#i hope its still recognizable

[rrr-mmmm]

Louis and Claudia as "Shelter" by Peter Macon

[aria0fgold]

Wuh oh... I just managed to free hand doodle Siff... Yaknow what that means (I might just be able to draw them--)

[autism-corner]

scary

[pilferingapples]

JBM steal! for @lesmisshippingshowdown !

On the FAR other end of my artistic experiments: so back in canon era (or so I've read) there were people along the fashionable strolling boulevards who did quick drawings and sketch-paintings for souvenirs. These were in no way artistic portraits--like good carnival caricaturists today, the artists made up their speed by relying on a small set of colors and some recognizable shortcuts /stock types of Person to Draw. It's always seemed like the sort of thing that JBM would pick up on a whim. This was something I tried to draw super quick, with a limited set of overbright "paints".

...also, there's this song. Which I've always loved for its sweet wistfulness-- the way it's about a time and a love that is gone and was probably even grieved, but long enough ago that now what remains is just the fondness. So , here, a filk for Musichetta, and JBM, some time Long Later when the paints and the memories are faded but still there. Also there is a bonus picture under the cut, after the filk:P (241 words,if I can trust my program!)

Deep in the pocket of an old worn out day skirt I chanced to discover an old memory Three for a quarter-franc boulevard portrait Taken of Joly and Legle and me

He's in the corner, his shirt collar open Like some Spanish lover, some bold Hernani Each of them smiling and holding my hand close It's Lesgle and Joly, they're smiling for me

It must have been sometime in June 1830 That hopeful bright summer, we knew we'd won free I took their arms as we walked through the arcade Three young believers on a half a franc spree

Three for a quarter franc Boulevard portrait Painting our loves for the whole world to see Hey kiss me quick, 'cause the sunlight is fading It's fading on Joly and Laigle and me

Waiting on that late night omnibus back home They held me warm, in the cool evening breeze All of us swore to be in love forever Forever for Joly and Lesgles and me

Three for a quarter franc Boulevard portrait Painting our loves for the whole world to see Hey kiss me quick, 'cause the sunlight is fading It's fading on Joly and Lesgueles and me

Three for a quarter franc boulevard portraits Three young believers on a  half a franc spree I saved your picture in my day skirt pocket L'aigle and Joly, do you have one of me

Joly and Lesgle, do you have one of me

(Note: no IDEA if those prices would make any sense, but the Vibes Were Right. Also: Astute readers may notice one portrait is missing. this is NOT because I ran out of time and wrists , it's because that one was Bossuet's and well. His luck is Like That-- he misplaced it long before the end, though if he'd turned out his pockets one more time he might have realized he actually had it there all along...)

[tritoch]

i have seen people be like "if you think what the dawntrail protagonists do in zone six is valid you have to conceded emet's approach/perspective was valid, what you do is basically what he does" and it's like...nah. it's obviously intentionally very similar ("it's like poetry, it rhymes") but there's some key differences:

emet is disgusted by sundered life, which he sees as inhuman, and longs to return to the unrecoverable past. so he does seven(ish) planet-wide genocides. the endless aren't new life, their ability to grow and learn is specifically in question (at the very least they are fundamentally incapable of taking in new sensory experience of certain forms), they're shades from the unrecoverable past, and you are destroying them in favor of those still alive.

also, we aren't disgusted by them nor do we think anything is fundamentally justified if done to them (everyone pretty much no-sells cahciua "we aren't alive so it doesn't matter if you kill us :)," in fact). we don't have like 12,000 years and the most advanced magic known to anyone alive. we are forced by serious exigency to destroy them due to a political impasse with their leadership's policy re: resource extraction. this tonal difference is in fact extremely important.

the endless themselves seem pretty ambivalent about the whole deal. they're bored or they're wary of the way their world keeps shrinking, and it's very explicitly neither a functioning society by any recognizable human terms nor a paradise.

related to the above, basically every named endless turns to the person most relevant to them (cahciua to erenville, krile's parents to her, namikka to wuk lamat, otis to you) and is like, huh, i really appreciate having this moment of grace at the end of my journey to see that it was all worthwhile and to resolve my lasting regrets, but i understand what you're here to do and yeah, it's probably time for us to go. (does the writing put a finger on the scale by doing this? sure, but the writers also designed and built the scales and everything they're weighing on them, so i find it hard to discredit any one aspect for being the writers' invention.)

finally uh no one in the party has kids with the endless or lives a full human lifetime as one of them lol.

it's important to remember that emet was definitely at least somewhat lying about not seeing the sundered as real people. the fact that he has "lived a thousand thousand of your lives . . . broken bread with you, fought with you, grown ill, grown old, sired children and yes, welcomed death’s sweet embrace" makes everything he did soooooo much crazier than what you do. if i managed to convince an endless to fall in love with me and i had a kid with them and i loved that kid so much that their death threw me into a permanent grief spiral then like. yeah i guess i would have to be like "well hats off to emet, folks." but luckily the game doesn't make you do that.

even if you insist everyone in living memory was a full living person that we killed, you're still weighing like a city of people versus 7+ planet-wide mass murders. you do not under any circumstances got to hand it to him.

living memory absolutely is evocative of everything that happens in shadowbringers. but rather than placing us in emet's shoes, it forces us to relive what we already did, to really fully face up to what we have done by promising to remember emet's culture after destroying any chance of its return. after two games going hard on the hope part of the game's central theme of hope arising from grief, now we're doing grief. we are forced to see the past of our memories not as a cold, ghostly art deco cubus-plagued socratic method hellscape but as the most beautiful technicolor theme park where everyone's happy and no one's sad and there's parades every day and your parents are alive and they love you so much. and then the game's conclusion is, yeah, you were still right to let go. in fact, you were and are morally obliged to let go. the living were and are worth more than the dead. our grief in letting go of them may be immense and turns our world to bleak nothingness for a time, and that is important to recognize, but at the end of the day our most pressing duty is to those we can yet save, not those we have lost.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Vuelve a Mí Pt. III

summary: you and joaquin run into each other...there's only some progress.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

wc: 1,379

contents: 18+/MINORS DNI, angst, pining, longing, a SMIDGE of hope

an: so this series is really taking on a life of its own and will be longer than anticipated bc the angst is just...not going away? i can't control them okay, they're doing whatever the want and i'm just writing it.

vuelve a mí masterrlist

There hasn’t been much contact between you and Joaquin since the night you kissed. He’d texted you that night to make sure you made it home safe and of course you replied.

Every other week or so he would try to check in with you, and sometimes you would answer— other times you would let the messages come, the number growing and growing as you continued to isolate, not just from him but from almost everyone in your life. 

You were going to call him. You were. You’re going to call him when you’re ready, if that time ever comes. You meant what you said, and lying to Joaquin…it’s never been an option. Not when he looks at you with those deeply honest brown eyes. 

You’ve started with less abrasive parts of your old life. 

After weeks of simply walking by it, you return to your favorite cafe. It’s a place you shared not only with Joaquin but also with your family and friends. There’s so much meaning to this simple place that’s a mix of browns and creams and greenery.

As you take the last few steps to the cafe, you send prayers up to the universe, begging that no one from your past will be there. The coast is clear once you make it inside– none of the baristas look familiar and the crowd has certainly changed.

You order what used to be your regular– a dirty chai– forcing yourself to stop changing things. That’s all you’ve done since being back– change and change. You cut your hair, you darkened your style and found a new job despite your company offering you your position back. You were convinced your taste buds had changed, avoiding all the things that were your favorite. The most obvious is that you’d broken up with Joaquin. 

But, as you take the first few sips of your drink, it tastes like it always has. Light, the perfect mix of sweet and spiced. For the first time in two years you feel…normal.

Sucking in a deep breath, you let yourself sink into the feeling of being yourself, the woman before you had crumbled. Your body feels recognizable and new all at the same time. It's good, sitting in this cafe, sipping chai with scone in tow.

It’s so, so good—until it isn’t. 

You would know his voice anywhere. That is something that never changed despite the blip. His voice, the way his hair falls, the shape of his shoulders, the sharpness of his jaw; all of these are things you could forget if you tried. And you had tried, tired of the pain of not being with him.

You go still at the sound of his voice, hoping that he won’t notice you. Daring a glance, you see him at the counter. He must have just finished training– the grey t-shirt he has on clings to his skin, darker in some places than others from sweat. 

You don’t mean to stare, but he’s Joaquin and he’s here. That frozen feeling from when the two of you reached for the same puzzle floods your body and you overwhelmingly feel unlike yourself again. You’re internally chanting at yourself to look away as you watch him pay because if Joaquin were to turn around right now, your eyes would meet. 

Look down. Look down and focus on your scone. 

But it's too late– what you feared would happen does and you’re face to face with Joaquin. There’s several strides and a cafe of people between you but it doesn’t feel that way, not with the intensity of his gaze. Not with the way he makes your heart flutter a million miles a minute. You’re finally able to look away a few moments after your eyes meet, your self preservation finally kicking in.

You start to move, slipping your scone back into its bag, throwing your bag over your shoulder so you can stand. As you do so, Joaquin is already making his way towards you, though his steps aren’t as confident or smooth as you expect them to be. 

“Hi,” He breathes cautiously, hands grasping at the baseball cap in his hands.

“Hi. I was just leaving, you should be here, not me.”

“Querida, that makes no sense. This is your favorite cafe. Plus–”

“I have errands to run anyway, it's not a big deal.”

“I’m not staying– I have to meet Sam for some recon.”

Your heart beat slows a bit where it had quickened. “Oh, um– well…you’ll be careful, right?”

“Always,” He promises sincerely. There’s an uncharacteristically awkward beat before he speaks again. “How have you been?”

“I’m okay. Working on it.”

“Yeah?” It's impossible not to hear the hopeful shift in his tone. 

“That's why I’m here. I wanted to see if…if I could be in places I used to be. Enjoy things that I used to.”

“And?”

“Well, it was going okay…” You say delicately, trailing off. You don’t want to blame him– you truly believe that none of this was his fault but you wouldn’t be nearing an out of body panic attack if he hadn’t showed up.

He tilts his head in confusion, you can practically hear his brain churning to understand and you pray that it doesn’t. Much to your dismay, clarity materializes in those beautifully warm brown eyes. “Then I showed up.”

Your stomach feels heavy. When will you be able to outrun this guilt? Every time you get a head start, every time you believe that it's finally left you alone it rears its ugly head and takes grip of your heart. 

“No, Joaquin, that’s not fair to you.”

“But it's true, isn’t it? You didn’t deny it,” For the first time, there’s some bitterness in his voice, some anger. As you look in his eyes, you see the sadness that’s been rooted there since you returned.

You can’t blame him. You deserve it.

“Yes,” You admit softly, regretting allowing yourself to say it when you hear him sharply inhale. 

“Y’know, querida, maybe you were right. Maybe we just aren’t the people we used to be.” 

You frown at his words, trying to explain it the best you can. “Quino, it's not like I want this. I’m going to call when I’m ready, I meant what I said.”

“You know what Abuela says; you shouldn’t promise things you don’t believe are possible,” He murmurs matter of factly. 

“I… I’m trying. You don’t– have to be so unkind,” You grit out, trying your best to contain the tears that have pooled in your eyes. 

Joaquin realizes that he let his frustration override his patience and love for you once he sees the shine of tears in your eyes. But, just as it was the moment he turned around to face you, it's too late. His words—no matter how much or little truth they hold—feel etched into your brain.

They’re added to the pile that confirms your worst fears. 

You’ll never be the same. You’ll never figure out what’s wrong with you. Never be able to safely love and be loved by Joaquin again.

You shouldn’t have come here. You shouldn’t have thought that things could ever be the same or that some part of who you were had come back with you.

“Querida–” He begins.

“Goodbye, Joaquin,” You say stiffly, attempting to rush past him to make your exit.

His hand grasps yours– firm enough to stop you in your tracks, but gently enough that you can let go if you wish.

You aren’t sure what you want at this moment but you stop, glancing over your shoulder at him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It's just…frustrating. Quiero que vuelvas,” He squeezes your hand, running a thumb over yours.

You squeeze his hand back, trying to soothe not only him but yourself. “I’m trying, Joaquin. I want me back too. Give me time to find her.” 

"Okay," He agrees, resigned.

“Be careful with Sam.”

“I will. And you too…cuídate.”

You give him a simple nod–not trusting your voice– before you walk towards the door and make your way. Joaquin stays cemented in place, eyes tracing every detail of you that he can just in case his biggest fears come true. But he’ll hold onto hope, he has to.

> pt. iv

must be 18+/have your age displayed to be added to the taglist!

joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @moonymeloncholymoney, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuff, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @giuliahowlett, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9, @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism

[bambisnc]

(   ➴ ) 𝒮𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖮𝖥 𝖡𝖤𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖲𝖮𝖡𝖤𝖱 ��� pretending it’s not a song about you

౨ৎ ˚ if getting drunk is what it takes to have the courage to confess, then that's exactly what myungjae will do <3

### . STARRING ⌢ m.jh ⋆ drabble + 0.8k // drinking ! + swearing + kissing + unedited ˖ ✧

𝓍𝗈𝗑𝗈 ─── gewd morning chat (it's 3.37 am) + [FILE.ZIP]

myung jaehyun had never been a fan of lychee soju. 

something about its saccharine stickiness just seemed a little too overpowering for his taste. the way its cloying sweetness seemed to linger much longer than necessary was simply … off putting to him.

so why was it that he was currently downing shot after shot of said drink like a man on a mission?

well if you asked him - his easy, candid answer would be that it was, in fact, all because of you.

it wasn’t like jaehyun had a problem with how unfairly gorgeous you looked that day, sitting right across from him in the now rather crowded bar. 

neither did he have a problem with the way you threw your head back and laughed at something riwoo said. he’d always found it rather charming really, your laugh.

however, he would've preferred it a tad bit more if it was him who was the one making you laugh instead.

jaehyun didn’t particularly mind the fact that you had yet to look at him, properly look at him since the beginning of the evening, either. 

you’d walked in together then, the cozy ambiance around you lit up by soft, warm lights — and he’d still had hope for the next 5 or 6 hours. but of course, things never really went how he wanted them to.

with the first onset of fresh faces, some recognizable some not, a sinking feeling made itself known. and before he knew it, he’d lost you to a conversation with some seniors. 

… so okay, maybe he did have some problems.

but it wasn’t as if he was about to blame any of them on you. he wouldn’t even dare to. 

hence, he now found himself lost in the haze of alcohol and thoughts of how he’d ended up in such a state, deprived of your company 

so lost in his reveries was he, that jaehyun almost didn’t hear you when you spoke up. 

almost.

“people are really getting drunk now, huh? i think we all need something to cool us down, haha.” you’d always been so considerate. it was only natural one would end up falling for you, he pondered.

“should i go pick up some ice-cream from the convenience store for everyone?”

an angel. you had to be an angel.

and before he even knew it, he’d all but lept out of his seat — hand raised in a sign of volunteering.

receiving a few weirded out glances and side eye’s really didn’t matter to him. jaehyun was more focused on the way you smiled and tilted your head, beckoning him encouragingly to come along.

