𝜗ৎ ‘and fall in love whenever you can

✦ if you celebrate christmas she goes all out learning different christmas carols on the piano — if you don’t, she still makes an effort to learn some songs on her list in general. winter is a good time for her to almost hibernate and spend all of her time in the music room. she even writes a few new songs but you’re the only one who gets to hear them.

✦ she loves loves loves buying new mittens and scarves and winter accessories in general every year. she probably layers them all because she gets cold easily. if you knit or crochet she’ll make you a list of items to make her for christmas if you’re so inclined.

✦ hot chocolate lover but she’s one of those ppl that puts peppermint vodka in it

✦ she loves doing dinner dates in the winter because she hates cooking especially when it’s cold and she’s tired after work so you’ll get a text saying to put on something nice bc she’s taking you out

✦ she’s not into PDA but she will get a little more handsy when you’re out in the winter and then she’ll try to disguise her attempts because “it’s cold out” and she needs to be around you to keep warm

✦ she makes so much soup in the winter. like so much. she thinks winter is the perfect time to try out a bunch of soup recipes she’s saved and she pulls all of them out for you to cook together all season, and she’s actually not a bad chef when she actually wants to be cooking.

-

-

-

She sits down across from you in the cafe. She looks down at her hands on the table as she spins one of her rings anxiously around her finger.

You clear your throat awkwardly and try to begin. “So… you don’t play anymore?”

“God, no,” she shakes her head. “Not professionally, anyway. I mean I’m a music teacher- just nothing on stage. That part of my life is behind me.”

“That’s a shame,” you smile. “You were so talented.”

“So were you.”

You go silent. It makes you nervous to think back on all of those years, to recall memories of stage lights and the instrument in your hand and Isadora in the wings watching and preparing for her own performance the next night. The two of you were unstoppable back then.

“You’re teaching?” You ask. “Are you at Nevermore?”

She nods, meeting your eyes.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s different,” she admits. “I thought my students would be more…”

“Attentive?”

“I suppose. I thought they would consider music as more than a class credit for a required elective.”

“Like we did,” you say. “We were such nerds when we were in school…”

“It paid off,” she shrugs, “for a while.”

You take a sip of your coffee and she follows suit with her own. It’s fresh and rich and steaming hot, a product of your own cafe. You’ve been running it in Jericho for years now, ever since you quit the spotlight that came with performing music with Isadora. And after the two of you lost contact, you were truly out on your own.

“You opened this place,” Isadora observes as if reading your mind. She takes a look around, her awed gaze moving from the workers at the cafe counter to the tables, the drinks, to you. “It’s beautiful. Really. The Halloween decorations look so nice, too.”

“Thank you,” you smile, looking out into the cafe. You’ve strung Halloween themed garlands to drape down the counter and you’ve stuck window clings to the windows of witches, zombies, and goblins, and tiny decorative plastic pumpkins have been placed on tables around the shop.

But even despite the pleasantry, neither of you know what to say. And you can’t even really say there is much at all that you want to say to Isadora. You stopped performing together, you separated, and that was that. You went your separate ways and both of you were better for it.

“I found a couple of records the other day,” she says. “There were some at Nevermore, they were displayed as… memorabilia. An example of ‘outcast success’ to inspire the students. Music of mine and music of yours was displayed. I kept them, you know. I stole them from the music room… but if you’d like to come over and listen to them sometime…”

“I would love to.”

“Are you free tonight?”

You’re always free for her. So when evening rolls around you find yourself knocking on her door, waiting anxiously with your hands stuffed in the pockets of your coat and the cold October air biting at you through the fabric.

The door opens, she stands across from you. And though she’s not standing out in the cold like you are, she’s dressed in just as many layers, as many sweaters, and in one hand she holds a mug of hot tea.

“You came,” she muses, as though surprised. Then she backs away from the entry. “Don’t just stand out in the cold.”

You smile and follow her inside, releasing a heavy breath as the warmth of her home encompasses you.

