#and they just laughed along unoffended

[isekyaaa]

I really want more non-villain male characters that rank really high in emotional intelligence and use it to their advantage. I want men that know the ins and outs of how people work and tailor themselves and how they act to get the desired reactions and results out of them. I want men that can turn angels out of demons and make even the bitchiest of Karens worship the ground they walk on. But I don't want them to do these things to achieve lofty goals. I just want them to act this way because that's just how they naturally are.

[jomiddlemarch]

on the cold earth under the cold sky

“Your feet are cold,” Joel said.

“You said you hated it when I wore socks to bed,” Grace replied. “And I don’t love it either. My feet get too hot.”

“It wasn’t a complaint, darlin’, just an observation,” Joel said.

“It seemed like a complaint,” Grace said. She wiggled her toes, which were cold, and let out a breath, which floated above her in a brief cloud. It was frigid in Jackson far earlier than expected, either a cold snap or the beginning of a long, hard winter, which reminded Grace of the Little House on the Prairie book where they spent the snowed-in winter grinding wheat in a coffee-grinder and she’d skipped to the end because it was so boring. Maria had asked everyone to conserve resources, bundling up instead of stoking fires. It worked okay during the day, but the nights were difficult.

“C’mere,” Joel said, pulling her even tighter to him.

“You don’t—sorry,” Grace mumbled. “Sorry for being a cold bitch.”

He laughed, a rich, warm sound like the Kenyan coffee she desperately missed though she’d never admit it, and jostled her into putting her feet between his shins. He was wearing a set of faded Black Watch tartan flannel pajamas over a white tee shirt and she should have found it hilarious when she saw him or almost homely, as close to sexy as Neptune, but should didn’t seem to apply since she’d left Before for Now.

“Never met anyone who’s less of a cold bitch than you, Gracie,” he said.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” she asked. She would have used all her willpower to keep from rolling her eyes if Ellie had said something similar, but she’d slept poorly since it got cold. It reminded her too much of the first winter after Kian was killed. Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone ran through her mind on a loop, the loop preferable to any other memory.

“It’s the truth. You can take it however you want it,” he said, completely unoffended by the sound of his voice and the gentleness of his embrace.

“No matter what I say, I’m wrong and you’re right,” she snapped. I think you’re a cold bitch and kind of mean at the moment, if that’s worth anything, dead-Lauren offered. Grace was well aware she was being surly and rude and why? Because she was tired of going to bed with cold feet and waking in the night with her nose and cheeks feeling half-frozen, because there wasn’t much she could do when people came in with frost-nip and fucking Dickensian chilblains, because she’d once tried to go back to where she’d buried Kian that brutal winter and she couldn’t find his grave, couldn’t remember where she’d first pressed the shovel into the barely yielding earth, putting all her weight on the metal, in a hurry, too full of cortisol to shed a tear?

Because however awful she was, Joel was kind and calm, steady, putting a cup of something hot into her hand when she came through the door, helping unbutton her wool peacoat, even inviting Ted and Beard, Tommy and Maria to come over and sit by the fireplace, Joel with his guitar on his lap, playing when they asked, playing “Father and Son” for Ted without a request, without looking up from the guitar’s belly.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Joel answered.

“I’m tired,” she said. She wouldn’t explain, didn’t need to; let him draw his own conclusions.

“I think bears have the right idea,” Joel said. “Find a den, hibernate. Wait ‘til spring comes. Sounds good, now, for all that Ted has his winter wonderland plans cookin’.”

“They starve,” Grace said. “All winter, the bears use up their own bodies to stay alive.”

“That’s nothin’ new,” he replied.

“I already feel used up,” Grace said. It was an admission—of guilt? Weakness that he wouldn’t be able to stomach or respect? Ellie had started telling stories about Tess, how indomitable the woman had been, how determined. The admiration in her voice had been unmistakable. If Joel was around when Ellie talked, he nodded along, and there was sometimes something in his dark eyes, a gleam not unlike tears.

“I know. You just need a rest. Sarah’s mother could get like that,” Joel said.

It was a shock to hear him speak of her and so easily. Grace didn’t even know the woman’s name, whether they’d been married, together, exes who got along for the sake of the child, who hadn’t loved each other enough to break each other. Joel knew little more about Kian and not at all about the perpetual background conversation Grace had going with dead-Lauren. She supposed they were even.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t whisk her away to Aruba either,” he said.

Grace made a conscious choice she might later deeply regret not to pursue the her in favor of  Aruba.

“That’s where you’d take me? Where we’d go?” In another life, Before or the Before when cordyceps never happened, the mutation milder, stronger, ruining the grain before it could be consumed by anyone, Chicxulub taking a left turn. In a world of planes and flying coach but never standby, fluted red paper umbrellas, lemons, buying Joel a fancy white guayabera, glaring at the woman on the lounger with her crocheted bikini top untied at the back who was staring at him too long, too obviously.

“Yeah. Or the Keys. Somewhere your feet couldn’t get cold,” he said.

It would be easy to tell him she loved him there. To feel it, think it and speak, to leap without looking behind her or beyond him, a world crazed with a tiny thousand cracks, without the devastating fracture they’d somehow survived. She didn’t have to look at him to know grey he was getting at the temples and scattered throughout his beard. She didn’t have to reach up under his tee-shirt to feel the scar on his belly.

“They’re better,” she said. “My feet. They’re not cold anymore.”

She started to move away or tried to. Joel held on.

“Stay,” he said. “Keepin’ you warm keeps me warm.”

Another fic for @pedrostories​ 1K celebration, using AU, hurt/comfort and the quote “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

[ronmanmob]

Ron and Riley

Ships In The Night Meme

"OH WOULD YOU FUCK OFF WIV THA?!"

Pat, shocked by his boss's sudden volume, jolted back where he sat across from him at The Venture's bar post closing and goggled at Ron as the publican glared a hole right through him. His arms braced wide, weight leaned into the bar-top, Ron looked every inch the weapon he'd been in London; like an attack dog waiting for just the right command to launch for the throat teeth first. Pat had seen that side of Ron in living colour; had witnessed what'd made him the nightmare of the East End's bad'ns front row, in real time. And while that life might be behind them both now, an ocean and a city away, the man himself hadn't mellowed an iota in terms of his propensities when the need arose. Even Pat, who easily had a near foot in height on him, wouldn't square off against Ron out of choice. So it was deference now, if only in his body language - a dipped chin, lowered shoulders, raised brows, widened eyes and a--

"--Boss?"

"Don't--"

Any other day Pat might've missed it, but he was that fixed front and centre that he clocked the step back from a temper-fuelled brink in how Ron said that word, and those after--

"This?"

Ron gestured to the Couples Sheet Pat had snickeringly presented him with not ten seconds back. It came out of one of the various board games his bodyguard-come-pal loved to cause merriment with, and was a harmless enough thing. There was a gauge at the top for how well a pairing fared. It read-

Rate: NOTP | Ew | Nah | Alright | Cute | I LOVE them | They are perfect | OTP | THEY ARE MY BEAUTIFUL, SWEET CHILDREN AND I SHALL PROTECT THEM AS THEIR MOTHER

-and was followed by all sorts of light-hearted, romance-based questions that meant nothing really and were pitched as joshing hilarity. Ron's issue wasn't with any of that - much as he thought it was a bit soppy. It was with the pairing.

Ron & Riley

"Stop, Patrick."

Pat blinked at being full-named.

Ron didn't even pause for breath.

"I's jokin', I know. I's all in fun, I know. I know y'don't mean it as serious anymore than Andy could or does when 'ee smirks 'n asks why I fink 'ee's gorgeous." Ron's right hand raises slightly, his fore and middle fingers tapped to the bar top. "I know wha' tha' is when 'ee asks. Man wants 'is ego fluffed 'n I'm fine wiv tha'. S'armless, ain't it. Course it is, so I c'n put it away where it needs t'go -- tha' sort'a interaction. I know wha' 'ee's doin', I got th'right social context. We're mates. 'Av been years. Bu' this?"

The slip of paper gets a tap now.

"--S'a joke, yes, 'n were 'ee 'ere 'n unoffended I might laugh along 'n ansa th'bits I felt like. Bu' 'ee ain't 'n m'tellin' you -- Spoonin'? Romcoms?" That word came out like it tasted bad. "Weddin's? Dates? I got nuffin' t'tell yah. B'cause them fings can't be b'tween me 'n 'im. 'N I don't need even 'alf a notion in 'ere-" A gesture to his head now. "-Tha' they could. Second tha' seed starts growin'? Tha'd be like drinkin' a gallon'a watah in front ov a man 'oo's been lost in a desert."

Silence fell for a beat or so. Then, deliberately, Ron closed his fist round the paper slip on the bar-top. "Torture" he said, before gathering himself, tossing the bar's front door key onto the mahogany between he and his friend and making slow tracks upstairs.

Pat stared after his boss for a long time. He watched him disappear into the back of house, heard the security door between that and the stairs up to Ron's living space beep open and fall heavily closed. And he wondered, as he went back to the tumbler of whiskey he'd forgotten in the heat of the moment, who the fuck Ron was trying to convince about that seed.

----

For @tarnishedhalo, lovingly tagged as this was from a Nonny

[priscilla9993]

TLDR: Family member gets offended at profanity I used in an unoffending context. I have a serious discussion why context matters and how being proper or social perception is not something I care deeply about as long as it doesn’t hurt me or someone else. I hurt them so I apologized. They responded with minimal understanding and an insulting joke unrelated to the situation.

I sometimes don’t know why I bother making a point and informing certain people on why what they did was wrong, when I know that the conversation will continue looping, they won’t change, and will takeaway from the conversation as me being rude and improper.

I said “that is a fucked up moment”. The context is it wasn’t directed at them, who was in the kitchen grabbing food, as I was watching youtube on a tv in the living room. It was a video essay that I paused to take a breather as it built up to something serious and the screen got filled with the text “what the fuck” as the ytuber straightforwardly reacted to the show in question. This family member of mine got offended that I said a curse word and how “it’s improper of a girl to say that when it could offend someone” and I “should care about it because it would make the other blame it on my parent’s bad parenting”.

I made it clear the context in which I used it, apologized for offending them, and said that I try not to use it around them despite it not being directed at them. I also made a point of how I am an adult, make age appropriate decisions on when and where I use profanity, and I used the words in a joking or emphasized manner, not hurtful ones.

Their reaction: Silence for a bit and then “No matter what, you shouldn’t use profanity. I don’t know who you’ve been hanging out with, but no one else I hang around with uses it because they’re proper. Have you taken your medication today?” (They proceeded to laugh at their own joke)

I got upset and called them out for replying to my conversation with them with a joke, not taking me seriously, and using me as the butt of the joke, “laughing at me, not with me”. They got mad, claiming they were leaving, that I couldn’t take a joke, and they’ll never joke with me again. I tried to explain why joking is okay, but not when it insults the other person and it’s not the mood to joke. I understand making a “you’re crazy or smoking something” joke and laugh along if it was a friend or lighthearted situation. We didn’t have a joking friendship or situation. They left saying I shouldn’t be offended since they were joking.

I’m pretty sure I lost brain cells there. I bet it wasn’t the profanity that offended them but rather an attack of character they felt at being associated badly with someone who does something they don’t like. (All hypothetical and assumed as you can see). They find something uncomfortable, they’ll mimic a joke with someone else being the butt of the joke in order to pretend it was a lighthearted memory, and to forget something was even being said. I really hate the fact that I can’t just be without contact or association with them until I graduate school and get a place of my own.

[reap-the-game]

captainqster:

She surprised him with her laugh, enough that he watched her, blank-faced and wary before his ears and posture relaxed. So she had a sense of humor. It was surprising to see after the prior day. She’d sneered with contempt when he’d spat at her feet, talked to him guardedly and without pleasure, if with poorly hidden interest; she’d paced with agitation and shackled him with unfriendly hands.

Left him alone. Left him cold and on the floor.

Now, as the early sun shone through the window to turn her cabin morning-gold, she laughed. She even choked on her drink and cursed him without any evidence of real anger. Her coughing was charming in how human it was, so much that he had to stifle a laugh of his own and look away from her.

A shame how fate had found them. Were she not his captor and her crewmen not his bane, their meeting could have been like pieces of a whole coming together. Their people had scorned him, sliced and shunned him, but he didn’t have to hold that against her forever. The mild dismay he felt to associate her with them could fall away, a process made easier knowing she’d abandoned her homeland.

Then his curiosity could be reborn. Except…she’d been angry with him over his question of names. What if she didn’t want to talk about Golmore at all? What if, given the chance to hear about it, he no longer wanted to know? The fairytale of Golmore was tarnished. The culture and its people were no longer far away and mysterious.

They were embedded in his flesh. They lived there in the lines that marked his body, mocking him, spurning him forever. Last night she’d done the same. Don’t cross paths with me again.

He was being a fool. The only thing he should worry about was getting her to like him enough to let him free. Ren didn’t think it would take much. She’d rescued him on sight and let his show of anger slide. As long as he didn’t deliberately piss her off, he thought he had a good chance.

She was eyeing his scars again. What an ugly memory, but one whose bite lessened over the years.

“You like them? They were a gift,” he said, trailing his fingers along a scar that marked his chest. His smile was faint but solemn, and as Ren spoke that smile twisted such that a sharp eyetooth gleamed. “From one of our kind.”

But he would say no more on it just now. Instead he sat across from her at the table, maintaining what he hoped to be a respectful distance while taking advantage of what little hospitality she’d given him. If she was going to let him wander her cabin, why not take a chair? Unless she expected him to stand at attention, which he could very well do, or haunt an empty corner. He could do that too, amuse her in just about any way she liked if it meant staying in her good graces.

His brand of servitude did tend to be imperfect. He fussed too much at the start, made unpleasant faces that offended. And he had a smart mouth that often went dormant, but not for long, certainly not forever. It was his bad habit to take a mile where an inch was offered.

Giovanna had not whipped him for his dry comment regarding her crew. Now he would continue to speak more freely than a smart man might, the disposition of quiet servitude short-lived and shelved.

“Will you feed me scraps off your plate like a dog again, Captain?” This much was asked with an unoffended smile. In fact the way he watched her with his chin propped on the heel of his hand was perfectly sincere: far from resenting what little she might cast aside to stave off his starvation, he was grateful for it. Looked forward to it. It would be a small boon after the cold and sleepless night he’d had.

Only barely did he manage to not bat his eyes at her. Maybe if he looked less ragged he would have, if only to hear her laugh again.

reap-the-game:

One of their kind?

A Viera? A Rava? It didn’t matter which—it was too close to home either way. Her frown deepened the instant he admitted to that much, that it was not just anyone that had cut him in that manner.

One of their kind. Was she angry? Did her brow not furrow and her mouth tighten in what could be little more than anger?

It appeared so. Angry on his behalf? Angry that someone sharing their blood would do not what she did despite how she shouldn’t have, and would instead… Do this. “Who..?” Giovanna began a question, her voice equally reflecting the tension that had overtaken her body—anger without a target, and when would it ever get a target? The scars were old. Whoever had left them had to be long gone by now, and what, even if they weren’t, what? Did she want to… What? Show them the price you paid for mistreating one of your own?

Unreasonable to the last, and so she shook her head instead of finishing her sentence. Shook her head hard enough to feel like her brain rattled in her skull, and with what sounded quite a bit like another curse muttered under her breath, Giovanna brought the bottle back to her lips and tried to wash away every word and every thought that learning even this much wanted to bring up.

Blame her not for being the kindest soul out there, not even to him, but… Why was she so bothered? Why? What did she care that he had been wronged in that manner?

Because it was wrong, wasn’t it?

Should she not be beyond sorry concepts such as right or wrong? Too many of her actions and too many actions that she allowed were inexcusable. There was no point in pretending there was a shred of holy in her.

But he was– Ren was a Viera. In the flesh, sitting before her, and she was not unaffected. As she frowned at him now, still lost in her own thoughts, she could not pretend his race meant nothing to her, even if they lacked the commonality of upbringing. To then think that there was someone who had cared little enough to bring such sharp harm upon him—though if that was the case, why the effort put into marking him like that? Her eyes traced what of his scars were visible, their careful placement.

That did not speak not caring. Something about her assumptions wasn’t adding up, was it?

She should ask if she wanted to know for certain, but Giovanna couldn’t find the words, nevermind a way to phrase them in a suitable manner. He didn’t seem entirely unwilling to talk about it—already had he said something about them without much prompting—but it couldn’t be a… Pleasant memory.

And tact was a skill she was rather rusty in, after these years. Pirates weren’t tactful. She could not be tactful, no matter what prior years had taught her. She could not be sweet, or charming.

What she could be was coarse and calculating, ruthless and shrewd. Cutthroat in a world of cutthroats, where any hand could be holding the knife you found lodged in your back the moment you lowered your guard. It was… An immeasurable distance away from the naively trusting, awestruck girl that had stepped out of Golmore. She had trusted. She had thought the best of people.

What had that gotten her?

Ren had not grown up in Golmore to begin with, and wasn’t the cruelty and coldness of the world a lesson everyone had to learn? That in mind, why should she think another Viera would not look at someone like Ren and see… Nothing? Nothing but competition, or a threat, or a target, or whatever else circumstances framed him as.

Not one of their own, as she could clearly not stop herself from thinking of him as.

She shouldn’t, though. Especially because he was not Golmore-born, she should not. What reason did she have to think he was not just as backstabbing as the rest of them? What had she done to not earn that knife? Picked him from the hands of her crew? Promised him a measure of safety until he could make a run for it?

Was that really enough? It couldn’t be, or she would have let him stay loose while taking her rest, and yet she didn’t. Pat on her back for that; at least she could do something right.

Giovanna shook herself out of her thoughts at his question, her frown easing away to be replaced by a cocked brow. Was he joking? He looked awfully at ease, whatever this was—or maybe ease was too strong of a word, but that smile he was wearing…

A dog, he said. Both of her brows raised now, her expression rather unimpressed. “Only if you beg cutely enough,” she answered, and managed to keep a straight face for all of three seconds before the corner of her mouth twitched into a smile. A joke, then? Not that she would mind seeing how he would go about begging for sustenance if put to the task, but with the way she had to hide her smile behind her bottle, quite likely it was spoken in no seriousness.

Ah, but she would have to fetch her portion of the breakfast before someone thought to come deliver it. It wouldn’t be completely out of character for her, though perhaps she should stay to eat with her men for a while and trust them to make far too many lewd jokes for anyone’s sanity—just the excuse she would need to roll her eyes, grab her food, and retreat to her cabin to finish it in peace and quiet with her captive presumably too cowed to do more than pleasure her.

Yes, pretend he wasn’t doing anything but that.

[foramomentonly]

Shy

For @arielana , who requested prompt #13: "Aww, are you getting shy now?" I am once again playing in @adiwriting 's glorious bad boy/nerd AU sandbox. I'm at work rn, but I'll post an AO3 link when I get home.

"Aww," Alex teases as Michael cracks open the heavy door and peeks out into the athletic hallway, "are you getting shy now?"

