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#a universe like this is where ian comes from

funshape · 3 months

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I AM BEYOND EXCITED TO PRESENT TO YOU MY FIRST EVER WEBCOMIC, TOYHOSPITAL!

WHAT IS IT?! To keep it short, it's a Christmas-centric comedy horror comic - with more of an emphasis on the horror part of that. Believe me, there's no shortage of blood and guts and horrific body horror in this, and though there's jokes and the occasional bit here and there, it gets very dark, very quickly!

More specifically, it's about a version of the North Pole where Santa (or, as he's referred to as in-universe, Father Christmas) encounters a shortage of workers. So, instead of having the elves make the toys, he decides to open up an isolated, ominous segment of his workshop dedicated to turn the adults on the naughty list into toys by brutally transmorgifying them. He does this by employing the use of a disease fittingly dubbed Toyetic Syndrome, which has the ability to turn living matter into toys - albeit slowly as the science behind it is still pretty experimental. This establishment is called the Toyhospital - but it has a duplicitous veneer to it as to not raise suspicion from Father Christmas' wider community of workers. To most of the elves, they know the Toyhospital as it's much less prominent side - a toy repair shop where toys from all over the world are sent in and fixed. This side has been internally dubbed as the 'nice' side, while the real, actual hospital side of the Toyhospital is dubbed internally as the 'naughty' side.

The most evil, vile, or easy to manipulate elves and holiday creatures are in employ at the 'naughty' side of the Toyhospital, and they tend to be pretty relentless to those unlucky enough to end up as 'patients'. Fortunately (or unfortunately if you find yourself taking sympathy on them) the Toyetic Syndrome affects them, too. They're staffed there to basically prolong the patient population's suffering as long as possible, be that through physical or psychological methods. The thing is that Toyetic Syndrome is such a biohazard that everyone in there is locked in for the public's safety, making escape near impossible.

SO WHEN'S IT COMING OUT??? Uh! Sometime in the near future! No exact date yet. It's still getting it's footing established for now so nothing official will come out for a while. I've still got a lot of work to go through to get this thing out there, but all the main character designs that you see here have been finalized and the concept's tight enough where I feel comfortable presenting it in a loose form like this, so here you go! I've still got some characters I'm withholding for the story's sake, but these are the main players.

On the topic of these guys, let's get into the characters! (info about them below the cut)

CINNAMON is one of the protagonists of Toyhospital alongside IAN! He's your traditional cheerful, tooth-rottingly adorable Christmas elf. He used to work at the 'nice' side of the Toyhospital before his curiosity over the building's unusual floorplan led him into the 'naughty' side of the building. He got locked in, and he's looking for a way out. He's also infected with Toyetic Syndrome - albeit a much less outwardly harmful version of it that manifests in him becoming a cute, cuddly plush worm - but he's still desperately seeking a cure for his ailment before things have the chance to get ugly. Naturally, raised in an environment of pure sugary happiness and then suddenly getting thrusted into a hellhole of blood and disembowelment, Cinnamon is utterly terrified. Despite his horrified state, Cinnamon always approaches situations with a pacifistic, 'understanding everyone' mindset and is more than willing to give others second chances even if they don't really deserve his kindness.

WHITTAKER is the Toyhospital's dentist! He has an extreme aversion to seeing others discontent and will do anything to make them smile, physically altering their faces to get them to do so. He's prone to laughing fits, often interrupting himself mid-sentence to burst out giggling at nothing. Though he seems driven to achieving his goal of making every person in the Toyhospital 'happy', the guy doesn't actually seem all that...lucid. He tends to seem kind of 'out of it' a lot. Disconcertingly a lot, in fact. Sometimes, though, he can have brief moments where he snaps out of whatever funk he's in; and when he's not being giddy, Whittaker is surprisingly critical of those around him, most notably his other coworkers. While some of his criticisms towards others are as petty as them not smiling enough or having bad posture, a lot of them are troublingly grounded and more centered around the morality of what they do to others.

PEPPERMINT is Toyhospital's clown! But they're not all that good at it. Peppermint mainly just sees the whole 'clowning' gig as another stepping stone towards the real career they want for themselves - that being in Broadway musical theater. His dreams aren’t exactly accommodating of others, and he’s always had a tendency to put others down to elevate himself. Now that he’s employed by the Toyhospital, that immature, egotistical behavior has fostered into something downright dangerous. He has no regard for the lives of others, being totally apathetic if people around him die to the point where he has no qualms with hurting others himself if it can benefit him in some way. When they’re not dramatically complaining about others, they’re definitely gloating about themselves. Even at their worst points, their actions are still reflective of their love of performance, and their mannerisms are appropriately incredibly theatrical.

PHONESLEY is the receptionist! Phonesley is certainly an odd character to come across. The guy’s super unsettling, he has a tone that’s a bit too cheery and a bit too jovial considering how gruesome his workplace is - and that’s completely overlooking whatever’s going on with his organs, which he seems to be completely oblivious to. He’s really absentminded and has a tendency to lose track of what he’s doing and drools excessively. There’s a lot of mystery that surrounds Phonesley, from occasional slips mid-conversation that imply that he knows more than he lets on, to his questionable familiarity when it comes to elf culture and just the overall way the North Pole functions despite being employed by them. Who knows, if you stick around him for long enough, you might just happen to hear him rattle on about a few conspiracy theories of his….

SNOWBALL is the nurse, and perhaps the nicest person you'll come across working in the Toyhospital! They seem like a complete sweetiepie who loves rainbow and glitter and just wants to make sure everyone's taken care of. Although, that niceness of theirs is a double-edged sword. While they can seem like a saving grace when you first encounter them, come to spend enough time around them and you'll realize that they're actually suffocatingly overprotective and possessive. Snowball loves toys, and to them, turning naughty people into toys is a complete universal good. They'll do anything they can to speed up the process of that, and they always seem to keep a few patients for themselves so they can 'care' for them. Snowball's niceness melts away once someone even hints at leaving their care, as they'll quickly become enraged at the mere thought of being left behind.

BALTHAZAR is the head surgeon - the brains of the operation, one could say. She was put in charge by Father Christmas himself, and it's easy to see why she would be heading something like this. Balthazar has an undying, burning, festering hatred for naughty individuals. She seems to believe in a grand conspiracy that somehow, anyone on the naughty list is responsible for ruining her life and turning her into what she is now. Needless to say, she does not hold back when it comes to punishing those she believes to be in the wrong. For an idea of what her punishments look like, her favorite among them is to cut a person's legs off and watch as they bleed out and die in the struggle to escape her wrath. Even most of her own staff is terrified of her, as she's always insisting they be more brutal with their punishments, even when they're already being as relentless as physically possible. Her hatred for naughty people makes trying to reason with her completely futile. While most people view her as a cutthroat force of terror, the very few among her staff that are close to her have nothing but good things to say about their boss. Strangely enough, these few tend to describe her like she's some sweet, misunderstood person - a complete juxtaposition to how she actually is.

BEAU is the plastic surgeon of the Toyhospital! She's completely obsessed with being the 'it' girl, having modified her own body to be utterly unrecognizable from the elf she used to be - much more resembling a human than an elf in her current state. She viewed every part of herself as flawed, and now that she's become 'perfect' in her eyes, she now projects that former self-hatred for herself onto others. It goes without saying that Beau is an incredibly judgemental and self-centered person. She preforms unnecessary surgeries on others, not just to inherently improve them, but purely because she, personally, takes issue with the very way they look. She's very talkative, and with the amount of dirt she has on other people, has a habit of just letting their secrets slip randomly. Her entire persona of being a cool, collected, perfect girl completely falls apart once someone mentions a perceived flaw about her - at which point she'll either become violent towards them or become obsessed with fixing whatever's 'wrong' with her.

CHILLBLAIN is the hospital's mortician! Unlike the others among the staff, she isn't an elf or even a human - she's a snowperson, one who's incredibly intent on tormenting humanity for how they've treated her kind like disposable holiday novelties. And though her job has to do with laying the dead to rest, she's not all too keen on that. She is, perhaps, the most cruel individual to walk the Toyhospital's halls, as she's not even insistent on punishing people via infecting them with the Toyetic Syndrome. She dishes out a far worse fate. She's incredibly fond of heat torture, melting people down into puddles of flesh and blood and keeping them alive just to hear them writhe around and scream in agony. She refuses to let any of her patients die, instead locking them away in the mortuary ward and taking them out when she feels like having a little bit of 'fun' with them. She's much more cunning, clever, and for lack of a better word, cold than her peers are. There's a certain eeriness that surrounds her. 'Sadistic' is just about the best word there is to describe her.

and last but not least, there's IAN! Ian is the protagonist of Toyhospital, with Cinnamon accompanying him on his travels throughout the complex. Unlike the other patients, Ian ended up in the Toyhospital by pure mistake. He was on the naughty list as a kid, but throughout the years he's matured as a person through a lot of self-reflection and therapy and has far since outgrown his 'problem child' status. He's just here because of an issue in the naughty-nice list sorting system that sorted him into the naughty list. His main motivation is to get out of this place and sue whoever's behind it.. He's a very rational person and tries to comprehend everything that's going on from a logical perspective even if he's completely out of his element in this strange, magical world. He has no patience for the people behind this operation or whatever motivations they might have, he just wants his freedom. He has a tendency to lose composure whenever things get stressful, a facet of himself he's not too proud of. On the inside, he's very afraid of regressing back into the person he used to be before he went down his path of self-improvement - and fears his time in the Toyhospital may just be his breaking point.

#toyhospital #my art #character design #art #character art #oc #horror #cartoon

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stllmnstr · 4 months

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champagne problems: part two

pairing: jake sim x f reader

genre: enemies to lovers, rich kids au, fake dating au, college au, angst, fluff

part two word count: 33.2k

part two warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, jealousy, a kiss or two, my incessant need to make sunghoon a figure skater in everything I write, family drama, use of the american (usa) university system

soundtrack: boom - dpr live / bad idea! - girl in red / blood on the floor - kuiper / calico - dpr ian / comme de garçons (like the boys) - rina sawayama / lust - chase atlantic

part 1 is linked on my masterlist for now!

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The second son of a wealthy family, Jake Sim has gotten used to always standing in the shadow of his older brother. From grades to girls to talks of becoming future CEO of the Sim Corporation, he’s no stranger to coming in second place. So when an opportunity arises for Jake to finally have the one thing his brother can’t and best him once and for all, he knows he’d be a fool not to take it.

There are only two problems. The first is that the thing his brother wants so badly isn’t a thing at all. It’s you, semi-estranged daughter of the Sims’ closest and most long-standing business partner.

The second is that Jake Sim can’t fucking stand you.

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PART TWO

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Jake Sim has been staring at his philosophy homework for the last twenty minutes when a stack of pastel pink papers slides across the table towards him.

“What is this?” Much like most interactions he’s had with you, your sudden presence at Jake's favorite coffee shop is entirely unexplained. Hell, he’s not even sure how you found him here. He’d ask, if he thought you’d give him a straightforward answer.

But Jake knows better at this point. So with a grumble, he takes out his headphones instead and prepares for a conversion that will probably put him in a worse mood than he started it in.

Sliding down into the seat across from him without an invitation or the courtesy of an explanation, the only thing you say is, “You know, I really am starting to get a bit worried about your future success.” Nodding at the stack of papers you’ve just put on the table in front of him, you add, “How are you a third-year business major that still can’t recognize a contract?”

“I know what a contract is.” Jake defends, eyeing the papers warily, reaching out to pick them up. “But usually they’re not printed out on pink paper.” Really, who do you think you are? Elle Woods? And where did you even get this stuff? Jake doubts that this shade of pink cardstock came from the shelves of your local office supply store. Bringing the paper up closer to his nose, he levels you with a disbelieving look. “Hold on, is this paper scented?”

“Don’t put your gross nose on it! That paper is custom ordered.”

Of course it is. “Why the fuck did you print out a contract on custom ordered lavender-scented paper?”

You have the audacity to look affronted. “You should be thanking me.” With half a mind to snatch it out of his hands, you instead tell him with a glare, “Lavender is a very calming scent and probably the only thing stopping me from strangling you right now, y’know, since this entire thing is your fault.”

Setting the papers back on the table with a little more force than necessary, Jake isn’t in the mood to play your favorite game of beating around the bush.“What entire thing? What kind of contract is this?”

“I’m so glad you asked.” Your tone says otherwise. “Since someone’s loser brother couldn’t keep his mouth shut, just like I predicted, and someone’s mother found out about someone’s unfortunate use of the B word–”

“Hold on,” Jake’s brow creases in confusion. “I never called anyone a bitch–”

“Boyfriend,” you clarify, cutting him off. “I figured we better lay out some ground rules. You know, if we’re really gonna go for this.”

“Go for what?” Jake is still lost. “It’s just a family dinner–”

Shaking your head, you paint a perfect picture of disappointment when you tell him, “Your lack of foresight is astounding. Truly. Forget econ, I’m surprised you managed to pass classes that involve basic logic or any kind of critical thinking skills.”

Across from you, Jake does his best to close his laptop screen inconspicuously, keeping his untouched philosophy homework hidden from view.

Then he returns, “And you don’t think you’re overreacting? Like, at all? What do we need a contract for?” Not that the lavender-scented abomination looks particularly legally binding to begin with. “Like I said, it’s just dinner–”

“For now,” you interrupt. “It’s just dinner for now. But two days ago, it was just a fundraiser, and to the best of our families’ knowledge, you were just my plus-one.” Giving him your best fake smile, you add, “And like the person at this table who has an IQ higher than a goldfish predicted, things are already getting messy. This,” you nod to the contract, “will help us clean them up before James or my mother realize that everything about you and me is nothing but one big lie.”

Jake sighs. Tries to defend himself even though he knows it’s futile. “Look, how was I supposed to know that my brother would open his big mouth to my mom?” And it really is just terrible luck all around – that James couldn’t keep a secret, that he chose to divulge it to the one person that actually cares about Jake’s love life and not just its potential effects on the family business.

In fact, in Jake's opinion, his mother cares a little too much. The messages that started Sunday morning haven’t stopped since then. It’s a big part of the reason why his phone is currently face-down on the table that separates the two of you. Jake is not about to let you see anything that could potentially inflate your ego any more.

His mother, however, seems to have other ideas. Right now, his message thread with her looks more like a one-sided fan club.

Mom: I can’t wait to meet her! I remember her as a little kid. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her. Mom: Does she have any dietary restrictions or allergies? I’m starting to put together the menu for this weekend. Mom: Does she prefer white or red wine? Mom: Never mind the last message. I’ll just pull out some of both. Mom: I just stumbled across a recent picture of her. Wow, she’s even more beautiful than I remember! I hope you’re treating her well. Mom: Can you send me your apartment address again? I want to mail you something. Mom: Oh, and what’s ___’s favorite kind of cookie? Mom: Forget it. I’ll just give them to you this weekend to take with you.

Suppressing a wince, Jake decides to put his mother’s incessant prying to the side for the time being. Right now, he needs to build the most bulletproof defense of his intelligence and common sense as possible before you keep shooting holes in it. But contrary to his beliefs, you’re not here to argue with him about where the blame for your unfortunate situation lies, at least not for the most part.

You tell him as much. “I’m not here to yell at you about how this is all your fault.”

Jake raises an eyebrow, lips flat. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Don’t worry,” you assure him. “I got my anger out already. Your picture’s right in the middle of my dartboard.” Across the table from him, you smile sweetly, imitate throwing a dart directly at the center of his forehead.

Jake can’t tell if you’re kidding or not, and somehow that’s more unnerving.

“So what, you don’t need to hear me say that everything’s my fault? You’d rather get it in writing instead?” Jake glances at the forgotten contract. Suddenly, a wave of panic crests in his mind. “If you’re trying to sue me–”

You roll your eyes before he can finish the empty threat. “Again, that’s not what this is for.” Looking at the papers, you tilt your head, considering. “Although it’s not too late for an amendment…”

Jake cuts that train of thought off as quickly as he can. “Okay, what exactly is it for then?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Like I said, just like someone with more than two functioning brain cells predicted, your little slip of the tongue made things messy. So if I’m gonna save your ass and pretend to be your girlfriend in front of your family this weekend, we’re gonna need some kind of written agreement about how this is going to play out. Think of it as an agreement, something to outline the…” you pause, weighing your words, “expectations on both of our ends.”

A contract. A fake dating contract. It’s all Jake can do not to burst out laughing. He’s trying to egg you on a little, piss you off and push your buttons like you’re so good at doing to him when he tells you, “Y’know, it’s kind of funny how seriously you’re taking this.”

You don’t understand how he can be so blase about it all. Sure, maybe the contract was a little overkill, but the two of you are about to start pretending to be dating, to be a couple, in front of your families. It’s not something that you’re willing to walk into blindly.

“Really? I think it’s kind of funny the whole reason I’m in this mess is because of you.” Suddenly, there’s a reignited fire in your eyes. Jake almost regrets his taunting. “In fact, I think it’s absolutely hilarious–”

“Okay, okay,” He can sense a losing battle when he sees it. Not wanting to rehash your argument from earlier or put himself at the center of any more dartboard target practices, Jake surrenders. And then he frowns. Reaching for the stack of papers again, he scans the first page. Trying to make sense of all the legal jargon and stylized formatting, he’s hesitant when he glances at you and slow to admit, “To be completely honest with you, I’m actually not that good with contracts–”

“Oh my god.”

“So, do you think you could go over the highlights for me?”

“You are absolutely insufferable.”

“I’m sorry,” Jake intones flatly. “Are you talking to me or the mirror you spend five hours a day looking into?”

You kind of have to hand it to him. Ever since your run in with his brother, his insults have been landing a lot better. That one was actually pretty good. Not that you’d ever admit it.

“Anyway,” you glare instead. “The highlights.” Nodding to the contract you spent most of last night writing up, you explain, “The first page is just basic contract language. The actual content of our proposed agreement starts on the second page.”

Following your explanation, Jake sets the first page aside, makes quick work of skimming the second. Or at least he tries to. It proves a difficult task, however, when he gets a little caught up on the very first line.

“Really?” You’re not quite sure what kind of expression is on his face when he looks up at you. It’s an odd mix of shock, disbelief, and perhaps, if the sudden flush on his cheekbones is anything to go by, embarrassment. “Rule number one is no kissing?”

Across from him, you just rest your chin in your palm. “I know I’m crushing your dreams and all, but don’t be so surprised.”

Jake’s glare is easier to read this time. “That is not what I meant. It’s just… I don’t know.” It seems so obvious. He didn’t think you’d feel the need to actually write it out like he’s about to start trying to plant ones on you every hour of the day. “It’s not what I was expecting.”

“I mean, I don’t know how family dinners work at your house, but mine usually don’t involve makeout sessions between courses.”

“Exactly,” Jake returns. “It hardly seems like something we need in writing when it’s more than easy to avoid.”

Still, you don’t back down. “Don’t blame me for erring on the side of caution. We’re pretending to be a couple in front of your brother. And we both know that you don’t exactly make the most rational decisions when he starts pushing your buttons, boyfriend.”

The use of the pet name is intentional. It’s a reminder that Jake can’t be trusted where his older brother is concerned. Not when in the heat of the moment, he would say or do just about anything to get under James’ skin in the same way James has been getting under his for the last twenty-one odd years.

“Point taken.” Jake can’t exactly argue that one.

And in all honesty, Jake kinda feels like he’s getting off easy, at least with you. Not that he would ever tell you that.

He’s feeling apprehensive about this dinner, yes, and now about being legally bound to you, but he supposes things could be a lot worse. For starters, you’d been much easier to convince than he initially thought. He wasn’t sure what kind of bribes would work on you, how he was going to get you to keep up the facade he started for one more dinner.

Maybe, he thought, he would be able to leverage your phone number against you in a new way. He could promise not to pass it along to James, but only as long as you did him the solid of playing the part of his girlfriend, this time at a dinner with his family.

But that felt a little too much like blackmail, even for him. So instead, he had told you the truth.

Listening to the phone ring after clicking on your number, it was all Jake could do not to throw his phone across the room in anticipation of your rage. But then you answered, and it all came spilling out.

He told you that James could not be trusted with secrets but could absolutely be trusted to do everything in his power to ruin Jake’s life, even if unintentionally. He explained how his mother was now unfortunately involved, that your initial plan to just mention each other occasionally and claim that things fizzled by the time the clock struck midnight on New Year’s was no longer viable.

You had remained completely silent for a long pause. Too long. Jake was suddenly very grateful that he took the precaution of having this conversation over the phone. Mostly because he was pretty sure if he tried to tell you face-to-face, you would cause him actual bodily harm. But instead of threats or curses or even sarcasm, Jake had listened as a long sigh came through the other line and then–

“Yeah, my mom has been asking me about you too.” Much to his shock, you were resigned to the fact, not angry at the news. And you had told him, “I’ll come to your family dinner. Just let me… Let me think about the best way to go about this.”

Less than twenty-four hours have passed since that phone conversation, and Jake shouldn’t be as surprised as he is that your idea of the best way to go about this is printed out for him on custom pink lavender-scented paper.

Deciding to leave the kissing debacle alone for the moment, he reads through the rest of your so-called rules. With more of an idea as to what to expect, nothing shocks him quite as much as the initial line.

He reads the second section wordlessly: Both parties will do everything in their power, to a reasonable extent, to maintain the image of a false relationship in the presence of family members and those with immediate connections to them (including, but not limited to employees, business partners, etc).

The third section covers another base: Friends and other acquaintances of both parties are not to be informed of the arrangement. Neither party is under obligation to maintain the lie of relationship with friends or acquaintances unless deemed necessary to maintain secrecy of the relationship.

Jake glances up with a furrow in his brow. You clarify before he has the chance to ask, “Basically it’s saying that you don’t have to lie to your friends and tell them that we’re dating, unless they get suspicious or start asking. Just don’t tell them we aren’t. And absolutely do not tell them about the contract.”

Jake nods, moves to the next line.

Neither party may involve themself in a romantic relationship of any nature with another individual for the duration of this contract. Both parties are to avoid to the best of their ability any situation in which it could be interpreted that they are in a romantic relationship of any nature with another individual for the duration of this contract.

“So essentially just no dating other people?” Jake asks.

“Right.” You nod. “And try to avoid getting into situations that make it look like you might be dating someone else. I’m not gonna make you agree to stop hooking up with people or anything.” You look mildly ill at the mere proximity of Jake and the term ‘hooking up.’ “Just, y’know, be discreet about it.”

Jake looks up at you. “I’m not hooking up with other people.”

You cringe. “Thanks, but I really don’t need the gory details of your sex life. Do you understand the rule or not?”

Jake nods. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Great,” you move the contract aside, setting a new stack of papers down on the table. Also printed on pink paper, this pile is considerably thicker. “That’s about it for the contract, then. This,” you gesture to the new set of papers, “is for you to memorize.”

Jake would be a little less wary if it didn't look as dense as an encyclopedia. “What is it?”

“A list of everything a real boyfriend should know about me.” Jake waits for you to finish the joke, to land a punchline, but you’re entirely serious when you add, “Think of it as your ___ cheat sheet. I’ll need one for you too, of course. Preferably in the next couple of days so that I can get it down before dinner this weekend.”

Hesitantly, Jake picks up the first page. Scanning over yet another meticulously formatted document printed on – he sniffs again – yep, lavender-scented paper, Jake privately thinks that this may actually come in handy. If nothing else, he’s sure he could reference it for some of his mom’s questions instead of needing to guess at your responses.

It’ll help with the basics, at least. Jake is pretty sure you wouldn’t have bothered to include things like your favorite kind of cookie in there.

But then he glances again at the stack of papers, and more specifically, how how thick it is. He looks a little closer at the page in his hand. Single spaced. He flips it over. Double sided.

Looking over the back of the page in his hand, he forces himself to actually read some of what you’ve written. He doesn’t get far before he’s leveling you with a disbelieving look.

“Is this a prank?”

You have the gall to look confused. “Not even a little bit.”

Jake wants to tear his hair out. Because what the actual fuck? “I really don’t think anyone is going to ask me about your third favorite shade of Dior lip oil–”

“They might. And think of how suspicious it would be if you got me one as a Christmas gift or something and the color washed me out.”

Across from you, Jake’s eyes just widen. And then he’s weighing your words.

Despite the ridiculousness, your argument does raise a point. Albeit not the one you intended.

“Christmas gift,” Jake repeats slowly. As of now, you’re already over halfway through fall semester, which means the holidays will be approaching in just a couple of short months. Suddenly, they seem a lifetime away. “Does this contract of yours have an end date?”

“Oh, right.” Reaching for the contract again, you turn to the final page, lay it on the table in front of Jake. “Feel free to propose something else,” you offer, “but I put the termination date as January first of next year. I figured that we could use this arrangement to get us through all of the inevitable holiday parties. My family always hosts a giant one on New Year’s Eve, so I thought we could go to that together and then call it off the next day. What do you think?” You turn to him. “Too long?”

Jake discards your insane list of personal preferences for the time being and picks up the last page of the contract. At the bottom, he locates the verbiage in the final section, just above the two blank signature lines neither of you have filled yet.

This contract will be terminated as of January 1 of the coming year.

Jakes stares at the date for a moment. It feels odd to see an expiration date on your relationship, regardless of the fact that it’s all a facade. Seems strange to be starting something with the sole intention of ending it. But he can hardly voice those feelings, so instead he taunts, “You wanna be stuck with me that long, huh? Just can’t get enough?”

Your lips flatten as you reach for your phone. “I will literally text your brother right now.”

“Nice try,” Jake calls your bluff. “You just told me that you didn’t want your mom knowing that you lied about dating me either.”

“No,” you correct, dangling your phone between your fingers. “What I said was that I want her off my back when it comes to my dating life and who I spend my time with. It wouldn’t matter even a little bit to her whether that’s you or James. In fact, she would probably actually like him bet–”

“Whatever.” If Jake is suddenly sulking, he figures that no one needs to be aware of it. “I know you like me more than him.”

“Incorrect. I hate him more than I hate you.”

Jake stares at you blankly. “Is there a difference?”

“Obviously,” you scoff.

“Whatever. You’re still willing to tolerate me until New Year’s.”

“Is that actually high praise to you? Do we need to start working on your self-confidence too?”

Insult aside, Jake supposes that your deadline does make sense. Although family obligations are intermittent in nature, it would be nice to have a go-to plan for every event and dinner and interaction with his older brother that he’s forced into between now and the New Year.

Honestly, the thought of having you at his upcoming family dinner has made Jake’s steps the last two days feel a little lighter. If anything, he thinks that you’ll be a great distraction for his father. Something to talk about besides the gory details of Jake’s many failures.

It’s a chance to be impressive in the eyes of his family, even if only in some small capacity, even if only until New Year’s.

A moment later, Jake warily eyes the pen you hand him. “Let me guess, pink ink?”

“Obviously not.” You roll your eyes. “How would that show up on pink paper?”

So Jake’s signature is written on the first dotted line of the contract with the matte black ink of your shockingly normal ballpoint pen. Moments later, your name joins on the second line, right next to his.

And it’s as if something shifts in the air, as if something suddenly feels a little heavier, slightly more weighted. The following silence that passes between the two of you feels like a finale of sorts. The end of something and the beginning of another.

Looking at the boy across from you, it feels strange to say that for all intents and purposes, even if they’re fabricated, you’ll be dating him until the New Year. Showing up on his arm and laughing at his jokes and filling in the quiet moments with little displays of affection, practiced bouts of intimacy.

It’s weird. It’s daunting. It’s not something you have any clue how to navigate, even if the contract gives you a false sense of security, of control.

You break the moment by glancing at the clock that hangs above the front door of the coffee shop. Suddenly, your mind is elsewhere. On the other part of your original agreement. “Your first tutoring session is tonight, right?” Jungwon mentioned it to you in passing.

“Yeah,” Jake nods. If his voice has an odd sudden hoarseness to it, you’ll both ignore it for now. “Why?”

“What time are you supposed to meet him?”

“Six-thirty.”

A second glance at the clock confirms, “It’s six thirty-five.”

“Shit!” Jake is suddenly frantic, panicked as he rushes to repack his bag and salvage what’s left of a good first impression on his tutor.

It hardly registers when you remind him, “Don’t forget to make me a cheat sheet of things I should know about you!” Already halfway out the door, the only acknowledgement you get is a half hearted nod.

Frowning at the mess of papers in front of you, scattered from Jake’s hasty exit, you make quick work of rearranging your newly minted contract in the correct order.

“Men,” you whisper, to no one in particular. Even though it doesn’t land on the ears you want it to. Even though Jake is too far gone to hear it.

…

Instead, what Jake hears a handful of minutes later, is a less than friendly reminder from the librarian at the front desk that the university library is a quiet area and that running is strictly prohibited. Still out of breath from the way he just bolted across the entire campus, all Jake can offer her is an apologetic nod.

He pulls out his phone to double-check the brief message thread between him and Jungwon, to confirm the exact location of their first tutoring session.

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [3:02 pm]: Study room 103 on the first floor

After that, there are only two other messages – one being Jake’s hasty, misspelled apology for being nearly fifteen minutes late, to which he received:

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [6:41 pm]: No problem! I’m here

After navigating his way to the reservable first floor study rooms, Jake finds himself in front of Room 103. Suddenly, a wave of self-consciousness sweeps away any adrenaline fueled by his lateness. Any lingering annoyance brought on by a conversation with you.

Should he knock? Is there a certain etiquette to this? How embarrassed should he be that the person waiting for him with both better punctuality and significantly better grades is two years his junior, according to the sparse information you gave him?

In the end, Jake decides it would be weird to knock and chokes down all his other uncertainty. Opening the door slowly, he nods at the boy already inside.

“Hi, Jungwon?”

If his tutor is at all put off by Jake’s lateness, he does a great job of hiding it. Jungwon is all smiles when he says, “That’s me. You must be Jake.” Jake is still stuck halfway in the door like he wants to hold onto the opportunity to bolt, just in case he needs it. Jungwon picks up on some of his hesitation. “Come on in.”

Jake does so quietly, setting his stuff down as he slides into the seat across from Jungwon. As he pulls out his laptop, Jake glances at his tutor. All smiles and friendliness, the oversized hoodie he wears looks comfortable enough to fall asleep in. Altogether, he kind of reminds him of an overeager puppy. Or at least he would, if his features weren’t so distinctly feline.

“Sorry again for being late,” Jake mumbles, opening a Word document. “I completely lost track of time.” More like his time was completely overtaken by someone that does a great job of consuming all his senses and sends his mind spinning sideways, but Jake can hardly say that.

Just like he did over text, Jungwon doesn’t appear bothered in the slightest by his tardiness. “It really is no problem. I’m glad you found the room alright. It’s kind of like a maze back here.”

He’s being nice again. It’s a single hallway with a handful of clearly labeled doors. But Jake isn’t one to look kindness in the mouth, especially when he’s still sitting on a pile of discomfort. Instead, he figures it’s as good a time as any to express his gratitude.

“Thanks again for doing this, and for keeping it on the down low. ___ mentioned that you’re great at econ.”

Across from him, Jungwon shrugs. “I’m good with numbers and data and stuff like that. And I had to get good at studying pretty quick, since I’ve been on academic scholarships since middle school.”

That tidbit swirls in the air for a moment, falls through the room like a bad premonition before settling uncomfortably in Jake’s gut. It makes him wonder, makes him question a lot of things.

What would he be like, Jake wonders, if his family name wasn’t a safety net, a security blanket in its own right? If he had to fight to earn things like the university admission letter he took for granted? Resented, even, since it was yet another choice made for him by his father.

Would he be like Jungwon, tutoring older students for extra cash? Forgiving people when they’re late and convincing himself that years of staring at math problems until his eyes felt like sandpaper is the same as being ‘good with numbers and stuff like that’?

And Jake is assuming, of course. Maybe Jungwon is just good with numbers, has a natural inclination for economics.

But the only thing Jake has ever had a natural inclination for is doing what he’s told and then blaming the world around him when he hates himself a little for it.

All at once, he feels like an observer in his own life. An external force that does nothing but shake the snowglobe and wait to see where the dust settles, where everything lands.

But his self-prescribed identity crisis is not Jungwon’s problem, and Jake is at least self-aware enough to know that any hardships in his life likely pale in comparison to Jungwon’s. It’s not like measuring misery has ever done Jake any good, and it feels unfair for him to be jumping to conclusions and stacking their lives against each other when all Jungwon is doing is trying to make conversation.

So Jake decides to save the psychoanalysis for a sleepless night and is nothing but neutral when he chooses to reply to the first part of Jungwon’s comment, “Well, I’m grateful that you’re willing to help me. I’m kind of a disaster when it comes to econ.”

“So I hear,” Jungwon smiles, and Jake thinks that maybe him and Jungwon will get along just fine, whether they have the common ground of economics or not. “Don’t let ___ tease you too hard about it, though. I used to help her, too. Back in high school.”

And if Jake was trying to stop himself from feeling sorry for Jungwon, he doesn’t have to try for very long. He suddenly thinks friendship will be a very hard thing to form. Mostly because he has the distinct sense Jungwon is reflecting on your high school days together rather fondly. Maybe a little too fondly. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Jungwon nods. “I’m a freshman, so I’m a couple years younger than you guys,” he sighs like it’s a terrible thing to be and Jake has never been more appreciative of his own birth date, “but she’s been friends with my older sister for years now. ___ was always pretty good at most subjects, but physics gave her a run for her money, so I helped her a bit when I could.”

It makes sense, he supposes. Jungwon was your physics tutor, so you knew you could recommend him with confidence. With all your first hand experience.

“You two are close, then?” Jake hates the way he sounds almost defensive. Hates the way he doesn’t recognize the odd feeling that’s beginning to swirl in his gut unpleasantly.

“We’ve definitely gotten closer,” Jungwon nods. Jake doesn’t think he’s imagining the sudden flush on the younger boy’s cheeks. “Especially since I started university here. My sister decided to get her degree abroad, but ___ and I have still stayed in touch even without her around as the middleman, y’know?”

“Right,” Jake agrees. To what, he’s not sure. He has no idea if you have the same feelings towards your relationship with Jungwon, if you’d corroborate the fact that the two of you are getting closer, if your cheeks would get a little color in them while you talked about it.

It strikes Jake then that he really doesn't know anything about you. At least not anything substantial. And while the dictionary of personal details you’ve compiled is still sitting in his bag, he doubts it will divulge things related to relationships. Things he’s suddenly curious about.

He can at least feel confident in the fact that you’re not currently dating anyone. He wouldn’t have just signed a contract if you were. But that still leaves a lot of gray area, a lot of questions.

Are there any recent exes he should know about? Messy situationships that would be glad to land a few punches on him if word of your supposed relationship were to accidentally get out?

Jake has no idea, and even less of a clue as to how to find out. But he doesn’t like the way those uncertainties settle in his gut. And he doesn’t like the way Jungwon says your name.

Jungwon must mistake Jake’s sudden silence as passion for fixing his grades, because the next thing he says is, “Sorry, I kind of went on a tangent there.” His apologetic smile does nothing to quell the riot in Jake’s mind. “Anyway,” he opens his laptop. “Economics. I figured we could start by looking at the upcoming assignment to see which parts are trickiest for you and go from there.” Glancing at the older boy, he asks, “Or did you have a different idea?”

“No,” Jake shakes his head. “That sounds good to me.” And he shouldn't say it, but, “I’ve got plans this weekend, so I’m hoping to get as much of this done as I can before then.”

“Oh,” Jungwon asks. It’s more of an effort to be polite than genuine curiosity. “Anything fun?”

Jake shouldn’t. Not considering the conversation you just had. Not considering the contract he just signed.

“I don’t know. I can’t decide if I’m more nervous or excited.”

He really, really, shouldn’t. But–

“I’m taking ___ to officially meet my parents.”

