#because it interrupts my creative process

[aurora-boreas-borealis]

Why am I always so torn over the idea of sharing and developing ideas as a group?

[maythearo]

" Welcome back to Night Raven College's 'Ghostly Gossip'! The school's unofficial main online source for the latest news, articles and trending topics circulating around campus! "

" attention attention! we interrupt this broadcast to inform all readers that the ghostly gossip team have at last caught the student responsible for all the (unauthorized) written remarks from previous entries! We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience! (although admittedly, he does not...) "

Navigation:

R. Rosehearts ▪︎ T. Clover ▪︎ C. Diamond ▪︎ A. Trappola ▪︎ D. Spade ▪︎ L. Kingscholar ▪︎ R. Bucchi ▪︎ J. Howl ▪︎ A. Ashengrotto ▪︎ J. Leech ▪︎ F. Leech ▪︎ K. Al Asim ▪︎ J. Viper ▪︎ V. Schoenheit ▪︎ R. Hunt ▪︎ E. Felmier ▪︎ I. Shroud ▪︎ O. Shroud ▪︎ M. Draconia ▪︎ L. Vanrouge ▪︎ S. Zigvolt ▪︎ Silver

Design notes:

This took way longer to post than I expected mainly because of imposter syndrome and constantly thinking I could do more for his entry but, I'll keep this as Ace's main style anyway. It's pretty simple compared to previous designs, but to be fair, devil Ace's personality and shenanigans would stand out enough to compensate for that matter LOL

As I said on Deuce's post, I wanted to connect their designs in some aspects, so yeah! Complementary color pallettes! That's why they both have few shades that stand out of their main monochrome colors, Deuce is blues and greens, while Ace stays around red and oranges!

Fashion-wise now, I initially pictured him pulling a lot more references from 80s men fashion, but ig by the end I accidentally strayed away from that and somehow incorporated a more "modern" influence to it? Man I'm very bad at describing the creative process and vibes of my designs but what else is new 😭😭 ANYWAYS, off topic but I should mention that, as you can see I'll throw in a high heel in any characters that give me the opportunity to do so, this one especially, I had Cleo's "dawn of the dance" heels in the back of my mind while designing, ( I forgot to include in the image above again 😔) which fun fact, was my first Monster High doll I got as a kid, so-!!! That's a shoe style that I'm very fond of KWDNWKSNSK

LORE DUMP TIME, ok so given each characters unique scare-itage, the way the cast interact with each other and build relationships could somehow differ from how they interact in og twisted wonderland! For example, since MH!Ace is THE devil from THE bible (/ref) he probably shares a common background, or have met Vil and Idia before they enrolled in MH!NRC together! That's such a funny thing to think about for me. Who would have thought they'd ever be a trio of great childhood friends?

[lecl3rcw]

KEEPING UP WITH THE LECLERCS | Leclerc brothers x sister! reader

—————————————

Pairings: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo Leclerc x sister! reader (model reader)

Summary: As Arthur and Y/N are on live together, Arthur accidentally spills his guts on Y/N crush on this mystery man, who is this man? And what will her brothers’s reaction be.

Warnings: I’m using meeya dugied’s photos as a reference! But reader has no faceclaim!

Author’s note: WHOO it’s been a while, hope you guys have been well, I just wanted to say Thankyou for being so patient with me, I’ve had a lot going on in my life but just know your requests are in the process of being finalized! I’m the meantime, this is just a little short fic for everyone!

____________________________________________

“Do you think the chicken came first or the egg?”

“….Shut up Arthur”

The boy narrowed his eyes at his twin, the two youngest leclercs were on Y/N’s Instagram live because they were so bored and since then it’s been a blur.

“Y/N who is your favorite brother out of the 3, Lorenzo for sure” she reads out the question and answers it without hesitation.

“Girllll whats up your ass today, did Jo-” before he could say more, the girl quickly covers his mouth, “Shut the fuck up Arthur! I swear I’m never telling you anything again!” She says, pushing his face out of the frame.

“Ouch! See guys this is what happens when you’ve had the fattest crush on this dude named J-” She interrupted him once more.

“Ok everybody! That’s it for this live, Thankyou so much for keeping us entertained and I hope you all have an amazing day! Love you” she says quickly before turning the live off.

“You’re actually such a cunt Arthur” she says as she pushes him again.

“What? It’s not like I said his name” he responds standing up

“it’s not your place Hoe” she responds standing up.

“Whatever girl, talk to the fucking hand” he says raising his hand in the most sassy way possible before walking off.

What in the sassy men apocalypse, she shook it off and just allayed down on the couch, before she got a text.

She rolls her eyes again, “I’m so sick of them” she scoffs.

She smiled at the replies her tweet got, the f1 fanbase has got to be the most creative one yet to exist. Tired from scrolling, she shuts her phone down and decides to rest her eyes. However, her peace only lasted for 20 minutes as her phone rang for a Group FaceTime call. She lets out a loud groan but answers it.

“So Y/N, Tell us who this man” Lorenzo asks.

“Again, no hi, no hello” she responds.

“Y/N I swear!” Charles interrupts her.

“Oh my god, for fucks sake, it’s Jo-” Arthur starts but is immediately interrupted,

“STOP, fine, I’ll text it to you” she says before shooting the groupchat a text.

“Oh Y/N, you know that never ends well” Charles says.

“Says you? Let me ask all your ex girlfriends” she responds in a very snarky way, Charles looked taken aback.

“Ok damn girl, calm down no need to get all violent🙄” he says visibly rolling his eyes.

“Sorry Charlie, i didn’t mean that, if Alexandra and Charlotte are there tell them i love them and that they’re way better than their mans, anyways bye goodnight, have a good trip” she says.

“You too Chérie, hope your photo shoot goes well tomorrow!” Charles says before hanging up, Lorenzo adds to that with “and goodluck with J-”

“OK GOODBYE” she says hanging up, she lets out a sigh and puts her hand on her face. She gets up and does her skincare routine, and goes to sleep.

The next morning, her flight to Milan was very early so she was at the airport by 6.

She hugs Arthur, “Bye tur tur, hope your race testing goes well” he hugs back tight, “you too Y/n/n”

She hugs her mom tightly, “Love you Maman” she squeezes her, Pascale reciprocating the action. “I love you, text me when you land” her mom says, and the young girl nods. She waved one last goodbye to her mom and her brother before boarding the flight.

She makes a quick post on her Instagram before shutting her phone off for her flight.

y/n.leclerc

y/n.leclerc june with my fav people ever🫶🏻 p.s. Alexandra is the best photographer

tagged charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, lorenzotollotaleclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, carla.brocker, charlottedipietro, pascale_leclerc

Liked by bengals, charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, and 1,000,000 others

arthur_leclerc WHATS 4+4😝

^y/n.leclerc ATEEEEEEE

^charles_leclerc girllll more like -8

^y/n.leclerc I’m gonna beat your ass.

alexandrasaintmleux my chérie😍

^y/n.leclerc THE LITERAL LOVE OF MY LIFE😍

bellahadid let’s get married

^y/n.leclerc I’m gonna bite you☺️

leclercupdates NOT THE BENGALS LIKING

^wags4life LIKE ARIANA WHAT ARE U DOING HERE?

y/n’swhore SHES LITERALLY THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PERSON EVER😞

What the girl didn’t expect was to get a text from one of the most popular teams ever.

Bengals Hello! We would like to host a partnership with you, we wanted to invite you to one of our games as an honorary guest, you can bring up to 6 people.

……

[selfindulgentpoorlywritten]

My Sweet Girl (Matthew Tkachuk Imagine)

This is by far-- I repeat, by far-- the longest reader insert I've ever written. It's my submission for @wyattjohnston 's Winter Fic Exchange, a gift for @matthewtkachuk ! Excellent URL, by the way.

The creative process here went as follows: Shelbs shows me her On Repeat Spotify playlist -> I see The Band Camino on it and remember that I love that band -> I listen to nothing but them for two weeks -> I hear the song Know It All and am struck with inspiration -> I write this and inflict it on everyone else.

I jumped around a bit while writing, so please let me know if there's anything I screwed up! This is also the type of fic that has had 20+ tabs of Wikipedia pages, ESPN articles, and stats pages open on my computer for two months, but there was still information I couldn't find, so please be gentle with any inconsistencies.

Anyway, I truly hope that you enjoy this one! I apologize for being a day late posting, my job sucks.

Rating: M

Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk/fem!Reader

Words: 26, 028

Warnings: a lot of angst

Contains: best friend's brother, friends to ??? to strangers to lovers, situationship, idiots in love, everyone knows but them, Matthew being kind of a dick, guest appearances by the Weinberg-Hughes family and Jane Gaudreau

Summary: As Brady's best friend, it was your duty to love and support him. You're pretty sure falling in love with his brother does not count as "support", but here you are.

-----

You weren’t expecting this to be as hard as it is.

Luckily, you’d been given a little warning beforehand, but apparently a week wasn’t enough to prepare yourself. Was it kind of fucked up that the news had to come from Brady, because Matthew hadn’t bothered to tell you himself? Yeah, kind of. Sure, Brady and you have been best friends for years, but it’s not like you’re not close with Matthew, too.

You hadn’t realized what was going on at first, convincing yourself not to be upset when Matthew’s texts slowed and his calls stopped outright. It had been the beginning of the playoffs, you reasoned, of course he was going to be too busy to talk to you as much. Despite the fact that communication between the two of you had never waned because of the season before. It was his first year on a new team, you’d told yourself, a team with a great shot at the Cup, at that. You could deal with missing him a little more than usual if that’s what he needed.

When you’d called him to congratulate him on passing the first round, he’d thanked you and wrapped the call up as quickly as he could. Seeing the 3:24:41 call duration on your phone afterward had felt wrong. It was one of the shortest calls the two of you had ever had.

You’d brushed it off, chalked it up to him being tired or busy. Then they’d won the second round, and the process repeated itself. A quick phone call, a few scant minutes. It had sounded like other people were there that time, so you’d convinced yourself that he would call you back when he was alone. He never did.

You got to watch Game 4 of the third series, got to watch them sweep Carolina to win the Eastern Conference. Your friend Terri had laughed and clapped as you cheered, jumping up and down like a child. She was a Carolina fan herself, but was good enough of a loser to hug and congratulate you despite it. She’d offered to leave so that you could talk to Matthew, but you’d waved it off. You knew he’d be celebrating with the boys that night, so there was no real reason to try calling. You’d shot him a congratulations text and spent the night smiling so much your cheeks hurt.

When you’d tried to call Matthew the next day, his voice had been hushed when he answered. You’d given him your congratulations, bubbling over about how well they’d played. It’s not the first time you’d had a phone call exactly like that, him letting you gush about his team’s play and basking in the attention. This time, he interrupted you before you even got a chance to really get going. His voice was still quiet, almost a whisper as he said he had to go. The wind was immediately taken out of your sails and you’d barely had time to say goodbye before he hung up.

At that point, you’d given up convincing yourself that everything was okay. Something was very clearly wrong, and you’d spent the next nine days trying to figure out what it was. You’d reached out to Brady, and he’d told you that he hadn’t noticed anything weird from Matthew at all. Knowing that, you’d tried to downplay what was going on between the two of you, lest Brady go bother Matthew about it. You don’t do well with embarrassment, so you’d preferred that whatever was going on stayed away from any third parties.

The finals started, ending rather anticlimactically ten days later in a 4-1 loss for the Panthers. Knowing Matthew, he was going to go straight back to his hotel room and beat himself up. For the last three, almost four, years, you’d called Matthew after every big win or loss, and this was his biggest loss to date. Yet your finger hesitated at his contact name, hovered over the picture of him with bedhead and a lazy smile. With how things had been going, you knew he probably wouldn’t want to talk to you, even if you hadn’t figured out why yet. But part of you hoped that he would, that everything to that point had been stress, and there, at his lowest, he would talk to you again, and everything would go back to normal.

That, of course, is not what happened.

He hadn’t answered at all. And when you’d tried a second time an hour later, it rang once before going to voicemail. That meant that he’d declined your call, but you didn’t know what that meant.

Two more days passed without you hearing anything from him, so you’d called Brady. All of this had been concerning, but that had been too much. Miraculously, you’d managed to stay calm when you spoke with Brady, sounding impressively level-headed when you relayed what happened and asked him if he’d heard from Matthew. Brady had seemed shocked at the situation, immediately calling Matthew after he’d hung up with you.

Thirty minutes later, when you’d received a text from Brady, your heart had sunk to the pit of your stomach, and it’s stayed there ever since.

Because what the text had informed you of is that Matthew hadn’t lost or broken his phone, hadn’t been sick or depressed or, god, lost in the fucking desert or some shit. It told you that he’d been with his girlfriend, and hadn’t wanted her to see him call or text another girl. Because, apparently, Matthew has a girlfriend now. And just hadn’t deigned to tell you.

When Brady had told you that she would be spending the offseason in St. Louis with Matthew, you’d tried to hide your shock. You’d cleared your throat and told Brady how great that was, even as you wanted to throw up. They’d gotten into town a few days ago, and you’d done your best to keep your distance. But Brady asked you to come to dinner at his parents’ house tonight, citing the limited time you have to see him before he goes back to Ottawa, and you couldn’t refuse.

So now here you are, curled up in a chair in the Tkachuks’ den, across from said girlfriend. Her name is Tessa, she’s 26, and she does remote work for a marketing firm. That explains how she’s able to pick up and go to St. Louis for three months, at least. She’s already recounted the story of how they’d met, a romcom story of spilling his drink on her dress at a party and getting to know each other from there. She talks about the instant connection, the way they clicked so quickly that she knew they were meant for each other. That part of the story was when you’d excused yourself to get a glass of water, just so you could stick your head in the fridge and take a few deep breaths.

Matthew and Tessa are on one of the couches, the older, comfier one. Matthew is propped up against one of the armrests, Tessa curled into his side, his arm around her shoulders. You’ve spent the night pretending not to notice the way Matthew keeps glancing at you.

Brady and Emma are posted up on the other couch, one on either side, Emma’s feet in Brady’s lap as she lounges. Emma is great, and does a great job at keeping the conversation going, despite how little you and the boys are participating. Tessa either doesn’t notice your silence or doesn’t mind, chatting happily about some film she and Emma have both recently seen. You’re pretending not to notice the looks Brady’s giving you, either.

You should really be trying harder. You know Brady wasn’t expecting you to curl up under a blanket and mope when he invited you, and he really is right about time being limited. You should be engaging, enjoying the time you get with the boys while you have it. You would, if you could open your mouth without feeling like you’re going to scream.

Eventually, Chantal calls you all to dinner. It’s easier once you’re all gathered around the table, somehow, and you’re able to talk a little. Chantal has always put you at ease, has always made you feel like just another of her children. If you had it your way, Taryn would be here too. She has a way of lovingly bullying you that always makes you feel better. Unfortunately, she’s visiting some college friends out of state. But you’re doing okay, you think, at acting normal.

Then you lock eyes with Keith, and any sense of ease you’ve gained flies out the window. You wouldn’t be inclined to say that Keith is the most observant person in the world, so the way he’s looking at you– like he knows something is very, very wrong– makes it clear that you’re doing an absolutely dogshit job at hiding your feelings. You look away from him quickly, swallowing hard and forcing yourself to talk even more. 

Maybe if you can just act normal, if you can push down the emotions and act like everything is okay, it will be. There’s nothing else you can really do about the situation anyway. Matthew has made it clear that he’s not interested in talking about it, so you’ll have to suck it up and deal with it on your own.

Dinner goes by a little quicker once you’re actually actively involved in the conversation. Typically, you help Chantal with the dishes after meals, but when you reach for the sponge at the sink, she shoos you away. She sends the girls back to the den, insisting that it’s the boys’ turn to help.

You curl back up in your chair, mind wandering as you operate on autopilot. You’re saying things, contributing to the conversation with Emma and Tessa, but you have no idea what you’re actually saying. Mercifully, they either don’t notice or don’t care.

This entire situation is fucked. What’s really getting to you, though, is how you’d been introduced. You’d walked in, giving out hugs to everyone except Matthew and Tessa. She’d approached you, shaking your hand enthusiastically.

“Matthew said you’re Brady’s best friend, right?” she’d asked. It was simple, innocuous, and true. Brady and you have been best friends for years, and that would be an adequate title in any other scenario. But it felt like a punch to the gut, knowing that after everything, Matthew had told her that you were just his little brother’s best friend. You’d glanced at him as she said it, and the intentionally cool, unaffected expression Matthew had in place still couldn’t hide the guilt in his eyes.

In that moment, you knew that he hadn’t told her anything about you, about whatever the two of you have been to each other for the past few years, and that he never intends to. There was a second where he’d made a decision, a second that you weren’t present for, that had cut off everything you’ve been to him and relegated you back to Brady’s Best Friend.

You want to pull Tessa aside, spill out everything. You want her to know that you’re Matthew’s friend too, that you’ve been more than that. More than that, you want Matthew to do it. You want him to tell her, to acknowledge whatever the hell you’ve been doing for all this time. You want him to admit that you’re something, anything to him.

Instead, you keep it all to yourself. The knowledge of everything between you and Matthew will live and die where it is now, in the minds of the two of you, and nowhere else.

June, 2018

You’re wiping down the counters when the man enters. You force a bright smile at him, still annoyed from the previous customer but doing your best not to show it. He returns the smile, approaching the register. You move to settle across from him, greeting him politely. The shop has a lot of regulars, but you don’t recognize this guy.

“I’ll be honest,” he says, giving a single nervous laugh, “I’m not really a coffee guy. Do you have any recommendations?” It’s not an uncommon question, and there aren’t any other customers right now, so you don’t mind.

“Do you like the taste of coffee?” you ask. He shakes his head. That eliminates about half of the menu, so it’s progress.

“How much caffeine are you going for?” you ask next.

“As much as possible,” he replies. The dark circles under his eyes could have hinted you to that conclusion. He has a laptop and notebook in one hand, down by his side. It’s normal for people to bring work along with them, and he’s definitely young, so you guess it’s probably school work.

“You could always do a triple shot latte with a flavor,” you suggest, your own go-to drink, “The caramel is the strongest. I can put in an extra pump if you want.” Technically, you should charge extra for that, but the kid looks kind of pathetic, and you feel bad. He can have a pity pump this once.

“That sounds good,” he agrees. You do the math in your head and punch in the price manually on the vintage register. The whole cafe is supposed to have a vintage vibe, a real hipster magnet. Math was always your weakest subject, but having to calculate totals in your head has made you a lot better with it.

Once he pays on the very not-vintage card reader, you direct him to the far side of the bar. You start on his drink, pulling shots with practiced ease. You’ve been working  here since high school, so you’ve gotten pretty good at making coffee. He doesn’t try to talk to you while you work, which is nice. There’s something oddly calming about his presence, though, and it’s helping your annoyance fade.

You hand off his drink, and he retreats to a booth in the back corner after thanking you. You go back to wiping things down, bobbing your head along with the music playing quietly over the speakers. It’s later in the evening, so you only get a few customers over the next hour. It’s one thing you like about working the night shift. Not many customers, and most of the people getting coffee around this time are tired enough to not give you much trouble, and are usually extremely grateful for the caffeine.

It’s quiet for long enough that you pull your stool up to the counter, pulling your textbook and notes out from under the counter. You start working on the homework for your summer semester, singing quietly to yourself as you read.

“You have a nice voice,” the guy from earlier says, suddenly standing in front of you. You jump, hand flying to your chest as if you’re a damsel in a period piece. You’d forgotten he was here.

“Thank you,” you say, once the surprise fades. You laugh a little, shaking your head. He laughs too, apologizing for startling you.

“Could I have another?” he asks, holding up his now-empty cup.

“Of course,” you reply, “Same cup okay?” You do your best to be environmentally friendly, so you don’t want to use another cup if you don’t have to. He says that’s okay, so you take the cup and start pulling another shot.

“Y/N,” he says absently as he leans on the counter, “That’s a pretty name.” You thank him again, dumping the first shot into the cup. It’s odd, because people are usually flirting when they say something like that, but his tone isn’t suggestive at all.

“What’s your name?” you ask, feeling like you should say something. You start pulling the second shot.

“Brady,” he says, extending a hand toward you. You look between his hand and your own, feeling rude but needing both hands to pull the shot.

“Oh, um,” you stutter, “Sorry, I’m–” He seems to realize what’s going on and retracts his hand, using it to rub at the base of his skull.

“My bad,” he says, shaking his head at himself, “I’m tired, sorry.” You smile at him, much more genuine than the first time.

“What’s got you so tired anyway, Brady?” you ask, dumping the second shot and starting on the third. His face twists at what you’d thought was an innocuous question. He’s clearly debating something in his head, so you stay silent.

“I’ve got something big coming up in a couple weeks,” he explains, tapping his fingers against the counter, “I’m just trying to be prepared.” You nod, not minding how vague he’s being. You don’t actually need to know every detail of a random customer’s life. There’s a moment of quiet as you dump in the third shot and pour some milk into a metal container.

“And I might be a little nervous,” he says, looking at his hands instead of you. You smile again, beginning to steam the milk.

“Just a little,” you repeat, slightly teasing in a way you usually aren’t with customers.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, looking up at you, “Just a little.” You smile at each other for a second, both knowing he’s seriously downplaying his feelings. You wonder what it is that has him so anxious, sure that it must be something serious. He doesn’t seem to be the neurotic type.

“What are you working on?” he asks as you pour the milk, gesturing toward your books spread out next to the register. You shrug.

“Organic chemistry,” you reply, pumping in the flavoring, “The worst class ever.” He cringes at the mention of it, which you feel in your bones.

“I’ve heard it’s awful,” he says.

“It is,” you confirm. You snap the lid back onto the cup, sliding it over the counter to him. He cradles it between his hands, but doesn’t move to leave. He’s looking up at you from where he’s hunched over, and you can’t help but stare back.

“Do you want to come sit with me?” he asks, “We could be miserable together.” The smile that overtakes your face mirrors itself on his own.

August, 2018

When Brady walks in, right at his usual time, you give him a smile and lean over the counter to hug him. You’ve become fast friends, sitting together a few nights a week, probably talking more than studying. His Big Thing is long past, and he still hasn’t told you what it was, but you don’t really mind. You get to know about his family and his girlfriend and his upcoming move to Ottawa, of all places, but you don’t need to know everything if he doesn’t want to share.

You make two of the usual latte, one for each of you. You grab your books from the shelf, meeting him at the corner booth. You get through some small talk as you both set up, going back and forth with an ease that you were surprised to find has been there since the beginning.

“Matthew’s going to come hang out tonight,” he says as he logs into his computer. He’s spoken about his brother before, so you’re somewhat intrigued.

“Any particular reason?” you ask. To your knowledge, Matthew has never been to the shop, so you’re not sure if something special is going on to spur him into coming.

“He thinks it sounds cool,” Brady shrugs, flipping his notebook open. Maybe you’d know what he’s always working on if you could read his tiny chicken scratch. As it is, you don’t mind letting him have his secrets.

You get four pages into your chapter before another customer enters, laying your pen in the divot between the pages while you go make them their drink. Luckily, they don’t stick around. It’s not awful when other people are around, but you always feel like someone is going to complain about you sitting in the dining room and studying while you should be working. But if there’s no work to be done, you don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Unfortunately, not everyone agrees. So you prefer if it’s just you and Brady.

Another four pages drag by, reading interspersed with breaks to talk. Honestly, the breaks are also a way to keep yourself sane as you read unnecessarily complicated science.

When the next customer enters, you spring up from your chair, shooting them a smile as you make your way behind the counter. You give your standard greeting, asking what you can get them.

“What do you recommend?” the man asks. You were kind of hoping he’d have something in mind so that this interaction could go quickly, because he may be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen and it’s making you flustered.

“Do you like the taste of coffee?” you ask. He nods, looking you up and down with a critical eye. It feels personal, feels like he’s searching for something, and you’re not sure if you like it.

“How much caffeine are you looking for?” you ask next. You do your best to maintain eye contact, ignoring the way you have to look up to do so.

“How much you got?” he asks in return. The crooked smile he gives you makes your stomach flip. You grasp for a drink to suggest, all knowledge having fled your mind in order to focus on the curl of his hair over his forehead, the glint of his bright eyes.

“A Lazy Eye would probably be the most,” you say, clearing your throat, “But if you don’t want to have a heart attack, you could do a regular Red Eye.” He tilts his head, smile turning smug, as if he’s noticed your distraction. Something about it snaps you out of your daze, slightly indignant. You’ve seen plenty of hot guys in your day, and you’re not about to look like a fool in front of him just because he’s pretty.

“Red Eye, Black Eye, Dripped Eye, Lazy Eye,” you list off with as much confidence as you can muster, “Each with one more shot than the last. Pick your poison.” Your attitude change only makes him smile wider. Your hand is poised over the buttons of the register, ready to ring up whatever he decides.

“Let’s go with a Black Eye,” he says, bearing a surprisingly sharp canine, “I’ve had a few of those in my time.” That doesn’t surprise you, with his smug face and oozing self-confidence. Something about it feels so disingenuous that it makes your teeth itch. It’s clearly an act, but you can’t exactly call him on it.

You give him his total, he pays, you get to work. You empty the last dregs of coffee in the pot into the sink and set the machine to brew a new batch. No matter how annoying a customer seems, you’re not about to serve them shitty coffee.

“Y/N,” he says, leaning on the counter, “That’s a pretty name.” It’s exactly what Brady had said when you’d met him, which makes you eye the man a little suspiciously. Whereas Brady had clearly not been flirting when he’d said it, this man’s tone is ambiguous enough that you’re not entirely sure what his intentions are.

“Thank you,” you say, dumping the first shot of espresso into the cup. Normally, you would ask for his name in return, but you’re not sure if you want to encourage him talking to you.

“How long have you worked here?” he asks anyway.

“Almost three years,” you reply. You’re not sure you want to tell him anything about your life, but you’re trying to be polite.

“Experienced,” he says, smiling like he’s a lion closing in on its prey, “I like that.” It’s cheesy and kind of sleazy, and you can’t help but scoff in disbelief. He’s watching you like a hawk, studying your reactions to everything he says and does. You dump the second shot, wishing the coffee would brew faster so this interaction could be over.

“I don’t think I want to know what else you like,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. You used to get embarrassed and rattled by customers making comments like this, but at some point something had changed inside you. Now you just get annoyed, no matter how hot the person may be.

“Feisty,” he says, smile changing slightly in a way you can’t parse, “I like that too.” You roll your eyes, making a quiet noise of disgust. It’s not great for business to react to customers this way, but you can’t help it.

“I like it when men are silent,” you reply, able to feel how withering your gaze is. His expression changes yet again, smile getting smaller but more genuine, scrunching the bottom of his eyes up a little. That feels more natural to you, looks more right on his face. Something about the new softness in his eyes soothes something inside of you.

The coffee machine beeps to signal that it’s ready, and you waste no time in grabbing the pot and filling the cup. You hand it off to him, giving your biggest, most obviously fake smile.

“Have a fantastic night,” you say, immediately rounding the counter and heading back to the booth. When you settle back into your seat, Brady is smiling at you like you’ve told the funniest joke in the world.

“What?” you ask, picking up your pen. Brady’s eyes flick up above your head, slightly to the left, staying there, prompting you to turn around. The man is standing behind you, small smile still in place.

“Brady’s told me so much about you,” he says, and it dawns on you, “Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Matthew.” Your jaw falls open and you turn back to Brady, kicking him in the shin under the table. He yelps; Matthew laughs.

“You’re both the worst,” you spit, trying to hold onto your irritation and failing. You laugh alongside the brothers, begrudgingly amused by the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Sorry about that back there,” Matthew apologizes, seemingly genuine, “I couldn’t help myself.” You shake your head at him as he bullies Brady further into the booth so he can sit. Brady shoves him back, but moves his things over anyway.

“It’s okay,” you say, pointing at him, “But if you ever pull that shit again, I’m banning you from the shop.” That startles a laugh out of him.

“I didn’t know you had the power to do that,” he replies, using his crossed arms to lean on the table.

“I do now,” you say, tilting your chin up, “Gonna put a picture up of you with a big X on it and everything.” You stare at each other for a second, and he breaks first, ducking his head as he laughs.

“Fair enough,” he concedes, looking up at you through his lashes. Your heart skips a beat, but you do your best to seem unaffected. This is your friend’s brother, for Christ’s sake. You can’t be all aflutter over him. You’re not sure you have a choice in the matter.

June, 2023

You might actually kill your coworker one day. He’s such a smug rat bastard, and every meeting including both of you makes you think you’re going to grind your teeth into dust. It’s just lucky that the job is remote, so you don’t have to be around him physically. Probably best for both your sanity and his safety.

“I mean, at least you were right in the end?” Terri says, sounding uncertain through your headphones. You’re sauteeing some onions and peppers, moving them around more than you should be just for something to do with your hands.

“Yeah, I guess,” you sigh, “I just don’t understand why he wants to make me look bad.” Ian– the coworker– seems to always have some kind of comment on your work, some type of criticism. Constructive criticism is part of the game, but his is never constructive. It doesn’t help that you’re the only two in the graphics department, so he’s always there when you present work. And really, being the only two should mean that you work together and support each other, honestly.