It's a valid question, considering what they'd just done. Here. In the boy's locker room between second lunch and fifth period. Michael on the narrow bench opposite the last row of lockers, legs splayed wide, and Alex on his knees, shoulders hunched and head buried between Michael's thighs. They'd had sex. Michael Guerin is having sex with Alex Manes, and that should scare the shit out of him, they haven't even been doing this thing they're doing for long, but instead all Michael can think about is how Alex had sucked him all the way through his orgasm, swallowing Michael down and then bringing himself off before Michael could return the favor. Michael very much wants to return the favor.

Alex is already turning away when Michael lets the door fall shut and spins to face him, but his bright eyes watch Michael in the long mirror above the bank of sinks along the wall as he steps up to one and starts washing his hands, so Michael shrugs.

"I just don't want to get caught, is all," he replies.

Something dark and hollow flashes across Alex's face, and he looks down as he scrubs soap up his wrists, the sleeves of his sweater loose and dark at the cuffs where they've absorbed water.

"Don't wanna be caught with a guy, or just with me?"

Alex's voice is biting, humorless even as he lets out a huff of a laugh, short and sharp as it punches out of his chest. His dark eyes meet Michael's again in the dirty mirror, but his expression doesn't match the anger of his mocking tone. His brown eyes are soft as clay, thick brows drawn tight, and the corner of his mouth is pulled down in a sad sort of smirk, as though begging Michael not to prove him right. It's a face Michael is seeing more and more of as the mask of small town bad boy Alex Manes falls away and Alex surfaces, smart and thoughtful and young and sometimes so scared Michael doesn't know what to do except to cover him with his whole body like a shield, pressed tight against Alex's back when they're alone, hovering close enough to feel the heat from Alex's body against his skin when they're not.

Michael does it now, sliding his arms around Alex's waist and fitting his chest between the wings of Alex's shoulder blades, his nose bumping against the shell of Alex's ear. Alex stills, letting rushing water from the faucet pool in the well of the porcelain sink and holding Michael's gaze in the mirror's smudged reflection.

"I've known I like guys since I was, like, twelve," Michael says. "And I'll go make out with you on top of Kyle Valenti's lunch table right now, if you want to."

Alex laughs, soft and genuine, and Michael smiles into the skin of his neck.

"I just really can't get detention this week," he says, and Alex finally shuts off the tap and turns in Michael's arms, resting his damp wrists on Michael's shoulders.

"What's so special about this week?" Alex asks quietly.

"Saturday's a big Mathletes competition," Michael admits. "If I get detention, I won't be able to compete. And if I don't compete, the team's basically screwed, I'm the only one who can do the really hard stuff, like college-level stuff, and if--"

Alex cuts him off with a kiss, wet fingers digging into the suddenly tense muscles of his shoulders, and Michael whines, chasing the taste of Alex mixed with something salty, something Michael realizes with a shiver could be the taste of his own cum, never rinsed out of Alex's mouth. When Alex pulls back, there's mischief in his eyes, but also a secret.

"Who told you you had to be this big a nerd, huh?" he breathes, and Michael laughs, unoffended.

A spade is a spade, and a nerd is a nerd. Michael considers himself a very, very lucky nerd as Alex kisses his cheek and leans in closer to whisper in his ear.

"Don’t risk the hallway. Cut through the pool," he says. "There's an exit door that comes out around the corner from the courtyard. Alarm's been broken forever. You can sneak back in with the third lunch bell."

Michael grins, relief and affection battling for dominance in his pounding heart. Alarm or no alarm, the door won't be a problem now that Michael knows it's there, but Alex doesn't need to know that Michael can trip wires with his brain. And as ridiculous as Michael is sure he must look in this moment, giddy at the opportunity to not skip class, Alex only smiles softly and winks.

“Perk of d-dating a delinquent,” he quips, and his tongue trips over his own words, lips trembling until Michael grins impossibly wider, pressing a quick, energetic kiss to the corner of Alex’s mouth as the lunch bell sounds.

“One of many,” he says, and scoops up his backpack, rushing out the door before Alex comes to his senses and takes it all back.

[soundsaboutrighttumblr]

Okay, meta of the scene in ep 5 between Shu Yi’s Dad and Shi De.

Shame on me, because I have to digress at the very beginning even, because that piggy back scene reminded me of something Sam said in an interview, and that is that Yu’s body felt soft to the touch, like a cat’s, and that it is totally a good thing. In the way he molds himself to Shi De’s back, and later slithers off him into the bed, I must say, I totally see it, what he means, and I am loving it. He’s probably very good at winding himself out of your hold when he doesn’t want to be there, and fitting himself to every part of your body when he wants to. Bendy, non-resistant, viscuous, long, warm limbs, I can just imagine the morning stretches. And yeah, I would totally try to pet him, even at the dangers of scratch and bite.

Back to topic:

That scene with Dad. I laughed out loud several times, it is amazing, but also heart wrenching and a psychological roller coaster of course, but I loved how the acting toed the line between serious and comical at times. How Shu Yi’s Dad seems so much like Shu Yi in some moments, when he angrily stalked over towards a wide-eyed Shi De – with Shu Yi on his back-, or later the end of the scene, his impulsive face journey, and how you can see where Shu Yi got his bearings and mannerisms from. Great choice of actor, great acting, I laughed so hard.

On to the psychological ride that is this scene:

So, we’re still digesting the piggy back ride with Big Cat Shu Yi, and there he comes, Dad, dorky and enthusiastic and overbearing, already in Shu Yi’s apartment, with food and presents, but so happy to see his son.

And he comes face to face with a doe eyed, clumsy looking, caught in the act-mannered Gao Shi De, and of course that phallic symbol in Dad’s hand has to be broken for effect (You know, the phallus shaped snack that Shu Yi really likes, that Shi De will take to him later?).

And the music and all plays into the comedic aspect, but also into the role that Shi De takes on here, which is to a point calculated, I believe. It’S the playing weak he will be accused of later. He still tries to win Dad over by playing a more submissive role, not offending his pride, but allowing for his authority, still trying to maybe appease him for Shu Yi’s sake, to make him maybe come around without having to play hard ball.

Dad prowling over menacingly, shushing him, only to take the shoes… yeah. Laughed. His priority is his son, even if he is misguided about what he needs to protect his son from. A thought: The relatives, not the love of his live. But, of course, that is easier said than done, because Dad, too, is entangled in family and corporate webs.

But first things first, Shi De takes his big cat to the bedroom, and this time the statue and rabbit on the window can look on, because nothing scandalous is happening, the snow globe with the Statue of Liberty seems gone, no more freezing American secrets to disturb, it seems.

And is this the look of a man wo just decided that he wants to marry the one sleeping in front of him, again, and over once more? Yes, it is.

It is also the look of a man, who decided to try and win over his fiancé’s dad once more, because even if he knows Shu Yi will stand at his side against him, the happier future he wants for Shu Yi would be with Dad on their side, because despite it all they are close, so close they share mannerisms and face journeys.

So, he showers, in Shu Yi’s space probably owned by Dad, washing off past mistakes, preparing to be his best self when meeting Dad downstairs again. Also? Making Dad wait for him, what a power move, Shi De is capable all right.

When he finally comes down to meet Dad, he takes on the role of a more submissive junior again, polite and respecting authority, because he is the one who asks something that Dad thinks it is his to give, and thus hehas the disadvantage, or at least wants to appease Dad by making him feel that way.

He plays along Dad’s rules, apologizing for breaking a promise that was a set up from the beginning, and he knows.

He presents the documents of his ‘worthiness’, humbly apologizing for them to be lacking in Dad’s eyes. Dad keeps eating, not paying back any of the respect he is shown, still to caught up in his entitlement.

Dad’s remark of it being the betrothal presents is meant to ridicule Shi De’s efforts and love.

Shi De gives him one last out, when he overlooks the tone, and just says yes. You can see it as my dowry, being totally honest and unoffended, as a move of power.

And Dad falls into his trap, out of arrogance, out of underestimating Shi De. Ridiculing something, that is not his to judge, laughing. Entitled: You are never getting into my family.”

Edit: for further intricacies about dowries and betrothal presents in Asian cultures, go here a post by @noona96n​ that gives more sense to it. I’ll leave my take before reading here nonetheless, because the gist is there, lol. But that reading of the beginning of the scene with the documents and the dowry and dad’s entitlement makes more sense. 

And that is when Shi De changes course.

Leaving the submissive pose behind, sitting down at the table, an at least equal partner at the bargaining table.

And what he says, that he can let Shu Yi into his own family, because they are accepting him with open arms? It is a strike that is powerful, proving that equality, if not superiority.

It reminds me of when Shi De said in their first encounter after America, that he will accept the deal, because he knows Shu Yi will never be happy without his father’s approval.  Dad should have seen it then, maybe he did and forgot, and underestimated again.

Shi De is a psychological menace when it comes to bargaining and debating, and don’t you make the mistake to underestimate that. Now they are playing hard ball.

Because he brings Shu Yi’s happiness into it, something he knows is something Dad cares about deep down, even if he is misguided how it should look like. It also plays into parental duties and responsibilities and being a good parent, supporting your child and accepting and loving him for who he is.

He appeals to Dad’s guilt over that, all the while putting him in his place, because he, Shi De has that love that loves Shu Yi unconditionally and wants what makes him happy, he has parents that will love him and may take Dad’s place if he does a job that is lacking.

t’s also a hit to Dad’s fear of losing Shu Yi, that he admitted to in the bar, when saying not only daughters can leave their families. He treatens to take Shu Yi away into a new family.

Shi De builds himself up as Dad’s equal here, with a love that is true for Shu Yi, and also one that chooses Shu YI’s happiness. He’s saying, if they are to be competitors for Shi Yi’s love, Shi De might just come out winning, so Dad should rethink his course.

And Dad realizes then, that he has underestimated Shi De, he has leaned back in his chair while Shi De leans forward. He’s not laughing anymore.

Shi De is very confident in enunciating the syllables, leaning forward, no cowering in his eyes any longer. Everything about his posturing is dominant now. Demanding respect, not asking for it any longer.

So much that Shu Yi’s Dad is backed into a corner, offense his only defense: Are you threating me?

Now it is Shi De who is laughing. What a terrifying opponent in a negotiation. Business man and alpha males through and through… ah, alpha, wasn’t that the project that Shi De… anyway.

Shi De’s reaching out an olive branch, trying to soothe the situation for politeness sakes. All instruments in the psychological engineering of that scene.

And Dad has to give that credit, even if he gives it the tone of an insult.

“You played weak before.”

I am not sure if he means Shi De portrayed himself as weaker than he was, or if he meant play dirty. In any case, he misjudged Shi De. Edit: I think it means playing dirty. Which dad has done, too. Edit’s Edit: Although @noona96n post on the japanese subs ead in me into an iterpretation of playing weaker than he is again... I am torn. both, both is good.

And Shi De again pretends not to hear the tone, just takes it as face value, not letting Dad getting personal. But also, Shi De delivers a lethal blow:

Reminding Dad again, that yes, Shi De played that game for Shu Yi’s happiness, thus having the moral higher ground, but also reminding him that yes, he chose to play the game that way, dirty if he must, with all the capabilities he now proved to have, and that he is not afraid to sacrifice on personal levels, or his pride, to get what he wants, which is ultimately a happy Shu Yi.

Also reminding him of the emails, how dirty he COULD play, leverage that Dad until now maybe thought he still had, but that Shi de now holds over him.

You can see how Shu Yi’s dad doesn’t have anything to set against that. So, he just turns to an insult, trying to put Shi De down again.

But Shi De twists it in his mouth, taking it as confession, just to rile up Dad. Then calling him Dad/Father-in-law, to remind him that with how things are looking now, this is the foreseeable outcome of their future, one where Shi De gets his way and Dad doesn’t.

Edit: @noona96n‘s post on the japanese subs and marriage and family in Asian culture led me to believe that Dad’s scolding of calling Shi De an ungrateful creature/child, as if he was in fatherly position to do so, made Shi De trap him with the question, if he had accepted the marriage/Shi De as his child, and he calls him Dad. I also think that Dad was really impressed by Shi De’s negotiation Skills, and maybe because of that slipped up like that... For those interested, sometimes we have interesting conversations in the comments and notes, lol.

I correct myself; I think that was the lethal blow, lol.

And Dad can only turn to blind rage, lashing out with anything that comes to mind. How the incident in the company still might cost him that future with Shu Yi. Hm. Sus.

You know, the incident, where someone maybe paid a lot of money to destroy/test Shi De’s company and future, by stealing the title alpha, ahem, project alpha from him, only for Shi De to rebuild what alpha means from the ground up, out of his resources, to present it to Dad’s company? Yeah, am I getting this right? Metaphors and all?

Anyway, Shi De has his capabilities and team and support to trust he will resolve that matter, so he is not in the slightest intimidated by that veiled threat.

He concludes by turning back to politeness, thanking Dad for his criticism/warning and paying back some respect to his authority, by bowing and promising to not let him down. Being the bigger man and all.

Then he steals the food Shu Yi likes, that Dad brought, out from under him. Because he CAN.

Yeah, that frustrated face journey by Dad is everything.

But. Maybe someday, when he gets over his pride and anger, he will even be impressed by his future Son-in-law, because yeah, Dad just met his match on a psychological scheming business war-fare level. He got his a... handed back to him.

He HAS to see how that will be good for Shu Yi to have in his corner, eventually.

Edit: After reading @noona96n ‘ post on weddings and family in Asian culture, I believe that interpretation fits the beginning of the scene better, but I do think once Dad rebuffed Shi De’s ask to marry into the family so harshly, Shi De really went into ruthless negotiation mode, to prove to Dad who thinks him unworthy of his world, that he can scheme and negotiate with the best of them, it is not a negotiation of Shu Yi’s future as much as they are pithing their negotiation skills against each other, and I believe Shi De succeeds in impressing Dad, which leads to Dad’s slip up in scolding him like achild, also maybe letting slip he knows of the stolen project, even though everyone has signed confidentiality agreements.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Enough, Always: Izzy

CW: Newly adult child of whumper and whumpee, whumper in prison, references to romantic/intimate whump, referenced child emotional abuse, verbal abuse, brief gendered appearance insults with single line of brief homophobia at end, plus final crowning moment of badass for Izzy.

Izzy’s mother Savannah Marcoset has been locked in prison on a life sentence without parole for eleven years for abducting Izzy’s father Jax, keeping him captive, and forcing him into a horrifying facsimile of domestic bliss - and Izzy last saw her in person fourteen years ago, when her father escaped with her and her infant brother in one desperate final bid for freedom.

Newly eighteen and feeling the need for some kind of closure in one of the foundational aspects of her identity, Izzy decides to visit America - and pay a visit to her incarcerated mother. 

During the visit, she learns that Savvie Marcoset, in the end, couldn’t change - but Izzy fucking Gallagher did.

For the first time with her mother, Izzy finds her voice.

Jax Gallagher (referenced) belongs to @comfy-whumpee and is used with permission.

---

“Is this how you dress now?” Her mother’s voice is sharp-edged and still familiar, even fourteen years since Izzy last spoke to her face to face. It’s funny, how she barely remembered it, but as soon as she hears it, her heart starts to race, and it’s the feeling of her heart beating wings inside her chest. It’s the way other people might remember the sense of a warm hand to forehead, checking for illness, or laughter, or praise.

It’s a voice like a fever, a rush of chill down her spine and through her arms and thighs. Is it familiar from real memories, or because Izzy has heard it in interviews and documentaries and recordings, during her nights spent researching the woman who makes up half her genetics and absolutely none of her life?

She almost gets up and leaves right then. 

Almost. 

But Izzy Gallagher fought for this trip, had declared herself able and willing to do this, had more importantly convinced her father she needed to do this. She can’t just give up because it didn’t start well.

Even if he wouldn’t judge her, or at least he wouldn’t show it, Izzy Gallagher sets her shoulders and declares herself her father’s stubborn strong daughter, and not her mother’s weak and frightened one.

She steels herself against the instinctive uncertainty, the rush of anxious shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have tried. Instead, she gives her mother a faint smile as a plastic-and-metal chair is pulled out and she sits down across the small round table, just enough space there isn’t any danger of accidental - or, hopefully, purposeful - touch. 

The walls are beige, the top of the table is a wood so pale it might as well be. There are bars on the window that lets in a pale and faded winter sun. There are some others, nearby, people younger or older than she sitting at other round tables, seeing mothers, wives, aunts, sisters. Izzy wonders if all of them are scared, or if none of them are. If it’s only her who has to remember how to breathe, in her mother’s presence.

She can do this. She told him she could do this.

“Um.” Izzy looks down at herself - just a band shirt and faded jeans worn with holes, her still-knobby knees showing through, the boots a birthday gift from Nana she’d thought would help her crunch through the grayish snow in the parking lot, a light hooded sweater over it all - and then up again. Her mother’s eyes are still wide-set in her face, which is less rounded as time has passed. 

Those eyes are still overbright, and very blue.

It’s been so long since Savannah Marcoset saw her eldest child, and Izzy can’t ever remember having been the focus of her mother’s all-consuming interest before. It feels like standing in the eye of a storm, where everything is still but the air carries weight, electricity, and threat. 

“Mostly,” Izzy says, finally. “Mostly this is how I dress. I mean, I couldn’t wear gray, could I? They wouldn’t let me leave.” She tries to sound lighthearted, then winces. Bad joke.

Her mother, in what looks almost like flat gray scrubs, with a high-cut V-neck and a waist without a drawstring, smiles back, apparently unoffended. There’s a shift - subtle as a cat moving onto its back paws in grass, eyes focused on a nearby bird. Izzy has always been sensitive to changes in the tension of a room, and her own eyes - hazel leaning towards brown, her father’s eyes through and through - move to a nearby guard, reassuring herself with his presence.

Savannah Marcoset is firmly locked in prison for life, with handcuffs and ankle-cuffs that ensure she can’t make herself a threat here, and still the soft nearly-buzzed hair at the back of Izzy’s neck stands up, and she feels like she is being inspected, a bit of bacteria in some scientist’s microscope.

“I had hoped for a little more color, is all,” Her mother says, tilting her head to the side, giving an impish little smile. “As you can imagine, there isn’t exactly a surplus of art here. You look lovely, Isabella.”

Izzy swallows against a lump in her throat. Absurdly, she feels outnumbered, one-to-one. “I, yeah. Thanks.” She tries for a responding smile, maybe half-successful at it. “You have-... you have art classes here, I read.”

“You read up on me.” Her mother’s expression changes a little, opens up. She sits up a little straighter, then, and there’s a flash of still-white teeth in her smile, now. “You know about me. I would have thought you wouldn’t be allowed to know a thing.”

“I’m, um.” Izzy’s hands fold in her lap, and she rubs over the shredded white threads along a hole that’s worn over one thigh, the softness of a patch of fabric she’d sewn herself beneath. “I’m eighteen now, so. I get to pick what I know, more or less.”

“You’re eighteen?” Her mother’s surprise is genuine, and she glances sideways at the clock as though it will become a calendar, back to Izzy. “When did that happen?”

Why that question hurts, she doesn’t know - but it does. It’s not like Savannah Marcoset has anything to do here but remember, and yet-... she didn’t.

“About three weeks ago, actually,” Izzy says, and hears herself sounding embarrassed, like she should have not grown up at all, if that wasn’t what Savvie wanted, or expected. Like the turn of the Earth is her fault, something she did on purpose just to spite Savvie by stealing time. 

