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7-wonders · 1 year

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To the world we dream about (and the one we live in now)

Calliope & Reader, Morpheus/Dream of the Endless & Reader

Summary: Being in the right place at the right time turns everything you thought you knew on its head when a woman, imprisoned and battered, is literally thrown into your life. Left with no choice but to do the obvious, you offer her shelter and support in her time of need.

Unbeknownst to you, said woman is a powerful and ancient being who now belongs to you in accordance with the old laws. This situation definitely won’t become complicated, right?

Word Count: 14.5k

Author's Note: A couple of months ago, I received an ask, seen below, and have not been able to stop thinking about it since. After a lot of brainstorming with the wonderful sender of the ask (not sure if they want to be named!), I finally sat down to write it.

So, here we are! This story took on a mind of its own the longer I wrote (perhaps the Muse Calliope paid me a visit haha), and it's genuinely something that I'm so proud to have produced. It's not necessarily an x reader fic—right now, though depending on reader reaction there may be future parts (including a Calliope/Morpheus POV of these events)—so I absolutely understand if you choose not to read, but I hope that you do. In the end, this is truly Calliope's story.

A story of empowerment, friendship, freedom, and self-discovery.

Content warnings for this work include allusions to sexual assault, general trauma, Richard Madoc, vomiting, kidnapping, realizations of inadvertent kidnapping, mentions of death, and Nightmare!Morpheus. Reader discretion is advised.

The man standing at the front of the room taps his fingers along the edge of his lectern, savoring the enraptured faces that stare back at him. For those in his class, this is expected of him—he always gets a dramatic air about him when he’s on the verge of making the point that he had been working towards for the entire lecture and looping it back to the thesis statement from the beginning of the hour. Though it was routine by now, practically tradition, the students still ate it up every time.

“The theme between all of these authors–the Fitzgeralds and the Hemingways, the Tolkeins and the Orwells–is that their words carry power and strength. While they may look like mere letters strung together on a sheet of paper, when read together, these words have a weight behind them. They can conjure up worlds, inspire the masses, make readers think critically; it’s a type of magic when you really think about it.”

He checks his watch before clapping his hands together in finality and smiling out at the room.

“Well, my friends, I’m afraid that’s all the time we have today. Thank you very much for joining me, and please make sure that you have your essays on the influences of World War One and its aftermath on the literature of the time ready for our next class. See you then!”

When your university announced that world-renowned author Ric Madoc would be a visiting professor for the semester, you immediately jumped on the long list of students interested in taking one of the three classes that were going to be taught by him. You had absolutely no hope that you would get into the class, not when it seemed like half the student body was also signed up, but you had to at least try. The Spirit Who Had Half of Everything was one of your favorite books of all time, and you’d be remiss not to attempt to learn from the master himself.

Somehow, much to your surprise, you had received an email informing you that you earned a spot in Madoc’s “Great Works of the 20th Century” class. The class had lived up to the hype so far and you were thoroughly enjoying it, even though it wasn’t exactly related to your field of study. In fact, you enjoyed it so much that you normally stayed behind with a group of students to continue having a discussion with Madoc about the aforementioned great works. Today, unfortunately, you couldn’t, having to rush out immediately after class was over to make it to your group project meeting in the library on time.

Of course, it’s difficult to get any sort of work done when one happens to be randomly paired with their best friend, but you’re trying your hardest.

“Psst.” You don’t look up, choosing instead to try and finish the sentence you’re writing, but a balled-up gum wrapper hits you smack in the center of the forehead. “Hey!”

After you’ve finished typing, you look across the table at Evie, your best friend. “Can I help you?” you ask.

“Do you wanna come out with me and a couple of others tonight?”

“It’s Thursday.”

She shrugs. “So?”

Points were made, and who are you to resist a good argument? “Convincing. I’m in! I just have to run home real quick and get changed.”

As you search through your bag, you start to feel your heart plummeting in your chest as you realize that you can’t find your keys. Digging through the contents furiously in the hopes that they’ll turn up yields no results, and neither does patting at the pockets you know are empty. With horror in your eyes and fear in your heart, you look back up at her.

“Fuck, I lost my keys.”

“Shit, dude. Do you remember where you last had them?”

“Um.”

You have to think for a moment, mentally retracing your steps until you can definitively pinpoint the last time you saw your keys. They were with you in the parking lot, because you remember locking your car twice just to be sure that you did. From there, you would have been holding them in your hand as you walked to Madoc’s class. Considering you went straight from class to the library, there are limited options for where they could be. Either you left them in the lecture hall or you dropped them somewhere on campus. For your sake, you hope it’s the former.

On the syllabus, Madoc had given the class his work cell phone number in case of emergencies like being unable to make it to class or an act of God destroying your homework. Though you doubted you would need it at the time, you still saved it in your phone to be on the safe side. Now, as you pull up his contact and start a new conversation, you thank past-you for having such good foresight.

You: Hey, great class today! Did you happen to find a set of keys left behind in the lecture hall? I’m missing mine.

After a second of contemplation, you send another text with your first and last name when you realize he probably doesn’t know who it is texting him. It only takes a couple of anxious minutes before your phone chimes.

Richard Madoc: Hello! Would these happen to be the keys in question?

Richard Madoc: Attachment

The keys are immediately recognizable as yours, thanks to the keychain of a possum wearing a cowboy hat that’s attached to them. You sigh in immense relief before glancing up at Evie, who’s been watching with bated breath the entire time. “I left them in Madoc’s class.”

“Oh thank god!”

You: They are! Any chance you’re still on campus so I can swing by and grab them?

Richard Madoc: I’m afraid I’ve already left for the day, but I live pretty close to the uni if you’d be willing to pick them up from my flat.

He sends an address in the following text, which you promptly input in your maps app so you can see where said address is located. It’s maybe a five-minute drive from campus and conveniently located in the direction of your apartment.

You: Will be there in a bit! Thank you :)

“He already left, I’d have to pick them up from his place,” you explain.

Evie immediately fixes you with a look, one that says she’s seen this particular move before (and she didn’t like the ending). “Do you want me to come with you?”

The unspoken words hang in the air between you: Do you feel safe going to an unfamiliar man’s house alone? Should I come to make sure nothing bad happens? It’s very thoughtful of her, and you consider saying yes for a moment.

But Evie lives in the opposite direction of you, and she doesn’t have a car. While you don’t know Madoc well, you’re also not expecting him to try anything on you, especially when it’s still light out.

“I should be okay,” you say.

“You’re sure?” Evie double-checks, and you nod. “Call me before you get there, okay? Just…have me on the line, in your back pocket. It’d make me feel better about letting you go on your own.”

How did you get so lucky to have such a great friend like Evie? Of course, you would do the same for Evie in a heartbeat, but it’s so nice to have found a kindred spirit, someone who truly understands you and all your little quirks, so early in your adulthood.

“You’re not letting me do anything,” you tease. “But yeah, I’ll call you when I get there.”

“Thank you,” she says sincerely, sliding her papers and her laptop into her backpack. “Now let’s go. The sooner you get your keys, the sooner we can go and get drunk.”

It feels a little dumb to be driving such a short distance, from the campus to the address that Madoc had given you. You’re exactly the type of person that’s killing the planet with unnecessary carbon emissions when you could just as easily walk, you chastise yourself on the way over.

But you had driven to class this morning, that being a distance actually too far to walk, and it would be stupid to walk to Madoc’s, get your keys, walk back to campus, and then drive home. So here you are, beating yourself up over something stupid and inconsequential while you try your best to parallel park in a respectable manner in front of Madoc’s little townhouse.

It’s exactly the type of lodgings you’d expect a university professor to have, yet almost the opposite of what you envisioned as a successful author’s home; a small, yet stately, townhouse with a little fenced-in front yard. Plants try their hardest to survive in the patch of dirt that’s probably supposed to be a garden, and there’s a small chair and table perfect for Sunday mornings sitting on the front stoop.

The gate creaks when you open it, and even more when you close it behind you. At the last second, you remember that you promised to call Evie, so you pull out your phone and do just that.

“Hey, you there?” Evie answers her phone.

“Yeah, just got here. Putting you in my pocket now.”

Even though the idea felt a little like an overreaction, you can’t deny that you feel safer now knowing that Evie’s listening on the phone.

You knock on the dark blue front door once, twice, three times before taking a step back and waiting patiently. After about thirty seconds, you start to worry that Madoc’s not home. But no, that wouldn’t make sense; you talked to him maybe half an hour ago, and he knew that you were on your way to pick up your keys. Frowning, you knock again, followed by holding your ear to the door to see if you can hear anything.

He’s definitely inside. Though the sound is muffled, you can hear what sounds like him yelling at somebody through the door. Who the source of his ire is, you can’t say, because there’s nobody saying anything back to him. Maybe he’s having a really heated conversation on the phone? If that’s the case, it’s a pretty inconvenient time to launch into a virtual argument.

You don’t want to be rude and knock for a third separate time, but you really do need your keys, and you’d prefer to not be kept standing out here waiting. Begrudgingly, you knock yet again, putting a considerable amount of force behind it this time.

“Mr. Madoc?” you call through the door, raising your voice enough that you’re sure he’s heard you. By the way that he suddenly falls silent, you’re assuming that you’ve been successful. Pulling back from your position right up against the door, you wait for him to appear.

When the door is yanked open, you’re shocked at what you see. Gone is the confident lecturer who stood at the front of your class this afternoon. The man in front of you looks positively haggard. His eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, and his bottom lip quivers almost as furiously as his hands shake. His hair is a mess, as though he’s been pulling at it, and his shirt is weirdly rumpled like he fell asleep in it.

You take a big step back when his eyes land wildly on you without really seeing you. Your hand goes to your back pocket, hovering just above your phone in case this encounter goes south and you need to have Evie do…something. Call the cops? Yell at Madoc through the phone? Scream? Whatever it is, though, she’ll do it for you.

“Hi. Um, you–”

Madoc shakes his head back and forth and begins to mumble something, completely ignoring you and your presence. He reaches one of his hands further inside the house, grabbing at something unseen. Your body tenses, preparing to fight this man that, up until two minutes ago, you had believed to be completely sane and rational.

His hand comes back into view, tightly gripping a woman’s upper arm. She’s barefoot and clad only in a thin silk nightgown, and you can see the goosebumps already appearing on her skin.

“A city in which the streets are paved with time,” he mumbles a little louder, allowing you to hear what he’s rambling about. “A train full of silent women, plowing forever through the twilight. Heads made of light. A small piece of blue cardboard. A plum, sweet and tart and cold.”

“Mr. Madoc, are you alright?”

Instead of answering you, Madoc throws the woman across the threshold and towards you. You catch her in your arms, both of you stumbling backward, but you let go when you notice how she immediately tenses at your touch.

“She’s your problem now, I can’t do this anymore!” Madoc begins to pull at his hair, so hard that you think he might end up pulling it out of his head. “I refuse to be tortured any longer!”

“What are you talking about?”

He’s lost his damn mind, you think to yourself as he continues to spout the most random of ideas. You thought that you had properly calculated the risks of coming over here on your own, but apparently, you’re bad at math.

“A were-goldfish who transforms into a wolf at full moon. Griffins shouldn’t marry. Vampires don’t dance.” Madoc shakes and smacks himself multiple times as if to try and snap himself out of whatever he’s gotten into. “A man who inherits a library card to the library in Alexandria. A rose bush, a nightingale, and a black rubber dog collar!”

You’re so thrown off by what you’re witnessing that you don’t even realize he’s closing the door until the sound of it hitting the doorframe reminds you why you’re here. You bang your fist against the door and yell at him, “Hey! Give me my fucking keys!”

Madoc opens the door just enough to throw your keys at you, which you fumble and nearly drop until catching them by the stupid cowboy possum keychain, before slamming it shut again. From within, you can hear several locks clicking shut loudly in quick succession.

The speed with which this entire interaction has occurred leaves your head spinning, and you have to take a moment to realize that yes, what you just experienced was real. Even then, you stare at the door bemusedly. “What the fuck?”

“I do not believe he will be coming back,” an accented voice says from behind you.

You can’t stop the little scream of surprise that leaves you when you whip around to face the woman who, until this moment, you forgot had been kicked out of Madoc’s house. She stares at you, just as warily as you’re probably staring at her.

She’s otherworldly beautiful, with olive skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. But what stands out the most is just how visibly scared she is. She watches you like you’re a predator readying to attack. You hate it because you’d never do anything like that to anybody, but especially her. What had Madoc done to cause her to have this reaction to a stranger?

Evie’s voice rises tinnily from the phone in your back pocket, loud and panicked, and you remember that she’s been on the phone this whole time. You pull your phone out and hold it up to your ear, having to put a little distance between it due to how she’s yelling.

“—I swear, I’m two seconds away from calling the cops! Please just let me know you’re okay!”

“Evie, hey, I’m here,” you say, making her cry out in relief.

“Oh my god, are you okay? I was scared when I heard yelling!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright. Pretty sure I just watched Madoc have a mental breakdown?” Is that what that was? You can’t say for certain, considering this is your first such occasion.

“Seriously? Well, did you get your keys, at least?”

“After he finished rambling about were-goldfish and plums.”

“Jesus Christ. Are you going to call somebody?”

“Who would I call? And anyway, maybe this is normal for him.”

“If that’s normal, I’d hate to see what abnormal is.” She sighs. “So, I’ll see you soon?”

“Um,” you trail off, looking at the woman. “Y’know, I might take a rain check, if that’s okay. I’m a little shaken up by everything that just happened.”

“I bet, that sounds like it was really scary. We’ll miss you, but take care of yourself. If you do decide to come out, just text me and I’ll tell you where we’re at.”

“Thanks, Ev. I’ll, uh, talk to you soon.”

You hang up the phone, and now you and the woman are left awkwardly staring at each other. How are you supposed to approach a situation like this? Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you hold your hands with the palms facing out so that she can see you’re not holding any weapons and decide to just start from the beginning.

“Hi.”

She nods back in greeting, trying to hold herself with as much dignity as she can in this situation. The chill of the night and her lack of proper clothing leave her trembling in front of you, though some of that is likely from fear too, and you can see bruises in various shades of healing up and down her arms. Worse, there are visible fingerprint-shaped bruises ringing her neck. Though you’ve never been particularly violent, you’re tempted to break down Madoc’s door and do unto him what he’s obviously done to this woman.

“Are you cold? I have a spare jacket if you want it.” You point the hundred or so feet to where your car sits. “Here, let’s go over to my car, I’m just parked on the street right there.”

The woman attempts to gauge you and, presumably, your intentions. Though this is her decision to make, you give her a friendly smile in the hopes of convincing her that you have no ill will toward her. After a moment, she nods hesitantly.

You take the lead as you walk down the front path to your car, mainly to show that she holds the power here. There will be nobody sneaking up on this woman or trying anything, and she’s free to run far away from you if that’s what she chooses.

Still, she follows you, and waits patiently while you dig around in your back seat until you finally come up with the light jacket that you had tossed back there after an outdoor movie night. You hand it to her and she shrugs it on, holding it tightly around her and trying to hide within the cotton fabric.

You don’t want to ask the question that’s on your mind, but you know that you have to. You need some sort of context for the situation. “Was…Madoc keeping you locked up in there?” She nods, and you feel your stomach roil with sick nausea. “Okay. We need to call the cops, so they can come and arrest him.”

“No!” she says firmly, a departure from how soft-spoken she previously was. “Please, I beg you, no authorities.”

“But…”

Maybe he hadn’t kidnapped her like you found yourself assuming at first. Perhaps this is a severe case of domestic violence? Regardless, she looks like the poster child for abused women, and you’re not about to disrespect her wishes when this is probably the first choice she’s been able to make for herself in a long time.

“Okay,” you agree. “No cops.”

“Thank you.” She sounds so relieved that it makes you want to cry.

An idea begins to form in your head, but one that you’re not sure how to begin to broach. After all, the woman in front of you has absolutely no reason to trust you. “I’m guessing you don’t have anywhere to go?”

She shakes her head. “No, I have…nowhere, and nobody.”

That settles it. You’re not about to leave a battered, formerly-trapped woman to fend for herself on the streets. “So listen. I have a spare room at my place, and you’re completely welcome to it for as long as you need.”

“Oh, I could not impose.”

“You wouldn’t be!” you assure her. “Please, it’s the least I can do. At least until you get back on your feet.”

She studies you again. Though you don’t know what she’s looking for, you can tell that she’s the kind of intuitive person that sees beyond that which is only skin-deep. Finally, she says, “Alright.”

You grin and open the passenger side door, gesturing for her to get in. “Alright.”

After getting the car started and the heat turned up all the way, you watch as the woman fiddles with the airflow of the heater until it’s blowing directly on her delicate hands, which she holds in front of her to warm up. She looks at you as if realizing for the first time that you could betray her trust much in the same way as Ric Madoc had. To prove to her that you won’t, you unlock the doors when they try to lock automatically in response to you putting the car in ‘drive’.

You tell her your name, and for the first time, she smiles. It’s a small thing, barely a quirk of the lips, but it’s there. “I am Calliope.”

“Oh cool, like the Muse!” Her smile widens until she’s actually smiling, leaving you delighted. “Your parents were into Greek mythology, then?”

“Something like that, yes.”

As you drive to your apartment, Calliope turns in her seat and watches as Madoc’s apartment grows smaller and smaller behind your car. Even after it’s disappeared behind turns and other buildings, she still watches, perhaps waiting for him to come back to his senses and come after her. But there will be none of that tonight, or ever again. Not as long as you have anything to do about it.

When you get home, you continue the routine of taking the lead and allowing Calliope to decide whether or not she wants to follow you. Calliope lingers in the entryway of your apartment, taking her time carefully cataloging everything that she can see as you work at getting the lights turned on and trying to clean up a little bit—after all, you hadn’t exactly expected a houseguest when you left for class this morning.

She runs her fingers along the walls and the frames of artwork that you’ve acquired at festivals and flea markets. She feels the coats on your coat rack, and her dark, inquisitive eyes scan over the battered toaster and soft fruit in your kitchen. As she walks further into your home, she takes care to take up as little space as possible until she reaches where you stand in front of a closed door.

“My old roommate moved in with their girlfriend a couple of months ago, and they don’t know what they want to do with her furniture, so they’re just storing it here until they can figure it out,” you explain as you open the door and flick on the light switch to reveal a bare bedroom. It’s sparsely furnished, with just a full bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a desk and chair. “Now, it’s yours.”

“Mine?”

“For as long as you need it,” you repeat.

Hesitantly stepping inside, Calliope looks over the room before nodding in satisfaction. You can only hope that she had a space of her own in Madoc’s house, but by the way that she looks around like she’s never seen something so wonderful as an empty bedroom before, you’re left with a sinking feeling that this wasn’t the case.

“So! I’ll grab some sheets and a blanket from the linen closet and get the bed made up for you. Um, all of the doors lock on the inside, so feel free to keep yourself and your space private. Do you want to take a shower? Because you definitely can. Avery—that’s my old roommate—left some of the clothes they didn’t want behind, and they’re about your size, I think.” You’re rambling, but you just want to make her feel as welcome as possible.

“A shower would be…nice,” Calliope decides.

“Awesome! The bathroom’s right through here, c’mon.”

In the bathroom, Calliope watches as you grab a couple of towels from the closet, along with the sheets and blanket you mentioned earlier. You set the towels down on the closed toilet lid next to the shower.

“Feel free to use any of my stuff here, it’s totally fine,” you explain, pulling back the shower curtain so Calliope can see your haircare products and body wash.

Instead of looking over that array, she simply stares at the chrome of the shower faucet in confusion.

“Oh yeah, the shower’s a little weird here. All you have to do is turn the handle, and then pull the plug on the faucet for the shower.” You show her as you explain it. “Turn the handle left for hot water, and right for cold. Got it?”

“I believe so.”

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it, then. Just yell if you need anything from me.”

You close the bathroom door behind you and after a long moment, you finally hear the lock turn.

Good. In the meantime, you’ll make a quick meal for her, in case she’s hungry. Plus, you need to keep your hands busy. It will help take your mind off of the horrors you’re trying desperately to forget that you witnessed.

•••

Four days later, Evie runs up to you on campus when she sees you and wraps both of her hands around your upper arm before pulling you towards her. “Did you hear?”

“What?” You’re more focused on not falling over your feet at the sudden change of pace you’ve been forced into than you are wondering what you did or didn’t hear.

“You were right. Mr. Madoc had a complete mental breakdown! Somebody called in a welfare check on him, and the cops found him curled up in a ball mumbling gibberish. He hadn’t moved for days. You know the worst part, though?”

You shake your head.

“He covered every single wall of his house with the most random words and phrases, and they were all written in his own blood.”

You reel back. “Jesus!”

“I know, totally gory.” By her laugh, you can tell that she enjoys the gore.

It’s at this moment that you realize that you haven’t told Evie anything about what happened after you hung up with her that night. It certainly wasn’t deliberate; you’ve just been so caught up in the sudden change in your living arrangements that you haven’t had the time to text or call her about what you went through.

With that in mind, you say, “I have something to tell you.”

Evie’s eyes immediately light up at the prospect of gossip. “You do?”

You nod. “That night, when I went to his house? He grabbed this woman from inside his house and just threw her at me, saying that she was my problem now. She was all bruised and wearing nothing but a nightgown, and he treated her like she was his property. Evie, she said he kept her trapped there.”

“What the fuck.” Evie stares at you in horror. “Is she okay now?”

“Physically, yeah. She’s staying with me.”

“At your apartment?”

“Where else? Her name’s Calliope. I’m letting her stay in Avery’s old room until she gets back on her feet again.”

Evie whistles lowly. “I can’t tell if that’s kind of you or stupid of you.”

“Probably both.”

“Yeah, probably.”

