gazing deep into the flames as if searching for some hidden meaning within. You would never have known he was in here if you had not been awakened by the loud cracks of thunder outside and come in search of the warmth of the fire.
An autumn storm, a midnight fire, and the most captivating man you have ever known, dressed only in his plain white sleeping tunic. It seems like a combination intended to lure you into trouble.
As you move to sit in the chair beside him, he looks back into the hearth, a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have stayed awake staring at many fires in my life,” he tells you quietly, his voice deep and thoughtful.
Out of the corner of your eye, you risk a glance at him, looking for the scar on his ribs. He has been with you for a little more than two weeks now, helping you with odd jobs around the farm as his strength returns. His wounds, though still vulnerable, have healed quickly, and you are relieved to see no signs of further injury on the parts of his skin that you can see.
“As have I,” you reply, eyes still lingering on him. “Though for me, it has always been the same fire. This one.”
He hums in response, nodding slightly. You have never sat by this fire together at night, and you are bewitched by the way the light dances over him, makes his golden skin shimmer. The lines of his arms and shoulders are limned in shadow, the firelight flickering on his handsome features.
You are overcome with a desire to put your hands on him, to feel the heat of his skin and the strength of his body, but you cast your gaze on the fireplace instead.
“I envy you that,” he answers softly, after a short reflection. He glances up at you, studying you intently. “A home fire, always burning in the same place.”
The meaning of his words is not lost on you.
Every day, the thought of him leaving you is more painful. At the moment, as you sit close enough to listen to him breathing, the thought is unbearable. Your home is his home now, and you long — more than you have ever longed for anything — for him to realize that he belongs here.
His shadowed eyes search yours a moment more, then return to gazing at the flames.
You take a deep, steadying breath to calm yourself. Your hands are trembling, and you smooth them over your skirt, hoping he does not notice how nervous you are from this simple interaction.
“Tea?” you ask quickly, pushing yourself to stand and get a bit of space between the two of you.
He glances up again, and your heart clenches at the gentleness in his expression. He nods. “Thank you.”
Have his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest? Are you imagining the way his gaze lingers on you, drinking in every detail of the way you move?
You can feel the tension in the room thickening, your own heart beating faster as you fill the kettle with water and set the tea leaves to brewing. Somehow, sharing space with this man is so much more intimate at night, with a storm raging outside and a warm fire bringing extra heat to the atmosphere.
Even more astonishing to you is the fact that you are not afraid of this powerful soldier. He is strong enough to do anything he wishes to you, to take whatever he obviously wants. But even now, standing here in your night shift, with your hair and your defenses down, you have no fear of him.
If anything, you wish he would initiate a touch, a kiss, anything that would lead to the passion that has been haunting your dreams every night.
Such as your dream last night. You can still feel the sensation of your body thoroughly tangled with his, your limbs entwined, his hands pulling your skirt up to your waist. Your cheeks burn when you remember all the places he kissed in your dream, all the places he touched and explored and pleasured. Such thoughts make you ache all over again, especially now that you are standing so close to him.
A blinding crack of lightning, followed by the roar of thunder, pulls you from the dream-memory of his mouth hot on your throat.
To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you ramble on the first topic you can think of. “My father used to tell me stories beside this fire,” you announce as you hang the kettle over the fire and settle back into the chair beside him. You don’t dare meet his eyes, even as a smile crosses your lips at the memory. “I always begged him to tell me ghost stories even though they frightened me.”
He tilts his head to the side to look at you curiously, a smile of his own playing at his lips. “What kind of ghosts do you have in these parts?” he asks, leaning on one arm of the chair to look at you more squarely.
Somehow, having his full attention focused on you is unnerving, undoing, arousing. You can hardly find the words to speak.
His eyes are still on your face as you feel a deep blush burning in your cheeks. You hope he will attribute it to the warmth of the fire, not your intense reaction to the way he gazes at you. If he only knew how much more heated you are by his presence.
“My favorite is the Howling Woman,” you blurt out, glad that your voice is not as unsteady as you feared. “She wears all gray, with her head covered. She’s been seen in these mountains for decades.”
