#the fact that this was brought up minutes after 15 was brought into existence... it just hurts my heart so bad.

[twingeof-cosmic-angst]

adric nation are we crying? because I'm sobbing.

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

A dramatic overture - Bada Lee x reader

You were a bit of an unusual ballet dancer. To put it plainly, you were a bit of a fuckup sometimes. But wasn't everyone? Apparently not, according to your overbearing mother. And your choreographer, the infamous Bada Lee. How you landed in her troupe was a mystery.

Not only was she an insanely talented leader, she had been a phenomenal dancer beforehand. Other girls like Lusher and Tater flourished under her guidance. You, on the other hand still needed some work.

And that is exactly what you did. Day and night you practiced tirelessly. After all, ballet was an art, and weren't all the greats tortured and starving? You were eating still, the only pleasure you allowed yourself. The rest was wake up, go to dance, go home, and then repeat the cycle again and again. But your efforts paid off in the end.

And you had perfected your routine just in time for your audition. You were doing Swan Lake, a staple in the community for dancers and the audience as well. And of course, Bada wanted to put her twist on it. So at the end of the season there would be a special ''modern'' retelling of the plot, with all original choreography from her. You were excited. As stereotypical it was, you loved Swan Lake. It was the ballet that made you want to be a dancer in the first place. And Odile was your dream role ever since you were a child. So you tried to brush off your insecurity and worked for it.

You had been to the studio at such late hours that your parents started to suspect you had a boyfriend. You didn't have the heart to tell them that a boyfriend was the last thing they would ever have to worry about it. So you brushed it off and insted went in during your allocated dinner hours. And since you absolutely hated breakfast and really anthing early in the morning, you were down to one meal a day. It's not like you planned it and it wasn't affecting you that badly. At least thats what you thought at first. But by hour 4 of practice, you were exausted. You did a turn and felt your body go limp. You tried to break your fall in, but you still slammed to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Your fall must have been serious because Bada rushed in. You didn't even know she was in the studio then. You prepared fora lecture and her berating you on your stupidity and carelesness. But instead she let you lean on her and get to her office. There, you sat on a comfortable plush chair as she brought you a sports drink and an icepack. You were too tired to think about where her personal fridge was located and just how big it was. As your pain got lighter, you could focus more on what she was saying.

''And please, be careful. I see you work hard. But don't neglect yourself too much. The most important thing to focus on is your health. And as for the role, don't worry, there's plenty of roles, plenty of other shows.''

While she was right, you were stubborn. But you did not have a death wish, so you scaled back your practices by only 15 minutes, but it's the thought that counts. And also you started packing sandwiches. And little by little, it came time for auditions. Surprisingly, Odile was still popular, so you were up against the stars of your group. Still, they relied on their already existing talent and hadn't really bothered to memorize new techniques. And you had worked hard, building a completely new persona for your dancing. And that did not go unnoticed by Bada. So her decision was easy. Almost as easy as the way you cried tears of joy upon seeing the cast list. You had it. The role was yours. The pain was over.

Little did you know, the pain was just beginning. Now it was just a lot. while Odile was a background character most of the time, there was still her solo. And you dreaded it. Not only the dancing but also dancing with a man. It's not like you had anything against men. In fact, you were on good terms with most of the male members of the troupe. You just couldn't feel the necessary passion and attraction needed to dance with them. And you couldn't fake that love, even on stage for just a few minutes. But you managed. Bada had some minor critiques, which you corrected. And so the first cour of your performances began. Your choreographer had you do a limited summer run with the original production. Then, in the quieter ballet months you'd train again for her version of Swan Lake.

You were excited to play Odile twice. But little did you know, in Bada's version the cast would be all female. And you found out that last.

While you were on your last regular performance, she pulled you aside and told you there would be some changes to the cast list. She watched your face pale for a few seconds before adding that your spot would not change. And you swore she added a wink at the end, just to torment you.

Maybe it was worry. Maybe it was a stomach bug from all the supermarket sandwiches. But you were too sick to make it to rehearsal. You called your choreographer and almost tearfully apologized over and over again. Yet, Bada reassured you. Your role was not in the first acts anyway, so she'd focus on them now. But little did you know, she was simultaneously holding auditions. And she made sure to take down the new cast list before you return.

It was worth the hassle and the looks of bewilderment from the other dancers. Because she essentially saw you go through every stage of gay panic in the span of 5 minutes.

You walked in the studio, seeing her. She queued up the pas de deux music and walked over to the oposite side of the room. She stood on the blocking of your partner's position and motioned for you to take your place. When you were still frozen on your spot, she began explaining.

''We're in Bada's version now. And seeing how abysmall your chemistry was with the male leads, I made some changes.'' she said.

''If I was so bad, why didn't you say something. Why didn't you recast me.'' you questioned.

''You're a good dancer. And besides, it was just Swan Lake. I cannot be revolutional, I don't want to claim I can rewrite the story better. But making my cast all female of my own show, that's another thing. A modern retelling of a classic. With a strong message on how love isn't dictated by the gender binary. These tickets will sell like fresh bread.'' she explained

''And you're coming out of retirement to do this.'' you added, getting it now.

''Jackpot.''

''So you're doing this to get money.''

''I'm doing this for art. And to keep your fees from raising. Costume, set decor, rent on the studio, I'm guessing you don't want to pay that. Unless you do, then get in position.''

Her movements were so fluid. Additionally, she could lift you with ease. The thing is, every time she touched you, it felt like electricity was running through you. So you couldn't really focus and fumbled. Bada was a bit annoyed, but then she started over. Still, you were rattled. Why did this make you feel this way? Bada was attractive. But why would her appearance affect you so much? And now? So you continued to dance, pushing away the thoughts for some time. And it worked for a bit. You two managed to complete the routine. And did it again a few times again, to solidify it.

And then you did it perfectly. You would never use that word lightly, but it was true. It was a million times better than with your male partners. So you were confident that you would nail it.

''Okay, you have the energy now. Let's start learning the routine.'' Bada said.

You were confused. You knew your choreography, and you were wondering if there was a light misstep on your part. And then, Bada started a completely new dance. You wondered when she had the time to choreograph this. It was a completely different way of moving, looking more like a street style. You had never danced like this. But clearly, Bada had. She was so good, even better than with ballet. Was this on purpose? Or was it just her trying to showcase a skill? But why throw you under the bus? You could talk to her about it. Ask her to pull back on some moves, but still add that Bada flare. But you didn't do that. You just tried to copy her moves. You were a professional, so you could pick it up. And it's not like you picked up ballet in one go.

So you tried again. And again. And again. At first, Bada was guiding you very closely, being next to you, correcting your posture with her hands. After a few hours of that, she gets tired of this and sits down, just giving you oral feedback. That frustrated you. And the fact that she kept forcing you to practice over and over again. And at the end of the day, you were just tired and ended up just going home, with no progress on your end. The thing is, you tried again and again. You ended up having a sleepless night in order to get something done. And even though you were dancing like there was no tomorrow, there was little progress.

But you just kept at it. Rehearsing. Going home and dancing there. By the time you went to sleep, it was time to get up again. On days when you weren't training you'd just sleep and eat, calling it a day. You were becoming slovenly. Makeup and brushing your hair were becoming luxuries and so were laundry and showers. And the worst part is, you weren't improving. Street dancing was just not your thing. But it was everyone else's thing. Bada and the whole group could do it. Except you. You were the outcast again. And for no reason. It's not like you were bad at performing in your signature style. What pissed you off the most was surprisingly Bada. She was the incompetent one, not you. She couldn't lead you properly. You hoped she would help and you were called to her office at the end of the day. But instead, you got chewed up. Midway through her rant, someone stormed in, talking to her about a defaced poster and how it was going viral, but not in a good way. She excused herself and promised she'd be back soon. But 5 minutes past. Then 10. Then 15. And the whole time Bada's phone was buzzing with notifications. It was driving you insane. So you reached out to put it on silent mode. But something caught your eye. All the notifs were from a groupchat called TEAM BEBE and the picture was that of the troupe. So you looked at the messages and everyone was talking about you. Lusher, Tatter, even Cheche, they were all bad mouthing you. Making fun of you for the things, that were beyond your control. You had had enough so you just stormed out of there.

So you did the only thing you could think of. You dressed for revenge. First, you went to a salon to reverse the damage to your hair. Then you actually took time and booked a morning makeup session at the MAC counter, making sure to add a striking red lip. To top it all off, you decided to get some new clothes for the rehearsals. A few sexy and black pieces later, you had wiped out your salary. But none of that mattered.

While your transformation was already almost unbelievable, you knew it wasn't enough to shine to dazzle your so-called teammates. But the first person with a target on their back was Bada herself. After all, she was the one that got you into this mess in the first place. So you knew just how to make her regret it. But your plan wasn't exactly foolproof. And you were about to find that out.

First, you joined Bada in your usual practice room. It was surreal to see yourself reflected in so many mirrors while looking like this. You brushed it off. You began the routine and messed up horrendously, this time on purpose. You kept butchering it again and again until Bada stood up begrudgingly to help you. As soon as she got close enough, you pushed her back, watching her topple to the ground, her spine contorting into a graceful, sweeping curve. She was beautiful, even when falling. You wasted no time in straddling her waist, fully prepared to fight her. By then, she was fighting back too, trying to knee you, making you enclose your legs against her thigh. Bada pushes you back, but her hands meet your chest. And you fucking moan. She just raises an eyebrow and looks at you. Then she moves her hands to your hips, making you rock back and forth.

''If a good fuck is all you need to dance correctly, I'll give it to you princess,'' she said. You were about to protest, but she flexed her thigh and you were a goner. You let her take control completely. Bada made you grind your hips on her, to hump her leg like a horny pet. She snapped off the buttons of your leotard, so your bare pussy was rubbing against her. Your wetness was all over her black pants.

''Bada, I'm going to cum.'' with that your mentor bounced her leg up and down. You leaned towards her and kissed her as your orgasm took over you. She helped you ride it out and watched as you rolled over on the floor, panting and tired. Bada watched you for a minute and then said.

''Oh, my darling, I'm just getting started with you, so you better get up.''

Taglist: @withoctober

[callsign-joyride]

For some reason the link to request won’t work on my phone :( . Can I please request a Fall Fluff for Jake for prompt 15 where the reader is the one who is sick ?

Chicken Noodle Soup | Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Summary: Jake worries that you're having second thoughts about the relationship, only to find that the reason you haven't been responding is because you've been sick all day.

Content warnings: Fanboy being a menace, mentions of an illness/virus (NOT COVID-19), fluff

Prompt: 15. Sender lies next to the receiver (who is recovering from injuries or illness) and spoons them while staying awake to make sure their health doesn’t deteriorate overnight.

This was written for my Fluffy Fall Fantasy event. Feel free to send in requests!

Jake was stressed. You hadn’t been dating for very long, and you weren’t technically official, but it was Hard Deck night and you hadn’t responded to his text messages since last night. He was tempted to call you to check in and see if everything was okay, but he didn’t want to seem clingy and obsessive while it was totally possible that you forgot to plug your phone in the night before, or that you left it at home while you were getting ready for work.

“Honestly, man, I was thinking she’d ghost you a lot sooner than this,” Fanboy said as they were getting their things to leave. Jake didn’t even have the energy to react.

“You’re good at relationships, Rooster. Would it be weird if I drove by her house on my way home?”

“I don’t know, man. None of us have ever met her but maybe she’d be okay with it based on what you’ve said about her in passing.”

“Or maybe she doesn’t exist and he wanted to hide the fact that he’s not getting laid.”

“Dude, too far,” Payback said to Fanboy. Jake just shrugged it off and grabbed his bag before heading out to his truck and finding your address in his phone. You lived pretty close to base so it wasn’t a very bad drive at all. Right as he turned down your street, his phone started ringing and your name was on the screen.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you but I think I’ve got the flu or a common cold or something.”

“Do you want me to bring you medicine? I’m like five minutes from a CVS.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s Hard Deck night. You should be out with your friends. I can go another time. I think I’ll make some soup and go back to sleep.”

“Hard Deck night is a weekly thing and Coyote’s deployed so I kind of don’t want to go anyways. I’d have more fun staying in with you. Plus I’ve got a family recipe of chicken noodle soup and it’ll probably be the best chicken noodle soup you’ll ever have.”

After a moment, you sniffled and said that he could come over and that you’d leave your door unlocked. He walked into your house about an hour after he got off the phone with you with reusable bags on his arms. You were laying on the couch under a blanket while an 80’s movie played on the TV. 

