#the last few pages of my sketchbook have been nothing but him

[betty-gb]

My Muse | Luke Castellan

Request: So I’ve have this in the back of my head for a while- so hear me out, Luke x Artist reader(they could be the child of Hephaestus since he’s also the god of art and creativity) reader is sketching next to the lake and Luke sorta stumbles across them drawing 👀

Warnings: none I think, unedited

AN: thank you so much for requesting I hope you like it!! This is sorta a pre-dating thing, crushing on each other. It’s second person, unlike my last one so ig I’ll see which I like better. I’m 99% sure it’s gender-neutral reader and reader is a child of Hephaestus. Oh also I’m so sorry I know nothing about drawing faces I tried my best 😭😭

The breeze was soft, slightly ruffling the worn pages of your sketchbook. Today you had strayed from your usual inspiration, drawing the horizon as opposed to your default muse. Oh to be loved by an artist. All someone would have to do is flip one page to uncover the many portraits of Luke Castellan that lay in the book, to be quite honest you were surprised no one had noticed yet. Well, other than your sister Nyssa, who had sworn to secrecy. As you sketched the fleeting clouds, ink from your hand staining the paper, you felt a presence approaching.

“Hey Luke,” you smiled, not bothering to look up.

“What are you drawing this time?”

“Just the sky,” you looked up at him, “but it’s pretty much done.”

“Draw me next,” his tone was teasing but you could see sincerity in his eyes.

“Draw you?” A small laugh escaped your mouth, if only he knew, “I’m afraid I only draw pretty things.”

Both of you erupted into a fit of giggles when he lightly hit your arm in annoyance.

“But seriously,” he continued, “draw me.”

After a small quirk of your eyebrow, “Alright.”

You began with an outline of his jaw, scolding him to stop moving every few minutes. Most of the times you had drawn him had been from a distance, a memory, or sometimes a picture, so you found ease in drawing the boy when he was seated in front of you. You took this time to admire his features unquestioned. Were his eyes always that pretty? Did his hair always falling in such perfect curls? You felt a slight heat in your cheeks and mentally scolded yourself.

Luke soon grew impatient, the ADHD of all demigods taking over and he began to spew random conversation and fiddle with the nature that lay below him. In due time you had finished a basic sketch of the boy, holding it out for his curious eyes.

He hummed in approval, eyebrows raising slightly, “That’s really good.”

“Thanks,” the blush reappeared.

“You must have a lot of practice drawing me.”

You could tell he was dangling the information in front of you, the glint in his eyes revealing a familiar mischief. Your secret muse was not so secret anymore.

“Nyssa?”

“Ya,” he nodded. A silence fell, not quite comfortable yet not one of discomfort. You sat in contemplation, heart beating at the mere idea of your next words.

“Well, beautiful things deserve to be appreciated.”

There was a beat of silence before the boy’s response came, “l would draw you but I’m not sure I have the talent to do your beauty justice.”

This time the silence was comfortable, both of you blushed with tiny smiles curling your lips.

The moment was broken by a shout of your name. Nyssa, the backstabber. But that was a conversation for another day. She spouted some nonsense about your younger brother needing help with his project before rushing off again.

“Duty calls,” you sighed, lifting yourself from the ground and collecting your book.

“Draw me again sometime?” He smiled from the ground.

“I would have anyway.”

“I know.”

[even-disco-baby]

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hello again, gendarme.” He smiles at you— not from his usual post, but from one of the cafeteria tables. A small sketchbook is laid out in front of him, along with some odd gray sticks.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Compressed graphite. Not quite as bold or blendable as charcoal, but certainly less messy.

EMPATHY — Garte will appreciate it.

“I’d like to talk about the case again.”

“You moved! I didn’t know you could do that.”

“What are you drawing?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “That’s the question, isn’t it?” His smile turns a little rueful. “I found one of my old sketchbooks and thought I’d like to fill the last few empty pages, but I’m finding myself a little… uninspired.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION — The accursed artist’s block. Staring down an empty page only for it to stare back, mocking you.

EMPATHY — He is unsure of himself. He said this was an old sketchbook. Maybe he’s afraid of drawing something new beside his old work and seeing that nothing has changed.

“Ah, yes. Artist’s block. I know it well. In fact, I don’t know when the last time that I actually *made* any art was.”

“You could draw the cafeteria.”

“You could draw one of the other diners.”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “A life drawing exercise, huh? And who would you pick as a subject, gendarme?”

“I don’t know. You’re the artist.”

“Maybe Garte? The skua could be a fun challenge.”

“You should draw the guy with the wig and sunglasses over there. He looks pretty funny.”

“Lena! She’d probably love to model for you. It would take her mind off things.”

“Kim, how about you pose for him?”

[Suggestion - Medium 10] “Why not me?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “No.”

He has nothing more to say on the matter.

“Aw, why not? You’d make a great model!”

Let it go.

KIM KITSURAGI — “I do not get paid to model for portraits. I get paid to solve murders. Such as the one we came here to investigate. Several days ago. Which has not been solved yet, for some mysterious reason.”

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — In case you couldn’t tell, that was sarcasm.

“Come on, Kim. You’re the perfect subject! A true man of the people. And there’s this sort of radiance about you… I can see the portrait already, just looking at you. Really clearly, actually.”

Maybe don’t say that. He’s just not gonna get it.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He shrugs. “Sorry, gendarme. It’s not right to use someone’s image without permission, you know? Maybe some other time.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “No.” And then, a little awkwardly, “But thank you.”

“I don’t know. You’re the artist.”

“How about Garte? Though, you’d have to draw the skua, too…”

“You should draw the guy with the wig and sunglasses over there. He looks pretty funny.”

“Lena! She’d probably love to model for you. It would take her mind off things.”

“Kim, how about you pose for him?”

[Suggestion - Medium 10] “Why not me?”

CHECK SUCCESS

YOU — “Why not me?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He considers you with some amusement, but still, he does consider. “You’re not too busy?”

“On second thought, you’re right, I have some work to do right now. Another time, maybe?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant sighs audibly.

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — What did I *just* say?

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He chuckles to himself, apparently quite tickled by the little comedy act you two are making of yourselves. “Beautiful. Why not? Have a seat. I’ll try not to keep you too long.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Much appreciated,” he says drily.

YOU — [Take a seat.]

SAVOIR FAIRE — Time to strike a pose. Let’s go with something cool. Something that really captures what you’re all about.

ENDURANCE — But make sure it’s something that you’ll be able to hold comfortably.

Wink and shoot him your signature finger guns.

Look at him with big sad eyes like a shamed puppy.

Look thoughtfully into the middle distance, as if contemplating your own future masterpiece.

Stare straight at him with eyes that have seen how this world will end.

Hold your head up high. With *honor.*

Just sit and act natural. No need to put on airs.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He looks you up and down, thumbing his bottom lip. His eyes look brighter and more alert than you have ever seen them. And then, he picks up his graphite and begins to work.

His eyes dart between you and the page, his hand sweeping across the page in bold, practiced strokes. All traces of his earlier hesitation have vanished.

VOLITION — Sometimes, a little push is all we need.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — Every now and then, he pauses to look up at you, and it’s almost unnerving to be the subject of whatever calculations are going on behind his eyes. He holds out his graphite, squinting just slightly.

VISUAL CALCULUS — This is called sighting. He’s roughly measuring the relative proportions of your figure and checking them against his sketch.

KIM KITSURAGI — Even the lieutenant is watching now, interested in spite of himself.

“Are portraits your specialty?”

“Have you been drawing anything for school lately?”

Better not distract him.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hmm…” He ponders this for a moment, not looking up from his work. “Not exactly. I’m more interested in the graphic arts than this sort of thing. But it’s best to build a strong foundation before branching out, you know?”

YOU — “Graphic arts? Like what?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Printmaking.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he speaks, seemingly without him even noticing. “Monotype, especially.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Monotype is a printmaking technique that is singular from other techniques, in that it produces only *one* unique print, rather than an edition of multiple prints.

YOU — What, really? What’s the point of printing it, then?

ENCYCLOPEDIA — I don’t know. I didn’t invent it.

“Why monotype? Wouldn’t a different technique be more… practical?”

“I see.” [Drop the subject.]

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He shrugs slightly, smudging a bit of graphite with a bare finger. “Depends on how you define practical, I suppose. If I had my own studio, and I was selling my prints, then maybe. But we make do with what we have, gendarme.”

EMPATHY — And what he has is very little.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Besides, I think monotype has its charms.”

The young man does not elaborate, instead focusing on the work at hand. He picks up an eraser that has been shaved down to a point for fine detail work, and begins on what are likely the finishing touches.

EMPATHY — He has already talked at uncharacteristic length about this. It’s making him a little uncomfortable.

SAVOIR FAIRE — He doesn’t like to share too much about himself because it makes him feel *uncool.* He prefers to maintain an air of mystery.

RHETORIC — It’s safer, too, that way. He’s learned that passion exists to be exploited. False promises and admiration are the offerings of Sunday friends.

“If you say so.” [Back off.]

“What kind of charms?” [Press on.]

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — His eyes flit back to you, sizing you up now in a different way. And then he looks back down at the page with a quiet bre ath.

“Well, it doesn’t take as much time or labor as other methods. Or expensive tools, or dangerous chemicals. Just paper, a plate, ink, and something to apply it with. And I can use the same plate over and over again, even use it to create different layers for the same print.”

RHETORIC — In other words, it’s cheap and can be done from home. An attractive option.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “And with monotype, it’s not so hard to go back and change your mind. You can start over as many times as you’d like, right up until the moment you lay the page on the plate.”

INLAND EMPIRE — That really does sound attractive. To be able to wipe the slate clean, over and over again…

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “There aren’t as many limits on what kind of textures you can create, too. Brushstrokes and fingerprints… They can really come out beautiful.”

His brow creases a little, and he picks his graphite back up to rework a particular area.

DRAMA — He’s still holding out on you, sire. Too self-conscious to admit what he really likes about the medium.

YOU — Which is what?

EMPATHY — Fragility.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — An image which is only complete after being mirrored and translated, never to be recreated except as a ghostly afterimage. An exercise in surrendering to chance. What will be, will be. And then the moment will pass, and it will be time to start the next piece.

VOLITION — This man knows disappointment intimately. It is his closest companion. He has learned to make peace with it. He passes the time with his Sunday friends, lays his paper on the plate and hopes, despite himself, for the best.

YOU — Is that… a good thing?

VOLITION — …It’s hard to say. But we make do with what we have.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “There.” The young man sits up straight, and it’s only now that you realize just how close he brought himself to his work.

DRAMA — His face may not betray him, but the body does not lie. He was having *fun,* my liege.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “All done.” He tears the page from his book and holds it out to you with a small smile.

ITEM GAINED: Portrait of a Disco Holdover

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hope I didn’t keep you too long.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Don’t worry about it,” Kim says, rather resignedly.

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — If you’d declined, the lieutenant thinks, my partner would have just found some other way to get sidetracked.

KIM KITSURAGI — Still, he cannot stop himself from glancing at the portrait over your shoulder.

PORTRAIT OF A DISCO HOLDOVER — It’s you! Unfortunately. Not even the most masterful hand could make the Expression less unsettling to look at. Your posture is poor, your face is swollen and blotchy, your hair is thinning, your clothes are shabby and out of place… I could go on.

Oh god, you could?

Please don’t.

PORTRAIT OF A DISCO HOLDOVER — But, you know… it’s nice. The smoker’s technique is bold and rather lovely, broad strokes of graphite intersecting in just the right places to create surprising depths. Somehow, even though it’s you… it’s not hideous.

EMPATHY — Because you’re seeing yourself through another person’s eyes.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — There is an odd tenderness to the portrait. Something amusing in your grimace, a touch of sympathy in your hunched shoulders. With the eraser, he has lifted small spots of pigment from your face, as if it were illuminated by flecks of light from the karaoke disco ball.

There are no disco lights tonight, but still, he sees them when he looks at you. Your moment has passed, but it left quite the impression. A ghost print, superimposed over you.

“Not bad, but the bicep girth is off. Right, Kim?”

“Oh god, is that really what I look like?”

“Hmm. It’s okay, but you should consider a backup career plan.”

“Whoa, you’re amazing! Can you draw me again, but this time in the costume from the cover of Man from Hjelmdall and the Devil Woman? And like, with a really cool warhammer? And Queen Lydiaana standing in the background, all like, ‘boohoo, where will I ever find another man like Ha— I mean, the Man from Hjelmdall?’”

“Beautiful.”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — His smile climbs up into the corners of his eyes, warming his entire countenance.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — If you were to capture a portrait of him in this moment, it would be beautiful, too.

[cozage]

Hi! Could you write something with Sanji, Zoro, Law (maybe Izo) with a S/O that likes to do graffiti? Like, they have a small ring notebook (idk if it's this, but it's the one that opens and close and u can put more pages) where they keep their small arts, incluiding their name? Pretty pleasee

A/N: I hope I did you justice!! I kept Izo off because I haven’t met him yet (Still in Wano!) but when I get to him I might revisit this and add it!

Characters: gn reader x Sanji, Zoro, Law

Cw: just cute fluff :) 

Total word count: 600

Graffiti on His Heart

Sanji

He finds your notebook by accident. He was cleaning up your room to surprise you, and found your binder in a pile of scattered files

You found him a few hours later, mesmerized by your drawings. You rush over to him, trying to cover it, but you see him staring at some decorated block letters “Sanji + Y/N” with a heart around it. 

There’s other things around it, quotes you’d heard from the crew and things that happened around the ship that you doodled to make cute page accents, and you can see Sanji’s eyes looking at every single thing you drew, his fingers sliding down the page as he looks. 

“You weren’t supposed to find that,” you say, your hands gripping around your notebook. 

“What?” his eyes are still on your pages even as you take them away. He looks up at you, and it’s like he just realized you were there. 

“Oh, Y/N!” He blushes hard when he realizes he's been caught snooping. “You never mentioned being an artist! This work is magnificent!”

“I dabble sometimes,” you say, closing it quickly. “Nothing fancy.”

“Nothing fancy?!!?” he scoffs. “You could design our logos! You could decorate this whole ship and give it some real character! You should talk to Franky!”

“Oh, thanks Sanji.” His compliment makes you blush. “But I don’t really like to show my work to others or show it off. I just use it as a creative outlet sometimes.”

“Oh!” He looks back at the notebook at smiles. “Well if you ever want someone to show it to, I would love to see the rest of them.”

You sheepishly give the notebook back to him, and the two of you flip through the rest of it together. 

Zoro

Zoro walks up to you while you’re sitting on the deck. “Is this yours?” he asks, holding your sketch binder. “I found it in our room. Never seen it before.”

He opens it and flips through it, and you jump up to grab it. “It’s some really good stuff,” he mumbles, and you snatch it out of his hands and snap it closed. 

“Thanks!” you say, holding it close to your chest. 

“Hey wait, I was still looking!” He reaches out for it but you pull away.

“It’s mine!” you say, taking a few steps back from him so he can’t leap forward and grab it. 

He huffs and rolls his eyes, turning away from you to go back to whatever he was doing. 

“It looked really good,” he called back to you. “I liked the themed pages you made for each crew members. Especially ours.” He winked at you and walked away without another word.

You’ll occasionally find your binder moved from where you last placed it, or find little extra things (like subtle lines or shading) added to doodles as proof that Zoro was occasionally checking it out, but he doesn’t comment on it or tell anyone else about it. He just waits for you to bring it up and show you again before he outwardly comments on how much he likes your work. 

Law

“Law,” you call out, walking into his office. “Have you seen my green binder anywhere?”

“Over here,” he yells from the back room. You walk into his lab to find it sitting on top of his books. He’s measuring out some kind of liquid, focused on getting it perfect. “I really liked what you did with our jolly roger on page three. I was thinking we could adopt it for some of the gear we have.”

“You looked through it?” you gasp, your eyes flicking over to your sketchbook. 

His gaze moves away from the beaker in front of him and over to you for a moment. “Was I not supposed to? It was on my desk.” 

You cursed silently. You had been doodling last night while he was reshelving some books, you must’ve left it behind when you all went to bed.

He stood up, abandoning his project to put his full attention on you now. “I didn’t know you liked to do graffiti and sketches. We could definitely spruce up the outside of the ship soon and use some of your designs, you know? Or have a crew wall in the common area. The names you did on page ten really captured the essence of each crew member, it’d be cool to have that displayed somewhere.”

You feel anxious at the thought, and Law can feel it. “You don’t have to,” he rushes to say. “It’s just a thought.”

“Can I think about it?” you ask, and he nods in agreement. 

“You should show them though. The others. You’re talented, and I’m sure they’d like to see it.”

He goes back to his work, and he doesn’t bring it up again, but he clears off a wall in the common room and sets out some spray paint if you ever feel up for it. And he always keeps his eye out for a chance to steal a glimpse of new work you’ve done in your green binder.

[muddyorbsblr]

the final Lady Sharpe part 4: something to look forward to

Series Masterlist See my full list of works here!

Part of the 500 Follower Celebration Requested by: @ellooo0ooo

Summary: You and Edith make significant progress on your mission to put Lucille behind bars; Thomas makes a confession before you go to sleep

Pairing: Thomas Sharpe x Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: ghosts; a lil bit of steam [let me know if I missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: Reader & Thomas are married; more pining; simp Thomas

The ink had dried enough on the final document you were working on duplicating for tonight that you could group them together and place the original papers back in Lucille's hiding place. Tomorrow morning if ever she were to check on them, she would be none the wiser of what had been transpiring over the last two weeks. You repeatedly clenched and unclenched your fingers, trying to get some feeling back into them after writing with barely a pause for break over the last few hours.

"Tomorrow we'll be done with all the documents," you whispered into the silence, feeling Edith's presence nearby as you made your way to Thomas' workshop. "I'll need you to show me where the phonograph cylinders are hidden, and if you know which one has Lucille's demented confession…"

"I'll show you the way," she confirmed. "And I'll make sure that none of the more…how do I put this…bloodthirsty spirits don't touch you. They tend to be a bit overly protective of their turf."

"The what?" You froze in place at her mention of bloodthirsty spirits. You had enough of a fright when you'd first "met" her and Enola, you might not survive encountering their less agreeable companions. The feel of someone nudging you from behind had you moving down the corridor again.

"Don't you worry about them, Y/N. I'll do my part to keep them away, explain to them that you're our friend, and you'll put an end to Lucille's lifelong murder spree. It might take time for them to fully understand, but they will."

Once you crossed the threshold to Thomas' workshop, you heard the exaggerated groan that belonged to your fleeting husband. Checking the candle in your hand, there was only about a thumb's worth left.

"Right on schedule," Edith remarked before you felt a nudging sensation on your shoulder. "You know he must really care for you if he's willing to endure being with her for the sake of your safety. Before she made him go back out into the city to find a new wife--well, a new victim, he looked gaunt. Almost like he found his life grotesque. Then he came back here with you and…there was color in his face again. Like he's allowed himself to live while he wooed and married you. There's a happiness in him when he's with you that I only ever saw glimpses of back when I was--"

Her words fell dead, but you had a feeling you knew what the sentiment was. Back when I was alive. Back when I was his wife.

"Why Miss Edith Cushing, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were playing matchmaker with your ex-husband and his current charlatan of a wife," you mumbled, trying not to look to deeply into her words, her testimony of Thomas' time before you. You were already having enough trouble keeping your affections for him at bay whenever he engaged in your routine of a kiss to cap off the night, marking yet another rung on the progression ladder. Lucille's incarceration becoming ever closer.

You decided to hide the duplicated papers in between the pages of his sketchbook, thinking the chances were slim that Lucille would look into them since he only kept concept art of the toys he wished to work on within it. Flipping through the pages to evenly distribute the additional papers, you found a set of sketches that had absolutely nothing to do with toy designs.

The last few pages that he'd worked on in the journal were filled with sketches of you. Some depicted you asleep, others as if the image he had in mind was of you next to him at the dining table. And a full page that showed the bedroom you shared with the baronet, you perched on the edge, a light wash of orange painted on the page, like the scene was illuminated by firelight.

That was the day you arrived at Allerdale Hall. The fleeting moments of desirous bliss you had before reality came crashing down on you.

"You say this marriage is all an act for you both now, but it doesn't look that way. Not from where I'm standing…well, floating." Both of you shared a chuckle before she posed a question at you. "Y/N something I noticed at night when he makes his way back to you…there's an excitement in him, as if he can't move fast enough."

"I--I didn't know about that part," you answered her in hushed tones as you made your way to your shared bedroom, maneuvering the barely moonlit halls with what little candlelight remained. "I usually try not to look at him before we sleep. I fail, of course, but I make the effort. Granting his request for a kiss after he washes the night off of him was already a miscalculation on my part--"

"Completely understandable miscalculation," she quipped, managing to quietly open the bedroom door wide open. "Far too handsome for me to even think of knowing any better back then."

"My thoughts exactly," you mumbled, stepping into the bedroom and disposing of the used candlewax before stretching and allowing yourself to relax from the night's clandestine activities. "Goodnight, Edith."

"I'll talk to the spirits inhabiting the corridor where the cylinders are hidden," she offered, a faint whispering joining her once again before you heard her echoing chuckle. "It seems your husband's rushing to make his way to you. You still have quite the night ahead. Goodnight, my friend."

You could feel the fatigue setting in as you let the tub fill for Thomas' bath before putting away your tools and your blades, mentally preparing yourself for another night of insufficient sleep. Just as you had for the better part of the last two weeks.

Right as you made your way back to your side of the bed and shook your hair loose from your bun, Thomas walked through the open door. You gave him a small smile. "I should be done with the documents tomorrow, Edith and I will work on transcribing the recording cylinders that can lead the case more to Lucille than you two days from now at the latest."

"That's wonderful news, darling," he beamed at you, running his gaze over you briefly before walking toward the bathroom. "I shall see you in a few moments," he told you, his voice echoing across the tiles. A few seconds later the sound of the water sloshing and a sinfully satisfied groan filled the room as he sat into the tub. "You truly are a godsend, my wife. Thank you."

You did your best to ignore the fluttering in your stomach hearing him call you that. You wouldn't hear it for much longer with the progress you were making. "You're welcome," you answered back, fighting back your own sounds of relief once your back hit the bed and you allowed yourself to finally relax for the night.

The cumulative efforts of the last dozen or so days seem to have finally taken its toll on you, your eyes fluttering shut as soon as your head hit the pillow. You hadn't been able to hear the sound of Thomas padding his feet on the floor and back to you, or his little gasp as he saw you in your slumbering state.

"No…" he sighed, climbing into bed with you. "Y/N, darling, please tell me you haven't completely fallen asleep yet," he said softly, brushing your hair away from your face.

"Hmm?" You leaned in to his touch, feeling a strange sense of comfort when your cheek rubbed against his slightly calloused hand. "'M awake…" you mumbled, slowly opening your eyes. He gave you a tender smile when your eyes met his, and you couldn't help but return it.

