#and i fucking hate how i feel my chances for a scholarship is so low so im just panic applying

[kimmkitsuragi]

5mb file size limit is ridiculous

[mqverick]

scummy man || ✮⋆˙ .

“Cause he’s a scumbag, don’t you know?

I said he’s a scumbag, don’t you know?”

────────── ★ ───────────

The moment Daniel Kaffee walked into your office with his stupid apple and his stupid, childish ‘hi’, you knew you were fucked from top to bottom. Of course, they hadn’t taken you seriously when you petitioned Division to have counsel assigned. They brought you the first idiot they came across.

You’d written a seventeen page memo to Bronsky outlining the situation, you’d pleaded your case for a half hour in his living room on a Sunday afternoon, and Division assigned a Lt. Junior Grade? They had too be kidding (or hate you).

You’d managed to scare him, at least, and that you were proud of. He seemed like the type, who was particularly full of himself, which was proven as quite the right accusation, after a few minutes of speaking with him. He was just a bunch of royal bullshit, you’d decided — fucking wanted him off the case, even though he hadn’t even started yet.

He was never going to take it seriously, judging on how loose and cool he acted. For crying out loud, Dawson and Downey were at his sake, while Daniel could not care less about them, opting to practice baseball instead, because he claimed he had a critical game coming. Was that guy serious?

“Lieutenant, would you feel very insulted if I recommended to your supervisor that he assign different counsel?” you threatened, face burning as you struggled to contain your anger at his complete indifference to the situation.

“Why would you do that?”

He had the nerve to ask. “You’re not fit to handle the defense. One second more with you and the marines will have sealed their poor fate.”

Daniel nodded, unimpressed with your tone.

“You don’t even know me. Ordinarily, it takes someone hours to discover I’m not fit to handle a defense. You’ve known me for less than ten minutes.” He walked away from you, as if your threat was a joke to him, like he didn’t believe you.

You stupidly stared at him, blood boiling as you wondered how impossibly scummy one could be.

“I do know you. Daniel Allistair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that’s what your father wanted you to do, and now you’re just treading water for the three years you’ve gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda laying low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that’s the situation, that’s fine, I won’t tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something’s gonna get missed. And I’d be damned if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre-determined the path of least resistance,” your monologue prevented you from taking a breath, confidently crossing your arms like you’d just won an argument, as Daniel took a quick sip from his Yoo-Hoo, staring intently at you. The sun was hitting his face and if you allowed it to yourself, you could’ve observed how stunningly green his eyes were.

“Wow,” he admired, very taken aback. “I’m sexually aroused, Commander. I may be picking the wrong time to ask you this, but are you seeing anyone right now? ‘Cause I think you and I would be perfect together. It’s clear that you respect me and that’s the foundation for any solid—”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You let out an angry exhale and grabbed him by the collar of his thin baseball shirt, pulling him towards you. He gasped in surprise, breath caught in his throat as you stabbed your finger into his chest as a warning.

“Listen there, Kaffee, I will have you removed from the case, so don’t go around being cute and unbothered. Mark my words, you just waisted your last chance with me.”

And with that, you threw him back to the bleachers, storming away in annoyance and over the top frustration. Never had another human being ever crawled up under your nerves so quickly, it had to be an astonishing world record.

When you walked into your office the next day just to find Daniel sitting on your chair already, you neared the dreadful experience of going into cardiac arrest. You silently wondered how he’d managed to sneak in, but decided to ignore him.

“You didn’t do it.”

His words were softly spoken, causing you to look at him, undoubtedly baffled. “I beg your pardon?”

“You didn’t do it,” he repeated with more emphasis, as if that would help you understand what he was referring to. “I thought you really wanted me out of the case, so I went to check, see if you talked to my supervisor. You didn’t.”

Oh, so he was talking about that. You played it off as something frankly unimportant, not even bothering to reply anything to him. If you turned your back around just for one second, you could’ve seen exactly how distressed he was.

Daniel got up from your chair, walking up behind you as he towered over you, hands unexpectedly nervous, seeing as they couldn’t stay still for a full minute on the waistline of his uniform trousers. You chuckled silently to yourself, nose scrunching in pride as you turned your back, looking dead into his eyes, your own ones fixed on the way his Adam’s apple moved in his neck as he gulped.

“Good job, Lieutenant. I see you took my words seriously for once. Need to keep into mind that you shit your pants way too easily, threats have you following every order you’ve been given.”

Daniel’s eyes were blown with disbelief of your manners, brows raised in offense. There was no doubt that you were prepared to make his life a living hell, had every intention to cause this case to be his first and last one, because the way it was going, he’d either rip apart his diploma or plain out kill himself. And who had the delightful opportunity to hear Daniel complain day and night? None other than Sam.

“She hates me, I don’t even know why,” he cried while pacing back and forth in his small living room, bat placed over his shoulders as he rested his hands on it, mind far away from the case. Sam sighed, sinking back into the couch. “She barely even knows me! I always do stuff wrong for her, she’s never satisfied. Little miss perfect,” he continued without a break, swinging the bat now as he ignored the board that stood in the middle of the place. Sam felt nauseous, having baring his unstoppable yapping for what felt like decades, even though it’d only been less than ten minutes.

A knock on the door pulled him out of his unlimited boredom and he got up to see who it was, ignoring the way Daniel kept going on and on. He looked over the eye on the door, almost letting out an audible groan at the fact that it was you who had knocked, meaning that your appearance would drive his friend even crazier.

“Come in,” he whispered lowly to you as he unlocked the door and let you in. You shrugged your jacket off your shoulders, noticing that Daniel hadn’t even acknowledged the fact that someone else had gotten into his house. “Damn, I’ve never seen him like this before. Normally he loses interest in a girl after a date or two…” he commented with a smirk, but you ignored him.

“You know, I wish she could’ve taken me out of the case, so that I wouldn’t have to see her face again,” Daniel admitted frustratedly, stopping dead in his tracks momentarily as he laid his eyes on you. Suddenly, hitting his head as hard as possible with his bat didn’t seem like such a terrible idea. Oh, he was fucked to the core.

A smug, proud smile spread across your lips.

“Talking about me, Lieutenant Kaffee?” you rhetorically asked, crossing your arms and puffing your chest out arrogantly as you strode confidently across the room to get to him.

Daniel pretended to turn a deaf ear to your question, head strictly observing the case’s board as he gripped on the hand of his baseball bat. He wished the earth would open up and swallow him out of existence, his brain bleeding at the pure satisfaction he’d so universally given you by admitting the very phrase that you’d been accusing him of; dropping the case, because he couldn’t take the seriousness of it. And oh, well, because he couldn’t bare another second with you breathing down his neck and constantly criticizing him without even caring enough to get to know him — not as Daniel Kaffee, but Marine Lieutenant Kaffee. You had no idea of his potential, yet you still found it in you to look down at him, underestimate and humiliate him.

Sam incredulously just existed there, not taking any stance against either one of you. He’d been friends with Daniel since ages, which cast him to be very close to his way of thinking, and he knew for an undeniable fact that his friend was building up a brick wall of denial, hatred and irony just because he wouldn’t want to face the reality of the situation that pained his mind.

Daniel was captivated by you, Sam claimed.

He silently watched the way his eyes never left your face the entire time you spent in the small apartment, while working on the case, the split second that Daniel subconsciously let his jaw slightly hang open when you determinedly explained every detail of how to teach the marines how to act in the courtroom. Of course, Daniel was going through a matter of confusion.

You stood an obstacle to his limitless confidence and that wasn’t something he particularly wanted to experience every passing day, thus why he’d convinced himself that he hated you. But that was simply not true, at least according to Sam’s observations, which always proved to be right.

“I hate her,” he’d say all the time, but even the sound of his voice gave away the fact that he didn’t. How could he, anyway? Despite the hard time you were giving him, you actually worked by his side, boosting him even more. Come on — he was going to be in a courtroom — he’d never been in one before. All because of how stubborn you were with this case. Daniel loved it.

“Nobody likes her very much,” he’d said in Cuba, shouting his statement loudly enough for all the people in the convertible to hear despite the dizzying noise of shots and fighter planes. You’d rolled your eyes, opting not to give him the chance to stupidly smirk at himself for managing to piss you off (that was exactly his only goal).

───

Predictably enough, Daniel was laying down on his couch as a baseball game faintly played in the background, preventing him from concentrating. Truth be told, his mind was blank. He’d prepared himself mentally for what was coming; they’d lose the trial, make complete fools of themselves in front of an entire courtroom. His father was shaking his head disappointedly at him, Daniel knew it. He fiddled with his bat, glancing at the remnants of the two days old pizza he’d heated up in the microwave fifteen minutes ago, lazily thrown in a piece of kitchen paper, next to a half empty bottle of Yoo-hoo. His white uniform from earlier was thrown in a pile in a corner, like a piece of garbage he was itching to get out of his house.

A sudden buzz from his bell was heard, throwing him off as he jumped a little, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he went to the door, wondering who it could be at that time, since he wasn’t even expecting anyone. Or so he thought. The moment he opened the door, you stormed inside without even waiting for him to invite you in. Daniel stood speechless for one second, then shrugged it off, simply because it was you, and your ignorance of him was unquestionable. He looked shit, he realised; dressed in a dark gray T-shirt that had small oil stains on it because of the pizza, an abstract, unbuttoned red, brown and green colored shirt thrown over it.

“I’ve really missed you. It’s been almost three hours since I last saw—” he began sarcastically, but you cut him off abruptly, while placing a stack of papers onto the living room table.

“I can already tell that you forgot we had to meet up to discuss about the case by the way you’ve shamelessly displayed your gross dinner all over the files we need to present tomorrow. Good job, like always, Kaffee.”

Daniel didn’t bother to huff or give out any reaction, at that point, he knew that you were aware of the fact that you pushed his buttons just by breathing the same direction as him. He let his bat against the arm of the couch, taking a folder into his hands and pretending to examine it.

“Is Sam not coming?” he asked without raising his eyes to look at you.

“I don’t know, he’s your buddy. Aren’t you supposed to know better than me?”

You judged his choice of childish drink with a long, disgusting glare, then buried your face into the papers as well. Dawson and Downey relied upon the three of you deeply and if proving them not guilty meant you had to spend your Friday evening in Daniel Kaffee’s apartment, then so be it. It was a lot quieter than usual and the unfamiliar emptiness had you wondering. The baseball game was still on, distracting you from thinking clearly. “I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. So do you,” you mumbled out of the blue, catching his attention in a second.

“You didn’t just come here to bother me?”

“You’re the worst lawyer I’ve ever met,” you spoke rudely, noticing Daniel’s face drop. “Why don’t you get the poor guys a new attorney, huh? You stand no chance anyway, you’re too afraid.”

“You still haven’t taken the time to get to know me, so I don’t think that you have any rights to go around telling me what to do, Commander,” the boldness of his tone matched yours as he sat on the couch, still denying the urge to look up at you, gauge your reaction to his words. He liked to ignore you, it gave him the impression that he had some sort of power over you that drove you as far mad as you did to him. Ignorance was kind.

“Think I’m going to change my mind about you the moment I hear your childhood sob story? They can all say you’re the best damn lawyer it’s ever been their pleasure to have as an attorney, and I still wouldn’t be convinced. But go on, though, I’ll humor you for tonight. Were daddy’s expectations really that high that they scare you off to do your job correctly?”

He pursed his lips, a slight furrow between his brows again as he stared pointedly at you. His heart crashed every time you went down the family path, not fully understanding how you’d figured him out so quickly and with less effort than even Jack put into his conversations with him. “Okay, then, if you really believe all that, get me replaced, I won’t stop you. Or did you already try that with no luck? Please, spare me the psycho-babble father bullshit, though, it’s your only argument and it’s getting tiring.”

“At least I have an argument.”

“Fucking congratulations! That’s just splendid!”

“Another lawyer won’t be good enough!” you accidentally admitted on your temper. Your eyes widened at the echo in the dead silence, that grew in the apartment, after what you’d just blurted out. Daniel’s eyes softened, filled with pure bewilderment, jaw going slack. His upper front teeth were visible as he stared at you stupidly enough to have your cheeks burning the brightest shade of red. You tried to find an excuse to reason yourself, but nothing could cover up the royal bullocks you’d thrown all over yourself.

He’d never let you live that moment down.

“You frighten me. I’m involved in a situation now, in which the stakes couldn’t be higher. I’m not going to take time out to give tutorials in criminal procedure to an internal affairs schoolgirl who doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing and still has the nerve to threaten my lead.”

“I just melt when you sugar-talk me, Danny.”Daniel felt a sudden rush of heat form in the back of his neck, traveling all the way up to his face at the sound of his nickname falling out of your lips. It wasn’t even a big deal — everyone called him Danny, yet the way it sounded in his ears when you uttered it out, it felt as though someone had turned up the dial on his internal embarrassment thermostat to maximum, and now he was sure he was ready to burst at any moment. The awkwardness of the moment had both of you completely mute, blankly finding random things in his house to interestingly stare at, as if they were suddenly very important. “Anyway, I think you know exactly how to win. They need you.”

A dumbstruck smile lightened up his face.

“You really think so?”

“Do you have something to drink?” you dodged the question, knowing that you’d revealed too much of your genuine feelings about him. Of course you admired him, how could you not?

“Yeah — Yeah! Something to drink, yes, just a second, let me see what’s in the fridge,” he exclaimed, inexplicably jumpy as he practically flew to the fridge. The corners of your lips turned upwards, enjoying the way he struggled to roam through the drinks and food, some things falling over in his attempt to search in the back. When he finally approached you, he was proudly holding a small bottle with a yellow Yoo-hoo tag on it.

You sighed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s chocolate milk, you’ll love it.”

What the hell, you thought, taking the drink from him as he handed it over to you with a warm smile. Your face was filled with disgust, almost hollering at the smell. When you let a few drops touch your lips, you coughed dramatically and shook your head in denial of what you’d just drank, placing the bottle back on the table.

“That’s the most foul thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Wait until you try my cooking. I usually save that card until the fourth or fifth date, though,” Daniel smirked, eyes gleaming under the bright yellow light of his living room. He looks so dumb, how is this man a navy lawyer? you questioned yourself.

“Explains why you’re single, then.”

“Maybe I’m just waiting for someone.”

“Is it Jack Ross? ‘Cause I think he likes you back, you should totally make a move,” you teased him.

“Maybe said someone is annoying me as we talk.”

“Come on, Danny, can’t take a joke?”

He didn’t say anything, just rolled his eyes and twirled his bat on the ground, while pacing around the coffee table. “Can I ask you something personal?” he asked out of the blue, causing a pit of anxiety to form into your stomach.

“I suppose you’ll ask even if I refuse.”

“Look at you, you’re finally getting to know me.”

“Shoot, Kaffee.”

“What made you become a lawyer for the Navy?”

Your expression changed, now fully confused. You wondered how he’d possibly come up with that question all of sudden — was he doing some sort of research on you, get you exposed and out of his lead case so that you wouldn’t annoy him anymore with your constant complaining? Or was it more just Daniel being… well, Daniel and randomly coming up with the most out of context questions and things to discuss about?

“They wouldn’t let me fly the planes,” you simply gave and he tsk’ed with a dramatic head shake.

“Pegged you for the one that never gave up. You are becoming less of a role model on Junior Lieutenant Kaffee now, Commander. You’re like seven of the strangest women I’ve ever met.”

“That’s rich of you to say,” you added a little too quickly and loudly for your liking, hating how you were always so eager to defend yourself in situations that didn’t ask for it. “I’m the girl guys like you hated in sixth grade.”

Daniel’s eyes softened as he hesitantly took a seat next to you. “You’re wrong,” he muttered through his lips, looking down at his entwined fingers before exhaling exhaustively. “You’re the girl guys like me pulled the pigtails of at minor interactions just because they were too afraid of letting her know how they really felt about her.”

A pause. Silence built up in the room as Daniel kept looking down on his lap, eyes closed as if he was hoping for something, as if he was scared that the moment he’d open them, you’d be gone, because he’d screwed everything up again. But you were still there when he eventually decided to look over at you, staring blankly at him with no emotion whatsoever. He despised the fact that he couldn’t read you, hated the thought of not knowing exactly what went through your mind during that moment; it caused him too much anxiety, plus, with his little experience with girls, he’d never lived anything similar. They were all so chattery and urgent to fuck him that they didn’t hold anything back… and then, there was you.

You, who Daniel didn’t know how to feel about.

And suddenly, he couldn’t stand — bare — the fact that you’d been staring at him with so much to say, all that visible through your glassy eyes, and it was killing him, causing his stomach to flip, because he was ridiculously unaware about whether he did the right thing to reveal so much with that metaphor, or if he’d just ruined every aspect of professionalism between you.

“Kaffee?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, his voice worn out, shaky as if he was about to break down right there in front of you. Your lack of response made his heart feel tight. “I’m not going to reassign Dawson and Downey to another lawyer, by the way. Neither will you ever be able to replace me, because I’m going to stick here.”

You instantly warmed up. For the first time, his confidence gave you that slight ounce of reassurance that you needed to get, put the colour back in your eyes as you grinned proudly at him, not caring about the so though Commander title you’d been given. “What made you change your mind?”

“Not you,” he replied, reciprocating the calmness and brightness of your face. “Just… don’t wear that perfume, it wrecks my concentration.”

“Really?” you asked in awe. Daniel just smiled. You noticed his Adam’s apple bob as he inhaled the courage to say something, then…

“This might be the wrong time to ask this, but would you really hate the idea of me taking y—”

“I am so sorry,” Sam interrupted, barging into Daniel’s apartment while panting, struggling to take his coat off as he put a hand over his chest. “I had to take care of my daughter, she got sick and my wife wasn’t home, I — Oh, I walked into something there, didn’t I?”

You think? Daniel mutely thought of saying to his friend, so mad inside as he glared at him with burning passion to slam the door shut into his face and returning to the conversation he was having with you less than twenty seconds ago.

“I need to go, anyway, I promised the Marines that I would visit them and help them prepare for the court. I’ll see you tomorrow, Danny. Bye, Sam,” you dismissed them, getting up from the couch and waving goodbye to the two of them as you walked outside with a small smile.

“No wait!” Daniel called, but it was already too late. “What the fuck, Sam?! You know something called knocking on the fucking door?”

Sam didn’t reply, simply because he was too busy explaining the story of why he thought he wouldn’t make it to the case preparation as he cleaned Daniel’s living room. He realised that his friend was paying no attention to him at all, only staring at the almost full Yoo-hoo bottle you’d left on the table from earlier, and that was all Sam needed to know exactly why he was being ignored. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

Daniel never replied.

───

“Hi!” he greeted you with the following day, head peaking in your office through the half closed door. He looked dumb, his oversized blue varsity jacket covering most of his palms as he held onto the door with a wide grin, eyes sparkling. You couldn’t understand his excitement.

“Hey,” the reply was dry and held back.

“I think we might actually have just enough evidence to prove Dawson and Downey innocent, all thanks to you,” he claimed happily, allowing himself fully into your office. You gave him a weird look but didn’t question anything, instead ignored him as you organized the discarded papers on your desk into folders. Daniel’s face dropped at your lack of enthusiasm for him, worry written all over his face as he quickly began fiddling again.

“That’s quite literally my job, Daniel.”

“Did I do something to offend you?” His heart was racing now, mind stuck in the loop of any words that he could’ve said to cause your so indifferent reaction. “You’re giving me the cold shoulder. I thought we moved past that.”

“It was just one conversation about the case. It’s not like we’re expected to act like friends after not bickering for a total of five minutes.” Oh. Daniel’s stomach was tied into knots, he felt as though he’d been kicked in the crotch with the worst possible amount of strength. His face was paled, eyes growing blurry as he nodded at your statement, not finding himself strong enough to say anything back to you, and instead choosing to walk out with his last pieces of remaining dignity.

He thought you might had started liking him. Even a little, he didn’t care about the numbers.

Daniel got easily emotionally influenced, though, and his performance at the court was screwed. He wouldn’t communicate with either you or Sam, interrogating the men on the stand with such frustration that the jury sighed every five seconds. You pinched the bridge of your nose and tightened your fingers into fists, crumbling a paper in front of you as Sam touched your shoulder in a way of telling you to calm down.

But how could you? You were losing the case already and it hadn’t even been a day. What is he doing? you thought, relentlessly questioning his choice of tone and movements. You had no idea how you restrained yourself from slapping him against the wall when he returned to the desk, hands shoved into his pockets as he set his jaw.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you whispered yelled at him, but he didn’t even bother to look at you. When the judge dismissed everyone, Daniel walked away as if nothing had happened. Your head was going to explode, you decided, as you followed him, high heels slamming against the floor. You’d strangle the soul out of him, who would even defend you? Sam followed silently, keeping it low-key as he whispered at you not to create any more trouble. Daniel was seemingly upset and at the back of your mind, you wondered if the reason was the fact that you’d neglected him less than an hour ago back in your office. You felt like you should’ve kept that for yourself and tell him later eventually, when the trial would be over. “Do you have any idea why he’s like this?” you turned to the other attorney.

“Why do you think?” was the only thing he left you with, his words ringing in your head as your pace quickened unnecessarily faster than expected. Your breath was coming in short, eyes stinging as you repeatedly called for Daniel’s name in the corridors without any response.

He was proving you right by all this.

All your doubts and fears about him being unable to thoroughly handle the case were bursting one by one, getting huger and huger until you’d start breaking down in a corner on his behalf. You hated Daniel Kaffee more than any other person.

“Daniel, fucking stop!” you shouted and he finally stilled. Your immediate instinct was to take a break from the intense walking, hand over your chest as you tried to regain your balance.

“Maybe you should’ve asked for them to keep me out,” was all he said before disappearing outside. He was mad, but mostly exhausted with everything, especially overwhelmed by you. He was done trying; finished with the case, finished the way you treated him — how one day you loved him and the next day you pretended he wasn’t even there, as if he didn’t exist. And he was fine with that, you didn’t want him, he could live.

But you gave him false hope, or so he thought.

“Lieutenant!” he heard you yell again, your pants mixed with the sound of your heels against the hallway floor. He decided not to turn around, didn’t want to hear anything that you had to say. “Lieutenant Kaffee!” And suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks, letting out a breath as he slammed his arms against his sides in defeat.

“What? What do you want from me?” he asked with frustration, voice raspy and shaky as he firmly loosened the black tie that felt like it was cutting the air out of his lungs, suit all messed up and wrinkly from fighting it off his body. He felt heavy, bothered, didn’t want to exist anymore.

“What do you mean what?” you asked with fragility, and it was the first time he’d ever heard you speak a sentence so softly and fearfully.

“I mean what is it?”

“I wanted to say that you did quite well in there, even though it was your first time and that—”

“Please — don’t even — don’t even start…” he cut you off mid-word, eyes squinting close as he tried not to look at you, afraid that just one glance at your face would be enough for him to bend.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re giving me mixed signals!” he abruptly bursted, making you jump a little. You’d never heard him raise his voice like that before, despite the fact that you’d been into countless bickers before with him. No, there was something different this time, something more into it.

“What?”

“You’re — you’re confusing the shit out of me! One day you fucking hate me and the other you get so nice with me that it almost makes me believe that maybe, just maybe, I could have a chance with you… Start things over. And then you go back to day one — and no one has ever… I feel like one day I’m saving you from a burning building and the next I’m throwing you to the sharks, this — this is exactly how it is with us and it’s all your fucking fault! I’ve tried so hard with you, to make myself worthy, to catch your attention, to make you realise that I don’t think I’ve never admired a person more than you in my life before… and you keep throwing everything away! And I’m fine with that, but for the name of love, stop giving me hope that one day maybe you’ll actually start liking me.”

His monologue left you speechless, every word, every breath engraved and buzzing into your troubled brain as he walked away, this time without being stopped by anyone. Daniel felt like rubbish. On one hand, he felt relieved for letting the thoughts that had been eating him alive out, but on the other he felt even heavier. He knew he’d risked so much for speaking up, but the final straw had been put into his overfilled glass.

For a short moment, he considered turning back.

Perhaps you’d have something to say to him, but that was exactly what he dreaded. The more he’d spend looking at you, waiting for an answer or even the slightest reaction, the more he’d want to listen to what you’d have to say to him, and that was cautionary for his condition. Obviously, he’d fallen for you along the line. You’d screwed him over so deeply that he didn’t know where to grasp at to save himself from losing the grip he had by the end of the cliff. No, he decided, if you wanted him half as bad as he wanted you, you’d go after him, search for him, ask people, show that you cared, even if the amount wasn’t a great deal.

It was insignificant to him, if you cared about him as much as he did for you, he just wanted you to care. Even as a companion, or a respected fellow attorney. You didn’t follow him, though, and the sad part was that he wasn’t even surprised. Of course you had nothing to say to him, you’d made that very clear by wanting him so badly off the case that you were prepared to move the sky and earth just to earn the satisfaction of watching him be defeated. And if you so utterly needed him uninvolved, why did you give him motivation not to quit? Why did you keep pushing him?

Every ounce of feeling that he had for you was a big, unanswered why that tortured him inside.

Daniel wished he could erase from your memory what he’d just confessed. Make you forget all about it, have you look at him with the same hateful eye that you always did. Because now, you’d look at him with pity, scared of what to say to him (he’d revealed way too much and he was only just realising it) — gosh, he’d ruined it. He was so exhausted, both mentally and physically.

Ethic violations were involved in the mess, as well, because of course they would be. A sexual relationship with a fellow counsel in the middle of a trial? What was he thinking? As if you even wanted him breathing near you in the first place.

