You love getting to support Josh in all of his pursuits, but sometimes your anxiety gets the best of you. And knowing this, he finds the perfect way to use music to offer you comfort in a particularly anxious moment.
No Hands☀︎: Josh x f!Reader
Your little game works out exactly in your favor.
•Part 2 ☀︎ & now it’s his turn.
Lets Share☀︎: Danny x f!Reader x Josh
You’re undeniably Danny’s but, he doesn’t mind sharing.
Break of Dawn☀︎☾: Josh x f!Reader
In the midst of a rigorous tour schedule, there are only two things that he needs to stay grounded: you, and the gifts of nature.
Release☀︎: Dr. JMK x f!Reader (coming soon♡)
Your body is far too tense these days. A massage from the best of the best is just what you need to remedy it, although his measures are bit...unconventional.
Le Morte d’Arthur(wip)☀︎☾⭒: College AU Jake x f!Reader (with a sprinkling of Sam)
It all began with a passion for literature. What was once a dream to walk the halls of the University of Michigan is now a reality.
You thought you were prepared for everything.
A new town, a new school, a new way of life,
but what you were not prepared for...
was meeting the enigma that is Jake Kiszka.
Bloodstream(wip)☀︎☾⭒: vampire!Jake x f!Reader
Collab with @jakeyt
Folklore. Stories passed down through generations. Imaginations run rampant with their tales of sorcery and the supernatural.
But for Tommie, it was different. Somehow it was more. She had become transfixed by a local legend - one that told of an unlawful love affair between a witch and a vampire. To Tommie, it was an alluring tapestry woven with threads of forbidden love and timeless secrets. Yet something about it felt strangely familiar to her-but why?
It was only a story. . . wasn't it?
Prettiest in the Morning☀︎☾: Jake x f!Reader (request)
Jake is worth being late to work for.
Muse☀︎☾: Jake x f!Reader (request)
Your struggling artist is desperate for some inspiration.
all i want☀︎☾⭒: Jake x f!Reader (request)
Even the deepest, most all-encompassing love is not always destined to endure.
Time in a Bottle☀︎☾⭒: Jake Kiszka x OC (coming soon♡)
If you could save time in a bottle, would you?
For Jake, a deeply sentimental, reclused man, time is something he’s always wished he could control. To make it move faster, slower – to hold onto the moments that mattered the most.
And, to save them.
Why Don’t You Make Me?☀︎ ⭒: Sam x f!Reader
You learn what being sassy with Sam leads to.
Lets Share☀︎: Danny x f!Reader x Josh
You’re undeniably Danny’s but, he doesn’t mind sharing.
Desperate to escape your fathers cruelty and the bloody reach of his mob in Arizona, you escape to New Orleans with the help of your Aunt Mira. You find refuge in a little apartment above The Patrons Dive, a bar your Aunt owns in hopes of building a new life. Your own life away from rules and a god awful arranged marriage in the works. The city offers you animosity, nightlife, and a false sense of safety.
Until one night changes the trajectory of your fate plunging you deeper into danger you couldn't imagine existed outside of what you already know. This reckless evening leaves you at the mercy of a violent stranger only to be saved by one even more terrifying. Jake. A mysterious man with a haunted gaze and terrifying strength comes to your rescue. Drawn to him despite every warning he heeds, your curiosity springs the better of you.
You decide that you must know this man and you will take whatever lengths necessary to do so.
**********
Vampire!Jake x Fem Reader
Word Count: 12.2k
Chapter warnings: Vampire!Jake, creepy old men, knives, alcohol, cigarette smoking, the threat of SA, the use of force
a/n: Hi everyone. Welcome. This story has been brewing in my brain and haunting my dreams for quite some time now. I hope you enjoy this journey with Vamp!Jake as much as I have thus far. This is a dark romance story, warnings will be posted at the top of each chapter -please pay attention to them as the contents of some of these upcoming chapters might be triggering to some. Nonetheless, dive in, enjoy, share your thoughts, comments, concerns.
Listen while you read: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2hzgjJuFoK2qpFxq1RZ77u?si=j7C56h-mQ46HoMUFK7fewA&pi=728PxJnuQueKl
I do of course want to give a massive shoutout and thank you to @jakeyt and @joshym for their continued and unwavering support as I write this. Without them and their encouragement, this might've remained hidden from the world.
************
The desert never seemed to cool at night. Even now, under a slivered moon and a sky dusted with stars. It was quiet. Almost too quiet for the chaos it held.
You press your palm against the rough stucco wall of your father’s spralling estate, the edge of the back courtyard bathed in shadows from the cacti. The air is thick with the scent of dry earth and sand that is still hot from a sun that has long since vanished beneath the horizon. The silence around you feels unnatural. Not the kind that comes with peace, but the kind that hums with those invisible wires, surveillance cameras, and secrets unspoken.
The wind kicks up, stirring up a few pieces of loose hair your ponytail was not able to hold back. You held your breath, listening as you paused alongside another rough stone wall. You are anticipating the sound of an alarm or footsteps. There was an occasional patrol your brute of a father had roaming around the premises. No sound spoke in your ears, nothing but the sound of your own heartbeat drumming away. Small sounds of a cricket chorus nearby followed by the electric buzz of a floodlight too far away to touch you fill your senses.
Your heart thundered in your chest from the adrenaline as your long plan to escape was finally coming to fruition. The thought of what your father would do to you if you were caught…no, focus..
You slip past the final archway that leads into the cactus-lined backyard, your black lace up boots silent on the red gravel beneath the soles. By the gods you were thankful for it. The landscaping here is manicured with surgical precision not even a stone out of place, desert sage trimmed into neat mounds, towering cacti spaced evenly along the stone wall and moonflowers blooming with ghost-white petals that only open at night. They glow faintly in the dark like they’re mourning you and your history here. Mourning your poor deceased mothers history, the cruel blood of your father that is mixed with her flowing through your dainty veins.
You make a sudden move toward the furthest edge of the property where the well manicured property bleeds into wilderness. Here the land becomes raw and wild again, untouched by your father’s money and greed.
The fence looms ahead. Tall. Barbed. A silent reminder that freedom is not but a dream. But you had planned for this dream, planned enough to make it a reality.
You kneel beside a small patch of gravel near a small gardeners shed, your fingers brush away the smooth sand and stones that border a decorative succulent bed. Your nails scrape against the ground, digging up sand that seemed oddly out of place in the desert until your nails scrape the edge of a gardening tile that was hidden under the churned earth. The one you had buried above a small hole you’d dug with persistence over a month ago.
You lift it, and there it is: a ziploc bag with a passport, ID and a couple hundred in cash and a small burner phone. Months of planning, waiting until the perfect night when you knew your father would be busy enough to not pay any attention. Those trials and tribulations of going behind your father's back who was the head of a well known Mafia in Tucson who had eyes everywhere. Yes, even in the back of his head.
You let out a sigh of relief clenching the small bag tight in my fist and wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead. Your heart rattles against your ribs once more as you move toward the weakest point in the fence. The break is barely visible unless you know where to look. A spot where the ends bent and twisted just wide enough to fit your body through if you turn sideways and suck your stomach in.
You had been working on this fence for months as well, since the thought of escape grazed the forefront of your mind after you learned of your fathers cruel intentions to sell you off as some prized brood mare. With a stolen wire cutter you had found in the garage one day that you had been storing the tool under a loose floorboard in my room and using the excuse of needing space to take a walk late at night. You were able to work a break in the fence.
Thankfully, this was the one thing your father was too busy to question and after you had kicked one of the body guards he had assigned to follow you around in the balls, no one else would take up the job of “babysitting”. You thankfully were finally left alone.
A sound catches behind you, a soft metallic click and you freeze for a moment, petrified. This is it, this will be the death of me…I had imagined it so differently, many times..
Another motion-activated light by the back patio flickering to life, illuminating nothing but sand, gravel and the beady eyes of a fox nearby. You move faster now with a little more determination, you’re almost there, you can taste the free air on your tongue. The adrenaline sharpens everything. From the crunch of gravel underfoot, to the rough edge of the metal snagging your sleeve as you slip through the break, the distinct taste of fear in your dry mouth.
You fully slip through the break in the fence with a quiet grunt, a slight cut to your left knee appears as the fabric of your jeans tear slightly against the wire. You land hard on the other side as a result but now in the open desert. The earth here is cracked and broken, dry like the desert should be. Unmanicured. You swear the air really does smell different on the other side of that damned wire fence.
There’s no path here. No lights. Just the sound of your breath and the crunch of your boots as you break into a sprint. This feels like the first breath of real air you’ve taken in years.
And still, your father’s voice echoes behind your ears like a ghost you can’t outrun from the conversation that decided your fate for you.
“It’s already done,” he had said, smoke billowing from a Cuban cigar.
The haunting memory of the way he sat behind the desk, framed by backlit bookshelves and heavy curtains. A glass of scotch in his other hand and that arrogant smirk playing on his lips that he reserved for his enemies, even you, his only daughter.
He didn’t look at you when he said it, when he told you he was selling you off for marriage like a pawn in his game to none other than Luciano Martelli. The estranged son of another mob family with more blood on his hands than a butcher and a cold hearted reputation.
“You will marry him and you will not protest,” your father had muttered like it was a mild inconvenience.
“You belong to the bloodline. You belong to me. And you will honor me at the altar.”
You still begged, pleaded. Reasoned. Screamed so hard your throat had torn and bled. You remember gripping the arms of the chair so tight it had bent your manicured nails back, the pain not as noticeable as the one that tore your chest wide open with. You protested for your own freedom. And yet he wouldn’t meet your eyes. He was always too much of a damn coward. You carried your mothers soft eyes. To which was his only kryptonite in his otherwise steel armour he wore. His stare was glassy and detached as you had begged and tried to reason. He looked at you like you just another thorn in his side. The room smelled like power that day, not just cigar smoke. And your knees crumbled before you were dragged out of the room with a wave of his hand.
It was this day as you were thrown into your room and heard the deadbolt lock latch from the inside that you decided you had no other choice but to make your own freedom. Even if it meant your life was on the line.
Now, you run. And you run and you run.
Through scrub brush and dry weeds, whipping past tall cacti. Your throat burns as you gasp for air. Through brittle sand that crumbles beneath my boots and makes you sink with every step. Past a rusted fence post and an abandoned tractor half-buried in the dirt, forgotten. You run until the highway lights appear in the distance, glimmering hopes of flickering halos of orange and yellow and the silhouette of the Greyhound station begins to rise like a mirage along the paved asphalt.
You don’t stop moving until you finally reach the bus stop, thankful it was only a few miles away from your fathers estate. Wide eyes of those around you meet yours as you slow to a stop and gasp for air. You’re clearly out of place, and your damn asthma isn’t helping as you dig for the inhaler in your pocket, taking a deep breath to help slow the burning in your lungs.
When your breathing steadied you took a deep breath through your nose. The air reeked of diesel fuel. Now that’s actually the smell of freedom. You pick yourself up off the wall you had been leaning up against and walk along the concrete platform passing a stranger who was wrangling with a broken vending machine, pounding their fist upon the front rang through the air as you lifted the hood of your sweatshirt up, your identity now hidden to the best of your ability. You hoped that you would remain unbothered during your trip.
The buzzing line of flickering fluorescent lights overhead from both the electricity and the bugs adds a small sense of comfort as I settle onto a long bench and exhale. You pull the gallon ziplock bag out of your middle hoodie pocket and begin rummaging through it.
The passport comes out first, with a fake name and obviously fake photo that looks like it was taken by a child. The name Evelyn Rhodes is just something to match the bus ticket your Aunt Mira had helped you purchase some time ago as a birthday gift. Funny how your escape was a birthday gift this year..
Your fingertips landed on a little folded photo in the bag, your mother’s ring hiding safe and sound in between the folds. The photo was old, it was of the two of you laughing in the swimming pool the last summer before her death, before she disappeared. Before the closed-casket funeral. Before my world became shadowed in your fathers obedience and your fear.
On the passport you kept your first name the same because your mother told you it meant little bird. And little birds needed to fly the coup as they grew older in search of their freedom. But the last name had no meaning to you, it was better than carrying the weight of your fathers surname.
You board the Greyhound just after midnight.
The driver doesn’t look at you twice. You hand over my ticket with a nod and step onto the stale-smelling vehicle.The air inside is a sharp mix of exhaust, a lemon cleaner, and a dampness.
You choose a seat near the back where the darkness outside can hold you in its arms like a comfort blanket. Your body folds in on itself, instinctively trying to take up less space and make yourself as small as possible to not draw unwanted attention. You curl toward the glass and feel the engine rumble beneath your feet as the bus pulls away from the curb and into the open road.
No one looks at you as the bus begins to fill. You don’t look at them. You are grateful.
Arizona fades behind you and the further you go, the deeper the breath you are able to muster into your lungs. The sharp claws of my father's world, his empire of blood and cruelty, are becoming smaller.
You feel yourself fully drop your shoulders for the first time in what feels like hours. Maybe days, months, years….
But peace doesn't fully come so easily to you.
Not yet at least.
The desert stretches endlessly out the window, painted in navy blue and florescent lights from the highway, shopping malls and grocery stores.
Your forehead presses against the cold windowpane.
You reminisce on memories of your mother, the happy memories, the ones of you and her finding refuge you didn't yet know you needed in New Orleans with your Aunt Mira. Memories of her smiling and laughing in the kitchen as she rummaged around in the spice cabinet, looking for that perfect addition to a meal.
Lilliana.
You miss her. The way she used to hum Beatles tunes happily. The lavender perfume she wore in springtime. The way her eyes always seemed to carry a softness in them that never faltered no matter the cruelty that surrounded her. She always made it a point to make you feel safe. Plaster on a smile and pretend all was well as if she knew you would never be safe in the world she brought you into.
You hated her funeral. It was an utter injustice to the woman who birthed you, who taught you to be strong but never let anyone dim your heart. The ugly brown closed casket that held the absence of her favorite flowers. No photos of her, no one sharing warm memories that they had of her. You were only eight years old. You didn't dare to shed a tear. Not because you weren’t sad, but because your father stood beside you with a hand on your shoulder like a man preparing to sculpt something out of stone his grip tight enough that it left bruises under your dress.You think back on that little girl, how she had to be strong at such a young age. Someone who didn't dare express any emotions on the outside in fear she would be punished.
You wish you could hug her and tell her everything would be alright.
You never got to say goodbye. You never knew what happened to her truly, you still don’t. The stories of her death changed over the years until your father eventually forbade you to ask of her any more. Her memory grew dim and it was as if she never existed in the house. You were grateful you had pieces of her left, even if it wasn't much.
The bus jerks into a rest stop somewhere outside of El Paso, Texas pulling you from a light slumber.
You blink, disoriented, your neck stiff. The lights of the small building flicker ahead, a low squat gas station with dinky signage and a leaky ice machine out front.
The driver announces a twenty-minute break.
You step off the bus and stretch your legs and you glance around. Most of the other passengers are chain-smoking, waiting in line for the bathroom or grabbing snacks and drinks from inside. You catch through the dirty window how overwhelmed the attendant already is.
Cool air hits you inside the station which felt welcome compared to the stale air on the bus that was supposed to pass off as A/C. The floor tiles are cracked as you walk along and theres an invasive scent of incense hanging in the air meant to mask all the other scents but only amplifying them further. You head toward the refrigerated drinks first, grabbing a bottle of water and an energy drink. As you wait in line behind another one of the patrons who was picking an argument over the price of a small pack of gum, your gaze drifting toward the plexiglass case behind the register.
The cigarettes.
You’ve never smoked a day in your life.
Your father said your body was to be left untainted from these types of vices. Not with alcohol, not with smoke, and not with anyone’s hands but people he had carefully selected and sent to your room late at night.
You stare at the little boxes of rebellion lined up like saints in a chapel. You step up to the clearly frustrated attendant, focusing your eyes on one particular box
“Can I get a pack of Marl-boh-roo?” you ask, surprising even yourself with how calm your voice sounds even when you know you are butchering your name.
“Which ones, sweet thing?” The cashier's attitude shifted almost instantly from annoyance to an attempt of saccharine dripping from his at the sight of you in front of him now.
Ugh, men.
“Uh,” you feel that anxiety bubble up in your chest again as a smirk cracks across his face. “The gold ones?”
“You sure about that baby?” His eyebrows raise.
You nod rolling your shoulders and adjusting your posture to hopefully sport a bit of confidence that was waning pretty quickly.
“Special blend? Lights? 100’s? Regular?” He smirked as he pulled a chewed up toothpick from in between his cracked lips, tossing you a smile with very yellow teeth.
Oh he was definitely fucking with you.
“Just grab me a pack, I don't fucking care what it is.” You snapped.
“Shit, alright, no need to get charged up on me now!” The cashier rings you up and pretty much tosses the box across the counter before he pulls it back from your reach. “Give me a smile and Ill give you these here cig’rettes.”
“Just give me the fucking cigarettes.” You go to reach for his wrinkled hand covering the box next to your two drinks.
“Aht, aht..”
You start to throw him a smile and as his hand eases up on the box you snatch it with the bottles as well and you throw him a middle finger as you exit through the door.
Once outside, you sit on the edge of a chipped concrete parking barrier. With only a few minutes left on your break before the bus takes off again you stare at the little white box in your hand. Tearing off the plastic around it and opening the pack you stare at the white tips of the paper wrapped nicotine.
This is your first act of real disobedience against your father. Not quiet plotting, not subtle rebellion behind locked doors. But the actual choice that you got to make.
Dammit, you forgot a lighter..
There was no way you were heading back inside for one either. You stuff the little box in your hoodie pocket and make your way back to the bus in the parking lot.
**************
You cross into Louisiana as dawn begins to bleed the horizon with colors of reds, pinks and purples. Mist curls over the swamps that you pass by and the wildlife starts to stir to life as the sun breaks into a new day. Your eyelids feel like heavy weight as they open more and your head slightly vibrates against the cool glass window.
As the swamps break away to more populated areas, the city unfolds before you in layers. Neon signs, balconies dripping with vines and baskets of flowers all in bloom with bright colors of pinks and purples to match the sky. The sounds of jazz are loud enough to hear over the drum of the wheels on the pavement through the glass windows. The red trolley’s pass along the streets. The nostalgia of being here with your mom when you were little floods over you suddenly. The memory of a vanilla ice cream cone in your hand, her lavender perfume acting as a blanket of comfort and a smile you both shared with one another. A happier memory in time.
The bus hisses as it pulls into the station, brakes squealing and patrons begin to scramble for bags. The sun is just starting to rise above the clouds now, casting long, bleeding streaks of orange and rose across the pavement. The windows of the bus are already fogged due to the suffocating humidity in the Louisiana midsummer air blocking your view of the curb the bus had just parked against. You hesitate for a moment, the “what ifs” flooding your mind.
‘What if your father knew where you were’
‘What if he had some of his men waiting for you when you got off the bus, to take you back to your imprisoned life to that man’
‘What if you –’
You shook your head trying to physically free yourself from the bubbling anxiety causing bile to unpleasantly rise in your throat. The moment your boots touch the pavement, it's as if something shifts inside you again. This is that feeling of freedom you have been chasing for God only knows how long is finally here, you've landed.
You blink back tears, but not from sadness. From relief. From the simple, staggering truth that you did it.You ran, and you made it and there's no one standing here to take you back to your fathers estate.
“There you are, baby girl.”
You turn toward the voice coming from your left, smooth as meringue cutting through the thick air like a hot knife. She is leaning against the hood of an old gold Buick Roadmaster that’s as beat-up as it is still loved and cared for. One hand on her hip, the other holding a cup of corner-store coffee and a slim cigarette.
Mira.
Your mother’s sister. Your goddamn lifeline.
Her red curly hair is pulled up into a high, messy twist, gold hoops swing as she moves peeking out from the wisps of hair that have fallen out of her updo. She’s wearing denim shorts and a deep purple tank top with a faded Led Zeppelin logo. Her eyes held enough eyeliner to make a priest nervous. Her sunglasses rest on top of her head and her grin is quick, wide, and utterly disarming to your nervous system.
Mira was the opposite in stature and looks compared to your mother, probably due to the fact that they had different mothers themselves. But they carried the same soft eyes.
She crosses the pavement in long, purposeful strides and pulls you into a hug before you can utter even a peep.This was not a polite hug. Not a half-hearted pat-on-the-back. But a real rib-crushing, grounding hug. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” Mira whispers into your hair as she holds the back of your head.
You feel yourself fold into her body like a paper doll. Tears instantly pour down your cheeks hot and full of emotion, your body shaking with noiseless sobs. Your hands clutch the back of her tank top without thinking, and you breathe her in. She reeks of cigarette smoke and incense with that touch of lavender on her skin. You don't know if she's always sporting that scent but if not, you know why she picked it today of all days.
“Breathe baby girl, breathe,” she says quietly into your hair and she strokes it softly. “You’re safe now, sugar. You made it and that’s all that matters.”
You simply nod because you can’t speak, you don't trust your voice. Not yet. Not without crumbling further and causing a scene that would draw unwanted attention.
She pulls back and frames your face in her hands, studying you like she’s looking at a ghost and a miracle all at once. Her face softening fully, a slight pout to her lips as she wipes the tears off of your now blemished cheeks with her manicured fingers.
“Oh baby girl, you’ve got your mama’s eyes. That wild softness,” she murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “But you’ve definitely got that spark hidden in them. Stubborn lil’ thing.” She tuts and lightly pinches your cheek.
You start to say something, anything but the words seem to fail making it past your throat. Mira waves it off with a smirk and a flick of her wrist as she notices the words fail you.
“Come on sugar,” she says, grabbing your bag off of your shoulder with one hand and slinging it over her shoulder. “Tony’s making us breakfast. Let’s get you outta this dingy bus station and into proper salvation.”
The Buick roars to life with a cough and a shudder and the drive through New Orleans is short but electric. The city is starting to stir. Nightlife swapping shifts with the morning folk, more tame than the latter. Church bells ring in the distance as you watch people sweep pavement in front of their shops, locals breezed by drunk tourists that are stumbling on the streets. You watch it all from the passenger seat like a dream. A small, genuine smile actually cracking across your face for the first time since your escape. The sun is now beaming in the sky adding to the heat outside that will take some time to get used to. There is Spanish moss hanging heavy from the trees you drive by, decorating the branches like tinsel on a Christmas tree. You decide here and now that it is your favorite piece about New Orleans thus far .
It’s beautiful here. It feels like home already, somehow in some strange way.
Mira drums her fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of whatever song is playing through the old stereo. Another Virginia Slim held tightly between her pointer and middle finger, the smoke curling around the interior of the car escaping the small cracks in the windows. She hums along for just a moment as she turns down a side street. Her manicured fingers reach across to the stereo, turning it down a notch before she speaks.
“Tony said the apartment above the bar is finally cleared out for ya baby girl,” she takes another drag from the thin cigarette before tossing it out the window. “The roof leaks a little when it storms and the floors rattle when the bar is full downstairs. But it's cozy and all your own, if you want it.”
You smile softly and nod, trying to not give away too much excitement all at once.
A place of your own….you've never been able to have that..
Mira glances at you sideways, a smile breaking across her beautiful weathered faceas she takes another drag. “You don’t have ‘tah say a word, sweet chil’e. I’m just grateful ya here.”
“Me too, Aunt Mira.”
With that, you lean your forehead against the cool glass of the car window and watch the blue of the streets bleed by.
The Buick slows as Mira swings it into a narrow alley just off a cracked and uneven street in Marigny. You pass a sign barely clinging to life, its white faded letters spell out The Patrons Dive, missing half the “V” which makes a chuckle bubble in your throat. The building is dilapidated beyond hell and weathered. Yet the vibrant colors of the exterior bleed life into it. An old wooden and metal door propped open with an empty keg. Its wooden shutters are rotten and hanging off their hinges have seen better days. The awning in the front looks like one heavy rain will be its ending.
You love it.
Arizona didn’t hold a character like this. At least the Arizona you grew up to know.
Music filters out from the open door, the sound of Elvis Presley's voice carrying out into the street singing “Heartbreak Hotel.”
You follow Mira and step out of the car and are hit with the scent of beer, smoked meat and the heat in the air. Almost just as you remembered it here.
Mira nudges you toward the door with her elbow. “Go on baby, check it out.”
Inside, the bar is dim and dilapidated yet full of life with odd signs hanging on the walls and hundreds of dollar bills tacked and taped to the ceiling. Old wood aged leather stools, shelves full of mismatched glasses and liquor bottles in every shape. There’s a faint scent of the same incense that was lingering on Mira's skin and clothes now just combined with the scent of booze and bacon.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stands outlined by a weathered doorway to the kitchen, arms tattooed and sleeves rolled to the elbows. His salt-and-pepper beard is scruffy and his bald head pouring with sweat from the heat of the grill in the kitchen, and he wears a t-shirt and an apron that reads 'Yes, I Own the Damn Place' in big bold letters. His reading glasses hang around his neck on a shoelace that's barely hanging on for dear life.
When he looks up and sees you, his whole face softens.
“Ah, good to see the package has arrived safe’t and soun’!” He says, wiping his hands on a bar towel as he rounds the counter. His voice is gravel, warm and worn. “Mira told me all abouts ya miss Y/N. Ya hungry?”
You blink, caught off guard by how genuinely kind he seems. You definitely judged a book by its cover. Though you have a feeling you still wouldn’t want to be on his bad side on a good day.
“I—um,” your stomach answers for you as he brings a stronger scent of fresh bacon and pancakes into the bar area behind him.
He laughs, a booming hearty sound and nods. Tony places a steady hand on your shoulder followed by a few pats of his rough hand.
“Why don't yeh go get settled first,” he says, then glances at Mira. “Upstairs is good to go. I fixed that damned leak in the roof to the best I coul’. No promises it won’t still leak during heavy rains.”
“Good,” she says, then looks at you. “Come on, sugar. Let me show you to your new home.”
Your throat tightens at the thought. Home. The word feels like a foreign language bouncing around in your head. You follow Mira out a little side door and through another that opens to a narrow staircase. The old wood of the stairs creaks beneath both of your footsteps as you climb. The walls are scuffed, the plaster peeling, and the railing is loose in places, but that character here speaks to your soul again.It smells, and looks like it harbors many stories it's dying to share with you. The building’s life story layered and lived-in painted here in this single stairwell in front of you like oil on canvas.
At the top of the stairs, Mira unlocks the rickety door with a brass key and pushes it open with her hip, standing aside to let you walk past her.
“Welcome home, baby girl.”
The apartment is small. Really small. A modest studio with a closet-sized kitchen. But it’s high-ceiling and has a bay window. The light from the window spills across the warped floorboards like honey.
There’s a twin bed in the corner, pushed up against a wall of exposed brick and plaster. The sheets look to be soft but mismatched with a floral quilt, a cotton throw, and one too-fluffy pillow. A crooked bookshelf leans against the wall, crammed with old books, candles, and a small vase of dried roses.A small table sits in front of the window with a single chair. The kitchen has one burner, a chipped sink, and a fridge that hums quite loudly but you know you will get used to it over time. At least the tiny bathroom is tucked away in its own space in the far corner behind a half-cracked door. Your heart thrums with excitement as your eyes catch the edge of a clawfoot tub.
You stand in the middle of the room and really take in your surroundings.
You’ve never had your own space like this before. Not in your father’s house, where every room was designed for display, not comfort. There, even your bedroom wasn’t yours. The windows didn’t open. The doors were thin and listened through. The cameras that invaded your privacy.
But this?
This is yours to call your own.
You walk to the window pushing the small table slightly out of your way and push it open. The city hums below, coming to life even more as the sun tilts higher in the sky and a small breeze fills the area.
You turn back toward the bed, and your gaze catches on the ring on your finger, your mother’s. A little black polished stone tucked away safely against detailed metal. You don't remember putting it on but you know somewhere along your journey you had pulled it out of its safe keeping in that old photo.
You sit slowly on the edge of the bed and stare at it, running your thumb over the silver as Mira chats away, something about clothes in the dresser next to the door. Wiping the dust off the singular kitchen cabinet and ‘tsking’ up a storm with Tony's name hot and heavy on her lips.
She would have loved this place.Your mother. Not because it’s perfect, but because of what it symbolizes for you. That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? Something real. Something not built from expectation or obedience. Something soft that matches you internally under the many layers of brick walls you have erected to protect yourself.
Mira notices you haven't been listening to a word that has left her hot pink lips as she leans against that kitchen cabinet with her arms crossed.
“You okay, baby?”
You look at her now fully. This woman who is a part of you that you had so many fond memories of. Of her and your mom laughing on a beach when you were just a tot. You feel your heart squeeze in your chest out of utter appreciation and sadness.
You nod. Just once. That’s all you can manage.
Mira smiles. “Good. I’ll leave you to settle in.Take a nap, change into some different clothes, do whatever baby girl. Just don't settle too long otherwise Tony will come hobbling up those stairs to bang on your door.”
She closes the door gently behind her and you’re alone.
Not lonely.
Alone.
You lay back on the bed, your body sinking into the lumpy mattress, the ceiling fan rattling overhead. Your fingertips brush your mother’s ring where it rests on your left hand again.
The floor creaks under your bare feet as you move through the quiet of your new apartment. You dig through the dresser Mira had been talking about and pull on a pair of jean shorts and a faded tee, twisting your hair up loosely into a bun, and you stand at the top of the stairs for a moment before going down. The door to the stairwell is old, heavy, and painted a chipped shade of navy.
The music greets you first as you descend. Faint but rising, Elvis on the jukebox again. The sound of voices in the kitchen arguing, no playfully bantering back and forth - about what exactly, you arent sure as the overwhelming feeling of hunger spreads into your bones.
The Patrons Dive looks more alive now as a few people sit in a corner drinking beers with their scrambled eggs and toast on a plate, Mira swaying her hips in the corner to the music as she sweeps up a pile of dust.Tony is wiping down the bar, humming along to the music on the jukebox as well, watching Mira's hips sway at every chance he can. He glances up when you walk in.
“Hey there, sunshine.”
You smile, small and unsure, tucking your hands into your back pockets. “Hey.”
Mira turns around and tosses you a big grin as Tony disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plate stacked high with blueberry pancakes and slices of bacon. The golden maple syrup catches in the sunlight as she sets it down on the bar in front of where you're standing.
“There she is,” Mira says as she walks towards you and pulls out two barstools so you both can sit. “C’mon and eat up now while it's hot!”
Your stomach gurgles at the reminder it has been awhile since you really had eaten anything sustainable, it's been ages since you even had a home cooked meal.
You run your hand along the worn edge of the counter as you take a seat and pick up the fork and knife that was placed in front of you, mouth watering.
Tony tosses the rag over his shoulder. “You gettin’ settled upstairs okay?”
You nod and take a bite of a pancake. “It’s perfect.”
He smiles, then pours you a cup of coffee from the pot behind the bar and slides it across to you like he’s done it a thousand times.
You wrap your hands around the warm ceramic and clear your throat softly.
“I… I was wondering,” you start, “if maybe I could help out down here. I need to make some money of my own, somehow.”
Tony raises an eyebrow and he and Mira share a quick glance at one another, but there’s no surprise in his expression.
“What were you thinkin’ baby girl?” Mira asks, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear.
“Just… cleaning. Stocking. Whatever you need, something that keeps me out of the eye of too many patrons,” you say quickly. “I don’t need much. I just want to earn my keep and save a few dollars in the process. I can’t stay here for free.”
Mira leans against the counter beside you, arms crossed loosely. “Sugar, you don’t owe us anything. You're family.”
“I know,” you say. “But I feel like I need to. I need to make my own way. Even if it’s just a little.”
The silence between the three of you is warm, not tense. Tony scratches at his beard and gives a thoughtful nod.
“Well, I ain’t gonna say no to a easy hire,” he says, deadpan then smirks when you laugh, just a little. “Truth is, I’ve been meaning to clean out that damned stock room since last summer. You good at organizing chil’d?”
You stuff another bite of syrup soaked pancake in your mouth and nod.
“You’d be doing us a favor,” Mira adds. “How about we start slow? One, two days a week. A couple hours a pop. You get the lay of the land, meet the employees, the regulars, feel it out.”
“And we won't add you to the payroll,” Tony finishes. “Keeps them books clean, you safer.”
Your chest fills with gratitude.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
Tony lifts his mug in a quiet salute. “How about tomorrow night then. Just shadow Mira to start. She can show you the ropes.
You smile again, a little wider this time. “You got it.”
Mira raises her coffee cup next. “To your freedom, baby girl.”
You lift yours last, the warmth of it seeping into your chest.
Your life feels like it is finally beginning.
***************
You spend the rest of the morning just existing.
The tiny apartment is still unfamiliar, but it’s already started to mold around you, your aura spilling into the space.
You have had your mind on the clawfoot tub since you saw it peeking out behind the little doorway. It sits like a relic beneath a foggy mirror, chipped porcelain and tarnished fixtures, but beautiful in that worn and vintage way. You run your fingers along the edge of it, then twist the knobs. The water hisses and groans to life in the old pipes and it takes a minute to warm up.
You pour in a bit of rose-scented soap you found under the sink, clearly Mira’s doing, and slide into the water once it’s ready. Your muscles sigh. Your bones feel heavy in the best way. The water curls around your shoulders, fragrant and soft, and you allow your guard down. You soak until your fingers prune and your eyes begin to flutter closed. When you finally step out, you wrap yourself in an old scratchy towel you found hanging behind the door, swearing to yourself when you get your first payment from The Patrons Dive that you will use it to buy new towels. You collapse into the bed in nothing but a large t-shirt you found in one of the small dresser drawers and curl up on the old mattress.
Sleep takes you whole as your body succumbs to its exhaustion.
Your dreams are plagued immediately with darkness that threatens to swallow you up and spit you back out again. You’re running…bare feet against the cold earth.
It’s winter. No. End of winter that is breaking into spring. Your fingertips grip the skirt of a white slim gown. Your mind is not your own, you don’t recognize the panic that swells beneath your breasts.
“Come find me..” you call out to the wind softly as you pause to rest yourself against a wet tree trunk before sprinting off again.
The feeling is unsettling. Are you being hunted? Or rather are you escaping your fate once more?
You wake sometime after sunset in a startled sweat. Your chest heaves as you sit up on your lumpy bed and you take in the space around you.
Your reality sets in softly. You’re safe..
The sky through the window is deep blue, soft with heat, and the room glows faintly orange from the streetlamp outside.
You hear the sound of the bar beneath you now louder than before and already assume it is the cause for your disturbance from slumber. Muffled laughter, clinking glass, the low thrum of a bassline drifting upward through the floorboards along with the scent of smoke.You stretch out across the bed, hot and slightly uncomfortable, you let the sound beneath you over you like ocean waves. It isn’t unpleasant necessarily, but it will take some getting used to.
You dress slowly, pulling on the same levi shorts from earlier and a worn white tank. You re-tie your hair back once more and your bangs are another story as you try your best to brush the wisps of hair off your already damp forehead. This humidity is no fuckin joke... You slip on sandals, slide your little flip phone into your back pocket, and take a last glance in the little dingy mirror by the door. Your forgotten pack of cigarettes lay nearby, a tempting feeling crawls into your throat. The ache for the burn of the smoke turns your mind into auto pilot as you pluck one from the pack. You take a moment to look at yourself again in the mirror as you hang the cigarette from your lips.
A true act of defiance. You look good. You look alive.
There’s something restless stirring in your belly, a hunger for adventure of sorts. You never truly had the freedom of not answering to a single person before, to be able to step out into the night without being watched or followed closely.
So you reach for a small over the shoulder bag that was hanging off the one kitchen chair and add a few 20 dollar bills to the empty inside, laughing at the thought. You let determination and curiosity lead you forward as the dream you startled awake from is now forgotten.
The bar is practically overflowing now.
You slip through the hallway and push open the swinging door that separates the stairwell from the bar, and everything hits you at once. The heat of the room mixed with the overwhelming sound of chatter filling the small space. The tang of sweat and beer invading your senses, the soft burn of cigarette smoke floating in from the back patio door and curling against the neon signs.
There’s a different kind of magic here at night, and dare you say you love it?
The lights are dimmed, casting golden shadows across tables and the glossy wood of the bar top. Loud laughter pours from many different corners of the space. There’s a woman slow-dancing with herself near the jukebox, a bottle of Coors Light heavy in her grip. A man in a backwards cap gathering up little shot glasses of whiskey to bring over to his buddies yelling his name in the corner. It's not fully packed, but each barstool and table is occupied with a few stragglers around.
You weave through the crowd of patrons and slip behind the bar with ease, ducking into the back hallway where the office sits. It is a small room lit by a single overhead bulb and smelling faintly of bleach and must.
Mira’s in the middle of dragging a file box across the floor when you find her. She’s got her hair tied up with a scarf now, that same tank from this morning clinging to her back with sweat, and a half-drunk can of Diet Coke with a cigarette balancing on the top.
“You know you could start a fire in here with all of this,” you gesture to the can as you lean against the doorframe
“Jesus, sugar!” she yells, clutching her hand to her chest as she turns around to meet you. “Scared the daylights out of me. Clear your throat next time or somethin’.”
You smile and step forward, instinctively reaching out to help her shift the box to the side wall. “Sorry about that.”
Mira finally looks at you as she wipes away the sweat on her brow that sharp, assessing look that mothers wear. Her eyes flick down to your sandals, your tank, and the little bag hanging off of your shoulder.
“Didn't expect to see you again tonight, figured you wouldve slept the night through you tired little thing.”
“I slept most of the day actually, I think my body needed some movement.”
She snorts. “Good. You needed it. You looked like a ghost this morning.”
You grin.
“What are you doing?” you ask, motioning to the boxes.
“Oh, well, making room,” she says with a shrug. “Figured I’d clear out this space for you, get you a head start.”
You blink, surprised. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I wanted to.” She wipes her other brow now with the back of her hand, then gives you that signature Mira smirk that makes the tops of her cheeks bunch up under her eyes. “You look like you're about to be up to no good.”
You nod slowly, that small ache of gratitude blooming again in your chest. You press your palm against the doorframe and shift your weight, voice quieter now.
“Just gonna go stretch my legs outside. Won’t be gone long.”
Mira nods, but her smile fades just a bit around the edges as she takes a drag of her almost forgotten cigarette.
“You’ve got the city at your feet, sugar, but be smart about where those feet take you. Don’t go wandering too far tonight. Frenchmen’s fine. Esplanade Ave..if you stay close to the lit streets. But don’t turn down any alleys you’s don’t know.”
You offer a small salute. “Got it.”
Mira eyes you once more, then tosses you something from the desk drawer. A little keychain sporting a small can of pepper spray lands in the palm of your hands, hot pink and bedazzled in rhinestones, of course.
“Take’s that too girl. Just in case.”
“Thanks, Mira.” You stick it into your little satchel.
“Call me if you need anything,” she says, already turning back to the boxes. “Seriously. I'll come uh running.”
You nod, a lump rising in your throat. You don’t say thank you again, she’d swat at you if you did but you mean it.
With that, you turn, step back out into the low hum of The Patrons Dive, and head for the front door.
The heat and humidity greet you like a familiar friend now as you step out into the night. The city is yours for the taking tonight, and you're determined to have fun.
You don't just walk. You practically float through the streets of New Orleans.
The sounds hit you first, a rush of laughter from a group of girls around your age passing you by. The vibrant jazz music outside and inside bars and on the streets - trumpets, trombones, drums. Voices overlapping like waves on a restless sea. The quiet of the desert that you resided in the life you left behind almost seems to die the moment you cross the street. It’s loud here, in the way of blooming life. It’s a Thursday night in the city. The air feels charged as it prepares for a packed weekend. It feels like anything is possible. So you allow your feet and the crowds to guide you.
Frenchmen Street pulses under your feet. The sidewalks are cracked and glitter-dusted. The neon signs flicker and hum above open doors. Theres dusty chalkboard signs boasting happy hour specials, rum flights, “$5 palm readings inside” and more.
Everywhere you look, something’s happening. Couples stumble past you, arms wrapped around each other, drinks sloshing in those gaudy touristy to-go cups. A group of people spill out of one of the vibrant bars in front of you, apologies thrown left and right as someone bumps into you. Oddly enough, you haven't a care in the world over the matter.
Above you, balconies drip with vines and string lights, casting golden spiderwebs of glow down onto the pavement. There's a sort of mischief that clings to the air as the sun finally sets and the sky bleeds from orange and pink to navy blue once more. New Orleans at night feels less like a place and more like a spell. And you are utterly spellbound.
The city doesn’t care who you are or where you came from, it only cares that you surrender to it and you are just another stranger with secrets under your skin it is dying to seep its claws into.
A man with a sparkling purple coat tries to stop you along your journey offering a sweet serenade. You smile and brush him off, dipping into a bar nearby, the cash in your bag practically burning a hole, begging to be spent.
The bar is even more vibrant inside than out which you didn't think was possible. Neon pinks and purples combined with walls that are painted deep indigo, streaked with gold leaf patterns that catch and scatter the light like constellations. On one side, a long mahogany bar stretches the length of the room, cluttered with bottles of bourbon, tequila, and gin in every shape and color imaginable.Glasses hang upside-down above the bartender’s head, catching the glow from the neon lights.
Tucked into the corner, a jazz quartet plays like they were born doing it. The trumpet glows silver in the spotlight, warm and loud. The upright bass thrums in your chest. The saxophone is slow and dirty, like a sinner's confession. The drummer doesn’t smile, but his hands move like they’re telling stories.The light on the stage is rose-colored, filtering through a red velvet curtain behind them. It paints their skin warm and golden. Their eyes are closed. The rhythm seduces you instantly.
You take a seat near the back corner at the bar, and for the first time since you stumbled out of The Patrons Dive, you feel a sense of excitement. Your hands still shake a little as you tuck your hair behind your ear and lean forward on your elbows.The bartender catches your eye and strolls over with a rag in one hand, the other slung over the back of his hip. He’s young, maybe about early twenties and dressed to impress in a black button down, black slacks and a red tie.
“What can I get you?”
Your mouth opens, but you hesitate. This is new to you, the bar setting, ordering drinks, choosing what you want.
“I — um, I'm not too sure to be honest.” You half smile at the bartender.
“Do you like sweet or savory?”
You shrug, “Probably sweet.
“Coming right up.” He says with a wink.
He returns shortly and places a frosted martini glass in front of you. As you pull the drink closer towards you, you send the twenty his way, he returns quickly with your change.
You take a sip. The sugar coated rim kisses your lips. A sickly sweet flavor invading your taste buds at first followed by citrus lemon and married together with a finish of lavender. You groan as you allow the drink to linger on your tongue for a moment before the bite of the alcohol becomes too much.
When you swallow it warms your insides instantly. As fate will have it, it reminds you immediately of the lavender lemonades you and your mother used to share when you were younger. Your eyes focus back on the band before you think too hard about her and you let the culture consume you.
It does not take long for the alcohol to make you feel fuzzy or for the yearning for adventure to return. You abandon the remainder of your drink and flow back into the warmth of the night.You pass an artist selling paintings on a crooked sidewalk, a man offering tarot readings with a crow perched silently on his shoulder, laughter rolling out of you as the alcohol flows through your veins. You almost lose track of time as you continue to wander, caught in the spell of the city one street blurring into the next, signs and scents and rhythm pulling you deeper.
Until you make a wrong turn.Iit happens so easily you are not aware of what has happened untl its too late.One left becomes another. Then another. You follow a flicker of color in hopes it will steer you back on the right track,a mural tucked into the side of a building. Then you’re somewhere you don’t recognize. You realize the light, the vibrancy, the music is all left behind and now all you hear is the wind in front of you.
The pavement shifts from cobbled charm to broken and chipped asphalt. The smell of the air changes to mold and mildew, decay, and you could swear on it, death.
You slow your steps and observe your surroundings. You’re alone.
There’s a low buzzing in your ears, a sense of danger beginning to blanket you. You spin on your heel, turning back the way you think you came, but the buildings loom closer now, leaning in like they’re watching your every move, waiting to consume.