As you walk, an astute observation comes to your mind. “Y’know, it makes sense that he’s such a piece of shit. Now that I think about it, the only authors we ever discussed in class were white guys.”

“Hmm, typical white man.” Evie rolls her eyes before she grins. “Hey, can I meet her?”

“Calliope?”

“Who else?”

You have to think about that for a minute. Would she be comfortable with meeting new people and putting herself out there? While you think that your friends are great, especially Evie, you just don’t want to force her into anything before she’s ready.

Evie seems to sense this hesitation, and explains, “She just seems like she needs some friends. A support system might be good for her while she tries to get her life back!”

“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll ask her if she wants to do something like that.”

“That’s all I ask,” Evie says. “In the meantime, is there anything that I can do to help? Like, does she need clothes? Kiara’s aunt owns that boutique, and she would probably be willing to help out.”

That’s a good idea and one that you hadn’t even considered. Obviously, Calliope’s going to want some clothes of her own instead of Avery’s hand-me-downs. It’ll probably help her to feel more like a human being, one with choice and agency over herself.

“Oh, would you ask her to talk to her aunt?” you ask. “That’d be great.”

Evie nods. “Definitely. I feel like that’s, like, the least I can do.”

“I wish there was more that I could do,” you admit.

“You’re doing what you can, and that’s what matters. Hell, most people wouldn’t have even offered to let a woman in Calliope’s situation stay with them. You’re a good person, you know that?”

“Thanks.”

“Eh, what are friends for, if not to reassure you that taking in a random woman on a whim is the right idea?” You huff in mock anger, and Evie laughs. “Anyways, you’ll never guess what the university is trying to do about the whole Madoc situation now…”

•••

Calliope doesn’t come out of her room when you’re around, not that you blame her. If you had gone through even an ounce of what you suspect she had, you’d want to be safe and alone for a long time, no matter how nice your new roommate is (and you like to think you’re pretty nice). You hear her sneak around when she knows that you’re in your own bedroom, as quiet as a mouse, and every night without fail, she takes a long shower. Other than that, it feels like you’re still living alone.

Since you don’t know how often she’s eating, and she doesn’t leave dishes or any sort of indication that she’s getting food for herself, you leave meals out in front of her door for her, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sticky notes accompany them, because you have things that you want her to know and this is the only way to communicate with her right now.

“Feel free to grab food from the kitchen whenever you want!”

“I have great books, and you’re more than welcome to them.”

“If you find yourself wanting to watch TV, the remote is on the coffee table!”

Each message is signed with a smiley face, and each one is gone when the empty tray is returned outside her door.

The empty trays and, eventually, the books that go missing from your bookshelf are the only signs of life that you receive from Calliope.

When Calliope finally emerges while you’re home and not in your room, it’s six days after Ric Madoc threw her into your arms. You’re sitting on your couch reading fanfiction, a random YouTube video playing in the background when Calliope’s door creaks open and she peeks her head out hesitantly. Immediately you pause the video, smiling brightly when she notices you looking at her.

“Hi!” you greet.

“Hello.” She slowly exits her room clutching the book she’s been reading, as skittish as a feral kitten, and you slide over on the couch before patting the now-empty other side in invitation.

“You can come sit if you want. I’m just reading.”

“What are you reading?” Calliope asks, perching on the edge of the cushion as though she’s preparing for escape at any moment.

The smile freezes on your face. Just because you’re happy your new roommate is here doesn’t mean you’re about to out yourself as a fanfiction reader. “Oh, just a fantasy book.”

“Why do you have that…television on, then?” Calliope says this as though she’s still unfamiliar with the concept of television.

“I like the background noise of putting on shows that I’ve already seen. Helps me focus.”

She looks at you like that’s one of the oddest things she’s ever heard. Maybe it is, but it’s your little habit, and it has been for so long that it’s normal now. You hit play again, and Calliope starts a bit as sound comes through the speakers on the TV. Funnily, even though she seems to not understand your reasoning, the sound itself helps her to relax enough that she’s sitting on the couch with you instead of hovering like she’s preparing to bolt at any moment.

You don’t say anything, not wanting to make her think that you’re dictating what she can and cannot do. Eventually, Calliope decides to follow your lead and open her book, though she keeps getting distracted by the TV and eventually forgoes the book entirely in favor of watching the show.

“The tall one does not believe in ghosts, but the little one does?” Calliope asks out of the blue. You swallow down your laugh at her description of the hosts and nod.

“Mhm, and that’s what makes the show so good, is that dichotomy between the two hosts. One is so serious about everything they do, every noise that they hear, and the other is just dancing around and begging the demons to possess him or whatever because he thinks they’re not real and so saying this stuff can’t hurt him.”

She watches silently for another few minutes before asking, “Why are they searching for ghosts in the first place?”

“Well, because people love trying to solve the unsolved. And I think ghosts and the question of their existence is one of the ultimate unsolved mysteries.” She nods in satisfaction and turns back to the show, and you decide to turn off your phone and join her.

Calliope, as it turns out, enjoys television, if only for the strange concepts of some of the shows. You’re more than happy to show her all of the strangest and best shows, with the bonus of getting to see them anew through her eyes, which seem to be watching everything for the very first time.

•••

It’s mid-afternoon, and instead of being outside on what’s turning out to be a beautiful day, you’re stuck doing homework.

Everybody had assumed that Ric Madoc’s classes would be canceled after his abrupt admission into the Saint Dymphna Mental Health Hospital. The university, however, not wanting to just give out automatic passing grades without merit, had scrambled to try and find professors to teach Madoc’s classes. Somehow, they had succeeded, and you were now once again immersed in the world of 20th-century authors. Though your new professor didn’t have the ability to truly capture a room in the same way Madoc had, she was a fine replacement, and she devoted a good chunk of class time to women authors.

It’s too nice of a day to not take advantage of, though. That first true spring day after a long, harsh winter has finally arrived, and you won’t let it pass you by. All of the windows are open to allow the stale air of the apartment to dissipate, and as you write, you listen to the birds chirping and people doing yard work. Maybe, if you finish quickly enough, you’ll be able to take a walk yourself.

Calliope would probably enjoy that as well, you think.

The woman in question knocks on your open bedroom door, and you look up at her with a smile from your desk. She clocks the computer and the notes spread around you and grows sheepish.

“I’m sorry, you are busy. I’ll–”

“No, don’t worry! Just finishing up an essay for a class. Got a crazy burst of motivation for it, and ended up knocking it out in a couple of hours. It’ll be good to look away from the screen.”

Calliope gets that funny little smile on her face, the one that says that she has found something amusing but is going to keep it to herself. She waits patiently as you stretch, wincing when she hears the way that your shoulders pop and crack after hours of stagnancy.

“What’s up?” you ask. “You seem like you want to ask me something.”

Calliope points out of your bedroom. “What is out there?”

You stand so that you can see what it is she’s referencing, and find that she’s pointing to your sliding door.

“Oh, it’s a little balcony. I don’t go out there much right now, still a little too chilly, but it’ll be nice to sit out there once summer comes. Here, I’ll show you.”

It’s the first time this season that it’s been nice enough to have the door open, which is probably why she’s only just now realized it’s there. You open the screen door and lead her out onto your balcony. It’s small, but you spent last summer adding to it and making it a comforting place to relax. Now, there are lights strung up above your heads, and there are two chairs with a table in between them. Planters sit lined up along the iron of the balcony railing, ready to be filled when planting season comes around.

Calliope gasps, and you’re about to ask what’s wrong (part of you is worried that a snake managed to find its way up to the third floor), when she tilts her face up to the sun, leaning over the railing to try and get as much of the light on her as possible. She looks like a painting come to life, probably with a name like “Muse Bathed in the Sun”, because truly, Calliope seems like the type of person to inspire every person lucky enough to make her acquaintance.

“Helios,” you hear Calliope whisper reverently.

It’s obvious that she isn’t aware that she said that out loud, and you start to feel embarrassed before she turns back to you with a true smile and tears running down her face.

“I have not been outside in the sun in so long.”

She explains this simply and factually, as if she’s talking about why the sun is where it is and not about all that she was deprived of during her captivity. Madoc didn’t even let her go outside. It’s a good thing that he’s under secure watch 24/7, because there have been many times over the almost-three weeks that Calliope has lived with you that you have wished to be able to go and inflict upon him a modicum of that which he did to Calliope.

Now tears are running down your face too, and you wipe at them harshly with the backs of your hands. This is Calliope’s moment, Calliope’s joy, and you won’t have her feeling sorry for making you experience such happiness and broken-heartedness by watching her.

“It’s here no matter what. Even if it’s a little cold, bring a blanket out and sit whenever you want. Soon, we’ll be able to plant some stuff. You can help me if you want!”

Calliope’s back to facing the sun directly, but she still nods to let you know that it’s a good idea. Quietly, you back up into the apartment and close the screen door behind you, letting her have this time of reconnection to herself.

Most mornings after this rediscovery, you find Calliope already sitting on the balcony by the time you wake up, a blanket around her shoulders, a mug of something hot in her hands, a book on her lap, and the sun bathing her skin.

��••

“Y’know what, I’m gonna give that one a three.”

“A three?” Calliope tuts. “That is cruel. His performance was at least a six.”

“C’mon Cal, you’re just saying that because you see the best in everybody! The rest of us saw a douchey frat bro drunkenly singing ‘SexyBack,’ which earned him a three. And that’s me being generous.”

Calliope and your friend Ethan are, of course, judging the karaoke performances of the bar patrons brave (or stupid) enough to sing in front of others. They, along with your friend Kiara, take this tradition very seriously. For every performance, the three of them have detailed notes and a rating out of ten to go along with it.

You had finally given in to Evie’s pleadings and decided to broach the subject of going out in public to Calliope. Much to your surprise, she accepted when you first invited her to karaoke night with your friends at the group’s favorite bar. She accepted when you offered to bring her to trivia, and she accepted when your friends finally got around to doing a book club meeting—which was mainly just drinking and eating appetizers while you talked about the books you’d read, but it still counted.

(Taking Calliope to her first drag show quickly became one of your favorite and most cherished memories)

She took to your friend group like a duck to water, and in return, they embraced her wholeheartedly. Now, none of you could imagine a life without her in it.

And slowly, it seemed as though Calliope began to start to heal. With every bar meetup, movie night, or random coffee date, you saw a bit more light return back to Calliope. Flashes of the woman that she once was, vibrant and funny and elegant and wise, begin to become more frequent as the days pass. Every time she allows for a hug or every time she smirks into her glass after saying something that has the group erupting in laughter, she becomes more and more herself.

“Oh my god, it’s our turn!” Ethan yells suddenly after the karaoke emcee calls his and Evie’s names. He stands and holds his hand out to Evie, who happily takes it and jumps up with him. “Let’s go knock some socks off.”

This will either go one of two ways. They’ll either perform their serious song, “Bennie and the Jets,” which they’re surprisingly good at, or they’ll go funny and perform the Sharpay and Ryan version of “What I’ve Been Lookin’ For” from High School Musical, which they’re also really good at. By their tipsy giggles, you’re guessing it’s the latter.

The second they both start doing the Sharpay and Ryan hype-up routine, Kiara sighs and grabs her drink and phone.

“I promised these dumbasses I’d film them the next time they performed this,” she explains before going to work as an unpaid videographer.

Throughout their entire routine, Calliope’s enthralled, as she should be. It’s a good performance, of course, but Evie and Ethan together are a true comedic duo. The matching jazz squares during the instrumentals truly bring the whole piece together, and you’re in tears from laughter by the end of their routine. When they return to the table after a rousing standing ovation from the patrons of the bar, Calliope gives them her own round of applause and beams.

Naturally, she bestows upon them the highest ranking one can receive during karaoke nights. “Now that was a ten.”

Ethan bows as Evie kisses Calliope’s cheek. “Thank you, m’lady,” he says proudly.

“When do you get the time to practice this?”

“Nights like this, usually,” Evie explains before Ethan interrupts.

“Though we have been known to skip a class or two when we were trying to work out the kinks in our performance.” Ethan picks up his drink before frowning when he sees there’s nothing but melting ice cubes in the glass. “Well, apparently I need another drink. Anybody else?”

Everyone at the table shakes their head, but Kiara reaches into her jacket. “No, but I am gonna go hit my pen.”

“Ooh, I’ll come with you,” Evie volunteers cheerfully.

“Weed thief,” Kiara teases.

“Are you telling me no?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“That’s not a no!”

Your friends go their separate ways, leaving you and Calliope to sit alone at the table. The next singer has already started, and you grin when you hear what it is.

“Oh, I love this song,” you tell Calliope before singing along. “‘Cause I’m dreaming of you tonight, ‘til tomorrow I’ll be holding you tight!”

Beside you, Calliope grows a little gloomy. She’s frowning a bit; even if it’s barely there, you can always tell because it completely transforms her beautiful face into something so sad. You stop humming and look over at her, watching as she slowly swirls her straw in her drink repeatedly to give her something to do.

“Having fun?” you ask, slightly worried at the sudden melancholy that seems to have draped over her like a shroud.

“Yes,” she tries to assure you, but it sounds clipped, like she’s holding back.

“You know you don’t have to come just because I invited you, right? You can do whatever you want.” You never want her to feel as though you’re forcing her to do anything, and even though she’s been having fun up until now, there’s still that anxiety that tells you that she’s just going along with it because she feels like she owes you.

“I know,” Calliope assures. “But I enjoy you and your group of friends. You make me feel…welcomed, and accepted, in a way that I have not felt in a long time.”

“They’re your friends now too. Pretty sure they decided that the second they met you.”

“I consider them friends as well. I consider you a friend as well, though I hope you know that by now.” She smiles down at her drink. “Besides, I quite like the karaoke nights.”

“I can tell. You never sing with us, though.”

“I don’t need to, I just enjoy listening. The people singing, and enjoying themselves, it reminds me of my son. He, too, loved to sing, and he was gifted with such a beautiful voice.”

“You have a son?” This takes you by surprise. Though Calliope seems to be very maternal, she’s never mentioned anything about a child until now. The fact that she talks about him in the past tense has your heart sinking into your stomach from the implications.

Calliope nods. “My sweet boy, my Orpheus. He was beautiful, and heartbreakingly sweet. He had a voice that could bring even the gods themselves to tears. He was taken from me…far too soon, and I miss him every day, with every fiber of my being. Being here, among so many people happy and making music—I see his face in all of theirs, and it brings me some sense of peace, to know that I can find pieces of him here, in the most unlikely of places..”

It’s sweet that she kept the Greek mythology theme going with her own son, you think, though it’s tragic that he suffered the same fate as his namesake.

“He was so lucky to have a mom like you, Calliope. Any child would be.” You lick your lips and taste the sweetness of alcohol on them as you ponder what to say next. “His life might have ended too soon, but he knew that he was completely and truly loved until the very end, which is such a gift.”

Tears well up in Calliope’s eyes, and she dabs at them with a napkin grabbed hastily from the table. “Thank you,” she chokes out. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“Ah, now you’re gonna go and make me cry too. Can I hug you?”

You always, always ask for permission before hugging her or touching her. She doesn’t seem to mind anymore when friends do it without asking, but you can’t break yourself of the habit.

Not after seeing what you saw the night that you met her.

She doesn’t give you an answer in the form of words. Instead, she simply falls into your arms, both of you clinging to the other.

From behind you, Ethan whispers, “Uh, are we interrupting something?”

•••

Evie has a date tonight and is naturally freaking out about it. She doesn’t know what to wear, she doesn’t know what she’s going to say, she doesn’t know if she’s even going to like the girl. Though you can provide her with all of the moral support in the world, there’s only one problem that you can currently help her with, which is how she ends up rifling furiously through your closet on a random Wednesday night.

You and Calliope sit on your bed, watching as Evie grabs different outfits and either critiques them herself or holds them up for you to do so. This is a tried-and-true routine for you, but Calliope’s experiencing the joys of helping a friend in need pick out a first date outfit for the first time. As a result, she puts far more thought into her responses when Evie asks for an opinion.

“You know, I believe I may have just the shirt for you in my room,” Calliope says after the outfit rejections have reached double digits. “Come.”

Calliope has truly made her room her own in the almost two months that she’s lived here, which makes you so happy to see. She’s decorated with items found antiquing (Calliope always manages to come out of an antique store with a haul—you think it's her superpower), and her room has an actual personality now.

She goes to her closet and begins searching through it before finding what she’s looking for; a white blouse with bell sleeves and delicate embroidering along the cuffs and collar. It’s beautiful, and exactly what Evie was looking for. Her attention, however, is drawn to something else in the closet, and she grabs at one of the hangers after approving Calliope’s choice. To your surprise, Evie comes up holding a cream-colored, silk nightgown.

“Wait, Cal, you still have the nightgown you were wearing the night you got away?” you ask.

It would be cruel to say anything more than the most vague descriptions regarding Calliope’s imprisonment. Nobody particularly wanted to remind her of that dark time in her life, so great care was taken to make it the least bit triggering as possible when it needed to be brought up.

She nods.

“Why?”

Calliope thinks about that for a moment. “I am not sure, to be honest. I certainly do not want to keep a relic of such a terrible time, but throwing it away does not feel…right.”

Evie perks up. “Ooh, y’know what we should do? We should burn that bitch!”

Calliope looks perturbed. “I thought you said that he is still in a mental hospital? Besides, I believe that immolation is still a crime.”

You and Evie both laugh when you realize that Calliope thought she was talking about Madoc.

“Not that bitch, though you’re giving me great ideas. I meant that we should burn the dress. I saw it on TikTok; these friends did a ‘burn and release’ ritual. They had a fire going in their backyard, and they all wrote down and talked about things that they wanted to release before burning it and physically releasing themselves of that. It looks like it’s super empowering, and it might give you the closure that it seems like you’re looking for.”

She doesn’t say anything, but you can tell that she’s intrigued.

“We’d participate, too,” you chime in, Evie nodding along with you. “I think we all have things we want to burn so that we can give ourselves permission to move on.”

“I would like that, I think.”

Evie smiles. “Perfect. Leave it to me.”

It only takes Evie a couple of days to coordinate everything. Her parents live just outside of town, and they happily offer up their backyard to their daughter and her group of friends. When you and Calliope arrive, there’s already a fire pit set up with a ring of camping chairs surrounding it. Kiara waves from one of the chairs, a bag of marshmallows sitting in her lap, as Evie works at getting the fire going.

“Yay, you made it!” she says when she can finally trust the fire to not go out the moment she looks away from it.

Calliope nods graciously. “Thank you for hosting us this evening.”

“You’re so formal sometimes! If anything, I should be the one thanking you for going along with my crazy idea.”

“I do not think it is crazy at all,” Calliope assures.

“We’ll see, won’t we? Anyways, pens and paper are over in the empty chair next to Kiara, and there will be drinks and snacks momentarily.” Evie turns to you. “Wanna help me grab said drinks and snacks? I need an extra set of hands.”

After helping Evie with procuring and setting out a few bottles of wine, plastic cups, and a bunch of different snacks, the four of you each pick up a pen and paper and begin to write. Calliope writes furiously, her pen seeming to fly over the paper as she jots down her thoughts, and is done first as a result. The rest of you take a bit longer to write, needing to stop and think about what you want to put down before you do so.

In a group chat, you, Kiara, and Evie had decided that one of you would automatically go first, to make Calliope feel comfortable about participating. When you’ve all finished writing, Kiara stands and clears her throat.

“Well, guess I’m first up,” she says.

In hindsight, you should have guessed how emotional a night of talking about things that you need to release and then burning them as a physical manifestation would be. Still, the teary eyes from everybody when Kiara finishes reading her letter to her ex-best friend and tosses it, along with a small box of mementos, into the fire catch you off-guard. Though you said that everybody had things that they needed to release the night that Evie first brought this up, you just didn’t realize that everyone was carrying their own burdens that, to them, are just as heavy as Calliope’s is to her.

You volunteer to go next, reading about how you release all of the expectations that you’ve had about your life and where it’s meant to go. Even before Calliope arrived in your life, you struggled with the idea that your life was not going according to the plan that you had in mind. You weren’t hitting milestones that you had plotted out, and your life “schedule” kept imploding time and time again. Now, you hope to be rid of that, and the constant feeling that you’re failing yourself and your life.

As you watch the paper burn in the flames, you try to convince yourself that all of those feelings are burning along with it.

Evie follows, with a big “fuck you” to her biological dad, who she recently found out only tried to form a relationship with her so that he could get money from her. It’s such a terrible situation, and though she’s handled it with her classic brand of humor, you can all see the hurt that she carries with her. Her letter is funny and biting and makes you all laugh, but she’s openly crying by the time she tosses it into the fire, and she gets a long hug from each of you after.

Finally, it’s Calliope’s turn, and she takes a long moment to stand. She’s been holding your hand since you finished reading her letter, and you give her a comforting squeeze before letting go so she can properly hold the letter. After taking a deep breath, she looks around the fire at the encouraging faces before her before she begins.

“I have often lived my life in the service of others, though most of the time, it was something that I willingly and happily did. That choice was removed from me when I was stolen from my home and bound to a truly vile and horrid man. He took everything from me. My thoughts, my inspiration, my—” Calliope’s voice breaks. “My body. Nothing was mine anymore, and I was told that that was how it should be, that it was the natural order of the world. He beat me down, physically and emotionally, to the point where I started to believe it.

“Though I had long since lost hope, I prayed for some sort of salvation, and I prayed to whomever I could think of. Nobody answered, either because they could not or would not, and I believed myself truly alone. Eventually, my former lover, Morpheus, was the only one who could, or would, help me, and even then, there was only so much that he could do. I do not fault him for that, because he did the most that was possible for him to do.

