#blu scribbles

[macabreblublu]

Muse

GhostSoap fic

It’s a break day and Soap is bored and moping about in his room. His pal Gaz comes to see the pitiful sight of his friend and tries to cheer him up. A certain someone comes marching down the hall and Gaz unintentionally becomes sort of a wingman which none of them were aware of

Fluff and a teeeny bit of angst

Please be kind, it's my first time sharing a fic I wrote publicly (even though I've written many unposted fics in the past for many fandoms and my writing skills are just ehhhh *cough) but I really do hope you all will enjoy it! And constructive criticism is appreciated but no negativity in the comments

And this is my first time writing for them as well so if it is OOC in any way or the written accents are butchered, please be patient I’m getting the hang of ‘em

Awrite let’s throw my anxiety out the window and let’s get into it-

………………………………………………………………………….

Soap was bored. Bored to the point that he couldn’t even muster up the energy to mess with Gaz.

He was currently on his creaky cot, upside down as his legs rested on the wall and his back and arms spread across the thin mattress. He looked like a child but being in the 141, no one would dare question him.

Except for the ones that are actually in the 141.

Speaking of.

“Oi Soap. The hell are you doin’?”. Gaz, his teammate and beloved friend, came into his room silently and unannounced. Soap must have forgotten to lock his door for whatever curious recruit to catch the undignified sight of him.

“‘M bored Gaz. Bored out o’ my miiind”. Soap whined, knowing fully Gaz saw right through his bullshit. The other man only crossed his arms, his lips upturning in a subtle frown.

“Mate, you never ge’ bored. You normally have plenty of things to do”, Gaz emphasized by extending his arms out, representing the number of things Soap would do or planned. The Scot could only roll his head to the side on his bed, grumbling in a fatigued manner.

“I knowww, but now the purpose of causing chaos has been drained out o’ me. I dinnae feel like myselfff”.

Gaz could only rest his face in his palm, used to his friend’s antics but he still couldn’t help but feel exhausted whenever Soap decided to act like this.

“What’s gotten into you mate…”, Gaz mumbled under his breath, massaging his temples and sighing heavily.

Gaz clicked his tongue.

“Alrigh’, how about you… sketch somethin’?”

“Mmm?...”, Soap only tilted his head upward, his body still in its listless position.

The sight of Soap laying on his bed with such a lethargic atmosphere around him was quite pathetic and almost pitiful if Gaz was honest, and he usually knew what to do to cheer his friend up in rare times like this. But his pocket of ideas were quite dusty now. Soap was the one who routinely had all kinds of turbulent schemes.

As he was pondering on what to propose to Soap, Gaz heard heavy steps outside of the room, where the narrow hall was. And with the weight of the individual, he almost felt it through the floor.

He knew who it was and he knew it was just the right person to cure Soap’s severe case of boredom. But he decided not to say anything, hoping Soap was not responsive enough to notice the person in the hallway until the last second. When the steps were just a few feet away from reaching the small room, Gaz tilted his upper body closer to the door and raised the back of his hand next to his cheek.

He coughed loudly on purpose.

“A–HEM- Eyy is that Ghost I hear?”, Gaz waited for a response from the man outside. In a few seconds, the heavy footsteps slowed down as they reached the door but didn’t stop.

A gruff but clear voice replied from the outside of the room, “Evenin’ Gaz”. A short answer, very much like Ghost. He didn’t stop to peer in the room and see Soap’s miserable state, he just strode past in a marching stance.

Wonder where good ol’ Ghost was headed. Probably off to traumatise faint-hearted recruits for evening drill sessions. Gaz personally wanted to see the result if it ever happened.

At the sound of Ghost’s distinct voice and accent, it was like watching a child hearing the jingle of an ice cream truck tune, moving at breakneck speed. Soap scrambled to roll onto his stomach on the bed, his legs swinging and hitting the thin metal bed frame.

The man didn’t even wince. Once the previously sluggish Scot was now standing in front of the other man, face beaming. Gaz could see how dishevelled his appearance looked. The type of t-shirt that Soap loved to wear that hugged his sturdy form was wrinkled and his usually prominent mohawk wasn’t prism-like. His hair more likely resembled a guinea pig’s ruffled fur.

Gaz wasn’t given any time to react as Soap rushed around his room, harshly opening one of his drawers that stored his coffee-brown sketchbook the size of his hand. He plopped the sketchbook that had many dog-eared pages and corners of dirty or singed sheets of paper poking out in every direction onto his desk. He looked in his cracked mirror and fixed his mohawk and straightened his navy blue t-shirt.

As Gaz stood there stunned by his friend’s astounding speed, Soap said with renewed energy.

“Well Gaz, that is a pure dead brilliant idea! And there goes my muse!”, Soap searched his drawers once again for his pencil. Once he found it, he slammed the drawer close and leapt across the small room to find Ghost. But not before sticking his arm in the room with half of his body outside, “Thank ye Gaz, byee!”. The man in the room could practically hear the wide genuine smile in the sentence. And with that, off went the now cheery Scot.

There’s the Soap we all know.

Gaz, arms crossed back, chuckled to himself.

“Heheh, have fun mate”.

Soap roamed the base, trying to find his gloomy lieutenant. Sketchbook and pencil in one of the large pockets of his cargo pants.

He quickly waved to many of his fellow soldiers who passed by, not stopping for a quick chat. Dead set on his mission to find his muse. He asked a few people if they have seen the whereabouts of Ghost and most of them pointed to the shooting range.

Of course, he was there, most likely letting off steam. Soap jogged to his destination.

Once there, he spotted Ghost immediately. Who wouldn’t from a mile away?

Huge tall lad, built like a bloody fridge and clad in tactical gear even though he was not on a mission. His infamous skull mask ever-present. While others shivered at his presence, Soap felt warmth when near him.

He called out from the entrance of the shooting range, “Ey Ghost!”, to not startle the big man. Not that it was even possible to startle The Ghost but he had a rifle in his hand. Best to be extra careful.

Ghost halted, his neck straightening from its bent position beside the firearm. He looked over to Soap who was making his way over to him.

“Evenin’ Soap”, Ghost lowered his gun but still stood in his prior stance in case Soap just wanted to say hi and he could go back to shooting. But with how the Scot was jogging to him, he might as well put the gun back to entertain whatever Soap was about to do.

“Evenin’! Aye, I’ve got a favour ta ask of ye”, Soap stopped in front of the tall man, a respectable distance between them.

The lieutenant cleared his throat briefly. “What is it, Johnny?”. Now Ghost used his real name, seeing that no one was around to eavesdrop and he felt a bit more comfortable calling Soap his name.

“Could you be my muse? Just for a wee bit o’ time, I feel like sketchin’ somethin’”, Soap pulled his small sketchbook out of his pocket, showing it to Ghost.

Ghost was… surprised? He knew the sergeant asked all kinds of things at the most random times but this was not what he expected.

