"joe goldberg!" ellie williams + "beck!" f reader . .✦ ݁˖ narrated by ellie.
♫ les - childish gambino ! this is part one.
note: some lines are directly referenced from the netflix show, "you." none of the works belongs to me. <3
❤︎ contains: suggestive content. smut-ish. stalking. part two.
Hello there. I'm Ellie. The real question, who are YOU?
[narrated by ellie] You sound shy. Like you're embarrassed to be a good girl who abids the rules. And you murmur your first word to me.
"Hello. Are you a worker here?"
"Guilty." Ellie grins.
༺༻
[narrated by ellie] You smiled, giggled at my jokes. Told me your name, and even asked for mine first..
Y/n L/n. It definitely rolls off my tongue smoothly. Could probably moan it nicely too.
You my darling, shared every little moment on social media. Every account on public view. Good girl from a small town, enjoys books. Occasionally writes when life gets too numb. You wanted to be seen, heard, and known.
The next thing our little buddy, the internet, revealed to me was your address.
Cute, comfy, small apartment. Plants everywhere. Fuck that, a gajillion plants. Eco-friendly was written all over your home. You seem to care about the little things, far more than most people.
Our day starts during the sun rising. You make your morning coffee everyday, two scoops of sugar with toast in hand. You walk into the world, offering smiles and vibrant energy to your nosy neighbors, constantly getting on your ass for classical music ruckus.
By 10AM, you're on campus.
You're predicable.
Not in a bad way. Or boring. It's pretty cute, actually.
Every Tuesday and Friday, you stop by the same bakery before class. Same order. Same window-side seat. Same writing journal pulled from your bag.
You're one heck of a person though, Y/n.
༺༻
[narrated by ellie] I don't mean to judge. I mean, I have no place to. But doll, you fall for the wrong women. I mean, c'mon? A stuck up butch who can't even do the wonders of making you cum properly?
Why do you continue sleeping with her?
It has to be height. Girls love someone who can tower over them in bed, huh?
Sorry, babe but I'm only a whopping 5'5.
But I could make you orgasm faster than she could ever. That's definitely no problem.
This is exactly why I do my research. These are bad women. You let them in, you let them hurt you. You cherish the small moments where they praise your entire being, but can't seem to acknowledge the times where you know this isn't what you deserve.
My beautiful girl. I'll show you what it feels like to be truly pleasured in every way.
If I was that lucky fuckin' butch right now, i'd eat your pretty pussy, with a finger inside twirling inside of you with no complaints.
Fuck, She can't even do shit to help you get off! It's eating me up alive knowing I can't assist you.
In the meantime, i'll practice on the slutty neighbor next door. She clearly is deprived of sexual attention. Knocks at my door frequently with the tiniest skirts i've ever seen!
But don't be jealous, doll. I'm just figuring out the million of ways I can please you. You see, I'm not the most experienced, but I need to be perfect for you.
Do you like sex toys? Or do you prefer the good ol' traditional sex? Whatever, I'll research on both. There's not a line in the world that I wouldn't cross for you, Y/n.
summary: A helpless noise leaves his lips and, before he can think better of it, Joe’s holding the branch and snapping it in half.
“I wish he loved me more than anyone in the world,” he says.
…Nothing happens. Joe laughs defeatedly.
After numerous failed confessions, Joe decides to open the One Wish Willow he’d originally gotten you as a gag gift. Neither of you are into that kind of thing, and as he breaks it, he’s shaking his head in disbelief. He’s surprised that he’s even bothering to use it.
And he’s even more surprised when his wish soon comes true.
word count: 10.1k | ao3 version | joe playlist
author’s notes: gotta say, i watched this movie a week ago. usually it only takes me a few days at most to churn out a fic abt a movie i like, but this one took longer because my work week was INSANE. i was curb-stomped and left for dead (figuratively) by this week, omg. one of the worst i've had in several years. but. we shall persist. i'm here and i'm still queer, so. here we go.
This is based on the movie Obsession. It is really really good, omg. Highly recommend watching it! There will be some slight spoilers to the premise of that movie here… The movie’s about a guy using a One Wish Willow to wish that his crush is in love with him. Safe to say, it gets crazy fast.
This is Joe/Reader focused. The reader’s pronouns are he/him; race is ambiguous. The reader has tattoos and wears glasses. There’s a moment where you have dyed hair "fading to reveal your natural hair color", but exact color/length/texture isn’t specified!
Please please consider the warnings below before deciding to read! This one’s a doozy.
Warnings: self-harm, mutilation, gore, blood, obsession, dubious consent/lack of consent in a romantic relationship, stalking, possessive behavior, jealousy. suggestive humor and implications of NSFW activity.
Joe Goldberg isn’t a very faithful person. He doesn’t believe in a god, doesn’t quite believe in fate or destiny or anything like that. From his experience, the wide majority of people tend to believe in something, even if it’s not traditional religion: horoscopes, psychics, nihilism, anything and everything. Humans need answers, are quite literally built and made to be problem-solvers. Yet the nature of existence remains the one truly unsolved dilemma, so naturally, each person turns to something different.
Joe didn’t think he’d be able to find a kindred spirit.
You first enter his life at 8:51 a.m. on Monday, September 15. He remembers the day with vivid clarity—even without the extensive notes he took that night, Joe can see it unfolding all over again...
He’s getting Mooney’s ready for opening at 9. It’s an average, ordinary day. Mr. Mooney informs him that the new employee is starting today, and Joe is somewhat irritated and skeptical. The bookstore tends to run through employees somewhat quickly, with its proximity to the college campus, flexible scheduling, and generous wages. They attract all kinds of people, and 95% of the time, they’re completely insufferable.
Like Ethan, for example. Joe has never particularly cared for him. This morning, his coworker is cleaning the store windows and humming under his breath. This doesn’t help Joe’s headache.
When the door swings open, the bell above the frame tinkling in warning, Joe braced himself for the newest in a line of incompetent hires. His eyes flitted to the entrance of their own accord…
And in walks you. You’re wearing a collared shirt underneath a denim jacket with a sherpa collar; black pants, maybe slacks; and boots. Headphones rest around your neck, fingerless gloves cover your hands to ward off the cold, and your glasses are still dark from the early morning sunshine. You’re soon turning off your headphones and pocketing your phone, your eyes finding him.
“…Hi,” you say awkwardly, lingering in the entryway of the bookstore. You remove your gloves and scuff your boots against the doormat to get rid of any debris. “Mr. Mooney said to get here at 9?”
“Hello,” Joe responds. “You must be the new hire. I’m Joe.” When you offer your name in return, he repeats it in his head numerous times.
“Sorry, my hands are cold,” you say before shaking his hand. And as you warned him, your hands are like ice.
“No problem,” Joe responds politely. “I can show you around, help you get settled…?”
You take the hint and follow behind him, listening quietly as he walks you through the space and some of the shelves. He takes a detour to the break room to let you put your stuff down. You shrug off your jacket, unknowingly hanging it up next to his own jacket. Joe makes a note to dig through your pockets later, thumb through your wallet. He notices that you put some of the more important stuff in your employee locker, but Mr. Mooney has spare keys for all of those anyway. It should be pretty easy to slip in and learn more about you.