He does not interrupt you, but your breath catches as his gaze wanders across your face. An absent smile is still on his lips, and he seems to be content to simply watch you, to let his eyes trace the lines of your face, your neck, your hair where it tumbles over your shoulders. His gaze is searching, admiring.
How will you find the strength to hide your desire when one look from him could bring you to your knees?
Clenching your jaw and willing the kettle to boil faster, you continue your story determinedly. “They say she was the wife of a farmer who was killed after being thrown from his horse. She found him with his neck broken.” You pause, still breathless from the effects of his undivided attention. “She went mad and drowned her own children. When she came to her senses and realized what she had done, she walked into the wilderness to die.”
You wait for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he does not. He is still leaning on the arm of his chair, his dark eyes captivated by the sight of you in the firelight. You can almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down — where your shift does little to hide the shape of your figure.
But somehow, his watchfulness is not an act of seduction. He seems genuinely swept up in your story, spellbound by the sound of your voice. He listens to you intently, curiously, and waits for you to continue.
“But to punish her for her crime,” you continue, blushing even harder, “the gods cursed her to wander these mountains and valleys for eternity, never able to die and meet her family in the afterlife.”
It is the sound of your voice, you realize now. His gaze wanders over your features slowly, as if measuring them, but his silence persists the longer you speak. It is as if he cannot bring himself to interrupt you, so captivated as he is by your voice.
“She still walks at night,” you finish, finally allowing yourself to look deep into his eyes. There seems to be no end to them, no way to pull yourself out of the gaze that holds you captive. “She wanders, calling and wailing and howling.”
He swallows hard, licks his lips, though you guess he does so unconsciously. A shiver runs up your spine, and not from your ghost story.
You lean forward, just an inch or so, to finish the story. “They say you can hear her best on a night like this,” you whisper, and the silence between you is so concentrated that you feel you might choke on it.
His gaze flits down to your lips for a moment, and in this flickering firelight, surrounded by warmth and desire, you think he may kiss you.
The silence is broken by a loud crack of thunder outside, one that makes you jump at its suddenness. You both look away, realizing how intently you have been gazing at one another for an inexcusably long amount of time.
The tea in the kettle is boiling at last, and, glad for the distraction, you lean forward to take it off the fire. Your two cups are sitting on the table beside you, and you fill both before handing one to him. He nods his thanks, and the two of you sit quietly for a few moments, looking deep into the firelight.
He is the one who finally breaks the silence. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asks softly, with that pleasant raspy quality you have come to recognize in him at night.
You smile and lean back in your chair to sip at your tea. “Of course,” you confirm lightly. “Don’t you?”
His expression grows quizzical, and he doesn’t lift his eyes away from the fire. He takes a sip of his tea, thinks for a long time before answering. You are more than content to sit in silence with him, but he finally comes to an answer.
“No,” he tells you quietly, still mesmerized by the dancing flames. Eerie shadows prance over his fine features. “Spirits do not wander the earth after death. They go to the afterlife.”
His voice is calm and even, but resolute, assured. You have talked so little with him about such things, and you cannot deny your curiosity at learning more about what he believes.
“How do you know?” you press, unconsciously leaning toward him.
He does not move for a moment, just grips his cup tighter and sharpens his gaze at the fire. “I have seen enough death to feel certain of it,” he declares, then turns his head to look into your eyes again. “If ghosts could exist,” he tells you softly, gently, “then I would be haunted by them every moment.”
Your heart aches for him now, for the pain and grief he carries with him always. His life has been difficult, laden with the weight of many lives and much responsibility. Even in a peaceful haven like your home, he is ever followed by the burdens of his past, no matter how much comfort and peace you have offered him.
“Perhaps they do not wish to speak to you,” you suggest, tilting your head to show that you are teasing him. “Perhaps you do not know all there is to know in the world.”
His haunted expression softens as he looks at you, taking in the meaning of your words. As before, his soft smile smoothes the lines in his face, lifts a bit of the weariness etched into his features. You can’t help wondering if he realizes your effect on him, if he craves these moments of tranquility and comfort as much as you do.