───

It had only been three, going to four hours, ever since Daniel got his heart crashed, made a fool of himself not only in the courtroom, but also in front of you. For him, it felt like days, even a full week. His only company was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s that he’d almost finished, stuffing it in his coat’s large pockets as he walked back home.

This was how you felt about him. You hated him.

And he’d have to make amends with that, but not without the encouragement of cheap alcohol pouring into his system. Thank god for Ross, who always bought him all the booze he needed.

You, on the other hand, had wasted all of your breath trying to look for Daniel everywhere. It’d almost been an hour and you were at the hands of Sam, trying to think about all the possible locations that his friend could be at. You searched for him at the O Club, down at the basketball court, even his own apartment, but he was nowhere to be found. Your heart was beating rapidly against your chest, caught in your throat as you walked back to his neighborhood, opting to give his apartment another try. It’d been more than thirty minutes ever since you first went, maybe he’d returned by now. Your hands were shaking as you brought a loosely balled up fist to the surface of the door, hesitantly knocking on it once, twice — then heard steps from inside.

“Go away.”

Your entire body eased momentarily at the sound of his voice. Good, he wasn’t dead. His tone was cold and distant, nevertheless, and you knew that he was in no mood for seeing or even speaking to you after how you’d behaved during his speech, or even earlier, during the trial. Your mouth went dry at the first attempt of speaking back to him.

“Danny—”

“You’ve got no place to call me that.”

Oh. So, you’d really broken him.

“Daniel,” you corrected yourself halfheartedly, your hands rubbing up and down against the sides of your outer thighs, “can you let me in?”

“No.”

Your face dropped. You weren’t used to Daniel being so… you didn’t even know how exactly to describe it. The relationship between the two of you hadn’t started on a brilliant basis, neither did it get any better throughout all the time, but even though he didn’t seem to like you very much, he’d always been open for you, in some sort of way that your mind still struggled to comprehend.

“Daniel, please,” you begged, stepping back, surprised when his door creaked open just an inch to reveal his heavy lidded, blurry eyes.

“Do you have anything to say to me about the case? Otherwise, get moving, Commander.”

“Did you… Are you drunk?” you found yourself asking worriedly, ignoring his previous question.

“Why do you care, huh? Last time I checked, you didn’t give two shits about me!” he yelled, slamming the door back shut into your face, causing you to flinch. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“So this is it?”

Daniel swore he was only a second away from exploding, your question sending him over the edge as he chuckled in frustration, not knowing whether you asked what you asked simply to piss him off, or if you were genuinely placing an inquiry that you had been unclear about.

“This is what? Are you fucking with me?”

“You’ve hated me ever since you stepped into my office. You always did, say it. Just say that you hate me, you can’t stand me anymore, come on. Or is this just for Sam’s ears? That you wished I’d taken you out of the case just so you wouldn’t have to listen to my voice any longer. Come on, Kaffee, that’s all you’ve got to say.”

Daniel backed away in disbelief, then made you silently wince as he punched hard against the door, the sound of his skin hitting the processes wood ringing in faint echoes inside your eardrums. You’d driven him out of control.

“Me? Hate you? How could you possibly say such a thing — I — I…” Daniel wasn’t sure how to continue the sentence. There were too options and both of them would have a negative impact upon your relationship with each other and case.

One; he could let his tipsy mind ramble on and on about how you hadn’t once left his mind ever since he saw you for the first time, that he’d never felt so intimidated by anyone, never had fallen into such a deep awe of someone’s passion and ability to pursue their goals in life. That he wished he could possess the one thirds of your courage and determination, because you were honestly scared of nothing, got all the questions you wanted answered within a heartbeat. You didn’t back down in any occasion, you were your own person and Daniel had fallen so deeply in love with everything that you so proudly owned in your character that he thought he was a lost card.

Two; he could never continue the sentence, trail off and stay completely silent, see if you had anything to reply to him — and of course, he opted for the safest option, which was the second one. He was too scared of wearing his heart on his sleeve, knowing that you’d break it anyway.

“The fact that you’re so fucking scared of being a lawyer is beyond me. You’re in the Navy for crying out loud, get a hold of yourself,” was all you muttered in response, leaning against his door, completely unaware of the fact that he was also in the same position, that if the door disappeared in thin air that very moment, you’d fall on top of him with your mouth so dangerously close to his own that he’d pass out (and so would you, in some extent.)

Daniel’s every muscle was so tightly contracted, that he believed they’d crash altogether without any warning if he spent one more minute, forehead pressed against the door, knowing damn well that you were still outside, that you breathed just as heavily as he did, that he’d tied himself to the tracks, ready to be run over.

He knew that whatever was happening in that moment would reek of runny makeup and salty tears, sweat of agony running down the faces of two attorneys, bewildered and scorned as they fell into silence in preference of doing what they’d studied in law school for four years; defend their own selves, master the words. The ability of speaking had died down your throats near the day you chose bitterness over respect for each other.

Daniel averted his eyes to the ground, mustered all the courage he could possibly get and loosened his fingers in his fist. He called your name once, twice, but no reply ever came back. He knew you’d left, could understand it by the way he peaked through the glass hole in his door and saw that no one was there. His logic screamed at him to stay where he was, crash in the couch, close his eyes and sleep, forget about the case, forget about you, the conversations, the feelings, the tension, everything. Take down the entire Jack Daniel’s bottle and lean into the cushions without any further thinking.

Thank God that Daniel hated logical reasoning.

His door flew open as he hurried outside, not caring about his half unbuttoned dress shirt and blowsy uniform. It had been raining for hours now, the steady patter of water hitting against the windows of his small apartment long since faded to a dull rush in the back of his mind. He stepped out of the building, the thick material of his coat almost getting soaked through instantly. He squinted his eyes, trying to make out how far ahead you’d gotten, the pouring rain blurring his vision as he eventually spotted you on the road.

“Commander!” he shouted, but you didn’t turn, so he called for your name instead, numerous times until your feet gave up. A piercing gust of wind shook the trees above your head, showering your already miserable frame with a fresh deluge. You wiped the water from your eyes with a wet sleeve and tucked a lock of long brunette hair that fell into your eyes behind your dampened ear.

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” you said with a steady voice, barely audible in the downpour. Daniel tried to catch his breath as he finally reached you, looking like he was about to either melt along with the rain, or simply vanish.

“No, I can’t accept that. We — We braved extraordinary circumstances to get over here. You need to give me one chance,” he begged, but you kept walking, tired of his mediocre speeches and dramatic overreactions everywhere possibly imaginable. You wanted facts, wanted to listen to him fully, crystal clearly admit what he had to say. Not dance around it like he’d catch on fire. “Hey, I’m talking to you! Fucking listen to me!”

“Fuck off, Lieutenant Kaffee!” you screamed back, not caring about the fact that the rain would probably give you a deadly cold the following day, if not kill you by throwing you off at a very abrupt road pit. Daniel was soaked, hair sticking to his forehead and still very drunk. He felt embarrassed of how high pitched his voice got whenever he yelled from the top of his lungs, almost sounding like a complaining kid at the supermarket, who wouldn’t get the sweets he wanted from the counter while waiting to pay.

He needed answers. Did you even like him?

“You’re saying I’m scared and you can’t even face how you feel!” he shouted catching you off guard. “You can’t even look at me without lying.” Your blood was boiling into your veins as you gave him that chance, which he so desperately wanted, to explain himself to you, to see what he had to say.

“What did you just say?”

Daniel came closer, hands shaking from the temper building within him, looking pathetic as his hair dripped along with the rain down his face.

“You say I’m scared, but you’re terrified. At least I’ve shown you how I feel about you. I give myself away, because I can’t hold back everything that goes into my head the second you walk in it. I’m too weak to defend myself when it comes to you — look at me, you make me forget how to do my job — and I’m one of the most qualified lawyers out there, according to the Navy.”

“What are you talking about? You haven’t even once told me anything about how you feel about me. I’ve overheard you say to Sam that you hate me, that you wish you couldn’t hear my voice. What the fuck were you on about, huh, Kaffee?”

Daniel threw his hands and looked up, gulping down his worn out feelings as he tried to collect himself from breaking down in front of you, yet once again. “You know what Sam said to me when I kept telling him all that stuff about you?”

“I don’t care about what he said to you,” you scoffed in annoyance, ready to leave again, when you heard the words fly out of his mouth.

“That I’m in love with you!”

Daniel ached to prove that you were the scared one in this, breath wasted as he summoned every single ounce of remaining strength he had to grab you by the arm and yank you close to him, crashing his lips into yours forcefully. He never imagined the first time he’d get to kiss you to be that way. His body was trembling in fear (and because of the weather), heart hammering in the most literal way possible. The kiss barely lasted, seeing as you pushed him away almost instantly.

He felt crashed into millions of pieces, exploding like they did in the cartoons. He’d gathered so much courage to finally kiss you, and there you were, looking at him like he’d committed some sort of unbelievable crime, like he’d offended your honour. Daniel felt like an idiot; he’d ruined everything even worse. Had he really misinterpreted every look, every conversation, every fight? He wanted to cry, so he did. His tears ran down his salty cheeks, mixing with the rain, which allowed him to sob as hard as he needed to, not caring whether it made him look more pathetic and weak than he already was.

Who was going to see anyway?

You weren’t saying a word and Daniel was sure that another heartbeat was all it would take for the organ to crawl up inside his throat and hurl out, break; rip in two. He’d said his biggest fear, had actually put the exact words in it, then proceeded to throw an action. And he was destroyed, not because you didn’t kiss him back or because you pushed him away, but because you had chosen the mute torture of silence.

“…What else do I have to do to prove to you that I’m so fucking head over heels for you that I can’t possibly concentrate on anything else? I might lose the case and make a fool of myself, because you make me not think,” he tried again, this time with a fragile and weak voice. He honestly had no idea what more he could do to convince you about his feelings, about how nuts you drove him with your attitude and insane personality.

But again, you opted not to say anything. Instead, you quickly took a few steps forward, grabbed him by the ends of the collar of his long, black coat and pulled him into you, mouth capturing his own swiftly as you tilted your head to the side, deepening the kiss. Daniel was paralyzed for a short second, not knowing if he’d been struck by some sort of lightning that had killed him and brought him to a different reality, or whether you kissing him was an actual, real, skin to skin thing.

Stupidly enough, he allowed his lips to turn upwards into a broadening smile, responding with such enthusiasm, even though he was ridiculously taken aback by your choice of action. It took him a minute to regain his composure, the storm — hell, the entire world — around you feeling meaningless as his hands laced with yours, causing your grip on him to relax a little.

Daniel was falling fast, faster than ever, craving more of your scent and the feel of you pressed closer and tighter to him, the taste of alcohol mixing along with the buds of your mouth, unsure how this whole story had even began for him.

But his stupid, stupid lungs had to find air, and he was forced to separate from you with the feeling of gravity being torn out of his core. You’d disconnected your hands from his (with another pitiful drop in his stomach) so you could run them through his disheveled, wet hair, and his eyes fluttered close at the touch. You looked up at him with an emotion that neither of you could really find the words to explain, and Daniel wanted to kiss you again, heat rising to his face, forming a what he thought could be a permanent blush as his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

“I’m so wet,” you realised out loud with a dumb smile, trying to hold back a giggle as you watched him bemusedly, eyes glowing brightly at the way he looked at you with such confusion, a bulge straining into his damp uniform pants.

“What — wha… what?” his voice was high pitched and shaky as he cleared his throat. “Oh! Shit — the rain, let’s — let’s get you inside!” He was so flustered and hard, just from one kiss, and he stuttered in every word he spoke. He took his coat off and covered your head with it as he grabbed you by the hand, hurrying back to his apartment.

When you went inside, you acted all unbothered, like nothing had even happened just a moment ago, and it was killing Daniel, because he was terrified of you throwing him away once again. He helped you to the couch, then rushed into his bedroom, pulling out every piece of clothing that he had in the wardrobe with such anticipation as he anxiously roamed through the selves to find blankets to offer you, get you dry from the rain.

“Okay, this is all I have. Do you prefer the pink or the... what color is this — orange? Coral? Erm, which one—” he was getting tongue tied and you found it adorable, taking both blankets off his hands as he stared at us, mesmerised. You looked over your shoulder, as if he was looking through you, then returned your gaze at him, getting nervous. “I’ll — I’m going to make coffee!”

You heard him smack his forehead as he went in the kitchen and grinned like a child. “Daniel?” you called from the living room with a slight chuckle.

“Yeah?”

“It was coral, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“The blanket. It was coral. Can I change my clothes? I’m getting your couch wet,” you asked.

“Sure! Closet’s in the left.”

You got up, wrapped in the blankets as you walked into his closet, shamelessly going through all of his ridiculous, childish, cheap shirts that you so deeply hated (loved). You found a black shirt, which you threw over your body as you picked a checkered shirt to put on as well, feeling a little lump from the chest pocket. You went through it and pulled out an unused condom, cheeks turning pink as you held out the object and went to the kitchen, proudly exposing it in your hand.

“Is this a gift?” you questioned, laughing wholeheartedly when you noticed Daniel’s cheeks burn red in earth swallowing embarrassment.

“Oh… uhm,” he snatched the condom off you, “you’re wearing my special shirt.”

“Your what?”

“My special shirt. It’s for… good luck… for when I go to baseball games and everything. Or — Or dates. Nothing important, no need to make a great deal out of it.” He felt dead inside, still very confused by the fact that you still hadn’t made the smallest reference to the kiss you’d shared. Was it just a thing that occurred due to the heat of the moment? It broke him just to think so, because for a split minute, he gave himself the permission to picture the two of you together, as an actual couple in love. Was he supposed to bring it up first? Were you waiting for him?

Daniel felt like a jerk, unintentionally pouting.

“Please,” you mumbled. Please stop being pathetic, I really like you too. “Danny?”

“It’s still raining. You can stay… I mean, if you want to, of course.” And gosh, both of you were about to melt, saying nothing, just staring at each other with millions of words being exchanged just through the different kinds of gleams in your eyes. You fucking hated Daniel Kaffee so much.

“Danny?” you repeated and he urgently shook his head, letting you know that you could keep going with the question. You smiled warmly, wrapping your arms gently around his neck, then, “I’d love to stay overnight. Oh, and you’re like seven of the strangest men I’ve ever met.”

FIN.

for your information, me and @honeymvnt wrote this together. might be one of the best things i’ve ever had the chance to write, ilysfm lia 🫵🏼🎀

[youngtomhardy]

LSD (2023) promo shot by Camila Noriega. Edited by Euan.

For as long as I can remember I feel like I’ve had to fight for everything in my life. When my parents outed me, I was verbally abused and eventually made to sleep in the garage. It wasn’t so bad, my dad had converted it into a makeshift studio right before. So there was carpet, insolation, etc. Still it was fucked up, I was only 15 at the time. I only had my bed, some books, and a lot of hurt. I ended up running away for weeks in order to show them I wouldn’t tolerate the mistreatment. It worked, but only because I fought.

Let’s go even farther back: I picked up music by ear in middle school, this is where I learned about my perfect pitch ability. I was quick to learn, dedicated, and honestly a natural born talent. For some reason though, the band teacher seemed to hate it. I understood his annoyance when I would only play the top line rather than my part. But what about later, when I learned to read music? He seemed to hold a grudge, always talking down to me. My friends would openly talk me up to the director in an effort to move me to 2nd or 1st chair. Still, he never budged. This attitude continued with future instructors all the way up until my senior of high school, where they seemed to finally appreciate me. I always checked myself to see if I was rude or cocky, thinking maybe a kind demeanor would win them over. Looking back, I had 0 confidence so that wasn’t it... I just did my best. At the end of my senior year I finally got 2 awards, one including a small scholarship that helped pay for my laptop. That went a long way and I’m grateful, but damn did I have to fight for any type of recognition in my youngest years.

Flash forward a few years, I’m trying to break into the industry as an artist. I have like 300 listeners and it’s starting to slowly grow after my collab with Steve Grand. I see a lot of small queer artists getting press on a VERY popular music publication — no, it’s like THE music publication. I decided to shoot my shot… BOOM. Sexually harassed by the head editor! From the very first message!!! Why am I surprised at this point? I decided to play along in hopes of getting a feature, because who wouldn’t? I was powerless. I remember he was trying to sext me while I was in Mexico visiting family. It was humiliating. I respectfully shot it down and the next day he suddenly, “didn’t have the bandwidth” to feature my upcoming single Fluids. Go figure. Luckily, a group of other very small artists that were being harassed came forward and made a big fuss in the press. I knew I had to make my voice heard, this was my only chance to put an end to it. Guess what? We did. Finally, once that editor was removed, I finally got my first ever major feature. Crazy how much went into that single moment, huh? Once again, I fought.

Now, I face an entirely new monster. An invisible one that is literally programmed to be biased. As much as everyone wants to deny it, it’s true. TikTok. The beast that every artist — small to big — is enslaved by until further notice. Now let me say, I truly am thankful for the growth that the app allows. I’ve never had such easy access to an entire audience. That being said, and i know this sounds dramatic, but it’s just 100% true… we’re in hell. This app is relentless. The pressure to blow up is insane. The pressure to then maintain it once you do blow up is insane. The low attention spans. The coming and going of big name labels. And when you don’t blow up, when you don’t get an offer, when views suddenly plummet… you spiral and think, “what’s wrong with me? what aren’t I doing right? aren’t I interesting enough?”

Directly after that spiral, you go to an influencer party or a label mixer where you meet a kid just like you. Perfect pitch, musical savant, a natural born talent. Just. Like. You. Except they come from a family that loves who they are & nurtures their talent. They get found by Justin Fucking Bieber, just by chance! They get an A-List songwriter as their mentor. They date an A-List teen celeb. Everything lined up for them from day fucking 1. So they’re cocky, arrogant, a little snobby, but overall pretty kind when you’re around. You don’t even have room to be jealous. It’s more like, this deep sadness knowing what could’ve been. It’s toxic thinking so I try not to let my mind go there.

Instead, I try to be okay with knowing my story is different — long, winding, sometimes painful, but always beautiful. I won’t stop fighting until I get what I deserve. Not now, not ever.

- Disco Dad

[heli0s-writes]

Eat the Rich*

Summary: You’re just a girl in a bar way above your tax bracket and Ransom  really doesn’t care for what you’re wearing.

A/N: There are no spoilers for the movie. But, there IS... Smut. Dirty talk. Class warfare in the form of hate-fucking. 2.9k words of FILTH. I need to be exorcised for this. Thank you @evanstarff​ and @tropicalcap​ for sending me straight to hell.

The entire lounge seems to turn when you enter. Eyes slide back and forth your way, mid-conversation mouths dipping into low frowns. Amidst the old-money frat boys from Cambridge, Beacon Hill Barbie socialites, and Downtown business young bloods, you’re a flagrant contrast in ripped jeans and an old hoodie.

A favorite hoodie. An incendiary hoodie.

The kind of hoodie that is worn with pride around these West End parts. Even the group you arrive with tried to hackle you out of it— bachelorette party decorum, they cried, will you please take that thing off?

Your cousin might be marrying Silverspoon Asswipe and stringing herself up pretty next to all his call-girl friends, but you are a Jamaica Plain girl through and through and you will not stuff yourself into a glitzy cocktail dress before this hoodie.

She waves her hand at the hostess to distract her from your outfit, rustling the satin sash over her glossy sweetheart neckline, “Reservation under Prentiss; it was booked this morning?” And then a sharp look at you as if to say, you made the reservations, right?!

Duh. Your eyes respond when the hostess begins to lead your party back. You follow the tail end of the throng, veering off towards the bar; the miasma of Chanel perfume is enough to gag, and the cigar smoke is only a tiny bit better. Not like they’d care or even notice.

“Do you have PBR?”

The bartender stutters and before you can make him any more uncomfortable, a deep voice from beside you nips it in the bud.

Broad shoulders turn until you see his face. Amused, with a single raised eyebrow, mouth just barely tilting up at one corner. Mid-thirties and extremely well-groomed. Slicked back brown hair and classic Ray Bans hang from the collar of his sweater. Too handsome for his own good with the unmistakable swagger of someone grown up filthy rich.

“She’ll have the Glenfiddich. Neat.”

Certainly smug enough to butt in like you’re old friends.

“Will she?” You ponder defiantly at the pursed lips nestled over a strong jaw.

His own thick crystal glass is easily tipped into his mouth when he takes a too-large swig. Signet rings on two left fingers glimmer, and with a low exhale bordering a growl, he hisses through his teeth, “Yeah. I think you will.”

Bold blue eyes roam over your top and the statement printed there for a second before he scrutinizes your face. Then, purposefully—and knowing that your eyes are on him-- he looks back down to the swell of your chest.

A hum of approval before he faces forward again, only giving you his side profile.

“Wow,” you scoff, “Dick.”

The grin that splits his mouth for a second looks angelic if angels could be full-grown men with full-grown egos to match. “Close. It’s Ransom.”

Amber sloshes when the bartender returns, and you chance a sip because even your pride isn’t stupid enough to pass on a free glass of Glenfiddich.

The whiskey bites for a second before rolling smoothly down your throat. There’s an inherently superior taste to these luxury drinks, but you pull a face all the same, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. Ransom chuckles, head turning just a tad as he looks to you from the corner of his eye.

“You making a statement with that thing on, or what?”

“You’re the one making a statement with that ladies wool scarf from Drake’s.”

Ransom jerks to you fully now, attention snatched by your wit as he leans in, “Where’d you come from, little girl? Not everyone walks into Carver’s dressed in rags.”

He really is a piece of work. When you tell him your neighborhood, as expected, he snorts with disdain, but his eyes fall back on you again, highly intrigued. “There’s more to you, isn’t there? My scarf, that attitude. Someone taught you a thing or two, didn’t they?”

The single-malt mouthful is singing in your veins and if your confidence was thinking about simmering down for a second, it’s forgotten itself inside the furious swirl. The hand around your empty glass clutches just a tiny bit tighter.

“Oh, come on,” Ransom waggles two fingers for another round, “Let’s see, I’m thinking… blue-collar parents, siblings, maybe with shared rooms in your dilapidated Jamaica Plain home?” A tap of his finger to that pink bottom lip too damn pretty to be on his wretched face, he pretends to mull a thought over.

He looks you up and down, taking just enough time to where you feel violated under his gaze, “I know: Public college. Two-year community. Working a day job in Back Bay made you bitter, didn’t it? Hence, statement piece.”

“Asshole,” you snap, unraveling at the seams with rage, and the bartender quickly flits away again, “Full ride to Northeastern, four years with honors. Back Bay can’t fucking afford me.”

You don’t know how he does it, but his derisive silence incenses you even more. He couples it with a slow flick of his tongue over teeth, flagrant staring, and the piercing blue of his eyes spotlight a trail—across your shoulders, down your arm, jumping from your fingertip to your thigh, and then it dips between.

Every inch of your body prickles alive with reaction, so naturally, you spit, “Fuck you.”

Ransom’s smile grows until it nearly looks genuine, but then the sharp points of his canines sink right into your gut.

“When?”

There is something ugly and incredible simmering behind his thick curtain eyelashes. A clear ocean grows stormy, sizzling like a cruel tempest rushing to life. The yellow gaussian blur from dim scone lights suddenly cast shadows over his sharp nose.

He slaps too many bills on the polished ebony and the swish of his scarf flicks over your knee when he stands. Ransom towers over you, light pink flush of inebriation and excitement growing hotter on his sculpted cheeks. He leans in, the open flaps of his overcoat falling around your shoulder, threatening to swallow you inside all his dark.

Low timbre and dusky spice goads, “Put your money where your mouth is, scholarship; that sweater’s not all talk, is it?”

Dick!

-

Big hands yank the hem up over your head for a second before something changes his mind. The heavy steel door is latched twice over and he’s pushing you into it with his imposing frame. Your skull hits the metal as his knee parts your thigh, leg shoving itself up in-between until you’re on your tip-toes, with nothing to do but land on him. The heat of it rushes all the way up to the top of your head, pouring from your mouth in a choked mewl.

Ransom rucks the top over your breasts until the words scrunch up at your collarbones and you think it must bring him some masochistic satisfaction to know their unforgiving glare:

Eat the Rich

His warning chills your spine.

“I’m gonna fuck that line from your brain. Fuck it right out.”

He yanks everything south of your waist to your ankles and pulls himself free from his pants, effortlessly tearing a condom from inside his leather wallet and slipping it on. Between the time he gets your bare ass on the counter and the sound of the rubber snap, he’s already branded a purple streak onto the side of your neck and you’re embarrassingly wet.

Your breath hitches in your throat when you see his length rising from beneath his cable-knit. Bright pink and angry, and so goddamn thick it makes you whimper. Ransom smothers it with his demanding and hungry mouth, impatient at being empty, stinging with whiskey and force. He’s probably never waited on anything in his life and within a short fifteen minutes of meeting him, you know that to be true.

Not a care in the world is given as goosebumps break out all over your arms.

He spins you into the sink countertop and then the two of you are staring at each other in the mirror’s reflection. His hands return to your hips with a bruising clutch and those thick fingers begin to rub the slick between your folds all over your thighs. Fucking A-- It’s good. Idiot rich boy does have the Midas Touch.