“Because he’s an insecure man-child,” Terri replies easily. You shake your head down at the vegetables, startling as the oven timer goes off. You jab at the button to turn it off, opening the door to remove the chicken.

“I think I’ve had enough of insecure man-children,” you grumble. You cut open one of the chicken breasts with more force than is strictly necessary, grateful that it seems to be done.

“You finally wanna talk about that?” Terri asks, and honestly? No, you don’t. Ideally, you’ll never talk about it, just push it down into the darkest recesses of your mind and bury it there. Unfortunately, you possess some level of emotional maturity, which means you know that you have to talk about it eventually.

It’s hard, because despite Brady being your best friend, you can’t exactly talk to him about this. If he knew any part of what’s been going on, he’d probably go physically fight Matthew on your behalf. Part of you thinks that might actually make you feel a little better. But he’d also probably be mad that you’ve had a not-thing with his brother, and that would make you feel worse.

“She seems like a nice woman,” you say, trying to keep your tone neutral. Terri sighs, and you take your plate of food to the living room to eat.

“She’s not the problem, here,” she says. She’s right, and you know it. You really don’t have anything against Tessa, and obviously you can’t blame her for any of this. Clearly, she had no idea about your not-thing with Matthew, and genuinely fell for him. There’s no point in being mad at her.

“Yeah, well,” you push some food around your plate, “He’s a fuckface and she can have him.” The mention of Matthew has ruined your appetite, the meal now looking completely unappealing. You push the plate to the other side of the coffee table with a huff. You’ll try eating again later, you tell yourself, knowing that you haven’t been eating nearly enough lately. You can’t help it, your inner turmoil chasing away your hunger most of the time.

“He is a fuckface,” Terri agrees, adding, “But don’t pretend you don’t still want him.” Ugh. Friends are the worst, actually, and you should just become a hermit in a cave somewhere. There’s no point even trying to deny the claim, both of you knowing that she’s right.

“I’m not allowed to want him anymore,” you say, voice coming out weaker than you want to admit, “I never should have let myself want him in the first place.” In the beginning, despite being attracted to Matthew, it was easy to maintain distance. He was in Calgary most of the year, and reminding yourself that he was your new friend’s brother actually worked as a deterrent back then.

You can’t pinpoint exactly when you started letting yourself get caught up, but you’d ended up completely entangled with him. Now he’s put that distance back between you, ripping away the strings you’d been tied up in, leaving you with all these empty spaces where he used to be. And it’s making you hate yourself, knowing that if you’d just kept things cordial, restricted your attention and connection to Brady like you should have, you wouldn’t be feeling any of this right now.

“You can’t help who you love,” Terri says, so gently that it only hurts more. You’re not fragile, okay? You don’t need the softness, the careful handling. You’re not fragile. You’re not.

“I gotta go eat,” you say, not wanting to lie, but needing a way out of the conversation, “Bye, Ter.” She says your name, but you just repeat the goodbye. She sighs, says goodbye, and you hang up. What you should do is eat something and go to sleep. Instead, you eye the easel in the corner of the living room. You sigh, heaving yourself up off of the couch to go grab a glass of water to rinse your brushes with.

April, 2019

It’s probably going to become your new favorite day of the year: the day Brady comes home from Ottawa. His plane had landed yesterday, and his parents had even brought you to the airport with them to pick him up. As quickly as you’d bonded last summer, you’d only gotten closer through the season. It feels like you can talk to each other about anything, like you were meant to meet, like he’s the platonic version of a soulmate. You had patiently waited your turn to hug him after his parents, squeezing him as tightly as you could manage. He’d only squeezed back harder.

With their seasons ending right around the same time this year, Matthew had landed the same night. Knowing they’d have to go back to the airport, the Tkachuks had decided to just spend the day out instead of going home. They’d invited you to come with them, an invitation you’d eagerly accepted. They’re quickly starting to feel like family to you, and you love spending time with them. For the first time in your life, it feels like you fit somewhere.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t been able to come along to pick up Matthew. You’d had to work last night, so the Tkachuks had dropped you off at home to get changed and get going. You’d still gotten to spend most of the day with them, which would have to be enough.

You’re going over to their place today, and you decided to bake and bring along cookies. All of their local family and friends are going to be there to welcome the boys home, and you haven’t met most of them yet, so you want to make a good first impression. Besides, it’s just polite to bring something along to someone’s house.

Though Brady still tries to hug you when you arrive, despite your hands being full, the plates need to be deposited on the dining room table before he can get a real one. There are a few people chatting in the room, so Brady introduces you to them.

Most of the next hour goes much the same, Brady introducing you to family and friends, having small conversations with all of them. You know that Brady isn’t trying to embarrass you, but he has a habit of hyping you up to people. He’s more outgoing than you are, and he uses that social ease to brag about how smart you are, how talented. It feels a little like he’s trying to justify being your friend to them, but you know better than to think that Brady cares what anyone thinks of him and his choices.

The kitchen exits onto a large cherry wood deck, scattered with chairs, some of them already occupied. The back yard is sprawling, green grass lined with lush bushes. There’s a pool to the right, not opened for the summer yet, a jacuzzi positioned between it and the house. You’re still not really used to all of this, the casual wealth of the family. It’s so far from what you’d grown up with, something that had astonished you when you’d realized just how far above you the Tkachuks are.

There are a few yard games set up in the grass, cornhole and ladders and something you don’t recognize. And there, in the center of the yard, Matthew is teaching a child how to play ladders. The kid is probably a cousin, of which they have many. Matthew is barefoot, wearing a bright red Flames hoodie and black shorts that only come to mid-thigh. You’ve narrowed your staring down to a minimum, so your eyes only linger for a second or two before you turn back to Brady.

He guides you around to meet the few people braving the chilly spring weather, much as he had done inside. Everyone is so nice, saying how pleased they are to meet you, and seeming to mean it.

Your last stop is Matthew, who interrupts his lesson to hug you. It’s only the second time the two of you have done so, the first having been the last time you saw him before he left for the season. Despite that fact, he squeezes you almost as hard as Brady had, as if you’re his best friend too. Not that you’d presume to be Brady’s best friend, but. Still.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” he says when you pull apart, and the expression on his face tells you how genuine it is. Your smile is almost involuntary, turning up the corners of your mouth and baring just a hint of teeth.

“Welcome home, Matthew,” you reply, “We missed you.” You’re not sure what “we” you’re referring to, but it feels less incriminating than saying “I missed you”. You get the feeling that he understands anyway, beaming at you.

The three of you chat for a few minutes, Matthew introducing you to his little cousin. With there being four of you, you decide to play a game of ladders, to test the little one’s skills. He’s pretty good, for a kid, and you and Brady make sure to throw well enough to convince him that you’re trying, but still let him win. Throughout, Matthew gives him tips and instruction, so kind and gentle that it makes your heart ache. They cheer when they win, high fiving and teasing you and Brady.

You go inside to spend some time with Keith and Chantal. Chantal gives you a big hug, as if she hadn’t just seen you yesterday. Keith gives you a hearty clap on the shoulder. Taryn appears at some point, sneaking up behind you and poking your sides to make you jump. You laugh along with her, enfolding her into the conversation easily.

Time flies by, the sun setting around you, the house lights turning on one by one as darkness descends. Eventually, you end up lounging in the den with the other adult kids. From your visits last year, the chair in the corner has become yours. You’re settled in, legs folded up under you as something that no one is watching plays on the TV. Brady and Taryn get into a heated debate about something or another, and Matthew gives you a long-suffering look as his younger siblings bicker. You just smile back at him, finding the family’s passion entirely endearing.

“Seventeen years of this,” Matthew gripes, clearly not as annoyed as he’s trying to seem.

“And sixty more to go,” you reply. Matthew chuckles at that, looking to Brady and Taryn with such fondness that you almost can’t stand it. It’s the kind of relationship you’d wanted with your own brothers, but that’s best not to think about.

“Hopefully,” Matthew says, turning that fond look toward you. Your heart skips a beat, and you’ve gotten good at ignoring that.

May, 2019

You shouldn’t be this nervous, but you are. Terri is on speaker phone, telling you about her new job. You’re half-listening, staring at the clothing laid out on your bed. You’ve been agonizing all morning about what you’re going to wear, how you’re going to do your makeup, if you should wear makeup at all.

“I’m glad that your boss defended you,” you say to Terri, still tuned in enough to follow her story, “She seems cool.”

“She’s so cool,” Terri gushes, “She’s my favorite now.” You’re so happy that Terri has finally found a good job, especially with how hellish her previous one had been. This one pays almost double what she was getting before, too, which definitely doesn’t hurt. She expounds a little more about the things she loves about her boss, and you decide to hang back up the dresses you’ve laid out. It’s still a little too chilly to wear them, especially after sundown.

“You’re still staring at those damn clothes, aren’t you?” Terri asks, switching the topic suddenly. Your face gets warm as you make a plaintive hand gesture, despite her not being able to see you.

“Clothes are stupid and I can’t decide,” you complain, trying to imagine how each of the final two options will come across. If you try too hard, Matthew might think that you think this is a date, but you still want to look good. You know it’s not a date, but you’re still kind of acting like it is, and it’s embarrassing.

“Definitely wear jeans,” Terri advises, “That’ll make it more casual.” You agree, putting away the skirt you’d paired with the one shirt, trying to picture how it would look with jeans. You move the pants between each shirt, before giving up and just putting them on. You’ll just try on both outfits and see which one you like better.

Once dressed in the first option, you take a picture to send to Terri. You look at yourself in the mirror, turning this way and that. After a minute or two of consideration, you switch tops. You take another picture and send both to Terri for her opinion.

“Oh, definitely the second one,” she says, “The first one makes you look like you’re going to a job interview.” You look at the picture again, and can’t deny that she’s right. You put that one away, settled in your decision. You’re not sure if Matthew has ever seen you in anything but jeans and a t-shirt, so you hope the red tank top layered with a tucked-in sheer pink printed blouse isn’t too much of a change.

When Matthew had invited you to take a walk around the park yesterday, just the two of you. You’ve never spent more than a few minutes alone with him, always having Brady or Taryn or Emma to provide distraction and distance. This time you’ll have nothing to focus on but him.

The time comes soon enough, and you gather your things, not wanting to make Matthew wait for you when he arrives. You’d offered to drive yourself and meet him there, but he’d waved off the idea immediately, saying that he’d pick you up.

A knock comes at your door right on time. You take a deep breath before you open it, settling your frenzied heart. Matthew smiles as soon as he sees you.

“Oh wow,” he says, almost absentmindedly, “You look great.” Your blush is immediate, and you hope he can’t see it. It seems that anything that comes out of his mouth makes you blush, sometimes.

The drive to the park isn’t too long. When you arrive, you gather your bag from the floor of the passenger seat, and by time you move to get a hand on the door handle, Matthew is already opening the door from the outside. It’s a sweet surprise, and you thank him as you climb out of the car.

It’s a nice day, not too cold or windy for once. The two of you walk, talking about this and that, moving from topic to topic as they arise. You point out a few birds as you go, and Matthew listens to the little fun facts you give about them. He seems genuinely interested, but even if he’s not, at least he’s polite enough to pretend.

“I guess we should have left a little earlier,” Matthew remarks as the sun goes down, the light fading around you. The sun sets quickly this time of year, so you’re still a few minutes out from the car by time it’s completely dark. The lights along the pathway bathe Matthew in yellow light, casting warm shadows in the dips and hollows of his face.

“At least I have a big, strong man to protect me,” you joke, elbowing him.

“Oh no, if we get jumped I’m running,” he replies, shooting a shit-eating grin down at you. You gasp and press a hand to your heart, as if you’re truly scandalized.

“You would really abandon me like that?” you ask. His smile softens at the edges.

“Never,” he says, looking so genuine that it makes your heart flutter, pausing before he adds, “Unless we’re getting robbed.” Your combined laughter rings out through the trees.

June, 2023

You’ve managed to avoid any questions about your odd behavior, and it’s getting easier to act normal over time. A couple weeks have passed since your first meeting with Tessa, and you still feel like ripping your skin off when you see her touching Matthew, but you’ve gotten better at hiding it. It’s not your place to be upset, anyway.

The diner is bustling at this time of day, the tail end of lunch rush. You had to wait a little bit to get seated, but now you’re sitting at the end of a booth in a chair they’d pulled up to the edge to make up for all five of you not fitting into the booth. It makes you feel a little left out, the only one not paired off, a fifth wheel to the two couples on either side of the table. You block that out, a skill you’ve had for years, but have had to strengthen rapidly over the past few weeks.

Brady has an arm around Emma’s shoulders, and you can tell by the angle of Matthew’s arm that he has a hand on Tessa’s thigh. You remember when that was you, Matthew touching you so casually, so naturally. Sitting across from Matthew as he nudges your foot under the table, sitting next to him with your shoulders pressed together, fingers tangled together on the seat, where no one could see.

Emma is telling a story about a night out with some of her girlfriends, and you’re laughing along at the antics with everyone else. When she asks you about work, you try to clear the perpetual lump in your throat before answering, succeeding in sounding happy, though the tightness remains.

When your food arrives, you spend most of the time pushing it around your plate to make it look like you’re eating. You never have an appetite around Matthew anymore, weirdly embarrassed about being seen eating in a way you haven’t been since you were a teenager. You’ll take it home and eat it later, if you can stop thinking about Matthew for two fucking seconds.

You’re not sure how long that’s going to be impossible, but you hope it’s not much longer.

January, 2020

You’ve been to a few games when the boys have played the Blues, but you’ve never made the trip up to Canada to see them play each other before. Ottawa is nice, Brady and Emma having shown you around a little when you’d arrived. Your nerves had been shot from the anxiety of traveling abroad for the first time, even though it was just to Canada. The couple seemed to understand, only taking you around for a few hours before bringing you home.

Brady’s apartment is nice, really nice. He’s offered you the guest room for a few days, and you appreciate not having to pay for a hotel. He’ll be home for six days before he has to go to St. Louis for the All Star game, so you’d arranged to stay in Ottawa and fly back home with them.

Luckily, the cafe is pretty cool about rearranging your schedule, so you’ll just have to work some extra days when you go back to make up for what you’re missing. You’d asked for the days of the skills competition and game off as well, Brady having managed to get you a ticket. Your manager has always thought it was cool that you were friends with the Tkachuks, so she had agreed to give you the time off if you brought her a souvenir. Matthew and Brady had offered to sign a jersey for her without you even having to ask, and you’ll owe them for a while, though they insist you don’t.

Matthew gets in that first night, the three of you meeting him at his hotel. You’re not sure how he managed it, but he’ll be staying a few days instead of returning to Calgary with the team after the game. Maybe he got a special exception because this game is the last before All Star week, and he has to go to St. Louis anyway. No matter the reason, you’re glad he gets to stay.

The game the next night is exciting, and definitely worth the trip. With the Senators’ performance in recent years, it’s mostly the diehard fans left, so the atmosphere is electric. You get swept up in the passion and joy, especially when the game ends with a 5-2 win for Ottawa.

The boys have to debrief and get changed, which you know will take a while. Emma and you wait with the WAGs, Emma excited to introduce you to them. Some of them think you’re a new WAG at first, which is honestly kind of flattering. All of the ladies are surprisingly kind and welcoming, and you enjoy interacting with them as you all wait.

Matthew emerges first, guided down the hallway by one of the arena staff. His steps pick up pace when he sees you and Emma, and he shoots a quick thanks to the staff member before jogging over to the two of you. He immediately enfolds you in his arms, squeezing tight and holding longer than usual. You know it’s difficult for him to lose at all, let alone to his brother, so you let him hold you as long as he wants.

Once he lets you go, he meets your eyes. His smile is soft, tinged with a slight sadness that you want to wipe away.

“Hey there, sweet girl,” he greets, and your breath catches at the term of endearment. He’d started using it a few months ago, and it still makes your chest tight. You know that it doesn’t mean anything, but you still imagine sometimes that it does.

He turns his attention to Emma, giving her a hug as well, just one quick squeeze before releasing. The three of you start talking, waiting patiently for Brady. It doesn’t shock you that he takes so long to come out, knowing his unofficial position of leadership in the team. The guys come out one by one, hugging and kissing their wives and girlfriends, the number of ladies dwindling as they leave with their men.

When Brady finally emerges, he heads straight over to give Emma a hug and kiss. He hugs you next, before punching Matthew’s shoulder. They have a little back-and-forth as you all exit the arena, taking harmless jabs at each other all the way to the car.

The main issue with the living arrangements for the trip had been that Brady and Emma were going to have two guests and only one spare room. Matthew had offered to sleep on the couch, but he’s too tall for that, and you don’t want him to end up sore or hurting his neck during the season. You’d insisted that you’d sleep on the couch, but both Matthew and Brady had immediately vetoed that idea. Then you’d found out that the guest room has two twin beds instead of one bigger one, and the answer was simple.

Matthew sets his suitcase and backpack next to the door when you get home. You’ve already claimed the bed on the far side, so he gets set up on the one closer to the door. Emma and Brady are in the kitchen, making a post-game snack for everyone, so it’s just you and Matthew.

“You excited to be roomies for a week?” he asks, unzipping his suitcase. Yours is already open under the window, so you grab some pajamas out of it.

“Depends how loud you snore,” you tease. He shoots you a toothy smile.

“Oh, it’s gonna be loud,” he says. You chuckle a bit, knowing he’s joking. Emma calls for you, then, and you leave your clothes on the bed to go to her. The four of you converse as you eat, seated in a row at the kitchen island. You’ve got Matthew to one side and Brady to the other, and they take turns kicking your ankles. You kick back, grinning at Emma when she kicks Brady’s other side.

Brady and Matthew had already showered at the rink, so they sit in the living room while you and Emma get ready for bed. She uses the master suite, and you use the bathroom in the hall. It’s nice, if small, with a simple stall shower instead of a tub. You go through your routine on autopilot, only realizing when you’re done that you’d left your clothes in the bedroom. You wrap yourself in a towel, doing your best to sneak past the door to the living room.

When you look to make sure your stealth is working, you meet Matthew’s eyes. It stops you in your tracks. You can’t discern the look on his face, and you’re not sure that you care to. He shoots you an easy smile, and you wave at him like an idiot, acting on instinct. It only makes him smile wider, and you scurry off to the room.

After you’re dressed, there’s a knock on the door. Brady asks if you’re decent, and you confirm that you are, so he peeks his head in. Once he sees that you truly are dressed, he opens the door the rest of the way. He and Emma bid you good night, telling you to just ask if you need anything. You thank them and say good night in return, Matthew entering the room as soon as the other two retreat to their own room. He’s barely two steps into the room before he’s pulling off his shirt.

“Woah there, cowboy,” you say, holding up a hand in front of you. He just shrugs at you.

“Gotta get ready for bed,” he says, bending over and lifting his foot to remove his socks. You’d figured that he would wear a t-shirt and shorts to bed like you, but you should’ve guessed he’d be the type to sleep shirtless, no matter who’s around. He’s naked in front of thirty people every day, who cares about being shirtless?

You do your best to brush it off, turning down the covers of your bed so that you can crawl in. Normally, you would read for a bit before bed, but you’re tired enough tonight that you don’t think you need to. You pull the blankets up to your chin, turning on your side. Unfortunately, you sleep on your right, so you end up facing Matthew’s bed. Is that weird? Should you try sleeping the opposite direction?

Matthew doesn’t say anything, flicking the lights off and crawling into bed. He sleeps on his left, apparently, so he’s facing you too. That’s a little awkward, right? As your eyes adjust to the dark, you’re able to see the glint of his teeth as he smiles over at you.

“Sleep well, sweet girl,” he says quietly. You return the sentiment, grateful that the darkness means he probably can’t fully see the embarrassment on your face. You’re backlit by the window, so you convince yourself that he can’t.

The next morning, you wake to Matthew already out of bed, stretching. Your eyes roam his back, taking in the dips and ridges of his muscles. Only at the last second do you realize that his head is turned to the side, and he’s staring at you through the corner of his eye. You quickly avert your gaze, turning to sit bolt upright on the other side of the bed, facing the window.

The four of you spend the day exploring the city, Brady and Emma seeming to have planned what they want to show you. It’s nice, peaceful and fun. You make them take pictures with you in front of landmarks or cool art pieces, all of you squished together to fit in the selfie.

It isn’t until the fourth night that anything out of the ordinary happens. You’re lying in bed, having turned on your back to stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep. You probably shouldn’t have had that affogato after dinner, though usually they don’t bother you this much. No matter how long you toss and turn, how many sleeping positions you try, you can’t even make yourself tired, let alone actually fall asleep.

“What are you, a rotisserie chicken?” Matthew asks rhetorically, breaking the silence. His voice is hushed, but it still startles you. You turn your head to stare at him, finding him staring right back.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, sheepish, “I can’t sleep.” Matthew’s lips quirk up at one end.

“Me either,” he says, sitting up. You mimic his posture, then scoot back to lean against the headboard. He slings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands, and you think for a second that he’s going to turn on the light. Instead, he takes the two steps to your bed, motioning to the mattress. You nod, prompting him to start shoving your shoulder, bullying you into making space for him. You giggle, trying to keep quiet to respect the late hour.

“So,” he leads, taking a long moment to just stare at you before continuing, “Tell me something I don’t know about you.” You’re taken off guard by the request, not sure how to respond.

“I was an Aaron Carter girl growing up,” you pull out of thin air. Matthew’s face breaks into a wide smile, sunshine in the middle of the night.

“Really?” he asks. You nod, mumbling “yeah” in confirmation. That’s all it takes to get you both talking. You trade off back and forth, telling each other small things about yourself that may not come up otherwise, launching into short discussions about some of the statements.

“My favorite color is red,” he says at one point, when you’re starting to think you may fall asleep.

“I thought it was blue?” you reply, remembering Chantal mention that at some point. Matthew starts fiddling with his hands.

“I tell people it’s blue, but it’s really red,” he says. You tilt your head an inch or two, furrowing your brow at him.

“Why?” you ask. He ducks his head.

“Red is an angry color,” he explains, voice quieter than before, “With my reputation, I don’t want people to associate me with an aggressive color. I don’t want to play into the stereotype.” You hum, looking forward. It feels like this isn’t the best time to look at him, like he’ll clam up if you witness his vulnerability.

“It’s also the color of vitality, excitement, love,” you counter, leaving just a breath of a pause, “It’s a good color for you.” The entire room is still for a dragging moment, before Matthew gently knocks your shoulders together.

“What about you?” he asks when you look back to him. There’s a fraction of a change in his face, but you don’t comment on it.

When you wake up in the morning, you’re still sitting up, head resting on Matthew’s shoulder, his head laying on top of yours. You suppress the instinct to startle, not wanting to disrupt him, lest he wake up and move. His skin is warm under your cheek, your arms lined up from shoulder to the knuckles of your fingers. You close your eyes again, trying to keep your breathing steady, as if you’re still sleeping. You’ve been trying so hard to keep distance between Matthew and yourself, but you’ll allow yourself to enjoy this, just for a moment longer.

There’s a shift in Matthew’s breathing, his fingers twitching against yours. It settles after a second, into a different pattern, intentionally deep and even. You’re sure that he’s awake, that he’s doing the same thing that you are. You’re not sure what to do with that information.

The rest of the trip goes by smoothly, Brady and Emma showing you both the touristy things and the better local spots around the city. If the same thing happens the next night, and the night after that, you and Matthew talking in low voices until you fall asleep against each other, neither of you mention it.

April, 2020

While the initial prediction for lockdown was that it would only last a month, it’s clear that it’s going to last much, much longer.

It’s probably lucky that you’d just started a new job, one that can be done remotely, rather than either working at the coffee shop or being laid off. It’s not exactly what you want to do, but it’s at least in the artistic field, so you try to be grateful anyway. It’s difficult being locked away in your apartment, but you’re grateful that you’re luckier than essential workers and people who are losing their jobs altogether.

The thing that keeps you sane in all of this is your phone. More specifically, it’s your friends. You’ve developed almost a schedule with it, calling Terri in the morning for an hour or so before work. At lunch, you facetime Brady and Emma for another hour, not envying them being stuck so far from home. It must be hard to be in an entirely different country than your family.

The highlight of each day is the evening, when you facetime Matthew. Though he spends most of the day sending you videos and memes and updates about whatever little thing he’s doing at the moment, it’s still nice to talk to him out loud. Seeing his face helps your growing loneliness a little bit.

You’re in your living room, your phone propped up against the arm of the couch as you show off the few things you’ve made since picking up crochet a couple weeks ago. Matthew compliments each of them, commending you for your improvement. He’s the only one you’ve shown, too embarrassed to let anyone else see the wonky scarves with uneven stitches.

“You have time to work on any paintings lately?” he asks, once you’re done your little show and tell. The truth is that you’ve got three new canvases drying in the kitchen. The truth is also that the man asking about them is the inspiration for their creation. There’s nothing incriminating about them; it’s not like they’re portraits of him or something. But you’re still hesitant to show him, because even if he doesn’t know, you do.

You show him anyway. The painting of the park is his favorite, and you wonder if he knows that it’s the one you went to for your first time alone together. It’s mostly dark, greens and blues so deep they look black, yellow triangles of light splitting the canvas into section. If you look closely enough, the brush strokes fill in the details of the trees, the grass, the pavement. Your phone camera isn’t good enough for Matthew to see that, but he compliments it anyway.

“You should paint me something for my apartment,” he says after you show him all three. You’re not opposed to the idea, actually enjoy the thought of something you made being showcased in his home.

“What do you want?” you ask, a hundred ideas already flitting through your mind. The only way you’ve seen his apartment is through the background of pictures he sends you sometimes, or little glimpses you catch as he walks around while you facetime. You’re not entirely sure of the vibe, but you’re sure you can figure something out.

“What makes you think of me?” he asks in return. You stop in your tracks in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. The hand holding your phone lowers a couple inches unintentionally, your gaze drifting above the screen, staring into the middle distance. What makes you think of him? Hockey, obviously. Family. Curling up under a blanket on a cold night. Laying on the couch with your feet up on the armrest, your head propped up on a pillow, a sad replacement for his lap. Spruce trees, gold, pitbulls, mushroom pizza, black eyes– both the drink and the wound.

Everything. Everything makes you think of him.

You can’t say that, obviously. You search your brain for something personal but innocuous, something sentimental but still acceptable. You think of all the time that you two have spent together over the past few years, memories springing up, some that you’d even forgotten about. Some that you’ll never be able to forget about.

“Can I surprise you?” you ask. You’re given that familiar smile in response, any iteration of which makes your heart stutter in your chest.

“Yeah,” he says, propping his face up with one hand on his jaw, “I trust you.”

July, 2023

Some people may say that Terri’s apartment is cluttered, but you just find it cozy. She has decorations and knick-knacks on every surface, but the comfiest couch you’ve ever sat on. That’s where you are now, stretched out with your back against the side, Terri mimicking your posture at the other end, your legs tangled together in the middle.

“We should see the Barbie movie when it comes out,” she says, unprompted. You look up from the hook and yarn in your hands, tipping your head to the side for a second and shrugging.

“It looks good,” you say, an indirect agreement. You haven’t been to the movies since before lockdown, so it might be nice to go back.

“D’you think Gabe would want to come?” she asks cautiously, “He could bring the kids.” The mention of your brother still makes ice crawl in your chest, but it’s not as bad as it once was. He’d reached out last year, trying to reconnect with you, and apparently your other brother too. You’ve only seen him a few times since, but it’s more than you’d seen him in the four years prior, combined.

“It’s worth a shot, right?” Terri asks, eyes flicking toward your phone sitting on the coffee table. You look toward it as well, debating for a second. It would be nice to see your nieces and nephews, but it also hurts that they barely know who you are.

“Yeah,” you agree after a second, “Worth a shot.” You grab your phone, feeling as if it’s going to explode in your hands if you move too quickly. There are a few notifications when you wake the screen, which you ignore to unlock it. You open your texts, backing out of your thread with Terri from earlier. You have a picture message from Brady, just a selfie of him and Emma smiling, which you send a heart in response to. Backing out of that thread, you see another new message, underneath the contact name you haven’t had the heart to change. The red and purple hearts next to his name– each of your favorite colors– having been there so long that getting rid of them feels wrong, no matter how it makes your chest hurt to see them.

Can we talk?

You tap the back button as quickly as you can. You can’t respond. You should, to be polite, but you can’t. If you do, you’ll say something you regret. It’ll probably be agreement or the words “eat shit”, and either option will get you into trouble. You can’t respond. You want so badly to talk to him. You want so desperately to go back in time and never meet him.

Your fingers tremble as you draft a text to your brother, typing and deleting and re-typing a few times before you settle on the wording. You have more important things to worry about than Matthew.

August, 2020

The bubble was an interesting idea. It may not be the best idea in the world, despite the safety precautions, but you know Matthew is just happy to be back on the ice. He’s already sent you a dozen pictures of the hotel, of him with his teammates and friends, masked up together in the lobby. You tell him to tell the boys that you say hello, and he texts you each of their responses.

The first round goes well, the Flames only losing one game to the Jets. You know Matthew had been worried about going through all the rules and protocols just to be eliminated immediately, so you’re glad that that isn’t the case.

