#the more i draw these dresses the easier it becomes

[sleepy-aletheas]

*puts my favorite men into dresses* my sleep deprivation is suddenly bearable ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

[christopher-bangnaldoskzz]

PDA

Pairing: Chan x female Reader

Word Count: 3k

Warning; 18 + MDNI, Fingering, Swearing there is a tone of adult content in this fic please be cautious

READ WITH CAUTION !!!

Summary: Loving Chan was supposed to be the easier thing, but living with him has proven to be anything but easy. When losing you becomes too much, he takes drastic action to keep you as close as possible.

The sound of the front door creaking open jolts you from your swirling thoughts. You glance at the clock on the wall, and a frown forms on your lips; he’s an hour late, and the little hands of fate seem to conspire against you. As you meticulously fasten your shimmering earrings, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror, the frustration evident in your eyes. With an exasperated roll of your eyes, you instinctively tug at the hem of your dress, wishing you’d chosen something more comfortable after such a long wait. 

“Baby are you ready?” he calls out from the living room, his voice cheerful and carefree, as if he has been lounging there all along. His casual tone ignites a spark of annoyance within you. How dare he ask such a simple question after leaving you to wait? You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the exchange that is bound to follow. The nerve of him to act as if nothing is amiss while you’ve been left in a whirlwind of anticipation and irritation.

“I’ve been ready for an hour,” you call back, your voice echoing softly in the spacious room, filled with the rich scent of lavender from a nearby candle. You can feel his gaze lingering on you, an intense warmth that sends a delightful shiver down your spine. As he strides into the bedroom, his confident presence dominates the space, making the air feel charged with excitement. He leans casually against the doorframe, the muscles in his arms subtly flexing, and a playful smirk curls at the corners of his lips, hinting at something unspoken. The late evening moon filters through the sheer curtains, bathing the room in a soft glow that highlights the details of your outfit—a delicate fabric that drapes elegantly across your figure. You catch his eyes as they roam over you, lingering on every detail with a mix of admiration and intrigue, and a rush of anticipation floods through you, leaving you breathless. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, your voice sharp as you pivot away from him. Feeling the fabric of your dress cling to your skin, you slip into your heels. Hearing the satisfying click of the shoes against the polished floor, reverberating in the stillness of the room like a warning bell, you slip into your heels.

“Like what?” he counters, amusement flickering in his eyes as a chuckle escapes his lips. Yet, beneath that light-hearted tone, there’s an unmistakable note of confusion, as if he’s struggling to understand the unspoken tension building between you.

“Don’t even try to deflect,” you say, your frustration bubbling. The intensity of your tone cuts through the light atmosphere, and you feel your heart race with anger. “I’m really mad at you. It’s been a whole month, Chris.” 

As your words linger in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions, you watch his expression shift. The playful glimmer that usually dances in his eyes begins to fade, replaced by a look of realisation that deepens the tension between you. It’s as if the jovial mask he wore so quickly has slipped away, revealing the seriousness of the moment. He seems to understand the weight of your disappointment, and the change in his demeanour only fuels your frustration further.

You watch as he draws in a deep, shuddering breath, his throat constricting slightly as he swallows hard, the action clearly challenging him as he fights to keep his emotions in check. His eyes now shimmer with a poignant blend of regret and steadfast resolve. When he finally finds his voice, it is tinged with vulnerability. “I’m so sorry,” he begins, the sincerity in his tone slicing through the tension in the air. “I realise I’ve been working so many hours lately… it’s completely consumed me.” He pauses, his brow furrowing slightly as he searches for the right words. “But I want you to know that I’m here with you now.” There’s a moment of silence as he steadies his voice, which wavers just enough to hint at the emotional burden he’s carrying. It’s clear that, beneath his earnest words, he is battling to regain the focus and presence required to truly connect in this moment, putting aside everything else that has been weighing on him.

“Let’s just go and get this over with,” you assert with a firm resolve, your voice steady despite the swirling emotions inside you. As you gently brush past him, you stride confidently into the living room, where the heavy air feels almost suffocating with unspoken tension. Your mind races, but you strive to maintain your focus on what needs to be addressed.

His hand finds its way to the small of your back, a subtle yet intimate gesture that sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. It’s a touch that speaks volumes, stirring a mix of feelings within you that you can hardly articulate.

“My love, please,” he murmurs softly, his breath warm and intimate against your ear as he leans in closer, creating a bubble of warmth around the two of you. The familiar scent of his cologne wraps around you like a comforting embrace, mingling with the coolness of the evening air. The gentle lilt of his voice adds an almost soothing quality, contrasting sharply with the charged atmosphere that crackles between you.

“Can we just have a date night? I don’t want to fight with you tonight,” he pleads, his eyes holding a depth of sincerity that draws you in. His earnest gaze captures your attention fully, and for a fleeting moment, you notice the fatigue etched in his features—a tiredness that hints at deeper struggles. A longing flickers in his eyes like a fragile candle flame, illuminating his silent plea for connection and intimacy amid the storm of emotions swirling around you, as if he’s reaching out, hoping to bridge the gap that has formed between you.

“Let’s just go,” you reply, your voice steady yet soft, a sense of determination underlying your words. As you pick up your bag from the polished kitchen bench, the cool, smooth surface feels refreshing against your fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth of the moment.

His gaze lingers on you, and he smiles slightly. “I must say, your dress is absolutely stunning tonight,” he remarks, his voice low and appreciative. As his hand glides along your back, the gentle brush of his fingers ignites a rush of warmth that travels like electricity down your spine. The fabric of your dress shimmers softly under the kitchen lights, reflecting a myriad of colours that harmonise with the energy of the evening.

It was no mere coincidence that you selected the enchanting black Chanel dress for the evening. The deep V neckline elegantly drew the eye along the delicate curve of your back, gracefully highlighting the gentle arch that culminated at the small of your waist. The carefully crafted silhouette balanced a sense of audacity with refined sophistication, embodying a captivating allure that you wore with confidence.

As you stepped out of your shared apartment building, the cool night air enveloped you like a whispered promise, brushing softly against your skin. Chan rested his warm hand gently on the small of your back, a gesture both reassuring and grounding amid the vibrant hustle of the city nightlife. His presence radiated calmness, a striking contrast to the excitement bustling around you.

With a charming smile that lit up his face, he made his way around to the passenger side of his car, his movements deliberate and graceful. He paused, taking a moment to appreciate the way the fabric of your dress caught the fading light. As he opened the door for you, his eyes flickered with admiration. He leaned in slightly, expertly tucking in the hem of your Chanel dress with a tender touch, ensuring that it cascaded down perfectly and that every detail was immaculate. 

With a soft click, he closed the door, sealing you inside the comfort of the leather interior, where the inviting aroma of aged, tanned leather mingled with a hint of his cologne, creating an intimate cocoon against the lively backdrop of the city. The world outside buzzed with energy, but inside this moment, there was a serene connection between you and Chan, an unspoken understanding that tonight was special.

As you navigate the vibrant streets of Seoul, the neon lights flicker and dance off the sleek glass buildings that tower above, casting a warm glow on the bustling city below. A sense of belonging washes over you as if the city’s essence resonates with your soul. Beside you, Chan occasionally sneaks a glance your way, a soft smile on his lips. His hand rests gently on your thigh, reassuring as he expertly steers through the lively traffic, the city’s rhythm pulsing in sync with your heart.

As you finally arrive at the restaurant, the valet swings open your car door, offering a courteous gesture. Taking a deep breath, you step out and see Chan waiting just a few paces away. He extends his hand toward you, a hopeful look on his face. Still, the anger inside you overrides any desire for civility. With a determined stride, you bypass him completely, ignoring the outstretched hand, and push open the heavy wooden door of the restaurant, your heart racing with frustration.

As you enter the dimly lit restaurant, the waiter approaches with a warm smile, ready to escort you to your table. Just then, you feel the familiar warmth of Chan’s hand resting gently on your back, a subtle yet electric gesture that sends a thrill through you. He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “Two can play this game, y/n,” his voice laced with playful challenge. The waiter turns to lead you toward your private room. 

The waiter gracefully approached your table, gently pulling out your chair and tucking you in courteously as you settled into the cushioned seat. A moment later, Chan slid into the chair beside you, offering a nod of acknowledgment to the waiter. “Please take your time to get comfortable, sir,” he said invitingly, gesturing toward an elegant ashtray resting on the polished surface. “It’s available should you or your wife decide to indulge.” He exited the room quietly, leaving you in a cosy, relaxed ambience.

“Wife?” you ask, glancing at Chan, who has leaned in closer, his gaze sweeping over your body. There’s a hunger in his eyes, a primal desire that makes you feel like the main course laid out before him, tantalising and irresistible.

With a playful grin, he replies, “Hopefully… one day,” before casually retrieving a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. The smooth motion of his hand draws your attention, and you can’t help but notice the confidence in his demeanour.

“Did you want one, baby?” he offers, extending the packet toward you as if presenting a gift. It’s a gesture that annoys and charms you; he always seems to know just the right thing to say, even when you’re wrapped in a whirlwind of anger towards him. The sweetness of his tone feels like a double-edged sword, cutting through your frustration while simultaneously intensifying it. You wonder how he can remain unruffled when you’re fuming inside, and it gets under your skin.

“We need to talk,” you say, taking a deep breath as you turn to face him. Chan takes a moment to light his cigarette, the soft flicker of the flame illuminating his face for just a second before he finally meets your gaze.

“I know I’ve messed up, Y/n…” His voice is laced with regret as he runs a hand through his hair, his eyes searching yours. “I’ve been so absorbed in my work that we haven’t even seen each other in a month.” He places his hand on your thigh, his touch warm yet failing to offer the comfort you desperately crave.

“Chris, we live in the same house and sleep in the same bed,” you respond, your voice trembling with frustration and hurt. “If I had known that moving in with you would feel like this, I would have never sold my apartment. I was happier living alone; I felt less lonely, at least then.” The words spill from your lips, each a heavy reminder of the isolation wrapped around you like a suffocating blanket. “Do you understand just how lonely this has become for me?” You finally exhale, the weight of your confession hanging between you.

“I’m truly sorry; I should have been right here with you,” he murmured, his tone filled with sincerity. “Nothing else should have come between us.” His hand brushed against your thigh, a warm and tantalising touch that sent a shiver racing through your body, stirring something deep within.

You reached out, taking the cigarette from his fingers, the tension crackling between you. Drawing in the smoke, you leaned in closer, your lips almost brushing against his. As you exhaled the smoke into his mouth, it felt like a moment suspended in time, the closest you’d been to him in what felt like an eternity.

With a gentle urgency, your lips meet his in a tantalising kiss that ignites a spark of desire, leaving you yearning for even more. Suddenly, the waiter steps into the room, breaking the moment and prompting Chan to pull away. “Could you give us about ten minutes, please?” he asks, glancing meaningfully at the waiter. The waiter nods in understanding and quietly closes the door behind him, enveloping the two of you in a sweet, charged silence.

Chan gently slides his chair back, his warm smile inviting you closer. He reaches out, intertwining his fingers with yours, his touch soft yet reassuring. “Come sit,” he encourages, his eyes sparkling with a playful light as he gestures for you to settle onto his lap, creating an intimate space for you.

You rise from your seat, your heart racing wildly, each thump echoing the intense craving deep within you that can only be quenched by his presence. As you move closer, he grips the soft fabric of your thighs, his fingers trailing leisurely up your back, guiding you to settle onto his lap. The warmth of his body radiates against yours, igniting every nerve in your being. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, feeling his strength and warmth as you tilt your chin upwards, allowing your eyes to lock onto his. The world around you fades, leaving only the electric connection that pulses in the air between you.

“We have 10 minutes before he comes back”, Chan smirks as your rest your core against his hard member; you place another kiss on his lips as his hands slide down your body, resting on your ass and pulling you closer to him. 

“You really want to do this here?” you ask, your breath coming in quick, uneven gasps. Your forehead rests against his, the warmth of his skin mingling with yours as the air around you feels charged with tension. Your eyes lock, searching for a hint of hesitation, your heart racing in the silence that surrounds you.

He brushes your lips once more before pulling away. “I will always take care of you,” his thumb brushing against your ass before squeezing. “Anywhere”, his lip brushed against your neck. “Anytime”, he licks up your neck, kissing along your jawline. 

A small moan escapes your lips as you open your neck up to him; he begins to kiss down your collarbone, moving down to between your breasts. Slowly licking upwards before placing a kiss on each breast.

With an earnest expression, he gazes up at you, his eyes searching for affirmation. “We can go ahead and sort this out here… or I can drive you home,” he pleads, the weight of his words hanging in the air as he waits for your decision.

Leaning down, you capture his mouth with yours, opening your mouth just enough, allowing Chan’s tongue to slip inside; another moan escapes your lips as Chan’s hand wanders down, slowly sliding up your dress. His fingertips brush against your smooth, soft skin as he attempts to keep himself from exploring more. Slowly, he uses his middle finger to draw circles along your inner thigh, causing your body to heat up with the anticipation of his touch. 

“Here it is,” he breathes softly, his words barely more than a whisper. You can feel the rapid thump of his heart against his ribcage as if it’s trying to break free from the confines of his chest.

His hand glides further up your leg, his fingers teasing the line of your panties. You gasp as his middle finger begins to trace and tease your entrance. 

“Fuck”, your breathing begins to pick up as the pleasure rises inside your body. 

You moan as Chan’s finger pushes into your core “God” you begin to grind as his thumb begins to work your clit. 

“Shhhh, baby. We only have 5 minutes. How about I finish you off here, and then we can continue once we get home?” His grin takes over, and you nod your head in agreement. 

“I have a month’s worth of orgasms to give you” he silences your moans with his lips as his thumb works on circling your clit. 

“Oh please”, you call, trying your hardest to muffle your moans. The orgasm ripples through your body, causing your body to jolt from pure pent-up pleasure. 

“Good girl”, Chan praises as his watch alarm begins to sing. 

“Times up”, he growls as his finger slides out from your core, causing an overwhelming sense of emptiness. 

A moment later, there was a polite knock at the door that hinted at anticipation. “Just a second!” Chan called out, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet room as he rushed you to get off his lap.

As you settle back into your chair, Chan delicately adjusts the fabric of your dress, smoothing out any wrinkles with careful precision. Just at that moment, the waiter glides into the room, carrying a tray with an air of professionalism, catching you off guard as you take your seat.

“Are you ready to place your order?” the waiter asks with a warm smile, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as he stands at the edge of the table, ready to capture your choices for the evening. The soft glow of the restaurant’s ambient lighting reflects off his neatly pressed shirt, adding to the inviting atmosphere.

Taglist: @daceydeath @krishastumblernow @armystay89 @bakedlilgoonie @cakeracha

[houseofceline]

My Pretty Girl - T.N.

Starry Eyes

Pairing: Ravenclaw and sort of ditzy but talented Reader x Slytherin notorious playboy Theodore Nott

Warnings: None (yet ;))

“Starry eyes

What can I do for your attention.”

Summary: Theodore’s late to class but Snape blessed him with the opportunity of sitting next to a cute Ravenclaw who’s no help at all.

1 >

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

Clockwise or counterclockwise? 

You honestly didn’t even know anymore. No matter how many hours you spent on reading the thick potions textbook or wasting bottles after bottles of ink on notes you still barely passed the class. 

You were starting to get a headache from trying to picture the text in your head. Everything was starting to become foggy. You sat down, defeated, and began doodling on the parchment instead of writing detailed instructions on how to make the stupid potion. So much for a Ravenclaw. 

Hmm off shoulder or puffed sleeves?

 You bit your lip trying to decide which option would look better on the dress you sketched out. The classroom was calming with little chattering among your classmates in the back allowing you to work easier. You could never work or do anything in silence, it drove you crazy. 

Suddenly the door slammed open causing you to jump a bit in your seat. 

“Nice of you to join us Mr. Nott, although your presence was expected half an hour ago,” Snape drawled out in his infamous monotone voice. 

“Sorry I overslept,” he shrugged while adjusting his tie. Some students who were listening in laughed. With his messed up tie and ‘burn marks’ on his neck, it was clear that he was definitely doing more than just sleeping. 

Snape nodded and pointed at the empty seat next to you, not surprising anyone that he didn’t take away any house points from his house. 

Theodore eyed you as he walked towards your table. He would’ve preferred sitting with his house, but he could never pass up the chance to sit next to a pretty girl. White blouse with a lace neckline and sleeves, black plaid skirt, Ravenclaw tie, black sleek hair, and a white headband. You didn’t fit into the usual type of girls he went for, but you were cute. 

Theodore took the seat next to you before tapping on your shoulder. 

You turned to him and almost jumped when you found his eyes on you. Gorgeous blueish grayish eyes. 

So pretty, this might be my new favorite color. 

“So uh,” Theo cleared his throat ignoring the fact that he swore he just saw your eyes sparkle, “what are we doing?” 

You blinked. Under the pressure of a somewhat attractive boy it made your memory much worse. 

“Umm, we’re brewing a potion and writing?” 

You had hoped that didn’t come out as a question and hoped that he’d just nod and ask someone else. 

Theodore raised an eyebrow and glanced at your blue tie again. 

“Which potion exactly?” He asked, narrowing his eyes at you as if you were lying to him. 

“Antidote to potions. Wait, no poisons. The common one. Wait, maybe the uncommon ones. Well I don’t think there’s a big difference. I mean, shouldn’t the uncommon ones be stronger and still fix the common ones?” You rambled on, looking off to the side lost in your own thoughts. 

Theodore blinked. The sorting hat rarely makes errors, maybe you were high but then again Lovegood’s also a Ravenclaw. The looney population in Ravenclaw must be high. 

“Why can’t they just make a super strong potion that fixes every poison? That’d make our jobs easier and we wouldn’t have to memorize so many potions,” you giggled as you turned back to your sketches. 

Theodore looked over your shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of your paper but instead your sketches caught his eye. You may be no help in potions, but you sure can draw. 

“Are you going to make that?” He asked while you squirmed at the close proximity of his face to yours. 

“Yes,” you mumbled shyly, scared of the criticism that might follow. You loved designing and fashion. It was one of the only things that came naturally to you, but coming from a family of doctors you were vulnerable to criticism for not following in their path. 

“Cute,” he said before his eyes found your potions paper. 

Common poisons. Theodore noticed that you only had half the page completed and chuckled. 

He got up towards the ingredients cabinet and grabbed his ingredients and the ones you were missing. 

Potions came easy to him. Not only did the teacher bias his house, but his mother was a skilled potions maker as well. Matter of fact her entire side of the family were. He had spent most of his summers in his manor reading journals of potion experiments and advanced information that weren’t even in his school textbooks. 

He quickly prepared his ingredients and started on his potion while continuing yours on the side. Luckily you were both in the back and Snape couldn’t catch him. He wrote down his notes and instructions making a mental note to tell you to copy them down later. You’d need it. 

Maybe he was also placed in the wrong house. Today, Hufflepuff seemed more fitting. You were lucky that you’re cute. 

[novaursa]

Good evening love

I was thinking about that last night!

When Daemon and Rhaenyra goes to brothel they sleep together and obviously she’s pregnant and coz it’s just before her wedding (we will says it just before) everyone thing it’s Leanor.

She gave birth to a little girl all Targaryen looks. They’re was always some rumors but since she looks like every targ it’s easier for her. Harwin played dad role for her and she’s really protective of her brother.

more time passed and everyone can clearly see that she looked exactly like daemon physically and mentally.

And it’s finally during the funeral of her aunt, Daemon see her and he understand that she is his. She’s everything he want and have a special bound with her (first child, heir of the throne, powerful dragon)

Fire in Her Veins

- Summary: During Laena’s funeral, Daemon recognizes you as his own blood. 

- Pairing: (daughter) targ!reader/(father) Daemon Targaryen (platonic)

- Note: The reader is the firstborn child and only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. The reader is also bonded to Vermithor.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The sea air on Driftmark is filled with salt and sorrow, the crashing waves of the Narrow Sea providing a mournful backdrop to the solemn gathering. You stand with your brothers on the stone cliffs of the island, your hands clasped tightly together in front of you as the funeral procession moves solemnly forward. Lady Laena’s casket is adorned with pearls and driftwood, her body wrapped in the traditional Velaryon colors, and you can feel the weight of your family’s grief pressing heavily upon your shoulders.

The mood is somber, the sky above gray and heavy, as if even the gods mourn the loss of Laena Velaryon. The Velaryon banners flap in the wind, and from where you stand, you see the faces of the royal family—Alicent and her children, all clustered together, keeping their distance from you and your brothers. Their green dresses stand out like bright flames against the dark ocean and black mourning attire. 

You feel a familiar pang of protectiveness as you glance toward your brothers, who are standing just to your right, their small faces grim and pale. You notice how Jacaerys keeps his head down, avoiding the stern gazes from across the gathering. You recognize the unspoken tension between the two halves of the family, an invisible line that divides you all.

