hi! welcome to the shitstorm! if you’ve read any of my works already and came to check out some more, thanks!!! also, if you’ve left any comment on my stuff i have def read them and appreciated them dearly :)
please read 🫶🏻
disclaimer: i do not know gvf or any of the members. tis’ all fiction and imagination and i will never claim otherwise! also, i try to keep my works 100% original; i do not read as much as i write, and i would hate for someone to think im copying them in any way. also, please don’t steal my stuff :) also, i’ve said it before and i will say it again. please be kind to me and everyone else. this blog is a safe spot. my feelings get hurt easily, and i will not stand for any disrespect towards others. thanks in advance 🫶🏻
♡ - fluff, ☾ - smut, ★ - angst
as always, be kind, stay happy, and shoot me a message anytime if you want to chat!
t’s fic rec list
— ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ —
Josh Kiszka
Long Time Coming ☾ ★
The one in which y/n can’t handle Josh’s eccentric personality. An altercation at the bar leads her to see a side of him that she never saw before. A personal family struggle causes a blowout and leaves her wondering if she had misjudged Josh a bit too much. (Josh x f!reader, SMUT 18+) ONE SHOT | 8.3K
It’s Never Over ♡ ☾ ★
A year and a half after a devastating breakup, y/n finds herself face to face with the boy she’d spent months trying to fall out of love with. although separated, neither her nor Josh found it within themselves to forget about each other. they’re faced with the choice to let history repeat itself, or walk away for good. (Josh x f!reader, SMUT 18+) ONE SHOT | 17.7k
Lex Talionis Masterlist | ☾ ★ | ON HOLD
LEX TALIONIS: the law of retaliation, whereby a punishment resembles the offense committed in kind and degree | The one in which a player, who is fantastically gifted in her ability to play, finally gets a taste of her own medicine. SERIES | ON HOLD
Blurbs
Flowers ♡
— ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ —
Jake Kiszka
Complicated ♡ ★
Growing up as Josh’s best friend was fantastic, but his twin brother held a separate, special place in y/n’s heart. A time lapse of an undying, embarrassing high school crush. (Jake x f!reader) ONE SHOT | 14K
Spitfire Masterlist ♡ ☾ ★
An enigmatic girl at a bar catches the attention of a young guitarist, enticing him just by existing. In an attempt to get to know her, she gets away before he even learns her last name. He’s stuck wondering if fate will be on his side, wishing for just one chance to make her his (Jake x f!reader, series, SMUT 18+) FINISHED | 66k
The Green-Eyed Monster ☾ ★
Alcohol and sour moods don’t mix; learning that the hard way, y/n navigates her long time boyfriend’s jealousy for the first time. In attempt to ignore it, she quickly finds herself caught up in a toxic game of who can piss the other off the most. (Jake x f!reader, SMUT 18+) ONE SHOT | 17k
Gold Dust Woman Masterlist ♡ ☾ ★
Y/n finds herself completely in love with Sam with no hope of ever recovering. After months of waiting, hoping for a bit of reciprocity, she spends a night drinking his memory away. But, as we know, liquor never solves an issue, and always has the potential to create another. One messy hookup leaves leaves her undeniably in lust with the worst possible person: his brother, Jake. (Jake x f!reader, series, Sam x f!reader, love triangle, SMUT 18+) FINISHED | 190k
Guilty Pleasures ♡ ☾ ★
Due to a strong foundation of trust and a willingness to share, a situation which would normally be catastrophic seems to turn out to be quite rewarding. (Danny x f!reader, Jake x f!reader, SMUT 18+) ONE SHOT | 20.4k
Capital Vices Masterlist | ♡ ☾ ★
Religion never seems important until you’ve engaged in so much sin that salvation is no longer an option. (Jake Kiszka x f!reader, series, SMUT 18+) FINISHED | 120k
Reaching New Heights
Jake walks in on y/n during some particularly interesting alone time, opening them up to a whole new world (Jake Kiszka x f!reader, SMUT 18+) ONE SHOT | 11k
Lex Talionis Masterlist | ☾ ★ | ON HOLD
LEX TALIONIS: the law of retaliation, whereby a punishment resembles the offense committed in kind and degree | The one in which a player, who is fantastically gifted in her ability to play, finally gets a taste of her own medicine. (Jake Kiszka x f!reader, Josh Kiszka x f!reader, SMUT 18+) SERIES | WIP
Partners In Crime | ♡ ★
The cure for heartbreak is truth, but what do you do when the truth is the source of heartbreak itself? (Jake Kiszka x f!reader) ONE SHOT | 9k
Rotten Apple | ♡ ☾ ★
Karma takes form in the strangest of ways. (Jake Kiszka x f!reader, SMUT 18+) ONE SHOT | 16k
Heartbreak Hot Seat | ♡ ☾ ★
Jake Kiszka seems to have the perfect remedy for a broken heart. (Jake Kiszka x f!reader, SMUT 18+) ONE SHOT | 20k
Poolsides & Pizza Boxes | part 2 | some time later | ♡ ☾ ★
Alcohol and secrets make for a deadly combination. (Jake Kiszka x f!reader, SMUT 18+) TWO PART SERIES | 35k
Little Miss Sunshine | ♡ ☾ ★
One little confession leaves you second guessing everything you’ve ever known about Jake Kiszka. (Jake Kiszka x f!reader, SMUT 18+) ONE SHOT | 26k
Melodic Memories Masterlist | ♡ ☾ ★
In a tattered old box shoved deep down in the corner of an overfilled closet, a lifetimes worth of memories lie dormant at the bottom waiting to be rediscovered. (Jake Kiszka x f!reader, series, SMUT 18+) SERIES | WIP
Veni, Vidi, Vici ♡ ☾ ★ | coming soon 🤍
A collaboration with the lovely @jakeyt
Pandora’s Box ♡ ☾ ★ | coming soon 🤍
A starving artist with too many secrets catches the attention of a bartender who cares a little too much. SERIES | WIP
Blurbs
Doing each others hair ♡
Confessing feelings ♡
Bringing home a stray kitten ♡
Jake loves dogs, but you own a cat ♡
— ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ —
Sam Kiszka
Hate To Love You | part two | part three | ♡ ☾ ★
Sam and y/n spent months hating each other, but a drunk confession and a bathroom hookup leads to more trouble than they bargained for. (Sam x f!reader with a Danny love triangle, series, SMUT 18+) FINISHED | 25k
Picasso | aftermath | ♡ ☾
COLLEGE DORM AU y/n finds herself pining after the boy across the hall, taken by surprise after a series of events reveals that he feels the same way. An unconventional hookup leads to Sam making her first time unforgettable, both hoping for a romance to blossom from it. (Sam x f!reader, AU, SMUT 18+) ONE SHOT | 15.5k
Gold Dust Woman Masterlist ♡ ☾ ★
Y/n finds herself completely in love with Sam with no hope of ever recovering. After months of waiting, hoping for a bit of reciprocity, she spends a night drinking his memory away. But, as we know, liquor never solves an issue, and always has the potential to create another. One messy hookup leaves leaves her undeniably in lust with the worst possible person: his brother, Jake. (Sam x f!reader, series, Jake x f!reader, love triangle, SMUT 18+) FINISHED | 190k
Catch-22 Masterlist ♡ ☾ ★ WIP | ON HOLD
Catch-22: a dilemma or difficult circumstance from which there is no escape because of mutually conflicting or dependent conditions. | Even if you knew every word to exist in every language known to man, you would still be certain that there was no better way to describe your relationship with Sam Kiszka. SERIES | ON HOLD
Blurbs
Early Morning Fluff ♡
Kissing in the rain ♡
Sam giving you his sweater ♡
— ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ —
Daniel Wagner
Bugs, Bears, and a Thunderstorm ♡ ☾
Y/n is not particularly enthusiastic about a camping trip. A set of unfortunate circumstances ensues, turning out to give the best possible conclusion to the situation. She realizes that maybe camping isn’t so bad, after all. (Danny x f!reader, SMUT 18+) ONE SHOT | 12.5K
Fade Into You ♡ ★
A bad day leaves y/n searching for solace in her boyfriend, Danny. He’s quick to the rescue, showing his unconditional love and willingness to help however he can. (Danny x f!reader) ONE SHOT | 6k
Guilty Pleasures ♡ ☾ ★
Due to a strong foundation of trust and a willingness to share, a situation which would normally be catastrophic seems to turn out to be quite rewarding. (Danny x f!reader, Jake x f!reader, SMUT 18+) ONE SHOT | 20.4k
Belladonna 1-9 Belladonna 10-? ♡ ☾ ★ | WIP
Too beautiful to resist, and too deadly to survive; the tragic tale of belladonna in all its glory. SERIES | WIP
A starving artist who’s given everything to stay afloat. A bartender with too much heart and nowhere to put it. Amassing debts he can’t repay, making unlikely alliances and unnecessary enemies, he’s got nothing left to give. Infatuated at first glance, she wiggles her way into his world despite him exhausting himself trying to keep her out.
Letting her in was the same as opening Pandora’s box—what are they to do when they know they should give up, but neither one is ready to give in?
What do you say girls? How bout we run it back? 😉
Pairing: AU!Jake Kiszka x f!reader
Word Count: TBD
Warnings: SMUT 18+, angst, swearing, smoking, drinking, mild drug use, violence—each chapter will have its own list of warnings.
DISCLAIMER: I do not know Greta Van Fleet or any of the members personally. This is all fiction and I will never claim otherwise. I attempt to keep all of my work 100% original, so please do not steal or take credit for my writing. As of right now, I aim to get chapters out on weekends, but it is not guaranteed as I do have a full time job and other responsibilities to attend to. Please be patient and kind to me. Do not mind any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes, as I am the sole writer/editor for my blog and do miss things sometimes.
Prologue
TAGLIST: if you would like to be added to the Pandora’s Box taglist, please feel free to send me an ask, pm me, or respond on this or one of the above chapters. if i do not respond, it is because the replies on my posts will only allow me to reply with my main account. i promise i will see it, and if i happen to miss you, don’t be scared to ask again!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: I am incredibly grateful for all of the support, likes, reblogs and kind comments I receive from all of you. I would be nothing without your support, and I do take the time to read and appreciate every reply and message, even if I don’t respond. Thank you so much for all you do, and I sincerely hope that you enjoy this story as much as I do 🫶🏻
WARNINGS FOR THIS SERIES: 18+ MINORS DNI - Alcohol, Smoking, Marijuana, Cocaine, Cursing, Dramatic Themes. Smut Including: Kissing, Touching, Making Out, Light Degradation, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Biting, Fingering, Name Calling, Edging, Unprotected Sex, Digital Penetration, Pet Names, Spanking. Angst Including: Mentions of Drug Abuse, Alcohol Abuse, Mentions of Violence, Manipulation, Jealousy, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of Weapons, Mentions of Death, Physical Fighting, Blood and more...
Another fantastic project written in collaboration with my bestie @gretavanmoon.
[NEW YORK CITY, NY] – Sources from Manhattan’s social and financial circles report that a prominent young socialite has once again become the center of attention following a string of late-night outings and activities that some observers describe as questionable at best and reckless at worst. Insiders say the socialite’s behavior in recent weeks appears increasingly impulsive, poorly judged, and far from the decorum traditionally expected of her family’s standing.
According to multiple eyewitnesses, recent appearances at exclusive private parties and high-profile venues have sparked a mixture of fascination and concern among her peers. “It’s the kind of conduct that makes people whisper,” said one anonymous source. “Her charm and connections are undeniable, but there’s no denying that her choices have left some wondering whether glamour alone can cover repeated lapses in judgment.”
While the socialite has not publicly addressed the mounting speculation, those close to the family reportedly worry about potential repercussions. Not only for her own reputation but for the carefully curated image of her household. Observers note that the combination of secrecy, indulgence, and apparent disregard for consequences has already generated considerable chatter within Manhattan’s elite social circles.
In a particularly dramatic incident, the socialite was reportedly seen leaving a penthouse in the Upper East Side late last night, just hours before a heated altercation at The Penrose Bar, according to sources. Though the details remain unconfirmed, the event has only added fuel to the speculation surrounding her recent behavior.
As the story continues to develop, social and business insiders alike are closely monitoring the situation. The public is left to question: How long can appearances mask behavior that insiders describe as reckless, indulgent, and potentially damaging? And what impact will these repeated controversies have on the socialite’s standing among New York’s elite?
[Photo Caption: “Y/N leaving an exclusive Upper East Side Penthouse last night — reportedly hours before an altercation at The Penrose Bar.”]
[Photo Credit: X19 Online]
After a particularly shitty day, refuge in alcohol seems like the best option to help Jake recover from his poor mood. Y/n, his long time girlfriend joins him and his bandmates at the bar with high hopes to salvage the night. Jealousy, which had never been in Jake’s vocabulary, makes its first groundbreaking presence and laughs at its own disastrous effects.
Here’s some filthiness with a touch of toxicity and angst because my last few posts were a bit too sweet 🥰 had to switch it up somehow. got a little carried away with this bad boy. had to cut some out cause i got too into it, so if it seems a little fast paced at the end, please keep that in mind! just couldn’t stop myself. it’s long, smutty, intense and does end well, i promise 😃 also very poorly proof-read cause i can’t sleep and decided to post this tonight instead of tomorrow, so please be nice. as always, be kind, enjoy, and don’t mind any grammar mistakes 🫶🏻
also, side note: all of the love I’ve received for Picasso has made my heart incredibly happy. I was very nervous posting it, and you guys really eased my worry. I appreciate you all dearly, your kindness makes me want to keep writing ♥️
~
Jake was in a terrible mood, and there was no doubt about that. Perhaps in the beginning, the idea of a lighthearted night at the bar was intriguing; something to take his mind off his mistakes in the studio earlier that morning, and hopefully to make up for his and Josh’s incessant bickering. It didn’t take long for that idea to turn sour in his mind, too. By the time you both realized it wasn’t going to brighten his spirits, you were already clad in a miniskirt and low cut body suit, hanging over the bar-top to tip the bartender. He thought it best to keep his mood to himself and just try to enjoy the sight of you all dressed up. It worked for a while; the tension remained minimal due to his hand permanently anchored to your hip, reminding him of all he had to be grateful for.
Once he’d gotten a few drinks into him, the familiar smile you loved so much started to grace his lips. The tension in his shoulders melted slightly, leaving him lax against the back of the dirty bar booth. His protective grip around your waist had turned into a loose hang over your shoulders, gently guiding you into his side with a loving undertone. Every so often, he even managed a laugh at his brothers antics, leaving you to believe the night may still be saved. But, only to your trained eye, you could still notice the cloud of irascible energy in his eyes.
You were quite certain that when he’d arrived back to your shared home earlier that day, the bedroom would never recover from the shock of the pornographic scene. You’d been able to pick up on his frustration through limited texts, only to have the speculation solidified when you finally caught sight of the expression on his face as he walked through the front door. When it never came, an uneasiness settled in your stomach. Jake’s favourite method of stress-relief was fucking you, which was always quite fine by you. Knowing that he still had all of the pent up anger left you conscious of the fact the night was teetering on a thin line; if it went well, no harm nor foul. If not, you were going to have to plan ahead for a rest and recovery period.
You were more than shocked when your long-term boyfriend pitched the idea of joining his brothers at the bar. In his ill-temper, he usually turned into a bit of a recluse. But, you thought it best to go along with the idea. If he thought it would cheer him up, you were happy to oblige, and never complained about seeing his band mates. They’d turned into the best of friends over the years, and they were your favourite company to keep aside from Jake. You opted to believe it couldn’t be the worst idea in the world. So that’s where you ended up: sitting in a bar booth with Jake wrapped around you and laughing alongside the other three boys.
They’d picked a small bar that you all frequented. It had low traffic and strong drinks to keep spirits high. There were dart boards, pool tables, complimentary table peanuts and some slot machines if you ever decided to try your luck. They kept a steady stream of dad rock flowing through the sound system when the karaoke wasn’t open to the public, and the bartenders had grown into acquaintances over the months of regular visits. If you were to go to any bar, this was the perfect one to choose. You all had yet to have a bad experience, aside from an occasional wandering hand from a too-drunk regular, or a drunken snide comment that was easily brushed off. The night was destined to be good, assuming Jake was kept in good spirits.
You picked up a shelled peanut, cracking the soft exterior with your thumb. You took one half of the shell and placed it on your napkin, and took the other one and tossed it across the booth. It hit Sam in the side of the head, as he was turned to speak to Danny who was beside him. He whipped his head towards you, the soft thud of the impact catching his attention. He immediately knew the culprit, as you’d been doing it intermittently the entire time you’d been there. You gave him a sweet smile, one filled with innocence, as if to say you would never do such a thing. His accusatory stare made it difficult to hold back laughter. He picked up the shell, which had fallen anticlimactically to the table, and tossed it back in your direction. It bounced off your chin and dropped down into your shirt, causing an eye roll from you. Sam pointed a finger at you, a silent warning not to do it again. You picked it from your cleavage and placed it with the rest of the waste atop the napkin. You vowed to leave him alone, just long enough for him to forget about it, then strike again.
Josh, who was caught in conversation with his twin brother, suddenly smacked his palms against the tabletop, catching you by surprise and making you jump. You turned your attention to him, eager to know what the disturbance was about. “Drinks!” He announced. “One for you, brother dearest?” He asked Jake. He gave him a nod. Josh’s eyes trailed to your glass, noticing the liquid threatening the end and muddled with melted ice. “And for you, pretty lady?” He asked, flashing a smile. Nobody else noticed, but Jake’s eye gave a small twitch, and his jaw clenched at the term of endearment.
“Another Mojito, please.” You grinned, not willing to pass up an offer of a free drink. He had no worries buying them for you. You and Josh had been playing the same game for half a decade; he’d do something nice for you, and you’d hit him back with something even better the next time. The timeless battle had begun after you both had realized arguments of payments and repayments were getting you nowhere. Jake had found it endearing, never a worry in his mind about anything non-platonic. He trusted you with his life, as he did with Josh. He was more than happy that you were so close with his brothers, and would be the first to speak up if he were uncomfortable. But, the war had gone to extremes by times, ranging from signed albums from big music names they’ve met, to rarity collectors editions of his absolute favourite films. If the tally was still running, the amount of money and thought you’d put into each other would be unfathomable.
You looked over to your boyfriend, picking up on the sullen attitude once more. He caught your eye and you gave him an inquisitive look, but he just shook his head. You thought it best not to push him, instead leaning over to place a kiss on his cheek. Before you pulled away, he turned and gave you a real kiss, holding you there for a moment. When he pulled back, he gave you a small smile. You felt your nerves fizzle away, finding comfort in the small gesture. He was really good with always making sure you knew he wasn’t mad at you while he was generally upset. It was a small, constant reassurance that helped guide you through his occasional short temper.
When Josh returned, he placed everyone’s respective drink in front of them. “Thanks, darlin’.” You smiled, stirring the drink with your straw. You took a sip, a hum of gratitude immediately sounding from you. Mindless chatter ensued for a few moments, nothing of importance being spoken into existence. Then, the music over the speakers started to get louder and the lights were dimmed. The trashy coloured lights surrounding the dance floor flicked on, letting everyone know the time had hit double digits. A familiar note sounded, causing you to perk up instantly. Josh caught your eye, raising his eyebrow and nodding to the open dance area.
Without a second thought, you jumped up, reaching your hand out to him. It was a simple action, one that you’d done thousands of times over the years of you and Jake dating, and it had never been an issue. Jake was not a dancer, and you were sure he never would be. You theorized he may even try to skip out on your first dance at your wedding. Josh, on the other hand, was always happy to pick up the slack in that department.
You were a lighthearted spirit, one who loved fun and didn’t care about wandering eyes or judgment, not caring if your dancing or singing was making a fool of you. It was something that drew Jake to you in the first place, and he loved watching the sparkle in your eye as you lived your life to the fullest. He was usually happy that someone was always willing to dance with you; it ensured you were safe and it gave you someone to share a memory with. He was usually quite encouraging of Josh’s antics, especially because it meant the spotlight was off of him and he wouldn’t have to join you on the dance floor. He would never stop you from enjoying yourself, but certain things, as you’d come to understand, were just not Jake-esque.
That night, the sight of you so close with his brother, singing the song back to each other and him twirling you around, set him on fire. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was Josh’s unwavering pet names for you, or the way he always looked at you like he was head over heels for you, or the constant comments of Josh telling him how lucky he was. Or, how it looked like Josh was adding to your light, when in turn, sometimes Jake felt like he dimmed it. Especially on nights like that one, in particular, when he was perpetually angry and wasn’t sure how to shake it off. Or, maybe Jake was still pissed off at Josh’s critique and jabs at the studio when Jake was struggling to play his solos. Whatever it was, for the first time in his life, he was jealous of you and Josh. If looks could kill, his twin brother would have been on the floor.
“You okay?” Sam asked, picking up on Jake’s glare in the direction of the dance floor. His jaw was hard-set, knuckles white from the grip on his glass. Jake turned to face his younger brother, breaking out of the trance he’d found himself stuck in.
“Yeah.” Was all he replied, taking a long drink from his cup.
“It’s just Josh and y/n, they’ve always been like that. You’ve got nothing to worry about, brother.” Sam tried to ease the tension.
“Have they, though?” Jake snipped back, almost immediately. “Like that?” Sam and Danny looked towards you both, studying your actions for a moment. Eventually, they shrugged and gave a nod.
“Yeah.” Sam said, not finding anything out of the ordinary. “Come on, man. Josh would never do that to you, and neither would she. Y/n’s been head over heels for you since the day you met her.” Jake sent a look of warning to his sibling, silently telling him to stop trying to make the situation better. Jake knocked back the last of his drink, letting the bottom of the glass fall back on the table with a thud. Without another word, he stood and went to the bar.
As he waited for the bartender to fix his next drink, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander back over to you. He expected you both to filter back to the booth when the song ended, but the next tune caught your attention, too. Josh had his hand on your hip, and yours was loosely hung around his neck. You were close to him, but not provocatively close. Still, to Jake, it was more than enough to get his blood boiling. You were laughing at him singing the lyrics to you, swaying your hips in time to the beat. Even in his jealousy, he couldn’t help but admire your beauty. The wrinkles forming in the corner of your eyes, the radiant grin, the way your hair cascaded down and framed your face. He thought you were breathtaking, and for once, he was envious he wasn’t up dancing with you, instead.
He hadn’t realized the song had ended until you presented yourself in front of him, breathless and buzzing with joy. He felt himself soften slightly when you wrapped your arm around his midsection and leaned into him. “Hi, handsome.” He could tell you were tipsy; he could hear it in your words. He let his hand fall from his drink, bringing it to your face and running his thumb over your cheek. The anger seemed to melt away as soon as you touched him, and he was fully engrossed in your presence. The thought of you dancing with Josh became a distant memory to him as soon as you stood on your tip-toes and placed a kiss on his lips. “What’s wrong?” You whispered, concern thick in your voice. He looked down at your face, not knowing exactly how to answer.
“I… I’m okay.” He assured you, leaning down for another kiss. He realized he may have been a bit irrational, especially now that you were with him, showing him ten times more affection than you were with his brother.
“You can talk to me, honey.” You pried just a little, hoping he might open up. He snaked his free hand around your waist, letting it rest dangerously low on your back.
“Think I just needed a kiss.” He brushed your concern off, but you could still sense the indifference in his voice.
“Whatever you say.” You hummed, turning towards the bar. He kept his hand on your lower back, but turned with you. He grabbed his drink and sipped at it while you caught the bartenders attention. He rushed over, giving you a smile.
“Mojito?” He asked. You nodded enthusiastically, happy he remembered your order. He grabbed all of the ingredients, making small talk with you while he made your drink. “You’ve got some good dance moves.” He complimented. You let out a small laugh.
“Thanks, the really good ones only come out when I’m drinking.” You joked.
“We’ll have to keep them coming your way, then.” He said, placing the new cup in front of you. “There you go, beautiful.” The fire that had died down in Jake reignited as if the bartender had poured a gallon of gasoline on it. You noticed his grip on you tightened, and when you looked up you saw the tension of the muscles in his jaw. Jake grabbed his wallet and pulled out a bill. He threw it on the counter and guided you away before you could respond. You looked up at him, noticing the vibration of anger in his hands.
“Jake, what is going on with you?” You only let him lead you away so far before planting your feet on the ground, forcing him to stop with you. He turned his head towards you, eyes filled with an emotion you had never really seen from him before.
“Me?” He snapped. You recoiled at the harshness of his voice. You could see him soften a bit, but he was still ablaze with whatever he was feeling. “You’re all over Josh up there, and then you flirt with the bartender in front of me and I’m what? Just supposed to sit there and watch?”
“What?” You were certain you couldn’t have given him a look more bewildered than the one you were giving him, then. “Did me dancing with Josh bother you?” He didn’t respond, but his eyes did dart away from you. “Jake, I just… we always dance together. I didn’t really think… I’m sorry.”
“Fuck, no, y/n. I’m sorry.” He sighed, rubbing his face with his hand and pushing his hair back. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I know it’s not like that. I’m just in a shitty mood, and I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“We can go home, baby.” You offered, making sure he knew you were okay with that, too.
“No, you’re having a good time. I just need to loosen up a bit, I guess.” He let out a small chuckle, one that was barely noticeable.
“I’d have just as good of a time at home, alone, with you,” you leaned up to his head, lips inches away from his ear “in bed, naked.” His arm around you tightened, pulling you into him slightly.
“Careful,” he warned. You placed a kiss to the sensitive area just below his ear, lingering there for a moment.
“Just so you know, the bartender could only have me in his dreams.” You whispered before you pulled away. “I go home to you, remember?” His lips upturned into a smug smile.
“Get over there and keep drinking,” he ordered “before I have to take you to the bathroom.” The look in his eye led you to believe he wasn’t joking. You felt a blush creep up to your cheeks, taken off guard by the bluntness of the statement. He gave you a wink, subtle enough to go unnoticed, but obvious enough to send a rush of arousal straight to your core. “Don’t get too drunk, though. I’ve got a long night planned for you.” He promised, placing a delicate kiss to the top of your head, as if the words he said weren’t laced with filth.
You joined his brothers back at the booth, both of you sliding in as if nothing happened. Jake resumed his earlier position, slinging an arm around your shoulder. His whole aura was much lighter than it was a few moments before. As the boys divulged into conversation, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander to your interaction with Jake. He wasn’t a jealous person; in fact, you couldn’t recall a time off the top of your head where he had been. You’d been dating him for just over five years, knowing him better than anyone else. He could be slightly possessive at times, and even that was rare, but he was never outright jealous. Above all else, he was protective of you. He was always quite comfortable with the fact that you were his, and nobody stood a chance. At the same time, you’d never given him a reason to believe otherwise, because there was none. You were hopelessly in love with Jake, and always had been. To you, no other boy existed in that sense. He was everything you needed, and beyond that. Still, the idea of him radiating with jealousy sparked something inside of you. It was new, intense, and admittedly, very hot.
You shook the thought away, realizing it was not the best time to be thinking about how attractive you thought he was. You were broken from your thoughts when the volume at the table heightened. You looked up to see Sam and Danny locked in an arm-wrestling position. Josh had his hand on his brothers shoulder, encouraging him, while Jake was leaned in to the table slightly, cheering Danny on. You couldn’t help the laughs that you let out, finding the whole scene boyish and amusing. After a few moments of struggle, Danny took the win and pinned Sam’s arm down to the table. Jake let out a triumphant noise, removing his arm from your shoulder to reach across the table and giving Danny a congratulatory high-five.
“Pay up.” he said to Josh, now holding out his hand to his twin. Josh rolled his eyes, but fished his wallet out of his pocket and grabbed a twenty, sliding it across the table. Jake grabbed it, a smug smirk on his lips, and put it in his own. The betting war between the brothers was uncontrollable. They loved to put money on the stupidest of things, and when there was nothing pre-existing to bet on, they made something up. It was never about the dollar amount, more so just bragging rights.
Jake rested against the booth again, the satisfaction of winning giving him some momentary cockiness. Instead of returning his arm around you, he let his hand rest on your thigh under the table. You did your best to keep your expression the same, trying not to focus on the warmth of his palm on your exposed skin. His fingers drifted under your skirt, slowly making their way between your legs. He let his hand rest stop there for a moment, not wanting to push you too much. “So, y/n,” Josh started, catching you off guard. You looked up to meet his eyes. “I think that pool table is calling our name.”
“Rematch from last time?” You joked, raising an eyebrow.
“Redemption is a better word.” He corrected.
“And if I beat you again?”
“You won’t.” He dismissed you, not even considering the possibility. “But, if on some off chance you do, dinner is on me the next time we go out.”
“You said that last time.” You teased. “No originality.” You let out a small tsk. He feigned a look of offence. The conversation was allowing you to take your mind off Jake’s wandering hand.
“Fine, what’s your idea?” He conceded.
“I don’t have a better one, I just like making fun of you.” You shrugged. “Anyone else care to join?” You asked the rest of the table. There was a mutter of agreements and nods. Josh slid out of his seat first, followed by Sam and Danny. Jake was hesitant to move his hand from your leg, holding you there for a moment. You turned your head to look at him, giving him an inquisitive look.
“Better not keep him waiting.” Jake murmured, looking over your face. Your breath caught in your throat as he moved his hand up a little further, fingers inches away from your underwear. “What’s wrong?” He asked, a small smirk playing on his lips.
“Behave yourself, Jacob.” You said, your lips upturned into a smile, too.
“Mhm, careful.” He gave the same warning as earlier. You knew very well that in every sense, he was always going to be in charge when it came to anything bedroom related. Still, it always proved fun to push his buttons. He pulled his hand away, ushering you out of the booth. As you stood, he delivered a quick smack to your ass. You let out a gasp, quickly looking around to see if anyone noticed. When you found you were in the clear, you gave him a glare over your shoulder. “Love you.” He said, smiling in response to your reaction.
Instead of answering, you began to walk away. He made a mental note, ensuring he would get you to say it, later. He followed you as you made your way to the pool table, where you both noticed that your company had picked up some extras. There were three new faces, two girls and a boy. “Ah, thanks for finally deciding to join us!” Sam bellowed as you walked up beside him. He wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side, in a very annoying younger brother type of way. You rolled your eyes, attempting to wiggle your way out of his grip.
“Who’s your new friends, Sammy? Had to find some people who don’t know enough about you to make fun of you, yet?” He let you go with a dramatic, but light, push.
“Get out of my face,” he said, a smirk on his lips.
“You love me.” You nudged him with your elbow.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Your eyes turned towards the new faces, taking in the sight. Both girls looked quite similar, and the guy was nothing like the boys you’d come to the bar with. He was tall, had short, blonde hair and bright eyes. “I don’t know their names. Josh started talking to them.” Sam shrugged.
“Figures,” you laughed, knowing all too well how much of a social butterfly he could be. Jake was standing behind you and Sam, opting to stay out of the conversation. Eventually, when Josh caught sight of you, he waved you over. You joined him, allowing him to introduce you to his new friends. The girls were friendly enough, but didn’t particularly stick out as memorable in your mind. The guy was nice, too, but his wandering eyes were very noticeable and very uncomfortable. “Nice to meet you all.” You addressed them all together.
“So, is this your girlfriend?” The guy asked Josh, which produced a booming laugh from both of you. Jake, on the other hand, did not find the question very funny. And he found Josh’s answer even less tasteful.
“A man can dream,” Josh sighed, humour clearly laced in his tone. You smacked his arm, chuckling at the thought. “Unfortunately, just my best friend, my confidante, my partner in crime,” he paused, looking over to you. “Soulmate?”
“Too far,” you warned, but couldn’t help the smile that broke on your face. You knew he was drunk, just by the formulation of his words. The statement itself was nothing out of the ordinary; Josh loved teasing Jake, although he never really managed to bother him with it. That night, though, was an entirely different story. Every word that Josh spoke seemed to piss him off even more.
“So you’re on the market then?” The unfamiliar boy asked. Your eyes widened, shocked at the bluntness of his question. That seemed to be Jake’s breaking point, as he pushed through Danny and Sam to join the conversation. His arm snaked around your waist in an instant, the familiar feeling immediately comforting you.
“Absolutely not.” His tone was firm, but not threatening. When you looked up to see his face, you were certain that if his expression were rewritten in a comic, that would be the scene where smoke was coming from his ears.
“Ah, sister-in-law was probably a good descriptor, too.” Josh said, giggling at his brother. Jake shot him a glare in response.
“Sorry, man. Promise I didn’t mean any harm.” The boy raised his hands in defence, showing Jake he wasn’t trying to start anything. Jake calmed slightly, nodding in understanding.
“I think a game of pool will certainly lighten the mood!” Josh announced, drawing the attention away from the tense moment. He grabbed a cue from the rack on the wall, breaking up the group. The boy who you couldn’t really remember the name of followed Josh, leaving you and Jake to yourselves for a moment. The two girls were chattering amongst themselves, completely uninvolved in the situation.
“Soulmates, eh?” Jake looked down at you, a look of annoyance on his face.
“Jake,” you warned, giving him a pointed look. “If this is because I’m upsetting you in some way, let’s go and talk about it. If it’s just because you’re in a bad mood, quit it.” You told him. You weren’t mad at him, but you weren’t willing to be chastised all night when the root of the issue didn’t even begin with you. He’d never once had an issue with the nature of your’s and Josh’s relationship. The surfacing of his anger on a night where he’d already been upset seemed to be an indication that he wasn’t solely upset at Josh’s words, but more in general. He wasn’t the best at processing his emotions, and tended to direct them at smaller situations to avoid dealing with the main issue.
A note of apology flashed in his eyes at your words. Before he could answer, you broke away from him to grab a cue for yourself. He watched you, feeling a fizzle of regret form in his chest. You weren’t acting any different than any other night, but for some reason he couldn’t seem to shake the feeling from himself. He was too deep into his miserable mood to break out of it, now. He was pulled from his thoughts when Sam called him over to the pool table next to the one you and Josh were playing on.
Josh had started the game, fully keeping your attention on the table rather than Jake’s sour mood. Sam and Jake had started their own game, eventually joined by Danny and one of the girls from Josh’s new posse of friends. The guy had moved on to try his luck with another group of people, clearly only at the bar in attempt to get laid. The second girl was hovering around the other part of your group, watching the game with intensity. You tried not to notice, but every so often her eyes would drift and land on Jake. You shook off the distraction, zoning back in on your own game. You lined up your cue with the cue ball, and shot at a solid ball. It rolled in flawlessly, and you moved on to the next.
“Cheater,” Josh grumbled as he watched your next ball sink, too.
“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.” You shrugged.
“Could never hate you, mama. Just strongly dislike you.” He gave you a cheeky smile. You gave him a scoff of disbelief, knowing for certain there was no world to exist where Josh would dislike you, or anyone, for that matter.
When your turn finished, you stepped back to observe his. As he lined up his shot, your eyes drifted over to the table next to you, finding Jake and Sam laughing at a joke one of the girls had spewed out. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to look away from Jake’s smiling face, trying not to focus on it. But, in the back of your mind, you couldn’t help but think about how that was the happiest he looked all night. As much as you wanted to be annoyed at him for questioning your loyalty, you couldn’t find it within yourself. Yet, anyway. The sight produced more sadness than anything else. You swallowed your insecurity, chalking it up to you overthinking the situation.
The night carried on, the empty glasses piling up by the pool tables, and your inhibitions greatly diminished. You and Jake had silently made the agreement to steer clear of each other in avoidance of a blowout at the bar. You stuck with Josh, bouncing from pool, to darts, and even the dance floor a few times. Jake found himself constantly engrossed in the nameless bimbo that had taken an interest in him. Somewhere between drink seven and double digits, you’d both engaged in undiscussed competition to see who could piss the other off, more. When the clock neared twelve, the karaoke section of the bar opened up. After picking up another beverage at the bar, Josh was pulling you in the direction of the stage.
He put the songs in, shutting down your inquiries and telling you it was a surprise. When you both got on stage and grabbed a mic, Jake was seething before the first note of the song played. “Seriously, Josh?” You laughed as the name of the song flashed across the screen.
“Come on! It was a good choice.” He grinned.
“You’re trying to start shit.” Still, even as you scolded him, his drunken delight was incredibly entertaining.
“He’s being an asshole,” he said, making sure his mouth was away from the mic. “I’m sure he’s trying to do the same thing with her.” His eyes floated in the direction of his twin, who now had his arm hung loosely over the other girls shoulders, similar to his hold on you earlier in the night. Red flashed in your eyes, but instead of lingering, you turned to Josh, no longer worried about the choice of music.
“Let’s give a performance of a lifetime.” Was all you replied. He smiled, happy you were on the same page. You both divulged into the song, very dramatically singing the words to ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’ by Elton John.
By the end of the song, you had almost completely forgotten about Jake by the pool table. You weren’t sure if it was because of the liquor in your system, or the sheer amount of fun you were having. You were still a bit breathless by the time Josh’s second choice lit up the screen. This one, although not a duet, was probably one of the most venomous choices he could have made. Mixed between Jake’s love for Jimi Hendrix, how often Jake played it and dedicated the song to you, and the connotation of the lyrics, you were surprised Jake didn’t get up on stage and strangle Josh in retaliation. Your eyes widened, looking over at him in concern.
“He’s been mad at me all day, and he’s taking it out on you. Let him be upset, he’s being a dick.” Josh said, his words assuring you that he would take the heat for the song choice. It felt nice to know that Josh also thought Jake was acting out of character; jealousy had never been in his vocabulary, and the toxic game you found yourselves caught in was something you had never done before. You and Jake had barely had more than an argument in your years of dating. The longer it dragged on, the more painful it became. He had a short temper, but you couldn’t recall a time it had ever been pointed at you, let alone caused a spiteful interaction. As much as it was hurting your feelings, it was fuelling an anger within you that you weren’t sure even existed before that night. The liquor and the sour mood didn’t mix, and you should have known that from the beginning, but had no idea it would divulge into anything close to whatever the current situation was.
By that point, all of the boys had caught on to the tense nature. Sam and Danny were baffled that Jake was even willing to put his focus on another girl, let alone his hands. He was nothing if not loyal to you. Usually, his eyes would never even drift to another girl. Everybody was more than aware that he loved you as much as his music, if not more. They were also very aware that you and Josh were acting out of retaliation, fuelling the fire and hoping to get the last dig in and end it for good. The girl remained quite oblivious to the whole affair, just happy to be receiving some of the attention. Sam let out a long exhale as Josh began to sing you the lyrics to ‘Foxey Lady’, him and Danny certain that this was the brutal climax to the entire night. Jake was vibrating with anger, and there was no consolidation when you’d given up your hesitancy and sang it back to him. Sam and Danny shared a look, silently agreeing that they were going to have to put a stop to the situation one way or another before it got too out of hand.
Jake bargained with his temper, deciding on how to respond. Anger would be too easy, and too obvious. So instead, his course of action was the most disastrous one he could think of. Rationality was completely out the window by that point. He grabbed the girls hand, who he still hadn’t learned the name of (and he didn’t really care, quite frankly), and pulled her towards the dance floor. You didn’t notice at first, too caught up in the singing and laughter you were sharing with Josh. Everyone else did, however, and were awaiting the storm that was brewing. At the height of the song, you finally noticed that Josh had become a bit distracted from the performance. You looked to him, realizing he was staring off at the dance floor, and followed his gaze.
You cut off your singing mid-sentence, your heart plummeting to your stomach. Jake was dancing, in midst of twirling around the girl he’d been using as leverage all night. When he pulled her back in, his hand rested on her hip and he gave her a smile. It was a sickening sight for you. You slipped the mic back onto the stand, cautiously stepping off the stage, and headed straight for the door. You threw back the last of the liquid in your cup and set it on an empty table as you passed by. As the door slammed behind you, tears prickled your eyes and a lump began to form in your throat. At the sound of the door, Jake’s head turned to the stage, finally noticing your disappearance. Panic struck him, realizing he’d definitely taken it too far. He caught Josh’s eye, but wasn’t met with any type of reassurance. He’d won the battle, but at too much of a price.
He cut the dance short, not caring about any formalities, and followed hot on your trail. When he got outside, you were already on your way down the street, far clear of the parking lot. He muttered a curse under his breath, and took off in a jog after you. “Y/n!” He called, but you didn’t turn back. You kept your pace steady, hoping that you could make it home before he caught up. Your shared home wasn’t too far away from the bar, only a few minutes by foot. You thought if you could make it there before him, you could regain yourself a bit more. When he realized you weren’t going to slow down, he ran a little faster.
He managed to catch up, grabbing a hold of your hand to stop you from going any further. You tried to shake out of his grip, not willing to make any conversation with him, but he refused to let go. “What?” You finally snapped, turning to look at him. “What do you want, Jake?” He recoiled slightly, never once hearing you speak to him in that tone.
“I…” he trailed off, eyes wide and unsure of what to do.
“You what?” You asked again, tears still falling from your eyes. “Came to tell me all about your new dance partner? I can go get my shit out of the house and you can move her right in, in my place, if she’s so fantastic!”
“I don’t even know her fucking name, y/n.” Jake rolled his eyes, only fuelling your fire even more.
“That’s the point!” You yelled back, finally freeing your hand from his. “You don’t even fucking know her, and you get up and dance with her. It’s been five years and I can’t even get you to do that with me! One hand, Jacob. I can count on one hand how many times you’ve danced with me. I got tired of hearing no, so I stopped asking!”
“Jesus Christ, all of this over a fucking dance? You were practically fucking Josh all night, and I haven’t said a word about it.”
“That’s a lie, but we’ll unpack that later.” You scoffed. “It’s not about a dance, Jake. It’s about effort.”
“Effort? Like I dont give you my entire heart every day?” You opened your mouth to respond, but closed it and proceeded to turn around and walk away. You weren’t willing to have a screaming match in the middle of the street, especially while he was still mad. If there was one thing you knew about Jake, it was that while he was upset, he had very little rationality. “So you’re just going to walk away?” He snapped. You turned on your heels, giving him the dirtiest look you could muster.
“Get in the fucking house. We can talk there.” You pointed in the direction you were walking in. His eyes held the same emotion as yours, but he obliged, anyway. When you saw him start walking towards you, you turned and walked, too. The few minutes it took to get to the house were uncomfortably silent. When you reached the front porch, you unlocked the door and stepped inside. You flicked off the porch light when Jake made his way into the house, too.
You stormed to the kitchen, discarding your purse on the table and throwing your keys beside it. You did your absolute best to make it up the stairs in a stormy fashion while still wearing your heels. You didn’t have much time to gather a thought, because he was hot on your trail. “So what is it, then? If it’s not ‘just about the dancing’?” He mocked you with air quotes, hiking your temper up even more.
“The small things, Jake. Yeah, we wake up to each other every morning, and I get a kiss goodbye, but the small stuff matters. Like dancing. I love to dance, and the only time I’ve ever gotten to dance with you, I had to practically beg you. You’re with some complete stranger, and that’s what you decide to do to get under my skin? That was really low.”
“So you’re mad that I used it against you while Josh was up there singing my fucking song for you?” He took a step closer, face inches from yours. “You got plenty of dancing in with him tonight, I figured you got it all out of your system.”
“You’re missing the. whole. point.” You annunciated your words carefully. “I was up dancing with Josh because you never would! It hurt me because you won’t do that one simple thing with me, ever, even when you know how happy it makes me! And she got to have it with a snap of her god damn fingers, even if it wasn’t for the right reason. I got to watch you do something with another girl when I have to beg you to give it to me.” You sat on the bed, pulling your foot up onto your knee and messing with the strap on your heel.
“Didn’t seem like you missed me too much, tonight.” You closed your eyes, expelling a long breath to calm yourself down.
“I was only dancing with him because I couldn’t dance with you, Jake. I was only hanging out with him because all you wanted to do was argue with me.” You kept your voice steady, trying not to feed into him. “Do you think I prefer dancing with your brother? Getting asked if I’m his girlfriend, when we’ve been dating for half a decade?” You inquired, still messing with the strap of your heel. He let out a sigh, grabbing your ankle and pulling your foot up to rest on his thigh. He carefully undid the strap of your shoe and slipped it off your foot. He held his hand out, motioning for you to lift your other leg. You gave him a look of confusion in response.
“What? I’m mad at you, it doesn’t mean I don’t fucking love you.” He grumbled. “Give me your other foot!” He ordered, anger still present in his tone. You did as he said, allowing him to free you of your other shoe. When it was off and both of them were discarded in the closet, he resumed the conversation. “Certainly looked like you were enjoying yourself.” He finally replied. “With your… hmmm, what was it?” He asked, placing his fingers on his chin and pretending to ponder the answer. “Oh, yeah! Your confidant, your partner in crime, your soulmate!” He bellowed. “Who can only dream of being your boyfriend!” He let out a mocking sigh, laced with fake dreaminess.
“I don’t understand why tonight, after years of being together, Josh and I’s friendship is bothering you. You think if there was really a problem, you would have said something, oh, I don’t know, years ago?” You stood again, feeling more secure without your shoes on.
“Because you were using him to get under my skin!”
“God, you’re insufferable sometimes!” You shouted, pushing past him to go back downstairs. He was on his game, not letting the sudden movement deter him. He followed you as you walked. “You were doing the exact same thing! And in case you forgot, you were being a dick before we even got to the bar! I gave you ample opportunity to speak up, or go home, or just tell me what was bothering you, but you insisted you were fine and that you wanted to stay. Then she comes around, and all of your issues are suddenly resolved! You’re laughing and joking like you would any other day. All it took was for me to step out of your way for ten minutes.” You grumbled the last part, making your way into the kitchen. You opened the fridge, grabbing a water bottle and cracking the lid. You took a long drink before recapping it and setting it on the counter, just in case he pissed you off enough for you to throw it at him.
“If anything, it just gave you an excuse to be alone with him.” Jake hissed. “It’s not just about the dancing, or the karaoke, or the even the ‘funny’ passes. He looks at you like he’s waiting for me to fuck up, just so he can swoop in and finally have you all to himself. He practically undresses you with his eyes every time you walk in a room. Or maybe because it always seems like he makes you happier than I can. He dances with you, and sings with you, and buys you all of those gifts that he always just seems to know that you want.” You spun on your heels, facing him with a little bit softer of an expression than any of the previous.
“That’s what you’re worried about? You think he makes me happier than you do?” His eyes darted away from you for a moment, likely to avoid letting you know how he was really feeling. “Jesus Christ, Jake, are you blind?” He didn’t answer, causing a resurgence of annoyance in you.
“If I’m the only thing standing in the way of you being with him, go ahead. I’m not stopping you.” He snapped. “He shits on me all day at the studio, then I get to come home and watch him put his hands all over you, my girlfriend, and I’m the bad guy for being upset?” Your vision turned red, infuriated at the thought of him even thinking that. You took a step towards him, your nose practically touching his.
“If you’re so mad at him, why the fuck are you taking it out on me?” You questioned. “I told you, I would have been more than happy at home with you. You know why? Because I fucking love you, you idiot. I could say it a million times, and you wouldn’t care. Because obviously it’s all about Josh, and how I’ve been meticulously planning on using you to get to him for half a decade. Just waiting for the right time to strike, yeah?” You spat. “It doesn’t matter what I say, because no matter what, you’re always right, hmm?” You pushed your finger into his chest, really extenuating your point. “Nobody else in the entire world is allowed to have an opinion, because Jake knows it all! He’s got it all figured out!” He grabbed your wrist, forcing it down to your side and stopping you from prodding at his chest again. You were nose to nose, chests heaving with anger. You weren’t sure if he was going to tell you to get out, or if you were going to leave before he got the chance. You didn’t have a clue as to what was to come next, but you certainly weren’t expecting him to spin you around and push you against the island countertop. He let go of your wrist, grabbing a fistful of your hair instead. He pulled your head back gently, just so your ear was touching his lips.
“Did you like him singing that song for you?” He asked, his voice low and his breath tickling your skin. As angry as you were, you couldn’t help but feel a rush of arousal at your new found position. When you didn’t answer, his grip on your hair tightened. “Answer me.”
“Yeah.” You hissed, just for arguments sake. In reality, it was nothing compared to when Jake played it for you. Josh singing it had nothing on when Jake sang it, or hummed the lyrics to you. Josh had nothing on Jake, period, but you were too stubborn to stroke his ego.
“Yeah?” Jake questioned, his knuckles white against the hold on your hair. His hips were pressed into your ass, locking you against the counter indefinitely. “You’d rather go home with him?” He seethed. “Have him take your high heels off, wake up to him every morning?” Your heart was drumming against your chest. You weren’t willing to give in to him, but you also weren’t sure where he was going with his point. When you didn’t answer, he used his free hand to yank your skirt over your ass. His hand graced your exposed skin, the touch almost too gentle to fit with the current situation. After a moment of silence, he lifted his hand and brought it down forcefully, causing you to gasp at the contact. The ring that he adorned on his finger left a sharp sting long after the slap was delivered. “Fucking answer me.”
“N-no,” you stuttered, all of your confidence fleeing you. In place of it, there was a growing arousal between your legs and your tendency to submit to him was showing.
“That changed awfully fast.” He taunted. His hand still rested on your ass, but he’d moved it closer to your hip and held you in a firm grip, instead. You could feel his erection growing against you; the position alone was enough to get him going. “Color.” He barked.
“Green.” You said without hesitation. His fingers hooked into the side of your panties, his fist still anchored in your hair. He took a small step away from you, freeing your underwear from your body and letting them fall to your ankles.
“Since you don’t know how to make up your mind, I’ll do it for you.” He explained. You bit the inside of your lip, not daring to make a peep. “By the time I’m done with you, he won’t even be a thought in that pretty little head of yours.” He dipped his hand between your thighs, spreading them apart slightly. “The only word you’ll be able to say is my fucking name. M’gonna remind you why you come home to me.” His fingers ran through your cunt, getting a feel for the wetness that had already begun to pool. “That sound okay, angel?”
“Yes, sir.” You whispered, already knowing the rules to the game.
“Almost don’t want to let you cum. Haven’t been a very good girl for me, have you?” He hummed, spreading your arousal up to your clit. He swirled his finger around it for a moment, producing a whine from your throat. “So needy already. Pathetic.” He noted, applying a bit more pressure to his area of focus. You closed your eyes, losing yourself to the pleasure after hours of torture.
“M’sorry, sir.” You pleaded, knowing it was in your best interest to grovel for a while. “Promise I’ll be good for you from now on.”
“Come on, you expect me to forgive you that easily?” He chuckled. You didn’t respond, only let out a shaky breath when he removed his finger from your clit. “Gonna have to make it up to me, angel. You know that.” You heard him undo his belt buckle, pulling it from the loops on his pants. He set it on the counter cautiously, making you believe its use for the night was not over. He unzipped his zipper and freed himself from his pants in a swift motion. He tugged at your hair, silently telling you he wanted you to turn and face him. You did so, almost breathless at the sight of his face. His hand was still in your hair, pulling your head upwards slightly, making sure you couldn’t look away from him.
You wanted to break character so bad, to kiss him and tell him you were sorry, and that you loved him. You wanted to tell him everything you were too angry to communicate before, but you stayed silent. Instead, you gave an innocent bat of your eyelashes. He leaned down, likely feeling the same way, and pressed his lips to yours. It was sweet at first, but quickly turned needy and sloppy. You reached out for him, pulling him closer by the fabric of his shirt. You thought you would get in trouble for it, but in that moment, he allowed it. The small act satiated his need to feel wanted. You messed with the buttons on his shirt, trying to free him from it. After a few moments of struggle, you managed to slip it off his shoulders. He let go of you only for long enough to rid himself of it, and returned to his previous hold. He broke from the kiss, realizing he’d been far too accommodating for his liking. He raised his eyebrow, as if he expected you to know what he wanted. After a moment, you caught on, luckily just fast enough.
You sunk down to your knees, now eye level with his exposed cock. He still had his hand in your hair, holding it out of the way for you. You reached up, wrapping your hand around him before lowering your mouth to the tip and slowly bringing him into your mouth. You started slow, working yourself up to speed. He didn’t push you; as dominant as he was during sex, he was always hyper-aware of your comfortability. After a few moments, you started to hear a few curses fall from his lips. It gave you the encouragement to take him further, relaxing your jaw and your throat as you pushed your head down on him.
“Fuck, baby.” He sighed, unable to hold back his words anymore. You hummed against him, continuing your pace. Soon after, he tightened his fist in your hair, holding your head in place. He thrusted forward into your mouth, keeping a steady rhythm with his hips. You tried your best to keep yourself relaxed, making it easier for you to continue on. “Doing so good, sweetheart.” He groaned. The praise sent a shiver down your spine, your excitement for what was to come next was debilitating.
He sped his movements a bit more, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat with each re-entry. You felt tears from in the corner of your eyes, unsure how long you could keep up with him. But, you were more determined to please him than anything else, because it always meant you’d receive a fantastic reward. His head was thrown back in ecstasy, feeling too good to even look down at your face. As the tears rolled down your cheeks, you felt yourself gag, throat constricting against him.
His cock twitched in your mouth, bringing him back to reality for a moment. He pulled back, completely removing himself from you. “Should just cum in your mouth and leave you here like this.” He theorized, trying to attain his earlier tone of voice but failing. His chest was heaving with every breath, eyes glazed with lust. He wanted you just as bad as you wanted him, and he didn’t have the willpower to walk away from you, now. “You wouldn’t like that, would you?” He asked, his hand falling from your hair to your face, using his thumb to wipe away a few stray tears.
“No, sir.” You answered, finally regaining yourself a bit.
“I know, baby.” He sighed, realizing he could likely get off just by watching you looking at him that way. “Couldn’t do that to you. You know that.” You nodded, grateful he drew that conclusion. “Stand up for me.” You did as he said, raising slowly and ensuring you had your balance, not wanting to topple over. He brought you into a kiss, hands pulling at your shirt. If he knew you didn’t care, he would have ripped it off of you. He managed to free it from your upper half, pulling out of the kiss to bring it over your head. “No bra?” He inquired, fingers trailing over your now exposed torso. He brought his thumb to your hardened nipple, running the pad over it before pinching it between his fingers. You let out a gasp at the suddenness of his actions. “Such a little whore.” He quickly took his hand and swiped away any items littering the island. Your eyes widened at the action, watching as papers and books tumbled to the floor. He didn’t react, only placed his palms just below your ass, lifting you up onto the counter.
The cold countertop took you as a shock, causing you to tense for a moment. “Only for you.” You finally replied, watching him as he anchored your skirt above your hips.
“Didn’t seem that way tonight.” He muttered, forcefully shoving your legs apart. He took a step back for a minute, admiring the obscene display he’d left you in. You rolled your eyes.
“Jake-“ he cut you off with his eyes, his glare louder than any words he could speak.
“Kind of humiliating, isn’t it? When everybody at the bar thinks Josh gets to take you home, thinks he gets to see you like this?” He asked, not advancing any closer to you. You didn’t answer, just watched him. “How do you think that makes me feel? Watching you run around like a whore with my brother, begging him for attention?” Your face flushed at his words, embarrassed at the degradation.
“M’sorry, Jake.” You mumbled, not daring to move, in hopes of keeping him in good spirits.
“Are you? Or are you just saying it to get what you want?” He pried.
“I mean it.” You finally looked up to meet his eyes. He barely acknowledged your words before speaking again.
“Because you’re mine. You do know that, right?” You gave him a nod. “Nobody else gets to see you like this, ever. Nobody else gets to see how pretty you look when you’re desperate to be fucked.” He gave a small smirk, grabbing one of the chairs and pulling it over to him. He positioned it directly in front of you, taking a seat on it. You felt a sinking feeling in your stomach, having an idea about what he was planning. He leaned against the back of it, never letting his eyes leave you. “You know that, right?” He pressed.
“Yes, sir.” You affirmed.
“Show me, then.”
“W-what?” You stuttered, wanting clarification.
“Touch yourself. M’gonna watch. You’re going to show me all of the parts of you only I get to see.” He ordered. You didn’t move right away, wondering if he was serious. “Do you have a problem with that?” His tone was condescending and his gaze was burning into you.
“N-no, sir.” You shook your head.
“Good.” He raised his palm to his face, spitting on it. He lowered his hand to his cock, stroking himself as he waited for you to start. “I don’t have all day, angel.” He stated, almost sounding bored. You broke out of your shock, bracing one hand behind you to hold yourself up and lowering your other hand to your heat. You gathered your arousal, slowly running your fingers through your cunt, really giving him a show. You saw his jaw clench as he drew in a long breath, silently telling you he approved of your actions. “If you’re gonna act like a whore, you’re gonna get treated like one.” He explained, eyes laser focused on your fingers. “You love the attention so much, so I’ll give it to you. But you’ve gotta work for it, and you better not cum unless I say you can.”
“Yes, sir.” You let your fingers trail up to your clit, rubbing small circles. Your breath hitched in your throat, pleasure stemming from the sensation, but also from the sight of him touching himself. You had no idea how he could ever doubt your love for him, because you were hopelessly and utterly infatuated with him. Every movement, or word, or expression always made your heart flutter. He was perfect, and nobody in the world could ever compare to him. You applied a bit more pressure, letting your head fall back at the feeling. A quiet moan escaped your lips, hitting him with force. He closed his eyes, trying to stop himself from getting up and fucking you right then and there.
You lifted your hand that was supporting you and leaned back on your elbow, instead, giving him a better view. You brought your hand to your breast, the pad of your thumb drifting over your nipple while you touched yourself at the same time. You really wanted to give him a show, part of it being because it was a show of an apology, and the other part being quite selfish. You knew that the faster you gave him what he wanted, the more likely he was to get you off. Your eyes drifted back to him, settling on his face and soaking up every bit of his expression. He had a scowl, and his jaw was hard set. His eyes were almost feral looking, and he was watching you intently. His hand was wrapped around himself, slowly but steadily moving. It was just enough to get a bit of relief. You could tell he wanted to save his stamina for when he finally decided to fuck you.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about.” He ordered.
“You, Jake.” You sighed, another groan escaping your mouth. His breath caught in his throat at the sound of you saying his name like that.
“Mhm,” he made a noise of confirmation “You better be.”
“I am,” you promised, catching his gaze. “Only you.” Your steady pace mixed with you being incredibly turned on was causing a knot to form in the pit of your stomach. He knew you well enough to pick up on it by your expression alone.
“Don’t.” He warned. You gave him a pleading look, hoping he’d have a bit of mercy on you. In response, he only shook his head. You let out a whine, slowing your movements to hold on a little longer. You felt the pressure ease, relief crossing your face. “So you can listen,” he noted. “Good job, baby.” The praise was heavenly, washing over you with a warm embrace. You knew he couldn’t keep up with the current situation for much longer; he was eager to get his hands on you again. He didn’t have to say it aloud for you to know that. You took a break from your clit, slipping your hand down a bit further.
You slipped your middle and ring finger inside you, making sure to keep your eyes on him, wanting to see his reaction. You gave him an innocent smile, setting him on fire. You slowly pumped the digit into yourself, clamping down on your bottom lip with your teeth and letting out a sigh of pleasure. You couldn’t keep your eyes on him for very long, equating it to torture in your mind. You only had to work at yourself for a moment, riling him up faster by the second. “God, I wish it was you touching me, instead, Jake.” You whined, eyelids fluttering closed for a second.
It was almost like you flipped a switch; suddenly, the sultry looks and lust-filled noises drove him over the edge. He stood, almost knocking the chair over as he did so, and advanced towards you. His hand found the back of your neck, pulling you up to meet his lips. There was no gentle nature to be found, just volatile desire that you couldn’t quite wrap your head around. Once he’d fulfilled his need to kiss you, both of his hands grabbed you by the hips and roughly brought you to the edge of the island. He grabbed your wrist, abruptly moving your hand to your side. He replaced it with his own, fingers gathering your arousal and pushing inside you. He let his thumb slide up to your bundle of nerves, brushing it over the sensitive area every time he pumped his fingers into you. You were over the moon at the new found contact, although abrupt. You were trying to wrap your head around the rapid change while welcoming it at the same time.
“F-fuck, Jake.” You moaned, letting the weight of your head fall back into his hand.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” He whispered, trying to cover his own tone of neediness. He didn’t need a verbal answer to his question; your expression was more than enough. As much as he was dominant, he was also a giver. Knowing he was making you feel good was more than enough to satisfy him. Watching you was great, but it was nothing compared to him being the reason behind your pleasure. His fingers curled upwards ever so slightly, hitting that spot inside you he knew all too well. “How fast can you cum for me, angel?”
“I-i don’t..” you trailed off, only focused on the feeling of his hands working magic on you.
“You don’t what?” He asked. You could hear the smirk in his voice without even looking at him. “Make it quick, before I change my mind.” He leaned down, making you lean back, too. He pulled one of your nipples into his mouth, gently grazing his teeth over it. You hated to admit that he already had you teetering on the edge. After years of practice, he knew you well enough to know exactly what to do. An expert of sorts, if you had to label it. You reached a hand out, grabbing on to his bicep for support while your other one was anchored on the countertop. You had already pushed yourself to the edge once, and it wasn’t hard for him to get you back there.
“Jake, m’gonna cum.” You announced. His pace didn’t change, only encouraging you further. It was embarrassing at how fast he could bring you to an orgasm.