It was only in these moments just before you both went to sleep, your parts in this perilous operation done for the night, that you could allow yourself to almost feel as if you were a normal married couple. Just laying in bed together before going to sleep, sharing a quick goodnight kiss before he pulled you into his arms, cradling you against his chest.

Perhaps even indulge yourself, even for a moment, in the dangerous truth that once this was all over, you would miss these fleeting moments of peace with him. You'd miss how he held you through the night and how you'd wake up wrapped in his arms. How in the last few days he would greet you in the morning with a soft kiss to your nose before you both made your way out of bed and stepped out of your room.

You would miss him when all this was over. When you'd both signed the divorce papers and went on your separate ways, and you were back in your apartment in the city, going to bed alone, you would miss him.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, a small sound coming from the back of his throat as he sighed into the kiss, almost as if he was relieved. "This is the only thing getting me through the nights," he said solemnly, settling more comfortably into the bed as he kept kissing you. "Knowing that this was what awaited me when I get back."

Instead of your usual night routine of a few kisses and he would pull you into his arms, both of you falling asleep to the sound of the other's breath evening out, he moved his body closer, kissing his way to your neck, his hand traveling down the side of your body until it settled at your waist. His lips began to trace along the neckline of your nightgown, the contented hums against your skin combined with the feel of his lips on you had you struggling for breath. "Thomas--"

"It should be you," he whimpered, his exhales warming your skin. "I should be spending my night with you. Laying with you." He kept on kissing along your neckline, his other hand pulling along the string that exposed your décolletage and he immediately pressed his lips to your chest, above your heart. "You're my wife, I should be with you."

He kissed his way back to your lips, your shock from his confession letting his tongue slip past your lips and tangle with your own. It was like flames licked all along your body at the contact, both of you moaning into each other's mouths as your fingers weaved into his onyx curls.

"Thomas, wait--" you tried to say, placing your hands on his chest in a paltry attempt to get him to pause for a moment, failing to fight against your eyes fluttering closed and your entire body melting under him the moment his tongue delicately ran along the roof of your mouth.

"I want to lay with you," he said once he pulled away, looking at you with those wide pleading eyes that likened him to a pup asking for a treat. "May I?"

For the love of all things good in this world say yes, you hissed at yourself. You struggled to breathe properly, fighting against every instinct to give in as he repeatedly whispered "please" into your skin. Trying to not let the curiosity and desire consume you and see how far your husband was willing to go.

This was the fantasy you wanted to lose yourself in, where by some miracle when all this was over and you both made it out alive, that you'd found something with each other that neither of you wanted to lose. That after all this perhaps you could have a life together, preferably far away from Allerdale Hall and the figurative and literal ghosts that roam the corridors.

The fantasy that perhaps when you were both safe from Lucille and she was serving her time behind bars, locked away where she couldn't harm anyone anymore, that Thomas might not want to sign the divorce papers. Because maybe he was falling in love, too.

"We've come so far already, we can't afford to lose focus now," you answered him, your voice coming out so small it was like the words all but refused to get through the lump in your throat. "Once all this is done, and we're free of her, you'll be free to do whatever you please…with whomever you please."

The last part left a bitter taste in your mouth, like it physically pained you to say the words.

"You're right," he sighed, leaning away enough so that he could look at you. The expression on his face was akin to that of a wounded pup, making the guilt and regret from your decision overwhelm your system. "Of course." He moved over to his side of the bed, taking a breath before hesitantly touching his fingers to yours. "May I still hold you?"

You didn't think twice, moving over to him and settling into his arms. "Yes, of course." The words refused to be spoken, but you'd found a strange comfort in his embrace. That despite the very real danger you both found yourselves in, and the looming dire consequences of Lucille and the business end of her cleaver if you made so much as one misstep on this perilous endeavor of yours, you felt almost a safety in his warm embrace.

And while no one would ever be able to get you to admit it, it made getting up out of bed in the mornings near impossible. You didn't want to leave him. You wanted him all to yourself.

All the more reason why you needed to be done with this and go your separate ways. You should never be so selfish as to beg him to stay with you and deny him yet another freedom. So much had already been stolen from him.

He brushed a lock of your hair away from your face before asking softly, "How long do you reckon before Scotland Yard comes here after you send the papers?"

"Not long," you answered him, your words full of confidence in your peers. "I'll include a summary of my findings to help them through the papers I've sent them, process them faster. I'll also try and emphasize the urgency of our situation, that we're currently living in a manor with a woman that has the intention and means, not to mention the stomach, to kill me. That we have very good reason to believe our lives are in imminent danger. Should get them moving pretty quick."

"And what are we to do until they arrive?" You could feel him tensing as he anticipated your response.

Bile flooded your stomach from what you had to tell him. "We keep routine." His beautiful face looked so pained as you said the words. "She has to believe that there's nothing wrong, that everything's going to plan. If she gets even the slightest whiff that we're up to something and she kills me. Maybe even you if she finds out that you helped."

He took a shuddering breath, pulling you closer against him so he could press a kiss to your forehead. "Let's hope they move quickly then," he mumbled against you, pressing more kisses on the same spot as he took calming breaths. "I can barely stomach any more of it." His breath hitched at his words, his tone rife with shame.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, placing your hand on his chest, feeling his pulse sprinting like a madman. "This burden shouldn't be on you. Never should have been. She's stolen so much from you…" Your sentiment caught in the back of your throat as you did your damnedest to fight back tears. "I'll do my best to make sure she doesn't steal any more of your life away."

"What if she figures out what we've been up to? Or if she gets impatient and realizes there's no money coming after all this time?"

It took you a moment before you could answer, the implication hanging over you both now like the Sword of Damocles. "Then Scotland Yard will arrive here to a corpse. Either mine or hers."

Tears welled in his eyes as he pulled you closer, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. "I won't let her hurt you, I swear it." He stole a few more kisses from you before he cradled your head against his chest. "You should sleep, I can feel how tired you are."

"Exhausted," you confessed, settling into his embrace, the comfort from his hold blanketing over you as your cheek rubbed against the soft hairs on his chest. "Goodnight, husband."

You couldn't resist calling him that. In a few short weeks you'd never be able to again.

He pressed his lips to the top of your head, stroking your hair before he whispered, "Goodnight, my darling wife."

As the minutes passed, and the only sounds that filled the bedroom were your breathing and the crackling of the fireplace, Thomas found himself unable to succumb to sleep just yet. He was still riddled with so many questions that he couldn't bring himself to ask you quite yet.

What if by some freak accident of a chance, Lucille comes across one of your colleagues when she runs her errands in the city and they were to mention who you were, and what you did before you married him? What if now that she was armed with this new information, she deemed you too much of a threat and decided to do away with you like she'd done with so many other innocent women?

What if she decided to make it even worse, and ordered him to kill you instead? Spout some nonsensical notion that he needed to get his hands dirty this time around so she could see if he still had the stomach for it?

He knew he wouldn't be able to hurt you, that he would be completely unwilling to. But would he be able to protect you against Lucille?

And the question that had him looking upon the coming weeks with a mix of dread and hope, all depending on how you would react if he were to even muster up the courage to say the words: What if you stayed together after this fleeting partnership of yours? What if you were open to exploring what a life together would truly be like? Move away from Allerdale Hall and find a place in the city?

"What if I begged you not to leave me?" he whispered into the empty silence, stroking the backs of his fingers along your cheek. "What if I've fallen in love with my wife, and I want to turn our marriage into something real?"

A/N: *popping out my head from my writing hidey hole* Well hi there! Been a long while since I updated this story, but I can promise you now…I didn't abandon it 🫡 And we're picking up with our precious meow meow baronet big tiddy goth husband really showing his hand here that he's catching feelings 🥹

everything taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @peaches1958 @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @anukulee @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog

[intimacyequalsdeath]

Will you be my Valentine? Sugar Day 2 Vincent Sinclair

Day 2 of the Will you be my Valentine special! This is a short intro as it's pretty self explanatory <3 Lotta babes like Vincent so here is your food for this month.

Notes: Minors DNI, Fluff, SFW, No real warnings for this one. No specific descriptions or pronouns are used for the reader. If there are pronouns they will be they/them when in reference to the reader.

"Five more minutes, I promise"

That's what Vincent had signed to you about an hour ago when you asked him how much longer he has to work on the newest wax figure for the town. You rocked slightly back and forth on the stool you were perched on, your elbows on the table and your propped up on your hands as you watched him smooth down wax he had just placed onto the arm of the figure.

"Vincennnnttttt" You whined out.

Vincent turned his attention to you for a split second before turning back to the wax, this was his way of telling you that he was listening.

"You said five more minutes like 1876 hours ago"

Vincent huffed out a chuckle at the exaggeration.

"I guess I did say that didn't I?" He turned to sign to you.

"Yeah you did. I love watching you work but you promised me surprises if I waited" This was the truth.

Vincent said in exchange for your upmost patience he would present you with surprises he had been working on for you. You knew Valentine's day was approaching, or at least you thought, keeping track of months in Ambrose is kinda tricky when nothing is up to date, but you figured it had something to do with that.

Vincent's shoulders moved up and down once again in a chuckle before setting his tools down on the table and going over to a corner of his workshop you usually didn't go into.

He came back from said corner with a few small things in his hands and pulled up a stool next to you to present you with them. The first one he placed in front of you was a small wax figurine, upon closer inspection of it you realized it was a small model of your beloved Jonesy.

"It's Jonsey! Vince this is adorable!"

He nodded in agreeance before placing the second thing down in front of you. This time it was what appeared to be one of his sketchbooks though it wasn't one you recognized.

"'Vince, what is this?"

You asked unsure of what he wanted you to do with it. He looked at your for a second before motioning for you to open it. You did as he instructed you to do and were met with pages and pages of sketches and drawings of you from various times you had Vince had been hanging around Ambrose together.

"I've been working on these since last Valentine's day" Vince signed.

"Vince...." You were at a loss for words "These are amazing. I've never had anyone do anything like this for me before."

You continued to flip through the pages of the sketchbook. Sometimes remembering the little dates and events that the sketches of you were from until you came to one in particular. On one of the very last pages of the sketchbook there was one of you unmistakably clad in wedding attire, with a rough background of the church penciled in behind you. You paused and looked back at Vincent.

Vincent made eye contact with you for a moment before shrugging slightly and producing something from his pocket. He produced a simple band, one he had clearly made himself.

"Vincent, a-are you sure?"

Vincent nodded, reaching over for you to take the ring from him.

"It's nothing final, yet. Just more of a promise ring I guess" He signed placing the ring into your palm.

"Then I promise" You said, eyes meeting his as he looks surprised for a moment.

"P-promise?" He says nervously. You nod.

"I promise that when you do have the actual ring, that I will marry you"

Vincent took your hand in his, and slipped the delicate promise ring onto your ring finger. A intimate placeholder and constant reminder of your future with him.

[heyjudeb]

Lake Secrets - Jude Bellingham

Chapter 1: Green is my Favorite Color

Summary: Grace Alexander Arnold, an architecture student, looks forward to a quiet summer at her brother Trent's lake villa. Her plans change when Trent's best friend, Jude Bellingham, arrives with his family. As Grace and Jude spend more time together, a secret romance begins to grow. Amidst the peaceful lake and family gatherings, will their hidden feelings last, or will they fade away with the summer? Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: fluff, slowburn,

Note: This story will start of slow, emotional and angst parts will come in the next chapters, let me know if you like it

“Mom, this room is perfect,” I remarked, turning to see her unpacking her suitcase on the bed. “The view of the lake is incredible.”

She smiled, a hint of satisfaction in her eyes. “I’m glad you like it, Jude. We’ll be spending quite some time here.”

I nodded, shifting my gaze to the peaceful lake outside my bedroom window. It seemed like I had lucked out with the best room in the villa.

When Trent suggested we spend a few summer days here with our families together, I hesitated. We’d never planned trips like this before. But I could use a break, and Mom seemed to like the idea.

“Honey, they’re waiting for us outside for the barbecue. They’ve already started,” Mom interrupted my thoughts. “I better go help Diane with the setting.”

“Okay, Mom. I’ll be down in a bit. Just need to get changed.” She placed the last bag on my bed and left the room.

The fresh air and the natural surroundings were already having their effect on me. I truly needed this break. After quickly changing my clothes, I headed out of the room. The corridor stretched long and narrow, each step echoing with a soft creak. The villa must be huge, with everyone having their own room. Trent, Jobe, my parents, and Trent’s sister all shared this floor with our bedrooms. Family photos adorned the walls on both sides, with many capturing Trent as a baby. I found myself pausing at Grace’s photos too. In every one, she wore a wide smile.

Among Trent’s family, she was the one I knew least. I’d seen her a few times at the stadium, cheering for her brother, but that was about it. Perhaps it was best to keep it that way, I thought, feeling strangely drawn to her. Those green eyes in the photos didn’t help shake the impression of her beauty. But she was Trent’s sister—nothing more.

I stepped out into the villa's backyard, facing the calm lake where everyone was chatting or busy with something. Our dads were at the barbecue, grilling meat.

"There you are, mate. What took you so long?" Trent handed me a beer and gestured to the spot next to him on the couch.

"Had to change quickly," I replied, sitting down beside him.

Across from us, Grace and her mom were deeply focused on a sketchbook she held proudly. Flipping through its pages, she eagerly showed her something, and she smiled, patting her shoulder after each page. “These are amazing, sweetheart. You’re doing a great job.” “Come on, Grace. She’s our mom, of course she’s going to say good stuff. Let me be the judge of that,” Trent teased his sister, who shot him an annoyed look before handing him the sketchbook.

As Trent scrutinized the pages with all the seriousness he could muster, Grace turned her gaze towards me. A light smile crossed her face as she waved. “Hey, Jude. How are you doing?”

Gosh, she’s beautiful. She seemed a bit nervous as she looked at me. I recalled Trent mentioning that his sister was shy and preferred her comfort zone with people she knew well, rather than joining large gatherings like this one. She hardly knew any of my family members that well. “Hey, Grace.” I smiled at her, noticing her shoulders relax slightly in response. “I'm doing well. By the way, I love this place. You guys must have so many memories here. I could tell from the photos in the hallway.”

“Yeah, this house has been around since I was 5, so I've spent part of every summer here for over a decade,” she replied softly, her voice kind. Her green eyes and blonde hair added to her angelic presence.

“Hmm, I think I’ve seen this building before. Are you sure these are your original ideas, sis?” Trent teased, stroking his chin playfully and raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, they are!” She retorted quickly, snatching the sketchbook back from him. Trent burst out laughing and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I’m kidding. These look amazing, sweetheart.” .....

Everyone seemed too full to move after the feast we devoured. Trent’s family was clearly excited to host us, ensuring every dish was served to perfection. My family looked like they were having a blast; Jobe and Trent were constantly cracking up together, seated next to each other at the table, leaving me next to Grace.

I kept telling myself it was just her stunning looks that drew me in. After all, I barely knew her. Was that a problem? If things were to develop between us, it could jeopardize my friendship with Trent. I decided to use this time to relax, enjoy myself with the Arnolds, and leave it at that.

“Let’s play a game, guys,” Trent announced, rising with his wine glass in hand. “I’ll get the cards. Who’s in?”

Jobe immediately agreed, and I nodded in his direction. Grace hesitantly said yes.

“You boys and Grace can play at the other table over there,” Diane suggested, getting up to clear the plates. “I’ll handle this and bring some fruit.” My mom joined her, refusing to let her do all the chores just because we were guests.

“Have you played Uno before, Jude?” Grace asked as we made our way to the table.

“Yeah! I always keep a pack of cards with me when I travel with the team.”

“So, you’re good at it?!” She sounded defeated already, causing me to chuckle softly. “I can never seem to win.”

“We’ll see how bad you are,” I teased, winking at her. She responded with a playful eye roll. “I’ll give you some tricks on how to win.”

As the cards were dealt, Grace kept echoing my advice on how to improve her game. It was endearing to see her across from me, legs crossed in oversized pajamas and a black t-shirt. We played a couple of rounds, and she consistently came close to winning, but Jobe and I managed to steal every victory. Trent, being the sore loser he was, demanded another game after each loss.

“Come on, Trent. They’re too good at this. Just accept defeat, bro,” Grace urged, looking frustrated at the impending loss.

“Fine, this will be the last one, I promise. I can't have this guy remind me of this moment at every chance he gets” Trent relented, pointing at me. I laughed at his outburst and shrugged my shoulders.

I signaled to Jobe to let one of them win this time. Grace seemed intensely focused, her stack of cards dwindling as she neared victory.

“And… UNO!” She exclaimed, clutching her last card to her chest and wiggling her toes with excitement. I couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. 

Knowing she had a red card, I strategically didn’t change the color when my turn came, I wanted to let her win.

“I won! I won!” Grace jumped from her seat and threw her arms around my shoulders. “Thank you for the tips, Jude.”

“Alright, alright! Let’s call it a night. I’m beat,” Trent grumbled, tossing his cards on the table and standing up. Such a sore loser.

Grace released me as she realized what she’d done. “Sorry, I got carried away.” ....

I jumped into bed, feeling tired from the day's activities. The bed was soft, and the sheets smelled of lavender. All the lights were out, the only illumination coming from the backyard porch light and the moon over the lake, casting a serene glow. The view was like something out of a painting.

My eyelids grew heavy, and I was ready to give in to sleep. Trent and I had planned a morning run by the lakeside to stay active during the vacation.

A soft, almost inaudible knock disturbed my drowsiness. Thinking it might be my mom, I quickly got up and opened the door with half-closed eyes.

There stood Grace.

"Hey," she said, already regretting her decision to knock. "I'm so sorry, I thought maybe you were still awake."

I placed a hand on her forearm to reassure her. "Hey, don't worry. I was awake anyway. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," she smiled, her voice quiet. "The thing is, I use one of the drawers for storage in this room." She looked at me, making sure I was okay with her entering. "I need to get something from there. Is that okay?"

"Of course! Anything you need." I quickly stepped aside, motioning for her to come in.

Grace walked in quietly, moving toward the drawer. The soft moonlight highlighted her features, making her look almost ethereal. I expected her to take something essential, like clothes or skincare products. Instead, she took a vintage looking book and handled it with care.

"Got it," she whispered, turning to me with a grateful smile, holind it behind her back quickly. "Thank you, Jude."

"No problem," I replied, trying to ignore how my heart seemed to beat a little faster in her presence. "What book is that?" I really wanted to strike out a conversation with her. She seems like the type of person who would read a lot.

"Well, it's a poem book" she said softly, holding it close to her chest. "It's Bukowski's 'Love is a Dog From Hell' book".

"That's nice," I said, approaching her slowly. She looked even more beautiful under the illuminating light. Being shorter, she had to look up at me, and I could see her eyes even more clearly. "Do you enjoy reading?"

"Yeah," she replied, feeling comfortable to continue after my question. "Especially when I can't sleep. I basically memorized this book a long time ago, but I still like it."

A part of me wanted to tell her how captivating her eyes were, but another part urged me to stay silent. After a brief pause, she seemed to decide it was time to leave.

"I'll just go now," she said, walking slowly toward the door. She turned to face me before leaving. "Thank you again. Have a good night, Jude."

"Good night, Grace," I replied, watching her as she left, feeling a mix of emotions I couldn't quite place. After she left, I crashed onto the bed, determined to fall asleep this time. Our brief interaction brought me a sense of comfort and excitement, the thought of getting to know her more easing my mind. I slowly drifted off to sleep, her captivating eyes lingering in my thoughts.

Gosh, her eyes are beautiful. Suddenly, green became my favorite color. .......... Coming up next: Chapter 2: You Can Trust Me Warnings: fluff, slowburn, emotional moment, anxiety I would appreciate a comment letting me know if you like it or not. It will motivate me to continue writing. Thank you :)

[alwritey-aphrodite]

Hiiiii!!! I’ve got a whole book load of ideas for this pathetic man named Carmy Berzatto but this one’s been in my head for a while. Basically they aren’t together (yet wink wink ;)) but reader keeps a sketchbook around and has a few drawings of Carmy because how can you not wanna draw his sad doe eyes. One day they leave it behind and Carmy finds the drawings and is flustered that someone would wanna draw him.

He can also confront reader for some tension but this boi just needs to be drawn like a French girl and given some love.

Happy writing btw!

Thank you for this request!!! I would love to hear more of your ideas if you’d like to share them hehehe

You are going to murder your best friend.

He’s incredibly irritating, in ways he doesn’t even realize. He’s disgustingly caring, keeping his fridge stocked with snacks and drinks that only you like, remembering books you’d wanted to get and dropping them at your front door, taking you around Chicago to find the best art supply stores. He even comes with you whenever you want to take a trip to the art museum, not because he enjoys the art but because the thought of you being there alone makes him anxious.

Not only is he upsettingly kind, he’s also nauseatingly gorgeous. Sometimes it’s a little hard to look at him, you’re so worried your heart is going to stop. You love every little thing about him, every tidbit and quirk you learn loving stored away in your mind to turn over when you can’t sleep. You can’t stay away from him, but you’re not sure how much more of him you can take.

“Wanna go down to the park with me?” You lean yourself across his counter as he cuts the fruit you’d just bought at the farmer’s market. You’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself, but he didn’t even ask, and you’re sure he knows more than you do when it comes to making produce last longer. Plus, this just means you get to stare at his hands and his arms and that face he makes when he’s focusing.

“Why?” He asks, not even bothering to look up at you, not because he doesn’t care but because he’s desperately trying to impress you with his knife skills, as if he doesn’t run one of the best restaurants in the city.

“I have to practice my figure drawing,” you tap the front cover of your sketchbook for emphasis, hoping he hears the gentle thudding even if he doesn’t see it.

“I’m almost done,” he says, instead of reminding you of how hot it is and how little free time he has, because he’d do anything for you, even if you didn’t ask, even if he only suspected you wanted something, he’d make it happen.

It's not long after that the two of you are sitting on a scorching park bench, roasting underneath the sun. You’re sure Carmy’s bored and sweating, and you know he has a million other things he could be doing right now, but he’s sitting next to you in the blazing heat while you try and find a clean page in your sketchbook.

You flip to a clear page, searching the park for someone interesting to draw when you see a laughing baby a few feet away, the high-pitched noise bringing a smile to your face. You try your best to capture that particular joy that you’re almost certain only babies are capable of feeling, and it’s not your best work, but your only glad was to get more comfortable with live references and exploring emotions. Plus, Carmy is much too distracting. He’s got his head tilted towards the sun, eyes shut against the light that illuminates the slope of his nose and the curve of his jaw, making him look nothing short of godly. You’re not sure how you get away with all this staring, but you don’t want your luck to run out, so you turn back to your paper and search the park for someone else to draw.

After a runner, an elderly couple, and a young woman crying, you close the cover of your sketchbook as your fingers start to cramp. You rest your hands on top of the cover, trying your hardest to deter the breeze from disturbing your pages the way it ruffles Carmy’s curls. As close as you are, you never want Carny to see your sketchbook, beyond the few pages you’ve already shown him.