The Brit tossed that train of thought aside, not wanting to be rude and leave Soap unanswered and seem like an idiot standing there wide-eyed at the man’s request.

“Sure, why no’?”, Ghost simply replied. He walked to the mounted wall racks that had numerous types of firearms lined up next to each other, dusted off the one he just used and placed it on the rack. The shorter man stood there stunned for a moment but then his eyes almost twinkled at that.

“Wow, dinnae expec’ ye ta actually say yes”, Soap smiled. He rubbed the back of his neck, now feeling a strange sense of giddiness.

“I’m no’ doin’ much now, these shots were too easy anyway”. If Soap didn’t know any better, he would think his lieutenant was blatantly showing off. But he had all the right to do so.

He was the epitome of a soldier; executing feats with deadly military precision, efficiency like no other. And the dummies metres away in front of them proved it.

Headshots to each, dead centre and flawless. Maybe one or two bullet holes to where the hearts should be.

“Well, you are the best L.T.”, Soap chuckled. He resisted the urge to rock on his heels, now unsure of how to proceed so he waited for Ghost.

“So ehh, righ’ now then?”, Soap decided to cut the silence before it got any longer. Ghost squared his shoulders, his way of “shrugging”. “Lead the way Johnny”, the taller man raised a hand, pointing to the exit. “Well, to my room then! It’s easier fer me ta concentrate”, Soap spun on his heels smiling but not before realizing what his choice of destination could’ve implied. He coughed after that, feigning it as though he just needed to clear his throat. Definitely not because he felt his face flush the tiniest bit. Luckily his back was turned to Ghost.

He didn’t notice how Ghost’s shoulders jerked at the same sentence, almost immediately after Soap said it.

Did he hear that right? Did Soap have to choose his own room? He felt like backing out and going back to shooting shotguns loud enough to drown his thoughts. But before he knew it, his legs moved him forward, following Soap. On their journey to Soap’s room, Ghost tried his damnedest to not fidget and seem like a teenager on their way to the closet for a ‘seven minutes in heaven’ session. While he tried, thoughts began popping back into his mind.

How did he agree to this? Why did he even agree to this? Sure he humoured Soap a little here and there, especially after Las Almas and became a bit more fond of the fiery Scot but…

Why did he choose him? There were other better looking… people that Soap could use as a muse. Was he ugly? Strange? Maybe that’s why Soap chose him as a muse because he was unusual. Stood out from everyone.

Then a blaring thought came last and flooded his mind.

Soap was going to be closer now that he wanted to sketch him… What if he wanted Ghost to take his mask off agai-

“Alrighty, we’re here!”.

Without even realising it, Ghost was already in front of Soap’s room together with the man. Why did it feel so… he didn’t know how to describe it.

Intimate?

Oh for God’s sake Simon it’s just Johnny and his room. It’s the same as bursting into a room to wake up a measly recruit sleeping in like a-

“Ghost?”.

Soap called him out of his thoughts, opening his door to signal that he is indeed going to have to go into his room.

He took a step in as his thoughts erupted once again.

Right Simon, just get in… Hell what is he supposed to do? Pose? Just stand there? Well, Johnny is going to guide me. Oh hell, why did that sound-

Ghost stiffly stood in the small room, in front of Soap’s bed as the owner shut the door and switched the lights on. He squinted at how close the light was to his face, his height betraying him. “You can sit down Ghost”, Soap gestured to the chair by his desk. The cushion looked flattened, probably from the times when Soap spent doodling in his sketchbook during break days.

It took him three steps to reach the chair. He sat down and then noticed the other man has not sat down anywhere. He seemed to be scanning something, his eyes gliding occasionally to him and around the room.

“Where ‘re you goin' ‘a sit?”. Maybe Ghost should have switched with Soap and sat on the floor or something-

“Ah, ‘m just tryin’ ta see where is the best spot to get the right angle”. Soap seemed to be really serious about this. But then again, Ghost knew that whatever he was passionate about, Soap would do his best to go about it.

“I can just sit on the bed”, Soap finally decided and plopped onto the bed, the frame creaking from the sudden weight. Ghost almost winced at the awful sound of it but he sat still, composed and waiting for Soap’s guidance.

As his companion flipped the many messy pages of his sketchbook, Ghost sat on the chair stiffly, his shoulders tense, his forearms resting on his thighs. He thought about the poses he could be in and which was best for a reference and the least awkward for both of them. Then as if Soap could hear his internal thoughts, he told him, “You can pose however you want Ghost, ‘m just tryin’ ta practice something simple”.

At that simple statement, Ghost tried to think of a pose he could get into long enough for Soap to get the whole gesture and comfortable enough for himself to not think about the awkward tension in the air.

He took a while and thought long and hard about his choices. Until Soap broke his concentration.

“Ah, that’s good Ghost, you can stay like that for a bit”, Soap gave him a thumb’s up and immediately started sketching away.

“Hmm?”.

Ghost looked at himself. The chair’s back was turned to the table and he must’ve unconsciously got his arms onto the desk, leaning back as he did so. His legs were just man-spread in front of him. Overall a very casual pose. And Ghost didn’t even have to think too hard.

That’s one step done correctly Simon. He smiled to himself.

Ghost allowed the tension in his shoulders to dissolve, breathing evenly to steady his nerves. He took in the scent of the room.

Even though Soap was infamous for carrying all kinds of explosives, his room didn’t smell anything like it. It was almost aromatic. Soap did like to spend a little-more-than-normal amount of time in the showers and always came out of the steaming hot room with a pleasant scent and a beaming smile.

Not that Ghost was close enough to smell him directly and definitely not because he even made the effort to remember the specific shampoo he used.

No, it was the heat from the shower room diffusing the smell all around.

Yes, that.

Ghost estimated that he had been sitting here for at least three minutes and noticed Soap’s quick scratches on the paper slow down to more controlled strokes. But then he stopped. He had a pout on his face, tapping the pencil on his chin.

Ghost half-expected the next request coming from Soap but was still taken aback.

“Ey Ghost? Could you take off yer gear? I can’t see the anatomy clearly”, Soap said but added quickly after realising he might’ve made Ghost a bit uncomfortable.

“Only if yer okay with it though, I can manage-

“No, I can take i’ off”.

Ghost still sat in the chair but proceeded to unbuckle his chest gear and laid it down on the desk behind him. Then he moved to unbuckle the ones on his legs until Soap stopped him.

“No no just the top, I can figure out the legs just fine”, Soap made an ‘okay’ sign earnestly before adding, “Thank ye Ghost, you can put it back on once I’m done yeah?”.

Ghost hummed in response, rising from trying to unlatch his knee guards. As he got back to his prior position, Soap “ooh” ed in approval.

“Ahh, that’s braw Ghost, now I’ll get the sketch done nicely in no time!”. Soap grinned and gave him a double thumbs up before sketching away again.

Another thing done correctly Simon, better not mess this up.

Also, what did “braw” mean?