The series against the Stars starts out with an exciting back-and-forth, the teams trading off wins. Then the Stars win game 5, breaking the pattern. You’re not expecting the last game to actually be the last, convinced that the Flames would at least make it to a game seven. But the Stars pull a decisive 7-3 win, the Flames falling apart in the second period and unable to get themselves back together.

Matthew has called you as soon as he got back to his hotel room after every game, so you’re expecting your phone to ring some time in the next hour or two. You putter around the apartment a little, putting away some dishes and wiping down the kitchen counters. You’d been painting during the game, a commission from a friend of a friend of a friend. You return to that, losing yourself in the meticulous movements of your brush.

It feels like it’s been too long. You try to focus on the canvas in front of you, but there’s a nagging sense in the back of your mind that something is wrong. It sits heavy at the base of your skull as you try to ignore it.

Eventually, it becomes too much. You check your phone to make sure that you haven’t missed his call, but there are no notifications. It’s been a little over two hours. You unlock your phone and pull up his contact in a second, pressing the video icon. Typically, he’ll pick up after one or two rings, but you hear the third ring, the fourth. The call disconnects, shock shooting up your spine. It only lasts a second, your phone ringing with a voice call almost immediately.

“Hey sweet girl,” Matthew greets you in his typical fashion as soon as you accept the call. There’s something off about his voice, and it takes you a second to realize what it is.

“Hey there, darling,” you respond, voice as gentle as you can manage. It’s not the first time you’ve heard Matthew cry, but it breaks your heart every time. As much as he tries to seem tough and aloof, you know how deeply losses like this affect him. Now it makes sense that he didn’t want video involved.

“How are you?” he asks, clearly moving his face away from the receiver as he sniffles, but you can still hear it. You move to the couch, sinking into the cushions, as if you’re as crushed as he is.

“I’m okay,” you reply, “You holding up okay?” You know he’ll say that he’s fine, but you also know that he’s not. He may not be for a while. There’s a pause, a long stretch of silence, only interrupted by his deep, labored breaths.

“I wish you were here,” he says. He sounds absolutely miserable, his voice cracking in the middle of the sentence. The urge to hold him is overwhelming, your arms buzzing with the desire to wrap around him. You want to pull him down into your lap, let him tuck his head into the crook of your neck, let him cry on you as you scratch his scalp and kiss his head. Lockdown isn’t the only reason that can’t happen.

“I’m going to hug you so hard,” you insist, “As soon as I can see you again.”

July, 2023

While you’re still a third wheel with Brady and Emma, it’s better than being a fifth wheel with the entire group. You’d asked Taryn if she wanted to tag along, but she has training to do. Brady had already done his that morning, so he’s free for the rest of the day, and had invited you to spend some time together.

You’re certain that he doesn’t know how you feel about this place, how much it hurts to be here. As far as he’s aware, this is your favorite park, the one you visit with Matthew at least a few times a month every summer. He probably thinks it’s a great choice, something to cheer you up from the slump you know he’s noticed.

Despite the memories tugging at you from every direction, you’re mostly in a good mood. You’d gotten excellent news the day before yesterday, an opportunity you’ve dreamed of for a long time. You wanted to text Brady right after the meeting to tell him, but you’d decided it was better to share it with him and Emma in person. You’re debating something that absolutely doesn’t matter, all of you talking over each other. You’re waiting for the right moment to change the conversation. It doesn’t come until almost an hour into your walk, but you jump on it as soon as it does.

“I have some cool news,” you say, breaking the silent pause that had fallen over the group.

“Well?” Emma replies, “Go on.” The excitement is bubbling up inside of you again at the thought of it, your stomach turning, your chest too full.

“You know that gallery downtown that I love?” you ask, continuing after they agree, “I’m going to do a show there.” They stop in their tracks, Emma immediately enfolding you in her arms. You hug her back, squeezing tight as she bounces on her toes. When she pulls back, she holds your face in her hands, voice high and thrilled as she congratulates you. The smile on your face is unavoidable, happiness from the news mingling with the happiness of your friends being proud of you.

“Cool news, huh?” Brady asks, lightly smacking your shoulder as he says, “What an understatement.” The circle of his arms feels safe, his chest warm against your cheek as he holds you tight. The look on his face when he releases you is the best reaction you’ve gotten so far, his pride meaning more than anyone else’s.

“When is it?” he asks, taking Emma’s hand in his own once again and resuming the walk. You follow along, too excited to be self-conscious of the visible skip in your step.

“August 20th,” you say. There’s an unspoken question there, a silent invitation. You don’t want him to feel pressured to come, knowing that despite how supportive he is of your artistic endeavors, he’s not big on things like art shows. In the end, you don’t have to ask.

“You know we’re coming, right?” he asks, aiming a crooked smile at you, “You can’t stop us.” Though the smile hasn’t left your face since you brought up the topic, it gets brighter in return.

“I’d never dream of trying to,” you reply, and you mean it.

October, 2020

It’s odd to have the boys around at this time of year, the season usually taking them away at the end of August. You’re grateful for it, though. It means that you get to spend time with them, lockdown finally over, freeing you from the confines of your apartment. Your job has stayed remote, so you’re able to be around even more, saving time on what used to be an hour long commute each way.

Right now, it’s you and the boys, Emma, and Terri. You’d introduced her to them less than a month ago, but they already love her, just as you knew they would. She doesn’t always come around with you, considering how you spend nearly every day at the Tkachuks’, but she has some time today.

After twenty minutes of debating what you should watch, you all agree on a true crime documentary. You’ve given up your chair for Terri, squishing yourself onto the couch with Brady and Emma, pressing your cold feet against her leg and laughing when she yelps. She kicks you, only serving to make you laugh harder. Brady playfully threatens to fight you to defend his woman’s honor, and you put your fists up in front of you, jabbing out into the air as if you’re going to take him up on the offer. He chuckles, reaching out to fist bump you instead of punch. You drop your hands, looking past his big ass head.

Matthew is lounging in the second chair, the leg rest of the recliner up despite his legs being crossed under him. It’s the only way the chair will lean back, he’d told you once, and he doesn’t like sitting upright.

The smile on his face isn’t the wide grin you’d expected. It’s small, a gentle turn of the lips. Combined with the look he’s giving you– something unfocused, something unbearably soft– it implies an emotion that you know can’t be the correct interpretation. You swallow hard, turning your eyes back to Brady.

“Press play already, nerd,” you demand, tone playful enough to show that you don’t mean it. He sticks his tongue out at you, but does as he’s told.

Five minutes in, you glance over at Matthew, finding him already looking at you. You look away, slightly embarrassed to be caught. Another five minutes later, you can’t help but peek back at him again, as if your eyes are magnetized to him. It’s almost disappointing that he’s actually looking at the screen. It only takes a second for his eyes to move to the side, peering at you in his peripheral. The corner of his lips quirks up the tiniest bit, almost unnoticeable. But you notice.

You only make it maybe half an hour into the film before Matthew leans forward and snatches the remote from its place next to Brady. The plaintive sound Brady lets out is kind of funny, but you seem to think everything is funny today. Matthew pauses the show, declaring that the group needs snacks.

“Y/N, come give me a hand,” he says, beckoning you to follow him. You grumble a bit, but stand and follow him up the stairs and out of the den. He leads the way through the living room and into the kitchen. They’re fancy, so they have a walk-in pantry, of course. The two of you enter one after another. You start looking at the snack section, deciding what to grab. The good thing about being the one to retrieve the food is that you get to choose whatever you want and there’s nothing the others can say about it.

You’re rifling through the chips and pretzels when you feel a presence close behind you. It’s obviously Matthew, but he’s so close that you can feel the heat of his body radiating into your back. His left hand comes into your field of vision, pressing to the shelves next to your head. You twist your neck to look back at him, confused as to what he’s doing.

You’re not expecting the look he’s giving you. His eyes dark, completely focused in on your face. Your eyes flick from his eyes to his mouth without your permission. He’s not smiling, his lips parted just a fraction of an inch.

He rests his right hand on your shoulder, using it to turn your entire body around to face him. You can feel how dumbfounded your expression is as you stare up at him, your brow furrowed, your mouth slightly agape. He returns the gesture of looking at your mouth, his tongue quickly flicking out to wet his lips. He looks like he’s about to eat you alive. You would let him.

There’s a long, unbearable stretch of silence as the two of you just stare at each other, faces only a scant few inches apart. If this were anyone else, you would know exactly what’s going on, exactly what they want. But this is Matthew, your insanely wonderful, insanely hot, insanely out of your league friend. There’s no chance that he’s about to do what it feels like he is. No matter how many times you steal glances at each other, how closely he holds you, how many times he allows himself to be vulnerable with you, there’s no chance he’d ever want you. And just as you tell yourself that, he speaks.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his breath brushing across your lips from the proximity. Your eyes go wide, your mouth falling open wider in shock. You’ve spent the last two years valiantly suppressing any type of attraction you have to him, trying to respect his station as your best friend’s brother. And now, in just four words, he’s let it all loose. It floods you inside, so overwhelming, so much to take all at once that it triggers a full system reset. You swear your heart stops, your mouth opening and closing as you struggle to tear the words from your lagging brain.

The words won’t come. The look on Matthew’s face is changing, something embarrassed, something guilty. He moves back an inch and you reach out, unwilling to let him go. You cup his face in your hands, pulling him in to press your lips together.

It’s lingering, almost chaste, and entirely sensational. Your lips are tingling, sparks shooting down your spine. Your chest feels cracked open, your innards exposed for his inspection, your true self exposed for his judgment.

When you pull back and open your eyes, his are still closed. He looks like he’s in heaven, like he’s trying to imprint this moment in his mind the same way that you are. After a moment, his eyelids slide up and he looks at you again. His eyes are hazy, unfocused, his blown pupils leaving only a thin ring of blue around the edge of his iris.

“Again,” he says, breathless, “Please.”

Who are you to deny him?

The second kiss is as good as the first, your breath abandoning your body to pant out against his lips. You meet again, his tongue flicking out for half a second to touch your top lip. It makes you breath hitch, makes you kiss him again, makes you gently bite his full bottom lip. The sound he lets out is barely audible, but it only feeds the fire inside of you, an inferno that blazes up from your hips to your throat. You cradle his face in your hands, hold just strong enough to move his head how you want, to slot your mouths together perfectly each time.

“Hurry up, asshole!”

Brady’s shout violently snaps you out of your haze. You jerk backward, trying to step away, but already pressed against the shelves. Matthew doesn’t seem as put off as you, smiling as if nothing happened. You relinquish your hold on his face, dropping your hands to your sides. His hands had wandered as you kissed, one on your waist, the other on the back of your neck. He squeezes once at the base of your skull, dipping in to give you one last quick kiss.

After frantically grabbing random snacks, you return to the den. You can feel how hot your face is, and you can only hope that it’s not too obvious how flustered you are. You and Matthew deposit the snacks on the coffee table, everyone immediately selecting one. You curl back up in your chair, legs pulled up to your chest as you lay sideways, head on the armrest.

Every time your eyes drift to Matthew for the rest of the evening, he’s looking back.

January, 2021

Just as the day the boys come home is the best day of the year, the day they leave for the season is the worst. Sometimes you wish you were Emma, that you could follow them back and forth and never be without them. But St. Louis is your home, is where you have a job and friends and more recently, family.

You’d helped both boys pack for the past few days, but you won’t be able to go along to drop them off at the airport. When Matthew had left for the playoffs, Emma had offered you her spot in the car. You’d told her that she didn’t have to, but she’d assured you she wanted it that way. She has to go along this time, so the car is already overpacked. Besides, you have to work that morning anyway.

You still show up at the Tkachuks’ beforehand, so early that the sun hasn’t made an appearance yet. Matthew had forgotten to pack his favorite sweater, of course. You fish it out from where it had fallen under his bed, straightening up to hold it out to him. He thanks you, deciding to wear it for the flight instead of shoving it into one of his bags. It looks good on him. Cozy.

Brady and Emma are double checking their room as well, one door down from you. Keith, Chantal, and Taryn are down in the living room, waiting as patiently as they’re capable of, which isn’t very much.

Being alone with Matthew used to be exciting, used to make your heart change its rhythm, used to start up a buzz under your skin. Now, it’s just… comfortable. Safe. Right.

When Matthew approaches you, crowding up into your space, you know exactly what he wants. The first time you’d kissed should have been the last. You’re too drawn to him, feel too much toward him, more than you should. More than he will ever return. The two of you haven’t discussed exactly what you’re doing here, but it’s clearly meant to be casual. Matthew isn’t typically the kind to shy away from voicing what he wants, and he hasn’t spoken up to define anything.

Is that what you want? You’re not sure. Making out like teenagers for months has been nice, has satisfied a part of you. But only a part.

You’re avoiding thinking about what you want, too afraid of what you’ll find. Some part of you, buried deep inside, hidden behind a recently built wall, already knows. If you allow yourself to acknowledge it, this will end badly. If you allow yourself to want, you’ll destroy yourself in the process.

The kisses he lays on your lips stay sweet, gentle presses, just a tease of tongue here and there. His arms are wrapped around you, resting on your shoulders, while your hands rest on his hips. You haven’t progressed past kissing, and you’re not sure if he wants anything beyond this. You’ll take what you can get.

Keith calls up the stairs for you to hurry up, lest the boys miss their flights. Matthew leaves one last peck on your lips, just as he always does before you part. You glance around his room a final time, making sure everything is packed. You help him bring his bags downstairs, help him and Emma get their things outside and into the car. You’ll have to go home as soon as they depart, and you’re actually a little grateful that you have work to distract you from the first hours of missing them.

As per usual, Emma is the first to hug you. You squeeze tight so that you can lift her off of her feet for a second, just to make her laugh. Brady grabs you next, as if both of them know that Matthew wants to be last. Brady wiggles you side to side, planting a kiss on the top of your head. You headbutt his shoulder, then kiss the same spot you’d hit. He says how much he’ll miss you, something he always reiterates for a few days before he leaves. You return the sentiment honestly, earnestly. When he pulls back, you punch his chest lightly, and he returns the gesture.

Matthew steps up and opens his arms, and you step into them easily. He doesn’t squeeze too hard, just holds you close, hand cupping the back of your neck, calming your anxiety and dulling the sharp edge of your pain.

“Gonna miss you so much, sweet girl,” he whispers into your hair, just loud enough for you to hear. You try to swallow the lump that has suddenly formed in your throat.

“Miss you already,” you reply, a little uneven, a little raw, “Can’t wait to see you again.” He places a kiss on your head as Brady had, but his lips linger, hesitant to let go. But he does let go.

They all wave as they drive off, Brady, Emma, Matthew, and Taryn all crammed into the back seat. You wave back, watching the car go, staring down the street even after the car turns and disappears.

Time to work, you suppose.

July, 2023

Art has never frustrated you so much in your life.

When you were young, the struggle and annoyance came from trying to get things just right, though they were above your skill level. As a teenager, it was due to the struggle of developing your own unique style. In college, it was not having the energy to paint most days, falling asleep at the easel others.

For the past month, the art has been flowing. You’ve been painting most every day, the ideas coming easily, creating almost a compulsion that you can’t resist. It’s only satisfied when the painting is complete. There are a couple dozen or so canvases scattered around your apartment to dry, the most you’ve ever produced in a single month. But the frustration– the frustration comes from the fact that all of your ideas are about him. All of your paintings are moments with him, things he’d said, how you’d felt, how you’d hoped he felt.

There’s a feeling inside of you, as if you’re right on the edge of catharsis, as if you paint just one more thing, you’ll be able to let it all go. That’s your motivation for everything you’ve been making, just desperately searching for the release that will save you from the pain. At this point, you’re not sure it will ever come.

You’re working on a bigger canvas, the biggest you’ve used in years. You’re glad your current job allowed you to move into a bigger apartment, because you surely wouldn’t have been able to fit something like this in your old shoebox, packed so full of your things that you’d barely had space for an 11x14. You have to stand to reach the upper portion, swiping a brighter red over the dark red base. You don’t want it to be about him. It is anyway.

The show at the gallery is rapidly approaching, only a month away. You’ve been working with the curator to decide which pieces to use, filing through years of work. So far, everything that she’s found compelling has been about him. Things you’ve made recently, things you made years ago when things were still good. One day, you’ll get over this. But not today. Today still just hurts.

June, 2021

With neither of the boys making the playoffs, they’d come home earlier than usual this year. Sadly, Brady is pretty used to it by now, usually coming home around this time anyway. You’re used to getting a few weeks with Brady and Emma before Matthew comes home, but you don’t have that this year.

While Brady sulks for about two days when he gets home, Matthew is far more upset. The Flames had made the playoffs for the last couple years, and he was getting used to being a contender. So not even getting a chance at it this year clearly stung. He moped around for a week or two, face tight and arms crossed over his chest most of the time. The only time he let his arms down, let his guard down, is when the two of you were alone.

You’d comforted him through the couple weeks of upset, even staying the night a few times. It wasn’t intentional, you’d just stayed so late that you fell asleep, and Matthew didn’t have the heart to wake you. You have to get up early to get home for work, so you’d snuck your way out of the house before anyone else had woken. You’re not sure how Keith and Chantal would have felt about you staying the night in Matthew’s bed, but you know what they would have thought was going on, and you didn’t want to put yourself or Matthew in that position.

Once he’d relaxed, taken a deep breath and accepted defeat, he went back to being his regular happy, seemingly aloof self. You’re grateful for it, not a fan of seeing him upset and always wanting to help him through and cheer him up.

June had come kindly, bringing along more sun and nicer weather. You and Matthew had resumed your walks in the park, and the whole group of you spend about as much time outside as you do in the den. Things with Matthew had picked up where they left off in January, him pulling you into a secluded area any time he could get you alone, kissing you senseless. You’d missed the feeling of his lips, of his body pressed to yours.

Tonight is one of the more rare nights where Matthew comes to your apartment, instead of you going to his parents’ house. You’ve offered to make dinner and follow it up with movies. You’re already on the couch, your dirty dishes abandoned on the coffee table. You’re laying on your side, Matthew spooned up against your back, your knees hanging off of the couch with the way they’re bent to accommodate Matthew’s too-long legs. You’re warm and comfortable, enjoying the feeling of safety that he brings, something you’ve very rarely felt in your life before.

The movie is good, but you’ve found that being in Matthew’s arms makes you sleepy, so you’re having a hard time focusing. You manage to mostly follow it, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn when the credits start to roll.

You feel Matthew place a kiss on the back of your neck without comment. Then he’s moving you, rearranging your bodies carefully until you’re on your back, Matthew staring down at you from his position straddling your thigh. The way he’s looking at you is intense, somehow simultaneously fond and hungry. It wakes you up almost instantly, and you reach out to rest your hands on his thighs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly, reverently. It’s not the first time he’s said it, but it feels different now. Maybe it’s the position you’re in, maybe the way he’s looking down at you as if he wants you, as if he–

He takes your hands in his own, bending down as he brings them up to cradle his cheeks. You run your thumbs across his high cheekbones, tilt his head up a little by the jaw as his eyes slide shut. You press your fingers into the soft spot behind his jaw, under his ears, pull him down, down, down.

Kissing him feels as easy as breathing. Guiding his head this way and that to get a better angle, pressing your lips together over and over, longer each time, deeper. Matthew has one hand on the arm of the couch to hold himself up, the other wrapped loosely around your wrist. He’s not trying to move you or take control, just holding on as if he needs something to ground him. You press your thumbs into the hollows of his cheeks, feeling the solid wall of his teeth under the skin. His mouth drops open and he lets out a soft sound. You press your thumbs in harder, between the new gap between his upper and lower teeth, testing how far you can push from the outside.

He squeezes your wrist once and you release the pressure. His mouth stays open, lips wet and shining. He opens his eyes halfway, as if his eyelids are too heavy to get all the way up, eyes hazy and unfocused.

Again, he squeezes your wrist. He’s suddenly standing, using his grip to guide you up as well. He immediately crowds up against you, as if being more than an inch away will kill him. His eyes have managed to refocus, but there’s still a dreamy look in them.

He takes a step backward, using the hand that had instinctively gone to the back of your neck to bring you with him. He kisses you, lingering. He takes another step back, gives you another kiss. He rounds the end of the couch and you realize where he’s leading you, kind of impressed that he can find his way to the bedroom without even looking.

Of course, your heart is a frantic mouse scurrying around your chest, thumping hard like you’re a prey animal facing down a predator. But as much as it freaks out in the cage of your chest, there’s no panic in your head. Being with Matthew calms your mind, keeps your hands from trembling, feels so right that you can’t find a reason for the anxiety that used to plague you around him.

He stops you halfway between the door and the bed, pulling back a couple inches to stare down at you. You’re hesitant to put a name to the look on his face, not sure if reverent is being dramatic.

You flatten your palms against the front of his shoulders, shoving him gently, bullying him toward the bed. He allows it for a moment, but stops after a few steps. He takes your hands in his own, brings them to his mouth to kiss your knuckles. You try to swallow down the desire that grows inside of you, threatening to spill out. He holds your hands close to his face, enough that you can feel his lips move when he speaks.

“You don’t have to be in control, sweet girl,” he says, lays another kiss on the bump of your right middle finger, looks deep into your eyes with such adoration you feel ready to split at the seams.

“Let me take care of you,” he says. The part of you that’s spent your entire life with a fist clenched desperately around any sense of control that it could find, for the first time, relinquishes its hold. And Matthew does, indeed, take care of you.

February, 2022

It’s your first time in Vegas, and the atmosphere is electric. There are hockey fans everywhere, plenty of people wearing jerseys as they explore the strip. Everything is so big, so bright, so fancy. As exciting as it is to be here, it makes you feel a little off, a little like you don’t belong. It reminds you of the first time you’d been to the Tkachuks’ house, amazed at how different everything is from the way you grew up.

Each player was supposed to be allotted two tickets, but they had allowed Brady to take additional tickets for his family, considering Matthew is his brother, in addition to how well-known and beloved Keith is. He’d managed to get Emma included as well, luckily.

You weren’t sure how he did it, but Brady had gotten another player to give one of his tickets so that you could come. Apparently the guy’s family couldn’t make the trip, and he only had one friend that he really wanted to bring. He won’t tell you who it was, but the way that Timo Meier winks at you as he passes the stands gives you an idea. You weren’t aware that the two talked, but there’s always the possibility that he had just gone around and asked everyone. The idea makes something bloom in your chest, as if you could love Brady more than you already do. You’ll have to find a way to thank Timo some time.

The skills competitions are fun, though Brady doesn’t win anything. It’s nice to see the players relaxing and having fun, a well-deserved break from the stress of the season.

You all go out to an early meal before the games the next day. You don’t realize until you arrive that Jack Hughes and his family were joining you, and you trip over your own feet when you see them waiting for you. You’re a huge fan of Jack’s, but more than that, Ellen Weinberg-Hughes is an icon. You stumble with your words when you greet her, shaking her hand and screaming silently in your head. With how the boys are looking at you as you do so, they obviously anticipated your reaction and are incredibly satisfied with themselves.

For the meal, you’re sat between Matthew and Jack. You’re grateful that Matthew is next to you, needing his calming presence as you meet some of your favorite players. The families are friendly with each other, the parents catching up on the news of each others’ lives, the children doing the same in separate conversations.

You spend most of the dinner talking to Jack, Quinn, and Matthew. They tell you all sorts of things, including embarrassing stories about Matthew that you weren’t privy to. You grin at Matthew every time they share one, absolutely intending to tease him about it later. This seems to be what the Hughes boys want, eager to give you more ammunition. Matthew buries his face in his hands at one particularly humiliating story, even as he shakes gently with quiet laughter. When he emerges and sits back up, you take a chance, placing your hand on his thigh. You squeeze once, trying to reassure him. He does his best to not react, but he also rests his hand on top of yours under the table.

“So you’re a painter, right?” Quinn asks at one point, curiosity evident in his perpetually sleepy eyes.

“Yeah,” you confirm, asking “How did you know?” You’d told them about your official job, but you hadn’t mentioned being a traditional artist in addition to a graphic designer. Jack turns a smug smile on you.

“Matthew talks about you a lot,” he says, pleased with himself. You look to Matthew just in time to see his face flush.

“Shut up,” he says to Jack, which only makes him smile wider. Jack’s attitude rubs off on you a little, and you give Matthew a delighted smile.

“How much is a lot?” you ask Jack, feeling Matthew dig his fingertips into your knuckles.

“Like, a lot,” Jack replies, Quinn nodding from his other side. You look back to Matthew, who looks like he wants to crawl under the table and hide.

“I talk about him a lot, too,” you say. That makes Matthew look at you again, bright eyes nearly sparkling in the restaurant’s dim lighting. His expression shifts, a small, grateful smile scrunching his eyes up the slightest bit.

After dinner, you all make your way to the arena. Brady and Jack left a while before the rest of you, needing to arrive in time to get dressed and likely do some more media. Before he’d left, Jack had requested your phone, creating a contact for himself and inputting his number. As he dud, you turned your face away, toward Matthew, opening your mouth wide as if you’re screaming. He looked amused at it, but there’s a sharp edge there. Quinn took the phone next, doing the same thing. You squeezed Matthew’s thigh again, and his expression softened. You’ve been following the Hughes brothers since they were in Juniors, and having them like you enough to want to keep in touch– you can only describe the feeling as elation.

The lines are out the door at the arena, and a few people catch the boys to request photos before you can get to the special entrance for players’ guests. They’re all very kind and courteous about it, taking a few pictures with people, finding a way to move through the crowd even as they do so. You probably should have come a different way, or maybe gotten there earlier, but as long as the boys don’t mind, you don’t either.

The seats are good, the second row of the first balcony. It seems to be the section that they put all of the family and friends, people milling around and chatting with each other. You spot Johnny’s parents a couple rows away, the only people around that you’ve met before. You wave to them and they return the gesture. They make their way down to your seats, greeting each of you in turn. They start chatting with Keith and Chantal, so you continue talking to Taryn and Emma.

The games are great, surprisingly fast. The Atlantic division plays a great game again Central, despite losing by 3. You still can’t help being proud of Brady. You’ve been next to him since his first season, and you’ve loved getting to watch him grow and improve. As long as he’s in the world, you’re going to be proud of him.

The final is awesome too, and you jump up to cheer when Jack scores in the first. When the Metropolitan wins, you high-five Taryn, glad that Jack could win when Brady couldn’t. Not a bad consolation prize.

The group hangs around for a while after, and you get to meet a bunch of new people. Everyone is so nice, making you feel welcome, feel like you belong. When you finally start up the stairs to leave, Johnny’s mom Jane stops you for a second. She pinches your jersey and gives you a sly smile.

“Just a family friend?” she asks, not a question but a suggestion. A few years back, Matthew had given you one of his jerseys to wear to a game, and you’ve worn it tonight, despite him not playing. You realize now how it could be interpreted, ducking your head for a second to smile at the floor, before looking back up to Jane.

“Just a family friend,” you say, firm and definitive. She holds your gaze for a moment, looks behind her at Matthew, who’s waiting patiently a few steps up. He’s looking at you, that soft look he gives you sometimes. After a second, he smiles brightly at Jane. She waves and turns back to you.

“We’ll see,” she says. She pats your shoulder twice before making her own way up the stairs with Guy. Once you process the statement, you shake your head and make your way up to Matthew.

“What was that?” he asks as you enter the corridor. There’s no way you can tell him the truth, and honestly, you’re not sure what the fuck that was either. You just shrug at him, continuing your way out of the arena.

The comment sticks with you, no matter how you try to brush it off. Johnny is Matthew’s best friend, and you’ve met Jane a few times before. If it had been a stranger, you would’ve dismissed it outright. But to hear it from someone who actually knows the two of you? That’s harder to let go.

July, 2023

Laurel, the curator for the gallery hosting your show, is a lovely woman. She’s also very, very good at her job. You’ve been to countless shows at this gallery, and they’re always perfectly compiled, excellently arranged. You’ve brought her your most recent paintings today, which makes you glad that you have a car, because hauling them through the city would be a nightmare.

The only problem you have with Laurel is that she seems to see straight through you. You’re not used to someone looking past the professional figure you present, let alone someone seeing every part of you that you put into your art.

She’s staring at your offerings, examining every last detail. She’s already chosen about half of the pieces that will be displayed, creating a theme with your relatively impressionist style. She moves one canvas to the side, away from the others. She takes an extra few minutes to consider one of them, the largest one. It just finished drying yesterday. Having to see it every day as you passed it in the living room has been torture.

“Everything except that one,” she says, gesturing to the one she’d set aside. If she wants all of these, that’s likely going to be everything for the show. With everything else she’s chosen, this is all they have the wall space for, considering the way that you’ve seen Laurel arrange the art in previous shows you’d attended.

“That one is the centerpiece,” she adds, hand against her cheek as she continues staring at the large canvas. You swallow hard. Of course. Of course every painting she likes is about him. Of course the centerpiece will be him. No matter what you do, you’ll never escape him.

She asks a bit about your inspiration and motivation for the piece, and you give her vague answers that sound more philosophical than the real thing. The two of you discuss some of the minutiae of the show, trying to get everything finalized ahead of time. There’s less than a month left, and your excitement is starting to pair itself with dread.