The way Jungwon falters is barely perceptible. Jake only notices because he’s watching for it.

Jungwon’s brow creases for a moment, putting the pieces together until he realizes that they definitely only fit one way. “You two are dating?”

Jake tries not to be offended at the shock in his voice. “Is it that surprising?”

“I mean, kind of.” Jungwon is still reeling a bit. “When she mentioned that you were looking for a tutor, she said you were just a friend.”

And now Jake has to think of how to play his cards here. He needs to tread carefully, choose his words wisely. There are too many ways he could back himself into a corner, accidentally tell a lie he can’t talk his way out of. That’s probably, definitely, why you made the point of saying the two of you should leave your friends out of the arrangement entirely. Should only divulge the details if they start poking around first. Which Jungwon was definitely not doing.

Ultimately, Jake decides to leave his explanation as vague as possible, hoping that the less he reveals, the less Jungwon will be able to poke at it until his lie crumbles and leaves nothing but the truth in its wake.

Shrugging, he says, “We’ve been keeping it pretty quiet. You know how rumors can be.” They can catch fire at the first sign of wind. Can spread before there’s any chance of controlling them. Kind of like the one he’s single handedly spreading right now.

“Oh,” is all Jungwon says. And despite himself, Jake does feel kind of bad for the kid. He feels even worse when Jungwon finds his smile again a moment later and adds, “Well, I hope it all goes good for you. ___’s a great girl.”

But all that guilt is pushed to the side when that odd, unpleasant feeling at the bottom of Jake’s gut releases a little bit of tension, heaves a giant sigh of relief.

“Yeah,” Jake nods without thinking. In his mind, he sees a gold dress, a black marker, his name in your handwriting. There’s a sliver of truth there, albeit a small one, when he agrees, “She is.”

…

Saturday night puts you back in the passenger seat of Jake’s car, a sense of deja vu overcoming you as he navigates out of your apartment building’s parking lot and onto the highway. Although this time, he did manage to avoid an argument with your doorman. Mostly because Jake Sim is now a name on your list of approved visitors.

And there are more differences to be found. Tonight, you’ve traded your evening gown for a pair of dark wash jeans and a sweater that Jake insists his mother will love. The aged bottle of red wine you brought as a gift for his parents has a bow wrapped around its neck where it sits on the back seat of Jake’s car.

If nothing else, Jake has to applaud your insistence that you not show up as an empty-handed guest. Your commitment to the facade is truly admirable, even if it is motivated by the contract you keep safe and sound in the top drawer of your desk.

And finally, as opposed to the drive to your family’s fundraiser, this commute is far from silent.

“Good,” you nod, praising Jake’s most recent answer. Despite his initial protests, he did his studying. And if his string of correct responses is anything to go by, you seem to be a subject he has an easier time grasping than economics. Or perhaps one he simply has more vested interest in. “And my top three favorite colors are?”

“One,” Jake answers seamlessly. “Gold, but only if it’s 24 karat. Two, the exact red of the Hermès Satin Lipstick in shade Rouge H. Three is pink. But not hot pink. You like softer shades, like baby pink.” Like that damn contract.

“Nicely done. My major is?”

“Pre-law,” Jake fills in. “But you’re still undecided on if you’ll attend law school after graduation.”

It’s a tidbit that he finds mildly interesting. He’s not surprised that like him, like James, you’re following in your parents’ footsteps. As the daughter of ridiculously successful lawyers, it’s a career path that makes perfect sense for you.

And the compassion also has him thankful for the partnership between your families, which has undoubtedly done you both some favors. First, Jake suspects that a few under-the-table deals have likely funded more than one of his childhood family vacations. And second, it adds credibility, at least from an outsider’s perspective, to the relationship the two of you are faking.

He does wonder why you’re undecided on law school, though. If law is your field of choice, it seems like a natural progression. Not to mention that as third-year university students, the two of you are running out of time for indecision. Jake is well-acquainted with this particular reality, but it strikes him as out of character that you are as well.

From the outside, at least, you’ve always been an image of perfection to him. Someone who has it all together, who has a ten-year plan and the actual conviction to see it through to the end. Unlike him, who’s still grasping at straws where all matters of his future are concerned.

A fact that he’s reminded of when you say, “You know, I didn’t exactly have high hopes, considering your academic track record, but that was perfect.” You shift in your seat, preparing for a challenge. “Okay, your turn. Quiz me.”

Your work has been undeniably easier. As opposed to the multi-page, double sided, single spaced abomination you handed him a few days ago, the Jake Sim cheat sheet still sitting on your night stand was nothing but a small assortment of facts that fit on a single sheet of paper.

But now, the subject of your major takes Jake from thinking about your future to thinking about the classes you’re currently taking. Which makes him think of something he hasn’t been able to let go of since his first tutoring session a few nights ago. Instead of cooperating, he hands the reins to what’s been weighing on his mind. “Are you taking any physics classes?”

“Ugh,” you groan. “You were doing so well. And you literally just answered that one. I’m a pre-law major, remember?”

But Jake needs to know. Doesn’t quite have the room to think about anything else right now. “Just answer the question.”

The glance you give him is scathing, but you can sense that he’s not going to let it go until he gets his answer. “No, I’m not taking physics.” Jake hates the way that odd feeling in his gut makes a sudden reappearance, hates the way it unclenches at your response. “I haven’t since high school. I hate that stupid subject.”

Still, he can’t stop himself from offering, “Well, if you ever do–”

“Did you listen to anything I just said?”

“I was pretty good at it in high school.” He’s only kind of lying. He was pretty decent at it, at least the times he bothered to finish his homework.

“... Okay?” You still don’t see a point to this sudden detour in the conversation.

“So I could, uh, I could help you out. If you ever have to take it for some reason, I could help with your homework and stuff.”

“Right, because the first person I would go to for homework help is definitely Mr. I Failed Economics Twice.” Jake can hear the sarcasm. He thinks to himself, a little miserably, that if you were actually picking someone to go to, it would probably be the same person tutoring Jake now. Your old physics tutor from high school.

Jake will pretend that the way that makes his blood pressure rise is only because he’s worried Jungwon won’t have as much time for their sessions if he picks you back up as a client.

“Don’t hold econ against me. They’re entirely different subjects–”

“Whatever.” You cut him off. “Who gives a shit about physics? Just quiz me.”

Jake wants to press it. He really does. Wants to ask his real questions, which have a lot less to do with physics and a lot more to do with a certain econ tutor, but it’s not like you’d entertain his curiosity there either. So he relents. “Fine.” Trying to remember what he even wrote on the sheet he gave you, he starts with, “My major is?”

“Business.” Slightly quieter, you mumble, “A questionable choice, if you ask me.”

“Hey!” Jake protests. “I didn’t add any commentary to your ridiculous answers.” And some of them had been ridiculous, indeed. “I mean, seriously. You made me memorize your five favorite necklines.”

“Clearly not, since you put sweetheart and off-the-shoulder in the wrong order.”

Jake just blinks. How are you a real person? “You are actually the most annoying person I have ever met.”

The dig rolls right off your shoulders as you return one of your own. “That’s hardly even an insult, considering the size of your social circle. It’s not my fault you don’t get out much.”

“It’s like you want me to kick you out on the side of the highway–”

“And show up to your family dinner without me? Yeah, sure.”

“Besides, you know that means you’re admitting to being more annoying than Heeseung–”

“On second thought, the side of the highway sounds nice. Feel free to drop me at the next mile marker.”

“Yeah?” Jake taunts, glancing down at your choice in footwear. Another pair of heels so tall he’s impressed you can walk at all. “You think those shoes would be comfortable to walk home in?” Taking one hand off the wheel, he leans over menacingly. “In fact, why don’t I break them in for you now–”

“Okay,” you push back at him in a way that’s probably unwise, considering the fact that he’s driving. “Okay. No extra comments from me.” You mime zipping your lips with your finger. “You’re a business major. End of answer.”

Jake doesn’t believe you for a second. But after pausing to send you a withering glare for good measure, he continues anyway. “Sport I played growing up?”

Much to his surprise, your answer is genuine, concise. “Soccer.” And correct.

“Pets?”

“Just a dog. Layla.”

As the road stretches on in front of you, back and forth quizzing takes you all the way to his parents’ house. As he pulls into the long driveway, Jake spares a glance in your direction. You wear an expression he hasn’t seen on you before.

It confuses him a little, worries him even, until he realizes–

“Hold on. Are you… nervous?”

“What about it?” Even visibly tense, your gut reaction is to deny, to make excuses. Finally, you admit, “It’s been a while since I’ve met anyone’s mom.”

Jake almost considers telling you that he’s pretty sure she’d redecorate one of the guest bedrooms and put your name on the door if she thought you’d like that, but decides against it.

“Hey,” he reaches for your hand instead, interlaces your fingers. “My mom will love you.” In fact, she probably already does. “It will be just fine.”

Jake supposes that divulging just one of her many messages from this week couldn’t hurt. Besides, he’s half afraid you’ll actually run back down the street the two of you just drove up if he doesn’t give you some sort of confidence boost. “She’s really excited to meet you. That cheat sheet of yours actually came in handy, because she asked me what your favorite kind of cookie is. She’s sending us back with a box of homemade snickerdoodles tonight.” What Jake doesn’t mention is the fact that he’s never been big on cinnamon.

“Really?”

“Mhm. So there’s no need to wor–”

“What about your dad?”

“My dad is…” Jake trails off, searching for the right words. “He’s a businessman. In a lot of ways, he’s difficult. And very set in his ways, which makes him particular. But on the outside, he’s easy to get along with. He wants to make a good impression on people. And even if he didn’t, you really don’t have anything to worry about there either. His biggest concern is always how things will reflect on the company, and you’re pretty much as perfect as it gets in that regard.” Pausing for a moment, he adds, “And we both know my brother’s kind of obsessed with you.”

And he really did set himself up for it, he realizes, the second you turn to him with a wink and say, “Must run in the family.” Jake won’t even argue with you on that one for now. His mission was to get you out of your head and back to your usual self. The version of you that he knows and occasionally tolerates. The version of you that could probably win an Oscar for playing the role of is fake girlfriend, if you really put your mind to it.

So before you can start to linger on your worries again, Jake steps out of the car. Makes quick work of walking around the front to open the passenger side door for you.

When he offers you, and outstretched hand, you take it. This time, it’s you that initiates the interlacing of your fingers. Glancing at the expanse of the home in front of you – although mansion may be a better word for it – you take a deep breath.

“Ready?” Jake echoes your words from your family’s fundraiser just a week ago.

You’re a little less confident this go around. “As I’ll ever be.”

Jake, too caught up in his attempts to soothe your frayed nerves, forgets to warn you that Layla can be a bit of a jumper, especially with new people. Sure enough, the first person to greet the two of you as spoon as he turns the doorknob is his favorite family pet. Honestly, Jake is a little more concerned about the bottle of wine in your hands than anything.

Especially when, just as he remembered a little too late, Layla makes quick work of giving you an overexcited greeting.

When he does finally manage to get her mostly off of you, he’s relieved to note that the alcohol is unharmed. With a bit more trepidation, he lets his eyes wander up to your face. It’s a safe bet, he thinks, that someone with five favorite necklines isn’t a fan of obnoxious furry greetings.

To his surprise, however, the only expression he reads is pleasant surprise.

“This is Layla?” You ask. Jake nods, still a bit strained from the way he’s preventing Layla from trying to lick at your face and leave paw prints on your jeans.

But that’s not what you’re thinking about. No, you’ve suddenly been transported to an unfortunate forty-five minutes wasted in a restaurant all on your own. The catalyst of all of this.

Because Layla is the same dog you saw while doom scrolling James’ social media profile. You thought she was cute, back then, sandwiched between gym selfies and other photos more telling of James’ awful personality.

But now, looking at the way she almost seems to smile while Jake scratches her behind the ears, wraps her up in a big, warm hug, you think you just might like her even more.

You’ve never seen your fake boyfriend look at anything with so much… fondness. It’s palpable, all of his pent up love, as he lets some of it loose to shower Layla with it. Everything about him is a little easier, a little more relaxed. You can see it in the set of his shoulders, the absence of tension in his jaw.

Most of all, you see it in his smile. Bright, warm, genuine. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him wear that expression before. It suits him, you think, as you reach down to give her a greeting of your own.

“Hi, Layla,” you smile, reaching down to pat her on the head.

And if that makes Jake turn to look at you with a little too much fondness, you’ll assume it’s just lingering remnants of his reunion with his favorite girl. Layla, that is.

You’re pretty sure the two of them could spend hours just catching up, especially when Layla turns onto her back in a silent demand for tummy rubs, but a voice from a nearby room cuts it short.

“Jake?” A distinctly feminine voice calls. “Is that you?”

“Well,” Jake gives Layla one final pat for good measure, turns his eyes to you as he stands. “Shall we?”

You don’t mean to be, but you’re nervous again. This is his family, his space, his mother. Not only are you a stranger here, but one that’s been invited under false pretenses. There are too many things to fuck up, too many ways you could send this evening spinning sideways by accident.

Here in the entryway, with just you, Jake, and Layla, things feel peaceful, simple. You know that just a few steps in the direction of his mother’s voice will turn that calm in your chest upside the head. You’re not ready for it. You’re not.

You don’t respond to Jake’s invitation, but he reads your hesitation all the same.

“Hey,” he whispers, all the hard edges gone from his voice as he steps a little closer. “She’s gonna love you.” Again, his hand finds yours, slides his fingers through your own and finds little resistance on your end.

She. You don’t know how he knows, when you haven’t told him, but it’s true. You don’t care all that much about pleasing his father and even less so about making a good impression on his brother, but his mom…

You care. You don’t know why, but you care.

And you don’t know how, but Jake knows.

You hope his words aren’t empty reassurances as you let him tug at your hand, pull you a little further into his home, wrap you a little more inextricably into the threads of his life.

His mother waits for you in the living room. A head or two shorter than her youngest son, she has nothing but a smile for him as she pulls him into a hug, reaching up to wrap her hand around the back of his shoulders.

Your hand is still linked with his. The angle makes it somewhat awkward, but neither of you is quite ready to let go.

Looking over his shoulder, her eyes settle on you. Breath suddenly stuttering in your chest, your knees feel a little wobbly underneath you.

Jake won’t let you fall. As soon as his mother releases her embrace, he’s tugging you closer. He undoes the bind of your hands only to wrap his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side.

“Mom,” he introduces, smiling. “This is ___,” eyes locking with yours, he adds , “my girlfriend.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was proud of the fact.

And then his mother is looking at you. Really looking at you. It’s hard not to wither under her stare, hard not to brace for the results of her inevitable appraisal. But where you expect to see scrutiny, judgment, disdain, you only see a smile. A warm one. A real one.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she says, and you almost have the feeling that she means it.

Remembering yourself, your role for the evening, you give her a smile of your own. “It’s lovely to meet you too.” You hope your voice is more steady than it feels. “You have a beautiful home. Thank you for inviting me to it.” Remembering the bottle of wine still encased in your hold, you hold it out towards her. “And this is for you.”

“Oh,” she beams, accepting the gift. Reading the label, she admonishes lightly, “You shouldn’t have. How did you know this is my absolute favorite?”

Glancing at her son, you admit, “I may have had some help.”

“Well at least one of us got some guidance.” She leans towards you, pulling your arm into her own and leaving Jake behind the two of you. “Tell me, what do you prefer? White or red?”

“Usually white.”

Jake rolls his eyes at your answer, or rather, the brevity of it. According to the stack of papers you made him memorize, your real answer is…

Chardonnay with poultry, sauvignon blanc with seafood, pinot grigio with dessert, pinot noir with red meat (unless it’s ribeye, then cabernet sauvignon)...

But it does make him smile, the way you fall into step at his mother’s side so naturally. The way she makes you flush when she gives you yet another compliment on your hair or your outfit or your beauty.

Even the protest dies on his lips when he hears her whisper a little too loudly, “And how do you put up with him when he’s in one of his moods? You know, the one where he gets all cranky and can’t be reasoned with at all.”

At her side, you just giggle. Jake would be lying if he said he didn’t think it was kind of adorable.

He likes it, watching you and his mom together. Watching her light up at the chance to finally have a pretty girl to fawn over. His mother loves her sons – Jake has never doubted this for a moment – but there’s a certain kind of connection that only comes with a daughter.

It’s a shame, he thinks, that your own mother is in the habit of squandering it with criticism and shame and admonishment.

Watching the two of you now, Jake isn’t sure if he’s ever seen his mom enjoy herself more. When the three of you reach the dining room, she insists that you take the seat directly across from her. Even in her excitement, she won’t let anyone fill the seat next to you except for your boyfriend.

It’s sweet, the way she dotes on you. And Jake is content to just watch, for the time being, hoping you and her both enjoy it as long as you can.

Until New Year’s, that voice in his head reminds him. And suddenly, even with the back half of a semester in front of him, the holidays don’t seem so far away.

The conversation only dies down slightly when his father and brother enter the room. Even in the comfort of his own home, his father strikes an imposing presence. He’s not cold when he introduces himself to you, reaching out an arm for a firm handshake, but there is no extra warmth embedded in the action either. After sending his youngest son a nod, he takes his seat at the head of the table.

James doesn’t bother with formalities. Sliding down next to his mother, he’s already a little smug when he says, “Hi Jake.” Pausing, he glances towards you. “___.”

“James,” you return, smile significantly faker than it was moments ago.

Jake is debating how worth it it would be if he kicked his older brother under the table when the first course is brought out, interrupting that train of thought.

After passing the first set of dishes around and filling your plates, his mother is the first to pose a question. To test your thorough preparation for the evening.

“So,” she asks, taking a sip of wine. “How did you two meet?”

And it’s such an obvious question. Such a painfully straightforward inquiry and yet somehow, too wrapped up in getting a contract signed and memorizing each other’s fun facts, it’s something the two of you completely neglected to cover.

You both freeze, absence of a mutually agreed-upon backstory making you look like twin deer in headlights where you sit next to each other.

A beat passes. Two.

You say, “a mutual friend” at the same exact moment he says, “a class.”

Passing each other panicked looks, you smooth things over with a shaky, “A mutual friend in our class.” After a steadying breath, you add, “We have a mutual friend in our class, and he introduced us.”

“Oh, how nice.” Jake’s mom smiles. Turning to her youngest son, she asks, “Which friend was it? Someone I know?”

“Heeseung,” Jake nods, just as you say, “Sunghoon.”

This time, Jake is the one to cover your tracks.

“My friend Heeseung and her friend Sunghoon know each other,” he explains. “I guess it’s technically two mutual friends, since we met through them.”

“And all four of you are in the same class together,” Jake’s mom is still beaming. “That’s awfully lucky. What a coincidence.”

“You could say that again,” James mumbles under his breath across the table, decidedly less enchanted by the false tale of your first meeting. And considerably more suspicious. His eyebrow is arched when he asks, “What class did you say it was, again?”

Your brain scrambles only for a second. “Econ,” you answer quickly. Jake’s struggles aside, you figure that it's your best bet, considering that at least two of the four people you’ve listed are actually in that class.

The glare that strikes the side of your face from Jake’s seat is frigid enough to kill a houseplant.

“Econ,” James echoes flatly. And then something a little sinister enters his eyes. His spine straightens, poised for offense, when he directs to you, “I hope Dr. Kang isn’t as much of a hardass as he was when I was in school.”

You open your mouth to reply, probably to bite back with something along the lines of the class actually being rather easy, or you having a stellar rapport with Dr. Kang.

But Jake spots the trap before you can fall into it and cuts you off just as quickly. “It’s Dr. Jeong, actually.” He’s not glaring at his brother, but there’s no extra kindness in his stare. “I’m sure you remember, since you always say that he was your favorite professor.”

“Oh.” James’ eyes slide to his little brother. “That’s right. My mistake.” But his words make you think the switch in names was intentional bait, not a lapse in memory. Bait you almost fell for.

Before you can let the implications of that sink in, Jake’s father directs his attention towards you, speaking for the first time. “You’re a business major, too, then.” It’s not exactly a question, even though he doesn’t know for certain. Even though he’s wrong. But men like Jake’s father don’t get to where they are by asking questions. They get there by making assumptions and talking over everyone else in the room until wills bend to their whim and reality is what they’ve made it.

Still, Jake’s voice is steady when he corrects, “No she’s a pre-law major.”

Something flashes in his father’s eyes, but he says nothing.

His mother, on the other hand, passes her youngest son a look. “I think ___ can speak for herself.”

It’s under his breath, but just a little too audible for comfort when Jake argues, “Not after I just had to memorize–”

“The entire case with me!” The sudden volume of your outburst rings awkwardly in the air. Adjusting your voice, you add to your explanation, “We got a crazy complicated case assigned in criminal law a couple weeks ago.” If the elbow nudge you give Jake is a little too hard, no one bats an eye at the way he winces slightly. “I’ve been talking about it so much I’m sure Jake has practically memorized it.”

Jake’s father hears what he wants to. Picks through the pieces of what you say and paints his own picture. “It’s nice to see a young person so dedicated to their studies.” No one at the table misses the way his eyes slide over to his second son. “And the family business by extension. I’ve always liked your parents,” he nods to you. “And they’ve been excellent partners. You’re going to law school, then, I assume? After you graduate.”

Jake can practically see the answer you typed out for him, words stamped in his brain from the amount of times he forced himself to look over them. My major is pre-law, you’d written in a font that’s almost as high maintenance as you. I’m considering attending law school after finishing undergrad, but I’m still undecided.

But then he hears you say, “That’s the plan.”

Jake can’t quite help the way he glances over at you, a question on his face, written all over his features. The two responses can’t hold true at the same time.

One of your answers, either the one you typed for him or the one you’ve just given his father, is a lie. If the way your shoulders round slightly is any indication, he thinks the packet you gave him must be the real one.

But as his father nods at you approvingly across the table, you just smile at Jake. Then you shake your head slightly, almost imperceptibly. He reads it as you intend it – a silent signal to move on and act as if nothing’s amiss. A nonverbal request to just let it go.

Across the table from the two of you, his mother is the one to speak next, to divert the conversation from one area of dangerous territory to another. “James tells me that you two were together at your family’s fundraiser event.” Like Jake considered earlier, it’s all you can do not to kick him under the table at the reminder. That gossipping little shit. “You’ll have to pass on my apology to your mother that we couldn’t make it. But I have to say, I’m surprised the two of you decided to announce your relationship by attending together.” She frowns, but there’s a lightness in her tone that tells you she’s not mad, not really. “And I still can’t believe you made me hear it from your brother!”

Jake, thankfully, handles that one with ease. “We’ve been keeping things pretty close to the chest these last few weeks.” He glances at you fondly, and you have to applaud him. From the outside, you think it must look quite genuine. “We just liked each other.” Under the table, he takes your hand back in his. You assume that he’s just caught in the moment, forgets the fact that there’s no way for his family to see the display of affection. “We wanted to see where things would go.” Turning back to his mother, he adds, somewhat apologetically, “It was never meant to be some big announcement. Of course, I would have told you, Mom, when we did actually announce our relationship.” Jake lets his eyes fall on his older brother. “If someone hadn’t beat me to it.”

You can see the way James’ hackles rise, and so can she.

Sensing the potential for another argument to brew, his mother cuts in again, smoothing over the tension. “Well, what’s done is done.” Turning to you, she smiles. “And we’re very happy to have you here, ___. I hope my son is treating you well.”

Jake isn’t sure how you manage to do it without grimacing, without turning up your nose at the lie, but you assure his mother, “He is.” And your smile looks almost genuine. “The very best,”

Jake isn’t the only one that seems to think that you mean it. Across the table, his mother swoons while James crumples a little. His father just looks mildly disinterested, if anything.

And those expressions remain steady for the rest of the evening, more or less, as you and Jake take turns spinning tales of the early days of your romance. He divulges the details of the outfit you were wearing on your so-called first date (a top with a sweetheart neckline, not off-the-shoulder), and you supplement with a tall tale of the time Jake saved you from getting soaked to the bone when he showed up outside of your lecture hall with an umbrella after a torrential downpour began out of nowhere.

After a while, even his beaming mother can only handle so much sappiness, and she begins the end of the evening by excusing herself, referencing an early morning tomorrow as her reason for leaving. After giving you both one final hug, she bids you both goodnight. His father follows soon after, sans hug, leaving the table to take an urgent business call.

In an effort to escape James and his wandering eye, Jake is quick to excuse the two of you moments later, whispering some half hearted excuse about giving you a tour of the house. To his credit, he does actually lead you around a handful of rooms on the first floor, but the tour is cut short by the time the two of you go up the stairs and step out onto the outdoor balcony on the second floor.

The cool autumn air is refreshing, washes away lingering anxieties from a few close calls, a handful of narrow escapes from certain fiascos. From keeping up your hastily constructed lies for an entire evening.

For long minutes, the two of you are content to say nothing at all. And Jake isn’t uncomfortable in the silence, but after a while, he still searches for something to fill it. Something to get a conversation going. Something to see where your head's at. He finally settles on, “I can’t believe we forgot to come up with a story of how we met.”

He half expects you to say something scathing. To use your wit to insult or blame him for the lack of foresight, but you don’t. Instead, you exhale. And then you agree, somewhat amused, “Me neither.”

“I think we did alright, though,” Jake reasons. He hates to admit it, but, “That cheat sheet idea of yours came in handy, after all.”

Again, he doesn’t get the sarcasm he expects. “No kidding.” And then you’re the one looking for ways to keep the interaction flowing. Something to fill the silence. “Your mom seems nice.”

“She is,” Jake nods. And he knew she would like you just as much. “She’s the person I’m closest to in my family.”

“Mm,” you hum. You can see why. She’s warm in a way that your own has never been. But it’s not like Jake exactly got dealt an easy hand when it comes to family members. You mean it when you tell him, “Your brother still sucks.”

Jake just laughs. “And I wouldn’t hold my breath for that to change anytime soon.”

A half smile pulls at your lips. It’s replaced by a small frown when you suppose it’s time to comment on the last guest of the evening. “You were right, in the car. Your dad is… intense.” It’s not like you exactly hit the jackpot of parental relationships, but you can’t imagine it’s easy for Jake to have a father like that, to have grown up with those expectations, those scrutinizing eyes, weighing on his shoulders.

Instead of responding, Jake just looks at you for a moment. His eyes trace your profile, committing details to memory, as you look out at the night in front of you. And then he says, “Can I ask you something?”

You sigh. You’re still not looking at him, but you can sense the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Aren’t you going to anyway?”

Jake shakes his head even though you can’t see it. “I wouldn’t have asked for permission if I was going to anyway.”

A moment of silence rings in the air. And then, “Okay.”

Jake isn’t sure what you’re referring to. “Okay, you agree or okay, I can ask?”

At that, you turn to look at him. “Both, I guess.”

Jake meets your eye, considers the best way to ask what’s been weighing on his mind for the better part of the evening. “When my dad asked you about law school,” he starts, “why did you tell him that you’re planning to go? You wrote that you still aren’t sure on the paper you gave me.”

You only pause for a moment. “It’s what he wanted to hear.”

“What?” There’s no evasiveness in your words, but Jake is still looking for clarity.

Sighing, you elaborate, “Your dad didn’t want to hear about my indecisiveness when it comes to the future. He wanted to hear about the plan I have. One that would make sense to him. So I told him what he wanted to hear.” Breaking eye contact, you look back out at the stars. “Sometimes, it’s just easier that way.”

But Jake still has one other question. He might be pressing his luck, but he asks anyway, “Why haven’t you decided? About law school, I mean?”

Your gaze lands somewhere in the distance, somewhere it might take light years to reach. “What do you want to hear?”

For the second time, Jake asks,“What?”

It’s ironic, almost, how easily you’re able to rifle through his insecurities, his inner thoughts. “What do you want to hear? Something that will make you feel better about having questions about your future? Something that will make you believe you’ll have everything figured out soon?” The stars blink above you, and you ask him again, “What answer do you want to hear from me?”

Jake realizes it then, under the glow of fading moonlight, why you’ve always been an image of perfection to him. It’s not accidental, but it’s also not entirely honest. Perfection, he realizes, is your identity of choice – it’s what you think other people want from you. So you construct it, you practice it, you create it. And then you give it. You let people do what they want with it.

But Jake isn’t asking about your future career plans because he’s trying to feel better about himself. He’s not trying to stack up your lives next to each other and see how his compares. He’s not trying to put cracks in the exterior you’ve worked so hard to maintain.

But he does want a glimpse of what’s underneath.

So when he answers, he opts for a third option. “The truth.” Above you, the moon glows. “I want to hear the truth.”

If it catches you off guard, you recover quickly. You’re not sure what it is about this moment that has you wanting to spill your guts, but you can’t remember the last time someone asked. The last time someone cared.

So you tell him, with all your honesty, “I don’t want to go to law school. I never have. My mother has made it clear that that’s the expectation, though. So I can’t decide how willing I am to estrange myself completely. To potentially lose what’s left of our relationship.”

Jake listens. He hears you. He gets it. “What would you do?”

It’s another answer that comes easy, even though the question hasn’t been asked by anyone in a long, long time. “Architecture.” Your smile is small, but it’s real. “I had a great aunt who was an architect. And she always used to tell me, when I was kid, that the secret is to put a little love into everything you build. It doesn’t have to be actual buildings, of course. That was just her thing, y’know? The thing she could always put a little love into, even on the hard days.” You sigh. “Truth be told, I don’t hate law. It’s interesting, and I’m good at it. But it’s not something I’ve ever been able to put a little love into.”

You turn to him, words still ringing in the air. You ask, “What about you? Was business always your calling?”

If you can give him the truth, Jake supposes he ought to return the favor. “To be honest, I have no idea. It was never a question. It was always a given that I would study business and take on some kind of role in the company.” He turns over your great aunt’s words in his mind. “But I don’t think it’s something I have any love for. Not even a little.”

“So what would you do?” You echo his question back to him. “If you could do anything?”

Jake’s answer comes less easily. “I don’t know.” You raise an eyebrow. “I really don’t. To be honest, I don’t even think I could tell you most of the other majors that are offered at our university. It’s always been business. It’s what my whole family does. Even Jay, my closest friend, is a business major too.” Jake realizes how odd that must sound, but it’s true. “It’s all I really know.”

“Hm,” you muse. He can see the wheels spinning in your brain, the beginning of an idea. “Maybe it’s time for you to find your thing, then. Somewhere to put your love.”

“Yeah, right,” Jake scoffs. He doesn’t think that’s possible, and especially not at this point. “I may not ever be the CEO, but I still don’t want my dad to disown me. And besides, we’re in our third year. Not exactly the best time to change my major.”

“Yeah,” you agree, but Jake can tell you still haven’t quite let it go. “I suppose you’re right.”

This time, when the silence between you returns, you let it linger. With nothing but the pale glow of the night sky and quiet whispers of the wind, long moments bleed into each other. You take it all in, let it all wash over you – the stillness, the chill of an autumn breeze, the presence of the boy at your side.

And it’s a long time before either of you moves again.

…

At this point, Jake really should be used to ominous, slightly threatening messages from you. Still, he can’t help but stutter a bit when he checks his phone after another tutoring session with Jungwon the following week.

Without any family events looming on the horizon, you and Jake have had a few days to yourselves without any fake dating facade to follow. Aside from the white lies Jake slips Jungwon every now and then, he hasn’t seen or mentioned you since e dropped you back off at your apartment after dinner at his parents’ house last weekend.

His thoughts, however, are an entirely different matter. No matter where he is, what he’s doing, they have the very annoying habit of always straying back to the same scene. A moonlit balcony. A cool autumn breeze. The most scraps of truth he’s ever been given from you at once. A thousand misconceptions shattered and reconstructed all in a single moment.

Still, Jake’ not quite sure how to interpret the message that greets him, other than as a very direct threat.

You [7:48 pm]: Meet me at the far end of the quad next to the library tomorrow at 2:45 or I’m telling your brother we broke up and I have uncontrollable romantic feelings for him

Jake [8:02 pm]: Should I be scared?

He’s not reassured by your reply.

You [8:04 pm]: :)

So Jake is standing on the far end of the quad, beside the library, the next afternoon at 2:42 when he sees you approaching.

The first thing you do when you finally reach him is swat at the baseball cap he’s wearing, knocking it askew. “What are you, a frat boy?”

“It’s sunny,” Jake defends, fixing his hat. Something you’re well aware of, if the obnoxiously large sunglasses balanced on the bridge of your nose are anything to go by.

“You know,” you tilt your head, giving it a second thought. “The hat might be kind of perfect, actually.” Deciding to divulge the reason for your message, you tell him, “I need you to come somewhere with me.”

“What?” Jake balks, suddenly thrown by the lack of details. He needs a little more warning than this, if he’s expected to play the role of your boyfriend convincingly. “Is this,” he leans in close, waits for a group of students to pass by before he whispers apprehensively, “a contract thing?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I mean, don’t like, start hitting on other girls in front of witnesses or anything, but we don’t have to act like a couple.”

Now, Jake is even more confused. “Then where are we going?”

Never one to give in easily, all you say is, “You’ll see.”

Jake crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you give me more information.”

“I literally have James’ phone number in my favorites.”

He holds his ground. “And I have the right to know where you’re taking me!”

“Ugh,” you roll your eyes. “Fine. We’re going to the Student Union Building.” A multipurpose building in the center of campus, it’s a typical place for events that are too large to be hosted anywhere else. Which really doesn’t give Jake much to work with.

“Why?” His question is slow, suspicious.

“My god.” You throw your hands in annoyance. “I’m going to have to start paying Jungwon double if this is how annoying you are when you have a question about something. Just come with me,” you reiterate. “You’ll see what we’re doing soon enough.”

“But–”

It doesn’t matter, you’re already grabbing his hand in yours, more or less dragging him through the quad towards the Student Union Building before he can get his protest out. Jake’s eyebrows are still creased in confusion when you pull him through the front doors and he sees the unusually large crowd of people inside.

Then, he sees the banner hanging from the ceiling. His lips flatten into a thin line.

“Absolutely not.” But you’re already behind him, blocking his exit and pushing him towards the makeshift check-in counter.

“Hi!” The student employee greets, far too cheerfully in Jake’s opinion. If she notices the way your knuckles are white around his arm, holding him in place, she doesn’t comment on it. Jake pulls his hat down further over his eyes. “Are you two here for the Explore Our Majors event?”

“Yep,” you beam. And Jake is actually going to kill you. “I’m in my third year here, but my friend Ja–”

“Jacob,” Jake intercedes.

“Right.” You spare a glance at him. “My friend Jacob.” You’re still way too excited when you lie, “He’ll be a freshman soon, and he’s hoping to look around and see all the different programs that are offered here. Do we need to go in a certain order or anything? Or is there somewhere we need to sign in?”

There better not be. Like hell is he putting the name Jake Sim on a sign-in sheet for a major exploration event for freshmen. It’s not like his father has time to poke around at things like this, but his claws and connections run deep where this school is concerned. And Jake imagines he would be less than pleased to find out his son is wasting his time doing something so frivolous. Or something that could signal any kind of disinterest in the future that’s been laid out for him, his eventual place at his father’s company.

“Nope,” she smiles. “Each major has its own table, and majors are grouped by college. So all the STEM tables are over there, for example,” she points over to where a group of high school seniors are flipping through pamphlets. “You can just wander around as you like and chat with the people at the tables. There’s a mix of students and faculty. Oh, and each major should have a pamphlet you can pick up too, if you’d like.”

“Great,” you grin back. “Thank you.”

Again, if she sees the way you practically have to yank Jake by the arm to get him to move, she doesn’t comment on it. But once you’re out of earshot, he does lean down to hiss in your ear, “Why the fuck are we at the Explore Our Majors event for incoming freshmen?”