“I am sure of that,” he tells you in a low voice, and your heart turns over at the simple passion in his eyes.
You lapse into silence once again, each of you drinking your tea and losing yourself in thought. Your own ponderings are of him, wondering what he is thinking. He has seemed burdened ever since you found him sitting by the fire, and you long to know what worries him.
If he only knew how your heart leaps at the sight of him, how you long to cradle his face in your hands, to kiss him until all his burdens are lifted, until all he knows is this deep, all-consuming love that has swept over your heart like an autumn storm.
The thunder continues to roll outside, the rain pelting your roof relentlessly, but the warmth of the fire and the pleasant constancy of his presence is comforting.
You do not press him for several long minutes, letting him mull over his worries in silence until both of you have finished your tea. When you set your two empty cups on the table beside you, you finally decide to inquire, pushing your chair a few inches nearer to him and leaning on one arm of the chair so you can look into his eyes more closely.
“What troubles you?” you ask softly, and he finally lifts his head, dark eyes burning into yours with all the intensity of the hearth fire.
His voice is hardly more than a whisper when he replies, “Ghosts.”
“Memories?” you ask, entranced by the way he slowly leans forward, closing the distance between the two of you one inch at a time. Your skin suddenly burns, aching for a touch, one simple touch, that will answer your constant longing for his hands on you.
After a moment of hesitation, in which he seems to ponder the consequences of what he wants, he finally lifts one hand and trails his fingertips down the side of your face.
“Shadows of things I do not understand,” he murmurs absently, and he traces the line of your jaw with fingers so gentle you cannot imagine them ever wielding a sword.
He gazes at you more openly now, his eyes traveling down to your lips as his thumb brushes over them. You suppress a shudder at the contact, and he strokes your lips a few times, transfixed by the sight, before sliding the backs of his knuckles down the column of your throat.
Stars in the heavens, if he only knew how your body is aching for him, how you respond to the slightest touch he gives you.
You finally find your voice to speak. “Is it your men?” you ask softly, as if the room has suddenly been overtaken by a spell.
He sighs, brow furrowed deeply in thought. “They were not my men,” he replies at last, still stroking his fingers down your neck. “Not the ones who betrayed me. My men were loyal, courageous.” His voice is thick with sorrow, and you sense that recalling this memory is painful for him. “They were my brothers,” he half-whispers. “They would have risen up in rebellion if they had known.”
Your heart aches again at the sadness in his voice, the sadness he works so hard to disguise throughout the day. Somehow, in the darkness, in the stillness of nighttime, he seems more vulnerable.
“Why does the Emperor want you dead so badly?” you finally venture to ask.
His hand stills on your neck, eyes not quite focused on your face. He seems to be traveling back in time in his mind, and he draws a deep breath as he thinks. Almost as if he does not realize what he is doing, his hand wanders to the base of your neck, absently stroking the sensitive skin there.
It’s all you can do to hold still, to keep from betraying how perfectly wonderful his touch is to you.
His voice is low and measured when he answers your question. “I once received favor that he believed should have been his.” He pauses, then raises his eyes to meet yours meaningfully. “By his own father.”
His words take you aback, and you know he must notice your wide-eyed stare. “Marcus Aurelius?” you squawk in disbelief. “You knew the great Emperor?”
“Yes,” he replies, his face softening into a smile at the memory. You are shocked by the revelation, but his fond smile warms your heart after seeing his heavily burdened expression a moment ago. 
He presses on, though his hand is now running softly over your shoulder, skimming over the top of your thin shift. “I was young when he took me under his wing,” he explains, eyes tracing the path his hand is making on your shoulder. “I had won some small battles, and he saw in me potential for greater things. He made me what I am today.”
He strokes your shoulder once, gently, then removes his hand, as though he cannot trust himself to keep touching you there. Again lifting his deep blue eyes to meet your gaze, he looks at you so tenderly, so affectionately, as he raises the same hand to tuck your hair behind your ear.
You want to melt, to close your eyes and sigh in pleasure at his simple touch, but you fight for your composure. “He must have been a great man,” you manage instead, meaning every word.