Most of the pages are full of him, different angles and emotions and parts of his body. There’s a page dedicated to his hands, to his curls, to those beautifully expressive eyes. You’re certain that you could draw him from memory and have every slope and curve and angle be absolutely perfect. Those drawings are your reminder that you’re talented, that you have skills that you’ve practiced for years and years and that your art is good, whether you always think that or not, but you’d die if Carmy ever saw them.

Friends don’t secretly fill pages and pages with drawings of their friend, because it’s strange and a little creepy and reveals feelings you’d rather keep hidden. Really, you’re not sure how you get away with staring at Carny so often, ogling without so much as a glance from him, but you can’t help yourself. You’re friends with the most beautiful man in existence, of course you’re going to stare when he’s focused or distracted and won’t notice the stars in your eyes.

It’s not until hours later, after you’ve returned to your own apartment and you finally get around to unloading the bag you’d been carrying all day, that you realize your sketchbook is missing. You know for a fact that you carried it back from the park, mindful of the reassuring weight of it in your hands, and you immediately know you must have forgotten to put it back in your bag after you’d stopped at Carmy’s to cool down before making your way back to your apartment. You can practically see it on his countertop, all of your most closely guarded secrets left unprotected. You’re halfway through your spiral about needing to pack up and move away forever to save yourself from the mortification of Carmy knowing how you feel when there’s a knock on your door.

You open it without thinking, immediately regretting your decision when you see Carmy on the other side, looking rather disheveled. Your mind comes up completely blank as you struggle to form a sentence, trying to decide between playing it cool and pleading for forgiveness.

“You’re really talented,” he tells you, offering the sketchbook out to you. You can tell by his tone, by the fact that he sounds like he’s choking, that he’s seen the drawings. You take the book, the weight heavy in your hands without any of its security. You feel raw and exposed, ripped apart and stomped on, but you step back and open the door farther anyway, walking towards your kitchen and hoping Carmy follows.

“I’m sorry,” you settle on a simple apology, not certain you’d be able to articulate anything more, because how are you supposed to explain to your best friend that you’re so in love with him you can’t help but commit him to memory, can’t help but fill pages and pages with just his figure because you love him so much it’s like your body and soul are being taken over by some force you’re completely unable to control as your pencil glides across the page?

“Don’t be,” he clears his throat, fingers fidgeting against the back of a chair, “they’re really good,” he pauses, lips working silently like he can’t quite push out the words, “I don’t understand.”

“You’re my muse, I guess,” you force out an awkward chuckle, trying your hardest to be funny so you don’t have a breakdown, “I dunno, it’s just easy for me.”

Drawing him, loving him, comes naturally to you, like it’s something you’ve been doing your whole life. You know him, every slope and curve and angle, every shadow, you know him so well he seems like a part of you. He’s trying to process, you can tell by the way he works his jaw back and forth, and you’d be committing this moment to memory to add to your pages and pages of drawings if you weren’t so nervous. You’re going to have to let him go when all you want to do is keep him with you forever.

“No one’s ever done anything like that.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize lamely, because you’re not sure what else to say.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he clarifies, seeming like he’s finally getting his thoughts in order, “I don’t mind, I just wish I’d known.”

“Well, now you do,” you feel a little stung, wishing for something more than indifference, rage or elation or any strong feeling at all.

“I’ve gotta go, early morning tomorrow,” he says and you just nod, because you’re not sure what else to say. You’re still standing in the kitchen when you hear your door open and gently shut again, leaving you alone once more. You feel weightless and weighed down at the same time, and you speed through the rest of your nighttime routine, desperate to crawl into bed.

It's not until you’re passing by your front door to make sure it’s locked that you see the containers of cut-up fruit Carmy had left for you.

Tagging people who seemed interested :) @onceuponaoneshotfanfic @yxtkiwiyxt @veryprairieberry

[seeminglydark]

Idk if this means anything to you but I'm a comic artist who's had a hard time doing art for a few years. The first four was because of life hardship and lack of time/chronic pain, but now lately I've had time but a mental block. I'm creeping up on 30 and felt bad about myself for "missing out" on my opportunity to be a comic artist. It was really validating to see you post about being 41 (correct me if I'm wrong) especially since you have such wonderful comics that I've been following for a while now. It makes me feel less like I'm wasting my time putting my things in order when I "should" be drawing.

Hopefully this doesn't come across as offensive or anything. It was just comforting and validating. Anyway, big fan! Love your characters a whole lot and hope you have a good day!

Dear Anon

I am 41 years old. I have wanted to make comics my entire life. before my dad got sick, and my childhood kinda fell apart, all i did was draw. after that, i used the stories in my head to cope. life moved on. i was convinced not to accept a partial scholarship to an art school in California. life got hard. i worked at a hotel, and after i escaped an abusive relationship at 22 i hitchhiked/bused far far away to start over. i tried to make comics again, but i had to survive, and so i got another job doing the only thing i knew how to do, hotels. and i worked. and worked. and life got harder and times got heavier and i didn't get time to draw and i worked double hours, 15 to 17 hours a day. and i went four years without drawing a single thing.

i kept working myself into the ground. i was 29 now. i picked up a pen again and drew a red haired boy. he had a hard life and no love and no friends. his problems were on the outside, for everyone to see. he ran away but his problems went with him.

i was 32. surely i was too old now. my time to be an artist was gone. i had no school. no hope. i was so far behind the younger gen i saw online. i cried. all the time. i wrote stories in my email drafts while i worked shifts. i stayed up late trying to learn how to draw again. i cried some more. the boy grew. i called him Fiach. worthy. a raven. later i renamed him Avery. he was like a bird, he had wings, he was my hope. i started writing some friends for him. the people i wished i had around me.

i started finding time and space. i got a new job, something where i was lucky enough to set my own hours. for the first time i had a partner who believed in me. things were hard. but i was drawing now. and that helped.

i went on a road trip and i started drawing pages of an unnamed story on 6 by 8 paper in a sketchbook. i drew 20 of them. 'what could i call this?' i thought. Nothing Seems as Dark...no says my partner. Seemingly Dark. he made me a logo. i was 35. i bought an ipad, i cant do this on paper, its too much story i have too much to say. so i learned how to draw digitally by tracing my own trad art pages.

I spoke to my dad for the last time on June 17th, fathers day that year. he said 'you're good. i'm proud. and you're gonna do amazing things. none of this is your fault. and we will speak again soon.' i didn't know id never hear his voice again. he died a week later.

i turned 36. i kept trying. i'm old, i don't understand the internet. how can i share this?

i stumbled across Lore Olympus. i was introduced to webcomics. id read comics online before but the thought never occurred to me. i opened an account on Tapas. and then i stared at it. what if no one likes it. what if its bad. my art isn't good. i should wait til i'm better. but will i ever really be better? or will i always believe that tomorrow is better? do it now. if even one person gets something out of this story, this story about a boy who is you, a boy who looking for hope, a boy who might make it, then that is enough isn't it.

June 17th 2018 i launched Seemingly Dark.

SD's five year anniversary is in a week. 0ver 700 pages. leaps and bounds in progress with my skills. a printed comic under my belt as of monday. i was always a storyteller. but i was always an artist too.

I am 41 years old, dear anon. I did not truly embark on this journey til i was 35. life got in the way. even now, chronic illness gets in the way. but its worth it. its never ever too late. i believe in you the way my dad believed in me. i reset my life again and again. but I was always an artist. and if thats who you are, and who you want to be, even if things dont go the way you wished they could, you're an artist too.

im 41 years old. i speak about my age, even though i often feel too old to belong in spaces, cuz really, in this case age is just a number. take care of yourself. do what you need to do. and little by little, when your able, carve out your space until it becomes more of a habit. sometimes i think about all the years i lost not drawing or creating. but there's a lot of factors that make me believe had i made my story then, it wouldn't be the story it is now, i needed to live a bit. i needed to find myself. i know this was long, but i just wanted you to see i also had to put my life in order, and getting notes like this reminds me it wasnt at all a waste. im glad i could offer you some comfort. thats honestly the best compliment i could ever receive.

TL;dR I was 35 when i sat down and seriously started making comics, because life always got in the way and so did my confidence. i always feared being too old. im 41 now, still going strong.

[manicrouge]

Champagne Problems

[ᴊᴏʜɴ ᴍᴀᴄᴛᴀᴠɪꜱʜ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ]

[ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛᴇᴅ]: 07/02/24

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: Reminiscing about the past always leaves a bitter taste in Johnny's mouth. Especially when those memories include you.

[ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ]: 5,814

[ᴛᴡ]: hurt and absolutely ZERO COMFORT!!! Mentions/ implications of alcoholism, angst, implied family issues, suggestive content.

[ᴀ/ɴ]: Pain, suffering and agony. You are welcome.

THIS IS A REPOST !! I've had few issues with shadowbans and have moved accounts a few times (tumblr thought I was a bot). Also I would like to have all my work in one place rather than spread across other blogs to avoid confusion !!

ENJOY !!

Please do not post my work to any other platforms, thank you.

He finds it difficult to stomach as he looks out of the window on a train. 

The return from deployment is always bittersweet. In particular, knowing he can return back to his hometown for a short while before having to eventually go back to the base.

But, all of that disappears as he’s sitting on the train, looking out the window as rain bats against it. His eyes can hardly make anything out, it’s far too dark for his eyes to make it much further than the outline of a mountain in the distance. His arms aching and he’s unsure how long he’s been looking out of it. He’s quite sure the sleeve of his jacket is completely soaked from the condensation dripping down the window, pooling on the window sill his elbow is resting on. Still, nothing changes his position, not even the shifts of the cart as it storms along the tracks. 

In his chest, he feels his heart murmur at the thought of getting closer to home.

It’s been a while. 

The silence on the train is unnerving as he turns his eyes away from the window for a moment. Across the aisle from him, there’s another traveller. His head is pressed firmly against the back of the chair as quiet snores escape his open mouth. As he focuses on him, he notes a glistening trail on his chin and grimaces, turning his eyes away from the man, directing his gaze back to the window.

Trains during the night-time are always strange, he was familiar with them when he first joined the army. Travelling to and from always seemed worse during the day, so, he'd opted to stay at the base for an extra day, leaving in the dead of night to catch the last train available home. There was no reason to leave during the day because at night, he knew he could sleep away all the worries, arriving home well rested. 

But then something changed.

After another op, he returned to his schedule of sitting on the train at night, looking down at the sketchbook resting against the table in front of him. Holding a pencil in his hand, he busied himself with a sketch of a familiar face. There were the remains of a mistake engraved into the paper, odd rolls of the rubber sitting on the bend of his notepad as he readied the eraser in his hand in preparation for another.

His tired eyes were heavy as he observed the features of the man on the page, a small grin forming on his face as he thought about the reaction from the man when he saw him again. He’d probably only nod his head at his attempts of drawing him, noting that the details of his mask were a little janky, but that wouldn’t matter; the eyes were perfect. But Johnny knew he would still lie to him because being sincere was not one of his lieutenants specialities. 

‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ 

Setting the pencil down, he raised his head to see you standing in front of him. You smiled at him with a small glass in your hand, holding the seat opposite to him to keep yourself steady. ‘It’s just cause there’s no one else here and my phone died,’ you explained, ‘I won’t make a peep, I promise,’ you added. 

With a short nod, he motions towards the chair opposite to him, moving the pencil tin above his notepad so you had some space to place down your belongings. ‘Aye,’ he says, ‘be my guest, bonnie.’ 

So, you took a seat, placing your backpack on the chair beside you, setting your glass down. He observed the colour of the liquid, the colours faint as the bubbles raise from the bottom of the small glass, dispersing at the top. He recalled how odd he thought it was when he had first seen the funny little drink on the table, only knowing the train-line to serve water and the occasional cup of tea.

‘Champagne,’ you answered, following his eyes to the glass, ‘thought I’d treat myself.' 

‘What’s the special occasion?’ he asked with a raised eyebrow, picking his pencil back up, resuming his portrait of the moody lieutenant. The train creaked at the cart turned slightly, and he caught your hand steading the drink. ‘Ye get a promotion?’ 

Looking at you again, he noted how you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip. Your eyes fell to the aisle and your chest rose as you took a deep breath. There was something about your apprehension that troubled him, the way your flushed cheeks paled left him wounded for a short while before he realised that he had no clue why he was thinking in such a manner.

It was her eyes, he reminisces while keeping his eyes trained on the window beyond the cart.

It's a bitter pill to swallow, the memories of you still wrapping around his mind as a kids train set does a families Christmas tree during the holidays. Looping round and round and round until it's put into a box. The season in his mind has lasted longer than the measly length of the month of December, spanning years (it seemed). It's torture, yet, despite it being so cruel, he dreads the arrival of the day where he finally has the courage to box you up and shove you to the back of his mind because that would be when he could begin to forget you.

Even after all the years that have passed, he finds his mouth moves as he recalls your response to his question when you had sat opposite to him on the train.

‘Moving out, actually.'

It was just as well everything happened for you on that day, you moved out the day he got the train home. Had anything been different, neither of you would have crossed paths and while agonising, he looks at the stars in the nights sky with an air of gratitude.

You admitted after a while, your eyes falling back onto him as you heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Been stuck in a shitty situation for a while, been sitting around waiting for a chance to get out of it and tonight just so happens to be the night that everything fell back into place.’

Your words haunted him during the night, appearing like a phantom in his dreams, calling out to him. The glint of gratitude in his eyes wavers.

Your words are soft as you spoke and he likened the look you gave him to one of the valleys he had witnessed when he had taken the day train home after his first deployment. A valley with a river right below it in the midst of shrubbery and trees. The water was blue, he could see it when he looked at her. The reflection of the sun reflecting off of the surface, mirroring the rocky trails of the mountains. The sight of such had left him breathless, just as you did when you took a deep breath, reaching out for her glass, bringing it to you mouth. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be telling a stranger my problems,’ you mumbled. 

‘It’s nae an issue, lass,’ he responded, ‘happy to hear y’ got outta whatever was making ye so miserable,’ he confessed, ‘and Scotland, eh? Pretty place if y’ ask me,’ he said with a short laugh. You laughed with him before taking another sip from your drink.

He watched as you did so, noting the glint in her eyes as you moved your eyes away from him to his notebook. Pulling the glass away from your mouth, you placed it down with a hum, swallowing the last of the drink in your mouth, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. It's a charming sight, clumsy and amusing.

‘You’re good at drawing,’ you noted, pointing at the drawing, ‘is he a character of yours?’ you asked, motioning to the drawing of the man with the skull face. A short chuckle passed his lips as he rubbed the stubble on his chin. 

‘Guess ye could call him that,’ he said, 'someone I know, actually ,' he confessed.

Your brows furrowed, wrinkles forming on your forehead as your eyes grew wide. Your hand ghosted the glass, wetting your fingers with the condensation dripping down the outside as you looked at him with glossy eyes. Fingerprints marked the glass as you forced your hand away.

'I'm so so sorry- I didn't mean it as an insult it's just-'

'Keep the heid, lass,' laughed the man.

You stared at him.

'Relax,' he said, noting the confusion on your face. Your tensed muscles softened as your picked up the glass off of the table, taking a big gulp, finishing the last of the contents in it. He frowns when he notices you shaking. You thought you had done so much wrong with a single observation. 'you weren't to know.'

'Does he really wear that mask?' you whispered as though Simon was right behind you, and had he been, Johnny could say with his heart that he wouldn't have been surprised; the damn man appeared out of nowhere all the time.

'Yeah,' he said.

'Is it part of his job?'

Your intrigue was adorable.

'No, he just prefers to hide his face,' he explained, 'suppose it makes work easier,' he said, nodding to himself. Despite his time knowing Simon, he never did know why he covered his face. Of course, it kept the human version of the man from the man who committed countless atrocities in the name of justice, yet, the point you brought up left him thinking for a short moment.

'You work together?' you asked, 'what do you do for work?'

'Part of the military,' he told you frankly, 'he's my lieutenant,' he added, although, he didn't care to tell you much more as he looked at the you with a furrowed brow, not wanting to leave you with enough time to respond to his confession, 'what about you, lass?'

'I write,' you said, 'I got a remote position at a publishing company, that's whats given me the money to move out.'

'I enjoy writin' from time to time,' he responded, 'not that good at it though, prefer drawing,' he uttered.

You were though, he didn't even bothers to think of your response because, truthfully, your humbleness in terms of your own talent was wounding to his own love for writing. As he would with advertisements, inwardly, he skips by all the small talk in his mind. It's cruel the way the mind works; memory was a burden to hold, yet as entertaining as a late night TV show which was to only be watched in secrecy.

'What's your name?' you asked, picking up another cup of champagne. He watched as you did so, lifting his own cup that you had gotten for him when you had excused yourself to the bathroom.

He kept his distaste of the beverage to himself, besides, it was free.

'Johnny,' he answered, ' and y'urself, bonnie?'

You answer accordingly, stating your name with a smile. Repeating your name, he finds it rolls off his tongue well and the longer he observes you, the more a conclusion dawned upon him.

'Suits ye well,' he complimented with a wink.

Rubbing his face with his hand, his breath fogs against the window of the train and he turns his head away, absentmindedly wiping down the window with the sleeve of his puffer jacket. In the meantime, he busies himself looking at the empty seat opposite to him.

In the blink of an eye, you're there, sitting across from him.

'When do you get off?' he asked.

'Last stop,' you answered, 'staying at a hotel for a few days before my place is ready... was eager to leave,' you said. As soon as the words passed your lips, he felt compelled to be a gentleman. That, alongside taking into account the trouble that could have occurred if you did walk to the hotel alone, besides, the least he could have done for you buying him a drink and keeping him company was help you find you way to your hotel.

'We can share a cab if ye want,' he offered, 'put my mind at ease, wanna make sure you get there safe, besides, far too cold for ye to be walkin', bonnie,' he said, biting the inside of his mouth as he awaited your refusal, only, you nodded your head and smiled.

'I'd appreciate that, Johnny.'

His memories blur for a while after that, and his cheeks flushed red as he recalls how you looked at him before you got out of the cab. Glancing at the same hand that paid the fare only far enough to go to your hotel he curses as he watches the memory of him getting out of the taxi to chase after you.

You waited for him at the entrance in hope he'd have a change of heart, and he recalls how delighted you were when he walked through the door and caught you standing there, waiting for him.

Truthfully, he knew he was in deep shit when he felt the way you wrapped around him, the way you called his name, and how pretty you looked underneath him. Even after years, it was difficult to escape the thought of your first night together. Perhaps it was the entire being strangers thing that made the sex much more enthralling than any other one night stand he had had, or maybe it was just you.

Shoulda never let her have me number, he thought to himself.

It was difficult to deny that there were only ever terrible times. Resentment bubbles and it turns the fondest of moments to the worse; there was something there for him to miss when he thinks fondly of you. Fondness makes forgetting a hell of a lot harder, at least it does for him, anyway.

He hardly even thinks about Graves anymore and he resents him.

He resents you too.

But whenever he thinks of you, he thinks of your laughter. And then the guilt seeps in and he curses himself for ever thinking so lowly of you in the first place. How fucking dare he do something so terrible. You deserve it, though, for all the shit you put him through: the bruised heart thats still bandaged up, the sleepless nights as he waited for you to come home, the drunken phone calls he would get while on an op.

All of it.

Then there was everything else: the moments you shared together, the sound of your laughter which would seemingly travel down the halls of your apartment and wake him whenever you spent the night together, the sight of you in his shirt while cooking breakfast in the morning and your excitement when you finally persuaded him to dance with you.

The last one was particularly difficult to forget. His fondness will never let him let it go, he's convinced.

In the depths of the night, you danced together. He acknowledged the look on your face as he held you in your arms, the laughter as he spun you around in a circle, pulling you away just for you to end right back in his arms. He'd never let you wonder too far, scared that if he lost grip of your hand, you would have disappeared forever.

It became a routine and he recalls all the times he had held you in his arms while dancing to a song by Sinatra or Aretha Franklin and all the times he saw you smile. All of those happy moments moulded into one, while only a few stuck out.

During that night in particular, he couldn't look away from your eyes.

Whenever he looked at you, he was started by the glint of colours in your eyes, reflective of the colourful lights you had decorated your Christmas tree with. Rather, instead of decorating the tree, the lights in your eyes worked well in decorating the brambles you called eyelashes as you looked up at him. Every time you blinked, he found the same glossy sheen he had seen that night on the train. Every blink seemed to edge you closer to tears, as though your eyelashes were antagonising your poor eyes constantly.

Then he smelt the liquor on you breath and was reminded of the underlining truth of everything.

You were always emotional whenever you had something to drink. It couldn't have been helped, it was simply who you were, and he was going to resent you for something you couldn't have helped.

'Yer oot yer face,' he mumbled, speaking softly to you as you swayed with one another to the low hum of music from your vinyl player. Neither of you noticed how the song skipped, far too busy with one another to notice such a flaw.

'English, MacTavish,' you answered, your tone gruff as you recalled the story he had told you about the man with the skull mask and the city soaked in blood. He chuckled, pulling you closer, resting his head against your shoulder, looking at you. You turned your head to the side to look at him too.

'You're drunk,' he said quietly.

'I only had a glass,' you answered abruptly. You tensed in his arms when you responded to him and he felt his head sink further down until it sat, burning in the acid of his stomach. 'I had it while I was making dinner; the sauce had some of it in,' you explained, turning in his arms so your chests were pressed against each others. placing your hand against his face. You looked worried in that moment, observing his features. 'You're not mad at me, are you?'

Placing his hand over yours, he sighed, 'nae, bonnie, just don't want ye to hurt y'urself,' he explained, pulling your hand from off of his face, planting a kiss atop of it, moving his other hand from the small of your back to hold your waist. 'Love you too much for ye to do that,' he said, letting go of your hand to place his fingers beneath your chin, forcing your head up so you were looking at him. 'Y'know that.'

'I do,' you weakly answered.

The only bastard 'I do' he ever got from your lips. It was laughable really as he looks back on that night, how the pair of you had been so close in your home, dancing together as though you were an elderly couple celebrating your 40th wedding anniversary together.

Think I'll live that long?

Probably not.

Had anyone from 141 been there to witness how he fell to pieces with you in his arms, they very well would have laughed until they were blue in the face. And the longer he looks out the window out on the Scottish countryside, he concludes he too would laugh at that man dancing with you for being such a smitten fool.

'Good,' he hummed, pressing a kiss against your lips. The were chapped, dry, but he didn't care. Instead, he deepened the kiss as the pair of you stumbled backwards, muffled laughter escaping you as you loosely wrapped your arms around his neck while he kept the pair of you from falling.

Moments of happiness seemed so common in the beginning.

The night trains shifted to day trains again.