“Why do you think?” Your voice is entirely too loud. He has half a mind to slap his palm over your mouth to prevent you from spilling his secrets here in the middle of the Student Union Building’s largest event hall. “We’re finding you somewhere to put your love.” The large group of girls that walks by do a double take and then proceed to take turns shooting him death glares.

Jake panics. “Would you stop saying it like that?”

You roll your eyes, paying the group of girls and his worries no mind. “Don’t knock my great aunt. Anyway, where do you want to start? Should we go over to the STEM tables?” Pausing to consider, you ask, “Or is your performance in econ more indicative of your math and science skills in general? We could look for liberal ar–”

“I just told you this weekend that I was good at physics.” It may have been a white lie, but who’s keeping track?

“Oh, right.” You nod, eyes already searching for the table in question. “Should we go there, then?”

“No,” Jake shakes his head immediately. “I was good at it.” Questionable. “But I didn’t really like it.” A lot more true.

“Alright,” you agree. Spinning to look in the other direction, you take him with you “Humanities it is. Or we could always go the fine arts route.” You turn to look at him for a moment, assessing. “You know, I feel like you would actually be a great dancer. You have the face for it.”

“Has that ever made sense to anyone you’ve said it to?”

“Wouldn’t know.” You shrug. “You’re the first.” Trying not to read too much into that, Jake lets you pull him along until you’re standing in front of a table with a rather gaudy ‘Journalism’ banner hanging on the front.

“Hi,” you smile at the students standing behind it. Jake pulls his hat down a little further. You don’t know a whole lot about journalism other than the basics, but you’re pretty sure they’re also in charge of student media on campus. “You guys run the student newspaper, right?”

Picking up a pamphlet, you nod as the boy behind the table answers brightly, “Yeah, we do.” He’s proud when he adds, “Our last issue was one of our most read yet. We ran a really great article on the front page about the importance of understanding how economic trends affect our daily lives–”

Delicately setting the pamphlet back down on the table, you glance at Jake before apologizing to the overeager boy, “I’m sorry, but I think Jacob and I are gonna head to the next table.”

ANd then you’re dragging him along again.

“Okay,” you turn to Jake once you’re out of earshot, “So that’s a veto for journalism. What about other kinds of writing? You point to a table a few rows away. There’s the creative writing table.”

Jake shakes his head. “Even discussion board posts are like pulling teeth.”

“Noted.” Your jaw sets with a little too much determination for his liking. “Minimal writing it is, then.”

The two of you pass several more tables in the same fashion, Jake shutting each one down before you have a chance to so much as grab a pamphlet.

There’s history, but who cares about dead people? English, but he’s seen the career outlook and he’d rather not study unemployment, thank you very much. Sociology, but he already lives in society. Why would he waste his time studying it?

Finally, you point out a major that he doesn't have anything scathing to say about within the first five seconds. “Graphic design,” you nod towards the table a few spots away. “That could be interesting.”

Jake hates to admit it, but he kind of thinks so too. He does think visual design is pretty interesting, and marketing and advertising have always been some of his favorite aspects of business. He’s about to say fuck it and fully embrace Jacob the incoming freshman when he notices one glaring problem. The graphic design table is set up right next to the business table.

A nonissue, really, except for the fact that students are helping to run this event. And as you drag him closer, Jake realizes with mounting dread that he recognizes one of the faces spending an afternoon trying to convince high schoolers that choosing a business major will change their lives for the better.

He turns to make a break for it before you can reinforce your grip on his arm and physically drag him with you, but it’s too late.

“Jake?” he hears a horribly familiar voice call. “Is that you?” Turning around slowly, he knows he’ been caught. Jake kind of wishes the ground would open up and swallow him. The only thing he wants to do is melt into the floor.

“It is you,” Jay says upon closer inspection. And because you seem so hellbent on making his life even more painful, you pull him with you until the two of you are right in front of his best friend. “What the hell are you doing here?” Jay asks him. “You said you had a date.”

Butting in on the conversation, your smile is entirely too smug when you turn to Jake. “You said what now?”

Glancing at you, Jay’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to connect the dots. “You were telling the truth? Dude, that’s even worse.” Jay looks at you almost like he’s trying to apologize on behalf of his friend. “You’re not exactly wine-ing and dining her, here.”

“Hi,” you introduce, extending a hand. Jay shakes it warily. “I’m ___. Jake’s…” you search for a good term to use, and finally, with a private smile, settle on, “plus-one.”

“To an Explore Our Majors event?” That clears up none of Jay’s confusion. He turns back to Jake. “What the hell? Are you going on dates with incoming freshmen–”

“This is my third year,” you interrupt again. “We’re just looking around.”

“Hold on,” Jay pauses, a flash of recognition crossing his features as he studies you for a moment. “You’re the ___ that Jake was trying to get a phone number from for his brother, right? Is that what’s going on? Are you making him do a bunch of stupid shit like this to get it?”

You shrug, glancing at Jake. “You could say that.”

Jake has to give it to you. You’re a lot better at beating around the bush, at avoiding giving straight answers about the nature of your relationship, than he is. Jay looks more confused than anything at your evasiveness. If James were to somehow hunt him down and inquire about the validity of your relationship, Jake is positive that his friend would have absolutely no idea how to answer.

A reassuring idea, other than the fact that Jake is also sure Jay will be hunting him down after this to get the real story, since he couldn’t get it from you. Targeting the weaker prey, a classic strategy.

“Anyway,” you build yourself an out. “We’re gonna go check out the graphic design table.”

You tug at Jake’s wrist, but he stands his ground this time. Thoroughly embarrassed and done letting you pull him around, he tries to back you into a corner with one of your tricks from the fundraiser. “We should get going, actually,” he argues pointedly. “Look at the time. We don’t want to be late for…” Unfortunately, he’s still no better at coming up with excuses, “that thing.”

You roll your eyes at the obvious trick. “Don’t worry.” Your smile is sugary, but your eyes flash with warning. “I canceled it. Let’s go.”

This time when you redouble your efforts to drag him to the graphic design table, he has no choice but to follow, a little miserably. Behind the business table, Jay has zero idea what to make of what he just witnessed.

As the students at the graphic design table start their spiel, Jake is glad at least one of you is paying attention. You nod along enthusiastically while the student representative talks your ear off about the pros and cons of various online photo editing programs, asking well-timed follow-up questions as you expertly skim the pamphlet you’re handed simultaneously.

Jake, on the other hand, still coming down from the mortification of being caught, is suddenly a little caught up in the way your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. A light pressure he could easily work his way out of. But despite himself, he’s having a hard time coming up with any motivation to do so.

Distantly, he concentrates on the sensation. Your skin is soft, warm. The gentle pressure of your fingers is a tether to you. And in this moment, it’s a reminder that out of everyone in his life, you’re the first to be so obnoxiously concerned with what his interests are, where his passions lie.

Despite his rightful protests against attending this event, he can read your intentions behind bringing him here. And it would be a lie if he said he didn’t appreciate them, just a little.

At this point in his life and academic career, he feels a little bit like a toddler you’ve thrown in a pool to try and teach to swim. It’s hard for him to tread water, to keep his head above the waves, when the solid ground he’s used to is suddenly replaced by new matter entirely.

But if Jake is sure of one thing, it’s that he won’t drown. How could he, with the lifeline of your arm still reaching out towards him? With the steadiness of your fingers still wrapped around him? He thinks you just might save him too, if you saw him drowning. Would pull him in and teach him to float on his back. To work with the water instead of against it.

To swim, even when the water gets rough.

At your side, terms like visual communications and web design and typography all blur together. And Jake’s focus is still narrowed in on the pulse point on his wrist, the way his heartbeat is entrusted in your unwavering grip.

…

Jake has a well-practiced routine for checking his econ grade whenever results of a new assignment or exam are posted.

First, he makes sure that anything fragile or breakable is out of his reach. Then, he lights a scented candle. Setting the new one he just bought a few days ago on his desk, he checks the label again. Lavender Dreams. It’s all he can do not to laugh, a little miserably. Well, he supposes, thinking back to your words a couple of weeks ago, time to find out if lavender is actually calming.

Third, he makes sure he has no other important plans for the day. Nowhere else to be, nothing to do that he can’t show up for in a ruined mood. Because that is usually what happens during this little ritual of his.

Finally, his last step is to look up at the ceiling of his bedroom, imagine the sky above it, and whisper one, desperate, “Please.”

Then he sits at his desk and opens his laptop to greet his fate with a grimace and a racing heart. Today, Jake follows all the same steps until he’s navigating to his university’s learning management platform. He clicks on the Econ tab, slowly releases a breath he wasn’t meaning to hold.

His shoulders tense at the notification of a newly inputted grade that pops up, the icon begging for his attention. He inhales deeply, letting the smell of lavender enter his nose and hopefully work some magic in his nervous system.

Maybe he should adjust his ritual, he thinks, mouse hovering over the new grade notification. Maybe he should start burning incense or something, cleansing the air of any bad energy before he looks. In his indecision, his finger slips, presses, clicks.

And Jake doesn’t quite have time to screw his eyes shut before the number flashes on his screen.

Oh, he is so fucked.

So, so, so, terribly, absolutely, completely fucked.

It shouldn’t be a surprise at this point, that the score of his latest homework problem set is a–

Wait.

Jake opens his eyes, just barely, peeking at the screen again.

82.

Jake pauses for a moment. His eyes open completely. His brow pulls down in confusion.

82. He double checks to make sure he’s seeing the grade correctly, that the numbers haven’t somehow been reversed.

They haven’t. 82. It’s his real, true, honest to god score. It’s a B. A low B, but that’s still the highest econ grade Jake has seen since his third round of the syllabus quiz.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

Jake kind of doesn’t know what to do with his body, with all of the extra energy he suddenly has. In that moment, he thinks he could do anything. If Jungwon were here, Jake thinks he might actually kiss him on the mouth.

82. It’s not enough to save his grade, not yet. But if it’s a trend that continues, Jake Sim just might finally pass econ.

He goes to text his tutor the good news, to confirm their next session, but finds that Jungwon has beat him to it. Fingers still slightly shaky from the excess of nerves, he reads the new messages.

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:03 pm]: Hey, I saw that the latest homework grades were released. Lmk how you did!

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:04 pm]: Also, sorry to do this kind of last minute, but I’m not gonna be able to meet you at our regular time tomorrow. We could reschedule if there’s another time that works for you? Or we could just wait and meet again next week.

Frowning, Jake reads the message again. He’s still riding the high of a B- and is reluctant to do anything that might prevent it in the future, including missing a tutoring session.

Jake [7:10 pm]: Is there any way we could still meet tomorrow? Maybe before our usual time.

Jake [7:10 pm]: And I got an 82! You’re actually a lifesaver

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:12 pm]: That’s great!

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:12 pm]: I’m sorry, but I don’t think tomorrow afternoon will work either. I’m going to the university skating competition to support a friend

Yang Jungwon (Econ Tutor) [7:12 pm]: You probably know him actually. Him and ___ are good friends too lol. It’s Park Sunghoon

Jake rereads the message, sighs. He supposes it makes sense. He can’t really fault his godsend of a tutor for wanting to support a long-time friend at one of the most important competitions of his season. Still, Jake’s a little slammed this week, and the thought of missing a tutoring session is enough to sober him from the thrill of his latest assignment grade.

Park Sunghoon. Jake has only met him once – in search of you, or rather, your phone number – and he doubts Sunghoon remembers much of that interaction. Jake doesn’t really know anything about him, other than the fact that he’s rumored to be one of the best skaters to come through this school and that he’s apparently good friends with both you and Jungwon–

Wait.

Oh no. Oh no.

Jungwon can’t go to Sunghoon’s skating competition tomorrow. Because Jake is almost positive you’ll be there too, is pretty sure you and Jungwon are probably going together. If there’s a flare of jealousy in his gut, he’ll ignore it for now. He has bigger problems.

Namely, the fact that Jungwon is under the impression that you and Jake are dating. Officially dating, since he knows that Jake took you to meet his family this last weekend. Quite seriously dating, if the lovesick expression on Jake’s face every time he talks about you in front of Jungwon is anything to go by.

And the sole reason Jungwon is under that impression is because Jake couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. Because he essentially told him, flat out, that the two of you are very much enjoying the honeymoon phase of your relationship.

Still working in a cloud of panic, Jake leaves Jungwon on read for the time being and sends a message to you instead.

Jake [7:17 pm]: What time is Sunghoon’s thing tomorrow? I’ll pick you up

You [7:18 pm]: ???

You [7:18 pm]: What the fuck?

Before he can think of a reply to type, Jake’s phone screen is overtaken by an incoming call notification. One that he knows better than to ignore, even as something in his shrivels a little.

“Hello?” He answers, wheels in his brain spinning as he tries to come up with some sort of explanation on the spot.

You don’t waste any time. “How do you even know about Sunghoon’s competition? And what do you mean you’ll pick me up?” On the bright side, you don’t sound angry, at least. Just very confused.

“Jungwon mentioned it to me.” Jake decides he can at least be honest about that. “He had to cancel our tutoring session tomorrow.”

“So what?” Even through the phone, Jake can sense your exasperation. “You thought you could squeeze in some econ notes at the athletics center? My god, you are so persistent about the worst things. Leave poor Jungwon alone.”

Poor Jungwon. Poor Jungwon.

Jake’s tone is a little less even when he clarifies, “No, it has nothing to do with econ. I just want to come with you. To, uh… to support Sunghoon.” It’s a weak explanation, even to his own ears.

“You don’t know him.” Your voice is flat.

“We’ve talked,” Jake argues.

“You’ve had one conversation. He thought your name was Jacob.”

“Which turned out to be a very useful alias for me.” At the event for incoming freshmen you dragged him to unwillingly. “I owe him one.”

There’s an extended silence on your end.

Jake begs a little more. “I let you drag me to that stupid event last week. You know, I had to run, actually, full on run, away from Jay the other day so he couldn’t ask me about it. Just let me come with you tomorrow.”

You hesitate. “I might, if you tell me why you want to go so badl–”

“Fine,” Jake sighs. “You caught me. My secret passion in life is actually figure skating. I didn’t start training young enough, so now I have to live vicariously through–”

“You are so fucking annoying” But it works. “Fine.”

“Fine, as in, I can come?” Jake knows better than to sound too hopeful.

You refuse to answer him directly. “Be at my apartment by four-thirty tomorrow. If you’re even a second late, I’m leaving without you.”

On the other line, Jake lets his fist fly into the air in silent celebration. Into the receiver of his phone, he says calmly, “Great. I’ll pick you up, then.”

You hang up without bothering to respond, and Jake returns Jungwon’s message.

Jake [7:26 pm]: Let’s just plan to meet next week for tutoring. And thanks for the reminder. You kind of saved me again, actually. I’ll see you tomorrow at the competition

Sighing, Jake sets his phone down.

For the moment, the crisis is averted, at least partially. But Jake knows he’ll have his real work cut out for him tomorrow. As he turns it around in his brain, the celebratory feeling in his chest slowly begins to morph into dread.

How on earth is he going to sit through an entire evening with you and Jungwon without the illusion shattering one way or another? It feels like an impossible task.

But then he takes a long inhale of lavender-scented air, looks back at the proud B- still displayed on his laptop screen. If he can pull that off, he thinks he just might be able to do anything.

…

It’s a confidence that Jake is finding hard to rediscover the following afternoon. Just after three, every ounce of self-assuredness Jake has ever had is slowly draining from his body as the clock ticks closer and closer to four-thiry with every passing second.

Standing in front of his mirror, Jake can’t decide how he feels about the black button-down he’s wearing. Is it too much? Not enough?

He knows he’s probably overthinking it, but he’s about to spend an entire evening sitting with you and Jungwon, watching Sunghoon. If you don’t think he looks at least a little good in comparison, something in his pride is going to be very, very wounded.

On the other side of his bedroom door, Jake can hear Jay poking around in his kitchen. After a few days of successfully dodging him, his best friend finally snuck his way into his apartment under the guise of delivering a package. Still a little terrified to face him and the questions he’ll inevitably ask, Jake has been hiding in his room since his arrival.

He curses the situation now. If nothing else, Jay could at least provide a set of fashion-forward eyes to help him choose his outfit of the evening. But that would also involve explaining where he’s going, which would only send Jay’s suspicions about you and Jake skyrocketing.

Unlike you, Jake is not particularly well-versed in avoiding leading questions. In fact, he regularly does the opposite, if his interactions with Jungwon are anything to go by.

Somewhat regrettably, he decides he’ll have to use his own intuition for this one.

That turns out to mean that Jake spends the next forty minutes trying on half of his closet, pulling out shirts that he hasn’t seen since middle school and watching the pile of rejected options pile up on his chair as uncertainties pile up in his gut.

Finally, he lands on the black button-up he was wearing originally and decides to make the disaster of his room a problem for later. Glancing at the clock, he realizes with a bit of dread that he needs to head out soon if he doesn’t want to miss your threat of a deadline. But then his eyes land on the small handful of ornate bottles on top of his dresser, and he suddenly has a new problem.

Running low on both steam and time, Jake decides that facing whatever Jay has in store for him is better than trying to make this last decision on his own. So he scans that array of bottles, picks his two favorite scents, and opens the door to his bedroom slowly, doing his best to delay the inevitable inquisition.

Stepping out warily, he sees that Jay has moved from the kitchen to the living room and is currently snacking on a sandwich he made with whatever ingredients he found in Jake’s fridge as he watches something on the TV.

“Hey, Jay?” Jake calls out, a little hesitantly.

“What?” Jay doesn’t even turn to look at him. “Oh, you decided you’re talking to me again?”

“I’m sorry,” Jake searches for a feasible explanation for his avoidance. Finding nothing solid, he settles with the classically vague, “I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what? Training for a marathon? I can’t believe you actually ran from me–”

“I realized I forgot my computer at the library,” Jake lies. “I wanted to go back and grab it before it got stolen.”

“Whatever.” Jay doesn't buy it for a second. But he is eating Jake’s food, so he figures he owes him a little. “What do you want?”

Jake moves to stand next to his couch, careful not to block Jay’s view of the TV and annoy him further. Tentatively, Jake holds out the two bottles of cologne. “Which one of these smells better?”

Jay sends Jake a look of disbelief, sets his sandwich down on the coffee table. “Do I look like a fucking Macy’s employee to you?”

“Just help me out,” Jake pleads. “Please,” he adds for good measure.

Jay stares at him blankly for a moment longer. “Well, it depends,” He finally concedes. “The Yves Saint Laurent has more of a causal vibe, and the Giorgio Armani feels like you’re trying a little harder, like you want to be impressive and you don’t care if people know that.”

And then he takes a closer look at Jake. At the way his hair has been perfectly styled to look just the right amount of intentionally messy, at the outfit he’s wearing.

“Hold on, what are you so worked up about?” Jay’s eyes narrow in on his shirt. “And is that Prada? It’s four in the afternoon on a Thursday. Where the hell are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Jake replies too quickly, already beginning to retreat to the safety of his bedroom before he can be questioned further.

Jay turns in his seat, eyes following Jake accusingly the whole time. “You’re meeting ___, aren’t you? What’s going on between the two of you anyway? Why are you being so weird?”

Jake pretends not to hear his friend, closing the door behind him and he looks for his coat in the mess of his room. Finding it, he pulls his arms through the sleeves. Stopping at the mirror, he gives himself one final once-over before turning to leave again. Right before he does, he pauses, weighs his options as he weighs Jay’s advice. And then he reaches for the bottle of Giorgio Armani, sprays it twice for good measure. Before he can psych himself out again, he heads for the front door.

He almost makes it, too, but before he can slip out, Jay asks him one last question. “Just answer this,” he bargains from his seat on the couch. “Are you meeting ___?”

“None of your business” is the only answer he gets as Jake leaves his apartment, quickly closing the door behind him to cut off any other opportunities for Jay to catch him in a white lie.

And when Jake arrives at your apartment, he has seven minutes to spare. Sending you a message of his arrival, he makes his way to the lobby to greet you.

“Mr. Sim,” your doorman nods coolly.

“Elton,” Jake returns, equally as frigid as he reads the middle-aged man’s name tag.

Thankfully, you don’t keep him waiting long. You make your way down to the lobby before Jake and your doorman have the chance to exchange a few more choice words.

Despite the initial turmoil and the current state of his bedroom, Jake is more than pleased with the clothing choices he landed on for the evening when he sees you.

It would be hard to claim that the two of you are matching, exactly, considering how simple both of your outfits are. But as he watches you approach him in a black sweater and light jeans, Jake likes the way it almost looks as if the two of you did it by accident. Synced up so well that even your closets align without you meaning to.

And he likes the way it looks like the two of you go together, two pieces of a matching set.

Giving your doorman one last parting wave, the walk to Jake’s car is short. He doesn’t offer to pull the car around this time, mostly because the white sneakers on your feet are a lot more conducive to walking that your heels for the fundraiser a couple of weeks ago.

“I assume we’re heading to the Ice Sports Center,” Jake says, putting the car in reverse as he backs out of his parking spot.

“Yeah,” you nod. Much to his relief, you’re not projecting any annoyance. At least not yet. “But we’re picking up Jungwon first.”

“What?” Jake balks, suddenly reminded of the awful tightrope he’s about to be walking all evening. The way he’s somehow supposed to keep Jungwon thinking that the two of you are enamored with one another without you finding out that he divulged the nature of your fake relationship to your friend.

Mistaking his apprehension for annoyance, you shake your head. “You’re so mean,” you accuse. “First you invade our evening and then you complain about picking him up? The poor guy already has to put up with you all night. The least you could do is spare him an Uber ride.”

Jake suddenly has another bone to pick. “First of all, why do the the two of you even need an evening–”

“Because I never get to see him!” A bit dejectedly, you add, “Between classes and tutoring and his internship, he never has any free time.”

Jake wonders, somewhat vindictively, if he could start requesting additional tutoring sessions. Burn up whatever remnants of time the kid has to dedicate to you.

Instead, he relents. He’s not going to win any favor from you by doing anything to Jungwon. Not that he needs your favor, of course. Not that he even wants it.

So Jake just asks you to give him Jungwon’s address and plots it into his phone’s GPS without another complaint. But as the estimated arrival time begins to dwindle, so does Jake’s confidence that he can pull this evening off.

With just a few minutes to go, he decides that honestly might be his only way out of this mess.

Turning to you slowly, he says, “So, I kind of have to tell you something.”

You groan. “I hate the way you just said that. Please tell me I’m not also going to hate whatever it is you’re about to tell me.”

Jake hesitates, “I mean, I can’t predict the future–”

You read his guilt like an open book. Flatly, you ask, “What did you do?”

Jake is quick to go on the defensive. “Why are you assuming it’s my fault–”

You’re not in the mood for his evasiveness. “What did you do?”

It comes out all in a rush, sounds like one long word as Jake lets the truth spill out. “I might have accidentally told Jungwon that you and I are dating.”

Somehow, you understand just as well as you would have if he enunciated clearly. Your voice is dangerously low. “How, pray tell, did you accidentally tell your econ tutor that you and I are dating?”

“It just came out, I swear!” Jake tries to dig himself out. “You came up somehow, and I mentioned the dinner at my parents house. One thing led to another, and now he thinks that we’re dating.”

You’re still livid, not accepting his threadbare explanation. “I could sue you, you know. You signed a legal document agreeing to not tell our friends and acquaintances anything about our agreement.”

Jake calls your bluff. “That thing is not legally binding, and you know it. Besides, the wording on that part is so vague, I’m sure there are a million loopholes. No judge would uphold that in court.”

“Oh, so now you’re a contract expert–”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Jake interrupts, deciding that neither defense or offense are likely to get him much of anywhere. Maybe an apology will do him one better. “I know we agreed to not get our friends involved, but it really wasn’t on purpose.” It kind of very much was, but he figures you don’t need to know that. “I just… Can we pretend, just for tonight?” It sounds reasonable enough to him. After all, “It’s no different than what we’ve done so far–”

“Yes it is,” you argue. Your fury has evaporated slightly, now just simmering in his passenger seat. But Jake still doesn't get it. “Jungwon is my friend. He knows me, the real me. I’m not trying to keep up appearances around him. I don’t want to lie to him, and especially not about something like my relationships. Especially because he’s going to think that I’m the one that’s been lying to him about it.” The more you say, the worse Jake starts to feel. “I told him you were my friend.”

It wasn’t about you being embarrassed of Jake or not wanting Jungwon to think that you would ever consider dating him. It was because Jungwon is one of the few people that gets you, that really gets you. It’s because he’s one of your few real friends, someone you don’t have to lie to. Someone who accepts your truths as they come.

“I know.” For the first time, Jake’s short-sighted solution to his jealousy doesn’t feel so satisfying. He hadn’t considered this, the potential fallout on your end. How you would feel about lying like this to someone that you’re genuinely close to. All he can say is, “I’m sorry. I know I fucked up.”

You just give him a long look, silence building between the two of you as you weigh a million responses on your tongue and let all of them die, one by one, before breathing life into any of them.

“I…” you finally say. “It’s whatever.” It’s not. Jake can hear it in your tone of voice, can read it in the way your lips twist. “Let’s just do it,” you agree to his original request. Jake isn’t sure why he can’t find it in himself to feel good about it. “Let’s just pretend for tonight.”

Jake doesn’t know what to say, can’t find the words to remedy the situation. Still, your name is a quiet whisper on his breath. He feels like he’s begging, pleading. For what, he’s not entirely sure.

You just shake your head, looking out of the windshield. “We’re here.”

And you are. Jungwon, completely oblivious to your conversation, is all smiles where he waits outside his apartment building, sending you and Jake both a friendly wave before jogging over to the car and sliding into the back seat.

“Hey Jake, ___,” he greets, unaware of the stifling tension he’s just walked into. “Thanks for picking me up, by the way. You have a really nice car.”

And Jungwon is so nice, Jake thinks. So nice and considerate and genuinely pleasant to be around. Things that he controls, things that Jungwon wakes up every day and decides to be. Things that make you like him, want to be his friend.

Things that Jake, as he glances to where you’re still nursing your wounds in his passenger seat, understands with a sickening realization that he has not been. At least not to you.

And Jake could pin the blame on a million different excuses. His father or the tight constraints of his life or the way he feels like nothing has ever really belonged to him. But when he looks at you, at your hurt, he knows that his lack of consideration for your feelings is all of his own doing.

Jakes turns back to Jungwon for a moment, tells him, “No problem. I’m glad we could all go together.” And then he puts his eyes back on the road ahead of him and makes the decision to take a little more ownership of the things he can control. To do his very best to be a little better. To try, really try, to put a little love into the things he builds.

So Jake doesn’t protest, when you arrive at the ice rink and slide down into the middle seat, next to both him and Jungwon. Doesn't let the unpleasant feeling that rises in his gut when you give Sunghoon a massive bouquet of flowers and a warm hug after his program do anything but simmer. Doesn’t make his feelings your problem, a fire for you to put out.

When he excuses himself to the bathroom, he tries not to let the imagined possibilities of what you and Jungwon might be talking about in his absence make him do something stupid.

Besides, everything he’s thinking of is far off the mark anyway.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Jungwon turns to you and smiles. “You and Jake, huh?” He nudges you with his elbow. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Actually,” he amends, “I can believe that. What I can believe is that you lied.” The accusation is light, teasing. It still hits you like a sucker punch. “You said you two were just friends.”

But your hurt feelings won’t help you here, and you have tracks to cover. Jake didn’t tell you what he told Jungwon, not exactly, so you’ll have to do your best not to unravel any of the lies he’s already spun.

“It’s new,” you try to explain, thinking of something that would make sense, that would wound Jungwon the least. “I haven’t really told anyone.” You mean it when you say, “But I am sorry for lying.” You wish you weren’t doing it still. You wish you could tell him the truth.

“Fine.” It’s an apology Jungwon accepts easily, even if he pretends to hold onto it a little longer. “You’re forgiven. But only because his car is really nice.” And then, “He’s good to you?”

“Yeah,” you echo the same words you told his mother a handful of evenings ago. “The best.”

“Good.” Jungwon nods. If there’s wistfulness there, it’s overtaken by his genuine desire to see you happy. “You deserve that.”

You’re not sure why you feel like crying, why everything about this conversation, this situation, suddenly feels so wrong.

“Thanks, Wonie.” You melt a little at his earnestness, the childhood nickname slipping out with your fondness. This is what you were afraid of, what you wanted to avoid. It’s not fair for him, not okay with you that Jungwon is wasting his sincerity on a lie, a false relationship. It’s hollow when you say, “That means a lot.”

Whatever reply Jungwon has dies on his lips as Jake finds the two of you again, slides back into his seat. As the rest of the evening passes, your lingering hurt starts to make room for something else. You’re not sure what to make of how undeniably easy it all is. How natural it feels to be sat in between your childhood friend and your fake boyfriend, trading jokes and smiles and stories that take no effort and make the time fly by.

When Jake finally drops you back off at your apartment a few hours later, your anger is mostly gone. And unlike him, you were never particularly good at physics, but you do remember the conservation of mass – how things can change and transform but are never truly destroyed. In the absence of anger, you’re not entirely sure what emotions are beginning to overflow in their stead.

But when Jake whispers, “Goodnight” from the driver’s seat of his car, it’s a sentiment that’s easy to return.

…

As the month just before the holidays tends to do, the rest of the semester passes in a blur of late night study sessions, half-finished assignments, and a concerning amount of caffeine. Both of you slammed with responsibilities of your own, Jake hardly even sees you in those last few weeks. Instead, the promise of the holidays and your family’s upcoming New Year’s Eve party are threats that loom on the rapidly approaching horizon.

This, then, is a small time apart from each other before your fake-dating responsibilities kick into full gear. Before they eventually as soon as the clock strikes midnight on the last day of December and your contract dissolves just as the year does.

And at this point, that’s a concern for the future. Right now, Jake is too busy trying to pass his classes to have any brainwidth left to worry about other things. Namely, his econ term paper. The hours that he spends alone with his laptop, forgetting to do much of anything else, veer towards a number that is more than a little concerning.

But thanks to his sessions with Jungwon, a report card without any Fs is looking like an actual possibility for him this semester. So Jake doubles down and presses onwards, goes hours and sometimes even days hardly talking to anyone, just to make sure that every last detail, every last word, is as impeccable as possible.

And a few weeks later, just as the first half of December draws to a close, Jake finds himself back at his desk, lavender candle lit, pleading with invisible deities as he opens his laptop to check his final econ grade.

He lets one breath pass. Another.

Slowly, he opens one eye.

And there it is, on the screen in front of him. His final econ grade.

73. A solid C. A fucking C.

He did it. He actually did it. On his third go around, Jake Sim passed econ. And that alone calls for celebration.

It’s nearly the first time he’s seen you since Sunghoon’s competition when you and Jungwon show up at his apartment by surprise with a custom ordered cake the next day.

Predict THIS trend, Wall Street, the royal blue icing reads. Jake Sim passed econ!!!!!!

And then it really is the end of the semester, and the three of you are parting ways for winter break. With nearly a month of rest from studies and schoolwork, you and Jake finalize the details of your last two public appearances as a couple.

The first is set to be at Jake’s parents’ house. It’s not so much an event as it is the two of you exchanging gifts, making sure that there are witnesses around to corroborate your affection. And the second, of course, will be the New Year’s Eve party at your family's home.

The timeline gives you about a week to finalize your gift to him, something that has proven to be much more difficult than you were hoping. Despite your suggestion that the two of you just pick out your own gifts in advance and say that they’re from each other, Jake has insisted on going the traditional route. On surprising you.

So when you show up at his family's home a few days before Christmas, a small red gift bag in hand, it’s with a bit of trepidation that the present inside will fall flat of whatever expectations your fake boyfriend may have.

Moments later, with the glow of the fireplace casting a cozy glow on his living room, Jake holds a self-warming coffee mug in his hands.

You feel a bit foolish as you reach for your rehearsed explanation, cite the one time he’d complained about his coffee going cold before he had the chance to drink it. But Jake insists that he loves it, assures you that he’ll put it to good use.

And when your turn comes to open his gift, you do your best to ignore the slight shake in your fingers as you untie the bow on the small jewelry box he hands you.

Sliding the lid off, it’s all you can do for a moment to stare.

“Oh.” The golden chain of the necklace is delicate, fragile. But it’s the charm at the center that has you suddenly breathless. It’s a tiny, intricate outline of a house, the same shimmery gold as the chain. The color he memorized as your favorite. And in the center of the miniature home is an impossibly smaller outline of a heart. “Oh.”

Your soft words ring in the air for a moment as your fingers hover over the gift, unmoving.

Mistaking your lack of feedback for distaste, Jake is quick to explain, somewhat sheepishly. “It’s, uh,” he scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s supposed to be like what your great aunt said. Y’know, ‘put a little love into everything you build.’ If you don’t like it, I can–”

You shake your head. “I love it.” It makes your gift to him pale in comparison. The truth rattles in your brain a little too harshly. You got him a coffee mug, and he got you this. Something so obviously wrapped up in thoughtfulness and care and affection. But comparison is the last thing on his mind.

“I… You do?” His uncertainty is still written all over his face. “You don’t have to just say that. Really, it won’t offend me if–”

“Jake,” you look up at him, put your hand on his chest. Physical touch is the only way you can think to stop his rambling. “It’s perfect. I love it. I really, really do.” Glancing back down at his gift, you smile. His eyes are suddenly wide, from your sincerity or your touch, you’re not sure. “Help me put it on?

Jake nods, swallows audibly. You retract your hand from his chest, let it fall back to your side as you hand him the jewelry box. Carefully, delicately, intentionally, he takes the necklace out, lets it dangle between long fingers.

And then he’s moving to stand behind you. The sudden heat of his body is a lure for your senses, a focal point you can’t pull your thoughts away from.

“I…” He breathes, words suddenly a little strained. You feel the warmth of his words along the length of your spine, deep in your bones. Settling somewhere in the pit of your stomach. “Could you move your hair?”

It makes you feel vulnerable, when you acquiesce to his request, exposing the bare skin of your neck as you pull your hair to the side. “Is that better?” It’s barely a whisper. He hears it regardless.

“Yeah,” Jake returns, just as airy, just as flighty. “That’s perfect.”

And then his fingertips are ghosting the edges of your collarbone, skimming the sensitive skin of your throat as he places his gift around your neck. You don’t think you imagine the tremble in his fingers while he fights with the clasp for a moment, drawing in a shaky breath as he finally snaps the mechanism into place.

“There.” He exhales and it travels over your exposed nape.

Letting your hair fall back into place, you take a steadying breath before turning to face him again.

You mean it when you say, “Thank you.”

Jake takes it in, all of it. The moment. The proximity. You. Warning bells are sounding in his mind as his gaze travels from your eyes to the bridge of your nose to the slight part between your lips.

He wants it, he realizes. In this moment, there is no doubt in his mind. There’s nothing, in fact, but his desires, his wants. And what he wants is to feel your exhale against his own. To lean down and close the distance and let his fingers trace the skin of your throat again, for real this time. Without the excuse of a necklace.

He could, he thinks. It’s a rule you both signed your agreement on, but what are rules, he reasons, if not things to be broken? And he thinks that if he kissed you, you might just let him. It’s a theory that he’s desperate to test, almost as desperate as he is to learn the exact taste of your mouth when it’s not trading insults with him. And he was never one to let hypotheses remain in limbo for long.

There’s heat in his gaze and desire in his bones when he leans down, just a fraction of an inch.

Your eyes widen. Your breath stutters. Under your skin, your heartbeat races.

You say nothing.

And then he’s inching closer. Slowly, steadily, until he’s right there, so much closer than he’s ever been. Invading your senses and mingling your exhales and clouding anything coherent left in your brain.

His exhale ghosts across your lips. Your eyes flutter shut, and you’re nothing but a slave to sensation.

It won’t be him that breaks the spell. Resolve slipping with every passing heartbeat, it won’t be you, either.