“He was the greatest man I have ever known,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers through your hair at your temple now. “He is the closest thing to a father that I ever knew.”
You have noticed how the man is drawn to your hair whenever you leave it down. He seems fascinated with it, with the way it cascades through his fingers when he cards them through it. His attentions are so gentle, so unobtrusive, as if he is unable to keep himself from simply admiring your beauty in this soft firelight.
“And that is why the Emperor envies you,” you observe to keep from losing your breath.
“Yes,” he answers quietly, his voice hardly above a whisper. “He believed that his father wanted to pass on his power to me.”
You nearly startle in surprise at his words. Not only the commander of the northern armies, not only a confidante of Marcus Aurelius, but the rightful future emperor himself?
You almost feel dizzy, though you’re not sure if it is from the shocking news or the way his fingers keep brushing your temple as he plays with your hair. “Did he?” you prompt him breathlessly, genuinely curious.
He ponders for several long moments, letting your hair stream between his fingers. You are entranced simply by looking at his features — his dark eyelashes, his sharp nose, the gentle creases by his mouth. He is so exquisitely lovely to you, so unaware of how deeply he affects you.
“I do not know,” he finally admits, tracing the side of your face before letting his hand fall back into his lap again. “He never told me.”
His words silence some of the shock you were feeling at wondering if you were in the presence of a man who was supposed to have ruled Rome. The thought of this man, this humble, honest, unpretentious warrior, ruling such a corrupt and conniving empire is almost unthinkable.
You are struck by the absence of his touch, and he seems hesitant to initiate any more contact now that he realizes how close he has drawn to you. He’s still watching you carefully, as if gauging your reaction to his touches, but you cannot resist reaching out to him now.
Your fingers seek out the necklace that hangs down to his chest, a simple cord bearing two wolf’s teeth on the end. You have never asked him about its origin. You handle it carefully, and the man barely breathes as your hand hovers over his chest.
“What would you have done if all this had never happened?” you ask softly, caught in the intimacy of this quiet moment. “Would you have been a soldier all your life?”
Your question is a heavy one, full of unspoken desire and curiosity. You can tell he senses that desire by the way his dark eyes burn into yours, by the way his chest rises and falls more quickly, as if you are taking his breath away just by touching his necklace.
He thinks for a few moments, still gazing deep into your eyes. “I always imagined I would die in battle,” he tells you, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “There seemed no other fate in store for me.”
Your heart tightens, and you let go of your loose grip on his necklace. Suddenly, all you want to do is touch him, to make contact with his body somehow. His words have struck a chord in your heart, reminding you how grateful you are that this world-weary soldier has come to your home, to your hearth, instead of falling on a battlefield hundreds of miles away.
With your pulse racing, you press your hand flat against his chest, splaying your fingers over his heart. Even through the fabric of his nightshirt, you can feel his heart pounding like a war drum, perfectly in rhythm with your own.
Oh, how you long to press your heart against his, to be wrapped up in his arms, so thoroughly tangled with his body that you cannot tell where you begin and he ends.
His breath comes more quickly now, his lips parted and his eyes scorching yours with a hunger that stirs your blood.
“But,” he begins in a hoarse whisper, his gaze flickering down to your lips and then back up, “I did imagine, sometimes…” He pauses, licks his lips again, takes a slow breath, “that if I did have a chance to grow old… I might…”
He halts again, his voice dying in his throat. You press your palm more firmly against his chest, and his heart skips a beat beneath your hand. You can feel his skin burning hot under his shirt.
“Tell me,” you whisper, and a look of unadulterated desire flashes across his face.
He leans close to you, close enough that his breath skims over your lips. “That I might one day have a home,” he breathes. “A family.” He sighs softly, the longing in his voice especially evident. “A life of peace always seemed… unlikely.”
The hesitation in his words is palpable, and suddenly his own larger hand is covering yours, pressing it tight against his chest. You realize that he is relishing your touch the way you relished his a moment ago.
