itsnotzka

[itsnotzka]

Hello, I wrote a little something. It’s very short, but at least I wrote it. I had this idea of short stories about people’s lives. I’ll probably post something new... someday.

Glimpse of a life - RAIN

The droplet were falling from the grey sky, crashing loudly on the roof. She closed her book and left it on the coffee table, then grabbed her mug of tea before heading to the window. She opened it, placing her hand outside to feel the fresh air caressing her skin. A sharp contrast with the warmth of the goblet she was holding. Rain, carried by the wind, was piercing through the porch and tickling her fingers. She liked this weather. It eased her, comforted her. She hadn't felt at peace since a long time.

The smell of the water on the asphalt of the terrace filled her nostrils, reminding her of the perfume of the city, in her former life.

Here, everything was so much quieter, vivid and real. She watched a bumblebee bravely flying away from the porch, facing the heavy rain to return to the nest. A ladybug climbed up the glass of the window to find shelter inside the house. She had always felt connected to nature, but life had decided otherwise and she had forgotten this part of herself when her job drowned her with responsibilities.

She tried, she really did, fighting to fit this mold, to play a game she knew she would lose. She followed all the rules, though. She got her degree, got a job, got married, bought a way too small apartment with her spouse, she even tried to make a child! This is when things got complicated. This is when they stopped talking, when problems arrived, when the doctors said they couldn't be parents. Not like this, at least. So they gave up, without even agreeing or arguing about this. She couldn't say if she was relieved or sad. She couldn't say if she would have regrets when she'd be older. She just let her life past, as if nothing happened.

But this morning, everything had changed. She was facing the mirror, spreading her anti-age cream all over her face, when she heard the front door closing with a loud thud. Her husband had left without saying goodbye, just like every morning. She'd looked at herself and felt disgusted. How did she let that happen? When did she become this sour middle-age woman, wearing this stupid suit, wearing this fake pinched smiled that had created deep wrinkles she was trying to reduce with anti-age cream? This wasn't her!

She felt like waking up from a nightmare, a very long nightmare. She opened the tap, washed her face and passed comfortable clothes. She grabbed the bag she had packed years ago after an umpteenth fight - perhaps the fact she never took the time to unpack it, should have been the signal she wanted to leave long ago - and left a simple note on the counter top of the kitchen. No explanation, just facts. They never really communicated after all, so why would it change now? He just needed to know she wouldn't return.

When she got in her car, she turned off her phone. She wouldn't call the office either. She started the engine and drove. She knew the way. Adrenaline ran through her veins and she felt as if life was slowly regaining control of her body again. She drove without stopping for hours. She wasn't tired, she was excited by her choice. It was reckless, but it was the first thing she did for herself. She no longer followed the rules, she was being selfish, for her own happiness.

She arrived in the early afternoon. The place hadn't changed since her childhood. It was the same small cottage surrounded by this huge garden her Grandmother had created. She was like her, she prefered animals to human. They were honest and simple. She didn't need to wear a mask next to them. She could be herself. Her Granny taught her everything she needed to know about wild life. How to grow plants and flowers, how to live in harmony with animals that human called pests. How ridiculous it was! The world was dying but it was foxes' fault?

She shook her head and took a sip of her beverage. She had a lot to do here. She intended to re-open her Grandmother's flower shop. She had saved enough money and would use it to realize her childhood dream.

The weather got worse, but it didn't bother her. The sound of the rain was still better than the silence that reigned in her life for too many years. She smiled. It took her twenty years to have the courage to do what she wanted, but now, here she was. She found where she belonged, her safe place, and life could really begin.

#original characters #original writing #original fiction #original content #original short story #short story #creative writing #writers on tumblr #woman writers #❤️

[itsnotzka]

At some point in your life, you were taught that being slightly annoying is an unforgivable sin. Maybe it was by your parents or a teacher or a friend or a bully or an older sibling. But someone taught you that being slightly annoying is a crime punishable by death.

You must unlearn this.

You must accept that all people will be annoying at some point or another in their lives, maybe all of their lives, and that this is okay. It is okay for strangers on the bus, it is okay for children in the grocery store, it is okay for people on social media, and it is okay for you.

If you ever want to truly love your fellow humans, if you ever want to truly love yourself, you must have forgiveness for being annoying.

#bless

[itsnotzka]

Oneshot - Rainy days

A/N : I had this idea. This text could be about any sad love story but I thought it fited well with Jake and MC's story. It's mostly sad but I hope you'll like it.

I always liked rainy days. 

The sound of the droplets against the window has always calmed me down. Even when I was a child I sat for hours in front of the window, watching the rain fall, imagining where it came from.. From the clouds, from the sky. My mother said I must have carried much sadness to prefer rainy days to sunny days. That I should have enjoyed being able to play football with my friends when the weather was soft instead of locking myself inside. To be honest, I liked the rain because I could spend all day in my room playing on my computer on my own, in a quiet environment.

Even now, many years later, I feel most peaceful, soothed by the sound of the raindrops hitting the window of my motel room. I am lying in my bed staring at the shadows reflecting on the ceiling. It's been a while since I have been here. I get up and open the window to let the heavy atmosphere of the incoming storm come in. 

It's my last day in this town. I soon have to go because my pursuers are getting closer. But first, I have one last thing to do before running away. With a deep sigh, I close my laptop and gather all my stuff in my black backpack. I look at the room that has sheltered me for the past few days one last time before I close the door behind me. 

I always liked rainy days. 

I walk on the empty street with the echo of my footsteps on the asphalt as only company. It is a cloudy Sunday afternoon so no-one wanders outside. The raindrops hit the ground with a light thud and crash on my hoodie. I walk along the docks enjoying the sight of the river moving and splashing against the shore. The whole landscape of the city is gray. From the cloudy sky to the empty paved streets. Even the rain and water have this pale blue-gray color reflecting the shade of my eyes. 

I arrive at my destination and stare at the gray stonewalls of your house. The building looks the same as before. The only color that comes out is the golden metal in which are engraved the numbers suspended near the door. 

I remember the first time I saw you opening the door. You searched for me and as soon as you spotted the young man I was, a bright smile illuminated your face. I remember entering your house, wrapping my arms around your small body. 

I remember our shared kisses. I remember your arms around my neck as you pulled me closer to you. The touch of your burning skin against mine. I remember the sound of your voice, the bliss of your laughter. I remember your hot breath tickling my ear. And above all, I remember the love we shared in this house. Your home. We knew it was for a short time but we knew our love was mutual and sincere. But it was a long time ago. Ten years, maybe even a little more. 

I always liked rainy days. 

A small boy walks past me, jostling me. I look at him, heading toward the house. This time you open the door, but not for me. You crouch and hug the little boy tightly. I smile. You haven't changed a bit. Maybe I can notice the little wrinkles forming in the corner of your eyes and your first gray hair that you don't even bother to cover. But you are still the same. Your smile is bright, your eyes are kind and your voice is still so soft. 

A man appears next to you and ruffles the hair of the boy. Before going inside the ten years old child looks behind his shoulder and locks his eyes with mine. A sharp pain stings my stomach as I look into the boy's gray blue eyes mirroring mine. Less than a second later, the little kid disappears into the house. 

You get up and smile at the man who wraps his arm around your waist, resting a soft kiss on your hair. You look at him as you used to look at me. My chest tightens when you leave a kiss on his lips. Does he make you happy? Does he love you as much as I do? Is he a good father for this little boy? He probably is a better father than me. He is the one raising the kid and loving him. And for now, this is all that matters. 

The man follows the kid in the house and you stand alone at the door. Your eyes try to spot what the boy saw earlier. And I can recognize the look on your face. It was the same look I saw each time we met, eyes full of hope. But it is too late, I have already stepped in the shadow and you can't see me anymore. My whole body tries to fight the urge to run towards you. But I can't. I will not break the family you built. Even if I want to hold you in my arms more than anything. Even if I want to finally meet this little boy. I will just keep on watching over you, protecting you and our son. 

I can see sadness cross your face as you look down and turn away, closing the door behind you. 

I always liked rainy days. 

As I close my eyes, I feel the rain fall on my cheek. My burning tears are mixing with the cold raindrops, washing the sorrow from my face, drowning my pain away. 

#duskwood #duskwood fanfiction #<3

[itsnotzka]

Why, hello! Okay, I needed a break from other things, so I decided to finish this thingy. Nobody stopped me, so there you have it, haha ;)

Insomniac neighbors AU (:D) Fluff of sort?

Jake/MC (and Richy (mentioned)),

warning: strong language (just a few swear words :))

little over 3k words.

Read below or on Ao3.

Quiet was the night.