He'd hit the ground running after returning from an op, only showering because he didn't want you to smell the remnants of war which stained him and his skin. Nothing kept him from seeing you, not even his distaste for the day train.

All of it meant that he could get home sooner; he recalled the sinking feeling in his chest whenever the trains were delayed by a measly twenty minutes. Love made him a different man, he realised, a man who enjoyed the day train and the man who loathed the night train.

'I thought you weren't going to be home for another couple of days,' you said, opening the door to see Johnny standing there with a bag on his arm. Dropping it, he pulled you into a tight hug, resting his hand against the back of your head as he swayed you from side to side. 'Did you get the day train for me?' you asked.

Pulling away, he caught sight of the smile creeping onto you face as he nodded his head slowly, 'didn't wanna wait longer than I had to,' he answered, 'saw a photo of ye in me wallet an' knew I needed to be here with you sooner,' he added, pressing a kiss onto your lips as your cheeks flushed red.

'You have a picture of me in your wallet?' you quietly asked when he pulled away for you. He smiled.

'Of course I do, bonnie,' he responded as though such was an obvious fact, 'need to see that face of yours every day, ye like medicine to me.'

'Really?'

'Aye, lass.'

Everything moved so quickly and it wasn't long before you were well acquainted with his mam.

Meeting his mother was the confirmation he needed to say that he wanted to marry you. No one else in the world mattered when he saw how you and his sisters bonded, and while sitting alone on the train, he clenched a his fist at the emptiness of the palm of his hand while imagining the light weight of the ring his mother had placed in the palm of his hand while he stood in the kitchen helping her prepare the Christmas dinner. It had been over two years since the pair of you had started dating when she did so, working well to convince him that the timing meant that something else in the universe had willed it to happen.

'Mam?' he asked, looking down at the ring in his hand.

The band was quaint, golden as an green gem stared him in the eyes as he squinted, holding it up to the yellow light of the kitchen. The elderly woman in front of him chuckled, patting his shoulder as she walked past him to open the oven.

'Well, she's the one, ain't she?' she said, speaking into the heat of the oven as she grabbed the tray of duck-fat potatoes with a stained tea towel.

'Ye think?'

'Gonnae no’ dae that!' exclaimed his mother.

'Don't do what?' he scoffed.

'Act surprised,' she scolded, 'it's in ye eyes, son,' she chuckled. 'Yer nana told me to give ye the ring when I thought ye'd found the right one,' she confessed, 'and with your father gone, 'ave got no reason to wear it, but she has,' she uttered, looking from out of the kitchen into the living room.

His eyes followed hers and he watched as you sat with his youngest sister. The pair of you chatted away, though his stomach twisted at the sight of you holding a glass in your hand.

'She's a good girl, Johnny.'

'Aye, mam, I know.'

'So, marry her.'

With his mam's words echoing in his mind, the memories always came to the one that caused all the air in his lungs to escape.

Nothing wants to stay whenever he thinks of that, and he's sure if he was wounded, all his blood would leave him in a second in order to stay out of the cycle in his head that always brings him back to this one thought.

He supposes, in hindsight, it was terribly foolish what he had done. His ignorance to pressing issues was immature and irresponsible, only, they were easy to ignore when he had his mothers ring in his pocket. But he noticed, years down the line, how you had dropped his hand when the pair of you had been dancing, all to go and get another drink because the glass in your hand was running dry.

The party was one you both had planned, only, you had done so to celebrate a win himself and the boys had had during their time away, and he had invited everyone with the intent of proposing to the love of his life.

In the moment, he had been so crushed. He recalls how his mouth was dry, the dull ache in his cut knee as he awkwardly remained kneeled as you stood and stared. The speech he had prepared disappeared when you turned your back on him and rushed away, leaving his ego bleeding as everyone looked at him in horror.

'I just... I don't know why you would do it,' you mumbled when you heard him walk through the door into the kitchen away from the guests.

He was silent as he looked at you, traces of a storm in his eyes as he fought off the urge to cry. His chest hurt as he looked at you with a glass in your hand, and he couldn't do anything but stand there and watch as you drank from it. 'I told you, Johnny, I fucking warned you and-'

'I thought ye would've had a change of heart, love-'

'Well I haven't!' you angrily snapped, slamming your glass down onto the counter, glaring at him. 'What, did you think just because I'd have a ring on my finger all of our fuckin' issues are going to disappear? You're a smart man, Johnny, stop trying to play the role of the fool. It doesn't suit you and it never will.'

You were just as embarrassed as he was. He curses himself while sitting on the train, thinking back to your flushed cheeks and teary eyes. It wasn't only because of the booze that time, it was because of him too.

'I- I'm trying, John, can't you see that?' you croaked, 'I'm trying but I can't be everything you want. I don't wanna get married... at least not yet.'

'Ye don't love me,' he blurted.

You snapped your head up, furrowing your brows as you looked at him with wide eyes. 'Is that serious what you think?' you shakily asked, disbelief etched into your features. 'So what? You think all the fuckin' nights I've spent worried that you're not gonna come home when you're away working were for-'

'All the fuckin' nights you spent with a bottle in your hand too, eh?' he quickly cut you off, retorting in a manner that had left you breathless, draining all the colour out of your face. 'Don't pull that card on me, bonnie, don't you fuckin' dare do it 'cause I worry more about you and your drinkin' habit than I do my own life when I'm out on the field- tell me how you think that's fair!'

You stared at him, your eyes drifting to the empty glass abandoned on the counter. It was unfair for him to pull that card, he was aware enough in the moment to understand it, but he was so utterly devastated that he chose to stand his ground. An apology wouldn't have mean anything even if he had said it.

'If ye loved me... you'd stop goin' to the bottle every time ye have an issue,' he bleakly said, 'but am not even sure if you would pick me over the drink anymore, bonnie.'

'How would me saying yes to you fix any of that?'

He stayed silent.

Reflection allows him to find that he only ever proposed out of love. He was aware of your issues, noting it was never always smooth sailing from either of you, but he supposes he just wanted to have proof that at least once, you would pick him rather than the liquor.

But he was stupid for ever thinking you were more than your champagne problems.

'Getting married would only complicate things between us, John. You know that,' you said after a while of silence, 'and clearly, we don't listen to each other... I'm sorry I embarrassed you today, and I'm sorry I keep causing you to worry- I'm sorry for being such a burden to you but you don't make it easy for me,' you uttered, rubbing your face with your hands, wiping away the tears that fell down your scarlet cheeks.

There was nothing else for him to say to you, and he's ashamed at the very fact that, in the moment you needed him the most, he walked out of that room and left you there crying, alone.

As the train turns on the tracks again, he ponders what would have been different if he had stayed there with you, only, he finds his mind drifting to the words on a page which confirms exactly why he was thinking.

He was only prolonging the inevitable.

As he turns to the final page in his notebook, he finds it difficult to breath as he retrieves the piece of paper he had pushed to the back of it, unfolding it. Pressing his hand against it, he leaves it to sit on top of the page marked with splashes of the drink you had spilled, unable to find the strength as he stares down at the words scrawled on the page.

A crude reminder of what became of his engagement.

'Johnny,

In time, I hope you'll forget about all my problems and find someone who you deserve. I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused and I'm sorry for not being ready for you.

Give your mums ring to someone who deserves it and put the special ladies picture in your wallet instead of mine. For the sake of yourself and me.

I love you, Johnny, nearly too much, and while you will see my absence as cruel, know I see it as necessary and that's the issue; we never have seen eye to eye on a lot of things.

We're not ready for each other, I know you think it but you're too scared to say it, so I'll bite the bullet and say it for you. We're not ready for each other, Johnny.

Love shouldn't be a tug-of-war, and I grow tired for you watching as you always try and pull me to you. Besides, I heard your mother after you left the room, she said I was fucked in the head for not agreeing to your proposal and it leaves me wondering what type of person you've made your family believe I am.

I'm sorry I couldn't be everything you wanted, but know that everything I'm doing: leaving, writing this letter, not saying goodbye to you in person, is for you. You always said you hated goodbyes; they were the hardest part of your career, and I can't promise that I wouldn't run back into your arms the second you'd open your mouth and beg me not to go.

But I'm prolonging the inevitable by staying with you.

I'm making you miserable with my problems and that is not what I want you to do. You have a life, and you had a life before we met on that train.

All I ever did was make you worry and I don't want to do that anymore. I don't want you to worry about me, I just want you to move on and love and be loved. I'm going to work on myself and I'm going to get better because I know that that is what you want, and in truth, it's what I want too.

I love you and I fear I always will, but I can't have you, and I'm punishing you and myself by staying here.'

He turns his head away from the letter, looking back to the window at the small dots through the foggy water as he utters the last part of the letter under his breath. 'One day, we may meet again, perhaps the stars will align and you'll see me on a nighttime train back to your home town. And maybe then, I'll be ready.'

A breathy laugh escapes him, repeating 'And maybe then, I'll be ready.'

How appalling it would be when you realised that you leaving only resulted in the reversal of roles. At least, he likes to think he would have the strength to refuse you if he's to ever see you again.

When he turns away from the window, relieving himself of the pain of remembering all that has gone wrong in his life, he takes the letter from off of his notepad, folding it along the worn edges, pushing it back in a small slip at the back of the notepad.

Shrugging off his jacket, he put it on the seat beside him with a hard sigh, turning his attention back to the notepad in front of him. The nights long and his journey proceeds to drag his feet and he's unsure if he even wants to be back home or if he should have just stayed in the base until Price needed him next. But it's Christmas and he couldn't have left his family because of his own sorrow about something that happened years ago.

He just misses you more in the holidays, but he supposes that's okay as long as he doesn't let the phantom you left him with ruin everything. So, he picks up the pencil and pursues what he was doing the night you two met, only this time, there's a ghost sitting opposite to him, not the living thing that greeted him many moons ago.

His ignorance to the world around him keeps him from hearing the footsteps storming up the aisle after the train stops at a station. Even when the voice of a woman announcing the last stop enters his ears, he doesn't lift his head. All the noise culminates into a twisting storm, similar to how he imagines the billowing smoke exuding from a chimney on a winter night swirls in the wind. It's deplorable and he grunts as he attempts to chase the flurry of emotions away.

His efforts result in even more tension at the front of his mind as he looks into the eyes of the drawing he's sketching, realising just whose eyes he had depicted in the midst of his worry. Even after all the time has passed, he's impressed by the fact that he still remembers your features so well.

Always so difficult to forget, he supposes his contemplation proves such.

Then he hears it.

The very thing that works to break him free.

A quaint shaky breath.

A shadow covers his bulky frame, light peering from either side of the mass standing on the aisle holding onto the seat opposite him. Lifting his head, his lungs rattle in his chest as he realises the eyes he had been sketching in his notepad are right before him in human form, staring right back at him.

'Johnny?'

[starcrossedreaders]

Are You Really Okay?

Chapter One: The Art of Bullshit

Chapter summary: Tuesdays for Jean were easy days, he had two classes to go and the rest of the day was his to waste away, until today.

Warnings: Cursing

Notes: This will be a slow-burn type of story,idk how slow it will be. Also if you have any ideas on where to take this next please share them, So enjoy!

Genre: "Enemies" to lovers Jean falling first??

Pairings: Jean x F!Reader

word count: 1,758

Next Chapter

The cold wind scarred Jean's cheeks as the cold air bit at his lungs. The walk to his creative writing class was always the worst. Having to walk across campus from the art building to the English building was always the worst part of his Tuesdays and Thursdays. He had 15 minutes to make it to class, and the cold wind of the departing winter still ran through the air as spring came closer and closer each day, making the walk worse than it needed to be. 

The entrance to the building came closer to sight as Jean picked up his pace to run away from the cold air. Opening the door, warm air sucked Jean into the building. He pulled his hood down, shook his hair into place, and rubbed his hands together in the hope of bringing the heat back to them. Quick to make it to class on time he skipped a step or two as he went up the stairs and turned right to go to his lecture hall. Normally, he would never be in this big of a rush to get to class on time but after a few phone calls from his parents about how if he loses his scholarships to dumb habits like that he would be on his own. Normally he would never be this negligent, but ever since June 16th of last year Jean never really seemed to be himself. 

Swinging the classroom door open, he was quick to take a seat somewhere in the middle and pull out his sketchbook. The empty page with a few pencil lines stared back at him. Resting his head on his hand he tapped the desk as he desperately searched his brain for some idea for his assignment. His thoughts were scattered as the chair next to him screeched in agony against the floor, the thump of someone sitting in the chair and a sigh followed right after had him looking to see who sat next to him. 

His eyes widened a little as his breath hitched. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight next to him. You. Your cheeks were raw from the cold air as your soft lips slightly parted as your panted. Your hair framed your face perfectly as you fixed a few stray pieces. One last shiver ran through your body as you huffed leaning back into your seat to get ready for the next agonizing 95 minutes. 

“You could not have been any louder when sitting down.” Jean mumbled to himself more then you.

You scoffed and right as your opened your mouth to give him some snarky remark, the classroom door swung open as the professor scrambled in the room.

“Sorry for my tardiness, I was helping Professor Levi with his technology.” In one big breath she set her stuff down on her desk before she went around and started to set up the lecture. The class snickered before she turned back around and began her lecture.

While she spoke about your next assignment, you mindlessly doodled in the notebook in front of you, trying not to pay any mind to the guy sitting next to you. The constant tapping of his pen on his desk was driving you nuts. There was nothing more you wanted to do than to just tell him off right then and there.

“For this assignment, I don’t just want you guys to right some random fictional piece, at this point you should be good at that. Instead, I want you guys to take parts of your past, good or bad and put it into a story without using yourself or the others involved.” The professor was very animated as she through her hands around trying to explain the assignment.

“Take the storyline or plot and write about it in a creative way with new characters. Be creative, maybe put it in a fantasy world, or turn it into a comic strip instead of novel…” Jean drowned her out, not really interested in what she was talking about.

“...You guy’s will be doing this assignment with the people sitting next to you. Everything you need to do it is on the website. Good luck.” Jean groaned at the idea of having to do partner work.

Pulling out your laptop you sigh. “You’re the type of person that makes these stupid assignments worse then they need to be.” You mumbled as you logged in.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jean closed his sketchbook and followed your actions.

“Exacatly what is sounds like.” You deadpan as pulled up a google doc.

“Whatever, what are we writing about.” Jean clicked a pen as if he was ready to jot down notes in his notebook. It was very obvious he could careless about what was being written, as long as it got done with a good grade.

“I don’t know. Have you had any interesting events forever changing the trajectory of your life? The more we trauma dump the better the grade.” You mumbled as you traced out random shapes on your laptop. 

Your indifference to the words you spoke is what caused you to miss the way Jean’s shoulders tensed up. The way he stopped spinning his pen between his fingers. The way he stared off as his mind ran straight to the one place his mind had been playing on repeat for him for the past year.  You didn’t miss the silence though, or the way his pen made a soft thud as it dropped on his notebook and rolled off the desk. Turning your head to face him you noticed the way his lips pressed together to form a straight line, the way his brows furrowed, or the slight twitch of his left eye as he stared off. Clearly, you touched a hard part of his life without realizing it.

Sighing, you bent over in your chair to pick up his pen. Slapping it down softly on his desk your voice pulled him out of his trance. “Here, you dropped this.” 

Leaning back in your chair you began to type out some ideas. Jean’s eyes slowly moved to look at the pen you placed on his desk and back up to you. Mumbling a curt thanks. Not really paying him any mind you turned your laptop to face him. 

“Here are some ideas what do you think?” Jean merely gazed at the screen before he shrugged his shoulders.

“If I’m being honest, I have more important things to worry about then writing a stupid story.” His cocky words itched you the wrong way.

“How unfortunate, because I rather not do all the work, so pick a topic and we can split the work.” You tried to reason with him, albeit not in the nicest way, but you still tried.

He rolled his eyes as he adjusted himself in his seat, god the desks were so uncomfortable. “The third one I guess.” Jean didn’t even know if there was a third a idea, he just wanted to comprise, split the work, and go his separate way.

You turned your laptop back to yourself as you mumbled. “Heartbreak… interesting.” You began to type away while Jean just spun his pen again. 

After a few heartbeats and loud keystrokes from you computer, you turned to Jean. “I have the work split and mapped out, do you have anyway I can contact you?” You did not seem pleased to be basically asking for his number. 

Based on his demeanor, the tattoos that peaked from under his hoodie, and his messy mullet you would have guessed him to be some frat fuckboy who probably has more girl numbers in his phone than he can actually remember, but it was worth a shot.

He looked at you with annoyance that made you cringe a bit. Sighing he shuffled in his chair as he pulled his phone out, unlocking it with face ID he handed it to you. You gripped the device in your hand as you pulled it back towards you. Quickly, you filled out your contact information, trying to ignore his shattered screen protector. You send a quick text to your phone before you hand it back to him. 

“I’ll text you the details.” You started to pack your things up in your bag before you stood up. “So please do the work, I gave you all the easy shit.” Before Jean could get a word out you were walking off to head back to your apartment.

You didn’t even ask him what his name was.

Something about that rubbed him the wrong way, he was never used that type of behavior from girls. They would fall to their knees and beg just to even get to do partner work with him like this, and yet here you are so standoffish and almost…cold.

The vibration of Jean’s phone in his pocket pulled him out of his conentrated state of rolling a blunt. Quickly licking the paper and sealing it shut he handed it to Connie before he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

[Y/N]: *2 attachments*

Here’s you half of the work.

“What a buzz kill.” He mumbled before he looked at the two pictures you sent. He was appalled to say the least. Everything you gave him did not seem like easy work at all.  Annoyed with the work load you just gave him he had to response, as much as he just wanted to leave you on seen.

[Jean]: That does not seem easy at all, why the hell do I have to draw for a writing class?

[Y/N]: It's a creative writing class so idk be creative maybe?

Your quick response had him snort and shake his head.

[Jean]: Wth do I draw then?

His cluelessness made you role your eyes, everything he needed to go off of was literally in the pictures you sent.

[Y/N]: Idk you’re the artist, just use the art of bullshit and figure it out.

[Jean]: Real helpful

[Y/N]: you’re welcome.

Before Jean could give you a snarky remark Connie was pushing on his shoulder. “It’s your turn man.” Connie held out a burning blunt, the same one Jean just rolled.

Jean took it inbetween his fingers and took a long drag as he thought about the what the hell he was supposed to draw. Taking one more hit he passed it on before he looked at the pictures you sent. 

Writing prompt/ idea: The art of losing those closest to you.

Maybe he should have paid closer attention to the options that were given to him.

[angelicglib]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ Champagne Problems ˚୨୧⋆｡˚⋆

[ᴊᴏʜɴ ᴍᴀᴄᴛᴀᴠɪꜱʜ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ]

[ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛᴇᴅ]: 27/12/23

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: Reminiscing about the past always leaves a bitter taste in Johnny's mouth. Especially when those memories include you.

[ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ]: 5,814

[ᴛᴡ]: hurt and absolutely ZERO COMFORT!!! Mentions/ implications of alcoholism, angst, implied family issues, suggestive content.

[ᴀ/ɴ]: Pain, suffering and agony. You are welcome.

THIS IS A REPOST !! I've had few issues with shadowbans and have moved accounts a few times (tumblr thought I was a bot) so, if you would like more stories from me, my new blog is @manicrouge !!

ENJOY !!

Please do not post my work to any other platforms, thank you.

────────── ⋆⋅🚂⋅⋆ ──────────

He finds it difficult to stomach as he looks out of the window on a train. 

The return from deployment is always bittersweet. In particular, knowing he can return back to his hometown for a short while before having to eventually go back to the base.

But, all of that disappears as he’s sitting on the train, looking out the window as rain bats against it. His eyes can hardly make anything out, it’s far too dark for his eyes to make it much further than the outline of a mountain in the distance. His arms aching and he’s unsure how long he’s been looking out of it. He’s quite sure the sleeve of his jacket is completely soaked from the condensation dripping down the window, pooling on the window sill his elbow is resting on. Still, nothing changes his position, not even the shifts of the cart as it storms along the tracks. 

In his chest, he feels his heart murmur at the thought of getting closer to home.

It’s been a while. 

The silence on the train is unnerving as he turns his eyes away from the window for a moment. Across the aisle from him, there’s another traveller. His head is pressed firmly against the back of the chair as quiet snores escape his open mouth. As he focuses on him, he notes a glistening trail on his chin and grimaces, turning his eyes away from the man, directing his gaze back to the window.

Trains during the night-time are always strange, he was familiar with them when he first joined the army. Travelling to and from always seemed worse during the day, so, he'd opted to stay at the base for an extra day, leaving in the dead of night to catch the last train available home. There was no reason to leave during the day because at night, he knew he could sleep away all the worries, arriving home well rested. 

But then something changed.

After another op, he returned to his schedule of sitting on the train at night, looking down at the sketchbook resting against the table in front of him. Holding a pencil in his hand, he busied himself with a sketch of a familiar face. There were the remains of a mistake engraved into the paper, odd rolls of the rubber sitting on the bend of his notepad as he readied the eraser in his hand in preparation for another.

His tired eyes were heavy as he observed the features of the man on the page, a small grin forming on his face as he thought about the reaction from the man when he saw him again. He’d probably only nod his head at his attempts of drawing him, noting that the details of his mask were a little janky, but that wouldn’t matter; the eyes were perfect. But Johnny knew he would still lie to him because being sincere was not one of his lieutenants specialities. 

‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ 

Setting the pencil down, he raised his head to see you standing in front of him. You smiled at him with a small glass in your hand, holding the seat opposite to him to keep yourself steady. ‘It’s just cause there’s no one else here and my phone died,’ you explained, ‘I won’t make a peep, I promise,’ you added. 

With a short nod, he motions towards the chair opposite to him, moving the pencil tin above his notepad so you had some space to place down your belongings. ‘Aye,’ he says, ‘be my guest, bonnie.’ 

So, you took a seat, placing your backpack on the chair beside you, setting your glass down. He observed the colour of the liquid, the colours faint as the bubbles raise from the bottom of the small glass, dispersing at the top. He recalled how odd he thought it was when he had first seen the funny little drink on the table, only knowing the train-line to serve water and the occasional cup of tea.

‘Champagne,’ you answered, following his eyes to the glass, ‘thought I’d treat myself.' 

‘What’s the special occasion?’ he asked with a raised eyebrow, picking his pencil back up, resuming his portrait of the moody lieutenant. The train creaked at the cart turned slightly, and he caught your hand steading the drink. ‘Ye get a promotion?’ 

Looking at you again, he noted how you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip. Your eyes fell to the aisle and your chest rose as you took a deep breath. There was something about your apprehension that troubled him, the way your flushed cheeks paled left him wounded for a short while before he realised that he had no clue why he was thinking in such a manner.

It was her eyes, he reminisces while keeping his eyes trained on the window beyond the cart.