After holding your hand against his heart a moment longer, he grasps your hand in his, lifts it to his lips. Your own heart skips a beat now, when he presses a slow, languid kiss to the back of your hand.
“And now?” you whisper, breathless and tingling with need.
He breathes against your hand, slowly and calmly. “Now,” he echoes, his voice rumbling in your bones. “Now a life of peace seems impossible.”
No. No, he cannot mean that. He cannot still mean to leave you when his gentle eyes speak of the passion he holds for you.
“It does not have to be,” you insist, lifting your free hand to touch the side of his face. He actually sighs at your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. His lips are slightly parted, and it takes all your willpower not to lean forward and kiss him until he can breathe nothing but your name.
His eyes remain closed when he responds, your hand still cradled in his. “To believe otherwise would be foolish,” he tells you, though his voice is anything but resolute. “Dangerous.”
You stroke the side of his face tenderly, enraptured by the way he reacts to your touch. He seems so relaxed, so overwhelmed when you caress him gently. The thought suddenly strikes you that this man has probably never been touched this way — not as light as a feather, with such love and affection that he can feel it beating in rhythm with his heart.
When you brush your fingertips down his neck, over the sensitive skin of his throat, he makes a sound so soft, so unguarded, that you nearly come undone for him right there.
“Are you not well acquainted with danger?” you whisper, leaning in closer to him. He opens his eyes when he feels you drawing nearer, and his fathomless eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.
You want him to stay. You want him to love you as you so desperately love him. You want him to never stop looking at you the way he is now.
And when you press your hand flat against the side of his neck, your gaze fluttering over every perfect feature of his face, his soul opens to you, and you see all the love you bear for him reflected deep in his own eyes.
“Yes,” he breathes, and he leans forward to close the few inches that separate your lips from his.
The first sensation that strikes you is his blood pulsing in his neck, hammering against your hand as you caress him. His own hand tangles in your hair, holding you in place while he presses his lips against yours.
There is no hesitation in this kiss, no second-guessing or reluctance. His lips move against yours in a rhythm so natural that you wonder if he has imagined this as many times as you have.
He tilts his head slightly to the side, drowning in your kiss like a dying man seeking air. You can feel the breath knocked out of your lungs, so unaccustomed to any attention as passionate as this. The man lifts his other hand to cradle your jaw, still kissing your lips, gently but insistently, over and over and over.
This is what heaven must be like, you realize distantly when his tongue slides against yours, every inch of your skin tingling in response. His undivided attention, his unashamed desire for you is so arousing, so delightful in every way.
You can feel your cheeks burning, your skin heating up, the longer his hands linger on your face and neck. His fingers stroke your jaw, and his other hand grips your hair just hard enough to hold you in place. He is still reveling in your kiss, still using his lips and tongue to draw out the softest moan you have ever made in your life.
As soon as he hears it, he moves his lips to press against the corner of your mouth, much as he did the first time he kissed you in the barn. He trails his lips down your jaw, peppering kisses on every inch of skin he passes.
Thoroughly excited by his kisses and touches, your mind is all too eager to provide any number of tempting images. When he dips his head to one side, lips touching the place where your jaw meets your neck, all you can imagine is the careful way he would undress you, lay you down, and make love to you, slowly and gently but passionately.
He drags his lips down your neck, his curious tongue coaxing another soft sound from you. Again, your mind flashes to all the ways he might use his tongue on you, all the places he could seek out and tease until you are so dizzy with pleasure that all you can say is his name, over and over.
Another press of his tongue, and it takes all your strength not to beg him to take you right here. You can imagine it so easily, the way he would grip your waist, your hips, the way you would wrap yourself around him and touch every inch of his bare skin if he would only give you the chance.
What would you not give to see him shudder in pleasure, to throw his head back and hold you tight as you cling to him and make him feel the same thing he ignites in you?
It’s at that moment that he whispers your name, tenderly, reverently, like a prayer, against the soft column of your throat. Your whole body shudders in response, your hands tightening where they have landed on his broad shoulders, and he finally fulfills what you have been aching for.
One strong arm wraps around your waist, the other around your upper back, and in the space of a breath the man has pulled you against him, leaning you to the side so that you are cradled in his arms across his lap.
