lessi

visdev artist | COMMISSIONS OPEN

[undergroundwubwubmaster]

✨️ Twinkle twinkle little star, how the hell you draw an arm ✨️

[whimsydryad]

Andrey being pulled back to sleep after reoccurring nightmares 🥺 he does absolutely love when Alena plays with his hair.

[ephyreart]

executioner ghost x princess ‘witch’ ophelia back at it again 🧚 but also my sweet sunshine by herself 🙂‍↕️ more medieval au soon

[ephyreart]

GREYSCALE COMMISSIONS OPEN

I very much, officially opened greyscale commissions as such. I wanted to compile everything I offer but a separate one for greyscale it is!

l’d appreciate all love and support. Thank you!

You can find my artist terms and other services linked here;

ephyrascomms

commission sheet.

[b33zlebubz]

searchlight

one hundred and sixty five days of darkness. five million people dead. a soldier finds himself stumbling into what he thinks might be the last bit of warmth on earth, tucked away in the dense forest of Alaska.

—kyle "gaz" garrick × reader | coming soon | playlist

[whimsydryad]

Simon and Blue from @rorylovesangst story Burning Hill🥺 Being delulu and imagining them all cozy and happy and safe for once, having fallen asleep while watching a movie.

I absolutely love this story so much and its been a huge source of comfort😭 I just want to say a big thank you to Rory for writing this masterpiece 🙂‍↕️

This was long overdue but the end of last year was a mess and finally got myself enough free time to draw this 😭

P.s: its just how I imagined Blue🥺

[rorylovesangst]

Omg…..this is beautiful

[whimsydryad]

OMGGG IM SO HAPPY U LIKE ITTT😭😭😭😭😭

[ifuhaveghost]

stray

Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!Reader (she/her|boobs'n'vagina) // E 18+ // Anthology Masterlist // AO3

summary: A masked stranger in a pub has nothing to say to you, wants nothing to do with you - right? - and has no plans in sticking around.

But even the toughest strays like to be inside sometimes.

general tags: artist!Reader, strangers to friends to lovers, not not a slowburn, fluff, angst, banter, eventual smut, canon adjacant AU, canon typical themes/topics, soft-for-you-Simon

chapter warnings: mentions of alcohol (we're at the pub)

PART ONE 5k

              1

crack

The tip breaks.

Crumbles, really, scattering fine black dust and some bigger chunks of lead debris all over Dora’s face. It’s been the third time that pencil had broken tonight, the latest instance being by far the most dramatic. Messy. A chunk of the wood casing had come loose with it, all brittle and splintery, revealing its shiny graphite guts. As you pick at it, a nervous itch starts in your fingertips and swiftly creeps up your arm, tempting you to fling the useless corpse of the utensil across the room and be done with it. But you rather not be banned from the premises for skewering one of the pub’s blameless patrons on accident.

Responsible disposal it is.

“Rubbish,” you mumble and place the pencil on the far side of the bench for now so you won’t grab it again by mistake. Then, lifting the paper to your face, you gently blow the mess off the sketch. It still smudges. You might even like it better that way.

Time for a break.

It’s like coming out of a trance. The point of your focus: Dora and Nellie hovering over a game of chess with sharp eyes that hint on their sharp minds and the occasional remark uttered with sharp tongues. They barely move when they play, yet so much is happening in the space between them it fills page after page in your sketchbook. Does about once a week.

Somewhere, a cacophony of laughter erupts. Like a startled pack of wild dogs and suddenly the rest of the world seeps back into your consciousness. Expands from Dora’s and Nellie’s table until there’s a whole pub surrounding you again.

Or what you can perceive of it, tucked away in your little nook in the corner. Strictly speaking, it’s a booth. Or part of it, anyway. It’s just that the table occupying it does not reach all the way back to the bench you’re slouched on. It’s like your personal box seat, the perfect place to witness and scribble away for hours—

“Fuuuck,” you groan moving out of that wicked slouch and your muscles join reality again as well. Damn you, they riot and you try to pacify them, tipping your head to the far left where it stings. Youhold until it starts to fade, then circle it to the right. Hold. Repeat. You stretch your arms towards the ceiling and it crackles along your spine, followed by sweet relief granted by the wonder of decompression.

Across from you, Dora utters a hoarse laugh. “S’ what ya get from playin’ pretzel all night.”

“Aren’t you tired of drawing us two old prunes yet, love?” Nellie follows up.

“Prunes,” Dora huffs, scratching her chin pensively before moving a rook across the board. “Who’re ya calling a prune here, Nell?”

“See,” Nellie turns to you, gazing over the rim of her glasses. “Short term memory on the blink. Clear sign of prunage.”

Dora sputters a curse into her pint, chin glistening with foamy liquid. You know what comes next; it’s as much part of those evenings as the battle worn pieces on the board, the crick in your neck and the thick layer of lead on the heel of your hand. It’s part of why you keep coming back to the Magpie and Thistle each Thursday night.

The Bickering.

They pluck and pick at each other with the devoted precision of those who have taken each other apart more times than could be recounted, seen their best and their worst and decided it was all worth keeping, all worth putting back in it’s rightful place.

It’s a different facet of the unit that is them; sharp tongues, sharp eyes, sharp minds now manifest in shrill ferocity instead of the pondering calm of their game.

You delight in their contrast. Admire their synergy. Envy their intimacy.

“You listenin’, lass?” Nellie frowns in your direction.

You blink, then shake your head. “Rarely ever.”

Dora snorts, but Nellie doesn’t lose the frown. She cares. That too, is why you’re here. “Don’t waste all that time and paper on us. Draw something different for a change.”

Taken aback, you open your mouth to argue, but—

“Like the Grim Reaper over there,” Dora says, voice a low, conspiratorial murmur.

“The… what?”

“Shh…” Dora presses a finger to her lips, then points it across the table, past Nellie, where the partition of the booth cuts off your field of view. Planting your feet firmly to the floor, you push and slide your back up the smooth wood panelling behind you, higher and higher just enough to peek over the edge of it.