“I brought medicine,” he said as he unloaded everything in the kitchen. You peered over the couch and smiled before taking a sip of your Gatorade that was on the coffee table. He came over to sit next to you after getting everything put away. It was almost unbelievable how sick you were, considering that you felt completely fine the day before. Your fever broke earlier in the day but you had been sleeping for most of it, living off of Gatorade and nearly stale crackers that you found in the back of your pantry. You changed the channel to something that you knew he’d like before nuzzling into the pillow that you brought from your bedroom.

“Poor thing. I’m gonna get your soup started. It should take about half an hour, okay? Let me know if you need anything.”

You nodded your head and scrolled through social media before going back to sleep for a little bit. The smell of the soup was what woke you up a little bit later, as Jake walked over and placed your bowl on the table in front of you. He made enough to last you a whole week, and he even offered to send you the recipe if you liked it. He was right, it was the best chicken noodle soup you’d ever had. Ten o’clock rolled around and even though it was considered early for you, you grabbed your pillow and blanket and started heading up the stairs. You were surprised when Jake followed you, considering that you had spent the few hours since you ate barely talking to each other. 

“I need to shower,” you said as you got your pajamas out.

“Okay. I’ll wait here.”

He had sent a few texts to the Dagger Squad group chat while you were in the shower, saying that he’d see everyone in the morning but that he had to take care of you. You took a big sip of water before crawling under the covers, Jake following suit.

“What are you doing?” You asked as he wrapped an arm around your middle.

“Staying with you, if that’s okay.”

“What if I get you sick?”

“I’ll take time off. Mav loves me so it’ll be fine. I don’t want anything to happen to you through the night.”

“Oh. Okay. Then yeah, you can stay. But don’t come crying to me if you get the man flu.”

“Trust me, I won’t. My dad taught me and my brothers better than to be dramatic so that a woman will take care of us.”

“That’s good,” you said with a chuckle.

Taglist:

@littlebadariell @cycbaby @luckyladycreator2 @idontcare-11 @blue-aconite @maverick-wingman @shawty-fenty @littlemisstopgun @rosiahills22 @katieshook02 @justanothermagicalsara @caitsymichelle13 @smoothdogsgirl @adoringsebstan @cherrycola27 @alexxavicry @mrsjaderogers @mak-32 @thefandomimagines @tallrock35 @caatheeriinee07 @bradshawseresinbabe @atarmychick007 @3sriracha @genius2050 @halstead-severide-fan @withakindheartx @Lolliepops2501

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[piedpiperart]

Phantom of Gotham 15

Chapter 14

When the five of them met back in the kitchen, they were all wearing swim trunks with t-shirts and towels around their shoulders or under their arm. Danny took the chance to look around the manor as they made their way to the pool. The place was huge, and he couldn’t help but think Sam would have loved it. His core ached at the reminder, but he was soon pulled into the group’s teasing with ease.

“I can’t believe neither of you knew there was a pool here,”Tim was saying. 

“It’s not like you knew it existed either Timberly,”Jason scoffed. Dick made some guestures Danny assumed meant he agreed with Jason. Tim rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, but you guys were here a lot longer than anyone else,”Tim pointed out.

“You are all just ashamed that the person who discovered it was the last one to move into the manor,”Damian sniffed. 

“Yeah right,”Jason protested and attempted to put Damian into a headlock, but the kid swiftly darted to the side to avoid him. 

“Hey look, we’re here!” Dick chimed in before things could get more violent. The five of them, minus Damian, crowded around the door to get a good look. “Huh, guess we do have a pool.”

“Duh,”Tim muttered, and Danny nudged him, masking the fact that he took Tim’s new coffee cup and phased it into the wall while everyone was looking at the pool.

“Alright! I think there’s some floaties in the locker room,”Dick said, throwing the door open. The other four trailed after him like ducklings, taking in the frankly ginormous pool and small hot tub in the corner. Near the windows were a few sets of tables and lawn chairs, which Jason quickly commandeered, sitting down with a book Danny didn’t realize he had before. 

 After helping Dick take out some ridiculous floaties, a giant duck, a unicorn, a dinosaur, a donut, and a flamingo, they brought out some pool toys consisting of rubber balls and some frisbees. They spent ten minutes blowing up the floaties, Dick making it into a competition so the first one who blew up the floatie got to choose which one they wanted first. Damian won, much to Tim’s displeasure. Danny was pretty sure it was only because the others, including himself, were too busy distracting each other or purposefully letting air out of each others floaties. 

“Don’t leave your shoes around,”Dick reminded them, and they went to the locker to put their shoes and shirts into cubbies before coming out and jumping into the pool. Or in Tim;s case, pushed into the pool by Dick. He’d complain if he hadn’t seen Dick also push Damian in after him. 

“Betrayal!” Damian was sputtering, when Tim noticed someone missing. 

“Jason, aren’t you coming?” Dick called, but Jason waved him off, not taking his attention off his book. 

“Where’s Danny?” Tim called, and the other two in the pool glanced around before shrugging. Tim bit his lip, wondering if he was okay. Did Danny not know how to swim? He suddenly felt bad for not asking what his friend wanted to do. Maybe Danny was afraid of water, or he had some aversion to water because he’s a halfa. Tim shook his head before he started catastrophizing and started moving to the side of the pool. 

“I’ll get him,”Jason called, sitting up and making his way to the locker room. 

“You sure?” Tim asked, nervous. He felt like a bad friend staying in the pool while his friend was having trouble. 

“Yeah, just give him a minute,”Jason waved them off, before disappearing into the locker room. 

“Danny? You in here?” Jason called. He took a few steps in after no response, only to see Danny sitting on a bench, clenching the bottom of his shirt nervously. Frowning, Jason came over and sat next to him. “You alright kiddo?” “...Yeah,”Danny murmured, still tense. “I just.. Have a lot of.. Scars.”

Ah. Jason could understand that. He himself still had an autopsy scar from when he’d died. Sure, the lazarus pits healed most of his wounds and scars, but the Y was so deep it still left a pretty mark on him even now. It’s why he was sitting on the side reading. He figured the scar would bring down the mood, and he knew Dick would want to talk about feelings afterwards. Jason wanted to avoid that, because f Dick wanted to talk about feelings, then Bruce wasn’t far behind. 

“Listen, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,”Jason offered. “We’re all pretty used to scars around here. Hell, mines worse than anything you got, I promise.”

“Is that why you’re not swimming either?” Danny asked, glancing at Jason’s own maroon shirt. 

“Yeah, you caught me. But I promise those guys out there will be fine with your scars,”Jason said. “Mine are just… kinda gruesome and bring back some bad memories.”

“Your scars can’t be that bad,”Danny sighed. “I… I don’t like looking at them. My scars, I mean. I don’t think anyone does.”

“Kid, none of us are gonna judge you on your scars,”Jason comforted, trying to not feel like a hypocrite. 

“But they judge you for yours?” Danny raised an eyebrow. Point taken, Jason supposed. 

“No, they..”Jason sighed. Maybe this kid just needed some self esteem. Whatever, he could deal with Dick’s feelings for one day for this. Then he clapped his hands together. “Alright, if I go out there without my shirt you have to too, alright?” 

“I don’t know, you don’t really want to see this,”Danny gestured to his shirt. Jason snorted.

“Trust me, nothing you got is worse than mine,”Jason smirked.

“Wanna bet?” Danny retorted, but Jason could see the stiffness in his shoulders, and the way he gripped the hem of his shirt. 

“I’ll take that bet,”Jason said, and without fanfare, he shrugged his shirt off. There was a pause in the room, and Jason turned to see Danny with wide eyes. Jason wasn’t sure the kid was even breathing as he stared at the Y on Jason’s chest. 

“See?’ Jason laughed without humor. “Told you…” Jason trailed off when Danny threw his shirt off to reveal a matching, if not worse autopsy scar on Danny’s own chest. 

“You-” Jason started. How had this kid- why, Jason wondered. He wished that he’d asked more questions about halfas when they’d met with Phantom. Looking closer, Jason could track what looked like faint lichtenberg scars spreading out from Danny’s heart, across his shoulders, but barely reaching his neck. 

“Guess we both win that bet,”Danny joked quietly. Jason swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Were you… awake? When it uh..” Danny mumbled, still looking at Jason’s scar, and that snapped Jason out of his thoughts. 

“No, I…”Jason responded, only to realize why he’d asked the question. “You were-?” Jason cut himself off. Whoever did this to the kid was definitely going to die, Jason promised. No kid deserved to be vivisected, even if they were a meta. “Who?” He asked, a bit more harshly than he wanted.

“My uh..”Danny started, looking down at his feet and fidgeting with his shirt. “It’s kinda why I ran away to Gotham,”Danny shrugged. “I-it’s fine now, I’m fine.” He reassured, despite it doing the opposite to Jason. It was then that Jason remembered that the kids parents were ghost hunters, and that the kid had run away from home not even a year ago. 

Which meant the kid’s scars were new. Or newer than Jasons, for sure. He took a breath, then stood up, offering a hand to Danny. Reluctantly, Danny took his hand and was pulled to his feet. 

“Listen, you can put your shirt back on if you want, but I’ll go with you either way,”Jason offered. Danny glanced between their scars for a moment, then apparently steeled his nerves. 

“Sure, let’s go,”Danny said determinedly, but Jason could see the tension in his shoulders and the waver in his voice. Damn, this kid is brave, Jason thought. 

“There they are!” Dick cheered when not only Danny but Jason came out of the locker room with their swim trunks on. Tim squinted, doing a double take when he realized-

Letting out a shout, Jason suddenly leaped into a cannon ball into the pool, splashing everyone in the face before they could say anything. Tim sputtered, only to be hit by another, seemingly colder wave when Danny jumped in behind him. Resurfacing, Jason had pulled Danny and Damian into a splash war that had them all smiling. 

Tim shared a look with Dick, and he saw Dick’s expression of concern and abject horror on his face. Dick seemed to want to talk to Jason, but before the man could get close, Jason splashed him in the face. Message received, Tim thought. As unsettling as it was, he figured Jason was a good fit to take the lead on this one. Bringing up their scars wouldn’t be very cool if Danny’s still self-conscious about it. Tim made a note to ask Phantom more about halfas before he was promptly sprayed in the face by Danny. Tim spluttered, looking to the playful smirk on Danny’s face that was obviously hiding nervousness and grinned, splashing back. 

That was how the afternoon was spent, with Jason or Danny splashing anyone who seemed like they were about to bring up the scars until they all got the message to not mention it. Much to Tim’s amusement, Damian and Dick were splashed the most out of them all. Tim was happy to say he got to splash Damian a few times in warning too, even if it resulted in mild bruising. 

Overall, They had a blast. Each of them had their own giant floatie, and raced along the pool a bunch of times until it developed into more of a pirate boat situation, with each other trying to pull the others into the water. A few of them ended up popped, so they’d switched to pool volleyball and frisbee before Alfred came in to call them for a late lunch. 

Getting out of the pool, Tim refrained from mentioning the scars, but he could tell Dick and Damian were just moments away from bringing it up. Dick just had a look reminiscent of a kicked puppy, and Damian was scowling every time he caught sight of Danny’s autopsy scar. While Danny and Tim were chatting, he caught sight of Dick and Jason talking in the corner before he turned back to Danny. 

Danny seemed… happy. Or as happy as he’d been so far. Tim could see he was grateful for the distraction. It had been a while since he’d seen Danny truly relaxed when he wasn’t sleeping in class. It was nice. He hoped they’d be able to keep Danny safe from the GIW so he’d stay like this. 

Tim assumed Dick had taken Damian aside to explain somethings, because during lunch Damian didn’t even change expressions when glancing towards Danny’s now covered chest. On Danny’s part, he just seemed grateful no one was bringing it up. 

After lunch, however, Dick and Jason left for ‘work’ purposes, leaving Tim, Danny and Damian to hole up in the game room for a mario kart tournament. Though, not long after they’d started, Danny’d fallen asleep on the couch, resting his head softly on Tim’s shoulder. 

It took Tim by surprise for a moment, but he found it didn’t bother him. Damian on the other hand, was frowning at the two of them from his chair. “What?” Tim whispered. 

“Are you aware of how Danny acquired his.. Scar?” Damian asked quietly. Tim glanced down to Danny, still finding him breathing softly. 

“I can guess,”Tim nodded. “What did Dick say?”