In the end, it’s neither of those things. Instead, it’s the shrill ping of an incoming notification that has the two of you springing apart, cheeks flaming, heat of the moment settling in your chest like a shock from a live wire with nowhere to put all of its excess energy.

“I…” Jake can barely breathe, much less form words. He still wears his desire in his eyes, his want across his lips. It’s a miracle he even manages to say, “I better check that.”

“Right,” you nod, as if he’s asking for permission, as if it’s in any way under your control. But you’re scrambling to fill the burning silence, to redirect whatever is still simmering in the air. “Yeah.”

Jake nearly stumbles over his own feet as he takes a step away from you, pulling his phone off the coffee table. You avert your eyes as he skims over the notification, hoping the heat in your cheeks will fade from sheer will alone.

Glancing back at him, you notice the way he’s still reading the notification. Notice the way his brow is furrowed,

Without really even meaning to, you ask, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Jake nods, but he still looks unsure. His eyes are still on his phone screen. “I think so.”

You raise an eyebrow at the vague qualifier, and he sighs before he continues, “Apparently someone submitted an anonymous plagiarism claim on my econ term paper. It went to the dean, and they’re running an investigation to make sure it’s my original work. That was just the department head letting me know that they’re proceeding with the investigation and will reach out again if any additional action is needed on my part.”

“What?” You balk, earlier tension replaced with one of an entirely different sort. You’re still stuck on his first sentence. “Plagiarism? How is that possible? You spent literal days working on that stupid paper. Even Jungwon said he couldn’t believe how much effort you put into it.”

“Yeah.” Jake shrugs. “I know. That’s why I’m not really that nervous.” His expression begs to differ. “I mean, I know that I didn’t plagiarize my paper, so I’m sure the investigation won’t be able to find anything.”

Still, it can’t feel good. Not when it took him so long, so much concentrated effort to finally pass. Not when the relief of it all is now stained with the accusation that looms over his head, no matter how much it lacks in credibility.

“Is there anything I can do?” You offer.

“No.” Jake shakes his head, won’t make you bear the weight or the worry of his burdens. “I’m sure they’re just going to run some more in-depth comparisons to past papers. I really don’t think I have anything to worry about.”

“Okay,” you concede, a little hesitantly. But it’s a worry that lingers, even as the afternoon ticks by. Even when Jake’s mother arrives home and wraps you up in a big hug. Even when she slips you another box of homemade snickerdoodles, this time wrapped up with a bow.

It’s a worry that lingers when you say your parting words, wishing the two of them a Merry Christmas and telling your fake boyfriend that you’ll look forward to seeing him on New Year’s Eve.

It’s a worry that you have no distraction from until you’re on your way out, and your least favorite Sim sibling catches you at the door.

“Merry Christmas, ___,” James smiles, all pretenses and no sincerity. Despite his words, it’s like he’s begging for a fight when he asks, “Are you enjoying the holidays?”

If his mother weren’t in the next room over, you might just take it upon yourself to wipe the smug grin off his face. Preferably with an uppercut.

“Oh, you know,” you shrug, forcing a cordiality you don’t feel. “It’s the same as every year. Good but busy.” It’s more than a little vindictive when you add, “Your brother did get me the most thoughtful gift, though.”

“Did he?” James muses. He doesn’t rise to the bait as much as you’d hoped. “Looks like little Jake is all grown up. Seems like it’s a good Christmas for him too. Miracles all around. He has a girlfriend to spend it with.” Pausing a moment, he tacks on, “And I heard he even passed econ, too. It was about time.”

“Well we can’t all be stuck in our ways forever.” You smile. It’s a polite, family friendly way of letting him know you still think he’s a raging asshole.

But if James is miffed, he doesn’t show it. You don’t like the way his satisfied grin doesn’t falter either, not even once. “No,” he agrees as you turn your back to him, leaving him behind as you walk out the front door. “I suppose we can’t.”

…

Christmas morning is an uneventful affair at your house. There are gifts, of course, ones that your mother watches you open expectantly.

The jewelry box that sits in your hands is reminiscent of just a few days prior. A fleeting touch that leaves your collarbone scalding. A similar gift that you wear around your neck now.

But lifting the lid on the present from your mother, the differences are stark.

A pair of silver hoop earrings, beautiful in their own regard and undoubtedly expensive, but silver has never been your color. It’s something you wish she’d remember, something you thought she might know, after twenty-one long years.

You thank her, words echoing hollowly in the vast expanse of your living room.

On the table next to you, your phone lights up with a notification.

Jake [9:23 am]: Merry Christmas, ___

You think it might be your favorite gift yet.

…

It’s three days after Christmas when you wake up to a series of texts from Jungwon.

Wonie [8:12 am]: Hey ___ did Jake ever work on his econ term paper with you? Like at your place or anything?

Wonie [8:12 am]: He asked me not to get you involved, but I’m getting really worried. This plagiarism claim isn’t going away, and he needs as much evidence as he can get that it was all his work

Despite the way your sleepiness usually lingers in the morning, your friend’s messages have you immediately feeling alert.

Scanning the texts again, the whole thing really is such an awful twist of luck. Jake finally, finally passed econ and after turning down his brother’s proposal from months ago, he did it as a result of his own efforts. Jake might not have ever worked on his paper in your presence, but you know he didn’t plagiarize it. You can pay testament to the way he was practically a recluse the entire last three weeks of the semester, only ever taking breaks from that damn assignment to occasionally eat, sleep, or bathe.

And it’s so bizarre, you think. Jake mentioned to you that everything blew up because of an anonymous accusation. It’s not like his paper was caught by some online plagiarism checker. No, someone intentionally went to his professor and claimed that the work was stolen. Someone who wanted to start this fire and watch Jake struggle with the flames.

It makes no sense, none at all. Who on earth would–

Your train of thought cuts off abruptly. Alone in your childhood bedroom, you know exactly who would do that.

And, one Google search later, you know exactly where to find him.

…

You’re not exactly surprised that the Sim Corporation building is up and operational during the holidays. If anything, the employees’ end-of-the-year burnout works to your advantage as you sneak right by the secretary at the front desk, bypassing the appointment system that must surely be in place for the CEO-to-be.

The elevator ride is slow. Agonizingly slow. And you should be using this time to think, just like you should have been doing on the drive here. You should be figuring out which cards you can play and how exactly you’re going to make Jake’s weasel of a brother admit to what he’s done and retract his idiotic, completely fake accusation against his younger sibling.

But the only thing your brain has room for right now is rage. And as the elevator ascends, all your anger can do is heat further and further, releasing steam until it’s boiling over, clouding your judgment and making you see red.

When the elevator finally lets you off on the thirty-sixth floor, your strides eat up the ground until you're standing in front of the door you’ve been looking for.

You don't bother to knock.

Unsurprisingly, James Sim’s office is as completely devoid of life and personality as its owner. Covered floor to ceiling with the stark furniture that wouldn’t look out of place in an upscale Ikea ad, there are little to no personal touches, no hints of anything that might make you think James has any kind of redeeming qualities.

And the only acknowledgement your least favorite Sim brother gives you behind his desk are two slightly raised eyebrows.

“___.” He jots something down on a notepad in front of him. Probably writing a reminder to fire the secretary that let you up without notifying him. “To what do I owe the pleasure”

You’re in no mood for games. “Cut the bullshit.”

James’ pen pauses. He glances up at you.“I’m afraid I don’t–”

You won’t hear it. “I said, cut the fucking bullshit, James. You and I both know exactly why I’m here.” Your chest is already heaving as you list your demands. “Back the fuck off from Jake, retract your stupid plagiarism claim, and let him enjoy the holidays in peace.”

James doesn’t give you the courtesy of acknowledging anything you just said. Instead, he demands firmly, “Break up with him.”

“What the fuck?” You’re not sure how it’s possible, but your annoyance multiplies tenfold. How dare he assume he has any say in your relationship, anything at all related to you or his brother. “Why would I listen to anything you tell me to do?”

“You want me to retract the claim,’ James echoes evenly, enunciating so slowly it’s patronizing. “Okay, fine.” He lays his hands out in front of him as if he’s offering some generous, benevolent deal. “Then end the relationship.”

You wonder how much damage it would do if you throw the chair sitting next to you at his head. “Are you actually threatening me right now?”

“Not a threat.” He shrugs, all too nonchalantly. “Just a deal.”

Your strides eat up the ground between the door of his office and his desk. Laying a palm down on the surface in front of you, you point an accusatory finger in his face. “Listen here, you little shit. You and I both know damn well he wrote every word of that term paper on his own, so I suggest you listen to me and back the fuck off while I’m still asking nicely, or–”

“Or what? Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but between my brother and I, there’s only one person Dr. Jeong is likely to believe.”

“What are you, a cartoon villain?” Even this angry, his stupidity is astounding. “You still need evidence. Which you don’t have. Because he didn’t plagiarize shit, and especially not from you.”

James doesn’t falter. “Interesting that you mention that, actually. You know, I asked Dr. Jeong about you as well, and he said you’re not a student in his class.” Despite yourself, your features slacken slightly. “I thought that was odd, considering that’s how the two of you said you met. There are a lot of things that don’t add up about the two of you, actually.”

There’s a threat there, when he meets your eye and says, “So it kind of seems like you know already, that evidence isn’t just found. It’s made. And Jake’s term paper is different from the one I submitted, yes, but I also have a copy of what he submitted on my personal computer. It’d be pretty easy to ask my secretary to adjust a few timestamps here and there. To make it look like it was written years ago. Stolen by the younger brother that’s always been horribly jealous of me.”

“What the fuck is it to you if he passes econ?” You still don’t understand why he’s doing this. “You graduated university three years ago. Your life is here now, in this office. You’re in the process of becoming CEO of a multi-billion dollar company. Seriously, don’t you have better things to waste your time on? I mean, this is what most people call ‘peaking in college’ and usually try to avoid–”

James reveals his motivation with two small words. “Why him?”

But you still don’t get it. “What?”

“Why him?” he repeats, and it sounds so, horribly, terribly jealous. “Like you said, I’m older, smarter, more successful. So why him?”

“Are you joking?” It’s all you can do to not drop your jaw. All of this because you never let him take you on a date? When it’s his fault he missed the first one? The sheer audacity of it all is astounding. “First of all,” you refute. “I did not say any of that. And second, if that’s actually all you have to say about yourself, then put that shit in your Tinder bio and see where it gets you. I have no interest in hearing it.”

James won’t let it go. “That’s not an answer.”

“Why do you even care–”

“Why him?” He won’t stop, not until he gets his answer.

“Because I like him.” It’s spilling out before you can stop it, before you can give it permission. “Because he’s kind and funny and he listens to me and cares about what I have to say. Because I’m more than just a sum of my parts to him, and the last thing he cares about is my social status and how it stacks up against his. I’m not some tool to impress his parents or a topic of conversation to brag about with boys at Sunday morning golf.” All of the things you’re sure would be a part of any kind of relationship with James. Because no matter what role he’s given in his father’s company or what grade he passed econ with, Jake is capable of something James never has been. “Because he treats me like a person.”

Across from you, James simmers with barely controlled rage. With the truth at his feet, he has nothing left to do but be angry with it. Destroy what he can in the wake of his fury, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Break up with him.”

“Wh–”

“Break up with him, or I swear to god I will submit plagiarism claims to every professor he’s had in the last three years.”

It’s a threat you know he’ll make good on. It’s a battle you’re afraid he’ll win, no matter how fake all of his so-called evidence is. And it will all be your fault. You will be the reason that Jake has to take econ again, and that’s only if he isn’t expelled on plagiarism claims. You will be the reason his father hands him another round of disappointment. You’ll be the reason Jake ends his day with a little more shame to tuck away and revisit on a sleepless night.

And you were always on a timeline, anyway. This relationship was one that always came with an expiration date, even before it began.

It should be easy to concede, given the stakes, given the alternative. You’ve known since the beginning that the rapidly approaching New Year would be the end of it all, that you and Jake would become entirely separate entities again in just a handful of days. Still, you have to force the words out through gritted teeth, “Give me until New Year’s.”

James scoffs. “I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands–”

“I’ll do it.” You double down, agreeing to take Jake’s fate into your own hands. “I’ll end things. Just… just give me until New Year’s.” You can do it, you think. It was inevitable anyway. “And retract the claim now,” you stipulate. “If I go back on my word, you can resubmit with all your evidence once next semester starts.”

Across from you, behind his desk, James weighs your offer. He must sense the finality in your tone, the determination in your gaze. “Fine,” he finally says. “You have yourself a deal.”

You don’t take his outstretched hand, don’t seal your agreement with a handshake. He’ll have to trust your word.

It makes no difference to him. His smile is smug when you turn to leave. You hope his satisfaction burns on the way down.

Your drive home is slightly blurry. Partially because of the rain that has begun to fall. Mostly because of the tears that gather at the corners of your eyes and threaten to fall. You won’t let them, but they cloud your vision anyway, demand your attention.

That night, a message from Jake lights up your phone just as you’re sitting down for dinner.

Jake [6:57 pm]: Good news! The whole plagiarism thing turned out to be nothing. Just got an email from the dean that they’re dropping the investigation. I’m officially freeeeee from econ (again)

If nothing else, you have to give James credit for efficiency. And it should feel like a war won, a job well done. But staring at the message on your phone, the only thing you can think of is how soon New Years is. How little time you have before you’ll have to say goodbye.

…

There’s never much to do, in that liminal space between Christmas and New Year’s. Minutes and hours and days blur together as the end of the year passes by, preparing to give way to a new one.

Jake, giddy with the recent resolution of his econ grade and desperate to get away from the stifling atmosphere of his family home, tries to fill some of that time by spending it with someone he’s starting to realize he cares a lot about. Contract or not.

First, he sends you a message asking if you’ve been ice skating this winter yet. He does his best to only be a little hurt when your rejection comes quickly, claiming in your response to have another obligation that day. Second, he invites you to drive around and look at holiday lights with him. When you tell him you already have other plans, he passes another lazy afternoon alone instead. Again, it’s a little hard not to dwell. A little hard not to let it sting. And by your third rejection – this time to take Layla on a walk with him – his hurt starts to give way to suspicion.

But it’s not like you can avoid him forever, not with your family’s annual New Year’s Eve party quickly approaching. The last big event before the termination of your contract, you’ve been counting on him to spare you from your mother’s scathing comments and attendees’ hushed wonderings about when you’ll find yourself a boyfriend.

And then it will be a new year, a new semester, a fresh start. As the clock strikes midnight, the end of your contract.

Privately, Jake is a little relieved that it will be over so soon. That he won’t have to keep up pretenses any longer. That he won’t have to stick to your rules.

He’s not sure when it happened, not exactly. Somewhere between all the bickering and arguing and fighting, but he’s come to enjoy the way you swept into his life like a hurricane and set up a home for yourself right where his heart is.

He hopes you’ll stick around long after the ink on your contract has dried. He hopes that the two of you will get a chance to figure out what exactly those feelings between you are without worrying about how they look from the outside. How they’re perceived by James or your mother or his father.

So Jake will be patient if he needs to be. He’ll accept your excuses, real or not, and look forward to seeing you on New Year’s Eve, relishing the fact that it’s the last time his presence at your side will be based on a lie.

And when New Year’s Eve finally comes, he adjusts the tightness of his tie, looking at himself in the mirror.

Midnight, he thinks. It will be here soon, quicker than he knows. And all the emotions that he’s been tucking away, all those little moments between the two of you that have fizzled and sparked and ultimately ended in nothing, will fade away with it.

In their place, he thinks the two of you just might manage to find something solid, something real.

…

Halfway across the city, in your childhood bedroom, you turn to Sunghoon. “What do you think?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nods appreciatively from his seat on your bed. “Your fake boyfriend is gonna pee his pants.”

“Gross.” Your nose scrunches. “Why would you say it like that? And stop calling him my fake boyfriend.”

“Why?” Sunghoon ignores your first question. “That’s what he is, isn’t he?”

And that, you think, is another reason why you didn’t want your friends getting involved in this little scheme between you and Jake. But Sunghoon’s flight home was canceled due to inclement weather, and you weren’t about to make him spend New Year’s Eve alone. The only problem with him spending it at your family’s party is that he needs to be well-versed in the lies you and Jake have been spinning for the last couple of months to keep the last few hours of your fake relationship believable. So, a mimosa and an explanation of a contract later, Sunghoon is privy to all the gory details. But the last thing you need is reminders of that.

Reminders of him. Reminders of what you’ll have to do in a few short hours. So you redirect the conversation.

“Really?” You look at yourself in the mirror again. “Do you like this one better? Or should I wear the red dress?”

“No, definitely that one.” Sunghoon shakes his head. “It looks really good. And everyone knows that black is better for New Year’s anyway.”

As you give yourself another once over, Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. “Why are you so nervous, anyway? Trying to impress your faux beau?”

“Stop pretending to know French,” you threaten. “or you can actually be homeless for New Year’s for all I care.”

“C’mon,” Sunghoon sighs, ignoring the bluff. “You look great. I think so. You mom will think so. Jake’s definitely gonna think–”

“How many times do I h–”

“So stop worrying so much, and let’s head downstairs.” Sunghoon stands from your bed, nodding towards the door. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon, anyway. Do you really want to leave him to the mercy of your mother?”

Point taken. You absolutely do not. With one final swipe of lip gloss, you’re pulling on your heels. It’s just in time too. Barely is the second one strapped on before the message from Jake pings through. He’s here.

“Is that him?” Sunghoon holds his arm out for you, jerks his chin towards your phone. “Shall we go save your man from the she-devil?”

You don’t even bother to correct him, to reiterate that Jake is most definitely not ‘your man,’ as you hook your hand around his elbow, letting him pull you out of your room and towards the stairs.

At this point, Jake is not unused to the extravagance of your family’s events. But as he enters your childhood home, he can’t help but be a little floored. It’s a house that would be impressive in its own right. Spacious and luxurious down to every last detail, the place practically screams wealth. But tonight, it really outdoes itself.

The black and gold decorations shimmer just the right amount – enough to catch the ambient light beautifully without being garish. Every available surface is impeccable, covered with drinks and food and decor so lavish it would be almost laughable if it weren’t so impeccably done.

Jake strains his neck over the crowd of equally done-up party guests, tries to peer around all the gowns and evening wear until he finds the figure he has memorized. He thinks he might see your mom, over chatting with a group of attendees, but no matter where he looks, he can’t seem to locate you.

Not until he glances at the spiral staircase on the outskirts of the room, does a double take at where you make your way down the ornate steps in an evening gown. It’s the same inky, midnight black as his suit, hugging and flowing and cascading in all the right places. Letting his gaze linger, he would have a hard time keeping his jaw closed if it weren’t clenching so tightly.

He doesn’t mean to let it happen, the flare of jealousy that starts deep in his gut and spreads the length of his spine like a disease. But he can’t help it. Not when you look like that, not when you’re making an entrance and you’re not alone. No, you’re walking down the stairs accompanied by, on the arm of, Park Sunghoon.

Jake decides then and there that he hates figure skating. The glass of champagne in his hand suddenly feels awfully breakable.

But then you spot him too, and some of the tension simmers, brightens, turns to something else entirely. When your gaze lands on his, your wide, genuine smile is almost enough to set him at ease. Almost.

Cutting through the crowd, you and your unwanted chaperone make your way over to Jake.

“Hi,” you breathe. Your hand is still on Sunghoon’s arm.

“Hi,” Jake returns. He can’t take his eyes off it.

Gaze darting between the two of you, Sunghoon is the one to gently but firmly remove your grip from his elbow. If it’s any consolation, you hardly seem to notice.

Still, Jake’s shoulders are unnaturally tense, something Sunghoon takes note of. He just rolls his eyes. It’s not like either of you are looking at him to see it, anyway.

Finally, after the silence lingers a little too long, he says to Jake, “Yeah, you don’t have to do that around me.”

“Do what?” Jake spares him only a momentary glance before letting his gaze rest on you again.

“The whole overprotective, jealous boyfriend thing.” Sunghoon calls his game in two seconds flat. “You’re pretty good at it, though. I’ll give you props for that.”

That grabs Jake’s full attention. “What are you–”

“I know about you and ___’s contract. Don’t worry,” he mimics pulling his lips shut like a zipper. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Jake looks to you again. “You told him?” He can’t decide if it makes him feel better or significantly worse.

You shrug. “I wasn’t sure how else to make sure he didn’t blow our cover tonight.” Besides, you add silently, how much damage could it do? After all, it’s our last night.

Sunghoon glances between the two of you again, decides he does not want to be a part of this particular interaction any longer. “I’ll see you two later. I’m gonna go check out the hors d'oeuvres.” Turning to leave, he claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Your girl could probably use a glass of champagne.”

Sunghoon makes a beeline for the kebabs, and then it’s just the two of you. And Jake might be hesitant to follow advice from your friend, but he grabs a glass from the next waiter that passes anyway, hands it to you seamlessly as you offer him a quiet, “Thanks.”

It’s easy, just like always, to fall into your routine. His hand finds the small of your back, and you lean into his embrace just the right amount. You can tell it’s working, that the guests you mingle with are charmed by how smitten the two of you seem, that everything you do makes them reminisce on their own long passed days of young love.

Even the brief conversation with your mother is painless as she offers a stilted compliment for your dress and wishes you both a happy semester ahead.

But you can’t quite get your smile to reach your eyes, can’t quell the anxiety swelling in your stomach as the night marches on and the clock ticks closer and closer to midnight.

Jake can sense your unease, your trepidation, but he has no idea what’s causing it, can only guess at what has your eyes darting around the room like a mouse watching for a cat.

Incorrectly, he wonders if it’s the crowd that’s getting to you, the chaos of so many bodies all in one space. Trying to offer a reprieve, he asks if there’s anywhere quieter the two of you could go.

It’s not exactly what you’re looking for, not the solution you need, but you still lead him to the second floor, out onto the balcony that overlooks your backyard gardens. It’s similar to the place you and Jake ended your night at his family dinner a handful of weeks ago.

Even away from the crowd, the lines in your bare shoulders are tense, fraught with unvoiced worries. The inevitability of the end.

The music is fainter out here, but the rhythm is still easy to track. Jake thinks you just need a distraction. So he holds out a hand in invitation. “Dance with me?” He asks.

You shouldn’t, not when it will only make all of this worse. Not when there are no eyes out here, no one to convince you that you’re still just pretending.

But resistance has always been futile. And you can’t find it in you to say no.

Under the glow of this year’s last bit of moonlight, you intertwine your fingers with his, let him draw you close as he wraps your hands around the nape of his neck, links his own across the small of your back.

It’s not dancing, not really. Not as the two of you draw nearer under the pretense of staying warm. Not as your bodies barely move through space, just swaying slightly, in time with the harmonies that spin and twist and crescendo and fall below you.

Jake knows better than to press his luck. But the day is dying, and so is your contract. What are a few minutes anyway, in the grand scheme of things?

Leaning closer, he lets his forehead rest against your own, noses millimeters apart. “It’s almost midnight,” he whispers. The end of it all. The start, he hopes, of something entirely new. Something that belongs only to the two of you. In just a few moments, he’ll get to let his desires lead his actions, not the agreement he signed his name to.

“Mm,” you hum in agreement. He feels where it vibrates in his chest.

“Ten,” he hears the crowd inside chant in unison. The countdown has begun. The New Year is nearly here.

“Nine.” He pulls you a little closer, hands pressed a little tighter to the small of your back.

“Eight. Seven. Six.” You sigh, and it’s lost somewhere against the skin of his throat.

“Five. Four.” One of his hands begins to move, traces the length of your spine, finds a new home against the curve of your jaw.

“Three.” Using the gentle guidance of his thumb, he angles your face, just slightly.

“Two.” Around you, the world holds its breath. The two of you do the same.

“One.” And then he’s closing the distance, lips against yours as exclaims of “Happy New Years” are lost somewhere in the wind.

He may have brought you here, but you’re just as greedy, hands around his neck pulling him down further until the angle has you reeling. His mouth parts against yours, and you’re not quite sure if your eyes are open or closed. You’re seeing stars either way.

Jake pulls you closer, and it’s not enough. He’s desperate for it, for something, for closer, for more. It’s everything that he imagined. Countless times in the darkness behind closed eyelids in the privacy of his own thoughts. It’s a million times better.

He can’t focus on anything, can’t do anything but feel, give way to the shape of sensation. He wants to let his senses drown, wants to die and be reincarnated back into this moment just for the chance to live it again. Wants to wash away anything that isn’t tethered to sensation, to the urgency in his gut, to you.

The first in a series of fireworks lights up the sky behind you. The booming echo has you jumping in your own skin, giggling against his lips at the irrational fear. Jake thinks this must be heaven. He must have died doing something wonderful, and this must be his eternal reward.

Your amusement lasts moments longer before he’s doubling down, pulling you in again until you’re both well and truly breathless. Lip gloss a mess on both of your mouths, chests heaving as you finally break for air. The space between your bodies is miniscule, meaningless. In this moment, you’re a single entity with nothing but the desire for more.

Fireworks continue to burst behind you as the sun sets on the contract that bound you together. His hands are still pressed against the small of your back, and you think the fabric of your dress must be nothing but a figment of your imagination. The only real thing is the heat of his skin on yours.

The sound of your name whispered against your skin is something you’re afraid you’ll remember for a long, long time. He sounds desperate, where he repeats it. Pleading. Longing.

But the fireworks are a symbol of a new year. An expiration date on an agreement. A deadline on a deal.

Jake whispers your name once more, and you savor it for just a moment longer. Then, you carefully disentangle yourself from his grip. Most of it, at least. The hands against your back allow you space, but don’t stray from your spine.

Still encircled in the arms of feelings that were never given the chance to take flight, you try to turn blows into kisses by whispering them softly, “I think we should end this.”

It’s presumptuous, on your part, to think that there is anything to end. You feel a little ridiculous saying it when you both signed your agreement long months ago. But your head is still spinning and your heart is still hurting. This is what it feels like, you realize. To mourn for the future. To grieve all of the what ifs and maybes and almosts.

Across from you, Jake stokes your fears. “What? End what?”

“This.” You sigh. You can’t look him in the eye. “All of it. It’s officially the New Year now. We can stop going to things as each other’s plus-ones. The fake dating. Everything.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t help it. You’re afraid that if you stop to think, you’ll propose something else entirely. Something you know you can’t have. Something that will only ruin everything Jake has worked so hard for. “We can tell our families it was mutual – fizzled, like you said.”

Jake releases his grip on you, severs that last bit of connection. It takes every ounce of your willpower to bite back your tears.

“Woah, slow down.” His brow creases in confusion. His words are still gentle; he still handles you with care. “Where is this coming from?”

“I just…” You trail off, doing your best to find steadiness in your voice. “This was our agreement. And it’s served its purpose. Besides, it’s a new year, you know? No point in starting it off with lies.” No matter how much he searches for it, you’re still avoiding his gaze.

Jake’s cheeks are flushed – a combination of things. The taste of champagne that’s fading on his tongue, replaced by something sweeter. The gentle midnight breeze. The aftermath of a kiss that he still wears on his lips. “I…” Suddenly, he finds it very difficult to breathe. “That’s all this is to you? A lie?”

And you wish he would just let this be a clean break, would stop pressing, stop making you say things you don’t mean. But you need him to believe it. That this is well and truly done. “I mean, we got what we wanted, didn’t we? You passed econ, and I got my mother off my back for a bit. This was the date we agreed to end things on. It doesn’t make sense to keep dragging things out.”

Jake is suddenly unsure of many things, and most immediately, himself. He’s not sure how to explain it to you, here on the balcony, with the bitter taste of something that stings all too much like rejection sitting heavy in his throat. That he’s pictured it a million times. You and him, together because it lets you both breathe a little easier, because it feels a little bit like coming home. Not because of a contract or your family or his brother.

He doesn’t know how to tell you that every time he goes to a cafe, he marks a mental note to ask you what your favorite kind of coffee is. Doesn’t know how to tell you that every time he passes the corner table on the third floor of the library or the Student Union Building, the only thing he sees is your face.

Doesn’t know how to thank you for helping him pass econ, for being the boost of confidence he needed to finally stand up to his brother for once, for making him think that he might not be as much of a failure as everyone else seems to think he is. For believing in him.

He doesn’t know how to thank you for being in his life, for making it a little better. For putting a little love in the parts of him that he thought would always be consumed by anger and bitterness and resentment.

Doesn’t know how to tell you that it’s not just a contract to him. Not just a lie. That it hasn’t been for a long, long time.

Instead, he listens, motionless while you whisper, “Thank you for tonight.”

He knows your voice is wavering. He knows your resolve is crumbling. But he doesn’t know why.

So he watches, still unmoving, as you turn to walk away from him. Left alone on the balcony with no company but the stars, Jake Sim has nothing but a million regrets and the horrible, irrevocable feeling that he’s done something terribly wrong.

…

“You look terrible.”

“Thanks, Sungoon.” Your voice is flat, no energy for any real malice. Sarcasm, though, you can muster. “You really know how to make a girl feel good.”

“I’m just saying.” He’s still looking at you like you’re a particularly unsightly piece of roadkill he narrowly avoided colliding with. “Would it kill you to do something about those dark circles? I don’t know, maybe, like – and I’m just throwing out ideas here – sleep?”

You’ve tried. You have. But no matter what you do, rest can’t seem to find you easily these days. And aside from that, it’s the moments just before sleep that you’ve started to fear the most. In the dark, with your eyes closed, the only thing you see is the confusion, the unmistakable hurt on Jake’s face as you walk away from him for the last time.

“Look,” Sunghoon sighs, suddenly serious. “It’s just… I’m a little worried about you, to be honest. Did something happen on New Year’s? With you and–”

“I’m fine.” You cut him off. The last thing you want to hear is the sound of his name, the reminder of what you’ve done for the sake of preserving his future. “I’m just tired, really.” You try to smile, and it’s far from convincing. “It’s been a long few days.”

Sunghoon wears his doubts as plain as day, but he won’t press the issue for now. “If you say so.” He does need you to take care of yourself, though, at least a little. “At least come eat something.” Suddenly grinning, he whispers, “I snuck in some instant ramen behind your mom’s back. C’mon, we can go make some. We can even get fancy with it, if you want. I’ll fry you an egg and everything.” He’s pulling out all the stops, a testament to how terrible you really do look.

But it works. Or it’s enough to get you out of your room, at least. Stomach grumbling, you’re about to tell Sunghoon to make it two fried eggs when the two of you are intercepted by your mother on the way to the kitchen.

“Oh,” she intones, taking in your appearance. Her eyes travel from your sweatpants to your t-shirt to your lack of makeup, disapproval apparent in every glance. “You look…”

“Save it,” you grumble, not in the mood to be ridiculed.

Pushing past her, she stops you again. “Hold on a minute. I have a question for you.”

You take a deep breath before you turn back to face her. Might as well get it over with. “Yes?”

Smoothing her hair, she tells you, “Your father and I are hosting a banquet to celebrate the firm’s most recent acquisitions. It’ll be the last weekend in January. We’d love it if you could come.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes, not seeing where the question was anywhere in there. To you, it sounds more like a demand.

Sensing your reluctance, she adds, “You’d be welcome to bring Jake, of course–”

“We broke up,” you inform flatly. At your side, Sunghoon stiffens.

“Oh,” your mother says again, not missing a beat. There’s very little sympathy when she adds, “Well, I suppose that’s probably for the best. Don’t you think so? I mean, you’ll be so busy with law school applications soon, it’s probably better to not have a boy around to distract you.”

You don’t bother to dignify that with a reply. Instead, you turn your back to her, fully this time. Altering your course, you set your footsteps on a path towards the garage instead of the kitchen. “I’m going for a drive,” is the explanation you throw over your shoulder.

When Sunghoon tries to follow, you just shake your head. “I want to be alone.”

“But–”

“Please.”

There must be something desperate in your features, because Sunghoon only nods, doesn’t argue further as he watches you climb in the driver’s seat of your car. He’s still standing there, concern apparent on his features as you open the garage door behind you and reverse your car out of it.

It’s been a long time since you’ve done this, driven without a destination in mind. Your playlist blares through the stereo, loud enough to drown out any thoughts that threaten to cross your mind, to consume you, to send you spiraling.

It’s not until long minutes later, when the first drop of rain hits your windshield, that you even notice the way storm clouds gather menacingly above you in the sky.

Whatever, you think, turning on your wipers and increasing the volume another notch. You’ve navigated worse. If anything, it’s a perfect match for your temper, for the way emotions swell and churn in your stomach.

Mindlessly, you let nothing but intuition guide your way, turning down streets you’ve never seen on nothing but a whim and the desire to escape, even if just for a little bit. The rain continues to pour, and the storm clouds darken in time with your mood.

By the time you do start to recognize some of the scenery around you, it’s already too late. And you’re not sure where to place your blame. Fate, your subconscious, the way you can’t seem to let him go? No matter where fault lies, you’re suddenly perfectly aware of your location.

Mostly because you’ve been here twice in the span of a month. Because you’re only a handful of blocks, at most, from Jake’s family’s home.

The realization makes you quick to pull over. The best course of action, you decide, is to plot your course home in your phone’s GPS, since clearly you can’t be trusted to wander. It’s in the middle of searching for a better signal that you see it. A flash of movement outside your window.

It’s hard to be sure, through the thick sheets of rain that fall from the sky. But then you see it again, see her again, and you would know that dog anywhere.

“Shit.” Turning to scan the backseat of your car, you find neither a jacket nor an umbrella. Nothing to shield you from the wrath of nature outside. But it’s not like you can leave Layla alone in a storm. Gritting your teeth, you set your resolve. And then you open the car door, stepping outside into the rain.

It’s the kind of downpour that’s unforgiving, that soaks you to the bone as soon as you’re in it. Hair sticking to your face and already so cold you think you might start shaking, you start Layla’s name, hoping it carries over the wind.

“Layla!” It’s all you can do to hope she hears you over the storm. You lose her for a minute. Bringing up your hand as a makeshift visor, you force your eyes to focus. When you finally see a flash of tan again, you know it’s her. The relief is short lived. Frustrated, you watch her turn to run in the opposite direction.

“Layla!” you call again, this time louder, so much so you’re sure your voice will be hoarse tomorrow. From the way rain soaks your clothes, you’ll no doubt be nursing a nasty cold along with it.Thankfully, though, your beckoning does the trick this time. At the sound of your voice, Layla spins around, makes a beeline straight towards your familiar figure.

“Layla,” you chide once she’s at your feet, still grinning at you like the two of you aren’t absolutely soaked through and freezing. “C’mon,” you open the back door of your car to let her inside. “Hop in.”

She does so without an argument, and you slide back into the driver’s seat just as soon as you shut the door behind her. Putting your car back into drive, you set your wipers to full speed and drive straight until you see the turn a few roads down, the one that you know leads straight to his house.

Still, you pull over again a few houses away, hesitating.

“Sorry, Layla,” you turn to the dog in question. She just tilts her head at you quizzically. “I’ll get you home. I just…”

Don’t want to see him. Don’t want to look at him and face his anger, his resentment, his bitterness. Surely those are the only emotions he has left for you. Besides, it would be nothing but disastrous if his older brother were home. James would assume that your presence in his home means you’ve neglected to uphold your end of the deal and as such, has no reason to honor his.

There’s a lot of damage to be done here, if you don’t go about it wisely.

Turning back to the dog in your backseat, you point at her house in front of you. “You can make it home from here, right?” Again, Layla offers nothing but the slight perking of her ears. “Your house is right there,” you point again. “Just go up to the front porch and whine or scratch at the door and they’ll let you in, alright?” You give her a scratch behind the ears for good measure.

You know Layla likes it, know that it’s her favorite place to be scratched. You know it because you watched him do it a few short weeks ago. Suddenly, you wonder if he’s noticed that she’s missing. If he’s frantic, going crazy trying to find her.

