katyatellme

[vibrantvetty]

“Lady with an Ermine” was painted by da Vinci, I really shouldn’t be surprised that my gaydar is blaring

[astralis-ortus]

gummy bears

✱ college student!hj x gn!reader

— art school is hard—at least having a muse makes it a little easier.

w.count → 1.8k genre → fluff...? warning → mild cussing, as per usual♡ a.n → hi!! i'm back with a new face addition to the page! hahah honestly i thought it would be either minho or seungmin first but ngl hyunnie has been tugging on my hearstrings lately he's such a silly little mandu i love him sm :( hope you guys find the story as enjoyable as chris' side of the blog, and also if anyone is interested for a commission there are slots available still♡ ⋆ see masterlist

has it always been this… weird?

your attention should’ve been sealed at the projected slides once the professor started the countdown on his infamous ‘how-long-can-i-yap-before-my-students-fall-asleep’ course, but holy smokes—even breathing seemed like a major task when you could barely peel your thoughts off the boy sitting a few rows in front of you.

hyunjin has always been the main attention-grabber wherever he went—and that includes yours.

it’s not like you denying it either. he is gorgeous, and even the heavens know you couldn’t help but glance in his direction whenever he’s in the room. hell, even a few of your initial sketches for last semester’s projects were inspired by hyunjin. it’s as if he had slowly solidified his spot as your muse—but what is this odd feeling gently fluttering between the rows of your ribcage?

a buzz from the pocket of your pants startled you out of your trance, and while you thanked the gods for sending you down here with a habit of putting your phone on constant silent, you peeked at the notification patiently perched on the screen of your phone—one nearly causing you a minor heart attack on the spot.

hyunjin: spot next to me is empty, you know

right—you forgot your position from a mere classmate-slash-secret-admirer has been upgraded to an actual acquaintance-slash-almost-friends of hyunjin’s, all thanks to that one final project from art history 101 class last semester.

you: being at the back is peaceful, thanks hyunjin: says the one who rushed for a front spot for literally any other class lol hyunjin: cmon, saved the spot for you

lord—now you’re genuinely glad you decided to wear that crusty baseball cap of yours today, or literally everyone would’ve noticed the way your cheeks had burned up into a bright shade of crimson.

you: geez hyunjin: cmoooon hyunjin: or i’ll literally ask mr. kang to move you here

the way your head snapped to find hyunjin’s playful yet determined gaze headed straight at you was not something you would’ve ever thought to add to your bingo board.

ever.

you: no you won’t hyunjin: try me

your eyes nearly doubled in size when you returned your line of sight in hyunjin’s direction, only to see the slow, comical way the long-haired guy is raising his hand while keeping his eyes on you, lips tipped up into a masked grin.

“yes, mr. hwang?”

fuck.

you scrambled on your phone while mr. kang—as well as the rest of the attendees of the class, fixed their eyes on hyunjin, quietly wondering what would come out of those lips of his.

“oh, i’m just wondering if—"

you: FINE I’M MOVING you: JUST SHUT UP you: PLEASE

And you swore you could see the way his lips turned into a victorious grin through the back of his head.

“if?” mr. kang repeated, seemingly a little impatient at hyunjin’s antics. to be fair, you actually felt the same way.

“if you have any movie or documentaries related to the topics you will be teaching this semester,” hyunjin’s voice rang loud and clear—as if the question had been his initial motive all along, and you’re simply a victim of his little magic trick.

“personally i do learn better through those mediums, mr. kang,” hyunjin perfected his question, smile as innocent as a puppy, and as he looked around the hall, scanning the dozens of nodding heads to his statement,

hyunjin made sure to lock eyes with you for a second longer.

“and i think my friends agree with me.”

“you’re an ass,” you hissed as soon as you secured the seat next to hyunjin, shooting daggers out of your eyes while the latter chuckled. given, hyunjin’s question did made your move less suspicious since mr. kang actually took a liking to the idea and decided to substitute one of the assignments into this movie presentation group project, but still—you were so close to losing your dignity in front of dozens of your peers, on the first day of the new semester.

“would’ve been easier had you listened the first time,” he playfully retorted, remnants of victory still glimmered in his eyes, “and now you know i’m a man of my words. win-win situation for both of us.”

“as if,” you groaned in annoyance despite failing to even make a dent to hyunjin’s victorious grin. “you are the only one benefiting from this, mr. hwang. i’m merely a victim in this scheme of yours.”

“ouch—mr. hwang? really now?” hyunjin placed a hand over his heart, pretending as if he has been shot despite the wicked smile plastered across his face, “do you really want to hurt me like that?”

if you were to be honest, you do enjoy your playful bickers with hyunjin. it made him less of a muse and more of a… human. a regular college boy, who just so happened to be blessed by the goddess of beauty herself and sent here with an exceptional heart of gold.

like he’s just a boy.

“seemed fair enough,” instead, you replied with a mischievous grin while greeting a couple of hyunjin’s friends joining your little group.

“1-1, mr. hwang.”

the massive numbers displayed on your phone screen further validates the exhaustion you felt looming over your shoulders. it’s only the first week of the new semester and you’re already held up on campus way past your classes—how are you supposed to survive the rest of the school year?

to be fair, you really do love what you’re studying right now. it’s what you’ve always wanted to be since you were a child, and to be able to live out your inner child’s dream is one of your prides—but god, it did not make things easier to actually do.

just as you slipped your screen away, sparing yourself from a bunch of exhausting thoughts as your footsteps led you to your bus stop, a pack of gummy bear suddenly popped out of thin air in front of your eyes, causing you to stumble backwards onto the—

warm surface?

“i’m not a gummy sharing type of person, but i think you need this more than i do.”

pushing yourself off the other’s figure, you didn’t need to turn around to figure out the person’s identity—but you did anyway.

“gee, thanks mr. hwang,” you playfully snickered, snatching the bag of gummy and popped one unfortunate strawberry flavored bear in your mouth, “didn’t know you’re so kind.”

over the past week, you found out that you surprisingly have quite a lot of classes together with hyunjin and a few of his friends. you’re thankful he dropped the ‘i saved you a seat’ act by the third class you shared and let you actually sit amongst your friends, but in ways you don’t even understand, you somehow kept getting sorted in the same groups as hyunjin. well, at least now you no longer freeze up while hyunjin’s around.

“oh, can you drop that already,” hyunjin groaned, lips pursing into a subtle pout, “the others are starting to call me mr. hwang too thanks to you, you know.”

you couldn’t help but let a chuckle slip past your lips to hyunjin’s protest, already with a picture in your head about the whining he would’ve done once his closest friends started to pick up hyunjin’s objection to the nickname and used the name against him. how adorable he would’ve—

wait.

adorable?

hyunjin’s supposed to be simply your muse—maybe a fried at best! you don’t call your friends adorable, do you?

“you started it!” shaking your head in an attempt to rid the word from the nooks and crannies of your brain, you instead defended yourself while offering hyunjin the pack of gummies at the same time.

“what do you mean i started it!” hyunjin groaned, still popping a gummy in his mouth in the process, “i was just simply requesting your presence at the spot I have reserved for you!”

“and threatened to embarrass me if i didn’t move!” you deflected, playfully glaring at the latter. “don’t you dare omit that part, you sneaky weasel! i thought I was going to have to drop the class due to embarrassment!”

the crease between hyunjin’s brows grew thicker when he realized he couldn’t counter your protest, resulting in another pout to form on his lips, now clearer than before. it made you feel a little guilty—did you go a little too far? was he offended by the—

“i just wanted to get closer to you.”

…wait.

wait—what?

“i know it’s a lame excuse,” hyunjin’s groans turn muffled as he hid his face behind the palms of his hands, “it’s just—i don’t know, i find you fun? i know we just started talking after that group project but i like talking about stuff with you and even after the group project ended i just kept finding myself wanting to talk to you? i just—”

“whoa whoa—slow down!” you instinctively grabbed hyunjin’s shoulders; not too hard to shake him off, just enough to gently ground him back from his rambles. “breathe, you don’t need to explain anything to me, hyunjin. just breathe.”

well, frankly you do need an explanation—just… not from this adorably frantic hyunjin.

no, scratch that—just frantic.

not adorably.

just frantic.

hyunjin’s face was nearly the shade of the gummy bear packet you still had on your hand, and as much as you didn’t want to embarrass him more than he’s already feeling, your lips seemed to have their own plans when they curled up into a grin.

“don’t even say anything,” he warned, fingers now pointing at the rapidly growing grin on your face. “just don’t.”

you would honestly love to comply to hyunjin’s wishes, really—after all, you’re the type to honor and respect your friend’s wishes…

but is he just a friend?

“I’m not!” you stated, but despite throwing your hands up in a sign of defeat, hyunjin knew better when he noticed the constant degree of smile etched across your face,

“I just never would have thought that the campus crush,” you emphasized, trails of laughter already slipping past your lips in harmony to hyunjin’s exasperated sigh, “the mr. hwang hyunjin himself, is quite clumsy at making new friends.”

hyunjin was genuinely dumbfounded at your accusation.

“no i’m not!” he protested, subconsciously following your footstep as you got ready to catch your nearing bus, “it’s not that i’m bad at making friends, i just—”

hyunjin’s explanation were cut short when your bus finally arrived, prompting another frown to appear on his face when you hopped on without sparing him another glance. dejected, hyunjin turned around and—

“hyunjin!”

the speed at how quickly hyunjin turned on his heels at your voice nearly made you giggle. from one of the opened windows from the back of the bus, you locked eyes with hyunjin and smiled.

“text me your excuses and we’ll see if you’re actually good at making friends!” you shouted as the bus began to drove away, only allowing you to witness a faint ‘okay!’ along with an excited wave before hyunjin disappeared behind the curve of the crossroad.

well, maybe hyunjin is adorable after all.

©️ astralisortus, 2024. | likes and reblogs are highly appreciated♡

[zepskies]

Lost Time

Pairing: Russell Shaw x F. Reader

Summary: When Russell takes longer than usual on a job out of town, you realize how hard it is to live half a life with him.  

AN: I’ve been wanting to get to this for a while now! Here’s a sequel story in the Every Second Counts world. Also, this is one of my entries for @jacklesversebingo!

Prompt: “Are you trying to get us in trouble?”

Word Count: 4.9K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, fluff upon fluff, implied smut, mild spice.~ **DOES NOT contain spoilers for 2x02. This was written long before the new episode came out. But look out for the little announcement at the end. Some (smutty) bonus content on the way!

💜 Series Masterlist || Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist

Wolfing down lunch alone in your office usually meant you wouldn’t be disturbed. That distraction tended to come in the form of either Dr. Goldstein, History Department Chair (AKA: your boss), or Chris Belmont.

The latter was a language arts professor who liked to pop in on you when you were alone in the teacher’s lounge, often trying to revive yourself with a cup of Keurig coffee. Or he’d sit down next to you (uninvited) and talk your ear off.

Today, however, you made time for your brother between bites of your admittedly sad ham sandwich. You held the phone to your ear while you ate and tried to resist the urge to answer emails. This was the first month that he’d gotten phone privileges. You wanted to give him your undivided attention.

Not to mention, you genuinely wanted to know how Charlie was doing in rehab. He told you that his leg was healing up well after the surgery to repair the damage from Eddie Mendez’s bullet. Charlie was also getting put through his paces in the substance rehabilitation program, but he sounded truly sober. He sounded like himself.

“I finally get visitors this weekend,” he said. “Dave and Manny are coming by.”

“Dave and Manny. They sound familiar,” you said, tapping your chin with a pen out of habit, even though you weren’t writing anything down. You brightened with recognition. “Oh! Didn’t they serve with you?”

“Yeah, they were in my unit on the first go-round,” Charlie said, with a tone of fondness that you recognized. You remembered now. Those guys were like his brothers during his first tour of Iraq. He’d come home for a few months afterward, changed. You saw it behind his eyes.

And then the second tour. That was what almost killed his spirit.

“It’s good that you guys reconnected,” you said. A smile graced your lips. Charlie needed all the support and familiarity he could get, and coming from his brothers in the Air Force, it was all you could ask for really. “You got time to see your little sister?”

“Ha. Younger maybe. Definitely not little.”

“Whatever, gimpy,” you teased. He’d told you that he hated his crutches, made him feel like an old, one-legged pirate.

“I think I can pencil you in,” he said. There was good humor in his voice. “How about the Mountain Man? How’s he doing?”

Your smile dimmed. You twiddled your pen between your fingers. “He’s…good. He’s on a job right now, so I don’t think he’ll make it back in time for this weekend. But I’m sure he’d wish you well. He asks about you every time he comes home.”

“Oh, yeah? How long’s he been gone for this time?”

Your lips pursed. “Couple weeks.”

Three, and counting.

“But he’s supposed to get back next week.”

“Have you heard from him?” Charlie asked.

“Here and there,” you replied, leaning to one side of your desk chair. “He’s not really supposed to contact anyone when he’s on a job.”

“Mhmm.”

“Charlie,” you warned. You knew what he was thinking, even by that placid tone of his voice. Your brother sighed on the line.

“Look, I like Russell. What can I say, after what he did for you? For me,” Charlie said. “But…I don’t have to like what he does, or what it’s doing to you.”

Your teeth clenched, but you tried not to bristle. You knew he was just looking out for you, for once like an older brother should.

“I know what you’re saying, but we’re good. I’m good,” you said. “I knew what I was getting into…”

You saw Dr. Goldstein peek into the narrow, rectangular window in the middle of your office door. He gave you a little wave through the glass.

“Hey, Charlie, I’m sorry but I need to let you go. My boss wants to talk to me,” you said.

Another heavy sigh. “All right, I get it. Evade an unsavory conversation by playing the ‘boss’ card.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. “It’s true! Look, I love you. I’ll see you this weekend.”

“Oh, fine. Evade away… Love you too,” he said begrudgingly, but in the kind of way that told you he was smiling too.

You hung up with him and beckoned Goldstein inside. He let himself in and closed the door behind him before he approached your desk. He didn’t have a stack of essays in his hand, so you counted that as a small blessing. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, however, he dropped a familiar bomb on you.

“I’m sorry to do this to you, sweetheart, but would you mind taking over my 5:00 p.m. class tomorrow? I have to step out early for an appointment,” he said.

You grated internally, for more than one reason. Primarily at the way he once again called you sweetheart. In your whole life, you’d only ever given one man permission to sweetheart you, and it certainly wasn’t Paul Goldstein.

“Well, my schedule is a bit tight tomorrow, but I think I can make that work—”

“Great! Thanks again, sweetheart,” he said, already getting up from the chair across from your desk to head out. Your voice stopped him at the door.

“Ah, you know…” You stood up from your desk. Part of you was hesitant, but the other part of you—the part that had survived nearly being shot and killed in the woods—stood firm. You rounded your desk but left a respectable distance between you and your boss.

“Paul, I would appreciate it if you would just…call me by my name. In a more professional capacity, just like I do for you,” you said. “Sweetheart, honey, that kind of thing just doesn’t make me feel very respected in the workplace.”

Goldstein blinked in surprise. He was taken aback, you could tell, as if what you’d said had never once occurred to him. Or maybe he just never thought you would call him out like that. You saw him mentally calculating though. After some recent sexual harassment allegations in the Sciences department, he likely didn’t want the headache and the red tape of an HR writeup.

“Of course. I’m sorry if I… Well, I hope you know I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said.

“I know, Paul,” you replied. But what you didn’t say was, It’s all right. 

The longer you remained quietly poised with your hands laced in front of you, the more Goldstein seemed to get the message. Eventually, he cast his gaze away and left your office with a parting nod. 

When the door shut behind him, your shoulders slumped as you let out a deep breath. You grabbed onto his vacated chair to steady yourself, smoothing your hand down the length of your pencil skirt. 

“Well, okay then.” You smiled to yourself and grabbed your phone and keys off your desk. That small win deserved an afternoon coffee break.

You ventured over to the faculty break room and started setting up an extra-large mug of coffee from the Keurig. Pumpkin spice, here I come. Finally PSL season. 

While you waited for it to percolate, you checked your phone and found no missed notifications, no calls or texts from your boyfriend. Biting the edge of your lip, you gave into the urge to check your text thread with him. 

Hey, just checking in. You okay? 

That was the last text you sent Russell, a few days ago. The fact that he hadn’t had time to read it worried you.

It had been three weeks since he left town on another job for the Horizon Group. He was able to reply here and there on some jobs, but often you had to deal with days of radio silence in between. This time, it had been a full two weeks since you last spoke to him–a five-minute call after he checked into his hotel, somewhere in Belize.

Despite your attempts otherwise, not a day had gone by where you hadn’t thought about him, worried about him, wondered where he was, and what he was doing. 

Even after four months, this arrangement hadn’t gotten easier. Sometimes, it felt like you were living half a life without him.

The coffeemaker chiming briefly broke you out of your melancholy, but you let the coffee sit there and cool while you deliberated with your phone in hand.

You tried to resist, since you didn’t want to bother him…but you ended up sending him another text. 

Hey. I don’t want to distract you. Just want you to know… 

I miss you.

“Oh, look who’s here.”

You looked up, already wanting to expel a breath of annoyance at the familiar voice. You plastered on a polite smile and turned to see exactly who you expected to see: your colleague Chris. There was really nothing wrong with the French and Spanish professor…except that he talked too much, and was often too eager to get into your business.

“How’s your day going?” he asked. After he grabbed a soda from the fridge, he parked himself in front of you and laid a hand on the counter. With one of the round dining tables so close, it ensured that you would have to squeeze by him in order to leave.

“Pretty good, just have one more class before I head out for the day,” you said. You intended to just make amiable conversation, but you didn’t realize you’d just given him an opening.

“You know, me too. Just my freshman Spanish 1 kids. Dumb as doornails really. They barely even look up when I talk,” he said. “Literally, I could be reciting Mein Kampf and they wouldn’t even know I was speaking German.” 

You couldn’t quite smile. You opened your mouth to reply, but he beat you to it.

“Hey, since we’re going to be clocking out soon, maybe you want to go for a drink with me. I know this bar. A little rough, but the price is right and the food’s not bad. This place called Howley’s,” he said.

Your non-smile dropped further. You really didn’t know where to start on this one.

“Ah, well—” you began, but again, he cut you off.

“To be honest, I’ve kind of been meaning to ask you for a while. I just uh, haven’t been able to find the right time. Since, you know, our class schedules don’t seem to match,” he added with a boyish smile.

He was cute, you could admit, with the dirty blonde hair down to his ears and the dark brown eyes. But it didn’t shake your resolve.

“Look, Chris. I’m sorry, but—”

“Is because we work together?” he said, once again interrupting you. “The whole workplace relationship thing?”

“No,” you said. It was sharper than you meant through your annoyance. “I actually have a boyfriend.”

Chris’s excited-nervous energy gradually deflated, his eyes dimming.

“Really? I’ve never seen you with anyone,” he said.

You quirked a brow at him. “Well, he doesn’t work here, so he wouldn’t really need to come to campus.”

You didn’t tell him that Russell was Dory’s older brother, and had in fact been on campus a couple of times. You shouldn’t have needed to explain it.

Chris gave you a wry look. “Sure. You really have a boyfriend, or are you just trying to let me down easy?”

You almost gaped at the man’s audacity. Instead, your lips pressed together, and your head tilted as you stared at him incredulously.