Behind you, you hear the murmurs of the court, soft whispers that seem to follow you wherever you go. They speak of many things—the death of Lady Laena, the grief of her husband Daemon, and the unspoken truth that seems to hang in the air around you. The truth of who you are. 

"She looks more like him every day," you overhear a noblewoman whisper, though she thinks she is being quiet enough to go unnoticed.

And you know who they mean. Not Laenor Velaryon, who raised you as his own. Not Harwin Strong, who shielded you when you were small, his fierce protectiveness marking him as a father figure in your life. But Daemon.

Your eyes, so like his—stormy, burning with fire—scan the crowd until they land on him.

Daemon Targaryen stands just beyond the gathering of mourners, his face half-hidden beneath his hood, his silver hair blowing in the wind. There is something wild about him, something untamed, as though he belongs to the sea and the sky more than he belongs to the earth. He looks broken today, mourning his wife, but in his eyes there is a flicker of something as he catches your gaze—recognition, perhaps.

Your heart beats harder, and you lift your chin, a Targaryen through and through. You are not afraid to meet his gaze. In fact, there’s something in you that draws you closer to him, though your feet remain rooted to the ground.

Daemon's eyes narrow, the brief glint of recognition becoming a full realization. His mouth parts slightly as if he is going to speak, but no words come out. You see the flicker of memory in his gaze, a moment that stretches back to the night you were conceived—the night Rhaenyra escaped into the shadows of King's Landing, into his arms, if only for a single stolen moment.

The likeness between the two of you is undeniable, your shared features as plain as day to anyone who cared to look closely. Your high cheekbones, the curve of your lips, the storm in your gaze. And there is something more than just the physical—an energy, a fierceness that burns in you as much as it does in him.

"Y/N," Daemon murmurs your name under his breath as he steps forward, moving as though drawn to you by some unseen force.

You do not step back. You hold your ground, standing taller, your spine straight. You are not the little girl who needed protection anymore. You are Rhaenyra’s daughter, the rider of Vermithor, a dragon like no other. 

Your brothers shift uncomfortably beside you as Daemon approaches, and you gently place a hand on Jacaerys’ shoulder, a silent reassurance that you will protect them. They are yours, just as much as you are theirs, and no one, not even Daemon, can change that.

“Do you remember me?” Daemon’s voice is low, so low that only you can hear it. His eyes never leave yours.

Your lips part, but words fail you for a moment. You do remember him through your memory as he was a ghost—and the stories your mother told you, the truths she revealed as you grew older. You remember the fire that courses through your veins, the unyielding bond with your dragon, the instincts that set you apart. It all comes from him.

"How could I not?" you reply, your voice steady, even though inside you feel like a storm is brewing.

Daemon’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smile—it’s something darker, something more conflicted. He glances toward your mother, Rhaenyra, who stands a little ways off, her eyes firmly fixed on Laena’s casket. There is a tension between them as well, a history that lingers in the air, unspoken but understood.

“You look like her,” Daemon says quietly, but his eyes say otherwise. He knows you look like him. 

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. You have always heard the whispers, the stories, but standing before him now, there is something more intimate in the way he observes you. He is seeing himself in you, recognizing the dragon fire in your blood, the legacy of your shared heritage.

“I look like myself,” you correct, your tone sharper now. “I am my mother’s daughter.”

“And mine,” Daemon replies, his voice a murmur carried by the wind.

You hold his gaze, your heart thudding in your chest, but you do not back down. For years, you had wondered what it would be like to stand face to face with the man whose blood flows in your veins. Now that you are here, you find that you do not need his acknowledgment. You do not need his approval.

You are who you are, no matter who claims you.

"I didn’t need you before," you say, your voice low but firm. "I don’t need you now."

The wind blows harder, carrying your words with it, and Daemon stares at you for a long moment before he nods, almost imperceptibly. There is something in his eyes now—perhaps regret, perhaps something else entirely.

"You are strong," he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "That much is clear."

You nod, not offering him anything more, and you turn away, your brothers following you as you lead them away from the cliff’s edge and back toward the safety of your family. The tension in your shoulders slowly fades as you walk away from Daemon, though you can still feel his eyes on your back, watching you as you go.

As the sea crashes against the rocks below, you feel a sense of finality, but also a strange kind of peace. You are your mother’s daughter. You are bonded to a dragon as mighty as Vermithor. You do not need anyone to tell you who you are.

And yet, you cannot help but wonder what it might mean to carry the fire of both Rhaenyra and Daemon, to have the blood of two dragons raging inside of you.

[merakiui]

thinking about android sunday. :)

android sunday who is programmed to have your best interests in mind at all times. every aspect of you is his priority. your health, your well-being, your happiness, your safety, etc. he serves his purpose well (sometimes a little too well). you've told him before he doesn't need to go so overboard. like when you've been sitting at your desk for too long, so focused on your work, and he gently coaxes you out of the chair, helping you up and nudging you around the house to get some exercise. you'll do that eventually. he doesn't have to babysit you.

or when he makes note of specific changes in your hormones, much to your embarrassment at times. announcing to your guests or even a date you're having over how your endorphin levels have increased significantly and your heart rate has increased ever so slightly, indicating happiness and anxiety. and you have to hurriedly push him into the next room or demand he return to his charging station, babbling about how you don't need him to announce your vitals to everyone! >_< these things should be kept private.

sunday is here to make your life easier, so he cleans the house when you're out. he cooks when you're too exhausted to do so, and now he insists on it. after all, you need to prioritize your health more. please relax while he cooks your favorite, every recipe downloaded and saved in a vast database. you're glad to have an extra set of hands around the house because sometimes life gets busy and you just don't have the time for cooking or cleaning. sunday will look after you as he always does.

sunday assesses everything based on the risk it may have towards you and your well-being. perhaps he is willing to allow you to have one extra sweet after dinner because it will make you happy, and he finds he quite enjoys the sight of your smile. friends or loved ones who hurt you and cause you any sort of suffering are risks he refuses to let into your life. sunday does well to clean up the messes they leave. an ex's belongings serve no purpose in your precious home, so he will dispose of them posthaste.

and you were grateful for him and his help. you really were, but now it's starting to become...excessive. he fusses over you too much. it's too...controlling. obsessive. care taken to extremes.

sunday refuses to remind you of important dates and events scheduled on your calendar solely because he's so certain he knows what is best for you. sometimes he doesn't even schedule the events when you tell him to. a date with a stranger is no good; you don't need that kind of connection when he is more than willing to provide it. that friend who has been trying to make amends with you, inviting you to lunch? also a risk. why are you asking him to order such...revealing clothes? surely you do not intend to open yourself up to potential harm? these clothes will only invite the worst of scum. as such, he takes it upon himself to place orders for modest fashion only. taking measures to dress appropriately not only increases your chances of leaving a positive impression, but they also draw the right people your way. sensible people.

you keep telling sunday to just do as you say. he should not make these decisions based on all of that stuffy logic. "there are some things—human things—that you'll never understand, so please have more faith in me. i know what i'm doing. i can take care of myself," you tell him, but sunday does not like that.

it is his duty to look after you. if he thinks you're making poor choices, the job falls to him to correct your mistakes. he is here to make sure you're happy and safe, and under his care and supervision you will be. no one else can provide that for you. not even you!

it is sunday who can hum and sing you to sleep. it is sunday who plays piano for your guests when you wish to be classy and impress them. it is sunday who tracks your health and reminds you to take your medicine or vitamins. it is sunday who tailors his methods based on your needs. it is sunday who saves recipes that will be beneficial for your health. it is sunday who downloads new resources to better improve your life. you, you, you. always you. forever you. he is for you, and you are for him.

it is sunday who is slowly shaping himself into what he feels is the ideal partner for you. you have taught him lots about humans and he puts all of it into practice, even if the approach may come off as awkward or unnatural. he will make efforts to learn more, to store more data on humans and their bonds, just so he can please you.

no matter what happens, you must never forget that he is here to help you, not harm you—never harm you.

[undressrehearsal]

a bite of luxury

summary: you decide to look for a sugar mommy and stumble across this strange girl that seems to have more to hide

tags: sugarmommy!ellie, rich!ellie, vampire!ellie (yep, we got it all) alcohol, reader is poor lmao, reader uses she/her and is referred to as a girl once or twice, no smut in this one sorry gotta establish the world first

word count: ~8k

a/n: it's been so long since i posted a fic lol working full time and trying to finish my book is killing my schedule BUT i hope y'all like this this was my fiancee's idea and i'm running with it i got a LOT of plans for this one - plans i think y'all are gonna love

also the drawing in the cover is made by @nramv seriously go check out their work they're so talented!!

if you wanna be added to my tag list just lmk!

You hadn’t been searching for a sugar mommy. 

Truthfully, when your best friend had sent you the link, you had dismissed it immediately. She had been joking about it for months, talking about how much easier it would be if you just found a nice older woman to take care of you. You hadn’t even opened the link - you only rolled your eyes, replied with a middle finger emoji, and left it at that. 

And yet things kept piling up. The stack of bills on your kitchen counter was growing to a concerning height, a mountain of unanswered responsibilities that was getting harder to ignore. Your landlord kept calling you - you no longer answered, just watched the phone ring until it finally stopped and ignored the increasingly angrier voicemails. Your apartment was an absolute disaster; you could never be bothered to clean it, because by the time you got home from working both of your jobs, you only had enough energy to eat a bowl of leftovers and promptly pass out in bed. 

The link kept popping up in your mind, each bill in your mailbox a gentle reminder. You found yourself scrolling all the way up the text chain to find it again during sleepless nights. So many times you would only stare at it, your thumb hovering over the blue letters, before you closed the chat and threw your phone down. 

It was stupid, of course. But as time went on, the idea of letting yourself get buried alive under a mountain of debt - of getting evicted from your apartment and having to crash on your friend’s couch - seemed all the more stupid. 

So, late on a Thursday night, after you had had another anxiety attack staring down at your bank account, you went back up the text chain, and you clicked the link. 

www.seeking.com

It didn't take long for the messages to start coming in. You should have been flattered, honestly - you had at least a handful of people in your messages practically begging you for the honor of paying your fucking rent - but you really just felt like you were playing a part that you hadn't even read the script for. You had curated your profile with all the things that made you appear more cultured than you actually were: going to museums and pondering over Baroque art and reading poetry over a pretentious cup of coffee. Sure, these were all things you had done - you had photo proof, after all - but somehow you didn't recognize yourself. It felt like you were looking at pictures of a stranger living a life you wanted but couldn't reach. 

Most people were fine - charming, even. You got maybe one or two that felt like they would lure you into their sex dungeon to murder you, but that was expected with any dating site. You even went on a few dates, scrounging up the nicest dress you owned and getting pampered at a five-star restaurant or going for a ride on an older woman’s personal yacht. One person even took you for a helicopter ride, which was fun but she was a little too handsy on the first date to warrant a second. 

One name kept popping up though, a name that was becoming far too familiar in your notifications. 

ellie: meet me at 8 <3 

When she first messaged you, you had thought she was like you: somebody searching for a partner to pay their bills. Her pictures didn't exactly scream sugar mommy material. Her first picture was just a normal selfie taken outside; she wore a worn out leather jacket, her short hair tangled from the wind and green eyes squinting in the sunlight. She had stupid pictures of mushrooms and candid shots of her browsing a science museum, looking far too excited in front of a t-rex skeleton. Hell, in most of her pictures she looked like she was wearing clothes she had found at a thrift store.

You had thought she was like you, until she sent you a picture inside her fucking Rolls-Royce. 

“Fuck,” you audibly cursed into the quiet of your room. You had been talking for a few days, and she had begun to do that - sending you small selfies throughout the day. In the last one, she had taken a picture in front of the mirror at the gym, flicking off the camera, her lean muscles glistening with sweat. Before that, it had been a blurry picture of her dog, Riley - a huge German Shephard - splayed on her back at a park, leaves stuck in her fur. 

So, yeah, when you found out Ellie was not only rich, but rich enough to casually have a Royce, you were more than a little surprised. 

The selfie was cute, you couldn’t deny that. Her hair was wind-swept, catching in those long ass eyelashes. Ellie’s nose was scrunched up, freckles popping against her cheeks, holding up a peace sign. 

She was fucking adorable and you already knew it. But seeing her worn out leather jacket and messy hair against black and white leather seats that looked like they, alone, cost more than your entire apartment complex combined - it was a little jarring. 

And when she asked you out on a date soon after - after finding out she wasn’t Iike you but rather searching for someone like you - how could you say no? 

Ellie offered to pick you up - like a gentleman, she had said - but frankly, you weren’t quite convinced yet that she wasn’t some blood-thirsty pervert trying to lure you into her dungeon, so you politely declined. Instead, in your nicest dress and heels you hardly wore because they pinched your toes, you called an Uber. 

You had never been to this side of town. You had plugged in the address Ellie gave you - had double and triple checked it while your awkwardly chatty Uber driver tried asking you about what you do for a living - but the streets here were so unfamiliar you may as well have been in another city. You looked at the foreign buildings rising up around you, large windows giving you a glimpse of the life inside them. People were sitting outside in the chilly air, laughing over wine and dinner. Looking at them - with perfectly sculpted hair and clothes you would have to spend several entire paychecks on - you felt like a cheap impersonator dressed up in a costume. 

The Uber pulled up in front of a hotel, and your heart stopped. Surely, this wasn’t where Ellie had sent you - leading you to some fucking hotel room when you hadn’t even met yet? 

You turned to the driver, your home address at the edge of your tongue, when the car door opened. 

You had practically been leaning against the door to peer out the window, and nearly lost your balance when it was suddenly gone without warning. You looked up, ready to yell at whatever pretentious prick in Prada was trying to fuck with you - but your voice died in your throat. 

Ellie was shorter than you thought she'd be, honestly. In all her pictures, she had this commanding energy, like she would tower over you in person. 

Which, to be fair, she was. She had her arm propped on the doorframe above your head, leaning over so she could meet your eyes. Her hair was pushed back from her face, a few stray strands falling over her forehead, and she was looking at you with an intensity that hadn't quite translated through her pictures.

Ellie smiled - that adorably crooked smile you had seen in all her selfies - and said, “Hi.” 

And the only word you were able to get your mouth to form was, “Fuck.” 

Ellie blinked at you for a moment - long enough that you could feel the flush creeping up your neck and were ready to walk home if you had to - before she finally laughed. That wasn’t like what you had expected either; she had this deep, rough laugh, almost like she was trying to hold it in. 

She looked up at you through her lashes - you tried to ignore the way your heart inexplicably skipped - and said, “I’ll take that as a compliment?” Her voice tilted up at the end like it was a question. Ellie ducked her head down further, looking past you to meet the driver’s eyes, and pulled cash from her back pocket. With her most charming smile, she handed it to the driver and said, “Thanks for getting her here safe.” 

You didn’t see how much money she gave him, but after she took your hand and guided you out of the car, you turned back just in time to see his grin before he sped off. 

“Thanks for coming out.” You looked back at Ellie and found yourself speechless once again. (You, thankfully, were able to hold in the expletive this time.) The worn out jacket that had featured in just about all of her pictures was missing, replaced instead by a pristine, white satin shirt, the top few buttons undone to expose a sliver of collarbone and a gold chain beneath. Despite the chill in the air, she had a classy black jacket hanging from her arm as though it were an accessory. Ellie smiled and looked down, licking her lips before saying, “You’re quite the sight for sore eyes.”

You tried to smile at her but found that your eyes kept flitting behind her, looking at the looming monstrosity of the hotel. It was a nice hotel - the kind that had a huge fountain right in front of it and a chandelier in the lobby that sparkled through the window - but it was a hotel nonetheless. Despite the set in your jaw, traitorous tears stung the corners of your eyes; you wanted to kick yourself for actually thinking that Ellie might be different. 

Ellie followed your gaze over her shoulder, her smile dropping, before she quickly turned back to you with panic in her eyes. She stumbled over her words as though her tongue weren’t cooperating: “Shit, I’m sorry, this looks really bad doesn't it?” She grimaced and squeezed your hand she was still holding, scratching awkwardly at the back of her head with the other. “Fuck, this isn’t the first impression I wanted. I could promise it's not what it looks like, but maybe it'd be better if I just showed you?”

You honestly did think about telling her to fuck off. She was a complete fucking stranger that you only really knew from a dating app, and she was trying to lure you into a hotel in a part of town you were unfamiliar with - really, only an idiot would follow her. 

But she was looking at you with wide green eyes, the lights around you shining back like stars. While searching for the constellations, you found yourself saying, “Okay.” You blinked, pulled from a trance, and added, “But you should know, I do have a taser in my bag.” 

That pulled a shocked laugh from Ellie’s lips. She gently tugged on your hand, pulling you towards the door, and said, “Smart girl.” 

You knew that the hotel was outside of your price range because a perfectly groomed doorman opened the door for you, waving you inside with a gloved hand. You didn’t take much time to process the interior - the chandelier was just as grand as it had seemed from outside and elaborate columns rose to the ceiling - because Elllie was pulling you towards the elevators. It was like she wanted to ignore the fact that she had brought you to a hotel at all. You couldn’t decide if that was reassuring. 

In the empty elevator, you gently drew your hand back and leaned against the wall opposite her. You tried to ignore looking at the way her pinstripe slacks hugged the curves of her thighs, the fabric straining when she propped one booted foot on the wall behind her. 

“So,” you started in a desperate attempt to fill the awkward silence, “if you’re not leading me into a seedy hotel room on the first date, then what are we doing?” 

“Okay, one,” Ellie said, chuckling, “this is anything but a seedy hotel. And two, what kind of a date would it be if I ruined the surprise?” 

“And what if I don’t like surprises?” you countered. 

Ellie grinned. “I think you’ll like this one.” 

When the elevator doors opened, Ellie held her hand out to you as though it were a question. You hesitated for only a moment before placing your hand back in hers and letting her lead you out into open air. 

You nearly choked on a gasp. 

The bar itself was beautiful - fairy lights stretched above your head, twinkling like stars and casting the rooftop in a warm glow. Wooden tables and plush couches were spread artfully around the space, far enough apart to provide the patrons scattered about with some privacy. 

The bar was beautiful - but the view was fucking breathtaking. 

The city stretched out beyond the railings, open in a way you had never seen before. The skyline rose around you, each building shining like its own little galaxy amidst a sea of stars. The city lights blocked out the actual stars - a fact that never failed to piss you off - but you could see the crescent of the moon rising over the city, casting a quiet glow like a veil. 

You looked back at Ellie, and whatever your face held made her grin. She leaned in just enough so that her murmur was for your ears only: “So, was I right?” 

You blinked, momentarily distracted by her proximity - she smelled intoxicating, spicy and warm with a hint of tobacco beneath - before you finally said, “What?” 

Ellie snorted, breaking whatever spell she had put you under. “The surprise,” she said, leaning away enough for your head to clear. “Was I right?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, pursing your lips as though you had to think about it. You couldn’t take your eyes away from the skyline stretched before you. 

You finally said, “That depends on how good the drinks are.” 

When Ellie laughed, her eyes crinkled in the corners, her nose scrunching. It was a full, rich sound, hanging in the air above your head like helium. It made something in your chest tighten, and you wanted nothing more than to hear it again. 

She squeezed your hand, a twinkle in her eye, and said, “The old-fashioned's to die for.” 

You pursed your lips again to hide your smile.

Ellie didn’t bother checking in with the host, simply shot her a smile and a wave as you walked by - you tried to bite back a giggle when you saw the host’s face turn red, her eyes tracking Ellie as she led you to a table right along the edge of the railing. She pulled the chair out for you - “Such a gentleman,” you laughed - before taking the seat opposite you.

As she waved over a waiter, you took a moment to lean your head over the railing. It was made entirely of glass, giving you a clear view of the city below. You could hear the distant sound of traffic, cars racing below you like shiny beetles, but it was like it was coming from a different world altogether. Everything seemed impossibly, wonderfully small from up here. 

You looked up at the sound of your name to find a groomed waiter wearing a fucking waistcoat standing before you. Ellie was looking at you with laughter in her eyes, her lips twitching. 

“Shit, sorry,” you said, immediately flinching at your own curse. You suddenly couldn’t remember the proper etiquette in a fancy bar, feeling out of place and underdressed even in your nicest outfit. You looked between Ellie and the waiter, wracking your brain for any kind of drink that wasn’t a trashy cocktail you’d find at a dive bar. 

Seeing you floundering, Ellie gave you a reassuring smile and said, “Do you like wine?” 

Relief washed over you as you nodded. Turning back to the waiter, Ellie ordered something that you couldn’t even hope to pronounce, charm lifting the corner of her mouth. She spoke to the waiter with the steady ease of familiarity, laughing at some inside joke; you briefly wondered just how often Ellie came to this bar. Surely, a nice place like this - at the very precipice of the world, looking down at the stars - wouldn’t be a regular stop on anyone’s schedule, but Ellie and the staff spoke like old friends. 

When the waiter left, tussling Ellie’s hair playfully, she turned back to you and the awkwardness of a first date finally set in. Sure, you had been texting Ellie every day for a week now, but you still hardly knew the girl. You knew she liked mushrooms and hiking. You knew that most of her clothes were from the thrift store even though she could afford any designer brand she wanted. You knew her favorite video game was Dishonored. But nothing you knew was enough for a relationship. 