“And then one day, somebody knocked on the door of my prison and demanded their keys back.” She looks at you with a wobbly smile, and you sniffle in an attempt to hold back tears. “I know not why that was the tipping point for my captor, and frankly, nor do I care. He threw me out like trash, but I was not really in a place to question a gift such as this. And it truly has been a gift for me. In the two months since I escaped captivity, I have been able to heal, slowly but surely, even though I did not think such a thing was possible. I have found my laugh once more. I am free to do whatever I want, whenever I want. To sit in the sun, or read a book, or be with my friends.”

Calliope picks up the nightgown from where it sat next to her chair. “With this, I release every last hold that my captivity has had on me. From now on, when I think about that time, I shall think about survival, and how I refused to be kept down. I am free, and I shall remain forever free.”

She tosses the dress and the letter into the fire, watching intently as the flames catch the fabric and begin to work through it. Then, she laughs. Her laugh is beautiful and like the peals of bells, and it’s infectious too. Soon you’re all laughing, and you all have the same idea to hug Calliope. It turns into a group hug, the four of you laughing and hugging and watching as the smoke of the fire carries away that which you do not want to carry with you any longer.

•••

Calliope takes her time getting out of the car when you arrive back home, still basking in the euphoria of emotional release. When she turns to look at you, you already know what she’s going to say.

“Go in without me.” She sighs happily and looks up at the moon. “I wish to remain outside for a moment longer.”

You squeeze her shoulder before letting go. “Alright. The door’ll be unlocked whenever you decide you’re finished.”

You hum while unlocking the door, kicking your shoes off and hearing them thump against the wall of the entryway. Fumbling, you curse under your breath as you try to find the light switch—really, you’d think that after living here for almost a year, you’d be able to turn the lights on on the first try.

Light finally floods the room, and your humming resumes as you head into the kitchen to grab a drink. There’s a chill in the air, more figurative than literal, that causes goosebumps to rise on your skin. Your heartbeat quickens as you remove a glass from the cabinet, like your reflexes are trying to warn you of some unseen danger. Nervously, you hum a little louder while filling your glass up in the hopes that you’ll feel better.

You don’t. How could you, when you look over the kitchen island into the living room and see a figure standing silhouetted against the back door? In fact, you feel much worse than nervous; now, you’re scared out of your wits, enough so that you scream upon realizing that there’s actually a man in your home, a man who is most definitely not supposed to be here.

You scream.

“Hello.”

The man’s voice is deep, deeper than you think you’ve ever heard before. If he wasn’t currently in the act of breaking into your home, you’d think about how nice of a voice it is. Right now, it’s simply disturbing.

His eyes seem to twinkle in the darkness before he takes a step toward you, thus putting himself in the light. He’s paler than any living being you’ve ever seen, with long, unkempt black hair and cold blue eyes that seem like they can tell everything about you just from looking at you. He’s dressed in all black, with a long black coat completing his ensemble.

He’s not human, that much you’re sure of. You’ve spent enough time around Calliope in the past couple of months to guess that she is something more, and this stranger is the same. Power radiates off of him in waves, the same as it does with Calliope. Both are ethereally, sharply beautiful, in a way that lets lesser beings know that these are the true apex predators.

Even though it probably won’t help (now that you have the barest idea of what you’re dealing with), you pick up a kitchen knife from the dish rack and brandish it in front of you, thankful that you had cut up an apple last night and thus had needed your largest knife to do so.

“Get the fuck out of my apartment!”

He doesn’t move, choosing instead to just keep staring at you with those piercing eyes. You come out from behind the island, still holding the knife towards him.

“Seriously, leave or I’m calling the cops,” you threaten, pulling your phone out of your pocket with your free hand.

This decision quickly has the situation going from bad to worse. The man seems to cross the entire room in a single step before slamming you against the wall, one hand wrapped dangerously tight around your throat. You gasp at the sudden violence, as well as the strength that he possesses under his lean figure, and both the knife and the phone fall from your hands as you try to figure out what to do.

“Be quiet, mortal,” he spits venomously, his hand flexing around your throat. You attempt to grab at his hand to get him off of you, but he doesn’t budge. When you try to kick at him, he just leans more of his weight against you and renders you virtually immobile. “You are keeping a woman here, against her will. You will release her immediately, or suffer the most dire of consequences.”

“What? No, I’m not!” you argue.

Is he talking about Calliope? If so, he’s about two months too late in coming to her rescue. The only one that was holding her against her will was Ric Madoc, and he’s facing his own set of consequences for what he did.

Speak of the devil. Calliope chooses this moment to come in from her nighttime sojourn. You and your attacker both stare at the door as Calliope enters the apartment. She’s humming, much as you had when you first came in, completely in her own little world.

“Cal!” you cry out helplessly in an attempt to warn her, the only sound you can make before the man’s hand tightens again and cuts off all but a bit of your air supply. If given the chance, you’re not sure if you would tell her to run or ask for her help.

She takes stock of the situation before her with calculated eyes. Instead of surprise, shock, or fear, Calliope just looks…angry. Her bag drops to the floor next to her feet, and she makes sure to shut and lock the door behind her.

“Let them go, Oneiros,” Calliope commands, her hand landing on his shoulder.

Wait, Calliope knows him? Internally, you chastise yourself; obviously, she knows him, she called him by name! Still, you find yourself confused. She hasn’t mentioned having any contacts in the area. In fact, you distinctly remember her saying that she had “nobody” that first night you met her.

The intruder—Oneiros, apparently—does as Calliope asks, and you slide to the floor without his interference keeping you upright. Calliope slides down with you, landing on her knees in front of you as she looks you over with her big, brown eyes.

“Are you alright?” she asks, using her thumbs to wipe away your tears, tears that you weren’t aware you were shedding.

You nod. “I–I think so.”

Despite your reassurance, your hand goes to your throat, and you try to rub away the soreness that’s already settling beneath the skin. When she begins to rub her hands up and down your arms, you realize that you’re shaking violently. Calliope stands and briefly leaves the room, leaving you and Oneiros in awkward silence until she returns with a blanket, which she gently wraps around you.

After she’s completed this task, Calliope wheels around to point accusingly at the man. “You are a fool, and you allow yourself to act without first thinking far too often.”

“Calliope–” he tries to interrupt, but Calliope shakes her head.

“What are you doing here?” she demands.

He scowls. “You called for me again, did you not?”

“I did no such thing!”

“Really?” he questions with a raised eyebrow. “You did not write my name down prior to burning it?”

Calliope falls silent, because apparently that’s exactly what she did.

“I thought that what I had done to Richard Madoc worked, Calliope. Why did you not come to me sooner to tell me that he had sold you off instead?”

“Nothing of the sort has happened!”

“Then how did you end up bound to yet another mortal?”

“It is not what it looks like, Morpheus.”

“Explain it to me, then,” he pleads.

As the two continue to bicker above you, you feel increasingly like you’re interrupting in your own home. You shift uncomfortably, and Oneiros—Morpheus? Seriously, how many names does this guy have?—turns his sharp gaze upon you.

“You. How did you come to bind the Muse Calliope? What spell have you used to bewitch her?” He demands answers that you don’t have, and your shaking becomes worse under the full brunt of his stare.

“What?” You scramble to your feet so that you can at least pretend to be on the same ground as the two others here. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please, let us sit down and discuss this civilly,” Calliope interrupts, gesturing both of you towards the living room.

After a moment of consideration, Oneiros/Morpheus nods tersely and walks in the direction that Calliope had pointed as though this is his home and not yours. You try to get your legs to move, but they steadfastly remain stuck to the spot you’re standing in. Calliope notices this and loops her arm through yours before gently guiding you into the living room.

“Why did he call you a Muse?” you whisper to her.

She presses her lips together in a thin line. “I will give you answers, I promise. It is…complicated.”

Though you’re not exactly satisfied by this answer, you trust Calliope, so you nod and silently agree to wait.

You don’t have to wait for long. Once everybody is seated (you in the chair perpendicular to the couch, with Oneiros/Morpheus on the couch and Calliope sitting next to him while simultaneously acting as a buffer between you), Calliope takes a deep breath and begins to explain everything. About who, and what, she is, how she came to be bound by a writer named Erasmus Fry, and how she was basically bartered for by Ric Madoc. She explains what they wanted from her, and she explains, unflinchingly, what they did to her to get it. Though it’s horrific, you listen to all of it. After all, if she’s willing to give, it’s only fair that you be open to receiving.

Calliope’s words seem to hang in the air long after she’s finished. The three of you sit in silence; Oneiros/Morpheus with a stony expression, you crying (you think you’ve cried more today than you’ve cried in a long, long time), and Calliope waiting calmly for you both to digest what she’s said.

In the end, it’s you who speaks first. “So you’re a goddess?” you ask.

“A Muse, yes,” she says.

“Like, of the Greek variety.” You need to confirm this for some reason, even though you already know the answer.

She laughs. “Yes.”

“A literal Muse is my best friend and roommate?”

You think that you might be going into shock right now

Oneiros/Morpheus scoffs, and you glare at him. “You have something to say?”

“You say that Calliope is your best friend. Then why do you not set her free?”

“Set her free? She’s a person, she’s free to do whatever she wants.”

“No, she is not. Calliope is bound to you, by the old laws.”

“Morpheus,” Calliope says sharply, a warning, but the man continues.

“You are enslaving a goddess and calling it friendship.” The disgust is clear on his face. “How can there be any sort of friendship when she is unable to leave, to do anything, without your say? You have complete and utter control over her, and you force her to pretend that it isn’t so. This farce that you’ve concocted must end now. I implore you to free her before I am left with no choice but to take further action against you.”

The room begins to tilt, and you shake your head in disbelief. “No…”

“They don’t know, Morpheus!” Calliope snaps.

“Cal, you—”

You feel sick, and you genuinely think that you’re about to throw up. All this time, you thought you had helped to free her from her prison. Instead, she’s remained trapped, bound to you just like she was bound to Madoc and, as you’ve now learned, Erasmus Fry. These men took everything from an unwilling goddess, a Muse, and you’re basically no better than them.

Swallowing down the bile that rises in your throat does nothing, so you close your eyes to take a couple of deep, shaky breaths in an attempt to calm down. That doesn’t work either, and you rise shakily to your feet before rushing over to the trash can in the kitchen and throwing up the wine and snacks that you had eagerly partaken in at Evie’s.

It’s humiliating, doing something as base and human as retching in the presence of two godly creatures. Everything about this situation is humiliating, if you’re being honest with yourself. You’ve unknowingly extended Calliope’s incarceration and deluded both of you into believing that it was friendship. How could you be a part of such a heinous act? Truly, are you no better than Madoc?

When you’ve finally thrown up everything in your stomach and then some, you’re full-on sobbing as you clutch at the trash can. Your knees give out, but Calliope catches you as you fall to the ground and wraps you in her embrace. She soothes you and murmurs words of comfort as she runs a hand through your hair, letting you cry in her arms when it should be the other way around. You don’t deserve her comfort, you think to yourself.

Once you finally have enough breath in your lungs to be able to talk, you gasp out between hyperventilating, “I’m so sorry. I–I didn’t know, and if I did, I would have never–”

“Shh,” she hushes you, grabbing your hands in hers. “My sweet friend, you have done nothing wrong.”

“But I–”

“I am the one who chose not to tell you. I trusted you in the beginning, and I trust you now. You have not failed me or abused me, or been a captor to me. Do you hear me?” She holds your face in her hands to make you look at her, and she waits until you nod to hug you once more.

“How do I free you?” you ask her. “Please, let me free you.”

“You must say that she is free,” your uninvited guest speaks up, making you remember that there’s a whole other person here. “And mean it.”

“Calliope, you’re free. You’ve always been free,” you say immediately, looking at her earnestly and hoping that she can see in your eyes how sorry you are.

Nothing physically changes. No burst of light envelops her, and she doesn’t undergo any sort of transformation. Yet, something in the air changes and becomes lighter. That inner glow that Calliope’s always carried seems to beam brighter now. Her shoulders look less weighed down now, no longer burdened by her forced captivity.

“Thank you,” Calliope says profusely.

“Don’t do that,” you say, feeling sick all over again. “Don’t thank me for something I should have done the second that Madoc threw you at me. I should have been smarter, more observant than I was. God, you deserve so much more than anything I can ever begin to give you.”

She’s not happy about your self-deprecation, but you will not be the source of her rage tonight. No, as she helps you once more to stand, her anger lands squarely on the man who barged in here and turned everything on its head.

“Apologize. Now,” Calliope demands. “What you have done here tonight is completely unacceptable and a new low, even for you.”

After thinking for a moment, perhaps to consider if he did transgress against you, he nods and stands like some sort of gentleman to properly address you. “The lady Calliope is right. I have acted deplorably towards you this evening, when you have done nothing but offer shelter and companionship to one needing it. I sincerely apologize for the pain and anguish that I have caused you.”

You nod warily, still tucked into Calliope’s side. “Thank you,” you say quietly.

Truthfully, you do appreciate the apology. If he’s as powerful as you think he is, then he could have just as easily decided that you weren’t worth the breath it would take to form words, and that would be well within his right.

“Well, now that we’re all close to being on the same page here.” Calliope gestures to the man. “Allow me to introduce you to Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, King of Dreams and Ruler of the Nightmare Realms, et cetera, et cetera.”

“You’re a god too?” you ask.

“Not a god. I am Endless, one of seven anthropomorphic personifications of natural forces. I am far older, and far more powerful, than any god, and will remain long after all of your gods are dead and gone,” Morpheus explains.

You try to ignore the fact that one of the most powerful beings in the universe is currently sitting in your living room, lest you start to have an existential crisis in front of him. Now that Calliope’s told you his name, it rings a bell. “Wait, is he your ex?”

Morpheus looks at you both in surprise. “You have spoken of me?”

“Only tonight,” Calliope assures him. “When I…accidentally summoned you.”

The longer that you can think clearly without the threat of bodily harm, the more the puzzle pieces keep clicking into place for you. “He’s Orpheus’s dad, isn’t he?”

Calliope nods, and so does Morpheus, though he’s far more reluctant than she is. You don’t notice that, though, too caught up in your thoughts.

“Ha, Morpheus and Orpheus.” Maybe all of the crying has made you dehydrated, which in turn has left you a little delirious. That’s the only reason why you say this train of thought out loud. “What, if you had a daughter were you going to name her Alliope?”

Calliope snickers at that, though Morpheus doesn’t share her amusement. “His name fit him perfectly, even though it was quite the coincidence that it was one letter off from that of his father’s.”

“God, I’m so stupid,” you bemoan. “How did I not know you were a goddess? I literally said, ‘Oh cool, like the muse’ when you introduced yourself! You must have thought I was an idiot.”

“It is difficult for the mortal mind to comprehend that which it believes to be fake. To you, that was the only connection that you subconsciously deemed possible,” Morpheus explains. Though he does it to make you feel better, it feels a little patronizing when it comes from someone as powerful as him.

“I wish you would have told me. Did you think that I wouldn’t have freed you? Because I would have!”

“I know that,” Calliope says. “Truthfully, I…forgot to tell you.”

“You forgot?” Morpheus says in disbelief.

At the same time, you ask, “How the fuck do you forget to tell someone that you’re accidentally bound to them?”

“At first, I was scared. That it was a trap, that you would be worse than Madoc. Of course, that lasted about twenty minutes.”

“What made you realize I was different?”

She smiles. “When you told me that the doors only locked from the inside. You cared about my privacy and that I was feeling safe, and I figured that you had no clue about anything that had happened, or about who I was. From there, it just wasn’t something that I thought to bring up. I was too frightened to leave the apartment, and I had been cut off from the world for over sixty years. Frankly, the idea of going out without you terrified me. As I began to regain control of my life and heal, it just became something that I thought about less and less. You are my best and dearest friend, and we do everything together, so why would I think about a bond other than the one that formed naturally?”

It’s very sweet of her to say, but you still have questions. “So you were just going to continue to live like this?”

“I did not have a plan, but I suppose so. I was happy here, with you.”

“Okay, but what happened if I got married one day, or like, had kids?”

“I would just be the fun aunt that lived with you and your family?”

“Jesus Christ,” you groan before sitting up suddenly. “Wait, is Jesus Christ real too?”

Calliope and Morpheus share a look, and you’re suddenly frightened of the answer.

“No wait, don’t tell me, I don’t wanna know.”

You really, really don’t want to have an existential crisis until you can be alone in the comfort of your room.

Thankfully, Calliope and Morpheus take over the conversation from there, because you don’t think you have the mental capacity to try and further any conversation right now. They obviously have a lot to catch up on, since it seems like the last time they saw each other was when Calliope broke down and asked him for help escaping Madoc.

Instead, while they converse, you take a moment to zone out and try to process just what has happened in the past hour. The stranger that broke into your apartment turned out to be the powerful, eldritch nightmare king ex-husband to your roommate, who’s actually a goddess that was unintentionally bound to you. For reasons beyond your comprehension, he thought that she needed rescuing, and that you were the one that she needed rescuing from.

Your thoughts chase each other like a cyclone, and you try not to panic as you think about all of this. God, you need a drink right now.

When Morpheus and Calliope both rise, with Morpheus saying that he really must return to his kingdom, you rise with them. After all, how will you ever feel at ease if you don’t ask him what’s on your mind?

“Are we good now?” you ask. “Like, you’re not gonna hurt me or curse me? I promise I had no idea about any of this.”

“Yes, I know that now,” Morpheus says. “I will not harm you. If anything, I should be offering you a boon, for being such an immense help to one such as Calliope.”

“You owe me nothing. Neither of you do.”

Calliope leans in and kisses Morpheus on the cheek, so gently that you wonder if she even made contact. “Fare you well, Morpheus.”

He bows his head. “Goodbye.”

Between one blink and the next, he’s gone as though he was never here at all.

•••

That night, you dream, and for the first time, you’re aware of the fact that you’re dreaming.

You don’t know where you are, but it’s the greenest, lushest meadow you’ve ever seen. Wildflowers dance lazily in the breeze, and you can hear the low rush of a river behind the treeline. You’re tempted to lie down in the impossibly soft-looking grass and watch the clouds drift overhead, but before you can, you see them standing next to you.

Morpheus looks just as he did when you saw him in your apartment, only a lot less like he’s ready to murder you. The main difference is that he now sports robes fit for a king instead of his coat. His eyes, you also notice, are black pools of stars.

On the other hand, the Calliope you see before you is a complete departure from the Calliope you know and love. She’s wearing a white chiton that’s belted at the waist and her hair, which normally falls in curly waves, is braided back intricately. She shines, in a way that you’ve never seen, looking every bit the goddess that she is.

“Is this real, or am I dreaming?” you ask.

“Dreams are real,” Morpheus says with the slightest of smiles.

“Of course, my bad.”

Though it’s a picturesque dream, it’s stained with strokes of melancholy. On some level, you know what’s going to happen, and what Morpheus has brought you here for.

“You’re gonna leave, aren’t you?” you ask Calliope.

Selfishly, you’re hoping that she’ll say no. That she’ll tell you that your home is her home and where she’s meant to be. Yet even as you foolishly hope, you know that your ordinary apartment, your ordinary life, is no place for a goddess. No, she deserves far greater than that.

She smiles sadly, and that’s all the confirmation you need. “I think I must, at least temporarily. There is…much for me to do, back home on Olympus. I wish to reconnect with my sisters, for one. And though it is lofty of me, I wish to change the old laws so that we may never be enslaved on the whims of mortals ever again.”

“If anyone can change laws that are thousands of years old, it’s you.”

“Thank you…for everything these past two months. Truly, I do not know how I can ever properly thank you for what you have done for me.”

“You don’t have to do anything; just knowing that you’re safe and happy is enough for me. I’m so proud of you for taking your life back after everything you went through. You deserve all of the happiness and goodness that the world has to offer you.”

“I would not have been able to do it without you, you know. No matter how we came to know each other, I am glad that we did. You saved me.” She says it so earnestly, needing you to truly understand your impact on her recovery.

“You did that yourself, Cal. I was just along for the ride.”

“You have my utmost respect,” Morpheus says. “Not many would have taken in a stranger needing help from off the streets with nothing but the purest of intentions, and fewer still would have offered them friendship. Your bravery and kind heart shall not be forgotten.”

“You have my respect too, for what it’s worth.”

He looks at you in surprise. “Why?”

“Calliope told me that you didn’t end things on the best of terms. But still, when she called for help, you answered with barely a second thought, and did all you could to help.”

He stares for a moment before nodding and turning to gaze out across the meadow. To your unabashed delight, his cheeks tint a light lavender in embarrassment, unsure of how to take your compliment. You bite your lip to stifle your laugh and decide to not tease the King of Dreams…for now.

Though you’ve been putting it off, some sixth sense tells you that your time here is nearing an end. You turn to Calliope again, who already is trying desperately to keep her tears unshed. When you meet her eyes, she holds out her arms to hug you, and you gladly accept.

“I’ll miss you,” you mumble.

Calliope kisses your forehead before pressing hers to yours affectionately. “I shall miss you as well, more than you can even imagine.”

“Call me if you need anything, okay? If–if your sisters are ganging up on you, or if you need someone to watch the best movies of the two-thousands with you, or if you’re missing going to karaoke with the gang. I’ll drop everything and go to Greece, just say the word.”

She laughs, the sound uninhibited and joyful. “I know you will.”

“Goodbye, Calliope." You have no choice but to finally, reluctantly say the words you've been dreading to say. If you weren't to do it now, you know you'd never let go of her.

Calliope pulls away just enough so that she can look you in the eye. “May fortune go with you, my sweetest friend.”

•••

Calliope’s gone when you wake up, her belongings the only sign that she even existed here in the first place. Though you cry, they’re not tears of sadness; rather, they’re happy tears, because how could you not be happy for Calliope? She’s found her freedom and the strength to return home, to try and make a better world for herself and her fellow gods and goddesses. Truly, this is all that you ever wanted for her.