“That’s it, baby. Come on.” His voice was low, only audible due to how close he was to you. He said it like he needed it, too. It only took the small push from him to send you into your first orgasm. Your legs were shaking, your arm barely holding you up. You barely managed his name through the mess of vulgar noises that came from your mouth. Instead of coaxing you through your orgasm, his movements never tapered. By the time you were coming down from the high, the overstimulation had already started to take over.
“Jake!” You gasped, unable to free yourself from his grip.
“You’re fine.” He said, a hint of venom still in his tone. Your eyes were screwed shut, the unpleasant feeling starting to drive you insane. He noticed the look of discomfort on your face, questioning himself for a moment. “Color.” He whispered, the act completely out the window. His thumb was still working over your clit, just with less pressure.
“Green.” You hissed, knowing deep down that you could handle it. You knew the reward after was worth the moment of discomfort. He wasn’t sure if he believed you, so he gave you another chance to speak up. “Green.” You said again, noticing he was holding back a bit. At the assurance, he continued working at you. The feeling was intense, but you coached yourself through it, and eventually, the knot in your belly tightened once more, although not fully covering the uncomfortable sensation the movements were producing. When your next orgasm tore through you, it was powerful enough to make you lose the strength in your arms. If not for Jake holding you up, you would have fallen backwards. When you relaxed against him, he slowly withdrew his hand from you. Your chest was heaving, sweat glistening on you, and your face was flushed. He took in the sight, letting the picture burn a memory in his brain.
He only let you recover for a moment before ridding himself of his pants completely and sinking to his knees. You let out a groan, barely back to earth from his previous actions. His eyes looked up to you, wordlessly checking to see if you were ready to keep going. He didn’t speak again, but placed a few kisses on the inside of your thighs. Just when you relaxed into him, thinking maybe he’d gotten his fill of being an asshole, he let his teeth sink into the sensitive skin. You jumped slightly at the sudden feeling, not expecting it. He continued on, barely aware of your reaction, and sucked a few marks into you. By the time he’d worked himself up to your cunt, you had surpassed your overstimulation, and quickly became eager for him to continue on.
“You want it, don’t you?” He teased, mouth only inches away from your heat.
“Yeah,” you breathed.
“How bad?” His eyes flickered up to your face again. Your lips turned downward, almost into a frown.
“You want me to beg for you?” You questioned, not realizing how challenging your tone sounded. His eyes turned stony, eyebrows furrowing slightly.
“Thought you said you wanted me, angel?” He pulled back slightly. You felt your stomach sink, hoping you hadn’t made too much of a mistake.
“I do, Jake. I’m sorry.” You rushed out.
“Then fucking tell me how bad you want it.” His scowl had returned, his order clearly stating that he wasn’t in the mood for any argument. You realized it was less about dominance, and more about him needing to hear the words, needing to feel needed. You reached down, placing your hand on his cheek and letting your thumb run over the soft skin.
“So bad, Jake. I need you.” You whispered. Involuntarily, he leaned into the touch. You could feel his rigidness soften, almost immediately calmed by the feeling of your hand on him. “Please.” You gave him a look of desire, softening your features. “I want it so bad, I’ll do anything. Only you can make me feel this good.” That seemed to be exactly what he needed to hear. He didn’t make you work any harder for it; before you were even finished your sentence, his mouth was on you. You let your fingers tangle in his hair, holding on to him while his tongue ran through you. You let out a sigh of pleasure when he focused on your clit. His fingers sunk into your skin, holding you as if he was scared you were going to get away, sure to leave marks in the morning. He was working at you as if he starved, cautious as to not miss out on a second of the experience.
You were unable to contain any of your moans, giving him exactly what he wanted to hear from you. You’re tugged at the roots of his hair, another way of letting him know how good he was making you feel. He pulled back from you for a moment, moving his thumb in place of his tongue. “Does that feel good, baby?”
“So good, Jake.” You struggled to get the words out, too caught up in the moment.
“Don’t be shy. I wanna hear all of those pretty noises.” He ordered. He didn’t let you respond, already having his tongue take over again. He slipped his index and middle finger back inside you, adding the extra bit of stimulation for you. He was determined to fulfil his earlier promise; he wanted you so fucked out that he was the only thing you could think of. Little to his knowledge, he didn’t have to do much for that to be true. He was always at the front of your mind, wiggling his way into every thought and action. This part was just a bonus for you.
In retaliation to his statement, you decided to up your game a bit; if he wanted to hear noises, you were more than willing to give it to him. The moans and curses you let out were pornographic, sure to be heard by the neighbours if they listened hard enough.
You could tell he was enjoying himself, too, humming against you and taking in sharp breaths when a sound he particularly liked was heard.
His fingers curled upwards in just the right way, causing you to give an involuntary tug on his his hair. He only used it at motivation, ensuring to repeat the same action with each movement. His skills at guitar had paid off fantastically for you in the bedroom. “Fuck,” you groaned, feeling the familiar pressure build once more. “God, please don’t stop, Jake. Feels so good.” You whined, letting your head fall back in ecstasy. He took the praise to heart, making sure to keep his movements steady. He was focusing on keeping his hand and tongue at the same speed, wanting to allow you to get the most of the pleasure. It didn’t take much longer for you to come undone, gripping at his hair and uttering curses. He only eased up when you started to come down, taking the opportunity to get a good look at you. Your eyeliner was beginning to run, and your lipstick was smudged. Your hair was messy and your eyelids were heavy as you looked down to meet his gaze. He had to admire your beauty even in the disarray. He thought you were the most beautiful thing that ever walked the earth.
He removed his fingers, standing in an instant. He took hold of your hips again, pulling you as close to the edge of the table as he could. Your head was still spinning as he used his hand to line himself up with your entrance. He had no more willpower to wait any longer. You both let out a sigh of relief when he pushed himself inside of you, the feeling intensified by the lingering sensitivity of your last orgasm. The position was a bit awkward, making it hard for him to move, but it didn’t bother either of you very much. The intimacy was what you craved, and it was giving you just that. He brought one of his hands to your face, letting his thumb trail over your bottom lip. You parted your lips, pulling the digit into your mouth and lightly suctioning your cheeks around it. He let out a long exhale through his nose, the tail end of it sounding more like a growl produced from his chest. He slowly moved his hips, rocking into you agonizingly slow. You opted to just enjoy it while it lasted, knowing the gentle nature would be out the window soon.
He pulled his thumb from your mouth, a small pop sounding as he did so. His hand drifted towards your neck, fingers ghosting over your skin. His thrusts didn’t speed, but did get more forceful. You couldn’t help but let out a gasp as the tip of his cock brushed your cervix, sending a jolt of pleasurable pain through you. “Just like that, baby?” He asked, eyes boring into you. His fingers tightened slightly on your neck, leaving you to believe his concerned inquiry was a bit misleading. “Does that feel good?” You hooked your leg around his waist, drawing him even closer. It gave him the answer he was looking for, although nonverbal. “Such a dirty little whore.” He hummed, clearly pleased by your action. “Is this all you wanted? To get fucked?” His eyes scanned your face, the flame still dancing in his pupils. “Didn’t matter whose bed you were in, as long as there was a cock inside you?” His fingers tightened again, finally enough pressure to restrict the blood flow. “Or did want to go home with him?”
He knew you were unable to answer; he was talking to himself, and taunting you in the process. He knew the minute he took his hand away from your neck, you’d be talking back, and he wasn’t particularly fond of that idea. He leaned in, lips hovering over your ear as he fucked into you. He knew he’d have to release his hold on you soon; he may have been willing to degrade you, a few slaps or spankings, but never seriously harm you. He didn’t want you to fear he would, either. “You think he’d fuck you like this? Make you feel this good?” He whispered, breath hot and tone gravelly. He clamped down on your neck tighter once more, completely restricting any blood or airflow. He felt you let out a pointless, choked gasp, not getting anything from it. He bit down on your earlobe, one final move before he loosened his hand. You let in a long, desperate breath, filling your lungs as much as you could. You coughed, sputtering for a moment at the sudden burst of oxygen. He let his fingers gently massage the area he’d just assaulted, wanting you to know without breaking character that he was, in fact, just acting. His head was still down by your ear, scared if he looked up he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from cumming.
You were agitated from his words, feeling the bratty part of you start to surface once more. If he was so willing to talk down on you, you weren’t afraid to give it back. You hadn’t fully thought out the whole thing, only depending on your bruised feelings for clarity. “Don’t be so cocky. You call this fucking?” You challenged, voice was still raspy from his hand around your throat. He stiffened, pulling back from you as if you’d burned him.
“What did you say?” His hips stopped, too. His expression was feral, and his body tense.
“What, you can dish it out, but you can’t take it?” A smirk was playing on your lips. “If you’re not going to do it right, I can go call-“ your sentence was cut short by his palm retracting from your throat and colliding with your cheek, throwing your head to the side. It caught you completely off guard; your train of thought disappearing and his body language now anything but loving. Admittedly, he’d hit you a bit harder than intended, but he was in no state of mind to cater to you. Without so much as an utter of concern, he pulled out of you roughly grabbed your hips, yanking you off the table and onto your feet.
You didn’t have time to process the change before he spun you around. His hand found your hair and he forced your upper half down onto the countertop. He wasn’t gentle with his touch, shoving your face into the table until your cheek was squished against the wood. He took in the sight, your skirt still pushed up to your bellybutton. In a rash decision reliant on emotion, he grabbed a fistful of the bunched up fabric and gave a hard pull, busting it at the seams and ripping it from your body. He could buy you another to make up for it, he decided. Now less concerned about the sex, and more worried about your favourite skirt, you opened your mouth to protest. “Jake-“
“Shut the fuck up.” Your time for talking was over; you’d pushed him just a bit too far. He let the now torn clothing fall to the floor, grabbing his belt from beside you. He maneuvered it so it was folded in half, all whilst still holding you to the table. “You think he could do a better job?” He seethed, running the cold leather across your bare ass. When you didn’t respond, he lifted the belt and brought it down with force, causing a sharp sound and a lasting sting. “Do you really think anybody could?” His hand in your hair tightened, driving your cheek even harder into the table. He had no care for your comfortability, now. “I should just leave you here, make you get yourself off, instead, since I’m not doing it right. Would you like that?”
“N-no,” you squeaked, mentally preparing for another blow. Just as you expected, another searing sensation spread across your backside, causing you to jump.
“If you want him so bad, then go. But don’t think for a second he can give you half of what I can.” You could hear the sneer in his voice. “Do you understand me?” You weren’t sure if he wanted you to answer, or if it was rhetorical. When the belt flashed across your skin the third time, it was made clear he wanted a verbal confirmation. “I said, do you understand me?”
“Y-yes, sir.” Tears were spilling onto your cheeks, teeth grinding at the pain from the leather. But, you had pushed him, and you were more than aware of the consequences when you misbehaved.
“Don’t you ever speak to me like that again.” His tone dropped, less authority and more finality. You heard the belt fall to the floor, followed immediately by him lining himself up with you. There was no adjustment period before he pushed himself into you again, taking no mercy with the power behind his hips. You let out a yelp when he slammed into your cervix, but he was in no hurry to ask if you were okay. You had no time to recover before he repeated the same action.
His hips were moving at a brutal pace, all of the anger from the night being let out at once and building up to a dramatic climax. He was still holding your hair, never easing up on the weight of his hand holding you down. His other hand was holding your hip, keeping you in place while he fucked you. There was no ability to keep yourself quiet; the sounds falling from your lips were obscene, pleasure bordering pain creating a whole new feeling. He pulled your hips back a bit, giving more space between your legs and the edge of the table. He slipped his hand around to the front of you, fingers finding your clit with expert precision.
“How’s this? Good enough for you?” He growled. You couldn’t find the words to respond, eyes squeezed shut as all of the stimulation acted together to bring you to the brink of insanity. His finger danced over your already sensitive bundle of nerves, coaxing another orgasm out of you almost effortlessly. He was almost smiling at the noises you were making, arrogant enough to know how good he was making you feel.
“F-fuck, Jake,” you managed out, some form of confirmation that you heard his words.
“What’s wrong?” He tormented, voice wavering slightly at his rapid movements. “You asked for it, now you can’t handle it?” He showed no signs of slowing down or easing up; he was determined to prove a point, now, and he wasn’t backing down. He heard a familiar moan fall from your lips, your walls tightening against him slightly as you did so. He knew you were close, and it was only encouraging him further. Within a few seconds, you were caught up in another orgasm, all of your muscles tense and your throat coarse from crying out his name. You couldn’t allow yourself to relax as you came down, his hips nor his fingers letting up.
“Jake, please, I can’t.” You pleaded.
“You can, and you will.” He dismissed you, fully aware of the state you were in. He could see the tears staining your skin, your mascara fully running down your face. Your cheeks were red, burning with heat, and sweat glistening on your forehead. “Color.”
“Green, fuck!” You expelled, frustrated with your own unwillingness to give in. Every nerve in your body was on fire, begging you to stop, or take a break, but you were still enjoying yourself. You knew he was, too, and that was most of your motivation. He continued as if there was no question asked in the first place, never easing up on your clit, either. You were on the brink of screams, desperately trying to contain the moans ripping from your chest.
“You gonna give me another one, angel?” He asked, venom still present in his tone. You knew he wasn’t being so generous with orgasms for your sake, it was solely a personal agenda for him to prove a point. You were completely unwilling to cum for him again, but his fingers were forcing your body to betray you. He knew it, too, only allowing the cockiness to grow. “You ready to admit it, now? You want to tell me the truth?” He hissed, eyes never leaving your face. Before you could reply, the pressure in your belly peaked once more. He’d successfully forced another orgasm from you, letting the pride settle in his bones. Before you fully came down, he was already lifting your upper body off of the table so you were standing. He was aware of your lack of strength, assuring he was holding you tight enough so you wouldn’t fall over.
He pulled out of you, still supporting you with his arm, and turned you around. You were exhausted, completely at his disposal. You weren’t the least but worried, knowing he would take care of you; if you said the word, he’d stop immediately. “Arms around me.” He told you, a little gentler than his earlier orders. You obeyed, snaking your arms around his neck. His hands fell to your ass, lifting you up in one swift motion. You wrapped your legs around him, almost as if it were muscle memory. He carried you over to the wall, pressing your back into it. As much as he enjoyed the accessibility of the last position, the simplicity of doing whatever he pleased to you, he wanted to see your face. He kept one hand firm on your ass, holding you up, and guided himself back inside you with his other. The position change had given you a minute to calm down, just as he was hoping it would. He rested there for a moment, not making any further advances.
“Look at me.” He snapped. You lifted your eyes, barely keeping them open, and met his gaze. His expression was hard, but no longer malicious. He couldn’t find it in himself to stay angry with you; the sight of your face so close to his was enough to immediately soften his heart. “I want to hear you say it, angel.” He whispered, stare burning into you. “Tell me I’m the only one who can make you feel like this.”
“You are, Jake.” You breathed, unable to lie about it and risk any more punishment. “Only you can make me feel this good. Nobody could replace you.” Your voice was quiet, all of your energy completely drained. But, you were speaking from the heart, and he could tell. He leaned in, resting his forehead on yours. Slowly, he started rocking his hips into you again. The feeling was so much different, now. His movements careful, filled with love. He’d proved his point beyond intention, and he was well aware of it. All of the anger was gone, and he just wanted to be close to you, now.
“You’re mine, baby. You know that.” He hummed. “Nobody else even gets to think about you, like this.”
“M’yours, Jake. All yours.” You promised, hoping he’d lean forward just enough so you could kiss him. “I don’t want anyone else.” Your fight was gone, now, not as if there was a lot there in the first place. Your back talk seemed to hurt him a little more than intended, and all you wanted was to make up for it.
“I know, honey.” He assured you. “Me, too.” His sincerity was staggering, the softness of those two words were the most profound vulnerability he’d ever shown during sex. You felt like you were seeing right through him. “Gonna take care of you, now. Okay?” You managed a nod, filled with relief when he leaned forward to connect his mouth with yours. You tangled your fingers in the hair at the base of his head, holding him to you. You didn’t want him to pull back, savouring the loving gesture as if your life depended on it. The sensation of him fucking into you so carefully while he was kissing you was more euphoric than anything else you’d felt that night. Not often did you get slow sex with Jake, and it was just as phenomenal, if not more. Something about the emotion, the complete transparency, was unmatched.
“I love you,” you mumbled against his lips, causing his fingers to tighten on you. He pulled back slightly, just enough space between your mouths to speak.
“Fuck, y/n, say it again.” He ordered, but it sounded more like a plea.
“I love you, Jake. So much.” You groaned, losing yourself to the feeling of him inside you. You were sure there was nothing that could feel better than that.
“I love you, y/n.” He closed his eyes, jaw clenching as he rode through the blissful proclamation. You could tell he was close, and you were eager for him to get there. “God, you feel so good.” You let your hand come up to his cheek, holding his face while your thumb drifted over the soft skin. “Can you cum for me one more time?” You nodded as best you could with his forehead against yours.
“Just kiss me, please.” He didn’t need to be asked twice, his lips were on yours again in an instant. You kissed him with a hunger that could only be satisfied by him. He picked up his pace a bit, silently begging you to cum, just so he could, too. He had been holding himself back for long enough that it had started to become painful. He pulled you down on him every time he thrusted, just for a little more impact. That was enough for you; with the added pressure, he reached the spot inside you that only he could. Your legs tightened around him and your fingers grasped at him, letting him know you were there again. He pulled back, wanting the full view this time. Your head fell backwards against the wall, eyes closed in pleasure. You breathed his name between moans, finding it impossible to think of anything but him as your final orgasm washed over you.
At the sound of his name spoken so beautifully, and the sight of your blissful expression, he couldn’t help but lose himself to the feeling, too. He pulled you down on him one last time, holding you there as he spilled his release into you. He slumped over, pressing you further into the wall and letting his head rest in the crook of your neck. He was breathless, completely overpowered by euphoria. He didn’t withdraw right away, wanting to savour the moment of intimacy with you. Nothing but heavy breathing sounded through the kitchen, both of you chest to chest and feeling your heartbeats against each other. He turned his head inwards towards your neck, placing a few kisses into it. He left a few light marks, just as a final reminder of the entire night.
“You okay?” He asked, still resting his head on your shoulder.
“Yeah,” you sighed. “Are you?”
“Yeah.” He murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too.” He finally pulled back from you, placing a kiss to your forehead.
“Bath?” He asked. You nodded, giving him a small smile. He carried you to the bathroom carefully, not pulling out of you yet in avoidance of a mess. Once you were in the bathroom, he withdrew and let you get cleaned up. He flicked on the faucet for the bathtub, letting the warm water run before closing the drain stopper. He grabbed your package of makeup wipes pulling a few out and setting it back on the counter. “C’mere.” He whispered. You turned towards him, leaning into his hand reaching for you. He gently wiped at the smudged makeup, cleaning you up as best he could. He discarded the dirty wipes in the trash and placed a kiss on your lips.
By the time he finished, the bathtub was full and more than ready for the both of you. He flipped off the faucet, helping you in first. As you settled in, he couldn’t help but notice the marks littering your thighs and ass. He felt a sinking feeling of regret, checking your face for where he’d slapped you. It was red, slightly irritated, but seemed as though it would fade away soon. There was a small welt on your cheek from where his ring sat on his finger. He got in, too, settling behind you and pulling you into him. The warm water soothed your aching muscles, allowing you to fully relax into his hold. With your back pressed against him, you were fully surrounded in comfort. You rested your head against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you. After a moment, he lifted his hand to your cheek, fingers gently running over the inflamed area.
“I’m sorry, baby.” He said, lips turned down into a frown. “I shouldn’t have been so rough with you.”
“I’m okay.” You promised, turning your head and placing a kiss to his thumb. “Let’s just… never do that again. The sex was great, but I don’t like fighting with you. I also really didn’t like whatever we were doing at the bar… it was gross and childish.”
“I agree. No girl in the world deserve the time of day, especially when I have you to come home to. I started the whole thing. I know you and Josh would never do that to me. You guys really weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary, I was just in a shitty mood.”
“Yeah, but I knew you were upset. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I was being an asshole, and I really shouldn’t have let him sing that song. I knew it was a bad idea when I saw it come up on the screen.”
“You didn’t pick it?” He asked, fingers still caressing the spot on your face where he’d slapped you.
“No, of course not, Jake. I was mad at you, but I’d never go that far.” His stomach sank.
“I’m sorry I danced with her. I knew it would hurt you, and it was wrong. I shouldn’t have assumed you would do that, either.”
“That did hurt me, a lot.” You admitted, feeling no need to lie about it. “You’ve never really been jealous before. Where the hell did that come from?”
“I don’t know.” He was honest. “I was mad at Josh all day, and when I saw you guys being so nice to each other and dancing to those songs, especially while I was so upset…I guess it just felt like he made you shine a little brighter than I did, tonight. I feel like I dim your light, sometimes.” He mumbled the last part, almost afraid to admit it out loud. You felt your heart break at his words.
“Jake, Josh is my best friend. My brother. Of course I have fun with him, but that’s all it is. Yeah, I love him, but I’ve never once felt that kind of love for him. I’m in love with you. You don’t have to make me shine all of the time, because you complete me. You can’t always make me shine brighter, especially when you’re the one who ignited the flame in the first place.” He had one arm snaked under yours, lazily strewn across your torso just under your chest. He used that arm to pull you closer to him, still letting his fingers dance over your cheek.
“I love you.” He sighed. “I never want to do that again, either. It was so stupid. I never want to hurt you like that again.” He placed a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll never be able to say I’m sorry enough to make up for it.”
“I’m sorry, too. If me being so close with Josh makes you feel that way, I can take a step back. You’re the most important person to me, no matter what.”
“No, baby. Never bothered me before, I guess I just felt a bit forgotten about. Got in my own head, and instead of talking to you about it, I tried to make you feel the same way. Next time, I promise I’ll talk to you. You’re my most important person, too. Seeing that look on your face when you left the bar made me realize how easy I could lose you, and I never want that to happen.”
“Guess we learned our lesson, then, ‘cause I really don’t want to lose you, either.” You laced your fingers through his, running your thumb over the back of his hand.
“The sex was fantastic, though.” He chuckled after a moment of silence. “I hope I didn’t hurt you too bad. I got a little to caught up in the moment.”
“I’m okay,” you laughed. “Maybe a bit sore, but it was my own fault. Shouldn’t have talked back like that.”
“You were being bratty, weren’t you?” He pondered back to the earlier scene in the kitchen.
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean it. Just wanted to get under your skin.” You giggled, sinking a bit lower into the water.
“I know, beautiful. You did a good job at it, I’ll give you that.”
“Yeah, my ass knows it, too.” You grumbled. He laughed, leaning down and peppering a few kisses over your shoulders. You melted into the touch, happy to have things back to normal.
“Hey, y/n?” He asked, lips still drifting over your skin.
“Hmm?” You hummed, eyes closed in peacefulness.
“I don’t want you to stop dancing with Josh. But I do think that maybe I wouldn’t mind dancing with you, too, if that’s okay.” He whispered. A smile broke onto your lips at his words.
“That’s more than okay, Jake.” He dropped his other arm, wrapping it around you, too. He pulled you into a hug, love completely surrounding you, now. “I love you.”
“I love you, angel. God, I’ll dance with you every day for the rest of my life if it means I get to have you like this.” He sighed. “I was stupid for not wanting to, before. I can sacrifice a little embarrassment to get a smile on that pretty face of yours.” You couldn’t help but laugh again.
“Don’t have to do that to make me smile, baby. You know that. You can have me like this for the rest of your life even if you don’t dance with me.”
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t mind it. I’d do anything to make you happy.” You almost rolled your eyes at the statement. He said it as if he didn’t do that already.
“You already give me the world, Jacob. What more could you do to make me happy?”
“I’ll stop when I can give you the universe, instead of just the world.” You could hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll buy you a new skirt and take you out tomorrow night, make up for everything. Wear your best shoes, cause you won’t be able to get away from the dance floor.” A smile grew on your lips, too.
“Can’t wait.” And you meant it. Not just for the dancing, or a night out, or the promise of a replacement skirt for the one he’d destroyed. You couldn’t wait simply because you were excited to be with him. You were certain you could live the rest of your life deprived of all modern comfort, but if Jake was by your side, you’d be the happiest person to have ever lived.
One marriage will end a war. One affair will start another.
A collaboration between @jakeyt and @builtbybrokenbells
Latin Legend for the words used throughout the story.
Masterlist
Pairing: Wartime General!Danny x Roman Princess!OC, Gladiator!Jake x Roman Princess!OC (Ancient Rome AU)
Word Count: 6.5k
Warnings: arranged marriage, monarchs, misogyny, anxiety, mentions of death/loss of a parent, mentions of suicide, family tension, violence, mentions of executions, blood/bleeding, severe bodily injury, mentions of sex, infidelity/adultery, betrayals, angst, sorry if i miss any!
a/n: hi guys—it’s been a very long time for me, and I’ve missed you all so dearly. i hope that you guys missed me too, because this story means a whole hell of a lot to me and i am beyond excited to share it with you. what started with a little joke well over a year ago turned into long nights and endless hours of plotting and planning a story that @jakeyt and i hold very close to our hearts. this isn’t my typical kind of story — and i think that’s a good thing. the outline alone pushed me to my limits, and though i’ve been very nervous, i know it’s all worth it. getting to experience it with @jakeyt makes it all the better. i hope you guys enjoy this as much as we do.
to @jakeyt, my co-author, my best friend, american me, my light in the dark—i truly don’t know what i would do without you. in the writing world and real life, you are my rock and what keeps me going, even when i don’t necessarily want to—even from thousands of miles (and a whole ass country) away. i’m beyond lucky to know you, and even more lucky to experience this with you. i love greta van fleet for lots of reasons, but the biggest one being that it gave me you. 🤍
and to anyone who enjoys this story, you can thank her for dragging my sorry ass back here and never, ever giving up on me.
just me yapping for this post, but trust that she feels the exact same way about this story. without further ado, we give you Veni, Vidi, Vici 🫶🏻
Inside the palace, the corridors were quiet—so still and abandoned that a pin drop could be equated to an explosion.
The old cement stone was caked with dust, the precious gems and plated gold leaf on the marble panels were eye-catching normally, but haunting in the moment.
The entire structure seemed to be cracking under the weight of the failure of its leaders.
The open arches in the entryway were filled only with gusts of wind, the absence of life, eerie and off-putting. . . but the heaviness of the feelings living in the sturdiness of the arches had no impact. Their enormous shadows, flooding the ground, yet finding no life to bestow the implications upon.
Palatine Hill, home to royalty and riches alike, safeguarding secrets and deception that would only come out if the community fell down. If we kept it appearing safe, the townsfolk would never know they thrived and suffered from our immoral behavior and choices. If they found out, they would surely put an end to us, which meant we had to guard our own vices with our lives.
To die from or die for, we did not even know. After so many years, the lines began to blur.
At least, that’s what we always chose to believe. We could always see right from wrong, but we never heeded the warnings of the gods — acting as if we were above everyone when in the end, we all bled the same color.
Horribly red — crimson.
The horrors that lived in the building alongside us, the sins and crimes committed by the cold, beating hearts that made home inside, thrummed and pulsed deviously against the walls.
With every tedious throb, the foundations in which we built our lives upon all threatened to give way, but we were too foolish to believe that we were mortal beings capable of being stripped of our power. Our deception had grown so large it had no choice but to break free.
I suppose even the slightest bit of authority could make any mortal man believe he had the taste of immortality on his tongue if felt for long enough.
We weren’t the ones doing the dirty work, our hands clean of the dirt we forced others to dig through. Bloodstains not tainting our skin, but our souls as we ordered our people to fight our battles for us.
Because the suffrage never reached our front stoop, we turned a blind eye, drinking wine from jewel encrusted chalices with the bodies piling just out of sight.
I’m sure if we turned our heads, put down the gluttonous acts and selfish desires for a moment, we would have understood the wreckage we were creating — but we never could.
Palatine Hill was many things — good and bad — but it was home to us.
Augustus, the very first emperor of Rome and his wife Livia, both had houses on the Palatine. It was a good place to start anew, right in the heart of the city overlooking the Roman Forum, which was everything to us.
It served three purposes: political, ritual, and civic.
In short, if not for the Forum, we had nothing.
Tiberius, who reigned after Augustus, created a new residence—the Domus Tiberiana, where Caluga and Claudius lived also. From the very beginning, Palatine was for the riches. All of the emperors lived here, and their descendants too.
Deciding it would be best to become one, to up the security and safety for those that dwelled inside, they devised a plan for themselves and all future rulers.
Not long after, construction began to combine the two palaces, to create one, even mightier solace. For the first few days, progress was plentiful, and the workers were commended for their effort. Then, taking everyone by surprise, a fire broke out in the valley of the Circus Maximus, raging for ten days and amassing the most damage in the center of the city, damage that we had never before known.
Everything from homes to temples were destroyed, leaving us in devastation and forcing the town to believe that we would never recover, until Nero.
Nero, the fifth Roman Emperor, organized the relief, provided temporary housing and removed the destroyed structures. He also enacted safety reform and fireproofing laws in an attempt to prevent and limit further tragedies.
Though he helped and provided immense support and assistance, he did capitalize off of the disaster for his own gain. By the end of his reign, he was notorious for his cruelty and debauchery.
Buying all of the land and constructing his golden palace, thus came the Domus Aurea.
The palace and gardens stretched from the Palatine Hill, across the valley, and to the Esquiline Hill. It was a masterpiece, with 300 rooms, gardens, a private bath complex, and an artificial lake. To this day, there is still a 120 foot statue in the entrance.
The statue is of Nero himself — gilded bronze to showcase the mastermind behind the palace.
At the end of his reign, Nero decided to commit suicide instead of facing death by the Roman Senate, which in my opinion, though not honourable, was the most humane way to go. That left the Domus Aurea vacant, yet still inhabited by the servants and workers.
My Father, Aurelius Octavius, a descendant of Augustus himself, was next in line.
My pregnant Mother in tow, he took the palace like he took the power — with vigor. An unrelenting and stringent attitude left the townspeople believing he was harsh and cruel—in the beginning, the ideas and speculations were a touch out of proportion, but as time went on, he certainly grew into the titles as if they were always meant to be his.
Hoping for a boy, an heir, he made home in the new and strange place with a sort of naivety that back then, was lethal. With only a few short weeks until Fatherhood, he made quick work of reforming the city state into what he wished it to be.
Focusing on the military specifically, he assured the people war would not come soon, but we would be prepared if such things were to happen. The servants quickly learned their place in his ranks, and learned that it was lower than ever before. He was a callous man who held little regard for the people around him if their status did not equate to his own.
And, for the first eighteen years of my life, I shared that belief. Where it led us was worse than what we ever imagined. Though, if deserving was the question, I would have always agreed. We deserved every unrighteous thing that came our way. . . I’d known since I could understand morality that how we behaved as imperials wasn’t right. . . It was just how we’d taught ourselves to be.
The suffrage we endured was nothing short of our own doing, and though he could never see it that way, I never failed to. And that fact alone served as the reassuring proof that he and I were never as alike as I once naively believed.
My Mother, from what I was told, was a vibrant young woman who had more kindness than any other empress who reigned.
Betrothed to my Father at only sixteen, I’d heard many times by the servants around me, amongst themselves discussing her. These servants who raised me. . . They often said that not even my Father’s innate darkness could diminish my Mother’s light.
Oftentimes, I was told I was the picture of her.
“A walking embodiment. . .,” I’d hear. “As though she never left. . .’
Although, I was never sure if the sentiments were true or not. I liked to believe they were, because a likeness to her meant less of one to him.
Unfortunately, I’d never know for sure if it was the truth or pure grievance from the maids. . . Wishing her back, somehow. Because, it was not long after they took power, she endured what was believed to be the greatest sacrifice a woman could ever make.
Surrounded by a team of midwives and assistants, she went through a plethora of religious rituals in hopes of bringing me into the world safely. In a room, sat upon a birthing chair as she was slathered with oils and sponge bathed with warm water, she struggled for three whole days.
Juno Lucina, the primary deity presiding over childbirth, facilitated labour for her. Postverta and Prosa averted breech birth, and Vagitanus or Vaticanus—both the same, opened my mouth for my very first cry.
Soranus recommended two women stand beside the birthing chair and one in front, holding the pregnant woman in support. For three days, they exhausted themselves, waiting to feel the presence of such deities to take the pressure off of them.
Though. . . it never came.
On the second day, they sent other women to retrieve herbs used in healing remedies and amulets to ease the pain of labour and accelerate a safe birth.
And finally, on the night of the first full moon of the fall, nearest to the equinox, I took my first breath.
It is without explanation that I don’t remember it. . . but like all newborns, I know, without a single doubt, that it was agony. I cried, screamed, red in the face as I protested the lack of comfort my Mother provided.
Little did I know, I would never experience it again.
Her body, too weak to live from the pain and the extreme loss of blood.
My Mother, Prima Claudia, (or Claudia, daughter of Claudius—a tradition to name daughters after their Fathers on a numeric basis to which she fell victim to), took her very last breath on that birthing chair. Her lungs, unable to withstand the pressure as she succumbed to eternal sleep without ever holding me or calling me by name.
I think, though I never knew for certain, that a part of me went with her. I never knew her, never knew the difference, but I felt it. Something missing, something that I could never have.
I wasn’t sure what hurt more, the grief of the loss, or the grief of not knowing.
I figured it had to be the not knowing, because I did not understand how a person could grieve a loss they never felt in the first place.
Then again, it was not the loss of the person I did not know, but the loss I felt in every aspect of my life. I felt her absence, almost more than anything else, nearly every day.
I was put in the care of a servant for my adolescence, a woman by the name of Agnes who would cater to my every need. She fed, clothed and bathed me, taught me right from wrong, how to read and write, held me while I cried and tended to my scraped knees.
She was, and always has been, my Mother though she did not carry me.
When she took on the burden of me, she was no older than I am now. Nearing her second decade and still full of life, she gave everything for me with a promise of nothing in return.
Why she ever did such a thing, I do not know, but what I do know is that for the first eighteen years of my life, she taught me trust. For the first eighteen years of my life, she was the only person I could trust.
Hand in hand with the former, she was the only friend I had ever known. She was my whole world, and though my world has grown since then, she never strayed too far.
For those several years, my Father grieved. He pawned me off to another, as he lived under the guise of sorrow.
Or so he said, anyhow.
We knew the difference, even if he would never confess to the atrocities he was planning and plotting.
My Father and I sat together at mealtimes, and occasionally he checked in on me. Very rarely did he hug me, and seldom did he say he loved me. I always knew he was my Father.
And, even though times were different back then, than now. . . When I viewed him in a more respectable light. . . I still couldn’t shake the feeling of discontent.
When I thought about having children, I could not picture their Father being so uninterested… uninvolved with their offspring.
I was under the impression that I would love the one I married, that we would build upon that love and create life.
I suppose we did, but it was never the way I imagined it.
When I was walking and muttering a few foreign words here and there, a new woman moved into the palace.
My Mother’s place in my Father’s bed, filled by another. I never did speak to her much, mostly because I couldn’t. Just like any fairly young toddler, I knew how to express for necessities, but not much else.
However, I noticed a few things about this woman. . . Even as young as I was, a few things stuck out that I’ve never forgotten. Sealed in my memory.
From what I could recall, she was pretty – young and glowing in a way I had never seen from another woman before, even if she was a bit downtrodden.
Though, sad as she was, I remember my Father being more alive than I’d ever witnessed. It was odd to witness, to say the very least. Instead of hiding away in his chambers, the man saw more of the light of day than I’d ever witnessed beforehand.
The most prominent thing that sticks out in my memory of this woman, though, was her belly. It was round. . . not huge, but round. No one seemed to notice it but me, though. The day she walked through the halls for the first time, intermittently, she’d held it protectively. That day, I didn't know what it was. But now, I obviously know she was with child. Although, looking back, I am almost completely certain my Father didn’t know it when he first invited her in.
He’d loved the reality of a woman accompanying him, warming his bed, and complimenting him. . . And she had simply loved the security.
From her first day in the palace and on, I remember the bump growing. . . . and people noticing it as it grew. A hand underneath it, the robes she wore, taut over the bump below it.
I found out later on down the line that her husband, the emperor of a nearby city state, had died. I never found out how, but I suppose it wasn’t important. She went in search of sovereignty, not knowing how to function without someone else in control of her. Grief stricken and riddled with fear, she caught wind of the emperor, widowed for two and a half years, who had not yet found a wife.
She played a nasty game, but my Father had been a fool for her. He fell for it, and he’d been suffering the consequences ever since. She gave birth to a child, a boy — Joshua.
And, while Joshua was a male, he was not the male heir my Father had always wanted. He couldn’t be, considering Joshua wasn’t his. . . .
Just as I had (inadvertently) known and my Father came to find, she had been pregnant before she ever showed up at his door. The new Empress had tricked him into taking them both in. I can still hear the screams emitted from my Father, and the howling cries that left the woman’s mouth, on the night that I’m assuming she revealed the truth to him. . . .
I always wondered why my Father allowed it; why did the boy survive and why had she continued to live under our roof?
All I could assume was that it wasn’t ever a pure want of my Father’s for her to stay.
After my Mother died, he had changed—in everyone’s opinion, for the worst. The older I became, I figured my Father and this woman must have made some kind of a deal, to never let the general public know that the boy wasn’t his. That seemed to be the only thing that made any kind of sense.
The boy was, in fact, a prince, by blood (his Father) and circumstance (my Father), but not in line for the throne. So, even as my Father raised him, provided for him. . . . . my Father never let him live under the impression he would inherit the riches of Rome. My Father would never allow such nonsense.
Even if I was not the boy he wanted, I was my Father’s one and only child by blood. So, the riches and the kingdom were mine (or my husband’s, rather, who would be of my Father’s choosing).
And though the boy always knew that, it did not make much difference in how he behaved like an entitled prince. He was still spoiled, rude and ruthless. And, I believe that my Father always loved him more than he ever loved me. This boy was raised to be a mini version of my Father — cruel and unjust in his golden crown. . . Looking back on it, I can now understand where he learned those heinous qualities.
The spoiled prince, Joshua, was only three years old, by the time his mother was gone too. A five year old motherless girl, and a three year old motherless boy. . . .
I never knew why she’d died, but I suppose it was just another thing that didn’t matter much in the long run. She’d never carried my Father’s offspring, never truly provided for his future. And I knew that was all he wanted me to know — all I needed to know.
My Father forbade me from speaking about her, but her dim-witted, self obsessed son stayed. I never cared, really, that I couldn’t speak of the woman. She didn’t mean much to me at all. I was most upset about Joshua staying, even after his Mother left to live in the dirt. I eventually grew accustomed to his presence, but I never became comfortable with it.
He was a nuisance, truly unbearable to be around and impossible to please. He was always loud, mean and angry. He didn’t have to work for anything, and power turned him rotten from the inside. He knew no empathy for any living being, and he enjoyed watching the suffering he caused.
Joshua and I were never siblings, per se. I despised ever referring to myself as such. . . But, of course, I had to. . . to keep up the charade that all of Rome believed. Everyone, in like mind, was led to believe that Joshua was the Emperor's blood, just as much as I was.
They tried to raise us as such. And, even though we fought using the title of ‘siblings’ we’d lost, tooth and nail, in the gruesome battle – every time.
In the very beginning, before he gained his own tortuous traits, we played together, ate together, but we never really liked each other. When we broke double digits, we had to be separated by at least a single guard at all times, because we tried to attack when the other was least expecting it. He was insufferable. And, though my Father agreed to a certain extent, he was much too forgiving of such behavior, since it was so similar to his own. I think he felt obligated to take care of him, which I never understood.
Even if not a blood heir, in order to keep with the image, Joshua was given his own tasks as an imperial.
And, one of those — Joshua’s most favorite — was reigning as the imperial in charge of running the whereabouts in the Colosseum. It was Joshua’s very own, humongous sandbox. All of Rome would watch as he’d use his utterly disgusting hands to enact the most deplorable events amongst the gladiators. There were a few times where his inhumane assignments for his ‘performers’ (nay, trained fighters) had sent me running to the nearest area to rid the contents of my stomach.
Crudelis. Saevus. Atrox. Plain as day, utterly barbarous.
Yet, the crowds only encouraged it. Truthfully, they were all revolting savages.
If I had it my way, I would have sent Joshua to the Colosseum where he could test his arrogance and so thought strength, instead of commanding others to fight for his own entertainment. Apparently, wanting such things was cruel and inhumane, according to my Father, because ‘he was family, after all.’
Apparently commanding cruelty is only applicable upon common folk, slaves, and criminals. . . the people below us, the only people who were ‘deserving’ of such things, according to my Father and stepbrother.
The people within the pristine walls of this palace, that quite actually — actively — defiled the lives of the less fortunate. . . .their lives were spared of viciousness. . . as the walls ached in silence, the halls humming with ancient loneliness.
And, now. . . . on this day, within the castle. . . the structure seems to moan in agony.
Today, it was so still and barren – fitting for the way my chest and stomach lurched against nothing. Not a breath of life was within the walls, for even the servants had left.
The boom was outside, coming from the chattering crowd that was half enthusiastic and half raging, furious at such circumstances occurring for one and all to bear witness. . . .
Save for me. But now that I knew of the things occurring outside the innermost parts of these haunted halls?
I was not only part of the latter, I was creating a brand new category of my own. . . Wrath; a red hot rush for vengeance and death coursed through my veins. I only wished the worst upon those enacting such crimes outside of my home.
My feet began to throb, surely blistering as I ran, for all I was worth, down these echoing halls. I kept on, as fast as my legs would allow. My delicate, ropy sandals slammed against the mosaic floors. . .
My dress kept getting in the way. Though a simple gown, the silk material kept clinging to my body as the wind forced it against me. The swooshing of the fabric, against my furiously warm legs, was slowing me down.
Not thinking a thing of it, I reached down and ripped at the silk curling around my legs with a strength brought on by pure, unadulterated anger. And in one fell swoop, there was a rip up one leg of the flowing dress, allowing more room for me to rush down the corridor.
I was sure I was the only one left inside, the only one who had not been informed of the events set to unfold in the courtyard. I was running so fast it felt like I was flying, my hair flowing behind me as my weepy eyes struggled to find the right path. The tears, both shed and unshed, blinded me.
Down the entrance corridor, the closer I got to the pooling sunlight, I could begin to hear the crowd more clearly. Their words were a jumbled mess of an emotion I couldn’t quite gauge.
As I approached the end, the heat sweltering as it began to suffocate me, I ran into a roadblock. The crowd was so thick that I could not see through it. I knew I would have to push my way through it to stop it.
My heart actually burned, as it beat with a sense of urgency I’d never thought to imagine. The muscle threatened to shatter my ribcage, my panic so large that it had grown bigger than even myself.
My mouth was dry, my throat scratching as I tried to swallow my own fear. With a newfound strength, I forced my way through the bodies standing shoulder to shoulder, sparing no mercy as I tripped over myself to get through.
The sun was blinding, so high in the sky it was nearly searing my skin to a crisp.
Midday. High noon. Right after lunch.
The time was exact. Without question, anyone would know what was happening on the other side of the crowd…
But I could not let it—I refused to believe it was too late.
Halfway through the crowd, I began to notice the discontent of the people around me. Whether it be for the scorching heat of the day, or for the barbaric action that was set to take place, I did not know.
But, I did not stop long enough to face their misery.
No. I had to get to him.
My arms were on fire. The muscles in my biceps felt like hot lead under my sun kissed skin. The insides of my thighs, burning with the nonstop exertion of my speed. . .
Yet, ironically, the initial burn between them, of his doing. The man held at the front of the crowd, having left a lasting impact from nearly fifty hours’ past. The strength of him against me— inside of me. . . It now made the ache worsen as I clambered over and through people to get. to. him.
Two nights’ past: an evening I would not soon forget. . .
That muggy evening, a breeze coming in through the open windows, only often enough to not make me lose all consciousness as he took me; the beating of my heart, matching the passion of his movements within me. I could still feel the cool stone wall pressed against my back.
In a neglected corridor in the palace, my moans daring to bounce off the walls, if not swallowed by his mouth. Neither of us wanted to wake anyone. . . We’d been insistent on doing our best to keep our relations to ourselves, while submitting to our devastating, carnal desires.
The only time I could see him were hours such as a couple nights ago—when the moon was at its brightest, the day gone to let the black of night cover every sin that happened under its sky.
And now, I knew he was hung up to pay for my wrongdoings. He was being made a spectacle, as he suffered for my choices. . . ones that I knew would hurt him far more than they would myself.
From birth, the throne had taught me selfishness. And as I grew, I could never outrun it. Raised with an understanding that self-servient was the only thing I would ever be. In that corridor, I’d most likely ended life as we knew it. . . but I hadn’t believed it would happen so fast. . .
At that moment, in the dead of night, he had been my only thought. His name, the only cry on my lips, the motion of my body. . . .
All of it, everything — him.
My Jacob.
Whomever had come to find us out, and orchestrated such things occurring in the palace’s entry. . . It was unbeknownst to me. Though, I could certainly guess. . .
As I forced through the crowd, limbs aching and heart pounding as I collided with still bodies amassed like stone, I felt the world crash down around me. All of the riches, the gold and jewels, the fine wine and the power, could not make up for this. None of it was worth this.
A life on the line, yes. But not just any life. . . Not to me. I would have traded every comfort I had ever known to assure his safety — but I feared I was much too late.
My white robes, torn by hand and soiled with dirt as I finally pushed my way to the front of the crowd. My dress, reflective of my state of mind.
Tears welled in my eyes, betraying my brain as I willed myself to stay calm.
Maybe, it was all blown out of proportion.
Maybe, Agnes was wrong when she’d slipped and told me of this heinous occurrence upon Jacob’s life. Though, unfortunately, I had never known Agnes to be such a thing as wrong.
I also knew better than anyone that whispers and rumors flew faster than the wind. . . So, perhaps what Agnes had heard was smaller than it truly was. I was hoping so, but like always, it would surely be crushed before my hope could even make any sort of difference.
First, I did not see him—Jacob. I couldn’t get a good eye on the man I had sprinted a marathon for—the man for whom I was willing to give up everything I’d ever known.
Instead, perched on a makeshift throne, staring down at the chaos he caused, was my brother. Joshua.
When I thought before that I knew the extent of Joshua’s evil. . . I didn’t understand. Not until today.
Catching sight of his eyes at this moment, as they shone with malice. His expression, conveying not only his enjoyment, but his excitement. I could feel my stomach curdling, I knew in no time, I was going to be sick. His hands, actually stained with blood. And knowing whose blood it was, on his pearly hands. . .
Though Jacob was not innocent, he wasn’t anywhere near the man Joshua had chosen to view him. He was not guilty of the crimes Joshua chose to believe (or make believe) he committed. . . Jacob was nowhere near a villain.
Joshua was the monster. I could have set him on fire in an instant. My brother, not even the equivalent of a human life to me anymore. He couldn’t be. Joshua did not possess the very things that made one human. . . He was taken by cruelty and in love with violence.
He could only sleep at night if he knew he’d caused unrest and suffering amongst the less fortunate. And right now? That ‘less fortunate’ was the man I loved.
“Aurelia—.”
That voice.
Daniel. My Daniel.
His dulcet voice, the velvet smoothness of his tone. Finer and more beautiful than a singular thread in my once-pristine gown. . .
His voice, one I hadn’t heard in far too long.
It shook me to my core to hear him again. My knees went weak, my head spinning as my gaze snapped towards the speaker.
“Do not come any further,” he was speaking loudly — much louder, and with more command than I’d initially registered. . . And he was speaking to me, from beside Joshua.
He was so near to Joshua. Too near.
My husband, the man whose ring I wore. . . He was, essentially, standing at Joshua’s right hand.
The tears that had steadily welled. . .they finally broke the barrier at the sight, soaking my cheeks as betrayal crossed my features. Out of all the people in the world, I never expected it to be him responsible for this.
Though, out of all the world, he would have been the most justified if he were the deciding man.
“Daniel,” I spoke, voice surprisingly cutting above the rest. My voice was weak, though, breaking as I fought the flames lapping at my bones. Never before did I believe mental anguish could kill like a physical wound.
But at that moment, I felt as though this pain felt more lethal than any physical puncture could feel.
I longed to find comfort in him at this horrendous moment.
Mea Columba. My Daniel.
His long curls were still as dark as his irises, but now bleached from days spent beneath the blazing sun. Those handsome curls, tickling the tops of his strong shoulders. His hair was longer than the last time I had seen him. His skin, weather worn and wounded, sun kissed and somehow still radiant.
His robes were torn, very similar to my own, yet for a cause much more noble. He fought for our nation—his nation, now, thanks to me. . . All while I fought for my own selfish desires.
Standing there, his brown eyes were filled with ghosts and horrors he would never let me see. And still, this beautiful man looked at me like I was the very center of the universe—like I was the thing the planets chose to orbit.
Not in a million lifetimes would I ever deserve the husband who stared at me at this moment—the very man who had given his life, his heart, his soul for me. . .
Knowing that, I still couldn’t stop myself, the sins I committed, so large and atrocious, that I feared I was the sin. . . But I couldn’t not commit them. Truly, it was out of my power.
My heart was split evenly down the middle — pulling me towards Daniel, my salvation, and Jacob, my greatest sin.
“Euge! Filth from the sand returns to sand by day’s end! Strike him again!”
“Bleed him like a pig before his head hits the ground! Haec age!”
Too soon, as I heard the rather cruel words leave the mouths of the townspeople beside me, I came back to the moment.
My eyes went to Daniel’s fist, where it rested around the hilt of his Spatha.
I was back to horrifyingly believing that he was the one responsible for such a scene, all of the love in my heart for him—instantly burning straight to hate.
How could he?
Mea Columba — how could he do this to me? I did not know. Even if I had slaughtered his heart, tearing down everything we’d built. . . This was still something that would shatter me. If Jacob’s breath left his lungs, I’d lose half of me.
Would my Daniel want that? At this point, maybe he would. . . In order to have all of me to himself again.
I didn’t know for sure.
What I did know was that I had to speak to stop this. Not for me, but for Jacob.
No matter if it would incriminate me, I had to speak up for him. I knew I would live to regret my silence for the rest of my life.
Finally, my head turned just as the executioner raised his whip above his head and prepared to strike again.
And finally, I let my eyes find the other piece of my heart.
Jacob. Luna Mea. . . My Moon.
On the ground, his knees scuffed and dirty against the filthy pedestal he kneeled upon. His hands, bound behind his back.
My soul, torn in two.
One half, with a sword in his hand, preparing to end it all; and the other, on his knees, paying for crimes I had committed.
The twisted trick of fate, mocking me as my tongue tied and words failed me.
I had to stop it, but how?
How to stop it when I knew the nature of our relationship, when I knew the consequences before it ever came to fruition?
How to stop it when the power was never in my hands to begin with? A fool I was to ever believe I could trick the gods and their fates. . .
Then. . .
It was almost like he heard my heart. . . My innermost thoughts. . . Almost like the silent pleas were louder than the shouting of the crowd around us.
His head, long, wavy, chestnut locks, stuck to the rippling muscle in his bronzed shoulders. He turned around, over his shoulder. His face, twisted with pain and the light no longer shining in his eyes — those irises, like chocolate steeped in gold.
He was still as beautiful as ever—even with the monstrous blood splatter on his skin.
The clench of his jaw, the steady set of his eyes on mine. . . Both of these things, a silent reassurance that he would take the punishment again and again if it meant he could have me. The sorrow that was undoubtedly glazing his irises was not for his impending demise. . .
No, it was because he would not get to spend another night by my side, whispering promises about a life we knew would never be within reach.
I felt my knees hit the stone walkway beneath me, the pain radiating before I ever registered I was falling.
My mouth hung agape in horror. I could not even vocalize the feeling ravaging my insides. Crimson blood, springing from my knees’ new scrapes. The sting of the cuts was hardly registered as it stained the silk of my white robes. . .
Yet another sick trick of the world, a display of the consummating Jacob and I had tended to, to fulfill our sinful endeavours.
As he held my gaze, the air around us hung thick and the crowd disappeared behind us. . .
I could see his lips move, though no sound came out. I didn’t need the sound, however, as I had no trouble reading those pretty lips.
His message, meant for just the two of us, and received exactly as intended.
“It’s okay, my Pulchra Puella. . . Cor Meum.”
The onslaught of fresh tears was sudden. The tears, molten tracks down my cheeks, staining my skin with the sheer love they displayed for the man on his knees before me. . .
And though not spoken, I could recognize the curve of his lip as he’d mouthed the words. I could hear his voice in my ears, the thick rasp of his tone I’d grown so familiar with, like he was standing right behind me again. . .
For a moment, I was back in the walls of the palace. Just the two of us. . . My body pressed against the stone wall, surrendering to him. The heat of smooth, firm chest, against my back as my eyes rolled back in bliss. . .
I could feel the strength of his arms holding me, imprisoning me, sealing the terrible fate we’d been busy creating ourselves.
In the present, his eyes were still on my own; he did not need to say another word, nor did I. I was confident that we both believed the same: that every single second spent together was worth whatever punishment it brought forth.
Though, I did not want him to do it all himself.
Another whip raised and slashed his back open, blood splattering everywhere. . . And I knew I had to rise from the ground for him. I had to do what I could.
Except—he shook his head at my action. His eyes were stern with me as he mouthed more my way.
“Ne auderis,” he cautioned, the heat in his eyes making my heart beat even more erratically. His jaw was set, intent on me understanding what he told me to do was, in fact, the final word. “Protect yourself, Cor Meum.”
I knew he didn’t want me to argue it or detest his instruction. . . But my soul longed to run up to him and throw myself in harm’s way for him. . .
Though, I was well aware that he would never want me to insert myself into a dangerous situation for his safety. Any punishment inflicted on me would cause him more agony than the lashings. . .
That much was as clear as the sky on this day.
I just needed him to be okay, to see through to the end of this day. . . And all of the days to come.
Yet, I was terrified that, at this point, it was far too much to ask.
A life, his life being spared. . . That would be the godless act to this crowd around us. . . And to the evil ones inflicting this, that would be the devilish request.
But that wouldn’t stop me. None of it would stop me from finding a solution — and finding one hastily.
For, there was no retribution extreme enough to keep me away from him.
And though I feared he would not live to speak the same sentiment, I knew deep in my heart that he felt just the same for me.
In the shadow of Rome’s crumbling might, Princess Aurelia lives within a palace built on secrets she unknowingly exists alongside. . . Soon, she’s shaken from her fragile life and forced into a timely betrothal. A marriage meant to bring Rome ultimate power.
Her new spouse, a Grecian wartime general, Daniel is everything she believed he wouldn’t be. A man unlike the rest — courageous and impossibly kind. A shining light in a darkened reality. Their marriage, one arranged for power, but transformed by real affection.
Then comes Jacob. A legendary gladiator. A man chained and enslaved since birth.
The new Prince sees a possible kinship, an unlikely friendship — brotherhood. Unfortunately, it is too soon when Daniel is asked to tend to the Emperor’s biddings out of state.
It is then that he leaves Jacob as his wife’s assigned protector. And in this fragment of time, loyalty, desire, and passion collide. And, Jacob begins to become the princess’s biggest sin. . .
Political schemes. Violent games. A ruthless stepbrother. All of this and more entangles as Aurelia uncovers a lifelong secret, one capable of destroying her family. A hidden truth her father has spent his entire life trying to erase.
When the verity ignites rebellion, the empire turns on itself. . . and love becomes both healer and downfall.
One marriage will end a war. One affair will start another.
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A collaboration between @jakeyt and @builtbybrokenbells
Pairing: Wartime General!Danny x Roman Princess!OC, Gladiator!Jake x Roman Princess!OC (Ancient Rome AU)
Word Count: TBD
Warnings: SMUT 18+, arranged marriage, infidelity/adultery, violence (all chapters will include their own list of warnings)
⋆༺𓆩🗡𓆪༻⋆
Latin Legend
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
⋆༺𓆩🗡𓆪༻⋆
Playlists: Apple Music | Spotify
⋆༺𓆩🗡𓆪༻⋆
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Too beautiful to resist, and too deadly to survive; the tragic tale of belladonna in all its glory.
Masterlist
Pairing: Danny Wagner x f!OC, m!OC x f!OC
Word Count: 17k
Warnings: therapy, abusive/toxic romantic relationships, mental illness/heavy descriptions/behaviour of borderline personality disorder, mentions of previous OD, mentions of suicide/suicidal ideation, heavy descriptions of addictions/addicts/addict behavior, heavy mentions of drug use (stimulants/narcotics), heavy mentions of relapsing, trauma bonds, descriptions of toxic/abusive parents, death of family members, PTSD/CPTSD behaviors/reactions/explanations, dissociation, trauma, triggered trauma responses, mentions of death/dying, absent parents, death of a parent, parents with active addictions, missing persons, police stations/reports, mentions of criminal activity/criminal records, poverty, crying, mentions of blood/bleeding, mentions of self harm/self destructive behaviors, mentions of cheating, mentions of AA/NA, NA meetings, fighting, yelling, drinking, flirting, mentions of hookups/sex, smoking, depression/anxiety, sorry if I miss any 🤍
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Hey guys—please be mindful as I try and convert this from novel story line back to fanfic story line. There might be some stuff that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, mostly because there’s about 300k words and half a plot missing 😝 I’m intending to end this version the same way I originally planned it, but I just have to work it back in there. Thanks 🤍
July 25th, 2022 - 8:57 PM
As I laid, staring up at the ceiling above my bed, tears continued to fall from my eyes. I wasn’t sure how long I had been in the position, nor how it was possible that I was still crying, but I laid nonetheless, drowning in my own misery. I thought I heard the door open long before, but I had no energy to check, so I continued to man the post, wondering if the agony would pass me by, or if I would remain stuck in it forever.
I couldn’t believe I said such hateful and cruel things to Dylan. As soon as I got home, the front door locked behind me, everything came crashing down all at once. The anger faded into a dull ache, my bones heavy as I tried to put one foot in front of the other, but inevitably failed and became friends with the floor. With my back against the wall, the loose gravel from the shoe mat I kept flush against the door trim stuck to my skin, I knew I had fucked up beyond repair. There was nothing I could do, nothing I could say that would make it better, and I certainly could not take it back.
What I said to Dylan haunted me, and the scene replayed in my mind on a loop, ensuring I would suffer the most painful consequences over and over again. The hurt in his eyes, the tears streaming down his face as he tried to remain stoic while I spat the venomous words. I threw the love he gave me straight back in his face, and when it fell to the ground, wounded and near death, I spat on it for good measure. I was a terrible person, and he did not deserve a bit of the horribleness I threw at him. After everything he did for me, I took it all for granted and used it to punish him.
Sitting on that floor, I knew that it wasn’t even my friend at that moment. The whole world was angry with me, but not nearly as angry as I was at myself.
Dragging myself to my feet, sick and weary as I stumbled down the hallway and to my bedroom, flashes of a life I would never again live danced in front of my eyes. Tear-filled conversations on my couch, dancing in the living room, breakfasts, lunches and dinners shared at a table he would never let himself feel welcome at again, I began to mourn something I never fully appreciated. I knew for fact, more than ever before, I did not deserve Dylan. Not then, and not once in the two years I knew him. I became the very person I swore not to be, sober and without any hesitation. I became everything I once chastised Vincent for, bringing me to an even worse realization: I was his Vincent, just like I always feared.
I was just as caustic, callous and cruel. When someone got too close, I not only pushed them away, but ensured they would never want to come back. I burned every bridge and tore down every pillar, digging through the earth to uproot the foundation of such relationships, not just wanting to separate myself, but to remove any trace of the past that remained. I wanted it to be erased entirely, like it never touched me at all, like I never knew the warmth of the doorway or the coziness of what surrounded me. It hurt less when I convinced myself it never happened, and I was so good at lying to myself that I truly could convince myself of such things.
Had I been more self aware, back then I would have been able to see that Vincent and I were not the same, even if we acted similarly at times. What he did, he did only for the sake of himself, wanting to spin a narrative to benefit himself and get him ahead. All of what I did was subconscious and for the exact same reason every time; self destruction, and destruction to the point of totality. I couldn’t let anything good happen, and I wasn’t well enough to believe that someone could love me. I always thought I was protecting myself, but protection and destruction is a blurred line for someone who never truly knew what protection was.
When I crawled into bed, I was out of my mind, near insanity with all of the pain filling me completely. As the comforter scratched against my legs, heavy and thick with the summer heat seeping into the threads, I laid myself to rest underneath it, wondering if I would ever stand up again or if I would die under the weight of the sorrow.
Romantic or not, I knew I could not live without Dylan, and I survived because of his protection and his dedication to loving me. He was my best friend, the only person in the world who understood me completely and never once asked me to change. Knowing that he would never feel comfortable openly expressing such things ever again, I stared up at the ceiling and wondered why I always felt the need to destroy. My entire life, I wanted to build, to create a life so different from the one that was destined for me, to create a community I never got to be a part of. Instead, when I had the opportunity to do so, I got too scared to see it through, the idea of having people so close shaking the already rocky terrain I stood upon.