The faint murmurs of the city seeped through the open window, blending seamlessly with the gentle hum of his computer. The soft glow emanating from the screen delicately illuminated the room without overpowering the senses.

Outside, the city was sleeping. He sat alone, relishing in the tranquility around him. With a soft exhale, he allowed his eyelids to drift shut, surrendering to the serene stillness. A perfect way to spend the sleepless night.

His bliss did not last long, though. 

The tranquility he had just savored shattered like fragile glass as a series of loud thumps resounded from the apartment above, rudely intruding upon his peace. Rhythmic. Regular. Purposeful. It was as if someone—or something—was relentlessly pounding against the wall.

With a frustrated click of his tongue, he glanced upward, his thoughts already swirling with annoyance. This wasn't the first time, oh no. It was the third consecutive night of such disturbances. Three damn nights in a row, his sanctuary invaded by these unwelcomed noises. And, as the noise persisted, irritation simmered within him, threatening to boil over.

Because the nights, the nights were meant to be his and his alone. 

He closed his eyes once more in a futile effort to block out the noise. Yet, the relentless thumping persisted, refusing to be ignored.

Fine. Enough was enough.

With a sudden jolt, he stood up, the chair he had been sitting on spinning and nearly tipping over as he strode purposefully toward the door. He paid little heed to the possibility of disturbing his neighbors' intimate moments. Ready to demand they screw their bed to the wall, or simply screw each other elsewhere, he stepped into the hallway, slamming the door behind him. Without any hesitation, he began climbing the stairs two at a time. Before he could even start second-guessing his decision, he found himself knocking firmly on the door of the apartment directly above his own.

The thumping stopped immediately. For a brief moment, there was silence, then the sound of footsteps approaching.

Just as the door began to creak open, he wasted no time in venting his frustration. "Finally! I don't know if you even realize, but it's the fucking middle of the night and—oh, shit."

A step backward was his immediate reaction upon seeing the woman before him. It wasn't just the anger etched in her eyes, nor the furrowed brows and crossed arms that silenced him. No, it was the startling sight of her—all covered in red stains. From her shirt to her hands, even her face, she resembled a character straight out of a slasher movie. And when she casually wiped her sweaty forehead, leaving behind a conspicuous streak of crimson, his shock only deepened.

"Uh-huh. It's the middle of the night. And?" she sighed, seemingly unfazed by her unsettling appearance. "Do you need something? You're the one standing in my doorway, yelling."

“What the h–hell…” Stupefied, he could only manage a dumbfounded gesture, pointing incredulously at her with both of his hands, his eyes widening.

Her frown deepened at his reaction, but it was only after a moment that she glanced down at herself and her hands, noticing the streaks of red. With an amused scoff and a roll of her eyes, she dismissed his alarm. 

"Oh. It's paint, genius. I'm painting," she casually fixed a lone strand of hair that had fallen onto her forehead with her fingers stained red. "If I were a murderer, I'd be more careful. Don’t you think?"

His breath caught in his throat as he registered her words, a wave of relief washing over him. 

"Well, I suppose I'd rather confront a murderer, then!" he retorted, his voice regaining its composure. "At least I wouldn't have to deal with the constant banging on the walls at night, it seems. What the hell are you even doing?"

"I already told you, I'm painting," she shot back, her narrowed eyes fixing him with a glare. "And, excuse me, but aren't you that loud guy living in the apartment under me? The one who slams his doors no matter what, and always blocks my bike with his?"

"Am I? Well, maybe because your pretty urban bike with that ridiculously huge basket always takes up two spaces, mine included," he countered. "Learn to park, maniac. It’s not that hard! And keep it down! I’m trying to work!"

The young woman's laughter echoed through the hallway, genuine and hearty. "Unbelievable. And what are you doing at night that my painting bothers you so much, huh?"

"None of your fucking business what I do," he barked, jabbing an accusatory finger in her direction. "It's quiet hours, so either you stop banging on the walls or I'll report you. And then your bike!"

"Damn asshole," she hissed, her grip tightening on the door handle.

"At your service," he replied with a mocking bow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Have a good night, psycho. Red does not suit you, by the way."

Whether or not she heard his parting words remained uncertain, as she promptly slammed the door shut in his face. Fuming with anger, he turned on his heel, ready to storm back to his place. But as he reached the door and patted his pocket, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you’ve got to be kidding…" he muttered aloud, his hand coming up empty. He grabbed the doorknob, even though he knew it was a futile gesture without his keys.

Could he be that stupid? Could he really leave his apartment with nothing, not even his damn phone?

Apparently, he could.

With a frustrated grunt, he considered banging his forehead against the door in a fit of vexation but quickly dismissed the idea as both stupid and potentially painful.

And definitely loud.

Left with no other option, he reluctantly decided to seek help from the landlord. He cursed his luck because, of course, the landlord lived right next door to that dreadful neighbor who could easily pass for a murderess in the right lighting. Nevertheless, he really didn't like the idea of spending the rest of the night stranded in the hallway.

This time he climbed the stairs with deliberate steps, determined to handle the situation with a little more finesse. Walking to door number 33, he knocked softly, hoping the guy, by some miracle, wasn’t sleeping yet. Or was already awake. Whatever was closer. 

Yet, the silence that greeted him was quite deafening. Undeterred, he knocked once more, this time with slightly more force.

His heart skipped a beat as the door behind him creaked open, and a familiar voice broke the silence. "What happened? Is the landlord too noisy, too?" 

He spun on his heels, fingers clenching into tight fists at his sides. "Mind your own business, huh?" he retorted, frustrated. 

The young woman chuckled, pausing in her task of wiping away the stubborn red streak of paint from her face with a damp towel. "Richy's out for the night," she informed him, nodding toward the landlord’s apartment. "Whatever you need from him, it'll have to wait until morning."

"Well, isn't that just fucking perfect," he growled, more to himself than to her. 

Her laughter bubbled louder at his exasperation, head tilting slightly in amusement. Quickly, she covered her mouth, though, mindful of the late hour and not wanting to disturb the neighbors further. 

"Let me guess, genius," she remarked with a hint of amusement, her smile softening. "You locked yourself out. A smarty-pants like you? Aww, that’s so sad…" Her lips pursed in mock sympathy as she tried to wipe her hands of the remnants of red paint.

He snorted in response but remained silent. With determined strides, he made his way towards the stairs, fully prepared to spend the night wandering the city until morning. Passing her by without so much as a glance, he was about to descend when she called out to him.

"Okay, wait a minute," her voice caused him to pause mid-step. "I think I can help you out."

“No, thanks,” he snorted, turning to her, “You just want to gloat at my misfortune.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she shook her head. "Maybe a little," she admitted playfully. "But you're the asshole here. I'm just the good-natured maniac whose pretty bike you keep blocking."

Her bluntness caught him off guard, and he regarded her with a mixture of surprise and skepticism. After a moment of contemplation, he let out a resigned sigh, realizing that he was indeed in a bit of a bind with very limited options.

"Come in, will you?" she urged when he didn’t respond. "I'll go get some tools."

"Tools?" he echoed, but she had already vanished inside, leaving him with no choice but to follow.

After a moment or two, he sighed and cautiously crossed the threshold of her apartment, his eyes scanning the space to locate where she had gone. The layout of the place mirrored his own, a spacious studio with an open living area. However, the differences in décor were quite obvious—unfinished paintings leaned against the walls, an easel stood in one corner with a canvas in progress, and sheets of paper littered various surfaces, each with vibrant splashes of color. The faint smell of fresh paint lingered in the air, and somehow it wasn't unpleasant at all. 

On the floor in the further corner of the room, his gaze landed on a toolbox, its lid slightly ajar. Beside it lay a hammer and a small painting, only partially framed.

The culprit of the noise. 

"Hey, what did you mean by tools–" he started, his voice trailing off as he took a few steps toward the bedroom, only to freeze in place.

She had already taken off her paint-stained flannel shirt and was in the process of pulling a red t-shirt over a snug tank top, the fabric clinging to her figure a little too perfectly. He felt a pang of unease, suddenly aware of his accidental intrusion into her personal space.

He barely had a moment to process his embarrassment before she turned around with a smile as she noticed him there, her laughter hitting his ears. Then, with a playful shake of her head and a casual run of her fingers through her messy dark hair, she made her way back into the living room. 

"So you're not just an asshole, but a voyeur, too?" she teased, her tone surprisingly light given the circumstances. "What a combination!"

"S–sorry," he mumbled, feeling a flush of embarrassment color his cheeks as he looked away. "I didn't mean to. I was just–" He clicked his tongue in frustration, struggling to find the right words. "In my defense, you disappeared, and I just wanted to–"

“Relax, eh? Let's open your door,” she interjected, her laughter cutting through his stumbling explanation as she patted him on the shoulder and moved toward a large toolbox.