On her nightstand sits a folded-up note, your name written on the front in Calliope’s ornate script. You open it up to read it, and when you finish, you hold it to your heart.

I will always be close by in your heart, as you will always be in mine. No distance can change that. Should you need me, you need only pray to me, and I shall hear you. Continue to make the world as bright as you.

-Calliope

#dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless imagine #dream of the endless #the sandman imagine #the sandman #morpheus x reader #morpheus imagine #morpheus #calliope the sandman #calliope the sandman imagine

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drurrito · 10 months

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I wrote this fairly quickly bc my crim prof is painfully hot and I am suffering as a result. All mistakes are mine.

Pairings: LawStudent!Reader x LawProfessor!Wanda

Warnings: like one cuss word lol -- reader's age is not specified and neither is Wanda's at this point -- if you want to be a K-thru-JD, be my guest.

----------------

You’re staring at the heavy wooden door in front of you. Your eyes trace over the markings, this building is your favorite on campus because of the architecture. It was once a grand library in the late 1800s and now it holds most of your 1L classes. It’s also home to the office of your Criminal Law Professor whom you’re supposed to be meeting with in a few seconds.

You let out a long exhale as you stare at your watch. You try to ignore how sweaty your palm is as you clench your hand into a fist to knock on the door.

“Come in,” your professor’s voice is calm, with no hint as to why you were summoned to her office in the first place. It came through an email yesterday afternoon after class. You blinked at your screen while your friends teased you about being in trouble.

Are you in trouble?

You step into her office and she’s sitting at her desk writing something down.

“You wanted to see me, Professor Maximoff?”

“Yes,” she sets down her pen, “can I get you anything? Water? Tea?” She gives you a warm smile that would normally disarm anyone but it only makes you stiffen with nerves.

“No thank you, professor. I’m good.”

“Sure," she leans back in her chair and gives you a serious look that makes you flinch, "what did you think of the lesson yesterday? Any questions?”

Did she really call me in here to talk about yesterday’s lesson?

“No, professor, none that I can think of. Inchoate crimes seem pretty straightforward,” you nervously nod and her lips twitch into a smile.

“I look forward to reading your analysis on it for tomorrow’s discussion board then.”

“I’m just about done with it,” you breathe, it was the truth. You know you won’t see your class ranking until after your first year of law school but it seems to already be obvious to everyone that you’re top of the class. It’s not by luck, you've always had to work harder than everyone else to get where you needed to be. It does help that you’ve wanted to go to law school since you were a child. Now that you’re here, everything just clicks.

“Y/N,” Profesor Maximoff’s voice makes your eyes snap to hers. Her usually bright shade of hazel eyes are now much, much darker.

“You’re a good student, you know that right?"

That makes you clear your throat, “thank you, professor, I’m just trying to make the most of this opportunity — it’s pretty busy at times.”

“You must be too busy to realize how you come across as well.”

“I’m sorry?” You have to ask to make sure you heard her correctly.

“You realize this is the first time you’ve held eye contact with me for more than three seconds?" She crosses her arms and that makes you tense even more.

“You’ve been counting?”

“At some point, yes. It’s like clockwork," she unfolds one arm to frame her face and you can't help but appreciate her jawline and the perfectly manicured finger that's tapping away at her cheek.

You have to look away and take a breath. You feel like an idiot for having such obvious tells. Of course, if Sam and Bucky can clock your nervous habits, Professor Maximoff can too.

“You don’t let your eyes land on me for too long, they bounce around the room a lot, like right now.”

Your eyes fall on her again, but this time you make it a point to hold it for as long as you can physically bear it.

“I’m sorry, Professor. I’m not rude, just shy at times. I can see how that comes off as standoffish.”

“It’s okay,” she gives you a nod with a smile. It’s the same combo she gives during her lectures. You only know this because you’re its number-one fan. Your jaw reflexively drops but you quickly pick it back up before she notices.

“You know,” she slides out of her plush leather chair and saunters out from behind her desk, “at first I did think you were just rude.”

She shrugs for a beat before stepping closer to you, “but then I think about how often you hold the door for me.”

And closer.

“And how you say ‘good morning’ or ‘good afternoon’ whenever you pass me on campus.”

And closer.

“Now, it all makes sense.”

Your cheeks begin to burn, you want to step back to give her space but she’s already a breath away from you by the time your brain can form the idea.

“Y/n.”

“Yes, professor?”

“Do you like me?”

Fuck.

She asks it so innocently you almost forget where you are. You're not two people casually exploring each other's fascination with one another. You're not on some kind of date, she’s your professor and you’re just a 1L. She watches your throat squirm as you swallow. Your mouth is now bone dry.

“I…it’s--just a little crush, yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, professor,” you respond so quickly and she hums in praise. Something pulls deep in your belly but you don’t have any time to figure out what it is before Professor Maximoff speaks again.

“Just a little?”

She leans impossibly closer to you. Your eyes don’t have a single corner to escape to, your breathing is shallow and sporadic.

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t correct you this time and you can’t help but feel a heavy pang of want. You watch a smirk stretch across her face and you feel like prey that’s about to fall victim to--

“That’ll be all, y/n—please close the door on your way out.”

She backs away before you do, turning on her heel to sit at her desk just the way you found her.

You stand there dumbly nodding for a moment. She subtly raises an eyebrow in your direction and that’s when your limbs begin to move towards the door. You quietly shut the door behind you before slumping against it, air filling your lungs once again. You shake off whatever you're feeling and head home, still trying to wrap your head around what just happened.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x you #marvel fanfic #works

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finnlongman · 7 months

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About Me, My Books, and My Research (2024 Edition)

Hi, I'm Finn, a writer, medievalist, and all-round nerd. You may know me as the author of The Butterfly Assassin, "that person who wrote the trans Cú Chulainn article", the weird nerd in the Tumblr corner writing excessively long and incomprehensibly niche posts about their research, or something else entirely. I am all of those things! (Well, depending on what the 'something else' is, anyway...)

Currently, I'm a PhD student at the University of Cambridge researching friendship in the late Ulster Cycle (c. 12th-17th centuries). I have an MA in Early and Medieval Irish from University College Cork, and wrote my thesis about Láeg mac Ríangabra, my best beloved. I also have an undergrad degree in Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic from Cambridge, and wrote my dissertation about queer readings of Táin Bó Cúailnge, including transmasculine readings of Cú Chulainn.

You can find out more about my research on my website, which also includes info about all of my academic publications. This includes the aforementioned "trans Cú Chulainn article", an article about Láeg in the Death of Cú Chulainn, an article about the seven Maines, and a discussion of a conference on Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire from the perspective of my own work on lament and grief. Whenever possible, I try to make my research available Open Access. If you're ever having trouble finding one of my articles, please contact me!

If you want recommendations for books about medieval Irish (or Welsh) literature, this list on my Bookshop page has all my go-to recommendations. If you buy via this link, I earn a small commission at no extra cost to you, so this is a great way to support me.

I am also an author, and I write both YA and adult novels. Again, my website is the place to go for all the info and links, but a quick summary:

The Butterfly Assassin trilogy (The Butterfly Assassin, 2022; The Hummingbird Killer, 2023; Moth to a Flame, 2024): YA thrillers about a traumatised teenage assassin who is trying (and failing) to live a normal life in a fictional closed city in Yorkshire. Featuring friendship, street art, Esperanto, zero romance, and a whole lot of murder, as well as increasingly unsubtle commentary on the UK arms industry and the military recruitment of vulnerable teenagers.

The Wolf and His King (coming Spring 2025 from Gollancz): a queer retelling of 'Bisclavret' by Marie de France which uses werewolfism as a metaphor to explore chronic pain and illness. Also very much about yearning, exile, and the mortifying ordeal of being known.

The Animals We Became (coming 2026 from Gollancz): a queertrans retelling of the Fourth Branch of the Mabinogi looking at gender, compulsory heterosexuality, and trauma, through the medium of nonconsensual animal transformations.

To Run With The Hound (coming 2027 from Gollancz): my take on the Ulster Cycle, looking at why Táin Bó Cúailnge is a tragedy and what it means to be doomed by the narrative, but not in the way you thought you were. Featuring a lot of feelings about Cú Chulainn, Fer Diad, and Láeg.

You can find out more about my recently-announced medieval retellings in this blog post.

I generally tag personal posts and selfies as “#about the author”; other than that, I think I’m pretty straightforward with my tagging system.

I’m very happy to answer questions about medieval Irish lit, my research, or my books, or just generally to chat. Send questions via asks, chat via DMs, and if you're looking for my articles, you can email me at finn [at] finnlongman [dot] com, which is also the best way to contact me for professional enquiries, whether academic or fiction related.

You can also find me on Bluesky, on Instagram, and on YouTube, where I (infrequently) retell medieval Irish stories for a general audience with lots of sarcasm and hand gestures. Technically I'm still on Twitter, but I'm trying to leave.

And finally, if you’ve found my research interesting or just generally want to support me, I have a tip jar and am always immensely grateful when somebody helps me to fund my book-buying habits: http://ko-fi.com/fianaigecht. You can also tip me directly on Tumblr if you like. I’m also a Bookshop affiliate, and you can buy books from my recommendation lists to support me and get some great reads at the same time.

#about the author #the wolf and his king #to run with the hound #the butterfly assassin #also owls are transmasculine now #writing #books

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godlygreta · 8 months

Text

god is fair | j. t. kiszka

title | god is fair

word count | 7.7k

warnings | swearing, mentions of alcohol - nothing too terrible... yet ;)

author's note | i've had this in the chamber for some time now, i just lost the inspo to write, which is why i haven't in a long time. this isn't a promise that i'll post more fics as they come to me, seeing as i'm a senior in college who has a fuck ton of other things to do. there will be a part 2 to this fic, but i couldn't tell you when it's coming :)

also, very much so listening to god is fair, sexy nasty by mac miller while writing this & starting the next part, so take that as you will ;)

unedited as hell so pls excuse any mistakes !

You always had this rivalry since the beginning of freshman year. This guy, Jake, would never show up to any of the classes the two of you had together, but always got the highest grades on every single goddamn exam that your Intro to Bio professor gave out. It infuriated you.

You figured that in the spring semester, you would be freed from the disappearing boy, but you weren’t. While the teacher called roll, everyone shouted out here. She landed upon his name, calling out to the class and looking through the rows of students. He had been there for orientation, sitting in one of the middle rows, slouched in his seat.

You planned to confront him the next day you had class together, on Wednesday, but Jake was nowhere to be found. Your roommate and your friends had heard your exhaustive theories as to why he was never in class. “Babe, you sound insane. Just let it go.”

But you couldn’t.

Competition lived deep within your roots, having an entire competition with the second top student in your graduating class in high school. Though the rage held between each other was never taken far outside of the academic realm, the two of you never thought to be friends and encourage one another. Thankfully, the two of you resolved the competition when the two of you realized you would be going into two very separate fields of study in college.

Camren, who knew she was going to be a chemist from the time she first learned about chemistry, had told you she loved the competition – made it fun and kept things interesting. And there you were, going to school for Pre-Med with the same feeling. The two of you kept in contact, updating each other on the strive for greatness in college as well.

You kept a close relationship with a lot of your teachers, making sure to get on their good side before classes had really begun. You emailed most of them, especially your Anatomy and Physiology professor, Dr. Sahnya Heinz.

She was incredibly skilled in her field, leaving the active medical field to teach the new and future minds of medicine. It was a cliche line she delivered on the first day, but it encouraged that familiar competitive fire that dwelled within you.

You don’t quite remember how you came to figure out that Jake was ahead of you, but you had found out somehow from your professor, although it was an accident.

It made everything in you burn with anger and frustration. Anytime someone mentioned him, or mentioned the fact that you were second, you clenched your jaw and your teeth gritted together. Your friends had an inside joke that you were only mad because you had a huge crush on him.

“I barely even know what he looks like, Mel! I fucking hate the guy. Don’t start shit.” You’d plead, beer can in your hand in the lounge of some fraternity floor.

Over the next few semesters, you kept trying your hardest, spending most of your free time in the library, reading everything that you could to prepare for every exam. You wrote papers early, having them done at least three weeks in advance. As soon as you would be told about a new one, you’d immediately start finding sources.

You sauntered around campus, thinking that you would be way ahead of him. He still never showed up to any classes, aside from orientation and exam periods. You’d stare at him for a few moments while the teacher passed out the exam, looking over his face as much as you could.

His long hair would obscure your vision on occasion, making it hard to catch any of his features at all. From what you could see though, he had nice, full lips. His nose was something you could have stared at the entire exam period.

You watched him as he licked his lips, whispering a thank you to Heinz before grabbing his pencil from his desk and getting to work. You looked away from him as soon as Heinz put your exam on your desk, offering her a small smile and a quick thank you before getting to work.

It was almost spring break, meaning some of your assignments had been slowing, some of them had been increasing. A group of your friends from different majors told you about one of the lounge parties a fraternity on campus was throwing. “Sigma Tau has the worst lounge parties, Tamia. You know this.”

“They’re joining forces with the Delta’s though, so it’ll be better than normal! You have to come, you’ve always got your nose in a book. You haven’t drank with us in so long, I forget what you’re like when you’re drunk.”

“I don’t know… I need to work on this Midterm paper I have in Kainz’s class, it’s due next week.”

“Babe, it’s been done for weeks! You just keep editing it trying to find mistakes and there are none! I’ve literally read it five times. Please, go out with us, just tonight?”

You looked between Tamia and Mel, knowing in the end you would give into them anyways. “Ugh, fine! Tonight, and tonight only, just this once. If I don’t like it, though, I’m leaving and going to bed early.”

“You’ll have so much fun, I swear!” Mel and Tamia looked between each other, sharing expressions of excitement and happiness on their faces. You rolled your eyes, standing up from your chair.

You let them raid your closet, trying to throw something together quickly. Most of the time, Tamia and Mel never obeyed the dress code for the lounge parties, hating the idea of giving into the male gaze of the fraternity brothers. Tonight, however, was a bit different. The theme was Western, meaning it was cowboy hats and very tiny shorts.

You looked over the outfit that laid out in front of you, straw cowboy hat that Tamia had bought from Amazon (one for each of you), a pair of short shorts that may or may not show your ass a bit, and a red bandana top that Mel let you borrow last semester that you forgot to return. “I don’t know about this. I don’t even have the right shoes.”

“You forget we wear the same size, bitch, you’re going. No backing out.” They joked, tossing you a pair of white boots. “Just put that shit on while we heat up the curling iron, okay?”

“Fine, fine, okay.” You peel off your shirt, throwing on the one they picked out. Next to go were your pajama pants, which were replaced by the shorts. You kept the same socks on, knowing that nobody would see them anyways with the boots going up to the middle of your calf muscle. “I look fucking ridiculous.”

“You look fucking hot, now sit down while we do your hair and makeup,” Mel spoke, pulling out your desk chair while Tamia smiled wickedly with the curling wand in hand. You were nervous, looking at the both of them, but the good kind that settled under your skin and was left hidden behind the smallest smile.

You talked about upcoming exams with them while they did your hair and makeup, much to their dismay. They attempted to fill you in on the various drama situations going on around campus while you had been heavily plugged into your textbooks. You gasped often, finding shock and awe in some of the things they had been telling you about classmates.

They spoke about Jake, letting it slip that he had been planning on attending the party, joined at the hip with one of the girls he had been rumored to have been dating. One of the many. “Ugh, he just sounds like a douche. Gives me even more reason to hate him.”

“We’re not feeding into your delusion that he’s some douchebag. Dropping it.” Tamia spoke, putting her hands up in a surrender. Mel laughed, pulling away from you with an eyeliner pen in hand. “Maybe we’ll get you drunk enough to admit you like him.”

“I don’t like him, and I thought we were dropping the topic.” You looked at Tamia in the mirror, watching her face deadpan as she looked back at you.

“I have something hot in my hands, don’t be rude to me.” The three of you laughed, getting back into the rhythm of getting ready. You let them do their thing to you, curling the last bit of your hair and putting the finishing touches of highlighter on your brow bone.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, marveling at the job they did. You thanked them for getting you all dolled up, watching them change into their outfits. It was mostly just them taking off the sweats they were wearing, throwing them over the back of your desk chair. You took a few pictures with them in your mirror before finally deciding to head out.

The party had started a half an hour ago, walking into the party late like most people did. The three of you got in easily with matching the dress code, immediately looking for the drinks table. The boys in charge handed the three of you a free shot of anything you wanted. Mel chose for you, starting the night out roughly with a shot of Svedka.

You grabbed a Sprite from one of the boys in one hand, the shot of Svedka in the other. The three of you tapped your glasses together before downing the shot. The alcohol burned as it slipped down your throat, trying to soothe it with the taste and coolness of the Sprite. You shook a bit, throwing the cup away in a nearby trash can.

“That was fucking gross, I hate you so much for choosing Svedka.”

“I could’ve chosen something even more nasty, like Jack.” Mel laughed, leading the three of you over to a section in the lounge where you could stand a decent enough distance away from one another, instead of being piled on top of one another.

“I would have rather taken a shot of Jack, Mel.” You spoke, sipping more of your Sprite. Tamia pointed out a few of the people they had talked about earlier, letting you put names to faces.

In the midst, two of the Sigma brothers decided to start a dance battle, capturing the attention of those around them. Everyone joined in, gathering around the two guys. Mel and Tamia joined too, but you had slipped out of their grasp by telling them you had to use the bathroom.

You were happy to escape the party, sneaking out with a bottle of Smirnoff the boys had left unattended. You walked outside, taking a deep breath in. You were thankful to be met with the smell of fresh air, not smelling sweat and booze everywhere. Your peace and tranquility was ruined by someone’s voice, “Well, don’t you look adorable.”

Your head snapped towards the voice, seeing Jake sitting up against the bike rack with a cigarette between his fingers. “Shut up.”

“What? I can’t compliment you?”

“No,” you started, crossing your arms with the bottle still in your hand. “No, you can’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I hate you.” Jake looked at you, up and down, taking a drag of his cigarette. You screwed off the cap of the bottle, taking a pull. You tried your hardest to not make a face, looking away slightly when the familiar sting settled in your throat.

“Why do you hate me? I’ve never spoken to you before.”

“Do I have to have a reason?” You asked, walking closer to him.

“Suppose not. But if I knew why you hated me,” he tossed his cigarette butt on the ground, stomping on it with his boot. “Then maybe I could find a way to make you not hate me.”

“Unless you flunk your next exam, I guarantee that won’t happen.”

“Oh, I get it.” He chuckled, standing up from the bike rack he was leaning against. He grabbed his cigarette butt up from the ground, tossing it into the nearest garbage can. He turned towards you, staring at you with his brown eyes. “You’re just mad because I’m smarter than you.”

“You’re never in class. You shouldn’t be ahead of me.” You glared at him, lips moving into a frown.

“Just because I’m never there doesn’t mean I’m not getting the information. I work five, sometimes six days a week. We only have class three days a week. Typically, I gotta work those days. Heinz sends me the powerpoints and the assignment notes so I never miss anything.”

“Oh yeah? Where do you even work then?” You asked.

He chuckled, fingers brushing yours that were wrapped around the bottle. “Now if I told you that, it would ruin all the fun,” he looked you up and down once more, licking his lips slightly. “Well, maybe I’ll see you and your bottle inside.”

You waited til the doors closed behind him to roll your eyes, and huff outwardly. You took the bottle of Smirnoff, turned on your heels and walked towards your dorm hall. You hated Jake. You really hated Jake.

—

Your midterms came and went. The stress decreased slightly, but only to be raised again as the end of the semester loomed around. Assignments started piling up, various papers and presentations due all around the same week. Since the end of Spring Break, you had been holed up in your room, left to your mountains of homework.

Your Microbio class had a presentation due that coincided with the research project you had been working on all semester long. Human Anatomy and Physiology (or affectionately known as BIO 312) had a major cumulative exam on the entire semester, which stressed you out more than any other homework assignment or exam you had.

Thankfully, your school held an all day event that attempted to boost the morale of the students on campus. Filled with a bunch of free things, you took advantage of everything offered.

Lined up on tables were various student organizations set up, with their own little games and prizes. A few of them had speakers that played the music they wanted to listen to, all speakers attempting to outman the other. However, the one that ended up winning was a tie dye station located in the lawn, handing out free t-shirts to dye.

One of the guys at the tie dye station had a wide smile on his face while his hands were dripping with dye. Setting your prizes down at a table where Tamia and Mel had put their things, you walked over to him. He welcomed you over with a smile, “Hey! Lookin’ to tie dye?”

“Yeah, I’m a medium.” You smiled at him, blocking the sun with your hand. He called over to Benny, asking him to pull a medium out for you. Benny handed you the shirt with a smile. “I’ve never dyed anything before.”

“Never?! That’s a crime against mankind, darlin’, let’s get this shirt dyed.” He spoke, talking you over the colors in each of the buckets. He explained to you some basic color theory, although you had remembered that from your high school painting class, you didn’t stop him; he was pretty when he spoke.

The curls on his head stuck out from the shaved sides, the gold of his earrings stood out underneath the blistering April sun. He licked his lips often, using the back of his hand to wipe sweat from his forehead. He helped you pick out the style you wanted, making sure the rubber bands were placed exactly where you wanted them. “I’ll dip them in the bucket for you so you don’t get your hands dirty.”

“Thank you. I could’ve managed on my own, but I definitely appreciate it.”

“Of course. What’s your name?” You offer up to him, before he lets out a chuckle. You question him with a pull of your eyebrows. “Jake talks about you.”

“You know Jake?”