I loved so violently and desperately but could not comprehend someone doing it back, and because I expected the worst from everyone, it caused me to be reactive and on edge the minute my feelings were hurt. I was obsessive—when I loved someone I wanted them around all of the time, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being without them, and it pushed me to extremes a normal woman would not go to in order to keep them in my life. I was aggressive, harsh and quick to snap, letting loose the years of pent up anger and pain the minute someone hurt my feelings, even if they did not deserve it, and even if it was me who misread the situation. I was paranoid, dissociative, and I never knew if I was living in reality or a dream state, and so out of control all of the time that it wore me down to the bone and left me with nothing. My emotions were never stationary, my highs euphoric and my lows detrimental not just to me, but everyone around me.
I lived on an oscillating scale of idolizing and then devaluing those I loved, with no warning when the switch came and no buffer period for me to stop it. I was impulsive, engaging in self harming behaviors without even realizing it in hopes of filling a never ending and always expanding void in my chest. I was always afraid of people leaving, abandoning me and never looking back, but I was the first to push them out the door when the opportunity came, knowing it was easier for me to cut it off before they had the chance to hurt me.
I was a mess, so unwell and I knew that those around me suffered just from knowing me. The longer I thought of it, the more Sam talked to me about it, I understood it was not just quirks or personality traits. I was sick, an amalgamation of my parents worst traits and failures and I was finally cracking under the weight of it. My personality was not my own, but rather a defence mechanism I had formed to protect myself from the world around me. The me I knew wasn't really me, but I didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t know how to stop hurting myself or others, and I didn’t think any amount of therapy would ever solve it. Perhaps the worst part of it all was having to choke down the fact I would likely live the rest of my life that way, and I couldn’t do anything to prevent it.
I wanted to sink into the mattress and become one with it, to calcify in the sheets to never be heard from again. I believed the whole world was better off without me, which brought me to my next topic of dwelling; when things got hard, I always wanted the easy way out. I thought if I died, it would fix everything. For a long time, I walked a thin line of survival and succumbing, knowing it would not take much to tip me to the opposite side.
Then, laying in bed and miserable, I was angry that it was no longer an option. I knew, without a doubt, that even if I acted in such ways, my death would hurt those around me, and more than I even understood. I knew people loved me, even if I didn’t know why, and I resented them for caring. I hated that they could not let me go, because I truly believed death was the only reprieve from the suffering I endured. Knowing that I could not have it made me desperate, the weight of all of my worries sinking in and laying heavy atop of me, leaving me craving relief in the only other way I knew how.
The closure of The Fox was the final straw, the last stab in an already deadly wound, knowing that the paycheck was the only thing that stood between me and Utah. Facing possible unemployment if I could not find anything else, I didn’t have to worry about Danny and Sam leaving, because I wouldn’t be in New York long enough to feel their absence. Thinking of that on top of Vincent’s journey into parenthood, my heart gave an unwanted twist, sickened at the idea of him bringing a child into the world, and even more sickened at the idea that it could have been me that was caught up in it with him.
Vincent would always be the man I feared he was, and he was about to bestow a world of hurt upon an innocent baby who had no other choice. Part of me wished it was with me instead, because even if I would have suffered, I could have served as a shield to protect the baby from all he would do. Lillian, who was really just Vincent in a woman’s body, would seal fate and ensure the things I worried so much about. Also, though maybe a bit misplaced, I felt a burgeoning bitterness towards the two, hateful that they would build a life together and I would have to watch from the sidelines. Despite the fact it would be horrible, miserable for them, I couldn’t stop my heart from breaking.
To see another woman be with a man I tried so hard for, to be with a man I once envisioned a future with, even if he was not the man I thought he was, hurt, and it hurt achingly bad. Putting romance to the side, knowing that Vincent and I would never be together and being okay with that, as his friend it still hurt knowing I would not be involved in that process at all. I would not know his children, when I once believed I would mother them. As an aunt, as a friend, or even as a passerby, I would not know anything about his life, or if he would ever get better, and I would not be a part of it, and that sucked.
Knowing Dylan was mourning the same things, kicking Vincent to the curb on behalf of me and missing out on all the things he once thought he would be a part of, I did not comfort him. Instead, I added more to his growing pile of hurt, and I left him behind to die. Dylan and I could not mourn together, because I would not let him. Because I was suffering, I forced him to do so as well, and said horrible things to him that I never would have thought to speak if I had been in my right mind. Though there was some truth behind the things I said, they came out way harsher than they needed to, and I severed the mending ties between us yet again.
All of the safety and security I had tried to protect in the last few weeks crumbled to the ground, leaving me bare and exposed once again, and I was the only one to blame.
Sitting with all of the new and horrible things, knowing death wasn’t an option, my mind crawled back to the only other solace I had ever known, and a solace that taunted me every waking minute of every single day. The weight of an Oxycontin in my hand, so vivid and when I closed my eyes, so real, despite it not truly existing at all. But, I wasn’t picky, and in that moment with the entire world spinning out of control, I would have taken anything so long as it meant I wouldn’t feel. My mind travelled to places I hadn’t explored in a long time, the chalkiness of a Percocet against the tender flesh of my throat, the numbness of a small dose of Valium, or the sensation of being on top of the world with a single line of cocaine.
As I laid on my worn and torn mattress, I was consumed entirely by the desire to be free, and the only freedom I had ever truly known was the kind a high could give me. My fingers trembled as I crossed my hands over my stomach, my breathing shallow as my brain tunnelled, only able to focus on one thing. A twenty sitting in my wallet, able to give me relief for a single day, just to manage the storm of emotion ravaging me, was more tempting than anything I had ever felt in my life.
I laid, so still and silent with tears streaming down my face, knowing I was facing another fading road that would leave me at yet another dead end. With a single phone call, I knew I could have everything and nothing all at once. It was an impossible choice, choosing between existing or truly living, and with how badly I was hurting, I had myself convinced that the only way I could truly live was if I swallowed down a tiny white pill. I knew addiction always got the best of me, but in that moment, its claws were dug deeper than ever before, and if I did not break free from the suffering soon, it would finally win.
Six days, six weeks, six months—it did not matter. Sobriety was my enemy, and it had been from the very moment I decided to stop using. As I laid, understanding that I would perpetuate a cycle my entire life because I never had enough strength to change it, I began to bargain with the idea of one more. After so long, I had myself tricked that I was in control, that if I used once, I would be able to stop with no consequences.
The funniest part of getting sober is the fact that no matter how long you’ve been clean, the only way you can ensure you abstain is to understand you’re never truly in control. No matter how much the NA counselors try to convince you that you are, and all of the times you believed you were, it’s just the substance playing tricks on you.
As I laid in bed, choking on my own sadness, for the first time in six months, I was naive enough to forget all I had learned. Trusting my own judgement had always been my biggest downfall, especially when it came to my addiction, and I couldn’t see it then, but believing I had more power of the drugs themselves put one of my feet in a well dug grave, ensuring that when my other foot joined, I would never be seen or heard from again.
July 26th, 2022 - 9:31 AM
Dragging my feet through the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, I left most of my sorrow in my bedroom when I awoke earlier that morning. Though it hurt less, I was not better, because the emptiness had taken its place. I had rebuilt from nothing so many times that the thought of kissing rock bottom no longer scared me, no longer moved me. Instead of wallowing over what I had lost, I dragged myself to the kitchen, choked down a piece of burnt toast, and brought my laptop out to continue writing. It took nearly an hour to start, the old piece of junk fighting me at every turn, but when the word document opened up and brought me to the novel I’d been tirelessly working on for years, I was able to channel some of that emptiness into progress.
No matter what I was going through, no matter how much I was hurting or how horrible the world was, I knew writing was my biggest solace, unlike the night before when I almost fell into the trap of drug abuse once again. As I typed away, understanding I was closer to finishing my passion project than I ever imagined I could be, the urge to use slowly filtered out into the morning air. At five, the raccoons in the alleyway went into hiding and the sun began to peek into the horizon. The crows cawed intermittently, picking at garbage and chasing the rats in the street, and I wrote until time faded away into nothing.
Before I knew it, it was nine, and the only reason I stopped was because I heard a knock on my front door. Not necessarily in the mood for company, but knowing that I would only cause trouble if I ignored it, I stood to my feet, sipping away at my coffee and forcing a smile to convince whoever was on the other side that I was alright. Unlatching my new deadbolt, finding the lack of struggle surprising, my heart sank as I thought of the boy who replaced it, remembering all of the hateful things I had told him and reopening the wounds I glued shut the night prior. Knowing I had no time to worry about, I swung the door open and came face to face with Sam and Daniel, which came as no surprise.
“Morning!” Sam greeted, a Tupperware container in his hand as he pushed his way past me, walking inside without an invitation. My brows furrowed, my head following him as he immediately walked towards my kitchen table, Rose in tow as he took a seat. Turning my head back to Daniel with a raised brow, he shrugged in response.
“He was eager to see you.” Danny explained, waiting for me to step out of the way before he came inside, always a bit more socially aware than Sam was.
Then again, I think Sam was the most aware—he knew he would have been waiting for an invitation that would never come. I think, the entire time he knew me, he always knew me best. It was like he was in tune with my emotions, and he could predict my response without me having to say a word. If not for his forced entry, I would have came up with an exuberant excuse to send them on their way, and that was something he wasn’t willing to chance.
“I can see that.” I chuckled, allowing Danny inside and closing the door behind him. Not bothering to lock it again, I led the way back to the table, taking a seat in front of my laptop as Daniel made himself comfortable in the seat to my right. “What are you guys up to so early in the morning?”
“Well, considering you ditched us last night, I figured we should check in.” Sam explained, placing the Tupperware in front of me with a sly little smile, letting me know he wasn’t really that upset at all. “Breakfast, because I figured you’d need it.”
“Yeah, I tried to call a couple times… not really sure what was going on, so we figured we’d wait it out… when you didn’t text, I wanted to make sure you were alright.” Danny explained further, relaxing back in the chair, like my absence and lack of explanation didn’t bother him at all.
I felt guilty, knowing that the two worried about me far more than they should have. After everything that happened with Vincent, they were on high alert, on edge always and never willing to leave me on my own for too long. Understanding they probably thought I was dead, I felt even worse for leaving them hanging, and too remorseful to confess that I forgot all about them.
“Thought that maybe we’d be interrupting… you know… if you had other company.” Danny smiled, tapping his fingers against the tabletop as he gauged my expression, trying to remain impartial to the growing closeness between Dylan and I.
It wasn’t fair, doing what I was doing to them, and even I knew that in my desolate and miserable state. I should have cut ties with everyone, started over and avoided any more hurt, but I had always been far too selfish to do the right thing. After everything Daniel had been through on my behalf, he deserved more, and I knew I couldn’t be the person to give it to him.
“Yeah, like who?” I rolled my eyes, standing to grab two coffee mugs from my cupboard, unwilling to admit that despite my sorrows, it was nice to have people around.
“Who do you think?” He shot back, his eyes following me as I hit the side of the coffee machine, trying to bring it to life as the light around the power button continued to flicker and fade.
“Rest assured, Michigan—I was the only one here last night.” I almost laughed at the ludicrous idea, knowing that after our fight, I would be lucky if Dylan ever stepped foot in my apartment again. I also wanted to ease his mind, knowing he was asking not just on behalf of me, but his own heart. I wished I was a better person. I wished I could say that it was all innocent. I wished I could be the person Daniel deserved.
Picking up on my tone, he decided to lay it to rest for a moment, distracted as I slammed my fist on the top of the machine. The plastic popped ever so slightly, but the previously flickering light remained solid, a blue ring around the brew button letting me know it was ready for action. I placed a mug underneath it, popping off the lid of my instant coffee container and spooning some inside. As I clicked the button to start the process, Danny spoke again.
“You know, repeat violence against defenceless objects is a punishable offence.” He joked, watching as I turned to face him.
“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll get lucky and break it for good next time. It’ll finally give me an excuse to throw it out the window.” I played into it, only half serious as I listened to the spurts of water shooting too powerfully and erratically into the porcelain cup.
“Whatcha workin’ on?” Sam asked, changing the subject as his eyes landed on my laptop. The fan was working overtime to cool it down, almost loud enough to drown out the irate inner workings of the coffee machine. Then again, I would never be that lucky.
I wondered if they noticed the things I did, if they cared about the things I worried myself sick over. Nearly everything in my apartment was falling apart or damaged in some way, and all of the things that worked at their place were barely functioning in mine. I don’t think, and after months of friendship I would have known, that they ever cared. If anything, I don’t even think they paid any mind to it to begin with.
“Same old.” I replied, placing the black coffee in front of Sam, knowing yet not understanding how he liked it that way. Starting the second cup, I pulled the bag of sugar out of the cupboard and the cream from the fridge. “You know, I actually might finish it soon. Didn’t realize how close I was to the end… ‘til it was in my face.” I chuckled, leaning against the counter as I thought about it.
What once seemed so unattainable was right in front of me, within reach so long as I kept pushing. I used to dream of being where I was then, but never once believed I could achieve it. A lot of it had to do with the addiction, how I could never stay focused when so devoted to something so evil. Then, I blamed it on writer's block and a lack of inspiration. My whole life, I had created excuses that limited me from accomplishing the things I so badly wanted to do. For once, as I stood, even after the whirlwind of shit the world had thrown at me, all I wanted to do was keep writing. I thought, if I could finish my book, my life would finally have amounted to something. Even if I never published it, or if I never sold a single copy, I still did it. All I ever wanted was a purpose, and I felt like if I kept going at the same pace, I would finally find it.
“I better get the first copy.” Danny said, smiling at me as I handed him his coffee. Taking a small sip, he hummed in appreciation, letting me know it was just right.
“You know it, honey.” I gave a sad little smile as I sat back down, swallowing down a mouthful of my cold coffee, envious as I watched swirls of steam pour out of theirs.
“What was that meeting about yesterday?” Sam asked, never able to stay on a single topic for too long. It was one of his quirks I’d grown used to, and one I was beginning to cherish as life continued to grow harder. I wondered if it was truly him, or a quirk that resulted from his own mental struggles he felt comfortable enough to share with me.
For some reason, knowing that Sam struggled with his mental health made me feel less alienated. Knowing his quirks could be tied to his struggles made me feel less alone.
As appreciative as I was that he opened himself up to me, I couldn’t help but sour at the mention of the meeting at The Foxhole. Still bargaining with my own uneasiness and fears of the future, I wasn’t necessarily sure if I was ready to say it aloud yet. At the same time, I knew that the safest place for my fears had always been with the two boys. They had proven time and time again that they would never use them for bad, and after the terrible day I had, I wanted to lean into that comfort a bit further, soaking it up while I still could. I knew the expiration date of our friendship was nearing, and soon enough, I wouldn’t have the luxury of trusting them with anything.
“Uh, nothing good.” I forced another smile, pale as I recalled the announcements John made. “They’re closing us down for good.” I choked out, my mouth dry as I made myself to say it aloud, my entire body rejecting the sound and trying to lock it back up for safe keeping.
“What?” Danny and Sam spoke in unison, drawing my eyes to both of them, back and forth, with no way to soothe either of them or myself.
“Yeah.” I nodded, looking back towards the table so I would not have to see the worried look in their eyes. “At the end of the year… so it looks like I have to get my shit together.”
“You and Dylan.” Danny sympathized, saddened at the thought of both of us losing our jobs, but the stab in my heart as he spoke his name distracted me from the topic at hand entirely. “Do you guys know what you’re going to do?”
“Uh, no.” I shook my head, licking my chapped lips as I tried to formulate a proper response. “I have no idea, and I’m really worried I’ll end up back in Utah.” I confessed. “I don’t have anything but a high school diploma, and not really many skills either. I mean, the pay at The Fox isn’t spectacular, but I know it pays my bills, and I’m always guaranteed my 48 hours… plus tips. Most waitressing gigs are part time, so that’s kind of out of the question.”
“Holy shit, Utah.” Danny grimaced, knowing how devastating the news was for me. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I assured him, forcing a smile despite my teary eyes. “I’ll be okay. Always am, right?”
“You’ll figure it out, Bella.” Sam spoke, wordlessly begging me to look his way so I could see how genuine he was. Eventually, my eyes landed on him, and I was astounded by the sincerity held in his expression. “You’re smart, and you’ve got lots of skills. This isn’t it for you.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” I let out a long breath, steadying my shaking hands as I clasped them together under the table, hoping not to show them how worked up I was over it.
“What about Dylan? Does he know?” I cursed the fact that they were friends with him now, nervous that they were concerned about a man I had just destroyed. I knew if I told them what happened the day prior, it may change their outlook on me entirely.
“Uh, not sure.” I rasped, tracing my stick and poke. “He could probably see if he could get on the payroll at The Pony… basically lives there anyway. Or he could work with Doug full time… the mechanic that lives beside him. He’s got a couple possibilities.”
“But you talked to him about it, right Utah?” Danny asked, knowing me well enough to worry that I had closed myself off completely.
“Yeah, of course.” I squeaked, growing more sick with each second that passed. The fleeting serenity I had found that morning was long gone.
“Utah.” He warned, his tone of voice irking me as I sat under his heavy stare.
“Yeah, I did talk to him, but I wasn’t really worried about future plans.” I cracked, knowing it was easier to confess sooner rather than later, especially when it came to the two of them. They had a way of getting the truth from me no matter what, and I knew better than to try and hide behind my facade when with them. “Turns out Vincent’s going to be a dad.”
“What?” Another booming echo from the two shook me to the core, forcing me to shrink back in my chair, terrified to continue the conversation in fear I would react to them the same way I reacted to Dylan. It was a horrible thing to be so afraid of your own psyche, to never be in control and never know when you were going to snap.
“Not you… right?” Sam asked, a bit less informed on the history of Vincent and I. Instead of the invasive question bothering me, I actually let out a laugh, finding it funny he would think so and happy to answer it.
“No.” I chuckled, shaking my head. “Uh, with some girl named Lillian… yeah.” I concluded, the bitter taste on my tongue returning as soon as I spoke her name.
“Did Dylan tell you?” Danny asked, trying to shift the conversation in a better direction, knowing how I felt about Lillian from the many conversations we had prior to that one.
“Not really, no.” I shook my head, swiping my sweaty palms across my bare legs, unnerved by the topic and regretting bringing it up. “Vincent tried to talk to me yesterday, and he kinda pissed Dylan off. Dylan let it slip, and I just so happened to overhear.” I explained, a frown decorating my lips. “So, me being me, I confronted him about it… he knew the whole time. Like, the day after everything happened, and he never said a word.”
“Okay.” Danny said, treading carefully, likely able to see it from both sides. “And how did that go?”
“About as good as you’d expect.” I replied, knowing that I barely even scratched the surface. “I was overwhelmed, still thinking about everything we talked about at therapy, and then I was thrown into that meeting. It seemed like everything was falling apart all at once—the diner closing, Vincent getting her pregnant… Vincent talking to me. I was really hurt that he hid it from me, and I… exploded.” I explained. “Well, I tried to leave and he wouldn’t let me, and then I exploded.”
“Exploded… how?” Sam asked, still sipping away at his bitter black coffee as he absorbed all of the newfound information.
“Uh, I was really mean. I felt like, in the moment anyway, that he was trying to make decisions for me, and like he thought I was fragile, and the more he tried to explain it, the more upset I got.” I said, trying to put everything in perspective for them. “So when he followed me outside, I told him to stop getting involved… that I didn’t ask him to, and I sorta called him a coward.”
“Yeah, okay. Maybe a little harsh, but I can see where you’re coming from.” Sam nodded, making me feel even worse. They weren’t there, they didn’t see the intensity nor did they hear the tone in which I said it in. I was sugarcoating, making myself look better, and I felt terrible for it.
“Um, yeah, maybe.” I squeaked, the skin atop my stick and poke nearly rubbed clean off. “And then, I kind told him that he should have let me die?” I phrased it as a question, the words feeling so different rolling off my tongue than it did when I first said it. “I know that’s horrible… I was upset, and it’s no justification… I just… yeah.”
I looked up, seeing both of their eyes wide and unblinking, no words able to lessen the harshness of mine. I gave a tight lipped smile, knowing how horrible it was and not needing them to confirm it. I wanted to crawl back into bed, under the covers and hide from the world. I didn’t deserve the people around me, and I didn’t deserve to be comforted for such evil acts.
Then, Danny’s fingers began to drum against the table again, a sure sign of his anxious thoughts as he prepared to speak again.
“Utah, you don’t… you don’t really mean that, do you?” He asked, so sheepish and quiet. I wondered why that’s what he was curious about, why my hatefulness towards Dylan was overshadowed with his concern for me.
I was fine, just like always.
“I mean… no, not really. I guess sometimes I think that if it did happen, it would have been easier… I wouldn’t have to feel this way anymore, but everyone feels that way, right? That’s like, a normal emotion when things get bad?”
Their silence answered my questions without doubt, and I swallowed thickly, understanding that not even my most constant state aside from emptiness was normal. I began to worry that nothing I had ever felt or experienced was normal. Suddenly feeling panicked, my throat closed off and my skin began to crawl. I shifted in my seat, unable to wheeze in a breath, unable to handle the heaviness of their eyes on me. Raising a hand to my chest, my nails scratched over my skin, trying so desperately to bring myself back to earth but failing miserably.
“Hey.” Sam said, reaching forward and placing a tentative hand atop of my own, slowing the motion of my fingers and drawing my attention towards him. “It’s okay.” He whispered, giving me a soft smile. “You remember what I told you? We don’t have to understand it to listen. Just because we don’t feel that way doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”
God, what I ever did to deserve them, I did not know. It overwhelmed me most days, and I constantly wondered if I would ever be able to give back anything they gave to me.
“Utah, I hope you know that wouldn’t make anything better.” Daniel added, leaning forward and into the conversation. “It may feel that way, and you may be mad at us for taking that… choice… away from you, and you’re allowed to be, but it wouldn’t fix anything.”
“You know, sometimes…” I paused, a laugh stuck in my throat as tears stung my eyes. “I really do feel that way… and I have for so long. I’d never do anything, but I mean, look at my habits. I think, inadvertently, I’ve been trying to do it this whole time.” I felt a weight lift off my shoulders as I said it aloud for the first time, the confession grim but real. “I feel terrible for throwing it in his face like that, but I guess when I said it, I really meant it.”
“Maybe that’s something you should talk about with your therapist.” Sam offered. “I think that’s definitely something you shouldn’t have to live with every day, Utah. You shouldn’t have to feel guilty or upset for being alive.”
“Yeah, baby, you really should.” Danny encouraged. “You know you can always talk to us, but you don’t always like to believe us.” At that, all of us shared a small laugh, the truth behind it staggering. “You don’t have to tell us anything else about yesterday if you don’t want to.”
“I guess there isn’t much else to tell… I asked him why he waited so long to tell me how he felt about Vincent, and why if he cared so much, he never said anything to Vincent… I also may have told him to leave me alone and stop pretending to care… which was a bad call, I’ll admit.” I whispered, more ashamed with every minute that went by. “I was so upset, and I wasn’t even really mad at him. I was just mad, and when he wouldn’t let me leave… I just exploded. I wish I could take it all back, and I feel so bad about everything, and I’m scared he’ll never talk to me again… even if he does, I know I don’t deserve it.” I put my head in my hands, unable to face them any longer. I wanted to rediscover the grave I had dug for myself, to burrow and hide, even if I knew it would only make things worse.
“Come on, Bella… he knows you didn’t mean it, and he will talk to you again. Just give it some time, tell him that you’re sorry, and you guys can work on it.” Danny reassured me, reaching over and landing a soft touch on my arm. The contact made my stomach churn, half with love and half with repulsion for myself. I didn’t know what the hell to do anymore.
“I just… he stopped talking to Vincent because of me, and now I go and do this, and what does Dylan have? Who does Dylan have? I’m so worried about him, even if it’s me that caused the fucking problem, and I can’t check on him because I know he doesn’t want to see me.”
“No,” Sam laughed, shaking his head “he stopped talking to Vincent because Vincent is a ‘piece’a shit’.” He air quoted the words, but neither Daniel or I paid much attention to it. We both paused, figuring Dylan must have told him as much, considering the very poor imitation Sam tried to make of his accent. Forgetting my misery for a moment, I choked back a laugh, not wanting him to think I was laughing at him. “What? He told me so himself.”
“Yeah, no, I figured as much.” I smiled, nodding along with him.
“Anyway,” Sam realized what Daniel and I were giggling about, swinging back to the main topic “you didn’t make him do anything. That was his choice, so don’t blame yourself.”
“Okay.” I nodded, still smiling at the memory of Sam with a Bronx accent.
“And, Daniel and I will check in on him, because he’s our friend too. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not playing middleman, ‘cause we both suck at it, but we’ll make sure he’s alright.”
“Yeah, exactly.” Danny agreed, nodding along and shooting me one of his breathtaking smiles. “You just worry about you, Utah. Go to your next appointment, get some of that stuff out, and start to feel better. Then we can worry about the rest.”
“Okay.” I nodded again, feeling a bit better knowing that there was someone in the world who also cared enough to look after Dylan, even if he didn’t want them to. “Thank you.”
“No need for that, Utah.” Danny said, draining the last of his coffee from his mug and standing to place it by the sink. “Now, get out of your pajamas and let’s do something to get your mind off things.”
“We don’t have to—“
“Trust me, Utah, he wants to.” Sam cut me off, sending me a wink. “He hasn’t shut up all day, and I can’t handle him by myself for very long.” Meeting his words with a rude hand gesture, Danny pushed his chair back in and waved his arm towards the door, choosing to respond silently.
“Alright.” I nodded, smiling again as I stood too, wondering how it was possible for the two of them to clear all grey skies and dry up all of the rain. Without them around, I wasn’t sure what I would do, and unfortunately for me, I was incredibly close to finding out. In the meantime, I was committed to cherishing every last minute, starting then as I raced down the hallway to change into something better.
July 29th, 2022 - 12:26 AM
The diner was quiet, foot traffic near zero and vehicle traffic on the highway unusually slow. Dylan was in the kitchen, doing his very best to avoid me, and Vincent had been in and out all night, taking off down the road likely to dote on Lillian. Though, I couldn’t imagine Vincent doing much doting, unless the news of parenthood really had changed him. That chance was slim to none, and it was more reasonable to assume he was just using it as an excuse to leave. He was outside, talking to someone on the phone, returning back long enough to smoke a cigarette and throw his apron back on before stepping outside again. The dim light of his screen illuminated his rosy cheeks, and I wasn’t sure if the redness was from the heat or his active high.
It did not take long after Vincent and I fought for him to return to his old habits, and that time, I really didn’t take the burden upon my shoulders. His choices were nobody’s responsibility, and I could not take the burden of his shitty decisions any longer. Though, it did still sting, knowing the minute he was without supervision he was back on the drugs like he’d never gotten sober at all, like my attempts at saving his life meant nothing.
I was furious with Vincent, finding myself sick every time I looked his way, knowing he let me waste my time and efforts to keep him alive when he never had any intent to get better. Also, knowing he let me dote on him while he knew someone else was pregnant with his child, and he didn’t say a word. Instead, I had to find out from Dylan, and not even directly—the only reason I knew at all was because he let it slip out in anger. It felt like an injustice, and one larger than many of the other ones he so often committed against me. Betrayal in a new way, and not only to me. Even if I did not like Lillian, I understood that Vincent was the very thing that pitted us against each other, just the same as Steph and I. At the end of the line, it always came right back to him.
As he hung up the call and glanced at me through the window, I shrunk back in my seat, figuring he knew for sure I was watching and would take it as an invitation. He stood outside for a moment, rubbing his face in his palm before stuffed his phone back in his pocket. As he came inside, I followed him with my gaze, picking up on every mannerism and tick as he made his way to the bathrooms. It was obvious, his erratic behaviour, his rushed speech and his blown pupils all pointing to the same thing. As he disappeared behind the bathroom door, I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, knowing exactly what was going on behind the closed door.
Instead of being upset at Vincent for using, I found myself on a new, old train of thought, one I hadn’t found myself in since I first moved to New York: what was he using?
Was he finding solace in a crushed up pill, chalky and well worth the effort? Was it already powder, heroin or cocaine for easy access and instant gratification? Uppers or downers, or maybe a little bit of both? Was he swallowing a pill or sticking a needle?
Why did I care?
After six months of strict sobriety, and nearly two years of rocky sobriety, why did it pique my interest? I didn’t want to join him, so why did I care?
I decided that it did not matter why, and that I was simply a person who wanted to know everything, all of the time. Since finding myself without distraction, missing constant company, after being without Dylan and keeping my distance from Sam and Danny, I was much more interested in the world around me. I had time to ponder, time to wonder, even about things I had no business wondering about. When alone, I thought of everything and anything, an endless stream of curiosities that could not be satiated, and my wondering about his drug of choice had little to do with my desire to use, and more to do with my desire to know. I needed something to fill the void, and knowledge was the only free alternative to love.
Sometimes, both turn out to be just as dangerous.
When Vincent emerged from the bathroom, much more relaxed than he was upon entering, my curiosity got the best of me. Waiting until he stalked to the kitchen to busy himself with a useless task, I glanced to the order window, noticing both boys were nowhere to be found. Swallowing thickly, I placed a marker in my book and stood, quietly progressing towards the only bathroom in the place. Twisting the knob, I pushed the door open and glanced inside, immediately noticing the fluorescent light pool into the dining room. Knowing exactly what I was doing to myself, I still couldn’t seem to stop, not understanding why I needed to know so badly.
The heavy door sealed my grave as it fell shut behind me, leaving me alone with the grimey tiles and chipping paint on the wall. The bathroom was relatively clean though seriously outdated, but the laminate countertop was in much better shape than the rest of it because John had replaced it only a year prior. Approaching said counter, my legs felt heavy, made of concrete as I tried to advance. It felt like my body was telling me to run, battling my brain which for once, did not care about the outcome.
Staring down at the surface, I did not immediately notice anything out of place. Inspecting further, I noticed that beside a pooling puddle of sink water, there seemed to be a faint residue of something littering the countertop. Feeling my heart still in my chest, I was immediately thrown into a suffocating pit of feeling, not good nor bad, but undeniably strong. My skin was tingling, abuzz with something unfamiliar as I reached forward with a shaking hand, my index finger outstretched as I placed it to the counter. In a slow motion, I dragged it across the glossy finish, feeling a powdery substance coat my skin, immediately sending a shiver down my spine.
When I pulled my hand away, bringing it to eye level so I could inspect the substance, my stomach was sick, twisted with misplaced desire as my entire nervous system ignited with need. Unable to refute my desire for the relief, I nearly cracked under the weight of my own addictions, my knees giving way as I reached toward and clamped onto the counter for support. I knew it was stupid, searching for answers I had no business knowing, no real need to have. I walked myself straight into disaster, and sitting in that tiny little prison, the residue of some substance I knew that no matter the effect, would solve all of my problems in an instant. I entered that bathroom knowing the outcome, yet somehow convinced myself that it was for some other reason aside from my innate desire to get high.
My blue eyes fixated on the exact thing I had been running from, and I had to face the hard truth that no matter how hard I tried to regain control, I would always lose when it came to drugs. I would never heal, would never move on, and I would always rationalize my own stupidity and find myself in the exact same situation every time. I didn’t care what Vincent was using, and my sudden curiosity had nothing to do with my want to fill a void with knowledge, but rather to fill a void with a high.
Since Vincent overdosed, since holding that bag of OxyContin in my hand, I had been a ticking time bomb. All of my thoughts pertained to the same thing, and every ounce of hurt I felt all led me back to it. I knew, without a doubt, that I could solve everything if I just gave in, but I wouldn’t let myself because there were people that loved me, people who depended on me. After everything that happened since, nearly losing my life to Vincent, pushing Danny and Sam away, finding out about the baby and severing the ties between Dylan and I, I no longer felt that way. I didn’t believe that enough people needed me, that anyone loved me enough to care. I had always been so fearful of disappointing people, but as I sat in that bathroom, I truly believed I had no one left to disappoint.
Daniel and Sam loved me, but I had been more of a burden to them than I ever was anything good. I couldn’t truly believe that they would care, and I could not believe they would continue to love me after they left for Nashville. If I hurt them, if I gave in, it would spare me another month of loving them despite knowing they were leaving. Dylan, though he probably did still care, would no longer feel that way once the storm passed and he healed from all of the horrible things I said to him. I lost him for good, and I was slowly coming to terms with that with each day that passed. Vincent, who never loved me to begin with, was starting a family and leaving me behind. Not even a man who I begged to leave me alone was around to care, and I hated to admit that a small part of me wanted him to come back, just so I wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.
I was so desolate and desperate that I craved his violent love. I was more afraid of being alone than I was of his unforgiving hand, and that itself scared the shit out of me. After everything those I loved did to help me get better, to keep me on the right path, I pushed them away and landed myself right back on it. I was worthless, ungrateful and despicable. I didn’t deserve any of them, nothing that they ever gave me, and I hated myself for not being able to become a better person for them.
Staring down at the tip of my finger, covered with the answer and the end all at once, I felt tears fill my eyes, wondering why I always had to force myself back to the start, to regress into bad habits the minute things got hard. Knowing that it wouldn’t even do anything for me, I still struggled to turn the tap off and rinse my finger clean. It wasn’t the answer, but by god I wanted it to be—until that summer, it was the only answer I had ever known, even if it wasn’t right.
Letting out a shaky breath, I tilted my head towards the ceiling, feeling tears tattoo mascara to my cheeks as I prayed to an entity I wasn’t even sure existed. I didn’t want to be that person anymore, did not want to give in to such things, but the more the misery dragged on, the less fight I had. Sometimes it felt like misery was the only thing I would ever have, inviting it in even when things were good because I did not know how to let myself be happy or move on. I wanted to blame Vincent, to be angry with him for fuelling such bad habits in a public space and not cleaning up after himself, angry that he chose to engage in such reckless behavior when he knew I was trying so hard not to, but I couldn’t be.
It wasn’t Vincent’s fault, even if I wished it was. The blame was my own, and walking into that bathroom was my decision. I knew what I would find, and I was too stupid to recognize the tricks of my addicted subconscious. I was an idiot, and I was my own worst enemy. Looking back down at the residue left behind, I knew Vincent was right after all. I would always be a junkie, and I would get nowhere blaming my mistakes on those around me.
Finding a single second of clarity, I flicked the tap on and forced my hand underneath the pathetic stream of water, my whole body ablaze with fire as I watched the powder disappear. Knowing it was the right thing to do, I wondered why it hurt so bad. As it seemed, what I thought was right always hurt me the most. I think that’s why it had always been so hard to keep myself on the straight and narrow, why it was always impossible to refute my own miserable desires.
Sniffling back another wave of tears, I ripped a piece of paper towel from the roll and stuck it under the tap, ringing it out and wiping the counter with it, taking care of the last bit of poison left behind by a man who would never care about anyone other than himself. Cleaning up after him had become my specialty, but even that skill was waning, leaving me vulnerable to the consequences of his mess, which always seemed to win sooner or later.
Taking a long look in the mirror, I couldn’t recognize the woman staring back at me—the one who continued to hurt those she loved, the one who traded everything for nothing, the one who no longer wanted to get better. I thought I left her behind a long time ago, abandoning her in search of more and having little remorse walking away. I understood, standing there with a phantom burn in my sinuses and a hole in my heart, that I had never left her behind. I only tricked myself into believing such nonsense, putting on a mask as I tried to convince myself I didn’t know her.
There always comes a time, no matter how tired your legs are from running, you always hit a dead end. Miles away from where you started, looking around only to find you never really left at all. You found a different shithole with the same problems, and you finally understand it’s never your environment that sets you back—it’s you.
Wiping mascara from my foundation caked cheeks, I understood I had always been the problem. Trying to blend everything back together, mending the mask I used to cover myself, I was tired of trying so hard only to end up in the same spot every time. I knew I should have walked myself straight out of that bathroom to a phone call with my sponsor, just to keep me stable until I could catch the next morning's meeting. Instead, I put on a brave face, not wanting to let either of the boys in on how I was truly feeling, and I decided that I could deal with it myself. After two years, I had to be able to do it on my own. I couldn’t rely on people for the rest of my life, or I would never get better.
Taking a step back into the dining room, I felt better, further away from the pain. I wondered, was distance really the key factor, or was I just too good at compartmentalization? As soon as I was away from the problem, it seemed to disappear, almost like it never happened at all. Though, even I had to admit, the urge to use was stronger than ever, grating on every nerve and sitting heavy on my shoulders as I prepared to return to the booth so I could keep reading.
Only, when I rounded the corner of the small hallway, I nearly ran into a body, catching myself just in time to stop the collision. Before I looked up, I could feel who it was, sensing it without ever needing to see his face. The sweet smell of cologne, cardamom, coriander, amber and tobacco. Cigarette smoke and a faint smell of weed. The warmth radiating from him, washing over me like the summer sun, and he did not need to touch me at all. Glancing upwards, I caught the familiar sight of icy blue irises, shining with some kind of emotion I did not have the energy to decipher. I knew it could not be love, not after what I said to him, and I was growing to accept the fact.
His face was stony, his expression void of any kind of emotion, and though the coldness cut like a knife, I could not blame him. The warmth I felt in his company was not because he wanted to console or soothe me, but because I could not let go of the love I had for him.
“Sorry, Dyl.” I muttered, trying to shrink in size as I tried to walk around him, knowing I could not force him into a conversation he did not want to have.
I was sorry for a million things, and I hoped he knew that.
Before I could make it past him, he reached out with one large, tattooed hand and caught me by the arm. The touch was gentle, soft, nothing like the way he was looking at me. I glanced down, wondering why after everything, him touching me was the only thing that felt right. I was still mad, angry that he hid such a huge thing from me, angry that he was making executive decisions based on what he thought was best for me. I was angry over all the things I threw at him like weapons, including him neglecting to tell me of his feelings and letting me fall further in love with Vincent. I thought, had he said something sooner, the two of us would not be face to face as our hearts housed nothing but hurt. I believed we may have been happy, even if it was only in a way the two of us knew how.
At the same time, I was so guilty, hating myself more than I could ever be angry with him. I wished I could have been mature, more of an adult, and talked to him about the things that hurt me instead of fighting. All of what I said I wished to take back and rephrase, even if I knew it was impossible, leaving me with the horrific truth that fighting was all I had ever known. I did not know how to approach things gently, nor did I know how to hold my hurt with grace. I felt, though maybe it was not fully true, that I had learned a bit more about it, and at that point in time, I had chosen to react with such cruelty.
He didn’t say anything, but his hand remained on my arm, the searing heat of his skin cutting into me. It was agony, but it was addictive, and I was a fool to think of asking for more. I had always been a slave to my twisted desires, a selfish being who always wanted more, and he was no exception. Though I wanted him to be, I would always be me. That in itself was a curse destined to ruin anything that came close.
It was sick and twisted, how I never once thought of Dylan as a romantic possibility until the world blew up in my face and I was tied up in someone else—someone good, who loved me and truly cared for me. I didn’t know what to do, and I was so angry with him for not acting sooner, before it all turned into a mess. If he had have said something two years ago, I believed life would have gone very differently. Not perfectly, but I believed it still would have been happy.
God, I did not have the luxury to think that. I was so fucked up it wasn’t even funny, and I was going to hurt everyone I cared about at the rate I was going. I didn’t know how to stop.
His eyes were dissecting me, stripping me down to bare bones and wisps of soul so he could get the entire story, knowing I would never let the truth roll off my tongue even if he asked. He knew me, and so well that it nearly made me sick. It was obvious he knew how our fight haunted me, but neither of us had the strength to address it. I couldn’t apologize, and he couldn’t explain himself. Instead of trying to figure it out, we both hoped that with time, it would disappear. Though, I was certain that would not happen, and the longer we avoided it, the worse it felt.
I studied him too, even if I should have walked away. There was something compelling about him, locking me in place and refusing to let me leave. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes more prominent than usual. He was pale, like he’d been hiding away instead of sitting under the sun, neglecting to eat or take care of himself. His stubble was grown in, making his face appear darker. It also made him look older, like centuries had passed since the last time we had been so close. I knew him, but I didn’t. It hurt.
“What’s up?” I asked, prompting him to speak so I could gauge the tone of the impending conversation.
“Nothin’.” He muttered, shaking his head but still neglecting to drop his hold. “I jus’… yeah, whatever.” He rolled his eyes, giving his head another shake as he finally let go.
The separation was debilitating, much more agonizing than washing the powder from my hands without a taste, and I began to understand that Dylan Barrett would forever be the most lethal addiction I had ever known. I didn’t have the space for another addiction, not when I knew it would cost me Daniel.
“Well, what? It’s not whatever—obviously it’s something.” I argued, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to preserve the warmth that fled when he did. His lips formed a straight line, like he was trying to lock up every word that begged to be spoken. I couldn’t help but fixate on them, the plush pink skin that always invited me in. “You can tell me.”
“Was nervous.” He snapped, his eyebrows furrowed as he responded with a tone I had never quite heard from him before. It caused my stomach to sink, my eyes to shine with unwanted tears, and my legs to force me away from him. I shied away, taking a step back as I swallowed my sadness. I wondered if he felt the same way just days prior when I spoke to him the same way. “Saw you goin’ in the bathroom after ‘em. Was hopin’ you weren’t that fuckin’ dumb.”
It was evident I had forever altered the ways in which we spoke to each other. Though his curt tone and sharp words hurt, I could not blame him. If anything, I was happy to hear them, because it meant he really did care, even if I tried to force him to stop. Still, vulnerability was so difficult for me, and in the moment it was impossible for me not to respond the same way, even if it was only making things worse.
“Oh, okay.” I scowled, wondering if he was always worried about me like I used to worry about Vincent. I wondered how much stress I put him under, forcing him to clean up after me while chastising Vincent for making me do the same. “Did you get your fucking answer?”
“Yeah, sure did.” He chuckled, nodding his head with a note of finality. “Guess it ain’t snowin’ in the bathroom after all—for you, anyway.” As he spoke, he was still watching my eyes, his stare so intent. He was making sure, checking my pupils and watching them react to the light. Every now and again, his eyes would flicker to my nose, making sure it was free of powder and not stained with any blood.
He was angry, spiteful, but by god did he love me. Even after everything, he could not force himself to stop, even if it was better for him. It was a comfort knowing that I wasn’t the only one struggling with it.
“Yeah, guess not.” I muttered, losing my intensity the more I understood his harshness came from a place of love rather than hate. He was no different than me, a hurt kid in an adult body, not knowing how to process the emotion and too afraid to let his guard down.
“Don't get it twisted, angel. Didn’t wanna be the only one missin’ out on the fun. Wouldn’t want ya to think I fuckin’ cared or nothin’.” He spat the word like it was poison on his tongue. I could see how deeply it hurt him to act like he didn’t care—almost as badly as it hurt for me to think that he really didn’t.
He didn’t give me enough time to formulate a response, already turning to walk back to the kitchen, leaving me behind to sit with the weight of his words. Sick to my stomach for a whole new reason, understanding he was trying to force himself out of lust and some kind of twisted love, just as desperately as I was. For some reason, it hurt so much more thinking of it the other way around, knowing how badly he was suffering as he tried to do so. Swallowing back my sorrow once again, I began to regret my decisions in the bathroom, and not for the reasons I should have.
Had I faced that conversation high, it wouldn’t have stung half as bad. In truth, it wouldn’t have hurt at all. Though sobriety was the goal, I could not refute how beautiful it was to just be numb.
August 1st, 2022 - 10:39 PM
“Okay, everyone!” Sam shouted, making his way into the living room carrying something large and rectangular under his arm. “Drunkards and assholes alike, I’d appreciate your attention for a moment.” He said, scuffling his way to the couch. He grabbed the item under his arm and plopped down, situating himself before speaking again.
“I suppose you’re the drunkard and I’m the asshole?” Danny asked, casting a sideways glance in my direction. I gave a shrug, sipping on a bottle of Modelo I found in their fridge.
“Guess we’ll never know.” I joked, sending him a wink.
I was laying flat on the couch opposite from Sam, my legs resting on Daniel’s lap as music played softly in the background. It was nice, a good distraction from the pain of everyday life. I think the two understood I did not want to talk about anything serious, and every time they tried, I dodged it with expert precision. Knowing they couldn’t force me, we decided on a night of drinking to brighten my spirits. At first I was weary, nervous that it would only make me more upset, but the more I sipped on my drink, the better I felt. It was pretty difficult to be anything but happy in Danny and Sam’s company.
“Where the fuck did you get a whiteboard, Sam?” I asked, my head turned to look at him. With pink cheeks and crinkled eyes, he grinned, happy I asked.
“Amazon, princess. Twenty bucks. What a deal.” He explained.
“Maybe a better question is why do you have a whiteboard?” Danny chimed in, his brows furrowed as he rested his palm on my thigh, the touch soothing and familiar. I wondered how long I would get to experience it for—if when he left for Nashville, he would forget me all together.
“Boy, am I glad you asked.” Sam continued, his eyes glazed with drunken joy as he prepared to announce his evening plans. Alcohol always turned Sam into a fool, and I loved him even more for the fact. He was funny when he was sober, and hilarious under the influence. “Since you’ve gone and fucked everything up, I’ve decided that we need a plan.”
“A plan for what?” Isaac asked, a lot more sober than Sam and I. “And fucked what up?”
“Oh, Daniel.” Sam let out a disapproving ‘tsk’, glancing in my direction to see if I was on the same page. Thankfully, despite being inebriated, Sam and I were always on the same page, whether it was good or a bad thing. “New York was about finding ourselves… and you did find yourself… in someone else.”
“Oh, okay.” Daniel rolled his eyes, tossing an empty can in his direction. “Enough.”
Biting down on my bottom lip, I stifled a laugh, watching as Daniel’s head fell back on his shoulders—a clear sign of defeat if I’d ever seen one. My stomach churned with unease though the reaction was humorous, wondering if Sam truly did think I fucked things up.
“Sam, you are insufferable sometimes.” He muttered, draining back the last of his beer. I assumed it was because he needed the extra strength to get through the night.
“Okay, well, you’re not in love because I’m insufferable.” He redirected the conversation, popping the cap off of his black dry-erase marker. “Come on, now. We had a list.”
“Fuck you,.” Clearly, Isaac wanted to talk about this topic as badly as I wanted to discuss any matter in my life, which was almost comedic.
Just as I opened my mouth to speak, I heard the door behind us open, sending me straight into fight or flight. I think Danny could feel me tense underneath his hand, and he gave my leg a small squeeze of reassurance in response. I sent him a smile, my heart swelling with affection only until my eyes landed on Dylan, who was walking through the door. Sinking lower into the couch, I wanted it to swallow me whole, my stomach twisting with sickness. Knowing that there was no other possibility, I finally noticed Danny and Sam lacking any surprise, meaning they had invited him. Not understanding what they had done, they made the whole situation that much worse.
“What’s goin’ on then?” Dylan asked, turning back to face the three of us. His eyes landed on me, like his purpose was to seek me out in a crowd, but he did not look pleased to see me. Not like I expected him to be, but it still hurt.
“I need your help.” Sam said, waving him over. Dylan looked at him, then back at me, seemingly frozen in place as he digested the situation at hand.
“You said ‘crisis’.” Dylan stated, looking back at Sam. “This don’t look like no crisis.”
“Come in, sit down—I’ll fill you in.”
For a moment, I thought Dylan would disregard Sam’s invitation completely, that he would turn and leave us all behind in hopes of getting as far away from me as possible. I wouldn’t have blamed him, and in fact, I was waiting for it. Then, slowly, he slipped off his shoes and advanced towards us, his eyes avoiding me entirely as he walked past the couch Danny and I sat on and took his place next to Sam.
I watched him, drinking in his appearance like a woman dying of thirst. He was in sweatpants, worn, grey and low on his hips. He had on an oversized, off-white shirt, one side tucked into the elastic waistband of his pants. The sleeves cut off near his elbows, concealing the most intimate tattoos between the two of us. I wondered if he was hiding them on purpose, or if it was a mindless decision to wear a shirt that covered my name. Considering the way he was looking at me, indifference shining in his eyes as he caught my own, a slight scowl decorating his lips as he glanced down at Issac’s hand on my leg, I figured it was with intent.
He looked better than he did at the diner a few days prior, the stubble shaved clean and his eyes much less tired. He was stoned, without doubt, the whites of his eyes red and glossy. He was tapping his fingers against his leg, fidgeting as he sat, staring. On his way past, he avoided me like the plague, but now that I was in front of him, he could seem to look away. I shouldn’t have wanted him to, but I did. Since the thought surfaced, the long forgotten memories of what we could have been so long ago, I was drowning in it. With Daniel’s hand on my leg, I felt evil, vile for even letting the thought cross my mind.
I had to talk to him, even if I didn’t want to. He didn’t deserve to be left in the dark. He deserved more, even if it was not me.
“We came to New York to find ourselves—to relax a bit before we made the move to Nashville.” Sam explained, returning to the earlier topic and including Dylan.
“Oh, yes—Nashville.” I gave a dreamy sigh, brushing off my sadness and hurt over my current situation with Dylan in order to keep the tension as minimal as possible. “The dream. The wonderland. Where everything good will grace your lives.” I grinned, trying my best to swallow the pain that stemmed from the thought of them leaving. I knew it was coming, even if I refused to face it, and it was coming much sooner than I cared to admit.
“Exactly, Utah.” Sam played into my bit, flipping the whiteboard around to showcase those same words scrawled across the top of it.
“Our bucket list?” I laughed, my eyebrows furrowing as I tried to understand what he was getting at.
“I’ve gathered you all here tonight to devise a plan.” Sam explained, sitting on the very edge of the couch. “Danny and I had our own list, until a certain someone came along. Now, since we’re all lifelong friends, I figured it would be pertinent to remake that list so it would include all of us.” At that, we all shared a laugh. I leaned over closer to Danny, nudging him with my elbow to catch his attention. His cheeks were crimson, clearly embarrassed by the conversation and not nearly as invested as Sam and I were. Still, I gave him a sideways smile, happy to know that no matter how it ended, they truly wanted me in their lives.
“Let’s hear it, Michigan.” I whispered, leaning into his side instinctively. I wanted to hear all of the details, every single item on his bucket list and then some. I wanted to be there for it all, by his side and experiencing it with him. For a long time, dreams seemed like just that—fabricated ideas that would never come to fruition. With them by my side, I finally felt they could come true, and even if not magically, that we could work hard enough to get there.
“Careful what you wish for.” Daniel shot back, reaching up and pinching my cheek gently. Paired with a wink, I decided it was best to bite my tongue, even if it was tempting to say something smart in return.
“So this really ain’t no crisis?” Dylan asked, interjecting himself into the conversation, though he was not looking at Sam. Instead, his gaze was fixated on Danny and I. “You’s was jus’ bein’ dramatic?”
“Sam? Dramatic? Please.” Danny laughed, amused at Dylan’s surprise. “No crisis, Dyl. He’s just an idiot. If you have somewhere else to be, you don’t have to hang around.”
“No, I ain’t got nothin’ better to do.” He chuckled, visibly more relaxed knowing that nothing was wrong. “I should kill ya, you know.” He continued, looking at Sam as he spoke. “I was doin’ 80 miles gettin’ here. Cops woulda had my ass if I got caught.”
“Okay, well it is a crisis to me.” Sam concluded, huffing out a breath and clearly displeased with our response.
“Their definition of a crisis is a bit different than ours, Dyl.” I smiled, offering the kindness in hopes he would give a little back. He caught my eye, surprised that I addressed him at all, but eventually gave a slow nod.
“Yeah, can see that.” He smiled, soft and small, but it was something. It made me feel a bit better. “Maybe it ain’t such a bad thing.”
“No, I don’t think it is.” I agreed, happy for the conversation even if it was minimal. “You want a beer?” I asked, flashing him the bottle in my hand so he could see what I was offering.
“Yeah, why not?” He replied, softer and more gentle than the last few times we had spoken. I hated recognizing the racing of my heart and the twisting of my stomach, but the bodily response was impossible to ignore.
I stood, draining the last of the alcohol from my own bottle before walking to the kitchen. As I opened the refrigerator door, I heard Sam begin to speak again. Barely paying attention to his needless rambling, I grabbed two glass bottles and placed them on the counter. Grabbing my keys from my purse, I pried the caps loose and tossed them in the trash. Carrying them back to the living room, I noticed a change in the atmosphere, and most specifically, how Sam had switched couches to sit beside Danny.
Standing between everyone, I longingly gazed at my previous seat, knowing deep in my heart the switch was intentional, meant to mend the fence between Dylan and I. The suspicion was only confirmed as Sam refused to look my way, pretending to be too immersed in the conversation to even acknowledge my return. Danny shot me a smile, likely thinking that a little friendly conversation would go a long way, but he had no idea what Sam was encouraging I was volatile, dangerous, and too unstable to be put next to Dylan when I was having such horrible thoughts about him—especially with Daniel overlooking the scene.
Huffing out a breath of anger, I mouthed a silent ‘fuck you’ to him before turning my head towards Dylan, who was also on the same page as the rest of us. I stood, unsure whether I should approach or not, knowing that I was the last person he wanted to sit next to.
Finally, swallowing back my fear, I took a step towards him, extending my arm and offering him the beer in my hand. With a half-smile, he sat up, accepting it without words. Shifting on my feet, I placed my own on the coffee table, still awkwardly standing with no signs of moving. Dylan, watching my every move, was clearly less interested in the conversation happening across the room and much more focused on my strangeness.
“Christ, Bells—you can sit. I ain’t gonna bite.” He scolded. I jumped in surprise, turning back to look at him to gauge if he was serious. When my eyes locked with his, I felt guilty for being so weird, quickly rushing to take my new place beside him. “Well, unless you’re askin’ me to.” The second part was muttered much quieter, just between us as I situated myself on the cushions. It took me by surprise, my eyes wide as I stared up at his face, noticing a sly smirk on his lips. Typically, Dylan’s flirting never bothered me. After the last few days, it felt different.
I couldn’t respond, my stomach in knots and my palms clammy as I digested his forward approach. After days of not speaking, days of avoiding and days of hurting, I wasn’t expecting such a statement to fall from his lips, and for him to be bold enough to say it in front of the man he begged me to be with. I looked across the room, wondering if he only said it to make things seem normal between us. Then again, they didn’t even hear him, which made that rationalization futile. What game was he playing?
“What, angel?” He asked, noticing my shock. “I don’t gotta care to fuck you… you should know all about that.” He snipped, catching me off guard again, but that time the effect was lethal. The snide tone was expected, but the punch in the gut was not. Making it about Vincent was the last thing I wanted to do, but he was hurting and he didn’t know how else to communicate.
I sucked in a sharp breath, understanding he wasn’t flirting at all. Instead, he was being petty, trying to get under my skin for all of the horrible things I said to him that we both knew I did not mean. Swallowing hard, I felt tears glaze my eyes as I gave a curt nod, knowing it was best to hold back the emotion and feel it later, when I was alone. I had given too much to the people around me, too much emotion and too much vulnerability, and it was time to reel it back in and take care of it the way I always had. I needed to rely on myself again, because I was too good at fucking everything up to ever put my trust in another’s hands. Without them, I didn’t know what to do, and that was the problem. I needed to be okay on my own, and by continuing to share my sadness with them, wearing my hurt like a badge of honor, I was ensuring my own downfall.
“Yeah, guess so.” I nodded, agreeing with the sentiment as I sunk back into my seat and accepted the new normal between us. He was hurt, and that was evident, but fighting wasn’t what I wanted to do. Instead, I wanted to end it. If we weren’t going to move forward, if we were going to stay stuck in the cycle of hurt and suffering, I would not be the only one taking the blame. “Bet you know a whole lot about liars, too.”
“Oh, yeah. How could I fuckin’ forget.” He muttered, taking a long sip from his beer.
I couldn’t help but watch, noting the way his Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed down the golden liquid. As he pulled the spout away from his lips, the shine of liquid over the plush skin sent my whole body tingling. I hated how attracted to him I was even when I was mad, how I couldn’t force myself to quiet that stupid and reckless train of thought. I wanted to hate him, to forget all about the strange things I felt and the ways we were fighting. Though, I didn’t really want to hate him—I just thought it would be easier for me to digest everything that happened if I did.
“I didn’t lie to ya, Bells. Get your fuckin’ head straight.”
“You chose not to tell me the truth.” I shot back, realizing quickly that we could not fight about it there, not in front of everyone, and not at all. I didn’t want to invite us into another heartbreak, and I wasn’t ready to talk about what happened. If I had it my way, I would have ignored it until we all forgot about it. “That’s not why we’re here tonight, so let’s just drop it.”
“You do this every fuckin’ time.” He huffed, his voice still quiet as we kept our conversation to ourselves. “God fuckin’ forbid we fix anythin’.”
“Yeah, god forbid.” I snapped, giving him a snide look as I swallowed back the lump stuck in my throat.
I think he could see it, the shine of tears over my defeated eyes, the slight tremble of my bottom lip as I faced every injustice I ever committed against him. For a split second, his face softened, something that should have been a relief only making it hurt worse. I didn’t want him to have a soft spot for me. I didn’t want him to care, not for any of the reasons I spewed out in anger, but because I did not want to hurt him any longer. Cutting the tender moment short, I turned my head back to Sam and Danny, who at first glance seemed to be stuck in argumentative conversation with each other. I knew them well enough to tell they were eavesdropping on my conversation, just making themselves look busy so we did not catch on.
“Bucket list!” I announced, pushing a smile on my face as I took a long drink from my own beverage. “What do we got on the chopping block?” Changing the direction entirely, I refused to give in to Dylan’s arguing and opted to enjoy the night instead.
“Sam thinks we should go sky diving. What do you think about that?” With wide eyes, my gaze flickered to Sam, who had an expectant smile on his lips, like he thought I would agree.
“Okayyy.” I gulped, giving my head a slight shake. “Maybe start a little smaller? We’re looking to have fun—not kill ourselves.”
“Are you kidding? We’d have so much fun. They teach you how to do it all before you go.” Sam argued. “And if you haven’t noticed, we go big—for everything. Do you not remember when he was courting you? Love notes, hefty tips, hotel rooms and all that? And he was just looking to score—“ an elbow straight to his stomach cut that train of thought off, but the impact of his words already settled deep in my bones.
Was that really all he wanted in the beginning?
No, I couldn’t let myself think that. Not after everything.
Shaking the thought away, I swallowed back my anxiety. Looking to Dylan, I saw a scowl on his lips, a bitter taste on the tip of his tongue as he continued to reel over our less than friendly conversation . Deciding to ignore it, knowing he had no right to be upset when he refused to speak his feelings aloud, I continued to consider the truth behind Sam’s words. For once, it felt like I was actually leaning towards his ludicrous ideas.
Then, I snapped out of the trance, giving my head a shake and realizing how utterly ridiculous it was.
“No sky diving.” I concluded. “I think that might be a bit much.”
“Thank you.” Danny relaxed in his seat, his eyes following me as I grabbed a marker from the table and stood, closing the distance between us as I crossed the idea off the list. Clearly, he was on the same page.
“Who asked you, anyway?” Sam uttered his snarky remark as he snatched the marker from my hand. “Your idea of a good time is a six pack and a quickie in the backseat—“ I cut him off by raising a hand to his face, covering his mouth with my palm so he could not let any more rude comments slip.
As if it triggered something in him, he tossed the whiteboard from his lap, which Danny caught with ease. His hands then shot to my arm, wrestling my hand away with no real strength behind his actions. I took it upon myself to clamp my hand further over his mouth, laughing as the playful entanglement ensued. Soon enough, realizing I wasn’t backing down, I felt his face move under my hand, and seconds after, his teeth clamp around the edge of my palm. Letting out a shrill shriek, I retracted my hand and bargained with his stellar play.
“He fucking bit me!” I announced, unsure why I felt the need to let everyone know, like I was a kid tattling to my parents.
Then, feeling a surge of energy fill my chest, I remembered what it was like to be ten and at a disadvantage over my brothers, always having to fight to get my way. For a brief moment in time, I was a little kid, laughing away the afternoons at our grandparents house as we fought each other for the television remote. Sam, though much different than Patrick and Hunter, was my brother. Fourteen years later, I felt lucky to have found someone with the same playful attitude, thankful to have found someone who I loved enough to be childish with.
Growing up, I felt like an adult in a child’s body. As soon as I turned eighteen, I was a hurt kid in an adult body. I never got the proper experiences, the kind of fun in a childhood where you often wish to go back and relive. Being reminded of such things, not having to let that go and submit to adulthood's torturous demands all of the time, was beautiful, and it healed parts of me I thought would always be damaged goods. As I lunged forward and began to wrestle with a boy who reminded me too much of my brothers, I felt I wasn’t grateful enough for the opportunities he always gave to me.
Having the upper hand for once, it was easy to overpower Sam when he was beneath me on the couch, pinning his arms above his head with a triumphant smile on my face. At least, it was until he kicked his leg up and gave himself some momentum, swiveling his torso and knocking me off balance. Long forgetting that feeling of victory, I grabbed at his shoulders to keep myself steady, feeling myself fall off-kilter and towards the floor. Holding on to him did not keep my balance, but it did bring him with me when I fell to the ground, landing on the hardwood with a dramatic thud. Soon after, Sam and all of his body weight landed on top of me, causing me to groan in agony, trying to laugh through the pain.
“Can we not just go on a cruise, or something normal!” I yelled, my words warbled from the weight of Sam laying atop of me. Taking his shot at revenge, he covered my mouth with his hand, silencing me from speaking any further.