It's a bitter pill to swallow, the memories of you still wrapping around his mind as a kids train set does a families Christmas tree during the holidays. Looping round and round and round until it's put into a box. The season in his mind has lasted longer than the measly length of the month of December, spanning years (it seemed). It's torture, yet, despite it being so cruel, he dreads the arrival of the day where he finally has the courage to box you up and shove you to the back of his mind because that would be when he could begin to forget you.

Even after all the years that have passed, he finds his mouth moves as he recalls your response to his question when you had sat opposite to him on the train.

‘Moving out, actually.'

It was just as well everything happened for you on that day, you moved out the day he got the train home. Had anything been different, neither of you would have crossed paths and while agonising, he looks at the stars in the nights sky with an air of gratitude.

You admitted after a while, your eyes falling back onto him as you heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Been stuck in a shitty situation for a while, been sitting around waiting for a chance to get out of it and tonight just so happens to be the night that everything fell back into place.’

Your words haunted him during the night, appearing like a phantom in his dreams, calling out to him. The glint of gratitude in his eyes wavers.

Your words are soft as you spoke and he likened the look you gave him to one of the valleys he had witnessed when he had taken the day train home after his first deployment. A valley with a river right below it in the midst of shrubbery and trees. The water was blue, he could see it when he looked at her. The reflection of the sun reflecting off of the surface, mirroring the rocky trails of the mountains. The sight of such had left him breathless, just as you did when you took a deep breath, reaching out for her glass, bringing it to you mouth. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be telling a stranger my problems,’ you mumbled. 

‘It’s nae an issue, lass,’ he responded, ‘happy to hear y’ got outta whatever was making ye so miserable,’ he confessed, ‘and Scotland, eh? Pretty place if y’ ask me,’ he said with a short laugh. You laughed with him before taking another sip from your drink.

He watched as you did so, noting the glint in her eyes as you moved your eyes away from him to his notebook. Pulling the glass away from your mouth, you placed it down with a hum, swallowing the last of the drink in your mouth, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. It's a charming sight, clumsy and amusing.

‘You’re good at drawing,’ you noted, pointing at the drawing, ‘is he a character of yours?’ you asked, motioning to the drawing of the man with the skull face. A short chuckle passed his lips as he rubbed the stubble on his chin. 

‘Guess ye could call him that,’ he said, 'someone I know, actually ,' he confessed.

Your brows furrowed, wrinkles forming on your forehead as your eyes grew wide. Your hand ghosted the glass, wetting your fingers with the condensation dripping down the outside as you looked at him with glossy eyes. Fingerprints marked the glass as you forced your hand away.

'I'm so so sorry- I didn't mean it as an insult it's just-'

'Keep the heid, lass,' laughed the man.

You stared at him.

'Relax,' he said, noting the confusion on your face. Your tensed muscles softened as your picked up the glass off of the table, taking a big gulp, finishing the last of the contents in it. He frowns when he notices you shaking. You thought you had done so much wrong with a single observation. 'you weren't to know.'

'Does he really wear that mask?' you whispered as though Simon was right behind you, and had he been, Johnny could say with his heart that he wouldn't have been surprised; the damn man appeared out of nowhere all the time.

'Yeah,' he said.

'Is it part of his job?'

Your intrigue was adorable.

'No, he just prefers to hide his face,' he explained, 'suppose it makes work easier,' he said, nodding to himself. Despite his time knowing Simon, he never did know why he covered his face. Of course, it kept the human version of the man from the man who committed countless atrocities in the name of justice, yet, the point you brought up left him thinking for a short moment.

'You work together?' you asked, 'what do you do for work?'

'Part of the military,' he told you frankly, 'he's my lieutenant,' he added, although, he didn't care to tell you much more as he looked at the you with a furrowed brow, not wanting to leave you with enough time to respond to his confession, 'what about you, lass?'

'I write,' you said, 'I got a remote position at a publishing company, that's whats given me the money to move out.'

'I enjoy writin' from time to time,' he responded, 'not that good at it though, prefer drawing,' he uttered.

You were though, he didn't even bothers to think of your response because, truthfully, your humbleness in terms of your own talent was wounding to his own love for writing. As he would with advertisements, inwardly, he skips by all the small talk in his mind. It's cruel the way the mind works; memory was a burden to hold, yet as entertaining as a late night TV show which was to only be watched in secrecy.

'What's your name?' you asked, picking up another cup of champagne. He watched as you did so, lifting his own cup that you had gotten for him when you had excused yourself to the bathroom.

He kept his distaste of the beverage to himself, besides, it was free.

'Johnny,' he answered, ' and y'urself, bonnie?'

You answer accordingly, stating your name with a smile. Repeating your name, he finds it rolls off his tongue well and the longer he observes you, the more a conclusion dawned upon him.

'Suits ye well,' he complimented with a wink.

Rubbing his face with his hand, his breath fogs against the window of the train and he turns his head away, absentmindedly wiping down the window with the sleeve of his puffer jacket. In the meantime, he busies himself looking at the empty seat opposite to him.

In the blink of an eye, you're there, sitting across from him.

'When do you get off?' he asked.

'Last stop,' you answered, 'staying at a hotel for a few days before my place is ready... was eager to leave,' you said. As soon as the words passed your lips, he felt compelled to be a gentleman. That, alongside taking into account the trouble that could have occurred if you did walk to the hotel alone, besides, the least he could have done for you buying him a drink and keeping him company was help you find you way to your hotel.

'We can share a cab if ye want,' he offered, 'put my mind at ease, wanna make sure you get there safe, besides, far too cold for ye to be walkin', bonnie,' he said, biting the inside of his mouth as he awaited your refusal, only, you nodded your head and smiled.

'I'd appreciate that, Johnny.'

His memories blur for a while after that, and his cheeks flushed red as he recalls how you looked at him before you got out of the cab. Glancing at the same hand that paid the fare only far enough to go to your hotel he curses as he watches the memory of him getting out of the taxi to chase after you.

You waited for him at the entrance in hope he'd have a change of heart, and he recalls how delighted you were when he walked through the door and caught you standing there, waiting for him.

Truthfully, he knew he was in deep shit when he felt the way you wrapped around him, the way you called his name, and how pretty you looked underneath him. Even after years, it was difficult to escape the thought of your first night together. Perhaps it was the entire being strangers thing that made the sex much more enthralling than any other one night stand he had had, or maybe it was just you.

Shoulda never let her have me number, he thought to himself.

It was difficult to deny that there were only ever terrible times. Resentment bubbles and it turns the fondest of moments to the worse; there was something there for him to miss when he thinks fondly of you. Fondness makes forgetting a hell of a lot harder, at least it does for him, anyway.

He hardly even thinks about Graves anymore and he resents him.

He resents you too.

But whenever he thinks of you, he thinks of your laughter. And then the guilt seeps in and he curses himself for ever thinking so lowly of you in the first place. How fucking dare he do something so terrible. You deserve it, though, for all the shit you put him through: the bruised heart thats still bandaged up, the sleepless nights as he waited for you to come home, the drunken phone calls he would get while on an op.

All of it.

Then there was everything else: the moments you shared together, the sound of your laughter which would seemingly travel down the halls of your apartment and wake him whenever you spent the night together, the sight of you in his shirt while cooking breakfast in the morning and your excitement when you finally persuaded him to dance with you.

The last one was particularly difficult to forget. His fondness will never let him let it go, he's convinced.

In the depths of the night, you danced together. He acknowledged the look on your face as he held you in your arms, the laughter as he spun you around in a circle, pulling you away just for you to end right back in his arms. He'd never let you wonder too far, scared that if he lost grip of your hand, you would have disappeared forever.

It became a routine and he recalls all the times he had held you in his arms while dancing to a song by Sinatra or Aretha Franklin and all the times he saw you smile. All of those happy moments moulded into one, while only a few stuck out.

During that night in particular, he couldn't look away from your eyes.

Whenever he looked at you, he was started by the glint of colours in your eyes, reflective of the colourful lights you had decorated your Christmas tree with. Rather, instead of decorating the tree, the lights in your eyes worked well in decorating the brambles you called eyelashes as you looked up at him. Every time you blinked, he found the same glossy sheen he had seen that night on the train. Every blink seemed to edge you closer to tears, as though your eyelashes were antagonising your poor eyes constantly.

Then he smelt the liquor on you breath and was reminded of the underlining truth of everything.

You were always emotional whenever you had something to drink. It couldn't have been helped, it was simply who you were, and he was going to resent you for something you couldn't have helped.

'Yer oot yer face,' he mumbled, speaking softly to you as you swayed with one another to the low hum of music from your vinyl player. Neither of you noticed how the song skipped, far too busy with one another to notice such a flaw.

'English, MacTavish,' you answered, your tone gruff as you recalled the story he had told you about the man with the skull mask and the city soaked in blood. He chuckled, pulling you closer, resting his head against your shoulder, looking at you. You turned your head to the side to look at him too.

'You're drunk,' he said quietly.

'I only had a glass,' you answered abruptly. You tensed in his arms when you responded to him and he felt his head sink further down until it sat, burning in the acid of his stomach. 'I had it while I was making dinner; the sauce had some of it in,' you explained, turning in his arms so your chests were pressed against each others. placing your hand against his face. You looked worried in that moment, observing his features. 'You're not mad at me, are you?'

Placing his hand over yours, he sighed, 'nae, bonnie, just don't want ye to hurt y'urself,' he explained, pulling your hand from off of his face, planting a kiss atop of it, moving his other hand from the small of your back to hold your waist. 'Love you too much for ye to do that,' he said, letting go of your hand to place his fingers beneath your chin, forcing your head up so you were looking at him. 'Y'know that.'

'I do,' you weakly answered.

The only bastard 'I do' he ever got from your lips. It was laughable really as he looks back on that night, how the pair of you had been so close in your home, dancing together as though you were an elderly couple celebrating your 40th wedding anniversary together.

Think I'll live that long?

Probably not.

Had anyone from 141 been there to witness how he fell to pieces with you in his arms, they very well would have laughed until they were blue in the face. And the longer he looks out the window out on the Scottish countryside, he concludes he too would laugh at that man dancing with you for being such a smitten fool.

'Good,' he hummed, pressing a kiss against your lips. The were chapped, dry, but he didn't care. Instead, he deepened the kiss as the pair of you stumbled backwards, muffled laughter escaping you as you loosely wrapped your arms around his neck while he kept the pair of you from falling.

Moments of happiness seemed so common in the beginning.

The night trains shifted to day trains again.

He'd hit the ground running after returning from an op, only showering because he didn't want you to smell the remnants of war which stained him and his skin. Nothing kept him from seeing you, not even his distaste for the day train.

All of it meant that he could get home sooner; he recalled the sinking feeling in his chest whenever the trains were delayed by a measly twenty minutes. Love made him a different man, he realised, a man who enjoyed the day train and the man who loathed the night train.

'I thought you weren't going to be home for another couple of days,' you said, opening the door to see Johnny standing there with a bag on his arm. Dropping it, he pulled you into a tight hug, resting his hand against the back of your head as he swayed you from side to side. 'Did you get the day train for me?' you asked.

Pulling away, he caught sight of the smile creeping onto you face as he nodded his head slowly, 'didn't wanna wait longer than I had to,' he answered, 'saw a photo of ye in me wallet an' knew I needed to be here with you sooner,' he added, pressing a kiss onto your lips as your cheeks flushed red.

'You have a picture of me in your wallet?' you quietly asked when he pulled away for you. He smiled.

'Of course I do, bonnie,' he responded as though such was an obvious fact, 'need to see that face of yours every day, ye like medicine to me.'

'Really?'

'Aye, lass.'

Everything moved so quickly and it wasn't long before you were well acquainted with his mam.

Meeting his mother was the confirmation he needed to say that he wanted to marry you. No one else in the world mattered when he saw how you and his sisters bonded, and while sitting alone on the train, he clenched a his fist at the emptiness of the palm of his hand while imagining the light weight of the ring his mother had placed in the palm of his hand while he stood in the kitchen helping her prepare the Christmas dinner. It had been over two years since the pair of you had started dating when she did so, working well to convince him that the timing meant that something else in the universe had willed it to happen.

'Mam?' he asked, looking down at the ring in his hand.

The band was quaint, golden as an green gem stared him in the eyes as he squinted, holding it up to the yellow light of the kitchen. The elderly woman in front of him chuckled, patting his shoulder as she walked past him to open the oven.

'Well, she's the one, ain't she?' she said, speaking into the heat of the oven as she grabbed the tray of duck-fat potatoes with a stained tea towel.

'Ye think?'

'Gonnae no’ dae that!' exclaimed his mother.

'Don't do what?' he scoffed.

'Act surprised,' she scolded, 'it's in ye eyes, son,' she chuckled. 'Yer nana told me to give ye the ring when I thought ye'd found the right one,' she confessed, 'and with your father gone, 'ave got no reason to wear it, but she has,' she uttered, looking from out of the kitchen into the living room.

His eyes followed hers and he watched as you sat with his youngest sister. The pair of you chatted away, though his stomach twisted at the sight of you holding a glass in your hand.

'She's a good girl, Johnny.'

'Aye, mam, I know.'

'So, marry her.'

With his mam's words echoing in his mind, the memories always came to the one that caused all the air in his lungs to escape.

Nothing wants to stay whenever he thinks of that, and he's sure if he was wounded, all his blood would leave him in a second in order to stay out of the cycle in his head that always brings him back to this one thought.

He supposes, in hindsight, it was terribly foolish what he had done. His ignorance to pressing issues was immature and irresponsible, only, they were easy to ignore when he had his mothers ring in his pocket. But he noticed, years down the line, how you had dropped his hand when the pair of you had been dancing, all to go and get another drink because the glass in your hand was running dry.

The party was one you both had planned, only, you had done so to celebrate a win himself and the boys had had during their time away, and he had invited everyone with the intent of proposing to the love of his life.

In the moment, he had been so crushed. He recalls how his mouth was dry, the dull ache in his cut knee as he awkwardly remained kneeled as you stood and stared. The speech he had prepared disappeared when you turned your back on him and rushed away, leaving his ego bleeding as everyone looked at him in horror.

'I just... I don't know why you would do it,' you mumbled when you heard him walk through the door into the kitchen away from the guests.

He was silent as he looked at you, traces of a storm in his eyes as he fought off the urge to cry. His chest hurt as he looked at you with a glass in your hand, and he couldn't do anything but stand there and watch as you drank from it. 'I told you, Johnny, I fucking warned you and-'

'I thought ye would've had a change of heart, love-'

'Well I haven't!' you angrily snapped, slamming your glass down onto the counter, glaring at him. 'What, did you think just because I'd have a ring on my finger all of our fuckin' issues are going to disappear? You're a smart man, Johnny, stop trying to play the role of the fool. It doesn't suit you and it never will.'

You were just as embarrassed as he was. He curses himself while sitting on the train, thinking back to your flushed cheeks and teary eyes. It wasn't only because of the booze that time, it was because of him too.

'I- I'm trying, John, can't you see that?' you croaked, 'I'm trying but I can't be everything you want. I don't wanna get married... at least not yet.'

'Ye don't love me,' he blurted.

You snapped your head up, furrowing your brows as you looked at him with wide eyes. 'Is that serious what you think?' you shakily asked, disbelief etched into your features. 'So what? You think all the fuckin' nights I've spent worried that you're not gonna come home when you're away working were for-'

'All the fuckin' nights you spent with a bottle in your hand too, eh?' he quickly cut you off, retorting in a manner that had left you breathless, draining all the colour out of your face. 'Don't pull that card on me, bonnie, don't you fuckin' dare do it 'cause I worry more about you and your drinkin' habit than I do my own life when I'm out on the field- tell me how you think that's fair!'

You stared at him, your eyes drifting to the empty glass abandoned on the counter. It was unfair for him to pull that card, he was aware enough in the moment to understand it, but he was so utterly devastated that he chose to stand his ground. An apology wouldn't have mean anything even if he had said it.

'If ye loved me... you'd stop goin' to the bottle every time ye have an issue,' he bleakly said, 'but am not even sure if you would pick me over the drink anymore, bonnie.'

'How would me saying yes to you fix any of that?'

He stayed silent.

Reflection allows him to find that he only ever proposed out of love. He was aware of your issues, noting it was never always smooth sailing from either of you, but he supposes he just wanted to have proof that at least once, you would pick him rather than the liquor.

But he was stupid for ever thinking you were more than your champagne problems.

'Getting married would only complicate things between us, John. You know that,' you said after a while of silence, 'and clearly, we don't listen to each other... I'm sorry I embarrassed you today, and I'm sorry I keep causing you to worry- I'm sorry for being such a burden to you but you don't make it easy for me,' you uttered, rubbing your face with your hands, wiping away the tears that fell down your scarlet cheeks.

There was nothing else for him to say to you, and he's ashamed at the very fact that, in the moment you needed him the most, he walked out of that room and left you there crying, alone.

As the train turns on the tracks again, he ponders what would have been different if he had stayed there with you, only, he finds his mind drifting to the words on a page which confirms exactly why he was thinking.

He was only prolonging the inevitable.

As he turns to the final page in his notebook, he finds it difficult to breath as he retrieves the piece of paper he had pushed to the back of it, unfolding it. Pressing his hand against it, he leaves it to sit on top of the page marked with splashes of the drink you had spilled, unable to find the strength as he stares down at the words scrawled on the page.

A crude reminder of what became of his engagement.

'Johnny,

In time, I hope you'll forget about all my problems and find someone who you deserve. I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused and I'm sorry for not being ready for you.

Give your mums ring to someone who deserves it and put the special ladies picture in your wallet instead of mine. For the sake of yourself and me.

I love you, Johnny, nearly too much, and while you will see my absence as cruel, know I see it as necessary and that's the issue; we never have seen eye to eye on a lot of things.

We're not ready for each other, I know you think it but you're too scared to say it, so I'll bite the bullet and say it for you. We're not ready for each other, Johnny.

Love shouldn't be a tug-of-war, and I grow tired for you watching as you always try and pull me to you. Besides, I heard your mother after you left the room, she said I was fucked in the head for not agreeing to your proposal and it leaves me wondering what type of person you've made your family believe I am.

I'm sorry I couldn't be everything you wanted, but know that everything I'm doing: leaving, writing this letter, not saying goodbye to you in person, is for you. You always said you hated goodbyes; they were the hardest part of your career, and I can't promise that I wouldn't run back into your arms the second you'd open your mouth and beg me not to go.

But I'm prolonging the inevitable by staying with you.

I'm making you miserable with my problems and that is not what I want you to do. You have a life, and you had a life before we met on that train.

All I ever did was make you worry and I don't want to do that anymore. I don't want you to worry about me, I just want you to move on and love and be loved. I'm going to work on myself and I'm going to get better because I know that that is what you want, and in truth, it's what I want too.

I love you and I fear I always will, but I can't have you, and I'm punishing you and myself by staying here.'

He turns his head away from the letter, looking back to the window at the small dots through the foggy water as he utters the last part of the letter under his breath. 'One day, we may meet again, perhaps the stars will align and you'll see me on a nighttime train back to your home town. And maybe then, I'll be ready.'

A breathy laugh escapes him, repeating 'And maybe then, I'll be ready.'

How appalling it would be when you realised that you leaving only resulted in the reversal of roles. At least, he likes to think he would have the strength to refuse you if he's to ever see you again.

When he turns away from the window, relieving himself of the pain of remembering all that has gone wrong in his life, he takes the letter from off of his notepad, folding it along the worn edges, pushing it back in a small slip at the back of the notepad.

Shrugging off his jacket, he put it on the seat beside him with a hard sigh, turning his attention back to the notepad in front of him. The nights long and his journey proceeds to drag his feet and he's unsure if he even wants to be back home or if he should have just stayed in the base until Price needed him next. But it's Christmas and he couldn't have left his family because of his own sorrow about something that happened years ago.

He just misses you more in the holidays, but he supposes that's okay as long as he doesn't let the phantom you left him with ruin everything. So, he picks up the pencil and pursues what he was doing the night you two met, only this time, there's a ghost sitting opposite to him, not the living thing that greeted him many moons ago.

His ignorance to the world around him keeps him from hearing the footsteps storming up the aisle after the train stops at a station. Even when the voice of a woman announcing the last stop enters his ears, he doesn't lift his head. All the noise culminates into a twisting storm, similar to how he imagines the billowing smoke exuding from a chimney on a winter night swirls in the wind. It's deplorable and he grunts as he attempts to chase the flurry of emotions away.

His efforts result in even more tension at the front of his mind as he looks into the eyes of the drawing he's sketching, realising just whose eyes he had depicted in the midst of his worry. Even after all the time has passed, he's impressed by the fact that he still remembers your features so well.

Always so difficult to forget, he supposes his contemplation proves such.

Then he hears it.

The very thing that works to break him free.

A quaint shaky breath.

A shadow covers his bulky frame, light peering from either side of the mass standing on the aisle holding onto the seat opposite him. Lifting his head, his lungs rattle in his chest as he realises the eyes he had been sketching in his notepad are right before him in human form, staring right back at him.

'Johnny?'

────────── ⋆⋅🚂⋅⋆ ──────────

[thedragonagelesbian]

Sosiel frowned as he worked, hands and pages smudged with charcoal from a whole hour of trying--and failing--to sketch the Knight Commander. Kyrith'enderax was... mystifying. If the dhampir had any fangs to speak of, he hid them well behind the perfect line of his mouth, drawn as straight and tight as the rest of him, rigid from the base of his skull to the tips of his toes. Whether it was a kind of rigor mortis or simply his disposition, Sosiel didn't know, but he struggled to capture it in his sketches. Occasionally, he could glimpse the beauty of it. The lines of Kyrith'enderax's body like the shadow of an aspen cast in winter, harsh but elegant.

But this morning, his sketches looked more like rows of soldiers in formation, strict and sad.

There were other drawings at the margins. A paladin of the Sunrise Order with hollow eyes. A gargoyle's bloodied wing. The cruel silhouette of a hellknight's helm.

He was studying Kyrith'enderax's shoulders-- one perpetually covered in some kind of frostbitten magic, both bared to the world despite the cold as he disassembled the camp. Tying up his bedroll, he caught sight of Sosiel. They made eye contact for a moment--Sosiel couldn't imagine trying to paint his eyes, amber and lacquered like rosin--before Kyrith'enderax glanced down at the book.

"You keep drawing. Even in the field."

"I would be rather limited if I only sketched what I saw in the Crusade camp," Sosiel replied. "The world around us is so unstable. Especially now, during this war. A friend's smile, the curve of a tree, the glow of a fire-- if we do not preserve them, the rare moments of beauty we still have will be lost in the flow of time." Kyrith'enderax kept staring at the sketchbook, as if he could see the drawings through the cover, and with a small, defensive cough, Sosiel added, "And I promise, Commander, it does not distract from my duties."

"Why would I care if it did?"

The question was matter-of-fact, so Sosiel answered honestly: "A Hellknight would think it frivolous."

"I am not a Hellknight."

"You've inquired twice now about becoming one."