One long leg kicks your jeans completely off, sole of his shoes stomping all over them. He’s unforgivingly large and he knows it because everything about Ransom Drysdale is a statement: his clothes, his attitude, his dick. There’s a joke in here somewhere about him being the very epitome of it, but he’s glaring at you with that pretty bottom lip stretched between perfect white teeth and maybe you can forgive the fact that he’s leaving boot marks all over your jeans and bruises in the shape of fingerprints on your back.

“Tell me,” he teases, slipping one finger in, the metal of his ring pressing up against your clit, “Tell me you’ve had it like this before.”

A slow roll of his hips against your ass, letting the weight of his cock pressed hot and tight between his body and yours. You find yourself inching higher, micro-movements attuned to his, staring but unseeing at his face, buzzing with the raw need to be clenching around more than one finger.

“Not like this, not off Glenfiddich, in Jamaica Plain…”

And without thinking, because there isn’t much to think about, you hiss, “Oh, fuck you!”

Ransom chuckles into your ear because your voice breaks just a tad and he’s going to win this fight. Claws and teeth out sharper than knives, he bites down on your shoulder and slips in another finger. The distinct sensations—soft, slippery, strokes and the sting of his teeth—are scrambling your brain.  

He grips himself tight, pushes in with uncharacteristic restraint, and you’re so desperate and aching for it all you can do is push back and pray the sound you might be making isn’t loud enough for everyone in the damn place to hear.

You stifle a grunt with his next languid stroke and Ransom raises an eyebrow, “What? You suddenly shy now?”

It might be just a restroom, but it’s one of the nicest places you’ve ever been inside. Carver’s cigar room’s private single occupancy nook and he’s usurped it to screw you senseless. As if reading your thoughts, he rolls his eyes and continues, glaring at your half-lidded reflection.

“Who gives a shit?” Then, another smirk, “If you’re gonna scream, get my name right.”

Your belly is quivering from the pressure, holding yourself together as best you can before he takes you to pieces. The grooves in his rings cut into your skin. His hand squeezes your neck, fingers crawling up your chin to shove inside your mouth.

Like everything else he’s ever wanted in his life, he’ll own this, too.

And then it’s only punishment. Ransom twists your hair around one fist, other forearm pressing like an anchor on your sternum, wrist shoved through the neckline, hand splayed open and clutching your throat and it goes nearly all the way around. The reflection of your panting mouth and bouncing breasts matching his every thrust is lewd and vile and so goddamn good.

“I bet you fuck on top, don’t you, scholarship?” He releases your throat to pinch your cheeks together, tipping your head derisively, making you nod yourself stupid—awful and humiliating but it unexpectedly thrills.

“Bet you’re too proud to ask.” He makes you nod again, “Bet you want someone to fuck you open just like this—all filthy and sloppy—“

And he doesn’t have to make you agree that time, you’re already limp in expectation and your reflection, damn her, she nods.

He’s still fully dressed, coat swaying to cocoon the both of you in what is probably a hundred thousand dollars. His watch, his rings, his fucking boxers. That stupid cable knit sweater.

A yelp leaks out with your orgasm- unexpected and high and quick, like a wounded animal as you tip your head back onto his shoulder. He doesn’t stop, even for a second. Ransom thrusts deeper, and on the cusp of your second undoing, he licks an errant bead of sweat down the back of your neck.

“You got one more. Yeah, that’s right— one more— God, your pussy loves it. Squeezing me fucking good.” He’s sick. He’s sick and Jesus Christ, aren’t you, too? “Yeah. Push back on my cock. Fuck yourself with it…”

He guides your fingers to your clit with his free hand and begins to rub in motions. Your eyes flutter when he breathes into your ear, “There you go, scholarship, you’ll never get dick this good again—so go ahead and be selfish. I wanna see you all fucked out, fucked stupid, coming all over my dick.”

With two fingers sluiced with your spit, Ransom crams them up next to his cock and you can’t believe how he did it so easily but maybe you can. Yes, filthy and sloppy and never like you’ve had before. Your hands grip the counter top so tightly the tips look white and bloodless and the strained coil inside snaps clean in two.

“Fuck! Oh fuck! God!”

You slump backwards, fingertips to toes shocked tingly numb, boneless and empty of all thought, but he holds you up with ease. Ransom shushes your gasps, paws your breasts and fluttering sternum, runs his hand over your face and throat. The pinch of his fingers returns to your cheeks and he drags his other hand from inside your pussy up into to your mouth. Slick and dripping, a little rubbery from the condom, but otherwise just like yourself.

“Well, look at that. Aren’t you just…”

He pauses to view your blissful face, covered in a sheen layer of sweat, head resting on his shoulder, slanted just enough so that the tip of your nose brushes his jaw. A quick laugh, strangely knowing and a bit sweet or maybe you’re imagining it in your delirium, before he turns cold again.

“Make good on your slogan. Get on your fucking knees.”

His hand looks ridiculous, big and strong and wrapped around the best part of him, completely filthy with you smeared over his fist and you slide to your knees, forehead resting briefly on his knee. His pants have fallen around his ankles, boxers still midway, and you’re so exhausted you can hardly do much more than give him a light kiss to his inner thigh—God knows why—before you peel the rubber off.

It lands into the toilet and you obediently stick out your tongue, still panting to catch your breath as Ransom aims toward your open throat. “There you go,” he groans, fisting himself, “That’s it. Don’t let a single drop go to waste.”

And you don’t.

-

“So,” your old mentor asks, familiar low drawl of his voice crackling with the tone of a lifelong smoker, “What do you think?”

A hum passes through from your end as you think about all the ways Ransom Drysdale Thrombey pulled you apart and in all the ways you’ll probably think about for at least a couple of months.

“He’s exactly who you think he is.” You rock back and forth on your feet near the curb, “Disrespectful…” Scholarship, Ransom’s voice sneers, “Selfish…” Who gives a shit? “Manipulative.”

Well look at that… aren’t you just… And the glimmer of those big blue eyes half-crazed with lust and control, drinking in your reflection in the mirror, makes you clench up right there in the parking lot.

“You think he’s a killer?” Blanc asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” You reply, “Depends. He takes what he wants when he wants it… Could care less if he burns the world down with him. You divine the rest.”

Benoit Blanc’s frustrated sigh is all the response you expect him to give. This case with the Thrombeys really has gotten him all twisted up. He wouldn’t have called you for a favor if it didn’t. Of course, when he asked you to check Ransom Drysdale Thrombey out, he’ll be at Carver’s tomorrow around ten, he probably had other scenarios in mind…

“Well,” he mumbles, “Thanks again. These people sure are hell to be around. Give the new Prentisses my best, won’t you?”

You say your goodbyes and tuck your phone back into your pocket, shifting with a wince when the soreness between your legs throbs again. With a sigh into the dark autumn night, you shove your hands inside the center pouch of your hoodie, keeping your head low but still wary enough to find your Uber.

Ransom left you in the restroom about ten minutes ago, sitting on your haunches, still trying to remember how your lungs work. Right before the door shut, he had turned around and gave you one last smirk, pointing right at your top with glee. “How’d I taste, baby?”

Blanc needs to be careful, not that he isn’t— because he always is, as nutty as his brain works, he is. But Ransom is the only Thrombey you’ve met and if there are ten more of them… Blanc would do good to watch his ass and maybe get some extra help.

A jangle disrupts the quiet when you begin to play with what you’ve taken. Jagged metal edges. Heavy iconic insignia laying benignly in your palm before you tug it out.

Idiot. Good dick or not, an idiot is an idiot is an idiot— especially his kind. Didn’t even notice you slipped these right out of his coat pocket. You swing the ring around your flexed pointer in swift, angry circles, keys clanging together before your hand shuts it up.

With a hard wind of your arm back, you fling the set long into the night, satisfied when it lands behind a building some distance away.

Ransom Drysdale, you think, enthusiastic smile growing on your face as your ride pulls around the corner, have fun looking for those tonight.

Dick!

-

Ransom tags: @mermaidxatxheart @dumbubblegum @sapphirescrolls @gothambrat @southerncross47 @bubblegumpeeeach @fiercephantasmagoria @saliarheva @amberakawolfie

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[we-are-inevitable]

how would davey’s family play into the new au?? do they know about his rebel phase as it’s happening, or does he try to hide it? did the way he was raised influence why he would want to act out?

so one of my biggest inspirations for this was thinking about davey just,, getting addicted to freedom because, lets face it, he probably didn't have much to begin with??

like- he was free, but he wasn't free. His family loved and supported him, yes, but they did it to the point of suffocating him; constantly checking his grades, wanting him to be the best in school and the best on the basketball team and the best in his clubs and organizations and it all worked out in his favor, yeah, but getting a full ride to college on academic scholarships means nothing to Davey when he's literally fighting for the chance to live the way he wants and not have to constantly follow everyone's expectations for himself, yknow ??

his family wants the best for him, and davey HAS the best, but once he gets a taste of that rebellion- of doing everything he's ever been told not to do- he gets hooked on the adrenaline rush.

and tbh i think he'd probably go low contact with his family at college ?? i feel like davey would almost be resentful of the pressure his parents put on him throughout his childhood. he knows that they meant well, but he also wants a little time to be selfish, so he only really talks to them when he has to.

SO, Esther and Mayer don't realize that Davey has gone a little off the rails until he comes home with six tattoos and a few piercings and a pack of cigarettes visible in his pocket. they don't realize that their baby boy isn't a baby anymore until it's too late, i guess.

and when they try to help him get back on track, he takes it the wrong way and gets upset; he doesn't want them to control him anymore, so he probably drops all contact unless absolutely necessary, and doesn't come home until he realizes that he's fucked up and he needs their help.

also i think that they'd like. fucking HATE jack with a PASSION, and probably wouldn't even like him after he and Davey get back together once they're both sober and stable, so !! yeah

[blackmissfrizzle]

Sanctuary

Summary: The reader gives Spooky an ultimatum when he abandons Cesar.

Pairing: Spooky x black!reader

Warnings: Mention of smut & language.

Bacon was sizzling in the pan, the potatoes and eggs were being kept warm in the oven, and you were flipping tortillas while dancing to your Spotify playlist.

“Good morning,” Spooky greeted you, his voice full of sleep.

Still mad that he didn’t care that Cesar had nowhere to go you ignored him and the one thing Spooky hates is being ignored.

He caged you in between him and the stove. “You still giving me the silent treatment, ma?”

You wanted to bump him out of the way, but you didn’t feel like hearing him yell, so you actually spoke to your boyfriend. “Can you please move? I need to get the eggs and potatoes out of the oven.”

Stepping back, Spooky moved and took a seat at the table. Bending down you got the food out the oven and you could feel him admiring your ass.

Silently, you made his and yours plates, slightly slamming his plate down. Oscar always led the prayer and the only time he heard you spoke was the amen.

Halfway into breakfast, you broke and told Spooky what’s been on your mind. “I’m gonna let Cesar stay with me.”

Oscar put down the taco that was halfway to his mouth and just stare you. To others it was supposed to be intimidating, but to you it didn’t mean shit. “Run that by me one more time.”

“I’m gonna let Cesar stay with me,” you repeated yourself, resuming to eat your food.

“No, you’re not. He’s not allowed on Santos’ streets and no girlfriend of a Santo would do that.”

“Well, one of those could easily change.” The threat of y’all breaking up is what caused Spooky’s usual calm demeanor to change. He backed out his seat, causing the chair to scrape across the floor, grabbed your seat to face him and leaned over you.

“You threatening to break up with me?”

Pulling his face closer to you, you kissed him aggressively. First, he was shocked because Spooky was the aggressive one, but once he was over the shock, he got used to it until he wanted to dominate you. Remembering that you needed some air and you had to tell Spooky something, you broke the kiss. “That’s exactly what I mean,” you whispered against his lips.

Oscar pushed off the chair and started pacing. “What do you want me to do? The cuchillos made that call, not me.”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe put your family over the Santos,” you say sarcastically.

“The Santos are my family!” Oscar yelled back.

Unfazed by his outburst, you began cleaning up. Spooky eyed you warily, knowing you could go off at him at any moment for him yelling at you, but you never did. You continued cleaning the kitchen, then headed to the room to change.

When you came back out, you had your overnight bag in your hand. “You can throw away the rest of my things. I don’t need em.”

Spooky tried to snatch the bag out your hand but you were faster. “Y/N, quit your shit and put the bag down. Now!” He ordered you.

“No! I tried to reason with you last night and you blew me off. I tried again this morning and you still won’t budge. I’m not gonna let an innocent kid, a kid I consider a like a little brother live on the streets. So, if you and the rest of the Santos have an issue with it, y’all can kiss my black ass!” You walked towards the front door, but Spooky blocked your exit.

“You think you can do whatever you want because you’re the so-called Princess of Freeridge? You don’t even know how hard it is to live in Freeridge!”

Princess of Freeridge was a nickname that you believed you didn’t deserve. Your dad was the one, who was born and raised in Freeridge, and he was respected by all. He wasn’t affiliated with either the Santos or the Prophets, but both gangs knew not to mess with him, he was dangerous on his own. Eventually, he got out of the hood, got a football scholarship, and made into the NFL.

Once, your dad was big time, your grandma refused to leave her house in Freeridge and being a big momma’s boy, your dad made you and your brothers visit Freeridge frequently. You must’ve been just like your dad, because you took to Freeridge instantly. It was like you were meant to thrive in that neighborhood. Even your dad noticed, and he always said he felt more comfortable with you in Freeridge by yourself than your three older brothers. Also, it didn’t hurt that your uncle, who your dad could barely stand was a Prophet.

With street cred from your dad and uncle, you were practically untouchable in Freeridge. Whenever you were in Freeridge, you somehow always ended up hanging out with Spooky, which eventually turned into a romance.

As you got older, you tried to help the community. You organized various block parties against gun violence, built a community center named after your dad, and helped ex-convicts find legal and sustainable income. But eventually, you would go back to your home in the hills and live your ‘rich girl life’ as Spooky would describe it.

A knock on the door alerted you. When you reached for the doorknob, Oscar slapped your hand away and pushed you behind him, being his overprotective self.

One look out the door and Spooky rolled his eyes. “Oh, you called this pendejo?”

The man he was referring to was your bodyguard, Ray. Even though you could hold your own and no one would be stupid enough to try something with you (except them young’ins as your dad claimed), your dad insisted that you have a bodyguard especially since you came from a famous family.

Ray ignored Spooky and turned his attention to you. “Y/N, you ready? Everything at your grandmother’s is ready.”

Ray and Spooky never liked each other. Spooky swore up and down that Ray had a crush on you and would put the moves on you if he had the chance. Ray, a veteran and an ex-convict himself said Spooky was too small-minded. If he was gonna be a criminal, it better be to make his life better and he believed that it wasn’t and that Spooky was gonna drag you down, not elevate you.

“Yeah, I’m ready Ray. Can you take my bag to the car? I just need to speak to Oscar real quick.” Hesitantly, Ray stepped off the porch to the car.

Grabbing each of Spooky’s hands, you pulled him into a hug. “I love you and I will always love you. Just when you come to your senses, let me know, Oscar.” You kissed him goodbye and hoped with all your heart that he would change his mind.

—

Weeks had passed since you saw Spooky, but you never really had the time. You had to take care of Cesar, listen to his own relationship problems, make sure your play cousin Jamal didn’t get in anymore trouble, and work.

A girlfriend of another Santo bumped into you at the grocery store and told you about the party the Santos were having. She insisted you go because all the hoes would be on Spooky since he was single.

Jealousy reared its ugly head and that’s how you ended up at the party. And homegirl was right, girls were all over Spooky. You were about to go in on him when you saw a very underage person by all the liquor.

“Ay, Ruby what are you doing here?” You questioned one of Cesar’s best friends.

The endearing but annoying teen looked up to you with low eyes. “Your ex-boyfriend dragged me here. And by the way, may I mention that your post-breakup glow is phenomenal.”

Leaning down, you gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. Just for that I won’t give you any shit about drinking, as long as you can hold your liquor.” Even if he didn’t compliment you, you wouldn’t have snitched on him. It wasn’t too long ago when you were the one drinking underage.

Taking a drink of your own, you roamed around the party, mingled with some folks until one of the girls in Spooky’s lap decided to say something. “What are you doing here? Didn’t Spooky drop your ugly ass?”

Choosing to ignore her for the sake of the party, you turned around and walked away, but homegirl didn’t get the message and pulled you by the shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me, you Prophet bitch?” Her words barely registered in your head, because all you could do is stare at the hand, she decided to touch you with.

Everyone else got quiet to watch the showdown, but Spooky rushed to intervene. He knew once you got that glossy look in your eye it wasn’t long before you started swinging and there was no way Bianca could hold herself against you. Even Spooky was scared to try you.

“Bianca, yo, chill!” Spooky tried to warn the girl, but she was too dumb for her own good.

“No, fuck that! This little rich girl thinks just because her dad grew up in Freeridge, she can do whatever she wants, but she ain’t one of us! She’s more of a Prophet because of her bitch-ass uncle and cousin. She doesn’t deserve a Santo like you, Spooky.” Then the dumb bitch decided she could kiss Spooky in front of you. When she finished, she let Spooky go and smirked at you like she just won him. If she had any social awareness, she would’ve noticed he was disgusted by the kiss.

One look at you and Spooky knew he couldn’t stop you. He slyly stepped out of the way and let you do your thing.

You weren’t one for talking, so you let your fist fly and connect with Bianca’s jaw. She was out cold with one punch. People thought you were soft because you grew up privilege, but you always proved them wrong. They seemed to forget that you had three older brothers, all in professional sports, and one was a mma fighter. Hell, you basically grew up fighting.

Bianca’s friends tried to jump you, but none had hands like you. “Don’t you even fucking dare, Spooky,” you warned him against trying to get the girls off you.

Eventually, they gave up because of the embarrassment of getting beat up by one girl. Leaning over a semi-conscious Bianca, you told her and the other girls surrounding, “Leave Spooky alone and keep my name out your mouth or I won’t go easy on you next time.”

You gave her one good kick and turned to grab Spooky, tonguing him down in front of everyone, marking your territory. The hoots and hollers from everyone alerted you that you weren’t alone, so you stopped kissing him.

Spooky had that lustful look in his eyes and you knew your drought was about to end. He threw you over his shoulder and led you to his house while everyone else cheered you on.

Once inside the house, Spooky set you on your feet and tried to kiss, but you moved out of the way. Hurt that you rejected him, Spooky threw a photo of you and him across the room. “What the fuck are you doing here, Y/N? You gonna claim me in public and reject me in private? What do you want?!”

The pain in his voice caused you to cry. Never in your life have you ever heard Spooky this emotional and to know you were the cause was breaking your heart. “You,” you whispered in between hiccups.

“You got me, baby. Come back home.” He opened up his arms, inviting you back.

Shaking your head, you countered, “I can’t. Not unless your taking Cesar back.”

Spooky ran his hands from the back of his head to the front of his face. This woman was going to drive him crazy. “Come here.” He ordered, taking a seat on the couch. You followed his instructions and instead of sitting next to him, you sat in his lap. Snuggling into him you smelled the beer, weed, and mesquite wood making an intoxicating scent that described him.

Gripping your chin hardly and staring deep into your eyes, Spooky began to speak. “You gotta keep this to yourself. I mean you can’t tell anybody. Not even your pops, understand?”

Sitting up straighter at the seriousness Oscar’s voice you nodded your head yes. “What’s going on, Oscar?” You asked, only using his government name when you were serious.

He began telling you of his and Cesar’s plan of getting him back in the good graces of the Santos. They planned on setting up the Prophets and he even ensured that it didn’t involve your uncle getting caught up.

When he finished explaining, you stood up from his lap and began pacing. Your silence was making Spooky nervous, he grabbed your hand to stop you. “Baby, you good?”

Slapping his hand away, you stood over him and began yelling. “Hell no! You mean to tell me I’ve been moping around about your ass for weeks and almost fucked another guy, for you to tell me you’ve been playing me?”

“Who you almost fuck?” Spooky disregarded the rest and wanted to know who was dumb enough to mess with Spooky’s girl.

“Nah, don’t worry about that. Did you fuck any of those bitches, Oscar Diaz?” You were hovering over him, pointing your index and middle finger on his temple, not caring that he didn’t tolerate that type of disrespect.

Spooky smiled up at you. He was happy that you were just as possessive over him as he was over you. “No, quierda.” He pulled you into his lap, nuzzling his face into your neck. “I love your crazy ass too much to do that.”

“I love you too,” you muttered against his lips before kissing him. Spooky’s hands went from your hips to under shirt to your bra strap. To help him out you shrugged your shirt off and once it was off it was like he sobered up. Spooky pushed you off his lap and he stood up looking for your shirt.

“What the hell, Spooky?”

“This plan ain’t happening until a couple of weeks and for no one to suspect anything we need to keep up appearances.” Spooky explained, trying his best not to continue what you started.

“Which means you’re still not talking to Cesar and we’re still not together,” you finished for him. “How are we gonna explain tonight?”

Spooky waved you off and smacked his lips. “Man, Julio and his girl breakup and fuck all the time. It ain’t far-fetch for us to be doing the same.”

Smirking you reached out for Spooky’s belt to undo. “We haven’t fucked yet.”

To stop you, Spooky grabbed your wrists and turned your back against his chest. “And we’re not until all this is over, because if I get one taste of you, I’m not stopping.”

He was right, both of you could be insatiable. Reluctantly, you put your shirt on and began making your way to the door. You wanted to stay the night, but the temptation was too great.

“I’m sorry, I lied to you for so long. I didn’t want to involve you with all this.”

Caressing his cheek, you replied. “No, I should’ve known better. Under all that roughness, you’re a good man, Oscar Diaz.” You reached up to kiss him on the spot where your hand was.

Turning the doorknob, you were about to open the door when Spooky stopped you. “Aye, who’s the fool that’s dumb enough to try to fuck you?”

“No one important,” you rolled your eyes at him.

“Just let him I’ll shoot him if I need to.”

“Stop it!” Hitting him in the stomach to reprimand him. “I’ll call you when I get home.”

As soon as you opened the door there was a bunch of cheers for Spooky. All of his friends hyped for him ‘getting some.’ To put on a show, he smacked your ass when you turned to walk to your car.  You glared back at Spooky to let him know he would pay for that, but it didn’t faze him. Instead he smiled and mouthed ‘I love you.’ And at that you couldn’t be too mad, because despite all the ups and downs Spooky always had the best intentions and was the man for you.

Tags: @soufcakmistress​ @chonisberonica​ @marvels-gurl​ @veryfastspeedz @bananasandhoney​ @badbitchtingzs 

[wanderingcas]

☆ for @cottondean, as a part of her benefits on my Patreon! thank you so much for your support:’) ☆ prompt: a college au where big, tough (*cough* softie) football player!Dean calls entomology major!Cas to come get a spider out of his kitchen because his roommate is gone

. . . 

There’s a certain part of the quad that Castiel loves to sit. It’s a small field of grass with two large oak trees, far away from the busy shuffling of students walking from class to class. It’s the only patch of nature he can seem to find within a five-mile radius in the bustling city. 

Before he buries his head into the textbook for his Insect Behavior lecture, he takes a moment to tilt his head back against the tree and squint up at the sun, shattered by the hundreds of leaves fluttering in the gentle wind. He takes a large breath and sighs. It’s the calmest part of his day. The only peace he can find with his back-to-back classes, labs, homework, and it’s just lovely to be able to sit and—

His phone buzzes obnoxiously in his jeans pocket. He opens an eye and glares at it. Closes his eyes and tries to find his peace again. The phone vibrates again, this time louder and more insistent. 

With a sigh, he fishes out his phone and flips it open. 

Hey, this is Cas, right? It’s Dean Winchester, we were in Biology lab together last semester. Okay this is a weird thing to text, but you like bugs and everything, right? Well I don’t, and there’s this spider and it’s HUGE like this might be a freaking tarantula and can you kill it? Kevin usually does but he’s out of town.

Castiel stares at the block of text. Another text message comes in: 

Kevin’s my roommate. I should have mentioned that 

He’s pushing the button to respond when another text buzzes in his palm: 

OMG it’s on my cookies!! Wtf!! 

“What the fuck indeed,” Castiel agrees in a low tone. He clicks the call button and holds the phone to his ear.

“Oh hey,” comes Dean’s deceptively breezy voice over the receiver.

“Dean?” Castiel asks. “Are you okay? Your texts seemed very… distressed.”

“Me? Distressed? No way. You can ignore that. I took care of it. I just—” Dean abruptly makes a very high-pitched noise. 

“The spider is still there, isn’t it?” Castiel asks.

“It’s staring at me, Cas. I think it can smell fear.” 

“Oh my god.” Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can be at your apartment in five minutes. Do you still live in the same room?”

“Yes,” Dean whispers. 

Castiel stands and shoulders his backpack. “Why are you whispering?”

“Did you not hear me when I said this is a devil spider?” 

Castiel sighs as he begins to walk to the Circle Apartments across campus. “Well, just make sure not to make any sudden movements, or it may think you’re prey to hunt.” 

“Oh my god, Cas, why the fuck would you tell me—”

“I’m kidding,” Castiel sighs. “I’ll be there soon.” 

Another text comes in as he ends the call. Charlie’s quick text flashes across the screen.

U @ the tree?

Castiel texts back, No. Going to help a friend.

ooOOO who??

Castiel glances around before typing out, Fall semester hot lab partner. 

Rolling his eyes at the caps locked letters he gets back from Charlie, he shuts his phone. Telling only his best friend Charlie about his crush on Dean Winchester is already one person too many. 