But you weren't exactly looking for love, were you? 

After a moment of silence, Ellie cleared her throat, looking out over the city. “It's nice out here.” 

You snorted before you could stop yourself, covering your mouth; it didn't cover the laughter in your eyes. You said, “You're really talking to me about the weather?”

Ellie opened her mouth, an indignant sparkle to her eye, before shutting it again. It was like she was malfunctioning, opening and closing her mouth yet no sound came out. She furrowed her brows, looking at you as though you were something new and interesting, before finally chuckling, looking away. “Yeah, I-I guess I am.” When she looked back up at you, her eyes were surprisingly sheepish. “Not making a great first impression, am I?”

You couldn't stop the smile that crept up to your eyes. You leaned closer, propping your chin in your hand, and said, “I think you're doing okay so far.” 

Ellie laughed that wondrous laugh again, her nose scrunching up, and the cord in your shoulders loosened. 

“Okay,” she sighed, her eyes still alight with residual laughter. “Okay, damn. Tell me about yourself.” 

“Well now this just sounds like a job interview.” 

Ellie threw her hands up in mock frustration, trying to stifle her own grin. “Okay, fuck, knock me down again! You're obviously an expert, so show me how it's done.” 

She leaned back and crossed her arms, looking at you expectantly, and it was the perfect moment for your drinks to arrive. Ellie did, in fact, order an old-fashioned. The waiter set two wine glasses on the table, producing a bottle seemingly from thin air. He held it out, explaining to you in rehearsed prose the year, acidity, and complexity in words that passed straight through you. You nodded along even as you didn't process a single word he said. 

When he left, you turned back to Ellie and said, “How did you find this place?” 

Ellie took a sip of her drink. The lights of the city danced in the amber glass. “Just an old haunt of mine, I guess.” 

You took a sip of the wine, taking the distraction. It was warm on your tongue, tasting of wood and fruit and something spicy just underneath. The wine you usually drank was the stuff you could find in your nearest grocery store, often tasting concerningly like bug spray and bought with whatever tips you had managed to scrape together from work. It was usually shared with a friend on your kitchen floor, the walls and thoughts spinning over your head. 

You much preferred wine like this: The taste of warmth and fire on your tongue, the cool air brushing your shoulders at the edge of the sky, and a beautiful person sitting across from you.

When Ellie lowered her glass, you could see amber droplets of whiskey clinging to her lips before her tongue darted out to catch them. You tore your eyes away, but her smile said that she had caught you staring. A chill ran up your spine that you were sure was just from the cold. 

Seeing you shiver, Ellie wordless reached behind her where she had tossed her jacket over the back of her chair. Standing, she rounded the table only for a moment, only long enough to place the coat over your shoulders. Her hands lingered there for a second too long before she retreated, sliding back into her seat as though she had never moved. 

“So, why are you here?” she finally said. 

You pulled the jacket around your shoulders, distracted by the smell of it. The same smell that must be her perfume clung to it, spiced and warm like an open fire, but something else clung to the fabric too. It was strangely metallic, sharp and intoxicating, and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. It was shockingly warm against your skin. 

“I’m here,” you said, raising a brow and ignoring her real question, “because you sent me this address and told me to meet you here at eight wearing my nicest dress.” 

The corner of Ellie’s lips quirked, a grin she was trying to hide. She clasped her hands, leaning across the table so you could smell the whiskey on her breath. “And you agreed to meet a stranger at a seedy hotel,” she murmured, mocking your remark from earlier. Her grin revealed itself when your cheeks flushed. “But why are you here - what are you seeking?” 

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “That’s kind of a dumb question, don’t you think? It’s pretty obvious why I’m on the app.” You cocked your head, leaning across the table, feeling a strange thrill when her eyes flashed. Your heart fluttered at the proximity, and you couldn’t remember when you had become so easily starstruck. “The real question, Ellie, is why are you?“ 

Ellie’s eyes darkened, and you weren’t sure if you just imagined her eyes flicking down to your lips. She looked back up at you through her lashes, her voice rough when she said, “That’s a third date kind of question.” 

Your eyebrows shot up. “What makes you so sure you’ll get a third date?” 

Ellie tilted her head, a slow smile pulling at her lips, and said, “Call it a hunch.” 

The waiter came to check on you, appearing at your shoulder like a ghost. You hastily retreated, leaning back in your chair as though the electricity in the air had shocked you, and took a sip of wine that was more than a little overzealous. You tried to choke it down as Ellie waved the waiter away with that heartstopping crooked smile. What happened to you? Since when were you so easily charmed by freckles, green eyes, and smart-ass comments? You couldn't remember the last time you had been so infatuated during a normal date, let alone one with these kinds of strings attached. 

“So you don't want to be in an interview,” Ellie said once the waiter was out of earshot. “I guess all my typical getting to know you conversations are out of the question.” 

“I didn't say that,” you countered, your throat still burning from your accidental wine waterboarding. “But come on - what girl are you going to impress by asking her questions like ‘Tell me about yourself,’ or ‘Why are you here?’ or ‘Why are you more qualified for this position?’”

“Okay, okay, goddamn,” she said, laughing. Grabbing the wine bottle, she looked at you for permission before pouring you another glass.

You brought the glass up to your lips, taking a sip to hide your smile. The flush in your cheeks was surely from the wine and nothing else. “What about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“I hardly know you.” On one hand, that felt entirely untrue - but especially after this recent discovery, you really knew nothing about this girl. “Tell me about you.” 

Ellie laughed that same rough laugh and your heart jumped. “Oh, so you're allowed to be the interviewer.” 

You nodded, twirling the glass between your fingers and looking at her expectantly. 

After a moment, Ellie rolled her eyes and ran a hand through her hair, but you could see the humor in her eyes. She downed the last of her old-fashioned and, like a good sport, said, “What do you want to know?”

Turns out, there was a lot to know - more than a simple dating app would tell you. Ellie had an older sister, Sarah, who lived in Dallas. Her dog was named after her childhood best friend. Her jacket wasn't thrifted after all, but had been her dad's. Speaking of which, she used to go hunting with him every season (“I haven't been in years, though,” she said, her eyes distant). On the weekends, she'd go to antique stores to look for art and trinkets to fill her house - her favorite antiques were from the 17th century. She hated horror movies and was a sucker for a good romance. 

In return, you caved and answered her pressing questions. You told her about your best friend - Ellie laughed when you told her that your friend had sent you the link to the app in the first place. You told her about your favorite show that you binge-watched whenever you felt like you were spiraling. You did not tell her about your apartment that was probably the size of her closet or the fact that you'd have to watch your budget after taking the Uber tonight, not to mention the extra $30 Uber to get home later. You did tell her about your family, and a strange, unexplained sadness crept into the creases around her mouth. You did tell her about your job, but didn't mention the second one you worked to afford groceries. You told her you were hoping for a real, human connection, yet didn't mention that you couldn’t imagine finding it in a fucking sugar mommy. 

All too soon, the wine bottle was empty and your chest was comfortingly warm. The lights strung across the bar danced above your head like fuzzy stars, and Ellie's smile was the brightest amongst them. Her glass was still empty, her wine glass dry, and yet her eyes told you she was intoxicated by something far stronger. 

“Sorry,” you said, giggling despite yourself. “I didn't mean to drink it all.” 

“Don't worry about it, darling,” she said, her voice silky smooth, reminding you of melted chocolate sliding down your throat. She tilted her glass, letting the remnants of melting ice clink against the side. “I wanted to make sure I could drive home okay.” 

The waiter arrived then, pulling the bill from his pocket and handing it to Ellie. You couldn't read the number upside down, not through the haze of the wine, but the number of digits made your stomach clench. Ellie dropped a black card into the folder and handed it back to the waiter. 

“How much do you want me to Venmo you?” you asked when she turned back to you. You clenched your hands in the hem of your dress, already calculating the extra shift you'd have to pick up to afford it. 

Ellie tilted her head, her brows furrowed. “Nothing,” she said, as though it were obvious. 

“That wasn't exactly a cheap bottle, Ellie,” you laughed. “Let me give you something.” 

Ellie hummed, propping her chin in her hand and looking at you with those same intense eyes; it sent a dangerous shiver down your spine. “I like when you say my name.”

You blinked at her. “Excuse me.” 

“I want to hear it again. That's how you can repay me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Ellie, I-” 

“Okay, now we're even,” she interrupted, smiling that crooked grin that you had started to crave. The waiter returned with her card and Ellie produced cash from her pocket, handing it to the waiter directly. He thanked her profusely before making his exit, grinning. When Ellie looked at you again, you were still watching her expectantly, dumbfounded. She finally rolled her eyes. “Seriously, what kind of date would I be if I made you pay?”

“You're not making me, I'm offering.” 

“And I'm saying no.” Ellie stood, straightening her shirt; when she tugged at it, the collar fell a bit, exposing sharp collarbones beneath. 

Rounding the table, she offered a hand to you, pulling you gently to your feet. You pulled her jacket tighter around yourself, knowing you needed to give it back yet unwilling to part with it just yet. 

Taking your arm, Ellie leaned in close enough that your breath caught in your throat and said, “I know why I found you on Seeking, okay? So, if it's alright with you, let me spoil you. Even if that just means one bottle of wine.” 

You laughed, but it sounded breathy even to your own ringing ears. “One very expensive bottle of wine.”

Ellie shrugged, a sparkle in her eye. “It's a small price to pay for your company.”

You were silent in the elevator, but you held on to her arm as though afraid to let go. You couldn't figure out why, but something in you urgently wanted nothing more than to be close to her. You couldn't remember the last time you had felt such a pull from somebody. 

Back on the street, the lights of the city seemed so much brighter than they had before. Ellie released your arm, turning to face you, and there was a strange pinch between her brows that you couldn't translate. 

“Do you want me to call you an Uber, or do you want me to take you home?” she asked, and your brain short-circuited. When you could do nothing but stammer, tripping over your own tongue, Ellie laughed. There was no mockery behind it, only quiet, bright amusement. “I meant I can drive you to your apartment so you don't have to drunkenly sit in an awkward Uber that smells sickeningly sweet and the driver tries to make mind-numbing small talk.” 

Your sigh of relief came out more like a laugh. 

Ellie tilted her head and stepped closer to you, her hand reaching out to graze your fingers, and that sigh was sucked right back into your lungs. Being so close to her made your head spin. Her breath fanned against your cheeks, smelling of warm whiskey, when she said, “Unless you want to come to my place?”

It had the uncertain tilt of a question, and Ellie wouldn't quite meet your eyes. 

“We don't have to do anything,” she continued in a rush. She scratched anxiously at the back of her head, a nervous laugh slipping between her lips. “We can just sit and talk more. Or watch a movie - my dad had this huge collection. I'm not gonna - You know, I'm not going to do anything you don't want.” She finally interrupted herself with a groan, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “Fuck, sorry, I wanted it to sound more suave than this.” 

And you would be a fucking idiot to go home with this impossible stranger. You had been taught better - never get into a stranger's car, and for the love of God, never let them take you to a second location. You could let her take you back to your apartment at least - you were admittedly incredibly tipsy and didn't particularly want to endure another ride with an annoyingly talkative Uber driver. You could go home, back to your claustrophobic, quiet apartment, and maybe - maybe - text  Ellie about setting up a second date. 

You were not stupid enough to go home with somebody on the first date. 

Except clearly you were, because you took the hand that was still grazing your fingers and looked up at Ellie - the contours of her face were shockingly etched with insecurity. And your dumb mouth said, of its own volition, “Okay.”

You had expected something flashy, like what a wealthy person would own in a movie - like a penthouse overlooking the city with too-white walls and electric guitars hanging, unused, on the walls. Maybe she had walls completely made of windows so it felt like you were on a pedestal overlooking the world. 

You hadn't expected a house that was older than your great-grandparents. 

When Ellie pulled into the driveway, you were sure she was just pulling in someplace to turn around, that she had missed her turn somewhere. But she put her stupidly-expensive car into park and killed the engine, shooting you an awkward glance. 

“Sorry,” she said, chuckling. “I know it’s not much.” 

You could only look at her incredulously, speechless, before looking back up at the house before you. You couldn’t even call it a house really - estate would be more fitting. Maybe mansion. Fuck, her house was the size of your apartment complex. It towered over you, three stories of intricate woodwork, warm brown beams wrapping around the structure like an elaborate skeleton. With beautiful eaves winding around the roof and an entire turret reaching for the moon, it looked like something that had stepped right out of some 1800s southern gothic novel. 

Ellie cleared her throat, startling you from a trance. You looked back at her and, for some reason, couldn’t stop yourself from laughing.

”Shit, sorry,” you said, covering your mouth with your hand. “I just - I’ve just never seen anything like it.” When Ellie’s eyes clouded over with uncertainty, you added softly, “It’s beautiful. Besides, Ellie,” you added, laughing again, “‘not much’ doesn’t really suit you.” 

Ellie opened and closed her mouth and yet no words came out. She was looking at you again as though you were something interesting - something new and exciting. Nobody had ever looked at you that way before, and the way your heart clenched at the sight was more than a little dangerous. 

Ellie finally smiled, huffing out a laugh - your heart was pretty satisfied with how often you were able to make her laugh - and said, “Do you still want to come inside?” 

And, surprisingly, you said, “Yeah, I do.” 

As Ellie got out, rounding the car to open your door for you, you discreetly checked that the taser was still in your bag. Sure, you had agreed to go home with a practical stranger, but you couldn't be too careful. 

The porch steps creaked as she led you to the door - double doors (of course), with stained glass and twisting vines carved into the wood. When Ellie opened them, it felt like you were transported to a different time on an entirely different world. 

The grand staircase caught your eye first - how could it not? Warm wooden steps covered in a blood red runner, a white banister winding up, those same vines that seemed to be the house’s signature carved into it. You could see a large, stained-glass window at the landing before it curved to disappear to the second floor. Moonlight splintered through the window in broken relief. 

As though in a trance, you wandered further into the house, walking to the fireplace situated right beneath the stairs. The wood stacked neatly inside was cold, untouched by a flame. There was a large mirror set atop the mantle, its gold frame a work of art alone. In the reflection, you could see the flush to your cheeks, and tried to convince yourself it was only from the cold. You still wore Ellie’s jacket, and you pulled it tight around your shoulders, as though it were a shield. 

You watched Ellie’s reflection as she walked slowly towards you, a small smile gracing her lips. She came close enough to touch - close enough that you could feel her cool breath against the back of your neck - and yet she didn’t put a hand on you. 

“There’s a lot more to see than the foyer,” she murmured, the words brushing your skin. “If you still want.” 

And you couldn’t stop your own smile as you turned back to her, your heart skipping at her proximity. “Show me.” 

She took your hand, her fingers shockingly cold, and led you into what must have been her living room - sitting room? Despite the fact that the house felt more like a museum - like you would get scolded for touching anything - the room was surprisingly cozy. A large, plush sectional was situated in front of another fireplace- this one also unblemished. Blankets and quilts were thrown over the couch and the accompanying chairs, leaving this time capsule looking strangely welcoming. 

“Okay, I have to ask,” you said, turning back to Ellie. She was watching you carefully, gauging your reaction with soft eyes, and you lost your train of thought. You opened your mouth but no sound came out; you weren’t sure if that was more or less embarrassing than the several curses you had said earlier in the night. 

Ellie hummed, raising her hand as though she wanted to touch you. She stopped only inches away from your cheek and dropped her hand, saying, “I’m an open book.” 

You had to turn away to collect your thoughts, wandering across the room if just to catch your breath. The opposite wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. You ran your fingers along the spines of vintage classics, an array of science books, and comics, enjoying the irony of seeing Savage Starlight in the middle of all this history. You picked up a copy to keep your hands busy. 

“How, um,” you started, stumbling over your words, “how did you end up here?” 

Ellie hummed again, and you heard her footsteps following you. “Here as in this town, this country, this world? You gotta be a little more specific.” 

You sighed, giving in and turning to look at her. She kept a careful distance, standing a few feet away from you with her hands in her pockets. “You know what I mean, smartass.”

Ellie chuckled, but her eyes had grown distant, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. She took a few more steps closer to you, looking at the comic book in your hands. On the app, she hadn’t struck you as the type to get easily bashful, and yet she had proven you wrong a few times already. 

“My family lived here,” she finally said, quiet as a secret. You watched her carefully, jumping at the opportunity to stare at her without those intense eyes looking back at you. Her brow furrowed and she pressed her lips together as though she was in pain, her green eyes shining. “It was just… passed down, I guess? It’s kind of always been here ever since I can remember. I’m not entirely sure when it became mine.” 

You tucked the comic book back into its spot between The Iliad and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. You said absently, “How old is this place anyway?”

”It was built in 1816,” she said automatically, as though it were memorized. 

“It’s an awfully big house for just one person.” You looked up at her through your lashes as she stepped closer - close enough that you could smell that same metallic warmth that seemed to cling to her. 

“It is,” Ellie murmured, smiling. She reached out again, and this time she allowed herself to touch you. Her cold fingers brushed against your cheek before she gently cupped your jaw, tilting your head so you’d look at her properly. Her green eyes were downright intimidating. “But I keep good company.” 

You rolled your eyes, yet you couldn’t convince yourself to look away. “Is that what you say to all the girls?” 

Ellie hummed, bracing her other hand on the bookshelf behind your head, and murmured, “No, I don’t.” She pressed in closer, her gaze dropping to your mouth, and you felt like your heart was going to leap from your throat. Ellie huffed out a laugh as though she could hear it pounding against your chest. When her thumb brushed your bottom lip, your lips parted on instinct. She didn’t look away, transfixed on the point where her skin touched your mouth, and you almost didn’t hear her when she said, “Can I?” 

And you had never been the kind of person to kiss on the first date, but she was looking at you with eyes hooded with want, her breath fanning against your cheeks. When she licked her lips, you couldn’t stop your eyes from following the motion. Her lips glistened, parted and plump, looking so impossibly soft. Somehow, past your haze, you heard yourself say, “Yes.” 

Ellie took her time in kissing you. She pressed you back gently, your shoulders pressing into the bookshelf behind you, and touched her nose to yours. She took a deep breath, breathing you in. Her hand was soft against your cheek, tilting your jaw up, and you hardly had to move to finally kiss her. 

Ellie tasted just like she smelled - spicy and metallic, the old-fashioned still hanging on her tongue. Despite the cold of her hand on your cheek, her mouth was impossibly warm, her breath slipping between your lips; it was intoxicating in a way that the wine couldn’t compare to. Her mouth moved against yours, soft and slow as a dance. 

Your hands reached out as though of their own accord, circling her waist and gripping at the slippery silk of her shirt. She pressed in close, crowding you against the bookshelf; you could feel her chest pressing against you, her hips on yours, the line of her body against yours making your head spin. And when Ellie’s tongue pressed against your lips, a gentle request for access, you felt like you’d faint altogether. 

Her tongue slipped between your teeth and you couldn’t stop the breathy sound it pulled from your throat. You could feel that infuriating smile against your lips and suddenly wanted nothing more than to wipe it away. You balled her ridiculously expensive shirt in your hands and pulled her impossibly closer, nipping at her bottom lip, and you wanted to swallow her gasp. 

Ellie pulled away, chuckling, but she didn’t go far. She pressed a kiss to your cheek, her lips trailing down to your jaw, and she could probably feel your pulse jump beneath her tongue. You could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “Do you do this often?” 

Her teeth grazed the sensitive spot below your ear, and it took you a few moments before you could respond. “Do what?” Despite yourself - despite the way your fingers gripped her shirt, your head swimming and an unexplainable want burning in your veins - you couldn’t help but laugh. “Go on a date with somebody I met on an app for sugar babies and go back to their ridiculously old mansion on the first date and-“ 

You cut yourself off. You weren’t sure exactly what was happening, and you were afraid that voicing it would break whatever spell you were under - whatever spell made this impossible woman’s touch feel like lightning. 

But Ellie only laughed, biting at the spot where your neck met your shoulder. “Yeah, that.” 

You shivered against her touch. “No, I’ve never really done this.” 

“Guess I’m just lucky.” 

Ellie kissed you again, only briefly, before she finally pulled away. She was grinning, her eyes sparkling with those same constellations; her face wasn’t even flushed, making you feel embarrassed about your burning cheeks. You were panting, intoxicated from the night and wine and Ellie. Her absence felt like an ache, your body craving the feeling of her lips, her teeth, her hands. You were close to tugging her back in, your hands still gripping her shirt, but she gently untangled herself from you with a laugh. 

“I want to keep going.” She paused, and then emphasized, “I really want to keep going. But you drank an entire bottle of wine, and I’d be kind of a shitty host if I didn’t offer you something to drink at least. Or are you hungry?” 

You were hungry, but it was the kind of hunger that food wouldn’t satiate. Still, you let your hands drop back to your sides, feeling your senses return to you now that they weren’t so tuned into Ellie - how she smelled, tasted, felt. When you laughed, it sounded breathy even to your own ears. “Some water would be nice.” 