"What? H–how?" he stammered stupidly, his gaze following her movements as she crouched next to the box, her fingers deftly rummaging through its peculiar contents.

"Yeah, well… Have you ever taken a closer look at me or my apartment?" she quipped, a wry lift of her eyebrow accentuating her point. "I'm the absolute embodiment of forgetfulness and scatterbrained tendencies, in case you haven't noticed. How many times do you reckon I've accidentally slammed that darn door and found myself locked out? Those locks might seem sturdy, but truth be told, they're quite easy to pick…"

He snorted in disbelief. "Wait, wait, hold on... Are you seriously thinking about picking my lock?"

"Why not?" she shrugged casually, as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world.

He opened his mouth to make a cutting remark, but found himself at a loss for words.

"Yup. You're crazy. I'm leaving," he declared, raising his hands in resignation as he turned towards the door.

“Well. Good luck, then!” she chuckled skeptically, waving to him with a small, thin screwdriver and what looked like a hairpin. “I hope your doormat is comfortable… You should know that Richy is on a date, and I guess it went very well, so I have no idea what time he'll be back. Might as well be late in the afternoon. Or in the evening.”

He paused, a mix of disbelief and fascination flickering across his face as he turned back to look at her. Despite the paint smudges and the aura of chaos surrounding her, there was a peculiar glint in her eyes that felt oddly genuine and dependable. Bold. Daring.

"This can’t be happening…” he muttered, his fingers instinctively finding their way to pinch the bridge of his nose.

She only chuckled further, “If it makes you feel any better, the first time it took me about 3 hours to get inside.”

“So you've… really done this before?" he inquired tentatively.

She burst into laughter, her amusement almost contagious. "Yup. I do this every two weeks or so. My own door, of course! But don't let Richy in on my little secret. I just don’t want to bother him too much..."

He hesitated, uncertain whether to trust someone whose toolbox contained an eclectic mix of brushes, paints, and all variety of tools. As he pondered, his gaze drifted to the paintings adorning the walls behind her.

"Hey… Did you paint those yourself?" he asked, pointing to the colorful canvases, most of which were saturated in shades of red.

"Of course. Why do you ask? Want some proof?" she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest, the screwdriver still held loosely in her hand. “Or are you about to critique my masterpieces?”

"No, I just— I... I've seen similar ones. All over the city. In different places," he explained, his voice trailing off uncertainly.

Her brow furrowed in confusion, her gaze narrowing as she processed his words, rising from her spot on the floor. "You mean that street art?"

He fell silent for a moment, his eyes lingering on her still paint-splattered face. "Are they yours? They are, aren’t they?"

"Planning to report that too?" she shot back, a hint of sarcasm lacing her tone as she held his gaze. "Just like my bike and the alleged noise at night? You know you have no evidence for any of it!"

"No, it's not that," he chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm just curious. I really like those paintings. The ones in the city, I mean. I never would've guessed someone like you could be the artist behind them."

“I didn’t say I was.”

"Come on," he gestured towards the red figure on the canvas, "They're identical to the ones in the city. These simple, faceless cat-like characters doing all sorts of amazing little things. Cleverly hidden in various, unexpected places."

"No, they're most definitely not identical," she huffed, striding up to the painting. "Can't you see something's missing in mine?"

"Yes, those big eyes painted with thick black lines, right? Sometimes other details, too. Very distinctive."

"Distinctive my ass! They're just stupid doodles that someone painted on real things!" she retorted, her frustration evident as she gestured toward the artwork.

"Do you really think so? People seem to like them. Have you seen all those pictures all over the web? They got quite popular, at least in the city. They even got a name, what was it…" He rubbed his stubbled chin, trying to recall.

"Night Watchers," the woman sighed, resigned.

"Right," he grinned with an odd sense of satisfaction, "Night Watchers. I like it."

"Well, I don’t!" she snapped, pointing her sharp screwdriver at him once again. "Those doodles are crude and primitive. And so are those who paint them!"

"Fine, fine!,” he laughed, raising his hands in surrender. “You're strangely defensive here, and we're just talking about graffiti, you know? Are you sure they're not yours?"

"Forget it," she sighed, taking her keys and waving them in front of his nose. "Come on. I’ll get you and your arrogant ass home."

He opened his mouth to protest, but seeing her determination, he realized there was no point. Without hesitation, she strode down the corridor, and he hastened to follow.

As they reached his apartment door, the young woman wasted no time in kneeling down, her movements fluid and assured as she began to work on the lock. He watched her with a mix of fascination and disbelief, the scene unfolding before him like something out of a movie. Here he was, in the dead of night, entrusting a stranger with the task of breaking into his own home. and not just a stranger. It was a surreal moment, one he never could have anticipated.

"My name’s Charlie, by the way," she muttered suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence. Despite her focus on the task at hand, there was a hint of warmth in her tone. "You can tell me yours, or I can keep calling you an asshole. Whatever you prefer."

He snorted in slight disbelief, recalling the last name written on an intercom, “Okay, hold on. You want to tell me your name is Charlie Brown*?”

She turned to him, her expression serious and unfazed, “Charlie Brown. Got a problem with that?”

“No, it's…” he scratched his head, trying to contain his smile to a minimum, “It's just cut– curious. That's all. Fits an artist, I guess.”

“Uh-huh. So?” her gaze focused on the lock once more, “Do you want me to keep calling you an asshole?”

"Tempting," he conceded, leaning against the railing with a wry smile. "But my name is Jake."

“Well then, Jake…” Charlie's fingers danced over the lock, her touch deft and precise. With a soft click, the lock surrendered, and she pushed the door open. "Welcome home." Her grin was triumphant as she got up and gestured for him to enter.

“I'll consider this as compensation for disturbing my peace,” he sighed, stepping past her as he finally made his way back to his place. But then, as he glanced back at her, he nodded slowly. "Thank you, Charlie. You'd make a very good burglar."

“Yeah… No problem,” she rolled her eyes, “Suppose us insomniacs have to stick together. No matter how annoying you are.”

Jake’s shoulders shook with silent mirth, “Yes, well. It was… interesting to finally meet you, Charlie Brown. And you actually do look good in red… when it’s not all over you,” he casually pointed to her t-shirt.

“Screw you, Jake,” her eyes crinkled at the corners as she snorted at him, “See you around.”

He watched her vanish down the hallway, a smile lingering on his lips. Then, with a soft click, he closed the door behind him, careful not to make a sound.

. . ………………… . . 

She came to an abrupt stop, her fingers tightening around her phone as she squinted at the grimy wall of the aging city building. Until quite recently, it had served as a canvas for her creativity. The playful red figure mid-jump over the rope – the cable swaying from the electrical box nearby.

Now, however, it was something entirely different.

Thick, bold lines appeared on her little masterpiece. A bike now dominated the scene, but not just any bike. It was a truly whimsical rendition, making the red figure no longer leaping but riding that damn bike with carefree abandon. A large basket adorned the front, and right in it—a brush, and a screwdriver.

And there were those eyes. Those unmistakable, big, doodle-like eyes.

A laugh had to leave her lips, disbelief and amusement fighting with each other, as she read the small writing underneath. 

Coffee tonight? 

J.

“That damn asshole…” 

. . ………………….. . . 

*You all probably know this well, but Charlie Brown is a character from the comic Peanuts :) 

Thanks for reading! Leave a comment, share, let me know what you think ;) <3

#duskwood #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood jake

[itsnotzka]

Lilienne Carter

#disco elysium #lilienne carter #<3

[itsnotzka]

Why, hello! Okay, I needed a break from other things, so I decided to finish this thingy. Nobody stopped me, so there you have it, haha ;)

Insomniac neighbors AU (:D) Fluff of sort?

Jake/MC (and Richy (mentioned)),

warning: strong language (just a few swear words :))

little over 3k words.

Read below or on Ao3.

Quiet was the night.

The faint murmurs of the city seeped through the open window, blending seamlessly with the gentle hum of his computer. The soft glow emanating from the screen delicately illuminated the room without overpowering the senses.

Outside, the city was sleeping. He sat alone, relishing in the tranquility around him. With a soft exhale, he allowed his eyelids to drift shut, surrendering to the serene stillness. A perfect way to spend the sleepless night.

His bliss did not last long, though. 

The tranquility he had just savored shattered like fragile glass as a series of loud thumps resounded from the apartment above, rudely intruding upon his peace. Rhythmic. Regular. Purposeful. It was as if someone—or something—was relentlessly pounding against the wall.