Once you’re ready, Joe takes you through their bookshelves and explains their organization—romance over there, horror off to the left, science-fiction directly ahead, et cetera. You take it all in and politely respond to all of his questions. It’s clear you’re a bit overwhelmed, which is natural. He only hopes you don’t have some sort of glaring, irritating habit that will make you difficult to work with. Joe killed the last employee for chewing his gum too loudly.
“Here’s your nametag,” Joe says, handing over the fake golden plaque over to you. At least it’s one of the nicer magnetic ones, so you don’t have to poke holes in your shirts. Unfortunately, you all still have to wear it.
“Oh,” you blink, taking it from his hand. “Thanks.”
“Unnecessary, I know,” Joe says wryly. “Mr. Mooney thinks it’ll help if we’re more approachable.”
Something like a grimace passes across your face quickly, but you put it on without further complaint.
“Looking good,” Joe nods.
“Hey, guys!” the bane of Joe’s existence says. Ethan walks over with an easy smile. He has warm brown skin, curly brown hair, and a full beard and mustache. He wears a thin pair of wire glasses and a flannel shirt. Joe resists the urge to yell at him for no apparent reason. He doesn’t hate Ethan. The guy is just… far too happy-go-lucky for his liking.
“This is Ethan,” Joe manages to say, maintaining his composure. “Ethan, the new hire,” Joe finishes, enunciating your name smoothly.
“Nice to meet you,” you say with an awkward smile.
“You too, man,” Ethan smiles. “Hey, I hope Joe here hasn’t been giving you the run-around.”
“No, no,” you reply. “It’s just… a lot. Obviously.”
“Well, we’re always here to help,” he nods. “Right, Joe?”
“Yeah,” Joe agrees reluctantly.
“I can show you where we get our deliveries,” Ethan says, segueing into the next part of your training. “C’mon.”
You follow after Ethan, leaving Joe to stare after you silently. He hopes you’ll be a good fit for the team. You seem normal enough. They just need someone normal, relatively pleasant. Bonus points if they have good book knowledge and can do quick math at the register. That’s all. Working at Mooney’s isn’t exactly rocket science.
Though having a decent personality and being likeable does go a long way. Having palatable taste in books gets you in Joe’s good books, pun intended.
“So, what kind of books do you like?” Joe asks casually that afternoon. This will be indicative of a lot more than you realize. If you say something stupid like Colleen Hoover, he’ll have to kill off the new hire again. And Mr. Mooney won’t be happy about it.
“Horror, mostly,” you respond. “And gothic. Sometimes sci-fi…” You make a vague hand motion to suggest that these are just a few of the several genres you enjoy.
“How specific,” he notes somewhat sarcastically.
You give him a disbelieving look. “How was that not specific?!” you huff.
“I’m kidding,” Joe says with a thin smile.
You roll your eyes. “What kind of books do you like, then?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. You look triumphant already, as if you know that his answer won’t measure up to yours. (Probably because it won’t.)
“It depends,” Joe answers. He shoves a hand in the pocket of his apron, tries to look nonchalant. “I’ll read anything with words, at this point.”
“That’s… charitable of you,” you settle for saying, your lips quirking in a slightly amused smile at his cop-out answer. “You could’ve just said you didn’t have a favorite.”
“Oh, I do,” Joe says, eyes snapping up to yours as he comes to a brilliant idea. “It’s self-help,” he lies shamelessly, if only to see how you respond.
Your reaction is completely priceless. Your eyes widen, you tense up, and you look like you’re regretting every decision that led you here. Then you see the joking smile on my face and relax. “You had me going for a second there,” you admit.
“Your face completely dropped,” Joe notes with genuine amusement.
“Yeah, because self-help is garbage,” you scoff.
“Maybe your preferences are garbage,” Joe teases.
“Right, homoeroticism is just so disgusting and gross, isn’t it?” you joke right back.
“I see what you’re doing,” Joe huffs, fighting off another smile.
Across the next few days, he’s forced to admit that you’re a good hire. You’re hard-working; you learn quickly; you’re very quick on the register (and when he comments on this, you remind him that you worked in food service during high school); you can hold a conversation with customers. But that isn’t even all.
No, you aren’t just a good hire. You’re interesting. Genuinely fascinating, captivating. Every time he learns something new about you, he only grows more invested and interested. Joe finds it hard to believe that you even exist at all, because complex people like you really only exist in the books on their shelves. Sometimes, he looks at you and feels like writing.
Apparently, his preoccupation with you hasn’t gone unnoticed either.
“Joe,” Ethan says, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“What?” he practically spits, irritated by the interruption. Ethan picks up a book and waves it over his face, before holding it right over where Joe was looking. Blocking you from his vision. Joe looks over in annoyance. “Stop that.”
“I was asking about the delivery this morning,” Ethan reminds him.
“What about it?” Joe asks, subtly trying to look around the book blocking his sight of you.
“God, you’re whipped,” Ethan mutters under his breath instead, pinching the bridge of his nose and reluctantly placing the book on top of his stack. “Never mind. Just stop staring at the new guy.”
“This coming from the one who made out with a coworker during a shift? In the store?” Joe reminds him.
“Hey, that was a chaste kiss,” Ethan corrects him.
At that exact moment, you’re guiding a customer over to the register—right next to where Joe is standing. Which means you likely heard that. You give them both an amused look and start ringing up the customer’s purchase. Once they’re gone, you turn to your coworkers.
“All I heard was ‘chaste kiss’,” you say dryly. “Do I want to know what you were talking about?”
“Probably not,” Joe answers.
“Hypothetically speaking,” Ethan says, bulldozing any further response from Joe, “would you share a chaste kiss—”
“Stop saying ‘chaste kiss’,” Joe interjects.
“—with a coworker in the store,” Ethan finishes.
“Uh…” you trail off, perplexed by the turn in conversation. “No.”
“No,” you squint. A beat. “Hypothetically or otherwise.”
“You guys are no fun,” Ethan says with a roll of his eyes, wandering off to complete shelving the pile of books in his hands.
“Ethan’s why we have HR now,” Joe remarks dryly.
“You didn’t have it before?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
Joe shrugs lazily.
You laugh.
He watches you walk away, warmth rising in his chest.
One rainy afternoon, Joe and you stand behind the counter, bored out of your minds. All of the new books and any returns have been shelved; there aren’t any customers; and the store is sparkling clean. There’s nothing to do except sit here.
And stare at you. Joe sneaks glances every few seconds, slowly stealing details. Smudged ink on your pinky finger, probably from taking inventory earlier. Indigo hair fading to reveal your natural color—a somewhat failed dye job, you had told him yesterday. Veins crawling along your hand, as you scroll through items on your phone screen at breakneck pace. Glasses sliding down your nose slightly, fingers occasionally wandering up to pick at your lips. Posture unusual as always, this time with one leg perched on the chair and the other one dangling off it. Sneakers scuffed at the edges.
“What?” you ask him.
“Hm?” He blinks.
“You’re staring,” you note.