“Oh. Well.” Savvie folds her hands with a soft rattle as the cuffs knock into the shiny, sealed tabletop. She leans over, and Izzy can see the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, now, the hint of them around her lips. Her jawline seems stronger, more carved, she is a statue version of a parent that Izzy remembers as a kind of terrifying whirlwind. Her hair is less overwhelming, the deep brown graying at the temples, pulled back simply against the nape of her neck. It isn’t so long, as it once was. Savvie pauses, waits for Izzy to look her in the eyes. “Happy birthday, Isabella.”

The name is wrong - it’s always been wrong - but Izzy smiles, anyway. “Thanks. Eighteen is a bit weird, it doesn’t feel any different than seventeen did, but-”

“My no-contact orders were signed here, in the US,” Savvie says, interrupting her, thinking this through. “So you, what, had to be eighteen to come see me? Have you wanted to before?” She leans forward, and Izzy leans back, feeling her back press into the chair behind her, letting her right hand drop to rub at the seam of her jeans on the outside of one thigh. Her heart beats harder. “Did he keep you from seeing me?”

He.

“No,” Izzy says, and her voice is thin at first, but she clears her throat and the second try is stronger. “No, he didn’t. He would have, if I’d have wanted to, before. I just didn’t ‘til now. We’re, um-... we’re doing an American holiday, more or less.”

Shit. She shouldn’t have said-

“‘We’?” Savvie’s expression brightens, with real interest now. Her eyes pin Izzy like a butterfly to a display case, jam tiny needles through her wings, hold her fast. “He’s here? Jax is here?”

“He’s not,” Izzy lies, smooth as silk, without hesitating. She’d planned for this question, prepared for this. She’d sat up til two in the morning prepping for the ways her mother might try to talk about her father, and more importantly, the ways that Izzy wouldn’t give her what she wanted. She’d just been hoping to hide it better for longer. “He didn’t come with m-me here. It’s just me, Mom, and some friends.”

Savvie clicks her tongue against her teeth. “He didn’t think I was too dangerous, for you to speak to?”

She can’t help her slight, sardonic laugh at that. “You’re in prison, Mom.” It feels weird, to hear herself say Mom out loud, as though that was ever what Savvie had been. She was four the last time she said Mommy to Savvie’s face, and even then it had been an apology Izzy can barely remember now, her own sense of a small voice saying, I’m sorry, Mommy, I won’t do it anymore, but she can’t remember what she’d done to get in trouble.

Breathe, probably.

“You’re in prison,” She repeats, and her heartbeat settles a little, reassuring herself with the words spoken out loud, made real. “You’re the least dangerous you’ve ever been, to us.”

Savvie sits back, less pleased now. “I was never dangerous. Did he tell you I was dangerous to you? I never was. That was a lie he made up, so they would help take you and your brother away from me. I only ever wanted us to be a family, Isabella.”

“Mom.” Izzy’s voice wavers, and Savvie might smile a little at the sound, but if she does, it’s because she sees the wrong reason for the waver, or… maybe she enjoys the annoyance, the anger, as much as she would fear. “We both know that’s not true, none of that is true.”

“I wanted a family,” Savvie says, in a low voice, not quite a whisper. Regretful, mournful. She trails a fingernail along the top of the table, and Izzy tenses at the scrape of it. Barely audible but it grates on her nerves nonetheless. She swallows, presses her lips together, tries not to watch it move.

Fails.

Savvie’s nails aren’t painted - in Izzy’s blurry remaining memories of her, Savvie’s nails are always painted colors - but they shine, perfectly filed edges moving, catching a hint of light. 

“Your dad,” Savvie says, in that same mournful, grieving tone, “didn’t want you at all. Did you know that? He never did. He hated the very idea of you, and your brother. He thinks I don't know that he cried over the concept of you. No… you were never wanted by anyone but me, until he realized he could steal you to hurt me. He could always be cold that way. He took you and hoped I would-”

“Stop.” Izzy struggles to say it. Even now, with therapy a constant foundation of her life and a stronger one than her mother’s terrifying rage, it’s hard to make herself say the word. She has to fight to make it audible, but it’s still clearly surprising - Savvie goes silent, watching her with those unnerving wide blue eyes. “Please-... stop. I, I know how he felt. You can’t-... you can’t rewrite history, Mom. I know… I know how it was, or I know enough.”

“It’s the truth, Isabella.” Her mother’s expression is so earnestly sincere. Izzy licks at her lips, suddenly dry and chapped, and thinks that if there were a lie-detector test, her mother would pass it, stone-cold. No way to tell she didn’t believe her own words. She might, actually, believe the story as it leaves her mouth, believe it so utterly she can lie without even knowing she’s doing it. “That’s all I ever wanted to do, is have the chance to tell you the truth. But he got that no-contact order and made sure you would only ever know how he saw it.” Savvie smiles with wistful regret, every inch the mother mourning her lost children. 

Izzy knows better. 

Jamie, her little brother, fifteen and with no memory of his mother at all, might fall for this. She's a stranger to him. But Izzy remembers the hours locked alone in the dark, and the sound of her father screaming in pain. 

She swallows trying not to think too much about that memory. “It’s not about-... there aren’t two sides, Mom. This isn't like any other divorce. You held him prisoner.” She’s falling into a trap, and she can feel it but she can’t stop herself. Her mother hasn’t tried to so much as reach for her - it wouldn’t be allowed, the guard would step forward if she did - but Izzy still feels like she has been pinned, claws sliding into her shoulders and a heavy weight holding her to her seat. A bird that didn’t see the threat in time to take flight. "You-... held us all-"

“Well, now he’s made sure I’m a prisoner, hasn’t he? Must be nice, to pin all your problems on the Big Bad Witch in prison who can no longer defend herself. But, of course, everything is always my fault.” Savvie shrugs as she cuts Izzy off, almost idly. 

"Mom, he has-..." Izzy feels unmoored. Drifting, like this can't be real, this conversation. This can't be real. "You abducted him, you-"

"Everyone has problems, sweetie." Savvie's head tilts a little more, eyes moving over Izzy’s face with an awful, palpable weight. “Don't try to make it a competition." Something gentles, then. The hard planes of her mother's face soften. "You know, you look like him.”

Izzy warms, a little, at that. She shouldn't and she knows it, but still, she does. She smiles, slightly lopsided, and raises one hand to touch the silver rings in the shell of her left ear, two of them right next to each other, one for Jax and one for her brother Jamie. “I hope so,” she admits. “I’ve always wanted to.”

The moment of gentleness in her mother’s expression slips away, replaced by a brittle frigid chill that washes over Izzy, a wave that breaks against her. 

Oh, no. I cared more about him than her. Even now, fourteen years on, she still shivers in an old fear.

“He is handsome,” Savvie says, tapping her fingernails again, scraping them along the table. The sound is starting to grate on Izzy’s nerves. “He always was, even in the earliest days. He never knew it, I don’t think. I tried to tell him.”

He didn’t want to hear it from you.

“He hears it enough now,” Izzy says, and her heart goes cold with dread as she realizes she’s nearly given away something much, much worse to say than accidentally admitting her dad came on the trip with her.

Damn it, Izzy, don't let her know about Kieran. 

Savvie doesn’t seem to notice the clue. She just keeps tapping. “Do you play music, Isabella? I wondered if either of you would have talent, in the end.”

It’s an abrupt change of subject, and Izzy doesn’t see it for the trap it is. 

“I play-... um. I can play some things,” Izzy hedges, shifting uncomfortably from the simple truth that she can play almost anything, if she hears it a couple of times, remembers note-for-note the songs on the radio or the forbidden ones she still hides in playlists buried in playlists, the soft strains of violin that draw her but she would never admit to. “I’m-... in a band, actually.”

Savvie’s eyes are back on hers, then, that unnerving total focus. “What do you play in that band? Is it a real band, or just noise?”

Izzy rubs at the back of her neck, flushing in embarrassment. “Um. I guess it’s about fifty-fifty noise and real. I play bass guitar, actually.” 

She’d read somewhere that bass guitar was easy, and figured if she played that, no one would realize the music was inherent in her, demanding expression. She could say she wanted to be in the band because of her father, who had been in one once upon a time, too. She wouldn’t have to admit that the music didn’t come from Jax, but from Savvie’s blood in her veins. She could pretend, with the bass guitar, to be worse at it than she really was without ruining the songs. 

Her mother snorts, derisive. “Anyone can play that,” She says, waving one hand in dismissal - but the other has to come with it, and it’s a reminder that, no matter how Izzy feels in the moment, there is no real danger here. “That hardly counts. Can you play a real instrument?”

“It is a real instrument.”

“Hardly.” Savvie looks disappointed, and it’s weird - she hasn’t seen her face-to-face since she was four, and she hasn’t said a word to her in that time, and still… the disappointment hurts, a little. “You weren’t allowed to do music, were you? He forbade you, because of me.”

“No, he absolutely didn’t.” It’s Izzy’s turn to lean forward, her hands closing into fists in her lap now, an old habit from childhood she’s mostly broken but it comes back, now, as her irritation rises in eternal defense of Jax. “He’s always supported whatever I wanted to do-”

“Because he doesn’t care enough to make sure you’re doing something worthwhile.” Her mother’s sigh cracks open a dark door inside her, it’s familiar even to her fading memories. It’s a sigh she knows from birth. Before Izzy can respond again, she changes the subject, deft as a dancer. “What are you doing for school, then? Are you going to go to college?”

Izzy blinks, thrown off track. “Um. Yes, I do plan on it, I’ll be going to university next autumn-”

“You’ve got the accent, too. Guess they’ve painted over everything they didn’t like, didn’t they?”

“Wh-what?” Her heart stops as her mother’s voice is sharp again. Her fists tighten, pressing down into her thighs until they nearly ache. “What’d you-”

“You look like him, dress like the dime-store version of him - honestly, Isabella, look at you, you look… grimy. You even talk like him. What is this, trying to look like the daughter he might have actually wanted? Is that it?”

Izzy swallows, sitting back again, thumping into the back of the chair. Someone nearby is crying, soft, muffled sobs. Someone else is whispering, in vicious intensity, in fury. The guards are impassive. There’s no sign they even hear Savvie speaking at all. “It’s just who I am-”

“No, it isn’t. I saw your name, Isabella Gallagher. You were born a Marcoset, but he was happy when he changed it, wasn’t he?” Savvie’s eyes won’t let her look away. She feels completely captured, the center of Savannah Marcoset’s world, the most terrifying place on Earth, somewhere Izzy has never once been. “I asked you a question, Isabella. He was happy to have you change your name, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” She’s not sure why she answers. The anxious shivering inside of her is stronger than it should be. Her voice is a whisper, a rush of air with only a hint of sound. “But it was-... my idea-”

“I’m sure he let you think that. I feel sorry for you, you know. I really do. He must care for James so much more than he does you, don’t you think? My beautiful son wasn’t old enough to even speak to me, but you… you’re a reminder, aren’t you? Oh…" Savvie's lips purse, in a sort of smug smile. "Oh, you are. God, what torture it must be for him to be around you."

She’s supposed to be stupid. Izzy has watched all the documentaries that mention the case, she read an awful unauthorized true crime book she found in a thrift shop once that just had a little teensy chapter on Savvie buried between other femme fatales. She’s done her research, to understand the woman she was going to meet as best she could.

Savannah Marcoset is supposed to be… well, stupid.

Izzy wasn’t prepared for cunning not being the same thing as smart. And she didn’t think through what eleven years in prison, with almost nothing to do but think, and no chance of leaving ever for the rest of her life, might do to hone her mother’s ability to wound. That Savvie might have taken a blunt instrument and whittled it into a blade.

“I-I’m not-”

“You are.” Savvie hums, and the tapping of her nails is going to drive Izzy up the fucking wall. “Even just being alive, you are. And your hair, well…” Savvie’s eyes go up to Izzy’s hair, the same deep chocolate brown as Savannah’s own, a shock of curly brown that falls over her forehead and against one side, nearly shaved on the other side and along the back. “You can cut it, but it’s still my hair. You walk around a living reminder of what he stole from me, just to hurt me, what he didn’t even want. You were never wanted, Isabella. That’s why your birth is part of my crimes, don’t you think? You and James both. You’re a crime I committed against him, right?”

“A crime-” Her voice cracks, but if she sounds uncertain, it’s only her nerves, her inability to stand up for herself sometimes. It’s not fear. She is not afraid of this woman, and she doesn’t believe her. 

Okay, a little afraid.

But she doesn’t believe her, she doesn’t. She knows better, because she knows how hard her father has worked to build the life around her, the one she’s living now. She knows how many times he has held her after nightmares - hers and his both. She knows he could have left her and James behind, but he didn’t.

Every chance he had to set them down, he chose to hold them instead. 

Most of all, she knows the way her father has carefully, day by day and year by year, taught her that love is not the same thing as danger.

Her shoulders square, and her back straightens. “You keep saying that, b-but… there’s a difference between not wanting someone who will be hurt to, to be there to be hurt, and caring about someone. There’s-... you can’t see the difference, is all, but I can. I know-” She swallows. “I know how it looks like when he loves someone, and you don’t.”

“Hm.” Savvie’s fascination flags, a little, at that. Her stare is unnerving, unblinking, but Izzy feels the anger coming off of her, hidden and still plain as day. “Changing the subject, I see. So much of you is just a walking reminder. You’re just a tragedy on two legs, aren’t you, Isabella?”

Part of Izzy thinks wryly, how long ago did you think of that and how long have you been waiting for someone to say it to? but the rest of her can’t find the breath to say it out loud. “You can’t make my life worse than it is, Mom. Not anymore. I didn’t come h-here for this, I came here for-”

I came here to see if you could see me, even now, or only a reflection of what you can’t have. I guess I have my answer. 

Savvie hasn’t stopped talking. “What of you is even yourself, Isabella? Are you just… trying not to be me? Do you not want him to think of me?” Her smile widens. Flash of teeth. For a second, just one brief second, Izzy sees fangs. “Oh, sweetie. You can’t ever change that, no matter what you do. I was important. I ruined his life, remember? There was a whole court case about it. Two, really. It’s why I’m here. Because I’m the Big Bad Wolf, or so I’m told.” She snorts. “You should have worn red, Isabella. Or something.”

“Or something,” Izzy whispers, looking down at her hands, at her knuckles gone white, her fists. The round clock is ticking on the wall, and it’s only an hour. She told herself she could last for an hour, when she walked in here. She told herself she could make it, and she would.

“Isabella-”

“You didn’t, by the way.” Where the words come from, she’s not sure. But they come out sure, and strong. "You didn't ruin his life. It’s better, it’s good.”

“Oh? Is it?” Savvie feigns disinterest, but she’s so bright and sparkling, pulling Izzy in. “What about it is so good, Isabella? What does my husband do, in his whole new life without me? What can he do? Show me how I’m wrong.” Savvie’s presence is heavy, it takes up too much space, feels like Izzy is pressed against the wall, suffocating. How did they live like this, surrounded by her on all sides, all the time? How had Jax ever survived so long alone with her? 

Her voice trembles more than she wants it to when she speaks. “What?”

“You say I’m wrong - about him, about you.” Savvie is a shark, and Izzy is blood in the water. She seems bigger, suddenly, or maybe Izzy is smaller. Younger. Has too much hair for her age and a frilly dress she hates and she has to be good, and so quiet, and do exactly what she is told or her father will be hurt, and it will be her fault, because it’s always, always her fault-

Savvie’s voice is not quite a whisper. “Tell me, Isabella, all these things I am so wrong about. Even if you believe his side of the story, he’s all I thought about, the only thing that mattered, right? So I know him better than anyone else, don’t I? And you’re mine. I know everything about you, without even trying."

“You don’t-... know anything about me.” Izzy knows she’s getting quieter, and knows as she retreats, her mother presses forward, thrilled to play a game she hasn’t played in… in eleven years, more or less. “And you don’t know a single thing about him.”

“I know every fucking scar on his body.” Izzy’s stomach flips, but Savvie is leaning forward again, and the blue of her eyes is overtaking everything else around them. Plain beige walls and plain table and plain bars over plain windows can’t compete. The gray of everyone’s prison outfits, her own black-and-slightly-less-black, none of it is a good enough distraction, enough to tear her away. “That’s what I know. You’re sweet, Isabella, and it’s lovely of you to try and be the dutiful little daughter all over again. But I know things you don’t, I always have. I know I still do. He hasn’t told you half of it, and he won’t.” 

It’s a strike, a feint and then a jab, and if this were a real fight Izzy would be ready for it, but words are so much harder to defend against. “I was a little kid, I didn’t need to know it, I didn’t want to. I don’t need to know-”

“You had colic, for a month or so.” Savvie cuts her off, raising her voice a little. One of the guards behind her shifts, might look at them from behind the dark of his glasses at the volume. “When you were little. Cried like a banshee, day and night, no reason. I could hear you in my practice room. Still think you know everything?”

“This isn’t-... I don’t know why you’re telling me this."

“I had my responsibilities, sweetie. I mean, I was a new mother, but I was still a person. I didn’t need to change all that much, really. Jax spent half his time trying to keep me away from you, your own mother, and the other half trying to shut you up.”

“You could be-... he said you were up-upset, sometimes, um, you c-could be-”

“Violent? Never. I was tired, maybe - we both were. Jax has never slept well."

Because of you.

"Oh, here we go. One of my favorites of his little insults… does he say I was unstable? I’m sure I’ve heard it all. Probably in court, no less, he very much enjoyed getting on stage to put on his little show. Taking the jury around and around in circles acting like I never did anything kind for you.” Her eyes move back to Izzy’s hair, shaking her head slightly, one lip curling upward in a sneer. “I certainly would have been kind enough not to let you make yourself look like that.”

“Mom-”

“Shut up, Isabella. I am talking to you, and I am not done yet.”

Izzy’s mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking together, her nails digging into her palms. Her eyes flicker to the guard, trying to catch him, but no, she’s going to last the whole hour, she promised herself she could do it, she promised. 

Besides, it's… sort of harder than she thought, to look away when Savvie is talking.

“We ended up getting my, well, Isaac’s servant Hannah to help with you. Because of the colic. He asked for her, really. I was prepared to bring in someone else, but Jax had his demands, and when he really wanted something, well.” She shrugs, calmly, casually. She is talking about a reality that never existed, moving all the pieces around until the past suits her and not the court documents. Until her story is the one circling Izzy’s head, and not the story she knows has to actually be true. “How could I refuse?”

“He asked-... but when he wanted-”

“What did I just say?”

“Mom, I need to-”

“Let. Me. Finish.”

“N-No, I don’t want to hear this-”

“You know what he started to do? Once we had Hannah around, a few days a week? When the steward began to come as well? Do you know what the number one change your father made to his life was, once that happened?”

“Mom, please. Please don’t do this.” Her voice is nearly gone, and Savvie leaps.

“He started getting the hell away from you.” Savvie throws her head back and laughs, loud enough to make people look over at them. Izzy wonders, face burning in embarrassment, what they see. Do they know who Savvie is? Is she really famous, here, like Izzy thinks she is? Does everyone know they’re watching Savannah Marcoset push her daughter under the water and watch her struggle to breathe?

But… the words hurt. He got the hell away from you. “He did-... he did what?”