“Does it matter?” you asked.

He blinked. “Uh, what?” 

“Whatever I say next, are you going to believe it?” You finished dumping in a couple of tiny creamer cups into your likely lukewarm coffee, and you took the styrofoam cup to-go. “Good luck with the freshmen.” 

You slid past him and left the teacher’s lounge. Your path took you, brusquely and irritated, back to your office. You couldn’t help but replay every bit of your interactions with Goldstein, and then Chris, in your mind like a bad movie. 

Jesus Christ. If I have to deal with one more idiotic man today, I swear—

Speak of the devil, and he appears.

There was a man leaning against your office door, his hands in the pocks of his jeans. He looked up at your approach, and he smiled. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

This time, you paused…and you smiled too. There he was in all his rugged glory. Russell Shaw. 

You dumped your coffee in a nearby trashcan and hastened over as quickly as you could in your skirt and heels. Russell bent down to sweep you up into his arms, and you leaned up on your toes so you could wrap yours around his shoulders. You buried your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar mix of his cologne and spicy soap. 

“Missed you too,” he said, a deep rumble. It washed over you pleasantly. 

“I thought you weren’t getting home until sometime next week,” you said, trying to work past the thick well of emotion in your throat. Maybe he heard it in your voice anyway, because Russell soothed a hand over your hair and pressed a kiss near your ear.

“Got finished up early,” he said, with that familiar grin of his. You could hear it in his voice.

You slipped your fingers through his long dark hair. Then you leaned back enough to see his face. 

“How’d you know I wasn’t in class?” you asked. 

He raised his hand off your back to point up at the sign on your door. It displayed your office hours and the times you were in class. He shot you a wink.

“I might’ve called Dory too,” he said. “She invited us over for dinner tonight. I said we’d be there around seven.”

You tsked and smack his chest, making him flinch. 

“Hey!” he protested with a laugh. 

“Don’t agree to stuff without me! Now we’re going to be out all night the day you get back,” you said in annoyance. 

Russell smoothed down your proverbial feathers, namely by slipping his hands down your back and comfortably settling on your waist. 

“Now, come on,” he cajoled. “Need I remind you that she’s my sister, and your best friend, by the way?”

You waved a playfully dismissive hand.

“I know damn well, but I’m also selfish,” you said. You gripped the edges of his familiar green jacket and tugged him closer again. “I want you all to myself tonight.” 

Russell’s grin kicked up into high gear. “Oh, yeah? What for?”

You smiled and leaned up on your toes again, your lips approaching his. 

“I’m gonna—”

“Hey, Professor!” 

Just then, one of your students walked by with a gaggle of her friends. She gave you a little wave, and then an amused look when she noted how you and Russell were intertwined. You quickly set your heels back on the ground and dropped your hands from him. 

“Oh shit. Prof’s got game,” one of her friends whispered. 

“Yeah, a lumberjack,” she replied. 

“Hell, I’d climb him.”

The girls giggled quietly as they continued to make their way down the hall. 

Your hand rose to cover your mouth while your face burned hot in embarrassment. Russell, damn him, was smirking like the Cheshire cat. You shot him a little glare. 

“Shut up,” you said. 

He chuckled, and he allowed you to take his hand and lead him into your office. He closed the door for you, but that was where the chivalry ended. 

He hooked his arm around your waist and brought you flush against him. A stunned yelp escaped you. You grabbed onto his arms on reflex, craning your face up to meet him. A smile played on your lips, before he captured them in a kiss filled with heat, and the torture of longing, only broken by your shared relief.  

You had the presence of mind to reach behind him and lock the door. Russell took that as an invitation to back you up against your desk, knocking down a carton of pens in his wake. You held his bearded face and gave him as much as he asked for. Until the pace of his kisses eventually slowed and warmed into something more tender, with the brush of his hand against your cheek. You smiled a little against his lips. 

He ended up being the first to pull away. His thumb brushed your chin next, and then your thoroughly kissed bottom lip. 

“God, I missed you,” he said. You saw the sincerity in his eyes, all the heat and play and teasing aside.

“Me too, baby,” you replied, and your voice was heavy with the truth of it. You slid your hands down his arms. Suddenly you remembered your internal checklist for whenever he came home. “You okay? No hospital stays or checkups needed?”

Your hands continued their perusal over his chest and down his sides. Russell took your hands and un-busied them. 

“Completely fine. Everything went off without a hitch,” he said. 

You eyed him more warily. After a moment to try and discern if he was downplaying for your sake, you were able to take him at his word. For now. It wouldn’t be the first time he tried to hide an injury from you. You intended to complete a further examination later tonight. You smirked a little at the thought.

“Okay, I’ve just got one more class in a few minutes. Then I can get out of here,” you said.

“All right,” he nodded. “I’ll meet you at home then.”

Your smile turned cheeky. You flattened your palms down his chest, plucking at the edges of his jacket.  

“Yeah? You gonna be waiting pretty for me?” you teased. 

“You bet,” he agreed. He leaned in close to say lowly in your ear, “But not as pretty as you’re gonna be when I get you all laid out for me. Get myself reacquainted with every sweet part of you.”

“Oh, really?” you said, trying to taper your blush. There was something entirely wrong and right about him talking dirty to you in your own office. You grinned as he began to press tantalizing kisses down your neck. “I guess I’m going to be the appetizer tonight.” 

His chuckle resounded in your ears. Russell squeezed your hips and brushed his lips against your skin. Damn him, he knew exactly what he was doing, making small volts of electricity zip down your spine. Warmth plumed between your legs as his beard gently rasped along your neck. 

“Sweetheart, you’re the whole damn meal,” he said, in that voice of his, smooth and baritone and perfect. 

Your blush intensified, even as your smile couldn’t help but brighten at his words. He nipped just under your ear, earning a stifled whimper from you.

“Are you trying to get us in trouble?” you whispered.

“Hey, I don’t work here,” he teased. His lips never left your skin. “I just reap the benefits.”

You fought against the urge to pinch his side. You grabbed your phone from your desk and checked the time. Shit. Almost 5:00 p.m.

All the while, Russell continued to torture you. His hands were no better than his mouth, caressing a path from your waist to your hips, then squeezing your ass as he pressed you more fully against him. He hummed against your neck.

“Oh, please don’t do this to me,” you whined, even as you clung to the front of his jacket and pressed your forehead into his shoulder. “I have to get to class in like, five minutes.” 

“I’ve accomplished quite a lot in five minutes,” Russell said. His nibbling along the shell of your ear was all too distracting as you laughed. 

“Oh, I know,” you dryly replied. “But if I let you get your hands on me now, I’m most certainly not going to be able to lecture on the ancient civilization of Mesopotamia.”

His smile grew. “I like it when you talk nerdy to me.”

Your laugh turned into a giggle. Still, your duty to your students won out. You had to press a gentle hand against his chest to push him back.

Russell let out a long-suffering groan, but he pulled away from you without losing his smile. He tucked an errant strand of hair behind your ear and caressed your cheek. 

“I’ll see you at home,” he said. 

You agreed, though when he aimed to leave, you couldn’t resist the urge to smack his ass on his way out of your office. 

He stopped short and twisted back, pointing a knowing finger at you. 

“You don’t play fair, missy,” he said. 

You smirked and tossed a kiss at him.

“See you later,” you said.

You loved Dory. You really did. But after a day like today, you were happy to finally be home after dinner at your best friend’s house. You were happy to be where you were in this moment, lying in bed with Russell, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts as Speed played on the TV against the wall. 

“You didn’t leave me…I can’t believe it. You didn’t leave me,” you quoted along with Annie, Sandra Bullock’s character. 

“Didn’t have anywhere to be just then,” Jack (the beautiful Keanu Reeves) said on the screen. The couple shared a kiss, and you let out a happy hum, making Russell look down on you in bemusement. He had an arm wrapped around you as you laid tucked against his side.

“I have to warn you,” you said for Jack. “I’ve heard relationships based on intense experiences never work.” 

“Okay,” Annie (and you) replied. “We’ll have to base it on sex then.”

Jack smiled. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

As the movie came to an end, you sighed and lowered the volume as the credits rolled. 

“How’d you like it?” you asked.

“Was good! Even though my movie buddy decided to quote half the cast,” Russell quipped. He prodded at your side like a pianist playing a Mozart cantata, making you flinch with a squawk of laughter. You grabbed his hand to try and stop him. 

When he finally let up, you sighed and caught your breath, leaning against him again.

“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen that movie,” you said. “Practically any movie, for that matter.”

“Hey, I’ve seen stuff…it’s just, you know, we didn’t really have much access to pop culture growing up,” Russell said. 

You sobered up; you were reminded that he didn’t have a normal childhood, even less so than yours. 

“That’s okay,” you said, resting a comforting hand on his chest. “I’m gonna keep helping you catch up, long as you want me to.”

Russell smiled and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I appreciate that.”

You closed your eyes in content. 

“So,” Russell said, interrupting your peace. You heard the mischief in his voice before he even said anything else. “Am I gonna have to knock this Beaufort guy on his ass, or you got that one covered, slugger?”

You huffed in amusement. 

“Belmont,” you corrected, opening your eyes again to shoot him a wry glance. “And there won’t be any ass-kicking needed on that one. Just a typical hard-headed man with a slighted ego.”

“Oof, cut him some slack, baby. You’re a hard one to let go of,” Russell teased. You smiled.

“Hey. Don’t butter me up unless you intend to do something about it.”

“Oh, my apologies,” he said. He turned over and waylaid you with kisses along your jaw, then down the column of your throat, and further still, until he met the edge of your shirt. You felt his hands move under the hem of it, slowly bunching up the material as they slid up your body.  

Your first coming together when you two got home tonight was fraught, and a bit wild—the kind that nearly broke your headboard (again). 

Now, Russell seemed to want to take his time. He guided your shirt up, inch by inch as his lips explored whatever small expanse he bared, from the soft skin of your stomach, to the swell of your breasts. He stopped there, laying a sweet kiss in between them. You watched him with deeper breaths, but you softened when he turned his smile up at you. You saw nothing but affection in his eyes. 

“You know, the best part of my day is coming home to you,” he said.

You had to blink past the sting in your eyes, and swallow past another lump of emotion in your throat as you reached down to caress his cheek.

The hardest part of mine is watching you leave.

But you didn’t dare say that. You just guided him back up to your lips, and met him with a heated kiss.

You were nearly asleep when Russell finally came back to bed, after double-checking that the house was all locked up. He installed a more sophisticated security system a few months ago. It made him feel slightly better about leaving you alone. 

He padded back over to the bed and joined you on his side. You rested your head on his shoulder again, and he slid an arm around your waist. 

“Charlie’s doing well in his program, huh?” Russell asked. 

You’d been talking about your brother with him and Dory at dinner. 

You nodded. “Looks like it… God, I’m so proud of him. He’s really worked hard.”

Russell hummed deeply. “Glad to hear it.”

You glanced up at him, for a moment admiring his profile. He looked down and met your gaze.

“How long are you going to be home?” you asked, because you couldn’t stop yourself.

When you and Russell first started dating, he tried staying at a motel for a few weeks. You eventually invited him to just stay with you when he was in town. It made it easier to spend more time with him, since you worked a full-time schedule anyway. It was nice to come home to him, when he was here. After the surprise wore off, however, the fear always returned.

When is he leaving next?

“I don’t have another job lined up just yet,” Russell admitted. “Wanna take a couple weeks off, since this one lasted so long. I’m sorry about that.”

You were glad to hear it, so you nodded, but you had a feeling your true thoughts weren’t as well hidden as you intended. Russell searched your face.

“How’re you doing with all this?” he asked.

Your heart seized up, but you tried to play it off.

“What do you mean? We had some good food, good catching up on ‘90s movie magic, good making up for lost time,” you said playfully. You slid your leg across his lap. Russell welcomed you, drawing a hand up your thigh and under his shirt that once again hung loosely from your body. You had to reclaim it from somewhere between the sheets.

He still raised his brows at you. “You know what I mean.”

Slowly, your smile fell. Your gaze lowered. 

“Russ, I’m doing my best.”

“I know you are, sweetheart, and I appreciate that. You don’t know how much,” he said, stroking your back. “I just, uh…I know this is hard on you.”

He understood Tracy, Doug’s wife, even better now. He had been better able to sympathize with Doug too, because for the first time in his life, he had someone to come home to. Someone who was actually waiting on him to come home. It was a bigger responsibility than he thought it would be. 

You sighed. 

“Look, I’m not going to lie, this…it’s been hard as hell,” you began, closing your hand around his. “But I love you. I love you, and I still think we have a good thing here.”

That warmed him, reminded him why this was worth it. Russell nodded in agreement, and he crossed the few inches of distance that allowed him to kiss you, good and slow. 

“I love you too,” he admitted. He could count on half a hand the number of times that happened in his life, but even though it hadn’t been all that long…he thought you might be the one that finally stuck. 

Your pretty smile was just one piece of evidence. You gave that to him, and you reached up for a kiss. He obliged you in turn.  

“How about we put a timeframe on it then,” he said, after parting softly from you. 

You tilted your head in confusion, tinged with disbelief. “What?”

“How about you give me…’til the end of the year,” he said. “I know I’ve been taking a lot of jobs lately. It’s because I’m pretty close to my goal. I’ve almost got enough to find some good real estate and start working on that bar.”

Your drowsiness fell away completely as your excitement grew for him.

“Oh my God. Russ, that’s amazing!” 

Your support softened him that much more, deepening his smile. He framed your face with a hand and stroked your cheek with his thumb.

“Here’s a promise,” he said. “Six months, and no more missions. No more jobs. You’ll be stuck with me, so much that you’ll probably get sick of me.”

Your smile grew to radiant proportions.

“Hmm, maybe a little,” you teased, “but I’ll make that sacrifice.”

He grinned and drew you into another kiss. You paused, holding his bearded cheek. 

“Thank you,” you said. Russell shook his head.

“Aw, sweetheart,” he said. “You never gotta thank me for that.”

AN: Let me know if you enjoyed this little addition to ESC! 💜

Bonus Drabble:

After watching 2x02 yesterday, it gave me...feelings lol. So I ended up writing a new (very smutty) drabble to fill in a small gap in this one-shot! It's called More of This:

Summary: Welcoming Russell home, where he belongs. (18+) 

Sneak Peek:

“Welcome home,” you whispered into his mouth.

All Russell could offer was a breathless sound, caught somewhere between an agreement and a groan of pleasure. He was being treated to a feast of the eyes as you rode him slow in the comfort and safety of your bed.

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[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

You Need Only Ask [professor!Marcus Pike x librarian!reader]

Read on Ao3

Pairing: History of Art professor Marcus Pike x art library reader/you (cishet female)

Tags/Warnings: Kind of pining idiots but only one is pining, everyone is being professional but it's clear that Marcus is a pining idiot, implied coworkers to lovers.

Summary: Professor Marcus Pike is one of those cliché absent-minded professors - or so you think, but maybe there's another reason why this brilliant academic is acting a dumb fool around you?

Words: 3,534

A/N: This was inspired by an ask sent to me by @just-here-for-the-moment for a fic ask game thingy. Here's the original ask and my reply. I didn't write it exactly like that (main difference is my fic is set in modern times), but I hope y'all still like it!

”Good morning.”

Your customer service smile in place, you look over your shoulder.

”Morning, Professor. Just give me a second and I will be right with you.”

He hums, and you turn back to the bookcase where you were just about to finish re-shelving returns. Once done, you join Marcus Pike, Professor of Art History, at the desk. He’s tapping his fingers, almost impercievably, against the surface of the old solid wood desk, and you stifle a sigh. He didn’t have to wait that long.

”What can I do for you?” you ask politely. Professor Pike is never rude, but he is the typical professor type: absent-minded, a little awkward, his research always the number one priority.

“I looked for this book in the online catalog, but as I suspected, you don’t have it. It’s probably sold out, too.” He gives you a piece of paper before both his hands disappear into his pockets.

“Another inter-library loan, then?” you state, looking at the title. It’s in French, and you know immediately that your library doesn’t have it. Professor Pike is not the most computer-skilled person, so you usually double-check every book he asks for in the database, but this one you know you don’t have.

“Might have to go international for this one,” you tell him. “Canada och Europe. That’s coming out of your department’s budget, you know that.”

“I’ll make room,” he shrugs, looking towards the door, like he can’t wait to get back to the comfort of his own office. “And could you please give me more time with the last one you got for me? I need it for a bit longer.”

“I’ll contact the lending library,” you nod. “I’ll let you know.”

“Great. Thank you.”

The “Sure thing” has barely left your mouth before Pike is out the door, the sound of his steps against the stone floor quickly disappearing down the hall. You shake your head before sitting down to look up the book for him.

As you work, you once again wonder how people like Marcus Pike get jobs at all. Someone as introverted as that would never have a real shot at getting a library job, which requires people skills, patience, and the ability to stand in front of people. But when it comes to academia, it seems like all you need is credentials and a good research profile, and you’re hired. Unlike you, who had to fight tooth and nail for this position. You have Master’s degrees in art and library science, educational and language studies, job experience, and it was still almost impossible to get this job. People who have these jobs never seem to retire but just sit there, year after year, until they eventually sprout roots that fasten them to their chairs.

But you’re here now, since five years, and while Pike’s predecessor never showed his face in the library but sometimes sent you cryptical emails requests that took you half a day to decipher, it’s nice to see that the much younger professor actually frequents the university’s special arts library.

Finally locating Pike’s book in a university library in France, you quickly find the instructions for ILL’s, and send a loan request. After that, you apply for more time for Pike’s previous book, and by afternoon, you have confirmation for both books: one will be mailed out later during the day in Europe, the other has been renewed. You let Pike know through an email, before performing closing duties in the library. Your computer pings just as you’re about to turn it off, and you see that it’s a reply from Pike. Clicking it up, you see the very unlikely response:

>>Amazing, what a service. Just bill the department, I’ve got it covered. Thank you so much 😊 <<

Shaking your head in disbelief at the informal tone, you turn off the computer, clock out, and go home.

Professor Pike is back two days later, now asking for a book that’s available. When you tell him so, he clears his throat, gaze flickering away from you.

“Could you maybe show me where it is?”

“Sure.” You’re curt, because this isn’t the first time. It’s an easy enough book to find, and every item in the library is labeled, and the database even has an interactive feature where you can click on the item’s call number to open up a layout of the stacks, showing the correct shelf in red. It has freed you up a lot now that most patrons can easily find their literature themselves, but some people just want you to do everything for them.

“You know, Professor, you could maybe my start of term library tour useful,” you dare to tease him as you walk before him to the right case. “Most freshmen find it very helpful, and they can usually manage their own information retrieval after.”

“I think maybe a little touch-up course would do me good,” he replies, voice a little tight. “But I like personal service.”

You find the book, pull it out, and hand it to him.

“That’s what I’m here for,” you tell him easily. “Anything else I can do for you?”

He swallows visibly.

“No, thank you.”

He uses the self check-out this time, and leaves quickly without saying goodbye. You shake your head, and catch the eye of Mandy, a Master’s student who works on her thesis in the library almost every day.

“Strange fellow, that one, isn’t he?”

She gives you a peculiar look. “I guess so.”