“Yeah, he’s my twin.” As soon as the word left his mouth, you could see the resemblance; you almost scolded yourself for not realizing it sooner. They were similar, especially in their features and their eyes, although the two of them had very distinct color differences. Josh, as he told you after dropping the bomb on you, had warmer eyes, filled with caramel colored hues of brown in relation to Jake’s colder tones; his eyes were a darker shade of brown, with the occasional gleam of flirtation laced within the reflection.

He spoke quite differently from Jake, mostly just with the sound of his voice. It matched their eyes, their personalities. Josh’s bright, bubbly stature followed in his voice, almost theatrical as he spoke. “I guess that makes sense, you two do kind of look alike. Minus the hair, of course.”

“Well, of course. Mine’s better,” you liked that about him - how kind his tone was. You attempted to grill him about what Jake was saying about you, curiosity flowing violently through your bloodstream as if it lit your body on fire. “He just says that you’re second in the Bio class you have with him, and that it makes you mad.”

“It does, Jake’s never there. I’ve seen him three times, and two of those times were for exams.” Josh wrung out the part that had been soaking in the dye for a bit, watching the water fall back into the bucket.

“Yeah, it’s cause he’s working all the time, if I’m honest. Jake stays home during the week to work at the nursing home in our hometown. We don’t really have a large CNA population, most of the people who work there are highschool kids, so Jake’s really been their guy. Especially since high school, as soon as he graduated he moved to full time. All the old ladies love him.” He snorts, dipping your shirt into the blue dye.

“I didn’t know that.” You thought he was lying about where he was, which is why guilt started to eat away at you. You felt terrible for making assumptions, but you couldn’t take any of that back now.

“Jake doesn’t talk to a lot of people, but we love him anyway.” You chewed at your bottom lip, rethinking your opinion of Jake. “You goin’ to the concert later tonight?”

“Hadn’t decided. Mel and Tamia want to, so I’ll probably end up going. Are you?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll probably go.”

“Do you know who’s playing?”

“Some local band I think? I’ve heard a lot of the girls think the frontman’s pretty handsome.” He spoke with a smirk. You promised him you’d go, just to see if the girls had been right. He handed you your t-shirt to hold while he grabbed you a plastic bag. He also handed you a piece of paper with instructions on how to take care of your new tie dye.

“Make sure when you wash it, you wash it by itself. Otherwise, you’ll dye all of your other clothes and believe me, you don’t want that,” he chuckled, as if he was speaking from experience.

You thanked him with a warm smile, waving to him before returning to your room. As soon as you got back, you opened your window, allowing the air flow to travel inside. It kept you cool, allowing you to walk around comfortably with a t-shirt and shorts on. You put your plastic bag in the closet of your room, writing on your white board to remember to take it out and wash it tomorrow.

You texted Mel and Tamia, knowing that Mel would probably have some smart comeback about why you want to go to the concert. It wasn’t that you didn’t join them on nights out, you just had a lot riding on your academic success. Not only because you were the first one in your family to go to college, but also because of your mass of scholarships that only continued to flow if your GPA was at a suitable level. Anything below a 3.2, and you would lose almost all of them.

To: The 3 Dumb Sluts

Are we going to the concert tonight?

From: The 3 Dumb Sluts - Mel

Are you offering to come with us without us needing to beg and plead for you to join?

To: The 3 Dumb Sluts

Don’t make me take it back, Mel

From: The 3 Dumb Sluts - Tamia

We’re absolutely going. Come to mine whenever you want to get ready :)

To: The 3 Dumb Sluts

The doors open at 8 right? I’ll be over about 5:30-6ish. Gotta finish up this paper for Heinz real quick

You locked your phone before they could scold you for doing homework on a day that was designated for relaxation and recuperation. You pulled out your Anat and Physio binder, pulling out the sources you printed off in the library. You ran through the last one with a blue highlighter between your teeth.

You set an alarm on your phone for five o’clock, saving enough time for you to shower. You were about halfway through the last page when your timer went off. You silenced it, attempting to hurriedly finish highlighting the page. The article was placed onto your desk, highlighter returned to the cup on your desk filled with various writing utensils.

You pulled out your shower caddy, putting it on top of your dresser before pulling out your robe. You laid it over the edge of your bed, removing all of your clothes. You threw them into your hamper and put on your robe. You slipped on your slides, grabbed your caddy and traveled to the bathroom.

Underneath the uneven streams from the showerhead, you thought about Jake.

Maybe your first impressions of him were wrong. When Josh told you about the nursing home back in their hometown, you felt instantaneously bad for assuming that he just never showed up. You knew from what Jake had told you, that he had work, but you figured that was just an excuse.

You bit at the skin of your lips, hands on your shoulders as you soaked the warmth of the water in. You were pulled out of your thoughts very quickly as someone flushed the toilet, making the water fade in from super hot to super fucking cold. You hated the school’s water system.

You finished your shower quickly, drying off with the towel slightly before putting your robe on and throwing your hair up into your towel. You walked back into your room, locking it behind you. You set your caddy back where it originally was.

You threw on a pair of jean shorts that hadn’t seen the light of day since early October, pairing it with a long sleeve shirt that you had gotten back in high school for Christmas. It was plain, brown, but hugged your body well. The sweatshirt debate lasted a few seconds before you remembered how hot it was going to be outside. A record temperature for mid-April, almost 80 degrees outside.

When you checked your phone getting back from the shower, it was just barely five thirty. You texted the groupchat again, asking if it would be cool to come over a half an hour earlier than you had originally said. You knew it was a dumb question, you would always be welcome in their room. You chuckled at Mel’s response of, “Are you fucking dumb? Of course you can come over. Bring wine if you have any left! No carry-in’s allowed at the concert.”

You put your phone down for a second and slipped on a pair of shoes that were comfortable enough for you to stand in for a long time. They used to be white, but had gotten progressively dirty from the years of use. You shoved your phone in your back pocket and slid a few different bottles of wine into your backpack, separated by extra clothing so the bottles didn’t clink together.

You walked down the stairs, out the door and over to the other dorm building across the walkway. You scanned your keycard to get into the building, walking through the hallways waving to the RA on duty, McKenna. She had been in a few of your classes and was always incredibly nice.

Her room this year was actually a few down from where you were living. McKenna was a great RA, knowing exactly how to handle the rowdiness of the floor while still keeping the resident’s respect. She didn’t bother them unless she needed to, and they didn’t bother her unless needed. She kept it underwraps about the underage drinking that would inevitably happen, mostly by telling the floor they could do what they want, as long as they were quiet by quiet hours (which was around ten thirty on the weekdays, and one in the morning on the weekends).

You took the elevator to the second floor of East Sunderland, getting off as soon as the doors opened. The booths that had previously been up had begun to dissipate, bringing the plastic tables back into the buildings they belonged in. You took a last glance at the people cleaning before heading into Mel and Tamia’s dorm building.

You knocked on the door, coming as soon as you announced yourself to Mel and Tamia. The girls laughed as you walked in, looking at a picture of Mel from when they were a kid. The two of them showed it to you as you settled your bag onto Mel’s chair in the corner of their room. “Your buck teeth! Oh my God, you were adorable, Mel.”

“Oh shut up, I bet you didn’t look any better.” Mel spoke to Tamia, making the three of you laugh. “Anyways, what wine did you bring?”

“The Barefoot we didn’t finish the other weekend, and then I still had some Rose, so I brought those over too. I wasn’t sure what we were feeling.” Tamia pulled some glasses from her shelves, passing them out to the two of you. You filled their glasses with the Rose you brought.

The three of you talked specifics on the plans for tonight, hitting up another fraternity party as soon as the concert ended. There were two separate ones going on at the same time, so the two of you weighed your options over which one to go to. “The Sigs are throwing one, but I’d rather die. Delta’s throwing one, too, we’ll go to theirs instead. And maybe see if anyone’s at the Sig party that we like and stop there before heading back to the dorms.”

You walked down with them to the Athletic Department, hoping to have gotten there early enough to get a good spot. As soon as the doors opened, you were filtered through the doors, making sure that you were students with the college. The three of you half ran to the barricade, settling yourselves against it on the right side, although still somewhat in the middle.

The show wouldn’t start for quite some time yet, the three of you talked amongst yourselves about upcoming finals, what you had to do for various classes. You also found a few people around you to chat to while you waited, hearing laughter roaring through various parts of the crowd.

A few students from the Admissions Office had taken the stage, playing a random playlist of music that matched what the band was going to be playing. Rock thundered through the speakers, filling audience members with anticipation. Rochel addressed the student body, “Hello everyone!” welcomed by the sounds of cheers and screaming.

“We’ve got about fifteen minutes before the band comes on stage, so help us warm them up to the stage!” Everyone clapped, although some of the girls around you looked unenthused as they stared down at their phones. You checked yours for any text messages from any family members. You had nothing, so you put it back in your pocket.

Around four songs played before Rochel turned the microphone on again. Everyone shouted before she talked. “Well, it’s that time! Please, give a warm welcome to Greta Van Fleet!”

Rochel and the two other students walked off the stage, passing by what you had assumed to be one of the band members. He sat behind the drums, smiling and waving off into the crowd. You cheered for him along with Tamia and Mel, cheering just as loud when their bassist walked onto the stage. Both of their hair was longer, goofy smiles on their faces as they got situated with their instruments.

Your mouth hung open as you watched the last two boys walk on stage, seeing the twins. Jake’s eyes scanned the crowd as he slung his guitar over his shoulder. He found you after a moment, sending a smirk your way. You closed your mouth, glaring at him. Mel laughed at you, noticing your demeanor shift. “How we doin’ tonight everyone?”

Everyone cheered. “A lot of you might know me and Jake, seen us on campus and stuff. It’s wonderful to see all of you here, coming to support us as we celebrate the onslaught of spring! It’s been a particularly warm one today, so make sure to drink water! There’s plenty to go around.”

Jake started them off, pick between his fingers as he strummed the beginning chords to one of their songs. Some of the girls had begun to scream, shouting at Jake’s response to Josh’s little speech before he began playing. His signature smirk formed, watching the girls go crazy, eyes scanning the crowd before he found you again.

As Jake continued to play, he looked over to you any time he could. It was hard to tear your eyes away from him, enthralled by the way he looked on stage. You tried your hardest, truly, to look at any of the other boys on the stage aside from Jake but you just couldn’t. He fit the stage just right, bringing the attention away from Josh and demanding to be seen by the entirety of the crowd. He belonged up there.

Jake went to the center of the stage during his solo. Josh lingered around the drummer, keeping to himself, drinking whatever was in his cup. They kept on playing as Jake took the spotlight, everyone cheering and screaming for him. You kept silent, wanting to hear him play. His fingers worked against the frets of the guitar, not before sliding down and up it quickly.

You tried to hide the awe you were in, but your friends knew. They saw it written all over your face. The frustration and annoyance you felt when you first spotted Jake on stage dissipated the second his guitar solo began. You swallowed thickly, watching as his attention turned from his guitar to you, pointing it in your direction. Your cheeks flushed, and your thighs pressed together.

This was going to be a long night.

The second the concert was over, Josh thanked everyone for coming. His smile was wide as he waved goodbye to everyone, walking off next to Jake who had his guitar by the neck before he passed it off to one of the stage hands. Josh put his hands on his shoulders as they walked off stage.

You stuck around mostly waiting for the crowd to die down before trying to leave the building. Mel and Tamia talked about the show, saying that it was fucking dope, commenting on how excellent Jake’s playing was. You didn’t speak about Jake’s playing, mostly praising Josh for his spectacular performance. “I never expected that voice to come out of him, how heavenly.”

“Talking about me?” Jake cuts through your conversation, walking over to you with Josh not far behind. You roll your eyes. Tamia and Mel congratulate him on such an amazing performance, gushing about how sweet his guitar looks. “Why thank you, ladies.”

“Mel! I didn’t think you were going to be able to come.” He gushed, wiping his hands on the sides of his khaki shorts he had changed into.

“Yeah, well, Miss Quiet over here wanted to see her archnemesis, didn’t you?”

“I-I–” You turned your head slightly towards Jake, who had an amused smirk written all over his face. “I did not, Mellie, stop lying.”

“By the redness of your cheeks, sweetheart, I’d say she was telling the truth.” You had barely noticed that Mel, Tamia and Josh had slipped away from the two of you, leaving you alone.

“I didn’t even know you were playing.” You admitted shyly, hiding underneath a guise of innocence.

“Even if you did, you looked pretty hot and bothered by my playing.” You held the back of your arms, trying hard to maintain eye contact with him. You looked into his eyes, they were staring straight at you.

“Yeah, sure. I actually came because Josh said he was going. He neglected to mention that he was going to be singing,” you looked at Josh who wore a smile that read ‘guilty as charged’ before patting you on the shoulder.

“Hey, you didn’t ask. You just asked if I was going.” You rolled your eyes and chuckled slightly. “Anyways, Sam and Danny are gonna spend the night in my room, so I’ll have to find somewhere else to be tonight. Are you guys going to either of the frat parties tonight?”

“We’re going to the Delta party. The Sigs’ reputation is not the best, and I don’t feel like seeing whether or not it’s right.”

“That is completely understandable. I shall see you ladies there then. You coming, Jake? We still have a lot to put away.”

“Yeah, in a second,” he turned towards Josh who had begun to walk away, waving him off before turning back to the three of you. “I hope you guys enjoyed the show, maybe I’ll catch up with you at the party.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, actually, I would.” He smiled at you before joining the other boys cleaning up their amps and cords.

“Jesus Christ, the two of you just need to fuck or something. I don’t think I can handle another interaction like that,” Mel joked, making a gagging face when she finishes her sentence. You pushed at her arm, turning around and walking out of the gym.

Tamia and Mel giggled profusely about your and Jake’s rivalry. The two even started making bets on when the two of you would finally ‘get it on’, as Tamia put it. You just rolled your eyes at the conversation, changing the subject to something different.

—

The party, though filled with lots of fun and drinking, was a bust. While Josh had shown up with his younger brother and his brother’s friend, as you learned, in tow, Jake was nowhere to be found. You thought to ask Josh why he wasn’t there, but he was too busy dancing with Micah. Through the grapevine, you learned that Micah and Josh had been together since high school.

You stayed around the party for almost two hours before you wanted to go back. A small part of you had wished Jake had actually come. You wondered if maybe the two of you would get along if you put your competitive nature aside. You tried not to dwell on thoughts of Jake’s absence for too long, wanting to enjoy the rest of the night with your girls. But when you had enough of the party, you shouted in Mel’s ear to let her know you wanted to leave.

Mel and Tamia had made sure you got back alright about two hours into the party. Your legs were tired and your feet had begun to hurt. The two of them stumbled with you back to the door of your building, making sure you were inside before leaving to go back. They almost came in with you, until you insisted otherwise.

Laying on your bed with your head pointed towards the ceiling you started thinking about Jake again. What was his reason for not being at the party? Did he just make those comments beforehand just to rile you up? It seemed like the only valid reason your impaired mind could come up with.

You grabbed your phone, almost dropping it on the floor. You sluggishly opened Instagram, and searched for Jake’s profile. You scrolled through, looking at the few photos he did have on his page. Most of the pictures he had were of his guitar, or places he’s traveled. You were sent into a panic when you realized you had accidentally liked an older picture of Jake’s, one from freshman year of college. Hurriedly, you unliked it and immediately locked your phone.

That had been a few days ago.

Now it was Wednesday and your first final exam was here. It was for the class you shared with Jake, BIO 312. It wasn’t exactly final exam time, but Professor Heinz was going to be away at a conference for a week starting Friday. You didn’t mind, though, since it spaced out your other finals enough to have a decent amount of time to study for them.

You sat at your desk, looking over your notecards one last time before the exam began. A frequent look around the room and you noticed Jake walking in, going to a random seat a couple rows in front of you. He set his bag down next to him, before bending down to grab his laptop. He noticed you watching him and sent a wink your way.

You looked away as you tried to hide the rush of rosy skin that fanned over your cheeks and heated up your ears. You tried to ignore him again until at least when the test started, embarrassed that you got caught looking at him. Your phone pinged and you pulled it out of your bag to look at it, as well as turn it on silent.

jacobtkiszka wants to send you a message.

You swallowed and hit the notification taking you straight to the message.

“Person who turns their test in last pays for coffee?”

Your lips curved into a small smile, feeling your fingers type the first thing that comes to your head.

“Hope you brought your wallet with you, Kiszka.”

You put your phone on Do Not Disturb and shoved it back into your bag. The professor walked through the door, setting her things down on the desk in the front of the room. Her coffee mug still had steam coming from it, freshly poured. A quick look of her watch after getting settled and it was time to start the exam. “Okay, everyone. It’s time for class. Take out your laptops and begin your exam. You may leave when you have finished. Thank you for a great semester, and good luck.”

The questions on the exam were all ones that you knew and had studied for for weeks. It was strenuous, trying to remember everything on the cumulative exam. You had hoped it would go quickly and you would answer them faster than Jake could. Occasionally, you turned to look at Jake, seeing if maybe he was trying to look at you too.

With one question left of your exam, you click the answer and press submit after a minute of debate. You had a bad habit of second guessing yourself occasionally; it was actually the bane of your testing experiences. You hated when you felt confident about an answer, until you really sat with the other possible answers it could be.

You put your laptop back into your bag, zipped it up and noticed that Jake had already left. You cursed to yourself, knowing that now you had to buy Jake a coffee. You waved goodbye to your professor with a smile and walked out the doors. Jake sat outside of the classroom at one of the tables they had throughout the building. “Whatcha reading?”

“Josh recommended it to me, but I’m going to be honest, I fucking hate this book.” He laughed, shoving it into his bag. “You know any good coffee shops around here? I’m kind of tired of Starbucks.”

“I just so happen to know the best coffee shop in town, but it is a bit of a walk, if you don’t mind that?” You asked, walking through the door that Jake was holding before muttering a thank you to him.

“I could also drive, if you’re okay with that.”

“I’m more than okay with that,” you chuckle, letting him know that your dorm building had enough stairs; any chance you could get to use an elevator, or get driven somewhere, you would take that opportunity in a heartbeat.

The drive was short in comparison to the twenty minute walk it would have taken to get to the shop. Jake tried to offer the radio to you, but you let him play what he wanted to listen to. You didn’t know exactly who was playing, but the blues music that played through the speakers was a breath of fresh air.

Your typical shuffle had a plethora of music from differing genres, whether that be rap or old country. You hadn’t known much when it came to blues music, especially the difference between good blues music and bad. Eventually, you got the courage to ask who was playing and Jake answered, letting you know that the song was by Buddy Guy. “It’s called She Suits Me To A T. I tried for weeks to learn this song when I first started playing music more seriously.”

“This is the coffee shop, at the next corner.” You watched his hand as he made a right turn, noticing him steering with just the palm of his hand. Letting the leather steering wheel glide back to its original position in his hand, elbow propped on the door with the window rolled down.

It’s all you thought about on your way into the coffee shop, completely relying on autopilot. Your responses to Jake were almost textbook, one word sentences that could continue the conversation without much effort. “What’re you thinking of getting?”

“Oh, um, I’m not sure. I usually have them surprise me,” you admit, shoving your hands into your jacket. “Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s not. That’s the gamble you take.”

“I like that a lot, actually. I think I’ll have them surprise me too, if you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all.” You smiled at Jake before he went to order for the two of you. You found a place to sit in the meantime, offering a spot towards the windows so you could watch people come and go, each on their own paths of life.

By the time Jake sat down, both of the coffees were in his hand. After a few questions, Jake set the iced drink down in front of you, and the hot drink in front of himself. “Yours is an iced chai, with brown sugar syrup and vanilla. Mine is some sort of tea, I wasn’t really paying attention to what she was saying. I just wanted to remember what she put in yours in case you liked it.”

“Oh,” you spoke, bringing the cup towards you. “Thank you, that’s really sweet. Do you like your drink?”

“You know, it’s really not bad. I wouldn’t have gotten it otherwise, but it’s really not bad.”

“You hate it.”

“I hate it. It’s not good.” The two of you chuckled before you offered him a sip of your drink. “Mhmm,” he moaned. “That’s good, oh my God.”

The two of you continued small talk, whether it was over the classes you had previously taken, memories of parties from past years – anything. You shared previous high school experiences, mostly about the ridiculous things that were considered parties in your teenage years.

Conversation with Jake was surprisingly a lot easier than you thought it would be. Especially since you’ve hated him pretty much your entire college career. You figured he’d be stuck up, aware of his academic achievements and ready to flaunt them in front of anyone who’d listen.

He was the opposite. His sentences were wrapped with kindness, and the reflection in his voice seemed nothing but positive. His voice was like silk, he could’ve talked you into damn near anything as long as his voice sounded like that. It hurt when the conversation slowed, spending a few moments to take in the scene around you two, as well as finally being able to drink more of your drink (which was very delicious, it was almost like crack).

“How long have you been playing guitar?” You asked after the silence became almost uncomfortable to sit with.

“Oh jeez. I’ve been playing since I was… like three? Yeah, three.” You stared at him with eyes slightly wide, mouth agape. “What?”

“N-Nothing, that’s just a really long time. You’re what, 21 now?” He clarified that he was only twenty, his birthday roughly a week away. You poked fun at him, mentioning how you were older, even if it was by less than a year.

“Josh is throwing us a birthday party, if you want to come. Since it’ll be our 21st, we’re having it at our parents cabin on Lake Michigan. You’re welcome to bring Mel and Tamia if you’d like. Sam and Danny are going to be there, even though they’re underage, but we’re gonna pretend like they’re older.” Jake spoke with one last sip of his drink, letting the empty cup echo on the table as he set it down.

“I will let Mel and Mia know. I can’t make any sure decisions without talking to them first, but I’m pretty damn sure that they’ll say they would love to go.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they’ll say no either. They seem pretty adamant that you have a little crush on me or something,” he said, putting your cups inside of a bus tub to be picked up and washed.