“Bar,” Nellie supplies and directs your gaze past two small neighbouring tables, hosting people who are familiar of face if nothing else, to the bar behind. Of the six stools, three are occupied. The two on the far right and… the second from the left.

The sheer size of him draws your gaze in.

You fear for the stool below him, a puny thing made from stir sticks held against the thick, long thighs splayed on the seat with leisure. Blue jeans. Black hoodie. A loose fit around a broad back and shoulders, hood pulled up over his head. Instinctively, your eyes flick to the mirror behind the bar to get a glimpse of his face and—

“Huh…”

— your eyes widen with intrigue. Something you haven’t felt in far too long.

Dora and Nellie chuckle as your hands start to move without you taking your eyes off the man.

 The Grim Reaper.

One hand flips a page in the sketchbook still held against your legs in a weird balancing act while the other crawls along the cushion like Thing in pursuit of finding a different pencil.

For a second, you had wondered if you might be dreaming when you looked for a face and found a skull. One of those dreams that start out the most mundane scenarios plucked from your everyday life until something isn’t quite right, is off, is bizarre. Like something from the deeper levels of your mind, where all the fiendish things dwell in darkness, had found a crack and wiggled its way inside the scene, a harbinger of nightmares.

But no, it’s not that. Not that at all.

He’s wearing a mask. The fine details are hard to see from your spot, but the lower half of his face is hidden by black fabric covered in a print of bones and teeth. While you still grope around for your pencil case, he moves; one arm lifting off the edge of the counter, head tilting back. In the mirror you catch the light seeping below the cover of his hood, making the whites of his eyes flash brightly. It’s brief, a there and gone moment before he resumes his previous position and the shadow falls over his eyes again. But you caught it.

Caught something.

There’s the faint recognition that your heart is beating a little faster, that there’s a tingling sensation between your shoulder blades. You know it well; that rush to capture something quickly before the spark fizzles out and you lose that clear image, that charged visual that’s the distilled essence of a moment that has gone forever.

Knees drawing up on the cushion, you press your sketchbook to the partition and start to draw.

Everything around him fades and blurs out, sounds and movement alike, highlighted by that bright spotlight of your white, hot focus. You map him out with quick, light lines. All angular and sharp, anchoring him to the centre of the page, cut off mid calves just like he’s visible to you past the other tables. Feeling a little jittery with the fear he might get up and leave any second your pencil rushes over the paper in a streak of quick, sharp shik shik shik’s as you bit by bit work more details out of the rough under sketch.

But he’s unmoving, solid, a monolith. Statuesque.

The perfect subject. Doesn’t fidget, doesn’t turn his head left, nor right, only once more tilts it back like before. It’s so brief, you almost miss it. Catching him falling back into his resting state just as you look back up from the page.

“Shit,” you murmur at the missed opportunity to get another glimpse beneath the shadow. It’s late, has been a long day, in a long week, in a long month of the all work and no play-variety, that wasn’t yet over. You’ve been sketching for nearly two hours by now and as you fill in the details of his reflection, you realise the that fog has settled over the memory of those flashing eyes already.

 What started as an urgent, eager flow turns into a back and forth of erasing and sketching, erasing and sketching and you force yourself to stop before the overworked paper can start pilling. A dull pressure settles at the base of your throat.

Frustration.

It’s not bad, you find as you peel yourself away from the partition, from him, and slide back down to the seat to study the sketch.

But it’s not right.

Not a sufficient echo of what you felt when you discovered his presence; intrigue and delight… melancholy and longing. You don’t understand the latter two, are not sure about the direction they are pointing in and that would be fine, would just be one of those mysteries of your soul that you came across every day which eluded solving. But you wanted to be able to remember it. To take it home and file it away safely. To stumble over every once in a while when you flipped through sketchbooks of days past and relive the moments emotional rush, the mystery… sometimes even find clarity through the lens of hindsight or rediscover direction when you felt lost.

But that likely wouldn’t happen if the sketch wasn’t right. If it wasn’t right, all you’d feel upon looking back on it would be the bitter taste of almost. Of slipped away.

Wasted.

With the sketchbook on one thigh and the other leg bouncing quickly, you stare at the sketch and stare at it and stare at it, unblinking, frowning, grinding your teeth, feeling your vision growing thick around the edges—

“You’ll burn a hole in it, love,” Dora says and you close your eyes. Squeeze them shut and rub your forehead with your fingers, pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Come on,” Nellie says, patting the table, “let’s see—“

You stand up so suddenly it startles them both into gaping up at you.

“I need to see his eyes,” you explain before you know you’re saying it. Before the plan had even fully formed in your mind, running on something urgent — be it impulse, intuition or instinct, it doesn’t matter. The women nod as if they understand. You envy that too.

You place your sketchbook on the bench, grab your empty bottle and leave the booth.

              2

The closer you get, the bigger he seems.

It’s a short way, so you don’t have much time to overthink your approach and just slip to his left side with the empty stool in between you. You hover there for a while, turned slightly, hoping to catch his attention, hoping for as little as a sidelong glance, a glimpse of those eyes… but he does not move a muscle.

So you take a slow breath.

“Is that seat free?”

There is a beat of nothing and then there’s gravel. “Yeah,” he says tersely, not doing you the favour of looking your way. But he points with his left past his chest. “So are all of those.”

Banished, you think and shiver. Spellbound by the sound of his rejection - his voice - your intrigue expands like lungs greedy for air.

Both occupants on the far end have left sometime between your first glimpse of him and now. There’s little doubt in you what spot he’d prefer you choose. However there’s no doubt at all that you will be haunted by a ghost with blurry eyes later tonight if you drop it and leave. Nodding determined, jaws clamped shut around that want, you step past his back, choosing the second to last stool three seats down from him.

Placing your empty bottle on the counter, you catch the eye of Linda behind the bar and gesture to order another of the same. So, what now? All you want is a one good look at his eyes… and a few more words. You’d take another rejection, hell, even curses uttered in that voice, sure they would rattle your bones like thunder if he put some determination behind them. But just sitting here, sipping your drink throwing side-eyes across the bar, hoping for a mountain to move? Fat chance.