“Sorry,” Joe says. He’s not sorry. “Didn’t mean to.” Another lie. He meant to.
“It’s fine,” you reassure him. “Not much else to do,” you huff in amusement. How quick you are to make excuses for other people, even when—especially when—they don’t deserve them.
Joe nods in agreement. He smooths his fingers over his jeans, flattening out a nonexistent wrinkle before finally uttering the words. They’ve been weighing on his mind recently.
“Do you believe in anything?” he asks curiously.
You look up from your phone, powering it off and giving him your full attention. Polite as always. Joe watches you contemplate the question.
“Not really, no,” you respond. A beat. “Do you?”
“No,” Joe answers. An unspoken agreement forms between you, and the silence is more companionable after that.
“So,” Ethan says with a playful smile, nudging his shoulder, “are you ever going to ask him out, or are we just keeping it this awkward forever?”
“What now?” Joe asks, blinking remnants of morning fatigue from his eyes. It’s too early to be dealing with his coworker’s optimism and cheery attitude. He wants to go to sleep. He spent way too long just lying in bed last night, picturing you asleep next to him. For some reason, his mind couldn’t quiet down enough.
“Come on, you know who I’m talking about, Joe,” Ethan scoffs, before looking over at you pointedly. You’re wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt over a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. You’re studying the book in your hands, not seeming to notice their attention. Ethan turns back to Joe. “So?” he prompts him.
Joe gives him a harsh look. Unsurprisingly, his coworker doesn’t even acknowledge it. “I’m working on it,” Joe says through gritted teeth.
“Well, you should work a bit quicker,” Ethan advises. “Or Sarah might get there first.”
Joe looks over at you, noticing that Sarah has engaged you in conversation now as she laughs with you. Sarah is one of the few competent hires who has popped up over the last few years. She has a good sense of humor, she’s nice, and she’s a hard worker.
She also has feelings for you. And everyone but you knows. It’s not necessarily awkward, more just frustrating for Joe. Sarah’s desire for you is blatant. But you continue to give her those friendly smiles, your biting sarcasm, your compassion and politeness. It pisses Joe off.
Maybe he really should do something about it. And no, Joe knows he can’t kill Sarah or get rid of her—as much as he wants to. Sarah is, again, one of their few good workers, and her absence would just spell even more inconvenience and irritation in his daily life.
Joe will just have to make a move before she does.
Joe’s opportunity arises late one night after close, when he and you are the only ones left in the bookstore. You both started in the afternoon, working until the shop’s closing hours and then proceeding to clean, double-check inventory, count the registers, and ensure everything is in order for the next morning.
You’re both relatively quiet as you get your tasks done. Just a few of the many things Joe admires about you: you’re the complete opposite of a slacker, diligent and hard-working; and you don’t feel the need to fill silence with meaningless small talk.
The registers are left for last, and you finish yours before Joe does (which he blames on his distraction, and the fact that he loses count every time you look over at him.) This leaves you leaning against the counter and tapping on your phone as he finishes up. You scowl and then let out an irritated huff.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you respond. “Uber sucks.”
“I thought you had a car,” Joe frowns. He’s been so busy with work for the past few days that he hasn’t even had time to observe you. He knows you have a car—did something happen to it?
“I do,” you answer. “My brother’s home for spring break. I promised him I’d let him use it, so.”
“That’s nice of you,” Joe remarks.
“It’s not a big deal,” you shrug. “I mostly just use it for commuting. And groceries. Besides, he drove me this morning.”
“He can’t pick you up tonight?” he asks with a slight lilt to his voice, almost disapproving. You don’t seem to notice it.
“No, he’s at a concert with his friends,” you respond. “Trying to decide if I should risk being a murder victim by taking the bus…”
“I wouldn’t take the bus this late,” Joe frowns. The prospect gives him several unpleasant thoughts, as he ponders the numerous unsavory characters that frequent the buses late at night here. “I can drive you.”
You blink in surprise. “Seriously?” you ask, as if he’s somehow going to take the offer back. “You sure?”
“Yeah, of course,” Joe nods. “We live kind of close anyway.” It’s a very easy decision to make, plus, it’ll finally give him some alone time with you today. Every time he got close to confessing his feelings for you, you two were interrupted: first by Ethan, asking for a price check; then Sarah, wandering into the break room to grab a drink from the fridge; then by a customer… Joe eventually just stopped trying.
“That’d be great, thanks,” you answer, breaking him out of his thoughts. “You want to get food or something? I’ll pay.”
Generous as always. Joe shakes his head. “No, that’s okay,” he replies. “Unless you want to.”
You also shake your head. “Nah,” you reply.
Joe finishes up with the register and starts locking up. Before long, the two of you are sharing a companionable silence as he drives through the city streets. He asked you for the address of your place to maintain pretense, despite knowing exactly where it is and how to get there from the bookstore. You notice this, as you joke that it seems like he’s been there before. (A joke that, unbeknownst to you, is entirely true.)
By some miracle, he manages to find an empty spot on the street. As he parks the vehicle and you grab your bag, Joe decides to go for it.
“I wanted to tell you something, actually,” he remarks, watching your reaction. You look up from where you’d been digging in your bag for your keys.
“Sure, what’s up?” you ask.
Joe tries to find the words. He has them, but for some reason, it’s impossible to verbalize them. He spends several seconds rearranging them, trying to find some way to allude to his feelings without speaking on them directly…
And he gives up, like a coward. Because he isn’t exactly experienced in this arena, where he wants someone who hasn’t shown any indication of liking him back. Joe likes that you’re independent, likes that you’re closed-off and self-assured. It just makes this conversation slightly more difficult.
“...Actually, never mind,” he says with a shake of his head.
A slight frown. “You sure?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he nods.
“Okay,” you blink, shooting him a concerned look but dropping the subject, “have a good night. Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem,” Joe responds woodenly. “You too.”
He watches you head into the building before putting his head in his hands and groaning. How is he so bad at this? Joe has done this dance countless times before, but for some reason, it’s much harder with you. You don’t fall for any of the stupid pick-up lines, you don’t really seem swayed by flirting, you’re not desperate or romantic. You aren’t the type of person he’d typically fall for.
He pulls your intended gift out of the console. A One Wish Willow. It was more of a gag gift than anything else; Joe thought you would get a laugh out of it—hell, you probably would’ve, if he had even attempted to give it to you. But something about being around you just makes him so nervous and awkward.
Joe sighs and opens the box, startling and nearly dropping the fake branch as it starts chiming and playing music. He hadn’t expected that. He stares down at the ornate toy, turning it in his hands. The commercial jingle stops a few seconds later, leaving him sitting there in solitude.
Joe scoffs. He can’t believe he bought it. So fucking stupid. It’s not like the thing would ever work; it’s just a scam for money, as many things are. What possessed him to get it for you in the first place? Sure, it could’ve been an inside joke, but come on. Maybe Ethan’s right for once—maybe Joe just needs to grow some courage and finally admit to his feelings. Because this sappy ambiguous shit clearly isn’t working.
A helpless noise leaves his lips and, before he can think better of it, Joe’s holding the branch and snapping it in half.
“I wish he loved me more than anyone in the world,” he says.