“Yeah, if you want to be fucking boring!” He argued. “Besides, sky diving is on everybody’s bucket—“ he couldn’t finish his thought, because my elbow connected with his stomach, knocking the air straight from his lungs. It gave me the chance to breathe, as he removed his hand from my face to grab at the spot I had just hit.
“We dont have to risk our lives. Safety is boring, that’s I’m okay with that!” I countered, breathless from the struggle. “Are you telling me you want to go sky diving just to fit in? Are you insane?”
Feeling Sam begin to regain his footing, I knew I was seconds out from being silenced yet again. Taking the initiative, I wiggled myself to a bit more freedom, just enough to be able to sit up and flip him off of me. He was still holding on to me, causing me to move with him, half on top of him and half on the floor. Before I could pin him again, he turned towards me and grabbed my arms, trying to return to our earlier position.
“Don’t listen to her, guys!” Sam announced, refusing to give in. “I’m your best friend—I would never let you down!”
“God, you’re so fucking—“ I cut myself off, unable to finish my insult as I struggled to overpower him. “Fuck you!” I shouted, a grin eating my face as he locked me in place. Using the leverage of my body again, I wiggled my way out of his grasp, but faltered and began to fall back to the ground. At the same time, Sam shifted underneath me, sending us both off course and crashing into the coffee table beside us.
Both of us froze, stopping in our tracks as we heard my (thankfully empty) beer bottle tumble to the ground. Looking back at each other, much like two kids who broke a window playing ball inside the house, we stifled a giggle at the thought of our own behavior.
“Look what you fucking did!” I exploded, a laugh stuck between my teeth as I chastised him for the same crimes I had committed.
“Me?” He asked, appalled that I would pin it on him. “Me?!” He exploded, a laugh also decorating his dark features.
“Yes, you!” I argued. “Boys, don’t take advice from this guy. He’s a fucking lunatic.” I concluded, trying my best to get on my feet. As I sat up, I thought I was in the clear, until I felt Sam’s hands on my shoulders, pulling me back to the ground as he refused to give up.
Deciding it best to abandon the conversation entirely and aim to finish what we started, I continued to fight his hold, only growing frustrated when he countered my moves. As I struggled to keep him on the ground, my attention was caught by a new voice, one who had yet to join the main topic of the night.
“They, uh, they always like this?” Dylan asked Danny, amused by the free entertainment.
“Yes.” He concluded, giving the simple answer. “And she’ll always win.”
“Sure will.” Dylan chuckled. “I always got my money on her. Ain’t nothin’ she can’t do.”
Though I didn’t give up on the fight, I felt a fire flicker and fade in my chest, overwhelmed with love for both boys despite my current predicament. Knowing that after everything, no matter how upset they were or how much we fought, they still believed in me—even for something so stupid. Time and time again, they made it a point to prove that they would always my biggest fans. I wasn’t sure if it was blind faith or love making them stupid, but knowing that Dylan especially—a gambling man—was willing to bet on me made me want to fight against all odds and make sure I came out on top.
August 2nd, 2022 - 3:02 AM
The night dwindled into morning, and though the rambunctious energy died down, the laughter did not. The more the drinks came, the sillier we all became, until eventually it left Danny stumbling back to his bedroom and Sam asleep on the floor (only after he kindly offered Dylan his bed for the night). Once the two fell asleep, it put Dylan and I in an awkward position, neither of us wanting to speak, and even if we did, neither of us knew what to say. Not long after Sam’s soft snores filled the room, I decided to break the silence by standing. Wordlessly, I made my way to the kitchen, slow rolling because of the intoxication messing with my head. I grabbed my pack of cigarettes off the counter, then slipped my shoes on and walked outside, closing the door gently behind me.
The cool night air was sobering, and the wisps of wind on my burning cheeks allowed for me to see clearly for a moment. The land outside of the boys Airbnb was always so peaceful, the quiet buzzing of cicadas and chirps of grasshoppers lessened my nervous energy, allowing me to relax for a moment as I leaned against the wooden railing on the porch. Lighting the end of my cigarette, I took a long inhale, feeling my lungs fill with smoke and the last bit of tension melting from my shoulders. Rubbing my face in my palms, I wondered how the hell everything got so messed up so fast.
Dylan and I were strangers, so well versed in each other's soul but so far away we could barely see each other past the haze of sadness in the air. It killed me, knowing that a man who knew me better than anyone barely knew me at all. I wanted him to understand why it hurt me so bad, why his choices affected me so drastically even when he thought he was doing what was best for me. I wanted him to know that him deciding what was best for me without actually asking did more harm than it did good. I knew Dylan had good intentions, and he would always do his best to protect me, but sometimes he went about it in the wrong way. He loved me, but I wanted him to talk to me.
I was also still reeling, so horribly upset that he waited so long. At first, the surplus of emotion about my realizations around me made me forget about the past—trauma brought up the idea of a life I could have lived if I made different choices, but once the dust had time to settle I really started to wonder about the nature of our relationship. I had no idea why he took such a passive role in the situation, why he let me fall so deeply in love with Vincent and sat on the sidelines if he felt the same way about me. If he felt, from that very first day just the same as I did, the kind of care I felt for him, why did he wait so long? And why the hell did he try so hard to get me to go to Nashville with Danny?
I waited, and I felt terrible about it. Maybe he was afraid of all the same things, rocking a barely afloat boat and hurting his best friend, but that didn’t feel right. If Vincent was a factor, why did he care so little about him once everything came out?
I was confused, hurt, and lost. Never in the whole time Dylan and I knew each other had we been on such bad terms. It made me regret considering the possibility at all. I regretted changing everything. I regretted ruining it, and I believed I only did so because I subconsciously wanted it. I was terrified of how real things were between Daniel and I, and I couldn’t choke down that truth. I wanted to stir the pot, to shake the foundation and hopefully strike it down before it could hurt me. I knew that once my heart was involved, it always came crashing down. I could not live comfortably, and I could not let people in without hurting them. I should have spared us all from the fallout and bit my tongue. I wasn’t in my right mind, and I knew it. All I did was destroy one of the few beautiful things I had left.
When I heard the front door creak open, my stomach sank, my eyes raising to meet the blue ones I’d been trying to avoid all night. Just the sight of him alone nearly brought me to tears, and even if I wanted to blame it on the alcohol, I knew it was much more than that. I felt that way since the fight, but I was better at choking it down when I was sober. He seemed to be staring at me the same way, longing and angry that we let ourselves end up in such a mess.
He didn’t say a word as he closed the door behind him, lingering there as if he was scared to come closer. It hurt me to think he did not feel like he could approach me, and it hurt even more to know it was my own fault. It was hard, being in pain yet knowing that I was guilty at the same time. Both feelings seemed to invalidate the other at the worst possible times, and I never knew which one would come out on top.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” I asked, whispering so quietly I barely heard myself. Temporarily forgetting the cigarette between my fingers, he was the only thing that existed.
“Makin’ it sound like you want me to stay.” He replied, still lingering by the door, still staring. “Didn’t waste no time comin’ out here to get away from me.”
“I wasn’t trying to—“ I cut myself off, knowing I was coming on far too strong for a gentle conversation. He approached me with softness, and he deserved a response of the same likeness. “I didn’t come out here to get away from you. You’ve been drinking… don’t want you to drink and drive.”
“Ah.” He chuckled to himself, giving a slow nod. “So that’s all, is it?” He knew there was more, that there were a million things I refused to say, and he would always be the person to call me out for it.
“Why’d you stay?” I asked, suddenly curious and unable to bite my tongue. “Earlier, when you found out everyone was okay. You decided to stay anyway.”
“We’ll, they’re my friends too, ain’t they? You been pretty busy tryin’ to make it happen.” He gave a half-assed answer, also avoiding the truth like the plague.
It was our biggest downfall, our inability to express ourselves properly. I wanted to blame it on our childhoods, how we never learned better and were never taught how to communicate effectively, or how it was never safe to be fully transparent, but it wasn’t true. It was our fault, and our responsibility as two grown adults who loved each other to learn how to be better, to do better by each other, and we couldn’t find the strength.
“Yeah, guess so.” I nodded, looking to the ground as I suddenly remembered my cigarette. Taking a haul to stave off the awkwardness, I exhaled slowly, the grey cloud billowing around my head as I prepared to speak again. “Just figured you wouldn’t want to be around me.”
At that, he let out another dry chuckle, shaking his head at my obstinacy. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he grabbed his own pack of cigarettes before he responded, figuring he would need it for the conversation we were having. I watched as he placed an orange filter between his lips with his large hand, his dark tattoos clear to me even under the dim porch light. The red glow of the cherry distracted me from the movements of his fingers, bringing me back to reality and unfortunately, to the conversation with just enough time to fully digest his words.
“Ain’t that what you wanted, doll?” He asked, his throat tight as he exhaled the smoke through his nose. “Tellin’ me to leave ya alone and to stop carin’, but you don’t want me to leave? No wonder I can’t do nothin’ right—you can’t even make up your damn mind.”
“Yeah, okay.” I squeaked out, nodding along with his words. I deserved his cold, cut and dry response. I deserved the criticism, and the anger, but I didn’t want him to hate me. I was selfish still, unable to deal with the consequences of my own actions and wishing for things I did not have the right to wish for. “Do what you want, Dyl. Whatever you think is best.” I concluded, tossing my cigarette in the butt can by my feet and preparing to end the conversation.
As I stepped towards him, I figured he would move out of the way to let me inside. Instead, he stood stoic, refusing to move and refusing to let me leave. That time, I didn’t feel trapped. Instead, I was happy he wanted me to stay—happy he wanted to talk. I had always been a walking contradiction to myself, and not even I knew what I wanted most of the time. Say one thing and mean another, snapping at him for something that I actually wanted him to tell me. I was a mess, and I wished so badly that I could change, but I worried I would live the rest of my life the exact same way.
“Point is, Bells, I don’t know what to do.” He whispered, soft and gentle now that I was close by. He didn’t want to scare or startle me, and I hated that his cautiousness only made me think of the possibility even further.
“I don’t either.” I confessed, tears filling my waterline. It sucked that the only time we were able to communicate effectively was when we were under the influence, and it scared the shit out of me, making me feel like my parents even more with each passing day.
“I want to tell ya that I don’t think ya meant none’a that stuff, ‘cause I know ya didn’t, but you told me to stop carin’, like it’s as easy as that, an’ you might get the wrong idea. I’m tryin’, Bells, but you’re givin’ me those sad eyes, askin’ me if I’m leavin’ and hopin’ that I’ll stay. Angel, I don’t know what ya want, but as soon as ya say the word, I’ll do it.” He said, seemingly fighting every urge in his body to reach out and touch me. I knew that only because I was doing the same thing.
“I don’t know, Dylan.” I admitted the fact like it was choking me, the words coming out harsh and painful. “Why the fuck would you lie? Why the fuck would you keep that from me? I want to ask you all of this stuff, but I’m always so scared I’m not going to like the answer, so I just don’t.”
“I didn’t lie.” He said, strong and firm as he begged me to listen. “Lyin’ ain’t my thing, baby, an’ you know that. I didn’t wanna hurt you no more, an’ I knew that’s all it would do.”
“It hurt me more that you kept it from me—that you knew for weeks and didn’t tell me.” I said, tears spilling onto my cheeks with little warning.
“Yeah, don’t I know it.” He muttered, rubbing his face in his palm, likely trying to find a way to keep his hands busy. “You fuckin’ ran, Bella. You left, after sayin’ all that horrible shit, you didn’t apologize or nothin’. Would it’ve even mattered? If I told you all’at shit, about how I felt—would it have mattered?”
“I don’t know.” I rushed out, speaking before I truly registered the question. I looked up with wide eyes, met with an expression I had never seen on Dylan’s face.
I had destroyed him.
With three little words, I changed everything again, and not the way I had wanted to.
In a moment of high emotion, fuelled by irrationality, I spoke without thinking yet again, only severing the ties between us even further. I wasn’t sure why I always had to fuck things up, that every time I opened my mouth, things I did not want to say surfaced, making a situation a million times worse. I couldn’t express myself, nor could I communicate, and I had no idea how to put my hurt to the side to formulate a proper response. I should have apologized, recognized how badly I hurt him despite the fact he did the same to me, but I couldn’t. Just like always, my scars stung, reminding me of every horrible thing I had lived through, forcing me to stay defensive and push him away.
Without a word, without anything, he walked straight past me, down the front steps and towards his car parked behind Danny’s in the driveway. With fear filling me, I turned on my heel, knowing I had to apologize before he left or he would never speak to me again. With tears flooding my face, I raced down the stairs, following him so closely that I could almost touch him.
“Dylan, please.” I begged, hoping he would know that wasn’t my intention. “Dylan!” I shouted, my voice grating and warbled as he reached for the handle on the drivers door.
“What?” He snapped, finally turning to look at me. There was a fire in his eyes I had never seen, but even as it burned I knew it was different from Vincent’s. I wasn’t afraid, and I had never been. Even as we drowned in the sorrow filling our lungs, I knew he was the safest place I had ever known—the best friend I had ever had.
“Please don’t leave.” I whispered, breathless at the thought of him driving away.
“The fuck you want me around for, Arabella? So I can sit an’ watch you with them, lovin’ them like you used to do with me? You want me to sit an’ wait for you to talk to me, jus’ so you can lie to me?” He exploded, all of his hurt finally forcing its way to the surface as he stared at me with tear soaked lashes. I could tell he was trying to hard to hold it back, that he hated how vulnerable he was being, but I wished he could see that I was just as bare and exposed. “Screamin’ at me ‘cause I didn’t say nothin’ sooner, then tellin’ me it wouldn’t make a fuckin’ difference—it doesn’t matter, Bells. He was the person you was supposed to end up with, so don’t go breakin’ our hearts for no reason.”
“For fucks sake, Dylan, it does matter!” I yelled, my throat raw as I pleaded with him to see the truth. I felt like too much and not enough all at the same time, the two different feelings pushing and pulling until I had no leg to stand on. “It matters, and I need to know, because I can’t run away to Nashville if there’s a life here left for me to live!”
“Then make up your fuckin’ mind!” He shot back, just as passionate. “How long are we gonna do this? Goin’ back an’ forth, one day you want him an’ then suddenly you want me? You didn’t say nothin’ either, Bells—don’t put this one on me.”
“Dylan, please—“ I couldn’t handle it, the thought of him hating me for my indecision, for my past scars made me sick. I didn’t want to be that person. I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.
“Christ, Bella, You know I wasn’t doin’ that shit to fuckin’ hurt you. You don’t think all’at hurts me? Not jus’ us, but him too?” He asked, pointing at the Airbnb. I felt a stab straight through my heart. “I ain’t fuckin’ perfect, an’ I fuck up sometimes, but I’m tryin’ to fix this—whatever the fuck it is. I wanna help you. I need you to try too, ‘cause I’m startin’ to feel like a fuckin’ idiot.”
I was frozen, the words stuck in my throat as I tried to bargain with how badly I fucked up again. Every time I tried to make it better, I only made it worse. He did nothing but care and cater to me, and I was slowly destroying him. Bit by bit, I tore him apart, leaving him nothing but a shell of a man. It was what I did best, hurting the ones I loved beyond repair, and I knew as long as I kept him in my life, the worse it would get.
I didn’t want to, but for him I had to.
I had to walk away, not because I didn’t love him, but because I loved him too much. Everything I loved ended up broken, rusted until it turned to dust and decay. I was vile, putrid, and all I knew was ruin. The closer I got, the worse it hurt. All I ever wanted was to be loved, but I wouldn’t let myself be loved because I couldn’t be loved. It was dangerous, volatile and I would not allow him to meet the fate of so many others. If I let myself continue being that selfish person, holding on with claws so deep, I would kill him. When it came to Dylan, selfish was the last thing I wanted to be, so for him I had to walk away.
“I love you, Dyl.” I choked out, sparing one glance over my shoulder to the Airbnb, the living room still filled with warm yellow light. I thought of the love, the laughter left behind from that night, yet I felt none of the peace that it should have given me.
Instead, I began to grieve. Grieving a period of time I so badly wished to last forever, knowing it was all falling apart. I could not stop it.
Grieving love I never truly got to experience, feeling it slip between the cracks of my fingers as my hands balled into fists, trying so desperately to hold on to something that was never meant to be mine. I did not deserve it.
As my fingernails began to perforate the already tough and abused skin, I grieved the person that I thought I was, one who I once believed was able to heal and move forward, knowing that too was a fallacy I had created to try and make the world seem better than it truly was. I did not even want it.
It was easier to remain the same and submit to the old routine. By walking away, I was doing the very thing I always had, refusing to acknowledge the fact as I excused and justified my behaviour with feeble lies. I was not protecting him from anything. I was running, so terrified of changing that I convinced myself that it was the change. My feet hadn’t stopped since I stepped on that bus, moving with intent even when I lived in Utah, because I could not imagine staying stagnant and letting anyone know me. I was transient, always moving yet never changing, a washed up woman in a new city, pretending to be something I was not, and sooner or later it was bound to catch up with me.
Unfortunately, that night was not my reckoning.
My feet began to move, walking without understanding, without any destination in mind. Home was a far away feeling, never familiar and so unknown to me I knew better than to search for it. The closest thing to that type of safety, to that kind of comfort, was standing still in the driveway as I breezed past him, and asleep in the airbnb I would never let myself step foot in again. I did not even acknowledge Dylan as I walked by, knowing that my silence was killing him but unable to force any more words out. The knife cut deeper and deeper the further I went, but I did not slow to stop the bleeding. I wasn’t sure who I was killing faster, him or myself, but it didn’t matter to me anymore. Staying or leaving would end the same way, and I believed if I left then, it would give him the best chance of survival.
“Arabella, don’t you fuckin’ do this to me.” Dylan called after me, but I could hear him breaking as he did so.
Piece by piece, drop by drop, the longer I stayed, the less of him remained. I wasn’t what he wanted, not what he needed, and he would see that once I was out of sight. I was a mastermind, filled with dark energy and wicked skill, convincing those around me I was worth their while. There came a point where they all reached the same conclusion, and I could not stick around and wait for it.
As I rounded the corner and made my way onto the main road, I had no idea where I was headed, no idea where I wanted to go. Hearing him call my name was no solace, not enough to convince me to turn around but just enough to be some kind of evocative ode to the woman I so badly wanted to be. I was leaving her behind too, abandoning her in search for someone else, someone I did not even know.
Faster, faster, lungs burning and throat aching, I finally found myself free of the burden of being me when I stumbled across the stop sign just before the highway. Taking a second to rest, I couldn’t even enjoy it, finding the only thought in my head a memory of the white powder coating the tip of my index finger. Not the friends I abandoned, not the man I left behind, but drugs, just like always.
No matter how far I ran, it would always come back to the same thing.
Too beautiful to resist, and too deadly to survive; the tragic tale of belladonna in all its glory.
Pairing: Danny Wagner x f!OC (slight AU/different timeline)
Word Count: TBD
Warnings: SMUT 18+ (full list of warnings within each chapter), toxic/abusive parents, toxic relationships, abusive relationships, domestic violence, mentions of criminal activity/criminal records, poverty, physical violence, AA/NA, addictions, overdose, use of/mentions of drugs, drinking, smoking, swearing, angst, fluff, sorry if i miss any!
Please see my other masterlist post for links to playlists.
Part 10
Part 11
DISCLAIMER: I do not know Greta Van Fleet or any of the members personally. This is all fiction and I will never claim otherwise. I attempt to keep all of my work 100% original, so please do not steal or take credit for my writing. As of right now, I aim to get chapters out on weekends, but it is not guaranteed as I do have a full time job and other responsibilities to attend to. Please be patient and kind to me. Do not mind any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes, as I am the sole writer/editor for my blog and do miss things sometimes.
TAGLIST: if you would like to be added to the belladonna taglist, please feel free to fill out this form. i promise i will see it, and if i happen to miss you, don’t be scared to ask again or send me a message!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: I am incredibly grateful for all of the support, likes, reblogs and kind comments I receive from all of you. I would be nothing without your support, and I do take the time to read and appreciate every reply and message, even if I don’t respond. Thank you so much for all you do, and I sincerely hope that you enjoy this story as much as I do 🫶🏻
Too beautiful to resist, and too deadly to survive; the tragic tale of belladonna in all its glory.
PLEASE READ. Hi everyone. Long time no see. I’ve decided to post the rest of belladonna, but you will notice it is much different than the belladonna i was writing prior to my leaving. I wasn’t going to finish the series on here, as the story has changed so much in the last year, but i remember the few people that found this story as important as I did—this is for you. I’ve decided to make this story into real novels, so I won’t be going back to convert it to Y/N POV. If you’ve read belladonna this far, you know that my Y/N was very much her own person anyhow. I think this story is imperative to tell not only for myself, but for those who struggle silently and haven’t yet been able to reach out for help. Don’t mind the difference, or the change—know that no matter what POV or who Bella ends up with, this story will convey the very message I intended it to in the very beginning.
I love you all. I hope you still spare the time to read what I have for you, even if it does not seem like it could pertain to you. Just as I did in the beginning, I’m handing you my very heart wrapped up in this story.
masterlist
Pairing: Danny Wagner x f!reader
Word Count: 17k
Warnings: therapy, abusive/toxic romantic relationships, mental illness/heavy descriptions/behaviour of borderline personality disorder, mentions of previous OD, heavy descriptions of addictions/addicts/addict behavior, heavy mentions of drug use (stimulants/narcotics), heavy mentions of relapsing, trauma bonds, descriptions of toxic/abusive parents, death of family members, PTSD/CPTSD behaviors/reactions/explanations, dissociation, trauma, triggered trauma responses, mentions of death/dying, absent parents, death of a parent, parents with active addictions, missing persons, police stations/reports, mentions of criminal activity/criminal records, poverty, crying, mentions of blood/bleeding, mentions of self harm/self destructive behaviors, mentions of cheating, mentions of AA/NA, NA meetings, fighting, yelling, drinking, flirting, mentions of hookups/sex, smoking, depression/anxiety, sorry if I miss any 🤍
As always, please feel free to reach out to me if you need an ear, and know that you are not alone in whatever troubles you are facing. I’ve also included a list of helplines and resources for anyone who may be in need of them. I love you all so dearly.
Canadian Mental Health and Addictions Phone Line: 1-833-553-6983 | NEW: 9-8-8 for immediate crisis intervention
Virtual NA meetings and support (worldwide)
Canada’s complete comprehensive list of addiction helplines, inpatient/outpatient programs, and family support per province | UNITED STATES
Canada’s comprehensive list of domestic and family violence helplines and resources | UNITED STATES HOTLINE
Canada’s guide to mental health help and crisis intervention | UNITED STATES
If you are struggling with addiction or know someone who is, remember to inquire about Nalaxone kits at your nearest pharmacy, as many in Canada are active participants of the program. At participating locations and clinics, Naloxone kits are free of charge and accessible without a prescription or healthcare card. It is a fantastic and life saving tool to have on hand while waiting for EMS. There is also free online courses for Naloxone training to anyone who is interested.
Remember, no matter what is portrayed in fiction or media, the safest course of action for anyone suffering from an overdose (accidental or intentional) is to call 911.
If you are struggling with an abusive relationship or domestic violence, know and understand that you are not alone. You are heard, you are seen, and you are loved. We believe you, and we hear you.
And a very special thank you to @jakeyt. You are my whole heart and soul. Every day I’m thankful to have met someone like you.
July 25th, 2022 - 10:02 AM
Sitting atop a sticky couch, the beige leather was cold against my bare legs. I shifted uncomfortably, sinking a little too low into the cushion, fearing for a moment that the furniture would open up and swallow me whole. Led to the tiny little office by a receptionist, told to wait patiently for the doctor herself to stop by, the seconds felt like slow motion the longer I sat. Sam was sitting in the waiting room, assuring me that he would be right there if I needed anything at all, wishing me good luck and giving me more support than I ever deserved.
I wasn’t afraid when we first arrived, nor was I afraid when we checked in. I didn’t even feel much anxiety as we sat together, watching the ticking clock and counting the seconds, barely making any small talk. Only when I crossed the line between hallway and office did I start to feel fear, gripping me with its cold and unforgiving claws as I forced myself to stay sat on the expensive, uncomfortable couch. I tapped my foot against the ground, my fingertip tracing my stick and poke nonstop as I felt bile sting the back of my throat.
Circle. Line. Line.
Line. Line.
Line. Line. Line.
One more.
Then the door creaked open, the sound of high heels clacking against expensive tile floors catching me off guard as I froze in place. Looking up to see if it was the receptionist again, I was met with a new face, decorated nicely with neutral makeup and dressed with expensive gold jewelry. She was pretty, younger than I expected, and looked very high class, definitely far from where I existed. She sent me a warm smile as she approached her armchair, the back draped with a soft looking blanket. There was a clipboard in her hand, settled on her lap as she sat down under the warm lighting provided by the many lamps placed around the small space.
I heard that many therapists tried to provide comfortable environments for their clients—like home, to make us feel more at ease. Difference was, the environment I sat in was unlike anything I knew. It wasn’t close to home, nor did it comfort me. If anything, my skin was crawling, begging my bones and muscles to separate so they could all run and hide, leaving me behind with nothing and no way to escape.
“Hi—so sorry to keep you waiting. Was running a bit behind this morning.” She greeted me, sending me another sickening smile. I swallowed back nothing, my tongue so dry it was sticking to the roof of my mouth, choking me as I tried to spit out a greeting in return.
“H-hi.” I stuttered out, embarrassed at myself and wondering where the hell I had placed my spine. “It’s all good—I’m in no rush.” I assured her, avoiding her eyes as my forefinger fixated on my stick and poke again.
“Good, well—I know this is your first time seeing me, so I have a few things to go over with you if that’s alright.” As she continued to speak, my eyebrows furrowed, her words warbled and strong as they pounded in my eardrums.
My heart was racing against my chest as I looked up to try and focus on her face. I saw her lips moving, but her words were no longer making any sense, skewed with something that made them unrecognizable. I tried to wheeze in a breath, finding my chest tight, like the normally elastic and stretchy skin atop my diaphragm was taught, like someone was pulling it back and anchoring me to the couch. My palms were clammy, my eyes wide as I tried to focus on the movement of her mouth, wondering if I could decipher the words and pull myself out of the moment of panic.
“Does that sound alright to you, Arabella?”
What was she talking about? Arabella?
“Bella, please.” I blinked hard, forcing myself back to reality as I stared straight at the yellow lamp behind her head. “Just call me Bella. And yeah, that’s okay.” I had no idea what I was agreeing to, but I thought it would be torture to try and follow along for a second time.
“Right, Bella.” She nodded, committing it to memory. “My name is Amanda—you can call me that, or Dr. Collins, whichever is more comfortable for you.”
“Okay.” I squeaked. I was a mouse—so quiet and timid, so small and afraid. I was sure she thought I was an idiot.
“So, we can ease into it, or jump in. That’s completely up to you.” She said, noting something on her clipboard before looking my way again.
She had beautiful blonde hair flowing down her shoulders and shining against her silk blouse. It was curled, but they were already starting to fall into loose waves, looking more natural the longer we sat. She had a French manicure, fresh and expensive, making me self conscious about my chewed up nail beds. I crossed my arms over my chest, finding a touch of comfort in Danny’s oversized shirt shielding me from the rest of the world.
“Yeah, alright.” I nodded, my movements mechanical as I tried my best to act normal. “I’ve, uh… I’ve never really done therapy before. I mean, I did some group counseling when I was in rehab, but that’s about it.” I explained, looking to the floor at the mention of rehab, feeling an innate sense of shame for no real reason.
“That’s alright.” She assured me, the smile present in her tone though I was not looking at her. I wondered if it was forced, if she learned how to make it look genuine after years of listening to other people drone on about their sorrows. “I can help you get started, if that’s a little easier for you.”
“Sure, yeah. I’d appreciate it.” I nodded, my own voice sounding strange and foreign to me as I spoke.
“Well, let’s start with why you’re here. Why do you feel like you need therapy?”
That was a great question that had a million answers. I wasn’t sure if telling her that my whole life was the reason would suffice, but it was the truth. After my talks with Sam, I was beginning to wonder if anything I felt was right. Everything in my life seemed uncertain, the pillars I stood upon shaky as I slowly came to terms with the fact that how I felt was not average or even normal.
“Uh… lots of reasons, I guess.” I replied, running my tongue over the back of my teeth, desperate to feel more like myself. “I’m not really sure which part bothers me most… more like everything, or whatever.” I understood that I was not giving her anything worthwhile, and in essence, I was wasting her time with my avoidant responses and dull answers.
“Alright.” She smiled, clearly unphased by my lack of engagement. “Tell me about you. Maybe a bit about your home life growing up, stuff like that. You can start as early as you want.”
“Okay.” I huffed out a sigh of relief, knowing I could definitely manage that if nothing else. “I grew up in Utah… with two older brothers. They’re the best.” I started, looking to her for approval, wanting to be sure that’s what she was asking from me.
“What are their names?” She asked, sending another warm smile my way.
“Patrick and Hunter… they’re still at home, and I don’t talk to them a whole lot, but… yeah.” I nodded, concluding the statement as I realized I had nothing more to say.
“Alright, what about your parents? Or guardians? Anything like that.” She pried, giving me a bit of direction.
“Uh, yeah. My mom sucked, I guess. I don’t think she ever really wanted kids… just sort of happened. She was an alcoholic, and abusive… verbally, physically… all of that.” I swallowed hard, the picture of her face in my mind sending a shiver down my spine. “And my dad was a drug addict. He was gone more than he was ever there, but he went missing for good when I was seven. I don’t really remember much about him… actually, I don’t remember a whole lot about my entire life, honestly.”
“Okay.” She nodded, jotting something down on her clipboard. “When would you say your memories start?”
“Uh, I don’t know… twelve maybe? I mean, I remember some stuff, like the really bad days, and some good ones too. I mean, it wasn’t all bad.” I explained, shifting in my seat again as she continued to write on her clipboard.
“Did you have any other role models or guardians? Aunts, uncles, grandparents?”
“Yeah, our grandparents.” I confirmed. “On my dads side. When we were little, like elementary school, they used to watch us after school until our mother was off work… or whatever she was doing. Once my dad was out of the picture, she stopped letting us see them as much. Patrick took care of us, and we really only visited them on holidays.”
“And what about growing up? How was school, what were your friends like, stuff like that.”
“I never minded school, mostly because it was a break from what we went through at home. I was good at it too, especially English. Felt like it was the only place I fit in.” I explained. “I never had many friends, and I’m not really sure if it was because of me, or who my parents were. We lived in a tiny little community that liked to talk, and everyone knew everyone. Maybe it was a bit of both.” I shrugged.
“You mentioned you attended group counseling at the rehab centre you attended… do you want to tell me a little more about that? Why were you there, how did you get there?” She asked, treading carefully, like she already knew it was a sensitive subject.
“Uh, alright, yeah.” I cleared my throat. “When I was fifteen, I started using drugs to cope with some things… mostly OxyContin at first, and not all of the time… just when things were really bad, but I got addicted pretty quick, especially after my grandfather died. I fell into a bad crowd, met a guy who promised me lots of things. He took advantage of me… gave me drugs in return for other stuff, and I started using all of the time. Whatever I could get my hands on, it didn’t matter much… just didn’t want to be sober.” I quickly ran through the story, trying to separate myself from the trauma as much as possible in order to give her the best, most concise response.
“When I graduated, I tried to get sober… moved in with my brothers and quit cold turkey. Went good for a month or so, until my grandmother passed away. I cashed out my inheritance and disappeared… relapsed and started from the beginning. Went back to that same guy and lived with him for a while, ‘til we got into a fight and I left… was scared he’d kill me, so I flew under the radar and couch surfed until I ran out of money, and ended up right back on his doorstep. Things went back to normal for a while until…” I paused, sucking in a sharp breath as the panic began to creep in, the thought of the hands, the booming bass under the bedroom door, the pleading I did with a higher power to let me die.
“It’s okay, Bella. If you need a minute, we can do that.” She assured me, her soft tone breaking me out of the train of thought before it even began. I gave a curt nod, taking a second to calm my nerves.
“I, uh, overdosed. Pretty bad, actually. That guy—Cody, and his friends dropped me off at the emergency room, and a nurse found me outside. I lived, obviously, but for a really long time, I wished I didn’t. Sometimes I still wish that, even if I know better.” I looked off into the distance, my eyes trailing over her certifications and diplomas hanging on the walls. “Nobody came to visit, but I don’t blame them for it. Patrick and Hunter drafted a check for rehab… wasted their inheritance on me so I could get better. I went to New Beginnings Treatment Centre in Salt Lake, spent six months there. It wasn’t the best, but I needed the detox. I was locked up for long enough that I didn’t immediately relapse, and I started to feel a bit like myself again… even if I didn’t really know who that was.”
“And what happened when you left?”
“I came here.” I replied, a small smile on my lips though there was nothing joyous about it. “Hopped on a bus and came to New York to get away. I thought that staying in Utah would set me back, and I guess I took a chance. I think coming here did help some, but it hurt me, too.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, I got a job at a shitty little diner just outside of Carleton… The Foxhole. Got a low income rental in the middle of a horrible neighborhood. I mean, all things considered, I did okay for myself, even if other people wouldn’t see it that way.”
“I think that’s fantastic, Bella.” She said, still writing as I spoke. “You were able to provide for yourself, and you were able to get sober, which a lot of people struggle with. So far from home with nobody to rely on, I think it’s okay if you celebrate that.”
“Yeah.” I gave a tight lipped smile, knowing that the two of us did not see eye to eye. “I suppose you’re right. I might be more proud of it if I stayed sober, but there’s been plenty of slip ups.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard it before, but relapse is a part of recovery. It doesn’t mean what you accomplished before that doesn’t matter. I’m sure it was really hard on you, and nobody wants that for themselves, but it’s crucial to learn how to forgive yourself. You’re human, Bella. Not a robot.” She explained, already working hard to redirect my harmful train of thought. “Other than seeing me, are there any other services you’re using? Narcotics Anonymous, any Methadone or Suboxone therapy?”
“Yeah, just NA.” I swallowed hard, my mouth stark dry still and annoying me more by the second. “There’s a group not far from where I live. It’s better than nothing. Helped me stay sober for six months, so it must be working.”
“Do you attend regularly? Once a week, once a month?”
“I try my best to go once a week.” I finally found the strength to look back at her face, noticing her kind eyes shining as she stared over at me. I wondered if her line of work ruined her life, if she was the same person or if it had changed her. “Sometimes I miss out, but most of the time I go once a week.”
“That’s good.” She smiled. “It’s good intervention in times of crisis. Sometimes it helps to hear from other people going through the same things.”
“Yeah, it is.” My voice was weak, happy that she seemed to understand that. She knew she could not relate to me, and in truth, I didn’t want her to. NA was great for times I needed to hear from other addicts, but sometimes a fresh perspective was more than insightful.
“What about your life here? Do you have any hobbies? What about your friends?”
“Uh, my life here is alright.” I shrugged. “Nothing to call home about, but it’s okay. I still work at The Foxhole, usually the overnight shifts, four days a week. In my free time I like to write. The last year or so, I’ve really been trying to finish a book, maybe get it published some day, but I know it’s a bit harder than it sounds.”
“I think it’s great.” She replied, her response and enthusiasm shocking me. “I think we all need to have a passion, and it’s very important for recovery to set goals. You have a goal in mind, and you should keep working towards it. Maybe it gives you that extra bit of motivation on the days when it feels impossible to get out of bed.”
“Yeah.” I replied, inquisitive and unnerved.
It felt like she was inside my head, reading my thoughts and relaying them aloud. I had never felt or experienced anything like it before, and I certainly did not enjoy it. Though it was nice to be understood, it put me on edge, hating that it was so easy for her to read me. I wondered how she was perceiving me, what she thought, if she was writing down that I was crazy. I felt it gave her an advantage, an upper hand on me because I could not do the same to her.
My skin was prickling with indifference, realizing just how much I had handed to her in a single session, seeing the wisps of my battered soul collected on top of her clipboard. I didn’t even think twice about it, giving her more than I had ever given anyone else, and so damn easily. It was like she tricked me, keeping me comfortable and content, eager to share such things when in truth, I didn’t want to give them out at all.
Then, I remembered Sam’s words, how he pleaded with me to let my guard down and let her do her job, how he wanted me to get the most out of therapy. I owed it to him. I owed him everything, spending his own money and time and effort on my recovery. Some days, it felt like he was more committed to it than I was. For him, I tried to swallow the feeling down, knowing after all he did for me, the least I could do was try.
“My friends… it’s a weird situation, I guess. When I first moved here, I met two guys who worked at the diner. Dylan and Vincent.” I couldn’t help but notice the venomous nature in which his name rolled from my tongue, without warning and without hesitation. “Made friends with them pretty easily… had lots in common. I was immediately drawn to Dylan… like the universe was shoving him in my direction, and I couldn’t ignore it. Wanted him around all of the time, from the very minute I met him.”
I couldn’t help but notice her smiling to herself as she nodded along, like she already had suspicions about my friendship with Dylan. Was it that obvious? Had it always been that obvious?
“Yeah, anyway… he’s great. Always has been. He’s been my best friend since I moved here, and we do everything together. His best friend, Vincent, was different. I met him the same day, and he was funny, cute, and we had some stuff in common, but nothing special, really. The first few days, Dylan and I clicked way better than Vincent and I did, and I think it only took a day to fall for him… actually, looking back on it, I think I fell the minute I met him.”
“What changed?” She asked, her pen laying flat on the clipboard as she found herself fully immersed in the tale. I was a bit taken back, wondering if I was extra expressive that day, but then I understood it was just her job. It was her job to know people, to figure them out, and she didn’t really care. I paid her bills, and that was as far as it went.
“I don’t know… one day Vincent showed up, intent on being with me. He started flirting, and talking this big game, even though he never seemed interested to begin with. He only seemed to want me when Dylan did, and I think Dylan kinda took a step back once he noticed it.” I shrugged, the thought of the beginning still confusing to me. “I wasn’t looking for a relationship, but I had spent my whole life never being loved. I never had a boyfriend, or even anyone who talked to me like that, like I was the most beautiful thing in the world… I guess I fell for it, which is exactly what he wanted.”
“So you and Vincent got together?” I nodded, confirming so it was easier for her to piece together. “But you thought you had feelings for Dylan?”
“Maybe?” The word slipped out closer to a question. “I’m not sure. I’ve always had a really hard time recognizing my feelings, and back then it was even worse. I knew that Dylan was beautiful, and funny, and he was so nice to me. We had so many things in common, and it really felt like I knew him my whole life. I loved being around him, but I guess I convinced myself that’s how you’re supposed to feel about friends. Never really had any of those either, so I couldn’t tell. Dylan was like, the first person ever, to be good to me. Like, for no other reason, or because he wanted anything in return. He just liked me, and I liked him, but I think that scared me.”
“Yeah, okay.” She nodded, writing another note down. “It can be hard, especially for people who grew up in an abusive household, to recognize the type of relationships that you want or that you have with other people. It’s difficult to know something you’ve never seen or felt before.”
“Exactly.” I let out a sigh of relief, happy that I didn’t have to try and explain further.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of cycles—especially when it comes to trauma.” I nodded again, confirming her suspicion. “That’s why it’s so easy for people to fall back into it. Your entire perception of the world is based on what you experience in your adolescence, and in some ways, you even think those things are normal. When you finally experience a relationship that doesn’t feel like that, that’s considered safe or stable, it almost feels wrong. Until we heal those wounds and those patterns, we tend to lean into relationships and situations that are similar to what we’re used to, even if it’s worse for us. It’s familiar, and because we know what to expect, we think it’s safer.”
“Which is exactly what happened with Vincent, I think.” I added, my stomach sick as I listened to her explanation. “When he first started flirting with me, it was nice because he was so blatant about how he felt. To be openly loved was euphoric, and it really caught my attention and pulled me in his direction. Once he actually got me, that really died down, and I had no idea why or how he could change so fast, but he acted familiar, like my parents, or all of my ‘ex’s’… if you could even call them that.”
“Love bombing.” She said, curt and quick. My eyebrows furrowed, confusion taking over as I stared at her, unsure of what she meant.
“Love bombing? What’s that?”
“Well, it’s a form of manipulation typically used in romantic relationships, but you can see it sometimes in platonic relationships, too. Usually someone, particularly the one pursuing the relationship, will give a lot of insincere affection. It draws the other person in, and for victims of previous abuse who don’t know how to draw or sometimes even see the line, it can feel euphoric and intense, and we never want to let it go.”
“Oh.” I breathed, my heart aching as she explained it to me. For a long time, I used to miss that version of Vincent, the one who cared and the one who loved me, but it was devastating to learn that even then it was all an act. “Why would people do that?”
“It’s usually done because that person wants to gain control, or because they want the other person to be dependent on them… he probably gave lots of compliments, wanted to be with you and talk to you all of the time, maybe gave you gifts or took you to dinner, stayed over at your place too often, or even said he loved you, or thought he was falling in love with you, way too soon for a normal relationship, right?” She asked, seemingly more interested in helping me piece it together rather than explain it.
“Yes.” I whispered, the sickness growing tenfold.
“And how did that make you feel?”
“On top of the world.” I whispered, recalling the ignition of every nerve in my body, all ablaze for him and his sweet words when he cared to give them to me. “I never wanted him to stop. I thought that he was the only person that could make me feel that way. When he treated me badly, I remembered what it felt like, and I used to pray he would be that person again.”
“Right.” She nodded, giving a sad smile. “He wanted you on a hook. He did it because it made you reliant on him for that validation, because when someone loved you normally, it would no longer feel the same, or as good as what he could make you feel. You said he changed entirely after that—like your parents. So, he was probably cruel and mean, and when something didn’t go his way, he blamed it on you. He hurt you, but made you feel bad for hurting him, or possibly even told you that you caused him to do those things.”
“How do you know that?” I stressed, my palms clammy as I felt dissected by her stare.
“Because it’s a typical pattern of abuse, Bella. When someone love bombs another person, there’s a reason why. He probably recognized that you were emotionally vulnerable, that you didn’t have a support system, or anyone to lean on. For people like that, ones who can be classified as narcissistic or even as far as sociopathic, people who are hurt or vulnerable look like easy targets. They seek them out and treat them in such a way because it makes the survivor less likely to leave once the shift happens.”
“Survivor?” I spat the word like it was poison on my tongue. “I mean, I’m sorry—I’ve heard of a victim, or whatever, but a survivor?”
“That’s okay.” She smiled, taking my abrasive approach with a grain of salt. “I’m therapy, we like to use the word survivor instead of victim, because it focuses more on you, rather than what someone else has done to you. You’re not a victim of his actions—you’re a resilient person who made it through a difficult situation and is starting to heal from it.”
“Oh, okay.” I muttered, still trying to wrap my head around everything she said. “Sorry… this is all just new to me.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” She chuckled, assuring me it was alright. “I’m throwing a lot at you at once. It’s normal to be overwhelmed. We can slow down if you want.”
“No, it’s okay.” I reassured myself, knowing to get the most out of therapy, we needed to hit the hard topics.
“Okay, if you’re comfortable, you can tell me more about your relationship with Vincent.” She prompted me to continue, opening the floor back up.
“I guess you hit the nail on the head, honestly.” I chuckled, crossing my arms over my chest again. “We never actually dated. Not long after the whole ‘love-bomb’ thing, I found out he was an addict on probation, which hurt really badly. I had told him about my struggles, and not once did he say a word about his own. When I found out through another coworker, I confronted him, and it took a lot to get the truth out of him. I tried to put in some boundaries, said we could be friends, but Vincent never cared much for all that.”
“I was in too deep to cut him off, and trying to be friends just hurt me in the end. He would push his luck, get me into bed, and then he would blow up at me once I was in my right mind again and tried to put a stop to it. I guess I was just as much at fault, because I always fell for it… had this misplaced hope that he would change, that it would be different.” I was stupid for it, and even I knew that. Vincent had proven on every occasion that he would always be the same person, even if he was a very convincing liar. “We fell into the habit of acting like a couple but refusing to label it, and it put me in a really bad position. He would cheat on me, but he’d justify it because we weren’t ‘together’, but if I wanted to be with someone else, I was this evil monster that just wanted to hurt him. I couldn’t heal, and I couldn’t move on, because he wouldn’t let me.”
I looked up, watching her pen glide across paper as I spoke, jotting short form of my tragic story. I tried to ignore it, but it made me nervous.
“Dylan was always there for me… cleaned me up after every fight, stayed with me until I felt better, tried to convince me that I deserved better. I always thought Dylan would take Vincent’s side, because they’ve been best friends forever, but looking back on it, he was always there with me.” I looked to the ground, a sad smile crossing my lips as I thought of Dylan’s face. “Anyway… Vincent put me in some really bad situations, and more often than not, I was cleaning him up and taking him to the hospital when he overdosed. More than just the possessiveness and the toxic relationship stuff, he cost me my sobriety so many times, and I still kept going back to help him, and I don’t know why.”
“I see it a lot, Bella. It’s not your fault, and you weren’t wrong for wanting to help. When we love someone, even if they don’t treat us well, we often overlook our own personal struggle and put them first. Again, it’s very common for people who grew up in abusive homes, because they never know how to put themselves first, because they don’t know what that feels like.” She responded accordingly, wanting me to know that I wasn’t the only person in the world who had made those mistakes. It felt nice to feel normal for a moment, even if I was far from it.
“I guess… being with him made me feel like the person I was trying to get away from. He brought out the worst in me, and we fought, like physically fought, and we would argue and scream… and the addiction thing, all of the relapses… I just didn’t like the person I was when I was with him, but I didn’t know how to stop. He went through these periods where he seemed like he was trying, working towards getting better or whatever, and I believed him. When he was nice to me, it made me forget all of the bad stuff, and it put me right back at the start. I felt whatever he was feeling, just as intensely… if he was crazy, so was I… Folie à deux, or whatever. Called it that for a while, but I’m starting to think that maybe I’m just crazy.”
“I don’t think it’s so much as a case of Folie à deux, but I can see why it feels that way to you. Madness for two… a very powerful force, and definitely akin to how you felt in that relationship. Honestly, I think everyone who experiences that type of abuse feels that way sometimes. At the same time, I don’t want you to blame one thing when it could very well be something completely different.” She spoke softly, wanting to assure me that she was not arguing, but offering another perspective. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Bella. I think abuse makes us reactive, even explosive sometimes, especially when you’re on guard because of past trauma. If you lack emotional regulation, it’s sometimes easier to feel the same way as those around us—whether it be because it’s easier to recognize the feeling when it’s demonstrated, or maybe because your emotions shift from poles easier than others would.”
“Yeah, okay.” I nodded, trying my best to understand what she was saying.
“Can you tell me a little bit about how you feel on an everyday basis? When you’re alone and don’t have anyone’s temper to match?”
“Empty.” I confessed, free just by saying it aloud. I felt like I had struggled with the emptiness so much for so long, and I never had the ability to express it to anyone. The past week of saying it aloud, having others guide me through it, felt good. It made me feel less alienated for it. “And numb, I guess. When I’m by myself, I have a hard time feeling anything… like I don’t even know what emotion is or if I’ve ever felt it before. It’s so… consuming, and I think that’s why it was so easy for me to be an addict. I’ve always been searching for things that make me feel something. Even people sometimes, I think I’m addicted to them—the way I feel when I’m with them, whether good or bad, is better than how I feel when I’m alone.”
“Yeah, okay.” She nodded, jotting that down. “And do you feel intense mood shifts? Even around other people—I’m just talking about any time.”
“Yeah, but usually it’s triggered, I guess.” I replied. “Like, yeah when someone’s angry I am too, but if I’m content, or empty, or whatever it is, and someone says or does something that hits the wrong way, I just snap. I can’t stop it.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno.” I shrugged. “Like talking down to me, or saying stuff about my parents, or if I feel like they’re going to leave me… stuff like that.”
“And what kind of emotion does that bring up for you?” She was still writing, taking note of everything I was saying.
“It feels like the whole world is ending—like I’m on fire and going to die.” I laughed to myself, knowing how ridiculous it sounded. “I get that it's kind of dramatic, but it really does feel that way. It makes me explode, even if I really don’t want to. I can’t help it.”
“It’s not dramatic if that’s how you feel.” She corrected me. “How we feel and how intensely we feel it is not in our control, but how we react and treat the world around us is. Feeling isn’t the enemy, Bella, and if that’s how you feel, I want you to be honest.”
“Okay.” I nodded, finding myself reverting to the same reactions and mannerisms every time she spoke, not knowing how else to respond.
“Now, I know we’re on a bit of a time restraint, so before we have to wrap things up, there’s a couple things I wanted to go over, okay?”
“Alright.” I was almost grateful for the change in direction, feeling like I had been talking far too much.
“I want to keep listening—I feel like what you’ve told me so far is really insightful for me, and it helps me know you a little bit better. I can’t really do my job without it.” We both gave a small chuckle, agreeing wholeheartedly with the statement. “But I wanted to ask, and I should have done it earlier, so I apologize.”
“It’s all good.” I assured her.
“Have you ever been diagnosed or treated for any mental illness? Aside from rehab and your addictions, I mean. For example, have you taken any psychiatric medications, or have you ever done an evaluation?”
“No, never.” I shook my head. “Never really had the money or the time.”
“Would you be open to an evaluation? It might give you some insight… a diagnosis doesn’t define you, but it might open up the door to some possibilities for treatment.” She explained, tapping her pen against her clipboard as she awaited my response.
“I mean, I guess I wouldn’t be opposed… how much does it cost? And where do I have to go to get it done?” I asked, wanting to cover all the bases before I agreed to anything.
“I can do it right here, actually. Basically all I do is ask you some questions—pretty easy stuff, honestly… and it’s no extra cost to you. Just the amount of a regular session, because you’re already one of my clients.” She informed me.
“Yeah, alright.” I nodded, wondering if there would even be a next time. I felt guilty enough that Sam paid for the first session, and I wasn’t sure if my pride could handle him paying for a second. Still, I felt better just by talking, and better than I had in a long time. The validation and understanding she was giving me made me feel less crazy and more comfortable with myself, like I wasn’t a monster after all. Maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad to let Sam help me and see the benefits of therapy.
“And what about medication? I know not everyone is open to it, but if it happens to be a personality disorder or a diagnosable mental illness, it may really help.”
“I’m not sure… never really thought about it.” I muttered, tracing the sun on the back of my hand. “I guess it’s not the prescription that scares me as much as the price.”
“That’s understandable, but I can tell you that sometimes, settling for a generic brand over a name brand will make a world of difference. They do the same things, but one is just a lot cheaper.” She eased my mind, sending me another soft smile.
“Oh, okay.” I carefully considered her words, wondering if the difference in price was enough for me to even consider it. “I mean, yeah, sure. If it’ll help.”
“Alright.” She jotted the last note down, happy with my willingness to try. “We’ll, I’ll schedule you in for next week sometime, and we can do the assessment first thing and look at some treatment options. I think talk therapy will help, but sometimes we need the overwhelming thoughts and hopelessness to ease up before we can start to get better.” I nodded along, knowing that was one of my biggest hindrances, happy she seemed to understand the severity of such things without me having to explain it all. “Obviously, I’d still like to keep getting to know you a bit before we make any big decisions, but have you ever heard of DBT?”
“No, never.” I shook my head.
“Well, it’s just another type of talk therapy I also offer—it’s adapted for individuals who experience strong emotional reactions, but we also work on things like mindfulness, distress tolerance, and emotional regulation. If it’s something you’re interested in or want to hear more about, I think it might be better suited for your needs.” She explained, her head cocked to the side as she absorbed my expression as she spoke, like she was trying so hard to study me and figure me out.
“Yeah, that sounds good.” I hummed. “I don’t really know a whole lot about this stuff, and I’m pretty open to suggestions, I guess. I just want to get better, and I’m not even really sure how to start. I’ve got so much shit going on, and it has been my whole life… maybe I’m too late, and I’m too fucked up, but I’m just hoping I don’t have to spend the next fifty years feeling this way, you know?”
“It’s not too late, Bella. We start to heal when it feels right to us, and you’ve taken a huge step by coming here. Things might feel worse for a little while, because we’ll talk about some stuff you may not want to think about it, but the first step is getting it all out, and then we can move forward from there.” She reassured me. “The idea of therapy can be scary, but I’ll try my very best to help you through it as best as I can.”
Deciding to put my trust in a total and complete stranger, I huffed out a sigh of relief, giving a curt nod and a small smile. Though it was terrifying, and it was hard, I owed it to those I loved to try to heal, to make a better future for me and for them. After twenty four years of running, I was finally starting to understand that some pain cannot be left behind, and I understood that mine needed to be faced head on. Despite its bared teeth and violent nature, I had survived it once before, and I knew I could do it again.
I was terrified, but I would not let it win. Even as broken and battered as I was, I knew for fact that I was stronger and more capable than I ever believed myself to be. Changing is scary, but despite my constant fear, it was all I had ever known.
July 25th, 2022 - 11:17 AM
The car was completely silent as Sam drove down the highway, the radio not even turned on to ease the deafening quiet that surrounded us. I had yet to open my mouth to speak, opting to bite my tongue after we left the medical arts building, unsure if I wanted to talk any more about my sorrows after pouring my heart out to a stranger on a brand new leather couch. Still, I figured for him, I wanted to try, even if it took nearly ten minutes to decide that.
“The appointment was… it was good.” I said, catching him by surprise. He glanced over at me, misplaced in the driver's seat of Danny’s car, likely because I had never seen him there before.
“Yeah?” He asked, turning back to the road and giving me the space to talk on my own time.
“Yeah.” I agreed, nodding my head. “It was different. We talked about a lot… think she was just trying to get to know me, but it was good.”
“I’m glad.” He smiled to himself, happy to hear it. “Did you like her? Because if you don’t feel like she’s a good fit, we can look for a different therapist. Lots of options.”
“Yeah, I like her.” I confirmed. “A little bit different than what I’m used to, but she seemed to know what she was talking about. She was very nice, and didn’t seem to mind that I’m a little dumb when it comes to this stuff.”
“You’re not dumb, Utah.” Sam chuckled. “It’s a lot, and it’s new—of course you’re going to be a bit nervous.”
“I felt dumb.” I confessed, pulling one of my legs up under the opposite knee. “Stuttering, zoning out… all of that shit.”
“I promise you that nobody else thought that.” He reassured me. “We’re proud of you, Bella.”
“Shut up.” I rolled my eyes, reaching into the cup holder and grabbing his vape. I studied the small device, desperately trying to distract myself from his praise. “Thank you.” I whispered, realizing that for once, it was really nice to hear it, to be commended for such a huge, difficult step forward.
“You’re welcome.” He grinned.
Before any further conversation could begin, I felt my phone ringing from my back pocket, igniting with a series of messages that I could tell were from Facebook Messenger. Piquing my interest, I grabbed it to check and see what the fuss was about, immediately noticing a surplus of activity in the work group chat. I opened the app, clicking on the new messages. My phone skipped straight to the unread texts, which took me as a surprise when I read what it said.
John Lynch - 11:18 AM
Good morning everyone. Most of you have heard already, but I wanted to make sure everyone was on the same page (especially my evening staff). We’re having a staff meeting today, July 25th at 5 PM. I’ve closed the diner for the evening to give us all a chance to be present and not have to worry about anything else. If you absolutely cannot make it, please let me know, and I can make arrangements for a one-on-one later this week. Thanks everyone, hope to see you later on.
My stomach sank, seeing the surplus of thumbs up reactions and a lack of extra comments. I wondered why it was so important that John felt the need to close us down for the rest of the day, and why he was so adamant about everyone attending. Holding down on the message and sending yet another thumbs up, I placed my phone back in my lap with a dull ache in my chest. I couldn’t remember a single instance in which The Fox was closed for anything other than major damage.
“Everything okay?” Sam asked, picking up on my sudden withdrawal. I glanced over at him, a small frown on my face as I forced a nod.
“Yeah… I hope so, anyway. John called us all in for a meeting tonight, so I’m not really sure what that’s all about.” I replied, tapping my foot against the ground as Sam switched to a pull off lane, filling the signs that would guide us back to our tiny little suburb.
“I’m sure it’s not anything too serious.” He tried to ease my mind, but it didn’t help much. Already picking at threads of loose skin around my fingernails, I was even further worried than I was before I spoke. “You want to come back home with me, or head to your place?” He asked, changing the subject.
“I’ll head back home for now… maybe Dylan’s there. He might know what’s going on.” I explained, knowing if anyone could ease my mind, it would be him. “I’ll head over after the meeting and we can do something.”
“Sounds good to me.” He hummed, falling back into silence as he coasted through what was left of the drive home.
I sat, staring out the window, still trying to process the whirlwind of emotions therapy brought to the surface, all while trying to swallow my anxiety for what the rest of the day would bring. I hoped that Sam was right, and I was overreacting to a few simple policy changes, but something deep in the pit of my stomach was greatly unsettled, and my heart was telling me that my fears, that time at least, were not misguided. I had a sneaking suspicion that whatever was revealed at the meeting would change life as I knew it, and in no way good.
I only hoped that I was stable enough to survive the downfall, knowing that the last three months had shown me nothing but change. I was standing on a shaky foundation, my pieces just barely glued together and still trying to dry. Feeling like I had already taken what had happened with as much grace as I could, I knew it wouldn’t take much to send me straight over the edge.
July 25th, 2022 - 4:51 PM
The diner was eerily quiet for mid-day during the week, leaving me on edge as I climbed the stairs to the main entrance. When my hand closed around the handle, I finally noticed the sign on the window that was seemingly new. It was likely posted that morning after the three of us went home. The lack of wear and tear on the paper in comparison to the condition of everything else was telling of the timeframe it was posted, and nothing at The Fox had ever been in such good shape. I took a moment to read it over, finding the exact same information that was left in the message I received that morning.
The Foxhole will be closed at 4:00 PM on Monday, July 25th for a staff meeting. We will reopen again at 4am on Wednesday, July 27th.
Thank you for your understanding,
Staff & Management
Tapping back into my earlier worries, I realized once again that The Fox never closed unless extraneous circumstances left John no other option. I wasn’t sure I had ever been a part of a staff meeting in my time working there, nor had they ever even had one to begin with. I wondered if it had anything to do with a food audit, leaving John panicked to get the diner in order before the suits arrived. Maybe the day-long closure had more to do with cleaning than it did with any kind of meeting. That thought left me feeling a little more optimistic, yet the looming uncertainty about the conversation to come left my stomach in knots.
Opening the door and listening to the familiar chime of the bell, I was instantly greeted with the smell of the deep fryer. Thick and heavy in the air, a slight grimace crossed my lips until I grew accustomed to it again. There was little traffic in the restaurant portion of the building—all of the customers had long cleared out and the waitresses had already finished their cleaning. At the register, Bev and Linda were standing with their arms crossed, speaking in hushed whispers with a hint of seriousness I had never quite seen from them before.
What was happening?
Seeing me in the corner of their eyes, they cut the conversation short and gave a warm smile and a slight wave. Before I reached them, the other two waitresses, Judy and Vivian, rounded the corner from the kitchen to join them. All four of them had worked at The Fox for so long they had become part of the furniture, sure to die with it when the time finally rolled around. They were all lovely despite their innate need for gossip, and they had always been more kind to me than I ever deserved.
Just as I joined the cluster of blue aprons and grey perms (no matter how many years passed, their hearts and their style was still stuck in the eighties), the door chimed again, letting me know more workers had arrived. Turning my head over my shoulder to see who had stepped in, I laid eyes on Steph, giggling with one of the busboys who only ever worked on my days off. There was a different light shining in her eyes, one that suited her better than the misery she often carried with her. Remembering the kindness she extended to me the night Vincent and I ‘laid things to rest’, I felt a strange sense of happiness for her, glad to see her enjoying something for once.
Behind them, staggering with a slow saunter and heavy eyes, was a face that never failed to brighten my day. His dark eyelashes dusted his rosy cheeks, his skin glowing from the summer sun and his bold tattoos standing prominent against his tanned arms. The closer he got, the more the uneasiness faded. My eyes focusing on the mustache now fully grown over his top lip, I couldn’t help but smile, finding the sight of the new man goofy yet heartwarming all at once. The Dylan I knew six months ago was leagues apart from the man approaching me then, but it wasn’t a bad thing. He seemed to be glowing, lighter and more confident now that Vincent wasn’t hanging off him and sucking the life straight from him.
I wondered, with his new found freedom and happiness, did he want to leave me behind too?
I couldn’t blame him if he did, because I knew what I had put him through was enough of an excuse to cut ties forever, and the more he healed, the more he would understand that I was not all he once thought I was. I hoped that I could heal in time to show him how dedicated I was, but my therapy appointment that morning left me unsure and unable to see past the storm cloud. I was more fucked up than even I realized, and it would take a long time to be in the place I only ever dreamed of.
I wanted to be in Dylan’s life, and even if Vincent was out of the picture, the wounds he left behind were ever-present and growing the longer I left them unattend. I wasn’t even able to love myself, let alone another person—including friends. It wasn’t fair to anyone around me, and though neither of us had brought up the subject, I knew he had lots of unanswered questions, because I did as well. We were happy to be in each other's lives, but the lingering tension and the newfound lack of boundaries was doing nothing to help us.
