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joshym · 6 months

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Le Morte d'Arthur: Chapter 1

Paring: Jake Kiszka x f!Reader

Summary: It all began with a passion for literature. What was once a dream to walk the halls of the University of Michigan is now a reality.

You thought you were prepared for everything.

A new town, a new school, a new way of life,

but what you were not prepared for…

was meeting the enigma that is Jake Kiszka.

Word Count: 8.8k+

Warnings: (for this chapter) mentions of stress & anxiety, mentions of a broken home, mentions of an ill, disabled parent, mentions of an oxygen tank & medications, jake is an asshole, (if I missed anything, please let me know)

a/n: it's here! i can't begin to express how excited i am to share this with everyone. this story has been in the works for quite some time now, & it's been such a joy to write. i sincerely hope you all love it. please don't be afraid to let me know what you think. 🤍

also, huge thank you to @jakeyt for being the best editor, & being my right hand in helping create this. i seriously couldn't have done it without you. love you SO much. you're the best sister i could ever ask for.

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As you walk up the stone steps of Angell Hall, you feel as though you’re walking into a book filled with ancient Greek Mythology. The pillars that resemble the Parthenon temple, the delicate stone work motifs that portray Athena's owl and Pegasus; you’ve truly never felt more at home than you do at this very moment as you take your first steps inside the building that houses the English Literature courses. The inside is rich with artwork personifying poetry and myth. The intricate neoclassical design of the ceilings, complete with gold leafing and imperial medallions. The most incredible building you’ve ever seen, and one of the many reasons you decided to make the transfer to the University of Michigan.

It’s been no easy feat to get here. In fact, it’s been damn near impossible. It’s by the skin of your teeth that you’re here today, walking the very halls of your dream school.

The road to get here has been hell. Pure, unadulterated hell. You’ve saved every last penny to afford the move here, while trying to take care of your mom and her declining health. It didn’t help that your dad decided it was all too much for him and left a year ago, leaving the two of you alone with hardly the means to afford even the bare necessities. With two full time jobs, online classes at some bullshit university, and tending to your mom’s every need for the last year, it’s a fucking miracle you’re standing here today.

It’s only been a month since you received your acceptance letter in the mail. You worked your ass off the last two years maintaining a 4.0 gpa to be sure you’d be accepted. You’d applied back in January and waited six excruciating months to hear back, obsessively checking the mail at least three times a day.

One day, you noticed a rather large, crumpled envelope stuffed in your tiny mailbox. It was wet from a rainstorm that had hit earlier that day, but you could still make out the sender information.

The University of Michigan

515 East Jefferson St.

1220 Student Activities Building

Ann Arbor, MI 48109-1316

You knew that the contents of this envelope would seal your fate for the next two years. You were hesitant at first to open, scared of rejection. You let it sit for a few hours before finally ripping it open as quickly as your fingers would allow.

You pulled out the sopping piece of cardstock, stamped with a golden “M” at the top left corner.

Congratulations, y/n!

You’re in! We are pleased to inform you that you are admitted to the University of Michigan College of Literature, Science and the Arts Junior class entering fall of 2023.

Within two weeks of receiving the letter, you and your mom packed up what little you had and left the sleepy town of Cherry Tree, Oklahoma.

Up until now, you’d lived in this tiny town your entire life. You’ve been so ready to leave, to find adventure elsewhere that would allow you to spread your wings. You’d been held back there for so long. You knew it was time, and as much as she could, your mother supported your choice to leave and she was eager herself to get away.

You managed to secure a low income apartment in Ann Arbor that has accommodations for those with disabilities. It’s a shithole. But it’s your shithole.

You’re solely responsible for any and all bills as your mom isn’t fit to work. You’ve got enough saved up to last about a month, so one of your first priorities is to find a job that will sustain you.

Right now, though, your current goal is to find your first class in this massive building. It’s intimidating. Everyone here is walking past you in a hurry to get where they need to go as you’re stuck, still trying to figure out where room 3182 is. There aren’t signs anywhere to help guide you through the utter maze that is Angell Hall. You haven’t the slightest clue of where to start.

You try asking a few people, only to be met with vague points in general directions, or people simply telling you ‘up stairs.’

Where are the damn stairs?

You start trekking along in an attempt to find them, when you see a large wooden door that’s cracked open just enough to see, finally, a staircase.

Some progress.

Making your way to the third floor, you assume you’ve finally found where your class will be when you look at a room number… and it says ‘2548.’

Dammit.

You head back to the stairs to make your way up to the next floor, and to your relief, the class numbers all begin with a three.

You head down the long, dimly lit hallway in frantic search for room 3182, to no avail. The hallway has so many twists and turns with no guidance for direction. There may as well be a scarecrow with arms pointing in all directions saying ‘this way!’

You’re stuck yet again, unsure of where to go. You assume everyone is in their respective classes as the hall is barren, so there’s not a soul to ask. With only two minutes until class begins, you’re nearing the point of giving up.

Anything is better than waltzing into class late on your first day, no less your first day at a university where no one knows you. What a fantastic first impression to make.

Suddenly, a man comes barging down the hall towards you. He looks a bit unapproachable, wearing a large brimmed black hat on top of his shoulder length hair, sunglasses that mimic ones worn by John Lennon in the seventies and a matching all black ensemble of linen pants and a button up, with only the last few buttons actually secured. He jingles as he moves due to an obnoxious number of necklaces sitting on his bare chest.

You’re not sure you want to bother him but desperate times call for asking strange men for directions.

“Hi, excuse me. Could you tell me where room-”

Without even acknowledging your basic existence, he seems to be in a hurry as he slams into you, knocking your brown canvas bag off your shoulder and effectively dumping everything out of it.

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he quickly turns the corner, not even bothering to help you pick up the mess he’s created.

“John Lennon wannabe motherfucker,” you mutter under your breath as you bend down to gather your belongings.

You hear footsteps coming closer to you, thinking just maybe he's decided to come back and make amends.

“Sorry about him, girl.”

You glance up just as she’s kneeling down, offering to help with your scattered books.

“Don’t pay him any mind. He thinks he walks on water,” she says as she helps you shove the last of them in your bag, now all disheveled and out of your perfect order.

“God, thank you so much. Would you happen to know where room 3182 is? I haven’t the slightest clue where I’m going.”

“Just keep going down the hall until you reach the bathroom, take a left and it’s the second room on the right,” she says, with a warm smile.

You thank her again and quickly head in that direction.

At last, you breathe a sigh of relief as you approach room 3182.

With a deep breath, you open the door to the massive lecture hall that appears more like an auditorium with its pitched floor.

All eyes are on you, the room dead silent as the professor glares at you.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, I had the worst time-”

“No matter. Just take your seat and do it quickly,” he cuts you off.

You scan the room in search of an empty seat as everyone continues to silently stare at you, eyes burning holes in your soul.

This is exactly what you wanted to avoid.

Finally you spot one on the far right corner of the room. Swiftly heading towards it, you make a horrid discovery.

Mr. John Lennon wannabe is in the seat right next to the empty one.

Of fucking course.

Grudgingly, you take your seat next to him. He shifts his body slightly away from you as you situate yourself, letting out a long, dramatic sigh once you're settled.

You decide to try and humble him with your southern hospitality, asking his name with a kind smile, to which he only responds by cocking his head in your general direction and not bothering to answer you.

What an ass.

“Now that it seems we finally have everyone here, let’s get things started. Welcome to English 450, The Quest for King Arthur. My name is Dr. Movack and I will be your instructor throughout the semester.”

You start pulling out all of your books on King Arthur, annoyed that some of them now have bent pages thanks to the mysterious man wearing all black sitting to your left.

“One of the requirements to be accepted in this class, aside from the prerequisite courses, is to have more than just the basic knowledge of Arthurian lore.” Dr. Movack continues, “Taking that into account, there is no need to waste time in starting from the beginning. However, I would like to take a moment to test your knowledge. Each person who answers correctly will receive a point towards extra credit.”

Dr. Movack begins going around the room, asking everyone basic questions and facts about King Arthur when he finally gets to you.

“I would like you to tell me which text offers the earliest reference to Arthur.”

With booming confidence, you answer, “I believe it’s around the 7th century when he is briefly mentioned in the poem titled Y Gododdin.”

The John Lennon look alike on your left lets out an obnoxiously loud chuckle while shaking his head.

“Dr. Movack, it’s a well known fact that Arthur isn’t specifically mentioned until Historia Brittonum in the 9th century. She’s clearly wrong,” he blurts out.

You know your stuff when it comes to this lore. You’ve studied it for the better part of your life and you’ll be damned if you let this man who, for whatever reason has developed a vendetta against you, try to outwit you.

“No, you are wrong. You obviously haven’t read the poem or you’d know he’s named when referencing the bravery of Gwawrddur.”

He waves his palm in your face in an attempt to silence you, the gesture causing your lip to curl in frustration. “Tell her, Dr. Movack. Tell her she’s wrong and has no idea what she’s talking about.” He asserts.

Talking about you instead of to you is a great way to piss you off and he’s on the right path towards it. His refusal to even look at you has you nearly in flames with rage.

“What’s your name, miss?” Dr. Movack asks.

“Y/n,” you respond.

Your heart is thumping out of your chest as you await the professor's response.

“It seems there may be someone here who knows even more than you, Kiszka.” Lennon’s jaw nearly hits the desk beneath him. “Y/n is absolutely right. Y Gododdin does, in fact, mention Arthur. The introduction is so slight that it’s often missed, but scholars argue that this piece does indeed contain the first true reference.”

Even through his obnoxious sunglasses, you can see the frustration painted on his face. Proving him wrong in front of the whole class serves him right.

Poetic justice at its finest.

You laugh through your nose and give yourself a metaphorical pat on the back, anticipating more praise from Dr. Movack when he says “However, miss, you will not receive your point for being late to my class.”

Lennon cackles at this, of course, feeling he’s somehow won this educational battle.

He answers his question correctly, receiving his point and commendation from Dr. Movack.

He sits back in his chair, arms crossed with a smug face, wearing a ‘kiss my ass’ grin on his lips.

You just roll your eyes and look the other direction, envisioning yourself ripping those ridiculous sunglasses off his face.

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Something you’re not used to yet, and perhaps will never get used to, is the Detroit traffic. Stuck in your beat to hell ‘92 Firebird in bumper to bumper traffic, you’re at a near standstill as you’re desperate to get home after a long day of classes. What should only be a fifteen minute drive home has already lasted more than thirty, and you’ve hardly moved an inch.

You’re sitting in silence as you don’t even have the luxury of the radio to keep you company. You’re lucky enough that this car even runs with as much shit as it’s been through. A hand-me-down from a hand-me-down, losing parts and gusto after each set of hands it passes through. You figure you’ll be the last to drive it before it meets its timely end in the very near future.

WIthout much else to preoccupy you at the moment, your mind is wandering with recollection of your first day at the school you’ve had your sights set on since your first comprehensible memory. Feeling like a fish out of water would be the most comfortable way to describe your day. It goes far beyond that.

You know it’ll take some time to settle. But you’re afraid that time won’t fix the fact that you may not truly belong here. You’ve never really fit in anywhere, even in your tiny hometown that you’d lived in your whole life. You were never fully accepted there, so what makes you think you’d be accepted here? You’d always felt so isolated in Cherry Tree, too small of a town to feel such a way. Now, you have the intimidation of a rather large city to amplify your isolation.

Aside from the nightmare that was finding your first class and the man who made you late to it, your other classes went about as well as you could’ve hoped for. You’d still managed to get lost a fair amount, but on the brightside, you’d found the campus coffee shop so you had been able to stay there for a while this afternoon.

The man, who you can only refer to as Lennon given he so rudely refused to give you his first name, was also studying in the coffee shop today, much to your dismay.

And the way he’d locked eyes with you for a brief moment before quickly looking away…

You were not sure why, but now, you can’t pry him from your ambulant mind. Something about him, aside from his insolent demeanor, is oddly enticing. He’s dark, almost mystifying. There are secrets in the air he breathes. Whether or not you want to know them, you can’t quite decide. Nonetheless, you’re intrigued.

Traffic finally begins to move at a steady pace, breaking your trance and causing your disoriented image of him to return to one filled with anger.

Mystifying or not, he was an ass for absolutely no reason. You’ve made up your mind that you will never give him the time of day again.

You pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex, your car sputtering its cry of exhaustion as you’ve put it to the ultimate test far too many times lately.

