#this feeling when you write a chapter and then draw it

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Chapter 5- Miles Between Us

Summary: Frankie's decision to join the Army was the catalyst in the collapse of your friendship. When he's forced to reconcile with his past, packed away in boxes in his childhood basement, he finds pieces of you in everything he's left behind.

Word Count: 5.0K

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (reader has a name/nickname)

Warnings: Angst, lying, guilt, military deployment, FEELINGS, Frankie's mom not putting up with his shit

A/N: IT'S TIME TO PEEL BACK ANOTHER LAYER OF THE ONION, BABY!!! I hope you guys don't hate me that this is a slow burn- I know this is not how I normally write at all, but it's been really fun to build this story up bit by bit (if you hate it though, please tell me lmao 💀) I'm excited for this chapter and how it hints at next chapter (we're finally getting to some smut y'all, omg) Thank you as always for your kind words, it makes my day to hear what you have to say about these two 🥺💛

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

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You, Age 17, Spring of 2006

“You’re late, Morales.” 

“Can’t be late to something we don’t have a set time for, Anderson.” 

It’s true, you and Frankie have never set an official schedule for your afterschool ritual, but it never seems to fail that at 3:45, only 10 minutes after you’ve gotten home from soccer practice,  he’s at the foot of your bed with his forest green Jansport backpack, ready to complain about the homework he doesn’t want to finish and the tests he has no interest in studying for, just so he can keep you company while you stress yourself to death about the same assignments. 

And for as much as he hated school work, Frankie was never late. Never. So to watch him mope into your bedroom an hour later than his usual arrival time, it almost would have been safer to assume he was dead than anything else. 

“What took you so long? Get lost on the way here?” You joke, trying to keep it light while still prodding for an answer about his absence as you write down the answer to the math equation you’re trying to solve. 

“No. Don’t worry about it.” 

There’s been very few occasions you’ve seen Frankie so stoic. Even on his worst days, he’s at least still got a little tolerance left in him for your stupid banter. It’s enough to draw your attention completely away from your homework and onto him. 

“What’s wrong? Why are you being so weird?” 

You can tell then that something’s clearly not right, the way he’s angrily yanking loose papers and textbooks from his backpack and nearly slamming them onto the edge of your bed, making you gnaw anxiously at the end of your pencil you’d been using. 

You’re too nosy for your own good to let up until you find what you’re looking for. 

“Nothing’s wrong.” 

“Well obviously something’s wrong.” 

“What? I’m not allowed to be late, ever?” 

“No? Frankie, I just asked where you were and you’re acting like I’m asking you if you just shot the fucking president or something. What’s going on?” 

“It’s nothing, MacKenzie!”

“If it’s nothing, then why are you so upset about it?” 

“I’m not upset!” 

“You clearly are? Frankie, what the hell are you-” 

“I’m joining the Army, okay?!”

Out of all the things you could have expected to come out of Frankie’s mouth, that would have been at the bottom of your list. In fact, it’s so out of left field, you’re not even quite sure you believe him. 

Your forehead hurts from how tightly your brows are knitted together in confusion, scowling at Frankie with a dumbfounded intensity that probably had you looking like you had just gotten an unsuspecting whiff of the world’s most sour lemon. 

There’s no way he’s being serious. He can’t be. 

“Ha ha, very funny, Francisco.” You mock, frown still splayed across your face, “Now will you please tell me what’s actually going on?” 

His silence makes your heart drop into the pit of your stomach. You can feel the way your face falls, the muscles once tensed in adamant skepticism now sinking into a quiet panic. You can hear each breath as it flows in through your nose and out through your mouth, blood pounding louder and louder in your ears with each pulse of your veins. 

“Frankie, if this is one of your stupid jokes, it’s not funny.” 

“It’s not a joke.” 

His eyes are still peeled to the floor, too afraid to bring himself to look at you. All he can do is stare at his pinky toe, poking out of the hole in his socks that he refuses to replace. You wait for what feels like hours, days, for him to say something, but his silence is deafening. And the sound of Frankie’s silence is the scariest thing you’ve heard in a very long time. 

It’s so terrifying, the only thing you can do to cope is fill the quiet void with your rambling and pray that Frankie Morales is choosing to play the world’s worst joke on you. 

“What- what do you mean? Frankie, I thought- When you and Santi talked about doing the same thing as Will- I thought you were fucking kidding? What about college? We already both got accepted to Florida State, what are you gonna do-” 

“I didn’t get in.” 

Please let him be kidding. Please, please, let this be a sick joke. 

You can feel your confusion starting to bubble into anger, jaw clenching at the way Frankie’s too coward to even look in your general direction, gaze still glued to that stupid fucking hole in his worn down sock. 

“Frankie, what the fuck? We both got accepted back in January? You’ve been lying to me this whole fucking time?” 

“I didn’t wanna lie, okay?!” 

He’s riddled with enough guilt to speak up, trying to keep himself from the brink of tears as he works up enough courage to finally look you in the face. You can hear how hard he gulps, like his heart is bobbing in his throat, trying to buy all the time he can to come up with a reason for his deception that won’t hurt you any more than he already has. 

“I just- fuck,” he sighs, chewing at his bottom and bouncing his leg against the bed so intensely it’ll make him sore the next day, “I didn’t know what to do, Kenz. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.” 

It’s hard to stay mad at him when you know he means it. It’d be easier if it weren’t for the way his brown eyes flooded with disappointment in himself, spilling out in tears onto his cheeks. For as frustrated as you are, you have enough sympathy to ease up on him enough to at least try to understand. 

“Well, not lying to me about it for the last four months probably would have been a good start.” You huff, the air that puffs from your nostrils still tainted with the let down you’re trying so hard to not let override your conversation. 

You can’t help but let yourself find a spot next to him on the edge of your bed, a peace offering that you hope is enough to signal to him you’re willing to listen to what he has to say. 

“I- I didn’t think you were being serious when you and Santi were talking about it. I- I thought you- I thought the plan was to go to Florida State. Together. What happened, Frankie?” 