…Nothing happens.
Joe laughs defeatedly and returns the broken halves and empty box to the center console. Just as he’s about to shift gears, he pays one last look at your apartment building. He looks up to your window first, frowning when he sees the curtains are still drawn and the lights are off. Joe’s been sitting here for several minutes now—you should be home by now.
His gaze falls down to the steps and he nearly chokes on his next breath. A silhouetted, shadowy figure stands there. It looks like something out of a horror movie, until he realizes it’s just you.
He rolls down his window and looks over at you. “Hey, you okay?” Joe asks.
You blink and head down the steps, stopping a short distance from his open window.
“Yeah,” you answer, leaning down toward the sedan window to meet his eyes. “Why?”
“What’re you still doing out here?” Joe frowns.
“Oh, I couldn’t remember… if I thanked you for the ride,” you murmur, meeting his eyes before looking away.
“You did,” Joe remarks fondly.
“Oh,” you reply. “Well. Thanks again.” A hesitant smile.
“Anytime,” he answers. And he means that.
But you don’t leave like he expects you to. Instead you just stand there, your arm resting in the window, hand dangling into his car. You look almost frozen in time.
“You have your keys?” Joe asks somewhat stiffly, unsure of how to proceed.
“Oh, yeah, I do,” you answer, holding them up in your other hand.
“Good,” he nods.
It’s quiet. Tense. Awkward as hell. He isn’t sure what’s happening.
“I’m sorry,” you then say in a punched-out breath, a sheepish smile on your face. You shake your head. “I’m being weird.”
“No, no, it’s… it’s fine,” Joe says, laughing helplessly. He waves you off. “I am too.”
Another smile from you. You seem happy tonight. “Good,” you nod. “We’re both…… being weird.” There’s a strange note in your voice at the end there and Joe frowns.
“Are you okay?” he can’t help but ask. This whole interaction is a bit strange.
“Never better!” you respond.
“Oh— Okay,” Joe blinks, momentarily thrown by the enthusiastic response.
Then you sigh, gripping the car door. “Actually, I…” you frown, blinking hard, “...feel kinda weird.” You waver on your feet a bit.
“Whoa,” Joe says, “Shit—” He quickly gets out of the driver’s seat, rounding the car and steadying you as you wobble again.
“Sorry, I…” you say, blinking hard. “I guess I’m coming down with something,” you mumble.
Joe frowns at that, his grip on your upper arm tight. “You were just sick a few days ago, I thought,” he reminds you.
“Oh yeah,” you remark, as if somehow just remembering that. “Yeah. That’s right…”
“You’re kind of freaking me out,” Joe admits, looking at you with concern. You’re very spacey. He’s never seen you act like this before. He wants to blame it on sickness, but this seems a bit too sudden.
“I didn’t mean to,” you say with a slight scowl, which Joe would find incredibly endearing if he weren’t focused on keeping you upright.
“Should I help you inside?” he offers.
“Uh… sure,” you agree. “I mean. No. Yes? Maybe.”
Joe presses a hand to your forehead. You feel slightly warm, but it’s nothing too crazy. In all honesty, he’s not completely sure he should leave you alone at home tonight. And is part of that a selfish desire? Absolutely. Does he care? No, not really.
“It’s no problem,” Joe hums. “You don’t look so good.”
He waits for a characteristic remark—‘Wow, thanks’—but that’s not what he gets. Instead, you just hum and agree, “Okay.”
Joe isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he ducks into his car to remove the keys and lock it before leading you up to your building. He already knows where he’s going, even though he’s never been invited to your apartment before. His hand is steady on your upper arm as you walk.
“How are you holding up?” Joe asks as you wait for the elevator.
“Fine,” you reply. “Thanks. Just… a bit off, I guess.”
He hums and the two of you enter the elevator. “It’s late,” Joe agrees. “Late for you, anyway. It’s past your bedtime,” he teases, remembering you tend to go to bed earlier than most.
You laugh under your breath. Joe fights off a smile, settling for focusing on the illuminated numbers rising across the display.
“Sorry, I haven’t dusted in a bit,” you remark as you unlock your door and open it for him.
Joe huffs in amusement as he enters the space. “I think I’ll survive,” he says. “You should sit.”
“I’m gonna go to bed soon, I think,” you frown.
“Okay,” Joe agrees easily. And he wants to stay more than anything, but he knows he can’t do that without you extending an invitation. You’d call him out on it instantly. “Well, hang in there. Text me in the morning.”
You nod habitually, your head bobbing a few more additional times. A contemplative expression rises on your face. “No, wait, you should stay,” you offer. “...If you want.”
Joe can hardly believe his luck. “Of course I do,” he responds somewhat hoarsely. He clears his throat. “I don’t want you to be alone if you’re feeling shitty.” Bullshit. He just doesn’t want to leave you.
“Thanks,” you say. “I’m gonna shower real quick. Make yourself at home, I guess.”
Joe has snuck in here before, but being invited into your space makes him appreciate it with fresh eyes. Books crammed into a bookshelf, various game controllers near your TV, a few plushies and pillows thrown across the couch. It’s a comfortable space, not too overwhelming or stifling. Joe takes his shoes off and walks around for a while longer before settling on the couch. He’s pleased to note that it’s comfortable, considering it’s probably where he’ll be sleeping tonight.
You emerge from the shower in a somewhat oversized, worn T-shirt and pajama pants. He’s never seen you like this up close—he’s definitely caught glimpses from your window, but Joe hasn’t been within arm’s reach like this. It’s tempting.
“Santa pajamas?” is about the only thing he can get himself to say. “It’s not anywhere near Christmas.”
You huff, brushing a hand over the fabric at your thigh self-consciously. “Shut up,” you say weakly. You duck your head. “...I should change.”
“No, no,” Joe immediately backpedals. “The outfit’s cute.”
You don’t seem convinced by this, but you don’t withdraw to change clothing, so Joe calls it a win. He watches you make your way through the apartment with practiced ease, and he wonders if he’ll have the privilege of that familiarity someday too.
“You want anything to eat or drink?” you offer.
“Water’s fine,” Joe replies. He thanks you when you fetch him a glass; he takes a few sips before placing it on the side table. Now that you’re in warmer lighting, he can tell that you’re pretty tired. “You should sleep. You don’t have to stay up for me.”
“Oh, okay,” you say. “I… was gonna say you could sleep in my bed. It’s big enough.”
Joe’s heart nearly fails.
“I— Sure, if you’re comfortable with it,” he manages to say, his skin feeling warm.
Immune to his shock, you nod and beckon him to come after you. Joe enters your bedroom in a daze, barely even willing to take in all the details of the space as he sits on the bed next to you. He’s hesitant to get under the covers, considering he’s wearing the same outfit he wore to work. Sleeping in jeans wouldn’t be comfortable.
“Oh, wait, I have some sweatpants,” you realize, getting to your feet and heading for your dresser. You toss them over to him. “They should fit you.”
“Thanks,” Joe responds, resisting the urge to smell the fabric. Instead he ducks into the ensuite bathroom and changes, before returning and getting under the covers with you. You both sit there facing forward, and it is beyond awkward.