“I need you to hang on just a little longer, old friend.” You say as you throw the gear shift in park. “Just a little longer, then we’ll lay your heaping metal bones to rest.”

You trek up the stairs to your apartment, stopping at door 264. You smile as you look down to see “Don’t Knock Unless You Brought Wine” stitched on the doormat beneath your feet. Your mom insisted on it, and as ridiculous as you think it is, you’re grateful for the smile it’s brought to your tired face.

You search through your disarranged canvas bag for your key, silently cursing the fact that it’s not in its designated spot.

Finally spotting the shining silver, you pull it out and twist it in the rusted bolt to open the door.

Your mom is sprawled out on the couch, her oxygen tank filling the quiet apartment with a subtle humming. The living room television is on some old sitcom she loves with the volume muted, as per usual for her.

You don’t want to wake her, as it’s imperative that she gets as much rest these days as she can. You keep as quiet as possible while heading to the kitchen to start dinner for the two of you.

You decide on something simple; bowtie pasta with alfredo and grilled chicken.

Your mom always had a knack for all things culinary. Her skill remains unmatched, although it’s not as easy for her these days.

You sadly missed out on that trait from her. You’re lucky if you don’t burn the water. But, over the course of her illness becoming increasingly debilitating, you’ve taught yourself some easy and quick recipes to get by.

You spoon a healthy amount of pasta on each of your plates, even garnishing them with a few basil leaves for a little aesthetic.

You pour yourself a much needed glass of merlot before taking your mom’s plate to her.

You gently wake her by carefully nudging her hand.

“Dinners ready, mom. I hope it’s okay.”

She slowly begins to stir awake, looking happy to see you as you sit next to her. “I’m sure it’ll be great. Thank you, sweetie.” You help her to sit up and get stabilized before handing her her plate. “How was your first day?” She tries not to wince as she takes her first bite. Her years of being a culinary expert have made her awfully picky when it comes to food, but she’s never once outwardly complained about your cooking. Although you can tell she’s less than impressed, she would never tell you that. She knows you’re trying your best and she’s so grateful for it, especially since your dad left.

“It was alright, I guess.” You take your first bite and instantly understand her initial aversion to it. Undercooked noodles and over cooked chicken. You’re glad it’s not the other way around this time.

“Just alright?” she asks.

You don’t have the heart to tell her how draining today truly was, so you just tell her that classes were a little stressful but that it really was a great day.

You switch the subject and talk about the beauty of the campus and how badly you wish she could see it. “Maybe someday,” she says.

You want nothing more than to get her out of this dingy apartment for a day and take her around, to show her the wonder of the city. It’s been incredibly difficult watching battle her illness. She seems to grow weaker with each passing day. Although she tries to conceal it from you, you know your mom, and you can see her deteriorate before your very eyes. It breaks your heart in a million pieces, but you still hold out hope that she will get better someday.

Hope is all you have.

Until then, you just try to enjoy each and every moment you share with her.

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You’re situated outside of room 3182 nearly thirty minutes early this morning, drinking your steaming coffee and reading House of Leaves that was assigned to you yesterday in your Classic Horror course.

The real inescapable horror, however, would be sitting next to him again, so you’re here early to avoid the unnecessary cruelty you faced the other day.

Taking advantage of your extra time, you allow yourself to become immersed in the daunting novel.

You read of a man on a slow descent to insanity, discovering a manuscript that details a home that transforms on the inside, yet stays the same on the outside.

Unlit hallways that continue for ages, doors appearing where they hadn’t been before. An architectural conundrum, this house.

The words in the book appear in strange prints, some pages with them upside down, placed in strange patterns; some pages with no words at all.

The word “House” is always in the color blue, even on the cover.

The novel both fascinates you and terrifies you all at once, having read it twice before. You’ve yet to make your own interpretations on this book as they seem to change with each read. A bit of a mindfuck, as it were.

Just as you’re diving head first into the maddening depths of Danielewski's story, you hear keys jingling followed by the door to the classroom opening.

You’d been so lost in your book you hadn’t even noticed that most of the students had joined you in the hall, waiting for class to begin.

You’re the first to head inside, much to Dr. Movack’s shock. You take your seat in the front row near the podium, the furthest one away from where you assume Lennon will sit.

The rest of the class piles in, taking their respective seats and gearing up for class. Here comes Lennon, clad in all black once again– sunglasses and all. He walks right past you, humoring you by ignoring your presence.

Good. Keep walking.

As more students pile in, you notice one mindlessly walking towards you before he abruptly stops and eyes you in your seat. You simply smile and nod as he stands there with a curious look about him.

He slowly walks away, leaving you a bit puzzled but you choose to ignore it.

The hands on the antique brass wall clock strike 10:00 am, and you notice Dr. Movack is still out in the hall speaking with someone. Of whom, you can’t quite tell.

You and the rest of the class wait patiently, when finally Dr. Movack walks in, but he’s not alone. He’s with the student who glared strangely at you just moments ago.

The student is standing near the professor, as if he has something to say, when Dr. Movack clears his throat and begins speaking.

“I feel I needn't say this, but it’s clear some of you aren’t aware of how things are done around here, so I will say it this once so that we all understand. Once you choose your seat on the first day of class, that becomes your designated seat for the remainder of the semester. It is disruptive to your fellow classmates to decide to take the seat they specifically chose as their throne for learning.”

Your chest tightens and your face becomes flush with unease.

You know instantly that he’s talking about you.

“So, I will end this here: if you are not sitting in the spot you chose on the first day of class, I suggest you move to said spot immediately so we can get started with our business.”

Shit.

You’re utterly humiliated as you slowly stand up, you being the only one to stand up and making it abundantly clear to everyone in class that you were the cause of this.

You take your things and move to the spot you so desperately wanted to avoid, right next to Lennon who is covering his mouth with his hand, giggling at your shame.

The student standing by Dr. Movack takes his rightful seat as you take yours.

The class you had been most excited for this semester is quickly turning out to be the one you wished you had never signed up for.

You made a terrible impression on the first day by being late, and now on the second day of this class, you’ve broken an unspoken rule that you had no previous knowledge of. All of that topped off with the man sitting next to you who has made his distaste for you rather clear… the only thought tormenting your mind is how badly you wish you could crawl in a hole and never have to show your face in this class ever again.

“I have an important announcement,” declares Dr. Movack as he takes post behind his podium. “Through the entirety of this course, you will be working on a semester-long project relating to the appropriation of Arthurian legend. This project is fairly at your liberty, meaning there are very few stipulations for you to follow.”

Okay, this is something you can handle. Something to sink your teeth into, something you know you’ll excel at.

“This will not be a solo project, however.”

Oh no.

“There are exactly fifty students in this class, so you will be paired in twos for a total of twenty five projects.”

Please no.

“As far as who you will be assigned with, that is very simple. The person seated next to you is who you will work with for the remainder of the semester.”

With Lennon being the very last seat in your row, and you being directly next to him, this means…he will be your partner. For the entire semester.

You were cursed from the first day you stepped foot in this room and had to sit next to him. Fate would have it so things would not work in your favor, it appears.

“This project is not to be taken lightly as it is worth sixty percent of your final grade. Everything in this class will lead up to it, so I suggest you take your readings very seriously.”

He will ruin this for you, no fucking doubt.

He won’t even give you the grace of telling you his first name, and now you have to work on a huge project with him for four months? A project worth more than half of your grade?

That hole you debated on crawling in is sounding better and better by the minute.

“Well, guess that makes us partners.” To your disbelief, Lennon speaks his first words to you in lieu of his typical 'at you' approach. “The nice thing is that it guarantees me a good grade.”

“Is that your way of admitting I know more about this than you do, Kiszka?” you snark. He cocks an eyebrow above his black lenses as you dare to utter his last name.

“Not quite.” He snorts a condescending chuckle, “I can tell you’re the type to work towards the best grade possible, hence, ensuring my success in the process. Shall I thank you now or later?”

Lennon’s got you there.

You take projects like these rather seriously, and this one will be no exception. As much as you’d love to set him up for failure, that would warrant your failure right along with him.

It’s the perfect scenario for him and a living nightmare for you.

Lovely.

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You walk through the open doors of the lecture hall for your next class, spotting yet another familiar face amongst the students, only this one much more kind and welcoming.

You recognize her as the kind soul who helped you the other day when your bag was senselessly knocked off your shoulder by your favorite Lennon impersonator.

“Hey!” she says as she notices you, “Come sit next to me!”

You’re nearly taken away by her beauty as you sit beside her, finally able to get a better look at her this time.

Her glowing caramel skin, her eyes light and honest with a sepia tone, her dark brown curls that are unruly yet flawlessly styled, held perfectly on top of her head with the most beautiful satin scarf.

“Thank you again for helping me the other day. You’re a saint for that.” You hang your book bag on the back of your chair, pulling out its contents for class. “You’ll never believe this, but that guy that slammed into me with no remorse, he’s in my class. The one that he made me so late for. And because of that, we’re partnered together for a semester-long project.”

“Ah yes, Jake,” she says under a giggle, adjusting her dark green, slouchy sweater off her toned shoulder. “He’s something else, that’s for sure. He’s got a good heart but he covers it with that mysterious, dark facade that he thinks makes him look so cool.”

Alas, Lennon does have a first name after all. Although, you prefer the nickname you’ve given him.

“Well, Jake has made it rather clear that I am not his favorite person and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I’m not sure how we’ll manage to make it through this semester together with his shitty attitude.”

She hums under her breath, slowly shaking her head as if to say ‘just you wait.’

“My name’s Natalia. Where’d you fly in from?”

The way her name rolls off her tongue with her slight accent is nothing short of beautiful.

“Just a miniscule town in Oklahoma. Is it really that obvious that I’m not from here?” you answer in a hushed tone, half embarrassed to admit such a thing.

She grins as she sings a few words from the title track from the beloved Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, showcasing her stark white teeth that compliment her glowing, tanned skin perfectly.

“I hate to tell you Ms. Oklahoma, but you do kind of stick out like a sore thumb,” she quips.

Having gone from a small, southern town to the outskirts of Detroit, you’re bound to look like an outsider until the culture shock wears off, much to your discontent.

As much as you wish you could quickly adapt and easily blend in, it’s just not possible. Your face twinges as you remember your first day, specifically that one class you’d care to not mention any further.

“Welcome, students, to Women in Literature. My name is Dr. Lacey and I’ll be your instructor through the duration of this course.”

Class begins and you both submerge yourself in a study that’s particularly important to each of you.

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“I can’t call you Ms. Oklahoma forever, you know.”

You and Natalia have the rest of the day free from classes, so you decided to walk with her to the Central Campus library to do some studying.

“I guess you’re right,” you say through a laugh. “My name is y/n.”

You walk across the large courtyard full of lush green grass, intricate steel benches and the most lovely hydrangeas colored a deep purple.

The Michigan landscape is a far cry from anything you had ever seen in Oklahoma. Everything's so green and flourished, so full of life. Vibrant colors paint the scenery in the most beautiful vision.

The weather is nearly perfect, with the temperatures never exceeding the mid seventies and the humidity far below the excruciating levels of the southern states.

You’re in awe as you go day to day with the sheer beauty of the nature that surrounds you.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, your curiosity begins to take over your every thought. Jake Kiszka. Your semester-long partner. You need to know more about him, as much as you attempt to relinquish the desire.

You finally build up the courage to ask. “So, how do you know him?”

She looks at you upon your inquiry, squinting her eyes as she studies your face. “Who, Jake?” She says with a sinister grin about her.

“Yes, Jake. What is it about him that he feels the need to treat people like they’re beneath him?”

“Ah, Sir Jacob,” she says. “He’s a bit of an enigma, I guess you could say. And yes, he is single.” She throws you a wink as you stare at her with utter disgust at her wisecrack.

“I do not care if he’s single,” you respond, causing her to snort a chuckle.

“I’ve known the guy for years. We go all the way back to the golden days of our youth. He and his twin brother graduated high school a year before me, and their younger brother was a year below me.” A twin? There’s two of him? “I’ve known their family for the better part of my life. Good people, truly. I can’t begin to tell you how much they’ve helped my family and me.”

You’ve only just met him, but the words ‘good’ and ‘Jake’ don’t seem to belong in the same sentence.