“Fucking escaped you. He thinks I didn’t notice. Everyone always thinks I don’t notice, didn’t know things. Your father - my Jax - thinks I’m a fucking idiot, I get that now. But I saw that, him handing you off to Hannah or the steward and get as far away from you as he could without-” Savvie lifts her hands to tap at the side of her neck with a slight, almost dreamy smile. “Everyone says I’m the bad mom, the bad parent, but I’m not the only one who shoved you aside every chance I got.” Savvie hums, almost idly. She’s playing, Izzy thinks dimly. Cat with a ball of yarn. Somehow the words hurt a little less when the realization comes. “That’s the thing, though, isn’t it, Bella-”

“Izzy,” She whispers, but her mother doesn’t hear her, or doesn’t care.

“You know you are, fundamentally, his fucking nightmare. Your father sat up there before judge and jury and told everyone that I only had you so I could control him just a little bit more. Did you see that, in the documentaries you watched? Did you hear about it? Did he tell you that you only existed to be a weapon, that you're just a pretty little tool in my toolbox?"

She doesn’t want to answer any of those questions, and keeps her eyes down, focuses on the knuckles of her hands. How they sit over her lap so nicely, if you ignore that they are fists. Her face still burns bright red, and her eyes are hot with tears she blinks rapidly away before her mother can see them fall.

“He’ll say I didn’t love you.” Savvie’s expression is chilled, disdainful. “But your father had whole days he could barely stand to touch you. He had days he couldn’t even look at you. You ran around after him begging for, what, for someone to pat you on the head and say you were good just as you are? No wonder he couldn’t give you that.”

“He did give me that, over and over-... how you’re saying it isn’t how it happened, you’re not remembering what actually happened, Mom-”

“I think, deep down, you know it’s because no matter what you do with your hair, or your clothes, he is always going to look at you and see me. That’s the fear, isn’t it? That you're me, or you will be. That’s why you’re here, why you flew all the way across the fucking Atlantic to pay Mommy a visit. You wanted to see how much of you is me. How much of me is in you. How much of a fuck he can even give, in the end, for my daughter." She laughs again, and Izzy flinches. "He must hate you, deep down, and part of you knows it. Am I right?”

Izzy can’t answer at first, and her mother clicks her tongue, falsely sympathetic.

“Oh, sweetie. It’s okay. I can’t do a fucking thing to you, or him, or anyone now. But I’m glad you came to see me. I'm glad to see that you're just the same, easy to break as ever. You'll end up with exactly the love you deserve, Bella. Won't you?"

Izzy's eyes are blurred, struggling to focus. What rises in her isn’t fear, or doubt, or even sadness. It’s anger, the same simmering slow burn that that comes whenever someone tries to push her and her father down, when they have to force their way back up. "N-no-"

"Yes. You'll get what you were born for, one way or another. Don't worry, sweetie. You're not like me at all. You're just… a mirror, and the reflection isn't even a good one." Savvie laughs, cold and cruel, delighting in the pain on her daughter's face. "Here I was worried you’d be angry, but I don’t think you can be. Is that too much like me, too?”

“No, I’m… I get a-angry sometimes, I can… it’s not like that-”

“Not like what? Speak up, Bella. Stop mumbling, you were always a mumbler. Most children shout, you know.”

“Most children don’t get locked in closets if they do.” Izzy is still whispering at the start, but the words come more strongly as she works her way through them, eyelashes heavy with tears she tries to pretend don’t exist. “Most-... most kids can throw a fit without their dad getting hurt, and most kids get to leave the h-house sometimes, and if I-... if he couldn’t-... it was because of you, not because of m-me.” 

“Tell yourself that.”

“I do. I do tell myself that. I only have to tell myself that because of you, and you-... you just wanted to be his whole life and the only thing in it and you’re n-not, and this isn’t even about hurting me, is it? All of this-... telling me about, about him-...”

She can remember it, can’t she? Faint traces remain, of asking for Jax and being told by her Aunt Hannah that he needed some time, of asking and having her Papa Stewart give her a hug instead, of asking and asking and then learning not to ask…

“You aren’t telling me this to hurt me. You’re telling me this to hurt him.” Izzy raises her eyes, aware of the bright red blotches on her cheeks, aware of the tear tracks, aware of her hands in fists and the zinging anger in her that simmers underneath her fear. “You want me to take this out into the-... into the world, back to Dad, and tell him what you said because it’ll hurt him to hear that you said it, and you’ve been in prison for eleven years and missed most of my life and nearly all of my little brother’s - who you haven’t asked me a single fucking question about, by the w-way - and all you can think about, even now, is the… the one who got away from you.”

The balance shifts, some of the glittering brightness fades from Savvie’s eyes, the fascinated sadism seeps out of her expression. “Isabella-”

“Izzy. I’m called Izzy. And you know that, because you’ve known it ever since the trial. And maybe I was-... was hard, for him, when I was a baby and I can’t fix that or make it any better, it’s all already happened and I’ve had to learn not to feel guilty about it since I was four years old, but of the two of you, only one has ever bothered to give any solitary fucks about who I am! I came here to see if you could-... if you could change, or rethink, or even just, just feel something about me, and all you can feel is the parts of me that are him!”

“Isabella-”

“You shut up! You do it, now, and you listen to what I have to say! I was sc-scared, all the time, because of you, not him. He was the one who came to let me out, and he was the one who held me when I was scared, and even if he didn’t want to be near me, he still tried! You don’t-... you don’t get to change the story and make it not what it was, Mom, I know what it was.”

“You know what he told you it was.”

“No. I know what it actually really was. There is no other alternative world where you’re the good guy, or better than he was! Maybe I was a hard baby to l-love, because of whose baby I am, and I-I carry that forever… that I'm not the kid he would've wanted to have... but he tried, and if he didn’t love me at first, at least he tried until he learned how! But… but I know he did. I know he loved me, and Jamie, so much that he did the scariest thing he could imagine by running with us and having to hope we could make it to Grandpa before you could catch us again. I think you don’t know him at all, and you’re going to die in prison still not knowing, and that’s why you’re doing this now. It is killing you that you could lock us up and put that thing on his neck and keep us trapped and you still don’t know any of us at all.”

“I made every single scar-”

“Scars aren’t who someone is! They’re just marks of you being shitty to him! They don’t say who he is now, or how his mind works, or how fucking brilliant he is at being a dad! You know some marks on his skin, but I know who he is when he’s safe, and strong, and happy, and you will never know that man. You won’t ever know what he looks like really in love, and I do, and it is absolutely nothing like he looked around you!"

Her eyes flare. “Bella, what are you talking about, in love? With who? Who would-”

“I came here to see if-... if any part of me really is you, and it’s not, because all the parts of me that matter are from him and Grandpa and Papa Stewart and Nana and my aunties and none of the important bits are yours at all! No one loves you, because you can’t love anyone, but I can, and he can, and Jamie can. You are never ever going to see him again… and I’m going to walk out that door and give him a fucking hug."

She shoves her chair back, making a metallic screech along the floor that makes her mother wince, adrenaline pumping through her veins. It’s a kind of fight, this, she’d been pinned to the mat and fought her way back to standing in the end. 

“I am proud of him, for all he’s done to make an even better life for Jamie and me, and I am proud of him for finding Kieran, after you - and Kie’s a better bonus dad by a million years than you ever were a mom - and… and he’s proud of me. He’s proud of the person I am and not just the person he thought I was supposed to be. That’s more important than, than anything, is that he and I-... we can be proud of each other, and you can’t be proud of anything but yourself.”

Savvie looks startled, now, struggling to regain the surety she’d felt before. She can’t stand or the guard will come, and so she stays seated, and looks up at Izzy, no taller than her father but wiry still. “I think we’re done here,” Savvie says coldly. “You’re clearly too swept up in your father to be worth talking to.”

“Maybe,” Izzy shrugs, shoves her hands in her hoodie pockets, finds the comfortable weight of her phone, switched off for during the visit like the guards had asked. Wonders if her dad, sitting in the rental in the parking lot, has started pacing yet. If he’s watching the clock, waiting for her text to come through, bouncing his foot like he does sometimes. If he’s pretending to read or texting Kieran or if he’s just staring at the squat building that stretches wide on either side, waiting for her to come out. “Did I disappoint you, then? How I am, just me?”

“Oh, sweetie.” Savvie shakes her head, ruefully. Her expression shifts into mournfulness, just a few seconds too late for it to be convincing. “I had high hopes for you. But he ruined you, in the end. Absolutely ruined you.”

“That’s… that’s probably good. I don’t think I’ll come back, Mom. But I might-... I might write a letter.” Why she throws the offer out, she doesn’t know, only… only some part of her will always, always want to keep hoping that this will change.

Savvie’s eyebrows raise. “I might answer it. Can you fix your hair, if you ever come again? And wear something… nicer than this?”

Izzy blinks, rolling her eyes back to look up at her hairline, down to look at her shirt and jeans, and then back to her mother. “Why? Because it’s shorter than you want it to be? Because you don’t like my clothes?”

“Because you look like a lesbian, Isabella.”

Izzy blinks, too thrown to find the words at first, and then she shrugs, rubbing her thumb along the side of her phone in her pocket, her palms aching where her nails had dug in so deeply, over very old scars. She can’t quite help her smile. “Oh. Well, fuck, Mom, my girlfriend will be shocked when she hears you feel that way.”

“Your what?”

Izzy turns and walks away, past the other tables with crying or hurting people, or people who look like they want very badly to hug and can’t, and she doesn’t look back.

The door clangs open and slams shut behind her, the hallway stretching out ahead, and she walks down two sets of stairs and around a corner before she sees the big heavy doors that lead out into the world, the huge parking lot warmed by sunlight with no trees to break the glare of it. She gives the guards manning the checkpoint a little wave of one hand, pushing the door open, and moves into the glaring, brilliant light, turning to face the corner where her father has been waiting by the rental.

He’s definitely been pacing.

She smiles and heads towards him, giving him a big wave. He’s moving towards her before her hand is even fully in the air.

If her mother’s words are designed to shatter, her father’s love - starting with his desperate attempts to protect her, his whispered be brave for me, Izzy as they boarded a train, written across every single day of her life - is a foundation too strong to be broken.

Her mother, Izzy thinks, can’t understand love like that.

But Izzy does.

And it's more than enough.

Always.

---

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

[museguided]

Words weren't necessary.

The awkward feeling of his first kiss taken didn't last long at all, because it was Yuu. Once upon a time, Mika would jump on his back, wrapping his arms around his neck, and laugh as he blustered with their cheeks squished together. Every idea they had, all the dreams they shared, never once did they think the other wouldn't be part of it. The world may be in ruins and fate chose to curse the pieces of happiness they've found more often than not, but everything would be okay as long as they had each other. Death couldn't steal away his affection. It would never touch his devotion.

He could feel Yuu's hand slip away from his, gloved digits trailing along Yuu's sleeve as his arms reached up. It was a mix of reverence and desperation that had him tracing Yuu's figure from arm to shoulder, down his spine to the small of his back. As if he would be helpless if any point of connection was lost, like a child still scared of the dark. Fingers pressed in, attempting to bring him as close as he possibly could.

It was comforting. The emotional strain that made Mika struggle in quiet anguish for days felt so trivial in the moment. A corner of his mouth twitched in a smile as the seconds ticked away, daring himself to peek and witness their reality. Butterflies gathered at his ribcage as he shifted, tilting his head to try reconnecting at a different angle. He could feel Yuu's hand in his hair, and the slight tug during the motion caused him to make a small muffled sound against his mouth.

Realizing the noise came from him made his eyes screw shut. Try as he might, he couldn't chase the soothing feeling after that. It wasn't like they could stay like this forever, anyway. Fingers curled self consciously against Yuu's back before he slowly pulled away. Knowing his face was probably stained red, it took him a couple of seconds to open his eyes again before he peered at Yuu demurely.

"Not that I minded, but some kind of warning would be nice next time." His words were just above a whisper, soft and unoffended as he gently bumped their foreheads together. Even in a bout of shyness, he felt at peace as long as Yuu stayed in his arms.

A fang poked at his bottom lip, hesitant when he added, "does this mean you're not upset with me, anymore?"

Yuu was a lot calmer now since the day of the argument that had ended with both of them being hurt. But even so, some part of him still panicked if Mika left the group for any amount of time. Now that his mind was clear, Yuu remembered that Mika told him that he couldn't leave him and that he wouldn't leave him.

He still wouldn't put it past the blond to entertain the thought from time to time though. If he thought in some way that doing so would somehow be better for him, he absolutely would! But then again, maybe not. After Yuu's reaction to the perceived threat, maybe the blond wouldn't be so quick to make such a conclusion.

He could only hope not, but that wasn't what had him following after Mika this time. He was very aware of the tension still between them. And more than that, the fact that Mika didn't seem to understand the full weight of what made him so desperate not to lose him.

Out here in this wasted world, there wasn't enough room or time to focus in on feelings like love. So such confessions were a rarity these days. And Yuu himself wasn't all that sure of how he would be able to tell Mika of his feelings. Until that is he remembered the old saying that actions spoke louder than words and a plan formed in his mind.

So when Mika wandered away from the rest of the group that day, Yuu saw his chance and took it. Sure he felt Mika tense at first and saw him flinch away at first. It probably had looked like he was going to punch him or something though, so he couldn't blame him for the knee jerk reaction. He felt him relax soon enough anyway and his kiss be returned.

It was only then that he released his tight grip off the uniform in his grasp and lifted his arms up until they locked around the back of the taller male's neck. Like Mika had felt before, tingling warmth went all through him from the second their lips touched for the first time.

He was in no hurry to pull back. Doing so would make the feeling stop.. And for the first time in a long time, the world felt right again for just this moment. Like he was right where he was supposed to be. Even though it was nothing other than a simple press of lips, to him it was perfect. And only became moreso as one hand lifted to tangle into fluffy blond hair. For the first time in a long time it felt as if he had come home again.

[silvcnus]

—— date: september 18, 2021.

“...swanky.” zoe let out a low ( but appropriately impressed ) whistle as they more or less cased the place, slipping in and out of hallways aimlessly with every new rotation of people. so this was the famous hale house, huh? more like a compound. jesus. brown eyes tracked along the walls, roaming over the occasional family portrait with casual interest, though a few demanded a little more attention. there were aunt cass and uncle dominic, who they hadn’t seen in years ( and had very intentionally ducked like the cops upon arrival — that seemed like a ‘later’ conversation ), some more pack members zoe couldn’t clock by face alone, and a statuesque brunette woman that was unmistakably allison argent standing beside...well. fantastic trip down memory lane, time to go now.

they slipped around the next corner, just to come face-to-face with someone who probably had more of a right to be here than they did, honestly. “—-oh. my bad,” zoe muttered, taking a step back and slouching against the wall. not like they had anywhere else to be so long as winnie was good, and she’d know if her girl wasn’t. “‘sup? name’s zoe, if you didn’t catch it. or forgot, or...whatever.” she hunched a shoulder and laughed, clearly unoffended by the concept, then tilted the can of coke in hand towards the other in a mock toast—— look, she was trying to be on her best, non-degenerate behavior, minor trespassing notwithstanding. so, no alcohol. easy grin in place, she cocked her head in amusement, as if they were the most fascinating thing in the room and this conversation hadn’t been happening for all of ten seconds. “so, how’s your night lookin’?”

[chandelier-s-notebook]

If anyone wants to be part of a taglist for Assassinate But Nah, feel free to message me/send an ask/or mention it in reblogs.

Taglist: @sleepysnails

Ao3 link

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

“My name is Tubbo Jacobs. My father is Karl Jacobs. He works as an editor for the Houver Mailer. That’s also just true. My name is Tubbo Jacobs. I’ve just moved in with my father. I was living with my mother for my whole life, but I wanted to meet my dad after the divorce when I was three years old. So now that I’m sixteen, they arranged for me to move in.” Tubbo looks out the window of the Honda Civic Karl had driven him to school in. “My name is Tubbo Jacobs, and I am the new kid.”

Tubbo opens the shotgun door and steps out.

“What? Not gonna hug your old man?” Karl teases.

Tubbo glances back at him. “I will.” He slams the door behind him. Karl speeds away unfazed by the cold teen.

Geez. He’s gonna need to pretend that guy is his actual dad later. Tubbo shakes his head. Do normal teenagers hate their parents?

It’s been a while since Tubbo has been to school. Intellectually Tubbo knows that Hollywood movies are incorrect in their portrayal, but what does he have to base his expectations on. Ever since his grandpa died and his debts to the Jays were passed down to Tubbo’s father in the inheritance, his life was shit.

He was taken out of school in order to pay the debts off. Schlatt used him as an errand boy for the first year. Then on a supply run gone wrong he killed someone. Captain Maron was a homicide investigator and regularly brought home work. Tubbo had spent years reading up on serial killers and their signatures, and he had kept enough of his wits about him to frame one of those guys still on the streets.

After that, Schlatt gave him a new purpose: the Jays’ invisible assassin. Tubbo was a cop’s son, if anything the fact he was invisible helped his dad keep his job.

But, killers don’t have good social skills. And there’s nothing that’s transferable between assassin and high school student. He supposes that technically reading someone’s body language and copying it would be a transferable skill he had.

From emulating serial killers to high school students. He sincerely hopes he’s as good at the latter as he is the former.

In the atrium there are four masses of printed paper taped to the walls. There are larger decorative letters above these, and Tubbo makes his way to the one that says “JUNIORS.”

He runs his finger along the Js section, looking for his name. There he was. “Tubbo Jacobs, room 234, English, Ms. Chu.” Tubbo turns to find a stairwell. “Now where is 234?”

Tubbo’s a little on edge as he wanders the school walls, but who wouldn’t be? Tubbo decides he’s going to forget the whole “must assassinate Thomas Rough next semester” thing for the time being. Right now he’s going to focus on being the new kid; figuring out how to socialize, and befriending Ranboo Alastair.

He knows Ms. Chu’s door when he sees it. It’s the one with tissue paper flowers and bright colours on it. The first thing he sees upon walking in is a seating plan. Back corner, nice. And his deck partner is his mark.

Nope. Not calling him that. Thomas Rough is the mark. Ranboo Alastair is the collateral, the current target.

Tubbo sits down. Ranboo enters the classroom.

If all goes to plan, Ranboo Alastair will be Tubbo’s first friend in six years.

Ranboo throws his bag to the floor and pulls out his phone. The two of them sit silently in their corner of the room while people file it and start talking to their classmates. Tubbo notices that everybody in the class glanced at them at least twice, each.

Tubbo is pretty sure it’s because they all must have gone to school together for years and were checking out the new face, but it seems like Ranboo is getting just as many looks at Tubbo. And it’s not like he chose to sit next to the new kid.

The early bell rings.

“Sorry about the looks.” Ranboo says, still texting. “That happens.”

“It’s fine. I expected it. New blood ‘n’ all.”

“That happens too.”

Tubbo wonders what he was referring to the first time.

“Good morning class, welcome to junior English!” Ms. Chu says over the voices of the class ocne the late bell rings. “We’re going to do attendance, then I’m forcing you to do an ice breaker with your desk partner.”

Tubbo’s head falls forwards slightly while the class groans. How was he supposed to come up with something for ice breakers?

Ms. Chu puts her hands up placatingly, kinda smile on her face. “I know I know. No one likes ice breakers. But we can start reading MacBeth instead if you guys want?”

This got a much louder negative reaction.