One thing that you appreciate a lot about your job is the building itself. The campus was built in Collegiate Gothic style in the middle of the 19th century, and compared to the nearby city library with its white surfaces, glass walls, and modern design furniture, the much quieter arts library still seems more alive. The library houses more books than one would think when first seeing it, and it has the charming nooks and crannies that are so common for old houses.

You’re standing in one of those nooks one day; an alcove that houses folios, a cart of tall books parked next to the step stool that you’re standing on. You hear someone enter the library, shout out a “Hello!” as you usually do to let patrons know that you’re in the stacks, and receive a low answer. Mindful not to hurt your wrists, you pick up another folio from the cart, and put it back in its place.

The sound of footsteps stops at the desk, and you pick up the next book.

“Be right with you!”

The patron moves again, slowly walking towards the corner where you are, as if looking for you. You turn your head just as you see Professor Pike come around the corner of a bookcase.

“Oh,” he clears his throat. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” you nod, picking up the next book. “Almost done.”

“I got your email about the book from France. They sent it rather fast.”

“I was surprised, too,” you admit. There’s one book left, and you really should get down from the stool, move it, and get up again, but you’re lazy. You reach, getting up on your toes, just barely getting the book into place when you feel the stool slip from under you. You gasp, a thousand thoughts rushing through your head during the split second you’re in free fall, and then you land softly, not on the floor, but against a corduroy chest, strong arms holding you.

“Shit, that was close!”

You’re tongue-tied, wide-eyed with shock, heart in your throat and going a mile a minute to make up for the missed beats.

“Are you okay?”

You slowly start to realize that you’re in the arms of Marcus Pike, who caught you when you fell from the stool. And he’s still holding you.

“Yeah, I, yeah, fine, I’m good.” You babble, moving uncomfortably to let him know to let you down, which he does with the utmost care. Your legs are wobbly, and Pike keeps a hand on your waist to make sure you won’t fall.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you now giggle, embarrassed but simultaneously exhilarated by the rush of adrenaline. “That wasn’t stupid at all, was it? I’ve been thinking about having that stool replaced, but I never got around to it, haha. I guess it takes an accident for me to get my thumb out of my a-, I mean, to get it done.”

Your cheeks are heating up, your hands are shaking as you grab the handles of the cart, kicking the accursed stool to the side.

“That was really scary, though,” Pike tells you in a low voice. “You could’ve really injured yourself.”

“Yeah, thanks, I mean, thanks for catching me.” You bite your lower lip and force yourself to look at him. “I’m so embarrassed. I should’ve been more careful.”

“Just glad I was here,” he shrugs, slowly following you as you march to the desk. “Although one could argue that had I not been here, you wouldn’t have tried to restack that heavy book without moving your stool. Sorry if I stressed you.”

“You didn’t,” you tell him lightly. “I sometimes cut corners like that. It’s fine, no harm done.”

You park the cart in its spot behind the desk, and turn to the shelf of reserved books.

“Here’s your inter-library loan. Due date four weeks from now, if you need it for longer, you know the drill.”

“I do,” he replies quietly and accepts the book from you. Holding it in one hand, he carefully opens it with the other, and thoughtfully browses through it. You sit down, flustered and still a little shaky, hoping that he’ll leave so that you can nurse your wounded pride, and maybe have a drink of water.

“It’s about these eighteenth-century art frauds in Europe – “

“I know. I read the title,” you cut him off, more curt than you meant to. Pike closes the book and nervously fingers the paper slip in it.

“You read French?”

“I even speak it.”

A smile breaks out on his face. “Of course you do.”

You stare at him, frowning as you try to understand what his deal is, and why he’s suddenly smiling like that. It’s never happened before.

And you’ve never noticed what a charming smile he has. It reveals a dimple in his right cheek that makes him look younger than he is – not that he’s old in any way, he must be around your age, somewhere between forty and fifty. The smile makes you even more shaky, and you can’t stop staring at him. He eventually notices, the smile dies down, and he lowers his eyes.

“Well, thanks,” he mumbles, turning around and walking away briskly, leaving you to stare after him, wondering what the hell happened.

Mandy comes in from her lunch break, waves a hello, then stops when she sees you.

“Is everything okay?”

You nod dismissively. “I’m fine, Mandy. I just… almost fell from a stool. But no harm done.”

She expresses her sympathies before going to the study area. You take a deep breath, and disappear into the back room for a glass of water.

There’s tittling in the stacks, but you don’t pay it any mind: it’s part of library life, especially on a campus filled with hormonal young adults. It’s not until your hear Professor Pike’s name mentioned that you stop writing on your keyboard, and strain to hear better.

“He’s the best lecturer here.”

“And he’s so fucking hot, don’t you think?”

“Cara! He’s a million years old!”

“No, he’s not, he’s like the youngest of the faculty, except for Langley, but she’s a woman.”

“Well, I’m bi, and she’s fine too.”

Shameless giggling ensues, and you have to stifle one as well.

“Wouldn’t mind doing some extra credit for Professor Pike…”

“That’s so tacky, Mindy.”

“Come on, like you haven’t thought about it.”

The girls appear from the stacks, carrying literature over to the self service check-out.

“I just think that his lectures are amazing. He can explain literally anything so that I get it. And he knows so much.”

You stare at your screen, but you’re listening to the students.

“He should lecture more, why doesn’t he have any classes?”

“Dug, because he’s a professor, he has other things to do.”

“I’d give him something to do…”

More giggling.

“I’m serious! I ended upw atching that Youtube lecture twice just because he’s so good!”

The girls borrow their books while talking, then nod good-bye to you as they leave. You nod back, then hit up Youtube, and type in Professor Marcus Pike.

You find a video of him giving a lecture on the history of art, and open it. And your jaw drops.

The man in the video is confident without being cocky, talkative, engaging, contact-seeking. He speaks clearly, even drops a couple of jokes, and he walks around the podium in the auditorium. If it wasn’t for that corduroy jacket with the leather patches at the shoulders, the one that you had enveloped around yourself last week, you wouldn’t have recognized the man.

You close the video and chew your lower lip. You always thought Pike was this nutty professor who didn’t know how to behave around people and preferred books to socializing. But the man in the video is nothing like that. So what is his problem when talking to you?

Navigating to Facebook, you search his name, finding him easily enough. He doesn’t seem to be very active, but his professional profile is listed.

His status is set to “single”, which surprises you, but you think no further of it. You click on to photos, finding only a few, most of them outdated.

“Good afternoon.”

You look up, startled at the familiar voice. Seeing Marcus Pike’s face, you close the browser window quickly.

“Sorry,” he quickly apologizes. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No worries, I was just… working.”

He clears his throat. “I’d like to return this.”

You accept the book from him, recognizing it as one of his previous ILL’s.

“Thank you.”

A couple of students come in, saying hello to both of you before disappearing into the stacks, phones in hand, library catalog probably open in their mobile browsers. Marcus looks after them, moving his weight from one foot to the other. You put the book to the side.

“Anything else I can do for you, Professor?”

He almost jumps at the sound of your voice.

“Um, no, thank you, I have to get back to work, grad student coming to see me, um, thanks, I’ll let your know if I need anything.”

He leaves the library, and you’re almost laughing. What the hell was that?

As soon as the students have found and borrowed their books, and you’re alone in the library with Mandy, she gets up and comes over to the desk. You smile your mild customer service smile at her, but she returns it with a wry grin.

“You know that he likes you right?”

You blink, not understanding. “Excuse me?”

“Professor Pike. He likes you.”

You shake your head to show her that you have no idea what she’s talking about, and she laughs.

“Oh, come on! The way he stutters and stumbles when he’s here. And he talks about you all the time, every chance he gets.”

“He what?” Your voice goes up, and you clamp your mouth shut. Mandy nods.

“He always tells us to use the library, and ask you for help. The librarian there is really competent, we’re lucky to have such a professional at our service, that sort of thing.”

“Why do you think that means he likes me?” you ask, cheeks heating up. This is stupid, this girl is half your age, and you’re talking like both of you are in middle school.

“Because he’s super confident in class, in meetings, whenever he talks to anyone, except you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Hello!” Mandy rolls her eyes. “Earth to librarian lady! He’s like a flustered cinnamon bun whenever he’s around you – “

“Cinnamon bun?” you interrupt her, incredulously.

“Cutie patootie in old folk speech,” Mandy smirks at you, and you scoff.

“I know what a cinnamon bun is.”

“Whatever. He comes here constantly, doesn’t he? I sit here most days, and no other faculty member visits as much. He’s here practically every day, asking you the simplest questions. He’s into you.”

“I… don’t know what you’re talking about, Mandy,” you mumble, hands fidgeting in your lap.

“Alright, if you say so,” she smirks. “But I know what I’d do if I were you.”

Later, when she leaves the library, wishing you a good weekend, you open up the browser window again, Pike smiling charmingly at you from his profile picture. You look at it for a long time before logging out, and getting up to reshelf returns.

Friday afternoon in the library makes for slow hours. It’s usually empty – even Mandy has left – and while it gives you the opportunity to prepare for next week, there are Fridays when you’d rather just close up, if you could, and go home early.

A quarter to four, when you’re impatiently tapping your foot for closing time, Marcus Pike shows up again. Mandy’s words echo in your head, making you nervous for the first time, but you manage to suppress that, instead turning on your professional persona.

“Back so soon?” you ask him lightly

“Yeah, I need a book.” He seems to understand himself how stupid that sounded.

“You’ve come to the right place.”

He tells you the title, and you look it up.

“It’s in, call number N5198-5299,” you inform him, then looking up at his hesitant expression. “It’s in the corner over there.”

“Um, could you show me? I’m not good at this.”

“Okay.” You get up and walk around the desk. “But it’s a class that you use a lot, Professor, you should be accustomed to it by now.”

“Marcus.”

“What’s that?”

“Call me Marcus. I don’t much like titles anyway.”

“Uh-huh.”

You take him to the right stacks, walking in between the heavy cases. It’s a tight squeeze, this one, and the book is located further in. You pick it out, and turn around, only to find Marcus standing right behind you.

You’ve been in this situation before, many times even. Worst times were when you worked in the city library, and creeps would crowd you between the stacks, not trying anything but coming closer than necessary.

Your heart misses a beat, but you’re not uncomfortable. Instead, you smell something familiar and comforting, something besides old paper, leather covers, and ink. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s Marcus’s cologne, the corduroy, his shampoo: earthy but fresh, a little like the forest after rain, but with an undertone of old leather armchair.

You wet your lips, and hold up the book he asked for.

“Your book.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t take it, so you lower your hand. He clears his throat, but this time, he doesn’t look away, but straight into your eyes.

“I was wondering…”

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“There’s this classic movie festival this weekend, and I was wondering…”

“If I wanted to go with you?” you finish his sentence for him, as he takes too long for you to wait. He blinks, then smiles that sweet smile again.

“Exactly. Yes. Would you?”

“I’d like that.”

“Really?” The smile seems to broaden even more.

“Sure. Tomorrow?”

“Perfect. I can pick you up, if you want to. At six?”

“Perfect,” you echo, now smiling widely yourself. He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath this entirely time.

“Perfect.”

The desk phone rings, startling both of you. The book falls from your hand, and you look down at it, then up at Marcus.

“I need to get that.”

“Of course,” he nods. You make a little movement with your head.

“I need to get past you, Marcus?”

“Oh, yes, of course, sorry.”

He backs out from between the cases, letting you out as well. His cologne seems to rub off on your arm when you brush past him, hurrying to the desk. You answer the phone and try to focus on the person calling, take a couple of notes, and end the call just as Marcus comes walking to the desk, book in hand. You check it out for him, give him your number, and he smiles again as he thanks you. You follow him to the door so that you can close up after him.

“I’ll call,” he promises as he steps out. You nod, hand on the door handle.

“Looking forward to it.”

He raises the book as a farewell, then starts walking down the corridor. You’re about to close the door when you suddenly step out, calling his name.

“Marcus!”

He turns around immediately, and now that he’s standing with his back straight, instead of hunched over, you notice how tall and broad-shouldered he is.

“Yes?”

“For the record… you’re into me, right?”

He chuckles, his ears turning pink. “Yeah, I’m into you.”

“Just checking,” you grin. “See you tomorrow.”

[thebearer]

Omg Imagine meeting Lip at college and you are majoring in education, and you only know each other through math or something you need help with. You could just befriend him at first because he is a WHORE phase lol.

Idk your dribbles make me think that Lip and his wife have a strong friendship that blossomed to romance after Lip figures his shit out , and she got knocked up very early on lol.

📢ALSO LIP WILL BE SO MUCH WORSE THEN CARMY WHEN HE FINDS OUT YOU ARE PREGNANT BC KAREN TRAUMAAAAAAAAAAA 📢

"Hey," You stride next to Lip, looping the free strap of your backpack on. "What are you doin' tonight?"

"Uh, kinda busy." Lip hummed, brows creasing lightly when he looked over at you.

"With your professor?" You gave him a pointed look, a devious smile spreading across your lips when he scoffed.

"Yeah. You got plans with yours?" Lip countered.

You rolled your eyes. "Please. I'm not that desperate for a grade." You quipped. "Speaking of, I was going to ask if you were free tonight, because I am going to fail this math test on Wednesday."

"Yeah? And what do you need me for?" Lip grinned, pushing the door open for you. It was so casual, friendly- it made your heart flutter.

"Stop." You shook your head at him. "C'mon, I really need your help. I do your critical theory homework all the time to impress your sexy professor lady, so you owe me."

"Yeah, I guess. I'll, uh, I'll stop by after my last. I gotta check with Youens, make sure I got my shit done. Then I can come help you study." Lip nodded casually.

"Ugh, thank you." You sighed, bumping him playfully with your shoulder. "I swear, I'm not teaching math ever. I don't understand why I'm in the hardest math class for elementary ed."

"I mean, they probably want their teachers to be halfway smart." Lip shrugged. "Well, maybe not at the shit hole school I went to, but, uh, the good schools."

You snorted. "Yeah? Well, regardless, I'm not teaching math. I'll hold down the language arts, or the history, maybe the science if I have to. But math? Out of the question."

"Not even long division, huh?" Lip grinned.

"To be completely honest with you, I don't think I know how to do long division." You giggled. "I can barely do short division."

Many Years Later

"Lip!" You called, your voice carrying out to the garage, where your husband was "working on the car" (which really meant sneaking a cigarette).

"Yeah?" Lip hummed, walking into the house. Freddie sat at the kitchen table, a tiny frown on his features that mimicked yours perfectly. It made Lip's heart melt.

"Let Daddy see the problem, baby. He's better at math than me." You ran a hand over Freddie's curls sweetly, moving so Lip could take your spot.

Freddie had gotten Lip's freakish ability to do math. He was only six, but doing multiplication and long division already in his advanced groups.

"Lemme see, bud." Lip turned the paper towards him, scanning the problem. "Ah, ok, so you're not carrying the number here." Lip pointed to the problem, explaining it to your tiny son.

Your heart swelled, picking Jude up and hoisting him on your hip, trying to finish loading the dishwasher.

"Always thought your were jokin'." Lip hummed, gently squeezing your ass so you blushed, leaning to kiss the toddler on his head.

"About what?" You raised a brow.

"The long division thing." Lip laughed lightly. You gave him a confused look. "Y'know, when you said you wouldn't teach math and all that."

"Oh," You rolled your eyes playfully. "No, I wasn't. Why do you think I teach language arts now? Can't do all that numbers stuff like you."

Lip smirked, taking the dish from you and putting it in the rack. "How do you even remember that?" You cock your head to the side.

"What?"

"That I said that." You giggle. "That was, like, a million years ago."

"Because," Lip shrugged. "I was in love with you."

"No, you weren't." You blushed, dodging Jude's grabbing hands towards your hair. "You had your Mrs. Robinson."

Lip rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but, you were like my best friend." He said boyishly. Your heart melted. "Still are, but then, I just... I didn't want to fuck it up, ya know?"

"Watch it." You glared at him lightly, though it wasn't very convincing. "That's sweet. I was, like, very much so in love with you too, for the record."

"Yeah?" Lip grinned. You nodded, laughing when he kissed you sweetly over Jude's head. "Kinda had an idea."

"Really? What gave it away? The wedding or the kids?" You said sarcastically.

"No, it was the night that I had to pick you up from that dive bar downtown, and, uh, you were so drunk-"

"-Alright, Gallagher-"

"-And you kept telling me how much you loved me-"

You glared at him. "Jude, Daddy is being mean to me. Can you believe that?" You cooed, frowning exaggeratedly at your son. Jude just babbled, trying to grab at your hair again.

[vetteltea]

To Be Free | CL16

Summary: You had always dreamed that your creativity would take you further than you could ever imagine. You never in your wildest dreams imagine it would take you to Monaco [5.8K, A]

Warnings: Implied Smut, Charles Leclerc being a Red Flag

Note: Hi. I’m not dead, far from it. Thank you all for being so patient as I post my first piece in over a year. I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you to @a-distantdreamer for always being my cheerleader, to @vinvantae for getting my out of the mid-writing funk and @percervall for giving me the balls to post. I love you all.

In order for art to tell a story, it has to be free.

At least, that is what your creative design professor told you the week before your final project was due. It was hard to be creative in a mundane town full of the same people, conversations and routines. Every day you would wake up while your mother told a story about how ‘Jenny at the gym seems to have filled out again!’ Your father would grunt, tell you he would be home late from work, and slip out the door, half-drunk coffee on the table.

Maybe simply being creative was difficult because you were crammed into a squadron of children—three brothers, two sisters. You were never referred to as an individual; it was always ‘She’s one of their kids.’ Your friends at school only became that because of their established relationship with your family. Nothing irritated you more than when a teacher would call you by a sibling's name. You were your own person, or at least, trying to be. It didn’t matter what colour you dyed your hair or how loud the clothes were you wore; your identity was tied to them.

Art was an escape; everybody had insisted you would be the same as everybody else in that town. In the fullness of time, you would fit into a job where you were paid to sit at a desk and answer the same two questions: No, I don’t want a coffee. Yes, I sent that report over. Your story would end traditionally, with a wedding and children.

The thought of being just another figure in suburbia terrified you. It may have been the dream for so many, but it was not yours. Each piece of art you created seemed to come back to the beginning. A frown from your teacher. She had told you once to drive outside of the town, go to the lake behind the Old Manor House, and see how it makes you feel.

Being five miles away from your hometown had created the piece of art that had skyrocketed your grades. You could only wonder what being five thousand miles away from home would feel like. It was the push you needed, the metaphorical map to make you leave.

Overnight, you packed away your life in a suitcase, kissed your mother’s cheek farewell, and set out to be free.

It turns out that being free was a lot more expensive when you didn’t have a degree behind you like the rest of your family.

Something had led to Toulouse, the classified city of art and history. With the money you had saved, you had been able to manage a week in Paris. (It was terribly overrated in your opinion, and the only highlight had been the overpriced pair of ears and waffles at Disneyland, but you couldn’t live like an artist when you couldn’t sell art.)

You have to succumb, moving away from the capital and towards the south, wondering why you didn’t come here in the first place. There was something romantic, peaceful. Neighbours said hello, and something seemed to be happening on every corner, not just middle-aged women doing pilates or another school bake sale. (Bake sales were fine, just not when the one English-speaking cafe you now had a job in seemed to have one every three days.)