You can’t find the light. A right turn, another left turn, your heart begins to thrum as you realize the mistake you've made. You feel that familiar sense of anxiety bubbling up in your throat. You reach into your back pocket and fumble with your phone, the cheap plastic of the flip model slipping in your sweaty palm as you open it and try to find Mira’s number.
Before your fingers can press call a hand wraps into your hair at the nape of your neck, another hand covers your mouth. You scream into the palm, muffled, desperate as your back is slammed against a wall, the breath knocked from your lungs.
The silver of a blade flashes in the darkness, pressed to the fragile hollow beneath your chin and your skin grows cold. Colder than it has ever felt, even the abuse you've experienced never made you feel like this. You let your god damn guard down and now look at what happened.
The hand in your hair at the nape shifts, gripping your jaw instead. Forcing your eyes up to meet his.
He smells like whiskey and something acrid beneath it, that decay you caught a hint of earlier. His face is close, too close to your own. Leathery skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, watery yellow eyes sunk deep. His teeth are brown and broken, and the words that leak from his mouth are slick with venom.
“Well, well. What do we have here,” he whispers, voice like gravel, his snake-like tongue licks a stripe along your cheek. “Ain’t you a pretty thing out here all alone.”
You try to jerk away, but the knife presses closer. A cold kiss against your pulse. One wrong move on your part and you know the blade will bite. Your legs tremble, your feet rooted in fear.
His breath hits your cheek still heavier than the summer air that engulfs you.
“Got somethin’ sweet in that purse for me? Or somethin’ sweeter between those legs?”
The words hit like bile. You choke on what feels like vomit rising in your throat, heart hammering like it’s a hummingbird caught in a trap, trying so desperately to escape.
“Bet you thought you were somethin’ real clever, wanderin’ out here. Lookin’ like that.”
Your mind races at a million miles. Move. Scream. Bite. Something.
But you can't. You're frozen. His sunken, hollow eyes seem to glint in the dim light like he caught a prize he's never had before. The knife nudges up, a threat, and now you can feel the sharp bite of the rusty blade. This is it, this is how it ends.
Just when you are at the point of giving in fully and your lungs are about to collapse under the weight of it all, a voice, low and dangerous, cuts through the night sharper than the blade against your skin.
“Let her go.” The voice cuts through the air like a blade. Low, velvet-dark, and utterly unshakable. Commanding. Confident.
The attacker stiffens. You feel the unmistakable tremor in his hand, the sudden twitch of uncertainty. You can't see the voice’s source yet. Not with his palm still clamped around your jaw, his knife trembling just enough to press harder against your throat once more. But something in the old man falters as he looks over his shoulder in the direction of the thundering voice, causing the blade to lower.
“Mind your business,” the attacker snarls, his breath thick with panic and rot as he bounces his weight between his feet.
Then the voice comes again, deeper this time.
“This isn't up for debate, old man. I said let her go. Unless you wish to die tonight.”
The old man presses against you harder in an attempt to stake his claim to this stranger and then the hands on you are gone in one single violent jerk. You stumble forward, gasping, hands flying to your throat checking for any signs of wetness. The blade never cut the skin but it kissed too close for comfort. The world around you spins for a moment as your vision tries to focus and your mind catches up to the inhuman speed that man was ripped from you. One second ago, he had you pinned to the wall and the next, he’s being ripped away with such force that the sound of his back hitting the brick wall on the opposite side of you echoes through the alley and your stomach lurches as you hear his bones crack. It all happens in less than a few seconds.
As your eyes refocus and you lift my head, you see him.
He steps into the thin light slicing through the darkness, and for a moment, time hangs motionless. His presence doesn’t just fill the dimly lit space in the alleyway, it simply devours it.
Dressed in black from head to toe a rich, velvet jacket with soft embroidery is the first thing I notice as it accentuates his broad shoulders and muscular arms. His shirt is unbuttoned halfway, exposing a sculpted chest and layers of silver chains, each chain containing a silver coin of some sort. Your eyes land on one of them holding a deep, black stone that rests against his sternum. His dark pants sit tight on his body, yet non consuming, and his black boots are now soundless as he steps closer.
Odd.
But it’s his face that steals the breath out of your lungs as your eyes trail upwards.
His skin is golden, soft and yet sharp in all the right places. High cheekbones, full lips parted just slightly as he exhales slowly through his nose. His jaw is set tight, tension carved into the elegant angles of his expression. A piece of his long, dark, wavy hair falls over his cheekbone and the rest tumbling in rich, tousled waves past his shoulders.
And his eyes…
Almost black. They're so dark it doesn't even look like the light can touch them without the risk of being sucked into a black hole. Sharp, alert, piercing in a way that looks predatory. His stare locks onto the old man, and you feel the temperature in the alley drop as a slight smirk breaks at the edges of those beautiful lips.
Your attacker tries to get up from the place he had crumbled to, wheezing, stumbling. But he doesn't let him.
He closes the distance in two long strides and presses his black leather boot into the man's wrinkled neck. His actions make it seem like he's amused, like he's playing a game of sorts. He smiles now, barring white teeth that seem to glisten in an unnatural way in the light. The old man is whimpering now, all his earlier filth and cruelty dissolving under the weight of something he can’t explain.
You can’t either. Not yet.
But fuck can you feel it, theres an electric pull in the air like static, that feeling before a thunderstorm barrels through the atmosphere. He leans forward now, applying more pressure on the edge of his boot. You swear you can hear the crack of a bone again and the bile in your throat threatens to spill over, yet you can't look away from the scene in front of you.
“Keep pushing your luck old man,” he growls, his voice rougher now. “I’m a moment away from tearing your throat out and letting the rats finish the rest.”
The man doesn’t respond. He just nods. Or maybe twitches. It's really hard to tell due to the lack of light in the alley. The mystery man lifts his boot releasing the pressure and hold he had on your attacker. The man scrambles to his feet, tripping on dilapidated asphalt as he flees into the dark, leaving nothing behind but a sour stench and the memory of his venom.
The air in the alley way grows cold against your skin again as you realize it's just the two of you now and who's to say this man has good intentions for you too. As he snaps those dark eyes over his shoulder at you, you instantly push yourself back, scraping against the ground until your back hits the brick wall again and your blood runs cold in your veins.
The man doesn't move at first and you just stare at him, trembling.
Adrenaline and fear fills your body. Something buried low in your belly that rises to the surface as this man slowly turns to face you. Your mind is screaming at you; he isn't safe! Run!
His voice comes again, softer this time. It surprises you a little.
“Are you hurt?”
You swallow hard, trying to form words through the fog.
“I… I don’t think so.”
He nods once and his eyes trace all over your figure. You feel as if he's disrobed you.
"You shouldn’t be out this late," he said, voice low and stern. “Not around here. Not alone.”
You blinked up at him, “What makes you think I’m alone?”
“Hush.” His jaw clenched. Your lie is falling on deaf ears apparently.
There was cruelty in his tone, one that made it feel like he was scolding you like a petulant child and it annoyed you. He shook his head, lips tightening. “This part of town’s not what it looks like after midnight. You’re lucky I was nearby.”
The fear and adrenaline running through you bled into annoyance; distaste. Who the hell was he to be talking to you like you were fucking four years old? Granted, what the fuck was he doing out here this late, looking like this.
“Lucky?” You sneered, standing from your spot on the asphalt and brushing off the tiny rocks pressed into your skin.
He raised a brow at your tone, the corner of his mouth twitching with apparent amusement and only spurring your brows to furrow further. He stayed still, gaze flicking from the curve of your jaw sweeping up to your eyes, he was intrigued?
“Yes,” he said flatly. “Lucky.”
You crossed your arms and scoffed. “I don't know if lucky is the right word.”
He stepped closer to you then, his confidence growing as your display of fear diminished into thin air in front of him. His voice dropped again, smooth as good bourbon.
“Fortunate actually, you’d be in a lot worse position if I hadn’t shown up.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What, you want a fucking gold star or something?”
His lip twitched and you caught another glimpse of his unnatural white teeth. “No,” he said simply.
Your jaw clenched at that. “And what exactly were you doing lurking in an alley after midnight?” you snapped. “Looking to play a hero? The ‘young vigilante saves damsel in distress’? Or was it just good timing?”
For the first time, something flickered in his expression, calculation maybe? He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his voice was softer. Too soft.
“Fate,” he sneered, a wicked smile dancing on his full lips. “Call it that.”
You rolled your eyes, arms crossing over your chest. You weren't sure if you’d rather that man still have a knife pressed up against your throat or this infuriating man.
This god damn handsome, but infuriating man.
He looked at you now like he could see straight through every layer of heat and fear and defiance still clinging to your skin. And for some reason, you could feel some of your defiance slowly melting away.
“Look,” he started as his eyes scanned the alleyway. “Let me walk you home. That way I can make sure you get back to where you need to be safely.”
You scoff and blow a strand of hair that fell into your face, “And what? Risk you stalking me after you learn where I live? Not a chance.”
You held your chin high though the chill under your skin lit like wildfire as he approached you a bit more, the heat of the air almost dissipating like his aura carried ice. And then it hit you out of nowhere, it seeped into your bones like the radiant sun. His cologne.
Warm verviter and musk, a small trace of clove. It was the kind of scent that wrapped around you before you could decide if you liked it, and then left no room for doubt once it did.You breathed in deeply without meaning to. God. It was heady and masculine, but not overwhelming. It didn’t just smell good. It smelled like pleasure. Like a dagger to your resolve.
And just like that, the pulse in between your legs betrayed you.
He was utterly intoxicating to you now. You wanted to taste the skin on his throat. Shit, you wanted him to taste the skin on your throat. It felt like you had to bite your lip to stop the involuntary moan that was about to spill from your lips as he came to stand in front of you now.
The silence stretches again, even more charged than before. His gaze drops to the way your arms are wrapped around yourself, the subtle tremble in your fingers you’re trying to hide. The smirk now reaches his eyes.
“I’m not fucking asking. I’m walking you home.”
A demanding and handsome prick is still a prick nonetheless.
You hesitate, your brain screaming and pleading to not let this stranger any closer. “Why?”
“Because I’m not allowing you to risk your safety again tonight.” he says, and there’s no room for argument in his tone.
Your stomach flips. Something about the way he says it, like he’s annoyed you were in danger. Like you had gone looking for it on purpose and it inconvenienced him.
“I don’t even know you,” your sass returning from your involuntary moment of weakness for this man.
He tilts his head slightly, his eyes rolling. “And we are going to keep it that way, mark my words. But that doesn't change the fact that I am walking you home tonight.”
Your mouth opens and then closes again. He did make the point to save your life tonight when he didn't have to, you suppose you owe him this much.
There’s a beat of silence. He softens, however, just barely. “Just..please let me walk you home..”
You want to argue. You should. But weighing out your options once more, you suppose letting him walk you home wasn't going to be the worst decision you made this evening. You were curious about him anyhow, and a part of you, a very small part, wasn't ready to let him go just yet.
He steps beside you, his presence solid and strange, that heady cologne of his continuously casting a spell on you that turned your insides into mush. He presents an elbow for you to hang onto, that cocky smirk dancing on his face again as he looks down at you. You hesitate for a moment and then wrap your hand around his bicep. That hesitation only lasts a breath before your fingers curl around the offered arm.
And suddenly, the world feels tipped off its axis.
His bicep is solid under your touch, strong muscle that isn't just toned but almost hard as granite. The kind of muscle that doesn’t come from hours in a gym, but from some inexplicable, functional strength. If it wasn't for the noticeable warmth radiating off of him through the velvet jacket he was sporting you would've sworn he was carved of said granite. He doesn’t flinch or shift as you take hold and grip your fingers a little tighter.
And as the two of you begin walking down the quiet shadowed street, you can’t help but feel like you’ve just welcomed something into your life you don’t fully understand but would consume every fiber of your being. You can't put your finger on the weird spark fluttering in your chest, curiosity blooming further that is mixed with an odd sense of comfort. He feels familiar to you all of a sudden and you can't put your finger on why.
You continue to walk in silence for a while. Your footsteps echo on the pavement whereas his remains oddly silent. You steal a glance at his profile, focusing on his sharp yet soft nose, those pouty lips. The very apparent furrow in his eyebrows makes him appear like he's deep in thought, same as you.
He must feel your stare for he breaks the silence between you. “You should stop looking at me like that,” he says, his voice low, eyes still ahead.
“Like what?”
“Like you're trying to figure me out.”
You swallow. “Maybe I am. Maybe I want to know your story. Your name, the name of my savior.”
God, you sound like a lovesick teenager. You don't recognize the soft voice spilling from your lips. What kind of spell does he have you under?
A beat of silence, a breath. Then, softly, he says, “That’d be a mistake darlin’.”
You round the corner and the lights of Frenchmen Street bleed into view, warm and golden in the distance. The Patrons Dive is just beyond the block now. You can almost hear laughter still floating in the distance.The Patrons Dive is completely dark now, the main door closed up and locked for the evening, the glow of the open sign now sitting dark and lifeless. The gold Buick was missing from where it was parked earlier and you hadn't realized how late it was until now.
He walks you right up to the side door, the entry into the stairwell up to your new home. His jaw flexed, tight, as his eyes scanned the streets around you. “Lock it. Don’t open it until the sun’s up. Not for anyone.”
“Wha– why..”
“There are far more dangerous things around here than that man you met in the alley, it would be best not to stray again.” His gaze, sharp as he glances back at you.
You open your mouth, heart catching somewhere in your throat. “Wait…”
His brows lift in a silent question.
“…What’s your name?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you for a long moment like he’s fighting an internal battle, hesitation, and then. “It’s Jake.”
“Jake,” You whisper it back, “Will I see you again?”
“Hopefully not anytime soon darling,” he said with a soft playfulness dancing on his lips, and then he was gone. Just like that, disappearing around a street corner like a goddamn wisp of smoke.
You knew then that you had to see him again.
You would throw yourself into the devils lair to do so.
One thing is for certain, Jake was about to be your demise.
Hi!! okay so this is kinda random but i overheard someone at a mirador show talking about your fic le morte darthur and i was like????? how have i not read this yet. so i ran over here and i’ve only made it through the first two chapters and i’m already losing it. like actually obsessed. this story has me by the throat already and i just needed you to know. ok that’s all bye 💛
oh my goodness! ugh, this warms my heart. truly. 🥹 so so happy to hear you love it. & to know someone was talking about it?! AH! i can't explain what that means to me. thank you for telling me, & i hope you continue to enjoy this story. 🤍🥹
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.
⋆༺𓆩🗡𓆪༻⋆
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༻⋆
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༻⋆
DISCLAIMER: We do not know Greta Van Fleet or any of the members personally. This is all fiction and we will never claim otherwise. We attempt to keep all of our work 100% original, so please do not steal or take credit for our writing. We cannot promise a schedule or a weekly update. We try our best, but we do have full time jobs and many other responsibilities to attend to. Please be patient and kind. Do not mind any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes—we try our best to perfect our work but we do miss things sometimes.
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Your story All I Want was exquisite—aching, resonant, and masterfully written. I find myself wondering, will there ever be a second part? The world you built feels too alive to remain silent.
oh, my dear. this made my heart so happy. thank you SO much for loving it. 🥺
i absolutely have plans for a part 2, & i hope to be able to give it to you sooner rather than later. writers block has sadly taken hold of me. but, this has certainly given me some much-needed motivation to get back into the swing of things.
thank you, sweet anon. your words are so very kind. 🤍
Summary: It all began with a passion for literature. What was once a dream to walk the halls of the University of Michigan is now a reality.
You thought you were prepared for everything.
A new town, a new school, a new way of life,
but what you were not prepared for…
was meeting the enigma that is Jake Kiszka.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Word Count: 14.5k+
Le Morte d'Arthur Masterlist
Series Playlist
Warnings: please proceed with caution if you find any of the following to be triggering. MDNI 18+ ONLY. struggles with body dysmorphia/eating (including food restriction), strong feelings of inadequacy, heavy emotions/ talks of an absent parent, *extremely* sick & terminally-ill parent, talks of end-of-life plans, anxiety/stress/depression, parents fighting, child neglect, eating disorder behaviors as a result, recollection of past struggles with anorexia/restricting, manipulation from a parent, grief, death of parents/grandparents, kissing, a little fluff. (please let me know if i've missed anything!)
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
a/n: thank you for sticking with me. 🤍 i hope you enjoy. (& please ignore any grammar/spelling errors.)
as always, i owe a huge thank you to @jakeyt for being the best editor & my right hand in helping create this. i seriously couldn't have done it without you. love you SO much. you're the best sister i could ever ask for. thank you for believing in me.
"The moth teaches us that beauty lies in the risk of being drawn toward the light."
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
You found a strange comfort in them. Strange, only because the other kids had convinced you it was so. It wasn’t strange. At least, not to you. That word, that one you’d heard as your own descriptor, just simply didn’t make sense to your young mind.
Strange? No. Beautiful. Strangely beautiful.
You saw their beauty. In all of their bug-like, creepy crawly glory – you saw yourself.
The other kids on the playground would run and scream at the mere sight of their wispy wings. Or, to your own hearts shatter, they’d stomp them, smash them with their immature hands. You’d saved more than any mere number your brain could manage to come up with.
And when the tiny, magnificent creatures would land in your open palm, your gently pointed finger, or the neckline of your shirt, the other children would sprint away from you. As far as they could.
And that made you happy. The moths were your friends, not your peers that spewed nothing but condemning cruelty at you.
Moths seemed to find a strange comfort in you, too. Anytime you were outside, you’d be hard pressed to not find one circling you, following you, even landing on you.
They made you smile. Not once did you scream at their peace-bringing presence.
They’ve never meant any harm, any ill-will. They simply exist in a world that will never see their beauty in comparison to that of a butterfly.
But, not to you.
In fact, that’s what you loved about them.
You never wanted to be a butterfly, never had the desire to fit the mold of growing up in Cherry Tree, Oklahoma. Sure, butterflies were beautiful, but only because everyone said so.
A moth was just as beautiful to you – even more so – and no one had to tell you that for it to be a truth. Their beauty was just a bit more hidden, something normal folks would have to dig through layers to find.
To you, that just meant they were beautiful on their own terms.
And when you realized that no one else saw that – and when you came to terms that they couldn’t see your own beauty beneath the misunderstood layers that encompassed you – it drew you to them all the more.
At the tender age of eleven, at the cusp of nightfall, you found yourself seeking the solace you’d only known to be outside of your old home's back door. The rose garden, full of pearly white blooms your dad had planted the preceding summer. A sea of them, drifting around the pure oak bench he’d built just after the rose hip seeds found their home in your soil.
Your nerve-wracked body slumped down against the unfinished wood that night after having listened to your parents shouting at one another for the better part of the night. Your room offered you nothing in drowning out their raised voices, and you’d grown tired of hearing it.
The backyard, the roses – they couldn’t hear the yelling. That, of course, meant you couldn’t hear them out there.
You were grateful your dad fancied things up back there, because that provided you with a sanctuary. (And, though you’ll never know for sure, you’d always wondered if that was the very reason he’d chosen to do so.)
The outside air was humid that night. Heavy. Yet, not nearly as bone-crushing as the air inside of your house.
The breeze – though sporadic – was nice. You basked in it each time you felt it against your clammy skin. You breathed it in, as it carried with it the sweetened scent of the blooms. And as you did, you’d close your eyes, allowing every other sense to truly feel it. The wind, the aroma.
The tiny tickle on your finger.
It didn’t startle you, for you knew that feeling well.
Your eyes, still hidden behind your lids – you knew the sensation of a little friend that’d decided to join you in your escape.
Though, something about this one felt…different.
Slowly, your eyes opened, your vision adjusting to the moonlight that befell you amidst the rest of the darkness.
Your jaw fell slack, your tired eyes widening on their own accord. You’d never seen such a thing, such beauty held in your own hand.
Nearly neon against the silver, lunar glow; tiny spots that looked like little, yellow eyes, looking at you with the same sincere curiosity that you looked at it with.
It was a moth, but not like any you’d ever befriended before. It was much grander in size – its wingspan was wider than your own hand. And it was painted in the most alluring shade of pale green. Within it, you saw your own reflection. The both of you, too strange for others, quietly beautiful in your uniqueness.
Different. Strange. Uniquely so. Beautifully so.
You let it rest on your hand for as long as it needed. You’d decided this quiet creature of the night needed a peaceful escape – just like you. The two of you, without a single word, found a careful harmony in one another. Solemn, yet tranquil.
You smiled as it finally made its ascent, wings a mellow glow against the darkened sky as it flew toward the moon.
After that night, you’d bear witness to these immaculate beings more times than most humans would ever dream of. A rarity, for they hold a lifespan of no more than a week. A picture of nature’s beautiful and cruel irony – they have stomachs to feed, yet no mouths to eat.
So, these gorgeous entities aren’t a common find. And yet, you’ve seen dozens of them since that very night.
That gentle moth, that elegant creature — its very presence made you forget what your parents were fighting about. The reason you sought your peaceful solitude became all but lost to you the moment you met your little friend.
Each sacred encounter you’ve had with these precious creatures since has left you holding the very same sentiment – peace. Hope.
A sign that things will be okay.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Last month, just before your birthday.
He’d been so talkative that night. There was a gleam in his eyes that made it difficult to keep your lips from curling into a smile. He just wanted to tell you as much as he could, as though he’d never get the chance to sit with you like that ever again.
You were on the couch at his apartment, the room bathed in a honeyed glow from the setting sun, glimmering through the bay windows. The prettiest color against his olive skin, his frizzed, chestnut locks. The two of you, tangled together in a mess of your own legs, sitting upright and cuddled in the inner corner seat of the couch.
He was warm. His legs, like heaters against your skin. He was wearing a pair of black sweat shorts, leaving his legs exposed and flush against your own bare legs. You wore your University of Michigan hoodie, the navy blue one you’d gotten for free once you were hired on at the library. It was oversized, just how you like it. It all but covered the black biker shorts you had on underneath.
Jake teased you more than once that night, going on and on about how it looked like you “forwent your pantaloons.” He’d kept on with his accent he’d used in the film, making your cheeks blush every time he’d speak that way. It was hilarious. And it was incredibly sexy to you.
It was this night that you realized just how much he uses his hands to talk. Nearly every word, emphasized further by a wave of his hand, a pat against your calf, his finger twitching and fluttering as though he was painting his words on an invisible canvas.
You just leaned your head against the back cushion of the couch, lips tugged in a quiet smile, hands resting against his legs as you listened to him, as you watched him.
Watched every thought spill from his lips, how his eyes would squint ever so carefully as he considered each new word he spoke. How his lips, so full, would stretch as he’d smile. The way his Adam's apple would bob up and down as he’d giggle at himself. His sweet, high-pitched laugh that would make his cheeks rosy.
He was telling you tale after tale of him and his brothers when they were growing up, how they were good kids, but managed to get into heaps of trouble.
“Dad always came to the rescue when mom was upset with us – hell, he’d defend us, even when we’d done some wild shit,” he laughed, reminiscing, eyes smiling almost as brightly as his lips. Yet, beyond the smile he wore, you could still see the remnants of pain, still deeply seeded. His stories made you feel like you knew his parents – he had you mourning them, right along with him. In the most loving of ways.
His grief was profound, but you could feel his love for them even more so than his hurt.
“And when I tell you my mother was a spitfire, I mean it,” he continued. “And dad was entirely awake of his own consequences when he’d go against her. Just imagine, if you will,” he said, pointing upward towards, what you could only assume, was Josh’s room. “That one and I going at it, only tenfold.”
He wheezed a chuckle when your eyes widened in pure shock. For you, to imagine that anyone could fight with more intensity than the twins, was certainly a bolt from the blue. It brought you back to the beginning of the semester, to the early days of filming when the two would spat so often.
But, those arguments wouldn’t last longer than a few minutes – one or the other would have an epiphany and suddenly realize that the other was right. “You’re a fucking genius,” one would admit. Or, “That makes sense,” you’d hear from the other when they’d actually taken the time to consider everything.
It always baffled you how fiery their arguments would be, and how quickly they would fizzle out. Almost as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. Knowing that their parents were the very same certainly made sense to you.
“I just can’t believe you two switched places in elementary school,” you’d said, thinking back to when he told you of their antics in the early days of their education. You were left astonished that such young kids could accomplish such a feat. “And your teachers believed it?”
“Oh, indisputably,” he’d giggled, eyebrows scrunched in the middle as though the believability of their childhood antics should never be doubted. “Where do you think those stellar acting skills came from, hm?” He laughed as he leaned toward you, the little space between you both closed by his hand reaching for your jaw and tugging you that much closer still.
A kiss, so tender, as if he’d been longing for it all evening. Though, he’d just done that very same thing only minutes before. Locking his lips with yours, for seemingly no reason at all, other than to just kiss you. Nothing else. It was as domestic and pure as it could possibly be – just you, Jake, his voice, his lips.
When he pulled his lips from yours, smile gracing the glossed skin that once touched yours, a gentle finger brushed a stray wisp of your bangs off your nose, his loving reminder to you that it was time for a trim.
He went on about more childhood memories, the good ones. The ones that happiness encompassed like a warm hug. He talked about his mom, how she’d take them out past their bedtime to get ice cream at the shop that stayed open until midnight.
And then, he talked about his dad. He talked about him with such fondness, such love – you began feeling as though you had known him as well. Jake’s memories were as fresh as if they’d just happened.
“He loved books just as much as I do. To tell you the truth, I think a lot of what I love comes from him.” He scratched his chin, huffing a chuckle, as though a specific memory was coming to the front of his mind. “They would both read us stories before bed, and I’ll never forget when they read us The Hobbit. Mom was in charge of the theatrics, of course. She had a knack for voice acting and making us believe in the characters. And dad – he was in charge of the music. The score to the film, if you will.”
He brushed a strand of loose hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear, his hoop earring poking through his locks. “He played us some wandering melody – I swore I could see Bilbo tiptoeing through the Shire.” He giggled, moving his arms as though he himself were marching through the Shire. “And that was dad’s gift – he taught me that music and language weren’t separate things at all, that they could be the same language if you listened just right.”
He leaned back a little then, fingers drumming lightly against your thigh as though he were keeping time with an invisible song. “He used to make me close my eyes when he played, said if I only heard the notes then I was missing the point. ‘Feel the story,’ he’d say. ‘Every chord has a heartbeat, every pause has a purpose.’ Perhaps that’s why I can’t separate the two – books and music. He made me believe a song could be a novel without words, and a poem could be a melody without sound.”
His lips curved, bittersweet. The sentiment still held some elements of pain, yet the memory served as a beautiful capsule of a time that saw him become who he is today. “Sometimes I think that’s why I fell so hard for literature later on – it was like I was chasing after the song he was never able to finish teaching me.”
God. If your heart wasn’t already in shambles, that statement had certainly sealed its broken fate. You loved this moment between you two – you loved learning him, all the things that made him who he was. You’d never known it when you first met him, but Jake loved to talk. And fuck, if you didn’t love to listen.
His voice somehow managed to quiet any and all horrid thoughts plaguing your own mind. The mere sound of him speaking had that effect, just as the simplicity of his presence. When he was around, you just felt better. All of your own problems seemed to dissipate when Jake was with you.
And when he told you his stories, when he let you into his heart, you felt a sense of trust that he had in you. That alone left the world around you a clouded haze. All that mattered was him, and you. Sharing space, sharing yourselves.
It was all you’d ever wanted in another person.
All you’d ever wanted.
“And y/n, when I say those two had nothing but love in their hearts, there’s nothing more true,” he’d continued, a luminous sadness in his velvet voice. Sweetly sorrowful. “Even when they argued, it was all with love. And before you knew it, they were laughing and hugging again, like they’d entirely forgotten that they were ever mad at each other.”
“You speak of them so beautifully, Jake,” you quietly said, tears threatening to spill from the emotions you could feel emanating from him, how deeply he still loved them. How his eyes held a different kind of glow when he spoke of them. “The way you talk about them, I feel like I knew them, too.”
Though he was just a child when they passed, his memories of them were so vivid. And that told you just how much an impact they both had on him.
Especially his dad.
All at once, it broke your heart to think of what he’d endured at such a pivotal age. But, as much as your heart hurt, it warmed at the thought that he could still feel so much love, despite everything that should’ve torn him down.
He smiled wider as you spoke, eyes flitting from your eyes to your lips, sincerity etched in his flawless features. He leaned forward once more, cupping your jaw before he laid a sweet kiss to the tip of your nose.
“They were beautiful people,” he said in a soft voice, kissing your lips then with the same, gentle touch. “I miss them.” His lips graced your cheek, warm breath, with hints of the Miller Lite he’d just sipped on, fanned your skin.
A comfortable silence lingered between the two of you, words suddenly not necessary as your silent lips said everything you’d ever wanted to say to him. You felt the tickle of his hair against your cheek as it fell from behind his ear again, goosebumps rising at the soft whisper it left on your skin. Your fingers found home within his locks, your thumb tracing along his jaw, down his neck.
The kiss was deep, yet not in an erotic sense. Deep in a way that words just couldn’t encompass.
Both of you, lovers of words, found yourselves able to speak them without uttering a single thing.
God – it was magical.
The simplest of moments, yet full of something much deeper than you’d ever experience in your lifetime. You wanted it to last, for the world around you to go on spinning and leave you two to just be.
Of course, that isn’t the way things work. But, the moment was about as close to perfection as any could be.
“Alright,” he’d said, just as he broke the almost everlasting kiss. He tucked his hair back behind his ears once more with a flick of his fingers, his smile returning in full. “I should probably end this here before I drown you in my sentimentality," he giggled, kissing a lonesome tear that'd fallen from your eyes – you hadn’t even felt it fall.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
The true reason you’d gone over that night was for studying purposes.
Yes, actual studying. Because, one thing that rings true about you and Jake – you both take your academics very seriously.
It just so happens the universe aligned so that you two could partake in your studies together.
You both had literary analyses due for Movack at the end of that particular week, and you’d already spent the better part of two hours helping one another. The topic certainly came rather easy for the both of you – the class was assigned to study ’fate as in inescapable destiny’ in Mallory’s Le Morte d’Arthur.
Jake narrowed down the themes of fate and destiny, and you wrote his thoughts into a thesis that you both were able to build upon for your own separate papers.
Arthur’s rise, framed by prophecy – his kingship is legitimized by his destiny, the sword in the stone.
And yet, the very same prophetic framework signals his inevitable fall: Merlin warns Arthur that Guinevere’s love for Lancelot will destroy Camelot. The narrative sets up a tragic structure in which the characters walk toward a destiny they cannot avoid.
Fate works not only as prophecy, but tragic inevitability. Human error, chance, and destiny align to bring about destruction.
The assignment came about as easily as breathing for the both of you – in every sense, the two of you were complete nerds about this analysis. (And, you each got perfect scores from Movack when you turned them in a few days later.)
After figuring out your papers, you still had a few hours until you had to get home and the next item on the homework-list was a film analysis for your Classic Horror course.
Jake wasn’t in that class with you, but he wasted no time volunteering to help. Especially when you told him the film you’d chosen to analyze. You’d decided on The Silence of the Lambs. For many reasons, but one in particular that ultimately led to your decision. There was a significant symbol in the story that you’d always wanted to explore further, be it through academics or for personal reasons. That was why you made the choice you did.
“And here I was, fully prepared to sit through The Shining with you,” he’d said, eyebrows raised in shock and a breathy, disbelieving chuckle from his lips. “But I’ll allow it, I suppose,” he teased, clearly displaying his approval for your choice of film through his mockery. “Hopkins is a true genius, afterall.”
You’d thought about The Shining – truly, you did. It was the easy option, the one that would’ve required the least amount of thought for you. But, that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted to think. And it’s not that you don’t have to think with The Shining – that film is one of the most thought provoking in the world of cinema.
But, you’d already performed many analyses over the film during your academic career – you just wanted something different.
He reached for the Roku on the couch cushion behind him, flicking through the apps for a moment before landing on HBO Max. He searched for the movie with the voice option, using his best Hanibal Lecter impression to do so. It made you chuckle, but it was god awful. And he knew it.
Once the opening credits began playing, you opened a blank Google Doc on your laptop, fingers ready to speed-type any thought you’d have as you watched the movie.
“So tell me,” Jake began, watching as you were already writing down something from the very first scene that captured your attention. “Why this film, hm? You don’t exactly make choices without some sort of meaning behind them.”
“Correct,” you’d simply stated, finishing your thought on digital paper before you were ready to get into the reason this movie sparked an interest in you. You typed away with your first impressions from an analytical standpoint, and not just entertainment. Sure, you’d seen it dozens of times before. But, never for academic purposes. It was the perfect opportunity for you to dive into the tale just a bit further than you ever had.
So, for you, that meant dissecting things right away.
Opening scene: Clarice runs alone in the woods – immediately framed as small, practically swallowed by the forest she’s trying to navigate. Mist, branches, shadows = obstacles, obscurity, isolation. She’s vulnerable, but she keeps running – determination stronger than fragility. Training course works as a metaphor: constant tests, always being watched, always needing to prove herself.
A woman against an entire system, only noticed as a woman – as weak.
Jake’s eyes were glued to your screen as you typed, gentle breaths from his lightly parted lips that you could feel like a whisper of wind against your hair.
It made you smile – feeling him, knowing he was there. His presence was everything you needed that night.
Everything.
“Oh, I love how your mind works, doll,” he’d said, watching as your thoughts unfurled on the screen, turning them into some sort of deeper meaning that you would later be able to make even more sense of.
Of course, his little use of that name sent a rush of blood to your cheeks, beckoning a shy smile as you typed the very last word. “Why, thank you, sir.”
You looked at him right as you’d said it, catching a familiar glint about his eyes that said something along the lines of, don’t start what you can’t finish.
“Alright, professor,” he teased as he leaned down to steal a sweet kiss from your cheek. “What’s the game plan here? What am I keeping my eyes peeled for?”
“Moths,” you’d said, quickly, without much thought. “I wanted to dig deeper into them, what they stand for in this story. Symbolically, they represent so much that they obviously have a larger connection to this entire piece. And, I just happen to love moths.”
You felt your heart flutter when you noticed a very blatant shift in his body language, one that told you his interest was indeed piqued. He smiled so brightly, almost proud. “Ah, the nocturnal kin of the butterfly,” he’d said. “This will be fantastic, doll. For what it’s worth, I, too, have a fascination with the little things.”
You perked up, noticeably, you’re sure. “You do?” you questioned, surprised. Yet, somehow, not surprised at all.
“Oh yes. I’ve always been fond of them, what they symbolize. You know, it’s funny,” he continued, rubbing his index finger along his chin, as if conjuring a deeply seeded memory. “My dad and I would sit on the front porch a lot of nights – playing some Petty tunes on guitar, laughing, talking about my future – and we’d always try to keep count of how many moths we’d see. They’d swarm that porch light some nights, and it was sometimes a little hard to keep count of them,” he laughed, pure sincerity in his eyes. “They held some sort of strange comfort for me after he passed.”
Strange. Comfort.
“And then, my grandfather and I held the same tradition. Sitting on the balcony of the apartment, watching the moths fly toward the light. Talking, laughing, reminiscing. Now, this could be a case of frequency illusion or something, but I swear I see them more often than most people do. Sometimes, I think the little things follow me around, like they find some sort of peace in me. Sounds like I’m a victim of delusion, huh?” he giggled, cheeks growing with a grin.
Your lips parted before you could stop yourself. “I don’t think that’s delusion at all, Jake. That’s absolutely beautiful.”
If you hadn’t already decided your feelings for Jake by then, you had certainly realized them that night. That moment, when something so dear and sacred to you also held the same sentiment for him.
And you’d never known it.
There was never a chance to talk about it. Because, you had to be brutally honest with yourself – who wants to sit and talk about whatever spiritual significance a bug may hold?
You would, of course. But, there aren’t many people in this world who feel that way. Something you learned as a child, a topic you learned to keep to yourself for the sake of appearing at least somewhat normal to other people.
Your fluttering heart was then doing full flips in your chest. “It’s the Luna moths for me,” you began, a quiet admittance. You looked down to your now black laptop screen – timed out after sitting still for so long. In it, you could see your reflection, and Jake’s. And, it made you smile. “They’ve just always felt like peace to me. A sign of something good. I – I see them a lot, you know. Like, they’re drawn to me somehow.” You giggled at your own words, realizing how silly they must’ve sounded to him.
Though, you felt safe in saying them to him. There was no judgement with Jake. Not even a little bit.
But, you weren’t ready to open up about everything just yet. It both felt like the right time and the wrong time all at once. You wanted him to talk to you, to continue telling you about his life and what molded him into the person that sat next to you on the couch.
No, you decided to wait. Another time would arise for that, and it just so happens that it was just a few nights later, on your birthday.
Before, well, everything came to an end.
You were blissfully unaware this night. And what you’d give to have that moment, that feeling, back…
“I can see that,” he murmured after a bit of silence, his voice gentle, deliberate. “I think I understand why they find you – the way they linger, the way they stay. Because I do, too. I’m not so different from them, I suppose. I’m drawn to your light the same way.”
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
The film played on as you diligently took notes, Jake chiming in with his own thoughts that only helped you expand on yours all the more. You loved hearing what he thought, where his mind would go in comparison to your own. It was validating to know that his thoughts aligned almost perfectly with yours – he just knew how to dig deeper.
Something you love about him.
“Moths,” he’d said softly, just as the screen unfolded with the earliest scene in the film that depicts them. The mortician, pulling that cocoon from the poor girl's mouth.
That moment in the movie has always made you wince, but Jake handled it like a pro while you buried your head into the safety of his shoulder, just long enough for the split second on the screen to pass.
When your eyes found Jake’s face, his brow was lifted, lips stealthily curved. “A symbol of change, of transformation,” he quoted, lowering his voice in another rough imitation of Hopkin’s. He let out a soft laugh before shaking his head. “Creepy bastard…but, he’s right. Transformation’s the entire spine of the film.”
You nodded, fingers flying across your keys as you typed. “That’s exactly what I want to dig into. The way these death’s-head hawks aren’t just grotesque little details – they’re the key to telling us the story underneath. Clarice trying so hard to shed who she was, Bill desperate to become someone else entirely. It’s all about transformation, just in very different directions.”
Your fingers turned into lightning as you typed, an attempt to get every thought you had down before they became too scattered.
Jake hummed, seeming to watch you more than the film. “Maybe that’s why they keep finding you, doll. You’ve been transforming all your life.”
Your fingers suddenly stilled, his words slipping under your skin with a truth you hadn’t expected to hear uttered from his lips. You then looked at him, eyes suddenly more drawn to him than the words on your laptop’s screen.
“You really think so?” you muttered. Part of you, trapped in disbelief. But, the other part of you knew he wasn’t lying. Why would he?
He grinned softly, features laced with wholly candor. “Yeah, doll. And just like the moths, you never had to be a butterfly to be beautiful.”
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
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 it reaches his final 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 that’s 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 to help her.
That aim does not reside in the soul of my younger brother. His vow lies on the surface layer of his skin, collecting unseen 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 enveloped 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, and 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.
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 wound won’t heal as quickly.
I miss her. I miss her more than any one soul could yearn for another. She’s embedded into mine, stitched where the tattered threads of my upbringing hung loose. And, she’s the reason for new rips and shreds that can’t be sewn back together without her.
But, these 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.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
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, no moon to cast the noir sky in a ghostly hue.
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.
“Oi, you Jacob? Jacob, er, Kiszka?”
Hearing my name brings not only my body, but my mind back to the present. 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 that my flight safely landed. 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.”
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
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 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 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, no more than a few minutes’ walk from Magdalen college. Red brick, tendrils of decayed ivy, dead from from the winters’ cold, clinging to the window frames. The front door is painted a deep 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…
Before either of us say another word to each other, a woman 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.
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 words that tickle the tip of my tongue — hell 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. Dad’s 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, the brightest smile 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, how 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.
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. 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 the guitar 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.
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.
End of Jake’s point of view.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Christmas has felt much the same as this year's Thanksgiving – you, your mom, and your quiet apartment.
The meal was – well, there was no meal. Not really, in truth. No Christmas dinner that other families perhaps spent all day preparing.
Yours was a simple pasta. A single box of twisty noodles, boiled in a medium sized pot of water, and a jar of almost expired red sauce that lacked any sort of decadent flavor profile.
It was all you had. You couldn’t even come up with any side dishes to add to the “meal.” Not that you cared, but your mom certainly wore her distaste on her pale face. She didn’t vocalize it, however. And that brought you back to another time when she never verbalized her disgust with your cooking. Until that silent moment, you’d almost forgotten there ever was such a time.
Her bowl held most of the food you’d prepared – yours was only filled with a small handful of what was left once you made sure she had plenty to eat.
Neither one of you have been able to eat much these days. Both for different reasons, of course. Still, it’s all the same.
She ate more than you had expected her to. A lot more, in fact. She nearly cleaned her bowl, only leaving a few remnants of over-boiled noodles and sauce at the bottom.
It left a tiny tinge of relief to see that she’d eaten real food today, instead of her chicken-broth-in-a-mug that she’s insisted on as of late.
You, however, couldn’t bring yourself to eat more than a few noodles. Four of them, to be exact. You kept count. A nice, even number – not too much, but enough.
Despite the circumstances of this year, it actually hasn’t been a terrible night, in truth. You don’t mind the quiet, the calm of it all. It’s quite nice.
The apartment smells of balsam, all thanks to a candle you’d found at Trader Joe’s. You’d even splurged on a few sets of colorful lights to string around the living room, and a tiny three foot tree you found at a discounted rate. It was missing a few branches – a manufacturing error. But, it didn’t bother you much. It only made you appreciate the little thing all the more.
It’s small, but it’s enough. And, with as small as your apartment truly is, a tree any larger would look downright silly.
You surprised your mom with a classic western film DVD box set you’d found. (Also at a discounted rate – people just don’t seem to watch these anymore.)
It was the one and only gift under the tiny tree. That, and a box of Swiss Miss – with the marshmallows. She loves a good, warm cup when the weather turns bitter. You quite enjoy one, too. Warm drinks have always been a source of comfort. They’re great for chilly fingers, for melancholic moods.
You didn’t have to work too hard at talking her into having a cup with you. So, after dinner and doing the dishes, you warmed up some milk on the stove (because, yes – milk is better than water in hot chocolate) and rinsed out a few of your old Coca-Cola Christmas mugs.
You breathe in the chocolatey deliciousness as you fill each mug – already set with the mix – with the near boiling milk.
Tiny marshmallows begin peeking through the froth as you carry them both into the living room. You hand your mom hers, forewarning her of the heat, once you’re in a comfortable position on the couch. The couch that, to your bitter distaste, you spent hours deep cleaning today.
But, it’s clean now. And that very fact allows you to take a breath of contentment before you blow on your hot chocolate to cool it just a little.
Not too much, of course – you’ve always been one to prefer your hot drinks to be piping hot. If it’s not on the verge of blistering your tongue, it’s not hot enough.
“I don’t know how you’re already drinking that,” your mom laughs, a certain familiarity behind her words. She’s always known you to do this. “It shocks me every stinkin’ time.”
“What would you like to watch, mom?” you ask, taking one more sip before setting the mug on the coffee table. “I can put in one of your new westerns if you’d like.”
It’s not that you want to watch one, per se. You’re just simply offering, knowing that she was more than likely already planning on watching one. They’re certainly not your favorite film genre, but you'll indulge her. (Because, even though you’ve tried to ignore the thought, you know you may not have her much longer…)
You reach for the DVD set next to your mug, and begin peeling the clear plastic off the box cover. But, before you can get too far, she stops you.
“I don’t think I’m in the mood for one of those tonight,” she says, her breathy and meek voice somehow sounding better than it has in what’s felt like weeks.
“O-oh,” you stutter, shocked that she doesn’t have any interest in watching one of these films. “Well, what would you like to watch then? I guess maybe we should watch a Christmas movie since it’s Chri –,”
“Why don’t you put on Oliver and Company?” she interrupts, seemingly ignoring you as she’s cut you off before you could even finish your thought.