-

drunk determination goes a long way.

that was the only possible explanation behind myung jaehyun managing to somehow walk in a straight line despite being absolutely shitfaced. 

as the two of you mapped your way to the store, you rambled on about how fun the evening had been so far, then about how the song playing at the bar was actually one of your favorites and lastly about how you were honestly glad to be out and getting some fresh air.

and jaehyun listens with all the patience in the world. his uncharacteristic quiet unbroken all the while you talk. until, at some point, the conversation lulls.

“you’re so pretty,” he mumbles, gaze suddenly turned away from you. “and you’re nice. and smart. and your voice is so … pretty. 

everything about you. so, so pretty..”

you blink, a little startled by the sudden compliments. “thank you (?) you’re way too sweet sometimes, y’know?”

“and … and i think i wanna confess to you.” he continues, stumbling a little — on the sidewalk, on his words, on the weight of everything left unspoken; yet his tone lets on zero hesitation.

you catch his elbow to steady him, brows furrowed but lips twitching upward. “you’re sort of already doing that, i’m afraid...”

“i am?” he looks confused, slightly glassy-eyed and flushed.

you can only huff out a barely audible laugh in response, mumbling a quick “yeah.”

his monologue continues as you reach out and lightly trace your thumb along his lower lip. just to make sure he knows what’s coming, to ensure he’s okay with it.

and then, you kiss him. 

the movement is gentle. soft. careful in a way that has him slightly weak in the knees.

“you’re such an idiot,” you can’t help but affectionately whisper as you pull away just a little. 

jaehyun immediately leans forward to reduce the newly created distance, “yeah,” he adds breathlessly. “but i’m your idiot now.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. 

tugging him a little closer, you kiss him again, right there on the sidewalk, with your ice cream mission temporarily forgotten. 

you’d always been a fan of lychee soju.

but now?

… now, it tasted a little sweeter.

𐙚 . regulars : @cuntyhoesstuff @evanesceki @soobundle1009 @flipitkickit @soonahuh @chrrific ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |2|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Two: Carved Grief

warnings: grief and trauma, emotional distress/depression, isolation, and shauna's still pregnant in this universe

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The wood takes shape beneath your knife, each careful scrape revealing what was always there, waiting. Your hands have finally stopped shaking enough to do this. Javi showed you how weeks ago, his patient instruction a momentary lifeline pulling you back toward something resembling purpose. The small wooden bear emerges slowly under your blade—crude but recognizable. For Shauna. For her baby. A talisman of protection neither of you believes in but both desperately need.

"That's actually pretty good."

Javi's voice startles you. You hadn't heard him approach, too lost in the meditative rhythm of carve, smooth, carve.

"It's nothing," you mutter, instinctively curling your hand around the bear.

"It's not nothing." He sits beside you, respectfully distant. "It's the first thing I've seen you make that isn't a weapon."

The observation stings with its accuracy. Since Jackie, all you've crafted are sharp things—spears, stakes, blades to defend against threats both real and imagined. This small bear marks a deviation, something born not from fear but from whatever fractured affection you have left to give.

"They're having some kind of... thing for Shauna later," Javi says carefully. "For the baby."

"I know."

You've been avoiding thinking about it—the makeshift baby shower the others have been planning, their desperate attempt at normalcy, at hope. The thought of celebration feels obscene in this place, with Jackie's absence still a wound that refuses to scab over.

"Will you come?" Javi asks, eyes fixed on his own half-carved piece of wood.

You don't answer immediately. Your instinct is refusal—the thought of forced smiles and manufactured joy makes your skin crawl. But then you think of Shauna, of her growing belly and the dark circles beneath her eyes that match your own, of her hand finding yours in the night when the nightmares come.

"Maybe," you finally say, and Javi nods, understanding the concession for what it is.

------

The cabin air feels oppressively thick with forced cheer. Taissa and Van have strung up pathetic decorations—bits of fabric tied together, wildflowers woven into crude garlands. Someone found an old blanket to drape over a rough wooden crate, creating an impromptu gift table. They've made an effort, you'll give them that.

You hover near the door, wooden bear clutched in your pocket, ready to retreat. Shauna sits in the center, looking both touched and uncomfortable with the attention, one hand perpetually resting on her swollen belly. When she spots you, her face brightens with genuine surprise.

"You came," she mouths across the room, and something in your chest constricts painfully.

You give a tight nod, shifting your weight from foot to foot, cataloging escape routes. The small gathering feels like too much after months of self-imposed isolation. Every laugh grates against your nerves, every moment of joy feels like a betrayal. How dare they find happiness here, in this place that took Jackie?

Mari approaches Shauna with something wrapped in leaves—a gift fashioned from found objects, likely. You watch the ritual unfold, the presentation of meager offerings: a crude rattle made from small stones in a hollowed piece of wood, a tiny cap knitted from unraveled sweater yarn, a collection of soft moss for bedding.

When it's your turn, you can't bring yourself to move. The others are looking at you expectantly, and suddenly you're drowning in their attention. Shauna saves you, like always.

"Give Y/N some space," she says firmly, meeting your eyes with understanding. "She can give me her gift later if she wants."

The tension doesn't fully dissipate, but attention shifts away from you. You slip outside, gulping in crisp air, the wooden bear still heavy in your pocket.

The fire offers blessed solitude, flames dancing in patterns that sometimes look like her face, her hair, her smile. You've spent countless nights here, staring into the embers, wondering if Jackie was warm in those final moments or if the cold took her gently, mercifully.

"May I join you?"

Lottie's voice is soft, a gentle intrusion. You don't respond, but she sits anyway, maintaining a careful distance that suggests she understands more than she should.

"I'm not into the hippie stuff," you say preemptively, defensive.

A small laugh escapes her, genuine enough to make you glance up. Lottie's face is illuminated by firelight, shadowing her eyes in ways that make her look both older and impossibly vulnerable.

"I know," she says simply. "You never have been. You're a bit different."

The words hang between you, cryptic and unsettling. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Lottie doesn't answer immediately, her gaze fixed on the flames. "You don't need the rituals or the prayers or the signs," she finally says. "Your grief is its own kind of worship. Pure. Devoted."

Anger flares in your chest. "Don't romanticize this," you snap. "There's nothing special about feeling like you're dying every day."

"No," she agrees. "But there's something rare about loving someone so completely that their absence becomes a presence of its own."

The observation silences you, too accurate to deflect. You stare into the fire, hands clenched into fists to stop their trembling.

"She's still with you," Lottie continues, voice dropping to almost a whisper. "I can feel her sometimes, you know. Especially when you're around."

"Don't," you warn, voice cracking. "Don't talk about her like you knew her."

"I didn't know her like you did," Lottie acknowledges. "No one did. Not even Shauna."

At the mention of Shauna, you tense further, protective instinct flaring. "Shauna's different."

"Yes," Lottie agrees thoughtfully. "She is. She carries you both now. Jackie in memory, you in devotion."

You want to argue, to rage against her observations, but there's a gentleness to Lottie's presence that disarms you. She doesn't demand response or engagement. She simply sits, another soul warmed by the same fire, existing alongside your pain without trying to diminish or exploit it.

Minutes pass in silence. The crackling fire fills the void between words. Gradually, your shoulders loosen, your breathing steadies. There's something almost comforting about sitting with someone who doesn't expect you to be better, who doesn't flinch from the jagged edges of your grief.

"The forest speaks to me," Lottie says eventually, her voice barely audible above the fire's murmur. "It whispers secrets, shows me things. Beautiful things. Terrible things." She pauses, drawing a pattern in the dirt with her finger. "But you? You're still. Silent. Like a deep pool I can't see the bottom of."

You should find her words unsettling, should retreat back into defensive isolation. Instead, you find yourself oddly soothed by her acceptance of your opacity. Everyone else wants to fix you, to pull you back into the fold of the living. Lottie simply acknowledges your state without judgment.

"What do you want from me?" you finally ask.

Lottie smiles, a small, sad thing. "Nothing. That's why you'll eventually come to me yourself."

The cryptic certainty should irritate you, but instead, it lands like a prophecy you're too tired to fight. Perhaps there's freedom in surrendering to someone else's vision when you've lost sight of your own future.

From the cabin window, Shauna watches, one hand pressed against the cold glass, the other curled protectively around her belly. The sight of you with Lottie awakens something primitive in her chest—not jealousy exactly, but a territorial fear. Since Jackie's death, you've been hers to protect, to anchor. The thought of Lottie breaching those walls you've built, walls that only Shauna has been allowed to scale, unsettles her deeply.

"Everything okay?" Taissa asks, appearing beside her with a cup of pine needle tea.

"Fine," Shauna lies, accepting the tea without looking away from the window. "Just checking on Y/N."

Taissa follows her gaze to the two silhouettes by the fire. "That's the most I've seen her interact with anyone but you in months."

"Yeah," Shauna mumbles, the single syllable heavy with complexity.

"That's good, right?" Taissa probes, eyebrow raised. "We've all been worried about her."

"Sure," Shauna agrees automatically, but the unease persists, coiling in her stomach alongside the baby's movements. She should be relieved that you're engaging with someone else, showing signs of rejoining the group. Instead, she feels strangely betrayed, as if you're violating some unspoken pact.

She places the untouched tea on the windowsill and moves away, unable to watch anymore. The small pile of baby gifts mocks her with their hopeful presumption of future, of normalcy. Her fingers find the edge of the cloth-covered crate, gripping until her knuckles whiten.

"Shauna?" Van calls from across the room. "We're going to play a game. You in?"

Shauna forces a smile, fighting the impulse to run outside and interrupt whatever communion is happening between you and Lottie. "Yeah," she says with artificial brightness. "I'm in."

But her eyes drift back to the window, to the darkness beyond where you sit with someone else, and the baby kicks as if sensing her disquiet. She'll give you this moment, this tentative step toward something beyond grief. But later, in the dark, she'll reclaim her place as your anchor, your keeper, your living connection to Jackie.

For now, though, she turns away, leaving you to whatever understanding is growing between you and Lottie by the fire's glow. The bear you carved sits unseen in your pocket, waiting for the private moment when you'll press it into Shauna's palm—another secret, another bond, another link in the chain tethering you to each other in this wilderness of loss.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (5)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 9.3k

Warnings: Reader having an epiphany; violence; murder; blood; injuries; Bucky being intense and protective; guilty feelings; mentions of swords, knives and pain

Author’s Note: Struggled with this a little, honestly. Took me longer to write. But I hope you like where this is going. Enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

You are back in the forest.

Bucky always chooses the forest. Perhaps he doesn’t like the idea of walking out in the open.

Admittedly though, the new boots Bucky bought for you at the market make it easier to walk the ground.

The aromas of moss and pine have become so recognizable to your senses that you hardly notice them anymore. The twigs and undergrowth snagging at you are ignored.

Your calves still ache and your shoulders droop but you long since learned to swallow your complaints.

And the night at the inn actually alleviated the stiffness in your neck and helped relax your muscles somewhat, owing to the fact that you slept in a bed again for the first time.

And you had it for yourself.

Bucky was sitting in the chair when you dozed off and remained there when you awoke at daybreak.

He was unaware that you woke up. Thus, you took your time to observe him.

His posture was deceptively relaxed, though you saw the tension in the line of his jaw, the way his fingers occasionally flexed as if reaching for his weapon. The smirk you came to know was gone, faded into something more reserved. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the window, though you doubted he was actually seeing anything. He almost looked soft for a second. So lost in thought.

As soon as his gaze touched yours though, something in him shifted and he rose from the chair almost urgently, as if sitting in front of you a second longer would render him more vulnerable in your presence.

He reprimanded you for sleeping in, although his tone didn’t suggest that he was upset about it. And he could have woken you up, after all.

It has been two weeks since everything you knew burned to the ground. Two weeks since you walked the tightrope of sorrow and dread, since you’ve stumbled along behind a man who barely spoke to you, dragged forward not by choice but by the cruel momentum of survival. Two weeks of aching muscles and dirt-streaked skin of cold nights and colder silences. Two weeks of walking, stopping, eating sparingly, and sleeping fitfully.

And still, you walk.

Bucky’s steps are purposeful in front of you. He scans the path ahead, the trees around you, and he even slows sometimes to glance at you with an expression that seems almost suppressed.

He never says anything during those moments but the way his gaze lingers makes you wonder if he is checking for signs of weakness, if he is measuring your ability to keep up.

The woods come alive around you, filled with the softest rustle of leaves, the far-off call of birds, the sporadic break of a twig, and the soft buzz of crickets sending their melody your way.

And you’re unsure what to do with the shift in your emotions regarding this noise throughout the journey.

Because it grew familiar.

Maybe you would even call it comforting.

Because for all the difficulties - the sore legs, the persistent hunger, the cold that permeates your bones at night and makes them seemingly shrink - there is an aspect of this ceaseless walking that feels like a release.

You know you should not feel that way.

Not after everything that has happened.

But there is a faint glimmer of light beneath the ash of your ruin.

And it does its best to remain ignited.

There is no curt tonight, no stares lingering too long, no pointed tiara digging against your skull. There are no expectations pinning you in place, no endless corridors of duty stretching out before you like a luxurious prison. You are no one here. Not a Princess, but also not a pawn.

You think about the way nobody at the market paid you a single mind. Eyes skimmed over you and Bucky without interest, moving on to the next transaction, the next distraction.

You expected suspicion, braced yourself for recognition. But it never came.

You were a ghost in this place. Just another face among many. They didn’t know you. They didn’t see you. You were no Princess to them, nobody to be played in political games.

You were just a girl.

Just a girl walking beneath the stars, free from the burden of her title. If only for an instant.

And isn’t that what you wished for? You have dreamed of this for as long as you can remember. Thought of this in the safety of your chambers, seeming so long ago. To escape. To run. To taste the air beyond the walls of the palace, untethered and carefree.

Here, in this wilderness are no watchful eyes, no polished manners to perform, no fake smile to force up, no tiara to wear.

You never imagined it would feel like this. Freedom. Brutal and lonely, but somehow lighter in a way you know you should not feel.

No one is here to whisper in your ear how you ought to behave.

You don’t have to hold yourself like a queen in waiting anymore.

You can slouch if you want to. You can scruff your shoes against the dirt, even though your upbringing screams at you that it is improper. You can walk with your hands swinging at your sides, uncoiled from the forced grace that has been drilled into you since you were old enough to toddle.

But for the first time in your life, no one cares if you trip over a root or stain your hem in the mud. No one cares if your hair is tangled or your hands are full of scratches.

Well, perhaps no one except him.

You glance up at Bucky again, your eyes tracing the broad line of his back visible beneath his pack, the way his shoulders tense as he scans the path ahead. He is so watchful in a way that makes your nerves tingle.

And you have seen the tiniest bit of something else underneath the hardness of him. A care and concern he conceals in small gestures. The way he slows his pace when you lag behind. The way he tosses you his bedroll without a word every night. The way he pressed his hand to your back the other day, guiding you over a steep incline. The way he lets you have the first sip of water every time you fill it up at a river.

It unnerves you how much you notice these things. How much you notice him.

And yet, for all the reprieve you feel, it’s guilt that makes you stumble slightly. How can you even feel the smallest measure of peace when your kingdom is gone, your family lost, your life reduced to ash?

You tell yourself it’s not peace you feel. Only the sense of survival you need.

But this strange life you are leading - this wandering existence - is, in some way, closer to freedom than anything you have ever known.