Castiel remembers Dean’s apartment’s location from the night they studied for the Biology lab final together. They had sat on Dean’s bed, listening to Led Zeppelin while Castiel quizzed Dean (being an Entomology major, he knew most of the material from his AP Bio classes in high school, so didn’t need to study as much). He still remembers the tint of blush in Dean’s cheeks whenever Castiel praised Dean for his correct answers. 

“You’re actually making me think I can get this stuff,” Dean had said. “I always thought I was too dumb to get this science crap. Not a ton of time to focus on academics, with the football scholarship and all.”

“Of course you can get it,” Castiel said. “You’re far from stupid, Dean.” 

When Dean had grinned widely at that, Castiel had decided that he’d love to put a thousand more smiles on his handsome face.

Castiel shakes his head as he climbs the stairs to Dean’s apartment door. He lost his chance with Dean months ago; he needs to remember that.

He’s barely rapping his knuckles against the door before it bursts open. Dean yanks him inside. “Hurry, it disappeared! I think it went under the stove!” 

Castiel stumbles into the narrow hallway, catching himself with a hand against the wall. He stares at Dean, who is dressed in nothing but gym shorts and a thin white t-shirt, oven mitts on his hands and a colander on his head.

“What in the hell are you wearing?” Castiel asks.

“Defensive gear,” Dean replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Castiel blinks. “Um—” 

Dean grabs Castiel’s arm and pulls him toward the kitchen. “C’mon, dude, it’s getting away!” 

“Dean, it’s not going to hurt you,” Castiel says as he trips after him. “Most spiders in this region don’t even bite.”

“Yeah, most, but knowing my luck this one will.” Dean pushes Castiel forward, hiding behind his back. “Okay, now, go do your… bug whispering.”

“My chosen major does not mean I whisper to bugs,” Castiel says.

“You know what I mean. Go, like… beat it into submission.”

Castiel sighs. He carefully walks across the linoleum kitchen floor, careful not to step on the small creature in case it decides to run under his feet. He spots the spider climbing its way up the side of the stove. 

“Hey, little one,” Castiel says softly. Based on the lack of distinct marks on its brown body, it’s likely a harmless cellar spider. Holding out his hand, he stops the spider’s trek with his fingers, cupping it in his palm. He ignores Dean’s horrified gasp behind him.

“You’ve had a busy afternoon,” Castiel murmurs to the small spider in his hands. He stands and turns toward Dean. “Can you open a window?”

Dean scrunches his face into a frown. “But it’ll just come right back in.”

“It’s warm outside. It’s likely that it’ll simply go look for food.” 

“Ugh. Fine.” Dean tentatively steps past Castiel and opens the balcony screen door. “Put it out here, I guess.” 

Castiel walks out onto the porch and carefully deposits the spider onto the railing. “Good luck,” he says as it scurries away. 

“You’re safe now,” he tells Dean tonelessly as he walks back into the kitchen, sliding the balcony door closed. 

Dean sighs and pulls off the oven mitts. “Thanks. I hate those things.”

“May I suggest that you may have arachnophobia?” Castiel asks. 

“How can you not with those things?” Dean dramatizes a shudder. “They’re nasty.”

Castiel shrugs. “I think they’re quite beautiful.”

Dean gives him a strange look. Huffs a laugh. “You know, I forgot how quirky you are.” 

“It has been a few months since our class concluded.” 

“Yeah. I guess.” 

Castiel pointedly does not mention, or think about, the awkward moment that made them stop speaking again after the end of the semester. 

Dean waves a hand. “Well, anyway, thanks man. For helping me out, and all.” 

The moment that Dean had leaned toward him on the bed, only inches between them, his eyes closing—

How fear made Castiel quickly jump off the bed, avoiding the kiss at all. 

“It’s no problem,” Castiel says quickly, shutting off his line of thinking. He avoids looking at Dean’s lips. “I should probably get back to studying.”  

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Dean rubs at the back of his head. His hair is sticking up wildly after taking the colander off his head. “You know, I’m in another Biology class, actually.”

Castiel’s eyebrows raise. “Oh really?”

“Yeah.” Dean grins. “Kinda was inspired by you, actually. You made me like that last class, so I thought… why not another one?”

Castiel feels something in his chest lighten. He smiles. “Oh, that’s—that’s good.” 

They both stand awkwardly, staring at their feet. “You know—” Dean says as Castiel begins, “I should—”

Dean smiles. Castiel hides a laugh behind his hand. “You go,” he says. 

“I was just gonna say, uh—” Dean waves a hand toward the living room. “I was actually about to study, too, if you, well… want company?” He quickly adds, “I can make you dinner for helping with the spider, too.”

Castiel says, “I do remember your cooking being delicious.” 

Dean’s face lights up with a grin. “So you’ll stay?” 

“Yes. Besides, if any insects come flocking at the smell of food, I will need to be here to protect you.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and aims an oven mitt at Castiel’s head. Castiel ducks, this time letting his laugh resound throughout the kitchen. 

They barely get any studying done; Castiel doesn’t mind. He’s perfectly content sitting in Dean’s sunny living room, watching Dean animatedly show Castiel each of his records and ramble off facts over the booming bass. Castiel complains about his classes, propped against the counter with a glass of wine in hand, as Dean cooks pasta. 

They watch Casablanca on the couch; it was Dean’s mom’s favorite movie, and coincidentally, Castiel’s. Not that they make it far; they’re in each other’s arms, kissing and ripping off each other’s shirts like their lives depend on it, barely five minutes into the movie. 

Castiel is lying contentedly on Dean’s bare chest and listening to his heartbeat when he murmurs, “I hope more spiders come into your kitchen.” 

He feels Dean kiss the top of his head. “Y’know what? Me too.”

. . . 

☆my patreon☆ ☆my ko-fi☆

[elsanna-shenanigans]

August Contest Submission #16: The Transfer Student

Words: ca. 2,000 Setting: Modern AU Lemon: No CW: Bullying, arranged marriage, mild angst, talk of suicide

Elsa was a new student on Arendelli High in Tokyo, Japan. Despite her constant reminders to her parents that she didn’t need their help picking school, they had persisted, Elsa had had to give in eventually. The school was what Elsa expected it would be, full of very antagonistic, rich, spoiled brat students. She quickly rose to popularity which she kind of expected. Not only was she the heir of a well-known, rich CEO and granddaughter of a corporate empire, she was also conventionally seen as attractive, which had both perks and cons. One of the cons was being constantly bombarded by the popular kids as they tried to get her into one of their ‘exclusive clubs’, which she had to persistently decline.

Which earned her the title of ‘Snow Queen’ in no time at all. “As usual,” she sighed. “It’s like some sort of a tradition.”

  This time she wasn’t going to just give up. She didn’t hate them, per se. She just couldn’t stand them. They were wildly immature, highly superficial if her overhearing their very loud gossip in the stall was any indication, back when she happened to be in one after helping to clean the bathroom. They also bullied the only person she actually wanted to get close to.

See, Elsa had a secret, just like everybody else, but this secret she cannot let anyone know. Not her parents nor her friends. Not if she can help it.

  She’s into the same sex,

swings the other way,

flower napper,

gay for girls,

  You get the idea.

  The girl named Anna was from her class too, she was really smart and got a scholarship to the school, so she wasn’t from money, as Elsa heard from one of the gossips. That was why a lot of the superficial ones bullied her. Elsa fancied that the real reason they were so harsh on Anna was that she was more beautiful than them and they felt threatened by her beauty, it might actually be true. Elsa once bumped into her ‘accidentally’ at lunch and was about to talk to her and maybe invite her to coffee but the redhead only apologized profusely and excused herself.

  Elsa felt guilty after that. She felt like she should be doing something to change this situation, she feared that the bullying might get to her one day. She wanted to do something for the girl so despite her hesitance she contacted someone she can even remotely consider her ‘friend.’

  “Yellow?” Elsa sneered as soon as she heard his voice.

“Oh, Elsa I can hear your sneer from here, if you need something from me then you would have to be a bit nicer.”

Elsa conceded and breathed in. “Fine. I need your help with something… and yes I can hear your grin reaching from ear to ear here too.”

“Oh, dear Elsa. What might this help be? Is it something your Mommy and Daddy cannot solve for you?” Hans replied.

Elsa snapped at that comment. “You bring up my parents and I hang up,” she threatened.

Hans knew that she meant it. “Alright Snow Queen, tell me what has got your ire this time.”

“It’s not a what, it’s a who.”

“Already? You just moved in the school.” “It’s not that!” Elsa said, flabbergasted the situation that she was in. “I…I want to court someone.”

“Oh, so it’s that,” Hans replied, seemingly reminiscent.

  Elsa doesn’t blame him. Sometime they forget that they’re more similar than they think, since Hans is gay too.

  See here: Hans and Elsa were to be betrothed, and so both of them had hired investigators to follow each other and find a reason to cancel the marriage. This was how they had discovered each other’s secret which, oddly enough, is what got them to keep the arrangement, since if it came to it, they’d let each have more leeway or even a chance to pick who they really love. They decided they are both fine with that kind of arrangement since eventually they’ll give in to their parents’ request and they would rather end up with someone they can negotiate with.

  “Can’t you just…I don’t know. Charm her or something, like talk about how you’re the daughter of great CEO and have a corporate empire or something?”

“Hans,” Elsa said, as she held the bridge of her nose, she’s just basically done. “I’m not like you, and it doesn’t work like that.”

“Hey, just throwing around ideas out here.” Hans defended himself. “Also it worked for me.”

“Well, I’m not like you. Prince Charming!” Elsa pointed out.

“Yeah, I wonder why? Miss Snow Queen!” Hans retorted. “Have you tried the ‘Accidental bump method?’”

“Yeah, and it didn’t work.” Elsa sighed, remembering how much it hadn’t worked. “It even kinda backfired.”

“Oof, a tough one huh. When did you get so picky?” Hans quipped.

Elsa sneered again. “I thought we’re here to, I dunno, help me court someone? Not judge my choices?”

“I know, I know. Sheesh…” Hans attempted to diffuse the situation. “Have you tried giving her a flower?”

“Ha Ha, that’s really stereotypical,” Elsa said.

Hans continued. “Look, Elsa. The goal here is to court someone, you kinda do need it to be stereotypical in a way or, if you prefer, predictable.”

“But it’s too obvious,” Elsa argued.

“That’s kind of the point.” Hans laughed. Then he was quiet for a while.

  Elsa thought about what Hans said. He did, kinda, have a really good point, Elsa had to admit. If only he used that brain of his to do good things instead of just goofing around and causing mischief then she might actually like him, not too much though, Elsa still for sure preferred girls.

  “Elsa, I gotta go,” Hans said a minute later. “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, and thank you,” Elsa replied. It was at these times that Elsa was happy that she let him stick around.

  Elsa followed Hans’ advice and went to buy flowers. She would have to be careful about this, else she might just be at the bullying end and she couldn’t help Anna that way. Though she does think there can be sort of a camaraderie in that, she prefers if it didn’t happen. Not if she can help it.

  What she decided to go with was yellow crocus flowers, as they were apparently a great symbol of hope and joyfulness. Which was definitely the message she was looking to send. Winter will indeed end, spring will come again and life will go on.

  She arranged them in a vase with water to keep it fresh and left it at Anna’s desk as they were going to class next morning.

  However, Elsa didn’t get quite the expected reaction. Yes, students were talking about it when they saw it but they had sort of a look of dread in their face instead of curiosity and intrigue which worried Elsa. That can’t be good but it’s not as if she can undo it now. She needs to know what’s wrong, then it came to her. It was sort of a slow realization.

“What if the culture around flowers here in Japan is vastly different compared to where I’m from?” she thought and the gears on her head started to turn. She leaned in a bit to the other table and calmed herself enough to listen in to their conversation.

  “Do you think the Gyaru girls did it?”

“No even they wouldn’t stoop this low.”

“What kind of asshole would tell someone to kill theirself?”

  That was the last straw for Elsa, she is still confused as to how this all worked it but if it was bad enough that even the gyaru girls won’t do it then she’s royally fucked. She was going to remove it now no matter what, reputation be damned. Then Anna walked in and headed directly to her table, on when she reached the table did Anna notice the flowers. It was like scalding hot water being poured on her when Elsa watched Anna’s expression shift from bad to worse.

  Anna went running out of the room. Elsa followed quickly after, determined to comfort her properly this time. Anna was fast walking and then running and Elsa almost couldn’t keep up with her. This was a very unfortunate day to wear heals. Elsa followed her to the rooftop expecting to see her sulking there, but what she saw was something else.

  Anna was on the edge of the school rooftop, she had her shoes off and she looked like she was about to… no… nooo… please don’t do it, please don’t jump.

  “Hey, don’t do it, please.” It just came out of Elsa’s mouth without her permission, but she was glad that it did.

“Let me be,” Anna replied, her voice full of resolution.

“It was me, I was the one who put the flower with the vase there. Whatever it meant, it was not my intention.” Anna looked at her like she had grown two heads but Elsa kept going, she had Anna’s attention now and that’s good. She’s also slowly getting closer to her as she spoke. To pull her away if needed.

  “I didn’t… I just wanted it to be your hope in this trying times. I wanted to be…”

  “You’re not just making this up to make me feel better?” Anna asked, still guarded.

  “If you want to, I can show you exactly where I purchased the flowers and the vase but I can’t really do that unless you get down from there first.” Anna seemed to realized she was still outside the protective fence of the rooftop, she seemed to blush at the realization. Must be from the height, Elsa thought. Anna finally moved to get to a safer location and Elsa helped her. After she was safe and sound, Anna grabbed at Elsa’s hand. For the first time since Elsa got to the roof, Anna finally met her gaze.

  “Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

Elsa looked into Anna’s eyes, she didn’t find any blame or sarcasm there, it was just genuine curiosity.

  “I tried and I failed the first time, I guess…I should have just tried again.” The situation of the earlier encounter was finally getting to Elsa, crashing down on her like huge waves on an unassuming shore, she holds on tighter to Anna’s hand “I’m just, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Anna traces soothing circles on Elsa’s hand.

“But I almost killed you,” Elsa says to Anna. Anna reaches for her to remove the tear that fell from Elsa’s eyes.

“I’m also being stupid, to be fair, I wasn’t in a great place but still it’s a stupid move. I’m not saying you’re off the hook, just saying it wasn’t just you.” Anna patted Elsa’s back and it worked wonders. She breathed as she hears that and despite herself, she felt a bit of relief.

  “What did it mean anyway? The flowers and the vase on the table?” Elsa asked after she had retrieved her handkerchief to clear her nose with. Her back turned to Anna as a polite gesture.

  “It means the whole class wants you to be dead. It’s like sending someone a coffin while they are still alive.” Anna replied.

  “Oh…that’s,” Elsa started to say, “kind of morbid.” she thought outloud and Anna nodded to her in agreement.

  “I think I should be more careful about this, culture difference and knowing the norms in this place.” Elsa concluded, still a bit guilt-ridden over what happened.

  “It’s fine, you were new so you didn’t know. Now you know what not to do next time.” Anna replied to Elsa, and then she flashed a smile to her direction, “Like I said, still not off the hook though,” she reminded her. “You still need to make it up to me.” Elsa didn’t get it at first but when she did, she blushed profusely. She didn’t want to misunderstand more things but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t take this opportunity “So uhh…coffee?”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t pass on that, but I prefer hot chocolate.”

“Me too.”

[anotheronechicagobog]

Enemies to Lovers Noah Sexton x dawson!reader

requested by: @bitweird1​

written by: @anotheronechicagobog​

Warnings: swearing, mature themes, child neglect, slightly Dawson bashing but they really just didn’t know, canon compliant threats

You had spent your entire life struggling and working your ass off. No social life, extracurriculars for the sole purpose of applying to universities, and spending the majority of your life studying because according to your dad at least one Dawson had to become a doctor and your older siblings had decided that it wouldn’t be them, leaving you to do nothing but prepare for the future that had been hand-picked by the man you felt abandoned you. And then Noah fucking Sexton just waltzes in having put in half the effort and riding the coattails of his much more intelligent sister who gave up a career as a doctor because of sexism. He spent far too much of his time flirting with everything that had boobs and a pulse. You didn’t like him because he took nothing seriously and didn’t have a responsible bone in his body, and he hated you because you were incredibly uptight and didn’t have a sense of humour.

“Maybe you’d have more friends here if you didn’t have a stick shoved up your ass.”

“I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to become a doctor.”

Everyone was getting really sick of your fighting, so they banded together and made things worse. They had badgered you until Doris had enough and dragged you to Molly’s. You refused to drink or eat anything, resulting in more snide remarks between you and Noah. Just when everyone was developing a migraine before they were anywhere even close to drunk your parents burst through the door and marched over to you. And suddenly, everyone in the bar, including your siblings, were subjected to and twenty-minute rant from your parents about how you should be grateful they pushed you towards medical school and all the activities that got you scholarships, that they didn’t abandon you, and that they clothed and fed you because a third child cost so much money, how you never took anything seriously and were always joking around, and how you were a disgrace to the family. Once they finished, your dad dragged you out by your arm, your mom followed muttering about why couldn’t you be more like Gabby and Antonio.

You walked into the ED the next day as robotic as ever. The pitiful and awkward stares were ignored with ease, it was something you were quite used to if you were honest. Your parents were always scrutinized by your teachers and DCFS. At the end of the day, though, they weren’t abusive enough for any charges or housing changes to be set. They weren’t like that with Gabby and Antonio, who had mostly moved out by the time you were in kindergarden, you were their last chance to help them prove to their family that they didn’t fail as parents. And they made sure you knew it.

“Dr. Dawson, you’ve got a patient in treatment one. Also, uh, are you okay? I feel pretty bad about last night.”

“Oh, don’t worry about anything. I’m fine, and my parents were right I should’ve been studying. It was a poor decision on my part not to. I’m gonna get to this patient, but you really don’t need to feel bad, okay?”

She nodded absently as you turned your back to her. ”Hi, I'm Dr. Dawson, can you tell me what brought you in today?”

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

Your patient had just gone up to the OR to have a blood clot removed and you made your way to the doctor’s lounge, followed by Noah Sexton. ”Hey, Y/N, are you-”

”Yes, Noah, I am okay. Yes, I'm sure. I am fine, I am always fine.”

”From my experience when people say they're fine they're usually not.”

”Noah, I am okay.”

“I don’t believe you.”

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

The next few weeks were a maze of pitiful stares, hushed concerned words, and a silent Noah. All of it was completely unnerving. It all came to a head when Dr. Charles approached in the ED you about starting therapy with him, talking continuously about all the points ‘brought to his attention’, not even giving you the time to tell him the majority were false. “Excuse me?” 

Your stomach coiled in anger at his words. Not only were you more than capable of doing your job, but you already had a therapist. With basket case parents like yours, it was blatantly obvious that therapy was required. But the audacity of your co-workers to gossip so much that it came to the point over half the points Charles brought up were complete BS was astounding. Not only that, but he’d apparently spent the last few days internet stalking you to try and find some of your demons. “Dr. Charles, do you consider me a danger or liability to any of the patients or doctors at this hospital because of my relationship with my parents?”

“No, you actually seem to be well balanced mentally.”

“Then what, on earth, made you think it was appropriate to go around behind my back asking everyone at the hospital their opinion about me and what happened at Molly’s, or stalk me online to try and get a read on me, and then ask me blatantly at work, in the middle of the shift, in front of all my co-workers and superiors? What made you think it was okay to loudly bombard me with rumours and hearsay while I’m working?”

“Well, I thought that since it’s my job to check on all the ED docs, I’d check on you.”

“... You’re joking, right? I am the only person in this department who goes to therapy. Don’t kid yourself, you don’t check on anyone here. You judge them and make sure they know it. And quite honestly, you don’t have the best reputation for looking out for the mental and emotional state of your colleagues. This confrontation was not only completely inappropriate, but rude, obnoxious, presumptuous, riddled with unchecked errors, and unprofessional.”

“That’s not how I would word it.”

“It’s how I see it, and how I’ll word it with HR.”

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

No one was pitying you anymore, not since the tongue lashing you gave Dr. Charles, who was on very thin ice with the hospital. While bringing up Robin and Sarah may have been a bit of a low blow, it exposed some issues with Dr. Charles that needed to be addressed. The only person who acted as if you were made of glass was Noah Sexton. While he had been a bit of a pain in the ass, this was worse. He was being sickeningly nice to you and it was getting on your last nerve. Yes, your parents were abusive. Yes, you had a messed up and traumatic childhood. But did that limit your abilities? No. Did that make you mentally unstable requiring therapy and fragility from your coworkers? Absolutely not.

He came in with coffee exactly the way you liked it, again. With a muffin, again. “You have to stop.”

“Stop what, Y/N?”

“Stop acting weird. You don’t like me, you hate me, actually. The only reason you’re being nice to me is because my parents resent my existence. I do not need or want your pity. So stop treating me like a china doll, and start treating me like your coworker.”

“Okay, okay, I uh... I’m sorry. I just, I feel guilty, okay? I gave you such a hard time for being so frigid and then when your parents showed up at Molly’s and started screaming at you for existing and having a life of your own, it just all made sense. And I gave you shit and trouble for coping with your crazy-ass parents. And then Dr. Charles came by to talk to you and I just felt even worse because even though I didn’t tell him anything, it was our fighting that put the spotlight on you in the first place. You shouldn’t have had your dirty laundry aired to the entire hospital, that’s happened to me a few times and it’s horrible, and I feel bad because I know that I was a contributing factor to all the shit you’ve had to deal with at work.”

“I get where you’re coming from, but let’s be real, everything would’ve turned out exactly the same way if you weren’t involved. The gossip mill runs strong at Gaffney.”

“Yeah, it does. I still feel bad.”

“Well, you’re forgiven then. So you can stop treading delicately, buying me coffee, and being creepily nice to me.”

“I am not being ‘creepily nice’! And how can being nice be creepy anyway?”

“Yesterday you followed me around offering to help me take my gloves on and off constantly, to the point where a patient who came in for falling out of the ceiling above the women’s changeroom said ‘that’s just weird’.”

“... Okay. I’ll stop. But I gotta be honest, I don’t think I can go back to arguing with you all the time.”

“That’s fine, just stop acting so weird that a couple I caught having kinky sex after an STD swab said ‘that made us really uncomfortable’.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice. Seriously, you didn’t have to tell me twice.”

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

SIX MONTHS LATER

You and Noah had actually managed to become good friends and roommates. Shortly after he started acting like a normal person around you, not an instigator or a psycho, you found yourself enjoying his company. And yesterday, when you’d come home to find your room completely torn apart by your mother because your father had tried to frame you for using weed, you were done. Most of what you owned had been destroyed in your mother’s search, which sucked, but it made packing up all your stuff into your car much easier.

So far you’d ignored 43 texts, 12 calls, two visits from Gabby when she brought in a patient, and one visit from Antonio who didn’t even bother trying to lie to you. He also threatened to impound your car, you threatened to tell Voight about the time he and Lindsay got drunk and hooked up. It didn’t even matter that she was in New York now, Voight wouldn’t even blink before bludgeoning him down. He swore at you, “how could you break mami’s heart like this?”, and “can’t you just behave and do what you’re told for once?”

You looked him dead in the eyes, heart beating erratically at you older brother supporting your parents belittling and abusing you, “You sound like dad Antonio.”, watched his face fall, and left. Noah stopped him when he went to follow you. “You good?”

“Uh, not really. I don’t have a place to go tonight.”

“Did your mom kick you out?”

“No, I left. I can’t do it anymore. I break out in hives whenever I even think about my mother now. I just can’t go back.”

“Well, you don’t have to. I have been looking for a roommate, we can move you into my place after shift.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Now come on, it’s prank week. Stohl pissed off Manning last week and she’s been planning revenge ever since, you do not want to miss this.”

And you didn’t. You entered the ED to find one of the most hated doctors in med spitting out Gatorade. “WHaT thE heLL?! That was sooo-ughghghg-” he couldn’t even finish his sentence before running to the doctor’s lounge to throw up in the bathroom. To Natalie’s credit, she didn’t crack a smile or react at all as she gracefully stepped over the spilled orange Gatorade. She briefly reminded you of a fae, graceful, beautiful, and cunning as all hell. You made a mental note never to cross her. Later at lunch, Natalie opened her sushi container, slightly deconstructed each piece, loaded all the pieces up with wasabi, reconstructed them, and popped one in her mouth. Everyone sitting near her had their eyes flash in recognition. Stohl had a habit of stealing other people’s food, and no matter how many times anyone told him to stop, they were just bullied into compliance. As a result, everyone had to dictate their food choices around his palette. Which meant no spicy food. Something that sucked for nearly everyone because hot food was a favourite for most people in the ED. But Manning wasn’t taking his shit. Not today. Something that worried everyone sitting around her because she would get in trouble for eating her own food how she liked it. It wasn’t until one of the HR workers, Holly, sat down beside Natalie and engaged in conversation that everyone realized the full scope of her plans. Stohl plopped down beside you and stole half of your sandwich right out of your hand. Ranting and raving, insulting everyone, stealing food, he made his way all around the circular cafeteria table until he got to Nat. He scooped up to pieces and threw them in his mouth just after he finished the words ‘insolent underlings’. Everyone held their breath as they watched his pale face redden exponentially. His eyes widened. And then he screamed. 

He yelled, he swore. “I’m going to report you to HR! You tried to poison me!”

“You stole food from everyone, something inappropriate, unethical, and unprofessional. You stole her food. That she made spicy to her tastes. She didn’t try to poison you.”

“And just who the fuck do you think you are?!”