“Can I buy you a drink?” you ask.

There’s no hesitation this time and more gravel. “Got my own,” he says, lifting the bottle to slosh about two fingers width of pale liquid around.

“Barely anymore.”

“Let’s shorten this.” The bottle comes down with a clunk. His head moves, but barely. Just a fraction, just enough you notice motion below the hood, but not enough for the black fabric to shift and allow you to peek past it. “You wanna know about the mask.”

Not a question. Dry like kindling, and the nettling inflection of annoyance, maybe. You wonder if he had been approached by someone before you.

“Well,” you smile softly, infuse your voice with it. “Since today isn’t any holiday I’m aware of that prompts any masquerade… I am assuming it's to hide your face?”

This time his silence feels scrutinising. Almost itchy, like that heavy, fuzzy feeling when you walk home at night and feel eyes on the back of your neck and—

The mirror.

It had fully slipped your mind, too drawn to the man himself. And sure enough, when you hastily cast your eyes to his reflection they lock with his. And he holds your gaze, stoic yet vigilant and dare you hope… curious?

From here, his irises seem solid black.

Oh my.

Fingers twitch around your bottle, eager to grab a pencil. This should be enough, right? You got what you came for, right?

“M’ not telling you why,” he says eventually and drops your gaze, turning it to his own drink and his head back to its default position.

“I am not asking you why- thanks, Linda” you nod at her as she exchanges your empty bottle for a full one, then quickly find his face in the mirror again. “I was asking you if I could buy you a drink.”

“What for?”

“Oh, uh, I suggest, you know,” you huff a soft laugh, ”drinking… old fashioned and all, I know, but if you’re feeling adventurous,” you shrug and twirl your hand in the air, leaving a small theatrical pause. “I shall, of course, leave it to you what you do with it once it’s paid for.”

The deep, dark eyes find your reflection again. Curious, you decide. Even his voice shows a hint of it, you think, what it utters notwithstanding. “Can buy my own drinks.”

“Evidently,” you tilt your head slightly and smile a little wider. Just can’t help it. “Just a silly common practice for people to get into conversation with strangers in places like this.”

“Ain’t what I’m ‘ere for.”

“And yet… you haven’t told me to fuck off yet.”

Finally, he turns. Just enough to look at you. His gaze wanders from your face down, down, down slowly and evenly, to the tips of your boots then back up where it rests on your face again. Unblinking.

 You came to observe and are now the observed. This must be what it feels like to be pinned down in place like an insect for study. It’s thrilling.

It’s not just shadow shrouding the top of his face. You’d suspected before but see clearly now with the light catching the right side; what skin around his eyes is visible below the mask is covered in black. The slope of his lids, even though obscured by that blackness, seems soft. The left one a tad more lazy than the right. What the light also reveals is a speck of warm, reddish brown iris that turns into the lone centre of your focus for the duration of a long, deep breath.

You were not forgetting this.

You have what you came for. Still, you don’t want to leave just yet. And he has yet to reply. Or it this it? The final silence?

“Do you want me to leave you alone? Just say so and I will-“ your hands leave your bottle to perform a poof gesture in the air. His eyes flick to catch the motion, follow your hands back down to the counter before he settles on your face again. The printed fabric covering his mouth moves ever so slightly, and still, the silence stretches on.

Stretches and stretches until you feel the pull of it on your nerves. Like a warning. Urging you to move, to leave before the moment can tip over, can turn from peculiar to nasty and spoil it all.

Alright, then, you think and finally break away from his stare. It’s only when you’re shuffling on the seat, ready to slip off that he, at last, breaks the silence.

“Why me then?” His finger draws an arch in the air across the room behind. It’s now your turn to follow it with your gaze. “Plenty lads and lasses around to talk to.”

“I didn't say the mask had nothing to do with it... but I'm not pressed on asking why and what for... you keep bringing that up.”

“Right,” he gravels even deeper yet, turning away again. Sliding two fingers under the hem of his mask at the base of his throat, he pushes the fabric up under his chin and pulls it forward without exposing any skin to you. He then slots the bottle neck into the free space and tilts his head back - you recognise that motion from earlier and it feels like finding a puzzle piece - emptying the bottle before he slides everything back in place, swiftly and neatly.

“You intrigued me,” you shrug and take a sip from your own drink, then trace the wet rim of the bottle with the tip of your finger. “Your whole, mh... aura.”

“Aura?” He huffs. “Don’t believe in that esoteric shit.”

“Sensitive about semantics, I see,” you hold up your palms in mock apology. “What about first impressions? You believe in those?”

“‘Course,” he turns back to you, a little more than before and there’s a hint of mirth both in his voice and his eyes. “You're making one right now.” 

“Yeah?” you grin. “How am I doing?”

“Haven't told you to fuck off yet, have I?”

Much of the roughness has drained from his voice, hinting at a smooth and rich timbre buried beneath all that gravel. It has you feeling greedy. Has you wondering how much softer this voice can get, if it is ever fully smooth or always keeps a little of that gritty edge.

“Just saw you and was curious... that such a bad thing?”

“S’ppose not,” he says after a short pause, shaking his head slightly with it. An omen of a gesture if you’ve ever seen one. So small but so final. “But this is heading nowhere than into a dead end. So no point in starting it.”

“Not a the journey is the destination kinda man, are you?”

“No.”

It’s surprising, how hard the twinge of disappointment buries into your sternum as you hear a door click shut that barely had been open to begin with. Silly, really. To approach a masked stranger with the hope of… what exactly?

You got what you came for, after all. And more than that.

“Alright,” you nod, “I shall leave you to it.” You swivel on the seat, then slide down. This time, he doesn’t stop you from doing so. “Thank you,” you say before you step away.

One, two, three steps—

“What for?”

Turning your head to glance over your shoulder, you find him doing the same. “The company,” you say and smile. And then you leave.

