#much to the distress of the editor

[beantoeboxstories]

Peer Review (FF7 Fic)

Dear Mr. Hojo,

I would like to thank you for submitting your study, "How Much Mako Before It Croaks?" to the Gaia Journal of Biological Science for publication. I would also like to extend my deepest condolences. I truly hope that your university can swiftly locate your missing classmates soon and I cannot imagine how difficult things must be right now. Unfortunately, I must inform you that we are unable to consider your paper for publication at this time. Though I applaud your ambition I'm afraid there are several issues with your submission that render it ineligible for further peer review.

Firstly, your hypothesis. Or rather, the lack of one. You appear to have simply written "Inject frogs with mako until they explode." Mr. Hojo, this is not a hypothesis. It is a foregone conclusion. Secondly, your sample size is three subjects with no control group. Even if you did have a properly structured hypothesis I very much doubt you could prove or disprove anything with so paltry a sample size. Additionally, although you seem to value, in your words, "beautiful data" you aren't exactly clear about what it is you are measuring, either. You seem to think of "data" as some kind of abstract concept, a magical buzzword far removed from any actual math. An no, marking the number of extra limbs your subjects may have sprouted does not count.

Also, I assure you that sending the last living sample along with your paper was quite unnecessary. Please do think upon the mess involved with shipping such a sample the next time you are tempted to apply and, for all our sakes, reconsider. It was our administrative assistant who had the pleasure of opening your package, as she does with all our mail, and the janitorial staff was quite peeved with us over both the mess made of the box itself and the way she subsequently lost her lunch.

We received several letters of resignation the very next day, hers included. So please, do us a service and keep our hiring budget in mind next time you apply for publication?

Kind regards,

Dr. Stephen P. Wilworth,

Editor for the Gaia Journal of Biological Science

P.S. You could have at least included air holes.

Dear Dr. Hojo,

I confess that I am surprised to hear from you so soon after your last endeavor. Congratulations are certainly in order. Not only have you earned your doctorate, but to earn a position under such an esteemed scientist as Professor Ghast!

As to the matter of your submission, please forgive me. I have read it over and though the methodology is much improved I'm afraid it feels a little, shall we say, incomplete. In fact, I recall running into dear Ghast at a conference naught but a month or two ago and, wouldn't you know, he also mentioned this very same JENOVA specimen outlined in your paper. Although I do find his claims of it being an Ancient dubious at best. He is an excellent researcher but perhaps a bit prone to flights of fancy. Well, there is no shame in having one's hypothesis disproved. That is, after all, the way of science.

Perhaps you could help me with a hypothesis of my own? You see, although I know for a fact that you are working under Professor Ghast on this JENOVA project I do not see his name, nor those of any other collaborators, credited within your paper. Maybe you can guess at the hypothesis I have come up with? But no, surely a newly minted PHD such as yourself wouldn't be so crass. You have a smart head on your shoulders and graduated at the top of your class, so I can only assume that there has been some mistake. Especially since Ghast told me himself that he did not plan to speak much about the project, nor publish anything, for "security reasons."

So, then, let us say that this little mistake never happened, shall we? Far be it for me to cut short such a promising future before it even buds.

Kind regards,

Dr. Stephen P. Wilworth,

Editor for the Gaia Journal of Biological Science

Dear Dr. Hojo,

I found your last letter to be frightfully unprofessional. There was no need to level such insults at myself nor the nighttime pursuits of my dear, departed mother. So you can imagine my surprise when I found a new manila envelope on my desk this morning with your name scrawled on the return address. I honestly thought that you had given up on submitting to our illustrious publication in light of our last few tete-a-tetes.

Let it never be said that I give up easily. No, I girded every milliliter of my resolve and dutifully read through your new masterpiece despite my misgivings. The result?

Sir. These are crimes.

Actual crimes.

I admit that when you first said that you were infusing an foetus in vivo I thought to myself, "Ah, good old Dr. Hojo has returned to his roots! Smashing incompatible things together with the wild abandon of a five year old!" And I was relieved, for at least you were predictable.

It was only when I got to the interview with the mother that I realized you meant that you were experimenting on a human foetus. Apologies for this egregious oversight, for many foeti are difficult to distinguish in the early stages of development. My mistake.

I have directed my staff to contact your employer Mr. Shinra, Professor Ghast, and any and all authorities that they can think of. With luck, this letter will not even reach you as you will already be languishing within the darkest, most hellish cell that Shinra may possess.

Regards,

Dr. Stephen P. Wilworth,

Editor for the Gaia Journal of Biological Science

Dear Dr. Hojo,

How are you? Or rather, how are you not in prison? Did my letters never reach Mr. Shinra, or is the man as ethically bankrupt as yourself? It is strange, though, that I have not heard from Professor Ghast. I know him to be an upstanding man of the finest character.

I have lost another administrative assistant. She took one look at the stains on the butcher paper enclosing your most recent work and quit on the spot. She was, perhaps, the smartest of us here in the office for doing so and I envy her such wisdom. I admit that I cannot turn away from your macabre studies. To do so feels like I would be turning a blind eye to an atrocity.

The photos you included are vile. I have not been able to eat or sleep since I first laid eyes on them. You killed this man, didn't you. But then are the pictures out of order? He begins as a corpse, yet the ones further on show him moving, screaming, twisting. Your paper does not clear this up. It keeps skipping around and appears to be interspersed with what I can only describe as mysanthropic ravings.

I once believed there was a natural justice in this world, you know, but by your hands you have revealed that to be a fiction. Well, I may have no legal authority but I can promise you one thing: your papers will never be published. But don't worry, you will most certainly be known. I will make it my personal mission to ensure that every journal on Gaia knows of your sickness. You will become an exile from the halls of learning, a persona non grata in the eyes of science save as a cautionary tale for med students. We will give you what you want in the worst possible way.

Regards,

Dr. Stephen P. Wilworth,

Editor for the Gaia Journal of Biological Science

Welcome, readers, to the new Shinra Electric Company Journal of Science, formerly the Gaia Journal of Biological Science! Do not worry, although this journal may have a new name you can expect the same caliber of standards as always. Nothing will change in that regard!

All this means is that we have a few more resources at our disposal, which will include not only higher quality content but also a faster publication schedule! Starting now the SECJS will be publishing weekly, not monthly.

We have a very special surprise for you for this first issue. Our very own, newly-appointed Director of Research and Development, Professor Hojo, has graced us with one of his latest studies on mako-stone brain implants in project "SPW." So stay tuned! We think you will find it well worth it.

Dr. Kratus Fine

Editor for the Shinra Electric Company Journal of Science

[fairyhaos]

how seventeen act with their writer s/o

requested by anon ^^

masterlist

seungcheol

he is begging. he is on his knees BEGGING you to pls let him buy you a new laptop because the one you use is literally on its last legs and makes ominous sputtering n whirring sounds like a dying cat stuck in a vent every time you start it up. you don't let him tho bc “no cheol the memories :(((“ cuz you've had it for years but he is nearing the end of his tether and who knows. in a few days ur laptop may mysteriously disappear forever and you'll be forced to let him buy a new one

jeonghan

he's like the pet cat you don't own who likes to slink into the room and make inquisitive noises as he watches you work. drapes himself over your shoulders and makes distressed huffs when you try to dislodge him. he's never usually noticeably clingy, but when you try to write, the clinginess always springs out and you can't go five minutes without jeonghan poking his head into the room to check up on you and see what you're up to

joshua

your biggest fan. buys every single novel you write, puts on his glasses, and reads them very seriously in one go on the very evening it's released with the lamp on beside him. he looks so serious every time, but he'll always peer at you over his glasses and then give you a big grin, telling you how much he loves it. gets you to sign a copy for him and brags to everyone he knows that he has your signed novels with special messages just for him that no one else can have

junhui

he's your personal general knowledge bank. when you're searching up obscure things and slowly losing hope on finding an answer, just ask junhui and he'll either a) know the answer or b) knows someone who knows someone else who knows someone else else who knows the answer. don't ask him how to spell words tho bc he's like. hopelessly bad. blinks at you going “what's an [insert word]” before you give up and google it yourself

hoshi

alwaysssss wants to know what you're working on right now. gets all whiny when you get possessive of your work and refuse to show him before it's finished bc come on, it's surely perfect already, why are you trying to hide it from him?? loves helping you do, like, the non writing stuff. writing out plot? nooo. building fantasy maps, figuring out political systems, getting lost on a tangent on figuring out the price of beans in the 1800s? hell yeah sign him up!!! 

wonwoo

knows all the grammar rules in the world. you can ask him stuff like “hey wonwoo can i put a comma here or no” and he'll amble over to peer over your shoulder and tell you whether you can or cannot, in fact, put a comma there. helps you curate all your writing playlists for the different moods you have. gently reminds you to get back to writing whenever you end up scrolling on instagram for too long

woozi

you're even more of a workaholic than he is when in the zone, so he gets to realise how unhealthy it is to be sat in front of a computer for hours straight with no break. you get to act as each other's “let's act like a normal human being now” reminders, depending on which of you is going through a work fixation. you guys both go on runs together in the mornings even though it kills you bc at least it gets both of yo brains kickstarted to spend a day being all creative in ur respective fields

minghao

you value his opinion above anyone else's. above your beta reader's, above your agent's, even above your editor's bc those are more like advice, not opinions. but knowing that minghao likes your work, and knowing which parts in particular he really likes, is so important to you because ultimately, you want the person you love to also love the things that you create. 

mingyu

brings up the fact that you're a writer in every conversation he has with anyone ever. “oh my god look, this menu has writing on it. speaking of writing, my s/o writes actual books as a job!!!!”. your agent made him sign a contract similar to an NDA bc he just keeps yapping about your books even when they haven't been released yet. loves the noises you make whilst you're writing. thinks it's the cutest thing ever when you make overjoyed “AHA!!” sounds when you finally realise what the plot is doing

dokyeom

more than willing to be your rubber duck and let you talk at him until u figure out your own plot holes. he could be in his room scrolling on his phone but the minute you call for him, he's leaping up and bounding over to you and pulling up a chair in an instant, more than willing to let you bounce ideas off him. sits there doing nothing but looking all pretty as you talk at him and work out the tangle you've gotten yourself into. beams and gives you a big kiss when you manage to figure it all out. 

seungkwan

he buys you a biiiig wheely whiteboard and a bunch of coloured board pens to help you plot your novels. when you get stuck, he comes over and stares at the board with his hands on his hips, very gravely considering your dilemma and what would be the best way to get you out of it. you two talk about plot holes like it's the most serious thing in the world and he just nods like a proud father once you both find a solution

vernon

at this point he's like. a professional tea and coffee and biscuits supplier due to the amount of snack runs he does for you. has walked in on you lying face down on the floor during a meltdown one too many times to bat an eye anymore. also great at helping you block out actions during scenes like. he's the perfect doll. lets you maneuver him into the weirdest positions in the world with zero complaints. he just loves helping you however he can, really. 

chan

reads through your drafts whilst you're in the middle of writing, accidentally gets hooked and is begging you every day to finish the novel bc he really wants to know what happens next. he's the best at spotting inconsistencies and plot holes in ur writing so before you even send it off to your beta reader, he gets to have his hands on the manuscript to check for any changes needed. also bc he needs to read the ending asap otherwise he'll probably combust. 

request guidelines

reactions tags: @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @newgirlygirl @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @wonranghaeee @yonabutnotyuna @crackedpumpkin @wqnwoos @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @icyminghao @valenhui @sweet-like-caramel @odxrilove @kyeomyun @chansburgah @pepperonijem @jeonride @kellesvt @kikohao @astrozuya @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @all-american-fangirl @f1uffyjun @sea-moon-star @nonononranghaee @isabellah29 @mcu-incorrect @hrts4hanniehae @suraandsugar @pan-de-seungcheol @dokyeomkyeom @melodicrabbit @bananabubble

[remotewatch]

for this simp I have no sympathy 🏃‍♀️‍➡️💵

part two section A (just trust me) • part one here!

Jack Schlossberg x reader | 3.3k wc

summary: Jack steps out of line. What’s to be done?

cws: sugaring, inappropriate workplace dynamics, findom, submissive loser jack, spit kink, phone sex, he’s so pafetic innit, there will be part 2 section B and also part 3 I promise, Hermès is getting whacked unprovoked

AN: as always heaps of thanks to @mystardustmelodyyy (genuinely who knows when this would have been posted without your help) best editor to eva do it 🩵🩵

minors dni gtfo focus on getting taller first

By some grace of the universe, you get an urge to reach over and check your phone for the first time today and see “reminder: bs zoom 🤮” received five minutes ago. You barely have time to straight arm sweep all your shit off the side table into your purse and book it back to your cabana, leaving your poor Ghia unattended for the birds. A hand gets stuck putting on your coverup (another stroke of intuition, packing the button up instead of anything crocheted), but you manage to free it, toss your sunglasses aside, and join the call right on time.

Tragically, before you can mute yourself and shut off your camera, a crystal clear seagull squawk (enjoying your drink no doubt, asshole) cuts through the murmuring of waiting for everyone else to arrive. Even with only a few cameras on, you can feel every single one of “JS and 165 others” turn their attention straight to you. Amy, your coworker who you confided in about the card suspicions, turns fully to the left pressing her lips together to suppress her laughter. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the fabric of your cabana flapping behind you, blowing what’s left of your cover. Jack looks only mildly interested; his poker face has drastically improved in recent months. The team probably thinks he’s sending you a dreaded “stay on afterwards for a quick chat” message when he glances down for a moment before clearing his throat and picking up where he left off.

Your phone lights up with a text from Jack’s private line: ‘where the FUCK are you???’

You text back as inconspicuously as possible: “Ibiza??? we booked it together?”

You’d forgive him if he didn’t remember, considering the circumstances.

One Month Earlier

“Let me taste you?” Jack looks utterly pitiful facedown on his own office rug, creasing his suit to hell and back while he grinds against one broad palm. It’s a splendid view, but you’re too busy booking your flight to pay it any attention. The sun-warmed windows against your back perfectly mirror how his cheek is burning up against your calf, a delicious contrast to the icy office air tickling your bare legs.

“How much do you think that’s worth?” You ask flatly without so much as glancing at him. Jack looks at you blankly, desperately, gears turning behind glassy eyes. You place one heel on his forehead and shove him back when he tries to lean in for a better view of you

“Um, fifty?” You whip his phone around with Face ID already open, and he involuntarily bucks into his hand with a pathetic whine when the transfer goes through. There’s no formalities; you merely spread your legs a bit wider and twist your free hand into his hair as he plunges his tongue as deep as he can with a voice-cracking groan….

💳💳💳💳

“Are you upset with me? Can I buy something to make you feel better?” texts from his personal line continue to blow up your phone, disrupting your trip down memory lane.

He seems genuinely distressed, poor baby. You reply “Nooo, I’m not mad ☺️” with some extra heart emojis for good measure, followed by a link to the local leather atelier. By the time you get to your hotel suite that evening, there’s a gorgeous handbag in buttery nubuck waiting on your bed.

💳💳💳💳

Within a week of your hiring, multiple coworkers had pulled you aside to warn that Jack’s phone, Slack, and other channels of communication were perpetually set on Do Not Disturb, all sighing with resigned acceptance that ‘he responds eventually’. A few months into your tenure, you’d noted that he always replied promptly to your messages and chalked it up to gross exaggeration on their part. These days, he answers within seconds no matter when you text him.

This was your first trip out of town since you’d taken this job, and you were just a smidge thrilled to see his punctuality unaffected by the five hour time difference. Jack could easily pore over the charges littering his bank statement, but his generosity must be contagious, because you find yourself itching to keep him updated on the fun. A bikini pic here, an artful spread of your beachside mezze there. Each time, he responds instantly with a heart reaction accompanied by a picture of his spit-less coffee and “ :,( “.

You're not sure if it’s the heat or the way Jack’s forearms looked in his rolled up oxford, but when there’s a follow-up meeting on Zoom Tuesday afternoon, you decide to send him photos from last night’s rose water steam bath, accompanied by one of his emoticons.

“The water feels so nice here :)”

Admittedly, the way his jaw tenses with his tongue poking into his cheek made logging on entirely worth it.

💳💳💳💳

You’re beginning to think you could spend the rest of your days in your oceanfront cabana living on Rocha pears and sea breeze when Pepper, your favorite Maître D, comes in to deliver your breakfast on Thursday morning and mentions that “your husband” will be there soon.

“Who?”

“Señor Schlossberg! He said he has an urgent message for you.” Pepper winks playfully. “I’ll leave you love birds to it! Look, here he is now.”

It’s the first time you’ve seen Jack in casual clothes- rolled-down black basketball shorts, a backwards baseball hat, and a sweaty gray t-shirt with the word “Funcle” emblazoned on the front.

“Jack!” You sit up and start to reach for your cover up before realizing that’s silly to do for a man who regularly gives you pap smears with his nose. “What are you doing here?”

“Well,” he briefly takes off his hat to wipe the shine from his forehead; it’s unclear if it’s from the humidity or nerves. “I’m so sorry to do this, but there’s this presentation.”

“A presentation? How riveting. I’m on the edge of my seat!” You giggle, placing the raspberry garnish from your morning smoothie onto your tongue.

He smiles stiffly and manages a droll chuckle. “Unfortunately, it’s for Gary- yeah, I know” when he sees you wince. “He’s about to go postal. We need you back when I pitch.”

Motherfucker. You’ll kill him if he doesn’t get to you both first.

💳💳💳💳

Not even ten minutes after takeoff and Jack is frowning at his laptop, way too worried about a client that would have left six meltdowns ago if he ever planned on it.

You slide your feet up his legs and under the keyboard to steal some residual heat from the motor and his thighs. His face doesn’t change, but you can feel his quads tense up when you curl your toes.

“The meeting’s not until tomorrow, right?”

He doesn’t look up, too busy stabbing the backspace key. “Yeah. Why?”

“Would you drop me off at Heathrow so I can do a little window shopping?” The “s” word gets his attention. Jack pauses his frustrated pen tapping to glance up at you and raise his eyebrows.

“Window shopping? Is that right?”

“I was going to do some this afternoon, but someone interrupted and made me miss my Loewe appointment. I’ll catch the next flight back.” His thumb draws pensive circles on the space bar.

“We can both stop there. It’ll be a pain to find you a new seat this time of year.”

“You just want to watch me work, don’t you?”

“Guilty.”

💳💳💳💳

You tear across the sparkling terminal floors like a tornado, Jack scrambling after you struggling to balance your ever increasing load of shopping bags as you flit from store to store to duty free counter. The Harrods stop weighs him down considerably: “I’ve been dying for a 24 inch cast iron!” Never mind that the thing dwarfs both your stove and oven, or that you have zero space to store the rainbow of Sferra towels and linens you heap into his arms. “This red piping will be so gorgeous for the holidays!”

When you strut right past Hermès, he nods pointedly at the entrance. “Want to go in there?”

“God, no. The last time I went to the one by work, they offered me a white picotin. I’ll never get anywhere with their stupid mind games if they think I’d like something like that!”

His eyes linger on a mannequin drowning in fuzzy striped knits. “Can I at least get you a blanket? You’re always so cold on the plane.” The earnestness in his voice is enough to make you pause, and Jack’s poked out bottom lip seals the deal when you look back.

“Fine, but only if they have a real pattern and not those fugly H ones.”

“Obviously!” He just can’t help himself from snagging you a horse charm on his way out.

For the most part, he maintains a respectful distance, content to watch you stalk around the perfume counter, unblinking predator eyes roving for an elusive green apple note. At one point, you catch him leaning down to sniff your hair, and a steely glance banishes him right back to reshuffling the VAT refund paperwork.

Friday

Exactly fifteen minutes into Jack’s pitch, it’s dreadfully clear that he did not need you for this meeting, so you spend the next forty quietly seething and waiting for your lunchtime “touch base”. The tension in the boardroom grows thicker as everyone trickles out, Jack shifting uncomfortably under your watchful eye. When you collect your things and trot wordlessly back to his office, he follows close enough to literally breathe down your neck. A click of his lock and the whisper of the blinds, and you’re twisting his ear until he sinks down to his knees, already stumbling over his words.

“What the FUCK was that?!” you hiss right into your boss’s face, not caring about the spit that lands right between his eyebrows. “I looked so stupid sitting there with nothing to do like I’m your little accessory!”

Jack’s jaw snaps open and shut uselessly like a marionette before he finds his voice.”I’m so sorry; I should’ve been honest with you. It just really helps me focus when you’re here on important days. It’ll never happen again. I swear, there’s nothing more important-” you cut him off before he can really get going, releasing his ear and hauling him back to his feet by the tie.

“You son of a bitch!” You snarl, dragging him along while you pace between the bookshelves framing his desk. “I should be eating fresh pomegranate on the beach right now! I booked an aerial yoga class with a former olympian! But NO, I needed to be here for this meeting. Those were your words! Why did you lie to me?”

You’re surprised by the softness of your words, and Jack looks as if they’ve gutted him straight onto the carpet. He takes a minute to massage his temples before daring to meet your gaze.

“I didn’t want you to think I was looking for any reason to bring you back, or like I was trying to control your trip. I was losing it prepping for today and panicked, but that wasn’t right.” He chews on his lip for a moment before adding: “I also didn’t think you’d believe me, how much you calm me down. It sounds like bullshit even saying it now, but it’s true.”

“You thought I’d assume you were lying, so you lied?” Jack grimaces hearing it laid out so plainly.

“Yeah, I did.”

“And how did that work out?” He looks down at your iron grip on his tie, looped around your hand enough to force him into an awkward stoop.

“It could’ve gone better. I’m sorry about that.” You fight to keep the scowl planted on your face, but the downright obsequious sincerity pouring off him cuts straight through it. Half a step closer and he has enough leash to straighten up fully; the unobscured relief on Jack’s face is nothing short of heart melting. He leans in eagerly when you lift his chin and offer a gentle swipe over his jawline, “Be honest with me next time.”

“I will. I promise.” Finally releasing the tie, you step back to lean on his desk and give him a proper once over. His puppy eyes are going to be the death of you.

“Alright then. Sit.” Jack’s knees hit the floor before you can finish the word, unmoved by the resounding thud that echoes throughout the office.

“Should I get the rope?” He can’t stop himself from swaying in anticipation.

“Ugh, I can’t even look at you right now.” you exhale dramatically, spreading your palm over his forehead. “Let me calm myself down.”

His relieved grin shatters the tension, and, like clockwork, you start manhandling that mane of hair, guiding Jack south and letting him sneak in a few pecks along the way. You’re not made of stone.

“As you wish,” he murmurs peacefully.

💳💳💳💳

In between your ferocious shopping sprees, Jack had stayed true to his word, continuing to pay your rent month after month. Your studio apartment was still on the smaller side and may or may not have a mold problem, but at least now it was filled to bursting with late-night impulse purchases from 1stDibs. In particular, you were proud of the Alexander Girard rug that you’d converted into a wall tapestry to hide the massive crack in your back wall wainscoting.

Your nighttime routine has grown lavish as well. Lately, the end of the day meant changing into a plush terry cloth robe, making a pot of specialty oolong tea, and lighting a Cire Trudon candle. The time change is still kicking your ass, so you also throw on a face mask and eye patches, plus your favorite microfiber headband with tiger ears, for the whimsy. As you massage your favorite rosehip oil over your collarbone, your mind can’t help but drift to Jack and how nice his tongue felt there earlier. Sure, you weren’t thrilled to have your time in Ibiza cut short, but it was so touching how genuine he’d been in his office. You two weren’t the types to play mind games, but it’s not like you spilled your guts out to each other either. Once your session ended, you even stayed behind to discuss how his presentation went. He’d listened raptly, jotting down occasional illegible notes before asking what kind of food you’d like delivered for dinner since there were zero groceries left in your apartment.

God help you- you decide to call him once you flop onto your new tufted Kluft mattress.

“Hi-” he answers instantly “I’m so glad you called, I was actually thinking about calling you because, again, I am SO sorry, I was so out of line this week. Who was the olympian you booked? I can get them over here for that aerial yoga class, we could do a whole workshop-”

“Jack, stop,” you cut him off before he can go on another one of his famous tangents. “I accepted your apology, and I know you’re sorry. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh. What is it?” His tone shifts from frantic to concerned “Is something wrong? Do you need anything?”

“No. I just wanted to let you know that I will be finishing my trip in Italy.”

“Oh! You should go. I’ll be ok for a few days.”

He sounds utterly unconvincing, but his wanting you to enjoy yourself is genuine; god, it’s always so genuine.

“Do you want to come with me?” you squeeze your eyes shut, not sure what you just brought upon yourself or if that was even an option within your arrangement. The breathless ‘Seriously?’ you get back after a beat and a half feels rocket-powered, like a triple shot of adrenaline.

“Yeah. I still have all the tours and accommodations booked for later this week so we can go to those. But if you’re in, we are NOT leaving early. I’m serious, Jack, I don’t care if Gary blows his brains out in the conference room, I’m going on that yacht!”

“Gotcha,” he laughs. You can so easily picture him kicking his feet in the air. “So, what else did you plan?”

“I just had to spend a few nights at Borgo Santo Pietro.”

“Oh that’s a lovely choice,” his voice slips into a low purr that hasn’t graced your ears before; you must’ve woken him up from the sound of it.

“Yeah, I was thinking massage in the gardens, wine tasting all afternoon, room service dinner because I’d probably be jet lagged.”

“Mhm,” there’s a tinge of breathiness to Jack’s voice, and you can just barely hear fabric rustling in the background. “What else?”

“Then an unstructured day for shopping. Super chill so I have time to browse without being yanked back across the pond-”punctuated with a giggle so he doesn’t start groveling again. He’s too busy panting into the mic to bother.

“And then I’ll charter their boat on the Lake. I’m renting it for the whole day so I can really take my time, see the sights and dive in the grottos in one of my new L’Agence bikinis-you remember those, right?. I’ll probably have to bring all of them on the yacht, just in case. And my footwear- I’ll need the Ferragamo flats, those sheep’s wool slippers from Daylesford market, maybe something sparkly for the evening?

“Will you need a new dress?” He gasps. You can hear the snap of elastic on his boxers, eliciting some goosebumps on your skin.

“No, I think it would be fun to wear a heel with a bikini… but I could add on some Pavè drop earrings and a diamond lariat. Wouldn’t that be nice? It’ll look like I’m dripping in jewels.”

He lets out a long groan that makes you throw your head back with satisfaction; he was putty in your hands.

“I booked a private painting lesson because the suite has a lovely pied-á-terre. Then there’s this service where you can get a bath set up by the head of spa staff- they’ll incorporate all the oils and extracts you could possibly want. It also comes with the option to get a massage afterwards, although I guess you could do that if you’d like.”

Your voice is starting to fray into arousal around the edges, but you’re enjoying yourself way too much to keep a lid on it, and the pitiful whimpering noises from Jack are just music to your ears. You absentmindedly stretch your legs over your percale duvet and continue:

“Some prosecco would feel just heavenly to pour down my throat after such a full itinerary. I should order a whole case for the suite. Two cases! Should we get enough to fill the bathtub? So can you shower me with it?”

There’s no response, just the obscene slapping of skin mixed in with Jack’s strained noises. Your lips curl into a mischievous smile as your heart rate speeds up right along with him.

“You’re being so rude, you know? I invited you along out of the kindness of my heart and you’re too busy fucking your hand to plan our time together.”

“Sorry-yes, yes, two cases! Oh my god-”

He veers off into a fit of ragged grunts, louder and louder then silent. There’s nothing on the line but desperate, deep breathing until he crescendos with a stifled whine of a moan. As you sink back into your silk sheets, your hand glides over your stomach and between your thighs, thinking about the outline of his chest in that goddamn funcle t-shirt.

“Have you unpacked yet?” He chokes, snapping you out of your haze.

“Well no… I haven’t had time.”

“We should go now.”

“Really?”

“God, yes. Just give me fifteen, and I’ll send a car for you.”

[marril96]

La Petite Mort

Chapter 2: Distress

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x reader

Summary: The incident has left you reeling. Can what was broken be made whole again?

Warnings: 18+, dark subject matter. Read at your own risk.

Editor: @cabinetofquriosities

Previous chapter.

You laid there, bare, shivering, for what felt like hours.

Agatha's attempt on your life had left you weak.

Her abandonment broke you into pieces. Destroyed every remnant of your will to live.

How could she leave you when you needed her the most? How could she ignore your pleas, your screams, your tears?

How could she turn her head and walk away?

She was scared, the rational part of you reasoned. She'd almost taken the life of the first person she'd allowed herself to love after the death of her son. It was the death that she knew was coming, but couldn't prevent.

Your death, she had almost caused.

That would break the hardest of hearts, let alone one as fragile as hers.

It had certainly broken yours.

It wasn't almost killing you that you resented her for. You knew she couldn't control it. Once she got blasted with magic, what followed was out of her hands.

What wasn't out of her hands, though, was what had happened after the accident.

She had chosen to reject your touch, to abandon you.

She was scared, of course she was, but so were you.

You were the one who'd had a portion of her magic stolen.

You were the one who'd almost died.

All you wanted was a hug. Nothing more, nothing less. She didn't have to utter a single word. All she had to do was hold you. The simplest of tasks, one she'd done many times throughout your centuries together. A wordless declaration that she was there, that she had your back no matter what.

Apparently, she didn't have your back at all.

Maybe she was that cold-hearted, selfish bitch the rumors talked about.

That's not fair, the rational part of you said. However, you paid that part no mind. Agatha had hurt you. She had demolished you on a level you didn't think was possible. You were allowed a moment of ill thought about her.

Even if it was a lie.

Wiping your wet eyes with your forearm, you sat up on the bed. The motion made you queasy, as if you hadn't eaten in days, and you had to press your palms to the mattress to keep yourself upright.

So much for being okay.

At least you weren't dead, you told yourself. This could've ended much worse.

The fact that it didn't was purely an accident.

No one had been able to stop Agatha before. Not even you when the two of you would practice on the witches she was draining. Once she started feeding, she was entranced and dead to the world. As if, for those few moments, she would stop existing. In her place stood a cruel, insatiable double.

It used to turn you on.

Now, the mere memory of her in that state sent your heart into overdrive, and not the fun kind.

It wasn't fun. It wasn't sexy. It was fucking terrifying.

She was fucking terrifying.

You pushed yourself to your feet, willing your weakened body to stay up, to not topple over. Your knees were jelly, quivering under you. Your muscles were weak as if you hadn't walked in weeks. As if a single step would send you face-first to the ground.

This is fine, you told yourself. You were fine. You were the first person in history to survive Agatha's insatiable power. Everything else was a walk in the park.

Throwing on a robe you'd discarded earlier, you took a deep breath and stepped forward. You could do this. It was just walking. A regular, everyday activity. So what if you were missing a bit of your life force? Agatha hadn't taken it all; she hadn't even taken half.

You were alive and you could fucking walk.

One foot in front of the other, you kept reminding yourself on your way to the door. The furniture made for great support. As long as there was something to hold on to, you would remain on your feet.

The hallway was dark. A chill crept up your body and you pulled the robe closed. Carefully, one hand on the wall, you pushed forwards.

How undignified this was. You were a powerful witch. Yet here you were, barely able to keep yourself on your feet.

Agatha would mock you if she saw you.

Let her try, you thought bitterly. She was the one who did this to you.

She was the one who'd left you on your own.

The betrayal stung like a slap to the face.

You would have preferred to have been slapped. At least it would heal relatively fast.

There was no healing this. It would remain an open, bleeding wound for the rest of your life. Whatever the future held for you and Agatha, what she did to you — or rather, what she didn't do — would lurk in the background like an ugly tattoo that couldn't be removed. A permanent stain on your relationship.

With a careful step, you started descending the stairway. This was going to be tricky, but you decided to throw all doubts to the wind. It had to be done. No one was going to do it for you and you couldn't rely on your girlfriend to help you down.

Even if you were to shout for her, you doubted she would come. That was what you'd been doing for the better part of the past hour and she didn't seem to care. If she did, she did a hell of a job at pretending not to.

You were on your own.

You gripped the railing with everything you had, which wasn't much. Your hands were no stronger than your legs. If anything, shaky as they were, they were even more likely to buckle under pressure.

Still, through gritted teeth, you pushed downwards. Step by step. Stair by stair.

You could do this. You weren't helpless. You still had your magic, even if you were too weak to use it. You had your will, strong as ever, and determination never deterred.

If you wanted to go down the stairs and make yourself a cup of coffee, you would fucking do it.

Just as the thought entered your head, your left knee gave way. You tumbled downwards, face first, smacking directly into the corner of the stairway. Your body rolled like a sack of potatoes, smashing against each stair on its way down. The hardwood felt like bricks against your skin, hitting, slamming, breaking; destroying you bit by bit until your body hurt almost as much as your soul. Almost for no amount of physical pain could ever match what you were feeling inside. It couldn't even get close.

You didn't have it in you to scream, your yelps frozen in your throat, locked up like a secret. What good would they do, anyway? It wasn't like there was anyone who cared.

The one person who was supposed to give a damn couldn't be bothered. She was preoccupied by her own inner turmoil, her own distress at what had transpired; at what she had done to you.

Agatha had always put herself first. You just never thought it would ever come at the expense of your wellbeing.

Lesson fucking learned.

The pain in your head was instantaneous, dull and throbbing. It was as if you'd been whacked by a hammer. Something warm and watery slid down the side of your face, to the corner of your mouth; the flavor of pennies, rusty, metallic, gave it away as blood.

"Fuck," you muttered, too weak to yell it aloud. You were too weak to do anything but lie there with your limbs useless and body aching.

At least you were alive.

Again.

It was barely a comfort, but it was something.

Though, given your track record, it would be completely on brand to survive the infamous witch killer's attempt on your life only to die by something as mundane as a fall down the stairs. Throughout the entirety of your life, luck was barely on your side. In fact, it seemed keen on playing practical jokes that only a sadist would find funny.

A thudding of steps made your eyes shoot up. The sudden movement sent a shockwave through your wounded neck and you hissed like a wild animal, cornered and frightened. Fucking hell.

"Y/N," Agatha said. Her eyes were wide, face etched with concern. She stood frozen in place, watching you, observing you. Taking in the pathetic sight of you on the ground, a useless, broken doll. "What happened?"

You hated how comforting your name sounded, coming from her mouth.

"What do you think?" you said venomously, like a snake biting into its prey; aiming to kill.

For a long, long moment, she just stared, as if uncertain of her next move. You felt like an animal in a zoo, lying there for her entertainment and amusement. As if it wasn't enough that she'd abandoned you, she wouldn't even offer assistance. She seemed to prefer to watch; to observe your trembling form as it slowly withered away with each breath you took. Her own personal snuff film.

Did she find you off-putting? Did seeing you so close to death — pale, cold, and so utterly broken — make her see you with different eyes? Did she think of you as nothing more than just another witch in a long line of many she'd drained; as susceptible to her power and as vulnerable as a mortal?

Taking in a deep gulp of air, Agatha padded closer, her bare feet soft on the hardwood floor. She stood over you, her mouth pressed into a tight line, features smoothened into an expression you couldn't read. Her walls were up, you realized. She hid behind a protective shield whenever the pain was too much to bear. She didn't want anyone else to witness her struggle. It was a mask not even the most observant of people could ever look behind without her permission.

Usually, you would get her to drop it through gentle coaxing.

But not today. Not now.

Agatha knelt by your side, her movements slow and calculated. It was as if she was still debating whether or not she wanted to be near you.

A pang of pain shot through you, squeezing at your heart. She'd been injured countless times over the course of your relationship. Many people had raised hands and weapons at her; be it witches, hunters, or just regular humans who'd had enough of her shit. The list of people who wanted her dead — who wanted to hurt her — was endless. Not once had you hesitated before running to her side. Not once had the possibility of leaving her crossed your mind.

Even when she'd deserved it, when the people who'd harmed her had valid reason to get back at her, you'd had her back. You'd shielded her with your body, taken swings and punches meant for her. You had once gotten stabbed by a knife that was thrown from a distance, aimed directly at her head, all so she wouldn't have to. If she was on the ground, bleeding and broken, your heart would have burst if she would have had to take any more.

You'd fought for her.

You'd killed for her.

You'd bled for her.

And now, when you needed her more than you ever had in your long life, she was the one having doubts.

Reluctantly, as if fighting the urge to run for the hills, Agatha cupped your left cheek. You hated how comforting you found the gesture and how safe the barest of her touches made you feel. She still held tremendous power over you, and you, the lovesick fool, allowed it.

The truth was, even after how she'd treated you, you couldn't hate her.

You doubted you ever could.

You'd given her your heart and it was hers to do as she pleased with. If she chose to tear it apart and stomp all over its remains, she was well within her rights to do so.

"You're bleeding," she said, unable to hide the concern from her voice. Her thumb brushed your forehead, right beside the wound. The touch was gentle, careful not to cause you further pain.

A bitter part of you found it ironic.

"Wow, really? I didn't notice," you said a tad more venomously than you'd intended.

She was a big girl. She could handle it.

After all, she was the one who'd started this war.

Agatha swallowed back the hurt. She allowed her features to soften in a quiet surrender and a show of peace.

"Come here, honey."

Contrary to what every instinct in you shouted, against your better judgment, you did.

You allowed her to hoist you up and get you to your feet. Allowed her to wrap an arm around you and lead you to the couch. The entirety of your body weight pressed against her as your legs were still too weak, too wobbly to take on the task by themselves. You allowed her to pat your back as you sat down as if you were a child and you weren't still pissed at her.

"Why the fuck would you go down the stairs in your condition?" she asked with a bit more bite than was appropriate considering the circumstances.

Rage swelled in your chest. She didn't get to speak to you like that. She didn't get to put the blame on you. "Was I supposed to wait for you?"

Agatha flinched as if struck, your words like a knife straight to the heart.

"For all I knew," you said, twisting the blade, digging it deeper, "you weren't even home."

Two could play this game.

She looked away, face awash in shame and guilt that was eating her alive.

Good, you thought. She should feel guilty.

Just to be petty, you grabbed her mug from the coffee table and took a large sip. The coffee was still warm, searing through your insides on its way down to your stomach in the most pleasant of ways. The sensation grounded you and made you feel present.

Agatha usually glared when you touched her coffee, but this time she had no reaction. Instead, she picked up a rag and ran it under warm water. Then, sitting back down beside you, she started dabbing and rubbing at your face.

The blood came away with ease, staining the pale fabric pink. Agatha was gentle, tender, and careful not to press on the cut on your forehead. She was careful not to make it bleed again.

This was the Agatha you needed an hour ago. This soft, sweet creature, so at odds with what everyone was saying about her. So kind. So loving.

Why did she leave you like that? Why didn't she come back?

Your coarse voice broke the silence that settled between the two of you. 

"Do you know why I said it?"

"What?"

"That I love you."

For a moment you were back there, on the bed, your magic draining out of you, your lungs burning as if they were on fire. There was pain, destructive and wicked, ravaging every single inch of your being.

A shake of your head brought you back to the safety of reality.

When Agatha said nothing, you continued, "I didn't want you to spend the rest of your life hating yourself for killing me. One of us had to love you." A dark chuckle escaped your mouth, a mask of your own, "If I'd known it would stop you, it would've been the first thing I said."