When you get home, you go straight to your bedroom and throw yourself face first onto your mattress. You bury your face in a pillow, finally letting out the scream that’s been stuck in your throat since you learned of Tessa’s existence. It helps.

You make and have dinner, barely aware of what you’re eating. At least you can eat without getting nauseous now. You don’t feel like watching TV, probably wouldn’t be able to pay attention to a real show right now. Instead, you sit on your bed, leaning back against the headboard. You scroll social media mindlessly for a while, the ghost of Matthew next to you, his invisible arm pressed against yours.

February, 2022

Despite your better judgment, the first time you and Matthew had slept together wasn’t the last, either. It had continued through last summer, then again when he’d come to play the Blues. Now you’re in Calgary, in Matthew’s apartment for the first time, in his bed again.

A lot of people idolize the first time they sleep with someone, comparing every subsequent time to the first and often coming out disappointed. You had no reason to do so, because the sex only got better over time. As you and Matthew learned each other’s bodies, figured out what got the best reactions, the sex kept improving. Even if you wanted to fall back on your morals and resist him out of respect for Brady, you know you couldn’t stay away for long. It’s irresistible.

And it’s not just the sex. It’s the way he holds you after, lays on his back so that you can rest your head on his chest. It’s the way his breath ruffles your hair as you fall asleep together. It’s the things he says to you.

It’s the nights like this.

You’re in Matthew’s bedroom, the dark dead of night offering only the moon to light the room. Your head is on Matthew’s chest, his arm around you to keep you close, as if you would ever willingly leave. Your breathing had returned to normal a while ago, your body cooling off and beginning to recover from the rush of feeling. Matthew kisses the top of your head every so often, and you return the sentiment by tilting your head to lay kisses against his sternum.

“I wish I could keep you here forever,” he says, so hushed that you almost miss it. He’s always so quiet when he talks like this, as if he’s afraid to say it. He says these kinds of things anyway, but never above a whisper, not willing to share the vulnerability with anyone but you. Again, you press your lips into his skin.

“I wish I could stay here forever,” you reply. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? To stay here, with him. No need to be quiet so as not to wake his family, no having to sneak out in the morning, no work to keep you away. Just laying here, together.

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he says. There’s desire in his voice, of course, but also earnesty, like he really means it. Part of you would like to believe that he does, but another part knows how important it is to not get caught up in the fantasy. It’s easier said than done.

“Not any of the other girls you’ve had?” you ask. You’d meant for it to come out teasing, but your honest curiosity wins out. Then there’s a hand on your chin, fingers gently guiding your head up until you’re looking Matthew in the eye. It’s not exactly comfortable to crane your neck like this, so you prop yourself up on one forearm, resting the other hand where your head had been as you stare down at him.

“Never,” he replies, insistent. He looks so serious, sounds so sincere. You don’t say anything, can’t think of anything. There’s something in the wide roundness of his eyes that speaks to you, pulls you in, encourages you to search deeper. It takes a second to figure out what it is that’s hiding in there, but… it’s fear.

“I never want this with anyone else,” he says, tangling his fingers with yours over his racing heart. There’s a question you want to ask, something you’ve been wanting to ask for a while, but the fear in him has mirrored itself within you. You should just shut up, keep it to yourself. The words come out before you can convince yourself to stay quiet.

“What is this?” you ask. You’re not sure what answer you’re expecting, but you know which one you’re hoping for. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and for the first time, you don’t divert your gaze to admire the sheen of them, unable to look away from his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says, pauses, presses your entwined hands harder to his chest, “But I never want to give it up.”

May, 2022

Again, Matthew is the second to come home. Brady returned almost a month before in April, the Senators not in the playoffs, as usual. You feel bad sometimes, because Brady is genuinely a great player, but his team has just struggled to gel together. Even through all of their trials, Brady insists on keeping hope. He loves his teammates, and that’s what really matters to him.

Matthew, on the other hand, isn’t so great at dealing with failure. The Flames make it to the second round, which is an achievement all on its own. But after winning Game 1, they’d lost four in a row and been knocked out. It feels to Matthew almost like they got swept, he explains over the phone after the final loss.

When he gets home, he once again spends a week sulking. You mimic what you’d done last year, though staying the night is intentional this time. So long as you sneak out before anyone wakes up, you’ll be fine.

On the eighth day, you tell Matthew for the hundredth time how proud of him you are. He shoots you a bittersweet smile and says that he’s proud of himself too, and you know he’s bouncing back. It doesn’t help that he’s been debating for months whether to re-sign with the Flames, an agonizing choice for him. He loves his boys, but he’s not sure he belongs there anymore. You’ve assured him that you’ll support him no matter what decision he makes. Johnny hits free agency next month, and if he moves, you’re not sure that Matthew will have the motivation to stay.

The next couple of weeks go by the same way that they always do, with you spending as much time with the Tkachuks as possible. At least, you think you’re doing a good job of acting like everything is the same as years past. No one knows about you and Matthew, and it seems like he wants to keep it that way. You like having this little secret life with him, getting to have him all to yourself. You’re okay with the way it is, you convince yourself.

June came quickly, having begun only four days after he’d returned. The weather improves, you and Matthew once again resume your walks in the park. You play yard games and watch trash TV with Brady and Emma. You help Chantal cook dinners, help Keith clean up afterward. Everything is back to the summer standard.

The day had been nice, sunny and warm. The light had turned the leaves of the trees golden during your walk this afternoon. The sun is long gone now. Nighttime has become your favorite part of the day, the only time you get to indulge in whatever it is that you and Matthew have. The only time you get to touch his skin, to hear the low sounds he can’t help but make, to feel his warmth against you, inside you.

It’s been some time since you’d finished, but you can’t quite fall asleep. Matthew is spooned up against your back, face buried in the nape of your neck. You’re not sure if he’s asleep or not, too distracted to bother trying to figure it out. You’ve been thinking about it since your visit to Calgary. Any time Matthew called, or texted, or even crossed your mind, you thought of it. It made your heart leap into your throat, your breath catching as you choked on it.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing together, what you are. He didn’t give the response you’d been hoping for, but he didn’t outright deny it either. Sometimes you think it would have been better if he had, if he’d said that it was just sex. Then you could start working on moving on. You wouldn’t have to lie awake at night, wondering.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his groggy voice making you startle and snapping you out of your head. You take a deep breath, debating yourself for a couple seconds before you decide.

“Nothing,” you reply, patting his forearm where it’s snaked around your waist, “Go back to sleep.” He takes a quick, deep breath, the air rushing out over your skin. You’re helpless to resist when he starts moving you. If you did put up a fight, push back against his hands, you know he would stop. But you’re tired.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again once you’re flipped to face him. He looks tired too, the exhaustion of the season still lingering. The moonlight paints his face in silver. It makes his skin shine, almost glowing in the darkness.

“I’m afraid,” you say. You wish he hadn’t turned you around. It would be easier to speak it into the wall than it is to say to his face. You say it anyway, watching his brow furrow, admiring the way the silver light adds contrast to the wrinkles the expression creates.

“Of what?” he asks. You could make something up. Telling him that you’re afraid of monsters under the bed would be less embarrassing. You’ve never been very good at lying to him.

“The day you move on,” you whisper, invisible pressure on your throat making the words come out tight and unsteady. The surprise on his face surprises you in return. He’d refused to put words or labels to whatever this is, of course you would think that he’s going to leave eventually. You’d have to be an idiot to think that he means it when he says forever.

“I won’t,” he says, resolute. You can only manage a half-smile for him.

“You’re not the first man to say that,” you reply. He reaches up and cradles your cheek in his wide palm, warmth seeping into your skin.

“But I’m the first one to mean it,” he says. You close your eyes. They begin to prickle at the corners, but you refuse to cry about any of this. He’s so adamant, so steadfast in his insistence. You try to remind yourself of what this isn’t, what it will never be, but you’ve never trusted someone the way you trust him, and you can’t help believing him anyway.

August, 2023

You hadn’t anticipated this happening, let alone how hard it would be, but finally, finally it’s a little bit easier.

You’re not over Matthew, not by a long shot. It’s going to take months, years. It may never happen, who knows? As long as you can cope with it, can keep your friends around, that’s all that matters.

The first half of the day was spent with both boys and their girls. You didn’t have to curl up so tightly on your chair, didn’t have to force words out so they didn’t think anything was wrong. Conversation was relatively easy, topics changing and flowing naturally. You’d smiled, laughed, and a couple of times you actually meant it.

Matthew had apparently planned a date for Tessa and himself, so they excuse themselves in the late afternoon. Brady, Emma, and you stick around the den for a bit, continuing to talk. Eventually, Emma stands, stretching dramatically.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she suggests. You’ve spent too much time lately sitting at an easel or curled up in bed, and a walk sounds like a great idea.

You expect it this time when Brady takes the three of you to the same park. It’s easier when you’re not blindsided by it, and you have the lovely memory of the last time you were here with the two to focus on, instead of Matthew. You walk for a while, music playing softly from Emma’s phone, tucked in her back pocket. Once you’re deep into the wooded area of the park, she stops dead in her tracks. You follow suit, spinning around to shoot her an inquisitive look. She takes the two steps forward to close the space between you two, grabbing you by the shoulders and walking you backward. You stumble, trying to look behind yourself to keep from falling. She pushes until the backs of your knees hit a bench on the side of the pathway and you fall onto it. You gape up at her, befuddled by the behavior and the way her arms are crossed over her chest.

“What’s going on,” she demands, not a question. You furrow your brow, at a loss for words. You know what she’s talking about, and you know that she knows that you know. But why would she wait until the day that it starts to fade, the day that you can finally think of something else, to ask you about it?

“C’mon, Y/N,” Brady says, plopping down on the bench next to you, “We know something’s wrong.” You had accepted the possibility of this back in June, but you weren’t expecting it to take almost three months for it to happen.

Your first instinct is that you absolutely can’t tell them. You’ve been keeping this secret for years, and if Matthew has his way, you’ll keep it forever. If Matthew gets his way, you repeat in your head. That’s it, isn’t it? All this time, you’ve been so focused on what Matthew wants that you ignored your own wanting. What do you want?

You want to tell someone, to finally have this horrid pain out in the open instead of keeping it caged up around your heart. You want your best friend and his wife to hug you. You want them to understand.

“Matthew,” the name tumbles out, and you don’t want to stop it. Brady and Emma are still looking at you, waiting for anything you want to tell them. God, Brady is your goddamn best friend and you’d convinced yourself that you couldn’t tell him something? That there was anything on this earth that he would shun you for?

It all comes spilling out in a rush. Everything from the first time you’d met him. Hell, some information that isn’t strictly necessary, but they don’t interrupt you or complain, so you venture on. It takes long enough to recount that Emma sits on the metal armrest of the bench. Brady’s holding one of your hands in his lap, Emma taking the other to do the same.

You’d promised yourself more than once that you wouldn’t cry about this, but you don’t really care enough to stop yourself now. The tears come two-thirds of the way through, falling silently as you recount some of the things Matthew had told you, the things he’d promised you. You’re not outright sobbing, so you manage to power through the rest of the story. Your eyes are squeezed tightly shut by the end, like closing them will block out the memories.

It takes a couple of minutes for the tears to stop. The three of you let the silence hang as you wait for it, nothing but the leaves rustling in the trees, something scurrying in the bushes. When you can safely open your eyes to face the world again, you look over to Brady. He looks devastated.

You watch his evolving emotions morph the expression on his face, from heartbreak to anger and back again. The anger makes your heart skip a beat, suddenly afraid that maybe the whole “I slept with your brother” thing will be a problem after all.

“Do you want me to kick his ass?” he asks, startling a laugh out of you. You know he’s dead serious, too. Part of you thinks it might be cathartic to see Matthew get beat up by his little brother, but your soft heart doesn’t want anything bad to happen to him. After everything he’s done to you, you still don’t want him to have to feel even a fraction of the pain you do.

February, 2023

This year, the boys don’t have to bribe anyone else to get you to the All Star Game. Each of them is allotted two tickets as per usual, but Taryn is too busy with school to come. She’d aimed a satisfied smirk at Matthew through the camera of her phone, saying guess you’ll have to take that one along as her eyes darted slightly to the left, clearly looking at where you were on the screen.

Since your work is remote, you’ve brought along your laptop. You spend the morning of the skills competition working, still averse to using your PTO if it’s not completely necessary. The boys have to do media, so there’s no one around to bother or distract you. You kind of wish there were.

The special skills competitions are as fun this year as they were last. You especially love Sidney Crosby in the dunk tank, seemingly having the time of his life. You may not know him personally, only having met him once in passing, but after everything he’s been through, you think he deserves some carefree fun.

The sun has set by time you emerge from the arena after the regular skills competitions. The days are shorter at this time of year, even in Florida. It is warmer than St. Louis, though, which you’re grateful for.

Jack is in the competition again this year, so you meet up with the Weinberg-Hugheses again that night. You’ve gotten much closer with Jack and Quinn over the past year, building relationships on texts and calls and dinners when they play the Blues. Luke has tagged along this time, and you get on with him just as well as his brothers.

Matthew shoots Jack a look when he slings an arm around you on the way back to your hotels after dinner, but Jack just grins at him. You’re still not sure what that’s all about, but you’re just going to stay out of it.

The games the next day are fantastic. You’ve never gotten to watch both of your boys win at once, and you love it. When the Atlantic wins the whole thing, you cheer so loudly your voice cracks. Emma laughs at you, but you just laugh along with her.

You stick around for a bit after the game again, Keith and Chantal mingling while Emma shows you the decorations she’s planning for the wedding on her phone. After a while, someone taps you on the shoulder from behind. You turn your head, immediately recognizing Jane. Johnny had made it again this year with his new team, so it would make sense that she’s here too. You stand, reaching up to hug her in her elevated position.

“Matthew got you a new jersey?” she asks, referencing the All-Star jersey you’ve got on. You wish you could say that you bought it for yourself, but it had indeed been a gift from Matthew. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, so you act like it’s not, even though it is.

“Yeah, he’s a great friend,” you reply, shrugging, “He likes to take care of me.” The thing about Jane is that she’s not really a jerk. Sometimes the you-and-Matthew comments bother you, but she’s generally a very sweet woman.

“It’s good to have someone like that,” she says, smiling gently at you, “Matthew is a good boy.” Jane had been at enough Flames games for you to know her, and definitely enough for Matthew to become a pseudo-son to her. They don’t interact much anymore, save for when she pops up in the back of Johnny’s facetimes, but you know she still has a soft spot for him. You don’t blame her.

“He really is,” you agree, nodding. The two of you make some small talk, and you get some updates on Johnny’s new life on the Blue Jackets. You give her some updates on Matthew in return. After a bit, Guy shuffles up next to Jane, telling her that it’s time to go. She acknowledges him quickly, turning back to take one of your hands in her own.

“I know he takes care of you,” she says, patting the back of your hand with her second, “But you take care of that boy, too. Okay?” You just nod, smiling and bidding her goodbye. Her and Guy retreat up the steps and out of view. You’re not sure why she feels the need to say these things to you, and you’re not sure why you take them to heart.

You meet Matthew and Brady outside the player entrance, the boys immediately scooping up you and Emma, respectively. Matthew sweeps you off of your feet for a moment, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Once you’re free, you start to dip forward, realizing what you’re doing at the last second and changing track to make sure the kiss lands on his cheek.

He beams at you, and you’re absolutely certain that you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to make him smile.

April, 2023

The day Brady comes home is the best day of the year, you remind yourself for the thousandth time. You’re excited to see him, you are. The way your chest has felt rent open for days isn’t his fault in any way. You’re not going to make him pay for being the messenger.

Once you all get the couple home, you go upstairs with Brady and Emma to help them unpack. They don’t really need help, obviously, but it’s an excuse to spend time together. Brady talks a little about the season, but mostly focuses on his plans for the summer. He talks about wanting to go see G, maybe even take a trip out to visit Tim.

For the most part, you just fold clothes and listen. Eventually, they switch to the topic of the wedding, Emma showing you even more pictures. She’d asked you to be a bridesmaid forever ago, so you’ve already seen most of it, had even helped her pick half of it out, but you’re never going to squash her excitement.

Exhausted from their travel, the two make their way down to the den after everything is put away, collapsing onto the couch. You curl up in your chair, allowing the couple to choose what you watch. They pick something or another, nothing that you can pay attention to right now. Instead, you find yourself examining Brady, picking apart his features, finding all the things he shares with Matthew.

It’s the best day of the year, you remind yourself again. The light of the TV highlights Brady’s jawbone and your skin crawls.

August, 2023

The show is going exceptionally well, exceeding your expectations. The space is filled with strangers, friends, and even your brother and his family. There are critics and collectors, some that you’ve seen at other people’s shows, some that you don’t recognize. Everyone wants to talk to you, and you don’t get a spare moment to breathe for the first few hours.

When you do get a chance to exhale, the rich couple that had been occupying you finally walking away, you catch the color out of the corner of your eye. You’ve been all around the building all night, mingling and networking in equal measure. You hadn’t realized where you ended up until right this second. You turn to the piece, staring as if you’d never seen it before.

You don’t need to look over to see who steps up next to you a minute later.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Matthew says. It doesn’t feel like an accusation, though it is one. All you can do is sigh.

“What did you expect me to do?” you ask, not expecting an answer. You glance at his hands out of the corner of your eye, noticing the wine glass in one hand, water glass in the other. Without a word, Matthew holds the water out in your direction, still fixated on the painting. You take it, feeling odd that not only does Matthew know that you forget to drink enough water, but also that he’s still trying to take care of you.

“It’s me,” he says after a pause. You’re both facing the largest canvas, the centerpiece. Swirls of bright red spread across a crimson background, highlighted with orange, accented with a royal purple. There, in the center, are two comparatively small, even circles of icy blue.

“They’re all you. Or about you, at least,” you say, seeing no need to deny it any longer, “About us.” It’s obvious that Matthew hadn’t expected you to admit it outright, thrown off for a minute by the admission.

“Can we talk?” he asks as you take a sip of water.

“We’re talking right now,” you reply, feeling petty. It’s his turn to sigh. He sets his wine glass down on the nearest horizontal surface before returning to your side, facing you this time.

“Somewhere private,” he clarifies, pauses, “Please.” You may be mad at him, enraged, incensed, but you’ve never been able to deny him anything, and you still can’t, even now.

You shut the storage room door behind you, flicking on the light to chase away the darkness. Matthew has his hands shoved in his pockets, looking around as if there’s anything interesting in here. You cross your arms over your chest, waiting for him to nut up and look you in the face.

“Listen,” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck but still not looking at you, “I know I should have gone about this better.” You snort. No shit. The sound finally brings Matthew’s gaze to meet your own.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Matthew says, motioning with his raised hand, “I didn’t think you’d care that much.” You can feel how incredulous your expression is, and you don’t even try to hide it.

“In what world would I not be upset?” you respond, “After everything?” You can hear yourself, know you sound like a bitter, jealous old ex, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and looks away again. When he looks back, there’s an almost pleading look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says, more sincerely than the first time, “You shouldn’t have had to find out from Brady.” You avert your gaze, working your jaw for a second before you raise your chin and square your shoulders.

“No,” you agree, “I shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry I stopped talking to you,” he says, motioning helplessly with his hands, “You have to know how hard that was.” You shake your head, almost disgusted.

“Imagine how hard it was for me,” you reply. Your fingertips are digging into your own arm, fingernails biting into the skin. The fact that he would stand here and imply that this was a struggle for him– as if he expects you to offer sympathy– makes your stomach churn. The guilt in his expression makes you sickly satisfied.

“Listen,” he leads with that word again, as if he has any right to ask it of you, “I didn’t want to upset her. You know how some girls are.” You do know. And it’s still not an excuse.

“You didn’t tell her about me,” you say, anger and hurt straining your voice, “You said that I was just Brady’s best friend. You didn’t even tell her what we had.” You want to scream it at him, just want to scream in general. Maybe if you did, if you released your tight grip on control in a different way than you had with him, maybe it would make him understand.

“What did we have?” he asks. His voice is quiet, just as yours had been when you’d brought up the topic all those months ago.

“I don’t know,” you say, turning his own words back on him. It’s true, anyway. You’ve never known what any of this was. You’d only known what you wanted it to be, what you stupidly, fruitlessly hoped for.

“We never dated,” he replies, voice still low but seemingly not bothered by the uncertainty, “We never called it a relationship. You were never my girlfriend.” It’s a simple fact. It tears your heart out of your chest.

“Just because we didn’t name it doesn’t mean it was nothing,” you insist, squeezing your eyes shut for a second to push down the urge to cry before admitting, “I stopped dating.” He looks even guiltier at that, but it doesn’t soothe anything in you.

“I didn’t look at another man,” you continue, embarrassed and ashamed but unable to let him continue through life without knowing, “I didn’t even want to look at anyone else.” The shame makes the fiery anger burn brighter.

“I gave you three years of my fucking life,” you say, voice raising just enough to make Matthew flinch. You keep it reigned in enough that no one outside will hear, not interested in sharing this conversation with anyone else, especially not potential business contacts. The flames engulf your chest, lick up at your throat, threaten to consume you.

“I never asked you to do that,” Matthew replies, solemn. Your jaw drops, just half an inch, enough to part your lips as your breath hitches. He never asked. He never fucking–

“You–” you begin, breath catching in your throat as your eyes burn with tears you refuse to let escape, “Everything you said, everything you did, and you expected what? For me to just move on?” Your nails are digging so deeply into your biceps that you’re surprised they haven’t drawn blood. Matthew doesn’t respond right away, and you can’t tamp down the impulse to be petty.

“But I guess that’s what you did, huh?” you jab. Matthew shuts his eyes tightly, fists clenching like he wants to fight. It should be threatening, but you’ve always known that he would never dream of laying a finger on you in violence. But then again, you’d thought you knew a lot of things about him.

“Why do you care?” he asks, shoulders tense as he opens his eyes to stare you down, “You don’t even want me.” That shocks a laugh out of you, so completely ridiculous that you can’t help it.

“That’s the most fucked up part– I do want you,” you respond, simultaneously an answer and an admission. His brow furrows as he continues looking at you, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Did you seriously think I didn’t?” you ask, more of a demand, slightly offended because, “Do you think I said all those things for fun? For shits and giggles?” You can’t read his expression, don’t even bother trying. He can feel whatever he wants. That’s not your concern anymore. All you care about is the cold spreading through you, crawling up from the tips of your fingers, freezing your arms, creeping into your chest and beginning to extinguish your rage.

“I loved you, dickhead,” you continue, the words spilling out of you starting to sound pathetic, no matter how hard you’re trying to hold on to the anger, putting the last grasp of it into the words, “Stupid fucking idiot asshole, I loved you.” Matthew gapes at you, hands going lax at his sides. His jaw moves as if to say something, but nothing comes out.

“I loved you and you threw me away like garbage, and didn’t even have the balls to tell me yourself,” you force the sentence out, feeling like you’re choking on every syllable. Matthew’s breathing stutters. You’re expecting annoyance, irritation, maybe even shame or guilt. You’re not expecting his wide eyes, his eyebrows turned up in the middle, his slack jaw.

“You loved me?” he finally asks after a few agonizingly long seconds of silence. There’s something in his voice that you tell yourself you don’t care to analyze.

“Of course I did. How could I not?” you say, huffing as you look upwards, needing a momentary break from this staring contest, “The pathetic part, the part that makes me hate myself, is that I still do.” It’s physically painful to say, no matter that the hurt is psychosomatic. You’ve spent the last few minutes breaking open your ribcage, one bone at a time, revealing to him the space you’d made for him inside of yourself.

“You love me?” he asks, so dumbfounded that he’s repeating himself.

“Yes, Matthew,” you say, facing up to the dread inside of you, the one fact you’ve been struggling with the most since you’d found out the news.

“And I’m terrified. Because I’ve always loved you,” you pour out, barely able to hold yourself together as you meet his eyes, “And I’m afraid that I always will.” There’s not even space for half of a breath before Matthew speaks.

“Please do,” he says. His hands are open, palms facing your direction, as if pleading.

“What?” you ask.

“I didn’t know,” he says, and apparently he’s decided it’s his turn to reveal himself, “I was surprised that you wanted anything to do with me at all. But then you kissed me, and I spent the next three years waiting for you to leave.” The confusion comes over you so quickly that it almost masks the hurt.

“Why would I leave?” you ask. There’s been nothing subtle about your feelings. You’ve told him that he’s the only one you want, that you want to spend the rest of your life by his side, that he’ll always be the only one. How could he hear all of that and think that you would ever leave?

“Because you’re smart and kind and funny and hardworking–” he starts listing off.

“Tessa is all of those things too,” you cut him off. It doesn’t come out as resentful as you would’ve expected a sentence like that to. As you’ve told Terri, you really have nothing against Tessa. Besides, she really is everything he’s saying.

“But she’s not you,” his response comes immediately, emphatically, “I don’t want just anyone like that; I want you, and you happen to be that way.” You’re stunned into silence.

“It’s not the traits, it’s you,” he says, insistent, like he’s trying to convince you of your own worth, “And I kept waiting for you to find someone else, someone who wasn’t hotheaded and self-centered and–” He stops himself, swallowing so hard you can see his throat stutter under the thin skin of his neck.

“Someone better,” he finishes. The thing is that Matthew doesn’t have low self-esteem. He knows he’s a catch, and yet… And yet, he’s standing here, admitting that he’d still thought of you as being so far above him that you could never want him. And it’s not that there isn’t probably someone out there better than him–

“I never wanted someone better,” you tell him, voice almost a whisper. Growing up, you’d created this picture of the perfect man, told yourself that you’d find him one day, would never settle for less. Then you’d met Matthew, and he was nothing like that imaginary ideal. He was flawed; he was real. And you couldn’t help but love him for it.

“And I never wanted anyone else,” he replies, his own voice hushed to match yours, but no less certain, “I still don’t.” Three months ago, you would’ve given anything to hear that. But things are different now.

“I thought that if I went and found someone like you, someone close enough, that I could fall for them too,” he confesses, shame making his face tense, “I thought that if I stopped talking to you, if I kept my distance, that I could get over you.” A fraction of the anger buds in your chest at the idea.

“So you’re using Tessa,” you accuse, instantly offended on her behalf.

“No!” Matthew denies emphatically, pauses, shakes his head, “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” If he is using her, at least he seems ashamed about it. Something in his posture makes you think he isn’t, that he really thought he could love her.

“Look, she’s great. She’s amazing. She’s too good for me, too,” his shoulders have been hunched up to his ears, but they fall now, defeated, “She talks about that spark she felt when we met, the way she feels about me now, and I want, I really want to feel that way too. It would be easier if I could.” Believing this entire time that he truly loves her has been hell for you, but it’s still somehow worse to know that he doesn’t. That he did all of this, hurt you so deeply, for someone he doesn’t even love.

“As much as I’ve tried, I don’t. And I can’t,” he says, turning his gaze to the floor, “And if I’d ever thought that I had the slightest chance with you, I never would have dated her to begin with.” All these years, all those words, all the touches you’ve shared, and he’d still never taken you seriously. It’s not your fault, you know. But you realize now that for every time you’d indirectly confessed your feelings to him, he’d said the same things back. He’d returned every sentiment readily, easily. And as much as he’d apparently had the same idea as you, that the other could never love you back, you hadn’t seen it either. You’ve been just as ignorant of his feelings as he was of yours, just as deep in denial. And now there’s this rift between you, a deep chasm that keeps you apart, all for no reason.

“So, what now?” you ask. There’s nothing else to ask.

“What?” he seems genuinely confused.

“What now?” you repeat, too tired to be upset anymore, “You break her heart? Or do you keep pretending? Fake your way into a wife and kids and a house in the suburbs?” His confusion persists, tongue darting out to wet his lip the way it always does when he’s anxious.

“I thought–” he shakes his head the tiniest bit, as if he can’t believe what’s happening, “I mean, I love you. I want to be with you.” There’s a sadness sitting heavy in your chest, only getting deeper at his words.

“I love you too,” you say, tipping your head an inch to the right, perfectly aware of how melancholy your smile must be, “But you hurt me, and now you have to hurt her too. I thought you were better than this.” You’d thought the world of him. You don’t hate him now, could never force yourself to. But you are disappointed in how everything has played out.

“I thought you didn’t want better?” he says, not really a question. Your lips turn up another centimeter at that.

“Listen,” you say, turning the word back on him. You inhale deeply, exhale slowly. He stays quiet.

“The opportunity of a lifetime is on the other side of that door,” you gesture vaguely over your shoulder, then let your arms relax, your hands fall to your sides, “I don’t know what to do with any of–” you give another vague gesture, “--This.” The devastation is writ clear on his face, telegraphed by his posture, bared in the forefront of his miserably beautiful eyes.

“Out there?” you say, smile still in place, “I know exactly what I want. So I’m going to go get it.” you pause, take another deep breath, “And maybe you’ll be there tomorrow, and maybe you won’t.”

“I will,” he jumps in. You huff an almost-laugh.

“We can figure this all out later,” you say, sure a definite, “For now, I have to focus on the things that I’m sure of.” He nods, looks at the floor, raises his head and looks back at you.

“Did you used to be sure of me?” he asks, an uneven, shaky whisper.