You don’t have to curtsy or smile until your cheeks ache from how wrong it feels. You don’t have to listen for hours and nod and pretend to understand politics or tolerate the infinite games of appearances.

The gown you wore for the most part of the journey had once been one of the finest things you owned, a masterpiece of silk and embroidery to make you stand out. A statement, not of your own choosing, but of who you were supposed to be.

It was comically out of place in the forest - the delicate stitching snagging on branches, the long skirts dragging through the dirt, the soft lilac dulled to something almost grey.

So when Bucky handed you the blue fabric he picked up at the market for you the morning after the inn, before paying for you to use the restroom, you glanced at the last relic of your old life lying discarded on the ground, its crumpled form like the shed skin of something you no longer recognized.

It didn’t feel like yours anymore.

It didn’t feel like anything anymore.

And when you pulled the blue fabric over your head, it felt like slipping into a new life.

It’s simple, unadorned, and practical. Not meant to dazzle or impress or represent anything. It’s meant to be worn.

The blue is soft. No shimmering silk, no ornate beadwork, no stiff corsetry designed to shape you into something unnatural. Just fabric. And it’s beautiful in its simplicity.

It fits differently. Not perfectly though, because it’s not tailored for you. Everybody could have bought it.

But it feels good on your skin. Less constricting. Less forceful. Less pretense.

It’s simply a garment made for moving, for breathing, for living.

Even Bucky let his eyes sweep up and down your figure when you left the restroom to find him leaning on the wall beside it, guarded emotions in his eyes but with the faintest quirk of his lips.

It’s not a crown or a title that makes you you, after all. It’s not the richness of your clothes or the recognition in strangers' eyes. It is this - this ordinary moment, this glimpse into the freedom you always longed for, stepping into something that is entirely your own.

Here, you are just a girl in the woods. Hungry and cold and tired, sure.

But unimportant.

And it makes you think.

Oh, how it makes you think.

Your throat tightens. A lump rises.

Because the weightlessness of anonymity comes with its own gravity.

For the first time, you saw your life not through the glazed mirrors of the palace, but through the unflinching lens of the world the townsfolk are living in.

These people who have never had the luxury of silk or knew the feeling of heavy crown jewels.

They aren’t worried about alliances sealed with a handshake or whatever duke might be offended at the arrangement of the banquet table.

Their days are shaped by the price of grain, the tightness of worn-out boots, and the pain in tired hands.

Your problems, the ones you have clutched to your chest like they are the heaviest load to carry, now begin to feel fragile. Insubstantial.

You have swaddled yourself in stories of how hard it is to be you. A symbol of power and nothing more.

The court's environment has been stifling, the expectations intolerable, and still-

A crown? A title? What are those compared to hunger? To cold? To wondering whether you could feed your family tomorrow?

But this realization does not feel noble.

It does not feel freeing.

It is bitter. Pungent. It attacks your senses.

It is a piece of rock stuck in your chest, not heavy enough to crush you but sharp enough to scrape against every breath you take.

It is shame for how little you have truly understood about the people you were meant to rule one day.

You thought yourself wise in your suffering, so convinced that your confinement was the most severe of all jails. But now you see the truth and it is uncomfortable. The walls of your life have been gilded - but they were also soft, padded, built to keep out the tougher truths.

It makes you feel unmoored. It causes your skin to prickle, as if it no longer fits your body. Too tight in some places, too loose in others.

You are no longer bound to the strictures of palace life, yet troubled by a strange feeling of loss for the kind of security you didn’t even acknowledge you had.

The air itself seems lighter though the weight of your guilt bears down on you just as firmly as any crown.

Your hands itch - restless and searching for redemption, for something to fix, to erase, to change.

But will you be able to do something with that realization?

Perhaps not as the Princess you were, living in the palace. But maybe as the Princess you are now, living in the woods.

Bucky stops abruptly, his hand rising in silent command for you to halt.

You freeze, breath catching.

Every muscle in his back is coiled, his neck stiffens, and from what you can see his jaw is locked shut. His shoulders rise and stay there. You watch him move his head almost mechanically, darting his narrowed eyes around. One hand is at his blade, the other still in the air, making sure you don’t get the idea to move.

“Stay behind me,” he throws over his shoulder with his head still forward. Low and gravelly.

You nod faintly, heart quickening. Moments like this remind you of how much he carries. Not just your safety but every decision. Every choice that keeps you both alive.

Your body leans instinctively toward him.

You wait a few tense breaths.

“Is something wrong?” you whisper quietly, voice unsure.

He shakes his head, but his hand doesn’t stray from his knife.

You bite down on your lip, observing how his gaze wanders through the trees and the gaps between them. You hate how acutely you observe his breathing, the manner in which his hand clutches the hilt of his sword at his side, and how the muscles in his jaw are moving. And the way you only allow yourself to release your breath again when he does, exhaling sharply and letting his shoulders droop ever so slightly upon spotting a deer further back in the bushes that flees, causing the twigs on the ground to snap.

But most of all, you hate the part of you that doesn’t hate it at all.

****

You wake up to a hand over your mouth.

Or rather, you startle from sleep violently because of a hand tightly pressed over your mouth.

Your breath rips awake with a panicked surge, though it has nowhere to go.

The scream that barrels up your throat dies before it can be born, trapped beneath a rough and large palm that clamps over your lips with a firmness that has your eyes snap open like a whip crack, wide and wild.

Blackness bleeds into the periphery of your sight, and the shadows around you are thick, pooling over the forest.

The sky is only beginning to stir, dawn gently brushing over the horizon.

But it’s not enough to tell who or what has you.

Your body twists out of instinct, trying to thrash free, trying to fight. But the grip only tightens and a face enters your field of vision.

It’s Bucky.

The shadows sculpt his face, carving his features into sharp and harder lines.

The first thought that punches through your terror, so loud and irrational, is him trying to kill you. It slams into you with all the force of your worst fears. Maybe this is the moment he decided you have outlived your usefulness, that you are a liability too large to carry and he puts an end to it now.

You just thought he would rather use his knife on you.

Your pulse is a thunderstorm in your ears and you stare up at him, your chest heaving against his hand.

He is crouched over you, the breadth of him stealing the last scraps of your vision. His hair falls loose, the strands tangled and catching faint light. His jaw is a block of stone, but his eyes are what is pinning you in place.

They are fierce, glowing in the dim light like embers smoldering in ash. The intensity is terrifying and all-consuming and you can’t look away.

The scream inside you is still trying to jump out, but his gaze holds it captive, caging it as effectively as his hand over your mouth.

His pointer finger slowly moves to his lips. A warning clear in his gesture. Be quiet. Now.

Your body locks tight. The panic in your chest swells, but you clamp down on it, forcing yourself still. You think you nod - just barely - but he doesn’t immediately move. His eyes stay on yours, boring into you so piercingly, you forget how to breathe.

It’s only when you stop squirming completely, when he seems convinced that you won’t give you both away with a scream, that he slackens his grip.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his hand pulls back. The sensation of his touch lingers, the illusion of his hand still resting against your skin.

You suck in a shaky breath, and you think for one fractured second that you might cry. But his finger remains at his lips and you swallow the sound before it can rise.

His hand is still stiffly hovering near your face. The line of his shoulders is taut. His breathing is almost mechanical.

He is listening, you realize. Straining for something you can’t hear.

You try to follow his breathing pattern, slowing it, even though your heart is hammering so loudly in your chest it feels like it might give you both away.

Bucky’s face is closer than you’ve seen it. The sharp slope of his nose, the faint stubble lining his jaw, the way his hair clings to the sweat at his temple - it’s all there. So close. Stark and shadowed in the low light. His lips are pressed into a grim line and his eyes constantly shift from you, meticulously surveying the shadows beyond the trees with the kind of precision and control you would only expect on a predatory animal.

But he is on edge, more so than you’ve seen him. Every muscle in his body seems poised for something - a fight maybe, or a chase.

Your thoughts are scattered and tangled, but you realize that something is wrong.

You want to ask. You want to whisper, to demand what has him so wound tight. But his intensity and the sharpness of his movements keep your mouth shut.

And then, just barely above a whisper, he leans in. His breath brushes against your cheek, warm and fleeting.

“Don’t move! Stay down!” His voice is low and rough. And it’s not a suggestion. It’s a command and it roots you to the spot.

You can only stare at him.

“I mean what I say, Y/n. Stay down!”

His words hit you harder than his hand had moments ago.

Or the single word he used.

Your name.

Not princess not your highness not even darlin’ he used before to needle you. No, he said your name. It’s startling in its intimacy.

Your mind trips over it, stumbling, trying to make sense of the sound. He never called you by your name. You didn’t even expect him to know it. But now he took it in his mouth, has taken it, stripped it bare of ceremony and expectation, laid it before you like something unguarded.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a name. And hearing it out of Bucky’s mouth of all people should not make your heart pause the way it does. It’s like knowing how it sounds but somehow still hearing it for the first time.

He didn’t lace it with reverence or mockery, didn’t use it to wield it like a weapon to remind you where you stand.

No, the sound of your name rolls from his tongue as if it’s important. And it makes it stick to your ribs, makes it burrow under your skin and settle there.

Your name, stripped of its title, has never sounded so human.

“Do you understand me?”

You are face-to-face at this point. You could count the lines on his forehead. There is a freckle on his nose.

There is something in his voice that makes your skin crawl uncomfortably.

Is he afraid? The thought almost doesn’t compute. Bucky never seemed outright nervous, not even walking through the marketplace. But now, with his eyes like steel, his knuckles whitening against the hilt of his blade, the way he can’t help but keep his hand hovering at your side - It really seems like fear stitched into the corners of his expression.

But not for himself. For you.

Your throat bobs as you swallow against the knot rising there.

“I understand,” you whisper back to him, so hushed, he only hears it because of his closeness.

His eyes dart between yours with a swiftness that has you holding your breath. He is searching you, testing the truth of your words.

And when he finally moves away, it is slow, reluctant, as if some part of him still doesn’t trust you to stay put.

The woods abruptly seem overly silent. The type of hush that descends before something terrible happens. This isn't the peaceful, tranquil silence you have become accustomed to, even finding comfort in, during this never-ending journey. Silence from the birds. Silent foliage. Silent everything. Even the wind, typically so turbulent, halted in caution.

A snap of a branch.

Rigid Bucky.

Another snap.

Bucky positions himself in front of you.

Then you see them.

Fife men, all clad in mismatched finery, that seem to lose its luster. Their faces beat marks of wealth - sharp cheekbones, powdered skin - but their eyes are dark and hungry.

The uniforms. You know them. They are remnants of the royal army. Those men belonged to your father.

A shudder is rushing up your spine. Because they don’t carry themselves like that. They have cruel air around them. Arrogance. Greed. Spite.

Your breaths turn sharp, frantic.

There seems to be a leader. A man with hair as black as the shadows around you walks at the front. He’s taller, bulkier than the rest. And he stops a few inches before Bucky. The man oozes with haughtiness, his hand resting casually on the hilt of a jeweled sword.

Bucky is standing still in front of you. Like a stone wall. You watch the grip on Bucky’s blade tighten.

“Well, well,” the first man drawls, his voice slick with mockery. “James Barnes. The mighty soldier.” He lets out an ugly short laugh. “It really is you, eh? Went quite off the map. Imagine my surprise hearin’ you’re still up and breathin’.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move. But his rage is silent. Sharpened into something lethal. He looks almost different now. More like a machine.

Boots crunch against leaves as the arrogant man takes another step toward you. His companions hang back. They look eager.

“What’s the matter, Barnes?” The leader tilts his head sardonically. “Nothin’ to say? No loyalty left to that golden crown’a yours?”

Bucky still doesn’t respond. But you notice the slight shift in his weight, the faintest tremor in his hand.

The man circles slowly then. More leaves crunch.

“How’s that little girl doin’ huh?” the man continues, his wicked smirk widening, voice dripping with feigned thoughtfulness. “Rebecca, was it?” He drags it out.

Something changes within Bucky then. Something terrible. It’s not the sharp, visible kind of anger, the kind that burns bright and loud.

It is darker. Ferocious.

Your stomach turns to water, your spine to ice.

Bucky doesn’t snarl or shout. He simply turns his head, fixing the man with a gaze so cold and venomous it sends a chill through your veins.

He holds the knife in his hand low, deceptively casual, the blade tilting forward as though it is leaning into the kill before he even moves.

You try to press yourself further into the shadows. Watching with wide eyes. It’s all you can do. Your hands are curled, knuckles white and nails pouncing on your soft skin.

You don’t know what is going on, but it seems like Bucky knows these men. You don’t like it. At all.

The air grows thicker, cunning, and it prickles on your skin, making you shiver.

“Lookin’ good for a dead man, soldier. Got a lotta nerve showin’ your face after all this time,” the leader hisses, clearly losing patience.

“Likewise,” Bucky says lowly, malice in his tone.

Your mind becomes a crowded room, thoughts bumping into each other, none of them clear, all of them loud.

“We’re just here for the girl, Barnes.” The man’s tone is casual, with a humorless laugh accompanying it. His head jerks toward you and Bucky immediately shifts deliberately to block more of your form. “Hand her over and maybe we’ll let you walk away this time.” His tone suggests that that’s a lie.

A shorter man standing behind his leader with crooked teeth and a twitchy demeanor nods fervently, licking his lips.

You feel a quiver in your throat. It rises too fast, pushing past breaths meant to fill your lungs but only causes them to stumble out of the way. It vibrates so enormously, seemingly coming from beneath your ribs, a sound dredged from the depth of your body, where words were never meant to go.

A dangerous stillness settles over Bucky.

His cheekbones catch the faint glow of the early light, making the hollows beneath them look darker, deeper, like they hold shadows he’s never managed to shake and now try to control him.

The leather strap across his chest strains with every considered breath he takes, each inhale swelling his upper body with a contained kind of violence, each exhale releasing a promise of it.

“Turn around, Rumlow,” Bucky says almost flatly. Though there is a hint of ice. “This ain’t worth it.”

Your heart is trying to run away from you, desperately asking your legs why they are still frozen in place.

“She’s the king's daughter, ain’t she.” It’s not a question. “They’ll pay through the nose for her, dead or alive.” A cruel grin. “Preferably dead. I’d expect you’d want that too, Barnes. What happened?”

Your stomach drops. A freefall into emptiness.

The blue of Bucky’s eyes is glacial, like the frozen water of a lake that will crack and shatter and make you sink to your icy death if you step too close.

“I won’t say this again.” Bucky’s voice is dangerous. Too calm. The tendon along his neck stands out against his skin. “You don’t want to do this. Walk away.” There is a readiness in the way his feet shift slightly against the forest floor.

You realize with a shudder that his eyes assess them, weigh them, calculate the angles and weaknesses of the men he seems to know.

The leader barks a laugh, sharp and hollow. “And you’re just out here wastin’ her, eh?” the leader sneers. He spits on the ground, his face twisted into something ugly. “What, Barnes? You keepin’ her for yourself? Tryn’a ransom her back and cut us out? That your plan, huh?” There is bitterness in his voice. It is startling. Almost making you flinch. Bucky doesn’t so much as twitch.

Rumlow lets his head swing back to you, greedy eyes boring through your skin. You feel like prey caught in a trap. “You gonna be a good little princess and crawl over to us, eh?” His voice is wheedling. Hungry. The insult that is your title lands hard.