With a frustrated click of his tongue, he glanced upward, his thoughts already swirling with annoyance. This wasn't the first time, oh no. It was the third consecutive night of such disturbances. Three damn nights in a row, his sanctuary invaded by these unwelcomed noises. And, as the noise persisted, irritation simmered within him, threatening to boil over.

Because the nights, the nights were meant to be his and his alone. 

He closed his eyes once more in a futile effort to block out the noise. Yet, the relentless thumping persisted, refusing to be ignored.

Fine. Enough was enough.

With a sudden jolt, he stood up, the chair he had been sitting on spinning and nearly tipping over as he strode purposefully toward the door. He paid little heed to the possibility of disturbing his neighbors' intimate moments. Ready to demand they screw their bed to the wall, or simply screw each other elsewhere, he stepped into the hallway, slamming the door behind him. Without any hesitation, he began climbing the stairs two at a time. Before he could even start second-guessing his decision, he found himself knocking firmly on the door of the apartment directly above his own.

The thumping stopped immediately. For a brief moment, there was silence, then the sound of footsteps approaching.

Just as the door began to creak open, he wasted no time in venting his frustration. "Finally! I don't know if you even realize, but it's the fucking middle of the night and—oh, shit."

A step backward was his immediate reaction upon seeing the woman before him. It wasn't just the anger etched in her eyes, nor the furrowed brows and crossed arms that silenced him. No, it was the startling sight of her—all covered in red stains. From her shirt to her hands, even her face, she resembled a character straight out of a slasher movie. And when she casually wiped her sweaty forehead, leaving behind a conspicuous streak of crimson, his shock only deepened.

"Uh-huh. It's the middle of the night. And?" she sighed, seemingly unfazed by her unsettling appearance. "Do you need something? You're the one standing in my doorway, yelling."

“What the h–hell…” Stupefied, he could only manage a dumbfounded gesture, pointing incredulously at her with both of his hands, his eyes widening.

Her frown deepened at his reaction, but it was only after a moment that she glanced down at herself and her hands, noticing the streaks of red. With an amused scoff and a roll of her eyes, she dismissed his alarm. 

"Oh. It's paint, genius. I'm painting," she casually fixed a lone strand of hair that had fallen onto her forehead with her fingers stained red. "If I were a murderer, I'd be more careful. Don’t you think?"

His breath caught in his throat as he registered her words, a wave of relief washing over him. 

"Well, I suppose I'd rather confront a murderer, then!" he retorted, his voice regaining its composure. "At least I wouldn't have to deal with the constant banging on the walls at night, it seems. What the hell are you even doing?"

"I already told you, I'm painting," she shot back, her narrowed eyes fixing him with a glare. "And, excuse me, but aren't you that loud guy living in the apartment under me? The one who slams his doors no matter what, and always blocks my bike with his?"

"Am I? Well, maybe because your pretty urban bike with that ridiculously huge basket always takes up two spaces, mine included," he countered. "Learn to park, maniac. It’s not that hard! And keep it down! I’m trying to work!"

The young woman's laughter echoed through the hallway, genuine and hearty. "Unbelievable. And what are you doing at night that my painting bothers you so much, huh?"

"None of your fucking business what I do," he barked, jabbing an accusatory finger in her direction. "It's quiet hours, so either you stop banging on the walls or I'll report you. And then your bike!"

"Damn asshole," she hissed, her grip tightening on the door handle.

"At your service," he replied with a mocking bow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Have a good night, psycho. Red does not suit you, by the way."

Whether or not she heard his parting words remained uncertain, as she promptly slammed the door shut in his face. Fuming with anger, he turned on his heel, ready to storm back to his place. But as he reached the door and patted his pocket, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you’ve got to be kidding…" he muttered aloud, his hand coming up empty. He grabbed the doorknob, even though he knew it was a futile gesture without his keys.

Could he be that stupid? Could he really leave his apartment with nothing, not even his damn phone?

Apparently, he could.

With a frustrated grunt, he considered banging his forehead against the door in a fit of vexation but quickly dismissed the idea as both stupid and potentially painful.

And definitely loud.

Left with no other option, he reluctantly decided to seek help from the landlord. He cursed his luck because, of course, the landlord lived right next door to that dreadful neighbor who could easily pass for a murderess in the right lighting. Nevertheless, he really didn't like the idea of spending the rest of the night stranded in the hallway.

This time he climbed the stairs with deliberate steps, determined to handle the situation with a little more finesse. Walking to door number 33, he knocked softly, hoping the guy, by some miracle, wasn’t sleeping yet. Or was already awake. Whatever was closer. 

Yet, the silence that greeted him was quite deafening. Undeterred, he knocked once more, this time with slightly more force.

His heart skipped a beat as the door behind him creaked open, and a familiar voice broke the silence. "What happened? Is the landlord too noisy, too?" 

He spun on his heels, fingers clenching into tight fists at his sides. "Mind your own business, huh?" he retorted, frustrated. 

The young woman chuckled, pausing in her task of wiping away the stubborn red streak of paint from her face with a damp towel. "Richy's out for the night," she informed him, nodding toward the landlord’s apartment. "Whatever you need from him, it'll have to wait until morning."

"Well, isn't that just fucking perfect," he growled, more to himself than to her. 

Her laughter bubbled louder at his exasperation, head tilting slightly in amusement. Quickly, she covered her mouth, though, mindful of the late hour and not wanting to disturb the neighbors further. 

"Let me guess, genius," she remarked with a hint of amusement, her smile softening. "You locked yourself out. A smarty-pants like you? Aww, that’s so sad…" Her lips pursed in mock sympathy as she tried to wipe her hands of the remnants of red paint.

He snorted in response but remained silent. With determined strides, he made his way towards the stairs, fully prepared to spend the night wandering the city until morning. Passing her by without so much as a glance, he was about to descend when she called out to him.

"Okay, wait a minute," her voice caused him to pause mid-step. "I think I can help you out."

“No, thanks,” he snorted, turning to her, “You just want to gloat at my misfortune.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she shook her head. "Maybe a little," she admitted playfully. "But you're the asshole here. I'm just the good-natured maniac whose pretty bike you keep blocking."

Her bluntness caught him off guard, and he regarded her with a mixture of surprise and skepticism. After a moment of contemplation, he let out a resigned sigh, realizing that he was indeed in a bit of a bind with very limited options.

"Come in, will you?" she urged when he didn’t respond. "I'll go get some tools."

"Tools?" he echoed, but she had already vanished inside, leaving him with no choice but to follow.

After a moment or two, he sighed and cautiously crossed the threshold of her apartment, his eyes scanning the space to locate where she had gone. The layout of the place mirrored his own, a spacious studio with an open living area. However, the differences in décor were quite obvious—unfinished paintings leaned against the walls, an easel stood in one corner with a canvas in progress, and sheets of paper littered various surfaces, each with vibrant splashes of color. The faint smell of fresh paint lingered in the air, and somehow it wasn't unpleasant at all. 

On the floor in the further corner of the room, his gaze landed on a toolbox, its lid slightly ajar. Beside it lay a hammer and a small painting, only partially framed.

The culprit of the noise. 

"Hey, what did you mean by tools–" he started, his voice trailing off as he took a few steps toward the bedroom, only to freeze in place.

She had already taken off her paint-stained flannel shirt and was in the process of pulling a red t-shirt over a snug tank top, the fabric clinging to her figure a little too perfectly. He felt a pang of unease, suddenly aware of his accidental intrusion into her personal space.

He barely had a moment to process his embarrassment before she turned around with a smile as she noticed him there, her laughter hitting his ears. Then, with a playful shake of her head and a casual run of her fingers through her messy dark hair, she made her way back into the living room. 

"So you're not just an asshole, but a voyeur, too?" she teased, her tone surprisingly light given the circumstances. "What a combination!"

"S–sorry," he mumbled, feeling a flush of embarrassment color his cheeks as he looked away. "I didn't mean to. I was just–" He clicked his tongue in frustration, struggling to find the right words. "In my defense, you disappeared, and I just wanted to–"

“Relax, eh? Let's open your door,” she interjected, her laughter cutting through his stumbling explanation as she patted him on the shoulder and moved toward a large toolbox.

"What? H–how?" he stammered stupidly, his gaze following her movements as she crouched next to the box, her fingers deftly rummaging through its peculiar contents.

"Yeah, well… Have you ever taken a closer look at me or my apartment?" she quipped, a wry lift of her eyebrow accentuating her point. "I'm the absolute embodiment of forgetfulness and scatterbrained tendencies, in case you haven't noticed. How many times do you reckon I've accidentally slammed that darn door and found myself locked out? Those locks might seem sturdy, but truth be told, they're quite easy to pick…"

He snorted in disbelief. "Wait, wait, hold on... Are you seriously thinking about picking my lock?"