What?
You stall your movements. Your eyes, instinctively falling to your lap while your body is jolted, triggered somehow at the mention of that movie. That odd suggestion, a movie you’ve not watched in years.
Why all of a sudden…? And what is the reason behind the abrupt tightening in your chest?
“S-sure,” you stutter, more of a question than an agreement.
There’s nothing wrong with the movie – it was one of your most treasured watches as a child. But, you haven’t felt the desire to watch it since then.
In fact, if your jumbled memory serves you correctly, the last time you watched it was with your dad. Years and years ago, several before he chose to leave. His love for Billy Joel made the movie bearable for him – he loved the music in it, especially the little dog he voiced. (If only you could remember the damn dog's name. It’s been so long…)
So, he certainly never complained when you wanted to watch it as a kid.
But for your mom to want to watch it now…you’re wracking your brain to figure out why. And the way she’s looking at you right now, as if silently prideful of a point she thinks she’s making. Her eyes narrowed, one brow lifted. Her thin lips held tightly together, curling in a sneaky sort of grin.
It’s making you incredibly uncomfortable – it’s only adding to the onset of anxiety you’re suddenly feeling, without any explanation.
You’re just confused.
But, you shake it off. Surely it’s nothing. It has to be nothing – you don’t have the energy, time, or mental capability to worry yourself over it.
You walk over to the television stand, pulling open the top drawer that holds the few DVD’s you have. It’s in there, buried at the bottom. The case is cracked, worn from age and use. The cover picture is faded, the colors not nearly as vivid and vibrant as you once remembered them to be. Could just be from wear and tear. Could be that your childlike-way of viewing the world has since faded, too. Nothing is as colorful anymore.
The disc has a couple of scratches on the shiny side, but nothing so bad that it should have a hard time playing. You place it in the player, closing the tray with a soft push. The machine hums a little, cracking sounds coming from the disc as it begins to spin, the screen still black. For a second, you begin to wonder if it’ll even bother to work. But, finally, the screen turns from black to blue, before the opening credits appear in a familiar font.
You don’t move to sit right away. Instead, you linger by the TV stand, arms crossed loosely over your chest, as if buying yourself a moment to breathe and swallow down the remaining confusion flooding your mind. You can feel her eyes on you – waiting, watching. The loud silence stretches thin.
Finally, you turn, offering the smallest smile, the only way you can muster one. It feels fragile on your quivering lips, but it’s the best you can do right now. You lower yourself on the couch beside her, leaving just enough space so that your elbows don’t brush.
The theme music plays faintly through the speakers. You clear your throat, softly, an attempt of getting rid of the constricting feeling.
“Here it is,” you say, falsifying your excitement.
She nods once, eyes fixed on the screen, until they flit toward you. “Remember when we used to watch this together, honey? It was your very favorite. Your dad never wanted to watch it with you, remember? So, I always did. I loved it just as much as you, sweetie.”
“I – I thought –,” you start, stopping yourself before you say something that could trigger her.
The only time you can remember watching this movie with your mom was the Christmas you were in the hospital with a collapsed lung…her and your dad. Not just her.
Other than that, she’s never watched this movie with you. That you know for a fact.
And, it’s not that it’s a bad thing that she never did. It’s that she’s blatantly lying about it right now.
You’ll give her the benefit of the doubt – perhaps her illness is causing her to misremember. Perhaps that’s just how she remembers it…but…
It feels wrong to feed into it. It’s just simply incorrect – your dad watched this with you, not her.
You know better than to bring him up, though. It’ll only cause issues, more than either of you need right now.
“Yeah – yeah, I do,” you say, quietly, somewhat restrained. It nearly hurts to speak the words, your throat clamping tight around them. But, you know it’s for the best.
“Remember my favorite character?” she asks, full smile stretched across her lips, causing her cannula to ride up her face just a little, a stark reminder for you of her condition.
“I guess I don’t remember,” you admit. And, it’s the truth. You don’t remember, because she’s never told you.
She opens her mouth in shock, huffing a disbelieving giggle. “Dodger, silly girl. I love that Billy Joel speaks for him.”
Dodger. That fucking dog’s name is Dodger.
Dodger. He was your dad’s favorite character, because your dad loves Billy Joel.
It’s taking strength of a magnitude you didn’t know you possessed to keep yourself from saying something you’ll regret, to keep yourself from spitting the truth that’s burning the back of your throat. Anger begins to simmer deep in your chest. Why is she trying to completely erase him?
You can be angry with your dad. You can grieve him, resent him and still keep the memories close. Two things can be true.
But watching her twist those memories, bending them into something that never was – watching her take them away from you…
Suddenly, Jake’s voice slices through you, unbidden.
“She’s doing this on purpose, y/n. And you know that. She’s letting herself stay this way so you won’t live your own life. And it’s working.”
Was he right? Does he see something that you don’t? (Or, something you do see, but you’ve put it in the back of your mind enough that you don’t let yourself consider it.)
And then, it hits you. It slams into you harder than a train going a speed of no less than a thousand miles per hour. And, it’s heavy. The heaviest you’ve felt since…
Dodger.
The name of the mysterious, allusive character in your mothers phone. The person she called the night she was taken by ambulance – the one she refused to speak of when you asked her.
That tightening in your chest is far more pronounced than before, squeezing every bit of air out of your lungs.
Surely it’s a coincidence…that name…
It can’t really mean anything…right?
Happenstance. An odd twist of a strange fate.
It’s nothing. And you’ll continue to tell yourself that as much as you need to until you believe it.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
The movie ends, but your mind doesn’t. The screen fades to black, yet your thoughts play on a relentless, tortuous loop. You just can’t seem to make sense of anything right now – your mom’s strange words, the pit in your chest. And, if you’re honest, you’re not certain you truly want to make sense of it.
You need something – anything – to distract you, to anchor you. To ground you.
The hot chocolate has long since gone cold, no longer offering you any sort of comfort. And, the next movie your mom chose – Christmas with the Kranks – certainly isn’t helping.
Not one bit.
That’s when you remember the box.
One that has yet to be unpacked from the move to Michigan, the last one. It’s been sitting untouched on the top shelf of your closet since then, a cardboard capsule from Oklahoma. You’ve just not had the energy to open it – until now.
Tonight, it feels like the perfect distraction. Maybe even a Christmas gift to yourself. Something buried. Something you’ve been missing.
It’s bigger than you remembered, heavy in your arms. No wonder you’ve been putting it off. Whatever’s inside probably doesn’t even belong in this cramped little apartment. Still, curiosity has taken over – it begs you to open it, to see what you thought was worth hauling all the way here. You made certain to pack only the essentials when you left. So, it must be something you thought you’d need.
The duct tape tears away too easily, a cheap off-brand you’d grabbed last minute at the Dollar Tree. The cardboard remains practically unscathed beneath it – it’s a wonder it held it together at all.
As you pull back the flaps, the dusty contents leave you breathless.
You don’t remember packing these. And you don’t really know why you did. Only the essentials; these aren’t exactly essential.
They’re records.
Your dad’s records.
For a moment, you just stare at them. You can’t recall slipping these into a box. They weren’t essentials. Not really, at least.
And yet, here they are.
He left so abruptly that he didn’t even think to take his prized collection…and you thought that was weird. Still do. He loved his vinyl’s – why would he leave them behind?
You fear you’ll never know the answer.
All of a sudden, the faded memory of packing them begins to come to mind, clearing as you think on it a little more.
You did it so hastily, and didn't allow yourself much time to think what you were doing.
The records were your dad’s, yes. But they’re yours, too.
They’d always been in the living room, each one carefully placed on the shelf, their spines facing outward in neat, alphabetical rows. You didn’t know a life without them – you loved them, too. For you, in your rush to get out, it was probably nothing to take them. They’ve been such a staple in your life; you couldn’t bear to leave them behind.
It hurts your heart that they’ve been inside this box for so long, sitting on top of each other, their heavy weight crushing the ones at the bottom. You just hope that they’re okay, that there’s no irreversible damage done to them.
Picking through them is like going through a stack of old photographs from your childhood. It’s all the same to you, in truth. The records are just as symbolic to you as any photograph could be. Perhaps even more so when you really think about it.
Couldn’t Stand The Weather is right on top; its cover is practically seared in your memory. Right underneath it is one you recall as being your dad’s favorite, the one he’d spent years hunting for an original press in mint condition — Texas Flood.
Stevie’s records have always been a bit hard to come by, so you know these two specifically meant a lot to him. And, again, it begs the question – why didn’t he take them?
Muddy Waters, The Stones, Albert King, Robert Johnson, Led Zeppelin, Derek and the Dominos, The Beatles…just a few of some of the most sought-after titles, all collecting dust in this forgotten cardboard box.
This is the music that rang all across your home for the better part of your upbringing, spinning on his old Linn LP 12 turntable he bought brand new in the eighties.
You were in seventh grade when your parents sold it. They needed the money, and with those record players being such a hot commodity, they made over nine hundred dollars on the thing. The living room was never quite as vibrant again, and the music never sounded the same after it was gone. It broke your dad’s heart to get rid of it – you could tell. But at the time, money for groceries was more important than listening to records.
These records haven’t been played in several years now. You truly can’t recall the last time you heard their soft static hiss, or their occasional pops and crackles as they spun under the needle. You don’t even own a record player, nothing within reach to bring these harmonic pressings back to life. But, at least they're here. You have them.
The collection is as deep as the box, seemingly endless titles that serve as the soundtrack to your early days. Carefully pulling each of them out, setting them upright against the wall so there’s no more pressure against them, you may as well be emptying a time capsule of things you’d nearly forgotten about.
Each one has a memory engraved into its grooves, most of them of your dad.
And, most of them are happy.
Your mom loved this music, too. But, her adoration wasn’t nearly as pronounced as his.
As you’re nearing the bottom of the box, lifting the last few relics from their cardboard tomb, you’ve reached the very last one. And the second you spot it, the most vivid and powerful memory takes hold of you.
He’d called you his Wildflower for most of your life.
You were always just...different; you stood out. And never in the right ways. From the music you listened to, to the way you dressed, to the movies you loved, the deep emotions you’d always harbored.
You were never the Oklahoma standard. Being so anomalous was something you grew accustomed to at quite a young age. It didn’t always serve you well amongst your peers. But, you learned to embrace it.
Your mom would eventually begin using the nickname, too. Though it was never quite the same with her – it didn’t feel the same. That was something special between you and your dad. Of course, you didn’t mind when she’d call you that, but you could tell she’d only do it because he did.
“Remember, you're a wildflower,” your dad would tell you anytime you felt offbeat. Anytime the different parts of you made you feel incredibly less than.
From the moment you began school, you were made fun of for your darker clothes, the books you’d opt to read at lunch in lieu of talking to anyone, the ‘big’ words you’d use.
Kids had always made you feel like you were wrong for being who you were, that you were broken because you weren’t like them.
“You are a challenge to the garden’s expectations – you dare to grow where you want. You don’t belong in their meadow, y/n. You belong in beautiful yours.”
He began this mantra at just six years old, and he’d remind you of that very sentiment each time you were ashamed of being different.
On your seventh birthday, he gifted you your very first record – Wildflowers by Tom Petty. He played you the title song after you’d opened it.
“This is your song,” he’d said. And from then on, he’d surprise you with a daisy – a wildflower – on your birthday each year.
The record was yours, but it was kept safely within his collection for years. You’d stopped playing it when you became an angsty teen, when it wasn’t cool to have such a nickname. You didn’t get rid of it after he left, much like you couldn’t part with the rest of the vinyl’s.
When you packed them, you didn’t give yourself the chance to look through them. Wildflowers was simply tossed in the box along with the others, unnoticed.
It feels like you’re seeing it for the first time since you were in high school. And, in essence, you are. It hasn’t crossed your mind in so long, and once he left, any happy memories evaporated from the burning anger you felt towards him.
But, as time has gone on, as you’re finding things that send your mind in a far different place – those memories are trickling back in, slowly. One by one.
“Whatcha doin’, sweetie?” Her gentle, breathy voice startles you – you hadn’t even heard her come to your bedroom. You quickly stand from the floor to help her to the edge of your bed, taking her hand and offering her some support so she doesn’t use too much of her strength or become winded.
“Just going through a box I hadn’t opened yet,” you say, helping her down on the mattress. You sit back down on the floor once she’s settled, taking the Wildflowers album from the box.
“Oh, honey!” She reaches for it the second she sees it, and takes it from your hands before you’ve even had the chance to really look at it.
“Your first record,” she gushes, smiling so bright that her nasal cannulas poke out from her nose. She breathes deeply once she secures them again, examining the album front and back.
You’d thought she’d be upset by this, seeing something that was given to you by your dad. But, the smile on her face says otherwise. Shocking, but it’s a nice diversion from earlier.
Can’t really blame her, though.
“I’m so glad you brought this,” she says, beaming with joy. “I still remember how cute you were when I gave this to you. Silly girl – you had no idea what it was! Remember when I got this for you? I played it for you so many times when you were little.”
…what?
“Mom, um, did-didn’t dad –,”
Her now cold eyes shoot down to yours at the slight mention of him, her lips held in a tight line against her teeth. You don’t understand…what is she trying to do? She’s looking at you with a tactic to intimidate, and it’s working. But, you can’t let this go without setting it straight.
“Dad got this for me, mom. My first record – it came from dad because he used to call me – ,”
“I got it for you, y/n. Not your piece of shit father.”
The sudden gruffness of her voice is a rather harsh contrast to your soft tone. She’s so angry about this. But, why?
“I am the one who introduced you to music, remember? Your father had nothing to do with that. Do not give him credit for things I did for you, understand me?”
What the fuck?
To say you’re shocked would be like calling a thunderstorm a drizzle. None of what she’s saying makes sense. None of it.
It crosses your mind for a brief moment that she could be in the beginnings of dementia…maybe her mind is truly going – almost gone – if that’s what she believes.
But…no. That isn’t right. She’s as serious as she could possibly be, and her eyes tell you she’s fully aware of what she’s claiming, that she knows it’s the truth. She can’t hide behind her lies any longer.
She’s done this before, about little things. She’s even taken credit multiple times for your taste in music.
Whatever. That you can deal with – it’s innocent enough.
But the movie…Dodger.
Her acting as though she loved the movie the same way your dad did, when you know that to be untrue.
And this…that record was special to you and your dad. To only you and your dad. This isn’t something that you’ll allow her to take away from you. Just like everything else she’s taken away.
Jesus. It’s like she wants your dad erased from your life completely, no traces of him left behind unless those traces make you hate him.
Yeah, you’re not exactly pleased with him either. And, it’s certainly true that some of these memories cause more hurt than happiness, because of what he did. But they’re still your memories. Why is she trying to pretend that they don’t exist? That she was the one who took care of you all your life when it was actually him?
They aren’t her memories to rewrite, to invalidate. It’s all you have left, and you will not let her take control of your last remaining pieces.
“Mom,” you say, with more assertion behind your voice, standing from your crouched position on the floor. “Dad gave this to me. You were there when I got it, but this was his gift to me. He called me Wildflower. Don’t you remember?”
With piercing eyes glaring at you, she tosses the album to the floor and stands to meet you, face to face. She’s breathing heavily, her breath wreaking of stale milk. Though you can’t tell if it’s due to her illness or her sudden anger that her breathing is so labored, your bet is on the latter.
“Whatever you say, sweetie,” she grits through her teeth, cold eyes holding tight to yours. “I think I’ll go to bed. Starting to not feel so good.”
She begins to walk away, shuffling her sock-clad feet against the carpet towards her room.
“Let me help you get into bed,” you offer, reaching for her hand to help keep her stable. But she just as soon pulls her arm from you before you can get ahold of her.
“I’ve got it,” she says, stern, now halfway to her room, keeping her eyes in front of her. “You don’t really want to help me, y/n. It’s okay. I get it.”
“Mom, I –,” but before you can say much else, she’s slamming her door across the hallway. You’re left standing in the middle of your bedroom, shocked. You reach to pick up the album from the floor, clutching it tight in your hands, mind completely disarrayed.
You have no idea what the fuck just happened, can’t even begin to process it fully. She’s done things like this before, but this time felt heavier. There was something else behind it, something she’s been harboring.
You set the record down on your bed, telling yourself it’ll be safer there than in your clenched, trembling hands. You're seconds away from a full mental breakdown when you hear her voice cutting through the thin walls.
“Y/n?” she calls, her tone laced with fragility, with a gentleness that feels almost rehearsed.
“She’s doing this on purpose, y/n. And you know that. She’s letting herself stay this way so you won’t live your own life. And it’s working.”
“Could you help me through a bath? I know you probably don’t want to, but I don’t think I can manage it alone. I can just risk slipping if you’re too bus –,”
“I’m coming, mom,” you call back, voice clipped, steady only because you're forcing it to be. “I’ll be right there.”
You press your palms into your eyes, swallowing down the heat in your throat, pushing yourself towards her room.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Neither one of you have said much to each other. Her bath was quick, less than ten minutes. She wanted right in and right out.
Now, she’s lying peacefully in her bed, with her freshly-cleaned sheets and the western film she finally decided she wanted to watch.
It’s quite baffling how much more at peace you feel when your mother is in bed, when you no longer have to answer her every beck and call. It’s a shameful, guilty feeling to possess, but after the events of the night…
You know you can’t be faulted for breathing a little easier now that it’s just you.
One thing you’ve been longing for all day is a steaming hot shower.
So, that’s just what you’ll do.
The bathroom needs a little tending before you can restfully do that, though. That includes draining the tub from your mom’s bath. You’d already removed the drain plug before she’d gotten out of the bath, but these old pipes certainly don’t drain as quickly as they should.
You kneel down to check the water level, watching the slow swirl around the steel drain, when a sudden vibration startles you half to death.
Another buzz, stronger this time – before you even register what’s happening, your phone, sitting stupidly on the edge of the tub, slips forward.
Plop.
Straight into the water.
“Fuck!”
You lunge forward, plunging your hand into the lukewarm bathwater and yanking it out as fast as you can, flinging it into the pile of towels beside the toilet.
Miraculously, it’s still working. The screen lights up, dripping and fogging beneath the case. Still ringing.
And you finally see the name before it fades away.
Natalia.
Your chest tightens. She’s called no less than fifty times in the last week, more text messages than you could possibly count – you’ve avoided every single one.
Because you know what she’ll want to talk about.
And you just…can’t. Not yet. You don’t want to hear your voice tremble when you say his name. You don’t want her pity. You don’t want to bury her sunshine with the storm cloud you’ve been dragging around since he left. You don’t want to bog her down with your burdens.
But, god, it hurts. Because you miss her. So goddamn much.
And still – you keep your distance. Because that’s just what you do.
Distance.
It’s the only way you know how to cope. To push everyone away so they don’t drown with you.
You drag a shaky breath and focus back on the phone, the thing you can control right now. It’s wet, fragile. You need to save it.
You blot it again with the towel, but your stomach twists at the thought of water seeping inside. You should probably take the case off. Avoid any further damage.
With trembling hands, you peel the rubber, sage green edges away, prying the phone free –
And your stomach drops.
Because, tucked neatly behind the case, kept safe where you’d hidden it weeks ago, where you chose to place it so it would stay close with you –
Jake’s guitar pick.
The one he pressed into your palm the night he bore his own heart for you. The night of your birthday, when, for the first time in a long while, things felt right.
It’s now on the floor, in the middle of a small puddle. Drowning.
Your throat tightens as you reach for it, pruney fingers shaking as you hold it, drying it with your sweatshirt. The indentions left behind from his thumb print, the scratches and cracks on the surface from passionate use…they’re all still there. You can touch them, feel him within this tiny piece of plastic.
The memories of Lenny come flooding back to you. The way he looked as he played, his eyes as he told you the story behind the piece, the way his lips curled and his brows furrowed while his intentional fingers strummed each note with perfect precision…
You squeeze your eyes shut as the tears come, hot and heavy.
This was, suffice to say, the last thing you wanted to be confronted with tonight.
A tiny piece of plastic – it feels heavier than the whole world.
Because, it serves as the most devastating reminder that he isn’t here. He isn’t home.
And you don’t know that he ever will be again.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
a/n: i know – this wasn't my normal chapter style. but, i wanted to try something a little different, & give some of these little moments & symbols a chance to stand on their own. as always, please don't be afraid to reach. anon or not, i love hearing from you all. 🥺 (p.s...dodger...?)
if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters, follow this link or send me an ask/dm & i'll be sure to add you. ☺️ (let me know if i've missed you!!!) (also, i know tags are being a little weird right now—will you let me know if you did/didn’t receive a notification?) sending all my love!
National Alliance for Eating Disorders. Please reach out if you're struggling. You're worth it. 🤍
Summary: It all began with a passion for literature. What was once a dream to walk the halls of the University of Michigan is now a reality.
You thought you were prepared for everything.
A new town, a new school, a new way of life,
but what you were not prepared for…
was meeting the enigma that is Jake Kiszka.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Word Count: 14.5k+
Le Morte d'Arthur Masterlist
Series Playlist
Warnings: please proceed with caution if you find any of the following to be triggering. MDNI 18+ ONLY. struggles with body dysmorphia/eating (including food restriction), strong feelings of inadequacy, heavy emotions/ talks of an absent parent, *extremely* sick & terminally-ill parent, talks of end-of-life plans, anxiety/stress/depression, parents fighting, child neglect, eating disorder behaviors as a result, recollection of past struggles with anorexia/restricting, manipulation from a parent, grief, death of parents/grandparents, kissing, a little fluff. (please let me know if i've missed anything!)
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
a/n: thank you for sticking with me. 🤍 i hope you enjoy. (& please ignore any grammar/spelling errors.)
as always, i owe a huge thank you to @jakeyt for being the best editor & my right hand in helping create this. i seriously couldn't have done it without you. love you SO much. you're the best sister i could ever ask for. thank you for believing in me.
"The moth teaches us that beauty lies in the risk of being drawn toward the light."
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
You found a strange comfort in them. Strange, only because the other kids had convinced you it was so. It wasn’t strange. At least, not to you. That word, that one you’d heard as your own descriptor, just simply didn’t make sense to your young mind.
Strange? No. Beautiful. Strangely beautiful.
You saw their beauty. In all of their bug-like, creepy crawly glory – you saw yourself.
The other kids on the playground would run and scream at the mere sight of their wispy wings. Or, to your own hearts shatter, they’d stomp them, smash them with their immature hands. You’d saved more than any mere number your brain could manage to come up with.
And when the tiny, magnificent creatures would land in your open palm, your gently pointed finger, or the neckline of your shirt, the other children would sprint away from you. As far as they could.
And that made you happy. The moths were your friends, not your peers that spewed nothing but condemning cruelty at you.
Moths seemed to find a strange comfort in you, too. Anytime you were outside, you’d be hard pressed to not find one circling you, following you, even landing on you.
They made you smile. Not once did you scream at their peace-bringing presence.
They’ve never meant any harm, any ill-will. They simply exist in a world that will never see their beauty in comparison to that of a butterfly.
But, not to you.
In fact, that’s what you loved about them.
You never wanted to be a butterfly, never had the desire to fit the mold of growing up in Cherry Tree, Oklahoma. Sure, butterflies were beautiful, but only because everyone said so.
A moth was just as beautiful to you – even more so – and no one had to tell you that for it to be a truth. Their beauty was just a bit more hidden, something normal folks would have to dig through layers to find.
To you, that just meant they were beautiful on their own terms.
And when you realized that no one else saw that – and when you came to terms that they couldn’t see your own beauty beneath the misunderstood layers that encompassed you – it drew you to them all the more.
At the tender age of eleven, at the cusp of nightfall, you found yourself seeking the solace you’d only known to be outside of your old home's back door. The rose garden, full of pearly white blooms your dad had planted the preceding summer. A sea of them, drifting around the pure oak bench he’d built just after the rose hip seeds found their home in your soil.
Your nerve-wracked body slumped down against the unfinished wood that night after having listened to your parents shouting at one another for the better part of the night. Your room offered you nothing in drowning out their raised voices, and you’d grown tired of hearing it.
The backyard, the roses – they couldn’t hear the yelling. That, of course, meant you couldn’t hear them out there.
You were grateful your dad fancied things up back there, because that provided you with a sanctuary. (And, though you’ll never know for sure, you’d always wondered if that was the very reason he’d chosen to do so.)
The outside air was humid that night. Heavy. Yet, not nearly as bone-crushing as the air inside of your house.
The breeze – though sporadic – was nice. You basked in it each time you felt it against your clammy skin. You breathed it in, as it carried with it the sweetened scent of the blooms. And as you did, you’d close your eyes, allowing every other sense to truly feel it. The wind, the aroma.
The tiny tickle on your finger.
It didn’t startle you, for you knew that feeling well.
Your eyes, still hidden behind your lids – you knew the sensation of a little friend that’d decided to join you in your escape.
Though, something about this one felt…different.
Slowly, your eyes opened, your vision adjusting to the moonlight that befell you amidst the rest of the darkness.
Your jaw fell slack, your tired eyes widening on their own accord. You’d never seen such a thing, such beauty held in your own hand.
Nearly neon against the silver, lunar glow; tiny spots that looked like little, yellow eyes, looking at you with the same sincere curiosity that you looked at it with.
It was a moth, but not like any you’d ever befriended before. It was much grander in size – its wingspan was wider than your own hand. And it was painted in the most alluring shade of pale green. Within it, you saw your own reflection. The both of you, too strange for others, quietly beautiful in your uniqueness.
Different. Strange. Uniquely so. Beautifully so.
You let it rest on your hand for as long as it needed. You’d decided this quiet creature of the night needed a peaceful escape – just like you. The two of you, without a single word, found a careful harmony in one another. Solemn, yet tranquil.
You smiled as it finally made its ascent, wings a mellow glow against the darkened sky as it flew toward the moon.
After that night, you’d bear witness to these immaculate beings more times than most humans would ever dream of. A rarity, for they hold a lifespan of no more than a week. A picture of nature’s beautiful and cruel irony – they have stomachs to feed, yet no mouths to eat.
So, these gorgeous entities aren’t a common find. And yet, you’ve seen dozens of them since that very night.
That gentle moth, that elegant creature — its very presence made you forget what your parents were fighting about. The reason you sought your peaceful solitude became all but lost to you the moment you met your little friend.
Each sacred encounter you’ve had with these precious creatures since has left you holding the very same sentiment – peace. Hope.
A sign that things will be okay.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Last month, just before your birthday.
He’d been so talkative that night. There was a gleam in his eyes that made it difficult to keep your lips from curling into a smile. He just wanted to tell you as much as he could, as though he’d never get the chance to sit with you like that ever again.
You were on the couch at his apartment, the room bathed in a honeyed glow from the setting sun, glimmering through the bay windows. The prettiest color against his olive skin, his frizzed, chestnut locks. The two of you, tangled together in a mess of your own legs, sitting upright and cuddled in the inner corner seat of the couch.
He was warm. His legs, like heaters against your skin. He was wearing a pair of black sweat shorts, leaving his legs exposed and flush against your own bare legs. You wore your University of Michigan hoodie, the navy blue one you’d gotten for free once you were hired on at the library. It was oversized, just how you like it. It all but covered the black biker shorts you had on underneath.
Jake teased you more than once that night, going on and on about how it looked like you “forwent your pantaloons.” He’d kept on with his accent he’d used in the film, making your cheeks blush every time he’d speak that way. It was hilarious. And it was incredibly sexy to you.
It was this night that you realized just how much he uses his hands to talk. Nearly every word, emphasized further by a wave of his hand, a pat against your calf, his finger twitching and fluttering as though he was painting his words on an invisible canvas.
You just leaned your head against the back cushion of the couch, lips tugged in a quiet smile, hands resting against his legs as you listened to him, as you watched him.
Watched every thought spill from his lips, how his eyes would squint ever so carefully as he considered each new word he spoke. How his lips, so full, would stretch as he’d smile. The way his Adam's apple would bob up and down as he’d giggle at himself. His sweet, high-pitched laugh that would make his cheeks rosy.
He was telling you tale after tale of him and his brothers when they were growing up, how they were good kids, but managed to get into heaps of trouble.
“Dad always came to the rescue when mom was upset with us – hell, he’d defend us, even when we’d done some wild shit,” he laughed, reminiscing, eyes smiling almost as brightly as his lips. Yet, beyond the smile he wore, you could still see the remnants of pain, still deeply seeded. His stories made you feel like you knew his parents – he had you mourning them, right along with him. In the most loving of ways.
His grief was profound, but you could feel his love for them even more so than his hurt.
“And when I tell you my mother was a spitfire, I mean it,” he continued. “And dad was entirely awake of his own consequences when he’d go against her. Just imagine, if you will,” he said, pointing upward towards, what you could only assume, was Josh’s room. “That one and I going at it, only tenfold.”
He wheezed a chuckle when your eyes widened in pure shock. For you, to imagine that anyone could fight with more intensity than the twins, was certainly a bolt from the blue. It brought you back to the beginning of the semester, to the early days of filming when the two would spat so often.
But, those arguments wouldn’t last longer than a few minutes – one or the other would have an epiphany and suddenly realize that the other was right. “You’re a fucking genius,” one would admit. Or, “That makes sense,” you’d hear from the other when they’d actually taken the time to consider everything.
It always baffled you how fiery their arguments would be, and how quickly they would fizzle out. Almost as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. Knowing that their parents were the very same certainly made sense to you.
“I just can’t believe you two switched places in elementary school,” you’d said, thinking back to when he told you of their antics in the early days of their education. You were left astonished that such young kids could accomplish such a feat. “And your teachers believed it?”
“Oh, indisputably,” he’d giggled, eyebrows scrunched in the middle as though the believability of their childhood antics should never be doubted. “Where do you think those stellar acting skills came from, hm?” He laughed as he leaned toward you, the little space between you both closed by his hand reaching for your jaw and tugging you that much closer still.
A kiss, so tender, as if he’d been longing for it all evening. Though, he’d just done that very same thing only minutes before. Locking his lips with yours, for seemingly no reason at all, other than to just kiss you. Nothing else. It was as domestic and pure as it could possibly be – just you, Jake, his voice, his lips.
When he pulled his lips from yours, smile gracing the glossed skin that once touched yours, a gentle finger brushed a stray wisp of your bangs off your nose, his loving reminder to you that it was time for a trim.
He went on about more childhood memories, the good ones. The ones that happiness encompassed like a warm hug. He talked about his mom, how she’d take them out past their bedtime to get ice cream at the shop that stayed open until midnight.
And then, he talked about his dad. He talked about him with such fondness, such love – you began feeling as though you had known him as well. Jake’s memories were as fresh as if they’d just happened.
“He loved books just as much as I do. To tell you the truth, I think a lot of what I love comes from him.” He scratched his chin, huffing a chuckle, as though a specific memory was coming to the front of his mind. “They would both read us stories before bed, and I’ll never forget when they read us The Hobbit. Mom was in charge of the theatrics, of course. She had a knack for voice acting and making us believe in the characters. And dad – he was in charge of the music. The score to the film, if you will.”
He brushed a strand of loose hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear, his hoop earring poking through his locks. “He played us some wandering melody – I swore I could see Bilbo tiptoeing through the Shire.” He giggled, moving his arms as though he himself were marching through the Shire. “And that was dad’s gift – he taught me that music and language weren’t separate things at all, that they could be the same language if you listened just right.”
He leaned back a little then, fingers drumming lightly against your thigh as though he were keeping time with an invisible song. “He used to make me close my eyes when he played, said if I only heard the notes then I was missing the point. ‘Feel the story,’ he’d say. ‘Every chord has a heartbeat, every pause has a purpose.’ Perhaps that’s why I can’t separate the two – books and music. He made me believe a song could be a novel without words, and a poem could be a melody without sound.”
His lips curved, bittersweet. The sentiment still held some elements of pain, yet the memory served as a beautiful capsule of a time that saw him become who he is today. “Sometimes I think that’s why I fell so hard for literature later on – it was like I was chasing after the song he was never able to finish teaching me.”
God. If your heart wasn’t already in shambles, that statement had certainly sealed its broken fate. You loved this moment between you two – you loved learning him, all the things that made him who he was. You’d never known it when you first met him, but Jake loved to talk. And fuck, if you didn’t love to listen.
His voice somehow managed to quiet any and all horrid thoughts plaguing your own mind. The mere sound of him speaking had that effect, just as the simplicity of his presence. When he was around, you just felt better. All of your own problems seemed to dissipate when Jake was with you.
And when he told you his stories, when he let you into his heart, you felt a sense of trust that he had in you. That alone left the world around you a clouded haze. All that mattered was him, and you. Sharing space, sharing yourselves.
It was all you’d ever wanted in another person.
All you’d ever wanted.
“And y/n, when I say those two had nothing but love in their hearts, there’s nothing more true,” he’d continued, a luminous sadness in his velvet voice. Sweetly sorrowful. “Even when they argued, it was all with love. And before you knew it, they were laughing and hugging again, like they’d entirely forgotten that they were ever mad at each other.”
“You speak of them so beautifully, Jake,” you quietly said, tears threatening to spill from the emotions you could feel emanating from him, how deeply he still loved them. How his eyes held a different kind of glow when he spoke of them. “The way you talk about them, I feel like I knew them, too.”
Though he was just a child when they passed, his memories of them were so vivid. And that told you just how much an impact they both had on him.
Especially his dad.
All at once, it broke your heart to think of what he’d endured at such a pivotal age. But, as much as your heart hurt, it warmed at the thought that he could still feel so much love, despite everything that should’ve torn him down.
He smiled wider as you spoke, eyes flitting from your eyes to your lips, sincerity etched in his flawless features. He leaned forward once more, cupping your jaw before he laid a sweet kiss to the tip of your nose.
“They were beautiful people,” he said in a soft voice, kissing your lips then with the same, gentle touch. “I miss them.” His lips graced your cheek, warm breath, with hints of the Miller Lite he’d just sipped on, fanned your skin.
A comfortable silence lingered between the two of you, words suddenly not necessary as your silent lips said everything you’d ever wanted to say to him. You felt the tickle of his hair against your cheek as it fell from behind his ear again, goosebumps rising at the soft whisper it left on your skin. Your fingers found home within his locks, your thumb tracing along his jaw, down his neck.
The kiss was deep, yet not in an erotic sense. Deep in a way that words just couldn’t encompass.
Both of you, lovers of words, found yourselves able to speak them without uttering a single thing.
God – it was magical.
The simplest of moments, yet full of something much deeper than you’d ever experience in your lifetime. You wanted it to last, for the world around you to go on spinning and leave you two to just be.
Of course, that isn’t the way things work. But, the moment was about as close to perfection as any could be.
“Alright,” he’d said, just as he broke the almost everlasting kiss. He tucked his hair back behind his ears once more with a flick of his fingers, his smile returning in full. “I should probably end this here before I drown you in my sentimentality," he giggled, kissing a lonesome tear that'd fallen from your eyes – you hadn’t even felt it fall.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
The true reason you’d gone over that night was for studying purposes.
Yes, actual studying. Because, one thing that rings true about you and Jake – you both take your academics very seriously.
It just so happens the universe aligned so that you two could partake in your studies together.
You both had literary analyses due for Movack at the end of that particular week, and you’d already spent the better part of two hours helping one another. The topic certainly came rather easy for the both of you – the class was assigned to study ’fate as in inescapable destiny’ in Mallory’s Le Morte d’Arthur.
Jake narrowed down the themes of fate and destiny, and you wrote his thoughts into a thesis that you both were able to build upon for your own separate papers.
Arthur’s rise, framed by prophecy – his kingship is legitimized by his destiny, the sword in the stone.
And yet, the very same prophetic framework signals his inevitable fall: Merlin warns Arthur that Guinevere’s love for Lancelot will destroy Camelot. The narrative sets up a tragic structure in which the characters walk toward a destiny they cannot avoid.
Fate works not only as prophecy, but tragic inevitability. Human error, chance, and destiny align to bring about destruction.
The assignment came about as easily as breathing for the both of you – in every sense, the two of you were complete nerds about this analysis. (And, you each got perfect scores from Movack when you turned them in a few days later.)
After figuring out your papers, you still had a few hours until you had to get home and the next item on the homework-list was a film analysis for your Classic Horror course.
Jake wasn’t in that class with you, but he wasted no time volunteering to help. Especially when you told him the film you’d chosen to analyze. You’d decided on The Silence of the Lambs. For many reasons, but one in particular that ultimately led to your decision. There was a significant symbol in the story that you’d always wanted to explore further, be it through academics or for personal reasons. That was why you made the choice you did.
“And here I was, fully prepared to sit through The Shining with you,” he’d said, eyebrows raised in shock and a breathy, disbelieving chuckle from his lips. “But I’ll allow it, I suppose,” he teased, clearly displaying his approval for your choice of film through his mockery. “Hopkins is a true genius, afterall.”
You’d thought about The Shining – truly, you did. It was the easy option, the one that would’ve required the least amount of thought for you. But, that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted to think. And it’s not that you don’t have to think with The Shining – that film is one of the most thought provoking in the world of cinema.
But, you’d already performed many analyses over the film during your academic career – you just wanted something different.
He reached for the Roku on the couch cushion behind him, flicking through the apps for a moment before landing on HBO Max. He searched for the movie with the voice option, using his best Hanibal Lecter impression to do so. It made you chuckle, but it was god awful. And he knew it.
Once the opening credits began playing, you opened a blank Google Doc on your laptop, fingers ready to speed-type any thought you’d have as you watched the movie.
“So tell me,” Jake began, watching as you were already writing down something from the very first scene that captured your attention. “Why this film, hm? You don’t exactly make choices without some sort of meaning behind them.”
“Correct,” you’d simply stated, finishing your thought on digital paper before you were ready to get into the reason this movie sparked an interest in you. You typed away with your first impressions from an analytical standpoint, and not just entertainment. Sure, you’d seen it dozens of times before. But, never for academic purposes. It was the perfect opportunity for you to dive into the tale just a bit further than you ever had.
So, for you, that meant dissecting things right away.
Opening scene: Clarice runs alone in the woods – immediately framed as small, practically swallowed by the forest she’s trying to navigate. Mist, branches, shadows = obstacles, obscurity, isolation. She’s vulnerable, but she keeps running – determination stronger than fragility. Training course works as a metaphor: constant tests, always being watched, always needing to prove herself.
A woman against an entire system, only noticed as a woman – as weak.
Jake’s eyes were glued to your screen as you typed, gentle breaths from his lightly parted lips that you could feel like a whisper of wind against your hair.
It made you smile – feeling him, knowing he was there. His presence was everything you needed that night.
Everything.
“Oh, I love how your mind works, doll,” he’d said, watching as your thoughts unfurled on the screen, turning them into some sort of deeper meaning that you would later be able to make even more sense of.
Of course, his little use of that name sent a rush of blood to your cheeks, beckoning a shy smile as you typed the very last word. “Why, thank you, sir.”
You looked at him right as you’d said it, catching a familiar glint about his eyes that said something along the lines of, don’t start what you can’t finish.
“Alright, professor,” he teased as he leaned down to steal a sweet kiss from your cheek. “What’s the game plan here? What am I keeping my eyes peeled for?”
“Moths,” you’d said, quickly, without much thought. “I wanted to dig deeper into them, what they stand for in this story. Symbolically, they represent so much that they obviously have a larger connection to this entire piece. And, I just happen to love moths.”
You felt your heart flutter when you noticed a very blatant shift in his body language, one that told you his interest was indeed piqued. He smiled so brightly, almost proud. “Ah, the nocturnal kin of the butterfly,” he’d said. “This will be fantastic, doll. For what it’s worth, I, too, have a fascination with the little things.”
You perked up, noticeably, you’re sure. “You do?” you questioned, surprised. Yet, somehow, not surprised at all.
“Oh yes. I’ve always been fond of them, what they symbolize. You know, it’s funny,” he continued, rubbing his index finger along his chin, as if conjuring a deeply seeded memory. “My dad and I would sit on the front porch a lot of nights – playing some Petty tunes on guitar, laughing, talking about my future – and we’d always try to keep count of how many moths we’d see. They’d swarm that porch light some nights, and it was sometimes a little hard to keep count of them,” he laughed, pure sincerity in his eyes. “They held some sort of strange comfort for me after he passed.”
Strange. Comfort.
“And then, my grandfather and I held the same tradition. Sitting on the balcony of the apartment, watching the moths fly toward the light. Talking, laughing, reminiscing. Now, this could be a case of frequency illusion or something, but I swear I see them more often than most people do. Sometimes, I think the little things follow me around, like they find some sort of peace in me. Sounds like I’m a victim of delusion, huh?” he giggled, cheeks growing with a grin.
Your lips parted before you could stop yourself. “I don’t think that’s delusion at all, Jake. That’s absolutely beautiful.”
If you hadn’t already decided your feelings for Jake by then, you had certainly realized them that night. That moment, when something so dear and sacred to you also held the same sentiment for him.
And you’d never known it.
There was never a chance to talk about it. Because, you had to be brutally honest with yourself – who wants to sit and talk about whatever spiritual significance a bug may hold?
You would, of course. But, there aren’t many people in this world who feel that way. Something you learned as a child, a topic you learned to keep to yourself for the sake of appearing at least somewhat normal to other people.
Your fluttering heart was then doing full flips in your chest. “It’s the Luna moths for me,” you began, a quiet admittance. You looked down to your now black laptop screen – timed out after sitting still for so long. In it, you could see your reflection, and Jake’s. And, it made you smile. “They’ve just always felt like peace to me. A sign of something good. I – I see them a lot, you know. Like, they’re drawn to me somehow.” You giggled at your own words, realizing how silly they must’ve sounded to him.
Though, you felt safe in saying them to him. There was no judgement with Jake. Not even a little bit.
But, you weren’t ready to open up about everything just yet. It both felt like the right time and the wrong time all at once. You wanted him to talk to you, to continue telling you about his life and what molded him into the person that sat next to you on the couch.
No, you decided to wait. Another time would arise for that, and it just so happens that it was just a few nights later, on your birthday.
Before, well, everything came to an end.
You were blissfully unaware this night. And what you’d give to have that moment, that feeling, back…
“I can see that,” he murmured after a bit of silence, his voice gentle, deliberate. “I think I understand why they find you – the way they linger, the way they stay. Because I do, too. I’m not so different from them, I suppose. I’m drawn to your light the same way.”
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
The film played on as you diligently took notes, Jake chiming in with his own thoughts that only helped you expand on yours all the more. You loved hearing what he thought, where his mind would go in comparison to your own. It was validating to know that his thoughts aligned almost perfectly with yours – he just knew how to dig deeper.
Something you love about him.
“Moths,” he’d said softly, just as the screen unfolded with the earliest scene in the film that depicts them. The mortician, pulling that cocoon from the poor girl's mouth.
That moment in the movie has always made you wince, but Jake handled it like a pro while you buried your head into the safety of his shoulder, just long enough for the split second on the screen to pass.
When your eyes found Jake’s face, his brow was lifted, lips stealthily curved. “A symbol of change, of transformation,” he quoted, lowering his voice in another rough imitation of Hopkin’s. He let out a soft laugh before shaking his head. “Creepy bastard…but, he’s right. Transformation’s the entire spine of the film.”
You nodded, fingers flying across your keys as you typed. “That’s exactly what I want to dig into. The way these death’s-head hawks aren’t just grotesque little details – they’re the key to telling us the story underneath. Clarice trying so hard to shed who she was, Bill desperate to become someone else entirely. It’s all about transformation, just in very different directions.”
Your fingers turned into lightning as you typed, an attempt to get every thought you had down before they became too scattered.
Jake hummed, seeming to watch you more than the film. “Maybe that’s why they keep finding you, doll. You’ve been transforming all your life.”
Your fingers suddenly stilled, his words slipping under your skin with a truth you hadn’t expected to hear uttered from his lips. You then looked at him, eyes suddenly more drawn to him than the words on your laptop’s screen.