“Incidentally enough, his twin, Josh, and my brother, Malachi, have been partners since they graduated together. So, they’re kind of my family, too.” You walk up the steps to the library as she holds the large wooden door open for you.“I promise you, y/n. He’s not all bad. You’ve just seen what he projects to people he doesn’t know. Like I said, he thinks it makes him look cool.”

Your thoughts momentarily stop as you take your first steps into the library. You’re in shock. Though, you shouldn’t be. Every single building you’ve stepped foot into on this campus is absolutely immaculate, and the library is no exception.

It’s almost bewitching, with thousands of books lining the walls, reaching chandeliers that seem to hang from the clouds at their height.

The alluring musty scent of aged novels fill your senses and take you back to a time long since forgotten.

It’ll be far too tempting to spend all of your time here, getting lost in the pages that fill the space of grandeur.

You’ve been stuck in a near trance by the beauty surrounding you, you hadn’t even noticed that Natalia moved behind the circulation desk.

“It’s also his way of keeping his guard up. It’s rare that anyone gets to discover the true Jacob,” she says as she types away at the computer sitting at the desk.

“Um, Natalia?” You quietly ask. “Should you be back there?”

She laughs as she takes in your slightly terrified expression, “Well I would say so, ya know, since it’s the start of my shift.”

“You work here?” How could anyone be so lucky as to work in such an immaculate setting?

“It’s a pretty sweet gig. It’s not the most thrilling job but it’s nice and quiet. I get to spend my days among books, and the tuition break is a pretty nice incentive.” She secures her gold plated magnetic name badge to sweater, making her look rather official.

A job on campus would be utter perfection for you. You’ll be spending a vast majority of your time here anyways, and the tuition break would be a significant help in your situation.

“Do you happen to know of any other jobs on campus that are hiring?” you ask, almost embarrassed, but you have a feeling you can trust her. “I’m kind of in a pinch to find something soon. Desperate, actually.”

She rests her chin between her index finger and thumb, seeming to ponder your question. “I know of a few,” she says. “One that just so happens to be in this very library, if you’re interested.” Her voice carries an almost sarcastic tone, she knows you’re interested.

“Oh my god, are you serious? I would love to work here!” you say.

“I figured you would.” She rummages through the credenza and pulls out a sheet of paper entitled ‘Employment Application’ and sets it on the desk in front of you.

“Go ahead and fill this out, and I’ll consider putting in a good word for you.” She winks at you as she hands you a pen.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

Classes have become increasingly difficult. It’s nothing you can’t handle, but you find it hard to make time for much of anything outside of work and school.

You started your new job at the library one week ago today. You pick up as many shifts as possible, mostly evenings and nights as your days are taken up with your classes. The library stays open until ten o’clock, so most nights you don’t get home until at least ten thirty.

You set aside a little time after class everyday to run home and take care of your mom before work, making her dinner and being sure her nightly medications are set out before you head back to campus.

As busy as you are, you truly love your job and you’re immensely excited about your studies.

Your friendship with Natalia has bloomed beautifully over the last week.

You’re so grateful for her. She has been your saving grace lately as this last week has been a bit treacherous. Her companionship has been a major help in your adjustment to this new way of life and your somewhat rigorous schedule.

Jake, on the other hand–well, things are about the same. You’ve set aside your pride a few times this week in an attempt to get along with him for the sake of your project, but he just brushed you off, every single time.

This project is massive, and not having it started yet, or even having a single idea about what you’ll do with it, is giving you serious anxiety.

The tension with him seems to grow by the day and you’re almost at the end of your rope with it. You don’t know how to fix it, but you need to figure out something soon so you can bury this unnecessary hatchet and focus on your shared assignment.

–

After running home to make dinner for your mom and tend to a few chores, you make it back to campus just in time to begin your shift.

Tonight, you’re in charge of contacting students with missing books and tacking on late fees to their accounts if necessary.

You’re sitting at the computer, scrolling through the seemingly endless list of students and calling them to let them know of the fees they’ve accrued.

Most of them are rather displeased with you upon your notice, some of them even giving you a small piece of their mind before abruptly hanging up on you.

You make phone call after phone call, trekking through the list organized alphabetically by last name.

At last, you’ve made it to the end of the J’s. Your task for the evening was to make it halfway through the list, and you’re nearly there as you begin contacting students whose last names begin with K.

Upon reading the name of the next student, your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach.

Kiszka, Jacob T (1): Le Morte d’Arthur (Norton Critical Edition) - Mallory

“You can’t be serious,” you mumble.

You debate on ‘accidentally’ skipping him, but you don’t want anything to jeopardize your brand new job.

You have to call him, and you’re not looking forward to it.

You suddenly hear the voice of your boss in the back of your mind, “It’s proper etiquette to always state your name when calling students, so be sure to introduce yourself with each call you make.”

You quickly make up your mind that you will not mention your name during your call to him. The last thing you need is any more awkward air between you two.

You dial his number and wait, listening to the ominous ringing from the other end.

Your eyes are pinched shut, your palms sticky with sweat as you secretly hope he doesn’t answer.

Then, the ringing comes to a stop, “Hello?”

Shit.

“Is this Jacob?” You use your best professional tone, hoping to disguise your voice as much as you can.

“This is he,” he responds, the statement ending in more of a question.

“Hi, Jacob. This is y/n with the Central Campus Library.”

Fuck.

You throw your head in your hand, mentally cursing yourself for letting your name slip through. Maybe he didn’t notice, you think to yourself.

There’s an uncomfortable silence for a moment before you clear your throat and continue speaking.

“I’m calling about your overdue copy of Le Morte d’Arthur.”

“Y/n? Aren’t you in my class?” he asks.

So much for him not noticing.

Ignoring his question, you proceed “It looks like you checked it out over the summer and it’s now twenty eight days overdue. Per policy, there has been a fee of seven dollars and fifty cents added to your account. If it is not returned by the thirty one day mark, you will receive anoth-”

He patronizingly cuts you off before you can finish, “You’re in Movack’s class, huh? You sit right next to me.”

With a sigh of frustration, you finish telling him that he must return it within three days or he’ll receive a much heftier fee.

“Yeah, okay. We’ll see about that,” he says before hanging up on you. His short tone has infuriated you beyond belief.

“Asshole,” you exclaim as you slam the phone down on the receiver causing a booming echo to erupt throughout the building. Luckily, the only other person here with you is Natalia. She’s been in the back sorting books while you’ve been dealing with overdue rentals.

Her boisterous laughter adds to the echoing bouncing off the walls. “I heard that,” she yells.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

You’re especially dreading Dr. Movacks class today after your phone call with Jake last night. You know for a fact that things will be even more tense with him today, and you’re just not in the mood to deal with it.

The exhaustion from everything piled on your plate has really begun to set in. Jake is the last thing you want to worry about. With each unpleasant interaction with him, your impatience grows to new levels.

With the support of your large cold brew in hand, you gather the nerve to walk into class.

“So you work at the library, huh?” Jake says as you take your seat.

“Yep,” you say in response. You pull out your phone and scroll mindlessly, giving him the hint that you’re less than interested in talking with him.

Class begins, and Dr. Movack starts his lecture on Arthurian timelines. You’re trying to pay close attention, but you find yourself becoming increasingly distracted– by Jake.

He smells so good– a mix of sandalwood and vanilla. You’ve noticed it before, but for some reason it’s particularly exhilarating today.

You chalk it up to delusion from fatigue and force yourself to pay attention to the lecture.

But fuck if it isn’t hard has hell to ignore.

You reach for your coffee, glancing Jake's way when you make yet another intrusive realization.

The way he grips his pen so tightly– the veins in his hand and forearm protrude in the most captivating way.

Your eyes slowly follow a trail to his pecks, the curve of them seen just beneath his partially open, black—of course—button down. You watch them tense slightly with each word he writes.

Dr. Movack ends the lecture and you suddenly realize you’ve been staring far too long.

“Can I help you?”

You’re instantly mortified at him catching your stare. Desperate to find any excuse, you happen to see his copy of Le Morte d’Arthur sitting underneath his notebook. Thank god.

“Your book,” you point to the novel. “You need to return it.”

He huffs a laugh as he takes his sunglasses off, leaving you stunned. This is the first time you’ve seen his face without their obstruction—and the first time you’ve ever seen his eyes.

His eyes are kind and warm. They glow amber brown like a glass of whiskey on the rocks, intoxicating you just as the smooth drink would.

“I still have two days, right?”

You saw his lips move, but the sound that came from them was muffled in your head as you’re entirely mesmerized by his eyes.

“Right?” he asserts, breaking you from your trance.

You blink your eyes a few times to bring yourself back to earth as your brain registers what he had said.

“What? Y– yes, you still have two days,” you say. “You know it’s not a required reading until later on in the semester, right? Why do you need it right now?”

“Maybe I wanted to get a head start,” he says while tossing it in his black leather satchel. “Maybe it’s not any of your business.” He swiftly gets up and walks away, leaving you completely frustrated yet again.

Your journey to your next class feels more like a rigorous trudge. You’re walking fast and hard, stomping your feet with each step as your anger towards Jake exudes through your body.

Not only are you pissed at his stupid fucking attitude, you’re pissed that you find him so damn attractive.

How could you possibly find someone like him appealing? Appealing to the eye, yes, but that’s where it stops. He’s a walking rain cloud hovering over you, stealing all the sunshine from your day in only a matter of a single class period.

You’re impatiently counting the days until this class– until this project– is over and done with so you can move on and live a peaceful existence.

⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⛨ ⚔︎

It’s just about time to close the library and you could not be more ready. The last few days have been incredibly draining. With homework piling up in heaps, multiple tests to study for and working nearly every night, your stress is at an all time high.

Thankfully, tomorrow is Saturday. This will be your first day off all week and you’re beyond ready for some much needed relaxation. You just need to get through these next five, excruciating minutes.

It’s been awfully quiet tonight and you’re grateful for it since you’re the only one working, but the lack of students has made the shift feel much longer than usual.

You glance up at the clock that says it’s two minutes until ten. Given you haven’t seen any signs of a student in hours, you figure it would be okay to go ahead and lock up a few minutes early.

Just as you're about to twist the lock on the bolt, someone from the other end hastily turns the knob and pushes open the door with great force, causing you to stumble backwards.

Standing before you with their overdue book in hand, and to your utter disgust, is Jake.

“We’re closed, Jake.”

He takes a few steps inside as he points behind you at the clock. “According to that, you’re still open for one more minute and I need to return my book.”

Of fucking course he waited until the literal last minute.

You want nothing more than to turn him away and tell him he’s shit out of luck, but technically, he’s right. He’s entered the building before closing and according to policy, you have to serve him.

Son of a bitch.

You bring your hand up to rub your forehead, trying to relieve some tension before you begin this process with him. “Follow me,” you say as you head back to the desk.

There’s an awkward silence lingering between you two as you sign into the computer, the only sound being his fingers tapping away at the desk as he impatiently waits for you.

“You could’ve just put it in the drop box outside, you know. They would’ve gotten it on Monday morning,” you tell him.

“Yeah, but then it would’ve been late. I’m not letting you all charge yet another absurd late fee,” he retorts.

“You should’ve turned it in on time, then.”

You seem to have struck a nerve with him given the way his jaw clenched at your statement. You just can’t bring yourself to care– he’s the one forcing you to stay late when all you want to do is go home and go to bed.

You go through the return process as quickly as you can. You finish, giving him his copy of the document that states he brought the book back.

“Thanks,” he says. “Now I would like to check it back out, please.”

Are you fucking kidding.

You know he’s doing this just to spite you.

You throw your hands down on the keyboard, “Seriously? Why can’t you just come back on Monday?”

“Because I need it this weekend,” he claims.

“What could you possibly need it for?” Any semblance of patience you may have had left has officially walked out the door.

“Didn’t I tell you it was none of your business?”

You take a deep breath and push it back out in a long sigh. You just don’t have it in you to argue anymore, so you accept defeat and begin checking it back out to him.

You don’t say anything as you hand him a pen and the checkout slip for him to sign. He grabs the pen, looking at you with a slight guilt-ridden expression before giving his signature.

“I’m working on a film with my brother, and I need the book to help him write the script.” This is the first time you’ve ever noted a hint of sincerity in his voice. The features of his face have softened– you can tell this is important to him.

You flip delicately through the tattered and stained pages of the book. “I have my own copy of this out in my car,” you say. “I’ll just let you borrow mine. It’s in much better condition than this one, anyways.”