“So,” Joe says languidly, “Nice weather we’re having.”
No scoff from you, no roll of your eyes, no annoyed huff. Nothing. That doesn’t necessarily make Joe feel any better. He takes a deep breath in, out. In, out. In, out.
Your shoulder is touching his.
Joe doesn’t stiffen. He just stays frozen, unable to shake the conviction that you’ll come to him. This isn’t necessarily how he envisioned this going down—he always expected that he would have to spell it out for you pretty clearly, because you’ve mentioned you don’t like ambiguity. Joe didn’t see you making the first move.
Yet here you are, slowly but surely turning until you’re facing him. Your eyes meet his. Neither of you speak. You lean forward, your hand finds the nape of his neck, and you kiss him. Joe reciprocates immediately, a hand rising to cradle your cheek. Your lips move against his, his hand slips to your waist, and just as things start to heat up, you’re breaking away.
Not just breaking away, either. You scramble backwards, nearly falling off the bed in your urgency. Joe stares at you in surprise, only to find you staring back with wide eyes and a frightened look on your face.
“Sorry, I—” you stammer, looking panicked. Your chest is rising and falling quickly. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, heart thundering in his chest. Did he do something wrong? No. That’s not possible.
“Yeah, I—” you struggle for words. “That was too fast. I’m not… That shouldn’t…” You pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration.
“Hey,” Joe interjects. “We don’t have to label… whatever this is. Just try to get some rest.”
“Okay,” you nod. “Okay. You’re right.”
You get to your feet and slip under the covers again. Despite your new company, you fall asleep rather quickly.
Joe doesn’t.
“Dude, what happened?” Ethan interrogates him within moments of Joe’s arrival at Mooney’s the next morning. “Did you finally hook up?”
“What?” Joe says. “No.”
“You walked in together—” he points out.
“He wasn’t feeling well last night,” Joe explains tiredly. “I didn’t want to leave him alone.”
“Uh-huh,” Ethan drawls. “No ulterior motives there, I’m sure.”
“None,” Joe agrees. Then he gives Ethan a sharp look when he detects the sarcasm.
“Hey, just sayin’,” he responds, raising his hands in mock-surrender. “You’ve been giving him the fuck-me eyes for months, and now you’re suddenly a gentleman?”
“Go check inventory,” Joe huffs. Ethan gives him a knowing grin but walks off to do just that. And as Joe turns, he finds you standing across the store. You smile hesitantly. He feels himself smiling in return.
The next few days feel like a dream sequence.
For whatever reason, you’re still speaking with him—despite the awkwardness of the previous night. Even more, you’re going out of your way to talk to him: nudging his shoulder when he walks by, giving him knowing looks from across the shop, slipping notes into his apron pocket when he’s distracted.
It’s stupid, it’s silly. And somehow, it’s making Joe feel kind of giddy. He has your attention. Finally. He was playing the long game, but now he has the prize: you. Joe isn’t sure what exactly pushed you over the edge, but now, it’s like he’s fixed in the center of your solar system.
You’re texting him every day, sending him memes and the occasional photo of something that ‘reminded you of him’. You’re bringing coffee for the both of you in the mornings, you’re filching Joe’s sweatshirt instead of yours when you get cold in the store.
And you’re kissing again, this time in his car as he drives you home again. He stays the night, wakes up with you turned on your side and facing him, shirt thrown off in the warmth of your bedroom. Joe runs his fingers along your bare skin: shoulder, ribs, hip. You eventually wake up and the two of you share a nice breakfast, before walking to work hand-in-hand. Boyfriends, Joe tells anyone who asks. He finally has you to himself.
You’ve warmed up to him, it seems. The cutting sarcasm, the wry quips, the dark humor… It’s all starting to fade. And Joe convinces himself that this is just what you’re like in romantic relationships. You haven’t been in one for a while, based on his research, so Joe convinces himself he’s gotten through to you in a way no one else has.
He doesn’t think to question this theory until later. At which point, it’s already too late.
It’s a quiet morning in the bookshop.
Joe is stocking one of the shelves when someone addresses him.
“Hello,” a sunny voice says. “Do you work here?”
Joe turns around to face the blond woman who had spoken. “Guilty,” he says with a wry smile. He shoves his free hand in his pocket, studies the woman a bit more intently now that he’s up close. Her hair tumbles from her messy bun; she clutches the leather bag on her shoulder with her right hand, green eyes roving the nearby shelves with interest. “Can I help you find something?” he asks.
“Paula Fox,” she responds.
“Good choice,” Joe responds with a nod.
She smiles, fiddles with her necklace flirtatiously and humming. “I feel weirdly validated.”
Joe guides her to the area a few shelves away. “Fox is right over here, in the celebrity section,” he informs her, watching her eyebrows furrow in confusion.
“Celebrity?” she frowns. “Weird. I thought she was obscure.”
Joe’s next response is locked in his throat, as his gaze flits over her shoulder and finds you standing across the shop. You’re holding a few books that need to be reshelved, but you aren’t making any attempt to actually put them away. Instead, you’re staring. Right at him.
He shoots you an awkward smile. You don’t respond. You’re so still that you look like a statue. Joe’s heart kicks up in his chest as he sees your fists clenched beneath the books, fingernails digging into your palms hard enough to leave marks. When you notice him looking, your head tilts slightly and you give him a cheery smile. Fake.
Joe’s ears finally stop ringing, only for him to realize the customer he’d been helping is still talking. “I’m sorry, what was that?” he says with an apologetic smile, the one he’s practiced in the mirror countless times.
“Oh, nothing,” she says with a kind smile, sensing his thoughts are elsewhere. “Thanks for the help.”
Joe plasters on a wooden smile. “Of course.”
Even as he ducks down the next aisle, he feels your gaze following him. And it makes his skin crawl. Joe tries to busy himself with inventory, and this helps for a little while, before there’s a sudden presence at his side.
“What was that about?” you ask, successfully scaring the shit out of Joe. He nearly puts a hand to his chest, managing to turn and look at you with a mostly calm expression.
“What was what?” he questions.
“You know what,” you respond, voice lilting near the end. Perceptive.
“The customer?” Joe clarifies. “She just wanted help finding something.”
A blink. You’re fiddling with your fingers, looking over at him before quickly looking askance. “You’re so helpful,” you mumble adoringly. And that’s when Joe realizes: You were jealous. And now you’re fidgeting and stammering because you want his attention.
He’s never seen this side of you before. He kind of likes it. Though Joe could do without the unblinking observation—that’s best left to men like him.
…You don’t feel right.
The sensation first started as you were entering your apartment building the other day, after your coworker Joe dropped you off. It started as a kind of lurching feeling, as if you were being pulled back toward him. For some reason, the thought of parting with him that night was painful, almost nauseating. You tasted bile rising in your throat, and you were moving of your own accord—twisting back around and approaching his car once more.
Through the ensuing conversation, you felt as if you were getting pulled in ten different directions. You felt happy, sad, irritated, confused, frustrated. Your vision was spinning a bit, your balance uneasy. You didn’t know what happened to you—still don’t—you just knew something was off.