There were perks to working there: Tuesday and Sunday off, where you could sit by the Garonne with a set of pastel-half sticks that had been crammed into your suitcase. It was a view you could draw over and over, the deep blue twinkling in the afternoon sun. The contrast of the great greenery on each bank of the river made for a beautiful sight—maybe, in your opinion, a beautiful piece, too. Once or twice the locals had raised their eyebrows at the girl in a fluorescent jacket and mismatched trainers, arched over a sketchbook, but even they had stopped, paused to take in her artworks, and nodded approvingly. One woman had even placed a twenty-euro note at your left-hand side in exchange for one of the copious drawings in your book.

You didn’t understand all of their words, still picking up snatches of French each day (and Duolingo had been a welcome companion on your phone), but their smiles and points between the paper and the view were enough to confirm you of their satisfaction.

On the fourth Tuesday of your arrival, your position had adjusted slightly, setting up shop on the bridge rather than the greenery. You almost drop your pencil into the river when somebody stops behind you, humming in admiration. This piece was different; inspired by Lindsay Fox; softer colours, harsher lines in an almost marble effect.

The man says something in French, but you have to shake your head; it’s way beyond a 34-Day Streak for Duolingo. He smiles, understandingly, changing to speak in English.

“That’s a beautiful piece.” He pauses. “Is it your own style?” His accent is clearly from this area but seems almost more reformed and classier.

“It’s inspired by another artist.” You explain, never bothering to go into further detail; nobody ever understands beyond that. “But it’s my own take. I never get bored of this view.”

“Can I see more?” He asks.

You still find it strange; hearing people around the area speak English isn’t uncommon, but their few words are usually to tell you they like what you’re working on or to order a coffee. There’s a hint of worry in your body language when you pass over the sketchbook, but he’s careful, fingers gently turning the pages, pausing every few moments to take in one piece, gently following his fingers across the sketch lines.

“It’s incredible.” He insists, handing the book back. “Tell me, do you take commissions?”

You have to pause. Commissions had come so few and far between; since being here, you had managed to expand your portfolio. Sometimes, locals would ask you to do a sketch of them or their loved ones, returning later in the day to pick up the piece and marvel at the design. You can’t offer a straightforward answer, so you have to just nod.

For the first time, you look at him properly, too. Dark hair, tousled, and clearly in need of a cut. His eyes are the same colour as the river you draw almost every day, with mismatched dimples on each cheek. He’s beautiful.

“Perfect.” He nods, feeling in the pocket of his loose jeans for a pen. You raise your eyebrows, watching as he holds out his hand, nodding for you to give yours over. Hesitantly, you do, eyes fixed as he scribbles a number down on the back of your palm.

“Do you know how to get to Monaco from here?” He asks casually. You have to pause.

“Is Monaco nearby?” You ask, dumbfounded. It’s worth it, you decide. For the smile on his face that appears.

“A few hours away.” He clarifies. “Can you... do that? I can just show you a photo and come back myself, but... the place. It’s special to me. I’d like to see how you would interpret it in your style.”

A frown appears on his face when you don’t answer immediately.

“I can pay you an advance now.” The man insists. “Eighty? Ninety?”

You have to pause then. Eighty or ninety euros may seem minimal in some precautions, but that could buy your groceries for a week; it was practically a day’s work at the coffee shop for a piece of art.

“That would be perfect.” You smile. “I’m off next Sunday. Would that work for you?” You ask. He’s smiling now, nodding in confirmation.

“It would work for me.” He clarifies. “Text me over your bank details." He nods, watching as I reach for my phone, typing in his phone number. “I’ll send you the advance and we can arrange a meeting time.” He finishes, looking down to his watch; his footsteps draw away from you, giving a final nod, but then holds out his hand.

“Charles.” The man introduces himself with his name. You don’t hesitate in taking his hand, shaking it back, and giving your own name to him. “Nice jacket, by the way.” He adds.

You raise your eyebrows, looking at the deep brown leather jacket around your shoulders. It oddly complimented your black and white plaid dress and deep green boots, or so you thought. A grin appears on your face when you pull off the garment, taking in the prancing horse on the back.

“It's a Ferrari.” You explain. “Pretty unique, but people don’t seem to realise it. Found it in a second-hand store.”

“Honestly.” Charles grins. “Some people wouldn’t recognise a Ferrari if it came and shouted in their face.”

Sometimes you need to clarify details before agreeing to something with a complete stranger.

To begin, he hadn’t told you that he meant Monte Carlo; you were being asked to commission in the most expensive city in one of the most expensive countries in the world. You had taken a train out of Toulouse on Saturday evening after your shift, bustling through the crowded town of people on their way out to enjoy the weekend. Suitcase in hand, you had curled up in the corner of a carriage, watching as the ocean and scenery passed you by, practically falling into bed when you arrived at the last-minute hostal bed you had booked, bypassing the sounds of the noisy couple above you.

Secondly, ninety turned out to be an incredibly misleading number.

You had let out the oddest mix between a scream and a gasp when you checked your bank later on that evening, seeing that ninety-thousand euros had been sent over under C.LECLERC. It not only gave you a heart attack, knowing that money could keep you afloat for a lot longer than it would take saving from working in the cafe, but it also gave you a name.

Typing the name into your Google search later that evening had been like discovering a state secret. Charles Leclerc, Formula One driver for Scuderia Ferrari. His face was plastered over your home screen, adorned in red fireproofs, atop a podium, in a car with aerodynamics you couldn’t even begin to understand.

Your stomach had twisted. A truly evil part of yourself had the idea of disappearing and never returning, ninety thousand euros richer. That money could lead to your freedom. But in your heart, you knew what you were. An artist, trying to path their way, and how would it look if you had disappeared after taking money from such a well-known being?

The train from Nice to Monte-Carlo is only forty minutes; before you know it, you’re stepping onto the train platform, mismatched converses in red and black complimenting the cherry red clip pinning back your hair. You had shoved the scrap of paper you had scribbled the meeting point on in your dungaree pocket, pulling it out and shuffling to the side of the platform. It’s only a short walk, but it’s made longer by the constant pauses, taking in the sight of the city. Extravagant, classy, old buildings piling up either side of the winding roads, peeks of an overcrowded harbour, boats that were worth more than you would ever make in your life on view. It was like walking around a movie scene; there was no other way to describe it.

The main character of the city is sitting at the bridge on the address, hands in his pockets, lips turning into a grin when he sees your figure, identical from the day back in Toulouse. Immediately, Charles has left his spot, smiling at your presence.

“You made it." He grins, starting to speak before your tone interrupts him.

“And you didn’t tell me who you were!” You exclaim, your moral compass falling over you. “Charles, I can’t accept that much.”

“I’m sorry?” He pauses. “I thought we discussed; that was just a pre-”

“It’s a pre-nothing!” You shake your head. “I’m not a proper artist—I can’t charge that much!”

“Really?” Charles pauses, nonchalantly. “You seem like a...proper artist to me. Your work is incredible.”

He doesn't give you time to argue further, offering his arm out and motioning to follow him. You can’t help but raise an eyebrow, falling into step alongside him. It suddenly makes sense; why is he keeping his head lower than when you originally met, keeping the sunglasses across his eyes? You want to try and make conversation; you want to feel less awkward than walking alongside a literal billionaire.

You don’t need to; he makes the conversation for you.

“Why Toulouse?” He asks, slowing down his pace, wanting to hear your answer. “Not many artists stay around the South of France for too long.”

“Paris was overrated.” You shrug, giving a completely honest answer. It doesn't hit you until you’ve said it that you had practically insulted the country where you were currently residing and your hand comes over your mouth in realization. “Oh my god, you’re not from Paris, are you?”

Charles is laughing. Something about your expressions made him grin. “You searched me up, but didn’t think to check where I was from?”

“I didn’t get to it.” You quip back. “I was kind of distracted by the fact you’re a multi-race winner in the biggest Motorsport in the world.”

“And you still didn’t recognise me on the bridge.” He pauses. “I’m from Monaco. I’m not French. Just…a lot of drivers live here.”

“A Tax-Haven, right?” Your personality comes through at long last, any sense of awkwardness washing away. “You set up camp here, but you’re not here most of the year, so... more money.” You can tell from the way Charles stays silent you’re banging on, correct in your guess.

“Monaco is my home, too. I am actually from here.”

Our pace slows as we reach a hill. The road is more prominent there, curving in a hairpin. Everything in its surroundings seems to complement it: the high buildings, the shrubbery, the bright red and white stripes outlining the road. Charles has frozen in his spot, and you can tell that this is the spot he was talking about. His commission. You can practically see the memories from track in his vision, almost as if he’s taking in every turn he’s ever made, every time he’s walked along this road since a toddler holding onto his mother's skirts.

“This is it.” You narrate for him. “This is your spot.”

He turns to you, eyes lifted, bright. “What do you think?” He asks, your own eyes still focused on the place.

“It’s beautiful.” You say it with sincerity. It is the way the entirety of Monaco, of its racing pedigree, seems to be captured in one shot. It almost feels too surreal; it almost feels as if you wouldn’t be able to do justice to this place with a mere canvas. “What kind of style?”

“That’s completely up to you.” Charles pauses. “Your creative style. How do you see this place? Because I think you see it the same way that I do, yes?”

“Yes.”

A lot can change in two weeks.

Your bedsit in Toulouse had been the biggest change; in the centre of the room was a large canvas, a curved road in the middle of the page clearly outlined. The sofa is littered with various paints, chalk, and pencils—a collage of rich reds, deep greens, and charcoal black.

The cafe hadn’t been forgotten; you had taken a sabbatical, insisting you needed two weeks—just two weeks—then you would be back to making overpowered coffee and refolding a newspaper four times in twenty minutes to place back on the front table.

Charles stays in contact; it’s a little difficult, within the midst of time zone differences and media releases. Sometimes it’s a text, and other times it's a video sent of where he is, insisting it would be good inspiration for your next portfolio piece. You don’t know how many times you have to explain it’s different; you need to feel it. Understand it further than a picture on the screen of your run-down phone. Sometimes it’s difficult to deny the flutter in your stomach when you receive one of these messages.

You get a FaceTime call on the Saturday night of his current race weekend in Barcelona. The weather is cloudy and there’s already been engine issues on his teammates home turf; Charles was frowning when he originally joined the call. Clearly a weak qualifying was looming in his head.

“Hey.” You’re starting the conversation, a paintbrush tucked behind your ear, a colourful shirt misbuttoned. “Is everything alright?”

“I just wanted to see how it was going.” Charles explains. “I mean, the painting—and well, you obviously. Did you find a chocolate pastry in the end this morning? I know you were craving one.”

A smile falls to your lips; in the midst of a race weekend with no luck, no speed, and no chance of getting into Q3, he has still found time to check in, lying back in the stupidly expensive sheets of his hotel bed, stubble and hair both overgrown, the buttons of his Ferrari Polo discarded, golden chest peeking outwards.

“It’s…going.” You shrug, “I want to do it justice—to find the colours and style that just...” One hand moves in a dramatic gesture. Charles nods understandingly as you continue your rant. “I’ve gone back there three times since the original visit, you know?”

A smirk appears on the driver’s face. “And you didn’t bother to let me know?”

“You were in Canada. You’re also my client; I want to make sure it’s what I promised.” You insist, walking back over to the array of shade pallets on your couch, fingers reaching down to select your third red chalk of the afternoon. Charles is content to watch your eyes focus, the nudge of the camera indicating you were rotating through your next tool.

“Hey.” His tone causes you to turn your attention back to the camera. “Do you want to see something cool?”

“I always want to see something cool.” You grin, watching as Charles sits himself up from his bed, the sound of his bare feet padding against the tiles of his Mediterranean hotel room. There’s telltale signs of his presence in the background: the phone charger by the mirror, the watch he had worn the first time you met him in Toulouse, a bundle of friendship bracelets, lovingly made by the Tifosi.

None of it, however, compares to when he lifts his phone, skin glowing in the soft sun, and flips the camera around to portray his balcony view.

The sight of Barcelona in the deep sun from Charles’ phone makes your heart stop. The sky a deep blue you crayoned as a child, roads twisting into an abstract stroke of tar and coloured dots of various sporting cars. There’s bright greens, specks of colour from the greenery. In the distance, you can still hear the ocean and the lapping of the waves.

You’ve always been clear that before you commit to creating art, you want to see the place and feel the place first. There’s almost certainty in your mind that the rule can be relaxed for the view you’re currently experiencing.

“It’s beautiful.” You finally whisper, after a full five minutes of transfixing through the phone screen.

“I’ll take you here one day.” Charles insists. “Paints and all.”

He doesn't miss the way your eyes flicker to the side, the pink that decorates your cheeks and matches the ribbon tying back your fringe whilst you work.

Monte-Carlo on the Saturday evening before the Monaco Grand Prix is an experience like no other.

Charles had pleaded to send a car to collect you from France, despite the fact the journey would have been faster by train—a whole two hours faster. In the end, the compromise is a ticket that would keep you safe and well-looked after in the First Class carriage. While you reclined in the leather seat, a high-end soda on your table, a canvas wrapped in brown paper, secured with nimble string, was nestled at your side.

You were certain you had spent an entire hour just…staring when it was completed. In your hearts, it was certainly your most intricate and perfect piece. A part of you could have spent the rest of eternity just staring at the landscape, the rest of your bedsit out of focus while you were transported back to that road in Monaco. It helps the mental stimulation that had overpowered you for the weeks; how you had spent an evening comparing your books on Sylvia Hikins’ minute but powerful detail and the reflection work of Dmity Oleyn.

It’s not a huge walk to Charles’ apartment from the train station; what makes it longer is the amount of racing fans, clad in bright red, papaya orange, or deep blue. A cacophony of colours lines the streets of Monte-Carlo, attention diverted to the paddock nestled alongside the arbor. Your heart rate increases as the crowds become thicker, desperately trying to keep your packaged painting away from nudges and knocks.

It’s only when you reach the edge of the city that the crowds loosen a little and there’s a chance for you to slide out your phone, thumb-tapping in the address on Google Maps, a reminder of your first encounter with Charles almost three weeks ago.

There was in fact no need for this in the end. You’re not sure which event takes place first: your map location updating to announce you were less than a one-minute walk from your destination or the shout from above you. Instinctively, your head turns upwards, feeling the long braid of hair fall down your back and locating the source of the noise as a smile beams from your mouth.

There’s two figures on the balcony, both leaning over the glass barriers. One is shorter, a mass of dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses, waving wildly to gain your attention. The other is blessed with brown hair and instantly turns from the balcony when he sees your figure.

A minute later, the door to the complex in front of you is opening, your client grinning as he steps out from the foyer, feet covered in just socks as he hops down the path to you. Maybe it’s the soft sunset, or the way his oversized tee shirt makes the muscles peeking from his arms look even more defined. You’re certain Charles Leclerc could look beautiful by any means necessary.

He doesn't give you time to process these thoughts any further as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, clearly in high spirits from his home race weekend.

“Is that for me?” He grins, eyes widening at the parcel as you shake your head.

“No.” You hum. “I just tend to carry around a giant square wherever I go.” You grin, looking down to your own outfit, then to his own. “Are you sure I’m in the right city? I feel very overdressed compared to the people in sports shirts.”

“You look perfect.” He insists, his arm falling from your shoulder to your bicep. “Come on. Come up and meet everybody.”

“I’m sorry?” You falter. “You want me to come and meet-“

“Please?” His hand falls lower, fingers tracing around your wrist as he slowly connects your palms together. “I want to introduce them to you. Put a name to a face.”

The insistence is good, and you refuse to move your hand away when he entwines your fingers together, praying that you aren’t going to drop the painting or your jaw from the unexpected intimacy.

The smile only grows on this face when you nod, letting him slip your threaded backpack from your shoulder, guiding you into the foyer.

The painting reveal goes…incredibly well.

Four hours ago, you had been led up to his apartment, introduced as ‘The next Van Gogh.’ He gives you a few moments to introduce yourself, noting to you that this wasn’t the entity of his group; you would meet some more faces tomorrow, should they be celebrating. When somebody had opened their mouth to argue that if you were really that good, you should have been nicknamed after Leonardo DaVinchi. Charles only grins when he gives his response.

“But DaVinchi was never a landscape painter like my girl, was he?”

You’re lucky enough to get to watch the reaction of several Monegasques seeing one of the most iconic portraits of their country come to life. There’s applause, cheers, and for the first time in your life, you feel like an artist. Not just somebody who places pencil and pastel to paper, hoping for the best. Your eyes can’t even focus on the work; the colours and strokes entwine into one. No, they fall to Charles; blinking back the tears, he's... overcome. You saw his vision. You got his understanding. You understood him.

He doesn't hold back from walking over to you, arms wrapping and squeezing you oh-so-tightly, applauding and thanking you over and over for your work.

In the remaining three hours and thirty-eight minutes since the reveal, there had been celebrations, soft drinks, and music. Your attention has been completely stolen by a golden dachshund—Leo, somebody tells you—who licks your ankle and insists on being lifted. Do you spend the rest of the gathering with the puppy in your arms? Quite possibly.

When the group dies down, Leo is placed in his sofa spot, chewing on one of his toys, occupied whilst you take the opportunity to look over the lights of the city—lights of buildings twinkling along the shoreline, a clear sky enveloped in black, how the deep blue of the ocean in the harbour is illuminated by the streetlamps.

You’re so engrossed that you jolt when you feel a hand on your back, before a string of apologies and a soft laugh fall from Charles’ lips. A comfortable silence settles for a moment before he speaks again, looking back over the skyline.

“I used to look out over the harbour when I was young.” He explains. “After I had a bad race or lost on something... I knew my home would always welcome me back.”

“It is quite beautiful.” You hum, shuffling from the open-aired area and back into the lounge. Your art piece now hangs in pride on the wall, next to a silver trophy. His first win, one of his friends had told you when they had caught you staring.

Both of you stare at the trophy and then the art piece, and the smile crawls back onto Charles’ face. Before he can fall into an endless spiral of gratitude again, you have to speak.

“Did you always want to be a racing driver?” You ask. Charles nods.

“It’s a part of me, no? Like I believe that being an artist is a part of you.” His expression softens as his vision finally meets the side of your cheek. “I want to know the other parts of you, too.”

It’s enough to make you turn your head from the view, and for the first time all evening, you see Charles. The same one you had seen at the hairpin turn all those weeks ago. Slowly, his hand comes back out, gently circling your wrist. You swear the entirety of Europe could feel your heartbeat, most certainly the man in front of you.

“I want to know about these paintings you love.” He murmurs. “About the necklace you always wear and why your eyes sparkle when you see open water.” His forehead skims across your own, noses bumping, lips dangerously close as his hand moves from your wrist, dancing up your arm, holding your chin.

“Will you come to the race tomorrow?” He asks softly.

Words seem almost incomprehensible until you softly breathe out. “Yes.”

That’s all it takes; the butterflies in your stomach swarm as he surges forward, finally pressing his lips to yours. The world seems almost right; everything finally makes sense; you don’t need to be free to create art; you just need to be found. Found by a man who understood art on the banks of France. Who understood the tri-colour shirts you wore on a phone call? Who understood you?

You had never felt more found then when your lips pressed back into his and he softly guided you back into his bedroom.

Being found washed over you for the next fifteen hours.