"Why not?" she shrugged casually, as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world.

He opened his mouth to make a cutting remark, but found himself at a loss for words.

"Yup. You're crazy. I'm leaving," he declared, raising his hands in resignation as he turned towards the door.

“Well. Good luck, then!” she chuckled skeptically, waving to him with a small, thin screwdriver and what looked like a hairpin. “I hope your doormat is comfortable… You should know that Richy is on a date, and I guess it went very well, so I have no idea what time he'll be back. Might as well be late in the afternoon. Or in the evening.”

He paused, a mix of disbelief and fascination flickering across his face as he turned back to look at her. Despite the paint smudges and the aura of chaos surrounding her, there was a peculiar glint in her eyes that felt oddly genuine and dependable. Bold. Daring.

"This can’t be happening…” he muttered, his fingers instinctively finding their way to pinch the bridge of his nose.

She only chuckled further, “If it makes you feel any better, the first time it took me about 3 hours to get inside.”

“So you've… really done this before?" he inquired tentatively.

She burst into laughter, her amusement almost contagious. "Yup. I do this every two weeks or so. My own door, of course! But don't let Richy in on my little secret. I just don’t want to bother him too much..."

He hesitated, uncertain whether to trust someone whose toolbox contained an eclectic mix of brushes, paints, and all variety of tools. As he pondered, his gaze drifted to the paintings adorning the walls behind her.

"Hey… Did you paint those yourself?" he asked, pointing to the colorful canvases, most of which were saturated in shades of red.

"Of course. Why do you ask? Want some proof?" she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest, the screwdriver still held loosely in her hand. “Or are you about to critique my masterpieces?”

"No, I just— I... I've seen similar ones. All over the city. In different places," he explained, his voice trailing off uncertainly.

Her brow furrowed in confusion, her gaze narrowing as she processed his words, rising from her spot on the floor. "You mean that street art?"

He fell silent for a moment, his eyes lingering on her still paint-splattered face. "Are they yours? They are, aren’t they?"

"Planning to report that too?" she shot back, a hint of sarcasm lacing her tone as she held his gaze. "Just like my bike and the alleged noise at night? You know you have no evidence for any of it!"

"No, it's not that," he chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm just curious. I really like those paintings. The ones in the city, I mean. I never would've guessed someone like you could be the artist behind them."

“I didn’t say I was.”

"Come on," he gestured towards the red figure on the canvas, "They're identical to the ones in the city. These simple, faceless cat-like characters doing all sorts of amazing little things. Cleverly hidden in various, unexpected places."

"No, they're most definitely not identical," she huffed, striding up to the painting. "Can't you see something's missing in mine?"

"Yes, those big eyes painted with thick black lines, right? Sometimes other details, too. Very distinctive."

"Distinctive my ass! They're just stupid doodles that someone painted on real things!" she retorted, her frustration evident as she gestured toward the artwork.

"Do you really think so? People seem to like them. Have you seen all those pictures all over the web? They got quite popular, at least in the city. They even got a name, what was it…" He rubbed his stubbled chin, trying to recall.

"Night Watchers," the woman sighed, resigned.

"Right," he grinned with an odd sense of satisfaction, "Night Watchers. I like it."

"Well, I don’t!" she snapped, pointing her sharp screwdriver at him once again. "Those doodles are crude and primitive. And so are those who paint them!"

"Fine, fine!,” he laughed, raising his hands in surrender. “You're strangely defensive here, and we're just talking about graffiti, you know? Are you sure they're not yours?"

"Forget it," she sighed, taking her keys and waving them in front of his nose. "Come on. I’ll get you and your arrogant ass home."

He opened his mouth to protest, but seeing her determination, he realized there was no point. Without hesitation, she strode down the corridor, and he hastened to follow.

As they reached his apartment door, the young woman wasted no time in kneeling down, her movements fluid and assured as she began to work on the lock. He watched her with a mix of fascination and disbelief, the scene unfolding before him like something out of a movie. Here he was, in the dead of night, entrusting a stranger with the task of breaking into his own home. and not just a stranger. It was a surreal moment, one he never could have anticipated.

"My name’s Charlie, by the way," she muttered suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence. Despite her focus on the task at hand, there was a hint of warmth in her tone. "You can tell me yours, or I can keep calling you an asshole. Whatever you prefer."

He snorted in slight disbelief, recalling the last name written on an intercom, “Okay, hold on. You want to tell me your name is Charlie Brown*?”

She turned to him, her expression serious and unfazed, “Charlie Brown. Got a problem with that?”

“No, it's…” he scratched his head, trying to contain his smile to a minimum, “It's just cut– curious. That's all. Fits an artist, I guess.”

“Uh-huh. So?” her gaze focused on the lock once more, “Do you want me to keep calling you an asshole?”

"Tempting," he conceded, leaning against the railing with a wry smile. "But my name is Jake."

“Well then, Jake…” Charlie's fingers danced over the lock, her touch deft and precise. With a soft click, the lock surrendered, and she pushed the door open. "Welcome home." Her grin was triumphant as she got up and gestured for him to enter.

“I'll consider this as compensation for disturbing my peace,” he sighed, stepping past her as he finally made his way back to his place. But then, as he glanced back at her, he nodded slowly. "Thank you, Charlie. You'd make a very good burglar."

“Yeah… No problem,” she rolled her eyes, “Suppose us insomniacs have to stick together. No matter how annoying you are.”

Jake’s shoulders shook with silent mirth, “Yes, well. It was… interesting to finally meet you, Charlie Brown. And you actually do look good in red… when it’s not all over you,” he casually pointed to her t-shirt.

“Screw you, Jake,” her eyes crinkled at the corners as she snorted at him, “See you around.”

He watched her vanish down the hallway, a smile lingering on his lips. Then, with a soft click, he closed the door behind him, careful not to make a sound.

. . ………………… . . 

She came to an abrupt stop, her fingers tightening around her phone as she squinted at the grimy wall of the aging city building. Until quite recently, it had served as a canvas for her creativity. The playful red figure mid-jump over the rope – the cable swaying from the electrical box nearby.

Now, however, it was something entirely different.

Thick, bold lines appeared on her little masterpiece. A bike now dominated the scene, but not just any bike. It was a truly whimsical rendition, making the red figure no longer leaping but riding that damn bike with carefree abandon. A large basket adorned the front, and right in it—a brush, and a screwdriver.

And there were those eyes. Those unmistakable, big, doodle-like eyes.

A laugh had to leave her lips, disbelief and amusement fighting with each other, as she read the small writing underneath. 

Coffee tonight? 

J.

“That damn asshole…” 

. . ………………….. . . 

*You all probably know this well, but Charlie Brown is a character from the comic Peanuts :) 

Thanks for reading! Leave a comment, share, let me know what you think ;) <3

#duskwood #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood jake #duskwood oneshot #jake x mc #MC's got a name because I can't do it otherwise

[itsnotzka]

#🤘

[itsnotzka]

Fancy reading my original story? ;)

Without revealing too much, it's a very character-driven, slow-burn(ish), bitter-sweet romance story centered around self-discovery, with music and movies playing a significant role in the background :)

If you want to give it a go, you can read The Higher We Soar here (I'm currently sharing it on Wattpad, as I, unfortunately, haven't found a better alternative...). The first three chapters are already published (and it always will be free :))

You can also read the prologue below ⬇︎

You should never expect too much from Tuesdays. They're like the middle children of the week—less demanding than Mondays, less depressing than Wednesdays, but definitely not as fun as Fridays. Tuesdays quietly go about their business, neither imposing nor exhilarating.

As usual, I didn't have high hopes for that particular Tuesday either. It was one of those days that seemed to slip from memory almost as soon as it happened, no matter how much I wracked my brain to recall it.

The weather? If someone had told me there was the worst snowstorm of the century on that day, I would have readily accepted their claim without a single question. If I had read somewhere that it was the hottest day of the year, I would have simply nodded in agreement. I couldn't even tell you whether I decided to take a bus, a tram, or maybe I just, quite merrily, took a walk to the studio.

All those details somehow simply left my mind, overshadowed by one seemingly insignificant, and quite short encounter. Nothing remained the same after that fateful, yet somehow very ordinary, casual Tuesday morning.

Like a clueless fool, I failed to sense the impending, monumental shift in my life—a weird, terrifying, passionate avalanche that, in retrospect, seemed glaringly obvious and impossible to miss from the beginning, no matter how hard you might try... Yet, I did.