“Yeah,” you say, your entire being feeling so heavy that you can barely hold yourself upright, “I used to be.”

September, 2023

While Brady had departed yesterday, Matthew doesn’t leave until tomorrow. It took some internal debate, but you’ve decided not to go along to drop him off at the airport. His family will think it’s weird if he doesn’t hug you, and you’re not sure if you can handle him touching you yet.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, letting yourself get lost in the story. A knock comes on the door and you startle. You mark your page and stand, rounding the couch to open the door. When you do, Matthew is standing there.

“Hey,” he greets, giving you the same bittersweet smile you’ve become accustomed to over the past few weeks. You’d given him a key to your apartment right after you’d moved, but you appreciate him not using it right now. You welcome him in with a gesture of your hand, turning to lead the way. You get four steps away before he speaks.

“I broke up with Tessa,” he blurts out. He doesn’t seem happy about it, but he doesn’t seem particularly sad either.

“Why?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest, “You’re that sure that I’ll take you back?” The anger comes and goes as it pleases, and it’s starting to sneak through the space between your ribs.

“No,” Matthew says, looking so unbearably fond of you, “I think you’ll tell me to get fucked.” Some days you want to.

“Then why did you break up with her?” you ask. Part of you has been wondering if, despite everything he’d said, he would stay with her. You’re not sure you would have been able to keep the conversation to yourself if he had, but you would have at least tried.

“Because none of this is fair to her,” he answers, shrugging, “She deserves someone who feels the same way about her that she does them. Someone who’s obsessed with her. She doesn’t deserve to be settled for.” You examine his expression, his stance, and realize that he’s truly being honest. He genuinely wants the best for her.

“How’d she take it?” you can’t help but ask. It makes him grin down at the floor for a moment.

“Honestly?” he asks when he raises his head, “Not great. Could have been worse, though.” As much as you love Matthew, you would have been proud of Tessa if she had slapped him.

“Probably should’ve been worse,” you reply. He grins again, tilting his head as he admires your face.

“Probably,” he agrees. For long moments, you both stand still, eyes locked.

“What now?” you ask, the same question as a couple weeks ago. He shrugs again, but he doesn’t seem as miserable or desperate as he had at the gallery.

“I don’t know,” he replies, that same phrase that you’re still trying to make peace with, “I know what I want. Same thing I’ve wanted this entire time. So I guess it’s up to you.” After three years of him encouraging you to give up control, to let go and follow his lead, he’s handing you the reigns now. However this ends or continues is completely your decision.

“You leave tomorrow,” you say, though you’re both viscerally aware of the fact.

“Yeah,” he gives you the crooked smile that had captured you the first time you’d met, “Don’t suppose you want to come with me? The winter weather’s nicer in Florida.” You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head at him.

“If you’d asked me that last summer, I probably would’ve said yes,” you admit. You kind of expect him to react with sadness, but you prefer the hope that blooms on his face.

“Maybe I’ll ask you again next summer?” he suggests, offering you the option. At this point, you have no idea where your relationship will be at this time next year. You don’t know if you’ll even have a relationship, of any kind. But if he’s willing to try, so are you.

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling wider than you have in a long while, “Next summer.”

June, 2024

The Hughes brothers are a funny trio. Seeing Jack’s upbeat, outgoing energy bookended on each side by two reserved, perpetually exhausted brothers is always kind of funny. You’d run down the pavement from the Tkachuk’s door to the driveway when you’d seen Quinn climb out of the car’s driver seat, immediately sweeping him up in a hug. The boys had decided to road trip around this summer, so of course you’d strongly suggested that they visit you.

You help them haul their bags out of the trunk, taking Luke’s backpack in hand and insisting on carrying it in for him. The three of them had started teasing you the instant they saw that Matthew hadn’t come out with you.

“Come on, I heard him at the All Star game,” Jack pesters, voice taking a mocking edge as he croons, “Sweet girl.” You laugh brightly, stopping the careful steps you’re taking backwards up the pathway to the house.

“We weren’t dating, I swear,” you insist. Plenty of people over the years have accused you of dating Matthew, but at least he’s funny about it. He stops in front of you, lifting his chin and giving a shit-eating smile.

“Wait, weren’t?” he asks, “As in, past tense?” You feel heat begin to crawl up your face. You’d intended to tell them, of course, but not the second they got here.

“Yeah,” Matthew calls from behind you, and you twist around to watch him close the space between you, “Past tense.” Jack’s glee is overt, but you can see the little signs of happiness on the other two boys’ faces too. Matthew lines himself up against your back, wrapping his arms around you, the gaudy Cup ring on his finger glinting in the light.

“Hey, sweet girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into your hair. You can’t see him, but Jack’s smug face makes you sure that Matthew is staring straight at him. “My sweet girl,” Matthew says. It might be the best thing you’ve ever heard.

[copperbadge]

Lately, it's felt like every time I've started to work on writing, I'll just be getting into the rhythm of it when I get interrupted, either by work or the cats or because the time I'd booked in the library study room is up (you can only do two hours at a time, and only four hours a week total). It was getting to the point where I kept re-reading the same chapter or so of previous work but never managing to add to it.

So I tried an experiment this past weekend -- I found a really cheap rate on a local hotel room, and on Friday I took an overnight bag and a very old laptop with limited processing power and checked into a room about a mile from home for a quasi "staycation". I unpacked and had a quiet night on Friday, as prelude to working Saturday-Sunday. The idea was to write uninterrupted by other people, pets, the presence of all my Stuff around me at home, et cetera.

I had snacks but I also bought meals out, which was nice; I don't often order in or buy out when I'm at home. The way I set up was that I would do fifty minutes of writing with do-not-disturb engaged on my phone and then ten minutes of checking email, texts, etc. since often what pulls me out of writing is a text or an email that needs answering, or the anxiety that I'm missing one that would. If I set it so that every hour I check, well, nobody's going to die if something doesn't get answered in an hour, so the anxiety isn't there, and neither is the distraction. (I found a nice app for this, review later depending on how functional it continues to be for me, but it's a like $4 app called Forest.)

It worked pretty well -- writing for an uninterrupted hour, as long as I know what I'm working on, is very functional for me. I average about two thousand words, that way, though there is a limit to the number of hours I can put in. I ended up doing two hours in the morning and one hour in the afternoon, then switched from fiction writing to clearing out my tumblr drafts and some correspondence for the fourth hour. So it went something like

Go out and get breakfast, bring back and eat in room

Change into lounging clothes and do two one-hour sessions

Go out and get lunch, eat lunch out

Bit of a rest break back in the room

Two one-hour sessions, one of writing; when tired, switch to something that requires less creativity

Go out and get dinner, bring back and eat in room

And then in the evening the plan was to watch movies or catch up on reading, but I ended up being mentally weary, so instead I did some simple tarot reading. It was less divination or even meditation than just messing around, keeping the creativity stimulated; I did a couple of Creative Writing spreads, some very brief divination spreads (I nicked a nice three-card spread here that I mentally call He To Hecuba, and just used it in general rather than for a specific question) and then invented a spread when I was starting to get irritated that the same like, five cards kept coming up, more on this in its own post.

Sunday I did one more writing session but it was less successful, I think partly because what I was writing required a lot of research and partly because the previous day I'd dumped eight thousand words into the file. (Research took longer because I brought the most garbage laptop known to man, and the browsers crash if you try to open Google Maps, but in other ways it was ideal since there wasn't much I could do on it other than write.) But I had a good breakfast, got some rest, packed up easily enough, and headed home just ahead of the rain storm.

I don't think it's something I'll be able to do in that format especially often, since the deal I got on the hotel was an anomaly and Chicago lodging, even just AirBNB stuff, is stupid expensive. But in addition to helping get some work done it was a nice break, so I'm going to look into ways I could swing it on a perhaps monthly basis, or some other way to cheaply spend an entire day alone with decent access to a bathroom/snacks and a way to come and go easily. I've looked into coworking spaces before but they tend to be prohibitively expensive and don't really have the setup I'd prefer; there's a hostel on the north side with private rooms that I might try out but it doesn't seem significantly cheaper than a hotel. I might just have to pick one weekend a month and watch last-minute hotel price cuts where they simply want to fill a room for a day or two.

Anyway, functionally I wrote almost a fifth of a novel this weekend, and one that I wasn't feeling super on fire about; I'm feeling much better about it now that I've got some established plot going and I feel like I "know" the newer characters a bit better. (Also I'm enjoying writing Simon as someone who is absolutely entranced by his love interest and clueless that what he's feeling isn't mild antipathy because they met while fighting over ricotta.) So it was a big help, although if I were to put a budget line item in the Extribulum Press ledger for "writing staycation" it would wipe out my royalties surplus very quickly.

[ifancyharry]

Dinner and snuggles at the studio

Word count: 1.7k

What it is: in which YN and her daughter bring Harry dinner at the studio, and he asks them to stay; fluff; dad!Harry

First attempt at writing dad!Harry, let me know if it's any good, please!!!! i love feed backs

“C’mon baby, don’t yeh wanna see daddy?” YN cooed as she gently unbuckled her daughter from the car seat.

It was around 8 when Harry had texted her, asking — begging — her to bring him something to eat, as he was stuck on a song and couldn’t afford to interrupt the creative process (at least, that’s what he wrote in the text).

YN had consented, because she could only imagine how much effort it took to write a song, and if she could be of any help to her husband, she would do whatever it takes. Even if that meant waking their 2 years old soundly asleep in her room. It wasn’t like she could’ve left her alone, and YN thought it would be nice eating together, even if in the studio.

So, after not so little fussing from her daughter, she managed to buckle her in the backseat, where she’d almost instantly fallen asleep again.

After picking up Harry’s favorite takeout, YN made her way to the studio, driving through the empty streets of London.

Perching her daughter up against her hip, she picked up the takeout bags from the passenger seat and locked the car with the keys. The toddler whined against her shoulder, probably disturbed by the locking beep sound of the fancy car Harry had gifted her a couple of years back.

“Shh, ‘s okay” she soothed her.

YN rang the doorbell and waited for the door to be unlocked, and once the buzzing sound of the door resonated in the quiet air, she pushed it open and walked in. The studio was empty since it was a Sunday night, and YN walked through the hallways light on her feet.

Once she reached what she knew was Harry’s part of the studio, she knocked on the door and then peaked her head in.

Harry raised his head quickly from his position on the couch, his eyebrows raised and a gleam to his eyes as soon as she walked in.

“Hi baby!” He smiled brightly, but YN was quick to shush him, “she’s sleeping” she explained, caressing her daughter’s back gently.

Harry nodded understandingly and got up from the couch, taking the bags from her fingers and placing them on the little table behind him.

“Thank you, my love. Proper angel yeh are” he said, leaning in to peck her lips lightly.

“‘S okay” she smiled, tilting her head to kiss him again.

Harry parted from her lips quickly as soon as he heard a whine coming from his daughter, still propped up against YN’s hip.

“She’s a bit grumpy” YN explained, “she was already sleeping when you texted”.

Harry’s lips closed in a pout, and he tilted his head to the side to look better at his daughter’s face.

“Give her t’me” he said, picking the little girl from her mum’s arms, “there yeh go. How are ya? My little angel” he propped her against his chest and cradled her head with his big hand, caressing her hair with light fingertips.

“Mmh, nooo daddy” she whined, snuggling closer to her daddy’s chest, “tired”.

“Oh, yeh tired?” He cooed, and when the little girl nodded against his hoodie, he leaned down to press a kiss to her hair line “daddy’s here now.”

YN looked at them with soft eyes, her chest feeling warm at their exchange.

Harry sat back down on the couch, his little girl asleep again on his chest, snuggled against the fabric of his hoodie.

YN picked out Harry’s salad from the bag and opened it for him, picking up a plastic fork and handing it to him. She took out her sandwich from the bag and unwrapped it, plopping down on the couch next to him.

Silence fell between them, the only sound being heard was their daughter’s soft breaths and Harry crunching on the salad leaves.

Once they were both finished eating their dinner, YN leaned her head against his shoulder and looked up to him.

“How’s the song coming?” She asked, stroking his hair back from his forehead. Harry closed his eyes tiredly, finally feeling the tension relieving as YN massaged his scalp soothingly.

“Mmh” he hummed, “fine. Slowly comin’ together”

“That’s nice” she smiled, placing a soft kiss against the skin of his jaw.

“Sorry I haven’t been home much… how’s she been? Is she good to yeh?” He asked, speaking in a low voice as to not disturb his daughter.

“‘S okay”, she reassured him, “and she’s fine… a bit grumpy when tired, just like her daddy” she teased, biting jokingly at his cheek.

“Heyyyyy,” he whined, pouting his lips, “‘m not grumpy”

“You are” she giggled, leaning in to press her lips against his, kissing his pout away, “but I love you anyway”

“Love you so much” he whispered against her lips, tilting his head forward to deepen the kiss.

YN shifted her body to be more comfortable, her leg bending at the knee against the back seat of the couch so she could sit facing him.

She placed a hand against his jaw and caressed the scratchy skin of his cheek with her thumb. He licked her bottom lip with his tongue, and YN gasped, allowing his tongue to brush past her lips and dip into her mouth.

Before he could deepen the kiss any more, they both felt their daughter shift on his lap, two little pudgy hands coming up to knuckle at her tired eyes.

YN parted quickly from Harry’s lips, smiling down at her daughter, “hi, bug”

“No kisses” the toddler pouted, pushing her mum’s face away, “‘s my daddy”

YN looked to her bewildered, and then shifted her eyes to Harry, that was giggling with his head tilted backwards.

“Yes, m’angel, ‘m yehr daddy” he giggled, cradling his daughter’s face with his hands and placing big, loud kisses against her chubby cheeks.

YN pinched the skin of his bicep between her index finger and thumb, and Harry whined loudly, “heyyy, what’d you do that fo’?!”

“It’s not funny, Harry! This is your fault. You spoil her too much”

It wasn’t the first time their daughter had showed her possessive side, but it had never come to the point where she’d push YN away from her dad! It was true, it was Harry’s fault, he spoiled her so much, and not only with material stuff, but also with attention.

“Sshh, she’s just a baby” he laughed, tickling the little girl’s tummy with his fingers. The baby giggled and fell against her dad’s chest, squirming in his hold. YN playfully rolled her eyes, crossing her arms against her chest and turning her back to them.

“Look what yeh did, bug! Made your mummy sad” he pouted at his daughter, that looked up at him with her big green eyes, not fully aware of the situation.

“Sad?” The little girl repeated, her voice laced with worry.

Harry exaggerated his pout and nodded at her, “yeah”

“Daddy fix it! Fix it!” She shouted, tugging on the neck of his shirt to grab his attention.

YN listened to their conversation, trying hard not to laugh. She felt Harry’s palm sneak through her shirt and he started tickling her side, then passing to her belly. She chocked out a scream, laughing hardly as Harry kept tickling her.

“Stop, stop, Harry, please, please!” She begged, crunching down on herself hoping to escape his ticklish fingers.

“Are you finished bein’ sad?” He asked.

“Yes! Yes! I’m happy, I’m happy, please… please”

She breathed out a relieved sigh once he stopped, and he leaned in to kiss her neck lovingly.

She turned around and smiled at their daughter reassuringly, “mummy was just joking, baby”

The little girl nodded and plopped back down on Harry’s lap, snuggling against his chest.

“Yeh tired again?” He chuckled lightly, brushing the hair from her face.

“Maybe we should go, leave you to work?” YN asked her husband.

“Stay a while… we can leave together in an hour, two at most” he pleaded, holding his hands up together in a praying motion.

“Harry… I’m tired, she’s tired” YN protested.

“Yeh can sleep here! I’ll wake ya when ‘s time t’go. Couch’s very, very, very soft, I’m sure you remember…?” he winked, alluding to that one time Harry had called YN in the middle of the night, so hard it hurt, and begged her to come and help him with his problem.

She scoffed, swatting scoldingly at his arm, “what about your car?”

“I’ll get someone to take it home with me tomorrow, c’mon…” he pleaded once again, “you know I love havin’ you here — both of you. And I don’t want you to drive late at night” he raised one hand to caress the skin of her jaw with his index finger, and YN leaned in his touch, closing her eyes and debating on her decision.

She was tired, and she wanted to sleep, but she also knew she wouldn’t get any sleep until Harry came home; and the thought of driving this late in the night when she was this tired, and with her daughter actually frightened her, so she nodded her head and “okay” she said, tilting her head to kiss the palm of his hand.

“Thank you” he smiled, relieved, “lay here on the couch, I’ll sit on the floor” he got up from the couch, his daughter cradled in his arms, and waited for YN to lay down.

Once she laid down, he placed their daughter next to her, against the back of the couch so she could snuggle against her mum’s body, and YN started stroking her hair soothingly as she shifted to move on her side, giving her back to Harry.

Harry picked up his guitar, put his headphones back on his head, and started strumming it, finding the right melody for his song.

YN fell asleep instantly, soothed by his gentle humming resonating in the quiet room.

Every once in a while, when Harry felt lost in his creativity process, he would turn his head to look at his girls, snuggled on the couch behind him, and he would feel his heart beat hard against his chest, the inspiration quickly coming back to him, and he would crunch down and write on his journal words upon words of how much he adored them.

[yuri-is-online]

There's Mud in Your Eye (Leona and Deuce x Yuu)

"Oh can I help you? You seem to be lost." You attempt to cheerfully ask the vaguely familiar looking person in front of you. As if he is deliberately trying to rub salt in your wounds, Crowley ignored your request to leave campus for NRC parents day and is instead making you and Grim run errands. The person in front of you, blissfully ignorant to your inner turmoil perks up at your attention.

"Forgive me for asking, but are you the magicless prefect?" You and Grim exchange a confused glance. "You've got to be right?" They're practically glowing with how happy they are to see you. " Oh I'm sorry, I've just heard so much about you!" Wait, what?

notes: they/them pronouns used for Yuu, i am out of creative ways to describe these: it's Cheka and Mamma Spade. Slight references to the White Rabbit event. If you liked this please check out the previous parts on my master list here.

Leona

A very confused, very important looking little lion is standing in front of you, attempting to mimic Leona's judgey thinking face. Five year olds lack the smarmy bitterness required to truly pull off the look, but you have to admit, it is pretty cute.

"Um, do you think he ran away from his guards again?" Grim whispers, painfully loud and without nearly enough concern. "Do you think we'll get in trouble if we can't get him back to his retainers?" The scenario feels completely unreal, but then again so does standing in front of royalty. Who are you again anyway? Just some weirdo who is going to have to apologize to their loved ones for taking so long to come home because you couldn't sneeze in another world without bumping into royalty. While you are busy considering whether or not it would be considered child neglect to sprint away from the little guy, Cheka finally finishes his thought process, letting out a contented "hmmm" as he points decisively at you.

"You," he says with all the authority of an extra on a children's tv show "are not Unca."

Well.

That was not what you were expecting. Your mind draws a lengthy blank as Cheka grins up at you in a surprisingly catlike manner seemingly very pleased with himself.

"How did it take ya so long to figure that out?" It has to be a truly stupid question to get Grim's voice to crack.

"Well I decided I was gonna sneak up on Unca." A terrible idea really but who are you to refute royalty. "So instead of running around and askin I decided to just focus on his scent! But I found two places he could be so I just decided to go to the closer one."

"Whatdya mean?" Grim takes a deep breath and interrupts his train of thought with a hard gag you really hope is dramatic. "Oh wow he ain't wrong, you really smell like that lazy bi-" You manage to muzzle him before he can teach Checka too many bad words. You wonder if it would be rude to sniff yourself in front of a literal prince, Cheka's pleased little tail swish doesn't help.

"Can you please take me to Unca?" he asks, so very sweetly looking up at you like you're the shiniest star in the night sky. It hurts to disappoint him.

"Uh I'd love to little guy but I'm not too sure where he is..." you really hope Cheka can't tell just how nervous you are. Crowley did give you a schedule, but it wasn't super detailed, just a vague set of notes about the various events going on.

"Then I'll just stay here with you!" He says, with a surprising degree of authority. "Unca's scent is really strong so I'm sure he'll show up soon!"

''I don't think that's a good idea little guy." You just called the Crown Prince of the Sunset Savannah a little guy. Which he is but you are pretty sure there's a time period where that would have gotten you executed, and you can only pray it's not now. The intense look of what you assume are Cheka's guards running up the main street is not helping with that.

"Your highness! Please don't run off like that." The man seems wary of scolding the prince, but he has no qualms about staring you down. "You! What is your name and who do you think you are to be speaking so casually to-" He cuts himself off, bluster fading as he takes a deep breath and starts staggering away from you. Well not you per se, you realize as you turn around and see an extremely intense looking Leona behind you.

"Stop blamin' your inability to do your job on other people." Leona's voice is slow, authoritative enough that you almost forget he's supposed to be the second prince. The guards do too, until Cheka jumps away from them onto Leona's shoulders and shatters the illusion just a bit.

"Unca! Unca! You're gonna show me the spelldive fields right?" Cheka nuzzles his Uncle's cheek while Leona tries his best to get away.

"I thought you were gonna stay with Prefect." He grumbles.

"We can come with." You say before you fully realize what you're saying surprised at how ok you are with the offer. Cheka lights up, jumping away from his Uncle to nuzzle up to you. Leona's gaze softens ever so slightly, even if he immediately breaks eye contact and starts walking away from you.

"You're welcome to come if you can keep up." You try to convince yourself you follow him just to get away from the guards, but there's a spring in both your steps no one is brave enough to act like they notice.

Deuce

"Yuu! And Grim too! Lucky me I thought I was going to be stuck looking for my kids for at least another hour." Dilla Spade cheerfully says, her decision to refer to you as her child momentarily distracting you from the fact Deuce is nowhere to be seen. She seems to have been granted a day off from work, her usual delivery uniform ditched in favor of a very mom like set of old sweatpants and an old athletic jacket with a logo you assumed belonged to Deuce's middle school.

"Mama Spade!" Strange feelings aside you are extremely happy to see Dilla, and happier still when she perks up just a bit at your calling her mom. "Did Deuce forget to text you again?"

"Not exactly," she says with an affectionate sigh "I caught up with him a bit earlier but he ran off to find his Housewarden. He really wanted to introduce us but said it might be a bit difficult to make that happen."

"Yeah..." Grim says as you exchange a look "Riddle's a really busy guy."

"Well never mind then." She says with a shrug. "What's up with you? Deucey tells me all sorts of things, but it's never the full truth." You shouldn't be surprised Dilla knows something is up. Honestly it's a wonder any of the students with a half way decent relationship with their parents hasn't been yanked out of this school already.

"Nothing too bad I hope?" You say, hopeful that Dilla will give you something to work with so you don't confess to something too wild. She laughs.

"I'm a mom, worrying's part of the territory." You breathe a sigh of relief, though you can't help but wonder just what Dilla's reaction would be to knowing Deuce had fought four overblot phantoms. Would she be proud? You hope so, he deserves it. "I keep telling Deuce to invite you to spend summer with us but he's really hung up on doing things the 'honorable way.'" You try your best not to fluster.

"What's that even mean?" Whines Grim, probably thinking more about the donuts you had while visiting Clock Town more than the implications kicking around in your mind. "offerin' to help me and my hench human out is honorable enough!"

"It really is," you try not to come off as too eager, it would be really nice to spend the Summer somewhere that wasn't Ramshackle, even if it would hurt the ghost's feelin-

"Is Deuce waitin' till he can afford a ring or somethin'?" Grim says, crossing his little paws and sticking your words in your throat. Dilla winking at the little monster with a conspiratorial grin makes you choke. "He is isn't he! Hmph, figures. Well he knows he won't get the Great Grim's permission!"

"Grim!" You squeak.

"Well you are a bit young," Dilla says "but you have my blessing prefect."

"I- I think there's been a bit of a misunderstanding-" you don't want to get anyone's hopes up, you aren't even dating Deuce, you want to say that you don't like him that way, but the lie dies on your lips as a familiar duo comes into view just behind Dilla.

"MOM! oh and PREFECT!!!" The overwhelming joy in Deuce's eyes contrasting with the smug amusement of Ace makes you feel just a bit more at home, despite the awkwardness of the situation. You can almost convince yourself that he's running up the road on the double just to see you.

"Think of it this way," whispers Dilla, firmly placing a hand on your shoulder in a comforting and not forceful way "you're family, and you always will be no matter what label gets slapped on things. Though I am pretty sure you can guess Deuce's preference."

You can, or at least you can hope.

[writingquestionsanswered]

I used to love writing when I was in high school, but stopped after I graduated because of life. Now, after almost a decade, I want to get back into it but I don't know how. I have so many ideas but I tend to bounce around the same variations and don't know how to stick to one thing, or how to just get back into the rhythm of writing actively. Or even reading actively.

Any advice?

Getting Back to Reading and Writing

What you're experiencing is what I like to think of as "the creative zoomies."

After so long away from actively reading and writing, there's now this flood of ideas, plans, books you want to read, and stories you want to write. You can't settle and focus on a single thing because your brain wants to do ALL THE THINGS, so you keep bouncing back and forth between things hoping something will stick.

First things first... DEEP BREATH.

As I said in an earlier post, remember: there is no ticking clock. It may feel like there is, sometimes, but we're just little ants on a planet doing our things. There are no deadlines unless you sign up for any, and you don't have to worry about that right now.

So... start by taking an honest look at your schedule and your life, and see if you can figure out a realistic estimate of how much time you have in a given week. Where are there slots of time you can dedicate to writing? How about reading?

Next, it can be immensely helpful if you have a comfortable, relaxing space, free from distraction and interruption, where you can go to write. Some people like to go write at a coffee shop or library to get away from family shenanigans or bothersome housemates. If it's not a billion degrees where you are, you might also try your patio, yard, or a nearby park. Listening to soft music or "ambience rooms" (tons on YouTube) through headphones can also help you focus. There are also still some different apps and programs for distraction free writing. Just make sure to save often and keep a master document on your computer to prevent losing all your work in case the app or program gets glitchy. Also: put your phone on silent, turn off your internet if you must, and let people know not to bother you. This is your writing time... don't be afraid to guard it fiercely.

As for choosing ideas, I'm a big fan of the old-fashioned methods... random number pickers, drawing out of a hat, rolling dice... But you can also do a process of elimination based on what appeals to you the most. If you get it down to two, and then you're disappointed with the one you're left with, you know the one you just eliminated is the right idea to go with.

If you're not sure what to write, try doing some writing prompts. There are lots available online and there are some great books with writing prompts. Doing one a day can be a great way to get yourself back in the habit of writing again.

As for reading, start by reading during moments of spare time, such as if you're taking a bath, riding your stationary bike, sitting in a waiting room, or riding public transportation. You can even read during your morning coffee or your lunch break. Also, embrace the world of audio books. This is one of my favorite ways to read, because I can do it while I'm exercising, showering, cleaning, cooking, driving, doing projects... I get through so many more books by listening to audio books. More than anything, just remember that once again, there's no ticking clock. You don't have to finish a certain number of books before the end of the year. Read what you want, at the pace that works for you, and don't be afraid to DNF if a book isn't working for you.

I hope this helps!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

[moralesmilesanhour]

if you believe in me - 03

summary: Miles is hiding something from you. wc: ~1500 a/n: Writing this chapter was very enjoyable especially near the end! I think Imma start adding songs to listen to while you read if you want so: Crush on You - Lil' Kim Mrs. Postman - Black Pumas Funkdafied - Da Brat Hop Out the Van - Offset Enjoy <3

prev next

"You do this math shit like it’s nothing," you muttered as you watched Miles solve one of the questions from your calculus homework, using his notebook as a flat surface. “What’s your secret?”

At no point did his pencil slow down as neat calculations flew from it like he was on autopilot. Miles even numbered the steps for you.

 "The numbers just agree with me," he shrugged, circling his answer on your worksheet for emphasis.

You sat behind him on his bed with pages of homework scattered everywhere. When you draped your arms around his shoulders to lean on him, you felt them tense. Your eyebrows creased in concern.

“You good, baby?”

Miles turned his head slightly, amusement playing on his face. 

“That’s a new one.”

“What?”

“ ‘Baby’.”

“You don’t like it?”

You pecked him on the cheek and felt the dimple forming as he smiled. Miles relaxed his shoulders.

“It’s…fine. Thought you’d be a little more creative, though.”

“How about…” you hummed in consideration before taking a glance at Miles’ glasses, which hung from the front of his shirt. “Arthur!”

Unfortunately, your genius was met with complete silence.

“...What?”

“You know, the lil’ aardvark from–”

“I know who Arthur is,” he interrupted. “But why am I him? I don’t follow.”

You fumbled for a moment, having assumed that he would automatically get it.

“Well–Cuz he wears glasses, and all his friends got on his ass for it.”

Miles blinked, remaining unimpressed. You gave up.

“Alright, what about Riley? Like, from ‘The Boondocks’.”

His blank stare remained.

“But what if I take my braids out? Then the joke doesn’t work.”

“Then you’ll be Huey.”

“Come up with somethin’ else.”

You sucked your teeth playfully. “You makin’ this real difficult for no reason. How ‘bout ‘Kilo’?”

His brows knit together. “Who’s ‘Kilo’?”

“Kilo as in kilometers. Because your name…” you trailed off.