Joe offered to walk you up to your apartment; you agreed before you could even contemplate the choice. Then you asked him to stay, and he did. You kissed him first, very uncharacteristic… Then you panicked a bit, trying to sleep off the weird feeling in your chest. Waking up the next morning only made it worse. You got to work that day and felt off-kilter, distracted by every movement Joe was making. Your eyes kept following him, almost of their own accord. You’d tense up every time he got close, while simultaneously trying to situate yourself as close to him as possible. You’d grit your teeth every time he talked with someone else. It was weird.
A few nights later, you ended up at his place somehow—you don’t really remember how that happened—and now you’re boyfriends. Makes perfect sense. Right? Right. It’s completely normal to feel like you’re a passenger inside your own body, to be powerless in your actions and words, to have memories of a recent relationship already splintering and fragmenting. Normal. Mundane. Ordinary. You’re content. You’re happy. Happy happy happy happy happy happy.
“Hey.”
Your head swivels as you find Sarah standing across from you, a sympathetic look on her face. Her wavy dark hair sits just above her shoulders, contrasting nicely with the pastel collared shirt she’s wearing under the bookstore apron. She’s wearing black pants and sneakers to complete the look; she taps her black nails on the counter restlessly.
“Hi,” you remember to answer, the greeting feeling somewhat forced despite the fact that the two of you are pretty close.
“I just wanted to check in on you, see if you’re okay?” Sarah suggests. There’s something in the way she’s looking at you, almost as if she’s studying you, scrutinizing you. But why? Why would she do that?
“Of course I am,” you respond after a moment, blinking at her. “Why?”
A slight grimace. She takes a slow breath. “I don’t know…” she starts. Sarah glances over her shoulder as if making sure no one else is listening. “Listen. It just seems sudden, this whole thing with Joe.”
“Joe?” you echo. “Why? I love him.” If you were to think about it, you’d wonder where this conviction came from. But you aren’t given the chance. Your verbal filter is nonexistent, and the words leaving your lips aren’t really even yours. They’re someone else’s, or maybe, more accurately, an echo of yourself. As if some divine force is imposing its will on you and forcing you to act a certain way, play a specific role.
No. That’s silly. You love Joe Goldberg. You’re not sure of much, but you’re definitely sure of that.
“You… love him,” Sarah repeats skeptically.
“I love him so much,” you agree with a nod, looking at her earnestly. “So so so very much.”
Sarah has a weird look on her face. Her arms are crossed over her chest, she’s leaning against the counter, and she appears… almost worried. “Okay,” she frowns. Her eyes flit about your face, and you have to wonder what she’s looking for. “You realize you only started dating, like, a week ago, right?”
“So?” you huff defensively.
“I just— You’re acting really weird,” Sarah remarks. Yeah. She definitely looks concerned. What is she so worried about? You’re dating Joe. Everything’s perfect! Life could literally never be better than this!
Then, a throwaway remark, helpless and slightly dark. “I mean, seriously, did he cast a spell on you or something?” she huffs.
You blink. Blink. Blink. It feels like you’re going to throw up, but what leaves your throat is a very stilted laugh.
“Hahhahhahahahah!” you laugh. It sounds high-pitched and fake, even to your own ears. “Hahahahhahahha.” A beat. “That’s so true!”
Sarah only looks more suspicious now. “Are you on drugs?” she asks bluntly.
“What?” you startle. “No, of course not. I’m—” A brief moment of clarity, piercing through the fog. “I’m on too many meds, you know that.”
“Okay,” Sarah nods after a second. “Good.”
You try to give her a reassuring smile, even though it feels like it’s melting off of your lips. And it must be too wide, too sharp, too pointed, too much of something, because Sarah looks genuinely discomfited by the gesture.
A hand lands on your shoulder. “Why don’t you go take your break, baby?” Joe suggests, squeezing your shoulder reassuringly.
“Okay,” you agree easily.
The moment you’re gone, the air in the room changes. Joe and Sarah stare at one another. Sarah breaks the silence first.
“What did you do to him?” she asks.
Joe raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t do anything,” he responds. “He’s my boyfriend. We’re dating.” And yes, saying that does feel particularly good.
Sarah frowns, unconvinced. “He’s infatuated,” she notes. “All lovey-dovey. And he’s not the type.”
“And you would know?” Joe challenges.
“I mean, yeah,” Sarah replies certainly. “He’s never this bubbly. Anyone here can see he’s been acting weird.”
“Are you sure you aren’t the one acting weird?” Joe questions smoothly. “Considering, you know, you have feelings for him too?”
She freezes. Got her.
“Yeah,” Joe says, giving her a fake understanding smile. “I knew about that.”
Sarah gives him a dark look. “I don’t know what you did,” she practically seethes, “but I damn well hope you can undo it.” She walks off to the break room, probably inventing an excuse to keep talking to you. Let her talk.
Joe’s the one who has you.
For a few days, dating you is perfect.
Then Joe starts to notice something. He assumes he’s overthinking it at first, but when the pattern keeps cropping up, he has to put it to the test. Because, if he’s right, then… well. He’s not sure what will happen.
The bottom line: You’re being unusually agreeable recently. Every time Joe states an opinion on something or makes a preference clear, you’re quick to adopt it for yourself. And sure, it could be mere coincidence. But he knows you’re an opinionated person, and you tend to stand strong in your beliefs. You wouldn’t compromise any part of yourself to be in a relationship — Joe knows that, because you told him as much back on a slow Tuesday at the bookstore.
It’s really strange. Your existing preferences are slowly being paved over by whatever Joe decides. You’re way more conciliatory now, as if you’re avoiding even the slightest hint of tension or disagreement. Joe would understand if it were for larger issues, but it seems like everything down to the way you take your coffee and your favorite book genre is changing.
So, a test. It’s relatively easy to get you talking about books, as Joe mentions a popular release that’s been doing well at the bookstore. Then, he goes for it.
“What do you think of American Psycho?” he asks. Because Joe knows you have some very strong opinions on that book: namely, that the author’s prejudices suffocated any true potential Patrick Bateman has as a character; that the constant injustices, inequities, and vile acts are gratuitous; that the prose is absolute garbage and drags on for paragraphs for no reason… The list goes on. You two have discussed this before.
“I don’t know,” you respond vaguely. The first warning. You wouldn’t be so unsure about it. You have almost endless opinions on this book. Joe folds his hands under his chin, gives you a reassuring look in hopes that you’ll feel comfortable. After a few seconds, you continue, “Patrick Bateman is a cool character in theory, but—”
“I think it’s a cult classic for a reason,” Joe interjects. The second phase of his test. Will you change your opinion to match his? Even if it clashes with everything you believe in? “It’s a well-written book.”
And he can almost see the fight behind your eyes, between the remnants of the real you and this shallow husk Joe’s replaced you with. The hollow facade wins. “...Yeah,” you agree, smiling at him warmly. “It’s pretty well-written, isn’t it?”