He agrees as you take the slip from under his fingers and crumple it, throwing it in the trash can under the desk. He waits a few minutes, letting you lock up.

Then, he follows closely behind you to your car to retrieve the book.

You bend at the waist to dig for the book in the mess of your backseat. When you do so, you hear him take a deep inhale, and then blow it out in an exhale.

Is he annoyed with you having to dig? Because he can get the fuck over it.

Just as you hear him clear his throat in impatience, you’ve found the book. You stand and hand him the book, annoyed with him and ready to leave. He thanks you, and you nod, bidding him a hasty ‘good night’… you’re just ready to get home.

He begins to walk away, but stops and turns back around to face you.

Fuck. You’d been so close to being in the car, on your way home. Dammit.

“This film my brother’s doing,” he says. “Its focus surrounds the adultery of Arthur and Guinevere. He asked me to help him, and I was thinking…” You nod your head to let him know to keep going. “Well, if we both helped him, we could use it for our project.”

Your interest is certainly piqued. “Yeah, that could work. I’ve written a few scripts and designed theoretical sets for a couple film electives before… so I could definitely do that.”

“He could use more help with all of that for sure, but what he really needs are actors, specifically ones to play Arthur and Guinevere. He’s been begging me to play Arthur and I agreed, but now he’s on my case about finding someone to play Guinevere and, well...” He gestures his arms towards you, signaling that he thinks you should play her.

“Um…,” you take a minute to figure out how to politely turn him down as you feel a blush rise to your cheeks. You’d never admit it, but just the mere thought of interacting with him so intimately in those roles has your stomach doing weird flips. “Jake… I– I don’t know about that. I’m much better behind the camera, acting just isn’t really my thing.”

“Just give it a try,” he insists. Why does he seem so adamant? Geez. “And if you hate it, you can do something else. But I think you’d be great at it, really.” He smiles at you, the first time you’ve seen a true, genuine smile from him.

Well, fuck.

You want to say no, you should say no. With how he’s treated you thus far, you don’t owe him anything. But– you can’t deny how it would help your project. And this project in Movack’s class… It's important to you. It would be fantastic to have it to back up your own project…

And, aside from that, his smile is making it awfully hard to turn him down right now.

If you were alone, you would have slapped your forehead at the utter chaos in your head, leading to your ultimate decision.

With a little hesitancy, you speak up, “I guess I could stop by. Feel out the role…”

His features seem to lift more at that. You pay it hardly any mind.

And with his final reply, his velvet-toned voice has a brand new, excited, air to it. “It’ll be really amazing, I promise.” Then, he chuckles, almost to himself. “It’ll definitely be interesting,” he shakes his head, a grin still lifting his cheek. “But really… I think it’ll be great. I know my brother and you will get along. He’s also one hell of a director.”

Minutes later, as you’re climbing into your driver's seat, you take a few minutes to sit in the silence of your car.

Trying your damnedest to block out the obnoxious fluorescent lighting of the parking lot, you stare through your windshield into the black night sky.

And when normally, the blanket of black would bring you a sense of peace and comfort, tonight it’s different. Tonight, you can’t help but feel a burgeoning sense of timidness as you fail to find answers to your new predicament in the night sky.

What in the hell had you just agreed to?

taglist:

@jakeyt @alwaysonthemend @sacredjake @jakesgrapejuice @misshunnybee @reesetrippingthelight @way-to-go-lad @iffypanic @sinarainbows @klarxtr @brinlygvf @stardustjake @gretavanbear @gvfmelbourne @sinsofstardust @literal-dead-leaf @livkiszka @gvf-ficreads @jaaakeeey @capturethechaos @neptune2324 @jaketlove @thetroublegetssoloud71 @myleftsock @sanguinebats @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface

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love you all SO MUCH

Le Morte d’Arthur Masterlist

Masterlist

#jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka fic #jake kiszka fanfiction #jake kiszka smut #greta van fleet fanfiction #gvf fic #jake fic #jake kiszka #le morte d’arthur

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heartfullofleeches · 1 year

Note

Professor reader seeing a mountain of love letters on top of their desk

The decorative cards devour your desk in their horde. Velvet envelopes with your name engraved with red ink to scraps of paper stamped with a kiss. The drawer assigned to these notes had been gorged to the point it would no longer close and pages slid through the cracks.

You simple redirect the pile to another drawer and restart the cycle all over again. The heartbreak of onlookers is as great as your will to get through another day without issue. If you opened one letter the sender would be too distracted during the lesson, and the rest of them would grow jealous. If you opened them all then the entire period would be dedicated to you reading the written confessions of your admirers and your silent rejection. Either way, you trampled on the hearts of the mass with one route cushioning the blow with the possibility of another day.

"Alright, everyone - I hope you all our ready for today's lesson. It seems some of us have already proven they aren't since they have a class of their own to teach."

A shadow dissipates from the classroom window and down the hall.

#Professor reader #yandere oc #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere insert #yandere x you #yandere scenarios #yandere blurb #yandere drabble

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the-ace-with-spades · 8 months

Text

An AU where Jake didn't go to USNA but got a scholarship for football at the same uni Bradley got a scholarship for baseball.

They're both part of NROTC but Bradley is a second-year midshipman and he's one of the very few midshipmen who are not mentoring anyone in the program dunno how nrotc works I'm guessing similar to our military youth programs, bear with me

He's instantly intrigued — Bradley seems to be the most unavailable person in the whole program, never really engaging for after-training outings or parties, never making small talk and never trying to even make connections that would help with networking once they were commissioned.

So Jake kind of observes from afar for the first few months and he realizes Bradley is exactly the same outside of NROTC too.

Despite the lack of engagement, every single instructor and coordinator from the program seems to know him. More so, most of them don't even comment on his lack of extracurricular engagement or mentorship, but even send him off for extra trainings that are typically only awarded for being exceptional.

They live in the same student building but on different floors. Bradley is an RA for his floor and the female-only floor above, something Jake only discovers when his own RA is kicked out and his heating problem is delegated to Bradley.

Bradley is also a TA (which is very unusual for a sophomore) for one of the physics professors — Jake is studying mechanical engineering and Bradley is doing aerospace engineering and he sometimes sees Bradley assisting, even if it's mostly for different majors.

Jake's fascination grows even more because he doesn't get it — Bradley is unavailable to anyone but he's also so nice. Most of the students in the dorm he's coordinating like him, which is not really something that happens with RAs, he's respected both by the midshipmen and their instructors and seniors, many of which keep on friendly jabs with him or extend invitations to outings despite Bradley's repeated refusals. He is incredibly nice to the actual few students who come for help from him as a TA, from what Jake heard, and he's got a good few girls crushing on him, some of which are pretty popular in the uni circles.

Despite that, he doesn't seem to have any friends. Jake doesn't see him at parties, or going outs, or study groups, or even of some midshipmen-organized extra trainings. It's like he's keeping everyone at arm's length.

Finally, he has an occasion to start something with Bradley when he goes downstairs to the mail room. Technically sorting the mail and putting it in the right boxes outside of the mail room is the porter's room but the porter seems to be there maybe four hours a week so usually they just break into the room and look for their own shit in the mess.

He goes downstairs and Bradley is sitting on the floor with a list of the students in the building and a stamp with red RETURN TO SENDER, sorting through piles and piles of mail.

"I didn't think it was part of your job."

"It's not," Bradley answers. "Someone has to do it, might as well be me. Seresin, right?"

Jake doesn't squeal but oh god, Bradley knows his name. "Yeah."

"Your parcel is in the ready pile," he says, pointing his thumb parcels near the door.

"You want some help?"

"You've got nothing better to do on a Friday night?"

He could've asked the same question. "I have three assignments I need to procrastinate on."

Bradley gives him a long look but finally says, "Fair enough."

They stay in silence and Jake doesn't know how to start a conversation. Bradley seems focused and aloof and just, once again, so unavailable.

The opportunity arises when he is going over the stack of parcels in the corner of the mail room.

"Your name is Bradshaw, right?"

"Yeah."

"Those are for you."

"They're not."

"I mean, there's no room number but it does say Bradley Bradshaw."

Bradley is quiet for a minute but gets up from where he's been sitting on the floor and slowly walks to stand next to where the boxes are stacked on itself.

Without hesitation, he stamps both of them with RETURN TO SENDER.

"You aren't even going to check what's inside?"

He gets quiet again, looking at the stamp on top of the parcel far longer than needed, before he says, "I don't have any family left, whoever sent it isn't anyone I'd like to get anything from."

Jake bites down apologies — Bradley doesn't seem to be the type to need pity.

"It can't be returned to the post," Jake points out. "No return address."

Bradley sighs and takes out a pen from his pocket, leaning over the boxes.

He doesn't mean to snoop but he catches Bradley writing P.Mitchell & T.Kazansky in the addressee line and San Diego a couple lines lower. So obviously Bradley knew who it was from.

Some things change after that evening — Bradley answers his hi when they see each other at training or waves back when Jake sees him in the lecture hall or brings his mail straight to Jake's room and chats with him for a few minutes at his door.

But most things don't change — he still refuses to join any going outs, even if it's Jake asking him, still doesn't talk much to anyone, still refuses simple invitations to grab lunch together in the cafeteria or go to a movie later that week. Still seems to be using a Don't have time or If you don't need me, I'm going as frequent excuses. Still seems to be entirely unavailable to anyone who wants to catch him outside of his strictly obligatory settings.

He's talking about this with his mom, using the phone booth outside of their dorms, because he's never had trouble making friends with anyone (even if he admits he could make more than friends, with Bradley, eventually, maybe, wishful thinking aside) and his mom tells him, "He sounds really busy, baby, he probably doesn't have time for friends."

"How can you have no time for friends? It's college."

"Jakey, he isn't like you, he doesn't have any support from his family, he's probably struggling to stay afloat with the scholarships requirements and the college job and studying and military training on top of it."

"So what? There's no way to—be friends with him?"

"I think you'll have to fit into the free time in his schedule, baby. because that's the only kind he has."

It takes some time but he does realize that Bradley's time is truly limited. His days are packed tight, on top of what Jake already knew — the TA job, the RA job, the baseball scholarship and the NROTC training — he also works in the local garage one day a week. He literally has a few hours he can actually spend with someone during the day and Jake slowly tries to use them up.

Brings him coffee for the early morning walk-in tutoring he hosts at college, eats lunch with him when they have a training break, even as Bradley does his assigned reading and only half-pays attention to him, comes downstairs to the mail room every evening Bradley sorts through it, brings him cupcakes from the cafeteria on the lunch break between lectures, even though Bradley spends it alone in the professor's office, making lesson plans or marking papers. Visits him in the garage he works at and keeps on constant chatter as Bradley gets covered in black oil and stinks like fuel.

Slowly, he can see Bradley smiling when he sees Jake. Can see Bradley sharing his homemade divine lasagna and chicken soup made from scratch with Jake. Can see Bradley joining him in the gym, not just staying on the outside of the group. Can see Bradley chatting back as he continues to do what he's doing, no longer just letting Jake run his mouth.

There's a bit of a hiccup when Jake offers Bradley to join him on Christmas break in Texas — tells him they can drive if Bradley doesn't want to pay for plane tickets they can make a road trip of the thing and all. Only another call to his mom makes him aware that Bradley probably can't afford either and, as his mom doesn't hold back and points out Bradley won't react well if he offers to pay for it.

So instead, Jake stays for most of the Christmas break in the halls. Apparently, Bradley is organizing a small Chrismas dinner for anyone from the halls who is staying over (a total of seven people), so things get a bit busy — the spare time Bradley has is, well, spare. When he finally has the time, he is working in the garage or finishing his assignments — Jake sometimes forgets, with all the things Bradley does to stay afloat, that he's actually still a student — so he mostly trails behind him and chatters when he thinks it won't annoy Bradley too much.

Bradley offers to drive him to the airport. It's the first time he's offered to take a good chunk of his time and make it free by rescheduling things, just for Jake.

He even parks at the airport and walks him all the way to the security check line, not just leaves Jake in the drop-and-go area.

Jake gives him a small Christmas gift — a key chain with A4 Skyhawk he bought when he visited the aviation museum in Horsham with some of the other midshipmen. They both want to go into the aviation pipeline once graduated so it seems like something Bradley could like, even if it's a bit silly.

He wasn't sure, if Bradley would actually take it — he's been reluctant to take many things, every single lunch or coffee Jake got him had to be either repaid or covered by Bradley the next day.