“Say one more word to her and I’ll make sure you choke on it,” Bucky growls, voice rumbling like thunder.

The morning mist swirls around his feet, as though it’s afraid to touch him.

“Oh, we’ll happily take her over your dead body.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

The first man, short and younger looking, lunges, but Bucky is already moving.

He sidesteps the attack with the precision of someone who has seen this play out a thousand times in his mind. His blade flashes for a second before slicing through the air to meet the man’s neck. The sickening thud of a body hitting the ground echoes through the clearing, but other than you, Bucky doesn’t flinch.

The second and third men come at him together. And you see the difference between them and him. They are noblemen who pick up their swords with comfort and arrogance, muscles padded with blinding rapacity and movements not entirely thought through.

Bucky is just brutal.

His steps are effective, his stance is strong. There is no hesitation, no wasted motion.

This is not the guarded, sarcastic Bucky you have come to know in the last two weeks.

There is an awareness lighting in you that this fight is about more than just your protection.

His lips curl into a snarl, his teeth bared as if he is more wolf than man. But beneath it all, there are other emotions carrying the blade in his hand, making his actions seem like not quite his own. Something personal.

The next man barely has time to swing his blade before Bucky disarms him with a brutal twist of his wrist. The attacker crumples to the ground with a strangled cry, clutching at his arm, but he is already sidestepping another attack.

He doesn’t fight like someone who enjoys violence, he fights like someone who has lived it. Who has been forged in it. His strikes are not just attacks, they are statements. Declarations of his interest to survive, to ensure no one leaves this clearing alive but him and you.

But there is no recklessness in him. Another strike, another block, another dodge - wanton, as though he has anticipated the outcome of each move before he made it.

He fights like a man who has nothing to lose and everything to prove. Like a man who has faced death before and came out the other side as a new bitter and harder version.

You press yourself closer to the ground, heart hammering so loudly you think it might betray your presence. But your eyes can’t leave him. You can’t look away - not from the fury in his speed, not from the way he keeps glancing over his shoulder to make sure you are still there.

Rumlow lunges, blades are clashing, the metallic ring sounding so shrill, it hurts your ears. Bucky grunts as their weapons lock, the veins in his arms straining as he shoves the other guy back.

“Girl’s worth more dead than alive. You know that better than I do, Barnes,” Rumlow shouts, spit flying from his mouth.

“Shut up!” Bucky’s voice shakes with fury and he dives in again.

He meets the man with a force so brutal, it makes you flinch.

Your hands grow restless.

Your chest is constricted.

There is that helplessness again. The worthlessness you despise within yourself, the initial thought for a reason Bucky might have, to grow tired of you and end your life when he clamped his hand over your mouth earlier. The uselessness that grates against your ears and makes you want to cover them with your hands.

You see something glinting.

But it’s none of the weapons currently used only a few feet away. It’s a blade glinting in the dirt not far from you, knocked loose perhaps from the first fool who lunged at Bucky. Who’s now a dead body on the ground. You try not to pay him any mind and rather keep your gaze on the discarded dagger.

The world narrows to that single point - the weapon within reach, the chance to do something.

And you do. Scrambling forward, fingers curling around the hilt.

You stand. Your breath comes in short, panicked gasps as you struggle to find out what to do with it.

But your hesitation was enough time for one of the men to catch your arm, yanking you back with a force that sends you sprawling. The blade slips from your grasp, skidding across the ground, and you barely manage to twist as he leaps on you.

You don’t know what he aimed to hit but due to your squirming, his fist connects with your shoulder, the impact radiating pain through your entire body.

But you don’t cower back.

Fueled by adrenaline and sheer desperation, you lash out, your hands wildly searching the ground for something. And there is something. A snaggy branch is lying in the dirt and your hands fumble to grasp it. You swing with all your strength, the wood splintering as it connects with the side of his head.

Your attacker stumbles and curses and you scramble to your feet, lagging the grace you knew.

Your heart pounds as you turn to search for Bucky and find him engaged with the three others, including the leader.

“Y/n!” He shouts, visibly aggravated. There is blood on your temple, the branch in your hand is trembling. His expression is dark. Almost panicked.

“Stay back,” he roars, not even looking at the man he’s ruthlessly shoving to the ground, a knife embedded between ribs.

Your gaze is drawn to Bucky, not noticing that your earlier assailant charges at you once more, anger fueling his strength.

Bucky yells your name again. He’s furious.

You barely manage to dodge in time, a blade grazing your side. The pain is sharp. One of your hands clutches your side, your fingers instantly slippery with blood, the dark warmth of it a horrifying contrast to the chill in the air.

You gasp at the sting, stumbling slightly, uncoordinated, and in that moment, you let go of the branch. It thuds to the ground and you step back, the soldier before you, only grinning at you. It’s cruel and dark. There is blood on his teeth. He is playing with you. He is enjoying your show of weakness. Making fun of the way he can easily overpower you. Making fun of the way you are scared despite him not doing anything.

But that dagger you dropped still lays and glints on the ground, and you scramble to reach it. Holding it in front of your chest, you grip it with an intensity so strong, your hands are shaking, partly to stabilize yourself and prevent this wound from overpowering your senses and breaking you down. The nerves in your hand are screaming at you to raise it and swing the weapon at your opponent once more, but the shock in your mind is resounding even louder.

Your assailant takes a step toward you, tilting his head in mockery when you take one back, despite the dagger lifting higher.

Your heart is racing, your side is throbbing, your head is swirling, and the man facing you seems poised to leap at you again, done with his taunting antics.

But before there is anything he can do, there is a wall in front of you.

Bucky. His back.

He is moving with a reaction that is instantaneous. Like he couldn’t afford to waste even a second. His knife slashes through the air so fast and fluid, your head is spinning, deflecting the other man’s strikes with a grace that is effortless.

The way Bucky is moving is terrifying and mesmerizing all at once. There is a fury in him, unbridled rage that you’ve only seen glimpses of before, but now it’s fully unleashed. His opponent falters. Just for a second. But it’s enough for Bucky to put an end to this.

He drives his elbow into the man’s gut with a force that makes him groan loudly, then follows it with a swift and clean slice of his knife. Another body slumps down.

Bucky turns before it hits the ground, focus snapping back to you. He quickly, almost urgently, scans your body, taking in every detail. “You okay?” His voice is unnecessarily loud, but not bitingly so. It sounds more like worry.

For a moment, with him standing there before you, blade dripping crimson, shoulders rising and falling with the effort of breathing, stormy eyes so intently fixed on you, he looks almost otherworldly. Like a fallen angel - beautiful in its lethality, terrible in its wrath.

You nod weakly, even though you’re not okay. Not even close.

The ache in your side is like a persistent, pulsing signal, and your sight blurs just slightly at the corners of your periphery. It gives you the feeling of a cruel kiss that burns hotter with every breath you take. But you succeed in standing a bit straighter, gripping the dagger still in your hand more firmly. Shivers move through your fingers around the hilt but you hold on tight. It almost feels grounding.

Bucky’s eyes are wild when he sees the blood.

“He got you,” he grounds out roughly. The cords in his neck tighten, his jaw a stark line against the pale light. Teeth click together, sending out a sharp sound that feels loaded with frustration.

He doesn’t say anything more, but his hand shifts and you let him carefully press against the wound to staunch the flow, and you bite back a cry. His lip twitches, caught between a word unsaid and a growl restrained.

His eyes resemble steel, yet they flicker with chaotic elements that spin and swivel so rapidly and then slip away, leaving you unable to comprehend them and grasp their meaning.

Suddenly, there is a rustling behind Bucky and your heart lurches. It’s the leader. Rumlow. The one Bucky fought before rushing to you. He’s not down yet. He’s battered and bloodied, red streaks lining his face, movements sluggish and uneven. His breaths are labored, but he is still standing.

Bucky’s focus is entirely on you. And Rumlow sees that. He sees the momentary distraction, the second of vulnerability. You watch with fear the way he angles his body, the way his eyes are fixed on Bucky’s unguarded back.

Bucky hasn’t noticed him - he’s too focused on you, his attention divided at the worst possible moment.

Slowly at first, Rumlow moves. Then faster, his sword trembling in his hand, but raised as he closes the distance between himself and Bucky with tottering steps. His face is twisted with hatred.

Panic floods your system, so cold and all-consuming. Your grip tightens on the dagger in your hand, palm clammy with sweat and blood. There is no time to think. There is merely time for instinct, untamed and primal.

You take a breath - a shallow and painful breath - and pull your arm back, the motion pulling slightly at the wound on your other side and it still feels awkward and shaky, but you are driven by the horror of seeing it unfold in slow motion in your mind.

You let the dagger fly. For a heartbeat everything else fades away - the pain, the terror, the sound of your own ragged breathing, the feeling of Bucky’s hand on you. There is only the blade, its trajectory, and the hope - the desperate, fervent hope - that it will hit its mark.

And it does.

The leader staggers, his eyes widening in shock as the dagger buries itself in his side. His body jerks with the force and his momentum falters, his steps stumbling as he plummets to the ground. Slipping from his grasp, his sword lands uselessly in the dirt beside him. His breath hitches in broken gasps until he lies still.

Bucky spins around, his eyes immediately locking onto the man on the ground, then snapping back to you. For someone whose expressions are typically inscrutable, he looks rather shocked right now.

He blinks. And then he just stares. In disbelief. Lips slightly parted. He even loosens his hand at your side for a moment in astonishment. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, the strong tension in his shoulder visible beneath his blood-caked armor.

“You-” He starts to say something, but his voice falters, words stuck in his throat. He swallows hard, his gaze darting from your face to the wound in your side, then back to the man on the ground.

“He- he was going to-” You start to defend yourself, but he cuts you off with a rasp.

“I know.” He clears his throat. There is something more translucent in his eyes now, wild elements settling in place. It’s fierce and protective and proud and stunned all at once. His shoulders slump slightly. “I know.” It still sounds hoarse.

Neither of you speaks for a while. The forest is quiet again. But there is a distant chirp of birds that comes with the morning. And more light is shining through. Your hands feel weightless, the trembling so fine it’s almost a vibration.

Bucky’s hand steadies on your wound, his touch firm but not harsh. His gaze stays on you as if he is memorizing every detail of your face in this moment.

Then, with a slight shake of his head, as if remembering himself, he carefully lowers you to the ground, deliberate but brisk, as if afraid even the air might injure you further. He makes you sit on a tree stump.

He’s muttering something under his breath, perhaps a curse at the situation, or maybe just words to fill the silence, but you can barely hear it over the roaring in your ears. Pain lashes through your side and you hiss.

You don’t register if Bucky’s following words were an apology, or a curse, or something else entirely. Your ears are muting your surroundings, every sound collapsing into a muffled rush that swells in your head. You only see his muscles ticking.

Bucky is kneeling in front of you, his knee pressing into the dirt. Shadows dig deep into the lines of his face, his brows furrowed so deeply, giving the impression they are bearing the full force of the world.

Anger, worry and emotions much more deeper are stretching his mouth into a grim line.

He pulls the cloak he bought for you, the one you had shrugged off before the fight began, and drapes it around your trembling shoulders.

He grinds his teeth while doing so, hands tugging at the edges of the cloak, pulling it snugly against your frame.

His broad form casts a shadow over your shivering body.

He turns for a second and then the gleam of his knife catches your eye. Before your heart can even skip a beat he brings it to your new dress. To the part where your wound is sitting. You gasp. The tearing sound that follows makes your stomach twist and you flinch, but his hands hold you in place.

“What did you do?” you breathe, in shock. Staring at him. Staring at your side. Staring at the torn fabric.

“I need to see the wound,” he answers, not meeting your eyes. His voice appears to aim for indifference, but he doesn’t quite pull it off. Perhaps there's even a slight hint of an apology in his tone.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, softer this time, as though he genuinely regrets acting this impulsive. His fingers brush against your skin, warm and calloused, as he pulls the torn fabric away from the wound.

You take in a sharp breath at the exposure, the chilly air nipping at the tender areas of your wound. His jaw tightens. His hands go stiff.

“Damn it,” he grounds out, and you see a faint slip in his control. His features are taut, pulled into opposite directions. He is angry - there is a flash in his eyes that confirms that much. But the frustrated vibrations in the set of his shoulders sags lightly, and there is a hesitation in his fury. It shimmers underneath the blue. It’s crackling and colliding, crawling and fighting to reach the forefront. Guilt. Bitterness. Desolation.

A sharp exhale leaves him and he drags a hand down his face.

There is a tremor in his hands. And he leaks of tension. But there is something else, too. Something softer. Something deeper.

You saved him, and he knows it. But you can’t tell if that makes things better or worse.

Glancing at you then, his eyes search yours for something you’re not sure you can give. You think he might say something, but then he just releases another profound breath.

Sitting up slightly, he takes your hands and presses them to your wound. “Hold this,” he instructs stiffly, his fingers guiding yours to show you how to keep the pressure firm.

His touch lingers for just a moment before he pulls away to reach for something in his pack. You do as he says, though your hands tremble, and the blood soaking through your fingers makes you want to vomit.

You want to say something. Anything. To apologize for disregarding his orders to stay put, for being reckless, for putting him in this position. But the words don’t come. No words come. Your lips are barriers no word dares to cross. Your tongue is heavy. And you can’t really bring yourself to look at him. Especially his shifting eyes.

Instead, your gaze averts to your boots, then to the forest ground, but only to the sections that lack a corpse, your shocked mind desperately attempting to undo everything that just took place.

Squatting down in front of you again, you take notice of what he retrieved from his pack and your skin grows hot with uncomfortable blisters.

The flask glints in the morning light. Bucky unscrews the cap and the sharp tang of whiskey wafts into the air.

You press your hands more firmly to your wound in hopes of shielding it better. You start to shake your head, but he sighs heavily.

“We need to clean that wound,” he explains, and for a heartbeat, his voice carries an unfamiliar softness. Maybe it’s vulnerability, maybe it’s tenderness. You can’t tell. “It’ll stop infection.”

Your gaze drops to the ground. To the dirt, the blood, and the remnants of the torn blue fabric that litters the space between you. A defeated breath falls from your lips and you build up all your courage to let your hands slide off your wound.

“It’s going to hurt,” he says with the same tone and still only holds the flask up in his hand, waiting for your permission to continue.

Your mouth is still guarding your words. But you manage a nod.

And with that he quickly tears a strip of clean cloth from the hem of his own shirt, soaking it in the alcohol. His hands are steadying themselves, but there is that uncoordinated twitch in his fingers, a quiver, when they linger too long.

“Bite down on this,” he says, handing you another piece of cloth. You hesitate, but the heat in his eyes compels you to take it and press it between your teeth.

With a last glance at you, and another nod from you, he presses the soaked cloth to your wound.

The pain is a searing fire that tears through your side and sends a strangled cry spilling from your lips, muffled by the cloth. Your entire body jerks, but his hands are there to keep you stable.

“Easy,” he says, low and strained, but you keep on hafting to the note of reassurance. “Easy.”

Your breaths are sharp and irregular gasps, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

The world compresses to the searing torment in your side and the pressure of his hands on your skin, anchoring you even as the pain risks dragging you under.