Tears welled in Agatha's eyes. One escaped, burning its way down her flushed cheek.

You resisted the urge to wipe it away.

"I never wanted to do that to you," she said in a voice too small and too low for her usual grand self.

"I know that."

You were still angry at her, still seething, but you couldn't deny her this tiny piece of assurance. It wouldn't be fair to blame her for something she had no control over. She didn't choose her power. She didn't choose for it to have a mind of its own when it fed. All she could do was be careful and work around it.

If anything, you were the one who'd fucked up. You were the one who'd forgotten to play it safe.

You had all the choices, whereas Agatha had none.

"It's not your fault," you said.

She looked at you, dumbfounded, surprised. She was unable to comprehend how you could let her off the hook so easily. "Isn't it?"

It would be so easy to scream at her and tell her that her mother was right. That she was a monster who couldn't be trusted, who was destined to hurt everything and anything in its path. As angry as you were, as much as you wanted to hurt her back for how she'd treated you, you couldn't bring yourself to do it. It wouldn't be fair.

You were mad, but you weren't cruel. Not to her. Never to her.

"I blasted you," you reminded her. "I should've been more careful."

Agatha swallowed. "If I could control it—"

"But you can't," you cut in, "I can. So it's on me."

She shook her head and said, "You didn't do anything wrong. It was an accident."

Yes. It was. One you swore would never happen again.

You knew better now.

"Exactly," you said, looking her in the eyes to drive the point home. To make it loud and clear. "It was an accident."

Which meant neither one of you was at fault.

Neither one of you should bear the blame.

Even if you both stubbornly insisted on it.

"Why did you leave me?" 

The words were out of your mouth before you could think them through, followed instantly by a stream of tears you didn't even try to stop. You needed to know. You needed to hear it from her.

Agatha's mouth pressed into a thin, tight line. Her eyes fell to her lap, to the blood-stained rag clutched in her hands.

"I've been there for you through everything. The one time I needed you, you ran for the hills."

Each word was glazed in venom, the sort that aimed to ravage and kill. The pain of the rejection was fresh and searing. Your hand, the one she'd slapped away, stung with your skin prickling as if burned.

She said nothing, did nothing but sit there as uncomfortable silence befell the two of you. The tension in the air was so thick, it could be cut with a knife.

Like always in emotionally charged situations like this, Agatha shut down. When she was with other people, she tended to change the subject or go on the offensive. She would spew out the vilest things she could think of to send them running and hurt them as she hurt. She masked her own pain by causing theirs.

With you, she just remained silent and avoided your gaze.

If she ignored it, it would go away.

Not this time.

You weren't going to let her get away with it.

She had hurt you first. She didn't get to act as if it hadn't happened.

Just as you were about to unleash a tirade, Agatha spoke up. "I couldn't bear to touch you after… after what I did to you."

She finally raised her eyes to meet yours, baring her soul to you. She was lowering her walls down so you could see the pain that hid behind them. She showed you the complete and utter anguish that she was terrified to expose to so many throughout her extended life. 

Your heart broke all over again, this time for her. You knew how difficult it was for her to open up and show vulnerability. To admit fault. People tended to weaponize her mistakes and turn them against her.

You'd never done — would never do — anything of the sort. All you wanted was for her to talk to you. You wanted to hear her side of the story.

"I'm not blaming you for it," you pointed out.

"I'm blaming myself," she said. "How can I not? I almost killed you."

"We already agreed it was an accident."

"Yeah, because that's how these things work," she said with her tone dripping with sarcasm and mockery that made you roll your eyes, "We said it, and that magically makes everything sunshine and rainbows. You're all healed and I'm not a monster."

"You're not a monster." It shot out automatically, like you were on autopilot. No hesitation and no holding back.

She could sell this tall tale — this blatant lie — to someone who didn't know her to the depths of her soul. She was no angel, far from it, but in no way was she a monster.

"Come on, Y/N. It's time to face the facts. I mean, look at me. Look at what my power does to people."

You did. You hadn't taken your eyes off her since the two of you had gotten together.

Your opinion remained the same as it had been the very first time you saw her drain someone dry. Your feelings for her never faltered. Not even once.

"Is that your opinion," you said, taking a breath and wishing you had a shot of something hard for courage before continuing, "or your mother's?"

Agatha froze, her face draining of all color. Her mother, dead long before the two of you had met, was persona non grata in your relationship. From the moment Agatha was born, that woman had made sure she didn't experience an ounce of affection. She'd berated her, put her down, and beaten her. She hated Agatha when, as the one who had given her life, she should have been the one to love her the most.

Agatha had broken that cycle with her own son. She had loved him the way that she should have been loved, but not even that was enough to heal the oozing and gaping wound on her soul. The unloved and abused little girl inside her could never be made whole. She could ever heal the damage that had been inflicted on her. She would carry it for the rest of her life.

"She lied, sweetheart. You know that,” you whispered.

Bringing up Evanora crossed a line you rarely dared to cross, but it needed to be done. You needed Agatha to finally let go of her toxic influence. 

"She was a miserable bitch who just wanted to hurt you,” you continued, “In fact, it's probably thanks to her that you can't control your power."

If the old hag had taken the time to mentor her daughter and guide her instead of calling her evil to her face, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe Agatha would have learned to rein in her magic.

"She stole your childhood," you said, heart twisting with anguish and sympathy for the woman you loved. With love, despite the anger that still had its hold on you. "Don't let her steal the rest of your life."

Agatha turned her head as tears flooded her eyes. She knew that you were right. All the resentment she had for herself, all the hatred, was because of her mother. When she talked down to herself, the words that came out of her mouth were the words she'd grown up listening to.

She may have been born with power that was unlike that of the other witches, but it was her mother that had molded her into the killer that she had become. It was her mother who had tried to make her into a monster. It was her mother that had whispered into her ear to leave you when you'd needed her the most.

You expected Agatha to flee and refuse to engage in the conversation any further since these were the sorts of things that she'd made clear more than once were off limits.

Instead, she reached for your hand and squeezed it like you'd been wanting her to from the very beginning. Your anger instantly dissolved like a pill in sparkling water. Warmth flooded your veins, comforting and safe. It was as if everything was suddenly right in the world again. As if you hadn't nearly died and then been abandoned.

"You're right," she said with eyes fixed on your linked hands, "I'm not a monster. I'm just… me."

You loved her as she was. If anything, that was what had made you fall for her in the first place. Her confidence. Her drive. The way she took what she wanted, no questions asked. The way she lived her life free of anyone's rules. The way she was herself unapologetically. Somehow both an open book and a nicely-wrapped surprise.

Her.

Just her.

Her wet, pained eyes met yours. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you. I just… I was scared. I thought you wouldn't want anything to do with me after what happened."

"If that were true, I wouldn't have called for you, would I?"

There were very few things — if any at all — that you could never forgive her for. An accident, even one that almost resulted in the loss of your life, wasn't one of them.

You loved her too much for far too long to allow for one mishap to destroy your relationship.

"Agatha, there's nothing that would ever cause me to not want you around. Nothing."

That was why her rejection hurt so much. You wanted her there. You needed her more than anything in the world and she'd just coldly walked out. She'd slapped your hand away as if it were filthy and you meant nothing.

As if you weren't worth staying for.

Agatha nodded, taking in your words. She grit her teeth to stop the blooming sobs from overwhelming her. 

“What can I do to make this right?"

You smiled, all resolve dropping. It was dangerous, this power she had over you. One look into her puppy eyes and you would do anything for her. She didn't need to cast any spells or incantations. She didn't need to weave her purple between her fingers. All she had to do was look at you and your defenses were down. You were hers to do with what she pleased.

"Just be here," you said. 

It still hurt, what she'd done, but it was in the past. You could move past it. She regretted it and she wanted to make up for it. It wouldn't change what happened or erase the pain of that moment, but it could be forgiven. It already was forgiven. 

"And don't do it again,” you said.

"I promise you," she said with the same intensity as when she cast the most demanding of spells, "I will never leave you again."

Then you were in her arms and she was holding you so tightly it hurt, but you didn't say a word. Instead, you allowed yourself to get lost in it, lost in her, so warm and safe against you.

The vibrations of her heart so close to yours soothed you. For a moment you hoped it would last forever. You no longer felt weak, drained, or cold. You were just you: a woman and a witch. You were embraced by the love of your life. Cherished. Cared for. Loved.

That was what you wanted from the start.

Agatha.

You did not want her power, as great as it was. You did not want some over the top apology or a grand gesture that was supposed to buy your forgiveness.

Just her.

She delivered perfectly.

Just like that, you knew that you would be okay. Your wounds would heal. Your magic would recharge. Your life force would replenish.

Agatha would make it so.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @miss-moon-guardian @hermslore @uniquelesbianidiot @natashamaximoff1 @alsoknownasmel @swan-queen-is-magic @tardisesandtitans @ahintofchaos @fruityhahn @midnight-lestrange @lift-heavy-be-gay @katieswain123

[joshym]

Le Morte d'Arthur: Chapter 6 (Part 1 of 2)

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x f!Reader

Summary: It all began with a passion for literature. What was once a dream to walk the halls of the University of Michigan is now a reality.

You thought you were prepared for everything.

A new town, a new school, a new way of life,

but what you were not prepared for…

was meeting the enigma that is Jake Kiszka.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

Word Count: 41.1k+ (deepest apologies)

Le Morte d'Arthur Masterlist, Series Playlist

Warnings: please proceed with caution if you find any of the following to be triggering. MDNI 18+ ONLY. I do want to preface by saying there is a potentially very triggering moment of shame over eating, including thoughts/trying to v*mit. PLEASE, as I stated before, proceed with caution. struggles with body dysmorphia/eating (including food restriction), strong feelings of inadequacy, heavy emotions/ talks of an absent parent, *extremely* sick & terminally-ill parent, anxiety/stress/depression, a few sexual *feelings*, recollections of sexual encounters, sensual scenes shown on film, brief tornado encounter

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

a/n: as i said in my warnings, there are some very heavy depictions of what it means to have an ED. i don't want to ignore these moments, as they are so very real. i felt it was only right to include an incredibly vulnerable moment. please, if you're struggling, don't be afraid to seek help. you are always worth it. i love you guys, & i hope you enjoy this chapter. (so far🤭)

also, huge thank you to @jakeyt for being the best editor & my right hand in helping create this. i seriously couldn't have done it without you. love you SO much. you're the best sister i could ever ask for.

Cherry Tree, Oklahoma: A year and a half ago.  

You felt it the moment you woke up. 

The air was different – thick. Thick and melancholy. You didn’t know what it was that had you feeling that way. Intuition? A bad dream that you didn’t remember anything from, only the feelings it left behind? It worsened as you left your room – walking to the kitchen left you breathless. Though, you still didn’t know why.

When you peered out of the living room window, the sky was dark gray, nearly black. You then chalked up the strange feeling to the weather. A change in the barometric pressure, an incoming storm – a big storm, one that would cause destruction everywhere it hovered over. That had to be it. It was Oklahoma, afterall. The most unpredictable, catastrophic weather is born there. It always left you anxiety ridden, sure. But, it was nothing out of the ordinary. 

She was sitting in the recliner next to the front door. A blank, distant look about her eyes. She didn’t tell you good morning, she didn’t even look at you. Though she’s never been the one to offer you a cheerful good morning, you could tell there was something more behind her silence. 

You wondered if her mind was just preoccupied with the skies' indication of bad weather. You began asking her if she’d gotten everything prepared yet – the generator, flashlights, candles, a pair of shoes for everyone. But as you were speaking to her, her distant look morphed into one of distress. She didn’t answer a single question, only choking back the sobs that overcame her, tears falling down her pale face. “Mom? Are you oka–,” 

You were cut off by her pointing a single, trembling finger towards the kitchen. That was when it finally hit you. 

He was usually the first one up. He’d start breakfast each morning before the sun rose. The smell would always infiltrate your room, always waking you earlier than you’d like. But on this particular day, you slept in a little later than usual. You slept in because there was no smell of maple syrup and eggs to wake you. 

That thick, dark feeling that you woke up with quickly turned to pure concern. Where was he? 

As though an invisible string were tugging at your legs, they slowly yet reluctantly carried you to the kitchen. Upon the first glance, everything looked normal. Everything, except…

It only took you a moment to notice the note on the fridge. The bright, yellow sticky note stood out like a sore thumb adhered to the flat-white freezer door.

“I’m so sorry, baby girl- Daddy”

The words didn’t register right away. You had to read them over and over again before it finally dawned on you; you didn’t see his truck in the driveway when you looked through the window. Only the oil stains it left on the concrete. He was gone. And you knew he wasn’t just gone for the morning, or for the day. He was gone for good. There wasn’t a single thing you could do about it. He made the choice to live his life without you. Given the fact that you, his only daughter, weren’t enough to convince him to stay, you knew you couldn’t do anything.

A clap of thunder roared around your house, shaking the very foundation it stood on. The bones of the home creaked and screamed with the pressure of the wind while plates and cups in the cabinets rattled. A few photos hanging on the walls fell to the floor, their glass shattering. Then the lights flickered for a moment before they went out completely, leaving the house as dark as it was outside. The sirens began their cry. The rain blowing sideways pushed its way through every window sill in the kitchen, tiny droplets splattering your face. But you kept still. You let it happen; in fact, you welcomed it. You just stood in the kitchen while your mom ran to shelter, keeping your feet planted where they were. You didn’t want to run, didn’t see the point. 

The storm came at the perfect moment; it was the physical one that mimicked the one inside of your head. The emotions that couldn’t be released from your body were blowing all around you and your old home.  After only a few minutes, (though it truly felt like an eternity) the skies calmed. The rain let up, the wind held still.  And it was quiet. Eerily. 

The sudden quiet meant you then had to confront the storm in your mind. The relentless destruction of your thoughts created a cyclone of torment within you. Your whole world changed in that single moment. The sole provider of your home left, leaving you, the full time college student working a full time job, to take his place. You could already feel the weight of your new responsibilities, of the new heaviness placed on your tense shoulders. 

And you felt grief. Grief over losing someone who chose to leave. 

How do you grieve someone who’s still alive? Someone who decided it was best to live the rest of their days without you? Your dad?

Cherry Tree faced an EF-2 that day. They said the winds exceeded one hundred miles per hour, leaving damage and destruction to most of the tiny town. Your home sustained minor damage – a few missing shingles, ripped up siding, the typical wreckage Oklahoma storms leave behind. 

Your dad was always there to fix those things. But after that storm, it was up to you to fix them. And that’s exactly how you spent the two weeks that followed – fixing the things that needed fixing. The things you could fix, at least. The physical ones.

All on your own, you fixed the broken seals of the windows, replaced the missing shutters, cleaned up the yard the best you could. That storm forced you to face your new reality head on. You were now working two full time jobs; one during the day at the only restaurant in town, and one at Cherry Tree Grocery for the late shift. And then, there was your mom. 

She’d only gotten sick a few months before he left. You hadn’t even fully come to terms with her prognosis yet, and you were thrown into being her caregiver basically overnight. All the things he had been doing for her, you had to learn to do. You essentially had to take a crash course in at-home-nursing. You learned far more about healthcare than you ever thought you’d have to, but you knew you had to do it. You managed all of that while taking classes online, and busting your ass to keep your grades up so you could move away. What had once been a dream to move away on your own, had quickly become getting you and your mom out of there as soon as you could.

You fought hard against the urge to reach out to him in the first weeks after he left. All you wanted was an answer to your one and only question – why? Why would he leave you with so much to worry about, knowing how badly you wanted to get the hell away from Oklahoma? During that time, you became more and more resentful towards him, more angry over the decision he made. So, the urge dwindled over time. It was after the one month mark of him being gone that you tossed your necklace in the trash can, ridding yourself of it – and him – once and for all. 

But the letter he gave you along with the necklace…you just couldn’t let it go. You decided to let it be the last remaining piece of your relationship with him. It was painful as fuck to keep it, but you knew it’d be even more painful to not have it. (And yet, you somehow managed to lose it during the move. And, the necklace magically reappeared in your jewelry box, not long after you knew you tossed it. Still makes no sense. But you’re glad you have it, even if how you have doesn’t quite add up.)

There is a part of you that is grateful he left, and it’s the part of you that couldn’t stand living in Cherry Tree any longer. His departure only made the desire of realizing your dream of attending the U of M that much stronger. A new beginning was the best option for you and your mom. In fact, she pretty much insisted on it. She didn’t want to be there any more than you did once he left. The acceptance letter symbolized the beginning you desperately needed. The only loose end that needed tying was the house, and once the burden of that was out from under your feet, you left. 

Your Firebird was your only means of getting the two of you there, so any money that you could spare from your savings was spent making sure the clunker would make the journey. Before then, you dad took care of your car troubles. Even promised you he’d help you get a new one before you left home. When he wasn’t there to make that happen, you had to make the best of what you had. The day you packed up the last of your things, the air felt different again – lighter, but still heavy with memories. You drove out of Cherry Tree with a mix of relief and sorrow clinging to you, the dusty Oklahoma roads fading in the rearview mirror as you headed north to your new home.

The storm that ripped through the town that day certainly left its mark; it transformed the tiny community, it transformed you. But it wasn’t just the physical destruction that changed the course of your life. The storm only made you realize that there was nothing left for you in Cherry Tree. 

The storm was your dad, creating an unexpected upheaval in your life. It all happened so quickly, so unpredictably. There was no siren to warn you, no safe place in which you could take shelter until things went back to normal. He left his mark that day, much like the storm. Only, for you, it left a scar far deeper than any natural disaster could ever reach. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

Present Day

His desperate attempts at explaining – over explaining – are useless. Every word that leaves his lips feels like a distant echo to you, as though he’s already miles away. It’s like you’re standing in a vacant tunnel, hearing the whispers of those on the outside. You can hear that he’s speaking, but your mind can’t make out the words. 

But you’re not in a tunnel; you’re in Jake's room. And he’s standing before you, pleading with you to hear his words. 

He’s already a memory to you. A memory – just like your father. 

How do you grieve someone who’s still alive? 

You hear his every footstep against the carpeted floor behind you as you’re walking around to gather your things, hastily putting on your sweatpants and hoodie that you packed with you last night. You hesitate as you reach for the satin dress he bought you, the one you wore last night, the beautiful gift he wanted you to have for your date…

The hesitation wanes, and you quickly shove it in your canvas bag so as to not have to think about it any longer. 

“I need you to listen to me.” You feel his hands grip at your shoulders, stopping you before you can begin your final walk out of his bedroom. His touch forces you to make out his words this time, when before they were mere mumbles in your head while you placed your focus on getting the fuck out of here.  

“I need to go home, Jake.” The words are monotone as you say them, void of the storm whirling inside your mind. You keep your back to him, eyes fixed on your bare feet. You forgot to bring another pair of shoes, and you’ll be goddamned if you walk out of here with your heels on from last night. 

Nope. Barefoot it is. 

“Can I please take yo –,” Before he can finish his question, you quickly turn on your heel, shrugging his hands off your body as you face him. The now dried tears on your cheeks are met with fresh ones falling from your eyes, tears that refuse to be held back, no matter how badly you don’t want to show your hurt. 

“NO, Jake!” His eyes widen, his eyebrows furrowed and his bottom jaw becomes slack. You didn’t mean to yell. You didn’t want to yell, at least not as loudly as you did. It just…happened. It was pent up rage, derived from pain and a moment that feels all too familiar, triggering emotions you’ve not allowed yourself to feel. 

“I’m sorry, I just–” The tears are now a flood crashing in waves against your red cheeks. You bring your hands, covered by the sleeves of your oversized hoodie, up to your face, concealing and muffling the pain that’s surfaced. 

No. You’re not sorry. You shouldn’t be sorry for feeling and expressing what you’re feeling. You’ve done that all your fucking life. He knows that. And he knows how fucking hard this is for you. He doesn’t say anything more, only pulling you in and holding you close, letting you sob into his chest. His scent instantly works to calm you, the scent of last night mixed with leftover hints of his cologne. But feeling his comfort only makes the pain hurt worse. It quickly dawns on you that you won’t have this for much longer, and you pull yourself away from him, wiping your face with your now tear-soaked sleeves. “I don’t want you to take me home,” you snap, your voice cracked and wet from your tears. You can’t avoid eye contact, though it’s not for lack of trying. You just can’t keep yourself from looking into his eyes, those sweet, honey whiskey eyes that drew you in the moment you saw them hiding behind his black frames. 

And you’ve seen these eyes before. They’re angry, but they’re a sad angry. Despondent, heavy with heated sorrow. The last time you saw these eyes was in this very room, practically in the very same spot you’re in right now. 

The last time you saw them like this served as the beginning for what you have–had–with Jake. Now, they represent the ending. 

Those sad, fuming eyes hold yours only a moment longer, then flick downward as he takes a long breath to speak “How do you suppose you’ll be getting home if you don’t want me to take you?” His tone is both quiet and sharp, monotone. And he knows what you’re thinking before you even fully know. 

There’s only one person you should turn to right now. And it’s going to piss Jake off. But you don’t care. Not right now. 

You choose to not answer his question, knowing that there’s no real point in doing so. The silence laying between you two is broken by the squeaky hinges of his bedroom door when you turn around and open it. You step one foot through the threshold, but there’s one thing stopping you. “I want my book, Jake,” you mutter, your back turned to him as you’re staring down the long hallway. The words almost hurt coming out. They hurt from the tightness in your throat at uttering them, and they hurt because that book that once represented the beginning of so much, feels like it now represents the end all at once. 

Poetic. Fucking. Irony. Your entire goddamned life is full of it. 

“What book, y/n?” 

“Le Morte d’Arthur. I need it back.” 

He breathes an elongated sigh when you hear his feet padding towards the bed where the book still sits. You peer over your shoulder, using your peripheral to watch him pick up the book, turning a few of the yellowed pages for a moment before quickly slamming the cover shut. His feet shuffle toward you once more, carefully nudging your elbow with the physical emblem of the last few months of your life. “Here,” he spits, his touch  far gentler than his tone that sends a jolt through your spine. “Guess I forgot about it.”

Clearly not, considering that’s where I found everything. 

Without a word, you reach your other hand over your body, taking the book from him and letting your feet guide you the fuck out of his room. And where they’re taking you next is what you’re sure will set Jake off indefinitely. Keeping your composure right now is fucking hard. But you have to do it as you’re quickly trudging down the hallway, eyeing the stairs that lead to his room. It’s not until you’re halfway up the steps that you notice Jake at the end of the hall, watching you with hard eyes as you take the last few steps to the loft. You reach Josh’s door first, and for a brief moment, you contemplate knocking on it instead, knowing this choice would avoid upsetting Jake any further. 

But you only think about it for a second before you decide to keep walking a few steps further, placing yourself in front of Sam’s closed door. You lift your hand to knock, but you’re hesitant as you remember the conversation you had with Jake about Sam. The one where you promised him nothing had happened with Sam, when he promised you that nothing happened between him and Stacy. The familiar sense of guilt over everything crashes over you. But when you look at the book held tight in your hands, and when you peek over your shoulder to the balcony, seeing that Jake’s body slumped and leaning against the wall, watching your every move, your decision is made. 

“S-Sam?” You stutter with a light tap of your fist to the wood, timid and nerves billowing to the surface. A moment passes, and he hasn’t answered the door just yet. Before you choose to knock once more, you look over your shoulder to where Jake was, noticing that he’s no longer there. And it’s then that you hear a loud slam coming from the downstairs hallway. 

Sadness weighs in the pit of your tummy at his absence, an absence that you’ll have to start getting used to. You then turn your focus back to Sam’s door, and just as you’re about to knock, the knob begins turning from the other side. He opens it only a little, peeking through the small crack he’s made. His tired eyes widen when they realize it’s you beyond the door. 

“Y/n? Hey, what are–” 

The look about your face must say more than any words you could utter, because he stops himself from speaking any further, opening the door all the way and inviting you inside. “I just–,” You don’t step in through the open door all the way, only about an inch or so, keeping your bare feet planted on the spot where the hallway meets the carpeted floor of his room. “Do you think you can take me home?” Your voice is shaking far more than you like, and it’s all you can do to keep from crying. His eyebrows scrunch in the middle, so very annoyingly similar to the way Jake’s do, before he reaches over to grab his coat and keys hanging from the hook screwed into the wall. He silently throws his coat over his shoulders, his eyes scanning over your body, trailing down to your exposed feet. His tongue peeks from the corner of his slightly parted lips, though he’s deep in contemplation. Brushing the messy hairs away from his face, his features soften, as though he’s come to the conclusion of whatever he’s thinking. He quickly turns around to go deeper into his room, rummaging through his closet until he finds a pair of white fluffy slippers, donned with a single yellow smiley face on the tops of them. 

He walks back toward you, holding the slippers between your bodies as he gets closer. “Too cold to be barefoot,” he says, keeping still until you take the warm footwear from his hands. Setting them on the floor, you slide into them, one foot at a time. They’re much too big for your feet, but they’ll certainly do the job of keeping them warm. “Wanna tell me about it?” He asks as he leads you down the stairs, cupping your elbow should your feet slip out from the oversized slippers. You’re a bit too full of shame to talk about it, though you’re sure he already knows. How could he not be aware of Jake leaving? Certainly he can put two and two together. He notes your silence, opting to keep silent himself as your feet leave the last step. He walks ahead of you to the front door, unlocking it and holding it open for you as you make your way through the living room. 

“Thanks,” you mumble as you walk through the front door, not bothering to look back when you take a final step out of the apartment. The air is bitter this morning, biting at the little bits of uncovered skin the moment you’re exposed to it. Your body instantly begins trembling with cold shivers from the elements. The tears that are begging to fall from your eyes will certainly turn to ice sickles the moment they do. 

“C’mon,” Sam says, quickly locking the door before coming up behind you and placing his warm hands on your shoulders as you walk to his car. This all feels wrong. It feels so wrong. You’re grateful to Sam, but you’d be kidding yourself if you tried to say you’re glad he’s with you instead of Jake. 

In one wrong move, you turn your head back to the apartment, your eyes instantly finding the window to Jake’s room. The blinds are drawn, so you can’t see him. But you know he’s watching.  Part of you is glad he is. But the other part of you, the much bigger part, feels like pure shit over it. 

Just as you reach Sam’s bright orange VW Bug, his arm extended towards the passenger door, you turn around to face him, stopping him with a grip on his forearm. Those tears that have threatened to fall since you walked outside are now leaking from your ducts as you face Jake’s window. 

What you truly want to do is forego this whole thing and run back inside, find Jake’s embrace once more. But, you know better than to act on your impulse. And when you look into Sam’s eyes, you’re reminded of a time when he was the one who showed you the genuinity you were lacking from his brother when you first moved here. 

There’s another impulse that’s weighing on you, and this is one you feel is the better option given the circumstances. And as though Sam can read the thoughts running through your mind, he wraps his arms around you, holding you as close to his body as he can. Your sobs are let out into his chest while his lips find the top of your head, a sweet gesture to remind you that you’re safe in doing this. Not that you had any reason to not believe that, but you’ve been worried Sam may never view you the same ever again after everything. So, needless to say, the reassurance is nice, and very much needed. “Let’s get you home,” he mumbles into your hair, thumbs tracing gentle circles at your sides. 

Just as you start to pull away, his hand lingers on your back, warm and steady against you. You look up at him, catching a soft, understanding smile that speaks of adoration for you, despite everything.  “Thank you, Sam,” you whisper, your tear-soaked voice hardly audible over the morning breeze. 

He nods, brushing a few loose hairs that have fallen from his ponytail out of his face as he opens the door for you. As you settle into the passenger's seat, there’s a strange feeling weighing on you – a mix of nostalgia, a sense of relief. Perhaps this is truly where you’re meant to be. At least this morning. 

But with a final glance at Jake’s window as the old Bugs engine begins humming, that mixture of complicated feelings turns into one single, heavy emotion; regret. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

Jake’s point of view;

I waited far too long. 

I had every intention of telling her—the plan was already in place. 

All I needed was to wait for the perfect moment to ask her to come with me. I knew she wouldn’t say yes right away, so I had to take the time to craft the right words, to convey the way her very essence softened my hardened heart. 

Goddammit. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of what has transpired with her over the last few months was meant to happen. 

But fate would have it otherwise. And I knew mine was sealed when she chose the seat next to mine on the first day of class. I thought I’d never have to see her bewitching face again after I so callously bumped into her in the hallway. But when that very same, beautiful stranger walked in late through the doors of Movack’s lecture hall, I knew I had to take every measure possible to fend off any infatuations that I felt could arise. 

But, as though it were predestined, we were paired on a project she was just as passionate about—if not more—than I was. 

I suppose I thought the film would be the best way to keep my distance from her while also keeping true to our commitments to the project. I surmised the addition of my family would keep us from having to be alone, having any real conversations to get to know one another. 

I didn’t want to get to know her. Not because of her, because of me. I gathered immediately that she was far too wonderful for the likes of me, far too easy to fall for. Her beauty and complexity, the most exquisite and intrusive storm to my hardened heart. 

She truly was too good for me… still is; utter perfection encompassed in the ethos of her femininity. 

That fact was all but confirmed on that first day of class. When she checked my ego over a question I should’ve known the answer to, I knew I was utterly fucked. Intelligent, full of the wit necessary to challenge me. I was a fucking dick to her from the outset. But I had to keep my own feelings in balance. 

Jesus — who the fuck am I kidding? 

I didn’t ask her to help with the film to keep her away—I wanted her to play opposite me. I wanted her to play my fucking wife. I wanted the chance to act on the feelings that were already amassed, without the risk of her thinking they were anything more than for the sake of the film.

But Josh fucked it all up for me. The script wasn’t what we agreed on, no matter how much he’s fought me on that fact. His idea to shift the focus on infidelity, specifically her infidelity with fucking Lancelot was unadulterated bullshit. And when I had to watch her share so many scenes with Sam, scenes that should’ve been with me, the fire it ignited under my crawling skin told me that my attempts at keeping my composure about her were failing. Miserably failing. 

Stacy was my escape. She had wanted me for years, and I knew she would be the perfect distraction from my growing feelings for Y/n — and from the agony of watching my brother touch her in ways I could only dream of.

But, fate wouldn’t hear of it. It didn’t fucking work. Stacy doesn’t hold a candle to Y/n; she’s nothing more than a flicker next to Y/n’s radiance. Wasting my energy with someone as dull-witted and mindless as Stacy only made me yearn for Y/n all the more. 

Y/n’s mystique, her grace, the very aura she strides with…she’s the most captivating woman I’ve ever set my eyes upon. It took only a few weeks to memorize every minute detail of her face. Her sweet nose that crinkles when she laughs, her glittering eyes that hold the weight of a thousand beautiful lifetimes, her eyelashes that are as dark and full as a ravens wings, her crooked smile, succulent lips…she’s more elegant than any painting the most adept artist could ever render. As though her outward beauty wasn’t enough to lure me in, her endearing southern accent, the one that instantly told me she was miles away from her birthplace, charmed me even further. 

I hadn’t found a single reason to stay here, a reason that made London feel like a poor decision until she infiltrated my existence, when her earthy, vanilla aroma inundated me with lust and desire. 

And though she tried to hide it, I could tell she was looking at me with the very same eyes I saw her through. 

The only thing I could do at that point was push her away, and keep pushing her until she despised her every thought of me. I couldn’t risk what I was afraid it could turn into. 

It felt like knives tore through the inside of my throat when I said some of the most revolting words I could think of to her in class. I felt like the biggest piece of shit when her incredible eyes became glassed over with tears, when her round, rose lips downturned at what I had said…and I didn’t mean any of it. Not a single word of it. She didn’t deserve to hear such horrid things. 

I fucking hurt her. And that was what my thoughtless self wanted. 

I wanted it so I wouldn’t get attached, so she wouldn’t get attached. I’ve needed to get out of this fucking city–this goddamn country–since nearly every person I’ve ever loved died in the places I’ve called home. Other than my brothers, there’s been nothing to keep me here after my time at the U of M is up. And I swore there’d be no way in fucking hell I’d let some girl change that. 

But what my imprudent ass couldn’t accept was that Y/n has never been just some girl. I’ve always known it, and I’ve been utterly terrified by it since I let myself watch her—observe her. All it took was one class period for the horror to sink in that she is different from any other woman I’ve ever beheld. She even surmounts every woman in fucking literature. 

She’s magic.

And she’s broken me. She’s torn down every wall I’ve built since the death of my parents, then proceeded to destroy the ones that came up after I lost my grandparents. No one that isn’t my own twin brother has been able to see me the way she does. 

I mean, Christ, I played guitar for her. Only her. I practically gave her my vulnerability, placed it in the palm of her open hand and closed her delicate fingers over it. I’ve shown her parts of myself, piece by tiny fucking piece, that a mere handful of people have borne witness to. 

I assumed she’d be like every other girl I’d known, but the moment I held her for the first time, I realized just how profoundly wrong I was. From the first touch, the first taste, the first time I fucked her... 

I can’t explain what she does to me, or how she does it. But she brings forth an animalistic side of myself, engulfed with pure desire for everything that she is. 

I knew she was beautiful from the moment I laid my eyes on her, but when I discovered what she was hiding beneath her oversized attire, I felt longing anew. It was a cruel irony for Josh to make my room her dressing quarters. If I knew my brother at all — which I do, better than anyone — the little shit did that on purpose. 

He knew of the risks. I knew them — what might happen if I were to open my bedroom door. And it did happen — the day she was trying on her costumes, and though I knew what I’d possibly be walking in on… I wasn’t the least bit prepared for the sight my eyes would behold. 

As if Josh hadn’t fucked me over enough with the entire ordeal, he added to my misery by choosing costumes for her that only served to enhance her allure that already held me captive. 

That black lace number she was in when I opened my door left my knees weak — my face, numb. I could see every outline of her form, every beautiful part of herself that she’d hidden in my short time of knowing her. The buds of her perfectly shaped breasts were peeking through the embroidered netting, the curve of her exquisite ass was just visible beyond the exaggerated slit of the gown. And her skin, glowing in the dim light, freckled and pristine. 

I stood completely still — in awe of her. I wanted to fall to her feet at that very moment, and I suppose I would’ve if it wasn’t for Natalia. I knew it was wrong to stare at her, but no living mortal would’ve been able to avert their eyes from such an ethereal vision. 

How fitting that she wore that very gown when I at last got to feel her, glide my tongue over every goddamn inch of her sweet skin, mark her so my brother knew who she really wanted…

I’ll surely never forget the way she melted under my touch that night, the way her skin became littered with goosebumps in the wake of my fingers. And when I discovered her little secret, the sexy scarlet colored ink beneath her breast, it left me stunned at first. Yet somehow, it didn't entirely surprise me. It suits her enchantment, her mystery. And it’s enormously tantalizing. 

I simply became intoxicated by her. I needed more, and my futile attempts at withholding my true desires, of delving headfirst into something I knew I’d never be capable of coming back from, would inevitably fail. 

Fuck. She made it so difficult. And it didn’t help when I realized how badly she needed it as well. How could I continue to deny her any further when I myself could no longer resist what we both wanted? 

I chose to tread slowly, to take the time to learn her body and the ways in which she longs to be pleasured. I knew she was losing patience with me, but I had to wait until the perfect occasion. 

I nearly gave in the night she wrapped her gorgeous, velvet mouth around my cock as I drove. I discovered the limitless desires she had been harboring, giving me all she had, keeping her promise of taking care of herself to the thought of me. 

The birthday party felt like the opportune time to at last allow ourselves a true taste of one another, but when I discovered her little lie about the tattoo, my adoration for her burst out of my body like ten foot waves slamming against the oceanside. 

I was angry. But more than that, more than anything, I just wanted her. And I didn’t want to give her a single reason more that she should find herself choosing the affections of Sam over me. 

Fucking her for the first time… nothing in the world could come remotely close to the feeling. And when she’d told me she wished I’d do it — wished I’d fuck her — my heart had catapulted to a place it had never ventured before. Knowing she wanted it so badly… there had been no stopping that shit.

The feeling of her body… No other woman could ever compare — will ever compare. No matter where I venture in the world, there will never be another like her. She's the everlasting dream. My dream. 

Every curve of her body — each time her gorgeous cunt would clench around my dick, her falling apart so gloriously at my touch… I found myself transcending space and time as I knew it.

That night was the one of the most glorious experiences I’ve yet to share with another living being, second only to last night. 

And when I had her in the library…

Jesus Christ. I just need her. In every way that I possibly can. 

And I hate how much I fucking need her. This is a new realm for me. I’ve always been my own unit, seeking the company of others only when it felt necessary. I’ve never known someone who could turn my lonely world upside down and inside out in the ways she has. 

But it wasn’t until Natalia confirmed my fears that Y/n hadn’t been taking proper care of herself that I truly realized the possible breadth of my care for her. Something wholly new to me.

I felt the longing threads of my heart rip to tattered shreds. How could a woman of her magnitudinous beauty be so blind to it? How could she ever doubt the effect she has on unsuspecting souls by simply gracing a room with her charm? It shattered me inexplicably when I learned of the way she views herself. And that—that  was when I truly realized the depths of my affections for her. 

God, the depths… like that of the ocean. 

I then sought out ways in which to help her, and the one thing I was certain would bring her peace was having her lend me a hand in preparing a home cooked meal. I had to suppress the rising flood of tears when I watched her eat it, seeming to have no more doubts in her mind as she did so. I saw the very same thing at The Whitney; Not a single burden behind her eyes as she nurtured her beautiful body. 

God. She’s evoked feelings from me that I never thought could be mine to feel.

But I just can’t stay here. I can’t bear it any longer, and she has to understand that. It’s what she did herself when she chose to move here, to say a final farewell to the town that bore her own pain. 

It isn’t her damn job to have to carry my pain, though. By every measure, I’m a failure. In the truest sense of the word. 

I fell for her when I swore to myself I wouldn’t allow for it. I’ve hurt her repeatedly with my pure bullshit. The worthless tries at denying my heart.

And I’ve hurt her yet again by dragging my feet, letting her find out in the most careless of ways by leaving the evidence in her fucking book. And in turn, I’ve hurt my own goddamn self. 

God knows how hard I tried to talk to her this morning, but she had already decided to hell with me. I can’t reproach her for it. I just wish she’d listen to me, I need her to hear me. There’s no reason she wouldn’t be accepted to Oxford. Fuck — her mind, so wondrous and brilliant. I want her there with me. I’ve suddenly found myself unable to take this trek across the sea without her. But I fear my time to present that to her is nearly up. 

And it’s all my fault. Every bit of it. 

But this morning… she had wanted to twist the metaphoric dagger in my already bleeding chest.

She’d gone to Sam. Immediately. As soon as I’d betrayed her trust, she’d gone to Sam. She could’ve at least asked Josh to take her home, though her and I both knew that Sam was the more obvious choice. The choice she knew would hurt me as much as I had hurt her. 

But what she doesn’t know is how much I’m already fucking hurting. By my own hand, no less. I never intended for this, and yet, here I am, feeling things I’ve yet to allow myself to feel over a woman, a woman that walked into my life only months ago. 

And now, thanks to me, she’s being held in the arms of my younger brother, shedding her tears into his chest right outside of my bedroom window. 

Is she wearing his fucking slippers? Jesus Christ. 