But Bradley hugs him. Puts the key chain on his car keys ring.

When Jake comes back, he's expecting progress because, you know, Bradley's been warming up to him. Instead, Bradley seems to be dead on his feet, getting annoyed quicker than usually, going as far as telling Jake to 'keep quiet for a goddamn minute'. It all kind of becomes clear when he is car pooling with the guys for the NORTC training and sees Bradley, honest to god jogging the three miles from the halls to the training site, military backpack with his uniform and gear towering over his shoulder — it's five in the morning.

"You doing a new training regime or something? Running everywhere instead of driving like a normal human being?"

He doesn't look at Jake as he says, "The Bronco broke down."

"I mean, that car is older than you," Jake points out, trying to tiptoe around the issue and get Bradley to admit what the exact problem is — he never does, if you ask directly, Jake knows by now. It's like asking for help isn't in his nature.

"It's not safe to drive," he explains. "I can't brake in time anymore, the brakes are about to give out completely."

"Can't you fix it?"

"I need a new drum brake master cylinder," he says. When Jake stares at him, he adds, "It's gonna cost around two hundred bucks, which I don't have."

"I could lend you the money," he offers.

"I don't want your money," Bradley says, just like he thought he'd — taking any offered help from anyone isn't in his nature either.

So Jake tries to work around it — asks his dad and his uncles if there's anyone they know who could maybe give him the right master cylinder for free or at a very discounted price. When they finally find a guy who has a collection of spare parts for the early Broncos but no Broncos anymore and is willing to send the cylinder as long as someone pays for the postage, he writes down his number and promises his friend Bradley is going to call soon about that.

And thank the fucking god, Bradley accepts this kind of backhanded help.

Bradley fixes the Bronco on the hall's parking lot. He jogs from the garage with a borrowed jack lift strapped to his back, pops the car on it and the other one he already has in the trunk so the wheels are up, pops the tires off and pops the front mask up and gets his white tank and plaid shirt covered in grime. It's already dark by the time he takes the jacks away and sits behind the wheel.

Jake's spent the whole time uselessly chattering to him as he always does — he has absolutely no idea about cars — but he lets himself be waved into the passenger seat.

Bradley drives out of the parking lot, down the empty road to the campus and brakes so hard Jake has to hold himself up against the dashboard.

"Better than new," Bradley says and Jake's never seen him grinding as widely and as honestly as he is now.

He is sweaty and covered in oil and stinking a bit, but his curls are flopping on his forehead and the ratty mustache he's been growing lately is out of order and he's looking at Jake with those big brown cow eyes — he just can't not kiss him.

So he leans over the console and kisses the smile on his face.

The leap of faith pays of because Bradley keeps on kissing him — he pulls the hand brake on and lets both his hands settle on Jake's waist and things continue until Jake is being guided onto the backseat over the console and being kisses again and again, and Bradley's hands go lower and lower.

They get each other off and then go back to the halls. They don't talk about it but now any time they're alone — in the lecture hall, in the mail room, in Jake's or Bradley's room — he can just lean in and kiss him as much as he wants to and still get the brightest of smiles as a reward.

They're back in the mail room and maybe Jake's just spent twenty minutes trying to crawl up Bradley's lap (to no avail) when he notices — Bradley got another package, this time PLEASE AT LEAST LOOK THROUGH THE THINGS BEFORE SENDING IT BACK written in bold marker on top.

Bradley curtly tells him to just stamp it with RETURN TO SENDER. But he can't help himself — he gets his keys out and cuts through the tape on top, opening the giant box.

"Jake—"

He takes out the first thing that's on top of the pile inside — a stuffed goose the size of over half of Jake's torso. It's a bit grayed up and smells like dust but it's also so cute.

"That yours?"

Bradley gets up from where he's sitting so quick — a second and he's next to Jake, taking the plushie out of his hands. "Ducky—"

"Ducky? That's a goose, isn't it?"

Bradley is honest to god red in the face but doesn't let go of the goose, bringing it closer to his chest and it's freaking adorable. "I was two, I couldn't tell the difference."

"So," Jake says, feeling like he's defusing a bomb. "You still wanna send it back?"

"I—I don't know."

"Maybe—Maybe I could help with that," he offers. "If I know the details, or at least some of them."

It takes him a minute but when Bradley finally starts talking, everything just spills out of him. He tells Jake about his dad, and about his mom, and then about his other dad and pops. He doesn't get too into details but they come around back to his last year in high school and how his dad pilled his papers and they haven't talked since Bradley found out and left the house with a bag and his car and nothing else.

Jake says, "That's just stupid."

The second it leaves his mouth, he knows he's said the wrong thing even if it was honest — he can see in real-time as Bradley rolls back into himself, closing off in less than a minute and suddenly there's so much distance between them.

He angrily writes down the same P.Mitchell & T.Kazansky and San Diego address on top and chucks the goose plushie back inside.

"I guess I'm stupid then," he says quietly and a blink and he's out of the mail room. He's not answering when Jake knocks on his room door.

Jake doesn't have the heart to actually let that package go back to P.Mitchell & T.Kazansky, or Bradley's dad and pops. So he brings it into his room upstairs.

He doesn't mean to go over the things inside, not too much, but he thought he could at least grab the goose — Ducky — and give it a wash. When he reaches inside, there's a goddamn plushie of a Spitfire in there, its tag saying RAF Museum, London, and Jake can't help looking for more.

There are photos and polaroids, three people commonly on all of them with a baby Bradley. Old Hawaiian shirts, a leather jacket, knots of seashell jewelry, a few rolled-up posters, a whole notebook with handwritten recipes, birthday cards.

He doesn't look any further but instead takes the return address from the box and writes up a postcard to P.Mitchell & T. Kazansky saying he'll force Bradley to keep it all.

Problem is, Bradley isn't talking to him, no matter how hard he tries. He thought he'd be like that for a few weeks at the most and then forget but he's worse than he was before he and Jake met in the mail room for the first time — doesn't even say a word to him when Jake tries to start a conversation, he's gone so far as to change his complicated schedule completely so Jake can't see him outside of NROTC and his TA role.

He calls his mom again.

"Jakey, honey," his mom says, with a tone that suggests he's an idiot. "That boy bared his soul to you and you said his feelings were stupid."

#not finishing it sorry #they get back together and Jake forces him to talk to Mav and Ice after all but it takes like two years #(also he doesn't realize that T.Kazansky is the four star admiral Kazansky until he actually meets them on Thanksgiving)#this should be a 60k slow burn fic but i don't have enough energy #or time #sorry #i hated uni and i might be going back to it so im having the feelsTM #hangster #fic ideas #op #charlie writes

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warriorofthought · 9 months

Text

Terrible Watcher

Summary: You have a stalker who isn't afraid to get close to you. Bucky is your safe place.

Word Count: 3136

Warning: Mention of creepy situations

Bucky x Reader

The first few times you get flowers at work, you don't think much of it. But when you come home from work one night and see a big fat bouquet of flowers standing outside your door, you start to feel a little uncomfortable.

You unlock your apartment door and take the bouquet inside. Then you look at the bouquet and see that a small envelope has been attached to it. You take it in your hand and look at it closely. There is only your name on it, nothing else. No sender. No stamp from a company that could have sent the flowers.

Then you open it. Shocked, you realize that there are four pictures of you at work inside and a little note saying:

"You're so pretty, don't you know how dangerous that is?"

Immediately, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and a lump forms in your throat that you barely manage to swallow away.

You then quickly put the pictures and the note back in the envelope. You grab the bouquet and the note and stuff them deep into your trash can, deciding to empty it tomorrow morning, out into the big garbage can.

Then you go to sleep with a bad feeling.

_______________________________________

The next morning you are awakened by your doorbell. When you run to it and look through the peephole, you see no one.

Just as you are about to go back to bed, the doorbell rings again. So you press on your speakerphone.

"Hello?"

"........"

But you get no answer. So you shrug your shoulders and turn away from the door.

Then the doorbell rings again.

This time you carefully turn the key in the lock and quietly open the door. You don't see anyone, but when you look on the floor, there is a box of chocolates with an envelope. Quickly you take it and go inside. You lock your front door again.

Then you sit down with both on the sofa, you open the box of chocolates and see that it is from a rather expensive brand. Then you open the envelope.

A picture of you in your bed appears.

You take a closer look.

"Shit" your heart slips into your pants and then starts beating furiously as the realization shoots into your mind.

"This must be from tonight, it's the new pajamas I just bought a few days ago and never wore until tonight."

You turn the picture over and see that there is a small note stuck to it with the message "So careless sleeping".

A glance at the clock shows that you are late for work. Quickly you change your clothes.

Then you pack the chocolates and the new envelope and throw it in the trash. Then you take the trash bag outside and throw it away before you leave for work.

_______________________________________

While you are at work you get a message from Bucky.

"Hey Love, are you coming over for dinner tonight?"

"Hey Bucky, sure I'd love to, looking forward to it."

"See you later then, Love."

"See you tonight, Bucky"

Even though Bucky and you aren't together, you love that he calls you different cute pet names. Especially when he calls you 'Love', your heart does a little skip. He once told you that you are the only person he likes to give pet names and asked you if it bothered you, which of course you denied. It seems to make him happy when he gets to call you by nicknames.

Happily, the incident of this morning and last night fades into oblivion and you get on with your work.

_______________________________________

In the evening, you pack up your things and head for your car. On the way to the underground parking garage, you wish a few of your coworkers a good evening.

When the elevator comes to a stop, you get out. Your way to the car is lighted, which is exactly why you always pack there, not too far from the elevator and stairwell, but not too close either.

You walk cozily to the car, fishing your key out of your pocket as you go.

"Ah, there it is" satisfied you click on the car remote controls and your car gives a signal. Then you go to the trunk and put your work bag in it. Then you close the trunk again.

When you go around the car, suddenly someone is standing there. Startled, you gasp. The person just looks at you.

"Um, hello," you get no response.

You keep walking to the driver's door, keeping your eyes on him. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears, which doesn't help your anxiety.

Then as you reach the driver's door and pull it open. The person jerks into motion and comes toward you. You quickly jump into the car and lock the door. With shaky hands, you anxiously try to start your car. Which works after a few tries. At that very moment, the person has managed to get to the driver's side and knocks against your window with a creepy smile. Quickly you step on the gas and drive away from there, to Bucky.

Arrived at his house. You sit in the car again for a few minutes to calm down.

"None of this means anything, y/n".

"Your brain is just playing you something scary".

you try to reassure yourself.

You exhale deeply and let your head rest against your arms on the steering wheel.

The next moment there is a knock on your car window.

Startled, your head jumps up and you see that Bucky is looking at you from outside, somewhat worried. His hand is still raised and he is about to knock again when your eyes meet.

Slowly a bit restless you open your door.

"Y/n, won't you come up, you've been sitting there for almost half an hour now, I saw you arrive from upstairs."

"Oh, uhh, sure" Nodding to him, you pull your car keys out of the lock. Then you want to get out. But it doesn't work, and frowning, you see that you're still strapped into the seat.

Your eyes snap again briefly to Bucky, who holds your door and watches you intently. Before you unbuckle yourself with a shaky movement.

Then you get out and smile at Bucky.

"Let's go upstairs, Bucky".

"Hmm," his head nods at you in confirmation. As he does, you see his brow furrow briefly as he thinks about something.

He closes your car door behind you and you lock the car afterwards.

Together you go upstairs. He walks in front of you up the stairs and you briefly let your eyes wander over his handsome figure as you follow him.

Once inside, the smell of bolognese sauce hits you.

"I made spaghetti Bolognese, you like it so much, thought can't hurt to give you a little treat."

"Thanks, Bucky, it smells good."

He gets two more glasses from the kitchen and joins you at the table. Afterwards, he pours you some water.

Then you start to eat.

You are not really hungry, you have a few forks, but otherwise you just poke around in the food. You don't even notice that Bucky is already finished and puts his plate away.

"Y/n, did I cook that bad?" His voice sounds unexpectedly next to you.

"What, uh, no... you cooked well, but I'm not hungry."

"That's okay, how about you sit in the living room and pick a movie we can watch, maybe one of those Disney movies I haven't seen yet."

"Okay," you head into the living room and pick out the movie Cap and Capper.

Then you sit down on the sofa and pull your legs close to you. When Bucky arrives he sits down next to you and pulls himself against you. Immediately his warmth goes over to you, you lean a little more against him and your muscles start to relax a little.