“I gotta say Ghost, you do look good. Without all that tactical gear blockin’ ye”.

Soap continued like he didn’t just compliment Ghost about his looks.

After spending some time with the Scot, he knew he was unabashed at dropping borderline flirty lines or compliments here and there but that didn’t stop Ghost from blue-screening whenever it was directed at him.

Still, he remained composed.

“Keep it tactical, sergeant”.

Soap chuckled. “Just accept it Ghost, why else would I choose you to be my muse?”.

Again, the bloody bastard does it again. Thank god they were having a break day, this would go on forever.

Not that Ghost minded it.

But normally he would be used to people fearing him and whispering all sorts of things about him being the infamous Ghost, lieutenant of the 141 Task Force that made even mercenaries stain their pants.

But this? Small words of admiration from a man who seemed to thaw his cold heart like no other? He felt like he wouldn’t have enough of it. And if he had to be honest, he didn’t want it to stop.

He… liked it-

Stay focused on the objective Simon.

Soap’s pencil strokes seemed to be more minute now, his pencil only focusing on some areas before moving to another one. His wrist rotating, the butt of the pencil moving up and down constantly.

How long has it been? He must’ve been finalising the sketch, he should be done soon.

Ghost checked his watch; it’s been 45 minutes. He didn’t realise time passed so quickly. For some reason, he felt like he could stay a bit longer. Being a muse wasn’t so bad.

Flattering even. Soap didn’t think he was “ugly”, he complimented him twice.

But Ghost knew that Soap was almost done with his sketch and somewhere from deep inside his cold heart, he felt… disappointed.

Why…?

Before his thoughts could continue, Soap called out.

“All done Ghost! I have ta say, I think I did a good job”. The proud artist widely smiled to himself, admiring his work. Extending his book away from his face, viewing it from different angles.

If Ghost dared to think it, it was almost amusing.

“Can I see it?”. Ghost’s voice came out soft, not wanting to interrupt Soap’s joy.

“You sure?”.

Ghost huffed slightly, but no bite behind it.

“I didn’t just sit here for almost an hour just to have a drawing of me butchered”.

I know you did great Johnny. He wanted to say.

“Awrite then, here ye go”, Soap handed the book to him, his calloused fingers almost brushing Ghost’s covered ones. None of them mentioned it. Ghost gently took the book and felt the roughness and smoothness of the papers.

Some pages felt like sandpaper and others as thin as the softest leaf. If he even knew. He can’t recall the last time he felt a fresh plant, being in the military and all only allowed him to feel coarse sand and rough tattered fabric.

He looked at the page Soap was sketching. He was something of an artist himself –having designed his whole left sleeve– and Soap’s sketch was almost a replica of him. And his little touch-ups were quite nice.

Soap got all the shading right, maybe dramatised it at some corners but that gave it a bit more life in a way. Almost like those comic book styles he’d see when he would pass by stores on urban missions. He did get inspiration for his tattoo sleeve from that. Then he looked at the overall pose he was drawn in.

Soap got quite the angle. Ghost could see that his torso looked to be almost exaggerated. Especially his chest and arms. From his shoulders down to his waist, he could see that his long-sleeved shirt was drawn to be snug around his figure. Well, at least that wasn’t far off from the truth. He was a big man and if Ghost had to be honest, most of the attire he owned had always been… just nice. His shoulders were drawn to look strong and sturdy and his arms, lean but a few curves of his muscles were accentuated. And then, his mask. Ghost wondered how he didn’t notice the details put into the darkest part of the sketch. The angle of his head was tilted upwards, just the slightest bit and the folds of his balaclava were sketched delicately. The skull face plate was a nice contrast to the dark shade of the balaclava and inside the eye holes, he could see that Johnny actually cared to add his eyes in.

He even got the shape and proportions right.

It truly was flattering to see the hard work put into this mere sketch of him. And to think this was done on a roughly A6-sized sketchbook in less than an hour.

“Uhh, Ghost? Is the sketch too ugly for ye-

“No.”

Ghost cleared his throat.

“It’s… incredible Johnny, really. I’m…”. Ghost felt speechless. So many thoughts went through his mind and he couldn’t even begin to get one of them out to properly express his gratitude.

He had seen a few posters of himself and his team drawn to look serious, deadly and overall hardened. In Soap’s sketch, it was quite the opposite.

Instead of the rigid stance he would normally be in 24/7, he was relaxed. Soap captured the tension melting away from his shoulders and unclenched fists hanging off the desk’s edge as if it was alive that he felt a sense of serenity just by looking at it.

It was almost, dare he say, tender.

“You sure? You were frownin-

“Yes, I’m sure. I just can’t get the right words out… It’s… wonderful, Johnny”.

Ghost was quick to catch the unfamiliar tone of uncertainty in Soap’s usual proud voice. He wanted to kill that tone that didn’t fit Soap at all.

Now it was Soap’s turn to be left speechless. His mouth was left slightly agape and his eyes widened at how softly Ghost praised his work. He knew his lieutenant wasn’t the best at words besides barking orders that leave you quaking in your boots but he knew Ghost was honest when he got like this. Las Almas thought him that.

Thank ye… Ghost. I’m glad ye like it”, Soap smiled, beaming once again. Ghost felt his heart thump at that smile that resembled the happiest of puppies. He huffed, his version of a chuckle and handed the book to the owner.

“Glad I was done justice by you Johnny, knew I could trust you”. Soap chuckled.

“How about ye keep it then? You seem ta like it a lot”. He held the book in his hand, tapping on the hard thin cover in anticipation.

“I’m no’ a narcissist Johnny, you keep it. It’s your hard work”.

I’m not worthy enough of your gift.

“Ahh c’mon, it’s one of my ways of sayin’ thanks for putting up with my bullshit haha”.

“It’s no trouble”.

Only for you Johnny.

“You keep it. I recognised the work you put in for me. Thought you might want to look up to it when I’m not around”.

Soap chuckled.

“Heh, what do ye mean by that L.T.?...”, he asked, brows beginning to furrow. Soap hoped Ghost didn’t mean anything by that.

“By wha’?”, Ghost replied nonchalantly.

“What do ye mean by ‘when yer not around’?”.

Ghost’s eyebrows rose. That’s what he was focused on?

“You should know Johnny”, he tells him with no bite behind it, “Solo missions for hell knows how long, a stray bulle’-

“No!”.

Ghost was taken aback at Soap’s immediate change in tone, his eyes widened. By then, Soap had lunged from his bed and grasped Ghost’s biceps firmly. Almost like he was about to fall off a cliff and Soap was just in time to save him. That was the force Ghost felt and he had to admit, it hurt.

But not as much as seeing Soap’s expression. He looked like he was afraid of losing him.

He’s sure that was the look. That was what he felt back at Las Almas. When he foolishly separated from whatever was left of his team.

From Soap.