I could wring his goddamn neck for this. It’s not his fucking place. His bed wasn’t where she laid last night. His body wasn’t the one taking care of hers. 

Though, I suppose I can’t fault him–I wouldn’t be able to gather the strength to turn her away, either. Not ever again, if the truth should be told. 

I just…I’ve wanted so much more with her than this. So much more. But I must now accept the chance that I’ve fucked it all up. Perhaps I fucked it up from the very start; The fact that she ever wanted anything to do with me after the way I treated her is a remarkable wonder. 

My nerves are engulfed in flames as I have to witness her getting into Sam’s car now. Him, shutting the door behind her, racing around to the driver's side so she’s not alone for too long, wiping the last of her tears with the cuff of her sleeve. 

Tears that I fucking caused.

I’ve been through immense pain in my life, the kind of pain that feels like shards of glass slicing at my skin at the reminder. But this kind of pain, watching him drive her away because she couldn’t bear the thought of me doing it, it’s brand new to me.

I’m crossing over into untouched realms of misery, of torment. 

I can’t let things with her end in this way. I won’t stand for it. As much as I wasn’t prepared for this to begin with her in the way it did, I’m not equipped to accept it ending like this. 

I cannot leave for London knowing I was never given the chance to properly fight for her.  

But if she won’t listen to me, I fear the choice will no longer be mine to make. 

End of Jake’s point of view. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” you say, glancing around the car’s interior, charmed by its retro vibe. “What year is this Bug?”

He chuckles, giving the dashboard a little pat. “’66,” he replies proudly. “Picked her up a few years ago and been keeping her going ever since.”

“Of course you did,” you say with a grin. “Somehow it’s just… so you.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “One thing about me: I’ll always pick the quirkiest option.” And quirkiest or not, you have to admit, there’s something reassuring about the old car – a little bubble of nostalgia that somehow makes the morning feel a bit lighter.

“Wanna make a coffee run before you go home?” Sam questions, turning his face slightly toward you, his mustache curled at both ends, his lips tucked into a graceful grin as his fingers tap at the steering wheel. His voice, soft and tender, is enough to make your heart swell amidst the chaos that has been this morning.

One thing about Sam, he definitely knows coffee is the way to your heart, and while it can’t fix the broken pieces, it can certainly make it feel a little better. 

“That sounds delightful, actually,” you say with a breath of relief over the promise of a little caffeine. 

“Ah, good. Been to Hyperion yet?” 

His attempts at making sure this morning feels as normal and not tense as possible are actually doing you some good, though you can’t help but feel a bit…weird about it. 

It feels almost wrong to be doing this. Going to Sam when Jake’s upset you, getting coffee with him when you should be doing that with Jake. (When you want to be doing that with Jake.)

But, you must admit that Sam is raising your spirits, at least a little bit. And who are you to turn down a coffee in any case? 

“Sure haven’t,” you say, bringing your legs up to the seat and criss-crossing them for a bit more comfort. “Any good?” 

“Oh, yes. It’ll change your life,” he says as he flips his blinker to turn left at the stoplight in front of the U of M. Looking ahead, just down the street a ways, you see an old brick building with the Hyperion Coffee Co printed in black on a white background. 

“I can’t believe I’ve never come here with how close it is to school and work,” you comment, trying to keep conversation, and just genuinely in shock that you’ve never even heard of this place. If it’s as life changing as Sam claims, this may become a new spot for you. Something different, a change of scenery. (And something in this town that doesn’t make you think of Jake. Even better.) 

It looks nice enough from the outside. Quaint and charming. Enough to get your mind off of things, at least for a moment. 

“You can stay out here if you’d like. I’ll keep the heat on for ya.” He turns the knob to crank up the temperature just a few more degrees when he notices your body shiver. “The usual?” He asks as he unbuckles his seatbelt and begins opening the door.

The usual. You seemed to have forgotten that Sam cared enough to memorize your coffee order. Though it’s not the most complicated, it’s still so sweet that he thinks enough of you to remember that. Something seemingly so insignificant means an awful lot to you.  

Does Jake even know that? Does he care enough to know? Of course he does…right? It doesn’t matter, truly. He did so much for you last night, more than anyone ever has. But, if he’s leaving, does he really care? You shake your head, as if you physically rid yourself of the thought. 

Coming back to your senses, you notice Sam patiently awaiting a response from you, his generous charisma as strong as ever. 

Coffee, y/n. Tell him what coffee you want.

“I – I think I’ll do something warm this time,” you stutter, realizing he’s probably wondering why it’s taking you so long to answer. “A steamed latte with vanilla sounds perfect.” 

He then steps all the way out of the car, winking at you with a kind smile and a nod. “You got it.” He shuts the car door behind him and scurries his way inside, looking back once more before he walks through the door. 

A long, exhausted sigh leaves your lips as you relax your body against the cool leather. You let your eyelids shut for just a moment, resting your eyes and your head. But, the moment is cut even shorter than you planned when you feel your phone vibrating in the front pocket of your crossbody. 

There’s no need in seeing who it is. You already know. And you’re not going to answer it. After the fourth ring, it stops altogether and you close your eyes once more, awaiting the heated comfort that Sam will bring you soon. 

But then, it begins vibrating again, forcing your eyes to jolt open. 

No. Just let it ring. 

Just the same, it ends on the fourth ring. And you hope that by now he’s gotten the hint that you’re in no place to speak with him. Not right now. Not yet. 

Before you can rest your eyes just a little more, you notice Sam using his ass to open the glass door of the coffee shop, a drink in each hand and his shoulder pressed against his ear, holding his phone. He’s basically putting on a juggling act trying to get the car door open with his hands full, so you lean over the center console to open it for him. 

“You don’t need to worry about that,” you hear him say to whomever he’s speaking to on the phone, and you sense a bit of annoyance in his tone. But you don’t even think twice about that or his words as he hands you your coffee, too ready to indulge in the warm liquid that you know will take away some of the hurt laying on your soul. 

But as you take your first sip, and as Sam positions himself in the driver's seat, his next words certainly grab your attention. “Well, that’s not what she wanted to do, Jake. She asked me to take her, why the fuck would I say no?”

You nearly spit the coffee out of your mouth when it hits you; he’s talking to Jake. And they aren’t just talking, they’re arguing. Over you.

Sam’s desperately trying to speak, but the yelling on the other end of the phone is relentless. You can’t even tell what he’s saying, but you know he isn’t happy. His sheer volume of speech confirms that. And you’re not surprised, given the way you left his room, going to Sam when he’s been a touchy topic with you and Jake. 

Yeah, you feel a little bad. Only because you know he’s hurt by your actions this morning. But you’re fucking hurt, too. And the choice to separate yourself from him was made the moment you discovered he’s leaving the goddamn country and didn’t think to tell you. 

“I – Jake, it’s not –,” Sam attempts, though his voice is drowned out by the yelling on the other end that you’re still unable to make sense of. “Would you please let me —,” he continues, uselessly. His palm meets his forehead, rubbing away the irritation as he holds his phone away from his ear, letting Jake’s words hang in thin air. And with his phone held away from his ear, you’re able to hear Jake a bit more clear. 

“I know what you’re fucking doing, and I’m not okay with it. She’s not yours to take care of! I’m gonna make you regret this, Sam. I know what your intentions are with y/n – “

Sam’s eyes nervously flick to you when he realizes you can hear everything Jake’s saying, and before you can hear anything else, he quickly brings the phone back up to his ear, quickly clicking the volume button down with his index finger. 

“I’m hanging up, brother. Need to focus on the road.” 

Sam just spoke over the muffled yelling completely before taking his phone from his ear and using his index finger to end the call, tossing it in the back seat so it’s completely out of sight. 

“Guess we really ruffled his feathers, huh?” He jokes, turning the key to start the ignition. It stalls for a moment, having a hard time turning over. But with one more turn of the key, the engine hums a low vibration. 

You’re silent as he pulls out of the lot, thinking about, well, everything. 

What the fuck has this morning been? First, you wake up next to Jake, thinking that most of your days from here on out will begin the very same way. He makes breakfast and brings it to his room for the two of you to enjoy, something so domestic and charming. 

Then, it all falls apart, seemingly as quickly as it was put together. 

And now, you’re essentially back where you started months ago; with Sam, all for the purpose of making Jake jealous. Only this time, there’s more at stake. A fresh wound festered with the reality of what almost was, what you wanted. What you thought he wanted, too. 

Maybe he does want something with you. But he obviously isn’t that invested in you if he’s not been honest this entire time. 

What he was saying before Sam held the phone back up to his ear and lowered the volume, about knowing his intentions with you that have Jake very upset…

Perhaps Sam wants to be with you in the ways Jake just doesn’t. Maybe you’ve been wasting your time with someone who can’t commit to you while there’s someone very close by who can give you everything you’ve been looking for. Someone who’s been there all along, just waiting for Jake‘s inevitable storm that would make you realize that.

There’s only one fucking problem – you don’t want Sam the way you want Jake. That’s just a simple fact you’ve had to come to terms with. Sam is so undeniably special, but your mantra since you’ve met the two of them is still very relevant right now; Sam isn’t Jake.

But as it stands, you do feel something for Sam that is far beyond friends-only. And the fact that he hasn’t given up on you, even after you hardcore ghosted him and used him to get to his brother just may be the indicator you need. 

He may not be Jake. But he is Sam. And Sam is everything kind and gentle in this world, bottled up in one beautiful person. 

But Jake…

The way Jake makes you feel is completely different. No one has made you feel the way he does. He makes you feel beautiful, desirable. He makes you feel sexy, when that’s something you’ve never once felt about yourself. 

But more importantly, Jake makes you feel safe. And during this upheaved phase of your life, when everything feels different and scary, safety is what you crave. It’s what you need. He gives you hope, he gives you meaning. Healing only feels possible with him. Maybe that’s why you’ve relapsed so hard since moving here. Aside from the trigger of the many life changes, you got so bad because he needed to see your pain to help you move through it. 

Last night felt like the first time in your life that you felt like a whole person. Someone who is worthy of love, of being loved. The worries about eating all but vanished, and as you looked at him sitting across the table from you, you finally saw a future in which you were healed and happy. 

That’s probably why this morning has felt so heavy. It seemed like just as your heart became filled with hope, it was ripped away from you at an unprecedented speed. 

Aside from all of that, you’re also afraid that you’ve destroyed a brotherly bond, simply by needing them both in different ways. You led Sam on, then pursued Jake, and now you’re back to Sam. And Jake hates him now because of it.

The very last thing you want is to get in the way of the relationship between brothers. Brothers who live together, work together, have been through so much loss together. You can’t let yourself be the reason they hate each other, after an entire lifetime of leaning on each other. It’s selfish of you. 

“I’m sorry, Sam. I feel like I’m the reason he’s so upset with you,” you carefully utter, finally finding the courage to say something to him. Because, the truth is, it is your fault that he was screamed at by Jake. This very realization is causing fresh tears to form in your ducts, because who the fuck are you to ruin their relationship? All because you can’t deny your feelings for both of them? As soon as something goes awry with Jake, you’re right back to seeking comfort from Sam. And that is not okay. You know it’s not.

And that’s why you feel like the worst kind of person right now. 

But you don’t want him to see you cry again. And you certainly don’t want to have to explain why you’re crying, because admitting what you’ve done outloud isn’t something you’re ready for. So, with the help of another sip of your coffee, you’re able to keep the tears at bay. 

“Ah, just a quarrel between brothers. Definitely not out of the ordinary for us,” Sam says, entirely unaware of the vast emotions you’re feeling, a sweet grin on his lips as he takes the final turn down the street your apartment rests on. “Nothing you should be sorry for. I promise it happens more often than you’d think.” He chuckles at this, and whips the Bug into the parking lot of your complex. 

He’s obviously ignoring what he knows you heard, but you're okay with that. A conversation about that feels a bit too much right now. 

“Thank you for bringing me home,” you say as he shifts the gear in park, letting the door unlock for you. “I really appreciate it.” 

“No problem,” he says, his sweet eyes meeting yours, his gaze lingering for a moment. “Need me to walk you up?” He asks with a gentle smile that’s tugging on every string attached to your heart. 

“I can’t ask you to do that,” you respond as you unbuckle your seatbelt and open the door. 

“Just thought I’d offer,” he says, still smiling as he watches you step out of the Bug. “Take care of yourself, and text me if you need me. I’ll see you later, okay?”

With a wave and a confirming nod, you shut the car door and watch him pull away. 

As you head up the steel stairs to the second floor, a memory begins filling your melancholy thoughts. One that was triggered by something Sam had said before you got out of the car. 

It’s a memory from the night your mom ended up in the hospital, and Jake stood by your side through it all. Even stayed in your apartment with you so you wouldn’t be alone, opening up to you about incredibly personal things when you couldn’t sleep. 

“You know, it’s pretty late. And it’s a long drive back to my place,” he had said as he parked his Rover in complete silence, probably sensing your reservations about spending the night alone after what had just happened. “I could stay here, sleep on the couch. That way you’d have someone to take you tomorrow morning.” 

You were utterly shocked by his offer, and you wanted it more than anything else in that moment. You needed him there. And though he tried to play it off by mentioning how far of a drive he had, it was very clear that he proposed the idea because he knew you needed him. 

“Jake I – I can’t ask you to –”

“You’re not asking if I’m offering.” 

He wasn’t going to leave you. No matter what. And he was right; you never asked him, you didn’t have to – he wanted to stay. And he knew how badly you needed his company. 

He just got it. He understood the position you were in, and he understood your need for his presence, even before you understood what you needed yourself. 

He’s made you feel safe from the very beginning. Even when you fought it.

And now, as you’re walking inside the quiet apartment, your mom still fast asleep, you’re wishing you could relive that night all over again. Terrible as it was, you had him to make you feel better. 

The sadness you’re feeling is almost comparable to the heavy emotions of that night, but at least you had him to give you some peace then, even in the rocky beginnings of the two of you. 

You don’t have that now. 

And the reality is, you may never have it again. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

The daisies sitting in the vase on your dresser are making a mockery of you as you enter your bedroom. As are the ones sitting on the nightstand next to your bed. One bouquet from Jake, one from Sam. And next to the one from  Sam is the photo of you and Nat that she gifted you for your birthday, the photo Jake took.

Fitting. Disgustingly.

You toss your bag on the floor, not ready to take out its contents just yet. A tiny grin graces your lips as you kick off your footwear, the smiley face slippers Sam insisted you borrow for the journey home. 

The only thing you can think to do, the only thing you want to do, is take a fucking shower. Wash it all away. Let the night before flow down the drain, along with everything else you’re currently feeling. 

But before you can do that, the apartment needs tending to. Conveniently, the living room is a fucking mess. Not at all how you left it last night. Your mom certainly seemed to have no problem making the mess, but she’ll find every excuse possible that would explain why she couldn’t clean it. 

It’s frustrating for several reasons. But the biggest one that’s rattling your already shot nerves is the fact that the apartment was spotless last night. And now, thanks to whatever compelled her to ruin all your hard work, it needs to be cleaned. Again. 

You can’t shower in peace knowing the place looks this way. So, you’ll clean it first. 

At least it’ll be a good distraction from everything. A good way to occupy your mind from the disaster that has been this morning. Everything you’re feeling is far too similar to the things you felt the day your dad left. Eerily similar. Like you’re not worth staying around for, and that’s been proven twice now. 

Walking back to the living room, the first thing that catches your eye is the pile of dirty plates sitting on the floor, and the half-full cups of water on the coffee table. And that very coffee table, covered in crumbs from last night's meal. You brush them all off on the floor before picking up the dishes that have been left there, sitting them in the sink to worry about later. 

Right now, it’s imperative that you vacuum. Those crumbs from the coffee table that are now embedded in the carpet will be the only thing you can think about until they're gone. And the couch – it’s just as covered in food remnants as the coffee table was. You brush them off on the floor, too, so their fate will be at the discretion of the vacuum’s nozzle.

You grab the vacuum from the coat closet, its cord tangled and twisted, much like the contents of your mind at the moment. As you try to unravel it, it only knots further, becoming a mess in your hands. You can only get a small amount of the cord free from the rest, and that’s all the lead you have to work with as you just decide to give up and plug the damn thing in.

The low hum of the vacuum fills your head with white noise, an intrusion you hoped would drown out the thoughts swirling in your head about everything. But, it doesn’t work. They’re still there, tormenting you as you clean up your moms mess for the thousandth time.

You focus on the crumbs disappearing into the nozzle, wishing you could suck away the thoughts, too. The daisies. The photo. Sam. Jake. The weight of it all presses down, heavier than the vacuum in your hands.

The couch cushions are next. You flip one over, finding a stain you hadn’t noticed before – a dark blotch that looks like spilled wine, or maybe coffee. You can’t be sure. It’s just another mark, another imperfection in your life that you’ll be forced to live with. One that you have no answers to the questions you have about it.

When you finish, the living room is as clean as it was last night. But somehow, it’s not making you feel any better. Like the mess was the only thing keeping you from the reality you can’t escape. 

You set the vacuum back in the closet and head for the bathroom to finally rid yourself of any lingering piece from last night. The biggest thing – Jake’s smell is all over you. His sandalwood aroma, covering your body, your hair. You smell just like him, like his room. 

And it really fucking sucks. You can’t stand it any longer, it’s too goddamn painful.

The shower is scalding, but you don’t care. It feels good. You stand under the spray, letting the hot water batter your skin until it’s red. 

The water dripping down your chest reminds you of what still hangs around your neck; the sword necklace Jake gave you last night. The one that matches his. The sword, a symbol for so much. You grab the sword, clutching it tightly as you prepare to yank it off, break the silver chain in a hundred little pieces to flow down the drain with the water. 

But, you don’t. 

You let go of it, leaving it dangling between your breasts as the warm water continues to cascade down your body. 

You close your eyes and imagine it washing everything away – the mess, the memories, the ache. But when you step out, dripping and shivering, you realize it hasn’t.

It never does.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

It’s not like Jake to miss class. For any reason, truthfully. 

So, it certainly caught you by surprise when you arrived at Movack's class and saw an empty seat next to yours. 

Class began over five minutes ago now, and he’s still not here. It’s pretty safe to assume he won’t be coming today. And though that should give you some relief that you won’t have to sit in the inevitable awkwardness for the duration of class, you can’t help but feel a little sad about it. 

Regardless, at least you’ll be able to focus on school today. Not him. Perhaps his absence is a good thing after all. And, it’ll truly make things a bit easier for you in this class in particular. Movack made an announcement online that you’ll be working with your partners today on an in-class assignment. 

It may be for the best that he isn’t here. Of course, it’ll leave you without a partner. But, you’re certain it’s nothing you can’t manage on your own.

“As you all know, today you will work with your respective partners on analysis,” Movack says, finally wrapping up his usual long-winded announcements he makes at the beginning of every class. “I’d like you to analyze the psychological dynamics of characters within the lore.”

Solo it is. And you’re actually okay with that.

“Ms. Y/n,” Movack says, causing you to jolt anxiously in your seat. “Mr. Kiszka informed me before class that he will be a few minutes late and wanted me to make you aware.”

Goddamnit. 

Also, why couldn't he tell you that himself? 

“O-okay,” you stutter, timidly as you notice everyone in the room glaring at you, Dr. Movack patiently awaiting your response. “Um, thanks for letting me know.” 

You’re trying to not take it too personally that he felt the need to have the professor of the damn class tell you he’ll be late. But it isn’t working. In fact, it’s kind of making your blood heat to a near boil at the thought of it. And, him coming to class means you’ll have to interact with him. You’re not ready for that yet. Part of you thought he may avoid class because of that.

But, no. Of course not. This man never skips class. No matter fucking what. He’s also never late, though. And you can’t help but wonder why he’s late today. Not that it’s your business anymore. Or, was it ever really your business?

Just as Dr. Movack is beginning to give you all the details of the assignment, Jake comes through the lecture hall doors. Their squeaking hinges echo throughout the acoustics of the room, the heels of his boots click against the hard surface of the floor as he waltzes in. He’s in no hurry, of course. His walk is a saunter, no sense of urgency in his stride as he makes his way up the steps to his seat. 

You try not to observe him too closely, your heart hammering in your chest. It is stupid how one quick, simple glance of the man has your body temperature increasing. 

“Welcome to class, Mr. Kiszka,” Dr. Movack says, greeting him with a kind smile. (And all you can think about is your first day of class, when you were late and treated the exact opposite of Mr. Kiszka.) 

Jake nods his head in response, taking his final steps until he’s right next to you. And, naturally, ignoring your existence. Not that you expected any less. You aren’t exactly pleased to see him, either. 

He sits down with a deep and heavy sigh, glancing at you briefly before looking away just as quickly as his eyes found you. The scowl on his face is rather prominent, his lips pursed and unmoving. You want so badly to say something. But, what? No words feel appropriate, yet you can’t handle this screaming silence sitting in the tiny space between you two. 

(This really does feel like the beginning of the semester all over a – fucking – gain.)

You’re angry as fuck with him right now. For reasons on a continually growing list. But all you can think about right now is how fucking good he smells. The scent that’s carried you through so much, the one you’ve found yourself covered in after being entangled within his bedsheets. It’s so close, yet feels further away than ever. 

And he looks nice. So very handsome. Salt to the still very much opened and bleeding wound. Your cheeks flush as you eye his chest through the partially open button down.

“As I stated, you will be performing an analysis on characters and their dynamics. This is to bring us back to the root of the lore, while also preparing you for your presentations that are set to begin next week,” Movack continues, his voice now like a distant muttering to you as you’re suddenly finding it hard to focus any further with the addition of the presence to the left of you. “This assignment will be interdisciplinary –  I want you to think about the infamous love triangle and how that affects Arthur’s dedication to the court.”

If it were ever possible for a person's heart to completely stop while they’re still living and breathing, right now would be that instance. You know you had a very physical reaction to the premise of the assignment, your body noticeably tensing and the gasp of air that you couldn’t hold in even if you tried. 

You didn’t know what exactly to expect with this analysis, but it certainly wasn’t that. 

Given Jake’s sudden change in posture that you can see from your peripheral, you’d say he’s feeling roughly the same as you. It’s too ironic. Uncomfortably ironic. 

Movack’s had all semester for this. And he picks now to have the class work on it?

Not the fucking time for this, Movack. 

“With your partners, I’d like you to discuss this in as much depth as our time restrictions of the class will allow,” he proceeds, as your heart simultaneously feels like it’s going to stop beating, yet rattling the bones in your body with its nervous pounding all at once. “Take notes, detailed notes, and turn them into me at the end of class. You may begin.”

You can practically taste the bile forming at the back of your throat. What the fuck kind assignment is this? God, you wish Jake would’ve just skipped the damn class. You wish you would’ve skipped. Hell, you have it in your right mind to hop out of your seat and sprint your way out of here. Take the F for the day. At this point, you couldn’t give a shit about your grade.

As if things weren’t awkward enough, this will certainly hit the nail on the head. 

Neither one of you has said a word – you aren’t even looking at each other. How do you even begin this conversation? How do you pretend that things are normal, just for the sake of this class? 

You hear the evidence that everyone else has begun their analyses, talking in depth with their partners while you and Jake have yet to speak to each other. Movack has definitely noticed that you two have yet to start. That much is clear in the way his eyes are piercing the two of you.

And, to make it worse, here he comes. Walking toward you, his arms crossed tightly over his beige sweater vest. His square frames are placed right on the bridge of his nose, his eyes peering above them in agitation as he positions himself before you and Jake. “Is there a problem?” He demands, his salt and pepper eyebrows raised as he impatiently awaits an answer from either one of you. 

You and Jake look at each other at the same time, the first time you’ve looked into his eyes since you left his room the other morning. When you left him to seek the comfort of Sam. 

And you can see it. Feel it. The very same pain you saw in his orbs that morning. They look the exact same. Only heavier, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than before. You begin to wonder if he’s been sleeping, because it certainly doesn’t appear that way. It can’t be because of you, right? Surely you’ve not hurt him that badly. He’s the one leaving. So, he can only be so hurt by his own doing. 

But, still. He looks defeated. And it’s making your heart ache, even though you know it shouldn’t.

“A-hem!” 

You both snap your heads back to Movack, who looks far more irritated now than he did before. 

“Is there a reason you two aren’t participating? I’d hate to give you two failing grades for today, but that doesn’t mean I won’t –,” 

“No, no,” Jake interjects, finally. “Sorry, we’ll get started right away.” 

Movack hums as he nods his head, pushing his frames up to his eyes before he slowly turns to walk down the steps. He’s still looking, peering at you and Jake over his shoulder before he makes it to his wooden desk at the front of the class.

“Guess we better at least look like we’re doing something,” Jake mutters, begrudgingly turning the upper half of his body so that he’s now facing you. 

You force yourself to do the same, knowing it’ll at least get Movack off your back. But, at the cost, that almost seems like the better option. Now that you’re facing him, looking at him again, it’s almost too much to bear as his downturned eyes are looking into yours once again. 

But after noticing the heaviness in his eyes, the next thing you notice is just as devastating. 

He’s wearing the sword necklace around his neck, dangling beneath his coins against his off-white button up. Hanging beautifully between his exquisite pectoral muscles. It’s odd that he's wearing it, given it’s identical to the one he gave you. 

And what’s even more weird — you’re wearing yours, too. Only, yours is tucked into your sweater, hidden beneath the heavy black knitting. Out of sight, yet still close to you. 

The fact is, you’re both wearing them. But he has the nerve to wear his in plain sight. And you immediately wonder if it’s to elicit something from you, perhaps a reminder of the fact that you’ve chosen to cut things off. 

And that pisses you off. 

“Well, we still need to have something to turn in at the end of class,” you start, your throat constricting at the first words you’ve spoken to him since that morning. Not the words you had envisioned, but here they are. All about fucking class so you don’t say what’s really on your mind. “So, don’t you think we probably need to actually do something instead of just looking like it.” 

That came out much more harsh than you truly intended. But, you are right. His idea of just pretending isn’t going to cut it. He knows that, too. 

His eyes grow wide, his jaw clenching. He brings his hand up to his chin, his finger vigorously rubbing at the skin. 

“Kay,” he snarks, sharply. “Why don’t you get started then, y/n? Tell me the impacts that Guiniverre’s love affair had on the King.” He reaches behind him to his book satchel, rips a piece of paper out of his notebook and grabs the pen sitting in the front pocket of his off white button up. “Tell me how bad it hurt the King to see his beloved with someone else.” 

Beloved?

He begins aggressively clicking his pen over and over, the sound of it overstimulating the fuck out of you. 

Hell no. 

“Let’s first discuss the treatment of the Queen,” you start, feeling every ounce of blood in your body reach your cheeks, your heart palpitating in your chest. “And how Lancelot treated her the way she deserved to be treated from day one, and didn’t lie to her like the selfish King did.”

Oh god. 

You didn’t want to say it. But Jesus, the words just kept coming. Spilling out of you like a soda bottle that had been shaken too much. 

You regret it. Instantly. 

Jake just stares at you for a moment, blankly. You’re waiting for some sort of comeback, but he’s silent. Then, to make it worse, he starts etching everything you’ve just said on the paper. Everything. 

“Jake. Jake, stop.” You try reaching across the table to cup his hand, but he quickly pulls away from you, ripping the paper with the point of his pen as he does so. 

“What else would you like to say, y/n?” His voice is steady, yet charged and heavy. The weight of his glare is keeping you locked in, your body tense and unable to move. He lets the silence linger for a moment before leaning forward towards you, his tone sharpening further as he speaks. “I’m sure you’ve got more to add.”

The room suddenly feels smaller, empty. Like everyone else in the class has suddenly disappeared, leaving only you and Jake. 

He glances at the paper in front of him, staring at the half-written words – your words. “Perhaps,” he says, his voice dipping low before rising with deliberate intensity. “You’d like to elaborate on how the King reminded her she’s a queen – by showing her exactly how indispensable she is to him.”

“Indispensable?” You echo, leaning closer to him, mirroring his body language with defiance. Your voice is sharp, cutting through the thick tension between you. “If that’s so, then perhaps we should discuss how he still wanted to leave her!”

His nostrils flare, his fingers tightening around the pen in his hand until you’re sure it’s about to break in two.

“Perhaps,” he snaps, his voice loud enough to make heads turn. “We should discuss how he bared his heart to her, and it still didn’t stop her from running to fucking Lancelot instead of letting the King explain himse –,”

“Jacob and Y/n!” Dr. Movack’s slices through the room, cutting Jake off from the remainder of his rant about the fictional characters, the rant that you know wasn’t just about them. 

You hadn’t even realized how loud the two of you had gotten. Your heart pounds as the Movack’s words pull you back to reality. All at once, you’re acutely aware of the dozens of eyes on you, of the collective silence in the room. It’s like you’d both forgotten where you were, that this wasn’t some private, messy argument but the middle of class. And yet, none of that had mattered – until now.

“Class is dismissed early. Place your notes on my desk, and I’ll see you on Wednesday.” Your classmates begin unzipping and zipping their bags, closing their notebooks, shutting their laptops. “Jake and y/n, I’d like you to stay after class for a moment.”

Shit. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔

“This is the second time you two have disrupted my class.” Dr. Movack stands from his desk chair, walking around to the front to lean against the old wood bureau where you and Jake are both awkwardly standing. “I’m not blind to the fact that something is going on between you. I’ve noticed it all semester.” 

He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, placing the frames on the desk. “You two are the best students in this class. Well, the best students I’ve had in years, actually. I don’t want to see you two fall short in your studies because of something that’s happening outside of this classroom.” 

The both of you are dead silent. You can’t speak for Jake, but you feel like you could come unglued at any given second. 

“Listen, whatever it is – and let me clarify, I don’t need to know, nor do I want to know – keep it out of this classroom. Let it go before you walk through those doors.” He looks to the large doors that lead out to the hallway, pointing to them. “Because if I hear one more display like I heard today, I won’t have a choice but to kick you both out of this class.” 

Here it is. That heartstopping sensation you felt earlier, and that involuntary gasp that apparently comes with it. 

“With as late as we are in the semester, and with as much work that I know you two have put into your project, I don’t want to do that. But, it won’t be up to me. This campus has a very strict code of conduct.” He pauses, his eyes shifting back and forth from you to Jake. “As intelligent as you both are, I hate seeing you break that.”

You’ve never heard Movack’s voice like this before. His normally loud and booming voice has softened, almost unrecognizable from what you’ve come to know.

He’s stern, undoubtedly. But, it’s the kind of stern that you’d hear from a loving dad who is disappointed. You feel his sincerity, his softness hidden behind his professor-persona. 

It’s intimidating, yet it’s comforting all at once. He cares, deep down.

“Jake, I’ve known you long enough to know that this behavior is not in your character. And y/n,” he starts, looking at you with eyes that are soft and altogether hard as rocks. “I’m aware that I’ve only known you for a few months, but I know you’re better than this. I’ve seen it.” 

He then picks his glasses back up, placing them on his face again as he steps away from his desk. “I’ve seen it in both of you,” he continues, placing his hands in the pockets of his gray slacks. “Listen, I’m not just giving you this speech because of today, or because of the last time this happened. I’m telling you both all of this because you’ve both been nominated for the Distinguished Student Award given to English Majors. I am the one that nominated you.” 

Your eyes widen, your mouth parting in surprise. Instinctively, you look to Jake, whose face is emitting nearly the same expression as yours. 

“I don’t know who will be chosen,” Movack goes on. “But I can’t stand the thought of you two being ineligible because of episodes like today, that I’ve now seen twice.” He moves back to his desk, leaning his back up against it as he crosses his arms over his chest, and one loafer-clad foot over the other. “This award looks really good to grad programs. Jake, I know you’re already accepted to Oxford.” 

Fucking Movack knew before you did? Wonderful.

“But this award will guarantee funding through the scholarship only awarded to the student chosen. I can’t give you too many details, but you don’t want to mess up this opportunity.” 

He then focuses his attention back to you, looking at you with a softness that is somehow reminding you of the way your dad used to look at you. “And for you, this would be money in your pocket since your tuition is mostly covered by the fact that you’re employed by the university.” 

Money in your pocket…something you really need. You’d love to get you and your mom out of that shitty apartment someday, someday soon. Aside from that, this would be really helpful when you begin the process of applying for grad programs next semester. 

You didn’t even know anything like this existed, let alone that you would be considered for something like this. You can’t fuck this up. Movack’s lecture is the thing you needed to bring your focus back to why you’re here in the first place; your education. The only thing that’s ever truly mattered to you. The reason you were able to get yourself out of Oklahoma, the thing that will prove to everyone and yourself that you are capable of achieving anything. 

This award could open so many doors for you. And for Jake, whom a part of you wants to win it just as badly as you want to win it. He deserves it. Despite everything, he deserves it. He should be recognized for his talents, his incredible brain. He was accepted to one of the most prestigious schools in the world, after all. Painful as it is to think about, it’s not lost on you how impressive that is. 

“Do me a favor and consider everything at stake here while you’re on Thanksgiving break,” Movack continues. “You two are shining examples of the brilliance of this department. Don’t let yourselves down by letting things get in the way of that.” 

Movack excuses you and Jake, and the walk down the hall is filled with only the sounds of your sneakers and his boots against the carpeted floor. You stop once you make it to the stairwell, letting him continue his walk down the stairs. But when he realizes you’re no longer walking with him, he turns around, looking up at you as you’re standing still on the top step. 

He takes a breath, as though he’s ready to say something. But after a moment of him looking at you, of you looking at him, there isn’t a single word spoken. Instead, the silence lingers until he turns away, continuing his trek down the stairs.

Not even so much as an apology over what happened in class, or a single comment about what Movack had to say. And you’re angry about it. He should’ve said something. 

But then again, you also could’ve said something. And you didn’t. Couldn’t. 

What transpired in class wasn’t all his fault. You’re self-aware enough to recognize that. And you’re aware enough to know that everything he said was rooted much deeper than the Arthurian lore. Maybe he really does care. And maybe you truly have hurt him. Hurt him more than you ever really intended. 

But the damage has already been done. You fear there’s no coming back from this. From any of it. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

The smell of charred turkey and singed herbs is rather potent throughout the entire apartment. So strong, in fact, that the freezing temperatures outside didn’t keep you from opening each window to air out the stench.

You had spent hours researching how to properly bake a turkey, what to season it with, how the hell you’re supposed to carve the damn thing. It’s not something you’ve ever had to worry about doing before, and you didn’t want to fuck it all up your first time. 

But, as you make the first cuts into the smoky meat, you realize that you may have done just that. It’s cooked all the way through – that’s certainly not something you need to worry about. Cooked a little too well, in fact. It’s way too dry, that much is evident by the way your knife isn’t slicing easily through the meat. 

Your mom couldn’t help you with the meal. Her coughing has gotten so much worse; she’s been struggling to catch her breath the past few days. You can hear the rattling in her chest when she speaks, when she coughs – she sounds bad. Really bad. Probably the worst you’ve ever heard. 

You can’t be certain, but you’re suspicious that she’s stopped taking her medications again. A thought that simultaneously pisses you off and breaks your heart. You’re doing everything you can to help her, but if she won’t swallow the pills, she won’t be around much longer. And no matter what she’s done, that fact absolutely terrifies you.

So, Thanksgiving was up to you this year. And the sad reality of it is you would’ve been able to enlist Jake for help. He would’ve happily done it in a heartbeat. He’d be here right now, guiding you through the steps of preparing a meal you have zero experience in.

The only thing you managed to not fuck up are the mashed potatoes. And that’s only because they’re the instant kind. A little hot water, and voila. You have perfectly mashed ‘potatoes’ that taste subpar at best. 

Even the stuffing you made from a mix didn’t come out right. Without gravy, (because you couldn’t find any instant gravy at the store) the stuffing and potatoes will just be dry and rather lackluster. But, at least it’s something. 

The chicken noodle soup is a recipe from your late grandmother. Easy enough to follow, though it just doesn’t taste like it should. It’s certainly not the worst thing you’ve ever made, but you’re a little more than disappointed in the fact that the store was out of carrots. Carrot-less chicken noodle soup just doesn’t feel complete to you. And if you know your mom, she won’t be too thrilled about the lack of carrots, either.

A less-than adequate meal for your first Thanksgiving in your crummy apartment in Ann Arbor. There is a small sense of pride, though. Regardless of how the food turned out, you did it. All on your own, too. You know you deserve at least a little pat on the back for all the work you’ve done. And not just with the food, but how you’ve managed to keep you and your mom afloat. Being the sole provider and caregiver for over a year now, surely she’ll cut you a little slack if the food isn’t up to par with what’s typically expected for a Thanksgiving meal. 

For years, you and your parents had gone to your dads side of the family for pretty much every holiday that called for family gatherings. The only family you had left after the passing of your maternal grandparents. And even before that, you didn’t get to see them but once a year for a few days during Summer break. 

With your dad having exited the frame of your life completely, that means his family is also non-existent in your world. Last year was your first Thanksgiving without him, and the holiday was spent in a small diner over an hour away from Cherry Tree. It was the only thing open, and it was all you could manage at the time. It certainly didn’t feel like Thanksgiving, but it was the best you could do given the circumstances. 

It was your goal this year to give your mom (and yourself) a decent holiday. And even if that means a shitty excuse for a meal, it’s still better than last year. A little, at least. Though, current life circumstances are still feeling rather heavy – some in old ways, some in new ways. 

As you're plating each of your dinners, the main thing on your mind right now is your dad. He’s probably in Oklahoma with the rest of the family, enjoying his second Thanksgiving without the burden of you and your mom. You wonder if he’s happier now, if he’s relieved. Maybe he’s found someone else by now, someone that’s worth sticking around for. Maybe this new someone has a daughter that he loves more than you. Maybe…

Enough. 

Those thoughts will do nothing but make this day a thousand times harder than it already is. It’s been difficult enough as it is, having to turn Josh down over and over again when he’s asked you to come over and celebrate with them. You’d told him that you needed to spend the day with your mom, and of course, his next idea was to have her come with you. Told you there was plenty of food, that Jake had spent hours preparing the meal. 

That sounded even worse than dealing with the guilt of leaving her by herself. The situation would be far too awkward, and you haven’t even told your mom of everything that’s happened. It’s just too much to explain, and going tonight, having her go with you amidst everything…

Nope. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Alone with your mom it is. And though it’s not the ideal scenario by any means, it’s the best option. (And the morbid part of you can’t help but wonder if this’ll be the last Thanksgiving you’ll ever celebrate with her.) 

“I think the turkey is a tad bit burnt,” you admit, defeatedly. “But hopefully it’ll still taste okay.” 

She’s found herself in another coughing fit as you set the plate in front of her. The coughs are deep, heavy. They’re coming straight from her chest. “Try and take a deep breath for me,” you say, rubbing her back until she finally catches her breath. “That sounds bad, mom.”

“I’m…fine…,” she tells you through gasps of air. She sits still for a moment, letting air fully fill her lungs again before she reaches for the plate of food you’ve brought her. “No carrots in the chicken and noodles?” 

Of course she noticed. 

“Couldn’t find them at the store,” you tell her as you get settled in your dining chair. “I guess I waited too long to go shopping. Just about everything was sold out.” Pulling apart your piece of turkey, you grimace at just how dry looks. “And most of what I did manage to find was from the cheap brands that no one really likes.” 