It’s quiet for a few more moments. Frankie takes a few, slow deep breaths as he runs his hands through the curls twisting at the nape of his neck. The silence isn’t as bitter as before, but it stings enough to gnaw at the edges of your nails, the anxious habit you can’t seem to break, and certainly have no intention of giving up right now.  

“Stop chewing at your nails, Kenz. You’re gonna be pissed at yourself later.” Frankie sighs, gently grabbing your wrist to pull your hand away from your mouth, trying to fulfill his duty of being the one to stop you from ripping your nail beds to shreds. 

“You’re kinda making it hard not to.” You try your best to attempt a laugh. It’s the only way to keep yourself from crying. “So are you gonna tell me what’s going on or what?” 

“Y-yeah.” Frankie re-adjusts himself on the edge of the bed, twisting the fabric of your comforter between his fingers, trying to ground himself in the reality of the truth he’s forced to tell you, “I- I didn’t get into Florida State. I told you I did because I didn’t know what I was gonna do. You were just so excited when you thought we both got in and I- I panicked and I lied. I didn’t even think I was gonna get in anyways. I didn’t think I was gonna get in anywhere. Even if I did, I don’t know if I even could have afforded it. It’s just me and my mom and neither of us-”

“It’s not too late. I can help you look for scholarships. To help you with tuition. I’m sure that there’s a bunch out there that you could apply for. I’ll even write your essays and stuff for you if you want me to-” 

“I’m pretty sure you can’t do that, Kenz. Plus, you hate cheaters.” 

Frankie tries to reciprocate the same half-assed laugh you gave him. He looks over at you, the small smile he’s forcing to keep between his lips quickly fading as he sees the way you’re pleading with him to realize that you would forge a thousand essays in his name if it meant he wasn’t going to leave you. He’d be a cheater you’d gladly forgive. 

“It’s not even just the money. I just- I- I don’t even like school, Kenzie. I suck at it. If school is already hard now, how much harder is it gonna be when I get to college? To study for a job that I’m probably not even gonna want when I graduate? At least with the Army I can have a job and benefits and hopefully make enough money to help my mom so she’s not working at the hospital 6 days a week. MacKenzie, the only reason I applied to Florida State was because of you. I thought that maybe there would be some miracle I got in and I could figure out how to pay for it and I could magically get smarter and better at school so we could spend the next four years together. I wanted it to happen. I wanted it to happen so bad. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lied to you. I just- fuck- I just didn’t know how to tell you.” 

Neither of you are quite sure what to say next. That quiet comes back to fill the space between you, allowing enough room for the silent sobs you’re both trying your best to hold in, small sniffles still escaping from each of you. You’re not sure if your brain has fully processed what he’s had to say. The only thing you can understand is the swirling of sadness and confusion in your gut and the pounding ache in your chest. 

You take a scooch closer to him, the outsides of your thighs barely brushing together as you tilt your head to rest against his shoulder. It’s heavy, the weight you can’t help but lean against him, but the arm he wraps behind your back and around your waist tells you that he’ll gladly take it. He’ll take it all, if he has to. 

“Did you already sign a contract to go?” The whisper of your words is so soft, like you’re hoping he can’t hear you. If he can’t hear you, then he doesn’t have to tell you the answer you don’t want to hear. 

“Yeah. Me and Santi did a few weeks ago.” His voice is almost quieter than yours, convinced he has the same idea as you. 

His truth stings worse than the lie he’s been masquerading behind the past four months. You want to scream at him- To curse him with shouts and sobs, question how he could make this choice for himself and leave you in the dark until it’s too late for you to change his mind. You know it’s selfish, the way you want him to stay, the way you would have fought with every bone in your body to keep him from leaving. You know it’s the reason Frankie couldn’t tell you. 

It’s the same reason why Frankie couldn’t bring himself to tell you that if he had given you that chance, he probably would have stayed. 

“Do um- do you know when you have to leave?” 

It hurts to hear the words come out of your mouth. It’s an admittance of defeat. Because once you ask that question, there’s nothing you can do or say that will make him stay. No fighting, no begging, no pleading. You have to accept he’s leaving. 

“Not ‘til the end of the summer.” 

“Where?” 

The more you ask, the more it makes you want to keel over the edge of the bed and vomit, the reality of it all setting in at an alarming pace. 

“Missouri for basic training. I don’t know where after.” 

He doesn’t have to say where. You both know. Even if he doesn’t know the exact longitude and latitude of where the Army will deploy him, there’s nowhere else they’re sending him besides Iraq or Afghanistan or whatever godforsaken, war ridden country in the Middle East he’ll be forced to put his life on the line for. 

And for how much the reality of Frankie leaving scares you, when you’re hit with the reality that Frankie may leave and never come back, you’re absolutely terrified. 

“I don’t want you to go, Frankie.” 

You can’t beg him to stay. There’s no amount of bargaining you can do with him or the powers that be to change what’s been done. All you can do is tell him your truth as you sob into his chest while he holds you. Maybe if you’re not enough to make him stay, you’re at least enough to make him want to come home. 

You’re not sure how long he holds you while you cry. Maybe it’s minutes, maybe it’s hours. However long it is, all the moments you have left with Frankie feel that much more precious. You won’t let any of them slip through your fingers. 

“You promise you’ll come home, right?” 

“I promise, MacKenzie. I promise.” 

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Francisco Morales, it’s that he’ll never break a promise. You just hope the universe is kind enough to let him keep this one, too. 

“I promise that we’ll have a really fun summer together before I leave too, okay? Whatever you wanna do, Kenz, I’ll do it.” 

“Anything?” 

It’s enough to peek your head out from the crook of his neck, trying your best to wipe away your tears with your sleeve, like you hadn’t just stained the better part of Frankie’s sweatshirt with the same wetness. 

“Anything.” 

“Alright, well, I guess we’re gonna go to Dairy Queen and get an extra large blizzard every day until you’re too fat for the Army to want you anymore.” 

The two of you giggle, a quiet symphony of soft snorts and sobs at the idea of rolling an ice cream filled Frankie off to boot camp. It makes him laugh even harder that he wouldn’t put it past you if you really did try. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you did. 