“Almost done.” His voice is barely a whisper, as though the words aren’t even meant for you, but himself. His gaze falls over you, your face, lingering longer than necessary, trying to gauge your condition.

Finally, he pulls the cloth away and examines his work. “That’s the worst of it,” he says almost through gritted teeth, voice a little thicker than he surely meant it to be.

You watch him some more when he retrieves a bandage from his pack and wraps it around your side carefully.

When he finishes, he sits back on his heels, exhaling heavily. “That’ll hold for now.” His voice is low. He doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed on the ground. Then it’s fixed on his hands that hold your blood and the ones of the dead men lying around the clearing. The muscles in his face are tight.

You don’t look at him either. You don’t even know where you look.

All you see is this man you killed. His face is there every time you blink, imprinted into the dark of your eyelids like a haunting. His eyes wide and disbelieving, staring at you - not Bucky, the man who shielded you and bought you here - but you.

You, with the dagger in your shaking hand. You, who let it fly. The way his body had jerked, the dagger sinking into flesh, his mouth opening as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t. The way his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground like a heap. The way he didn’t get up. The stillness. Utter stillness.

No amount of air you fill your lungs with feels like enough.

The memory is too much. The knowing that he lies in eyesight on the ground is too much. Too much to hold. Too much to process. Too much too much too much-

You have killed before. In stories, in the sanctuary of your imagination, where brave princesses slayed dragons or vanquished evil knights.

But this is not a story.

This is not a knife thrown at a wooden log, or an idle thought in a quiet moment.

You aimed your throw not at a tree, but at a man. He was flesh and blood. A living, breathing man. And you made his breath stop.

Guilt twists its way up your throat like bile.

You saved Bucky - that much you know. That much you hold onto, even as your chest heaves and your heart races. If you hadn’t thrown that dagger, hadn’t acted, perhaps Bucky would’ve been the corpse on the ground instead. He might have fallen, lying in the dirt, lifeless, blood pooling beneath him.

The thought sends icy shivers up your spine.

But it does not undo what you’ve done. It does not change the fact that a man died at your hands.

This wasn’t just any man. He was a royal soldier. A soldier who should have answered to the crown. To you. He was someone who once swore an oath to the crown, to your family.

He should have presented himself with pride, with the discipline you’ve always imagined in the soldiers who served under your father's banner.

Instead, he had snarled your name like a curse, his words full of malice and predatory hunger.

He wore the insignia, the armor. He belonged to you, and yet he hadn’t acted like it. There was no salute, no respect, no recognition. Just malevolence in his eyes and voice and the gleam of his sword.

And, somehow, Bucky knew him.

There was something in his face, something dark and old and full of personal hatred.

Both their words held venom that spoke of history. Betrayal. Something you don’t understand.

How could this have escalated so quickly? One moment, you are shivering in the forest, trying to decipher Bucky’s moods and the significance of your choices. The next moment there is blood and violence and death and so many questions.

Here you are now, your thoughts shattered and wailing, grasping at fragments of logic and reason that continuously elude you.

You glance at Bucky.

He is pacing now, a few feet away, his movements sharp, almost agitated. But still controlled. He is wiping his blade clean, cloth coming away crimson, and the sight makes you nauseous.

There is a river not too far from where your clearing is. He’s told you, you would make a stop there today when you made camp here the day before. He could have cleaned his blade then. But it seems like he can’t wait to get the blood off right away.

His shoulders stand like armored gates, guarding a pressure that seems to press on him. The muscles in his forearms ripple with every tiny motion.

His features are half obscured by shadows and blood but the look in his eyes is clear, and it makes him seem more like a weapon than a man.

You are hit with the reality that you don’t know anything about him. Who is he? Really? What has he done? What has he endured? The man who carries himself like an unbreakable force, who moves with lethal and deadly precision and a soldier's instinct.

All those things said by the man named Rumlow, those accusations thrown, the ugly words about you. They try to choke you from the inside out.

Who is Rebecca? What happened to her? Who is she to Bucky?

And why did this black-haired man speak to Bucky about his loyalty to the crown? Why did he call him soldier?

Bucky has saved you. Protected you. But he did it because he promised your mother he would.

And those things Rumlow has said, the looks they all gave him - it tells a story you don’t know.

He is a mystery to you. A mystery with ghosts that still haunt him, if the look in his eyes is anything to go by.

Your eyes return to your hands. Your palms are still sticky, coated with dirt and blood - not all of it yours. You gulp down, feeling nausea knotting in your stomach once more.

Heat rises to your skin, clammy and unpleasant, a fever that clings without flame.

You saved him. That's the reality you continue to grasp at, yet it seems fleeting, hard to catch.

You saved him, but in doing so, you ended someone else’s life.

Layer upon layer of shame tightens like a noose around your neck.

It constricts. And the feeling spreads. It migrates - to your shoulders, your chest, your belly, your hips, pressing and squeezing even tighter around the part where your wound sits.

You threw the dagger at a human being. And you hit him. True enough to kill.

You want to feel relief. You want to feel proud, even. Bucky is alive and walking, and you had a hand in that. But all you feel is the way the world shifts under you, how unsteady it’s become.

You sense the chilling tendrils of guilt, winding around your chest, your throat, your thoughts.

Guilt for what you’ve done. Guilt for feeling guilty.

The cloak slips from your shoulders, and you let it. Your head bows, fingers curling into the fabric of your garment. It was new. It was blue. It was beautiful. Now it’s ruined.

“They were soldiers.” It leaves you in a breath. Maybe it makes it easier to handle that truth when spoken aloud. It doesn’t.

Bucky pauses mid-step, his back to you, his shoulders stiffening even more at your words. “Yeah.” His voice is unreadable.

“They- they served the crown,” you press. To him, to yourself, to the forest, to the corpses on the ground. You have no idea. It doesn’t matter. “They served-”You stop short, swallowing a lump down. Swallowing tears back.

“They served themselves,” Bucky bites out, his tone sharper than earlier, laced with something dark. He turns to face you then, anger shooting through his eyes, but not at you. “Swearin’ loyalty to a banner doesn’t make a man good. Men with badges and titles might do worse than those without.”

You flinch at his words. They fall. Like seeds dropped into cracks you didn’t know you had. You feel the heaviness of them. The thud in your chest, your heart catching something it wasn’t prepared to hold.

And all you can do is snap your mouth back shut.

You lower your head again. Fingers shake around the fabric of your garment from how tightly you’re gripping them. The guilt festers, tumbles, grows, and you sit there, silent, unable to reconcile the princess you once were with the murderer you’ve become.

“She was never quite ready. But she was brave. And the universe listens to brave.”

- Rebecca Ray

Part six

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld

[zucchiyeni]

DRAW THIS IN YOUR STYLE CHALLENGE!

SCROLL DOWN TO KNOW THE RULES AND PRIZES

PLEASE REBLOG AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE SO EVERYONE CAN SEE THIS!

This is the moment I've been dying for its finally here!!!

++++++++++Rules++++++++++

1. Use whatever pose and color pallette you like, as long as it is recognizable.

2. Human version, comic, animation, Killer with other characters are accepted, please keep the outfit so I can recognize them.

3. Please leave a hashtag #zucchiyeni100 and tag me @zucchiyeni so i can see your work!

4. DO NOT TRACE/COPY/STEAL FROM OTHER ARTISTS

5. Submissions after the deadline will not be accepted.

DEADLINE 7.00AM 1ST SEPTEMBER (GMT+7)

++++++++++PRIZES+++++++++

1st place: 1 halfbody fullcolor

2nd place: 1 chest-up fullcolor

3rd place: 1 bust-up fullcolor OR 1 chest-up flatcolor

Honorable mentions(2 slots): 1 chest-up clean sketch

(All will apply simple background)

-------------side note--------------

1. Feel free to use the design however you like, with credit, ofcourse.

2. After the event ends you can still participate, fun is priority✨

3. This is kind of an IDOL AU sooo be creative on that✨ actually, use whatever headcannon you want!

4. And dont forget, have fun!

---------------------------------------------------

The winners will be announce ~2 weeks after the deadline. After the result is set, i'll DM the winners and we will discuss more later on

If you need samples, please check out my page. My style is inconsistent so you have to tell me the specific artstyle you want by sending me my art.

Here's the lineart version for a clearer look

And lastly,

HAPPY 100 FOLLOWERS TO ME!!! 🥹

(i just having a small hope @/itsxroxannex can see this im wild today)

Side acc @zucchichat

[treatmelikeasmut]

The Artist and the Engineer//Part 3 Pose Reference

<<PREV Master List NEXT>>

Pairing: Viktor x Fem!Artist!Reader

Series Synopsis: Heimerdinger wants a commemorative painting done of Viktor, who is not fond of the idea.

Chapter Synopsis: Viktor and the artist are back for their second session. He's being far more cooperative this time. But it seems the artist may have something to hide.

Word Count: 4.3k

Author’s Note: I'm still debating how I want to flip-flop between Viktor and reader. If it's going to be every other chapter, or if it's just going to be however the flow feels right.

Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog your favorite fics ❤️

~*~*~

You were late.

Super, incredibly late.

You’d gotten in the zone; playing music, working on a commissioned painting. You’d completely lost track of time. It was so easy for it to slip away like that. When you finally decided to take a break, the clock on the wall read five after two. Your apartment was ten minutes from campus if you ran like your life depended on it.

People clogged up the roads and sidewalks, which definitely didn’t help your situation. Some people yelled after you as you shoved through the crowd. You knew all too well the consequences of being late to appointments. You were just glad the spring thaw had finally seemed to be staying. The breeze no longer held its icy bite.

Still, sweat trickled down your spine as you finally made your way through the entry arch of the academy. You paused briefly, shielding your eyes as they hunted for the clock tower. It read 20 after. Cursing under your breath, you hustled towards the main door.

Standing just outside was a familiar face, Fallon, one of your friends who was still working through her undergraduate studies. Usually recognizable by her sizable stack of long, dark curls. She smiled, waving as she called you over. You returned the greeting.

“Hey, how’s it going?” you rushed.

“I just got out of of class, I have a before hours before my next one starts. You want to get lunch?”

“I would, but I have an appointment to keep and I’m running super behind!” You were already halfway through the door. “I’m so sorry, I swear, we’ll catch up soon! I’ll see you later"!”

Fallon called something after you, but it was lost when the door shut. You speed walked down the main corridor, and then turned into the hall that would take you towards the art wing. When you were sure there was no one around, you broke into a jog. You knew Heimerdinger’s assistant didn’t want to be doing this as it was. Being late was not going to help your case any.

Taking a moment, you caught your breath and wiped your sweaty forehead with a clean rag. You could only hope you weren’t too disheveled. Regardless of the paint stains on your clothes, you still had to appear somewhat professional. Running in soaked with sweat and panting was not the way to do that.

You were surprised to see Viktor already in the studio. Well at home on the chaise and deeply engrossed in his book. His long legs were stretched across the cushion, one cross over the other. He didn’t look up as you shuffled passed.

“You’re late,” Viktor observed, not unkindly.

“Yeah,” you panted, “Sorry - give me a moment and I’ll be ready.”

You hurried into the side room, and barely caught his words, “Take your time.”

In the side room, there was a wall of cubies. Each about as wide as your wing span and stretched about a foot over your head. They all had a wide shelf at the top and drawer in the bottom. Some of them were filled to the brim with covered canvases, others held only a sketch pad or an easel, most of them were empty. You were grateful the academy even had a reserved space for alumni artists. Not everyone had the space or the money to have a studio. You had a small corner where you kept your easel and paints in your own apartment. The entrance to your balcony was there, so it offered the best light. Just not the best view, since it over looked one of Piltover’s side roads.

You made your way to the one with a scrap of paper reading your name that had been stapled to the wooden surface. Tossing your bag into the bottom drawer, you dragged out your sketch pad, along with the pouch that held erasers, pencils, and a sharpener. Quickly double checking that no sticky fingers had made off with your extra supplies. Double counted your rolls of paper. Made sure your spare easel and the canvas you’d be using was all accounted for. That canvas was going to need prepped soon. That mental note got tacked to the back of your mind.

“Alright!” you sighed loudly, rounding back into the main studio. “Are we ready to start?”

Viktor looked up at you then, slotting a place holder into his book. His sharp eyes didn’t miss a beat, immediately zeroing in on your non-dominate hand. Narrowing as he studied it.

“Rough day yesterday?” he asked plainly.

You glanced down at the splint bound to your hand with white cloth. It held your ring finger and pinky straight. In the back of your mind, you could still hear the sickening sound of them breaking. Hastily, you shoved your hand in the big pocket of your overalls. You tried very hard not to wince at the pain.

“Something like that,” you told him. You tried to laugh, but it came out strained.

Viktor continued to watch you, as if he were waiting for you to elaborate. It left you feeling a bit like a specimen under a microscope. When you offered nothing he opened his mouth. Then closed it again. Finally, his gaze moved elsewhere.

It didn’t keep the shadows of the Alumni Studio from being oppressive, however. They sat heavy on your shoulder. Squeezed your lungs far too tightly. Making you itch for more than the dusty light coming in the high windows.

“Would you be too terribly opposed to sitting outside today?” you asked, then gestured behind you. “There’s a door not far that takes us to one of the inner court yards. It’s nice enough today.”

“Wherever you will have me.” Viktor shrugged, bringing his gaze back to you. Then he seemed to realize just how his wording came out. Clearing his throat, his ears reddened. Quickly, he corrected, “That is, wherever you wish me to sit.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle. He was kind of cute when he was embarrassed. You swiftly erased that thought. “This way.”

Viktor trailed after you as you lead him out the side door and into another long hall lined on one side with windows. It was quiet between you, just the clink of his cane on the floor to let you know he hadn’t run off. A chill chased from the nape of your neck down your spine.

Finally, you came across the door to the court yard. The entire thing was relatively bare. Just a large circle carved from the same white stone as the rest of the building. There were a few low benches with arms, along with a sprinkle of large basins full of shrubs and moss. A couple trees grew from well maintained raised beds. You lead Viktor to your favorite one.

“Here,” you said, pointing to a bench backed by neat bushes.

Viktor sat, then you went to the edge of the low planter wall opposite him. You were both covered by the shade of a tall tree. It was just starting to sprout lively green leaves. You flipped to a new page in the pad. Then rifled through your pouch until your found your favorite pencil.

“I thought we would figure out your pose today,” you said, tapping the end of the pencil against the paper.

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “My pose?”

“Yes.” You nodded. “I want to do sketches of potential ones. It’ll help us figure out what will look best. - We also have to consider how comfortable it will be for you. I know what I’m thinking of, but did you have anything in mind?”

“I wouldn’t know -” Viktor awkwardly folded his hands in his lap.

“Try this.” You laughed a little, then moved to the edge of the wall, setting your stuff beside you. You adjusted your posture to be ramrod straight, your body set at an angle with your hands at waist height, cradling air. “Obviously you’ll be holding your book.”

Viktor tried his best to mirror your posture. Glancing at you, eyes flickering over your body. You knew it could be awkward. It was never easy posing people, it often felt too staged.

“Like this?” he asked.

You relaxed, taking a moment to check. Your mind was already doing a preliminary painting. But something wasn’t quite right. You stood, going to him.

“Almost, do you mind if I - ?”

Viktor looked at you for a long moment, then shook his head. “No, no - go right ahead.”