“I can do that,” she said with a smile. “Stay here.” She kissed you again, lingering for a few moments longer than needed, before she turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving you alone in this ridiculously old mansion. 

With nothing else to keep yourself entertained, you did a slow lap around the room, eyeing the ironic blend of elegant antiques and silly trinkets that were so obviously Ellie. A cracked ivory trinket box sat on a shelf, intricate flowers engraved into the lid, set right next to a small figurine of an astronaut. Beautiful paintings lined the walls, signatures dating back to 1830 in elaborate script at the bottom, but there were also a few posters littered here and there - bands and video games. 

You walked over to the mantle, your fingers grazing over the marble top. The logs inside were untouched, and you briefly wondered if she’d light a fire soon to chase out the chill of autumn. A small jar filled with guitar picks sat at the corner, and you wondered if she really did have an electric guitar collection hidden around here somewhere. Your foot kicked an empty dog bowl, and yet Riley was nowhere to be found. Maybe Ellie took her to daycare when she knew she’d bring a girl home. You nearly laughed at the idea. 

Atop the mantle, hidden behind pictures of what must have been friends or family - hiking or traveling or laughing in somebody’s backyard - there was another picture frame. It must have fallen, face down so that the picture inside was covered. You reached out, careful to not disturb any of the other frames, and picked it up. You were just going to fix it, set it up next to the others, but something in the image caught your eye. You plucked it from its home, bringing it closer, holding it up to the light to get a better look. For a long time, you couldn’t figure out what you were looking at. Your heart hammered against your chest, your ears ringing, as though your body had figured it out before your brain did. 

It was an old photograph, grainy and sepia, faded and frayed around the edges with age. It was the house, looking just like it did today - the huge windows shining in the sunlight, the intricate eaves and wrap-around porch perfectly polished and new. A family stood on the lawn in front of the house, looking awkward and stiff. Back then, cameras took several minutes to actually capture a photo, so people tended to look a little awkward from trying to hold the same expression for so long. But that’s not what had caught your eye. 

It was a small family - a weary looking dad and his two daughters, looking just a few years younger than you. 

She looked a little different. Her hair was longer, falling in waves around her shoulders. She was definitely a few years younger, and she wore a sweet, full-length gown instead of a worn leather jacket. 

You checked the date in the bottom corner at least five times, but there was no mistaking it. The person in the photo was undeniably Ellie, standing in front of this house in 1816. 

tag list: @macaroni676 @ellstronaut @elliewilliamsmiller0 @elliescoolerwife @letsreadsomesins-shallwe @peejayurple @liliflowers-blog @filtered-sunlight @hobbybound

[bitchface24-7]

Oops my hand slipped and I’m back again (for the 3rd day in a row (I think I have a problem))

So following the trend of me seeing too many fanfics of smthn I don’t vibe with, I’ve noticed that a lot of Jayce and/or Viktor x reader fics have the reader as a scientist (makes sense writing-wise, provides a lot of opportunity for characters to interact and bond)

Problem is, I am dogshit at science. I was good at most subjects in high school, but science? Nearly failed. I was good at math and word problems too which made it even more confusing to me but it is what it is ig. So I was hoping for another JayVik x reader where this time, the reader is an artist

Now I primarily draw OCs and people (usually digital or w/ marker) so I’d like smthn leaning towards that but frankly you can do whatever

I just think it’s be funny if, while Jayce n Viktor do their cool nerd shit, the reader is fully unhelpful and doodling in their sketchbook. Quality time except I’m drawing sexualized men (gender equality) and my hot boyfriends are solving global trade or whatever

(Mayhaps also drawing them for studies and anatomy practice and showing them because I like forcing ppl to look at my art >:)) )

Again, take as long as you need to write this, hope you’re doing good :))

MY MUSES - JAYVIK X READER

synopsis: after escaping Noxus with your best friend Mel, you've cherished the peace of Piltover compared to the wartime of Noxus. You were able to flourish in the city of progress with your artistry. It was the way you and Mel found solace in your old home. Now, you've been commissioned by the council to paint a portrait of the Hextech duo.

warnings: talks of wartime, insecurities, awkward talk, becoming friends with J + V, anatomy practice, complimenting your two boys, fluff, Grammarly is my beta

genre: m/m/f or m/m/m

p.s. I understand your frustration, even I've fallen into “make reader a scientist to make life a little easier.” I hope y'all enjoy artist reader!

You're painting in your studio at the Academy when the door is opened, and you smell the delicious fragrance of vanilla, cardamom, and sandalwood, it’s Mel.

You put your paintbrush down and turn to look at your best friend, a smile beaming on your face. You get up and go for a hug before stopping yourself, your clothes are stained with paint and you don’t want to ruin Mel’s pretty white dress.

She fondly rolls her eyes and pulls you into a hug anyway. Mel’s not a very touchy person. It was seen as a weakness is Noxus. She’s only really touchy with you, you’ve been her friend for as long as you can remember. She wholeheartedly trusts you.

And you know how rare that is.

“Hello dove. How’re you today?”

You scrunch your nose at the nickname, it was a nickname given to you when you were much younger. “It’s because you don’t see the glory of war. You���re gentle. Something I desperately need in my life.” Mel had explained, her Medarda Mask no where in sight.

“I’m good. I’m almost done the landscape you commissioned for the council room.”

Mel’s smile widens the tiniest bit, but her gaze is downcast. This isn’t a social call. She’s been tasked to ask you something.

“Mel, I understand. Just, tell me what you need from me.”

A sigh escapes the gorgeous woman, “The council has requested a portrait to be made of the two Hextech innovators, Viktor and Jayce Talis.”

You raise your brows in confusion, “Okay… why is that a bad thing?”

Mel leans on a clean section of your work station, a hand coming up to rub her forehead, “They’re constantly working. They don’t see the prospect of taking a break. If you were to paint them, you’d have to paint them in the lab; as they do dangerous experiments. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

You place your hand over top Mel’s hand that’s braced against the desk, “I’ll be okay. I can’t imagine they’d let anyone get hurt.”

Mel nods sagely, the hand that was rubbing her forehead is now placed over your hand. She’s now cupping your one hand and rubbing her thumb over your knuckles.

“I’ll tell them what the council has demanded. When will you be free to paint them?”

You look over to the almost finished landscape painting sitting on your easel, “Give me a week.”

Mel nods, gives you one last hug, and leaves your studio to break the news to Viktor and Jayce.

You just hope they’re nice to you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The week passed by in a flash, and here you are. Standing in front of two very large doors that make you feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest.

You don’t understand why you’re so nervous. You’ve painted portraits of the top-class in Piltover. The cream of the crop. The top one percent, and you were fine. You were mentally rolling your eyes every few minutes, but you were fine.

You’re now asked to paint two scientists and you feel like you’re going to have a stroke.

At least Mel gave you some advice in regards to both men, “Jayce is quite kind, easy-going, and easy to talk to. You’ll make quick friends with him as you are. His partner Viktor on the other hand… is a different story. He’s cordial, but stubborn. He’s quite witty with a sass that almost matches mine. He’d prefer it if you skipped the flowery talk and just got straight to the point. He’s not a fan of the mind numbing politics of Piltover. Say what you mean or don’t say anything at all.”

With that mantra repeating in your head, you knock on the doors to their lab.

“Come in!” A voice exclaims, “We cannot leave our stations, the gems may become volatile if we do.” Another voice adds, this time with an unfamiliar accent.

You lightly push open the doors and are stunned by the state of the lab. Papers everywhere, equations on a blackboard you don’t even want to attempt to understand, ink stains, scraps of metal.

You suppose this is their version of an art studio.

“Oh!” The first voice you heard exclaims, “You must be Mel’s friend, the one who’s been commissioned to paint us. I’m Jayce. The one brooding over there with goggles on his face is Viktor.”

A scoff, “I am not brooding. I simply do not see the purpose of a portrait being made of us. It takes time away from our research!”

You cut in, reminding yourself of Mel’s advice, “The council has ordered it. Besides, I need to study you two for a little bit. Understand your anatomy and proportions. Then when I have a clear understanding, we’ll take one day out of your schedule to get the painting done.”

Viktor raises his goggles, putting them into is hair and the most beautiful pair of eyes you’ve ever seen narrows onto you, “You’ll only need one day to paint us?”

“The weather is constantly changing. That means so is my light source, my shadows, my colours.” You explain easily, “If we spend the whole day together, I’ll be able to easily get the portrait done and you two can go back to work. Sound good?”

Viktor purses his lips before nodding, Jayce just looks between the two of you with a small smile. He thought that would’ve taken a lot longer.

Guess you’re pretty special.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

One Week Later.

Their work is fascinating. You don’t understand quite a bit of it, but their enthusiasm and passion make up for your lack of knowledge.

Here they are trying to solve most of the worlds problems and you’re sketching them in your sketchbook with hearts in your eyes.

You focus on their bodies, how they bend, contort, their planes and shadows. How light glows onto them.

You focus on their unique features. Jayce’s sharp canines, Viktor’s cheekbones and moles. Jayce’s broad chest and Viktor’s cane and brace.

Those two points are especially important. They’re so detailed. And they’re a part of Viktor, you’re not going to erase something so vital to him as a human being to make the portrait “nicer to look at” according to the upper echelon of Piltover.

You’re so lost in your thoughts you don’t feel a presence come up behind you, “Whatcha doing?”

You jolt, putting a hand to your heart as your pencil drops to the ground, “By Janna Jayce! You scared me!”

A boisterous laugh permeates the lab, “You we’re so focused, I couldn’t help but wonder what you were doing.”

“We’ll… I was drawing my two very beautiful muses.”

There’s a small silence in the lab.

“Your—“ Viktor starts, then clears his throat as Jayce stands there, stunned, “Your beautiful muses?”

You nod, not realizing their disbelief, “Of course. The two of you have such beautiful features. Jayce is quite tall, with broad shoulders, a tiny waist, and strong legs. A nice hair cut, strong brows, big eyes, and pink lips. You, Viktor on the other hand—“

You’re cut off by said man, “Are not as conventional—“

You cut him off this time, “Are also tall, lean, lithe, with long beautiful legs. You have a face carved out of marble, messy hair, eyes that look like liquid gold, beauty marks, and a nice pale complexion that compliments Jayce’s tan. You’re both quite handsome, just is different ways.”

The two men are stunned into silence, and it takes a few minutes before you realize what you said. You feel your face heat up as you try to hide behind your sketch book. Viktor lightly smiles at that as Jayce laughs and forces your sketch book back down onto your lap.

“You know, I’ve never heard such an honest compliment before.”

“Neither have I.”

You feel like killing yourself. Maybe jumping out of one of the lab windows will do the trick.

“So,” Viktor’s interrupts your dark humorous thoughts, “Do you feel prepared to paint the portrait?”

You look the two men dead in the eye, even as embarrassment consumes you.

“Yes.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

A day is set and you bring all your art supplies that you need into the lab. You even set up a place for the portrait to be.

The setting will be in front of their main work station, the hexcore and hexgems glittering in the background. You brought a comfortable armchair for Viktor to sit on, you know these paintings can take some time and you don’t want to over-exert his leg. You assume Jayce can stand for a few hours, placed right next to Viktor.

As you explain your thought process to them, the more excited they seem. And to think, they didn’t want to do this originally.

“Ok, get comfortable. Viktor you can put your cane to rest against one of the arms of the chair. Jayce, can you place your hand on the top of the headrest? Perfect. You two comfortable?”

You get nods and yes’ as your answer.

With that, you start to paints them.

You ensure to be as diligent as possible. You start with the boys, adding bits and pieces to the background as you go. You make sure to her the green in Jayce’s eyes, the beauty marks on Viktor’s face. The house Talis emblem on Jayce’s jacket; the intricacies of Viktor’s cane and leg brace. The purple and blue glows of the Hextech give the painting an almost magical feeling.

You have to say, this may be your best portrait yet.

A couple hours pass and you deem the painting complete. The two boys sigh, Jayce cracks his back as Viktor cracks his neck. Most of the painting was done is silence, a few tiny conversations sprinkled throughout the process.

You didn’t want them to move.

The two come to where you’re sitting and gaze at the portrait in awe. It’s… them. It looks so life like, as good as a picture. But it’s softer, it looks beautiful.

And they look phenomenal.

“Are you sure that’s us?” Viktor jokes, pointing at the painting, “Those men are incredibly handsome.”

You cock an eyebrow at him, “Now you know what to say when you look in a mirror. That’s how you look, and it’s how you’ll be remembered.”

Jayce smiles and puts a hand on both your and Viktor’s shoulders. Viktor looks touched at the sentiment.

“You should move your art stuff to be here. Permanently.” Jayce states easily.

You almost choke on your own spit, “Pardon? Why would I do that?”

“Because we'd miss you,” Viktor replies a cocky look on his face.

You huff out a laugh, “Ill be of no help to you. I'm not a science brain. I'd just be in the lab drawing you two constantly.”

“We’d pose for you.” Jayce jokes

“Even if I wanted to practice nude anatomy?”

Viktor hums, “Not in the lab obviously, but yes even then.”

You smile at them, “It’s a deal then.”

And to think you were scared they wouldn't be nice to you. You just obtained two pretty muses (hopefully for the rest of your life.)

TADA!!! This was such a cute request. I hope y'all enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it. Pebble, you keep those requests coming (and everyone else who requests too 🫵😏)

I have like four requests now in my inbox and I squealed when I saw it. I've never had so many requests before. Usually my inbox has like… spam and fishing schemes. So this is amazing to me!!

[alikuarso]

To answer your question about Fresh: Fresh is actually a parasite! He dresses in his 90's-themed clothes and speaks in a silly way so that others underestimate him. His main and utmost goal is to Survive, and the way he does that is by infecting other people with his parasites and draining the life from their souls. Being seen as harmless lets him get closer to them and gives him easier access for possession. He hopes to eventually take over the multiverse, spreading his parasites in every corner of it and having absolute control.

He also has no emotions. He is capable of them, but for whatever reason he is unable to feel much, besides the rare instance of anger. He does frequently feel fear, though.

He is a bit sadistic, and he likes seeing others suffer. This is because when he takes over someone he drains their soul of life, which causes them pain. And to him, taking someone's body means safety, it means he can survive a bit longer as long as he's snatched their body. So he's come to associate the pain of others as something good.

And he's also aware of the creators/viewers, thanks to an event called the Loveball, which is canon to his character.

Going to copy and paste my own words for this [I was talking to a friend about Loveball]:

"So, like seven years ago there was a fandom-wide event called the Loveball, where people gathered their OCs and had them all attend an UTMV dancing ball. Fresh went, of course. There, he met a Frisk called Pacifrisk. Even knowing who he really was [90's parasite], they still believed he could be good. Before this, he hadn't ever really felt a connection to anyone, or even positive emotions in general. But Pacifrisk's faith in him made him feel positively towards them. This freaked him out. [No Fr@ns though, don't worry. That wasn't the intention for this plot.]

As a result, not only did he try to kill them, but he also went through with his plans: the Fresh Takeover [I forget what it's actually called]. His true reason for attending the ball. OCs were either possessed by the parasites or tried to fight against them. Apparently, some people used alcohol to ward the virus off, as Fresh hates substances such as that.

Fresh wanted to take over the multiverse, with this Loveball being the first step for his total domination.

But then right in the middle of things, a Sans AU [which I totally forget the name of X,D] grabbed Fresh and basically yeeted him into an alternate state of being. One where he could see the creators, all staring at him. An audience.

The Sans revealed the nature of Fresh's existence: That he was simply a character in a story. And if the creators got bored of him, he could easily be written aside and forgotten. Erased. His conquest didn't matter, in the end.

Predictably, this gave him an existential crisis. I'm not sure what happened after, but he stopped invading and went somewhere to contemplate his existence in a depressed state.

Afterwards, he had a new goal: To entertain. To convince the creators that he was worth keeping around. Similar to his previous goal of survival, but now with more dire stakes."

His creator @loverofpiggies has some posts about the Loveball, tagged under either the 'fresh sans' tag or the 'loveball' tag, which I recommend you check out! ^^

But yeah, to answer your question: The reason Fresh fought Ink was probably 1: because he saw it as a good way to keep himself alive and 2: So that he could be relevant and interesting to the viewers.

Hope this answered any questions you might have about him! ^w^

THANK YOU BECAUSE THERE'S NO WAY I WOULD HAVE FOUND ABOUT ANY OF THIS OTHERWISE😭😭😭 THAT'S A LOT

Now I want to draw fresh existential crisis mood, That's something I never would have imagined existed

Im still a bit confused about fresh not having emotions¿ but I think I got the idea, but still, why does he feel fear?

I think fresh is becoming my favorite now, help, error do something

(Thank you again for your time✨️)

[fiction-is-life]

Calling Out to You

Summary: You reconnect with an old friend during the Season, but the young Viscount is not the same as the boy you grew up with.  Requested by @junevoidzombie​

Warnings: Description of injuries, minor character death, period misogyny, Anthony being difficult

~

“Help!” you called, starting to panic as the evening air grew cooler and the forest grew dimmer.  You sniffled and wiped your nose on the sleeve of your dress; your mama was going to be so angry, but the dress was ruined now anyways.  “Is anybody out here?” you cried.

You heard a twig snapping in the distance, and your head snapped up.  You let out a pitiful hiccup, but you finally stopped your incessant blubbering.  You waited a few more moments, hoping the sound would come closer, but it didn’t.  It must have been an animal, you thought.  

“Who’s there?” a voice called.  It didn’t sound particularly friendly, but any help was better than staying out here.  

“My name is (Y/N)!” you called back.  “I tripped and now I fear I have sprained my ankle.”

“Hold on.  I shall be there in a moment, miss,” the voice called back, this time slightly closer.  

In less than a minute, a figure started to take form in the growing darkness.  As he grew closer, you realized that he was younger than you were expecting - perhaps only three years older than yourself.  He had the most beautiful dark hair and eyes, though, and you became conscious of the horrible disarray you were currently in. 

He knelt beside you.  “I know you said your ankle is injured; is there any way you think you can stand on it, with my assistance?”

You shook your head.  “I have already tried, sir.”

“Anthony,” he interrupted.  He cleared his throat.  “You must call me Anthony, miss.”

Your face lit up with a smile.  “Then you must call me (Y/N), Anthony.  My family just moved here from Hertfordshire.  We now live at Turring Manor, and I was exploring the country when I fell.”

He smiled back shyly.  “Well, it would most likely be easier to carry you to my family’s home.  It is much closer than Turring Manor, and the sun is already setting.”

“That would be most appreciated, Anthony.  Thank you!” you replied eagerly.  

The next thing you knew, Anthony was lifting you off of the ground, being extra careful to not jostle your hurt leg too much.  Once you were off of the ground, however, Anthony looked at you while a blush crept across his cheeks.  “Um, it might be easier to walk if you put your arms around me as well.  I wouldn’t want your leg to pain you more than necessary,” he mumbled, clearly embarrassed.  

“Very well,” you whispered.  You couldn’t help your own blush as you did as he asked you.  Once that was done, he set off in the direction he had come from.

~

“Anthony, there you are darling!  Wherever have you been?”  A very beautiful woman came down the steps as you approached the very impressive home.  It must be Anthony’s mother; the resemblance was uncanny.  

“I am sorry I am late, mother, but our new neighbor fell in our woods and could not walk home,” Anthony explained. 

The lady’s eyes finally fell on you and concern filled them.  “Oh, you poor thing,” she cried.  “Anthony, bring her up to the yellow bedchamber.  I shall have the maids draw a bath and bring her something to eat.”  

Anthony’s mother sprung into action, and before you knew it, you were being laid upon a soft bed and Anthony was being shooed out of the room.  After a luxurious bath, you were given a silk nightgown borrowed from one of Anthony’s sisters.  

Said sisters (at least two of them - you had heard there was at least one more) came to keep you company before it was time to go to bed.  You could tell you all would become fast friends although the two girls were as different as could be.  Daphne was content to stay and practice piano while Eloise was always ready for an adventure.  Life would certainly not be dull living so close to Aubrey Hall.

“So Anthony really carried you all the way from the woods because you fell?” Daphne questioned as you explained what had happened that day.

“Yes, he did.  I couldn’t be more grateful; my parents would have been worried sick if they had not heard from me,” you said.

Daphne sighed, a dreamy look taking over her features.  “That is so romantic.  Like a knight rescuing the princess in the stories papa tells us.  Right, Eloise?” Daphne gushed.

Eloise rolled her eyes at her older sister’s antics.  “Anthony is hardly a knight in shining armor, Daphne.  You are being silly,” Eloise retorted.

Seeing how a fight was about to break out, you said, “He may not be a knight of olde but he certainly rescued me today.”

Eloise and Daphne looked at each other, slow smiles growing on each of their faces, making you nervous.  “Do you love our brother, (Y/N)?” they squealed in unison.