A new sense of urgency motivating your actions, you turn back to Layla one last time. “Alright, girl. I’ll watch from here. I’m gonna open the door, and I want you to go straight home, okay?”

She wags her tail at you, and that will have to be confirmation enough.

Opening your door, you slide out of the car first. You hold your arm above your head as a makeshift shield from the rain, but it’s of little use. Reaching for the handle of your car’s back door, you’re about to send Layla home on a wing and a prayer when a voice behind you calls out your name.

At least you think that’s what you hear. You can’t quite tell, over the sound of pouring rain, the whistling of the wind. Still, you turn with trepidation in your gut. Rightfully so, when you peer into the car that’s just pulled over next to you and lock eyes with no one other than Jake’s mother.

She repeats your name, this time a little more frantic. “Oh my god,” She exlaims, taking in your appearance. “You’re soaking wet. Quick, follow me home and we’ll get you warm and dry.”

“That’s okay,” you try to explain over the story, “I have Layla, actually. I saw her wandering a few blocks over, and I–”

“Layla? Oh my goodness.” Concern and gratitude color every word. “Thank you, ___. I’m sure Jake is going crazy. C’mon,” she reiterates. “Follow me, and let’s get you both inside.”

Not bothering to wait for a response, she rolls her window back up, driving away with the clear expectation that you follow. And it’s not like you have any other choice, not really. You can hardly drive away with her dog. And it’s not like you can let Layla out now, not when she’s seen you.

So, hoping against all odds neither Sim brother is home, you climb back into your car and follow her command.

“Oh my god,” she repeats when you pull into the driveway behind her, letting yourself and Layla out of your car. “You two are absolutely soaked. C’mon, quickly,” she ushers you towards the front door.

Opening it, she steps inside first.

And of course luck is not on your side. You hear him before you see him. “Mom,” he sounds panicked, horribly on edge. “Have you seen Layla? She’s been missing for almost an hour and I can’t find her anywhere. I called James, but he left on a business trip this morning.” He doesn’t leave room to breathe. “I’m worried she might have gotten outside–”

Your rescue doesn’t remain a mystery for long. Layla bounds through the front door, jumping on her favorite sibling, wet paw prints staining his jeans as her sudden movement forces the door open wider. Reveals you.

Relief washes over Jake’s features as he greets his dog just as affectionately, and then he glances upwards. He takes one look at you, soaked to the bone and shaking from the cold. Any other words he had die on his lips.

“___ found her, actually,” his mom explains, reching behind you to usher you in fully and shut the door behind you. “A few blocks over, you said?” She clarifies, turning to you.

Eyes not leaving Jake’s, you just nod.

His mother glances between the two of you, your frozen, shocked stares. The tension is palpable, and she senses it as well.

“I’m going to go get Layla dried off,” she offers. “Jake, why don’t you help ___ find a dry set of clothes.” Shuffling past the two of you, she brings Layla along with her.

And then it’s just you and him.

Both of you stand there a moment longer, neither of you saying anything.

When you do break the silence, it’s at the same time. “Are you okay?” Jake tries, just as you say, “I’m sorry.”

Another beat of silence passes between you.

Jake nods towards you. “You go first.”

“I’m sorry,” you try to explain, words feeling jumbled as you give them life. “I was driving and I saw Layla all alone, and I didn’t know…” That you’d be here. That I would run into your mom. That it would hurt so much to see you again. You don’t know what exactly you’re apologizing for, but your presence feels like an intrusion.

Jake begs to differ. “Don’t apologize.” He shakes his head. “I should be thanking you. I was worried out of my mind thinking I might never see her again.” He’s talking about Layla. You know he’s talking about Layla. But his eyes don’t leave you once.

It feels like a moment that could stretch into forever, you and him. Masking your hurt, hiding wounded prides. Standing inches apart and the distance has never felt greater.

The spell is only broken when you sneeze, an immediate reminder of the circumstances that brought you here. Of the fact that you’re trembling like a leaf in his entry way, soaked to the bone.

It's enough to spur him to action. “Come on.” He jerks his head towards the staircase behind him, voice and features still carefully guarded. “ I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

You could argue, but you don’t see a point. Not now. Silently, you follow him, all the way up the stairs and down the hallway to the last door on the left. When he opens it, there is no doubt in your mind as to what this room is.

It’s his. It has to be. You know it, from all the little pieces of himself he has on display. Pictures of him in his youth with friends that smile just as big and brightly as he does. Soccer trophies, a drawing of Layla done before he had well-developed fine-motor skills, a picture of him and his mother at the beach.

All at once, you wonder what it would have been like to discover him naturally. How long it would have taken you to uncover all these little parts of him, one by one, if any part of your relationship had been given the chance to be real.

And then you notice the mug sitting on his nightstand. The self-heating one you gave him for Christmas. There’s nothing special about it, and it’s not particularly attractive, design-wise. It’s practical. Almost impersonal. He has no reason to keep it displayed like this. Part of you wants to swell with unshed tears. The other wants to run and hide and face your shame alone.

But Jake is already rummaging through a drawer, and a moment later, he turns to face you with a pair of gray sweatpants and a matching hoodie.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes preemptively, and you hate the uncertainty that lingers between you. The awkwardness. All the stilted pauses and unsure silences that were never there before. You hate that it’s your fault, that you have no clue how to fix it. “I’m not sure how they’ll fit.”

“That’s okay,” you shake your head, ignoring the way your heart stutters suddenly at the thought of wearing his clothes. “They’ll be dry. I appreciate it.”

“The bathroom is through there.” He nods towards the adjoining room. “There are clean towels under the sink, too, if you want to dry your hair or anything.” Pausing, he adds, “Take as long as you need.”

Nodding, you walk into his bathroom, shutting the door behind you. You know he meant it, when he told you to take your time, but part of you is hesitant to linger. Somehow, this space feels even more private, even more intimate than his bedroom. Again, you feel like an intruder. An unwanted presence in a place that’s entirely his. A place you lost the right to be when you struck a deal behind his back and took his future into your own hands.

Sighs mingling with regrets you can’t voice, you trade your rain-soaked clothes for his dry ones. You look at yourself in the mirror, and then you tuck the necklace he gave you out of sight, underneath the collar of his gray hoodie.

A minute later, you emerge from his bathroom slightly self-conscious and significantly drier. Across the room, Jake looks up at you. You watch as he swallows audibly, eyes tracing the planes of your body swallowed by his borrowed clothes. His throat bobs before he tears his eyes away.

“I should…” Again, you hate this tension between you, this uncertainty. “I should go. Thank you for the clothes. I’ll wash them and give them back once the semester starts–”

“What happened?” Jake couldn’t care less about your upcoming laundry plans. You can keep his sweatshirt and sweatpants and whatever else you want from him forever, as far as he’s concerned. Instead he’s still stuck on–

“New Year’s Eve. I thought…” He shakes his head. “I thought things were… good between us.”

And you could continue to be evasive. For his sake, you probably should.

You could continue to make his decisions for him and decide to preserve his econ grade instead of whatever unnamed feelings might still linger between the two of you. But, the quieter parts of you whisper, that would make you no different from anyone else in his life, from the people you’ve encouraged him to break free from. The people that have molded his decisions and guided his path with a heavy hand all in the name of doing what’s best for him. All because they think they know him better than he knows himself.

You don’t want to do that. What you want, here in the privacy of his bedroom, in the comfort of his borrowed clothes and the legacy of his youth, is to tell him the truth. You want to let him do with it as he sees fit. Taking a deep breath, you make your decision.

And then you brace yourself for his anger, the outrage he’ll surely have at your explanation. “Your brother–”

“My brother?” Jake’s face falls, misreading things entirely as he jumps to premature conclusions. But it’s not like he’s grasping at straws. Jake isn’t blind to the way James has been gloating more than usual as of late. To the way his mood started improving right around New Year’s Eve. And he assumes the worst. “Oh. Okay.” Jake is trying to smile, but his features are completely wilted when he says, “I guess he got that second chance after all, huh?”

“What?” Your lips twist in disgust as the implication sinks in. “No.”

“No?” Now, Jake just looks confused.

“No,” you reiterate. “Look,” you sigh, “I figured out that those plagiarism claims about your econ paper came from him.”

Across from you, Jake’s jaw drops as it sinks in. “James was the one who…”

You nod, lips tight. You still can’t believe it either. “I went to his office to confront him about it, and he told me he’d retract the accusation, but only if..”

Jake’s eyes are imploring. You have the feeling he already knows the answer. “Only if what?”

“Only if I promised to end things between us.” And there it is. The truth. Cold, hard, ugly, and Jake’s to interpret as he will. You brace for impact.

Jake is silent for a moment, shocked into stillness. And then, “He what?”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “I can see why you have such a hard time getting along with him. He’s kind of the worst.”

“Wait,” the wheels in Jake’s mind start to spin. “Did you tell him, then? About our contract and everything?”

“No,” you shake your head. “He never realized our relationship wasn't real. I just asked him to give me until New Year’s. I told him I would break up with you then, as long as he retracted the accusation.”

Jake takes a step closer to you. “And he agreed?”

You nod.

Jake pauses.Takes another step. “Why did you ask him to wait until then?”

There are a million things you could say, a million ways you could answer.

Because I couldn’t stand the thought of another New Year’s alone. Because the thought of being at a party hosted by my mother without you at my side made me want to crawl out of my own skin. Because I’m selfish. Because those butterflies in my stomach have a habit of making me do stupid things. Because everything I told your brother in his office that day was true.

You can’t give him all of it, but you can at least offer scraps of your honesty. “Because I wanted to spend my New Year’s with you.”

Jake says nothing, but his feet are moving. Each step brings him closer and closer to you. It feels a bit like it’s playing out in slow motion, delaying the inevitable. You move backwards until you run out of places to go, until he’s crowding you against the door of his bathroom, invading your space and demanding all of your attention, your focus, you.

There’s no hesitation this time around, not when he leans down, cupping your chin in one hand to adjust the angle to his liking.

“Wait,” you breathe, lips a hair's breadth from his own. “What about your brother–”

“Fuck my brother.”

And then his lips are on yours. In the sanctity of his bedroom, in the aftermath of revelations. It’s the second time in the span of a week, and it already feels familiar. A little bit like coming home.

His palm finds a place to land against the sliver of skin exposed just about the waistband of your borrowed sweatpants. A shiver traces the length of your spine, this time not from the cold but from the unbearable, unmistakable heat that threatens to boil over with every touch of a fingertip, every ghost of a caress.

When you pull back for air this time, you don’t use the moment to shatter what’s just beginning to build between you. For real this time. Instead you say, “You’re really good at that, you know.”

“Thanks,” Jake grins, still a little breathless. “I could use some more practice, though.”

And who are you to deny him an opportunity for improvement?

…

epilogue – one year later.

“This looks pretty cute on you, you know.”

“Do not touch it,” you hiss, swatting Jake’s hand away from your graduation cap. “Do you know how long it took me to bobby pin it into place? You’ll rip out half my hair if you try to move it around.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” Jake raises his hands in mock surrender, puts them as far as he can from your immaculately done headwear.

Unlike you, he’s dressed in jeans and a button-down. But it makes sense. After all, the only person celebrating a milestone today is you. Jake doesn’t find that he minds so much. He just submitted his final project for Advanced Typography a few days ago, and he received stellar marks on it. The best in his section, actually. Not to mention that the class has been one of his absolute favorites so far.

Besides, his time will come soon enough. In another year or two, it’ll be his turn to have a graduation cap bobby pinned to his hair. And he thinks a Graphic Design diploma will lead him to much happier places than a Business one ever would have. Even if it does come a year or two behind the schedule he once cared a lot more about.

For starters, it won’t let him or you fall into any more ridiculous traps set by his brother ever again. Turns out, things like photoshop and other image-altering softwares leave traces. Ones that Jake is now excellent at detecting and could use to easily work his way out of false plagiarism accusations the future may throw his way.

Straightening your graduation gown, your eyes land on something behind Jake’s shoulder. There’s a crowd today, as to be expected at a graduation ceremony, but you’ve always been good at finding what you’re looking for. And even better at finding what you’re avoiding.

“I think I see your family,” you nudge Jake. Even his father is here. Mostly, you suspect, because you never bothered to correct his assumption that you’re heading to law school after this. Next to him stands James, lips twisted in permanent disdain, no doubt dragged here against his will.

Still, you propose, “Should we go say hi?” The only reason you suggest it is because you also see your second favorite Sim (and first favorite on the days that Jake is particularly annoying). Hand blocking the sun and eyes wandering, you can tell that his mother is looking for the two of you.

Jake keeps his back to them, steps in front of you to block you both from their sight. “No,” he denies flatly. “My brother is still weirdly obsessed with you.”

You wink, nudge him as you tease, “Must run in the family.” It’s an echo of a past conversion and rings even more true this time around.

“C’mon,” you grab his hand, tugging him along. “I promised your mom a picture. I’ll ignore him. Trust me, I’m good at it.” Glancing down at your feet, you reconsider. “Actually, I’ll step on his foot. These heels weren’t just made to look good, you know. They’re actually a pretty decent weapon if yielded properly.”

So Jake relents, lets you pull him along. Towards an interaction he doesn't really want to have but knows he will come out of just fine. Towards a future that’s full of uncertainties and doubts, but is his alone to forge.

He doesn’t know what life will look like in ten years or five years or even just one, but he knows that he likes the way it feels when he does his best to put a little love into everything he builds. To let it swell and overflow until it touches the world around him and smoothes over lingering remnants of the bitterness and resentment and anger that never did anything but make him miserable.

And Jake likes the way it feels when you smile at him. He likes the way it feels when your hand is wrapped up in his own.

And for now, he thinks that might just be all he needs.

...

outtake – sixteen years ago.

At the age of six, there is a lot you don’t know about the world around you yet.

For starters, you don’t understand why it’s only grown-ups that get to drive. It seems awfully unfair that you’re always relegated to your car seat in the back when the front seems much more exciting, especially considering the way your mom is always yelling at the other cars.

You’re also not sure why she always makes you wear itchy dresses whenever you go to places with a lot of other people. After all, your princess nightgown is way more comfortable, and you like the way it feels against your skin. But no matter how many times you begged, your mom still put you in one of those awful, scratchy dresses tonight. And by the time she finally finishes her first round of mingling at your family firm’s annual charity fundraiser and lets you sit down in the seat next to her for a brief break, you’ve already been poked and prodded by people you don’t know more times than you can count.

Which is saying a lot, since you just learned your numbers up to one hundred last week.

And you’re really not sure what your mom means when she leans over to your father and whispers, “I think this could be the start of something extremely profitable. A contract with the Sims, exclusive rights to represent them legally, I mean, that’s huge.”

You scratch at your shoulder. That’s the itchiest part of your dress. Your mom leans a little closer to your father. “I know you don’t like to, but suck up to him a little tonight, if you have to. And if he invites you to golf, you must say yes. We absolutely cannot blow this opportunity.”

At six, your interest is still a flighty thing, and grown-up conversations you can’t understand are usually quick to lose it. It’s not long before your eyes are wandering for something to entertain them, something to hold your focus.

Finally, it settles on a boy halfway across the room from you. He’s small, just like you. You wonder if he’s six, too. If he can also count to one hundred now.

Head tilting, you watch as he reaches for one of the delicately balanced centerpiece bouquets sitting on a table in the middle of the room.

“Jake,” you hear someone call, that edge of worry only mothers can manage clouding her voice. “Don’t touch that, sweetheart. It’s fragile.”

“Fragile?” The boy repeats.

“It could break easily,” she explains patiently, pulling his hand into hers as she guides him away from the fragile centerpiece. If he is six, you’re definitely smarter than him. After all, you already knew what fragile means.

But watching his retreating back, you wonder some more. Wonder if he was made to wear an itchy outfit tonight too, wonder if he’s ever gotten to drive a car or if all mothers are thieves of fun, just like yours. Wonder if he also hates coming to these things, if people pinch and prod at him too.

“Jake.” You try out his name, just to see how it feels in your mouth.

Momentarily distracted by the reminder from your mother to keep your voice at a whisper level, you lose him in the crowd.

Jake, you think to yourself. Most of all, you wonder if he would be your friend.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

THE END.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

note: THANK YOUUUUU for reading (seriously, this is so ridiculously long. oops). it is (mostly) edited, but by someone who just spent basically 48 hours straight writing 25k words, so you may have to be a little gentle with me in that regard for now. apologies for any grammatical errors or weirdness.

if you enjoyed this, I would love to know about it!! comments, tags, reblogs, and asks are treasured and motivating and so, so appreciated.

as always, thank you again for reading! all my best to you ♡

#enhypen fanfiction #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen fic #enhypen ff #enhypen fanfic #enhypen au #enhypen scenarios #enhypen fluff #enhypen angst #jake sim #jake sim x reader #jake sim x you #jake sim scenarios #sim jaeyun x you #sim jaeyun x reader #sim jaeyun

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love-takes-work · 12 days

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Highlights from the stream:

Here are the anecdotes shared during the epic draw-fest. Nearly all of them have been shared elsewhere at least once, but the new ones for me were about Greg Universe's orientation and the prototypical name for what Steven and Pearl's Fusion was going to be.

Rebecca Sugar loved Peridot's floating fingers and wanted to do all kinds of fun things with them before they would be gone forever. That's why we see her making arrows with them and biting them nervously in the episode right before she loses them.

When selecting clips for promotional use, they tried to be super careful about not picking anything that would show Peridot's real hands before the reveal had been aired. They didn't want a promo to accidentally ruin that surprise.

While doing the show they had an "eye theory" where the three main Gems would always have a different number of eyes showing. Pearl had both her eyes visible; Amethyst usually had one covered; and Garnet had either no eyes showing or three eyes showing.

With Rebecca and Ian's decision to get married and the characters Ruby and Sapphire being based on them, they figured well, of course now they have to get married too. (Though Rebecca and Ian got to do so AFTER their characters did!)

One of Rebecca's "post-Future theories" is that Steven gets a Gibson Hummingbird guitar.

Cookie Cat was originally based off of Cookie Puss, a very strange Carvell ice cream cake. It had a complicated backstory, which was appropriate for working with their own characters' complicated backstory. The branding and packaging of the Cookie Cat is important within the show.

Jeff Liu composed the Cookie Cat theme on a Game Boy and pitched it.

Rebecca has a "theory" regarding how Steven and Connie's faces kind of "fit together" with Connie's face sticking out at the top and Steven's face sticking out at the bottom.

Rebecca used to do a lot of fan comics, and learned a lot about storytelling while practicing with others' worlds and characters. They love when people make things based on these characters.

The original appearance of Rainbow Quartz was inspired by a music video from the Cars that Rebecca loved when they were younger. The Cars are referenced a lot throughout the show because their videos were a huge inspiration to Rebecca.

Lapis is very much based on a character from one of Rebecca's comics from the art school days.

Everybody on the Crew had different ideas of how Steven's head connected to his body and how his hair worked; Rebecca felt that they learned from everyone's various ideas.

If you've heard that Rebecca was against Finn being in a relationship while working on Adventure Time, that is not true. Rebecca worked on lots of the Flame Princess episodes. Finn and Flame Princess were still together when Rebecca left the show (last episode "Simon and Marcy").

Greg Universe's sexuality was never explicitly stated on the show, but Rebecca thinks of him as sexually fluid. Regarding him as bisexual is also completely valid--and appreciated by Rebecca as a bisexual creator who puts lots of their own personal traits into characters and feels that bisexual characters are pretty rare. Greg's gender on the show is pretty solidly established as male, so Ian says he is probably not gender fluid, but Rebecca is fine with alternate headcanons about that too.

Some of the earliest concept art from "Mr. Greg" was everybody in suits. Getting everyone in a suit was a primary agenda.

Everyone also wanted Connie to have a Space Camp outfit in the earliest concepts for her design in the movie.

Rebecca used to love doing signings while doing the show because it was like a chance to come up for air and go back to work energized by knowing how many people were touched by the show.

Rebecca Sugar wanted Pink Diamond to feel a bit influenced/inspired, design-wise, by the work of Iwao Takamoto. Rebecca loved his work in the Hanna-Barbera Alice in Wonderland and on Sleeping Beauty.

Rebecca drew the rough of the poster's art and Danny Hynes did the colors. Rebecca loves that they got to do this poster because they didn't get to do the final Comic Con with any art depicting Future or beyond (the finale of Future coincided with the emergence of Covid, so everything was closed down), so this is their way of "going rogue" and doing it!

An early prototype of a Steven/Pearl Fusion was called Coral. Rebecca said maybe they could share some drawings of this Fusion sometime. Rebecca shared this factoid with the viewers while drawing Rainbow Quartz 2.0, and mentioned that Ian boarded the scenes including their introduction.

Rebecca would often draw Garnet with a huge smile on her face whenever Garnet was the requested character--even before Garnet had made an expression like that on any aired episode. They had to be careful not to drop any Garnet lore before viewers knew what her center was about. For the short period before "Alone Together" had aired that they were doing conventions, some people were getting mysteriously grinning Garnets and not being familiar with that expression, but once the episodes aired, they understood for sure.

Shelby Rabara, Peridot's voice actor, is a professional dancer, and she choreographed the tap-dancing in "Mr. Greg" as well as provided the foot-taps that you actually hear in the show during the dancing.

Rebecca thinks of art and writing as just two different ways of expressing what you mean--they're not exactly as different from each other as most people think.

Everyone on the Crew was so excited about Steven's neck as an older teen. Mainly because figuring out how Steven's head joins to his body was an issue in original SU.

Unfortunately, while it was also kinda nice to see so many people enjoying Rebecca's drawings and commentary, there was a lot of rudeness and obnoxiousness in the chat. I know, I know, it's expected; I too live on the internet. But I'm disappointed to say the chat was full of people demanding Black Diamond, or repeating their own name and what character they want every 3 seconds (like, literally, pasting it over and over again for a long period of time), or harassing them about "weird Ed Edd and Eddy art," or spamming "REBECCA WHAT WAS IN THE CHEST," or wanting constantly for them to say hi to them personally, or repeatedly asking if Rebecca has read Homestuck. Or even writing snotty things like "maybe you should stop drawing and get up and give us a new season." Holy shit. can u not

(I didn't want to get a live-signed one, but I did get one of these to be sketched later! Mine is supposed to get Lion on it. I love Rebecca and the SU crew for bringing us new art and fun discussions in 2024.)

#steven universe #rebecca sugar #su art #myblog

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thankskenpenders · 13 days

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IDW's Fang the Hunter miniseries! All four issues are out now! I don't have as much to say about it as I did with the Knuckles show, but I do have some thoughts.

So! This is a pretty fun miniseries. I liked it.

It's fun to see Ian get to write a four-issue arc starring the Hooligans, his precious boys, with a B-plot showing Sonic and Tails' perspective on this little adventure. As always, Ian captures the characters' voices well. In particular, I really liked Bean in this, who despite being a slapstick screwball is actually a pretty perceptive guy. He often acts as sort of a voice of reason for Fang, seeing right through his sweet talking and pointing out how badly all of their schemes go but sticking around nonetheless just for funsies. And the art (illustrated this time by Mauro Fonseca for the first issue and Thomas Rothlisberger for the rest) is as good as we've come to expect from IDW's Classic Sonic output. Overall, this is a fun little romp that captures the vibes of the Classic era very well.

...But...

Well, as I've said before with the Amy and Tails anniversary specials, I feel like we're kind of seeing diminishing returns with these Classic spinoffs. They're fun, sure, and very nice to look at, but their writing always leave me wanting more.

A big part of this is just that there's just less to work with compared to the Modern universe. The Classic cast is much smaller, and within that cast there are a bunch of characters currently going unused, some of which are currently off-limits. Aside from the appearance of the Witchcarters in Tails' special, we've pretty much just stuck with the cast of Sonic Mania and the Hooligans, as established in the first special. No Chaotix, no Battle Bird Armada, barely any Honey. (Classic Vector was able to get a tiny cameo in the Amy special only because he was so obscured that it gave the IDW team plausible deniability to say it was actually a different character if Sega complained.) It's a very small box, and Ian's recent Classic comics haven't particularly expanded the boundaries of that box. They're just excuses to play the hits for old times' sake. And that was a lot of fun the first time around, but the novelty is starting to wear off for me.

I will admit, sure, the tighter focus on a specific set of characters from the games is a big part of the appeal of these Classic comics. They're simpler. They're nostalgic. They're shining the spotlight on characters that can't be used in the main series. They're the slavishly faithful old school Sonic comics that we could never get in the '90s, because the comics we did get diverged into their own continuities with tons of new characters. I get all that.

But the thing is, the Sonic comics have always added all those new characters because you can just do so much more with them. The game cast is great! But they're corporate mascots Sega keeps on a tight leash. You can do so much with a character like Sally or Surge that you could never do with any of the game characters, and by pushing into new territory with these new characters you can also bring out interesting new sides of the game cast. Maybe Sonic himself can't have some crazy complex character arc, but you can see how he'll respond to the things going on with these other characters, and how these other characters' arcs are informed by their relationships with Sonic.

So I look at the Fang miniseries, and I'm like. This was pretty fun. But by the end, what was the point of the story? What did we learn about the Hooligans as characters that we didn't already know? Is the point just to depict an adventure where things go off the rails a little and Bean and Bark end up a little miffed, explaining why they weren't with Fang in Superstars? There's potential for an arc there about the dissolution of the group, but it really does come off more as the type of spat these three probably get into all the time before coming back together for the next job. It's neither super dramatic nor super funny, feeling more like it ends on a fairly matter-of-fact note where Fang's like "welp, time to go do the events of Sonic Superstars" at the end, not particularly plussed by anything that happened in this arc. What we're left with is four issues of the Hooligans encountering recognizable characters and visiting recognizable locations from the Classic games, with little that really feels new or fresh here.

Ironically, the most interesting story element to me here (aside from Bean's characterization) is its tie to the main comics, something previous specials couldn't do since Sega had yet to reunify the Classic and Modern timelines. The plot of this comic revolves around Fang following the myth of the "eighth Chaos Emerald," riffing on both old playground rumors and Sonic the Fighters. What they actually end up finding isn't an extra Emerald, but rather the Warp Topaz that would eventually end up in Starline's possession in the Modern era, having apparently been found by the Hard-Boiled Heavies in the cave seen in the 900th Adventure special.

That's kinda neat, and the abilities of the Warp Topaz are used in fun ways. But this isn't exactly something to write home about for people who aren't lore nerds like me. There isn't a particularly meaningful connection between Fang and Starline's arcs here due to the presence of the Warp Topaz, it's just a thing for the wiki. Again, Ian's in his connect the dots mode a little more than I'd like here.

(...So wait, if Starline didn't find the Warp Topaz himself, did he track down the cave where the Heavies found it to leave that "greatness began here" graffiti? Eh, I guess that sounds like something he'd do. He's known for nothing if not his obsessiveness.)

So, again. This was a pretty good miniseries. This all makes it sound like I hated it, but I did like it overall. I particularly liked seeing the Hooligans fight the Hard-Boiled Heavies. But it leaves me feeling less fulfilled than something like Scrapnik Island or Tangle & Whisper or Imposter Syndrome. I get that, by the very definition of the word, Classic Sonic is always going to remain trapped in amber to some extent. This isn't the version of the franchise that's supposed to grow and change. That's what Modern Sonic does. Classic Sonic will always be trapped in the early '90s. I'm not asking for them to add a dozen new characters with complex dramatic arcs to the Classic comics, since that's not what Classic Sonic is about. But I think the other Classic Sonic stories not written by Ian - i.e. the driving school story by the McElroys and the two stories about Amy by Gale Galligan - show that you can tell fresh new Classic Sonic stories that aren't just about remixing the hits from the games.

If we're going to continue getting Classic Sonic comics from Ian (and I hope we do!), then I just hope he's able to find a better balance between familiar and new ideas, like he and Evan do so consistently with their Modern Sonic output.

#tkp post

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tinycozycomfort · 8 months

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rest in the cup of my palms (part three)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter three: compromise

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: joel helps you work through your doubts.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn / (for this chapter) -> sad thoughts about fatherhood, idolization!!, oral sex (f receiving), edging

word count: 5k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: thank you for your patience and thank you as always for reading! and special thank you to @pascalisbaby for bearing with me as i cried my way through this i love u

read on ao3 / main masterlist

“For the first time, I could clearly perceive the nature of feelings and emotions—I physically felt their consistency… the surge of a wave, the crumbling of a cliff… I understood the necessity of comparisons and metaphors using water and fire.”

Annie Ernaux, Simple Passion

───────

Minutes go by, but sluggishly, painfully—a dull crawl that mimics the cinematic use of slow-motion. The fracturing feels pre-climactic and almost momentous, too-long strides of seconds that pave the way for something grand.

In reality, you’re just waiting; in this barely-lit, one shot hallway, aptly partnered by a life-sized amount of discomfort. You feel like a piece of something sprouted up from cement, forced into a mold not made with you in mind—love and like and candy-sweet, feverish feelings—unable to be removed now that you’ve grown in over the lip. Reaching for the sun. And he’s beautiful above you, radiant enough to burn behind closed eyelids—the image that shines there a carefully chosen snapshot that only adds height to where he hangs in the sky.

You’ve become so tired already, from the work-up and the frustration and the effort to stop it—like being outside all day with no reprieve until sunset; he’s that strong. It’s been restraint, followed by actions that negate it, followed by reinstating restraint, and still it doesn’t stop daylight from happening. Morning and high noon and six-o-clock oranges will never stop happening, so why not free yourself of the excessive rumination and the fighting? You’d much rather try to brave him—sunscreen and shade and a flat hand above your brow. Trying is good, easy, uncomplicated. Tonight, you can try. This is a good idea.

He’ll be here soon to prove it, too—on his way to come collect you, confirmed by the oblong rectangle of text on the brick clutched in your fist.

You move enough that it wakes up again, ’Fifteen minutes.’ flashing across its face, burning under the pad of your thumb. The thing is overheating now, somehow having absorbed some of the furious twisting of your excitement, and you shove it deep into your bag to let it cool—too honest of a mirror.

You will your body to restart, moving back out onto the yard in search of Ian, to warn him of your exit—the only courtesy you have enough patience to give—frantic to get to the good part.

You find him out by the flame, one foot resting on the brick-lined ledge of the pit, a still-full beer bottle tight in his grip. It’s tepid, too, if the lack of condensation is any indication. You curl your nose and he tips the top towards you, a waft of sour citrus pouring out.

“What happened? My friend came back very upset that you were gone,” he teases, cocking a smile and rolling his neck over in question, languid and unserious.

“I’m leaving, actually. Didn’t want to go without saying.” You knock the bottle with the back of your hand until it threatens to spill over in the other direction. It’s unoffending, really, a nervous reaction, but it has him visibly questioning what ten minutes out of view had done to make you so taut.

He straightens up minutely at your unrest, only enough to reel back his exaggerated demeanor without drawing looks, “Are you good to drive? I haven’t had any of this yet—I can take you home.”

“I’m not driving. I’ve got a ride.”

“With?”

“Joel’s going to come get me.”

His eyes widen, mouth spreading with what you’re sure are five too many questions, so you stop him before he can continue—afraid to mar his night with what you imagine would be too much to navigate right now, “I’ll explain tomorrow. Text me when you get home. I love you. I’m fine.”

Part of you—a part that has no say right now—feels guilty for doing this to him a second time, for putting your friend through another half-witnessed, poorly justified fit of emotional anguish. He was the one who brought you here, to get away from this very thing, but somewhere in your bag there’s a faint stir, hard vibration jostling the contents, and you fail to think Ian through, again.

He’s barely even started to nod before you turn, slipping through the side gate and out onto the lawn.

It only takes another handful of stretched-out moments—time lost completely on you now—before opaque beams cast across the curve of the street from the top of the cul-de-sac. They drop off into low-lights once the driver registers your presence and you push forward on shaky legs, knees locking—blood having gathered in your chest from anticipation, sloshing around your heart and cutting off circulation to your limbs.

The vehicle—a truck—passes you, hitting the end of the block and returning up the drive, passenger door addressing you when it stops, your reflection warped in its convex surface. The window rolls down with a whir, and Joel’s face appears in the slit, eyes tired and hair flattened unintentionally��you absolutely woke him up.

You let yourself in, hiking up a static-logged leg to settle in the seat before he pulls off back onto the street. It’s silent for too long, and you’re returning to a familiar feeling of acceptance, just like all the nights in your past where you’d admitted to yourself that you were going home with someone, driven by fuzzy feelings of instant connection and promise. It makes him easier to grasp—more human-like.

“You were asleep,” you mumble sheepishly, acknowledging his unpreparedness in an attempt to forgive your own.

“‘Wasn’t supposed to be. I was waiting up for Ellie. I—uh, I thought you were her when you called.”

He sounds just as level as he had on the phone, fingers rapping rhythmically on the steering wheel, “She texted a few hours ago to let me know she was out for the night. I fell asleep before I could see it.”

Joel tucks the corner of his elbow in the window, laying his cheek on curled knuckles, and you chance a real glance at him for the first time.

His dark blue t-shirt is wrinkled where it had been bunched at the torso, hanging limply now over a pair of rumpled jeans. Creases of sofa or pillow-case run up like tendrils on the skin of his arm, pressed in at various degrees of depth—restless enough to continue to pivot, even in repose.

He looks homey, spun out of flesh-colored wool thread and plush, unlike the fatigue you’d seen on him in the classroom, or the buzz of anxious tension on the side of the school a few days ago. Here he’s just Joel, free of the idea of him or his actions; just-awake Joel with nothing to say except the truth. Pressure sits weighted on your shoulders, lingering guilt from choosing to savor, even if within the safety of emotional distance. It’s okay to look, isn’t it? Although looking isn’t all you had in mind.

“Can we go to your house?”

“Did you drink?”

Joel peers over his shoulder at you, and he looks meek but not small, like the question itself isn’t embarrassing but the act of asking it is. Oh. You remember your last encounter, how you’d blamed your exit on the wine, and your heart constricts at the idea that he’s asking because he’s afraid you’ll leave again. In all honesty, you wish you could leave, be strong-willed enough to have him let you out a block from your front door, never to be seen again. But you’re weak, at the mercy of your need to test your limits, your brain dipping into its reserve while your body fights to feign presence, hands rolling into fists in your lap.

“No. I haven't gone out much since the break started. Decided against getting fucked up.”

He hums, satisfied, eyes falling ahead. The tires grind under you, lulling you into another tense quiet until he’s pulling up to the front of a well-kept, stone-faced home at the end of a short street. You lean forward to see more of it beyond the curve of the windshield, lined in copper trim with fender-shaped dents bruising the cover of the garage. It’s a call-back to grade school—what limited experience you had traversing the suburbs as a child—visiting friends in large, traditional houses with pretty concrete fountains and security-alarm signs forced into panels of fresh grass.

Joel steps out and comes around the car to open your door before you have the chance to do it yourself, popping open the handle and stilling for a second before just stepping out of your way, perhaps in the sake of not being overly cliche. You try to appear unaffected by the notion, climbing down with a smile and sealing the door behind you, but you inwardly relish in his considered movements—he’s taming himself for you.

He leads you into the house—as quaint as it seemed to be—smelling warm and peppery like heat-soaked wood. It’s very much lived in, riddled with evidence of use—scuff marks at the threshold and smudged fingerprints in the dark paint on the walls where boots were taken off with the assistance of a grip. A side table brackets one side of the entrance, littered with bobbles and keys and a few other store-bought treasures. At its closest foot are several pairs of little sneakers, piled tall and wide on a wedge of rug, too narrow to be Joel’s.

Ellie.

There are signs of her everywhere, this faceless extension of him, her name scribbled on a few papers on the table and in the corners of framed drawings in the hallway; gorgeous hand, she has—all of the figures looking as true to life as they could, even when confined to paper cages. She lines the edges of their domicile, a path of lovingly curated representations of her, right down to a monogrammed leather sketchbook that sits on the dining table.