Damian pursed his lips, looking to Danny before saying,”His parents. They had attempted to vivisect him before he managed to escape to Gotham.” Damian scowled, and Tim’s heart dropped. He was sure his parents had something to do with it but.. Vivisection was cruel. 

“We will not allow any such experiments to happen further,”Damian stated, staring down Tim as if he didn’t want the same thing. 

“Yeah,”Tim whispered. “He’s gonna be okay, Dami.”

Damian scoffed. “Of course he will. He’s with us now.” 

Tim fought back a smile at the statement. He was not that successful given the way Damian scowled and then got up to leave the room. He was on his way out when a sudden soft rumbling filled the room. Damian froze, turning back to Tim with narrowed eyes. 

“I was unaware that Alfred the cat was in here,”Damian stated, eyes darting to likely hiding places, and Tim fought a laugh. 

“Uh,”Tim started, suddenly afraid to move. “It’s not Alfred.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed further. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean uh, Danny’s sort of.. Purring?” Tim whispered exasperatedly. He exchanged bewildered glances with Damian where he was sitting, trying to stay still despite the weight on his shoulder that vibrated like a cat. “I didn’t know he could do that. Phantom didn’t say he purred,”Tim said. He looked over to Damian, who looked like he was fighting back a smile. 

Having a great idea, Tim took out his phone with the hand not connected to the shoulder Danny was laying on and pulled up the sibling group chat with Dick, Jason and Damian. Damian had sat back into his chair, staring at where Danny was purring in his sleep while Tim pressed record. 

He resisted the urge to coo as Danny purred loud enough to be picked up on the camera, and Tim dutifully sent it to the group chat to watch the chaos unfold. 

AcroBat: Oh my god is he purring??

DeadorAlive: Did we know he could do that? 

AcroBat: That is the cutest thing ever! He’s like a cat ;u;

Dameown: He started purring when he fell asleep on Timothy. 

DeadorAlive: I wonder if Phantom purrs

AcroBat: Do all ghosts purr??

Timtam: Assuming halfas purr, I’m pretty sure most or all ghosts purr as well. Phantom mentioned a core, and from what I can tell that’s probably where the noise is coming from. 

AcroBat: Have you tried petting him?!

Timtam: No??

DeadorAlive: He is a human boy Dickhead

Dameown: Petting him may make him feel more relaxed. If he is purring he must be comfortable around you. 

Timtam: I am not petting Danny

AcroBat: You’re in the game room? I’ll pet him

Timtam: You better not

Dameown: If you wake him I will kill you

Tim sighed, already done with his siblings. Part of him was curious though, but he didn’t want to risk waking Danny up. He’d already been having a hard time sleeping from what they’d observed. Tim figured he must be tired after the emotional talk with Jason and the mess of games they played in the pool. He had to admit, it had been fun, and sitting with Danny was… nice. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much positive contact with someone. 

Not even an hour later Tim found himself lulled to sleep by the pleasant rumbling. And if Damian happened to cover them with blankets, well, no one needed to know. 

Chapter 16

[you-know-honey]

The L rule

Part 2/2

Sodo/Dewdrop x f!reader

Summary: You know what they say about short boys...

Word Count:3017

Note: bad english, the L rule is something that until now I have only heard in Latin America but if you are from other countries and have heard it, comment :).

"Ahg, why don't you just shut your mouth already!" Sodo shouted as he rolled over on her bed for the umpteenth time. He had been trying to sleep but the loud laughter, excited screams, and occasional music coming from Aurora's room had prevented him in each of his attempts.

He hated sleeping in total darkness so he could see himself reflected in the mirror at the foot of his bed thanks to the small lamp on the nightstand next to his digital clock, soon it would be 2 in the morning, he kicked a little between his sheets before sitting down and running his hands over his face, trying to relieve his stress.

He looked pitiful, her hair was tangled, her dark circles had turned red, her brain that hurt and he felt his body heavy like bad marriage. He didn't understand why he felt this way, but really wanted to close her eyes and sleep for at least 15 minutes.

He knew that Y/N had some sleeping pills in her room, she was always the last to be able to sleep and he knew it, he had seen her many times lying on the couch in the living room looking at the ceiling, when he got up for water. She had not seen him any of those times and it was better that way, she made him feel stupid with each of their interactions. Whenever they had to interact he could feel a huge wall between them and then she would just escape from it. She knew she had a difficult temperament, but not so difficult that they would run away from it.

Although in the rituals he loved to give Y/N the flowers that the fans threw for him so that he could be close enough to hear her voice and see the euphoria on her face at the screams of the fans, he did not have the courage to get on the his stage and playing alongside her as if Swiss and Phantom were doing it. After all, she always escaped from him outside of the rituals and her coexistence was almost non-existent in the ministry. So he didn't know how confidently she could go and wake her up to ask for a couple of sleeping pills.

He left his room dragging his feet down the hallway, the music outside was a little louder and there were no other sounds, only music, he didn't understand how the others could sleep. The hallway was completely dark and it was obvious that fresh air had not passed through there for quite some time. It's not like he needed light to really see where he was going. The closer he got to Aurora's room the music became louder, it was a long list of Pop songs that Aurora had made with the other girls, he knew it because he had heard Y/N and Cumulus talking about it after the rituals. In general it was not a musical genre that he liked, much less at 2 am.

The knock on the door brought you out of your reverie, at first like a light distant touch and then like a nearby hammering. You tried to go back to sleep covering your face with a sheet but it was completely imprisoned by Swiss, in fact you were too. Aurora hugged you by her torso on the right side and on the left side you found Swiss open like a starfish, Cumulus and Cirrus had been more sensible and was sleeping comfortably in bed. You rubbed your eyes as you pulled Aurora's arms from your torso, dodged the popcorn on the floor and collided with the small table next to the door, holding in a scream of pain for the sake of your sleepover companions.

You opened the door enough to just stick your head out, as your eyes adjusted to being open again. The cold and darkness of the hallway welcomed you along with a silhouette that you knew very well.

"Sodo?" You asked and the silhouette raised its head. His blonde hair cascaded to the side of his face, his eyes were red from lack of sleep so his gaze was icy and even more intense than normal, he hadn't bothered to put on a shirt, so he was just wearing sweatpants. You didn't expect to see him behind the door, much less like that.

“Y/N?” He asked, his tone seemed surprised the same as yours. "What are you doing here?" he asked immediately.

You thought a little about the answer, perhaps because your brain was still a little sleepy. "A sleepover," you answered after opening the door, showing the rest asleep. You allowed him to pass.

"What a mess…" he whispered as he walked in and something crunched under his feet, praying it wasn't a gummy or something sticky, he took it in his hands. It was a leaf, the same one that Swiss had used to count the 'famous' L rule. That alerted all your senses, you wanted to rip the leaf out of his hands and eat it to make the evidence disappear. "What is this?" He asked as he opened the paper sheet. When he looked at the contents he exhaled a mocking smile and turned to you. "Satan, what were you doing at this sleepover?"

You clearly understood what he wanted to imply and you snatched the page from his hands. "Nothing." You crumpled it again and threw it near Swiss, now you wished he had never explained that silly rule to you and you regretted taking that test.

Sodo kept the smile on his face, 'it suits him' you thought when he saw him smile, it's a shame his reason was mockery. Your look revealed that you were not comfortable with the situation, you knew Sodo and you knew that he would not allow you to forget that moment, you did not have the courage to take him out of the room so you took a long breath and after thinking about it a little, to speak but he went ahead.

"Can you turn off the music?" He asked you as he massaged his temples, he seemed a little sore. "I can't stand that sound anymore"

You rushed to unplug Aurora's mini rainbow speaker, which seemed to relax him a little but not for long. He walked to the door ready to return to her room and held his breath for a moment before letting her go completely, it was a more serious pain than usual. You were afraid to ask if something was wrong with him, because maybe it wasn't your business to know, even so letting him be in that state wouldn't be a good idea. The ministry hated that the ghouls were up late 'mistreating' their earthly bodies.

"Are you okey?" You asked, a silly question, yes. But the best way to handle fire demon.

Sodo sighed as if gaining the courage to ignore his pain and say a word.

"My head hurts and I haven't slept at all. I'll drink water and see what happens" I sigh again, I was really having a hard time but I was convinced that everything would really change with a tasteless glass of water.

You looked at your sleeping friends and closed the door behind you, just you and Sodo in the empty hallway. He seemed surprised by your actions and he watched your every move.

"I have some sleeping pills. Do you want some?" You answered as you walked towards your room. Sodo wasn't surprised by your kindness, that's just how you were. But he was surprised that you did not hesitate to help him, even if his relationship was only cordial. He went after you like a little dog in the hallway.

"Thank you…" He whisper.

"Because?" You asked, grateful that you didn't have him in front of you and that so far your nerves were more than controlled.

"To help me, I know you don't like me but-" you laughed and tried to cover yourself with your hand "Why are you laughing?" Sodo asked seriously. His walk stopped as did yours.

"Who said I don't like you?" You said as if he had mentioned that the earth was flat.

"Maybe you," Sodo replied, crossing his arms.

"Impossible, I would never say that. Of course I like you" you responded with great confidence in your words.

His eyes seemed to create bright sparks in the darkness, a hint of illusion.

"Then why do you always stay away from me? This is the first time we've talked like that." A checkmate for you.

You remained silent, you couldn't say that wasn't true, your way of running away and concluding conversations quickly had made it impossible to carry on a normal conversation with Sodo.

You clicked your tongue and continued walking, although you couldn't see it you knew that Sodo had a victorious smile on his face. You continued walking to the door of your room, listening to his footsteps behind you, you had some ideas of answers to give him, but none seemed right at this point.

“Come in,” you offered as you opened the door.

The floral smell filled Sodo's nostrils the instant the door opened, he was hit by a welcoming sensation. The moon illuminated almost every corner of the room. He walked cautiously, looking at every detail of the place.

"It's nice" Sodo said looking at some details of the room.

"Thank you, I'll go get your pills" You opened your closet and searching through your small medicine box.

You could hear his bare feet wandering around the room, the sound of the bed sinking, and the heavy breath of exhaustion coming from his nostrils. The lack of light inside your small closet delayed the search, your hands moved nervously between pills. You were beginning to feel the atmosphere was beginning to become heavier for both of you, especially for you.

"Are those my flowers?" you heard him say, you turned quickly to see him point to the numerous bouquets of flowers framed above the headboard of your bed. The question left his lips with quite a bit of joy.

You left the search "Yes" and sat next to him on the bed.

"I thought you threw them away when they dried." He seemed so surprised.

"Why would I? They're gifts and…I love flowers." You responded with a smile. After every show where Sodo had given you flowers, you framed them with great care so as not to drop a single petal, that kind act always melted your heart.

"I thought they meant nothing to you," he shrugged.

"Why? Because they came from you? You act like hates you" you laughed again.

"And it is not like that?"

"No! How many times do I have to say it? I would never hate you." You sighed “I thought I was a bother to you, you always seemed tired around me.”

"No, I don't-" he stopped and took your hands in his as if on impulse. "Yes, I tend to be tired. But not of you, I could never get tired of you." Sodo was nervous to say something like that.

You were more than surprised by his actions, he seemed like a different Sodo than the one you saw every day, for the first time in a long time you managed to look him in the eyes and maintain contact, still as a statue. You didn't know what to do with this version of him. The moon made his hair shine and his expressions were soft and clear.

You cleared your throat and averted your gaze, resuming the conversation. "Eh, yes I…keep each of the bouquets. They are a nice gift…" you said although not very convinced that it was the best way to continue the talk.

Sodo's mouth opened, wanting to complain for taking the focus of your gaze away from you, he was an impulsive boy and he made it known when his warm hand slid through the air until it landed on your cheek and made you look at him again. You seemed so surprised, so unaccustomed.

"Why don't you look at me?" He asked in a whisper, looking into your eyes, you could feel your insides shake and your breathing stop.

“I…don’t…I…don’t know…” you said, the words swallowed up by the whirlwind of emotion in your head, leaving each sentence incomplete. "Your look is very strong…"

Sodo smiled showing his fangs, he was a beautiful sight, he caressed your cheek warmly and walked closer to you. "Does he intimidate you? Does it bother you to look at me?"

"Well… you usually have a 'special' temperament and sometimes it's-" You tried to say it as gently as possible. You had very rarely seen him fight with the other members, Swiss always intervened and was the only one who could control the little gremlin, the nuns did not want to go through the hallway if Sodo was there, there was something dark about that fire demon.