Dylan had never been so heavy on my mind, and I hated that my first taste of freedom had me questioning everything. I should have been certain in Danny, in everything that he had done for me—then again, Dylan was there first. Through every fall and fight, long before Danny was even a thought in my mind.
Constantly toeing the line of something more since the day I met him, I knew my brain was wiser than my heart, but Dylan seemed to be the only constant comfort I had ever known. Danny and Sam were great, but they weren’t him, and they could never be him. Friends or more, Dylan was always the person I wanted to turn to, because he was the only person that not only knew, but understood.
Maybe I should have just left it all alone—taken some time for myself before I fucked up what little good I had left. Then again, I had never been that wise.
“Hey, beautiful.” A dopey grin lit up his face once he was within arms reach. In true Dylan nature, he threw a strong arm over my shoulder, pulling me into him without a second thought. I leaned against his chest with little (or no) complaint about the position. Even if we should have been more mindful of the mess we were making, it was easier to love first and regret later. When he was near, love was all I knew how to do. “Any idea what this mess is about?”
“Was kind of hoping you did.” I chuckled, looking at the group of old waitresses still whispering amongst themselves. “By the looks of it, nothing good.” I concluded, not daring to make the first move to pull away.
I felt a different kind of peace existing with Dylan, someone who understood me so completely and someone who struggled the same way. I felt even more content in the protective hold once I heard the door chime for the last time, knowing who it was just by the energy that he brought to the room. As if he knew it too, he held me just a little tighter, almost like he was afraid to let go. Vincent never failed to put those around him in a state of unrest, but never before had it been so severe. Dylan did not even look his way, nor did he acknowledge that he was there.
The room was stuffed full of staff by the time John walked out of the office, stress apparent in his features as he approached us with his head down. He had papers in his hand, but it didn’t look like anything professional. When he took his place by the register, Dylan stepped to the nearest booth and pulled me back with him. He leaned against the edge as I hoisted myself up on the table itself, feeling my feet swing freely as I situated myself. Swallowing back a lump in my throat, I made sure to force my stare at John only, despite feeling another set of malicious eyes burning into me.
When Vincent arrived, I was certain he would make a beeline to me, never able to resist the temptation no matter how badly he fucked up. Dylan, seeming to know that just as well as I did, made sure Vincent knew that opportunity wouldn’t be in the cards for him that time. When he saw the two of us together, Dylan’s arm around my shoulders, we both knew he would be riddled with jealousy and red with anger. When we both ignored him completely, our eyes not even locking with his once, he could hardly withstand the lack of attention.
If I knew anything about Vincent, it was that he loved to be the centre of attention. Denying him that was worse than any insult I could spew in his face. Sometimes, and specifically that time, my silence was the most deadly weapon I possessed.
He stayed back by the door, not willing to step any further into a room he was not welcome in, a room where he was not the centre of my universe. Thankfully, I didn’t have time to dwell on his presence for too long before John began to speak.
“I think everyone’s here,” he started, timid and so unlike his usual self. He received a murmur of agreement from the crowd, causing him to nod his head in acknowledgement. “So, there’s a couple things I’d like to discuss. I’ve also closed shop for today and tomorrow to give you all some time to process everything, and for any questions that might come up.”
I shared a look with Dylan through the corner of my eye, both of us noticing the same grim feeling begin to set in. Whatever was coming next, we both knew was not good.
Then, before he could continue, out of the office came a second person, a bit shorter with long, freshly dyed blonde hair. At the sight of Alice, John’s wife, my eyes fell to the floor and my hands crossed in my lap. Her presence solidified the seriousness of the meeting—for the majority of her life, she covered most of the paperwork from the diner in the comfort of her own home, only ever showing her face when it was absolutely necessary. She was a smart woman, plenty kind and very pleasant to be around, yet opted to stay away from the mess and craziness that often ensued in the building. I couldn’t blame her, and if I had the leisure of keeping to myself most of the time, I would do it too.
“Seein’ the big boss ain’t never good.” Dylan huffed under his breath, causing me to send a gentle elbow into his side to shut him up. One thing I loved so much about him was that it never mattered how serious the situation was; he could turn anything into a joke. “What? You know it’s true.”
“I do, but listen.” I rolled my eyes, a half-smile on my lips as I kept my gaze on John, now side by side with Alice.
“There’s been a lot going on behind the scenes here for a while now, and we tried our best to keep a handle on it so that we wouldn’t cause no… unnecessary stress. I’m sure you’re all aware of the condition of The Fox, and even though we all love ‘er just the way she is, you’d have to be blind not to notice the work she needs.” John continued, cleaning his throat as he tapped his fingers against the wood grain of the counter. “I’m sure you all can see the shape I’m in, too. She’s given me lots of trouble this year… pipes burstin’, replacin’ the floor back in February just to have to do ‘er all again, and the damn window.” He pointed across to the still cracked glass, everyone smiling to themselves as he tried his best to keep up the morale. “I ain’t as young as I used to be, and I’m slowing down a bit faster than I want to be. Truth is, I just can’t keep up with her anymore.” At that, Alice raised a sympathetic hand to John’s arm, a silent show of support while he tackled such a hard subject.
“Back in May, I was in talks with a young man who seemed interested in buyin’. I wasn’t ready to part with her… didn’t think it was time yet. I had so many plans when I bought this place, an’ I don’t feel like I accomplished a single one of them. Funny how things work out sometimes.” He muttered the last part to himself, his sad eyes fixated on the paper below him, unable to face the curious crowd before him. “I turned him down, told him to come back in a year or two when he was a bit older and I was ready to retire. He made a promise he would, and we left it at that.”
“He’s sellin’ us off to some bonehead we don’t even know?” Dylan whispered, leaning closer to me as he spoke so he wouldn’t be heard by anyone else.
“I-I guess?” I whispered back, eyebrows furrowed as I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Fucks’ gonna happen to us doll? He ain’t gonna put up with our shit like John does.” The worry etched in Dylan’s face truly set me off, finding his concern most concerning.
Dylan was a man who typically did not care about anything, who took any strife with a grain of salt, took every roadblock as a joke rather than a warning. To know that even he was worried about the future made the uneasiness in my stomach grow tenfold.
“I don’t know, honey.” I said, honest and short as John began again.
“We had a rough year, business and staff wise. I wanted to tough it out, to see things improve and to try and turn this place around, but the last few months have really taken a toll on me, and I just don’t have it in me anymore.” He sighed, looking to his wife so she could continue for him.
“I called the potential buyer to see if he was still interested, and we talked some numbers, got some quotes for repair work, and at the end of it he informed us that he decided to pursue a different opportunity.” Alice explained, the shiny gold necklace she was wearing was twinkling in the lowlight as she fidgeted with it. “That left John and I with a lot of hard decisions to make—keep going, try to sell, or close down for good.” The lead in my belly grew heavier, anchoring me to the table as we sat, when finally fear replaced unease. “We weren’t ready to see The Fox close, but as John said, we just can’t keep up with it any longer. We want to enjoy what time we have left, and this place needs a bit more maintenance than we can manage.”
“A lot more.” John corrected, unwilling to sugarcoat it.
Realizing exactly what we had just walked into, Dylan reached for my hand, his large palm covering my own as he held it tightly. Together, we waited for the bad news, always suffering together rather than alone. I focused on the heat of his skin instead of the burning of my cheeks, finding it much more comforting than the unknown I was stuck in.
“When we sat down and really looked at the work this place needs, we just couldn’t fathom putting it on someone else. With the history, we both decided that it would be for the best to just close it down, to let her go while things were still… alright.” Alice continued, solemn as she looked around the room, reliving decades of memories in a single moment. “So… on January 1st, The Foxhole will be no more.”
The silence across the room was staggering, thick and heavy as we all sat with the harrowing truth. I held Dylan’s hand just a bit tighter, my chest aching as I tried to bargain with their decision, unable to swallow the bitterness it left on my tongue.
What would I do?
Where would we go?
A million questions circled my brain, only worsening the panic rising in my chest. For two years, The Foxhole had been the only constant in my life, the one thing that never changed. It was in rough shape, a dead end job that served me as best it could, but it was so much more than just that. It gave me Dylan, and for a short period of time, Vincent. It gave me a family I never really had before, a place to belong, a place where I had purpose. So many pages of a book I never thought I would write were finished in those very booths. So many laughs, so many tears, so much love stored in the flimsy drywall and rotten foundation.
To some, it was nothing—just a shitty diner that employed ex-cons and pensionless elders. To me—to us, it was everything. It was home, and it was the only place that I had ever truly wanted to be. A warm meal when I couldn’t afford groceries, a cup of coffee when I needed a pick-me-up, a place to forget about my sorrows and spend time with my friends, a breath of fresh air when I was suffocating. Even on the bad days, even with all the evilness that Vincent bestowed on me weeks prior, it was the centre of my world. The Fox was the very reason I could start over, that I had the chance to build a life in New York. Even when it was just a shitty job and an even shittier paycheck, that meant more than anything else.
Arguably, the most important thing The Fox had ever provided for anyone was the very day, that very corner booth across the room from me, when I saw Danny and Sam for the very first time. The man that started and ended it all, Daniel ruined everything so he could help me rebuild it the right way, so I could live my life the way it was meant to be. The Fox had given me the greatest gift I could ever ask for, and without it, I would have nothing.
“Oh, god.” I thought I would be sick, dizzy and clammy as I pointed my worried eyes at the boy beside me, finding no comfort once I saw the same look on his face.
“We didn’t want to jump the gun and say anything before we made a final decision. At the same time, we wanted to give you all enough time to make a plan for the future. As sad as we are to see this place go, we’re even more heartbroken to lose the family we’ve created here.” John explained, finally finding the courage to meet all of our worried eyes. “Without you all, The Fox wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Some of you have been here from the very beginning—Linda, Bev, Viv. If not for you three, we wouldn’t have made it past the first year. Every single one of you has made an impact on our lives, and we need you all to know how much it hurts us to have to do this.”
“Which is why, like John mentioned, we’ve given you all the rest of the day plus tomorrow, with pay. On us, as a token of our appreciation, take some time for yourselves. If you have any questions or anything you’d like to discuss, we will be here for the rest of the afternoon. Even so, if you want to call us, please don’t hesitate. We understand that it’s hard for you, being a part of a choice you didn’t get to make. For that, we really do apologize and hope you know that this was not a decision we’ve made lightly.” Alice finished off, sending a sympathetic smile to the speechless crowd. “And if there’s any questions now, we’re more than happy to answer them for you.”
All at once, the static silence turned into a buzzing noise, hundreds of words spoken at once yet none of them fully reaching my ears. Dylan and I sat so stoically together while the rest of the world raged. Silently, speechlessly, mindlessly seeking comfort in each other's company as our entire world flipped upside down.
“Well shit.” Dylan huffed, turning to look at me after sitting with his thoughts for long enough. “Didn’t see that one comin’.”
“You and me both.” I replied, numb and confused as my stomach swirled with upset. “What the fuck are we gonna do?”
“Dunno, doll. I’m usually the one askin’ you.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it ever so slightly when he reached the ends. “Guess we got some time to figure it all out, huh?”
“Yeah.” I gave a bleak nod, my fingers clenched around the sleeves of my baggy t-shirt.
I felt guilty, but that was all I could give him at the moment. I knew he understood, but I still couldn’t help but feel bad over the fact that I didn’t have an answer for him. I was sweating, sick just at the idea, and already stressing about the future. I didn’t know what to do, let alone what to say. I think he understood, his hand tightening in my own ever so slightly, just enough to bring me back to earth.
John and Alice were bombarded with questions, barely able to answer before another one was thrown in their direction. I felt bad for them, knowing that all they said was the truth and that this was the last thing they wanted. John looked ten years older than he actually was, always tired and run down. He truly couldn’t keep up with the place, and if he tried, all it would do is land him in a grave. Still, I couldn’t swallow back the sour taste in my mouth every time I thought of the fact they were closing rather than selling. Even if their reasoning made sense, with the history of the place, it still left a lot of people in a bad position.
Some of the employees elected to leave immediately, having no questions and left only with a desire to figure out their next move. During the chaos of the moment, I barely managed to look up from the floor, and certainly did not notice the newest person approaching Dylan and I at the booth. Only when he was looming over me did his negative energy heighten the one that was already surrounding me.
I couldn’t bear the thought of facing him, nor could I imagine talking to him. For the first time since everything went down, he had the nerve to approach me, expecting me to be receptive to his advance and let him back in. Maybe it was my own fault, paving the way for his audacity. I let him get away with so much for so long, and I could not blame him for trying again, knowing that every time before there were never any consequences. Still, I had a hard time imagining it was so easy to approach a woman who he almost killed. He felt my life force fading away under his fingers, intent to drain me completely of what made me, me. He had no sympathy or remorse, and if anything I believed he was more upset that I walked away, that I survived.
Finally turning my head upward, I felt sick as my eyes connected with the brown ones that had been the main source of my nightmares, finding no comfort or familiarity that once existed. Even if it was rare, even if it was fleeting, prior to that moment there had always been something—a flicker, a sparkle, a shine that let me know Vincent was the man I once loved. At that point,, he was no more than a stranger that knew everything about me, holding more ammunition than I could comprehend, and we both knew he was willing to shoot at a moment's notice.
The conversation from therapy resurfaced, buzzing behind my eyes as we watched each other, unnerving me even further. Love bombing, gaslighting, manipulating, abuse. What he had done to me was wrong, and so wrong that it would affect me for the rest of my life. Hearing another confirm that, and having that person be a trained professional in such things, made it all the more real. I felt tears welling in my waterline the longer I watched him, struggling to swallow down my sadness as everything grew bigger than I could handle.
I could feel it under my skin, the pulsing of my emotions, begging me to explode and give him a taste of what he had done to me, but instead I let it simmer. All of the bad was catching up to me, and I feared for a single second that it would kill me. If it did, I refused to let it be in front of him. I refused to give him that gratification.
Almost immediately, Dylan stood up straight, talking half a step forward before he could get any closer. Always trying to protect me, he did it without second thought and without any hesitation, face to face with the only family he’d ever known and willing to sever those ties further if it meant it would keep me safe. All of the emotion hitting at once, I nearly doubled over in pain, so filled with sorrow at the thought of Vincent being a stranger despite me believing I knew him well, and so full of gratitude for a man I knew I shouldn’t have loved so much.
No matter what, I was always so good at getting myself in shitty situations, and standing there between a man who wanted me dead and another who would give his life for mine, I knew it was no different. I had a knack for attracting trouble, and my regret all stemmed from getting those I loved involved.
“Christ, Dylan, I ain’t gonna fuckin’ do nothin’.” Vincent snapped, the anger in his features immediately prompting a great deal fear, wrapping around my spine and locking between the columns. Goosebumps raised on my skin, my eyes wide as I remembered standing across the dining room, my feet barely scraping the ground as his hands closed tighter around my neck. The breathlessness, the pain, the unmistakable hatred in his stare. It was all too much, like I was living it all over again. “I jus’ wanna talk to her for a minute.”
“She got nothin’ to fuckin’ say to you.” Dylan shook his head, arms crossed over his chest as Vincent eyed him up from where he stood. Dylan’s chest was heaving, like he was furious that Vincent even thought it was a good idea to come closer, and he wasn’t backing down.
“Is that true, doll? You got nothin’ to say to me?” Vincent, looking straight past Dylan and directly at me, seemed to shatter any sense of security and stability I tried so hard to build.
“Don’t you fuckin’ start, Vincent.” Dylan warned, worsening the sickness swirling my stomach. I felt bile sting my throat, trying to choke it back so I did not look weak in front of him. I couldn’t let it happen. Not again.
I gripped the edge of the booth, my knuckles white as I tried to hold myself steady. I felt my pulse throughout my entire body, each beat of my heart in slow motion as the blood trickled through my limbs and burned my cheeks. I couldn’t look at him, half hiding behind Dylan as my fear-widened eyes stared straight at my feet, remembering how quick and easy it was for him to make the switch. In an instant, just angry to vengeful, how his hands raised to my throat and cut off all of the oxygen. I was swimming, my eyes pulsing as I remembered the crushing pressure of his palm against my trachea.
“Lots to say, but I guess I’m not allowed to say it, right? Only worth a dime when it’s stroking your fucking ego.” I wheezed out, trying my best to feign some sense of strength and calmness. As difficult as it was to say it, I knew Dylan would never let anything happen to me. His protection gave me a touch of confidence, helping me find my spine that I so often misplaced when near Vincent.
“Come on, angel. You know it ain’t like that—“
“Pretty sure it is, Vin.” I snapped, feeling anger prickle my skin underneath the fear. Looking up to meet his eyes, I didn’t back down nor did I shy away.
How could he think it was okay, leaving me in such a state and expecting not to have any repercussions? How could he face me, knowing what he did to me, believing he could trick me into forgiving him again?
He thought I was stupid, weak willed and isolated. He thought he could take advantage of me because nobody would care enough to stop it, but it wasn’t true. I wasn’t healed, nor was I the woman I wanted to be, but I was not the woman he fooled and manipulated. I wasn’t the girl, timid and naive, just off a bus from Utah and desperate to be loved. I was a woman who had an army surrounding me, with so much love thrown in my direction it was hard to see anything else. I wasn’t the woman he hurt—I was someone far stronger and better than he wanted to believe I was, and I would never let him take advantage of me like that ever again.
“M’sorry, okay? Fuck sakes—you know I was never gonna—“
“Never gonna what?” I cut him off, his forced apology fuelling a fire that had been simmering under my skin since that very night. “Hurt me? Kill me?” I could see the colour drain from his face as the words, like he also recalled the night with the same pristine memory. His eyes looked tired, sad and defeated as he understood he permanently severed the ties between us. “You can say whatever you want—we all fucking know what kind of person you are.”
“You hit me too, Arabella. Dont fuckin’ forget that.” He said, his defensive nature rising to the surface to overshadow his false remorse. His hand raised, his finger pointed in my direction as his face turned red, the vein in his forehead pulsing as his eyes narrowed on me. “Callin’ me the bad guy when you fuckin’ pushed me there—just like always, right doll?”
Even as he said it, his scowl faltered, like he realized how horrific it was to blame me for such things. He took a small step back. I didn’t trust it, knowing he was likely reeling himself back in with hope that I would submit and accept his return to my life. Whether he was trying to manipulate me or he truly felt bad, it didn’t matter. Neither of those things were ever going to work, and I would have rather died than fall back into the same trap.
As it seemed, I was finally the one who held the power in our relationship. It may not have been much, but I did not have to let him win. I had the ability and the courage to say no, to put an end to it, and I was finally ready to do it.
“I’m not fucking crazy, Vincent, and you can’t lie your way out of this one.” I spat, my chest burning as I gave it back to him, the way I should have all along. “Get the fuck out of my face and leave me alone.”
I wasn't used to the surge of courage, but I was desperate to keep it around. For once, it felt nice to be in control, to have the strength to stand up for myself against those who deserved it.
“I have nothing to say to you. I’m done, Vincent.” The vein in his forehead, prominent and telling that he would never change. I had too much hope for far too long, but I knew better, and I would let the past repeat itself.
“You’re fuckin’ hilarious, you know that?” He asked, raising his hands in the air and letting out a booming, mocking laugh. “Thinkin’ you’re all that, like you’re better than me. No matter what, doll, you’ll always know what you fuckin’ are, and you’ll go back to it every fuckin’ time.” He spat, making sure to lace each word with as much venom as possible.
“Get the fuck outta here, Vincent. She already told ya she ain’t in the mood for talkin’.” Dylan cut in, taking a step to the side so Vincent could not reach me. I felt safer, much more secure with him in front of me, and I was thankful he was so willing to fight the battle with me.
“What, you finally fuckin’ her too? Got what ya wanted after all this time?” Vincent seethed, up in Dylan’s face as he sickened himself with the thought of someone else having me. “You’re pickin’ her—a fuckin’ whore, over me? Your brother?”
“I don’t know a fuckin’ thing about no brother.” Dylan shoved the knife a little deeper. Typically, he was unphased by Vincent’s routine behaviour and unwilling to engage in it, but for some reason, that seemed to strike a nerve. “No brother ‘a mine would ever fuckin’ lay a hand on a woman like that.”
“Careful, pal.” Vincent smirked, sinister and knowing as he taunted Dylan, but with what I did not know. It made my already weak heart break a little further, wondering why, no matter what situation he was in, he always felt like he had the upper hand. Dylan faltered slightly, like his warning served its purpose, but his shoulders inflated again as he regained his control and seemingly lost his temper.
“Don’t you got somewhere else to be? Don’t you got a pregnant girlfriend to take care’a?” Dylan asked, snide and rude, but I could not focus on the tone he used, instead consumed entirely by the newfound information that turned my whole world upside down.
Without saying a word, Vincent’s eyes cut to me, desperate and angry that Dylan would let such a thing slip, appalled that he would say it for me to hear. Knowing Vincent, and his sly and evil attitude, he would have kept that a secret until the very end, giving himself nine whole months to get me back on a hook before it all blew up in his face. What little respect I had for him fled, and all of the love and care I once held for him disappeared without a trace. I couldn’t recognize him, and I didn’t want to try.
“Fuck you.” Vincent hissed through his teeth, knowing that Dylan had ruined his only chance at having his way. “Best part a’ this place closin’ down is not having to put up with you an’ your fuckin’ nonsense.” He was getting angrier by the second, moving forward as he spoke without even realizing it. As he did, I shied away, flinching at the unexpected advance.
Dylan, noticing my reaction immediately, stepped further in front of me, blocking me from view entirely. Not yet needing to use physical force, the memory of Dylan’s punishment was enough to make Vincent fall back, the yellow tinge of bruises long faded but the cuts and scrapes remaining on his cheekbones and lips.
Without another word, Vincent turned on his heel, facing rejection from the only two people in the world who had stuck by his side no matter how badly he treated us. Dylan did not move, even long after the front door slammed behind him, and not even after Vincent pulled out of the parking lot and sped down the road. I think, though I wasn’t certain, he was afraid to face me, knowing that letting such sensitive information slip during a bout of high emotion was in poor judgement.
Raising a hand to the back of his neck, sheepishly scratching at his tattooed skin, he slowly turned to face me, guilt woven into his perfectly crafted features, making me feel even worse about the situation. He could see it in my eyes, the agony the comment left me in, the uncertainty on what to do next. I wanted to know more, but at the same time, I thought it might kill me to ask.
“I’m sorry, angel.” Dylan muttered, giving a small shake of his head. “Not exactly how I was planin’ on tellin’ ya… just got upset.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, wanting to tell him it was okay, but unable to formulate any further comments.
It was all hitting me at once, the entirety of my day hard and taxing. The discoveries in therapy, only to find out that The Fox was shutting down, and then Vincent. Approaching me, talking to me, angry with me, for something he did. To top it all off, to learn that he was going to be a dad, having a baby with a woman who would be no different than my parents.
A long time before that day, I used to dream that Vincent would get better. I used to lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while hoping for something we all knew would never come true. I thought, if Vincent could clean himself up, we would be able to be together, living in the same apartment and happier for it. Maybe never marriage, but commitment, the desire to see every day through with each other by our sides. I thought if he got sober, he would want me. I used to think if he stopped using, he would love me.
It was a ridiculous notion, placing a man on a pedestal when in reality, he had been digging his own grave long before he ever met me. Once our relationship began, I finally understood he was digging one for me too, never having loved me but determined to have me die with him when the time came, with his name on my tongue and no one else’s. It wasn’t because he cared for me, but rather because he wanted eternal punishment for me. If he died, he couldn’t stand the thought of me being happy again, whether with someone else or even on my own.
For two whole years, he worked tirelessly to ensure I devoted my entire life to him, that I was not only committed to him, but felt like I would die without him. He did such a good job that even after a near death experience at his hand, I was mourning a loss—a loss of what, I did not know. Maybe the loss of possibility, or more likely, the loss of a life I once imagined for myself with him. A future, though maybe not the same as everyone else pictured, that may or may not have included kids.
Lillian got everything I once wished for myself, but she didn’t deserve any of it—in all honesty, neither did Vincent. The two, a toxic pair who would fall in the same footsteps of their families, having a baby that they would never be able to properly care for. It was gutting, knowing that a child would endure what they would create, a violent home and an unstable environment, yet another household where parents chose drugs over their kids. He was perpetuating a cycle, worse than ever before, and I could not understand where the misplaced feelings of jealousy and envy were coming from.
I didn’t want Vincent, did not want a relationship or a life with him in it, and I certainly did not want kids, even if I was able to have them after years of mistreating and abusing my own body. At the same time, I could not stop lamenting about the what-if’s, thinking about what we could have been if only he tried harder. I was still having a really hard time differentiating the real Vincent from the idea of him I had in my head, even if logically I knew the truth.
I knew he did not really want it with her—it just happened to work out that way. Still, I could not help but feel angry at him because he did not want it with me. A woman who would have done everything for him, who already had. A woman who loved him despite his flaws and begged him to get better. A woman who wore herself out giving him chances, helping him improve, only for him to consistently choose other things. He traded a life that may not have been perfect, but would have been filled with love and happiness, for nothing. He chose getting high over everything, and it would be his downfall. I wondered, would he ever realize it, or would he live his whole life thinking his decisions were justified?
I didn’t want him, or that life, but there was a small, spiteful part of me that wanted him to want it because he could not have it. I felt, if he suffered at least a little bit, it would make up for the ways he treated me.
When I looked up at Dylan, sheepish and nervous as he awaited my response, I knew why it worked out the way it did. I was never meant to be with Vincent, because there was someone better who always wanted to love me more. Had Vincent and I made a life together, it would have paled in comparison to the life I could have made with someone other than him. My feelings and especially my anger were valid, and though it was difficult for me to see things as they truly were, even then I knew that.
But, I was unwell, and so unwell that it clouded every decision and action, that it skewed my perception of everything and made me question all of my relationships, no matter how pure or good they were. Looking up at Dylan, I think he could see the change in my eyes, hurt before I ever opened my mouth, like he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“How long did you know?”
“Bells.” Dylan warned, begging me not to make it into a bigger deal than it had to be.
“Tell me.” I snapped, tears welling in my eyes as I sat before him, agonizing over the thought of me doting on Vincent while everyone knew that he was fathering someone else’s child.
Dylan shifted uncomfortably on his feet, averting his gaze so he did not have to see the shine of my irises. He wanted to tell the truth, because lying had never been something he made a life on, but he knew it would hurt me more than evading the truth.
“I only found out the day after all’at happened between you and him… he told me when I was throwin’ all his shit outside—usin’ it against me so I wouldn’t kick ‘em out.” He confessed, finally looking back at my face, allowing me to see his eyes so I knew he was telling the truth.
“And you’re just telling me now?” I asked, my chest aching at the thought.
“The fuck does it matter, Bells?” He asked, as defensive as I was.
Dylan was a boy that was moved from foster home to foster home, always in the same jurisdiction so he could never find an escape from the horrors of the community he came from. Constantly surrounded by low-life guardians who only took him in for the government supplemented cheque, he never knew warmth, love, or safety. In addition to that, he also never knew the pleasure of being comfortable—physically, mentally and especially financially. He could not trust, and he could not believe that those around him weren’t out to get him. The only person Dylan had ever relied on was himself, and his hefty avoidance bared its ugly teeth at the worst possible times.
Unfortunately, his past had given him some trouble as he grew into an adult, leaving him without skills to cope with situations properly, much similar to myself. When he felt scrutinized, he raised his walls so high, unwilling to be vulnerable for long enough to resolve things amicably. When he was hurt, he detached. Then, standing before me, I could see it happening in real time—my hurt caused me to be reactive, and his hurt caused him to step away. It was so small, so miniscule in that moment that we could have avoided it, but neither of us knew how. He was my best friend, but all I knew how to do was hurt him.
“Why does it matter?” I asked, the buzz of the crowd around us drowning out the sorrow that was quickly growing between us. “You didn’t think I had a right to know?”
“F’course I did, Bells.” He huffed, holding back an eye-roll as he watched me misconstrue his response. “I just thought, you know, you weren’t really in the place to find out—“
“And it wasn’t your place to make that decision for me.” I cut him off, standing from the table, completely overwhelmed by everything. As I stood to my feet, unsteady and exhausted, I thought I might fall and break under the weight of the day's events.
“What?” He asked, but I was already walking away, two steps from the main entrance as the word breezed past his lips. “Bella!” He called after me as I rushed down the newly built front steps. I wasn’t stopping, my feet telling me to run and my brain taking the backseat as my functions remained automatic. “Arabella!” He yelled, freezing me in place as I approached the middle of the lot, so loud and emotional that I couldn’t possibly deny him any further.
I turned, the tears that once filled my waterline now spilling onto my cheeks, embarrassing me further as I tried to choke down all of the hurt Vincent left in his wake. No matter if I loved him or not, if he was active in my life or absent, he still hurt me just the same. I had a moment of gratification in the diner, a split second of knowing what the upper hand felt like before it was ripped away entirely. He would always have that power over me, whether I fought it or not. He would always win.
“What?” I asked, a sob stuck in my throat as I choke out the word. The sorrow filled me so completely that it left no room for anything else, filling up my lungs and making it impossible to breathe. Once again Vincent made me look like an idiot, and I couldn’t handle Dylan being the one to witness the downfall.
“You don’t think it’s my place to take care’a you?” He asked, closing the distance between us. “That after all we been through, I was gonna throw another thing on top’a the pile’a shit you were already dealin’ with?” He was close enough that I could see the way his eyelashes dusted his olive cheeks when he closed his eyes. I was close enough to trace every detail I loved so desperately with my gaze, but I was too hurt to be able to express it aloud. “No, it ain’t my place to make decisions for ya, but it is my place to love ya, and I knew that it would do nothin’ but hurt ya more. I was always gonna fuckin’ tell ya, Bells, an’ I’m sorry it happened like that.”
“Fucking stop!” I exploded, my skin crawling as he professed his love and care for me, his innate need to protect me.
I couldn’t handle being loved, and I didn’t want him to think he knew what was best for me. For my entire life, I was the only one who took care of me, and to think that he had any control over that made me sick. I didn’t want him to have any power, because power meant the ability to hurt, and hurt was all I had been doing for the past three weeks. Right then, in that split second, he shattered the faux contentment I was trying so hard to convince myself of, making me want to reject all of the love coming my way. What once was a comfort had turned into something completely devastating, and I wanted him to leave me alone before it got any worse. I could feel the sadness pulsing under my skin, the throb so intense that it was all I could think of, and every time I opened my mouth it translated straight to anger. It happened so fast, so overwhelming that I couldn’t ignore it, and the further he pushed me, the closer the breaking point became.
I couldn’t be sad, because I felt like it was weak. Instead, I wanted to hurt the world the same way I was hurting. I wanted to burn it all to the ground, because I couldn’t stand the thought of him coming any closer. I was tired of burning alone, too bright and hot for anyone to withstand, destroying everything I touched and ruining everything good. I needed him to get the hell away from me, so I was doing whatever I could to ensure it.
Dylan was not the target of my rage, but he was the most available person, and because he stood before me, trying to console me for something I needed to wallow over, he was getting the worst of it. I didn’t want to talk, nor did I want to sort everything out, and him refusing to let me leave was only making it worse. I felt like a prey animal, feral and trapped, only knowing how to attack rather than submit. I was only making it worse for myself, pushing away the only person I wanted near, but I couldn’t stop. It was irrefutable, my need to destroy everything good and hold on to all the things that hurt me.
“Nobody fucking asked you to care, Dylan.” I spat, more hatred in my tone than ever before. “I didn’t ask you to get involved, and I don’t want you to.”
I didn’t mean a word of it, but in the moment, it truly felt like I did. I said it with more conviction than anything else I had ever spoken to him, and I saw the light fade from his eyes as it reached his ears. The worst part of it was, I was so deep in the darkness that I could not even feel guilty for telling him such things. I didn’t care, and I couldn’t stop.
“You don’t want me to care, huh?” He asked, a sad smile crossing his face as he forced out a laugh, pretending it did not stab him in the heart and bleed him dry before my very eyes. “So that’s it? You don’t want me involved? You don’t want me gettin’ between you and Vincent no more?”
“I never wanted you to do it to begin with! I don’t need your fucking help, Dylan. I’m a grown woman who can take care of herself—I don’t need you lying and hiding things because you think I can’t fucking handle it. Stop spinning this on me because you were too much of a coward to tell me.” I yelled, tears flooding my face as my throat turned raw from the force of cruelty scraping it.
“So, what? The next time he lays a fuckin’ hand on you, you expect me to sit an’ watch? When he comes back around, playin’ fuckin’ games, you got it covered?” He spat, matching my intensity in an instant. “Don’t worry, Arabella’s got it all figured the fuck out—she don’t need no one or nothin’. If that’s what you want, angel, you fuckin’ got it.” He shook his head, rubbing his face in his hands as he tried to laugh off his own hurt. “I can’t fuckin’ believe you—what, you wanted me to stand there and let you fuckin’ die?”
“Yes!” I shouted, nearly falling to my knees as the freedom of the confession washed over me. “If you did, I wouldn’t have to fucking feel this way anymore. So please, Dylan—leave me the fuck alone.”
A heavy, thick silence hung over our heads in the miserable summer heat. We both stared, tears painting our faces as we wordlessly expressed our hurt, our wounds exposed but neither of us knowing how to stitch them shut. He knew it wasn’t me standing before him, that I wasn’t in my right mind. My desperation to get away, my idolizing death, all so unnerving and unusual for the woman he thought he knew so well. He knew I was hurt, but it did not excuse the hurt I had pushed onto him. What I said was unforgivable, and I couldn’t take it back even if I wanted to.
In that moment, I was a shell of myself. I was empty, hollow, and the usual numbness couldn’t even overtake the burning hatred I had for myself and everyone around me. The horribleness grew too big, the talks from therapy, the closing of the only place that ever felt like home, and the starting of a family by a man I loathed just as much as I loved, all forcing me to shut down and shy away from the world, trying to push away the only person who had consistently loved me through all of the pain. I couldn’t face him, no longer able to swallow my distaste for the way my life turned out and furious that things were resolved in such a way.
Still hurt with bitterness coating my tongue, I moved to speak again, barely able to understand that nobody was digging the grave for me anymore—I was doing it all myself, faster and faster, desperate to be covered with earth so it would slowly suffocate me. I wanted to rot, to be tangled in roots and become what everyone always expected of me. To be nothing, to disappear from everyone’s memory and find peace somewhere, was all I wanted, and I was ensuring such things would come to fruition.
“If you fucking cared so much, why the hell didn’t you tell me to run, Dylan?” I asked, finally addressing the one thing that had bothered me so deeply for so long. “Why the fuck did you wait so long to say anything? I felt it that very first day at the diner, and I know you did too, so why fucking wait? Why let Vincent ruin my fucking life—why let me believe nobody else would ever fucking love me? And then, when Danny came along, you tried to shove me into his arms and get rid of me. Was I crazy to believe there could have been something, if you had’ve just said it sooner?”
He remained still and silent, a world of hurt shining in his eyes that I knew I was the cause of, but I couldn’t stop. Digging and digging, not even my arms grew tired as I tunnelled the earth, desperate for a safe place to hide where nobody could ever find me.
“Instead, you went home to him every night and you never said a fucking word to him. You went to the bar and got drunk with him, and you watched him take Lillian home and you never told me. How the fuck can you stand in front of me and tell me you want what’s best for me?” I was choking on my own tears, still spewing vileness and feeling myself turn cold and stone the longer it dragged on. “You tried to push me into Danny’s arms and force me to go with him, to get rid of me and make me someone else’s problem—you weren’t even going to fucking tell me how you felt. You don’t care Dylan. Nobody fucking cares and nobody ever did, not even my parents, and that’s fine—just stop pretending that you do.” I begged, trying so hard to wheeze in a breath.
My lungs felt like they were going to collapse, that the whole world was spinning out of control and I was going just as fast. I needed to get the hell out of there, to get away from him. I needed to be by myself, in seclusion to lick my wounds and try again in the morning. I was in no state to work anything out, and I couldn’t even talk to him reasonably. I was just as horrible and miserable as I always feared I was, and I had always been so scared of forcing that upon him. As I stood, I realized I did it without hesitation and without a second thought. As he stood before me, broken and hurt beyond repair, I knew I had finally done the only thing I had ever been good at.
Ruin.
I ruined him, and myself in the process, and no matter how hard I tried to fix it, or if he even forgave me, it would never be the same. I was the person Vincent thought I was, and even more unfortunate for myself, I was the person that I always thought I was.
I didn’t know what to do, so I did nothing. I didn’t wait for a response, I did not rush to apologize, and I did not try to repair what I had broken. Instead, I turned on my heel, suffocating on the sadness as I began my walk of shame back to my apartment. As I left him behind, standing in the parking lot alone to bear the burden of my misery, I couldn’t help but circle back to the very thing I had thrown in his face, believing more than ever that it was the very thing that should have happened.
I was out of time, using every last bit of grace and patience those around me had to give, walking the earth on favours and luck. I believed that I should have died that night, at the hands of a mess I created, and I resented Dylan so wholly and completely for ruining my chance at peace. Doing what he thought was best, he forced my hand in a choice that I never would have made if it were up to me. Though I should have been grateful that he saved my life, I could not fathom living to see another day, and I hated that he loved me too much to let me go.
my heart breaks, but you know i will always support you, no matter what. i know how difficult it is to make a decision like this, and im so incredibly proud of you for prioritizing yourself and doing what you think is best 🤍 I love you beyond words
a/n: for anyone who's been anticipating the upcoming chapter. <3 it will be yours soon — you know that's always how it goes when i post a sneak peek :) (i'm holding myself accountable)
in the meantime, here are the first (roughly) 3k words of the chapter as a ~sneak peek~.
Warnings: as always, MNDI 18+ (!!!); soft morning after; sad feelings surrounding self love + love in general; covet!jake being so perfect it hurts; mutual pining (obvi in love - they can't do anything about it atp); infidelity; (slight) exhibitionism; reader enjoying being a wh*re for jake; language; breeding kink; unprotected p in v sex (m d n i !) (wrap before you tap, or you'll end up like these two !!!)
If you need mood music, I can't think of anything but these two when I hear this song now (they're obsessed w each other, come on).
December 26, 2022
Oh, you’d missed this.
For too long, you’d gone without having him beside you in the mornings. . . And now, this.
Still naked from the night before. The night you'd been anticipating and wishing for, for too damn long. . . It had finally come to a head, last night, in the most fulfilling way.
This moment was like taking a fresh breath of air. You'd been waiting for this.
The press of him, hard and heavy against your ass — the most incredible way to let the day greet you. You couldn’t help the natural way your hips pressed back against him. Had to feel him, as much as you possibly could. . .
And, if he hadn’t been awake. . . He most definitely was now.
He groaned, alerting you of his presence. Then, he spoke — tone still husky from sleep. “Fuck, y/n. . .”
With a clear of his throat, his hand was coming around the front of you, holding your belly in a sure grip before he let his body do most of the talking. That give and take, one push of his hips against your ass, and another press of you to his front. . . Over and over. . . Until you felt his tip, already showing the beginning of arousal against your ass.
“You. . .,” he growled in your ear, breathing hot on your neck. “Shit, baby,” he moaned, so quiet, with the morning light creeping in from the curtains the main indicator that the day was here.
And you two were most definitely not the only two awake. You knew your family.
Knowing that fact, you assumed were probably the last two to wake up. Knowing your grandparents, sister, and Josh — they were all known to be early risers. . . .
And, it was soon confirmed when you heard Josh's rather loud laugh from the kitchen, only a few long paces from your bedroom. You internally cringed at what you were doing in your grandparents' home when Josh's cackle was followed by your Grandmother bursting into a fit of giggles along with him.
You smelled the sugary and syrupy smell of your Grandma's pumpkin pancakes. . . Usually, you'd be out of bed the instant you smelled them.
But this morning? The pancakes were the least of your concerns.
“Fuck. Me, sweet girl," Jake raggedly sighed, bringing you back to the moment with him and his cozy, human heater of a body.
With a sharp intake of breath, right against the burning shell of your ear, he pushed your hair away from where it laid against your neck and kissed the column of your neck. It was marvelous and you felt the goosebumps rise in his path.
Once his mouth trailed back up to the sensitive skin behind your ear, his hips rutted against your ass to emphasize his want.
When the little whimper left your mouth, you tried to be considerate of the others and bit down hard on your lower lip to hide the sound.
“Shhh,” Jake cooed from behind you, letting the hand that was holding your belly float to your mouth to stop any sound from escaping. "You heard them, just as I did. . . If you keep making noises like that, they're going to know exactly what I'm doing to you behind your door."
His hips continued to roll lazily against you, reminding you of how badly he wanted you, as he finished his incredibly debilitating sentiment.
The authoritarian hold of your mouth made your eyes roll back, hungry for more of this domineering side of him. You tested him, moaning again — louder, against your better judgement. And, strangely for you, even though you knew others could hear you, you didn’t care anymore.
(And those were your grandparents on the other side of that door.)
But. . . .all you genuinely wanted was for him to continue his act of dominance.
And that, he did.
He pressed his hand closer against your mouth, making you release a small peep at how tightly he held your face. Your thighs rubbed together under the sheets and duvet. The mere circumference of his palm, aiding in his ability to hold your entire jaw. The bicep that laid under your head flexed. Not able to help it, you shifted your hips back, against his front.
You felt your entrance leak at the feeling of him — hot and harder against you by the second. . . The idea of him taking total control of you, while your body grew for him. . . .
It made your face heat and your heart race. . . Once more, you rocked back into him. But this time, you moved up a bit on the bed and curved your back to slip his dick under the curve of your ass. . . And just as you wanted, he slipped between your thighs. His movements, setting a steady rhythm, within your wet and warm folds — lazy and easy.
You sighed with relief at the feeling of having him there — so close to being inside of you again. . .
But, you needed more. . .
Right now, you wanted him to feel his way inside your body. Needed his dick to know how badly your body craved him. . . wanted his girth to show the evidence of your arousal. . . You wanted to be the reason he was lubricated to go inside of you.
“You’re doing so good for me, aren’t you, baby?” He mumbled into your ear. You instantly stilled, arching your back at the feeling of him, savoring the sound of his hoarse voice, fresh from sleep.
He used your distraction, taking a few seconds to turn you over onto your back in one swift and careful motion.
As you gasped in shock, laying in your new position, you writhed for him and what you knew he could give you. You blushed at how he took no time to slip a quick pillow underneath your body to support your lower back — right where you needed it most. You knew he wanted you comfortable and ready to open up for him.
It didn't matter how you were positioned, though. You could be feeling all of the back pain in the world and you'd still spread your legs for him. He was all your mind reeled with at the moment — most moments. Even though you were still so sore, from the sensation of what he'd left behind the night before, your inner thighs were soaked with need.
For him.
Ironically, it seemed in the moment, the only 'cure' for the pain — the delicious, piercing pain, still situated within you from the night before — was his (now-glistening) dick.
You took a moment to admire how it looked: so pretty, resting on your thigh, as he laid on his side, leaning on his elbow. He was right next to you, the front of his left thigh, flush against your hip.
Art in human form.
And, whether it made you a whore or not, you spread your legs further. Your eyes gauged his, measuring how quickly you could get him to understand you were past the point of wanting and waiting for what he had to offer.
He was the only person here with you, in the sacred space of the bedroom you'd spent nearly all of your adolescent days in.
You didn't care if the whines and the way your hips lifted to encourage him was pathetic. You were a damned whore for him at this point and, honestly. . . You were damn proud of it.
And he needed to know it.
“I wanna be good for you, Jake,” you mewled, your fists grasping at the sheets below you as you looked away from his dick. Turning your head towards him, you let yourself fully take in his handsome face for the first time since last night.
God. He was so perfect. Golden skin. Big, amber-brown eyes with lust-blown pupils. . . That long brown, wavy hair, disheveled in the sexiest and most alluring way. His full, pink lips — pouting and smirking all at once as he drew his eyebrows in, taking in your heaving body and your choice of words.
He placed a firm and steady hand on your chest, letting his hands play with your swollen tits slowly. . . Ever-so-slowly. . . He massaged the weight of each, in the palm of his hand. Your sensitive nipples, pebbling against his hand to encourage him further.
But, once he got what he wanted from both breasts, satisfied with how they'd responded to him, he was letting the hand travel to your belly. He let a gentle hand float across your bump until he was intentionally holding the curve at the bottom of your tummy.
You smiled, as he seemed to be cherishing what you'd made together.
But, you soon realized he had other plans with the motion, too. And, as soon as you felt your belly lift, your breath caught in your throat. Your toes curled when he applied pressure there, elevating the heaviness of your belly — just a bit. . . . . But it did plenty to relieve your always-aching back.
As he continued to do this, adding a bit more support by the millisecond, you felt as if your entire body was getting lighter.
It happened so suddenly, you almost couldn't wrap your mind around it.
His hand there, so strong, holding the weight of the baby — for you. Your back, aloft and relieved. The belly, not your responsibility at the moment, as he was applying just enough force of his own that gravity was shifting the heaviness to his palm.
Relief. Truly. Completely. Your toes chest heated, your arousal growing between your legs. Your breasts peaked with appreciation for the man and the tender care he was showing you.
“Thank you,” you sighed, fisting the sheets. You knew that Lavender's ever-increasing weight was a heavy burden to bear at the front of your body, but you hadn’t realized just how heavy until he was taking the weight off of you. Quite literally.
“Don’t you dare thank me when it’s my damn fault you’re in this predicament,” he responded, voice light and demanding, in the same breath. “I wish I could carry this heaviness for you, baby. Don’t want you to have to do it on your own. . . 's not fair.”
“But. . .,” you began, your words falling from your lips on instinct. Just as your hand performed on instinct, going to grasp his flushed cheek in your palm. “It is fair, Jake. . . It’s fair because I want to do it for you. I want to feel it — heaviness and all — because I know it’s all so the world can have more of you.”
It didn’t take him any more time to move — just so.
Then, he was fully on top of you (finally). That beautiful face, that you felt like you'd loved your whole life, hovering above yours.
Your eyes connected to one another’s heady irises, and with one purposeful angle, and roll of his hips, he was stretching you — deliciously — to fit inside of you.
You felt him. All of him, filling you, until his tip came to tease against your cervix. Still aching and sore, the heaviness of his dick inside of you pressed to all of the same areas he’d marked as his own last night.
And, within a minute, each passionate buck of his hips from the night prior, translated to a soft and affectionate pace. It was apparent what he had in mind this morning.
Your sore pussy shaped to comfortably fit his dick, desperate to hold him and serve him.
"Fuck, sweet girl,” he hushed, a secret kept between the two of you. “Your body takes me like you never stopped wanting me. . . like it knows who it belongs to."
Your eyes welled with tears at the thought of him thinking you’d ever stopped wanting him.
Hadn’t you proven that you’d put on what happened in the kitchen on that fateful day in August? Had you not convinced him with your needy behavior that you’d only ever wanted him — since the moment you saw him in your apartment's doorway? Since you’d glimpsed his amber-brown eyes under the glow of that sunset in May?
What had you done the day in that kitchen?
All you wanted to do was take it back and show him the truth.
So, not being able to change the past, you did what your tired body could to prove how much he meant to you.
You went to wrap your legs at his lower back, pulling him in closer, letting him find his home inside of you. He was right — your body only belonged to him. You liked it that way.
And, with some wave of confidence, you decided you could say something to help him understand, too. Right now, all you wanted to do was say ‘fuck hiding, you need to know how I feel about you’. . .
But.
You couldn’t do that. Not yet (or maybe ever).
So, you said what you could.
“Even without a baby between us,” you whispered back, letting his hips languidly move above you, as he fucked into you. He kept with the rhythm with zero issue, even with your ankles crossed at his back to keep him close. “You live inside of me. . . You have ruined me for everyone else, Jacob Thomas.”
His eyes darkened, blazing with fire and an emotion too rare to name, body rocking particularly roughly into you, in response. You couldn’t help the squeaky sigh you exhaled at the change in speed. Your brows furrowed to watch his expression morph into the same as yours. . .
“Don’t say that unless you mean it, y/n,” he growled, tone low while a flexing arm went up with a strong hand to hold the top of the headboard – just as he had last night. “I need you to be ready for what I’ll give back.”
Your cheeks blushed with acknowledgement to his phrase. You didn’t know what he meant. . . . but, at the same time, you knew exactly what he’d said. And it went beyond this soft, hazy-morning-moment entirely.
Every syllable, a well-known friend, tucked deep within you.
He enunciated his words with a new, reckless, unrelenting pace. Every heavy drag of himself inside of you, proving a point. Every rut of his hips, dick hitting home, as he took the reigns. . . rightfully claiming your pussy. With every pump of his dick, the pressure caused a bit of pain, but it was pain you needed in order to keep going.
It inspired you to show him you were ready. At this moment, you could do it. You could receive him.
Heat spread under your skin as you shifted your hips to accommodate him the best you could with the growing baby bump in the way. He grunted, the sound quickly dissolving into a wanton groan with the sensual, knowing sway of your hips against his.
You lifted your front, smoothly keeping in time with every new motion he’d set with his hips, like you’d known him forever.
It went on like that for a bit.
He curled his lips above you. The soft curve of his lips formed a small smile that, at this moment, you realized you'd only ever seen him give to you.
You knew he was doing his best to keep his mind straight enough to not meet his end. He didn't want to meet it yet — you knew that. Sweat accumulated on his brow and hairline, showing the strength he was delivering with every push and pull of his hips. Sweat eventually gathered at his chest, before falling to your heaving chest beneath him. . .
It wasn’t long before he was hoisting you up into a new position. You gracefully went with it, not once backing down. If he was going to put in the work to make this mean something right now, so would you.
Within moments, he had you on all fours, but with your elbows bracing your weight to keep you closer to the bed. Your breasts, pressed against the covers, the way they brushed the soft material made your back arch. His knee settled into the mattress beside you, his thigh molding to yours. He was able to balance on one arm on the other side, tilting his hips just enough to keep giving you what he had before, but from a newer and more unpredictable angle.
Jake's strong, callous-worn hand found the flesh of your ass, gripping it. His other hand held the headboard. He helped you with the shift of your bodies, tightening his grip when he felt your body grow tired. You knew how he always wanted to do more for you.
And you wanted him to do whatever the fuck he wanted. You didn’t care at this moment. You were his. And, right now, you could almost pretend he was yours.
His chest and belly, sturdy and damp, met your back with each rut of his hips, your tits swinging under you to replicate the way his body moved within yours. You leaned up a bit when you felt the one hand moving from your ass, towards your tits. His hands felt better than anything else on them. And with his new hold, he pulled you closer against him with each knead against your swollen, aching chest.
You mewled under him, back arching into his tummy as your ass flexed. . .
Fuck.
The way your muscles began tightening everywhere told you that you were almost finished. You felt the building pressure in the pit of your belly, your chest, the way your thighs shook with excitement. . . The familiar throb of your core, tempting fate.
But, you never wanted to stop.
His hand moved at lightning speed from your chest to your hair, quickly moving a lock out of the way to gain access to your ear.
He leaned down into your body more, dick shifting just a little inside of you to make your hips jut back against him on a subdued whine. “I feel you, babydoll,” he murmured, lips coming down to dust over your ear with the words. “I know you’re so close, aren’t you?”
You looked over your shoulder at him, gazing at him as if he were god’s greatest gift. And. . . You knew he was. He had to be.
With the muscle in his pecs, to the way the top of his tummy met the curve of them. His abdomen, bending to showcase his strapping sides. . . And the magnitude behind his stare as he watched your body take his. . . fuck.
You watched his dark gaze and scrunched brows. Those lips, heart-shaped, as they puckered to admire the frenzied sway of your hips and the jiggle in your ass — meeting him thrust for thrust. And, you couldn't help but feel pride ignite in you.
You were proud that your body was able to do what it could for him. . .
But fuck. This man's body was so precious to you. Every part of it.
This man and his body, the same that had always fucked you better than anyone else. . .
He just knew you. It had been like this since the first time you'd tried anything. Your body came alive for him. . . he knew exactly where to touch you to make beg and break. . . . every press and stroke with the way he fucked you. . . You'd only ever been responsive for him.
It was as if your body had always known him.
And, as you neared that precipice — with the shape of his cock and the frenetic movement of his hips, you nearly blacked out. A whine, shivering on your lips. He never failed to provide you with the most incredible friction to send you to the unholiest places.
And, as you panted, thighs soaked and head dizzy, while his dick began to swell inside of you, you could only assume one thing.
No matter what. . .
In some way, some fashion. . .
Jake Kiszka was truly made for you.
The thought forced another coil to break loose — and you let go one more time, just as he did. Simultaneous. His palm went to grip your belly for something to hold on to, as he locked his hips against you to spill inside of you.
His own hummed whimpers, layered meticulously, yet equally messily, over your quiet cries of completion in the light yellow, early morning sunlight of your childhood bedroom.
You continued coating his dick as your mouth went to grab hold of your shoulder, muffled there to mask the choked wail that naturally toppled out of you. Your toes, curling and eyes, crossing. . . Jake, emptying everything he had into you, like you were the only woman alive for him to give it to.
And in that instance, you knew, somehow. . .
He was made for you.
In a way that defied consideration. It was only a fact. Because, you couldn’t argue that for you, even if he caused the pain, he’d always be the one to fix it.
He was your safest place.
And you could only hope that in some capacity, you could do and be the same for him.
And if even you were only made to fit together to make the baby held in the belly under his hand. . . That was enough for you. . .
Or so you tried to convince yourself.
You wanted her to be enough. . . Your Lavender. . . Baby K.
But. . .
You just loved her father to the point of absurdity and no return.
And, at the end of it all, you wanted to let yourself imagine a life where you weren’t so fucked up. . . .
If that was even possible.
a/n (2): hmm. well. i'll come to a tumblr near you w this entire chapter soon — if you want it :)
also.
i feel like i should make it known that this is definitely not even close to the only time they’ll have sex in this chapter. haven’t we learned that these two have a pattern? you know, as soon as feelings are aired out and they finally fuck, they just can’t seem to stop fucking…
Nobody gets how much this story means to me. Nobody gets how much this AUTHOR means to me. If only you guys could see the hard work, the love and the time that’s poured into Covet the same way I do… but that’s just because I’m lucky (and a tad bit spoiled 🤭).
Buckle up and get ready for another amazing chapter of one of my most favorite stories EVER.
@jakeyt, I love you endlessly—I’m so grateful for you and your wonderful talent 🫶🏻 covet has been there for me on the darkest days and every second that passes I grow to love it even more.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ (minors dni), unprotected sex, fingering (f!receiving), oral (f!receiving), teasing, name calling, biting, praise, multiple orgasm, simultaneous orgasm, hair pulling, a criminal amount of flirting, drinking, swearing, gambling, parent loss, poverty?, sorry if I miss any!
Well hello. It sure has been a while, hasn’t it? This is a surprise to probably everyone, but here we are. I was going through my old drafts, because I miss you all so very terribly, and I stumbled across this one, which happened to be completely finished and waiting for some attention. I figured what the hell—why leave it hidden when you wonderful people could get some entertainment out of it. Inspired by bandanny (our fav), and some crazy events that occurred what seemed like a lifetime ago, my brain couldn’t help but make a story, ‘cause that’s just what writers do. Anyway. I love and miss you all so much, and I hope you enjoy. As always, be kind, enjoy, and don’t mind any grammar mistakes (barely edited) 🫶🏻
and of course, a huge thank you to @jakeyt, just for being you. i have no idea where i would be without you. i love you so very much, american me 🫶🏻
Disclaimer: this is fiction, not real, and not based on ANY actual events. this also is not me coming back, even though I do miss you all so much, but just because I found a fully finished fic I never got around to publishing, thanks to life’s constant craziness. I love you all very much, and I am still kickin’ around for anyone who wants to chat 🫶🏻
“You’re sure you don’t want to tap out?” The voice over your shoulder barely phased you, your eyes focused on the pool cue so delicately aimed at a solid ball and never wavering as your opponent made their shot.
“Tap out?” You laughed, the sound a bit more condescending than you intended. “Baby, I’m just getting started.” You felt a smirk tug at the corner of your lips as the green ball rolled so closely to the corner pocket, but ultimately tapped against the side and fell off course.
“This is a lot of money on the line… like a lot.” Your friend warned, sounding nervous as she gazed over your shoulder at the table. You were in the lead, only two striped balls left before the 8-ball, but the man you were up against wasn’t far behind. If he’d knocked the green ball in, you would be neck and neck. “If you back out now, you can both walk away with the same amount.”
“Maybe the same amount of money, but definitely not the same amount of pride.” You explained, taking a slow step towards the table, lining yourself up with the cue ball. “Besides, this is the longest streak yet, and I’m not about to give it up because I’m scared.” You continued, leaning down just enough to line your cue up with the blue striped ball.
Your eyes flickered across the green, your head cocked to the side ever so slightly as you tried your best to picture the shot in your mind. If you hit it at just the right angle, you could knock it into the striped burgundy ball and get them both in corner pockets. It was risky, but with such a tight race, risk was your only option. You lowered your top half down a little further, your stomach grazing the wooden trim on the table. The cool surface sent a shock to your skin even through the thin material of your dress, but you did not let it deter you.
You swallowed hard, keeping your hands steady and your goal at the front of your mind. You let out a long breath, the warm air rushing past the gloss shining your lips and calming your nerves. You’d done this before, and you could do it again. You continued to repeat that in your head as you scanned over the table one last time, making sure nothing was out of place. When you were confident you were in the right position, your gaze flickered to meet the eyes of your opponent. His blazing blue stare was meant to intimidate you, but it only seemed to motivate you further.
“15 in left corner pocket.” You called your shot, holding his eyes as you let him digest the words. “14 in right corner pocket.”
Quickly looking back down at the cue ball, you drew your arm back halfway, then lurched it forward with a fair amount of force. It rolled forward, striking the striped green ball and causing it to barrel ahead and slam into the striped burgundy ball. The speed that transferred to the third ball caused it to sink straight into the left pocket with no resistance. Feeling a slight pressure in your chest, you focused on the green ball, still rolling but much slower. You held your breath, afraid you misjudged your ability for a fleeting moment in time. It was rolling so slowly you began to lose all hope of it making it to the target.
The growing crowd around you seemed to be on the edge of their seats, watching intently and not daring to move or speak a word. Your stomach twisted and turned, your palms clammy as the green ball slowed even further, just inches away from the pocket you so desperately needed it to reach.
“Come on.” You whispered, your jaw hard set as you stared it down. You didn’t move, still in the position you held when you made the shot. The wooden cue was resting on the table and your hands were clamped tightly around it, your grip nearly strong enough to break it.
Then, a round of gasps sounded from the crowd, followed by a clinking noise of two balls hitting together inside of the pocket. The green striped ball disappeared completely, and the cocky smile returned to your lips. Raising an eyebrow, you looked to your best friend, tapping her heeled foot against the floor in anticipation. She shook her head, a ghost of a laugh on her lips as she bowed her head to you. Both of you knew there was no need to doubt your ability, but her anxiety seemed to get the best of her.
You straightened up, tapping the handle of your cue against the floor as you stepped back from the table. You lined up your next shot, but decided to take the piss out of him before you won. You aimed for the eight ball, knocking it very carefully in front of his purple ball and making it near impossible for him to sink that one without hitting the eight ball to a better position. If you were going to win, you wanted him to guide you to it, just to teach him a lesson about being so foolish with his money. The smile on your face was infuriating to the man across the table, and his doubt of his own talent was clear in his expression. Even if you all knew he would lose, you had to admire his dedication.
“Good shot.” Your best friend gave your arm a squeeze as you walked within reach, a soft smile on her face as her hopefulness was restored.
“Aren’t I always?” You grinned, trying your best not to let anyone see that you had even a sliver of doubt about yourself.
“You’re too cocky for your own good.” She whispered, leaning back against the pool table behind her as she watched your opponent slowly aim his next shot.
“Just cocky enough, Iz.” You corrected, taking the same lax position as your counterpart. “Look where it got us.”
You motioned one hand around the room, your eyes drifting over the amassed patrons of the bar, all gathered round just to watch you win yet another game. Many men had their hands resting on their wallets in their pockets, wondering if they should take their own chances on a game with you or save the trouble. You knew that the longer your opponent put up a fight, the more likely people would be to challenge you, making them think they had a chance to beat you. It was all part of the strategy, letting people get ahead to make others think they had a chance, until you got down to the very last balls and the heat was turned up.
This was a regular Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and sometimes even Sunday night routine for you. Dressed to the nines, you and your best friend would walk to your favorite bar where you would take post at the same pool table and await a new challenge. A long time ago, when you first started this specific routine, it was only ever for fun. Never once did you expect it to snowball into what it was now, but as the months dragged on and turned into years, you realized just how much money you could make off the poor insecure men who frequented the establishment.
You had a talent, and they had a superiority complex, unable to believe that a young woman could beat them at a game they had been playing since they turned eighteen. It wasn’t your fault that you could capitalize off their stupidity, nor would someone else in your shoes turn down the offer. If they were willing to throw away hundreds of dollars for a chance at bragging rights, you would take the opportunity every single time.
“Besides, it’s their fault for being so cocky when they shouldn’t be. Nothing wrong with being proud of your own talent.”