“That’s what I thought.” Ms. Chu pulls up the attendance sheet. “Ranboo Alastair?”

“Here.”

Tubbo checks out as he tries to come up with experiences. The problem is that all good lies stem from the truth, and that he needs to remember these stories for later. Tubbo flits through his life from before he started working under Schlatt and a few normal moments from his life after.

“Tubbo Jacobs?”

“Present,” he says without really thinking or hearing her.

“Tubbo?”

“Yes. Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing. I’m not laughing,” Ranboo says, definitely stifling a laugh.

“Stop.” Tubbo smiles, good naturally he hopes. “Your name is Ranboo. You can’t laugh.”

“Sure I can.”

“No you can’t!”

The teacher clears her throat.

Tubbo and Ranboo look at her; the latter with a confident smile, the former with an apologetic one.

“Good morning Ms. Chu,” Ranboo says, “Don’t let us interrupt you. Please go one with your lesson plan.”

“You got a mouth over the summer Mr. Alastair,” the teacher jokes.

“Nah Ma’am. I got confidence.”

Tubbo breaks. He purses his lips in order to not laugh.

Ms. Chu, completely unoffended and obviously ready to play, sits back in her chair. “Save it for tomorrow when there’ll be a lesson to disrupt. Everyone else, turn to your partners and introduce yourselves. Tell each other about your summers for the next ten minutes.”

Both Tubbo and Ranboo seem to have the same idea. Everyone else turns but they stay staring at Ms. Chu.

“Yes boys?”

“You said ‘everybody else’ what are we doing?” Tubbo asks, innocent as can be.

Someone from a nearby desk stops their sentence to laugh.

“Mr. Jacobs was it?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Tell Ranboo about your summer.”

“Of course Ma’am.”

Tubbo may be an assassin, but he’s still a teenager who’s been told what to do for years; cop’s kid, dealing with the fucking Mafia, the pinnacle of controlling adults. As far as he was concerned, any punishment he’d get from talkback here was nothing. Tubbo was going to be the smartass-talkback kid. Fuck.

“So what did you do this summer?”

Hack into the Roughs’ personal database to learn everything he could about Thomas Rough by going through Dan Rough’s archives on his son’s life. “Coding,” is what he says instead.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Drifters ch.5 (spicyhoney)

Summary: An adjustment period is to be expected, right?

Tags: Spicyhoney, Violence, Rescued Child, Medical Experimentation, Babybones

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

It was to no one’s surprise that Red hadn’t waited for them to dig into the food, his stack of pancakes already half-devoured by the time Stretch and Edge made it downstairs.

Edge only sighed at his brother’s manners and said nothing. If tomorrow was soon enough for him to begin searching for some sort of gainful employment, then it would also be when he could hold his brother accountable for his behavior again. As it was, his mouth was already watering when Stretch came back from the kitchen with two plates piled high with food, stacks of pancakes topped with pats of creamy butter melting into a layer of syrup along with fat, browned sausages.

By now his hunger was gnawing so fiercely that his own manners were hardly up to his standards. He grunted a thank you, sitting on the sofa and hastily cut into the stack, groaning aloud at the first bite. The cakes were fluffy with crisp edges, generously soaked in butter and syrup, and lavishly rich. The sausages were perfect to cut the sweetness and Edge would have willingly gorged himself on the entire plate if it weren’t for one small problem.

A pair of pale white eye lights were watching his every move, following the path of his fork from plate to mouth and back again, the child sucking on her fingers as she solemnly watched him eat. Drool was starting to run down her chin, slicking her tiny fingers and dampening the front of her shirt.

Edge swallowed his current mouthful, looking down at the plate and then back at the child, his fork faltering. Surely she was too young for this sort of meal? But then why was she watching him so intently, gurgling out an inquisitive little sound as her mouth smacked around her fingers. His appetite was fleeing, how could he possibly eat in front of a hungry child when all she’d had earlier was a little milk and a pastry?

All his uncertainties were tangling together in the time it took Stretch to notice and his laughter was disconcerting, almost horrifyingly so, was he laughing at a starving child?

“trying to sweettalk daddy edge into sharing, huh.” That name alone made Edge startle, protests rising and left unspoken as Stretch set his own half-finished plate on the coffee table and stood. “hang on, princess, your dinner is coming.”

He went back to the kitchen and returned with a bottle, shaking a few droplets on the inside of his wrist before he handed it over to the child. Who took it eagerly, latching on to the nipple as she slumped back into her small pillow fortress, suckling luxuriously.

Stretch chuckled and retrieved his plate, forking up another bite. Around his mouthful, he said, “don’t let her fool you, she’s a little young for sausage and syrup.”

That he believed, but there were other doubts to consider. “How can milk alone be nutritious enough for her?”

“works for baby cows, but it ain’t milk, edgelord, it’s formula.” He jerked his head towards the kitchen. “there’s a few bottles made up in the fridge. you want it warm, not hot, when you hand it over, just heat up some water on the stove and put it in for a few minutes.”

Formula. That sounded familiar, like something he’d heard or read. He knew so very little about children and nothing at all about infants. It wasn’t as if anyone in his Snowdin ever brought their newborn over for a visit, how was he supposed to know anything without being trained. The librarby, he decided abruptly. They must have books on childrearing, he could stop by tomorrow when he went out to find employment.

In the meantime, he leaned down to slap Red’s hand away before he could sneak the child a bite of his own pancakes. “Stop that, you’ll make her sick!”

“managed not to kill you,” Red grunted, but he ate the bite of pancake himself, unoffended.

“That’s hardly an endorsement.”

“speakin’ a bros, where’s yours at, honey bun?” Red asked. Edge struggled to ignore the way he was licking the dregs of syrup from his plate. Tomorrow, he reminded himself, tomorrow was soon enough to smack the manners back into him.

“eh?” Stretch proved that his own brother’s presence was a cornerstone to his manners, wolfing down the last of his pancakes. “blue’ll be back tomorrow, he and al are doing some kind of night training, he said,” Stretch grinned and shook his head, “dunno what, but he brought his pajamas and a bag of marshmallows with him.”

“sound like my kinda training,” Red snickered. “i’d like to see alphys’s version of hot chocolate, if her kitchen makes it thru alive.”

The mere mention of Alphys’s name made Edge stiffen despite knowing it was a different person entirely, as different as Stretch was from him. Absurd for a name to have that sort of effect, he was only off-balance, a great deal had happened, and he snatched up his abandoned plate, eating the remaining food despite it having gone cold and congealed. He wasn’t about to start off his stay here by wasting supplies.

“I’m surprised he didn’t come home when you told him,” Edge said, absently as he polished off the last bite.

Silence. Stretch stood, busying himself with gathering up the plates into a stack, and carrying them off to the kitchen.

Edge and Red shared a look, and Red jerked his head in Stretch’s direction, his raised brow bones speaking volumes, most of them a repeat of the words, ‘say something!’ A glance at the baby showed the bottle mostly empty and her sockets drooping heavily in preparation for another bout of sleep.

This was his responsible, from his choice. Edge gave a sharp nod and followed Stretch into the kitchen. He was sitting in front of the sink, lowered in deference to Blue’s height, washing the dishes briskly and setting them in the dish drainer.

The Swap brother’s kitchen was a mirror to his own and even if it wasn’t, Edge was familiar enough with it to know his way around. He retrieved a clean towel from a drawer and began drying the dishes, setting them in neat pile on the countertop.

“You didn’t tell him?” Edge asked, cautiously, but the answer was already clear despite not being given.

The silverware clattered at the bottom of the sink as Stretch gathered it up into a soapy fist. “let me deal with my bro, okay?”

“This concerns us as well, if he asks us to leave…”

“he won’t. that’s not it,” Stretch sighed, still wrist-deep in dishwater as he let his head hang, “look, i know sans. he’d be so excited, really excited, and that’s fine. i just thought you guys needed a little time to settle in, is all, without any thrills and chills. he can be just as excited tomorrow.”

That was…actually incredibly thoughtful. Blue was a wonderful individual, Edge was grateful to call him friend, but he did tend to throw himself into things at a hundred and three percent, there was no dialing it back for him. A calm evening after the day they’d had did sound better than struggling to fend of Blue’s enthusiasm, no matter how well-intended.

Stretch was still hunched over the sink as if he expected Edge to shout at him and that wasn’t entirely unwarranted. It wouldn’t be the first time Edge inserted himself into the Swap brother’s relationship, but it was the first chance he’d had to rethink that tendency.

“All right,” Edge said. He picked up another glass and dried it, setting it to join its brethren.

Stretch lifted his head. “yeah?” he asked, cautiously.

“Yes,” Edge said decisively. “The child shouldn’t meet too many new people at once, it might be upsetting for her.”

“i…yeah, good point.” Slowly, Stretch resumed his dishwashing duties and if there was a faint smile curving his mouth, Edge ignored it. Helping with the housework was the very least he could do.

By the time they were finished, Edge was struggling to stifle a yawn. In the living room, Red was slumped on the sofa, his sockets at half-mast as he watched the television. The volume was low and what Edge could hear from it sounded like Napstaton was working on a new mix tape.

In her little pillow nest the child was asleep, her empty bottle next to her. Edge stood over her, watching the rise and fall of her chest, and reminded himself to get that book tomorrow. He would figure this out, he would. “The baby stays with me tonight.”

“your funeral, bro,” Red yawned. He didn’t budge from the sofa, clearly intending it to be his bed for the night.

“she can stay with us, in my room,” Stretch amended. He picked up the empty bottle and handed it to Edge. “go give this a quick wash, trust me, never leave a dirty bottle laying around, that’s a stink you don’t want. i’ll head upstairs with the princess and get her settled.”

It was sensible, Stretch knew where everything was in his room, but somehow Edge still found he wanted to protest. He wanted to carry the baby, wanted to hold her close a little longer. Instead, he nodded curtly and went back to the kitchen. They were here on Stretch’s sufferance, now was not the time to start making demands.

He finished quickly and headed back upstairs, past his brother who was already snoring through Napstaton’s slick beats, and wondered what Stretch had in mind. The mattress worked for an afternoon nap, but he wasn’t comfortable with it as a nighttime solution, particularly not with Stretch in the bed with him, he wasn’t the type to wake at the slightest movement.

Edge opened the door and froze with only one foot through it, staring. In the middle of the room was a cardboard box, Stretch kneeling next to it with both hands inside, and even from here Edge could see he was tucking the child inside. Not naked, not this time, she was still in Blue’s oversized t-shirt, she wasn’t asleep and alone in a lab, carelessly abandoned until she was needed again, a tool, not a person, something to be callously used and discarded.

“hey,” Stretch said, hushed, “figured this’ll work until we figure out something else, she’s a little small to wander off and—"

“No,” Edge said sharply.

Stretch’s grin faded, his browbone furrowing in confusion, “what?”

“No, she can’t sleep in that, she won’t, I won’t allow it!” Edge said, his voice rising, and all his thoughts about keeping the peace had fled, buried beneath the chemical stink of memory smoke, the lab burning around them, and those numbers were hidden beneath the shirt, but they were still there, a scar carved into her very bones.

“hey, easy, calm down…”

“I won’t!” Edge shouted hoarsely and a wail rose up around them like a siren, like the alarms at the lab.

“edge!” The sound of his own name made him jerk, blinking hard. Stretch was holding the whimpering baby, jostling her against his chest. “you’re scaring the kid!”

And he was, her large sockets brimmed over with tears, staining her rounded cheeks as they began spilling down.

“Oh, don’t,” Edge started, brokenly, reaching out to her helplessly, letting his hands fall as she began to wail despite Stretch’s gentle crooning.

Those blasted tears from earlier weren’t as banished as he’d assumed, and Edge whirled away, tipping his head back to keep them from falling, tasting them instead on the back of his tongue, sharp and astringent, another memory and this one he refused, let his mind settle into blankness as he struggled against the rising pain in his chest, a deep ache in his very soul.

“ooookay, everyone needs to take a deep breath and calm down,” Stretch said, loudly to be heard over the baby’s crying, then softer, coaxingly, “c’mon, sugar butt, easy now.” Slowly the crying dwindled to sniffles and the occasional hiccough. “there we go. come on over here, edgelord.”

Edge didn’t turn around. “She’s afraid of me,” he whispered.

Behind him, he could hear Stretch heave an exasperated sigh. “you got loud one time, for fu—udge’s sake. she’s not scared of you, so come here!”

That was definitely an order and one he needed to obey; their lives depended on staying on the Swap brother’s good side. Slowly, Edge turned, moving stiffly as he lurched over to the two of them. He reluctantly allowed Stretch to draw him down to sit awkwardly on the floor, sockets closed, unresisting as Stretch pulled him close to enough to rest their foreheads together with the baby between them. The ache in his chest slowly eased and Edge opened his sockets, looking down at the child. Who was looking back up at him with wide eye lights and there was no fear in them, only a simple curiosity.

“Hello, baby,” Edge told her softly, reaching with trembling fingers to wipe away one of the streaks drying on her chubby cheekbone. He almost jerked away when she offered a coo in return, reaching for his fingers in yet another attempt to cram them into her mouth.

“see?” Stretch said quietly. His breath was a soft, sweet gust against Edge’s face, his smooth forehead resting against Edge’s damaged one. “you’re gonna make mistakes, a lot of ‘em. don’t start out by beating yourself up for it.”

Edge nodded slowly and when Stretch shifted to settle the baby into the crook of his arm, Edge held her close, scooting back to lean against the wall as he watched her unconvincing attempt at cannibalizing his fingertips. She was so light, the weight of her hardly more than a handful of feathers. Such a tiny bundle in his arms, so terribly important for such a small, perfect creature.

Stretch climbed to his feet, dusting off his hands with exaggerated motions as he announced, “crisis averted, won’t be the last one. now, the cardboard box is out, got the memo on that, so how do you feel about a dresser drawer?”

Edge didn’t answer, only nodded and let Stretch start pulling blankets out of the box, muttering under his breath about whether the bottom or top drawer would make for a better bassinet. None of that mattered. All he wanted was to keep holding this child close and never let her go.

~~*~~

tbc

[beetles-and-rock]

Mixology Gone Wrong

An X reader about pre-musical Dewey Finn.

As an aspiring Mixologist, you work in a run down dive bar where local bands come to play their music in attempts to get their names out there. You're pretty used to getting hit on by the many self proclaimed "musicians" that play there. You don't expect any different when Dewey Finn comes to flirt with you, but things start to go very differently indeed.

18+ ONLY, DON'T INTERACT IF YOUNGER

TW: Heavy Intoxication, Blood, Vomit, Attempted Sexual Assault (Not from Dewey though. He too believes consent is sexy), Mild Language, Suggestive Comments

As you can tell this is a very different fic for me. There is a lot of Angst to it.

Mixing drinks was still something you were new too, but you knew enough to work at a local bar. Evening shifts were long, and the music was always blaring super loud. You hadn't been working there long, but was pretty sure you'd gone a bit deaf already. The bands that came to play were mediocre. A lot of them were hopeless dreamers, waiting for their ship to come in. Many of them would drink themselves halfway to liver failure after their set, which made you super busy.

It was pretty sad really, to see so many of the ones who actually had decent voices order so many drinks you knew were going to ruin their vocal chords. Still they didn't care. They performed and now they were going to drink like the apocalypse was coming. As was a typical Friday or Saturday night.

It was also not unusual for the drunks to flirt with you or the other bar tenders, so when the lead guitarist for some local band called "No Vacancy" stepped up to the counter with that look in his eye after their set, his forwardness didn't phase you in the least. He had quite some character, that was for sure. Anyone could easily tell that from the way he performed, energetic, ecstatic, and all around sticking out like a sore thumb among the rest of the band. He was a little on the chubby side, wavy untamable hair ridden with grease. He smelled of sweat and beer, along with Axe body spray which he probably considered to be close enough to a shower, and a hint of BO. He may not have looked like a rockstar, but he certainly smelled like one.

"Hey there." He said with a cocky smirk as he reached the bar. It was and old approach, but at least it wasn't some dumb pickup line. he didn't cock an eyebrow or even try to smolder. Every expression that came upon his face was, in a word, lazy.

"Could I get a beer?" He asked. You held back a sigh knowing once again you weren't going to use the skills you'd learned as a mixologist, but by the looks of this guy you knew there was no way he was going to be able to afford a cocktail. You were pretty sure his band played for free here tonight, so that pretty much confirmed how broke he was. You poured the beer and handed him the mug.

It was both disgusting and impressive watching him guzzle the beer. He simultaneously patted the counter of the bar to the beat of the music as he drank.

"So did ya like the set?" He asked you after a long swig. Oh great, here came the flirting...

"It was. . . pretty interesting. You guys have a good sound." You searched for kind things to say about the performance, but in all honesty it really didn't particularly stick out to you among all the other groups of wannabe rock stars they played in this run down shack of a dive. Well that wasn't entirely true. He certainly stuck out. You did your best not to use the word obnoxious when describing his part of the set.

"Your harmonies were pretty good, and your ad libbing was. . . creative. You've got a lot of energy."

"Yeah!" He replied after taking another long swig. "You gotta have the energy when it comes to rock and roll. I've been trying to tell the other guys that for years now. They just kind of stand there."

"Uh-huh. . ."

"I mean I brought the band together. The least they could do is listen to me."

In that moment, it dawned on you how clueless he was. Anyone else could see that the other band members were not very big fans of his antics onstage. The audible sigh from the lead singer into his microphone was very

clear as the man who now sat in front of you had started jumping around and ad libbing perhaps a little too much. He was now polishing off his mug and set down the money for another one. You poured more beer into the mug, almost feeling sorry for him.

"Been thinking about changing my name. . . I don't know though. It's not really a rock-star name, but the thought of a crowd screaming the name Dewey Finn inspires me. Kinda like an underdog story." He said.

"Dewey Finn?“

"Yep! That's my name, and you'll want to remember it cause one day it'll be famous." He set down the mug pointing to it "More please."

You were unable to hide a slight look of disgust at his rudeness, but poured another glass anyway. Dewey took another long drink and belched.

"Y-yep! someday people are gonna be screaming that name, Dewey -hic- Finn." He held his belly momentarily after the hiccup looking like he may be sick for a minute. Unfortunately, he continued. "You ever thought about being a groupie? Maybe I could make you scream it too."

You raised an eyebrow. It wasn't an old crappy pick up line, but he was still one more stupid sentence from getting slapped. You had to admit you did think this guy was kind of cute, and some parts of him were even adorable, but not so cute or adorable that you wouldn't remind him he was talking to a human being.

You shook your head watching him become more and more drunk, and knew he was likely to keep making conversation. Since it was clear to you he was not going to stop speaking, you decided to change the subject instead of letting him dig his own grave.

"So who was your inspiration?" You asked thinking it would be an appropriate question. Little did you know you'd soon be enjoying yourself talking with him. His eyes lit up and he listed a number of musicians and bands that he had been inspired by. How he'd listened to all eras rock music from a young age, and had gotten his first guitar for his tenth birthday. That sparked his dreams to become a rockstar. He talked about how he would spend every moment of free time learning to play. How he played with a band called Maggot Death in Highschool and has been living with one of the members ever since his father kicked him out.