You are suddenly very aware of how thin your shift is, of the way he must be able to feel every curve of your body pressed against him. His fingers are gentle where they wrap around your waist, and you feel with heightened awareness all the strength of his own body, all his powerful muscles and vigorous energy.
All you can do is sigh in pleasure as he keeps his head buried in your neck, still kissing your sensitive skin as though he cannot get enough of you.
You can barely take a breath, so overcome with the multitude of sensations he ignites in you. His hand flexes against your waist, and you respond in kind with your fingers digging into his back.
You have the distinct impression that the man is having to physically restrain himself from going further, that all he wants to do right now is yank open your shift and kiss his way down your bare body. As irresistible as that thought is, you let him take the lead, and he chooses to simply kiss you rather than ravish you.
He is a noble man, a man of honor, and though your body is aching for him to truly make you his, you take pleasure in his self-control, his respect for you.
His fervent kisses to your neck finally slow, and he breathes against your skin as though trying to memorize you. When he nuzzles his face against your neck, all you can do is close your eyes in absolute ecstasy. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, and it’s his turn to shiver with pleasure, pulling you even closer against his body and resting his lips against the curve of your neck.
He goes still in your arms when you stroke his hair, slowly and tenderly with your fingertips. Again, you are struck by his reactions to your gentle touches, by the way he melts into your arms as though overpowered.
Several long moments are spent in that position, with you cradled against his chest, his face against your neck. You would be content to stay like this all night, just listening to him breathe, feeling his heart beating against your side.
But the moment passes, as all moments do. Another crack of thunder shakes the house, and you can’t help but jump a little in his arms.
As if pulled out of his daze, the man smiles softly against your neck, strokes your back soothingly in a way that only serves to make you arch your body against his. A moment later, he lifts his head from the crook of your shoulder, letting his face brush against yours as you disentangle yourselves.
Though you have just spent the last few moments passionately embracing and kissing, and though both of you are still flushed and breathless with exhilaration, the following moment is not awkward. You do not look at each other as you part, but you can sense your own relief and contentment in him.
You do not know what will come of this. You do not know if he will stay much longer. But in a moment like this, with your lips still swollen from his kiss and your skin still burning from his touch, you feel as though no heartbreak can be as vast as this perfect fulfillment you feel with him.
You stand slowly, glad that you are not as unsteady as you feel, and you lift the kettle off the fire just to have something to do. You can feel the man’s eyes on you, though he does not speak.
“It is a fierce storm tonight,” you comment, almost without realizing that you are speaking. The silence between you was comfortable, but you long to say something, to know that he is still at ease with you.
He takes his time in responding, especially since you have your back to him. “Yes,” he says simply, his voice deep and husky.
Stars, how you want to hear that voice in your ear, in your bed, murmuring to you while you both reach the height of your shared pleasure.
You swallow hard to banish your intrusive thoughts. You move to set the kettle down in your cabinet and scramble to think of something else to say. Rain continues to pound against your roof, sending a slight chill through the air despite the warmth of the fire.
“Will you be warm enough tonight?” you ask over your shoulder, still conscious of his eyes burning into your back.
Again, he takes his time answering. “Yes,” he finally replies. “Will you?”
You let the question hang, still standing with your back to him. You hope he can understand your wordless answer, especially after sharing such an intimate moment.
The only warmth I crave now is the heat of your body against mine.
Still trying to avoid meeting his eyes, you half-turn to pick up your two empty cups from the table. Doing so makes you lean against the side of the little square table, and you notice with great surprise that it does not tilt dangerously to the side as it has for the last several months.
The table legs are perfectly even now, and you suddenly raise your eyes to look at the man squarely. He is gazing at you with the oddest combination of expressions — desire, contentment, admiration, sorrow, longing, affection, and several others you cannot name.
“You fixed my table,” you observe, genuinely struck by the kindness of his simple gesture. You don’t know when he did it, but sometime in the last few days he must have noticed the unsteadiness and taken the time to fix it somehow.