The turkey really does taste terrible. As you suspected, dry as fuck. Without a giant swig of your water, you’re not sure you’d be able to get it down. Gravy probably would’ve helped, you silently ponder. 

After a few bites of potatoes, a spoonful of chicken noodles, and a bite of stuffing, you decide you’re mostly done with the meal. 

The food is pretty bad. But that’s not the only thing keeping you from it. Eating was already hard; it’s about a hundred times worse right now. 

The holidays have always been difficult, simply because they always revolve around food. And Thanksgiving, being the holiday for food, has typically been your least favorite one to celebrate. You have so many memories of family members giving you a look when you filled your plate with less food than they deemed appropriate. And you would get even more looks when you never finished everything on your already scarce plate. 

It’s just a lot. Always has been. And this year, it’s just that much harder. 

Your mom, on the other hand, has practically finished everything on her plate. Which, to say the very least, is shocking when considering how much she shit-talks your cooking. 

“Does it taste okay?” You ask her as she smothers her last piece of turkey in mashed potatoes, shoveling it all in her mouth in one go.

“It’s a little dry,” she utters through a full mouth. “But it’s not half bad. Good job, sweetie.”

“Thanks mom.” Standing up from your seat, you take your half full plate to the kitchen and dump the sad remains in the trash. “There’s plenty more if you’re still hungry.”

“Done already?” She asks while you begin rinsing your plate in the kitchen sink.

“Yeah. The food was pretty filling,” you say, rubbing your tummy to indicate that you’re full. “Couldn’t eat another bite if I tried.” 

She hums inquisitively as she sets her fork down on her plate, grabbing her cup and sipping on the store-bought apple cider you poured her. “You’re not starvin’ yourself again, are you?” 

The plate in your hand crashes into the sink, slipping out of your grasp. You never truly know what your mom is going to say, but this…it caught you by surprise, startled you. This isn’t a conversation you want to have with your mom; you’ve never really had it at all. She’s always dismissed this part of you, pretending like it didn’t exist. Your dad was the one that got you help. Not her. 

So, hearing her mention it is…strange, to say the least. Strange and uncomfortable. Though you don’t like discussing this with anyone, she’s the last person you want to talk about it with. 

You’re not sure what to say, or if you should even say anything. Avoiding it feels like the best option – maybe she’ll forget about it, let it go if you change the subject. Just pretend like you didn’t hear it. 

“Um, there’s some pie,” you force out, leaving the plate where it landed and turning off the faucet. “In the freezer, there’s a frozen pie. Pumpkin. If you want it, I can preheat –,” 

“You didn’t break the plate, did you?” 

The plate? She’s only concerned with the fucking plate?

“N-no?” You stammer, confused. Looking in the sink to be sure, you see the plate still in one piece. No cracks beyond the ones that were already there from age and use. “No, the plate’s fine. Do you want pie?” You ask again, finding this entire interaction incredibly odd.

“No, I don’t think so.” She pushes her now cleared off plate to the center of the table, standing and stretching her arms as high as she can. She coughs again, this one even deeper and more rattling than the ones before. “Think I’ll go take a bath and head to bed soon. I’m not feeling too great.” 

Do you ask her about her medications knowing she’ll probably just lie? No, there’s no point. You know that. She’s clearly made the choice to forgo her meds again. And you learned the last time she did this that you can’t force her to take them. She’ll do what she wants, even if it means it’s slowly killing her. 

And that thought, regardless of everything, absolutely breaks you.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

After helping your mom through a bath, putting away leftovers, and cleaning the kitchen until the laminate countertops were sparkling, you’re at last snuggled up under your covers. Though it’s only a little after eight, being in your bed this early feels like the best way to spend the rest of the night. Your mom is already fast asleep, snoring away whatever Western film she’s chosen for the night, so there’s no reason you can’t hunker down in your room a little earlier than usual. 

The apartment is freezing, but you don’t mind. It just gives you a reason to turn your heated blanket up as high as it’ll go, break out your prized pair of purple fuzzy socks, and a giant ass Nike hoodie you thrifted years ago.

This kind of weather begs for a Harry Potter night, one of your favorite things to watch during the colder months. But, of course, you can’t just watch them from the beginning. As of tonight, the Christmas season has officially begun. It’s only right that you watch The Sorcerer's Stone first, the one that, in your opinion, is the most Christmasy of the whole franchise.

The only thing you’re missing are your decorations you’ve always put up in your room. Your tiny tree that could only hold maybe five regular sized ornaments, the string of colorful lights with the big, retro bulbs you’d hang from your ceiling, the wreath you made yourself when you were probably eleven or twelve that you’ve hung on the back of your bedroom door every year. 

You moved to Michigan so quickly, and there was only so much room in your Firebird for everything that encompassed your entire life. Decorations just weren’t a priority when you packed up your life in Oklahoma. 

So, you’ll just have to make do with your fairy lights framing your vanity mirror, and your cuddly cactus plant that could probably hold a star on top, if you really wanted to get festive. 

You’re only a few minutes into the movie, but your eyes are slowly becoming heavier, each blink longer than the last. There’s a certain peace with tonight, thinking about Christmas and watching a movie that has always made you happy. It’s all made you feel so comfortable, and the addition of your warm blanket is the cherry on top of the perfect, cozy night to yourself.

Letting your eyes fully close, you begin to doze off to the sound of the movie, letting it lull you to a restful, tranquil slumber. 

Until your phone vibrates. 

Initially, it scared the hell out of you, your eyes shooting open in an instant. Sitting on your nightstand made the vibration much louder than normal – you swear you felt your bed shake along with it. You clutch your chest, the intrusion making your heart race. 

Reaching for it to see who it is, you’re fully expecting a text from Nat, or another plea from Josh to join them for Thanksgiving.

But reading the screen tells you your thoughts over who it could be are very wrong. It’s the last person you expected to hear from tonight, and you’re reluctant to even open it. You were so relaxed, so close to resting. Why did he have to ruin it? 

You let the text remain unopened for a bit, but you know damn well your anxiety won’t let you leave it that way for much longer. 

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath as you click on the message. 

Jake: Don’t let the food sit out there for too long, it’ll get cold. There should be plenty for both of you.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you sit up in bed, unwrapping yourself from your heated blanket-burrito and using the remote to pause your movie. You read the text again, trying to make some sense of it. 

Did he…drop food off at your front door? 

There’s only one way to find out. The chilly air hits your bare legs the minute you get out of bed. The shivers run up and down your body as you quickly leave your room and head to the front door. Keeping your arms in the sleeves of your hoodie, you open the door to see probably five or so tupperware containers, stacked neatly by size in front of your door. Further inspection tells you they’re full with food. 

Quickly, so as to not let any more cold air in the apartment, you gather the containers, finding a way to cradle them all in your arms so you only need to make one trip. You use your foot to close the door, hurrying to the kitchen before one slips out from your arms. 

Pieces of turkey in one container, mashed potatoes in another, stuffing, the most gorgeous mac and cheese you’ve ever seen, and sweet potato casserole. Each lid you open lets out steam; it’s all so warm and fresh. And it smells absolutely heavenly. 

The first thing you have to do is taste the mac and cheese. Grabbing a spoon, you dig into the gooey side dish. Strings of cheese hang off the spoon as you bring it to your mouth. 

Jesus. This has to be the best thing that’s ever touched your taste buds. It’s perfectly creamy, and you can taste so many different types of cheese blended in with just a hint of garlic. You’ve never had gourmet mac and cheese, but you’re pretty sure this is about as delectable as it gets. 

Next thing to try is the potatoes, which you’re sure were handmashed. Those instant ones you made earlier don’t even deserve to be called mashed potatoes, especially in comparison to Jake’s. 

Before you know it, you’ve tried at least a few bites of everything. And, as you presumed before you did a taste test, everything is incredible. Jake is certainly skilled in the kitchen, and it makes you wonder if he’s missed his calling as a prestigious chef.

Then again, his literary brain is one of the things you love most about him. It would be a shame for him to not pursue something in the written arts. 

You’ve suddenly remembered you haven’t thanked him. Though you’re not exactly on speaking terms, you can’t let him do all of this, driving over twenty minutes just to bring you and your mom something to eat, go without a proper thank you. 

You: Thank you, Jake. That was really nice of you.

You pressed the send button before giving yourself the chance to overthink the tone of your message. (Which, you’ll still do. But, at least you didn’t type the message a hundred times before you sent it.)

After finding a place for everything in the fridge, you walk back to the front door to lock it, remembering you hadn’t earlier. You then go to peek in your moms room to see if she’s awake to offer her some actual good food. She’s still asleep, her snoring now a dull noise as she’s deep in her slumber. 

It’ll be a nice surprise for her in the morning, you think to yourself as you head back to your room. You’ve ignored the fact that your phone has yet to vibrate with a text back. No response from Jake, and it’s been a solid ten minutes. (You know it’s not that long, but your anxiety about texting him makes it feel like ten hours.)

Oh well. It is what it is. He doesn’t have to respond, and there’s a good chance that he won’t. You’ll just have to be okay with that. 

You crawl back into bed, clicking the button on the control to your heated blanket a few times to ensure it’s up all the way before unpausing the movie. Though, it doesn’t feel quite as relaxing now that your mind is a bit preoccupied with the fact that he’s still not responded. You keep glancing at your phone on the bed next to you, waiting for the screen to light up with his name. 

But, it doesn’t.

And that’s okay. Or, at least you’re trying to convince yourself of that. It was, afterall, your choice to cut things off with him. He’s already done more than he probably should’ve done. Though, you still don’t really know why he did it. The fact that he thought of you at all feels good. Really good. 

But, did he do it because he wanted to, or because his twin that’s been texting you all day put him up to it? 

That’s the question running laps around your mind as your eyes are becoming heavy again, the sound of the movie fading as you’re starting to drift to sleep. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

“I really need your creative mind, y/n,” Josh begs. “I can’t do this without your eye, my dear. You’re the heart and soul of this whole thing.”

You’ve been on the phone with him for nearly fifteen minutes now; he’s been incessantly begging you to come over the entire time. He swears he needs your help with the final edits of the film, making sure everything flows properly, that the story line makes sense. Why a film genius like him needs your help is beyond you. But you’re flattered, nonetheless. 

And while you are flattered, and you do want to help, going over there means risking an interaction with Jake. That’s risky territory at the moment, and you can’t help but be a little offended over the fact that he never responded to you the other night. 

“Can we just go somewhere else?” You ask him, the phone nearly slipping out of your palm from the nervous perspiration. “I just don’t want to see–”

“I can get rid of Jake,” he interrupts, speaking a little quieter than he was before. You’ve got a sinking feeling that means Jake is in the room, or at least nearby. And that possibility has your tummy doing flips. “I’ll just tell him he needs to take Sam’s shift, let him handle the office for a while. I do have that power, you know.” 

He wheezes a chuckle to himself, and it actually makes you smile too. It eases your edginess for a moment, but that quickly fades when you hear another voice on the phone, one that seems to be a bit further away. 

“I can take the fucking hint.” He’s yelling, he’s angry. And you suddenly feel like absolute shit. You then hear a rather loud bang, presumably the front door being slammed as he made the decision to leave.

“Well, that takes care of that little nuisance,” Josh says, still giggling. “So, you’ll come?”

“W-was that Jake?” You ask, though you already know the answer. The very mention of his name makes your heart ache, and hearing that tone from him is like a slice to the skin. 

“Sure was,” he chuckles. “He’ll get over it. The coast is clear until six o’clock when the office closes. I’ll be awaiting your anticipated arrival, my dear.”

“Josh, wai–” You hear a smooching sound from his end before the call ends, cutting you off completely. 

Little shit. He didn’t even give you the chance to turn him down again. It’s only reluctantly that you’ll go. And you may as well go now. Get it over with quicker. 

You couldn’t care less about your appearance today. Comfort takes priority over cute as you pull on your clothes. Sweats today instead of leggings, your trusty Billy Joel crewneck – an old relic from the ‘90s that used to belong to your dad. Not that sentimentality has anything to do with it; it’s simply warmer and sturdier than your other options. Men’s clothing always seems to be made better than women’s, and vintage pieces like this remind you of a time when quality mattered. Heavy, durable, and practical – exactly what you need today. The fact that it was once your dad’s? Pure coincidence. (Mostly.)

A little moisturizer and aquaphor for your lips is the extent of your makeup, and a messy bun on the crown of your head is all you care to do for your unwashed hair. 

You slip your phone in the front pocket of your crossbody before securing it over your shoulder and heading to the coat closet to grab your puffer. You’re trying not to breathe as you walk past your mom, hoping by some chance that she’ll ignore the fact that you’re leaving. She’s been sitting on the couch for hours now, watching every film Clint Eastwood ever made back to back. 

“You know,” she starts, keeping her eyes glued to the forty three inch insignia. “Your grandfather performed a few stunts in his movies. Remember that?”  

Pulling your coat from the closet, you hold it under your arm as you turn your attention to her. “Yeah, I do,” you say, smiling softly at the fond memory of his stories. “I really miss him.” 

She’s not looked at you until now, and she’s smiling at you. Something you’ve not seen in a long time. At least not a genuine one. Her eyes are smiling, so you know she means the one she’s wearing across her lips. “I miss him, too.” 

You’ve not talked about your grandfather in years. Not since he passed. Your mom forbade you to do so, saying it hurt too much to talk about him. 

Her grieving process was much different than yours. She felt her sadness by watching movies he loved, but not talking about him while she did so. You felt yours by asking your dad about any memories he had with him. 

He’d always warned against asking your mom too much about him, or anything about her childhood altogether. There’s so little you know about her life growing up. You only know the things your dad had told you, and you know a little from what your grandparents felt comfortable divulging, which truly wasn’t much. 

Her mother, your grandma, struggled immensely with her mental health. She struggled in a time when the world simply didn’t acknowledge that the brain could be just as sick, at times more, than the body. She never got the help she needed. Though she tried to be the best mother she could be, you’re fairly certain she put your mom through a lot as a kid. From what you’ve gathered from your dad, she would act out and cause quite a bit of disruption at times. She did it purely for the attention it garnered. 

But she never remembered doing it. As your dad described, it was like a switch would flip inside of her mind, turning off the logical side of her brain and closing her eyes to what she was doing. She’d even gone so far as to make herself sick a few times, just to get attention from people. When the switch would turn back on and she’d realize what she’d done, she felt terrible. 

By the time you came around, she had finally gotten some help. She became the mom your mom always needed. 

You loved your grandma. She was as sweet and gentle with you as any grandma should be. Her and your grandpa both were. But they lived in Texas, so you didn’t see them as much as you wished you could’ve. 

His passing happened only a few weeks after hers. You’re certain he died of a broken heart. As much trouble as she gave him throughout the half century they were wed, he still loved her. 

He couldn’t find the strength to attend her funeral service. Said he’d already gotten his closure, and didn’t see the point in letting the wound fester even more. 

He was already gone by that point. A soulless vessel just waiting for the body to give out. 

You weren’t able to go to his service. Money was far too tight to make the drive to Fairview more than once in such a short period of time. Your dad did everything he could to make the trip possible. And if you’re remembering correctly, your mom didn’t exactly fight to go. She kind of just…gave up on the idea. Didn’t even try. If you had to guess, aside from the money issues, she more than likely just couldn’t handle attending both of their funerals so close together. 

This is the first time she’s mentioned him since then, and it’s…odd. But, a bit comforting. While you don’t have too many memories of him, of either of them, the ones you do have are beautifully engraved on your heart forever. 

There’s a longing to stop what you’re doing and sit with her on the couch, take advantage of this rare moment of her wanting to talk about something she’s never talked with you about before. 

But you made a promise to Josh. And that promise is quite dear to you. And, it’s not like you’ll be out late. You’ll get home just in time to make dinner and, hopefully, continue this conversation with her. 

“I-I’m going to help with some things on the film,” you say, timid over the sudden wave of guilt for leaving right now. “But I’ll be back in just a few hours. Is soup okay for dinner?”

“Sounds good to me,” she responds, deadpanned and monotone, eyes now back on the screen. “See you later.” 

“Okay.” Her sudden tone-shift has you a little nervous, that feeling of disappointing her weighing on your chest. “I’ll be back around six thirty. Love you,” you say as you head out the door, and you wait just a moment to see if she’ll respond.

She doesn’t. She essentially waves you off, and you leave in silence, left in complete confusion as to what the hell just happened. 

Part of you wonders if she’s attempting to rebuild your relationship. Well, could you even call it ‘rebuilding’? Or… more likely, was it possible she continued to work (like always) to cover up everything that’s happened in your life again? The slightly more cynical part of you wonders, like you often have been lately, if she started the conversation to guilt you into staying home.

In truth, you just don’t know with her anymore. And you may never again. Well, at least you thought you understood her. Thought that your entire life. 

But, as you’ve recently discovered, you may have never truly known her. The fact is, you’re coming to the conclusion that she’s manipulated you into believing things that just aren’t true. When Jake played you Stevie Ray Vaughn, reminding you of music that defined your life up until this point… You pondered the music you thought your mom introduced you to. Certain things with him have forced your brain to remember things from your past a bit… differently. 

Your mom didn’t listen to Stevie. Your dad did. He played his music, he talked to you about how much he admired him, and your mom took the credit for it. And, your dad being the man he had always been for her, had let her have that. Let her take credit where it was due him. She ‘took credit’ so often that she had you convinced, for years, that it was the truth. And, when he left, she took advantage of the newfound ‘hatred’ you developed for him, and used that to her advantage. 

Perhaps you’re just easy to manipulate.

Or, she’s just that good at strategically lying. 

Jesus. You just wish Jake wasn’t leaving. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

This is your first time at the Kiszka place since Sam took you home the other morning. And while you know Jake isn’t at home, seeing his Rover outside as you pulled into your parking spot most definitely elicited some strong emotions from you. A bit of a jumpscare to see it, to say the very least. 

A helpful reminder that he is technically here as he’s working the front office of the complex. So, avoiding that specific area is necessary. If you do that, you’ll be just fine.

And though Jake may not be at home, someone else most definitely is. As if your life isn’t enough of a disarrayed puzzle, the closest spot to park your car in was an empty one right between Jake’s Rover and Sam’s Bug. 

Okay, universe. I fucking hear you. 

As you’re getting out of your car, you catch sight of Sam jogging toward his Bug, smiling wide when he sees you. “Hey, beautiful!” He pulls you in for a tight hug once he gets closer to you. His blue Patagonia pullover feels so soft and warm against your cold cheek. And he smells amazing, like eucalyptus mixed with the scent a rain shower leaves behind. “Here to help my brother, are ya?”

“Mhm,” you hum into his chest, reluctant to break the hug as it's freezing outside. As you pull away a bit, you look up at him, his warm smile making the cold air a little less crisp. “Are you helping, too?”

“Well, with Jacob taking up my post in the office, I’m free to head to the animal shelter like I’ve been wanting to.” He shrugs his shoulders, his grin growing even wider. “Kind of been thinking about adopting a puppy. Finally have the chance.”

You’d sort of hoped he was going to stay and help, but the fact that he looks so excited about the possibility of getting a puppy makes up for the fact that he’s leaving. 

He gives you one last hug before walking to his car. “I hope you find the perfect baby to bring home with you,” you say as he opens the squeaky driver's side door.

“Me too! I’ll see you later, beautiful.” With that, he hops in and starts the ignition as you power walk your way to their apartment, desperate to get out of the cold. 

Josh welcomed you with literal open arms when he let you inside, hugging you tight against his soft beige sweatshirt before you could walk all the way in. The display of affection made you breathe a sigh of relief. You’re glad to know that your friendship with him is okay despite everything. In truth, you have been a bit worried about that, given Jake is his literal twin. It would only make sense he’d choose his side over yours.

But what you’ve learned about Josh in the few months you’ve known him, is he’s the most unbiased, loving ray of pure sunshine who doesn’t hold anything against anyone. 

He's the kind of person anyone would be so lucky to have by their side. And you just so happen to be one of those lucky few. 

“Talk to me,” he says as he pulls out a chair for you to sit at the dining room table. He then sits at the chair right next to yours, turning it completely so that his entire body is facing you, his way of letting you know you’ve got his undivided attention. “Are you doing alright?” 

“I’m doing fine! Stressing about finals, but other than that I–” 

“No,” he interrupts, crossing one khaki-clad leg over the other and folding his arms over his chest. “You know what I’m talking about.” He leans his body against the back of the chair, getting himself nice and comfortable as he’s prepared to hear the truth about how you’re actually doing. “You can’t hide from me, y/n.” 

Well. Perhaps he’s correct about that. You’ve almost always been able to hide the way you truly feel from people, but when you moved here to Michigan, you found it much harder to do so with the people you’ve befriended. 

There’s no answer as to why they are able to see you so vastly different than anyone else in your life ever has. They just do. The fact that they see you at all is a wonder entirely unheard of to you. 

In a display of defeat, your body slumps down in your chair, your elbow meeting the table as you move your head to rest against the hand of the same arm. “I’m…a little sad, I guess. I don’t know, I just –,” This new territory of expressing whatever the fuck is happening in your mind is not exactly a comfortable place for you just yet. And you’ve had to do it an awful lot as of late. Jesus. Your emotions could use a fucking rest. “I thought things were going well. Better than they actually were. I can’t – I just don’t really know how to articulate it.” 

“Trouble articulating is certainly not something you need to worry about with me,” Josh giggles, unquestionably referring to his slightly long winded rambles that sometimes take awhile to get to the point he’s trying to make. That characteristic just so happens to be one of your favorite things about him.

But just as he’s about to finish his thought, your whole body stiffens in fear as you hear the front door unlock and begin to open. Glancing at your phone, you note that it’s not even two yet, so surely it can’t be him…right? 

The door opens a little more, and your breath is held tight in your lungs at the possibility of who’s behind the frame, your body frozen in your chair, entirely unable to move a muscle. 

Dear god, please no.

“Well hello, darling!” Josh lovingly boasts as Malachi struggles to walk inside with his hands full of carryout bags from Shake Shack, impressively juggling his keys and phone all at the same time. 

Thank fuck. 

Not that you don’t love to see Malachi all the time, but you’ve never been happier to see him than you are right at this very moment. 

“I know you’re a little busy, babe,” Chi says, struggling to find his footing and a free hand to shut and lock the door with. “But I could really use a little help making sure the food actually makes it to the table.” One of the bags falls from his fumbling hand, but with pure grace and luck, he somehow catches the handle with the tip of his foot, bending his knee so that the bag is suspended from the ground. 

Josh yells a monstrous laugh, clapping as he bolts out of his chair with such speed that the whole thing slams on the ground. “That was talent, baby!,” he shouts, jogging his way over to lend Chi a hand before he loses his balance. 

He grabs the bag still dangling from Chi’s foot, finally giving the poor man back his footing. You smile as you watch Josh lift on the tips of his toes to plant a big smooch on his cheek. “Thanks for picking up lunch, babe.” 

“Mhm,” Malachi hums as they bring the bags over to the table you’re still sitting at. “Wasn’t sure what to get you, y/n,” he says as he and Josh are moving the fast food contents from the bag to the table. “I hope a grilled cheese and some fries are okay!” 

You didn’t know food would be involved today, but you are hungry. Extremely hungry, in fact. Needless to say, meals have been even harder since you discovered Jake’s little secret. Just one more thing to add to the endless triggers as of late. 

And though eating is hard right now, a grilled cheese is actually one of your safe foods, something you’ve never been too anxious to eat. A childhood staple that’s never been too much, yet just enough. “You can never go wrong with melted cheese on toast,” you say to Chi. “You really didn’t need to get me anything, but I appreciate it.” 

“My thoughts precisely. And it was no problem at all,” he remarks as he sets the meal down in front of you, along with a few crumpled up napkins. It smells so wonderful. You’ve suddenly gotten the urge to rip open the foil wrapper around the sandwich and scarf the whole thing down as quickly as you can. Of course, that’s not what you’ll do. One bite at a time like a normal, not ravenous person will do just fine. 

“You two get anything done while I was out?” Chi asks as you take your first bite, letting the warm cheddar sit on your tongue for a moment, relishing in the melted gooeyness. 

He pulls out the chair on the end of the table beside Josh, digging into his own food once he sits down next to his partner who’s nearly finished his burger already. 

“Not quite,” Josh answers, mouth full of food, wiping ketchup globs from the sides of his lips with his napkin. “We’ve been catching up, haven’t we?” He looks to you, smacking his food and winking. “And don’t think we’re done with our conversation just yet, sweetheart.”

Dammit.

“Ah, the Jake drama, I take it?” Chi speculates, examining his burger with a huff of irritation. “They never remember to leave off the damn pickles.” Begrudgingly, he peels them off the patty, one by one, tossing them in one of the bags he brought the food in. 

“Picky picky,” Josh teases, tossing his trash in the same bag with the forsaken pickles. “Anyway, as I was saying,” he begins, dusting the salt from the fries off his hands and turning his chair back to face you. “We’re not done talking about this.” His hands reach for yours, cupping one the one not holding your grilled cheese between his two palms. “I don’t want you to let anything that happened with my brother make you feel like you should keep your distance from us.” 

You know he’s referring to his multiple attempts at reaching out to you, inviting you over, eliciting your help on the film. He’s certainly been trying to keep you around, and while you’ve never really been able to identify your self worth, the fact that he’s gone to all of this trouble just to maintain a friendship with you truly does make you feel good. Really good, actually. 

You’re suddenly feeling incredibly horrible for ignoring his endeavors. Avoiding Jake doesn’t mean you need to avoid Josh, or Malachi, Sam…

They are extensions of Jake, to a degree. But they aren’t Jake. You can have relationships with them without the addition of Jake. If they’re okay with it, then so are you. 

“I won’t,” you confirm with a deep sigh, setting your sandwich with a few small bites out of it down on the foil it was wrapped in, deciding you’ve had enough. “I promise.” 

You’re glad Josh hasn’t decided to cut you out completely, because losing Jake is hard enough as it is. It would be much worse if everyone decided you were no more than an insignificant fling in Jake’s life (which could still be the case… for Jake, at least.) and chose to cut you off when he did.

But you can’t help but wonder why no one thought to mention it to you, or why it was never brought up. Obviously, Jake’s decision wasn’t on a whim, or some spur of the moment choice to move to another country. This had to have been in the works for a long time now. And you know his brothers knew about it. They’re his brothers, for christ sakes. One of whom literally shares his DNA. 

Aside from that, Jake’s job as co-business-runner of this incredible complex is far too important to just leave without warning. There have no doubt been several talks amongst all of the Kiszkas. And surely, they’ve begun the process of hiring someone in his place by now. (The mere thought of all of these loose ends getting tied up sucks, by the way. Makes it all the more real that he’s actually leaving to live in an entirely different fucking country.)

So, a question that’s been sitting in your mind, festering, lingers. 

“Can I ask you something, though, Josh? And I want you to be honest with me.” 

You’ve certainly piqued Josh’s interest. He sets his burger back down on the table just as he’s about to take a bite, choosing you to give you his full attention. “Of course, love,” he says.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me he was leaving? I’m far past done trying to comprehend Jake’s silence about the whole thing. I cannot wrap my mind around that—.” Shifting your weight in your chair, you try shrugging off the tension forming in your body at the thought. Tugging at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, you let out a heavy sigh as you stare at your fidgeting hands. “But I just want to know how come no one warned me. I mean, I know we weren’t exactly public about…,” you pause, thinking of the right word that describes what you and Jake are – were. “...our thing together. But we didn’t really hide it, either. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is I feel like someone should’ve told me, you know?” 

You peer at Josh through your lashes, having felt far too nervous to look at him until you said what you needed to say. His hand is rubbing at the back of his neck, his lips curled in a nervous grin. “Well,” he begins, fluffing the curls sitting on his forehead with the back of his hand. “I can’t argue that, my dear. You’re right; someone should’ve told you. It’s not that I didn’t want to – I was obligated by oath.”

“Oath?” You question, finding yourself awfully intrigued by this now-apparent promise to keep quiet.

“He made me – us – vow not to tell you, or to let on to it until his timing felt right.” He shrugs his shoulders, uncrossing his legs and places his hands in his lap. “I trusted that he’d find the right time and the right way to present it to you. He fucked his entire plan up. The whole goddamn thing.” 

Us? Plan?

You’re hearing Josh’s words, but you’re growing increasingly frustrated over the fact that it seems everyone knew before you did. Along with the frustration is the maddening confusion that seems to relentlessly linger. “Who’s us?” You ask, fighting the frustration seeping out through your tone of voice. It’s not Josh’s fault, you know that. He’s not the one you’re upset with, and you don’t want him to think your anger is toward him.

“Well, Malachi and I,” he says as he gestures toward his partner who’s just finished his burger. “And Sam.”

Sam? He talked to Sam about this? Your heart practically skipped a beat at the mention of his name. 

“But he hadn’t told Natalia or Danny yet. He didn’t trust those two to not spill the beans,” he giggles, Chi joining him with an agreeing smile. 

He’s certainly correct about that. Nat wouldn’t have kept something like this from you, wouldn't have let him keep it from you. She would’ve made him tell you. 

So, yeah. He was smart in keeping her out of it. And telling Danny would mean practically the same thing as telling Nat. 

But if he asked Sam to keep it from you, wouldn’t that mean Sam was privy to your situationship? He acted like he had no idea you two were a thing…acted? It certainly makes more sense to you that Sam would’ve known this whole time. How could he not? The times you and Jake snuck off together and weren’t seen for the rest of the night, or the unspoken glances and subtle touches you’ve shared in front of everyone. The fact that you completely ghosted Sam when things with Jake were picking up. 

Surely he knew before he found out about your birthday date with Jake. It’s possible that he really was naive and oblivious to it, but you also can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it than that. Especially considering what Jake said to him on the phone the morning he took you home. 

What if he has known this whole time, but chose to ignore it? What if he was waiting for the moment Jake would fuck up and you’d turn to him once again? 

Jesus. That’s a lot to take in, and you’re in no place emotionally or mentally to consider all of that. Your fingers begin rubbing away the ache present in your temples, and you feel Josh’s hand reach for your knee to offer you some comfort.

“I’m sorry, love. You probably feel like you’ve been lied to by everyone,” Josh goes on, the sympathy in his voice touching your heart. “But no one had any malicious intent. We just wanted Jake to take the reins on this one and, well, he blew it.” 

Yeah, that about sums it up. 

“You don’t need to apologize, Josh. It’s not your fault – or yours,” you add, directing the words toward Malachi, who looks a bit uneasy with the direction this conversation has taken. Definitely not what he bargained for when he showed up with the food, you’re sure. One of the most non confrontational people you’ve ever met. “I understand why you didn’t want to tell me. It makes sense. Really, I get it.”

Josh gives a gentle squeeze to your knee before letting go, offering a sweet, apologetic smile. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he says, chuckling softly through his nose. “I’ve never seen him this…,” he pauses, raising his hands as though he’s reaching for the right word. “...entranced before. And don’t you dare let on that I told you this,” he says, waving his index finger toward you. “But he’s absolutely captivated by you, my dear.”

You cock an eyebrow at Josh’s words, feeling a mix of emotions about it. You know Josh wouldn’t lie to you, but you can’t fight the lingering sense of doubt over what he’s saying. 

The way your stomach tightens and then flutters at his words, though… The idea that you ‘captivate’ him in a way his own twin has never witnessed another woman ‘captivate’ him — it makes your skin tingle in a way that has you reminiscing. Reminiscing on the evening of your birthday…

But, when you think about the night of your birthday, when he played Lenny for you and handed you that part of his heart, it does make you wonder if it could be true, that he is captivated by you. 

You can’t be certain about how he feels, but what you do know is you are undoubtedly captivated by him. In every way, unfortunate as it may be.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

“My god,” you mutter as you’re seeing the first clips of the film. The picture is beautiful. The cinematography is beyond what you imagined, like a movie with a billion dollar budget, set to be released on silver screens around the globe.

The fact that your group of people, that Josh was able to produce something of this magnitude…

You knew it would be beautiful. But you didn’t realize it would be this professional. 

“Josh, this is –,” you say, watching only the exterior shots he grabbed to set the scene. “Wait –, “ You press the spacebar on the laptop to pause the video, looking at Josh who’s grinning into the palm of his hand at your reactions. “I didn’t know you had a drone!” 

The footage is of a mountainous landscape, from above it. He’s slowed the video down, letting the powerful cinematic music play over the view of the lush peaks. The camera rounds the mountains, hovering above a crystal lake glittering at their bases. It then turns to the field of trees next to the water, their leaves in full evergreen wonder. He must’ve filmed this at the beginning of August, as the colors of the trees are exactly as they were when you moved here. You remember, because they charmed you instantly. 

“You like it?” He eagerly asks, anxious excitement laced in his voice. “I thought the drone footage added a bit of je ne sais quoi to the piece.” He kisses the tips of his fingers in a chef's kiss of sorts, in regards to his work. 

Awestruck is the only word that appropriately encapsulates how you’re feeling as you watch this masterpiece, and you’re hardly two minutes in. The quality is perfect. The colors are so rich and deep. How a college student managed to create this is absolutely beyond you. Then again, this is the mind of Josh you’re witnessing. After months of working with him, seeing his gorgeous visions come to life, you really shouldn’t be all that surprised. You’ve been utterly impressed by him since day one of working with him. 

“It’s beautiful, Josh. Better than any movie that’s come out in the last few years.” 

He laughs shyly, pausing the film with a tap against the space bar. “I can’t accept that, y/n. But, it most definitely means a great deal coming from you.” 

“Don’t inflate his ego,” Malachi chuckles, gathering all the trash from lunch on the dining table. He leans down to Josh, whose face is contorted in annoyance, offering an apologetic kiss. Josh lifts his hand just as their lips are about to meet, so Chi’s lips land on his flattened palm. “Awe, c’mon, babe. I just was joshin’ ya.” Chi winks in your direction, grinning mischievously from the corner of his mouth.  

You can’t help but giggle, holding your hand up to your mouth to suppress how hard you truly want to laugh. 

“You are done,” Josh says, holding back his desire to laugh by brushing down the slides of his mustache. “I believe the costume picker-outer is no longer needed during the process of editing the film. You know, since the costumes are already picked out and filmed.” 

Malachi winces as he tosses the fast food trash in the trash can, clicking his tongue. “Ouch, babe. Got me there,” he says, sarcastically, strutting back toward the table and leaning down to Josh once again. “This costume picker-outer is going to take a nap and leave his brilliantly callous boyfriend to edit in peace.” They both giggle, and Josh finally gives in and gives Chi the kiss he went for earlier. 

As Malachi heads up the stairs, you notice the blush in Josh’s cheeks as he scrolls through the footage on his laptop. “You guys are sickeningly cute,” you say. 

“We are, aren’t we?” Josh replies, the gap in his front teeth on display with the biggest grin you’re sure you’ve ever seen from him. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

You’ve been looking through video clips for over two hours now, lending Josh a hand in editing and arranging them wherever you can. It’s certainly a bit weird and almost uncomfortable to see yourself, well, like this. You hadn’t realized just how much of you you’d see on the screen. Both in the amount of scenes you’re in and the amount of skin you’re presenting. 

Especially those scenes with Sam. 

Though it is uncomfortable to see yourself tangled up with him like that on the screen, the way it’s filmed is incredibly sexy and perfectly sensual without it being too much of either of those things.

Josh’s camera skills are unmatched, as you’ve discovered by watching everything back. He filmed all the right things, found all the best angles. The ones of you in bed with Sam, the ones you were most nervous to see, are so beautifully done. You don’t even see yourself in them, you see Guiniverre. And when you see her, you see beauty in yourself that you’ve never known before.

Josh paid extra careful attention to the shots of your body, being sure you’re not in a place to be objectified, but admired. Only very small glimpses of your body are shown, but enough that it’s very clear what is and will be taking place with the queen and her secret lover. It’s simply magnificent, cinematically stunning. You’re proud of it, and you have no doubt it’ll guarantee you and Jake a good grade in Movack’s class for this genius adaptation of the lore. 

You’re mesmerized by each scene you watch, but your favorite scene you’ve seen thus far is the one in which the queen and Lancelot kiss for the very first time, hidden in their secret sanctuary in the forest. 

It was the first scene you’d shot. You were so nervous; you hardly knew everyone at that time. Yet, it’s the most convincing acting you had done in all of the scenes you’ve seen. Not only that, but it’s the most aesthetically beautiful. The place Josh found for it was incredible, and you find yourself thinking about that little hidden gem amongst the trees behind their apartment complex quite often. 

Watching all of this has brought back so many memories of filming. Like that day you filmed the first scene, how Jake was pissed and you got to witness your first twin fight. 

As you watched further, there were little clips interspersed within the captured film that highlighted times like that. ‘Behind the scenes’ footage, if you will. The candid moments made your heart skip a beat and your eyes well with tears. A smile, pulling easily at your lips as you reminisced. It was as you reviewed these clips that you truly realized how this experience had been one of the best in your entire life. Truly. This group of people, having changed your life so inexplicably… It made you wonder if part of your reason for winding up in Michigan was to simply meet and love all of them. 

These small, carefree moments in time you remember witnessing (others you were sure occurred as you busied yourself with costume changes) — they rivaled many cherished family videos of your own. Because, you realized, these times and these people had taught you an authentic appreciation for life like you’d never had before. Every single ‘outtake’ made your chest ache and long for all of it, all over again. A never changing existence with these wonderful individuals you got to call your friends. Chosen family, even.

Giggles and snorts filled the room at the miscellaneous clips, thrown in at the most hilarious times. Extremely serious scenes would end with a ‘cut!’. And Kiszka mischief would immediately follow in the very next break of camera footage.

You snickered watching the clips of Jake and Sam, stealing the cameras and filming each other at the same time. They were flipping the bird at one another and laughing so hard at Josh throwing a fit over them “mistreating the equipment.” 

And then one of your favorite days filtered in. When Jake was practicing his British accent and sounded way too much like Jack Sparrow. His little accent, endearing to you in a way you still can’t describe.

His brothers gave him so much shit for the lilted tone. You grinned as you watched film roll back of them telling him he sounded like the drunken pirate, only serving to fan his flames. Acting like a pirate for the rest of the day, yelling “argh!” at least every five minutes and continuously asking where the rum had gone. (Of course, there was no rum to begin with. Only tequila… a Jake staple.) 

As well, you heard him yell “parlay” in the background of some of the clips. You remembered he’d done it anytime Josh told him to prepare himself for a scene. At which point Josh would remind him that they were, in fact, not on a pirate ship and, consequently, there was no captain to take him to. 

You belly-laughed harder than you ever had that day. Just as you did watching them now. Josh was so frustrated with him and his pirate antics, but after a while he got in on it, too. Jake’s impression, arguably better, probably due to his childhood obsession, (and his adult obsession – his car is named the black pearl for a reason, after all) but Josh’s, heard again in these outtakes… it wasn’t half bad.

Those days were simply the best, and you’re finding yourself reflecting on them with a feeling of pure joy, with that bothersome undertone of sadness. Though those days were only a few months ago, some of them even less than that, you miss them. You always will. You miss the peace they gave you, the new sense of belonging they provided that you’d never known up until that point. 

Things are so different now, and you hate it. You’re afraid you’ll never be able to hangout with all of them again. Things would be too awkward, too tense. Those days are only left in your memory as some of the best days of your life. And your memory, sadly, is probably where they’ll stay. 