“I don’t have a crush on you,” you laughed, walking out of the coffee shop with Jake. “I actually hate you, remember?”

“You may say that you hate me, but you’re not really good at showing it.”

#jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka fanfiction #godlygretawrites #godlygreta #pretty boy #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka x y/n

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ilikebookssomuch · 25 days

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ok so I wrote that fic about Keefe offing himself in unlocked and I emailed it to a teacher, then the school saw the word "suicide" in the email and I had to go to student services to make sure I was ok and then after I explained what happened, my counselor told me my writing was beautiful so I was very confused but also I almost cried bc I LOVE getting compliments on my writing <3

it was a wild ride tbh

#kotlc #keeper of the lost cities #kotlc fandom #shitpost

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bababaka · 4 months

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Tell me a story. And i'll tell you a thousand more - Bade x reader

Summary: Hollywood Arts, the most privilleged arts school in the USA. And amongst many young talented teens, you were chosen to enter it. To be study there and be part of it. You couldn't believe it.

"Holy shit! I got in!"

This will change your life! And you are determined to make the most of it.

Warnings: swear words, not edited completely, i just needed to get this out of drafts, i will later edit.. And... that's it i guess? Like, bullying, mean teachers, but nothing much i guess. Oh, i also used google translate. So yeah. Have fun.

Author's note: so, i had this in my drafts for a while. I always had a crush on these two, and nobody wrote a fic with those two that fulfilled my need for them, so... here i am. Trying to mash my thoughts together and write something at least nice or ok. Im trying to write well. Don't have high expectations, im not a seasoned writer yet. Might never be. Also, unfortunately for me and you guys, this is a multichapter fanfiction. Sooo, you'll have to bear with me with slooooow updates. And im sorry for that. Anyways, enough chit chat, i present you, the chapter one to this mess.

Chapter 1 : I got in!

“Hollywood Arts”. The most privileged arts school in the United States of America. Only the most talented people passed the test. The list of competitors was huge. But, here you were, Y/N Y/L/N, in front of the school gates. You had passed the test, thousands of people competing against each other, and you had succeeded.

Honestly, it seemed too good to be true. The majesty of the construction, students, certainly in their second and third year, full of confidence, dancing, singing, playing, drawing, acting and even proclaiming poetry.

This was too much to digest.

You could barely believe it when you read the email, your mother cheering and shouting in the background, while you remained frozen staring at the computer, reading and re-reading your school admission.

The best arts school in the country.

You entered.

Holy shit! I entered!

You have always been passionate about dancing.

It all started when your mother caught you in your room dancing to “hips don’t lie” in a completely clumsy and enthusiastic way. She then decided to take you to dance classes. You were 4 years old.

Years passed and you fell in love.

Dancing was expressing yourself. Tell a story. Saying what words were sometimes unable to express. Sadness. Happiness. Emotion. Desire. Anger. Feelings in their purest form.

And then, you discovered ballet.

Ballet made your heart race in a way nothing else did. The slow and elegant steps, fast and rigorous. Dancing made you feel alive, happy, ecstatic.

At the height of your 10 years, watching a small part of the film your mother was watching, Black Swan, before her noticing your presence and kicking you out to your room, you found yourself trapped, in a trance, enchanted by the dance, by the way how the actress moved, how she leapt into the air and landed softly on the stage.

The next day, you begged your mother to take you to ballet classes.

At first, it was difficult. The dance classes previously were fun, relaxed. Here, they asked for excellence. Your teacher was strict and classmates were mean. There were many days when you came home crying or upset. Your mother tried to change classes, convince you to go back to dance classes, but you were stubborn. And you were more than determined to show everyone, your teacher, your classmates, that you were good, that you could be the best. So you did what you could, trained and trained, danced until your toes grew calluses and you could no longer support yourself properly.

It was difficult, but now, more than ever, you saw the results of your efforts. Oh, how you would love to see the faces of the girls who tried to get into the school but failed. You did it.

#Suckit

You would love to rub it in each of their faces. But, you didn't have time for that. What you had to do was take a deep breath, enter those gates and find where your first class would be.

Here we go.

The hallways were crazy, lost students like you walked by, friends who hadn't seen each other for the entire vacation and others who argued, dissatisfied with the classes they fell into.

Although you felt tempted to ask one of the students, you thought it would be safer to ask an adult. Supervisor, coordinator, any adult. A teacher, janitor.

You didn't trust students, especially at a talent school, the ego and arrogance must be astronomical.

You watched Glee. You didn't want to end up in a crackhouse.

But unfortunately, the hallways were full of teenagers, and there was no teacher, sign, or voices coming out of speakers magically guiding you in the direction of your next class.

You look around, searching for someone who was as lost as you. You didn't want to be the only idiot who didn't know their way around.

You find something similar.

A boy your age, talking and gesturing. He seemed to be asking a paralyzed girl for directions. She didn't even seem to be paying attention.

You didn't know exactly why she was perplexed, maybe he was saying absurd things, but you wouldn't be surprised if the cause of the paralysis was the boy's beauty.

He was beautiful. Dark skin, brown hair, delicate features, not to the point of being androgynous, but of being harmonious, pleasing to the eye. A relaxed brown look, although it is becoming confused and dull.

You decided to step in and save the girl the embarrassment of being caught drooling, and, as a bonus, get the information you so desperately wanted. The direction for your next class, acting.

– Excuse me, uh, I'm lost. Could you help me?

This seemed to work. The boy's posture relaxed, and the girl, in turn, came out of her trance and began to glare at you, shooting lasers from her eyes.

The boy smiled. And, wow. He had incredibly white teeth, and it looked like you were the only girl in the world, the tiny curve of his mouth pulled you in like he was the center of the Earth. The look that had a charm, brown like melted chocolate and all you wanted was to dive in and get lost in them.

Perhaps you have entered a trance.

But as soon as he started talking, you forced yourself to pay attention and not make a fool of yourself.

– I'm also lost. I was asking her – he turned to the “laser beam look”, who immediately stopped with the murderous expression. – But I don’t think you know, do you?

– What? I know! Of course I know! Nobody knows more than me! – and then she started walking, supposedly in the direction of the room where the boy had his class. – You're a first year, right? – she asked the pretty boy, completely ignoring you.

He looked at you sideways.

– Uh, yes, yes, I am. – She nods, and turns forward, determined, as she starts talking without stopping.

She says her name, Trina Vega, how she got into school, how she is so talented at so many things, how popular she was, and that they would make a great couple. At this part, you were shocked, eyes widening quickly, mouth falling open. She was… direct.

And maybe a little clueless, considering that the boy started to walk more slowly, putting distance between him and Trina, and standing next to you.

He leans into your side.

– She's a little… eccentric…

You laugh.

– That may be an understatement. – You look at Trina, who continued to talk. – Look, she hasn't even noticed that you're not paying attention, or even close to her.

It was his turn to laugh.

– Yeah… – He clears his throat. – I'm Beck, nice to meet you. – He stops for a moment, and extends his hand to you.

You say your name and take his hand, shaking it. Soon he started walking again so as not to lose sight of Trina, who was still talking.

– You’re a first year too, right? – You nod in response. – Yeah, I imagined it. Which course did you enroll in?

– Dance, more specifically, ballet. You?

– Cool. I came to do drama, acting.

– Cool. – You smile, he reciprocates.

For a moment, you forgot what you were saying, going and even thinking. He was cute, handsome and had a nice voice to listen to, something rare coming from a teenager. The short hair thrown to the side, looked soft, made you want to run your fingers through the strands.

The cute boy's small, happy smile was damaging your brain, because the world disappeared around him and you couldn't think about anything else.

Until, finally, Trina realized that Beck wasn't close to her, much less listening to what she was saying.

– Hey! – she called. You turned to her, who had a frown that turned into a forced smile. – We arrived, and you didn’t tell me your name. – She leans over and smiles at Beck.

You were ignored, again.

– Oh, it's Beck. And this is. – He tries to introduce you, say you name and be polite. But Trina interrups him, muttering “whatever” and heading back to the door.

Well, that was nice.

– Sikowits, I brought two lost students. – Then the bell rings, and Trina turns to Beck. – I'll see you around, Beck. – He blinked. And gone, probably to his own class.

– Please don't. – Beck says, with a pained expression. But it was too late, Trina couldn't hear him anymore, or at least, she pretended not to.

You sympathized with the situation.

It seems that being too handsome had its downsides.

His attention returned to the teacher who was at the door.

Bald, messy hair and beard, a slightly unbalanced look, layer after layer of clothing, he had a sloppy style. Maybe he was a hippie. Or just weird. It was probably both.

The hippie professor smiled, in a warm, disturbing way (you seriously wondered if that man was sane. You hoped he was).

– Be welcome! What are your names?

Beck withdraws into himself, becoming shy. How cute.

– Beck Oliver.

The please-don't-be-crazy teacher leans over to look at a list that was laid out on the table. The list of student names.

He turns to the boy beside him.

– Oliver? Alberto Oliver?

Beck puts his hand on the back of his head, looks at you sideways, and nods.

– Yes, but I prefer Beck.

– Understood! Come in, come in. – He calls Beck with his hand enthusiastically, the boy enters and sits in one of the chairs. Then, the bald professor turns to you. – Your name?

You say your full name.

– Oh yes. It's here too. Come in and sit down. The class is about to start. I just have to find the lost and innocent sheep that are lost in the corridors.

You made a face when you heard the phrase… He sounded so weird that way…

As long as he didn't kill or abuse anyone and was a good teacher, you wouldn't have a problem.

You entered the room and deciding quickly and safely, you turned to Beck, hoping to find an empty seat next to the boy. But, as expected, all the seats evaporated, and Oliver found himself surrounded by people, mostly girls.

You sighed and sat in the front, next to a girl with red hair (it didn't look natural, but you'd ask later) who had a friendly smile on her face. It seemed like a good option.

You sat down, and introduced yourself. The girl smiled, with her white teeth and a gentle and innocent aura formed around her.

– I'm Cat!

You smiled, enchanted by the redhead's cuteness.

– Cat? Like the animal? – the girl walked away, running her hand through her hair, her brow furrowed.

– What? What do you mean by that?

– No! I'm just saying that cat sounds like a kitten. – You explained yourself, nervously. You didn't want to scare the girl.

– Kittens? I like kittens! They're so cute!

You let out the breath you were holding. Cat returned to the bubble of innocence and happiness that she was at the beginning.

– Yes, they are.

Then, the professor, Sikowitz, if that was really what Trina called him, came back into the room, with a coconut and straw in one hand, and sunglasses in the other.

– Well done, class! I'm not going to ask you to introduce yourselves. You will improvise a scene. You will play the person next to you, I don't care if you don't know each other. Create a character and then live the character!

The Hippie Man asked them one by one to come forward in front of the class.

There were some interesting and funny monologues.

A black boy, with dreadlocks, a beautiful smile and lots of charm, played a shy nerd who stuttered around girls and had a puppet who made derogatory comments about the situation.

The scene was hilarious. Especially when he started interacting with the students while in character.

There were some very good ones.

Beck, who, to your surprise, played one of the girls surrounding him, and, unfortunately for Sikowitz, used the teacher as his scene partner. He was visibly uncomfortable. And the girl too. Shrinking in her chair as Beck performed, exposing how irritating she was.

She'll probably leave the boy alone after this.

Probably.

There was also another girl, brown hair, black leather jacket and pants. She was incredible. Before getting into character, she seemed closed off, grumpy, with a frown on her face. But, as soon as the scene began, her entire expression and body language changed to a more clumsy and agitated girl like a nice but extremely clumsy girl.

And other performances could improve. You were part of the last group. See, you were a dancer, not an actress. You knew you had to take acting classes, but that didn't mean it was your strong point.

You had to play Cat. You weren't horrible, but you could have done better. When he had to face all the attentive eyes of your classmates and the teacher, a chill took over your stomach and a pressure to not make mistakes was placed in your mind. At first, it was difficult, but as the scene developed, your performance improved.

As the last student finished presentation, the teacher stood up, applauding.

– Very good! You have to learn and perfect the ability to transform into a character in a short time, to analyze your character and to transform yourself in the snap of a finger. – He snapped his fingers right in your face, you jerked away reflexively, startling yourself. He smiled. And the bell rang. – Anyway. That's all for today. You even had the chance to socialize and get to know each other. – he said as everyone got up and left. You did the same, gathered your things and stood up. You were at the door when you heard him sigh and murmur:

– Ah, being young, I can remember what it was like to have dreams and hope.

…You were sure this wasn't normal…

You heard your name. You turned around, and saw red hair, you looked down, realizing that Cat was smaller than you. That made her even cuter.

– What class do you have now?

You searched your pockets, in the slim hope of finding your schedule. After long, embarrassing moments, you found it and read it out loud.

– Ballet.

– Oh, I have singing lessons now – Cat seemed to deflate. But only for a few seconds. – Do you want to sit with me at lunch?

You responded quickly, jumping at the opportunity of not having to be alone during lunch.

– Yes of course! – You looked around, remembering Beck, hoping to see him, but in vain, he had already disappeared into the corridors. But, you didn't let that bother, or sadden you, you would invite him to sit with you at lunch, in the low probability of being able to do so before the boy was bombarded by people.

– OK! Until lunch then!

Finding the ballet class was easy. You just followed the smell of pain, tears, deceit and extreme competition.

…Actually, you just followed the girls in buns and leotards.

You entered the room, or rather dance salon. The floor was smooth and black, a large mirror covering the entire wall, a large speaker and a piano at the back of the room.

The teacher, apparently, was not there. But the students were already stretching. Some in groups, others alone.

You saw some faces you had already anticipated. The rich, mean girls who were born doing ballet. The girl obsessed and completely focused on doing her best, making her potentially meaner than the other girls. The pretty boy who, because he does ballet, thinks he's cool and that everyone is in love with him. The boy who feels the need to say all the time that he's not gay, he just likes to express himself through dancing!

However, you also saw other faces you hadn't seen before, and that was a pleasant surprise. Dealing with the same types of people became boring.

Hollywood Arts would be a beginning, not only of your artistic career, but of a social life in ballet. I didn't want to ruin your high school experience with drama, toxicity, and cliques.

But unfortunately, you didn't have the best start. Because while you were analyzing and admiring everything around you, your teacher arrived, and it was then that you noticed, everyone was stretched out and dressed appropriately, while you were still standing, wearing jeans, sneakers and a shirt. No stretching.

It was instantaneous. Not only did the teacher's eyes land on you. The entire room was focused on you.

Shit. You flinched.

– You're late. – The teacher says, approaching you, like a predator approaches its prey. A panther, walking elegantly and silently, with total firmness and confidence, about to attack a beautiful and vulnerable little rabbit. The panther knows that the rabbit is already dead. Only a matter of time for death to actually occur, until the panther snatches the prey.

The bunny becomes alert, realizing the danger. Look around. Pay attention to your ears and sharpen your vision.

– The bell hasn't rung yet and class starts in 3 minutes.

The panther stops. Paying attention to the victim's movements, but at no time revealing their position or losing their calm.

– Exactly. 3 minutes and you're like this. – She points to your clothes, with clear disdain. The rabbit flinches, sensing claws wrapping around its fur. – Without the leotard and without stretching. Unprepared. I start my class on time, warm-ups start when the bell rings. So, miss late, you have – the teacher glanced briefly at the clock and turned her eyes to you. – 2 minutes to put on your clothes and stretch, otherwise you will go to detention and will not be able to participate in this class.

The rabbit begins to struggle, panic arising as it sees the possibility of death right in front of it.

– But just to get to the bathroom takes a minute.

The teacher smiles, in a sadistic and amused way.

– Then, I suggest you run.

Crunch! Fur turning scarlet, sharp fangs tearing flesh, paws playing with the limp, lifeless body.

You took off. Hearing giggles and one last image of the teacher's smile

The predator was sated. For now.

You admitted it. You've never stretched so quickly and inefficiently, nor were you so frivolous when adjusting your tights.

But, it was what you had to offer at that moment.

– Miss late! You have exceeded your time of 2 minutes, but as I am in a good mood I will let it pass. Let it serve as a warning to everyone. Be prepared BEFORE class starts. Otherwise, well, you don't want to find out. Now, don't just stand there, join the warm-up!

And you fumbled a little out of pure nervousness, and heard some giggling around, but after a few minutes, you were already in your element.

The warm-up was brutal.

Yes, of course, you already had years of ballet, but still, the teacher seemed to want you to kill yourself in the warm-up. Because it lasted 40 minutes.

To you, it felt like two hours.

Damn, who warms up for 40 minutes? Well, apparently, your new teacher.

When the warm-up, which lasts longer and is heavier than you're used to, finally ends, you're sweating profusely and out of breath. Some were in the same state as you, others were worse, and a group of girls were in better shape, they were sweaty and out of breath, but still, visibly more composed.

The teacher waited in silence for a few moments. Just analyzing all the students.

The teacher approaches the group of 5 who were sitting on the floor, taking in lots of air, barely avoiding getting sick. Some were coughing.

– Pathetic. – She said, her lips lifting in disgust and disdain. – What would your names be?

The group fumbled among themselves, saying full names, others just trying and failing in between, preferring to breathe. One boy almost threw up.

The teacher put her hands in the air and waved them. Exasperated.

– Stop, stop, stop. Are you by any chance animals? Don't know how to speak one at a time? – she sighs. – What were you thinking when they accepted you? Hmph… Disgusting…

– Why does every ballet teacher have to be mean? – a girl next to you commented quietly. You laughed quietly, bitterly, as you watched the teacher insult the poor young teens on the floor.

– It must be something they need to have on their resume. “Expert in torturing teenagers.” – You responded in an equally silent tone.

– Also, didn’t she have a vote in the admission of students? Why does she complain about the school's admissions system if she is part of it?

You shrugged.

– Some evil plan to destroy our self-esteem?

The girl quickly turned to you, a small smile on her face and an outstretched hand, as subtle as she could without drawing the teacher's attention.

– I'm Daisy.

You introduced yourself.

And in mutual and silent agreement, they turned to the teacher. You feared what would happen if the teacher caught the students talking.

Your attention returned to the scene and you only heard the last two names of the group. All red, from shame or exhaustion, you didn't know. The teacher didn't answer anything, just left them on the floor, recovering, and started walking around the room, quickly passing in front of each student.

– You are… Pathetic. Some more than others. But – she made a show of sighing loudly. – As you were accepted, I will make you true artists, dancers. You must breathe ballet, move with elegance and dexterity at all times, and face the world, the stage without fear. The classes will be difficult, long and will demand determination and strength from each person. And I will not hesitate to take punitive action against those who are not taking this seriously. Because, as your teacher, your performance in the future will reflect on my image. Therefore, now they will imitate me. I'm the best, and so will you.

The teacher pauses, and you can hear the tension in the air, the nervousness and everyone shifting in their seats, anxious.

– Am I understood?

Several voices sounded throughout the room, including yours. All saying yes. The teacher smiled.

– Good. Now, let's start the class.

You swallowed hard, already feeling tired, but still, strangely excited. It would be a challenge, and you loved difficult things.

After painful and sadistic hours (yes, hours!), the class was finally released for lunch, and then afternoon classes.

The teacher informed them that the ballet class had an exclusive bathroom and that if they wanted (but, from the disgusted way she sounded, it seemed more like a requirement) they could take a shower there.

You perked up when you heard this, and most of the students did too. It would be horrible to have to continue at school with all that crust of sweat on your body.

So, after the teacher left, everyone packed their things and went to either take a shower or have lunch.

You were more than ready to head to the bathroom and shower. You were tired, but the sweat on your body bothered you more than fatigue.

– Hey, are you going to eat or take a shower first?

You looked to the side. The girl you talked to after the warm-up. Was it Daphne? Daniela? Delilah? No, that was ridiculous. It was something with D.

– Im going to the shower. I couldn't eat something feeling dirty.

– You sure? As we are being released early, the queue is non-existent to buy… Anything.

– I'm sure. – You smiled, slightly touched by the girl’s kindness. She waved and said goodbye to you, leaving for lunch.

After a long and well-deserved shower, you head to the cafeteria where the food was. Heavens, how hungry you were!

Arriving in the area, you began looking for Cat and Beck. Not surprisingly, you found Beck first. Surrounded by people, girls and boys.

You decide to try to get past the crowd and rescue Beck, who now seems overwhelmed.

You squeeze between people, making your way through elbows and curses, until you reach the center, feeling several hateful looks on you.

Beck's face lights up when he sees you, and he calls your name, approaching you.

– Hey, what are you doing? – he asks, ignoring the entire crowd around him, and you can feel the commotion that this generates. You smile, focusing on nothing more than the boy in front of you.

– Trying to save you from this crowd by inviting you to lunch with me and Cat.

– Oh, please! I would love to.

You swear something happened around you. People cursed him, complained, maybe even hit you, but your brain melted a little when you saw Oliver's smile. A captivating, happy, friendly expression. It seemed like the air around him shimmered and exuded something almost surreal.

What brought you back to reality was a tap on your shoulder.

– So, where are you sitting? – Beck asked and then you realized, the crowd had dissipated and only the pretty boy was by your side.

– Uh, actually, I haven't chosen the table, nor have I found Cat yet. – You then start looking for the redhead. The brunette at his side.

– Ah, I see… Who is Cat? Your pet? Are animals even allowed at school?

You laugh.

– No, no. She's a girl I met today, in drama class, while you were being surrounded by… Everyone…

Beck sighed and nodded in a more crestfallen manner. You stop looking around for a moment, to fix your eyes on him.

– Does this happen a lot? You're famous and I'm the only one who didn't notice?

– No, I'm not famous, at least not yet. I'm just pretty. – He shrugs lightly, as if it weren't a big deal. And you stop walking, and let out a disbelieving laugh. This time, his lips move to form a cocky smile.