“You really think so?” you muttered. Part of you, trapped in disbelief. But, the other part of you knew he wasn’t lying. Why would he?
He grinned softly, features laced with wholly candor. “Yeah, doll. And just like the moths, you never had to be a butterfly to be beautiful.”
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
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 it reaches his final 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 that’s 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 to help her.
That aim does not reside in the soul of my younger brother. His vow lies on the surface layer of his skin, collecting unseen 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 enveloped 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, and 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.
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 wound won’t heal as quickly.
I miss her. I miss her more than any one soul could yearn for another. She’s embedded into mine, stitched where the tattered threads of my upbringing hung loose. And, she’s the reason for new rips and shreds that can’t be sewn back together without her.
But, these 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.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
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, no moon to cast the noir sky in a ghostly hue.
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.
“Oi, you Jacob? Jacob, er, Kiszka?”
Hearing my name brings not only my body, but my mind back to the present. 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 that my flight safely landed. 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.”
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
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 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 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, no more than a few minutes’ walk from Magdalen college. Red brick, tendrils of decayed ivy, dead from from the winters’ cold, clinging to the window frames. The front door is painted a deep 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…
Before either of us say another word to each other, a woman 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.
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 words that tickle the tip of my tongue — hell 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. Dad’s 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, the brightest smile 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, how 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.
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. 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 the guitar 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.
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.
End of Jake’s point of view.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Christmas has felt much the same as this year's Thanksgiving – you, your mom, and your quiet apartment.
The meal was – well, there was no meal. Not really, in truth. No Christmas dinner that other families perhaps spent all day preparing.
Yours was a simple pasta. A single box of twisty noodles, boiled in a medium sized pot of water, and a jar of almost expired red sauce that lacked any sort of decadent flavor profile.
It was all you had. You couldn’t even come up with any side dishes to add to the “meal.” Not that you cared, but your mom certainly wore her distaste on her pale face. She didn’t vocalize it, however. And that brought you back to another time when she never verbalized her disgust with your cooking. Until that silent moment, you’d almost forgotten there ever was such a time.
Her bowl held most of the food you’d prepared – yours was only filled with a small handful of what was left once you made sure she had plenty to eat.
Neither one of you have been able to eat much these days. Both for different reasons, of course. Still, it’s all the same.
She ate more than you had expected her to. A lot more, in fact. She nearly cleaned her bowl, only leaving a few remnants of over-boiled noodles and sauce at the bottom.
It left a tiny tinge of relief to see that she’d eaten real food today, instead of her chicken-broth-in-a-mug that she’s insisted on as of late.
You, however, couldn’t bring yourself to eat more than a few noodles. Four of them, to be exact. You kept count. A nice, even number – not too much, but enough.
Despite the circumstances of this year, it actually hasn’t been a terrible night, in truth. You don’t mind the quiet, the calm of it all. It’s quite nice.
The apartment smells of balsam, all thanks to a candle you’d found at Trader Joe’s. You’d even splurged on a few sets of colorful lights to string around the living room, and a tiny three foot tree you found at a discounted rate. It was missing a few branches – a manufacturing error. But, it didn’t bother you much. It only made you appreciate the little thing all the more.
It’s small, but it’s enough. And, with as small as your apartment truly is, a tree any larger would look downright silly.
You surprised your mom with a classic western film DVD box set you’d found. (Also at a discounted rate – people just don’t seem to watch these anymore.)
It was the one and only gift under the tiny tree. That, and a box of Swiss Miss – with the marshmallows. She loves a good, warm cup when the weather turns bitter. You quite enjoy one, too. Warm drinks have always been a source of comfort. They’re great for chilly fingers, for melancholic moods.
You didn’t have to work too hard at talking her into having a cup with you. So, after dinner and doing the dishes, you warmed up some milk on the stove (because, yes – milk is better than water in hot chocolate) and rinsed out a few of your old Coca-Cola Christmas mugs.
You breathe in the chocolatey deliciousness as you fill each mug – already set with the mix – with the near boiling milk.
Tiny marshmallows begin peeking through the froth as you carry them both into the living room. You hand your mom hers, forewarning her of the heat, once you’re in a comfortable position on the couch. The couch that, to your bitter distaste, you spent hours deep cleaning today.
But, it’s clean now. And that very fact allows you to take a breath of contentment before you blow on your hot chocolate to cool it just a little.
Not too much, of course – you’ve always been one to prefer your hot drinks to be piping hot. If it’s not on the verge of blistering your tongue, it’s not hot enough.
“I don’t know how you’re already drinking that,” your mom laughs, a certain familiarity behind her words. She’s always known you to do this. “It shocks me every stinkin’ time.”
“What would you like to watch, mom?” you ask, taking one more sip before setting the mug on the coffee table. “I can put in one of your new westerns if you’d like.”
It’s not that you want to watch one, per se. You’re just simply offering, knowing that she was more than likely already planning on watching one. They’re certainly not your favorite film genre, but you'll indulge her. (Because, even though you’ve tried to ignore the thought, you know you may not have her much longer…)
You reach for the DVD set next to your mug, and begin peeling the clear plastic off the box cover. But, before you can get too far, she stops you.
“I don’t think I’m in the mood for one of those tonight,” she says, her breathy and meek voice somehow sounding better than it has in what’s felt like weeks.
“O-oh,” you stutter, shocked that she doesn’t have any interest in watching one of these films. “Well, what would you like to watch then? I guess maybe we should watch a Christmas movie since it’s Chri –,”
“Why don’t you put on Oliver and Company?” she interrupts, seemingly ignoring you as she’s cut you off before you could even finish your thought.
What?
You stall your movements. Your eyes, instinctively falling to your lap while your body is jolted, triggered somehow at the mention of that movie. That odd suggestion, a movie you’ve not watched in years.
Why all of a sudden…? And what is the reason behind the abrupt tightening in your chest?
“S-sure,” you stutter, more of a question than an agreement.
There’s nothing wrong with the movie – it was one of your most treasured watches as a child. But, you haven’t felt the desire to watch it since then.
In fact, if your jumbled memory serves you correctly, the last time you watched it was with your dad. Years and years ago, several before he chose to leave. His love for Billy Joel made the movie bearable for him – he loved the music in it, especially the little dog he voiced. (If only you could remember the damn dog's name. It’s been so long…)
So, he certainly never complained when you wanted to watch it as a kid.
But for your mom to want to watch it now…you’re wracking your brain to figure out why. And the way she’s looking at you right now, as if silently prideful of a point she thinks she’s making. Her eyes narrowed, one brow lifted. Her thin lips held tightly together, curling in a sneaky sort of grin.
It’s making you incredibly uncomfortable – it’s only adding to the onset of anxiety you’re suddenly feeling, without any explanation.
You’re just confused.
But, you shake it off. Surely it’s nothing. It has to be nothing – you don’t have the energy, time, or mental capability to worry yourself over it.
You walk over to the television stand, pulling open the top drawer that holds the few DVD’s you have. It’s in there, buried at the bottom. The case is cracked, worn from age and use. The cover picture is faded, the colors not nearly as vivid and vibrant as you once remembered them to be. Could just be from wear and tear. Could be that your childlike-way of viewing the world has since faded, too. Nothing is as colorful anymore.
The disc has a couple of scratches on the shiny side, but nothing so bad that it should have a hard time playing. You place it in the player, closing the tray with a soft push. The machine hums a little, cracking sounds coming from the disc as it begins to spin, the screen still black. For a second, you begin to wonder if it’ll even bother to work. But, finally, the screen turns from black to blue, before the opening credits appear in a familiar font.
You don’t move to sit right away. Instead, you linger by the TV stand, arms crossed loosely over your chest, as if buying yourself a moment to breathe and swallow down the remaining confusion flooding your mind. You can feel her eyes on you – waiting, watching. The loud silence stretches thin.
Finally, you turn, offering the smallest smile, the only way you can muster one. It feels fragile on your quivering lips, but it’s the best you can do right now. You lower yourself on the couch beside her, leaving just enough space so that your elbows don’t brush.
The theme music plays faintly through the speakers. You clear your throat, softly, an attempt of getting rid of the constricting feeling.
“Here it is,” you say, falsifying your excitement.
She nods once, eyes fixed on the screen, until they flit toward you. “Remember when we used to watch this together, honey? It was your very favorite. Your dad never wanted to watch it with you, remember? So, I always did. I loved it just as much as you, sweetie.”
“I – I thought –,” you start, stopping yourself before you say something that could trigger her.
The only time you can remember watching this movie with your mom was the Christmas you were in the hospital with a collapsed lung…her and your dad. Not just her.
Other than that, she’s never watched this movie with you. That you know for a fact.
And, it’s not that it’s a bad thing that she never did. It’s that she’s blatantly lying about it right now.
You’ll give her the benefit of the doubt – perhaps her illness is causing her to misremember. Perhaps that’s just how she remembers it…but…
It feels wrong to feed into it. It’s just simply incorrect – your dad watched this with you, not her.
You know better than to bring him up, though. It’ll only cause issues, more than either of you need right now.
“Yeah – yeah, I do,” you say, quietly, somewhat restrained. It nearly hurts to speak the words, your throat clamping tight around them. But, you know it’s for the best.
“Remember my favorite character?” she asks, full smile stretched across her lips, causing her cannula to ride up her face just a little, a stark reminder for you of her condition.
“I guess I don’t remember,” you admit. And, it’s the truth. You don’t remember, because she’s never told you.
She opens her mouth in shock, huffing a disbelieving giggle. “Dodger, silly girl. I love that Billy Joel speaks for him.”
Dodger. That fucking dog’s name is Dodger.
Dodger. He was your dad’s favorite character, because your dad loves Billy Joel.
It’s taking strength of a magnitude you didn’t know you possessed to keep yourself from saying something you’ll regret, to keep yourself from spitting the truth that’s burning the back of your throat. Anger begins to simmer deep in your chest. Why is she trying to completely erase him?
You can be angry with your dad. You can grieve him, resent him and still keep the memories close. Two things can be true.
But watching her twist those memories, bending them into something that never was – watching her take them away from you…
Suddenly, Jake’s voice slices through you, unbidden.
“She’s doing this on purpose, y/n. And you know that. She’s letting herself stay this way so you won’t live your own life. And it’s working.”
Was he right? Does he see something that you don’t? (Or, something you do see, but you’ve put it in the back of your mind enough that you don’t let yourself consider it.)
And then, it hits you. It slams into you harder than a train going a speed of no less than a thousand miles per hour. And, it’s heavy. The heaviest you’ve felt since…
Dodger.
The name of the mysterious, allusive character in your mothers phone. The person she called the night she was taken by ambulance – the one she refused to speak of when you asked her.
That tightening in your chest is far more pronounced than before, squeezing every bit of air out of your lungs.
Surely it’s a coincidence…that name…
It can’t really mean anything…right?
Happenstance. An odd twist of a strange fate.
It’s nothing. And you’ll continue to tell yourself that as much as you need to until you believe it.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
The movie ends, but your mind doesn’t. The screen fades to black, yet your thoughts play on a relentless, tortuous loop. You just can’t seem to make sense of anything right now – your mom’s strange words, the pit in your chest. And, if you’re honest, you’re not certain you truly want to make sense of it.
You need something – anything – to distract you, to anchor you. To ground you.
The hot chocolate has long since gone cold, no longer offering you any sort of comfort. And, the next movie your mom chose – Christmas with the Kranks – certainly isn’t helping.
Not one bit.
That’s when you remember the box.
One that has yet to be unpacked from the move to Michigan, the last one. It’s been sitting untouched on the top shelf of your closet since then, a cardboard capsule from Oklahoma. You’ve just not had the energy to open it – until now.
Tonight, it feels like the perfect distraction. Maybe even a Christmas gift to yourself. Something buried. Something you’ve been missing.
It’s bigger than you remembered, heavy in your arms. No wonder you’ve been putting it off. Whatever’s inside probably doesn’t even belong in this cramped little apartment. Still, curiosity has taken over – it begs you to open it, to see what you thought was worth hauling all the way here. You made certain to pack only the essentials when you left. So, it must be something you thought you’d need.
The duct tape tears away too easily, a cheap off-brand you’d grabbed last minute at the Dollar Tree. The cardboard remains practically unscathed beneath it – it’s a wonder it held it together at all.
As you pull back the flaps, the dusty contents leave you breathless.
You don’t remember packing these. And you don’t really know why you did. Only the essentials; these aren’t exactly essential.
They’re records.
Your dad’s records.
For a moment, you just stare at them. You can’t recall slipping these into a box. They weren’t essentials. Not really, at least.
And yet, here they are.
He left so abruptly that he didn’t even think to take his prized collection…and you thought that was weird. Still do. He loved his vinyl’s – why would he leave them behind?
You fear you’ll never know the answer.
All of a sudden, the faded memory of packing them begins to come to mind, clearing as you think on it a little more.
You did it so hastily, and didn't allow yourself much time to think what you were doing.
The records were your dad’s, yes. But they’re yours, too.
They’d always been in the living room, each one carefully placed on the shelf, their spines facing outward in neat, alphabetical rows. You didn’t know a life without them – you loved them, too. For you, in your rush to get out, it was probably nothing to take them. They’ve been such a staple in your life; you couldn’t bear to leave them behind.
It hurts your heart that they’ve been inside this box for so long, sitting on top of each other, their heavy weight crushing the ones at the bottom. You just hope that they’re okay, that there’s no irreversible damage done to them.
Picking through them is like going through a stack of old photographs from your childhood. It’s all the same to you, in truth. The records are just as symbolic to you as any photograph could be. Perhaps even more so when you really think about it.
Couldn’t Stand The Weather is right on top; its cover is practically seared in your memory. Right underneath it is one you recall as being your dad’s favorite, the one he’d spent years hunting for an original press in mint condition — Texas Flood.
Stevie’s records have always been a bit hard to come by, so you know these two specifically meant a lot to him. And, again, it begs the question – why didn’t he take them?
Muddy Waters, The Stones, Albert King, Robert Johnson, Led Zeppelin, Derek and the Dominos, The Beatles…just a few of some of the most sought-after titles, all collecting dust in this forgotten cardboard box.
This is the music that rang all across your home for the better part of your upbringing, spinning on his old Linn LP 12 turntable he bought brand new in the eighties.
You were in seventh grade when your parents sold it. They needed the money, and with those record players being such a hot commodity, they made over nine hundred dollars on the thing. The living room was never quite as vibrant again, and the music never sounded the same after it was gone. It broke your dad’s heart to get rid of it – you could tell. But at the time, money for groceries was more important than listening to records.
These records haven’t been played in several years now. You truly can’t recall the last time you heard their soft static hiss, or their occasional pops and crackles as they spun under the needle. You don’t even own a record player, nothing within reach to bring these harmonic pressings back to life. But, at least they're here. You have them.
The collection is as deep as the box, seemingly endless titles that serve as the soundtrack to your early days. Carefully pulling each of them out, setting them upright against the wall so there’s no more pressure against them, you may as well be emptying a time capsule of things you’d nearly forgotten about.
Each one has a memory engraved into its grooves, most of them of your dad.
And, most of them are happy.
Your mom loved this music, too. But, her adoration wasn’t nearly as pronounced as his.
As you’re nearing the bottom of the box, lifting the last few relics from their cardboard tomb, you’ve reached the very last one. And the second you spot it, the most vivid and powerful memory takes hold of you.
He’d called you his Wildflower for most of your life.
You were always just...different; you stood out. And never in the right ways. From the music you listened to, to the way you dressed, to the movies you loved, the deep emotions you’d always harbored.
You were never the Oklahoma standard. Being so anomalous was something you grew accustomed to at quite a young age. It didn’t always serve you well amongst your peers. But, you learned to embrace it.
Your mom would eventually begin using the nickname, too. Though it was never quite the same with her – it didn’t feel the same. That was something special between you and your dad. Of course, you didn’t mind when she’d call you that, but you could tell she’d only do it because he did.
“Remember, you're a wildflower,” your dad would tell you anytime you felt offbeat. Anytime the different parts of you made you feel incredibly less than.
From the moment you began school, you were made fun of for your darker clothes, the books you’d opt to read at lunch in lieu of talking to anyone, the ‘big’ words you’d use.
Kids had always made you feel like you were wrong for being who you were, that you were broken because you weren’t like them.
“You are a challenge to the garden’s expectations – you dare to grow where you want. You don’t belong in their meadow, y/n. You belong in beautiful yours.”
He began this mantra at just six years old, and he’d remind you of that very sentiment each time you were ashamed of being different.
On your seventh birthday, he gifted you your very first record – Wildflowers by Tom Petty. He played you the title song after you’d opened it.
“This is your song,” he’d said. And from then on, he’d surprise you with a daisy – a wildflower – on your birthday each year.
The record was yours, but it was kept safely within his collection for years. You’d stopped playing it when you became an angsty teen, when it wasn’t cool to have such a nickname. You didn’t get rid of it after he left, much like you couldn’t part with the rest of the vinyl’s.
When you packed them, you didn’t give yourself the chance to look through them. Wildflowers was simply tossed in the box along with the others, unnoticed.
It feels like you’re seeing it for the first time since you were in high school. And, in essence, you are. It hasn’t crossed your mind in so long, and once he left, any happy memories evaporated from the burning anger you felt towards him.
But, as time has gone on, as you’re finding things that send your mind in a far different place – those memories are trickling back in, slowly. One by one.
“Whatcha doin’, sweetie?” Her gentle, breathy voice startles you – you hadn’t even heard her come to your bedroom. You quickly stand from the floor to help her to the edge of your bed, taking her hand and offering her some support so she doesn’t use too much of her strength or become winded.
“Just going through a box I hadn’t opened yet,” you say, helping her down on the mattress. You sit back down on the floor once she’s settled, taking the Wildflowers album from the box.
“Oh, honey!” She reaches for it the second she sees it, and takes it from your hands before you’ve even had the chance to really look at it.
“Your first record,” she gushes, smiling so bright that her nasal cannulas poke out from her nose. She breathes deeply once she secures them again, examining the album front and back.
You’d thought she’d be upset by this, seeing something that was given to you by your dad. But, the smile on her face says otherwise. Shocking, but it’s a nice diversion from earlier.
Can’t really blame her, though.
“I’m so glad you brought this,” she says, beaming with joy. “I still remember how cute you were when I gave this to you. Silly girl – you had no idea what it was! Remember when I got this for you? I played it for you so many times when you were little.”
…what?
“Mom, um, did-didn’t dad –,”
Her now cold eyes shoot down to yours at the slight mention of him, her lips held in a tight line against her teeth. You don’t understand…what is she trying to do? She’s looking at you with a tactic to intimidate, and it’s working. But, you can’t let this go without setting it straight.
“Dad got this for me, mom. My first record – it came from dad because he used to call me – ,”
“I got it for you, y/n. Not your piece of shit father.”
The sudden gruffness of her voice is a rather harsh contrast to your soft tone. She’s so angry about this. But, why?
“I am the one who introduced you to music, remember? Your father had nothing to do with that. Do not give him credit for things I did for you, understand me?”
What the fuck?
To say you’re shocked would be like calling a thunderstorm a drizzle. None of what she’s saying makes sense. None of it.
It crosses your mind for a brief moment that she could be in the beginnings of dementia…maybe her mind is truly going – almost gone – if that’s what she believes.
But…no. That isn’t right. She’s as serious as she could possibly be, and her eyes tell you she’s fully aware of what she’s claiming, that she knows it’s the truth. She can’t hide behind her lies any longer.
She’s done this before, about little things. She’s even taken credit multiple times for your taste in music.
Whatever. That you can deal with – it’s innocent enough.
But the movie…Dodger.
Her acting as though she loved the movie the same way your dad did, when you know that to be untrue.
And this…that record was special to you and your dad. To only you and your dad. This isn’t something that you’ll allow her to take away from you. Just like everything else she’s taken away.
Jesus. It’s like she wants your dad erased from your life completely, no traces of him left behind unless those traces make you hate him.
Yeah, you’re not exactly pleased with him either. And, it’s certainly true that some of these memories cause more hurt than happiness, because of what he did. But they’re still your memories. Why is she trying to pretend that they don’t exist? That she was the one who took care of you all your life when it was actually him?
They aren’t her memories to rewrite, to invalidate. It’s all you have left, and you will not let her take control of your last remaining pieces.
“Mom,” you say, with more assertion behind your voice, standing from your crouched position on the floor. “Dad gave this to me. You were there when I got it, but this was his gift to me. He called me Wildflower. Don’t you remember?”
With piercing eyes glaring at you, she tosses the album to the floor and stands to meet you, face to face. She’s breathing heavily, her breath wreaking of stale milk. Though you can’t tell if it’s due to her illness or her sudden anger that her breathing is so labored, your bet is on the latter.
“Whatever you say, sweetie,” she grits through her teeth, cold eyes holding tight to yours. “I think I’ll go to bed. Starting to not feel so good.”
She begins to walk away, shuffling her sock-clad feet against the carpet towards her room.
“Let me help you get into bed,” you offer, reaching for her hand to help keep her stable. But she just as soon pulls her arm from you before you can get ahold of her.
“I’ve got it,” she says, stern, now halfway to her room, keeping her eyes in front of her. “You don’t really want to help me, y/n. It’s okay. I get it.”
“Mom, I –,” but before you can say much else, she’s slamming her door across the hallway. You’re left standing in the middle of your bedroom, shocked. You reach to pick up the album from the floor, clutching it tight in your hands, mind completely disarrayed.
You have no idea what the fuck just happened, can’t even begin to process it fully. She’s done things like this before, but this time felt heavier. There was something else behind it, something she’s been harboring.
You set the record down on your bed, telling yourself it’ll be safer there than in your clenched, trembling hands. You're seconds away from a full mental breakdown when you hear her voice cutting through the thin walls.
“Y/n?” she calls, her tone laced with fragility, with a gentleness that feels almost rehearsed.
“She’s doing this on purpose, y/n. And you know that. She’s letting herself stay this way so you won’t live your own life. And it’s working.”
“Could you help me through a bath? I know you probably don’t want to, but I don’t think I can manage it alone. I can just risk slipping if you’re too bus –,”
“I’m coming, mom,” you call back, voice clipped, steady only because you're forcing it to be. “I’ll be right there.”
You press your palms into your eyes, swallowing down the heat in your throat, pushing yourself towards her room.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Neither one of you have said much to each other. Her bath was quick, less than ten minutes. She wanted right in and right out.
Now, she’s lying peacefully in her bed, with her freshly-cleaned sheets and the western film she finally decided she wanted to watch.
It’s quite baffling how much more at peace you feel when your mother is in bed, when you no longer have to answer her every beck and call. It’s a shameful, guilty feeling to possess, but after the events of the night…
You know you can’t be faulted for breathing a little easier now that it’s just you.
One thing you’ve been longing for all day is a steaming hot shower.
So, that’s just what you’ll do.
The bathroom needs a little tending before you can restfully do that, though. That includes draining the tub from your mom’s bath. You’d already removed the drain plug before she’d gotten out of the bath, but these old pipes certainly don’t drain as quickly as they should.
You kneel down to check the water level, watching the slow swirl around the steel drain, when a sudden vibration startles you half to death.
Another buzz, stronger this time – before you even register what’s happening, your phone, sitting stupidly on the edge of the tub, slips forward.
Plop.
Straight into the water.
“Fuck!”
You lunge forward, plunging your hand into the lukewarm bathwater and yanking it out as fast as you can, flinging it into the pile of towels beside the toilet.
Miraculously, it’s still working. The screen lights up, dripping and fogging beneath the case. Still ringing.
And you finally see the name before it fades away.
Natalia.
Your chest tightens. She’s called no less than fifty times in the last week, more text messages than you could possibly count – you’ve avoided every single one.
Because you know what she’ll want to talk about.
And you just…can’t. Not yet. You don’t want to hear your voice tremble when you say his name. You don’t want her pity. You don’t want to bury her sunshine with the storm cloud you’ve been dragging around since he left. You don’t want to bog her down with your burdens.
But, god, it hurts. Because you miss her. So goddamn much.
And still – you keep your distance. Because that’s just what you do.
Distance.
It’s the only way you know how to cope. To push everyone away so they don’t drown with you.
You drag a shaky breath and focus back on the phone, the thing you can control right now. It’s wet, fragile. You need to save it.
You blot it again with the towel, but your stomach twists at the thought of water seeping inside. You should probably take the case off. Avoid any further damage.
With trembling hands, you peel the rubber, sage green edges away, prying the phone free –
And your stomach drops.
Because, tucked neatly behind the case, kept safe where you’d hidden it weeks ago, where you chose to place it so it would stay close with you –
Jake’s guitar pick.
The one he pressed into your palm the night he bore his own heart for you. The night of your birthday, when, for the first time in a long while, things felt right.
It’s now on the floor, in the middle of a small puddle. Drowning.
Your throat tightens as you reach for it, pruney fingers shaking as you hold it, drying it with your sweatshirt. The indentions left behind from his thumb print, the scratches and cracks on the surface from passionate use…they’re all still there. You can touch them, feel him within this tiny piece of plastic.
The memories of Lenny come flooding back to you. The way he looked as he played, his eyes as he told you the story behind the piece, the way his lips curled and his brows furrowed while his intentional fingers strummed each note with perfect precision…
You squeeze your eyes shut as the tears come, hot and heavy.
This was, suffice to say, the last thing you wanted to be confronted with tonight.
A tiny piece of plastic – it feels heavier than the whole world.
Because, it serves as the most devastating reminder that he isn’t here. He isn’t home.
And you don’t know that he ever will be again.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
a/n: i know – this wasn't my normal chapter style. but, i wanted to try something a little different, & give some of these little moments & symbols a chance to stand on their own. as always, please don't be afraid to reach. anon or not, i love hearing from you all. 🥺 (p.s...dodger...?)
if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters, follow this link or send me an ask/dm & i'll be sure to add you. ☺️ (let me know if i've missed you!!!) (also, i know tags are being a little weird right now—will you let me know if you did/didn’t receive a notification?) sending all my love!
National Alliance for Eating Disorders. Please reach out if you're struggling. You're worth it. 🤍
Summary: It all began with a passion for literature. What was once a dream to walk the halls of the University of Michigan is now a reality.
You thought you were prepared for everything.
A new town, a new school, a new way of life,
but what you were not prepared for…
was meeting the enigma that is Jake Kiszka.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Word Count: 14.5k+
Le Morte d'Arthur Masterlist
Series Playlist
Warnings: please proceed with caution if you find any of the following to be triggering. MDNI 18+ ONLY. struggles with body dysmorphia/eating (including food restriction), strong feelings of inadequacy, heavy emotions/ talks of an absent parent, *extremely* sick & terminally-ill parent, talks of end-of-life plans, anxiety/stress/depression, parents fighting, child neglect, eating disorder behaviors as a result, recollection of past struggles with anorexia/restricting, manipulation from a parent, grief, death of parents/grandparents, kissing, a little fluff. (please let me know if i've missed anything!)
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
a/n: thank you for sticking with me. 🤍 i hope you enjoy. (& please ignore any grammar/spelling errors.)
as always, i owe a huge thank you to @jakeyt for being the best editor & my right hand in helping create this. i seriously couldn't have done it without you. love you SO much. you're the best sister i could ever ask for. thank you for believing in me.
"The moth teaches us that beauty lies in the risk of being drawn toward the light."
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
You found a strange comfort in them. Strange, only because the other kids had convinced you it was so. It wasn’t strange. At least, not to you. That word, that one you’d heard as your own descriptor, just simply didn’t make sense to your young mind.
Strange? No. Beautiful. Strangely beautiful.
You saw their beauty. In all of their bug-like, creepy crawly glory – you saw yourself.
The other kids on the playground would run and scream at the mere sight of their wispy wings. Or, to your own hearts shatter, they’d stomp them, smash them with their immature hands. You’d saved more than any mere number your brain could manage to come up with.
And when the tiny, magnificent creatures would land in your open palm, your gently pointed finger, or the neckline of your shirt, the other children would sprint away from you. As far as they could.
And that made you happy. The moths were your friends, not your peers that spewed nothing but condemning cruelty at you.
Moths seemed to find a strange comfort in you, too. Anytime you were outside, you’d be hard pressed to not find one circling you, following you, even landing on you.
They made you smile. Not once did you scream at their peace-bringing presence.
They’ve never meant any harm, any ill-will. They simply exist in a world that will never see their beauty in comparison to that of a butterfly.
But, not to you.
In fact, that’s what you loved about them.
You never wanted to be a butterfly, never had the desire to fit the mold of growing up in Cherry Tree, Oklahoma. Sure, butterflies were beautiful, but only because everyone said so.
A moth was just as beautiful to you – even more so – and no one had to tell you that for it to be a truth. Their beauty was just a bit more hidden, something normal folks would have to dig through layers to find.
To you, that just meant they were beautiful on their own terms.
And when you realized that no one else saw that – and when you came to terms that they couldn’t see your own beauty beneath the misunderstood layers that encompassed you – it drew you to them all the more.
At the tender age of eleven, at the cusp of nightfall, you found yourself seeking the solace you’d only known to be outside of your old home's back door. The rose garden, full of pearly white blooms your dad had planted the preceding summer. A sea of them, drifting around the pure oak bench he’d built just after the rose hip seeds found their home in your soil.
Your nerve-wracked body slumped down against the unfinished wood that night after having listened to your parents shouting at one another for the better part of the night. Your room offered you nothing in drowning out their raised voices, and you’d grown tired of hearing it.
The backyard, the roses – they couldn’t hear the yelling. That, of course, meant you couldn’t hear them out there.
You were grateful your dad fancied things up back there, because that provided you with a sanctuary. (And, though you’ll never know for sure, you’d always wondered if that was the very reason he’d chosen to do so.)
The outside air was humid that night. Heavy. Yet, not nearly as bone-crushing as the air inside of your house.
The breeze – though sporadic – was nice. You basked in it each time you felt it against your clammy skin. You breathed it in, as it carried with it the sweetened scent of the blooms. And as you did, you’d close your eyes, allowing every other sense to truly feel it. The wind, the aroma.
The tiny tickle on your finger.
It didn’t startle you, for you knew that feeling well.
Your eyes, still hidden behind your lids – you knew the sensation of a little friend that’d decided to join you in your escape.
Though, something about this one felt…different.
Slowly, your eyes opened, your vision adjusting to the moonlight that befell you amidst the rest of the darkness.
Your jaw fell slack, your tired eyes widening on their own accord. You’d never seen such a thing, such beauty held in your own hand.
Nearly neon against the silver, lunar glow; tiny spots that looked like little, yellow eyes, looking at you with the same sincere curiosity that you looked at it with.
It was a moth, but not like any you’d ever befriended before. It was much grander in size – its wingspan was wider than your own hand. And it was painted in the most alluring shade of pale green. Within it, you saw your own reflection. The both of you, too strange for others, quietly beautiful in your uniqueness.
Different. Strange. Uniquely so. Beautifully so.
You let it rest on your hand for as long as it needed. You’d decided this quiet creature of the night needed a peaceful escape – just like you. The two of you, without a single word, found a careful harmony in one another. Solemn, yet tranquil.
You smiled as it finally made its ascent, wings a mellow glow against the darkened sky as it flew toward the moon.
After that night, you’d bear witness to these immaculate beings more times than most humans would ever dream of. A rarity, for they hold a lifespan of no more than a week. A picture of nature’s beautiful and cruel irony – they have stomachs to feed, yet no mouths to eat.
So, these gorgeous entities aren’t a common find. And yet, you’ve seen dozens of them since that very night.
That gentle moth, that elegant creature — its very presence made you forget what your parents were fighting about. The reason you sought your peaceful solitude became all but lost to you the moment you met your little friend.
Each sacred encounter you’ve had with these precious creatures since has left you holding the very same sentiment – peace. Hope.
A sign that things will be okay.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Last month, just before your birthday.
He’d been so talkative that night. There was a gleam in his eyes that made it difficult to keep your lips from curling into a smile. He just wanted to tell you as much as he could, as though he’d never get the chance to sit with you like that ever again.
You were on the couch at his apartment, the room bathed in a honeyed glow from the setting sun, glimmering through the bay windows. The prettiest color against his olive skin, his frizzed, chestnut locks. The two of you, tangled together in a mess of your own legs, sitting upright and cuddled in the inner corner seat of the couch.
He was warm. His legs, like heaters against your skin. He was wearing a pair of black sweat shorts, leaving his legs exposed and flush against your own bare legs. You wore your University of Michigan hoodie, the navy blue one you’d gotten for free once you were hired on at the library. It was oversized, just how you like it. It all but covered the black biker shorts you had on underneath.
Jake teased you more than once that night, going on and on about how it looked like you “forwent your pantaloons.” He’d kept on with his accent he’d used in the film, making your cheeks blush every time he’d speak that way. It was hilarious. And it was incredibly sexy to you.
It was this night that you realized just how much he uses his hands to talk. Nearly every word, emphasized further by a wave of his hand, a pat against your calf, his finger twitching and fluttering as though he was painting his words on an invisible canvas.
You just leaned your head against the back cushion of the couch, lips tugged in a quiet smile, hands resting against his legs as you listened to him, as you watched him.
Watched every thought spill from his lips, how his eyes would squint ever so carefully as he considered each new word he spoke. How his lips, so full, would stretch as he’d smile. The way his Adam's apple would bob up and down as he’d giggle at himself. His sweet, high-pitched laugh that would make his cheeks rosy.
He was telling you tale after tale of him and his brothers when they were growing up, how they were good kids, but managed to get into heaps of trouble.
“Dad always came to the rescue when mom was upset with us – hell, he’d defend us, even when we’d done some wild shit,” he laughed, reminiscing, eyes smiling almost as brightly as his lips. Yet, beyond the smile he wore, you could still see the remnants of pain, still deeply seeded. His stories made you feel like you knew his parents – he had you mourning them, right along with him. In the most loving of ways.
His grief was profound, but you could feel his love for them even more so than his hurt.
“And when I tell you my mother was a spitfire, I mean it,” he continued. “And dad was entirely awake of his own consequences when he’d go against her. Just imagine, if you will,” he said, pointing upward towards, what you could only assume, was Josh’s room. “That one and I going at it, only tenfold.”
He wheezed a chuckle when your eyes widened in pure shock. For you, to imagine that anyone could fight with more intensity than the twins, was certainly a bolt from the blue. It brought you back to the beginning of the semester, to the early days of filming when the two would spat so often.
But, those arguments wouldn’t last longer than a few minutes – one or the other would have an epiphany and suddenly realize that the other was right. “You’re a fucking genius,” one would admit. Or, “That makes sense,” you’d hear from the other when they’d actually taken the time to consider everything.
It always baffled you how fiery their arguments would be, and how quickly they would fizzle out. Almost as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. Knowing that their parents were the very same certainly made sense to you.
“I just can’t believe you two switched places in elementary school,” you’d said, thinking back to when he told you of their antics in the early days of their education. You were left astonished that such young kids could accomplish such a feat. “And your teachers believed it?”
“Oh, indisputably,” he’d giggled, eyebrows scrunched in the middle as though the believability of their childhood antics should never be doubted. “Where do you think those stellar acting skills came from, hm?” He laughed as he leaned toward you, the little space between you both closed by his hand reaching for your jaw and tugging you that much closer still.
A kiss, so tender, as if he’d been longing for it all evening. Though, he’d just done that very same thing only minutes before. Locking his lips with yours, for seemingly no reason at all, other than to just kiss you. Nothing else. It was as domestic and pure as it could possibly be – just you, Jake, his voice, his lips.
When he pulled his lips from yours, smile gracing the glossed skin that once touched yours, a gentle finger brushed a stray wisp of your bangs off your nose, his loving reminder to you that it was time for a trim.
He went on about more childhood memories, the good ones. The ones that happiness encompassed like a warm hug. He talked about his mom, how she’d take them out past their bedtime to get ice cream at the shop that stayed open until midnight.
And then, he talked about his dad. He talked about him with such fondness, such love – you began feeling as though you had known him as well. Jake’s memories were as fresh as if they’d just happened.
“He loved books just as much as I do. To tell you the truth, I think a lot of what I love comes from him.” He scratched his chin, huffing a chuckle, as though a specific memory was coming to the front of his mind. “They would both read us stories before bed, and I’ll never forget when they read us The Hobbit. Mom was in charge of the theatrics, of course. She had a knack for voice acting and making us believe in the characters. And dad – he was in charge of the music. The score to the film, if you will.”
He brushed a strand of loose hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear, his hoop earring poking through his locks. “He played us some wandering melody – I swore I could see Bilbo tiptoeing through the Shire.” He giggled, moving his arms as though he himself were marching through the Shire. “And that was dad’s gift – he taught me that music and language weren’t separate things at all, that they could be the same language if you listened just right.”
He leaned back a little then, fingers drumming lightly against your thigh as though he were keeping time with an invisible song. “He used to make me close my eyes when he played, said if I only heard the notes then I was missing the point. ‘Feel the story,’ he’d say. ‘Every chord has a heartbeat, every pause has a purpose.’ Perhaps that’s why I can’t separate the two – books and music. He made me believe a song could be a novel without words, and a poem could be a melody without sound.”
His lips curved, bittersweet. The sentiment still held some elements of pain, yet the memory served as a beautiful capsule of a time that saw him become who he is today. “Sometimes I think that’s why I fell so hard for literature later on – it was like I was chasing after the song he was never able to finish teaching me.”
God. If your heart wasn’t already in shambles, that statement had certainly sealed its broken fate. You loved this moment between you two – you loved learning him, all the things that made him who he was. You’d never known it when you first met him, but Jake loved to talk. And fuck, if you didn’t love to listen.
His voice somehow managed to quiet any and all horrid thoughts plaguing your own mind. The mere sound of him speaking had that effect, just as the simplicity of his presence. When he was around, you just felt better. All of your own problems seemed to dissipate when Jake was with you.
And when he told you his stories, when he let you into his heart, you felt a sense of trust that he had in you. That alone left the world around you a clouded haze. All that mattered was him, and you. Sharing space, sharing yourselves.
It was all you’d ever wanted in another person.
All you’d ever wanted.
“And y/n, when I say those two had nothing but love in their hearts, there’s nothing more true,” he’d continued, a luminous sadness in his velvet voice. Sweetly sorrowful. “Even when they argued, it was all with love. And before you knew it, they were laughing and hugging again, like they’d entirely forgotten that they were ever mad at each other.”
“You speak of them so beautifully, Jake,” you quietly said, tears threatening to spill from the emotions you could feel emanating from him, how deeply he still loved them. How his eyes held a different kind of glow when he spoke of them. “The way you talk about them, I feel like I knew them, too.”
Though he was just a child when they passed, his memories of them were so vivid. And that told you just how much an impact they both had on him.
Especially his dad.
All at once, it broke your heart to think of what he’d endured at such a pivotal age. But, as much as your heart hurt, it warmed at the thought that he could still feel so much love, despite everything that should’ve torn him down.
He smiled wider as you spoke, eyes flitting from your eyes to your lips, sincerity etched in his flawless features. He leaned forward once more, cupping your jaw before he laid a sweet kiss to the tip of your nose.
“They were beautiful people,” he said in a soft voice, kissing your lips then with the same, gentle touch. “I miss them.” His lips graced your cheek, warm breath, with hints of the Miller Lite he’d just sipped on, fanned your skin.
A comfortable silence lingered between the two of you, words suddenly not necessary as your silent lips said everything you’d ever wanted to say to him. You felt the tickle of his hair against your cheek as it fell from behind his ear again, goosebumps rising at the soft whisper it left on your skin. Your fingers found home within his locks, your thumb tracing along his jaw, down his neck.
The kiss was deep, yet not in an erotic sense. Deep in a way that words just couldn’t encompass.
Both of you, lovers of words, found yourselves able to speak them without uttering a single thing.
God – it was magical.
The simplest of moments, yet full of something much deeper than you’d ever experience in your lifetime. You wanted it to last, for the world around you to go on spinning and leave you two to just be.
Of course, that isn’t the way things work. But, the moment was about as close to perfection as any could be.
“Alright,” he’d said, just as he broke the almost everlasting kiss. He tucked his hair back behind his ears once more with a flick of his fingers, his smile returning in full. “I should probably end this here before I drown you in my sentimentality," he giggled, kissing a lonesome tear that'd fallen from your eyes – you hadn’t even felt it fall.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
The true reason you’d gone over that night was for studying purposes.
Yes, actual studying. Because, one thing that rings true about you and Jake – you both take your academics very seriously.
It just so happens the universe aligned so that you two could partake in your studies together.
You both had literary analyses due for Movack at the end of that particular week, and you’d already spent the better part of two hours helping one another. The topic certainly came rather easy for the both of you – the class was assigned to study ’fate as in inescapable destiny’ in Mallory’s Le Morte d’Arthur.
Jake narrowed down the themes of fate and destiny, and you wrote his thoughts into a thesis that you both were able to build upon for your own separate papers.
Arthur’s rise, framed by prophecy – his kingship is legitimized by his destiny, the sword in the stone.
And yet, the very same prophetic framework signals his inevitable fall: Merlin warns Arthur that Guinevere’s love for Lancelot will destroy Camelot. The narrative sets up a tragic structure in which the characters walk toward a destiny they cannot avoid.
Fate works not only as prophecy, but tragic inevitability. Human error, chance, and destiny align to bring about destruction.
The assignment came about as easily as breathing for the both of you – in every sense, the two of you were complete nerds about this analysis. (And, you each got perfect scores from Movack when you turned them in a few days later.)
After figuring out your papers, you still had a few hours until you had to get home and the next item on the homework-list was a film analysis for your Classic Horror course.
Jake wasn’t in that class with you, but he wasted no time volunteering to help. Especially when you told him the film you’d chosen to analyze. You’d decided on The Silence of the Lambs. For many reasons, but one in particular that ultimately led to your decision. There was a significant symbol in the story that you’d always wanted to explore further, be it through academics or for personal reasons. That was why you made the choice you did.
“And here I was, fully prepared to sit through The Shining with you,” he’d said, eyebrows raised in shock and a breathy, disbelieving chuckle from his lips. “But I’ll allow it, I suppose,” he teased, clearly displaying his approval for your choice of film through his mockery. “Hopkins is a true genius, afterall.”
You’d thought about The Shining – truly, you did. It was the easy option, the one that would’ve required the least amount of thought for you. But, that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted to think. And it’s not that you don’t have to think with The Shining – that film is one of the most thought provoking in the world of cinema.
But, you’d already performed many analyses over the film during your academic career – you just wanted something different.
He reached for the Roku on the couch cushion behind him, flicking through the apps for a moment before landing on HBO Max. He searched for the movie with the voice option, using his best Hanibal Lecter impression to do so. It made you chuckle, but it was god awful. And he knew it.
Once the opening credits began playing, you opened a blank Google Doc on your laptop, fingers ready to speed-type any thought you’d have as you watched the movie.
“So tell me,” Jake began, watching as you were already writing down something from the very first scene that captured your attention. “Why this film, hm? You don’t exactly make choices without some sort of meaning behind them.”
“Correct,” you’d simply stated, finishing your thought on digital paper before you were ready to get into the reason this movie sparked an interest in you. You typed away with your first impressions from an analytical standpoint, and not just entertainment. Sure, you’d seen it dozens of times before. But, never for academic purposes. It was the perfect opportunity for you to dive into the tale just a bit further than you ever had.
So, for you, that meant dissecting things right away.
Opening scene: Clarice runs alone in the woods – immediately framed as small, practically swallowed by the forest she’s trying to navigate. Mist, branches, shadows = obstacles, obscurity, isolation. She’s vulnerable, but she keeps running – determination stronger than fragility. Training course works as a metaphor: constant tests, always being watched, always needing to prove herself.
A woman against an entire system, only noticed as a woman – as weak.
Jake’s eyes were glued to your screen as you typed, gentle breaths from his lightly parted lips that you could feel like a whisper of wind against your hair.
It made you smile – feeling him, knowing he was there. His presence was everything you needed that night.
Everything.