“Holly Scott, from HR.”

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

You and Noah were doing great, as roommates and as friends. “Hey, do you have any plans for dinner tonight? My parents invited me over for dinner and they asked me to extend an invite to you. It’s nothing major, they wanted to meet my previous roommates, too. Make sure you’re not a hooligan.”

“Okay, sounds fun. What should I bring?”

“Yourself...?”

“It’s rude to show up at someone else’s home without a gift.”

“You don’t need to bring my parents a gift.”

“Oh, I’m bringing a gift. I’m just asking you for some input.”

“Okay, well they really like wheelie shoes-”

“Ha, oh my god, I meant for what your parents would like, not you. And want wheelie shoes? Those have been out for a while, Noah.”

“Hey, do not laugh at me! They are just a very effective and fun way to get around.”

“Would you like them to light up too?”

“... Is that an option?”

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

You knocked on the door while Noah rolled his eyes at you. “I grew up here!”

“Well you don’t live here anymore and it’s rude to just barge into someone’s home and act like you own the place.”

“Oh, you must be Y/N! I wasn’t expecting anyone to knock, usually, Noah just barges in and acts like he owns the place. Come in, come in. It’s freezing outside.” You gave Noah a side-eyed smirk as you took off your coat, while he looked bashfully embarrassed. “Uh, here Ms. Sexton, I brought some homemade empanadas, they can be put in the fridge or kept in the freezer, and it’s best to reheat them in the oven. 350 F, ten minutes from the fridge and about 20 if they were put in the freezer.”

“Oh, you really didn’t have to do that.”

“I was raised that when you go over to someone’s house for dinner or an event, you bring a gift. And it was either this or a house plant.”

“Ha, good idea going with the food, it’s a Sexton family trait that will kill all the plants we touch. Thank you very much.”

“Hello, you must be Y/N. It;s wonderful to meet you- and what smells so good?”

“Y/N brought empanadas, and they are going away so that you and I can enjoy them later. Now everyone, to the dining room, dinner is just about done.”

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

Things started to change a bit a few months later when Choi had to physically restrain Noah from attacking a drunk bar fight patient who called you a slut in the middle of the ED. You’d been confused but Maggie just kept saying that it was a matter of time.

When you’d been hanging around at Molly’s with Noah, Sarah, and Darren, Noah had his arm casually wrapped around your shoulders, something your sister gave you the eyebrow for from her place at the bar.

After you’d been mugged and beaten, you’d run to the 21st, where your brother promptly unleashed the most fearsome demon hell has ever cowered from, AKA Hank Voight, he also called Noah. And when your brother finally made an arrest and got Voight to calm down a little, he’d entered the breakroom to find you fast asleep, curled up against Noah. Who sat in an incredibly uncomfortable position, holding you and stroking your back. You missed the dark look that crossed his face, or the one of fear that had crossed Noah’s but something of an understanding had fallen to Noah. The two of you needed to talk.

So you did, and it went well, so well that you planned a date. Then another one. And another one, until you two had been dating for six months and figured it was time to tell your families. You were shaking in your boots, the Sexton’s were all incredibly close and incredibly doting on Noah, so even though they liked you, you had absolutely no clue as to what the reaction would be. To your relief, it was happiness, they loved you as much as Noah apparently, and they relished in the changed you’d caused in Noah.

Your family, on the other hand, did not react well. Which was why you’d made sure that you told them in a very public place, and had only ordered waters before you told them. There was yelling, screaming, your father waving his arms around so much Antonio had to use his cop voice on him. In the end, you and Noah had been there for around five minutes before throwing some cash at the waitress as a tip for leaving her with your family, and hauling ass out of there. The two of you had ended up just eating pizza on the boardwalk in your fancy clothes and heading back to the apartment late.You both had work the next day, but while you were an intern, Noah was not. And while you were off giving a patient a sponge bath, your siblings cornered Noah at the nurses desk. “Sexton, is there a place the three of us can talk?”

“Uh, sure, this conference room is free...”

“Perfect.”

“So, I take it this is about-”

“Nuh-uh. You do not talk. We do.”

“You are dating our baby sister.”

“We may not be as close to her as you are with your sister, but she still means a lot to us.”

“We love her. We are two people with some pretty dangerous skills. It is for these two reasons that you will not hurt her. Ever.”

“And if you do, don’t forget who I work with.”

“No one will ever find your body.”

“Are we clear?”

“Uh, hmmh... Clear. Crystal clear.”

“Good. Now do you know where Y/N is? We’d like to take the both of you out to lunch or something, just the four of us, to make up for the dinner of many disasters.”

[diegolabhont]

The beginning

Book: Queen B - Choices (Universe) 

Pairing: Zoey Wade x Trans!Male MC (Beck Hughes) & Poppy Mid-Sinclair  x Trans!Male MC  (Beck Hughes)

(Keep reading please, I have an explanation)

Genre: None (in this post, al least)

Rating: Anyone can read it, really.

Tags: @nevermindme-justreading

SO... here´s the thing:

This is me trying to write by and for the Trans community, specially FTM community, meaning, trans guys, but I actually took the liberty to use They/them pronouns for everyone out there who´s interested (Also, the name Beck was the most neutral one I could find, trying to use the cannon Bea Hughes) Beck is a trans latin guy, but you´ll see about that as the story takes off. This is just the presentation for the MC. Sorry

Now, about the PAIRING... I, as a writter, didn´t want to loose the opportunity to writte for my Queen Zoey and my other Queen Fic!Poppy (I SWEAR THAT´S NOT BECAUSE SHE´S ASIAN) so I will be using the same character to both, kinda like choices style, kinda. If you have any comment, PLEASE BE RESPECTFULL and patient with me. This is also my first english fanfic and english is not my mother language, so... i´m sorry fo the grammar errors. Also, I don´t live in the US so sorry if it´s a little bit weird.

CHAPTERS

Chapter one 

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Belvoire University. That´s where they were. During all of those years of hard work and hidden passion for music after heavy and demanding tasks back in the family farm, the last thing Beck Hughes thought would happen to them were getting a full scholarship for a music and composition major in one of the most prestigious institutions all over New York and they were truly, truly grateful. If you ask them, the view in here was too flashy for their simple taste, but they couldn´t complain, after all, they did have one of the best music programs at their disposition.

In the meantime, they were walking through campus feeling oh so in home. The gazes of the students around fixed on them as if Beck was some kind of alien in this glamorous and wealthy world. Beck didn´t care honestly. Too long ago they got used to teasing, to comments behind Beck´s back, to be judged for banal and superficial things. At least nobody was being dangerous. That´s why they walked with confidence and upright posture, feeling the strap of their guitar case dangle across their shoulder through his leather jacket. Maybe that bored and unimpressed expression they put up to pretend was the one to blame for the ruckus, especially when they clearly didn´t belong there, or maybe it was Beck´s second hand clothes, they didn´t know, but all that stopped mattering when their fear to be inside of a school drama came true the moment in which a noisy blonde bumped into their way.

At first they didn´t understand the magnitude of the problem, why was a simple coffee such a big deal? All the blonde girl had to do was move her lazy ass and ask for another one to herself instead of yelling to this poor girl just like a Karen. Yes, it was naïve of Beck to believe that they could interfere to peace the waters; the only thing he got was to bring all the fury from the banshee imitator right at them. Well, at least the first victim looked a bit more relaxed.          

“Who the fuck do you think you are to talk to me like that?!” She yelled “Do you have any idea of who am I?”

No, who cares?

“I´m…”

“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t have to worry about who she is. But you should worry about who I am”

Beck heard a voice talking right next to them, but again… Who. Cares? People was staring still; can we all just forget everything or doing a raincheck? Beck snorted with annoyance while turn around to face the new combat player logging in.

“Come on, tag along, shall we? Let’s acknowledge everybody’s name! The guy in the back, who are you? Who are everyone? I totally care!”, he thought for a split second, but their brain stopped working completely to the sight of a stunning and beautiful strawberry blonde standing right in front of them. He didn’t even notice how everyone was deadly quiet.

“Shit, she´s gorgeous…���

“And I’m about to become your first and last memory of Belvoire University”

Aaaand… she ruined it. Beck let out a chuckle, a challenging, mocking smile on his face.

“Is that a threat?”

Please, there was no possible way she could do anything to make them back down. Nothing. It took two steps from Beck to close the distance between them and the strawberry blonde, leaning gracefully to poke fun at the noticeable height difference. The girl didn´t back down neither, accepting the challenge with a murderous, threating look.

“You won’t last a day here”

Oh, that how it´s going to be, I see…

“I'm a trans person in a conservative, religious town… Try me”

Blonde´s face was a poem. The surprise so clearly drawn on her face that they could see exactly how her brain stopped, looking up and down Beck, astonish, processing the information, … “Ow, I broke her” They thought, amused. People were completely eating all up the show, Beck could feel every eye on the interaction, what was going on in this school? Fuck, where did they got into?

“Look, I gotta go. If you find something clever to say, just text me, a ‘right?” Said Beck, very willing to leave.

“Rude!”

Squawked Young Karen.

“Oh, snap. New Dude´s not backing down!” said someone.

They didn´t even care, Beck kept walking without looking back and they would be considerably far if not to a hand clawing back their free shoulder.

“How you dare—!“

“Hey, Beck! Look at the time, we gotta go!”

A girl shows up from nowhere, took his arm and pulled them out of the commotion, running away as if a bear were behind them. Seriously, what the hell? The girl, that finally looked like the danger was gone, stopped right in front of a large and fancy door and slammed her keycard against some kind of sensor.

“Wish the circumstances were different, but welcome to de Winfrey dorm complex, AKA your new home!

She was agitated, naturally, but was until that moment that Beck had the chance to look at her with more detail… Gosh, are really all the ladies here that pretty? What´s in the water? Her hair, her eyes, those lips... She was completely flawless, a breath taking beauty.

Feeling confused and intrigued, Beck stumbled inside looking around in awe. Just a fraction of that room looked even more expensive than their own home!

“So… you are my… counselor or something?” they asked, the gorgeous girl looking too young to be one, though. She then cracked up a smile and a little chuckle.

“Beautiful”

“Starting with the wrong foot here and there, don´t you?” She grinned back to they and all the things Beck could feel was embarrassment and a beating heart making heat on their face. “You got out of that one alive. Barely.” She said, looking concerned once again, the laughing disappeared from those cute eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Honestly… You´re gorgeous” A slight blush appeared on her cheeks, alarming Beck.

“Did I just…”

“…Is what I was thinking, but did I just say it out loud?” I hate me, I hate me, I hate me…

“You did, and you´re absolutely, positively right. I´m Zoey Wade, your roomie…”

Oh, so she has a name… wait a minute…

“You´re my roomie?” Beck asked taken aback, what does this means? They felt restless, kind of anxious. It´s this even allowed or the school was acting based on...

Zoey seemed to understand the internal fight in their mind because she immediately clarified.

“You don´t have to worry, this kind of dorms tend to be mixed so it´s kinda normal. Besides I check your info on The T and I saw you were LGBT+ so I´m not feeling…”

“My what?” That´s where she realized.

“Oh! Right… Ok, I´ll make it simple. Here there is a whole system here based on reputation.” Zoey took her phone and showed Beck a long numbered list.  Number one and on the top were the same girl they encounter earlier: Poppy Min-Sinclair was there, showing a radiant and flashy perfect smile, next was the banshee named Chloe St James, people, people, people, and low, low into the very bottom, was Beck Hughes… Or we most say “Newbie” Hughes. 

“Y´see... you are the new addition and The T´s been all over you. Specially because… well…” She looked reluctant to say it, but it wasn´t actually bad to Beck. They were used to.

“I don´t belong. Got it”

Beck let the guitar case on the floor, right next to the couch, walking around to see their new place, feeling Zoey´s eyes on them all the time.

“I don’t really care, I came here to have a good time and enjoying my music” and to save my life, basically. “So… mind if you show me some fun?” Said Beck, a little flirty. They were a little insecure, taking their chances… New town, new life, right? The seductive smirk they got back relaxed them a little bit more.

“Oh, Beck… I think we will be getting along just fine.”

[dhufflebee]

when I see you like that  (a Glee fanfiction)

One-shot Fandom: Glee Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jesse St. James & Andrea Cohen; Jesse St. James/Rachel Berry - mentioned (and at this point very much one-sided) Characters: Jesse St. James; Andrea Cohen  Additional Tags: rambling phone calls; basically just Jesse moping a lot; Friendship; Pining; Self-Worth Issues; rated T for some swearing

Read on:  AO3  |  ff.net Summary: After the loss at Nationals, Jesse can’t face his Vocal Adrenaline students, and calls his friend Andrea instead. Talking with her, though, painfully reveals his well-concealed sense of inadequacy—and his unquenchable feelings for one Rachel Berry

This fic is basically 3k words of Jesse moping, in a weird half-dialogue half-rant format. I’ve felt the need to write this since I’ve rewatched ‘Nationals’: that three-second shot of Jesse on the verge of tears has been haunting me, and I had to get the story out of my system. Most of all, I needed him to get some of the love and validation that the show deprived him of.

In my mind, it isn’t at all out of character for Jesse to be this miserable in private. He is crazy talented and he knows it, but he also has deep self-worth issues (due to his demanding and not very loving upbringing), for which he compensates with pride and overconfidence. He also has his (in)famous showface that rarely goes away, and he doesn’t feel comfortable being emotionally vulnerable. Except with Andrea—and, well, with Rachel.

By the way, I know Jesse and Andrea's friendship is mostly fanon, but I like it very much nonetheless.

Jesse had never felt so upset in his life. His heart, his mind, his guts were telling him conflicting things, and his knees were starting to give way under him as the adrenaline of the competition slowly went away. He barely managed to close the door to his room before he had to sit on the bed. He was feeling lightheaded, with black pushing at the edge of his vision—the way he would feel after a long training when he hadn’t eaten enough. But it wasn’t low blood pressure, Jesse knew that. It was the same dreadful mix of emotions and thoughts as that damn day two years before, but somehow a hundred times worse. Then it had been divided loyalties, two shattered hearts, and the gut punch of feeling like an utter bastard, but now… damn, he’d added so many failures in the past two years that he had no idea how his showface was still so good. He was starting to feel like a hollow husk at times. Something had definitely broken back then, and the constant, cyclical reminders of what he’d stupidly lost weren’t doing him any favors—that evening after Nationals, the castle of cards that had been Jesse St. James’s so-called adult life was a breath away from collapsing, once and for all.

Jesse kicked off his shoes, threw the suit jacket haphazardly on a chair, and lay down on the bed, trying to steady his breath against his inner turmoil. After a while, he felt blindly around his legs for his phone, until he found it lying precariously near the edge of the bed. He then flung the duvet up over his head and snuggled under it, shirt and nice slacks be damned. He unblocked his phone and opened his recent calls, dialing his best (only?) friend’s number.

“Victory boy! Hey!” a chipper voice answered.

“Andrea…”

“Ah. You didn’t win, then.”

Jesse sighed. Andrea’s reaction made him realize he sounded as dejected as he felt—something he’d long learned how to conceal, but the Chicago air must have jinxed him or something. Or maybe he was simply beginning to crumble under the pressure of his feelings. Whatever.

“I feel like crap, Andy. I should be with the guys, drowning our disappointment in ginger ale or what-have-you, but I don’t even have the energy for that. I barely managed to tell them I was proud of them—and I am—before I had to get out of there. They were crying, Andy, and the looks on the seniors’ faces… I just—I couldn’t stay.”

Jesse knew he was rambling, but a big part of his and Andrea’s friendship had always been taking turns in unloading while the other listened and then offered some honest advice. No one else in his life had ever made him feel safe enough to be so open and vulnerable—except for Rachel, but he’d thrown away his chance to have her at the other end of the line again, hadn’t he?

“I’m sure they understand, Jesse. You told them you were proud, and that’s what matters. Remember how nice it felt when they would tell us? Eased the disappointment of losing somewhat, no?” Andrea asked, a tinge of wistfulness in her voice.

“Yeah, well… god, they worked so hard for this. I really thought we’d win, you know? I honestly miss the high of victory—as I’m sure you do, too,” Jesse said with a smirk, getting a chuckle from Andrea in response. “Nevertheless, Carmel High is going to kick me out the minute I get back to Akron, as they so candidly told me they would when I got the job. And I guess they have all the rights to do it—what kind of failure am I, four-time champion and I can't even coach fucking Vocal Adrenaline to victory? I wouldn't want to keep me around either."

Jesse heard himself getting whinier by the minute, and he hated it, hated how earnest he ended up being while talking with Andrea (and with Rachel, too—he never quite managed to keep his walls up for long with her either… Stop! Stop thinking about that!). Andrea hesitated and exhaled, and Jesse could imagine her shaking her head as well.

"Why didn't you win, though?" she asked at last. "I've seen those videos you sent me: the choreo was incredible! What happened?"

"A ragtag bunch of misfits, that's what happened," Jesse answered, trying to sound mean but only managing desolate. Figures. "The New Directions really busted their asses this year, apparently. You should have seen them, everyone performed at a level they'd never reached before—and you know how they've always been so endearingly energetic. I loathe to admit it, but they were great, and I guess they did deserve to win. Probably. Couldn't tell that to my guys, though," he chuckled, gloomily.

"I'm glad to hear that," Andrea said, with a careful, knowing tone that Jesse instantly dreaded. "Is that it, though? This whole call just because the New Directions finally snatched first place after years of trying?"

Jesse didn't answer. He couldn't, he wouldn't tell Andrea the real reason of his moping—besides, he knew she could easily guess it.

"Unless..." (There it is.) "What about Rachel, Jesse? Did she sing?"

Jesse was thankful the conversation was happening on the phone, Andrea at one end of the nation and himself buried under a duvet in a hotel room in Chicago. He wouldn't have been able to sustain her gaze, otherwise. At least on the phone he didn't need his showface, and his instinct to flee from emotional vulnerability was somewhat tamed (but not much).

"Jesse?"

He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the phone more tightly, hoping to keep at bay the flood of emotions that he could sense coming. At last, he whispered: "Yeah, she did. It's All Coming Back to Me Now".

"Oh."

And that was it. Andrea’s understanding tone was all it took for the floodgates to open and for Jesse’s rambling, vulnerable side to come out in full force. Tears threatened to escape his eyes, but he them firmly shut—he would not cry.

“God, Andy, when she sung that song—it felt like she was saying all those things to me!” Jesse’s voice traitorously cracked at that last word.

“I don’t think that’s—”

“I know!” Good lord, he was whining again. “I know that it’s ridiculous! that I’m reading too much into it, that they chose the song way beforehand and Rachel has much better things to think about than me… But what if she was singing about us after all? The words are rather fitting, and she knows that—same as she knew we were bound to meet here tonight. It’s there, Andy, the whole story! Me being an idiot, all my mistakes and the hurt I inflicted her—she was reproaching me, and I cannot blame her because I deserve it. And I especially deserve to hear it from her magnificent voice, even if god knows I don’t need to be reminded of what I did to her.” Jesse was breathing heavily, almost unable to articulate his feelings, his words spilling out at an alarming speed.

Andrea remained silent for a few seconds, then answered with a deliberate yet soothing tone—the one she reserved for Jesse’s rare mopey moments. “I don’t think your history with Rachel had anything to do with the song, Jesse.” He scoffed lightly, but she ignored him. “Besides, you were a teenager back then, and you were forced between a rock and a hard place. Shelby was a bitch that manipulated you and treated both Rachel and the parents of that baby like dirt. Sure, you were a bit of a dick, but you’ve got to cut yourself some slack. You were not stupider than the average teen in love, all things considered.”

Jesse tried to scoff again, but what escaped his throat sounded more like a sob than anything else. “Andy, you don’t understand,” he pleaded, pressing the heel of his free hand on his eyes. “I threw away the one truly warm thing in my life because Shelby threatened to take away my scholarship to UCLA, and look how well that went,” Jesse laughed bitterly. Ah, the familiar taste of self-deprecation. Saying all that out loud felt better than just mulling over it constantly, though. “I’m such an imbecile—I got college handed to me on a silver platter, and I couldn’t even manage to float just above the pass grade? Or, I don’t know, use my fucking brain for a change? And to think I would be so conceited about it, as if I could ever hope to accomplish anything intelligence-related…”

“Jesse, stop!” Andrea interjected vehemently. “You’re spiraling and you’re starting to sound like your father. You’re not stupid, you’re not brainless—you’re smart, and the most brilliant guy I know as far as musical theater is concerned. And don’t start with how acting or singing or whatever is bullshit, because I’ll come down there, slap you, and then find your dad and punch him on his ugly mug.” At that, Jesse felt a sharp surge of affection for his friend, regardless of her proclivity for mild physical threats. “We all sweated blood in Vocal Adrenaline, but we were happy and good—you above all, because performing is your passion and your talent. Who cares if you didn’t pass gen eds? You’re wonderful, and you will take Broadway by storm soon.”

“Ms. Tibideaux didn’t seem to think so,” Jesse replied, dejectedly.

“Who?”

“Carmen Tibideaux. NYADA?”

“What does she have to do with anything now?” Andrea asked, confused. “That was years ago.”

“Yeah, right—the first of my many failures.” Jesse’s tone was more bitter than he expected. He intentionally hadn’t thought much about his audition since, but he guessed disappointments never actually stopped stinging, did they?

“Come on, Jesse…”

“I didn’t get in, okay? No point in sweetening the pill. I was good but apparently not enough—and I always knew that, but now I have confirmation from the woman’s own voice that I ‘showed promise’ but couldn’t overcome the obstacles to be the best. So really, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life.” Was he being overdramatic and overly self-critical? Absolutely. At that moment, though, Jesse had no idea how to stop.

“Enough!” Andrea exclaimed. Deep down, the rational part of Jesse’s brain had realized he was being maddening, but he also had to admit he didn’t mind Andy’s forceful tone. It felt strangely soothing, being told to get a grip from someone who cared about him.

“I can’t believe you are saying this,” she pressed on. “I’ve already told you: you are incredible, and I won’t let you wallow in this kind of negativity. The audition was years ago, and believe me, I’ve seen you get absurdly better in the meantime. Ms. Tibideaux said you showed promise, and that’s good! You did and you do, and you will reach even higher that she could ever imagine.”

Jesse hummed, not entirely convinced but certainly relieved that someone else was eager to vouch for his talent. He knew he was good (okay, very good), but that didn’t mean he wasn’t, from time to time, afraid he’d been deluding himself due to his own arrogance.

“When did you speak with the woman?” Andrea asked.

“She was here to see Rachel perform. And when I went and told her she shouldn’t let Rachel slip through her fingers, she remembered me and made a list of all the flaws in my audition. Lovely experience, really,” Jesse said, with a bitter chuckle.

“Aw, you put in a good word for Rachel—that’s so sweet! Did you tell her?”

“I can’t! Are you crazy? She cannot know ever. I don’t deserve her knowing, if anything I owe her.” Jesse replied, his voice half-strangled. (Pathetic.) “Rachel and I bantered for a couple of minutes before the competition, and it almost got me punched by Finn, in addition to giving me some serious doubts about my ability to function properly.” He smiled at the memory. Rachel’s red dress was still incredibly vivid in his mind. “God, Andrea, you should have seen her—she was radiant. I’d ever seen her inhabit the stage so perfectly. She is the one who deserves to take Broadway by storm and who will. She’s a powerhouse, and she’s absurdly talented, and tonight she looked so beautiful with that smile of hers, and then she sang Céline and I couldn’t—”

Jesse heard Andrea exhale, as if ready to answer, but he rambled on, unable—unwilling—to stop now that someone was there to listen to him for once.

“I just—I miss Rachel so much. She earnestly thought I was worth all the fuss. Even with Shelby, it’d always seem like my work was barely acceptable, and that all the trophies were just due to luck and the power of a good routine or something. Which yeah, I guess is true, but—honestly, Andy, except for you, Rachel’s the only person who’d always tell me how much she liked when I performed, and how good I was. I was starved—I am starved for that, Andy. D’you know my grades improved while I was in Lima with her? I actually had to study, and I wasn’t half bad at it. All thanks to her. God knows why she stayed with me after the initial razzle-dazzle, because she was way better that I could ever deserve. And she definitely deserved more than yours fucking truly,” Jesse spat out.

“And I guess she will have it,” he continued, barely taking time to breathe, “since she’s getting married soon to Finn. And sure, I hate him and he hates me, but I can see how Rachel looks at him, and he looks at her the same way. I mean, he’s a rhythmically-challenged dumbass, but I can’t deny he makes her happy—that’s the truly important thing. I ruined everything, and I know I’d never be able to make her feel that way. I think Rachel could really be the one, you know? I feel it in my bones, I’ll never be as happy with anyone else as I was with her… But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is Rachel won’t have a fuckup like me beside her, who’d just end up wiping her wonderful smile away.”

Jesse had to stop—his throat was aching due to the strain of putting one coherent word after another, of trying to talk as fast as his inner turmoil demanded. Tears were escaping his eyes and running down his cheeks and in his hair. He didn’t care that he was crying, though: he already felt like an utter failure, another embarrassing thing wouldn’t change anything. Besides, it was nice, having a friend listen to him while he moped and pined. Crying is good, right? It helps get the toxins and the sadness out, doesn’t it? A good cry and I’ll stop feeling like shit—

“Oh, Jesse…” Andrea whispered after a beat, and that shattered Jesse’s attempts at regaining his composure—he started sobbing uncontrollably, burying himself more and more under the duvet.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me that?” Andrea asked, softly. “God, Jesse, I wish I was there to hug you. Believe me, though, Rachel is right—everything she told you and everything she thinks about you is true. You’ve had a lot of shitty people in your life, but never for a second doubt that Rachel was sincere and saying things as they are. You’re brilliant and very talented, whether you believe it or not,” Andrea added, in a decisive tone that drew a wet smile from Jesse, “and no amount of Shelby or Ms. Tibideaux or your asshole of a father can claim otherwise. All that hard work and dedication… you do deserve the world, Jesse.”