“Whatever you want, MacKenzie. I’m all yours.” 

Frankie, Present 

Frankie’s convinced he might as well start training for a marathon at this point. 

He’s not really sure how else to spend his time. It’s hard to keep himself occupied when all he can do at home is sit around and wait for your dad to die or stare out the window like a creep to watch your comings and goings. 

At least if he’s running, he can’t think about you. 

Well, he can’t think about you as much. 

It’s been a day and a half since he decided to follow you on your run. He’s already pushed his luck enough that you didn’t damn near kill him for it, let alone that you even gave him a chance to talk to him. 

He let you take the first  shift on the morning yesterday, despite the fact he’d been awake well before the sun rose. The irony wasn’t lost on him at the way he watched you through his bedroom window the same way he did most Saturday and Sunday mornings for the first few years of your friendship. You’d be up at the same ungodly hour as him, except you’d be pacing up and down your driveway, stretching and lunging across its length as you clicked around on the iPod wrapped around your forearm, searching for whatever song would pump you up for your run. 

It wasn’t until you had finally noticed Frankie peering out his bedroom window every weekend that you began to drag him along on your runs with you. 

“If you’re awake too, you might as well come running with me, Morales. It’ll be fun!” 

“Fine. I gotta warn you though, Kenz, I am actually pretty fast.” 

“You barely run the mile in gym class.” 

“Savin’ up all my energy for when I need it most, Anderson.” 

There was once a time where you would have to beg Frankie to come with you on a run. Now, he’d give anything for you to tolerate his existence ten feet behind you. 

But he’ll sacrifice another run alone through all too familiar roads of his childhood subdivision if it helps him kill time and keeps you from hating him anymore than you rightfully deserve to. 

Yesterday, he went on two runs to pass the time. Hell, today, he’d consider adding a third run to his underwhelming schedule just to keep himself busy. Fortunately, (or unfortunately, he can’t tell yet) for him, Maria Morales has other plans. 

And when Maria Morales has plans, it’s in Frankie’s best interest to drop anything else he had in mind for the day. 

Even when it means he’s got a hot date with his basement and a mountain full of boxes in his basement. 

“Okay, anything in this pile to the left is for you to go through.” His mom grunts, lifting up one last box to add to the heap labeled “Francisco’s things” in her perfectly curved cursive, “If you want to take it home, find an empty box to put it in, but not my new clear, plastic bins, entiendes (understand)? Those were expensive.” 

“No clear plastic bins, got it.” Frankie chuckles, following the exaggerated step his mother takes over his scattered belongings. 

“If you see something and you don’t want it now but you want me to keep it for later, you can put it over on the shelf by the stairs. If you think it’s basura (trash), leave it over here and let me look at it first before you throw it away.” 

“Comprendido (got it).” Frankie nods, sizing up the stack his mom has set out for him, “Jesus ma, this is gonna take me all morning to go through.” 

“If you were home more, there would be less things to go through now.” 

“Yeah, well, you got me there.” Frankie grumbles under his breath, grimacing at the harsh reality of his mom’s words. He knows isn’t meant completely out of malice, but he can’t deny it’s certainly got some truth to it as well.  

“Okay, well I need to go run some errands, and I want this pile sorted by the end of the day, so standing here and moping certainly isn’t going to help that. Get to work, mijo (son).” 

His mom will never be one to throw a pity party for anyone, and most definitely won’t be throwing one for her son, based on his own, self-inflicted problem. Frankie helps her step over another makeshift pile scattered for sorting across the basement floor, giving him a quick pat on the back before disappearing upstairs, leaving him to quite literally unpack his past. 

“Fuck. Okay.” He sighs to himself, gently kicking one of the edges of flimsy cardboard at the bottom of the tower, trying to formulate his best plan of attack to make his sorting as painless as possible. 

He’s thankful that his brain has always worked in a way that allows him to analyze things so quickly, doing some quiet calculations in his head as to the most effective and efficient way to sort through god knows what may be hidden in the pile his mom has created for him. 

He runs his hand through the still messy curls of his morning bed head before selecting what feels like the lightest boxes and moving them off to the side, opening up a cardboard container from the next layer. 

Besides the trophies still in his room, every prize he’d ever won for every sport he’d ever played sits in the box below him. Frankie chuckles to himself, picking up some from the top to examine them, thumb gliding over the fake gold plating to read plaques like “Florida Junior Divisional Freestyle Swimming Finalist- 2005” or “Regional Championship Winners- Florida Firebirds 2007” glued to poorly sculpted plastic statues of swimmers. A few more medals and certificates had sunk to the bottom of the box, Frankie quickly grazing through its contents before rehoming it to the “trash” pile, unsure of when he would ever need proof he won several swimming competitions in high school. 

The next few boxes were more of the same- His varsity jacket, old t-shirts he wouldn’t stand a chance fitting into, considering the gangly figure that stretched them more than a decade ago, some old books from high school he’d only kept because of how much you loved them and he promised you that one day, he’d read them, too. 

It’s the shoe box that catches his eye next, sure that no matter how much his mom loved to hoard, whatever was in there most definitely was not a raggedy, holy pair of Converse from high school. 

It’s not until he picks up the box that he knows exactly what’s inside. It’s one of the lightest things he’s picked up in the last hour, but when he knows the weight of its contents, his arms want to tremble. 

It’s with a long deep breath that he brings the shoebox over to an open patch of floor, letting out a grunt and cursing his knees as he sits down cross legged with the box in front of him. He gently flips open the lid, hand running over his face and down the back of his neck when his suspicions are confirmed. 

Open envelopes spill out over the edges of the worn cardboard, the box stuffed to the brim with every letter you’d ever written to him while he was away.

Even if he wanted to, he’s not sure he could ever physically bring himself to throw them out. Those letters have more miles on them than most people’s cars will ever reach in a lifetime, flimsy, stamped pieces of paper following him to every corner of the globe he’s traveled to. 

Some letters he’s read so much, they’re worn on the edges where he’s held the paper, smudging the pen that’s reached the sides of the pages. Others, he’s only read once. He’s not sure he could ever bring himself to read them again. But regardless of their contents, he’d made a promise to you they’d stay with him. 