“Oh, I love how your mind works, doll,” he’d said, watching as your thoughts unfurled on the screen, turning them into some sort of deeper meaning that you would later be able to make even more sense of.
Of course, his little use of that name sent a rush of blood to your cheeks, beckoning a shy smile as you typed the very last word. “Why, thank you, sir.”
You looked at him right as you’d said it, catching a familiar glint about his eyes that said something along the lines of, don’t start what you can’t finish.
“Alright, professor,” he teased as he leaned down to steal a sweet kiss from your cheek. “What’s the game plan here? What am I keeping my eyes peeled for?”
“Moths,” you’d said, quickly, without much thought. “I wanted to dig deeper into them, what they stand for in this story. Symbolically, they represent so much that they obviously have a larger connection to this entire piece. And, I just happen to love moths.”
You felt your heart flutter when you noticed a very blatant shift in his body language, one that told you his interest was indeed piqued. He smiled so brightly, almost proud. “Ah, the nocturnal kin of the butterfly,” he’d said. “This will be fantastic, doll. For what it’s worth, I, too, have a fascination with the little things.”
You perked up, noticeably, you’re sure. “You do?” you questioned, surprised. Yet, somehow, not surprised at all.
“Oh yes. I’ve always been fond of them, what they symbolize. You know, it’s funny,” he continued, rubbing his index finger along his chin, as if conjuring a deeply seeded memory. “My dad and I would sit on the front porch a lot of nights – playing some Petty tunes on guitar, laughing, talking about my future – and we’d always try to keep count of how many moths we’d see. They’d swarm that porch light some nights, and it was sometimes a little hard to keep count of them,” he laughed, pure sincerity in his eyes. “They held some sort of strange comfort for me after he passed.”
Strange. Comfort.
“And then, my grandfather and I held the same tradition. Sitting on the balcony of the apartment, watching the moths fly toward the light. Talking, laughing, reminiscing. Now, this could be a case of frequency illusion or something, but I swear I see them more often than most people do. Sometimes, I think the little things follow me around, like they find some sort of peace in me. Sounds like I’m a victim of delusion, huh?” he giggled, cheeks growing with a grin.
Your lips parted before you could stop yourself. “I don’t think that’s delusion at all, Jake. That’s absolutely beautiful.”
If you hadn’t already decided your feelings for Jake by then, you had certainly realized them that night. That moment, when something so dear and sacred to you also held the same sentiment for him.
And you’d never known it.
There was never a chance to talk about it. Because, you had to be brutally honest with yourself – who wants to sit and talk about whatever spiritual significance a bug may hold?
You would, of course. But, there aren’t many people in this world who feel that way. Something you learned as a child, a topic you learned to keep to yourself for the sake of appearing at least somewhat normal to other people.
Your fluttering heart was then doing full flips in your chest. “It’s the Luna moths for me,” you began, a quiet admittance. You looked down to your now black laptop screen – timed out after sitting still for so long. In it, you could see your reflection, and Jake’s. And, it made you smile. “They’ve just always felt like peace to me. A sign of something good. I – I see them a lot, you know. Like, they’re drawn to me somehow.” You giggled at your own words, realizing how silly they must’ve sounded to him.
Though, you felt safe in saying them to him. There was no judgement with Jake. Not even a little bit.
But, you weren’t ready to open up about everything just yet. It both felt like the right time and the wrong time all at once. You wanted him to talk to you, to continue telling you about his life and what molded him into the person that sat next to you on the couch.
No, you decided to wait. Another time would arise for that, and it just so happens that it was just a few nights later, on your birthday.
Before, well, everything came to an end.
You were blissfully unaware this night. And what you’d give to have that moment, that feeling, back…
“I can see that,” he murmured after a bit of silence, his voice gentle, deliberate. “I think I understand why they find you – the way they linger, the way they stay. Because I do, too. I’m not so different from them, I suppose. I’m drawn to your light the same way.”
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
The film played on as you diligently took notes, Jake chiming in with his own thoughts that only helped you expand on yours all the more. You loved hearing what he thought, where his mind would go in comparison to your own. It was validating to know that his thoughts aligned almost perfectly with yours – he just knew how to dig deeper.
Something you love about him.
“Moths,” he’d said softly, just as the screen unfolded with the earliest scene in the film that depicts them. The mortician, pulling that cocoon from the poor girl's mouth.
That moment in the movie has always made you wince, but Jake handled it like a pro while you buried your head into the safety of his shoulder, just long enough for the split second on the screen to pass.
When your eyes found Jake’s face, his brow was lifted, lips stealthily curved. “A symbol of change, of transformation,” he quoted, lowering his voice in another rough imitation of Hopkin’s. He let out a soft laugh before shaking his head. “Creepy bastard…but, he’s right. Transformation’s the entire spine of the film.”
You nodded, fingers flying across your keys as you typed. “That’s exactly what I want to dig into. The way these death’s-head hawks aren’t just grotesque little details – they’re the key to telling us the story underneath. Clarice trying so hard to shed who she was, Bill desperate to become someone else entirely. It’s all about transformation, just in very different directions.”
Your fingers turned into lightning as you typed, an attempt to get every thought you had down before they became too scattered.
Jake hummed, seeming to watch you more than the film. “Maybe that’s why they keep finding you, doll. You’ve been transforming all your life.”
Your fingers suddenly stilled, his words slipping under your skin with a truth you hadn’t expected to hear uttered from his lips. You then looked at him, eyes suddenly more drawn to him than the words on your laptop’s screen.
“You really think so?” you muttered. Part of you, trapped in disbelief. But, the other part of you knew he wasn’t lying. Why would he?
He grinned softly, features laced with wholly candor. “Yeah, doll. And just like the moths, you never had to be a butterfly to be beautiful.”
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
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 it reaches his final 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 that’s 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 to help her.
That aim does not reside in the soul of my younger brother. His vow lies on the surface layer of his skin, collecting unseen 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 enveloped 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, and 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.
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 wound won’t heal as quickly.
I miss her. I miss her more than any one soul could yearn for another. She’s embedded into mine, stitched where the tattered threads of my upbringing hung loose. And, she’s the reason for new rips and shreds that can’t be sewn back together without her.
But, these 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.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
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, no moon to cast the noir sky in a ghostly hue.
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.
“Oi, you Jacob? Jacob, er, Kiszka?”
Hearing my name brings not only my body, but my mind back to the present. 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 that my flight safely landed. 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.”
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
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 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 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, no more than a few minutes’ walk from Magdalen college. Red brick, tendrils of decayed ivy, dead from from the winters’ cold, clinging to the window frames. The front door is painted a deep 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…
Before either of us say another word to each other, a woman 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.
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 words that tickle the tip of my tongue — hell 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. Dad’s 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, the brightest smile 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, how 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.
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. 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 the guitar 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.
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.
End of Jake’s point of view.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Christmas has felt much the same as this year's Thanksgiving – you, your mom, and your quiet apartment.
The meal was – well, there was no meal. Not really, in truth. No Christmas dinner that other families perhaps spent all day preparing.
Yours was a simple pasta. A single box of twisty noodles, boiled in a medium sized pot of water, and a jar of almost expired red sauce that lacked any sort of decadent flavor profile.
It was all you had. You couldn’t even come up with any side dishes to add to the “meal.” Not that you cared, but your mom certainly wore her distaste on her pale face. She didn’t vocalize it, however. And that brought you back to another time when she never verbalized her disgust with your cooking. Until that silent moment, you’d almost forgotten there ever was such a time.
Her bowl held most of the food you’d prepared – yours was only filled with a small handful of what was left once you made sure she had plenty to eat.
Neither one of you have been able to eat much these days. Both for different reasons, of course. Still, it’s all the same.
She ate more than you had expected her to. A lot more, in fact. She nearly cleaned her bowl, only leaving a few remnants of over-boiled noodles and sauce at the bottom.
It left a tiny tinge of relief to see that she’d eaten real food today, instead of her chicken-broth-in-a-mug that she’s insisted on as of late.
You, however, couldn’t bring yourself to eat more than a few noodles. Four of them, to be exact. You kept count. A nice, even number – not too much, but enough.
Despite the circumstances of this year, it actually hasn’t been a terrible night, in truth. You don’t mind the quiet, the calm of it all. It’s quite nice.
The apartment smells of balsam, all thanks to a candle you’d found at Trader Joe’s. You’d even splurged on a few sets of colorful lights to string around the living room, and a tiny three foot tree you found at a discounted rate. It was missing a few branches – a manufacturing error. But, it didn’t bother you much. It only made you appreciate the little thing all the more.
It’s small, but it’s enough. And, with as small as your apartment truly is, a tree any larger would look downright silly.
You surprised your mom with a classic western film DVD box set you’d found. (Also at a discounted rate – people just don’t seem to watch these anymore.)
It was the one and only gift under the tiny tree. That, and a box of Swiss Miss – with the marshmallows. She loves a good, warm cup when the weather turns bitter. You quite enjoy one, too. Warm drinks have always been a source of comfort. They’re great for chilly fingers, for melancholic moods.
You didn’t have to work too hard at talking her into having a cup with you. So, after dinner and doing the dishes, you warmed up some milk on the stove (because, yes – milk is better than water in hot chocolate) and rinsed out a few of your old Coca-Cola Christmas mugs.
You breathe in the chocolatey deliciousness as you fill each mug – already set with the mix – with the near boiling milk.
Tiny marshmallows begin peeking through the froth as you carry them both into the living room. You hand your mom hers, forewarning her of the heat, once you’re in a comfortable position on the couch. The couch that, to your bitter distaste, you spent hours deep cleaning today.
But, it’s clean now. And that very fact allows you to take a breath of contentment before you blow on your hot chocolate to cool it just a little.
Not too much, of course – you’ve always been one to prefer your hot drinks to be piping hot. If it’s not on the verge of blistering your tongue, it’s not hot enough.
“I don’t know how you’re already drinking that,” your mom laughs, a certain familiarity behind her words. She’s always known you to do this. “It shocks me every stinkin’ time.”
“What would you like to watch, mom?” you ask, taking one more sip before setting the mug on the coffee table. “I can put in one of your new westerns if you’d like.”
It’s not that you want to watch one, per se. You’re just simply offering, knowing that she was more than likely already planning on watching one. They’re certainly not your favorite film genre, but you'll indulge her. (Because, even though you’ve tried to ignore the thought, you know you may not have her much longer…)
You reach for the DVD set next to your mug, and begin peeling the clear plastic off the box cover. But, before you can get too far, she stops you.
“I don’t think I’m in the mood for one of those tonight,” she says, her breathy and meek voice somehow sounding better than it has in what’s felt like weeks.
“O-oh,” you stutter, shocked that she doesn’t have any interest in watching one of these films. “Well, what would you like to watch then? I guess maybe we should watch a Christmas movie since it’s Chri –,”
“Why don’t you put on Oliver and Company?” she interrupts, seemingly ignoring you as she’s cut you off before you could even finish your thought.
What?
You stall your movements. Your eyes, instinctively falling to your lap while your body is jolted, triggered somehow at the mention of that movie. That odd suggestion, a movie you’ve not watched in years.
Why all of a sudden…? And what is the reason behind the abrupt tightening in your chest?
“S-sure,” you stutter, more of a question than an agreement.
There’s nothing wrong with the movie – it was one of your most treasured watches as a child. But, you haven’t felt the desire to watch it since then.
In fact, if your jumbled memory serves you correctly, the last time you watched it was with your dad. Years and years ago, several before he chose to leave. His love for Billy Joel made the movie bearable for him – he loved the music in it, especially the little dog he voiced. (If only you could remember the damn dog's name. It’s been so long…)
So, he certainly never complained when you wanted to watch it as a kid.
But for your mom to want to watch it now…you’re wracking your brain to figure out why. And the way she’s looking at you right now, as if silently prideful of a point she thinks she’s making. Her eyes narrowed, one brow lifted. Her thin lips held tightly together, curling in a sneaky sort of grin.
It’s making you incredibly uncomfortable – it’s only adding to the onset of anxiety you’re suddenly feeling, without any explanation.
You’re just confused.
But, you shake it off. Surely it’s nothing. It has to be nothing – you don’t have the energy, time, or mental capability to worry yourself over it.
You walk over to the television stand, pulling open the top drawer that holds the few DVD’s you have. It’s in there, buried at the bottom. The case is cracked, worn from age and use. The cover picture is faded, the colors not nearly as vivid and vibrant as you once remembered them to be. Could just be from wear and tear. Could be that your childlike-way of viewing the world has since faded, too. Nothing is as colorful anymore.
The disc has a couple of scratches on the shiny side, but nothing so bad that it should have a hard time playing. You place it in the player, closing the tray with a soft push. The machine hums a little, cracking sounds coming from the disc as it begins to spin, the screen still black. For a second, you begin to wonder if it’ll even bother to work. But, finally, the screen turns from black to blue, before the opening credits appear in a familiar font.
You don’t move to sit right away. Instead, you linger by the TV stand, arms crossed loosely over your chest, as if buying yourself a moment to breathe and swallow down the remaining confusion flooding your mind. You can feel her eyes on you – waiting, watching. The loud silence stretches thin.
Finally, you turn, offering the smallest smile, the only way you can muster one. It feels fragile on your quivering lips, but it’s the best you can do right now. You lower yourself on the couch beside her, leaving just enough space so that your elbows don’t brush.
The theme music plays faintly through the speakers. You clear your throat, softly, an attempt of getting rid of the constricting feeling.
“Here it is,” you say, falsifying your excitement.
She nods once, eyes fixed on the screen, until they flit toward you. “Remember when we used to watch this together, honey? It was your very favorite. Your dad never wanted to watch it with you, remember? So, I always did. I loved it just as much as you, sweetie.”
“I – I thought –,” you start, stopping yourself before you say something that could trigger her.
The only time you can remember watching this movie with your mom was the Christmas you were in the hospital with a collapsed lung…her and your dad. Not just her.
Other than that, she’s never watched this movie with you. That you know for a fact.
And, it’s not that it’s a bad thing that she never did. It’s that she’s blatantly lying about it right now.
You’ll give her the benefit of the doubt – perhaps her illness is causing her to misremember. Perhaps that’s just how she remembers it…but…
It feels wrong to feed into it. It’s just simply incorrect – your dad watched this with you, not her.
You know better than to bring him up, though. It’ll only cause issues, more than either of you need right now.
“Yeah – yeah, I do,” you say, quietly, somewhat restrained. It nearly hurts to speak the words, your throat clamping tight around them. But, you know it’s for the best.
“Remember my favorite character?” she asks, full smile stretched across her lips, causing her cannula to ride up her face just a little, a stark reminder for you of her condition.
“I guess I don’t remember,” you admit. And, it’s the truth. You don’t remember, because she’s never told you.
She opens her mouth in shock, huffing a disbelieving giggle. “Dodger, silly girl. I love that Billy Joel speaks for him.”
Dodger. That fucking dog’s name is Dodger.
Dodger. He was your dad’s favorite character, because your dad loves Billy Joel.
It’s taking strength of a magnitude you didn’t know you possessed to keep yourself from saying something you’ll regret, to keep yourself from spitting the truth that’s burning the back of your throat. Anger begins to simmer deep in your chest. Why is she trying to completely erase him?
You can be angry with your dad. You can grieve him, resent him and still keep the memories close. Two things can be true.
But watching her twist those memories, bending them into something that never was – watching her take them away from you…
Suddenly, Jake’s voice slices through you, unbidden.
“She’s doing this on purpose, y/n. And you know that. She’s letting herself stay this way so you won’t live your own life. And it’s working.”
Was he right? Does he see something that you don’t? (Or, something you do see, but you’ve put it in the back of your mind enough that you don’t let yourself consider it.)
And then, it hits you. It slams into you harder than a train going a speed of no less than a thousand miles per hour. And, it’s heavy. The heaviest you’ve felt since…
Dodger.
The name of the mysterious, allusive character in your mothers phone. The person she called the night she was taken by ambulance – the one she refused to speak of when you asked her.
That tightening in your chest is far more pronounced than before, squeezing every bit of air out of your lungs.
Surely it’s a coincidence…that name…
It can’t really mean anything…right?
Happenstance. An odd twist of a strange fate.
It’s nothing. And you’ll continue to tell yourself that as much as you need to until you believe it.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
The movie ends, but your mind doesn’t. The screen fades to black, yet your thoughts play on a relentless, tortuous loop. You just can’t seem to make sense of anything right now – your mom’s strange words, the pit in your chest. And, if you’re honest, you’re not certain you truly want to make sense of it.
You need something – anything – to distract you, to anchor you. To ground you.
The hot chocolate has long since gone cold, no longer offering you any sort of comfort. And, the next movie your mom chose – Christmas with the Kranks – certainly isn’t helping.
Not one bit.
That’s when you remember the box.
One that has yet to be unpacked from the move to Michigan, the last one. It’s been sitting untouched on the top shelf of your closet since then, a cardboard capsule from Oklahoma. You’ve just not had the energy to open it – until now.
Tonight, it feels like the perfect distraction. Maybe even a Christmas gift to yourself. Something buried. Something you’ve been missing.
It’s bigger than you remembered, heavy in your arms. No wonder you’ve been putting it off. Whatever’s inside probably doesn’t even belong in this cramped little apartment. Still, curiosity has taken over – it begs you to open it, to see what you thought was worth hauling all the way here. You made certain to pack only the essentials when you left. So, it must be something you thought you’d need.
The duct tape tears away too easily, a cheap off-brand you’d grabbed last minute at the Dollar Tree. The cardboard remains practically unscathed beneath it – it’s a wonder it held it together at all.
As you pull back the flaps, the dusty contents leave you breathless.
You don’t remember packing these. And you don’t really know why you did. Only the essentials; these aren’t exactly essential.
They’re records.
Your dad’s records.
For a moment, you just stare at them. You can’t recall slipping these into a box. They weren’t essentials. Not really, at least.
And yet, here they are.
He left so abruptly that he didn’t even think to take his prized collection…and you thought that was weird. Still do. He loved his vinyl’s – why would he leave them behind?
You fear you’ll never know the answer.
All of a sudden, the faded memory of packing them begins to come to mind, clearing as you think on it a little more.
You did it so hastily, and didn't allow yourself much time to think what you were doing.
The records were your dad’s, yes. But they’re yours, too.
They’d always been in the living room, each one carefully placed on the shelf, their spines facing outward in neat, alphabetical rows. You didn’t know a life without them – you loved them, too. For you, in your rush to get out, it was probably nothing to take them. They’ve been such a staple in your life; you couldn’t bear to leave them behind.
It hurts your heart that they’ve been inside this box for so long, sitting on top of each other, their heavy weight crushing the ones at the bottom. You just hope that they’re okay, that there’s no irreversible damage done to them.
Picking through them is like going through a stack of old photographs from your childhood. It’s all the same to you, in truth. The records are just as symbolic to you as any photograph could be. Perhaps even more so when you really think about it.
Couldn’t Stand The Weather is right on top; its cover is practically seared in your memory. Right underneath it is one you recall as being your dad’s favorite, the one he’d spent years hunting for an original press in mint condition — Texas Flood.
Stevie’s records have always been a bit hard to come by, so you know these two specifically meant a lot to him. And, again, it begs the question – why didn’t he take them?
Muddy Waters, The Stones, Albert King, Robert Johnson, Led Zeppelin, Derek and the Dominos, The Beatles…just a few of some of the most sought-after titles, all collecting dust in this forgotten cardboard box.
This is the music that rang all across your home for the better part of your upbringing, spinning on his old Linn LP 12 turntable he bought brand new in the eighties.
You were in seventh grade when your parents sold it. They needed the money, and with those record players being such a hot commodity, they made over nine hundred dollars on the thing. The living room was never quite as vibrant again, and the music never sounded the same after it was gone. It broke your dad’s heart to get rid of it – you could tell. But at the time, money for groceries was more important than listening to records.
These records haven’t been played in several years now. You truly can’t recall the last time you heard their soft static hiss, or their occasional pops and crackles as they spun under the needle. You don’t even own a record player, nothing within reach to bring these harmonic pressings back to life. But, at least they're here. You have them.
The collection is as deep as the box, seemingly endless titles that serve as the soundtrack to your early days. Carefully pulling each of them out, setting them upright against the wall so there’s no more pressure against them, you may as well be emptying a time capsule of things you’d nearly forgotten about.
Each one has a memory engraved into its grooves, most of them of your dad.
And, most of them are happy.
Your mom loved this music, too. But, her adoration wasn’t nearly as pronounced as his.
As you’re nearing the bottom of the box, lifting the last few relics from their cardboard tomb, you’ve reached the very last one. And the second you spot it, the most vivid and powerful memory takes hold of you.
He’d called you his Wildflower for most of your life.
You were always just...different; you stood out. And never in the right ways. From the music you listened to, to the way you dressed, to the movies you loved, the deep emotions you’d always harbored.
You were never the Oklahoma standard. Being so anomalous was something you grew accustomed to at quite a young age. It didn’t always serve you well amongst your peers. But, you learned to embrace it.
Your mom would eventually begin using the nickname, too. Though it was never quite the same with her – it didn’t feel the same. That was something special between you and your dad. Of course, you didn’t mind when she’d call you that, but you could tell she’d only do it because he did.
“Remember, you're a wildflower,” your dad would tell you anytime you felt offbeat. Anytime the different parts of you made you feel incredibly less than.
From the moment you began school, you were made fun of for your darker clothes, the books you’d opt to read at lunch in lieu of talking to anyone, the ‘big’ words you’d use.
Kids had always made you feel like you were wrong for being who you were, that you were broken because you weren’t like them.
“You are a challenge to the garden’s expectations – you dare to grow where you want. You don’t belong in their meadow, y/n. You belong in beautiful yours.”
He began this mantra at just six years old, and he’d remind you of that very sentiment each time you were ashamed of being different.
On your seventh birthday, he gifted you your very first record – Wildflowers by Tom Petty. He played you the title song after you’d opened it.
“This is your song,” he’d said. And from then on, he’d surprise you with a daisy – a wildflower – on your birthday each year.
The record was yours, but it was kept safely within his collection for years. You’d stopped playing it when you became an angsty teen, when it wasn’t cool to have such a nickname. You didn’t get rid of it after he left, much like you couldn’t part with the rest of the vinyl’s.
When you packed them, you didn’t give yourself the chance to look through them. Wildflowers was simply tossed in the box along with the others, unnoticed.
It feels like you’re seeing it for the first time since you were in high school. And, in essence, you are. It hasn’t crossed your mind in so long, and once he left, any happy memories evaporated from the burning anger you felt towards him.
But, as time has gone on, as you’re finding things that send your mind in a far different place – those memories are trickling back in, slowly. One by one.
“Whatcha doin’, sweetie?” Her gentle, breathy voice startles you – you hadn’t even heard her come to your bedroom. You quickly stand from the floor to help her to the edge of your bed, taking her hand and offering her some support so she doesn’t use too much of her strength or become winded.
“Just going through a box I hadn’t opened yet,” you say, helping her down on the mattress. You sit back down on the floor once she’s settled, taking the Wildflowers album from the box.
“Oh, honey!” She reaches for it the second she sees it, and takes it from your hands before you’ve even had the chance to really look at it.
“Your first record,” she gushes, smiling so bright that her nasal cannulas poke out from her nose. She breathes deeply once she secures them again, examining the album front and back.
You’d thought she’d be upset by this, seeing something that was given to you by your dad. But, the smile on her face says otherwise. Shocking, but it’s a nice diversion from earlier.
Can’t really blame her, though.
“I’m so glad you brought this,” she says, beaming with joy. “I still remember how cute you were when I gave this to you. Silly girl – you had no idea what it was! Remember when I got this for you? I played it for you so many times when you were little.”
…what?
“Mom, um, did-didn’t dad –,”
Her now cold eyes shoot down to yours at the slight mention of him, her lips held in a tight line against her teeth. You don’t understand…what is she trying to do? She’s looking at you with a tactic to intimidate, and it’s working. But, you can’t let this go without setting it straight.
“Dad got this for me, mom. My first record – it came from dad because he used to call me – ,”
“I got it for you, y/n. Not your piece of shit father.”
The sudden gruffness of her voice is a rather harsh contrast to your soft tone. She’s so angry about this. But, why?
“I am the one who introduced you to music, remember? Your father had nothing to do with that. Do not give him credit for things I did for you, understand me?”
What the fuck?
To say you’re shocked would be like calling a thunderstorm a drizzle. None of what she’s saying makes sense. None of it.
It crosses your mind for a brief moment that she could be in the beginnings of dementia…maybe her mind is truly going – almost gone – if that’s what she believes.
But…no. That isn’t right. She’s as serious as she could possibly be, and her eyes tell you she’s fully aware of what she’s claiming, that she knows it’s the truth. She can’t hide behind her lies any longer.
She’s done this before, about little things. She’s even taken credit multiple times for your taste in music.
Whatever. That you can deal with – it’s innocent enough.
But the movie…Dodger.
Her acting as though she loved the movie the same way your dad did, when you know that to be untrue.
And this…that record was special to you and your dad. To only you and your dad. This isn’t something that you’ll allow her to take away from you. Just like everything else she’s taken away.
Jesus. It’s like she wants your dad erased from your life completely, no traces of him left behind unless those traces make you hate him.
Yeah, you’re not exactly pleased with him either. And, it’s certainly true that some of these memories cause more hurt than happiness, because of what he did. But they’re still your memories. Why is she trying to pretend that they don’t exist? That she was the one who took care of you all your life when it was actually him?
They aren’t her memories to rewrite, to invalidate. It’s all you have left, and you will not let her take control of your last remaining pieces.
“Mom,” you say, with more assertion behind your voice, standing from your crouched position on the floor. “Dad gave this to me. You were there when I got it, but this was his gift to me. He called me Wildflower. Don’t you remember?”
With piercing eyes glaring at you, she tosses the album to the floor and stands to meet you, face to face. She’s breathing heavily, her breath wreaking of stale milk. Though you can’t tell if it’s due to her illness or her sudden anger that her breathing is so labored, your bet is on the latter.
“Whatever you say, sweetie,” she grits through her teeth, cold eyes holding tight to yours. “I think I’ll go to bed. Starting to not feel so good.”
She begins to walk away, shuffling her sock-clad feet against the carpet towards her room.
“Let me help you get into bed,” you offer, reaching for her hand to help keep her stable. But she just as soon pulls her arm from you before you can get ahold of her.
“I’ve got it,” she says, stern, now halfway to her room, keeping her eyes in front of her. “You don’t really want to help me, y/n. It’s okay. I get it.”
“Mom, I –,” but before you can say much else, she’s slamming her door across the hallway. You’re left standing in the middle of your bedroom, shocked. You reach to pick up the album from the floor, clutching it tight in your hands, mind completely disarrayed.
You have no idea what the fuck just happened, can’t even begin to process it fully. She’s done things like this before, but this time felt heavier. There was something else behind it, something she’s been harboring.
You set the record down on your bed, telling yourself it’ll be safer there than in your clenched, trembling hands. You're seconds away from a full mental breakdown when you hear her voice cutting through the thin walls.
“Y/n?” she calls, her tone laced with fragility, with a gentleness that feels almost rehearsed.
“She’s doing this on purpose, y/n. And you know that. She’s letting herself stay this way so you won’t live your own life. And it’s working.”
“Could you help me through a bath? I know you probably don’t want to, but I don’t think I can manage it alone. I can just risk slipping if you’re too bus –,”
“I’m coming, mom,” you call back, voice clipped, steady only because you're forcing it to be. “I’ll be right there.”
You press your palms into your eyes, swallowing down the heat in your throat, pushing yourself towards her room.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
Neither one of you have said much to each other. Her bath was quick, less than ten minutes. She wanted right in and right out.
Now, she’s lying peacefully in her bed, with her freshly-cleaned sheets and the western film she finally decided she wanted to watch.
It’s quite baffling how much more at peace you feel when your mother is in bed, when you no longer have to answer her every beck and call. It’s a shameful, guilty feeling to possess, but after the events of the night…
You know you can’t be faulted for breathing a little easier now that it’s just you.
One thing you’ve been longing for all day is a steaming hot shower.
So, that’s just what you’ll do.
The bathroom needs a little tending before you can restfully do that, though. That includes draining the tub from your mom’s bath. You’d already removed the drain plug before she’d gotten out of the bath, but these old pipes certainly don’t drain as quickly as they should.
You kneel down to check the water level, watching the slow swirl around the steel drain, when a sudden vibration startles you half to death.
Another buzz, stronger this time – before you even register what’s happening, your phone, sitting stupidly on the edge of the tub, slips forward.
Plop.
Straight into the water.
“Fuck!”
You lunge forward, plunging your hand into the lukewarm bathwater and yanking it out as fast as you can, flinging it into the pile of towels beside the toilet.
Miraculously, it’s still working. The screen lights up, dripping and fogging beneath the case. Still ringing.
And you finally see the name before it fades away.
Natalia.
Your chest tightens. She’s called no less than fifty times in the last week, more text messages than you could possibly count – you’ve avoided every single one.
Because you know what she’ll want to talk about.
And you just…can’t. Not yet. You don’t want to hear your voice tremble when you say his name. You don’t want her pity. You don’t want to bury her sunshine with the storm cloud you’ve been dragging around since he left. You don’t want to bog her down with your burdens.
But, god, it hurts. Because you miss her. So goddamn much.
And still – you keep your distance. Because that’s just what you do.
Distance.
It’s the only way you know how to cope. To push everyone away so they don’t drown with you.
You drag a shaky breath and focus back on the phone, the thing you can control right now. It’s wet, fragile. You need to save it.
You blot it again with the towel, but your stomach twists at the thought of water seeping inside. You should probably take the case off. Avoid any further damage.
With trembling hands, you peel the rubber, sage green edges away, prying the phone free –
And your stomach drops.
Because, tucked neatly behind the case, kept safe where you’d hidden it weeks ago, where you chose to place it so it would stay close with you –
Jake’s guitar pick.
The one he pressed into your palm the night he bore his own heart for you. The night of your birthday, when, for the first time in a long while, things felt right.
It’s now on the floor, in the middle of a small puddle. Drowning.
Your throat tightens as you reach for it, pruney fingers shaking as you hold it, drying it with your sweatshirt. The indentions left behind from his thumb print, the scratches and cracks on the surface from passionate use…they’re all still there. You can touch them, feel him within this tiny piece of plastic.
The memories of Lenny come flooding back to you. The way he looked as he played, his eyes as he told you the story behind the piece, the way his lips curled and his brows furrowed while his intentional fingers strummed each note with perfect precision…
You squeeze your eyes shut as the tears come, hot and heavy.
This was, suffice to say, the last thing you wanted to be confronted with tonight.
A tiny piece of plastic – it feels heavier than the whole world.
Because, it serves as the most devastating reminder that he isn’t here. He isn’t home.
And you don’t know that he ever will be again.
⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ཐིཋྀ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎
a/n: i know – this wasn't my normal chapter style. but, i wanted to try something a little different, & give some of these little moments & symbols a chance to stand on their own. as always, please don't be afraid to reach. anon or not, i love hearing from you all. 🥺 (p.s...dodger...?)
if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters, follow this link or send me an ask/dm & i'll be sure to add you. ☺️ (let me know if i've missed you!!!) (also, i know tags are being a little weird right now—will you let me know if you did/didn’t receive a notification?) sending all my love!
National Alliance for Eating Disorders. Please reach out if you're struggling. You're worth it. 🤍
i won't get too personal here, but things have been...difficult, to say the least. through it all, i've tried to hang on to my passion to write & keep the flame burning as brightly as it once did, but it's been a daunting flame to keep lit. (& i'll admit - it's been tough watching my story engagement dwindle as much as it has. though i know that doesn't truly matter, i am only human. my heart is tender, especially when it comes to this story that contains some deeply personal elements. i know i am not alone in this. being a writer in this day & age just isn't easy.)
that being said, the universe has shown me sign after sign (seriously - some crazy signs that i can't even believe) that it is imperative i complete this story. & whether that be here on tumblr or elsewhere in this world, i can't be too certain. but, it will be written. (also, mirador has been giving me more than enough inspiration. i mean, come on - the symbolism? live recordings in a european, medieval church? hello?? hell yes.)
one thing i do know is this story deserves to be written. & you - should you find the desire - deserve to read it. 🤍
i know this story isn't for everyone, & that is absolutely okay. if it is for you, i'd like to ensure you see this tale through to its end.
from the bottom of my heart, thank you to those of you who've supported me along this journey. & even if i've lost you somewhere along the way, know that i am still deeply indebted to you for the love you've shown me. i can't express what it means to me. putting myself out there, in any regard, is incredibly hard for me. so, any love i have received over the years is forever stamped on my heart.
as of now, chapter 8 is still being written. i can't say for certain when it will be complete, but know that it is coming.
Take some time today to tell an author that you enjoy their work. Send them a sweet message, leave a comment or reblog their latest piece. Bring more positivity into this world. 🖊
Summary: josh needs a break from the mayhem, & you know the best place for it.
Word Count: 3k+ (more of a blurb, i suppose. nothing too crazy.)
Warnings: 18+ ONLY very soft dom (m), unprotected p in v, oral (f! receiving), fingering (f receiving), a little dirty talk, some praise, a little overstimulation, outdoor sex, brief mentions of smoking weed & a little drinking, fluffy fluffy fluff.
a/n: i was heavily inspired by break of dawn by Michael Jackson. so, you should definitely give it a listen as you read. i hope you enjoy. 🤍
“There’s no sun up in the sky, I can see it in your eyes. I won’t stop ‘til the break of dawn.”
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He thrives on the gifts of the earth — the sun and moon are the sources of his innermost energy. But as of late, it hasn't been as easy for him to seek the outlet that gives him the most peace. A rigorous tour schedule has left him feeling the solemn effects of not being allowed his quiet, sacred time within nature.
A noticeable change in him demanded that you search high and low for a moment to pull him away from the chaos of his brutal itinerary.
Alas, the time has finally come. With a brief few-week break from his strenuous world tour, you allotted plenty of time to aid in his much needed reset with his most treasured source: nature.
You’d had stayed up until the early morning hours to be sure everything was ready for your adventure. A little basket lunch, wine, and a bit of Mary Jane will make for the most superb additions to your outing.
You woke him up this morning, already donned in your flowiest summer dress — the white one with tiny yellow roses stitched in the chiffon fabric — pulling him from his sleep with the news of your relaxing arrangements for the day.
And you knew some time traversing the Black Lake Forest would brighten the inner depths of his spirit. And when you told him of your plan, he nearly leaped at the idea. There was an instant jolt in his new-found quiet demeanor. His tired eyes lit up again — they became Josh’s again. That familiar warmth they’d always carried, but momentarily became lost when the stresses of his career became a bit too overwhelming for his delicate soul.
He practically flew out of the safety of your satin covers to quickly get ready. He fluffed his hair before throwing on his cotton lined t-shirt, his favorite khaki cutoffs, and finished his attire by adding his most cherished opalite mala beads and a brown bandana tied around his neck.
Your eyes followed his every move as he got ready, admiring his effortless beauty while he moved around the room in sheer Josh-like grace.
You love him, and you love the breathtaking soul that lies amidst his gorgeous exterior. You love his sensitivity, his empathy, his connection to the earth that transcends a mere appreciation for its beauty.
His soul is one with nature, and that is precisely why he’s been in a slump as of late. He needs to feel the grass beneath his feet, the wind through his curls — he needs to find his grounding. And that is precisely why you knew he’d need this today.
And, you were right.
As soon as he parked the Gladiator just along the outskirts of the forest, near a charming, quaint river with a quiet flow of its stream to the lake, off his shoes went, along with his inhibitions. It was as though you could physically see the anxieties held within his being blowing away with the wind, disappearing into the stratosphere. An impossibly heavy weight being lifted off of him once his skin met the cool ground.
A beautiful afternoon lunch, a glass or two of Rosé, and a little herb inhaled deep in your lungs, Josh has at last settled himself perfectly into to his truest form.
He’s seated with his legs crossed, warm, honey eyes closed while he practices a deep meditation. The sounds of the chirping insects, the calm breeze brushing against the full leaves and wild bushes, his deep and slow breaths that mimic the speed of the wind.
With a deeply rooted sigh of contentment, he opens his eyes again, locking them with yours while he takes your hand.
“Do you hear that?” he asks with a tender, soothing voice. “That glorious music?”
“Josh…,” you tighten your hold on his hand, feeling the combined beating of your hearts in every finger that is intertwined with his, mimicking his doting smile. “I love you, but there’s no music playing.”
“Listen…”
Almost as if the universe is in cahoots with your curly headed lover, right at this very moment, the trees bustle a little louder, the whistling wind blowing a soft melody through their foliaged branches. The water, catching the light of the early moon — a million sequins sewn into the waves — sings its steady flow down the bank. The birds harmonize together, their lovely goodnight tune plays from their place in the starlit sky. “That is our music. Come, dance with me.”
Before the words can even settle in your mind, he’s sweeping you up from your resting place on the blanket. Laughter spills from your lips as the world tilts — but before you can fall, his steady arms find you, catching you in the spin of it all.
He holds you snug against his warm body, swaying you back and forth to the rhythm of Mother Nature’s song. Her soil against your bare feet feels cool, yet warm all at once. She’s inviting, alluring. And yet, still not nearly as alluring as your sweet love.
You nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck, basking in his patchouli and cedar aroma, letting it fill your every sense.
With a gentle hand, he takes your chin and tilts your face. On his lips, a silent plea to meet with your own.
And of course, you oblige without a hint of waver.
He kisses you deeply, longingly, as though he’s starved for your taste. The tiny whimpers and groans you make are reciprocated right back to you. You swallow every sweet sound he emits, eliciting more from him as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and run your fingers through the fluffy curls that lay against his neck.
And as he kisses down your jaw, nipping and licking away at the skin, your head falls back and your body nearly collapses from the feeling. His arms fold around your waist, keeping you upright while his lips, prickly from a few days without shaving, tickle the skin in the wake of his kisses.
“So lovely in this light,” he mutters, his warm breath decorating the skin beneath your ear as his lips leave the tiniest of kisses. “Always so lovely, but…,” he leans back, allowing the full vision of you to encompass his line of sight. His eyes hold the weight of a thousand love letters, every one of them addressed to your erratically beating heart. “This light paints you more beautifully than anything Van Gogh could ever create.”
His name falls from your lips in a distant whisper, a hushed plea as your body is tingling with an intense yearning for him.
“Love when you say my name like that,” he hums. His hands fall to your trembling thighs, reaching up under the skirt of your dress, cupping the rounded flesh of your ass before he hastily lifts you off your feet.
Your legs hug his waist, your arms fold tight around his neck as his plush lips meet yours once again. He carries you a few steps back to your soft blanket laid out on the ground.
He lowers you both down ever so gently, being sure to keep a tight hold on you before your back meets the lush duvet. He slowly pulls his lips from yours, hovering just above you while his heavy-lidded eyes — glowing against the evening musk — drink you in.
“Turn over for me, baby,” he tells you, his voice like the calm breeze gently blowing the loose pieces of your hair. “On your tummy. Hips up.” The sweetest voice, demanding you do the most provocative things. Elating, mesmerizing.
He places a wet kiss on your temple before you obey his request, helping you flip your body over so your back is facing him, your cheek comfortably resting on the blanket beneath you.
With firm but delicate hands, he slowly raises your hips off the ground, pushing the fabric of your dress up so you’re nearly on full display for him, your white cotton thong doing practically nothing to conceal your most intimate parts.
“Baby…,” he sighs, deep and full, melting eager kisses to the backs of your thighs as he drags his lips upward, your heart fluttering in beat with your soaked pussy as he creeps closer and closer. “You’re so pretty, lover. So pretty everywhere.”
You're uncertain whether it's the weed, the Rosé, or the sublime embrace of Mother Nature enveloping you, but each touch seems magnified. Every movement, every word he speaks sends an electric jolt surging through your body. Lightning of the greatest voltage.
And when his lips, ever so delicate and soft, meet your dripping center, you feel a surge of pleasure cascading down your tremulous thighs, your fingers grasping at the blanket and reaching forward to weave through the cool blades of grass.
He teases you, lips sucking deep kisses to your desperately wet core through the very thin cotton, your body physically, almost involuntarily beseeching for more from him.
“You’re all tremble and breath, my love,” he huffs, at last hooking two fingers under the string of your thong and gently pulling it to the side, the cool breeze against your skin demanding the goosebumps to rise on every inch. “Shivering, soft and slow for me, hm?”
You feel his palms, damp with a thin layer of perspiration, grasp at the fronts of your thighs, pulling you closer. He buries his face deep into you, his tongue plunging inside of you while his fingers hold a tight grip on your supple flesh.
The rush of air escapes your heaving lungs as he at last connects with you, his hums and moans intertwining with yours in a symphony of pleasure.
Your body is no longer your own — it belongs to the wind, to the trees, to him. He devours you like a man long starved, tongue slow and firm as he laps at your dripping center with infinite care. Every motion is love, every breath he takes a hymn whispered into the folds of your body. He groans into you like he’s tasting divinity, like your flavor is something sacred, even more so than the earth.
When he flattens his tongue and draws a long, steady line up your heat, your arms reach further into the grass, your body folding into the blanket with a helpless cry. He slides two fingers inside you without warning, and your hips jolt even further from the earth beneath you. He works you open with a rhythm too precise to be accidental, curling them just so — searching, finding. The coil inside you tightens, winds, burns hot beneath your skin.
“That's it, pretty girl,” he mutters against you, his lips brushing your soaked folds between every praise. “Let go for me. I want to feel you shake – give me an earthquake.”
And you do.
You unravel like soaked velvet between his fingers, thighs trembling and breathy voice crying sobs and moans. You try to crawl away from the oversensitivity, but he only hums and presses a kiss to your clit, holding you there — grounded and trembling.
Only when your cries taper off and your body slumps in surrender does he finally lift his head. His lips and chin are glossed in you. He wears it like warpaint – proud and determined to be glossed with you.
Josh hovers over your back, his hands dragging the hem of your dress further up your waist until the fabric pools just beneath your ribs. He bends down and presses kisses along your spine, featherlight and slow, hints of stubble tickling your skin, making you twitch with overstimulated nerves.
“Stay with me,” he whispers, kissing the back of your neck. “I need to feel all of you.”
You turn your face to look at him over your shoulder, catching the way his curls glint in the moonlight, how his eyes are alight with that gentle fire that only burns only for you. “Take me, baby,” you whisper, your lungs still lacking proper air to speak. “Please.”
And just like that, he’s guiding the head of his cock to your entrance, nudging slowly through your soaked folds. The sound of him sliding in is obscene, though nearly drowned out by your gasp as he pushes deeper, inch by aching inch, until his hips are flush with your perked ass.
He stays there for a moment. Still, fully buried. You can feel him throbbing inside of you, each pulse of his dick accompanying his own staggered breaths.
“Fuck…,” he exhales, resting his forehead between your shoulder blades. “You were made for me, baby. Carved by the earth, kissed into form by the wind...a gift from the goddamned universe.”
He starts to move, slow and deep, grinding into you as smooth and gentle as the breeze blowing through your hair. It’s not hurried, not frenzied. It’s grounded. He’s following the rhythm of nature – inadvertently or not – keeping in tune with the songs of Mother Earth.
The way he pulls out almost completely before sliding back in has your lips parting in a silent cry, your body arching like a flower stretching toward sunlight.
He’s everything – he’s the sun, the moon. The life rooted beneath the grass. The whispered wind, the constellations.
He’s everything you could ever need.
And you need more.
“Deeper,” you whisper, not even sure you can take it, but needing it anyway. “Don’t hold back, Josh… please.”
He growls, low and raw, and grips your hips tighter, his pace quickening now, more purposeful. The soft rhythm of skin meeting skin echoes against the trees, mixing with your ragged breaths and the wind-swept melody that surrounds you. You feel the way his body shudders each time you clench around him, his gorgeous moans falling freely into the night air.