You found yourself laughing, smiling and even coming close to tears at some points as you watched him do so himself. Perhaps the most surprising thing though was that familiar warm tickle slowly spreading on your cheeks. He was certainly no gentleman, but at this point you knew there was some tenderness underneath all the cockiness. Still even in his near-stupor, you could tell he was definitely still keeping most of his walls up. Not that it was your duty to take them down. It was about that time one of his band members came over, and reminded you that you were just a bartender this wannabe rock star had been talking to for the first time.

"Excuse me, Is this guy bothering you?" The man asked. He was thinner, and had longer, straighter hair than Dewey. He wore a leather jacket that left his torso bare showing off a set of abs that clearly he was proud of.

The man's tone surprised you. He spoke as if Dewey had been trying to fondle you over the counter or had been relentlessly trying to pick you up.

"Uh-um. . ." Was all you could manage. Not only had you snapped out of the happy daze of the conversation, but you realized you hadn't been keeping track of just how much beer you'd been giving him. Now the poor guy was drunk out of his mind, you had no idea how much money he owed the bar, and you were pretty sure this could get you fired. The troubled look on your face must have given the guy the wrong idea, cause he smacked the back of Dewey's head.

"Heeeeeeeeeey!" Dewey uttered as he slowly rubbed the back of his head.

"They're not interested, Dewey. Leave them alone." Said the band member.

"I wassssssn -hic- bothering nobody."

The other man looked at you, and sighed. "How much does he owe?"

You just stared at him a full minute before gathering your thoughts.

"Oh. . . um, I think he drank the equivalent of a pitcher." You knew it was more likely two or more, but you didn't want to cause any more trouble. The man slapped several dollar bills down on the counter, before turning to Dewey.

"You owe me."

"Th-thanks -hic- buddy." Dewey said with a goofy smile.

"Come on. We're over here." The guy said, turning to lead him to the rest of the band. Dewey went to follow him stumbling as he got out of the chair. He fell clumsily to the ground. The band member turned and laughed at him, soon joined by the others as well as many people in the bar. Dewey looked up very dazed, but smiled seeing that everyone else was.

"Whoops!" He giggled.

You might have been the only one not laughing though. You felt sorry for him.

"I've changed my mind Dewey. You better call Ned." His bandmate told him.

"Wait!“ Dewey scrambled on the floor trying to stand or at least sit. It was obvious from the way he teetered on the support of his arms his judgement was way off. He managed to sit on his knees. "Wait! I-I -hic- can't! Patti will lose -hic- lose her crap if shhhheee finds out I. . . ca-called Ned to come -hic- come get me. . .

Another band member cut in.

"It's nothing personal, Dewey. There's just no telling what your fat ass is gonna vomit in his car."

Even though the remark wasn't even all that funny in your opinion, the band members laughed. Dewey laughed too, but it was an uncomfortable laugh. The laugh that comes from the person being joked about trying to seem unoffended. Still watching this all play out, you could tell Dewey was hurt and scared of whoever Patti was. Regardless of your sympathy toward him, you had a job to do.

You continued to pour people's drinks, almost too busy to watch as Dewey's band left him. You didn't see where Dewey himself went until after the evening rush had gone. It was about fifteen minutes to closing. He was sitting in a booth with his head down. There were a few tipsy stragglers at the bar, which was nothing the other bartenders couldn't handle. You decided to go over and check on him. You walked over and sat across from him.

"Hey, you okay?" You asked.

He lifted his head. His eyes were red, and his face puffy and tear streaked. He looked sick and exhausted. He made a sad attempt at a smile.

"Jussss fine." He slurred before another hiccup escaped him. An all too familiar panic flashed through his eyes and he clutched his stomach. He covered his mouth and sat back for a moment until a nasty sounding burp escaped him. He moaned and stared miserably at the wall above your head.

"Are you sure? Do you need a bucket?“

His eyes lowered back down to you. "Jusss go away. . ."

You wanted to do what he asked, but with it being so close to closing, you needed to make sure he had a way to get home.

"H-have you texted your friend to ask for a ride home yet?"

“No. . ."

"Why not?"

"My nightssss -hic- been b-bad enough without my roommate's -hic- girrrlfriend yelling at me. . . and threatening to kick me out."

You couldn't disagree. That would be a worse ending to an already ruined night. Still you had to close up soon. You had to get him out of here, and hopefully home somehow.

"W-What about earlier on stage? You were really good."

He looked up at you, a slight smirk had returned to his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, you looked like you were enjoying yourself up there."

"I alwaaaays enjoy my-myself -hic- onstage. Rock. . . isss what I wass meant fffor. The mussssic sp-speaks to me.

You smiled, seeing that little smirk gave you hope. Clearly he was very passionate about Rock. You decided to try to keep him on the subject.

"When did you first get into rock?" You asked.

"I've pretty much -hic- been Inta rock my whhhhhole life."

"Oh?"

"Y-yeah. I'vvve been singing -hic- since I can. . . m-member. . . It's great for expression. . . a-and sex appeal. . . You think so too, don't you." He was looking you in the eyes now. His expression made your heart skip a beat. You were having second thoughts about this now. Maybe you should have had one of the other bartenders come with you. You nervously backed up in your seat.

"W-what?" You stammered.

"Well yyyyou do keep talking about -hic- the way I looked on stage."

You blushed. It was a big misunderstanding. You just noticed how he stood out from the others.

"O-oh, no I wasn't meaning-"

Dewey chuckled. "Ssssure, you didn't. You even r-risked your job to -hic- over serve me.

You raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

"Speaking of -hic- whaddaya say . . . to another r-round?“

Your voice came a little more stern. "No I think you've had enough.'

"Come. . . Come on, baby. Jusss -hic- a few more?"

Baby!? Who the hell did he think he was? “No!“

"Wwwwann me to take my sh-shhhirt off?"

"No thanks!"

“Kiss you?" He grinned.

"Absolutely not!" You stood to get up from the table. He stood too, leaning forward. He absolutely reeked of alcohol. You could tell from the look on his face he wasn't done, but if he wasn't careful he was about to be.

"What if I sign a tit?" It was then that you noticed he was gawking at your breasts. That was it. You reared back your hand and sent it flying into the side of his face. He yelped, sitting back down in the booth. His eyes were wide with shock. He touched the red mark that was now forming on his cheek. His bottom lip quivered. For a moment, you thought he might burst into tears. Unfortunately, what came next was worse.

Once the look came over his face, you knew what was coming, and there was no stopping it this time. Dewey held his gut as vomit poured from his mouth all over the table, and even down your skirt. You were really pissed now.

"GET OUT!" You screamed at him. He sat there wide eyed, embarrassed, scared, and still pretty sickly.

"I-I'm so sorry-"

"OUT!" You pointed to the door.

He scrambled to get up from the booth, and stumbled across the floor. He stopped suddenly leaning over a booth retching again. He wasn't going to make it very far if he left now. You sighed handing him a bucket.

"Just sit down, and text your friend to come get you."

Dewey hugged the bucket and nodded. You watched making sure he texted his friend Ned, while thinking about quitting your job here. It wasn't bad money, but you certainly didn't sign up for babysitting sick, horny, drunks. Dewey retched into the bucket causing you to look away. It was then that you noticed another man walking towards you.

"You okay?" He asked.

You brushed your hair back out of your face looking up at him. You could tell your expression was still harsh, but had no interest in changing it. After all this, you figured you were justified in a little rudeness despite the bar's policy.

"I'm fine.“ You snapped.

The man chuckled and grinned. "Easy sweetheart, I'm just trying to help."

You rolled your eyes.

"Just leave me alone."

The man stepped closer. "That skirt is looking a little messy. Let me help with that."

Your eyes widened, but you didn't have time to react before the man attacked you yanking at your skirt. You screamed. You could barely register the next movements in your shocked state.

A fist flew into the man's face. He staggered backwards letting out a muffled scream from behind hands covering a bleeding nose. Dewey was now standing next to you staring at his blood soaked fist. You wanted to say something like "thank you" or "sorry for screaming at you earlier" but the man who tried to assault you had regained his composure, and grabbed Dewey.

The angry drunk slammed Dewey into the side of the booth, which backfired because instead of a scream of pain, Dewey regurgitated all over his attacker. The disgusted stranger screamed obscenities at him before throwing him to the ground and pinning him there. His messy knuckles slamming into Dewey's head again and again. You screamed for the man to stop it, almost certain from the blood he'd killed Dewey. Your assumption was confirmed false when a fist with a mug in it shot upward and was slammed against the attackers head. The mug shattered and the man fell to the ground unconscious.

"Oh my god!" You knelt next to Dewey, who now had bruises forming on his face and blood dripping from his nose.

"Are you okay?" You asked, looking him over for anything else. "Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

He just moaned in response, his eyes unfocused.

"Can you sit up? I can help you." With your help he was able to sit up. He leaned back against your arm limp and dazed. A tall thin man in glasses came running into the bar.

"Dewey!? Oh God! What did you do!?" He panicked rushing over to him.

"N-Nehhd. . ." Dewey managed.

"Are you alright?" Ned asked him. He looked at you. "What happened?

"It's a long story." You answered. "But, he helped me." You looked between the two of them. “I'll call an ambulance. He needs to get checked out."

"Wahnna. . . go home." Dewey whined.

"Not yet, Dewey. They're right, we gotta get you checked out first."

You pulled out your phone and dialed nine-one-one, and though Dewey really didn't feel like getting looked over, and was less than cooperative, he ended up being pretty lucky. His back was bruised the worst, and he had a minor concussion, but other than that he was mostly okay. The medic really seemed to prefer he get checked at a hospital, but since Dewey was likely to be less cooperative there he let Ned take home. He was given instruction to stay with Dewey to make sure nothing got worse, and to make sure he stayed in bed if he felt dizzy.

Before taking Dewey home Ned thanked you for taking care of him. You shook your head.

"Taking care of him was an occupational thing. I should be thanking him for taking care of me."

[kpopisthereasonihavenolife]

genre: college au, teacher/student, dance instructor!hoseok, dance student! y/n, fluff 

warning(s)!!!: college stress (duh), y/n waited a couple years after high school before college for fiances, it’s not a college au unless someone works at a coffee shop lol, flirty hoseok, y/n might be a bit ditzy but in a cute way, y/n is also scared of storms 

w.count: 5.4k

summary: moving to Seoul, South Korea had been a dream of yours and when you found out that you got accept at one of the best universities, you couldn’t have been happier!  That is until you met your dance teacher.  He was handsome, but strict and he made you fall for him hard.  You never thought he would feel the same until you got locked up one rainy night. 

Series | One-shot | Two-shot | Drabble | [Rated: PG-13] 

a/n: this is my contribution to BangtanIDX Prompt Twist! I got @pjmsgalaxy​ prompt, so I hope she (and everyone else) enjoys it! Gotta be honest, I’m not sure if I’ve ever written a teacher/student fic  and i don’t read much of them dafdlskf, there’s a first time for everything LMAO  I hope I did alright asdlfjakj (I also very very sloppily proof read this, or i proofread half of it then got lazy uhoh) 

“Where did I-” you muttered to yourself as you dug through the fourth box in your newly moved into studio apartment.  You were a reigning champ of procrastination and now you were looking for your gym duffel to place all your dance equipment in.  

Not finding it in lucky box number four, you sighed and continued your quest to find the hideously amazing holographic duffel your mother had bought for you just before your move to Seoul.  “There you are!” You exclaimed as you saw a small patch of shining, colorful silver before you grabbed it and yanked it out.  Small trinkets and pens flew from the box in its rupture out of the cardboard prison.

It had been just two days since you had signed a lease for this single, tiny, cramped apartment in Seoul.  But, it was your best choice of living because who would’ve thought that Seoul’s living expenses were through the roof.  It would do, however; since you were finally getting ready to enroll in Hanyang University in their department of dance. Part of your subconscious wasn’t able to comprehend the fact that you managed to get into a private university in Seoul, but nonetheless there you were.  

You sat on your floor, boxes all around you with your holographic duffel with rainbow striped straps on your lap.  You sighed as you felt a small flutter of nerves in your chest.  

This was what you have wanted since you realized how much you loved dancing.  Graduating, majoring in dance, going to a prestigious school.  It was all so much more dazzling than you thought it’d be.  Of course, you had to take a couple years off of high school to save up enough money to even begin thinking about college tuition, but now here you were.  Two years of hard work finally paid off as you were enrolling into education once more. 

“Oh shoot,” you hissed as you placed the duffel aside and made for other boxes.  “I need to find my alarm clock. I know I just saw it,” you muttered more as you began to once again dig around.  Unpacking fully would need to wait- it was already 7 in the evening.  Unpacking your new home would be a tomorrow job and future you’s problem.  

It was bright and early the next day as you dragged yourself out of your messy, box filled apartment with a bag of books and folders and your duffel packed full with a water bottle, proper shoes and a change of clothes.  Along with your typical dance classes of ballet and choreography (or also called composition) courses, you would be taking your standard classes as well.  Dance history and theory for example.  Those were more sit down and take notes classes, so your standard textbook and spiral notebook were absolutely a must. 

Dressed with your jeans rolled to your calf and your shirt untucked, you walked to sit patiently at the public bus stop just in time to catch the 8 o’clock morning rounds.  Getting off with a handful of other college students, you almost halted at the university gates.  Those nerves thumping in your chest again before you pulled yourself together and finally took those first steps as a twenty-year-old college student. 

You entered the spacious dance studio your choreography class was held in as you gulped.  You had just changed into your leggings and sweater with your less than brilliant shoes with just enough grip left on the soles not to slide around.  

You ducked your head instinctively as you trotted to the back of the room. The mirrors across the studio tracked your every tiptoed step as some students were stretching. Some were doing warm ups, some doing small numbers of footwork, others just standing talking or keeping to themselves until the instructor came. You were of the latter group. Taking refuge up in a corner as you sat your duffel (that happened to stand out way too much among the others) behind you and took a seat.  

As you sat, you opened your legs in front of you and did small stretches just to occupy yourself until the class began. The lump in your throat made it damn near impossible to even try and talk to someone else even though you knew you’d be working and dancing with these people through your major years. 

As you were stretching forward to grab around your foot and feel the comfortable pull in your legs, you silently hoped that the instructor you ended up with wouldn’t be a complete nightmare.  You’ve seen and read one too many dramatic stories that involve over the top teachers who have the ‘perfect or failing’ mentality.  Of course, you knew that it was all for show and production in your books or on your television screen- but nonetheless, it was stressful to think about. 

You yelped when someone tapped your shoulder, getting your attention as you were previously too lost in thought about an over dramatic, middle-age crone with a permanent frown as your teacher- may as well imagine Lady Tremaine as the instructor of your nightmares. 

When you turned, ready to apologize you nervously chuckled as you saw the handsome red haired man sat beside you with a Puma bag beside him.  Wearing gym shorts and a jacket matching his duffel with worn out shoes, he pushed his hair out of the way of his sweat band around his head.  He smiled, waving at you. 

“First year, huh?” He asked gleefully as you just nodded before clearing your throat. 

“Oh, yeah.  I just enrolled. I feel a bit awkward since I’m older than the other freshman by a couple years.  Guess that's what I get for taking a couple years after highschool though, huh?” You joked back to the stranger as he sat and crossed his legs beside you. He nodded, closing his eyes in a face of understanding. 

“Makes since though.  This school isn’t cheap, for sure.” With another nod, he opened eyes when he grinned widely again at  you.  “Don’t worry about it,” he told you with a shoulder pat.  “You look young anyways. You’ll fit right in. We twenty-somethings’ need to stick together, huh?” He asked as you looked at him with a small sparkle in your eyes.  

“You’re in your twenties?” You gasped lightly. “Oh, jeez that was rude. Sorry,” you awkwardly brush off as you mentally screech into the void.  Thankfully, he just laughed at you- but seemed blissfully unoffended.  

“I’m definitely in my twenties,” he confirmed.  He looked at the watch on his wrist as he silently opened his mouth into an ‘o’ as he started to uncross his legs to stand.  He patted your back again. “Thanks for the chat, I’m a lot less anxious now,” he told you as he started moving away.  You looked back to your lap and let out a breath.  You smiled.  If anything- he was the one who worked your anxiety away.  

Your attention was grabbed when the studio door was shut and someone clapped from the front of the studio by the wall full of mirrors. Repeated students from previous years were soon sitting down and the freshmen were all sitting rigid- just as you were in your corner. 

At the front of the class was the same guy who was just talking to you.  Setting his duffel from his shoulder to his feet by the mirror wall on the floor. He turned and placed his hands on his hips as he looked around the room of 20 something students.  Some familiar, some not.  He just smiled at them all as a group. 

“I sure hope this is everyone,” he started speaking when the small murmuring of others died down to focus on him.  “I don’t take well to students being late, so make sure to remember that.  If you’re not here on time, I’m locking that door and you’re not getting in.” He addressed, pointing to the studio door that was firmly shut. “On with formalities then,” he clapped again as he moved to start pacing back and forth along the mirrors.  “As of today, some of you had never seen me before. Why? Well, because you're new of course.” He stopped in his paces before he turned to face the class sitting on the wooden floor. “I’m Jung Hoseok, and I’m this studio’s choreography instructor. Feel free to address me casually if you’d like.” 

You nearly threw your head against the wall you leaned back against.  You were just chatting it up and talking about age with your teacher?! He was one of very few people who really didn’t need to know your age.  Not to mention, the passing thought of thinking he was an attractive man suddenly felt taboo. You’ve heard of teachers and student’s hooking up, but only in stories! 

However, by the time the class ended many things were apparent to you.  One, this class wasn’t going to have a shortage of difficulty. Hoseok ran through the curriculum and all the points and class topics he wanted to hit and practice through the semesters.  

Two, you’d definitely need to start opening up to your classmates for group and duo projects or else you wouldn’t get very far into your college career. 

Lastly three, the way Hoseok acted and carried himself like another goofy highschooler who loved dancing more than a fish loves water made him undeniably attractive and maybe- just maybe- your hopeless romantic heart thudded under your hoodie. 

It was a week into your college course that you were already feeling tired from all the running back and forth between physical classes and sit down classes.  You felt like your legs were screaming, but eventually you knew you’d get used to it. 

You were walking as you packed your books into your bag. One thing that Hoseok made clear wasn’t a joke on the first day was his ‘locking the door if you’re late’ rule.  He ended up locking 3 students out of the studio on the second day and you made sure that if it was getting close to his classes start time, you were running and weaving past students in the halls and outside in the quad.  Rules be damned. 

You had just stepped out of the bathroom where you had locked yourself inside a stall to change into your sweats and tee from your jean shorts and sweater when you bumped into your aforementioned handsome dance instructor. 

Too busy trying to pry your water bottle out of your duffel mixed with trying to shove your wadded up clothes back into the same duffel and juggling your other class’ bag with books on your shoulder all met in the demise of your shoulder at your rammed into Hoseok’s. 

Your metal thermos hit the title in the most unmelodic sound known to man as you jolt and screech in a semi-panic all in an attempt to catch it.  Before you could shove your duffel behind you with your sweater hanging half out to reach for your fallen drink in it’s metal prison, Hoseok was already bent at the knees and picking it up instead. 

You took the chance to shove your stupid clothes into your duffel completely and zip it when Hoseok was ready to had you your thermos.  All while he just stifled a chuckle you could see building in his cheeks.  