“S’pose you’re right.” She let out a breathy chuckle, still not fully reassured but unwilling to argue with you. Most of your success was accredited to her lack of fight, hesitant about your crazy ideas but fully supportive of the person she loved most.
Izzy, your best friend in the entire world, also served as your biggest supporter. From the very beginning, even when money wasn’t a factor, she sat on a stool and watched you play all night just to pass the time, never interested in picking up a cue and content to keep you company. When there was nothing in life to be excited about, the two of you worked hard for a long time to find something to look forward to, and it just so happened to be in a little dive bar just off of Main Street. More specifically, at a pool table in the very back corner of the building, which seemed to offer the two of you far more opportunities than just something to be excited about thus far, and especially right now.
You watched the man lean down close to the table, really taking in the sight of him as he tried his best to catch up to you. His hair was turning gray at the roots and his eyes looked tired, but determined. He was tall, drinking top shelf liquor, and clad in expensive looking clothes, which only made you feel better about your anticipated victory. He could afford the loss, or he wouldn’t have offered such a large sum of money in the first place. You weren’t foolish for taking him up on it, and you were certain anyone would have done the same if they were as confident in their abilities as you were.
He drew his arm back and took his shot, causing the crowd to let out a collective groan when the cue ball knocked his purple ball into the eight ball by mistake.
A fatal mistake.
If he had half a brain, he would have shot for the green ball. Luckily for you, he wanted to show off similarly to how you did, and because of that, he did exactly as you hoped.
With a little pep in your step, you lazily aimed for the cue ball, barely looking upwards at the man when you spoke aloud. “Eight ball, corner pocket.” You announced, swinging your cue forward and knocking it straight into the solid white ball. It barrelled down the table hitting the black one and transferring the energy with ease. With nothing standing in its way, it plopped straight in the pocket you aimed for and won you the game.
A booming chorus of cheers sounded around the room, the entire group crowded around the table unable to believe you’d snagged yet another victory that night. Your head dropped downwards towards the table, the smile on your face blinding as you digested the rush of emotion that filled you. Any win was worth celebrating, but this one was huge. It far exceeded anything you had ever done, and it was beyond anything you ever thought you would do. You squeezed your eyes shut, holding back a few threatening tears as you laughed quietly to yourself.
Eventually, you straightened up, all of your teeth showing as an ever-growing grin ate away at your cheeks. The cheers were warbled, the buzz of excitement barely heard over your racing thoughts and pounding heart. You felt Izzy’s hands on your shoulders, her excitement bleeding from her as she shook you gently, literally jumping for joy as your opponent pulled out his wallet. If you were less stunned, you likely would have joined her, but in the moment your excitement was so large it was making your head spin and your vision blur.
You only came to when the man stepped in your direction, offering his hand to shake to commend you for your talent. You accepted, flashing him a thankful expression for giving you the opportunity in the first place.
“Great game, darlin’. Guess I got what was comin’ to me.” You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, all of your previous competitiveness fleeing you entirely. Instead of a rival, you stood before your hero (albeit, a very stupid one). The man shaking your hand had just single-handedly paid over three months of your regular rent, easily reminding you exactly why you started playing for money in the first place.
“You put up a good fight. Don’t sell yourself short.” You replied, watching as he lowered his hand from yours and extended his opposite one. Clutched between his fingers was your rightful winnings—fifty crisp, beautiful hundred dollar bills.
When you reached to grab them, you felt a firm piece of cardstock underneath them, catching your attention much more than the huge sum of money in your hand. You flipped the thick stack over, noticing what looked to be a business card underneath the bills and furrowing your eyebrows in confusion. You held it with your free hand, reading the name and number on the other side, embossed with a company logo you had never seen before.
“If you ever want to go further than betting in bars, you have my number.” He said quietly, sending you a subtle wink. Your heart skipped a beat, making your mind flood with questions and concerns about his ambiguous offers.
“As in?” You pressed further, looking up to meet his eyes.
“As in, playing games with much bigger stakes than this.” He smiled, reaching up and giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “If you want to know more, you can always give me a call. Nothing has to be official unless you want it to be.”
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you more confused than ever before, with questions you weren’t even sure he had answers to. You turned to Izzy, shocked and surprised as you processed the interaction that just unfolded. You swallowed hard, giving her the money to put in your wallet, then gave your head a good shake to bring yourself back to reality.
“What was that about?” She asked, doing exactly what you needed without any verbal instruction. She clasped your wallet shut and buried it at the very bottom of her bag before looking back up at you.
“Think I just got invited to an underground gambling club.” You chuckled, a bit wooed at the thought. You ran your hand through your hair, pushing it back from your face as Izzy snatched the card from your hand to see for herself.
“That’s crazy, right? You’re not going to call him, are you?” She asked, her gaze flickering between you and the card. When her questions went unanswered, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in shock. “You’re not actually going to call him, right?” She asked again, this time expecting a verbal answer from you.
Your head turned to the table, noticing that most of the crowd filtered away by now. The night was drawing to a close, last call about an hour out and most of the patrons were ready to retire after spending too much money and having nothing to show for it. There were a few people lingering by the bar, willing to indulge in a few more drinks before heading home, but the pool tables were near deserted aside from you and a few stragglers finishing games on the other side of the room.
“No,” you scoffed a small laugh, a far-away look in your eyes as you forced a smile on your lips. “F’course not. That’s crazy, right?”
“Right…” she nodded, wanting to be the voice of reason but stuck thinking about how good it felt to hold that much cash in her hand. “Would you be winning that every time?”
“Ah,” you chuckled, tapping your manicured nails on the wood grain framing the pool table. Your tried-and-true, the very reason behind your success and the only reason you even stood there with that much money in your pockets. When the room went quiet and all you could hear was your own breathing and heartbeat, it felt like she was whispering to you, imploring you to consider the benefits of his offer, imploring you to trust in her. “Think the winnings are a lot better than the one we’re leaving with tonight.” You cleared your throat, kicking your high heel against the floor to rid yourself of some of the anxiety plaguing you.
“Holy shit, Y/N.” She whispered, almost unable to believe you were telling her the truth.
“Yeah.” You replied, closing your eyes for a moment to bargain with the thought. “You know how much that could help us?”
“Is it worth it, though? It could hurt us, too. Maybe even a lot more than it could help.” She seemed hesitant, but you could see the green flashing before her eyes, motivating her to keep considering the possibility. Money was a wicked motivator, and the two of you had been chasing it your entire lives. Now, faced with the opportunity to never have to worry again, you couldn’t help but consider it.
“When has she ever let me down before?” You gave a ghost of a smirk, the feeling of the pool cue in your hand sending your ego through the roof. “I mean look at what she did for us tonight. All weekend.” Your tongue traced the inside of your bottom lip, the simple thought of thousands making your mouth water and that hunger grow even worse. “Haven’t been on a win streak this long in ages.”
“I know, babe.” She huffed, giving a single nod of agreement. “You know I’ll support you no matter what, but don’t jump right in. At least talk to him first, find out what you’re really signing up for, okay?”
“Always.” You caught her eye, the warmth in her stare reminding you of everything you already had and telling you that everything would be okay no matter what you chose.
Did money matter when you had love like that? Kinship like that?
Izzy was everything; your only constant, and the most comfortable part of your life. From the very beginning, tripping over your own feet in pre-k and learning how to spell your own name, she was right there beside you. No matter if it was falling with you or helping you up, she would do it in a heartbeat, even if it were no gain to her. She stuck by your side for every crazy decision and reckless act, and never once held it over your head or punished you for your stupidity. You would never make a thoughtless choice that would affect her directly, and you would never punish her with ignorance or incompetence. The whole reason you were offered the gig tonight stemmed from your desire to do better for her, to take away the struggle and ease the weight upon her shoulders. If not for her, you would still be wandering aimlessly and struggling often.
Money meant little when you realized you held more of the world in your hands than most people ever got to touch. Suffering and struggle was bearable with her always bearing half the burden, and a friend like her gave you hope that you could face any pain and make it out unscathed.
“I’ll think about it, Iz. I’ll make sure it’s worth it, first.”
“That’s all I want.” She confirmed her stance, knowing that turning down that kind of money was crazier than never chasing it at all. “Do you want to head home? Can talk about it in the morning—I’m fuckin’ wiped.”
“You go get some sleep. Call a cab and get home safe. Think’m gonna stay here and clear my head.” You explained, reaching in the pockets of the pool table and beginning to re-rack the balls.
Not that you didn’t want to hear her voice of reason, but because you needed some time to come to terms with it yourself. You’d learned that although it was your biggest money maker, the pool table in the very back corner was also your biggest confidant and your favorite escape. A quick solo game would make you feel better, and hopefully make your choice a hell of a lot easier.
“You sure? I don’t mind stayin’ with ya.” She gave you a cheeky smile, nudging you with her elbow. You chuckled at her unwillingness to leave you on your lonesome, always wanting to keep you safe even if there was no need for it.
“I’m sure. Go get some sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“If you insist.” She sang, knocking back the last of her drink and lingering for a moment, wanting to see if you would change your mind. When you blew her a kiss as you rounded the corner of the table, she took that as a gesture of finality. She gave you a wave, silent and slow as she stepped backwards, keeping her eyes on you as well as she could until she was completely out of sight.
When you were alone, you finally felt the full force of the night’s whirlwind of events. You grabbed the small cube of blue chalk sitting on the edge of the table, inspecting it carefully as you raised it to the tip of your cue. Closing your eyes as you circled it round the wooden stick, you let out a long breath. Your shoulders slumped slightly, the stress and adrenaline from your last game fleeing you alongside the anxiety you carried to the bar with you that night. The chatter had died down, the lull of rock sounding over the crackling speakers filling your ears and soothing the swarm of incessant thoughts in your brain.
All those years ago, did you ever imagine you would be put in such a position?
What would she think, the freshly eighteen year old who stepped out into the world alone for the first time, wondering how the hell she would make it?
What would your dad think? The man who put the cue in your hand back home, laughing as he snapped a picture of the little girl who was half its size? Would he be proud, remembering where you started, shooting at balls and never truly understanding what the game meant or how you were supposed to play? Or would he be disappointed, saddened to see you struggle so bad you had to bet your way to paying the bills?
Ah, what did it matter?
Tough decisions and trusting the universe had not led you astray yet, and even if it wasn’t the most honest way to earn a living, it sure did what you intended it to do.
“Hey Chuck,” you called from the table, catching the attention of the bartender wiping counters. His eyes cut to you, a glimmer of light in his eye that only ever shined when you were the subject of his attention. “Can I get another bottle?” You asked, tapping your empty beer against your cue as you gave him a smile.
“One or two?” He asked, half-twisting towards the cooler to retrieve your drink.
“Two should do the trick.” You chuckled, barely embarrassed that he knew you so well. He grabbed the necks of two brown bottles in one hand, setting them on the ledge of the half wall separating the drinking area from the game room. You removed the black triangle from the racked balls, lining the cue ball at an angle and taking the shot to break it. As the balls spun out of control, twisting and turning, knocking into each other with ringing clacks, you stepped towards the bar. He used his bottle opener to free the caps, tossing them in the trash can by his feet as you picked up the first drink.
“You played well tonight.” He noted, slinging an old towel over his shoulder. “Busiest I’ve seen here all month.”
“Yeah, probably why I did so well.” You laughed, your eyes studying his face. His ginger hair curled at the ends, laying over the nape of his neck. His fair skin was slightly blushed and heavily freckled, and he was still as full of life as he was when the doors opened that night. “Had lots of time to practice over the last few weeks.”
“Paid off, it seems.” He commended you, giving you a verbal pat on the back for all he witnessed.
Chuck wasn’t much older than you were, and over your many years of frequenting the bar, you had gotten to know him fairly well. Starting in the military at eighteen, he decided school wasn’t for him and he should put his strength still remaining from high school football to some good use. For a long time, he worked high end security gigs between deployments, which kept him busy in the meantime and still gave him some sort of purpose when he couldn’t do the job he originally signed up for. At twenty four, he got a pretty nasty injury that left him with a medical discharge and a lot more mental turmoil than physical.
After a year of recovery, his slow start back into the regular world landed him as a bouncer at the very bar you were in now, and then eventually a bartender when needed. Despite all the shit life threw at him, he was still the most friendly man you’d ever met, and he was just happy to be wherever he went. After so many nights of getting to know each other, you considered him a friend, and a good one at that. To Izzy, sometimes he seemed to be a little bit more than her favorite bartender. You didn’t ask, and she never told, but the nights she didn’t come home, you could only assume that she found company in the redhead who often made her singles into doubles without any charge.
“If you’re still here when I lock up, I want my turn.” He grinned, both of you knowing that was your price for staying past last call.
“You know where I’ll be.” You grinned, tapping your bottle against the ledge before taking a swig. With that, he returned to cleaning the counters and you walked back to your game. “Why don’t you play some good music while you’re at it?” You teased, shooting the quip over your shoulder that you knew he would agree with. Without any hesitation, he queued up a different playlist and turned it up.
Setting both drinks on a nearby table, you didn’t waste much time lining up your first shot. When you watched the striped balls scatter across the green top, all of your troubles ceased to exist. Hearing the resin balls knock against the pockets and roll inside was the greatest sound in the world. When you played, everything else seemed to disappear, leaving you alone with only one goal in mind.
Well, most of the time, at least.
Other times, you could still feel your father leaning over your shoulder, whispering bits of advice you would hold close to your heart for the rest of your life. You could feel the weight of his presence, the energy of his applause when you made a perfect play, and the joy of being with him all wrapped into one.
It was haunting just the same as it was comforting.
“Excuse me,” a gentle voice sounded from behind you, catching your attention just before you leaned down to take another shot. You would have been startled if not for the sweetness behind the words. You turned, still stuck in thought about the man who taught you everything you knew, wondering who would be approaching you so late in the night.
When you were turned completely, you thought the man standing before you was some twisted trick from the universe, baiting you with perfection to lure you to danger. His long curls dusted his shoulders, complimented by a patterned bandana folded neatly and settled atop his head. A short sleeved, ribbed knit shirt that hugged his torso like it was made just for him, tucked into jeans that hugged his legs. Gold chains paired perfectly with a pendant necklace hung around his neck, glimmering under the minimal light. You didn’t recognize the symbol on the chain, but you felt compelled to ask, to know before you lost your chance. His skin tanned, his brown eyes warm, and his smile soft and sweet. He held a pool cue in his large hand, and his expression was curious.
You hated to admit that he had you completely flustered by simply existing.
“Hey,” you eventually breathed out, the bridge of your nose burning as the skin turned red with a blush. You wondered if he noticed under the low light, or if he even cared. Looking like he did, you were certain you weren’t the only person who had a hard time finding words when speaking to him. “What’s up?”
“Sorry if this is weird, or whatever…” he raised a hand to the back of his neck, sheepish as his eyes raked over you with the same intensity you held in your own. “I was watching you play earlier. Would have introduced myself sooner, but you seemed a bit busy.”
“S’all good. Not weird at all.” You smiled, almost flattered by the fact that he seemed nervous to talk to you.
“You play a mean game. I’m Danny.” He seemed to shake off his nerves at your reassurance, his eyes flickering to the balls scattered on the tabletop to break the burning stare shared between you.
“Y/N.” You replied, extending your hand to shake. He responded enthusiastically, the warmth of his skin sending shivers down your spine and goosebumps raising across your arms.
‘Damn, Y/N. Get it together.’ You thought to yourself, but still found your chest tight and your mouth dry from the sheer beauty of the man standing before you. Did he want to play, or did he want to talk to you? You were too afraid to ask, but whatever it was, you knew you would be compliant with it. If it meant getting an extra moment to admire him, you would be more than happy to do so.
“You play a lot?” He asked, his attention back on your face as he asked.
“Think that’s putting it lightly.” You grinned, knowing that his assumption barely even scratched the surface. “I guess it’s my thing, as some would say.” You quoted the word with one hand, your eyes glazing over with pride at the fact.
“There’s worse things to have.” He joked back, easing up as he understood you weren’t as intimidating as he thought moments before.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Daniel?” At the sound of his name on your lips, his breath caught in his chest and his words in his throat. “Come on, now. Don’t be shy.” You pried a little further, noticing the red dusting his cheeks, too.
“You caught my eye, that's all.” He conceded, shifting his weight onto his heels as a gentle grin decorated his lips. “Curious about the pretty girl who was wiping the floor with every pool player in here. Wanted to talk to you before someone else stepped in and ruined my chances.” At that, you couldn’t help but laugh, honored that your talent struck him so well, and even more curious about him.
“So is this about me being good at pool, or you thinking I’m pretty?” You found yourself going along with the bit, entertaining whatever he was thinking and enjoying making him sweat. Normally, you didn’t entertain wandering eyes and flirtation, but from him, it felt different. It felt like something you wanted to get used to, and you barely knew a thing about him.
“Can’t it be both?” He raised an eyebrow, realizing that he wasn’t coming off too strong for you.
“S’pose it can, yeah.” You nodded, a cheeky grin on your lips.
“Have time to entertain a poor guy like me, or are you too busy training for the championship?”
“I think I could fit you in,” you smiled, nodding your head. “Might be nice to have some company, anyway, s’long as you don’t get in the way of the championship.” You pointed your index finger, a faux warning with playfulness in your eyes.
“You only play for money, or is fun allowed too?” He stepped towards the table, watching as you shot the white ball at a group of striped ones.
“Mostly for money, but I know how to have fun.” You explained, straightening up as you scanned for the next best move. “Usually just with friends, though. Can I consider you my friend, Daniel?” Your eyes cut to his face, your head cocking to the side ever so slightly.
“That’s up to you, Y/N.” He said your name with the same kind of conviction in his tone, like the simple idea of speaking your name would send him to his knees. You had no idea how you failed to notice him sooner, how he flew right under the radar and managed to stay there until he wanted to be seen. A small part of you was grateful for the fact, because had your eyes landed on him while you were playing, he would have thrown off your entire game. You didn’t like distractions, and from all you had seen so far, that appeared to be exactly what he was, even if he was a good one.
“All or nothing, or is there something else on the table you’re too afraid to say out loud?” You smirked, leaning down and shooting at another striped ball. It landed in the corner pocket, even when your eyes were barely focused on the table. Your forwardness seemed to take him by surprise, but it did not deter him.
“Like what, sharpshooter?” The nickname piqued your interest, causing another blush to appear on your cheeks.
“I don’t know, Daniel. That’s why I asked you.” At that, it was his turn to laugh, a beautiful and breathtaking laugh that nearly sent you straight to the grave.
You met plenty of men at bars, some just as beautiful and many more who took their chances with you, but none of them had any effect on you, and if they did, it was never like this. You had no idea what spell he casted on you, but it was more powerful than any force you had ever encountered before. The small game of cat and mouse had already begun, but you were both chasing each other equally as much. It was fun, lighthearted, and you believed that if you were to back out, he would leave it at that. His beauty matched his charm, and he was as sweet as he was hot. If more than friends was on the table, you certainly would not be opposed to the idea.
Even so, you would not be the first to say it.
No matter how attractive he was, you would cling to the last sliver of pride you could.
“Where are you from, honey?” He asked, switching the topic with ease and getting himself out of the spotlight.
“Ohio.” You responded, deciding not to pay any mind to his sudden shift in direction. “You?”
“Michigan.” He replied, his eyes following your game, only glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking.
“Ah,” You chuckled, a twinkle in your eye at the thought. “Natural enemies. Should we even try to be friends, darlin’?”
“Maybe a little competition will do us some good.” He theorized, still holding his pool cue tightly. “Seems like you’re a fan of it, anyway.” A sneaking glance your way left you to believe his intent was much stronger than friendly, and you couldn’t ignore the twisting of your stomach at the thought. “What are you doing so far from home?” He posed another question, not letting you focus on his previous comments for too long.
“I’m a firm believer that home is the people, not the place.” You finished off the striped balls, taking a long sip of beer before moving on to the solids. “The only person I had left wanted to leave, and I sure as hell wasn’t letting her leave me behind.” You didn’t know why you wanted to answer him with so much honesty. You could have sugar coated it, or come up with a simple lie to evade the question, but you didn’t want to. For some strange reason, you felt a type of solace in Daniel’s company you had never found in another, and him knowing you certainly wasn’t the worst thing in the world. “What about you?”
“I’m a musician.” Although his response was short, it was not dry. He seemed to be vying for a reaction before he delved too deep.
“A musician in Nashville… never heard of that one before.” You grinned, already getting down to the last few balls on the table. “Any good?”
“I mean, we’re alright.” He shrugged, chuckling quietly.
“I’ll have to take your word for it. Your very convincing word.” You found another laugh stuck in your teeth, wondering how it was so easy for him to cause them. “Just you?”
“Nah, me and my best friends. More like brothers, really.” He said, one hand stuffed in his pocket as he watched you take another shot.
“That’s cool.” You conceded, sending him a smile as you straightened back up.
“So, how did you get this gig?” He asked, more apt to get to know you than anything else.
“Wouldn’t really say it’s a gig.” You chalked the end of your cue again, thinking back to the very beginning. “When I first moved here, life was… not what we thought it would be. My best friend enrolled in university, and I looked into a few classes for community college, but never ended up pursuing it. I couldn’t take a full time program and work to support the both of us, and since she moved here for school and I tagged along, I prioritized money.”
“A valiant woman… I can appreciate that.”
“Well it was that, or drown. Someone had to pay the bills, and I couldn’t force her to do both. She’ll take care of me when the time comes. Just the way we work.” You didn’t expect him to understand, but you wanted him to, even if you did not know why.
Until that moment, you were fine having Izzy as your person, the only one who would ever truly get you, and you never needed more. Until he showed up, you were happy with it, but he carried some external energy that drew you to him, making you hang off every word and hope he would be willing to give more. You wanted to talk to him, to tell him the things you most often kept quiet about. He was interested, radiated kindness and exuded a type of peace you hadn’t felt in a really long time. Being in his company was refreshing, something very different than what you had grown used to since moving to Nashville, and he barely even had to try. You didn’t want him to leave, and you never wanted him to stop talking. Men never interested you much unless you could get a couple dollars off a game, but he didn’t seem like any regular guy.
“It’s nice having someone that you can lean on no matter what.” He explained, a twinkle in his soft brown eyes caught your attention almost instantly. “No matter how far away from home, you always get to bring a piece with you. Even if you’re lost, you always know you’ll find your way with them by your side.” He tapped his foot against the ground while he spoke, like he was trying his best to put such profound emotions into a legible message. Slowly, you nodded your head, agreeing with everything he said.
Maybe he did get it, and more than you ever would have believed.
“I have Sam.” He continued, a small smile stretching his lips. “Been my friend for as long as I can remember. Wouldn’t know where I’m going or what I was doing without him by my side.”
“Yeah, exactly.” You squeaked a response, your heart racing as you shot at another ball. Something about the topic of conversation made it all feel real, and as much as you were enjoying it, it also scared you. Being perceived as a person with depth did not usually bode well with you; you much preferred to be the heartless snake that could kill a game of pool, especially to strangers. It was nice being understood, but hard to swallow all the same. “When things were really rough, I guess we were desperate to find a distraction. Something to look forward to that wouldn’t hurt us any more.” You cleared your throat, watching the last colored ball fall into a pocket, leaving you with just the eight ball.
“And that was playing pool?”
“Sort of.” You nodded, deciding to take a break before finishing the game against yourself. For a topic so heavy, you thought it best to give him all of your attention. “I always loved the game. Been playing it since I was this big.” You held your hand out a few feet above the floor, giving a vague estimate to accompany your words. “When we found this bar, it wasn’t very popular, which was good. Lots of tables and none were ever filled, so we spent a lot of nights at this one. I played and Iz watched—she was never much of a pool player, but she loved to spend time with me. It worked for us.”
“How did you start playing for money?” His questions were endless, and you didn’t mind. You enjoyed his intrigue, happy that he wanted to know you as much as you wanted to know him.
“After about a year or so of playing for fun, we made pretty good friends with the bartender.” You nodded your head towards Chuck. “Great guy, but too cocky for his own good. He bet twenty bucks, and lost it in less than ten minutes.” At that, Daniel let out a bellowing laugh, causing an unfamiliar flutter in the pit of your stomach. How could one man be so perfect? “A few guys watching caught wind, and I s’pose they all thought they’d try their luck. I went home with a bit of extra pep in my step and a hell of a lot more confidence. Didn’t win very much, but when you don’t have it in the first place, it’s a lot. Was different than winning the slots, or something like that. Made me feel good, like I was good at something.”
“From what I’ve seen, you’re a lot better than good.” You weren’t sure why the compliment struck you with so much force, especially considering so many people often spoke the same sentiment, but you held it close to your heart. With blushing cheeks and a racing heart, you muttered a small thank you.
“After that, I realized I could keep making money off of it. Instead of wasting hours on nothing, we came down here with a purpose. Word went around, and everybody wanted to take their chances. It took a little while to win anything substantial, but it eventually started paying some of the bills and even more than that. Now people come here just to play against me.” You couldn’t help the smirk that formed, proud of yourself for creating something from nothing. As you bargained with the idea, you leaned down and shot the eight ball, effortless and confident as it rolled into the side pocket.
“That’s pretty damn impressive.” He took a step closer to the table, inspecting the clear top after you sunk all of the shoes without a hitch. “You’re pretty damn impressive.” Your cheeks burned again, but you looked to the ground so he did not notice. You wished you could understand why he had such a big effect on you, how he rivaled every other man you had ever met and all he had to do was talk to you, but you understood that not all things need an answer. Sometimes, it’s just nice to appreciate it while it lasts. “I think my biggest question is how did you get so good at it?”
You caught his eye for a moment, his face lucent even in the near darkness of the bar. It knocked the breath from your lungs, his burning stare and unwavering commitment to knowing you. You wondered if it was just because of curiosity, or if he had a hidden agenda that he would only share at the perfect moment. Either way, it did not matter; you would be overjoyed to go along with whatever plans he wanted to make for the night, and you would be even happier if you ended up in his bed. For a single moment, you debated whether you should bring it up yourself or see what tricks he had up his sleeve.
You opted to make him sweat a bit, knowing that every extra minute spent in his company would be worth it.
“Is that your biggest question, Daniel?” You raised an eyebrow, a knowing expression on your face as you saw his eyes flicker down to your lips. Silently answering the question for you, you felt a slight bit of satisfaction at his miniscule action.
“One of them.” He replied, nonchalant as he began to place the balls back on the green.
“Well, get to askin’, then.” You decided to help him out with his task, wondering if his curiosity really did lie in the game and you were reading too far into it. “I don’t have all night.” A lie, but he didn’t need to know that.
“I was asking—you were avoiding.” He caught your eye again, each time his stare landed on you the effect far worse than the last.
“Maybe I don’t like that one.” You weren’t being dishonest; that question, above all, was your least favorite of any one that anybody could ask you. To answer, you would have to talk about your dad, and that was best left as a memory rather than a story. “I want to hear what else you’ve got.”
“Alright,” he conceded, racking the balls in the middle of the table. He did not outright say it, but you could see his desire for a game hidden deep in his features. You wondered how long it would take for him to place his wagers. “Are you going home with anyone tonight?”
You thought about it for a moment, the ghost of a smile on your lips as your silence led him astray. You weren’t going home with anyone, nor did you ever have any intent to. In fact, you had been looking forward to walking home to find Izzy curled up on the couch (because that’s where she always fell asleep when she was drunk), all of the lights on and the television playing loudly in the background. You would sit with her until your mind stopped racing, and eventually you would crawl up to your bedroom and sleep off the night's excitement while planning for tomorrow.
Now, you weren’t sure how much you liked that idea. With him standing so close, the fresh scent of his cologne distracting you and the warmth of his presence more persuasive than anything else, you didn’t want to go home alone. His gentle smile and burning gaze sent the hair on the back of your neck raising and goosebumps littering your skin. For a brief moment, you wondered what it would be like to touch him, to put the conversation to rest and explore more pleasurable, fulfilling alternatives. He made it so easy to ignore everything else and focus your attention solely on him, and since he joined you at the table, you hadn’t been able to think of anything but him.
If you went home alone, would you regret it?
If you went home with him, would you regret it?
For some reason, you believed that you would never regret a night spent with someone as compelling as him, but the fear still remained. You barely knew him, nor his intentions. You were rightfully concerned, but something deep in your heart told you that you could trust him and that he would not do you wrong.
You hoped so, anyway.
“Not unless I meet someone worth my time, no.” You shook your head, giving him a lingering stare as he processed your words. The corner of his lips quirked upwards, not necessarily into a smile, but a response to you nonetheless.
“How do your games work, sharpshooter?” He asked, removing the plastic triangle and hanging it on the hook on the side of the table.
“Depends.” You chalked the end of your cue, gearing up for another game you would inevitably win. “Usually, you pick the price, and I tell you if it’s worth my time.”
“Only money worth your time?” He grabbed the second block of chalk, catching your attention as he reached up to do the same to his cue. You noticed the veins in the back of his hand, leading to the same prominent feature in his forearms. Your stomach fluttered with curiosity, studying him closely as the muscles in his biceps flexed. For a brief moment, you imagined what it would feel like for his hands to be on you, his flexing muscles under your touch as he offered you much more than a challenge.
“What do you have in mind?” You finished off the last of your beer, discarding the bottle on the ledge by the bar and making quick work sipping at your second. He seemed hesitant to answer, but his eyes were glimmering with mischief. You wished it didn’t intrigue you as much as it did, but you felt yourself leaning into him as you awaited your answer, showing your own desperation for him to speak. “Out with it.” You pressed, smiling again as he rocked back onto his heels.
“How about…” he sucked in a breath through his perfectly straight and white teeth, his eyes darting from you to the table. You raised an eyebrow, cocking your head to the side as you waited for him to continue. “If I win, I get to take you home for the night.”
You froze momentarily, your heartbeat and breathing included. Your cheeks, burning red under the dim pot lights overhead, giving away your feelings on the matter almost instantly. Could you agree to such personal terms? Even if you wanted to go home with him, you still weren’t quite sure if it was a good idea. You hardly knew him, and could barely comprehend his boldness even if it did turn you on. If you turned him down, you felt that there was a possibility of regret, and you certainly didn’t want to see him turn and walk away, especially after how much you enjoyed talking to him.
Then again, you barely even believed he could beat you in the first place. At the very core of it, the very beautiful, polished man that stood before you didn’t seem to have a competitive bone in his body, nor did he seem to be as well versed in the game as you were. Even if he had skill, you couldn’t imagine he would be as committed to beating you as you were to beating him. That was most of the reason you won as often as you did. If you agreed, the chances of his desired outcome happening were slim to none. That made you feel worlds better, and your cockiness gave you the extra push to agree with his crazy idea.
Maybe by the time the game was over, you would know for sure if you wanted to go home with him or not. An extra hour spent getting to know him definitely wouldn’t hurt, and then you would be able to join him on your own accord if you so wished. With a dry mouth, you swallowed back your surprise, bargaining with the fluttering of your heart as you understood he definitely found you as attractive as you found him. To bet on something so forward, you really must have caught his eye.
“And what if I win?” You asked, trying your best to keep your cool and remain confident.
“Guess that’s up to you, is it not?” He flashed you a smile, and for a split second you wanted to abandon the game entirely and accompany him home then and there. Whatever he was doing to you, he was doing it incredibly well, and you began to fear he would get what he wanted no matter who won the game.
“S’pose it is.” You pursed your lips slightly, running the tip of your tongue over the back of your teeth as you brainstormed your stipulations. Then, an idea struck you, working for you in more ways than one. “If I win, I want two tickets to your next show, rockstar.” You pointed in his direction, knowing that your offer would send the subliminal message that you did in fact want to see him again, even if you did not end up in his bed.
“I’ll even throw in a backstage pass, just because. Best view in the whole house.” He sent a wink in your direction, forcing you to look away as your breath caught in your throat. You could feel a dull ache begin to bother you between your legs, and you knew if you let yourself focus on it, the game would be his before it even started.
“Mr. Important, or whatever.” You teased, your finger tracing the wood grain on the table as you reached for the coin sitting on the very corner. “Didn’t realize I was in the presence of such a big celebrity.” You took the cool metal coin between your middle and index finger, flashing it in his direction so he could see what you were up to.
“So, we have a deal?” He asked for clarification, wanting to ensure there were no blurred lines.
“I think we do.” You nodded, turning back towards him only to notice he had stepped closer. “Shake on it?” You asked, extending your hand towards him. He reached forward, his palm landing against yours as his fingers closed around it. You hated the fact that something as simple as a handshake from him had you weak in the knees, but you bargained with the lack of strength in your legs as you focused on the warmth he provided.
“Game on, sharpshooter.” He said, his hand lingering on yours for a moment longer than it should have. He was close, much closer than a friendly opponent should be. You could see the rise and fall of his chest, just inches from your own, and when you looked upwards to meet his eyes, his face wasn’t much further away. The two of you stayed locked in the same position for what seemed like an eternity, both of you understanding the pull of your heartstrings as you admired each other up close.
“I flip a coin for start, but if you have something better in mind, please do tell.” You explained, your voice barely above a whisper because it did not need to be. He was close enough you were sure he could hear your racing heart and shallow breaths. The smell of his cologne was intoxicating, and you felt more drunk the longer he stood near. If this was how the whole game was going to go, you understood you were in for a wild ride.
“Sounds good to me.” He finally dropped his hand, but much slower than normal, like he was hesitant to let you go. You placed the coin on the back of your thumb, hoping he did not notice the slight trembling of your fingers.
“Heads or tails, Daniel?” You held his gaze, finally getting the chance to appreciate the sea of brown in his irises, the flecks of near blackness and the golden streaks that accentuated the already beautiful chestnut color. Soft and warm and kind, something you felt like you could get lost in forever and never yearn to be found.
“Tails.” He said, seemingly studying the intricacies of you.
You tossed the coin in the air, barely looking down as you guided it to the back of your hand with your palm. For a few seconds, you stood still once more, not ready to part from the closeness the moment granted. His skin was soft like wind in the reeds, the ends of his curly hair tickling his cheek ever so gently. For once, you did not feel uncomfortable under another’s stare—you did not want to hide, nor to turn away or dissolve into nothing to avoid the attention from another. This time, you felt appreciated, seen for everything rather than just something, and you thought it a crime to never be on the receiving end of his attention.
Eventually, you withdrew your hand covering the coin, looking down to see it showing heads.
“Looks like luck is on my side, tonight.” You mumbled, knowing that if you truly wanted to be a dick, you could take the game out in one play. He let out a small huff of air, similar to a laugh but not quite, like he was amused by your response.
“We’ll see.” He replied, taking a small step back from you. Your eyebrows furrowed together, your eyes lingering on his face as he stood stationary beside the table.
What did that mean?
Opting to ignore his attempt at undermining your ability, you shook off your nerves and realized that it would affect your game if you focused on it for too long. Instead, you decided to show him that luck had little to do with it, and going home with him would not be your punishment for loss, but a choice you made on your own accord. You had never bet on something so extreme, and especially never something sex-related. You would be lying if you said it didn’t put any extra pressure on you, but your win streak from that night alone led you to believe that you wouldn’t have to suffer any consequences. Beating him would be as easy as any other game, and that fact played a huge part in agreeing to his terms.
Well, that, and the fact that going home with him would be an option even if pool wasn’t a factor.
You placed the cue ball on the green, leaning down and settling the tip of your cue in the groove between your thumb and forefinger. You placed your four fingertips against the felt below, and lifted your thumb slightly to give yourself better control of the cue. Aiming and faking your shot a few times, you let yourself get a feel for the position without following through. Eventually, you withdrew your arm and spring forward with an ample amount of force, sending the white ball rolling forward and crashing into the racked balls.
Your eyes stayed glued on the table as all of the balls scattered across the top. A few rolled into the rails, then you watched as two striped balls rolled to the side and into a corner pocket, back-to-back. A triumphant smile on your face, you scanned for the next best move, noting that the white ball rolled to a stop near the middle of the table. You straightened up, taking a few steps to the side of the table before leaning down again and repositioning yourself.
You shot at the yellow striped ball, calling the side pocket just before you slid the wooden stick forward into the cue ball. Just as you expected, it rolled straight in without a hiccup. Since starting, you hadn’t looked anywhere but at the game, and as you stood to shoot for the third time, you made the mistake of casting your gaze in the direction of your opponent.
For the first time ever since playing a game of pool, you made a mistake classified as fatal, and you did so without second thought or any inkling that it would be a mistake at all.
You froze in place, noticing his eyes burning into you as you leaned down over the table, but they were no longer warm and kind. Instead, his gaze was fixated on the pull of your dress from your skin, gravity giving him a bit more of a show than you intended, and the sweetness in his stare had dissolved into a hunger you could only imagine was felt by a man starved. You felt a rush of emotion straight to the pit of your stomach, only worsened as his tongue delicately traced his lower lip. Your skin tingled with desire. And for a fleeting moment you considered forfeiting the game and sinking the eight ball just to get to his house faster.
“Nice shot, beautiful.” He whispered, his tone much more gravelly than it was when he was speaking to you before. He knew what he was doing, and he was unashamed to admit it.
Without responding, you brought your shaky hands back to the table, your stomach twisting and your mind flooded with all kinds of thoughts that had little to do with the task at hand. You were committed to winning, and you would make it a point to do so, but he was making it incredibly hard to prioritize that.
Trying to push the thought of him far from your mind, you zoned back in on the game. As you pulled your arm back to shoot, a quick flash of his darkened eyes flooded your vision, pointed at you like a predator in search of prey. As you shot at the cue ball, you did not even notice that it hit a striped ball against the rail and nowhere near the pocket. Squeezing your eyes shut, you tried to shake the memory away, but it seemed permanently seared into your brain. You could feel your heartbeat in your toes, your own arousal pulsing under your skin and forcing you to feel it when his perfectly sculpted features flashed before your eyes.
For the first time in your entire career, losing the game was more plausible than winning, and the fact only became more pertinent every time you remembered what it felt like to be under his burning gaze.
You had to get ahold of yourself, to shake off the very thing that would lead you to your demise, but you couldn’t. Whatever he was doing was working, because the man that stood before you now was much different than the one who challenged you to begin with. Being near him was to be one step away from insanity, and focusing on anything other than him was impossible. Knowing that he was watching you with the same intensity, imagining what you would look like out of your dress and underneath him when he won the game, was sending you down a rabbit hole that was far too steep to climb out of.
But you had to win.
It wasn’t an option, nor a question.
Winning was the only thing you knew how to do.
You stood, eyes casted to the floor and a blush across your cheeks as you stepped back from the table, not daring to look in his direction as you bargained with your own embarrassment. Had you ever shot so poorly before? You couldn’t recall a time in which you missed your target so entirely, and your entire body was ablaze with disappointment at your own actions.
“You know, you never actually told me…” Danny started, snapping your thoughts away from your bad play, as if he knew that’s what you were brooding about. You finally looked at him, the entire world in slow motion as your eyes landed on him again. He was tall, slim but muscular. His shoulders were broad, not noticeable from afar but very much so once you were up close and personal with him. His lips were plush, smooth and soft as your mind begged you to get a taste. “How did you get so good at pool?” Your eyes cut to his own, nervous for a moment that he was judging you for your oblivious admiration of him.
“It’s a long story.” You said, your gaze flickering to the table. He didn’t seem keen on taking his turn, though. Instead, he wanted to know you, which was as sweet as it was aggravating.
“I have time.” He assured you, stuffing one hand into the pocket of his tight jeans. You let out a huff of laughter, almost shocked at how interested he was in you. Nobody had ever cared this much—well, aside from Izzy, but never a man. Certainly not one as breathtakingly beautiful as him.
“My dad.” You responded, swallowing down a mouthful of beer so you would not choke up at the thought. You didn’t know why it was so easy to tell the truth. You could have lied, brushed it off and moved on, or ignored him completely. Instead, you wanted him to know, wanted to take solace in his heart and mind. It was a new feeling, but something you wouldn’t mind getting used to. “Had an old bar in Perrysburg, left to him by my grandfather when he died. I was six or so when he packed up and trucked us across the state so he could take over. Dad didn’t know it was as run down as it really was… thought maybe we could make some money out of it, or whatever.” You paused, feeling your throat begin to close as you recalled the memories you kept locked up tight for so long.
“We moved into an’ old fixer upper, something cheap so he could afford to fix the damn dive without us suffering because of it. We spent every day at that bar. I’d do my times tables sittin’ on the old bar top, ‘till he tore it out f’course.” You chuckled, swiping your stray hairs away from your forehead. “We’d eat takeaway on the squeaky barstools, throw the garbage in the big dumpster he rented when he tore out the old floors, and then he’d shoot some pool before we went home. Back then, I was curious, and annoying. I didn’t let up until he let me try, and wouldn’t give up until he forced me out the door.” Danny laughed at that, picturing it in his mind as he listened intently.
“Was some sort of routine we got going, you know? Get home from school, do my homework, eat, and play pool. Once he knew I wasn’t gonna give it up, he actually taught me how to play. Took a while, but by the time the bar opened I could play a game ‘till the end. Even when the reno’s were finished, we kept at it. Was our thing, you know?” You let the butt of your cue fall to the vinyl floor, the weight of the memory like cement poured atop your bones. Missing him was violent, painful and torturous. It didn’t get easier with time, nor did it ease when you recounted the beautiful years you spent with him. Worst part was, it didn’t even help if you stayed silent on the matter. The whole damn thing hurt, and it would for the rest of your life.
“Just you and him?” He asked, noticing your sudden withdrawal. Your eyes fluttered closed as you gave a small nod of your head.
“Yeah, was just us.” You hummed. From the very beginning until the very end, it was the two of you against the world. Some would say it was still the same, now. “And Izzy, sometimes.” You couldn’t leave her out, knowing it was not fair when she spent so much time with the two of you. “Her dad met mine when we were redoing the plumbing. Contracted him for it… didn’t realize he also signed us both up for lifelong friends.” A smile crossed your lips. At the end of the day, no matter how sad the situation was, you were thankful it gave you Izzy. You were always thankful for her.
“Where’s your dad now? Still at home, playing pool?” His question was innocent, but you couldn’t help but feel the stab in your chest. You wished it was that simple, but it rarely ever was.
“Not sure he can play pool where he is, honestly. Heaven’s got a wicked reputation, but I’ve never heard of angels playin’ shitty ol’ bar games.” You tried to make light of the fact, but the words came out with a wheeze as they knocked the air from your lungs. “If I’m lucky, I’ll find out someday.”
“Oh,” he whispered, shocked at the fact but trying his best not to make you feel worse about it. The impact was lessened at his soft tone, like he was breathing life straight back into you as he spoke. “He must’ve been one hell of a guy to raise someone as fantastic as you.” Your cheeks burned red at the sound of his words and all you could manage was a small shake of your head.
“You hardly know me, rockstar.”
“I know enough.” He whispered, his tone still strong despite the volume. At that, you had to look at his face, just to catch a glimpse of the conviction that he held in his features.
“He was a pretty great guy.” You agreed, smiling softly at the thought. “The best, actually.”
“I believe it.” He offered a smile of his own, cheering you up ever so slightly. “So you play for him now… that’s why you’re so damn good at it.”
“S’pose so, yeah.” You nodded, watching him lean down to take his shot. “Always feel like he’s looking over my shoulder, telling me exactly what to do. Not sure if he’d be proud of the name I made for myself, but I know he’d love me regardless.”
“What’s there not to be proud of?” Daniel asked, barely exerting any effort as he shot at a solid ball and called the pocket. When it rolled inside, he moved positions to continue his play. “You learned how to make money off of something you’re really good at. That’s smart, if you ask me.” He shrugged a bit before calling another pocket. You watched as the ball rolled across the table, knocking into the solid blue ball. It bounced off the rail and hit the green one in front of the side pocket, and both rolled in effortlessly. You felt your stomach sink, watching and understanding such a strategic move, and wondered if you had finally met your match.
How was he so good at pool, and why the hell did you take him for innocent?
You were too trusting of the man that stood before you, who once seemed humble and shy. Now, you knew he was far more than that—talented, a tad cocky, and sneaky. Thankfully, in no way did he showcase those traits in a bad way, but you had underestimated him, betting on something so grand and risky.
Had he done that on purpose? Had he approached you with the desire for you to underestimate him?
And if he did, why did that turn you on more than it turned you off of him?
“Looks like you have some hidden talents of your own.” You commented, crossing your arms over your chest as you pursed your lips slightly. He peeked back at you from over his shoulder, a sly little smile decorating his annoyingly perfect face.
“Not really hidden,” he replied, his stick settled in the same space between his thumb and index finger, but he had his finger clasped overtop it for support. You hated how much it kept your attention, the intricacies of the very simple action making your heart thrum in your chest. You had no idea why you found it so attractive, no idea why you couldn’t care about anything else. “You never asked.”
“My mistake.” Your words came out breathy, embarrassing you further as he sank another ball effortlessly. When he aimed for his fifth ball, he was a bit short on the draw, his ball stopping just before it fell into a pocket. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”
“Picked up a few tricks here and there.” He shrugged, a sly smile on his lips as he turned towards you.
“Nuh-uh,” you shook your head, stepping towards him instinctively. You yearned to feel close to him again, desperate to feel his hand in yours and longing to breathe in time with him, wondering if your hearts could beat in sync for long enough to become one. He welcomed your advance, staying still as you gradually creeped towards him. “If I told you my dirty secrets, you have to tell me yours, too.”
“Oh, I have to, huh?” He raised an eyebrow, his Adam’s apple bobbing gently as he spoke. It sent a shiver down your spine, the entire sight of him before you sent your body into overdrive. “What makes you think that?”
“It’s only fair, Daniel.” You looked upwards, feeling the closeness of your face to his as gravity continued to force you towards him. “Unless you’re not a very generous person, in which case would make our little arrangement much less intriguing for me.”
“Now you’re jumping to conclusions, baby.” He grinned, almost amused that you would pin him with such a crime. The pet name sent your already racing mind spiraling even further, making you want to jump straight into his arms and figure out the truth of the matter yourself. You let your tongue run over your bottom lip, your mouth watering from the smell of his cologne and the intoxicating look in his eye. The tension between the two of you was immeasurable, and it was growing worse by the second.
You wanted to drop the act and touch him, uncaring of how he obtained his skills and eager to see his talents in other areas. Still, you stood your ground, cue gripped tightly in your hand as you stared him down. You were annoyed that he deceived you, but more annoyed at yourself for letting him.
You let out a huff of frustration, understanding he would not answer your question right away, and turned on your heel to continue the game. With intent, you barely stepped out of the way as you leaned down to aim at the white ball, making sure to push your hips back far enough that you were just inches away from where he stood. So far, both of you had done incredibly well in ignoring the temptation of each other, but you knew his willpower was cracking when you heard him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.
Admiring you from a distance was very different than having you bent over in front of him, within arms reach and with intent to bother him.
It certainly didn’t help that he had been picturing what you looked like underneath your clothes all night, and the tight dress you were wearing gave him an even better idea than he had before.
His eyes were fixated on the slight sway of your hips as you took aim, never daring to look away as you took your shot at a striped ball. You managed to land two balls in one shot, speeding up the process and leaving you just a bit further ahead than he was.
Before you shot again, you looked back over your shoulder, keeping your position as you locked eyes with him. You noticed the rise and fall of his chest a little more aggressive than it was moments before. The same animalistic look was shining in his eye, and his knuckles had turned white from the grip on his pool stick. You felt your core aching, desperate for relief as the two of you continued your tyrant without letting up. To rub a little extra salt in the wound, you gave a subtle wink and blew a kiss at him.
“I might need help with my next shot.” Your lower lip jutted outwards into a slight pout, playing on his already worn nerves. “Could you teach me how to shoot like you do?”
Both of you knew you didn’t need any help, but part of your teasing came from a place of desperation, unsure if you could handle another minute without his hands on you. Intoxication had become you, and the many beers you had finished off that night were finally beginning to catch up. He stood stoic for a moment, knowing if he turned down the offer, he would be an idiot. Still, the simple thought of you beating him and him not getting to take you home was wearing on him.
Confident in his own abilities, he decided to take the risk.
Leaning his cue on the wall nearby, he stepped closer to you, slow and gentle as he realized just how intimate the position was. You felt his hips press against your ass, his upper half leaning down to meet yours. Your chest was already low to the table, nearly pressing against it as his chest fit flush against your back. Ever so slightly, he let his chin rest on your shoulder and his arm wrap around yours.
“You don’t need help at all, baby.” He hummed, the warmth of his breath tickling the skin of your neck. His lips hovered just above your ear, making your heart race and your palms break out into a sweat.
“Maybe I just wanted you close to me.” You offered, feeling his heartbeat racing just as fast as your own. “Good luck charm, or whatever.”
More like a distraction, but you couldn’t seem to care. Feeling him fit so snug against you was better than winning a thousand games.
His large hand landed on your hip, his skin searing with heat and felt like it was burning straight through the fabric of your skirt. Immediately, without hesitation, you pushed your hips back into him a little further, hearing that same strained breath catch in his throat.
“Take the shot, then.” His tone was firm, challenging you as he spoke. His mouth was grazing your skin now, the man completely overtaken by desire and unable to think of anything else.
“What if I want to enjoy it for a little bit?” You bit back a smile, but knew you were feeling the effects of it too.
“Can enjoy me all you want when I win the damn game.” He growled, his low tone sending a shiver down your spine.
“Is that so?” You asked, ignoring the throbbing between your legs as you drew your arm back and prepared to take your shot. He did not respond, instead watching your movements carefully and staying as still as possible so he did not interfere with your play. When he did not reply, you followed through and knocked the cue ball forward, watching as it hit one of your last two balls into the side pocket. “Don’t be so sure of yourself, honey.” You turned your head to the side, the tip of your nose brushing his as you did so. You felt his fingers tighten on your hip, gently guiding you closer to him as he resisted the urge to close the gap between your mouths.
“Game’s not over yet, sharpshooter.” He reminded you, his brown eyes heavy lidded as he seemingly stared straight into your soul. As he straightened up, pulling away from you so you could not bewitch him any further, his palm grazed the curve of your ass, only worsening your growing need for him. Still, as badly as you wanted him, you were half tempted to win and leave him behind, just to teach him a lesson about his egotistical ways.
Still feeling your skin tingling from his earlier touch, you were vibrating as you leaned down to shoot at your last colored ball. You noticed Daniel had not moved from his place, nor had he moved his eyes from you. The thought alone had you reeling, and the longer he stared the more nervous you felt. You had to close your eyes to focus your thoughts before making any moves, but it seemingly did nothing to help when you misjudged the strength in which you shot. Your striped ball ricocheted off the rail and rolled all the way back down the table, nowhere near any pocket at all, let alone the one you called.
“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself, stressed as you studied the table and digested the very real possibility of him winning the game.
“To answer your question,” he started, breaking you free from your internal brooding. Your eyes snapped to him, immediately relieved of your stress once you remembered how alluring and enchanting he was. “When you spend so much time on the road, you start to look for things to pass the time.” He continued, ignoring the game waiting to be played and focused only on you, clad in a little black dress that would ultimately be his demise.
“Rockstar lifestyle not enough to please you?” You raised an eyebrow, reading him as he stepped towards you.
“No, it is.” He corrected, his eyes casted down over your face as he closed in on you again. “But when your biggest responsibility is getting on stage and playing music, the rest of the world seems a little boring. We spend a lot of time at bars, which usually leaves us standing in front of a pool table.” He shrugged, his eyes flickering to the green felt. “Those guys are my best friends… my brothers, and you aren’t really siblings without friendly competition, right?”
“Right.” You chuckled, finding yourself completely enamored with him as he spoke. You wanted to know everything, to hear every story and share every memory. You hoped he was willing to give as much as you yearned to take.
“We bet on lots of stuff… twenty bucks doesn’t mean much when the same bill gets passed around to everyone. Pool just happened to be one of ‘em.” He seemed to grip his cue tighter as he stood before you, resisting the urge to reach out and touch you. The temptation seemed to be wearing on him, but he was doing his best to withstand it. “We played so much that we never kept that twenty for more than a game or two, so I decided to put some extra effort in. Never cared much about the money, but it gave me something to do.”
“So you made it your life’s goal to master pool… for a twenty you don’t even give a shit about?” You giggled, feeling the heat of his body start to take a toll on you. You wanted to bring him closer, to close the gap between you for good and forget about the stupid bet that got you here.
“For something worth a lot more than twenty dollars, baby.” He corrected, grinning as he noticed the slight blush on your cheeks. “For bragging rights.”
“A humble man.” Sarcasm dripped from your tone, but you weren’t put off by the thought at all. If anything, you were just desperate to keep the conversation alive.
“No, but seriously.” He chuckled, leaning down and taking a shot at the cue ball. As he sank the last coloured ball and called his pocket, you both realized he had little chance at sinking the eight ball with the position in which the cue ball landed. Taking his loss, he made a quick move to block your next shot, figuring if he could not win he could at least make it harder for you. “At first, I just played ‘cause it was fun. It really does get boring… or monotonous on the road sometimes, and I think we all agreed on that. We all started playing against each other, and at first, we sucked. Like, so bad one game would take us all night.” He smiled to himself, finding the memory as funny as you did.
“We all start somewhere, huh?” You completely ignored the fact it was your turn, too enthralled in his voice to care about anything else.
“Yeah, that’s for sure.” He agreed, raising a hand to the back of his neck as he nodded. “Once we started to get better, I realized just how annoying it was to lose against them, because they were insufferable about it. So I started to practice more… went to bars on my own, played against myself and whoever else was around… watched a few videos. I really was determined to get better, just so I wouldn’t have to hear them brag about beating me anymore.” At that, you couldn’t help but giggle, finding that the funniest bit of all.
“So it’s an ego thing? Couldn’t handle it?”
“No, I don’t think you understand.” He laughed, his shoulders shaking and his eyes glistening with joy for being able to share this moment with you. “I’m okay with losing, but they’re the type of guys to never let you forget it. You’ll get it, when you meet them.”
When you meet them.
Whatever was going on between you two, he wanted it to last. He wanted you to meet his friends, to be a part of the inside jokes and share the sentiments instead of just hearing a retelling of them.
You weren’t sure why, but it touched your heart much more than you thought it should.
“After a while, they caught on to me.” He confessed, his lips still holding the ghost of a smile as he watched your expression. “That’s when it really became a competition. With Sam especially, ‘cause we’ve been friends forever. Just a rite of passage for us to do shit like that.” He continued to explain himself, but you were no longer listening or caring about how he acquired his talents. Instead, you were already daydreaming about what would happen when you stepped out of the bar, what the rest of the night would hold.
You liked him, and there was no doubt about it. Everything about him, the curl of his hair and the sparkle in his eye, the slight Midwest accent still lingering in his tone and the sweetness dripping from every word. There was a kind of light, a sense of wonder and warmth that radiated from him as he stood, and you couldn’t seem to keep your eyes off of him. Worse yet, you were so attracted to him that you could barely keep your hands to yourself, and for the first time in your entire career, you were ready to throw the game and take the loss with pride.
“I like you, Danny.” You confessed, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them. The confident facade shattered in an instant, leaving your cheeks stained red and your lower lip caught between your teeth, embarrassed about your own blunt nature.
“Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow, a sheepish smile on his face as he processed your words. “I like you too, sharpshooter.”
“You’re not going to win this game, though.” You continued, trying to regain your composure as your heart raced in your chest. At that, he gave a playful roll of his eyes, motioning to the table.
“If you’re so sure of that, why don’t you win, then?”
“Good idea.” You hummed, giving a curt nod. Your head was swimming, making you realize you were much more intoxicated than you thought, but you would not let it get in your way. “Tell me about your music, rockstar.”
“Not much to tell.” He shrugged, one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other holding his cue close to his body. He watched as you leaned down towards the table, gravity pulling the fabric of your dress away from your chest ever so slightly and causing his breath to catch in his throat. Shifting on his feet, he tried his best not to let it distract him, but he couldn’t help but fix his gaze directly on the skin where the fabric used to lay. “It’s a rock band… started it a long time ago, when we were in high school. Released a few albums and we’re about to go on tour for another one.”
“Jeez, don’t sound so enthusiastic about it.” You smiled, noticing his trailing eyes and understanding he was no better than you were, for your gaze was stuck on him just the same. Particularly where his shirt met his jeans, how when he moved just right, it shifted and exposed the smallest flash of skin.
“I am enthusiastic, but I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging. That never leaves a good impression, now does it?” He raised an eyebrow, noticing your eyes fixated on him but nowhere near his face. Smug and cocky, he waited until you looked away.
“I asked, didn’t I?” You challenged, finally looking up to meet his eye and noticing he was no longer fixated on your chest. Your stomach filled with lead, but the look in his eye did not lead you to believe he was judging you for your actions. Instead, it was curious, inviting you in for more without having to say a word.
“I play the drums.” He continued, giving in a little bit as he realized you truly did want to know and weren’t just asking as a formality. At that, the definition of the muscles in his arms suddenly made a whole lot more sense.
Then, behind your eyes, a vision of him using that strength for nothing innocent derailed your train of thought completely. You felt your thighs squeeze together instinctively, the arousal pooling beginning to soak straight through your underwear.
‘Fuck, Y/N. Get it together.’ You thought to yourself, almost appalled at how distracted he had you. You gave your head a slight shake, refocusing your eyes on the table as you drew your arm back, calling for a corner pocket and taking your shot.
“Son of a bitch.” You hissed through your teeth, all of the factors working together to frustrate you further. The ball bounced off the corner of the pocket and rolled backwards, close but not close enough. The throbbing between your legs and the twist of your stomach was driving you mad, making your palms clammy and your mouth dry.
“We won a Grammy, too.” He added, smirking at your obvious disappointment.
Hold on—Grammy?
“What?” You asked, eyebrows raised in surprise as you forgot about your previous annoyance. “That’s like… a big deal, Daniel. Usually an opening line.” You informed him, watching as he approached the table. You were still leaning downwards over the table, eye level with his waist as he towered over the opposite side. You tried your best to ignore the racing thoughts and sinful ideas flooding your mind, but it was proving impossible.
“Some would disagree.” He brushed it off, clearly proud of the achievement but doing whatever he could to get under your skin.
“Take your shot, rockstar.” You rolled your eyes, carefully raising yourself from the table as he lined himself up. You couldn’t help but notice how ethereal he seemed under the dim pot lights, how his hair hung over his shoulder and framed his perfectly crafted face, how the muscles in his arms flecked with every move. The chains around his neck hung low to the table, the watch on his wrist twinkling under the light, and that damn bandana on his head made him all the more charming.
You could feel every beat of your heart under your skin and behind your eyes. The flutter of your stomach as you watched him was nearly unbearable, and you wondered how in the hell one man could have such an intoxicating effect on you. Typically, you did not fall for the charm of regular bar patrons, but he was no regular guy. Everything about him was intriguing and intense, so overwhelming in the best possible way. You wanted him in every way you could have him, and you couldn’t bear to wait another moment.
“—sharpshooter!” Your attention was drawn to his smiling face, his expression delicately laced with glee as he looked down at the velvet tabletop. You furrowed your brows, hesitant to admit you missed the first part of his statement because you were too busy daydreaming about him.
Shit.
He won.
Effortlessly, he sank the eight ball and left the table clear of all but the cue ball. His words were not that of conversation, but of celebration. Your shock and upset did not come from regret on behalf of your wager, but simply because you lost. It had been a long time since you had fumbled so badly, and it was much harder to swallow than you previously thought it would be.
Trying your best to push that aside, you realized the other side of the coin was not any better. The burgeoning nervousness growing in the pit of your stomach was nearly sickening, forcing you to understand that it wasn’t just play anymore. You had been waiting to get his clothes off all night, but what if you were less than he expected? What if you disappointed him?
“Hey,” Danny’s sweet tone cut you loose from your endless stream of dread. As soon as your eyes connected with his, you understood you had nothing to be worried about. After everything you had seen from him, learned about him, you knew deep down he would never be that kind of person even if he tried. Goodness surrounded him, and you could not refute his kindness, not even for a single moment. “If you’re having second thoughts, we don’t have to do this, you know. I’m happy to have another beer and maybe take you for dinner tomorrow, if you’re free.”
God, why did he have to be so unbelievably perfect?
You felt guilty that your expression led him to believe you did not want to follow through, because that could not have been further from the truth. In fact, the longer you stared back at him, the more the ache between your legs pestered you. Quickly, it had become the only thing you could think about, much more pressing than your loss and much more important than your feeble insecurities. Without a second thought, you placed your cue down on the table with much less grace than usual and closed the space between you. He turned to face you, shocked at your suddenness but receptive to the change. You reached upwards, your arms snaking around his neck as your fingers tangled in the hair laying on the nape of his neck. Instantly, his large hands found your hips, pulling your body closer until you were flush against him, the beat of his heart as strong and fast as your own.
He tasted sweet, a hint of beer still lingering on his lips as you finally leaned forward and captured him in a kiss. The warmth of his body was inviting, his touch seemingly burning holes straight through the fabric of your dress. Your head was spinning, filled with thoughts only pertaining to him, and suddenly the bar in which you normally found solace was no longer where you wanted to be. His tongue traced your lower lip, his hands sliding backwards and settling just over the curve of your ass as he pulled your hips further into him. You let out a hum of pleasure, elated at his forwardness and tempting him to take it a step further.