                      3

Dora and Nell startle when you suddenly appear again, rushing to squeeze past them and fling yourself into your corner. Your back hits the panelling with a dull humpf and then your fingers rummage around your pencil case; where’s that motherfucking sharpener?

“Are you alright?” Nell asks confused and when you fail to reply, “Something wrong?”

“Did something happen?” Dora chimes in, her tone thick with worry.

But you don’t want to talk, don’t want to explain or share; all you want, all you need is to finish this sketch while his eyes are still vivid in your mind. While the echo of his voice still rumbles around your skull. You groan when you finally find the sharpener wedged between your thigh and the partition.

Dora calls your name and you hold up a hand, pencil already pinched between two fingers. “Shhh,” you hush her, not glancing up in fear their faces will dilute the memory. “I’m fine,” you assure, turning the pencil inside the maw of the sharpener, checking the tip every other rotation. “Just…” you drift off as you flip through the pages to find the drawing of him.

“Mental,” Dora chuckles and then the world shrinks again.

It doesn’t take long. No hesitant back and forth this time. And when you’re done, when all the graphite particles are sticking to the paper in just the right shapes, the aching urgency drains right out of you.

Something warm fills its place, buzzing contently.

“Fuuuck,” you sigh and drop your head back against the wall, draping your forearm over your tired eyes.

It’s done. And it’s good. Feels just right.

“Wanna share?” Nellie asks softly.

Dora huffs, “she better,” then throws you a sidle long glance over the rim of her glasses, smirking.

“Noooosy prunes,” you drawl, smile when they huff some more and hold the sketchbook out for them to see.

They lean in, crane their necks. No busy hands reaching out to pluck the book from you to leave dog ears as they gawk, like some people do. Flicking to pages you hadn’t invited them to. Never, not once, did you have to scold them, or snatch it away quickly before a greasy finger tip could smudge hours worth of work in a few, thoughtless seconds.

It makes you feel safe with them. Makes you feel seen. Respected.

“Haunting,” Nellie says at last, nodding and crossing her arms.

“Tender,” Dora ads.

“I have to piss,” you rasp and they both laugh, loud and cackling as you spring to your feet again.

Out the booth and onwards, past the others that are all occupied but not stuffed like they tend to be on weekends. There’s less going on in the back where some tables are left empty and only one of them is packed; five men, one larger than the next and bustling like twice the number.

The way to the loo leads past that table and as you draw closer, you realise you’ve found the pack of wild dogs that had filled the air with howls and barking every so often tonight. Laughter is rattling all of them - palms slamming wood, elbows knocking sides, fingers ruffling hair - and it’s hard not to glance at such a display of exuberance. One of them, sat at the head of the table, bearded and a beanie tucked just over the tips of his ears is gulping deeply into both of his hands, shoulders hunched and heaving. Next to him to his left and facing your direction, a man with a ruffled Mohawk seems to cry into his pint while the one next to him with thick, black hair slicked back but tousled in the front whispers something into his neighbours ear and—

just when you’re about to slip by, Mr Mohawks face explodes ina fountain of beer; shooting out of his mouth and nose and—

suddenly, the man closest to you jumps out of his chair to avoid the spray, kicking it backwards doing so and while you sway to avoid the chair, you can’t avoid him, colliding with his side - umphf - swaying again, balance all the way off and keeling—

 “Easy, Rudy,” a voice rumbles clear and steady through the commotion and just as sudden as it all began, you’re swaying no more; a firm arm is wrapped around your upper back. There’s coughing in the background and the sound of a palm thumping a back when you find the face of the one who’s holding you steady. “Alright, lass?” he asks with a calm smile and bright blue eyes still damp from laughing.

“Shit, you’re fast,” you say, then huff a startled laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good,” he nods, eyes crinkling around the corners, before he releases you. “Excuse those muppets,” he gestures around the table—

“I am so, so sorry,” Rudy says from your right, face horrified and splattered with beer, just like his shirt—

“S-sorry,” it coughs from the other side. “Didnae mean tae-“ he rasps, nose and chin still dripping. “Bleedin’ Je-esus, Al-“ he turns to the man next to him who still has a hand on his back. “Are ye tryin- tae kill me?”

“Please, forgive us,” Al says into your direction, accent thick, cheeks flushed and grin persistently plastered on his features no matter how much he tries to reel it in. “We’re sorry.”

“Truly,” Rudy says again.

“Very much so,” the fifth one, with big eyes and full lips adds with a sorrowful look that flickers with remnants of laughter and a slight shake of his head.

“It’s alright,” you assure them, chuckling. “No harm done.” You look over to the Scottish fountain, who’s wiping his face with the back of his hand and frown slightly. “Not to me anyway.”

“He’ll live,” the bearded man laughs. “He’s been through worse.”

“Poor soul,” you sigh, then reach into the pocket of your jeans for an half empty pack of tissues. “Here,” you announce, then throw it over to him in a high arch. He catches it easily.

Sniffling, hand pressed to his beer stained heart, he bows his head. “Thanks, appreciate it.”

You return the gesture, then turn to your left again. “Thanks for catching me.”

“Any time,” he smiles, touches two fingers to his brow and flicks them in a small salute before he steps to the side. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” you reply with a smile of your own as you slide past the table at last, sidestepping a small foamy puddle on the floor. A cacophony of variations of good night composed all from deep, strong voices follows you for another few steps of the way and you can’t help but shiver a little as they wash over you.

“The fuck is going on today,” you mutter to yourself as you reach the bathroom door.

“Good save, John,” Rudy’s voice floats over. Grateful.

Grunts of agreement, another small cough.

“Gonna fetch a rag for the mess,” John rumbles. “Don’t lay more waste to the place while I’m gone, yeah?”

You slip through the door and the voices drown out.

              4

The cold water is pure bliss on your hot cheeks.

You watch it drip off your chin in the mirror and the image of Mohawk man’s beer dripping mug creeps into your mind again. Watching a small smile bloom on your face, it spreads wider and wider, summoning a laugh that manifests with a snort and fades out in a few small gulps as the whole scene plays back inside your head.