“What?  Of course not!  We just met!” you protested, but the butterflies flying in your stomach told a different story.

~

“Anthony!  You and Benedict - and Colin if he can behave himself and not eat all the biscuits - must come to my tea party this afternoon,” Daphne decreed at the breakfast table.  Her proclamation was met with several groans and one small protest of “Hey!”

Anthony scowled at his younger sister.  “Tea parties are for girls, Daphne.  Besides, I have a shooting lesson this afternoon,” he said.

Daphne beamed despite the implied insult.  “No you don’t!  I already asked papa, and he has rescheduled your lesson.  He hopes to join us for a bit after his meeting with Lord Aberly,” she said primly.  Her eyes glimmered with a spark of mischief.  “(Y/N) shall also be there,” she added in a sing-song voice.

“Fine, we shall attend your tea party.”

“Oh, come on, Anthony!  Why did you have to accept for the both of us?”

~

“Are you excited for the new baby, Ant?” you asked as you strolled in Aubrey Hall’s garden.  

He shrugged, making his broadening shoulders fill his jacket even more.  He had changed so much in the year he had been away at university, but he was still the same Anthony, thank goodness.  “I suppose.  It is always nice to welcome a new sibling, but the novelty has worn off.  Each baby is just like the last,” he chuckled.

You slapped his arm playfully, giggling as well.  “How could you say that, Anthony?” you scolded.  “Are you going to think that of your own children as well?”

You thought you saw his eyes flicker over your form with a strange expression in them, but it must have been a trick of the light for when his eyes returned to yours they were his normal welcoming brown.  

“No, I shall probably become as tender-hearted as my father when each babe is welcomed.  And dote on my wife for bringing such a miracle into the world,” he replied, that funny trick of the light occurring again and making your stomach inexplicably flip.

~

His father knelt to gather flowers for his mother, prompting Anthony to do the same.  “I shall gather some for (Y/N).  She was just admiring these daffodils the other day,” he spoke as he used his pocket knife to cut the loveliest blooms.  “I believe I will do as you suggested and ask her -”  

A thump behind him interrupted him.  

“Father?  Father!”

~

“Papa has inherited a piece of land in Scotland.  We are leaving within the week to go there.”  You stood in the door of what was now Anthony’s study.  He looked so small and lost sitting there, his late father’s portrait above him.

He nodded his head briefly before looking back down at the papers before him that required his attention.  “I shall see you when you return then.  Safe travels,” he spoke in a clipped tone.

“You don’t understand.  We are renting out Turring Manor and moving to Scotland.”

His head snapped up at this, but his eyes were distant and cold, his jaw set.  There was a pregnant pause before he spoke, “Then I wish you all the best, Miss (Y/L/N).  May God be with you.”

His terse farewell cut you like a knife.  You swallowed the lump in your throat.  “And with you, Lord Bridgerton.”

  You fled the house before anyone could see your tears fall.

~

Anthony was in the middle of his set with Miss Sherwood when there was a commotion at the entrance to the ballroom.  He looked to see a family enter, but they were blocked from his seeing their faces.  Accepting defeat, he tipped the corners of his lips up in what Miss Sherwood would know as a fond smile as he resumed their dance, forgetting the interruption entirely as the dance came to an end. 

“Brother!  How was your dance with the lovely Miss Sherwood?” Benedict clapped him on the back and handed him a glass of punch as he joined him near the terrace doors.  

He sighed, letting his austere Viscount visage fade just enough for Benedict to see how tired his brother was.  “She is well-spoken and graceful.”  He looked away from his brother and out towards the crowd.  “She shall make a wonderful Viscountess.”

Benedict’s eyes softened but Anthony refused to look at him.  “Will that be enough for you, Brother?  A wife and a mother to your children?”

Anthony fixed a glare on Benedict that would have made a lesser man shrink back and admit defeat.  “Isn’t that the point of the institution?  I shall gain an heir and somebody to take care of my households while I provide her with a name and protection from material poverty.”

“Some might add love into that mission statement,” Benedict said with a hint of sarcasm.

Anthony paused, but his mind was more made up than ever.  “I gave that notion up a long time ago, Brother.  Love brings nothing but heartache,” he spoke, his voice devoid of any emotion.

The brother’s staring contest was broken by a familiar voice.  “Lord Bridgerton, Mr. Bridgerton.”

The tall, dark haired men bowed.  “Lady Danbury, how do you do?”  Benedict took on the lion’s share of the social niceties as Anthony still had that far off look in his eyes.  He was not attending to the conversation at all, but Lady Danbury did not grow offended at his slight.

“Very well, Mr. Bridgerton.  I wanted to introduce you both to someone.  Her family has just moved back from Scotland - just in time for the season,” Lady Danbury continued, bringing you forward.

“(Y/N)!” Benedict cried, grabbing your hand to place a kiss onto your glove.

Lady Danbury raised an eyebrow in surprise, but her eyes were calculating.  “So you two know each other?”

“Miss (Y/L/N)’s family used to be our neighbors.  We spent many a day together before they moved away,” Benedict explained.  You were glad for it as your tongue was tied.  

“That is wonderful.  Then you two can help me introduce Miss (Y/L/N) to some other members of the Ton,” Lady Danbury smiled but fixed her eagle gaze on Anthony who had broken out of his stupor enough to gaze open-mouthed at you.  “Her family would like to see her settled.”

Benedict’s easy smile flashed.  “That will not be so hard a task for one as lovely as you, Miss (Y/L/N).”

You smiled wryly.  “It may become a little more challenging when people hear this is by no means my first season out,” you spoke, with that familiar teasing lilt to your voice.

“Nonsense.”  Your head snapped up at the almost angry outburst from the Viscount.  He cleared his throat.  “Many men will find you to be all the more acceptable for your age,” he said.

You smiled and Anthony made the mistake of looking at you - really looking at you - this time.  “You are right, my lord.  Many bachelors will be looking to find a wife before they themselves enter their dotage,” you teased, making Benedict laugh.

Anthony could not recover himself fast enough  - perhaps tell you that were more beautiful than the day you left - before Benedict was offering you his hand and leading you towards the dance floor.

~

“Miss (Y/L/N), may I have your next set?” Anthony intercepted you the moment Benedict led you off the dance floor.  He was spinning his signet ring on his pinkie finger.

“Of course, my lord,” you spoke even as he was already grasping your hand and leading you back onto the floor.

You spent half of the set in silence.  You could tell even after all these years when Anthony needed time to think.  You focused on the steps of the waltz and actively tried to ignore how it felt to be in his arms.

“How was Scotland?” Anthony finally broke the silence.

You blinked, startled.  “It is a most beautiful country, my lord,” you replied.

He nodded.  “Were there no eligible gentlemen there?”

Your brow furrowed.  “Of course there were many,” you sputtered.

“Why did you not wed then?”  The interrogation continued.

Your nostrils flared with your temper.  “I do not believe that is any of your business, my lord,” you stated, a hint of anger behind your words.  “I could say the same for you.”

“Yes, but I am a man; it is different.”

You scoffed, drawing the attention of some onlookers.  “Yes, I suppose it is.  I am but a woman.  Therefore my only purpose is to wed and have babies.”  You stopped dancing and broke out of his grasp.  You stood with your fists clenched at your sides.  “I heard you when you were near the terrace, my lord.  I cannot countenance how much you have changed.”

He watched in equal parts anger and despair as you walked away from him and out the doors.

~

“Mama, what are these?”  You fingered the petals of the daffodils that had been arranged in a beautiful bouquet.

“They must be from a potential suitor who saw how gracefully you danced with Benedict last night,” she replied, still not daring to mention the scene you had caused when you had stormed away from Anthony.  “There is most likely a card in them, peach.”

There was indeed.  You opened it to find a familiar neat hand.

I remembered these were your favourites, is all it read.

You closed the card and slipped it into your pocket.  “They are just from Lord Bridgerton.  An apology for our row.”

You purposely did not meet your mother’s eye so as not to see the look of disappointment that overtook her features.

~

“Who is that walking with Lady Danbury?”

“That is Miss (Y/L/N),” Benedict quickly informed the fair-haired earl he and Anthony had been walking with along with Miss Sherwood.  “Would you like me to introduce you both?  She is an old friend of our family.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Bridgerton, that would be delightful!” Miss Sherwood cried.  “Wouldn’t it be, Lord Bridgerton?”

Anthony nodded, his lips pressed in a thin line.  “Most delightful.”

You and Lady Danbury had already come upon the group, and you paused.  “Miss (Y/L/N), you must allow me to introduce my good friend Lord James Thatcher, the Earl of Wembey and Miss Sherwood of Bath.”

You curtsied politely to the both of them.  “It is a pleasure to meet you both,” you said smoothly, years of good breeding taking over as your mind reeled.  So this was the Miss Sherwood that he had spoken of.  

“Miss (Y/L/N), would you care to join me on a small boat ride on the lake?  It is the perfect weather for it,” Lord Wembey addressed you directly, startling you.  You could feel Lady Danbury’s gaze on you.

“That would be most lovely, my lord,” you spoke as you took his proffered arm.

~

“Lord Wembey has invited us to attend the theater tonight with him in his box.  Is that not lovely, my dear?” your mama crowed.  This would not be the first time the handsome earl had singled you out in his attentions.  They had become quite marked indeed.

“That is wonderful, mama,” you replied, not looking up from your needlework.  “Shall I wear the yellow silk, do you think?”  And the conversation turned back to fashion plates and fripperies.

~

The pall mall ball soared into the air - straight into the woods and definitely nowhere near the intended target.  You were never good at pall mall, but what you lacked in talent you made up for in enthusiasm.  And the annual tournament was no exception - especially since it was your first after returning.

“I suppose (Y/N) must return to the woods,” Eloise teased.  “Hopefully you do not need to rescue her this time, Anthony.”

“Rescue her?  Whatever do you mean, Miss Bridgerton?” Miss Sherwood asked.  

You and Anthony both opened your mouths to explain, but Benedict beat you to it.  “Many years ago, Miss (Y/L/N) was walking in our woods when she injured herself.  Luckily for her, though, Anthony was there to help her home.”

“Oh, how wonderful!  It was like fate brought you together,” Miss Sherwood gushed, just as Daphne had all those years ago.

Anthony cleared his throat and brushed his free hand down his pant leg, trying to dislodge an imaginary piece of lint.  “Yes, well, it was a very long time ago, and I am sure the memory has been distorted until it seems much loftier than it is,” he spoke, more harshly than he meant in his flustered state.  “Shall we play on?  I believe it was your turn, Miss Sherwood.”

~

“I have noticed Lord Wembey and (Y/N) are spending a great deal of time together, Brother,” Daphne spoke as she entered Anthony’s study.  

“Have they?  I have not really noticed,” Anthony spoke with a clenched jaw, his pen arrested in mid air where it dropped a rogue dot of ink on the otherwise pristine page.

Daphne tilted her head and pursed her lips - a look she had perfected from childhood.  “I find that hard to believe, Brother.  Everyone expects him to propose - perhaps even tonight at mama’s ball,” she said.  She huffed lightly as Anthony still did not look up from his work.  “And people are also wondering why you have not proposed to Miss Sherwood yet.”

Anthony finally set down his pen and looked at her.  “How are those two connected, Sister?” he ground out.

Daphne did not break eye contact.  “Some people are saying that you have not proposed to Miss Sherwood because you hold a tendre for (Y/N),” she explained.

“Why would I care about the words of gossips?”  Anthony growled.

Daphne leaned forward, her face set just as hard as his.  “You may not care, but if you do not fix this, you could inadvertently tarnish (Y/N)’s reputation and ruin her chances at an excellent match.”  

Daphne made her way back towards the corridor.  “Maybe think about that, Brother,” she said before she shut the door behind her.

~

You rode fast and hard, uncaring of anything but getting away.  You did not even care that the skies looked as if they would open up at any second and flood the ground beneath you.  It would only be too fitting for your mood.

Another one.

You had rejected another perfectly suitable gentleman.  

What was wrong with you?  Lord Wembey was everything you were looking for in a husband.  He was young, titled, wealthy beyond measure, kind hearted, well-read.  He could do with some darker hair, but that was beyond his control.

You drew your horse up short at that thought.  Were you seriously comparing Lord Wembey to Anthony - yes, for he was still Anthony in your thoughts - and finding Lord Wembey wanting?

You breathed heavily as that thought washed over you, and you wanted to scream.

As if your thoughts had summoned him, Anthony appeared on horseback.  He cut an even more impressive figure than he used to, but that was no wonder.  His eyes locked on you, and he turned his horse to meet yours.

And you fled.

You could feel him following you, his better knowledge of the ground and larger steed allowing him to gain ground rapidly.  You could feel the promised rain start to pummel your back, but you pushed your horse faster.  Eating up ground faster than you could see it as your vision was blurred with rain and tears.  

“(Y/N), watch out!” were the last words you heard before your body slammed into the ground.

~

You opened your eyes to see it was already light in your bedroom.  Your mother sat beside you.  “Mama?” you rasped, wincing at how it made your head ache.

The lines on your mother’s face smoothed as she looked at you, before promptly starting to sob.  “Oh, you are awake!  We thought we had lost you forever!”

You scrunched your forehead as you tried to sit up.  You were immediately assisted by two maids.  “What happened, mama?”

“Oh, you would have been lost without him!  Going out for a ride in horrific weather, what were you thinking?” your mother was working up into one of her fits of hysteria.

“Mama!” you broke her off.  “Lost without whom?”

“Oh, Anthony, of course!  He saw you get thrown from your horse, and he carried you all the way back on his.  He personally saw that the doctor was fetched, too, wonderful boy,” she gushed.

You fiddled with the comforter, unsure of what to say.  

There was a knock on the door. You turned your head to see Anthony standing there, fidgeting with his signet ring just as he did in the days immediately following his father’s death.

“I shall leave you two to have a moment of privacy,” your mother whispered as she stood.

You attempted to reach out to her, stop her, but she was too quick.  She beckoned the two maids to follow her but left the door open for propriety’s sake.  

Anthony did not move from his position near the door even after your mother vacated the room.  The air felt heavy, and you were finding it hard to breathe.  You smoothed the bedcovers although they were practically perfect.

“I am so relieved you are awake,” Anthony croaked, his voice raspy with disuse.

You steadfastly continued your study of the linens.  “I am told I have you to thank for that, my lord.”  You congratulated yourself on keeping your tone even.

“Will you stop that?” Anthony’s tone was sharp, and you finally looked at him fully.  His face was drawn, and it was clear he had not shaved in a few days.

“Stop what, my lord?” you asked, genuinely confused.

He walked towards your bed, his face red.  “Calling me that,” he practically spat.  

You scoffed, not believing he was truly acting so childish.  “Well, it is your title.  It would be improper for me not to -”

“Marry me, then.”

You must have hit your head harder than you thought for you were certainly hearing things.  “What?” you breathed.

Anthony knelt at your side and took your hand tenderly in his.  “Marry me, (Y/N), please,” he implored.  He shook his head.  “I should have asked you ten years ago, but I thought I could prevent my heart from breaking by not letting it be touched.”  His gaze fell on your joined hands.  He cleared his throat.  “I was a fool.  I disregarded the fact that it had already been stolen from me.”

His warm brown orbs found yours, and you felt your heart climb into your throat.  You took a rattling breath as your eyes stung with tears.

“Anthony…” you breathed.

No further words were needed as your lips joined in the kiss you had always been waiting for.

~

My Masterlist

[gilmore-angel]

everything has changed | aaron hotchner x reader

swiftmas ♱ heyyy.... so this is super late😬. I am now on break so hopefully the future ones will be on time💋

summary ♱ working at a daycare has its perks, a big one being a certain single dad.

warnings ♱ awkward flirting, my lack of understanding how daycares are run, ooc aaron probably cause I haven't watched this show in forever

swiftmas ♱ navigation ♱ follow my library account @baysfics to see when I post!

loud. if you had to use one word to describe your job it would be loud. you of course loved your work, but being completely overwhelmed has become a normal thing.

the end of the day was always the hardest. trying to gather all of the kids items, putting shoes on, getting through checkout, and cleaning up afterwards.

one little boy in particular however made your job a bit easier. Jack Hotchner, an adorable three year old, was polite, well behaved, and sweet. his father, aaron hotchner, was serious but seemed nice.

all you new about him was he worked a lot, and rarely was the one to pick jack up. 90% of the time it was his aunt to come pick him up.

but today was different. when your coworker said jacks parent was here for pickup you help his little winter coat on and backpack and walked with him to the front desk for checkout.

there stood arron, dressed in his usual black suit. his jet black hair was shiny and put together like always. his blank almost cold expression shifted to a much happier one when he saw jack running towards him.

the little boy hugged his father's legs in greeting, receiving a hug in return. you smile as you walk up to aaron and pass him the drawing jack made in class today.

"jack wanted to make sure u gave this to you," aaron smiles softly and takes it, looking over the two little stick figures playing in the snow, representing them.

he glances back up at you, nodding once at you, "thank you. youre jacks main teacher, correct?"

his voice sounding so clear is surprising to you. the most you heard from him was a quiet goodmorning or bye. you would see him mutter words to jack, but they were only for jack to here. the fact he talked to you at all was completely out of the norm.

you feel your cheeks heat up, suddenly realizing now that you have to speak directly to him how handsome he really is.

you smile softly and nod, "yes, I am." you realize too late how awkward you sound.

he nods, reaching out his hand to shake yours, "jack talks about you a lot. you seem to be his favorite here."

your heart swells at that, knowing jack was your favorite too. your heart also skips a beat at the feeling of shaking his hand. his skin is rough, yet his touch is gentle.

"thats so sweet. he brings you up a ton too." your hand drops back to your side and you fiddle with your jeans, suddenly feeling very flustered, a butterfly party happening in your tummy.

he smiles, a bit brighter now. he picks up his son, who is growing more and more tired by the second. he glances away before meeting your eyes again. "I uh, I appreciate all you do for my son. I work a lot out of state so, knowing my son has a good place to go is uh, comforting."

your smile widens, and you chuckle softly, "it my pleasure. he's a great kid."

you both continue to hold eye contact, your breathing calming a bit. he has kind eyes. tired ones, yes, but kind. he finally breaks the little bit of silence by clearing his throat, glancing down.

"well uh, we should be heading out. thank you again." before you can speak again he walks out, son in his arms.

even after he has disappeared from your eye site, you continue to stand and tare at where he was. you almost feel giddy, like a teenager who just met their new crush. you snap out of your daze when you realize you still need to help with checkout. you quickly get back to it, but can't help but thinking that everything has changed.

[its-all-stardust]

Sugar || 8

Masterlist || Part Seven || Part Nine

Steven Grant/Sugar Mommy!Reader

Word count: 4.6k

Series Summary: You meet Steven in a museum gift shop and feel an instant connection. Before you walk out the door you decide, perhaps against your better judgment, that you need him to be your sugar baby. Now you just need him to let you treat him right.

“What’s that look for?” Steven asks when he walks into your apartment.

You greet him with a grin, almost bouncing on the balls of your feet. You couldn’t wait for him to get here.

Your hands are on his chest, his on your waist, and you’re leaning into him before the door is even closed. “How do you feel about getting dressed up and being my date in two weeks?”

Steven seems to catch on to your excitement, realizing something is up. “This isn’t a regular date, is it?”

You shake your head. “Charity auction. I just got word today that I have an opening for my plus one, and I want you to come with me.”

He frowns, his hands twitching against you. “You had another date?”

“Just Dan. He had to cancel. He’s having a surprise party for his son that day.”

Somehow, Steven’s frown manages to deepen. “Who’s Dan?”

You feel him start to pull away, but you slide your hands up and lock them behind his neck, preventing his escape. There’s an elated tingling in your chest, and you soften your expression.

“Dan is my CFO. He always goes with me to these things to handle all the schmoozing because I don’t like talking to people.” Steven’s shoulders relax under your arms, the lines easing from his face. You press a reassuring kiss on his cheek. “Is that an acceptable answer?” you tease.

Steven sputters, though his hands are pressed more firmly against your waist, pulling you closer.

“If you wanted to be with other men, who am I to stop you?” he says. Though you can hear the relief in his voice, you also detect a lingering nervousness.

Your lips move to his jaw. “Too bad I don’t want to be with other men.”

Steven’s breath hitches. “No?”

You shake your head, inadvertently yet wonderfully nuzzling into him. “I only want you.”

A bold statement to say to a baby, but that’s how you’ve been lately. It started before your vacation just two short weeks ago, but it’s grown since then, and so far, you haven’t had reason to stop.

You only want Steven, which may be more than a little dangerous for you. You have sugar babies because they’re not like traditional relationships. They’re easier for a number of reasons, and generally, you don’t develop…certain feelings for your babies. They dutifully fulfill their role as companions, and you’ve always been fine with that.

But Steven has become more than just another baby to you. If you’re not careful, you could end up hurt.

“Oh,” Steven breathes, apparently all he can say. He’s practically vibrating against you, though, telling you all you need to know about how your words affected him.