“Better not get rid of those letters, Morales. Do you know how many hand cramps I’ve given myself trying to find the words to send halfway across the world to you? You better promise me you’ll keep ‘em.”  

His commitment to the folded pieces of paper ring in his ears as his fingers drag across the tops of the open envelopes. He can’t help the way his index finger and thumb pinch the paper below his grasp, carefully tugging a random letter out of its shoebox storage. 

It’s a gut wrenching gamble, the game he’s about to play, a roulette of making his heart ache from joy or pain depending on the one he chooses to pull. He’s already placed his bet as he pulls the lined piece of paper out of the envelope- He’s not getting the money he’s already placed on the table back, so he might as well pray he makes a return on his investment. 

With one more deep breath, he unfolds the tri-fold creases, ready to watch his bet play out before him. 

August 18th, 2006

Frankie, 

I hope I sent this letter to the right place! I looked on the website and it said to send mail to new recruits (that’s you, Morales), to this address, so no one better be holding my letter to you hostage. 

Anyways, how’s training so far? Did they make you shave your head yet? I hope not. I’m not sure why the Army insists on making you all look like Dr. Evil from Austin Powers. I’m sure you’ll still look cute even with short hair! I don’t think I can say the same for Santi, but you didn’t hear that from me… hehehe 

I just moved into my dorm yesterday! My roommate seems pretty nice. Her name is Jessica and she’s from Georgia. She claims that she’s neat and she better be, or I may lose my mind. I’ll send you pictures of my dorm once it’s all set up! It’s kind of a mess right now, but I made sure to put the picture of us from prom up on my desk :)

I don’t start class until next Tuesday. Hopefully I’ll meet some new people in my dorm or on the soccer team so I’m not a total loser with no friends. LOL. 

Have you met anyone new yet? I can’t wait to hear all about your new Army friends! I already started a countdown calendar until we can see each other again. Only 70 days until basic training is done and I can hear about everything in person! 

I miss you a lot. I know that’s dumb to say because it’s only been a week, but still. I wish I would have kissed you again before you got on the plane to leave. I promise I will when I see you. Nothing says perfect place to kiss like South Missouri, romance capital of the USA (haha). 

I know you’re gonna be busy, but write me back when you have time. The return address on the envelope is my dorm address, so use that, or risk Doug and Michelle reading your mail if you send it to my house!!! I can’t wait to hear from you. Miss you, weirdo. 

From, 

Kenz :) <3

His luck of the draw sends a wave of relief through him, smiling down at the curvy loops of your perfectly neat printing signed at the bottom of the page. It makes his heart skip a beat, the same kind of butterflies coming to life in his stomach as they did the first time he read it. He’s earned his money back and then some. He gets how casinos never go broke, because the high of good fortune is enough to have him reaching back into the box to put another gamble on the line. 

October 13th, 2009

Frankie, 

I always feel dumb sending multiple letters before I hear back from you, but you know me, I love to worry. I know you can’t tell me where you are right now (stupid military and their secrets for the safety of society lol) but I’ve been seeing stuff on the news and it makes me scared for you. I just hope wherever you are, you’re safe. 

My dad’s cancer is back. He’s been in the hospital for almost two weeks now. They found a new mass on his liver, but they said hopefully they can target it with radiation before it starts to spread. Cassandra at the front desk asked how you were when I was at the hospital yesterday. I said that you were good. I think she’s only asking because if you’re not there, there’s no one to keep me from burning a hole in the waiting room carpet. 

I wish you were here. I feel really lost right now. I just know if you were here, you’d find a way to make everything better. You always do. 

Sorry this letter isn’t longer. I haven’t been sleeping that great and don’t have enough brainpower to write something decent. Just wanted to let you know what’s going on.  

Counting down the days until you make good on your promise. I hope you come home soon, Frankie. 

Kenzie 

He curses himself for an unlucky draw, heart sinking at the tear stains smearing the blue ink of your trembling letters. An overwhelming wave of guilt washes over him, vivid memories of reading your notes in his bunk alone, wishing there was a way he could fly halfway around the world for a night just to hold you and tell you that everything was going to be okay. 

It’s the addictive itch in the back of his brain that makes him decide to pull one more letter from the box, taking one last gamble to see if he can prove the nagging pit in his stomach to quit while he’s ahead, wrong. 

February 4th, 2011

Hey, 

If you don’t want to write anymore, that’s fine. I was trying to be friendly, but clearly you don’t really care. Just let me know and I’ll stop bombarding you with mail you obviously don’t want. Or I guess you not responding is letting me know. If you want to send anything back you can send it to my parents house. I’m moving into Liam’s house and it’s only 20 minutes away so I can just drive there and pick it up. No need to send you a new address you probably aren’t going to write to, anyways. 

I guess I’ll see you when I see you. 

MacKenzie 

And that’s how Vegas will always stay in business. 

Because now Frankie is forced to walk away, all his money stolen from him at the stupid risk he’s decided to take. The one letter he’d give anything not to read again is the one he had to pull. 

Heat seethes in his chest- he can’t quite explain why. Because he lost at a rigged game he’d set up for himself? That he still hasn’t quite come to terms with the ugly truth of what he put the both of you through? That he wishes with everything in him, he could go back and change what he’s done? 

Or maybe, it’s because now might be the last chance he has to fix what he’s broken, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to live with himself if he can’t.

He leaves the pile in the basement unfinished, shoes barely tied to his feet before he bursts out the door in a sprint.

He's not sure where he's going. He's not even sure how long he's run for. All he knows is the pounding of his feet against the pavement, trying to outrun the stupid decisions of his past.

He tells himself if he runs fast enough, he'll beat them.

If he goes far enough, they'll be forgotten.

If he outraces them, you'll be there waiting for him at the finish line.

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[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet + ch 45

a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... all chapters

WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, VIOLENCE, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

45. halcyon daze

With Christmas on the horizon you take a break from your Persephone-inspired series to work on a present for John. There’s not a thing in the world you could buy him that he couldn’t buy for himself; but you have two hands, some talent and creativity: things that can’t yet be bought on Amazon. You’d noticed that he’s been working on an old set of Russian Fairytales. 