Kyrith'enderax paused, eyes flickering every which way before landing at some point decidedly next to but not on Sosiel's face. "Your creativity is..." he ran his tongue over his bottom lip before shaking his head. "Admirable. I cannot see this world as you do, it is still too new to me, but your ability to find beauty in it and document it is beautiful in its own right. I am honored to be included in that project."

And there it was, the reason why Sosiel had been scribbling nonstop since he woke up, and a few hours the night before too, trying to square two different versions of Kyrith'enderax in his head: the man of stilted but undeniable kindness who had comforted him as he had buried his friends twice over, and the cold commander who had professed interest in an organization as wretched as the Hellknights.

"Permission to speak freely?"

"You do not need to ask for it."

"I do not wish to overstep my bounds, but..." Sosiel flipped through his sketchbook to a drawing from last night: the curve of Kyrith'enderax's mouth, caught in a rare moment of downturn. "I saw something pass over you when the paralictor ordered Yaker to be punished for abandoning his post. You seemed upset."

And again now, a tightening around the corners as Kyrith'enderax ducked his head. "How observant."

"It is as much a part of being a cleric as it of being an artist." Sosiel offered him a smile, though he didn't know if Kyrith'enderax could see it. "We need not talk about it if you do not want to; I only mean to say... that you do not strike me as cruel."

"You have not known me for long."

"Am I wrong?"

Kyrith'enderax reached up to touch his shoulder, digging his nails into the magic frozen there. "I hope that you are not. And I hope that you understand that there is nothing more odious to me than the abuse of authority... but hope counts for less than discipline. I am a dhampir. If I am not cruel, it is only because I have mastered myself."

As he spoke, Sosiel found his charcoal pencil in his hand again, and Kyrith'enderax's shoulder came to life underneath it-- not as a mere straight line but as tension, tautness, breaking before bending.

"Is that what you seek among the Hellknights? Discipline? Mastery?"

"Yes." For as cold as the rest of him was, Kyrith'enderax's eyes burned, flashing to Sosiel's and darting away again, sparks dancing in the cave. "Though... perhaps not with them. I have inured myself to much; that should not include the suffering of others."

Sosiel let out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding. "Oh, I must admit I am relieved to hear that. I believe that you have more hope than you give yourself credit for-- it would be a shame to watch the Hellknights snuff it out."

"Thank you." Kyrith'enderax's cheeks darkened, a flush of life underneath the ice. "That means more to me than you could know."

"Of course, friend."

"...May I see them? The, ah, drawings you've done of me?"

"Oh..." Now it was Sosiel's turn to glance away. "There's nothing to look at yet. This isn't even a draft, more a series of random sketches. The slope of your neck, the curve of your lip, your gestures..." Kyrith'enderax's blush deepened, and Sosiel felt a bit warm in the face too. "It's not much to look at."

"Do not be ashamed. There are some artists whose sketches I prefer to their finished works. The tactility of rough, unrefined, instinctive artistry is enticing." The last word curled up from the usual rasping of his voice into something almost like a purr. Quickly, Kyrith'enderax coughed and continued, "But if you do not wish to share, I will not push the matter. In fact, I have distracted you enough from your work. I will not bother you anymore."

Before Sosiel could assure him that it wasn't a bother, Kyrith'enderax had stood and darted off. With a soft sigh, Sosiel turned to a clean page and began sketching what the Knight Commander might look like smiling.

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Four (Part 2)

The next day I’m late for life drawing class as usual, and everyone is already laying their sketchbooks out on the floor as I burst into the studio, already halfway out of my raincoat and gloves. Ida doesn’t say anything, she just glances around at me, pauses, and then keeps talking to the rest of the class, which is obviously a thousand times worse than a scolding. I hastily unzip my bag and wrench my sketchbook out of it, only slightly wet around the edges from the torrential rain soaking through the flimsy canvas of my bag. I race over to lay it on the floor amongst the others. 

Marnie shoves a sharp elbow into my ribs as I take my place beside her, and I glance at the side of her face to see her smirking. Yes. I want to hiss. I know I keep doing this, apparently I’m just completely unable to get my life together and be a functioning person, Okay?

“Like I was saying,” Says Ida, as it dawns on me that I have interrupted her, and instantly wish I was dead. “I wanted to see improvements from all of you in the anatomy of your figures last week, so I’m very interested to see what you’ve done for today.” She bends down and begins to slowly flip through the pages of one sketchbook. “What do we think about this work?” 

“Nice sense of movement.” Says one student. 

“Yeah, the sketches of the man with the glasses are very nice.” Says another, while I desperately rack my brains for something to say. What do I think? Do I have a single opinion in my head about anything? 

Ida moves from one sketchbook to the next, and everyone discusses their work. I watch who’s speaking, and slowly, one by one, everybody eventually speaks up. Except for me. I have nothing to say. I am blank. I bring my thumbnail to my mouth and chew on it anxiously, feeling tension and shame growing inside me like a lump in my gut. 

She reaches for a sketchbook full of dark, confident lines, and I know immediately who it belongs to. I watch as she flips through the pages, all moody sketches of silhouettes in windows, backlit by street lamps, a whole page filled with a scratchy portrait of a man in a jacket, hard lines and planes on his face. 

“They’re good.” I force myself to say, at last. My voice seems to echo extra loudly in the studio and I have never been more aware of myself but I push through the fear. “But I think they’re messy. The anatomy is lost among all the smudges. I wish they were done much neater.” I glance up to meet Dean Cullen’s eyes, and quirk my eyebrow at him. How do you like it? I want to tell him. Doesn’t feel that good, does it? 

Ida says my opinion is fair, and we spend some time discussing it, but I’m not really listening. I’m focussed on the way my body feels, the way the blood is coursing through me, the slight weakness in my legs from the adrenaline of speaking out for the first time in front of the class and taking Dean’s work down all in one fell-swoop. 

I never prepared for what would happen when we got to my sketchbook however, and as soon as Ida starts leafing through its soggy pages I find myself stricken with anxiety. I keep my eyes on Dean the whole time as the class discusses my work, waiting for him to come up with something, watching the gears in his head turn, formulating whatever unhelpful, unconstructive comment he’s about to spew. 

He finally opens his annoying little mouth. “Nice, as usual, but needs more refinement in the hands. Would have liked to have seen more detail.”

Doesn’t he know how hard hands are? I make a scoffing sound, out loud, and then immediately burn up with embarrassment as a few faces turn to stare at me. Dean is looking too, a questioning look on his face as though he doesn’t quite get my indignation. If Ida hears, however, she ignores it and starts telling me about how to draw hands in a more considered way, which I only half listen to, because I can’t keep my eyes from flitting back and forth between the sketchbook and Dean. I loathe him. I decide. He must be the most irritating man alive. 

During the afternoon in the computer lab I listen intently to our lecturer guiding us through the steps of creating an image from scratch in Photoshop, when I hear the sound of computer chair wheels glide towards me across the floor. I assume it’s Marnie, coming to start some conversation that’s not even loosely connected to the classwork, so I prepare to shrug her off immediately. All these menus have me confused enough, I don’t need to add some post she read on Tumblr to my mental load. 

“Can it wait until after?” I whisper tightly with eyes glued to the screen. Where the hell is the Modify menu? 

“Eh, not really.” Comes the response, and I’m immediately thrown by the male voice. My hand practically spasms off the mouse and I whirl around to face Dean, altogether too much into my personal space, slumped back in his chair and idly spinning himself from side to side. 

“Oh.” I say, then pause, unsure what to say. “Did you want something?”

“I’m lost.” He admits. “I’m not that great with, like, the tech stuff. I saw that you kind of looked like you knew what you were doing so I was hoping I could take the computer beside you and look in on your screen.”

“Well I don’t know what I’m doing either.”

“It seems like you know more than I do.” He wheels into the empty desk beside me and boots up the computer. I stare at him the whole time in bewilderment. Doesn’t he realise that we hate each other? Or is he just messing with me? 

I turn back to my screen and try to ignore him, but the lecturer is already talking about something else. Now I have to find the expand button. God damn it, where’s the expand button? What the hell does that do? The way that Dean clicks and clacks on his keyboard is about ten times louder than the way any normal person does it. And he sniffs really loudly. And his giant stretched out jumper smells like cigarettes and the inside of a charity shop. 

He leans over to me. “Where’s modify?”

“I don’t know.” I hiss. “I was trying to find it when you interrupted me.” 

He goes back to clicking for a few minutes, and when he nudges me gently with his elbow, I’m forced to look at him. He looks like a TV villain. No good hearted men have faces like that, or hair bleached that horrendous shade of Slim Shady blonde. He looks like he should be riding around town with his car windows down and his middle fingers up. “It’s in the select menu.” He advises. “You go Select > Modify > Expand.” 

“Thanks” I say, begrudgingly following his directions, which are tragically correct, and go back to following the lecturers demonstration, but it isn’t long before Dean starts talking again. 

“I like your drawing.” He whispers, nodding towards my digital line work of a girl floating in space with Saturn for a head, and his compliment makes my heckles rise. “Oh, do you actually?” I whisper back accusingly, which seems to take him aback. 

“Eh… Yes?” 

“Hm. Alright.”

“Why? Do you think it’s shit or something?”

“No, I’m just surprised you don’t have anything smart to say about it.” 

“I can say it’s shit if you want.”

“You might as well, sure you always say that about my other work.”

There is a long pause, where I can see from the corner of my eye that he’s turned to stare at me, but can’t bear to meet his gaze. I go on clicking around through all the menus so that I can look unbothered, and it seems like an age before he decides to speak again. “I think you must be talking about the life drawing critique sessions.” He leaves that statement hanging in the air as if he expects me to respond to it, but I just ignore him and drag my mouse through the colour wheel, trying to decide what shade of navy blue I should make the sky. I shouldn’t have to say anything. It’s obvious. 

He sighs. “You know it’s just critique, it’s not as if it’s a personal attack on you.”

“It’s more than a critique.” I bite back. “It’s rude. The way you talk about my work is rude, that’s just what I think and how it comes across to me.”

“Would you prefer if I said it was perfect?”

I turn to him to launch into a response, but the lecturer beats me to it. “Dean and Evelyn at the back there, please, if you want to continue your conversation can you please do it outside the classroom?” 

I snap my mouth shut and spin back around to my monitor. If I still had long hair, I would have flipped it over my shoulder right about now. He can rot. 

Prev // Next

[bosskie]

Continuing the Sketchbook

I felt inspired by that 'old Molluck' and I feel like I love that Molluck more now than I used to... I noticed more differences between the AO Molluck and NnT Molluck while working on this but I also did remember again why I dislike NnT... I'll write about that later in this post.

Man, I'm not even sure when was the last time I drew something like this... It's so rare that I draw 'full settings', I mean, a background, multiple characters, something that has a story etc. I'm just used to draw portraits because well, I have felt like I just cannot draw anything else... So, I took the challenge and especially when I didn't have direct references, I had to make this perspective by myself. I tried my best and hope that it looks alright. Also, I'm sorry for the quality of these. All these look better and smoother IRL. I only take a photo and edit it, so some details are lost too. But you can see the main thing, somehow, and the main details are there, like Abe's lil hand tattoo.

I actually planned something different for the second page but I wanted to draw this way too much ... I'm not sure why but this image was just stuck inside my head. This is kinda random too since I just added some stuff that came to my mind around the drawing. I basically just drew this all day since I felt like I do need a day-off... I barely keep any holidays, even for a day... I just keep feeling more and more tired...

But yes, man I just feel like I keep loving this Gluk more and more... I just noticed how this AO Molluck gives that certain feeling SoulStorm Molluck has.

(I love what like AO Molluck looks in this cutscene...) The same situation in NnT doesn't give me this feeling, so yeah, frankly, NnT Molluck is the worst version of him in my opinion. I had forgotten how artificial voice NnT Molluck has... I hadn't seen any NnT cutscene for like two years. NnT Molluck makes different sounds too, like AO Molluck makes some 'random murmur' sounds while NnT one growls. I love that murmur he makes, it's adorable... He kinda does it in SS too!

I also noticed that NnT cutscene doesn't have that 'Molock suckz' text, just now... I wonder why. I personally love that lil detail and the fact that the Gametee's RuptureFarms hoodie has that printed on it! Well, I still don't agree on that, though it depends on how we define 'suck' here; he does smoke a lot!

Oh, and I also realized how they changed what Molluck says in that cutscene in NnT too! He doesn't say 'Kill 'im!' anymore but something like 'Get toast!', if I hear right... Man, Molluck truly got softer there. But that toast thing tickled my dark humour... Yeah, when Molluck manages to catch Abe, he wants to make a good sandwich from him, put him between a bread, and before killing him, he asks from Abe: 'Whadda ya are?'. Abe replies: 'I'm a weak, pathetic, uneducated, shmuck of a slave sandwich'. Those were Abe's last words. The end.

I cannot help myself that I enjoy dark humour like that... Oddworld is just perfect for my humour! I have been joking after making that joke that welp, maybe being like all day with Molluck makes me be more like him too... Yeah, I don't hate Abe but for some reason, the only character I care about is Molluck. He just means so much to me... After all these years, I finally found a character that is 'perfect' for me. Well, I only like a few characters in general too... But none of them (but Molluck) feel 'right' for me, at least in the same sense as Molluck; it can take some time to realize it. I can like count with one hand the characters that feel somehow special to me; like one of them is like me as a villain, feels like my alter ego.

It's just kinda odd to think how 'the one' for me was Molluck... No one else has made me feel like he does... It's just so interesting but I love to have him as that one. When I saw him, in both AO and SS, before really getting into him, I felt nothing special toward him, didn't see anything special in his appearance either; I only liked Gluks in general. But then, that SS Molluck just started to feel like me as a Gluk and here I am!

[selfindulgentpoorlywritten]

Do That (Mikko Rantanen)

Sorry I’m late! I got in a car accident, so I had to deal with that. Anyway, this is my fic for @kurlyteuvo for @wyattjohnston ‘s summer fic exchange! I feel like I could have written another 10k words of this, but alas, I didn’t have the time. Hope you enjoy!

Rating: T

Pairing: Mikko Rantanen/fem!reader

Words: 7789

Warnings: children involved (not the reader’s)

Summary: Reader meets Mikko at the park and things go from there

It was a one-in-a-million coincidence to meet him, but you’ve never been so grateful for a chance encounter.

Here’s how it happened:

You have a tradition of spending your days off at Skyline Park, reading or knitting or just enjoying the sunshine. It was a pleasant September afternoon, the fall chill having yet to set in. The sun was bright, the breeze not too strong. You were sitting on a bench, reading a new book your friend had recommended, a few dozen pages in.

Suddenly, someone was an inch away from you, making your head fly up in surprise. The person skipped and twisted, avoiding falling into you at the last second. He paused for only a second, throwing out a quick “sorry” before he continued his jog. There was no time to respond, having barely processed what was happening before he was gone.

You’re not sure if that really counts as your first meeting, since only one word was exchanged, but it had been the first time you’d interacted at all. You’d been more vigilant that day, waiting for someone to misjudge their footing and crash into you. Nothing of the sort had happened, but in looking up at every passing runner, you’d seen him three more times as he lapped the park. Those passes gave you time to look at him more closely, and the shock had hit.

The man who had almost fallen on you was tall and muscular, with curly blond hair and bright blue eyes. You’d seen his face on TV a hundred times, in replays and promos. Because the man was Mikko Rantanen.

Luckily, the awe had faded by the end of the day. There was an odd embarrassment in its place, despite having done nothing wrong. Whatever, you’d decided. It’s not like you were ever going to see him again.

Except you did.

Most times you went to the park, it was just a flow of regular people, nameless faces passing by. This time, you had been drawing. The scenery was beautiful, the architecture perfect for sketching. You were focusing on the concrete sculpture across the pathway, trying to get the lines perfect, trying to capture the look of joy on a little boy’s face as he climbed all over the boxes.

Just as you looked up from your sketchbook, he had passed by. Your eyes had met, and it sent a jolt through you that you couldn’t explain. Maybe it was simply because he was beautiful, the yellow-white sunlight making his hair glow like a wild halo. Maybe it was because he had been looking at you already, as if he recognized you despite the two weeks that had passed.

Again, you’d looked up at every passing runner that day, catching sight of him four more times. Your gazes met every time. You couldn’t explain the feeling, the way it seemed like he was looking for you, like he was searching for something in your eyes.

The third time, you were almost expecting it. Hoping for it, definitely. You had checked the Avs’s schedule that morning, seeing that they were off at home. With that knowledge, you brought along your sketchbook. You always saw him at around the same time, so you started on a new book to kill time until then.

When he makes his first pass, you switch to your sketchbook. It’s a little cloudy today, the fall having taken hold, weakening the sun and making the wind crisper. He goes by and you start sketching. It’s hard to get the features just right when you’ve only seen him in passing, so you give in and look up some references on your phone. He crosses in front of you again, and you do your best to take in the way the cloud’s shadows deepen on his face, carve out his features in stark relief.

He hadn’t looked at you on the second lap, and he doesn’t look on the third either. You’re a little put out, because this is the day that you want him to look the most. Nevertheless, you keep working on your art, filling the page with carefully shaded pencil sketches of his face at different angles. You’ve always been better at drawing nature and inanimate objects, but you think you get his likeness down pretty well. He doesn’t look on the fourth lap.

You had gotten distracted by working on the line of his jaw, tweaking it until it sloped just right, when a shadow fell over you. You looked up, thinking that the weather had turned quickly, as it’s wont to do. You didn’t want to get rained on, especially when working with paper.

Instead, it had been Mikko, standing a foot or two away. His gaze wasn’t piercing, really, but it felt like it dug into your core anyway. He stared; you stared back.

“Oh, um,” you said finally, sitting up a little straighter, “Hi.” A small smile had turned the corner of his lips at that.

“Hi,” he replied, going quiet again, as if he was waiting for something. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to do in this situation, not used to interacting with strangers. Let alone very famous, very handsome strangers.

“How’s your run going?” you ask, grasping for anything to say. His smile grows with the words.

“It’s good,” he says, eyes flicking down to your lap before coming back to rest on your own, “How’s your drawing?” It’s then that you realize the sketchbook is sitting face-up on your lap, your work fully visible to him. A furious blush heats your cheeks immediately, his smile blossoming fully.

“Uh,” you say, eloquently.

“I’m sorry if that’s weird,” you apologize quickly, worried that he may think you’re some kind of stalker, “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He chuckles, shaking his head a little. The corners of his eyes crinkled with happiness.

“It’s not weird,” he replied easily, motioning to the book, “They’re really good.” You swallow hard, still nervous. At least he doesn’t think you’re some kind of weirdo, probably.

“Thank you,” you say. Words evade you after that, and there’s a short pause. He extends his hand toward you, huge palm open.

“I’m Mikko,” he said, still smirking. You took his hand, letting it nearly envelop your own as you shook it.

“I’m Y/N,” you officially introduce yourself. His shiny white teeth peek out from between his lips.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said. And that’s how it started.

After that, he had taken to sitting with you for a while after his run, listening to your stories and updates and sharing his own. Your schedules didn’t always align, but you got to see him at least every few weeks. Quickly, that wasn’t enough. You were fascinated by him, by the way you felt so comfortable with him so quickly, with the way it was so easy to open up to him in a way you rarely did with others. You wanted to be around him all the time. It scared you.

You feared you were becoming infatuated with him, that your brain was latching onto a pretty stranger to distract from something. You were terrified that you would put him on a pedestal, would convince yourself you were falling for him, only to break your own heart.

Over time, it became clear that that wasn’t what was happening. Yes, you wanted to spend all your time with him. But you didn’t neglect responsibilities or other friends to do so. You stuck to your encounters in the park, not pushing for anything more. You felt safe around him, but not because you deluded yourself into it. You felt safe because you had been vulnerable with him, and he had shown over and over again that it was okay to do so. It was easy to open up with him, but you didn’t feel the need to spill your entire life and all of your secrets to him. You were a little obsessed with him, but it was a soft, happy, fond kind of obsession. It didn’t interfere with your life, only added to it.

The pattern continued for months, the two of you even meeting up in the dead of winter, clearing snow off of the bench to huddle together against the cold. The spring is welcome when it finally comes, though it brought buckets of rain along. You would take walks together, Mikko holding a big red umbrella just above your heads.

Usually, you welcome the warmth and light of early summer. When it started to arrive that year, you dreaded it. You knew Mikko would be going back to Finland for the summer, and you didn’t look forward to being alone again. He told you ahead of time when he’d be leaving, and you couldn’t help but count down the days you had left.

The last day you’d get to see him, there was a solemn air surrounding your interactions. You presented him with a going-away gift, a light grey cable-knit hat. He’d have no use for it during the summer, but it would help during the hockey season. And maybe you’d been afraid that you’d never see him again, that he would go away for months and forget all about you, and you wanted to give him a memento. And even if the memory of who gave it to him faded, you’d still be able to keep him warm in the vicious winters.

He’d thanked you profusely, hugging you tight. You tucked your face into his neck, trying to imprint the smell and feel of his skin into your brain. He pulled it on immediately, heedless of the hot sun beating down on him.

When it came time to part ways, he slipped you a neatly folded piece of paper. Please use it, he had said, pressing a quick kiss to your hairline before departing. You had watched him go, your forehead tingling from his touch. When you unfolded the paper, you were met with twelve numbers. The format isn’t familiar, but the plus sign at the beginning and the note underneath reading text me make it clear that it’s a phone number. Under the note, there’s a username as well, with Whatsapp scribbled next to it. You’d tucked the note into your sketchbook, slipping it into your backpack. Your heart had sung and beat off-rhythm the entire way home.

With a line of communication open, the floodgates opened. You were able to message any time you wanted, working around the nine hour time difference. Even when one of you was asleep, you’d leave messages for the other to read when they woke. It still wasn’t ideal, but when he sent you pictures of him and his dog, he didn’t feel so far away.

His return to Denver was highly anticipated. You’d agreed to meet at the park two days after he landed. The first thing he did when he saw you was wrap you up in a tight hug, twisting you side to side like his happiness made it impossible to stand still. You had squeezed back, as hard as you could.

A month into the season, he had invited you out with some of his teammates to celebrate a win, and that had been the beginning of the current era. It was the first time you had seen him outside of the park, the first time he’d introduced you to some of the other people in his life. It had broken the seal, and the next invitation had solidified the knowledge that he wanted you to be a part of his life, too.

Another year passed, the two of you growing almost unbearably close. He came to your apartment after tough losses, holding you close under the covers of your bed for comfort, nearing the line between platonic and something else. You never crossed it, though, even when you laid between his legs on the couch, when he FaceTimed you every night on the road, when you fell asleep with your face smushed into the crook of his neck so much that you were imprinted with his scent upon waking.

Then, your sister-in-law has a baby.