– What? Are you going to say i'm not? – he prods you, and you fumble over your words, not wanting to deny it, but certainly not wanting to confirm it either. However, to your relief, he just laughs at your reaction and continues talking. – People have always approached me because of my – he raises his hands to gesture quotation marks with his fingers. - "exotic beauty". Eventually, I just got used to it.

You observe the boy next to you. Really analyzes him.

He didn't seem like the kind of boy who was an asshole, who thought he was better than everyone else, who believed he had everyone at his feet, when he really didn't.

Beck just seemed aware of the reality he found himself in. After all, he was handsome. Short but silky hair, great style of clothing that sold the cool kid look. If you had to guess, he seemed like a relaxed but extremely cunning type of boy. The guy who smiled at everyone, but had a mouth that dripped with venom.

You had your thoughts interrupted by a high-pitched female voice calling your name. Cat. He took one last look at Beck, who maintained a relaxed posture and the remains of a smile.

Well, you deduced, only time will show Oliver's true face, whatever it may be.

– Cat! I was looking for you! – you approached the redhead. She lit up.

– And, did you find me?

– Apparently, you found me. – When saying this, the redhead makes a sad expression.

– Oh, wow, what a shame. – You frowned, not understanding the line of reasoning, but before you could say anything, Cat was already addressing Beck. – Hi, I'm Cat. – she introduced herself, waving energetically.

Beck laughed, like you would laugh at something cute a puppy did, and waved back, but without the redhead's excessive enthusiasm.

You guys go look for a table. And when they find it, they realize they had nothing to eat. Luckily there was a food truck nearby, and everyone ordered something.

At the table, everyone talked about themselves. You revealed that although it inspired you, you never saw the film Black Swan. Cat talked about her love for purple giraffes and her brother. You were worried at that part, you didn't know if the small girl was joking or not.

Beck talked about how he moved from Canada with his parents to Los Angeles just for school, and talked excitedly about how he liked cars and was looking forward to getting his own.

When they heard sobs around them, that's when they left the bubble they were in.

– You're a bitch!

A blonde girl, green eyes, swollen and moist. She was the one who jumped out of her chair and screamed. Despite her anguished expression, she looked firmly at the table in front of her, and the person who was sitting there.

You recognized who it was from your theater class. She had a gothic style. Eyeliner, black nails, combat boots and dark clothes.

The green-eyed goth girl, you noticed, raised her eyebrow and took her eyes in a deliberate and prolonged manner to the bare legs of the girl in front of her.

– I'm not the one with the scraped knees.

She smiled cruelly, and amidst the deadly silence, a few muffled giggles could be heard.

The blonde girl choked. Tries to justify herself, you think she had says about a skateboard, but was unsuccessful. Then she resignes herself to letting out a sob and running away.

The goth turned her smile into a frown, and looked around, the many eyes in her direction. She faced everyone and with a loud, rude and direct voice, she shouted.

– What are you looking at? – and everyone went back to doing what they did before. Well, you asume that everyone had done it, you didn't bother to check. You just kept your attention on the girl. Curious. You wanted to know what had happened. And how she had made someone cry on the first day of school.

You hated this type of attitude, behavior, personality. You might not be the kindest girl in the world, but you certainly weren't cruel. Even when you felt the urge to be.

It was a shame that such a beautiful girl, with brown hair and green eyes, could be so horrible.

You assumed that beauty would spoil a person. You just hoped Beck wouldn't turn out to be that kind of person. Then, you finally returned your gaze to the table, and discovered that you weren't the only one who remained looking at her. The pretty boy also had his sights set on the table that only had one mean girl on it.

– She's mean. – Cat spoke up, breaking the silence as well as Beck's admiration and thoughts.

– She is. – Beck agrees, nonchalant.

You remain silent, taking one last look in the girl's direction.

It doesn't take long before the bell rings. You say goodbye to them both and head towards classes in the afternoon. The part of your curriculum is completely normal and, after theater and ballet classes, terribly boring.

Chemistry, geography and math classes stretched out, as if they had no end, like a rubber band that when it thought it was about to break, it stretched a little more. However, it didn't matter anymore, you were finally free to go home.

You were exhausted, physically, mentally and spiritually. Names of teachers, subjects, exercises, classmates piling up and colliding in your brain. You had absolutely no energy for anything.

Unfortunately for you, however, when you open the door to your house, you come across your mother, waiting, sitting in a chair, almost jumping with excitement. The true image of a puppy anxiously waiting for its owner.

Your heart is heavy, and your body and soul scream with frustration. You just wanted your bed. But, your mother sees you and you simply accept that you would have to stay awake for a few more moments.

Your mother spews questions one after another at you.

"How it was?"

“Have you made friends yet?”

“Are all teachers weird?”

“Is there anyone famous?”

“Did they treat you well?”

"Are you well?"

"Are you hungry? I made dinner!”

While eating, you told your mother everything, it didn't take long for you to get excited too, even though you were tired.

You leave out some details, like teachers and some bad people, but otherwise, you confess everything. The many beautiful people, with a few exceptions, the strange talents and habits you noticed, strange and normal teachers.

However, sleepiness and tiredness manifested itself through yawning and heavy eyes. Your mother, realizing this, immediately sends you up to your room to get some sleep.

After a relaxing shower, you lay down on your bed, comfortable under the blankets.

Ah, finally.

#bade x reader #my fics #victorious #beck x jade x reader #jade west #beck oliver #reader insert

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sweetiesicheng · 2 years

Text

wonwoo - notes

word count : 575

you were in the library with your boyfriend. both of you had either assignments to complete or exams to study for. the two of you were sitting at a table together next to a window. there were a few other students studying and bookshelves line up half of the room.

you had your headphones on and had been writing on a piece of paper that you were using as a study sheet. as you were about to move onto the next section, you saw a piece of paper slide into your point of view.

you looked up and smiled at your boyfriend who tried to inconspicuously return to his book from his literature class that he was reading. you looked back down and grabbed the piece of paper, unfolding it and finding a message on it.

do you love me?

[ ] yes [ ] no

you almost laughed out loud at the adorable note. you picked up your pen again and checked the "yes" box before folding the paper back up and sliding the paper back to your boyfriend.

you decided to take a break from studying and watched your boyfriend. you watched him pick up the paper and unfold it. he smiled and wrote something else on the paper before repeating the actions of handing it to you.

you looked at the paper again to see a second question.

what do you want to do for dinner tonight?

[ ] cook at my apartment

[ ] cook at your apartment

[ ] order takeout

[ ] eat at your favorite restaurant

you picked up your pen and picked the option you wanted. then you wrote on the paper.

that's a lot of options.

you slid the paper back to wonwoo, who had gotten up to put the book he was reading back on a nearby shelf. you put some of your things in your backpack to clean the table up a bit, but you left a pen out so you could write back to wonwoo. you started going through your school email on your laptop, replying back to a few people for an event that was happening next month.

wonwoo returned to the table and immediately looked at the paper. you noticed a smile appear on his face again, and he wrote back with his pencil. he slid the paper back, this time without folding it. you looked at the paper.

we always need a lot of options when it comes to dinner.

wanna get out of here?

[ ] yes [ ] no

you smiled and stood up, not indicating your choice with a pen mark but physically. wonwoo smiled and also got up from his seat.

"that didn't take long," he quietly whispered.

"well, yea. i'm starving. i think i heard my stomach rumble like twice,” you mentioned and packed up the rest of your stuff while wonwoo put his backpack on.

"dinner on me," he said as you two walked out from the main part of the building and into the lobby.

"treating me to my favorite place? it must be my birthday or something," you said to him as you two were about to exit the building. wonwoo opened the door for you, and you walked out, meeting the frigid temperature that the outside world brought. "fuck, it's so cold," you cursed as you threw your hands in the pocket of your hoodie.

"come on, let's hurry and get in my car," wonwoo said to you as he fished for his keys in his pocket.

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possibilistfanfiction · 2 years

Note

conservationist au already!? you write so fast dang (what are your secrets) (also it's okay if you want to keep them secret) (mostly i am excite for frog)

here she is! frog au! lol [ao3]

to see us blossom (while the green spreads like wings)

only our feet have been here, that i'm aware of. it's wild and remote and beautiful as can be. i just want to be quiet and love it. let it sink in. i'll be leaving the planet, sometime. and i'll miss it.

— dr. bruce means

'dr. silva,' diego bursts into your office, his hair fluffed and messy, 'i found someone for the expedition!'

'did you... run here?'

'yeah, from the lab.' he gulps a breath. 'i got excited.'

it's fucking awesome that diego, your favorite grad student, is coming on this expedition, but it's becoming a huge pain in the ass to plan — you try your hardest not to feel guilty about why, but it is mostly because of you — and is starting to feel more and more impossible by the day. you don't want to get your hopes up: you don't have that much funding, and it's starting to seem a little bit impossible logistically, even with dr. superion's help. but you'll humor him: 'so who are we taking with us?'

he waits a breath, practically bursting at the seams. 'beatrice zhang.'

'the photographer?'

'she's an experienced climber! you follow her on instagram, right?'

you have gratuitously followed beatrice zhang on instagram for the last four years — for her photography, because it is some of the most beautiful and thoughtful you've ever seen, regardless of the subject matter, but also for the occasional photo of herself, surfing or climbing or behind the camera, particularly delightful if it features her arms in a tank — but diego doesn't need to know that part. 'yes, her work is wonderful for lots of conservationist efforts.' diplomatic, you think, mentally patting yourself on the back.

'and she's hot.'

'i didn't say that.'

diego rolls his eyes.

'anyway, how would we even get her to come with us?'

diego grins. 'i emailed her.'

'what?'

he takes out his phone and shows you her instagram, which, indeed, does have an ‘email’ button, which, obviously, you've never paid attention to before. 'she hasn't responded yet, or her team or whatever, i guess, but i only sent it ten minutes ago. and it went to a legit address and hasn't bounced back, so, i just figured, why not?'

even though, last year, you had had a successful time in guyana, finding and recording a few new species, there are a lot of why not's, really: your GA probably shouldn’t be making these choices without consulting you first, but you don’t really care about that so much as your mobility is more limited than ever lately. the weather probably won't hold so who the fuck knows if it'll even be possible to reach to spot at all. and, plus, it's for a frog. one tiny frog, that may or may not exist — (you're sure it does) — in the middle of a jungle on the top of a tepui that's never been climbed. it's... a little crazy, when you think through it now, way crazier than it had seemed when you wrote the grant for funding last year. most people, even world renowned war-turned-wildlife photographers with insane biceps — especially them, probably — aren't interested in a project like this.

'well, the least that will happen is she doesn't respond,' you figure; you don't believe in any religion and life had dealt you quite the shitty hand for a long time, so if there's any balancing it out, maybe this will be a strike in the good column for you. so, 'yeah, you're right. why not?'

it's two days later when your phone vibrates about seven times; you roll over in... some girl's bed? okay, solid night, then, and when you look over at her, she's beautiful and fast asleep. you remember your fifth shot of tequila and vaguely how great riding her dick had been; you find your phone graciously plugged into a charger on the nightstand on your side of the bed, and when you go to the bathroom you see condoms in the small trash can — so, all in all, a success. your back is sore but not terrible and you groan when you see it's only six am, but there's texts from diego and you have a policy not to ignore those, no matter how stupid they occasionally can be.

these are unequivocally not stupid, though, because they start with dr. silva! and then ava!!!!! ava! and devolve into some emojis and then omg oh my god and finally check your email, which is really the only helpful part of that — but they're not stupid because when you do check your email, you see a forwarded message from diego first. it's a cordial reply to the email he had sent to beatrice zhang, from her, it seems, asking politely to be put in touch with the lead biologist on the expedition if possible. which, you remember with the tiniest bit of a happy jolt, is you. you open the newest email, which is, in fact, connecting you and beatrice. she’s already responded, and it’s kind of wild because, from the three short sentences asking if you could set up a video chat to talk more about the expedition or, if she happened to be close to where you were in the world, even meet near your office or lab for coffee, she sounds, well, at least interested. you don't think someone like her — someone who has photographed war, and famine, and wildfires, and, miraculously last year, a snow leopard and her cub — would even respond to something she didn't care at all about.

holy shit, you text diego. you need a cup of coffee, or, like, maybe three cups of coffee, and a breakfast sandwich before you can respond to that email, so you decide to get a move on. plus, it feels unhinged to respond to it from your phone, so you need to go home anyway. you should also maybe definitely shower, you think, as you look at yourself in the mirror: your makeup is a little smudged and your hair is an unrepentant mess. still hot though, you think when you quietly find your clothes and put your bra on, a deep teal that makes your boobs look awesome. thankfully, you were just in high-waisted, loose jeans and a cropped sweater last night, so after you wash your face and get dressed, it's not really giving walk of shame — walk of pride, thank you very much.

you google maps where you are and, thankfully, it's a nice enough morning and a short enough distance that you can walk to your favorite cafe and then to your apartment without having to call an uber. you grab your cane from where you'd left it propped up by the wall near the bed, and then, because you're definitely not an asshole, gently shake your, well, one night stand's shoulder. her eyes are green, and you do remember that much.

'i gotta go do some work, sorry.'

she nods. 'right. doctor.'

well, maybe you're a little bit of an asshole, but it's not your fault that people think you're a very important neurosurgeon or something. you are very important in cataloguing biodiversity, so you just roll with it. 'thanks for a great time.'

she nods with a soft smile, and it's nice to kiss her, gently, goodbye.

'wait, you're meeting with her? here?'

'yes,' you say, mostly annoyed at camila's vaguely unhinged energy. 'she's close by train, so it's better to meet in person.'

'oh my god,' camila says. she's one of your best friends and probably the smartest, most tech-savvy person you know. when you figured out how helpful it would be to have someone operate drones for you on this expedition, you hadn't even bothered to ask anyone else.

'don't you know her?'

'well, sure,' camila confirms. 'i did some drone work for her a few months ago in the bahamas when she was photographing sharks. but, like, she's amazing, ava.'

'well, hopefully she'll say yes.'

'you'll have to charm her.'

'i'm very good at charming hot women.'

camila rolls her eyes.

'i'm also very good at charming people to go find frogs with me.'

she waits for a beat and then relents. 'well, i suppose that's true.'

'come on,' you say, 'help me make a slide deck. i feel like she'd think that's sexy or something.'

'you're ridiculous.'

'it'll work, i'm telling you.'

beatrice zhang in soft wool pants and closed-toed birkenstocks and a crewneck sweater sitting ramrod straight at the decent cafe just off campus near your office is, quite honestly, not a sight you'd ever expected to see, but it is kind of a miracle. or, at least that's what it had felt like, when she had emailed that she was, actually, a few hours away by train and wouldn't mind a day trip to meet in person. you're glad that you wore your best professor outfit today, flared navy slacks that make your ass look divine, and a crisp white button up that you tucked in tight and rolled up at the sleeves, a camel peacoat and expensive loafers that dr. salvius had gotten you when you passed your dissertation two years ago. you usually wear... well, not this — you reserve this for conferences and presentations — but, if looking professional helps beatrice sign onto this project, so be it.

and, well, maybe it's not strictly professional to undo another button as you had walked to the cafe, and, like, you don't actually know if beatrice is gay or not, but you spot her and smile and wave and her eyes get big for a moment, and you’re afraid you’ve got it all wrong: you’re small and young and pretty and, sometimes, people think that disqualifies you from being smart. but then her eyes rake over you and linger, for just a moment, on your chest, so you're probably right. if this helps too, so be it.

you wave and she stands very formally; she clearly recognizes you, which makes you feel a small thrill of satisfaction. 'hey, glad you found it okay.'

'i've had much more difficult locations to navigate before, although the freshman can be a bit scary.'

it's deadpan, so it takes you a split second, but then you laugh and offer your hand. 'i'm dr. silva.' you want to roll your eyes at your title, which you normally feel quite proud of, all of a sudden. 'ava, any pronouns.'

'dr. silva,' she says anyway, and shakes your hand firmly. 'it's a pleasure. i'm beatrice, she/her.'

only after do you sit, a little sprawled, and prop your cane up on the table, does she sit too, and then looks down at the menu. 'do you recommend anything? i haven't had lunch yet.'

'well, if you're like, uh... —' falling prey to diet culture, you think, but you don't know beatrice at all, so — 'wanting a vegetable forward option, their salads and quinoa bowls are okay.'

she wrinkles her nose. you hide a smile in the collar of your coat.

'but their kimchi fried chicken sandwich is my favorite.'

'and the slaw?'

'well, i'm a fries girl.'

she smiles over the top of her menu, just slightly.

'but my friend likes the slaw, and i trust her.'

she nods and sets her menu down, her wrists resting on the edge of the table, her hands clasped. a practical smart watch, no wedding band. her full attention is on you and it makes you feel a little breathless.

you're saved from saying something incredibly dumb — you're very, very smart, and you're actually very good at flirting, but beatrice zhang is hot as hell and a certified badass and you also really want her to be, like, your colleague — when your server comes to your table. you both order, and you get the fried chicken sandwich too, even though you already ate lunch an hour ago — diego's always happy to eat your leftovers out of the fridge in the lab anyway.

you're not saved from saying something marginally dumb, though, because beatrice kindly thanks your server and hands over her menu and then looks at you again, fully focused.

'i like your hair,’ you say, instead of, well, anything else. you want to groan and slam your head down into the table, or something, because beatrice's brows knit together and she brings one hand to run through her floppy middle part, short in the back and on the sides, pushing it out of her eyes.

'oh,' she says, softly and definitely confused. 'thank you.'

you're sure you're blushing. 'sorry, i just, like, the last time you posted — you had long hair.'

it's mortifying, the moment you say it, because you can mentally calculate the last time beatrice posted a picture of herself on her instagram, and it was definitely over a year ago.

she also seems to realize this, because her confusion turns to a smug little smile that could probably eat you alive. you'd definitely let it.

'i read about the last species of frog you discovered, when the article came out.'

that was also over a year ago, and you laugh, tension releasing from your shoulders. 'so that’s how you knew what i looked like.’

‘sure.’

to be fair, the article did include a picture of you, muddy and sweaty and overjoyed, holding a tiny frog in the palm of your hand, but, ‘did you google me?’

‘i only take on projects, at this point, that i find interesting.’

‘so you think i’m interesting.’

she raises a brow, a scar that also wasn’t there over a year ago running an inch above it and then straight through, cleanly healed but not faded yet, stopping right on the top of her cheek — thankfully your brain didn't comment on that, even though it's kind of hot too. ‘i think that fact that you've already identified six new species of frog two years into an assistant professorship is interesting.’

'so that's a yes.' you grin. ‘want me to tell you about the project, then?'

she thanks your server when he brings her water and your lemonade of the day, and a coffee, and then leans forward in her seat. ‘yes,' she says. 'i do.’

you tell her about it as coherently as you can: you're sure there's a brand new species of frog — maybe more than one, if you're lucky — on the top of a land mass deep in the forest in guyana. you've secured enough funding to make it happen; bare bones, but still. you have diego and yasmine, your grad students, and michael, another assistant professor in your apartment who's helped you on expeditions before, mostly by carrying a bunch of shit. you've gotten camila — who beatrice is also very excited to work with again — to sign on to do tech work for you. dr. superion and dr. salvius are helping from here.

'so, anyway, i need you to climb the tepui.'

beatrice sits back when you're done, flicks through a few slides on your laptop that you'd handed to her with pictures of the jungle, the cliff face, the budget outlines and logistics and equipment you anticipate you'll need.

'do you know a lot about climbing?'

it's kind — to not assume that you don't; to not expect you to either. you shake your head no.

'i'm an alpinist, for the most part,' she says, 'which means that i climb, well —' she pauses.

'no need to be modest for me.'

she offers a small smile. 'i've climbed eight of the ten tallest mountains in the world.'

hot, you think, but you take a deep breath instead and say, 'that's impressive.' nailed it.

'yes, well.' she blushes. 'thank you. but this kind of climbing is traditional climbing — big wall climbing.'

'oh.' you frown. 'so, you can't do it?'

'i can,' she says, 'and i'd like to. i think i know enough of biology to be marginally helpful, and i can certainly photograph the expedition.'

your heart soars, warming your whole body, and you take a bite of your lukewarm sandwich to hide your smile.

'but i'll need a team. i'm confident that i'll be able to get up the wall, but i'm not experienced enough at this kind of climbing to lead on all of these passes.'

'we might not have the funds to pay much, if you bring on more people.'

she shakes her head. 'i have access to plenty of discretionary funds, so that shouldn't be a problem.'

'that's hot.' well, you tried.

she laughs, thank god. 'i just wanted to make sure that you and your team are okay with me bringing other people on.'

'as long as they aren't, like, shitty, you know. racist, homophobic, ableist. all that stuff.'

she nods, very seriously. 'i can assure you that, while one of my climbing partners is inclined to be an asshole, it's always done with respect toward important identities. she's more annoying than anything. and my other partner is the best person i know.'

'well, other than me, now.'

you can tell beatrice is torn between smiling and rolling her eyes; she does a bit of both. 'and, as far as logistics go, i could easily provide a helicopter to get us in as far as possible. less of a hike.'

it's impossible that beatrice didn't see your cane. 'i have adaptive equipment for myself. i can do the hike.'

but her brows knit together. 'yes, i assumed so: you're leading the expedition. i just meant, for my team at least, the fewer miles we have to bring photography and climbing gear in a jungle, the better. it's heavy, and then we have to do a major climb.'

'oh.' you bite your bottom lip. 'that makes sense. sorry, people suck sometimes.'