“Look at you,” he breathes, pulling your torso upward so your back meets his chest. One hand slips up your front, cupping your breast through the fabric of your dress, fingers teasing your peaking nipple through the thin chiffon. “So ethereal, so transcendent. Taking all of me, just like the good girl you are.”
The praise makes your stomach twist with utter need. You roll your hips into his, grounding yourself against him, chasing that high again. And when he slides his hand down your stomach, fingers finding your swollen clit, you damn near sob from the pressure building inside your tummy.
He holds you there — standing, trembling, connected to him while he circles you just right. “That’s it. Let go again. Give it to me, baby.”
Your bliss hits like lightning in a storm — searing and sudden and splitting you completely open. Your entire body convulses as you cry out, every nerve ending alive.
Josh is right behind you, spilling into you with a moan that sounds like worship, like blissful ecstasy, like home.
He doesn’t pull out. Not yet. Not while your bodies are still pulsing in sync. Not while your hearts are still thumping in harmony with the wind.
It's all so profound, evoking a sense of vitality and unity with your spirit, as well with his. You feel one with him, as if your souls are floating above your physical forms, connected somewhere in the ether.
You turn your face to his, your cheek brushing his as you whisper into the hush between heartbeats,
“This is why I brought you here… so you’d remember.”
His breath catches, and you feel his arms tighten, as if he's afraid to let the moment slip away. “Remember what?” he murmurs, voice hoarse and breathy, spent.
“That you’re not just made of noise and pressure and tour dates,” you breathe, lips grazing the damp skin of his neck. “You’re made of wild things. Of soil and sky. Of water and wind.”
His chest heaves behind you. You can feel it — his spirit exhales, blowing the last bit of pressure into the wind.
“You needed to come back to the ground, Josh,” you say, turning in his arms just enough to meet his eyes. “And I wanted to be the one to bring you home.”
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The stars have since almost disappeared by the time you both collapse into each other, your bodies tangled like vines, breathing shallow and slow. The trees sway above you with the early morning breeze, whispering lullabies through their leaves. A language that only you and Josh could understand.
His head rests on your chest, his curls tickling your chin and the tip of your nose. Your fingertips trace a gentle path, a line from his neck to his shoulder. He’s still inside of you, and neither of you are in any rush to change that.
The chilly wind cools the sweat still clinging to your skin – a chill glides up your spine at the feeling. And just as your body shivers, Josh’s body does the very same. Connected.
You each hold the other a little tighter, offering a warmth that can only be found in the embrace of the other.
An owl calls out in the dark somewhere in the near distance, crickets chirp to a beat written all on their own. The air smells like earth, aromatic wildflowers, and sex.
You kiss his temple, feeling his lips curl in a smile against your skin. “Thank you,” he murmurs, almost too quietly for the trees to hear. “For giving me back to myself.”
You don’t say anything in return, simply because some feelings cannot be limited to words. You only hold him tighter, your fingers dancing along his velvet skin.
Eventually, he rolls to his side, pulling you into the crook of his arm. You rest your head there, where his heart rests beneath his exterior. You listen to the steady beat as it keeps in perfect time with the world around you.
The dawning sun bathes you both in gold, the ground beneath you becomes your sanctuary. You both stare up at the sky, saying nothing – saying everything.
And before sleep takes you, just as your eyes begin to flutter shut, he speaks one last time with a raw and gentle voice. “I’ll remember this, when I’m far from the trees. When I can’t hear the wind, when I can’t feel the ground.”
You nod against him, laying a lazy kiss to his skin.
Because you know –
you gave him peace; he gave you forever.
Here, in the heart of the forest, beneath a golden sky, you stay this way. Wrapped in each other’s warmth, surrounded by the pulse of the earth. As the first birds begin to sing, the earth holds your secrets — and your love — buried safely beneath the roots.
The both of you, held fast until the break of dawn.
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a/n: let me know what you think! i thought this was a sweet little piece — i hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing it. 🤍 i’ve missed writing josh SO much, ugh.
i wanted to post this, just so everyone knows where my mind has been/currently resides.
but... as of late, i've just felt very down where my writing is concerned.
so, if i've seemed inconsistent, you are absolutely right. i have been inconsistent, but i've needed to take this space for my own mental wellbeing. there's been a lot of crying and lamenting and deliberating these stories that i've given so much of my heart, soul, endless time, and energy to.
i am working on Covet, Scout's Honor, and a couple other works. and, as i'm speaking on the "other works", i feel it is fair to point out they are never going to be "fanfic", but will instead be directly made into books. and, well... that has been my comfortable zone recently.
the fanfic world has turned a little sad within the past year, so it's just been a little harder to find the motivation to write for my stories.
...especially Covet.
as i've said since it first came to tumblr, Covet is my baby, so when I invest my time and energy into it, it takes a lot out of me. (ask anyone in my life - both personal and online - that i associate with regularly.) and, it's hard to share something that means so (astronomically) much to me, only for me to feel it's not being received as well as it once was. (this is me being blatantly honest, so i apologize for the brutal honesty. however, i do believe it's within my rights as the author of the story to express this feeling i have with this beloved creation of mine...i am sorry to anyone this causes discomfort for, though. <3)
so. i've been sort of keeping Covet held closer to me than usual...it just feels safer in my heart and google drive than on here some days. and not only that, but i've found it a little harder to write it in general. in a day and age where fic writers are feeling less than, or beaten down by certain response, or just leaving in general, it's hard to feel that same excitement when crafting a chapter for release.
all of this to say.
i will be delivering Covet and the second part to Unravel within the month. but, i will probably be taking a momentary break after they are posted - in order to gain some mental clarity to figure out the future for these works of mine.
to all my readers and supporters of my works: I LOVE YOU. thank you to all of you who give feedback, likes, reblogs, etc. - it truly feeds my soul in a way that i'm not able to properly express.
Also. I just want to point out that the ultimate goal is to publish Covet as a five novel series someday, under a different title. If anyone has ever been curious about that.
this is a conversation the two of us have had more times than not. we’ve both found ourselves in mental slumps with not only our writing, but other things in our personal lives that we choose not to share on here. we’re quite private, & there’s good reason for it.
with that said, our works (specifically our series’) have grown far beyond the realm of fanfiction. much like my sister plans to publish Covet as its own entity, (as she absolutely should) i plan to (hopefully) publish Le Morte d’Arthur.
something the two of us have have lamented about as of late (which she pointed out) is the loss of interaction with these stories that we pour more than our hearts into. if you’ve read either of these works, you know that these reach into very deep, at times dark places. as I’m sure most of you know, those things come from deep seeded hurt within ourselves, as the authors. we aren’t just writing for fun — we’re writing to heal.
@jakeyt is healing through her characters; I am healing through mine. these aren’t works that we take lightly. they come from an incredibly deep place. given all of that, any form of negative reception (or, no reception) makes it a little difficult to be willing to place it in the hands of others. it’s like giving up a piece of ourselves.
it’s hard to explain — if you’re an author, you get it. and I haven’t a single doubt that a good portion of our most dedicated readers will understand, too.
I can’t be certain what the future will hold. just please know that our hearts are so full from each and every bit of love we’ve received in this space. I know it isn’t what it once was, but there is still some joy to be found here.
to all of my own readers and supporters: I just hope you know how much you mean to me. I’ll never be able to out it into words.
Summary: josh needs a break from the mayhem, & you know the best place for it.
Word Count: 3k+ (more of a blurb, i suppose. nothing too crazy.)
Warnings: 18+ ONLY very soft dom (m), unprotected p in v, oral (f! receiving), fingering (f receiving), a little dirty talk, some praise, a little overstimulation, outdoor sex, brief mentions of smoking weed & a little drinking, fluffy fluffy fluff.
a/n: i was heavily inspired by break of dawn by Michael Jackson. so, you should definitely give it a listen as you read. i hope you enjoy. 🤍
“There’s no sun up in the sky, I can see it in your eyes. I won’t stop ‘til the break of dawn.”
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He thrives on the gifts of the earth — the sun and moon are the sources of his innermost energy. But as of late, it hasn't been as easy for him to seek the outlet that gives him the most peace. A rigorous tour schedule has left him feeling the solemn effects of not being allowed his quiet, sacred time within nature.
A noticeable change in him demanded that you search high and low for a moment to pull him away from the chaos of his brutal itinerary.
Alas, the time has finally come. With a brief few-week break from his strenuous world tour, you allotted plenty of time to aid in his much needed reset with his most treasured source: nature.
You’d had stayed up until the early morning hours to be sure everything was ready for your adventure. A little basket lunch, wine, and a bit of Mary Jane will make for the most superb additions to your outing.
You woke him up this morning, already donned in your flowiest summer dress — the white one with tiny yellow roses stitched in the chiffon fabric — pulling him from his sleep with the news of your relaxing arrangements for the day.
And you knew some time traversing the Black Lake Forest would brighten the inner depths of his spirit. And when you told him of your plan, he nearly leaped at the idea. There was an instant jolt in his new-found quiet demeanor. His tired eyes lit up again — they became Josh’s again. That familiar warmth they’d always carried, but momentarily became lost when the stresses of his career became a bit too overwhelming for his delicate soul.
He practically flew out of the safety of your satin covers to quickly get ready. He fluffed his hair before throwing on his cotton lined t-shirt, his favorite khaki cutoffs, and finished his attire by adding his most cherished opalite mala beads and a brown bandana tied around his neck.
Your eyes followed his every move as he got ready, admiring his effortless beauty while he moved around the room in sheer Josh-like grace.
You love him, and you love the breathtaking soul that lies amidst his gorgeous exterior. You love his sensitivity, his empathy, his connection to the earth that transcends a mere appreciation for its beauty.
His soul is one with nature, and that is precisely why he’s been in a slump as of late. He needs to feel the grass beneath his feet, the wind through his curls — he needs to find his grounding. And that is precisely why you knew he’d need this today.
And, you were right.
As soon as he parked the Gladiator just along the outskirts of the forest, near a charming, quaint river with a quiet flow of its stream to the lake, off his shoes went, along with his inhibitions. It was as though you could physically see the anxieties held within his being blowing away with the wind, disappearing into the stratosphere. An impossibly heavy weight being lifted off of him once his skin met the cool ground.
A beautiful afternoon lunch, a glass or two of Rosé, and a little herb inhaled deep in your lungs, Josh has at last settled himself perfectly into to his truest form.
He’s seated with his legs crossed, warm, honey eyes closed while he practices a deep meditation. The sounds of the chirping insects, the calm breeze brushing against the full leaves and wild bushes, his deep and slow breaths that mimic the speed of the wind.
With a deeply rooted sigh of contentment, he opens his eyes again, locking them with yours while he takes your hand.
“Do you hear that?” he asks with a tender, soothing voice. “That glorious music?”
“Josh…,” you tighten your hold on his hand, feeling the combined beating of your hearts in every finger that is intertwined with his, mimicking his doting smile. “I love you, but there’s no music playing.”
“Listen…”
Almost as if the universe is in cahoots with your curly headed lover, right at this very moment, the trees bustle a little louder, the whistling wind blowing a soft melody through their foliaged branches. The water, catching the light of the early moon — a million sequins sewn into the waves — sings its steady flow down the bank. The birds harmonize together, their lovely goodnight tune plays from their place in the starlit sky. “That is our music. Come, dance with me.”
Before the words can even settle in your mind, he’s sweeping you up from your resting place on the blanket. Laughter spills from your lips as the world tilts — but before you can fall, his steady arms find you, catching you in the spin of it all.
He holds you snug against his warm body, swaying you back and forth to the rhythm of Mother Nature’s song. Her soil against your bare feet feels cool, yet warm all at once. She’s inviting, alluring. And yet, still not nearly as alluring as your sweet love.
You nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck, basking in his patchouli and cedar aroma, letting it fill your every sense.
With a gentle hand, he takes your chin and tilts your face. On his lips, a silent plea to meet with your own.
And of course, you oblige without a hint of waver.
He kisses you deeply, longingly, as though he’s starved for your taste. The tiny whimpers and groans you make are reciprocated right back to you. You swallow every sweet sound he emits, eliciting more from him as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and run your fingers through the fluffy curls that lay against his neck.
And as he kisses down your jaw, nipping and licking away at the skin, your head falls back and your body nearly collapses from the feeling. His arms fold around your waist, keeping you upright while his lips, prickly from a few days without shaving, tickle the skin in the wake of his kisses.
“So lovely in this light,” he mutters, his warm breath decorating the skin beneath your ear as his lips leave the tiniest of kisses. “Always so lovely, but…,” he leans back, allowing the full vision of you to encompass his line of sight. His eyes hold the weight of a thousand love letters, every one of them addressed to your erratically beating heart. “This light paints you more beautifully than anything Van Gogh could ever create.”
His name falls from your lips in a distant whisper, a hushed plea as your body is tingling with an intense yearning for him.
“Love when you say my name like that,” he hums. His hands fall to your trembling thighs, reaching up under the skirt of your dress, cupping the rounded flesh of your ass before he hastily lifts you off your feet.
Your legs hug his waist, your arms fold tight around his neck as his plush lips meet yours once again. He carries you a few steps back to your soft blanket laid out on the ground.
He lowers you both down ever so gently, being sure to keep a tight hold on you before your back meets the lush duvet. He slowly pulls his lips from yours, hovering just above you while his heavy-lidded eyes — glowing against the evening musk — drink you in.
“Turn over for me, baby,” he tells you, his voice like the calm breeze gently blowing the loose pieces of your hair. “On your tummy. Hips up.” The sweetest voice, demanding you do the most provocative things. Elating, mesmerizing.
He places a wet kiss on your temple before you obey his request, helping you flip your body over so your back is facing him, your cheek comfortably resting on the blanket beneath you.
With firm but delicate hands, he slowly raises your hips off the ground, pushing the fabric of your dress up so you’re nearly on full display for him, your white cotton thong doing practically nothing to conceal your most intimate parts.
“Baby…,” he sighs, deep and full, melting eager kisses to the backs of your thighs as he drags his lips upward, your heart fluttering in beat with your soaked pussy as he creeps closer and closer. “You’re so pretty, lover. So pretty everywhere.”
You're uncertain whether it's the weed, the Rosé, or the sublime embrace of Mother Nature enveloping you, but each touch seems magnified. Every movement, every word he speaks sends an electric jolt surging through your body. Lightning of the greatest voltage.
And when his lips, ever so delicate and soft, meet your dripping center, you feel a surge of pleasure cascading down your tremulous thighs, your fingers grasping at the blanket and reaching forward to weave through the cool blades of grass.
He teases you, lips sucking deep kisses to your desperately wet core through the very thin cotton, your body physically, almost involuntarily beseeching for more from him.
“You’re all tremble and breath, my love,” he huffs, at last hooking two fingers under the string of your thong and gently pulling it to the side, the cool breeze against your skin demanding the goosebumps to rise on every inch. “Shivering, soft and slow for me, hm?”
You feel his palms, damp with a thin layer of perspiration, grasp at the fronts of your thighs, pulling you closer. He buries his face deep into you, his tongue plunging inside of you while his fingers hold a tight grip on your supple flesh.
The rush of air escapes your heaving lungs as he at last connects with you, his hums and moans intertwining with yours in a symphony of pleasure.
Your body is no longer your own — it belongs to the wind, to the trees, to him. He devours you like a man long starved, tongue slow and firm as he laps at your dripping center with infinite care. Every motion is love, every breath he takes a hymn whispered into the folds of your body. He groans into you like he’s tasting divinity, like your flavor is something sacred, even more so than the earth.
When he flattens his tongue and draws a long, steady line up your heat, your arms reach further into the grass, your body folding into the blanket with a helpless cry. He slides two fingers inside you without warning, and your hips jolt even further from the earth beneath you. He works you open with a rhythm too precise to be accidental, curling them just so — searching, finding. The coil inside you tightens, winds, burns hot beneath your skin.
“That's it, pretty girl,” he mutters against you, his lips brushing your soaked folds between every praise. “Let go for me. I want to feel you shake – give me an earthquake.”
And you do.
You unravel like soaked velvet between his fingers, thighs trembling and breathy voice crying sobs and moans. You try to crawl away from the oversensitivity, but he only hums and presses a kiss to your clit, holding you there — grounded and trembling.
Only when your cries taper off and your body slumps in surrender does he finally lift his head. His lips and chin are glossed in you. He wears it like warpaint – proud and determined to be glossed with you.
Josh hovers over your back, his hands dragging the hem of your dress further up your waist until the fabric pools just beneath your ribs. He bends down and presses kisses along your spine, featherlight and slow, hints of stubble tickling your skin, making you twitch with overstimulated nerves.
“Stay with me,” he whispers, kissing the back of your neck. “I need to feel all of you.”
You turn your face to look at him over your shoulder, catching the way his curls glint in the moonlight, how his eyes are alight with that gentle fire that only burns only for you. “Take me, baby,” you whisper, your lungs still lacking proper air to speak. “Please.”
And just like that, he’s guiding the head of his cock to your entrance, nudging slowly through your soaked folds. The sound of him sliding in is obscene, though nearly drowned out by your gasp as he pushes deeper, inch by aching inch, until his hips are flush with your perked ass.
He stays there for a moment. Still, fully buried. You can feel him throbbing inside of you, each pulse of his dick accompanying his own staggered breaths.
“Fuck…,” he exhales, resting his forehead between your shoulder blades. “You were made for me, baby. Carved by the earth, kissed into form by the wind...a gift from the goddamned universe.”
He starts to move, slow and deep, grinding into you as smooth and gentle as the breeze blowing through your hair. It’s not hurried, not frenzied. It’s grounded. He’s following the rhythm of nature – inadvertently or not – keeping in tune with the songs of Mother Earth.
The way he pulls out almost completely before sliding back in has your lips parting in a silent cry, your body arching like a flower stretching toward sunlight.
He’s everything – he’s the sun, the moon. The life rooted beneath the grass. The whispered wind, the constellations.
He’s everything you could ever need.
And you need more.
“Deeper,” you whisper, not even sure you can take it, but needing it anyway. “Don’t hold back, Josh… please.”
He growls, low and raw, and grips your hips tighter, his pace quickening now, more purposeful. The soft rhythm of skin meeting skin echoes against the trees, mixing with your ragged breaths and the wind-swept melody that surrounds you. You feel the way his body shudders each time you clench around him, his gorgeous moans falling freely into the night air.
“Look at you,” he breathes, pulling your torso upward so your back meets his chest. One hand slips up your front, cupping your breast through the fabric of your dress, fingers teasing your peaking nipple through the thin chiffon. “So ethereal, so transcendent. Taking all of me, just like the good girl you are.”
The praise makes your stomach twist with utter need. You roll your hips into his, grounding yourself against him, chasing that high again. And when he slides his hand down your stomach, fingers finding your swollen clit, you damn near sob from the pressure building inside your tummy.
He holds you there — standing, trembling, connected to him while he circles you just right. “That’s it. Let go again. Give it to me, baby.”
Your bliss hits like lightning in a storm — searing and sudden and splitting you completely open. Your entire body convulses as you cry out, every nerve ending alive.
Josh is right behind you, spilling into you with a moan that sounds like worship, like blissful ecstasy, like home.
He doesn’t pull out. Not yet. Not while your bodies are still pulsing in sync. Not while your hearts are still thumping in harmony with the wind.
It's all so profound, evoking a sense of vitality and unity with your spirit, as well with his. You feel one with him, as if your souls are floating above your physical forms, connected somewhere in the ether.
You turn your face to his, your cheek brushing his as you whisper into the hush between heartbeats,
“This is why I brought you here… so you’d remember.”
His breath catches, and you feel his arms tighten, as if he's afraid to let the moment slip away. “Remember what?” he murmurs, voice hoarse and breathy, spent.
“That you’re not just made of noise and pressure and tour dates,” you breathe, lips grazing the damp skin of his neck. “You’re made of wild things. Of soil and sky. Of water and wind.”
His chest heaves behind you. You can feel it — his spirit exhales, blowing the last bit of pressure into the wind.
“You needed to come back to the ground, Josh,” you say, turning in his arms just enough to meet his eyes. “And I wanted to be the one to bring you home.”
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The stars have since almost disappeared by the time you both collapse into each other, your bodies tangled like vines, breathing shallow and slow. The trees sway above you with the early morning breeze, whispering lullabies through their leaves. A language that only you and Josh could understand.
His head rests on your chest, his curls tickling your chin and the tip of your nose. Your fingertips trace a gentle path, a line from his neck to his shoulder. He’s still inside of you, and neither of you are in any rush to change that.
The chilly wind cools the sweat still clinging to your skin – a chill glides up your spine at the feeling. And just as your body shivers, Josh’s body does the very same. Connected.
You each hold the other a little tighter, offering a warmth that can only be found in the embrace of the other.
An owl calls out in the dark somewhere in the near distance, crickets chirp to a beat written all on their own. The air smells like earth, aromatic wildflowers, and sex.
You kiss his temple, feeling his lips curl in a smile against your skin. “Thank you,” he murmurs, almost too quietly for the trees to hear. “For giving me back to myself.”
You don’t say anything in return, simply because some feelings cannot be limited to words. You only hold him tighter, your fingers dancing along his velvet skin.
Eventually, he rolls to his side, pulling you into the crook of his arm. You rest your head there, where his heart rests beneath his exterior. You listen to the steady beat as it keeps in perfect time with the world around you.
The dawning sun bathes you both in gold, the ground beneath you becomes your sanctuary. You both stare up at the sky, saying nothing – saying everything.
And before sleep takes you, just as your eyes begin to flutter shut, he speaks one last time with a raw and gentle voice. “I’ll remember this, when I’m far from the trees. When I can’t hear the wind, when I can’t feel the ground.”
You nod against him, laying a lazy kiss to his skin.
Because you know –
you gave him peace; he gave you forever.
Here, in the heart of the forest, beneath a golden sky, you stay this way. Wrapped in each other’s warmth, surrounded by the pulse of the earth. As the first birds begin to sing, the earth holds your secrets — and your love — buried safely beneath the roots.
The both of you, held fast until the break of dawn.
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a/n: let me know what you think! i thought this was a sweet little piece — i hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing it. 🤍 i’ve missed writing josh SO much, ugh.
Summary: Even the deepest, most all-encompassing love is not always destined to endure.
Word Count: 25.3k + (this one definitely got away from me, lol)
Warnings: marriage ending in divorce, becoming parents, stress/anxiety, heavy emotions, drunkenness, arguing, angst, some good fluff
SMUT: 18+ ONLY: unprotected sex, oral (f!rec), a few risque photographs captured, a lot of kissing. maybe too much.
a/n: happy new year! 🤍 big thank you (& an even bigger apology over how long this took me) to this wonderful anon for their request. this was one of my favorites sitting in my inbox, & i wanted to be sure to give it the right amount of time to create it. love you, anon. 🤍
as always - i owe a huge, gigantic, massive thank you to my sister, @jakeyt. without her, this wouldn't be what it is. thank you, sis. for everything.
enjoy, my loves.
listen while you read.🤍
"All I want is nothing more
To hear you knocking at my door"
↟ᨒ.⊹݁⚘⊹⚘⊹⚘ ⊹.ᨒ↟
He was your best friend.
The two of you were inseparable from the moment you met almost twenty years ago now. Two peas in a pod, as everyone would say. He’s been your favorite person in the whole world for the better part of your life. You can’t even recall a time that he wasn’t there – life before him just doesn’t exist to you anymore.
It wasn’t until your junior year of high school that things…changed. You began seeing him in a new light – he started to look different to you. Different in a good way, of course.
That was the year he started to grow into the man you’d find yourself falling deeply in love with, the man you knew you were destined to spend the rest of your conceivable days with.
Three short years later, his was the face you’d see as you walked barefoot along the soft grass, littered in pink rose petals. Your hands held a small bouquet of the same roses that matched the petals at your feet, mixed with a few baby's breaths that you’d also braided in your hair.
An intimate ceremony in early Spring was all you truly wanted. Just you, Jake, and a few people whom you both loved the most. Essentially an elopement – you just never felt the need to plan a ceremony of grandeur. It simply didn’t suit the two of you; it was never a show for you and Jake. It was simply you and Jake. He was your person. As long as you had him, a big celebration wasn’t necessary to you. Becoming his wife was the celebration.
You only had two stipulations for the decor; as many pink roses as your small, combined salaries could muster, and the Laramie mountains of Wyoming that you both grew up hiking together. The wildlife, peaceful and welcoming, served as beautiful additions to celebrate your matrimony.
Your dress was made by your grandma's own two hands, woven entirely in delicate lace. The sleeves draped gracefully from your shoulders, and the small train that dragged behind you gathered pieces of the earth as you walked toward your love, though you didn’t mind the stains at all. Just the same, you never bothered to remove them. The earth and its gifts were just as much a part of the day as the wedding dress was.
As you made your solo walk down the earth's aisle, everything around you was a blur. Jake, the most handsome man your eyes had ever been given the pleasure to gaze upon, was the only thing clear to you in that moment. His hair, wind blown to beautiful perfection, and his skin, smooth and kissed by the sun. The white linen shirt he wore was left open around his chest, the mix of silver and gold charms decorating his skin, catching the rays from the eventide sun.
You shared your first kiss as one at dusk, with the sun falling carefully below the mountains that proudly stood behind you. A sea of monarchs flew over the two of you, as if Mother Nature herself was celebrating your union, stamping her very own approval.
There was nothing else in the world that mattered in that moment as you gazed into your new husband's eyes – his eyes that the golden rays themselves paled in comparison to. You both understood, from the instant your lips met, that your lives had truly just begun.
The wedding was as near perfect as any could be. Picturesque, serene – the air felt fresh, anew. Your husband swayed you in his arms as you danced to nature's music, dancing until the sun closed her eyes and gave way for the moon to bathe you in her light.
Mr. and Mrs. Kiszka — never was there a title you were more proud to wear. With the most delicate and dainty golden band around your ring finger, your bond was at last sealed.
Without the funds to take a proper honeymoon, you instead spent a quiet week in a secluded cabin in those very same mountains that joined you on your wedding day. You don’t remember leaving the little log home once during that week. Each day was spent just the two of you – no television, no intrusions from cell phones, no internet, just you and Jake. As it was always meant to be. You made love more times that week than you dare count, practically never bothered to put clothes on the whole time. You both knew they would be stripped off before you even had the chance to properly get dressed.
It was the best week of your life, for reasons that are invaluable to you. Not only did you spend every second of that time loving your brand new husband, but the love from that week resulted in the creation of the very thing that represented the earth shattering adoration you shared for one another.
The pregnancy came a little earlier than you had truly wanted. And it’s not that you weren’t over the moon excited for the addition, the two of you certainly weren’t as prepared as you wish you would’ve been.
But, then again, is one ever truly prepared for such a thing?
It was scary. Terrifying, even. Jake doted over you in every way imaginable, taking care of your each and every need as they came about. Everything became about what was best for the baby, including scrounging to find a new place to live. The one bedroom studio just wasn’t going to cut it for your soon-to-be family of three. Though you’d always dreamed of a beautiful home with acres and acres of land on the outskirts of Casper, where you could gaze at the mountains from your own backyard, you just didn’t have the time or the money you needed to acquire such a thing.
The old home you found in the city was beautiful, but your finances weren’t sufficient enough to sustain a mortgage just yet. Let alone all the things necessary for a newborn baby, your little girl, who was due to arrive in only a matter of months after you moved into your mostly unfurnished home. The stress eventually led to financial tension in your marriage. Jake had no choice but to take up a few jobs, along with his freelance photography, while you worked from home as much as you could. Your marriage was being tested early on, tested in ways neither of you were equipped to handle at the time.
You still loved each other. God did you love each other. But even a love so profound and seemingly limitless wasn’t enough to endure each strain tossed your way. No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t see eye to eye on, well, most everything.
But, of course, the number one priority was the baby. The only things you could agree on at that time were anything that had to do with her. The theme of her nursery, which you both decided should be mountains. The two of you spent weeks painting the same ranges that were a symbol of your love on her walls. Everything in her room depicted the very place she was conceived, and the place you vowed to love your husband for the rest of your life.
Her name hadn’t been decided just yet, but when the moment was right, it came naturally. Though your new marriage was experiencing an upheaval, her name was something that didn’t require a second thought from either of you.
Laramie Rose Kiszka.
Laramie, after the mountains that oversaw your union. Rose, representing the ones you held, the ones that led a path to the man you’d always loved. The only man you’d ever loved.
Every marriage has its hardships, though neither of you were expecting them to occur so soon. There are many things that happened during that time that you’ll always question. But one thing you undoubtedly knew then, and what you still know now –
The love in your heart for him, in spite of it all, has never wavered.
↟ᨒ.⊹݁⚘⊹⚘⊹⚘ ⊹.ᨒ↟
She was born at the very beginning of the year, on the coldest January day you’d ever known. Flurries of snow spit from the sky as she entered the world, covering the entire town of Casper with its sparkling blanket of white. Your labor was anything but easy, lasting for nearly thirteen hours. The most painful thing your body ever experienced, yet the most beautiful thing came from it.
Jake was by your side every second of it. Holding your hand that was squeezing the life out of his, wiping the sweat from your forehead, placing a cool washcloth against your skin when you needed it. He was your strength in that moment, when you felt you’d all but lost yours as your body struggled to bring her into the world.
And then, when she was ready, she came. The moment you heard her first cry, all the pain in your weak body subsided, replaced with a warmth that you can only describe as pure love. As the nurse handed her to you, when you looked into her eyes for the very first time, it was as though the last thirteen hours of painful labor no longer existed. You were healed the instant you saw her.
“Welcome to the world, my sweet Laramie Rose,” you whispered to her as you held her against your bare chest for the first time. Her eyes held the entire world. She was everything beautiful and perfect that could ever be offered to you, in her tiny six pound body that you held safely for nine months.
“My gorgeous girls,” Jake said as he leaned over and kissed you on the lips, then your baby girl on her tiny forehead. “My family.”
Tears fell from Jake’s eyes as he held her for the first time, the smile of a brand new, proud dad worn across his quivering lips. You’d never seen anything more pure in your life, and everything that had transpired over the last nine months just didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was Laramie, and the desire to protect her at all costs, with Jake by your side to ensure she’d have the best life both of you could give her. It was no longer about the two of you; it was about the three of you.
Everything felt right in that moment. It was as if, at last, everything had all fallen into place exactly as it was always meant to. It felt as though Laramie was the very thing the two of you needed to get back to the root of it all, back to the way you felt the day you said ‘I do.’ She gave you a reason, a purpose. One that you weren’t prepared for, but one that you were so grateful for.
The first few months were hard, being thrown into the throes of parenthood before you were truly given the chance to enjoy being married. But, she was worth every second. Watching her grow and change, seeing her smile for the first time, admiring her innocent view of the world around her – you just couldn’t believe that you and Jake had a hand in creating something so perfect.
It wasn’t easy, sure. But it was, and still is, the greatest joy of your life – to be her mother, and Jake to be her father.
However, while your tiny girl was the sweetest, happiest baby, you and Jake were struggling to find your footing. The bills continued to pile, and Jake just couldn’t manage working more than one job any longer. It was a miracle when he landed a spot with an incredibly renowned photographer as an assistant, finally able to get his foot in the door with his craft.
The money was good. It was great, actually. His first paycheck alone paid up all of the bills, including the late fees. The job made it possible for you to be a full-time, stay at home mom. Something you and Jake both agreed was the best thing for Lara.
With the money Jake was making, you truly thought that the problems in your marriage would solve themselves. The stress of finances was the biggest problem between the two of you, and when that was no longer a hindrance, you felt your marriage would heal itself in no time.
But, that wasn’t the case.
Arguments, though petty and utterly pointless, soon became a daily occurrence. Multiple times a day, at that.
It was always the same things — he was gone all the time for work so you felt like you were parenting alone, and he felt his every effort to take care of his family was lost on you.
None of it was true, but both of you were far too stubborn to admit to any wrong doings. The arguments resulted in awful things being said to one another. Your frustrations would cause your lips to utter things neither one of you meant – things you didn’t mean, at least – and that caused you to heavily resent one another.
But, the biggest fight occurred when Jake proposed the idea of moving away. All for his job. He swore that it would be the best thing for your family, that he wouldn’t have to travel so often. A promising studio, located just east of Los Angeles, offered him a position for more than double the income he was bringing in. He essentially accepted the job before ever uttering a word about it with you.
And that was your final straw.
You felt betrayed in the worst ways, and the idea of leaving Casper, of leaving the place that held so much history for you and Jake, leaving the mountains…that wasn’t something you were willing to budge on. Up until that moment, you thought you were both in agreement that raising Lara here was what was truly best for her.
At that point, you both knew what needed to be done.
It wasn’t an easy choice to make, but it was the right one. The only one, in fact. Not what either of you wanted, but what you knew you needed. It was the hardest lesson of ‘want’ and ‘need’ that you’ve ever learned.
Neither one of you wanted to raise your daughter in an environment like that, with parents who just weren’t equipped for what being married meant. Living together was simply too difficult for you and Jake. You were the same in so many ways, yet completely different when it truly mattered. It ultimately boiled down to consistent disagreements that were beyond repair.
So, when Lara turned a year old, you both decided that, for the sake of being the best parents you could be to your precious girl, splitting was the best thing you could do for her. And for yourselves.
The divorce seemed to come as naturally as the wedding did. For the first time in over a year, there were no arguments, no words spoken out of anger. It was a seamless transition, but one that left a scar on your heart.
It was Jake’s choice for you to keep the house, and it only made sense given the nature of his job and the chance he’d move away. And it was that very reason you were initially granted full custody of Lara. You were able to offer her a stable home that the judge felt needed prioritized. Jake pleaded with the judge, promised he wouldn’t leave if that’s what it took to see her more. But, the judge wouldn’t hear it. The pain in Jake’s eyes as he dutifully agreed to the arrangement still haunts you most everyday.
But, none of it sat right with you. As far as Lara went, Jake had done nothing wrong. He was – is – the perfect dad. You didn’t want his time with her to be limited to a week or two in the Summer when your schedules would allow. That wasn’t good enough for you, for Jake, or for Lara.
She needed her dad just as much as she needed you.
It took some convincing, but the judge eventually agreed to split the custody evenly, so long as Jake didn’t move so far away. And you made it known that you would settle for no less than that. The problems with you and Jake were only between you and Jake. That custody agreement would’ve been a punishment for Lara just as much as it would’ve been for Jake, and that wasn’t okay with you in the least. You saw no purpose in taking away most of his parental rights, keeping your daughter from her dad, all because the two of you were incapable of living together.
Because of your insistence on keeping Lara in Wyoming, Jake sacrificed a lot to ensure he’d see her as much as possible. He didn’t make the move that he could’ve easily made without being married to you to keep him from doing so.
He chose to stay close by, a promise he made to your baby that he’d always make her a priority. Living separately, but within close proximity of one another, was the best and only option the two of you found some common ground on.
Jake kept his job as an assistant photographer, but was made the lead photographer within months of your split. He leases a lovely studio apartment, only a few miles away from your house. You found work as an editor for The Lantern, a small publication that features free-lance writers from all over the country. The job, being something you’ve always had a passion for, made it possible for you to work from home. In spite of it all, after hitting endless bumps in the road, the path eventually smoothed out and led you both to lives of harmony with one another.
And while you and Jake couldn’t live together, you soon discovered that you could work seamlessly as the perfect co-parenting team when apart. You couldn’t love her – or each other – properly while together, but god, how the two of you shower her with endless, thunderous love on your own. The love you had for one another has transformed into an even deeper love for her, the one that deserves it the most.
Though it was painful in ways beyond your sweet Lara, the way you and Jake had chosen to raise her was truthfully much better than forcing yourselves to try and sustain a marriage. One that just wasn’t meant to work. A hard pill to swallow, but one that allowed for healing and, most importantly, the promise of the best life you could offer your daughter.
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The last two years have gone by so quickly – too quickly. You’ve watched as Lara has grown into the most lively, feisty almost four year old, with her messy auburn ringlets that seem to hold a life of their own. Her eyes, the exact shape of Jake’s and their hazel color mimicking yours, are so vibrant and full of the life ahead of her.
She’s growing so fast, faster than you can keep up with. She’s changing everyday, her personality developing more and more in every little thing she does. She’s a lot like you in plenty of ways, but you’d argue she’s even more like her dad. And if you were honest, that’s one of the best things about her.
She’s endlessly curious, finding wonder in everything around her. Bright — perhaps even too sharp for her own good at times — she’s just shy of her third birthday, yet speaks as though she’s lived a lifetime. She can make a story out of anything, her imagination boundless. Her first words, after ‘daddy’ and ‘mommy’,’ were ‘once upon a time.’ She gives a name to every bird she sees, talks to the flowers in the backyard as if they’re her life-long friends. All of these things that remind you of Jake, of what it was like to grow up with him.
Though she’s still so little, you can see the admiration in her eyes when she looks at him. She loves him – probably more than any little girl could love her dad. She loves you, too. Her love is unconditionally pure and whole. And while she is completely attached to you, with her dad, it’s different.
But you can’t fault her, and you could never be envious of her adoration for him. He is, in every sense, the easiest person to love. And, as you’ve known for the better part of your life, the easiest to fall in love with.
It pains you to admit, but you’re not sure you’ll ever love anyone the way you loved – love – Jake. Though you’re no longer together, in your eyes, Jake was your first and last. No matter how hard he was to be married to.
In the two years since your split, you’ve not been on a single date since your signature inked the divorce documents. You’ve been asked more than a few times, and while you have said yes to most of them, you find yourself backing out at the last minute every time.
It’s not that you haven’t wanted to move on from Jake, it’s that you can’t.
He’s still very much a part of your life. The two of you are always in touch, all for Lara. Constant communication with the only man you’ve ever loved, being the mother of his beautiful daughter, it’s impossible to move on from him.
Jake, however, didn’t seem to have a problem moving on from you right away. In fact, he’s moved on several times. You’ve lost count of the dates he’s gone on since you, though none of them have ever stayed around long enough to meet Lara.
While you’re not privy to the true reasons why, you’re willing to place a bet or two on the fact that they weren’t keen on dating a man whose daughter will always come before anyone else. It’s possible that he just couldn’t commit to giving them the attention they desired from him.
Still yet, the fact that he has gone on so many tells you that he’s more than over you. And while you know you shouldn’t care the way you do, it just can’t be helped. Your marriage was awful, but it doesn’t change that he’s still Jake. The man you’ve spent almost nearly all of your life with, in one way or another.
So, that’s another way that you two are different – he can go on dates, enjoy being a young, single man with movie-star looks, and you are destined to be a single mom for the rest of your life because you can’t.
You often wonder if the true reason you’ve never gone out with anyone is because you’re hopeful that, someday, you and Jake could work things out. Try again, dig up the love you once held so deeply for one another.
But, it’s a foolish hope, you’ve come to know. Aside from a few wandering looks and his famously warm smiles, he’s never shown even the slightest interest in mending things with you beyond a co-parenting relationship.
No matter what, useless hope or not, he is still the father of your daughter. Always will be. And there’s not a single person you’d want more than him to have that role.
But you’ll never deny that you wish things would’ve turned out a little differently.
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Incessant knocking forces you out of your peaceful dream. Your eyes fly open, your body jolting to a seated position on your bed before your brain even registers what’s happening. The knocking then happens again, somehow louder than the pounding of your heart from the intrusion. That’s when you at last begin to come to.
There’s no way he’s here already, you absently think, frantically searching for your phone that’s buried somewhere in the midst of your tangled bedsheets. Once you finally locate it, you note that it’s not even half past seven yet. He’s not supposed to be here for another three hours.
Your phone alarm was set accordingly, but the much earlier Jake alarm clearly had other plans.
This isn’t exactly an unusual occurrence. It’s not out of the norm for him to show up a little early from time to time to pick up Lara for their ‘daddy daughter date’ he plans a few times a month, separate from her nights she stays with him.
Three hours early, though, is certainly pushing it. And as the knocking at the door, loud and abrasive as ever continues, you’re left with no choice but to lift your tired body out of your warm bed, grab the nearest garment to cover your oversized t-shirt and thong clad body, and reluctantly trudge toward the source of what woke you up.
The image of you is much less than appealing when you answer the door. Your hair, a tangled mess of two day old curls, and remnants of yesterday's eyeliner and mascara smeared on your eyes. The only thing within reach to cover your body was an old, torn robe that, coincidentally, belonged to your ex husband once upon a time. You certainly didn’t do that on purpose. This robe was designated yours long before you took your vows. It didn’t even cross his mind to take it when he moved out, knowing it hadn’t been truly his in years.
“Sorry, I thought you’d already be up and around,” he chuckles, a little hesitantly, perhaps due to the annoyed expression painting face. He takes one look at the robe that you’re certain he recognizes, curling his lips in an awkward grin as his eyes flick up and down your tired body. “Guess I should’ve known better with you,” he winks, taking a step inside the foyer before closing the door behind him.
You could feel your cheeks warm at the sound of his voice. It frustrates you to no end that your ex still has an effect on you. Why are you so embarrassed for him to see you this way? He was married to you, afterall. He’s seen you in far worse shape than this.
Still – you’d like to be a bit more put together when he comes by. Maybe just to ensure that he feels the same way you do about him, give him something to be flustered about. Though, you know that’s nothing more than a mere pipe dream.
Jake pads down the hall to her bedroom where she’s still tucked away in her brand new big girl bed, an early birthday gift from her dad. You were afraid his knocking might’ve woken her, but, following close behind Jake, you see her still lost in her quiet slumber.
Every stuffed animal she owns is cuddled against her, her hair almost as disheveled as yours, until Jake's hand brushes a few curls away from her face. You’re standing at the doorway, watching him wake her, kissing her scrunched nose until her eyes open.
It takes her only a moment to realize it’s her daddy here to wake her this morning, and when she feels the familiar locks of mousey hair falling over her, she leaps out of her mess of stuffies to hug his shoulders, squealing as he picks her up the rest of the way, hugging her close too his chest.
The smile that befalls you just can’t be helped. Her reactions to seeing him will always send a flood of warmth to your heart. She’s practically shaking with pure, childlike excitement , giggling as he covers her face in kisses.
“I’ll get her ready,” Jake says between kiss attacks, catching the smile still on your face as he looks at your tired form. “You can go back to bed if you want.” His smile is as bright as the sun peeking through the blinds of her windows.
While going back to bed does sound nice, you’re already up. There’s no sense making yourself begin the day for a second time. With as much as you need to do today, sleeping a few extra hours would only prolong the inevitable. “Well, I’m already up. Might as well stay that way,” you say, though you know your tone came across a little snarkier than you intended. The sleepiness talking, of course.
Bouncing Lara on his hip, Jake raises his eyebrows at your response, grinning from the corner of his mouth. The room stays silent for a moment, save for Lara’s relentless giggling from tickles from her dad. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant –,” you try alleviating the sudden awkward tension you’ve created, finding it hard to do so. You used to be able to say anything to Jake, and there was never an uncomfortable moment with him. My, how things have certainly changed.
“She’d love it if you got her ready,” you continue, being sure your tone reflects the sincerity behind your words. “I just mean I have a lot to do today, and it’s probably a good thing you came so early or I wouldn’t have had a reason to get out of bed until much later.”
Jake smiles, lifting Lara in the air through a boisterous fit of tiny giggles. “That sound good to you, little one? You trust your daddy to put together a stylish outfit for our day of fun?”
As loud as her little lungs will allow, she screeches the word yes! through an excited, full baby-toothed grin. He gives her cheek one more smooch before setting her back down on her bed and walking towards her closet, shuffling through the neatly hung, color coded clothes.
“Still taking her to the aquarium?” You ponder aloud, watching him pull out one of her favorite winter ensembles to wear. Her bright pink corduroy overalls, paired with the softest white turtleneck. Upon catching a glimpse of what he chose for her to wear, her approval is obvious in her excited shrill.
“Yeah, I figured she’d enjoy the new shipwreck exhibit they just added,” he says as he helps her get dressed, chuckling at her insistence to do it herself. She does pretty well for the most part, only having trouble getting the snaps to close on the straps.