You had rolled out of the Navy Blue bed sheets that morning after a deep slumber, wrapped up against Charles’ bare body. Any detailing of his room had been completely bypassed when you had sauntered through his apartment, the top he had been wearing the previous night covering your frame.

Part of you is disappointed to see his golden torso now covered by a scarlet shirt as he bends down to give Leo his water bowl, humming in contentment as his puppy excitedly laps at the water. The happiness only grows further when he reaches back up, arms opening to envelope you into his chest, a hand threading into the back of your head as he tucks you into his neck.

“I didn’t expect you to be up so soon.” He murmurs. “Did I wake you?”

“Leo did.” You grin. “But I could never be mad at that face.” You insist, feeling Charles’ chest vibrate with laughter. Eventually, the hands on your hips have to pull away, a soft kiss being pressed to your hairline.

“Joris is going to be here in a couple of hours to bring you and Leo to the track.” He hums. “I left your Paddock Pass next on top of the mantelpiece. Otherwise the raptor would have chewed it.” He grins, his smile dropping when he sees you look out of the window, towards the track layout. “I’ll… You’re still coming?” He asks curiously.

“I am.” You smile. “I said I would.”

True to your word, you do so. True to his word, Joris appears at Charles’ apartment door one hour and a bit later. He greets you pleasantly enough, asking how you found Monaco and congratulating you again on your art piece. When he goes to collect Leo into his arms, the puppy backs away, sniffing at your legs as he practically demands to nestle back into your arms. You can’t help but laugh, letting him nuzzle into your chest.

Joris says nothing, but when he leads you to his car and you’re reunited with the group of friends who would be attending the race in the Paddock, he makes sure that he takes Leo so that you can enjoy the conversation with the remaining people in the group.

The conversation flows freely and happily, only interrupted when the puppy begins to bark, pulling on his lead towards a figure in front of the group. A beautiful, slender figure dressed in soft pink, dark hair glossy and neat, a smile worth a million stars as she steps in time with Charles.

Joris laughs as he lets go of the lead, and Leo goes bouncing over to the figure, clearly recognising her. When she stands back up, the puppy in her grasp, and steps closer to Charles, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, your stomach immediately drops.

Charles’ own eyes flicker to you for a split second. He’ll never erase the look that was washed over your face when the girl nudges him softly, telling the group that her Charles must have slept well the previous night, which he never usually does before a race day.

Part of you—a strong, passionate part of you as deep and as powerful as the paints in your works—wants to scream out and tell this woman that her Charles had been wrapped up in your hot touch less than twenty-something hours ago. That he had whispered in your ear as his hips rolled against yours, that he had told you soft stories of a promised future together as you had found rest in his arms.

In such a short amount of time, you had allowed yourself to be chained, to be latched into a rope of feeling from the beautiful man who had approached you in a city that was almost perfect. If it had been perfect, the man would have walked to you, squeezed your hand, and gently kissed you again. Instead, his hand finds the woman’s hip, walking with the rest of the group whilst you falter behind, barely giving a second glance, slipping away from the gaggle of conversation, unseen.

As Charles climbs into his car that afternoon, you slide the keys to your bedsit into a small envelope, leaving a wad of cash and an apology note for leaving your contract so early.

In order for art to tell its story, it has to be free.

Charles returns to Toulouse on Monday morning, low on the P8 result he had received the afternoon before and the way his girlfriend had kissed his cheek and told him not to worry, that his luck would change. All whilst she whispered praises into his lips, caught in a kiss at the back of some overpriced club, his mind is overpowered by the thoughts of you, as bright as the landscapes in your sketchbook.

He has to explain. He longs to pull you into his arms and tell you he meant what he said. When he arrives, he looks everywhere. In every art shop, every park, every museum. He remembers you mentioning a part-time job in a cafe. On his ninth attempt, he freezes when he steps through the entrance, the chime of a bell hitting the front foot in mid-ring when he sees a landscape displayed proudly on the wall.

He doesn't need to ask. Feet come over to the counter as he looks over. Two girls. Neither of them are you. One of them turns around and smiles nicely enough, asking what the man would like to order.

“The woman who painted that.” He nods to the picture of the Garrone. “Where did she go?” It’s clear the girl behind the counter knows something and bites down on her lip to stay silent. It only takes one more pleading look from Charles before the words spill from her lips.

“She’s gone. Left the city on Sunday.” She pauses. “She’s gone to be free. I don’t think she’ll be back."

Charles feels his heart crack as harshly as the damages in Manet sculpture on your phone screen wallpaper. Your story insisted on you being free. After all, you had been the art. The piece where no matter what he saw for the rest of his existence, he would never be able to forget.

[octuscle]

For our secret santa gift exchange, one of my buddies got me a one time chronivac use that lasts until the end of the year. He says I can finally know what its like to be a jock like the rest of the bros in the frat house but I don't know- its not really my style. I'm still debating on what to pick and apparently if I don't pick within 24 hours it autoselects. I was wondering if I could have some help or if you think it would be fun to see what autoselect does. thanks!

Bruh, let me be honest: If the autoselect function is active, that's also just an employee playing with a customer's settings. So whether you ask me or wait, the result will be the same in case of doubt.

Let's start by changing a bit of your past: Track and field in elementary school, wrestling as a freshman in high school, but then quickly moved on to the football team. Fucking sports accident in your senior year, since then at home in the gym, you love to lift weights.

Of course, art history no longer fits as a major… I mean, you're only here thanks to your sports scholarship. So you should also study sports economics more consistently. Make your old man proud, he was first an active quarterback, then a coach and now a manager in the NFL.

I love the way your muscles swell. Your facial features are becoming more angular and masculine. But what's in your head is still preventing you from relaxing. Bruh, you haven't held a book in your hands in your life. Apart from first-person shooters, sports and partying with your Bruhs, you have no other interests. You always slide through your studies with a D+. And if things get worse, you just have to allow your professor to suck your cock. Your cock is famous on campus. When it's working, it's a masterpiece carved out of marble. Just like your body.

Bruh, what was your question again? You're unhappy with your abs. Well, after Thanksgiving and all the cookies during Advent, it looks like we all are. You don't need to ask. Don't worry, I'll take care of getting rid of that little bit of fat!

Found the preset I used with you @maxx-magnum

[emlovessid]

@into-the-jeggyverse for the bingo prompt never have i ever, 557 words bingo masterpost

"We should play a game."

James lifts his head to look at Regulus who's lying backwards on James' bed, his socked feet resting on James' pillow beside his head. What had started out as a evening studying for their group university project, had ended with a bottle of tequila, passed back and forth between them until it was empty and they were both a little more than tipsy.

"What sort of game?" James asks.

"I don't know, something fun. How about never have I ever?"

Reaching beside his dorm room bed for the empty tequila bottle, lifting it up for Regulus to see, he says, "We're out of tequila."

Regulus sighs, "You don't have anything else?"

"Unless you want to take shots of English Breakfast, I'm afraid not."

They fall back into comfortable silence, the only sound between them the record playing in the corner, when Regulus pushes himself up onto his elbows, lips curving up into a smile as he says, "How about instead of taking a shot, we take of an item of clothing?"

When James had invited Regulus over to work on their History of Western Art 1500–1900 assignment, this is not how he imagined the night would go, but there's no chance he's going to say no, not when he's been quietly crushing on Regulus all semester.

"Yeah, alright," James says with a shrug, like the thought of either of them getting undressed right now doesn't have his heart jackhammering in his chest. "You can go first, if you want."

With a hum, Regulus eventually says, "Never have I ever…fallen asleep in Professor Moody's class."

Chuckling, James reaches for the hem of his knitted jumper, pulling it up and over his head and throwing it aside. "Okay then, never have I ever…stolen something from my brother."

"God, you're such an only child. It's like you've never met someone with a sibling before. Of course I've stolen something from him," Regulus laughs, as he tugs his socks off. "Never have I ever…"

—

"I'm beginning to think you're not playing fair," James says as he sits back on the bed in only his underwear, while Regulus sits opposite him having only shedded his socks and jumper. "Never have I ever kissed my best friend."

"Tough luck, James."

"What? Never? I would've been willing to bet money that you and Barty had hooked up at least once."

Rolling his eyes, he says, "Sorry to disappoint. Also, in case you hadn't noticed, my two best friends are dating."

It's the tequila running through James' veins that has him joking, "You've never heard of a threesome?"

"Ha, ha."

"Alright, hit me with your worst, Regulus," James sighs, gesturing to his almost-naked state and fixing Regulus with a grin.

With a devilish smirk on his lips, Regulus says, voice low and seductive, "Never have I ever…had a crush on a classmate."

Before James can answer, Regulus pulls his own t-shirt off, and James feels like his brain might combust.

"W-what? You do?" he splutters.

"Obviously, why else would I have suggested this?"

"If you wanted me naked, you could have just asked," James teases, hoping the shake in his voice isn't too obvious.

"But where's the fun in that?" Regulus says coyly, gesturing to James' last remaining item of clothing.

What else can James do but comply?

[fantasylandblues]

modern!lucemond college au

modern lucemond fics have had a real chokehold on me for a while, so here's my attempt at a lucemond college au! (i wanted to include some minor jacegon at some point but still don't know how's that gonna go lol.) this turned into a whole ass drabble but just hear me out (and pls be nice!!!):

Lucerys Velaryon (22) is an undergrad student majoring in ocean studies. Aemond Targaryen (26) is getting his post-grad in modern-age westerosi politics at the same institution, the Crownlands College of King's Landing, Westeros, of valyrian tradition.

in his free time, Lucerys takes theatre lessons at school. he has a scholarship and makes the best of it, although he wouldn't consider himself to be particularly bright (he also has some trouble focusing). he walks with the determination of someone who's got places to be, though maybe that's just to appear stronger or more confident than he actually is. Luce's got a somewhat tall build now, but years of being undermined by his peers have worn down his shoulders and his joyful, boyish appearence.

his older brother, Jacaerys (24), is the one who got him into theatre in the first place, although Jace now pursues his passion for the martial arts, teaching children and teenagers alike. he's known for being short tempered among his friends and family, but is as good with those kids as he once was with his little brother during their formative years. they currently share a two bedroom apartment and often hang out at their neighbors', Baela and Rhaena's, sisters who sometimes feel like perfect female versions of them.

Aemond lives alone, but often meets up with his confidant and cool sister Helaena (27) at the campus restaurant. Helaena is an English professor there at Crownlands with a passion for teaching medieval histories. she has the study of biology as her main hobby and is often seen carrying a book or two on entomology which she borrows from the library on her free time.

it's not uncommon to catch Aemond at the olympic pool well past everyone's school hours, swimming focusedly as a way to clear his mind. he comes from a somewhat influent family, the Targaryens, and knows he will soon be introduced to the actual world of westerosi politics, so he gets to focus all of his energy on his studies and training, almost as if striving to achieve the best version of himself. back home, he cares for his pet lizard, Vhagar - named after the goddess of war in valyrian mythology, a name only his sister could come up with.

he's lost his eye and gained that terrible scar in a scrap with his brother many years ago, which needless to say went too far. he remembers seeing Aegon with their father's letter opener in hand, and then waking up in the hospital to his mother's worried eyes. there are days in which he proudly wears unnatural, dark-colored prosthetics, and days in which he just puts in a clear one and patches it up.

his brother Aegon (29) works remotely as a manager in their grandfather's company, a job he doesn't particularly like but was left with no choice but to take. he is still recovering from the car accident that left him paralysed from the waist down and with severe burns along his body. with his little daughter by his side, he's been dealing with this new life surprisingly well, as well as finding a new joy for parenting.

despite being bitter for years on end, Aemond could no longer hold a grudge against him after the terrible accident. they have been finding ways to remedy their relationship ever since.

beloved by his colleagues, Lucerys is easy to talk to, somewhat extroverted and ballsy, even, although he would rather shield from too much intimacy. being gay is an issue he thinks he's got handled, thank you very much, if that means getting with guys in seedy corners and never bringing that up in conversation. people know, of course, but it bothers Jace that he's never ever heard a mention of a special name.

that day, he strides out of the school's pool bathrooms with the uneasiness that's left in the bottom of his stomach after one of those types of encounters. a few swimmers are packing their stuff up for the day, and he looks just so out of place in his jeans and t-shirt.

Aemond knows confidently what he wants, yet is hard to approach for those who haven't earned his trust, and would very much like to mantain that hardened image. but it doesn't bother him that he craves like a human being, that he craves small and he craves grabbable, just enough to leave small bruises where his hands have been, and he would definitely benefit from fisting a handful of those brown locks he's just laid eyes upon. or maybe he shouldn't be thinking that while clad in nothing but tight swim attire.

let me know if this is anything! my askbox is open for feedback and shenanigans~

[thecolorblockcurator]

I want to talk a little more on this topic of TERFs in art history.

Back a couple of years ago when I came out as trans on here I was surprised at all the hate messages I received. From terfs calling me the usual gender traitor, a confused woman- too old to be trans lol & a lot of other worse things. & a bunch just flooded my inbox announcing how they were disappointed in me & were unfollowing. 🙄

And I was confused why there were so many following me in the first place - after all I was queer- I loved & supported trans folks like how could they have found a home here?

But I unknowingly had been entrenched in terf & radfem ideology in art history I couldn’t see through it. I realized very quickly that Art History is home to a ton of TERFS.

My beloved professors (a few but not all) told us without a doubt that women artists were abused, they were denied, they were ignored, because they were women. They women artists were innately better artists, they had more complex things to say in their art and were more talented at saying them. They were pure, perfect, their stories mattered more than male artists. And history forgot about them so it was our duty to learn and share their work.

These professors would also say that male artists were innately violent, and their art could only ever objectify women. That you could tell an artists gender from heavy aggressive brushstrokes (if they were cis male) or if they were reclaiming their feminine voice with powerful strong brushstrokes (if they were a cis woman) - despite looking like the same exact brushstrokes

How women in art had an almost mystical like understanding of color and form in ways that her male colleagues couldn’t understand

One of my professors who was the loudest radfem taught feminist art history, art in the mid-century, and a couple other classes I forgot. (It’s been like 10 years now) She gave lecture after lecture that the art world was a boys only club. And therefore innately bad and malicious towards women artists. She worked for Helen Frankentaller!! Of course I was going to believe her!! I was paying to learn things from someone who should have been a trusted source why would I have to question them

It wasn’t until I critically listened to what I was repeating that I understood how wrong her views were. How deeply seeded terf ideology was in the art history world.

So those of you persuing art history- think critically & know that the field has unfortunately been a magnet for terfs for a while.

[creedslove]

RE-ENCOUNTER 🎨

Marcus Pike x f!reader

"I'd rather get divorced while still loving you, than remaining together and risking to hate you"

Summary: you and Marcus had a brief but loving marriage, until it wasn't anymore. Choosing an amicable divorce you both moved on with your lives until destiny made you run into each other once more, with a difference this time: your ex-husband was engaged now

Warnings: mentions of divorce, a little bit of angst, fluff, some jealousy, age gap (their ages are not specified but he's 10 years older than her)

A/N: besties, I'm so happy I finally managed to write something for our husband Pike. I've always wanted to do so, but I knew I couldn't just force myself into it otherwise it wouldn't work properly, and just like that, this idea came up and I couldn't get it out of my mind ❤️ also, I know some people don't like age gap, but I can't imagine reader being Marcus age mostly because reader is me 🥴 and also because it would make sense to the story, so although it's not specified, I pictured them getting married around early 20s(reader) early 30s (Pike) and running into each other again around late 20s/early 30s (reader) and late 30s/early 40s (Pike)

3.9k words

You weren't fond of getting married young, to you, it sounded nothing like madness, as you simply couldn't wrap your head around the fact that people often abdicated from their lives, plans and dreams to get stuck in a relationship. It made no sense to you, especially since you had been working your ass off during all your years in college, the prospect of having a successful and promising career motivated you to go after your dreams. Relationships, marriages, building up families hadn't crossed your mind at all, a little affair with a cute guy here and there were the only things that ever got remotely close to dating, at the same time you only saw yourself as someone who wouldn't settle down.

And that was before Marcus Pike walked into your life.

If someone asked you to explain what exactly happened, perhaps you wouldn't be able to understand it yourself let alone explain it to someone, but that man swept you off your feet. You'd met him during a history of art lecture at campus one Thursday evening. He had just joined the FBI in the art department, fresh in his new job but still assisting his former professor and mentor in college lectures. He was probably ten or so years older than you, and yet, you couldn't keep your eyes off him. He was by far the most handsome man you'd seen in those four long years you'd spent in that institution, there was something so captivating in his beautiful eyes, his breathtaking smile and how smart and sweet he was towards anyone. And he caught you staring; it seemed you took his attention as much as he took yours, and even if you needed that lecture for extra credit, you couldn't give a single crap about medieval art, because that man was everything you could see in front of you. That was so unlike your personality, usually, you'd be focused on everything else, but you simply couldn't look away from that handsome assistant.

When the lecture was finally over, you were sure you'd missed at least half of it, being too busy concentrating on someone else instead of the subject, you still had a few doubts about the matter and you walked to the stage, willing to ask the professor some questions and clarify any doubts you had, and that was the moment you both locked eyes for the first time. The handsome guy that caught your attention, whose name was Marcus, soon found out the moment you shook hands and realized how big his was compared to yours and how truly handsome he was, even more so than you had already noticed when you were a few meters away. He was also mesmerized by you and he couldn't hide it, he knew you were younger than him, but at that moment all he could process was how gorgeous and smart that girl was in front of him. He kept around while you talked to his mentor, being polite enough not to interrupt him but holding himself back so he wouldn't add his own comments. He just wanted an excuse to talk to you, see if he could approach and see where things could go, so the moment he had the opportunity to be with you alone for a while, he immediately threw his charms - and Marcus was a charming guy - in your first conversation you liked how intelligent and nice he was, he made you laugh and when he invited you to have pancakes some dinner nearby the campus, you couldn't say no.

And that was the beginning of your love story.

Everything you believed went through the roof from the moment you met Marcus. He was incredible, the most fascinating man you'd met and whereas he was older than you, that only seemed to spice things up both in the sexual and emotional sense. You had never been treated like that before, he made you feel like a queen, as cheesy as it may sound, that's just how you felt through your relationship with Marcus. He was a gentleman, sweet and he didn't know what to do in order to please you; he went slowly at first, even if his intentions were clear from the very first time you went out to eat, he was a little afraid you would be weirded out by him, and he couldn't be further from the truth. Each time he took you out on a date, it felt like you were living the plot of any sweet but cliche rom com movie. It felt just too good to be true and a part of you feared that it wouldn't work. But it did, for as long as it lasted.

The dates with Marcus were so special, he was thoughtful and he always made sure to take you somewhere nice; it was either a nice restaurant so you could get to know their different menu, or art galleries in which he would show you his favorite works and tell you as much as you wanted to hear about them. He was always afraid of boring you with his subjects but on the contrary, you always enjoyed listening to him talk, it was entertaining, soothing and you could spend hours watching how his eyes sparkled whenever he addressed anything he truly enjoyed. And even if he put some effort into them, your favorite date by far was whenever you two would spend some time just hanging out together in his apartment. Dim lights, old movies on TV and Marcus' protective grip around your body, always pulling you closer and making sure you were warm in his embrace for the rest of the night.