"Spooky? You think I'm spooky?" There seemed to be a hint of sadness, he moved his hand away from your face, as if it would hurt your touch, as if he didn't expect you to think that way.

“Sometimes” you confessed, assuming that would break the mood.

Sodo sighed, now he could understand why you never approached him, he never seemed to have the doors open for a chat and getting in the middle of his tantrums was something only a crazy person like Swiss would do.

"I'm sorry, I was always the problem apparently…" he said.

"Well…" you responded "We're talking more tonight than we have in recent years, that's a start isn't it?" You laid down on the bed, with your legs falling over the edge of the bed, making yourself more comfortable, inviting him to do the same.

"Yes, I suppose so," he took your invitation eagerly and laid down on the bed next to you, staring at the ceiling together, their hands inches apart. "Can I ask you something?"

"Forward." You assured, turning your head to look at him.

"Why were they investigating the L rule?" He asked, he clearly knew what it meant and wouldn't be surprised if it was talked about at a boys' sleepover but why would girls look for that? He didn't think Swiss had influenced them. Your face turned a light pink and you babbled nonsense that made him laugh. At this point his headache didn't matter. "Tell the truth"

"Well… The girls, Swiss and I were doing a silly test you know, the kind that predicts the love of your life" you took a sigh before continuing "So we did one about the band"

"What was the results?" Sodo asked curiously.

"The result of Cumulus was Mountain" Sodo made an O with his mouth, in his mind he was beginning to plot some small pranks to annoy his tall and shy friend. "Cirrus's result was herself" did not surprise him, Cirrus' self-love was infinite "Aurora's result was Swiss and Swiss's result was Aurora, it was fun to see their faces" you laughed remembering the scene and Sodo laughed with you, he could imagine Swiss having a brain block from being paired with her best friend.

"And what was your result?" You dreaded the arrival of that question.

"You," you said, turning your gaze to the ceiling, as if it were the most interesting thing you've ever seen.

"Me what?" Sodo thought maybe there was, that wasn't possible.

"You were my result Sodo" you told him as you exhaled nervously.

He lifted his torso like a spring, he was very surprised and turned to look at you, you felt so stupid. You were immediately going to apologize but he interrupted you.

"Wow, I didn't expect that" he laughed with pride and excitement.

"The test said something like: 'all good girls want a bad boy'. He also mentioned the L rule about short boys" you excused yourself, completely blushing, covering your face with the back of your arm.

"Do you know what the L rule means?" he asked with a double meaning tone and a suggestive raise of his eyebrows.

"Swiss explained it to us" You responded and felt the bed sink next to you, Sodo had gone back to bed.

"Oh then…" he took a few seconds "So what do you think of the result?" he asked you again, he seemed so curious or morbid about your answer. For a second he could imagine you thinking about him in that sexual way and a knot inside him tightened with pride.

"It's just a silly test, it doesn't really matter" You finished saying.

"I'm not your type?" He turned to look at you, you still covered your face and bit your lower lip, trying not to say anything else. Sodo longed to see your eyes and discover the true answer in your gaze.

"It's not that…" you spat that phrase from your gut, maybe you were trying your luck, there was nothing to lose.

He leaned on one of his arms admiring you with an amazed face. His hand slowly approached your arm, took it and imprisoned it on the bed above your head, your eyes took a while to get used to the darkness again and they opened wide when they saw him almost on top of you, his hair fell on yours, his eyes they were completely enveloped in you, traveling from your eyes to your lips with shameless frequency.

"Sodo, what are you doing?" you asked, hoping it was just you misunderstanding the situation. But there was a dark gleam in her gaze, as if a beast was screaming after the angelic beauty of her face.

"I'll become your type." You shuddered under her words, a shiver running through your body and hovering in the pit of your stomach. He smiled.

I know what's coming and so do you, someone help me write smut, I can't believe I've been writing fanfics for years and I'm still embarrassed to do it 😫

[physalian]

Timeskips (A Deceptively Tricky Trope)

Anyone remember when we all went to the theaters to see Endgame and the trailers actually fooled us into thinking all the action happened immediately after Infinity War? Then 15 minutes into the movie, the Thanos we grew to love/hate dies and the bomb drops: “Five…Years…Later”

It’s a shame that the movie didn’t properly explore the worldly consequences of losing half the population in favor of a Marvel victory lap through all its greatest hits. That our heroes could do absolutely nothing for five whole years, opening on a shot of a cold and dark cityscape — that was the best use and execution of a timeskip I’ve seen in recent memory, even if the rest of the movie didn’t follow through with it.

Timeskips are an effective way to age up characters or age past the end of an era of peace, or the healing after a tragedy (or the lifeless aftermath of one). Usually, your established heroes do their heroic thing, and anywhere from a couple weeks to a couple months to a couple years pass before the story picks back up again. Some may have died along the way, the political climate has changed, couples have had children, or babies have grown into their own characters, relationships have grown, begun, or fallen apart.

These damnable plot devices are a double-edged sword. On the one hand, the author gets to skip sometimes decades of meandering plot and development to tell almost an entirely new story in the same universe, sometimes not even with the same characters who are now too old, too dead, or retired.

However, timeskips can also cause some massive confusion, missed opportunities, and fandom wars over whether or not the jaded and grizzled and depressed heroes we see on screen are, in fact, a realistic evolution from the last time we saw them (looking at you, Star Wars).

Sometimes, they’re used in a single episode, thrusting a present character into the depressing dystopian future so they can prevent whatever causes said future before disaster strikes (Teen Titans "How Long Is Forever?"), and all returns to normal by the time the credits roll. Sometimes, the author really wanted the drama and angst of a pregnancy, then got stuck with a baby that needs constant attention from its parents who can no longer go do Plot Things until the baby can take care of themselves (The Originals).

Sometimes it’s the jump between two eras of a series, where our heroes have had a couple years of practice and now we can make the tone a little darker and the action a little more visceral. Or, it’s expected of a multi-book saga that regularly jumps a year ahead with each edition, leading up to the big prophecy (Percy Jackson, Harry Potter).

The Fundamentals of a Good Timeskip

As requested by Anonymous!

Telltale signs of a dubious skip:

Audience is expected to care more about an undeveloped newcomer than the pre-existing cast, because the current cast does without explanation

Audience is “told” to accept Catastrophic Event without being “shown” how and why it happened

Characters die, break-up, disappear, marry, change teams, or change entire personalities for ~drama~ and no other reason

The Book You Never Wrote was way more interesting than the future you brought us to

The new plot depends on Events Unwritten, but never shows or explains Events Unwritten

Timeskip only exists because the author is unable to make the leaps in logic themselves and hopes you won’t notice

The legacy of past heroes is trashed completely for More Story

Signs of a successful skip:

Characters we know and love are still themselves, just a little older and wiser

Characters that do change do so logically, within reason, and could have been extrapolated from the last publication

Radical changes and the new hellscape you threw your heroes into is given ample screen time to show “How tf we got here”

The new world doesn’t disregard or ignore the legacy and victory of past heroes

Absolutely nothing of import or unexpected happened in the interim, except time

Anyone who dies off-screen won the story by dying of old age, or some other respectful avenue (popular with aging mentors and old masters, usually when their actor also passes)

Whether your timeskip succeeds or fails depends entirely on, in my humble opinion, how much story you skip and sacrifice to make the jump, and how radical the changes are from the past to the future. And, to what degree the skip serves as a means to an end or the centerpiece of the new story.

Meaning that since you leave weeks, months, years, or decades unwritten, how interesting was the Book You Never Wrote, and how badly would audiences need to read it to understand the jump from A to B?

If I’m writing a ten-year skip and half my heroes have died, half have ended wonderful relationships, two kids have been born, a known hero has become a villain, and an entire city’s been destroyed… that is a *very* interesting story I wish I had the opportunity to read, because it sounds like every character I fell in love with is about to become unrecognizable and very frustrating to follow now that I don’t understand why they make the choices they do — *if* I’m never shown evidence to support the leaps in logic.

If I’m writing a ten-year skip and all that happens in the interim is a minor child character is now a tween with a pretty average life, or my super-powered heroes have had only mediocre rogues to battle, or a character who began in the mail room is now a middle manager at their boring job, then, yeah, we can skip all that jazz and get to the good stuff. This is usually the setup for your “next generation” skip for any genre.

Good timeskips also depend on how readily the characters accept and acknowledge the changes that have happened off-page, and how much the future story now depends on the information the audience never received. If your plot and your characters constantly reference and argue over the Book You Never Wrote, your audience won’t be pleased to not have read said book.

I’m going to use specific media here because the nature of a timeskip concerns entire plots and my usual vague examples don’t suffice. How you write and implement one is entirely up to you and each of these have their staunch defenders, I just don’t like them and I’m here to explain why. Hopefully if you’ve seen at least one of them, you can use them as a shining example of what (or what not) to do in your own work.

The fandoms in question:

The 100

Star Wars

Percy Jackson

Last Airbender/Legend of Korra

How to Train Your Dragon

The Little Mermaid

—

The 100

The timeskips in question are between seasons 2 and 3, and between seasons 4 and 5. The first timeskip is a couple months between seasons 2 and 3. After a huge conflict (and easily the best season of the show by a country mile), shifting alliances, enemy-of-my-enemy, the best couple-that-never-was, the season ends with protagonist Clark unable to let herself enjoy the spoils of war because of the crimes she committed to make it happen. She leaves behind all her friends to go be a hermit, including deuteragonist Bellamy, who is Not Happy about this decision.

The problem: In between seasons, Clark hasn’t changed much, but Bellamy sure has. He gets a girlfriend, develops an entire relationship, only for this girl to get fridged within the first 50 minutes or so of season 3. He takes her death super hard and, with Clark not there, spirals into a bit of a blind-faith fascist turning on all his friends and becoming nigh unrecognizable. Without seeing the growing relationship with the fodder girlfriend, without seeing how hard life has been for him without Clarke, all his choices, all his beliefs, all his pontificating sound completely foreign and out of character and he does not recover until it’s almost too late. As he’s the deuteragonist of the show, you can only take yelling at your TV for all his stupid and OOC decisions for so long, when it could have been done so much better.

The second damning timeskip is five whole years between seasons 4 and 5. Bellamy develops another unseen romance up in space, his sister becomes a bloodthirsty underground queen, and Clark devotes her entire life to raising a little girl she finds.

The problem: Clark cares a lot more about protecting the little girl than anything else, a choice audiences can’t empathize with because we’re still siding with the characters we’ve watched grow and suffer for four seasons, making Clarke an incredibly frustrating character to watch.

Five-year timeskips are fine. I think I’m in the minority in hating this decision by the writers. However, when your characters’ motivations change so radically without you being able to follow that development, making their new choices seem incredibly inconsistent with who they’re supposed to be, the disconnect is super strong. We’re being told at this point to care about these strangers over the existing cast without ever having been shown why.

Star Wars

Timeskip in question: Return of the Jedi to The Force Awakens. Enough time for Rey to look like a 20-something and, I believe, the exact same gap between the movies in the real world. The argument over Luke’s character has been beaten to death by now. We end Return of the Jedi with the promise of a galaxy in peace after decades of civil war between the Rebels and the Empire and the ultimate sacrifice from Anakin.

The problem: We open Force Awakens like the war never ended. There’s still stormtroopers, there’s still the Empire (though, now it’s called the First Order), there’s still Rebels rebelling. The happily ever after one would expect between Han and Leia is shattered because their kid went Dark Side. Their kid went Dark Side because… well, one side, the other side, and the unrevealed truth.

It’s less “Luke would never make these choices” and more “How do you expect audiences to believe Luke made these choices without seeing the pain and trauma inflicted on him to end up like this”. The casual fan only watches the episodic films. Luke ended one movie as a semi-optimistic war hero. He began the very next film jaded and traumatized enough to debate, and nearly go through with, murdering his nephew because of what he *might* do someday.

That anyone expected that to go over well was deluding themselves, but everyone knows these movies are a mess.

There’s also the disappointment in realizing all that Anakin lived and died for fell apart in less than 30 years. Who are these people calling themselves the First Order? Where did they get the funds, the resources, the platform to become as big a threat as they are? How did the Rebels fail so spectacularly at building a functioning government? How do they not have the funds, platform, and resources to buy better ships and equipment? How did no one realize they were hollowing out an entire planet to build another Death Star?

The Sequel Trilogy lost audiences when it refused to provide any explanations at all for *why* these changes happened. The movies don’t care about *how* Ben became Kylo, they just need you to accept that it happened. They don’t care *how* the First Order rose, just don’t look too closely or it all falls apart.