Ghost was extremely tense in Soap’s solid grip and he stayed that way, unsure of what to do in this situation. The other man realised his actions and released his grip, resulting in the both of them sitting in their respective places in awkward silence. Soap resorted to tapping on his sketchbook and Ghost was just about ready to leave the room.

After a few minutes passed by which felt like an unbearably painful amount of time for them, Ghost slowly rose from his seat. He let the familiar tension consume his form again and addressed Soap in an authoritative tone, the way a superior dismissed themself from their subordinate.

“Sergeant.”. He nodded briefly and he turned to the door coolly, unlike his emotions within. Until the man behind him called out.

“Wait!”. Ghost turned. Soap was standing now, an arm shot out towards him but now that he was looking at him, Soap’s arm slowly fell to his side. His fist clenching and unclenching. Like he was unsure of what to do or say. He held his head low, unable to meet his lieutenant's eyes. He shouldn’t have done that, now his efforts to get to know his lieutenant were foiled-

“Johnny”. Soap’s head shot up and was met with the closeness of Ghost’s figure, mere inches away from each other without him noticing. He craned his neck to face Ghost. If his internal emotions weren’t clashing, he would’ve called him a bawbag for being a tree.

“Are you… worried for me, Johnny?”. Ghost asked calmly, standing still but willing his body to release the tension to seem relaxed and not unnerve Soap. He looked uncomfortable enough. Ghost didn’t know what to do. Should he leave? Forget this ever happened to save Soap from prolonged embarrassment? He could do that but it felt wrong to just leave Johnny there. He had to do something.

“You could say I am… We’re a… team, no?”, Soap folded his arms behind his back, not trusting his fidgety fingers to be seen by Ghost. He didn’t know exactly why he burst out the way he did but the way Ghost dropped that so casually as though he accepted his death was literally right around the corner… triggered something in him. He brought his head back down, unable to hold eye contact with Ghost. He felt the slightest bit of pressure behind his eyes, it made his eyes sting.

“Yes we are, but you know casualties should be expected. It should be second nature by now…”. Ghost hated how he couldn’t find the words to comfort Soap but it was the truth. The military was not a place of promises but inevitable death was a well-known fact there. And being in a task force specially formed to handle deadly missions only increased the chances.

Soap stayed silent, his face hidden from Ghost who hadn’t done anything to make a move. Ghost could hear the other man’s soft breathing, that was how quiet it was in the room. Not even the sound of the vent up high in the walls disturbed them. Until Soap mumbled under his breath.

“After what we’ve been through… all that time we spent… all those jokes you shared just to keep me company at Las Almas… Hell, you even distracted me from my bleedin’ arm, practically forgot about it at the time. And now you drop that like I can just forget about it? Like you… you don’t mean anythin’ to me…?”.

Ghost stood absolutely stunned. He didn’t even bother to control how his eyes widened at that confession. It pinched his heart unpleasantly.

“Johnny I didn’t- I didn’t know that you felt that way-

A pair of thick, warm arms crushed him before he could even finish. He let out a sound of surprise and pain, the embrace unintentionally squeezing a bruise on his back from a mission that had yet to heal. But he ignored it, in a way relieved that Johnny made the first move. Despite letting out a metaphorical sigh of relief, he didn’t know what to do with his arms as they were trapped by the other man. Ghost’s left arm instinctively twitched and it caused the other man to loosen his hold, allowing Ghost to move. But to Ghost’s bewilderment, his own arm moved to Soap’s back in an attempt to return the embrace as best as it could. Soap’s face was buried in Ghost’s chest and even though his expression was hidden from him, he noticed the small gesture from the taller man and moved his other arm to allow Ghost to fully embrace him.

He did. As awkward as it was, Soap seemed content with it because his crushing hold relaxed, shifting to a comfortable pressure for Ghost. The taller man kept his arms on the other man’s back, steadying his nerves in hopes of calming his increasingly rapid heartbeat.

Ghost swore he felt his face heat up but he chalked it up to his racing heart pumping blood throughout his body at a concerning pace.

They stood there for a long while, a comfortable silence blessed upon them. Soap chose to keep his face nestled and Ghost felt at peace feeling the pressure of Soap’s warm hug.

“Ahh… that’s a nice sound…”, Soap uttered, a smile evident in his voice. Ghost snapped out of his reverie.

“Hmm?”.

Soap chuckled before answering, “Your strong heartbeat next to my ears… assures me that you’re here and alive…”.

Ghost has been to many bars, too many for his liking and he has heard countless sweet drunken confessions. This was almost like it, but it didn’t sound fake. And he felt satisfied, delighted even that it was directed at him.

“Are you drunk on something Johnny? Are you bein’ for real?”.

“Nah”, Soap turned his head so that his ear was directly on Ghost’s chest, “I’m bein’ serious”. And to tug at the taller man’s heartstrings, he looked up with his eyes and in Ghost’s eyes, he swore he saw them shining.

Yeah, Ghost felt his heart soaring that he got to see this tender side of Soap. And he wanted to waste not a single drop of this sweet taste he didn’t get to savour much as a child. Or in a long time for that matter. He was glad that he got to share this moment with Soap.

More silence before Soap spoke once again.

“Ey Simon, what time is it?”, Soap asked while his cheek was pressed against Ghost’s chest, his arms still around the taller man’s torso.

Ghost felt his heart pick up the pace at the mention of his name. He didn’t want to lift the arm that wore his watch so he searched for a clock in the room.

None. How in the hell can Soap function without one?

He inwardly scowled at the fact that he had to lift his arm to check his watch.

He almost did a double-take. Good lord, it was already 20:00. How long exactly had he spent time here? It didn’t matter, it was a break day and not many knew Ghost’s whereabouts when they were given those days. People think he either isolated himself in the gym or shooting range or somewhere deep within the base and honestly, they’re not wrong. But today, he already had his daily amount of shooting heads off dummies and if it weren’t for Soap pulling him out of his boring routine, he would have gone back to his dark room to drown in his troublesome thoughts.

“It’s 2000”. He wished he didn’t tell the time.

He felt the warmth slipping away from him as Soap unlatched his arms from his torso and Ghost almost stopped him from doing so, his hands faltering mid-air from where they were situated on Soap’s back. He swiftly put them back down to his sides but unclenched his anxious fists to seem composed. He hoped Soap didn’t catch his actions.

“Well, I guess you’ll be off then eh?”, Soap folded his arms behind his back again. He almost had a wistful look on his face. He didn’t need to know that Ghost returned the same feeling internally.

“Righ’... I’ll see you tomorrow then Johnny”. Ghost turned to head out the door but something left in him stopped him. His brain gave him an idea, a chance to spend the rest of the day with Soap.

“Oh hell, I just remembered…”.

“What?”.

A long pause before Ghost replied. “They’re… renovatin’ my room”.

Ghost turned as he heard Soap made a sound of mocking disbelief, a mix between a laugh and a huff.

“The hell are they renovation’ yer room for?”.

Ghost’s gears grinded in his mind, punching it to come up with a credible reason.