And everywhere she is, he follows. Parts of him loom over her place-holders—guitar picks marked J in a dish with a box of charcoal nubs, a rolled up wad of button-up laid over a dark green backpack, a men’s watch sharing space on the counter with two tiny drops of backed silver. He watches over her within the borders of every container, open and solidly present behind her like a tough-knit net—ready to catch.

You step out of your shoes and he walks further in the house with haste, knocking around in what you assume is the kitchen when he returns with a glass of water.

“For you,” as he passes it, “Just in case.”

“Thank you.”

He curls a thumb into a belt loop at his waist, body teetering awkwardly as he watches you drink. You note the more-than-safe distance he’s put between you, the same kind he had implemented last week between his heart-wrenching confession and the point where this entanglement had escalated.

“Okay, so. I’m going to change. Do you want something too?”

You can’t help but smile, a nervous laugh held tight in your throat, “Yes, we can go to your room.”

Even in the dark, you don’t miss the flush of red along his jaw, the same shade he’d worn in the gallery, wine-soaked and unpracticed.

You flinch inwardly. How is it that you are remembering so much about him when he’s existed in your world for less time than should be notable? Only two interactions, now three, but they’ve earned their slot in your fondest of memories; nothing substantial provided still, and he casts your sunrises and warms your earth. You fear what touching him again will do to you.

Joel smiles something shy back, walking past you and motioning for you to do the same. He leads you back through the display, minding the little shoes as he climbs up the steps.

There are photos lining the staircase, less symbolic than the downstairs decorations, but just as revealing. A few of Joel and another man, similar in stature with a full smile and thick, slicked back hair, clasping shoulders or standing pin-straight side by side at different ages in mall-kiosk, christmas card style. Another of a young girl, all teeth and sparse freckles and pale cheeks. She’s wearing a cap and gown, shiny polyester catching in the flash, edges hazy with blur.

That’s her. His daughter. You’ve seen her, you realize, from a few modeling sessions you’d done when you offered to cover for the younger students. You already knew her, too, floating around more than a few hellos on the days you’d sat for her like a silent idol. It feels odd to be in her home now, the two of you connected in a way she hasn’t come to partake in quite yet. She’s been at the head of your conversations with Joel until now—in this moment when she’s here but not here—and you wonder how much he’s considered her place in all this. You should at least thank her, you suppose; nod at her picture in prayer or cross your fingers that you might actually get to meet her—see her again, rather—and get to say it to her face.

Joel walks ahead of you as you linger, unbothered by your interest. You’re glad he does when you reach the last row.

A larger frame bookends the slideshow, standing alone in its unique appearance. It’s hand-made, a thin string of painted ferns on the edges, the wings of something like a butterfly or moth wrapping over the right-hand corner, precise and niche enough to be nothing other than a gift. The picture inside is of the two of them together, happy and puffy-cheeked with their arms wrapped around each other, back-lit in front of some kind of museum display.

Pure joy. His comfort.

A swell of pain lodges in your ribs, eyes drawing wet. He’s losing her, you think, in a way he hasn’t even begun to realize. He's missed so much of her life—at no fault of their own—and will pursue her future as a bystander. You long to give him some kind of relief in that, maybe out of pity or maybe out of need. You wanted to be on your own, you wanted to be separated from everyone else out of spite for letting your family and your ex tower over you, heavy-handing their influence in false gestures of kindness. Not loving. Never loving—only present in best interests and helpful advice. Things that gave you purpose and points. Who was tallying? What have you to show for it now?

You only ever wanted acceptance from them, to be recognized as a person instead of as a student or a daughter or a girlfriend—to be able to transcend role and become an active participant.

It’s too perfect, this thing you each individually lack; what comes of someone who cares and someone who needs caring?

“Hey.” Joel calls from the end of the room, pulling you out of your dissection of his life, voice soft like he’s seeing an apparition he’s unsure is there.

“Hi.” You whisper, walking towards him, ignoring his tentative boundary, “You know, I did everything in my power to not call you.” There’s no point in keeping secrets now, from him or yourself.

He crowds you in the doorway, body slumping on the line of his spine so he can entrap you more securely, u-shaped shoulders and outward facing palms, “Why did you call?”

“I couldn’t help it,” and before he can interrupt, “Joel, I need you to know that this isn’t going to end well.”

“End? Have we started?”

“We were doing this before we both knew it, I think. That’s what you were talking about, right—like we’ve met before?”

“That’s right.” He’s breathing shallowly, unable to hide his desire for proximity now that you’ve allowed him more than he started with, chest moving back and forth like the breeze of the heater is enough to push his tide, “And I meant it.”

“So did I.”

“Then what are you so scared of? If it’s familiar?” His knee knocks into the slice of thigh above yours. He’s getting closer.

“Just because I want you now doesn’t mean I should have you.”

“What if I want you to have me?”

“Even worse.” The heat of his face leaks out onto yours and you open yourself to it—the hot sun in July, the boiling rain of mid-summer, all encompassing and working hard to bring you up to temperature so you can burn along with it. Setting you ablaze.

You lean up, the tip of your nose catching on the stubble lining his jaw, careful to not break eye contact for longer than the briefest moment, nudging him in short taps.

“I do, though, honey. I think you know I do.” His knee pushes between yours, digging into the joint of your leg to unfold you, the rough denim over his zipper dragging across the knob of your hip.

You curl a hand around the fabric covering his stomach, wrinkling it past the point of correction as it folds under the damp of your fist. He’s far from at length now, both nothing of what you intended and exactly what you wanted. He’s thrilled about it too, seemingly—the muscle under his torso fluttering when your nails drag against him.

He’s everything again, everywhere, soft tanned skin and jeans he came up here to ‘change out of’, the invisible halo around him swallowing you, coaxing you into his orbit. You want all of it, piece by piece and for all he’s worth.

“I don’t want to waste you,” you murmur, and there’s that unashamed boldness again, honesty rushing out like an unsupervised beast. Joel wraps his thick fingers around the side of your neck, thumb pushing into soft cheek, between rows of teeth and over skin, pushing them apart.

His eyes are glossy, like he’s just gotten up from a long sleep, gauzy and sloppy and sticky. His mouth hangs open to mimic yours as he speaks, “You couldn’t. I have an endless amount to give,” and then he’s licking the outline of your open lips, slipping his tongue in to press along the roof of your mouth and up up up to the back of your teeth. He’s puffing hard out of his nose, dipping in and out of your split, licking even the pad of his thumb where it pokes through the hollow, touching himself inside you.

His free hand grips the top of your ribs, leading you backwards towards the bed until you’re seated at the edge of it, his back curved harshly to continue to taste you.

You’re kissing him back, you know that, but your thoughts float up to cloud your pleasure and you’re getting ahead of yourself all over again. What does he want? Why does he want it? Would he be upset to learn you’re trying to give him less? You flip the hem of his shirt between your forefinger and thumb, toes curling against the carpet—walking that line of self-doubt.

He breaks away, so careful again even with no clear need to be, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just nervous.”

“About now? Or about me?”

“Both.”

“Just talk to me, then. Tell me why we shouldn’t—we can work through it together. Let me take some of that worry off of you.”

Joel braces a knee on the corner of the mattress to hold himself steady, gripping you under the joints of your shoulders and pulling you towards the center of the bed. He deposits your body like nothing, kneeling at the apex of your thighs.

Your voice shakes, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He works at the buttons on your shirt with long fingers, drawing it over the hills of your shoulders until your collar rolls in on itself from the force, falling away. Joel wraps the layer over the panel of your jacket and pulls, undressing you like he has to memorize how to be able to put you back together. He does the same with your bra, achingly slow, but you can feel tiny tremors in his wrist as it runs against your back.

You just watch for a minute, unable to link what he’s doing to reality, arms feeling weak like the dull ache of a full-body cold, akin to sickness.

“Go on, honey. Only gonna keep going as long as you do.”

“I— I feel connected to you. I don’t want to.”

He closes his eyes and bobs his head, I understand, and your body starts to feel numb at your core, pulsing so violently it prompts you to roll your ankle to make sure you haven’t left it behind.

“More,” he pants, running fully-spread hands over every piece of bare skin, your nipples pulling tight as the motions move from gentle to greedy, passing to tugging.

“I can’t do this again. I have a hard time letting go. What if you want me for the wrong reason and I can’t hate you for it?”

He pops the button of your pants, lifting you up off the bed to take the garment down and off, dipping his fingers into the rim of each of your socks on the way to remove them at the same time.

You push your forefingers into the band of your underwear, but Joel meets your hand as you start, winding a finger around the lace and pulling opposite so they catch—leave these on.

You comply, but you know you’re already wet through them, know that he can see it, and you can’t decide if you want him to know his effect on you, legs buckling in no clear direction; but he feels so good, and he’s almost where you want him, and he’s waiting for you to keep talking, so you lean into the heat. You spread.

“It’s easy to tell myself you’re different once I’m in it. But it never works out right. I get too attached.”

Joel settles in, shouldering the left side of his body under your thigh to bring you open further, wrapping his arm around it and letting a hand situate against your belly. He turns his right palm away from himself, flattening it like a warning sign before he pushes it against the crease of your cunt, rubbing in slow circles with the curve of his fingers, right under the points. You thrash, trying to force him just an inch up to where you’re throbbing, but he doesn’t budge—he’s making you earn it.

“What if you just want me because you think you need someone to take care of? What if you find out you feel better alone?”

He dips two fingers into your cunt through the film of your underwear, shallow but firm—more than just curious. You feel like you might just come from this, from just the suggestion of him.

He uses his forearm to butt against the underside of your thigh, prompting you to lift it towards your chest, and he leans down to cup your clit into his mouth, fabric and all. His mouth is searing with the aid of the material, a tight suction that insulates the heat he’s expelling.

You’re heaving now, light-headed and loose as broad strokes of his tongue soak the already tainted cloth, the extra stimulation from its drag enough to make your head spin. You’re sure that if you breathe any harder your chest will cave in.

“Hm?” He asks against you, demanding, the vibration of it setting your skin alight, and you force your nails into the dip of your hand to keep your mind in the room. You’re stuttering, but it’s not enough of a response, so he leans back—cruel and merciless.

“What did I say?” he coos, left hand pinching into the swell of flesh at your side.

It stings but you gasp, eager to take, even if the attention so so far away from where it should be, and you have to count your breaths out in groups of five to come back into focus.

“What if I’m willing to take what you give me? Does that ruin the safety I’ve built for myself?” you whisper, and finally he peels back the curtain of fabric, only enough to present your entrance, rough fingers greeting your opening with no resistance, twisting and hooking them so just the tips are fixed inside. He positions himself above his hand, spitting onto your still-covered clit, watching it slide down and gather where you join. It’s unnecessary, with how much slick you know is pooled there, trailing down onto the sheets under you, but you chalk it up to just having another piece of him inside of you—you’ll gladly accept it.

You’re so very close, and he can tell, maybe from the shake in your hoisted leg or the lack of time in between airy cries, and he just slides in, right to the first knuckle. No room to be ready.

The sound of blood rushing in your ears is so loud you don’t hear yourself when you start begging. You writhe under the hold he has on you, relieved and overwhelmed and a few inches from your soul pouring right out of your body.

And then he’s not moving again, lessening the recovery time he’s willing to allow you, and you try to dig through the fog of arousal to find real words, but your mind can only conjure up a single-syllable sentence as you beg him to relent.

He frees himself from the clutch of your leg, shimmying out so he can use his unsodden hand to cradle your head, the weight of your skull limp in his palm, “You can do it. Get it all off your chest.”

Joel presses his thumb up under your cheek, pulling at the crease of your lips like he can will you to speak with force alone.

“I can’t. Please. Just finish.”

“You have something else you want to say. I don’t take kindly to giving up. C’mon.”

He gives you a half-step, reminding you part of him is still within you, fingers curling up against the soft muscle and you skip over a hard inhale.

“How am I supposed to know what I’m up against if you won’t tell me?” He says it like it’s obvious, like this is some very common step in relationship-building—finger-fucking you as a reward for confessing your skepticism.

You’re tense, holding the whole of your body in one, tiny scrap of you and it feels like you’ve entered some kind of limbo, suspended in the place between tension and relief, so close to falling that you’re not sure you want either of them.

He angles himself again, pushing his entire heft into your hip with a wide hand so he can fit himself flat against the bed, mouth hovering over your cunt again. He exhales hard over you, the fingers still tucked in your cunt moving as he adjusts.

“Please?” He begs sweetly, high enough on the end that you know he’s mocking you, “You can do better than please.”

You huff hard, swallowing thickly—trying again, “What if you—What if—,” you manage, and the lead-up must be convincing enough because he bows again, body fully flat so he can latch on to your clit with his mouth, lips closing tight around the bud through cotton and sucking hard, the hand inside you stirring to life, his twisted positive reinforcement serving you well.

“Fuck, Joel. Fuck—What if you make me love you, just to leave me?”

Your ankle drifts down to find purchase against his waist, and you can feel him moving, working himself into the mattress. In the chaos, you’d forgotten about his want, and being reminded of his ability to take makes your sweat run cold. He could fuck you now, and instead he’s fucking the bed thinking about you—even bringing you to completion is enough to make him chase release. You lean your head back behind your shoulders, your orgasm overtaking you one harsh wave at a time, stomach filling with thick, hot syrup. You push your teeth so deep into your lip there has to be blood but you can’t taste it, all of your senses honed onto where he’s unraveling you, shrinking in on itself in preparation to violently burst.

He weighs in, now that you’re already cresting, “I won’t leave you, sweetheart. Not now that I know what you need.”

His admission, his promise, is enough to make you see white, pushing your peak into overstimulation far too soon, and you have to be crying or begging or something because he immediately slows, winding you down in an organic way—taking his time leading you past bliss.

He pulls his hand free of you, sliding his grip over the damp, half-mounted fabric and peeling it away, hand circling your calf to maneuver you gently.

You’re fully naked now, and when he rolls over to stand at the foot of the bed, you remember he’s still clothed. There he is, above you again like he brings the dawn, bent shirt and uneven waistband and shiny slip over his lips.

It looks different from your memory though, here he looks inexplicably pained, face wrinkled, and then settles another reminder—he hadn’t come.

“Wait, Joel.”

He doesn’t answer, just recedes to another part of the room you can’t see over your heap of arms and legs.

You’re still swallowing ragged mouthfuls of air, not quite normal, when he reappears, the feeling of hot cloth against your still fragile cunt makes you writhe.

“Joel.”

“Yes?”

“You didn’t get to… finish,” you mutter, and how you’re too embarrassed to address his arousal even after what just transpired is beyond you.

“No need to rush anything. I can take care of myself for now, plenty of time to get to that point.”

“What now, then?”

“Sleep with me. I can take you home if you want, or to your car, but I would much rather if you stayed.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

#joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fic #joel miller/reader

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velvetvexations · 19 days

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The thing about comparing Kipperlilly's grudge to hating DEI and affirmative action is that those things are exactly what she's advocating for. The Bad Kids are not receiving accommodation for anything - and in fact Aguefort seems like the type to despise things like accommodations and would tell disabled people to pick themselves up by their bootstraps, but I digress -rather, they have direct connections to massive save-the-world plots three years in a row now that puts them way ahead of everyone else. Though they put in hard work, that doesn't change the fact that no one else working as hard as they can will ever equal being told to go stop a god from coming back and coincidentally your dad (a) worked directly with that dead god's primary agent in the past and (b) is now a super cool angel secret agent who will directly assist you in the task. Oh, and also, your teammate's parents are the dead god's primary mortal agents. And also they kidnapped your other teammate's dad because he's a powerful demon lord so now she's involved too. And you all happen to end up on Leviathan, where Fabian is an instant celebrity who immediately gets a cult worshiping the planks he walks on because they all work for his rich undead infernal dad.

The issue is that people keep mapping it to the real world and seeing "tragic backstory" like it would be IRL, which is a mistake. It's not a disability. They don't go to normal school to become accountants or NASA engineers, they are there to be doing exactly that shit that their backstories rope them into. Like, this isn't Buffy, they aren't saving the world incidentally, this is school for saving the world to pursue a career in saving the world. Spyre functions so differently from IRL that everyone is dramatically failing to comprehend the actual situation everyone is in.

And the thing about hating affirmative action is that it presumes someone only got into whatever not because they have skill, but because of their race or something like that. That's manifestly different from what's going on here. Kipperlilly has no doubt the Bad Kids are incredibly powerful and skilled - but their backstories gave them opportunities to use that power and skill that no one else will ever have regardless of effort or even luck. The Bad Kids can't go five seconds without tripping over the revelation that the BBEG for the year is one of their second cousins. That just doesn't happen to other people, period. The world revolves around the BK's in ways it will never revolve around anyone else so the Bad Kids will always get the massive adventures to save the world and be the top of their class because they're personally connected to the narrative.

Remember, Brennan has confirmed that other AA students do not do shit like that. They do exactly the sort of missions you'd expect them to - go in dungeon, fight monsters, come back. It's not "uh, the Rat Grinders should have just gone out and saved the world too", that's not how it works. AA students are not usually expected to, their rat grinding is just a more tedious and efficient version of what they would be doing otherwise. The BK's don't get involved with these plots simply because they're the most heroic heroes ever who seek wrongs to right, they do it because every single time everyone but Gorgug (who is for the most part absent major narrative stakes) was born someone that would get those in's, feats reproducible by no one else.

"Ah, but the Seven-"

The Seven prove the tragedy of it. Because Kipperlilly is right, but she's also wrong. The brilliance of BLeeM this season is that he's crafted a narrative inseparable from the meta of how the game works. In a very real way this is like the Dungeons & Dragons versions of Tron. The fact that it's a series of fictional TTRPG sessions is essential to the universe and it's story, in a Twin Peaks-ian way.

Because, see, it's not actually, technically magical trauma that gives out those narrative advantages. Magical trauma is just the most obviously visible side-effect. What the issue actually is is that, as everyone has noted over and over again, the Rat Grinders are NPCs, and it is therefore impossible for the world to ever bend itself around them the way it does for the PCs. Except, most are just saying that as a funny haha joke.

No, like, literally, that's the issue. They will always be in the shadow of the handful of people that the people constructing their world, their timeline, their very existence, has decided matter. They are doomed by narrative causality to be "boring". And I'm going to take a moment to say here, isn't it crazy no one is talking about this when we just got done with Neverafter which was all about this exact thing????? Like, literally the BBEG was the Authors. That is the situation here, more or less.

Anyway, there will never be a demon attacking that due to a curse is only vulnerable to hot licks from Ruben's guitar passed down from the first gnomish rocker. Mary Ann will never be the prophesized liberator of kobolds enslaved in dragon dens. Ivy will never find out her father was secretly a super-soldier for the Council of Chosen who before he was assassinated left her notes detailing a sinister plot within the government of Solace.

People keep having a hard time with this because it intuitively doesn't feel right to ever classify something like losing a father in any context to have some kind of bright side. But if you take nothing else away from this post, let it be this: Adventuring as it's done in Spyre is not something done in the real world. Adventuring is something everyone chose to go to AA to learn and put into practice as their long-term career. And in that, absolutely these things give the PCs a completely one hundred percent insurmountable leg-up on the thing they're all in competition for.

And it being completely insurmountable in that way further goes to show the difference between hating that situation and hating affirmative action. Even AA is not a guarantee that a specific member of the majority will lose out on something and a specific member of the minority will get it instead. As soon as the character sheets were rolled everyone else at Aguefort may as well have just gone home and started studying to be accountants because the main characters had been chosen. Or they could keep going and hope they get a spin-off, I guess.

But Kipperlilly does keep trying, for she doesn't really comprehend the true eldritch horror beyond her existence shackled to the bits of a bunch of comedians, and her solution is to adjust for those unfair advantages.

Which is affirmative action.

How is that not obvious.

#dimension 20 #kipperlilly copperkettle

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jelliedink · 13 days

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Little Revenge

Warnings: smut, cheating!, pet names, older man/younger woman, boss/employee, power dynamic Picture is not mine. Divider by @thecutestgrotto

“You’ve fucked your wife thinking about me before, haven’t you?”

Your boss, with whom you’ve been chatting for the past hour, nearly choked on his drink.

“Excuse me, but where did that come from?”

It wasn’t the smoothest delivery, but you just couldn’t think of a better way of introducing the topic and you were afraid of losing the courage to do so. You’ve been babysitting his daughters sporadically for almost 2 years now, as you did with many other children in your university campus’ neighborhood. Everything was fine until about 8 months ago, when his work schedule became flexible enough to allow him to always spend some time in the house most of the days you were there. Before this you dealt almost exclusively with his wife, meeting her at the start and the end of every shift. Since this change, though, Ian was the one you spoke the most to.

At first, you didn’t mind it. It was quite nice, actually. Ian was reliable, pleasant and seemed to genuinely care for you. When with you he was always trying to lift the mood, asking about how things were going in your life and offering advice.

But then he seemed way too interested in you, and his wife, previously sweet and warm towards you, became increasingly harsher and nitpicky.

“I have a theory for what the real reason why Mrs Allen fired me is. When you started staying at home I didn’t think too much of it, but it became difficult to believe you were just being hospitable as you gradually increased the frequency in which you inquired me about my love life and found excuses to touch me in ways that would make your wife fire me on the spot if she saw.”

Ian’s charming face changed its expression from its typical amicable neutrality to a condescending look.

“Darling, I think we have a great misunderstanding here.”

Your heart started beating faster, the voice in your head that said you got it all wrong getting louder by the minute. But now there was nowhere to go but forward.

“Mr Allen, I’m not mad at you. I’m actually kind of flattered, you know? To have an attractive and successful man such as yourself look at me in that way. I’m mad because I can’t get other jobs in the neighborhood because, as told by some of the other nannies, Mrs Allen has been warning all the mothers about her shameless babysitter that appears to be trying to sleep with her husband.”

His face didn’t change.

“I’m sincerely sorry about that, and rest assured you’ll be compensated for the trouble my wife’s actions brought you, but I still can’t see how that led you to such an unusual question.”

“Are you really not going to drop the act?” His insistent denial made you so nervous you felt almost dizzy. What if you were making a fool of yourself? “That’s a shame, really, because I was looking forward to letting you know how the real thing feels.”

Upon hearing this last statement, Ian confusion and disbelief flashed through his face, breaking the mask for a moment. Then his eyes filled with amusement as he answered you.

“My dear, aren’t you something?”

He got up from where he was sitting to get closer to you, squatting down in front of your seat in order to bring his face to your level. His initial defensiveness seemed to almost disappear, curiosity replacing it as he questioned you, eyebrows raised:

“Aren’t you afraid of the consequences in case you turn out to be incorrect?”

You were. But you also knew your reputation was already unsalvageable, so you didn’t see how it could get any worse.

“It’s not like anyone is going to believe me, so I have nothing to lose anymore, I thought I might as well try and get something positive out of this whole situation.”

He let out a hum of acknowledgement and stayed silent for a while, his eyes fixed on you while trying to decide if you were telling the truth or if it was some sort of elaborate joke. Seeing that he was not yet fully convinced, you decided to face his gaze and say something you thought would help him make a favorable decision.

“You know, I’ve only been with guys my age before and it has been really disappointing. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t secretly hoping for you to show me what a real man feels like.”

Ian let out a loud, amused laugh at your flirting attempt. His lips were still curled when his hands touched your chin.

“And to think I’ve been chastising myself for feeling attracted to the young, innocent little thing I thought you were.” He let out a series of “tsk”, feigning disappointment at you. “I feel tempted to take up your offer, missy, but I have a condition.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll do exactly as I say and, once we start, I’m not going to stop. So, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.” You nodded almost immediately. “But I have a condition of my own, too.

His eyes filled with curiosity.

“Oh, do you, kitten? And what is it?”

“Fuck me in the master bedroom. I want to have the satisfaction of knowing your wife will be sleeping in the same bed you fucked me in.”

Your request caught him by surprise, making him look at you with a mix of disbelief and delight.

“My, my, how did such a petty little devil make her way into my peaceful home? Alright, I can do that for you.” He closed the distance between your faces in a kiss, wrapping one arm around your shoulders and the other behind your knees. “Up we go.”

You hid your face in the crook of his neck while he carried you, unsure of what to do next, until he laid you on the bed.

“Here we are, sweetheart. I must admit, I thought you were smarter than this.” The condescending tone came back while he gently stroked your cheeks with his thumbs. “Lucky me.”

He didn’t give you time to fully understand what he said before he kissed you firmly. It didn’t take long until you were straddling him, his hands traveling through your body, eventually finding their way under your dress. For a moment it felt like he was looking for something on your bare skin, until he broke the string of kisses and looked at you with a grin.

“Of course you’re not wearing underwear.”

“In case you needed more convincing.” You answered, suddenly self-conscious of that decision.

“So you were that determined to be my little whore today? What a naughty kitten we have here.”

He immediately started kissing down your neck while you clumsily palmed his abdomen through the polo shirt he was wearing. He took it off right after helping you get out of your dress, and then leaned back for a moment to admire your naked figure with hunger in his eyes.

“Oh, pretty, you look just right.” His hands ran through your upper body, eventually fondling your breasts. “The perfect little toy.”

His mouth joined your body once again, leaving kisses all around your collarbone and chest while your hands tugged lightly at his hair. You moved your hips, trying to find the perfect spot to grind on top of his clothed cock, and you felt him smile when he noticed what you were doing.

“So desperate, grinding on me like you were in heat. Let me see how needy you are.”

One of his hands traveled to your pussy, and he groaned the moment he felt how wet you were. Then he started alternating between slowly rubbing your clit and moving his fingers through the whole length of your cunt, parting your lips and teasing to enter you, only to slide back again. The whole time his eyes were glued on your face, watching your expressions change as he toyed with you. You were way too turned on to feel shy at his gaze.

“Ian, just fuck me already.”

“Of course you do, kitten. But first you’re going to put on a little show for me, ok?” He took his now soaked fingers back to your entrance. “Daddy’s going to curl his fingers up and you’re going to fuck yourself in them.”

“Haven’t you teased me enough already?” you whined, frustrated.

“Princess, you were the one who asked me to show you what it's like to be with a real man. You thought I’d just pound my dick into you mindlessly like the guys your age?” He brought his torso near you and nuzzled his face on your neck, speaking into your ears. “No, pretty. We’re going to be here for a while.”

Then he leaned back again, curling his fingers as he said he would.

“Now be the good, obedient girl I know you are and fuck yourself on my hand, ok? Don’t make me ask again.”

You obeyed, placing your hands on his shoulders to support yourself while your hips moved up and down, his fingers sliding in and out of your cunt with ease from how slippery you were.

“Ian…” You started, after a while, panting and almost breathless. “Please, I need to ride you.”

“‘Need’ is a strong word, kitten. I’m having so much fun watching you act like a horny pet for me.”

“Please.”

“Shhhh…” He shushed you, stuffing your mouth with the same fingers you were riding. “You’re talking way too much for a pet. Be a good kitten and lick my hand clean.”

You sucked and licked all of your slick off his fingers, not breaking eye contact. When you finished he connected your lips again, this time with a kiss that seemed like he wanted to devour you.

“Such a tasty pussy. I’d eat it for hours if you weren’t so needy. Lay on your back for me.”

As you did so he finished undressing himself, hovering on top of you immediately after, one of his hands caressing your tights and propping you to lift it up to his waist.

“Since you’ve been such a good girl, I’ll give you what you want this time.” You let out a loud, obscene moan at the feeling of the head of his dick running across your cunt. “I’m going to fuck your pussy now, ok?”

“Mhmmm.”

He forced all of his dick into you at once, groaning a low “fuck” when he bottomed out. His dick was not that long but the girth felt good. You dug your nails in his back as he started moving his hips, skillfully rolling them towards you while kissing you once more.

“If I knew that little warm cunt felt this good I’d have taken you sooner.” He muttered at your mouth, along with a string of swear words you never thought you would hear from his mouth. “God, listen how fucking wet you are.”

You couldn’t say anything at first, his rhythm leaving you breathless and unable to make any other noise other than pants and moans. But when your cunt adjusted to his size, you started pleading for him to go deeper.

When he heard you, he stopped for a moment to grab a pillow and place it under your lower back, wasting no time sliding back in when you found a good position.

“Better now?”

“Fucking yes.”

It felt better for him too, and it didn’t take too long before his pace started to get frantic. Then you placed one of your hands on your clit and started rubbing it, moaning even louder at the added stimulation. He moved his lips to your ears and started praising you when he noticed this, saying how pretty you looked stuffed with him, how cute your moans were, how perfect your pussy felt. You felt your orgasm approaching even quicker.

After you came your arms went limp, barely holding Ian as he came inside you. He then kissed you one last time before falling by your side, both of you catching their breaths. His arms pulled you closer to him, and you laid your head on his chest until he decided to break the silence.

“You are a diamond. You did so, so well”

“The best fuck you’ve had in months?”

He laughed loudly before giving you a peck in the forehead and answering your question.

“You truly are a little devil, aren’t you? But how do you feel?”

“Great. A little ashamed, to be honest, but great.”

He gave your forehead another peck.

“Don’t worry about it, my darling. That was also not my wisest decision, but I enjoyed it very much.”

You hummed and snuggled in his chest even more, unsure on what to do next. Thankfully, it felt like he knew exactly what was going through your mind.

“Here’s what is going to happen now: we’ll take a bath and eat because no man in their right mind would send a woman home like this. Then, you’ll get to decide if you want to go home after accomplishing your little revenge or if you prefer to spend the weekend with me in the lake house and not have to worry about your bills for a very long time.”

You looked at him, eyes wide with surprise.

“Are you trying to buy me?”

“I’m willing to pay very well for it. But you don’t have to answer me now.”

He started getting out of the bed to prepare a bath, and once it was ready he came back to the room to take you there. When he took you in his arms again you materialized a thought that had appeared.

“I know it sounds silly now, but even though I’m tempted to spend the weekend with you, we’d have to stop by my house for me to get some clothes.”

Hearing this his mouth opened in the most mischievous grin.

“Don’t worry about it, kitten. My wife has a whole closet there for me to fuck you in.”

#dilf x reader #oc x reader #older man younger woman #older men do it better #smut #female reader #reader insert #fem reader #boss x reader #boss x employee

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jademickian · 4 months

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I think it’s pretty neat that stargazing was a Gallavich thing.

In season 2, Mickey says “you want us to put a blanket out and look for shooting stars next?” There is that—once again—an inner desire hidden behind the veil of a witty rhetoric. The dawn is popularly the symbol of new hope, the sun coming up shining its light, enveloping the ground with a potential of joy and rebirth. But with stargazing, the darkness in which it transpires precedes the coming of dawn. It is the hoping itself, the wishing, the tilting of head towards the sky, like the heart whispering a prayer to the universe. The sun is a very bright star that illuminates all. It’s overwhelming with its promise of renewal and warmth of love. That's why it’s much easier to look at tinier, less brighter stars at night. The multitude of them enough to give light—not too much—but just enough to stare at, so it doesn’t hit you all at once. The dawn would tell him he deserves to love and be loved, and that contrary to his belief, he’s not fucked for life. It’s a crazy jump, and the blaze of it might even burn. Meanwhile, the twinkle of the stars would tell him that a boy likes him enough to hang out with him, and that it is okay to long for something so far out of reach, for now.

In season 5, Ian is having some grass time (he’s lying on the grass), stargazing. Earlier than this, he mentions you can never see this many stars from Chicago because of light pollution. Mickey calls, and he holds it up to stare at his ringing phone. Contemplating whether he should or should not. He stares at the stars—weaver of fates, guider of travels. Desire, once again, for answers. A confirmation. Some direction. There must be something because here, they’re clearer, unlike back home where it’s hindered by stray city lights. Maybe this could help clear his clouded mind. Maybe he could draw constellations by connecting the dots and it’ll show him what to keep, what to lose. A glint. A flicker. “That’s the most important thing, to find somebody to love, right? Who loves you back for who you are.” But the thing about the stars’ divine message is that it could often be misunderstood. Misinterpreted. Maybe the stars will sigh, oh well. Guess you could take detours. Because another thing about stars is that, although enigmatic to a fault, they know where everything must go. They are close to the language of the gods. Perhaps for now, the answer is to be apart because in the grand scheme of things, it will all play out as planned.

In season 7, together, under the very same stars. It is hope and desire realized. Who would’ve thought? It was inexplicable, almost alien, that this is how their story is going now. But to the stars, it’s an old song. This is exactly where they should be. It’s the same narrative back then under the bleachers, when they didn’t know better. When voicing your feelings seems a futile and gargantuan feat. It’s the same story now, when they reconvene after, celestial forces refusing to cut these ties. When feelings are all you could voice out, as you’ve learned that if they swim inside you long enough, you’ll drown. “God I missed you.” The stars have known since the beginning. Its plans, slowly unfolding themselves. The wisdom they hold seem nearer now that if reached by the fingertips could be cold to the touch—not yet, not yet.

But even stars could grow impatient.

Even stargazer lilies—observer of heavenly bodies, predictor of futures—bloom facing the sky. Upwards, toward the stars, the flower looks upon. Maybe they’re ready for the dawn. The sun, the bigger and brighter star. The ball of fire catapulting itself, yet it doesn’t burn. It caresses, warm to the touch, and over the land gives life. It is here before them, and it will be here after.

“Now?” Now.

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 2 months

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"I remember once lecturing in a hall back in the early 70’s. At that time most of my audiences were very young and they tended to wear white and they tended to smile a lot and wear flowers. At that time I wore beads and had a long beard. I recall that in the front row of my audience there was one woman who was about 70 and she had on a hat with little cherries and strawberries and things like that on it, false ones. And she was wearing black oxfords and a print dress and she had a black patent leather bag and I looked at her and I couldn’t figure out what she was doing in the audience cause she was so dissimilar from all the rest of the audience.

Our audiences were like a gathering of explorers clubs where we would come together and we would just share our experiences. So I started to describe some of my experiences, some of which were pretty far out and I looked at her and she was nodding with understanding, and I couldn’t believe that she could understand what I was talking about. I was describing experiences that I had had after using psychedelic chemicals, experiences that were very precious and far out. So I would try a little further out experience. I’d look over at her and there she was nodding away. I began to think maybe she had a problem with her neck that lead her to nod and maybe it had nothing to do whatsoever with what I was saying. And I kept watching and getting more and more fascinated and getting more and more outrageous in what I was saying and she kept nodding and nodding. At the end of the lecture I couldn’t resist, I just kind of smiled to her so intensely that she just had to come up and speak to me. And she came up and she said “Thank you so much. That makes perfect sense. That’s just the way I understand the universe to be.” And I said, “How do you know? I mean, what have you done in your life that has brought you into those kinds of experiences?” She leaned forward very conspiratorially and she said, “I crochet”. And at that moment I realized that the ways in which people arrive at spiritual understanding was certainly a much wider variety of paths than what I had anticipated. I had begun to think that my way was the only way, which seems to be a common illness of people who get into spiritual work."

~ Ram Dass

[Ian Sanders]

#stories #personalities #Ram Dass #ian Sanders #quotes

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gotham-ruaidh · 9 months

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Who I Am - a 7x07 and 7x08 story

Set in the “Tell Me About Your Family” universe – where William visits the new Big House at Fraser’s Ridge together with Jamie, Claire, Brianna and Roger and their kids, Ian and Rachel and wee Oggy, Fanny, and Jenny Fraser Murray, in an imagined Book 9-ish timeline. He’s known that Jamie is his father for some time, but this is his first “family” visit.

Catch up on the story here:

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || Chapter 5 || Chapter 6 || Chapter 7 || Chapter 8 || Chapter 9 || Chapter 10

“I thought ye said ye were raised on a farm.”