“Let me get you some tea,” she offers, rushing into the kitchen before you can protest. “It gets a little drafty in here, it’s nice to have something warm to hold. Power went out the other night, actually, and it was just awful.”

“I can imagine,” you nod. But despite her claims, her home is beautiful — it’s small in a way you consider quite cozy, the living room bearing a deep brown sofa and two armchairs, all adorned with autumnal white, orange, and crimson throw pillows and thick, heavy blankets.

Isadora comes back with your tea, passing it into your hands and leading you over to the sofa to sit down. She takes an armchair near you and picks up a record on the coffee table, one of yours from your old days of performing, and hands it to you.

You look at the date of release and a small smile makes its way to your lips. “I can’t believe how fast the years have gone by.”

“For both of us,” she says, picking up the record below it: one of hers. “It’s like another lifetime.”

“I’m glad it’s not. Otherwise we wouldn’t have met.”

She shakes her head. “I think we would’ve found a way. I would have come into your coffee shop and I would have seen the person behind the counter and struck up some useless conversation about the weather or sports I don’t watch because I would have thought—”

She stops talking, staring down at the record.

“What?” You press. “What would you have thought?”

Isadora meets your eyes. “I would have thought you were incredible. Just like I always have.”

“Our meeting is fated, then? In every lifetime?”

“One way or another. Does that sound bad?”

“No,” you correct. “It sounds beautiful. And it sounds right. I don’t know what I would have done without you in this lifetime, let alone any other.”

“It looks like you’ve done pretty well in the years since we last met.”

“It looks like it,” you agree.

She understands. Because it looks like she’s done alright too, but it just looks like it, and looks can be deceiving.

You take a sip of your tea. Raspberry.

“It’s so strange,” she says quietly, “talking to you again. It’s been years but it feels like we’ve been together for… forever.”

“Maybe things would have been easier that way,” you agree. “After we both stopped playing music, it felt like…”

“There wasn’t an excuse anymore,” she finishes, “for us to talk.”

“Exactly.”

“You don’t need an excuse,” Isadora says, standing and moving to sit down on the sofa next to you. “I hope you know that you never need an excuse. You never did.”

“Is this some sort of first date?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

“Then it is.”

“And how did you imagine this night going?”

She considers it, shifting a little closer to you, fiddling with a loose thread on one of the sleeves of her sweater. “Well, I thought you would come over and I would make you that tea. Then we would sit down and I would show you these records and bring up how beautiful autumn is in Jericho.”

“You haven’t done that part yet.”

“Autumn is so beautiful in Jericho,” she says in a fake, exaggerated voice, holding up a miniature plastic pumpkin decoration from the coffee table to accentuate it.

“Then what?”

“Then I planned on you sort of, well, falling in love with me all over again.”

“Again?” You smile, deciding to tease her. “Have I been in love with you before?”

“Of course you have. It’s obvious.”

“Then carry on.”

“That’s all I came up with,” she shrugs. “I’m not all that good at being charming.”

“It’s worked so far.”

“Has it?”

You nod. “I just have one question.”

“What’s that?”

“How do you feel about kissing on a first date?”

-

-

-

wednesday taglist: @webism @ahauandthesun @szczurkanalowy @aphrodyk3 @il0veb0ttomsthem0vie @jackiessnackie

an isadora fic was originally going to be the last day of my halloween event but I decided to post something early :)

You’ve listened to the tape three times in a row. You have it in your hands now, shaking in the silent living room, and you’re wondering where the fuck you can hide all of this before she gets home. 

Melissa had left a letter with it, too. Closure, that’s what it said, she wanted Lottie to find closure. 

You wish you could tell her that it doesn’t work like that. Lottie finds closure in avoidance, in dealing with her trauma piece by piece, and any harsh blows to that progress could set her off years of healing. 

This was the harshest thing you could imagine — listening to a tape of her ax murdering a man in the woods with a stomach full of human meat. 

Your phone on the coffee table chimes with a new message: Lottie. 

Fuck. 

Shifting everything you’re holding into one hand, you pick up your phone and read the text — she’s almost home. 