Calming his breath enough to answer took Jesse a moment—his gratefulness to Andrea and his longing for Rachel were a killer combination, and he didn’t want to start bawling again.

“Thank you, Andy,” he finally managed to say. “I just wish I’d made fewer mistakes, you know? Maybe then I wouldn’t always feel like such a failure, maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely all the time and it wouldn’t hurt this much… I know things between me and Rachel probably won’t ever be mended, but gosh what I wouldn’t give to sing with her on a real stage, to have a partner that inspires me to be better and lets me share the spotlight with her.” Jesse exhaled shakily, willing himself to not cry until he had finished talking. “It’s too late now, though, and it’s all my fault, no point in denying that. I just wish for her to be as wonderful and captivating as she was tonight, forever—she lit up the whole place. I really hope I didn’t make an ass of myself with Ms. Tibideaux, and that Rachel’s dreams will come true. No, scratch that: I know they will. I just pray I’ll be able to get a glimpse of her happy as can be.”

Andrea’s silence at the other end of the line was almost deafening, but Jesse pressed on, feeling that he’d never have another chance (nor the nerve) to admit to it all out loud.

“Sorry for the rant, Andy. We lost Nationals and it hurts like hell, but it will pass—it’s going to be a nifty addition to the You’re A Failure pile, though,” Jesse mused, with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I have no idea what my plans for the future are going to be, after Carmel High parts ways with me. I guess I could finally try and go to New York for real. It’s just that, you know, seeing Rachel again really threw me for a loop, even after all this time, and I’m not sure why—”

“It’s love, Jesse,” Andrea interjected. “The way you talk about Rachel—you love her.”

Jesse inhaled sharply. Repeating that to himself was one thing, but hearing someone else say it so matter-of-factly felt real, definitive. (Scary.) “Hurray for me, then,” he muttered, at a loss for words to describe how his heart was ablaze, dismayed, and longing at the same time.

“I really hope you and Rachel will put your cracked pieces back together, Jesse,” Andrea said, sounding softer than she did at any other point in the phone call. “You both deserve a great life, and to have your talents shine—you and her alongside each other? Musical theater won’t ever be prepared, let me tell you.”

“Thank you, Andy.” Jesse’s eyes had filled with tears once again, and he’d once again buried himself under the duvet, in hopes of preventing the onslaught of painful memories he was sure would come. But it was no use—he thought back to Rachel singing, and a loud sob escaped his lips. Tears started falling freely down his cheeks and neck, reaching his hair and the collar of his shirt. “I wish. I’m not sure I believe that, but god, I wish.”

[ramblinganthropologist]

Writober 2020 - 25 (Orange)

Summary: Well... when Bo fucks up, she really fucks up, Luckily, CVS is open 24/7. Even luckier, Alistair’s coming with her. How hard could it be to get some damn pink hair dye anyway?

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There was nothing like the Normandy needing some repair work done that made him appreciate down time.

“You like that, Saren? I got it from your favorite place as a little surprise while I was out getting supplies for everyone.”

The small, round ball of fur continued to shove his food into his bulging cheeks. He was going a little faster than usual of course – that's what happened when he got his favorite snacks – but soon it would all be stored away for later. Until then, he would continue to look absolutely adorable as he sat in his enclosure.

Alistair had picked up more food and bedding for the hamster while he was out, along with a few chew toys and a new hide. Maybe he was spoiling Saren, but... well, why not? Space hamsters may have lived longer than their Earth counterparts, but they still maxed out at 10. They hadn't been sure how old   he was, so... why not make every day count?

Besides, he had pissed on Miranda. That made him a hero.

“It was really busy at the shop when I popped in today. I guess word got out that I go there.” He chuckled as he watched his hamster finish stuffing himself silly. “All full? You look like a little beach ball, Sar.”

Maybe it was his imagination, but he swore he saw Saren's cheeks puff out in indignation.  At any rate, he was soon tunneling into his bedding, to wherever he was storing his food in this cage layout. Alistair would find the remains eventually when he cleaned. It was kind of like one of the weirdest treasure hunts he had ever taken part in...

“Well, bye I guess.”

He shrugged his shoulders and started to return to his desk. However. A beeping from his omni-tool drew the Spectre's attention. There was a message there from Bo – fucked my omni-tool again, might have water damage. Fix?

Oh great... water damage.

“She's lucky I got some extra parts when I went shopping.” Alistair shook his head as he grabbed his tool box and jacket. “Saren, watch the room while I'm gone. If you see anyone from Cerberus sneaking around, you know what to do.”

That was of course look cute to entice them in, then bite the shit out of them. It was a good plan, and Saren executed it like a pro. That's why he always felt a little better when he left to go on missions. How could he not when he had his own personal attack hamster?

Bo hadn't said where she was, but he knew her enough that he stopped by the crew floor to find the XO office. The door was open, so he nudged it open and stepped through. There was water running – was she showering?

Well, good to know she trusted him.

“It's on the desk!” Her voice called out over the water. “Did Saren like the snacks you got?”

Alistair settled into his CO's desk in order to fix her very water-logged omni-tool. He cocked his eyebrow as he examined it further. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but parts of the band looked to be faded to almost white. A smell test confirmed it as he shook his head. Luckily, he had a replacement band in her size.

“Yeah. Did you forget to take this off when you were bleaching your roots though?”

Bo shut the water off – must've been done rinsing. “Some of it dripped while I was working.”

Of course it did. Alistair resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he pulled the stained band off. After that, it was simple diagnostic and replacement. Apart from the soldering of some replacement bits around the screen, he could've done it in his sleep. Luckily, he was awake so that made it go much faster.

He hummed to himself as he worked. “No big deal, I figured you'd need a new one eventually so I picked one up.”

“Gotta love a well-stocked tech.” Bo sounded like she was shifting around. Then she stopped moving. “Aw fuck...”

Alistair cocked his eyebrow as he put the omni-tool down briefly. “Everything alright in there?”

His XO didn't answer. From the sounds of things, she was getting dressed. At least he knew she hadn't fallen or anything, but her silence was a little concerning. However, going into the bathroom was a bad idea, so he was left waiting on the other side.

“Bo?”

Two red eyes were soon on him. “We're going to have to go back to CVS.”

At first, he started to open his mouth to ask why. That question was answered for him as Bo came into view,  adjusting her shirt as she walked. She had indeed finished bleaching her roots and touching up the color but...

Well, that wasn't pink. In fact, it was pretty damn fucking orange.

She shot him a look that definitely could've killed. “Well, get it over with.”

Alistair returned the omni-tool to his toolbox for later and started patching up details for returning to the dock. “Well... let's be honest, ginger's better on me than you. You can fix that at least, right?”

After all, there was only one redheaded Shepard on the Normandy, and he was under 6 feet tall. Besides, pink really was more her color anyway. He may have been an utter failure when it came to fashion, but at least he sometimes knew basic color theory.

Sometimes, anyway... he still didn't see why he couldn't wear neon blue sneakers with green laces.

“Yeah, just go already.” her hood was already up over the nightmare. “Before anyone really starts making Shepard siblings jokes.”

Perish the thought...

---

“Have I mentioned how much I hate C-SEC?”

“Many, many times.”

Alistair could feel a dull headache throbbing at the base of his implant as he and Bo finally cleared security. For some reason, flying in on the fucking Normandy always attracted some measure of attention. He wouldn't have minded, but they were kind of on a tight schedule.

Bo still had her hood up as they walked. “I swear I checked that damn box before I bought it, how the fuck did this happen?”

“You're asking the wrong guy, maybe the manufacturer mixed up the packages or something.” He shrugged. “I'll check it out later once we get back.”

Hell, maybe a low blood sugar had caused it. Bo might not have been as sensitive to biotic-induced hypoglycemia as he was, but there were times she still got it. For all he knew, this could have been a hypo fuck up. Of course, he'd never suggest that – that was just insult to injury.

What could he say, he was a paragon of virtue like that. Though, maybe he should consider adding a CGM to her omni-tool when he got back...

At least the CVS didn't look too busy from the outside. The parking lot looked pretty empty, but that was probably due to the time. Even the Citadel had slow periods between shifts after all – people had to sleep and eat sometime. It was just a stroke of luck they hit it when they did.

What wasn't so lucky was the guy Bo all but body checked as she entered the store.

Alistair opened his mouth to apologize, but he didn't get the chance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone coming. His reflexes kicked in, and soon a glowing blue barrier was erected around whatever was moving towards him. A shot ricocheted, and then they were down on the ground with a hole in their leg.

Huh. Now why would two guys in dark masks with guns be in a CVS? And why did the few people in there look like they had just seen a ghost?

“Oh, thank God. I thought - “ The clerk paused, realizing who was standing over her would-be robbers as if they did this every day – which, to be fair, they kind of did. It was just usually in armor. “Wait... are you Commander Shepard?”

Alistair was already checking vitals through the barrier. “Yeah. Bo, go get your stuff. I'll handle these two until C-SEC shows up.”

Their gear and weapons were honestly nothing special, and their plan seemed laughable at best. It was just their luck they had run into amateur hour at thievery school. Well, no doubt they had both earned scholarships to clown college for their boneheaded stunts.

At least the bullet wound didn't look like it had broken anything vital. He'd be able to stand trial for sure at this rate.

“Fuck...” Yeah, his sentiments exactly. “How'd you find us?”

Bo appeared from the aisle, carrying the correct box under her arm. With her hood still up, she slid it over the counter. “We walked in. Can I buy this now, or does C-SEC need to count the total?”

“Oh, they didn't get the chance to take anything! You two showed up just as soon as they drew their guns!” There were stars in the clerk's eyes as she ran Bo up. “I don't know how to thank you, I thought I was going to get shot!”

Alistair's medigel applicator dinged as it dispensed the appropriate dose for the would-be robber still trapped in his barrier. It would hold until he got proper medical attention with C-SEC. With that done, he checked on the other genius. He was still on the floor, groaning.

No surprises there – it was hard to take a full body check from Bo “The Pink Monster” Shepard and  make it out without anything broken. Definitely had at least some kind of concussion if the unfocused vision was anything to go by.

Well, at least he didn't crack his skull. Those were messy.

“I doubt they would've hit, their aim was terrible.” Bo accepted her bag just as the C-SEC sirens announced their arrival. “Well, took them long enough.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Al, mind handling them? I'm gonna get back to the Normandy.”

Normally, this was the part where a commanding officer would have totally pulled rank and made his XO stay. After all, he hated dealing with C-SEC as much as anyone did. However, unlike most CO's, he wasn't a total asshole. That he saved for people who deserved it.

“Yeah, hurry up before they realize it's you.”

Bo actually passed two C-SEC officers on her way out, hood pulled low. Alistair shook his head as he straightened up. His hands still felt sticky from the medigel, but there wasn't much he could do about that at the moment.

At least there were no news cameras.

“Stop right-” A turian with purple tattoos lowered her gun. “Commander Shepard?”

He responded with an awkward wave that highlighted the sticky residue from the medigel. At least nobody could blame him for the gunshot – for once he wasn't armed, even though his Spectre status gave him that permission. Who needed to bring a gun into CVS anyway, except idiots like the ones on the floor? “Wrong place, right time. These two need medical attention, but I think they'll be ok. Their pride, not so much, but I can't fix that.”

That dull headache promised to get worse with the incredulous looks he was getting from the officers. Alistair could only hope that the store's cameras were working, otherwise they were going to have to interview him. And oh, he hated going down to the C-SEC offices more than pretty much everything except the Illusive Man, low blood sugar, and the sound of his own voice.

Bo better thank him for this one later... hopefully when her hair was back to pink. Again, orange really was more of his color. Chalk it up to the Irish genes and all.

“So... guess you want to have a chat then?”

Why did he even ask... fuck. He should've stayed in his room with Saren.

[greenninjagal-blog]

Idle Threats

Wow, this was not supposed to be this long, but hopefully it makes up for all the not writing I’ve done for the past month :)

Word Count: 8041

Pairings: Platonic Deceit and Logan. (With background LAMP)

Summary: No one has ever stood up for Dee so he decides to do it himself, in front of the class, in front of the brand new substitute teacher. And he almost regrets it. 

Quick Taglist: @felicianoromano @jemthebookworm @holliberries @stricken-with-clairvoyancy 

Read on AO3 || Master List 

Dante Ethan Ekans hates every single teacher in his school. Three years into his high school career and he had come across every single teacher—every single one of them—and he hated them all. He had sat through every lecture, done every assignment, battled in every single class discussion. He had done everything the school system had asked him to do.

And he is still staring at a low D average in all his classes.

It should have been impossible: the grading system was set up so that as long as students just showed up they were receiving a C grade.

And well, Dante had always been proving the impossible, possible. He had survived his own birth, survived the car crash that killed his father, and survived the worst of his mother’s psychotic tantrums. He had dragged himself to school with bruises on his wrists and broken fingers wrapped messily in old bandages that made his handwriting into an atrocious disgrace just so that he could at least get an education, get a chance at a scholarship, get a chance to leave town.

And he is in his third year of high school, the year most colleges start to look at prospective students, and he is getting a low D average and he couldn’t do a single thing about it.

It’s like the entire teaching staff had unanimously decided “hey, you know that kid whose face is all messed up with the burn marks from the car crash at age six? Let’s just ruin his entire life by grading him unnecessarily harder than everyone else in the school, turning a blind eye to when the other students mess with him, and loudly announcing how he needs to do better on his essays if he wants to get better grades in front of the whole class.”

Dante—and fuck if he hated that name. No one was called Dante anymore—had done everything he could to get his grades up. He studied twice as hard and twice as long as everyone else. He had swallowed his pride and asked the teachers for help (and been told to pay more attention in class) and for extra credit (and been denied). He had tried to argue grades and been sent to the Detention room for vulgar language and an attempted assault on a teacher (which was a blatant lie).

Not to mention that one asshole of a teacher, Mr. Walker, who had told him that not only was make up for females, but his use of cosmetics was an unacceptable cry for attention. Dante then had to stand there in front of the class with his cheeks burning red and his peers snickering as he told the teacher that he wasn’t wearing any make up, and that the burns on his face were the real deal, and that he couldn’t wash it off even if he wanted to.

So Dante Ethan Ekans—Dee for short; Dee was what his friends would call him, if he had any—has no hard feelings when he heard that Mr. Walker had been in a bad car accident and would not be back for the rest of the school year. What a complete shame that would be. How would they ever move on?

Apparently, there’s a substitute coming, one of those long-term ones that only ever dropped by for times of emergency. Dee had overheard the head of nutrition (a sweet, mother-like man that all the lunch ladies adore named Patton Hart) and school resource officer (who Dee doesn’t know the name of and kept far enough away from. He doesn’t need to be any closer to any law enforcers than he already was) talking about the teacher: about how strict he was, about how the kids had no clue what was coming, about how Mr. Hart should redesign the menu with the majority of the student’s favorites because this week was going to be rough with a capital R. They both had laughed after that, and Patton had caught sight of Dee and asked him if he needed anything in the kindest tone Dee had ever heard.

(He had run after that, had run as fast as he could without making it seem like he was running away. The last thing he needs is anymore people to look at him with pity, with cruelty, with smug better-than-you expressions that appeared the second Dee dared act vulnerable. The last thing he needs is to open his mouth and tell the truth.)

Dee isn’t expecting anything amazing to come out of the substitute teacher. He expects it to be another beanpole old lady who snaps anytime someone made a noise and confiscates phones on whim and assigns them all worksheets that were to be done and handed in by the end of the class period, no exceptions.

He’s usually one of the first into the science room because the class he has before it is Math which just down the hall, but he’s barely out of the room when Mrs. Johnston’s shrill voice slices through the student chatter.

“Ekans!” She screeches, “Ekans! A moment!”

It’s not a moment. It’s never just a moment with her. The bell rings and the halls empty and Dee stands in front of the math teacher for another three minutes listening to her tell him that he’s been doing his math the wrong way and if he doesn’t start doing it the way she taught in class she’s going to have to dock him more points (like there’s more to dock him in the first place), regardless of the fact he doesn’t understand the way she’s been teaching and his way is actually based on how a college professor explained it on the YouTube series he looked up for help.

He can see into her classroom, the one that’s filled with obnoxious freshman who are lounging around while they wait for their teacher to be done berating Dee. He can see the way they all point and snicker and make fun of the half of his face he can’t do anything about.

“And now you’ve made me waste time for my next class, Mr. Ekans.” Mrs. Johnston says, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry,” Dee says robotically, and his hands tighten around the strap of his backpack. “It won’t happen again, Ma’am.”

But it’s a lie, because it always happens again.

But it’s a lie, because he’s not really sorry at all.

Because she might have missed the first few minutes of class, but she controlled the rate the students learned. Dee felt his own nails tear into his palm as he opened the door to the classroom where the new substitute was-- the one who’s voice was already droning on about what they were learning, already through the roll call, already letting the whole class know he was not going to tolerate any monkey business at all.

Dee glances at the teacher, who in turn does not break his lecture, but nods to him and to one of the several empty desks in the room. He’s young, nerdy looking, but Dee can’t think of anyone he knows who would have the guts to say it to the man’s face. He had a cold look about him, like he didn’t know how to smile and wasn’t in the mood to learn.

Dee throws himself into the closest empty chair, keeping his head down and tries not to make too much noise when he picks through his backpack for his notebook for the science class.

He’s so focused on not disrupting the teacher, not causing anymore eyes to fall on him, not helping the already terrible opinion the man has of him, that he wasn’t even paying attention to who he was sitting next to until it’s far too late to change seats.

And he finds out when sees another body drape over the desk to his left out of the corner of his eye and Dee freezes on the spot. He’s not hearing a single thing the new teacher says, not hearing whatever he’s mentioning about the quick technical drawing he has on the board, and definitely not hearing the notes he should be taking down. His tongue grates against his teeth as Kyle slides his chair an inch his direction with a weasel-ish expression on his face.

“Hey, Ekans,” Kyle murmurs just loud enough for Dee to hear.

Dee refuses to look at him, but it’s not like he’s seeing anything in front of him either. His fingers squeeze his pencil, and the soles of his feet rest firmly on the ground, like it can keep him from moving at all.

“Ekans,” Kyle says again louder, but not enough to stop the teacher. “The boys and I took some notes for you.”

They aren’t notes. Dee can see the header so neatly written on the top of the paper, so innocently telling him it’s a list of reasons no one likes him and what to do about it (and worse). It’s not original, its not new, and Dee stubbornly refuses to give him the satisfaction of taking it.

Dee can hear the rest of his friends, the idiots, the dicks, and those two girls who never had anything nice to say, snickering behind them and further left. He can see a motion that looks like one of them nudging each other, and he feels the familiar kick of someone’s foot against his chair.

He wants to say he’s used to it.

He doesn’t think lying to himself is healthy.

Lying to everyone else? Yeah, sure, he’s been doing that since middle school. He’s drowned in his fake apologies for things that weren’t his fault and his torn himself apart to appease people who need to feel like they’re better than others just to keep his own mind sane.

Honestly, he’s a little sick of it—all of it. He didn’t ask for his face to be the discolored mess that it was, didn’t ask for his mother to sometimes lose her mind, didn’t ask for everyone around him to be assholes. He remembers, vaguely, the doctor who had treated his burns (one of them?). At six years old, he can’t even put a face or a name to the form, but he can still hear the voice in the back of his mind telling him he’s lucky, so very lucky.

He could have lost an eye. His arm. His life.

Dee hasn’t felt lucky since then.

The foot kicks his chair again, Dee jerks. Someone laughs. The teacher says something about a test with a pointed clip to his tone. They settle down long enough that the teacher turns away and rambles on about the schedule he’s going to keep them on, blah, blah, blah.

Kyle leans over again. “Ekans—”

“Shut up,” Dee hisses. He regrets it a second later. Because there was a metaphorical door there and Dee had just flung it open and allowed Kyle to walk on in.

“Damn Ekans,” Kyle snickers, “You don’t have to be such a little bitch about it. Does your brother know your such a little bitch?”

Dee’s hand tightens on his pencil.

“Maybe we should tell him,” Kyle muses.  Dee doesn’t have to look to know the expression on the other’s face. “He goes to Mind Elementary, right? Just down the road?”

Dee counts backwards from Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

“It would be super easy just to sit down and have a chat with him. I wonder if he knows how big of a freak his brother is? I bet he’s too stupid to—”

Dee does not make it to six.

“If you so much as look at my brother, I’ll put you in the goddamn hospital,” Dee says.

The room seems to breathe for a second. Dee glares at Kyle and his stupidly pleased weasel face and beady green eyes that look like forest moss eating the carcass of some animal. The room seems to breathe for a second and Dee realizes with a fiery anger it was because no one was speaking.

The teacher had stopped. Which meant that everyone’s attention is on him.

“Mr. Ekans,” The substitute says a hand reaching up to adjust his glasses, and Dee flinches. “Is there something you would like to add to my lecture?”

It wasn’t even fifteen minutes into the class, and the man already knew his name. Kyle grins sharply, smugly. Two of his friends do an underhand five in the seats behind them. Dee thinks he hates everyone in the room at that very moment.

“No,” Dee says, through gritted teeth, “sir.”

The teacher hums. “Interesting, could that be because Mr. Phillips was providing an ample distraction in the middle of my class time?”

That was the moment that Dee realizes he had gone to school with Kyle for three years and had never heard his last name before.

After all, Kyle was every teacher’s favorite. If they didn’t know him from his numerous club activities (drama, art, debate, every honor club you could think of), he often brought them presents on the first day of class and was invited over for dinner every Saturday evening within the first week of class. No one addressed him by his last name.

The substitute teacher didn’t look pleased to be the first. Neither did Kyle.

And frankly, neither did Dee. (Because it wasn’t like it would last. It wasn’t like by tomorrow all of Kyle’s misdeeds would be forgotten and this teacher--this temporary teacher--wouldn’t be wrapped around Kyle’s finger like all the others.) Dee’s stomach clenched at the thought, a bit of envy, jealousy, anger clawing up his throat and making the burns from so long ago itch.

“Well?” The teacher says—and no, Dee checked, he had not written his name on the board. “Mr. Phillips?”

“I was just offering him the notes.” Kyle says, “He came in late. I was trying to be a help and he threatened me!” He looks at his friends who all nod earnestly like Kyle isn’t lying through the skin of his teeth.

“Curious how I do not believe that,” The teacher counters. “This is my classroom, Mr. Phillips. If I thought Mr. Ekans needed notes, I would have provided them to him. Additionally, your actions have caused more harm than good as I am now wasting more of this class’s time, and seeing how this is the last class of the day, I only have your attentions for approximately an hour and fifteen minutes.” He stops for a moment, his eyes darting between Dee and Kyle in a way that Dee does not like.

“Perhaps this is for the best.” He says suddenly, “It would do well to get this out of the way now. Both of you, up here.”

Dee freezes.

Kyle hisses under his breath and heaves himself out of the chair with false gusto. He makes a gesture to his friends that carries a round of giggling up to the front of the room.

“Mr. Ekans,” The teacher says. “That means you, too.”

In no way shape or form is Dee at fault here. He knows he’s not. Kyle and his friends have been picking on him for years and getting away with it and leaving charcoal rocks in Dee’s stomach from every encounter. Standing up feels a lot like striking a match and the entire trek up to the front of the room feels like lowering it to the rocks.

Dee’s face is already burning by the time he side by side with Kyle again. He stares stiffly at the whiteboard, glaring at a smudge of black marker from the last class.

“I am not your normal teacher,” The substitute says. “A lot of the things that were condoned in his class will not be in mine. You will not talk when I talk. You will not be on your phones unless I tell you to. You will not pass notes. You will not make idle threats—”

Dee isn’t sure what comes over him, but that charcoal fire in his stomach explodes outward and engulfs his entire body. For a split second everything turns red, every noise of all the twenty-two other students in the class fades to nothingness, and Dee turns sharply to the side.

Maybe its because Dee had a little bit of hope buries somewhere deep in his mind. Maybe its because he knew that teachers weren’t supposed to pick sides or hold prejudices. Maybe its because Dee spent a whole ten years being “lucky” enough that he survived everything thrown his way just to let another teacher turn a blind eye to the students’ interactions.

Maybe its because Dee was just so very tired of the smug look on Kyle’s face.

His fist connects before anyone realizes he even moved. Kyle yells, and he goes crashing to the floor. Dee’s knuckles pulsate with pain, and he pretty sure he tore the skin off on when it scraped Kyles stupid teeth. Several kids scream.

Dee looks back at the teacher, meeting his somewhat surprised gaze with his own angry one.

“There,” Dee spits, “It’s not an “idle” threat anymore.”

So he finds himself sitting in the front office hands jammed in his pockets and shoulders up to his ears. Part of him wonders if he can fold into himself until nothing exists. The secretary running the phone and letting parents in to pick up their kids, keeps side eyeing him, as if he’s a circus attraction she can’t quite believe is real.