Before I delve further, you should know that I've never really liked interns.

It's not a sentiment I'm particularly proud of, as I despise prejudice in any form. My dislike isn't rooted in any of my antisocial tendencies; in fact, I generally find it quite easy to connect with people, especially in the music industry. 

But I never really liked interns.

Their enthusiasm often comes across as superficial, and I can't stand it when they ask what to do, only to neglect the tasks I give them. I don't don't like when they think they have it all, believing they are more knowledgeable than anyone else around the studio, despite never having composed a single piece of music in their lives. I don't like how, before I can even properly learn their names or discover their strengths, they vanish without a trace, leaving behind a mess of equipment they weren't supposed to touch in the first place.

I also don't like when interns assume I'm just one of them.

It's a frustrating realization, mainly because, begrudgingly, they have the right to do that. After all, most of them are just a tad younger than me. Who could blame them?

That seemed to be the case with most interns. Except for one notable exception.

It didn't take long for me to notice that one individual stood out from the rest of the pack. Slightly older than the typical interns we usually had, he possessed a remarkable ability to effortlessly connect with people of all ages and ranks—spanning from the youngest staff members to seasoned audio engineers and even the senior employees of our cleaning crew. He had this certain level of cheerfulness and genuine interest that set him apart, a stark contrast to the usual ennui seen among interns I knew.

Right. First things first, though.

The scene: Early spring. A typical Tuesday morning just a little past ten o'clock.

I found myself in the live room, brimming with anticipation to finally record the first version of my demo, or at least my initial idea for one. But as luck would have it, nothing seemed to align with my plans. True to form, the interns had left a chaotic mess in their wake, leaving me with the arduous task of tidying up before I could even begin to think about diving into my creative process.

I let out a sigh of frustration, futilely rummaging through the clutter in search of a balanced cable before all my inspiration gone to waste. And that's precisely when the blonde intern came into the room, flashing his straight, pearly white teeth at me.

"Oh, hey. Hand me that boom stand, eh?" I gestured towards the stand, hoping to deal the cleanup process faster.

Weirdly enough, he sauntered over to me joyfully, yet his hands were conspicuously empty. It took a few moments for the realization to dawn on me, and when I turned my head to him, there he was, meeting my gaze with a cheerful twinkle in his light brown eyes, smiling at me with the sincerity of a five-year-old child.

"Hello? The boom stand, please?" I reiterated, juggling a handful of cables, none of them the balanced one I desperately needed, and gesturing towards the frustratingly out-of-reach metal stand.

"Oh, you're talking about this thing!" he exclaimed, as if my words had just registered. With a sudden burst of energy, he hastily retrieved the boom stand and brought it over to me. "Here you go."

I shot him a skeptical look as he nonchalantly slipped his hands into the pockets of his well-worn cardigan—a piece of clothing that might have been deemed unwearable by most, yet it somehow suited him perfectly. In an oddly charming way, it emitted a subtle bohemian vibe, and I couldn't help but imagine it gracing the runway of some avant-garde fashion show, although my knowledge of fashion was rather limited.

"Do you want to tell me you didn't know what a boom stand is?" I dared to ask, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Yeah, sorry..." he prudishly feigned embarrassment, though it was evident that he didn't feel particularly bad about it. "I had no clue what you were talking about."

I eyed him inquisitively, suspecting the worst but needing confirmation. "What about a shock mount? Can you pass me that, then?"

He tilted his head and subtly pursed his lips, as if I had switched to an entirely different, foreign language he couldn't comprehend. Utterly astonished, I pointed to the nearby, star-shaped object, and his eyes widened in realization.

"Oh... that's a shock mount? Well, I had no idea about that, either," he admitted, seemingly unfazed by his lack of knowledge, with no intention of handing me the item. In response, I spread my hands and cast him a puzzled, inquisitive look, to which he simply responded with another chuckle.

"Let me be honest with you, okay?" he shrugged once more, entirely at ease. "I know nothing about making music or any of this equipment..."

"Are you shitting me?" I blurted out, dropping the cables from my hands in sheer disbelief. "In that case, I have no idea why you're even here. How on earth did you manage to land this internship in a scoring studio?"

The smirk never left his lips, his eyes twinkling with joy, as if he wasn't even aware that I considered firing him during his very first week on the job. Well, I couldn't actually fire him. I could ask someone else to do it for me.

"What can I say?" he offered another smile, his eyes mirroring the same cheerfulness. Even his bohemian gray cardigan seemed uncharacteristically cheerful as he spoke. "I aced the job interview. Sophie, that gal who interviewed me, seemed to really like me. She was very sure I'd be a great fit here!"

"That gal?" I repeated with a scoff... and a smile. "You mean Sophie, the producer? One of the most important people around here? If not the most important one?"

He nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The very same."

"Right. Sophie and her desire to change the whole world for the better..." I remarked, my tone laced with sarcasm that he simply chose to ignore.

There. My proof. 

That was the reason why I never really liked interns. He should have said something to make me believe he was taking it seriously, shouldn't he? He should have been embarrassed, he should have shown me his willingness to learn everything as quickly as possible, he should have tried to help me set everything up faster. But he didn't. Instead, he didn't take his eyes off me for a second, making me uncomfortable. It was as if looking at me like that was the most normal and ordinary thing in the world for him — as if it was our hundredth talk. No shyness. No awkwardness on his part. No guilt whatsoever.

"I don't know if I have time for your incompetence, then. I have things to do here, and they have to be done well," I finally stated, trying hard to maintain eye contact.

After all, I was supposed to be the more competent one, not him. Yet, inexplicably, I suddenly felt as though I were the intern, and he was the one showing me the ropes, not the other way around.

He hummed, faintly amused, as if I had cracked a half-hearted joke. "Come on... you only need to be more specific about what you want me to do. I can handle anything with clear instructions. I'm a very quick learner, you know?"

I found myself smiling as he began to lecture me on how to handle an intern like him. In fact, I burst into unexpected laughter—not at his expense, but because I couldn't believe his extraordinary gullibility.

No, gullibility was definitely not the right word. It was more like... certainty. An unwavering, absolute conviction that everything, always, would unfold just as he anticipated, with ease, enjoyment, and no difficulties whatsoever. There was no room for doubt. Moreover, it felt as if it wasn't because he wanted it to be that way, but because the universe, it seemed, had an uncanny knack for bending space and time just to make him smile.

"Let's see. Do you even know what I do here?" I asked, not with impatience anymore, but with genuine curiosity.

"Hey, I'm not that dense," he scoffed, then added a bit unsure, "You're a composer, right? Or am I mixing something up..."

I laughed and nodded in confirmation. His smile held a touch of embarrassment, a genuine one this time.

"You're not. I am a composer. So tell me one more thing, if you don't know anything about making music, why do you even want to work here?" I asked, finally bringing the shock mount closer and starting to set the microphone next to the piano.

He sighed, falling into deep thought for a brief moment before finally responding, "I think you're asking the wrong questions here. Why wouldn't I want to give it a try? It's fascinating. Besides, I'm a huge movie buff and you're making scores. I feel like I can rest my case here."

"Oh, yeah? Your love for movies? You think that's enough?"

"Uh-huh," he nodded, casually picking up the cables I dropped before, "Well, that would be more than enough if we were in an actual movie, wouldn't it?"

"Well, we're not, though," I chuckled, "We're not even in some poorly written novel. Life's quite different from the movies, especially if you know how they're made."

He hummed once more, a quiet laugh escaping his throat as he gave me another intrigued look.

"You think so? I think it all depends on your point of view..." he said with such conviction, as if everything really depended solely on that.

I shook my head in amusement and, unintentionally, found myself agreeing with him.

"Hey, I think I didn't catch your name before..." I said, a little troubled by the fact that despite Sophie repeating the names of all five interns for a week, I couldn't remember any of them.

"Oh, I'm Maddox. At your service!" he replied, his smile widening even further. "People usually call me Maddie, though."

"Really? Do they ever call you Madd?" I quipped. "Maybe that suits you better?"

A spark flickered in his eyes, then chuckled, "I've heard that one before... But sure. I can be Madd for you."

By then, I was laughing opelny, and I forgot about the mess around us.

It surprised me that he didn't ask for my name, and I decided not to give it away. I wasn't sure if he already knew it; he hadn't mentioned it even once that day. It seemed my name just... didn't matter to him back then. He struck me as someone very curious about the world and everything around him, yet for some reason, I didn't really seem to be one of those matters.

Like many things, it didn't bother me much, though.

After that Tuesday morning, marked by a string of mishaps that he effortlessly remedied with a perfect blend of enthusiasm, interest, and clever comments, a tad too clever for just an intern, we didn't teally talk for a few weeks.