The steady shhhh of the toilet in the stall behind you stops, restoring the quiet. You listen on for a moment as your own eyes watch you back from the mirror.

This had been his first glimpse of you. Well, sans the dripping, but nonetheless.

‘Ain’t what I’m ‘ere for,’ echoes through your mind and the small twinge of disappointment flares up again. It’s almost niggling, in a way, because yes, there was a presence to him—

‘Aura? Don’t believe in that esoteric shit.’

— a break from predictability, from monotony, but other than that?

He had given you pretty much nothing. Right?

‘This is heading nowhere than into a dead end.’

“So no point in starting it,” you mutter towards your reflection. You sigh and avert your eyes from your own needling gaze before you reach for the paper towels to dry your face.

Outside, the table of the wild dogs is empty. It’s also squeaky-clean and dry just as the floor, chairs all tucked in neatly and square. Like they never had been here in the first place and that hazy, dreamlike feeling is returning as the bar slowly comes into view and there is no masked stranger to be found there anymore.

You stop and blink, swivel your head to the left, to the right. Not a sign.

And then there’s another bark.

Al, you think and you follow the sound, follow more grunts, more laughter, a rogue Oi! like a line of bread crumbs on the ground and you follow them past the row of booths, blinking in disbelieve again as you spot a ruffled Mohawk peak over the partition right next to Dora’s light-grey waves and a beanie across from Nell’s dark-grey curls and three other heads tucked in between, squeezed close and packed tight around the small table and—

Close enough to peek into your niche, your steps falter. Then stop.

You’re faintly aware that your mouth hangs ajar, faintly register the voices of your friends and the strangers, of Dora’s cackling laugh and John’s presence in her usual chair but it’s all crowded out because—

There on your bench, in your corner of your booth sits your stranger—

holding your sketchbook in his hands.

[whimsydryad]

#delicious omg

[ephyreart]

I would very much appreciate the love and support 😭😭, it’s hard out here. Please DM me on instagram if interested!!! My user is same as here! Make sure to check out my commission card as well https://ephyreacomms.carrd.co and perhaps my merch store too https://acggoods.com/store/ephyreart?from=share 🩷🩷🩷

ephyrascomms

commission sheet.

[whimsydryad]

Simon and Blue from @rorylovesangst story Burning Hill🥺 Being delulu and imagining them all cozy and happy and safe for once, having fallen asleep while watching a movie.

I absolutely love this story so much and its been a huge source of comfort😭 I just want to say a big thank you to Rory for writing this masterpiece 🙂‍↕️

This was long overdue but the end of last year was a mess and finally got myself enough free time to draw this 😭

P.s: its just how I imagined Blue🥺

[whimsydryad]

Some Ravyn doodles as i missed drawing him! If you enjoy grumpy and snarky characters haunted by a past they have yet to unravel, Ravyn is just your type🌙

[whimsydryad]

My oc Asteria, princess of Solis☀️

[rorylovesangst]

A Burning Hilll

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is A House In Nebraska by Ethel Cain

tws: anxiety, mention of past trauma.

chapter 6 → chapter 7 -> coming soon

word count: 4k

There’s something inside your head. It’s pulsing and throbbing—living. Breathing. It’s a creature with claws that scratch into the valleys of your temples and the hollow of your skull. It's demanding and relentless. Trying to escape the confinement of your head, much like yourself. The drumming—pounding—is synced with your heartbeat. It pools behind your eyes, molten and desperate for attention. Its lava flows from your temples, turning every coherent thought into ash and stone as it spills from its core. You press your palms into your sockets, desperate to contain it, but the ache seeps deeper, becoming part of you, inseparable as marrow from bone. The room conspires against you—dim yet not dark enough, the morning sun a needle threading through thin curtains, painting streaks of pallid yellow across the walls.

Icy air is slipping through the cracks in the window like a ghost. Unseen and chilling. Its long cold fingers slither under your back and in your hair. When you yawn, it darts into your mouth and down your throat. It finds purchase in your lungs and tickles your ribs. You hiss—it’s enough to remind you you’re just as alive as the creature in your head. Breathing. Living. It’s not, however, kind enough to kill the creature in your head. Not kind enough to snake up your spine and freeze the creature slashing at the walls of your skull with pointy horns and bared teeth. The cotton sheets beneath your hands are soft yet suffocating, unyielding as you tug at them, their smooth fabric a shackle that keeps you bound in place.

Then you see him.

The realization pulls all the blood from your body, leaving you limp and pale: Simon. He’s slouched against the headboard, his breath a steady rhythm that fills the room. His head of messy blond hair tilts slightly to the right, his face caught somewhere between serenity and exhaustion. One arm, tattooed and strong, crosses over his chest, pinning the sheet beneath it like a fortress wall. His ivory t-shirt clings to his frame, each thread stretched taut over muscles that seem to defy the haze of this moment. Everything in your body is buzzing with a slight haze—and you don’t know why. Is it because you don’t know why he’s here? Or is be because he’s here, snoring lightly next to you of all people, and you don’t want him to leave? His sweater lies discarded on the floor, a crumpled casualty of the night, tangled with your boots in a tableau of disarray that tells a story you’re not ready to hear and unsure you want to remember.

Your throat tightens, and even the sound of your own breathing feels intrusive, vulgar against the stillness. The instinct to move, to slip away unnoticed, battles against the leaden weight of your body. The sheets still hold you fast, their grip as unyielding as the moment itself. You’re trapped—in the bed, in the room, in the intimacy of his presence and the heat that radiates through his skin.

“I can feel you starin’,” Simon grumbles, his voice rough-edged with sleep, a low rumble that cuts through the silence. He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t move.

“I’m not,” you lie, the words brittle as they leave your dry lips. It’s a child’s lie, fragile and obvious, and it makes your cheeks burn with the shame of being so easily caught, so easily backed into a corner.