You could see the gears turning in his eyes before it finally clicked, and the beginnings of a laugh flashed across his face.

“I’m good, right?” 

“You’re mad corny,” Miles said beneath a giggle, attempting to hide his face behind his palm. “Don’t ever say that shit again.”

“Come on, Kilo is cute!”

He shook his head good-naturedly and held up your worksheet. “Finish your homework.”

You tightened your arms around him and refused to move.

“Uh-uh, you gotta gimme a nickname too, now.”

His back deflated in a sigh. “If I give you one, will you focus?”

“Mhm.”

“Fine, I’ll call you…well, what do you wanna be called–? Ow!”

You pouted, and smacked his left shoulder.

“You gotta come up with it yourself, stupid.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll call you…” Miles turned to face you. His wide eyes scanned your features, searching for something to latch onto. “Elf.”

“Excuse me?”

“You got big ears.”

“Miles, stop playin’ with me–”

“What? There are cool elves. Like Zelda.”

“Call me Zelda, then. That's pretty!”

“That's why I asked you first,” Miles said with a lopsided grin. “I'm not good with nicknames, I rather call you your name name. Now, are you gonna finish this problem?”

You groaned in disappointment before taking the pencil and worksheet from him. 

“Fine. You’re no fun.”

Seeing the problem-solving process on paper at least made the math easier to get through. Soon you were quiet, brows knit together and lips pursed with focus. 

As you worked, Miles watched your twists fall in front of your face each time you tilted your head.

Back and forth. 

Back and forth. 

The warm light of his desk lamp fell on them at such an angle that the oil that had been used on the strands gave them a soft sheen. 

Without thinking, he reached over to brush one away from your face, making you flinch in surprise.

“What are you doing?”

“I-uh…” he stuttered, pulling his hand away, “I’m making sure you’re focused.”

You squint. “...Uh-huh.”

Miles looked away awkwardly. “Your hair’s nice.”

“Did ‘em myself,” you replied proudly, and a lightbulb goes off in your head. “Ooh, I could re-do your braids if you ever need fresh ones!”

The boy blinked again, and part of you expected him to outright refuse the offer. But a tiny smile spread across his lips instead.

“I’ll think about it.”

Miles stared at you for a moment, gnawing at his bottom lip like he was hesitating to do something when his phone lit up.

He unlocked it and his brows furrowed; he appeared to be reading something. 

Miles glanced at the time, and his stomach dropped:

9:50. How did it get so late? 

“Fuck,” he breathed, expression darkening. “Mami, I gotta go. It’s late.”

You sat up and checked your own phone with a wince. “Damn. Your mom left a half hour ago.”

Miles stood and took a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck. He said his next words as if they pained him, “Guess we gon’ have to drop you off, then.”

You looked at him warily. “Wait a minute, who’s we?”

-

The worn leather of the car seat made you shift uncomfortably as you sat with your arms crossed. The woody, citrus scent of a cologne that was likely discontinued a decade ago overpowered your senses.

“You sure you don’t wanna sit in the passenger’s seat, Miles?” boomed Uncle Aaron’s deep voice over a Da Brat track turned up too loud.

“I’m good,” Miles called out next to you. “Let’s roll.”

As the engine of the vintage car revved beneath you, you glanced behind you at what was in the trunk. You raised an eyebrow at the tarp that covered…whatever the hell was in there.

Miles didn’t talk about his uncle often, but the murkiness that seeped into his voice and the hardness in his eyes every time he said “my uncle” didn’t exactly endear you to the man. 

“You live a couple blocks from here, right miss?” He addressed you politely.

“She has a name, tío,” his nephew interrupted with a laugh.

“My fault, my fault,” Aaron chuckled. “What’s your name? Maybe I know your folks.”

“Y/N L/N,” you answered. You kept the distaste out of your voice, raising it an octave.

The red traffic light illuminated the man’s long face when he turned to you. 

“L/N,” he pondered the surname, before nodding in recognition. “I went to high school with your momma! She doin’ alright?”

It’s too dark for Aaron to see you press your lips together before answering, “She’s doing fine, thanks for asking.”

“Did every adult within a ten-mile radius go to the same high school?” Miles asked.

“Wasn’t nowhere else to go without moving to Jersey, might as well have.”

Nowhere else to go that they could afford, you added mentally.

The image of the tall, bulky man that appeared on television to announce things once in a while materializes in your mind’s eye. 

His small, bald head is almost engulfed by his hulking boxy figure. Ever since he became mayor, you started seeing more fancy coffee shops pop up, all square and painted white. Nothing ever changed on your side of the pond, though. Your mother always shook her head solemnly when he announced some new project, or budget, or whatever.

Miles shifted in his seat, and the clank of metal from his backpack pulled you away from your thoughts. You turned to him with an amused look.

“What’s in your bag? It sure don’t sound like school books.”

He froze, and an oppressive silence suddenly descended upon the three of you as you quickly realized that you had said something you weren’t supposed to.

He and Aaron shared a quick glance, and you caught an eyebrow raise from the latter. Miles blurted out, “Robotics club stuff. I finish all our competition entries at Unc’s house ‘cuz it’s more space over there.”

You nodded slowly. When he scanned your face for a reaction, you knew you had just been lied to.

“That’s cool,” you replied pleasantly. “You should show me one of your projects sometime!”

Anger simmers in your chest watching him sigh quietly with relief. Barely a week, and he seemed to be proving Tianna right.

An automated voice chimed, “Your destination is on the right.”

The car slowed to a halt as Uncle Aaron pulled over.

“That’s me,” you announce, unbuckling your seatbelt and sliding your bag over your shoulders. 

“Get home safe, Y/N.”

“You too, Mr. Davis. G’night, Miles.”

You don’t look back at him before shutting the car door behind you.

And then there were two.

“I told you to make sure Rio takes her home,” Aaron sighed, massaging his temples.

“I know, I know,” Miles thrust his hands into his pockets. “I lost track of time.”

“Forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your neck.”

“You think she believe me?”

Aaron looked his nephew in the eye through the rear-view mirror.

“Imma be honest witchu, man, that girl ain’t stupid. She ain’t believe shit you just said.”

“I’m that bad of a liar?”

The man laughed heartily.

“It’s not even about that, man. Can’t lie to your girl. That’s rule number one.”

Miles frowned. “The hell was I supposed to tell her? I had to lie.”

“Exactly. You put yourself in a position to have to lie,” Aaron explained as he began to pull away from your house. “Don’t make it a habit. You ready?”

Miles pulled up the red mask he had on beneath his chin, concealing the lower half of his face. “Born ready.”

[kastlequill]

ii/v. unearth without a name: the world that hardens as the harsher winter holds

pairing: keegan p russ x f!reader word count: 1.8k synopsis: the second time you hallucinate keegan tags: whumptober, psychological warfare, blood and injury, brainwashing, hallucinations, hurt no comfort, established relationship, ghost!reader, 4+1, no y/n warnings: canon-typical violence, torture, non-consensual drug use ao3: read here ← prev | next →

II.

A semblance of a regimented schedule formed shortly after those first couple of days.

Two goons would begin the cycle with a visit, using you as a human punching bag until your ribs burned and your frayed nerves went numb. Then came the waterboarding and the breaking of bone, be it a rib or a finger. Last, but certainly not least, Rorke would work on molding your mind into something foreign, though whatever drug he’d administered on Day 1 hadn’t made a reappearance yet.

Yet.

You didn’t have it in you to treasure that simple blessing because your captors were constantly swapping one torture method for another, determined to keep you guessing. Recently, they’d started to get more creative; extreme sensory deprivation was still a favorite of theirs, but they had now added physically-intensive beatings into the mix.

Time elapsed strangely in this hellscape. With no sun to denote mornings and no moon to introduce nights, you had to measure its passage in terms of the damage inflicted upon you. Which was to say, what marked the beginning of a day wasn’t the sunrise; instead, it was the piece of stale bread that you received only after your captors made you beg like a dog.

And to determine when you’d reached the end of another day having survived, it was Rorke, not the setting sun nor the rising stars, who served as a useful metric. Night began in the moments following his departure from the chamber once he’d satiated his raging appetite for sadism, leaving you to succumb to your injuries and fall unconscious.

Eventually, those unfulfilling few hours of sleep would be interrupted by the force of the tossed bread hitting your head. Like clockwork, this cursed routine repeated again and again, though you couldn’t discern whether or not these recurring events were consistently scheduled at a specific hour. It would come as no surprise if they’d been staggered to hinder you from adapting to your new normal.

Such was the way of the Federation.

Regardless of the truth, according to your unconventional form of tracking time, nightfall was nearly upon you. Rorke had been here for what seemed like an eternity, putting forth a valiant effort in beating you into submission and breaking your will.

You just had to bear this pain a little while longer. Then, you could allow your body to recuperate through a bout of fitful slumber.

“Still got some fight left in you, eh?” Rorke wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Hands that had spent the last however many weeks tenderizing your flesh and splintering your bones. “First, let me express my gratitude. I appreciate you makin’ this fun for an old man.”

You wanted nothing more than to kill him slow, to watch the crazed gleam fade from his deadened eyes, but you’d decided on Day 2 not to engage him beyond what was strictly necessary. If you managed to keep the talking to a minimum, then perhaps Rorke wouldn’t linger for too long. A flawed logic built on desperation.

It worked on occasion, boredom striking him sooner rather than later, ending the interrogation session without much fanfare. Though that wasn’t always the case.

The man was a loose cannon. He lashed out on a whim then switched up before you could process what he’d originally done. Even his co-conspirators avoided being caught in his blast radius, but no such hope existed for you, the prisoner who still breathed only because he willed it.

“Now, with that out of the way—”

An uppercut collided against your chin, sending you reeling, doubling over, stretching the muscles in your arms as the ropes that dangled you from the ceiling strained under the pressure. The impact rattled your teeth, and the metallic taste of blood doused your bitten tongue.

The bastard possessed an absurd amount of power for his age. And you, half-starved and broken in one too many places, were the lucky recipient of said power.

“What are the Ghosts plannin’ to do near the Gulf?” He forced your gaze to meet his, yanking your head backward by the roots of your hair. Resolute in your fatal desire to safeguard your comrades to the best of your abilities, your mouth stayed stubbornly shut.

If you couldn’t be of use out there by their side on a battlefield, the least you could do was stop the enemy from obtaining crucial intel. You couldn’t give the Feds the upper hand, not when that ran the risk of landing Merrick, Hesh, Logan, Keegan in some shallow grave.

Rorke sneered. “So that’s the kinda game you want to play? Alright, little martyr, keep your secrets. But listen up, and listen good: when I find all ‘em out, because I will find out, you’ll wish you hadn’t been so blindly loyal to those damn mutts. Better hope you’ve still got most of your fingers when that day comes ‘round.”

The grip on your hair relinquished, and your head dipped low, too fatigued to support its weight on your own. You were content to stay like that, crumpled and weak, but the sound of rustling fabric bid you to remain present and raise your lidded gaze.

Your stomach dropped at the sight of Rorke pulling out a syringe from a pocket on his tactical vest.

“Remember this?” Its needle glistened menacingly in the dull lamplight. The man must have seen the brief panic that flitted across your face because he gave a wry chuckle. “Hell, of course y’do. No need for a reintroduction, then.”

Without further delay, Rorke jabbed the syringe into a bulging vein in your neck, dehydration making it appear more prominent than usual. Your fear spiked as he injected its contents into your already-fragile system. Compared to the previous dose, you began to experience the drug’s effects much faster, blood suddenly afire, choking on hurried gasps, jaw locked. It held your body hostage while it hijacked your biological milieu and scrambled your brain.

The bombardment on your five senses was so overwhelming that you had to close your eyes, the surrounding visual stimuli too abrasive to withstand in your compromised state. When you did finally blink them open again, the scene that greeted you was of a different man, a man whose presence you greatly welcomed.

Decked out in full gear and face lathered in greasepaint wherever his mask failed to conceal skin, Keegan stood several paces behind Rorke. Arms crossed, feet shoulder-width apart, cold stare devoid of any affection but flowing with disappointment. Before, he’d spoken everything you had never wanted to hear; this time, however, the apparition uttered not a single syllable.

A flash of white heat diffused throughout your body from head to toe as rage superseded pain.

Did he really think you were a failure, a disgrace? Was that why he opted to hold his tongue, finding you unworthy, an utter waste of his breath?

You recalled the days when he had barely spared you a glance beyond ensuring you weren’t falling behind. When he had gradually begun to reference you as an irreplaceable part of their established collective; when eliciting a low chuckle from him had been considered a victory and earning his praise had become something of an addiction. When he had listened to your whispered confession then offered up a weakness of his own; when he had agreed to learn bit by bit how to give you his heart and how to take yours in turn.

Looking back, the two of you had come so far. And yet, the fruits of your labor would go uneaten. You weren’t foolish enough to assume survival was still a possibility after a few more rounds of torture; if your mind didn’t break first, then your body would surely shut down.

Two good months. That was all you had gotten with him as a lover.

Just two months.

Another punch to your liver yanked you from your spiraling thoughts. “You ready to talk? No? Suit yourself.”

The onslaught resumed, ripping old wounds anew, further bruising already-sore skin, weakening calcium-deficient bones. Truth be told, you’d been ready to talk for the past eight cycles of this shit, but loyalty prevented you from squealing like a pig. Regretfully, this very same loyalty was beginning to feel misplaced.

Were they even searching for you? Was he? Had your comrades so easily written you off as KIA, unable to justify expending valuable, scarce resources on a mere stray?

Sure, Keegan’s last visit had been cruel, biting, but at least he had acknowledged your existence, your situation. The exchange, though agonizing, had reinvigorated you with purpose and determination to make it out of this hellhole alive. Now, if this fabricated Keegan would only address you, then the cracks in your composure and willpower could be rectified, bestowing upon you the strength to persevere, to suffer in silence until either your rescue or your death.

If he would only speak to you as a human being separate from this current timeline of misery and monsters among men, then maybe you had a real chance here. Maybe, you would again bask in the warmth of a glorious sunrise.

Say something.

He didn’t, of course. It shouldn’t have surprised you; he had never been the type to fill the quiet with nonsensical chatter. But you needed this, as starved of him as you were of food and water. You’d wait three seconds for him to correct himself, or else you would give him a piece of your mind, a proper tongue-lashing, scratchy throat and raw vocal cords be damned.

A well-aimed kick in the calf triggered a mental countdown.

Three. . .

Continuous heavy blows struck your temple, the resulting craters spouting a stream of blood, its damage producing a shrill ringing in your ears.

Two . . .

Forgetting the sound of his voice, struggling to replicate the unhurried yet impassioned cadence with which he spoke, gone was his deep tenor—

One.

“God, make it stop,” were the words that left your cracked, chapped lips. But there was no God to answer your pleas; not down here. Still, you begged. “Please, just make it fucking stop.”

Keegan said nothing, content to continue his silent appraisal of the scene before him. Scrutinizing your weaknesses, judging how much more damage you could endure before your total destruction. A sentinel, a voyeur of your rawest pain.

Rorke, looming above like impending doom, a deadly omen, simply laughed and laughed.

And in that moment, you couldn’t decide which of the two men you hated more.

tbc.

[e-vay]

Evay QA Bulk Post 3

Here’s the latest assembly of asks, assorted by topics so you can browse only what interests you. Also, some questions refer to the Choose-Your-Own-Adventure game I made, so to avoid spoilers for those of you who haven't played it, I put those asks all the way at the bottom. If you haven't played my game yet, please go play it!

PERSONAL ASKS

Anon asked: E-vay may i ask which tablet mark do you use for your drawings?

And dreamylumi-art asked: Was wondering what is your favorite brushes In Procreate? Your drawings look so fun and bouncy that I’m interested in your process!

A: I use an iPad and I do all my drawings in Procreate now. I like to experiment with brushes, but the primary brushes I use come standard with Procreate. I use the "Procreate Pencil" for my sketches and the "Technical Pen" for linework :)

Anon asked: How are u and ur family doing? ❤️

A: You are so very sweet for asking ❤️ We're all doing really good right now. My dad's surgery went great and he's cancer free and fully healed. My mom is on medication that's helped her a lot. Things are also looking up for my younger sister (she even got engaged this Christmas!). I'm stressed but for good reasons hahaha I'm very thankful and counting my blessings right now.

twistedchaos101 asked: Hey, what’s your MBTI?

A: I just retook the test and I got "INFJ-T Advocate" for myself :)

karura-senpai asked: Have u ever heard of these new bollywood movies like Animal and Dunki which are popular rn around the world because of instagram reels and tiktok videos...

A: I can't say that I have, I'm sorry! My Tiktok FYP is very niche so I don't see many things about movies on there.

edwinflores428 asked: E-vay, since you're also a Beatles enjoyer, did you hear the new Beatles song 'Now and Then'?

A: I had not known about this before you told me! I just listened to it and I really loved it. It has that beautiful, 60's-Beatles feel to me. Thank you so much for point it out to me!

Anon asked: What's your creative process when going into writing / planning for a comic? Apologies if this has been asked before.

A: I normally start by just jotting down any super rough concepts/quotes in my notes app. If the piece I'm doing involves stuff I don't know by heart (renaissance clothing or certain landscapes or anything like that) I'll work on gathering a TON of resource images. That way I'm not interrupting my drawing process by repeatedly stopping to look up references. I try to do it all up front and have it saved somewhere I can easily access.

Once I have more time, I'll write out the script in a Google Doc. I break up the script by each panel. I won't always have all the elements ready in my head, and sometimes I'll combine panels or separate them more, but I can always adjust:

Once I have a basic script, I can start to rough out the drawings/panels. These are just gestural drawings; I'm not looking to do anything too detailed here. I'm trying to figure out what best captures the emotions/energy of the scene and determine the natural flow of where your eyes will want to read the art and word bubbles:

Then I move on to the "pencils." This is my opportunity to nail down the expressions and flow. Sometimes I'll realize the page is imbalanced so I will redesign the panels so it has more even weight distribution or make it more dynamic/emotional. I always draw the characters in different colors so it can help me make sure I know what lines belong to which character:

Then it's on to all the fun stuff: Lines, coloring, shading and adding text!

I hope this answered your question! It's pretty straight forward :)

Anon asked: have you ever watched the anime fairy tail? if no i think sonamy fits the main couple NaLu (natsu x lucy) really well, like as if they’re similar 🫶🏻

A: I'm sorry, I've never seen it! I don't watch much anime anymore.

Anon asked: Can you make different characters(aka people sonic characters/oc) in your own style

A: When I'm open for commissions, yes! I am not open for commissions at the moment but I plan on doing that this year.

--

MISC SONIC ASKS

chrismantike asked: What’re your thoughts on longclaw (the owl from the sonic movie) does she exist in your AU as Sonic’s mom?

A: I liked the relationship we saw between Longclaw and baby Sonic in the movie, but I consider the movie as something entirely separate from the game/comic canon. I don't include any of the movie elements as part of my AU.

essycogany asked: What do you like most about Prime!Sonic?

A: Hmm, I think my favorite thing about him is how open he is with his emotions. In this show, he's very verbal about how much he cares about his friends and he doesn't hide it when he's sad or upset about something. In other media, Sonic has a habit of masking his emotions. I get that that's part of his personality, but it's nice to see this different side of him. (I also like how he showed more emotions in Frontiers, too!)

juli071023 asked: e-vay, what motivates you a lot about Sonic these years, why do you love it a lot, what motivates you about that character?

A: In the words of Young Neil, 'that's kind of a big question' haha. Simply put, the franchise just fuels me with excitement and joy and love! The character Sonic represents happiness and freedom and living in the moment and loving life to the fullest and I think that's such a great outlook to have. From a meta standpoint, I love how good the Sonic Team is to us fans. They engage with us regularly and put out SO MUCH CONTENT for us, more than any other franchise I'm aware of! I mean there are plenty of other great IPs out there, but you don't get the bombardment of games and shows and comics and social media engagement (etc) that you get with Sonic. I just think that's so cool! The fans love Sonic so much and the creators know that and reward us for our commitment. It's awesome.

Anon asked: So who do you think would win in a fight between Mario and Sonic

A: I gotta go with my boy Sonic! But of course it's better when they team up :D

Anon asked: How do you feel about the Dadow theory/au? As in Shadow being Silvers Dad. I honestly like it a lot.

A: If they're related, I think it makes more sense for Shadow to be Silver's grandpa or great grandparent. I think there are plot holes to say that he's directly his dad but I'm definitely open to them being related. Plus I think people can headcanon/au just about whatever they want, so I'm not against that theory :)

Anon asked: Hi e-vay, I hope you’re having a great day!! My question is: if there were to be a Sonic movie that’s only about Sonic and the guys but they were all being played by human actors, which actors do you think would suit them best?

A: Thank you so much, I hope you are too! Oh man this was so difficult but I put a ton of thought into it. And I'm sure there are still tons of actors I'm not thinking of who would be better, but here's what my gut tells me: Older Sonic: Max Greenfield [x] [x] or Jack Quaid [x] [x]. They're so witty and handsome and are built like runners! Younger Sonic: Jack Dylan Grazer Older Amy: Alison Brie. Even if it wasn't a live action movie, I so desperately wish that Alison Brie could be Amy's voice actor. I'm actually working on an animation where Amy is paired with some Alison Brie lines because I think it's such a perfect fit. She's sweet and funny and strong and sexy. She's on the petite side but she has that confidence that just commands a room. Ugh, Amy and Alison are my dream women 💖 Younger Amy: McKenna Grace Older Tails: Justice Smith or Cole Sprouse Younger Tails: Noah Jupe or Jacob Tremblay. Sorry, I don't know many young actors but I think they're both great! Older Knuckles: Terry Crews or Jason Momoa Younger Knuckles: Tyler James Williams [x] [x] Shadow: Jensen Ackles or Michael B Jordan 💖Swoon💖 Older Rouge: Ana de Armas or Charlize Theron Younger Rouge: Jenna Ortega or Sophie Turner

Anon asked: How old are the sonic boom characters in your opinion?

A: Firstly, I've said this before but I don't think Mobian age works the same as human age. I consider the Sonic Boom characters as all being what we'd consider as late teens or young adults. They all act like me and my friends did when were were college age haha

Anon asked: What do u think tails looked/acted during puberty🙂

A: That's what Tall!Tails is all about! I think he shot up in height and outgrew Sonic immediately. Maybe he got a bit more snarky and might mutter about how annoying it is that Sonic doesn't think things through before acting, but Tails is a sweetheart and I think he'd overall still be nice even while he's in that awkward stage of life.

--

MY OCs/AU ASKS

@redbirduniverse13 asked: Hi i love your art 💖 My question is, are your characters aware that other versions of them exist?

A: Thank you so much! No, they aren't aware of any other versions of them out there. Ruff would probably be most hopeful to meet other versions of himself since he's into comic books and would love the concept of the multiverse.

twistedchaos101 asked: What's your ocs MBTI?

A: I have too many OCs to do all of them lol But I'll do it for Aurora and CC. As Aurora, the results from the test were: "ENFP-T Campaigner" As CC, the results from the test were: "INTJ-A Architect"

Anon asked: Question, how is Aurora able to glow ?

A: Aurora has photokinesis, which gives her the ability to manipulate light. This results in a lot of things she's able to do that involve light, but glowing is the easiest thing for her to do (and is the hardest for her to suppress lol). She was born with these abilities but they didn't manifest until she was about preteen age.

charlieangel345 asked: You know everytime I saw Aurora glow up, her photokinesis power changes color. It made me wonder if she feel happy, angry, or sad, her light power might change colors. I can imagine she can create rainbow light.

A: Absolutely! Her powers are severely influenced by her emotions, so the color of her glow would definitely change based on her feelings. I have her inhibitors glow green naturally, but she could do any color under the light spectrum.

freshcreationgarden asked: I like to think Aurora's favorite fairytale growing up was beauty and the beast. Something about a handsome prince who hides beneath a rough exterior who believes they are not worthy of love who is bound to a "Rose"

A: Oh that is just too sweet! That metaphor is very perfect for what I write for her romantic future ;) I have said in a previous ask that Thumbelina is her favorite fairytale, but I like your headcanon too!

Anon asked: Hi, something randomly popped in my head about like the comics of aurora and I wondered, has aurora ever gotten sick?

A: Of course! She's just a regularly lady so she gets sick like average people do. I see her as the type that doesn't get sick often, but when she does it LAAAASTS. (That's how I am and it sucks!)

Anon asked: I know this might be a weird question, but can it be possible if Aurora can do chaos control with a chaos emerald like Sonic and Shadow.

A: I'll be honest, because we don't know much about Chaos Emeralds, I don't know who is capable of using them or not. But because Sonic is capable of using Chaos Control, I'm going to say yes Aurora should be able to as well. I don't think it's a technique either of them can master like Shadow does. Chaos Control seems second nature to Shadow.

Anon asked: if we go by sonic underground lore imagine Aurora finding out that she's technically a princess/duchess. Like sonic always call her princess because that's what dad's typically call their daughters, but then she finds out and her mind just explodes.

A: Honestly, I'm not a Sonic Underground fan. I know a lot of people love it for the nostalgia, but I didn't watch it growing up so I don't have any ties to it and I am not a fan of the story. I'm okay if people want to headcanon tying it in, but it's not for me.

*The next question is a Shadora Ask. Skip if you don't like Shadora*

Anon said: Hi, so glad you’re back! Just reread Boom!Baby where Rouge mentions how hedgehogs have a lot of babies and I think it’s kinda funny in the future Shadow and Aurora have eight

A: Thank you so much, I'm so happy to be back! Yeah, Rouge really knew what she was talking about 😆 I bet she told Shadow the same thing when they were expecting!

Anon asked: Does aroura ever run into her ex again?

A: Aurora spends most of her life in a small bubble, rarely leaving her home town, so she would have run into him now and then. Again though, they were kids when they were "boyfriend/girlfriend" and you can hardly even call them that (Imagine like in the Barbie movie, how Ken and Barbie don't know what it means to be Girlfriend-Boyfriend) so it's not awkward running into each other. It's more of a "Hey there's that person I used to know"

prophecyhyper asked: When Aurora was born and Amy said "She's more perfect than I imagined" What did she imagine of Aurora looking like?

A: She didn't have an exact image in mind when she said that. It was more like an amorphous concept. You know somehow the baby will look like you and your partner, but there are so many different outcomes. So she would have daydreamed about all the possibilities: the baby looking more like Sonic, the baby looking more like her, maybe the baby having elements of their grandparents.

Anon asked: Will Sage exist in your AU?

A: Yes! I adore Sage!

*The next question is a Shadora Ask. Skip if you don't like Shadora*

Anon asked: Hey Evay, I’ve been thinking about this lately. It’s kind of silly question. If there is a naughty and nice list, which of Shadora Kids is naughty or nice.

A: This was a great question and I'm so sorry I missed it before the holidays! This is all in fun, none of them got punished: Piper: Nice but ONLY after Santa had to give her a lecture on how she needs to not be a smartass and boss around her siblings Zane: Naughty (He did too many stunts indoors!) Nova: Nice Aster: Naughty (He and Blitz plotted to kidnap Santa) Blitz: Naughty (She finds it a point of pride) Diamond: Nice Cinder: Nice (He's scared of Santa) Boon: NICE! (He doesn't know the meaning of the word naughty!)

Anon asked: haven’t seen CC in a while, could we have more CC please

A: There will be more CC, I promise! :)

kbluetoons asked: Say, after reading your spindash lesson comic (which was really cute by the way), what if Aurora showed her kids how to spindash like how Sonic showed her?

A: Aw I'm so happy you liked it! Yes, learning to spin dash is vital to a hedgehog's upbringing ;) She'd teach them very young but then immediately regret it because they'd be spindashing all over the house. Now she knows why Sonic was so hesitant to teach her when she was little!

mod-bubamon asked: I know spooky season is over but how do cc and tails handle horror movies? Does cc Criticize every litter thing the protagonist do? Does tails even get scared after all he's been through? IF CC GETS SCARED DOES SHE HUGS TAILS TAILS FOR COMFORT??? THIS IS IMPORTANT

A: Hahaha I loved this question! First of all, Spooky Season is never over for me! ↜(ˈ╰ •ω•)╯ψ So bring on all your Halloweeny ideas! CC would not be fun to watch horror movies with. She would be overly analytical, not only of the actions that the victims are doing but how unrealistic the injuries/gore/battles are haha. I see Tails as someone who originally was afraid of scary movies, but watching them with CC has actually helped him to be less afraid of them. Now he spots the same flaws she does and they like to roast them together! Just to clarify -- CC does get scared of things, just not horror movies.

Anon asked: Hey, I rediscovered your art recently and almost forgot how much I loved it! I love CC and was wondering if you had any small head cannon kinda things you have for her and Tails you would share that you haven't already?

A: Well welcome back and thank you so very much! This question was not related to the previous question, but the previous question sparked an idea for me so I'm going to expand on it here. When Tails and CC first started watching horror movies together, CC noticed that Tails was super on edge. To help relax him, she'd take his tails into her lap and pet them to calm him down. He's not as scared of movies anymore, but he always has her stroke his tails while they watch shows together now :) Also, CC is still getting used to Mobian mannerisms and nuances. They've made a nightly routine where during dinner, she debriefs Tails on all the new conversations and interactions she's had with people and Tails scores her on how well she's adjusting. She likes the challenge and strives for a better "score" every day!