“The ceilin’ fell through… Must’ve been the new recruits causin’ a ruckus above”. He cringed at how that sounded like complete and utter bullshit. But Soap didn’t seem to catch on it. In fact, he seemed pleased at it.

“Ah, you know how kids are nowadays L.T. Breakin’ a few buildin’s here an’ there!”, he chuckled before adding, “You’re welcome to bunk in my room for the time bein’ Ghost, I don’ mind”.

Soap didn’t even question it.

Ghost almost clapped his hands at the success of his half-arsed idea that came in the spur of the moment.

But he kept cool to not expose his excitement, threading the waters before diving in completely.

“You sure? Not afraid that I’ll kick your arse out of bed if you slept in in the mornin’?”.

Soap let out a hearty laugh, “Try me Simon, I sleep like a rock”. The smirk that Soap had only accentuated his face and gave Ghost all the more reason to stay in Soap’s room the rest of the evening. He wasn’t planning on going any further than that for tonight – that was for another time and he didn’t plan on it for a while – but for now, he wanted to savour this sweet feeling he had blooming in him before he had to shove it down during the day.

Ghost lightly chuckled, “Oh I’ll try Johnny”.

In the end, both men turned in for the night, freshly showered and tucked in Soap’s creaky bed. They started out with their backs turned against each other but as their slumber deepened, they ended up wrapped in each other’s arms.

Warm and content, smiles subconsciously formed on their peaceful faces whenever their soft breaths tickled each other’s necks.

[silverywillowtree]

Uzi canonically thinks V is hot shitpost doodles go

[lovesickgoose]

Give me a kiss taunt. I'll get kicked for being idle because I'll spend all my time kissing scouts, but it'll be worth it

[sillycoolguy32]

i dont even play tf2 that much anymore these idiots are just stuck in my head

[plushpyromoved]

so that new sniper cosmetic huh?

[thewordinvention]

I drew a little image of a BLU Engineer.

[piopon]

Jskfksgnsiv blus

[theonlil-scribbles]

May as well post.

Might work on it some more, might not.

[blastlight]

I just got a letter that I wrote for myself in 8th grade for a class project. I remember hoping that I'd forget about it by the time I got it, so that it'd be a surprise. Patting myself on the back for that.

They also included a paper airplane named Note-carrier, with only that, the date (6/13/18) and the words 'KEEP this' on it. I can sure do that. (Its nose is already dented, lol.)

[breadbrobin]

the bet

part two

cedric diggory x reader — harry potter

[fem!best friend reader]

summary: the summer is going well. you’re not in love with cedric, and you’re so gonna win this bet. totally. right?

warnings: quite a lot of swearing, betting/gambling, underage drinking, cringey flirting (PLS i wrote this years ago), GOD they’re so in love it’s stupid, minor character death (sort of???), i think i’m a comedian (i’m not), switched from an x oc story so might have a few mistakes oops, mediocre writing (again i wrote this years ago and this is the worst part i think)

word count: 2.7k

(ok first of all tyyyy for the love on the first part i can’t wait for y’all to read part three! there is just one more part after this and it’s the best one imo)

part one

part three

——————————————

The Flowers

Cedric was splayed out on your bed. One of his feet hung off near your head and you was infinitely glad for his quality hygiene.

You were reading the Wizard of Oz again, and he was dutifully drawing something that he refused to show you.

“Okay,” he finally said. “I’m done.”

You finished your page and slipped the bookmark in, turning to him. “Can I see?”

“No, I drew this for you but you’re never allowed to look at it.” he teased, straight faced.

“Never?”

“Never.” He broke into a smile and shoved the sketch pad in your face.

It was a… Well, you weren’t exactly sure what it was. There was some interesting shading, a tuft of what could either be grass or hair and a strange egg shaped blob in the middle.

You hoped your face didn’t show your emotions as you quickly schooled your features into a smile. “It’s great, Ced.”

He had a wide grin plastered on his face as he nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, I know. Now turn the page.”

You did as he said and blinked in shock, your jaw dropping. “There is no way you drew this.”

“I’ve been practising.”

“Have you been taking classes from freaking Van Gogh in between Quidditch practise?” you gaped, looking from the sketch of sunflowers and daisies and his beaming face.

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “An artist never reveals his secrets.”

“I think that’s meant to be magician.”

“Same thing.” he waved her off. “Anyway, I know sunflowers are your favourite, and daisies are my favourite. So I combined them.”

“This is honestly incredible.” you gushed.

“Oh, stop it.”

“No, seriously.” You stood up. “Can I put it on my wall?”

“Go for it,” he beamed, somehow even brighter than before.

You gently pulled the page from the pad and ripped a tab of blu-tack off, sticking it to the wall above your desk. Once it was hung, you stepped back to admire it. “Oh!” you gasped. “You need to sign it!”

Cedric stood up and brushed past you, scribbling his signature on the bottom right corner with a small heart. “Happy?”

“Mhm.”

That should have been your second sign.

They stood side by side and admired it for a moment.

Then you broke the silence.

“I can’t draw for shit,” you laughed. “And look at you. Mister Artist himself.”

“Oh, piss off,” he groaned, hugging your shoulders from behind and resting his chin on your head. “You can sing though. I can’t.”

“Liar.” you scoffed, patting his arm. “I’ve heard you sing. Besides, you’re practically perfect at everything you do.”

Just as he was about to respond, Cordelia burst through the lightly shut door, eyes still red and puffy. The two separated. “Lunch is ready.”

“Thanks, Dells,” he nodded. “We’ll be right there.”

As she left, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and led you out. “God, I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving.”

“Very funny.”

The Second Week

As with most summers, you and Cedric spent almost every waking moment in each other’s company.

Unlike most summers, however, you couldn’t chase the thoughts of a certain bet from your mind.

You knew, you knew, that there was nothing to it. That it was just your friends being annoying and messing with you and everything you’d started reading into was just in your head… But, God, was it hard to remember sometimes.

You were mostly worried that he’d find out. Maybe one of your friends would send you a letter mentioning it? (Not that he’d ever read your letters.) What if Liz came for a random visit? Or worse: what if she told her friends, the Weasley twins, and they came for a visit?

You chased your swirling thoughts from your mind as Cedric walked through the front door, performing the mental equivalent of shoving all of the mess in your room into the wardrobe and hoping it closed right.

“Hey,” you smiled, standing up with your bowl of milk that used to hold cereal. “You’re early.”

“It’s eleven o’clock.”

“Yeah, early,” you shrugged, setting the now empty bowl in the sink. “What’s up?”

“Wanna go into town?” he asked, leaning on the counter and gesturing to the fruit bowl.

You tossed him an apple. “Sure. When?”

“Now?”

You sighed heavily, half-joking. “A bit more warning would be nice. Lemme go get changed.”

“Yes!” he cheered through a mouthful of apple. “You’re the best, N/N!”