“Mmmhk,” he murmurs, a sound thick with skepticism, a low hum that vibrates through the air. He shifts, rolling onto his side and pulling the sheet with him. You iron grip doesn’t let loose, and before you can stop it, you’re being dragged with it, unmoored and helpless as the fabric tightens and you slide forward, chest meeting his back. His warmth radiates through the cotton, a stark contrast to the gelid air that lingers in the room and nips at any trace of skin it can find. It’s overwhelming—the solidity of him, the way he occupies space without trying. It’s electric, his warmth bleeding through the thin barrier of fabric and into your own. It’s unbearable, not because it’s unwelcome, but because it’s too much—too much to feel, too much to hold.

You scramble away, cheeks burning, the air thick with something unnamed and inescapable. But your escape is nothing short of graceless; You thump onto the floor—it’s wooden and old and bound to leave a bruise on your tailbone. The boards groan and cry as you hastily pick yourself up and grab your shoes.

“Where are you goin’ so fast?” He mumbles with a crinkle of the sheets. You glance back only to find him already looking—brown eyes scanning you as you struggle to slip on your shoes. Navy sheets tucked under his chin as he squints, weary and childish.

The word Home almost slips past your lips, but you swallow it back, choking on the sound, forcing out, “Downstairs.” You creep down the stairs, clutching the banister like it’s your lifeline, cursing each floorboard that groans under your weight.

Olive and Price are sitting at the counter. Olive looks exhausted—curls tangled, mascara smudged under her verdant eyes, a tired haze hanging over her like a cartoon. Price, on the other hand, looks bright-eyed and perky, sipping his coffee with a grin. When you round the corner, he raises his eyebrows playfully behind his mug.

“Glad you two decided to join the living,” Olive rasps, her voice rough from sleep.

Simon’s breath—warm and steady—brushes your neck before you even notice he’s there. He must’ve stumbled out of bed and chased after you.

You don’t say anything, just stand there swaying, feeling like you’re not quite grounded. You don’t realize you’re blocking the doorway until Simon gently guides you by the shoulders, moving you aside so he can squeeze past. That small touch makes the creature in your mind stir, like it’s clawing to rip through everything, to tear out the pieces that matter, leaving you hollow and empty, limp against Olive’s fridge.

“So…” Olive’s smirk is sharp, her eyes glinting with mischief as they flicker between you and Simon. Her voice is light, almost sing-song, but there’s weight in her teasing. “How was the bed?”

“Small.”

The word leaves your mouths in unison. Yours is soft, almost ashamed, while his is gruff and scratchy. Simon is by the coatrack, sliding his Carhartt jacket over his broad shoulders with the ease of someone used to heavy burdens.

Olive laughs, the sound full and throaty, like it’s been pulled from somewhere deep. “I’m sure it was.”

Simon doesn’t respond. His focus shifts to the bowl of keys on the side table, his large hand fishing through the clinking metal until he finds his. “I’m takin’ Blue home,” he mutters, voice low and final, as if he’s declared it rather than offered.

You blink, startled, your thoughts muddled. “What?”

Price raises a brow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Leavin’ so soon?”

Simon ignores both of you, stepping to the door and pulling it open just enough for the cold to invade the room. The wind howls its way inside, snatching at loose papers on the counter and the edges of Olive’s sweater.

“Shut the damn door!” she hisses, crossing her arms like the cold has offended her personally.

Simon glances back, his eyes catching yours for just a moment. “Truck’s startin’. Be out in a minute.” And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a thud that feels heavier than it should.

“One hell of a goodbye,” Price muses, shaking his head.

Olive doesn’t reply. Instead, she rises from her chair, her expression softening as she approaches you. Her arms wrap around you suddenly, catching you off guard. She smells like vanilla and something faintly floral, and for a moment, you’re reminded of something you’ve never had but longed for all the same. You try and breathe her in as deeply as you can as long as it isn’t obvious, yearning for something female. Motherly, even.

“I’m sorry for dragging you here,” she says, her voice muffled against your shoulder. “Thanks for coming, though. I know it wasn’t easy.”

Her warmth should comfort you, but it doesn’t. It only emphasizes the hollow ache in your chest, the void that nothing has ever been able to fill. No amount of tender, love, and care will be able to fill the black hole created by a women you’d never met, just shared her body, her DNA, and stole it from her.

She pulls back, her hands lingering on your shoulders as her eyes search yours. “And I’m sorry about Johnny. He’s not usually…” She trails off, glancing over at Price, who’s scratching his beard absently. “Invasive.”

“It’s fine,” you say quietly, but the words feel thin, insubstantial. In a weird way, you’re glad you don’t remember much of Johnny. Glad you don’t have to overanalyze the why he’d looked past you’re front, picked you apart in his head and turn over the pieces.

“It’s not,” she insists, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Anyway, don’t keep Riley waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

You nod, mumbling a thank you and goodbye before stepping outside.

The cold hits you like a living thing, curling around you like a python, slithering into the warmth of your neck and curling up to steal the heat. Snow whirls in frantic patterns around you, and the air feels heavy, almost suffocating in its chill. The truck idles in the driveway, its black frame cutting against the white landscape.

The passenger door groans as it swings open, the interior illuminated by the faint glow of the dashboard. Tools are scattered across the floor like remnants of someone’s restless hands, and the seat is worn, its leather cracked and peeling.

Simon leans over, his expression impatient but not unkind. “Well? Get in. It’s freezing.”

The words are gruff, but there’s something beneath them—a hint of something almost tender, though it’s so buried you can’t be sure it’s there at all.

You climb in cautiously, the cold leather biting through your jeans. The door closes with a heavy thunk, and the truck groans as Simon shifts it into gear.

The heat from the vents floods the small cab, but you don’t let it touch you. Instead, you press your forehead against the icy window, letting the chill seep into your skin. The snow-covered fields blur past, ghostly and desolate, and your reflection stares back at you like a stranger.

Simon doesn’t speak. He fiddles with the radio instead, the static crackling between bursts of music and talk.

When the truck slows, you glance up and realize you’re not home. The glowing sign of a diner looms ahead, its light casting a pale halo against the snow.