It still never fails to destroy your heart, that John favors mending the binding of children’s stories, as though he can recapture and sew back together some aspect of his own broken youth. 

Some of the illustrations in this edition are faded, one is even half destroyed, the paper torn. The writing is in cyrillic, you haven’t learned to read it yet, but with some [you hope] casually peppered questions, you manage to glean enough information to look up what they’re supposed to be. You make some replacements for him, and in the case of the Knight of Night in the story of Vasilisa the Beautiful, the warrior in black might bear more than a passing resemblance to your own dark assassin.  

When he opens this gift the wonder in his eyes is priceless to you. “I didn’t make you anything,” he apologizes guiltily, and while you are sitting amidst the piles of your freshly bestowed loot, which you still can’t help but feel guilty about. He bought you a stylish new motorcycle jacket, a fresh set of artist series gouache tubes and paper, an antique gold art nouveau lavalier necklace in the form of a flowing narcissus flower with glowing enameled accents and a dangling pearl –you are filled with so much love you fear your heart might burst.

You crawl across the floor, into his lap. He barely has time to set the drawings aside before your mouth is on his, and you are toppling him back almost into the Christmas tree with your ardor. By the time you are finished with him, you’re pretty sure he knows how happy he makes you, but just in case you tell him for good measure. “I love you more than I know how to say.” 

***

As winter drags on you look to John’s in-house gym to get exercise, even though you despise running on the treadmill. You feel like a hamster, jogging your ass off to nowhere. You try to keep up with your yoga practice, though you rarely get to finish a session. Somehow, John always manages to time walking in on you when you have your ass in the air. “Have mercy, I’m only a man,” he teases you, like this is an excuse for toppling you over and pinning you down with his body and his mouth on yours. 

It’s hard to get too mad about it, considering. 

You suppose you do still get a stretch and a workout, not to mention a belly laugh, in the end. 

Continuing your training stays interesting, although he wasn’t lying before when he said he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of you. More often than not when you spar, you end up fucking on the floor. He’s never more beautiful than when his dark eyes glitter with anticipation of the hunt; you’ve learned a lot, but you know you stand zero chance against him. 

Maybe it’s not fair, when he loses patience and uses his experience and his size to put you down on the ground, sweeping your legs or twisting your arm behind you while he pulls down your leggings, baring your ass to the room. But he finds you soaking wet every time he claims his prize, guiding himself inside you, your growls quickly turning to moans for the way he fills you up and takes you down. “I fucking love it when you fight me,” he admits breathlessly, thrusting until you both cum loudly, your face pressed into the rubber floor.

It’s a game you love to lose.   

***

Winter starts to thaw, and you have cabin fever, ready to go outside. John is engrossed in a binding project: you finished your illustrations, and now he seems just as engaged in his side of the collaboration as you were yours. You find him smiling at a rendition of Dog as Cerberus with three heads when you pop into his workshop. “Want to go for a hike?”

He looks around at the mess he’s made on his worktable. “I’m not at a good stopping point,” he admits, and you understand that perfectly well. “You can go, just don’t be gone too long, alright?”

He could have pushed you over with a feather, you are so surprised to receive this clearance for a solo trek. 

You kiss him on the cheek in thanks. “I’ll be back soon,” you promise, still hardly able to believe your luck. 

“Y/n?” he calls as you’re at the door. “Take Dog?”

“I’m going too far for him.” Long walks hurt his paws.

“Then take your pistol.” You nod before disappearing up the stairs. Once upon a time, the thought of going around casually armed would have seemed like pure insanity to you. Now it’s simply a fact of life. You don’t have an official license for concealed carry, but after your intensive training at the Continental you feel perfectly confident that you won’t shoot anyone–unless you mean to. You live in John’s world now: survive first, worry about getting caught later…and pay off the appropriate officials if you have to.

That’s just the thug life, you suppose. 

The air outside is crisp and fresh, leaves and pine needles perfuming the woods in a way that intoxicates you more than any man-made scent. You take off down the trail at a brisk pace, feeling like you have wings on your feet. Knowing you could walk for miles and miles in this mood, you set a timer on your phone so you don’t forget yourself. Scaring John after he’s given you this confidence will not bode well for the future. Once upon a time such a leash would have chafed, but now you understand so much better what his fears are rooted in. You’ve peered into the darkness behind the curtain; there’s no going back. 

It’s the middle of the day in the middle of the week and you haven’t seen a soul, and on such a fine day as this, it is easy to forget that there’s a bustling, seething world of human strife out there. Or so you imagine, as you are sitting on the outcrop of your favorite overlook, your feet dangling out over oblivion. Yet, when you think you hear voices coming up the trail a sudden instinct kicks in to hide, to avoid being seen. Without really even thinking about it you tip yourself off the ledge, grabbing a branch of an ancient tree growing out of the rocks to break your fall, and dropping down to conceal yourself flat upon a narrow ledge.

“Dude, where’d she go?” you hear from above, your heart pounding in your chest, the blocky hardness of your little Beretta pressing into the small of your back as you lean against the stone face of the cliff a reassuring comfort. You realize then that John is not the only one with a residual paranoia from your misadventures. As you listen to the obviously harmless hikers above, you feel utterly ridiculous, and you wait for them to go so that you can make your way back in peace. 

Maybe it’s good to be alert, but at what point does one just have to get on with one’s life? If you live like a paranoid little rat scurrying around out of sight, then Dante has won in a different way. You think about this a lot, as you make your way home up the mountain. 

***

Perhaps it’s fitting, that with the renewal of spring all around you, John finishes the binding of your book. He calls you into the basement to inspect his workmanship, standing behind you as you behold the finished tome. The cover is embossed black leather with gold leaf. There is no title, just a design of an upturned skull grown through with blooming narcissus flowers. Slowly, you flip through the pages, enchanted with how he transformed your loose paintings into something so refined. 