N/N? You wondered as she jogged up the stairs. Since when am I N/N?

If you’d been listening carefully, you would have heard Cedric bang his head against the kitchen bench.

The town was quiet as always.

A farmer’s market was dying down, most vendors packing their remaining wares and smiling sheepishly at you and Cedric as you wove your way through the stunted stalls. You purchased a fresh bread roll and split it between you as you walked, both surprised that it was still warm.

“You know,” Cedric said after a few minutes of silence as you left the market and strolled along the main street. “We should do this more often.”

You squinted as you looked up at him, the sun assaulting your eyes. “Really?” you asked dryly. “What, burn ourselves to a crisp and get blinded while we’re at it?”

“No, dummy. Do stuff.”

“What? You don’t like doing nothing with me?” you teased.

“No, no, I love doing nothing with you,” he stole a chunk of bread that you’d been eyeing up. “But I also like spending money.”

“I bought the bread. I was the one who spent the money.”

He gasped, as if he didn’t already know. “What? Really?”

“Shut up, Ced,” you smiled, pushing him and stealing the last chunk of bread from the packet.

You were awake uncharacteristically early, so when you knocked on the Diggory’s front door, Cedric looked supremely confused.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked. “Did someone die?”

“No, why would you— You’re an arsehole, you know that?” you pouted.

“Yeah, I know. Come on.”

He led you down the short hallway and into the living area. You sighed contentedly. The Diggory’s house always smelled amazing; a combination of vanilla, coffee and cleaning supplies that somehow worked. Cedric often smelled similar, you realised. The vanilla that clouded the house seemed to hang around him as well. You shook yourself out of it as he began speaking.

“My dad’s gotten obsessed with the TV,” he admitted, nodding towards the man who was watching with a rapt expression. “He doesn’t really understand it, but he’s addicted. He really likes cricket. Probably because he can’t figure out how to change the channel.”

“Oh, I used to play cricket! I love it so much!” you gushed, joining Amos on the couch. “Who’s playing?”

“England and India,” he said distractedly.

“ODI, T20 or test?”

“Test. We’re on Day Two.”

“So England’s batted?”

“Three-thirty-seven.”

“Not bad,” you squinted at the numbers on the screen, showing one-twenty-eight for six.

“I have no idea what you guys are saying,” Cedric cut in, looking blankly between you two.

“We’re talking sport,” Amos said, almost giddily.

You didn’t spare either of them a glance as the English captain went upstairs for a review. “Yeah, get back in the kitchen. Go make us a sandwich.” you teased.

“I thought you were coming to hang out with me,” he almost pouted.

You finally dragged your eyes from the screen. “But… Cricket…”

He shook his head with a smile. “Right, of course. Two sandwiches coming right up.”

The Moment You Knew

The days seemed doomed to repeat. Groundhog day, your mum had called it. So, when you found a way to rid yourself of the monotony of daily life, you took it without a second thought.

“Mum, please!”

“I don’t know…”

“I’ll even get petrol! I’ll… I’ll… I’ll pay for it myself too!”

“Y/N…”

“Mum,” you pleaded. “It’s just me and Ced. It’s a twenty minute drive and I’ll get petrol on the way back. We’ll be back by four and I’ll wear suitable shoes while driving.”

Whitney pursed her lips in thought. Then she sighed. “Fine. Don’t bother getting petrol, I’ll fill up on the way home from work on Monday.”

You squeaked in excitement, hugging your mum tightly. “Thank you! You’re the best! I love you!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Love you too, hun,” she smiled.

True to her word, you did wear suitable shoes. The drive ended up taking around twenty-five minutes, but you supposed your mother couldn’t fault you for driving just under the speed limit all the way there.

There was a secluded lake you’d found out about from an old magazine in your mum’s collection, when you’d been looking for something, anything, to make your days less boring.

“This is awesome,” Cedric breathed as you broke through the treeline and onto the rocky shore of the small lake.

“Yeah,” you sighed contentedly, breathing in the fresh air.

You set up their towels and supplies in the shade of a tree and pulled off your sturdy shoes.

Cedric pulled his shirt over his head. You would be lying if you said your eyes didn’t catch on his muscles.

“Race you in,” he said as you had your own shirt halfway over your head.

“What?” you asked, hearing him run away. “Oh, you prick!”

You tossed your shirt on the ground, followed by your shorts, leaving you in your swim suit, pouting as Cedric splashed around in the cool, blue water.

You stomped over to the water’s edge, frowning down at him. The rock you were standing on was about a metre above the surface, casting a navy shadow over the rippling water. He waded a few metres out from you.

“You coming?” he asked.

“No,” you pouted, folding your arms. “I don’t swim with cheaters.”

He barked a laugh, swimming over to the edge and pulling himself out. Droplets of water hit your skin.

You backed away. “Cedric…”

He took a step closer.

“Don’t you dare, Diggory…”

He tilted his head, grinning widely as he continued to step closer to you. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“Sure, you don’t,” you pointed at him. “Stay back!”

He laughed and pushed off his heels, springing towards you. Before he could reach you, however, you turned tail and ran, feet skimming over the rocks as you raced for the safety of the towels.

You only managed to get a few steps in before he caught you, his cold arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you off the ground. He spun around, carrying you back to the edge of the water and tossing you into the lake.

You yelped as the cold water hit you, but remembered to hold your breath, your hair swirling around your face in the water. You heard the telltale sound of him jumping in too and forced yourself up to the surface.

“I hate you!” you gasped, pushing your hair off your forehead. “I hate you so fucking much!”

“Liar!” he retorted, shaking his head and sending water droplets flying everywhere. “You love me.”

You didn’t respond for a moment, treading water and staring at him. “You wish,” you finally uttered.

He just smiled.

The days ticked by much faster than expected. Soon, Cedric was waving his parents off on their week-long trip and then hauling his bags over to your house, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What did you do?” you immediately asked when you were alone.

He closed the door gently before skipping over to the bed in the guest bedroom he was staying in. He sat on it cross-legged, still smiling, and patted the mattress ahead of him.

When you finally sat down, he leaned forward.

“Guess what I bought,” he said.

You waited.

“You’re meant to ask,” he sighed.

“Oh, my bad,” you cleared your throat. “What did you bring, Cedric?”

He didn’t answer, simply reaching down to his backpack and pulling out a bottle of firewhiskey.

“That’s it? Oh, you sweet, sweet child,” you teased. “I have three of those in my room.”

“Sorry, N/N, not all of us are casual rulebreakers,” he sniffed.

You pushed his shoulder. “I’m kidding, Ced. I mean, technically, I’m not, but I do appreciate the sentiment.”

He poked his tongue out at you.

The Night Things Happened

The day started like any other.

You and Cedric usually woke up at vastly different times, so when he woke up, he went for a run, had a shower and ate a light breakfast before going to wake you.

A lot of groaning and a few thrown pillows later, you were standing in the kitchen making pancakes.