Panic coils in your chest. You don’t have money—not even enough for coffee. You glance at Simon, your voice faltering as you say, “Simon, I— I can’t—”

“We’re eatin’,” he interrupts, his tone steady but unyielding.

He steps out of the truck, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Then, without a word, he turns and holds out his hand.

For a moment, you just stare at it, his palm broad and scarred, open and waiting. You don’t know why, but the sight of it sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with the cold.

Reluctantly, you place your hand in his. His fingers curl around yours, their warmth seeping into your skin, filling the cracks and crevices that have long been empty. There’s a gentleness to his touch, a care that feels foreign, and it frightens you more than it should.

When your boots hit the ground, you pull away quickly, shoving your hands into your coat pockets. His warmth lingers, though, like a ghost.

Inside, the diner is warm and bright, the smell of frying bacon and brewing coffee wrapping around you. A waitress with red hair and freckles smiles as she leads you to a booth. You duck your head, feeling out of place, and pretend to study the menu.

“What’re you getting?” Simon asks, his messy blond hair sticking up in tufts as he peers at you from behind his own menu.

“Just water,” you mumble. “I’m not really hungry.”

Simon lowers his menu, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Before you can protest, the waitress returns.

“Eggs Benedict,” Simon says, his voice firm. “And she’ll have the short stack. Chocolate chips.”

“Simon, I can’t—” you start, but he cuts you off with a glance that silences the rest of your words.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says simply, but there’s a weight to his tone that makes it clear the conversation is over.

You press your hands against your lap, your face hot despite the cold that still clings to your coat. His kindness feels like something dangerous, something that could undo you if you’re not careful.

You slump back against the booth, the stiff vinyl pressing into your shoulder blades. The baby pink sugar packet twists between your fingers, crinkling softly with each nervous motion. Its fragile paper threatens to tear under your grip, a tiny distraction from the silence that stretches between you and Simon. It’s thick, heavy, the kind of quiet that pulls you in and holds you there, making your breath feel like it’s echoing in your own ears.

Simon leans back in the booth, his shoulders stretching the seams of his jacket, the worn fabric frayed at the edges. His posture is loose, casual, but there’s something in the way his fingers tap idly on the table—a restlessness you can’t ignore. His crooked nose casts a faint shadow in the low light of the diner, and his brown eyes drift to the scratched surface of the table as though searching for something.

“You got a tree up yet?” he asks suddenly, his voice breaking through the quiet.

The question catches you off guard. You glance up, your fingers freezing mid-twist. “It was just Thanksgiving,” you mutter, unsure why the question irritates you.

“Most people get one right after,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious.

“Well, I’m not ‘most people,’” you snap, sharper than you intend. “I’ve never had one.”

He raises a brow, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Never? Not even when you were a kid?”

“No,” you say quickly, looking down at the sugar packet in your hands. “Trees weren’t... important where I came from.”

Simon doesn’t respond right away. He leans back further, his head tilting slightly as he studies you. “You should try it. Feels nice, havin’ somethin’ to look at. Somethin’ that feels like it’s just for you.”

“Do you have one?” you fire back, the question more defensive than curious.

He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. Don’t see the point. It’s just me. Don’t need a tree for that.”

The simplicity of his answer stings in a way you don’t expect, a dull ache settling in your chest. You try to think of something to say, something to bridge the gap between you, but the words don’t come.

Instead, you offer your own quiet truth. “I don’t either. Family, I mean. My mom’s gone, and... my dad...” You trail off, your voice barely a whisper.

Simon nods slowly, his expression unreadable but softer somehow. “Sorry to hear that.”

You’re about to respond, but the waitress interrupts, sweeping in with a clatter of plates. Pancakes, golden and steaming, land in front of you, syrup pooling at the edges. Powdered sugar dusts the top like freshly fallen snow.

Simon’s plate is next—eggs smothered in thick hollandaise sauce and limp toast on the side. It looks unappetizing, but he doesn’t hesitate, digging in with the kind of hunger that suggests he’s used to eating quickly, used to not knowing when the next meal will come.

You watch him, unable to look away. The way his jaw moves, the faint clench of his throat with each swallow—it’s all so deliberate, so unselfconscious.

“You gonna eat?” he asks, catching you staring. His voice is low, almost teasing. “S’gonna get cold.”

Embarrassed, you glance down at your plate and pick up your fork. The first bite melts on your tongue, the sweetness of the syrup mingling with the buttery warmth of the pancake. It’s almost too much, too indulgent after going without for so long.

You push the plate toward him. “It’s good. You should have some.”

Simon shakes his head, nudging it back to you. “Nah. You eat it.”

You hesitate but comply, cutting another piece. The hunger takes over, and before you know it, you’re shoveling bite after bite into your mouth, the sweetness grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

“Slow down,” Simon says, his voice softer now, almost amused. His hand reaches out, resting briefly on your wrist to still your fork. “S’not goin’ anywhere.”

You pause, the heat rising in your cheeks. “Sorry,” you mumble, setting the fork down for a moment.

“No need to be sorry,” he says simply, leaning back in his seat. “Jus’ don’t need need to be doing the Heimlich at 9am.”

His words settle over you like the warmth of the diner’s radiator. For the first time in a long while, you feel something close to safe. You take smaller bites, stealing glances at Simon between mouthfuls.

He doesn’t say much, just drinks his coffee—light and sweet, you remember—and watches the snow outside. The quiet between you now is different, less suffocating. It’s not a void but a space where something unnamed lingers.

By the time your plate is empty, you feel both full and hollow, a strange mix of satisfaction and longing. Simon sets his mug down, his eyes meeting yours again.

“You’re quiet,” he says, not accusing, just observing.

You shrug, fiddling with the edge of the table. “Not much to say.”

He doesn’t press, just nods. “Fair enough.”

The silence returns, but this time, it feels okay. For now, the world outside is nothing but snow and streetlights, and inside this diner, it’s just you and him, two strangers trying to fill the spaces in their lives with something that feels like warmth.