It’s her and your brother’s third child, a beautiful little girl named Rose. You go to the hospital the second they’ll allow you, begging out of work early. You congratulate your brother and sister, talking for a little while you wait for the nurses to bring Rose back from wherever they’ve taken her. If you tear up a little the first time you hold her, well, no one else needs to know.

The next day, your brother invites you over that weekend to see all of the kids, and you excitedly accept. It’s been a little while since you’ve seen the other little ones, and the promise of getting to play with them carries you through the rest of the week. Even when your boss gets on your ass to finish a report a week before it’s due, you’re soothed by the thought.

On Friday, you get a text from Mikko. Well, you get texts from him every day, but this is the important one. He only has practice on Saturday, so he asks if you want to hang out afterward. You always do, hell, you want to spend all of your time with him. Unfortunately, he wants to get a late lunch together, and that’s when you’re supposed to be at your brother’s. Something holds you back from saying no immediately, the gears in your head turning.

Half an hour and a text from your brother later, you finally respond to Mikko. The proposition is this: you can spend time together, but he has to come to your brother’s with you. It’s a long shot, since he’s only met your siblings once, but you want to have your cake and eat it too.

You’re surprised when he responds less than thirty seconds later, just the word “yes” in all caps, with three exclamation points for emphasis. Beyond the surprise, there’s something about his eager certainty that warms your heart.

The decision to invite him had been mostly impulsive, but as soon as you see his face at your apartment door, you know it was the right one. His smile is wide and bright, buried in your hair as he hugs you in greeting. You grab your bag from the hook on the inside of the door and head out. The drive isn’t exactly short, but traffic isn’t too terrible at this time of day, so it’s not as bad as it could be.

It also helps that Mikko spends the drive alternating between talking and singing, turning the music up when a song he likes comes on, then turning it back down so he can continue regaling you with stories. He’s not a great vocalist, but his enthusiasm and joy more than make up for it. You keep glancing over at him, loving the way the sun turns his hair golden, messed up into a shining halo around his head.

Derek meets you at the door when you arrive, wrapping you up in a hug. He gives Mikko a quick once-over before shaking his hand. Mikko thanks him for allowing him to tag along, always polite. Luckily, neither Derek nor Heather watch hockey, so you don’t have to worry about any fannish behavior.

He leads you around the corner into the family room, eyes softening as soon as he sees Heather on the couch with Rose in her arms. It’s sickeningly sweet. Briar and Florian run to you immediately, shouting your name and latching onto your legs.

You bend over a little to run a hand through their hair, urging them to step back so you can plant kisses on their foreheads. Their smiles are brighter than the sun, and they both start telling you about their days, talking over each other. You laugh, hauling them up, one in each arm. They keep talking as you make your way to the couch, sitting next to Heather and kissing her cheek.

After a minute of the kids’ chatter, you remember that Mikko is here, still standing awkwardly at the edge between the kitchen and family room. You beckon him over, patting the spot next to you. He sits, and Briar crawls into your lap, never having been a fan of strangers. He curls up, turned away from Mikko with his face hidden in your chest. Florian’s speech about preschool has stopped, and he’s staring at Mikko like he’s trying to figure out what to do. After a few seconds, he climbs over your lap, balancing with one knee on your leg and the other on the couch, reaching around Briar to shove a hand toward Mikko.

“Oh,” Mikko says, taking Florian’s hand and shaking it twice, “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Mikko.” Florian nods, brow furrowed like he’s investigating the odd man his aunt brought.

“I’m Florian,” he introduces, “That’s a weird name.” Mikko lets out a startled laugh at that, but doesn’t seem offended.

“I’m from a different country,” Mikko explains, “So we have different names.” Florian thinks for a second, then nods again, resolute.

“Are you Aunt Y/N’s boyfriend?” he asks. You say his name, ready to chastise him for asking inappropriate questions. Mikko speaks first.

“No,” he says, shrugging, “But we are really good friends.” This seems to be a sufficient answer for Florian. He crawls out of your lap and over Mikko’s, sitting cross-legged on the couch facing him.

“What’s your favorite dinosaur?” he asks, bringing a smile to both Mikko and your faces. Mikko angles himself slightly toward Florian, engaging fully with the conversation. You’re relieved that Florian seems to like Mikko, especially because that means Briar will have an easier time warming up to him. Briar trusts Florian’s intuition, so he’ll give someone a chance if Flo likes them, but will never get anywhere near someone he doesn’t approve of.

You turn back to Heather and she hands Rose over without you even having to ask, physically moving Briar into her own lap so you have space. Briar doesn’t mind, just cuddling into his mom’s arms.

As you and Heather talk, Flo dismounts the couch and Mikko stands, following him around the room as Flo tells him about all his toys. After the tour, they sit on the floor together, Flo showing Mikko how one works. For his part, Mikko does a fantastic job of seeming interested, nodding and humming and asking questions to encourage him to continue. It’s incredibly cute.

Eventually, Flo moves on to a different toy. This one is Briar’s absolute favorite, you know, but you’re still surprised when he plops down to the floor to go join the other boys. He still doesn’t say much, but he does give little comments in his quiet, lispy voice.

“He’s good with kids,” Heather says when she catches you watching them for too long, giving you a sly look. You can feel a little heat rush to your face, biting your lip.

“Yeah,” you agree, looking back down at Rose’s sleeping face, “Didn’t know that.” Heather chuckles, but returns the conversation back to its previous topic. You’re grateful, not wanting to think too much about the feelings that have started pressing at the edges of your consciousness the past few months.

After some more gabbing, Briar comes over to tug at your pant leg. You turn your gaze to him, filled with love at the sight of his chubby face. He points toward the stairs, then starts walking over to them. You pass Rose back over to Heather, your knees creaking when you stand. Briar has stopped halfway to the stairs, staring back at Mikko and Flo. After a moment of deliberation, he goes back over, face determined as he tugs on Mikko’s sleeve. Once he has his attention, Briar points to the stairs again. Mikko seems surprised but stands anyway, letting the little boy lead him upstairs.

It takes a second to shake your shock, but you follow along. There are very few people Briar feels comfortable taking up to his room, and you hadn’t expected him to decide Mikko should be added to that list. Especially so quickly.

Since you’re a few steps behind them, Briar has already climbed up onto his bed by time you get to the doorway. You watch as he grabs one of his stuffed animals and gives it to Mikko, telling him the stuffie’s name and the backstory he’s created for them. Mikko offers it back once Briar has finished speaking, and it gets exchanged for the next. Seeing Mikko kneeling next to the bed, knees surely aching, paying rapt attention to every word Briar says… something grows in your chest that’s far too soft to not be a threat to your sanity.

Briar beckons you over when he gets to the last stuffed animal, the only one you don’t recognize. You join Mikko on the floor, leaning into his side while you listen to the story Briar has come up with for the newest addition to his collection.

Once he’s finished, the three of you go back downstairs. Heather is standing now, rocking Rose back and forth in her arms. Mikko steps up to her, but keeps a respectful distance as he admires the baby, complimenting both her and Heather. Flo pulls at Mikko’s pant leg, dragging him away and through the glass door into the back yard. The rest of you follow, Derek reappearing from his office to join.

Flo and Mikko are running around in an instant, playing a two-person game of tag. It doesn’t take long for Briar to join, and Heather gives Rose to Derek so she can follow. You want to play too, but Derek sidles up to you. You don’t get much time to talk to him, so you pass up on tag to sit in the lounge chairs with him.

He’s been working on a few tough cases lately, but obviously can’t tell you much about them. Attorney-client privilege and all that. He talks vaguely about work, before switching to the family news. He mentions your little brother getting a new job, a good one, and laughs when he realizes Matt had forgotten to tell you.

“What does Mikko do?” he asks. You probably should’ve expected the question, but you didn’t.

“He, uh,” you hesitate, “He plays for the Avalanche.” Derek’s eyes widen at that, surprised and impressed.

“That’s pretty cool,” he says, looking to Mikko, “How did you two meet?” He looks back to you expectantly, and it hits you all at once that the way you’d met was kind of insane. A complete stranger came up to you, and you had not only started talking to him, but had accepted his number and used it. Stranger danger is real, and you’d overlooked the concept because… why?

“We met at the park,” you explain, not interested in going into details, “He almost ran into me when he was running, and. Well.” It’s written plain on Derek’s face that he wants to ask a thousand more questions, but he holds himself back. That’s one thing you’ve always loved about him: he knows when not to ask.

“Are you dating?” he asks, eyes focusing in so he doesn’t miss any part of your reaction.

“No, we’re just friends,” you reply, waving a hand dismissively. Derek looks skeptical, readjusting in his chair. You want to look away from his piercing gaze, but he has this magnetism that prevents it. It’s always been kind of freaky, the way he reads people.

“Do you want to be dating?” he asks. You know he sees the way your throat moves as you swallow hard, the way your eyes dart to Mikko for the barest second. You should say no, but something stops you. You’d never really thought about it, more than grateful to just be Mikko’s friend. Your friends had joked about it, of course, but there’s something different about Derek asking. The way he asks so seriously forces you to consider it, to review everything you know about Mikko, trying to find an answer you had anticipated would be obvious.

“Okay,” Derek nods, bouncing Rose the tiniest bit when she starts to babble. He changes the subject, telling you some story about your uncle that you don’t really care about. Unfortunately, your mind is stuck on it now, trying to imagine what dating Mikko would be like, trying to decide if that’s something you’d want.

Not that it would matter if you did, because Mikko will never see you that way. You know the kind of woman hockey players go for, and you’re not it. You don’t have a business or some fancy degree, you aren’t charismatic and congenial. You’re not a trophy. Maybe a fourth place ribbon, if that. Mikko is going to find some beautiful, talented, lovely woman to love, and there’s no point in musing over dating him.

Except he comes over, and Derek effortlessly hands him Rose without even having to ask, and you realize. Seeing him hold her so carefully, the look of adoration he has for a baby he has no connection to, makes something click into place. Which is probably the worst thing that could’ve happened.

As much as you try to focus and be present for the remainder of the visit, you find yourself drifting. It’s not really the baby thing. Hell, you’re not even sure if you want kids. It’s the fact that it’s your niece, your nephews, all comfortable around him, immediately welcoming him in. It’s the fact that Heather is overly protective of her little ones, and yet had no protests about Mikko holding Rose, letting him keep her as long as he wanted. It’s Briar plopping down in front of the chair Mikko sits in, leaning back against his leg in a way you’ve never seen him do.

When it comes time to go, you hug each of the boys tightly, before kissing Rose’s head. You give a matching kiss to Heather’s cheek, and Derek squeezes you tight afterward. Then you watch Flo and Briar hug Mikko of their own volition. You watch Heather lean forward to kiss his cheek as you had hers. You watch Mikko duck down to place a kiss on Rose’s forehead, so carefully, so gently. You watch him shake Derek’s hand, some type of look passing between them.

The drive home is much the same as the drive there, though you know you’re smiling and laughing less at Mikko’s stories than usual, too lost in your thoughts to be a good audience. When you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, he’s already looking back, concern turning the corners of his lips down.

The plan had been to have dinner together after the trip, but you can’t find it in yourself to be in public. Instead, you retreat to your apartment, begging out of the meal with the excuse of a headache. It’s not completely an excuse, because you do have a headache, but it’s more what’s causing the headache that’s making you want to curl up under the covers in your dark room. Luckily, Mikko doesn’t argue much, seemingly knowing something is wrong and not wanting to intrude.

You lie in bed for a while, the blankets pulled up over your head. Sometimes your brain gets stuck on something, turns it over and over in your mind, won’t let you escape the cycle. It had started with He’s great with the boys, My family loves him, Oh my god do I love him? At some point it had switched, I want him around always, He’ll never love someone like me, Oh my god I’m in love with him.

You’re in love with him.

And that’s the sticking point. That’s where all the problems begin and end. You’d taken a chance on a stranger, it had worked out, and now you’re going to ruin it all with your stupid feelings. You know what you have to do, but you’re not sure you can manage it. Obviously, you can’t tell him. It would make things weird, and you’d lose him, either slowly or all at once. So you have to pretend. You wonder if you can, and if so, how long you can keep it up. Can you pretend forever?

By the grace of whatever deity may or not be above, you don’t have work the next day. Sundays are when you have a standing date with your best friend. Despite wanting to keep hiding in bed, you get up and ready, sighing before you step out the door.

Jackie looks lovely, as always, wearing a sundress and leggings to enjoy one of the first warm days of the season. Being around her always makes you feel underdressed, but you know she’d never judge you for your jeans and button-up. You hold her for a couple extra seconds when you hug hello, breathing in the smell of her perfume to calm yourself.

You mean to bring up the Mikko situation, you really do. There’s just no appropriate time to segue into it. Instead, you talk about work and family and Jackie’s new apartment. It’s pleasant, and you don’t want to ruin that. You try to convince yourself that this is what you need, some time with someone you love, away from your thoughts. You know better.

The two of you take a walk after lunch, Jackie’s kitten heels clicking on the pavement. The trail is short, winding through the trees surrounding the restaurant. Despite your inability to find a way to bring it up, Jackie takes advantage of a lull in the conversation to ask about Mikko. She gives you a sly look when she does, and it makes your stomach turn. Of all the people who joke about you and Mikko being in love, Jackie is the most frequent offender. You’re already mentally preparing for the teasing, squaring your shoulders and biting the inside of your cheek.

“He’s good,” you reply, already queasy. It must come across in your words or body language that something is off, because Jackie stops dead in her tracks. You stop a couple steps ahead of her, turning to look at her. She examines you, her big brown eyes surely seeing right through you.

“Oh honey,” she says, eyes going soft. Her mouth pulls in a tight, pitying line, one side of her lips tipped upward just enough to show a level of affection. Her brow is furrowed, her head slightly tilted.

“You realized, didn’t you?” she asks, taking a step toward you. You feel your cheeks heat, and your eye twitches the way it always does when you want to cry. Most of what she’s said about you and Mikko has been jokes, but it would seem that she knew about your feelings before you did.

“I’m in love with him,” you whisper. Saying it out loud is simultaneously relieving and overwhelming. It’s out there in the world now. It’s real.

“Honey,” Jackie says again, taking the second step necessary to pull you close. You cling to her, willing your wet eyes not to spill. She keeps one arm around your torso, the other coming up so she can put her hand on the back of your head, encouraging the way you’re burying your face in her neck. She presses a firm kiss to your hair, making your breath hitch. You focus on breathing, four seconds in, seven seconds out. You’re okay, you tell yourself, you’re okay.

“You’re never going to tell him, are you?” she asks, the still-fresh hurt rising up to fill your chest, to crowd out your lungs. It’s not really a question, and you know she already knows the answer. You’ve been friends since your teenage years; she knows you too well. You keep breathing, ignoring the way the air stutters in and out.

“I can’t ruin it,” you reply. The cosmic stroke of luck that brought Mikko into your life is too unlikely and wonderful to give up. You can’t bear the thought of losing him, this wonderful person who makes you feel seen and heard and understood.

“Okay,” Jackie says into your hair. You loosen your hold on her and she lets you go, still looking almost as heartbroken as you feel. She’s always been too empathetic when it comes to you, feeling your emotions so strongly that they become her own. It mixes with her protective nature, wanting to find solutions for all your problems, wanting to stop any hurt the second it starts. You love that about her, but still feel guilty that you’re hurting her, even unintentionally.

“I get it, and I’m not going to pressure you,” she says, giving you a heavy look, “But I think you should tell him. You don’t have to, but I think it’ll go better than you’re expecting.” It’s not unexpected. While most people joke about you and Mikko dating because they think the way you interact is funny, Jackie does it because she really believes you should be together. It’s been a subtle encouragement, hidden with smirks and laughs. Of course she would think you should tell him.

“I’ll think about it,” you reply, though it’s mostly to appease her. You’ve already thought of telling him, anyway, and the reactions you imagine are the reason you’re not going to do it. After a pause, Jackie gently shoves your shoulder with her fingers.

“You have a crush,” she sing-songs, smiling. The childishness of the action makes you smile in return, the air around you losing some of its weight.

“Oh, so you want to talk about Cale?” you ask rhetorically, pushing her in return. She groans dramatically at the mention of her own crush. It makes you laugh, remembering the way she’d gone shy and speechless when she’d met him. The rest of the afternoon is much less serious, and for the thousandth time, you’re grateful for her.

Somehow, the conversation makes it easier to be around Mikko. At least you have someone who knows what’s going on and supports you, rather than being alone in your feelings. He’d gone on a roadie after your visit to your brother’s, so you can’t be physically close to him for another week, but your nightly video chats are less awkward than that first day. The more you talk to him, the more you’re able to return to the friendly spirit you’ve cultivated over time.

When he comes home, you spend a night cuddled up on the couch watching a new show. His touch had almost burned when he pulled you close, but it subsides and you’re able to settle into him. When it’s late enough that you’re both trading yawns, he urges you up from the couch, leaving the snack bowls to be taken care of in the morning. He ushers you into the bedroom, assuming that you’ll stay the night without having to ask.

You’ve done it a hundred times, but it’s different this time. He shucks off his shirt easy as anything, stripping down to his boxers with a complete lack of embarrassment. Logically, you know it’s probably because he gets fully naked in a room full of other people on an almost daily basis, but you’re not one of the guys, and he doesn’t seem to mind anyway. Part of you thinks it’s a display of trust and comfort. Another part of you thinks it’s a sign that he doesn’t view you as any different from his teammates, that he sees you so platonically that the implications of being nearly naked in front of you could never mean anything.

Lying in bed together isn’t too different than usual, luckily. Yeah, you’re thinking of how much you want to fall asleep with his arms around you every night, but it’s not overwhelming. The room is dark and quiet when he presses a kiss to the back of your neck, sending sparks down your spine.

“Is everything okay with Derek?” he asks, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the whir of the fan. The mention of your brother reminds you of that day and you tense, knowing he can feel it. His tone is too grave for the question to just be checking in, so he knows something is wrong.

“Yeah, of course,” you reply. The fact that he asked specifically about Derek means that he’d noticed the change in your demeanor after the conversation on the back patio. Asking about it a week later means he hasn’t stopped thinking about it. You’d hoped that he would forget, or that acting normally tonight would keep him from asking. But Mikko never seems to forget anything when it comes to you.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks after a pause. That’s the last thing you want him thinking, so you thread your fingers with his and squeeze.

“No,” you say simply, firmly. You’re not going to let your own issues make him feel guilty or insecure. There’s another short pause before Mikko speaks again.

“Are you sure?” he asks, adding, “You can tell me.” You’ve told him before when he’d messed up, so you already know you could. But that’s not what’s happened, and you’re not sure why he’s convinced it is. You release his hand, wiggling a bit as you roll over to face him. The moonlight filtering in around the edge of the curtains is just enough to make out the outline of his features, his light eyes silvery with it.

“Mikko,” you say his name for emphasis, “You haven’t done anything wrong, I promise.” He doesn’t say anything, just looking at you. It kills you that he doesn’t believe you. You curve one hand around his cheek, tilting his head down so you can kiss his forehead. You nudge his face back up to force him to look at you, repeating the sentence in Finnish. You still don’t speak much, but you at least know how to say this. Finns don’t say things they don’t mean, so you hope he takes it as the reassurance it’s meant to be.

“When did you learn Finnish?” he asks, startled off topic. You give a little laugh. Maybe this will distract him from his clearly morbid thoughts.

“I started studying when I met you,” you answer. You don’t mention that you’ve already completed all the lessons Duolingo offers, and may have spent actual money on a real lesson program.

“Oh,” he says, pauses, asks, “So nothing is wrong?” He sounds less grim than before, so you’ll count this as a success.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you confirm. The conversation ends when he replies okay, and you feel like you should turn back over, but something in his expression stops you. There’s some other question there, one he’s debating on asking. Turning away might keep him from doing so, so you stay in place. The silence hangs between you, but it’s not uncomfortable.

“Why are you learning Finnish?” he asks. You shrug as best you can while lying down.

“So you have someone to talk to when you miss home,” you reply. Being so far away takes its toll on Mikko, and there are no other Finns on the team, so you want him to be able to have at least a little comfort sometimes. You’d intended to keep it a secret until you were conversational, but this seems like a good reason to out yourself.

Again, there’s something in his face telling you that there’s more he wants to say, something stuck right behind his front teeth begging to be let out. You wait patiently, but he just takes a deep breath and says thank you. That’s where the conversation really ends, and you fall asleep with your head tucked under his chin.

After that, it’s your turn to think something is wrong. Mikko isn’t known for being a quiet or pensive person, but this thing keeps happening with increasing frequency. The two of you will be doing something innocuous when he’ll freeze, gaze fixed on you in some inscrutable emotion, sometimes something akin to fear. The idea of him being afraid when he’s around you doesn’t sit right, and you do your best to figure out what about you is suddenly scaring him.

You try to take note of what you’re doing when it happens, thinking that maybe there will be a common thread you can pluck out. Once, it happens when he comes home from a game and you present him with his favorite dish, a recipe you’d used your limited Finnish skills to get from his mother. Another time, you’re meeting him in the hall after a game, wearing the jersey he’d given you with his name plastered across the back. Other times included looking up to him from your sketchbook when you were at the park together, him coming home from a roadie to find that you’d gotten groceries for him, even just sitting on the couch together watching a movie.

There’s no specific action tied to the reaction that you can find. It’s always preceded by the same look, though. You’ll meet his eyes, his face will go slack, the corners of his mouth turning up just the slightest bit, his eyes bright and hazy. His mouth will part slightly, and then the surprise and fear will overtake him.

For the most part, you’ve tried to ignore it, but you know you’ll end up asking him eventually if it continues. You’re pretty sure it’s going to happen again tonight, because you’re in the middle of spooning some sauce over chicken breasts for him to eat when he gets home, one of his favorite comfort shows queued up on the TV to soothe him after tonight’s loss. It happens a lot after losses, so it’s reasonable to expect at this point.

He calls your name as he comes through the front door and you announce your presence in the kitchen. He sidles up behind you as you plate the food, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing the top of your head. He compliments the smell of the food and you pat his forearm twice in greeting, thanking him and finishing your task surrounded by his warmth.

You carry both plates into the living room, giggling at the way Mikko shuffles along with you, refusing to relinquish his hold. After you place your handful down on the coffee table, you gently headbutt him to tell him to let go. He doesn’t, so you wiggle a little, making him laugh. He still won’t let go, so you start prying at his fingers, but he’s too strong, and then you’re both laughing. You whine his name through it, and he finally relents. You turn around to look at him for the first time since he’d come in and the look is there: that soft, fond look you’re tempted to call besotted.

You enjoy this part while you can, the clear blue of his eyes halfway overtaken by his pupils, the gentlest of smiles on his lips, the ever-so-slight tilt of his head. You only get it for a couple of seconds before his mouth begins to part, ushering in the dreaded terror.

“Why do you do that?” you ask before you’ve consciously decided to. You’d intended to wait to ask, to see if it persisted first, but it bothers you more than you care to admit. You never want to make Mikko feel anything negative. Maybe if you know what you’re doing to trigger the reaction, you can stop it.