Then, he says, “Good,” and kisses you. Steven is holding onto you like he can’t bear to let you go, and you return the intensity in kind. Your hands are in his hair, nails scraping along his skin.

He nips at your lips, drawing a gasp from you.

He’s been getting bolder, too.

When you finally part, Steven’s pupils are blown wide, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so… possessive.

“I should make you jealous more often,” you tease, trying to hide your elation that Steven seems to only want you, too. You’re not the best at reading people, but unlike some, Steven has never tried to hide how he’s feeling.

“No,” Steven says softly before burying his face in your neck, his hands roaming along your back. “I don’t want to hear about you with other people.”

Your heart is beating so fast; it’s a wonder it’s still in your chest.

Maybe, with Steven...

You didn’t pick this dress for Steven. That’s what you tell yourself anyway. You liked it because the fabric isn’t itchy, and the fit isn’t too tight. Nor did you pick it because you know it gets you lingering stares.

No, you chose it because you thought it was pretty. That was all.

The lie only worked until Steven saw you coming down the stairs.

His eyes are wide, his mouth hanging open. You saw him nervously playing with the cuffs of his jacket, endlessly twitching, until he spotted you.

The dress isn’t flashy—this is a classy fundraising event, after all, not a film premiere—but it exudes a quiet power.

It’s floor-length and midnight blue, with a shallow v-cut neckline that provides only a hint of cleavage. The sleeves are long, trailing a mere inch above the hem of the skirt, your heels saving them from touching the floor, and split just above the elbow for ease of use of your arms.

The finishing touches are the silver jeweled appliques on your shoulders in the shape of starbursts. They square out your shoulders, giving the illusion of perfect posture and fierce demeanor.

Not wanting to do the work yourself, you visited a salon earlier in the day to get your hair and makeup done. Steven saw that before the completed look, and even then, he was stunned by you. Your hair is pulled into an elegant bun to show off your neck, not a single strand out of place. Even the pins are carefully hidden, making your hair appear magically held in place. Your makeup isn’t heavy except for your eyes. Dark lashes and liner pulled into sharp angles, softened only by silver shadow across the lid. A deep wine-red lipstick completes the look.

Your only accessories are silver earrings to match the appliques and a clutch made to perfectly match the fabric of your dress. That way, you can carry it as your side without drawing the eye too low.

The only flaw with the whole ensemble is that you can’t wear the bracelet Steven gifted you. The gold makes it clash with the silver on the dress. You probably wear the bracelet too much, anyway; pearls are too soft to be worn every day, but you can’t bear to part with it. It was a struggle not to pick another dress entirely to match the bracelet or even take the dress in to have the appliques replaced with gold versions.

You’re afraid that would have been too much, though, and decided against it.

Even without the bracelet, Steven is still in awe of you, and that’s all that matters.

“I think I forgot how to breathe,” he says when you reach him.

Heat builds in your face as you say, “I could say the same about you.” You can’t help but reach out and smooth a hand across his right shoulder and down his chest.

Steven’s suit is black with the bowtie, of course, custom-made to match your dress. It is, admittedly, a little uninspired in terms of men’s fashion, but the norm for events like this. But even still, the suit is cut to Steven’s body perfectly, showing off his figure in the way only fine tailoring can do. His look is complete with artfully slicked-back hair, a style typically reserved for special occasions, leaving him looking a little less like your Steven. The Steven you’re used to.

After your many dates, you already know he cleans up nicely, but it’s still a sight to see every time.

“Only the best for you, love,” Steven says with a simple, offering his arm.

Though any event attended by the wealthy is used as an informal business opportunity, they are also for showing off. The nouveau riche tends to do so by wearing fancy clothes and jewelry. They make a show of how much money they have, bragging about mansions and vacation homes in foreign countries.

Old money falls into quieter luxury. The things they show off aren’t objects but rather something intangible. They talk of things such as new business dealings or proudly state that a spouse or child has a new position within a corporation or even the government, displaying not just their wealth but their power.

You, though, do neither of those things, not now that you have others to do the talking for you. Now that Dan isn’t here, you don’t have to listen to yet another round of your accomplishments being listed to potentially interested parties who could be convinced to invest or point your company toward more lucrative dealings.

You already did your time playing the rich man’s game at previous functions over the years, learning and avoiding all the faux pas typically done by those who haven’t learned to act like they were born to this. Some of the others forget your money is just as new as the overly flashy crowd. You know how to blend in; you’ve had to do it all your life. Things aren’t much different now, even though the crowd has changed.

And even though you tend to dislike these functions for the most part, you still have your own showing off that you want to do. There’s a reason you can fit in around here, after all.

You want everyone to see Steven on your arm.

Some, if not all, of your peers may suspect what he is to you. You don’t care, and chances are they won’t either. Some of them will likely have their own sugar babies in attendance with them. But you want to show them that none compare to your Steven.

None of them are as free or as open as he is. He doesn’t have to pretend to be air-headed to keep your interest, and as handsome as you think he is, he’s more than just a pretty face who fawns all over you.

You don’t plan on staying for long. A brief appearance usually appeases the more judgmental crowd. You’re not so renowned that you can decline all invitations with a small six-figure apology for your absence. It isn’t so bad, though. You do like dressing up on occasion, and it’s the perfect excuse to get Steve dressed up, too. You’re always looking for an excuse to make him into a model for your personal photoshoots, pictures tucked away in a folder on your phone.

After a flute or two of champagne, a respectable bid on something that isn’t terribly ugly, and enough people seeing—and admiring—Steven at your side, you’ll head home. The night will end at your apartment with your baby wrapped around you and a healthy transfer into Steven’s account for the pleasure of his company.

Ever since you and Steven returned from Germany, he’s been sleeping in your room with you whenever he stays the night. His bed has practically been untouched for the last couple of weeks; his own apartment even less so. These days, his room is just extra storage space for Steven to toss his clothes onto, and you couldn’t be happier. You’ve come to look forward to your new nighttime routine.

“So, do you get a paddle? Will there be a man talking so fast you can barely understand him?” Steven asks as the two of you enter the venue—a gorgeous art gallery, the host of the event.

“As fun as that would be, I’m afraid this is a silent auction,” you sigh. “You’ll only see this crowd at an auction like that if the lots are full of less-than-legal items.”

“What, really?” Steven asks in disbelief. “Aren’t those for, I dunno, shady people?”

“Oh, Steven,” you say indulgently. “These will be some of the shadiest people you’ll ever meet.”

Glass in one hand, Steven’s arm in the other—with him dutifully holding your clutch—you make your way through the gallery. Many of the pieces up for auction are paintings. They’re usually donated by some of the night’s guests looking to redecorate their homes. This way, they can get rid of the old paintings and find something unique for their newly refreshed foyer, all the while pretending they did it in the name of a good cause.

A few sculptures are scattered about, but those are usually never quite as popular. You also spot different memorabilia, either for some sport or another, or even items from a particularly beloved movie or actor.

Tonight’s selection also contains vintage handbags and jewelry. You’re sure there are other items about, but you’ve always had particular tastes and have rarely found items at an auction that you’re genuinely interested in. You only look because it’s expected of you.

A call of your name makes you pause, searching for the source.

Coming toward you is Daphne, a wealthy widow in her fifties. Like you, she doesn’t have the pedigree of some of the others, having “married up” after meeting her husband. Because of that, she’s never been as uptight as some of the other people you’ve interacted with, and as a result, you’ve always liked her.

“It’s good to see you,” you say, giving her a quick hug, mindful of your glass and hers. “It’s been ages.”

“You’ll need to squeeze me into your busy schedule for dinner some evening,” she teases. When she pulls away from you, she turns to Steven and says, “This isn’t Dan.” She looks him up and down, a knowing smile on her face.

“I’m Steven,” he quickly says, tensing beside you, apparently still a little jealous about your coworker.

“My date,” you provide without needing to as Daphne and Steven shake hands. 

“Is he good?” Daphne asks you after introducing herself. She can guess that Steven is your sugar baby. She knows that’s your usual relationship, and she often has one of her own. She’s one of the few people you’re comfortable talking about babies with.

You glance over at Steven as if evaluating him. His nervous twitching has returned, and you’re unsure of the exact cause. A frown threatens to pull down the corners of your mouth, but you don’t let it succeed.

“He’s good,” you tell Daphne, giving Steven’s arm a reassuring squeeze. His cheeks darken.

He’s still responsive and isn’t blocking things out, a good sign that he’s not about to shut down.

“Where did she find you? I’ve been looking for a new man,” Daphne says, turning back to Steven. She always treats babies like people, unlike some who treat them like shadows, inconsequential, and best left seen and not heard.

“At the National Art Gallery,” Steven replies, a little strained, unsure what he’s allowed to say. “I work there and she was enjoying the exhibits.”

Daphne’s eyebrows raise slightly. She was likely expecting him to give a website. You usually prefer your babies to go through a screening process, so she knows picking up one at random—in person, off the street—is unusual for you.

“How serendipitous!” she exclaims with a genuine smile. Daphne then leans in toward Steven. “Now, tell me, Steven, how do you like your job?” she asks quietly with a pointed glance toward you.

Before you can say anything to try to reign Daphne in, Steven looks at you, his expression softening, the nerves falling away.

“It’s not really a job, though. Not to me. I just…like being around her.”

Your face starts to heat up as Daphne’s eyes flit back and forth between you, a knowing smile on her face.

“Good! Well, I won’t keep you,” she says, stepping back. “You two enjoy your evening. And I’ll be calling your assistant next week about dinner.”

After your goodbyes to Daphne, you and Steven continue walking around the gallery hall. You point out some rather dreadful pieces and make some talk with some of the other guests. As time goes on, you notice Steven steadily getting more quiet. You don’t think much of it. Putting on a show, even a minimal one, can be draining. His uneasiness has been following him all night, so you remind yourself not to stay longer than needed and keep moving.

“What do you think of this one?” you ask Steven, looking at the least ugly of the handbags. You’re still trying to find something to bid on that you could stomach the thought of taking home.

Before he can answer, the sound of shattering glass and a startled yelp fills the hall. Suddenly, Steven steps closer to you, his arm thrown protectively across your body as he searches for the source of the disturbance, his body tense.

“It’s alright,” you reassure, gently placing a hand on Steven’s arm. “Someone knocked into one of the servers.”

The tension leaves Steven, and his arm falls. You’re a little shocked. You’ve never seen him react like that before, though you haven’t exactly been in any situations where he would need to try to protect you.

“Sorry, I just….” He trails off, his voice sounding lower than usual. He shakes his head, confused. “I don’t know why I did that.”

You squeeze his arm. “Steven, are you alright?” you ask softly. “You’ve been a little off tonight.”

A slight frown forms on his face as he looks at you. “I’m fine. I promise,” he says, his voice mostly returning to normal. Then he gestures to the handbag you were evaluating. “You were thinking of this one, yeah?”

“I was,” you agree, looking Steven over. You don’t think you need to pull the plug on the evening quite yet, but something is going on with your baby. You chat about the bag for a moment, both of you pretending everything is fine.

As the night goes on, Steven starts becoming more and more withdrawn. You could have sworn you heard him mumbling to himself at one point, but when you asked him what he said, he claimed it was nothing. Though he was hesitant at the beginning of the night, he at least still made polite, though limited, conversation with the other guests you stopped and spoke with. Now, even you can barely get a word out of him.

“I think this will look lovely in your room,” you say to him as you come to a stop in front of an abstract painting that’s nothing more than splashes of various shades of a questionable yellow. You’re trying to get some reaction out of him, trying to gauge his feelings.

Steven doesn’t look as nervous as he did earlier in the night, but his brow still holds a slight furrow, and his posture, though perfect, is rigid. When you lean into him, he’s not as soft as he usually is. He doesn’t return the favor, leaning into you as he always does.

Steven doesn’t react at all to your suggestion of the hideous painting. It’s like he didn’t even hear you.

“Steven, look at me.”

He inhales as if preparing for something and finally turns to face you, though he doesn’t quite meet your eye. You take his chin and gently tilt his face toward you, making him look at you.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Though you keep your voice soft, gentle, there’s no mistaking the order in the words. He stares at you, mesmerized or lost in thought—you have no idea.

“I don’t…feel like myself,” Steven finally says, his voice sounding…wrong. “Can we go?”

Your hand falls from his chin down to his chest. “Baby, why didn’t you tell me something was wrong?” Usually, if Steven wasn’t up for something, he would tell you immediately. This isn’t like him at all.

Steven takes a second to answer. “I didn’t want to ruin your night.”

Your gaze softens, and any irritation, however mild, leaves you. “You could never ruin my night,” you tell him, filling your words with admiration.

You quickly turn around, typing in a random amount on the tablet for the ugly yellow painting, placing your bid, and making your mark for the evening. Then, taking Steven’s hand, you start heading for the exit. “Let’s go.”

As you wait outside, you start mentally running through everything you have at home that might help Steven. If tonight just made him anxious, maybe even overstimulated, then you can have him change into something comfortable, dim the lights, and make everything nice and quiet. You can even brush out his slicked-back hair if he’ll let you touch him. Whatever he needs to makes him feel more like himself.

If he’s feeling sick, you’re sure you have something in the cupboards to help. If you don’t, you’ll just have someone deliver it.

“Can we go to my place?” Steven asks suddenly as your driver pulls the car up to the curb.

“What?” you say automatically, pulling from your thoughts and leaving you momentarily confused. “Are you sure?” To say that you aren’t a little hurt that he doesn’t want to be at your apartment would be a lie.

“Yes, please. I…need to be there,” Steven says, again, not looking at you.

You ignore the slight wound and focus on your baby’s needs instead. If he wants to be at his place, then that’s what you’ll do for him. After instructing your driver to go to Steven’s apartment, you take his hand again. It’s limp in yours, but he doesn’t pull away.

When the car stops in front of his building, Steven practically leaps out, pulling his hand from yours and leaving you behind.

You sit there, absolutely stunned and left unsure of what to do. Steven didn’t technically invite you up to his apartment, but neither did he bother to say goodbye.

Confused and more than a little hurt, you gather your clutch and sleeves and follow Steven out of the car, telling your driver to wait for you. You don’t exactly have a plan as you follow Steven into the building, narrowly catching the door before it closed and locked you out, but you hope to get some sort of answer from him.

Steven does a double-take when you slip into the elevator right behind him. Apparently, he wasn’t expecting you to follow. As the lift slowly grinds its way upwards, you and Steven are again silent, with him steadfastly avoiding eye contact.

Too stressed, too focused on Steven, you don’t process anything about the building itself. Any other day, you’d be thrilled to finally be allowed into Steven’s private space, but right now, you can’t think of anything other than what’s going on with your baby.

A dark part of you starts to whisper that it’s you. You did this to Steven and he wants out. But then a more rational part of your brain argues that he never would have looked at you the way he did just a few short hours ago if that were true. You’ve known Steven long enough to realize what a terrible liar he is. He couldn’t have faked his awe.

Whatever is happening, it’s something else. Something happened to him after you arrived at the gallery that caused him to act like this. You just need to know what so you can fix it.

The doors to the elevator open, on which floor, you have no clue, and Steven leads you off toward his apartment, no longer rushing to get away from you but notably keeping his distance.

Pulling his key from his pocket, Steven unlocks his door, allowing you into this part of his life for the first time. You had always wanted it to be under better circumstances.

The first thing you notice is the books. It’s not that you didn’t believe Steven when he told you how many he has, but hearing about it and seeing it are two very different things.

They are stacked everywhere. Shelves are overflowing, and neat piles are littering the entire apartment. There are even some spilling into the kitchen, gathered around the shelves that serve not only to separate the space from the rest of the flat but also host the tank for Steven’s pet goldfish, Gus. Before you can take in much else, Steven is moving away from you, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

Then he grips the back of the chair, the jacket bunching under his fingers. When he still doesn’t say anything, you do what you always do: take care of him.

Spotting a kettle on the stove, you make your way toward it, glazing at the wall immediately to the right of the door, taking note of the map and various postcards.

From his mom.

You suppose it’s something since, as far as you’re aware, she’s yet to return any of Steven’s various calls. Steven even told you this apartment is technically hers, but you’ve wondered more than once if she’s ever returning to London.

Grabbing the kettle, you take it to the sink, fill it, and put it back on the stove before opening the cupboards and hunting for a mug. Thankfully, the teabags are on the counter, left in their original tin. Steven’s eyes follow your every move. Only once you set down a mug and patiently start waiting for the water to boil does he finally speak.

“What are you doing?”

“Making you tea. Sit.”

Steven takes a step toward you. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” you say sternly, turning to face him. Steven pauses, a little taken aback. “Sit,” you repeat more gently and return to your task. He pulls out a chair, the legs scraping along the floor, and obediently sits.

As the kettle whistles, you take it off the heat and pour the water into the mug. The silence is overwhelming as the tea steeps.

“Is it me?” you ask after a couple of minutes. You keep your back to Steven as you move around the kitchen again, hunting for sugar. Even though you don’t believe it is you—not entirely, anyway—you need to know what it is. You need to be delicate and the best way is to ease into it.

Steven doesn’t answer you until you stand across the table from him and set the tea by his hands.

“No. It’s not… it’s not you.” He shakes his head. “You’re… you’re good.” He goes silent again. He doesn’t touch the tea.

You wait for a moment before moving around the table to stand at his side. Sucking in a breath, you’re about to speak but hesitate. Maybe you should let it go and let Steven work out whatever’s wrong in his own time. Ultimately, though, you continue.

“Is it something you don’t want to talk about, or is it something you don’t want to talk to me about?”

Steven’s posture stiffens even more as he keeps his gaze on his hands. After showing no signs of responding, you reach out, taking his chin and turning his face toward you for the second time tonight.

“Steven.” Nothing else. Just his name and the unspoken plea for him to give you some sort of answer.

His eyes search yours for a moment before he takes a steadying breath. “I can’t tell anyone,” he quietly admits. “I’m sorry.”

You nod. Some things are too hard to share. You won’t begrudge Steven that. “But you’ll be okay?” Steven nods, your hand still on his chin. Leaning down, you kiss his cheek. “I’ll be here to listen if you can tell someone someday.”

When you pull away, Steven’s face is redder than you’ve seen in months.

“O-okay,” he breathes, his voice a touch shaky.

You hate to do it, but you know you should leave. Whatever Steven’s going through, he’d rather do it alone. You have no right to intrude upon his personal life as much as you have tonight. You’ve done all you could and can’t blame him for not wanting to open up to you.

You’re just his sugar mommy, after all.

You step away from Steven without another word and take the agonizingly short yet still too-long walk to the door. Swinging it open, hand on the knob, you glance back, catching Steven’s eye before he quickly looks away. For a moment, he looked like a complete stranger staring back at you.

Shaking the thought from your head, you pull the door shut softly behind you.

[vacz]

HUNTER IN A DRESS! Inspired by @myobsessions247 drawing!

I really loved your drawing. The way you drew him ✨~s l a yi n g~✨ made me question how it would be if Woodsman Wirt wore it too, would he be as glamorous?

The answer is no, but he is indeed killing it in that dress

I feel Woodsman Wirt wouldn't be very comfortable wearing any other clothes that are not his own, if he is not wearing his usual clothes he would feel like he just lost the only physical thing that keeps him to view himself as Wirt, and if he is not Wirt, he is just a crazy maniac of the woods

So Wirt wearing a dress would mess him up badly to the point that he would force himself to view his self as a different person, because he will do anything that is imposed on him even if he hates it, that's how he started to kill in the first place.

I liked the idea so much that I couldn't resist and made some more drawings

Remember the Beast mentioned in the ask that Wirt got some muscles? Well there they are! Wirt has been training so he could do his tasks more easily, like carrying more ellewoods, cutting the ellewood quickly and easier, and becoming faster in general. He does that all for Greg's safety.

There were times that some freak came to the unknown and they thought Wirt was a girl for his long hair and even tried to flirt with him. At first Wirt would be disgusted, but at one point he was so lonely that he tried to disguise himself as a girl so more people would try to have a chance with him, and at least he could feel wanted by a human being, even if he chomps them after (yeah, hella mess up)

Of course, he didn't know how to flirt before the unknown, less he knows now, and is worse when he is actually in a very unstable state of mind.

Anyways! I hope you guys liked it!

For those who don't know, the dress is the same that Wirt is wearing in the comic "Circus friends"!

Now, where did he get it in the AU? No idea but it was fun!

[nemoredraw]

Can we get a full Nemo (your oc) body drawing? And some notes about them! I’m invested in his story and his deal!!!

[TRIGGER WARNING] Violence, drugs, etc.

Of course!

Here are some reference drawings I usually use.

Fun facts about Nemo Arkham:

• Skilled in mechanics: Surprisingly, he does quite well fixing and understanding the workings of many vehicles or even gadgets.

• Firearms proficiency: Despite always carrying two pistols, he’s not very skilled with them. He prefers to play with the element of surprise in close combat. He still has a lot to learn about firearms but is quite adept with melee weapons (though explosives require less effort for him).

• Fashionable: He likes to dress well, usually in elegant suits, even in complex situations. It has become a symbol of his identity.