The first kiss you shared with him after you both went to the movies together. It was a classic movie rerun and even if Casablanca wasn't your favorite, you knew he enjoyed it, and seeing it on a big screen was definitely a nice experience. Besides, he promised you that once Titanic hit the theaters in the next classic session, he would definitely take you.

At the end of the movie, you walked out the theater holding hands, you were silent, but instead of reflecting over the story you'd just watched you reflected over your relationship with Marcus; you were falling deeper and deeper for him, deeper and more intensely than you ever thought you would, and when he stopped and placed your hands on your hips you couldn't resist being kissed by him.

It felt right.

The first night you both spent together was right after he took you to see the concert of his former band; he'd left the band when he graduated from college, but he still remained friends with the guys and eventually enjoyed visiting them on stage. And that night he insisted on taking his bass for a last ride and even risked a song on the microphone, all of that for you.

By then, there was no fighting or convincing otherwise, you were head over heels for Marcus; especially when you two had sex for the first time after that. One could think Marcus is too soft, but not when it comes to that; he knows how to act, how to please and how to demand what he wants and after you tried him, a real man, there was no way you could go back to college boys ever again.

Your relationship evolved fast and in less than a year he proposed to you; he was sure you were what he wanted in the future, just as you had thrown away all your beliefs and you'd surrounded yourself completely to the man you loved, so you said yes. Even if your whole life you said you wouldn't get married, not while young at least, not without having a consistent, successful career.

And there you were, fresh out of college, with very little work experience, a job in an area you didn't want but had to take in order to gather experience and knowledge and walking down the aisle in a white dress, feeling as happy as you could be, in order to become Mrs.Pike. The honeymoon had to be in Paris, a few people told you that couldn't be more cliche, and even if they meant it out of spite or if they were actually right, it didn't really matter to you; it felt so right for the two of you. Surrounded by art constantly during the day and making love at night, it was like a dream coming true, and you remember hoping your entire marriage would be like that: light, fun, full of love and happiness. And it was until it wasn't anymore.

You couldn't tell exactly when things started to go downhill, but if you had to guess, it would probably be due to the lack of time you both faced towards the end of your relationship. It just started getting harder after about a year, when the two of you really began struggling for your own careers. You, in your area, and Marcus with the FBI, it seemed to have become an obsession for you both, as date nights, walks in the park and gallery visitations simply stopped happening in order to focus on your extra tasks, overtime, solving cases. At some point it became a looping of excuses and promises to spend more time together:

"We'll go next weekend honey"

"We can have dinner together tomorrow"

"I promise I'll take you with me next time"

Needless to say, they never truly happened.

Just as you two distanced yourselves without even realizing, the bickering also started, adding another venomous sting to your relationship. Suddenly, small things turned into bigger ones, sources of stress and fights; if someone ever told you one day you'd have heated arguments with Marcus over a dropped sock, or an unwashed plate on the sink, you would call them crazy, but when that unfortunately happened to the two of you, you were shocked for a while, not believing you had become the kind of couple to argue over stupid things like those. It was heartbreaking. As you two barely had time for each other, sex was also off the table most nights, being too tired to do anything else other than sleep, Marcus suddenly came up with the idea of having a baby; he had a deep hope of fixing your marriage by getting you pregnant, after all, having kids had always been part of his plan and he was sure it was part of yours too.

At the same time you hadn't really thought it through. Technically, you had. You wanted kids. At some point, in the future, it wasn't rocket science to figure that adding a baby to a troubled marriage could not be the best idea. And yet, you couldn't bring yourself to tell him that, not when you saw the spike of excitement in his eyes, not when he held you and kissed you like in the beginning of your relationship, how he made time for you even if his FBI work was killing him, he still managed to bring you flowers, kiss you and made love to you. Perhaps he was trying to save your marriage, or he was just trying for the baby, you weren't so sure, but you could see the effort. And it was why it broke your heart to know you couldn't get pregnant at that moment, not with your job finally taking you places, the new opportunity of actually building a career and how young you still thought you were, being married was hard, but it was about you and Marcus, two adults who could handle yourselves but a baby? It was way too much responsibility. You couldn't find a way to tell him that, even if you were being a coward, it pained you you felt so hopeless to simply lie to Marcus and tell him you'd stopped taking your birth control pills, and even more so each time he looked at you with those disappointed, sad eyes, month after month of excitement and longing for that baby to be there, just to get a negative test after another. It was eating you up alive and after his insistence on taking you to a doctor - which you immediately refused - he managed to find your hidden stash of pills among your stuff. You tried explaining everything to him; how you weren't ready, you were scared and how broken you'd been at seeing him so upset. You cried, you opened your heart to Marcus and told him you wanted to be a mom to his child, some day, not at that moment, but in the future because things were finally working for the two of you once more. But you had lied to your husband, and lying to Marcus had no turning back.

He had no other option other than asking for a divorce after you lied and broke his heart, he felt upset, he could've forgiven you for many things, but not for playing with his heart when it came to the kids he dreamed of every single day.

You were tired, upset and at some point during your divorce process you'd convinced yourself you didn't love him anymore, but the reality was that you were just so empty you weren't able to feel things, you were numb.

The day you both signed the divorce papers in front of your lawyer and you were questioned whether you two wanted to go ahead with that decision, your heart shattered into a million pieces, more than any fights, when you heard Marcus' justification to why he was asking for the divorce.

"I'd rather get divorced while still loving you, than remaining together and risking to hate you"

When you heard those words, you had a sudden urge to get up and tear those papers into pieces, tell him you were both making a huge mistake, that toyover him and that you could make it work, you wanted to tell him you still had a beautiful future ahead of you, you and the gorgeous family you would have together. And the moment you took a deep breath to finally say all that out loud, you looked at Marcus signing the papers and officializing the divorce.

That was the last time you saw your ex-husband Marcus Pike, you just had no idea the next time you would run into him again would be in a few years later, while he was taking his new fiancee on a date.

•••

Marcus sighed as he could see the lack of excitement in Teresa's face the moment they got to the exhibit, he just didn't know why she agreed to go out with him if she didn't like it, it would be so much easier for the two of them if she was honest and told him she'd rather stay home and read a magazine, that way they would both be happy, and Marcus wouldn't have the feeling he was trying too hard all the time. Teresa liked him, she must have liked him, otherwise she wouldn't have accepted his proposal and moved to DC with him. It was still early, she'd been there for a few weeks but he was confident things would work. He was hitting his forties now, one divorce, no kids and even if he finally got the position he had not only dreamed of but also worked so hard for in his dream job, he still felt something was missing. It took him a failed marriage to realize that money wasn't everything he needed, he simply missed the family he never had.

When he found Teresa he was still trying to pick the pieces of his heart, still trying to make things work on his own and when he saw her - an attractive, mature and intelligent woman, he thought that maybe he wouldn't be alone this time. You'd been the love of his life, he was convinced of that, but you two had gone way too fast and too intense, you were still young, you had so much to live so it made sense to him he would let you go and be free. He vowed himself not to rush into things, but this time it wasn't his choice, he was liking Teresa more and more and even if they weren't compatible most of the time, but when the opportunity of a lifetime came up he had to take his chances and she'd said yes. Still a little unsure and divided between him and Jane, but she said yes.

As they walked through the exhibit, he paid close attention to all the beautiful paintings scattered around the long hallways. He loved that atmosphere, the pictures so beautifully made by talented hands years or sometimes centuries ago.

"So it's just flowers?!" Teresa broke the silence as she looked around unimpressed and dragged his attention back to reality

"It's not just flowers, it's Monet… don't you like it? You told me you liked his paintings on our first date.." Marcus stated confused until the realization that she was just lying so she wouldn't appear ignorant or perhaps try to impress him a little. He saw how she cleared her throat and tried fixing what she just said but he stopped listening the moment he caught a glimpse of someone else crossing the same room and standing next to Rouen Cathedral, admiring it intently. He didn't even need to look twice to know it was you. You, who always loved that painting, even if it wasn't Monet's best in your ex-husband's opinion, you who had a fascination with old constructions such as cathedrals and would always snap several pictures of them, you, who was never exceptional at art but managed to get by and eventually fell more and more in love with art because of Marcus, not because you wanted to impress him or have him thinking you were smart, but because he actually made you see why he had that passion for it. And the moment that you turned around, his heart skipped a beat.

You looked the same, and yet, you also managed to look even more beautiful; more mature, more confident in yourself and for a brief moment Marcus was frozen in time, it was just like the first time he saw you, in which he could only see you in front of him and nothing else. He had no idea you still had that effect on him, it was so unusual and surprising and even if he had stalked your social media profiles here and there over the course of your separation, even if he wasn't proud of it, it was completely different than seeing you right there in front of him. He wasn't sure what to do, should he approach you? Talk to you? Pretend he didn't see you?

However, he didn't time to think any further about it, not when you turned around and spotted him, your eyes widening at the moment you saw him. Much to your surprise your heart also raced at the sight of your ex-husband. Was it your mind playing tricks or was he even more handsome? You hadn't planned on approaching him, but you felt as if you were being taken involuntarily towards him.

"Marcus?! Hi!" You said with a sweet smile as he politely greeted you, expressing how surprised he was to see you and even more so to actually talk to you

"Wow, you look great… So beautiful" he smiled as you blushed softly and giggled

"You too, still very handsome… so what brings you to D-" you interrupted by a woman who walked in and wrapped her arm around his waist. She eyed you up and down, even if she still tried to be polite and discreet about it. You swallowed hard feeling awkward and Marcus turned to the other woman

"This is Teresa, my fiancee and this is my ex-wife" he cleared his throat as he said your name and Teresa simply nodded her head. You returned the gesture and the moment you meant to ask him a question she barged in

"You're his ex-wife? But you're so young…" you could see the light pink spreading through his cheek and groaned at how dumb she really was.

"Yeah, I'm younger than him… and are you a little older than Marcus?" You returned the sting with the same amount of poison and she scoffed, looking at him and groaned

"I'll go to the restroom" she said without looking into your eyes and walked away, making you chuckle as Marcus shot you a questioning look which you just shrugged and went back to the question that was lingering on your mind

"So, what are you doing here in DC? Having a romantic getaway or vacations?"

"Actually, I've moved here after I was promoted to the head of the new art department" he said with his typical smile and you could see how his eyes crinkled, your heart warming up as you expressed genuine surprise and happiness to know that. You were a witness to how hard he had worked for that and it just filled your heart with pride to know he made it. You weren't sure how to act, perhaps it wasn't right, but you had already wrapped your arms around his neck and given him probably the tightest hug you'd ever done. Even if it was brief, you couldn't help but feel how built up he was, how stronger he'd become and his characteristic scent made you so warm on the inside, it felt like you could've stayed forever in his embrace.

"I'm so happy for you, Marcus! Honestly, you deserve it! I know I haven't been the most supportive wife and I'm very sorry about everything that happened, I should've been nicer to you, but well, all I'm trying to say is that I'm so proud of you!"

You said wholeheartedly and even if there were so many other things you needed to tell him, you knew it wasn't the right time and place. He just smiled and nodded, taking your hands into his big ones and thanking you for the support.

"Do you think we could grab a coffee or something? Just catch up?"

"I'd love to, but I don't know if it's a good idea, I mean, I can tell Teresa isn't my biggest fan and being honest with you, I wouldn't like my fiance's ex-wife around very much, but it's amazing to see you Marcus, truly, it makes me glad to know you are somewhat closer" you smiled again but let go of his hands the moment Teresa returned. Once more she just lingered around him, almost territorial as if she wanted to show you who owned Marcus. He also felt that, and it made him quite uncomfortable, so he cleared his throat and looked at you, saying goodbye and explaining they had dinner reservations.

As you watched them both leave, you felt a pang in your chest, thinking of the wonderful place he was probably taking her, the elaborate dates he had planned, the beautiful family they would probably build together. It could've been you, it was you for a while, unlike he might have thought you wanted all that with him, but it took you a divorce to realize it was a situation of the right person, wrong time. Perhaps if you tried again, it would work, you would like it to work, but Marcus had moved on, found himself someone he cared about and you had no right to break his heart and ruin his happiness once more.

____

A/N: my besties, I really hope you enjoyed it! I don't know if this is just a one-shot or if there'll be a continuation but I am so happy how this turned out. I love Marcus and I'm so happy our handsome FBI boyfriend finally got his own piece here! ❤️ remember that feedback is life, I'd love to hear what you all thought of it ❤️

[gabessquishytum]

So ive had a brain worm thats had me knawing at the bars of my cage foamed at the mouth and i thought you'd appreciate it

I've been obsessed with the concept of knot fucking and yknow i feel hob deserves to be fucked by a fat unyielding knot

Clutching onto the sheets for dear life while Dream grunt fucks his massive knot in and out of hobs poor abused little snatch, pining him down by the backs of his thighs so he's folded in half and helpless to do nothing else but take it

Just absolutely slack jawed over it, eyes rolling up into his head and drooling how fucked stupid he is over it, his poor overworked cunt wet and loud, squirting pathetically everytime dream pulls his knot free from his greedy gripping pussy and squelching loudly every time he shoves back in

By the end of it the bed is wet underneath him and dream has fucked hob open so thoroughly that he can only squeeze weakly at the knot locking him, all the copious cum dream has pumped him with frothy and dripping obscenely around the edges of the knot

Tbh was definitely thinking about sugar daddy salt and pepper alpha dream absolutely ruining gorgeous sugar baby beta/omega hob's holes for anyone else and like with just a dash of a breeding kink

Absolutely foaming at the mouth for this tbh.

Hob has never even shared a heat with anyone, bless him. But he met this gorgeous older alpha at one of the university bars, and quickly discovered that Dream was a professor in the art department (Hob is studying history so their paths haven't crossed before). He also discovers that Dream is suave, irresistible, and has a knot bigger than Hob’s whole hand.

Hob had already cum three or four times before he got a knot in him. Dream made the foreplay so good that Hob was shaking before he even got fucked. Dream basically sucked the slick out of him and made sure he was absolutely dripping, and then he spent what felt like hours just rubbing his cock against Hob’s hole. Not going in, just teasing him until he begged for it. And oh, Hob was so happy to beg.

Dream fucked him so good, he really did. But when Hob thought it was over - when the alpha came inside him and the knot swelled into place - Dream didn't stop. He kept fucking Hob, slower now but still firm and dominant. Nudging his knot in and out while Hob gasped, squealed and orgasmed over and over like he just couldn't stop. If he looked down between his legs he could see the cum slopping in and out of his cunt, and every time he thought about how that cum could so easily knock him up, he felt himself clench tighter and squirt all over the alpha's knot. And Dream would tell him what a good boy he was being.

Now Hob lies in the middle of the bed while Dream tenderly changes the sheets around him, occasionally leaning in between Hob’s spread legs to kiss him pink, overworked hole. It's the first time, but it won't be the last. Hob definitely isn't going to walk away from this kind of pleasure.

And he should probably find a moment to mention that he's not on birth control. But from the way Dream kept pushing his cum back into Hob’s cunt and murmuring about keeping him full and bred, he thinks that the alpha probably won't mind...

[flowerandblood]

Glass Cuts Deepest (11)

[ professor! • Aemond x student! • female ]

[ warnings: oral sex, fingering, smut, kissing, fluff, angst, trauma, mention of rape, indecent student-teacher relationship ]

[ description: A female painting student is finally able to choose the specialisation she has dreamt of - stained glass. She wants to become a student of the best specialist in this field, but he, for some reason, refuses to accept female students into his workshop. She finds out that he once slapped a female student of one of the other professors. Nevertheless, she makes an attempt to find out what happened then and to convince him to teach her. Slow burn, sexual tension, dark, agressive Aemond, great childhood traumas. ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She slept the whole way back to their town in the back seat of the car, exhausted after the all-night vigil and what had happened. Despite how frightening it had been and how much she had suffered seeing him like this, she had regained hope in the morning, seeing him cuddled up to her, sleeping peacefully at last.

He trusted her.

He sought refuge in her when he was most vulnerable.

They decided to exchange phone numbers to keep in touch, and the first day she spent back in her dormitory seemed strange to her. Sitting in her room in the evening, preparing for the exam in Renaissance art history that awaited her in a few days, she had the feeling that he was about to knock on her door.

However, nothing of that sort happened.

Neither of them wrote to each other that night, apparently afraid to impose on each other, recognising that they both needed to sort it all out in their heads.

She kept waking up and curling up in her bed, so in the morning she gave in, deciding that she would go to the workshop earlier and try to study there, hoping to meet him inside. She went into the bathroom to change before going in, then started down the corridor towards their classrooms and was surprised to find that the lights were already on in them.

When she looked inside she met his puzzled, horrified gaze − he was just leaning over a sheet of glass from which he was cutting out parts for his own project. They stared at each other for a moment in awkward silence, she felt like her heart was about to burst out of her chest.

She couldn't stop thinking about how good he looked in his black, tight t-shirt tucked into his trousers, accentuating his athletic figure perfectly.

She thought with tenderness that they were dressed alike.

"Good morning." She said softly, recognising that she should speak up, and felt her chest heat when she saw that his lips twitched in a smile, his gaze softening. He grunted quietly, scratching his cheek with his thumb, pretending he felt nothing at the sight of her.

"Good morning." He replied lowly, watching as she moved to the last table, where she always worked.

"− you don't have to − you know −" He said casually, clearly feeling bad about the fact that all this time he had been wordlessly forcing her to always stay back. Only now did she see that he was working at his table positioned so that he could see her.

"We were supposed to behave as we did before." She reminded him calmly, looking at him warmly from afar, slipping her backpack off and placing it on one of the wooden stools standing next to her. "Is it clear yet what new task our workshop will be handling?"

He nodded, trying not to look at her, but he was clearly at a loss with himself, glancing at her from time to time, his lips tightening.

"− yes − yes, you as students will be helping me with another big project, you'll do the side quarters and backgrounds. When everyone gathers, I will show you my design and divide up everyone's tasks." He said calmly, glancing at her again with some kind of desire and distress. She let the air out through her nose and held out her hand to him.

Their class was only starting in an hour.

"Come now, while no one else is here." She said softly, and he immediately moved towards her, as if he was just waiting for those words.

Without even touching her hand, he grasped her cheeks and pressed himself to her mouth, kissing her greedily, longingly and tenderly, teasing her lips with his, brushing the tip of his tongue against hers.

She slid her hand into his hair and heard him murmur softly as she drew him closer to her, reciprocating his kiss with devotion, delighting in the softness and moistness of his mouth, the taste of his saliva on her tongue, his hands roaming over her cheeks, her neck, her back, as if he wanted to touch her everywhere, to enjoy this momentary closeness.

They kissed like mad, like lovers who met in seclusion for a few minutes once in a couple of days, just to taste their closeness, hiding from the whole world. She sighed into his mouth as he pulled away from her and pressed her forehead to his, clamping his hand on her back, forcing her to cling to his body, to feel what was happening in his trousers.

He was completely hard.

"I've been suffering like this since the moment you walked into this room." He exhaled, rubbing his hips against her, his lips brushing hers teasingly, barely touching her fleshy structure. She shuddered all over at his words, feeling the delightful squeeze between her thighs, moisture running down her skin.