Another test a few days later yields the same results. Favorite food, TV show, pastime… All of your thoughts are just gone, with Joe’s own preferences plastered over them. He’s quickly starting to find that the real you is almost gone. Because of his wish, you’ve been transformed into this… this… reflection of yourself, this empty void that just repeats everything he says and agrees to make things easy. You were never like this before—that’s why he liked you so much. He liked that you went against the grain, he found it attractive that you didn’t bend to conformity. But now here you are, constantly changing yourself to fit your perception of his ideal boyfriend.
…All because he wished for it.
“Oh, you’re back,” you say as Joe enters his apartment the next day. You’re sitting in the adjacent bedroom, so while he can’t see you from his position in the entryway, he knows you’re here. You weren’t scheduled at Mooney’s today, so where else would you be?
“Hey,” Joe responds exhaustedly, dropping his bag at the door and toeing off his shoes. He unzips his jacket and shrugs it off, hanging it on the coat rack before making his way through the living room.
The feeling of something wet on his sock breaks him out of his thoughts. Joe freezes and looks down… and his world starts to shake. He says your name.
“Hm?” you ask distractedly from the bedroom.
“There’s blood on the floor,” Joe observes, crouching down to inspect it. Yeah, it’s definitely blood. And it looks very fresh. Considering he doesn’t have any pets, and you’re the only one who’s home…
“I’m sorry,” you answer calmly, robotically. “I’ll clean it up.”
“No, it’s fine, I just—” Joe attempts to console you, his lips parting in shock as he walks into the bedroom.
You’re rocking back and forth on the spattered covers, your hand covering your left jawbone and cheek as you stare ahead with a vacant expression. Your hand is soaked in blood, and when it falls from your face, a chunk of skin drops with it. The white bedspread beneath you is spotted with red.
The air smells like copper. Joe feels his stomach turn as he sees the open wound on the side of your face, then the knife in your hand.
“What did you do?” Joe chokes out. He lurches forward and into action, shakily grabbing your arm and beckoning you to unclench your hand. Your fingers shake and tremble hard as he does this. He manages to get them off, only for them to clench again as if remembering the weapon.
“I missed you,” you respond, looking up at him with wide eyes. Vulnerable. So, so vulnerable. Blood drips down your cheek. Your eyes are filled with tears. “My skin was buzzing. I tried to make it stop.”
“Hey, hey,” Joe says quickly. “Don’t cry. Just— Jesus, you scared the shit out of me, baby.” He brushes a shaking hand across your jawbone, reassuring himself that you’re still here.
“Oh,” you blink, as if you hadn’t considered that. An eerie laugh. “Hahhahahaha… Whoops.”
“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” Joe suggests, his voice sounding like a stranger’s. His fingers tangle in yours and he tugs you to your feet, steadying you as you wobble a bit. That provokes another worrying thought: how long have you been sitting there comatose? Did you even eat or drink water?
He sits you down in the bathroom, starts cleaning your wound. You maintain eye contact with him the entire time, sitting stiffly. Your hands rest on your knees, your left one splattered with blood. Even when Joe breaks out the alcohol wipe, you don’t flinch or move a muscle.
“You still love me, right?” you question, eyes boring into his with frightening intensity. Your pupils are dilated in the dim lighting.
Joe pauses from where he’d been looking through the various bandages. “Of course,” he answers affirmatively.
“You’re not sure,” you observe. Your bloodstained hand finds his forearm. It’s sticky. Joe resists the urge to shudder. “Why aren’t you sure?”
“I am,” he maintains. “I love you.”
“Maybe I didn’t go deep enough—” you say. You reach for the knife again; Joe barely manages to snatch his hand away in time.
“No!” he exclaims loudly. “Stop it. That’s enough.”
The expression on your face twists, your eyes go wide, and now you’re fighting off tears. “I’m— I’m sorry…”
“You’re freaking me out,” Joe admits, his hand cradling your uninjured cheek before he’s holding you close for a moment. “You have to stop doing this.”
“Okay,” you agree mindlessly. He takes it at face value, because he has to. Otherwise…
“Let’s get you to bed,” Joe suggests. You tangle a hand in his and follow after him, slipping under the covers and turning on your side to face him. You stare for several seconds, before your eyelids flutter and you finally start to doze off.
The bandages on your cheek are still visible, even in the near darkness of Joe’s bedroom. He stares at your sleeping form, trying and failing to make sense of the feelings tumbling in his chest. This is exactly what Joe wanted. He wanted you to be in love with him.
So why is it hurting you so much?
INTERIOR – Joe’s car about twenty minutes later, parked on the street outside his apartment complex. The light drizzle from a few minutes ago has escalated into a steady downpour. Joe sits inside his running car in his sleep clothes, the heat doing little to ward off the chill in his bones.
After several moments of contemplation, he rummages through the center console and finds what he’s looking for: the box for the One Wish Willow. He turns it over in his hands, fingers brushing the tattered surface before his eyes find what he’s looking for:
For comments, concerns, or other questions, contact One Wish Willow customer service at 323-747-7118.
Joe rubs a hand over his face. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He hadn’t even believed the thing was real in the first place, hadn’t expected it to work. But it’s undeniable now, after the events of the past few days. It’s wishful thinking, but maybe calling this number will give him some answers. Your behavior has been different ever since he broke the branch.
He reluctantly taps the numbers on his phone app and puts it on speaker. The phone rings a few times before there’s a bored voice.
Attendant
Hello?
Joe’s heart leaps in his throat.
Joe
Hello. Is this… One Wish Willow?
Attendant
Yeah.
Joe
Okay.
He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to get this far. Now that he has someone on the line, he’s speechless.
Attendant
(impatiently)
What do you want?
Joe
(pausing for a moment before continuing)
I was wondering… if you could alter a wish.
Attendant
(flatly, in a rehearsed monotone voice)
No alterations. All wishes are final.
Unless you wanted to cancel a wish…
Joe
(sighing, rubbing his hands over his face)
There’s no way to change it?
Attendant
What did you wish for?
Joe
I just wanted him to love me.
Attendant
Yeah, no alterations. All wishes are final.
Joe
Fine, fine!
Then— cancel a wish. I want it cancelled.
Attendant
Sorry, man, can’t do that.
Joe
But you just implied I could—
Attendant
(interjecting)
Nope. All wishes are final.
Joe
(defeatedly)
Of course.
The next response doesn’t sound like the same person—it’s a deeper voice, warped, almost inhuman.
Attendant
You want to be needed so desperately, don’t you?
…And now you are.
Joe is struck silent. The rain pounds against the car windshield, but it fades to background noise as his ears start to ring.
Attendant
(quietly, almost consoling)
Do you want to talk to him?
Joe
What—?
You
(in a distorted, almost glitching voice)
You have it, Joe.
Joe
(glancing back at the apartment building)
How are you—?!
You
(breathless, euphoric)
You have me. You won, Joe.
Heavy breathing fills the otherwise quiet air of the car. Joe’s holding his breath, so it must be coming from your end. Another rasped inhale, then an unhinged laugh. It bubbles out of your throat, goes on for several seconds.
Then, silence.
You
(darkly)
So what the fuck are you complaining about?
The line goes dead.
Joe stares down at his phone screen with a mix of disbelief, dread, and resignation. He rests his head on the steering wheel for several moments.