“I love it,” you tell him, caressing a page bearing his likeness, the God of Death embracing his consort (that may bear a passing resemblance to you) in a Klimt-esque kiss. He nuzzles into your neck, kissing behind your ear. “But you didn’t sign it,” you complain, noting the lack of his usual This Book was Bound by John Wick plate. 

“I thought…we could do it together, as a wedding present?” he offers. You realize he means signing it with your joined name, and maybe it’s silly, but the thought makes your belly erupt into butterflies. You haven’t really talked about the wedding much. Though you wear the ring happily, he hasn’t really mentioned it at all, giving you space or otherwise occupied, you’re not entirely sure. 

“I would love that,” you agree, tilting your head for a kiss. His fingers dig into your hips as it deepens, a low moan called up from his throat. 

“Have you thought about what you might like?” he asks, kissing your neck again, his hands slipping under your shirt. 

“I don’t want anything fancy,” you admit breathlessly. “All I want is you.” You find the thought of bringing your dysfunctional family together in celebration only inspires anxiety. You have no lasting affiliations with any church–you do not feel the need to seek any god’s blessing of your union. You find you are just ready for it to be so. 

You feel him pause behind you, letting out a shuddering sigh. You wonder if he’s thinking about the journey you’ve taken, to get where you are today, together. You certainly are, looking at your book, and the allegory it tells of your tumultuous courtship. It wasn’t easy, and you can’t say anything so trite as you knew it would turn out–but you realize you did have the naivety to hope. For once…maybe your forgiving nature has finally paid off for you. You feel like you’ve been living in a halcyon daze, you are so happy. You hope it never changes, even if deep down you know it will. 

Change is the only certainty we’re ever afforded.

“Surely you want something nicer than a trip to the courthouse,” he pries, certain there’s something you’re not telling him. You do still feel embarrassed sometimes, about spending his money on things, even though he gives you free reign with unparallelled generosity. 

“I really don't want a big ceremony,” you assure him. “But…would you like it, if Winston married us?”

John huffs behind you, and you hear the smile in his voice. “I'm not sure that's something he does.”

You giggle at the thought, and you can tell John at least likes the idea of his father figure–one of his few remaining friends, being there. And, you like Winston too. “I bet he’d do it for you, John.”

“Hmm. We’ll think on that.”

It’s not a no.

“You know what I do want?” you pose, turning a page of your new book.This illustration is a rather explicit one, Death kneeling at her feet with his face buried in her pussy, her back bowed in sweet agony, the dark waters of the river Styx glittering behind them. He offered her the most exquisite pleasures, but withheld release unless she agreed to be his forever. Though deep in her heart she knew she loved him immeasurably, still she refused.

Neither John nor you are immune to the effect of perusing this pornographic work together; his long fingers dip into the waistband of your jeans, his fingertips just nearly caressing your mound.   

“Anything,” he tells you, nibbling at your ear. It takes you a moment to remember what you were talking about, your clit throbbing in answer to his seeking fingers and his other hand up your shirt. As a result your answer comes in breathy bursts. 

“I want…to go on an adventure with you. A long honeymoon,” you tell him, writhing against him as his hand finds your breast, toying with the taut peak of your nipple. You know he likes to travel as much as you do. Wouldn’t it be novel to go somewhere and not even need to assassinate someone in the interim?

You feel him chuckle behind you, more than hear it. “I might have guessed. Where do you want to go?” He asks you this while his fingers tease your curls, so close to touching you where you need him most. You are past shame, when your voice cracks. 

“Where can we go?” You assume most of Europe is off the table these days. 

“Hmm. You still have a yen for South America?” 

You nod, and he laughs again, though he catches your mouth in a tooth-counting kiss before you can answer–ie defend yourself from the usual allegations. At last his middle finger dips into your wet slit, and the sound of relief that escapes you is barely human.  

“Young lady…” he growls, nipping at your ear. “This is quite a dirty little book you’ve drawn. Do you know how many times I had to come find you while I was working on this?” You moan as he swipes up your juices, finally circling your clit as his other hand dips into your bra. You feel his erection straining against the curve of your bottom; you press yourself back against him, wanting what’s yours. Your answer is part laughter, part moan–for the umpteenth time, you feel like life is perfect with this man. 

“Probably as often as I had to come find you while drawing it,” you answer cheekily, arching back to hold his neck, opening yourself completely to him. Your knees threaten to buckle as he touches you, but soon you find yourself bent over his table, his corded forearms braced like columns on either side of you as he fucks you silly amidst the smell of old books, leather, and binding glue.  

It really doesn’t get any better than this.

***

When warmer weather comes you start to take out the bikes again. After a few outings you feel sufficiently refreshed, and more than ready to take your test. You make your appointment for next week, and you feel like a teenager again, full of nervous energy for the impending exam. John finds this amusing. “You can ride, sweetheart. And if you fail, you can just take it again.” 

But the perfectionist academic in you wants to ace it on the first go. When you express the desire to go for a practice ride while John is working on a new project he nods, not even looking up from his worktable. “Be careful.” 

“Take your pistol. I know,” you tease. This has become a broken record between you two–remembering a time when he wouldn’t have dreamed of letting you out of his sight, you do not mind. He narrows his eyes at you playfully, before letting you off with that slight smile that still squeezes your heart in your chest. 

You gear up in your kevlar jeans, boots and jacket, gloves and helmet. Concealed carry is ridiculously easy, with such bulk about you. You feel a bit like a commando, every time you put on the jacket with its armored panels. You fire up the Kawasaki and potter down the driveway. You like this bike, it’s been great to learn on, but John has been teasing you about an upgrade if you’re a good girl. 

Considering you feel where he’s been inside you every time you sit down, you’re pretty sure you’re meeting the requirements. You think about this with a smile as you hit a straightaway, and let the machine open up beneath you. 

It really is the closest you can get to flying on the ground. 

Exhilarated, maybe even feeling a little cocky, you make your loop of the mountain roads and then decide to make a quick stop down in town. You’ve worn out your three favorite paint brushes, the chisel tip, the angle shader, and the tiny 3/0 you favor for small details. Mr. Morton will get you squared away. 

