𝖘hirley temple; the magic treehouse! ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖𓉸ִֶָྀི ִֶָ་༘࿐
nali’s candle! ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖𓉸ྀི happy june22nd! rip summer!halloween has come early! if you don’t know, ‘june 22nd’ is summerween, an unofficial holiday that’s originated from an episode of gravity falls! i’ve seen a few edits of jermajesty!jackson wearing his naruto costume & i watched that halloween-party vlog earlier, so i thought why not. i got so lucky with today’s date!
below the cut! ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖𓉸ྀི emotional constipation. one-sided pining. poor communication. angst with an unresolved ending. distant!jermajesty jackson x concerned?black fem reader. ++ lowercase intended emdashes pin. link ( 1.6k! )
𝖙he club had a hidden gem. a gigantic oak tucked away far south, behind an abandoned home. it became the designated hangout spot long ago, back in middle school, when everyone’s parents couldn’t stand the shouting and screaming in their living spaces.
the days of unboxing pokémon cards, squabbling over connect four, and dogging each other in a heated game of spades had mostly passed, but the treehouse was still a good place to hide out and smoke cheap cigarettes and spare another three minutes hollering about this massive dungeons & dragons campaign before heading back north —
he stares hard and sips from the plastic solo of sprite soda and cherry syrup; spicy enough to pass for now. it wasn't what he really wanted, but it would do until later tonight.
— “in jerrok’s attempt to save macki-mack, he manages to clear the abyss and reach her.” there’d been a turtle shell strained against the back of stassi’s folding chair. a blood red mask sat crooked along her face, threatening to slide over one eye while she’s leaned forward, dramatically narrating this scene. “but although his fingers catch hold of the ledge, it is only for’a brief second . . . before his hold weakens!” and somehow, despite looking like raphael had wandered into the wrong franchise, she remained completely committed to the master role.
“and you, princess bubble-bloom, you can either roll for strength; help your team, or roll for acrobatics; slip through the bars of that uncomfortable cage.”
between your skills and macki-mack’s, and the low level of health she, jerrok, and shon the head-crusher sported, you did not expect it be long before they were wiped. but, to stassi’s surprise, your roll for strength is quite powerful . . . but not enough to reach shon the head-crusher.
amidst the confusion, jerrok and shon the head-crusher erupt into argument which bypasses his allotted time to make an action — “in response to your indecision, shon the head-crusher, the nasty octo-thing takes its turn.” — deferring the monster who then torrreeeee through shon the head-crusher, killing him instant, and swept his mangled body away with long, slimy, tentacle-like limbs. “oh no! shon the head-crusher! you have taken too damn long to decide your action!”
he hits both fists over the tabletop, i hate this fuck-ass dungeon, pencils chattering and causing every bit of stassi’s game-board to go airborne. “this monster does not wait for bonus action economy!” she bellows, “it does not wait for multiclass regret -! and it certainly does not wait for you to finish reading your fifth bullet point!”
and roshon, being the sore-loser he has always been, scoots back so hard that his chair scrapes about the aged-wood. and stassi’s game-board goes over. as does the figurines, character sheets, opened chip bags and candy packages, cherry stems, empty sprite cans; the entire table. roshon snatched his glowing red lightsaber, cursing up a storm, and trodded out the door. it slams real bad, which literally shakes the treehouse.
some things just won’t ever change. “. . . told you sickos we should’ve left him up north.” mackenzie rose from the trashed game and grabbed her hot-green toothbrush. it stood above the height of her and to the tall fairy crown dug into her fluffed brown beach-waves. “but no- no one ever listens to mack.”
stassi rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't stick. “because you’re a freakin’ psycho-evil witch,” she spat, yanking the reptilian costume shell back into place as her twin ( fraternal ) marched out of the treehouse — the flimsy wooden door smacked behind her. those play-wings she wore clipped the frame on her way out, rattling this entire structure hard enough to make it sway on its stilts . . .
no one flinched. the treehouse had always wobbled. years of game-destroying and rough-housing and many dramatic exits had made its instability just another part of the experience. the clean-up crew barely looked up before returning to the game.
“know-what?” stassi dropped the character minis and d&d rulebook. “those cavities can straighten up later- ‘cause we aren’t picking this up. come on. let’s go. now.” she ripped her purse ( sparkly with trinkets and chains and pins ) from the shelf, accidentally knocking down a few chapter books; stolen from their middle school library way back when.
as you gathered the layers of costume tulle tangled around your feet, jermajesty fights the urge to reach out and help. he knew it would've been the gentlemanly thing to do. any decent, human guy would've offered a hand without thinking twice. the problem was that he wasn’t sure if he’d . . . remember to let you go.