“In a rush?” He teased, knowing full well his class started in under ten minutes.  You bit back the sarcastic reply on your tongue, reminding yourself that this was your teacher- not just another student you could afford to smart off to.  

“Well, I don’t want to be locked out, so,” you shrugged, unsure if your tone made you seem snippy. Hopefully not. 

“The day I have to lock you out of the studio for being late, maybe if you ask nicely, I’ll let it slide.” He teased as he placed your thermos into your palm.  “Let’s go if you’re heading that way.” 

“You’re walking with me?” 

“I don’t see why not,” he shrugged.  “I’m going to the same place and besides, I did say that we twenty-somethings need to stick together,” he joked in a lop-sided smile that pushed up one of his cheeks.  

“I wish you’d forget that I ever mentioned my age to you at all,” you groaned as he started walking and you tailed behind him until he slowed his pace to walk beside you.  You rushed into the studio in front of him to make sure you made it before him as you rushed to your designated corner before anyone could notice you walked with Hoseok to his class.  Properly tying your shoes, you rotated the ball of your worn dance shoes, listening to them squeak as they tried to grip the floors the best they could. 

You really needed a new pair soon. Your new job’s first paycheck will be used more for bills then it seemed, a new pair of shoes seemed to be in your future. As Hoseok started class and got everyone to their feet to work through some simple steps to get warmed up for a proper assignment on the horizon, you could help but once again admire his shift from friendly, giggly Hoseok who teased you in the hall to the strict and passionate dance instructor.  

“Y/n, could you run the register for just a couple more minutes?  Laura is running late, but she said she’s just around the corner stuck in that traffic jam.”  Your boss begged as you were about to clock out from your third day on the job.  It wasn’t too hard to learn the ropes since you knew how to work registers as well as you could recite the alphabet.  You just smiled, trying to wipe the crease out of her brows.  She was clearly hoping you wouldn’t say no. 

“I don’t mind,” you told her, her shoulder slackening. “I know the traffic sucks today. I can hang around a bit longer. I don’t have anything else to do tonight anyways.” With a promise to pay you for your overtime from your boss, you re-tied the apron around your waist and rushed back to the front where you joined the floundering staff already there.  “What can I help with?” You asked them as they rang up someone.  

“Just get me away from this thing,” they half whined in a weak laugh as you stepped up and began taking orders like you were programmed to do.  Working through customer after customer, you soon saw Laura rushing into the coffee shop when the bell above the door jingled.  She ran to you behind the counter.  Apologize for being late, you assure her to take her time and not to worry too much about it.  

You finally clocked out when you snagged a muffin from the display and made your way out around the counter. Your boss spoke to you for a moment across the display of pastries as Laura was already hard at work until closing hours.  You bit into your muffin as you heard someone call you.  Thinking it was a co-worker from the familiar ring it had, you turned immediately only to be met with none other than Hoseok.  

He came jogging up to you, a coffee in his hand. 

“Oh, Instructor Jung,” you greeted in shock.  He cringed as you addressed him so formally.  Almost everyone in your class had already reverted to calling him by name as he so kindly requested.  You were one of the very few stragglers who still addressed him so formally.  

“Instructor Jung? Really? That makes me sound like some old man who hates people,” he shivered.  “Just call me by name,” he told you.  Your boss tapped your shoulder, asking who this stranger with the round cute cheeks and healthy red hair was.  He took a sip of his coffee through the straw of his to-go cup. He reached his hand across the counter-top to your boss once he swallowed the caffeine.  “Jung Hoseok,” he introduced. “I actually teach Y/n’s dance choreography class in her major.” 

“Well, what a lucky girl she is,” your boss teased you with flickering eyebrows that rose and fell in quick motions. Your face bloomed as you wanted to throw the remains of your muffin at her. You were never so thankful you had so much self-restraint.  “I’ll see her tapping her feet or shuffling around in the back during her break, it’s pretty adorable.” Okay, maybe less self-restraint if she kept going. 

You cleared your throat, face hot as you were determined to escape.  “If you’re done teasing me, I’m going home now.” 

“But of course,” your boss mused.  “I’ll see you back in a couple days sweetheart,” she waved as she went back to her bossly duties of bosshood. 

“It was good seeing you-” 

“You're heading home, yeah? I’ll drive you,” Hoseok offered before you could properly attempt to depart. 

“What?” You asked in shock, nearly dropping the same muffin you wanted to throw just moments ago.  “Drive me? Oh, you don’t need to. I’ll just take the bus.” 

“Nonsense,” he told you, stepping beside you and nudging you with a friendly smile. “It’s cheaper this way.” That was true.  The word ‘cheaper’ was your favorite among the thousands in the words as a struggling college newby.  Ultimately, you ended up in the passenger seat of Hoseok’s jeep as he pulled off the curb and into the awful traffic that had previously made Laura so late to her shift.  “So, you dance at work huh?” He asked, his eyes set on the road as his fingers tapped at his steering wheel. 

“Oh god, please forget you ever heard her say that.” 

Hoseok broke into squawks of laughter that pulled at your own lips and the tension you had built up crumbled as you began to just talk.  You had even forgotten he was your instructor as you spoke to him like you were talking to a friend.  It wasn't until he was pulling up in front of your apartment building when that reality came back. 

“Get some rest tonight,” Hoseok told you before you stepped out of the jeep. “I’m gonna assign drills and dance routines tomorrow in class.” You blinked as you looked at him confused. 

“Why tell me this? Wouldn’t it have been better to wait to tell me with the rest of the class?” You asked as Hoseok just laughed lightly back to you, nudging  your thigh as you started climbing out of the jeep. 

“Have a good evening, Y/n,” he told  you, totally disregarding your previous questions, leaving you ever more confused.  You just nodded at him, now pursuing the topic any longer than you wanted to.  He watched to make sure you got up the set of outside stairs and unlocked your door before disappearing inside before he drove off. 

Just as he had told you, the next day he was assigning certain groups of students different routines or tasks to practice. Over the course of the next week you’d be free to practice your assignment given to you before delivering it to Hoseok. The concept of him not particularly instructing this project was to gauge the level of self-teaching.  He would supervise and give advice and tips if asked, but he would not be out right teaching just yet.  

You were among the group of people given a small little number running just shy of two minutes.  Focusing more on footwork and precision rather than graceful nimbleness.  A faster paced routine was something you felt wasn’t your strongest set of skills, but you enjoyed the feeling of learning nonetheless.  

You often spent your afternoons you didn’t have to work in the studio, or inside the practice rooms off the studio practicing. You had opened up to a few other students given the same routine and gotten their advice as you had given yours in return.  Hoseok had already told you a few times things you needed to keep in mind while practicing. 

This particular night, two weeks into the curriculum you had stayed just a bit too long practicing you had completely lost track of time.  In fact, you would've even stopped to notice the empty rooms and the darkening skies outside if it weren’t for the knocking at the practice room’s door.  

You had locked yourself inside one of the private, off studio’s to listen to the track assigned with your routine. Getting a feel for the beat and tapping to it for a rhythm balance over and over again made you lose track of time absolutely.  When there was a knock you just barely managed to hear over a small dip in the music track, you looked through the room door’s window to see Hoseok waving at you to come out. 

Discarding your headphones, you got up and unlocked the door. Opening it to see your instructor dressed not in his sweats and hoodies for practice, but in jeans and a tee- ready to go home for the day. He looked unfairly well dressed in casual wear.

His brow was dipped as he glanced outside just before he looked back to you in your lamp lit small room. He could hear the faint hums of your music from your headphones you left on the floor behind you. 

“Why are you still here, Y/n?” He asked. You blinked at him as if he was asking some asinine question. “Classes ended hours ago and that storm in the forecast is about to hit. You should get home,” he told you. You opened your eyes as you looked over his shoulder outside the window of the main studio. 

Indeed the skies were dark and sprinkled with raindrops of the future downpour.  How long had you been absorbed in your music? You ran back to your headphones and phone along with your bag and duffel as Hoseok moved to the front of the studio to wait at the door, but with a jiggle of the studio’s door, his face drained of color.  

A jiggle was worrisome, two was just as worrisome and three was completely worrisome with a tablespoon of panic. The door was jammed, the knob not turning and the door not budging even when Hoseok yanking or shoving on it.  

You had shut off the light in the private room, walking out into the lit studio where Hoseok was fiddling with the door.  You could hear the metal of the doorknob rattling under his palm echo in the empty dance room as you got to his side. You already feared what he was going to say when he turned to you with a tense expression. 

“Don’t tell me,” you spoke with a fallen face as he just let go of the doorknob. All routes of escape leading to utter failure.  Hoseok quickly cleared his throat as he looked around the empty room. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he spoke, his voice echoing in the large emptiness.  “Someone will make their rounds in the morning and get us out.  I have some granola bars in my bag we can eat and extra water bottles in my duffel.  We just have to tough it out for one night.” 

He tried making light of the situation to ease your tense shoulders.  He could understand though.  You were busy and lost track of time only to be told to leave by your teacher before some nasty weather hits.  Only to be now stuck in that same room he told you to leave with him.  You probably wanted to go home, take a bath and sleep in your bed. But, now you were forced to stick around in the studio until morning instead.  Talk about an impromptu and unwanted sleepover. 

However, it wasn’t the fact you had to stay in the studio that night that made you nervous.  It shockingly, it wasn’t fact you’d be sharing the space with your more than handsome dance teacher either.  It was the small rumbling you heard outside that made you anxious. 

The first ten minutes of your small sit down with Hoseok was rigid and uncomfortable for both parties.  You were nervous as you picked at your shirt’s loose threads and Hoseok was nervous because he felt like he was making you nervous.  The endless cycle of nerves was suffocating.  

“Sorry for the door,” Hoseok broke the nearly nauseating silence as he scratched behind his neck.  “I didn’t think it’d be busted. Someone must have slammed it shut and jammed it or something.” 

“It’s fine,” was your curt answer.  

Hoseok looked into the mirrors, watching your reflection- too afraid of freaking you out if he actually looked at you.  He cleared his throat.  “So, uh- how’s your routine coming?” He tried again. Maybe a different topic will result in different results. 

“It’s coming,” you shrugged. “Clearly I’m focusing on it too much,” you told him, motioning to the current situation. 

“At least you don’t work today, right?” Hoseok tried lifting the spirits in the room with a smile.  You cracked a smile back to him finally. 

“That’s-”

The sky shook with thunder, interrupting your voice as Hoseok looked outside the window.  The rain had begun as it pelted against the windows. You could hear the wind blow through the roof and along the window outside as it pushed the rain at an angle.  The instructor whistled. 

“That’s some nasty weather,” he muttered. When you didn’t respond in agreement, he looked back to you. He sat straighter when he saw you covering your ears with your palms.  “Y/n?” He called as you seemed to remember where you were as you lowered your hands immediately and placed them back on your lap.  You crossed your legs, bouncing one of them as the rain continued to hit the building and window and the thunder continued to roll. 

It was impossible for Hoseok not to see how jittery the weather got you.  He slowly scooched closer to your side after reaching for the previous mentioned granola snack he had with him.  He offers it to you, hoping to ease you.  You accept it, taking anything to keep your mind off the weather blaring outside like sirens in your head. 

“Not a storm lover, eh?” He asked, but as lightly as he could. He asked in the same way someone would cover a child with a satin blanket. It was soft and comforting the way he spoke. You shook your head as you bit into the grainy snack. “I don’t mind them so much, but I guess some people really can’t stand storms.” 

“‘Can’t help it,” you mumbled after you swallowed a bite.  “I’ve been scared of them since I was little and just never outgrew it.” 

Hoseok was soon rubbing your back as he sat next to you. You jumped every time thunder sounded and closed your eyes with a small yelp each time you caught a glimpse of lightning.  Luckily enough the storm didn’t have nearly the strength to blow out the power, so he wouldn’t need to comfort you in a black out at the very least. 

He was sitting beside you for nearly half an hour before he finally thought of something to keep your mind off the storm.  

“Y/n, dance with me,” he pitched into the empty room as he continued to rub your back.  You shot your head up to look at him, cheeks hot and mouth open in a small ‘huh?’. He just chuckled.  “We’re stuck in here anyways, so let’s dance to pass the time!” He told you he was already spinning to his feet before he grabbed your hands and started pulling you up and out of your cross-legged position. 

“You can’t be serious!” You squealed as he got you standing.  He ran over to the stereo system and hooked his phone up to it before setting a playlist.  Soon, music started pulsing through the speakers as you felt the vibrations of the bass through the floor into your bare feet after long abandoning your shoes and socks. 

He danced back to you as he grabbed your hands and started dragging you around as he laughed.  “Come on! It’ll be fun!” Pretty soon, he was twirling you around every which way he could before he actually started to properly dance.  You were reverting back to your dance brain as you started properly doing footwork and taking correct stances.  

What started as goofing off to keep your mind off the storm turned into a private study with Hoseok watching your practice the very dance that kept you here in the first place this evening. He had turned on the song assigned to you and the small group of people who were assigned the same thing as it looped over and over again. 

Drill after drill with different steps of advice and stance correction was more fun with Hoseok than you thought possible.  He would push on your back to fix your stance or twist your calf when you stepped so you wouldn’t trip.  He showed you how to dance certain parts as  you mirrored him.  

You both watched the reflections of yourselves dancing the same quick footwork number side by side over and over again. And each new drill came with bigger smiles and louder laughing.  You had actually forgotten about the storm outside over the sound of the music and Hoseok’s laughter. 

The storm had subsided well after midnight and you finally fell to the floor, ready for something close to a hardwood nap at nearly three am.  Hoseok fell next to you, still in a fit of giggles as you just breathed heavily.  

“I don't know if I’ve danced that much ever,” you panted as Hoseok rolled from his back to his stomach to look at you on your back staring at the ceiling. He rested his chin over his crossed arms on the floor as he looked at the side of your face.  He finally looked at him, feeling his stares and flinched when you looked into his eyes.  You couldn't bring yourself to look away now.  “Hoseok?” 

He smiled unconsciously bright at your casual calling. “You sound pretty saying my name,” he told you, making your face flush.  “You looked even prettier when you blush too,” he teased, kicking his feet up behind him like a five-year-old. You turned your head away from him finally as you looked back to the ceiling, not able to hide your red cheeks as he just kept admiring them.  “Hey, Y/n?” He called to which you just hummed, not trusting your voice. “Wanna go get some coffee in the morning with me?” 

You whipped your head back to look at him, seeing his smug smile on his head due to your deepening flushed skin.  You felt like you were on the brink of sweating, you were so flushed.  

“I- uh, huh?” 

“When we get freed from the practice room, let’s get coffee. I’ll cancel class so we can. I don’t want to have class after being locked in here all night anyway.” 

“I work in the afternoon though,” you lamely told him.  He just smiled away, unable to bring himself to feel upset about anything. 

“Then I’ll drop you off before work and then pick you up to take you home when you're done.” 

“That sounds like you’re trying to flirt with me.” 

“Y/n, I’m asking you on a date. Of course I’m flirting.” He deadpanned with a smirk as you shot up from laying down to sitting up.  You looked down at him laying on his stomach, that small smirk still painted on his lips as you turned away from him.  

“Well, I guess if you’re asking me,” you muttered. “I suppose I could go for some coffee,” you finished.  Hoseok had to suppress even more chuckles and teases at the sight of your smile he saw in the reflection of the studio’s mirrors when you accepted his offer.  

“Well then, I guess you better get to sleep.  We’ve got a date in the morning,” he chided as he shot up to his knees and palms, moved closer to just barely get into your line of sight to wink you. He crawled to his bag he used as a pillow as you lay across the room from him doing the same.  

How could you possibly get to sleep now? It didn’t matter, you reasoned; as you’d have coffee later to wake you up.

~END~

[pennamesmith]

Flowers for Skeletor

Hordak and Entrapta return to the Fright Zone. Perfuma gets some things cleared up. More ‘Skeletor’ stories.

*

Hordak and Entrapta strolled into what had, once upon a time, been the heart of the Fright Zone. Now it was covered in lush greenery, and sunlight shone through the open spaces in the ceiling. 

Entrapta was riding cross-legged on top of Emily, and gazed in wonder at everything around her. Hordak walked at her side, watching her expression warmly, while supporting the shuffling footsteps of the Horde drone she’d rebuilt and named ‘Skeletor.’

“Am I supposed to be frightened?” Skeletor asked, incredulous, taking in the rebuilt ruins. 

Hordak hushed him, but it was true that nearly all of the horror had gone from the place. Flowers bloomed on every vine. Soft moss covered the floors. The cushioned red throne in the center of it all rested atop a much shorter set of steps, and it was currently occupied by a giddy scorpion princess who was bouncing in her seat and waving. 

“Entrapta! Hordak! Hi! Welcome! Thank you for coming! Oh, it’s so good to have you visit here!” Scorpia bubbled. 

“Hello Scorpia! And also Perfuma!” Entrapta hollered as they approached. The Princess of Plumeria, tending to a patch of roses sprouting on the side of Scorpia’s throne, gave a little wave and smiled awkwardly in reply. 

“Skeletor has come for you!” Skeletor declared. 

Hordak flushed in embarrassment and quickly pushed the robot away. He bowed deeply before Scorpia. “Ahem. Thank you for inviting us here, Princess. How is reconstruction progressing in the New Scorpion Kingdom?”

“Oh, no, Hordak,” Scorpia admonished, smiling. “I’m an official princess now. That means you have to call my kingdom what I named it.”

“Of course. My apologies,” Hordak replied. “Tell me, how are things in…” His face appeared to visibly strain. “...The Delight Zone?”

“Oh, just peachy!” Scorpia beamed back. “We’re working on turning all the garbage incinerators into pottery kilns. And those hydro-electric generators you helped us install? Wow!” She tapped her claw-tips guiltily. “Which, uh, is actually part of the reason I asked you here. See, one of them broke down, and…”

“Have no fear!” Entrapta announced, hefting an overstuffed toolbox. “We’ll get to the bottom of it!” 

Scorpia sighed in relief. “Oh, thank you! And it really is nice to have you visit since we started redecorating. There’s so much less, uh, crushing brutalism. And Perfuma is putting flowers  everywhere!” 

“I like them! They’re so pretty!” Entrapta gushed. “What do you think, Hordak?” she asked, plopping a daisy crown on his head. 

Hordak made a noise. 

“Anyway,” Perfuma spoke up suddenly, standing stiffly at the arm of Scorpia’s throne. “We should show Entrapta to the power generators before it gets too late. After all, it is a rare honor to host the Princess of Dryl and… her royal consort.”

“Not that rare,” Entrapta said, unoffended. “You saw us at therapy group yesterday.” 

“A rare honor that we would hate to besmirch with an excess of small talk!” Perfuma insisted. Her eye twitched, slightly. “Right this way, please!” 

*

They walked along bridges that had once looked over belching smokestacks and polluted junkyards. Now the view was of farmland under clear blue skies. 

“We’ve been growing vegetables!” Scorpia boasted, sweeping her claw across it all. “And to help the plants grow, we started keeping an apiary for local pollinators in one of the old bugshell towers.”

“Bee-People!” Skeletor shouted in delight. 

“This is incredible!” Entrapta cried, standing up on Emily to get a better look. “Hordak, look how much they’ve repurposed! It’s like a completely different place!”

“It is,” Hordak agreed, and he did not sound entirely displeased about it. A calm smile played at his lips. 