The skip between Empire Strikes Back to Return of the Jedi is also a bit sketchy, because Luke has done all his Jedi training off-screen and can just pull abilities out of nowhere, but the plot of Return of the Jedi doesn’t depend on having seen Luke grow.

Percy Jackson

I feel bad putting this here because it’s not nearly as egregious as the previous two, but because the original series was so good, these choices are that much more baffling. The timeskips in question: Sea of Monsters (2) to Titan’s Curse (3) and Last Olympian (5) to Lost Hero (6).

The books focus on a singular week or two per year, so Percy can age from 12 to 16 in time for the Great Prophecy by the end of the series. This series is filled with timeskips and unseen content, but the jump between books 2 and 3 is the most jarring. I just did a retrospective for both of them so if you happened to read that, I’m repeating myself a little.

The problem: At the end of SoM there is a huge shakeup in the realm of who will actually be the chosen one — a discarded chess piece has been revived and brought back onto the board. In the missing months, Percy has built an entire friendship and rapport with his would-be rival, and so many reunions were left unwritten between Thalia and the friends she left behind. It’s the depth of the missing content that really feels like they forgot to print a chapter in either book, particularly when she’s so important to the story.

Percy references quite a few times how good friends he and Thalia have become. Fantastic, on what page might I read that development, when the author spent quite a bit of time building up the presumption that you two would hate each other?

The other timeskip is the complete opposite. Last Olympian to Lost Hero is, I believe, only a month. Once again, we have a presumed happy ending and ultimate sacrifice completely torched for the sake of More Story. The original five-book saga culminates with the tragic death of a villain we’d watched for five whole books. His argument was the thesis of the first series.

The problem: As with Star Wars, everything that character died for is rendered mostly moot. There is evidence that his death meant something, in the positive changes seen in the lives of those that survived him, but he died preventing armageddon… and a month later Bigger Badder armageddon is on the rise.

I almost wish the timeskip here had been longer. A couple years, at the expense of aging up the heroes to their twenties. His legacy on the story is virtually nonexistent. When you look back at the horrible tragedy that was this kid’s life, all it amounted to, everything he fought for, everything he believed in and died for and lost friends for… bought only a month of peace.

The Last Airbender and The Legend of Korra

Obviously, the timeskip in question is between these two series, about, what, sixty years? Last Airbender ends with, once again, the world at peace, ish, with lots of cleaning up to do, reparations to make, and governments to reshape. In the gap between series, almost everyone we knew has passed away, or aged out of being useful to the plot. Aang, of course, had to die so Korra could be born.

In the first season, because I’m reasonably confident all they planned was one season, the 60 year interim sees a lot of radical changes. Fan favorites die, the old ways are lost, the status quo is nothing like it used to be. So how do they get away with it?

Firstly, the show doesn’t begin with the main villains having already conquered Republic City and trashing everything the heroes fought for. The entire season is a crawl, then a plunge, toward disaster. They let you enjoy the fruits of the old characters’ labor, see the world that they built, before the new threat attempts to burn it down.

Secondly, because almost the entire original cast is dead or absent, there are no relationships sorely missing context, and there’s no *subversive* twists to what the audience could extrapolate from the ending of the old show.

LoK did make some radical changes to the world, but, crucially, it didn’t change the surviving core characters — we still have a known point of reference through which to view all the other changes. Katara is still Katara, she’s just older. Zuko is still Zuko, he’s just older. Katara didn’t become a persnickety, bitter bat and Zuko didn’t launch the Fire Nation Invasion II and return to his angsty ponytail-era.

It also helps that Korra is, like us, an outsider to this strange new world, a perfect vector through which the audience can ask questions and get answers on how, why, and when everything changed. LoK, unlike Star Wars, cared and thought about the *how* and the *why*.

If you’re going to write a story about the next generation without compromising the legacy of the old guard, Legend of Korra is a solid example of how to do it convincingly, respectfully, and entertainingly, even if it did drop the ball on some characters *cough*Sokka and Suki*cough*

How to Train your Dragon

But an even better example? How to Train Your Dragon to How to Train your Dragon 2. It’s been five years, a massive risk for your children’s animated fantasy series, but it’s also been almost five years of real-world time. Those who were Hiccup’s age when the first movie premiered are still Hiccup’s age when they head back to theaters. Not to mention the optional Netflix shows to help fill in the gaps.

Once again, there’s no *subversive* choices made with the relationships. Hiccup is still with Astrid and they’ve grown out of their awkward teenage phase. Their personalities haven’t radically changed either, only matured, the main group of heroes have had time to foster deeper bonds.

There’s no surprise children, no important characters who got killed off screen, and the changes to their homeland seem reasonable and logical given the time frame. A place that once feared dragons is now dedicated entirely to their preservation and conservation.

This is a timeskip that took advantage of every benefit of skipping time. The audience can very easily fill in the missing years with their imagination, because the jump from A to B makes perfect sense.

Frozen and Frozen II relied on the same mechanic of the audience growing with the characters with that one musical number. I’m not a fan of the execution of either of these movies, see this post about Frozen’s convolutions, but the execution of the skip itself is well done. All that’s happened in the interim is Elsa getting a little more comfortable being a person, and time has passed.

The Little Mermaid

The gap between Little Mermaid and Little Mermaid 2: Return to the Sea double-skips. First, it skips ahead to Ariel and Eric having an infant Melody, then about twelve years later to Melody being a tween and the new protagonist of the story.

Why it works: Melody is remarkably like her mother and rides the line between endearing and annoying very well and the plot depends on the skip happening at all – twelve years removed from the ocean and Melody has no idea her mother was a mermaid. Ariel and Eric (and Flounder) have grown to become wizened and worrisome parents and absolutely nothing remarkable happened unseen between the credits of the first movie and the second skip in the second movie. They get twelve years of peace, respecting the first movie’s legacy, and it’s through the actions of characters we see on screen that start jeopardizing everything.

—

Another feature I didn’t touch on earlier is that, by virtue of being a musical, the opening song to the Little Mermaid sequel efficiently catches audiences up on all the necessary exposition, all the old familiar faces, and where everyone is now in about 4 minutes. Frozen II does the same.

The Percy Jackson books also give a “previously on Percy Jackson” exposition speedrun at the start of books 2-5 and notes any important details that occurred in the missing months (save the glaring omissions detailed above).

If your time skip is just a plot device to get from A to Y, a well-handled exposition speedrun to catch everyone up won’t offend anyone, so long as you do it tastefully. If your skip is the centerpiece of the plot and the “how did we get here” is the big mystery, jarring your audience with the unexpected future on the opening pages is the point.

Do your best to avoid awkwardly having your characters state “X years have passed,” in dialogue because it’s always obvious and you can do better. Have somebody reference their upcoming birthday so audiences can do the math, or an anniversary. “X years have passed” cracks the immersion, as your characters don’t know or care that a time skip has occurred.

Or, if you’ve written a narrating style that talks directly to the audience, the narrator can just say “X months ago we did Y in the last book, reader, you remember how fun that was?” 

—

TL;DR, terrible timeskips happen, in my opinion, when the writers are disinterested with the interim and want to get to the good stuff without providing a logical jump to get there. Or, they happen when the time the story skips to jeopardizes where it came from without explanation. Whether that’s undermining the legacy of the original hero, ruining relationships and killing fan favorites for *subversion points* and *drama*, or creating a world so far removed from what audiences expected that they’re left confused watching their heroes make baffling decisions based on development they’re promised did happen, but is never shown. It’s one thing if you take your wide-eyed hero and toss him into a bleak future where everyone’s shocked by his pessimistic outlook, it’s completely different tossing your hero into a bleak future and none of his friends seem to care.

[immajustvibehere]

Anger

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

oneshot: fluff, pining, anger, angst but happy end ;)

warnings: y/n doesnt like being yelled at (I'm projecting yes), probably not a very healthy interaction lol

summary: Arthur has a rough week. Nothing works out the way he would like and the realization that his feelings for you become stronger overwhelms him. When he takes his anger out on you, you stay and decide to treat him kindly, despite him hurting you.

2700 words, 15 minutes reading time

Arthur was pissed. Over the last couple of days, a lot of things had accumulated that at last lead him to going crazy. The week started normally, even good. He got up after a decent night's sleep and saw you by the fire, already pouring a cup of coffee. Maybe it was the dream that still lingered on his mind, but the sight of you was unusually welcoming. He couldn't remember details, but the fuzzy outline of what had happened was still hot on his mind. He had dreamt about you and remembered enough things to make his tired face blush slightly. It embarrassed him to slowly realize what sort of a dream it had been but…it was a damn nice one though. Those were rare for Arthur, maybe that's why it didn't fade as quickly as the rest of them.

As he got up to wish you a good morning and claim his share of the coffee, some memories of the dream came back vividly. It was sweet at first but turned bitter real soon, when the coffee fought off his sleepiness and reality settled in.

Here you were in front of him. Drowsily wishing Arthur a good morning and asking him after his plans for today, all the while his thoughts were somewhere else. As if he had forgotten until now, the coldness of the morning creeped under his skin. Also, he soon was reminded that the two of you weren't alone, but in fact in a camp full of people. Especially Reverend, who had risen and joined you around fire, uncontrollably babbling about something neither of you understood. Nothing of the cabin, the intimate togetherness that had never really existed between the two of you but had felt so very real in his dream.

Arthur had to chew on this dream for a while. Though it faded over the course of the next few days, a new feeling popped up whenever he saw you. Arthur hadn't been completely oblivious to the fact that you meant a lot to him. But this...was different. Slightly more intense than he was used to. It confused him. He thought he might be falling in love with you, and nothing could have upset and irritated him more.

You noticed Arthur being somewhat quieter around you and caught him staring from time to time but thought nothing of it.

Then there was Dutch who talked about a job that could turn out to be great. Sean had found a lead, had told Dutch about it and he had been all for it. Arthur, John and Bill had been brought in on the idea. There were many discussions. Dutch, Sean and Bill were all in. Arthur argued it was nonsense, high risk and not a good idea at all. Arthur could count on Hosea's back-up, but John remained impartial. In a way, this angered Arthur even more. Save to say, the job turned out to be a catastrophe.  

The loot had been lost and an intense hide and seek as well as shootout with the law had put Arthur in a bad mood. After splitting up so to not draw attention to the group that now had a decent bounty on their head, Arthur walked into a saloon. He knew he had to cool down before he returned to camp. He wasn't a complete fool about his emotions, so he wanted a couple of drinks and return with a more composed mind. Two drinks in he had calmed down. Four drinks in he had to think of you again and the life he would never have with you. After the fifth drink he was throwing punches with some stupid boaster. The fight was broken up after a while, but it wasn't necessarily because Arthur was winning it. Quite the contrary. Not even a good old fist fight would go smoothly.

Never mind the cooling down. Arthur was fuming when he mounted his horse to ride back to camp. His boots pinched. He had ripped a hole into his pants. A button of his shirt had gone loose and the taste of blood in his mouth annoyed him. He spit it out every minute or so, but his lip wouldn't stop bleeding and it made him even angrier. He was completely exhausted. It was already dark and drizzling, an upcoming storm brewing in the distance, when he returned to camp. He was somewhat ready to just...end this day, fall into bed and worry about nothing until tomorrow. But when you approached him as he hitched his horse, a little hope flickered up. Just the sight of you made him softer and forget about his bruises and aches.

"Finally, you're back!", you exclaimed. You had been worried sick. The accounts of John had been anything but calming and you had waited for Arthur to return like your life depended on it. That...however, is not how it sounded to Arthur. Still somewhat intoxicated, the words were twisted in his mind. Suddenly it sounded like he had taken a leisure time, he should have returned sooner - oh, maybe he should hurry up a bit so he could go on another stupid mission for Dutch!

Arthur's face darkened. "Apparently so", he briefly answered. His voice was so low, it screamed danger. It made you freeze and frown. The bitter man looked at you, searching your face for anything else that criticised him, and when he found nothing, he just walked on towards his tent. It took you a moment, but you followed.

"Are you okay, Arthur?"

"Sure. 'm always okay."

"Well, you don't look-"

"How do I look then!?", he yelled.

Your mouth was agape. Hearing Arthur yell was rare, especially in camp…Never before had he yelled at you. The situation was somewhat overwhelming.

"Tha's what I thought...", Arthur mumbled spitefully and continued to his tent, "Woulda shot the whole saloon if that god damn pointless job didn't waste all my bullets."