But at least you have something to commemorate those memories; the film will forever exist in the ethos of time, a visual representation of the moments — some bad, but most of them wonderful — echoed in your mind for the remainder of your lifetime.

“The red looks so vibrant, Josh,” you say as you watch him edit a scene in which the queen is wearing her red gown, the most stunning costume you’d ever seen when you put it on the first time. And the red lips, the special Guiniverre red you wore that you’ll always identify with your portrayal of her (and you’ll certainly never forget the smear of it, all across Jake’s face. The two of you, hidden behind the door of his room). The lipstick in every scene is so brilliantly bright – you knew it would be a staple for your version of her, and the red lips, along with the red dress and Sam’s red costumes are suddenly inspiring you. 

“I have an idea, and if you hate it, it’s okay. Just don’t tell me you hate it,” you say, still eyeing the suddenly iconic lip color. 

Josh stops what he’s doing as he grins and gives you his attention. He squints his eyes as he looks at you, staring directly into yours and biting his lip. 

“I see a glint of genius in your eyes,” he says, staring at you almost uncomfortably intently. He then bends his torso and places his elbows on his knees, making a fist with his hands for his chin to rest on.“I’m all ears. Let’s hear it.” 

He’s looking up at you with giant, baby cow-like eyes, lashes nearly touching his dark brows. He certainly looks intrigued, and you’re fighting against the nerves to voice your thoughts to someone so talented. But, if anyone isn’t going to judge you for an idea, it’s Josh. 

“The color red is really significant in this film – it symbolizes their lust and the intensity behind their passionate affair,” you begin as he cocks an eyebrow, nodding his head while his lips part a little. “Here’s what I’m thinking. We edit every scene with Guiniverre and Lancelot to be black and white, except for the color red. So, her lips, her dress, the bedsheets, anything red is highlighted as an ode to their passion.” He quickly lifts from his bent over position, bringing his hand up to his mouth as his eyes grow wider.

“Brilliant!” He shouts, so loud that your body jolts. “Your mind is a visionary trove, y/n. What a dazzling testament to your pure genius!” He leans forward and cups your face in both of his hands, planting a wet kiss on your cheek. “How very Spielberg of you, my dear.”

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

Almost two more hours of non-stop editing have gone by, focusing on the colorization of the scenes that’ll be mostly black and white, save for the red details. 

And just as you expected, it looks incredible. Josh has given the scenes an almost noir effect; they’re grainy and contrasted, very low exposure. It’s beautiful, divine, and so sexy. The pops of red are subtle, yet alluringly effective. It looks even better than you imagined, all in thanks to Josh’s eye for filmmaking. 

You both decided on only the intimate ones to look this way, that it shows the significance of their ill-reputed affair and sets them apart from the rest of the film. The only scene of this nature that won’t look this way is the first kiss between the lovers, and that’s simply due to the breathtaking scenery surrounding them. It’d be a shame to take away from that, and Josh believes it makes perfect sense that their first encounter be colorized. 

Everything is turning out even better than you could’ve ever imagined. And while you’ve only tackled a handful of the scenes in this masterpiece, you know the rest of this film is pure magic. 

It’s getting late now, and you promised your mom you’d be home at a good time tonight. (Not to mention, it’s almost time for Jake to get off work, and you don’t want to risk that intrusion.)

“I’m forever in your debt, y/n. Thank you endlessly for your insight today.” Josh helps you put your coat on, handing you your crossbody once you’re situated in your puffer. “You’re the very thing we needed for this film, I hope you know that.”

You thank him with another hug, letting the embrace linger as he sways you back and forth. You then hear the front door open again, and you look over expecting Sam to walk in with his newly adopted baby from the shelter.

As the door opens further, you look down towards the floor in hopes of seeing a dog walking through. But, what you see is no dog. It’s a boot. A black boot. One you recognize rather well.

The way your heart picks up in your chest, your breath catching in your throat… it’s embarrassing. But you can’t help your bodily reaction of his closeness. His proximity, fulfilling secret desires of being with him again. Secret, ridiculous desires.

And as the rest of him walks in, you’re met with the person you tried to avoid tonight. For obvious reasons, but mostly because you can’t trust yourself around him. Jake walks in, seemingly unaware that you’re standing only feet away from the door. He turns around to shut and lock it, kicking off his boots before he finally notices you and Josh.

You don’t say anything, he doesn’t say anything. The two of you stand still for a moment, sharing an awkward glance in complete silence. God, how you wish things were different.

Josh being Josh, can’t handle the quiet tension any longer. He knows the two of you probably won’t say anything unless he breaks the tension himself. “How were things at the office?”

Jake heads toward the kitchen, walking past both of you to get to the fridge. “Fine,” he says as he grabs a Miller Lite from the top shelf. “Pretty slow. Slow enough that I probably could’ve worked from here and just had the phone on me.” Based on his tone, you’d say he’s still a bit angry over having to work tonight. Also, the fact that you’re still here is most likely not helping. 

He cracks open the can, taking a large swig of it before he walks out of the kitchen toward the hallway.

“Oh,” he mutters before as he stops midway to his room. He spins back around to face you, taking a few steps closer. Your heart beats at the prospect of him being nearer to you, even if only a little. “Sorry I didn’t respond the other night,” he says to you. “I had just forgotten to.” His voice is gentle and sincere, yet there’s a touch of sadness encompassed in his words. “So, um, you’re welcome. I hope you and your mom enjoyed it.” His lips form a thin, sweet smile. He nods his head as he takes another sip of beer, disappearing back down the hallway. 

You ignore the way your heart falls at his sudden lack of presence. Him, being the last thing you wanted to see and the only thing, all at once. Foolishly, you long to follow him down the hallway.

But you don’t.

“He insisted on bringing it to you,” Josh tells you as he gently nudges you, capturing your attention from the last spot you’d been able to see Jake. Fuck. You let his nudge sort of guide you to the door. He takes the hint and begins walking you there. “Said he knew your cooking wouldn’t suffice.” He laughs, and you can’t help but chuckle a little, too. Because, well, it’s absolutely correct. 

As you say your goodbyes to Josh, and head out the door and walk to your car, your heart feels like it’s beating in your throat. There was so much you wanted to say to him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to utter a single word. You only gave him a half smile when he apologized for not texting you back. You could’ve at least thanked him again for the food. 

But, you didn’t. And all you can think about now is the way he smiled at you before he went to his room. 

It was a Jake smile, no doubt. But it was missing something. What was missing, you can’t be sure. Whatever it was, it has you ruminating on everything Josh told you today. Everything about Jake… his ‘plan’ for telling you about London. 

You may never know what his plan was, because you’re not allowing yourself to get close enough to him again to find out. One thing you can be certain of is his plan wouldn’t have changed the outcome. He would still be getting ready to leave, and that alone is enough to force you to keep your distance. 

Because if not, you fear you’ll fall for him… Further than you already have. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

The coffee tastes bitter this morning. The cold foam on top isn’t as foamy as you normally prefer it, and the vanilla is, well, lacking, to say the least. 

Not even Carmen, the most lively girl with her sweet freckles and stylish glasses, could bring you out of your slump this morning when she handed you your coffee. She already had it made for you before you even walked in the automatic sliding doors, and normally her toothy smile always brightens your day. 

But, not today. Not for the last few days, in truth. 

You told Nat you weren’t coming to the coffee shop this morning. It was a lie, clearly. And you feel bad for lying, but you need a moment of reprieve before the day begins. A moment away from home, from work, from classes. 

Any time you can get to yourself, you’ll take it. Even if it means being dishonest to someone who truly doesn’t deserve it. 

You could’ve just told her the truth, and you know she would’ve understood. But you also know that she would’ve fought you on it. You need to be around people, you can hear her voice telling you in your head. You shouldn’t be alone right now. 

But you want to be alone. Your longing for solitude as your mind wraps around everything is far greater than your need to be with people right now.  

Talking to everyone is just too damn much. Every single conversation you’ve had as of late has absolutely drained every piece of you. There’s no harm in telling a little white lie, if only for the sake of balancing and maintaining your own mental peace. 

But, that peace is disrupted, shattered, replaced with pure guilt when your eyes catch the person currently walking into the coffee shop. Her pace is quick as she bolts through the door, her normally tamed curls are full of frizz and tangled in a messy bun. She’s wearing her giant Aalyiah t-shirt with an even bigger fluffy cardigan over it, and baggy sweats as if she had just gotten out of bed. But she still looks beautiful. Beautiful as ever. And, she looks mad. Her eyes connecting with yours freezes you in your spot.

“Just as I suspected,” she says as she stomps over, joining you at your lonesome table meant for two. “Had a pretty good feeling I’d find you here.” She slams her book bag on the table, yanking the chair out from under it and planting herself in it. 

Dammit. 

“Nat, I’m sorry. I just needed to be –,”

“Alone?” She interjects, giving you the most frustratingly disappointed look you’ve ever seen her give, her voice practically echoing around the coffee shop. “You’re alone all the time, y/n. And no offense,” she insists, yet her tone would suggest that she most definitely means to offend you a bit. “But I don’t exactly trust you to be alone right now.” She pauses, her eyes flitting up and down your body that’s slumped down in your chair. “Are you eating? Because it really doesn’t look like it.” 

One way to irritate you is to take away something you feel you’re entitled to, like having alone time. No matter how much of it you have or need. And another way to irritate you is when someone insinuates that you’re not allowed to do the things you need to do in order to cope. 

Everyone deals with shit in different ways. Some need to be surrounded by people, some need to have time to reflect on their own. You just so happen to be in the latter category. Just because someone doesn’t handle things the same way as you, doesn’t make them wrong in doing so. 

And, to bring up your eating? 

No. That has quite literally nothing to do with what’s going on right now and you do not want to entertain that at the moment. 

You know she cares. She probably cares more than anyone else. But she’s bordering on the line of being downright rude and, with everything else happening in your world, it’s not the time to hear that your best friend doesn’t trust you. That’s the last thing you want to hear right now, and for what? Because you want to be alone? 

“Okay, for one, can you please lower your voice?” You say through gritted teeth, the blood rushing to your cheeks from fear that everyone in this blessed coffee shop heard what she said. “And second, what do you mean you don’t trust me, Natalia?” 

There’s a lingering, rancid vanilla taste from your coffee sitting in your chest, creeping up and burning your throat. You feel like you could throw up. This isn’t what you want right now, it isn’t what you need. 

The palms of your hands slam against the metal table, then reach up to your scalp, fingernails scratching at the roots of your hair. A display of the raging turmoil happening inside, unable to be concealed any longer. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Natalia. I can take care of me, my mom, anything. Don’t treat me like I can’t.” 

Fuck. 

That nauseous feeling is even worse, the very thought of taking another sip of coffee sounds revolting. This fucking sucks. All of it. 

You don’t want this with her. And you don’t want her to leave you because of this, because of who you are. But you’re clearly causing her vast amounts of unneeded stress, burdening her with your shit self-esteem. 

Maybe she’d be wise to leave you, to end this friendship and find someone else to replace you. 

“Got it. I’ll let you be alone.” Her voice is sharp as she stands up from her chair, the metal screeching loudly against the floor as she pushes it underneath the table. She turns from you, beginning to walk away, but something stops her feet from moving further. She then turns on her heel to face you again, taking small steps closer to you. “I know you’re upset with him. And I know you’re going to miss him.” 

Her once angry eyes have turned softer, more understanding as she’s staring into your own, as yours begin to fill with tears. “But don’t let him be the only reason you care about yourself. Because what will you do when he leaves, hm?” 

The tears that were filling your eyes are now streaming down your cheeks, warm and salty to the taste when they reach your lips. She moves even closer, her hand reaching for your shoulder, her touch offering a gentle reassurance. “I love you, okay? Don’t try to push me away.” 

With that, she leans down to kiss the top of your head, then walks away toward the glass doors she entered just moments ago. With blurry eyes, you watch her walk to her car through the window.  

You shouldn’t have lied. You know that. Being honest with her would’ve made this whole situation fair much better. She’s just looking out for you, and her love is a bit tougher than what you’ve been used to. While you wish she’d show you more careful love, perhaps tough love is what you truly need. And perhaps she is aware of that as well. 

Even though it’s something you’re not entirely familiar with, deep, deep down, you are grateful for it. She forces you to question the way you care for yourself, she forces careful self-reflection when it’s not something you’ve ever really done. 

One thing you know, undoubtedly, is that you can’t let yourself lose her. 

Deciding it’s time to swallow your pride, and when you realize she’s still sitting in her car that hasn’t moved, you gather your bags, toss the revolting remains of your coffee in the trash, and speed walk your way outside. 

She’s staring at her phone when you walk up to her driver's side window, lost in a mindless scroll through TikTok, slumped in her seat. She’s aware of your presence, that much you can tell. It’s obvious she’s waiting on you to make the first move. (Though, in your mind, walking out here in the first place was the first move.) 

Alas, you’ll give in to her stubbornness. With your fingernail, you lightly tap it against the glass to get her attention. It’s clear she’s fucking with you when she doesn’t acknowledge you right away. So, you tap the glass again, a little harder this time, and continuously until she has no choice but to humor you. 

She slowly turns her head in your direction, looking up at you through her beige framed Ray-Bans. Keeping her eyes on you, and making an intentionally slow effort, she presses the button to lower the window. 

“Seriously, Nat?” You say in response, giggling at her almost comical pace with lowering the window. “Are you going to let me apologize to you or not?” 

“Oh, so you’d like to apologize, huh?” She mockingly states, at last letting the window roll the rest of the way down. “I’m all ears.”

With a roll of your eyes, a deep breath, a one last gulp of what's left of your ego, you begin your plea for forgiveness. “I know what I did was wrong. I should’ve just been upfront with you instead of lying.” She lowers her glasses a bit more down the bridge of her nose, waiting for what she really wants to hear. “And, you’re right. About everything. I don’t take care of myself the way I should, and it’s definitely been much harder lately.”

With a smirk, she takes off her Ray-Bans, fully revealing her golden irises, like sweet honey in the morning sun. “Yep, I am right,” she says through a snorting chuckle, adjusting herself in the seat to face you better. “And you should also know that you’re a really shitty liar. If you’re gonna do it, at least get a little better at it, geez.” 

Well. When she’s right, she’s right. You are a shitty ass liar, apparently, given she knew the very place you’d be. The one you said you swore you wouldn’t be at. 

“Do you forgive me?” You ask quietly, internally worried that this may have driven a rut in your friendship. And it’s all your fault. 

Without a word, she places her sunglasses back on her face and unlocks the car. “Get in,” she says. 

Confused, but in no place of wanting to argue with her, you walk around to the passenger seat. Once you’re in the car and buckled, she puts the gear in drive and slowly makes her way out of the parking lot. 

“W-where are we going?” You question, far more perplexed than you were before. She takes a left out of the lot, leaving campus altogether. “Nat, we have class, remember? Women in Literature? We need to be there in less than ten minutes!”

She smirks as she continues to drive further away, ignoring your concerns about class. “Hello?” You try waving your hand near her face to get her attention, to which she only turns to you and smiles. 

She stops at the red light, completely tuning you out as she digs into her purse, retrieves her phone, and scrolls through her Spotify playlist. After a moment, she chooses Stay High by Brittany Howard. As the smooth melody fills the car, she bobs her head in time with the beat. The light turns green, and she drives forward, her focus entirely on the music.

You can’t help but laugh at whatever she’s planning, but the potential of missing class is certainly gnawing at you. She, however, appears completely unfazed — dancing to the music, belting out the lyrics, carrying on as if you’re not here at all.

“Natalia Deloris!” You do something you hate other people to do, and you reach for the volume button to turn the music down. “Stop ignoring me! What are you doing?”

She says nothing as she stops in front of the Kerrytown Market & Shops, tossing the gear in park and pressing the button that turns off the ignition. 

“Listen,” she says, taking off her seatbelt and facing you, smiling at your clearly confused expression. “There’s no forgiving you, because what happened doesn’t require forgiving.” She pushes her glasses up to sit on top of her curls, against her messy bun that somehow enhances her striking features even more. “I’m not mad at you, dude. I get it. I just worry about you.” She lets out a soft sigh, her fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry that I’m a little harsh with my love sometimes. I don’t always think about how to say things before they come flying out of my mouth.”

That is certainly true of her, but you love it. Her extroverted nature is something you truly adore, as well her tendency to love so hard that she sometimes can’t hold it back. Every introvert needs their extrovert, and you’re so happy that you are her chosen introvert. 

“I’m sorry if I don’t show you enough how grateful I am for you, Nat,” you say as you stare down at your lap, knowing all too well that you have a hard time accepting when someone truly loves you. Which means, to you, it doesn’t always feel real. So, you don’t show nearly as much appreciation for it as you should. “But, can I ask you a really important question?”

“Don’t, babe. I know you’re grateful. And yes, of course,” she says as she’s putting her phone in her purse and zipping it shut.

“Why the hell are we at Kerrytown and not in class?”

“Told Dr. Lacey we were with each other over the weekend and that we’ve both come down with horrible colds,” she says, sounding as though she really believes herself. 

“What? Why would you do that?” You ask, shocked though, a little relieved to not have to worry about that class today. 

“Decided we could use the morning for a little girl's day.” She gets out of the car and you quickly follow suit. “You’re going shopping with me. It’s the least you can do after your little trick you pulled on me this morning,” she says with a stone face, though her contagious smile is breaking through her facade as she begins walking towards a boutique.

“You are such a hypocrite, Natalia!” 

She stops mid-stride to the store, turning on her heel to look at you. “How the hell am I a hypocrite?” 

“You were so upset with me for lying, and you lied to get us out of class!”

She starts to say something in retaliation, but before she does, she ponders what you’ve said, grinning when she realizes. “You may be right about that,” she says, once again taking steps in the direction of the store. “But my lie was better and benefited both of us.”

You roll your eyes, chuckling at the fact that she will always have the last word. “You got me there, babe.”

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

You’ve been laying on the floor in the middle of your room for, what you think, has been well over an hour.

Flat on your back. Leaky eyes staring at the ceiling, tears falling past your ears, wetting the hair behind them. 

Before you found yourself here, you were trapped by your own hand in the bathroom, doing everything you could to bring your dinner back up. Everything. But nothing worked. 

The intense fullness from the salmon bowl you made sent you careening down a massive spiral. You knew you’d feel this way after you took the first bite of the perfectly baked, buttery fish. 

But goddamnit. It tasted so good. So fucking good. And you’d been craving it all day. It was all you could think about. It’s one of the few dishes you’re truly skilled at making, and you certainly proved that tonight. It was the best it's ever tasted.

That’s why you just couldn’t put it down. The first bite turned into a second, then a third, and before you knew it, you’d finished the whole fucking bowl full of rice, steamed broccoli, and the best salmon your hands have ever prepared. 

It made you feel good at the time. Each bite was just as delicious as the last, garlicky and lemon pepper seasoned to near perfection. 

But the stark reality of it all crashed into you the moment you set your empty bowl in the sink to be cleaned. You felt it, felt the thing you despise the most. 

It was the kind of full that made you sleepy, groggy. Your skin felt greasy, your arms felt huge. Your face felt puffy. 

And your stomach was bloated. More bloated than you’ve felt in a very long time. It felt like a rock sitting beneath your skin.

The shame was instant. The guilt came shortly after, but greeted you even stronger than the shame. 

Once you helped your mom into bed, you locked yourself in the bathroom. And you did something you shouldn’t have done — you looked. 

I look fucking pregnant, you thought, your fingers gripping tightly at the protruding flesh. There was no amount you could’ve sucked in to mask it. It was just there, taunting you with the reminder that you did that to yourself.

And then, it began. 

The manic research on your phone of ways to get rid of the bloat, how to digest your food quicker. Every site said the same things – consume less salt, drink hot tea, avoid processed foods, don’t eat too quickly. 

You didn’t have any tea in your kitchen, and the rest of the tips, well…it was just too late to avoid those things. The damage had already been done.

So, when none of those options were possible, your mind took a much darker turn. 

You tried to do it. You did what you knew would trigger your gag reflex, but it just didn’t work. You couldn’t get your finger back far enough, couldn’t keep it there long enough for anything to happen. 

So, you turned to your phone again, typing something in the search bar that you’ve never felt the need to type before. 

How can you make yourself throw up? 

Your thumbs typed as fast as they could. In part because you were shameful over what you were typing, and because you were desperate for reprieve from the far more profound shame over eating so much. 

But the first thing that you saw upon your search inquiry was something you weren’t prepared for, something that forced you into a much different reality than you wanted to face.

It was the website to the National Eating Disorders Association, with the words Get Help attached to the link below it. 

It scared you. You didn’t expect it. And it certainly stopped you, your thumbs held frozen above the link that begged you to click on it.

But you didn’t. Couldn’t. 

You’re not that far gone that you have to seek help in that way…right? 

Defeat overshadowed the shame as you slumped yourself down on the bathroom floor, letting your phone crash against the ceramic tile. 

And you cried. You sobbed. Harder than you’ve ever sobbed before. 

And you let yourself do it. You needed to do it. There wasn’t anything left to do. 

Minutes went by. Several of them. But exactly how many, you don't know. You didn’t keep track. The tears just kept coming, and you were in no place to stop them. They were old tears that you never allowed to be shed, and new tears that needed to join them. 

They were tears from the nine year old you that grew breasts before anyone else in her class and was bullied over it. Tears from the eleven year old you that discovered she could skip the breakfast her dad made in the mornings if she slept in just a few minutes later. Tears from the thirteen year old you that began skipping lunch everyday at school. Tears from the sixteen year old you that was told she was severely anemic from malnutrition and needed the highest dose of iron supplements her doctor was able to prescribe. Tears from the eighteen year old you that refused to take senior pictures because she hated the way she looked. Tears from the nineteen year old you who was told there was a slim chance she’d ever be able to have children. 

And tears from today you. The you that misses her dad, the you that is tired of people leaving and lying to her, the you that wants so badly to love her body the way Jake did.

The you who’s going to fucking miss him.

When your eyes decided to let up, you slowly stood from the floor, grabbing your phone and heading to your room.

And that’s where you’ve been ever since. Laying here, letting a few stray tears fall as they please. You’ve no control over them anymore. They now choose when to cascade down the sides of your face. And you’ll let them. They need to be shed. 

You want to talk to someone, but at the same time, you don’t. 

You can’t bother anyone with this anymore. Especially Nat, who's probably sick of hearing it by now, and whose voice is currently playing on a continuous loop inside your head. 

“But don’t let him be the only reason you care about yourself. Because what will you do when he leaves, hm?”

She said those words only hours ago. She probably doesn’t want to be bothered with all of this again, twice in a single day. 

No, you can’t do that to her. She shouldn’t have to worry about you, or have to hear about your pathetic triggers again. She’s too good for you, too strong of a woman to be burdened with the likes of you. She would deny that if you told her. She’d tell you she loves you and you’re the best friend she could ask for. But you know she’s too good for you. (And, deep down, she probably knows it, too.)

But more than anything, what's haunting you is the one person you truly want to talk to right now: Jake.

And you can’t do that. 

You can’t just call him up, listen to his voice to make yourself feel better. You can’t  get in your car and drive to his apartment so he can hold you. You can’t let him be the one who saves you, because you won't have that option anymore once he leaves. Just like Nat was trying to get you to understand earlier, that you now understand too well.

And she’s right; what the hell will you do when he leaves if you only try to heal because of him?

But, fuck. He’s the source of your safety — was. You don’t know how you’ll ever find that again. And in moments like these, you need that the most. You can’t even talk to him anymore. 

So, instead of following your heart, you’ll continue to lay here. You’ll lay here as long as you need, keeping your eyes off your body and up towards the ceiling. Letting the tears come and go as the deem necessary. 

Relapses happen. You’ve known that for the majority of your life. 

But this one…this one is different. It’s darker than any other time before. Admitting that, even if  only to yourself, is quite difficult.

And you’re scared you may never be able to pull yourself out of it. Because, while you’ve been able to do that every time before, this time is so very different.

You’ve always been able to do it on your own. But what if…

What if you really need someone by your side this time?

And what if that someone is currently packing his things to move across the world from you?

You want to heal. God knows you do. It’s miserable to live this way. But your fear is that you’re too far gone at this point, that the hope of you ever being able to eat food like a normal person is dwindling with each passing day that you struggle, each year. 

You don’t want to live like this anymore. But you also don’t know anything different. 

It’s a sad reality you’ve had to face for as long as you can remember, and it’s one that you’ve had to confront even more so since you moved here. 

Perhaps there’s a reason for it. 

The tiny optimist in you would like to think that, because this season has been so much more difficult than any other, that means you’re closer to healing than you’ve ever been.

But.

The much larger pessimist in you is fearful that the true reason you’re struggling more than ever is because…

…because this may be your final battle. 

The battle you’re destined to fail. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

“Why don’t you like this?” Nat asks you, tugging at the green chiffon fabric sitting against your hips. “This looks hot as hell on you.”

“Nat. Are you joking? This looks awful.” The reflection in Nat’s gold framed, full length mirror isn’t one you’re exactly thrilled with. This is the third dress of hers you’ve tried on and nothing is up to your satisfaction. And of all of them, this one is by far the worst. Swamp green, long sleeves made of the most uncomfortable material, and the skirt bunched up at your hips. Not exactly the way you want to look for the premiere tonight.

“I look like Kermit the fucking Frog in this color.” 

She rolls her eyes with an exaggerated groan, waving her arms in defeat. “Well, your highness, I’m just about out of options that meet your royal standards of dress wear for the evening.” She comes behind you to help you unzip the horrid gown she’s put you in. “And Kermit, y/n? You seriously think this makes you like an amphibian with some man's hand stuck up his ass?”

“Uh, yeah. I may as well bring a banjo tonight so I can sing about fucking rainbows.” You pull the dress over your shoulders, instantly scratching your arms once it’s off due to the itchy chiffon that was clinging to your skin. It made you feel suffocated and trapped in its green netting. 

“I’m convinced that you’ll find something wrong with anything that I give you to try on,” she grumbles as you help her put the dress back on its hanger. “I give up! You’re impossible to please.”

“That’s not true! You just have terrible taste in dresses,” you say, laced with sarcasm because it’s certainly not the case. All of these pieces would undoubtedly look amazing on her, just not on you. Though, you’re convinced she could wear just about anything and make it a fashion statement. 

Her outfit for tonight is the epitome of grace and effortless beauty. The soft baby pink of her soft, velvety gown perfectly compliments her glowing caramel complexion. It hugs her body beautifully, and the off-the-shoulder neckline seems designed just for her, highlighting her elegant physique. Her natural curls, sitting just above her collar bone, are lustrous and full of body. It’s rare that she wears her hair down, but you love it when she does. Her gorgeous curls only enhance her striking presence. She truly is one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen. 

“I really think you should just wear this one, babe.” She points to the dress you brought to her place with you. The one that’s laying across her bed, the red dress Jake bought you. It’s the nicest thing you own, and you love the way it looks on you. But, wearing it tonight feels weird. It was purchased specifically for your date, and what it now symbolizes for you is deeper than just the gorgeous, satin dress you wore for your birthday. 

“You don’t think it’ll be weird? I mean, considering it’s —,”

“It will not be weird.” She interjects your thoughts as she takes the dress from her bed and holds it out for you. “If anything, seeing you in that sexy number will make him regret ever lying to you in the first place.”

She’s probably right. No, she is right. (You hope, at least.)

And, aside from the fact that this dress makes you feel beautiful, the color is fitting given its significance in the film. 

Deciding to give up on trying on anything else that you know you’ll hate, you slip into the dress and, for the first time tonight, admire your reflection — something you hadn’t done with any of the other gowns you tried.

“Like I said before, babe,” Nat says, fetching her black faux fur shawl she had you try earlier in the evening with something else. You despised it then, but with this dress, it’s altogether different. “This dress was made for you. I mean, look at your ass!” She looks you up and down, biting the knuckle of her index finger, shaking her head in disbelief. 

Your face, completely flushed as you giggle at her remark and contort your body to see what she sees. There is a rather pronounced, rounded curve, the material and fit of the dress accentuating the shape. But, it’s not that impressive. At least not enough to warrant her reaction.

She drapes the shawl over your shoulders, pulling it snuggly around the front. The soft, textured fur frames your neckline in a graceful v-shape, elegantly cascading from your back and delicately covering your upper arms, leaving the tops of your shoulders exposed. It's timeless, and so classy. More than that, it promises to shield you from the biting, Michigan air as this dress wasn’t exactly made for such temperatures. “I love this,” you say, running your fingers over the soft warmth of the faux fur. “It really dresses it up, doesn’t it?” 

The confidence in her I told you so smile says she knew all along that this would look as good as it does. “You should never doubt my stylistic abilities.” She heads to her closet, bringing out a shawl that almost identically matches yours, only hers it white. A gorgeous fit with the baby pink color of her gown. Her beauty is simply impossible to ignore.

“You‘re so beautiful, Nat.” She smiles, her perfect teeth whiter than the shawl she’s draping over her shoulders. 

“So are you, my gorgeous bestie,” she says as she grabs her liquid lipstick to put on one more coat before Danny gets here.

As you watch her paint her lips, you remember the lipstick you brought that you had planned to wear. And, it’s no coincidence that it’s the very same one you wore for your portrayal of Guiniverre. You grab your cross body from her bed and rummage through it to find the lipstick. And as you’re doing that, you’re reminded of one more thing you brought — the sword necklace. You’re considering wearing it, but only for the sake of the film. (Part of you is clinging to the hope that Jake will wear his, too.)

Standing next to Natalia in front of the mirror, you quickly coat your lips in the scarlet shade, using your finger to blot the excess and clean up the sides. “Oh that color is perfect,” Nat says as she’s finishing up her own lips. She makes a kissy face in the mirror once she’s done, leaning over like she’s about to plant one on your cheek until her phone begins ringing. 

“I bet that’s my Prince Charming ready to whisk us away to the royal ball,” she says, tilting her chin upward in a regal pose, waving her hand in as though she were a true Princess. “You ready, babe?”

Mimicking her royal stance, you link arms with her and practice your very own Princess wave, thinking of the way Princess Mia learns to do it in The Princess Diaries. “Thou art ready,” you say, in your best (albeit, horrible) British accent. (Jake would certainly be disappointed.)

As you’re heading out of her room, walking arm in arm to the front door, you’ve suddenly remembered something you forgot. “One sec,” you say as you unlink your arm from hers. “I left something in my bag. You go ahead and go out, I’ll be there in a minute.”

She dances her way out of the door, humming some tune that sounds like something from a Disney movie. “Don’t keep us waiting, darling! The King anticipates our arrival!” 

Walking as fast as your heels will allow, you reach her room and grab your bag sitting on her bed. The sword charm is the first thing you see as you unzip it, and without much of a thought, you pull it out, placing it around your neck. 

The clasp is tricky without someone to help you, but after a few tries, it’s finally secured. 

After one more glance in the mirror, finger combing your bangs and adjusting the necklace so it sits just right against your chest, you decide it’s the perfect final touch. 

And with that, you head out the door to begin what you’re certain will be an unforgettable evening. (For many, many reasons.)

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

The neon lights reading ‘FOX’ can be seen blocks away from the building they’re lit against, practically blinding against the stark contrast of the night sky. Glorious reds and blues glow with the sparkling stars, illuminating the city with their gleam. It’s an incredible sight to behold, adding to the seemingly endless reasons you’ve fallen madly in love with this city. 

“Wait, is that where we’re going?” You ask as Danny makes a sharp turn on Woodward avenue, coming closer to the theatre and essentially answering your question as he pulls into the private parking lot across from those neon lights you’d been eyeing for several minutes. 

“I’m so excited to finally see this place,” Nat says, her voice high in pitch as Danny shifts the car into park. 

You knew the viewing of the film would be at least a little more formal than your typical classroom presentation, but you weren’t prepared at all for this.

Formal is indeed the correct word. It’s comparable to a Hollywood premiere – not that you’ve ever been to one, or anything close to one, but this certainly feels like something you’ve seen in the movies a time or two.

Josh wasn’t bullshitting when he told you to go all out with your attire; everyone is dressed to the nines. Gowns and suits, a true black tie affair. You’re suddenly feeling more grateful than ever that Jake bought you this dress. There’s not a thing in your wardrobe that would fit the bill for a night like this. 

There are a few students walking in that you recognize, but for the most part, it feels almost too official for a collegiate event. You didn’t realize anything of this grandeur existed within the realms of the U of M. Apparently, this is an annual thing, just before the end of the Fall semester. 

Keeping strictly in the English department, Natalia’s never been to one as you either have to be exclusively invited or a film student. She’s always wanted to experience it, so Josh made sure she’d get the chance to come, even though she wasn’t part of the film. She’s one of the VIP guests for the night, listed right along with the cast and crew of the film. Her eyes are practically as bright as the neon colors in the theatre’s sign as she steps out of the car, taking it all in as this was her very last chance to attend one of these things. 

Enhancing the Hollywood-esqu aura, a lush green velvet carpet stretches up the stairs to the entrance, illuminated by spotlights that guide your way. You may as well be a beloved film star, gracefully making her way across the grand carpet to the premiere of a highly anticipated movie directed by the industry's biggest names. That's certainly how it feels, at least. And while this event may not have the global scale of a blockbuster premiere, you are, in essence, the star of one of the films being showcased tonight. College film or not, tonight, you truly feel like you might be someone special.

“Holy fuck,” Nat mutters under her breath as the two of you take anxious steps along the carpet together with your arms linked together and clutching your shawls in the wake of the cold air, Daniel towing closely behind. “This is…insane, right? 

She took the words right out of your mouth. “That’s putting it lightly, Nat.” 

“I think I’m a little underdressed,” Danny giggles as you get closer to the two ushers in full tuxedos, coat tails and all, greeting you as you approach the doors. 

“Welcome to The Fox, ladies,” one of them says before noticing the tall man in a black turtleneck and maroon slacks following behind you, awkwardly waving to get their attention. “My apologies,” he continues. “And gentleman.” They each open the doors on their respective sides, and when you catch the first glimpse of what’s behind them, your breath is completely sucked away from your lungs. You’ve never seen anything more magnificent in all of your life. 

East Asian architecture is an art deco lover's dream. The colors are so full, so rich, mimicking the ones glowing on the outside of the building. The intricately designed ceilings, golden and lined with chandeliers, practically reach the height of the stars. 

Another staircase, with statues of lions with jeweled eyes guarding the base of the railings, is in front of you, leading where you can only assume will hold the evening's main event. The only thing you can think to compare it to is the grand staircase depicted in the Titanic, though you’ve got a feeling this may be even more majestic than anything James Cameron could ever hope to produce. 

“Pretty sweet, isn't it?” Danny says, standing behind the two of you with a hand on each of your shoulders as you’re both left awe-struck by the vision before you. “Been to quite a few musicals here with my family. I promise you, it’s just as beautiful every time I see it.” 

Approaching you is yet another usher, dressed in full black tie with a clipboard held in his hands. After greeting the three of you, he glances down at the list attached to the clipboard, taking his pen and making marks. “You’re here as guests of Mr. Kiszka, I presume?” He asks, as though he’d been waiting on the three of you to arrive. He smiles  as you each confirm, making one last mark on his list. “Right this way.”

With that, you’re led up the grand set of stairs. Nat takes your arm once more, giggling as Danny is stuck walking behind you two again. 

There are hundreds of seats with gold crowning, upholstered with red velvet, facing a giant screen that’s framed by a curtain the same shade of red as the seats. 

This is certainly not the kind of theater you had in mind when Josh explained what tonight would entail. You expected a classic AMC or a Regal. Not this. 

The theaters back home are nothing like this one. In the almost six months you’ve lived here, you’d never once driven by the Fox Theatre. It was forty minutes away from your home in Ann Arbor, but still. You’d never even heard of it, which is mind boggling considering the sheer history this place must have. Apparently, this place is quite the home for the prestige around here. This city will never stop surprising you, and you fall in love with it a little more each day. 

The usher has led you all the way to the first row of the orchestra pit that’s blocked off with red ribbon, a sign reading "Reserved” attached to them. Each seat has a name card on it, and once you find yours, you’re appalled when you read the names on the seats yours is between. 

Samuel Kiszka on your left, Jacob Kiszka on your right. 

While you’re not entirely certain, you do have a pretty good feeling you know who’s behind this.

Thank you, Joshua. 

Jake and Sam aren’t here yet, of course. Nor is your director and his partner. The Kiszkas are notorious for showing up at least a little late everywhere they go, but you thought for sure they’d break that late streak for tonight of all nights. But, no. They have yet to make their grand arrival. And that is only serving to heighten your already shot-to-hell nerves. Not knowing when Jake and Sam will be here, if they’ll show up together, what their reactions to this little seating arrangement will be that you will get to witness first hand. 

Aside from all of that, the thing that’s really tying your nerves in knots is what Jake will be wearing tonight. Something regal, you’re sure. He’ll no doubt sport his necklaces, maybe a hat. Perhaps he’ll wear something all black – your ultimate weakness – sleek, irresistibly sexy…

Fuck. Just thinking about it makes your core ache, but also hurts your heart with just as much intensity given the circumstances with him right now. 

And then, there’s Sammy, who will be on the other side of you all evening. He elicits an entirely different set of emotions from you. Emotions that are just as complicated as the ones you feel with Jake, but in ways that are completely unique to Sam. 

Jesus. Though you know it’s an unrealistic wish, you hope that somehow the two of them just decide to not show up tonight, save you some of the agony of sitting right in the middle of them. But, you know them both better than that. They wouldn’t dare miss an opportunity to support their brother. And that’s why you are here, too. To cheer on Josh, to show him the love and admiration he deserves after pouring all of himself into this film.  

You’re just so grateful to be a part of it. The fact that it’s all coming to an end tonight dares to bring a few tears to your eyes. 

“Bitch,” Nat whispers as she takes her seat next to the empty one that will be Sammy’s, throwing you a look after reading the names on either side of you. Her hand flies up to her mulled wine-painted lips, muffling a laugh at the pure irony of the situation and the discomfort you’re sure is evident in your features. 

Danny, already seated in his assigned chair near the end of the row next to Nat, leans over her to see what the fuss is all about. And when he realizes it, he is having a hard time not laughing at the matter as well. “Big yikes,” he giggles. 

“Stop it,” you mumble through gritted teeth, deciding to simply pretend like everything is normal. You want to make things the least awkward they can possibly be when they arrive and discover the situation for themselves. 

“Hi, girlies!” You hear in a familiar, high-pitched voice. One that you should’ve expected to hear given her involvement with the film, though you truly hadn’t thought about that possibility until this very moment. 

And, here she is. Floor length, completely sequined gown of vibrant pink, a slit running all the way up to her bronzed, smooth thigh. The bust is strapless, of course, and her boobs are basically pushed up to her fucking chin. Her platinum locks are curled and feathered to near perfection, her makeup without a single flaw against her already unblemished skin. And a glance behind where she’s standing realizes a fear you didn’t prepare yourself to have tonight – her name is taped to the seat on the other side of where Jake will be sitting. 

So, suffice to say, this little seating arrangement is probably the worst way to have placed everyone. 