Simon slaps a fifty on the table, a silent gesture that says more than any words could. It’s far more than the bill, enough to cover the tip several times over, but he doesn’t seem to care. Rising from his seat, his movements are deliberate but unhurried, and he grumbles under his breath, “Let’s go.”

You follow without hesitation, a shadow trailing behind him as he strides toward the door. Outside, the snow greets you with its icy embrace, the air sharp and raw against your skin. The ground crunches beneath your boots, and the snowflakes cling to your eyelashes, melting into tiny beads of water.

By the time you reach the truck, the chill has seeped into your bones, but Simon’s there, holding open the driver’s side door for you. His gaze is expectant, though there’s no impatience in it.

Climbing into the cab is awkward, the cold stiffening your limbs. You move on hands and knees, careful not to trail snow across the worn leather seats. The interior is cluttered—a heavy metal toolbox wedged against the center, its edges gleaming dully in the dim light.

“Sorry ‘bout the mess,” Simon mutters as he settles into the driver’s seat. The truck sways under his weight, groaning slightly, as if it’s an extension of him—sturdy and weathered but carrying too much.

The engine roars to life, shattering the quiet with its grumble. You instinctively brace your head against the cold glass, prepared for the silence to stretch between you like it always does. But this morning, Simon’s voice cuts through it.

“You keeping that burn clean?” he asks, his tone casual but tinged with something heavier. Concern, maybe.

“Yes,” you reply quickly, though the truth isn’t as neat.

“Y’said it hurt. Last night.”

The words make you blink, your mind scrambling to place them. Last night? You search your memory, but it’s like trying to piece together shards of a broken mirror. “I… I did?”

“You did.” His eyes stay on the road, his hands firm on the wheel. “Started takin’ off your jumper, tellin’ me t’look.”

The words slam into you, and heat rushes to your face. You’re mortified, a knot of panic twisting in your chest. You don’t remember any of this. “I—uh—I didn’t—”

“No. No, I wouldn’t let you,” he says quickly, cutting you off. His voice is firm, but there’s no judgment in it, only reassurance.

You exhale, the breath leaving your lungs in a slow rush. Relief washes over you, and your shoulders loosen as you sink deeper into the seat. “Oh… okay,” you murmur, your voice small but steady.

The cab falls quiet again, the only sound the rhythmic hum of the engine. But then it happens—a tic. It bubbles up unbidden, a squeak followed by a soft hum, your body twitching slightly.

Simon glances at you, his brows furrowing as concern shadows his face. “What was that?”

You stiffen, the familiar shame creeping in like a second skin. “S-sorry,” you stammer, your words stumbling over themselves. “I… I have Tourette’s.”

His expression doesn’t shift, not in the way you’re used to. There’s no disbelief, no irritation, no mocking smirk. Just a simple nod as his gaze returns to the road. “Oh. Alrigh’,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s the most unremarkable thing in the world.

The casualness of his response hits you harder than you expect. When you’d told Ronny, he’d sneered, told you to quit the “weird noises.” Your father hadn’t been any better, his scorn sharp as a knife. You’d tried to stop before, tried to silence the involuntary hums and twitches. You’d pinched yourself raw, zipped your lips shut until they ached, but it never worked.

Simon’s reaction is different. It’s nothing—just a passing comment, a shrug, and a return to the road. But that nothingness feels monumental, like the weight you’ve carried all this time is lighter somehow.

For the first time, the silence in the truck doesn’t feel suffocating. It feels like space—open, endless, and maybe even safe.

But that feeling doesn’t last.

As you bump down your gravel driveway, your heart sinks into your chest as your little shack comes into view. The second the cars in park, you’re scrambling out, but simon’s grabbing you by the wrist before you can slip out.

“Lemme walk you in,” he says, eyebrows knit.

“No!” You say, far too harshly, he can he tell, because he grip doesn’t loosen. “It’s fine. Really.” Youre pleading, but he can tell somethings off.

He slips out of the drvers side anway, leaning against the car has you rush up the steps. And that’s when he notices it.

Your front door is ajar.

He’s bolting up the stairs, but your already there, standing in the doorway, panic written all over your face. He peers in over your shoulder only to see everything is trashed. Small kitchen table flipped over, drawers pulled out, all of their contents scattered through your small space.

Tears flow down your cheeks before your able to stop them, swearing your hands hard across your face to stop them—stop this. To remind yourself it isn’t real. Simon’s hands are turning you around, and for some reason, you let him. Let him wrap you in his arms and pull you into his warm. Let him rub your back as you hiccup.

“What the fuck happened?”

Hey guys….took an almost year long hiatus….sorry about that…………..I love you guys! Didn’t want to make this chapter too sad for your guys sake

[whimsydryad]

She's everything - the goddess he worships✨️🤭

[whimsydryad]

Some Ravyn doodles as i missed drawing him! If you enjoy grumpy and snarky characters haunted by a past they have yet to unravel, Ravyn is just your type🌙

[whimsydryad]

June Commissions - 5 Slots OPEN! ✨

I’m opening 5 commission slots for June! If you’ve been waiting to get some custom art from me, now’s the time🤍

⚠️⚠️⚠️ PLEASE NOTE 👇🏻

Slots are limited and fill up fast, so don’t miss out! DM me to reserve your slot or ask any questions.

✨️What I’ll draw:

Character Art (book illustrations, ocs, DnD, fanart)

Concept Art (landscapes, complex backgrounds, animals, props)

Character Design Sheets

Book Cover Illustrations/Bookmarks/ Sticker Designs/Merchandise

(Please note I draw both sfw and nsfw artworks, so feel free to reach out for any questions)

Thanks again for all the love and support 😽🩷

[whimsydryad]

Wip of the Seraphine outfit sheet I'm finishing up currently👀

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Sabran Berethnet & Ead Duryan✨️

Currently reading The Priory of the Orange Tree (halfway through it) and needless to say, I'm loving it so much! Decided to draw a quick illustration of Sabran and Ead, I'll try to properly render this one when I've more free time 🙂‍↕️