You couldn't let it go. You hated being yelled at. And you really hated being yelled at by Arthur, you had just realized. The whole week he had ignored you or given you the cold shoulder. Rudely staring, never explaining when you asked...and now he had the audacity to yell at you? His expression was scary, his voice even scarier. It brought tears to your eyes when you confronted him again.

"Look at me!", you demanded. You had intended it to sound more powerful, but it came out rather feeble and small, like a bid you knew you had no claim on.

Arthur turned his face slowly towards you. A deep frown in his bloody face. His eye was swelling, the blood from his lip had painted his whole chin red. He looked fucking frightening.

"Please stop treating me like that", you breathed. You had to fight to bring those words out. You would have preferred to accuse him of your ill-treatment, but you figured provocation wasn't the right way to appeal to him. You damn well knew that he could knock you out if he pleased.  

"Treatin' you like what exactly, woman?", Arthur growled, "Gimme a break."

"Let me treat your wounds. Please, Arthur". you swallowed a sob that had worked its way up from your throat.

"Go annoy someone else, I'm sick of it."

A slap so loud resonated through the camp that you were afraid it would wake people up (if they hadn't been disturbed by the shouts yet). It was your flat hand that had landed on Arthur's bruised cheek. After a moment of surprise, Arthur looked at you with this disappointed and disgusted face that made you shrivel and your tears flow. A second later it completely disappeared when he - maybe for the first time since he had returned - really looked at you. Tears streaming down your cheeks; you held your hand that burned from delivering the slap. Arthur watched attentively as you gulped down another sob, wiping across your face with your sleeve. He realised that you were frightened and hurt. Because of him.

"'m sorry", Arthur mumbled. Everything started to sink in.

"Y/n I'm sorry", he repeated. Arthur was in disbelief of the scene that had just played out in front of him. He expected you to run away. God, he was disgusted in himself. But you held eye contact. Tears blurred your vision and you felt sick, but you stayed. For a while you just looked at each other. You desperately tried to get your lip to stop quivering, but it didn’t really work. Why were you even crying? You knew Arthur wasn’t specifically mad at you – you had done nothing wrong. His shouts had been directed at you though, and it had triggered something you didn’t have control over. Maybe it could best be described with feeling disrespected and confronted with a weakness you hadn’t even been aware you had. You crumbled, completely at mercy for this man’s emotions.

"Can I-", a sob interrupted your question, but you simply pointed at Arthur's face. He was dumbfounded, no word would get out of his mouth. He nodded and sat down on his cot. With sad eyes he watched you bringing a chair, watched how you filled in a bowl with fresh water and arranged your first-aid kit, before you took a seat in front of him and started disinfecting his wounds.

Arthur looked down to the ground. You recovered with every second that passed in silence. The way Arthur slouched his shoulders, how he avoided to look at you; you could tell he was sorry.

"Why'd you do that for me?", Arthur sighed.

"You need it."

"But I damn well don't deserve it", Arthur chuckled. It was far from genuine laughter, he tried to cover up how awkward and undeserving he felt.

"Maybe....dunno." Concentrated you cleaned Arthur's lip, knowing it must hurt tremendously. You also did him the favour of wiping the blood off his chin, watching in satisfaction how his beard turned from red to the brown-golden stubble you loved so much. Arthur looked to the side, or anywhere where your eyes couldn't catch his. He could tell you were being extra careful, and it shattered him even more. His hands wrung one another, the bloody and bruised knuckles tingling.

"So...job was a mare's nest. You decided to have a couple of drinks and then beat up half the saloon?", you asked, slowly piecing together the happenings of today. You wiped a warm and wet cloth across Arthur's cheek in an attempt to see if there was a serious wound under all the blood.

"Sounds about right...", he mumbled defeatedly.

"But there's something else, isn't there?", you asked, briefly stopping your actions to look at Arthur, who directed his gaze to his hands, "You've been acting weird all week." As the man in front of you didn't answer, you resumed your work on his other cheek. You carefully turned Arthur's head with two fingers, positioning him perfectly to make it easier to treat him.

"How can I make this up to you?", he asked. Changing the topic before he had to answer your question, hoping you'd forget you had even asked.

"You don't have to make it up to me. Just...don't yell at me again", you said and sniffled. It pierced right through Arthur's heart.

"'Course...nuthin' of it was yer fault to begin with", Arthur sighed quietly. "I'm real sorry, y/n."

"I know", you said, finishing off his second cheek before you leant back to look at him. This time, his eyes met yours again. He was almost looking up to you, you wondered how that's possible for a man a head taller than you. You weren't crying anymore, though your cheeks were still flushed and your eyes glazy. But you smiled. A bit weary and sad, but also relieved. There was a cut above Arthur's eyebrow, and you thought you spotted some dried blood in Arthur's hair under his hat. It made you wonder if he was seriously wounded somewhere else, but before you continued, you wanted to try again.

"If there IS something else. You know that I would...really like to hear it. Maybe I can help?", you said. But you had already accepted that Arthur wouldn't tell you, so you started to stand up to reach Arthur's head. Seeing how he already reached for his hat made you suspect the worst; ‘he certainly is hurt under there if he takes his hat off to show me’. Instead, before you had fully stood up, Arthur had taken off his hat and put it on your head. You sat down again. It was too big, dangling somewhat loosely on your head. When Arthur hit the brim with his flat hand, it obscured your vision even more. It gave Arthur some precious moments to blush at the sight of you with his hat on.

With delight Arthur saw the big smile forming on your face.

Two weeks ago, there had been an evening where everyone was at least tipsy. Conversation was either obscene or completely random and some of the girls, you included, had made a game of ranking the boy's hats. The details were fuzzy, but you tried to steal Arthur's hat a couple of times. At one point, he ran from you, crying: "NO! I gotta marry ya if ya do!" And you thought it was some stupid joke he had come up with, only after the girls filled you in that a man's hat is something personal indeed. You still wanted to wear his hat. Even more, to be honest; but for the sake of it you let it drop, less you would embarrass Arthur or be in everyone's mouth for it.

You corrected the way his hat sat on your head. It was still too big and wobbled around when you stood up to look at Arthur's scalp, but you were overjoyed. His head wasn't seriously hurt, you were happy to see. Only some bumps that must hurt horribly and dried blood of unknown origin.

"You're good to go. Think I got all of them scratches", you smiled, sitting down on the chair again.

"Going where, girl? Yer in my tent", Arthur said.

"Oh. Right", you felt stupid and a sheepish grin spanned across your face. Slowly you took of Arthur's hat and looked at it before you placed it on the table. Maybe you should stop sending mixed signals, because you were a bit confused as to what exactly it meant that he had put his hat on you. "So...Arthur...what...", you traced the brim of the hat with you finger, now it was you who was finding it difficult to look at him.

"Ya mean a lot to me, y/n."

You smiled shyly, watching Arthur in the corner of your eye, shuffling around on the cot.

"You mean a lot to me too", you said, yet again coming a bit closer. It was too difficult to rephrase his words. Too tough to simply tell him 'I like you'.

"Clearly. Anyone else would've ran off the second I got angry and not stayed and played doctor", Arthur chuckled. He knew it wasn't self-evident that you had stayed. Nor the way how gently you treated him afterwards, though he had to admit (just to himself) that he had needed it.

"And I'm a fool for that", you smiled.

Arthur looked at you. His eyes as blue as they ever were, you could get lost in them. Finally, he cleared his throat, stuttering an offering: "Maybe...if yer okay with that...would'ya ride out with me? Sometime soon? Tomorrow...if ya like." Arthur sat on his cot in front of you, feeling foolish. It hadn't been so difficult to ask someone out when he was a pubescent boy but somehow, he just felt exactly like one. His heart was racing. He knew why he didn't want to tell you about the dream he had had any time soon, because telling you meant facing reality and rejection. He wasn't sure if he could do that, with all of his past failings so present on his mind.

"I'd really love to." But this rejection never came and never would come. And when Arthur followed you with his eyes, how you disappeared in the dim darkness of camp at night, waddling off to your bedroll, he felt that he was one step closer to make his dream a reality.

[yellow-faerie]

Could you talk about one of those Doctor Who aus?

Hello! Thank you anon for the ask :) I have a few AUs that I'm currently rotating in my head but my favourite at the moment is the one I just call The Modern AU - it's official name is The Doctor Project but that's not what I call it. This took me a hot minute to write up because it is a lot.

(Also if you wanted to hear about any of my other AUs, I put some brief descriptions in the tags :D)

The basic premise is that the Doctors are all human and a team that worked together for their variety of expertise during the early 2000s to repel an alien invasion and the effect it has on each of them and their general lives. Also the Tardis is there as the only sensible one of the lot.

Some doctors do have more story fleshed out than others, mostly due to the fact that I'm still quite new to a lot of the eu stuff like Big Finish and the books and certain Doctors I would feel better about having engaged with some more of it before getting some proper stories fledged out (mostly because I hope it will give me some more inspiration lol)

I'll put some more general outline below the cut for anyone interested :)

[Warnings: mentions of abuse, discussions of war and the aftermath, complicated relationships to disability, implied torture ]

First Doctor

So the First Doctor is the oldest of the bunch, a retired surgeon and medical doctor (he used to work at Royal Hope Hospital) who was brought into the Doctor project for his research into medicine.

He spent most of the War in London due to his old age making it difficult to run around cities infested with alien invaders but he does get sent out periodically (mostly when one of the others gets too injured to be moved from their current location which happens a few times).

He had a daughter, Gillian, when he was quite young but he and his wife split up, and his daughter spent most of her time with her mother instead. However, he was the one to gain custody of his daughter's daughter (Susan) when Gillian died as his ex-wife had also died.

When the Doctor was conscripted, Susan was about 15 and stayed with their neighbour Steven over the course of the war, and Vicki and Dodo, two girls he fostered as well while their parents were off fighting.

Due to the secure nature of the work that the Doctor Project was doing, she and her grandfather only exchanged a few letters over the course of each year, and they were always heavily edited, and she found herself finding a lot of the emotional support she was lacking from her two teachers at Cole Hill, Barbara and Ian.

When she left Cole Hill Sixth Form, a year before the war ended, she moved back into her grandfather's house but kept in contact with Barbara and Ian who helped her with finding a job and advice on living alone, etc. This would break GDPR and a host of other protection laws these days but it's the middle of an alien invasion, let's pretend that doesn't exist. They didn't know the Doctor at all until after the war when he returns and it's a bit weird for everyone.

Especially since Ian is completely furious at him for leaving his granddaughter alone, mostly because people meet Susan and get the immediate urge to protect her; they do mostly get over that particular hurdle though as more comes out about how the war ended, although the Doctor doesn't help matters much by being his usual grouchy self.

His usual grouchy self made worse by the fact that everything has changed a lot since he had left home. Susan is in training to be a nurse and has these faux-parental figures she trusts so implicitly, and is decidedly more wary around him; he has also been fundamentally changed by living four years in various bunkers while working against an invisible clock to defeat a foe more technologically advanced that they are.

Eventually things do settle down: Ian and the Doctor apologise to each other, Susan and the Doctor have enough heart-to-hearts that it clears the air between them, that sort of thing.

There's not a whole lot of plot to any of the First Doctor's stuff but the vibes and the setting are pretty much in place.

Second Doctor

The second doctor is probably about forty when he's conscripted and he was a physics lecturer at St. Andrews university, specialising in sound and acoustics and waves, that sort of thing. He invented several new versions of sound systems which is what got him noticed for the Project.

St. Andrews is where he meets Jamie, actually, who was working as a guard; they bonded over a mutual love of music, Jamie in particular on the bagpipes, and then over other mutual interests.

I'm imagining they got married before the war (as this is an alternate history anyway, I'm making gay marriage legal earlier because no-one can stop me) when Jamie went on to fight in the army and the Doctor got conscripted into the project. Both of them being in different deployments so regularly meant letter writing was even more difficult.

After the war, the Doctor gives up the whole lecturing thing, as the project had left him with a bad taste in his mouth over the work he had been doing. Instead, he takes his knowledge of music and goes into conducting an orchestra, as well as giving music lessons on the side.

In like...any instrument; he's not even very good at playing a lot of them but he has the technical know-how to make someone else very good at playing them, if they can get past his eccentricities.

Zoe is the first violin in the orchestra who he gives personal tutoring too in a vague attempt to get her to put some feeling into her music. She's technically very brilliant and knows her way around most string instruments with almost military precision, but she was taught in a very wooden way and the Doctor is attempting to bring that out of her.