"You tell me what's on your mind, I can literally hear your thoughts racing, Love."

"Nothing, I'm fine "

"Oh, come on, we both know that that was a lie, Love. So the truth, you know I don't bite unless you want me to" as you look up into his face you see him wink briefly at you.

You let out an exhausted sigh.

"I.... Hmm, I think I'm being followed or watched."

"By who?"

"I don't know, I don't know Bucky" you look up at him and see how seriously he takes what you said.

"What makes you think you are being followed or watched?"

"For the last couple of weeks I've been getting bouquets with weird messages that really freak me out. And last night, I got another one, but this time the bouquet came to my house, so it was outside my door. "

Not being able to sit still any longer you get up and walk back and forth telling him more.

"I mean, all this time I thought maybe it was someone from work or a customer. But like that. That was really weird. But you know what the worst part was. This time there was not only a message inside, but also photos of me from last week. It was so creepy and gross, I threw both right in the trash and went to sleep, but this morning I was woken up by the doorbell and there was no one but a box of chocolates at my door. This one also had an envelope with another photo from tonight. Do you know what this means, Bucky," you say, swinging your arms wildly.

"This guy was in my apartment when I was asleep and it was probably also the person who gave me that creepy look when I was walking to the car earlier."

"That explains why you were so upset earlier, Love "

Bucky grabs your arms and pulls you onto his lap, then his arms embrace your body and your head is pressed against his chest.

"How about you stay here tonight, then I can take care of you and tomorrow we'll worry about making a report to the police."

"You believe me," with big incredible eyes you look at him.

"Of course, Love"

"The trash pickup hasn't come yet, maybe we can still take the envelopes and the bouquet of flowers and the chocolates to the police station and that way they can find him faster."

Then he gets up with you in his arms and goes into the bedroom. He puts you down on the bed. Then he searches through his closet and gives you a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.

"Here, change and I'll go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. When you're done, come into the bathroom and you can brush your teeth too, with a new toothbrush, okay?"

"Okay."

Then Bucky's figure disappears into the bathroom.

You quickly change and then go into the bathroom to see that Bucky has just finished. He points to the packed toothbrush and then walks past you into the room.

You brush your teeth and as you see your reflection in the mirror, you realize how much this whole thing has taken a toll on you in the first place. Messed up hair, dilated tired eyes.

When you're done, you go back to Bucky and see that he has changed as well.

"Love, come here" as he lifts the covers for you.

"Is it actually okay for you, love, that we sleep here together?"

"Yes, it's safer, isn't it?"

"It is, Love. I'll protect you."

You lie down in bed with him. Your head rests on his chest and you can hear his steady heartbeat.

You notice how your heartbeat adjusts to his. Then his fingers stroke through your hair and soon you fall asleep.

_______________________________________

You wake up the next morning to the sound of dishes clattering loudly from the kitchen.

You get up and walk over to the kitchen.

Bucky is at the stove and from the looks of it, he's cooking pancakes.

"Y/n, you're awake. That's good sit down, I'm almost done."

You sit down at the counter as told and a few minutes later you have a plate with some Pancakes in front of you.

"You eat up this time, Love."

You nod and take a first bite. The Pancake is perfect. You happily eat the Pancakes and Bucky watches you happily and eats his Pancakes.

Then you get ready, together you head over to your apartment.

Once there, Bucky goes straight to the garbage cans and looks for the stuff. You follow him and show him where you threw them in. Indeed, they are still there.

Bucky takes them out and puts them in a bag. Then you go up to your apartment. You look for your key in your pocket and find it just before you come to a stop at your door.

You're about to unlock the door when you notice it's slightly apart.

"Bucky?" you say tensely, swallowing once noisily.

"Yes."

"I locked the door yesterday, but now it's a little bit open."

Bucky reaches for your arms and strokes them reassuringly.

"I'll go in and check, you stay here."

"But what if someone is there?"

"Love, have you forgotten I'm a Soldier?"

"Of course not."

"Hey, look at me, nothing is going to happen in there, okay!"

"Okay!" You watch as Bucky's figure disappears into your apartment.

______________________________________

Bucky has been missing in your apartment for quite a long time, in your opinion. Just as you're about to check, you see a shadow pass by out of the corner of your eye. Quickly you turn there. But you don't see anything.

So you want to turn back to the apartment, when suddenly you feel an arm around your waist, dragging you backwards into a very small room. You tried to scream, fear coursing through your veins, but a hand was placed over your mouth before you had the chance.

So you kick around, but the person holding you press you against the wall.

"Is he your lover? Don't you know you belong to me? Hmm?"

Tears form in your eyes.

"Shhh, don't shout."

"You don't want to be in trouble, do you?" His mouth is right next to your ear and he breathes into your ear.

Then all of a sudden he presses himself even closer to you and you hear him sniffing you. Your body, on the other hand, starts to shake with fear. You don't manage to free yourself, he is stronger than you.

"You smell good, better than I imagined" he breathes into your ear.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up in disgust. How disgusting.

Then all of a sudden he is pulled away from you. Quickly you turn around and want to take a few steps to the side, when your legs give way, you slide along the wall to the floor. Now you can no longer hold your tears and let them run.

Through your blurred vision you can see Bucky hitting the man as the man pulls out a knife but Bucky is prepared and immediately disarms the man.

You let out a whimper. Which draws Bucky's attention to you. He immediately lets go of the man, who falls to the ground unconscious.

Bucky approaches you, fearfully you press yourself further against the wall. Seeing this, he raises his hands reassuringly.

"It's okay, Love. It's Bucky." He kneels down to your eye level and suddenly with a jerk, Bucky gently pulls you into his arms. Immediately his lovely leather covered scent hits your nose and you press yourself even closer to him.

Bucky gently lifts you up and out of the room past the man. Before he locks the room where the man lies inside. Then he calls the Police.

Meanwhile, he takes care of you and tries to calm you down. After a while you stop crying, but your grip on Bucky doesn't loosen a bit.

When the Police arrive, Bucky explains what happened and shows him the man lying in the room. Then he shows them your apartment, which has been completely destroyed by the man. The Policeman also take the bag with the envelope and they secure it. The police take your and Bucky's personal data and ask if you want to file a complaint. You nod and the Police officer's take down the complaint.

Then one of the Police officer's addresses you.

"You shouldn't stay in the apartment today, your apartment is now a crime scene." "Do you have someone to stay with for a few days?"

"Yes, She's staying with me," Bucky answers for you. The Policeman looks at you once and you nod.

Together you and Bucky go to your Car, he takes the Car keys from you and leads you over to the passenger side. Then he pushes you into the seat and buckles you in. Before he quickly runs over and then drives to his apartment.

Once at his place, Bucky makes sure you take a quick shower and then orders food for both of you.

When you are done with your shower and come into the living room in Bucky's clothes, he is already waiting for you with the film from yesterday.

You sit down with him and together you watch the movie. When the doorbell rings, you flinch.

Concerned, Bucky looks over at you.

"It's just the food delivery guy, I'll be right back." you nod and Bucky pays for the food and comes back. He presses your favorite food into your hand and you have to smile.

"Thanks, Bucky"

"Anytime, Love"

_______________________________________

A week later you have confirmation from the police that the guy who attacked you at your apartment was also the one who sent you the bouquets to work. This was captured by surveillance cameras and also in the store where he bought the bouquets. The man was charged and ended up in jail.

You, on the other hand, quit your apartment because you no longer felt safe there and moved in with Bucky after much convincing. He has enough space because he has a guest room and has arranged it with you, but most of the time you sleep with Bucky in bed and if you do not sleep with him but in your own. You wake up in the morning with him in your bed. You feel comfortable again and you are no longer afraid that you are being watched. Bucky also helped you a lot.

In the end, Bucky has become your safe place where you can relax and not be afraid anymore, and you firmly believe that it will stay that way. Because Bucky would do anything to make you feel safe.

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes #Protector Bucky

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radiojamming · 2 months

Note

My ass fell down the Sherlock Holmes tree A G A I N and I am currently hitting every branch on the way down so literally anything you know about sending telegrams is useful information to me. Do they need stamps. How long do they take. Do I have to say Stop after every sentence or is that just a comprehension convention. IS IT A MORSE CODE THING

I AM REVVING MY ENGINES ABOUT THIS ASK AHHH LET'S GO

Telegrams did not need stamps. They were usually sent from one telegram office to another and were distributed outward by dedicated telegram couriers from that company. Most of the time, this system was faster than the mail.

Which is to say--THEY ARE SPEED. At telegraphy's height in the early 20th century, you could easily send a message across an entire country in a day. Telegram messages would get relayed up and down lines from office to office, sometimes passing through places like railroad stations, before arriving at the office closest to the recipient. Transatlantic messages shot across undersea cables in record time! It was bonkers! It's probably Samuel Morse's first message in his code (he didn't invent the telegraph, but the code's important) was: "WHAT HATH GOD WROUGHT"

So the STOP thing is funky. There's a myth that people used it because telegraph companies provided the word for free in place of paying for punctuation, but that's probably not true. What is true is that the STOP really started showing up in telegrams during World War I. In this case, the STOP separated sentences clearly so messages wouldn't get misinterpreted and potentially cause things like horrible war disasters if someone read something incorrectly. Supposedly, the public caught onto using STOP and continued using it long after it was no longer necessary. It became a style of convention! It was en vogue!

(An aside is that one of the alternatives to STOP was using the numeral 30 in place of a period. This practice, as far as I'm aware, comes from newspapers using 30 to signal to the typesetter that they were at the end of a column. You can still find clippings of old newspapers that use this method! And sometimes you find telegrams using the same system!)

You, as the sender, would also pay by letter. This is why telegrams sound to us like these choppy, informal messages that are very easy to make fun of. If I remember correctly, the average length of an American telegram was about 11-12 letters. Very few people had the means to send long, flowery telegrams to each other or observe strict grammar rules. It was a whole lot easier to send the word NO than to say "I cannot come to your party, Geraldine, for I have a strong disdain for you as a person". It's also fun to look at some telegrams to see an early form of our text messaging acronyms. Some of them are so short that they're nonsensical to us.

So why send a telegram that says NO, anyway? Why not send a letter or, better yet, call the person? Because at the peak of telegraphy, both of those latter things are expensive and not always reliable. A rural farmer might not have the funds to make a long distance call, or straight-up doesn't have a telephone line! And what if their letter gets lost in the mail? What if the message is urgent? This is partially why a critical announcement of something like thee Armistice herself is delivered via telegram rather than someone calling and saying, "Yippee! The war's over!" Say it in tiny words and say it faster!

To date (and what I love to say to the kids I teach at the museum), sending a telegram is faster than sending a text message. If I sent the word NO through a telegraph line, it's already at its next stop the second I send it. If you texted the same word, you'd have to open the message prompt, type out the letters, send it, encode it, bounce it from a tower to a satellite and back down to another tower, have it go to the recipient's phone, decode it, and wait for them to open the prompt to read it. My NO is already there. :) (Now, I grant, it's going to take longer to get it on paper and sent through a courier to someone else, but if I work at a place like a railroad station and I'm sending a message to another station, then it's faster!)

Depending on the year you're looking for, there are a few different ways to send the telegram itself. There are telegraphic typewriters! Punch cards! Punch ribbons! Some guy wearing headphones and using a pencil! Someone else standing on a post and wildly waving flags around! A thing called a wigwag! Endless options!

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omgeto · 7 months

Note

I was just teasing. ily and all your works. Take your time, lol :3 Sorry if that came off ungrateful.

NOOOO DW OMG, I WAS TEASING U RIGHT BACK (no I was not I was being deadpan and serious) BUT LOOK AT U APOLOGISING, YOUVE JUST ADVANCED TO LEVEL 2 OF BEING AN ANON most anons never get to level 2.

#but no ily right back #ur ask killed me #SINCE ITS TRUE #I DO SUCK I CAN ADMIT THAT #BUT IK U ALL LOVE ME FOR IT #however ive written like 2k words of tramp stamp #but icl it'll probably be posted after October ends #SINCE JUST WAIT THE GETO POST IM GONNA POST ON OCT 31ST IS GONNA COOOOOK SO HARD #xoxo gossip girl 💋#unknown sender — ★

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soranihimawari · 10 months

Text

I Missed You

Pairing: Oikawa x (gn!) reader

Word Count: tbd

Rating: Oikawa Tooru Fluff [otf]

Warnings: none// reader in timeskip becomes a doctor specializing in aging/older athletes and completing necessary check-ups before a match.