Lottie doesn’t often leave the wellness center, but today was one of the unlucky days where she had to venture out, gone helping Lisa manage their table at the farmers market. And when Lottie texts and says she’s almost home, it usually means she’s almost at the door. 

You don’t have time to respond, just toss your phone back down onto the coffee table and start looking for somewhere to hide all of this. You can’t keep it in here, you can’t put it in the kitchen… 

Your purse is in the bedroom. It’ll have to work, at least for now. You dump the tape and the letter into it and cover it up the best you can with the rest of the contents of your bag. 

The lock on the front door clicks, the door opens, you make yourself look like you’ve been prepping ingredients in the kitchen for dinner. You grab things at random, salt and kale and strawberries, until you shove it all back in the fridge and pantry as you realize it all must look like a clusterfuck at best. 

You hear the front door shut and then her footsteps travel down the hall. 

“I’m home,” she calls, and you freeze. You hear her footsteps stop at the door to the kitchen and you can hear the warmth in the way she looks at you even before you turn around to face her. 

You’re a little nervous for a second. You don’t mean to be, you listened to the tape three times and the conclusion you came to after each one was that the Yellowjackets did what they had to. Lottie was unwell when she killed that man, they were all in hysterics. You probably would have done the same. But it’s different now to have heard evidence of the violence she had always mentioned but never described in detail, to hear the awful things they all did. 

You shouldn’t have listened to the tape at all, but you couldn’t help yourself. Lottie had never told you anything about what she did out there and you thought that if you learned for yourself then you could still keep it a secret but you would have a better understanding of her and of the things she was trying so hard to move past. 

You get it now — however unfortunate that is. You understand what she is running from. 

Lottie steps into the kitchen, sets her car keys down on the kitchen island and sits down on one of the stools there, right across from where you stand. 

She studies you carefully. “Are you okay?” 

“Tired,” you try. “This place is a mess without you.” 

She smiles softly. “Sorry.” 

“No, don’t be. Lisa needed the help, it’s good that you went.” 

Lottie nods, relieved, leftover tension from the day fading from her posture. Her gaze sweeps over the kitchen, landing on your empty pan on the stove and some of the ingredients haphazardly strung about the countertops. “Are you making dinner?” 

You’re becoming a good liar. “I wanted it to be a surprise.” 

“Oh,” she gets up off the stool and comes over to you, placing a hand on the small of your back and examining the mess more closely. She shakes her head slightly. “What is it you’re making?” 

You pause. You can’t come up with anything. “That’s a surprise, too.” 

You’re starting to feel bad now, because the anticipation that comes over her face is so genuine and so loving that you’ll do anything now to keep what you’ve discovered hidden. 

“Thank you,” she sighs, kissing you and pulling you into her arms afterwards. “You didn’t have to do all of this… I will say I needed it, though, even unknowingly. Today was so long. On the drive home I was fantasizing about just going to bed.” 

“Of course,” you say. “I would do anything for you.” 

She kisses you again and then goes back to the kitchen island to sit down and watch you cook. 

Gingerly you grab a box of pasta. You’re deciding what to do when you hear her rummaging around in her purse, which she had set on one of the stools beside her. 

“What are you looking for?” 

“My lip balm, I’m not sure where I put it. I might have left in the car.” 

Without thinking, you respond. “There are a few new ones in my purse. It’s in the bedroom.” 

Your purse. They’re in your purse with the tape. 

“Wait,” you spin around, rushing over to the doorway. “I’ll go get it for you.” 

“No, you’re cooking. Let me–” 

“No,” you interrupt. 

Lottie stands still, now starting to notice something less than genuine from you. “What else is in your purse?” 

“The lip balm, my keys, my wallet.” 

“Do you think I’m going to steal something of yours?” 

“No,” you say quickly. “No, I would never think that.” 

“Then why can’t I go look in your purse?” 

You’re out of excuses and Lottie can tell. So you don’t have any other way to stop her from brushing past you into the hall and then continuing into the bedroom, and you can only watch as she peeks inside your purse. 