As you flipped another one, leading to Cedric cheering as if you’d never done it before, Whitney entered the kitchen.

“Morning, you two,” she greeted, kissing your temple and patting Cedric’s shoulder. “Cords and I are going to that Girl Scouts sleepover tonight, remember? So you’ll have to make dinner yourselves.”

“Yup, we know, Mum,” you said, taking the pancake out of the pan and slapping it onto a plate. “We’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you burning the house down. Remember last time?”

“Mum.” You turned to her grimly. “We don’t talk about last time.”

Whitney raised her hands in surrender. “Right, right. But, on a more serious note. I shouldn’t have to tell you not to invite anyone else over and to be in bed by one, should I? And I won’t come home to drunk teenagers all over my house?”

“Nope, we’ll be all good, Ms Ridge,” Cedric shot her a winning smile.

She pursed her lips jokingly. “Mhm… Alright, I trust you two. I’m going to the shops, need anything?”

“We need more eggs.”

“Eggs, got it.”

The night was when things changed.

After Whitney and Cordelia were gone, at least long enough that it was unlikely they’d turn around and come back, you took your first swig of firewhiskey.

It burned its way down your throat, like it always did. Cedric coughed and sputtered, nearly spitting it mouthful out.

You held back a laugh. “You alright, Golden Boy?”

“Shut up,” he seethed, voice hoarse.

You raised your hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I was just asking.”

You sat and ate the pizza you’d ordered already, taking sips of firewhiskey whenever you felt like it.

You closed your pizza box one slice after Cedric did, placing it on top of his on the coffee table. “You good?”

“Great,” he smiled dopily. It seemed the whiskey was hitting him harder than he was letting on.

You smiled back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You took a larger swig of whiskey, shaking your head at the strength. “I just wanna point out that if you get sick, I’m not cleaning you up. Got it?”

“Yeah, got it.” He nodded, looking a little bit more put together. “I’d clean you up though. If you got sick.”

You smiled again. “Thanks, Ced.”

The night was going surprisingly well. You’d turned on the TV, both staring, fixated at Friends reruns, leaning heavily on each other. The bottle was half gone and, as the advertisements came on, you each took another swig.

Cedric was looking at you weird.

You straightened up, frowning in confusion. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he slurred slightly. “You’re just… Fuck, you’re pretty.”

Your heart fluttered. “Oh. So are you.”

He blushed, looking down. “Yeah, I know.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing. “Yeah, I bet you do, Goldie.”

“Goldie?”

“Golden Boy. It’s cute.”

“You’re cute.”

“You’re cute.”

“No, you’re cute.”

“You’re cuter.”

“No, you are.”

“You are.”

“You…” he was very close to you now, his grey eyes darting between you eyes and your lips. “You’re very pretty. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you breathed.

“No, I don’t think you know how pretty you are. Like… When you laugh your eyes light up, and… And when you do that thing when you’re thinking… Where your eyebrow twitches… Oh, and that thing you do… The thing when your favourite songs come on and you tap your legs really fast…”

You swallowed tightly as his hand brushed your cheek. His breath smelled of firewhiskey, but you were sure yours did too.

He wasn’t looking at your eyes anymore. “You’re incredible, Y/N. And you deserve to know that.”

“Cedric…” you started.

“Sh…” he cut you off. He was hardly an inch away now. “Don’t talk. Just…”

Friends came back on the TV.

“Just watch Friends with me.” He leaned back, looping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you flush against his side.

You tried with all your might to ignore your pounding heart.

You weren’t sure if you were going to win this bet after all.

[liquidate-and-melt]

Kholer brings in a large box that smells of gunpowder and chemical reactants. In sharpie there is a scribble ‘do not touch pyro’ kholer is ignoring the warning. They look for a nice place to set them off and see the pretty colors.

@namelesswildchild

@blus-fire-starter

[macabreblublu]

Hi! Still continuing to do my part as a (grieving) Good Omens fan and wanted to share my first ao3 fic!

I wrote this just to heal myself :’) and hopefully others too who are in need of a small comfort fic

Please do share this around if you come across it! And if you are interested in the other things I do, I do art as well! Do check out my blog and the tag “blu art” to see what I’ve created!

Alright hope you lovelies enjoy!

[ladyseaforth]

Feline Arch

Vincent Renzi x reader

——

That feline man slinks to the curb, upon which he sweeps his hand into his grey coat pocket and pulls out a pack of expensive cigarettes. He subsequently pulls out a lighter, the movement liquid smooth and self-assured and velvet.

His silver, boyish head of hair flickers gently in the breeze of the street as his cigarette is lit, the smoke waltzing with the patterns of the air. Yet he is pensive, deep in thought. Upon that pavement, he appears completely absorbed in his own thoughts, completely unaware that he is a very watchable figure. Routine must have gotten the better of him, he comes to that curb, outside the Italian cafe, nearly every other day.

You watch until he inhales one last drag from the cigarette, and look away as he comes back into the cafe.

You have seen him before, but it’s difficult to say if he has ever truly seen you. He may have sighted you, but has he really seen you? His gaze comes in such glimpses. That little notebook he pulls from his pocket takes a significant amount of his sweet attentions.

He has a very serious expression. You want to rub the crease between his brow and light his cigarettes for him. Clasp your hand around his slim, narrow shoulders and slide your chin into the crook of his neck. Imagine the smell of smoke and expensive cologne.

He is a man of good taste, you can tell.

Today, he is wearing a jumper. A sweater. Whatever may suit your vocabulary. It is unusual due to his usual pattern of simple suits and tailored coats. He has a black coffee and a glass of wine on the table before him. He is reading this time.

No haphazard scribbling in that notebook. No serious phone calls before he inevitably rushes off into the busy streets.

You sit behind a glass of red, in a booth on the other side of the quiet room, nursing the scarlet liquid slowly. Your laptop is on the table, the screen light dimming from lack of use. Of stimulation. It is simply there for the random bursts of thought, strands of language that may come to mind as your head wanders.

It is the nature of a writer: waiting for the little things.

“Watching him again? You pervert.” Salomé slides into the other side of the booth, causing you to jump out of your meandering thoughts.

“I don’t blame you for it,” she adds, before you can speak, “If I didn’t have places to be, I would probably be doing the same thing.” Her lipstick smile grows wide and mischievous.

“I do have places to be, I’m just not legally contracted to be at them,” you retort, gently closing the lid of your laptop and picking up the glass of wine.

Salomé rolls her eyes playfully, “Yes, well, we’re all slaves to capitalism, mon ami. Dust we begin and dust we shall return. Now, what red is that?”

You hold the glass up to the light and swill the liquid around a touch.

“Today we return to the merits of Merlot. My writing calls for it. Was simply begging for blood.” You grin back at your friend’s arched eyebrow.

“I see, and is it working?” Salomé gestures to your glass, hand held out in request. You acquiesce and gently set the stem of the glass between her open fingers, watching as she smells the fragrance of the drink and takes a sip.