"I'm sorry, Professor." She whispered softly, innocently, running her lower lip over his mouth, and he bit her lightly, drawing a quiet moan of surprise from her.

"− I can't − come to my place tonight − I need you by my side −" He muttered in a voice trembling with arousal, she felt his manhood throbbing hard, the tip of his nose trailing along her cheek.

"− I have to study for an exam −" She mumbled out, combing her fingers through his hair, feeling her head spin from his scent, from the movement of his hips rubbing against her.

He kissed her cheek, leaving a wet, warm trail on her skin.

"− when we're done, I'll let you learn − I promise −" He whispered and she felt herself shudder at his words, his tongue invading between her lips again, as if he couldn't stand it, as if the very thought of her lying beside him at night made him lose his temper.

When we're done, I'll let you learn.

God.

How was she supposed to stand up to him.

"− okay −" Was all she was able to get out of herself between their loud, quick, impatient kisses, his arms holding her in a tight embrace. He finally pulled away from her, breathing hard, trailing his fingers along the skin of her neck.

"I'll pick you up." He muttered, but she shook her head.

"No, I'll order an Uber or a taxi." She said calmly, placing her hands on his chest and saw him furrow his brow. "Someone might see us. Like right now."

He swallowed loudly and nodded, reminding himself of the promise he'd made to her.

He had promised her that he would protect her.

He let her go and grunted, standing with his hands folded in front of him as if he wanted to cover up what was going on in his trousers. He looked away, licking his lips with his tongue on which he could certainly still taste her saliva and her flesh.

"I'll write you my address in a message. Okay?" He asked matter-of-factly, trying to get back to his role, and she smiled and nodded.

She wanted this.

She wanted to be there for him.

He went back to his work, and she sat on a stool at her table, sinking into her art history notes, trying to concentrate, hearing the swish and clink of glass being cut and broken in the background.

She smiled as one by one her colleagues began to come inside, Ned and Royce approached her curiously, wanting to draw out of her what the final result of their work looked like. They stood behind her as she opened the photo on her phone for them and zoomed in on the details so they could see the whole thing.

"Wow. Amazing. Will you send me that photo? I want to show it off to my mum." Ned grinned and she nodded, proud of how it all looked recognising that they all had done a great job.

She talked to them for a while longer, trying not to laugh seeing how her professor was trying not to glance in their direction with the last of his strong will − she could see that his lips were tightened, that he was jealous, that he was angry that he himself could not come up to her and talk to her so lightly when he wanted nothing else now.

When everyone had gathered, he ordered a meeting in the room with the big table where they had sat during their first classes, which was a kind of meeting room. The professor and Cregan always sat at the top of the table, having a erasable whiteboard next to them on which they wrote things down − their professor now did exactly the same, taking a dry erase marker and starting to write, speaking at the same time.

"The next project we will be tackling will be stained glass windows consisting of five large panels, where the middle one is the largest of all. The client has requested, given that it is a church named after St Michael the Archangel, that all the quatrefoils depict a huge Last Judgement with a representation of Michael the Archangel at the very centre, referring to Hans Memling's painterly depiction.

However, as you know, Memling's work is a triptych, and we have five windows. So I decided that we would simply expand the whole scene, in addition to people entering hell and heaven by introducing figures of saints and famous people considered condemned. It's going to be a very complicated, big project and I assume we'll be working on it for this, and all of next semester. Perhaps longer." He said, writing everything down on the board, and she took notes, knowing exactly the painting he was talking about, imagining with excitement how wonderful it will have to look when they are done.

"There will be plenty of work to do, as well as figures to make, so it will be a chance for everyone to test themselves in this type of painting, including the second year. In the next class, we will gather in the studio and together with Cregan show what painting techniques we use to create faces and bodies and how to avoid basic mistakes. This lecture will be compulsory for second year students only, if a third or fourth year feels like coming, they can do so too." He said in a calm, low voice, scratching his forehead thoughtfully as to whether he had said everything he wanted to talk about, then glanced at her and stammered, completely losing his thread.

"− yes − well, I think that's it, if I remember anything I'll let you know. The project is already prepared by me at 1:1 scale, you just need to cut it up, Cregan will distribute to you the tasks and figures you will work on. We are both available to you if you have any questions." He muttered, embarrassed that he wasn't able to concentrate around her, but she felt nothing but admiration towards him, seeing how committed he was, how much of his time and effort he was putting into making them good specialists and artists, to really educate them.

She thought with sadness that he really was a good teacher.

That if it wasn't for the trauma that was destroying him from the inside, he would have been adored by everyone.

She spent the whole day with the others cutting out and numbering stencils for the glass − Cregan had assigned her as many as four small celestial figures and part of a background, which pleased her a lot, because she felt that she wanted to try more already, to paint more complicated things.

She noted with satisfaction that she and her colleagues had tasks of similar difficulty and felt relieved that what she thought was working.

He didn't single her out or make anything easier for her.

She worked exactly as others did.

When she finished her work she packed up, hurried along with her colleagues to other classes and threw everyone only a quick goodbye, meeting his gaze on the way, smiling involuntarily at him and leaving.

She thought hopefully that this could work.

That if they focused on their job and left the tenderness for the time when they were just alone with each other, then maybe no one would ever know about it.

As soon as she left she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket and saw that she had received a message from him. She typed him in as Adam, so that no one looking over her shoulder would catch on to who she was texting.

She smiled under her breath as she looked at her phone, Ned poked her with his elbow, looking at her amused.

"A date?" He asked provocatively, and she giggled, pushing him away from her with a hooked, collegiate gesture.

"None of your business."

When she returned to her dorm room she immediately ran to take a shower, changed her clothes and packed all the things she needed in her backpack.

She figured that since she wasn't coming to his class she could dress normally, so she put on her light cream dress, white high socks and trainers and quickly found some free Uber on her app. She felt the vibrations again, and after a while she saw his message in her notifications.

She smiled, walking out in front of the building, all warm with emotion, writing him off quickly.

After a while her driver pulled up, she greeted him politely and they set off. He lived fifteen minutes away from her dorm, so it wasn't a long journey. She approached the right entrance staircase and dialled the correct number with a trembling hand.

A moment later, she heard the sound of confirmation and the vibration of the door lock indicating that she could get inside. She literally ran up to his floor and knocked quietly, standing outside his door excitedly.

She heard footsteps and the sound of the lock being turned, then a moment later the door opened and she saw her professor, at once pale and excited, looking at her as if she were some kind of ghost.

He invited her in by simply stepping back and allowing her to enter, closing the door behind her, not saying a word to her. She bent down to untie her trainers and pulled them off, clutching her backpack in her hands, looking at him questioningly, not knowing what to do with herself.

She saw that he was looking at her dress with big eyes and realised that, apart from the evenings during which she was only in her pyjamas, he hadn't seen her in the clothes she usually wore every day. She blinked, frightened that perhaps that woman was wearing dresses, that perhaps it reminded him of something from that event.

"If there's something wrong, I'll change. I took my things." She said quickly, concernedly pointing to her backpack. He furrowed his eyebrows, lifting his gaze to her, looking at her as if he didn't understand her question.

"What? No, no. Come in. Are you hungry? I'm just heating up dinner." He said, scratching his temple with his finger, stepping around her, not even looking at her.

She followed him inside, heading down the corridor to a sizable living room with a kitchenette on the right, the room's windows overlooking a nice panoramic view of the city. She saw that he had the oven on and was just baking duck legs in some sort of sauce.

She felt a burbling in her stomach; she hadn't eaten anything since the morning, and had only popped into her room for a moment. She put her backpack next to his couch, not knowing what to do with it.

"Yeah, I'd love to." She said softly, following him into the kitchen, folding her arms in front of her, embarrassed, looking around, feeling her heart pounding hard.

His flat was full of old furniture and antiques, and she noticed three bookcases standing between the windows filled to the brim with books she was going to look at later. She heard the clatter of plates and saw that he had placed them on the kitchen counter, which also had the function of a two-sided table and bar.

He scratched his chin with his thumb as if he didn't know if he should ask the question.

"Would you like wine with dinner? Or orange juice?" He asked, and she swallowed loudly, recognising that alcohol could only harm her now and tangle her tongue. She sat down opposite him in a high chair, adjusting her dress.

"I'll have a juice, please." She said warmly, smiling, and he nodded, tense, pulling a carton of orange juice from the cupboard.

She wondered if he had ever invited a woman here.

Had he invited anyone here.

She was invading his space at his request but he clearly didn't know how he felt about it himself.

She decided to broach the subject that seemed safest to her and thought it would loosen him up.

"I'm looking forward to the workshop tomorrow. I really want to finally be able to paint figures, I've been waiting for it a lot." She said sincerely, looking at his reaction. He glanced at her curiously and hummed under his breath, pouring her juice into a glass.

"Well, it can be frustrating at first and the results can be unsatisfactory, but it's a matter of practice and using the tools properly." He said calmly, looking at her again, and she nodded.

He lowered his gaze, looking away from her again, acknowledging that the meat was ready. When he opened the oven hot steam flew out of it, so she walked over to help him.

They put food on each other's plates and started to eat in silence.

She tried not to smile or laugh seeing how tense he was, how much he was going through this knowing that he didn't find it funny, but she couldn't help thinking that they really were acting like embarrassed teenagers.

"Where am I going to sleep?" She asked suddenly between one bite and the other, and he almost choked, looking at her in shock, tightening his lips, thinking hard about what he should answer.

"…it's up to you. I can sleep on the couch." He said cautiously after a moment's thought, as if he was afraid to say what he'd been thinking about all along, and what was surely in both of their minds.

"What if I don't want you to sleep on the couch?" She asked quietly, putting down her fork − he reached involuntarily for his wine glass to take a loud sip from it, trying to give himself more time to react.

He didn't answer but just stared at her and it was the most intense gaze she had ever seen in her life. He was biting his lower lip, breathing anxiously, as if he realised that they were both pretending to play a game of politeness by feigning a simple casual meeting.

She thought for sure he had contrived that afterwards they would act like they were watching something or talking about anything, and by complete coincidence his mouth would suddenly be on hers and his hand in her underwear, and then he would accidentally bring her to fulfilment without listening to what the characters in the show he had turned on were saying.

She saw it in the look in his eyes and decided to take pity on him.

Over him and over herself.

"Will you show me your bedroom?" She asked softly, lightly, as if asking him to show her his living room or office, nothing obliging. His pupil dilated and he took a deep breath, his hand outstretched on the tabletop clenched into a fist.

"Are you sure you want this?" He asked lowly, looking at her all the time − she felt a powerful shudder and pulsation between her thighs at his question, dark, ambiguous, final.

She nodded, and he swallowed loudly, glancing at the whole of her silhouette which he could see over the table before he hummed and stood up, waiting for her to follow him.

She moved with him through the corridor to one of the closed rooms. He stepped inside and switched on a lamp − the warm light illuminated a large double bed with dark, fresh linen, a night table and a huge black wardrobe with a mirror in one of the sliding doors, standing on the opposite side against the wall.

She swallowed quietly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, meeting his gaze. He stood a few steps away from her, watching her every move.

He watched her as, with a quiet, unhurried step, she approached his bed and lay down on his bedding, smelling the pleasant scent of washing powder. She lay on her stomach, not looking at him, cuddling her cheek into one of his pillows, looking at the lamp standing on the small table beside him.

She heard him move and came closer, felt the mattress bend soundlessly under his weight. She shuddered and drew in a loud breath as she felt him lift the material of her dress, exposing her buttocks. She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed quietly as his large hand carefully touched one of them, tracing his fingers over her warm skin.

She felt him move further away after a moment, placing his hands on either side of her head, one of them gently taking her hair, and after a moment his warm lips were on her neck, placing a soft, wet kiss on her skin.

She clasped her hands together on the bedclothes when she felt one of his hands slip under her stomach, then he pressed her with his body from above so that she could not move − she felt his hard manhood hidden in his trousers impatiently pulsate as he felt her naked buttocks beneath him.

Involuntarily her breathing quickened, the space between her thighs clenched desperately as his fingers slid lower under her belly, pulling up the material of her dress, finally finding what he wanted under her underwear.

He shushed her when she moaned softly, his fingers with sure, steady movements spreading her wetness around her puffy clit, barely teasing it, his lips rising to her cheek, his breathing shuddering and uneven.

"− have you been this wet since you came in here? − or maybe since this morning? −" He hummed, trailing his lips over her soft skin − she involuntarily rubbed her buttocks against his manhood, licking her lips.

"− it's your fault, Professor −" She mumbled out with difficulty, feeling arousal and a shudder at the use of his academic title in such a situation, in such a context. She heard him groan in surprise, his length rubbing against her buttocks, impatient and swollen.

"− mine? − because I take care of my student's needs like any good Professor in my position? −" He asked tauntingly, enveloping her ear with his warm breath, his words resounding like a murmur.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hearing with shame that what he was saying was making his movements of his fingers accompanied by an increasingly loud click of her moisture, involuntarily she began to quietly moan and pant, clasping her hands on his pillow.

They both sighed quietly as she opened her legs slightly, making it easier for his fingers to move wider, the tips of his fingers digging into her sensitive, slick folds.

"− I need this − please −" She mumbled out, moaning along with him, his hips moving with her, pressing his manhood between her buttocks − she could feel how hard he was, that his control over what was happening had completely relaxed him.

"− I know −" He breathed out and she gasped in surprise, feeling a powerful shiver of pleasure as the tip of his finger slid between her fleshy, throbbing walls.

"− shhh −" He hushed her, not letting her move even though she needed it so badly, needed to feel him deeper, harder.

"− please − ah − please − please −" She mewled, no longer able to form any meaningful sentences, feeling like she was going mad with arousal, her core throbbing all over in painful tension and anticipation.

"− please, what? − don't be disrespectful, title me properly −" He grunted warningly, biting her skin lightly, his finger barely teasing her entrance, sliding in and out, massaging her around her clit again, driving her insane.

"− please, Professor − please, I've been waiting for this all day −" She confessed with shame, and he chuckled at her words, finally sliding his finger all the way inside her hot core, panting along with her. She cried out loudly, pressing her face against the pillow, feeling that she was on the verge of orgasm.

"− soaking wet for her Professor − fuck − you're a very dedicated student, aren't you? −" He whispered into her ear, with a quick, sure movement sliding his finger in and out of her, the loud click of her sticky moisture accompanied his every move, he deliberately pressed the top wall above her entrance, searching for her hidden spot.

"− yes − God − yes, yes, please! −" She cried out when he finally found what he was looking for − he groaned loudly when he felt her come all over his hand after squeezing this spot a few times, panting all over, squeezing him from all sides, her moisture beginning to run down over his fingers.

"− fuck − what a little mess you are −" He purred, kissing her cheek tenderly, fucking her with his fingers through her peak, ignoring her moans from overstimulation.

"− don't move − okay? −" He asked, panting loudly, himself on the brink of orgasm, and she nodded, seeing or hearing very little, stunned by the pleasure her fulfilment gave her.

She heard him rise up on his knees, unbuttoning his trousers, jerking himself off with quick, sure strokes, moaning helplessly. She swallowed loudly, ashamed of what she was thinking about, what she wanted.

She wanted to give him the opportunity to break through, to experience her closeness.

"Can I kiss you there?" She asked quietly, in a trembling uncertain voice, and heard him freeze suddenly, breathing unevenly, not believing what he was hearing.

"What?"

"You could lie on your back and massage yourself, and I would kiss you there. I wouldn't touch you with my hands, just my lips and tongue. I've never done that before, so it would be our first time." She whispered, not daring to look at him, fiddling with the fabric of the pillow on which her head just lay.

She heard him swallow loudly, shocked.

"− I − God − I don't know − I wouldn't want to hurt you − force you to do things like that, humiliate you −" He muttered obviously horrified by this vision, and she shook her head quickly feeling her heart pounding hard.

"− I want to try it − I'll tell you if it feels uncomfortable and you can do exactly the same − you don't feel bad when I kiss you, just when I touch you with my hands − I thought maybe this is our way to your fulfilment together −" She explained and a long silence full of tension answered her.

"−… will you tell me if there is something wrong? −" He asked in a trembling voice and she nodded quickly.

He swallowed loudly and laid down on his back beside her, looking at her terrified, his trousers unbuttoned but he hid his manhood in his boxers, ashamed. He stared at her frozen, seeing her rise slowly and shift on her knees, laying on her stomach between his thighs, not even touching him.

She lifted her feet, wiggling her calves in a light gesture of anticipation, resting on her elbows, looking at him with warm, understanding eyes.

"So?" She asked softly, seeing that he was terrified because of many things at once − she watched him carefully and saw no sign of a panic attack so far.

He licked his lips in a nervous gesture, looking at her helplessly, wanting this and fearing another disappointment.

"If it goes wrong − what do I say?" He asked in a weak, trembling voice, breathing unevenly. She looked at him with understanding, knowing that she would have to be very careful and very slow with any movements or gestures.

"− say slower if you feel it's right but things are happening too fast, or faster if it's too slow. If you feel bad say stop and I'll pull away immediately −" She said what she thought made the most sense, wanting him to still have a total sense of control.

"− and if I − you know −" He muttered, and she pressed her lips together at the thought that he was afraid he'd cum inside her mouth.

"− well − Eve was the first to taste the forbidden fruit, wasn't she? −" She asked softly and he swallowed loudly, looking down at her with big eyes − she saw his manhood pulsed hard under the black material of his boxers. She lifted her gaze to him, seeing that he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"− touch yourself as you always do and just say if what I'm going to do makes you uncomfortable − remember this is time for you and your pleasure −" She assured him with warmth in her voice, something in her words calmed him because he let out a loud breath.

He tilted his head back, closing his eyes, his trembling hand went under the material of his boxers, pushing them back a little, squeezing firmly on what was under them.

She pressed her lips together seeing that God did not skimp on his size, his length pulsed all over, swollen and hard − she could see veins showing through from under his skin, the tip of it pink and sticky from his own moisture.

She heard him sigh as he began to stroke himself, clearly like her waiting all day to relieve himself. He groaned and gasped as she leaned towards him and merely brushed his long manhood with her lips.

She lifted her gaze to his face and saw that he was looking at her aroused and surprised, not stopping to massage himself, apparently amazed that it was pleasant after all.

Encouraged by the lack of expression of discomfort or pain on his face, she leaned in again, this time adding the tip of her tongue to her lips and ran it upwards, teasing him − he smelled fresh and soapy, she thought he had showered before she came.

"− fuck −" He muttered, tilting his head back, panting heavily, jerking himself with increasing speed.

She kissed him more and more confidently, wanting to prepare him for what she was about to do, rising higher and higher until she reached the very tip of him.

As she parted her mouth and slid the fat head of his cock between her lips, teasing him with the tip of her tongue, she heard him gasp loudly, an involuntary movement of her hips sliding it deeper into her throat.

"− oh, God − please −" He mumbled out with increasingly ragged, loud breaths, his free hand went to her hair, holding her close. She felt her walls clench around nothing from his reaction, her heart pounding like mad.

He was enjoying this.

Encouraged by his reactions and the fact that she herself felt no discomfort, she slipped it deep into her mouth and began to suck his cock with a loud click of her saliva as, at the same time, his hand massaged it with quick, sure movements at the base.