The scent of his cologne had invaded every one of your senses, suffocating you in the most beautiful ways as you pleaded with him for more. The feeling of kissing him was beyond anything you had imagined that night, and now that you started, you couldn’t make yourself stop.
“Fuck, baby.” He muttered, his lips still grazing yours as he spoke. Now that he had a taste of the sweetness
“A deal is a deal, rockstar.” You murmured, eyes heavy as the tip of your nose brushed his. For a moment, you forgot where you were—the only thing that existed was you and Daniel, and the surge of emotion hanging so heavily between you.
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” He replied, keeping one arm around you as he pulled his wallet out with the other.
Without complaint, you let him lead you towards the door, throwing a bill on the counter as you passed by Chuck, who was too amused at your appearance to utter a goodbye. Within minutes, you were in the backseat of a cab and on your way to Daniel’s house, which you didn’t even thing twice about. Feeling his hands on you, burning into the skin of your thigh as you drove in near silence, nothing else mattered.
When the cab pulled into his driveway, you were blinded by need for him. Any other day, in your right might, you may have marvelled at the beauty of his home, or perhaps felt nervous that your apartment could never compare. As Daniel helped you out of the back of the cab, you didn’t even have time to think of it, your head swimming with excitement for what was to come next.
Soon after, you were inside, the openness of his entry way leading to the living room unable to be marvelled at, because his lips were on your own again. The taste of him on your tongue, the sweetness of his skin, was almost too much to withstand. The ache between your legs grew stronger with every second that passed, and your stomach twisted in knots as your fingers wrapped around his bicep, pulling him closer than he could possibly get. His hands were on your hips, strong and firm as he held you to him, similar to how he touched you at the bar but with so much more intent. You could feel him through his jeans, his need for you showcased in the most beautiful way as all of the pent up tension bled both of you dry.
The faintest of whimpers fell from your lips as you kissed him, and he drank in the sound like it was necessary for survival. His hand slid backwards, over your ass as your hearts began to beat in time. Your head was spinning, filled with filth and sin as you craved more. You weren’t sure what came over you, the carnal desire so consuming you weren’t sure you had ever felt it so strongly before.
Never breaking from the kiss, he led you towards his couch, slow and cautious so that you would not get hurt. Soon enough, you felt the back of your legs knock against the leather surface, the chill shooting straight through you and sending you further into him. Taking the initiative, you sat yourself down, using your hands on his arms to pull you with him. The whole scene was primal, rushed and desperate. All night, the two of you had been dying to get to someone’s house to pursue the very act you were engaging in then.
Daniel lowered himself with you, but used his strength to push you further back, not stopping until your back was flush against the cushions and he was kneeling in front of you. Feeling a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins, you finally pulled away to admire him. His lips were swollen, pink and slick with saliva. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown and engulfing his irises. You wished to sit and admire him all day, but he had different plans. His hands were snaking up your thighs, his fingers under the skirt of your dress and pushing it upwards, stopping only when the fabric was bunched at your hips and exposing your lower half.
He sucked in a sharp breath, overcome with emotion at the sight, but did not wait to hook his fingers beneath the lace of your panties. Lifting yourself from the couch, you helped him as he slipped them off, tossing them behind him and out of sight. Returning his hands to you, your entire body was electrified with arousal, your stomach in knots as he lowered his head to your thighs.
His lips dusted over the soft skin, the attention new and exciting after months of going without. Even so, what he was doing then paled in comparison to anyone who came before, and you knew it would always be that way. There was something so special about Daniel, so enthralling and enchanting, and in a single night you knew that you never wanted anyone or anything else.
As his tongue traced over the inside of your thigh, he used his hand to push your legs further apart, exposing you completely. Your hands raised to his head, your fingers snaking through his hair as it curled around your hands. It was soft, perfect, the light tickling sensation adding to the overwhelming stimulation you were already experiencing. Just as you grew comfortable in your new position, feeling the gentle suction of his mouth on the inside of your legs, leaving marks for days to come, you felt the gentle pinch of his teeth closing around the supple flesh. Your hips raised off the couch, shocked at the new feeling, but definitely not opposed to it.
Looking down at him, admiring the sight of him between your legs, you wondered what parts of your soul necessary to sell in order to enjoy the sin forever. As his tongue connected with your core, your head falling back on your shoulders, you knew it did not matter—you would give anything, no matter how dark or dangerous, in order to have him in such a way whenever you wanted. The warmth of his mouth, the slight movement of his tongue as it traced over your aching clit was addicting, more intense than anything you had ever felt, and exactly what you had been dreaming of since you first laid eyes on him.
The muscles in your abdomen tensed, pulling with the wave of pleasure that washed over you. Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer as you casted a leg over his shoulder. Your shoulders shook with the ragged breath you drew in, knowing that it would not take long for him to get you exactly where he wanted you. A breathy moan filled the air surrounding you, loud and obscene as it made home in the walls, cementing the memory of your entanglement forever. As he flattened his tongue against you, repeating the same motion, your hips raised from the couch to meet his time, your body begging for more when your lips could not do it for you.
The need was throbbing under your skin, taking over your entire body and turning you into a mess below him. He hummed against you, showing his appreciation for the show you were putting on. Feeling your nipples harden, the slight friction against the rough fabric of your dress sent you even further down the spiral. A shiver went down your spine as he suctioned his lips around your clit, the slight pressure overwhelming and pushing you closer to the steep edge.
You were nearly embarrassed, humiliated that it took so little for him to get such a reaction. You wanted to blame it on how long it had been since you fell into bed with a man, how focused you were on everything but romance, but you knew it was all because of him. From the minute you laid eyes on him, you knew he was the very thing you were waiting for, the only reason to break your unintentional spell of abstinence, because he was worth it. He wasn’t just in it for himself, nor was he pretending to be something he was not. He was just a man, undeniably capable of things many others weren’t, and he wanted to use the skill with you. He was different, and you knew it from the minute you met him, and you hoped he felt the same about you.
“Oh, fuck.” You whined, the breath knocked straight from your lungs as he slipped his hand between your leg, the tip of his middle finger collecting wetness by your entrance. “Please, Danny—need more.” You choked out, the desire pulsing behind your eyes as you wondered if you could even handle more.
Obliging to the request, he slipped his middle finger inside of you, slow as he curled it ever so slightly. The feeling was euphoric paired with the movement of his tongue, and the cry of desperation that forced its way through you only encouraged him further.
“I guess my biggest question, sharpshooter,” he said, breathless as he pulled his mouth away from you. The loss was debilitating, but he slipped his thumb in place, just so he did not lose the momentum. You looked down, the cockiness written clear across his expression agitating just as well as it was enticing. “Is if I’m making you feel good?”
“Fuck you.” You muttered, my cheeks blazing as you held his gaze. For some reason, the eye contact was even more intense than anything else he was doing, making it seem like he had stripped you down to bare bones and wisps of soul, seeing the very things that made you, you.
“Yeah, that was my intention.” He teased, adding his index finger as he kept a steady pace, the slight curl of his fingers pushing you closer to a climax. “But that's not an answer.”
“God, yes.” You seethed, unsure why you were irritated when he was doing so much for you. Perhaps you were still brooding about your loss, about how he had many tricks up his sleeve he’d kept well hidden. Though his deceit paid off for both of you, you were a sore loser.
“Don’t sound so sure of yourself.” He echoed your earlier words, taunting me as the pull of pleasure threatened you. You were balancing on a delicate line, and it wouldn’t take much more to push you over the edge.
“What, you couldn’t see for yourself?” You tried your hardest to give it back to him, but your strength was wavering. Your eyes fluttered closed as your head fell back again. A gutteral sound left your lips, tainting the room with sin as your back arched off the couch.
“I could, but hearing you say it is so much better.” He confirmed, clearly seeing the state you were in, knowing exactly what he was doing to you. He had little remorse, little care, and he was intent to follow through until the very end. “Come on, baby. Tell me all about it.”
With that, he returned his mouth to you, his tongue taking the place of his fingers. The switch was lethal, the soft, warm wetness of his mouth overwhelming in the best possible way. Paired with the curl of his fingers, still moving inside you with that same, perfect pace, he did not miss a single movement. Feeling the tension in your belly reach a peak, you choked on the breath trying to force its way to your lungs.
The intensity grew as his tongue traced over the sensitive bundle of nerves, and soon after, you came crashing down. Spewing obscenities, your hands held his head in place as your hips raised to meet the time of his tongue, the orgasm so intense you felt like you were floating. For a few, unbearable seconds, your joints locked and your whole body ached from the sensation, your throat raw as you cried his name, pleading for something you knew you could not handle.
Waking you through it, he did not slow until you relaxed against the cushions. You barely noticed as he pulled away, still high from the pleasure and trying to come down. Finally cracking your eyes open, you noticed he was standing over you, undoing the buckle of his belt as he pulled it free from the loops of his denim jeans. He was painfully hard, strained against the zipper and desperate for relief himself. Your mouth watered at the thought, so eager to feel him inside of you that you did not wait until he directed you further.
With shaky limbs, you sat up, holding eye contact as he freed himself from his jeans and his boxers. Switching positions, he could not seem to pry his gaze from your fucked our expression, your flushed cheeks and plush lips the only thing on his mind until you turned away, not taking the time to rid yourself of your dress as you faced the back of the couch on your knees. Planting one firm hand on the frame, you looked back over your shoulders as you pushed your hips backward, towards him as you offered the very thing he’d been thinking of all night.
With a hiss of joy staining his teeth, his large palms landed on your hips, pulling you back a little further to make it easier for him. Stepping forward at the same time, you felt his cock against you, the tip gliding through the pooling arousal at your entrance. If possible, the sensation sent you further over the edge, so animalistic that you could barely recognize yourself.
“Is this what you wanted, rockstar?” You asked, your knuckles white as you felt him glide through your folds. The tip of his cock brushed over your sensitive clit, your legs twitching from the intense feeling.
“Bet on it, didn’t I?” He asked, knowing he was only teasing both of you further by refusing to fuck you.
“You could’ve just asked, you know.” You pointed out, sucking in a sharp breath as he repeated the same action over again. Your legs were trembling, barely holding you up, but you refused to give in. “Or were you too scared I’d turn you down?”
“Scared isn’t quite the word.” He corrected you, finally settling his tip just over your entrance. You felt yourself clench around nothing, wanting him so badly but refusing to give him any more gratification to fuel his ego. “No shame in earning something. You’d know something about that, wouldn’t you, sharpshooter?”
“You really would have gone home alone if you lost?” You asked, curious more than anything, wondering if he had wanted you just as badly, or if it really was a game to him.
“Fuck no.” He nearly laughed, slamming his hips forward at the same time as he spoke, catching you off guard and knocking the air from your lungs. Gasping at the feeling of him filling you completely, the stretch as you accommodated his size was addicting, irresistible. “We both knew I was always going to win.”
Before you could respond, he withdrew his hips and slammed forward with the same, bruising force. As the tip of his cock brushed against your cervix, your whole body reacted, your walls squeezing around him and pulling him in further. Drunk off him and eager for him to keep going, you still couldn’t keep your mouth shut, unwilling to go down without a fight.
“So you weren’t amazed by my skill.” You called him on the white lie, forcing the words through gritted teeth while pushing yourself back on him. He began a steady pace as you tried so hard to keep your mind straight to not give him the satisfaction. You looked back over your shoulder, catching his eye and locking him in a stare. He raised his hand to your head, gathering your hair in his palm and wrapping it around his fist. Pulling your head back ever so slightly, the new leverage he had over you sent your head spinning.
“It had nothing to do with skill, beautiful.” He replied, giving you a soft smile. The small expression sent your stomach fluttering with nerves for a whole new reason, making you fear that it only took a single night for you to fall head over heels for him.
“Then what would you call it, darlin’?” You asked, your breath hitching in your throat as a wave of pleasure washed over you. Tightening his grip on your hair, he pulled your head back a little further as he leaned down, his lips settled just over your ear as his warm breath tickled your burning skin. You couldn’t help but arch your back further, feeling the curve of your ass fit nicely against the groove of his hip.
You wondered, if you weren’t meant to go home with him, why the hell did the two of you fit so perfectly together?
“How the hell were you supposed to win when you couldn’t keep your eyes off of me?” He asked, making your mouth run dry as the vibration of his words ran straight through you. Swallowing hard, you felt his teeth close around your earlobe, applying slight pressure and sending you over the edge.
Taking it upon yourself, you moved your head to the side against the strength of his hand, unable to resist as you pressed your lips against his own. The taste of him was intoxicating, even more so with the taste of you still lingering on his lips. You felt his tongue graze your skin, your heartbeat so agonizingly strong it was all you could hear. It was messy, heated, and perfectly fitting for the two of you thus far. You weren’t sure anything else would work. Two seemingly strong personalities with no intent to back down, it was a battle from the minute you locked eyes across the pool table, and you had no intent of stopping.
He continued to move inside of you, the feeling even more intense after your last orgasm, and you knew you weren’t far out from a second. The sharpness of his tongue, always having a comeback, and the witty yet playful nature of his responses did more for you than his hands or his mouth did. It was a struggle to find someone who balanced you out, which was a big reason why you neglected to give in to the other men who tried to do as he did that night. For some reason, you knew, without doubt, that Daniel was the type of person you had been looking for all along. Exciting, challenging, and fun, but still sweet and kind. You wondered why he picked you, a burn-out adrenaline junkie who only ever paid rent on a whim.
It was easy to ask why, but as he moved against you, the answer was right before your very eyes. The chemistry between you was undeniable, something that could not be faked, and something that could not be ignored. Some things are just right, no matter how hard you try to fight it, and as it seemed, the stars aligned perfectly for you without you even realizing it.
Breaking from the kiss, you tried to catch your breath, finding it difficult as he moved inside of you. The pleasure was undeniable, bordering on painful as your body begged him for more. More he could not give, and more you could not handle, but god you wanted it. Everything about him made you want more, even if it was an impossible task, and as you verged on the edge of a second orgasm, you knew letting him go wasn’t an option. Not only had he amazed you with his ability to beat you at your own game, but he amazed you in every other sense. Disappointment was a far away feeling when with him, and that was something you wanted to get used to.
“Fuck, Danny.” You whined, his face still close to yours. The words vibrated through both of you, the feeling of him pressed against you exhilarating as you stared that same innate desire in the eye.
“That’s it, baby. Tell me how good it feels.” His words forced the knot in your belly tighter, fraying and threatening as it pleaded with you to let go.
“You fill me so fucking good.” You confessed, your whole body covered in a sheen layer of sweat as you tried to keep up with him. “M’gonna cum.” You confessed, knowing that you couldn’t take it any longer. Your mascara was running down your cheeks, blazing red and warm. Your throat was raw, your body aching with need, and you knew he was the only answer.
“Cum for me, baby. Being such a good girl.” You gasped at the sound of the praise, washing over you like summer rain and coercing you to let go. “Show me how good I make you feel.”
That seemed to be all you needed to give in to the feeling, submitting to the torturous pressure as your posture faltered, leaving you a mess again underneath him. The pathetic cries falling from your lips coerced him to do the same, his hips faltering and his pace slowing as the pleasure took over. The two of you, finally giving in to what you wanted so badly, experiencing a euphoric high together. He spilled his release inside of you, the sensation drawing out your orgasm just a bit longer as your body begged you to draw in a breath. Keeping a slow roll of his hips, he ensured you got the most pleasure possible, only slowing to a stop when the curses falling from your lips turned into desperate cries, pleading for mercy.
Both of you drew in a ragged breath as your composure faltered, your body trying to relax against the couch as you attempted to come back to. Carefully, Danny withdrew from you, making sure you were alright before sitting next to you. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into him as he laid back against the arm, caring little for the mess and more about being near you.
The entire night had been a whirlwind of events, the adrenaline so high you barely had a moment to catch up with it. Laying there with him, silent and calm, you knew that what came before could not even compare to it. The strong arms holding you close, keeping you secure as you processed the rapid pace that led you there. You wondered, was it normal to feel so comfortable with someone you had just met? Was it normal to feel like you had known him your entire life?
You had let him in beyond what many others could comprehend, telling him about your father and allowing him to beat you at a game of pool, and not even that scared you. If anything, you were happy you did, and your only thought was when it could happen again. You wanted to keep getting to know him, to keep telling him things you never before cared to tell, and you wanted him to meet Izzy, because you knew she would love him. It was strange to be so open to letting someone in, but deep in your heart you felt it was the only thing you could do. Forcing him out seemed more painful than allowing him in.
“You okay, sharpshooter?” He asked, his voice so soft and different than it had been all night, so doting and caring. It was nice to be seen, nice to be known, and you wanted to know what it was like with him.
“Yeah, I’m good.” You nodded, smiling to yourself. “Just thinking.”
“About?” He chuckled, his long fingers toying with the ends of your hair. The slight tickle on your skin was soothing. You never wanted him to stop.
“You, I guess.” You shrugged. “I guess this means I lost out on backstage passes.” Laughing to himself, he raised a free hand to your face, turning your head to look at him. He admired you for a moment, the redness of your cheeks and the shine of your eyes, finding himself feeling all the same ways.
“I’m sure we could work something out.” He assured you, swiping away flecks of fallen mascara with his thumb.
“Guess that would mean I didn’t earn it.” You teased, exhausted yet still energized by his company. A blinding smile on his face, you couldn’t help but notice the tugging of your heartstrings.
“So, what? You want a rematch?” He raised an eyebrow, wondering if that’s really what you were asking of him.
“I guess so.” You shrugged, giggling to yourself as you stared up at his beautiful face. “Unless you’re scared it was beginners luck?”
“No, not scared.” He reiterated his earlier claim, his thumb still tracing your cheek. “You think you can handle the stakes?”
“I think I could manage.” You nodded, the same stupid smile still pulling your lips. It seemed permanent so long as he was around. “I suppose losing isn’t all that bad… especially if it’s to the right person.”
Against everything you ever believed, you knew for a fact the loss resulted in a bigger gain than ever before, and you would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant he was the prize.
UNRAVEL (Series) Summary: The night of that first lesson, you were not expecting someone to show up who embodied your every desire.
But, of course, that was exactly who you got.
Enter Jake Kiszka.
A locally known guitar god, who looked like but sin, smelled like fantasy, and dripped in silver jewelry. . . and pressed on your last nerve so hard you couldn't help but want more.
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Warnings: MINORS DNI (18+); guitar instructor!jake (drooling); instructor x student (BOTH ARE IN THEIR TWENTIES); strangers-to-friends-to-enemies-to-lovers; angst; slow burn; language; a lot of sexual tension + tense themes; self deprecation; mentions of grief; mentions of broken bones; jealous!reader; angry!jake; yearning (!!!); touching; kissing; (very mild) dry humping; jake's hands = on ur boobs; don't u dare call him 'tutor' (PLEASE lmk if i missed anything at all AND/OR anything that is triggering to you!)
DISSONANCE (Unravel Pt. 1) Word Count: 18.3k+
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a/n: this was supposed to be a silly little drabble -- a *cough cough* ~thoughtful~ text sent to the group chat...... but...... um. plans changed. lol
the idea for this came from a conversation fueled by a lot of ~~feelings~~ the group chat had about Jake at Gibson Garage......
aaaand it's directly inspired by this lovely (devastating) video. <3
enjoyyyy ;)
If you want, you may listen to the playlist as you read 🖤
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|| UNRAVEL ||
PART I: DISSONANCE
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D I S S O N A N C E: a lack of harmony (among musical notes).
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It was late.
Later than you’d anticipated and planned for this.
You had heard raving reviews from your peers about his teaching. . . Mostly along the lines of:
“He’s intense, y/n. . . like. . . really intense. In a way that definitely intimidates you, but forces you to want to be the best you can be.”
“I thought I knew how to play until one lesson with him and by the end of it, I wondered how the fuck I’d even called myself a guitarist before learning from him.”
“He won’t let you give up. He won’t stop until he knows you see your ability as clearly as he does. He’s just a little. . . extreme while you’re getting there. But, y/n, I promise it’s worth it by the end.”
But. . . so far, he wasn’t even here to teach you yet.
Mr. Jacob Kiszka, guitar god amongst your Juilliard peers, was running late for your first lesson with him.
And, you were not impressed.
When the knock finally occurred, the temptation was too strong to roll your eyes. Couldn’t help it as you stood with a huff from your couch.
As you made your way over to the door, you checked the time on the wall on your way there. Just to be sure.
Yep. Late. Late as hell.
5:20 p.m.
It was 5:20 p-fucking-m, and the lesson you’d scheduled had been for 5:00 p.m.
He was twenty minutes late.
The massive white tea and eucalyptus candle that sat in the middle of your coffee table wafted towards you. It was the only thing calming you, momentarily.
You took a deep breath, opening the door in one mildly aggravated swoop.
And what met you on the other side. . .
Was not the type of person you expected.
Based on how well-renowned this man’s teaching was, you expected an older guy.
Like, old. Until now, you’d pictured a wise, wrinkled tutor who’d been playing and teaching for years. That had been your assumption. The guys in your music appreciation class had fangirled over his ability and skill, as if he were Jimmy fucking Page, reincarnate.
So, you were expecting someone who looked old and worn like Jimmy looked now.
This man was not that.
Nope.
He was young. Likely close to your age. Maybe slightly older. You’d guess he was closer to thirty than you, but definitely not any older than that.
Tan, glowing skin. Yes, glowing — even in the light gray, overcast, gloomy dusk of this fall evening. His skin was immaculate. Every detail caught your eye. How dewy it was. The freckle on his cheek. A little cut in his bottom lip. . .
And not a wrinkle in sight — only some crows feet at the corners of his eyes, peeking out from the blue-tinted sunglasses he wore.
The eyes behind the sunglasses weren’t perfectly visible due to the tint, but you could tell his eyes were pretty. What color, you weren’t sure. However, you did notice his pretty hair. Chestnut brown — long, wavy. . . Thick. Slightly damp in places — like he’d just showered.
Your eyes trailed to his neck, where his Adam’s Apple bobbed. His neck was strong and you definitely felt your mouth water at how pronounced the muscle there was. Your eyes continued, straight to his toned chest. . . The expanse of skin there was golden. And the black satin button down shirt that hung over his frame, loose and halfway unbuttoned over his chest?. . . Fuck.
Silver chains around his neck. One slightly thicker silver chain stopped at the base of his neck, right at the dip in his throat.
The chains and shirt were a devastating combination.
And as you let your gaze wander down his body further, you found a well-worn pair of Levi’s hugging his hips.
Your line of sight had just caught the worn holes in the knees of his jeans and his scuffed black boots sticking out from beneath the bootcut blue. Your gaze flickered back to his upper half, just as his hand pulled at the waistband of them. . .
Long fingers, a ring on three out of the five on the hand that messed with his jeans. The veins in the back of his hand caught your eye. These hands, already tragic in appearance — and apparently skilled in guitar. . .?
He was sin.
Fuck.
You couldn’t help it when you licked your lips, your lips dry.
Double fuck.
Has my mouth been hanging open? And how long have I been making him stand outside my door as I’ve ogled him?
God.
Time moved in slow motion as your cheeks heated and you let your gaze rest on his face once again.
Professional. Be professional, y/n.
He was your tutor. You were his student. This was a motherfucking guitar lesson. That was it.
Briefly, your mind thought of how he’d been twenty minutes late. And, your Type A triggers outweighed everything else. Thankfully. It helped to clear your brain a bit — the fact that he hadn’t been a professional so far. He’d been late.
Your gawking was the least of anyone’s concern right now when you had a night class starting on campus at 7:00. Less than two hours from now.
And this lesson hadn’t even started yet.
The second you focused on his face again, you noticed how his eyes were now wider behind his glasses — both of his brows were raised. Surely he wasn’t judging you when he’d been twenty minutes—.
“I’m Jake. Jake Kiszka,” he suddenly stated, a nod of his head indicating acknowledgement. His cheeks were slightly pink, the tiniest grin wavered on his lips. “Your instructor.”
The little nod was sexy for reasons it should not have been. You rubbed at your bicep, giving your own little head bob. You felt as awkward as Bella-fucking-Swan when she interacted with Edward Cullen throughout the entire clusterfuck that was the first Twilight movie.
Cringe.
“I’m—I—,” you choked on your spit a bit.
Fucking embarrassing.
You willed your head to clear, closing your eyes. Again with the ‘Bella Swan’ act. Pull yourself together, y/n.
At that, you opened your eyes before giving him a wider grin. “I’m y/n,” you offered. “Your student.”
His breath caught for a moment before he was blinking a few times, looking down at his boots before his gaze was finding you once more.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said next with a shake of his head as he tousled with the front of his hair. “I’ve had a packed day.”
The low rasp on the word ‘packed’ was enough to make you want to keel over and submit to whatever he wanted, however he wanted it. And the silver hoop earrings that you caught, peeking out from his waves that swept past his shoulders. . . They made it even worse.
And, for a second, any frustration you’d had at his late arrival was gone. . . . .
But.
Only for a second. You had to cling to his mistake to remind yourself that he was human.
Because, everything else about him screamed god or sexy ass fictional vampire.
Though, even with the sensual, gravelly timbre of his voice — it wasn’t enough to make you forget you had class on campus sooner than later. It had your internal clock ticking faster by the minute.
“I have class at 7:00,” you blurted, your frustration blatant in your response. You flinched slightly at the way you snapped the words. “We need to get started.”
He blinked at you a couple of times, his head drew back — seemingly in shock — at your sharp tone.
But, he didn’t let any other emotion show as he quickly nodded, pursing his lips that you noticed were carved so beautifully, against the pretty structure of his face. The Cupid’s bow in his upper lip, catching you off guard as he briefly puckered his lips.
You’d never met a man that was an equal balance of the textbook definition of ‘pretty’ and ‘handsome’ until this man.
“Let’s get started, then,” he replied, already making his way closer to your door, wiping his feet on the welcome mat outside. “Luckily, we’re only covering the basics tonight.”
— || —
‘The Basics’ were not as basic for beginners as you’d originally anticipated.
You’d gone through A minor already. It was the first one he taught and it had gone fine.
Then, you’d learned A major, C major, D major. . . No problem at all.
Now, you were on G major. And, somehow, Little Miss G major was about to make you cry.
Even though you were a music major, knowing thousands of melodies and solfège like the back of your hand, you were not well well-versed in the ways of guitar.
He, on the other hand, was. Very much so.
In fact, he was past the term ‘well-versed’ — that seemed too light a phrase for him. He’d performed efficient tuning, simply by ear – in no time at all. . . . two minutes, tops.
Meanwhile, he had to take twenty minutes with you to simply show you how to work a tuning app on your phone. Then, as you’d tuned (or, tried), his fingers hadn’t been able to hold still on his own guitar and he’d quietly played a variety of melodies every genuine music lover knew by heart. . . but, he’d picked and strummed them as if they were his own. All the while, jumping in to help you when you needed it — before then going back to his own instrument to pick up a song exactly where he’d left it.
You’d never witnessed another person play so effortlessly, right in front of your face.
And, you’d sat there with your barely-played guitar on your lap, acting like a dunce with a motherfucking tuning app.
His acoustic guitar, you’d noticed, was so utterly worn with years of love. The body of the instrument, rubbed raw where his hand rested to play. And his strings, manipulated so easily under his fingers — like all guitar strings were made for his fingers, and his fingers alone.
Your acoustic, on the other hand, was brand new. And still shiny from having just picked it off the shelf at the nearest guitar store two days prior. Your scholarship had come in handy with the purchase, as your College Student Funds™️ were seeming to dwindle daily. Scholarships and waitressing part time were your only means of survival at this point.
But you’d needed to do this. It was a requirement for your career path of choice. You needed to know one instrument to progress into teaching music.
And, for very personal reasons, you’d always wanted to play guitar.
So, here you were.
The harsh metal of the strings, though, were trying desperately to convince you that you were not cut out for this. And the way you seemed to strum a bit too hard on the body. . . Your hand was, apparently, not light enough for this.
But, god. . . you really didn’t want to learn the piano. So, you just kept trying. . .
. . .and failing.
“I’m not sure if my hands were built to handle an instrument of this. . . complexity. I’m fumbling these basics,” you said, not hiding the quiet sense of disappointment in your tone. “I’m sure I’m easily the worst student you’ve had all week.”
“Not even close to the worst,” he said easily. Gently. “Don’t worry. Just. . . keep with it. It’s your first day. You’re still in your first hour. Don’t beat yourself up.”
Your face flushed as his cologne took over your senses; he shifted just a little closer to you on the couch.
“That’s terrifying that you’ve had worse than me this week,” you joked, halfway, looking up from under your lashes.
He was already looking at you – through those blue lenses – in a way that made you feel special. You didn’t know why it made you feel so special. . . it just did.
With a gentle shake of his head in response, his eyes were open and soft as he looked down at you. “And. . . your fingers are made for this instrument. . . I believe it and I’ve taught a hellton of people, so. . . please, believe me,” he said, blinking once at you in a way that you think was supposed to be a wink. It was so cute. “The fingers just don’t know the truth quite yet. You will get the hang of it, though. . . I promise.”
“My fingers. . .they’re too delicate on it and too hard, all at once,” you argued, raising a brow at him. “You have to see that.”
“Well,” he said, gaze flicking down to your hands, softly and thoughtfully.
He reached over with one deliberate and calloused digit and his thumb, gently grabbing your pointer finger. He moved it up just a bit higher on the fret board to be situated correctly on the string.
And, God. . . Even grabbing your finger with one of his made you feel. . .things. His touch was calculated in the sexiest way. His intelligence made you feel weak in a way that you wished it didn’t.
He continued, “I happen to think your fingers are. . .exquisite. They’re just right for it. They will know how to work the guitar,” he coughed once, briefly, before continuing. “They will play well. Just. . . trust me.”
The words had hardly any time to linger before he was averting his gaze and you were looking down at the wood under your hands once more.
Your fucking thighs were suddenly sweating.
“Let’s keep going.”
–||–
Slowly, you were truly giving up hope that this had been the correct instrument choice for you.
“Can you show me that one more time?” You warily asked, worried that you were becoming annoying with how many times you’d asked him to repeat certain actions. “I’m so sorry.”
You couldn’t help the apology.
But his smile reassured you, loose and easy on his lips as he nodded. “Absolutely,” he replied, voice smooth as the satin of his shirt. “And don’t apologize, y/n. It’s your first lesson. I get it.”
You grinned back, appreciatively as he placed his fingers on the strings of his guitar to produce E major.
He did it once, then looked at you, with a gentle nod and a real wink you could see just beyond the tinted blue frames. (Fuck.)
“Alright,” he began with a gentle chuckle. The dimple in his cheek caused your brain to lapse. “Now, do you want me to do it with you once more, too? And then you can try on your own again? What would be best for you?”
“Both,” you replied, your cheeks surely pink under the care and concern woven through his stare. You felt the flush in your cheeks as your fingers slipped a bit on the harsh metal of the strings.
You knew the sweat accumulating everywhere on your body was from embarrassment. . . But you also knew it was from something else you did not want to name.
—||—
Once you’d finally gotten E major down, you looked at the clock.
Just to gauge the time.
It was 5:45. You could spare five minutes. Right?
Water was a necessity — your mouth was dry as fuck from the way you felt under the watch of this man.
And you knew that the longer you stayed in one spot, the worse it was going to get. So, with one wary glance towards Jake, you chose to put your guitar to the side. He seemed to be in no rush.
As you rose, placing your guitar on the couch in your spot, he continued to strum something on his guitar. “You do not seem like the type of woman to give up when things get hard,” he noted, raising a brow at you. “Please tell me I’m correct in my assumption.”
“Yes,” you replied, softly. “You are definitely correct. Giving up isn’t something I like to do. Which is why I need a glass of water to keep me going. You?”
“Sure,” he murmured, already moving to put his guitar in its case to stand with you.
Quickly, you placed a hand out to stop him. “No, no. You stay,” you shook your head, he scrunched a brow, ass still rising from the sofa. “Seriously. I’ll be fast. . . And, honestly, I need you to keep strumming those heavenly melodies because it is truly helping me stay calm.”
At those words, he lowered himself back down to the couch. “You’re sure that’s all you need from me?”
God, why did he care? It was so considerate of him to want to help however he could, but. . . You couldn’t figure it out. You’d been nothing but a hot damn mess of no-talent, and still he wanted to do whatever he could. Your chest lit up at the idea of him wanting to help you in any circumstance. It felt. . .comforting.
You hadn’t felt this sort of safety, away from your Mom, since you’d moved to New York for Juilliard. You’d made great friends, of course, but the genuinity behind his eyes was. . . Different.
“Yes,” you said again, nodding smoothly, already turning. As you walked towards this kitchen, you continued speaking, over your shoulder. “You could play some soft rock if you really want me to relax.”
“Any specific decade?”
Your answer was instantaneous, your favorite was, “1970’s — its acoustics are arguably the most hauntingly intimate of any decade.”
“Oh, without a doubt,” he agreed, re-tuning the instrument to fit the favored keys from the time.
And just as you turned into the kitchen, you saw a little close-mouthed grin from him. The expression that took over his features made you feel a unique sense of security.
It was strange, and you didn’t give it much thought. . . But you did feel your shoulders ease just a bit.
—||—
He’d been playing through snippets of John Denver’s catalogue for the past few minutes, before then switching to some James Taylor, to now settling on some Bread. It was hotter than you wanted to admit that he knew so much music.
(You went to Juilliard, of course music-lovers were naturally appealing to you. . . And when they looked like Jake? Yeah, damn near titillating to watch his musical knowledge take shape right in front of your eyes. . . You were just being honest.)
As you’d gone about getting the drinks, he’d kept on with his melodies, making the smallest bit of small talk with you from the other room as he played.
And, as you’d sat down beside him, he’d only momentarily paused to say ‘thank you’ and take a drink. It took him almost no time before he was continuing, nodding his head to the beat. Your breath had caught when his eyes had stayed on you, as he’d picked it back up flawlessly.
After having sat in contented quietness as he went back to watching his guitar as he played, you took a few generous gulps of your water. But, once you’d set the glass down, you’d decided you had to watch his fingers.
Probably a little dangerous, yes, but. . . His talent was prodigious.
Though, when you let your eyes focus on the fluidity and grace of his touch on the fretboard, you noticed something.
A significantly long, white scar on his left forearm.
Offhandedly, you heard yourself asking before you could consider it being an invasion of personal information. “What’s the scar from?”
It might have surprised him, with the way his brows raised with curiosity at your question. But, he flowed with the question just as he did with the instrument.
“I broke it wrestling in eighth grade,” he replied with a little snort of a laugh, watching you. “Or so the story goes. . .”
“You wrestled?” You asked next, not able to help how you enjoyed hearing that little tidbit about him. “No offense, but I can’t really see you as the wrestler type. . .,” you smirked at him from under your lashes.
His own smile remained, then he continued to explain. “Oh fuck no,” he said, letting his fingers move a little quicker on a new song. “I wasn’t on the wrestling team or anything. . . I was just messing around with a friend and fucked myself over.”
“Damn,” you breathed a little laugh, sitting your chin in your hand to watch him. Your fingers ticked against your chin, watching him as he watched his instrument. “Were you already playing guitar?”
“I’ve been playing since I was three,” he replied with a smile, as if talking about his first love. And, it only made sense. . . you were sure guitar had to be his first love. “Started crawling to my dad’s guitars early on.”
“Wow,” you breathed, completely enraptured with the man sitting beside you. With every word he spoke, he became more of a dream. “Three?”
“Yup,” he chuckled, his eyes seeming to sparkle through his blue lense. “What was your first instrument?”
He hadn’t stopped his alternating style of strumming, then picking. And his current current song of choice was a favorite of yours: “It Don’t Matter To Me.”
“I’ve been singing since before I could string together full sentences,” you said, catching his look of respect.
“Child prodigy,” he commented with a knowing look. “I can appreciate that.”
“Takes one to know one,” you replied smoothly.
“Not always,” he said with a little laugh and a shake of his head. “. . .but in this case. . .,” he trailed off.
“Exactly my point,” you giggled, going back to watching him. You were still curious about one thing. “So, if you were playing guitar already. . . How in the hell did you cope with not being able to play — with your broken arm, and all?”
“I didn’t stop,” he said with a mischievous grin. You raised a brow at him, silently asking him to continue. “Well, I guess technically I did. Just for a little bit. I got surgery like three days after I broke it, had that goddamn cast on for six months. . . But. . . The durability of the cast was no match for my middle of the night trip to my dad’s power sander in the shed.”
“What?!” You gasped, mouth hanging open on a laugh. “No way.”
“Oh, of course,” he said, nodding with a scrunch of his brow as he picked up a Clapton song out of thin air. “I couldn’t let a damn cast get in the way. I kept the cast on, but shaved it down on the underside of my hand.”
“And the doctors. . .?”
“Were impressed,” he chuckled, eyes looking in the distance as if remembering the exact moment he had to show the medical professionals. “They told me it would help to strengthen the muscle. Let me keep the cast that way. Gained an entire fret that way.”
“Incredible,” you sighed, more to yourself than him. You were in awe of him. “So you basically forced a weakness to become one of your greatest strengths?”
“You could say that,” he said with a smile, eyes finding yours with a softness in his gaze you couldn’t shake. Your heart fluttered. “Watch this.”
And, right there, before your eyes, you watched as he stretched his thumb and pinky finger inexplicably higher on the fretboard. You hadn’t ever seen someone do it.
“That’s your superpower,” you giggled, trying not to think of what else he could do with the extended range.
“One of them,” he smugly replied, his sly smirk, making your cheeks pink.
Fuck.
After a moment of silence, he surprised you by continuing the conversation with another question. “So. . . Why’d you choose to learn guitar?”
Your cheeks were hot as he put you on the spot.
But. . . You were okay with answering any question he had at this point. Even when you glanced at the clock, nearing 5:55, and decided you could keep talking until 6:00.
“My mom always wanted me to learn piano,” you began, nail picking at a loose thread on your leggings as you looked down to observe the motion. But you could still feel his eyes on you. “But I never wanted to. Just wanted to focus on singing.”
He continued playing, filling the space with sweet sounds as you decided how to explain the next part without getting too sappy.
“My cousin Jill, she always played the guitar, though. . . And I admired her greatly. She was ten years older than me and I honestly always looked at her as someone I wanted to be like when I got older,” you explained, suddenly feeling his stare against the side of your head. Your throat clogged a little before you continued. But. You kept going. “When I was eighteen, Jill died in a freak accident. No will. All of her things, sold.”
Abruptly, he stopped playing and it caused your heart to skip a beat. You needed his music.
“You can keep playing. Please,” you huffed a laugh in spite of the story. “It helps me to focus.”
As he picked back up, you kept going.
“All I have left of her are memories and photos,” you sniffed, willing the tears to go away so as to not make him pity you. “It was easily the most traumatic thing I’ve ever had to heal from. . . And, as I watched at her family’s auction as they sold her guitar, I decided I had to do right by her. Somehow. I told myself that day that if I could just do it without breaking down, I wanted — had — to someday honor her by playing the guitar.”
“Wow. . .,” he breathed, letting your words linger in the air. You didn’t know Jake well, but you had zero doubt he was the type of person to not let someone have their moment. He just gave off that energy. “Well. . . For one, I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t ever know how to respond to that,” you genuinely laughed, swiping at the one stray tear that had leaked from the corner of your eye. “Because I’m sorry, too. Grief is weird.”
“I lost my Grandpa a few months back. Greatest man I’ve ever known. . . So. . . Yeah. . . I—um. I understand how weird it can feel,” he responded, fingers never letting up on the Jim Croce song he was now playing.
“It sucks,” was all you said, before realizing you needed to respond a little more emotionally. You peeked over at him, your eyes waiting for him to look at you. “I hate that you lost your Grandpa.”
“I hate that you lost your cousin,” he said in solidarity, his irises finally meeting yours. “But I’m going to do everything I can to help you honor her.”
Those words were some of the most kind-hearted and caring that you’d ever heard. You didn’t know how to respond to them, so all you could do was say ‘thanks.’
You felt lighter, now, than you had fifteen minutes ago. Talking with him, hearing him play. . . It had made the tension easily dissipate from you, a fresh smile stuck on your lips as you went to pick up your own guitar again.
And when you glanced over at him again, you caught him watching you, fingers now strumming “You’ve Got A Friend” by James Taylor. . . His eyes were shadowed by the lenses, sure, but you could see every bit of feeling in his irises as he strummed the familiar tune.
The song was a gesture that made a grin light up your features. A real one. It was the brightest smile you could muster at the moment. The apples of your cheeks blushed, and your eyes squinted just a bit more than a normal smile would have them.
And in response, his eyes seemed to shine all the more bright from behind those lenses, a wide, close-lipped smile lifting his own lips.
—||—
Now that you had left the quiet moment, you were on to the next chord.
E minor. Shouldn’t have been hard. But, for you, of course, it was.
And you were struggling. . . Again.
Shocker.
He was sitting next to you on your couch. Not too close, but close enough to teach you the way of the instrument in a way you wouldn’t want anyone else to.
And your body was feeling hotter by the second. Because, you’d spent the last several minutes, before and after your moment, watching his fingers — closely.
He was teaching you guitar, for God’s sake — you had to memorize and track their movements.
You’d paid attention to their example as well as you could, but you were a warm-blooded woman. And his fingers were so strong and purposeful against the strings — it had been almost erotic to watch them. You hated that you were objectifying the man to such an extent, but who could blame you? He was so pretty, skilled, and kind?
His proximity was making it a little more than difficult to focus, but you knew it was necessary to learn.
(You’d also made the tragic realization when he’d first sat down with you — his body moving just enough, closer to yours than you were prepared for — that he smelled delicious. The perfect mix of spicy, sweet, and sandalwood.)
The weight of the strings was making your fingertips throb in pain with how he’d instructed you to press down on them. But, nonetheless, you placed your fingers just like his.
You tried the current chord again, with him, looking up at him to see what he thought of the way your guitar rang with his. It sounded better than it had. . . But now, it was time for you to play it on your own.
You really wanted to see his eyes to gather reassurance that you were playing decently. But, his eyes were still mostly hidden behind his glasses. The fact that he hadn’t taken them off yet sort of rubbed you the wrong way, as you liked being able to look someone in the eyes when speaking to them.
And learning from someone made it even more necessary, as you could feel so much more emotion when connecting eyes with someone.
The sunglasses made it harder than you would’ve liked to not feel like an utter moron in front of this man.
(You were not going to admit that you mostly just really wanted to see the genuine color of his eyes.)
With a healthy amount of nerves and slipping fingers, you placed your grip exactly as he’d instructed for E minor. The press of the strings felt like needles against your skin. But, when you strummed the chord and it rang out perfectly, you were so damn relieved.
He let out an appreciative hum that you felt in the pit of your tummy, and when you looked up to gauge his reaction, his smile was wide. It was the first time all night you’d seen his full smile.
“That’s it, y/n,” he stated, pride painting his features. “You are doing a damn good job.”
Those words. Why were they making your chest heat?
And god. . . his teeth. That smile.
Even it was sin. A smile, sculpted to perfectly match any female gaze. White, shiny, impeccably straight — fitting the shape of his mouth unlike any other set of teeth you’d ever seen. And the pronunciation of his canines made your heart skip.
He was impossibly handsome.
You forced yourself to get back on track, your eyes glancing at the clock when you noticed that it was nearing 6:10.
His voice brought you back to the present, your gaze flickering back over to his face.
“Alright. One more chord. This one will be a bit trickier. . . But I always throw it in at the end of my basic chord instruction,” he smirked, and you felt it all the way down to your toes. “And then, our first lesson can wrap up,” he stated, lips in an easy close-lipped grin again. “You ready?”
— || —
Turned out, the next chord was even more impossible than the one prior.
And by 6:23, you still hadn’t gotten it down and you missed the simplicity of the others, compared to this one.
D minor. Your official worst nemesis.
It had been minutes of you watching, playing with him, and attempting on your own. Over and over again. You couldn’t count the amount of times you’d asked him to repeat the finger placement and strum. You didn’t know why you couldn’t just get. it. down.
And, even if he’d seemed very patient so far, you had a feeling he was starting to wear thin.
Nearly fifteen minutes of someone fighting for their life to get a not even mildly complex chord down? Yeah, that was not anyone’s idea of a good time. You were sure of that.
By what seemed like the hundredth try, he was sighing heavily. Still smiling, but you felt the weight of being watched by an incredibly attractive and talented man as you continuously striked out.
You wanted to shrivel up in a hole.
But, when you heaved a defeated sigh after trying once more and the sound still mimicking that of a cat getting its tail stepped on, the tiniest whimper fell from your lips in agony.
When your head fell to your chest, you felt the couch dip further in your direction. And when you looked up, he was. . .closer. The end of his thigh nearest to his knee, pressing to the side of your thigh. Your heart raced and your fingers slipped off the strings for another reason altogether.
You felt his nearness in the pit of your tummy, like butterflies frolicking in a daze.
He smelled like every woman’s dream. And his hair looked so soft and healthy, the waves that made up the texture of his hair, complimenting him.
“Hey, hey. . . It’s okay,” he softly murmured, breath dusting the side of your face. He placed his fingers on your shoulder with a gentle press, before he was gesturing towards your red and aching fingers. “Mind if I. . .?”
All you could do was nod, curious as to what he was about to do.
And, as if in slow motion, his hand came up slowly – cautious and confidently steady in his action. Your body thrummed at his next action, head light and dizzy as his hand grasped yours completely in a knowledgeable grasp. His hand was warm and knowing. Your body felt weightless as you watched him mold your hand with his own to make the shape needed for the sound.
“Alright, keep them like that while we move,” he said, looking at you briefly from behind the lenses. His eyes were comforting and promising as he held your fingers apart with one of his – the muscle and strength in his fingers was making you slowly lose sanity.
The words, ‘while we move’, on repeat in your brain as your hand finally found its home, on the neck. The firm grip of the palm of his hand, still holding the back of yours.
“There,” he murmured, so close to your ear you felt his breath as it swooshed the long bangs that hung beside your face. “Let the string throb under your nail. . . you’ll be able to feel it when it settles.”
You knew he didn’t mean anything by it and you were simply touch starved after months of no one in your bed (Juilliard classes didn’t allow time for that), but. . . the word ‘throb’ was possibly the worst thing he could have said at that moment. (Or possibly the best.)
It was difficult – trying to take note of all of his teachings, while also feeling like a woman in the Victorian era who’d never known the touch of a man. (God, you were a loser. . . And he just wasn’t — like. . . at all.)
You did as he said, his hand still holding yours to keep you in place, and by the grace of a higher power, the note rang out splendidly – flawlessly.
Even after you’d produced the sound, his hand stayed on yours for a few more beats than necessary. You sneaked a look at him, from the corner of your eye, the pink on your cheeks was impossible to hide. And he was close enough for you to smell the minty freshness of his mouth. You could also see the detail of that little marr in his lower lip.
You wondered, briefly, how he’d cut his lip.
His smile was bright, pretty teeth tempting to show from behind his full lips.
“Yeah. . .,” he replied, his voice rich and rasping on the single syllable. “That’s it, y/n.”
You felt his breath fanning over your neck, the words floating across your skin. . . And you couldn’t help wanting to put the guitar down completely and focus on the way he felt against your skin. . .
And that was a problem.
–||–
The time was glaring at you from your phone on the table and the clock on the wall, judging you for attempting the tiniest, simplest chord progression.
Your eyes had flicked to both displays of time, any time you took a breath to try again.
Time was ticking.
It was coming up on 6:30, and you had class at 7:00, with a twenty minute drive to campus.
You were also only paying him for an hour.
And, you’d officially gone past time — ten minutes past the time that he got here, that is.
You didn’t know what that meant for your bill for this session, but you couldn’t afford much more than the $100 you were already spending on today’s lesson.
(To begin with, the $100 was definitely pricier than all of the others in the area, but your classmates had reassured you that he was ‘worth the extra money’. And, at this point, you had to agree, wholeheartedly. He was a very good teacher and ridiculously patient. . . also, just plain fucking sexy. He was worth every cent.)
After your thousand-and-first failed attempt at the simplest progression known to man, he exhaled deeper and slower than he had so far. He chuckled a bit after the long sigh, but you knew he had to be tired of this. Who wouldn’t be exasperated at this point?
When you looked up from your sweaty hand, you immediately started apologizing. You couldn’t look at his face.
“I’m so sorry,” you shook your head, bringing the hand that had been strumming up to your forehead to facepalm. (Your hand smelled like pennies in a way that was oddly satisfying, you had to admit.)
Though, you couldn’t even feel proud of your hard work because you’d failed many more times than succeeding in the last thirty minutes. You let out your own sigh, letting him know that you understood any tiredness or irritation. You continued, “I know it’s so frustrating that I can’t get this down, and I know how rude it is of me to keep you past your paid time.”
He was silent in response, so you looked up to take in his reaction. Your heart was racing from nerves — embarrassment taking over your entire body. Because, not only did you suck ass, you had a metaphorical hard-on for his appearance alone. And he’d been so kind and willing to help the entire time. . . He’d been so great that he was very nearly a fictitious male character in a romance novel.
And you were fucking it up.
Great first impression, y/n.
“Please don’t say sorry,” he assured you, the hand that had been on the neck of his guitar reaching out to touch your thigh. His leg hadn’t stopped touching yours since he’d initially placed it there. And the heat of his calloused fingertips on your leggings. . . The warm pressure was seeping through enough to make your brain lag on the four words. “We’ve got nothing but time. No worries. No penalties,” he finished, the smile in his tone, meant to make you feel better.
But, when you glanced at the time on your phone — again — you noticed it was 6:35. Class. Twenty five minutes. Twenty minute drive. Shit.
“I’ll just show you again how to–,” he began, but your brain was wired at the thought of continuing to fail and your very real, growing probability of being late to class.
You’d never been late to any class, a day in your life.
You shook your head once again, brushing the metal-smelling hand through your hair to get your long bangs out of your face. “No, actually. We, um – we don’t have time. I’ve gotta wrap it up. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got places to be,” you rushed out, a breathy laugh dropping into the last statement. “I can’t afford to be late like some people can. Don’t have it in me to be rude and disrespect a professor like that, you know?”
You were jittery; your words were coming out faster than you would’ve liked. His touch was making it hard to think.
But, as soon as you took a breath, you instantly noticed his hand, falling from your leg. Fast. Like you’d burnt him.
Fuck.
Your words had tripped over themselves enough to make you sound like a fucking asshole. You knew that. Dammit. And you hadn’t even meant for it to be a target against him. You instantly looked up at him, ready to re-explain.
But, when you saw his face, it was already stone-cold, his lips set in a hard line, one of his thick brows was raised at you. Your cheeks heated at the seriousness of his stare. It was new — he hadn’t shown you this look yet.
You felt like you were being chastised with no chance for explanation. And you hated how his stare made your tummy flip over and over.
It all pissed you off just a little more than you felt comfortable with.
Anyways, his sudden irritation with you was unwarranted for a couple of reasons.
One: you were paying him. Heftily.
And, two: he had arrived late enough that he owed you some grace. The same you’d given him.
You tried to bite your tongue. You really did. You didn’t want him to be completely irate with you. You wanted to keep him as an instructor. Because, truly, he’d been wonderful.
But. You weren’t going to let him get all irritable when you had done your very best to be kind when he’d started off on the wrong foot by being late today.
“It’s not like I wanted to keep you late. I just don’t have time, like you do, to be late,” you hastily explained. Though, yet again, you knew you sounded bitchy.
And now, it was targeted and he didn’t deserve that. Really.
So, you began to correct yourself. “Like. Not that I haven’t enjoyed our time. I have. I just don’t have the extra time ton—.”
“If you’re that anxious for the lesson to be over, all you’ve gotta do is let me know,” he insisted, a sense of finality lacing his words. His eyes averted, to his case on the ground beside his feet. “I don’t mind the extra time. However, I do prefer for my clients to be pleased with my help. I’d rather not make you feel anxious to be rid of it. So. . .,” he cleared his throat, the bit of scruff above his upper lip moving as his nose twitched, you watched the little shadow of hair too closely for it to be considered normal. “I will go ahead and get out of here. Don’t want to get in the way.”
And, suddenly, his thigh wasn’t touching yours and he was moving. No longer was he in the hunched position he’d been in for the past hour or so. Without you being able to blink twice, he was sticking his pick in his mouth and putting his guitar back in its case.
Your thoughts raced, trying to figure out how to explain what you meant without tripping over your words and humiliating yourself further. “Wait—. That’s not what I—. . . Fuck,” you laughed off the awkwardness, your words lingering in the silence of the room. “I’m sorry. Just. . . Yeah.”
Where the fuck were your words?
He didn’t stop to try to listen to your babbling, he just kept putting his instrument away. Before you knew it, he was on his knees, snapping the black case closed. You tried not to watch the curve of ass in his jeans as he squatted.
But, damn. Every inch of him was made for the female gaze.
You couldn’t appreciate it for too long, though, because that task was soon complete, and he was back on his feet.
When you connected eyes again, he was staring at you with an expression that resembled a wall. Blank. None of the heart that had been there for the past several minutes existed any longer. As you’d worked on chord after chord for the past hour and a half, that unwavering softness in his gaze. . . was gone.
He was standing at full height in front of you, his shirt opened just a bit more to show the sharp lines of his chest. Your eye caught the firmness of the muscle in his pecs underneath the satin material. His chains, clinking between the twin muscles of his chest.
His line of sight had averted to his own wrist watch, checking the time. Your gaze followed his there, admiring the strength in his forearm and the scar that you now knew the story behind. . .
So before he could say anything else, you decided you had to clear the air.
“It isn’t you,” you hurried out, placing your guitar on the couch next to you. As soon as you could, you were standing up, too, trying to gain his attention. “I just—I have class in like less than thirty minutes and a twenty minute drive to school.”
He nodded, a smile stretched thin on his lips. You caught the tick in his jaw, but didn’t pay it much mind. He’d told you earlier that he’d had a long day. You wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“I get it,” he replied, the words coming out sharper than you would have liked. His head tilted towards the front door, eyes peeking briefly from the tops of his glasses. “Better get on with it, then, hm?”
It was your turn to raise a brow as he shifted, moving in the direction of the door. You’d seen his eyes. Finally.
Brown eyes. Dark, brown eyes. Your chest clenched; for some reason beyond you, your heart was beating hard.
What was it that this man brought out in you?
You had no choice but to follow him to the door. And once you were there, you pulled out your phone. His website had said he could do CashApp, so that was the app you chose to pull up as he was going to reach for the knob.
Didn’t he want you to pay? Or at least say anything else before he left? Seriously. For being so well-revered, he was beginning to act like a bit of an asshole. Where had the kind-hearted teacher gone?
“Your site said you use CashApp?” You said, watching his broad shoulders bunch underneath his shirt at the sound of your voice.
“What?” He asked, sharply, only looking over his shoulder to acknowledge you.
Okay, fuck you, too, you thought on a heavy inhale that you could only hope he heard and understood. Get off your high horse, buddy.
“CashApp,” you stated, icily, to match his tone. “Can I pay you with it?”
Shockingly, he was turning on one boot-lifted heel, facing you once again. “Yes,” he began, plainly. “CashApp works. $100. An extra $15 for the fifteen minutes past start time.”
As you clicked through the apps on your phone to the little green icon, you paused.
No way.
Then, you asked, voice a little sweeter than necessary. A honeydew tone, you’d call it. “You were late. . .,” you said with a sort of giggle, selling the sweet. You were still staring at the screen of your phone.
“And you went past the allotted time slot. Even with my tardiness,” he explained, professionalism evident with a hint of annoyance.
But you were annoyed, too. (Even if his rationale made sense. . . so did yours.)
So, you tested him with your next question, still staring at your thumbs — hovering above your screen. You didn’t know why you chose to ask it. But, you did. “You’re not going to call it even since you showed up so damn late? As the tutor himself?”
“I prefer the term instructor,” he corrected.
And, in your opinion, the correction was for essentially no reason at all, but to keep the upper hand. Because what the fuck? Why did that even matter?
Suddenly, you remembered something he’d said.
“You said no penalties,” you reminded him, finally looking up at him with fire behind your irises. “For going past time. You said we had nothing but ti—.”
“If you read my site, you’ll find my regulations and policies. And if you do, you’ll come to find that I reserve the right to decide if a client owes me an additional amount of money for any incident or inconvenience,” he recited, as if he were actually looking at the damn webpage.
“What about your inconvenience to the student?” You bit out, keeping his eyes in a vice grip with your own. “Hm?”
His brows drew together, confused or angry. Probably both. “Excuse me?”
“You caused me an inconvenience when you initially betrayed the ‘allotted time slot’,” you tossed back, using his own words and logic against him. “You showed up late. We ended late. That should be called what it is,” you explained, tone biting just enough to stand your ground. With one step forward to prove your point, you looked up just enough to keep his line of sight with the new proximity. “‘Even’ is what we call that, Mr. Kiszka.”
The term seemed to catch him off guard, his jaw tightening as his eyes became even darker behind his lenses. Your chest heated. You could tell from the way his eyes settled on your face that you were past the point of irking him. His brow raised at you. “I never told you to call me that.”
“You said it yourself. You’re my instructor,” you said, tilting your chin up to emphasize the point. “And we’re all about maintaining professionalism with the damn time slot even when you were also in the wrong. . . so. I don’t know. Makes a whole lot of damn sense to me.”
“Next time you book with me, I’ll remember just how transactional you like for a lesson to be,” he said, tone clipped with a tick of his jaw. “Feels like I’m under a damn microscope.”
You bit back, not about to take it lying down. “Oh. . . I’m the one who’s being ‘transactional’? You’re the one who’s being so meticulous about the ‘policies’ and ‘regulations’, Mr. Kiszka.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“You just said it. I’m transactional. I like to keep it professional,” you iterated, taking a step closer to him. It might have been too much, but he didn’t move back when you did it. Win. You were winning. “I wouldn’t have been twenty minutes late to my first session with a student–.”
“Client–.”
“I would have shown up on time to make a halfway-decent first impression,” you continued, unphased by his interruption. Your head was buzzing and your teeth felt tight in your mouth.
“You know, it’s funny,” he replied, his tone lowering to imply anything but humorous nature. You stilled, your body already rigid for whatever he was planning to say. “For being so hyper focused on my professionalism, you seem to be one to take things a little too personally.”
“Well, I think that you, Mr, Kiszka, are not above criticism just because you have such a big fucking head,” you snapped, not a fan of how he was calling you out so bluntly. Did you take things too personally? Yes. All of the time. But it wasn’t a stranger’s job to point that out. “You, sir, charge too damn much for someone who doesn’t take his time seriously.”
His eyes glazed over with something new — something feral. It made your ears hot and you crossed your arms over your chest, as your breasts attempted to expose your true reaction to the fire in his gaze. The air was significantly warmer. . . You felt the way his eyes settled on your face. . . all the way to the deepest, most hollow part of your belly.
His stare, settling in your veins like fire as he took one step towards you — where you continued to stand, unmoving. You raised a brow at him to mask the way you felt your entire body catching fire at the power of his presence.
“I don’t know what about that lesson told you, Miss y/n, that I don’t take my time seriously. Yes, I was late, but how much time did we just spend on that couch? With zero complaint from me,” he rushed out, pointing a finger at the sofa in question. “How many times did I repeat those simple fucking chords with you, just to make sure you understood to the best of your damn ability?”
In your mind, you could still see the lesson replaying – on a mocking loop of failure. The tremble in your lip was more from offense than anything, but you knew he was right. . . and that stung. Was this him complaining now?
“I didn’t think you–,” you started, ready to combat his words.
But he wasn’t finished.
“There’s something else that’s, I don’t know, pretty odd. . .,” he laughed, once again, humorlessly. “You want me to be so damn business-like when you couldn’t keep your eyes to yours–. Fuck,” he brought a hand up to his face, his two silver bracelets clinking against each other with the motion. “Never mind.”
Your skin prickled at the idea of what he was about to say.
All you knew was that you found it pretty damn embarrassing that he had caught you checking him out upon his arrival. At this point, you wanted to forget that any of this had happened at all. . . But, even with the anger, your body flared in a way that craved him. And with the way his chest expanded on every choppy breath, you couldn’t help but let your eyes go to it.
Your body was betraying you.
When you looked back to him, after catching sight of his heaving chest, you caught him doing the same thing to you. . .It shocked you, that he was looking at you the same way. Your own breaths ragged, making your breasts push up, just a bit, above the v-neck, long sleeved shirt you wore. . . That he’d apparently noticed.
And you couldn’t keep your eyes to yourself?
But you weren’t complaining. His eyes felt fucking good on you. So, you looked away, not wanting him to know you’d caught him. Wanted to help him keep that secret. . . But, the air stayed unnecessarily tense between you two for a few measured moments, all harsh breaths and no words.
The air, humid between your faces.
When you looked back up towards his face, he was still not looking at your face. His eyes, this time, on your hips. And, as you caught him licking his lips while his stare traveled back up your body, to your breasts, your temperature spiked and your panties drew wetness. Then, he pinched his eyes shut, bringing a pointer and thumb to his lids as he took a deep breath in through his nose.
His jaw was clenched — hard.
You looked away once more, not ready to expose that you’d caught him. And, finally, you felt safe to let yourself look at him again.