Jake’s never been the best at taming her unruly curls, and after watching him struggle for a moment, you decide to step in and offer a hand.
“Are you sure you’re not the one who’s most excited for the new addition?” You sneer, jokingly. The comment forces a laugh from him and a knowing tilt of his head as he hands you a pink hair tie.
With one more spritz of water from her purple spray bottle, her ponytail is laying perfectly. Wetting your fingers a bit, you twist a few of her ringlets, making them a little more defined.
After getting her teeth brushed, her socks and boots on her feet, and her purple puffer on, she’s ready for her day. Jake has planned a quick McDonald's breakfast, the aquarium, and lunch at Johnny Jay’s before he has to get ready for a photoshoot with some clients today. Even on his work days, he still makes time for her. Something that you know she’ll always be grateful for.
You lift her in your arms for a big hug, kissing her cheeks so much that she’s belly laughing. Telling her you love her more than the mountains, and after she says it back in her sweet voice, you bid them both a farewell.
“I’ll have her back around one o’clock. That sound good to you?” He tells you while he walks through the front door, hand in hand with little Lara.
“Sounds good to me. You two have fun, okay?”
“We sure will,” he says, turning back to look at you. “Wave bye to momma!”
Her smile is infectious as she waves her tiny, gloved hand to you, the grin on her face nearly mimicking her dads.
Waving back, blowing kisses for her to catch, you watch him secure her in her car seat before he sits himself in the front seat of his black Buick.
You're not sure if it's out of habit or a deep-rooted maternal instinct, but you always find yourself standing outside, watching as he backs out of the driveway and drives down the street. There's a certain comfort in seeing him safely on his way, enough to ease your mind until his text arrives, letting you know they’ve made it to their destination safely.
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You’ll never get used to how quiet the house is when Lara is gone. No matter how often she’s with her dad, it’s always a shock to you when her voice isn’t echoing off the walls. It should serve as some relief to you, to have the silence and the time to do the things you can’t normally do with her around.
But, it’s just not that way for you. Never has been. Lara has never been a nuisance for you, never been too much in any aspect. She’s almost always attached to your hip, following you around the house and watching your every move, helping you with little mundane tasks the best she can.
Because of that, it’s so very strange when you don’t have your tiny shadow by your side.
Nevertheless, as much as you miss her presence, it is easier to get things done when she’s spending the day with her dad. So, you’ll be sure to get everything you’ve needed to do out of the way before she’s due back home.
Grocery shopping was first on the list, a trek that has proven to be difficult with a toddler that needs constant entertainment. Though not impossible with her, it’s a bit harder to get in and out of the store in a timely manner.
But, today, you managed to cross each thing off your list in less than thirty minutes. And that is a feat of great magnitude. When Lara is with you, it takes double, sometimes triple that. And it doesn’t help that she begs for nearly everything she sees. The last time she took a trip to the store with you, she spotted a purple mini digital camera, decorated with a rainbow unicorn around the lens. She cried and cried when you weren’t able to get it for her. And it wasn’t because you didn’t want to, of course. Your budget for the day just didn’t have any room for it.
She cried the rest of the time you were at the store, such sad and heartbroken tears, and there was nothing you could do to offer her any solace. Her cries only worsened as you left the store, coming to the realization that she really wasn’t getting the very thing her little heart desired the most that day. You even shed a tear or two over it, feeling like you’d somehow failed her as her mom. You know that’s a dramatic take on the whole thing, but it’s how you feel every time you’re the reason her feelings get hurt.
It’s been a few weeks since then, and while she has more than likely forgotten all about it, you still feel awful for turning her down. It’s not often that you tell her no, but you had no choice that day. How do you explain the concept of a budget to a two-year old? She just doesn’t understand, and you can’t fault her for that.
So, when you saw it today, and saw that it was on sale for $19.99, you couldn’t resist getting it for her. Her very own camera, and though it’s too early to tell, this could perhaps be the catalyst in following in her daddy’s footsteps. You’re almost certain that’s the reason she was so drawn to it in the first place, because she sees one hanging around her daddy’s neck almost every time she’s with him.
With the camera, along with her favorite treat of chocolate Teddy Grahams, there’s no doubt she’ll be thrilled when she sees her surprises awaiting her when Jake brings her home today.
Some might say you spoil her a bit too much. You and Jake, both guilty of it. But, that’s not how you see it. She’s as grateful as any toddler could be. And, though she is so young, she cherishes everything the two of you do for her. She says thank you as many times as she can. She gives out hugs and kisses to show her appreciation. She’s not entitled, by any means. Her heart just wasn’t made that way.
And it’s all of those reasons that made your heart ache when you had to tell her no a few weeks ago.
Being able to buy it today, and getting to surprise her with it fills that tiny hole in your heart that forms when you can’t give her what she longs for.
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Grocery shopping, even without a toddler, is a rather exhausting journey. To say the very least. All you think about right now is a coffee from your most treasured spot in town, something to keep your motivation and energy up for the rest of your list of things to get done today.
The caffeine-induced relief is already hitting you as you walk into the Copper Cup Coffee, your tried and true brew of choice. The place you find yourself landing at often when you’re in need of a good pick me up. The bitterly sweet aroma of the coffee is one that will always give you a sense of comfort.
After placing your order of your staple cappuccino with an extra shot with the lovely barista, you find a small table in the corner next to the window to sit at while you wait for your drink, enjoying the view of downtown Casper.
But as you’re eying the bustling streets filled with locally owned boutiques and cafes, you’re suddenly becoming all too aware of a man at the opposite end who, as best as your peripheral vision can tell, seems to be looking right at you. And not just looking, staring.
You’re so caught off guard by it that you nearly miss them calling your name to pick up your coffee from the counter. They have to call it a second time for it to fully register, and you quickly jump from your seat to retrieve it.
It’s then that you’re able to properly look at the man who’s been eyeing you for the last few minutes. And when he begins to approach you as you’re making eye contact, toting his iced coffee in hand, your mind suddenly digs up a memory from the past.
“You wouldn’t happen to be y/n, would you?” He asks with a sweet smile as you take your coffee from the counter, thanking the worker that placed it there.
You didn’t recognize who he was initially, but upon hearing his voice, you know exactly who this man is.
Cole Robinson, a friend of yours and Jake’s from high school. One that you certainly spent a lot of time with, though Jake grew less fond of having him around when the two of you developed feelings for each other. Cole was the popular guy, the sporty type. The kind of guy that had a new love interest every other week. And, according to Jake, Cole had always been infatuated by you.
You never noticed it, but Jake swore it was so. Because of that, and a slew of other reasons unbeknownst to you, their friendship didn’t sustain much longer than a year or so after graduation. Last you knew, Cole married a girl you also went to high school with. Some cheerleader named Olivia you knew in passing.
It’s a bit of a shock to see him, to see how much he’s changed. He was never ugly to you, but you didn’t exactly find him attractive when you were teens.
But now – well, he’s certainly not the same Cole you knew all those years ago. He’s much taller than the version of him that you remember, and a bit more broad in the shoulders. A lot more, actually.
His hair was usually unkempt and plastered to his forehead from the football helmet he often wore. But the man standing before you today is sporting perfectly quaffed, dark brown locks, with the sides nicely faded.
“C-Cole? Oh my gosh, I hardly recognized you,” you admit, attempting to conceal your flustered state as his smile, full of stark white, perfectly straight teeth, widens at your realization of who he is. “I mean you just – you look different.”
He sighs a chuckle through his grin, looking down at his feet as he runs a hand through his styled hair and scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess I shot up a few inches. Learned how to use a hair dryer,” he giggles, his sky-blue eyes flitting to yours once more. “And you, well –,” he starts, gesturing his hand toward you as he awkwardly shuffles his feet, crossing one foot over the other before he places both hands in the pockets of his dark wash jeans. “You’re as pretty as ever. You must have an endless supply from the fountain of youth or something.”
The heat rises to your cheeks at his words, feeling as though all of the blood in your body is sitting right on your face. Ever since having Lara, you’ve feared your looks have dwindled with motherhood. So, hearing someone say that to you (someone who looks like this, no less) is a bit flattering.
You’ve found yourself at a loss for words, not knowing how to respond to a compliment such as that. But as you’re pondering what to say, you notice Cole staring at your left hand, and while you can’t be totally sure as to why, you have an inclination he could be searching for signs of marriage.
And that has you remembering that he is – was, based on his own lack of a ring – married. But before you can begin to ask him how Olivia is doing, only to gauge whether or not he really is separated from her, he beats you to it with a question that floods your heart with an odd mix of emotions. “How's Jake doing these days? It must be cool being married to such a renowned photographer. I’ve seen his work, he’s really good!”
Funny you should ask, you internally mull over, cupping the warm drink a little tighter in both of your hands.
With an uncomfortable weight sitting on your chest, you prepare yourself to share the news that has been your least favorite to speak about in the time you’ve been split from Jake. “We um…well, we’re actually not married anymore.” No matter how many times you say it, the words still leave a stinging feeling against your tongue. His face softens after hearing what you’ve said, a different sort of smile befalling his lips. “But to answer your question, he’s doing really well. I actually just saw him, he’s with our daughter right now. They’re on a little date before his photoshoot here in a few hours.”
“I’m sorry to hear that – that you’re not married anymore.” His tone reflects sincerity, yet his smile continues to widen. “You know I – I’ve been through a divorce, too. Liv and I, we just wanted different things. I didn’t want to indulge in whatever big city dreams she had at the time, she didn’t want to stay here. I think we just got hitched too young, you know?”
Boy, do I.
“But it worked out in the end. She went away and found her dream job, I stayed in the place I love and found mine.”
His story strikes a particular chord in your mind, one that brings you back to a time when you and Jake had countless disagreements over whether to stay in Wyoming or leave for the sake of his blossoming career. Of course, you didn’t want to leave. Especially with the promise of a new baby, you didn’t have the desire to raise her anywhere else. Aside from that, you just couldn’t leave the mountains.
After the divorce, Jake had every opportunity to leave like he had always wanted. But, knowing that you would keep Lara here, he chose to travel in lieu of moving somewhere that would keep him from seeing her whenever he wanted. The guilt over that still plagues you, but you know, and he knows, deep down, that it was the best choice for Lara. And, it’s worked out rather well thus far. He’s never once complained, though you know his situation isn’t always easy on him.
“I understand that completely,” you admit, feeling drawn to empathise with him and his love for the place you also chose to stay in. “But I’m curious – what was the dream job that kept you here?”
He huffs a laugh, gingerly sipping the last of his iced latte. “It’s kind of funny,” he says. “I really didn’t need to stay for the job I have. It’s a remote job, I could've worked it from anywhere. Kind of the irony of it. But I’m glad I stayed here. I prefer it to the big city life.” Taking one more long swig of his drink, he finishes it off and tosses it in the trash behind him. “I write for a living. Freelance, mostly. I publish editorials and such for a pretty small publication you’ve probably never even heard of. It’s a pretty decent gig, though. Flexible enough.”
A freelance writer, for a small publication…surely not. It’s a coincidence, no doubt. But there’s no way it’s more than that. Still, a curious mind tends to wonder. “Where are your works published? It’s funny, I’m actually an editor for a pretty niche publication.”
“It’s called The Lantern. And yeah,” he pauses, chuckling to himself. “I’d say mine is pretty niche, too. Not too popular, but I kinda like that about it.”
Well. That certainly abolishes that whole coincidence theory you convinced yourself of.
“You write for The Lantern?”
“You actually know it?” He asks, astonished.
“I’d sure hope I do, given I’m one of the editors.”
The way his bright-blues widen at your reveal is almost comical, and it certainly makes you crack a smile in response. “No kidding? Man, when they say the world is small, they aren’t bullshitting,” he says, subtly shaking his head in disbelief.
“Do you use a pseudonym?” You ask. “Because I’m sure I would’ve come across one of your pieces by now.”
“I do, actually.” He runs a hand through his quaffed ‘do once more, managing to keep it as perfectly styled as it was when he first approached you. “And I’ll tell you, but you should know that once I do, you’ll be the only one who knows my little secret.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to hold it sacred,” you say, cheeks flushing yet again.
He then leans closer to you, motioning for you to meet him halfway. His fingers barely brush the skin of your cheek when he cups his hand over his mouth near your ear. “ “
You’re taken aback at his secret, shocked to discover who he is. You certainly know his work, but not for any good reasons. His grammar is always subpar at best. He hardly punctuates correctly, if at all sometimes. Lara writes better than him, and she can’t even form complete sentences yet.
“That’s you?” You say with fake excitement, hoping to god that your expression doesn't mimic your true feelings about it. “I’ve read your work plenty of times. I-it’s great!”
Even you weren’t convinced by that. But, it seems he is. And that’s all that really matters at the moment. His growing smile would be an indication of that, and even though this man is one of the worst writers you’ve come across during your time working for The Lantern, you can’t help but be drawn to his charm.
“Listen I–I know this is probably way too soon, but I feel like I need more than just a few minutes in a coffee shop to catch up with you.” “If you’re free tomorrow night, we could continue this conversation over dinner. Only if you’re okay with that, of course.”
There it is.
You’d figured it was coming, but you’d also hoped it wouldn’t get to that point. And it’s not because of him, your reservations over dating are hard to push through. Hard enough that you’ve not gone out with anyone once since Jake.
If you agree to this, Cole will be your first date in years. More years than you care to count at the moment. Something about it feels wrong, but you’re wondering if it only feels wrong because you want it to.
You’ve suddenly come to the realization that dating may never feel right, because you haven’t let it. But, you know you can’t live the rest of your life like this. If Jake can move on, go on as many dates as he wants without a second thought, well, you can do the same.
“Dinner sounds wonderful,” you say, feeling your heart race in your chest as you agree to something you honestly never thought you’d agree to ever again. And, to your utter surprise, you’re actually excited for it. Something you weren’t prepared to ever feel again over the prospect of dating. “It sounds really wonderful, actually.”
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Right at the top of the hour, you hear Jake’s Buick rumbling in the driveway. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Everything you needed to do today is done, and just as you’ve finished hanging up the last load of laundry, Jake’s made it back with Lara.
You open the front door before he even has a chance to get her unbuckled from her seat, hearing her gleefully yell for you when she catches sight of you walking toward the Buick.
“Hi, sweet girl!” You say to her, to which she says hi right back, waving her tiny hand as Jake removes the last buckle. “Did you have fun today?”
“She sure did,” Jake giggles, handing you a giant plastic bag full of sea creature toys. “She used me for all I’m worth in the form of stuffed animals.”
“I’d say so,” you chuckle as you note the sheer weight of this thing.
He helps her down from the car and she instantly attaches herself to you, giving your legs as big a hug as she can.
“I better get goin’,” he tells you as he shuts the back door, leaning down for one more hug and kiss from Lara. “Better give all of those guys names,” He says, pointing to the full bag of new stuffies he bought for her. “I’m counting on some good ones, okay?”
She agrees to that as she tells him goodbye, hugging him tight around his neck.
He offers you a farewell as he begins to walk to the driver's side door, but before he makes it all the way inside, you pick Lara up and follow him around the car. “Hey, Jake?”
He hums as he turns to face you, holding the car door open. “What’s up?”
“Are you doing anything tomorrow night? I mean, are you working or anything? I may need you to sit with Lara for a few hours.”
He pauses in thought for a moment, shaking his head as a smile begins to form on his lips. “No, I don’t have anything going on. Why? Got a hot date?” He laughs, throwing you a sly wink.
You know he’s joking, but his question still sent lightening bolts through your body when he said it. And the fact that your answer to it is most certainly not what he’s expecting is working to sharpen your nerves all the more. “Actually, yeah. I have a date tomorrow, yes.”
The look on Jake’s face is one you’re not so familiar with. You can’t read it, but what you do know is he was caught off guard at your confession. He’s silent for more than a few seconds, longer than you would like. But after taking a moment to register, his grin begins to form once more. “No problem, I’ll come sit with her. Just give me a time and I’ll be here.”
You thank him as you begin to walk toward the house, Lara held snugly against your hip. You hear the car door shut, assuming he’s inside of it and reading himself to leave.
But when you don’t hear the engine start, and when you do hear the clicking of his boots against the pavement, you realize he’s walking in your direction.
“So who was able to finally get you to agree to a date?” He says as you turn on your heel to face him, adjusting Lara in your arms as she’s beginning to doze off, her head laying gently against your shoulder. “Do I know ‘em?”
As a matter of fact –
“Y-yeah, I guess you used to know him.”
You shouldn’t be anxious to tell him who it was. You know that. But, the fact that he wasn’t Cole’s biggest fan back in the day has you hesitant to tell him. Especially given his apparent crush on you that had Jake on edge more than once during that time.
Still yet, part of you feels he has the right to know. Why? You can’t be sure. But you’re also not too keen on keeping things from him.
He’s looking at you softly, inquisitively. You can’t be sure, but if you had to guess, you’d say he’s holding his breath at the suspense over the name that’s about to leave your lips.
“Do you remember Cole? From high school?”
That look he gave you when you confirmed his date theory is back. Only this time, it’s here to stay. There’s no smile following the dropping of his features, the confused curve of his dark brows. “Wait – Robinson? You’re going on a date with Cole Robinson?” He asks, pure shock laced in his question.
When you timidly nod your head to corroborate his suspicion, he grins again. But this grin is more of a mocking one, something you certainly didn’t expect.
“You’re going out with that airhead? Geez,” he huffs, giggling more to himself than anything. “I told you that numbnuts always had the hots for you. I thought he got married to Olivia – did that fall apart, too?”
The way he said it, did that fall apart, too? – it felt more like he was insinuating that that was what happened to the two of you as well. It felt more like he was asking, “were they destined to the same terrible fate as you and I?”
It hurt to hear him say that, for whatever reason that you can’t quite pinpoint at the moment. You know he didn’t mean it the way you’re taking it. That’s your problem, not his.
Regardless, he is correct in his assumption.
“They split a while ago. She wanted to live the big city life, and he just didn’t have the same desire to do so.”
A cock of his eyebrow tells you he caught on to the same parallels you did when you had that conversation with Cole. He sighs as he rubs his lower chin, then adjusts his black Ray-Bans before tucking the same hand in the pocket of his linen khakis. “What’s mister Cole up to these days, anyway?”
You ignore the slight sneer in the way he enunciates Cole’s name, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Well, funny enough, he’s a writer for The Lantern. He writes anonymously.”
“Oh, a writer,” he says, his smirk softening some. “I guess that works out pretty well, then. What are the odds, huh?”
His tone sounds more sincere than before. Sincere enough, at least. “Yeah, I thought so too,” you agree, matching his smile as best you can. For a moment, you wonder if you’re truly making the right choice in going on this date. His reaction certainly forces you to question it, but ultimately, the decision feels like the right one. Even if nothing comes from it, at least you can say you tried.
Tried to put yourself out there, tried to give someone else a shot at winning your heart, tried moving on from Jake.
“Like I said, just let me know what time I need to be here. I’ll see you then, okay?”
With that, he nods his head and walks back toward his Buick, leaving you with a thousand different emotions circling your brain all at once. A mix of guilt and excitement being the most prominent, the ones that, on their own, are overwhelming enough. But when they work together, it’s a conundrum that leaves a far more intense feeling in the wake.
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Jake will be here any second to stay with Lara, and you tried to be ready before then. But after spending the last hour trying on outfits, and still having no clue what to wear, your hope of being ready by that time is dwindling further and further.
Precious as little Lara is, she’s been particularly in need of your attention this afternoon. Having to stop what you’re doing every few minutes to give that to her hasn’t helped in getting yourself ready by a certain time.
And as if you’re not petrified enough over the date itself, the thought of seeing Jake before and after said date has your head in quite the tizzy.
So, the combination of that mixed with the sweet toddler that needs you right now is enough to make you want to back out of this whole thing completely. That, along with the fact that you’re a bit put off by a recent text you received from Cole.
The initial plan was that he’d come pick you up, but he has since asked for you to meet him at the restaurant.
Your feminist view doesn’t mind driving yourself at all. You’ve never needed to rely on a man for things as silly as transportation.
But, being this is your first date in god knows how long – well, it’d be nice to receive the full treatment.
Alas, you won’t raise a fuss over it. Perhaps it’s a good thing to have a getaway car in case the evening turns to utter shit. A terrible way to view it, of course. But you’re cynical to your core.
After breaking a sweat over trying on your fifth outfit of the evening, you decide to hell with it. The fifth and final ensemble will have to do. You don’t have the energy to keep doing this, and time continues to work against you. If you want to be able to leave as soon as Jake gets here, which will be in a matter of minutes, this look wins the trophy.
Though, it is a tad revealing. A little more risque than any outfit you’ve put on your body since giving birth. It’s probably nothing to someone who hasn’t had a baby in the last few years, but for you, it’s a bit of a bold choice.
Being a mom, it feels a little strange to be wearing the cropped knitted, dark emerald sweater and a black suede mini skirt. An outfit you’re pretty sure you’ve owned since high school. You’ve certainly earned a few more curves since then, but the pieces surprisingly fit pretty well, especially considering it’s been about seven years since you last wore them.
You certainly don’t remember your boobs filling out the sweater nearly as much then, or your ass stretching the suede fabric the way it does now. But, as you’ve reminded yourself of at least a hundred times since yesterday, this is your first date in years. There’s no harm in looking a little sexier than normal. Just because you’re a mom doesn’t mean you can’t show off a little. This body of yours went through hell. It’s okay to put a little pride in it.
You do, however, want to throw on a pair of black pantyhose underneath the skirt. Mostly for some extra warmth, as it’s more than a few degrees below freezing outside. Though you’re no stranger to the frigid Wyoming winters, it’s probably best to add a few more layers.
So, after wiggling yourself into those, putting on some black heeled ankle boots, the outfit is about as good as it’ll get. And, looking at every angle possible in the bathroom mirror as you finish up your makeup, you’re actually really happy with the way you look. The first full face of makeup you’ve worn in quite a while, and freshly washed and styled hair in lieu of the frizzy mane you typically sport.
Even little Lara approves, telling you that you look like a ‘Disney Princess’ in her sweet voice. You’re certainly no princess, but you’ll accept the compliment, no less. Afterall, they say kids her age are always honest. They don’t know how to lie just yet. So, maybe there’s a little truth to her statement.
Or, she just loves her mom enough to equate her to such beauty. And that alone is enough to boost the remaining bits of confidence you need to make the final move of getting yourself out of the house.
As you add one more coat of hairspray to ensure these curling iron waves stay put, you hear a knocking at the front door, followed by quick footsteps in that direction and ‘daddys here!’ at an ear-piercing decibel.
And suddenly, the nerves are back in full force, sitting sharply in your chest and the pit of your tummy. There’s no question as to why. Jake will always make you at least a little nervous every time you see him, but tonight's events are only serving to heighten it even more.
Yet again, you find yourself begging the question; why does he still have this effect on you?
You haven’t made it out of the bathroom yet to let him in, but Lara, with all of her tiny might, has somehow managed to unlock the door. (Something she’s not been able to do until tonight.)
“Oh! I didn’t expect you behind the door, little one!” Jake’s voice sounds just as shocked as you feel. So, finishing up on your lips and smoothing down a few unruly baby hairs, you shut off the light to leave the bathroom as he asks her a question. “Have we officially learned how to unlock the door?”
Just as you’re rounding the corner, you hear a giggle from Lara as you watch Jake pick her up and toss her in the air a few times. He’s over and over calling her a “little Einstein” as your brain tumbles over itself. It’s chaos inside your mind as you contemplate your date, being around Jake while dressed like this, and the fact that your toddler apparently knows how to unlock and open a damned door, now.
Comforting. And now another reason to keep your eyes on her at all times.
“This ability of hers is new to me as well, you must know,” you say as you round the corner from the hallway and into the living room, putting a pair of golden hoops in your ears that you grabbed from the bedroom earlier.
But he doesn’t look at you right away, his attention still on Laramie. You take advantage of his distraction, able to take in his appearance. He steals your breath on sight. And for some reason, seeing how incredible he looks (as he always does), makes you feel even more nervous about your own revealing attire.
He’s wearing his go-to. A button down, opened all the way to the top of his belly button and a pair of linen pants. No matter how many times you see him in a variation of the same outfit, you will forever be taken aback by his beauty, those movie star looks you’ve always loved.
And the golden tan he’s sporting from his travels is no good for you and your overly present jitters.
To avoid your heart tripping over itself at your ex husband, you turn to the counter to grab your normal, smaller shoulder bag. It’s a Mary Poppins bag of sorts as it somehow still fits an extra outfit for Lara and a travel set of emergency wipes. You take the outfit and wipes out to make space for your lipstick, a mini body spray, and a tube of mascara. It hurts a bit to take out the little pieces of your baby girl. You haven’t had to do so once since she’s been here and you don’t like doing it now. And doing so is causing your mind to swirl even more with the thought of bringing another man home and how you would explain that to her. Not that you’re already planning a future with Cole, but the future scenario is running rampant through your thoughts. She is, afterall, the center of your world. Every decision you make for you also affects her.
Don’t cancel the date, y/n. You’re getting too far ahead of yourself. Just go for it. See what happens. You owe it to yourself. God knows Jake has done it plenty.
You sigh, the inner encouragement just enough to help you (semi-grimly) clasp your bag shut and grab your keys from the hook by the door. With a press of the automatic start, you look out the window beside the door to make sure your car has started.
When the lights flash on, you open your bag once more to tuck the keys inside. At that, you decide it’s time to face what your night entails and that means saying goodbye to your babygirl. You really don’t want to — which is why you’re dragging your feet — but you have to. If you intend to put yourself out there like this, you have to get out of your house.
With a spin of your heel, you turn to see Jake, knelt on the ground, eye-level with your little girl. So, following his lead, you kneel down to your sweet Lara and hold your arms out for her. She immediately comes barreling towards you and you tuck your face into her strawberry-scented curls. Her hair is still slightly damp from bath time an hour or so ago. And, once you feel her arms loosen and fall from around her neck, you pull back to run your fingers through the thin strands.
The same exact texture as Jake’s when it's wet. Just one more of the endless list of things you love about her.
Your smile is genuine for her, but you also feel this need to put on a sort of facade for Jake. It’s strange, but it feels necessary given these slightly odd circumstances.
You’re truly dreading tonight. A feeling you’re trying really hard to not leave the house with. Your whole world is in this house. And you’re about to leave her – leave them – to meet with a guy who couldn’t even be gentlemanly enough to pick you up. But you’re doing everything you can to go into this with an open mind, a willingness to give it a try despite the seemingly never ending signs that you maybe shouldn’t be doing this.
Lara steals your attention when her soft, chubby little hands grab your cheeks. And, very seriously, she looks into your eyes with hers that are the very same shape as her father’s.
After a few moments of looking into your eyes with a sincerity that most toddlers don’t have, she tells you, “So beautiful, mommy.” Her eyes are still locked with yours as she smiles ear to ear, her button nose scrunched up.
You blink back tears, your smile shaky and lips quivering as you reach forward to tuck some hair behind her tiny ear. “Well, thank you, baby girl.” But, you can’t help but wonder…you’ve never heard her say beautiful before. That’s a big word. Too big for her to use so confidently without having used it ever before. With you, at least.
You lean forward and give her a kiss. Your knees are starting to hurt, still in a squatting position, but Jake is still squatting, too. The moment is too sweet to give it up just yet. This is more important to you than being a little late to meet Cole. He can wait. This can’t.
Taking advantage of being at her height, you ask Lara with a raised brow and gentle smile. “And where did you learn the word beautiful, my love?”
“Daddy says it all the time,” she excitedly explains, her focus shifting to her hand coming to mess with a necklace you’d put on. Toying with it carefully between her fingers, as she often does when you wear it.
A little mountain range engraved on the front of the silver pendant.
Jake had actually bought it for you, giving it to you the day you’d brought her into this world. The mountains were meant to resemble one specific range, the name of which, etched on the back of the pendant.
Laramie
You’d asked him, then, if he’d bought it that way. The range, one you would recognize anywhere. But he’d clarified that he’d special ordered it. A picture of the mountains he’d taken himself on the day you said your vows, the very way their peeks touched the horizon printed on the sterling silver. He sent in the photo to be materialized on the sterling for you to wear around your neck.
After he’d said it, you’d felt silly for asking. The picture was one you’d loved so much that you’d printed it huge to hang above your couch. You’d gasped at the details of the image, the closer you eyed the small piece of silver.
“And I took it to a local jeweler to have her name put on the back,” he’d explained, as you handed him the necklace, asking him to help you put it on. As he clasped the dainty chain around your neck, he’d finished his explanation. “I want you to have a piece of her with you, everywhere you go.”
“And a piece of you,” you’d added, tearfully, patting the silver that laid perfectly against your chest. The moment, so serene, as your newborn baby slept in a bassinet at your bedside.
Yes, you’d absolutely decided to wear it tonight. You need the extra comfort the necklace brings as you throw yourself out into the world in a way you have put off for far too long. A world that is altogether separate from the two you’re next to right now. Yet another reason for your hesitancy in taking this leap.
This date…it feels as though it’s closing the door on your life with Jake for good. The divorce was finalized a few years ago, but something about going on this date tonight makes it feel more official somehow. It’s a forceful closure for you. Feels that way, at least.
So, the necklace will be good company for you tonight. Something familiar to you as you dive headfirst into something you’re not so familiar (or comfortable) with.
The subtle buzzing of your phone inside your bag, more than likely a text from Cole, lulls you from the melancholic, yet peaceful memory. A reminder that you do have somewhere you need to be, and you’re already late enough as it is. Not that he’s more important than what’s happening right now with little Lara. And with Jake, who’s been quietly observing this whole time.
Leaving her (and him) feels harder than ever. But this has to be done. If for nothing else, for you.
“Mommy will see you soon, baby girl. Be good for daddy, okay?” You say, just as Jake stands from his squatted position. Sealing your request with one more kiss to her nose, you decide to follow his lead. You know that if you don’t end this now, you never will.
The ache in your knees has you lifting yourself a little slower than you’d like, groaning at the stiffness in your joints. A lovely gift that pregnancy left you. Having the body of a grandma while still in your twenties has been a humbling experience, to say the least.
Jake must sense your struggles as he quietly offers a hand to help. You don’t look up at him as you take him up on his offer, setting your hand in his, wrapping your fingers around it to ensure a good enough grip.
Once steady enough, you pull yourself up with ease, feeling the pain in your knees instantly subside as you place your weight in his hand.
“Thanks,” you sigh as you stand, adjusting your bag over your shoulder, doing everything you can to avoid making eye contact with him. You’ve suddenly realized how close he is to you, only inches away as he’s standing stock-still in front of you. Out of instinct, you back away a step, afraid you’ll make him uncomfortable by being so close to you.
But once you do, you make the mistake of looking at him, finding that his eyes are fixed on you. His eyes, following a slow path down your body, then back up to meet yours. His mouth is parted slightly, his thumb and index finger rubbing his chin as his teeth nibble at his bottom lip.
It’s silent. Dreadfully silent as you’re looking at one another. The air between you feels like a ton of bricks, thick and heavy.
You don’t know what to say to break it, and he clearly doesn’t, either. The moment stays silent for even longer, and all you want is to know what he is thinking that’s keeping him this quiet.
The way you could always tell what he was thinking was by looking into his eyes. His eyes have always said what he was thinking before his thoughts made it to his lips. But you find that you can’t read them anymore. Not like you used to, at least.
But from what you can tell – he’s deep in thought.
While neither of you can manage to speak a single word to each other, Lara provides a relieving end to the silence by telling Jake that she’s hungry.
Clearing his throat and blinking his eyes a few times, he looks down to her as she’s now tugging at the hem of his shirt to get his attention. “I’ll make us dinner, little one. Just as soon as mommy leaves.”
With that statement, he looks to you again, clearing his throat once more as he runs a hand through his hair. “You, um – you look nice.” Lara, still tugging away at his clothes, shouts ‘beautiful, daddy, beautiful!’ until her lungs run out of breath. He looks down at her, smiling, his cheeks flushing. “You better get going, y/n. Can’t leave the guy waiting too long.” He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, only looking at Lara.
Nice. You look nice.
Even Lara gave you a more sincere compliment. She even tried to correct him, to which he just smiled and basically told you to leave.
With one more quick goodbye, you grab your coat from the rack and head out the door, feeling foolish as you do.
You feel foolish because, subconsciously, part of you hoped Jake would take one look at you and tell you not to go. Beg you not to go.
But that didn’t happen. And it’s ridiculous of you to even think that it could.
He’s over you. He’s been over you. That’s a fact you need to accept. Stop holding on to the past that he is certainly not holding on to.
Despite the overwhelming sense of dread, you know that tonight needs to happen.
It’s time to move on. For good.
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Another reason you were put off by this date is the fact that Cole chose the place without worrying to gather your input. Granted, you could’ve just given him your unsolicited opinion, but the urge wasn’t strong enough to risk any awkward tension that could arise from such a thing.
So, you’ll settle for one of your least favorite eateries in town – a bar and restaurant combo called The Main Street Tavern.
Cole must be a bit trapped in his younger days, because this place was quite the popular joint when you were teenagers. You haven’t been here in years, and sitting in your car in front of the tired building is bringing back some memories you’re not too keen on being reminded of.
He’s just sent you a text telling you where he’s seated, and with the confirmation that he’s here, you take a deep breath, reaching for your necklace for comfort as you pull yourself away from your car. Upon walking in, the smell of bitter booze and greasy food hits you like a train the instant you step through the door. The smell of the booze in particular reminds you of the days when you hadn’t learned your drinking limit. An uncomfortable wave of nausea suddenly overwhelms you at the thought, but breathing through it, you locate Cole sitting in a booth to the left of the bartop.
He’s waving your way, making sure you can see where he’s at. Oh, you can see him, alright. Though his image is a bit foggy from the billows of smoke coming from the party of four sitting at the table next to him, each one of them puffing a cigarette.
How romantic.
“Hey!” He says as you approach him, fighting with yourself to make sure you’re wearing a smile. Fake or not. “Remember this old place? I just can’t resist the good ol’ nostalgia of it. Brings you right back, doesn’t it?”
You’re starting to get the impression that Cole probably hit his peak in high school. And for some reason, given everything that you knew about him then, that doesn’t entirely surprise you. As you sit yourself on the plastic covered seat across from him, you’re becoming aware that you are not looking at the same Cole you saw at the coffee shop yesterday.
Yeah, he’s handsome. Outwardly, at least. Chiseled jaw and all. But there’s something different about his eyes tonight. They seemed…kind yesterday. But right now, there’s something strange about them.
Perhaps it’s the alcohol he’s already ingested, as evidenced by the three bent cans of beer sitting in front of him.
How long has he been here?
“You look awesome,” he says, staring directly at your chest as he does so. “Like I said, you haven't changed a bit.”
I definitely have. But you? Not so much, apparently.
“Uh, thanks,” you respond, finding it hard to mask your unimpressed tone. Suddenly feeling like you need to bolt, you keep yourself where you are by rubbing your thumb over the engraved mountains on your necklace, using it to help you find the courage to open the sticky menu in front of you.
Don’t give up, you think. Just see this through so you can say you did it.
“Yeah, I haven’t been here in ages. I think I was a senior the last time I came here,” you say as you skim through the menu items, unable to find anything that remotely sounds appetizing. You didn’t even like this place as a kid. And as a woman in her twenties? Yeah, you’re still disgusted by even the thought of it.“Do you come here often?”
“It’s kind of my weekend joint. I just can’t get enough of this place.”
Shocker.
“Know what you’re getting?” He asks you as he’s flagging down the nearest waitress. Before you can say hell no, he’s giving the young girl his order. Not looking at the menu, either. He knows what he wants from memory.
She then looks to you, waiting with slightly annoyed eyes for your order. Not knowing what to get, you just say the first thing that comes to your mind. “Um, I’ll just have the chicken strip basket. With ranch, please. And a water to drink.” You smile at her and thank her as you hand her the menu, but she doesn’t even bother looking up from her notepad she’s jotting your order on.
With a quiet nod of her head, she takes the menu from you and begins to walk away, only to be stopped by Cole before she makes it to the kitchen. “I’ll take another can of Keystone. Actually, make that two more.” He looks at you with a wink, and you’re suddenly feeling that nauseous feeling creeping up once more.
Does he think that’s a turn on? Sure, you enjoy a glass of wine here and there. A margarita when you’re really treating yourself.
But five beers on a date, the first date, is a little more than insane.
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The food is taking forever to make it to your table. The last twenty or so minutes have been spent with him talking your ear off about whatever beer-induced bullshit he can come up with. And still, he can’t seem to keep his eyes off of your breasts.
It’s been miserable, to say the least. Because of this shitty restaurant that you’ve never enjoyed, because of Cole being the one you’re here with, and because you can’t stop thinking about the man that’s sitting at home right now with your daughter.
You and Jake were just kids when you started dating, but even as young as he was, he always made sure your dates were special. Even after you got engaged, and during the short duration of your marriage. Every outing was magical.
The fact that Jake is the only person you’ve ever dated certainly set the bar high for any future dates. So, it’s not all Cole’s fault that you’re having a terrible time. You have the standard set by Jake to thank for some of what you’re feeling.
But, Cole could’ve done better. He’s not even dressed nearly as nice as you are. That doesn’t really matter, but for a first date, it kind of feels like a bit more effort than usual should be exercised. More than just showing up in a hoodie and some jeans.
Finally, the food arrives just as Cole was in the middle of telling you about his brother that was almost drafted for the NFL. As of you give a fuck one about sports. But, he wouldn’t know that, seeing as he hasn’t given you an inch tonight.
The chicken tenders you ordered are placed in a red plastic basket, sitting on top of a piece of white, oil stained tissue paper. You’re not picky by any means, but this looks less than appetising. The sheer amount of grease alone would turn anyone off.
Well, anyone but Cole. He’s already digging into his triple burger that seems to be loaded with even more grease than your sad entre. And he’s loving it, apparently, based on the slew of noises he’s making as he takes bite after disgusting bite. Your appetite was waning the moment you walked inside this place, but it’s completely gone now.
The thought of taking even one bite of this food has you feeling you could gag. Sipping your water is the only thing keeping you from doing so, and even that tastes weird. How a place could be so horrible that the water is bad is beyond you. But at this point, you’re no longer shocked by it. You’ve just accepted it.
Shoving in the last mouthful of his burger, he washes it down with his fifth can of beer, finishing it off with his last bite of food. “Never misses,” he says, wiping the remnants of beer and ketchup from his mouth with the back of his hand.
You haven’t even touched your food, but he’s too drunk to even notice. And while he hasn’t noticed that, he’s certainly not shying away from giving you a look that says more than you really want it to. Grinning ear to ear, he tosses you another wink, to which you respond with a stone cold expression. No more faking it tonight. He doesn’t deserve even that.
The waitress comes back to gather his empty plate, asking you if you’re done with yours. You say yes, letting her take the basket and ridding yourself of the foul food once and for all. “This all on one check?” She asks, and without giving it any thought, Cole proceeds to tell her that it will be on separate checks.
Again, the feminist in you normally wouldn’t care to pick up your own tab. But after this shitfest of a date, the fact that you had to drive yourself, and pay for your meal (that you didn’t eat) does not sit comfortably with you.
The disgust should be quite evident on your face, though the alcohol he’s ingested is probably prohibiting him from being able to pick up on that cue.
He begins blabbing about some more bullshit when the waitress brings you your checks. You’ve got your credit card ready to hand to her as soon as she does, ready to pay and get the hell out of here and away from Cole.
As you’re waiting for her to bring back your card and receipt, Cole begins yet another spiel about where in town his place is, and how Olivia left behind a lot of her clothes and other things there when she left him. You’re so preoccupied with wanting to leave that you don’t fully register what he’s saying. But as you’re listening a little more intently, you hear him say the very thing that sets you off. “So you’ll have something to change into if you didn’t bring any extra clothes. That way you can be comfortable,” he says, slurring his words, smiling in a way that makes you want to slap it off his face.
And with that, your every effort to remain cordial has flown straight out of the window.
“Excuse me?” You say, the volume of your voice wiping that stupid grin off his lips. Good. “I don’t know how you thought your night was going to end, but I can promise you that mine will not end anywhere near your place.” His eyes, saggy from the effects of the alcohol, widen, his mouth falling open. And for the first time tonight, his open mouth isn’t spewing some utter bullshit that you don’t want to hear.
Right on cue, the waitress drops your card and receipt off with you. Throwing them mindlessly in your bag, you shoot up from your seat, draping your coat around your shoulders in one quick movement. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m ever going to willingly see you again after tonight. Jake was right about you.”
“W-what?” He exclaims, clumsily standing up and tripping over his own feet as he walks out from the booth. “Well damn, I guess I thought we would fu –.”
“You thought wrong!” You shout, interrupting him before he can even say the word. You then shove him out of your way as he starts moving closer to you, and as you're beginning to leave, a man with a manager's tag on his shirt approaches you, asking if you’re okay.
“I’m fine,” you tell him, calmly as you can. “But someone needs to call an Uber for him,” you continue, pointing towards Cole, who is staring at you with a confused, inebriated look. “Do not let him leave like this. He’s in no condition to drive and I do not feel comfortable taking him home.”
The manager appears rather frustrated, and he begins to tell you that this is a weekly occurrence with Cole. “We have to arrange a ride for him almost every time he comes in,” he says. “I think this will be the last time we let this happen. I’ve let him get away with this behavior for too long.”
Without giving Cole another glance, you walk yourself out to your car, bidding a final farewell to this place, to this night, for good.
↟ᨒ.⊹݁⚘⊹⚘⊹⚘ ⊹.ᨒ↟
The road ahead appears blurred in the wake of your tears. Traffic lights are heavy and intense, glowing intrusively bright. You just want to get home, yet the roads seem to stretch longer and longer the further you drive.
But, perhaps that’s a good thing. It’s best you let your emotions run their course before you get home to see Jake, the last person you want to see you like this. For all he knows, tonight was made of all your wildest dreams. And if that’s what he believes, you’re not going to do anything that would make him suspect otherwise. It’s fine to let yourself cry on the way home, getting it out of your system completely as you pull into the driveway of your home, sitting inside the vehicle for a few minutes longer to give the tears a chance to dry up.
Parking right next to Jake’s Buick certainly isn’t helping matters, but it’s somehow serving as a comfort all at once.
The first thing you notice as you walk inside is how clean the place is. Spotless. Utterly. From top to bottom. It smells like freshly cut roses and a homemade meal, probably something Jake whipped up in the kitchen while you were out.
But the second thing you notice, is the two of them are nowhere to be found. Though, you wouldn’t be surprised if Lara is tucked away in bed, given it’s nearly midnight. Hours beyond her bedtime. You’d hope she’s asleep, at least. Jake has been known to let her stay up late a time or two, letting her watch whatever Disney film her little heart desires and eat endless snacks.
That doesn’t appear to be the case tonight, as the house is silent, save for the creaking sounds it makes as it settles into the worn foundation overnight.
Kicking your boots off by the front door, your pantyhose clad feet quietly pad across the carpet toward the hallway that leads to her room. The door is closed, so you place your ear to the old wood, hearing the tiniest, faintest snores emitting from the other side.
That certainly confirms that she’s sound asleep in her bed, but that doesn’t answer your other question; where is Jake? Surely he’s not asleep in your room. And he’s not in the bathroom, as that door is wide open and sans Jake. The freshly cleaned kitchen was empty when you walked by it, so that truly leaves only one more possibility.
Gentle as you can, you turn the solid gold door knob clockwise, wincing when the door creaks as you slowly push it open. Her ceiling is covered in nighttime stars from her beloved galaxy projector, casting her room in a quiet glow.
And, as you somehow already knew, Jake is resting on a make-shift bed of Disney princess blankets and star shaped pillows, positioned almost the very same as your daughter. On his side, knees tucked practically to his chest, just like her. It’s always been a wonder to you how he’s able to sleep that way, folding his body in ways that would leave yours aching for days.
As Lara has grown, she's begun to sleep the very same. A trait you’re so happy that she picked up from him.