He holds your gaze for a long moment, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “It needed fixing,” he replies simply.
Your heart leaps into your throat, though you can’t say quite why. Despite the fact that just a moment ago you were wrapped up in his arms, sighing while he covered your neck with kisses, you are much more affected by his modest demonstration of kindness — fixing something of yours that was broken.
“Thank you,” you tell him softly, returning his small smile with all the warmth blossoming in your heart.
You finish your task, setting the two cups in the cabinet to be washed tomorrow. The storm outside has quieted somewhat, but you can still hear the constant pounding of raindrops on the roof and walls.
Quiet thunder rolls in the distance as you turn to look at the man again. He is still seated, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows, gazing at you curiously.
This is what you want: this man in your home, always, sharing your fire, sharing your space, looking at you as if you hold his heart in your hands.
The words spill from your lips before you can consider them. “My father always told me that a storm can make a person change their mind about anything.” You hear the significance in your own words, and you press on anyway. “He said it’s in their nature to bring about transformation.”
The man’s darkened eyes do not leave yours for a moment, and you hold his gaze steadily, wanting him to hear your unspoken plea.
Stay with me. Let me love you as I do in my dreams.
His face does not betray any decision, but his gaze is tender, filled with a weary longing. His eyes explore each feature of your face as gently as his fingers did a few moments ago.
“Perhaps I will listen to it for awhile, then,” he murmurs, and your heart sighs.
All is not lost. You must simply wait.
As you start towards the doorway that leads to your bedroom, you pause beside his chair. The man is looking up at you with eyes that melt you to your very soul. Overcome with your affection for him, you lift one hand and stroke the side of his face, smiling down at him fondly.
“Goodnight, general,” you whisper, and your heart whispers, Beloved.
Before you can drop your hand, the man wraps his fingers around it and brings it to his lips. An unhurried kiss to the back of your hand, one that sends another shiver down your spine, and he releases you. His eyes burn into yours, intense, ardent, yearning.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, and your heart hears his whisper, Beloved, long after you have slipped into the next room.
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More of my fanfiction if you're so inclined :)
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safikoi · 1 year ago
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feng-shui71 · 19 days ago
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It was a valid question, Jordan! You’re 46!
Also a bonus unrelated doodle :3
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sweetieviktor · 2 months ago
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"it's the tradition", feat. viktor.
summary: it's christmas in runeterra and couples are sharing kisses under the mistletoe.
word count: 1.000. (yes! exactly 1k im happy with it :]
content warning: just fluff as always! :DD (written with s1 viktor in mind!!!
author notes: ITS 5AM AND IVE WRITTEN 2 FICS IN A DAY, maybe im going to die but fuck it we ball. love viktor and love xmas, i wish i could use sweaters but in brazil december is sooo hot but yeah, here it is a lil something for the holidays. hope u like it!! :)))
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whenever some holiday approaches, piltover academy is adorned in it's colour by students. it's december and the halls are decorated with reds and greens all the way, bringing joy to those who look up and see the fairy lights blinking slowly to them. christmas is coming, and so is winter.
everyone is using their thickest coats, but there's still some people who are cold, even if they are holding hot drinks to warm up both their hands and their body, or if they are rubbing their arms, creating some friction that could maybe help it, or sharing kisses under the mistletoe meticulously placed on the tree near the entrance of the academy, which have all kind of things hanging on it. some letters addressed to santa, little brilliant baubles made in all type of materials you could think of, red bows and colorful lights, all made by it's students.
you wanted to spend your day like this, enjoying over your partner's warmth under the mistletoe. well, life isn't fair. he was already working and you needed to work too, but maybe you could bring him some sweet milk and cookies on your lunch break, right?
so once the clock hitted midday, you walked to the cafeteria, the same one you and viktor got out on your first date, and ordered enough cookies for both of you. the women on the other side of the counter packed them to you, putting the little bag on your right hand, while you carried the cup of sweet milk on the other. finally, you got out, hands full, hoping that you could bring him some of the christmas spirit when leaving those in the lab.