When you did, his eyes sank into yours, battling some internal war with you. But, you didn’t back down, staying planted in your spot — you refused to bend.
“You know,” you began, locating the wherewithal to test him — push him — further. “I don’t know if it works on your other clientele, but this little flip to intense, moody, and brooding behavior? It doesn’t intimidate me nearly as much as you want it to.”
The two of you still weren’t close enough to be nose to nose, but you were close enough to feel his breath fan across your face when he exhaled. His nostrils flared in response, chest flexing as fire took hold of your gaze.
You pretended it didn’t cause your tummy to flip.
“Fine,” he finally bit out, his gaze momentarily fleeting to the bottom of your face. You pretended not to notice as he licked his lips. “$100 and we’ll call it fucking even.”
Before you could have the final word, he was turning on that same heel as before, back to the door.
It was less than thirty seconds before he was turning the knob and out of your home.
And, as you grumbled to yourself about him and gathered your things for class — leaving right on time to make it in at 7:00 — you couldn’t help but feel your tummy dip at the very real possibility of not having a lesson with him again.
But you were sure it was the best idea to not approach that again with the way things had ended tonight.
Goddammit.
How had it escalated so quickly?
—||—
It was a little over a week later, the day after you should have had your second lesson with Jake.
Or, as you’d snarkily referred to him — ‘Mr. Kiszka’. God. What in the fuck had gotten into you?
You couldn’t help but feel ashamed of your little heated debate. But, even a week later, you hadn’t been able to pin the exact moment things had shifted for him.
Your words had obviously hurt his feelings.
But, after your quiet moment of bonding, you were stuck on why he’d let such a simple thing as a few misspoken words ruin his entire attitude.
If he really had been offended by your lack of thoughtful words, why had he completely shut down — so quickly? When he’d been so different with you — mere moments before your idiotic word-stumble?
It didn’t matter.
You’d never see the man again. You had already decided to book with another person for lessons.
And, with this one, he had included a photo of himself on his website. This tutor, looking much more like you’d expected Jacob Kiszka to look.
Tutor. Maybe you needed to refer to this old man as ‘instructor’ — just like Jake had insisted.
God. Why had he been like that?
Why had you been like that?
Fuck.
It. Didn’t. Matter.
—||—
A few weeks later, Jake was. . .a little further from your mind.
You’d hardly thought of him at all. (Almost.)
A mysterious, sexy, near-stranger, who was a talented asshole.
He was a musician in the truest sense, you had to admit.
A bit flaky. A bit stubborn. A bit of an asshole. That was based on what you knew of musicians. And you knew musicians well — surrounding yourself with them on a daily basis for the past two and a half years of school at Juilliard.
He was also evanescent. A moment in time. A blur. A brief encounter.
A musician.
Through-and-fucking-through.
You hated how he’d stuck around in your mind. There was zero point. You knew better.
—||—
It had been a month since the first failed guitar lesson.
And, since then, you’d become fairly well acquainted with your new, more-than-slightly grouchy, elderly instructor.
Gideon Cross.
He was well-known by many of your friends, too. He was a legend of sorts — a few people you knew had referred to him as ‘Ghostfingers’. . . Friends of yours had explained his ‘unbelievably light touch’ and how he ‘basically produces notes out of thin air.’
And, yes, he was massively talented. But, he was also a massive asshole. Not patient. Not nearly as tactful of a teacher as Jake had been.
But, he had taught you your very first song on the hollow, wooden instrument.
“Wonderwall” had been your choice of song to learn first. (Corny? No doubt. Predictable? Humiliatingly so. . . .But, it was easy for your mostly inexperienced hands.)
So to celebrate, your friends had decided to get drinks at The Iridium. Your group loved to check out live music in the city (you were music majors, come on). And, one of your professors had mentioned The Iridium was hosting a night for local guitarists to showcase their music.
A Local Guitarist Exposition, it had been penned.
You would not be performing (no way in hell), but a couple of your friends figured it was the ideal celebration experience for what you’d accomplished.
—||—
What you hadn’t expected was to see him at The Iridium.
Jake.
You didn’t know why you hadn’t expected it. He was a local guitarist. Ridiculously talented. Widely known enough amongst your Ivy League classmates and professors to initially recommend him to you for (expensive) lessons. . . .
And it was fucking guitarist showcase for the locally well known musicians, much like Jake.
It should have dawned on you before he was walking onto the stage, boots clicking enticingly against the stage floor. The same chains that had adorned his neck and chest the night you’d met, the same ones on his body now. His earrings — hoops — that peeked just right through his freshly waved locks.
And, of course. . . sunglasses. You weren’t surprised. These, though, had a light orange tint instead of blue.
You stood, dumbfounded and awestruck, as your fellow classmates cheered for him. All of them yelled his name. All of them knew who he was — even the ones who hadn’t recommended him.
In fact, as the stagehands helped him get ready for his set, everyone in The Iridium cheered for him. And, even more of a crowd started to gather from outside the venue. Passersby seemed to quickly notice the name, faces lighting up. . . And, the more noise people made, the larger the crowd became.
It seemed every person in the place and around the place knew who he was.
(Your eyes had immediately clocked a group of ten or so women at the two tables nearest to the stage. . . These girls, who held damn hearts in their eyes for him, were wearing outfits that left very little to the imagination. Every last one of them, decked out in black, with their asses and titties on near-full display, all for him, you were sure (the pieces were inherently lingerie, if you were being honest.)
How did everyone on this side of New York seem to know of him? You were very much a part of the music scene (had been for the two and a half years of attending Juilliard) and you hadn’t even known to expect a young male as your instructor that first evening of lessons?
You were still reeling a little from the shock of seeing him again, right in front of you, as he looped the thin leather guitar strap over his back.
He did so with his back facing the audience, which you took as an opportunity to appreciate his back in the white satin shirt he now wore. His shoulders, broad and begging to be grabbed. And his pants, a pair of tapered black slacks, hanging on his hips and legs like he was the only man to ever wear a pair of slacks.
And the boots on his feet, a bit sharper, with a slightly taller heel than the ones he’d shown up in at your house.
By the time he began, the place was packed.
You watched with lust clouding your vision as his hands began to manipulate those strings on the worn red Gibson Les Paul, you stood in complete and utter astonishment. You’d known that first day, sitting next to him as he seamlessly played hit after hit, that he was rare in his ability on the instrument.
His fingers had flown over the strings then, yes.
But at this moment in time?
It was clear that he was a motherfucking gift to this generation of music. It was no wonder that everyone in the area knew his name. How you’d been oblivious to him was beyond you, but you didn’t care anymore. . .
Because now? Now, you knew exactly who he was.
A dark, enigmatic, strikingly gorgeous man who rivaled all other men you knew. . . In more ways than one. And you wanted him. . . . Badly.
But you shouldn’t have wanted him. Not even close to what you should have been feeling. Even if things hadn’t left off the way they had that day, a month ago, the way you knew this man was as your instructor — with strict-ass policies. And ‘regulations’.
Both of which you were sure outlined how he couldn’t have sexual relations with a student. (Rather, ‘client’, as you knew he’d correct your term.)
God. What was wrong with you?
Your entire body felt like fire as he continued to demolish Zeppelin’s “Since I’ve Been Loving You” — executing the seductive rhythm of the iconic guitar part on the well-loved instrument under his touch. He took hold of the tune like it was his goddamn song that he was playing for the last time.
Then, you stood dumbfounded, as he began to sing the song, in a much lower key than Plant’s original. . .and the smokiness of his tone was enough to wreck you. Your body fizzled and burned under the sound of it.
And if you thought his fingers were volatile before in the craft alone, you were well aware now of how much more lethal they were to the wandering, female imagination if he was under stage lights. . . Because, at that moment, as his quick, tough fingers reverently worshipped the neck of that guitar with skilled precision, you felt your core tick with need. He annihilated those strings like they were his goddamn bitch. . . And you could only imagine what else they could work so steadily and deliberately.
How would those fingers feel against your. . .? Or, inside of your. . .? God.
You couldn’t even begin to describe how your body reacted to hearing such a classic as “Red House” emitting from his guitar and lips. His guitar, worn and rugged from being handled relentlessly by its possessor. Jake was easily the sexiest, most formidable guitarist you’d ever witnessed in person.
After a couple of songs, sweat had accumulated at his hairline and along his brow, and your entire chest and belly was in knots of starved emotion. And when he came up to the microphone for a break, he waved gently before speaking to the audience.
The sound of his low, rasping voice sent a rush of flames straight from your head, all the way down to your toes.
You were wound so goddamn tight.
You hardly paid attention to the words. All you registered him saying, in that low, raspy and lust-filled timbre was, “How you feelin’?”
The simple phrase. Those three words — slowly drawn out, dark and enveloping like the man who’d said them — sent a warm whisper of heat straight to your panties.
His eyes landed on the girls to his left, close to the stage, as they bounced and screamed for him. And, the wink he sent towards them, the tiny, knowing smirk that he responded with. . .? It shouldn’t have made you feel jealous. But, you were undoubtedly envious of those women at that very moment.
But still, you willed him to not look in your direction. Because you knew whatever it was that you were feeling wasn’t right. And, if you had held any chance before, you’d missed any and every opportunity with your bad attitude on that fateful night, one month ago.
And one fucking class on campus had ruined it.
You’d compromised any sort of camaraderie with this man for a singular class you’d never missed a day of, for anything.
Chances were, your prof would have understood anyway — you went to fucking Juilliard, for Christ’s sake. If you’d explained that you’d been in the middle of a guitar lesson for something you needed to hone in on, in order to graduate and be on the path to becoming a damn music teacher in the next year or so, the professor would have understood.
No fucking doubt.
You could have slapped yourself.
He continued speaking to the crowd, his eyes scanning the room. . . and, as he did so, you’d come to the conclusion that you were stupid and risked too much by being in the same room as this man you’d insulted so boldly. . .
. . .But, when he turned, you caught sight of his left, flexing forearm — the long, striped scar.
And you felt all of the heat in your body rush to the center of you.
You’d managed to push off how you’d felt in that moment, getting to know him in a serene way, as he’d gently played the guitar for you. . . You, exposing your heart to him with your story about Jill. . .
Fuck. The entire event was back, flashing with red lights, at the front of your mind.
You had to get out. Leave.
But. . . You’d stalled for too long.
When his eyes did actually on your table, right before he turned to grab his acoustic (the same from your lesson, you noticed by the wear), your breath caught in your chest.
It was expected for him to look in the direction of your group. Your classmates hadn’t shut the fuck up since he’d walked on stage. They were all salivating over him with you — just not in the same way as you. No, they were simply intensely infatuated with him and his melodic aura — in their own little music-appreciation-enthusiast way.
Well. . . Save for a few of your classmates who had exchanged those looks, brows raised and pursed lips with little smirks as he’d wiped some sweat with a towel. And, then those same few had shown obvious enchantment when he’d turned to show his sweat drenched back through the thin material of his satin shirt (god, fuck). All of their expressions, you knew all too well.
His pure and unadulterated sex appeal was evident to any and all naked eyes.
Your interest in him, though, still seemed far different than what any of your friends (or the horny girls a few tables over) were thinking. You couldn’t explain it. But, you knew it had gone far past music appreciation or purely finding him attractive.
No, it was more.
And that ‘more’ was confirmed when his gaze found your own, holding your stare with his magnetic irises. His eyes were dark on yours, recognizing you — immediately — and taking you in, in a way that made you feel like the only woman in the room.
Your outfit was definitely one of your best.
A practically sheer black, long-sleeved lace top. The material was thin and transparent enough to show your black bra underneath, which held your breasts quite well. It accentuated them in a way that you knew he could see, even from the stage. The way the material of your shirt clung to the natural curve of your flesh, above the bra. And your black skinny jeans, hugging your hips, thighs, and ass (and sadly, he couldn’t see your ass from his view, as you were facing him) in a way that rivaled many other bodies in jeans. And, your favorite tall, black, heeled boots.
His eyes drank you in, in a way you weren’t sure you were imagining at first. . . They started at your face, seeming to take in every detail, then your neck, chest, waist. . . Everything. Lingering on your hips before his eyes came back to yours.
Though, the softness seemed to dissipate the longer he held your gaze.
It was soon replaced with a hardness that felt eerily familiar to how you’d left things the day of your fated lesson.
Your stomach dropped as soon as his jaw clamped shut, the same way it had that first (and only other) day.
And, you lost the last shred of hope when he turned away, hair flying with the action as if to emphasize the finality of the action.
Just like his words that day.
“If you’re that anxious for the lesson to be over, all you’ve gotta do is let me know.”
It had been over that instant. He’d seemed more hurt than anything that you wanted to finish the lesson early.
But, before you could read into it any further, he was getting a harmonica holder looped around his neck by tech, adjusting his acoustic at his hips, and already going back to the mic for the next song (one of his own, as he’d said into the mic).
His stare, now aimed in the opposite direction of the room entirely, back on that blessed group of women. The way he’d angled his body, even, seemed to make a point that said ‘we’re done here.’
Even more than that day of the lesson, you felt utterly humiliated and vulnerable in that dark club. The lights might as well have come on, highlighting each and every secret you’d ever kept close to your chest.
You felt laid bare.
Exposed. Cut open. Stupid.
So, with a gentle tap, you let your friend Polly know that you were heading home.
Her response was quick, brows shooting up into her blonde hair. “With Jake Kiszka looking at you like that, you’re going to leave?!”
She’d noticed?
No, y/n. Don’t even go there, you coached yourself, to avoid feeling any further reduced to a small shell of yourself.
You did your best to ignore her words, only nodding in response to her question.
And with a hand to your forehead to show your exhaustion, you threw a thumb towards the door and told her you’d text her when you got home.
—||—
You’d done your best to race to your car, getting as far away from the bar as you could.
But, unfortunately, it had been too little too late. And, you’d borne witness to another devastating reality before you’d even exited the building.
His own song was even better than the classics he’d performed.
It was encapsulating. Melancholic. Gutsy. Authentic. Raw.
Real.
And it only caused your reality to sink in deeper.
All the way down to the pit of your tummy, that twisted with sadness at losing something that you weren’t even sure was real.
—||—
That night, you got ready for bed — freshly showered with a body full of overwrought emotion.
You sat at your vanity and braided your hair, your face glowing and clean — and located his Instagram. And, unashamedly, you spent two hours doing a deep dive stalk, as any person with a crush (because, yes, that was absolutely what you were feeling) in this day and age would.
And you’d found out that he had a whole ass band with a name that could’ve belonged to a Tolkien novel. It wasn’t just him and a couple stand-in musicians as it had been tonight.
The stroll as you scrolled down his page was lengthy; you went all the way down to his earliest post. But, you eventually also got to his band’s page and spent a decent amount of time watching every single video you could.
Jake, playing the guitar. Jake, singing like he was pouring his entire soul into each individual lyric. And. . . Jake, playing the harmonica.
It had all left you speechless. . . But the harmonica playing had gotten you.
It made you remember something Polly had said. One time, she’d said it. But you remembered it. She’d said it after another student had presented on and played harmonica for a freshman class based on instrumental anatomy.
She’d leaned over, whispering smugly in your ear. “You know, I bet he eats pussy like that. I’ve always heard it said that ‘however someone plays the harmonica. . . shows how they eat a woman’ — from the inside and out.”
And you definitely didn’t (did) squirm with an ache in your core, on your vanity seat when you remembered those words. Because, damn, did Jake know how to play it. Those long, drawn out breaths to maintain stability, with his mouth wrapped snugly around the shining, silver metal. . . The sighs and ragged breaths that hit the microphone when he’d pull his mouth away from the instrument. . . . .
It made you feel real fucked up, watching him and imagining that. . . . But, it simply couldn’t be helped.
Eventually, you landed on a performance of the song you were more than pretty sure you walked out on. And the lyrics? They were romantic in every sense of the word.
It fucking killed you.
But it didn’t stop you from jumping over to Spotify and adding their one and only (freshly debuted) album to your library.
Then, just as you’d finished your full listen of the bluesy, piratical, hard-rock masterpiece of an album, you decided it was time for bed.
Though, not before you made one final decision.
Before you could think better of it, you followed him on Instagram. What was one more follower, in addition to his twenty thousand plus going to do? He probably wouldn’t even see it.
You deleted the app as soon as you followed him. If he didn’t follow you back (which he probably wouldn’t, and you knew that), you didn’t want to know right away. You needed time to get over the crush.
And, as sleep finally took you in its grasp, you did your damndest to not overthink it.
—||—
A couple of weeks had passed since the night of the show.
You’d done your very best to forget the night.
But you’d kind of shot yourself in the ass with that plan, by listening to his band’s album basically nonstop. You couldn’t help it. The sound was gritty and dark and gothic. Bluesy.
Their music seemed to be tailored to fit, exquisitely, to your taste. It was a cruel joke from the universe.
You were packing your suitcase to visit home for the holiday, their music filtering through your home from your Alexa as you packed. Tomorrow morning you had an early ass flight to leave town to go be with your family for Christmas.
And the time was nearing 8:00 p.m. So, you knew you had to wrap up the packing as soon as possible. You wanted to have the proper amount of time to sleep before boarding the four-hour flight departing at 5:30 a.m.
When you’d just zipped your big suitcase, one of their more upbeat songs was playing from Alexa’s spot on the kitchen counter.
It was called “Heels of the Hunt” if your memory and repeated listens served you right.
You’d just slipped off your long sleeve henley, deciding to sleep in your comfiest sports bra and a pair of your softest, gray sleep shorts.
As you went about shutting off the bathroom light and folding a few pairs of pants from the dryer, you sang along with Jake, as his voice echoed from the Alexa, all throughout your house. Once you were in your kitchen, to take your nighttime meds, you tapped your foot to the beat of the song, before you were walking to turn off the lights in the kitchen to go to bed.
And, as always when the next song, in particular, came on. . .you mentally kicked yourself over
being an asshole to him.
The song Alexa had just begun playing was the song you’d walked out on at the bar.
This song was your favorite from the album. It was called “Ten Thousand.” And, ironically, you’d come to find that it made you feel ten thousand emotions all at once.
It had a sort of sound that made you feel like you’d known the song forever.
It had quickly become your go-to first pick for car rides, house cleaning, homework. . . however, you’d had to cut it off at showers. You could not do that. It felt. . . too wrong (or, maybe it felt unbelievably right in a way you really didn’t want to think about).
The song was a soul catharsis; Jake’s dynamic and intimate vocals had an insane ability to keep you grounded. You felt every piece of authentic vulnerability he’d weaved into the bluesy track. Anytime his voice crackled on a note, or lowered an octave, you felt it all the way down to your soul.
(There was also the fact that his tone was so eloquently a mix of gravel and velvet. . . when he sang, he just sounded straight sexy and you couldn’t get enough of it.)
Every time you listened, though, your mind got momentarily stuck on how things ended. The state you’d left things after such a minuscule encounter. . . Everyday, the moment began to feel bigger than it actually had been. . . The further away from the day you got, the more crushing it became that you’d essentially pushed him out of your life.
A fucking moron, you were.
You’d just rounded the hallway to the living room to turn the light off — just past 8:00 — when there was a knock at the front door.
The lights in the living room, still bright and casting that warm, golden hue. . . Making it blatantly obvious someone was home. To whomever had decided to grace your front porch at 8:00 at night, you were a very apparent target.
Your heart leapt into your throat, Alexa keeping the volume loud enough that the knock hadn’t broken quiet to make you jump. But, it had been sharp and intentional. . . and out of nowhere.
When you checked your phone, you saw no texts or missed calls from friends. So, you were genuinely curious who in the fuck could be at your door.
You left Alexa on at the same volume she’d been at all night, wanting to stay as normal as possible to scare away anyone who’d come to your house at this time of night. But when the knock occurred two more times, you knew you couldn’t ignore it anymore. Still, you grabbed the baseball bat you kept at the door, edging up to the front door to look through the peephole.
And what you found on the other side of the peephole. . .
Was not — in a million years — who you’d expect to see pop up on your doorstep.
Not again, at least.
Though, you didn’t even give yourself time to think about the music choice exposing you. You dropped the bat with a clatter and quickly unlocked the door.
And, the heaviness of it cracked open to reveal. . .
Jake.
In some sort of poetic symbolism, the man had shown up, at your doorstep, wearing nearly the same exact outfit he’d been wearing almost two months ago when he’d shown up to give you a guitar lesson.
But, this time?
No sunglasses.
Your heart thumped in your chest at your ability to see his eyes.
It took less than point-five seconds for his wide and intensely brown eyes to find your face and soak up every last bit of it.
And, just as he took you in, you did the same with his pretty face.
The dark circles under his eyes, one of the first things you noticed. The sight caused a wave of heat to blossom in your chest.
A hardworking man, this one.
It felt like the day you’d wanted a re-do of, for the past several weeks. Except this time, it was different. You felt it.
You also got the chance to appreciate the facial hair he’d now let grow just a tad more above his upper lip and at the very bottom of his chin.
While it wasn’t much hair for a man’s face, it suited him. So fucking well.
When your eyes glanced back up to his eyes, you found he was watching you in the same sort of way you’d watched him before. In a daze, almost.
Stuck in your loop, just as you’d been in his.
But, he had apparently mastered the art of speaking amidst being stunned.
“You were there,” was all he said, in that sex-laden timbre of his.
Your heart skipped a beat. You didn’t have to ask what he was talking about. You knew. He knew. The night you saw him play at The Iridium.
“Yes,” you nodded, swallowing thickly to help erase any leftover jitters. It wasn’t helping. Your skin was on fire, your tummy alive with butterflies. “I was.”
“Did you know I’d be playing?”
“No,” you replied softly. “I didn’t.”
“Okay.”
He nodded at that, a finger coming up to rub at his bottom lip before the same hand reached to comb through his long hair.
You couldn’t get enough of his eyes. So big and brown and full of the same exact heart he poured into the music he taught and played.
Before you could process much else, he was speaking again.
“You followed me on Instagram,” he stated, taking one miniscule step closer.
You stayed in place, silently beckoning him forward. Didn’t want to spook him away. “I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to,” was all that you could think to say. Until. “You noticed?”
“Of course I did. I followed you back,” he responded on a breath, knitting his brows as if to implicate its common sense. “I looked for you after the show that night.”
Your heart got stuck in the pit of your throat, your chest burning. Perspiration, gathering in your palms as your brain fizzled. He’d followed you back. He’d looked for you. And you’d had zero idea.
Because you’d run — hid — both times.
“You did?”
“Yes,” he nodded, taking another tiny step towards you.
Still, you didn’t move.
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to,” he breathed, a little grin perking the side of his mouth. You momentarily caught a glimpse of the dimple in his right cheek before he started again. “Why’d you leave?”
“I felt wrong,” you dumbly stated, at a loss. “Weird and wrong. . . Like you didn’t like seeing me there.”
“Then you were wrong,” he responded, brows once more furrowed as he insisted his words’ truth. “I didn’t think I’d get to see you again. And, then. . . There you were. . . .looking so fucking beautiful.”
God. Your belly twirled delightfully as a pink warmth bloomed in your cheeks. . .The blush travelled to your neck — you could feel it. You could feel his words — all over. The way he’d just called you beautiful, along with the piercing stare. . .it was everything you needed and too much — all at once.
“That first night. . .I barely knew you and I was an asshole to you,” you meekly said, rubbing at your forearm as you glanced down. “I feel like shit that that was your first impression of me.”
“I had my first impression of you long before we even sat on that couch,” he replied, the little throaty chuckle he gave in response had your skin frenzied with heat. “But. . .Touché,” he replied with a tone that had you wanting to catch the smile he’d painted in it. “I was a dick.”
When you glanced up, you saw just that — a lopsided grin that morphed into a gentle, breathy laugh. He tucked a hand into the pocket of his jeans and rubbed at his bottom lip with the pointer on his other hand.
“Not as bad as I was,” you said, giving your own little half-giggle, trying your best to be casual.
“Nah. . . I don’t think so. I hated how I cut you off . . . too many times,” he explained, insistent that you hear him as his feet brought him just a step closer. “I’m sorry I shut down, y/n. I just. . .— Fuck.”
He bowed his head and it was time for you to step forward, your bare toes, facing the pointed toe of his boots.
“You just what, Jake?” You had to know, you’d been dying to know why he shut down. And he was about to tell you. “Tell me. . .”
His eyes scanned your face for a weighty moment, as if measuring whether or not he should have been saying what he wanted to say.
“You. . .,” he breathed in, slowly, through his nose. He was measuring his words. You could tell. “You were different, y/n — are different,” he began, taking a deep breath and exhaling it through his nose. “I have never. . . I—. Fuck. I thought I had this down,” he shook and bowed his head.
His brows were scrunched as his hair fell in front of his handsome features. You watched his lips as he mouthed something to himself, then he looked at you again. Your heart raced. You had no idea what he was about to say and you didn’t want to try to guess.
Then, it dawned on you. . . . his album. It was still playing in the distance, throughout your home.
It was like he suddenly noticed it, too, his head tilting toward the sound as his eyes looked in the direction of the Alexa that played the bluesy hard rock. He was still standing outside your door, but he could tell exactly where it was coming from.
He found your eyes, brow raised in suspicion as his lips lifted into a little smile. “‘S that my band?”
Your cheeks grew warm, but you played off the bit of shyness that crept up your spine by offering him a faux-innocent flutter of your lashes.
“Oh,” you feigned confusion, cocking a hip and tapping your pointer finger to your chin in thought. “Is that you? Are you the Jake Kiszka? Local rock god?”
The snort that he released was a slight surprise to you, but a welcome one as his smile grew even wider. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, taking you in. His eyes, creating a blazing trail from your face to your hips. You felt him everywhere. And you really, really liked it.
His eyes belonged on your body.
As his eyes travelled up, from the bottom half of your body, you remembered, horrifically. . .
Your sports bra didn’t have cups.
And your body was very much reacting to his stare — your breasts, perking with a hungry sort of anticipation. . . your nipples, unashamedly stretching the material. . .
His eyes, dark as dusk, honed in on your chest. He was quite literally devouring you with his stare and you’d never felt so ready for more.
“I don’t know who that is,” he joked, his tone low as he finally looked at you again, tucking a hand into his pocket. “I’m just Jake.”
You allowed your eyes to follow in his lead, taking a moment to appreciate him.
His sturdy shoulders, that stunningly handsome face, the column of his neck, his strong pectoral muscles. And, you noticed a minute detail you suddenly adored. There, at the top of his sun-warmed abdomen, right below his sternum — a small freckle peeked from above the first button he’d buttoned on the black satin shirt. That being, halfway down his shirt.
You were finding the way he wore his button downs was consistent and always displayed a generous, lovely portion of his chest (you honestly wished it was socially acceptable for him to forego buttons altogether).
Your eyes continued in their path of yearning down his front.
A flame ignited within you when you noticed his hand in his pocket. It was a natural draw of your attention, the way he pulled at the fabric on the left side of his jeans. . . It gave you a fantastic view of a part of him that you’d imagined more times than you cared to admit. And, everywhere, Jake appeared to be. . . completely of dreams.
Fuck.
You bit your lip as you let your mind go places it shouldn’t have gone. You believed wholeheartedly that if he were to take off his pants right now, he would exemplify the term ‘well endowed.’ With the way his pants held him, you could tell there was a significant heaviness there.
He cleared his throat.
Your curious irises — most likely completely blown the fuck out — found comfort in the familiar shade of brown that made up his dark eyes.
His mischievous smile said he’d caught you, but it was a secret sort of grin. Like he wasn’t going to expose you.
And you were very grateful for that.
As he stepped closer, both equally hesitant and confident in the singular step, you felt the breath in your lungs evade you. There was not any part of you that wanted to move — lest you lose the moment. You wanted this.
There was just something about him. He made this specific, addictive heat rise within you. Simply standing there before your eyes, he was threatening to unravel you.
“Y/n. . . I haven’t stopped thinking about how things could have ended, had our circumstances been different,” he spoke, the words brushing over your face with the minty breath he spoke them on.
Your face flushed as you looked down, avoiding his stare. Knowing, clearly, you were the one who’d caused ‘circumstances’ to be difficult. “I’m still so sorry about cutting us short on time.”
“Don’t be,” he reassured you, bringing the bend of his pointer finger up to tilt your chin up, towards his. “You didn’t ruin anything. . . I was the one who came here tonight, wasn’t I?”
You blinked, still feeling his touch after his finger had fallen. “Yeah, but—.”
“And I never would have allowed myself to come back if I didn’t want to. . .,” he sucked in a breath, his words were stuck again. “Goddammit, you make it hard to focus, y/n.”
He smiled to himself as he glanced down, finally taking a step closer. Your chest clenched. Your breath was caught in the narrow cave of your chest, you couldn’t breathe as he carried himself another inch or so nearer to you. He was still looking towards the ground, rubbing at his bottom lip again.
“That night. . .,” he cleared his throat, giving a slight shake of his head. “I couldn’t touch you like I wanted. I couldn’t even think about how wrong it would have been if I did. I would have been betraying every fucking moral I’ve ever had. . . But, you—you were sitting there — across from me — looking more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen. . . As—as my client and I. . .”
“You. . .?” You encouraged, right as he paused. The word, spoken on the smallest breath.
“I’m not supposed to think about my clients the way I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said, from low in his chest. “Still can’t stop thinking about you like that. . .”
You breathed in deeply, unsure how to process the fact that he’d wanted you. Jake had wanted you — still wanted you — like you’d been wanting him.
The next thing he did was unexpected just as much as it wasn’t. You’d have been an idiot to not have guessed it was coming.
With two more steps, his hand was coming to settle on your waist, his words, low, and trailing the movement. “Is this alright?”
You let out a sigh of relief, at the feeling of his warm, rough hand wrapping around the skin of your waist. He was close enough for his nose to graze your forehead, and you tilted your eyes upwards to take him in. You could see every freckle. The smallest scars. . . How long his eyelashes were, as they dusted his warm cheeks with each blink.
“Yes, Jake,” you sighed, not able to lean into his touch. Your chest, ready for his attention, pressed to his. You both exhaled on ragged breaths, shivering at the feeling of your hardened nipples coming into contact with his solid chest. “More than. . .”
His thumb nudged at the bottom of your sports bra, his eyes leaving yours to follow the movement. The digit, coming just beneath the edge of the material to brush against the hidden skin there. But, you careened further into his touch, whimpering as the movement encouraged his thumb to continue up, further. . . Until he was tempting the curve of your breast.
“Goddammit, y/n. . .,” his breath caught and you watched his pupils dilate at your body’s innate response to him. “I tried telling myself this was only attraction, but. . . It’s more,” he said, eyebrows dipped to show how much he’d been thinking about this. “Because I haven’t been able to. . .— do you want the truth, y/n?”
“Always.”
You grinned, waiting for his eyes to meet yours again. And when they did, your heart stuttered in your chest. It was more. You could feel it under the intensity of his stare.
“I haven’t even thought of touching another woman since that night. Haven’t wanted to. Couldn’t if I wanted,” he murmured, his breath hot against your forehead.
Then, his hand once again came to rest under your chin, moving your head just enough for his lips to land against the tender skin of your jaw.
All thought left you. All sense, gone. . .
“Because. . .,” he whispered, “all I could think about was how your body would look under mine. . . how soft you would feel under my hands. . . the sounds I know you would make — wrecked and falling apart. . . for me.”
You squirmed under his touch, desperate to feel him however he’d allow for you to feel him.
“Tell me more,” you sighed, your heart racing as your body thrummed for him. His lips, so plush and gentle against your tingling skin. “Please, Jake. . .”
His lips, barely caressing your skin, continued their torment as he granted your wish. “I’ve thought about it so many times. . .,” he trailed off, his lips gracefully landing behind your ear, where he nipped once, before truly kissing you, behind your ear. Your toes curled in your socks.
He let his lips slide a bit, continuing his treacherous journey of kissing you, all along the side of your face. “Your legs, wrapped around my hips,” he kissed, once, at the top of your jaw. “That lovely voice, moaning in my ear — begging me for more,” his lips met the flushed skin of your cheek, before going back to your jaw, hovering over the skin there with barely-there kisses, as he continued to speak. “How I’d fuck you. . . so slow,” kiss. “So well,” kiss. “That you wouldn’t be able to hold back. . . not a single,” kiss. “Strangled. . .,” kiss. “Cry. . .”
His tongue suddenly slipped from his lips, teasing your overheated skin. Your mouth fell open, your back arching as you did, in fact, cry for him. “God,” you whined, pushing further into him. “I need you.”
His thumb was in the same place as before, still only dusting the underside of your breast. Even as he barely touched you, you knew if he went further, he would be able to manipulate the supple skin however he wanted. You wanted him to.
In the meantime, though, you let your hand travel between the two of you and gripped at the curve of his chest. You heard him hiss, the sound trapped between his teeth. His skin was so warm, smooth as the black satin of his shirt. . . . You let your hand travel over to the side of his chest, cupping his pec carefully. You felt his nipple peak, under the skin of your palm.
You both hummed in satisfaction, his lips finally coming to kiss the corner of your mouth.
At the slight touch of his lips on the edge of yours, you hastily turned your head towards the feeling, hoping you’d meet his lips with your own. But he only grinned, pulling away just a little to where his lips were now only hovering above your own, that trembled, needing to know his taste.
But, he wasn’t even close to holding back.
Because, soon, your body was moving — with his help.
Your back quietly hit the wood of the front door as he placed his other hand on your hip. Delicate and possessive all at once, he was maneuvering your body backwards until he was crossing the threshold and you were flush against the door. You were definitely whimpering — pathetic and needy — as you felt his groin finally meet the soft skin of your exposed belly.
His hand that had been teasing you under your bra slid up, just a bit, his calloused fingertips grazing your taut nipple. The sensitive skin buzzed under his touch, your body lighting up for him, your knees buckling at the absolute least. The hand on your hip gripped you — tight.
(Really. It had been a considerably long time since you’d done anything intimate with anyone, and you were certain that it was more than apparent.)
“Mm. . . You like that. . .” He hotly noted; an observation, on a hum.
“What do you think?” You sighed, on a little huffed giggle.
His eyes dropped to your lips, your hand still massaging the golden skin of his chest, using your touch as a way to tell him you needed more, more, more.
The click of his boot against the hardwood of your living room entryway floor sent a rush of heat through your body. He angled himself to be right in front of you, on top of you. Where he needed to be.
The air was shifting, stifling. All around you, a mix of the sweetness and sandalwood in his cologne — completely clouding your senses. You shifted your hips up to feel more of him, just as he was doing the same to you. And, in unison, both of you released a guttural moan.
His hand slipped the rest of the way up, fully cupping your right breast, and yours slid up from the muscle in his chest to the side of his neck.
The sound you made at his touch wasn’t even a sound. It was a mere choked squeak that couldn’t graduate to a breath, catching in your throat. . . . you were trembling. Your mouth, falling open. Your pulse was hammering in your ears, overly aware of all things him.
Jake.
He leaned in, slowly. . . the tip of his nose brushed the tip of yours.
“If I kissed you right now, y/n. . .,” he began, the mintiness of his breath making your skin tingle. You blinked up at him, his next words causing your body to light on fire. “I wouldn’t be able to stop at your mouth.”
You felt him shift, just enough that you felt him. His hips tilted forward, enough to let you fully feel him. He intentionally dragged his front against yours. He was so thick. And hard. And hot. You lifted your hips up towards his, inviting him in with a singular rock of your front. He bent, just enough, so he could mold himself just a bit closer to you. . . to where you both wanted — no, needed — him to be. . .
A gasp shook from your lips as you bit your bottom lip; you were throbbing. You’d never understood a need like this until this moment.
He stilled, brow furrowed. His lips were parted, displaying the same need you felt pulsating through every pore on your body. “Say something, y/n. . .,” he breathed, pad of his thumb pressing to your bottom lip. . . His breath ghosted over your mouth. “Tell me if I’ve misread this and I will stop before I can’t.”
God. You felt him. The hard length of him in his jeans, only for you. The rise of his chest, right against yours. The way his hand held your breast, as if it belonged to him. . .
“Fuck. . .,” was all you could breathe, your lips curling to breathe a laugh, your head swimming with the fact that his face was less than a breath from yours.
He smiled back, loose — sensual, as the hand that had been on your hip moved to the back of your neck. His fingers, cupping the base of your skull, fingers lacing through your hair. The moan that left your lips was unstoppable. His touch felt so nice, your hair follicles thanking his existence as they tingled deliciously. You could still smell something reminiscent of wintergreen mint on his tongue.
Then, you said it.
“This must be why you’re so popular amongst women, hm? Do you charge your female clientele extra for this? Or do we get this for free?”
As soon as the ridiculous words left your mouth, you couldn’t fucking believe it. You watched the smile drop from his face as soon as the last word left your mouth.
“You think I touch just anyone like this?” He asked, face drawing away from yours.
Nononono. Goddammit.
“Not at all,” you shook your head quickly, unsure of what to say. So, you scrambled in your brain for something. “I just noticed how those other women at the show looked at you — how you looked at them — and it made me think to ask.”
No, y/n, the angel on your shoulder admonished. That’s worse, girl.
It was true — now you were assuming he entertained groupies like some manwhore. What had you just said? Fuckfuckfuck. That didn’t seem appropriate at all. Sort of degrading, if you were being completely fucking honest.
Fuck your stupid mouth.
“Fuck,” you began, the word mirroring the constant loop happening inside of your brain. “I don’t know where that—.”
“You think I’m the type of man who fucks women just because of the way they look at me?” He murmured, voice cracking as you felt his hand fall from the back of your head. “That’s what I’m hearing.”
Before you could try to explain any further, his hand was slipping from your bra and your hand had no choice but to leave his chest. There was a foot’s length of space between you in almost no time at all. Your stomach sank, watching him back up, shaking his head in disbelief.
You couldn’t blame him — you were in disbelief, too.
“I didn’t mean that the way it came out,” you rushed, trying to explain your way out of it.
He was fishing in his back pocket, while also pulling the sunglasses from the front of his shirt, where they hung at the end of the unbuttoned part. Your eyes trailed over the bit of tanned abdomen you could see, the freckle at the top of it caught your eye. The sunglasses were on his face in no time, emphasizing he was finished.
And, even as you watched his actions, walking backwards through the door he’d just walked through, you felt a sense of hope. Hope that you knew was built on a thread of fantasy. Devastated, you felt your shoulders sink as you saw keys get pulled from his back pocket.
You glimpsed the key he was now holding, noticing it looked. . . different from a car key. Smaller. Thinner. A guitar pick and a silver skull keychain hung from a ring attached to the piece of plastic at the end of the metal.
“There is nothing else you could have meant by any of that,” he coolly replied, lips in a flat line of contemplation as he grabbed at his feet.
Then you noticed it. An all-black motorcycle helmet, sitting on the ground, next to his worn black boots that now stood upon the concrete of your front porch. He grabbed the helmet in one swoop, the veins in the back of his hand caught your eye in a way you wish they hadn’t.
Goddammit. He rode a damn motorcycle, too? What did this man not do? And here you were, idiot of the century. Ruining things with him not once, but twice now.
“I keep saying stupid shit,” you admitted, nothing but regret written on your pitiful, downcast features. “I’m so sor—.”
“Yeah, you do. Starting to wonder if you mean these things, deep down. Or, maybe not so deep. Maybe you really view me as poorly as you let on that first day,” he scoffed, raising his brows in a way that blatantly showed his hurt. “Or maybe — just maybe, y/n — I’ll always only be viewed as a man you pay for a damn lesson.”
“No, Jake,” you tried, reaching out a trembling hand to try and touch him. It was to no avail, and you knew it. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you realized how idiotic you must have appeared to the beautiful man in front of you. “I don’t mean any of it. I just don’t ever stop to think before I speak.”
“You are correct, y/n. You don’t think before you say shit. And you really fucking should,” he advised, sharply. Blunt. His jaw clenched, his neck tight. “I’m starting to wonder if us meeting at all was a mistake made by the universe,” he said, barely letting that sit in the air before he was clenching his jaw. “And for the life of me, I can’t figure out how in the fuck you view me. And I’m not sure I want to know anymore.”
No.
Your heart crumpled in your chest, flimsy as an old, tattered receipt. You felt like utter shit. He wasn’t wrong. And that was what hurt most.
You were too stunned to speak. Didn’t know what to say as he turned his back. No waving occurred. No smile. Why would he smile at you?
As he descended the steps of your front porch, you once again noted how great his ass looked in those jeans. . . Well. Too fucking bad.
Watching his legs spread to mount the motorcycle was torture. Your body ached for him. And, as he slipped on the helmet, and kicked the hunking piece of black, vintage metal into gear, you felt the pit of your stomach hit the top of your toes.
When would you learn to just let good things happen to you?
You feared the answer was one harsh word. . .
Never.
But. . .
Even after everything you’d said, you saw him give you one more long glance. He really looked at you, gaze staying on you — where you stood, sullen and defeated at your front door.
Your chest ignited.
So, as you watched him speed away into the black of the night, you decided. . .
You couldn’t give up. Not yet.
—||— | —||—
to be continued. . .
—||— | —||—
a/n: ~after~ this graduated from a gc drabble, it was only ever supposed to be a one shot (!!!!!)....... lmao.
see you very soon with reader's plan to get him back, the follow up, and the S M U T (please, please prepare yourselves bc i have been fkn sweating while writing this shit gahDAMN)
TREMOLO: PART 2 of 2 OF UNRAVEL, will be yours very, veryyyyy soon ;))))
I always try to tag everyone, buuut you all know how it goes! ughhh. Please make sure you’re filling out my Google Form if you would like to be tagged and aren’t already on the taglist! <3
hi, lovelies.🤍 i know — it's been a bit since you've heard from me. but, here's a little snippet of this next chapter. one of my favorites so far. (& yes, i say that about every chapter. but, i mean it! LOL. when i say this part has been in the works for a long time...yeah.)
this is a little (4k words) of Jake's pov just before/after he's landed in London. &, as i'm sure you've guessed by the header, we'll be introduced to a certain someone in this chapter. someone i've been dying to include for a long ass time.
so, with all of that said, i hope you enjoy this tiny piece of something much larger. 🤍
warnings: allusions to sex, (Chris is a bit of a ladies man) Jake being the dramatic, poetic king we know him to be, (with all the love in the world) mentions of deceased parents/grandparents/end of life, a tiny (& heartbreaking) trip down memory lane
In less than half an hour, I’ll make my descent to a place that has been yearning for me to ground my boots for the better part of my life. The place that, as the tide that separates us would surely have it, will behold the rest of my days.
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Jake’s point of view;
The sky has been my home for more than eight hours now. The silent cathedral of the winds surrounds me. My steel wings catch the silver clouds, gliding me further from the place that bore witness to my pain. The ocean beneath me, a mystery expanding miles and endless miles, lies between my new home and the home that saw me into the man that sits patiently within this metal casing as, reaching its destiny.
In less than half an hour, I’ll make my descent to a place that has been yearning for me to ground my boots for the better part of my life. The place that, as the tide that separates us would surely have it, will behold the rest of my days.
And that is as it should be.
Y/n was right – her life isn’t one that can be uprooted by the summon of the wind. How could I expect her to follow a dream that isn’t truly hers? Whether I believe it to be or not is truly of no consequence – if she doesn’t believe it, then it can’t be so. That isn’t how fate works. I can’t place the ocean between her and her pain like I can my own. She has to make that choice, and she won’t allow anyone to decide that for her.
It pains me. It rattles every bone in my vessel to know that I have left her behind, living with a wound thats festering isn’t acknowledged by the one bearing its sting.
She can’t see it the way those around her do – those who surround her with an intent of her best interest.
That aim does not reside in the soul of my younger brother. His vow lies on the surface layer of his skin, collecting the invisible (to him) dust and dander of her pain. It doesn’t sink any further into his being – only to be cleansed from him and given right back to her with a single embrace, a kiss that beckons nothing more than the thrill of further shattering the broken shards of glass that have become my spirit.
A moonlight kiss crushed the parts that had not yet been broken, and I still chased after her. I knew, all too well, that any effort I could make therein after would be one of wasted breath. I can’t be the light that she follows if my light isn’t the one she’s drawn to. If it’s my brother, I must let it be.
But that’s the ache of it – I know her soul doesn’t long for him. She’s led herself to believe that it does. It’s a guard, a barrier she’s built to keep herself from the affections of the man who chose to leave her behind.
She’s read herself that narrative enough that she believes that untruth. And there was nothing more I could do to rewrite her own marrow of the matter before I embarked on my early departure.
I knew I had to do it. And not just for my own sake — she needed me out of her orbit as much as I needed to chase the horizon, to follow the clouds to my next venture. The earlier flight was a choice made with a single breath. No second thought, no first thought. It was the only way. A band-aid that tore the skin as it was ripped off. The sting will last for a long while, and the scar will last even longer.
I miss her.
I miss her more than any one soul could yearn for another. Hers is embedded into mine, stitched where the tattered threads of my upbringing hung loose until she found her way to me.
All the same, she’s the reason for new rips and shreds that can only be sewn back together with her hands.
But, those pieces will heal. Not now, and not anytime soon. I must give father time the reins to let the moments pass by without forcing them to pass by quicker.
Or slower.
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The air feels different. Not in a bad way, yet not necessarily good.
It’s interesting. Air is a universal element. It flows everywhere throughout the entire planet – sustaining us, filling our lungs with life. It has no look, no smell of its own accord. It isn’t created by man, it isn’t tariffed. Yet, it changes. From one side of the globe to the other – it’s not the same air I breathed in Michigan. It’s not the same air my parents breathed when they walked the earth, nor my grandparents when their bodies were above the dirt.
It’s certainly not the same air filling y/n’s lungs at this very moment.
No – it’s simply different.
The eventide moon, its silver light cast upon me while I wait for my ride outside the bustling Heathrow airport…the echoing truth lingering in my bones reminds me that y/n isn’t looking at the moon right now. It’s still daylight in Michigan — there’s no moon to cast the noir sky in a ghostly hue at this hour.
The moon no longer looks at us with the same eyes. Only at different times will we be stationed under its gleam. And that is a truth I’ll have to let time mend. But for now, in these first quiet moments of my boots touching London ground, it cuts a clean slice through my heart.
Different time zones. Different air. Different worlds.
Is there a world worth living in without y/n?
A question I will be forced to find the answer to. An answer I wish I’d never have to search for.
“Oi, you Jacob? Jacob, er, Kiszka?”
Hearing my name brings not only my body, but my mind back to the present time that I’ve placed myself in. Not Michigan time, London time.
And, back to the reality that it’s time for me to settle myself in my new home – a journey that will begin with the taxi driver sent by Oxford to fetch me. I’m just grateful he was warned appropriately of my earlier arrival and showed up, I assume, on somewhat short notice.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say to him. Before I can say much else, this tall, gangly man with a black flat cap is already by my side, gathering my belongings for me. He’s handling nearly every piece of luggage I have in one go, apart from my leather duffle and guitar case that’s still next to my feet. I decide to reach for it – I can’t stand here and let him treat me like royalty. “Thank you sir, but I can certainly manage –,”
“No need,” he interrupts with a joyous disposition, looping two fingers around the handle of the one bag he doesn’t have and stealing it right from my hand with the warmest smile along his age-weathered teeth. “Ain’t no reason you should be carryin’ your own bags. Not when ol’ Georgie’s here to help ya.”
I can tell, without a wandering doubt, that he is happy to be helping me. Georgie is seasoned, tucking all my luggage away inside the boxy black cab so quickly – I’m not sure how he’s done it. A professional, through and through.
“‘Sides, it’s bloody cold out here and I can’t let ya slow me down,” he chuckles, his thick accent far from anything I’ve ever heard from my homestead.
And he’s absolutely correct – it is bloody cold. There’s a new kind of frigid in the air this evening. Well, new to me.
He takes a few steps towards me once more after securing my things in the cab, glaring at my bag and case as if prepared to carry those too. He scoops the leather duffle with ease, but I stop him before he can take the guitar case.
I won’t let him take this one – I can do something. And, beyond that, it’s hard for me to relinquish any hold on my guitar. Even the most unassuming thing, like packing it in the car – I can’t let him do that. Can’t let him touch it. It was my carry on for the flight for a reason.
His wrinkled face scrunches into a knowing smile as I lift the handle. With that, his patent boots shuffle back to the car, tossing the duffle alongside the rest of my things.
“C’mon then, lad,” he says, standing beside the opened back door of the cab. “Let’s get you out of this nip and off to your warm flat. Got about an hour's drive but we’ll g’there in no time.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” I say, scurrying into the car, laying my guitar case flat along the floorboard. He shuts the door behind me and makes his way to the driver’s side – the opposite side of what I’m used to.
Strange. But, the pleasant kind.
“First time to Oxford, yeah?” Georgie asks, swinging the black cab onto the main road. Driving opposite what I would consider normal certainly feels like living life backwards at the moment.
“Yeah, postgrad studies at Magdalen. Literature.”
I have to suppress any desire to shout all the air from my lungs when Georgie takes a sharp left turn onto the next street, nearly toppling the already top-heavy cab onto two wheels. Enough to send my duffle crashing into my side. This fucker is heavy – filled with hardbacks I wouldn’t dare part with.
“Jesus,” I huff though a breathy laugh, gripping the handle above the door with a white-knuckle hold as Georgie takes another harsh turn. To the left this time. My duffle, now crashing against the other end of the backseat.
“Aye, your dig bein’ the Ivy House’ll be perfect for ya,” Georgie beams, impressed and altogether paying no mind to his unconventional means of operating a vehicle. “Proper posh, that is. Ya came to the right place for it, lad.”
Good old Georgie, the generous and awful cab driver – he’s certainly correct.
Under the glow of the moon and the city streetlights, the image of the town is one of pure cinematic beauty. A scene from a classic film depicting the beauty and mystique of a city steeped in centuries. Time has folded in on itself here – it’s as though the city fell asleep in 1800 and never opened its eyes to the modern world.
I reach to pull my phone from my back pocket and snap a few photos of what my eyes are witnessing. Josh will surely appreciate this stunning scene. It may even inspire a short-film or two. Timeless beneath the fog of the night, shining beneath the moon. A place built upon conquest and virtue. I can’t begin to fathom its beauty in the daylight, and I won’t have to wonder for much longer.
I’ve called Josh once already, letting him know I safely crossed over the Atlantic. I promised another ring the second I make it to the house, god willing Georgie doesn’t smash this thing into a building before then.
If it made any sort of sense, I’d let Georgie haul my luggage and I’d walk the rest of the journey to my new home. Allow myself to take it all in, enjoy the nighttime beauty of the cobblestone city, echoing with silent history.
Perhaps then I’d have a better chance of making it there in one piece. I’ve heard these little tires screeching against the pavement more times than I can count. My body has slammed against the door enough that my shoulder bone will surely have a lovely purple spot by sunrise.
Georgie, seemingly unaware (or unphased) by his reckless ways, pulls a Marlboro from his breast pocket and lights it effortlessly with a single hand.
“You’ll be knee deep in books and dead poets,” he wheezes through a puff of smoke that fills the car, a sweet and bitter scent that I’ve found myself craving since I boarded my flight all those hours ago. “But you’ll love it.”
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I’ve knocked on the door, twice now. But, it’s a futile endeavor.
I’ve an overbearing fear that whomever my flatmate is, isn’t here. Or, perhaps he’s asleep.
No matter the details, I’m stuck outside of the Ivy House, freezing my ass off all the while. In the wake of a brutal day of travel, all I long for at this moment is a bed to rest my physical and mental state of utter exhaustion. I realize it’ll take me days, perhaps weeks to settle myself here. But that isn’t a matter I am concerned with at the present moment. I just want to lay my head down on a pillow, rest.
Another knock leaves me fruitless, standing out here like an utter buffoon with the essence of my livelihood – what I deemed significant enough to bring with me – circled around my boots. The handle of my guitar case, of course, is bound fast within my fingers. Worn as the case is, I’d hate for it to sit on the cold concrete any longer than it has to.
This man, my lovely flatmate Chris, has already caused me grievance after fucking grievance. And I’ve not even had the pleasure of meeting the bastard yet. I’ve not been given a phone number, a fucking Instagram handle, for godsakes. All I know is he knew to expect me tonight. He was prepared, just the same as Georgie.
He and his house issues (that have yet to be fully disclosed to me) are the reasons I’m here weeks earlier than previously planned. A discrepancy beyond our hands was the only justification I was offered when I was made aware of the need for me to come early, if I wanted to keep my housing.
I very much do want to keep this housing. The Ivy House is one of the most sought after homes on Oxford property, so I was told. And, that’s just it – it’s a home. Not a dorm, not an apartment. A two bedroom, two bathroom house with every amenity one could ever need for. All in one glorious, old Victorian home. It’s dark, yet the warm glow from the outside lights illuminates the place just enough.
Tucked away beside a quiet cobblestone street, it’s no more than a few minutes’ walk from Magdalen college. Deep red brick, tendrils of decayed ivy, dead from the winters’ cold, clinging to the window frames. The front door is painted a forest green, with a few chips of color missing along the frame. Beautifully exquisite and charming. A home depicted in centuries old tales.
Every home on this block, the very same time-worn, elegant style. The light of day will surely display its beauty all the more.
So, here the hell I am. Weeks early, all for the purpose of being able to keep my place here. (Though, I can’t truly complain. Not about being in London, at least. Getting away sooner rather than later was a favor of divinity.)
If I could just get through the goddam door, I’d certainly feel a lot more at peace. Jesus.
I pound my fist against the hard oak again, and this time, I will not stop until someone comes to my call. “Chris?” I shout, keeping my voice to as dull a roar as possible. I’d prefer not to disturb anyone else on the east end of St. Clements street. “It’s Jake, Chris. Your new roommate from –,”
The creaking hinges squeal as the old door swings open, so abruptly that the motion creates enough wind to blow my hair from my shoulders.
Fucking finally.
“Jacob!” beams the man who tossed open the door. He stands a few inches taller than I do, no more than two or three at the most. A moustache above his thin lips, a patchy goatee on his chin. Shoulder-length hair of the same color that lays a tangled mess on top of his head. So messy, almost as if he…
A woman suddenly comes barreling out of the front door, giggling after planting a kiss to his cheek and shoving her way past me. “Talk to ya later, Chris!” she yells, bolting her way down across the street and walking inside the house directly adjacent from ours. Her own place, surely.
My lips are left agape at the suddenness of it all. Baffled doesn’t quite state it. My hand still rests on the doorframe, fingers curled tight as I try to steady the sudden spinning in my head. My first introduction to my new flatmate – flatmate, not roommate, as I keep reminding myself – comes wrapped in the scent of sweat and sex, a whirlwind that leaves me…well, speechless. No words. None at all.
“Sorry ‘bout that, mate,” Chris chuckles, smoothing the frayed strands of hair that I’m just noticing are sticking to the layer of sweat against his skin. “Had to, uh, take care of some business.”
I match his smile with a quiet one of my own, though I know the truth of it – it’s fake. After traveling, all fucking day, he couldn’t eve offer me the courtesy of letting me inside when I got here? He allowed me to stand out here for more than twenty minutes, so he could get a quick fuck in?
If I wasn’t so goddamn tired, I’d rip right the fuck into him for that. But I haven’t the proper amount of energy to allow for that at the moment. He’ll hear from me later. Right now, I just want to fucking sleep.
“Come on in, mate,” he says, lazy smile still glued to his blushed face. “Welcome to the ol’ dig.”
Another fake smile graces me as I reach for my things, only able to carry one more bag alongside my guitar in my left hand. How Georgie managed all of my things in one go (sans guitar, of course) will forever remain a mystery to me.
Chris leans forward, brow lifting in amusement. “Ah, let me help with tha – aye! You a shredder?”
“A what?” I ask, purely lost on his words. Stuck in the haze of a single thought – getting to my room.
He echos his question once more, but this time with a bit of a twinkle in his eye. It’s only when I take a few more steps into the living room that it dawns on me.
In the far corner of the space rests three guitars on individual stands. A blue Fender Strat, a Gibson Les Paul standard, and…a fucking 1930 National? Holy fuck. Only those most dedicated to the craft own a resonator such as that. A catalyst of the blues, a relic of the Delta – of sweat and dust and songs born from pure heartache. A staple in any place that houses a player who lives in the sweet spot between soul and sorrow.
My tense shoulders drop, breath stuck in my dry throat as I take it all in. The battered wooden floors, the faint scent of last night’s beer lingering in the stale air, the unmistakable aura of a house that lives and breathes music. Amps ad wah pedals, wooden crates of records, stacked nearly to the ceiling on the opposite corner from where I’m standing. And him, standing there with that crooked grin and a wrinkled Muddy Waters shirt, (how did I not notice that?) suddenly no longer the brash asshole who left me in the street.
“Jesus, man,” I utter as I take a closer look, suddenly becoming all too aware of the wrinkled Muddy Waters shirt he’s wearing. He’s a guitarist. “This is astounding.”
“Ya like her?” he laughs, moving closer and nudging the point of his elbow into my side. “She’s been by my side for a decade now. Can’t imagine playin’ without her. What about you, mate? What’s the ol’ girl you bring along, then?”
“Yeah, uh – it’s a Gibson, Gibson SG.”
“Ah, going straight for the throat with that one!” His grin grows even wider, his hand coming down heavy on my shoulder, squeezing tight as if he’s known me for years, not mere minutes. “A man after my own heart, you are!”
He breaths a low chuckle, offering a sly pat to my back. Taking the empty case leaned up against the wall, he opens it and places the 1930 inside.
Then, he takes it and walks past my things, still scattered about the floor, stepping into his own brown suedes sitting by the cracked open front door.
“Aye, Jake — I know it’s a bit sudden, having just met you and all,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with a soft grin. “But, I’m playing at a pub down the road tonight, Sandy’s Piano Bar. I know I’ve not heard ya play yet but, I reckon the blues are callin’ us, yeah? Care to steal a jam with me?”
The question hits me straight in the chest, sending a jolt through the marrow of my bones. My fingers’ grip on the guitar case tightens, the worn leather somehow anchoring me in this new world I’ve found myself in.
My instinct, the first word that tickles the tip of my tongue — no.
It’s too soon. Too sudden. Unexpected in every sense of the word. I’ve not found my footing yet. Hell, I’ve not even seen my goddamn room yet.
I’ve not played for anyone since…well, since her. Since Lenny. The mere idea of it — stepping right back into this piece of myself, barring something that I’ve kept safely behind lock and key — it terrifies me.
But, Christ. I can almost hear the whisperings of old songs my dad used to play, the ones he used to teach me the ways of this very instrument. The tunes my grandparents would request, ghosts of chords I’ve haven’t dared to touch in too long.
The song I played for my grandpa as he slipped away from this world — Cross Road Blues. Dads J-45 acoustic carried me through Robert Johnson’s old tune. That very guitar, still at home in Michigan, the only thing left in my almost empty closet.
To this day, no living soul knows that was the song I played for him — the song title he uttered with one of his final, fragile breaths.
Fuck. My stomach is twisting in tight knots. All of the things I thought I was leaving in Michigan…I wasn’t prepared to be confronted with them on my first night away.
Then, as if quieted by a presence much stronger than my own, the blaring, doubtful noise begins to silence itself. And in its place, the voice of my father.
My timid, Jell-o legs carried me across the wooden stage. A crowd of forty or fifty people — it might as well have been a thousand in my ten year old mind. “I’m proud to introduce my boy Jake this evening,” dad announced to a roaring applause, the brightest smile donned his lips as he reached his arm out for me, wrapping me in the kind of hug only he could offer. “He’s a natural, folks. I can’t wait for you to hear him.”
That moment is sealed forever in my memory — my first time playing in front of people who weren’t my family. Not being taught by my dad, playing alongside him. He raved over how proud he was of me, that he knew I was born to play music. But, what he didn’t know — what I wish I’d had the chance to tell him — I was proud to be playing with him. So, so proud.
Every nerve built up within me vanished the instant my dad and I, together as one, strummed the first chords of Petty’s Learning to Fly.
I’d never understood what being a natural meant until that moment. But when my heart flooded through my fingertips, playing a tune my dad and I cherished together, it all made sense.
I’ll never forget what he told me when he handed me the SG. “Don’t ever put this thing down, son. Keep it with you — let its strings play the melodies of your heart.”
I let him down. I did exactly what he told me not to do.
I put it down for a little while after he died, but I put it down almost indefinitely after grandpa died. I let it sit, collecting the dust of wasted time. Until…
Until her. She brought me back. She killed the stagnant version of myself I’d become after so much loss. She is responsible for the death of me — the death of the man who‘s harbored so much despair in his heart. That isn’t the man my parents or my grandparents raised.
And I don’t have her anymore. I’ve lost her, too. Jesus...sometimes, it feels like I've lost everything.
But, there is something I still have — my guitar.
Chris is right — the blues are calling. Maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to let them in again.
Without her...
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a/n: sound off, babes! what do we think will happen next? 🤔 this certainly won't be easy for jake but...i think - if he decides to play - it could be a huge healing moment for him. so excited to share the rest with you.
thank you to those of you who have supported/continue to support this story. words will never suffice to express my gratitude — it simply means the world to me. i know this tale won’t resonate with everyone, but to those of you that have found even a semblance of solace through it, please don’t ever be afraid to reach out to me. i’d love to chat with you about this story, about anything. we’re here to build community with one another, & there’s truly nothing that i cherish more. 🤍