Victoria, on the other hand, takes piano lessons from him except she's around like four times a week and barely ever actually plays the piano and they always give her supper because her home life is...not the greatest. Her father's very absent and her mother's dead. It's all a bit iffy.

Eventually, Jamie probably calls Social Services who are overstretched in the aftermath of the war as it is, but she manages to find herself to a very nice foster family (the Harris') who make sure she keeps having her piano lessons. Although they continue not to really be piano lessons.

[I feel that I should put a note on Ben and Polly here; they are sort of known to both One and Two as Polly is Barbara's niece (and quite close to her aunt) and Ben is Two's half brother (but not that close all things considered) - they are the sort of people who come around for birthdays and Christmas and the one off weekend, and give you very thoughtful advice and presents, but that's sort of the limit of your relationship with them.]

Third Doctor

The Third Doctor studied chemistry at university, trying out multiple different branches, and had managed to get noticed for a variety of things such as creating a few new medications, discovering the compounds of some rarer chemicals, that sort of thing (I will admit, I don't know what makes a chemist famous).

Sarah Jane is his younger sister by about twenty years: when she was younger, she had a bit of a hero worship of him going on but nowadays she's much more sensible.

He worked at Cambridge with Liz before the war, and a lot of the breakthroughs they made together; they (and by they I mean the Doctor has while Liz is facepalming in the background) have a bitter rivalry with the Oxford researcher Emil Masters (the Delgado Master).

They are married but they keep that out of their professional rivalries.

After the war, however, the Doctor stays with UNIT. He's the only one of the doctors to do this and it's mostly because he doesn't trust that unit won't make terrible decisions with the research the Doctor Project produced, so he stays as a Scientific Advisor and pokes his nose into everyone's business to keep his conscience clean.

Jo is his assistant as per canon, only now she is being invited around for supper four times a week at his house and is probably inheriting everything that both the Master and the Doctor own when they eventually die.

They turn up to her wedding to Cliff when her parents don't.

Once again, this is incredibly vibes based rather than very much plot; there's probably going to be something to do with Jo falling out with her family, but that's about as far as I got with it. It's mostly fluff at this point lol.

[Also a note about the incarnations of the Master: while the doctors aren't actually related, the incarnations of the Master are because I find that entertaining, and also there are less of them]

Fourth Doctor

The Fourth Doctor is an environmental activist before the war! He got a PhD in ecology and then proceeded to throw away a promising career in academia (his parents' words) to gallivant around the planet doomsday prophesying.

What he's actually doing is blackmailing people into implementing climate saving machines, etc. so that he isn't Doomsday prophesying; he actually meets Sarah doing this because they both get thrown in prison for getting nosy around a nuclear power plant and thus is the start of a beautiful friendship/relationship, it's really unclear to everyone else.

He has two sisters; Winifred (although everyone calls her Fred) who is Romana I, and Romana who is Romana II. Romana turns 18 just before the war and Fred turns 25 around the same time, while the Doctor is 30ish.

Romana immediately joins MI6 (she had always wanted to be in the secret service) and the Doctor gets roped into the Doctor project, which means that when Fred dies during the war, neither of them get informed for months due to the lack of proper communication channels.

This is something they both feel very guilty about, especially considering the fact that they have two nephews who got immediately lost in the overworked system without any other relative around who could look after them.

Anyway, also during the war, the Doctor gets captured by the aliens, and held for a good few months; he barely ever acknowledges that this ever happened to anyone, even when he is literally hospitalised after rescue. He just...pretends that everything is fine and dandy actually.

His doctor is actually Harry who then gets roped into the whole Very Secret Doctor Project thing for like a month until the Doctor was determined to no longer need constant observation etc and then he's just sent back to his ship.

However, Harry has better communication with home than the Doctor, and also shore leave, so he's sent to basically tell Sarah Jane that the Doctor is alive and alright - they immediately hit it off and so after the war, Harry and she hang out a lot until he's also living in the house with her, the Doctor and their gaggle of foster children (their are a lot of orphans after the war and so the three of them foster).

The actual content of their relationship is debateable - they could be a throuple, it could be that two of them are a couple and the other is third wheeling like a boss, it could be that none of them are romantically involved at all - but they do care for each other a lot.

Also the children are Luke and Sky from SJA and Leela, who's probably about 16. They have a dog, too, called K9 because the Doctor has called every dog he has ever owned since he wasa child K9, and just added a MK on the end; currently they're on Mk IV.

After the war, they just sort of settle back into what they were doing before; Sarah Jane writes for her newspapers and magazines, Harry takes up a civilian doctor's position again at New Hope and the Doctor returns to blackmailing people into Doing Better, only none of them are all that alright after the war and hiding it affects how well they are with other people.

There are some arguments had, mostly with the Doctor and Sarah Jane as Harry is much more mild mannered - with each other, with various siblings, with annoying work colleagues - until they at least admit that something is wrong, and then they go from there.

Fifth Doctor

The Fifth Doctor is the computer guy. He studied computer science at university and as well as developing quite a lot of high level software, he also developed cheaper hardware storage stuff.

With a lack of people I wanted to make him related to, I made him a Cranleigh - I think this was so he could go to boarding school and hate literally everything about it apart from cricket. His notes say that he cuts most communication with his family after going to university so they're not that important to the story.

During the war, he gets caught under a collapsing building at one point which causes nerve damage to his spine which affects the communication between his legs and his brain, periodically causing the connection to short out and his legs to collapse; the collapsed building also means that he can get quite a lot of pain in his legs, and should really be using crutches (only he forgets to bring them with him a lot).

Before the war, he works for some sort of big tech company who fund a lot of his research but after the war he doesn't particularly want to do research any more - nor work for a big tech company - and goes on to lead the IT department at Royal Hope. Which consists of Turlough (who is there because he needs a job after school and he heard that IT jobs were really easy actually) and possibly a few other characters (I've heard of some that exist in audio format, so when I get there, I may edit this).

He also fosters two kids in the aftermath of the war: Adric, who's mother was Fred and who's older brother died in the time that they were lost in the foster system, and Nyssa, who's father Tremas Masters (the Ainley Master) got imprisoned for murdering both of his wives and very sweetly asked his old university roommate if he might very kindly look after her for him.

Tegan is Nyssa's girlfriend and is subsequently always around at their house, to the point that the Doctor just gave her a key and makes supper expecting that she'll be there.

As for Peri, she and the Doctor meet at the local garden centre, and now she comes around to help look after his garden because her apartment is too small for a proper one (she and Six keep saying that they're saving up for an actual house but that might be a commitment too far).

There are the inklings of an actual plot idea I had here? In my head, somehow the Master escapes prison and intends on escaping the country with his daughter, only the Doctor is like no??? You can't do that to Nyssa??? And someone gets hospitalised.

[A note about Royal Hope, and also Cole Hill, and other reoccurring places: occasionally, the characters coincidentally working at these places is an actual coincidence, but the rest of the time it's because the Tardis has a lot of sway with people and she is always pushing the doctors and their friends to work in similar places so that they actually talk to each other again.

Or something like that. Honestly it's just plot contrivance because I like putting them in the same working environment, it makes it easier for me]

Sixth Doctor

The Sixth Doctor studies law and philosophy, being a lawyer both before and after the war. He's a really good one too, just really obnoxious.

I don't have a lot for the Sixth Doctor yet because I know he has a few audios that I want to listen to for some ideas, but I am very fond of the two seasons we got of him so here's what I have:

Peri meets the Doctor because he represents her in court when she's fighting her stepfather over something; after the court case (which they win) they go out for a few dates, and even though he's obnoxious and incredibly big-headed, he's also weirdly sweet and gentlemanly and so they get together officially.

Then the war starts and the idle talk they had of getting married/getting a house gets pushed aside while the Doctor joins the project and Peri helps with farm work by using her botany to develop crop something or other.

The war really did affect the Doctor. When he was younger, he suffered from Bipolar Depression but got it under control with medication and therapy, but the war and it's aftermath dragged that out of the depths which definitely put an extra strain on his and Peri's relationship.

When it's really bad, he did try to strangle her (like in the show) which did cause her to leave; but she does come back eventually, after the Doctor calls to apologise, and he does get it back under control.

At some points, it's really not the healthiest relationship, but it doesn't stay like that forever; it's something I really want to get into with my writing and I have the outlines of a fic over the period that he and Peri spend sort of separated.

On a lighter note, some of the other characters of the era! The Master keeps appearing on his doorstep after escaping prison looking for help and the Doctor keeps refusing to give it because he did try to kill Five; he once is a prosecutor against the Rani for unethical experimentation and she straight up sends a hit out against him; the Valeyard is his coworker who hates the Doctor a lot more than the Doctor hates him; and Mel is straight up just his personal trainer at the gym who got WAY too invested in his life.

Seventh Doctor

The seventh doctor is a high level tactician for the MOD before the war, and is actually one of the ones to help collect the other doctors together. He actually continues to do his MOD job while doing the Doctor Project which means he's the only doctor to really have a good understanding of what's happening around the world in real time.

However, he doesn't really have anyone to write home about. He grew up in foster care and it took a lot of effort to get to where he was at the outbreak of war, and so he didn't exactly have that many friends about.

The exception to that is Mel who he grew up with in part and so he does send her the odd letter.

After the war, he gets made redundant by the MOD and goes on to become a PE teacher at Cole Hill; he always dresses like he might be lecturing on politics or history, and stands on the sidelines while watching the students. Or he actually lectures on history or politics; honestly the amount of PE that's done is reliant on the mood.

He also ends up living with Ace; officially, she's his foster daughter, but she's so fiercely independent that she insists that they're roommates and he was willing to accept that.

I wish I did have more for him but I'm hoping that as I get through the Audios and books and such like, I'll get a better understanding of his era and the characters around it to make something a bit more developed.

Eighth Doctor

I'm only eight or so audios into this doctor's travels with Charley, and I have yet to read the Eighth Doctor Adventures (although I am looking to) so this isn't at all a complete section.

The Doctor is an expert in psychiatry and neuroscience, specifically in memory, mostly due to his own issues with memory throughout his childhood.

I'm still debating what the actual cause of the memory issues are, but I'm thinking that it might be because he had epilepsy as a child that was believed to have gone as he grew into adolescence but returned due to one (or multiple) head injuries during the war. I know there are certain types of epilepsy that can really affect the memory.

Either way, the Doctor also seems to be a bit of a romantic and very easily swept up in someone else's life; I see him, before the war, having a disastrous marriage to Grace Holloway which breaks down over four years of not seeing each other and ends in divorce as Grace returns to the states.

After the war, I think that he rents out the rooms in his house which is how he meets Charley, but that's about as far as I can really go with other relationships in his life because I haven't seen anything else of his stuff.

Ninth Doctor

The Ninth Doctor is an expert in mechanical engineering and is the one who does the main body of creating the Moment (the thing that takes out the alien invader's mothership).

He is the son of the War Doctor who's the General who Seven went to with his idea of creating a project to end the war, and the one who officially leads them. He mostly raised the Doctor single-handedly but was not exactly the most caring man in the universe.

The Doctor has a lot of very complicated feelings about his father which don't really get resolved because he (the War Doctor) sacrifices himself to set off the Moment.

Anyway, the Doctor never really wanted to get into Academics and become some sort of fantastic mechanical engineer but his father really pushed it (especially when it became clear the Doctor would never join the army); so after the war, he becomes a sort of freelance mechanic and works with Mickey.

Which is where he meets Rose. Rose often comes to visit Mickey at the end of his shifts because they're friends and live close together, and so she and the Doctor meet regularly there until they are both like...want to go travelling?

Rose was 19 when the war started, and runs the Bad Wolf magazine which she basically created at the beginning as a sort fo morale booster and also because she didn't like how the newspapers were reporting and wanted to make something that wasn't filtered through a hundred government filters; Sarah Jane actually writes for it during the war and on occasion afterwards, and is quite a good friend of Rose's for all that they don't see each other face-to-face all that often.

Still, after the war, sales of Bad Wolf kinda drops off a bit but Rose really loves the magazine and so wants to try something different: she wants to travel so she can see the world, and show people how people are rebuilding and getting their lives back in the aftermath (and help out where she can). She tells the Doctor this and then he offers her his van, and they start travelling together.

They live out the back of his van for years and they're quite happy to do it; they get married in Paris, periodically come back to visit Jackie (who is naturally rather displeased about this life choice they've made - although it's fine because they paid for her to come to Paris for the wedding), and just generally having a good time. They're like van lifers except not obnoxious about it, and when they eventually have Mia, they move back to the UK somewhat permanently (they still travel on holidays) so that she is living somewhere steady and permanent in her upbringing.