Throughout the initial month of his three-month internship, our encounters were fleeting, lacking any real depth or substanc. Yet, I knew, there was an unspoken acknowledgment of each other's presence that hung in the air, like a perfectly fitting soundtrack playing in the background—barely noticeable, yet undeniably there.

I was busy with my projects that weren't going as well as I wanted them to. He, on the other hand, was busy surpassing almost all expectations, learning things at an astonishing pace, and effortlessly charming everyone he encountered. At least that's what I had heard from my co-workers, and from Sophie. He worked mainly under her, after all.

Every now and then though, I'd catch a glimpse of his eyes, squarely directed at me, particularly when I was on my way to the break room in search of my caffeine salvation. Sometimes, amidst the chaos of the studio, I'd hear his laughter, his rather melodic voice rising above the cacophony of others, as I struggled to maintain my focus on the stubborn music sheets in front of me. I quickly noticed he was quite the conversationalist, engaging in lively discussions with anyone willing to participate. Yet, our interactions rarely extended beyond a simple exchange of greetings, such as a casual 'hello' or 'how are you?'

That didn't bother me, either. Well, it didn't bother me at the beginning.

Everything always seems different at the beginning, doesn't it?

#original story #original work #original writing #original fiction #women writers #female writers #original characters #my writing #creative writing #writers on tumblr #writing #writerscommunity #the higher we soar #slow burn #self discovery

[itsnotzka]

your last words before you die are the 3rd line of the last song you listened to. what are we saying ladies?

#unfit but unfazed #👌

[itsnotzka]

Boopedy-boop-boop!

#boooooooooop #is another kind of meep

[itsnotzka]

Fancy reading my original story? ;)

Without revealing too much, it's a very character-driven, slow-burn(ish), bitter-sweet romance story centered around self-discovery, with music and movies playing a significant role in the background :)

If you want to give it a go, you can read The Higher We Soar here (I'm currently sharing it on Wattpad, as I, unfortunately, haven't found a better alternative...). The first three chapters are already published (and it always will be free :))

You can also read the prologue below ⬇︎

You should never expect too much from Tuesdays. They're like the middle children of the week—less demanding than Mondays, less depressing than Wednesdays, but definitely not as fun as Fridays. Tuesdays quietly go about their business, neither imposing nor exhilarating.

As usual, I didn't have high hopes for that particular Tuesday either. It was one of those days that seemed to slip from memory almost as soon as it happened, no matter how much I wracked my brain to recall it.

The weather? If someone had told me there was the worst snowstorm of the century on that day, I would have readily accepted their claim without a single question. If I had read somewhere that it was the hottest day of the year, I would have simply nodded in agreement. I couldn't even tell you whether I decided to take a bus, a tram, or maybe I just, quite merrily, took a walk to the studio.

All those details somehow simply left my mind, overshadowed by one seemingly insignificant, and quite short encounter. Nothing remained the same after that fateful, yet somehow very ordinary, casual Tuesday morning.

Like a clueless fool, I failed to sense the impending, monumental shift in my life—a weird, terrifying, passionate avalanche that, in retrospect, seemed glaringly obvious and impossible to miss from the beginning, no matter how hard you might try... Yet, I did.

Before I delve further, you should know that I've never really liked interns.

It's not a sentiment I'm particularly proud of, as I despise prejudice in any form. My dislike isn't rooted in any of my antisocial tendencies; in fact, I generally find it quite easy to connect with people, especially in the music industry. 

But I never really liked interns.

Their enthusiasm often comes across as superficial, and I can't stand it when they ask what to do, only to neglect the tasks I give them. I don't don't like when they think they have it all, believing they are more knowledgeable than anyone else around the studio, despite never having composed a single piece of music in their lives. I don't like how, before I can even properly learn their names or discover their strengths, they vanish without a trace, leaving behind a mess of equipment they weren't supposed to touch in the first place.

I also don't like when interns assume I'm just one of them.

It's a frustrating realization, mainly because, begrudgingly, they have the right to do that. After all, most of them are just a tad younger than me. Who could blame them?

That seemed to be the case with most interns. Except for one notable exception.

It didn't take long for me to notice that one individual stood out from the rest of the pack. Slightly older than the typical interns we usually had, he possessed a remarkable ability to effortlessly connect with people of all ages and ranks—spanning from the youngest staff members to seasoned audio engineers and even the senior employees of our cleaning crew. He had this certain level of cheerfulness and genuine interest that set him apart, a stark contrast to the usual ennui seen among interns I knew.

Right. First things first, though.

The scene: Early spring. A typical Tuesday morning just a little past ten o'clock.

I found myself in the live room, brimming with anticipation to finally record the first version of my demo, or at least my initial idea for one. But as luck would have it, nothing seemed to align with my plans. True to form, the interns had left a chaotic mess in their wake, leaving me with the arduous task of tidying up before I could even begin to think about diving into my creative process.

I let out a sigh of frustration, futilely rummaging through the clutter in search of a balanced cable before all my inspiration gone to waste. And that's precisely when the blonde intern came into the room, flashing his straight, pearly white teeth at me.

"Oh, hey. Hand me that boom stand, eh?" I gestured towards the stand, hoping to deal the cleanup process faster.

Weirdly enough, he sauntered over to me joyfully, yet his hands were conspicuously empty. It took a few moments for the realization to dawn on me, and when I turned my head to him, there he was, meeting my gaze with a cheerful twinkle in his light brown eyes, smiling at me with the sincerity of a five-year-old child.

"Hello? The boom stand, please?" I reiterated, juggling a handful of cables, none of them the balanced one I desperately needed, and gesturing towards the frustratingly out-of-reach metal stand.

"Oh, you're talking about this thing!" he exclaimed, as if my words had just registered. With a sudden burst of energy, he hastily retrieved the boom stand and brought it over to me. "Here you go."

I shot him a skeptical look as he nonchalantly slipped his hands into the pockets of his well-worn cardigan—a piece of clothing that might have been deemed unwearable by most, yet it somehow suited him perfectly. In an oddly charming way, it emitted a subtle bohemian vibe, and I couldn't help but imagine it gracing the runway of some avant-garde fashion show, although my knowledge of fashion was rather limited.

"Do you want to tell me you didn't know what a boom stand is?" I dared to ask, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Yeah, sorry..." he prudishly feigned embarrassment, though it was evident that he didn't feel particularly bad about it. "I had no clue what you were talking about."

I eyed him inquisitively, suspecting the worst but needing confirmation. "What about a shock mount? Can you pass me that, then?"

He tilted his head and subtly pursed his lips, as if I had switched to an entirely different, foreign language he couldn't comprehend. Utterly astonished, I pointed to the nearby, star-shaped object, and his eyes widened in realization.

"Oh... that's a shock mount? Well, I had no idea about that, either," he admitted, seemingly unfazed by his lack of knowledge, with no intention of handing me the item. In response, I spread my hands and cast him a puzzled, inquisitive look, to which he simply responded with another chuckle.

"Let me be honest with you, okay?" he shrugged once more, entirely at ease. "I know nothing about making music or any of this equipment..."

"Are you shitting me?" I blurted out, dropping the cables from my hands in sheer disbelief. "In that case, I have no idea why you're even here. How on earth did you manage to land this internship in a scoring studio?"

The smirk never left his lips, his eyes twinkling with joy, as if he wasn't even aware that I considered firing him during his very first week on the job. Well, I couldn't actually fire him. I could ask someone else to do it for me.

"What can I say?" he offered another smile, his eyes mirroring the same cheerfulness. Even his bohemian gray cardigan seemed uncharacteristically cheerful as he spoke. "I aced the job interview. Sophie, that gal who interviewed me, seemed to really like me. She was very sure I'd be a great fit here!"

"That gal?" I repeated with a scoff... and a smile. "You mean Sophie, the producer? One of the most important people around here? If not the most important one?"

He nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The very same."

"Right. Sophie and her desire to change the whole world for the better..." I remarked, my tone laced with sarcasm that he simply chose to ignore.

There. My proof. 

That was the reason why I never really liked interns. He should have said something to make me believe he was taking it seriously, shouldn't he? He should have been embarrassed, he should have shown me his willingness to learn everything as quickly as possible, he should have tried to help me set everything up faster. But he didn't. Instead, he didn't take his eyes off me for a second, making me uncomfortable. It was as if looking at me like that was the most normal and ordinary thing in the world for him — as if it was our hundredth talk. No shyness. No awkwardness on his part. No guilt whatsoever.

"I don't know if I have time for your incompetence, then. I have things to do here, and they have to be done well," I finally stated, trying hard to maintain eye contact.