"− faster − ah, fuck, squeeze me here −" He exhaled, gripping her hand in his, clenching it with his fingers where her mouth couldn't reach. She began to stroke him, squeezing him with firm, light movements − he sobbed loudly, pulsing hard in her mouth, the thrusts of his hips pushing his cock deep into her throat, making her gag.

"− forgive me − fuck, 'm gonna cum −" He mumbled out with difficulty and groaned loudly in relief. She felt something salty, viscous and sticky spill into her mouth and swallowed it with difficulty, breathing loudly through her nose as she felt his manhood pulsing hard and quivering between her lips, delicate and hypersensitive.

"− fuck − fuck, baby − oh my God −" He panted quietly, lying with his head tilted back, his lips parted, his eyes closed in blissful relief from pleasure.

His hand let go of hers so she immediately took it from his manhood and slid him out of her mouth, not wanting to overdo it, knowing that what had happened was groundbreaking for both of them.

He opened his eyes lazily, looking down at her at last, licking his lips dried from exertion.

"− you are indeed my revelation −" He whispered and smiled shyly, boyishly, happy.

It had worked.

He grasped the material of her dress with his hand and drew her to him, embracing her on with his arms − she snuggled into his chest, placing her hands where he let her.

"Are you okay?" He whispered and she nodded quickly, snuggling closer to him, listening to the rapid beat of his heart as he played with her hair between his fingers, stroking her head.

"− move in with me −" He whispered, and she froze, not believing he had said it.

They had been together, if she could even call it that, for three days, and he was propositioning her to move in with him.

"− I know it's too soon, I know, but − yesterday when I was lying here without you − I don't know − I'm not sure I'll ever be able to sleep peacefully without you by my side again − I have one room that is my gym, but it could be yours −" He spoke quickly, clearly embarrassed by his own proposal, afraid of what she would respond to it.

She swallowed loudly, thinking strenuously.

"− I think I wouldn't want to give up my room for now − however, if you want, I can keep some of my things at your place and come to you for the night −" She said warmly, glancing at his reaction. He pressed his lips together and nodded, disappointed and ashamed at his desperation.

"− I'm yours −" She whispered, kissing his jaw softly, and he hummed under his breath, stroking her head and back tenderly.

"− so − will you come tomorrow too? −" He asked uncertainly, and she smiled under her breath.

"Yes."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

[yinandyanglifestyle]

I went to Sydney for Alphonse Mucha

by: Icie

One thing to know about me, I was an interior design major back in my home country. I absolutely sucked at it, but I fell in love with Art History. In that minor, our professors taught us about different art styles through the ages and bit by bit I saw the progress of art through the ages. I loved the OG Gothic Style, Romanesque, was disillusioned with Baroque and Rococo from the west... It was too Western focused and it didn't interest me as much (because I was an Asian kid) until we got towards the end of the 19th century where the grandparents of weebs (of which I am a part of) hailed from and Japonisme was a thing. Japonisme inspired so much beautiful art and it triggered a domino effect that ultimately led to Art Nouveau where Alphonse Mucha was a main character.

This was it. My favourite art style! I can never go back to loving other art styles after discovering Art Nouveau. It spoke to me about how feminine it was and it awakened something from my mostly masculine soul. I wanted to see more of these beautiful girls surrounded by flowers and stars, wearing kimono-inspired clothes in pretty pastels. The macaroni hair only added to the romanticism of it all. This is what love is like, but in art form!

Fast forward to 2024, The Mucha Foundation collaborated with the Art Gallery of New South Wales to host over 200 of this master's works which was "the most comprehensive exhibition ever seen in Australia of this visionary artist's work". I had to see it. I needed to see it! I am a big fan of Mucha and Art Nouveau, and one of my dreams was to go to Paris, Brussels, and Prague for all of the beautiful swirly-whirlies. Being a Brisbanite, I was exited. Please come to my city! Please, please, please! But AGNSW said "sorry, it's exclusive to Sydney."

Dammit. It's off to Sydney I go. I donned my Sailor Moon dress, packed my bag for a 3 day trip with my partner just so I could see this legend's works and boy, I was not disappointed. I learned to love Mucha and his works even more. We landed in Sydney, didn't check in our hotel, and went straight to the main quest:

Outside, they had this big banner of Mucha's name. Inside was this glorious area that showcased Summer (left) and Rose (right). Oh wait, the exhibit is next door. So we went to the more modern building, down two floors, bought tickets, and enjoyed the art.

In the newer building next door, I was treated to pre-art nouveau Mucha. We learned about what his life was like before his popularity. He designed some clothes for a theatre, hung out with everyone's buddy Paul Gaugin, Ludek Marold and Annah the Javanese. The tour guide said, "if he wasn't a painter, he would've been a great photographer".

Then we were treated to the meat of the exhibit: the Sarah Bernhardt stuff, his lithographs, his sketches, but what struck me most were his concept art to reality. (Excuse my phone's shadow. For some reason, AGNSW decided to put these works on a 45° angle under bright lights. The girl beside me even said "fucking glare!" and I wholeheartedly agreed.)

We were treated to so many wonderful works and I cried when I saw parts of Le Pater. I'm an atheist but this made me think that maybe there is a god. Maybe. But still, beautiful artwork that left me speechless.

I got to stand next to my favourite work of his: White Star. Joy!

At the end of the exhibit, the tour guide talked about how Mucha who was somewhat influenced by Japan, now influenced Japan. Now we come full circle with anime and manga characters depicted in art nouveau styled paintings and posters. Oh boy, we had our Lord Yoshitaka Amano's works in the gallery as well. I was so lucky to see works of my two favourite artists in one day!

It was almost 2PM by the time we finished the tour. We spent at least 4 hours in the gallery after landing just because I fangirled and was willing to spend money on Mucha. Yeah, I bought stuff. A reproduction of Alphonse Mucha's original "Documents Decoratifs" which focused more on his industrial design work (jewellery, cutlery, furniture etc) which I rarely see on the internet, a set of badges and make-up from Japanese brand MilleFée.

I went to Sydney for Alphonse Mucha and it was worth it. I end this rabid fangirling with the parting words of the Art Gallery of New South Wales' tour guide: Mucha's style has never been as well loved and as well represented as it is in Japan.

[ennabear]

hii !! 🫶🏻 just discovered your account and i love it !! :) i was wondering if you could write some more headcannons about ellie? like, what job would she do? etc. i like to think that if she existed today, she'd probably be an illustrator for children's books !! that'd be so cool, tbh. i can see her making books about space or dinosaurs, and going to book fairs at schools to meet kiddos and talk to them about it. (crossover with professor!abby who used to teach little kids 🫶🏻🫶🏻) aah. sorry for rambling. but like, i just think ellie would have a blast if she existed today. like with all the museums ?? all the new ways to make art ?? but anyway !! what are *your* headcannons for modern ellie !! 🪐🫶🏻

modern!ellie’s job!! (hc) 🦕

thx for the request bae cause this made me smile so big. i have SO many hcs for modern ellie like i’ve been waiting for this moment!!!!! also dw about rambling i love to hear your thoughts 🤗

ok for starters i think ellie would be a nerd in high school. i know that some people headcanon her as a jock or a stoner (and that ellie has a special place in my heart) but i definitely think she’d be the opposite tbh. i imagine her with only a few friends (dina, jesse, cat). and i also think she’d have insanely good grades because she’s just smart like that. and all of her teachers love her because even though she’s quiet, she’s really kind and creative.

also i think her family would be just her and joel and maybe a dog. like imagine her spending her weekends getting guitar lessons from joel and then taking her dog on a walk and documenting it in her journal. she would fr have such a blast!!!!

for college i definitely think she’d major in astronomy/astrophysics or maybe art history?? and in her last years of college, she’d get a job as a secretary for a science museum. honestly, she didn’t hate it, but she was super jealous of the tour guide because she got to take all of the cute little kids on a walk and talk about the fun stuff while ellie had to sit behind a desk all day. but after begging her supervisor enough, she’d get promoted to tour guide after the mean old lady who used to do it retired.

and guess what??? the kiddos loved her!!! she always made sure the kids were having a great time and she knew a lot about what she was talking about, whether it was dinosaurs or planets or volcanoes. and the joke book came everywhere with her!! absolutely nothing made her happier than hearing the little monsters giggling and squealing about a joke that wasn’t even that funny.

abby and ellie would become good friends because of the time abby took her class to the museum on a field trip. they ended up actually really liking each other, especially because they had so much in common. and sometimes after work they’d meet up at a bar and talk about life, it was nice for them to both have a new friend who was equally as nerdy.

ellie would be a tour guide for quite a few years while abby got her doctorate. a few years after abby became a professor, ellie tried out illustrating a childrens book for a local visitor at the museum who was really fond of ellie. it was nothing too big, but she was really proud of it.

after she finished the drawings for the book, she wanted to try writing one of her own. so she decided to write a textbook for kids about dinosaurs with her own illustrations and a joke on every page.

safe to say it was super successful!!! she ended up going to local elementary schools and educating the littles about the different types of dinosaurs and each era they lived in. and you better believe old man joel was so proud!!!! his little girl ellie that he used to take to dinosaur museums was now writing her own dinosaur books!!!

i think eventually she’d quit her job at the museum and focus on being a writer full time, along with keeping art as a hobby. and i can 100% see her getting married and adopting a kid just like joel adopted her, and she’d pass on all of her science knowledge to her mini self. also i think she’d mainly only write science textbooks for kids, but may end up publishing a sci-fi novel or two.

i think that’s all :3 thanks for the ask sweetie pie ilysm 🫶

daily click / israeli themes in tlou

[peachtalia]

I wrote a whole infodump on Herakles headcanons on a priv acc (yk for human version since I prefer to view the guys that way) so I’ll paste it all here cuz fun. It’s gonna be super disorganized and may not carry All of my ideas cuz it’s just me writing whatever came to mind in the moment but I’ll try to organize it the best I can from what I wrote. Also plz take into consideration that I’m not entirely following canon here and a load of it is headcanons with some of canon sprinkled in. Also this is a wip ig

I doubt anybody would read my word vomit cuz I didn’t bother to clean any of this up and my sentence structure is def abysmal as fuck but ig u could say I’m putting this here for my own sake but anyone else is free to read if u would like!!

cw talk of parental loss tho

Okay so I’m gonna ramble about names here cuz it interests me a lot. Obv I’m not Greek or in Greece I just have a deep interest in other cultures and like to research a lot and stalk forums and videos on experiences etc. My ideas may change over time as I learn more about the culture. He feels a bit more old-fashioned to me but anyways yeah nah if I happen to say anything innacurate plz lmk @ anyone who actually reads my word vomit haha

So anyways I def don’t see it as my place to bash on him being given the name "Herakles" cuz I Do know that in Greece they would seem to occasionally give Greek mythological names to ppl (ex: singer who's birth name is Artemios); but I noticed they most often use Christian names tho (also fun fact my irl name is the fem version of an old Greek saint and seems common there along with Hispanic countries that would often do the same lololol)

But at the same time I’d wanna assume that being named Herakles would kinda fuck u over since it would be a huge name to live up to. But that’s just me. Plus to me that adds to his overall life theme

Also I’ve mentioned this before but ppl for years would dunk on his surname claiming that it's "not a real Greek surname" when ... it actually IS, it's just super rare based on what I’ve collected. Admittedly ngly I’ve even been a part of this when I was a kid smh (See: Greek actress with the birth name Evgenia Karpouzi, the fandom would always use the spelling "Karpusi" but that's not language accurate to the more commonly taught Greek language romanization based on what I’ve learned.....

Anywho now onto headcanons and stories I like to apply to him lol

He seems the type whose mom is very huge in the historical arts and preservation field and might've been a Greek history professor and took a huge role in curating and preserving Ancient Greek ruins and artifacts...arranged heritage festivals and exhibitions etc.. Taught culture... Maybe pushed him to be very talented and knowledgeable as a kid and would actively pass down her own knowledge onto him and set pretty high standards for him while also spoiling tf out of him and also being caring yet not as present as a mother due to her career. He grew up very involved in the arts both creative-based and performance-wise but probably mostly the latter. He seems like the type who would be quiet and a bit of a loner at times but was also a lot more enthusiastic and expressive at times.

So anyways yeah not only does he suffer under the curse of living in the shadow of his mothers legacy and not meeting the public expectations in following in her footsteps but a lot of his life is basically formed around her and he wasn’t left with much room to actually form his own personal style due to how heavily influenced he was by her own interest and life path and her passing when he was idk 14 made it even harder for him to even try to let go of any of this cuz besides all of her leftover belongings and the collective community memory of her, it was all he had left of her from within himself so letting go of any of it to make more room for developing his own personal sense of style outside of her existence felt like betraying her or going against her wishes.

He feels deeply guilty for not taking on her legacy after her passing and following in her footsteps but he still does what he can to contribute here and there and still holds a load of pride in what he learns from her + what comes from his roots and besides hanging out with and feeding street cats he still has a lingering fascination and interest in philosophy and observing and maintaining historical sites not only cuz it’s great but also cuz it reminds him of her. It Would also make sense given how canonically he’s portrayed having a home that’s cluttered with his mom’s old things and artifacts that he never wants to get rid of since she passed while he was young.

As for his beef with Sadiq I see it as a ‘obnoxious goofy uncle and petty nephew’ sort of conflict lol. But I like to see it as like. Sadiq was a younger college student of his mom’s who would also do volunteer assistant work for her, so naturally he’d meet Herakles thru that. And with him being that type of guy would screw around with Herakles and poke fun at him yk like how those older guys would treat young kids sometimes and purposely provoke them in a joking yet annoying manner (I have lots of experience of this) and Sadiq himself never saw it as a big deal but yk Herakles Hated that shit and he’s the type to take that kind of stuff to heart. Also Herakles would envy the time he spends with his mom cuz here he is able to get involved with her work life and meanwhile Hera is being some kid at home who sometimes gets to go to his moms work sometimes.

And ooomfg when his mom passes u know damn well that envy turned into pure vitriol cuz Sadiq was able to spend more time around his mom before her sudden death. But Sadiq (still unaware of how deep this shit goes for Herakles) takes Herakles under his wing cuz he feels super bad to say the least.

Now Herakles has one of those large Greek families but he’s autistic* as shit so while he can be loud with them he’s also quiet and a bit of a loner at times so he’d be super reliant on his mother for initiating his interactions with others and she’d take a big part in involving him in family gatherings so u know damn well the second she was gone he didn’t know wtf to do anymore or how to connect with others on his own without her being an extra support lol yk like that one social person that helps interactions go smoother.

* yes I am aware that autism may present differently depending on culture but I’m autistic myself and am basing this on observations I’ve made thru autistic ppl I’ve known in different countries and who also have a similar familial dynamic culturally. Even tho I’m in the US I also have this experience myself with my Viet family members. No duh it’s not ‘just an autism thing’ but yk headcanons

Not to mention him being depressed as fuck over her passing and beginning to self isolate. And being so pitied by family members 24/7 SUCKED Ass so idk ig eventually (after many years and moments of Herakles mostly blowing people off) ppl began to avoid him and stopped inviting him to things like yk that sad thing that often happens whenever someone’s going thru a loss and ppl don’t know what to do about it. He’d ignore their invitations often for years. Of course they’d still try to call or send something or visit every now and then but only very occasionally. It’s like an ‘idk what to do’ sort of thing.

So yeah he’s an only child and was raised by a single mother with a busy and active life where he was always expected to become her shadow whether intended or not. Wow. But despite his family inching away from him, bro still has that younger Cypriot cousin who vibes with him and relates with his quietness and occasional loner behavior so he’d often hang around him cuz the rest of the family would overwhelm him sometimes, therefore even during this time he was the last to stick around for the most part and they’d often hang out in silence. He is a bit more chatty than Herakles tho at times. Idk his name yet. That one Cypriot cousin has a younger brother I think, who’d hang around Sadiq but Herakles’s a #hater and doesn’t really like him for that. He’s the type to threaten to cut ppl off from association and he gets petty and stubborn as hell and holds grudges like u cannot believe. Obviously despite his spite he does still care for Sadiq deep down. He says what he wants but he doesn’t actually wish the guy any real harm and would get super bothered and upset if anybody were to attempt to do so.

Oh yeah and I also mentioned before that I see him being narcoleptic lol *maybe* he occasionally dealt with cataplectic symptoms and it would make sense given how rarely he seems to express strong emotions but I still don’t know. I’m not as knowledgeable in cataplexy I admit. But he’s def on the narcolepsy spectrum and lacks a load of motivation and drive in his life overall. Some of it comes from his mildly nihilistic view on life and some of it is depressiveness and the inability to help himself more on his own accord. It probably took a lot for him to get on a stricter medication routine for it. He tries to take care of himself at the bare minimum but he still doesn’t quite cultivate the best or healthiest of habits. He’s often got others around him trying to help him out and check up on him. Think also of the comic strips of Ludwig trying to help him organize and clean his house and get his finances into check.

Idk how his mom died. Maybe it’s one of those things never spoken about but it was sudden and he was at home when it happened and just remembers it getting super late and dark and him wondering where tf she is each time he’d wake up and him attempting to call her work and go to voicemail each time.

Also back on the topic of his tendencies but Herakles can for sure be the sore loser and jealous type but only depending on whether or not the matter involves Sadiq. Otherwise he’s like eh whatever it’s fine I’ll get it next time) and as I said above he’s also got a somewhat nihilist mindset and wishes to just spend his time doing as he pleases lolll his philosophical info dumps would get mind breaking at times and he just drones onnnn and onnnn and on about it it’s like the kind of stuff that’d make u lie on ur back with ur hands behind ur head staring up at the sky like “yeah……..wow…😕” and would prob put u to sleep cuz he speaks in a slower and softer tone. And you’d prob experience a strange yet vivid dream in the moment. He’s got an ambient and nostalgic feel to his presence that’s hard to explain and melancholy yet oddly calming.

Oh also he still practices Orthodox Christianity besides being an atheist on the most part and not even following any religion or religious rules or moral code bc it’s what he was raised doing with his mom and he feels like it’s what she would’ve wanted lmfaooo I guess it’s for nostalgia’s sake and paying respects to her. Maybe he’s an atheist. Idk. Perhaps his philosophical ideals and stuff he’s learned influences his view on general spirituality and religion so in a way he feels like in the end all gods are all to reach a similar point and intention and are an outer extension/projection of our own subconscious beings and are vessels of hope and focal points for moral code and explanations for the world around us. Or maybe he just views them as beings created to give people’s lives purpose. Or he believes all things at once. Who knows what goes on in his mind.

As for his narcolepsy, his mom may have assumed at first that he was the type of child to nap a lot or that he was lazy, but over time she’d realize something is probably up and would recognize that he wouldn’t be able to help it most of the time and that he actually isn’t the lazy type and works hard when he can. She’d get called by teachers often yelling about his tendency of zoning out and sleeping in class and she’d just respond with “Oh yeah? Well maybe your class isn’t interesting enough if he’s always falling asleep in it!”

So yeah. A load of his life was built around her from the start, and he relied on her for a lot, I mean she’s his mom and all too and the only closer(?) family member in his life given that he’s an only child and has no father. The sudden change of her leaving completely threw his life off course so for years he’s been in some sort of endless state of limbo where he’s both apathetic both saddened yet he might not make it so obvious when around others. He just appears quiet, apathetic and carefree for the most part.