Josh on the end next to the aisle, then Malachi, Danny, Nat, Sam, you, Jake, and Stacy. You certainly don’t hate the universe, but you do wish it would align a little more in your favor from time to time. 

“Hi, Stac,” you say as you plop yourself in your seat, feeling the weight of dread over what events the next few hours will bring. “You look beautiful tonight.” 

The words felt like fire against your tongue. But, they’re quite true. And no matter how you feel about her, she deserves to know she looks incredible. Suddenly, you’re feeling like you don’t quite measure up. A familiar feeling, one you wish you weren’t experiencing tonight. 

Stacy’s glossed lips become stretched over her pearly teeth in a huge smile as she takes her seat, smoothing down a few sequins and pushing her boobs up even more as she does so. “Awe, thanks, y/n!” She says, almost as though she was expecting the praise. She wasn’t surprised by your compliment, at least. That much is evident in her I know, don’t I? tone of voice.

You glance over at Natalia to gauge her thoughts on the interaction, and to no surprise, her lips are pursed tightly, as if to force them shut so she won’t say what’s truly on her mind. Which is almost always a good thing. She’s one of the sweetest souls you’ve ever encountered, but she can be quite ruthless when she wants to be – not all of her thoughts should be vocalized. And when they are, someone will end up with sore feelings. But, she means well. Most of the time. 

There’s only ten twenty minutes until this thing is set to begin, and still no sign of a single Kiszka. While you’re not happily anticipating Sam and Jake’s arrivals, you are beginning to worry a bit about whether Josh and Malachi will make it on time. It is his big night, afterall. Showing up late may not be the best look to all of these scholarship funders, with their pockets full of a promising future for only a few of these anxious students presenting tonight. 

Josh always pulls through, you know that. He will be here. It may be nearing the very last second that he makes his grand appearance, but he’ll do it in style. Stylishly late. 

 “Nat,” you quietly mutter, a failed attempt at getting her attention as she’s whispering in Danny’s ear, the two of them giggling like two kids who’ve just said something they really shouldn’t have. 

They’re adorable. And nauseating. 

“Natalia Delores!” Your voice has a bit more umph behind it this time, enough that her and Danny both now have your attention. Her face says she’s definitely annoyed by your interruption, but you can’t be bothered with that at the moment. 

“What, y/n?” She responds, matching your tone almost perfectly.

“Do you think they’d be mad if I switched spots with Sa–,” 

“Here we are, sir.” 

“Ah, thank you, good man!” 

“What’s up, Sammy?” Danny says, lifting from his seat to greet his friend with a full body hug, offering a playful tap to his ass. “Handsome fucker,” he jokes. “You get all dressed up for me?” 

One thing you’ll never deny is just how sexy Sam is. He’s gorgeous. He truly does look handsome as hell tonight. He’s donning a full red suit, tailored flawlessly to his physique. Tight in all the right places. 

And, he’s matching you. The hue of his suit is an almost exact compliment to your dress. There’s no way he would’ve known what you had planned to wear, so it’s most definitely not on purpose. 

But, Jake may not believe that. He just might think it was a deliberate choice for you two to match. And there’s a chance he’ll even be a little angry about that presumption. 

Good. 

You’ve always known Sam to have a rather eccentric sense of style, but he always makes it work. His style is so very much him. Most probably wouldn’t be able to pull off a suit of this shade, but he just does. He can make anything look good. Anything. 

“Only for you,” Sammy winks as he shimmies his way down the row in search of his seat, Nat standing to give him more room down the narrow way. 

“You’re right here,” she says, pointing to his name taped on the back rest. “Right next to y/n.” She looks to you, noting the horror in expression you’re sure your features are screaming. You mouth out the words Thanks, Nat and she chuckles, blowing you a kiss for forgiveness that you can’t help but smile at. Fucking brat. 

“Y/n! Look at you!” Sam nearly shouts, leaning down and taking your hand, forcing you to stand up. He pulls you in for a deep hug, holding you close for a few seconds longer than what most would deem appropriate. “I like that we match,” he whispers in your ear, meant only for you to hear. His lips just barely ghost the skin beneath your earring. Every inch of your skin rises in goosebumps, your heart fluttering. 

“Th-thank you, Sam,” you stutter, keeping your voice as hushed as his. He leans away, breaking the hug and letting you see the smile across his lips. His grin urges one from you, too. His smile is always contagious. 

He pats your arm, then moves to sit down. And just as you’re about to take your seat once more, a well-known cologne overwhelms you, a sexy, captivating scent of musky sandalwood that you recognize all too well as… 

“Jake!” Danny shouts, echoing across the acoustics as he leaps out of his seat yet again to embrace his friend. “Looking snazzy as ever, I see.” He pats his exposed chest, twiddling with the lapel of his suit’s jacket. Even as Danny’s hand slides down the lapel, your eyes stay firmly planted on the tanned skin of his chest and abdomen. “Where the hell’d you find this?” 

Jake’s famous giggle leaves his smiling lips, his teeth sparkling white against the contrast of his all black garb. “Malachi dug through endless trenches to find it for me.” He brushes at each of his shoulders, adjusting the waist of the jacket as he straightens his posture. “Found it a rather fitting piece for the night,” he says, pursing his lips through a smug grin, acting as though he’s the true belle of the ball.

And you are in an even worse predicament than you’d thought you’d be in.

Nat’s eyes almost instantly find yours. Hers are wide and smiling, faux sympathy for you laced in her golden irises. 

You’d already prepared yourself for the chance of him showing up in something that would leave your knees weak and your skin on fire. But nothing could’ve prepared you for what you’re witnessing right now. 

“Is that hand sewn?” Nat asks, standing from her seat to give Jake some room to head down the row in search of his seat. He nods his head to confirm what she already knows, scooching his way through as you’re practically frozen in your seat, watching him get closer and closer to you. Your eyes are glued to the impeccable way his expensive, straight-leg, black satin slacks hug his round ass. The suit might as well have been made for his beautiful body.

“You know your brother finds only the pinnacle of clothing. He wouldn’t have let me show up in anything less than the absolute best quality.” 

“He doesn’t do that shit for me, damn,” Nat snarls as he passes her, his back just slightly brushing against her, then walking slowly past Sam. You’re certain it’s on purpose, but he’s avoided all eye contact with you thus far. And you’re mentally thanking whoever the hell you need to thank for that, because it would absolutely make things all the more awkward. 

But you can’t seem to move yourself from your chair when he turns around finally, body no longer turned towards the front to get through. No, he’s now facing your row of seats. And your poor legs can’t handle his proximity, feeling numb at the fact that he’s now so close to you. The thick silvery stitching embroidered on this suit jacket, in the image of a sword piercing his chest, dark red stones, the color of blood, dripping from the blade, are blinding against the black satin they’re embedded in. It’s the beginning of December – the temperatures are frigid. Yet, his jacket is completely open, exposing his toned (and unseasonably tanned) chest, his tummy, all the things about his body that make your head spin. 

And, no surprise, he has quite the collection of coins hanging against his bare skin. Some that you’ve seen him wear many times, some that you haven’t. But there’s something noticeably missing. 

He’s not wearing the sword tonight, and you are. And you know he sees it. His eyes confirm that as they’re staring directly at your chest where the necklace rests. 

You’re embarrassed that you’re wearing it, wishing you would’ve just left it in your purse. Or, better yet, left it at home. There’s no way to know what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling. But if you had to guess, his thoughts aren’t exactly happy ones at the sight of you wearing the dress he bought and the necklace that matches his own that he deliberately chose not to wear. 

The air becomes trapped in your throat as he approaches you, his eyes flitting to yours for the first time tonight. Damn this theatre for not having enough space in the rows of chairs – he can’t get past you, so you have to stand in order for him to reach his seat. 

But you’re still stuck. Stuck in fear, in hurt feelings, stuck in awe of him. 

How are you supposed to stand when the feeling in your legs has essentially vanished? 

How are you still feeling this way about him after he lied to you?

As his eyes are still fixed on yours, he takes the last step towards you. He reaches his right hand down to yours, holding his palm up and open, ready for you to place yours inside. 

What – ?

Tentatively, hearing nothing but the erratic beating of your heart pounding in your ears, you take his hand. He helps you out of your seat, his dark eyes keeping tight hold of yours. 

You suck in a breath as he begins to walk past you, not speaking a word. With the way he’s now turned, you can’t help but notice… unlike everyone else he’s just walked by, his back isn’t facing you – it’s the front of his body slowly gliding past you. He’s so warm, so sturdy. And you feel all of him. And while you may never get to feel him inside of you ever again, you can certainly feel his cock pressed against your front. It’s taking every ounce of strength you’ve got to not let on to what it’s doing to you. The throbbing in your core is enough to make you want to take him right here. And while you certainly shan’t do that, you can at least play out the scenario safely in your thoughts. 

His right hand still has yours in his grip, while his left gently grabs your hip. His hand slides down as he fully passes you, his thumb just barely skimming the top of your thigh. His fingertips linger for just a moment longer, before finally letting go of your hand. It’s then he discovers where his seat for the night is, and you can see the slight downward curl in his lips as he realizes. 

Now you’re left to wonder – was the indication of disgust over you or Stacy? 

Her squeaking voice pierces your ears as she greets him, having no problem standing to pull him into a hug. Something you couldn’t bring yourself to do. 

There’s a tightening in the pit of your stomach as you sit back down, feeling far too many things all at once right now. He does look irritated as he’s hugging her back. But, he’s still hugging her. You know him well enough to know that he wouldn’t hold the embrace any longer if he didn’t have reason behind it. It could be to make you jealous, (a trick you’re all too familiar with) or, worse, it’s because he wants to keep hugging her.

Either way, you’re mortified by it. And if you didn’t have as much self-discipline as you thankfully do, you would've used that moment to unleash all your true feelings about her, to her. Just as you should’ve done a long ass time ago. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

“Are you excited to watch this?” Sam asks, throwing a sly wink and nudging your shoulder with his. “I bet we look pretty hot,” he giggles, his famous laugh that forces one from you. No matter how much you don’t feel like laughing right now. Sam can always make you crack a smile. 

You look to Jake out of your peripheral to gauge whether he’s listening or not. He’s sitting stone cold on the other side of you, completely still, looking only at the stage that is set and ready to proceed with tonight's events. 

He’s still not spoken a word to you. But to be fair, you’ve not said anything to him either. It hurts. It feels like absolute shit. It’s almost like everything wonderful that happened between the two of you never truly happened at all. The slate has been wiped clean, like you’re in the very same place you were with him when you first moved here. 

But, the unfortunate part about that is, there’s a painful history there now… where there wasn’t one before. 

You almost wish you could go back in time, rewrite the story of you and Jake and take out all of the beautiful things you shared. At least then you wouldn’t have this weight settled between you two as you’re sat very close to one another. The problems you two had would have remained unspoken and left as nothing more than a mutual hatred. 

But, nope. That wasn’t what the stars had written for you. 

In truth, he should be your date this evening, your other half as you watch the very thing that brought the two of you together, reminiscing about the last few months spent pouring yourselves into this massive project. Instead, you’re both acting as if the other doesn’t exist to either of you anymore. Heavy silence is all that is left. 

And that feels like shit. 

But, at least you’ve got Sam. And no matter the situation, he’s a bright light and a calming spirit, one that is able to calm yours at this very moment. 

“Oh, yes. I know we look hot,” you respond, speaking loud enough that hopefully Jake heard you. Is it absolutely shitty of you? Yes, yes it is. But at least you can admit that. And at least you know it’s sure to ignite a fire in him, get the wheels in his head turning. Maybe even force him to speak to you. Because god knows you will not be the first one to break the ice tonight. Nope. He can do that if he really wants to. 

You sneakily glance over to him just to see if he’s wearing any sort of reaction on his cold features. 

But, alas, nothing. He’s still staring at the stage, as if his glare will make this whole thing begin that much sooner. 

And that thought makes you realize that Josh and Malachi are still not here. The masterminds behind this whole thing, and they are cutting it way too close for comfort.

Leaning over Sam, you reach for Nat’s arm, tapping her until she looks at you. “Where are they?” You ask, motioning toward the two empty seats at the end of your aisle. 

Nat shrugs her shoulders, lifting her hands up. “Fuck if I know,” she says. “Josh probably spent over an hour figuring out what to wear, my brother probably had to have at least five outfits prepared for him to try on a hundred times before he decided on something.” 

“Fucking diva,” Sam mumbles under his breath, chuckling to himself. 

“He is the definition of diva,” Nat confirms. “Beyonce’s got nothing on that man. And Malachi does nothing but encourage it.” 

“Speak of the diva himself,” Danny chimes in, looking over his shoulder as Josh is practically flying down the green carpet toward you all, Malachi speed walking close behind. 

All of you have now turned your attention toward him, and he stops just before he makes it to the seats to put on a dramatic curtsey, one from each side of his body. 

Now you understand what took them so long. 

He’s dressed in full sparkle. Head to toe. Literally. 

As he approaches his seat, you note the elaborate pattern of rhinestones glued around his black tight-lined eyes. His cheeks are glowing with an iridescent highlight that the bright lights of the theater accentuate gorgeously. 

And his jumpsuit. It’s truly unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Full velvet, with a jacket of the most intricate designs you’ve ever seen sewn with beads and jewels. It almost perfectly mimics the iridescent color on his cheeks. Each time he moves, you see pinks and lavenders in the material. Even some blues as he gets closer. And, as a reminder that he and Jake are in fact twins, the neckline is taking quite the plunge down his chest, hitting just below his sternum. 

These boys must never get cold, you ponder.

He looks absolutely immaculate. Not that you expected anything less, but still. Josh is the best kind of unexpected. This man always keeps you on your toes, never knowing his next extraordinary move. The traits of a true, professional director who creates the most revered and timeless pieces. 

Malachi compliments him beautifully with his black velvet tux. And god, he looks handsome, too. They both pulled out all of the stops. It looks like they both got fresh haircuts, their facial hair cleaned up and shaped. They are absolutely gorgeous, and it makes you so indescribably happy to see them like this on what very well could be the night that lays the foundation for something even bigger for them. Especially for Josh. 

If you know anything about film (and you’re pretty sure you do), you have no doubt that this one will be a crowd favorite. No doubt that it should open every door possible for Josh to have a future in this business. Which he very much deserves. 

The house lights begin dimming just as Josh and Chi are taking their seats, proving that they truly did make it just in time. How on earth they did that is nothing short of a damn miracle. 

A spotlight hits the master of ceremonies, a tall man without a single hair on his head, appears from behind the velvet curtain to thunderous applause from more than a hundred excited film students. Josh whistles through his fingers, and you’re impressed by how loud he is. While you don’t recognize this man, almost everyone else in this room certainly seems to adore him. “Welcome, my dear students and guests, to the annual University of Michigan Film Fest,” he boldly announces through the microphone. “As many of you know, my name is Dr. Steven Turner, and I am the department head for our film studies program on campus.”

After more applause, and more whistling from Josh, Dr. Turner waits for everyone to quiet down before he announces the films that will be presented. There are only three films that will be shown in their entirety tonight, one of them being Les Sombres Intrigues de Guenièvre et Arthur, under the direction of the one and only Josh M. Kiszka. 

You felt the thumping of your heart when Dr. Turner said the (very long) name of your film, and it’s truly beginning to settle in that you'll be watching yourself on the screen tonight. And so will everyone else. A crashing wave of anxiety courses through your veins at the thought, tingling under your skin. Your tummy is twisted in knots, your leg bouncing with nerves. There’s no turning back now.

“At long last, I present to you our first film of the night,” Dr. Turner declares, and you’re silently praying and pleading that Josh’s film isn’t first. You need time to prepare yourself before you watch it like this.  “Written, produced, and directed by senior Josh M. Kiszka,” 

Fuck. 

“Please enjoy the debut of his first short-film, Les Sombres Intrigues de Guenièvre et Arthur.”

As he exits stage left, the spotlight begins dimming until it’s gone. Then, the curtain begins to lift, revealing a huge projection screen. Suddenly, it displays the title card of Josh’s film in an elaborate red font against a stark black background. 

This is it. 

Your whole body begins trembling with unease. The knots in your stomach have turned into pure nausea that you’re trying your hardest to swallow down. But, as the image on the screen shifts to the opening sequence, the beautiful drone footage Josh captured of the mountains, your throat suddenly becomes too dry to swallow. 

At this point, the entire row must be shaking from your bouncing leg. You can’t help it. You’ve seen yourself in this film, but you’ve not seen it like this. On a humongous screen and in front of over a hundred people, no less. You’re fearful of their judgements, what they’ll think of you playing the Queen. 

The opening footage starts to fade out, and the first thing that fades in – The Queen. In full color, she’s dressed in the deep, red gown, the first costume you had tried on. As the angle widens, Lancelot, in his white velvet top and red cape, is seen standing across from her in their secret spot hidden in the middle of the forest. They stare into each other's eyes, longingly. Hopelessly and forbiddenly in love with one another. 

Lancelot, Sam, begins to speak his first lines, the first of the entire film. 

“My love. I accept this token and will wear it as I carry you with me, that with it wrapped around my arm, so as you are wrapped even tighter around my heart.”

And then, the Queen, you.

“With it carries the promise you will return to me, unmarked and whole. Again will you lie with me, again will you hold me as tightly as my token holds you.”

As you’re watching yourself on this screen that is larger than your entire apartment complex, your leg continues to bounce, your teeth biting at your brittle nails. It’s only the beginning; there’s still so much left of this film to witness, and you’re not sure you can find the strength in you to keep watching. If seeing yourself like this has you ready to run out of this theater and never look back, how the hell will you be able to sit through what’s to come?

No. You can’t do it. You’ll ask Josh to forgive you later, but right now, you have to get out of here. As you uncross your legs, readying yourself to make a quick and hopefully unnoticed exit, you feel a warm hand against your trembling thigh. Your right thigh. The side Jake is on. 

With a downward glance to your lap, you see the hand you’ve come to know quite well as his. You’d know those hands anywhere. There’s no doubt you’d be able to recognize them instantly, even without seeing his face. 

Your leg has stopped bouncing, and your body begins to relax as you no longer feel the desire to escape. You feel like you can breathe again, all from the most gentle, grounding touch from someone you’re supposed to hate right now. At least, you think you’re supposed to. 

Without being able to stop yourself, you look at his face as he’s absorbedly studying the screen. His lips are parted just slightly, his brows carefully knit as he’s focusing his attention on his twins project. All at once, as though he really wasn’t paying as close attention as you thought, he looks down at his hand that’s still resting against your thigh. And once he realizes, he removes it. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, still peering down where his hand once was. “I didn’t mean to, I just, I knew you were –,” he stammers, his raspy voice hushed and soft so as to not disturb any viewers. He takes a deep breath, the hand that was on your thigh rubbing at his lower chin. “You look beautiful,” he sighs, looking back to the screen. 

Whether he’s referring to you on film, or right now, you can’t be sure. Either way, your anxious wave has settled to a warm calm, wrapping you in a quiet embrace.  

“Thank you,” you whisper, and you’re almost certain you see the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Though his hand isn’t there to offer you comfort any longer, the effects it left are lasting. As the scene in the forest comes to its end, and as the big first kiss is taking place between the lovers, your nerves have significantly calmed down. You’re still not completely comfortable, but knowing Jake could somehow sense that you needed someone, that you needed him, is giving you a sense of peace over it all. He’s still right next to you, and that’s truly enough to help you get through this. 

“We look pretty good, huh?” Sam whispers, nudging your arm with his elbow. If you were to be completely honest, you had almost forgotten Sam was here. You’ve been so focused on watching yourself on the film, letting your nerves get the best of you before Jake intervened. And, while you’re sitting here between both of them, just as close to one as you are to the other, Jake was the one who noticed you were feeling tense.

Not Sam, whose smile is oblivious while eyeing your shared kiss projected on screen. It was a good kiss; it was a great kiss. You’ll never forget the way it made you feel, the way Sam made you feel. The passion is there in this scene; it’s there in all of your scenes with him. 

But if your memory serves you right, (and you know it does) you were only a convincing actress when Jake was nearby, when he was watching. His very presence ignited something within you, and the only person who could fan the flame at that moment was Sam. So, with every kiss, heavy and full of emotion, you envisioned Jake. Every. Single. Time. And because he lingered in the background for nearly every scene you shot, watching you as you acted with his brother, your performance is far more authentic than you realized — as you were in the moment. Watching it back now, fully edited and being viewed the way it was intended, the affair does appear incredibly believable. 

The heaviest scenes, the ones in black and white have finally been reached. You’re taken aback by how magnificent the editing turned out. On the big screen, it’s an entirely different experience compared to watching it on the laptop. The reds are even more vibrant, more eye-catching and captivating. Every intimate moment between the illicit lovers is a beautiful depiction, where the color red emerges as a poignant symbol of their passionate affair.

But, the beautifully filmed and edited work doesn’t change the fact that you are the one portraying the Queen. No matter how many times you tell yourself that it isn’t really you being pictured across the screen, you still see pieces of yourself that serve as a daunting reminder. As someone who’s never been keen on her appearance, it’s certainly difficult to view yourself in such a manner. You’re just thankful that Josh was so careful in the way he filmed you, and even more mindful of your scenes when it came time to edit. 

As this vigorous affair is unfolding on the screen, it’s becoming more intense than it’s been conveyed in the story thus far. The camera pans the expanse of the Queen's body, clothed in black lace. The gown striking within the noir effect. You’ve almost forgotten entirely that it’s your body, feeling as though the camera has truly made you unrecognizable as y/n. And, you’re okay with that. 

The camera stills on her torso, and suddenly a hand appears just below her rib cage. A widening angle then reveals the Queen in a passionate exchange with Lancelot. Their bodies become tangled, fully engrossed within one another as their love is about to consummate. 

You’re beginning to notice a sharp change in Jake’s breathing. Every time the Queen's lips meet the ones of the King's most trusted companion, you see Jake shift in his seat out of your peripheral vision, breathing heavily through his nose.

You know exactly why. Anxiety begins to creep its way back in as you ruminate on how Jake must be feeling. Watching these intimate moments between the Queen and Lancelot transpire on such a massive display, knowing how he feels about the actors beyond the film. The anxiety is quickly morphing into immense guilt, and a bit of shame. Though you know it’s not your fault, it is certainly making you think of other choices you’ve made as of late. 

This moment in the film is one you remember quite well. And it’s not just because of the contents of the film that you have such a vivid recollection, it’s what happened behind the camera that makes your heart flutter. As the scene progresses with the lovers, the King suddenly makes a dramatic entrance through the doors of the boudoir, bearing witness to his wife’s best kept secret with his second in command. 

You’ve practically stopped breathing at the sight of Jake as the king, wearing the cropped chainmail top and black pants, his sword attached to his hip. He despised the top at the beginning, having an almost visceral reaction when he wore it for the first time. Yet, you remember feeling as though he was the most enchanting vision you'd ever seen before your eyes. That very same feeling is overwhelming you at seeing him wear it again.

As the King begins to speak, the black and white slowly fades away to color, a decision Josh made to symbolize the ending of the forbidden affair. 

“I thought I knew better than to heed Mordred's vile words of my first in command. And yet, I find that I needn’t worry of his lies, only those of my beloved and her dearest, both of whom betray their King.” 

The King’s voice, Jake’s voice, is so deep and raw, vibrating the floor beneath your feet from the power behind it. As he speaks his lines, your mind takes you back to the day this was filmed. Jake was the most angry you had ever seen him, and he placed that energy into the King’s reaction to seeing his wife in bed with another. He couldn't even finish the scene at first, as his anger overcame him and he was no longer the king you’re seeing on the screen. 

He lost control and stormed off set, and when you followed him to his room, you witnessed his unraveling for the first time. 

That moment, while you were filming this very scene, serves as the beginning of what has now ended, and seeing a representation of it through the film makes your heart feel as though it could shatter at any second. 

Jake’s leg has now begun to bounce in the seat next to you, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking the same things you are. Unlike he did for you, you choose not to rest your hand on his leg to offer him comfort. It’s not that you don’t want to, you’re just not sure that you can. You fear it’ll only make things worse for him, given how quickly he chose to remove his hand from you just moments ago. The touch would probably cause him even more discomfort, and you don’t want to be any more responsible for that than you already are. 

In the film, after the King has threatened Lancelot with his life, the scene then shifts to his infidelity with Camillie. This is one you haven’t watched yet, and now you’re understanding what Jake may have been feeling this whole time watching you and Sam. 

As the pair begins to kiss one another, the camera closes in on their faces. Watching Jake lips interlocked with hers in high definition isn’t something you were ready to see. And to make this moment much more difficult than it already is, you hear the infamous giggle that belongs to Stacy from further down the row. As your eyes leave the screen and glance her way, you’re wishing you would’ve just kept your attention on the film. Her hand is on Jake’s thigh, and he is smiling.

The rage you’re suddenly feeling is surpassing every other emotion you’ve experienced in such a short amount of time. What is she doing with her hand on him? Why does she think she has that right? Because of her miniscule little role she played in the film? 

You want so badly to get Nat’s attention, but it would be inappropriate to do so during the film. And, Nat is just as enthralled by it as everyone else. 

And you should be, too. It’s a true work of art, a magnum opus. Why can’t you let everything else rest so you can enjoy what you helped to create? If not for you, for Josh and Malahchi who labored endlessly over this. It’s not fair to either of them to allow your mind to be so preoccupied with other things that you know don’t matter right now.

As Camille and the King's scene comes to an end, it then fades into the final goodbye between Lancelot and Guiniverre. He’s holding her, telling her that he must put an end to this affair, if only to spare his life from the King’s wrath. In a final display of their love, they kiss one another deeply before he sets off. 

The moment is powerful, as it shows the Queen and Lancelot doing what they know is right, while the King has just been shown having his own affair behind the back of his wife. The camera closes in on the Queen’s face, tearfully watching her lover fade into the shadows. You’re enthralled by moment, as you can feel the very emotions you felt as you filmed it all over again. 

You hear a sigh from Sam, who nudges your shoulder once more as you’re the single shot on the screen. And with the nudge of his elbow, your body is shoved into Jake’s. 

You begin to apologize for it, but as you look at him, his eyes piercing yours, you’ve found yourself unable to speak. His face is close – close enough that you needn't hardly move if you decided to kiss him. And the desire is there, no doubt. His warm breath fans your face, eliciting chills all over your body. His eyes begin to move down to your chest, and you feel your nipples begin to perk at breath touching your skin. You know he notices, as you can see the hint of a smile on his lips, even in the dark theatre. 

The longing to lock your lips with his is dire. To feel him again, to taste him again; you’d be damned to say you haven’t wanted that this whole night. His eyes slowly lift back up to yours and his tongue glides over his lips, and before you can say or do anything, he turns his attention back to the film.

Taking a deep breath, mentally brushing away any other thought, you do just as he did and focus your eyes back to the screen, watching the most beautiful film progress before your eyes. Instead of wasting this time worrying about what you can dwell on any other time, you’re choosing to witness the retelling of a King and Queen who loved one another, yet they couldn’t be together for many reasons, most of them beyond the telling of the well-known tales. 

You know you have a bias, but this adaptation of a lore you’ve studied for more years than you can count is truly the best you’ve yet to see. Josh’s careful attention to the details of the classic story, while adding his own magical touch to the insight of each of these characters – these incredibly deep and complex characters – it’s done in a way you’ve never seen. To be part of something like this, it’s the biggest honor of your life. 

As the film is reaching its final scene, you feel tears welling in your ducts as you watch the King prepare his final speech. Jake’s acting is something to be revered, and his portrayal of this timeless character is award-worthy in itself. 

As the King, Jake, holds Excalibur high in the air, the tears begin falling down your face as the King bares his heart to his knights. 

“Guinevere, my queen, my love, has forsaken our sacred bond for the arms of my most trusted knight. The pain of this treachery pierces deeper than any sword.” 

As he proclaims his love and hurt over his dear wife, and his loyalty to Camelot, this magnitudinous film reaches its ending. 

Once the final credits begin to roll, the whole theatre starts rumbling with roaring applause. And as you look over your shoulder, the tears start falling even harder when you see a standing ovation from every person filling the Fox. Josh is nearly beside himself when he notices, a look of pure relief and pride on his tear-stained features. 

“You did it, babe!” Malachi shouts, standing with Josh to embrace one another. The rest of the row stands to join the ovation, as the applause seems to be endless from the crowd. Sam’s arm wraps around your shoulder, pulling you into a short side hug. You then catch sight of Nat, who seems just as emotional as you are with streaks of black mascara down her cheeks. 

And then, you look to Jake, standing beside you and gazing at his twin with nothing but admiration laced in his smile. To see him so clearly proud of his brother is such a beautiful thing, and it’s certainly distracting you from everything else you’ve felt tonight. 

The film, and everything surrounding it, has reached its final closure. 

It’s done. The hard work has more than paid off, in your opinion. Seeing it like this, played before an eager audience as though it were being premiered in Hollywood, has made everything about it worth more than gold. You’ll still present it in class next week, but this – this was what it was made for. It’s a crowd pleasing masterpiece, and Josh should be nothing but incredibly proud that he is the creator of something so extraordinary. 

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

After watching the other two films, each of them far beyond anything you expected tonight, the viewings have come to an end. You didn’t realize the sheer talent present at your school, and it enlists a sense of pride within you. These students, Josh included, are so passionate about what they do, and it’s so very clear in every piece you’ve seen tonight. You’re in awe of every one of them, to say the least. But, putting your clear bias to the side, Josh’s film surpasses the other two by a massive landslide. His is as close to perfection as a short film can possibly be, with or without you. 

Dr. Turner, joined by four more faculty members from the Film Studies program, walks back on stage to more applause from the crowd. “Distinguished students and guests, we are pleased to present this year's Hopwood Award for Screenplay and Cinematography,” he announces.. “As you all know, students who earn this award are guaranteed a full ride to The Los Angeles Film school, as well as the opportunity to shadow a world renowned director of their choosing.” 

As you look down the row towards Josh, his nerves are present in his body language, a timid smile across his lips. You are filled with nerves, your chest tightening and your palms becoming damp with perspiration; if you are this jittery, you can’t begin to imagine how Josh is feeling. He’s holding Chi’s arm with one hand, gripping Nat’s hand in the palm of the other. Touch is his comfort, and you’re sure he’d be clinging to every one of you right now if he could.

He looks down the row as he’s chewing on his bottom lip from anticipation, locking eyes with you as. He mouths the words “Thank you,” and you respond with a quiet “Good luck!” He nods his head, blowing a kiss as you offer one in return. 

“After careful consideration, the board has chosen the student whom we believe has directed the most visually stunning and well-written short film. This has been no easy choice, as each film we’ve seen tonight more than qualifies for such a prestigious award,” Dr. Turner says, holding the physical representation of the award in the hand not holding the microphone. “But the student we’ve chosen has displayed time and time again what it means to be a director in a field that requires the kind of talent and discipline that we’ve seen from him over the years.” 

Without even realizing it, your hand is gripping your necklace, something your anxious thoughts decided you needed right now. Your pounding heart can be felt against your hand, beating so quick you’re afraid you’ll faint if the recipient isn’t announced. 

“With that being said, the student we feel is the most deserving is…,” 

Come on, come on.  

“...Josh M. Kiszka, for his impeccable direction of the astounding Les Sombres Intrigues de Guenièvre et Arthur.” 

The mention of his name has each of you shooting up from your seats, cheering and shouting for Josh as you fight back the gleeful tears. As Josh stands, he hugs Malachi tightly before the two of them walk hand in hand up to the stage to accept the award. Everyone in the crowd is clapping, rallying behind him and encouraging him.

He deserves this. More than anyone in this room, Josh deserves this. 

As Dr. Turner hands him the award, he shakes his hand and pulls him into a hug. Everyone from the board walks by to congratulate Josh, shaking hands with him and Malachi, commending the two of them for their work. 

Josh is wiping away a few tears as Dr. Turner hands him the microphone, patting him on the back. “You’ve made a grave mistake in handing me this,” Josh jokes in the mic, cackling to himself. There are quiet agreements from each of you, knowing damn well that Josh will talk forever if given half the chance.

“I promise to keep this short. I would just like to extend my gratitude to a group of people that have been the driving force in seeing this dream of mine come to fruition.” He looks at your row, holding out his hand to you all with heavy emotions present on his smiling face. “My brothers, Jacob and Samuel, my dear friends y/n, Natalia, Daniel, and Stacy –,” Of course she had to be mentioned. 

“ – and, lest I forget, my loving partner, Malachi.” Standing beside him, Malachi wraps his arm around Josh's shoulders. “You all are the beating heart of this production. Without each and every one of you,” he tearfully exclaims, holding up his award. “This wouldn’t have been possible. Know that my love for you is boundless.” 

He takes a bow to the crowd, blowing kisses all across the theatre. As he hands the mic back to Dr. Turner, Josh pulls Malachi close to him for a hug. The two of them, so proud and full of love. It melts your heart in every way a love like theirs should. 

And watching them has you longing for your own hug, specifically from the person to your right. But as you look over, he’s already lost in a hug. With Stacy. 

Before you can give yourself the chance to lament on it, Sam reaches for you, pulling you into his arms. “Can you believe it?” He sways you back and forth, turning you both in a circle, to where you’re now facing Jake, who’s no longer in an embrace with Stacy. 

He’s looking at you, staring into your eyes while you’re wrapped in his brother's arms. At once, you try to pull away from Sam so you can celebrate with the one you really long to be with. 

But, it’s too late. 

With a solemn smile, tearing his eyes away from yours, he walks right past Stacy down the other side of the aisle. She tries to get his attention, but he’s paying her no mind. You watch him continue to walk, until he’s gone, completely lost within the sea of people in the theater. You let go of Sam, beginning to follow after Jake until you feel a tug on the back of your arm.  “Don’t,” Josh whispers in your ear from behind you, his thumb rubbing circles on your arm. “Just let him go.”

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

a/n: i can't lie, i'm a little sad the filming days have ended, too. i know this was a lot, & i am once again offering my sincerest apologies, lol. see you in part 2. 😘

as always, thank you all for your love & support. hearing from you guys makes my heart soar, & it truly keeps me going. my inbox is always open. don't ever be afraid to reach out. 🤍

if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters, follow this link or send me an ask/dm & i'll be sure to add you. ☺️ (let me know if i've missed you!!!) (also, i know tags are being a little weird right now—will you let me know if you did/didn’t receive a notification?) sending all my love!

National Alliance for Eating Disorders. Please reach out if you're struggling. You're worth it. 🤍

taglist:

@jakeyt @alwaysonthemend @sacredjake @jakesgrapejuice @misshunnybee @reesetrippingthelight @way-to-go-lad @sinarainbows @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @klarxtr @watchingover-hypegirl @brinlygvf @stardustjake @gretavanbear @gvfmelbourne @devilat-thedoor @literal-dead-leaf @gvf-ficreads @jaaakeeey @capturethechaos @neptune2324 @jaketlove @thetroublegetssoloud71 @myleftsock @sanguinebats @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface @joshskittytickler @violet-hayes @aflameforgoinghome @heckingfrick @fitalich @starshine-gvf @audgeppp @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @ninas-tearsofrain @torniturntomyarrow @beautifulcrayola @writingcold @welllauragvf @loveisonaroll @itsafullmoon @gretasfallingsky @i-love-gvf @kiszkas-canvas @mackalah @gvfmarge @jordie-gvf @gretavansara @highway-tuna @vikingsisthenewsexy @louiseecraigg @hippievanfleet @citylight-delight @blacksoul27

[minghaoslatina]

the one where you find out

pairing: ceo!wooyoung x female!reader

word count: 906

warnings: mentions of throwing up, pregnancy, a little angst, a lot of fluff, insecurity about weight

now playing 🎧 birds of a feather by billie eilish

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

You find yourself in a relentless battle, desperately trying to suppress the nauseous feeling rising inside you as you work on your laptop, pushing through to finish your second book draft for your editor. The throbbing pain in your head adds to your discomfort. Positioned in the cozy corner of the company office, you take a moment to glance up from your work and spot your boyfriend, Wooyoung, engrossed in his own laptop tasks. Despite your feelings of discomfort, you appreciate the beautiful view of the city from where you're seated. The allure of the city's expansive view from the office adds a comforting touch to your writing environment, but your growing nausea forces you to set aside your laptop.

Without hesitation, Wooyoung rushes to your side and drops to his knees, providing support as he holds your hair back and massages your back. When you regain your composure, you find Wooyoung's concerned gaze fixed upon you. "This is the fourth time this week, honey; maybe you should see a doctor," he suggests, his eyes reflecting genuine worry.

"Sorry," you manage to utter, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes filled with tears, a reflection of your vulnerability.

Wooyoung shakes his head, gently reassuring you, "You have nothing to be sorry about, beautiful."

Wooyoung was quite insistent that you see a doctor after you threw up. Despite having an important meeting with seven other CEOs of his shared company, he wanted to accompany you. However, you insisted he attend the conference, and you went to the doctor alone, certain it was just a stomach bug or the flu.

Later that day, as you returned to your shared apartment, Wooyoung opened the door for you and immediately noticed your tear-stained cheeks and stoic expression, causing him to worry. "Babe, what's wrong? Are you okay? What did the doctor say?" As soon as the door was closed, you completely broke down, and Wooyoung quickly embraced you, guiding you to the living room couch as your sobs continued. He gently sat you down and knelt in front of you, taking your hands in his and offering his comfort and support.

"Beautiful, you're worrying me. Say something," Wooyoung says, his voice gentle as he reaches out to comfort you and calm your obvious distress. You're hesitant about telling him the truth, not because you're worried about his reaction but because of the overwhelming fear gripping your heart.

"I'm pregnant," you manage to say between sobs, bracing yourself for his response. As expected, Wooyoung's eyes light up with a heartwarming smile, his happiness shining through. You know how much he has always wanted kids, and you can't help but feel a rush of love as you witness his happiness. His warmth and kindness toward children have always touched your heart, whether he's playing with his little brother or simply interacting with the kids around him.

"Are you feeling scared? Is that why you're crying?" he asks, his voice filled with concern as he tries to understand the emotions swirling within you. You nod your head slowly, feeling the weight of your worries pressing down on you.

"Everything's going to be okay; you're the strongest person I know," Wooyoung reassures you, gently squeezing your hand. You can't help but let out a sniffle before revealing your real fears.

"Wooyoung, I'm scared of so many things. I'm afraid of gaining weight, feeling unattractive, not being a good enough mom, experiencing postpartum depression, the pain of labor, the responsibility of parenthood, and even the thought of you leaving me. And on top of all that, we're both still young and have our careers," you list off, feeling the weight of each fear as you speak it aloud.

"Baby, look at me," he says, gently placing a finger under your chin and directing your racing thoughts towards him.

"Nothing, and I mean nothing, will ever make me leave or fall out of love with you. You're my everything. Don't worry about your looks because it's normal for your body to change during pregnancy. It's a beautiful process; I know you'll look like a goddess. I'll remind you of that every day if I have to. You don't have to worry about anything because I'll always be beside you. You're my first priority, and you're going to be an amazing mom, by the way," Wooyoung says with a voice so gentle and reassuring it warms your heart.

"Promise?" you ask, gazing deeply into Wooyoung's sparkling eyes, searching for any sign of doubt.