when you made it to the academy again, it was even more crowded than earlier, students going in and out, chatting and joking around, throwing snowballs at each other and playing in the snow. and again, the couples kissing under the mistletoe. and all you could think of was him. oh, how you missed his kisses. so you hurried up, the flashy holiday themed colors in the halls blending together in an indistinguishable blur.
once you reached his lab, you knocked on the door, anxiously waiting for an answer. you could feel how your heart thumped against your ribs, maybe it's the nervousness or just because you runned all the way to come here in time. “come in,” was all you could hear from inside.
you turned the door knob, pushing it so you could enter the lab. he was hunched over his desk, but once he looked past his shoulder, realizing you were the one who got in, his golden eyes immediately lighted up, just like the fairy lights, but shined even brighter when he seemed the baked goods you carried, then turning again to his work, “just wait a bit, i will finish this, ehh- hopefully soon.”
you came from behind him, leaving both the bag and the cup over his desk, “i know these are your favorites,” you put your hand on his shoulder, “and it's my break now, but soon i need to get back to work,” his hand stopped, no longer making calculations. he looked up at you, then at the papers in front of him, thinking if he should or not give in.
sighing, he let the pencil over the papers. you knew he would keep working if you didn't say it. “i guess i could give myself a break, then,” the corners of his mouth quirking up while he reached for the bag, opening it and letting the smell of the cookies bathe the place, bringing coziness alongside it. he shoved his hand on the bag, picking one up and biting onto it, humming softly when it melted on his tongue, then bringing the almost half cookie to your lips, only to put away and eat it himself.
he was laughing loudly, keeping a hand over his mouth, to prevent any crumbs from coming out. “you ain't fair,” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. you knew he was just joking, but you wanted to eat too, “i brought those so we both could eat. together!”
“i know, i know!”, he said, getting the cup of sweet milk and taking a sip of it, “but it's fun to tease you. can't help it,” he shrugged, looking at your pouty expression turning into one of anger. picking another cookie, he proceeded to feed you first, your frown immediately disappearing. he was trying to not laugh again, but he couldn't contain it, as he did so, soon the frown came back to your face.
“stop making fun of me and let me eat, for jannas's sake,” you also couldn't keep your smile from growing, it was such a good atmosphere that, even if you were mad at him for stealing your cookie and laughing at you, you couldn't be mad for longer than thirty seconds.
you were laughing with him, happy with how your lunch was going, eating and talking, so busy with everything that you didn't see him fidgeting, looking for something inside his jacket pocket. once there was no more food nor milk, he cleaned his hands, bringing one over you both, holding something up. a mistletoe.
you scoffed, running your hand over your face, “really, viktor?”, you were astonished, he truly got one of those just he could have an excuse to kiss you?
“well, it's the tradition, isn't it?”, he grinned, placing his free hand on your waist, bringing you closer, “any person who's under the mistletoe must kiss, it's correct?”
“yes, absolutely correct,” you put both hands on each side of his face, kissing his lips softly, tasting the sugar on his mouth. “but you taste like milk and cookies,” you kissed him again, just to make sure you got it right, “maybe next year i will bring you more of these, so we could kiss under the mistletoe again.”
“oh, christmas may be my favorite holiday now.”
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isagispuzzle · 2 months ago
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thinking about tattoo artist kaiser doing your tramp stamp.
he's pretty impressed by how well you're tolerating the pain, even humming along to the song he's put on. which, he's surprised you know, because your innocent eyes and bright smile can easily fool anyone into thinking you were a pastor's daughter. then again, you are here for a tramp stamp, so perhaps he should have known better. he makes small talk with you about the song, then the artist, and you start discussing your favourite songs and kaiser soon realises that your music taste is rather similar to his. more personal questions infiltrate the conversation, and kaiser finds himself increasingly enraptured with every word you say.
he asks you about your choice of tattoo to help himself focus on his work, to stop his eyes from wandering up your shirt and over the curve of your ass. he decides he's already long gone from professionalism, so he finally asks you who the tattoo was meant for. as if you were on a mission to make his heart stutter as quickly as his tattoo needle, you cheekily reply, "wouldn't you like to know?"
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