She sees the tape – of course she sees the tape. And she knows exactly what it would play. It’s what causes her to freeze so abruptly when she sees it, use such care as she lifts it to inspect it further, and why the sense of betrayal is so heavy in her eyes when she turns to look at you. Her whole body is tense, there’s a flightiness about her now that comes with years of anxiety sharpened to a point that’s held now right at her own throat. 

Her voice has a certain rawness to it now that you hate the sound of, and you have never hated anything about her. “Where did you get this?” 

“It came in the mail. Melissa–” 

“Melissa is dead.” 

“I don’t know then. Maybe it’s someone else, but the letter was signed with her name. She wrote about closure.” 

It takes her a while to say anything else. “You listened to this?” 

You don’t respond. 

“Of course you listened to it,” she continues. “That’s why you gave me that fucking look when I came home.” 

“It doesn’t matter to me,” you try. “Nothing you did matters to me.” 

“I drove an ax into that man’s head,” Lottie says with something like accusation sharp in her tone. “That doesn’t matter to you? The things I didn’t tell you, I kept them from you intentionally. For the betterment of both of us.” 

“I know. I only wanted to understand.” 

She shakes her head. “You couldn’t.” 

You don’t have anything better to say. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

She slides the tape back into your purse. There’s no use in moving it now, you’ve already heard everything on it. 

You shift on your feet, antsy, timid. You don’t want to repeat your apology, it seems like overkill. “What now?” 

Lottie sighs. “That’s up to you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Have you heard enough, or do you want specifics?” 

It’s a test, maybe, to see how far you’ll go into the past, how far you’ll go to understand what she went through and what she did. “I want specifics.” 

“Jackie Taylor,” she says, “specifically. Ben Scott, Javi Martinez, Mari Ibarra, a few others…” 

“The ones who died,” you nod. You’re almost afraid to ask. “What about them?” 

She tilts her head at you a certain way, gives you a certain look, and you know — they didn’t just die. Their bodies didn’t rot in those woods. They were consumed. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell her softly. 

Her tone is incredulous. “You’re sorry?” 

“You did what you had to.” 

“With some of them,” she nods, stepping forward, so close you can only look up to meet her eyes. “Some of them we killed for fun, or for it. Sometimes both. I killed that man and I wasn’t ashamed. I wanted it. Don’t put me on a moral pedestal.” 

On some level you had always suspected it. It’s not as shocking to hear as she thinks it is. “What about Laura Lee? Did you—” 

“No,” she says quickly. “No, I would never. Not her.” 

Something lies within that, you’re not allowed to touch it. You don’t pry. 

Instead, you lead her back into the kitchen and grab a bottle of wine and settle in the living room together. She asks you if you want to hear more, you agree, and together you relive the horrors of every deed of the wilderness and every uttered prayer. She tells you that she prayed never to return to society, she tells you about the people she killed and the lives lost to winter and trial. 

There are things she regrets — she keeps those buried more deeply, holds them closer. She disguises them as things willed by the wilderness and covers her guilt up with faith. And her faith is true, it has been since the wilderness, but she uses it to her advantage. 

You think Lottie expects you to come unhinged somehow. She expects you to decide all of a sudden that you’re breaking up, moving out, and cutting contact. But you don’t. You can’t. Because what you said before was true: no matter how horrible, what happened in the wilderness will not dissuade you from loving her. 

At the end of the night, you’re both a little drunk and the night hides more horrors than usual. You’re unnerved by shadows, and even with how furious you suspect Lottie still is with you, you find yourself inching closer to her on the sofa. 

“I said it earlier,” you start, “but I am sorry for digging around. I should have waited for you to tell me these things, no matter how long it took.” 

She doesn’t respond because she hasn’t yet forgiven you — but she will. It’s why she moves closer to you, too, and with a sigh she leans against you, resting her head in the crook of your neck and letting her eyes fall closed when you wrap your arm around her shoulders. It’s a sign that she still trusts you and relief pours over you from it. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” you say quietly. 