"Absolutely," Wooyoung replies, nodding firmly.

"Thank you," you whisper, feeling the warmth of his embrace and the reassurance in his words. Wooyoung has always had this calming effect on you, and in that moment, you feel incredibly fortunate to have him as your boyfriend. He leans in to kiss your pink lips as he sits beside you on the living room couch. The passion in his kiss speaks volumes, and as you pull away, a soft smile graces your lips.

"Thank you for making me a dad," Wooyoung smiles.

"This is your fault! Maybe use protection next time," you tease, crossing your arms but unable to contain your own laughter. Wooyoung's laughter fills the room as he rests his head on your lap. Gently, you run your fingers through his hair, watching as his eyes flutter closed. In that quiet moment, you find yourself grateful for the idea of creating a family with him.

🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

dad! wooyoung drabbles masterlist

taglist 💗

@hanni-bae44

[taffycandyqt]

Hi taffy!! Idk if anyone has done this but its been on my mind for a while now. YouTuber reader and editor donnie. Where Donnie has a little avatar that pops into videos and reader talks in the video to him for when he edits (kind of like a Markiplier and Lixian kind of thing?) Thanks soo much! Lots of love!

Yesssss!!!! I absolutely love Marks and Lixians dynamic! Oh this is gonna be so fun!

You didn't specify what version you wanted so I'm just gonna assume you want rise Donnie and do that👍

Masterlist

Request Rules

Little Editor Boy

You found your video editor a couple years after starting YouTube. He's great at his job and you enjoy talking to him. You never met him in person though, so imagine your surprise when you find out he's a giant mutant turtle!

Rise Donnie x gn reader

Headcannons

Fluff

Before dating

Othello was the best person you had ever worked with and one of your closest friends.

You hired him after he had edited one of your videos for his own channel.

It was purely for satire but you loved his sense of humor and he was good at what he does.

Now you guys call practically all the time and he even feeds you ideas for new videos.

You loved pushing your dynamic on your videos too!

Talking to him like he was in the room with you and teasing back and forth like he was there responding to you.

It was fun!

You hated watching your videos but you loved to go to the parts where you "talk to him" just to see his witty comebacks.

He never ceased to make you laugh.

With all this though you've never met in person, nor have you ever seen his face.

He always avoids the topic or makes some sort of excuse.

No he doesn't have a working camera on any of his technological devices despite his fluency with the stuff, yes he really does live in Zimbabwe even thought he consistently talks about going to places exclusively in New York

Yes he is busy Ninja training, no that is not a lie, unfortunately he is planning on being sick the next two weeks that your free so guys can't visit each other.

Safe to say, you were done with his bull.

So on your next phone call you cornered him for the truth.

Little did you know that the truth was, he did want to meet you, but he couldn't.

Now it should be known that Donnie isn't ashamed of how he looks.

Is he aware? Yes.

Does he care? No.

If someone else has a problem with it, it's just that, their problem.

But with you, he wants you to like him, and he HATES that.

He wishes that taking the chance to meet you in person didn't scare him so much.

He doesn't want you to scream, run, call him a freak, and fire him!

So when you put him in tight position to meet you, he was kinda freaking out.

Not that his "bad boy" persona would ever let him show it.

Donnie's knee bounced under the table as he waited for you to come into the shabby diner you both decided to meet at. Purple hoodie and mittens with black jeans and sneakers. Normally he hated wearing all this junk but if he could avoid the inevitable freakout as long as possible then so be it. With his hood pulled up to shield his face from the occasional passer-by. The yellow lights flickered periodically and it made him wish he was back at his lab fixing up whatever project he felt like instead of watching that persistent technological annoyance.

The minutes ticked by and he was starting to wonder if you were coming at all. Maybe you had seen him from afar and decided you didn't actually want to meet him? Maybe you were freaked out? At this point he couldn't decide which one would distress him more. The prospect of meeting you or the idea that you no longer want to meet him. Panicked thoughts started rushing through his head and the plasticy covering of his booth seat was becoming increasingly uncomfortable the longer he sat there alone. If felt like he was in the splash zone waiting for a wave to smack him.

Before he can go any deeper into this panic though, you say down in front of him.

"Sorry I'm a little late. Hopefully five minutes wasn't too long a wait!" you laughed to yourself as you slid into the booth seat across from him.

"N-nope! All good here! A ha..." he mumbled awkwardly.

You both talked as your food came and he stayed draw in on himself and refused to let you see his face.

He would get more comfortable with the conversation as you talked and things seemed to be getting into a better note but his body language still seemed to stay uncomfortable.

You just kept the conversation up and hoped he would come out of his shell.

Nothing seemed to be working until you got on the topic of Jupiter Jim and you mentioned how underrated Atomic Lass and Atomic Lads dynamic is within the franchise and fanbase.

He'd sit up so fast that his hood flew off is face as he released an exasperated "EXACTLY!"

Now it was your turn to be shocked.

You didn't know what to expect but it wasn't green skin and less than human features.

Your bewildered staring clued him into his fatal mistake.

He'd sink back into the booth seat choking out an awkward forced laugh.

You so badly want to ask "What are you?" But that seemed a tad dehumanizing. Though you guessed he wasn't really human.

So after the initial shock wore off, you decided to say something a bit different.

"There's the face I've been dying to meet," you smiled.

"Pardon?" He looked up at you a tad surprised.

This was the first time he made eye contact with you since you got here.

"I haven't been trying to meet you in person for so long just so I could catch a glimpse of your fashion sense you know,"

After that he played it off like he knew you would react that way and immediately straightened his posture at the table.

The time there also got a bit more comfortable as you both chatted freely.

He still kept the hood on but was no longer using it to obscure his face.

Eventually you noticed his hands had been degloved and saw his green three fingers.

You didn't stare like you did at his face but you made a mental note to ask him about it later.

You were still curious okay?

While Dating

Once you two start saying it becomes increasingly obvious to you followers.

Your interactions with Donnie's little character slowly went from boss employee teasing to ridiculous romantic jokes to just straight up calling him pet names.

When you find out about Donnie's family and their mutant situation you were actually really interested.

Though it did make you a little sad at the realization that his behavior when you first met in person was because he thought you'd think of him differently.

Because of this one of your favorite names for him becomes "handsome boy" or "handsome man".

You'd ask him to edit something for you in one of your videos and when you were done explaining it you'd say "thank you my handsome boy!" And continue playing the game.

The first time this happened he was just watching the video to edit it like he normally does, only to get jump scared by the nickname.

Don't get me wrong, he loved the name, but he just didn't know what to think.

It took him a good ten minutes to recover from his flustered state of mind.

After he got out of it he would consider just editing that part out.

For.... reasons.

But ultimately left it in since the cut would be too awkward.

Needless to say your followers are BEGGING for an Othello face reveal and you just have to keep saying no😭😭

Outside of that you are like the OTP for Internet couples.

It gets to the point where you guys kinda become a meme

Some fan of a different streamer will talk about how that streamer and their partner and perfect for eachother and then one of your fans will just be like "yeah but are they as perfect as y/n and Othello von Ryan?"

It even evolves I into "peanut butter and jelly are the perfect pair" "not as perfect as y/n and Othello tho..."

or "UGH! GUYS! My fit EATS! Almost as much as y/n and Othello!"

It's all in good fun, and you find it absolutely hilarious.

Donnie is amused and anytime you show him these memes he simply nods and says something along the lines of "well I cannot disagree with objective fact."

Overall, very cute, very fun.

[harrisonarchive]

Timothy White (the late fmr. editor-in-chief of Billboard) and George Harrison; photo courtesy of Billboard (possibly photographed by Chris Cuffaro).

“[George] was a man of wit, candor, and disarming directness. His art of living, of creating, and of dying were all of a piece. […] The essence of George Harrison’s affecting, often wryly confrontational art was its ability to make real feelings into believable songs with sincere and even unabashed messages, while maintaining a sense of humor, subtlety, and balance about the matter — before, during, and afterward. […] Harrison was gregarious and a good listener. He loved talking about books, recent films, British and Indian history, and the annals of the recording industry — whether it was about early English vaudeville, Cab Calloway and Hoagy Carmichael, the transition from big bands to bebop, corny and Western music at its most rustic or instrumentally skilled, or the evolution of recording techniques. […] In his music, in his epic passage from ‘Don’t Bother Me’ to ‘Horse to the Water,’ George Harrison conveyed his distress, confessed his vulnerabilities, and expressed his longing — as did the ancient Vedic poets — for the nearness of God. Through his recordings, he prayed for the human race. […] Last Christmas, George Harrison said that after his recording/reissue work in 2001 was done, he wanted very much ‘to go to someplace sunny, someplace warm.’ Hopefully, that place will be in our hearts.” - Timothy White (fmr. editor-in-chief of Billboard), Billboard, December 15, 2001

[hestzhyen]

Chapter 62 Chuunibyou Posting

...Hello dear void. Rumours of my death are only slightly exaggerated. I'm back from the hospital and I'm ready to chill with this chapter over the break. Taking it easy on myself and not doing the editor's notes this week. This will be short in general since I'm still in recovery, actually- sorry about that. Gonna rest up and get ready for the next chapter that drops on January 3rd.

Chihiro...?

Something something fresh hatred

I got a kick out of Chihiro from Wish, I really did. Goes to show how ridiculous his edginess in the first few chapters was before Char softened him up for the better. Everyone give Char a pat on the head for doing a good job, okay?

Iori's impression of Chihiro as a murderer is something I'll allow myself a little satisfaction for since I called him having a trashed public image thanks to his interruption of the kabuki play back in chapter 52. He's going to have a harder time completing his mission thanks to this in some way- betting on the Kamunabi using it against him somehow, but the Hishaku easily could too. It's anyone's guess on how exactly this will come to bite him in the ass but it will happen.

Worst of all, though, he's got kids imitating him like he's some MC out of an edgy wish-fulfillment LN. What a way to trivialize what someone's been through (not that Discount Chihiro knows, of course). Chihiro's image is already out of his control in some pretty damaging ways.

But She Was, in Fact, the Chosen One

Thank you for your helpful narration about the general public's reaction to Owl darkening the skies, Iori.

We don't know the kanji for Iori's name yet since it's only been spelled with Katakana so far (イヲリ), but it's clear as day that she's inherited some of Samura's reckless bravery and quick assessment abilities.

I like that she's very much an ordinary girl being thrust into a situation that's way over her head. Her memories of her dad are locked away so she's just an average highschooler being plucked out of the ordinary and tossed into the extraordinary like Discount Chihiro wished he was until Kuguri held a sword to his throat.

The seal is breaking through Iori's own will to know what the hell is going on so I wonder if the Masumi will re-do it. I think not, since Minimura had that bit about Samura underestimating kids near the end, so she'll probably get a few panels to come to terms with her real identity while Chihiro does some cool moves in the classroom to fend off the Hishaku.

I have a feeling that Iori's going to be sticking around for a while. She's getting a lot of screen time and set up for development if she's just meant to be an arc character or damsel in distress. Won't get too attached, obviously, but I kinda like her already based on the little glimpse we've seen. Looking forward to learning more about her personality and seeing what's in store for her beyond this arc.

Silly Murderers

There's no fixing this kind of crazy.

Place your bets: blood-based identification sorcery, or just plan nuts? We'll find out sooner or later.

This is gonna be another inconclusive fight since we need to see Kuguri meet the Bearer that's bonded to the blade he's pining for and learn Tomboy's name.

Small Complaint

Just a note about a small difference I'm petty enough to be annoyed about in the EN version:

The "no"s stop pretty short in English, but in Japanese...

...they run on into Minimura's speech bubble to show her racing thoughts getting cut short.

Alright dear void. Let's enjoy lobotomybachi week and let the brainrot flow during the break. Also, consider getting help before you shut down and enter a tailspin- this is a very difficult time of year for some of us. You're not alone if so. Reach out for help if you need it.

[protagaster]

Part 5 of the Warrior!Penelope Swap AU

I am not proud of the procrastination I felt completing this vignette...

Thank Blue for even getting this one in a timely manner!

Editor/Co-Author: the wonderful and spectacular @somereaderinblue (GeminiWillow on Ao3) <3

(Cross-Posted on Ao3)

Ares' Goodbye

Penelope and her crew had survived their encounter with the Cyclops, leaving him blind but alive to tell the tale. 

But to willingly leave an enemy alive, to force them to live with that shame and humiliation, it is unacceptable. Unacceptable to the spirit of honor, unacceptable to the etiquette of war… 

Unacceptable to Ares.

~

They had done it. Not all of the women who entered that cave made it out, but those who did had acquired enough of the necessary rations needed to make it back to Ithaca. 

Those who were left outside that dreadful cave, tasked with watching their friends’ backs and guarding the fleet of ships, could only gaze at their comrades with anxious and curious eyes; while they did not know what specifically happened inside that daunting, mysterious cave, they knew it must’ve been horrible.  

Horrible enough to leave those who exited the cave with glassy eyes and shuddering bodies, a sight they haven't seen since the earliest days of war.

Horrible enough to leave them with 72 fewer sisters than before.

Horrible enough for their Queen and captain to feel the need to personally make meaning of their deaths. 

Well, whatever it was that happened inside that cave, at least it was over. 

For all except one… 

Penelope breathed out, hard and heavy and weary. 

The scent of blood still lingered in her lungs. She breathed again, in, out, only slightly better this time. Again and again she'll keep breathing till it's gone entirely or refreshed to stay.

So much had happened in that one day, enough that any normal person would assume their life’s excitements and adventures would be fulfilled for the rest of their lives, and the sun had barely begun to set! 

Penelope would not complain if no more “adventure-worthy” dilemmas interrupted her and her crew from here on out. 

Penelope moved to let out another deep breath, this one aiming to feel much more relaxed compared to all her previous-

When that oh-so familiar rush of adrenaline penetrated her thoughts once more. 

Penelope no longer stood on the deck of her ship, surrounded by her fellow female soldiers. Now she stood in those scorching sandy plains, nothing ahead of her but dull golden sand and the familiar red hourglass, filled to the top with black and red sand, floating above her.

Everything looked the same as it usually did, but something about this time was different. 

Very different. 

Penelope felt not the usual courage and rage that made her more brave and resistant to pain, but instead some strange form of distress, similar to anguish but not quite, akin to growing restlessness on the cusp of spilling into torment.

The hourglass was also different; it had tilted even more compared to the last time she saw it, hanging on by a mere thread that was so very close to unwinding. That faint distorted halo, naked to all but the ties that bind, had neared hazardously close to the hourglass. The invisible pendulum dangling from the halo swung to and for, so close to hitting the sand clock’s glass with every sway of its dance…

Penelope tore her eyes from the lone hourglass. 

Turning her whole body to look in the direction behind her, Penelope’s eyes met the cloaked back of the God of War standing far in the distance. 

Ares stood as stiff as the barren cliffs of Ithaca. His dark red cape flowed in the harsh, hot winds whilst the back of his golden helm gleamed jarringly against the desert’s intense sunbeams. 

His large, war-scarred arms hung to his sides, fists clenched dangerously taut. One of those clenched hands wielded the God’s divine spear, veins bulging and knobby knuckles sharp against flesh. If the shaft hadn’t been made by a fellow God it would have easily split in two. 

The God finally turned around to face his mortal. Even if Penelope couldn’t see his expression from behind the helm, the intense waves of disdain and disappointment radiating from her mentor’s very being were practically tangible.

There was no doubt about it.

Ares was furious. 

In a flash of a second, Ares all but teleported before the mortal woman. Only a couple of brown and red vulture feathers scattered behind him hinted at his sudden motion.

“That was pointless, cowardice at its best!”

The tone in Ares’ voice was filled to the brim with such seething fury, flaring like a fire ready to spread its devastation. That flame was trying so hard to contain itself, to keep from burning the life in its wake, but containing a fire never erases the heat and the smell of smoke. One way or another, ashes will remain.

Penelope, of course, knew what Ares was referring to: leaving the Cyclops alive despite him unofficially declaring war on her and her crew. She had defeated him, and yet Penelope broke the one universal rule every Greek warrior had sworn upon whilst praying to a War God’s name:

Never leave your enemy alive.

“That's not a teaching of mine.”

Disregarding the etiquettes of war by showing mercy to an adversary, leaving them to live with such debasing shame and humiliation for the rest of their demeaning lives, it was the greatest insult one could possibly bestow as a warrior of Greece!

The biggest insult one could personally bestow as a student of Ares.

“You've grown dull, your dead friends can attest.”

“Hey!” Penelope yelled out, the loss of her comrades, her Circes, still very much a painful open wound. 

Ares grew annoyed but did not physically react to this outburst, for Penelope’s momentary reaction fueled by pure emotion was too late in the God’s eyes. 

“Put all your weakness aside. You're a warrior meant to lead the rest!”

Everything about Penelope’s natural personality: her discipline, her patience, her resilience, her intellect; combined with the courage and strength bestowed upon by Ares’ blessing and strict training regime, Penelope should have emerged as a warrior greater than the likes their world had ever previously seen!

So why…

“I don't know where I went wrong!”

Why did she still manage to disappoint him so, in the most dishonorable and degrading manner!?

“But I warned ya', and you failed the test!” 

In only one day Penelope had ignored 20 years of Ares' personal guidance and instruction. She turned a blind eye to her responsibility as the ultimate warrior of her kind. She dismissed the warnings the God was so kind to bequeath to her far too many times. 

Enough was enough!

Penelope has disobeyed him for the last time…

“So now I'm gone!”

[CRACK!

The invisible pendulum struck the hourglass; a small crack formed in the glass. 

Neither God nor mortal noticed.]

Penelope’s eyes widened while Ares’ narrowed. 

“This way, you'll know what your place is, this way, you can't cross the line!” 

Battles may be fuelled by emotion but even the ugliest sides of war were built on obedience. There was only so much and so long the God could restrain himself for. 

No longer physically able to hide his immense anger, Ares let out everything he was holding back from the moment Penelope thought herself to be above a God’s wisdom.

“This way, when all is over you'll keep yours and I'll keep mine!”

Throughout their 20 years together, from their highest highs to even their lowest lows, not once had Ares directed such genuine hostility toward Penelope. 

Now, in this moment of disrespect and disgrace, Penelope felt for the first time what it was like to be on the receiving end of the God of War’s brutality.

How arrogant she'd been to believe she would've ever been spared from a God's wrath, favour be damned. Friendship or hostility, a God's favour will always be proportionate to its antithesis.

“This way, you won't disappoint me, this way, you won't waste my time!” 

Ares truly wasn’t holding himself back. No longer were they standing together in the eye of a storm. No, she was but a measly vessel helpless to turn against mountainous tidal waves. Penelope had to ground herself, focus on her stability, to keep those devastating winds from knocking her to the ground. 

That force of nature wanted nothing more than to knock Penelope off her righteous pedestal, willing to do anything to show her just how vulnerable she truly was.

“This way, I'll close the door, consider this as my goodbye!”

[CRACK!

Another strike from pendulum to hourglass. 

The crack, still small, began to grow larger.]

Ares turned, thinking the foreign feeling inside him must have been “satisfaction” from having unleashed his ever-growing criticisms upon the mortal woman. He was just about ready to disappear, ready to return the mortal to reality so she can wallow in her shame-

When a mirthless, humorless chuckle stopped him in his tracks. 

“That’s just like you, why should l be surprised?” Penelope’s voice was filled with a venomous bite, one Ares never heard in all his time by her side. “Brutal and prideful and vain!”

Penelope knew deep down this wasn’t a good idea, that instigating a God never ended in a mortal’s favor. 

But who else was there to blame but Ares himself? 

HE was the one who chose her, not the other way around! 

HE was the one who transformed her from a naturally kind, patient, and rational girl to the stubborn, reckless, emotional woman she was today!

HE was the one who started her down this path, who ripped her away from the quiet, watchful role she would have been content to play in another life!

All of this, every moment and action in Penelope’s life indisputably laced with anything but peace, all of it started with the God who dared to reduce her to a disappointment!

No, Ares had his chance to voice his complaints. Now, it was Penelope’s turn!

“Unlike you, everytime someone dies, I'm left to deal with the strain!”

72. 72 women to many whose lives were lost mere minutes ago, one of whom was the life of her beloved Circes…

Ares was a God of War, Penelope knew she couldn’t fault him for thinking so little of mortal’s deaths when the consequences of their hubris led to the very bloodshed he was destined to oversee. But how dare he try and make her seem incompetent, when her actions ensured the survival of her remaining women whilst his command would have guaranteed more lives to meet an untimely end!

Penelope just couldn’t risk it, even if it meant disgracing her patron God.

“What's a title a God’s blessing could lend, If I’ll never sleep at night!” 

Even now, mere moments after the deaths of her sisters, Penelope could already hear their cries for help ringing in her ears. 

Did that really mean nothing to him?

“I'll remind you I saw you as a friend!” Penelope couldn’t see Ares’ face behind his helm, as the God rarely allowed another to gaze into his rawest unconcealable emotions; if she could, she would have noticed the way Ares’ glare faltered, even if only for a second. “But now we're done!”

“This way, you're out of my head now! This way, you won't stain my life!”

Sure Ares had “gifted” Penelope many blessings and advantages in their 20 years together: he taught her how to properly fight and bear arms, filled her with courage and strength even in the most mundane of days, empowered her to do what no woman before her time ever thought she could accomplish…

What good did they truly do for her, when the only purpose behind those so-called gifts was for his sake and benefit, not hers?

“This way, when all is done, you're out of sight and out of mind!”

Even if she had enjoyed and found comfort from his presence in the beginning, all it did now was fill her with an overwhelming sense of anxiety and dread. 

For the past decade, everytime Ares appeared before her something terrible always occurred shortly after. 

Being drafted to fight in this war, spilling blood, guilty and innocent, by order of the Gods, having to leave behind her kingdom, her home, her husband and daughter… 

At least with him gone, Penelope no longer had to worry about “divine intervention” plaguing her life any longer!

Not for the first time, her mind thought of Achilles. Swift-footed Achilles, Aristos Achaion, the demigod promised eternal glory and achieving it through suffering that would've been just as eternal had it not been for the remnants of mortality in his blood.

If Ares really wanted to abandon Penelope, to cast her aside like a child would a pet once they’ve lost interest, all for the sole purpose of dismissing glory and cherishing a life that wasn’t her own, then let him! 

“This way, you get what you wanted, this way, you can save your time! This way, you close the door and have your damn goodbye!” 

[CRACK!

Yet again the pendulum struck the hourglass. 

The crack was spreading at an alarming degree.]

This time Penelope was the one to turn her back. Not to leave mind, as she had neither the knowledge nor power to enter and leave Ares’ realm without his say.

She just no longer had the patience to entertain his small-minded ideals any mor- 

SWISH!

Ares swiftly appeared in front of Penelope once more and the woman swore the tusks on his helmet were larger, the nails of his fists sharper.

The place of his eyes, a dark void to the outside world because of the helm, went from betraying nothing to glowering daggers of glowing red orbs. 

“You’re not looking for a mentor, I'm not looking for a friend!”

Ares towered over Penelope, staring down at her with such close proximity. The tone of his words carried with them a savage animosity filled to the absolute brim with pure contempt. Still, there was this extra weight to his words; like he wasn’t just directing this argument toward her…

“I mistook you for a general, what a waste of effort spent!”

Penelope tensed as well, fists clenching and breath huffing in a similar manner to the man who was once her most trusted confidant. 

The meager mortal woman forced herself to stiffen her posture, making herself taller and unwilling to back down, meeting the God of War face-to-face with her eyes never leaving his. Penelope felt a rush of boldness, one that was entirely of her own creation. 

This level of pure fearlessness brought with it an uncontrollable level of unheeding, it left no room for  discipline, patience, or thinking…

“At least I know what I’m fighting for while you can never be sated-” 

Penelope thought only of her husband and daughter. She thought only of Circes. She thought only of her 72 lost soldiers and her 528 remaining… 

With all this, with only this in mind, she thought not of the out of control words that came blurting from her lips-

“Though you claim you're so much stronger, why’s your life spent so hated? You're hated!”

[CRAAACK!

One final blow to the hourglass’ structure, so much stronger and more devastating than any of the pendulum's previous strikes.

The glass frame was so close to permanent destruction, barely a single grain of black and red sand visible from the sheer amount of damage to the sand clock.]

Penelope’s breathing, hard and heaving at first, froze immediately. Her eyes widened, gleaming with realization as she just registered what exactly she had used against the God. 

Ares said nothing in retaliation, his breath only hitched in response. 

No more did he exude that familiar aura of intimidation, no longer were his eyes glowing that eerie shadowy red. He stiffened, no longer towering or looking down on the mortal. In fact, he didn’t do anything. A freezing fire is more disconcerting than a blazing one.

All he did was stare. For in that one moment of surprise, that one instance of genuine distress from the blow of mere words that it left a scar more impactful than the ones displayed proudly on his figure, it left the God spiraling through an unfamiliar series of emotions. 

Regret.

Shame. 

Insecurity.

Emotions thought to be insusceptible to the very personification of courage and strength. 

However, just as quickly as this bout of hurt appeared, it was replaced with stoicism. 

Ares’ head lowered while his stance stilled, no longer tense but still hardened. His arms lay at his side, they would’ve appeared lax had his spearhead not straightened further in his grip.

Even Ares’ voice, once filled with pure passion fueled by his beliefs, expressed not a single hint of emotion. 

“One day, you'll get what I'm saying. One day, you might understand. One day…” 

Ares finally raised his head, the shadows of his eyes powerful in all their lack of gaze. 

For the first time in her life, Penelope understood what it was like to feel unnerved by the God of War. 

“But not today, for after all you're-”

Not a man… 

Voices came from everywhere and nowhere, each one impossible not to recognize. 

71 various women… 

Circes… 

They forced Penelope to remember what she was, what should we always be, no matter what it was she did to try and be more.

Odysseus… 

Telemachas…

She was no man nor legend. She was just another woman in over her head, one who would soon be left to fend for her own.

“This day, you sever your own head, this day, you spark the pyre!”

The edge returned to Ares’ voice; Penelope, drawing in her remorse, did not notice the exaggeration to Ares’ tone, as if he was putting on some performance. 

But for who?

“This day, you lost it all, consider this as my goodbye!”

Ares turned away to leave, this time for good. 

He ignored the falter in his step. 

Oh…

“Consider this as my goodbye!”

Oh…

The various voices surrounding Penelope, assaulting her in a  barrage of painful comfort and raw dread that enveloped her entire being, spiritual and physical. 

Whether they were trying to empower her with hope or drown her with guilt, who could tell?

“This is my goodbye!”

Oh…

Penelope reached a hand out, wanting to grasp but unable to keep hold. She opened her mouth, wanting to cry out but unable to shout. 

Everything but Penelope’s inner self stood by and allowed Ares to leave. 

“Consider this as my goodbye…”

Oh…

Another falter, this time in Ares’ innermost deepest desires. 

This needed to be done, he told himself. Mortals only exist to serve the Gods, he repeated as he did for the past 20 years, and once they no longer serve a use there is no penalty in discarding them. 

Ares was never going to be the kind of deity who was revered, one who was truly understood by mortals, much less loved; he needed to accept this, even if he thought for a moment Penelope could be the outlier…

NO!

Ares can’t waver, not with this one! He cannot and will not involve himself with Penelope any longer!

No matter how many times he’d have to say it, even if he had to repeat it every day for the rest of his immortal life, this was Ares’ final goodbye! 

“This is my goodbye!”

Ares disappeared in an instant, the sound of whirling desert winds accompanying his departure. All that was left as proof of his presence was a scattering of those damn feathers, the scent of burning torches and carrion, and a slight ringing through her bones. If Penelope had to describe it, the sensation felt akin to the precision of a blade sliding across a whetstone. 

The desert landscape slowly began to fade from view. 

That signature red hourglass had cracked so much and so badly it was hardly recognizable. That invisible pendulum worked overtime striking the poor object, trying to break it once and for all. But, the hourglass refused… 

Penelope did not have time to linger on the God of War’s sandglass. It, like everything else within the God of War’s realm, disappeared after a single blink. 

Just like every other time she was dismissed from the realm, Penelope found herself in the same time and moment of before she was summoned; this time, the deck of her ship. 

Just like every other time after Penelope and Ares spoke in his realm, no matter the length, it was as if not a moment passed once she returned to reality. 

This time, though, the only thing that rang over and over in Penelope’s ears were Ares’s final words.

Goodbye.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

It was always going to end this way. The truth about Catherine Middleton’s absence is far less funny, whimsical, or salacious than the endless memes and conspiracy theories suggested.

In a video recorded and broadcast by the BBC, the princess says she has cancer and that she had retreated from the public eye to deal with her condition, while attempting to shield her children from the spotlight.

Instead, she had to contend with the internet giggling about whether she’d had a Brazilian butt lift.

My colleague Helen Lewis summed it up succinctly this afternoon: “I Hope You All Feel Terrible Now.”

What is there to learn from such a sad situation? The internet is made up of people, yet its architecture abstracts this basic truth.

As I wrote a few weeks ago, at the center of this months-long story was essentially “a sea of people having fun online because it is unclear whether a famous person is well or not.”

Underneath the memes was always something a little bit gross and indefensible.

Perhaps humans are just wired this way — to gawk and gossip.

There’s nothing new about hounding a member of the royal family or invading the privacy of a celebrity to sell tabloids or go viral.

You don’t even have to be a scold about it: Famous people are wealthy and beloved at least in part because they’re fun to talk about.

Exactly what we do and don’t know about their internal lives is part of the allure — the discourse comes with the territory to a degree.

But Catherine Middleton, of course, is a human too.

During this saga, I kept thinking about the reappraisal of Britney Spears in 2021, as well as the backlash toward past media and tabloid coverage of her rise.

A New York Times documentary dredged up old coverage of Spears from the mid-aughts, showing a young woman clearly in distress, being picked apart by glossy magazines.

Her suffering became entertainment. The response to this film was swift.

Some of the people and institutions that had shamelessly delighted in her pain backtracked: Glamour publicly apologized to the pop star on its Instagram account, noting, “We are all to blame for what happened to Britney Spears.”

Contrast the Spears reckoning with the Middleton drama and, if you’re being generous, you can see some of that newfound attitude in the media.

I was struck by Lewis’s observation that “Britain’s tabloid papers have shown remarkable restraint” throughout this mess.

Progress, perhaps, but what’s also telling is that they didn’t really need to do the dirty work: Random people on the internet were doing it for them.

They recklessly speculated, memed, and used their amateur sleuthing and networked faux expertise to concoct elaborate, semi-plausible explanations for her absence.

Was Catherine’s face actually Photoshopped from a Vogue spread? It wasn’t, but the conspiratorial tweet got 51.1 million views anyhow.

Missing from much of the discourse was the idea that its main character was a person who was likely struggling.

In essence, the internet democratized the tabloid experience, turning the rest of us into paparazzi and addled editors workshopping headlines and cover images — not to sell magazines but to amass some kind of fleeting online popularity.

In my least charitable moments, I see this toxic dynamic as the lasting legacy of social media — a giant, metrics-infused experiment in connectivity that has had a flattening, pernicious effect.

In 2021, I interviewed Elle Hunt, a journalist who’d tweeted an innocuous opinion about horror movies one evening and woke up to find she was trending on Twitter, her feeds choked with thousands of furious replies and threats.

When I asked her to describe the experience of becoming Twitter’s main character for the day, she summed it up thusly:

“You’re repurposed as fodder for content generation in a way that’s just so dehumanizing.”

Three years later, these words resonate even stronger.

What Hunt described to me then as “a platform failure,” feels to me now like a learned behavior of the internet, where people, famous and not, are repurposed as fodder for content generation. The cycle repeats itself endlessly.

This afternoon, the memes about Middleton shifted — from jokes about her whereabouts to jokes about how awful it was that everyone had been making fun of a cancer patient.

Feeling bad about the memes tweets immediately became a meme unto themselves.

Despite the tone shift, the reason for these posts is the same: They’re a way to take a person and repurpose their life for entertainment and engagement.

If this sounds exhausting and depressing, it’s because it is.

But the internet is also too big to be one thing. Clicking through social media this afternoon, I saw dozens of heartfelt testimonials, apologies, and well-wishes for the princess.

For a moment, from my perspective, it felt like watching a collective of people come to their senses.

A recognition, perhaps, of the humanity of the person at the center of the maelstrom.

Then, only a few seconds later, I saw a different post. It was a screenshot from the blockchain platform Solana, where users can create their own cryptographic tokens for others to invest in.

The name of the token in the screenshot is “kate wif cancer,” and its logo is a still of the princess sitting on a bench, taken from this afternoon’s video.

The coin’s market cap briefly surpassed $120,000. Only six minutes later, the price had cratered — the result of a standard memecoin sell off.

An awful thing happened. Some people made a joke about it. Other people made some money. And then everyone moved on.

NOTE: Edited

[namazunomegami]

Into the Void

Pairing: Geto Suguru x gn!reader

Synopsis: Geto is so succumbed to his ideals that you have no choice but to run. But the hunt for you is more than a simple chase. It's resurrection. It's repentance. Just like in the parable of the lost sheep.

CW: canon compliant, established relationship, predator/prey, injuries, blood, toxic dynamics, heavy religious symbolism, emotional distress, dissociation, tiny bit of hurt/comfort, yandere behavior, Geto is a manipulative ass how surprising

WC: 5.2k whoops

Credits: my dear @notveryrussian for proofreading but tbh I should start calling you my editor from now on lmao. I'm glad you enjoyed my sneak peeks so much 💕

Song rec: since I can't control myself, I picked 3 songs by Nine Inch Nails that gives the perfect vibes to the story. For the exposition, I recommend Heresy, mostly because the lyrics resonates with the reader's thoughts about Geto. For the escape/chase part, I picked Eraser for the creepy vibes and reader's slowly deterioriating sanity. For the closing part, I picked A warm place because it's a comforting yet a bit gloomy track

A/N: Saying that this idea possessed me is an understatement. Initially I only wanted to put effort into the whole chase scene but obviously I started to add lore into the whole thing. And since they grew on me and I simply love their dynamic, a part 2 is on the way yaaay.

Minors shall not interact unless they wanna get punched.

And a usual warning for dark content. I wanted to keep it mild but I couldn't. Maybe I'm a lil bit too skilled when it comes to writing about fear.

It’s all too painful to think that maybe running away with Geto wasn’t the best idea.

Of course you loved him, you loved the twins too and the makeshift family you created, it really healed some of the wounds you received in the past. But you wished it would’ve stayed that way. Living together, somewhere far away, isolated, in peace. Have a fresh start, build a nest for the four of you and fill it up with love.

But he had other plans.

There were a lot of improvements in the initial phase of your plans. Building community, uniting the herd. You enjoyed some reverence from the followers too. Eventually the initial number of breakthroughs began to stagnate, despite all the effort. It became routine, like you were being dragged through the same day for years and years without end. When you were faced with even more setbacks, you started to realize that you basically never left the temple and it soon began to feel like a cage. Golden and holy. It was draining to see people lose their sense of individuality and how he became their only source of validation. It was torment. Living life as an idol of worship tucked into a forgotten corner of a church. Praised like a twisted Gothic Madonna with a blue cloth over your head, but in reality you weep, you’re their Mater Dolorosa, with swords piercing your sorrowful heart.

The most devastating thing about realizing you’re not fit to run a cult, is the fact that you lack the most understated yet important aspect of it: believing in the agenda you want to spread. How could you guide all those helpless, simple-minded sheep while questioning whether your destination is real or not? Maybe that Canaan has nothing to do with milk and honey, instead it’s just a pile of rubble.

You soon got tired of it all. His drive, his goal, all too impossible to achieve. Maybe he knew he could never make it happen, but it consumed him regardless. You’ve lost the most cherished parts of him to his hatred, his deeply repressed rage against any injustices he had to deal with after the infamous Star Plasma incident.

You weren’t sure about your feelings towards Geto anymore. Were you afraid of him? Angry at him? Bitter? Disappointed? Worried? It all turned into mush, a grotesque, black liquid as the thin walls of the temple slowly made you feel like they were closing in on you. You had no idea how much time you had, until your unresolved feelings will taint the whole place.

You always circled back to the worst possible action to protect your soft, aching heart… When you thought that nothing will change for the better, you wanted to run away. You wanted to hide. The ambivalence of your feelings towards him weighed on your heart and conscience, like a thousand stones. You loved him, yet you loathed what has become of him. Despite that you trusted him with the map of your soul, made it through all the highs and lows of your relationship so far, all the deep abysses of pain and suffering.

Maybe you should run, just for the sake of it. To test how it will make you feel. Will it make you feel freed? At ease? Will it lift the weights on your chest? Will this sense of incoming doom vanish?

Maybe you should find Gojo. He wouldn’t condemn you, but he would be disappointed. If you set your judgement and resentment to aside, he’s the only one who can talk with the higher ups to scratch your name off the list of curse users who are on death row.

How much time did you need to forge your plan? Not even a single minute. It was only natural for you to memorize everybody’s routine, how to distinguish the sound of their steps, to pick a timeframe when nobody is lurking around the halls. The first (and probably last) time you were glad those who have hurt you gave you a skill, besides the ability to harness cursed energy of course. They made you stealthy, alert, observant.

And when Geto left you to cater to his followers, you decided to put your plan into action.

Your body is strung tight with the tension of waiting, agitation making you feel as if you were unraveling at the seams - but something deep inside of your mind pleaded for you to stay. Agony and anxiety were plaguing you until you’ve found enough courage to get up and sneak out. Now, you had the chance to show off everything you’ve learned: sliding the doors shut so slowly that they don’t make a noise, walking down the corridors with socked feet, carefully putting the middle parts of your feet on the floor, instead of your heels, easily avoiding those parts that creak.

Sometimes, when he was immersed in his thoughts, he was amused by how faint your steps sounded.

An involuntary instinct warns you. It’s trying to convince you that he can see you through the eyes of bodhisattvas residing in the thangka paintings decorating the walls. You almost give up your quest as you glance at the depiction of Vajrabhairava. In all its anger, with its six faces and twelve limbs. A dreadful beast that defies death itself.

You don’t want to do this to him, do you?

You look away from the painting, focusing on getting your shoes on and climbing out through the window. As you’re squatting on the windowpane, you can see all of Tokyo stretched out beneath you. You’re a little bit annoyed that all temples are built on a mountain. A long way to go, but you can never know when this place will turn into a funeral pyre.

It’s a little bit too easy. There’s no sign of surveillance curses nearby, you only need to slide down on the wet tiles, jump up high, land in the mud and let yourself be swallowed by the darkness of the forest. You specifically picked your least conspicuous clothes to blend into your surroundings perfectly. And the cold and murky night will let you go safely. The leaves will conceal your tracks.

So many things are working in your favor tonight.

You know there’s no need to rush. You can only draw attention to yourself if you are running around, creating noise and disturbing the wildlife. You don’t even use a flashlight, you have to get used to the darkness, the full Moon will guide you with all her dazzling light. And after that, Tokyo will do the same, with its crowded streets and all its places to hide.

There’s a weird kind of tranquility in your heart. How the cold prickles your skin, the moisture in the air, the faint noise of the creatures dwelling under the leaves, up in the trees, singing, chirping, crawling. The scent of wet soil, the gentle caress of the wind…

Now, you feel free.