You nodded, then carefully covered the backs of his hands with your own palms. Applying just enough pressure with your fingers to guide him. His hands were smooth and chilled under your touch. You pulled the book a bit farther away from his chest, giving the pose some breathing room. “Hold that there. - Now this is going to feel unnatural, but I’m going to adjust your elbow. Now tilt the book itself back a little bit. We need a nice silhouette.”

You stepped away, looking him over one more time. Still just almost. You hummed, tapping a finger on your chin with the other resting on your hip. Viktor pursed his lips as you took his chin between the knuckle of your forefinger and your thumb. Guiding it to where it needed to be to follow the lines of his body.

“Now turn your hips out just a bit more,” you uttered. He followed suit without a word.

Once more, you stepped away to check composition. Perfect, except for his expression. His brows were furrowed as he stared very intensely at the pages. Without thinking, you placed your thumb between his brows. Trying to get him to relax. You’d done this before, many times, trying to get people’s expressions just right. You felt him go still under your touch, but the creased immediately went away in his surprise.

“Sorry.” You pulled your hand away. “I should’ve asked if it was fine to touch your face.”

“Don’t apologize,” Viktor muttered, glancing at your very briefly. “You simply me caught me by surprise. That is all.”

You were surprised that he was being far more cooperative today. You wondered what had changed in the last two days. Maybe Heimerdinger had said something. As long as it wasn’t about your deal, you’d be fine with whatever he had to say to get Viktor to sit until the portrait was complete. You needed this. Desperately.

“Hold this pose for a minute.”

You returned to your seat, pulling the drawing pad into your lap. You did a quick gesture drawing. Getting the lines right, carving out the silhouette with the side of your pencil. A few places needed smudged with the pad of your finger, blending until it felt right. You saw his hands begin to shake.

“Okay, you can relax,” you told him.

Viktor’s entire body slumped, then he stretched with his arms over his head. You had to admit, he was nice to look at. Long and lithe, the light carved out his features in a way you hoped you could recreate and highlighted the warm undertones in his hair. You looked back down at your sketch. You definitely hadn’t been exaggerating when you told Heimerdinger Viktor had nice features that you couldn’t wait to put on canvas. You laughed to yourself, thinking of your conversation with the professor.

“What is so funny?” Viktor asked lightly. “I most certainly hope my posing wasn’t that horrid.”

You looked up, surprised to see him bent slightly over you. Eyes on what you’d drawn. The intensity of them almost made you bashful about your work.

You shook your head. “Not you, just thinking of something I’d told Heimerdinger.”

Viktor hummed. “Nothing too awful, I hope.”

You chuckled again. “Only that I was glad you didn’t have fur.”

“Really?” Viktor asked, clearly amused.

“It took much longer to paint him because of it. He got a good laugh out of it, though.” You shrugged. “I forgot to ask - how was your day yesterday?”

Viktor straightened up, leaning on his cane. You would have to remember to sketch it. It was a nice cane, finely crafted. You wanted to make sure you got it right when you painted it.

“Eehhh…” Viktor’s eyes bounced as he searched for the right word. “Productive.”

You smiled at him. “I’m glad. I don’t want you to get too behind in your work.”

“Worry not, my partner is seeing to things in my absence.” Viktor hovered, hand readjusting on his cane. His gaze had settled on the branches over head. “I also had some time to reflect. I want to apologize for my behavior - I must not have made a good first impression.”

“It’s fine, really. I know how Heimerdinger can be. I thought he told you. I can’t really blame you for acting the way you did. So, no apology needed.” You stood, if only for something to do.

“Then let us begin anew. On the proper foot, this time.” He held out his hand. “I am Viktor, assistant to the Dean of the Academy and Hextech researcher. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

You found the effort endearing. You took his hand in yours, shaking it as you reintroduced yourself. “Recent University of Piltover graduate. Semi-professional in portraiture. It’s nice to make your acquaintance. I look forward to painting you, I’m very glad that you are not furry.”

Viktor gave you a real smile this time. It was nice to see. It suited him, opened up his face. Making you feel warm inside. You tried to shut that feeling down immediately. But you couldn’t help admiring the boyish charm in it.

“Now, shall we continue?” he asked.

You nodded towards the bench. “Be my guest.”

You walked him through a few more poses. A couple were an immediate ‘no.’ Either they just didn’t look natural on him, or he said it would be too difficult to maintain for long periods. By the end of it, you had settled for something simple. He would sit reclined against the back cushion, one arm resting on the arm of the lounge, the other holding his book. His legs would be crossed, with his left ankle resting on his right knee. Carefully keeping his brace from digging into his skin.

You considered this session a success.

When the clock announced three, you stood to stretch out your back. You were expecting Viktor to take his leave like a rabbit sprung from a trap. Instead, he sat and observed as you began to pack your things.

“Well, that’s the hour,” you announced. Wondering if he was waiting for a proper dismissal. “I figure I won’t keep you longer, I was the one who was late after all.”

“Actually,” started Viktor, “I find I have some spare time. I can stay another hour, if it’s needed.”

You paused. “Are you sure? You don't have to do that.”

He nodded. “Jayce can suffice another hour without me.”

“Alright then.” You couldn’t help but grin. “Since we've figured out your pose, I was wondering if it was okay to sketch your cane?”

Viktor glanced at where it laid next to him on the bench. “My cane?”

“For the painting.”

His expression was unreadable. “You want to include it?”

“Yes?” You cocked your head. “Why wouldn't I? Unless you don’t want it to be? - It’s your picture, at the end of the day. Heimerdinger is just sponsoring it. We don’t have to include anything you don’t want..”

“I -” Viktor frowned a touch, as if the idea had never occurred to him. He sighed. “That is perfectly fine.”

You sat on the ground in front of the bench. Viktor held the cane upright, turning it when you asked. You made little notes about colors, and where it was dullest from being held. All while being under his sharp gaze. You wondered what he was thinking. If he resented you at all, even though you were just hired to do a job.

“So…” Viktor cleared his throat. “Your fingers - what happened?”

Your whole body went rigid, freezing mid-sketch. You carefully avoided his eyes. Shaking your head, your forced yourself to keep drawing. “Nothing. I was clumsy. Tripped, landed on my hand wrong.”

A moment of silence, then a small hum. “At least it was not your other one.”

You muttered to the paper, “Not yet anyway.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I asked,” you stated louder, “will you tilt that to right a bit?”

Viktor obliged, though the movement was hesitant. You studied the cane intently. Trying not to meet his eyes. He had to know you were lying. That excuse hadn’t even sounded convincing to you. A few more minutes ticked by in silence.

“Tell me,” Viktor started again, “do you have a preference for coffee or tea?”

That one did make you look up. He ran a finger along the rail of the stone bench, watching you from the corner of his eye. The amber of them burning in a patch of sun. You told him your preference, to which he hummed. You searched your mind for something to ask him.

“So,” you started, “what all do you do for Heimerdinger?”

“Many things.” Viktor shrugged, as if it was the most uninteresting question in the world. “I do anything he asks.”

“I’ve heard you and Jayce Talis are the founders of Hextech. All the revolutionary stuff that’s appeared the last few years has been because of you. Is that true?”

Slowly, Viktor nodded. “He took the first steps, then together we built.”

“Then it’s no wonder that Heimerdinger wants your portrait done,” you started, a bit awestruck. “It’s not everyday this sort of thing comes along. - We’ll have to include something of it in your painting. Make sure everyone knows your face, too.”

“Right.” Viktor shifted in his seat. You pretended not to notice the pink blotches staining his neck. “Ah - I’m not well versed in art. Out of curiosity, how long does this sort of thing usually take? Professor Heimerdinger said this could take months, but surely not…”

“It could - it took me most of the four year graduate program to paint Professor Heimerdinger. The third and fourth year especially since I had to make a presentation to go along with it, but it was also hard to meet with him. Yours shouldn’t take nearly as long,” you told him. Your eyes traced the curves on the cane’s handle, your hand trying to follow along on the paper. “If I can focus, a painting this size takes…80 or 90 hours to complete. That isn’t including color matching and sketching, which could take it well over 100 -”

“100 hours?” Viktor repeated, jaw tight. Any openness that was once there now gone. “That is nearly four months of my time. More if one of us is not available!”

You nodded slowly. “I can try and speed up the process, but there’s no promises with this sort of thing. Some of it, I may not even need you there for.”

Viktor pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, sighing. “No, no - it’s fine. I will just have to accommodate accordingly.”

Your name echoed across the courtyard then and you both flinched. Glancing over your shoulder, you caught sight of Fallon. How had she even seen you? That ever present smile was on her face. She waved, curls bouncing as she jogged over to you.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she laughed. Her eyes turned to Viktor. “Who’s your friend?”

“Not really a friend, more of an acquiantance. This is Viktor, the Dean’s assistant,” you said, “I’ve been commissioned. Sorry - Viktor, this is my good friend Fallon. She’s in her second year of her undergraduate studies.”

He nodded at her. “A pleasure.”

Fallon gasped, gripping your bad hand by the wrist. You hissed softly at the pain, grimacing. She turned your hand palm up, then back over.

“What did you do?” In a second the sweet Fallon was gone, a dark cloud sweeping over her features. She asked in a low voice, “He didn’t do this, did he?”

You tried to pull your wrist away, laughing awkwardly. “No, no, no - nothing like that. This is my own fault. Viktor is…sweet. He’s been very patient with me today.”

Just as quick as it appeared, the storm cloud passed and Fallon was back to her grinning self. Her gold skin practically glowed under the late afternoon sun. The light threading through her dark curls to highlight the red understones. Her eyes danced briefly over your face, then narrowed.

“I know how you can get,” Fallon scolded, releasing your wrist. “Have you eaten today?”

As if on cue, your stomach growled loudly. She put her hands on her hips, foot tapping against the stones. You gave her sheepish smile. “I got in late then was up early. I had some work to do.”

Fallon flicked your forehead. “How many times have I told you -”

“Yes, I know - take care of myself.” You rolled your eyes. “I’ve just…been busy.”

“You are never too busy to care for yourself. - I’ve decided I’m taking you to lunch.” Fallon pulled your arm, hauling you off the ground. Small but mighty, it seemed. “C’mon -”

“But I have to -” you argued, barely keeping a grip on your pencil and pad as you stumbled after her. “Uh - I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then, Viktor!”

You glanced over your shoulder to see him watching you. He almost looked like he was trying not to laugh. That sent a wave of embarrassment through you. You had the strongest urge to stick out your tongue or flick him off. But you didn’t. Just allowing yourself to be pulled out the door, barely being able to waylay her long enough to put your things away and grab your bag.

Fallon found a resturant close to academy for you both. The entire time she gave you a scathing review of your poor habits. But you knew it came from a place of concern. You’d done the same for her a few times. Especially around midterms and finals.

“So, anyway,” Fallon said, the stern tone fading. A mischievous grin took over. “That guy, huh?”

“Viktor?” you asked, taking a bite of your food. “What about him?”

“He was a cutie, wasn’t he?”

“Okay, first off - he’s way too old for you.” You rolled your eyes. Fallon had been unstoppable since she started at the academy. Constantly chasing one guy after the next. “You’re not even twenty yet. He’s like, 26 or 27.”

“As if that would stop me. Besides - I wasn’t thinking about me…” Fallon chuckled. Then licked her finger and rubbed at your cheek. “Hey, did anyone tell you there’s graphite on your face.”

You looked down at where your shiney, grey fingers held your fork. Then scrubbed at your cheek with your shirt sleeve. “Secondly, I haven’t really thought about it.”

She hummed, eyebrows raising briefly. “Liar.”

“I’m not!” You truly hadn’t, whether she believed you or not. “His has some nice lines. His eyes are a nice color -”

“So you’ve just been looking at him like an art project.”

“I guess, yeah.” Your face felt hot, so you swallowed down some ice water. “I can objectively observe someone’s beauty, ya know. You literally have to take an entire class about it.”

“All I’m saying,” Fallon pushed, “is that maybe you should stop looking at him as just a subject.”

You narrowed your eyes at her. “You’re trying to set me up, and you don’t even know him.”

She held her palms up. “There’s more to life than work, that’s all I’m saying. And if you just happen to be able to be in the presence of a cute guy who’s stuck with you until the commission is done…”

“I don't want to make our sessions weird. Also, I already told you that I’m not really looking to date anyone right now.”

Fallon pouted. “But why?! There are so many cuties on campus. You’re just going to ignore them all?”

“I -” There were so many things you wanted to tell her. So many things that were safer if you didn’t. You just wished you at least one person to confide in. “I’m just not looking. I’m so busy with commissions and making sure that I can pay rent. It just wouldn’t be fair to try and balance a relationship. I wouldn’t be able to dedicate enough time. It would end badly. So it’s better off that I don’t.”

Fallon’s gold eyes watched you. They reminded you of Viktor’s a bit, but hers were missing the honey tones. Either way, they didn’t seem to miss a thing.

“You’re hiding something,” she said plainly, “what is it?”

You shook your head. “I’m not involving anyone in my life drama.”

“I’m your friend, you can trust me. I want to help if I can.”

“I know exactly the kind of help I need. - Trust me, I’m already dealing with it.”

“You don’t have to carry this burden alone.” Fallon reached over and touched your arm, staring at you with nauseatingly intense sincerity.

Finally, you sighed, leaned forward in the booth - and whispered to her the whole dirty truth.

____________________________________________________

TAG LIST

@starmansolar @motheroffae @vintagehellfire @seaweedbumblebee @21-princess @starriekaede @local-mr-frog @tspmovro @hexhoess @shushjayvik

[skippingstonez]

Could you write Twilight Link with an aristocratic reader? Just cute country bumpkin bf and fancy schmancy wealthy gf who spoils him (‘-’*)

I don't know what made me think *bath* when spoiling Twilight but here we are!

Rags and Riches

(TP!Link x Wealthy!Reader) Warnings: the tiniest mention of nudity and its mostly just implied

Castle Town was thriving. The usual hustle and bustles of shops and vendors rang through the streets, welcoming all who entered into its gates. It's cobblestone weaving through buildings long since established while others were recently refurbished for whatever new and exciting thing had grasped the citizens interest.

All were welcome into the ever expanding town. Where Gorons and Zora freely traversed and traded with Hylians both residential or simply passing by. So it was almost comical that the only one to be so roughly denied entry was the one who had saved it all.

Spears shot at him as he ran back to the gate. The soldiers shouted after him as they charged. Mother's snatched their young up into their arms as he ran past. Likely afraid of getting bitten or even just knocked over.

Link didn't blame them. It wasn't him they were chasing away after all. Even as Hyrule's hero he wasn't well known in town. Mostly only recognizable to those who frequented Telma’s place. But not even they would realize who they were chasing. To everyone around him he was simply a large wolf that had wandered into town. Of course they would chase him off, he would have too in their situation. That understanding didn't lessen the pain he felt as sharp metal nicked his shoulder.

He whined in pain, darting through the south gates into Hyrule Field. The small band of knights cheered as he ran, content to stay near the gate instead of attempting to finish him off.

He knew trying to go into town the way he was had been a poor judgement call. The sun had still been low in the sky. The early morning light chasing away the shadows of night. And try as he might to stick to those shadows, there simply hadn't been enough to conceal him from watchful eyes. Which led to guards quickly being notified, and to Link's displeasure and shock, decided to actually rid the town of him.