And then, he goes back inside.
Joe hates that it’s come to this.
But he has to do it.
“A surprise?” you echo eagerly, grip tightening on his hand. The two of you are standing in the bookstore now, preparing for opening. Joe is fighting off a bunch of different emotions. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s torn. “What kind of surprise?”
“Oh, you’ll see,” Joe manages to say. He starts to head for the basement, tugging you after him. “Come on.”
You follow obediently, trudging down the steps until you’re standing next to him in the basement of Mooney’s. You’re staring at the giant glass enclosure in the middle of the room.
“Whoaaaa,” you say exaggeratedly, an uncharacteristic giggle leaving your lips. Joe cringes at the sound. You’d never do something like that normally—it’s just another reminder of the mistake he made. “This is so cool.”
“I haven’t even explained it yet,” Joe responds tiredly. Early on, he would’ve been fond, but now, your exaggerated excitement over the littlest of things is irritating. Not to mention, uncharacteristic. “This is where we keep our most valuable books. First editions. It’s climate controlled, all that.”
You press a hand to the outer wall of the glass, staring inside in silent wonder.
“Do you want to go inside?” he offers, hoping you don’t hear the somewhat strained tone in his voice.
“Yeah,” you agree easily. Joe guides you along, his hand still intertwined in yours.
“You’re sweaty,” you remark, staring down at your joined hands. Then you look up at him again, stars in your eyes. Your lips quirk at the edges, a smile too wide for a simple observation. Weeks ago, he would’ve killed for this kind of attention from you. The scar across the left side of your face is a harsh reminder of the price he paid for that desire. “It’s okay, I don’t mind,” you console him.
“Good,” Joe manages to say. He lets his hand slip away; immediately, yours moves to chase his, but Joe places a hand on the small of your back and guides you the remaining distance. Four footsteps, and you’ll be in the glass cage. Contained. Under control. Protected.
Three. Two. One.
Just before he gets you over the threshold, you freeze. Joe chances a glance at you. You’re smiling very strangely, in a way that distorts your whole face, squints your eyes, scrunches your nose. It looks painful.
“I know what this issssssssssssss,” you whisper.
“Do you?” Joe manages to say.
You have a hand to your mouth now, a haunting laugh echoing through the space. Just as Joe starts to exert more pressure on your back, about to push you in, you take the final step. He’s swiftly closing the door behind you, leaving you trapped in the glass enclosure.
Contrary to what he expects, you don’t immediately whip around and look at him in betrayal. Instead, your head is bowed and your back remains turned to him. There’s a breathless chuckle.
“Oh, Joe,” you breathe. Fear prickles along his skin. “Oh, Joe.”
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.
“You don’t mean that,” you murmur.
“I do,” Joe insists, his stomach churning. He presses a hand to the glass for a moment before letting it fall away. “I’m sorry. I really am.” But is he, though? Joe isn’t sure. He isn’t sorry for wanting you to love him. He is sorry for how he went about it.
Another laugh bubbles from your lips.
Then, after his next blink, you’re suddenly facing him. That was inhumanly fast. Your palm is pressed against the inside of the glass now, a manic gleam in your eyes and a sharp-toothed grin on your face. Your head is tilted to the side.
“You can’t leave me in here,” you remark. Uneasy laughter. “No, no, nooo. You wouldn’t. Because I love you.”
“You don’t,” Joe admits. He’s known for several days now. He wanted your love to be true, but it wasn’t. “You don’t love me.”
“I do,” you assert. “More than anyone in the world.”
Joe shakes his head, his words lodged in his throat. He knows the sooner he leaves, the better. He heads for the stairs, only making it a few steps before your next remark is stopping him in his tracks.
“Wasn’t this what you wanted?” you whisper. It’s so quiet that he nearly misses it.
“What?” Joe questions, his head swiveling as he regards you from the stairs.
“Wasn’t,” you say dangerously, each word punctuated with a fist pounded against the glass, “This. What. You. Wanted?”
He winces as your fist hits the glass again and again, a loud crack sickening his stomach. “Don’t do that,” Joe demands.
You blink owlishly, looking down at your hand. The grin disappears. Your face is completely blank. When you look up to meet his eyes, there’s a different smile on your face—dripping with malice, intense hatred. All the emotions that are buried beneath the obsessed husk that you are now.
For a second, it looks like the haze clears. Your eyes are sharp and alert as you stare at him. A dry laugh, devoid of amusement. “You’re so fucking pathetic,” you spit venomously.
Joe freezes. He’d already been stationary, but every muscle in his face just seems to pause as he processes that statement. You’re so fucking pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.
The worst part? Well. Not only are you right, but… that seems to be the closest glimpse of the real you he’s gotten since he made that wish. You despise him for what he did to you. But you’re trapped, prevented from ever revealing your true feelings or even returning to your old self. To you.
You notice the look on his face, and Joe swears he sees the mask slide on once more. Your face falls in guilt and remorse. “I’m sorry…” you say, your tone sounding so genuine that Joe has to remind himself it’s manufactured. An eerie calm. “I don’t know what came over me,” you smile peacefully, tears slipping down your cheeks.
Joe knows he can’t respond, can’t engage, or he’ll be dragged back to you. This is for your own good, this is to keep you safe. You’ll be safe and secure here, you won’t hurt anyone and you won’t hurt yourself. This is the right thing to do.
No. He lost the conception of right and wrong a long time ago, before you were ever in his life. The lines have always been murky and blurred to him, but now, they’re completely indistinguishable.
“Come back,” you implore him, your voice so soft it nearly breaks him. “Please.”
Joe bites the inside of his cheek, stands firm on the steps. Then, he swallows hard and takes another step up.
“Please,” you continue, your fist hitting the glass again and again and again, “Please, Joe.” Bones are crunching with each strike, your hand slowly reduced to a bloody pulp.
“Stop that!” he shouts.
You immediately straighten up, like a dog lectured for misbehaving. Your posture goes straight and stiff, your distressed movements put on pause. The gory remains of your hand are still pressed to the glass. They tumble down the wall, collecting at the floor near your feet. You don’t even seem to register the pain.
“Joe,” you say, your other hand pressed against the glass as you stare at him without blinking. “Please.” Joe begins to ascend the stairs and your voice grows more desperate. “Please. Please. Please. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplea—”
He shuts the door, closes his eyes.
It’s eerily silent now.
The noises from the cage aren’t audible from up here.
okay. everyone just listen. just listen. is this far fetched and self indulgent and probably not very accurate.. yes. does it mean a lot to me? also yes.
shauna, shane, bella, joe, donna and maren all hate who they are. a part of them will always resent the way that words come out of their mouths, the way that other people look at them. they follow because it's easier to latch onto someone who can swim rather than drown. they all need something more. recognition, acceptance, advancement, control, appreciation, love. it will never be enough.
mari, ilya, jacob, delilah, laura and lee all put their walls up. they mask their deepest fears with witty remarks and charming laughter. they bury their insecurity about their loneliness, their sexuality, their supernaturalness, their past, their trauma, their hunger, under layers of confidence that they don't have. they act strong because they aren't, and take others along that path with them, for better or for worse.