You park in the lot behind the art store, and carry your helmet inside. You don’t dally long, even though the smell of oil paint and linseed oil inside the little store is a marvelous thing. You chat with Mr. Morton, pet the shop cat, and tuck your score into your inside pocket before walking back out to the parking lot. 

It’s totally cliché, but the rest goes by in a blur. 

A black SUV rolls up beside you, screeching on its brakes, a man jumping out of the backseat making a B line for you. Too late, you realize your rookie mistake. Your jacket is zipped up to your chin–you can’t draw your pistol under your arm in time. But you have your helmet in your hand, and without hesitation, you introduce it to his face as hard as you can. 

“At least offer a girl some candy first, asshole!”

The driver spills out next, cursing and trying to grab you, dodging your second swing with the helmet. You side-step him, but he manages to snag your jacket. Rather than pull against his hold you let him drag you to him, meeting his groin dead-on with your knee. As he crumples you hit him in the face with your armored elbow, and run for your bike while shoving your helmet onto your head. 

Maybe you should have run back to the shop, to the thoroughfare, to the safety of witnesses. But all you can think in that moment is that John might need you. You have a terrible feeling that something bad could be happening at home, and so you start your bike and tear off faster and more recklessly than you ever have before. The handlebars wobble in your haste but you manage to get a hold of the machine, concentrating on working the clutch and the gears to pick up speed as fast as you can. If you look back, you know you’ll crash. You run a stop sign, veering around a car by the skin of your teeth, leaving the sound of screeching wheels and honking horns behind you.  

Out of town, you drop a gear and take off like a rocket up the mountain, passing cars where you definitely shouldn’t. I’m coming, John. Maybe it’s ridiculous. How much help could you possibly be to John Wick? But you won’t rest until you set eyes on him again. 

Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised, when the G Wagon roars up next to you again. In your peripheral you see the passenger in the window, his extended arm, the blocky black shape of a gun. They veer at you, trying to run you off the road. You brake the bike, letting them whip past you, nearly going off the pavement themselves in the confusion. You decide to turn off onto a sideroad, a winding death-trap of a paved goat trail that you know like the back of your hand, though you’ve never ridden it before, only drove. You hope you’ll lose them in the snarl of tight curves. It will take longer to get home, but if worse comes to worse maybe you can abandon the bike and lose them in the trees. 

Home turf advantage, you tell yourself, not entirely convinced. These guys mean business–and you’re fairly sure the driver’s accent was Italian. 

You don’t really hear it past the roar of your engine and your heartbeat in your ears, when they come up behind you. You do hear the shot, and you flinch, ducking low to make yourself a smaller target. But he wasn’t aiming for you. 

He was aiming for your tire, and when it blows the bike goes wild–and you really get to experience flying.

It’s almost exhilarating, sailing through the air, until you hit the pavement hard, skidding across the unforgiving asphalt, rolling to take some of the momentum. You lay there on the tarmac, alive, but completely stunned. You tell yourself to get up–but your body doesn’t listen. You see the shadow of a man over you. It’s Helmet Man–his face is a mask of blood; it looks like you broke his nose, and he’s pissed about it.

He kicks you in the side before shoving a needle through your jeans, into the meat of your butt. On the verge of puking in your helmet, the world swims, then goes black.

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

*author's note: Full credit to @discoscoob for suggesting that Winston should officiate, I love it, you're brilliant! 😘 And the yoga scene is totally @treedaddymcpuffpuff 's fault. I love our unhinged conversations boo 🤣 The Brain Rot would not be so strong or so FUN without you!❤❤❤❤❤❤❤ :)))))))))))))))))

**maybe i should also add that certain eXplicit panels in the BRZRKR Bloodlines comic inspired a great deal of this dumpster fire 🥵🤣🤣, y'all should definitely check it out, the artwork is great!

--------------- 

all chapters

[rheusia]

tw! blood, (gore?), weapons

"A man in a coat, with his face hidden behind a… mask? He slayed the vampires with one move, cutting their heads off with unnatural precision. As the man stopped in front of Mizrak curled up on the grass, the vampires’ bodies fell to the ground and vanished, turning into ash. The knight acted like not himself, crying in fear. He disappointed his god, he turned out to be a coward.

The unknown man stood without any movement, he had mixed feelings about saving the knight. No matter what, he still was Olrox’s love interest, the man could tell that the Aztec vampire got attached to Mizrak pretty fast. [...]

The knight looked up at the man who saved his life. His black hair seemed to look very similar to Olrox’s, except there were more braids, and these weird, bloody eyes, glowing just like the Aztec’s ones, staring at him, making shivers go down Mizrak’s spine. “A vampire?” He thought."

simply - how Kwahu met Mizrak (and Olrox by the way)

I am sorry for making Mizrak looking so submissive, it's just something about his outfit that didn't allow me to draw him like a normal man.......

[muckyschmuck]

ultimately!

[hothammies]

au art where mikey left carmy his daughter in his will (writing a fic for it called ribbons and scrunchies, it is sydcarmy + single dad carmy)

[problemswithbooks]

BNHA Ch. 429

So, I guess Toga is dead, and people are losing it.

I get why people liked her--she was actually queer, being pan/bisexual. She was representation for them and that's rare in shonen manga. But here's the thing--she was bad representation at best and insulting at worst. Nor do I think she was made queer because Hori really wanted to represent a queer girl. Himiko was always the author's poorly hidden fetish--she just was. She liked girls as much as boys because Hori wanted to draw a girl touching sexually on another girl. You can see this in how he draws her and Ochako in solo pics together.

I mean, people seem to understand this when it comes to Momo and her outfit being overly sexual or that both Himiko and Hagakure's Quirks either leave them naked or they have to be naked to use them. These are excuses to draw girls in a sexual manner. Himiko being into other girls is the same thing and that's the kindest interpretation.

Given how Himiko acts and her Quirk being heavily coded sexual desire, and therefore her use of it against someone unwilling being sexual assault, it could just being playing into harmful stereotypes of predatory gays.

As a queer person myself I just found Toga insulting. She was designed to be overly sexual and give the male author a female character that he could draw being suggestive with his other female characters. When he did flesh out her character, her backstory was eventually the trope/fear of straight people, that gay people will be so overcome with their lust that they end up sexually assaulting them.