She grunts in disapproval, but it’s playful. “Don’t. No more surprises from you, please.” 

You shift and tilt her head up so that you can lean down to kiss her. It’s not heated but comforting, familiar, she is yours and you are hers and no revelation of past or future could change that. 

—

—

—

sexy yellowjackets taglist: @webism @ahauandthesun @chaithetics @szczurkanalowy @marleymarleymarleymarley @aphrodyk3 @ludasgf @pnsteblnme @il0veb0ttomsthem0vie @neighbourhoodspidey @dorotheareid @jackiessnackie @soda-kidz

You had always known there was no way to compete with Lottie Matthews’s obsessions. They were larger than you, larger than anything—like roots burrowing deeper and deeper into the earth until they vanished from sight. You tried to convince yourself there was a space for you among those roots, a corner where your heart could rest, but it was a lie. Lottie belonged elsewhere, to another voice, another calling.

Still, you tried. You pretended to believe in that entity she claimed to feel in the forest, even when the silence of the trees only echoed back your disbelief. You even pretended to understand when she spoke of Shauna’s baby, as if death had only been a detour and not an end. You pretended because you loved her, and loving Lottie had always meant giving up pieces of yourself.

But each day you lost her a little more. Ever since the cabin had been reduced to ashes and Natalie was crowned Queen, the distance between you had grown into an abyss. The time that had already been scarce turned to dust—and you, always on the margins, discovered that life at her side was made of waiting: waiting for her gaze, waiting for her touch, waiting for the rare instant when Lottie remembered to choose you, even if only for seconds.

And yet, when she did turn to you, even for that brief moment, it was as if the world stopped bleeding. It was the sweetest tragedy: knowing it wasn’t enough, but surrendering anyway. Loving Lottie was wounding yourself every day—and still thanking her for the cut.

You watched her as she moved among the huts, as if there were still some invisible altar to be rebuilt there, as if every step were part of a ritual only she knew. Lottie bent down, pushed aside leaves, dug through the damp soil in search of those damned mushrooms she swore could be transformed into a “tea” that would draw Travis closer to It. You couldn’t believe a handful of fungi could change anyone’s life—but still, you tried to believe. For her. Always for her.

It was almost cruel, the way she disconnected from the world around her, as if you were nothing but another shadow at the edge of the scene. Her eyes fixed on the ground, her fingers stained with earth, her body surrendered to a devotion that didn’t include you. You caught yourself biting your tongue, trying to hold back the irritation boiling inside: why couldn’t she see how much you did, how much you would do? Why were the spirits, the voices, the symbols carved on dead wood more important than the love you let spill into her hands?

The truth was you didn’t understand Lottie Matthews’s mind. Perhaps no one did. And yet you loved her all the same. You loved precisely that strangeness, that tragic aura she carried like an invisible crown. You loved the way she seemed to live in a parallel world, somewhere between faith and madness, and you never quite knew whether you were trying to save her… or only lose yourself with her.

Sometimes, in the quietest hours, you remembered your late-night conversations, when she confessed almost trivial secrets, like all the self-help books she had once devoured in secret, or when she laughed softly quoting phrases that, in any other mouth, would sound ridiculous. Her favorite quote—“Love everyone”—had always seemed naïve to you, almost dumb, and yet you repeated it to yourself like a spell, because coming from Lottie everything turned into poetry.

And it was that contradiction that bound you: Lottie was both temple and ruin. And you, without ever truly choosing, had become a devotee to a love that burned you from the inside, even as she knelt before something that would never be you.

Anger and pain seethed within you, gathered like dying embers that suddenly found oxygen. Everything you had swallowed down for months burned in your throat, ready to spill out like an avalanche of words. You stood, walked toward her with firm steps, heart racing as if you were running, though you stood still before her.

— Lottie. — Your voice came out low but heavy, forced into calm when there was none left in you.

She lifted her eyes from the ground, her fingers still dirty with soil, and only raised a brow. That silence of hers—that almost irritating quiet—always gnawed at you.