Jenny Fraser Murray reached across to undo the knot that William had somehow tangled in the wool. “Here. Ye pull the strands apart like this, and then ye wind them together.”

William flushed but kept his head bent to his work. “I lived on my stepfather’s plantation for a time, but I was always busy riding or studying with my tutors or helping him entertain guests. I’m afraid I’m not much of a farmer, Auntie Jenny.”

She tsked. “So I assume ye never learned to clickit, either?”

“Pardon?”

“To make socks or scarves wi’ yarn using needles.”

Carefully he wound the strands of raw wool. “To knit? No, I never learned that either. Though I do remember my grandmother Dunsany had a basket full of yarn and thread and thimbles in her sitting room. I got into it once when I was a boy and she was not too happy with me.”

Jenny expertly tied off a handful of raw wool, and carefully took the wool from William’s hands. “Jamie and I learned to clickit from our Mam when we were bairns. My husband Ian – we grew up together, and one year for Hogmanay before we were courting, we knit each other hats wi’out knowing.” She smiled at the memory. “No’ like I needed one, mind. But it was a nice gift all the same.”

William gathered the tied-off piles of wool from the table and began stacking them on the tray Jenny had brought out onto the porch. “Was that before or after he lost his leg?”

“Oh, before. And he didnae lose the whole leg, just the part below the knee. He took grapeshot to the leg when he and Jamie were mercenaries in Flanders.”

That got William’s attention. “Da was a mercenary?”

Jenny nodded, stretching the cramp out of her neck and shoulders. “Aye, for the year after Father died. He had a price on his heid, so he needed to be somewhere else. He spoke French, so the choice was simple.” She turned to look at her nephew. “Did ye not ken that? Weel, I suppose there’s still a lot you don’t ken about my brother.”

William pursed his lips. “I didn’t know, no. It must have been his first time serving with an army, I suppose. And a foreign one, too.”

They watched a hawk glide soundlessly over the mountain. Smiled at Jem and Germaine sitting high up in the oak tree at the edge of the dooryard, swinging their legs from a high branch.

“He’s no’ spoken to me about it. Ever. Ian came home wounded, but Jamie didnae come back to Lallybroch wi’ him, on account of him being a wanted man. It took months until Ian was back on his feet, and while I mended him he told me a few things here and there about what it was like with the army. But then we turned back to running Lallybroch, and we were marrit not too long afterward, so…”

William stood, and extended a hand to help Jenny to her feet. Carefully he gathered the tray, now heaped high with wool. “Where may I take this for you, Auntie?”

It was a fine, crisp late summer evening. Roger supervised Jem, Germaine, Mandy, and Fanny washing the supper dishes at the trough in the dooryard, taking advantage of the last light. Jenny and Brianna’s voices drifted from somewhere inside the house, planning for the next day’s spinning of the raw wool into yarn. Ian and Rachel had retreated to their cabin with Oggy, who had fussed quite a bit during supper and clearly needed somewhere quiet to rest.

“Here.” William looked up to see his father holding out a pewter cup, took it, and shifted a bit on the bench to allow room for Jamie to sit beside him.

“I still can’t believe how peaceful it is here,” William remarked, watching the last rays of sun touch the treetops on the mountain.

“Aye. I’ve a short list of things I’m most happy about in my life. Getting the grant for this land is on it.” Jamie held out his own pewter cup, and William tapped it. “Slainte.”

“Slan-juh,” William echoed, taking a sip, feeling proud he did not immediately grimace.

Jamie smiled. “Good lad. We’ll have ye speaking the Gaidhlig fluently before too long.”

“You speak French?”

Jamie frowned, a bit surprised at the sudden question. “I do. And the Latin and Greek, a bit of Cherokee, and a wee bit of Chinese as weel.” He sipped his whisky. “And you, wee William? You must have the Latin and Greek, if your education was as good as Lord John has told me.”

“Yes. And French, and now some of the Prussian language as well.”

“Of course, on account of the Hessians.”

William nodded. Sipped his whisky. “I’m asking because Auntie Jenny told me today that you had served as a mercenary.”

“In Flanders. Aye. That was a long time ago.”

“Was that your first time serving in an army?”

Jamie stretched out his long legs, exposing his kneecaps as the drapes of the kilt fell away, pocked with scars.

“It was. I didnae have much choice, mind you. I had escaped from the English at Fort William, in the Highlands. I was being held for murdering an officer. I hadnae murdered him, mind you, but there was no reasoning with the garrison commander. That man had had me flogged twice in the space of a week, after all.”

William’s eyes bugged at this information.

Claire emerged onto the porch, medical apron tied over her skirts. “There you are. Is now a good time?”

Jamie shifted his pewter cup to his left hand, and extended his right hand over the rail of the bench. Claire pulled up a chair so that Jamie’s four-fingered hand lay in her lap, and pulled a jar out of a pocket.

William blinked, remembering his manners, and craned his neck to see. “What’s that?”

Claire opened the jar and set it between her knees. “It’s a salve I make for Jamie, on account of the pain he still feels in his hand. Helps to loosen the tension. Especially on days like today when I know he’s been using it too much.”

“Near every bone in this hand was broken when I was no’ much older than you,” Jamie explained casually, grimacing a bit as Claire’s sure fingers kneaded the salve into the tissue. “Pained me for years. And then at Saratoga I injured it again. Both times, Claire mended me. She promised me I’d have a working hand, and I do.”

“My first real surgery, this hand was,” she murmured, massaging the palm with both thumbs.

Jamie leaned over to kiss her forehead.

William cleared his throat. “I knew that Saratoga was not your first battle.”

“But it was yours,” Jamie interjected.

William took a sip of whisky. “Yes. I – I thought I would be better prepared.”

“There’s nothing that can prepare you, lad. I was but twenty years old when I fought my first true battle. I’d done the occasional cattle raid here and there, so I thought I’d be ready.”

“I wager you weren’t.”

“No. Drilling is easy. Knowing what to do in the heat of battle, right after you see your comrades die in front of you…that’s something else entirely.”

William watched Fanny and Mandy carefully carry a stack of clean plates and pewter cups across the dooryard and back into the house. Smelled the sharp, clean tang of the ointment.

“I am ashamed to tell you this, but I do not think I acted too honorably in the first battle.”

“At Saratoga, you mean?”

William nodded, looking down at his hands. “I froze. My comrade…my friend…took a bullet right next to me. All I remember is General Fraser screaming at me, but I couldn’t hear any of the words.”

He watched Jamie’s hand slide on to his, gripping it. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, son. It’s the hell of a shock. I’ve experienced it myself, a time or two.”

“Prestonpans. Culloden. The war with the Regulators,” Claire murmured.

William swallowed. “I recovered, of course, and led the next charge. Though now I realize it was you and your men I was fighting, and that fact makes me absolutely sick to my stomach.”

Jamie squeezed his son’s hand. “Take that feeling, lad, and multiply it by the largest number ye can think of. And then you’ll know just how I felt, when in the second battle I shot your hat right off your heid.”

William raised his mug to his lips, watching the liquid slosh as his hand shook. Feeling his body seize up with tension. “Dear God.”

His vision swam. His pulse dropped.

Steps – Mother Claire. Gently taking away his mug, and resting her hands on his shoulders. “William. It’s all right. You’re here with us now. Breathe deep.”

Jamie’s hand gripping his. “In and out, lad. Follow me.”

Claire undoing his stock, settling a hand on the clammy back of his neck. “Slowly now.”

He did not know if it was minutes or hours that Jamie and Claire surrounded him, comforted him, soothed him.

But when he did return to himself, he was crying.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped.

Jamie squeezed his shoulder, and kissed his temple. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, lad.”

“It’s called a panic attack.” Claire felt his cheeks and forehead with the back of a cool hand. “Have you had them before?”

He licked his parched lips. “Yes, but never that strong. Only when I’m truly upset.”

“I can give you some guidance on what to do, should it happen again and we’re not here to help,” she said gently. “But there’s no cure. I’m sorry to tell you that even in my time, these things happen. Perhaps even more frequently.”

William swallowed. “Have men not discovered a way to end all wars, then?”

She knelt on the porch, still holding his pulse between her fingers. “I’m afraid not. You know that Jamie’s endured several wars. I endured a war of my own, in the years right before I met him. England and France and the Americans were all on the same side of this war, if you can believe it. Fighting the Prussians, in the fields of France.”

“They called it a world war,” Jamie added. “Men fighting each other wi’out swords, but with guns, and with bombs dropped from the sky.”

“I worked in an aid station, right at the edge of the combat zone.” Claire looked at him, but her eyes were so far away. “Patched up many men not too much older than you. So, I understand.”

William swallowed. “I – I am a soldier. Being a soldier is what I’ve aspired to for my whole life. To be like my stepfather, and the men in his family.”

Jamie and Claire listened, patient.

“But I like this – being with all of you, here in the quiet. Perhaps I’m more cut out to be a farmer. I love my men, but this life here…”

“We understand, William.” Jamie reached to cup his son’s cheek, for the first time in his life, as if he were a wee lad. “And we will love you and support you no matter what you choose.”

“The Americans will win this war, will they not?”

“They will,” Claire said softly. “Of that I’m certain.”

William set his jaw. “Perhaps I should start spending a lot more time here.”

“There’s nothing we’d love more. But you have a life outside of this place, William – we cannae keep you from it.”

“Being here, with all of you, this past week – it makes me wonder whether this life here is more important. I need more time with you, Da – and with you, Mother Claire – and with Brianna and her family. I need to know who I am.”

Jamie smiled. “You already do, lad.”

#outlander #outlander fanfic #jamie and claire

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theitgirlnetwork · 7 months

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Better

Chapter 3. Friends Don't Fuck Friends

note: Hi everyone, thank you for the love so far on this story, I'm having fun writing it. I have a whole plan for this story, and building a universe that it's part of. Please feel free to send me any questions or leave comments below. Also warning: language, mentions of prostitution, i think that's it. <3

“Hey, Lip, pass me that wrench…Lip. Lip!”

“Aye, shithead, wrench, you don’t hear him talkin’ to you?”

Lip unglues his eyes from the ass in spandex red shorts with translucent tights being waved in his face…across the yard.

“Jesus, V should start chargin’ folks to skulk around the yard, eye fuckin’ princess over there.” Mickey scoffs from his seat on the steps, knocking the ash off of his cigarette.

Lip looks along the street to see the mailman, a couple of kids on the way to school, and some random drunks paused sporadically, all looking at the same view Lip had been admiring. “Hey, fuck off, fuckin’ pervs. Charlotte!”

Charlotte jolts straight from where she was stringing lights along the banister, whipping around to see the men lined up on the other side of the fence. “Oh, uh, can I help you guys?”

“Sure you can.” one of them leers, leaning on the fence. Lip jumps over, shoving the guy away, curling his lip up at them causing them to back away, scattering fully when Ian and Mickey both stand threateningly on the Gallagher side of the fence.

“Christmas uniform?” Lip asks, looking at the rest of her outfit, down to the shirt with a bow that said ‘Unwrap Me’. “Let me do that for you.” he crouches down, starting to wrap the rest of the lights.

“Thanks, I’m trying to get these done before my shift.” she grins, wiping her hands on her shorts. “When I get home I’m gonna try to paint the Santa that Kev brought home black, I think that it’ll be good for Liam to see. And me to be honest.”

Lip’s eyebrows rise as he stands, leaning closer to the girl. “What, you don’t like white men sneaking in at night giving you presents?”

“Not,” Charlotte takes a step back. “when they’re married. Or have girlfriends.”

Mickey whistles from behind him while Ian tries to smother a chuckle.

The blond stands to his full height, cocking his head back. “Thought we agreed to be friends. Change your mind?”

“Not about Mandy. Get permission from her, and we’ll be the best of buddies, kay?” She pats his cheek lightly, and grabs her purse from the stoop. “Ian, Mickey, will you walk me to work?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Free beer?” Mickey asks, swinging his legs over the fence, tossing an arm over Charlotte’s shoulders.

“Two.”

“Three! You little hooker.”

Lip sighs as he watches the three of them walk up the street, cursing himself for wanting anything to do with that sexy little suffragette.

“Knew you’d come back.” Mandy smiles, leaning in her doorway. “What? Little skank doesn’t give head? She looks like the type. Too prissy.”

Lip finds himself cringing at the name she used for the sweet girl who lived next door to him. “I didn’t fuck her.”

“Tried to.” she rolls her eyes, turning back into the house, leaving the door open so he can follow. “I don’t get it, she just got here. You go from fixating on Karen to her. I’m the one who takes care of you.”

Lip flicks his cigarette on the ground, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Well. Momentary lapse in judgment. Look, I’m sorry alright. But she didn’t know. And believe me, she doesn’t want any fucking thing to do with me now, okay? She wants to be friends…with us. You, mainly.”

“Good.” Mandy hums, grabbing two beers from the fridge, handing one to Lip. “But I don’t wanna be friends with that bitch-”

“She’s gonna be around.” He sighs, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “She’s gonna be around, okay. She’s V’s cousin. V and Kev are family, they live next door. She lives next door. But there’s nothing going on, alright?” He rubs Mandy’s arm. “Seriously. Nothing.”

Mandy stares up into his eyes, biting her lip as she thinks before nodding, kissing his cheek. “Okay. I believe you.”

“So you’ll try, right? To be cool with Charlotte.”

“Fine.” she breathes. “I’ll be cool with the bitch.”

Lip stares back at her, parting his lips to complain again.

“Girls call their friends bitches, calm down.” she holds her hand out to him. “C’mon, I’ll give you a blowie, you look pent up.”

Charlotte hums a christmas song to herself as she scrubs the bar top, pausing to fix the santa hat on her head.

Ian and Mickey had left after a couple of beers and the bar was relatively slow because it was the day shift. It was a surprise since it was a Friday, but she was grateful for the break. She was going out with V and Fiona tomorrow and she was excited. Excited to hang out with her cousin and Fiona. Excited to meet actual men outside of Lip Gallagher.

“Hey, Lottie! Table 13 is requestin’ ya. Get to it.”

“Mmkay. Coming.” she chirps. She turns the corner around the wooden post and pauses when she sees who’s sitting there. “Mandy, hi.”

“Hey. What time do you get off?” The girl asks, taking a bite of the fry in her hand.

“Um, around 8, why?”

Mandy pops the rest of the fry into her mouth and raises her brow. “We’re going out. We’re friends now. Per my boyfriend’s request.”

The emphasis is not lost on Charlotte, but this was what she wanted. Ian had told her Mandy can be pretty great when she’s not feeling possessive. She just needs to show the girl she has no interest in trying to take her boyfriend. So she offers the girl a wide smile, and bounces on her feet. “Great! Okay, so, after my shift, I’ll go home, get cute and meet up with you. This is gonna be fun.” she looks at the empty glass in front of Mandy, “how about a milkshake on me?”

“Beer.”

“Oh-kay.”

“Who’re you going with again?”

“V!” Charlotte whines, her heels clacking on the floor as she rushes across the kitchen.

Her cousin shakes her head, plopping down on the couch. “I agree with Kev, this is stupid, that girl hates you.”

“Not anymore. I don’t like Phillip like that, and she knows it, that’s why she asked me out. It’s gonna be fun.” she hums. “If I don’t like it I’ll just come home.”

“Look, she better bring you home as you went or I’ll show that little white bit-” the doorbell rings and Charlotte shushes her cousin, running out to meet with Mandy.

“Hey, girl, you look nice.” she smiles.

Mandy is wearing a short sequin dress with combat boots. She eyes Charlotte in her black tube top dress with slits up the sides, and crosses her arms. “Thanks. Let’s go.”

“Okay.”

The two girls head up the sidewalk, Ian, Mickey, and Lip are sitting on the stoop smoking. Mandy’s eyes trail over to Lip, waiting. For acknowledgement. A ‘you look nice’ or ‘thanks for doing this’. But all she got was to follow his eyes over to the girl next to her. Watching them stay there. It felt like torture. It really hurt. Mandy was tired of being the one who gets hurt.

A couple hours after the girls left, Lip is feeling pretty damn satisfied with himself. The girls were out, probably shaking their asses, having a good time. And Mandy is essentially a guard dog so they’ll be safe together. Then, he’ll have them both around, Mandy for screwin’ around, and Charlotte for…well…he hasn’t figured out what he needs Charlotte for yet. But at least all of that hard to get bullshit would go away.

He walks back into his room with some pep in his step, fresh out of the shower with a towel low on his waist. Lip pulls some underwear on and goes to grab a joint from his stash when he hears some vibrating. He follows the sound to Ian’s bed where his phone lays.

“Ian! Your phone! It’s-” flashing brightly on the screen is the name ‘Lottie’ with a picture of Ian with the girl kissing his cheek. Lip brings the phone to his ears “Fuck…hello?”

“Ian? It’s me, Charlotte. Um…can you come get me?”

“Charlotte? Where the fuck are you? Are you okay?” Lip huffs, tugging on some pants and shoving his feet into shoes. “Why are you whispering?”

“Oh, Phillip, hi…can you give the phone to Ian?” her voice cracks a little.

“No, what the fuck, what’s going on?”

“I…Mandy and I got separated and I’m in some house with some random guys that I don’t know. I locked myself in the bathroom, but…I need someone to come get me.”

“Alright, honey, look I’m coming, I just need an address alright. I’m comin’, I just need an address.”

“I…I don’t know, should I go look?”

“No, honey, Charlotte, stay in the bathroom, I’ll figure it out, fuck!” Lip growls, running out of the room and down the steps, swinging the door open and ignoring Ian’s calls.

When he opens the door, Mandy is standing on the stoop, a smile on her face. “Hey, Lip. You headed somewhere?”

“Where is she?”

“Who?” Mandy asks, shoving him back softly as he grips her arms. “Where is who?”

“Fuck, fuckin’ Charlotte, where is Charlotte? You left her somewhere?” The blond panics, hair sticking out everywhere, blue eyes wide with panic.

“How do you know she didn’t leave me?” she asks.

“Are you fucking kidding?” Lip growls, gripping her again. “An address!”

“Fuck, its 303 on Shelby.” Lip pushes past her, Ian and Mickey close behind.

“Christ, Mandy, you took that snowflake to a fuckin’ whorehouse?” Mickey scoffs.

“She belongs there. Boyfriend stealing tramp.”

Lip doesn’t even bother to look back, jingling the spare key he had made to Kev’s car in his hand as he climbs in and speeds off down the road.

Charlotte, has herself tucked tightly against the door, acting as a human barricade. Her knees close to her chest, her eyes shut tightly. V, I should’ve called V. And Kev would have come. But I didn’t want anyone to be in trouble. I’m…I’m scared.

There’s a loud knocking at the door, for the first time in like forty minutes. “No…” the banging continues and she flinches, trying to use the stern voice V told her to use when her boobs first came in, “No go the fuck away! Fuck off!”

“Lottie, come on, it’s me. Ian.”

“Ian?” she shoots up from her spot on the tile floor, yanking the door open and seeing her redheaded friend. She launches forward into his arms, hugging him tightly. “Ian. Oh my God you fucking came.”

He wraps his arms around her tightly, tucking her head tightly into his jacket. “Keep your head down alright, just walk with me.” Ian quietly leads her out of the house, the sound of pounding music fades and the cool Chicago air surrounds her. Two more sets of footsteps join theirs and the sound of two guns being put on safety clicks in her ears.

Once they’re in the car, Ian uncovers her face, and they pull forward, Charlotte stares forward quietly.

Lip doesn’t look back. He doesn’t want to see her tear stained cheeks, or water filled eyes. He doesn’t want to think about how angry this fucking stunt Mandy pulled makes him. And he doesn’t want to face the fact that he’s the reason she was even in there. Instead, he quietly rests his head on the headrest, looking everywhere but the rearview mirror.

When they get to V and Kev’s house, all three men prepare themselves for Charlotte to go running into the house, fall into her cousin’s arms and cry about what happened. But as they pulled up, they sat in silence as her sniffles slowed. She stares at the house, wiping away falling tears before turning to Ian asking quietly. “Do you have a water bottle?”

Ian glances at her before kicking his boyfriend’s seat. “Mick, give her yours.”

“What?” he grunts. Ian kicks again and Mickey huffs. “Yeah, okay, fucksake.”

Charlotte ties her hair back before splashing the water on her face, taking the shirt Lip had loaned her to cover herself with as they left, scrubbing her face. After, she takes her hair down and works a smile onto her face. “Good?”

Lip can’t look. He can’t.

But Mickey does, nodding quietly as the girl hops out of the car and all but skips up the walkway, taking her key out and going into the house. “Great, princess isn’t a snitch. Let’s go home.”

Over the next few days the house is quiet. Or quiet for the Gallaghers. Mandy’s been AWOL since that night and Charlotte’s been keeping her distance. Aside from small smiles she’s been staying away from Lip like he’s the plague.

Until a week later at 1 am when Lip got up to get a drink and he heard a squeal coming from Debbie’s room. She was supposed to be at a sleepover but forever the big brother he ran anyway swinging the door open, bat in hand, only to find Frank stuck in the window.

“Hello, son, help your old man in will you?” he slurs, burping before falling limp again. “Quickly, please my boy, there’s some rather attractive girl screaming and throwing rocks at me from outside.”

“Fuckin’ Frank.” he huffs, jogging outside to find Charlotte, picking up rocks and launching them at his father’s dangling ass.

“Phillip! Phillip, you there’s s-some man, trying to break into Debbie’s room. I left my phone inside and apparently no one in this goddamn neighborhood takes screaming seriously! You have to call the cops!”

“You know, I would, but he'll come back anyway.” the blond sighs.

“What?”

“He’s my dad.”

“Oh.” Charlotte breathes, running a hand through her hair. “Oh, sorry Mr. Gallagher!”

“Don’t uh, don’t apologize to him, he is breaking in. And he’s a fuckin’ drunk.”

“That’s alright young lady. Why don’t you come on inside and pull me in, then we can get to know…” Frank grunts, legs kicking himself a little further in. “Each other better.”

“Fuck Frank.”

“Oh, unless you’ve staked your claim here as well son. Despite the chemistry I felt between us when you were launching rock at my ass, I promised I would never do that to my son again. Begone, Temptress.”

Charlotte just laughs, dropping the remaining rocks

In her hand, placing it over her chest. “Jesus.” She breathes. Cold air shows the expelling of her breath.

Lip kicks the ground in front of him lightly, staring at the girl. “M’sorry everytime you’re around me some shit is happening. Did uh…did Frank scare you?”

“Mm no.” She hums. “I don’t scare easily.” Lip scoffs laughing and she rolls her eyes, “okay I do, but I recover quickly.”

“Okay. Okay good.” He smiles at the ground, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Um, Debbie is at this lady Sheila’s house. Doesn’t come home until tomorrow mornin’. So uh, he’s not gonna wake her up or anythin’.”

“Good. Kids need sleep.”

Lip watches Charlotte shift her weight from side to side, looking up the street. “So do pretty girls. What’re you doin’ up, you’ve been home from work for a couple hours.”

The woman’s eyes widen as she looks at him, mouth opening and closing before she decided to speak. “You uh…you watch me come home from work?”

Lip takes a drag from the cigarette and surprises himself when he makes the effort to blow the smoke in the opposite direction, making sure it doesn't blow into the girl’s face. “I…uh just like making sure you get home safe.” He gets closer, dipping his head to get a better look at her sheepish face. “That’s what friends do, right?”

Charlotte shakes her head, grin still on her face as she begins to back toward her yard. “No, nope, we had a deal…and-”

“Hey, I held up my end, it’s not my fault my ex was a psycho.”

“Ex?” Charlotte’s head jerks up, her brows furrowed. “That wasn’t-”

“Not because of you. It was a long time comin’.” And Lip means it. He’d attempted to break up with Mandy more times than he could count on his fingers. And toes. But the girl was fuckin’ persistant and well…good at distracting him. But he never saw their thing as something that would last. It was fun. Stress relief. Until it became stressful. Shit he still didn’t know if she considered him shoving past her at the house and ignoring her since the incident breaking up or a lovers spat. Lip had no intentions of going back though. He’s set his sights elsewhere.

“I’m sorry. About Mandy.”

“Yeah? Don’t be.” He sighs, watching her rub her arms in hopes of creating some warmth. “So what were you doin’ out here?”

“I was…feeling antsy. Can’t sleep, back home, when I can’t sleep, I usually walk it off. I only got this far before I saw your dad.”

“You thought you were gonna go on a walk by yourself? Out here?” Lip asks incredulously. Charlotte offers him a nod and a shrug, reaching into her reindeer pajama pants pocket and producing a small bedazzled can of pepper spray. “Yeah, okay, stay here, bunny, I’ll be back.”

“What? Phillip?” she calls after him as he disappears into the house. “Bunny?”

When Lip comes back out he has a shirt and a jacket on, another jacket in his hands with a hat balled up in the pocket. “C’mere, arms through, let’s go.” he pulls the jacket onto her, zipping her up before pulling the hat out of the pocket and tugging it onto her head.

“Stop, it’s messing up my hair.” she whines, trying to push at his hands.

“Yeah, you want pretty hair or pneumonia?” He grunts, tugging that hat down further, “you look pretty anyway, c’mon. Let’s go on your walk.”

“Fine. As friends, Phillip. Friends.” She asserts.

“Yes, yeah, friends. Let’s go.” Lip huffs, pulling her closer to him, hanging his arm over her shoulder.

“You couldn’t have grabbed one of Fiona’s jackets? This one is ugly.”

“Brat.”

“These are so pretty. Why don’t they do this in the neighborhood we’re in?” Charlotte asks.

They’d walked a whole away. Lip took her to one of those bougie neighborhoods a little ways away where they participate in some stupid, Christmas yard decoration competition. There are lights, little mangers, and blow up shit everywhere. He’d always thought it was stupid but Liam loves coming over here, and so did Debbie and Ian when they were younger. He’d tried to take Karen over here with Debbie and Liam last year and she’d wandered off and given a blowjob to one of the neighborhood dads. He’d never bothered to bring Mandy, didn’t even think of it.

But before he knew it, during their walk, he’d just led Charlotte here. Her eyes lit up as they walked from house to house. Her cold, soft, smaller hands in his warm, rough, larger ones as she pulled him throughout the neighborhood. Her eyes light up with each new arrangement she sees. They scooted closer, pressing their cheeks together as they took pictures, in almost all of them blue eyes were on her instead of the camera. Watching, relishing in a wide, dimpled smile.

They walk like they're playing a game, switching her from hand to hand, from his right to his left, back and front. “Seriously?”

“I think it would make the neighborhood kids happy.” she hums. “I love Christmas.”

“I see that.” Lip nods, letting her twirl before pulling her back to him again, wrapping his arm around her with his forearm over her chest. “You uh…gonna go home to Virginia for Christmas?”

Charlotte shrugs, letting her head rest back against his chest as they stop in front of a brightly lit house. “Dunno. If I save up enough to go back home. If not I’ll spend it with Kev and V. And You Gallaghers.” she grins, reaching up and squeezing Lip’s cheek.

“Ha, yeah.”

“Thank you, by the way.” Charlotte mumbles, toying with the sleeve of Lip’s jacket. “I…thank you for coming to get me so quick, and bringing Ian and Mickey. I was…was really scared so thank you.”

“‘S’okay. I didn’t want anything to happen to you. I like hangin’ out with you. When you let me.” Lip nudges her shoulder forward with his own.

“Yeah?” she smiles, turning her head to look back at him. “Me too. And thanks for taking me to see this too. I like living with V and Kev, but this place is really different than where I’m from. This was nice. Reminds me of home. And I know it’s not your thing. Next friend date, we’ll do something you’ll like to do.” Charlotte promises.

“Nah, this was fun.” Lip shrugs, letting Charlotte break out of his grip, pulling him along with her. “Date huh?”

“Friend date, Phillip.” she corrects. “So think about what you’d wanna do, give me a ballpark and I’ll plan it.”

“Yeah? I know,” the blond moves closer, pushing her hair away from her neck, placing a kiss on her shoulder before bringing his hand to her jaw, kissing her neck and jaw too. “What I wanna do. Hm?” he hums, placing an open mouthed kiss on her skin.

Charlotte releases a heavy breath, the light whimper in her throat isn’t lost on Lip as he uses his other hand to grip her waist. “Phillip…okay Phillip,” she stammers, pushing at his chest, sighing when he pulls back only slightly, keeping them face to face, sharing air. Charlotte clears her throat, offering him a dimpled smile. “Friends don’t fuck friends.” she pushes him one more time, leaving their embrace and heading back down the street.

Lip stares after her incredulously, adjusting himself before mumbling a ‘fuck’ under his breath and following the girl. “Um yeah, they fuckin’ do!”

“Well we don’t!”

“I went on a vacation there, once, with my ex-boyfriend, it was nice. I loved North Carolina.” Charlotte smiles.

“Yeah, doubt it was the part that my cousin is from. But, uh, he’s a good kid.” Lip nods, rubbing his thumb along the skin on her hip, disappointed to see the sign to their street up ahead. They’d been out for hours, but it’s only felt like a few minutes. He doesn’t want to take her home yet. “So ex-boyfriend. Is he uh…still around?”

“Why?”

Lip shrugs, ushering her toward her home, stopping her from taking the hat off and mumbling ‘keep it’. “M’kinda hopin’ he’s an asshole, less competition for me right? You gotta get over this friend thing some time. Hopin’ I’m the one who’s around when you do.”

“Phillip…” she sighs, an exasperated smile on her face when she whirls around to look him in the eye.

“Bunny?”

“Where’d that come from, huh?” she asks, tilting her head.

Lip nudges her chin softly with his knuckle. “What, you don’t like that? It’s cute. Like you.”

“Hm.” she scoffs, leaning closer to his face. “F-R-I-E-N-”

“Lip!” a voice shouts from the Gallagher’s steps. Lip’s head drops in defeat, the muscle in his jaw jumps as he grits his teeth. “Thank God you came home, finally! No one is opening the door! I’m freezing my ass off here!”

“Jesus, it’s fuckin’ five in the mornin’. What’re you doin’ here?” Lip groans, pushing Charlotte behind him slightly.

“Oh, my sweet boy, I’ve missed you. I’m so glad to be home. You look so handsome.” shaky, cold hands cup his face causing him to swear under his breath.

“Fuck, get..get off.” He knocks her hands away.

“And who is this? You’re really pretty, are you my Lippy’s girlfriend? You guys getting back from a date?” she winks dramatically.

Charlotte looks up at Lip with wide eyes, taking in his tense shoulders, clenched jaw, and steps between him and the woman, a charming smile planted on her face. “Hi, I’m Lip’s friend Charlotte. And V’s cousin. Nice to meet you.”

“Well, hi, sweetheart!” the woman says cheerfully, throwing her arm tightly around Charlotte, “I’m Monica, Lip’s mommy! C’mon, let’s get you some hot chocolate. You look cold. Is that Lip’s jacket? He never lets anyone borrow his jacket. He’s never been good at sharing…” Monica guides Charlotte to the Gallagher house, only stopping on the stairs to mouth to her son, ‘she’s hot!’ and keep moving.

Lip shakes his head, scrubbing his eyes tiredly, following them in. “Fuck.”

#lip gallagher x reader #fiona gallagher #ian gallagher #lip gallagher #kevin ball #oc #lip gallagher x oc #phillip gallagher #veronica fisher #shameless #gallagher

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natlacentral · 2 months

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'I've got to pinch myself': Paul Sun-Hyung Lee on playing Iroh in 'Avatar: The Last Airbender'

Presumably the people outside a local car dealership a couple of years ago who heard Paul Sun-Hyung Lee let out a “huge whoop” during a phone call with his agent didn't fully grasp the significance of that celebratory sound.

The Toronto actor beloved as the internet’s “Appa” thanks to “Kim’s Convenience” and a popular part of the “Star Wars” universe, too, was about to become the internet’s favourite uncle.

Lee had landed the role of Uncle Iroh in “Avatar: the Last Airbender,” Netflix’s much anticipated live-action reimagining of a well loved animated series (not to be confused with James Cameron’s “Avatar” films).

“Honestly, I have moments where I think I’ve got to pinch myself because, even as a youngster, I never would have believed that I could be a part of these things, because I never saw anybody who looked like me reflected in any of these shows,” the Korean Canadian actor said, reflecting on his roles in “Airbender” and the “Star Wars” spinoffs “The Mandalorian” and “Ahsoka,” in which he plays the popular Captain Carson Teva.

As Iroh in “Airbender,” Lee has stepped into the robes of another fan favourite character.

First, a bit of a primer: “Avatar: The Last Airbender,” which debuts Thursday, is about a 12-year-old boy, the “Avatar” of the title, on a quest to save the world from the rapacious Fire Nation, which has gone to war with the Earth, Water and Air peoples. Despite his youth, Avatar Aang (played by Vancouver actor Gordon Cormier) is a powerful “bender,” honing his ability to manipulate air, water, earth and fire.

Aang and his friends — Katara, a water bender (played by Indigenous Canadian Kiawentiio), and her brother, Sokka (American actor Ian Ousley) — are being hunted by fire bender Prince Zuko (American Dallas Liu), who’s accompanied by his wise and compassionate Uncle Iroh, himself a fire bender and a former Fire Nation general.

If that all sounds kind of geeky, well, that’s right up Lee’s alley.

The 51-year-old has well-established nerd bona fides as a fan of “Star Wars” and other science fiction (he shares his love of the genre on his Bitterasiandude Inc. YouTube channel). He caught up with the original “Avatar: The Last Airbender” (which aired on Nickelodeon from 2005 to 2008, then moved to Netflix) while he was still working on the CBC comedy “Kim’s Convenience” (2016-21), in which he played a South Korean immigrant who runs a convenience store in Toronto.

In 2018, as new fans were discovering “Kim’s” worldwide after the series moved to Netflix, the streaming giant announced its remake of “Airbender,” setting in motion Lee's ascent into another dream role.

“Almost immediately I got fan casted (as Iroh) by all these people on the internet,” Lee said in a Zoom interview. “I was very, very flattered, but I was doing ‘Kim’s.’”

A few years later, though, “Kim’s” had ended and Lee got an audition for what was billed as a basketball movie called “Blue Dawn,” as a coach who had come out of retirement to guide his nephew.

Although he’s “more of a baseball, hockey guy,” Lee taped the audition and then forgot about it, until a callback a couple of months later. Except now, the retired basketball coach Howard was named Iroh.

“There’s only one Iroh that I know of,” said Lee. “And so I remember thinking, ‘Oh my God, this is for “Avatar”’ … right away I got super nervous. The stakes went up and I really wanted this part.”

But, after doing a chemistry read with Liu and not hearing anything for a couple of weeks, Lee assumed he had missed out on the role, which is part of the lot of an actor … until his agent called just as Lee and his wife were about to sign a lease on a new vehicle.

“So I excused myself, leaving the salesman completely befuddled. I went outside and that’s when I learned that I landed the role. And immediately let out this huge whoop. I had forgotten that I was in a public area and there were lots of people outside, and they all suddenly looked at me and I said, ‘It’s OK. It’s good news. It’s great news.’”

There was one more hurdle to overcome, though.

“Airbender,” which shoots in Vancouver, overlapped Lee’s schedule for “The Mandalorian,” which films in Los Angeles. And playing Iroh meant shaving off the middle part of the moustache that Lee sports as Captain Teva.

“Luckily I was able to have my cake and eat it at the same time,” said Lee. “Lucasfilm was like, ‘Oh, we’ll just build him a little fake moustache to put on while he’s shooting (“The Mandalorian”).’”

Lee isn’t certain how familiar the producers of “Airbender” were with his work on “Kim’s Convenience” — it's an established fact that “Mandalorian” producer and director Dave Filoni was a “Kim’s” fan before he cast Lee — but he considers his latest job to be another of the many blessings accruing from the CBC series.