In the end Ochako accepts this part of Toga and says she'll giver her blood forever, but as much as a lot of readers took that that as some deep lesbian confession, for me it really fell flat. Hori never really gave any of the main kids time to actually learn about their villain or show how that changed their minds toward them. Shoto only works because Touya is his brother (even though he admits he barely remembers him). But Ochako goes from not thinking of Toga at all pre-first war, to one thought about her during her speech, to suddenly caring about her so much she--given how Toga's quirk is coded, is willing to essentially fulfill Toga's kink for the rest of their lives.

It's weird and it comes out of nowhere. It's made even stranger because Toga doesn't actually change or show remorse for anything she did, which included personally hunting and murdering people before she joined the LOV. None of the death and destruction she is also partially responsible for is brought up either, something that Ochako was rightfully upset about during the first war when less people and property had been destroyed. Ochako just accepts everything about her suddenly and her past serious crimes are forgotten so they can cuddle and cry.

Am I shocked Toga died--a little. I didn't think Hori would have the guts to kill off a young girl character, especially one that he clearly got a lot of joy drawing in sexy poses. But at the same time, once he killed off Shigaraki and ended Touya's story with his slow death, I'm not surprised he went the same route with Toga.

This isn't Naruto--Hori isn't really kind to characters that do something wrong, especially if they don't try and change. Enji, Bakugo, Hawks, and Aoyama all sort of got punished for what they did. Enji is the worst off, being permanently crippled, missing an arm and burned everywhere. Bakugo's hand is damaged, his heart weaker, plus he feels bad that Izuku lost his Quirk so they can't compete the same way he wanted them to. Aoyama, despite doing way less wrong and even helping his class during the forest raid, still leaves school because he doesn't feel he earned being there yet. Hawks lost his Quirk and even though him running the HPSC could be seen as good for him, Hawks always wanted a break, but now he has one of the most time consuming and stressful jobs out there.

So, if this is what characters who actively did good things and even changed and fought to be better get, what would characters who never changed and never did anything positive for anyone but their friends/themselves get?

Before the last Arc started, when so many people said the LoV were 100% going to be redeemed I had doubts and always thought it wouldn't make sense with how the story presented redemption or treated other non-LoV villains in the past. That if the main LoV did get some happy ending where they were bffs with the main cast it would clash with how other characters had been treated.

That doesn't mean that I think how Shigaraki, Toga, and Touya ended up in the manga was well done. I think their endings fit far better then a last minute redemption would have, but at the same time you can feel how rushed everything has been since the end of the first war arc. Hori was done with this story months if not years ago, yet he was contractually obligated to finish it. Because of that I think he left out as much as possible. As much as I think he's written some pretty obsessive stuff, particularly towards women, I can't really fully blame him cutting corners or the story being shit at the end.

We know Manga authors, particularly those that work with Jump are treated like shit. That they suffer incredibly long hours at times not even getting to go home for days. We've gotten messages for Hori saying he's sick quite a few times. On top of that, weekly story telling is not a great way to tell a cohesive narrative. Ideas probably change week to week or at least month to month and you can't go back and change the last chapter no matter how much you need or want to. Then you remember he also gave a lot of ideas to the people who made the movies, which would also change his plans for how he wanted the main story to go.

The story is bad--it has been for a while, but I think a lot of people put their hopes on their favorite characters getting a happy ending, even when there were signs that probably wasn't going to be the case. I know how much it sucks when a character you love gets a shitty ending (Stain was my fav, but he got an absolute dogshit ending) but at least, knowing what I know about the industry I can't really blame Hori the way I see some other people doing. Criticize it, sure, but saying Hori hates his readers or is horrible writer isn't true. BNHA was popular for a reason--he's great with characters and the beginning of the story had some great pacing. We'll never know, but I wouldn't be surprised if BNHA could have been amazing if Hori had been treated better and the story hadn't needed a chapter every week.

If anything BNHA has taught me how much a story suffers when authors/artists are treated like crap and forced to work past burnout.

[bleaksqueak]

Insomnia is letting up off and on, but I'm still super jelly brained from it case in point, I want to continue back with posting WIPs for the aired pages, but I can't remember what page I left off on now lmao (guess I'll have to dig through my blog to check... eesh. at least it's decently organized by tags?) Not a result of goo brain, really, but equally "AUGH" is that I let my screen protector go for too long without replacing it and now it's slick as snot and I don't have a replacement handy to put on it. This isn't a resulting consequence of goo brain but it does mean I'm going to be trying to draw without any traction while I'm already loopy. Good times ahead!

[possum-quesadilla]

I was going to post my sona as that ‘cat surrounded by knives’ meme since that is the vibe that is happenin rn, but I can’t pick which of these old designs I like better

[sskk-manifesto]

Ep 6!!!

[astrid-and-the-space-pirates]

I updated her design a bit.

Again.

[alarming-prism]

there is truly something in the air abt getting my first hate comment on breaking patterns/mending threads two years after i finished writing it, and that it happens to be during one of the worst periods of my life

[whumpy-wyrms]

can someone just like spam me with tllr things you want me to draw. can be anything i just neeeed motivationnn

[deadtower]

(shaky thumbs up) (bo burnham voice) haha yeah… i am not feeling good

[emily-mooon]

Sometimes I just feel like writing a fic where chapters are episodic and I don’t have to elongate an event cause I finished it in one chapter.

And this is where I pull out a fake presentation talking about a 1930s Jancy au that is a slow burn friends to lovers where they get into weird situations and go on adventures like it’s a book written by L.M. Montgomery and has a similar energy to Little Women.

[dawntheduckrb]

Sleeping like he pays rent

[isaacathom]

Just finished reading Master and Commander, which I overall enjoyed but found a bit difficult to read (O'Brian is clearly very knowledgeable about nautical matters, and unfortunately I am not, and so my mind glazes over). I mostly enjoyed being able to compare it with my memory of having read the Hornblower books, and how similar events are handled very differently by the narrative. which was cool!