He slowed to a crawl-like speed. The chain around his foot dragged against the stone steps. He just needed to get far enough to change back. As a Hylian he'd be able to freely roam the town without fear of being chased down. He could find the shop and get the red potion he so desperately needed.

Assuming he even had enough rupees for it. 

Or that he would even make it that far without collapsing.

Link was exhausted. An ambush of monsters earlier had taken everything out of him, including his ability to walk normally. Having likely fractured an ankle, he had to finish off the fight as a wolf. Letting the weight of his broken foot be distributed to 3 others than try and remain upright on one. He had then dragged himself all the way to Castle Town that way in hopes of getting a potion he had unfortunately found out he was out of.

He reached the bottom of the steps. The large fountain to his right and the grassy fields of Hyrule before him. The peaceful meadow and calming sound of rushing water was a far cry from the turmoil his body felt. Stomach empty after having not eaten for Hylia knows how long, exhaustion creeping into his bones that only bore more weight from the pain of his leg. 

Maybe he should just call it quits and sleep out here. The grass looked soft enough and maybe then he could snag the potion and some food later in the day.

He scanned the surroundings, looking for a spot hidden away where he could either change back or rest. His mind still heavily debating between the two. The rather open concept of the area limited his options significantly as he searched and quickly realized he wasn't even alone.

Just ahead, sat at the edge of the fountain was a young lady. Her hair done up in a flawless curl that fell over her shoulder. Her clothing screamed of wealth, dressed in one of the finer styles Link had seen around town. Its long, flowy material hugged her body perfectly while its color complimented each detail of her delicate face.

Link's heart quickened. A deep warmness spread over him as he took in the way she moved. Soft, careful and elegant.

The girl was stunning. And more importantly,

She was you.

He lifts his head, releasing a song-like howl into the air, rushing over to where you sat. Your head now frantically searching in his direction. He approaches with confidence, sitting right in front of you as a large grin spreads across your face. 

You were on him in seconds. Grabbing at his face to shower him with affection.

“Link! Oh you're alright!” You squished his face between your hands. Alternating between scratching at his ears and running your fingers through tangled fur. Your lips peppering kisses around his nose. 

His tail swooshes back and forth rapidly, raising his head high as you showered him with praise.

You paused, moving your hands lower to see the blood on his shoulder. Your face slowly turning to a scowl with hands on your hips in a weak attempt at scolding him.

“You're hurt aren't you?” 

Hearing your less than pleased tone of voice he laid down, looking up at you with innocent eyes. It was a move he always played when you were upset with him. Knowing that it worked 9/10 times and this time was no different. 

You sank down to your knees, holding his face once more with a tender gentleness Twilight yearned for every time he had to leave your side. 

“What happened? Do you need anything? A potion? I think I have some at home! Otherwise I'll buy the whole stock if you need-”

Link pulled at the shard's magic, letting himself return to his Hylian self to better ease your concerns. He knelt before you, putting a hand over yours that still held his face.

“I'm fine Darlin, it wasn't anything I couldn't handle.”

It wasn't a lie per say. He was fine in a way now that he was with you. And he did and was handling it. Even as he winced in pain as the full force of his injury returned to his ankle, making him move to sit on the ground rather than on his knees. Or how the new gash on his shoulder began bleeding through his shirt.

You immediately noticed his discomfort, eyebrows only furrowing further in worry. 

“You clearly are not!” You scolded him, gesturing to not only the fresh blood on his shoulder, but the other dried patches of blood and dirt and whatever else coated his clothes. The small rips and tears from battles, and of course the rather obvious way he was sitting as to not bump his ankle. 

Link wasn’t a slob by any means. Even during his travels he prided himself on keeping his things and himself relatively clean. But sitting there, next to your smooth clothes and flawless skin, Link had to admit he was downright filthy. He hunched his shoulders in embarrassment as you stood, brushing off the few flecks of dirt from your skirt that likely had gotten there because of him. 

“Come on, let's get you home and we will get it all cleaned up.” You took his hands, carefully helping him to his feet. He hissed, trying to put pressure on his bad foot so he wouldn’t crush you with his weight. You merely ducked under his arm, wrapping around his waist for support.

“I’ll make a mess of ya, let me-”

“Nonsense! Clothes can be washed and replaced my dear.” You leaned up and kissed his cheek. “You however can not be.”

Link smiled, kissing the top of your head as you helped him back to your place. The walk taking longer than normal due to the slow pace and uneven ground that made him stumble. Biting back the pain shooting up his leg with every jolt and misstep. 

It was late morning by the time you reached your place, a soft glow welcoming more and more townsfolk into the streets. Yours was one of the nicer homes nestled just east of the castle itself. The swirled metal fence protecting the lush green yard that led all the way to the small porch.

It was a place Link had been spending more and more time at. Giving every and any excuse to come and visit you whenever he could. It wasn't quite home and it still felt almost like a whole new world here compared to the humble village of Ordon. But it's where you were which is exactly where he wanted to be.

You helped him inside, helping remove his gear as a short woman scurried towards you.

“Thank you Lyla, could you see to it that these are cleaned and repaired?” You asked, handing her his sword and shield before she disappeared just as quickly.

“Alright,  the larger bathroom is upstairs which will probably be preferable.” You mused. “Will that be alright?”

Link knew what you were really asking, rolling his eyes playfully. “Darlin, do you remember how I met ya?” He asked, grabbing onto the stairs railing.

“How could I ever forget?” You laughed lightly, hovering over him as he started up the stairs. “You saved my carriage from that awful large bird!”

“Sure did, and I'm pretty sure if I can face that, I can face a few stairs.” He laughed at the small pout you made. Giving him a little more space to get up the stairs. Your hands were right back on him when he reached the top, guiding him down the hallway until you reached for one of the doors.

The door opened to reveal a large bathroom. The marble tile floor and white walls lined with shelves upon shelves of bottles that Link could only guess what they could be. Each one uniquely shaped and sized with dazzling colors that swirled around inside their glass containers.

You led him inside before gliding over to the white tub. Turning its golden faucets as water poured into the tub, wisps of steam floating up to the ceiling. You grabbed one of the bottles, uncorking it and pouring a dash of its purple contents into the water that formed small bubbles on its surface.

You pulled out the stool of the neatly organized vanity to the left of the room, placing it directly next to the tub. Patting its velvety cushion as an invitation for him to sit. HJe complies, sitting down with a small groan as his muscles ache to accommodate the sudden change in position.

He slipped off his boots and socks before your hands found his chest. 

“Can you lift your arm?” Gesturing to his injured shoulder. He does with minimal pain as you slip his tunic off, chainmail and undershirt quickly adding to the growing pile of filth now littering the floor.

The gash on his shoulder wasn't nearly as bad as he initially thought. With the bleeding already having stopped and the pain more of a sting than anything else it blended into the other scraps he wore. 

You kissed his nose, “You hop in alright?”

He nods, waiting until you've left the room to remove the rest of his clothing and carefully lower himself into the tub.

He would never admit the straight moan that left his lips as he sunk down into the water. It's warmth seeping straight to his bones that relaxed every ache and tug at his muscles. The mystery soap left a tingle on his skin that poked at any scrape and bruised till they were only a memory.

He would definitely be asking to borrow this one in the future.

The door creaked open and Link quickly covered himself underneath the water as you walked in. Holding a small basket and the fluffiest pink towel he had ever seen.

“Apologies for the color, I unfortunately wasn't prepared to have company at the moment.”

You strolled forward, placing your small pile on the floor by the tub. You held out a bottle that Link recognized as a red potion. He took it from you, careful not to disturb the water too much as he drank all of it. It's magic flowing straight to his broken ankle, setting and then mending the bone in a numbed discomfort.

Link mumbled a quick thank you as you took the bottle from him. Returning it to the small basket as you sat down on the stool by the head of the tub.

He pulled his knees up, not trusting the layer of soap to keep himself covered.

Link couldn't recall a time he had felt so…exposed, before. Maybe once when Shad and Rusl had helped him after a bad fight but certainly not in front of you! Not yet

“You're…staying? In here?” 

“Is that alright?” You asked sweetly. Rolling up the sleeves of your dress. You grabbed a cloth, dipping it into the water before gently running it over his shoulders.

“I know how to take a bath darlin”

You chuckled, letting some of the water fall into his hair. “Well I would hope so dear. But I can see how tired you are,” you grabbed another container from your basket, scooping out some of its contents to rub between your hands. “So you just relax okay? Let me handle this.” 

Your hands ran softly through his hair. Fingers rubbing at his scalp in a heavenly pattern as you hummed a song Link hadn't heard before. He let his eyes close, leaning back on the tub as you continued to work whatever concoction through his hair. 

It smelled like wildflowers and honey. Exactly the way you smelled and he thought for a moment if this is what you would use when bathing before quickly making sure he was still covered beneath the water's soapy surface.

You lifted his head, rinsing out his hair a few times till you were satisfied the stuff was all gone. Your hands found his shoulders, gently kneading at the muscles until Link was practically moaning at your touch. It stayed like that for a while, occasionally rubbing a new soap or cream across his shoulders, chest or back. The heat from the water beginning to fog the room like a sauna.

A small tap to his cheek, “Alright dear, I will leave the rest to you.”

You stand, putting the pink towel and anything else he might still need on top of the stool where he could reach.

“The towel is there, and there's a fresh set of clothes awaiting you in the room to the right. Don't fret about these ones, I'll have Lyla collect them once you're done and make sure they get washed.”

You lean down, giving his cheek a quick kiss before exiting the room.

He takes a deep breath, letting himself enjoy it all for just another moment before washing the rest of his body. Getting out once the water had cooled significantly, trying not to splash water unnecessarily as he wraps the towel around him.

Even with the rather unbecoming color, it was the softest, fluffiest damn towel he’d ever used.

Keeping a firm grip to the towel around his waist, he peeks out into the hallway, making sure it's clear before dashing into the next room. Just as promised, a stack of plain clothes were laid out for him on the bed, near perfect to his size as he slips them on.

He attempts to dry his hair before making his way back down towards the stairs to where he hopes you are.

The stairs are much easier to get down with his injuries healed. Letting himself skip the last two steps as he spun to head towards the living area. Just as he suspected, you were sat on the couch, feet tucked up beside you. You had changed into a different dress, this one detailed in a floral pattern and fitted to the curve of your body.

He snuck up behind you, tossing his arms around you in a tight hug. Your laughter ringing in his ears.

“Feeling better?”

“Much” He lets go long enough to plop down next to you. “Thanks to you of course.” He cups your face, bringing it to his in a long, drawn out kiss. He deepens it as you hum against him, swiping his tongue across your bottom lip teasingly before pulling away. He smirks at the way your cheeks flush the same shade of pink as your lips. 

He flops down, resting his head on your lap. The exhaustion sets back in, begging at his mind for rest. Fingers run through his hair, only encouraging the pull of sleep. Words are said but he can no longer make them out, smiling to himself as he finally gives into an easy unconsciousness. 

_____

It wasn’t until later in the day that he woke up. The mid afternoon sun beating at his face through the tall windows while the smell of food invaded his nose. He turns onto his side, his face burrowing into the fabric of your dress as he wraps his arms loosely around your waist.

“Well good morning love”

Your soft voice calls to him. He opens his eyes, looking up to you smiling down at him. 

“There is food awaiting you in the kitchen whenever you are hungry,” You explain, brushing hair out of his face. “I do need to head into town, would you care to join me?”

He nods lazily, holding you close to him until  his stomach rumbles loudly in empty protest. You laugh, leaning over to kiss his temple. 

“Alright, We’ll leave once you've had a bite to eat. Then we can get you all stocked up while we're out.”

It was only 30 minutes later until they were strolling down the busy streets. With Link now healed, rested and fed, the streets felt much more welcoming than the hostile experience of this morning. The streets were now packed, voices shouting out to hassle and bargain down prices. He kept a hand on the small of your back, holding the few things you had already bought in the other.

Despite his insistence, you had bought him everything he needed and then some. Multiple bottles of healing potions, some arrows and even his own bottle of that purple soap from this morning.

You were currently browsing through a stall of books. Briefly explaining plots of ones that you had read previously while searching over new titles. He smiled at the way your eyes widened in excitement as you skimmed through the new book in your hands, using the small moment of opportunity to hand over a few rupees to the vendor.

“Oh Link, you didn't have to do that!”

He hugged your shoulders, pulling you to his side. “It's alright sweet`art. It's worth it to keep that smile on ya face.” You blushed as he slipped the book from your hands, adding it to the bag.

You continued on your way, hoping to get a special treat for Epona who was being watched over back in Kakariko. You leaned into Link, enjoying the rare quality time spent together for the rest of the afternoon. 

A detour through the center of town led you two to linger around the fountain. The street lamps being lit around you as the crowds began to disperse. He takes your hand, his rough thumb brushing over the softness of your knuckles with a deep sigh.

“I’ll uh, gotta get goin in the morning. Promised Fado I’d help out this week.”

“Oh..”

Link knew that tone. He knew you were disappointed and honestly, so was he. He wanted to be by your side more. To see your smiling face, to be there when you needed him. To be the hero he had been for Hyrule, to you. But Ordon was his home and he still struggled to imagine fully leaving it all behind. It was who he was at his core, a simple rancher. And you deserved more than that. You deserved the life of luxury that you had here. To be within the walls that he tirelessly worked to make sure were kept safe. 

“Link?” He cupped your face, lifting it up so he could look directly into your eyes.

“What…what if I came with you?”

“Come…to Ordon?”

You nodded and Link's heart stuttered in both panic and excitement. You wanted to visit Ordon with him? To see his home, meet everyone he considered family? It was something he had dreamed of since the first time he had kissed you. 

What if you didn't like it though? What if it only solidified how different your worlds were?

“I don't have to of course,” You tried to reassure him. Likely having caught onto his slight panic. “I just…I miss you when you're gone. And I know how important your village is to you. It'd be an honor to see it for myself.”

Link's heart nearly lept out of his chest. “Are ya sure?”

When you nodded Link couldn't hold back the smile spreading across his face. He grabbed your face, crushing his lips onto yours. He pushed away the panic, the fears and insecurities. You were coming with him. You wanted to come home with him and he couldn't imagine a more perfect idea. 

[synthetickitsune]

may i please request florist!san who secretly likes a regular at his flower shop, then he learns that she finally recently broke up with her ex so he does all kinds of things to cheer her up like slipping in cute notes or chocolates in the flowers she buys and to also maybe shoot his shot 🥹💕

thank youuu and no need to rush! please do take all the time you need 🫶

San (ATZ) | Flower Shop AU + hidden notes fluff | 0.9k | gn!reader

The change wasn’t immediately recognizable for what it truly was. 

You might’ve missed a few weeks, which was concerning, but San understood that life happens and sometimes there’s just not enough time, money, or even energy to come to the flower shop, to keep the house looking pretty. 

And of course he spent the better part of those weeks worried if you’ll ever show up again.

Some little part of him hoped that you won’t - the unselfish one, the one that only cared about your happiness as he tends to care about all strangers that come to his shop. If you never come again, then perhaps your manchild of a boyfriend has finally grown into a full fledged man and started buying you flowers like you deserve instead of leaving you to do it yourself.