'i imagine so.' she looks at you very sincerely. 'i'm sorry.'

you wave her off. 'thanks. it is what it is, though.'

beatrice doesn't try to argue, although you can tell that maybe she wants to. 'anyway, whatever you think will help your team, and whatever will help mine, that falls outside of your grant funds, i can cover.'

'that's — are you sure?'

she nods. 'quite.'

'where did you get these discretionary funds?' you can't help asking.

'a bad man,' she says, leaning forward and whispering dramatically. it makes you laugh.

'ooh, did you kill him? warlord?'

'alas, no. my father, and he's already dead.'

'ah.' you snap your fingers. 'well, if another opportunity comes up, you just let me know. i have tons of lethal neurotoxins in my lab. i'm always down to... you know — murder —' you whisper — 'a billionaire. long haul ethics, you know?'

she nods very solemnly, fighting a smile. 'i'll keep that under advisement.'

you fight the urge to ask her for a drink, and you definitely stare at her mouth a little too long, but then you get it together and offer your hand. 'well, partners?'

she shakes it, hers strong and rough with callouses. the thought sends a little shiver up your spine, but you valiantly ignore it. 'partners.'

beatrice invites you, after a few days of emailing back and forth to create an updated budget and logistics plan, to meet at a climbing gym. it's to meet her other two team members first. before you all get together with your main crew for dinner afterward. she'd given you their names, headshots, and very formal bios, which you had kind of loved: lilith, who, according to beatrice's bio, will be the lead climber. when you google her, you find out that she's, like, a world champion big wall climber, so that bodes well. and then mary, another photographer and world class marksman — I know this isn't particularly relevant, beatrice had included as a footnote, but it is quite impressive — and avid climber too.

you're hopeful about it all, and you're hopeful that tonight maybe she just wants to see you alone, and to have you watch her climb. there's, like, a two percent chance you'll physically be able to climb, really, but that's fine. she'd texted you about it, far less formal than her perfectly punctuated emails, so that's a good sign. and she'd posted a recent picture someone took of her — a candid, petting the trunk of an elephant peacefully — on her instagram too. maybe that was scheduled — beatrice seems like the kind of person who would schedule instagram posts — but a girl can hope, you know? you liked it one hour and fourteen minutes after she posted, from the lab's social media account and not your personal one, so you figure you've handled this all perfectly. you're great, beatrice is a colleague, and you've got this.

you're stressed about what to wear to a climbing gym and then to get dinner afterward, although there's probably a locker room or something, but it's fine. you're hot in anything. (or nothing. not that the night is going to go there.) you settle on tight leggings you wear to the gym and a sports bra, a cropped jacket on over. it's, like, cute and femme, but also practical. you brush on some mascara and put part of your hair into a little bun so it won't fall into your eyes, and you pack a spare change of clothes in a canvas tote — slacks and a nice bra and a t-shirt that hugs your body perfectly along with a pair of platform converse and an army-green overshirt — in case everyone else changes before going to dinner.

you grab your cane and head out the door.

if you fall to your death, it's definitely not going to be because of your back or legs. it's going to be because beatrice is in loose pants that seem comfortable for climbing and a tight racerback tank, and when you walk in, she's hanging by one arm on a short wall, just chilling out there, before she seems to decide what she wants to do. she brings her legs up to find footholds and then she's almost upside down, holding onto the wall with both hands calmly and moving so fluidly — a leg stretching out, her chalked fingers grasping onto a tiny hold. there's a delicate tattoo along her right forearm, all linework, and there are scars all over her left shoulder, running down to her elbow from what you can see: some are jagged and some are clean, neat, like surgical incisions. they don't seem to be limiting her progress at all, because she moves over the outhanging ledge easily and then to the top before just letting go and calmly rolling to her feet after she lands without a sound.

the — very hot — woman, lilith, you know from the headshot, sitting on the floor next to the wall, legs outstretched, leaning back on her palms set flat on the ground behind, and looking impossibly graceful while doing it, groans.

'getting stuck that long on a soft V8? come on, beatrice.'

beatrice, to her credit, just shrugs.

'shoulder?' the other woman asks.

'it's fine,' beatrice says. 'just getting back into the groove of your tiny walls.'

'oh, ha ha.'

'8091 meters will really change your perspective. you should try it sometime.'

'no thanks, i'll stick to my world records, thank you very much.'

they seem like they might physically fight, but then they both start laughing. weird, but you fuck with it.

beatrice turns, her hands on her hips, and, like, whew, god fucking bless, and then waves with a smile when she sees you. she walks over. 'hello ava.'

'hey,' you say, suddenly feeling a little awkward: you have not a single idea what you're doing. 'that was pretty impressive.'

'it was not,' the lilith says.

beatrice heads toward her anyway, and you follow. 'you can ignore her most of the time,' she says. 'dr. silva, this is lilith. lilith, dr. silva.'

'just ava.' you look at beatrice with a raised brow. 'please.'

lilith lazily salutes. 'ava, then. our illustrious leader, i hear. beatrice is making me lead a 1000 foot first ascent for a frog?'

'i'm not making you do anything,' beatrice says, and lilith grumbles like a teenager. it's funny, and you decide that you like her then and there, even if she scares you a little. she scares you a little more when she gracefully gets to her feet. she's tall and imposing, with a sharp face and long hair braided back, more wiry than beatrice's bigger muscles, but — you're sure — just as strong.

she offers her hand, which you shake. 'in my defense,' you say, 'it is a very cool frog. we can even name it after you, if you want.'

this seems to amuse her, because there's a hint of a smile on her face. 'i do like first ascents anyway.'

'see,' you say, 'that's the spirit.'

'ava,' beatrice says, 'no pressure, but i thought you might find it fun to try climbing. only if you'd like.'

'i'm, uh —' you gesture a little clumsily with your cane, the tips of your ears turning red. 'not sure that i can?'

'mary is an adaptive climbing instructor,' beatrice says, gesturing over to the taller wall with ropes connected through pulleys at the top, where a strong Black woman with perfectly neat braids and a dark outfit on is sorting through a few harnesses on the ground. 'but if you'd rather not climb, lilith and i are just finishing up. we can show you a few things we've been practicing in anticipation for the route, and then change and go to dinner.'

beatrice doesn't say either choice with any more or less merit, or worth, or importance: they're choices, and they're yours, and they won't affect how much she trusts you or believes in the expedition. lilith is checking her phone, uninterested at this point, and you decide, as you always have, to try.

'yeah, sure. i have no idea what adaptive climbing is, though.'

beatrice smiles and lilith stays on her phone, texting. 'that's fine. i have no idea about ninety percent of what you study.'

'i find that hard to believe. you're a wildlife photographer.'

she hums, softly touching your elbow and then walking toward mary. 'conservationist photography, sure. but i'm not a biologist.'

you make a note that beatrice doesn't really like wildlife photographer as a job title, although she was polite enough to not outright tell you so. 'well, i'm not a climber, so, quid pro quo?'

'ah, but you will be after tonight,' mary says, standing with a smile and offering her hand. 'dr. silva, right?'

'just ava,' you tell her, endeared by the fact that beatrice had probably been very formally saying dr. silva to her team this entire time. you shake mary's hand as firmly as you can and feel immediately a little more relaxed with the confident, easy way she holds her shoulders, her kind smile, her bright eyes.

'beatrice and i go way back,' she says. 'this project of yours sounds amazing. i was excited when she asked if i wanted in.'

'of course i'd ask,' beatrice says, bumping mary in the shoulder, who rolls her eyes fondly.

'well, beatrice said you were promised an adaptive climbing lesson.'

'if you're still in,' beatrice says, 'mary can show you the ropes.' she laughs at herself. 'literally.'

mary groans, but you're delighted. 'well, don't leave me hanging.'

'no. not another bad pun aficionado. please.'

beatrice grins and you sling an arm over her slightly sweaty and delightfully strong shoulders. she stiffens a little, and mary looks to her for a moment, and you're worried you've overstepped, and fast. but then beatrice relaxes.

you step back and gesture between the two of you happily. 'is this our thing now?'

'if trading terrible puns is wrong, then i don't want to be right.'

mary groans. 'not sure why i agreed to this trip after all.'

'we can name a frog after you, if you want,' you offer.

mary perks up. 'really?'

'yeah,' you say, 'sure. i've already named one after myself and given five others the dumbest, gayest names i could think of.'

'i'm back in, then.'

you laugh. 'well, let's rock and try not to roll.'

mary sighs, but beatrice's muffled laugh into your shoulder is way worth it.

Hi Ava, I'll be in town today to get some equipment squared away. I was wondering if maybe you'd like to have dinner if you're free. No shop talk, unless you want

you read and reread the text. you'd gone over shitty — expected, but still shitty — test results from an mri at your neurologist's earlier today, and, even though your team seemed to gel the other night, and all of your logistics are much less daunting now that beatrice has covered some of them financially, you had planned to stay home in your favorite boxers and most comfortable hoodie and wallow with a mediocre bottle of wine and good pizza and great reality tv.

but — hey, that sounds sweet. any places in mind?

beatrice texts back almost immediately. I don't know the area too well. You can pick, if you'd like

like, you're colleagues. you're about to be in one of the most remote parts of the world together in five days, with just a handful of other people, for weeks, maybe longer. you're the leader of the expedition but beatrice is, in important ways, a leader too. she's smart and beautiful and handsome and focused. if it's a date, incredible; if it's not, you still want to know her, you still want to spend time in her gentle warmth.

any food allergies/hatred?

she responds, No, I'm pretty adventurous

still, no clarity, but you set a place and time — one of your favorite tapas restaurants with a great little bar and, if it gets late enough, a good dance floor — and then set about getting ready. you eat a banana and take ibuprofen, which hopefully will help you be able to dance without much pain, and then get as pretty as you deem not desperate for a normal dinner with a colleague to be. which, it's you, so you're still very, very pretty, including one of your very best cleavage tanks. you finish your eyeliner perfectly and blow yourself a little kiss in the mirror. for good luck, or whatever. it's science.

'i got tired of it,' beatrice says. 'war photography is...' she pauses, and shakes her head, like she doesn't quite know what to tell you. you're totally sure she's not telling the truth, not really, but you know not to push, to spook her away. 'i could leave,' she settles on. 'as much as i hate the west, as much as i hate american and european, especially british, foreign policy, and its destruction of the world — i got to take pictures, and leave. at first, i thought it was something important i could do, to record the truth. political inherently, anti-imperialist, without being in politics. but, i was in occupied palestine, and, then, after —' she clears her throat, brings her fingers up to ghost over the scar through her brow — 'after. i couldn't do it. they're wars because of my history — our collective history — but they weren't my wars. they aren’t my wars. i can’t photograph them, at least right now. because i got to leave.'

you're horrified that she might start to cry — which isn't horrifying, not at all, you cry all the time, but you're supposed to be having a nice meal with your colleague and you had asked what you thought was an innocuous question about how she got into her more recent conservationist work, but clearly, not innocuous. you're starting to think, with a kind of clarity you very rarely have about anyone, that nothing about beatrice herself is innocuous. even her collarless button down and loose pants cuffed at the ankles — and the way all of her clothes, ever practical, drape with a tailored casualness on her small, strong frame — her easy hair that’s always actually perfectly trimmed and styled, the pattern of callouses on her hands: everything about her is intentioned. she means what she says. she means what she does. she means who she is.

'i started studying frogs with my mom,' you offer. it's true, and you mean who you are too.

she takes a sip of her water and nods in what you can tell is a quiet relief.

'my family is from manaus. my mom wasn't a scientist or anything, she was a bank teller, but when i was little, we'd go out often. she loved the rainforest, so, you know, i loved the rainforest.'

beatrice smiles gently. 'that sounds beautiful.'

you stare down at a croqueta and tear a small piece of it off, let the old ache fill your chest. 'she died, when i was seven.'

'oh,' beatrice says, 'i —'

'— it was a long time ago,' you say.

'sometimes that doesn't make it hurt any less.'

it's permission, to feel how you need to. most people accept when you tell them that and move on in relief, unwilling or unable to give you the space. but beatrice sits steadily. 'i broke my back, during the car accident we were in; we were visiting spain and, well. i had to relearn to walk. it took a really long time, and the orphanage i grew up in wasn't big on good physical therapy or really any care, so i taught myself what i could outside of school, got into university, got good medical care for the first time, like, ever. and i started studying biology. i went back to the rainforest as soon as i could, as a research assistant, and guyana was ... it's mind-blowing, bea.'

she weighs it all in contemplative silence for a moment, trying to decide what you need; what relief she can give. ‘i can't wait to see. i've always wanted to go.'

it is relief, what you feel, to be so immediately seen and understood. 'well, it's not just anyone i'd want to bring to the rainforest. my mom's favorites were always frogs, so —' you shrug, suddenly a little at a loss.

'so here we are, about to go find another.'

you pop the croqueta into your mouth, feel the dull pain in your chest dissipate when you realize you're close enough to beatrice's face to see her freckles. 'i have spinal stenosis, from the accident. it's progressing pretty fast, even with the best medical team, tech, surgeries, all that.'

she nods, like she understands what you mean without making you have to say it. it's a gift, bigger than she probably knows.

'i really want to find that fucking frog.'

'well,' she says, and lifts her glass, 'to finding our frog.'

'you know, it's bad luck to toast with water.'

she frowns. 'i don't usually drink.'

'you're very... controlled.'

she waits a beat and then grins. 'okay, one beer.'

'fuck yeah!'

'one, ava.'

'mhm. whatever you say, bea.'

'i have to take the train back,' beatrice argues — or, at least, tries to argue, because her eyes drift down to your boobs when you take your sweater off. success.

'you can just stay at my place. i have a mediocre ikea couch.'

'i can't let you sleep on your own couch.'

you laugh. 'oh, you definitely get the couch. i need all the good mattress support i can get before i sleep in a tent for a month.'

she smiles, gently and a little sad, but then the moment passes, a kind of grace. 'fine.'

'really?'

the set of her shoulders is looser but still sure, still so, so certain. 'yes.'

'hell yeah!' she laughs. 'shots?'

beatrice pulls a face but you order lemon drops anyway, mostly because vodka seems neutral and they're a good shot for people who don't drink often, sweet and tangy and fun. beatrice sniffs hers first — bold move, big mistake most of the time — but then nods in approval.

'to our frog,' you say, and she clinks her glass with yours. you touch it to the bartop and she follows suit, and then take it as smoothly as you can. it's an easy drink, so you don't have any problems, and she swallows without too much of a grimace. 'okay?'

'it's not bad,' she says, and your whole body hums, probably because of the two margaritas you had with dinner and this shot now, but also because there are freckles stretching across her cheeks and gold flecks in her brown eyes and if you let yourself look closely a tiny split on her lip, probably from the dry, cool air recently.

you shake yourself out of... whatever that was, and you order two more shots; she takes hers without hesitation this time, laughing when you spill a little down your cheek. she reaches a hand and wipes with her strong hand, tender, over the corner of your mouth, down to your jaw, and then clears her throat, takes her hand back quickly, although you want to ask for her to stay. but instead, 'come on, bea,' you say, 'let's dance!'

she only groans in a show of protest for posterity, you're sure, because she's very strong and you're very small and when you tug on her wrists she follows you easily.

you love to dance; you have always loved to dance: what little you remember of your mom is full of green, the rainforest and the wall of your living room. she would push back all the furniture to the edges, just the two of you in a small apartment, where you slept in the same bed and ate fruit from the trees outside. she would put on britney spears and jump around with you; she would put on stevie nicks and hold you in her arms, swaying around. she was full of light, from what you remember, always ready to read to you, in portugese and in english; to help you with your math and your handwriting. she cut your food for you and bought you new shoes when yours wore through the soles. she had been a good mom in the way good moms are: happy to hold your hand, to rub her nose against yours, to let you eat the batter off the spoon. you don't remember much, not before the accident, but it had been easy, and beautiful — the mist and orchids and green, all around.

beatrice is a little stiff until you start jumping around, fully out of time with the music, just to make her laugh. and she does, a smile lighting up her whole face. her body is graceful like this too, like it's always somehow known exactly how to move. you wonder, fleetingly between songs, what she was like as a child, if she was as sure and smart and kind as she is now. someone crowds into her space from behind and then you're not thinking of anything other than the tickle of her hair against your cheek as she presses into you, the lilt of her laugh into your ear, the hard muscles of her shoulders and the soft, small swell of her hips when you bring your palms to rest there. you're drunk and she's beautiful, and you've kissed lots of beautiful people when you've been drunk. but she closes her eyes and sways to the beat and it's like the rest of the world falls away. it's like there's only you and beatrice and the cloud forest, above anything else that has harmed and will harm again. there's her gold skin and scars and tattoos hidden under her shirt, the healed slices down your spine, the air between your bodies: sweaty, sticky with spilled drinks, thumping bass, everyone else in this bar. there's only the two of you, and it's a little like you've been punched in the gut: you're falling in love with her. it's easy, right now, to put a name to it all, when you can look at her jaw without reproach.

she opens her eyes and looks at you, a smile on her face, and leans in your direction. it's easy, to bring your hand to touch where you had been staring, to say, 'bea,' as she laughs into your neck, says, 'this is so fun, thank you.' it's hard to not kiss her, but she's ... extraordinary, and you don't want your first kiss to be in the middle of a mid-at-best dance floor after a few shots. you want it to be somewhere beautiful. somewhere you already know; somewhere you're certain she'll love.

'let's go home,' you say, because you had done another round somewhere between songs and she's slightly unsteady on her feet. she nods into your neck and you take her hand.

you walk back to your apartment with her, one arm looped through hers — 'very gallant,' you'd said when she'd offered, and even in the dim light from the moon and streetlamps you had seen her blush — and your other hand using your cane. she had found it for you, tucked behind where you had been sitting at the bar; she hadn't asked anything about why you didn't use it when you were dancing, or why you need it now. you know so many good people and you organize a lot with some of your other friends who work with the disability center at the university, but there is some kind of a revelation about being seen so wholly.

but maybe you're also just a little drunk, because she sways a bit as you walk and her accent is lilting, tender, her hair messy in her eyes. it's probably as soft as it looks; you had lost your hair tie somewhere between shots two and three and you tuck yours behind your ear. you have so many questions you want to ask her but you hold them in because she looks up at the moon and the stars and it's enough, to be here with her. to know her laugh, now, and the way she has hurt too.

it's enough to just walk.

it hadn't actually taken too much convincing — after you unlocked the door and gave her some choices in pajamas, soft sleep shorts and a big cotton crew her eventual choices, and gotten her a glass of water and a few cheddar crackers — to get her to agree to sleep in your bed with you. perhaps it had been because your couch is ... an unknown number of years old — 'listen, bea, phd students make, like, no money, and it was twenty bucks on craigslist three years go' — or maybe, maybe, it's because she just wants to.

you settle in first, listen to her brush her teeth with a spare toothbrush you'd given her, and wash her face with your facewash — that she had frowned at, accidentally rude but pretty funny and, like, fair, you got it from the drug store on the corner and you're sure she has a whole understated fancy little routine when she's not out in the field — and then wash her hands after going to the bathroom. you love sex, so you sleep with people often. you've had a boyfriend before, that you cared about deeply, so there's some parts of intimacy that are familiar to you, of course. but this, beatrice carefully climbing into bed next to you, with her freckles and her eyelashes and the pink of her lips, is different: you're not going to kiss her, not right now. you're not going to reach out and put your palm on her jaw like you want to, or feel the warm skin of her ribs, the goosebumps that would inevitably rise there if you raked your nails across the ridges. you're not going to because, you know, somewhere elemental in you, that you want to know her, and love her, for a long time. you want to take her to the rainforest.

'where's your favorite place in the world?' you ask instead, whisper it into the dark, the soft outline of her face.

she's turned toward you, her hands tucked carefully under her chin; it makes her look younger. 'tibet. the himalayas.'

'makes sense. you and your big mountains.'

'what's the last mountain you... summited?'

'annapurna. it's the tenth tallest in the world.' she pauses, considering. 'are we playing twenty questions?'

her eyelids are drooping. 'i don't think you're going to be awake for twenty questions.'

she laughs softly. 'i want to ask you one, though.'

'hmm. sure. two to four questions, then.'

'do you... uh, well, okay. do you like women?'

it's so awkward, so out of place for someone so sure, that you have to fight the urge to burst out in laughter. but it's also soft, and nervous, her eyes wide. it makes you feel sixteen again, full of possibility. 'yeah, bea. i'm bi. i love women.'

she nods, tucks her hands even tighter under her chin, lets a big relieved breath out. 'cool.'

'yeah?'

'mhm. i'm a lesbian, if you didn't know.'

you want to say you're the gayest looking person i've ever met but you refrain. for the romance of it all. 'good to know.'

she tries hard to wink and fails miserably. you let yourself, just once, just for a moment, reach out and run your hand through her hair. she leans into your touch, relaxes under it, before you fold yourself back onto your side of the bed. 'you have one more question.'

'so do you.'

'okay. hmm. favorite ice cream flavor?'

she laughs. 'that's what you want to know.'

you nod. 'it's very important information.'

'okay.' she thinks hard about it, genuinely. 'mint chocolate chip?'

'that's so boring, jeez.'

'oh, i'm sorry. simple combinations of dynamic tastes is probably too sophisticated for you to understand.'

'okay, ratatouille.'

she tries, a valiant effort, to not crack a smile, but she eventually does. 'okay, my turn. favorite color?'

you let your eyes fall closed and imagine it all, the sharp thorns and the torrential rain and the chirp of the neon blue frog you'd found last time. you think about taking her there. 'green, of course,' you tell her, a promise, a future in the clouds. 'green.'

#conservationist au #conservationist au 🐸#ft butch bea but we gotta have different tags lol but she's here #just ch1 but ch2 is the expedition!#avatrice #avatrice fic #wn #wn fic #frog au #i guess bc y’all love that lol

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