“Do what?” he asks in return. He looks genuinely confused, his strong brow furrowed. At least he doesn’t look afraid anymore.

“Sometimes you seem so scared when you look at me,” you explain, reaching a hand up to cup his jaw, running your thumb along his cheek, “What am I doing wrong?” It’s probably not the best time to bring it up, right after a home loss, but you’ve already started. May as well get your answer.

“Nothing,” he replies, insistent, “You’re not doing anything wrong.” He takes a half-step forward, resting one hand on your hip and the other on the side of your neck. His touch is gentle, but it helps ground you.

“Then why?” you implore, suddenly desperate to know. There has to be something you can do, something you can change to stop this.

“I just–” he begins, inhales sharply, “Don’t worry about it, darling.” Typically, you love it when he calls you pet names, but it feels compensatory here, like he’s trying to make up for not giving you an answer. But you need an answer, need to know what’s gone wrong.

“Mikko,” you say his name quietly, as softly as you can manage, “Please tell me.” He hesitates, conflict writ across his face.

“Please,” you repeat, searching his eyes for something, anything. The two contrasting expressions you’ve been agonizing over return, mixing on his face. His mouth quirked in a tiny smile, his brow furrowed, his eyes dilated, somewhere between affection and apprehension. He takes a deep breath. You wait.

“You make it so hard not to tell you that I love you,” he finally says.

Okay. That’s– okay.

That’s definitely a love confession, right? There’s no way anyone could think otherwise, but your brain is trying to find another angle. The dissonance is strong, the statement going against everything you’ve convinced yourself of for months. Guys like Mikko don’t go for girls like you, except apparently they do, because he’s saying he loves you. You can feel how stupid you look, face slack with shock as you just stare at him. Mikko loves you.

It must take you too long to respond, because he starts to step away, his hands falling from your body. Your free hand flies up to grab his shoulder, holding him in place. He could pull out of the grip easily, but he doesn’t, standing stock-still and waiting.

“You should do that,” you say. Your mind is starting to shift, to push past all the bullshit you’ve been telling yourself, to take in what he’s saying and maybe, just maybe, starting to believe.

“Do what?” he asks. Your chest is tight, a smile beginning to pull at your lips.

“Tell me that you love me,” you reply. The short, disbelieving laugh Mikko lets out is the second best thing you’ve ever heard. Because the best thing you’ve ever heard is when he takes your face in his hands, looks deep in your eyes, and says:

“I love you.”

[alfredosauce50]

One more night

[Boxer! Denmark x reader] 11

Wordcount: 4, 365 Rating: M for strong language and mature themes

The reader is referred to as she/her

One more night - 11

Off to the races

Mathias rolled his fists against a speed bag, getting it to bounce back and forth rhythmically. A sheen of sweat had glazed over his skin from head to toe, but he never faltered. He was finally back in the zone.

He also lost everything he gained, revealing his past triumphs. Bulging shoulders, a six-pack, and strong legs for a muscular body. He swung into the speed bag one last time, making it rock to and fro.

And he was just getting started.

“You’re in a good mood today,” You commented from the kitchen, sipping a warm cup of coffee. Everyone slept in on Sundays, Allen included, but he got up at nine to do nothing but scribble in his sketchbook.

“Am I?” He lifted his eyes to you, only to look down at his page again. “What gave it away?”

“You’re drawing.”

“I can’t channel my inner negativity sometimes?”

“I think we both know how you actually do that.”

“Okay, fine. You got me.” He mumbled, moving his pencil around for a few finishing touches. Once he was satisfied, he held up his drawing with a proud, toothy grin. “Look. It’s a fortress.”

“Wow,” You mouthed. A smiling stick figure with black shades stood on top of a castle, raining machine gunfire and grenades on the masses below. “And who’s that guarding the fortress?”

“Me.”

“What about all the people down here?”

“I think you know.” He put his sketchbook down.

Now that Mathias moved back home, Allen was the happiest he’d ever been. Even though they were on better terms, this was his home, and he had a very particular idea of what that looked like.

“You guys realize Hammy has been roaming outside his cage for a while.” Amy sauntered in with a squint.

Allen flew off the couch and scrambled into the hallway. With his spot vacant, she plopped down next to you and kicked her feet onto the coffee table. When he came back with his pet, he scowled.

“Hey, you stole my spot!”

“Didn’t see your name on it.”

“I was literally just there!” He stuck out a hand.

“Well, you weren’t for a second.” She hummed.

The three of you, just like old times.

“To think I used to complain about people bringing their babies to the theater,” Amy muttered, collecting her popcorn from the snack bar. She spun around to reveal Bob strapped to her torso. “Now I’m people.”

“And you’re seeing Captain America of all movies.”

“I must be crazy.”

“I mean,” You made a face. Amy was the one who suggested this, but now that she was here, she had to be persuaded. “It was either here or the gym. It’s not your fault Malena couldn’t take him tonight.”

“That’s not even the problem,” She sighed.

“Then what is?” You asked, confused.

“I don’t wanna leave Bob with anybody right now.” Amy hugged him close, face falling slightly.

She still had a hard time being away from her baby after that incident. She didn’t have a choice while working, but now that she was off-duty, keeping him around was always at the back of her mind.

“Then I guess we’ll have to get him used to these kinds of places.” You pulled her along, watching her expression closely. She let you, albeit reluctantly. “There’s a first time for everything, you know?”

“I guess,” She fixed his earmuffs. “Sorry, Bob.”

“When was the last time you went to see a movie anyway?” You asked, walking inside with her.

“Beats me.”

Two hours later, you both emerged from the theater.

“That was fucking amazing,” She let out, smiling from ear to ear. “Bob fell asleep halfway through!”

You and Amy swung by Whole Foods after.

“Do you think he’s gonna win?” She asked, watching you add several bananas to the shopping cart.

The question had been looming over your minds ever since Mathias brought it up. Heavyweight boxers from all over the continent fought under one arena for the belt.

“It’s hard to say,” You shook your head, falling deep in thought.

“Yeah.”

“I’m just relieved he didn’t give up.”

“Me too.” She furrowed her brows.

“Whatever happens, I’m really happy that he’s kinda himself again,” You added, smiling briefly. Because even after everything that happened, he didn’t quit. And that couldn’t be more fitting for who he was.

“Well, I’m glad he’s back.” Amy hummed, though her expression came off as more bittersweet than anything. Your face fell slightly when you picked up on it. “I wouldn’t be telling you this otherwise.”

“Telling me what?”

“That Mat told me,” She inhaled a deep breath before revealing what had been on her mind forever. “He wanted you to move out with him. And I just want you to know that I’m a hundred percent for it.”

“What?” Your heart sank. “He told you?”

“Ages ago, actually. I just never had the chance to bring it up. Didn’t wanna cause any more drama,” Amelia explained, pushing the cart along as she spoke. “What, with everything that went down?”

You turned away, eyes darting restlessly and mind racing with a million thoughts. This whole time?

“Allen would’ve gone nuts.” She widened her eyes.

It was no secret that he loved you dearly, going so far as to use you as an emotional crutch. To leave was to put him in a vulnerable headspace, but you couldn’t be there for him forever, not even if you wanted to.

“Not that he won’t freak out if you told him now, but he might not fly off the handle when you do.”

“But what about the apartment?” You asked, voice faint. Now that moving out was on the table, every doubt you’ve ever had flooded your mind in a rush of anxiety. “And what about Bob? I can’t just leave.”

“We’ll be fine,” Amy assured, holding your shoulder. It was a blanket statement at best, but how else were things supposed to be? “Allen will have to get a job someday. And Bob won’t be small forever.”

“But he’s only six months old.” You uttered.

“He can sit upright and eat scrambled eggs, now. That’s pretty big if you ask me.” She nudged you.

You laughed some, thankful for her lightheartedness.

“But, point is,” She went back to pushing her cart, as reflective of the continuation of the conversation.  “You’ve already been there for the most crucial part of his life. And nine months before that too.”

“Of course I was, Amy. That’s a given.”

“What if it’s not supposed to be given?” She asked, much to your dismay. “You’ve already done so much for us, and I can’t just force you to stay forever. That would be the most selfish thing I could do to you.”

“Maybe,” You replied stiffly. Everything she just said was a stark reminder of what you told Allen once, and you always regretted it from the bottom of your heart. “But you aren’t forcing me to do anything.”

“Really?”

“I love living with you guys,” You let out, voice faint to hide the sadness in it. “You’re my best friend.”

Amy stood perfectly still, overwhelmed by a rush of emotions. Then, she turned to you, eyes wide. When she saw that you were barely holding it together, she did something completely out of character.

She hugged you as tight as she could.

“I know.” She shut her eyes. “But you have to go.”

You hugged her back, lips pursed tightly in a frown. She knew what you really wanted, and would go to great lengths for you to have it. Even if it meant letting you go, the hardest thing she could ever do.

“Do you think Bob will remember me?”

“He will if you visit,” She released you with a content smile, knowing she managed to convince you. So, she took in your face for what felt like the last time. “So don’t go somewhere I can’t get to, okay?”

Getting Amelia on board with the idea was easy because she was already all for it. Allen, on the other hand, would be a completely different story. But you had to tell him someday, even if that wasn’t today.

You pushed the door open to the local boxing gym.

When you got inside, you saw Mathias doing mitt work with Allen. Their brewing friendship was the most unexpected development yet, and you had to cover your mouth to hide your enthusiasm.

They had more in common than they looked.

The sun was almost set when you three walked home together. Allen had his arms folded behind his head, his dark eyes staring into the distance. Mathias had your hand in his, which squeezed you here and there.

“So,” You began, breaking the comfortable silence with a query. “Are you two friends now?”

They both made a face, brows raised and squinting.

“I don’t think Allen would be comfortable with that.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, alright.” You sighed, stifling a laugh at their synchronization. “I was just curious, is all.”

“Saying we’re friends would be putting him on the same level as you. And that’s gross.” Allen mumbled.

“There’s always distinctions you make with different friends you have,” You glanced at him and watched his expression intently, which didn’t seem to change. “Surely you have friends you’re close to, or not at all.”

“Not really,” He shrugged. “I mean, I used to.”

A brief silence followed, and you were left to put the pieces together. Mathias didn’t have any idea what he implied, but you knew better. He must’ve been talking about his pals from Afghanistan.

“It’s fine.” Allen grinned at you. “I have you guys.”

You didn’t say anything more, only bringing his arm down to hold it. He appreciated the gesture, the discreteness of it, and smiled warmly at you to prove it. You smiled back as if to tell him he was right.

He had you, Amy, and Bob.

Slowly, but surely, Mathias could make the cut too.

“You told Amy,” You began, staying in the doorway as he shuffled through his things in his bedroom. Allen waited outside in the front yard, giving you both a moment of privacy, however brief that may be.

Mathias stopped for a moment, back turned to you.

“Are you mad at me?” He murmured.

“No,” You neared him, gaze softening. He glanced over his shoulder, surprised. But that dissolved into relief as soon as you said this. “I’m actually glad you did. I don’t think I would’ve been able to tell her.”

“I’m glad,” He smiled, taking your hands.

You smiled back, warmed by his touch.

“She loves you more than you know.”

Out of the four of you, Mathias was the least afraid of change. It took a lot of faith to carry himself the way he did, and he did so naturally. Without him, you would’ve been stuck in the same place for years.

“So, what did she say?”

Allen kicked a pebble off the pavement. When he glanced up at the apartment again, he saw you two having a conversation. About what, he didn’t know. But he could make a judgement from afar.

The way Mathias looked at you, laughed, then picked you up in the tightest embrace had him wondering if this was the end of everything he knew. It was a huge jump from point a to b, but he wasn’t stupid.

He looked too happy for it to be anything else.

You did too, talking excitedly about something he wasn’t a part of, and never would be. When that dawned on Allen, he turned away, heart in his hand. That night, he walked home by himself.

Out on the balcony where he always was, he knelt over his plants and tended to them. Basil, thyme, sage, and parsley—all Summer herbs. He snipped off the stalks and harvested them for the coming Fall.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“I thought you were staying at his place.”

“If I was, I would’ve said that.” You stepped outside with him. When he didn’t respond, you instantly knew he was bent out of shape over something, but what, you didn’t know. “What is this really about?”

“Nothing,” He kept chopping his plants, but his movements grew less and less controlled as he continued. His front was already crumbling, and you just got here. “Everything’s just nice and peachy.”

“Okay, Al.” You relented, turning to the sliding door.

The sight of your back was all it took.

“If you don’t wanna talk about it, you don’t have to.”

What remained of his hard exterior was all but gone. You broke him down all over again, and simply by letting him be. He couldn’t take it anymore. Not the distance, or the reality that he could never have you.

“Wait.” He stood up, sighing. “Don’t close that door.”

You stopped halfway through the door frame, your eyes softening at his change of heart. If he had something to tell you, you did too. And your concerns were realer than what he thought he saw out there.

“I wanna talk.”

Mathias knocked on the doorframe of his coach’s office. In his hand was the slip of paper he’d been itching to get for the past month. He handed it to his mentor, who scanned it before tossing it on his desk.

With that out of the way, the old man stood up and brushed past him in a slight hobble.

“Get your wraps. We’re gonna start with the basics.”

Allen stood with you on the balcony, his arms draped over the railing. He stared into the night as he tried to think of the words. After a few minutes of mulling it over, this was the best he could come up with.

“So, what, he propose to you or something?”

“No!” You shot him a heated look, watching his brows go up. “Is that what you were upset about?”

He pursed his lips, hands raised in denial. But seeing that you were unconvinced, he just sucked it up.

“Yeah.”

“Well, he didn’t propose, okay?”

“Then that’s all I wanted to know,” He grinned, voice rich with satisfaction. He went back to his usual self almost instantly, hopping back into the living room. “Now all I’m missing is a kiss for good measure.”

“A kiss?” You stifled a laugh.

“You know I’m only kidding.” He scraped the bottom of his flip-flops against the entry mat to clean them. When Allen faced you again, he leaned against the door frame. “You don’t have to if you don’t wanna.”

He might’ve said one thing, but the gentle smile on his face meant another. And since you couldn’t give him what he really wanted, you gave him the next best thing. You leaned forward and hugged him.

Allen’s arms went around you on instinct, like a reflex he didn’t need to think about. There, he nestled his chin on your head, closing his eyes in the embrace. Then, his smile grew out of a deep sense of peace.

Now this wasn’t so bad. He also got the assurances he needed, so why was he still so sad?

“Listen, Al.”

Mathias raised his gloved fists, bright red in color.

“I have something I need to tell you.”

With his head low and eyes up, he looked intensely focused as he jabbed the sandbag in front of him. Only they were nothing but light taps, hitting the same spot on the leather, over and over.

“Okay, then tell me.” Allen was a little unnerved that you even had to announce it. What he saw tonight, how he always felt around you, and your anxious demeanor only seemed to validate that fear.

“I’m moving out with Mat.” You finally let out.

“Oh.”

A few seconds of painstaking silence went by.

“When?”

Mathias tightened the strings of his hoodie until only his face was left uncovered. Now that Summer was ending, he could feel a cool breeze on his morning runs. The seasons were changing, and so was he.

“I don’t know, but probably sometime after his tournament. We haven’t decided on anything yet,” You answered truthfully, scanning his face for something, anything. But he gave you nothing.

“Does Amy know?”

Or so you thought.

“Yeah.” You nodded. “I told her last week.”

“Right.” He looked down, eyes darkening. It was inconceivable that anybody could be so hurt over something so minor, but Allen wasn’t just anybody. “Why am I always the last one to know things?”

“I was gonna tell you, Al. I promise.” You spoke softly, taking his arms. “I just had to find the right time.”

“Why is it always Amy you go to when you know something will affect me most?” He rubbed his eyes with one hand, choking back a sob. “You guys are always keeping things from me and leaving me out!”

“We only do that because we don’t wanna hurt you!” You flushed, making him shake his head bitterly.

“You’re gonna hurt me anyway. So you might as well just say it.” Allen muttered, staring dead into your eyes as a single tear fell from his. His words were cutting, and the way he looked at you, even more so.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice broke. “I never mean to.”

He was right about being excluded, and he had all the right in the world to berate you for it. It was also selfish to expect him to react any different, especially when you’ve always known of his greatest fear.

Being isolated, physically or mentally.

“And you probably already knew that, too.” He shook his head again, turning away to get to your bedroom. But before he could lock himself in it, you grabbed onto his wrist. “You just didn’t wanna freak me out.”

“Of course I didn’t wanna freak you out,” You let out, tone desperate. “That’s the only reason why I have a hard time telling you about these things. Not because I don’t love you, or don’t feel close to you.”

“And how’s that turning out for you?” He faced you, eyes burning with truth. “I’ll find out anyway. I always do. Then I’ll find my own time to freak out. Because that’s just what I do. That’s what I’m the best at.”

Usually, he was the one making compromises in conversations, taking the fall for his faults.

“Losing my temper. Because I’m a fucking manic.”

“That’s not true!”

But right now, he was as quick as a whip.

And he was right about everything.

“It is, though. If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here having this fucking conversation.” Allen glared, but his anger with you only lasted so long. “And since we’re here, you wanna know why I flipped out in the first place?”

“Why did you flip out, then?” You uttered.

“It’s not just because I have a thing for you, okay?” He exclaimed, chest heaving and face reddening.

“Then why?” You flushed, eyes darting restlessly.

“Because if you get married, you’re gonna go away.” Allen said shakily, voice faint with unbearable hurt. “You’re gonna go somewhere I can’t get to, get busy, have a few babies, and you won’t have time for me.”

Your face contorted.

“Then you’re gonna forget about me,”

It was unthinkable that you could ever cut him out of your life, but he was already treating it like reality.

“And I won’t be a part of your life anymore.”

“You’ll always be a part of my life, Allen.” You reached up to caress his face, currently streaked with tears. “Even if we won’t see each other as much, I’ll always be thinking of you. And I’d still call and visit you.”

“But that’s not good enough,” He choked.

“I won’t be far, I promise. I promised Amy that too.”

“But you won’t be here.”

“You have to learn be independent from me, Allen.”

He shook his head, breathing too hard to manage a verbal protest. You were asking way too much of him, even if it was just to live out partially separate lives. You were his rock, and he wasn’t ready to let you go.

“But you also have to trust me.”

A string was tied across the ring like a washing line. The gym was dark, save for the spotlight they stood under, coach and pupil. The pupil in question stood next to the line, his shoulder barely just grazing it.

Then, he ducked under it to the other side.

He repeated the motion, bobbing under the line from side to side. By bending down and moving quickly from left to right, he could dodge anything thrown at him. But the timing and range had to be perfect.

“I’m so jealous of Mathias,” He squeezed you, eyes shut tight as he whispered frantically into your neck. “He’s got everything going for him. When he wants something, he just gets it. I can’t do that.”

“I think we’ve all felt that way before,” You admitted, holding him closer. “He’s the best of all of us.”

Mathias rolled under a punch, dodging it like second nature. When he rose, he jabbed his opponent twice, getting them to back up. He was a speed demon, taking advantage of their mistakes on the fly.

With the newly-established distance, he threw his fist up for a killer uppercut. It collided with their jaw, throwing their head back in a splash of saliva. And just like that, his partner fell on the mat, defeated.

“But there’s something you have that he doesn’t.”

“And what’s that?” Allen murmured, pulling back.

“Mathias and I can fight, argue, or even break up one day, but not us,” You answered, frowning deeply. “And I know that sounds bad, but there’s nothing in the world that could change what we have.”

He smiled and bowed his head at what he’d already known, a truth he constantly needed reminding of. But you always knew the right thing to say. And for that, everything felt like it was going to be okay.

“You’ll always be my family.”

“Maybe that’s why I never tried anything,” Allen said. He’d been so hung up over what he could’ve had, he never realized this was what he really wanted all along. “Because I didn’t wanna ruin what we had.”

“And what did we have?” You smiled.

He gazed up at you, eyes twinkling.

“Something perfect.”

He was your best friend, and maybe a little more than that, but he made it a point to never cross that line. What you had with Allen was incorruptible, the kind of love people spent their entire lives looking for.

“Something pure.” He kissed you on the forehead, the most innocent kind of affection one could give. And you leaned in, basking in the warmth of his soft lips. “And I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Allen stayed with you all night. With your body next to his, he never fell asleep so fast. This may only be for so long, but he couldn’t be upset about it forever. You were moving on, and he had to accept that.

“That makes seven rompers and five pairs of pants,”

You sorted through the baby clothes in the basket Mathias held. He insisted on tagging along with you to ‘help you hold things,’ but you had a sneaking suspicion he came for another spending spree.

“Anything else we need?”

“Uhhh,” He scanned the shopping list with a focused expression. “Four pajama outfits… And a tank top?”

“Oh. That’s for Allen,” You pointed at the bottom of the note. “See how the handwriting changes?”

“Oh,” Mathias mumbled. Now that you mentioned it. When he glanced up again, you were off to look for those items, so he did what he thought would be the next best thing: doing some browsing on his own.

When he approached you for your opinion, you were still in the baby section, picking out sleepers.

“What do you think?” He held two outfits in front of you and moved them up and down. “Blue or yellow?

“Those are for newborns, Mathias,” You answered, going back to the rack. “They’re not gonna fit Bob,”

“I know they’re for newborns.”

“If I say ‘blue’ and see the blue one in your dresser, I’m seriously gonna murder you,” You sighed, knowing exactly where this conversation was going. And frankly speaking, you were a little nervous.

“Okaaay. Does that mean you’ll spare me if I buy the yellow one?” He hummed with growing smile.

“Mat,” You shot him a heated look, embarrassed out of your wits. “The bear was cute, but this is crazy.”

“But these are cute too!”

“No, I meant you,” You sighed, stifling a defeated laugh at his outburst. “We haven’t even moved out and you’re already thinking that far ahead. Imagine what Allen would do to you if I ever got pregnant.”

“You don’t have to wait for his approval, you know?” Mathias grumbled, putting both outfits back, blue and yellow. “I know he’s close to you, but what we do is none of his business. So he should stay out of it.”

“Still,” You shook your head. “You’re going too fast.”

“I know, I know. I just got excited,” He sighed, noting how worried you looked. And it was a fair reaction given the kind of person he was. Tenacious, self-indulgent, and apparently, family-oriented.

But he’d be damned if he didn’t already learn his lesson. So he stopped you in the aisle, hands on your shoulders. “I’m not rushing you into anything. Especially not something this important, okay?”

“Good,” You softened your gaze, peering up at him. “Because I don’t wanna fight with you anymore.”

If anything, he’d save this for after the tournament.

“I wouldn’t wanna fight me either.”

You were about to give him an earful for being so unserious, but you let it slide this time. After overcoming a roadblock and months of preparation, he was finally in shape for his biggest event yet.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little,” He grinned. “But I’m ready.”

Next chapter: Finale Part I

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