--

SHIPPING ASKS

essycogany asked: How are you feeling about the new Sonamy material from this and last year? Things are really starting to become more obvious as the years go on.

A: It does my shriveled little heart so much good! I don't know that they'll ever cross that line in canon, but I love how much their relationship has evolved compared to years ago. It means the world to me that Sonic considers Amy as one of his best friends and as someone he can depend on (and is even willing to think about dating ((in reference to that cut dialog line from Frontiers)). And I love that Amy has proven that her feelings for Sonic are more than just a fan-crush; she genuinely loves him for who he is and will always be there for him. UGH IT MAKES ME FEEL SO ALIVE!

Anon asked: I just wanted to say that I love love love your sonamy works! :D Absolutely adorable (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Also, only if you want to answer ofc, what are your thoughts on the ship Metamy (Metal Sonic and Amy)? Thank you for the lovely food you bring and have a wonderful day!

A: Oh gosh, thank you so much! You just made my day wonderful by this sweet message! I do ship Metamy! After all, I believe in my heart of hearts that Sonic has feelings for Amy and Metal Sonic is supposed to be the same as him... ^_~ I think despite his transgressions, Amy has a special place in her heart for Metal. He's one of the reasons she even met Sonic in the first place! But what I'd prefer most is for Metal Sonic to have a Metal Amy. That way everybody wins 💕

Anon asked: Hi e-vay I love ur dr who art!! Question, do tenrose remind you of sonamy? Or do any characters or couples from the whoverse remind you of any sonic character or couples?

A: Ahhh thank you so much! I always thought my Doctor Who art got lost in the void so I'm so glad you found it! TenRose is my favorite DoctorWho ship, so I think by law I have to relate them to sonamy haha. But honestly I think RoryXAmyPond suits sonamy more if you reverse the roles. Rory's absolute dedication to AmyPond--regardless of death--was the definition of love, and that's how I feel Amy Rose is for Sonic. I can't think of any other ships that are good parallels. River Song reminds me of Rouge just that she's savvy and flirty. Forgive me, I stopped watching after Eleven regenerated so I'm not up to date on anything. If you don't like the Shadora ship then don't click this link, but I have drawn Aurora and Shadow as Ten and Rose before :)

Anon asked: Werehog Sonic and Werehog Amy kiss meme or a mini comic about both kissing in their werehog forms?

A: I kind of already drew that :) It's the 10th drawing in this post.

*The next question is a Shadora Ask. Skip if you don't like Shadora*

penguin-evere asked: hello! this is my first time doing something like this. i've loved your art for a while now (probably since 2017-2018), and i love the new style you have! anyways, i wanted to ask if you've seen the frontiers twitter takeover, and the newfound information about shadow's secret like of some good ol' t. swizzle music, and was curious if aurora would be a fan too, and if they would go to a concert together! i think it'd be really cute.

A: Thank you so much! And I'm so relieved you still like my stuff even after all this time :) Aurora loves pop music and so yeah I could see her being a Taylor fan for sure. Although I don't take Swifty!Shadow as canon (lol) it is still fun to think they could bond over that music together!

*The next question is a Shadora Ask. Skip if you don't like Shadora*

Anon asked: what was the shadora confession like? Cause I like to imagine that it was shadow who confessed and that he did it in the most dramatic way possible, cause he's our drama king.

A: I don't want to reveal too much until I've properly drawn it, but yes for my stories Shadow would confess his love first. He's technically loved her longer since he met her when she traveled back in time to save him so once they've "re-met" I don't think he'd be willing to hide his feelings too long. It's Shadow so of course it has to be so romantic and dreamy~!

--

ASKS RE: MY GAME

Anon asked: How did you make the Trick Or Sweet Halloween Game, can you show me what you used or did to make it? If you can do a step by step that would be helpful or just tell me how you did it that would be helpful:))

A: Oh man... Honestly, it was way too complicated of a project to explain in just one answer. And I won't be able to explain any of the technical/coding side. I watched so many tutorials but I just couldn't grasp it, so my husband had to code it for me and I have no idea how he managed it. From a non-technical standpoint, I had to first write out the script for it. That means writing out all the dialog and also writing out every option possible. Even though my game was fairly linear, this was still complicated to write. What helped me was using icons and colors to help me know which actions would lead to which outcomes:

Then came the longest part, the drawing! I had to draw a variety of sprites and backgrounds and objects. Also, some of the actions you take make certain items go away, so I had to remember to hide them depending on the path you took. Once I had all the elements, I assembled them in a Slides presentation to test it out. If you're not doing anything too complicated, you could probably get away with making your game entirely in Google Slides. Mine was too complicated and I wouldn't be able to publish it to my website but it was good for testing. When it was ready for build, I had to make a comprehensive guide for Ryan showing what clicks lead to where, what sound effects should be played when, when the music tracks should switch, etc:

He programmed it in Adobe Animate. I don't know how he did it, other than he's just a brilliant babe and I thank god for him lol

Anon asked: Just at a curiosity though, whatever happened to everyone (especially Sonic & Amy) AFTER your truth serum wore off from your ‘Trick or Sweet Adventure’? Also how about Shadow & Rouge? Did they get affected as well?

A: They lived happily ever after, of course! If the two just told each other how they felt then they'd be happy (in my opinion) so they just needed a little magical kick in the butt haha. I didn't have any plans for Shadow or Rouge, but if I could cast a spell to make them happy then I would give Rouge a throne of diamonds and Shadow the chance to ease the pain in his heart (Ｔ▽Ｔ)

---

Thank you all for the questions!

Evay QA Bulk Post 1

Evay QA Bulk Post 2

[daisybianca]

INSTAGRAM AU

Daniel Ricciardo

liked by danielricciardo, landonorris and 445.092 others

yourusername our favorite uncle <3 their bond is so strong that they sometimes get confused and accidentally call him daddy🤣

view all 2.982 comments

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liked by charlesleclerc, yourusername and 972.082 others

danielricciardo attended the tattoo artist this morning with a lady I bumped into just moments before the scheduled appointment.

view all 5.726 comments

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liked by danielricciardo, lewishamilton and 879.028 others

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danielricciardo thank you, baby❤️💕 (not thankful for screaming and singing the bday song next to my ear to wake me up, though.)

user62881 AHAHHAHA. They're the DEFINITION of a powerful couple. Iconic.

yourusername my voice is angelic to say, at least. you SHOULD be thankful for that, as well.

landonorris yayyy. one year closer to becoming a dilf. congrats on your accomplishment, Daniel👏

danielricciardo ran out of birthday wishes and decided to search it up on pinterest, huh?

user62677 AHAHHA. leave our baby Lando alone pls😔

landonorris I'm not a big fan of pinterest, so no, I chose Google instead. But at least I try to be creative, you know.

[charmercharm3r]

could i request riding but mostly fucking han in a new set of lingerie? (like a new set for him as a present for anniversary or something?)

i just cant get han out of my head lately bro 😵‍💫

oh wowww I love the idea of hannie being into lingerie. may I suggest another one of my own that alsoooo stirs that pot a bit ;) (sharing is caring) ONTO THE NEXT!!!

Scarlet Letter

HJS

Masterlist

wc: 4k

Synopsis: Night owl workaholic boyfriend, needy horny girlfriend. What else needs to be said?

warnings: smut, sexual explicit content, softdom!jisung, porn with no plot lol, thigh riding, thigh fucking, pretty pretty lingerie, nicknames (good girl, bunny), cum eating, reader gets a bit dumb but he loves it lol, lmk if I missed anything :3

-

This was a bad idea, a very, very bad idea that could end catastrophically. He hated surprises, so why were you doing this? It would’ve been easier if you’d just told him you were frustrated, god knows he would’ve been more than happy to make sure you were fucked and happy.

But no. Difficult is your middle name. Jisung wasn’t any easier going, but you knew he hated surprises, especially ones that interrupted his creative process. Then how did you still manage to put on the deep red lingerie and get to his studio? It was so cold out and you were dumb enough to hide the lace set beneath a big trench coat, one Jisung knew you to wear during the winter.

You’d been together a good amount of time, explored new sexual territories together that broadened both your horizons. However, this was exponentially new. His studio was scared, untouched and pure and free of distractions. Yet that only made you want to christen it even more.

Twiddling with the necklace he’d given you for your three month anniversary, the letter “J” was cold beneath your fingers and made you shiver. The metal against your warm skin was sort of soothing as you anxiously looked outside the window of the cab. Soon enough, the company building was coming into view and your leg started to bounce. The driver all but kicked you out, probably annoyed because it was pushing midnight and people were supposed to be at home in their warm beds.

Thankfully, the visitor pass Jisung had gifted you a while back was able to open the door after hours. You remember he asked for those privileges by begging on his knees to his manager that, “someone needs to drag me away from this place eventually. I’m just such a hard worker!” The memory made you smile for a second before fear washes over you upon heading up the elevator.

The beeping of your arrival to his floor was nowhere near the sound of your heart beating out of your chest.

He hates surprises. Oh god, he’s gonna be so mad. Maybe he’ll be happy to see me? No, he hates things like this. I should’ve just added a day to fuck in his google calendar.

Your brain wouldn’t shut up as you paced back and forth, still in front of the elevator. His studio was just a few doors down, there wasn’t supposed to be anyone else here. There was no way you’d get caught, so that wasn’t an issue. But oh, if Jisung were to get mad, you’d cry and probably sleep alone for the next few days. You couldn’t have that.

However, you missed him. Sleeping alone wouldn’t be far off from what was currently happening between you two. Jisung had been spending more and more late nights and coming back so early into the morning, just to leave as soon as the alarm went off at 8 a.m.

And you were desperate. So desperate that you’d found the deeply hidden courage to walk up to his room and open the door before you could talk yourself out of it.

“This room is occup— oh! Y/N!” Jisung sat at the desk with a pair of headphones much too large slung around his neck. A pen and yellow notepad lay in front of him with crumbled balls of paper scattered around the room.

His smile was big and bright, though eyes ridden with sleep deprivation. The same toothy grin faded within a few seconds, “baby, it’s so late. Why are you here?”

Closing the door behind you and locking it, you placed your stuff onto the couch behind him. He didn’t move, which meant he was busy, so you came to him. You walked behind his seat and wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing in his hair and nipping ever so playfully at the tops of his ear. “I’ve missed you.” Truthful enough.

He took the answer well, kissing your wrist in front of him and nuzzling into your arm. “I’ve missed you too, but—“

“Ah, no but’s. I wanted to see you.” Jisung looked at you over his shoulder, confused. You’d kissed the questioning expression off his face too quick for him to retaliate, Jisung taking in your lips happily.

Though, he pulled off a moment later, “your lips are so cold. I should turn on the heater.” He moved to stand, but you pushed him back down by the shoulders and pulled out his rolling chair away from the desk. “What’re you doing? Aren’t you freezing? That coat isn’t warm enough.”

Now or never, I guess. 

“Then warm me up,” the words were a sultry whisper. A good start, Jisung hadn’t told you to go home just yet.

The stumble in his words gave time for you to stand up tall and confident, then untie the front of the coat. His jaw dropped along with the garment to reveal the scarlet lingerie. Jisung was practically drooling, eyes raking up and down your body unsure of where to look. You particularly liked how he ogled you, running your prettily painted nails over the snuggly fit garters around your thighs that made the flesh slightly spill over, then up the lacy underwear– the hole in the crotch was a wonderful touch that he could find for himself– and finally snapping at the strap of the sheer balconette bra.

Jisung groaned deeply, slumping back into his chair and spreading his legs. “What did I do to deserve this?” His voice strained as he pushed his hair back.

As you slowly walked up to him, Jisung hurriedly hooked his fingers into the strappy garters and tugged you closer, now standing between his legs. Warm hands palmed at the skin of your thighs and up your ass as he took in your appearance, his tongue quite literally hanging out of his mouth. You let him touch and grope you because just having him near was already rewarding in itself. His tongue disappeared back into his mouth as you reached down to cup his face, thumb swiping at the wet spot he’d left. “You’ve been away too long, baby. Been needing you so badly.”

You simultaneously threw one leg over his lap and moved to straddle him, exposing your bare cunt as you towered over his figure. However, his gaze fell onto your chest right in front of his face, not noticing the crotchless panties until you stripped one of his hands off your ass to cup your pussy. Jisung’s eyes went wide at your assertiveness as well as the sudden wetness that coated his fingers. “What– oh, have mercy. Look at you.”

He slid his fingers through your soaked folds as his thumb played with the lace hem of your panties, clearly enjoying the filthiness of it all. As you moved to remove the headphones from around his neck, Jisung’s horny brain snapped back into work mode. “Fuck, babe I can’t. I have so many things I still need to finish. You’re so incredibly hot and you have no idea– No. Fucking. Idea– how badly I want you. I just can’t right now.”

Pouting your lip, you caressed his cheek and pushed his bangs back, only barely grinding your hips against his hand that didn’t move. In fact, he pressed harder against you, letting you spread your slick around his fingers and rub your cunt into his warm skin, “then tell me to stop.”

Jisung didn’t speak, just watching you roll your hips and use him for your pleasure. It wasn’t until you let out a muffled whine did he finally pull away.

You looked at him with wide, glossy eyes, confused. “Poor baby. Are you that desperate you’ll take just my hand?” You nodded embarrassingly quick, not truly registering the mocking tone of his voice. “Have I been neglecting you so much you had to come bother me at work? Like a needy little bunny.”

He was getting worked up, as well. It was obvious in the cheekiness of his grin, moreso in the tent in his pants. Jisung tapped your hip to make you stand so he could pull his pants and underwear down. When you went to straddle him again, he stopped you. Jisung patted one thigh, and you knew what he wanted. He took his hard, leaking cock in hand and tugged slowly, awaiting you to take a seat. You let out another whimper, almost hesitating as you eyed his smooth thigh. “C’mon now, bunny. I have a lot of work to do. Didn’t you say you needed me?”

The nickname made you shudder. “B– but I need–”

“My cock? No, you don’t deserve that yet. What makes you think you could interrupt me and still get what you want?” The involuntary pout of your lips again made him softly reach for your hip to bring you closer and coo, “maybe if you do as you’re told, you’ll get a reward. Be a good bunny for me.”

Slightly reluctant, you did as told and climbed into his lap again, only this time his bare thigh was between your legs. Jisung radiated body heat like a furnace, you could feel it without your core even having to touch him and it made you throb in anticipation. No, this wasn’t what you wanted, not even close. But it was a step in the right direction. Bracing your hands onto his shoulders, you looked at your boyfriend with pleading eyes. He only nodded his head, not giving in.

Jisung’s head fell back against the chair, watching you hungrily through his lashes when you sat down fully. Lip between your teeth, you didn’t know what to do next. Truth be told, this isn’t something you’d ventured before, even with Jisung. The way he was looking at you, though, lustful with his cock in his hand and restrained frenzy that you knew he could unleash at any moment, you wanted so badly to appease his wishes. The only problem was how humiliating it was.

The same humiliation was something you loved coming from him. Jisung made you feel small, miniscule even as you towered over him and he was laid out bare. Using his thigh to get off was a new low blow to the embarrassment that was usually fed to you in words, nicknames like the one he decided to use today.

“I’m losing my patience, bunny. Use me now or you’re not coming at all.”

Use me now, oh how delightful that sounded. The three little words coerced you into rolling your hips forward. A stifled moan found it’s way out your mouth at the new sensation, his hot skin a strangely wonderful feeling. So you pushed your hips back, deciphering whether or not you could physically will yourself to continue or whine cutely until your boyfriend gave you what you wanted. After all, he always wanted you just as much as you wanted him, no matter how much he denied it.

But Jisung was always impatient, releasing his dick to grip tightly onto the garters and force you to move faster, guiding you and flexing his thigh. You verbally whimpered at his assistance, more like assertion in how roughly he pushed and pulled your body against him. Even if he wasn’t touching himself, you could see his own neediness when his cock twitched upward and leaked even more precum. How badly you wanted to lick it off, suck him until he was whimpering just as much as you were now.

Oh, you were picking up speed now. You probably looked feral at how quickly you’d become accustomed to this sinfully delicious feeling. Using your boyfriend like this, in this sacred room, you were coming undone much too fast. You wanted to savor this and make Jisung see how much you’d been needing him, but the feeling was too great.

His dirty mouth didn’t aid in prolonging the fun, “that’s it. Good girl, such a good bunny. What a horny little thing, aren’t you? If I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t let you come at all. Make you ride me like this all night, deny you for bothering me and making a mess all over my thigh.” You cried out louder at that, almost scared he’d actually take his own words seriously. Humiliation and desperation is all that coursed your veins and made you reach under Jisung’s shirt, hooking onto the bare skin of his shoulders. You just wanted to feel him, feel that he was just teasing the way he always did when you were like this.

“Please, please let me. Need it, need it, need it. Have to cum. Have to—“ your words strung together as you grinned mindlessly against him, no longer needing his guiding hands. Still, he kept a firm grip on the garters and watched with his mouth slightly open. 

“Running out of time, baby. Gotta get back to work. Cum now or don’t cum at all.”

That was all the motivation you needed to lean forward into his neck and press your clit the hardest into his thigh you had all night, clenching your own legs around him as the high made your body tense powerfully. If anyone were to have walked past the studio, they’d have heard your loud, lewd, borderline pained yet blissful moans as your hips came to a halt.

You almost didn’t hear Jisung whispering in your ear, his hands coming up your back and pulling your upper body closer to his. The feeling of his chest beneath your fingers was the only thing grounding you from the embarrassing yet scandalously delicious actions you just took part in. 

“Come back to me, baby,” he said sweetly, digging his hands beneath your ass and grasping firmly. You hummed in response, then yelped in surprise when he stood up and took you with him.

Your ass came into contact roughly with the desktop he’d been working at. To catch yourself from falling you’d accidentally knocked away the notepad and scattered the crumbled papers to the floor.

Jisung no longer looked relaxed like he did when he was below you. This was the frenzy, the lust and unadulterated nature that came forth when he was frustrated— whether that be from work, life, sexually, anything and everything. And you were there to take it happily with your legs wide open.

He had to do very little to get you to spread for him again, cunt glistening from your orgasm and new wave of arousal from seeing your usually reserved boyfriend so worked up. The dim yellow orange lights lit up his face beautifully, hungry and so full of love at the same time. 

As if second nature, you took the initiative to scoot forward on the desk and make more room for Jisung to tap his heavy cock against your sensitive pussy. Nerves raw, the feeling made you jolt and clench around nothing. “Oh, how cute. Such a pretty pussy. My bunny’s got the prettiest little cunt. Perfect for me.”

Mindlessly he muttered, just running the tip of his cock through your wet, used folds. “Listen to that, baby. You’re so wet. What’s got you all worked up?” He made a show of spreading your arousal even more, precum mixing and coating his dick thickly. 

“Y— you. Need more, need you.” Jisung chuckled at that, your voice reeking of deprivation.

“Fuck yeah, you need me. Clenching around nothing like a slut. Are you a slut, bunny?” You only hummed, to which Jisung lightly smacked his dick against your overwhelmed clit and made you jump again.

“Yes! Yes, a slut— your slut. Please,” hips bucking up, you reached for his disheveled shirt to tug him impossibly closer. Jisung gave you that, let you pull him in and push his shirt over his head though not taking it off entirely, just enough so his abs were on display for you.

Dragging your nails down his chest, Jisung’s eyes fluttered closed as his handle on your thighs tightened. He let out a guttural moan before hiking your knees up and taking a step in. At this angle, all he needed to do was slide in, but first he’d placed your knees to his pecs, heels steadying you on the table. Your nails trailed over his biceps and forearms, finally enticing him to fill you.

The initial stretch was so intensely maddening, you’d been craving it for so long that your eyes physically crossed and rolled back, another loud moan following. Jisung himself wasn’t any sturdier, stuttering into your cunt as you engulfed him in heat. It took him a minute to calm down when he’d finally gotten to the hilt, taking in your lips with a sweet, reassuring kiss. Even when you were contorted like this, Jisung never failed to make sure you were comfortable.

When he’d regained his composure— all the while you were slowly losing yours— he moved his grip from your legs to your ass, taking in handfuls as he pulled out half way before slamming back into you. It was lazy in the way he opted for pulling you to him rather than pushing his hips towards you, though you didn’t mind. The desk shook and he’d met his own actions half way, hitting your deepest parts from the very start.

It wasn’t sloppy but it wasn’t graceful, either. Nowhere near should it have been considered lovemaking when he was taking you so harshly, so primally that all you could do was whimper and hold on for dear life. All the more, it was the kind of fucking you’d been so helplessly needing.

Solid, consistently Jisung kept his rhythm until his own touch starved body began to betray him, orgasm arising much too quickly for his liking. He had to pull out before he finished prematurely.

You hummed sadly as he did, bringing the previous (weightless) threats to the forefront of his mind again. “Still not satisfied, bunny? You got to cum, even had my cock. What more could you want?”

Relaxing your legs and letting them hang off the desk, you took his hand in yours and pulled him in for another uncoordinated kiss. Against his lips, you muttered, “want your cum— inside— cum inside me— want it— deserve it—“

“Oh no, you don’t deserve it,” Jisung detaches from your lips and kneaded the flesh of your thighs, toying with the garters again.

“But I was good. Did as you asked—“

He looked around the room for anything to clock you on. Your hand rested on top of the yellow notepad, ink smeared and crumpled, he smirked. “Where are we right now?”

You looked at him, confused, eyes watery and shaky. Still, you answered him, “your work.”

“That’s right. You barged in here, baby, demanding I fuck you. Is that right?” You nodded, ashamed. “I think I’ve been more than generous. You don’t get my cum tonight. Bad girls need to learn.”

With that, Jisung stepped aside for a moment to bring your legs together then lift them up, hooking them into the crook of his arm and gently leaning them to the side. If you were confused before, you were even more now. Though, Jisung always had a way of impressing you with his genius mind.

Creative as always, he took his cock in hand again and used your arousal as lubrication. You watched him intently, hole clenching around nothing, so needy and wet. He kept it that way, pushing the blunt cockhead into your raw clit before messily sliding it up and between the warmth of your closed thighs. You suppose you were both trying new things tonight.

This was torture in its sinfully purest form. Only barely did his dick graze your swollen bundle of nerves on every push and pull. Jisung almost laughed at the desperation on your face— almost. He couldn’t really do that, he had to push down his cute aggression to just give in and just fuck you senseless, though you were already half way there. No more concept of time or where you were, you were brainless and pliant beneath his hold.

“Perfect little fuck bunny,” he muttered, occasionally catching his lip between his teeth. “Look what you made me do. Wish I could be fucking you right now. My bad girl needs to learn, though.” You held back tears, overwhelmed from your previous orgasm and his words, paired with the shameful way he used you and that you were loving it. If your moans didn’t give you away, the useless clenching of your cunt surely did. “My naughty bunny with her pretty hole. Want to be filled? Want me to stuff you full?”

“Yes, please! All I want, I won’t bother you again. I promise!” Jisung smiled down at you, his eye catching the initial necklace around your neck. Simultaneously, he gripped your legs tighter with one arm, brought his free hand down to your cunt and circled your entrance with his fingertips, while leaning forward and connecting his lips to your neck. You had to steady yourself from tipping over at the sheer force of him.

One more pleading cry, he sunk two fingers into you, picking up the pace of his slick cock between your thighs. It took him a second, but matched the speed of the digits with his thrusts. It wasn’t nearly as good as his cock would’ve been, but the light graze across your clit was slowly nearing you closer to the delightful edge once again.

His teeth somehow found the pendant of your necklace, keeping it in his mouth as he fucked you, fucked himself and using you to do it. It was so dirty and taboo, the location just being the icing on the cake. Your hand tangled itself in his hair and pushed his face deeper into your bra clad chest. Your scent was overwhelming him, teetering him on the very brink of combustion until you regained half the mind to speak.

“Be good— swear I’ll be good. Good bunny. Cum, please cum.”

Jisung couldn’t hold back anymore. A sudden rush of extra adrenaline made him rut faster into the ring of your plush thighs with no more pattern. His thighs slammed against your ass and finger pushed deeper into your cunt, your pleasure just barely behind his own desire to get off in this very moment. When he finally came, hand in your cunt stilling then decorating the scarlet garment with his hot, white seed, Jisung’s brain flipped. He watched your mouth drop and let go of your legs, falling to his knees and immediately attaching his lips to your clit. The pace of his fingers was nowhere near the speed they were before, but rather focusing his energy on sucking you in. The softness of his lips were soothing and stimulating at the same time, a wonderful change of pace that was all you needed to reach your own final high. The blinding white light clouded your vision and made your body shake in pleasure, with Jisung holding you down through all of it.

When your muscles relaxed and you slumped back onto the desk, your boyfriend stood, taking you into his arms. He was sweaty, you were sweaty but also covered in his cum. Brushing your hair from your forehead, Jisung used the same two fingers that were in your pussy and picked up some of his cum, bringing them to your lips. You took it gratefully, tasting both you and him as you swallowed everything he gave you.

Humming satisfaction, Jisung stripped his shirt off and draped it over your tired body. It was a sweet gesture considering you only had a coat for the ride home.

He kissed you gently, helping you off the desk and into his chair while he reorganized the room. “Was that worth the interruption?” You finally spoke up, somewhat nervous of his answer.

Jisung looked up at you from where he crouched on the floor and picked up the fallen papers. He sported the goofiest, brightest smile, “definitely worth it. Can I schedule another one? I’ll put it in my google calendar.” 

[3terna15unshin3]

time, curious time

1 of 6 ★ 6433 words

masterlist — next

— warnings: alcohol consumption, recreational drug use

“This area’s too dry. Grass looks like hay. It’ll look rubbish to set all the mic stands on it,” You argue.

Matty sighs in defeat. “You never like my ideas,” he whines sarcastically, rolling his eyes in the process.

Your elbow juts into his side, making him groan and then laugh. It’s your turn for an eye roll.

“Do you want my help or not?” You challenge, “I don’t have much experience with music videos, to be fair, so if you'd rather empty your pockets and hire someone professional—”

“Okay, okay, okay. Shut up. Let’s keep moving.” He interrupts.

You both continue on your path, scoping out locations for a video that the boys want to film later in the week. There are plenty of spots Matty suggests, stopping repeatedly to ask you to capture a certain frame. Though, as he had complained, none of them have been up to your standards. 

By now, you’re used to his constantly fleeting and sometimes messy creativity. You find comfort in it, actually, and feel the most empowered in your own strength as an artist when Matty’s there. Your camera seems the strongest in your hands when it’s pointed at him.

He nudges you to point out one last possible shot. The trees hang hauntingly low and its branches are frail, almost skimming the tops of your heads. Your feed tread over the now slightly greener grass as you come closer and look around in awe. Matty’s right, for one of the few times today.

“Now we’re talking,” You whisper in satisfaction, raising your Nikon to your eye out of instinct.

You back away slightly to get him in frame. From behind, the last hour of daylight shines through the kinks of Matty’s hair, backlighting him. It accentuates the slope of his nose as he turns to the side and looks up at the tree above him. His side profile is one of your favourite things about photographing Matty. It’s strong, but gentle.

He glances back at you after hearing a few clicks of the camera’s shutter. The sun that lights his silhouette contrastingly shines directly onto your face—since you face him—painting an orange glow across your skin.

There’s something that makes you feel like he’s staring. And you’re right, because he is, but it’s a stare that felt good. Not exposing, or perceptive in a way that usually made your heart drop. You almost want to look behind you to see if maybe he was looking at something else.

It’s sort of how he always looks at you, though. Maybe that’s how he looks at everyone, you think, but part of you hopes it wasn’t. That you were an exception. Something outstanding. 

You gasp when Matty suddenly lunges to steal your camera from your grip.

“Gimme this for a sec,” he mumbles. He’s lucky it isn’t hung around your neck as it usually was.

Embarrassment immediately creeps up your neck as he points it at you. You habitually block his view of your face with your hands, and insist, “Stop it!”

“The lighting’s nice!” Matty protests, pushing your hands away.

You replace them quickly to prevent any photo opportunities. “I don’t have space on my memory card for you to fool around, Healy.”

He rolls his eyes, turning the lens back onto himself to take a horrendously close-up picture of his own face. You giggle at the way his wrinkled skin was on display from the weird expression he pulled and the odd angle he held your camera at.

“This is literally our last location. Relax.” Matty points out.

Then, a bird tweets aggressively behind you, so you turn around to look for the culprit. Your eyes widen when it catches you off guard and squawks again, your sight flickering around the sky to try and find it. 

“God, what was that?” you mumble, but when you face Matty again, he has your camera held up. A flash and click tells you that he sneaks a picture.

“Seriously, Matty.” You say after catching him, and his smile falters. The thought of him capturing you candidly makes your stomach flip with anxiety, and he knows that. 

Since he’s aware, he hands your camera over, in case he’d pushed a bit too far. It’s the way you’ve been since he can remember; always groaning and uncomfortable to be in a group photo at school or denying his requests to pose for his camera every once in a while.