Dee’s head is still ringing with the teachers voice telling him to take the quickly scribbled note and go to the Vice Principal’s office, but the edges of his adrenaline and his anger keep him from feeling the paper cut and the bruising on his knuckles that surely was coming.

He tries to convince himself he’s sorry for doing it, but if Vice Principal Joan tells him to apologize to Kyle in person Dee might have to take a short walk off the roof.

It had felt…good. It had felt great. It had felt a lot like a mistake too.

There was no way he was getting out of this one, no empty promises to do better could make up for assaulting another student. Not to mention that substitute teacher most definitely hated him now, and rightfully was about to join ranks with ever other teacher in the school.

VP Joan was going to suspend him, and then they’ll call Dee’s mother, and then Dee was never going to get into college, and he was never going to leave this town, and he was never going to overcome the scarring on his face that he had been so damn lucky to survive in the first place.

“Dante Ekans,” A voice calls from the hall of offices where all the staff had desks. Dee only recognizes VP Joan because of their face in the school newsletter and sometimes on the papers. They did a lot of fundraisers like kissing a pig if the students raised “X” amount of money, or one dollar to buy a strip of duct tape to tape them to the wall.

Dee goes with them into their office. It feels cluttered, but there is enough space for Dee to sit down and VP Joan to look stressed. Papers, mugs, several action figures Dee vaguely recognizes rest on the desk. There were awards on the walls and teaching certificates along with superhero posters Dee thinks probably aren’t the most professional until he sees it was signed by the cast of the movies.

“So,” The VP says, “Want to tell me what happened?”

The answer is no, Dee does not want to tell them what happened. Because even when Dee tells the truth, even when he lays down his words barren in front of the judges, even when he cries or yells or shows any validating emotion, his scarred face makes him appear less trustworthy. It happened before where Kyle said what he wanted and the teachers decided that must have been what happened and that Dee had lied and made everything up in yet another desperate cry for attention.

So, no, Dee doesn’t want to tell the VP what happened, because he’s so sick of being turned into the bad guy when he’s not. (Okay maybe punching the guy was a bad example here. Maybe Dee just wants to keep himself from digging a bigger grave with this one).

Dee stares at the wood grain in the VP’s desk and lets the silence hold out. It’s comforting in a way.

VP Joan taps their fingers on their side of the desk. If Dee shifts a little he can see the little blue unfolded note that the teacher had sent him with, and although he doesn’t know what it says, Dee knows it probably bad.

Like “Student Ekans interrupted class with a threat against unarmed peer and then acted upon said threat. Suggested course of action is immediate expulsion” bad. Or something worse.

“Mr. Ekans,” VP Joan says, followed by a sigh, “Fuck this shit.”

Dee blinks at the sudden language—language he’s pretty sure is not allowed in the school. Most of his teachers get after him for that (especially the ones who can’t get him with anything else. His last English teacher was a fan of cutting him off mid book discussion whenever he used a swear, until Dee just began to hold his tongue completely.)

“Look, I don’t know what you did that Logan needed you out of the classroom.” VP Joan says, “And I don’t really have any work that a student can do, uh, legally. Why don’t you go see if Patton—uh Mr. Hart to you—needs any help.”

Dee stills, “What?”

VP Joan holds up the blue paper, and the black scrawl that reads “Please entertain Mr. Ekans for the rest of the block” makes Dee’s eyes cross slightly.

“I’m not…in trouble?” Dee says. It sounds like a dream, like saying the words out loud will make the reality crack and fall apart.

“Should you be?” VP Joan asks, “Don’t answer that. Dr. Ackroyd and I go way back, but I’m still surprised he agreed to fill in here for the rest of the year. We need a competent science teacher, so I’ll turn my head to whatever complex puzzle he’s solving.”

Dee doesn’t understand what that means. He really doesn’t care either.

“Don’t forget your bag,” VP Joan says as they usher Dee out of the office and towards the cafeteria where Patton Hart might be found. “I’m sure I’ll see more of you, Mr. Ekans, but until then have a good day.”

It’s ridiculous, Dee thinks, like its part of a dream. Maybe it is? Maybe Dee punched Kyle and Kyle hit him back and he hit his head on the white board marker tray and now he’s hallucinating.

But he doesn’t think hallucinations were this real: he can hear the sound of each teacher teaching, laughter from some of the rooms, and the muttered conversation between two teachers who have a free period this block and don’t spare him a glance. He can hear the sound of the tape ripping as a couple of students hang posters on the walls for Cheerleading tryouts, can feel the sturdiness of the tile floor under his feet as he tries to catch the reflection of the artificial lights on the polish, can smell the lemon cleaner from the trolley outside the bathrooms that signifies they’re being cleaned at the moment.

He finds Patton Hart sitting at the only table left set up in the cafeteria. He’s laughing leaning forward with a bottle of Windex and a rag at his elbows, but it looks like he’s already cleaned everything that needs to be cleaned. Standing next to him is the resource officer, and Dee still doesn’t know the man’s name. It wasn’t like they talked very often. Still, the man looks smug and happy, and absolutely thrilled that he managed to get a laugh from the nutritionist.

Dee slows his pace, a half step for every real step he could be taking when he realizes that he doesn’t have a clue what he’s supposed to say. At best? Mr. Hart would set him up with some busy work to do, like cleaning lunch trays maybe (where there any of those left?). At worse? He’d demand to know why Dee wasn’t in class, and then drag him to said class and Dee would get to be the middle of a commotion all over again. Perhaps it would be better if he ran for the bathrooms and hid there until the end of the day. Then he’d sneak out with the rest of the students, avoid Kyle, pick up his brother, and make it all the way home before anyone stopped him.

His shoe scuffed the ground when he goes to turn around. His heart jumps to his throat, when both the staff members pause to look at him.

“Hey, kiddo!” Mr. Hart says, “You need something?”

The Resource Officer shifts to put his hands on his belt. Dee tries not to watch too intensely. His mouth dries up again, and he tries figure out what combination of English words isn’t going to ruin this chance to walk free of consequences. He hates that he remembers a time when he wasn’t afraid to talk to people, hates that he has to swallow the lump in his throat and fight the urge to stare at his shoes while his fingers tear at his bag’s straps.

“VP Joan,” Dee says finally, “sent me to you.”

“Me?” Mr. Hart blinks, pointing to himself. “Hmm, that’s not normal. Did they say why?”

Answering the question is a straight forward thing: VP Joan said that he had nothing for Dee to do, so he sent him to Mr. Hart. But Dee also knows that will lead the conversation to why he was sent to VP Joan in the first place and he really doesn’t want to tell anyone else how he managed to dodge the repercussions of decking another kid by some type of miracle and have that change.

The silence holds on a second, two, three, too long. Dee’s head drops to stare at his scuffed up converse (an ugly yellow pair that he had stolen from a GoodWill bin in the outer parking lot of a shopping complex late one night two years ago, which he had worn until they were a dusted brown).

“Kiddo?” Mr. Hart asks

The Resource Officer shifts again, “Wait, I know you!” He raises a hand casually turning back to Mr. Hart, and hopefully missing the way Dee’s shoulders tense. “He’s got Walker for last block.”

Mr. Hart claps his hands and turns back to Dee. His eyes sparkle behind his black framed glasses. “Oh, that means you were in Logan’s class! That’s amazing! He’s a great teacher!”

“Hardly!” The Resource Officer scoffs. “Logan probably scared them all out of their minds! He’s the worst!”

“Roman!” Mr. Hart hits him on the arm, “You take that back! Logan is the sweetest teacher this school is ever going to see!”

“Of course, you’d say that, Pat!” The Resource Officer- Roman?- says, “You never had to be tutored by him!” For a man who could probably bench press three “Logan’s”, Dee thought it was a little weird how he shuddered unpleasantly. Although that was not as weird as trying to make sense of what the two adults were talking about.

Honestly he wasn’t sure they were talking about the same person at all: The teacher-- Logan, Dr. Ackroyd (that’s was VP Joan had said right?)-- was stern and stiff and, sure, a little scary, but then again Dee didn’t exactly have stellar experiences with any other adult either. Still he couldn’t see what about him was “the sweetest teacher in this school”.

And the fact that Dee had been in his class for about ten minutes before he was sent right back out. He still wasn’t convinced the teacher wasn’t planning some big, huge, insurmountable class project to give to Dee as a punishment for punching such a nice kid like Kyle.

Mr. Hart stood up from his seat looking directly at Dee, “Come sit down, kiddo! Are you hungry? There’s some left ice cream sandwiches from lunch this week that I’m going to need to throw out before the weekend.”

Dee very much doesn’t know what to do. He’s not sure he nods, but Mr. Hart disappears into the cafeteria kitchen anyway so that Dee and the Resource Officer are left alone. Dee’s fingers ache whenever he moves them, so he takes extra special care to use his non-dominant hand to shrug off his backpack. The burn scars on his forearm and on his shoulder blade work in tandem to make him as uncomfortable as possible.

When he looks up, Resource Officer Roman is staring at him. His brain whirls with something to say, something defensive that will get the adult to keep his comments to himself, and please, please, don’t ask about them. But everything that comes to mind is nasty and ugly and he can’t say it to someone with a taser on their belt.

For a room that could fit upwards three hundred students for lunch, Dee feels trapped and claustrophobic.

“So,” The adult says, “What’s your name?”

“Ekans,” Dee says immediately. He stares down at the table.

“That’s…that’s a terrible name, kid.” The Resource Officer says. “Did your parents pick that one out or--?”

“Dante Ekans,” Dee says sharply, and squeezes his aching fingers tightly because the pressure overrides the pain even if its just for a second.

“Ah! Dante! Like the Poet! Writer of The Divine Comedy!”

Dee sinks lower in his seat, “Yep.” The centuries old text of a guy traveling through hell and purgatory and idolizing a guy that had been dead even longer than him. Like he hadn’t heard that one before. It was just another reason to hate his name.

Mr. Hart chooses that moment to come back, bouncing on the balls of his feet, sliding on the freshly polished floor, and those curls of his dancing. Resource Officer Roman immediately forgets all about Dee and Dante’s Inferno and all those things that adults like to think when they saw him. It’s a relief.

Kinda.

Mr. Hart sits down right next to Dee, ignoring his previous seat completely. Dee’s shoulders bunch up to his ears, he’s sure, and the way his mouth dries out is far from expected. But the man just hands him an ice cream sandwich that the cafeteria sold for a dollar during lunch shifts, and Dee takes it.

(He’s had one before, like once. For his birthday last year where he borrowed a single dollar from his mother’s and bought himself one birthday gift. It had been sticky and too sweet and the chocolate had clung to his fingers and he had thrown half of it out, but Dee had loved it. His mother had screamed when she found the money missing, screamed and tore his hair and Dee hadn’t said a word.)

Dee takes his time unwrapping the treat, part of him upset that if Mr. Hart knew why Dee was there, he wouldn’t be giving him a free ice cream sandwich, part of him wishing desperately he could save it and share it with his brother, part of him wanting to shove the entire thing in his mouth because he deserved it for having put up with this stupid shit for ten years.

“What nothing for me?” Resource Officer Roman asks petulantly.

Mr. Hart smiles at him innocently. “Oh, I have something else for you Ro! It’s just gonna have to wait until after work!”

“Oh yeah?” The Officer smiles, leaning in closer, “And why is that, my dear Pat?”

“Because you can’t eat and work, silly!” Mr. Hart laughs, “What if there’s an emergency? You’d show up all covered in ice cream…!”

Dee takes a large bite of the ice cream sandwich and silently presses “f” to pay respects for the resource officer. The obvious flirting seemed to have absolutely no effect on the man between them, and Dee wasn’t sure if it was the innocent nature of him or if he was trying to let the officer down nicely.

“Ah, my dear Pat,” The Officer says, “Always looking out for me. What would I do without you? Die, surely!”

Mr. Hart laughs, the freckles on his cheeks glow. Dee glances at Resource Officer Roman’s face and is not surprised to see the blatant “smitten” expression. He looks like some anime character seconds before the “heart eyes” started. It’s almost embarrassing. Dee takes another bite of the sandwich.

“Ah, I thought I’d find the three of you here.”

Dee chokes on the bite of the sandwich.

Resource Officer Roman jumps, letting out a yelp that was surprisingly high pitched for a man of his stature. Dee coughs to dislodge a glob of chocolate breading that got stuck  when his throat closed suddenly in a panic. The only one who doesn’t seem a little bit startled by Dr. Logan Ackroyd’s appearance is Patton, who jumps up from his seat and leans forward on the table with literal stars in his eyes.

“Logan!” He cries happily, “It’s been so long!”

“Too Long,” the Substitute teacher agrees, and Dee is uncomfortable with the amount of warmth in his expression—its a stark contrast to how he had looked in the classroom, to how he had looked at Dee. His hand pulses again, his fingers twitching in the pocket he had refused to take it out of since he had sat down.

“Logan,” Resource Officer Roman says, with a sniff of distaste that’s clearly artificial. “I can’t believe they let you back into the country.”

“Roman,” The teacher responds, the warmth sizzling in the air. “Your mother says hello.”

“When did you see my mother?”

“Yesterday, I helped her grocery shop. She called me the son she wished she had.”

The Officer flaps his hands, with a noise that sounds stuck between offended and flabbergasted. Dee feels a bit of the ice cream drip down his palm.

There’s a bizarre feeling in the air, a tension? No that wasn’t right. Dee can’t place the reason for the electricity in the air that the teacher had brought, buzzing and sparking between the three of them. Mr. Hart doesn’t seem to have a bad thing to say which meant that Resource Officer Roman had every right to hate the man at the other end of the table (since he was obviously hitting on Mr. Hart, ugh). But somehow the words and the tone don’t match at all. There’s no jealousy, no thinly vailed hatred that Dee was so adept at noticing.

(If he’s honest, he thinks the Resource Officer is eye fucking the substitute Teacher right there in front of him and that even more terrifying than the alternative.)

“I see you have both entertained Mr. Ekans, here.” The teacher says turning to Dee with a sharp piercing gaze. Dee stomach drops out.

Here it is. End times. Dee finds himself sinking backwards like he can hide in from the words that are coming. The burns on his shoulders sting with a phantom pain that’s all too familiar, and not at all real. He stares at the half melted ice cream mess in his hand because it’s easier than meeting the accusatory look of his teacher who was going to hold him accountable for injuring the “perfect” student.

“Don’t you have a class to teach, Calculator Watch?” Resource Officer Roman says, “Unless you murdered them all already. Bored them to death at fourteen! Tragic!”

“Your snide comments have no equal, Prince.” The Teacher shoots back, “They are sixteen and seventeen, and I left them for a mere moment to talk to Mr. Ekans. They believe I am picking up more worksheets for them to do in the coming weeks.”

No one says anything for a second, and Dee feels it in his bones the way the attention shifts. All three adults are looking at him, and he feels the need to defend himself in any way that’s possible. What could he say? That Kyle was a douche? A bully? Like any of them would believe that. Dee was the one who had threatened and then assaulted the other. Not to mention he looked like the bad guy in everyone’s stories. Short of the fangs, he was the monster that hid under kids’ beds.

(And he wasn’t thinking that just because once he had seen several of his brother’s friends run off screaming as he approached him in the pick up area of the elementary school, because he couldn’t blame a couple eight-year-olds for being scared.)

Dee’s mouth is halfway open with some half baked, insincere apology he doesn’t mean and hates to say when Dr. Ackroyd speaks.

“I came to ask how your hand was fairing.”

Mr. Hart’s head tilts to the side. Dee glares at the other side of the room and wishes he had slid into the restroom when he had the chance to. Cowardly? Maybe. But he’s never met anyone who liked facing consequences either.

“Kiddo?” Mr. Hart says. “What happened?” He sits back down, causing the table to shake and Dee to squeeze the rest of the ice cream from between the chocolate breading and onto the table.

“There was an altercation in my class,” Dr. Ackroyd says. “Mr. Ekans ended up punching another student.”

“Oh dear!” Mr. Hart cries, and Dee for the life of him can’t figure out why he suddenly grabs the rag at his elbows and gently cups the ice cream mess that is his out-reached hand. It’s the wrong hand, but Dee’s brain short circuits in the second their hands touch. (He’s not sure why that happened either and refuses to give a second to think about it.) Why was Mr. Hart trying to help him? Didn’t he see that Dee was the villain making threats and acting on them?

“I didn’t even notice! Are you alright? Do you need ice? A bandaid?”

“Am I gonna have to write a report for this one?” Resource Officer Roman groans, “Why are you trying to give me extra homework again, Logan? We graduated years ago!”

“If I remember correctly, you got off a minute and a half ago, Roman,” the Teacher says, placing himself in the seat directly across from Dee, “So therefore, no, you will not have to write an incident report for this event. Additionally, those extra homeworks were the reason you graduated at all.”

Dee glances at the clock in the corner, surprised to see there’s still twenty minutes of class left. Did the Resource Officer really get off early? Dee had never heard of that, but then again, he had never cared before either.

“It’s the other hand, Patton.” The teacher continues.

Dee gets the feeling he’s being analyzed. Mr. Hart coaxes Dee’s other arm from his pocket, and it stings where the lip of his jean pocket rips over his knuckles. He has to turn so that Mr. Hart can look at his fingers and the black nail polish on his nails where his mother hadn’t been able to scrub it off. But it’s turning away from Dr. Ackroyd and his calculated stare and for that Dee is grateful. He hides in his shoulder.

“Mr. Ekans,” The teacher says, “Might I inquire what possessed you to acquaint Mr. Phillips with your fist in the middle of my class?”

The word “no” is at the top of Dee’s tongue, clicking against his front teeth valiantly, although the silence is preferable. Somehow, he doesn’t think he could win a game of silence against the gaze of the teacher. Somehow the silence seems much more dangerous than speaking the truth.

But before it gets out, the Resource officer is suddenly right next to them, “Did you just say he punched Phillips? Like Kyle Phillips?”

Dee doesn’t have time to even panic.

The man is already turning to him a grin lighting up three-fourths of his face. “It’s Official, Dante Ekans! You’re my new favorite student!”

“Roman!” Mr. Hart says, “You can’t pick favorites! Kyle is--”

The Officer leans back with a scoff, “I’ll stop you there, my beloved baker! I had to hold you back from physically fighting his mom at the last PTA meeting!”

“Yeah but—”

“You wanted to burn their house down!”

Mr. Hart sticks his tongue in his cheek and bites it. “Their entire family is just so awful to everyone.”

Dee imagines what it would be like if Mr. Hart had burned down their house, if Kyle had lost his dad, if Kyle had been just as disfigured at Dee was. He hates it, he hates the smug feeling in his stomach, because he knew better than anyone how much life sucked and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Shouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Dee hisses where Mr. Hart’s rag rubs over his knuckles. The scraps were red, but at least it didn’t look like they were bleeding. He must have ripped the first couple layers of skin off, but that’s all.

Dee stares off in a direction where no one else was. It was easier than looking at the adults. The words caught in his throat, warbled and stuttered and barely more than a mumble.

“He started it.”

Did he sound like a five year old? Yes. Most definitely. Absolutely.

“I see,” the teacher says. He folds his hands deliberately in front of himself, in a fluid motion that Dee watches like a hawk without turning his head back. The tone gives him pause, because Dee can’t find any amusement in it, any hint that this new teacher is just humoring him because he wants a laugh or why-ever any of the teachers that ever listen to him do.

“I assumed as much from his attitude during my class. I’ve already set aside time to speak to him and his mother about his inexcusable behavior.”

Dee freezes as the teacher goes on to talk about proper class etiquette. He doesn’t hear a word after “inexcusable”. It makes his chest hurt, his eyes burn, and his scars itch. Its uncomfortable, its wrong, its different. Because no one has ever called Kyle’s behavior bad. The floaty feeling from earlier comes back (without him realizing it had been gone) and Dee is certain that this is somehow a twisted dream.

A twisted dream he wants so bad to be reality. A dream that Dee doesn’t want to wake from.

“—of course. If instances continue at this pace I would be obligated to—”

“You’re serious.”

The words plop out of Dee’s mouth and land on the table between him and the teacher in some type of ugly blob. He hadn’t meant for it to be so weak, so pathetic, but his tone to wobble somewhere between the four syllables just so much that the teacher’s mouth snapped shut and Mr. Hart’s gentle hands paused from examining his knuckles. Dee wants to take it back, wants to yank the words from the air and pretend they were never there.

Dr. Ackroyd adjusts his glasses and their eyes meet for the first time. Dee thinks it’s a lot like staring into the galaxy, into the great expanse, and knowing that it was also staring back at him.

“I’m very serious. I wear a necktie.”

It sounds like a joke when he says it, and maybe there’s a flicker of his lips that tells Dee is alright to laugh at it.

Dee feels like crying instead.

“I think you’ll find I’m not like your other teachers, Mr. Ekans.”

Mr. Hart smiles at that, smiles the whole conversation, smiles like the sun is shining and the birds are singing and global warming isn’t gonna end all life on Earth by the time Dee is thirty. He lets go of Dee’s injured hand and Dee finds he misses the warmth and the gentle touch. “I have some bandages in the back. Ro, can you help me?”

The Resource Officer makes some noise but the nutritionist takes him by the wrist and drags him into the kitchens. Dee thinks the man is too gay to have really protested anyway.

The teacher and him sit silently as the echoes of their voices, of Mr. Hart’s laughter fades until its just them in their own little untouchable bubble.

“Mr. Walker, your previous science teacher, left me several notes about his classes.” Dr. Ackroyd says, “As well as the grades.”

Dee itches the burns on his neck, a little angrily. He doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing to say. It’s midway through the year and there’s very little he can do to bring his grade up as far as it needs to go for science alone. Not to mention English, Mathematics, and History.

“He mentioned that I might find you to be a difficult student, but I disagree with that assessment.” Dr. Ackroyd prompts Dee to look at him again, “I get the impression you are a very bright student, Mr. Ekans, and very few people choose to see that part of you. I’ve met a lot of students in my time teaching in the United States and abroad. Most of them get by with less than a fourth of the effort than you’ve most likely put in. However, I can’t change the grades that your teacher has already declared for you.”

He pauses, “I can however enter a grade that hasn’t been posted yet.”

Dee dares to let his chest fill with that unfamiliar feeling, that whimsy mystical emotion everyone called hope.

“As it happens, you have a 62.45 percentage in this class as of right now. Mr. Walker was notoriously slacking when he entered any of your grades, so many of your grades are resulting zeroes from missing work, including the midterm from last week.”

The midterm that Dee had finished five whole minutes before everyone else and handed into to Mr. Walker directly. The one that he’s sure the teacher had finished grading before the end of school bells had rung.

Dee hangs on the teacher’s words, too desperate for the chance Dr. Ackroyd was offering to be embarrassed about how pathetic he was acting. He was starving and this ridiculous teacher was dropping him breadcrumbs.

“So, if you are open to recreating the work that has gone missing and putting time aside to retake a midterm I will provide, I would be more than happy to enter in the missing grades.”

“You’d…you’d do that?”

Dr. Ackroyd seems surprise that Dee would even have to ask.

“Of course. I see no reason to withhold grades as long as you put in the effort, Mr. Ekans.”

Dee doesn’t care if it’s a dream. If its fake. His knuckles hurt, his chest constricts, he’s not sure he can make words even if his life depended on it. A lump forms in his throat, thick and heavy and dangerous. Because that’s all he’s wanted, all he’s needed since he was six: just someone to treat him like everyone else.

Not Lucky. Not pitiful. Just Dee, by himself, putting in the effort for the education he needed.

“Just please, if you could refrain from making anymore, ah, serious threats against the rest of the student populace.”

And that’s all it takes for him to break.

Mr. Hart comes back hand in hand with Resource Officer Roman and they find Dee attempting to forcibly remove an onslaught of tears from his face before the bell rings to release the students, and Dr. Ackroyd appearing as incredibly uncomfortable as possible as a slew of confused apologies tumble from his mouth.

And all either of them do is smile.

Dante Ethan Ekans hated every single teacher in his high school.

(Except one. And a Resource Officer. And a Nutritionist.)

[Sequel]

[reddieandgoodnight]

Can we get a part two? for #12, when they broke up in highschool but came back. (Reddie)

Yes, anon, you may! Sorry for the wait on this! Hope you like it! :)

 Tried to tag everyone who asked me about a sequel. I’m sorry if I missed anyone! @constantreaderfool, @girasol-eddie, @tinyarmedtrex, @anellope, @wiersel, @roobarrtrashmouth

Part 2 of this 

Eddie gazes down at his hands, clutched together on top of the table. He feels more than sees Richie sitting across from him — Richie’s presence has always been huge to him, taking up space in the air in a way no one else ever has.

They’re sitting in the back room of the coffee shop at the table where the baristas take their breaks. Eddie knows he could have asked Richie to come over to his house, but…that felt too personal, too much after all these years — no matter how many times Richie had been in that same house before.

Richie hadn’t batted an eye when Eddie steered him into the back room, so maybe he had the same thoughts — or was at least aware enough of how vulnerable Eddie felt with having Richie suddenly show up like this after no calls, no emails, no nothing after ten years.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about what to say to you for so long,” Richie says after a few minutes. Then stops.

“I’ve thought about it, too,” Eddie admits quietly.

“Eddie, I’m really sorry,” Richie continues, toying with a ring on one of his fingers. “I know I already said that…but I can’t say it enough.”

Eddie gives a small nod. “I guess I just…still don’t understand. I thought…” He sighs. “I thought we were happy. I thought you were happy. But…I guess you weren’t.”

“I was happy,” Richie says.