— Can I talk to you? — you asked, opening and closing your fists, as if your hands were about to confess everything your mouth couldn’t.

She opened her mouth, maybe to delay, maybe to escape, but you didn’t give her space:

— It’s important.

Lottie hesitated for a moment, then simply nodded, standing slowly, brushing dirt from her skirt. You turned your back, leading her farther from the cabins, seeking a refuge where the forest itself would be your silent witness. Branches closed overhead as if the outside world no longer existed. When you reached a clearing, you stopped. The air was heavy, your chest even heavier. You crossed your arms, trying to contain the tremor that had already seized your voice.

— Look, Lot… you know I love you. — the confession came out almost like a lament. — But I can’t keep trying to compete with all the other things you put before me.

The silence that followed was almost a sentence. Lottie blinked slowly, lips parted, as if carefully weighing her next words. And when they came, it wasn’t in a tone of defense—it was in a tone of faith.

— I know. — she murmured, stepping toward you. — I know it seems like I get lost… that I drift away from you. But everything I do… all of this, every second, it’s for a greater good.

You frowned, the wound in your chest burning hotter.

— What greater good could there be if I’m not a part of it?

She sighed, and in her eyes lay that dangerous mixture of sweetness and conviction. Lottie lifted her hand, touched your arm lightly, almost reverently.

— You are a part of it. — she whispered. — But you can’t see it yet. This force in the forest… it isn’t only mine. It belongs to all of us. I have to listen, I have to follow. Because if I don’t, if I fail, we’ll all suffer. Even you.

The anger that had burned so fiercely inside you faltered for an instant, smothered by the vulnerability in her voice. It was as if she had stripped the weapon from your hand without even touching it.

— I don’t ignore you, — she went on, eyes fixed on yours as if in prayer — I just… need to carry this. For all of us. So the pain won’t be meaningless.

You wanted to scream that you didn’t care about “all of us,” that you only wanted her, only wanted to be enough. But the words died in your throat, swallowed by the warmth of her hands closing around yours.

— Forgive me. — she said softly, almost childlike. — It’s not that I love less. It’s that I need to love It more.

And as always, you felt the ground give way beneath your feet. Because Lottie knew exactly how to bend your pain until it became devotion. Because even as she broke your heart, she could make you believe that, somehow, all of it was still love.

You drew in a deep breath, lungs full of damp earth and resin, as though the forest itself were listening to what passed between you. You wanted to hold onto the anger, wanted to let your heart burn until nothing was left—but Lottie’s words seeped into you slowly, like a tide no one can resist.

The phrase coiled in your mind like a mantra. Part of you knew it was just another way for her to fold you, to pull you to her side—and yet, you couldn’t resist. Loving Lottie was like drinking sweet poison: you knew what would come, and still you lifted the cup to your lips.

Her eyes, fixed on yours, carried that almost hypnotic calm, a serenity that disarmed you from within. They didn’t beg forgiveness, didn’t plead—they offered something greater: the illusion that everything, even your suffering, was part of a divine purpose. And you, tired of fighting a faith you didn’t share, yielded.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tingling as hers wove between them. The gesture was simple, but to you it was devastating: every touch of hers said stay, every silence said follow me.

— Alright, Lot. — your voice came out almost a whisper, broken but soft, an inevitable surrender. — I believe you. I’ll always believe you.

The smile that bloomed on her lips wasn’t one of victory, but of relief. And that hurt even more: realizing that, in the end, your devotion was expected. Almost natural.

She pulled you against her chest, and you let her. Her embrace smelled of crushed leaves and the lingering smoke of the burned cabin. It was warm and tight, and yet cold, because what she offered you wasn’t only love—it was faith. A faith that wasn’t yours, but one you accepted to carry just to remain close.

You closed your eyes, letting the world vanish for a moment. The anger, once sharp, dissolved into a soft weariness, as though believing were easier than resisting. Loving Lottie had always been that: choosing to be wounded, and still thanking her for the cut.

There, in her arms, you knew you were losing yourself. But you also knew there was no other place you’d rather be.