As you walk deeper and deeper into the woods, you feel lighter, you feel like you could fly away, like you could dance all the way towards your destination. You’re thinking about actually doing that, as if you got possessed by a strange spirit…

But the uneven, slippery ground makes you fall right into the mud. You squirmed a little, trying to get hold of a tree trunk and then…

Silence, dead silence.

Your heart sinks deep in your chest.

You know what it means. When nature falls silent. There’s…

There’s a threat nearby.

A primal instinct tells you to run.

There’s no way, there’s no fucking way that he already noticed you were gone.

Twigs whip at your skin as you’re running mindlessly. Wherever you end up, it will be fine, as long as you can enter the outskirts of the city. The cold night air stings your throat, your heaving breath leaves your mouth in puffy clouds. You feel the urge to cough, deep from your bone-dry lungs.

The ground beneath you turns soft and steep. You lose your poise, stumbling and rolling all the way down until you fall from a high clod of rain-washed soil. Your body collides with a cold, wet, yet incredibly hard and flat surface, fraying the skin on your palm and face. Your back and shoulders will be bruised by tomorrow, painting your body with black and blue spots. The pain ripples through your entire being, paralyzing you for a couple of moments.

As you slowly gathered your battered self from the ground with a grunt, you realize you landed on a road. It’s a good sign, you’re not so far from civilization. But instead of following the road, cutting through the forest is the wiser decision.

Your relief is short-lived, just like a may fly.

A sinister feeling takes hold on you. It makes you freeze, squeezing your insides. Like you’re sitting in the jaw of an eldritch beast. You slowly turn back to the direction of your fall.

The lights are flickering.

You grab on the guardrail for dear life. You try to fill your lungs with shaky breaths, your heart desperately beating against your ribcage. Your trembling knees barely keep you upright, yet nothing can make you move. You have been found, you’re defeated, there’s no point in running away from him. The injuries, the already forming bruises will only deplete your strength.

How could you fight him? You’re aware that if he wanted to, he could break your bones and twist your body at the joints with an arm behind his back.

How could you outrun him? He’s capable of summonning a swarm of curses before you even take a step.

How could you make war with him?

Three of the lamp lights were already out, you stared into the darkness, the boundless abyss right before your eyes. You can’t even force yourself to blink.

And when the lights came back on, he was just standing there. Without breaking a sweat. Your pulse feels non-existent.

What infuriated you even more was that he wasn’t wearing his gojo-kesa. The motherfucker even gave you a head start by changing into something comfortable before he came to fetch you. Or simply he noticed your absence later than you expected.

Whatever, both is bad news for you.

He doesn’t utter a single word, he merely walks towards you. Slowly cornering you. Feasting on the terror on your face. Meanwhile you can’t unravel what could possibly be going on in his mind. The only thing you notice is that those violet sparks in his eyes are so sharp they could cut yours out of their sockets.

Should you give up? Should you beg for forgiveness?

But then, an idea blooms inside your mind.

You don’t hide your fear, you let your body tremble freely, fingers desperately clinging onto the metal, with your shoulders hunched to protect your neck and your wide, frightened eyes stare back at him. Letting him believe that you won’t fight back. That he can take you back to the temple and throw you back into your cage.

And when his foot hits the bisector, you jump. Right into the nothingness behind your back.

You fall on leaves and broken twigs again. You roll and roll with such speed you can’t comprehend the growing distance. Not even having an idea of how far you’re from him. Small rocks, branches, hardened roots of trees, bones all cut, scratch and pierce you. But you endure it, you’ll undergo any torture if it meant you’ll be freed. Your only hope is that the adrenaline will deal with the pain.

Suddenly, you violently crash into a tree, the ridged texture imprints deeply into your stomach. Acid bursts from your throat. Your diaphragm didn’t avoid the hit either, breathing is not unlike Sisyphean task as you try to get your shaking limbs to stand. Your mind is disturbed by the lack of air and your desperate attempts at getting yourself together. You’re wheezing like a dog. You must look pathetic, you think.

It takes almost all of your mental strength to calm down and slowly breathe through your nose, your lungs finally opening. But Geto won’t let you recover, you hear the fallen leaves getting crushed under his feet. You take a few sharp, ragged breaths, like it’s the last drag of a cigarette before the train comes and then, you move.

You hide behind a thick pine tree, palms covering your mouth and nose. The lack of oxygen is just another frustrating hindrance to your successful escape plan. Dizziness fills your head like a thick fog and sucks the strength out of your shins, needing to lean against the trunk to keep yourself standing. You try to conceal your cursed energy with all your might. A tracker who’s untraceable is a useful pawn in the hands of the higher ups, this skill made you a cherished student back in the day. Back when everything was so… no, it’s only the nostalgia making you wistful, it wasn’t any better.

The rustling gets quieter, you wait until the sound eventually dies. An almost muted sigh of relief leaves your lips in a thick cloud, dancing in the cold air.

From the corner of your eye, a floating form cuts through the pale moonlight.

Looking closely at its shape, you realize what kind of curse it is. The beetle looking one that attacks instantly once it senses movement. You can’t believe it, you’re going to -

The curse drags itself into your aura, scanning your form that is fused with the pine. Every muscle is tensed, you’re stiff as a board, you suppress every reflex in your eye and empty chest. You’re just like a statue, a corpse, showing no signs of life. Only an agonizing scream echoes inside your skull. A scream that puts mental breakdowns to shame.

It’s like an eternity until the curse finally disappears from your sight.

You definitely look exhausted, your body is limp and heavy like lead. But you must keep going at all costs, even if you have no idea how many curses are sent after you. You walk around the mountain instead of going down like he’d expect it.

Slowly yet surely, you calm yourself down. You know that you’re still in his grasp, but you still have a chance to outsmart him. You go deeper and deeper, you’re near the heart of the forest now. The moonlight barely crawls through the leaves, it’s easier to navigate according to what you hear rather than to what you see. The surroundings are growing eerie, you ache for light and warmth. And the longing sucks a bit of spirit out of you.

Before you can start questioning yourself, the sound of running water fills your ears.

A narrow, yet fast running stream plowed through the forest. Though you were unsure of staying close to the stream, going through it and getting to the other side sounds like a smart idea. As you take a reluctant step, you realize the water is ice cold. And when you dive into it further, enduring the strong current, it’s not as shallow as you believed. You’re submerged all the way up to your thighs. At its deepest point, the stream hugs your waist. The cold makes your movements slow and rigid, your teeth clang together in a frenzy. The bottom is filled with smooth, flat pebbles, they make it easy to - 

You slip on the rounded, polished stones and fall into the stream. The freezing temperature makes your skin shrink, it prickles you like a thousand needles. Scared, you crawl around the bottom, trying to get a hold of something and emerge back to the surface. A sharp, burning pain wakes in your palm, tears streaming down your cheeks. You try to swallow your scream, but it wants to burst from your lungs, you grunt and whimper until you can bite down on your sweatshirt, letting the material muffle your shout. Your gaze fixates on your hand and even in the darkness of the night, you see blood oozing from the deep cut, from your own torn flesh. The urge to retch is strong.

You palm is plunged back into the cool water, in hope of easing the pain.

He calls out your name right behind you.

You crawl out of the water, running from him, just as before. It doesn't matter how many times you trip, fall, stumble. It doesn’t matter how your fresh wounds end up in the mud, you don’t have it in you care about the pain or the looming threat of an infection. You hear him trying to reason with you. You must come back home, you’re injured, you’re bleeding. He must take care of you.

Why are you running? Where could you go? Who’s going to help you recover?

No, you mustn’t let your determination crumble. But oh… it sounds so easy. Giving in to your hopelessness.

An evergreen bush becomes your shelter to collect yourself and check on your wound, which is aching from all the dirt and is still bleeding. Water is dripping from your hair, your clothes are soaked, makes it easier for the cold night air to bite into you, to shake the whole length of your body. Your fingers are hardly moving and have no strength in them. The adrenaline is starting to wear off. You feel alone, small, and vulnerable. You’re freezing, scarred and aching. All the things you see in the dark twist into creepy, threatening forms. Everything that surrounds you is suddenly dangerous. As a lonely spider crawls within your field of vision, you flinch. The world around you is evil and everything is after your flesh.

And the only person who can save you is the one you’re running away from.

What are you going to do now? Fight, flight, or freeze? Which instinct is going to win this time? Because comprehensible thoughts won’t work on you. Every little layer of a fully-fledged human with a conscience has been stripped from you. You left them scattered everywhere in the woods. You’re nothing more than a primordial shell of a being.

Ceremonial horns wake in the distance, soon followed by howling. They let the dogs out to hunt you down. Poor, little hare. Your own stupidity has woken up the beast.

Who is like unto the beast?

You defeat the paralyzing dread and decide on flight. You dash out from the bushes, but - Oh… your eye. Your soft doe eye. There’s something in it. And your tears have an oddly metallic taste on your tongue.

And power was given him over all kindreds, and tongues, and nations.

You wish you could see yourself from the outside, but you’re probably nowhere near as majestic as you think you are. Right now you feel like you’re the fastest, stealthiest creature who’s ever lived, even if your muscles are almost torn, weak, and tensed. This is the last crumb of your strength, this is your all.

And all that dwell upon the earth shall worship him.

You don’t dare to look back. You know he’s there. He’s so close, he’s orbiting around you like a moon does with its planet. As if all of this is a dance. A hunt is a dance with a coital rhythm. And mother nature is the audience to your deadly waltz.

And he doeth great wonders, so that he maketh fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men.

He takes your hand in his. Gentle and kind. To not scare you any further. You snap like an electric current under his touch, but you break free and zigzag between the trees.

He grabs your waist. Forcefully. It scares you this time. You escape from his embrace before he can swallow you whole. But he might have bit your throat during the process, you feel something trailing down your collarbones. You hear your bones crack.

It was all a mistake. You are a mistake. But mistakes can be forgiven, right? He has forgiven you so many times, you can’t even think of a number.

You slide down on a slope, leaves stick to your clothes, and you drop onto a thick trunk of a fallen oak. Tensive pain ripples in your side. You should stand up and run, but you can’t move. You won’t move. What’s wrong with you? What kind of prey gives the fight up before its last breath? But you think about your frozen limbs, the pain in your palm, your back, your shoulder blades, everywhere. You think about home… you want to go home or be left here to die. But the thought of dying here, alone, makes your heart palpitate rapidly, like there’s not enough air to fill your lungs. Your breathing becomes desperate, panicked even. Your chest hurts, your ribcage is ready to break apart by your racing heartbeat. You press your palms against your head, clawing into your hair. Every little morsel of you is bursting into a tremor. The connection between your mind, your body and the world cease to exist. And that lovely, unlimited stretch of space inside your consciousness is shaken, it’s in utter chaos. Breaking into tiny little pieces, like glass, like porcelain. Tears and plucks like paper and fabric. Shrieks and wails, rejecting the only thing that makes all creatures on this plane of existence agitated over their own mortality.

You’re doomed.

Unconsciously, your limbs curl into the very same position you took when you saw the world for the first time, protecting your belly and face, making you seem small. Geto knows you only do that when you fear what might happen to you, despite being unaware of the kind of terror your brain had subjected you to. That’s why he approaches you slowly, making no sudden movements as he picks you up gently, like one would lift a porcelain figure from the ground. When you open your eyes, he had already settled you into his lap as the manta ray curse lifts the two of you up to mount the skies.

You have no idea if he hunted you down or saved you from your own demise.

What a defiant, ungrateful creature you are, you think. You tried so viciously to run away from your burden, and now you feel safe with him again, you dare clinging to him, you dare seek his warmth. The contradicting thoughts and desires torture you on the way back. There’s only one faint voice inside your head that’s capable of calming you down, able to keep your sanity intact…

You’re the lost sheep, and he’s the shepherd who searched all over the world to find you. And he’ll bring you back to the flock, and he’ll love you more than the rest of them.

Your false god. Your fallacious savior. Will he forgive you if you repent on your knees? Until they get bloody and bruised?

Back at the temple, he refuses to let you take even a step on your own. You weren’t born to run, to soil your soles with the ground that filthy monkeys walk on. You’re meant to be worshipped, to claim the whole world as yours beneath dainty, soft feet.

The warm lamplight and the comfort of your shared room helps you unwind. To shift back into a much more civilized, humanlike state. And as you practically glue yourself to the heater, you notice more dirt, more cuts, more blood marring your flesh than you expected.

When you take off your grimy sweatshirt, shoes, and socks, Geto is towering over you. There’s nothing imposing about him, he looks rather troubled as he sighs.

“What do I do with you?”

You roll your eyes. Oh, the good old rhetorical question. He has no idea if he should treat your wounds first, bathe you or break your leg just like the Gospel says.

“Come, let me take a look at your hand.”

You see your reflection in the mirror, and you’re horrified. Your right eye is bloodshot, a deep cut is splitting through your lower lip. You’re drenched in mud, already dried on your face along with some patches of wine dark blood. Together they seal the scraped skin on your cheek, makes your hair stick together into thick strands, accessorized with pine leaves and other remains from your little hike. You’re blistered and torn, you can barely recognize yourself.

It's pleasant to rinse your hands with warm water at the sink, but the sight makes your stomach twist. That nasty wound is too deep, it has to be sewn shut. A shiver races down on your spine when you see the first aid kit. He soaks a fresh gauze pad with wound solution and guides it towards the gaping cut with a pair of tweezers. The sting is horrible, the burning sensation rivals acid being poured straight into your flesh, it makes you grunt and hiss. He gives you a moment to breathe and collect yourself then he continues, despite your whimpers and twitching, tensed fingers. But the pain pales in comparison to when he swipes a new, clean pad inside your wound, cleaning it of all the filth. A pathetic cry erupts from your throat.

“Stop.” you sob, pulling your hand away to hug it close to your chest. You’re too distressed to realize that the temporary discomfort is necessary. But maybe this whole act is nothing but another one of his silly little games.

He places a finger under your eye, close to your lashes and collects your tears. The sight of you crying is somehow not worth of savoring to him. Before any little drop of your sorrow and regret can roll down your cheek like diamonds, he smears them, as if they could make your misery vanish. Well, they can’t. It frustrates you that you can’t let your feelings manifest because he’s ready to devour them just like his curses.

He doesn’t care that your face is caked in dirt, blood and tears, he lifts your chin up to kiss you. Deeply. You’re not reprimanded for not kissing him back.

You were right, he’s definitely toying with you. He makes it hurt before he soothes the ache. He creates a connection in your mind. Like you’re the dog of Pavlov, slowly conditioned to associate him with anything that makes the human heart fill with delight.

The tiles attract your attention much more than watching how the curved needle dives into your skin, how the thread closes the wound proficiently. Your features soften for a moment. Shoko would be so proud of him... Not for the reason he got so good at it though. He learnt to treat his wounds for the sole purpose of not letting a non-sorcerer doctor ever touch him.

He’s crazy. Vile. Petty. And delusional. It drives you crazy too.

But when your stitched hand is wrapped up in bandages, you seriously think about thanking him for putting up with you. For not being angry at you.

“Maybe this will make you reconsider your actions next time.” he remarks in a flat tone, concealing what’s going on in his mind.

You keep your gratitude to yourself.

But it’s not an easy task when he continues spoiling you, with so much care that it rivals motherly love. How he rinses all the grime out of your hair, how he gives you a moment of peace in a tub filled with plain, warm water, no bubbles or scented oils to irritate your scarred, sensitive skin. He dries you, brushes your hair and fills the whole bedroom with the calming notes of lavender and cedarwood coming from the incense burners. But he’s just so fixated on your injuries… every scratch, every surface level cut is thoroughly sanitized. It’s still humiliating, even when you’re the one sitting comfortably on the bed and he’s kneeling on the floor.

You’re afraid the extra pampering will twist your reasoning and resolve. That’s all part of the mind games he plays. You know he’ll go out on his way to prove that the world outside is cruel, that this is the only place where you’re safe, loved. In his proximity, under his hand.

And somewhere, deep down, you admit that he’s close to convincing you.

It makes you mad, you want to tear him to shreds, you want to weep for him just like Mary did under the cross. There’s still care, there’s still love under all those layers of burning hatred. What remains is twisted though, but it is there.

After you’re patched up, he glances up at you, thumb brushing your lip right next to that nasty cut. His other hand is resting where your thigh and knee meet. It’s a sign, a warning.

“Was it worth it, little lamb?” his tone is soothing and playful. So close to being outright mockery.

You reflect in silence, averting your gaze from him. All those scars and discolored skin, your disturbed mind, and the ache in your bones - you realize that your stupid little plan was futile. Totally unnecessary, it’s no achievement you can be proud of. At least if you’re not as masochistic as to pride yourself on your injuries. But the fact that he can recognize the parallels coats your answer with bile.

“No.”

Because you know that you can be so much more… There’re unlimited possibilities to a repented non-believer. And now you know that being his doubting Thomas has no benefits.

Maybe you did lose your faith in him, like the lamb in that story, to eventually realize how much you need him and vice versa. But you’re not satisfied with being a lost sheep. You just haven’t decided on your role in his Gospel yet. This is your call, you don’t know exactly which part of him calls out to you, but you’re satisfied with either of them. Whether it’s a prophet, a messiah, a beast, or the devil itself. The fallen Morningstar who used to be the favorite.

This can be your true Genesis.

“Go on, break my leg if you want to. There’s meaning in that, at least.” you dare echo his last words to Gojo, clean and low.

And your bones remain whole.

You’re relieved. Though you’re sick of his maneuvers with your mind, you’re aware their purpose is not to hurt you or punish you. These aching limbs of yours go limp as he crawls into bed next to you. The arm you were scared of coils around your waist. Viciously tight, much like a snake. The snake that corrupted Eve in the garden. The one that made her sin, got her cast out of paradise, the one that turned her whole world upside down. And maybe Eve did fall in love with the serpent, the worst creature that God had ever created. But even though he caused the fall of mankind, the serpent freed you from the clutches of a jealous, ungrateful god who denied knowledge from his own creations. Now you have the passion to rebel, to prove your creator wrong, to avenge his mistreatment. Give in to the temptation of your snake, believe his honeyed words, accept the fruit for a second time. Because you still remember the taste, oh so sweet and luscious. And with all the power he wields, you can win back your lost Eden or re-build it on earth, the home you’re both yearning for. It’s a promise between the two of you, silent, because words are not needed, only closure.

Something warm blooms inside your chest. Yes, that’s it! You can finally feel it now…

The very first ounce of belief.

[the-cinnamontography-is-amazing]

Soundtrack to Your Life Mixtape

I was tagged by the wonderful @lamialamia! Thank you so much!🖤 Go check out her fabulous mix tape!

a music tag game where u create a mixtape ft songs that could be in a movie about ur life! :D

This was so much fun, and I could have done a hundred different of versions of this.

Tagging if you want to join in! @mstiemountainhop @resting-distressed-face @thebreakfastgenie @xxluckystrike @blueberry-ovaries @onekisstotakewithme @sweetxvanixlla @scarecrowmax @executethyself35 @whollyjoly @disastrouscanasta @rescue-ram @marley-manson

Anyone else that I may have missed, please join in! List under the cut:

Opening Credits — Bird Song Intro // Florence + The Machine 

Wake Up Scene — Whiteout Conditions // The New Pornographers

Average Day Scene — Educate // Editors 

Driving Scene — Waste A Moment // Kings of Leon

Growing Up Scene — Iris // Future Islands 

First Date Scene — Stardust // Artie Shaw

Falling in Love Scene — Someone That Loves You // HONNE, Izzy Bizu

Love Scene — Dinner & Diatribes // Hozier 

Fight With a Friend Scene — Everything is Wrong // Interpol 

Heartbreak Scene — Human Enough // ONR

Mental Breakdown — Hearing Damage // Thom Yorke

Moving Out — Vienna // Billy Joel 

Getting a Job — Busy Earnin’// Jungle 

Taking the Train Scene — Mind Over Matter // Young the Giant

Deep Thoughts Scene — Speed of Plight // Loyal Carner 

Lesson Learning Scene — Sound & Color // Alabama Shakes 

Get Back Together Scene — Real Love Song // Nothing But Thieves (Orchestral Version)

Party Scene — The Mojo Radio Gang // Parov Stelar 

Happy Dance Scene — Ain’t No Mountain High Enough // Marvin Gaye, Tammi Terrell

Homesick Scene — Darkness At The Door // Editors 

Long Night Alone Scene — Mistaken For Strangers // The National 

Night Driving Scene — Midnight City // M83

Flashback Scene — Sweet Disposition // The Temper Trap 

New Beginnings — Whirring // The Joy Formidable 

Closing Credits — The Deepest Sighs, The Frankest Shadows // Gang of Youths 

[riddledeep]

FOP Sideblog Update - Sept. 2024

Hi! This lovely ol' sideblog's been tidied up in light of A New Wish! I have a new AU for New Wish works. Let's talk about it!

Main blog - @fountainpenguin

My FFN - My AO3

Sideblog masterpost

Housekeeping Updates

- New avatar - @zachbrightside and I updated our FOP sonas. Tossed the headcanon'd honorary pixie hat on mine! :) Shout-out to that one kid in "School of Crock" who wore this hat with no explanation. And squared my gal's wings! Experimented with pink and purple hair options, but I like the brown too much to change.

- Fixed all broken masterpost links - Checked 3 or 4 times, so let me know if you find something wrong.

- Added things to the masterpost that weren't there (Ex: Art section)

- Combed through every post and changed the bullet point system so they're easier to read, following format update from several years ago that condensed the spacing between bulleted items.

-> As part of this, I've used indents and dashes in place of bullets in many posts. I've also added periods on otherwise blank lines to force blank space, as the blank space is another thing we lost during that format update.

-> This is so posts will look better on the dashboard. The dots may seem odd when viewed directly on the blog, but it definitely makes it easier to not lose my place while editing long posts. Also, they should be more readable now than they would be if they're reblogged to others' dashboards without this change.

- I combed through the short bios and long profiles and divided paragraphs more. There were many bulky paragraphs that have now been divided in a way that should make posts - especially these big profiles - easier to read.

-> Cleaned the "Appearances" sections of the long profiles. They used to list each 'fic that character is in, but now they have a labeled AO3 link to works written by me that include that character. Sleek, clean, and automatically updates!

- Shout-out to me having Dale Dimmadome already down as one of H.P. and Sanderson's past godkids 5+ years ago. I knew that was my headcanon, but I did not remember that was on his profile and I'm glad it was, haha... oh no. I don't know what my plan is for that in light of New Wish, but I'll figure it out.

- Changed posts that called my canon Riddleverse Classic to say Cloudlands AU, since that's the new name for my series. Left the name Riddleverse for posts that encompass multiple AUs.

-> Updated my Icebreaker post with this and other new info

- Deleted any posts tagged as "Delete later"

- I have a lot of long profiles and other posts saved to my drafts from years ago. Once Tumblr shifted to the new format (including with the queue), it became so distressing and ever-changing that I struggled a lot to find my footing.

Ex: They took away line dividers, which I thought was frustrating since I used those on my long posts and found them helpful. I was holding out hope they'd return. - Some posts (like my wing refs and the giant 20k-word class overviews) kept getting flagged if I edited them, and I was worried I'd lose my stuff or have the account deleted - Back then, the queue would only tell me which day of the week something was posting, not which month or day. It was just overwhelming to create a schedule or keep track of my stuff, so I took a break from Tumblr in general.

These days, I'm much more comfortable with the editor and my queue is now more specific about deadlines. I look forward to posting here again!

I won't be on a schedule, and the big character profiles do take a lot out of me, but my plan back in the day was to release one a month. Might be able to get to there! If not, maybe the short bios.

Future of this FOP Sideblog

- More worldbuilding posts! I let this blog sit a long time because I felt like I'd said all my worldbuilding and the only thing to do now was profiles and bios (which I was reluctant to prioritize when I felt "behind" in my 'fics).

However, I found some things I'd never moved to this blog, such as my notes on aging. I'd like to post that and others I found.

- No longer hesitant about sharing stuff for "weird" characters or OCs. I had a post about celebrity kids (Poof's age and younger) that I never posted because I didn't think anyone would care about my headcanons for Simon Sparklefield (who only appears in one obscure episode I don't count as fully canon anyway) or Billy Crystal Ball (also obscure) but... Hey, that's why you're here, isn't it? So let's talk celebrities!

In other words, I'd like to bring this blog back as the unapologetic place to share my FOP things. We have references to canon characters and talk of OCs (like Hadley, Emery, Whistle, Soren, China, Anti-Saffron, Kalysta, Iris, Idona... List goes on.)

- This blog will have more polished fanart than the doodles from my main blog

- Polished 'fic cover images will be reblogged here. By this, I mean the posts I do on my main blog that outline what to expect from a 'fic. I won't reblog my general chapter announcements; I don't want to flood this blog with those.

- 130 Reasons Why I'm Fairy Trash's cover will be reblogged, but the posts for individual trains won't be. - Existing cover images will get new, polished posts for their 'fics before I reblog them here.

- I went through the blog and added the tag "Cloudlands AU" to many posts, apart from a few I'm still hesitant to edit (or where it didn't seem worth noting). Cloudlands AU refers to my lore for the 11 seasons of the main series (i.e. including the "Oh Yeah!" shorts), and this is what my sideblog was meant for.

- The reason for this new tag is to separate it from City Lights AU: my new AO3 series for works about New Wish. These works are not compliant with Cloudlands AU, which was designed years ago.

Ex: Peri and Irep will get a short bio on this blogged tagged as City Lights AU to explain what we're setting up for their characters over there, distinct from the existing short bio for Poof and Foop in Cloudlands AU (who are very well established in their arcs). In other words, I'm not rewriting Cloudlands AU canon to fit with A New Wish, but I still want to write works for New Wish. Expect bios and art for Hazel and Dev here someday (and others).

The next thing I post will be Hadley's full character profile (now with updates that are compliant with A New Wish).

After that, I'll reblog my Cloudlands AU and City Lights AU guides to this blog so they'll be under their tags and on the masterlist.

When that's all done, I'd like to knock out full character profiles for Dale, Dev, and Hazel when I can (in addition to finishing my drafts for Cosmo, Wanda, Poof, and Foop). Long, slow process, but it would be cool to have those things done by the end of 2024 or early 2025.

Feeling decent about my idea for Hazel's birthdate. I have nice options for Dev, but no commitment until Zach and I nail down where "Operation: Birthday Takeback" goes in our New Wish timeline. Enjoying the process so far! -> Dev's b-day is QUITE the toss-up between options like "National Day of Unplugging," "Plant a Lemon Tree Day," and the absolutely golden combo of "Pizza Party & Virtual Assistants Day." And perhaps others we've not investigated!

I think that's everything! Hopefully, this is the last "blog news" announcement we have for a while, and the blog can return to being a landing spot for fanart and story meta.

As always, the sideblog's Asks are closed as I want to maintain a consistent feel for this blog. You can reach out to my main blog (Askbox here) if you want to ask a worldbuilding question.

Additionally, I'm interested in following other people's worldbuilding / AUs so I can engage more with the community, especially those passionate about FOP worldbuilding. -> I'm open to self-advertisement if you want to shoot me an Ask on my main blog telling me where I can find your work! -> I'd prefer to follow a blog that is primarily for FOP worldbuilding / art / 'fics (or subscribe to an AO3 series for FOP works), but I'm open to consideration if your blog is multi-fandom! My preference: Thoughtful takes on characters and world that dig deeper than just ship art / ship 'fics- Nothing against shipping, but I'm more interested in character analyses and worldbuilding. Bonus points for a focus on miserable children, Dale lemonade trauma, Pixies, or Timmy growing up to lose his memories and live an average human life. If you don't fit this, you can still recommend your AU and I'll check it out, but that's my wishlist :) Also, if there's anyone who makes Timmy/Molly content, you are my hero and should totally link me your work.

It's such an honor to see so many followers of this sideblog despite its long absence! To those of you interested in staying with me as we enter this next phase, thank you very much - it means a lot to me - and I hope you enjoy browsing!

And to anyone who's lost interest, thank you for spending time while you were here <3

One last note - My goal has always been to reblog others' fanart for my 'fics here, but most of them are still sitting in my drafts, unreblogged. I'll queue those up. I'm always delighted to receive gift art! Feel free to tag @riddledeep and I'll reblog it here! Same goes for gift 'fics, so don't hesitate to share!

[mckennalumley]

on word counts and writing speeds

At great length, I’ve talked complained about how my writing process is capricious. I write best at night then I write best in the middle of the day, I’m a plotter then I’m a pantser, I write in order from beginning to end and then I skip all over the place wherever my writing whims take me. The latest fluctuation is my relationship with word count and writing speed and those two things go hand in hand. Like the twins from The Shining.

Measuring a book by word count is industry standard for the publishing world because books themselves are hardly ever the same. So word count is accurate in a way page count could never be with different margins, fonts, page sizes, and layouts. However, page count is how the average person measures a book and that’s something I’ve had to remember over and over again.

My first book, Titan Academy, comes in at roughly 103,000 words, which is a lot, but is also right within average for the fantasy and sci-fi genres.

When submitting to agents and editors, every genre has its typical word count range:

Romance: 70,000–100,000 words

SciFi/Fantasy: 90,000–120,000 words

Historical Fiction: 80,000–100,000

Crime/Mysteries: 70,000–90,000 words

Young Adult: 50,000–80,000

Even though I’m self published and not beholden to the framework of traditional publishing, these word counts still somehow etched themselves into a deep, forgotten my part of my brain that I didn’t consciously acknowledge, but still influenced how I thought and acted all the same. Titan Academy was perfectly average, word count wise, and that was very satisfying to me. So imagine my consternation when the first few drafts of TA2 all clocked in at less than 50k.

That’s still a lot of words! It’s a whole story! The whole plot fit into those words. But it’s half the length of the first book and typically, sequels are longer than the first book in a series.

So picture me; stressed, surrounded by empty coffee mugs, in sweats I’ve worn six days in a row, in a dark room, illuminated solely by the glow of my laptop screen, convinced that something is wrong with me, personally, for being incapable of shoving enough plot into this book to make it an “acceptable” length, growing more distressed each passing day because people are waiting for this book and they have expectations that will almost certainly not be met by this paltry excuse for a novel.

But then. But then. The skies clear and I open a window and shower and drink some water and it occurs to me that basically no one is going to think about the word count (never mind the fact that all of you reading this now are most definitely thinking about the word count, and likely will be when the book comes out now that I’ve brought it up)((I am simply Ignoring That)). Readers are going to look at the book itself, at the heft of it, flip through it and see what number is in the upper corner of the last page.

So I ran to my computer to do one of my favorite tricks (which somehow, throughout all of this, I had completely forgotten about. I think there may be a gremlin living in my brain that steals and eats information)((actually, I know there is. It’s called ADHD)). I took my manuscript and set the page settings to match those of the first Titan Academy book.

Titan Academy is 361 pages.

TA2 is currently 351 pages.

Granted, I did make the font a teensy bit bigger, but nothing that would raise immediate suspicion, especially because I made the font a teensy bit smaller than average for Titan Academy to make it less pages (down from 480, if I recall correctly) so it would be less expensive to print. And I haven’t actually formatted anything yet, so that won’t be the final page count but it did make me breathe a massive sigh of relief.

After that weight had been lifted from my shoulders, it became so much easier to get back into the doc and write those new scenes, bringing the word count up to just over 60k.

Something else that unraveled with this revelation was my attitude toward writing speeds. I used to think of myself as a fast writer and I took pride in that. I could write 2,000 words in two hours. I’d do online sprints with my writer’s group and blow everyone out of the water (not that it was a competition, but it also wasn’t not a competition). People would comment their shock and awe at my ability to churn out words like it was going out of style and I let it inflate my ego like a hot air balloon.

When I started to tug on the thread that is word counts, my writing speed plummeted to a snail’s pace and that only added to my frustration. I kept trying to force it, to clear my mind and just write, but only succeeded in clearing my mind of everything.

Because the point of writing fast, of writing sprints, is word count.

When it came to writing at the speed of light, my only focus was how many words I was putting on the page. The quality of those words didn’t matter and the story suffered for it, which meant that when it came time to revise, the only thing I had to work with was a huge, steaming mess. Add to the fact that revisions, by nature, can’t be done quickly. You have to sit and think and ponder and daydream and play around with different fixes and hope that pulling on one thread doesn’t unspool the whole thing completely (Yes, that has happened to me)((Yes, it was awful and I cried about it)).

Now that I’ve removed the concept of word counts from the pedestal I’d unwittingly placed it on, I am happy to report that I have once again fallen in love with the storytelling process. Slowing down, writing one line at a time without rushing to the next one, has reminded me that writing is, above all else, fun. I’ve been letting myself frolic in entertaining side projects and that revitalized my motivation and delectation which has directly translated to my work on the TA sequel, which I’m delighted to say is coming along quite nicely now.

Even if you’re not a writer, the act of slowing down and disregarding outside expectations and framework might just reinvigorate your outlook on whatever it is that you do. But if you are a writer, I hope this helped in some way, shape, or form and without all of the painful teeth pulling that I went through to get here. Either way, thank you for reading all the way to the end!

If you liked this post you can read the full thing here and find others like it on my substack here

[very-bad-poetry-captain]

TOS novel book review McCoy edition nr 5 - Mission to Horatius.

It's illustrated. It was written in 1968. It violates the prime directive. It puts Spock and Kirk in gladiator kilts. It saves the crew from space madness by letting a dancing rat loose on the Enterprise. This book should have been a TOS episode and we were robbed, robbed I say!

Link to the previous review

Title: Mission to Horatius

Author: Mack Reynolds

Year published: 1968 (one of the first tos novels published)

Content warnings: This books uses language typical of the time it was written in, it's not too terrible but it should be noted

Plot summary in two sentences: The Enterprise crew has been in space for too long and is starting to become subject to space cafard (a type of space madness), but of course their return to home is interrupted by a distress signal in a system outside charted Federation space, where three different planets have been colonized by humans of very different beliefs and social development. They have to solve the mystery of who sent the distress signal and why, meaning they have to visit each planet and of course skirt the edges of the prime directive at each possible moment. Official plot summary: My edition doesn't have a plot summary on the back (though it has a very nice colorful hardback cover), but it does have a foreword about the editor picking the book up at age 8 and now being allowed to bring the book back into the light after having been out of print for a while ("now" meaning the late 90s). Hence my normal summary above.

This book is for you if you:

Want to read something pretty light-hearted and fun that stays true to the TOS format

Enjoy Spock and McCoy being in cahoots

Love it when Kirk gets really irritated at people during missions

Support prime directive violations

The ultimate McCoy questionnaire under the read-more (some more spoilers):

1. Is McCoy in it?

Up, front, and center

2. Is McCoy in it a lot?

The book starts with him bursting onto the bridge complaining about the worsening mental state of the crew, and they really emphasize how he's the only one who could possibly get away with something like that. I'd say the book gives most of the attention to Kirk and McCoy, with Spock coming in close but more as a supporting (and honestly pretty humoristic?) supporting character. Spock has some real funny lines in this one.

3. Does he get to be concerned over whatever angst has befallen Kirk lately?

He's got the entire crew to worry about and he mostly gives Jim grief for it. Must be lovely to be a starship captain when your best friend is a doctor who does the equivalent of the Pacific rim meme where he points at a chart going "I've got two crewmembers in stasis for space cafard... now I've got twenty... now I've got forty... soon we could have a crewmember succumbing to madness every hour". And in the end he's like hmm Jim I don't like that tick in your left eye... smells like space cafard to me...

4. Does he get to have silly little arguments with Spock?

Spock says, and I quote, "I was happy to work together with the doctor." McCoy and Spock gang up on Jim in this one and it's so so funny. The fact that McCoy and Spock hang out together in Spock's quarters in their free time is incredibly interesting to me. During the missions they're arguing too little almost. Suspicious. I think Spock says "most interesting" so many times that Jim is about to throw hands.

Notable Spock-McCoy banter:

When he was gone, McCoy exclaimed, "These people are mad!"

Spock looked at him. "That is your diagnosis, Doctor?"

5. Is he the damsel in distress?

They literally don't let him join in the gladiator fight because he's "too old". Devastating. Not even a chance to be in distress.

6. Does he suffer, preferably a lot? Physical and/or psychological torment.

I suppose the fact that the crew is slowly succumbing to madness via boredom causes some suffering. They don't torment him much in this book. A nice little breather for me, who has seen him suffer too much lately.

7. Does he get to whine and complain and be right about it? Even better, is he wrong about it?

He whines A LOT in this book but it's written really well. Enjoyable whining. And he's mostly right about it. These people are mad.

8. Does he get to throw some of that southern charm around?

I assume that's what he used to make Spock cooperate in his rat shenanigans 🤔

9. Does he get to do some medical malpractice?

If you count mixing up an antidote to LSD to be poured into the colony population's water reserves, not at all toeing the line of the prime directive, then sure, that he does. And he gets to steal Sulu's pet rat and use it for psychological warfare treatments. Seriously he lets that rat loose and sits back while the crew goes crazy trying to catch it because apparently having a rat to hunt is the cure to space madness? This is why he's considered the best damn doctor in the Fleet.

10. Does Spock call him illogical or similar?

Yet another book where Spock is suspiciously nice to him, though there is a bit of banter. And I don't say that because Spock was never nice to him in the original series, I'm saying that because I have personal theories about a TOS novel hidden spones agenda (not necessarily a romantic agenda, they can be space worsties too). These authors love Spock and McCoy's dynamic and so do I. It's just a little surprising when Spock says things out loud but presumably it's logical if it pisses Jim off when he says it.

11. Is he forcibly put through his arch nemesis the transporter? Or the dress uniform?

Not a single complaint. Even though he went through both the transporter and the dress uniform. A miracle.

12. Does Kirk call him handsome (joke or not this happens more than you’d think)?

No, but notably, Spock in the gladiator kilt is described as such: "his lithe muscles were more than usually accentuated" and Jim is described as "a handsome specimen with a wide, generous mouth". They don't really describe McCoy other than his glares and "hands on his hips as though in belligerence" but I suppose that's accurate too.

13. Bonus points if his accent is pronounced and his speech is full of befuddling southern expressions which make Spock question McCoy’s sanity (and me wondering if I need a dictionary)

He says "A fine kettle of fish" when they're in trouble. What does it meannnnnn

Criticisms/things I’d change

I suppose some of the outdated phrases could use an update but honestly I wouldn't change much about this book. Except I desperately want to read the conversations Spock and McCoy must have had about the crew and the space madness and the plan involving Sulu's rat. The three colony planets have the very obvious stone age vs religious sect vs *cough* german military *cough* tropes, but it's done in a pretty interesting way and doesn't get cliché despite the book's age, having that TOS feel and still readable today. As an episode it would have been one of the more interesting ones.

Highlights:

I'm still not over the fact that McCoy taught a rat to dance and it saved the crew. Is there no end to his talents? And the fact that he was really mad at Jim the whole time and Jim was just taking it. Best friend privileges. The characters were all well-written which is hard to do when you're working with archetypes, but this was skillful writing that was really easy to read and follow along with without being too predictable and that's harder than it seems. Sometimes things that are simple are better. And the whole thing had a lot of humor in it which I like. A well-constructed book all in all.

Final McCoy meter: 10/10 he was real cute in this one