It was just one of the few pieces of information he got from the limited amount of small conversations you had. Your boyfriend would give you a couple bucks and tell you to go buy yourself some red roses. An exact amount that would in no universe be covered by the money he gave you. Truly, San wonders why you bothered with that guy. 

You deserve better. You deserve someone like him - but that’s only what the selfish part of his heart keeps telling him.

Things are different now, though. Something changed. You’re back to getting flowers, but they’re not roses anymore, and the bouquets are smaller. They also suit you more. You seem genuinely happy getting them.

San feels torn about it, although he’s mostly curious.

Until one day he sees your phone light up just as you’re about to pay, a name briefly flashing on the screen. You decline the call with lips pressed into a thin line. It’s not the time to be nosy, it’s not his place to ask-

“Is everything alright?” he asks carefully, then upon meeting your eyes he panics, “It’s just you seemed upset and you’ve been missing before…”

He’s just making it worse, he knows, but he hopes you can just take it as him being concerned about his business and not creepy. You study his face for a moment before sighing.

“We broke up,” you say simply, “And he keeps calling so that’s a little annoying.”

“Oh,” is all he can say.

And oh is all he can think for the rest of the day. Week, actually. And then he gets it together.

‘Together’ in a way that is perhaps concerning in its own way.

It might be too much - it is too much and wholly inappropriate. But San feels like a madman on a mission, hyping himself before the final stretch as he looks at the handful of notes and another small pile of envelopes.

The notes should be fine - they’re just generic words of encouragement, some may be a little too sweet for strangers, but not too much. The envelopes, well, they hold his heart. He must be in his right mind still if he thought to start with the notes and see how you accept them.

…And that doesn’t apply anymore weeks later when he’s stealthily slipping the first envelope into the bouquet before wrapping it for you. His heart is about to burst and you’re looking at him with concern. His hands are shaking, but at least you only noticed now. 

“Are you alright?” you ask, brows furrowed.

“Yeah, of course,” he smiles. It’s easy to make it genuine. 

“I…” you hesitate and he leans closer, nodding at you to continue, “I know I never said anything, but I wanted to thank you for the notes. I mean, you probably noticed I started coming in more. They just really helped me get through the hard times.”

He did notice. He also noticed you slowly opening up, lingering, gracing him with short conversation each time.

“I’m glad,” he says and he means it. Even if nothing comes out of this, making you happy is enough.

“So I was wondering, would you like to go on a date with me?” you bite your lip, “If you’re okay with going slow-”

“Yes,” he interrupts before you can change your mind. He already saw you spiral into overthinking many times, he’s not gonna do it today. “Absolutely. Just, uh, could you give that back to me?”

He points to the wrapped flowers in your hands. You look at him with a suspicion. “Why?”

“I don’t want to embarrass myself and make you change your mind, please?” he begs. Suddenly he can’t remember what’s written in the short letter. He only knows it’s sappy and pathetic.

“Is your number there?” you chuckle.

“Among other things,” he admits. For once he doesn’t like the way your smile grows bigger.

“Then if I like the other things I will text you,” you seem so satisfied with yourself, San is in love - and shambles, “If not, I’ll come here again and pretend I didn’t see anything. You can ask me on the date again if the note doesn’t work.”

That’s not the issue, the note isn’t asking you out, he wants to say, but you’re already turned away from him and walking out. He can’t speak, his tongue feels too heavy and his mind is blank. Slowly, he feels a smile stretching his lips against his will.

Maybe you like losers, he hopes.

[vero-niche]

i would assume its because of the coloring and drawing techniques? if the skin and hair are not in contrast, its more of an effort (and time) to create ways in which these two can be differentiated (via texture or shading). also the character should not blend in with the background either and mangakas can use two colors in total. so the easiest and most efficient design choice is to go white skin-dark hair or dark skin-white hair. then in the cover art where colors are possible they can specify what shade of hair color the characters have

why does every single black character in manga have white hair

[lght-roastcoffee]

⋆ ˚｡⋆ Jealous ⋆ ˚｡⋆

prompt: "Are you jealous?"┆Tuna-Tober ⊹ Day 3

pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader

wordcount: 1.6K

warnings: slight language

author's note: So I've only watched the netflix show and have yet to read the books, so my knowledge of the series and universe is from that. I love Benedict though. He's the himbo rich boyfriend I've always wanted. ♡

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ 𝘯𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 ˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ 𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘢-𝘵𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘴 ˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹

“Why do you insist I wear these silly gowns, Mama?”

My mother huffs as she swats at my fidgeting hands, trying to find a more comfortable angle in this ridiculous corset. She straightens the damned thing back to how it was, one of the bones digging its way into the side of my waist.

“Because, darling,” she begins, smoothing my hair to the side, “tonight is your first ball back into society. I know you enjoyed your time in the country with your aunt, but it is time you find yourself a husband.”

Taking my gloved hand in hers, she places a dance card on my wrist and leads me into the Danbury estate where tonight’s social event is in full swing. 

“Now, remember.” Mama turns to face me, cradling my face in her hand. “Tonight is for you to socialize and get to know those of the Ton. If you do not find someone who has caught your attention tonight, I will still love you.” 

Mama smiles at me before taking my hand again and guiding me inside the grand ballroom. It was filled with a vast assortment of fellow debutants, bachelors, and families mingling. In the middle of the room, couples were participating in the dancing, others talking near the lemonade tables, and others hovering around the dance floor conversing with their neighbors. Off to one side, I spot the one person I was hoping to see tonight dressed in the ever-recognizable blue color nearly all the Bridgertons wear. I quickly say goodbye to Mama, who was already conversing with Lady Danbury, and rush over to my friend.

“Eloise!” I greet, catching the girl’s attention. “It is so great to see you, my dear!” 

Eloise’s face lights up in recognition, turning to hug me. “Y/N! How was the country? You will have to recount your time to me! I’m sure your aunt taught you much in your time together.” 

My mother thought it best for me to get away after my failed engagement to Lord Pedleton, a filthy man double my age of twenty years. My father thought the union would bring fortune to our families, but all it brought was harm after Lord Pedleton was found bedding his maid. The scandal it brought to both our families caused my father to break the union and my mother convinced him it was best I spend some time with my aunt.

For the past year since, my aunt has taught me everything she knows and how to be in society as a woman while enjoying the more… improper joys in life. She took me to gallery openings of her friends, invited me to parties and gatherings with equal minded artists and intellectuals who did not look down at me for being a woman. She encouraged me to begin writing and worked with me to finish my first novel, publishing under a pseudonym and watching as others enjoyed my craft. To say I thoroughly enjoyed my time away was an understatement, and Eloise knows as I’ve written to her through the year and sent her an advanced copy. 

“It was wonderful, Eloise,” I sigh, a slight smirk forming on my lips. “The things I’ve done would make you blush.

She laughs, throwing her head back and grabbing my arm. “Oh, I’m certain! But I’m sure you missed me, or more accurately,” she leans in, mischief dancing in her eyes, “you missed my brother, did you not?”

My cheeks flare as I swat the girl away in playful annoyance. “Eloise!”

“What?” Eloise raises her hands in defense. “I only speak the truth! It is not like you haven’t been smitten with him since we were children!”

“Smitten with who, exactly?”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. That’s how the saying goes, is it not?

Benedict Bridgerton struts over to the two of us from whatever corner he was hiding in, butterflies erupting in my chest at the sound of his voice. His face lit up in boyish excitement as he stepped to his sister’s side. 

“No one!” I quickly reply, glaring at my friend before she can speak any more. 

Benedict chuckles, looking between Eloise and myself. “Well, I do hope whoever has your eye is worth it.” 

I roll my eyes. “There is no one that has my eye, Ben. Eloise was just asking about my time in the country.”

“Ah, yes! How was it?” His blue eyes pierce mine as he engages in the conversation. The look he gives is filled with an emotion I haven’t seen before.

“Oh you know,” I shrug, trying to avoid the total truth, “my aunt introduced me to her friends and I learned how she lives. She is always lively company to keep.”

“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, and that you have now rejoined us!” Benedict slightly bowed in a playful manner, pulling a laugh from myself and an eye roll from Eloise. “You’ll have to join us sometime for a game of pall mall. It hasn’t been quite the same without you there to taunt Anthony.”

I smile widely, returning his bow with a curtsy. “Of course, Mr. Bridgerton. I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

The three of us stand in our corner recounting the past year together and catching up. I didn’t quite realize just how much I had missed my friends, but I am glad to be back in their company. 

While in the middle of Benedict explaining his recent work of art, I feel a tap on my shoulder, pulling the attention to the young man behind me. 

“Excuse me, miss,” he says. The man is young, not that much older than myself, with dark hair and a scrawny frame. “I apologize for interrupting, but I was wondering if I could take your next dance.”

I blush slightly out of both embarrassment and disbelief. “Oh, uh, sure.”

He takes my hand in his, filling out a line on my dance card before leading me to the dance floor. The music begins and the familiar tune fills the room. The man bows and I curtsy before getting swept into the dance. My partner is nervous, I can tell. His dance moves are clumsy and rushed, palms growing clammy. He refuses to meet my eye and is silent the entire time. 

Not very far into the dance, I glance back to where I left my two friends, Eloise silently laughing at my misery after getting tripped over and Benedict watches with a hard look on his face. I continue moving, but I cannot take my eyes off Benedict. The look on his face, eyes hard, jaw clenched, is one I had only seen when he was frustrated or angry. Why would he be angry?

Soon, the music ends and I remove myself from my partner, excusing myself back to my friends quickly. 

“Well that was quite the show!” Eloise laughed. For what felt like the hundredth time tonight, I rolled my eyes at the girl, but joined in her laughter.

“He might not be the greatest dance partner, but he wasn’t hard on the eyes, was he?” 

At my jest, I hear Benedict scoff before crossing his arms across his chest. “Please, the boy could hardly keep up.”

“Are you jealous?” I tease, stepping closer to him. Up close, I see his eyes shift across my face, shock dancing over his eyes briefly.

“Well- I-” Benedict stutters.

“I believe mama is calling me,” Eloise announces, clearly trying to leave and nearly tripping over another girl as she backs away. “I shall catch up with you later, Y/N.”

I huff before the feeling of a hand on my forearm is dragging me outside to the gardens. I struggle to keep up with Benedict’s quick strides before I stop around a secluded corner.

“Ben, what-” He interrupts me.

“What if I am?” Benedict stares at me, eyes wide and darting between mine.

“I’m sorry?”

“What if I am jealous?” He steps closer, but I stand my ground. He slowly closes the distance, taking one of my gloved hands in his.

“I would say that I have been jealous as well.” 

He leans in closer, face mere inches from mine, allowing me to see the creases and lines on his gorgeous face. His blue eyes, with flecks of green scattered like stars, dilate at my words. His other hand comes to rest on my cheek, thumb rubbing against my cheekbone. 

“You are so beautiful,” he says shakily. “You have been since I first met you.”

The breath catches in my throat, my hand slightly squeezes his still in my grasp. My eyes dart from the intensity in his eyes to his lips just briefly, but just enough for him to notice. Suddenly, the feeling of his lips on mine is the only thing I feel, my head spinning as I return his kiss. My free hand trails along his arm to rest at his shoulder, the other letting go to do the same while his finds my waist.

“Wait-” He carefully pulls away slightly, searching my eyes. “Are you sure-”

I pull him back in, arms securing themselves around his neck as he melts into my embrace. We continue before the need to breathe takes over and we part, chests rising and falling with each inhale. The sight of him, hair disheveled, lips slightly swollen, is a sight I’d like to see everyday if he’d let me. He smiles, still catching his breath before laughing quietly. His infectious personality has me joining him, my head falling to rest on his chest with his arms wrapping around my frame.

His hand tilts my head up to look at him. “I am glad you’ve returned, my love.”

[trinketstreasuretrove]

I keep bouncing back and forth between interests like pong

Extra thoughts/details & sketches below cut

You have no fucking idea how much thought I put into this

Kremy: Changeling that disguises as a unicorn

Gideon: Kirin

Frost: Unicorn

Gricko: Earth Pony

Torbek: Abada

Twig: Breezie

There is going to be so much rambling so fucking STRAP IN

Okay so. Changeling Kremy. I realized like 80% of the way through I coulda made him a dragon but I wanted to draw horses soooooo... :| I imagine he is CONSTANTLY changing around his cutie mark. He could theoretically give himself a normal mustache but I think the idea of him being unable to do so is stupidly funny so he still draws it on. I tried to give him twists bc I thought it'd look pretty & I don't know how I'd translate the hair people usually give him in human designs onto a horse. I'm PRAYING that it's clear enough they're supposed to be twists (ref image below)

I'll be honest I think Gideon is the one I put the least thought into. Although that's mostly because his idea was the first one I just LATCHED onto and stuck with. He's a Kirin so he still has the connection to fire and whatnot. Instead of being imprisoned by hobgoblins it'd probably be diamond dogs in this au. He does still have a beard unlike usual Kirins but it just sort of melds into his mane.

Frost was a FUCKING NIGHTMARE (heh mare) to design I'm ngl. I kept having to redo his colors and had to heavily simplify his robes (and even then I had to redraw them when I got to the coloring stage because I hated them that much). But I think he'd turned out quite pretty in the end. I didn't want to just slap stripes on a horse and just call it a day though so desgining him to look recognizable but not just look like a zebra or a weird shaped tiger was difficult. He does have the saddle bags they have in MLP to stand in for his backpack & I tried to give it a similar pattern to his waist sash he has in his splash art. Also his mane is supposed to look like this under the hood.

It's supposed to have some strands coming out the sides to resemble the stripes on his face & I really hope that comes through in the design O.O

Gricko I also admittedly didn't think too much on because his design translated surprisingly well into a pony :] It was a little difficult to figure out his mane but I think it's quite cute. Figuring out his cutie mark was stressful. I wasn't sure if I should've gone with something music or animal related so I started sketching a harmonica with like. a music sheet? coming out of it? But after messing with the shape of the "wind" coming out of the top I realised I could make it into a paw to sort of combine music and animals and I think its verrry cute :]

Torbek! Torbek! Torbek! :D I'm crazy happy w/ how Torbek came out. He translates shockingly well into pony form especially when I found out ab Abadas in MLP. The incredibly lanky proportions fit verrry well. The leg designs are supposed to reference how his (witchlight-effected) arm in his splash art turns darker towards the ends and the stripes on his chest reference the straps from the straight jacket(?) under his coat. ALSO Abadas do have a cutie mark/cutie mark equivalent design on their flank (they represent their special talent and I think Torbek's OG mark would be about climbing) but I covered up where it would be with some witchlight machinery cause I thought it was clever :] it's specifically based on this plate(?) on his back

Anddd finally Twig :] I went into her design immediately knowing she was gonna be a Breezie. I originally just kinda slapped some colors onto a basic Breezie body and added a hat but it was really boring so I added some spots and gave her colored hooves to spruce it up just a little bit. The spots also gave me the ability to give her some AJ style freckles which I think are verrry adorable. :]

PS. as a treat for reading all that heres the OG concept I sketched up in MS paint (the designs stayed mostly the same [besides color palette] but I thought Frost look too tiger-y so I changed it up a bit in the end) You get a gold star if you can make out all of my handwriting btw