Note: I tried to not tie any gender-specific nouns when describing reader.

How I think OIkawa & reader hug each other after not seeing each other in a long time.

[23:45]

That’s the time stamp you receive on an old friend’s text. There are only three words which the message is comprised of. When you read them aloud to yourself in the comfort of your own home, you seem to repeat them like a mantra.

‘I miss you’

Simple hope draws from this in a way that can’t be described as you stare at your screen until you ultimately lock your phone. You close your eyes for a a few minutes when your brain decides to show you a highlight reel of the activities you used to do with the sender. Learning the rules of volleyball, joining in their team jogging paths, coming to scheduled matches, accompanying him to the nurse’s office when he landed on his feet wrong, etc. He was destined to be famous, just not here at home in Japan, no. Somewhere half a world away called out to him first. Argentina was distant, far, the most you’d ever be separated and even then, the times prior were literally at the start of up schooling lives.

Unfortunately, the last memory behind the closed eyes you see is a bittersweet one: the reality your friend, confidant, (and crush) hits you. You never did want to wind up fighting with him, but for once you’d want him to fight to stay here. With you. As his best friends remind you, you’d be holding him back from his true potential ever since he started practicing with the collegiate teams up the road from where you live—this was where the initial rift began to be drawn between you two.

During lunch one day, you visit his classroom, sitting next to him explaining (or rather complaining) the trouble you were having with a particular class and one of the assignments needed to be completed prior to a content exam.

“Do you ever shut up about schoolwork, yn?”

You pause, a disappointed look heavy on your brow as those within earshot suddenly fall quiet.

“I’m sorry not all of us have a righteous path carved in front of us, Tooru,” the tonality in your voice was one of annoyance. “Some of us have to work even harder to achieve our dreams other than hoping to skip town and follow in their idol’s footsteps.”

Ever since that brief conversation, you and one Oikawa Tooru, are now practically strangers come graduation day. You hear whispers via the third year rumor mill of his accomplishments and his ultimate defeat against both Shiratorizawa and Karasuno. Matches you weren’t there to show your support for, even if Iwazumi Hajime, the ace and vice captain, had invited you because, “it would be nice for him (oikawa) to see a familiar face in the crowd.”

Glancing back at Iwazumi’s moss green eyes and stoic countenance, “and if I recall, it would be nicer if I wasn’t there because it might distract him further. There are plenty of scouts heading to those matches. I’m sure he’d catch one of their eyes.”

“And if those scouts ask him to move to another country, are you really going to be ok with not saying your goodbyes when we graduate, yn?”

You aggravatedly sigh at him, muttering an annoyed, “Yes, Iwazumi-kun, even then.”

Many months later, post Oikawa's jog in the winter while watching the Karasuno v Inarizaki match, it is now springtime. You’re holding a bouquet of flowers from your parents who pose with you for pictures around the inner school gates of Aoba Josai’s campus. Your fellow classmates and club members surround you for more photos as well. This was going to be one of the final memories you have for your high school career. You were accepted into a university specializing in biomedical engineering with a strong focus on exercise science.

This was your dream, not necessarily the same path as Iwazumi’s to become an athletic trainer, no, however you had wanted to be a doctor whose focus would help restore and maintain older athlete’s bodies even post retirement. Helping those who had maybe one or two career setbacks was something which had captivated you the more you began to focus on the life sciences of your high school careers and with the help of those teachers, they had written for you a brilliant recommendations to boost your acceptance after passing the various university exams.

[13:43]

In your office nearly a decade later from high school graduation, sits your newest patient. He comes from Argentina, like your nurses tell you, but the rumor that he had come on a friend's recommendation is what actually piques your interest. Well, to be fair, two of your friends' personal recommendation are what causes you to raise your eyebrow. The nurse on duty that day takes his vitals as normal, asks him the routine questions before giving him the proper spiel of, "sit tight and the doctor will see you in a few minutes."

Oikawa Tooru has come home for several reasons. The only one on the top of his list is coming home for an exhibition match game he was invited to by the former captain of Nekoma and now representative of the JVA. However, when word reaches Iwazumi's camp in the national team's gym, he smirks, sending a text halfway across the world. Your name is thrown into the mix of doctors who are willing to examine older, closer to retirement age, athletes. Considering this was not how he had wanted to spend his second day back in his home country, Oikawa Tooru asks to book this appointment to get an all clear before playing the V-League exhibition match Kuroo talked him into attending.

You are reading over the file of the new patient outside of the room in the hallway. You scan over the various ticks he had made on the questionnaire along with your nurse who says that his young son looks up to Oikawa-san as a professional volleyball player.

"Repeat that one more time, Sato-san," you clear your throat when Sato-san repeats what he had said earlier.

"My son is as huge fan of Oikawa-san," he points to the name at the top of the document in your hand.

Right there, next to Sato-san, the nurse's pointer finger, is the kanji of the name of a person you thought about since your high school, university, and medical school graduation days. You clear your throat, thanking Sato for his time measuring the vitals of the next patient in the room you're about to enter.

"No prob doc," is all Sato says when he walks back to the nurse station leaving you to enter the examination room where an old flame sits.

You take a deep breath prior to knocking and entering. You open the door and you see OIkawa bent over on the examination bed, reading something on his phone. His hair is cropped shorter, his shoulders are a bit broader, his skin a bit tanner, and for lack of better words, his muscles quite filled out the rest of him. He's still humming a tune you're unfamiliar with until your shoes enters his field of vision.

"Hello Tooru," your voice causes him to freeze and immediately causes his eyes to avert away from his phone. "It's been a while."

Oikawa's coffee-colored eyes study your face and the recognition hits him like a truck. Although he is dressed in a sky blue buttoned blouse and dark jeans compared to your teal scrubs and white lab coat, he stands up, arms extended to crush you in a hug. His patient file falls to the floor when you hug him back.

You hear him for the first time since that argument long ago, voice wobbly and all, "I missed you."

#haikyuu x reader #oikawa x reader #an hq: timeskip story #soft sora hours: ft oikawa tooru #🌻— flying around collecting pollen—queue #sora scribbles 2023

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radioiaci · 1 month

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@sirserpentine ⧐ sender wipes blood from receiver's face with a washcloth / sender hugs receiver just to get their blood all over them <3 ((TAKE YOUR PICK OR BOTH;))) blood, blood, gallons of the stuff

Alastor had, maybe incorrectly, assumed that when the hotel found itself under siege once again - as it often did - that he would be doing the bulk of the work to get the encroaching sinners out and dealt with. But when the snake man seemed to jump into the fray and get himself involved, Alastor watched with some amount of incredulous attitude. He was used to keeping himself relatively clean despite the inherent carnage in defending the hotel. But it seemed as though Pendleton (...that sounded right) did not harbor the same thoughts. Had gotten himself too close and was smattered with blood and viscera as a result.

So when the other began a childish little celebration, Alastor watched dully. Wasn't until he circled around to WRAP ARMS around the radio demon - catching him entirely off guard and stunned into silence as he was positively SMOTHERED in the coating of blood as it transferred from Penbrook to his own finely pressed suit. His disgust doubled with the other Sinner's FACE even SMUSHED up and against his own.

BARELY contained temper simmered and broiled as the snake man pulled away, only pausing to produce a handkerchief and dab at some of the blood that had rubbed from cheek to cheek until at least most of it was wiped away.

Hardly mattered for the rest of his clothing, however.

Alastor could only stand there even as he was left alone again, stock still until his mind could catch up to his limbs and he began to stamp his way back inside. Bothered. Angry. Flustered.

He needed to get CLEAN.

#△ on the air △#⨻ answers ⨻#sirserpentine #[ HE'S SO????? fDJFGDKGJ ]

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ilydeku · 1 year

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੭﹕﹙💌﹚﹒ꕤ Ꞌꞌ

Sender: "Deku" Izuku Midoriya - Deku Hero Agency

Addressed to: "Kaze" Y/n L/n - Kaze Hero Agency

You have received a box of chocolates and a letter. The envelope is signed by Izuku Midoriya and wax stamped in the shape of a heart. Open?

Dear y/n,

It's been a while, hasn't it? How are you? I hope this letter doesn't inconvenience you in any way. It's Valentine's Day and all and I guess I found today as an excuse to write to you. You'd probably find it weird if I sent you a letter any other day, right? You know, since I could've texted or emailed you. But then again, you'd probably be too busy to be checking your phone. Haha...Anyways, there's no way for me to beat around the bush, so I'll say it bluntly.

I love you.

I love you and everything about you. The reasons are countless. I love everything and anything about you. I want you. I need you. I've been in denial about my feelings for you up until now. Whether to blame for selfish reasons or wanting to avoid it. I just hope it's not too late to reach you. I know it's been years since we've really hung out together. We only get to see each other once in a while at hero gatherings and other work-related events. I look forward to getting a chance to talk to you every time those events come up. I know our conversations there only last a few minutes, but I cherish them. Listening to you go on about how you're feeling, how your days have been, and what you'd like to do if you ever get a day off. Those aren't things I get to hear every day. I like listening to your voice, listening to you talk about anything. So much so, that sometimes your voice replays in my head without thought. I guess it's like a reminder of how much I miss you, and how much I'd like to spend time with you. Or maybe how much I want you in my life. Do you remember this one thing you told me you wanted? The wish you told me not to laugh at the hero gala? That one day you wish to get married to a wonderful man and have beautiful children and live happily together. I didn't think it was silly at all. In fact, I wanted to tell you that maybe I could grant you that wish, but I didn't want to make you uncomfortable or anything. But just to let you know...the thought is still valid.

I wonder if you'll even have time to read through all this, haha. I took this day off just for the sole purpose to write a letter to you. Pathetic, huh. The number one hero in love. I wasn't sure how to start it off. I didn't know if I should be poetic, formal, or informal. I may not be a poet, but for you, I could try to be. Ahem. Love is the promulgation of promises of eternal passion I hold in await for you. The breathlessness when I lay eyes on you. The warmth I feel from your smile; to which rivals the sun. Feeling so light, like a cloud drifting through a sunny morning. Pfft. Sounds pretty corny actually. Moving on.

I'm happy that you're doing well as a hero. I've seen you on T.V. with your powerful speeches and promises to the citizens. I love that confidence you hold in yourself. I find it attractive, dare I say alluring. I love that pretty smile you always have on your face. It's contagious. I'm even smiling right now at the thought of you. Even my heart is racing. Maybe it's the excitement I have writing to you. Or perhaps it's the anxiousness that you might overlook this letter and never speak to me again. I'm not expecting anything in return from this. I just wanted to tell you how I feel about you, or else I'd live with this guilty weight of love on my shoulders. How you feel about me is something that I'll accept nonetheless. Love me. Hate me. I'll take even no response at all. I know it's a lot to take in since I haven't been too obvious about my feelings. I don't mean to pressure you or anything. You probably get fan mail like this every day, confessing their love. Of course, a lovely lady hero like you. So, again, don't feel like you have to say anything in return. I wish you love and light and wish you all the best. I hope this wasn't a bad time. Happy Valentine's Day, dearest y/n.

Yours Truly, Izuku Midoriya ♡

P.S. I hope you like the chocolates! I didn't know which flavor you'd like the most, so I got you the sample box :))

You clutch the letter in your hands in ecstasy. Your heart is pounding in excitement. You're feeling affectionate. Send a response letter?

support me? :)

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saltsicklover · 11 months

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Title: The First Official Letter - Fan Mail Pt. 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2900

Rating: T

Warnings: Depictions of blood, mentions of killing, angst, mentions of hangovers. Swearing. Soft Steve.

-- To be continued. I hope you enjoy! Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list :) --

This story now contains a lesbian couple, OCs, and this is a PRO LGBTQIA+ Page. If you do not support or cannot be kind, you can kindly get the fuck off my page and get your free media somewhere else. NO TERFS, NO HOMOPHOBIA, NO HATE. Happy Pride Month!

Disclaimer: I do not own Bucky Barnes, or anything related to Marvel within this piece. Not Proof Read or BETA'd. All mistakes are my own.

I do not consent for my work to be edited, reposted, or translated.

You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is a work of fiction that may contain mature themes. If you are sensitive to those subjects, please do not read.