There’s an opened book sitting on the floor next to him – he was probably in the middle of reading it when she fell asleep, and decided to rest his own eyes as well. You begin to feel your heart both flutter and ache at the vision, adoring it yet altogether wishing it was always like this. Though you know better than to dream of such foolish things, it doesn’t stop you from yearning for it.
It’s beautiful. It’s how it should be. But, it just isn’t.
You’re certain he didn’t plan on sleeping here tonight, but you can’t find it in you to wake him. He looks so peaceful, so tranquil. There’s no sense in waking him up to leave. So, as carefully as you opened it, you close the door as you step back out to the hallway, letting the two of them stay just as they are.
And while they are able to sleep and rest their minds, you know that won’t be an easy feat for you tonight. Probably down right impossible, in truth.
Because you couldn’t eat at the restaurant, and now that you’re home and not in the presence of Cole, your empty stomach is begging you to put something in it. With sleep feeling ever so distant and nearly impossible to reach, your mind begins to focus on the meal Jake made that’s left the most tantalizing aroma in the house.
As you step into the kitchen, the smell is all the more inviting. And as you’re nearing the refrigerator, the scent begins to take on something more familiar to you. Something he’s made before, something he made often during your marriage.
A casserole dish, covered loosely in aluminum foil, sits on the middle shelf. You realize the bottom of it is still warm as you carefully pull it out. Not hot, just warm. As though it’s not been in there for too long. Before you remove its cover, you’re already certain you know just what it is. And if you’re correct, it’ll only cause your heart to ache even further.
The fresh tomatoes, the parmesan, pepperjack, and mozzarella cheese melted together, the smell of buttery garlic – it’s a dish you requested often in your marriage, especially when you were pregnant with Lara.
A cheese ravioli bake, but not just any cheese ravioli bake – Jake’s cheese ravioli bake. He concocted this very special recipe just to your liking, using the perfect blend of grated cheeses and tomatoes that had never seen the inside of a can. (Because, yes – they do taste better.)
The raviolis were always made from scratch, Jake’s signature touch that you loved so much. The special shapes of the noodles always made the meal taste at least ten times better than any other dish with raviolis, silly as it may sound. You’ve never been much of a meat-eater, so he never bothered with adding anything more than fresh herbs and cheese.
And, it’s baked in the same casserole dish he used to make it in. The white corningware with the little blue flowers on the sides, one that came from your grandma ages ago. It was always Jake’s favorite to cook with, so there’s no surprise he used it tonight.
As though your ex husband knew the inner workings of your brain tonight, it’s like he knew you’d need something comforting and familiar once you got home. Whether or not he truly did it for you, it just doesn’t matter at this moment. It’s here, and it’s enough to take your mind off of the shit evening you’ve had.
And while there is comfort in it, it does serve as a symbol for part of the reason tonight was so awful – you want this again. This food, Jake sleeping in the house again, his aura hovering around the place he once called home. The home that he shared with you.
Peeling back the foil leaves no surprise. The fact that you knew this meal from the aroma alone tells you more than you truly want to confront.
You’re far too hungry to bother with heating it back up. Jabbing your fork right in the center of the dish, grabbing the biggest glob of cheese you can fit on the silver prongs, you reach it up to your open mouth. It tastes the very same it always had, forcing your mind to linger on the days of your pregnancy when you craved this more than anything.
It feels strange to taste again, knowing that the last time these very distinct flavors sat on your tongue, you were still married to the man that made it.
It’s comfortably familiar, yet melancholic all at once. There’s a tinge of sadness mixed in with the ingredients, one that almost overpowers the rest.
You’ve become so lost in the food that you don’t hear the creaking door from down the hall, or the soft footsteps against the carpet, coming closer and closer to where you’re standing.
“How’d it go?” He whispers.
And where the sudden sound of his voice should have made you jump, all it does is make your shoulders relax. After the night you’ve had, you need this. Need familiarity in the form of the man you’ve always loved.
And that distinct, sleepy rasp in his hushed tone that you’ve heard more times than you can recall… It makes the quietest grin reach your lips.
It’s the way his voice would sound once he’d just woken up, or when he was too tired to speak in a normal tone. It was (and, apparently, still is) something that drove you mad with longing when you were together. After everything, hearing it still makes your tummy flutter, as much as you wish it didn’t.
“I’m sorry, I tried not to wake you up,” you whisper, worried that you’ll wake Lara if you speak any louder. Setting the fork in the sink, you turn his direction to see a vision you weren’t prepared to witness.
His shoulder is leaned up against the wall, and his drowsy, dark eyes are the first things that catch your attention. Your lingering eyes then notice his frizzy, untamed waves, sitting a few inches lower than they did when he was your husband. You’ve always loved his long hair, and him letting it grow even longer is even better.
He’s clad in only a worn white t-shirt with holes embellishing the stretched v-neck, and a pair of heather grey sweatpants, a specific look you grew quite fond of during your time together. He must have had the outfit packed in his bag he had with him, as this is not what he was wearing when you left earlier.
The waiting look about his features reminds you that he's just asked you a question, and it’s also reminding you that you’re taking an incredibly awkward amount of time to answer. The blood rushes to your cheeks once you realize that he’s caught on to your wandering eyes, scanning every detail of the man before you that you once thought you’d spend the rest of your life with.
The words you want to say are on the tip of your tongue, sitting, weighted, at the forefront of your brain. The desire to spill every horrible detail about the night, to tell him that you now know why he hated Cole so much in school is a burning one. You want to tell him every single thing. But what you want to say and what you should say are altogether quite different.
The true answer to his question is more than your lips are physically willing to say. So, a simple lie will have to do.
“It went pretty well,” you say, hopefully convincingly as you cover the food up once more with the metal wrapping. “I’d say a second date may be in the cards.” The words second date feel like fire against your tongue. The sound of them brings back that nauseated feeling you had sat with most of the night.
But your eyes are fixed on the task at hand of ensuring the dish is properly covered, knowing that eye contact with him will surely expose your dishonesty. The words themselves are hard enough to vocalize as is, feeling like you have to force yourself to give them the breath to be heard.
Eye contact or not, if anyone is going to know you well enough to recognize when you’re speaking untruths, huge untruths, it’s Jake.
As you’re placing the dish back in the fridge, you make the mistake of glancing at him, his mouth upturned in a knowing smirk.
There’s no more doubt that he can see past your facade, and the realist in you knows there’s no point in elaborating this lie any further. But you’re also not ready to let him in on how awful it truly was. You know how crazy it is to feel this way, but you’re embarrassed that it did go so poorly.
You were hopeful.
Hopeful that someone would be willing to love you again, hopeful of a future that doesn’t see you being alone. But most of all, you were ready to finally move past Jake.
There’s nothing you want more than to be able to, truthfully, tell him that the night was beautiful. That Cole was a perfect gentleman and treated you to the most lovely evening you’ve ever had.
The problem with that? It’s the furthest thing from the truth. The furthest possible thing. But even a lie as embellished as this is better than what the truth entails.
“What?” You say, leaning against the fridge, as he continues to look at you. His eyes scan your features, as though you’re completely transparent and he can see right through to your mind. But you decide to continue your useless story, no matter how well he can read you. “It went well, Jake.” The sternness in your voice makes him lift a brow, sighing as he crosses his arms over his chest, still grinning. “Cole was…he was a really good date.”
Yikes.
“He’s grown up a lot. He’s nothing like he was in high school, or whatever it was that made you hate him so much.”
Lie. Lie after lie after.
“You were wrong about him, Jake. And you’re still wrong about him. How would you know he hasn’t changed? You haven’t seen him in years.”
Now you’re getting ahead of yourself. And while you are ahead, you should probably stop. Based on the look he’s giving you, he isn’t buying a lick of it.
“Never said he hadn’t, y/n. Why are you so set on making sure I know he’s changed? I’m not the one going on a second date with him. I don’t care if he’s changed,” he insists with a shrug of his shoulders, shooting you a condescending look that, mixed with his sarcastic tone, is really beginning to piss you off.
Whether you’re truly mad at him or mad at the fact that you’ve basically been caught in your ridiculous fib, you can’t tell.
Either way, Jake is the source of your anger at the current moment. And after the events of tonight, you’re not in any place to put up with this attitude he’s shoving your way.
“Why are you acting like this, Jake?” You snap, voice still hushed, but growing a touch louder. You push away from the fridge, going to point a finger at him. “You were the one that called him an airhead earlier, and I’m just making sure you know that the man who treated your ex wife to a beautiful dinner is not an airhead anymore. People grow, Jake. People can change. Some people, anyway.”
His body visibly tenses at your words, and you’re plagued with a lot of guilt over them. Especially when considering the fact that he is undoubtedly correct in his assumptions about the man you went out with tonight.
Though, you’ve just stepped into shit you didn’t mean to. This isn’t where you wanted the night to go: you, blaming Jake for the man who’d treated you so poorly tonight. You spent all night comparing him to the man Jake was — is. But you’ve begun a rant that you can’t quit now.
And, he knows, as well as you, that you meant to allude to the fact that he is the one who hasn’t changed.
But, you also know that that isn’t true. Not at all.
“What is that supposed to mean, y/n?” He asks, moving through the doorway of the kitchen, coming to stand right in front of you. He smells of patchouli mixed with earthy cedar, a familiar scent reminiscent of a cologne you bought for him ages ago.
The both of you have managed to keep your voices at a low rumble this whole time to avoid waking Lara, but now that he’s standing so close to you, he no longer needs to speak above a whisper for you to be able to hear him. “Are you insinuating that I haven’t changed? Since when, y/n? Since high school? Since we were marri –.”
“I don’t know, Jake.” Your walls are breaking, crumbling. You’re fighting the tears that are welling in your eyes, trying to swallow them down before he notices.
“You don’t know what, y/n?” He replies, using two fingers to bring your chin up to look at him. Like he used to do all of the time. You can’t remember the last time he did so. Yet, no matter how he lifts your face, you don’t meet his eyes. Can’t. Your cowardly ways have set in. “I need you to be honest with me, y/n.”
“I just – I –.”
“I need you to be honest with me, Luna.”
Fuck. Not that nickname. Just like the chin raising, you can’t remember the last time he called you that. Marriage. A happier time in your marriage, at that, surely.
However, you’ll never forget how or when he came up with it. The first time he used it.
Your love for nature, something always held so closely and intimately between the two of you. When you were young kids, exploring the mountains from day to night, for days on end. Your summers, spent between mountains, where you’d spoken many things to each other. Shared many secrets. Created several sacred and sweet memories.
One of these treasured memories was of an evening in the summer before your Junior year of high school. Only sixteen years old, practically babies. That was the summer that things felt different between you and Jake. It was one of those nights you can clearly recollect, vividly see in your memories.
Stargazing with him, in a field of pink roses. This night, in particular, one of the reasons you’d wanted the influx of them littering the aisle at your wedding.
This evening is also one forever held in your heart for what he’d told you. Wise beyond his years, full of so many words — always. Something you’ll always love about him.
Laying in the field of roses in a hidden valley between mountain peaks, he’d spoken timeless words to you.
“You are like the moon, y/n. Y’know?”
You’d giggled, completely oblivious to where this was going. Your skin, still sunkissed and a little red from a full day of exploring in the mountains with your best and closest friend. The evening was winding down and you’d been near sleep when he’d whispered it into the night, his voice joining the crickets nightly songs.
“How am I like the moon?” You’d replied, turning a bit to look at him from the side of your eye. Though, he wasn’t looking at you. No, he was still gazing at the sky, watching as the sun made her final appearance for the day. Just beyond the highest peak of the mountains, the moon was rising, slow and steady.
But you’d only watched him as he’d studied the sky. His face had brought you a serene sense of comfort from a very young age for you. His smile, always a source of your peace.
“The moon… it’s so many things. It is so beautiful and it changes to show different phases on a never ending cycle,” he’d said, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he thought of his next words. “This cycle that we don’t really know the beginnings of, but we still trust it. Because we know, no matter what, that the moon will always be beautiful, no matter what phase it’s in. It will always change as it should. It’s trustworthy and fills the night sky with a light the sun could never.”
You’d only stared at him in awe. His mind, the most incredible place.
He’d continued, “It’s amazing how you can stare at the moon without its light blinding you. You can’t do that with the sun, it’s too painful to look at and admire. But not the moon. You can look at it for hours with no pain. Only beauty.”
He always had a way of making you think. Deeply think. His words always came together so beautifully to express what was on his mind, putting you in his mind right along with him.
“Wow, Jake,” you’d sighed, rolling to lay on your back to resemble him and stare at the sky. The moon had been full that night. A full moon, your favorite to adventure beneath with him. “I don’t know how your brain does that,” you’d breathed on a slight laugh, blinking your eyes slowly as your lids still felt heavy.
“Does what?” He’d chuckled along with the slightest snort. From your peripheral, you’d noticed him glance at you. But you kept your eyes trained on the black sky above, thinking about how it wasn’t painful to look at the moon. You stared at it, admiring it, just as he had said.
“Thinks of these things — it’s so deep,” you’d giggled, looking over at him to catch his eyes. But, he was back to watching the stars twinkle and the moon in its illustrious position over the mountains. Still, you focused on him with a glimmer in your eye. “You’re supposed to be thinking of Mrs. Thompson teaching us about the basics of moon phases last year — like I do when I look at the moon. Like all high schoolers who studied that should. But you’re thinking of that?”
“Well, I like to look deeper into things. You of all people should know this. And… when I find the deeper meaning of things, I always bring it back to you. I think it’s because we’re so close. I don’t know,” he’d replied, finally connecting eyes with you. Your tummy had done a weird flip thing it had just started doing when you were near Jake. It had been weird and new. You obviously hadn’t known it then, but it was the very beginning signs of a crush. “And I’ve been studying the phases for a while now, long before we took Mrs. Thompson’s class,” he paused, raising a brow at you with a smile. And, as the tummy thing was happening again, a blush made its way to your cheeks. “You know that, too, y/n.”
“Yes,” you’d answered with a few slow, measured blinks. No longer tired as he’d caught your attention, but you didn’t know what else to blame your slow thinking on. It must’ve been related to your sleepiness from before. You hadn’t known what else it could’ve been. “Just tired from the day, I guess…,” the words had trailed quietly from your mouth, his eyes, glowing from the moon's light, still holding yours.
And the way they were holding yours, making you feel nervous and jittery in brand new ways when it came to Jake. He’d been searching them, seeming to look for something you weren’t sure he’d be able to find.
You knew Jake’s expressions, new his eyes — through and through… but this had been new. This look. These eyes. There was something different in them, something in his soul that could only be fully reflected through them.
“H-how am I like the moon, though?” The words were an almost-whisper in the warm final winds of late summer, feeling them becoming cooler in preparation for the transition to fall. “You never said that part.”
It had taken a few moments, but he’d finally blinked a few times and seemed to come back to. His gaze had gone back to the sky. Yours had, once again, followed, desperate to see the moon the way he did.
“You’re always showing me new sides of you… your own phases. You’ve changed a lot over the last few years — I notice every little thing. I don’t know why,” he’d explained. “But no matter what… I know that I trust you. And I know that you will always be you, even in different phases.”
The blush had rushed up to your cheeks, once more, and you hadn’t dared look at him. “Thanks, Jake. I trust you always, too.”
“And…,” he’d cleared his throat, a nervous trait of his that you knew all too well. “I really think you’re so damn pretty, y/n… like the moon. But—,” he’d cleared his throat again. And, you would’ve looked to see if he was okay. But you were frozen — in shock. Hearing Jake call you pretty made your tummy flip yet again, and your heart flutter along with it.
Thankfully, you hadn’t needed to check on him, because he’d continued after a few solid and near-silent seconds of waiting. “The term moon doesn’t fit you. When people think of the moon, they think of the thing in the sky. But when I think of it, I think about all of the things that make the moon what it is. Just like I think of you. And that’s more than a simple thing in the sky. You are more than just a simple girl.”
Silence followed him. You hadn’t known what the heck to say. And you were afraid that anything you would try to say wouldn’t come out right.
“There’s a poem. Um, it’s called—called La Luna. It-it talks about the qualities of the moon and how they show in day-to-day life… and I loved it because it showed me… you are like my moon. I have you everyday and you’re trustworthy and you’re beautiful. Like the moon,” he’d said, matter of fact, with a sense of finality in his explanation.
But, he wasn’t finished. There was a shaky breath held in the space between the two of you and the trees. And when you turned to watch him this time, he’d already been watching you.
Propped on one arm, watching you, still. You followed his lead in leaning on your own elbow, a little grin on your face. It was just funny — you always seemed to follow him. And he, you.
In almost every way, you two did the same.
Even in certain silly actions. Little movements of your body that seemed correct because he was doing them. And if one of you did something, the other was doing it as well.
His eyes searched yours, so inquisitive. And there had been a gentle scrunch of his untamed brows. He’d looked as if he was wondering and searching your soul—for answers you still don’t know. Don’t have.
The next thing that left his lips, though, you had known the answer to without the shadow of a doubt. And as soon as he asked it, you realized you’d been waiting for those words the entire time.
“Can I – can I kiss you, y/n?”
The answer, “yes” had slid past your lips without you even knowing it was happening. You hadn’t ever felt this way towards Jake, yet— way back then. But… giving him a kiss — in that particular moment — had just felt oddly right. Like it was supposed to happen.
A puzzle piece, clicking into place.
It’d barely registered that it had happened because it had happened so fast.
He’d leaned over and you’d match him and went towards him just a touch. To meet him halfway.
And then, he’d touched his lips so briefly to yours before pulling away. Then, he’d helped you up as your tummy had still flipped and flopped. The blush that had been on your cheeks, reaching all the way up to the tips of your ears.
Your first kiss. You’d just had your first kiss. And with Jake. Your first and only best friend.
And that was why it was right. You were supposed to have your first kiss with him.
Your walk home had involved shared breaths and a few mindless notes about the day’s adventures. Your worn tennis shoes, making the treasured crunching sound against gravel roads. The sound, now one of your favorites, after how many times you’d heard it growing up, hiking all around, with Jake.
Then, right before you’d bid him goodnight as he dropped you off at your house that night, so long ago, he’d had one more thing to say.
“You are my Luna, y/n,” he’d told you, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes as he’d tucked his hands into the pockets of his Aztec printed shorts. “My moon and my best friend.”
“You’re mine, too, Jake,” you’d said, plain and easy.
After that night, things with you and Jake were never the same. And you were glad they weren’t. You didn’t know it then, but that night was the start of falling in love with him. The start of knowing, undoubtedly, that you would spend the rest of your life with him.
He was your first and only kiss. Your first and only of everything else that happened in the years that followed.
He was your best friend then and your best friend always. And just as he’d explained how the moon was to him and how you were for him — that would always be him, for you. Still to this day, your mind always wanders to that night when you see the moon. To Jake’s face as he asked you to kiss him for the first time.
And, because of all of this, that pet name has always been your breaking point.
Fuck.
Here it comes.
“Tonight was fucking terrible, Jake. He was such a prick and all he wanted was to fuck me and there was no way in hell I was going to let him do that.”
Those tears you tried to hold back are flooding your cheeks, turning into sobs that you’re desperately trying to keep quiet so they don’t wake Lara.
You fully expected Jake to hit you with an ‘I told you so,’ or laugh in your face over how pathetic you’re being.
But no. He doesn’t do either of those things. And you know Jake much better than to think he’d do that to you. That’s not the kind of person he is – he’s never been that kind of person. His heart is far too big to ever treat you that way, and you of all people should know that. It’s what made you fall in love with him in the first place.
So, no. He doesn’t do what your foolish mind had convinced you would happen. But what he does do is something you’ve dearly missed since the day he packed his things and moved out. Something you haven't felt in so long that you can’t really remember the last time it happened.
Without another word, he reaches his arms out, pulling you into him. And you let him. You feel your tense and tired body instantly melt into him, your head resting against his chest, into the spot you used to naturally nuzzle yourself into.
And just like that, every burden of the night has been lifted from your shoulders. You feel weightless in his arms again, being held in the safety of his embrace that, for most of your life, had been your place of refuge and solace.
He’s not hugging you, he’s holding you. Keeping you stable, warm. It feels as wonderful as it always had, like nothing has truly changed.
“I’m sorry, Luna,” he whispers into your hair, resting his chin on the top of your head. “You deserve better than him. You deserve a lot better.”
Hearing him say those words, that you deserve better…
You don’t know if you believe that. If you truly do deserve better, then you’d still be with the only man you’ve ever loved, the only man who has ever loved you.
The one holding you in his arms at this very moment.
There are a thousand things you want to say, that you want to scream. But in your heart of hearts, there’s only one thing you really want right now. Something that doesn’t require any words, any apologies or excuses for things that are tucked away in the past. Things that feel so distant that they don’t seem to matter anymore. Not right now, at least.
Everything that has happened tonight has made you wonder if the divorce really was the right option. There’s no doubt you needed a separation, but the reasons as to why the divorce came to be are suddenly fuzzy to you. And, as you so often have as of late, you wish it would’ve never happened in the first place.
All these things that you have felt so heavily recently, encompassing you fully as you’re held in his arms for the first time in so long.
Though you can feel the quick beating of his heart against your ear, you can’t be entirely sure what he’s thinking. You want to see his face, see his eyes. Find out whatever it is that’s going through his mind that caused him to embrace you this way.
Gently leaning away from him, he keeps his arms wrapped around you as you look up at him, into his eyes that once brought you so much peace. His eyes, that have always been his best way of communicating when his lips struggle to articulate what was on his heart.
And right now, what you see reflected in his golden brown irises, are the words that you feel sitting on the tip of your own tongue. He lifts his hand, using his thumb to wipe away a stray tear. You lean your face into his hand and lightly kiss the pad of the very same thumb, tasting the salty tear it dried from your face.
The intention in his face as he’s looking at you, holding your gaze with words unspoken, words from the last few years that neither one of you dared to utter. And still, as your eyes are holding his, words simply aren’t necessary to you.
Cradling your face in his hand, thumb caressing your cheek as his eyes flit from yours to your lips, he mutters something unintelligible, a whispering you can’t quite make out as his face leans closer and closer. And as you begin to ask him what he said, he’s leaning down and his lips slowly collide with yours. His soft, supple lips; they feel so very much how you remember, the only difference being the subtle beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip.
And the taste…the taste of Jake. A taste you’d never be able to replicate. It’s the one you’ve found yourself craving since the last time you relished in it.
The kiss lingers, lips making gentle movements, keeping their connection. You feel the weight of the last few years dissipate with the feeling of him. The feeling of his lips, a longing at last being met once again.
His arms hold you tighter, bringing you closer to him. His hand, steady and gentle, reaches up to the nape of your neck, fingers weaving through your hair.
Tears flood your closed eyes once more, trickling down your skin, wetting his as they fall. Once he feels them, he slowly pulls away, your lips reluctant to let him part. With his other hand, just as he did before, he dries the new tears. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done tha –.”
“Jake,” you whisper, stopping him before he can needlessly apologize. “What did you say earlier? Before you –.”
“I said that you are beautiful,” he sighs. “So beautiful.”
He searches your face, taking in every tiny detail of your features. His smile matches the one you’re wearing, and you swear you see the glint of a tear forming in his eye. “So, is that why Lara said the same thing earlier?” You ask, remembering her saying it nearly the same way he just did.
“She may have heard me say it a time or two,” he giggles, his hand that dried your tears reaching up to dab at his own wet eyes. “I always tell her how beautiful she is, and that it’s because she looks just like her mommy.”
It’s funny, because to you, she gets her beauty from Jake. You see him when you see her. But to know that he sees you when he looks at her…
“Can I kiss you, Jake?”
As though you needn’t truly ask, his lips quickly meet yours once more. Only this time, the kiss is deeper, full of so much more than it was before. The fingers still weaved in your hair carefully tug at your locks, dull nails scratching at your scalp. Your flesh tingles when his tongue pushes past your lips, his breathing becoming heavier as he becomes hungrier for you.
You push yourself into him as much as you can, lifting on your toes and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. His strong, sturdy shoulders that feel even stronger than the last time you felt them.
And with this new position, he takes advantage of your strong hold on him, using one hand to lift you up, your legs now straddling his waist. His hand cups your ass, holding you still with pure ease as you kiss him harder than you ever have.
Each of you, moaning and sighing, lips roughly colliding.
Still holding you, he begins to walk backwards out of the kitchen, then carrying you down the hallway towards your bedroom. His lips never leaving yours until he makes it to your room, laying you down gently on the end of the mattress, your legs dangling from the edge.
You prop yourself up on your elbows while Jake hovers over you, his feet still planted on the floor. There’s a gleam in his eye that you’ve seen before, so long ago. His skin, smooth and glowing from the gentle moonlight creeping in through your windows. A vision you know all too well.
“That name,” you say, hushed. “You haven’t called me that in years. It – it was nice hearing you say it again. Really.”
His smile as he looks down at you, one you’ve seen hundreds of times before, takes you right back to the beginning. Back to so many cherished moments with him that seemed to become lost altogether when the fights had started.
He breathes a chuckle through his nose, looking out the window towards the moon's glow, following its trail back to you. Leaning down closer, he nudges your cheek with his nose, his hair tickling your skin as it falls over you. “You are my moon,” he whispers underneath your ear. “Always my moon. No matter what phase.” Tiny goosebumps begin pricking at your skin when his lips meet the skin under your ear.
Suddenly, he stops, lifting away from you and moving towards the door. You’re left confused, worried that you’ve let this go too far. “Jake?” You ask, to which he only responds with a smile as he quickly and quietly walks out of the room.
What the – ?
Sitting up, you start to stand up, feeling the need to go after him to figure out what is going on.
But before you even make it off the bed, he’s walking back in, carrying his tote bag on his shoulder.
“Lay back down,” he whispers, “Just like you were before.” Digging into his bag, he pulls out his Nikon before setting the leather satchel on the floor. “I am a photographer, so that means I naturally have an eye for beauty.” He turns his camera on as he walks toward you, adjusting a few of the settings. “You are a thing of pure beauty, and the moon is painting you perfectly with its light just where you are. I need to capture this.”
I should’ve known.
Your heart begins to pound in your chest, the thrumming filling your ears. How this man, after all this time, after everything, can still fluster you in this way is entirely beyond you.
Just as he requested, you lay yourself down once more, positioned just like you were before he left the room. Only now, you’re being a little more intentional about the way your body looks, lifting your sweater to show your midriff more than before and poking your ass out just a bit. He peaks his eye through the lens, bending just a little to get the perfect angle. “Ah, right there. Don’t move, Luna.”
The camera clicks once. Then again. He moves to the left a little, closer to the window, capturing a few from this angle as well.
This was a common thing for Jake to do way back when, as he began discovering his love for photography. You were his model, his muse, as he called you. There were several instances that you found yourself modeling for him, posing in front of dozens of new cameras to test their quality.
And, there were those few times that the photos were only for him. Only for his eyes to bear witness to. A few of those times were during your honeymoon, one of the nights being the one that Laramie was conceived.
While the photos he’s taking now are a little less risque in nature, the act is flustering you all the same. Just as it always did.
After having taken a few more, he looks through them, smiling while he does so. “Art, my Luna,” he says, shutting off his camera and placing it back in his bag. “You are art.”
You feel your heart racing again as he walks toward you again, placing himself in the same position he was in before he fetched his camera. You want to ask if you can see the photos, but once he begins kissing you again, wet lips connecting to the skin of your neck, the words just can’t make it out of your mouth.
His kisses move slowly down the column of your neck as your head carefully falls back, his lips gradually coming closer to your collarbone where he gently sucks the tight skin. Your breath, stolen from you the instant he does so. He motions for you to lay yourself down all the way, taking the weight from your elbows. He positions himself just right between your legs as you wrap them around his thighs. His lips then follow a path to your neck once more, breathy kisses making their way back to your lips.
His hands, ever so deliberate and purposeful, grab hold of your waist, lifting your back just a little from the bed. His fingers knead at the skin, squeezing gently before they fall to your hips. Just the same, he lifts them slowly, lifting your skirt up to your hip bones before reaching behind to hold your ass with both hands. The slight elevation of your hips places your core right against his dick, feeling it pulse beneath his grey sweats. Your body instinctively grinds into him at the contact, your walls beginning to flutter when you feel him following your lead.
“Jake…,” you mutter into his lips with what little breath you’re able to speak with. He doesn’t bother asking you what you need, what you want. He already knows. He’s always known. You’re certain there’s no man on this earth that could ever take care of you as well as him.
He knew your body – studied it. He knew every single way to ensure your pleasure, everywhere to touch and taste. How to do it.
And you, knowing the ways his body felt the best. He’d always tell you that you knew him better than he knew himself. And while that may have been true, you thought the very same of him. You’d spent so much time with each other, so much time learning each other.
He moves his hands from your ass to the hem of your sweater, moving his body down so that he’s eye level with your tummy. As he slowly lifts your top, gliding it up towards your breasts, he kisses each bit of skin as it becomes exposed. Kissing every inch of your tummy, until he reaches your bra. He stops there, removing your sweater completely from your body.
And once he’s done that, he places his attention back to your breasts, taking one in each hand. The white lace of your bra does nothing to cover your perked nipples, him rubbing his thumbs over them as he kisses where your cleavage meets in the middle. “I’ve missed these,” he mutters, breathy, pulling the cups of your bra down below each breast.
Your nipples perk even more once the cool air of your room hits them. But, it doesn’t last for too long. Jake’s mouth, wet and warm, wraps around the bud of your left breast, his tongue drawing slow circles. The right one becomes enclosed in the palm of his hand, squeezing the flesh with his fingers.
“God I’ve missed these,” he iterates, lifting his face from your breast, the tip of his tongue offering tiny licks where his mouth once was. He then brings his lips to the right breast, giving it the same attention as he sucks the bud into his warm mouth.
“Oh Jake – feels so good…,” you muster, shakily, lifting your arms to lay above your head. With his mouth still caressing your breast, his hands hold you just above your ribs on both sides, lifting you into him even more. His lips leave your nipple with one last, gentle suck, before he plants deep kisses down your sternum.
“Let me show you how much I’ve missed you,” he mumbles into your skin, lips kissing further and further down your tummy. Once he reaches the waistband of your skirt, he pulls you a little closer to the edge of the bed by your hips, sinking down to the floor on his knees.
His tongue glides over the skin of your inner thigh, still covered by your pantyhose. He does the same to the other one, alternating between both as he slowly comes closer to your burning heat. Your walls, fluttering, clenching. Your desire leaking from you with every move he makes on your body.
One thing you remember about Jake – he would always take his time with you. He would always take the time to please you, to cover each inch of you in kisses and sweet touches. Even if there wasn’t enough time for sex, he would still take whatever time there was for you.
And tonight, being no exception to his rule of pleasing you, has you all the more enticed by him.
And ready for him.
Just before his lips find your core, he takes your skirt, still bunched up at your hip, and pushes it up even further so that it’s now bunched at your waist. And after that, fingers from both of his hands slip inside the band of your pantyhose on either side, slowly pulling them and your thong down your hips. He moves back just a little, enough to be able to remove them from you, tossing both of the under garments on the floor beside him.
When he moves back, his lips find your inner thighs once more. With each kiss, your breaths become more and more labored, and as he kisses the skin directly next to your aching pussy, it becomes caught in your chest. He kisses once more there, and the breathy moan that leaves your lips is followed by a whispering of his name.
“I think I’ve missed this most of all.” You can feel the breath from his words against your wetness, making your body shiver and tremble.
And you absolutely believe him. It was his favorite thing, something he would do randomly, any chance he had, and every chance he had. He would worship your pussy, taste you for hours at a time. He would beg to have your pussy on his mouth. Not like he needed to, though. You loved it as much as he did.
The spontaneity of it, the way his mouth would find you when you were doing something as mundane as cooking, or watching a movie. You almost never took a bath or a shower without him joining you.
He says he missed it, but you’d bet you have missed it even more.
The second his skilled tongue glides through your folds, your body nearly jolts at the feeling. He hums at his first taste in years, digging into your hips with his fingernails. He takes his time, letting his tongue explore you again. Sucking your clit gently, just how you always liked. Babying it with his tongue, keeping the movements soft and careful. “You’ve always tasted so sweet,” he whispers before his tongue makes one long, slow stride from your entrance to your clit.
Each motion, so calculated, so thoughtful. He’s remembered every little thing that would get you there every single time. And the way his hair is tickling at your inner thighs, your lower tummy…
The sensation of it all nearly brings tears to your eyes. It’s the kind of pleasure that you could cry from. And it’s a pleasure you’ve gone so long without.
His tongue flicks against your throbbing clit, then again, and again. Each one pushes you closer and closer to the edge, and the closer you get, the faster his tongue gets.
And because of that, it only takes one more flick of his tongue to cause your pussy to throb, your walls clenching and spasming. Your tummy fluttering, your limbs feeling numb yet on fire all at once. Your release trickles and pools beneath you, all while Jake plants careful kisses to your pussy, kissing you through it until your breathing is back to normal.
This feeling…you had completely forgotten it. Forgotten how surreal it felt for Jake to bring your body to its peak, how truly out of body it always was.
If there’s ever a day that someone else enters your life and has you like this, they will be held to the highest standard that Jake has set for you. You know that no one will ever make you feel this way.
“Oh…my…god…,” you utter through deep breaths, the vision slowly coming back to your eyes. And as it does, you see Jake’s striking face leaning over you, his lips wet and glittering as the moonlight falls upon him, enhancing his beautiful features all the more. “Jake, I – I’ve missed you so fucking much,” you tell him, your voice becoming wet and choked with tears.
How did you ever let this man walk out of your life? How did things get so bad that signing divorce papers seemed like the best thing to do? You’ve spent practically every day of your life loving Jake Kiszka. From the moment you met as children, to taking his last name as your own, to having his daughter.
And even as your name inked the papers that would solidify your separation, you still loved him.
Every emotion begins to surface, and try as you might to hold them down, you just can’t. Your cries turn into near sobs, hands coming up to cover your eyes as you’re flooded with how badly you’ve missed him. How much you want things to be the way they were.
“Hey, hey,” he shushes you, concern present in his quiet voice. “What is it, Luna? Tell me what’s wrong.”
His fingers brush some hair out of your face, tucking the strands behind your ear. When you move your hands from your eyes, he kisses away the tears falling from them, holding your face in the palm of his hand. Looking into his eyes only serves to make it all hurt worse.
“I just miss you, Jake,” you manage to say after letting yourself calm down enough to speak. “And after that awful date tonight, it just reminded me of a lot of things and I –.”
“I miss you, y/n,” he sighs, holding your eyes with his in his very own Jake way. “I miss you more than you will ever comprehend.” As he kisses your lips, you feel your body begin to relax again, feeling comfort from him that you’ve always felt. “I haven’t stopped loving you. I will never stop loving you.”
“Jake,” you whisper as he kisses you again, and he hums in response, letting you know to continue. “I love you so much,” you admit against his lips.
He hums again, a gentle groan as he lifts himself up on the bed, keeping his lips locked with yours. You sit up, scooching yourself back and making room for him. As you do, you reach for your skirt that’s still sitting against your waist and pull it down, Jake helping you take it off the rest of the way.
Once it’s off, he lays himself between your spread legs, his clothed cock sitting flush against your core, pulsing beneath the fabric. You can’t stand it any longer, so you reach your hand down and begin pulling at the waistband of his sweats, sliding them down his hips as best you can from your position. He helps you with one hand, pulling them down the rest of the way and kicking them off with his feet.
You then go for his shirt, yanking it from his shoulders so hard that it rips the neck line halfway down the shirt. After that, he lifts up, taking the tattered remains of his t-shirt in each and ripping it in half completely, finally ridding himself of his shirt that’s now in pieces.
“Wait.” You stop him before he comes back to you as you catch sight of him, needing a moment to just look at him. The way the moonlight contours his body, how it’s casting a silver glow against his bare skin…he looks otherworldly. This vision is one you know will be permanently stamped in your memories for the rest of time.
You’ve always loved his body. His pecks, his tummy, his legs. His arms that have certainly gained more muscle tone since you were married. He’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. For more reasons than just the physical.
But as he’s on his knees before you, his tummy littered with droplets of sweat, his cock hard and throbbing, the unadulterated desire to feel him inside of you again is the only thing you can think about.
“C’mere,” you whisper, beckoning him with your finger. As he leans back down, your legs wrap around his waist again, positioning yourself just right as he lines himself up with you, nudging you with the tip of his cock. “I love you, Jake,” you say again, holding his face, kissing his lip. “And I need you.”
“My beautiful Luna,” he mutters as he steadily glides himself inside, slowly filling you. He lets out a deep sigh, his brows furrowed in the middle as he bites his lower lip. He pushes in all the way, his tip now nudging against your cervix.
As if it were possible, you’ve somehow forgotten how big he is. The thickness, the girth. No matter how often he was inside of you, you never got over the way he would stretch you, each and every time.
The tear-inducing pleasure begins to overwhelm you once more as he begins a slow thrust, filling you all the way each time. He remembers just how you liked it – giving you the chance to feel him, every thick inch of him. You had just always loved the way he felt inside of you, the way he fit you so incredibly.
Everything about the way he’d fuck you, how he’d treat your body as though it were ethereal and powerful. That he was privileged to be able to connect with you this way. Worshipping is the only way to describe it. He cared for you, put your needs above his.
He had always done that. Even when things began to crumble in your marriage. Even when he was angry, he never let your body go without being pleased. Never.
And when he saw what your body was capable of after you gave birth, he made certain that your body was cherished and loved the way it deserved.
After all this time, after years of being apart and living separate lives, he’s fucking you like you are still his wife. Slow in pace, deep and hard thrusts so you can feel him. His thighs slapping against the backs of yours. This was always his favorite way to fuck you, said he loved the way your breasts bounced everytime he thrust into you.
He loved watching you, and you loved watching him. His face, his body colliding with yours.
All of it, every bit of it is the same. Even better, if it were ever possible.
He lifts your leg, letting it rest over his shoulder. This angle, the one that allows him to hit the perfect spot inside of you, the spot that makes your tummy burn and your walls flutter. He knows the right angles, the ones that your body responds to the most.
And when your body responds this way, he fucking loves it.
“There it is,” he mutters, his breathing heavy and deep. “I feel you, Luna. Squeeze me, baby.”
His pace picks up, his cock hitting that spot over and over again. Faster, heavier, deeper. His name spills from your lips, your confessions of love coming out in staggered whispers.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he says, repeating it with every thrust. And he keeps saying it, says it until your walls clench hard around his cock, spasming deliciously as he fucks you through your second climax of the night.
And with it, his cock begins twitching and pulsing, his movements less calculated and more desperate. The sounds coming from his parted lips, the way his tummy is flexing, you know he’s reaching his own end.
Desperate as he is, he’s still careful. With one more hard thrust into you, he pulls himself out, pumping himself and spilling his warmth all over your tummy, reaching to the undersides of your breasts.
His face is contorted in the most beautiful vision. A mix of relief and adoration on his features as he looks up on you, your heaving body covered in sweat and him.
Though you know it’s absurd and irresponsible as hell, a small part of you is sad he didn’t finish inside. The two of you, turbulent as you were together, still made the most perfect baby.
The thought of giving Lara a sibling is one you’ve had for a long time now. But you don’t want that with anyone else. Only Jake.
The timing would be terrible. You know that. But you can’t help but mourn the thought. There’s no doubt in your mind that, if you were still married, you would’ve tried for another baby.
“Just like old times, yeah?” He utters as gently cleanses your skin with a damp towel he retrieved from the bathroom. He offers sweet and soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your nose. Telling you again how much he loves you, and you say it in return after each time.
As he finishes, he walks to the dresser, the one that once to held his own clothes. To no surprise, he remembers that you’ve always kept your underwear in the top middle drawer. He pulls out a pair that’s been a tried and true favorite of yours to wear at night. A simple pair of black boyshorts that he’s seen you in dozens of times.
He then reaches for the drawer directly underneath that one, pulling out one of your oversized t-shirts.
Before he walks them over to you, he puts his sweatpants back on, letting them hang low from his waist, just above his pubic bone. A sight for sore eyes, no doubt.
He hands your clothes to you as he gets back in bed, watching with a sleepy smile as you put them on.
Once you’re dressed, he pulls out the covers, letting you lay down first. You position yourself on your side, and, just as you wanted, he lays behind you, wrapping his arms around your body and nuzzling his nose in the back of your neck. The way you fell asleep every night for years. In the safety of his embrace, in the comfort of his touch.
↟ᨒ.⊹݁⚘⊹⚘⊹⚘ ⊹.ᨒ↟
Jake has long since fallen asleep, his arms still wrapped tightly around you. Something you’d forgotten about, that you’re being reminded of in this moment, is that even in his sleep, he will kiss the back of your neck every so often. Quiet kisses, more or less just placing his lips on you while he dreams.
Laying in his arms, the way you did all those years ago, everything feels perfect once again. It feels right. The pieces, though tattered and ripped apart over the years, have suddenly fallen back in place. You’ve missed this. Missed everything about it. His breathing, his peaceful snores.
This moment, right now as you’re curled up with the man who carries the title of your ex husband, it feels as though things could work. Maybe you could try again, learn the ways you’ve both grown, give this life with him a second chance.
Or.
Maybe this is it. This moment serves as a lapse in time, a beautiful walk down the path that holds so many memories. The best memories. But they’re only memories.
Those days, though dear to your heart, just don’t exist anymore. Your life, his life…what if your paths for the future are just too different? What if this moment, however perfect and wonderful it may be, will eventually turn into the reasons you couldn’t be together anymore?
Tonight made you feel as though everything with you and Jake ended for no reason, that your lives were perfect and seamless.
That’s not the reality of it, though. There were reasons that ultimately led to your divorce. A lot of reasons. Of course you forgot them on the night of your first date since the split, the date that will go down in history as being the worst of your lifetime.
But now, you’re thinking clearly enough to remember those reasons.
Your lives were far from perfect. The furthest from perfect as any two lives shared together could be.
But you loved each other more than anything and anyone. A love so deep, so profound and seemingly indestructible. There was a time when you would’ve never thought in your darkest dreams that there would come a day that Jake wasn’t a part of. Your love for each other simply surpassed every expectation, every phase. Just like the moon. Changing, but still beautiful.
But even a love such as that wasn’t enough then. So, what if it isn’t enough now?
You don’t know what the future holds. Beyond tonight, you can’t be sure what will come of any of this. And you don’t want to get your hopes up, fall for him even harder than before, all for it to crumble yet again.
And this time, you fear the pain would be much worse than before.
So, no. You don’t know what the future will bring. You don’t even know what tomorrow will bring.
And even if this moment is fleeting, it can still be added to the memories you have with him. To the perfect memories you’ve captured with Jake Kiszka.
Your moon.
The only man you’ve ever loved.
The only man you’ll ever want.
And the man you can’t have.
↟ᨒ.⊹݁⚘⊹⚘⊹⚘ ⊹.ᨒ↟
a/n: i'm sorry. lol. there could be a part two to this. there might be a part two to this. should there be a part two to this? sound off, loves!
as always, let me know what you think! i truly love hearing from you all. makes my heart so happy. 🥹 my inbox is always open!
taglist: (let me know if you'd like to be added/removed! i apologize dearly if i missed you)
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…
dear god….is it hot in here or is it just @jakeyt’s writing? (i think you know the answer.)
admittedly, i am the biggest fan of covet!jake-pregnancy sex. something about the way he cradles her belly, taking the weight off of her…& having the nerve to apologize to her for making her that way? jake, babe - she couldn’t be more thrilled to carry your little lav.
these two (soon to be 3) have my whole heart in their grip. i think about them as much (sometimes more, if we’re being honest here) as i do my own characters. this world has been crafted so beautifully that it feels real to me. aka, she’s just that good of a damn writer.
anyways. i could gush about this forever but i need y’all to go & read it for yourselves, & get ready to indulge in another ch of the best jake series on here. (you heard me.)
🪻💜🪻💜🪻
a child in the garden @joshym - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