It grows frustrating sometimes, since it’s hard for him to grasp what you could possibly be insecure about. And, most of the thousands of pictures from the years you’ve grown up together showed everyone else’s faces and not yours, which made him even angrier. But that’s how you wanted them, after all.

This attribute of yours is one of the things most different about you and Matty. He loves having eyes on him—craves it, even. Wants to be seen and understood. But you're an observer, on the other hand. The world is fascinating to you, lighting your urge to preserve and savour its meticulosity. It explains your addiction to capturing it all with a camera. 

The difference makes you two a great team. Though you regret your commitments in moments like these.

“Let’s go before we get shat on by that bird,” You snicker, lighting the mood back up and giving Matty a shove. He stumbles over with a chuckle and the two of you bee-line for where his car was parked. 

By the time he’s arrived outside your building, the sun has set. You yawn after a fairly long day, walking in with Matty and dreading the four flights of stairs you’re about to climb together. The lift in your building is under maintenance and has been for the past few weeks, so you’re used to it. But that doesn’t stop Matty from complaining.

“What maintenance could they still possibly be doing on that fucking lift?!” He puffs as you tackle the first flight.

“I’d rather take the stairs than plummet to my death in a dodgy lift.” You add. 

The second floor approaches. Matty trails a couple of steps behind you and is already audibly out of breath.

“Agree to disagree, I guess.”

You finally reach your level and walk side by side over the creaky floor of the corridor. There’s still quite a way to travel until your flat nears.

“I feel like you can’t really complain about the stairs when you and the guys only live on the second floor. That’s half the amount we need to get to ours,” You point out, fishing your keys out of your pocket as the flat numbers grow closer to your own.

“And what do I do every time we arrive? Walk you up to your flat! Up four and then back down two!” He exclaims, “I’ll complain as much as I’d like.”

You unlock the door and your best friends are sitting on the sofa. Their heads of hair—one blonde and the other raven—turn around to watch you and Matty barge in. 

“And each time I insist that you don’t need to walk me up,” You counteract, bending down to take off your boots. 

Matty stops at the doorway, not planning on sticking around. He gives a wave to Avni and Greta with a small smile, but isn't done making his point to you. “I don’t trust our weirdo neighbours. You should thank me, honestly.” 

“Fine. Thank you for always walking me up. Happy? Now please leave. You smell like dirt from when you laid down on that pile of gravel,” You say, waving him off and grabbing the edge of the door to let him out. 

“I wanted to see if it looked cool,” he defends, then pulls you in for a hug goodbye, and pecks your temple before you back away. He begins walking back down the corridor to the stairwell. 

You call out, “It didn’t!” and watch him throw both of his middle fingers up in response. 

The door closes and you bolt the lock. You sigh, ready to collapse into bed. But before you have the chance to, Avni motions for you to come sit on the sofa. And though there are many places you’d rather be, you oblige, sinking down into the cushions between her and Greta.

“Come on, talk to us! We haven’t seen you all day,” she nags, nuzzling the side of her face into your shoulder. 

“Yeah,” agrees Greta, “I thought you were going to be back after your shift?”

“I was going to be, but then Matty picked me up and brought me dinner as a bribe to scout music video locations with him all evening. I was hungry, so I accepted his offer.” You explain.

Avni shrugs. “That’s a fair deal, I guess.”

You begin to stand up, thinking that what you’ve given was enough to satisfy your flatmate’s curiosities, but Avni’s hand yanks you back down. 

“But wait,” she starts, “Everything’s okay, right?”

There was worry in her voice that confused you. “...Yes? Why would it not be?”

“Oh,” she let go of a breath she seemed to be holding. “I just saw Matty hug and kiss you before leaving so I thought he might be comforting you, or something. I don’t know. Forget I asked,” Avni finishes with dismissal. 

The three of you chuckle casually and they finally allow you to get up. 

“Doesn’t he usually do that? I feel like that’s always how he bids any of us goodbye,” You say, walking around the sofa to head to your room, but pause to hear their answers. 

“I’ve known that bloke since he was pre-pubescent and never has he just casually kissed me without reason,” declares Avni, raising an eyebrow suggestively and making you shake your head in annoyance. 

You know what she’s trying to get at, but you don’t want to talk about it. You never want to talk about it. Avoidance really is your best friend.

She’s convinced she sees something there—and though you secretly wished there was something, the idea of attempting to do something about it makes you want the ground to swallow you up. You could barely admit it to yourself, let alone another soul, or Matty.

Plus, you really are convinced that it’s just a you thing, not a you and him thing. That you just need some time to get over it, even though it’s been nearly ten years. How could it ever be a you and him thing?

Thankfully, Greta’s big ego and her pestering lighthearted crush on Matty shuts down anything Avni is trying to insinuate, when she says, “He’s kissed my cheek plenty of times,” as if it’s obvious.

You glance back at Avni, and as you expect, she’s giving you a look that screams, ‘Of course Greta’s just said that…’ 

“There you go,” You point to Greta and end the conversation, acting like she helped prove your point. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow. I work the morning shift so I should be back early.”

They respond tiredly and continue watching the telly, not concerned about the late hour like you are. Neither of them have an early morning to worry about, so you won’t be surprised if you hear another film begin when you’re about to shut your eyes. 

Avni is a full-time student about to finish her degree—which her parents fund for her—so she only works here and there, doing integrated jobs within her program at University of Manchester. The only time she sees the early hours of the day is when she’s been hunched over a computer through the night, writing a paper about something you don’t understand. Since it’s the weekend and Avni’s free of class, you assume she’d sleep in.

On the other hand, Greta is like you, and opted out of A-levels and uni once completing GSCEs. She’s never been all that interested in studying, so after working as an associate at the Space NK back in Wilmslow, a position opened at the Manchester location and she stuck with it. In perfect correlation with the rest of the group also moving to the big city. 

At this point she’s a manager and is earning quite a lot—certainly more than what you make at the cafe—so her working hours can be unpredictable. But since the store never opens earlier than 10 o’clock, Greta’s rarely a morning person either.

You wake up at a concerningly early time to make it to Cafe North for 6am. It doesn’t open for another two hours, but since you’re desperate for as many shifts as possible, you take on any position necessary. This morning, your position was baker. 

It’s not a strong suit of yours, and you were only hired as a waitress, but the cafe being known for its fresh pastries made the morning shift annoyingly important. So, you often find yourself trudging in at the crack of dawn to cover for your coworkers when things come up and your boss needs you.

Cafe North helps pay your bills, since doing freelance photography work in Manchester isn’t quite enough to live comfortably. Work seems to be slowing down as the year goes on as well, so your only consistent clients are the up and coming local bands. You photograph their shows even though they barely make enough for themselves, let alone to be able to pay you fairly. 

The reason you frequent the music scene is due to the growing popularity of your favourite band—the one that happens to be made up of some of your closest friends—so of course you photograph every one of their shows. Though you refuse to let them pay you, being at their gigs leads to plenty of more work, so you manage.

Thankfully, you leave your shift at the cafe with your newest paycheque in hand. So, you stop by the bank on your journey home and deposit most of it into your savings. It’s what you do every time you get paid, and the guys sometimes make fun of how frugal it makes you. 

Their teasing persists when you walk into the pub to meet them for a gig. A morning shift and a night out all in the same day is usually a bad idea, but you run home to nap for a few hours and have tea with Avni before showing up, so you hope it isn’t a completely terrible night. 

“Come on, mate! One cocktail?! It’s Saturday night, get pissed with us,” begs Ross, who has already downed a few pints.

The seven of you; him, Matty, Hann, and George, along with you and the girls, squeeze tightly into a booth to commit to your normal routine. If the guys were playing at a pub, you’d come a couple of hours before the show to have some drinks and chat shit. If they weren’t, you’d come to some pub anyway before heading to the venue. Beer was a part of the equation either way.

Weekend shows always brought the whole crew out. The audience had more bodies and their set had a bit more length. Smaller shows sometimes had your flatmates opting to stay home—busy with school and work or just not in the mood—but you never missed any. 

You like to say you’re forced to, in order to keep the band’s Facebook updated with stills of every set, but truthfully, you never want to miss a show. You’d rather be in the crowd with your eye glued to your viewfinder than be anywhere else.

“I’m a classy woman.” you declare sarcastically, sipping your espresso martini leisurely, “Plus, I just got word that my application is being processed, as of a few days ago. Gotta save up for London if I get it, can’t be draining my bank account at every night out,”

“It’s always about London. Blah blah blah London, blah blah blah internship. Fuck off,” he drunkenly spits at your face. You laugh, not offended in the slightest since you’re used to his bluntness.

“By ‘fuck off’ he means ‘we hope you get it’, by the way,” Greta reassures you after flicking him up upside the head. It made Ross wince and whine but the alcohol in his system makes it hurt less. 

It also apparently makes his reflexes slower, as you’re able to easily steal the glass from his hand to take a few large gulps to spite his comment. Ross’s jaw drops, newly offended, and moves with haste to snatch it back from you—though it’s now almost empty.

“You deserved that,” says Adam, chuckling and enjoying his full pint.

“Thank you!” You say and then clink your martini glass to his in solidarity. The rest of the group then add on and cheers you as well, leaving Ross to walk to the bar and fetch himself another beer, sulking.

“Can I just say, I’m not gonna pull a Ross and tell you to fuck off about London, but Gret can speak for herself about this whole ‘we hope you get it’ narrative,” George clarifies, “At a happy medium I will be happy for you but also very upset that you’d be leaving us.” 

You smile at his sweetness through the fear that everyone might actually be upset at you leaving Manchester. It was hard enough to break the news that you were interested in an endeavour so separate from them. The sheer distance made it even worse. 

Which is why you lied. 

The internship Ross mentions is really in New York, not London.

Well, it could have been in London if you wanted it to be. ELLE Magazine has headquarters in both cities, and there are plenty of UK internships you qualify for. But, the program that calls to you is for international study—they provide housing for a year-long position (which is a paid one, thankfully), and you feel that the scene in New York is more exciting than anything in your home country. So, you apply. 

But, change has always been difficult for you to accept; growing up and sticking to the same people, fantasising about the same career and carrying around the same camera. You enjoy your life being that same you. 

And up until you discovered the internship, you planned to be just that. You like Manchester. You know Manchester. It’s comfortable, and has everything you need to make it in the industry. But so does New York.

The idea ignites a flame in you. Nobody would ever describe you as spontaneous, or as confident, or as a dreamer. You always feel diligent. Compliant. Following through with the plan that you’ve always had. But you want to be outstanding. Unpredictable, for once. Reaching for something so big that it’s scary.

You lie because you’re scared. What will people think of you if you fail? You think about telling the truth to the people you’re closest to and it makes you sick to your stomach. 

How they probably think that you don’t have it in you to follow through with it. That you’re a good photographer in Manchester, and won’t compare in America. That you’ll be broke and back in England within months. A two and a half hour train ride of shame back from London sounded much less frightening than an 11 hour flight back from America.

Of course, they’re actually lovely about the ELLE internship. They have so much faith in you—maybe more than you have in yourself. But they don’t know that you’ll be packing up and moving 5 time zones over. And their loveliness doesn’t put your crippling anxiety to sleep, and doesn’t stop you from creating and keeping up with the London lie. It’s your safety blanket.

“Just think of it like this, George,” you begin, “Coming down and visiting me will give you guys an excuse to play some gigs and show all of the big London labels how badly they need to sign you.”

All four boys groan at the mention of record labels. They’ve been working their asses off trying to get attention from them and it hasn’t gone very smoothly so far.

“If the sad little indies in this city won’t bat an eye at us then I doubt any fancy London ones will give a shit,” complains Matty with an eye roll. 

“For a man with such a big ego you can be so pessimistic.” Avni responds. 

You’re sitting across from Matty, so you use your knee to shove his. Though his tone is confidently spiteful, you can tell that the band’s struggle to get signed sometimes gets to him.

He looks up at you since you gain his attention, and the two of you share a small reassuring smile. Matty’s knee shoves yours back. It softens his expression. 

“I’ve got a multi-faceted personality, Avni,” he defends.

She raises her hands, accepting his statement as a fine enough rebuttal. 

“At least the place is pretty packed tonight.” Ross interferes. 

Everyone looks around and surveys the busy nature of the pub they’re about to play for. Ross has a good point, and the group’s excitement grows with the realisation. They could tell the energy would be great.

With the mention of why they’ve arrived in the first place, the four boys take note of the quickly lessening time before their set would begin. So, they finish off the last drops of what sat in their glasses and eventually begin to prepare. 

It’s not long before you’re in an uncomfortably crouched position, waiting for them to come on and begin their first song. Gret and Avni stand behind you, drinks still in hand and chatting away. You adjust the settings on your camera, making sure to up the exposure to accommodate the dark pub lighting. 

Small cheers and woops erupt from a few of the patrons who are familiar with the boys, and you raise your camera to your eye when the set begins. Every time it settles on Matty, you almost feel a sense of relief to have an excuse to watch his every move. 

It paralyses you, how natural his body and mind present themselves through the music. You watch him through the haze of cigarette smoke that floated in the air, seeing his hands dance up and down the fretboard of his guitar. They move with urgency and make pretty sounds. His eyes close when he sings and you find yourself missing the brownness of his irises when they are, sighing in solace when they open back up.

You have to remind yourself to photograph the others. They’re naturals on stage as well—and you can’t deny their talent—but they’re humble in nature. And Matty isn’t. He makes the perfect frontman; overtly confident and spilling with an amplified arrogance. It’s so easy to capture him and have the photos ooze magic. You aren’t sure if the magic comes from you or from him. 

When you’re satisfied with the amount you’ve taken, you relax to enjoy the show, quietly singing along to the lyrics to your favourite tracks. Your friends chat here and there but you stay engaged with the performance. You chase contact with Matty’s eyes, which are usually scanning the depth of the growing crowd, and have to suppress your smile when you succeed, stealing his attention for split seconds at a time.

And as quickly as it begins, it’s over. You detach yourself from your camera and carefully place it back into the bag that slings over your shoulder. Applause rings through the pub. 

Everyone sticks around for a couple of hours after the show, as the boys ride on what’s left of their post-performance adrenaline—but your eyes droop with tiredness and they can tell. Clearly, the nap you took after getting back from work wasn’t enough to keep up with your friends. 

“Falling asleep on us, are you?” notices Avni, poking at your cheek, sufficiently drunk. 

You smile softly and try to shake some energy into yourself. “Not anymore,” you say, embarrassed that they can see through your attempts to hide the fact that you’ve been up for nearly 21 hours. You’re even too knackered to sip on your drink, and the copper mug sits full of a concoction of Moscow Mule remnants mixed with melted ice in front of you. 

“Quite the grandmother tonight, Y/N.” Hann teases. 

You don’t tease him back because you can tell he just cares, and will probably suggest that you make your way home, knowing his sensibility. “Can’t help it. Been up since 5,”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, 5 in the morning?! Doing what?!” asks Matty, who sat between you and the edge of the booth. 

“Going to my job, Matty. Have you heard of those? Jobs? Or have you not, since you’ve never been able to keep a real one?” 

The whole table ‘ooo’ at your burn and Matty shakes his head in disbelief. 

“In my humble defence, I have been helping George deliver for Flame and Wok and they do pay me now. So yeah, darling, I have,” he defends matter-of-factly. “You know, I slept for 12 hours last night. Maybe more. And for some reason I think I’m just as fucking exhausted as you,” 

You turn to him, confused. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to one-up me with how tired you are or if you’re bragging about how much sleep you got.”

“I’m trying to point out that you’re a trooper for still being up. And am also insinuating that I am very unusually tired and willing to leave if you come with. If everyone else wants to stay.” he clarifies.

Oh, you think, He’s just being sweet. 

“Thank God someone finally offered. I’m dying here,” you whine, “You lot keep having fun for me, alright? I don’t want to start being known as the buzzkill.”

Matty scooches sideways to stand up and you do the same, slipping on your denim jacket. 

“Oh, you will,” confirms George. You flip him off, and he laughs. “I’m joking. Get some sleep, love.”

You smile at the fact that underneath the sarcastic humour all of your friends share, is a synonymous deep care for each other. You’ve really lucked out. A sudden sadness pangs your mind when you think of the fact that you might be leaving them. You wipe it away before it can settle.

They all mutter farewells while you lean down to peck Avni on the cheek. You repeat the action for Greta, and then you and Matty begin heading out.

“See you at home,” he calls, waving. Everyone waves back, and then returns to their slurred banter and cold drinks.

He holds the door open for you and you step into the chill late night (almost early morning) air. You follow the pavement towards your building and walk side-by-side.

“I need to meet Wade before we get back, by the way. If that’s okay with you,” Matty admits. “He’s just waiting for me on the corner of Spears.”

Wade is Matty’s dealer, who regularly supplies him the weed that everyone often smokes together. At one point, you try to figure out a way to somehow split the cost by seven, but since Matty and George have a much more intense fixation than the rest of you, they agree to just pay for it themselves. 

So, you’re complicit, and follow him a block past your flat to where Wade was waiting. You’re retrospectively thankful that walking an extra block is the trade off for free weed.

It’s quick; you both throw a casual ‘Hi, mate,’ to the dealer and a few seconds later you’re already turning back with your arm linked in Matty’s, who had the small baggy tucked into his pocket.

You climb the dreaded stairs together and reach your floor. It’s mostly quiet between you, due to your energyless states, but before you come to your door, you mutter, “Thank you for leaving with me, Matty. I know you would rather have stayed,”

“Don’t be silly,” he responds, “I know I’m crazy, but I actually am knackered. I should be thanking you for giving me an excuse to leave.”

A smile is shared between you and you unlock your flat, sighing in contentment at the lessening proximity from you and your bed. “You’re right about being crazy.”

Matty rolls his eyes, and you send him a look that tells him it’s okay for him to head to his flat. That you’re all good and safe in yours. But before he leaves, he stops to say one more thing.

“You really should rest up. I know everyone likes taking the piss out of how much you work—especially tonight—but it really is a lot. And I get that it’s for a reason and you’re saving up or whatever. I just hope you know that we won’t be offended if you don’t come and take photos of every single show we play. It’s okay to miss them, really. You’ve seen it a million times over. If it means you can avoid 20 hour days and draining all of your energy.”

“I like coming to your shows. I don’t feel like I have to. I just want to,” you insist while taking off your boots, “But thank you. I appreciate it. ‘S very sweet,”

He accepts your answer with a gracious nod and briefly wraps an arm around your shoulder to press his lips to your cheek, then turns to find his flat. You watch him walk down the hall and finally close the door when you hear his footsteps bouncing in the stairwell. 

You have to suppress the giddiness you feel bubbling up and convince yourself that you’d feel the same way if any of the other guys had walked you home and said what he’s said—though you know that isn’t true.

Now washed up and in bed, you check your phone one last time before shutting your eyes. You see a message from Matty.

matty: Wanna to try out the stuff I picked up earlier?? It’s a new strain, needs opinions. I’ll be home all day tmrw just stop by x

y/n: beautiful 

y/n: ill text when i leave x

You think about how nice a joint sounds after the long day you’ve had. So, you agree, and fall asleep soundly.

But when you wake up the next morning—far too early—to the scariest email you’ve ever received, you’re even more in need of a smoke. Because you’re about to have a panic attack.

You’re moving to New York.

You reread the congratulatory words maybe 30 times before you can bear to look away. Tears of both happiness and fear threaten to spill from your eyes, but you blink enough times to make them disappear.

The kettle is whistling in the kitchen and you can hear it from your room. It’s probably Greta. You wonder if she boiled enough water for you and Avni to make cups as well, since you’re usually up by now. You can pick apart two sets of footsteps. They’re both up. 

What if they can hear that you’re up? What if your thoughts are so loud that they can hear those, too? You quiet down your quick breathing and hide yourself and your screen beneath your covers. Just in case.

You’ll have to start packing soon. Book a plane ticket. You’ve never booked a plane ticket by yourself. What if it’s hard? What if you can’t find your passport? You get up and rummage through your bedside table to find it. It’s exactly where you left it.

Eventually, after hiding out and panicking for what seems like a couple of minutes but is actually many hours, you let yourself cry. You let it all out in heaving sobs. The girls don’t hear you or question the fact that it’s past noon and you’re still in your room. They assume you’re catching up on sleep. But you’re wide awake.

You think about how bad you’ve been wanting this. You want it so bad. You would never be able to forgive yourself if you let your fear ruin it. 

So, you compose yourself. Wipe your eyes dry and sniff up the snot. Get dressed, plaster a normal smile on your face. You ask Greta and Avni if they want to come to the boys’ flat with you for a smoke. You tell them that Matty’s got a new strain he wants you to try. They agree after asking if you’ve had a good night’s sleep. You lie and say yes. 

y/n: heading over now

y/n: and bringing the others if u don’t mind

You need an excuse to have everyone in the same room again. An opportunity to tell them the news. You’re not sure how long you can go before it eats you alive. 

matty: Course

matty: Door’s unlocked

Matty doesn’t mind, but is weirdly disappointed to know that it won’t just be you and him. He calls Ross, Hann, and George out to the lounge to let them know that everyone’s coming, to act like he meant for it to be a group thing all along. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, so the boys don’t question it.

To be fair, hanging out one-on-one wasn’t out of the ordinary either. He’s just worried that you might find it odd for him to like it better that way, versus seeing the other girls. So he keeps that part to himself.

Everything’s normal when you arrive. Matty explains that the joints you puff and pass are supposed to give you a more concise high. Less scattered but definitely less alert, and maybe more focused. He thinks it might be good for writing, or something. You’re not sure. You just inhale and let it happen and then think in circles about how to start mentioning what you need to mention. It blares at your conscience. 

Thankfully, at the perfect time, Avni asks you a question about the cafe. Which you know you’ll have to quit soon. It’s the perfect segue.

She’s complaining about accidentally volunteering to organise an event for her colleagues before winter break came along. “Thought I’d just be setting up the place but now I’ve got to plan the whole program of honourees and even sort out the catering,”

“Catering? Fuck, that’s fancy.” sneers Ross.

“Right? I think I’ll plan it at an odd time so that I can just get coffee and pastries, or something,” Avni lazily says, blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth, “Does the cafe do catering? Like big carafes of coffee and tea?”

“We do,” you answer with hesitance.

“Oh, gorgeous! Would you be able to ask your boss to sort me a few? So I can use some of my budget on other stuff?” she asks.

Your heartbeat quickens. Now’s your moment.

“I would, but—” You cough and bite at the skin on your fingertips to stall, “I—Um, I won’t be working there anymore. In December.” You finally sputter out.

Everyone’s in their own little world as you hang out; George busy mixing something on his laptop, Greta bringing over her latest crochet project to finish (hoping she doesn’t get too high and fuck up the pattern), the others making casual conversation and enjoying the company. But they stop when they hear the words leave your mouth, and there’s a moment of eerie silence when the gears in their heads grind to figure out what you mean.

“Have you been sacked?” asks Adam. You shake your head no. “...You’re quitting?”

You nod slowly, searching for some sort of release in each of your friends’ expressions, hoping they figure it out before you have to say it on your own and out loud, since you haven’t done that yet. But nobody says anything, and you can’t bear any more silence. 

“I got the internship.”

A sense of shock blanketed the room before Ross finally jumps out of his seat to tackle you in an embrace. You grin, a wave of relief hitting you, and flipping the morale in the October air on its head.

“Are you fucking kidding me?! How long have you known?!” He screams in your ear, and you wince at the volume, though you can’t help but giggle with joy as your friends erupt in praise.

He climbs off of you and you stand so that everyone can have their turn wrapping their arms around you.

“I got the email early this morning and have not been able to function since,” You explain, “Genuinely had a panic and hid underneath my bed sheets for about 3 hours before I could face the fact that it’s actually happening,” 

“We have to celebrate! I should go get a bottle of champagne. Someone come with me, please. Balloons? Streamers? Do you want a cake, love? I can get a cake,” Avni rambles, dragging Greta up from her seat and heading for the door.    

Your cheeks hurt and your head spins. 

“Please, Av, you don’t have to do all that.” You argue. 

Matty’s the last to hug you so he leaves one of his arms draped around the back of your neck, standing close. He leans his head sideways and your temples touch. He leaves his head there. 

“Please, Y/N,” Greta copies you, “You deserve it. None of us work tonight, why can’t we party?!”

“This buzzkill narrative is really catching up to you…” George buts in, “And don’t you want to spend time with us before you leave? There’s not much time left, you know,”

Your cheeks finally relax, and you’re brought back down to Earth. Fuck. He’s right. The room falls silent as they all make the same realisation. 

You feel your nose get fizzy with emotion. You can’t move on and let them celebrate you without telling them the truth.

“Yeah, you’re right. There’s also one more thing you should know. About the internship,” you start nervously. 

Everyone looks you in the eye but you can’t dare to meet anyone’s stare. They sense the lighthearted and energetic mood shift, and their mouths fall flat. Why are they not smiling anymore? But there isn’t anything left for you to do besides explain yourself.

“It’s with ELLE Magazine. They have a head office in London, and I applied through ELLE UK, which is why I said the position would relocate me there. But, in my offer, they gave me the option to intern there, or at the headquarters in New York,” 

Your breath shakes as you inhale.

“And after some thinking, I’ve decided to choose New York.”

[yuurivoice]

how are you doing lately yuuri? (everyones been asking about content so i just wanted to ask something that wasnt related to it. obviously no ill will towards them ❤❤)

I'm pretty great actually!

My 2024 didn't really kick off until the middle of March tbh, but now that I'm really rolling I'm feeling good about things.

Creatively I'm charged up and full of ideas. Every time I go to the well, my cup is full. That's the best case scenario for any artist, so I'm very happy. The bigger projects will take time but I am actively chipping away at them rather than letting them stew in my brain.

Am still head over heels for Aerith after playing FFVII Rebirth, and put some solid hours into Dragon's Dogma 2, so I've been a real gamer boy so far in 2024 lol

Cats good. House good. Life good.

Nothing really new going on. Had an appointment to get my passport, that was cool and my picture turned out pretty decent so I'm not mad at that.

I'll be seeing Nothing More and Hozier in concert this month, and Motionless in White next month. Excited about that for sure.

Life is definitely very content-centric right now but it doesn't feel like work and things are going well in terms of numbers. It's an ebb and flow usually but when both of those align it feels particularly rewarding!

I've streamlined and refined some of my processes when it comes to scripts, planning, etc. and that feels good after years of just sorta vomiting on the page and hoping everyone involved can figure it out lol

Had some really wonderful portfolio submissions when I called for them on Patreon! I have many people I need to reach out to and I feel really optimistic about some of the writers that reached out. Having some wonderful scripts to use when I need to get ahead of schedule and focus my own writing on the narrative projects is really going to take some pressure off of me. Script submissions have been helpful sometimes, but now that I have a bit more brain capacity I can take extra steps to really get hands on and work with select writers 1:1. Script submissions will still be a thing, and if you haven't submitted your portfolio and think you've got the sauce...go hit my business email!

In terms of art I just need to expand options when it comes to merch, one off thumbnails, etc. to help with the flow of things. With multiple major series coming, I'd like to be able to keep Jackie on those and not have to interrupt the flow by throwing a new thing at her every other week and end up messing with the schedule because I can't stop having ideas lol

So! A lot of great stuff going on. I'm feeling great and am looking forward to smashing the rest of this year!

[notbecauseofvictories]

Hmm any tips on surviving stuffy corporate/federal type jobs? Gonna be living on my own too so any advice on how to keep my soul from crumbling into shreds would be sincerely appreciated. I've been following you since you were in Philly and I've always admired how you articulated your thoughts, frustrated or otherwise, and kept hacking away at every challenge thrown at you.

This might seem like you're asking two different questions, but really you're asking the same question different ways:

How to survive a stuffy job that doesn't fulfill you? Develop a rich life outside of the office.

How to survive living alone, and not spiral into soul-shredding depression and isolation? Develop a rich life outside the confines of your own apartment.

In both situations, the answer is to find other places, other people, in which to invest your time and interest, such that you're not relying on your job or even your own self to provide 100% of what you need. (No one is unto themselves perpetual motion machine.)

I understand that from the perspective of a full workday and a nice, quiet apartment at night, interrupting that routine can feel like death. However, I promise, you will never be as miserable as when you try to stuff all your eggs in one basket. Your eggs were not meant for that! And the basket could be a job, it could be a single relationship (no relationship is meant to be 100% load-bearing) it could be just your own apartment and what's inside it at any given moment. However great a metaphorical basket is, it's still not a good idea to put everything into that one basket. You have to grab some more baskets! You'll be happier, surer of yourself, if you can spread out the eggs between multiple baskets.

This is a lot of work, but there's really no alternative. The nice part is that you can customize---I like book clubs, family, work happy hours. You may want to join a gym, throw yourself into online dating, or find a bar that plays your alma mater's football games. Maybe a side hustle is your thing, or creative work; maybe you want to play music with the local coffee shop band, or volunteer with a deserving charity. The ways to seek out more "baskets" is infinite.

But you do have to go out and find them. Because the job doesn't love you, and the apartment doesn't love you, and so you have to find things that will---or, if they won't, they'll at least give you reason to love yourself and what you can do, say, think, explore.

It's a process 🤷