Maybe Bucky shouldn't have written at all. The thought swam around Bucky's mind for weeks. Since the moment he ran down to the mail room, the elevator taking much too long for his liking, and attempted to sweet talk the lady behind the desk. She did not allude to the fact that both Steve and Sam were hiding in her office.

Steve and Sam made it to the mail office the first thing the morning after the bar, Steve more or less dragging a very hungover Sam behind him. Steve insisted that he saw Bucky's letter in the 'Outgoing Mail' pile on the kitchen countertop when he got up to get a glass of water that night, but the pile was gone this morning. And if Steve knows Bucky like he thinks he does, and he does, the moment Bucky wakes up he is going to try and get that letter back.

The boys made it to the mailroom with only a few moments to spare before Bucky came running down the hall. Steve only got a couple of words in before they both shoved into the small office, pushing their backs up against the door as to not be seen from the other side of the service window.

"Hi, uhh, hello," Bucky huffs a bit, a hand coming up to slick back his bangs from his forehead. "I mailed a letter, and I would like it back," The woman behind the window does her best not to snicker at his words, her eyes casting a quick glance over to the men currently hiding only a few feet from her.

"I'm sorry sir, but once letters have been mailed they cannot be unmailed," She speaks, her eyes not leaving her computer. She worries that if she looks at him, she won't be able to keep from laughing at the whole situation. Working in the tower always comes with antics by the hands of the Avengers, but the trouble they get into is always a bit surprising.

"Please, Miss," Bucky's eyes flash down to her nametag than quickly back up to her face, "Miss Brown, I really do need that letter back,"

"I am sorry, but I cannot release any mail once it makes it this far. Once it is in this office, it is stamped and sent on its way to the post office. You will, however, get it back if it is marked returned to sender," Miss Brown finally looks at him, biting her tongue a bit to keep her composure.

"Are you absolutely sure there is nothing I can do?" Bucky's tone boarders on begging now but he does his best to flash her his best puppy dog eyes, the same ones that used to get any girl he set his sights on. Steve elbows Sam hard in the ribs to subdue his snickering.

"Excuse you, but I am old enough to be your mother, you better not be propositioning me, young man," Miss Brown scolds at him with a pointed finger and Sam has to clasp his hand over Steve's mouth to keep his laughter from giving them away. Tears peak at Sam's eyes as he fights to keep back his own roar of laughter.

Bucky sulks away a moment later, and when he is out of sight Miss Brown turns to the two large men who have fallen to the floor with laughter, tears streaming down their faces.

"And what are you two laughing so hard about?" She questions, looking down at them from her seat. The men try and regain composure, they really do, but each time they look at each other they burst into another fit of laughs. They aren't laughing at Bucky, of course not. They are laughing at just how precisely well Steve knows Bucky, and at the way Miss Brown was so quick to put Bucky right into his place. That was two weeks ago.

Now, Bucky almost falls out of the elevator due to exhaustion. There is a thick layer of sweat holding caked mud onto his skin, the dirt already worked deep into the fabric of his tactical uniform. Chunky pieces of earth fall off his boots as he trudges through the main living area of the compound, leaving a trail behind him with each step.

The mission went to hell in a handbasket. From the moment he stepped foot off the helicopter it seemed like everything was going wrong. Between jammed guns and twice as many Hydra goons as originally thought, Bucky was in over his head. "Leave no bodies" behind turned into a a trail; one that left Bucky feeling queasy and on edge from the moment he crawled back into the helicopter at the extraction point. He wasn't even fortunate enough to collect the data he was sent out to get, the whole operation came up dry.

Agent Hill tried to assure him during his debrief that it wasn't a total loss- one less Hydra agent on the street meant the world was a little safer and with the amount of firepower that Bucky bestowed upon them, that sliver of the world is looking a lot safer. This knowledge did nothing to calm the stir of sickness that flows under Bucky's skin. The only thing that is keeping him going is the thought of the ice cold shower waiting for him at the end of it, so he continues to trudge past his friends in the kitchen.

"Hey, Buck," Steve calls after his friend. Bucky doesn't stop moving towards his quarters.

"Bucky!" Sam calls, shooting a glance Steve's way, confusion written over both of their features.

Bucky wasn't going to stop, he really wasn't. The promise of cold water easing his muscles and the image of the blood and dirt running from his skin, swirling down the drain is too enticing, the thought itself cathartic, but Steve's words manage to have him halting mid-step.

"You have mail, Buck," Steve's voice caries down the hall, "Its two letters, and they are pretty thick," Bucky turns now, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.

"You look like hell," Sam mutters when Bucky rounds the corner into the kitchen. Bucky sends him a glair that could shake the heavens but doesn't say a word.

"Here you go," Steve holds out two envelopes for Bucky, both stuffed full. Bucky doesn't waste a second before ripping into the top one, small tight script on the back reading "Open First". He takes the letter out of the envelope, his eyes drawing over the words quickly.

"Dear James- Bucky, Dear Bucky, I can't even begin to explain how happy I was when I came home to find your letter in my mailbox. I couldn't even contain my joy, if we are being honest. I'm not exactly sure how to go about writing to you now, even though I was the one who proposed being pen pals so I guess I am just going to ask you some questions and maybe you can answer them on your letter back? Only if you want to, of course.

Is it possible to come off as nervous through written word? Because I am positively nervous. I feel like it may be silly to ask, but what do you do for work? I know you are an Avenger, but that means you have exciting stories, right? What do you like to do when you have free time? Do you have a favorite song?

I guess I should tell you a little more about myself. After my grandparents were killed, I was moved into a house with a lovely couple. Jan, my Ma, is the sweetest woman. She loves to cook and bake. She used to sew my clothes when I was a kid, and she always made us matching outfits, for her, my Mom and I. My Mom, Dottie, is a mechanic. Her specialty is motorcycles. She and my Ma have been in a local club for longer than I have been alive. They do charity events and fundraiser drives. They are really wonderful.

When I first came to live with them I really wasn't sure what my life was going to look like, but they took me in and loved me like I was their own. It really made a difference in my life and I couldn't be more thankful that I get to call them my family. After I got out of high school, I went to a really fancy school to become a barber. The school was snobby and the people there took themselves way too seriously but I love my work. I work out of a little shop in Hell's Kitchen called "Sargent's English Traditional". We call the shop "The Set". It's quaint, really.

Anyway, I sent along another envelope with this one, and it contains some bits and bobs to help you get to know me. I hope to hear from you soon, Bucky.

Warmest Regards-"

Bucky can't help the smile that he wears as his eyes fall over the words. There is still a part of him that cant believe that someone is taking time out of their life to write to him. He tries not to dwell on that fact, a bit of excitement blooming in his stomach.

"What's it say, pal?" Steve nudges Bucky's shoulder.

"It seems my pen pal is a barber," Bucky smirks, "And they work in Hell's Kitchen,"

"What's the other envelope?" Sam asks, bringing his drink to his lips. Bucky turns his attention back to the other letter, a small, yellow, manilla envelope lined with bubble wrap, ripping it open carefully. He dumps the contents out on to the countertop. Bucky begins to flip everything face up, not looking at each piece too long before moving to the next.

"What is all this stuff?" Steve inquires, leaning closer to the small collage of items on the table. He reaches forward and picks up a flattened coin, the face of the coin distorted and warped along with the metal. Sam picks up a different item, a set of three pearl buttons. He fingers them around his hand, looking at the delicate pearls from every angle. There are other items too, plants that were once pressed between pages of a book and a ticket stub from a local jazz show. There were pieces of paper with poetry written across them in small neat handwriting and clippings from magazines.

Bucky didn't care about any of it, nor the list that was included that described each item and their meaning, he just didn't care. Instead, he reaches for the polaroid photo that peaks out of the discarded envelope, the corner still stuck on the tack strip that once held the letter closed. He holds it face down for a moment, the realization that there could be anything depicted on the other side sets his lungs ablaze. With a deep breath he tries to fan the fire that burns behind his ribs- he flips the photo.

His action catches the attention of Sam and Steve, their eyes quickly jumping from the other objects to the photo that seems to be dwarfed by Bucky's large hand. Their eyes each map over the photo, taking in each individual detail.

The black and white photograph contains a large brick building, the photo taken from street view. There are plants on the front stoop and clothing lines hanging from windows that string out of frame. There is a caption written on the bottom in red pen, one simple word accented with a heart, "home".

Both Steve and Bucky come to a stop, their eyes locked on the photograph. Bucky's senses are overtaken by the sweat that seems to slick over his body in an instant, mixing with the grimes that is already stuck to his skin. He flashes hot then cold, a shiver running down his spine.

He couldn't care less about the mission anymore, the lives he had to take or the blood that is buried deep under his fingernails. He doesn't care about how he almost fell out of the elevator or about the cold shower he swore he would stand in until he lost track of time. All that matters now is this, the photo in his hand and the sender that made this moment happen.

Sam looks back and fourth between the two, reading a sort of sick nostalgia written across both men's faces.

"What exactly are we looking at?" Sam asks, his voice low.

"Home," Bucky and Steve both whisper, eyes coming up to meet each other.

"That's where we used to live, right before I got shipped out," Bucky's voice is no louder than a whisper and it wavers a bit with each word.

"You technically didn't live there," Steve interjects, his voice only a hair louder than his friends. "You still lived with your Ma and your sisters. It was my place, but he was there so often we were basically roommates."

Sam acknowledges Steve, listening to his story but Bucky can't seem to take his eyes off of the brick building. He never thought he would see it again, usually avoiding it when he is in that part of town. It was a part of his story he wasn't ready to revisit. He has seen his family home and other important places from before the war, but this building was not a place he was ready to bring into the twenty first century.

Maybe he wanted to leave the memories preserved. If he didn't go back, the bubble of time would exist in his brain and everything would be left untouched. He liked it that way. A part of his life he deemed perfect, untouched by the claws of Hydra. If he left it there, pristine and sparkling, it would live on that way forever.

But here it is, encapsulated in black and white, staring back at him. Maybe a part of him knew he wouldn't be able to escape it, the knowledge that it would change with time, just like he did, just like everything.

"Buck, you might want to look at this," Steve holds out a piece of paper, the list and descriptions of the items in the envelope. Bucky takes it with a shaky hand. He rakes his eyes down the list, looking for a description for the photo. He finds it under number seven.

"This is my building in Brooklyn! I think it's a beautiful piece of architecture and I just wanted to share! My Ma helped me find it in an old school newspaper ad. I have lived here for two years now and has been wonderful! The windows are original and they have a habit of getting stuck to prove it. The woodwork is original too, there is even a height tracker that was kept in one of the closets, the pencil marks and initials are still there! SR, JR, SGR, and JBB. I hope they were happy here."

"Do you really think that could be possible?" Steve asks, his eyes on his best friend.

"At this point, I am willing to believe anything," Bucky answers back. It's like they can communicate in half thoughts, leaving out the meat of the conversation, instead communicating it in a way that only they know.

"Does someone want to fill me in here?" Sam questions, trying to read the paper upside down.

"Bucky's pen pal lives in the building I grew up in with my parents, and by the description, they might even live in my old apartment." Steve explains. Bucky looks up but doesn't reach either mans eyes.

"Just when I thought this couldn't get more interesting," Sam whispers, more to the room than to his friends. They stand there for awhile, silence enveloping them like a heap of fresh snow. Sam and Steve shared glances, not sure how to best support their friend.

After a little while, Sam pulls the photo and the paper from Bucky's hands, setting them on the table. Steve takes Bucky by the arm and walks him to his quarters, whispering in words that Sam can't quite hear. Sam collects the mail, putting all of the trinkets back into their original place before setting them back down.

Steve brings Bucky to the bathroom, helping him strip of his tactical gear. He brushes hair from his forehead attempting to keep the blood soaked strands out of his face. He turns the shower on, warmer than Bucky would have done himself, if he could have, but he gets into the shower anyway. Steve stands with his back against the closed bathroom door, his shoulders square, jaw set.

He is swimming in his own feelings but he pushes past the waves instead standing guard for Bucky, keeping the demons of his past at bay while the other man roughly scrubs away the mission from his skin. The dirt, the blood, the remains of his perfect fucking memory. Bucky scrubs his skin raw until its red and weeping.

Bucky lets out a sob, one he barely seems to notice and one Steve definitely doesn't comment on. When Bucky finally draws back the curtain, his face is swollen, tears hidden behind the water that drips from the ends of his now clean hair. The men do not speak, instead Steve lets Bucky pass.

He is off to write a letter. He is sure this time around, no room for maybe.

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