Eddie can’t stop a snort from escaping him. “Right. So happy, you broke up with me and then didn’t talk to me for ten years.”

Richie looks chastened by that. He lets out a breath, laying his hands flat on the table across from Eddie. “I promise, Eds — Eddie.” He corrects himself quickly. “When I said it wasn’t you, I meant it.”

“Then what was it?” Eddie asks, hating the heaviness rising in his heart. He’s asked himself this question so many times, wondering what he could have done, what he could have said to make Richie stay. 

And he’s imagined so many different answers, he’s almost afraid to hear what Richie has to say. “I just… I don’t understand,” he whispers.

Richie’s eyes close, brows drawn low. “You got that psychology scholarship.”

“I thought that was a good thing?” Eddie says, the statement coming out as a question laced with the confusion rising inside him.

“It was a fucking amazing thing,” Richie agrees earnestly. “You were the youngest person to get it. But I just…” He trails off, hesitating for so long, Eddie hears the clock strike eight behind them.

“You worked so hard to get into NYU,” Richie finally continues. “You were busting your ass every single day. And then you got that scholarship — which you deserved so fucking much. You were finally getting out of here, out of Derry. Away from your bitch of a mom. And I just… I couldn’t match that.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Eddie says, bewildered.

“Look, you were going places. Have gone places.” Richie stops, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t want to hold you back. It was better for you to…focus on what you were doing.”

Eddie gapes at Richie. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Eds —”

“No!” Eddie snaps, pushing away from the table and jumping to his feet. “You broke up with me because you — what? You thought you were helping me? Or something? What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” He takes a few deep breaths, hating the angry tears pricking at his eyes. “Well, I hope you’re happy. Because you fucking wrecked me, you asshole.”

Richie stares up at Eddie with wide eyes, but he says nothing as Eddie rages on.

“Do you think I was happy and perfectly able to focus on my work when I went to school? No! Because I was thinking about you, you absolute idiot!”

Richie jerks back at Eddie’s words.

“That just isn’t fair, Rich,” Eddie says, voice getting a bit wobbly. “That’s just… That’s not fair. I thought…” His voice drops to a whisper as a few stray tears run down his cheeks. “I thought you hated me.”

“Eddie, no,” Richie murmurs, standing and looking like he’s about to reach out to Eddie.

But Eddie wraps his arms around himself, utterly miserable as he takes a step back. He doesn’t think he can take Richie touching him, not if he doesn’t want to break into a million pieces.

“What else was I supposed to think?” Eddie asks, wiping at his cheeks with shaking hands. “You broke up with me out of fucking nowhere. Richie, I… I loved you.”

Tears are welling in Richie’s eyes. “I loved you, too.”

“Jesus, Richie,” Eddie murmurs, letting out a short laugh that isn’t really laugh at all. “You’re the one who made me realize I was even gay. I gave my virginity to you. All the first times — you got every one of them. How could you even think I wouldn’t want you right next to me?”

“Because I’m fucking stupid,” Richie mutters, voice breaking.

“Why didn’t you talk to me about any of this?’ Eddie says, shaking his head. “You just fucking left me standing in the road. And then you went to California and you — You never even picked up a goddamn phone.”

“I didn’t have your number,” Richie whispers.

Eddie scoffs. “Seriously, Rich? Any of our friends would have given to you. Even Bill — and he said you could go to hell.”

Richie’s lips turn up just a little at that. “That’s fair.” A pause. “I wanted to call you, so many times. But I was afraid you wouldn’t want to talk to me — and why would you? And then so much time went by… I thought it was better to leave you alone. Let you get on with your life.”

“Then why did you come back now?” Eddie murmurs. “Was it really for the album?”

Richie looks at him, and Eddie thinks he can fall right into those brown eyes.

“There’s no album,” Richie says.

Eddie blinks. “…what?”

“The band is taking a break. And they all got sick of me…whining about this boy I used to know. Told me to do something about it. And I finally decided to listen.”

Eddie’s eyes widen. “Listening isn’t your strong point,” he blurts without thinking.

He doesn’t step back this time when Richie tentatively moves closer to him.

“I really fucked up,” Richie continues, voice low. “And I don’t… I don’t expect you to forgive me. I really don’t. But I… I’d like to try to maybe fix things, at least a little bit. If I can.”

Eddie lets out a slow exhale as Richie reaches out and gently takes Eddie’s hands in his, hold loose enough that Eddie could easily escape.

He can’t help but think about how long it’s been since he’s felt Richie’s hands in his — the hands he used to hold every day. They’re still a little bigger than Eddie’s, long-fingered and warm.

Eddie finds his fingers tightening around Richie’s.

And Richie’s do the same in return.

It’s quiet for several moments outside of their breathing. But…it isn’t a bad silence.

“It’s…it’s been a long time,” Eddie says at length. “I’m not the same person I was when I graduated high school. And I know you aren’t, either.”

“No,” Richie agrees. “And I know I don’t deserve it, but… I’d like to get to know Eddie Kaspbrak again. If he’ll let me.” He gives Eddie the tiniest, timid smile.

Eddie lets out a trembling breath, heart beating so fast, he wonders if Richie can hear it.

All the horrid pain Richie caused him is still there, buried deep inside him, clawing at him whenever he draws too near to old memories. And having Richie in front of him now, asking for another chance, hasn’t taken it away — hasn’t removed all the nights he spent sobbing into his pillow, wondering what he did to make Richie not want him anymore. Nights spent realizing that heartbreak isn’t just a word — it’s something that destroys you from the inside out, leaving you with the taste of ash in your mouth and a loneliness so deep, it burns.

But now…it feels like maybe those things can maybe go away someday. Maybe he can heal, just a little.

“Okay,” he whispers.

And oh, it seems his battered heart hasn’t completely forgotten that feeling of lightness Richie’s answering smiles always used to give him.

“Um, do you want to go back to my house?” he asks softly. “To…talk?”

“I’d like that,” Richie says.

And when Richie slowly and very tentatively presses the softest kiss to the corner of Eddie’s mouth, Eddie doesn’t pull away.

He still hasn’t forgiven Richie. Isn’t ready to jump headfirst into…whatever this is. Not yet. But even so…

Richie’s lips against his skin still feel like home.

[trex98dreams]

Chapter 8: Remember?

3 Days Later.

Y/N’s POV

Surprisingly, a few days after that conversation, my friends stop talking about Jimin and to my relief, he didn't follow me around campus anymore. Even a glimpse of him is unseen. I'm back in my normal life without him again.

Today, Me, Youngji and Dahyun were heading to Hanbin's dorm where he had invited us over for barbecue. It wasn't a surprised because Hanbin told us he wanted to prepare something special for Dahyun. So cheesy. I cringe at the idea of a romantic Hanbin.

As we arrived, i can see Jackson and Hanbin in the kitchen, nervously fidgeting as we arrive. There's no barbecue feelings here at all. Not even a food or drink. Youngji and Dahyun went to the kitchen and begin to do something but stopped as i watched them.

"Hey Hanbin, where's the beef?" I ask him.

Hanbin laugh nervously, "Oh..! I forgot to but it, i'm going to buy some at the market, who wants to go?" He asks and they all raise their hands. I happily followed them but Jackson stops me.

"Huh? What?" I ask. Why are they acting so weird?

"You. Stay. Someone needs to fire.. urm.. the charcoal.. yeah." Jackson stutters. I frowns.

"I can smell something fishy..." i said but Youngji and Dahyun laugh it off.

"Nothing's fishy okay! Go! We'll be back before you know it!" They said and push Jackson and Hanbin outside.

I sigh and went to the kitchen alone. I opened the fridge to get something to eat but i stopped as i heard footsteps.

I closed the fridge and immediately felt my heart beats faster at the sight in front of me.

Standing in front of me was Jimin, staring straight into my eyes with a sad expression. I walk pass him swiftly but he didn't stop me this time. Instead, he let me slip away just like that.

I twisted the door knob a few times but it was locked. Great. I was being locked in here with Jimin by my friends. Now it makes perfect sense why there's no beef. Curse them.

"Open this damn door right now!"

I yelled and when there's no response, I stand leaning at the door frame not wanting to face him. I mentally told myself 'don't look at him' a few times in my mind when i heard his footsteps slowly behind me.

"It's all my idea. Don't blame them. They gave me 10 minutes to meet you," He softly said behind me.

That voice. My best friend's voice. Except it's not him anymore.

"Y/N, please.. listen to me.. stop running away.." he pleads but i stayed quiet. That's when he softly held my shoulder which makes me immediately jerked away.

"10 minutes. Just say what you want so i can get the hell out of here." He tense at my tone.

He went silent for a moment before he continues.

"Y/N, i know i promise you a lot of things, to always be there for you, to protect you no matter what, and to keep our friends-"

"Stop reminding me all those. Just go on with what you're saying." I cut him harshly. He sigh deeply hearing my voice. This time he went closer to me. I can feel his hot breath on my ear.

He took a deep breath.

"Y/N, a year after we fought, I found out the truth. That you weren't the one who texted Seulgi's mom about us, it was Seolhyun all along. Sungjae had confessed to me about him telling Seolhyun everything about us, after Joy walked in on him cheating."

"He told me that Seolhyun use your phone that day, saying her's were missing and took a chance to text Seulgi's Mom when you're not looking. He also revealed that she was the one who took our picture when we were on a date. Sungjae shows me his conversation with Seolhyun about her plan."

I stayed silent. If he told me earlier when we're still friends, i would easily laugh at him and comfort him saying 'That son of a bitch!' Or an 'I told you so'. But what's left for me to say is nothing. The damage has been done. The wounds he gave had already turned into a scar. It's slowly healing when he decided to show up again.

I didn't say anything. I'm afraid if i do, i won't be able to control my emotions. Jimin huffs softly behind me and continues.

"I'm so sorry Y/N. Gosh i feel like a total shit all these years for not believing my own best friend. I was too.. young, too immature and too foolish to understand what our friendship means and i know I've cross the limit when i say those words. It still haunts me everyday Y/N. It still do,"

"And to think that i'm the one who hurt you, it hurts me more. I try calling you, but you changed your number. I went to your house to apologize but you're family had moved and i heard about your scholarship. I try reaching for your friends but the only one you're friends with during high school were Youngji and she've moved too. I try everything Y/N but I failed. I was devastated. I lost you when you were out of my reach." He explained everything to me.

I closed my eyes. "It's been some painful years, Y/N. I'm devastated with my own self. I shouldn't have said those words to you. I don't know what came over me that day, but i know i didn't mean any of it, trust me. Even when i showed up here, i don't even know if facing you were a right thing to do because i was so embarrassed of myself." He slowly confess.

"Would've been better if you didn't show up at all," I muttered yet he can still hears it.

The awkward silence can be feel in the air as minutes pass by.

"Y/N, look at me.. please." He pleads. Jimin begins to grip my shoulder gently but I refuse.

"Y/N, Look at me." He asks again.

I gather all my courage to finally look at him properly and as we both look into each other's eyes after all these years, we were both on the verge of tears.

Jimin never cry, not in front of me at least. Wet tears streaming down both of our faces. That's when i gave up. I had held it too long. I can't take it anymore. I had to let it out.

I push him away.

"Why Jimin, Why? Why do you doubt our friendship?? You know if you said one word of apology that time i would immediately forget the whole situation but you said people like me..? It hurts me so much Jimin! So fucking much!"

"Your words cuts me real deep Jimin. You said yourself our friendship is a mistake isn't it? On top of that you insulted me! You believe their words, but not mine.. what kind of friend are you?" I ask him sharply. At this state, he's crying at my words.

"I know Y/N, I know... but please.. listen to me, i didn't mean what i said that time, i-" he said but i cut him off.

"Everybody said what they mean when they're angry Jimin. We all knew that. But you? Do you really think that low of me?? Or is that what you always think about me? That i'm using you for your money because i'm not as rich as you are, or as Seul-" i was startled when Jimin grip my wrist. The pain was reopening. I didn't notice i was crying too.

He explains. "Y/N, This is not about them. This is about us. I don't care about them anymore. I care about our friendship. I spent years reflecting what i did. I appreciate you, just as much as you appreciate me...please.." he pleads me again. I huffs in disbelief. The tears were still in our eyes. I wanted to hurt him like he did to me.

"I don't need your consideration and your caring stuff and i certainly don't need YOU to tell me what to do," I use his words when he looks at me painfully.

"Y/N.. stop-"

He knew what i'm trying to do.

"I think you should go, you ruined everything in my life. We should never be friends. I hate you." I murmurs despite it's painful to said it out loud but I want him to remember.

"Y/N, stop it-"

He warns me and then i hit the end. The end that make my tears spill a lot more.

"I would choose Seulgi any day over you."

"Stop! Stop it Y/N! Don't say it again... please.." He sobs then he knelt down and took my hand. He looks so fragile.. like he could break any second.

"Do you think about how i feel when you say that? Do you know how broken i am? Do you know that 'hate' is a strong word?" I asks him again and again not hiding my tears anymore. He didn't say anything afterwards. Just tearing in front of me.

"I hate you Jimin. I really do." I told him as i tried to release his grip on my hand.

He paused and stares at me.

"You.... hate me?"

I didn't look at him.

He inhale an amount of oxygen.

"Please don't say that Y/N, please. I know I'm a jerk... an idiot, a bastard for doing that to you. I know whatever i say will never mend your heart or our friendship like it used to but that's why i'm here Y/N." He said.

"Do it Y/N. Hit me. Kick me. Punch me. Do whatever you want to me. Hurt me physically because i will never know how you felt when i hurt you inside but i know it will never be enough. Just, please.... don't hate me. Please don't say that because i have live with so many hatred towards myself after i hurt you. I can't bare if you hate me too," he cried.

"Do it Y/N. Let me feel pain. I deserve it. Hit me please. Punch me till i bleed. I don't care. Hurt me as much as you want." He begs and i melt down at the sight.

Jimin was kneeling, begging for me to not hate him, crying in a weak state pleading me to punch him. He's not the arrogant Jimin. He's the vulnerable one. I softened as I see Jimin had changed. Maybe he did realize what he did to me was wrong. Maybe all these years, Jimin took the blame on himself. I don't want to hurt him. I have learn to let the grudges go, even if it's hard.

"Get up Jimin. Don't do this. I don't want to hurt you." I said softly. He shook his head, eyes on the ground. I pulled him up and he stares at me, eyes still red from crying too much. He wipes my tears with his hand and gently stroke my cheeks.

"Don't cry.. please.. i'm sorry Y/N. Please forgive me. I'm sorry for being such an asshole to you. I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry for everything i said. I'm sorry for not being there for you during graduation. I'm terribly sorry for being the worst best friend in the world." He spoke in a gentle tone looking deeply into my eyes.

I wiped my tears and he hugged me. In that sudden moment, i realize, i miss my best friend. I miss his scent, his everything. It would be a lie if i say i don't want our friendship anymore but i can't just take him back. We stayed like that for a long time and Jimin seems as if he doesn't want to let go.

"I'll try forgiving you Jimin," i whispers slowly. He smiles and hugged me tightly. When he unhugged me, i continued.

"But i will never forget. I can't promise you i'll be forgiving you wholly and we're going to be like we used to, but i'll try. And you just can't expect me to give you a second chance, you have to earned it." I said. He smiles and this time it's a happy one.

"Thank you Y/N. Thank you so much. Don't worry, i'll prove you i'm worth to be forgiven. I'm worth to be your best friend again. This time i'll make it right." He smiles showing his cute chubby cheeks.

...

I woke up at the sound of Jackson and Hanbin's shrieks when i realize i had fallen asleep at Hanbin's couch with Jimin's shoulder as my pillow. Jackson took a picture and i kick his leg making him yell in pain.

"Congratulation! You're friends again, i'm taking this picture so the moment will last longer," he said to us. Youngji and Dahyun smiles warmly at me, relief that everything's over. Jimin woke up and look at me with smiling eyes.

I quickly got up and repair my shirt. "Urmm.. sorry," i mumbled to Jimin. "It's okay, you always use my shoulder as your pillow," he smiles. I quickly pulls Hanbin and Jackson's ears because they locked me in.

I look at my watch. The sun is almost down by now.

"So... see you guys tomorrow, i'll be heading home now," i said and heads to the door.

They laugh seeing me flustered. Jimin had offer to send me home but i'm not ready to show him my apartment yet because this friendship thing is too early. He frown but still, he's happy.

Before i go, he stares at me on the doorstep. I look at him wondering what he wanted to say.

"Will i see you tomorrow too Y/N?" He asks curiously.

I give him a small smile.

"Urmm yeah.. maybe you will."

...

2 days later.

We sat in the cafeteria and Jimin had joined us comfortably today. He was so happy on the fact that we were friends again.

"Do you want to eat anything Y/N? my treat," He ask me, a bit hesitant and bold because this friendship is still fresh. I look at him.

"It's okay Chim- I mean Jimin," i stutters.

He smiles widely. "I haven't heard anyone call me Chimchim in ages." I ate my food silently but my friends laugh at our awkwardness when we notice a few girls were whispering behind us.

"Whoa.. whose that sexy thing? Isn't he new? Why is he seating over there when he can sit here with us?" She whispers but i can clearly hear her jealous tone but i don't care. I'm used to people saying this when Jimin and i went recess during high school.

But that time, Jimin enjoys the spotlight and he didn't say anything. But this time, he did.

"Because i'm her best friend so if you mind, we're taking a decent lunch right now, so please be quiet." He told them and they shut it. I smirk. Jackson and Hanbin laughed, high-fiving him. He's really taking our friendship seriously this time.

We were finishing our lunch before we went to our next class session when the girl behind us whispers again.

"And who is 'that' cute hottie? Why is there so many hot new students here??" She squeaks and we all giggles looking at their direction.

We look at the strange cute guy who were wondering around the cafeteria, probably confused as hell to where his class was when i spotted him staring down at me.

He looks familiar... somewhere..

Like from an old memory...

...

...

...

And It hits me.

I look at Youngji, and she look back at me. We both knew what this look is. The 'oh-my-god-he-still-exists-look.' My eyes widened. No wonder he stares at me.

My first love, my first crush, my first heartbreak.

Jeon Jungkook.

🍡

[grizztomysam]

Grizzam College Song Fic AU Preview : Mumford & Sons - If I Say

Angst galore and homophobic slurs present...so just forwarned....

===================

Grizz and Sam finally establish a friendship after being partnered in English class during the start of Grizz’s senior year. Although it skirts the borders of what is deemed platonic. Shared glances after inside jokes are exchanged linger a little too long, accidental and not so accidental touches result in hitched breaths and Grizz preens a little to much whenever Sam looks at his lips when he’s speaking.

Months pass, the duo get considerably closer and Grizz scraps his initial plan to come out in college. 

He’s fallen in love, it’s no longer a crush. 

He’ll tell Sam his true feelings after their last game for the season and ask Sam to prom.

The night before this was to happen, Grizz is over at Sam’s studying for midterms. Sam says a particularity witty quip to something Grizz can’t even remember but he’s laughing and crying and Sam has somehow straddled him tickling his sides making him laugh harder. And he can’t hold back any longer, flips them both and kisses Sam likes he’s always wanted to. Since the first time he’d glimpsed the blued eyed boy when he was 12. 

There too caught up in the moment to see the figure watching and recording from the slit in Sam’s slightly opened bedroom door.

Before Grizz leaves he makes sure Sam will be coming to the game. 

“Of course, it’s your last” Sam’s lips are especially red and so inviting. Grizz wants so bad to kiss him again.

“I have something to tell you.”

“So secretive” Sam signs with a soft smirk, eyes shining.

Grizz just smiles back, kisses him gently on the cheek and leaves.

But life’s a bitch. Somehow adverse to letting people be....happy.

Campbell comes into his room a while later, he’s still on cloud nine and can’t seem to fall asleep. But the look on his brother’s face...his eyes have a calculated quiet to them, stark and garish juxtaposition to the smile on his lips, has Sam sitting, nerves electric and hackles up.

“Stay away from Visser, Fag.” He says this without preamble. Says it as if he’s telling his little brother goodnight and not to let the bed bugs bite.

“Why?” He’s learned to speak in controlled tones, volume steady and low. That’s how you speak to a rabid dog, muscle tensed and ready to pounce.

“Because the boy’s got a bright future. Football scholarship and all. Wouldn’t want to be the reason that gets taken away.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh Sam, you sure are daft. Let me talk in laymen’s terms. You break this abomination of a relationship you have with Grizz. And I’ll make sure William behaves tomorrow night.”

“Who the fuck is William.” The creeping dread that’s got the hair on his nape standing dissolves his resolve.

“Tsk Tsk, language, Samuel.....You see William is a boy that happens to love the little pills I give him every other week. Can’t get enough of them. He also happens to be on the opposing team playing against Visser tomorrow. A defensive linebacker...big massive boy. One word from me. I don’t know...something about not having anymore of his favorite pills unless he does something to Grizz Visser during game night. Nothing big. A broken arm...leg.”

“I hate you!” He doesn't so much scream it but breath it from every hurting vein in his body. 

Because he hates Campbell. With the very fiber of his being he wants to take something sharp and stab it into the jugular of his brother’s neck. Watch him bleed out until there is nothing left but a sunken shell.

“I know...Do what’s right.” He leaves, an almost pitying look on his face, as if this was something out of his control.

“Why...”

He turns back to look...blinks with empty eyes and smiles. “Because I can, little brother.”

Sam doesn’t sleep that night. Gets sick twice at 4 in the morning. Cries silent  wracking sobs as he grips the rim of the toilet bowl. 

He manages to avoid Grizz during the day. Ignores the texts that pile up. Skips the one class they have together after feigning a stomach ache. Even tho it really wasn't’ pretend.

He arrives home and finally texts back “Sorry ate something weird after you left last...night spent most of the day at the nurses office..I’ll see you at the game tonight”

The answer text is immediate “Awe..I could have kept you company...I can’t wait to see you.”

It leaves a tightness in his throat, so he closes his eyes and tries to disappear into the nothingness for a while. Tries not to feel.

He sends a text asking Grizz to meet him under the bleachers before the game, arrives an hour before to make sure there’s plenty of time for Grizz to sneak away and see him. 

He can almost feel the eagerness from Grizz’s text. Pictures his face, all bright eyed, nose scrunched in that adorable Grizz way, eyes crinkled at the corners with a grin.

Sure no problem. I missed you all day.

He wants to run away, far where no one can hear him and he can scream until his lungs burn out and his eyes no longer know how to cry. 

Grizz is waiting for him, decked out in his football uniform, hair in that topknot that drives him crazy. He’s all anxious energy and beauty. Sam has to look down pretending to pick at lint from his sweatshirt. Blinks hard and steels himself.

“Hey, you ok?” Grizz has ambled forward from his lean against the wall, eyes concerned, arms offered to hold.

Grizz is going to see right through this whole thing.

He walks pass him and leans against the opposite wall. The worry on Grizz’s face cuts at his heart with a blunt knife.

“You sad?...Last game and all.” He’s stalling but his mind is blank.

Grizz doesn’t push and walks towards him. So close that if he looks up from his gaze that’s now level with Grizz’s chest, all he’d have to do for a kiss was rise up slight on his toes because Grizz has leaned down tilting his chin up.

“I was going to wait until after, but I really want to kiss you right now and I need to say this first.” And Sam is crying because life is fucking unfair.

‘I love--”

“Stop....you don’t” he signs and sobs,  pushing the older boy away. 

Grizz stands steady, grabbing his face, confusion laced with an unease that has Grizz frantically searching his eyes.

“Sam--what is this?...Last night--” 

“Exactly...last night. Was a mistake.” He won’t look Grizz in the eye, instead focusing on his lips

“No!! It wasn’t!”

“Yes...this thing can’t happen. You don’t want me like that..feel for me like that. You think you do but you’ll wake up tomorrow..or few days later and realize all this won’t be worth it.”

Grizz roughly shakes his head at the words, forcing Sam to look him in the eye, hands firm but gentle as they wipe his tears away.

“No” It’s a sharp exhaled declaration,” I’m been feeling this for a while now. And I know you feel the same way--”

“Don’t you dare! You’re telling me how I feel now? What? Because your Grizz Visser?? Star football player..who fucking quotes shit like your from the dead poet’s society. Got girls practically salivating to get you to look at them. And me..the fucking gay deaf kid. Poor little Sam Eliot. You must think I’m so desperate. Pathetic enough to jump at the chance to have a piece of you..huh??  I’m probably some pet project...check off your box for humanitarian electives.”

Grizz stays quiet, frozen shock but visibly flinches at the words that are hurled in a slurred deluge from Sam’s mouth.

“News flash, Grizz, this might be a shocker, rejection is probably a foreign concept but I. Don’t. Want. You!!” he spits it out, tries to sign with trembling fingers that wish to rip Campbell from limb to limb.

He wants to wash his mouth out with bleach.

“This isn’t you..I don’t believe a word that’s coming out of your mouth.” It’s a whispered sentiment as Grizz drops his hands from his cheek, into balled fists by his side and the sudden emptiness in Grizz’s wet gaze is starting to scare Sam.

But he loves Grizz. 

Fuck.

He really really does. And he’ll hurt Grizz first before Campbell can touch him.

And Campbell hurting Grizz scares him more.

“Stay the fuck away from me.”

He leaves without looking back. 

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

If I say I love you, then I love you

====================================================

This song hurts my insides so good...and le ideas came about. Please listen to this song if you want your heart ripped out and tap danced on. 

Just a taste people..got legit concrete ideas of how i want to finish this...So let me know if ya want more.