• Smokes anywhere: Even in tricky situations, he smokes. Let’s just say it helps him think.

• Great actor: He always likes to keep everything under control. When things slip out of his grasp, he becomes overwhelmed and desperately tries to regain control. He never does anything without a double intention, making it hard to trust him. He always seems to be playing with those around him. Nemo has excellent manipulation skills.

• Multilingual: He speaks several languages—Russian, German, Japanese, French, Spanish, and English. He is most fluent in Spanish and English. His origins are European, though the specific region is unknown.

• Empathy for children: This is the one area where he shows genuine empathy, likely because it reminds him of his childhood.

• Feminist: Despite his identity as a villain, he always defends women, viewing them not as sexual objects but as people.

• Spending habits: He doesn’t care much about spending money and is often surrounded by luxury, but only when he’s with others. In the quiet of his home, he’s content with a good bottle of whiskey and regular cigarettes.

• Solitary: He dislikes having close relationships, believing they could become a weakness others might exploit.

• Body modifications: He has a navel piercing.

• Transgender: He transitioned at a young age, and since his body hadn’t developed much yet, transitioning to male was easier for him.

• Heir turned soldier: Nemo is an heir but was raised more like a soldier or a weapon, always under his father’s yoke.

• Self-grooming: He cuts his own hair, which is why it always looks rather messy.

• Drug addiction: He’s addicted to a new drug called ASH BONE. He usually consumes it alone since (depending on the dose) it puts him in a state of chemical submission. A small dose only relaxes him.

• Goal (spoiler): Nemo’s objective is to destroy Batman and Gotham, no matter the limits he has to cross.

• Slade Wilson’s role: Slade trained him in hand-to-hand combat for a period of his life. Nemo never liked Slade. (Spoiler) When Nemo escaped his father’s grasp, he was kidnapped and tortured to break his will. Slade oversaw the torture, administering the experimental drug ASH BONE for the first time, making Nemo addicted.

• Shade the cat: As a child, Nemo adopted a black cat named Shade.

• Connection with Damian: The only member of the Batfamily he gets along with is Damian. He understands his anger and pain, so they connect perfectly, even though they maintain a lot of emotional distance. Nemo gave Damian those little star-shaped clips.

• Nicknames for Batman: Nemo ironically calls Batman “the emo who listens Deftones.” (He has many nicknames for the Batfamily: “the bats,” “winged rats,” “the emo squad,” “the darkness,” “the dark divas,” etc.)

(I could go on all day writing more random facts about Nemo, but I don’t think many people would care, haha!)

[isatartdump]

You draw them all so cool!!! And awesome!! But is that top surgery scars on loop 👀 (sorry I’m also curious were you thinking about anything specific when you drew them in casual clothes cause they all fit the characters So Well) sorry for bothering you I love your art

YES! I think Siffrin, Loop and Isa have top scars (CAN!! Do a stretch and say Odile has them too but I am not ready to think about it, I think she'll get more butch lesbian than she already is)… Lemme talk about them and hope I don't accidentally spoil the game HA

Loop's are more like how people usually draw top surgery scars? Mostly because I draw them by joining stars up, so it KINDA looks like stars blowing up!

I believe Isa left some really small scars just for the simbolism of finally being his authentic self or something… Since in vaugarde they transition (or honestly just find new ways to become themselves both physically and mentally) by using craft so I kinda headcanon it to be like… Treating your own body like it's made out of clay, people can just opt to have no scars whatsoever. Way easier than it is IRL, haha. I wish… Also I believe he'd put some tattoos on there to be stylish and handsome and pretty but I also don't know what kind of tattoo Isa would choose to get. If I do a modern AU I might think about it…

And Siffrin I'm. I'm working on it… I don't draw them shirtless often enough to think about it… But I see them as little lines that end on a small explosion at the end. Simple but gets a point across- More so a thing to remind him of how far they've gone rather than a thing that will be seen by other people but to fair isn't this what top scars are for us sometimes? Little reminders that things get better and how far we've come?

Now that the top scar ramble is over!!!!! Onto the thinking abotu something while drawing them casual... I was mostly thinking about clothes that would fit them in a sense of like. Fitting their body shape and just generally looked like they belong in their wardrobe. It's mostly about comfort and feeling like "Yeah they went to the store and bought that pair of pants". At least in my brain.

Making them look confident and comfortable in clothes that either fit their personality or what they usually wear kinda gets the overall feeling of "Yes of course Odile would wear that" methinks :) I'd say Loop is kinda the hardest one to dress in a way that... They would dress? Since they're. Nakey nakey the entire game but then you just work with what you think this sassy motherfucker (/aff) would wear. They have an absurd amount of personality that I think would be hard to not go into how they wear clothes

Loop my beloved. Was gonna gatekeep this last one but you guys can have it :) Also you don't bother! Thank you so much for liking my little thingies <3

[kaliforniahigh]

Can you write about Noah and super short reader? I'm 4'11 🥺. Maybe he walks in on reader either climbing on the counter to reach something or standing on the counter looking for a snack. He starts keeping step stools in every room.

She wears his shirts like a dress with fishnets and doc martens on the regular.

Maybe they do the tiktok trend of 'showing my dog places they've never seen' but it's you being lifted by him to see above the fridge and other high places 😂

Ok, so a good while back I wrote about this exact same thought and someone made a drawing of Noah picking reader up so she can look over the fridge, but I can't find it for the life of me :((((( Anyways, I love this concept soo much!!!

Warnings: this is just fluff!

WC: 1.4k (a shortie, like the reader)

My requests are closed for now!

Noah has walked in on you climbing on things to reach somewhere or something way too many times. He's always made a mental note to keep a little step stool for you, to avoid the risks of you falling, but he actually never got around to it.

Deep down, he knows it's because he loves helping you. Loves thinking that you can rely on him to always do this one thing for you.

But, one day, he had to draw the line. You were cleaning his room, dusting the shelves and the frames he kept on the wall. The thing is, he hung them too high for you to reach, So, without thinking twice, you rolled his computer chair to where you needed it, and stepped on top of it.

You were humming some random tune under your breath, when you heard an alarmed voice behind you.

"Are you out of your mind?"

You got startled and felt the chair start to swivel and roll to the side, making you lose balance. Before you could fall to the floor, Noah was beside you, grabbing you by the hips and landing you on the ground safely.

"Oh my God! Why did you have to scare me?", you scolded him, giving him a little slap on the shoulder, trying to regain your composure after almost faceplanting on the floor.

"Why on earth would you stand on top of a rolling computer chair?", he questioned you, voice exasperated and eyes still wide from your almost accident.

"I was trying to clean the frames", you pointed to the various frames on the wall to get your point across.

"I saw that! But you need to be more careful. God knows what would've happened of I didn't catch you", he was still agitated, and that was agitating you.

"I would've been fine! I almost fell because YOU scared me!", you gestured with your hands, voice becoming a little louder.

Noah sighed out loud, rubbing his forehead with his fingers.

"Ok, maybe I shouldn't have startled you, but your idea was not the brightest", he tried to reason.

"I'm used to doing this. I've had to climb stuff my whole life to reach certain things", you turned around to resume your cleaning when Noah grabbed you by the hips.

"I'm sorry, ok? I don't mean to be a dick", he put both hands on your shoulder and started to massage them. "It's just that I worry about your well-being"

You relaxed into his touch, the tenseness leaving your body instantly.

"I know that. But the word is a very different place for someone who's 4'11''. You're 6'4'', things are way easier for you", you didn't mean to complain, but you did huff a little when you said this out of frustration.

"I know, I know", he pecked you on the lips. "I'm sorry, ok?", he looked you in the eyes, wanting you to know that he was being sincere.

"It's ok, I forgive you", you circled your arms around his middle and rested your cheek on his clothed chest. "I'm never standing on top of a rolling chair ever again".

"Not, you're not. Because I'm getting you a step stool instead", said and you whined.

"Noah, no. That's embarassing", you frowned at the ideia. You weren't a 12 year old anymore.

"What's more embarassing, a step stool, or going to the hospital, looking like a fool, because you fell from a chair?", he raised both of his eyebrows at you, as if to challenge you. You thought for a minute, but you knew he was right.

"Ok, you can get me a step stool. But it has to be foldable so I can hide it, and I won't step on it if people are watching", he smiled at your remarks, but actually impressed that you gave in so easily.

"I'll still grab things for you when I'm around", he put both hands on your back, rubbing them up and down.

"You better", you rested your head against him once again. "I'm tired of cleaning, you stressed me out. Let's go lay on the couch".

He laughed at your jab at him, but grabbed you by the hand, leading you out of the room, switching the light off and closing the door behind you.

"Let's go. I can grab you some snacks from the top shelf", you slapped him lightly on the back, as he expected, and his laugh only intensified. He couldn't see you you, but you were also sporting a big smile on your face.

"I want the Doritos"

Everything has been going well since you made your deal with Noah. The day after the almost accident, he went out and bought you the step stoll, and you've been biting your tongue to admit that it was actually a great decision.

One day, when you were laying on the couch, casually strolling on your phone, you heard Noah coming down the stairs. He was working on some songs on his computer - or that's you thought he was doing - and you usually left him alone for that.

He stood in front of you, and you looked at him over the top of your phone. He didn't say anything, but he had a smile on his face that you weren't sure if you liked. Locking you phone and dropping it on your lap, you asked:

"What?"

"I saw this trend on TikTok and I wanted to do it with you", he had an expression on his face that told you you might not like this.

"Noah, you don't even have TikTok"

"I have a TikTok", he said this a little lower, hoping you wouldn't hear it.

"You have a TikTok?"

"I do", he averted his gaze from you.

"Since when do you have a TikTok?", you asked. He was unbelivable.

"That's not important right now. Have you seen this trend where owners pick their dogs up to show them places they haven't seen before?"

"Yes, I have. It's adorable", you anwered and side-eyed him at the same time.

"I wanted to do it for you", he said and waited for your answer. You just looked at him with an unreadable expression.

"Are you comparing me to a dog?", you deadpanned, and saw his expression change immediately.

"No, baby, of course not. I just thought it would be cute"

"Yeah", you hummed, as if in thought". "It would actually be cute", you agreed.

"So you'll let me do it?", he asked, but was already opening his camera app on his phone.

"Yeah, I will, But we won't post it", you said, getting uo from the couch.

"What do you want to see first?", he asked.

"The top of the fridge", you walked to the kitchen and he followed after you. You positioned yourself and Noah propped the phone on the wall behind the fridge, the phone sitting on top of it.

"Ok, so I'll grab you by the hips and lift you up", he instructed and you nodded.

He tried picking you up the first time, but you started giggling, remembering the dog videos you watched. The movent threw him off and you landed back on your feet.

"What's so funny?", he asked, looking at you.

"I'm just remembering the dog videos. They look so confused, it's so funny", you giggled once more.

"Ok, I'll try it again", he picked you up once more and you were finally able to see on top of the fridge. When you saw it though, you let out a big gasp.

"What is it?", Noah asked you.

"Oh my God, Noah. It's so dusty up in here. I need to clean this right now", you exclaimed, running your finger over the top and seeing the trail it left behind.

"You gotta show me other places right now, because our house is dirty and I didn't even know it", you said and made your way to the bathroom. "C'mon, you gotta show me the top of the bathroom's upper cabinet"

Noah didn't even know what to say, he just followed after you, with a smile on his face at how absolutely adorable you were.

So the day went by like this, him showing you the top part of places and you insisting you clean them. But he didn't let you use the step stool this time, adamant on holding you, using the excuse that he didn't go to the gym, so this was him working on his biceps.

You were more than happy to feel the tight grip of his big hands around your waist.

[honkytonk-hangman]

Water Like a Stone (1/?)

[Orm Marius x Reader]

Summary: Exiled on land and taken in by Tom Curry at the Lighthouse, Orm is introduced to family friend and Marine Park Ranger Grace, a woman unafraid of swimming with sharks and whose job it is to care for the Amnesty coastline... How is he not to adore her.

Warnings: Language, sexual references, mentions of almost drowning? Reader is named, but it shouldn't come up too often, it just makes it easier to write xxx

Notes: This is set post The Lost Kingdom, and is a slight AU given that in this story Atlantis hasn't yet come forward to the world. This si my first time writing for Orm, I hope you enjoy it!! TY to @hangmanssunnies you are my ROCK!!!!!!!

Word Count: 6.7k

Orm pokes at the dark purplish bruise on his forearm, one of many that littered his body after another day of training. This one is already turning yellow around the edges, and by tomorrow it will only be a faint ache he won’t be able to see, but will still feel regardless when another bruise forms over it.

A delicate hand takes his and pries it away from his arm, holding it tightly. His mother frowns at him, though, he knows it’s not really him she frowns at, and when she realises he’s looking up at her, her features pull into a soft, sad smile.

“I do… I do everything Father asks of me,” Orm begins doing his best to stop his voice from shaking, though he’s so young the feat feels impossible. “But he always asks for more… Does he think me a failure too?” he asks, but he regrets the question the moment it leaves his mouth, as his mother’s smile falls. Orm would do just about anything to see his mother smile, especially now, especially given come morning he would never get to see it again.

She hugs him, draws him near and almost wraps her whole body around him. In recent months he’d become adverse to feeling small, especially in the eyes of his father, but right now his father isn’t present, and Orm doesn’t mind feeling small. He does feel small, embraced by his mother like a baby again, and he holds on tight, knowing it’s for the last time.

“Orm, I need you to hear me when I say this, if it’s the last thing you remember of me, I need you to hear it; It does not matter if your father is proud of you, son, the only person who must be proud of the man you become is you.”

Orm looks up at his mother, briefly shocked by her words, but he lets them sink in, washing over him like the water all around them. He hugs her tighter and squeezes his eyes shut.

“I’ll remember everything about you, I won’t forget,” Orm insists, and feels the vibration of his mother humming, her chest to his head.

His shaking voice and soft sniffling is harder to hide then, and he turns his face inward to attempt to hide it, but is only met with a gentle hand carding through his hair, and the sound of his mother’s own tears as she holds him closer.

“It’s okay, Orm, you can cry with me, I’ll cry with you,”

Those are the last words he hears as he falls asleep in his mother’s arms for the final time, and in the morning when she’s led to the Trench, he replays them in his head, over and over and over as she is taken from him.

Orm wakes in the early morning, slivers of pre-dawn light filtering through his window. He lays still for several minutes, listening to the sounds of the wind and the house settling before he at last rises. Ever since Arthur, Mera, and their son, had moved to their own home, he rarely heard a sound this early. Tom still slept, though Orm knows he too will wake soon, so he quickly dresses, in simple work clothes, and begins the morning duties.

The creaks and shudders of the house are his only company as he gently steps onto the porch, and for a brief moment, he finds himself almost missing the full house. Though he’d never turn an ear to purposefully listening in to others' conversations, the background noise was almost comforting. He’d known the comings and goings in the upstairs rooms by the footsteps alone, could track where they were going and what they were doing, and the downstairs movements were similiarly traced by the groaning of the floorboards.

Orm knows he might be called paranoid for keeping such tabs, but if that were the worst of his offences these days, he’d bear it.

The sun won’t show itself for an hour or more by the time he’s trudged up the lighthouse steps and performed the routine checks and tests Tom had shown him, and although Orm could now say he relished the feeling of the sun on his skin, he liked rising before it woke, enjoyed the blue haze the world was cast in before it’s rays reached any of them. It reminded him of Atlantis. It reminded him of home.

After checking the boat docked on the pier, he pulls it up and out of the water, for some maintenance later, as he’d been advised yesterday, though he has no real grasp on the mechanical side of things, he was happy to help the old man with his strength alone.

In his exile, and subsequent ‘death’, Tom had been willing to take Orm in, and in doing so, had given him a new sense of purpose, of duty, and the lighthouse was quickly becoming a source of calm and solace for the once-king of the waves below.

One of them at least.

The other, as he would come to know her, arrives at around midday.

-

You arrive at the Lighthouse at around 12:30.

Your modestly sized, government-issued four wheeler is hooked up in the back with an equally modest sized little dingey. Your business out at the bay only really needed to be a conversation, but you’ve known Tom Curry long enough by now to know he’d have no problems with you killing two birds with one stone, and allowing you to use his pier.

Besides, it was choppy out there today, and you didn’t want to give the old man a scare when you inevitably left your boat anchored and seemingly empty.

You pull your uniform bomber on as you exit your truck, seeing as you were out here on official business afterall, and step out into the fierce winds that were already picking up. One look up at the sky tells you if not now, it would rain soon enough, but you find yourself startled by movement and sound to your right, and you jump to face the man that has now exited the boat shed only a few meters away.

“Can I help you?” he asks, voice low, but smooth and rounded, somehow sounding incredibly formal despite his almost ragged appearance. That wasn’t to say the man was not well kept, in fact he looked incredibly similar to the impression his voice gave off, only, he wore a dark set of work clothes, and instead of waterproof pullovers like you’d see most of the dock workers or even you yourself have worn on occasion when working on wetter days, this man's clothes are damp, if not outright soaked in patches.

To his credit, if the man was bothered by his lack of dryness, he doesn’t let on.

He’s handsome, you realise dumbly and out of nowhere, very aware of the ridiculousness of your standing there and accessing him like a value to be taken stock of, especially given that the rain you’d predicted had begun to sprinkle lightly now. And yet, you can’t help yourself. He is handsome, with strikingly defined features, piercing blue eyes and almost white blond hair. You find there's something almost familiar about him, which is when you remember.

This must have been Tom’s ‘other son’. You knew Tom’s son Arthur tangentially, you’d gone to the same school, though a few years apart, and you’d even been saddled together on a luckless double date once back in high school, but despite this, you’d honestly say you knew Tom much better. Still, for as long as you’d known the Curry’s, it had been just the two of them. You were too young to remember the strange woman your father had mentioned once, and to be honest, your father mentioned a lot of ‘strange’ things, so you’d never really paid him much mind on that front, but recently, the talk of the town had you wondering.

You’d seen the family around town since Arthur’s mother had returned. You hadn’t met this man yet, but you’d heard through the grapevine at your work about him, Arthur’s brother. Apparently he was helping to run the lighthouse, and looking at the man before you now, there's not a doubt in your mind he’s of the same blood as the ethereally beautiful woman you’d seen here and there.

“Oh, I–” you start, feeling your face heat up slightly as you tear your eyes away from staring at the man openly, his slowly rising eyebrow telling you he’d been fully aware of your struckedness. A small, physical shake of your head gets you back on track, just as the man dusts his hands off– though you note they didn’t appear dirty to you– and steps closer to you. He briefly looks up at the clouds as he feels the first of the rain on his face, and you almost have to give another shake of your head to draw yourself away from waxing poetic about the way he looks so lovingly up at them.

“I work for the Marine Park office, I just need to talk to Tom about the upcoming season…” you manage to get out. His eyes finally leave the sky to focus back on you as he comes to a stop a few feet away, though after a moment, his gaze travels beyond you, to what it takes you a moment to realise is your truck, specifically your boat, and you clear your throat. “… and I didn’t think he’d mind if I used his pier after…” you tell him quickly, feeling a little like you’re under deep scrutiny, but you get the distinct feeling that his lightning-coloured eyes make everyone feel that way.

He looks back at you quickly once he’s processed your words, a small, concerned looking frown coming over his features.

“You’re going out to the Archipelago today?” he asks. It isn’t a true Archipelago that you had here in Amnesty, it was really just a large collection of small rocks and islands formed off the coast, outside of the initial Bay, but it had been called as such for longer than you can remember.

“Well, I plan to be below the water, so the wind and the rain doesn’t bother me too much,” you reply, preparing yourself to assure and defend your decision to do your job, but unlike the warnings of rough waters and danger you’re expecting from the stranger, he shakes his head and nods out at the pier, and the water beyond it.

“There’s a shark in the area. Tom has been monitoring it since yesterday… I thought he would have relayed that information to your office…?” he tells you instead. It takes you a moment to really hear what he’s said, but once your mind filters it through, you let out a laugh of almost relief, your own gaze trailing out to where he’d been gesturing at.

“Oh, that’s just Khan! He’s a local. Sort of. Usually swings by once a month or so to get pets and head scratches… don’t worry, he’ll retreat deeper by tomorrow, I’m sure. It gets too cold for him otherwise,” you assure the stranger with a wave of your hand.

The man’s features turn to surprise, and he blinks down at you like you’ve just said something completely insane. It doesn’t bother you, however. As the certified ichthyologist hired to work for the Amnesty Bay Marine Park, you were more than used to people thinking you were insane for swimming with some of the sharks that came through the area over the summer months, but Shere Khan was different. An older, docile creature, the king of the tiger (sharks) as you’d dubbed him, loved to keep you and your colleagues company when you were out and about on the water, and you almost didn’t feel quite right anymore going out there without him when he was away.

Contrary to how most people would feel with a six metre tiger shark tailing their boat, ever since an incident with a slightly more aggressive and curious bull shark several years back, you actually felt much safer with him around.