“have we . . . ever finished’a campaign?” he actually considered it for a moment. he tore open a purple packet of skittles, shaking a few into his palm while he thought. “if you’ve got’a ask,” he said at last, “i think you already know the answer,” while leaning back to pull the treehouse door shut, hinges groaning in protest.
jermajesty gestured outward. you bow kindly and slip forth, careful on the way down these weathered stairs . . . you looked so gorgeous and he wanted to tell you. the gown looked great on you and he couldn’t believe he had never seen you in such a colour before. he’s decided that this shade of red was his favourite on you. crimson. cherry red. jermajesty wanted to talk to you. tell you everything. he wanted to be [alone] with you, but that wasn’t exactly an option. for more obvious reasons than one.
there was a summerween bash to get to . . . mackenzie was already onto him ( so he couldn’t be away with you like this for too long ), and for whatever reason, you didn’t see him that way. this way. as he sees you. he sees floating hearts, you see . . . not hearts? anything other than hearts. not wedding bands. or anything not romance-esque.
“i get nervous when you go quiet like that.” this wasn’t the second time he’s been called out. or the sixth time. or the tenth time. in fact, this month alone, he couldn’t even begin to count the number of times you or roshon or the twins’ve caught him in a daze. “‘nd it’s been happening a lot, actually . . .”
that’s when you completely stop in your track and one gloved hand shoots out and grasps around jermajesty’s forearm, bunching the orange fabric of his naruto cloak beneath all five fingers — it catches him off guard. this was both the best and worse thing to happen right now.
though his face revealed nothing, you were totally apologetic. whispering soft i shouldn’t’ve done that ‘s. when his personal space bubble’s regained, he’s smoothing the wrinkled fabric. you fold both gloved hands over the front of your gown, creating distance, and say, “i feel like i haven’t spoken to my best friend in’a while . . . not really anyways.” not like you use to.
texts and phone calls have become occasional. and having such high activity opposed to the other three in the group was one of the shared qualities between you and jermajesty that allowed you to understand him so well. you knew where his frustrations came from, and he knew where yours came from . . . and right now, his fake confusion was upsetting you.
you wanted to tear that bushy furrowed brow off of his face. he swears everything’s all good. that nothing wrong is happening at home or in his love life. “jer . . .” usually told you about everything. every girl, every failed date, every hookup, every mistake, but he was keeping something from you. that being said, being best friends didn’t mean he was obligated to tell you everything. but the whole point of being best friends was wanting to tell that person everything. “. . . you can’t lie- not to me.”
jermajesty is freaking out inside. his guts were getting ready to uncurl and spew out of his mouth and into this dead patch of grass. he couldn’t acknowledge that he wasn’t being the best friend he was supposed to be . . . but how could he tell you that his mind went berserk over the scent of cherry-almond out in the wild; your signature scent, without freaking you out? or how he literally sat awake at night, scrolling your social media feeds and through the shared photos you and him share?
he couldn’t. not without being weird. and fucking up the group dynamic.
you looked up and down his heated face and felt as if you were missing something. did he take you for an idiot? seriously? “jer . . .? c’mon.” in all the time you and jermajesty have been friends, you had never felt like this — you and him never had a fight at all, actually. sure, you’ve had petty arguments about being late, cancelling plans last minute, him eating your snacks, making dumb choices while drunk, but those always ended in laughter or harmful shoves . . . “stop it, ‘kay? please.”
. . . you and jermajesty had always forgotten twenty minutes later because those things didn’t really matter. this was the first time that it seemed to matter — and you couldn’t believe it was jermajesty. mackenzie? sure. you went at it with her a lot, since elementary. stassi too, but that stopped late middle school. and roshon knew better.
“i . . . don’t’know what you want me’ta say, i -“ and whatever he thought he had vanishes. it just vanishes. disappears into nothing. jermajesty can’t even look at you, so he’s eyeing the dirt, embarrassed.
your shoulders sag in both disappointment and exasperation. you shouldn’t have been letting this bother you. it could’ve been nothing. you might’ve been thinking too much into this. maybe. obviously, right? hopefully.
whatever.
then, you collect the bottom of that cherry red regency gown with gloved hands, lifting the hem just enough to keep it from dragging through the grass and your flats from stepping at the material. “‘m riding with shon.” and you didn’t originally.
before jermajesty could tip his head, you were already moving: you sweep pass him in a rustle of blood red and sequins, stomping across the yard with determined steps, heading straight for the gtr33 . . . instead of jermajesty’s jeep.