You shrug lightly, “I can feel it kicking in, it would be doing more if I wasn’t so distracted.” You smirk and turn to give a look to that man, the obstacle to your concentration.

Yet you are met with direct eye contact. And a thin, amused quirk to his lips.

You go visibly rigid and blush as Salomé snorts into the wine at your expense. The man smiles regardless, giving a gentle nod before returning to his book. He runs a hand through his hair as he is reabsorbed into the novel.

“Brilliantly done,” Salomé remarks sarcastically, setting the wine glass back down in front of you. “And a very nice Merlot she is, too.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, replacing your hand around the neck of the glass. You are a grown woman with a career in a foreign city and yet you are defeated by the human trait of blushing.

Salomé cocks her head, surveying your expression. “You overthink,” she says, “And at the end of the day, he is just a man.” She clasps your hand and gives it a small squeeze, patting your fingers before drawing herself up.

“Right, I will see you back at the apartment then. Will you be much longer?” she asks, readjusting her scarf around her neck. You shake your head in response, a small smile playing on your lips.

“Just until this glass is finished.”

Salomé nods, throwing her handbag onto her shoulder. “Parfaite, I will start cutting some vegetables. Will find something to make.”

You wave her off as she departs your booth, her coat tails wavering behind her as she strides across the cafe. As she walks past the man, he glances up at her from his book. You quickly look down before he can catch you watching him again.

You don’t see him turn to look back at you now that you are alone.

You sigh into your wine, reopening the laptop to gaze, eyes glazed over, into the bright screen. This was just taking too long. Nothing was happening. Mental constipation.

With resignation, you tip the rest of the wine into your mouth. It is dry, hints of spice undercutting the flavour, causing you to clear your throat at the sensation.

A light chuckle emanates from across the room. You blink and look up.

The man is smiling wryly into his own glass, the book now closed and abandoned upon the tabletop.

“Difficult day?” he prompts, his English spoken with a heavy French accent, the syllables curving and loose. His fingers run up the bulb of the glass, absent-mindedly tracing patterns into the crystal.

You flash a smile, giving a small cough at the same time. You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear in a moment of loss with what to do with your hands.

“Of sorts,” you supply, giving a self-deprecatory exhale. He arches a greying eyebrow, half-lidded eyes resting upon your face.

“Would you like another one?” he asks, nodding to your now-empty glass. “I can get you another one, if you would like.” He speaks gently, his tone almost betraying a sort of uncertainty. A humility perhaps.

You look down at your hands and back up at him again in a flurry.

“Oh, no. You don’t have to do that. It’s ok, I promised I would leave after this drink.” Your words spilled out in a rush, nervous under the attentions of the handsome stranger and his offer.

He laughs at your response, nodding his head. “Understood, do not worry.” His expression is modest and sweet.

You give a small, breathy laugh in response, a ‘thank you’ in a whisper, and shut your laptop screen. Bowing your head, you pack away your things into your bag and begin sorting your coat and scarf. You look up subtly to glance at the man who has returned to his reading, taking a sip of his wine. White, looks like a Sauvignon Blanc.

As you walk to exit the cafe, you see he is watching you out of his peripheral vision. You decide to take a chance.

“What white is that you have? It looks nice,” you softly inquire, surveying his face reproachfully. He looks up at you, eyes taking in the way you stand over him. Becoming such a presence without meaning to.

He smiles to himself, “Just the house Sauvignon, nothing special.”

You nod awkwardly in response, slightly surprised that he settles for the house wine.

“I will try it next time I come,” you reply, smiling as his lips quirk into a slight grin. Both knowing it will be soon. Perhaps even the next day.

“Good,” he answers, “It is good.” His face flushes slightly with his quick response and subsequent clarification.

You take a step towards the door, taking hold of the handle and pulling it open to a rush of cool outdoors air. You hear his voice behind you.

“It was nice to meet you…” his words drift off. You turn and give your name, before waiting expectedly for his response. He blinks as he remembers himself.

“Vincent,” he supplies. You imagine his name in a multitude of different circumstances. Imagine saying it into the crook of his neck. As he smokes.

“Vincent,” you affirm, smiling, nodding then stepping out the door. The cold air is stark upon your blushing face. It will be a long night of placing his name to new fantasies.

Vincent watches you disappear into the buzz of the city, before returning to his book and waiting for the next case to come.

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Summary: It’s been five years since Izuku has last stepped foot there, but the words Aldera Middle School still bring him an unprecedented amount of dread. It’s accompanied by middle school reunion scribbled underneath which has the added bonus of making Izuku want to go hide under Iida’s desk and not come out. He puts the letter, unopened, on his desk and resolves not to think about it. “You’re just going to let them win?” …Izuku resolves to not think about it for the two seconds that Kacchan allows him not to think about it. or: Two years after graduating UA, Aldera Middle School hosts its first middle school reunion in honor of not one, but two former students graduating and becoming pros. Izuku’s not quite sure he even wants to go, until suddenly he does.

Author: @blu-eh

[someconfusedastronaut]

Scribbled on the back: the BLU Scout, by unintelligible , Robot War (unintelligible - unintelligible), Teufort

This is my first time doing perspective and I’m actually pretty happy about how it turned out :D

Under the cut is the unfiltered version.

[seraphim-coinz]

Um, hi. Could I possibly have an npt pack based around art or writing?

Thanks,

- 🌙🖌️ (if that anon tag isn't already taken)

System Names: The Artists. The Author Collective. The Playwright System. The Producers. The Designing Collective. The Artsystem. The Wordsmith System.

Names: Author. Rein. Opal. Smith. Scribble. Doodle. Vel. Nova. Wright. Antoinette. Poet. Journal. Muse. Pixel. Aes. Etica. Sculptesse. Graphic. Pic.

Pronouns: Quill/Quills. Ink/Inks. Cre/Creates. Glitter/Glitters. Paint/Paints. Chu/Chus. Scribe/Scribes. Art/Arts. Craft/Crafts. Glue/Glues. Ribbon/Ribbons. Shine/Shines. Color/Colors. Bow/Bows. Blu/Blushes. Thing/Things.

Usernames: artsyfartsy. scribblescribe. thecreative. littlewriter. paintboy/paintgirl/paintkid. fingerpaintzzz. arthor. artsykiddo. alwayslosingmypens.

Titles: The Most Creative in the World. [Prn] who Creates and Creates. The Wordsmith. [name] the Playwright. [prn] who Fills Exhibits with [prns] Work.

Genders: Glitterlexic. Gendersticker. Artcuddlic. Neonartic. Artsoporine. Artsysoftian. Inkygender. Sculptgender/Sculptergender. Artdeity. Hypercoloric.

Labels: Author4Detective/Detective4Author. Pinkboy. Purpleboy. Purple Gay. Red Gay. Beige Bisexual. Pink Nonbinary. Pink MLM. Man Eating Gay.

#✦☆🌙🖌️anon