“You’re going to–” he doesn’t get to finish, the disbelief in his voice going entirely unanswered as nearby the back door to the property’s main building all but bursts open, and Tom comes barrelling down the steps, drawing both of your attention. On his face is a massive grin, and you don’t stop to think about not wanting to leave the close proximity of the stranger, instead caught up in the joy of what you know is about to be a massive bear hug.

“Gracie!” The lighthouse keeper exclaims as he gathers you up in a bundle of an embrace, and you can’t help but let out a laugh. “It’s been too long, my girl! You never come see me any more!” he complains with the faux grouchiest looking version of a pout you’ve ever seen, and as he puts you down, you give his shoulder a playful shove.

“Don’t get sour on me, gramps, I’ve heard you’ve replaced me!” you say cheekily, jerking your thumb over your shoulder at the blond man who seems to gingerly approach. Something in Tom’s eyes light up as he looks between you and the stranger, but he appears to try to cover it up quickly with even more faux attitude. He points a threatening finger at you.

“I’ll get more sour if you keep calling me ‘gramps’!” he growls out, but his aggression lasts only moments, and he looks past you to the blond who lingers beside the two of you.

“Grace, this is Arthur’s brother Orm. Orm, this is Grace. She’s a Marine Park Ranger here in Amnesty. Takes care of the tourists during holiday season… and she’s a family friend.”

At last with an introduction, you turn to the man, and after only a moment of hesitence on his part, you shake his hand, cursing yourself for how flushed and warm your face feels when you make eye contact again. You’re glad to see any of his prior alert for your upcoming swim conditions has receded, a sort of grim acceptance seemingly overcoming him now, but again, that in itself is more than familiar to you from outsiders.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Orm tells you somehow both incredibly regally, but simultaneously stiffly, as though he knows his formality is out of place, yet knows no other way. You decide to ease any of his discomfort by matching the strange, frankly weird energy you get from him.

“The pleasure is mine, I’m glad the old man has someone to help him out at the lighthouse now… was starting to worry me for a few years there,” you say truthfully, but playfully, and it doesnt go unnoticed to you the way Orm’s slightly too polite small turns a little softer, and he gains a small glint in his eyes as they flicker past you and toward the sound of the angry hiss you hear.

“For your information, the ‘old man’ is still hear, and is still willing to call up someone’s father to inform him of her breaking the cardinal rule of not insulting the Lighthouse Keeper!”

You ignore Tom, though you roll your eyes and laugh, your attention more importanttly taken up by the fact you’re still shaking Orm’s hand. You quickly pull away with a nervous chuckle at your own expense, though thankfully this time, the blond doesn’t seem willing to call you out with another raised eyebrow. He simply stays still in place, with his hand outstretched yet now empty, before he too seems to realise his fault, and drops it to his side.

You clear your throat and have to force yourself to tear your eyes away from the striking man in front of you.

“Well, ah, I’d love to have come for a social visit, but I do need to talk to you about a few things regarding the upcoming tourist season…” you tell Tom, who does his best faux grumble, but nods along despite himself. Naturally you both begin making your way up to the house, and only a glance behind you reveals Orm, standing still in his place, and watchnig after you curiously. 

When you catch one anothers eye again, you both bashfully startle, and look away.

-

Orm is tying your boat to the dock when he finally hears his mother’s footsteps approach. She’d been watching him from the window, then the porch for some time as he’d unhooked the boat off the back of the monstrosity one might call a ‘car’, and pulled it down to the pier for you. Strictly speaking, it certainly wasnt his job to do. He can tell the boat isnt all that heavy, likely picked out by you specifically so you would not need much help… but Orm finds he can’t stop himself once the thought has entered his head.

“You know, Tom’s mentioned Ranger Grace before, I don’t know if you remember, he suggested perhaps the two of you meet… to make sure you don’t spend all of your time here at the lighthouse, I mean…” his mother starts, and Orm suppresses a roll of his eyes.

“She’s planning on swimming with that shark that's out there,” he ignores his mothers insinuation, but she isn’t deterred.

“Her father’s a sailor, captains a ship out of the Bay, perhaps you could take a trip,” she goes on like he said nothing at all.

“His name is Khan. It– he has a name. How big did Tom say it was? six metres? She’s insane,” he wants to hate himself for sounding so enamoured but he can’t bring himself to do it. Atlanna rests her hand on his arm, and when he looks back at her she’s giving him a soft smile that almost makes him fold entirely.

“If Tom trusts her, you should too.”

Orm isn’t quite sure why it feels like she’s speaking about more than just the shark.

-

When you exit your meeting with Tom, you step out of the house to find your boat no longer hitched on the back of your car, and after only a few moments of searching, you spot it, bobbing at the end of the pier. Curiously, you begin wandering over to it, only to stop short when you see the blond man– Orm, knelt down on the pier, winding up a thick length or rope, and occasionally looking out over the rough waters ahead.

When you approach, you seem to startle him, because he stands suddenly and whips his head toward you, though clearly seems to regret such attentiveness, if the flustered look on his features is anything to go by.

“Ranger Grace,” he says formally, making you grin. You wonder, with a manner like that, if he has to force himself to suppress a bow.

“Just ‘Grace’ is fine,” you tell him, and for a moment you stare at one another. You feel captive in his intense gaze, like you’re being sized up or analysed, but in a single second you’re released, and he looks away, back toward the water, a tiny frown creasing between his eyebrows.

You already know what he wants to say, it’s the same thing a hundred people have said to you before, and you hold back a friendly eyeroll, and open your mouth to abate his worry, but once again when he speaks, it isn’t what you’re expecting.

“You care about them, the creatures out there,” he states, like it isn’t a question, something almost wistful in his voice. He turns back to you.

“I– why wouldn’t I care?” you ask confused at his strange manner, and this time when he frowns deeper, its at you, though not displeasure you note, more like he can’t quite figure you out. It confuses you more. You weren’t all that complicated, at least you’d never felt particularly complicated.

He stares at you again, though he seems to be at a loss for words, like he doesn’t know how to respond, but you decide to put him out of his misery.

“If you’re worried about Khan, I could introduce you?” you say, seemingly throwing him completely off guard, and distracting him from his uncertainty.

“Excuse me?”

“Khan, the tiger shark. I could introduce you. He’s really sweet.”

That makes him almost blanch, and he blinks at you like you’ve lost your mind. You can’t help but let out a laugh.

“Are you laughing at me for being reticent about an ‘introduction’ to a wild tiger shark?!” Orm sputters, and although you put a hand over your mouth, you can’t stop the giggles that continue to bubble out of you.

“He’s very friendly!” you say in your defence. Orm raises a single eyebrow at you.

“Oh, I’m certain he is,” he bristles, making you laugh once more.

You don’t notice how his face seems to soften, but you settle yourself down as he glances back out at the ocean.

“Perhaps another time,” he tells you gently. You raise both hands to assure him no offence is taken, and begin making your way further down the dock to your boat.

“I’m going to change and set off, before it gets much rougher out there,” you tell him, watching him nod as you siddle up to both him and your swaying boat. You prepare yourself to step out to it, but before you can, a large strong hand shifts into your vision, and you look up at its owner, blinking in surprise.

Feeling nervous for no other reason than a handsome stranger has offered you his gentlemanly help, your face flushes as you accept it, placing your hand in his and letting him steady you as you step down into your dingey. He doesn’t let go right away, and youanxiously look back up at him, almost questioningly. He lets go when he catches your eye, stepping back with his hands folded behind his back, and clears his throat.

“We will look for your return,” he tells you.

Strangely, you get the feeling he means something else.

-

The rocks in the Archipelago provide enough cover for Orm to swim at a comfortable distance from you and remain hidden. If anyone were to ask, he’d say that he wouldn’t normally do this, it wasn’t like him to stick his nose in the business of humans, but since no one is asking, he isn’t too proud to admit that he’s worried. He wants to think more of himself than that he's simply worried because he thinks you’re beautiful, and in truth, he does. It intrigues him that you have seemingly befriended a shark, intrigued him more that your job appeared to send you attending to something out in the ocean, and from what he can see now, it was… interesting to say the least.

You’d changed into some kind of swimming suit, similar to what he’d seen other swimmers wear before, but unlike them, you seem to carry some kind of… device in your mouth. It was cylindrical in shape, and every so often bubbles would spout from it unexpectedly. It certainly doesn’t seem to bother your companion, who he begrudgingly has to admit, is a rather docile, rather large tiger shark. Orm watches from a distance as it swims around you, occasionally bonking its face into your idle hands, at which point you smooth your hand over the top of its nose. You even occasionally seem to hold gently onto its dorsal fin, and let it lead you through the water. He can honestly say he’s never witnessed such a… a… friendship between a human and any sea life.

He knows he should leave after seeing you’re safe. But he can’t bring himself to do it.

As you near the base of a nearby outcropping of rocks, Orm watches you unsheath a large, long knife from a strap on your thigh, and carefully, you swim lower, and begin cutting away at the kelp and seaweed that has grown all around it. It’s only once a large patch has been cut away does he realise the overgrowth hides the entrance to some sort of cave. He wants to get nearer then, as only your legs become visible, but he holds back, in case you were to turn around and see him, but he finds himself pressed by other matters. Seemingly knowing he’s too large to fit, the shark, Khan, he reminds himself, swims a little further away from you, seemingly occupying himself until he begins to get nearer and nearer to Orm’s hiding place.

Orm’s eyes flash between where he can barely see you now and the shark, and decides the shark is the more immediate threat. Khan siddles up quite close, swimming laps back and forth right by him, and Orm gets the distinct impression he’s being eyed up, if not outright warned off.

“Away!” Orm tries to shoo him. “Back to your human,” he wills the creature, though the shark remains persistent, getting even closer. Orm isn’t worried about attack, though he does wonder what you would think if your apparently docile friend were to attack a stranger seemingly out of nowhere.

Then, as if you’ve called both their names, Orm and Khan both startle, and look towards the cave entrance, with Khan swimming off immediately. Perhaps that is what spurs Orm away from his hiding spot, perhaps it’s the unsettling sound of muffled panic, but soon enough he too is moving far closer than he’d ever intended, his stomach sinking somewhat as he hears the familiar sound of something dropping to the ocean floor.

A fish, a large one he has no mind to name in that instance, swims hurriedly and suddenly out of the mouth of the underwater cave, and Orm presses himself back some to allow its exit. Worry now consumes him once more, and without further thought, he swims forward, his eyes adjusting far better to the darkness than he knows you would. He finds you, hand raised to the back of your head, where the familiar sight of blood has begun to flow, staining the water around it red. You seem stricken otherwise, your body no longer swimming, and it's only when he realises your breathing apparatus has fallen from your mouth that he knows your injury is far worse than it might first appear.

Your body shakes, and if you’re conscious, you must only be barely cognisant of your surroundings, which is why Orm swims in closer, as you begin to drift down, unconcerned in your current state about the very real danger of drowning, but it’s no matter. He catches you in his arms, just as a spout of bubbles exit your lungs, and he knows he must get you back to the surface immediately.

He doesn’t waste time fetching your equipment, nor the knife you’ve dropped, he doesn’t worry about your boat left out in the water, or the shark that trails him until he reaches the pier. Orm adjusts to the weight of holding you above water, climbing the rocks and thanking whatever the surface dwellers liked to thank when Tom comes jogging out of the house, concern and panic plastered on his face.

“She hit her head, she’s bleeding,” Orm informs him hurriedly, knowing that Tom will know what to do. The old man looks up at him questioningly, but seems to think better of it, quickly ushering him inside. His mother, upon seeing him and the unconsious woman he carries, all but drops her tea cup on the table, rising fast and disappearing into the kitchen.

You convulse in his arms and it’s all Orm can do not to drop you.

“On the floor, put her on the floor!” Tom orders him, to which he obeys, gently laying you out on the living room floor where Tom pushes him aside once you’re flat. Orm watches in no small amount of concern as the olde rman begins pressing in hard on your chest in rhythm to his counting, before leaning down and placing his mouth over yours. Luckily, once he’s pulled away again, the water is dislodged from your lungs, and Tom quickly turns your head to one side as you splutter and cough.

Your eyes blink open briefly, and you croak out something no one can understand before the coughing takes you again and you try to raise your hand to clutch at your head. Tom stops you, and looks back to Orm again.

“Help me set her on the couch.”

He does as asked, though now you’re no longer unconscious, you appear to shift and wiggle more, clearly pained, and Orm surprises himself when he sushes you softly. His mother returns, with a box of medical supplies, and Tom once again nudges Orm to the side once you’re settled.

“Tom,” you rasp groggily, sounding panicked. “My head,” you try to alert him, but Tom only hushes you, and pulls your hands away from your hair.

“It’s alright, Orm told us, just bear with me, alright? I’ll call your office.”

That seems to calm you somewhat, and you squeeze your eyes shut again.

“Is Khan alright? He’ll be worried…” you ask, sounding small and tired, and Orm almost lets out a laugh. Almost drowning in an underwater cave and you still have the mind to ask after the shark.

“He’s fine, he let us know you needed help,” he says without thinking, and your eyes peel open once more, struggling to find and focus on him before you smile wrly.

“Told you he was friendly.”

Orm does laugh at that, feels the anxiety and worry in his body leave all at once knowing you were alright. Tom laughs too, but shushes you again, and looks over at him.

“Can you call the Marine Park Office? It’s on the fridge,” he says, just as his mother steps around the couch and begins to inspect the back of your head, where Tom holds you up.

Orm hesitates, realising he doesn’t wish to leave your side, but forces himself to hurry off and do as told. He has to stop himself listening in to his mother and Tom’s quiet conversation, in order not to ignite his worry again, and instead, after making a call out to the Marine Park Office, as awkward as he feels doing so, Orm dives back into the water.

Khan is right by the shallow waters, swimming back and forth in a manner Orm would describe as ‘stressed’, and once the creature catches sight of him, he swims right over, slowing as he eyes Orm up.

“I don’t know if you can understand me,” Orm says, feeling a little foolish speaking to a shark. “But she’s okay.”

Khan eyes him, continuing to swim in short laps, this time closer to him. Orm wouldn’t know how to explain himself to anyone if they were watching, but something possesses him in that moment to reach out his hand. Khan turns his headband slows somewhat in his movements, but in a matter of seconds he’s making for Orm, before gently bonking his nose against his hand.

Orm finds himself laughing at the sheer absurdity of it, but he can’t stop himself from going back for another pass, running his hand over Khan’s smooth head one more time before he fixes the creature with a business-like look.

“I’m going to collect her things. Would you care to join me?” he asks, and receives his reply in the form of the shark turning tail and making back for the small cave entrance some ways away. Orm is glad your boat is docked so nearby, he’d not explored these waters well enough yet to know where exactly he’d rescued you from, not in his sheer hurry to get you back to the surface.

Khan waits for him, once again swimming laps and circles around the small outcropping, and it doesn’t take long for Orm to find your dropped knife and the device you used to breathe. He inspects it curiously, though it’s completely foreign to him and he tucks away his questions to hopefully ask you later. His other curiosity he finds he can sate for himself, and with your items in hand, he swims further into the curving cave structure, until he can swim no further, and finds instead a path up.

He isn’t surprised you wished to clear the pathway into the grotto he finds, beautiful and natural as it is. He would never have guessed the rocky outcropping a few hundred feet from the edge of the pier would hold something so special, but as he pulls himself up onto the lip of the small standing area, Orm can see himself possibly spending more time here. The dark clouds outside are visible to him through a small opening at the top of the peaked ceiling, and he supposes on sunnier days they provide an amount of light, though the darkness doesn’t bother him.

He wonders, idly, secretly, if perhaps, he may convince you at one time or another, to take him here yourself.

-

You wake with a splitting headache.

A sharp pain toward the back of your head makes you reach a hand out, but a warmer, more calloused one stops you.

“Tom advised me that you shouldn’t touch it,” a deep timber voice rolls over your thoughts, before you groggily realise it's not just in your mind, but in the room also. You squint your eyes open, and peer over at Orm who sits somewhat stiffly nearby. “Luckily it was not a bad cut, though judging from your unconsciousness, and need for sleep, it appears to me as though the blow to your head was worse,” he squints back at you, though you aren’t sure he’s aware he’s doing it until his features seem to soften and he quickly snaps forward to help you adjust to sitting.

“That’s no good…” you say redudantly, and look briefly around the familiar living room. Just hours ago you had been sat with Tom right here, and going over the same old information you always did when it approached tourist season. You almost feel foolish for all the attempts you’d made to assure both he and Orm that you would be fine on your afternoon swim. Thunder cracks overhead and you start, sitting up straighter and fixing your apparent lone companion with wide eyes.

“My boat!” you say startled, but the blond man beside you calms you with a rather regal wave of his hand.

“Is already docked. I went back for it some time ago,” he tells you in a voice one might find condescending if you weren’t so briefly panicked. Your worry subsides with his simple words and you blink up at him curiously.

“First you set it in the water, and then you fetch it from its anchoring? I can see why Tom keeps you around,” you joke, bringing a tight smile to the man's lips. He appears to be more focused in looking you over, his eyes darting over your form as if accessing for further injuries. “Khan didn’t give you any trouble I assume? I’ll admit he can be a bit firghtening, but he’s really–”

“– friendly. Yes, I experienced as much for myself,” he cuts you off, and you relax a little further.

“You swam with him?” you ask, almost a little surprised, though given your accident, you’re not sure what else you’d have expected. Khan was a very loving creature, if he’d gone to get you help, his appearance by the docks instead of by your side clearly suggesting as much to Tom, and you have to guess Orm too, then you imagine he wouldn’t have gone far in the time it took for Orm to also head back out to where you’d anchored your dingey.

“Yes. I am not as eager as it appears you are to share waters with a creature such as Khan, but I am not afeard of it either…” Orm states, though appears to pull back some, as if he thinks he’s said too much.

“I suppose that means I won’t have to introduce you next time…” you trail off, wondering when exactly you had planned on seeing this man again. He was handsome, certainly, but you’d met him only this afternoon. You suppose the fact that Tom vouched for him went a long way in your books, but beyond that, you feel as though you’ve already grown fond of his odd mannerism, the way he spoke like a storybook prince of some stripe. He seemed out of place, and although clearly having learnt a lot about Lighthouse keeping, or at least enough to know about keeping watch, there was a manner to which he seemed to perform the duties like they are unfamiliar to him.

“I wouldn’t say no to a formal introduction,” Orm responds after a beat of quiet. You smile at him, feeling nervous all of a sudden, though you aren’t exactly sure why. The kitchen door opens then, and you both turn in unison to find Tom, and Arthur’s mother entering, shucking off their raincoats.

“Glad to see you’re still with us,” Tom exclaims, not bothering to remove his boots before he’s beelining toward you. Orm seems to shrink back, like he’s guilty of something, and you briefly catch a glimpse of his mother attempting to make further eye contact with him that he seems to avoid.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” you say with little conviction. Tom steps around the couch, but brushes a hand over your shoulders as he does.

“We called your office, and I spoke with the nurse at the clinic in town… she thinks you’ll be fine but asks that if you have any side effects, you head in… she also asked that you not drive yourself home.”

You groan, knowing its not the smartest idea anyway, but it made you feel more indebted.

“So I’ll pick my car up in the morning?” you ask, already knowing there was no use in arguing. Tom nods.

“And I’ll pick you up for that too.”

You nod back at him, before rubbing at your eyes with your palms.

“I called your Pa, too,” Tom says more quietly, making you look up at him pleadingly.

“Tell me you didn’t really?” you ask, feeling like a teenager caught out drinking. Tom shrugs.

“I’d want to know,” he says by way of explanation. You huff out a grumble, and sit back against the cushions.

“He’ll only say it’s what I get for disrespecting the lighthouse keeper,” you say, though you know it's unfair. Tom chortles and pats your knee.

“Well maybe next time you’ll think better of calling people old!” he says back. You groan again and squeeze your eyes shut.

“C’mon Gracie, let me get you home,” he says then, heaving himself up off the couch with a small amount of effort. Orm rises then too, and you notice he seems rather intent on lending you his hand to get up. You only hesitate for a second before you take it, feeling your face flush some, but you tactfully avoid looking at either Tom or Orm’s mother, instead focusing on the blond who’d helped you, his grip firm. Embarrassingly, you get the sense the size of his arms or the broadness of his chest aren’t simply for show, if the ease in which he lifts you is anything to go by.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, hoping he understands you mean to thank him for more than just this moment. He looks down at you seriously, and nods once.

“Of course,” comes his reply. You realise you still hold his hand in yours and release it, blinking rapidly as you clear your throat and turn away from him. Tom looks between you unsubtly, and you decide some distance might quell his medlesomeness.

“Thank you for everything,” you say louder, turning to find Orm’s mother smiling kindly at you from the kitchen doorway.

“We’ll see you in the morning,” she says gently.

With your dry clothes having been retrieved from the trunk on your dingey by Orm (you assume), you only bother to place your jacket on before collecting the rest and following Tom out to his car.

Curiously, when you glance back at the house in the rearview mirror, you think you spot a man watching you go.

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