“‘Kim’s Convenience’ was such a wonderful launching pad for my career,” Lee said. “I mean, that show was kind of my coming out party in terms of the film and TV world.”

Lee, who was born in South Korea but immigrated to Canada with his parents when still an infant, struggled to find good film and TV roles as a young actor in the 1990s and early aughts.

After graduating from drama school at the University of Toronto, he did a lot of theatre work, but onscreen “I played a lot of doctors, a lot of store clerks, a lot of window dressing-type caricatures, not characters.”

And yet, he persisted.

Despite not seeing himself reflected in the television he devoured as a kid and from which he developed his love of storytelling, “I thought, well, heck, if there’s nobody (else Asian) out there, maybe there’s a shot for me to get in … that was kind of foolish thinking because maybe you’re the only one because a lot of people have tried and haven’t been able to get through. But I was just too stupid and too stubborn to quit, so just kept at it.”

Now Lee hopes to provide inspiration for the young Asian actors coming up behind him.

On the set of “Airbender,” which has many Asian actors in its cast, Lee became particularly close with Liu, the 22-year-old Chinese-Indonesian-American actor playing his beloved nephew. Just as Iroh is protective of Zuko, for whom he becomes a surrogate father, Lee said he wanted to nurture Liu.

“Every chance that I got to just sort of give him little pearls of wisdom based on my experiences … I couldn’t help but want to see him succeed,” Lee said. “This kid is a superstar,” he added.

Now that Lee himself is part of two much-loved pop culture franchises, “my cup runneth over,” but he still has entries on his acting bucket list.

“Not to sound greedy, but I’d love to do ‘Star Trek’ because that's filming right in our backyard. I’d love to do a ‘Ghostbusters.’ All those geeky playgrounds I never got a chance to play in. I want to be in a rom-com. I want to be in a Western, the genres that I grew up watching …

“But I’ll take it as it comes and I’m grateful for what I have. And if this is the only thing I ever do again I will be thankful for it because a lot of people don’t get these opportunities.”

#natla #atla #netflix avatar #netflix atla #avatar the last airbender #paul sun hyung lee #atla netflix #avatar netflix #toronto star #article

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dreamweaversfavsandthoughs · 7 months

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Rick and Morty S7 Ep. 2: The Jerrick Trap

(Not Rick, not Jerry, but some secret third thing)

Spoiler alert ahead!

My Favs

The new voice actors:

I wanted to bring this up again because I think that Ian Cardoni has really evolved into his role as the new voice actor for Rick. It’s really hard to believe that Cardoni has only had this job for about month or two but is already playing this character like he’s been there since the beginning. It didn’t once cross my mind during this episode that I was not listening to Justin Roiland anymore. Harry Belden’s Morty sounds like a nice blend of Roiland’s Season 1 and Season 6 performance of that character.

Freaky Friday:

I appreciate that they didn’t do a clean body-swap but gave RickBody and JerryBody an amalgamation of the two minds in conflict with each other, but then evolving over the course of the episode into someones (or something) with its own identity.

Chuxly:

I kinda have a soft spot for Chuxly. He’s just a mid-tier criminal who’s trying not to cause any unnecessary trouble. He doesn’t need any incompetent goons kidnapping the precious grandson of the most dangerous man in the universe and he’ll kiss as much ass as he can until his lips are ass-colored.

Your dad’s a gay assassin?:

It’s a spectrum

Conehead missle:

So gross but RickBody looked so happy! Also I get why RickBody and JerryBody would like that movie because it is so dumb and so weird in a good way.

Burger and Fries!

God I love their cute name for each other! Also, am I the only person who found them snorting crystals together as they remember their love for Morty weirdly endearing.

Rick and Jerry’s half-assed note to the family:

But they wrote a novel for Gene

Do you hear the symphony of atoms dying in space?:

I don’t blame Summer for wanting to listen to a podcast. I would want to distract myself from whatever that is driving the car.

The Stupid Rake Gag:

This joke is older than God herself and in hindsight I should have seen this coming. The inciting incident was due to Gene stealing a rake. It was all laid out for this to happen but it was so cleverly concealed until it happened that I was absolutely taken off-guard. God I love that Jerry and Rick were rescued from their monstrous Jerricky form by a corny rake gag.

Rick and Jerry care about each other. They really do!

Though they’ll never admit it.

Memory Rick!

He’s alive and well and kept Rick and Jerry from completely losing their minds to Jerricky. Sadly, he might be stuck in Jerry’s mind for awhile unless he can make use of springs and gears and only springs and gears. I imagine there’s going be an episode in the future about his escape.

My Not Favs:

Jerricky:

He will haunt my dreams until my dying breath in which he will then greet me at the gates of Hell where he will orchestrate my torture for all eternity and a day. Personally, I wasn’t a huge fan of Jerricky and the final fight with him and why did they give it a six-pack? Neither Jerry or Rick have a six-pack. Who do they think they’re fooling?

Rick’s mind was a bit overpowering:

Maybe this is because Rick is a character with such a big personality but I felt like the aspects that could be Jerry was a bit drowned out. RickBody and JerryBody acted mostly like Rick with sprinkles of Jerry rather than an even mix of the two.

A criminal lack of Morty:

Morty (or should I say, Rick Jr.) maybe turning into a little criminal but I would like to have some more screen time with him. There’re eight more episodes left so I’m not too worried about this but I think Morty is a little underutilized for a character who has some great story potential (and his name is in the title of the show). However, I’m glad we got to see more of him compared to the last episode. He is getting so confident and not waiting around for his grandpa/dad and dad/grandpa to get himself out of trouble.

My Thoughts:

I love myself a Rick and Jerry team-up episode and this episode was no different. Rick and Jerry may never admit it, but they are more alike than different and their minds meld well together ( as long as they don’t make a Jerricky). The Rick/Jerry dynamic has always been rife with conflict since the first episode when Jerry tried to convince Beth to put Rick in a nursing home because Rick pulled Morty out of school, repeatedly, behind their backs. In a sweet moment in the middle of the episode we hear them admit that Rick doesn’t believe Jerry is useless and that Jerry sees Rick as a friend. By the end of the episode, they are back to bickering at each other again but we know as an audience that it comes from a place of love for each other and their love for Summer, Morty and Daughterwife. This episode, in my mind, was much stronger than last week’s and oh so weird in the best possible way, except for maybe Jerricky. Jerricky was the weakest part of the episode with the fight scene being a bit lackluster for an otherwise bonkers episode. Though that rake gag killed me. They really did just sneak that in and thought I wouldn’t notice, which I didn’t so good job on their part. It absolutely felt like a classic Rick and Morty episode and I hope each episode continues getting better and better. Also, it was nice seeing Memory Rick again and,

“Yeah, Memory Rick, Rick totally got rid of you on purpose.”

#rick and morty #rick and morty season 7 #rnm #rick and morty spoilers #rick sanchez #jerry smith #morty smith #summer smith #beth smith #the jerrick trap

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tbgblr2 · 9 months

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2 Friends, 3 Babies.

Several months prior, two friends are texting:

Kirsty: *Hey babe*

Kate: *Yeah?*

Kirsty: *<Posts picture of a positive pregnancy test>*

Kate: *EEEEEEE! For real. Congrats! We are catching up, tomorrow!*

Three months later, the following text message discussion occurred:

Kate: *Oh my god, you’ll never guess what!*

Kirsty: *What?*

Kate: *<Posts picture of positive pregnancy test>*

Kirsty: *OH MY GOD!!!!*

Kate: *Yep… we do everything together, even babies!*

Kate: *But… I’ve got 2 in me!*

Kirsty: *Twins? WOWWWW!*

Kirsty and Kate grew up in a small town, and did everything together, they both grew up together, went to school and college together, even worked at the same job together. They were more like sisters than friends, and now with their joint pregnancies, they were doing antenatal classes together. Kate had married Kevin – another childhood friend – and yes, you will notice the prolific number of ‘K’ names between the group – one of the quirks of living in a close-knit community, sometimes things get a bit well… weird.

In this case, generationally, each family collectively agreed to use the next letter of the alphabet to name their children. No one knows how far back it started, but their parents’ friends’ group was made up of a Joyce, Joseph, Janice and James. They had a few friends like John and Jack… and a few from the older generation, Ian and Irene. Ken was an unfortunate teenage pregnancy incident between one of Kirsty and Kate’s mothers’ friends, born much older than the rest of the generation thanks to a lack of sufficient education about sexual practices in the school system.

Tom – Kirsty’s husband – was the odd one out – he was an import into the area. Kirsty met him at university, and he was soon welcomed into the community with open arms as they dated and eventually married.

Even though the 2 ladies were frequently seen to be almost identical in their style and demeanour, as time progressed in their respective pregnancies, the obviousness of their pregnant condition separated them. Kirsty managed to keep a very petite bump, it was very small and contained. Kate on the other hand had surpassed Kirsty’s belly measurement by her 5th month, Kirsty’s 8th – looking as if full term with a single baby before Kirsty had even given birth.

Kate was thrilled – and to be honest a little apprehensive – when Kirsty asked her to be her birthing partner – she was very aware that whatever happened to Kirsty she would have to do herself in only a matter of weeks afterwards, but the two of them felt that they were well prepared between watching birth videos together, taking birth classes together, and generally being good emotional support to each other through the trials of heartburn, morning sickness and cravings.

As time progressed, and the inevitable day finally arrived, Kirsty called Kate to tell her that she was certain she was in labour, and she should come over.

Kate knocked briefly on the door and walked in – she was past needing to wait for her friend to come and let her in, but as she took her time turning around to close the door behind her – always conscious of her bump potentially knocking into things - she shouted her hello into the house.

“Come on in” shouted Kirsty in response, as Kate turned back around and walked down the small corridor into the room where the sound came from.

She immediately stopped in her tracks, her hand flying instinctively to her mouth in unexpected shock.

“Kirsty, you’re naked!” exclaimed Kate.

Kirsty wasn’t exactly naked. She was covered by a dressing gown, but it was open rather than tied, her body and hair evidently wet like she had just been in the bath or shower. She was sat on her birth ball, slowly rotating her hips in a figure eight motion as Kate rounded the corner into the room.

She looked up and managed a smile, “Yeah and I’ve got a baby wanting to come out of me, so I win this round”

Kate couldn’t help but giggle, when almost on cue, Kirsty’s face scrunched up as she brushed back the fabric of her robe from the right hand side of her belly and clamped her hand on it, rubbing it with slow circles. Kate watched enraptured as Kirsty’s belly tensed and for a brief moment, an outline of a part of the baby was seen poking out. She gasped without realising.

Kirsty, seeing this happen, blew out her breath as the contraction passed and smiled once again. “I take it you saw little bub’s butt?” Kate nodded. “Yeah its crazy, been watching it all morning as my belly tightens up. I suppose it’s a downside of a small bump... not much free room in there I guess?”

Kate asked “So how long have you been in labour for?”

Kirsty looked up as if she was trying to work something out in her head. “Well... I was straddled riding Tom last night”

“Hey, do you not have any secrets!” shouted Tom from the next room.

“Of course not baby, we are friends!” shouted Kirsty, grinning maniacally. “As I was saying before being rudely interrupted, I was riding my man like a beast, when I felt some contractions. Not sure if the baby was fed up of being juggled around or some magic happened... when the magic happened, but they didn’t let up, not like any of those Braxton Hicks things I’d been having.”

Kate nodded, her hand instinctively moving to her belly to feel the movement of the babies inside her at the mention of Braxton Hicks contractions, she was only 6 months along, and she knew she had those to look forward to when the babies had grown a little more – if that was possible – she was bigger than Kirsty right now, and Kirsty was in labour!

Kirsty continued. “I managed to get a couple of hours sleep, but at around about... oh... 5 I think I gave up after watching the clock for an hour and feeling the occasional cramp. I knew they weren’t going away at this point and got excited you know.”

Kate nodded as Kirsty continued. “I got up to go to the toilet” - cue knowing nods from Kate - “had a little bite to eat, and just sat and watched TV for a few hours feeling the build-up and progression, having a good moan and groan to myself. After Tom got up and noticed I wasn’t in bed, it had been several hours, and things had started to get a bit fruity, let me tell you. Headed for a nice warm bath to try and get comfortable when I got in touch with you. Had about an hour in there – it helped; I'll admit – but I figure it's about time to go to the birth centre. So here we are, about an hour later, Tom has – I hope – finished packing, and I need to just get dressed a bit so I can go out in public.”

Tom poked his head around the door. “We’re all set – Hi Kate!”

“Hi Tom” Kate held her hand up in greeting.

Kirsty stands from the ball, arching her back as she simultaneously holds the underside of her belly and pulls, lifting her round midsection up. “That feels so much better let me tell you, nothing like it to ease back pain. Baby’s got no decency to stay well away from nerves.” She shuffles back towards a chair where a dress is draped over the back of it, shrugging off the dressing gown into a pile on the floor behind her, she grabs the dress and starts to pull it over her head, the fabric gathering above her bump until she's pulled it over her head and able to pull it down.

“No underwear?” queried Kate, as Kirsty shook a finger at her, dropping her head and grimacing, evident that another contraction had started to ramp up. Kate moved over to her friend and got in as close as her own bump would let her, rubbing Kirsty’s back. That seemed to help, and her tight, scowling expression relaxed a little as she felt the muscles of her back being softly massaged.

Tom walked back into the room with a bag slung over his shoulder with their hospital things in, taking his wife's hands in his own, he slowly rubbed his thumbs over the back of her two hands whilst whispering to her that she was doing well, and she was well on her way to meeting their baby.

As the contraction reached its peak and finally ebbed away, Kirsty felt she could breathe again, huffing out her breath with a groan. The contractions were definitely getting worse as time went on... she figured it was going to be as much, but she was secretly hoping that they would reach a peak with their pain and intensity, and eventually just go on longer and longer. She figured in her own head that was too much to ask for.

The three made their way to the car – Kirsty and Tom just having upgraded their small hatchback they shared as a couple to something larger with the baby on the way. Kate settled into the passenger seat as she pushed the seat back as much as she could, Kirsty sat in the back row, on the assumption that it would allow her a bit more freedom of movement should she need it during the ride – she didn’t like the idea of getting trapped in the passenger seat and be surrounded by all the dashboard and centre consoles and not being able to move around, even shuffle from left to right.

Tom opened the boot, threw in the bag he was carrying, and promised he would be quick as he dashed back into the house. Two pairs of pregnant women’s eyes followed his movements as he retreated. He returned a few moments later with the car seat for the baby, and placed that in the back as well, not wanting to set it up in position for now in case Kirsty wanted to move around.

“Lets go have a baby!” he yelled, the emotions he had bottled up finally releasing into a yell of triumph that he and his wife were on their way.

As the engine burst into life, another contraction started assaulting Kirsty’s belly. She groaned, resulting in Tom turning around before pulling away. “Just drive!” Kirsty growled a little, completely unintentionally. Noticing Tom’s expression drop, she took a breath and added, in a more reasonable tone “Sooner we get moving, the sooner we get there. I’m expecting a few more of these on the way, and Kate can help me cope. Just want you to focus on the road to get us there in one piece.” Tom nodded and pulled away, glancing back at the rear-view mirror to see Kirsty lying back, rubbing furiously at her belly.

Tom set a decent pace, keeping to the speed limit, but weaving between lanes to keep moving and not end up in queues. Kirsty went through several contractions in the car, typically when they ramped up to higher intensities, she leaned her head on the seat in front and pushed her hand forward, allowing Kate to grab it and hold on as she squeezed, often grasping Kirsty’s hand with both of hers. Tom kept the compliments and encouragement going all the way through the drive - “You’re doing well baby, keep on doing that, breathe nice and deep, pant out the pain.” Kate chimed in at appropriate times “That’s it Kirst, squeeze my hand nice and tight, just keep on thinking about meeting the baby.”

Kirsty shuffled from side to side in the seat as she tried to keep comfortable, struggling with the sensations of labour getting more and more pronounced as the drive went on. Tom was of course driving as quick as he could, which resulted in one rapid stop as a car appeared in front of him unexpectedly. The stop-start nature of the journey, coupled with her own hormones, and the surprising heat generated by her own pregnant body left her feeling nauseous, so she wound down the window and let the cool air blast into her face for a while.

At one point, Kirsty had almost gotten to her wits end, tired of sitting in the same position, the pain in her lower back becoming more and more intense as the drive and her labour progressed. She managed to get her body rotated in the seat, so she had her knees pressed against the seat, her belly sticking out into the area where she was sitting a few moments earlier, and her hands grasping the headrest as she moaned a sorrowful sounding wail, a contraction almost breaking her. Tom had little he could do to assist, and even Kate couldn’t really get her hand back far enough, only really brushing hers against her friends thigh, so both were left looking through the rear view mirror at the labouring woman and feeling powerless to help other than to keep on telling her that they were getting closer and closer to the birthing centre.

When the group were almost there, about 2-3 minutes from the hospital, Kirsty let out a growl which suddenly turned into an exclaimation. “GrrrrrrooooohSHIT!” Kate turned around as best she could, and Tom, all credit to him, didn’t take his eyes off the road but asked what had happened.

“Water broke... I think” replied Kirsty speaking in a pained tone, eyes scrunched up in the middle of a contraction, she pulled her hands out from between her legs and brought up fingers that were glistening with fluid.

Tom gasped, asking “Do I stop, do I go... were almost there?”

Kate looked at him. “Get to the birthing centre, I don’t think she's in any risk of pushing the baby out right here.”

Kirsty answered silently by shaking her head. Gasping a “go” as best she could, Tom got the message and drove on.

Kirsty squirmed in the seat, feeling the wetness of her clothes cling to her. She mumbled a quick “Sorry guys” as she lifted her backside off the seat and pulled at her dress, lifting it up above her bump, exposing her lower half and sitting back down. “That was uncomfortable.” Tom could only stare in disbelief as Kate smiled. “Whatever helps you cope.”

As the car arrived in the car park, Kate offered to go in and get things ready for the couple, presuming that Kirsty would need a moment to get herself tidied up and out of the car. Of course, being 6 months pregnant with twins, and sporting a large belly herself didn’t exactly mean she was able to jump out of the car herself and head over quickly either.

She eventually managed to extract herself from the seat and with a half run-half waddle she pushed the door to the birthing centre open to be greeted by a receptionist.

“Hi” said Kate. “We rang ahead, got a baby coming. Waters just broken on the journey in.”

The receptionist looked at Kate and got the wrong end of the stick, thinking she was the woman in labour.

“Please take a seat ma’am and I'll bring the admittance forms over to you... or do you feel that you would need a wheelchair and to go straight to the assessment room?”

“Wh...wha?” Kate was taken aback momentarily until she put 2 and 2 together. “Oh... no... my friend is in labour. I’ve got a fair old while to go, still only 6 months along.” Kate was not sure if it was the frantic nature of the drive into the area, but this set her off giggling. Kirsty is going to love hearing this.

“I think the wheelchair could be useful for our labouring mamma though,” noted Kate as the receptionist nodded. “You should see the couple in the car park.”

An orderly took one of the wheelchairs which were stacked to the side and wheeled it out to greet the labouring couple, as the receptionist asked for Kirsty's name, brought up her records on the screen and clicked a few locations on the screen, announcing that she was all set.

The orderly came in backwards, wheeling Kirsty in front of him in reverse, Tom following with the bag close behind the small group. As the orderly spun the chair around so Kirsty faced the receptionist, Kirsty let out a slight smile and a nod of greeting.

The receptionist greeted her with her own beaming smile and wished her good luck, advising the orderly to take the group to assessment room 2. Tom and Kate followed on behind the wheelchair bound Kirsty as the three of them and the orderly entered a room.

“I’ll come back and get the chair when you’ve been assessed, just sit tight and our midwife will be here in just a couple of minutes... or if you’d like a hand up, I can help?”

“Please, help me stand” asked Kirsty. The orderly and Tom helped her get up whilst Kate wheeled the chair to the side of the room. “Thanks, I’ve been sitting for a while in the car, I just want to move around.”

“Not a problem” the orderly smiled. He pointed over to buzzer on the wall. “There’s an intercom there if you need to reach reception, but you shouldn’t have much of a wait.”

As the orderly leaves, Kirsty’s hand goes to her bump again as she waddles over to grasp onto a handrail on the wall. Her walk is noticeably bow-legged as she tries to avoid the damp patch on the back her dress which is clearly visible from behind. “I just realised how soaked I am now the dress isn't stuck to me,” she manages, between huff and puff breaths as she focuses on the contraction.

“Hopefully they have the pool you wanted ready, then you can take off the dress and just relax in the water.” thought Tom, speaking out loud.

“Sounds heavenly...” Kirsty replied, holding herself up with one hand as she bent over with the pain, clutching at her belly with the other. “These have gotten a LOT worse since the waters went. Like someone's taken away the cushion I had.” She vocalised a low moan as she worked through the contraction.

There was a knock at the door, and the midwife the couple had been dealing with during their prenatal care walked through, she was known as Suzi. Definitely an out of towner as she was not really much older than Kirsty and Kate, but didn’t follow the same naming convention of those in the town.

She noticed Kirsty working her way through a contraction and waited for it to finish – Kirsty, wrapping her arms around Tom as she stood with a wide stance, moving her hips left and right as she vocalised a low moan. As the contraction finished, and she managed to stand back up fully and look around at the new entrant into the room, Kirsty’s eyes rose up and met Suzi’s, who smiled in response. “So how's my mother and sneaky little baby then?”

“We’re fine, and I think baby really wants to show itself now” replied Kirsty, her hand rubbing her bump.

What Suzi referred to was Kirstys apparent lack of bump. All of the ultrasound scans and other checks that she had went through suggested the baby was growing normally, and in fact was suggesting that it was going to be very big when it was born – but her apparent lack of bump was baffling. Suzi could only shrug when asked to explain it, and just replied saying that sometimes bumps just don’t pop out much. Her uterus, and subsequently the baby growing within it, seemed to be quite deep in her body, so the outward signs were significantly less than many other women, but everything was perfectly normal and not to worry about it.

“Can I check you over?” asked Suzi, as Kirsty nodded, adding “Do you mind if I take off this dress... it’s a bit wet?”

“If it would help, go right ahead, want me to bring you something else to wear?” she asked.

“No... no thanks. Feeling a bit hot and bothered if I’m honest – hoping a bit of naked time might help cool me down.” Kirsty blushed as she said it, not exactly sure what the etiquette would be for a situation like this.

“Hey... you’re the labouring mamma... you call the shots” grinned Suzi as she offered her hand to help Kirsty onto the bed. Kirsty hiked her dress up over her bump as she had done before in the car and then took Suzi’s hand and Toms and managed to get herself on the bed. Tom lifted off her dress and folded it over, putting it away in a plastic bag to be washed later.

Suzi donned her gloves, and with a “OK, deep breath in” she put her hands between Kirsty’s legs and into her vagina. Kirsty squirmed a little as she groaned at the unpleasant sensation but a few moments later, Suzi withdrew her fingers and pulled off the gloves. “You’re doing well... at 6 centimetres, so still a way to go, but I’m happy to get you admitted... no need to go home.”

Kirsty breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t expecting to get turned away, but she’d read all sorts of horror stories of women who had laboured all day and found that they were only 2-3 centimetres dilated when they got to the birth centre and were sent back home for longer. Frankly she didn’t think she could manage another car ride.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes with a gown you can wear... don’t think you’d want to move down to our delivery suite in your current state of undress” Suzi turned and walked out of the room with a grin.

Kirsty swung her legs by the side of the bed and sat and chatted a little while with Kate and Tom. As the time passed, another contraction started to grow, so she closed her eyes and focused on rubbing her belly, reaching out for Tom, who grabbed her hand in response, as Kirsty was left grimacing in pain. Kate looked on concerned, not only for the simple fact that her good friend was in pain, but seeing how much the pain was having a visible effect on Kirsty, she was worried that she would have it all to come.

Kirsty came out of the contraction looking up at her friend who was rubbing her belly sheepishly. “Hope I'm not scaring you...” she managed with a smile. Kate lied, saying no, putting on a brave face so as not to let her friend worry when she needed to concentrate on herself. “Babies are just having a wrestle in here I think, don’t know what it is, but they’re crazy active right now... I don’t know, perhaps I'm just noticing it more considering the situation.”

There was a knock at the door interrupting their heart to heart, as Suzi walked back in the room, closing the door behind her, ripping open a plastic wrapper as she walked towards Kirsty and handed her the gown she had just unpacked. Holding her free hand and shoulder, Suzi helped Kirsty off the bed as she pulled the clothing over her head.

“Ready when you are, let's go have a baby!” Kirsty seemed suddenly full of energy, knowing she was moving on with her labour. Suzi nodded and led the group out of the room, down the corridor and into the delivery suite area of the building – Kirsty stopping midway to hold onto the wall as a contraction worked its way through her. After making sure she was OK, they continued their way to a door, which was opened in front of the group leading to a low-lit room, the area dominated by the pool in the middle of the room. Kirsty’s eyes lit up seeing the inviting water.

Kirsty took off the gown again, waiting a little while as Suzi strapped a monitor to her belly to monitor the contractions, and she was finally released to go into the water. As she took Tom’s offered hand, her legs entered the water one after another with an audible splash. Standing in the tub she rocked side to side as another contraction built up, her hands grasping both of Tom’s and squeezing tight. Kirsty’s eyes were closed as she worked through it, until finally it passed and she sighed as she lowered herself down into the water, blissful relief evident on her face.

Kirsty sat in the water with her legs butterflied out, soles together as she took in a deep breath, her hands working an ache in the underside of her belly. The next contraction built up and it was clear that this felt different to Kirsty by the noises she was making – giving a low, humming noise rather than the grunts and groans she had been doing before. She smiled as the contraction ebbed away, stating that she was so glad to be back in the water, it felt like the pains were so much less intense with the water to help.

After the hectic run up to this point, suddenly everything was calm. Over the course of the next hour, Kirsty worked her contractions in the tub, taking time out between the surges to find time to have a joke and conversation with Tom and Kate, the water doing what is should to mask the pain of the contractions. Suzi popped in back and forth over the time and kept her notes, bringing in some gas and air for Kirsty as things picked up close to the end of the hour. Kirsty took plenty of opportunity to breathe deeply on the mouthpiece, groaning with the contractions as they picked up intensity as the labour progressed.

Things got more emotional as Kirsty entered transition though. The pain had ramped up considerably, to the point where the water and gas and air wasn’t helping, Kirsty was starting to mumble to herself, focusing inward as she could do nothing but yell out as each contraction got to her, ramped up, and then seemed to only let go for a moment before its next friend gripped her.

Tom was starting to fret, feeling helpless in the situation, whilst Kate was simply looking on aghast, finding her friend not coping well with the pain, and being concerned that she would need to go through this soon herself.

Kirsty got Tom to get in the pool and hold her as she went through the contractions – she was starting to feel the ill effects of the late-stage labour, feeling all shaky and nauseous – but Tom’s presence, holding her, whispering to her that she was doing great, keeping her focused helped her to progress. Thankfully for the transition phase, it didn’t last long, and after around 30 minutes, where Kirsty was getting well and truly fed up with the pain she suddenly felt the urge to push.

Suzi leaned over the edge of the pool and managed to reach between Kirsty’s legs to check her dilation – sure enough, she was at 10cm and was good to go. Both Tom and Kate let out sighs of relief knowing that the difficult transition period was finally over, and hoping that Kirsty getting to push would help her deal with the pain better – when she was back in control.

The first push felt like heaven to Kirsty. She could finally do something. Tom sloshed around the pool to kneel down next to her shoulder and give her support, whilst Kirsty screamed like a banshee as she pushed, putting all the frustration she had just been through into a monumental effort to get things moving. Kate moved around the pool to get a look, morbid curiosity ruling her thoughts at the moment. She was very disappointed that Kirsty’s long, 10 second push showed absolutely no external effects whatsoever.

Another push, then another and finally a fourth and suddenly Kate jumped. “I’ve just seen it.” Tom leaned over to glance between Kirstys legs and sure enough, as she pushed with a loud roar, her lips parted, and something could be seen in the gap it created. As she let off the push the shape slipped away, but both Kate and Tom were buoyed by the result, the energy of which motivated Kirsty to keep on going.

Over the course of the next 10 minutes, Kirsty put a monumental effort into pushing out her baby, and felt success as she reached down and felt the shape growing and growing with each set of effort she put in. But something was wrong. She didn’t know if it was mothers intuition, or something she felt when she was expecting to feel the head of the baby, but she called Suzi over – who had been pleased with the progress so far and started to prepare her notes whilst Tom and Kate were keeping Kirsty motivated.

Suzi popped over and took a quick glimpse between Kirstys legs, just to get a shock. She didn’t let on too much, but urged Kirsty to push when she felt the next contraction, waiting with baited breath for it to happen. It didn’t take long until Kirsty was once more pulling on her legs in the tub and pushing out the mass between her legs. Suzi’s fears were confirmed when she realised that the thing which was coming out was not the babys head, but its behind.

“Kirsty... your baby is breech” Suzi infomed Kirsty, trying to keep a calm tone in her voice. Tom reacted first.

“Does this change anything? Does she need a section or something for that?”

Kirsty soon reacted to the change in atmosphere in the room, gasping hard, releasing her push mid contraction and wailing out loud as her body reactively forced her to keep on pushing.

Suzi did her best to keep all in the room calm and on the immediate need to focus on Kirsty’s labour. “Nothing needs to change. You can still push out this baby naturally.... it’s just coming out butt first... Kate or Tom – when it’s time, I’ll need you to support the baby, as we will need to get mum out of the tub and more vertical.”

Kirsty interrupted “I need Tom... this hurts so bad.”

Kate nodded “Guess that answers that question then... best get my catcher’s mitt.”

Suzi nodded. “Right... well, here’s our game plan. When the body is born, I’ll ask Kirsty to stand and use gravity to help give birth to the head. Kate, you support the baby as it comes out, and Kirsty – because the cord will potentially be caught between the emerging head and the body which is already outside, we need to focus on speed to deliver the head so the cord isn’t restricted for too long. I’m afraid you will need to push your hardest to get this head out of you as quick as you can. Do you think you can do it?”

Kirsty nodded, not able to answer verbally as she immediately folded over to start her pushing on the next contraction. Not sure if it was Suzi’s dire warning or not, but she seemed to push with a lot more might than before, holding Tom’s hand and squeezing as hard as she could to get through the contraction. Suzi and Kate looked on at the baby emerging from between Kirsty’s legs.

It was clear after this contraction that the thing which was coming out was the baby’s behind, as now the hips – legs folded up into the babys body – were clearly visible. What Kate found unusual was sheer size of the infants body which was stretching her friend open – the stretch was easily as big as any head she had seen on any of the ‘preparing for birth’ video’s she had seen – she looked over at Suzi who wasn’t reacting to the size, just focusing on the area between Kirstys legs to make sure things were going as they should.

Kate shook her head, presuming she was worrying about nothing, and went back to rubbing a cloth on her friends head and giving her encouragement.

Suzi jumped in now. “Hands and knees please. We need to be ready to help you stand up when the time comes.”

Kirsty accepted support from the three others in the room as she wriggled in the pool to get onto her knees – her movements limited by the sheer size of the infant between her legs. The next push as she was vertical had the legs fully born, which flopped down. Kirsty gave a yell – unsure if it was simply pain, or a sense of triumphant success as she felt the movement – her hands were now spread out either side of her, one held by Tom, one by Kate.

The next push had the body fully born, Kirsty surprisingly making very little noise at this point, simply focusing on the push. The baby was facing with its back towards the group, so Suzi leaned in and felt for the cord, making sure that it wasn’t caught on the neck, before trying to manage the task of lifting Kirsty up for the task of giving birth to the head.

She gave an affirmative that everything was going well, and asked Kate to get behind Kirsty and be ready to reach down into the pool to support the baby, Tom to take her under her armpits and be ready to lift.

Kate took a moment to peek around the front at the baby when her hand went to her lips. “How did you fit all that in there?” she gasped out – noting the sheer size of the baby in comparison to her friends dainty bump.

Suzi scolded her. “Please, we need to be quick.”

Kirsty gasped out loud “I need to push, quickly.”

Sheepishly, Kate realised that she had made an error and got into her assigned space. She was forced to lift her own bump up so she could lean over the edge of the pool, her bump hefted over the top, Kate as a result ending up on her tiptoes, her large bump splashing into the water as she reached towards the area between Kirsty’s legs. “Got it.” she confirmed.

Tom heaved up whilst Suzi supported the baby from the front, waiting for Kate. As she felt her hands grasp the infant from behind, she let go and moved her hands up to Kirsty’s vagina. Kirsty was now upright on her own feet, water draining off her. She didn’t have a moment to lose as she squatted down, opening up her legs and pushed.

Her howl was deafening to Tom who had his head close to his wife’s, grasping onto her with all his strength. Suzi pushed hard on Kirstys lips, separating them and giving what help she could to ensure that the cord didn’t get trapped by the emerging head.

Kate stood aghast at the amount of effort and pain that her friend was in as she pushed again and again, her inhibitions gone, the power of gravity pulling the weighty body down along with her primal need to push. Kirsty didn’t stop pushing until the head was out – and it took 3 long minutes. Even when the contraction had stopped, she yelled out loud and grunted with effort.

Kirsty leaned her weight forward as she pushed, relying more and more on Tom for support. The position change tipped her vagina away from Suzi’s hands, and the midwife dashed around to behind Kirsty to stand alongside Kate, who at this point had gotten a full on view of her friends stretching vagina as the head emerged.

As the head reached its widest point, stretched to a point where Kate didn’t think would be physically possible for the human body to achieve, Kirsty let out a scream of pain which turned Kate’s blood to ice. In front of her eyes, her friend was tearing, and Kate couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Her hands were covered in blood and all Kate could do was sit open mouthed at the vision in front of her. Kirsty had not ceased in her pushing efforts, oblivious to the damage that she had done to herself. She couldn’t think, just react to the unstoppable force of the instinct that the boulder between her legs needed to be outside of her body.

Suzi looked over to Kate, seeing the friend’s frightened look she whispered to her “Don’t worry, we’ll sort that out before she even realises, she’ll be so high on happy hormones.”

And with that, the baby dropped into Kate’s hands. Without the weight of it held by Kirsty, Kate wasn’t expecting the bulk and had to adjust from her already precarious position on her tiptoes to hold onto the slippery bundle but she held on by some instinctual force she didn’t even realise she had.

Kirsty was panting as she realised the head had finally come out, shell shocked into mutely staring forward. Kate spoke first. “Take the baby babe!”

Kirsty suddenly realised what had happened. “Is it over? Is the head out?” She let go of Tom and shuffled back, reaching between her legs to take the waxy, blood covered bundle from between her legs as Kate shoved it forward, almost overbalancing in the process.

Kirsty sank into the water, suddenly realising the pool was blood-red. She looked up at Suzi. “Everything OK?” she enquired.

“Just a small tear. We’ll let you rest a few minutes, deal with the afterbirth and see about getting those dealt with when it’s time. For now, bond with your baby.”

Tom looked up at Kate who held her fingers up behind Kirsty’s back in a ‘pinch’ motion – with her fingers being around an inch apart. She mouthed to Tom “I saw her tear. I saw it all.” Not wanting to say anything out loud in case it startled Kirsty.

Over the course of the next hour or two, as Kirsty was cleaned up and the baby – a girl which they decided to call Laura to keep up with the naming tradition – was given a clean bill of health, all that was going through Kate’s mind was that her friend, with the tiny bump, gave birth to a 13 pound baby, and struggled as a result. She had a bigger bump than her friend did for several months prior, and she still had time to grow.

She was worried – whatever her friend had to deal with, she had to do it twice. And one thing was certain, time was certainly not going to stand still for her whilst she prepared herself for it.

#fpreg #birth kink #labor kink #birth #pregnancy

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