*

Soon enough, they reached their destination. In an open-ceilinged space, several machines the size of small houses sat astride a clear-flowing artificial river. This place, like the others, was covered in verdant and blooming plant life. The sun shone down on a forest in the heart of a factory. 

One of the large machines was not making noise, and its lights had gone dark. Scorpia rapped on it with a claw, and it made a hollow clanging sound. 

“This is the, ah, problem area,” Scorpia said sheepishly. “It’s — ”

“Destroyed! Totally destroyed!” Skeletor interrupted. He rushed forward and peered at the silent machine. “What’s that? The fusion alarm? The main drive is about to explode!” 

“No, Skeletor. Nothing is going to explode,” Hordak chided, as Scorpia hyperventilated. He guided the robot away from the generator. “I need you to look after Emily while Entrapta diagnoses the source of the malfunction. Emily will be recording, so do not misbehave.”

“I had anticipated that, bat-ears,” Skeletor grumbled, but dutifully shepherded the spherical bot away from the group toward a cluster of trees with bright turquoise fruit. “We’ll be in the banshee jungle!”

“I’ll beep you when I need you, Emily!” Entrapta called cheerfully as she spread out her tools. She grabbed Scorpia. “All right. I need to get topside of this machine to find out what the problem is, and I’m gonna need your electrical magic to run some tests. So, upsy-daisy!” 

“Oh, wow, hangout time!” Scorpia exclaimed. “That’s great, because I just got a new board game I wanted to tell you about, it’s called — whoop!” 

Her words were cut off as Entrapta hoisted her in her hair and scaled the side of the generator like a purple spider. 

Perfuma watched them go and then looked, finally, at Hordak. She coughed. “So,” she said. 

Hordak waited. 

“...How’s Wrong Hordak?” Perfuma asked eventually, reaching for one of their commonalities. 

“Quite well,” Hordak answered. He began to sort some of Entrapta’s tools. “He is very grateful that you’ve started helping him with the Ex-Horde Therapy Group, by the way.” 

“Oh. Well, I’m glad that you’ve been… going to it,” Perfuma said. She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “The Princess Alliance wasn’t entirely in agreement about what to do with you at first, you know.”

“I am aware,” Hordak replied, flatly. 

From the trees, Skeletor emerged, covered in colorful flowers and desperately clinging to an unhindered Emily. 

“Stop! You shall not escape!” Skeletor protested. “Your puny lasers mean nothing to me!”

“Speaking of the group,” Perfuma continued. “I think this is actually the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to you outside of it since all the official business when the war ended.” 

Hordak’s eyes narrowed. “Are you driving at something, Princess?” he asked, evenly. Quietly, he practiced a breathing exercise that he had, in fact, learned from Perfuma herself. 

“Your hatred of me will work in my favor!” Skeletor wailed from behind them, trailing Emily by a vine. 

Perfuma pouted and put her hands on her hips. “Look, just… You had better not do anything to hurt Entrapta, okay?”

“...What?” said Hordak. 

“What?” said Skeletor. 

Perfuma crossed her arms. “I  know  you’re a good guy now, but that doesn’t make you a… a good guy. Entrapta really likes you. If you break her heart, some very powerful people will be very upset with you. Just so you know.” She struck what was probably meant to be an intimidating pose. 

Hordak finally turned to face her. His expression was one of shocked surprise. “You are concerned about Entrapta’s emotional safety with me?” he asked. “I understand you are the one who kept her on a leash.”

“I — ! That was — !” Perfuma faltered, raising a finger. “...Not my finest moment,” she finally admitted, deflating. “But I swear, we all only want her to be okay. There are some things Entrapta just doesn’t understand.” 

Hordak seemed rather taken aback by this. Politely, yet firmly, he said, “I assure you, Entrapta understands everything she needs to perfectly well. Often better than I do.” 

He looked upwards in her direction, and the sun seemed to brighten on his face. “I… respect her. Incalculably. It is my privilege to learn from her.” 

“There is the answer to my evil needs!” Skeletor said, from somewhere. 

Now it was Perfuma’s turn to seem stunned. “You really do love her,” she murmured, and couldn’t help letting her eyes shift to where Scorpia sat and laughed in the sunshine. 

Hordak followed her line of sight knowingly. “Entrapta is not the only one you are worried about,” he deduced after a few moments. 

Perfuma fretted. “Scorpia just has such a big heart!” she said, helplessly. “And she’s new to being a princess. She got yanked around a lot with… with the Horde, and I don’t want her to be taken advantage of like that again.”

Hordak considered this seriously. After a long pause that was interrupted several times by the distant sound of Entrapta’s hammering and various exclamations of delight, he ventured, “Perhaps Scorpia understands more than she appears to as well. She was exceptional, if unusual, while in… my employment. I expect she will only continue to grow and flower in her new position.” He offered a friendly hand to Perfuma’s shoulder. “Especially with someone who loves her at her side.” 

At this, Perfuma blushed furiously and quickly strode away from Hordak. “Hey, do you need anything from us up there?” She called to Scorpia and Entrapta. “A big vine-ladder maybe? Or some kind of robot stuff?”

“Bee-People?” Skeletor offered. 

Perfuma finally seemed to notice him. “Why is Skeletor here, anyway?” she asked, turning to Hordak. 

“Ah. This is to help improve his work for the therapy group,” said Hordak. “Entrapta wanted to provide him with more exposure to social situations.”

“That seems… contrived. But I’ll allow it.”

“Any more questions?” Skeletor asked. 

Before anyone could reply, Entrapta slid back to the ground, with Scorpia in her wake. “I’m gonna need some more parts from the ship!” she announced brightly. “Hordak, can you try to balance the dynamo while I’m gone?”

“Certainly. That will allow us to safely remove the alternator.”

“Exactly what I was thinking! And then we can connect the charging coils to the…” 

“Excitation field,” Hordak finished, sharing her smile. 

Perfuma and Scorpia traded baffled looks. 

Entrapta tweaked one of Hordak’s ears. “You get it!” she giggled. “You’re doing great, Hordikins! Back in a minute!” And with that, she was off again. 

“‘Hordikins,’” Perfuma repeated, rapidly losing all composure. Beside her, Scorpia made a tiny, ecstatic squeak.

Hordak turned to face them both in mute horror, suddenly realizing that he was still wearing the flower crown Entrapta had placed on his head earlier. 

“I am not discussing this,” he intoned, but he could tell from the looks on the princesses’ faces that this particular trial was far from over. 

“If that’s the way you want it,” Skeletor said, “Then that’s the way you get it!” 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 2: Accept The Fucking Offer]

Series summary: You are an overwhelmed and disenchanted nurse in Boston, Massachusetts. Queen is an eccentric British rock band you’ve never heard of. But once your fates intertwine in the summer of 1974, none of your lives will ever be the same...

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​

The floor is quiet. Your patients—all except one—are sound asleep and mercifully keeping their call buttons at a distance. Patricia is camped out in the nurses’ station at the other end of the hall, chomping noisily on sunflower seeds and wailing along to Tammy Wynette on her portable radio. Queen is enjoying their fourth late-night picnic of the week. You close the door and check your watch; you have seven minutes left before your break ends.

“Let’s kill her,” Freddie suggests casually, hanging his smoldering cigarette out of the open window.

“You know that’s extremely bad for you.”

“What? Committing felonies?”

“I don’t think you’d do well in prison, Fred,” Roger says, popping a Cheeto into his mouth. “No sequined leotards. No cats.”

“Smoking,” you correct. “Smoking is extremely bad for you.”

Freddie takes a drag, exhales a fog of smoke, and grins at you beneath gleaming sunglasses. “Possibly. But darling, the aesthetic is divine. And you’ll take care of me if I get sick, won’t you? Ensure I get all the best drugs, procure new lungs for me on the black market?”

Brian rolls his eyes and nibbles a violet plum, then gestures for John to pass him a napkin as juice dribbles down his stubbled chin. John flaps the napkin just outside of Brian’s reach, yanking it away each time Brian swipes. Roger snickers, observing their exchange from his place on the floor, before eventually advising John to have mercy. Brian snatches the napkin and promptly whips John across the face with it.

“So now you have me committing felonies,” you tell Freddie with a smile.

“Keeps things spicy.” Freddie peers over at you, brow crinkled, studying you like an abstract painting. “Do you like your job, dear?”

Brian groans. “Fred, please, don’t interrogate her—”

“I’m not interrogating, I’m inquiring—!”

“It’s fine, seriously, Bri, it’s fine,” you say. Brian raises his hands in surrender. His coloring has improved, he’s gained five pounds, he’s being discharged tomorrow. Then Queen will be whisked across the Atlantic back to London...and that’s a truth you’re struggling to grasp. “I love what I do. Just not necessarily where I do it.”

Freddie nods, puffing on his cigarette. “Because of Nurse Queen of the Underworld.”

“Not just her.” You can remember being a child and worshiping at the altar of familiarity: your home, that old maroon Queen Anne-style house at the intersection of Apple Avenue and Arcadia Street; inhaling New England autumns; burying yourself in your mother’s soft, cream-colored knit sweaters that were dusted with the scents of homemade pies and Chanel No. 5; the creaks of that uneven, tobacco-stained wood floor of your father’s study beneath your bare feet. Whatever existed outside of your comfortable, commonplace universe—whatever monsters or treasures or undiscovered ringed planets dwelled there—held no interest for you at all. You wanted to live here, die here, raise your own family here, take your children to play under the same weeping willows in the Public Green that your grandparents had met beneath. And then one day, in the purging heat of the summer after your sophomore year of college...you woke up and realized that all those comforting things suddenly felt like a cage, that your fingers were threading bars made of your family and your friends and every grain of soil in Boston. Patricia is dreadful, of course, and has been since you arrived at Massachusetts General nine months ago; but she’s not what you’re running from. “It’s this hospital, it’s this city, it’s Boston. I was born here and I cherish it, don’t get me wrong, but I want to see the world. Mountains and lakes and cathedrals and castles and...and...you know. All the rest.”

“That’s how I felt about Cornwall when I was a kid,” Roger confesses. “I’d take my little acoustic guitar out into the backyard and look up at the sky as I played and think, ‘Is this really it? Am I ever going to get beyond all this to something more?’”

“Yes, yes, well no one asked for your autobiography, blondie,” Freddie quips. Roger chuckles, entirely unoffended. “Continue, dear.”

You think before you respond. When you do speak, it comes out heavier than you mean it to, more serious, more pained, whispered, your voice splintering. “I guess I just don’t want to die without really living first.”

The boys watch you for a while: Brian poised and pondering, Freddie seeking, Roger empathetic, John very quiet. John has spoken—at the absolute most—five words to you since you’ve met him; but you know he can get chatty with Freddie or Rog on occasion, and so you’ve held out hope that you can still win him over. Now you’re almost out of time.

At last, Roger raises his beer, smiling, showing the tiny points of his canine teeth. “Cheers to that.” And it sends something through you like a one-way ticket into a brand new world.

You laugh nervously. “Okay. Wow. Enough of all that, I have to go save lives now.” You wash your hands in the sink and pull on a new pair of gloves, dodging Roger’s large, affecting eyes.

“Do you have a boyfriend, lovely Clara Barton?” Freddie asks. They know your actual name, they’ve known it since night one, but they’ve taken to referring to you as whatever famous nurses they can recall from high school.

“Freddie,” Brian admonishes.

“What, I’m just asking—”

“No, actually, I don’t,” you tell Fred. “Why, do you want a Green Card?”

“Darling, no offense, but if I was going to marry for strategic purposes I would aim for someone far older and astronomically richer. With life insurance.”

“Thanks, Freddie.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

“Are you single? Since we’re all sharing our life stories.”

“I’m not,” he replies, somewhat cagily. “None of us are. Well, Brian certainly isn’t, and Deaky wasn’t last I checked, although he’s tricksy and awfully quiet about the whole affair, so I ought to confirm that at some point...how about you, Rog?”

Roger chokes on his beer and wipes his dripping nose with one fuchsia sleeve. “Uh, I, uh, yeah, yeah, uh, I’m single. Yes.”

“Oh?” Brian says, eyebrows raised. “Someone should probably inform Josephine.”

“That’s a casual thing. Super casual. Not exclusive.”

Freddie and Brian exchange a glance: an amused, smirking, what else can you expect from Roger? glance. You try to smirk at Roger too; but he shrugs guiltily, endearingly, with some mesmerizing spell of danger and innocence and wildness and beauty, angels and demons that you didn’t know could coexist without clubbing each other to death. And you mean to file this away as a warning, a reminder to keep your distance; but it feels more like blowing on embers until they leap into flames.

Bad idea, lady. Really, really, really, exorbitantly bad idea.

“Alright, I’m out. Brian, you have the call button if you need it. There’re extra cups and napkins in the cabinet and—”

You open the door. Patricia is halfway down the hallway and approaching quickly, glinting-eyed, stone-faced, keys grasped in her hand. A glimpse at your watch informs you that your break ended two minutes ago. You swing the door shut.

“Get out!” you whisper urgently, and Roger bolts for the window. He pitches his beer outside and helps John climb through the opening and drop safely to the ground below.

“Fred!” Roger hisses, waving, and he lowers Freddie out of the window next as you kick snack wrappers and empty bottles beneath Brian’s hospital bed. Bri smooths his blankets, turns off his lamp, shakes the peanuts out of his hair that John lobbed there. You rush to Roger as you hear keys rattling against the door.

“Here, I’ll help you...” Without thinking, you take his hands as he hesitates in the open window and steady him as he crawls out. You can see Freddie and John down in the darkness, reaching up to catch Roger when he falls. A sudden wave of mourning grips you. I’m never going to see them again. “Bye,” you say, without any cleverness at all. But Roger smiles like it’s the best thing he’s heard in weeks, maybe months, maybe ever. He glances to where your hands hold his.

“Bye,” he replies in that raspy, radiant voice. And then he’s gone.

You sigh shakily. You turn around. Patricia stands in the open doorway.

“Oh,” she says, grinning like a shark, almost gloating. “You are so fired.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“We’re sorry, we’re so sorry, you have no idea how—”

“It’s fine, Roger.”

You’re standing under a lamppost just beyond hospital property at 7:15 a.m. Your shift is over, your very last shift at Massachusetts General; Roger waited outside to meet you all night. There are swollen shadows beneath his eyes, his cheeks are flushed with fury and mortification, he’s edgy and pacing and chain smoking. The sun is bright and already hot, the Arctic terns cawing and swooping overhead.

“It’s not fucking fine,” he flares. “We got you fired—”

“Roger, I was miserable there. I was jaded and complacent and I felt trapped, I felt like I was standing in cement, I felt like I was suffocating and I didn’t know how to bail myself out of it or how to explain any of this to my parents. But now...thanks to Queen...I’m free. I got the shock I needed. I can move on.”

“You didn’t deserve to leave like that,” he insists menacingly. “That bitch isn’t going to write you recommendations. You were good at what you did, you were really fucking good, Brian was despondent before you took over. You deserved better.”

You shrug. “Life’s not fair, Rog.”

“That’s the truth.” He takes a drag off his cigarette and you hold out your hand. He stares at you, perplexed, but passes the cigarette. You smoke a few puffs, then give it back. Roger smiles. “I thought that was extremely bad for you.”

“Most of the best things are.”

“Well.” He shuffles his feet anxiously. “I have a proposition.”

“Yeah?”

“Since you’ve successfully untethered yourself from all your unfulfilling earthly obligations...come to London with us.”

You feel your jaw fall open, feel all the tension in your muscles unravel as the numb shock rolls through you. “Uh. I was thinking maybe the Peace Corps or joining a travel nursing agency or something.”

Roger winks and nudges your shoulder with his. “Transatlantic flights to London count as travel.”

“That’s...accurate...”

“No, seriously!” Rog presses. “Look, every time a band tours, the company hires a medic or a nurse to go with them. They stitch up busted faces, sanitize infected tattoos, prevent us from dying of alcohol poisoning, ice knocked-out teeth until we can get to a dentist, the works. We’re going to be recording as much as possible in London, but Brian will be on bed rest for most of the next few months. You can take care of him. Keep his spirits up. You’re good at that. We’ll all chip in to pay you if the company won’t, Freddie and John have already agreed to it and I know Brian will as soon as I ask. Then, when we inevitably go on tour again...you can be our travel nurse.” He grins confidently, electrifyingly, like he’s figured out all of life’s thorniest questions.

“Rog, I really appreciate the offer, but...uh...this is really too much, and I have no travel nurse experience whatsoever, and...and...look, you are all really talented, I mean that, but you have some seriously chaotic energy and I’m not sure global fame is in the cards for Queen—”

Roger interrupts you brusquely. “You said you love what you do. So you like taking care of people, right?”

“I do, yeah.”

“And you want to see the world.”

“Absolutely.”

“And you think we’re fun, don’t you? Exciting? Audacious? Reckless enough to keep you busy with the fallout of frequent near-death experiences?”

“That sounds about right.”

“So...” He waggles his blond eyebrows. “Come with us.”

You look up into the mid-June sky, as blue and churning as the Boston Harbor, and try to imagine it: packing your suitcase (you really don’t need to bring all that much), digging your passport out of your jewelry box (you know exactly where it is), telling your parents that you’re jetting off to Europe the next day (they would accept it, maybe they’d even be proud; you’d finally be striking out on your own), renting some cheap little apartment in London (you have enough savings to get you started).

“Accept the offer,” Roger says.

“I really don’t think—”

“Accept the offer.”

“—I just couldn’t impose like that, I mean you’re not making any money yet and—”

“Accept the offer.”

“—You guys shouldn’t feel like you owe me this just because I happened to—”

Roger cradles your face with rough hands, gazes fixedly into your eyes, and smiles blindingly. “Love,” he says. “Accept. The fucking. Offer.”

Bad idea, terrible idea, literally the worst idea in the history of human civilization.

“Okay,” you reply softly.

“Okay, like, for real okay?”

“Yeah.” And entirely against your will, you break into a grin. This is the start of the rest of my life. This is the graveyard of familiarity.

“Yes!” Roger cheers. He takes your left hand, raises it to his lips, bites you lightly across the knuckles: some feral, ludicrously on-brand vision of Roger as a Disney hero. I’m the Lady and he’s the Tramp. I’m Sleeping Beauty and he’s the Prince who’s going to finally wake me up, even if it means slaughtering a dragon or two.

“Cute,” you say sarcastically. But, actually, it sort of is.

“Can I walk you home?” Roger asks. “You live around the corner, right? I can help you pack. Oh, wait, maybe I should shower first, I don’t want your parents to see me like this...I am a literal ashtray...my hair is ridiculous...I think I still have some eyeliner on...is the fuchsia jacket too much...?”

You watch Roger as he scrutinizes himself fretfully, his words fading out of the picture, the world becoming a silent film. You can’t look away. If Brian’s a willow tree and Freddie’s a lightning storm, what is Roger? Wildfire, you decide.

He follows you through breezy, shaded Boston streets to the house at the intersection of Apple and Arcadia, with the solemn promise that he can borrow your shower and an old pair of gym shorts. You know he’ll charm your parents instantly, that they’ll fall in love with him. Everyone does.

When you look down at your left hand, there’s a vanishing silhouette of a bruise where he bit you; and if you really think about it you can feel that it still burns.