After all, I was supposed to be the more competent one, not him. Yet, inexplicably, I suddenly felt as though I were the intern, and he was the one showing me the ropes, not the other way around.

He hummed, faintly amused, as if I had cracked a half-hearted joke. "Come on... you only need to be more specific about what you want me to do. I can handle anything with clear instructions. I'm a very quick learner, you know?"

I found myself smiling as he began to lecture me on how to handle an intern like him. In fact, I burst into unexpected laughter—not at his expense, but because I couldn't believe his extraordinary gullibility.

No, gullibility was definitely not the right word. It was more like... certainty. An unwavering, absolute conviction that everything, always, would unfold just as he anticipated, with ease, enjoyment, and no difficulties whatsoever. There was no room for doubt. Moreover, it felt as if it wasn't because he wanted it to be that way, but because the universe, it seemed, had an uncanny knack for bending space and time just to make him smile.

"Let's see. Do you even know what I do here?" I asked, not with impatience anymore, but with genuine curiosity.

"Hey, I'm not that dense," he scoffed, then added a bit unsure, "You're a composer, right? Or am I mixing something up..."

I laughed and nodded in confirmation. His smile held a touch of embarrassment, a genuine one this time.

"You're not. I am a composer. So tell me one more thing, if you don't know anything about making music, why do you even want to work here?" I asked, finally bringing the shock mount closer and starting to set the microphone next to the piano.

He sighed, falling into deep thought for a brief moment before finally responding, "I think you're asking the wrong questions here. Why wouldn't I want to give it a try? It's fascinating. Besides, I'm a huge movie buff and you're making scores. I feel like I can rest my case here."

"Oh, yeah? Your love for movies? You think that's enough?"

"Uh-huh," he nodded, casually picking up the cables I dropped before, "Well, that would be more than enough if we were in an actual movie, wouldn't it?"

"Well, we're not, though," I chuckled, "We're not even in some poorly written novel. Life's quite different from the movies, especially if you know how they're made."

He hummed once more, a quiet laugh escaping his throat as he gave me another intrigued look.

"You think so? I think it all depends on your point of view..." he said with such conviction, as if everything really depended solely on that.

I shook my head in amusement and, unintentionally, found myself agreeing with him.

"Hey, I think I didn't catch your name before..." I said, a little troubled by the fact that despite Sophie repeating the names of all five interns for a week, I couldn't remember any of them.

"Oh, I'm Maddox. At your service!" he replied, his smile widening even further. "People usually call me Maddie, though."

"Really? Do they ever call you Madd?" I quipped. "Maybe that suits you better?"

A spark flickered in his eyes, then chuckled, "I've heard that one before... But sure. I can be Madd for you."

By then, I was laughing opelny, and I forgot about the mess around us.

It surprised me that he didn't ask for my name, and I decided not to give it away. I wasn't sure if he already knew it; he hadn't mentioned it even once that day. It seemed my name just... didn't matter to him back then. He struck me as someone very curious about the world and everything around him, yet for some reason, I didn't really seem to be one of those matters.

Like many things, it didn't bother me much, though.

After that Tuesday morning, marked by a string of mishaps that he effortlessly remedied with a perfect blend of enthusiasm, interest, and clever comments, a tad too clever for just an intern, we didn't teally talk for a few weeks.

Throughout the initial month of his three-month internship, our encounters were fleeting, lacking any real depth or substanc. Yet, I knew, there was an unspoken acknowledgment of each other's presence that hung in the air, like a perfectly fitting soundtrack playing in the background—barely noticeable, yet undeniably there.

I was busy with my projects that weren't going as well as I wanted them to. He, on the other hand, was busy surpassing almost all expectations, learning things at an astonishing pace, and effortlessly charming everyone he encountered. At least that's what I had heard from my co-workers, and from Sophie. He worked mainly under her, after all.

Every now and then though, I'd catch a glimpse of his eyes, squarely directed at me, particularly when I was on my way to the break room in search of my caffeine salvation. Sometimes, amidst the chaos of the studio, I'd hear his laughter, his rather melodic voice rising above the cacophony of others, as I struggled to maintain my focus on the stubborn music sheets in front of me. I quickly noticed he was quite the conversationalist, engaging in lively discussions with anyone willing to participate. Yet, our interactions rarely extended beyond a simple exchange of greetings, such as a casual 'hello' or 'how are you?'

That didn't bother me, either. Well, it didn't bother me at the beginning.

Everything always seems different at the beginning, doesn't it?

#it just helps me survive #all of my silly things do #original story #original work #original fiction #original writing #women writers #female writers #my writing #original characters #creative writing #writers on tumblr #writing #writerscommunity #the higher we soar #slow burn #self discovery

[itsnotzka]

Is it actually one of the first times I don’t want Tumblr to undo an update?? I think so.

Give us the boop o meter back!! :'(((

#😭

[itsnotzka]

You know who you are

but for everyone else btw it was @razzbberry

[itsnotzka]

#boop

[itsnotzka]

every time i start to feel cringe for being too deep in the hyperfixation i remember the intense depression i have waded through and have to remind myself that enjoyment is fleeting (so grab it with both hands), and life is for loving (so hold that love close), and if anyone thinks i’m cringe they must not be having a very good time (and i hope they can find a good time soon).

[itsnotzka]

Where do you see yourself in 5 years?

Look buddy, i’m just trying to make it to Friday.

[itsnotzka]

[MC (they-them) × Jake × fluff]

MC stepped out of the police station, relieved to have finally finished the last report on the Hannah case, feeling the warmth of the sun on their face and the crisp spring air filling their lungs. They glanced at their watch, already mentally mapping out their route to the next town where their expertise was needed. But before they could take another step, a mysterious figure clad in black approached them, sunglasses hiding his eyes, a hood obscuring his features.

"Are you MC?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

They nodded cautiously as he handed them a sealed envelope without another word. Without waiting for a response, the enigmatic figure vanished into the bustling street. Intrigued and slightly unnerved, MC tore open the letter, their curiosity piqued by the unexpected delivery, despite already having a premonition about the sender of this letter..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

𝘔𝘺 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘔𝘊,

I'm sending this letter to assure you of my safety.

As I sit here, penning these words to you, my heart races with both excitement and trepidation. The events that unfolded during our recent mission have left me both exhilarated and wounded, both physically and emotionally. But above all else, they've left me longing for your reassuring presence.

I write to you now, not from a place of despair, but from a place of hope and determination. Despite the close call and the injuries sustained, I want you to know that I am safe and on the path to recovery. The mine left me with several, light injuries. The burns may sting, but they are nothing compared to the ache in my heart from being away from you.

MC, our partnership has been nothing short of extraordinary. Together, we've faced challenges that most would shy away from, and emerged victorious against all odds. The way you fearlessly tackled every obstacle, with unwavering resolve, fills me with an indescribable pride. You are the true hero in this story.

Yet, amidst the chaos and danger, I can't shake the feeling of guilt for putting you in harm's way. Please know that it was never my intention to cause you worry or pain. If anything, I am in awe of your strength and resilience, and I am eternally grateful for your unwavering support.

As we embark on this temporary separation, I find solace in the knowledge that it is only a matter of time before we reunite. I've been informed about the City near Duskwood, where they requested your assistance. Moonvale awaits us with its mysteries and challenges, and I have no doubt that together, we will conquer whatever obstacles lie ahead.

Until then, my love, take comfort in the knowledge that I carry you with me always, in every beat of my heart and every thought that crosses my mind. Stay strong, stay safe, and know that I am counting down the moments until we can be together again.

I, too, will personally ensure your safety. Nymos and I are committed to clearing your path and doing whatever it takes to protect you. I've shared my vulnerability with you before, and in light of the recent events at Grim Rock, I find myself even more dependent and at your mercy.

I'm incredibly proud of you for cracking the case and saving my sister. The challenges you confronted, the horrors you endured, and the loss of Richy... I can only begin to fathom the emotional anguish you're experiencing, but I vow to be your unwavering support, concealed in the shadows, yet ever-present by your side, even if you cannot perceive me. I will never leave you alone.

MC, my love, I promise you, we will see each other again when the time comes.

With all my heart,

Jake

A/n: A little thing after the release of the date, just a little idea. Actually, I just wanted to post the letter, but decided to add the first part, just as an introduction. Letters from Jake are just great, aren’t they? :) I was a bit proud for the wording here. Even if the first part is pretty short and not so detailed. But well, writing Jake is a stress-lovely something. I hope you liked it. Thanks for reading and I hope you will have a fantastic day/evening/night! 💚

#duskwood #duskwood fanfiction #moonvale #moonvale fanfiction #aahhh <3