We also can't forget about Jack - he was a pilot during the war who also wrote for Bad Wolf, usually entertaining and slightly flirty pieces, and after the war, Rose and the Doctor invited him to travel with them after a few years. When they settle down in London, he moves to Cardiff for a bit on a 'journey of self discovery' where he meets the various Torchwood team (I have to admit I haven't got around to watching Torchwood yet).

He is Mia's godfather (so is Mickey, and Shareen is her godmother) and he dotes on her like no-one's business.

Tenth Doctor

The Tenth Doctor is an expert in anthropology and archaeology. He's Donna's little brother although there isn't much of an age difference between the two of them.

Of all the doctors, he's probably the one I've had the hardest time with.

I know he has a wife who died during the war (I'm thinking that this might be Astrid, for lack of someone better), and that Donna's boyfriend Lee died during the war as well - a lot of people did, during bombings and attacks and that sort of thing - and that with his wife he had a daughter (Jenny) (although I'm also playing around with the idea that he also had a younger daughter, that being Sally - as in Sally from Blink).

In the aftermath of the war, then, he and Donna move in together to help each other out, and eventually their mother and grandfather join them as old age arrives.

Donna meets Shawn in the aftermath and they get on well, and have a very healthy relationship and marriage. On the other hand, we have the Doctor who has the worst situationship ever with Martha.

In the aftermath of his wife's death, he meets Martha who got her medical licence during the war and has been working at Royal Hope since then, and I know that they probably hook up a few times in what is absolutely not recommended.

This is where I get a bit stuck on how things develop from here. I've been getting fonder and fonder of Tenmartha as I think on it more (although Martha does not deserve him) but I do quite like the idea of the two of them coming out of trying to force a relationship and being like...oh we're much better and healthier as friends.

Also, although that epilogue for them came out of nowhere, I do think that Mickey and Martha have a lot of potential as a couple.

There's a lot more I would like to develop here but I shall see what happens as I start writing some more of this.

Eleventh Doctor

The Eleventh Doctor was chosen for his mathematical skill. He's also the youngest of all of them, having just finished his PhD at age 20 as the war broke out.

He's the adopted son of Brian, so Rory's younger brother by a few years, and used to follow him and Amy around like a duckling that had imprinted on the closest moving thing. He did end up going to university quite young (honestly like most of the rest of the doctors) and it's there that he met Strax, Vastra and Jenny who took him under their wing as they were older students.

The war happens before he can really start a job and after the war, he struggles for a bit to find his place, but eventually ends up working with his old university friends in the Paternoster Detective Agency.

Amy and Rory get married after the war - Rory is a nurse at Royal Hope, which he was training for before the war, and Amy is a painter. She always intended on being a model or something like a fashion reporter, but during the war she found painting brought her (and others) the joy that could sometimes be very lacking in such a desperate time.

Her favourite artist is Vincent van Gogh.

They have Melody, although her birth is rife with complications, and so they decide to settle very happily with just the one daughter. She is doted on so completely by everyone, especially her uncle; there's a period when she's like four or five when she is convinced that the Doctor is a secret agent of some sort and gets really into all the spy sort of things.

She makes him play dress up with her and she calls herself River Song because it sounds cool and secret-agenty and the Doctor is her quirky sidekick.

[I debated with putting River Song in as a separate character but I wasn't quite sure what I would do with her? There's potential there for an AU of sorts where she is there, but I unfortunately never quite vibed fully enough with River for her to be a major player in the Main AU]

He lives with the Ponds for a bit after the war, and then moves in with Craig, but when Craig moves out with Sophie, he mopes about it and moves back in with the Ponds.

It's around this time that he meets Clara; she's an English teacher at Cole Hill and her mother went missing nearly five years ago. After trying to get the police to do anything at all, and then saving up the money, she hires the Paternoster gang to find out what happened.

What actually happened is still a bit of a mystery, but she definitely isn't still alive, which the Doctor is the one to tell her the news.

I don't think I'm going to do anything romantic with them but I do think they're quite cute together, so I might dabble. But also I quite like the Doctor being aro and I can see him just living with the Ponds and never leaving.

Twelfth Doctor

The Twelfth Doctor is an astrophysicist. He's spent a lot of his life developing telescopes and astral bodies, but after the war, he mostly just lectures. He's such a longstanding part of St Luke's university that they probably couldn't fire him for anything short of murder.

He's married to Missy quite young, actually, although they never had children; she has spent like half of their marriage in prison though, and now spends most of her time hanging around the Doctor's office being annoying to all his students.

During the war, he did get blinded. It's something he has a complicated relationship with, and does not like it when people mention it around him. He uses a cane when he moves around and wears sunglasses because it hides that his eyes aren't necessarily looking at the person he's talking to.

Again, he has a complicated relationship with it.

Nardole is his teaching assistant, only he's massively overbearing about every aspect of the Doctor's life (only he just manages to be endearing enough that the Doctor doesn't just fire him on the spot).

Bill is, like in canon, someone the Doctor tutors, only now instead of getting to see the galaxy, she has he, Missy and Nardole giving her wildly different yet equally terrible dating advice, which somehow works to get her with Heather.

As for Clara, I genuinely don't know what to do with her; she's such a big part of the Twelfth Doctor's story that I do really want to have her be an important character, but I don't know how. If anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them!

Thirteenth Doctor

The Thirteenth Doctor is an expert in microbiology. She's a government researcher into disease for the few years before the war, but after the war, she becomes an A&E nurse. She found that she preferred chaos and wanted something that was less science based but still within her interests.

She's fostered by Graham as a child, which is how she knows him, and subsequently how she comes to know Ryan and Grace, when Graham meets them. Her mother was Tecteun who she was taken away from when she was twelve due to the fact that Tecteun was a piece of shit (as in canon).

She wrote a lot to all of them during the war; out of all the Doctors, she probably spent the most writing letters (apart from maybe Six who wrote to Peri...so much, he spent so much time agonising over writing letters to her).

She knew Yaz from school and they both moved to London after the war - they met up again when they both returned from the war, and they decided that a change of scenery from the place they grew up might do them good.

London was one of the main targets during the war so there was a lot of practical work and training to do in both the police force and in nursing (which is what the Doctor wants to go into); they stay in shared accomodation and volunteer to help with the rebuilding effort in some of their free time.

When the rebuilding is mostly finished and everything has started to even out again, they stay in London; the Doctor has a job at Royal Hope and Yaz has found her footing in the local police force. They visit Sheffield a lot though, and invite Ryan to stay with them a lot, so he can get away from all the Old People.

Fourteenth Doctor

The Fourteenth Doctor technically doesn't exist. The Doylist reasoning for this is because there was far too little that separated the Fourteenth Doctor out to make him his own character in a modern AU; the Watsonian is because there was meant to be a Fourteenth member of the Doctor Project but he died in transit to the first meeting. Out of respect, the rest skip over the number that was meant to be his.

I've played around with the idea that the Fourteenth and the Tenth Doctor were siblings/related/possibly twins but I think this might be more of an AU sort of thing.

Fifteenth Doctor

Obviously we haven't had the Fifteenth Doctor's actual first season yet or much of anything for him (very excited for it though) so this is very much a work in progress - I'll make more decisions about his story after the season has come out and I've watched it; from vibes alone though, I think he'd be possibly an expert in sociology, and after the war he would own a club or something similar, where Ruby would get herself a job.

Notes and Stuff

Congratulations for getting this far lol! This AU is very precious to me and gets bigger every time I watch a new episode/listen to a new drama/rewatch/relisten/etc.

There are a few general things I'd probably note: all the Doctors have like...actual names (mostly John or a variation there of) but I refer to them all as the Doctor because that's what rolls off the tongue more easily.

Another thing is Idris/the Tardis - on one hand, the original idea was that she would die and her funeral would be the thing to get the Doctors back together so to say, but the more I think about it, the more I would like her to live.

I'm planning on writing some fic for this AU and posting it to AO3 - there's a Sixperi fic I really want to write, and I'm a sucker for some family fluff with various Doctors - and I might draw some stuff, so stick around if you're interested :)

I've only been really into Doctor who for four or five months, and with such an expansive EU (and frankly, such a lot of main content), there's a lot I don't know (although I very much intend to know it one day). If you got this far, I would honestly love to hear your general thoughts and ideas on the AU, a lot of the Eleventh Doctor stuff I worked out was developed from conversation I had with a friend!

Anyway, thank you for getting this far! And thank you for the ask to let me ramble, it took me a while to get all the rambling together but now I've finished, I'm really pleased I got here.

[figureofdismay]

fugue for three voices

Rated M for language and general Roman-ness

11.4K words

this is existing 3 chapters of the aging-out piano prodigy Roman/music coach Gerri fic, very extremely loosely inspired by the 80s Madam Suzatska movie with Shirley McClain that I somehow imprinted on as a tween-ager while watching it on cable and developing a teacher-crush

Chapter 1

The concert at Alice Tully Hall lasted on the whole 15 minutes, and that was counting the small eternity that he sat motionless and falling into a black, endless pit of blankness, while the orchestra petered away, paused, backed up, and tried again to lead him to his cue. It wasn’t a tough piece, not any harder anyway than the last ten times he’d played it on stage in farther flung venues than this. Maybe it was the fact that it was New York. Maybe it was something about the city air that scrubbed his brain clean of all notes. He knew it wasn’t because his father was in the audience, because he wasn’t. He wasn’t even in the country as far as he knew. Rehearsals had gone well. Roman had liked the sound of the hall, filling the empty vastness with the great ringing sound of the Steinway concert grand gleaming before him. He hadn’t even really needed his sheet music, the pieces were supremely familiar. He had joked casually with Pleager, the conductor, through the pre-show meeting and hadn’t even had a vague shiver of nerves the afternoon before the concert. His main concern was the heavy, leaden sky that promised early sleet or snow and might make for a sluggish trek back to the hotel after the after concert drinks. There was no sign of danger, but still, for no particular reason, Roman had been utterly unable to play.

There was no concert. Roman had sat through the conductor giving him two tries at the opening bars, and part way through the third try he’d stood on shaking legs and stumbled backstage. He’d gone for his coat in his greenroom, before Caroline could make her way to the back of the house from the prized mother of the prodigy box and demand to know what the fuck he was thinking, and hurried out of the stage door, and into the first cab he could catch on the street. He almost didn’t tell the driver to go back to the hotel, considering and discarding the idea of going for the airport, or trying for a new hotel or even the brownstone where he’d spent his first eleven years – not that he was sure that any of the Roys still even held that property. In the end, the fact that he didn’t have his wallet on him meant he had to go back to the suite where the fare would go on the tab. And where before long Caroline would swoop in and demand to know what had happened.

Roman didn’t really think she’d accept ‘fuck if i know’ as a answer but he didn’t have any other so that was going to be fun.

*

It wasn’t fun. Roman had taken a scalding hot shower when he got back to his room to try to shock his brain back into reality and had then sat in bed, in his pajamas, shivering with his wet hair in the anemically heated room, running his fingers through the piece he’d been completely unable to bring to mind 40 minutes earlier against the counterpane folded back across his lap. If it hadn’t been totally and completely too late to try again, Roman could probably pound it off in his sleep. This was how Caroline found him when she stormed into the suit.

She started with stiff, cold-voiced horror at the situation that was crashing onto them. “Do you even understand the humiliation you’ve brought down on our heads? You were contracted to play for the next two nights, are you going to put us through this all over again for the rest of the weekend? Do you know how many terribly important people who could affect our future asked me questions I couldn’t answer?”

“I’m not fucking going back to that hall,” Roman had insisted, which was the only thing he could articulate. He was still too much of a Roy to be able to feel humiliation, not the way Caroline felt it, loss of face somehow meaning as much to her as getting her way or not, he didn’t care that he looked a fool. Fine, Roman the fool, that was him. But the complete and utter blank had threatened to eat him whole and he didn’t know why it had happened but going back to the place where it had happened felt like running up to the edge of a cliff and hoping the momentum didn’t carry him over the edge. “Say I’m sick, say I broke something, say you had to have me locked up in the loony bin because uh, I suddenly, totally flipped and think I’m a canary or something, I don’t care.”

“Roman, be serious! You know your career is already in a precarious place.”

“Right. I’m ruining us by gaining my full adult height, such as it is, losing my baby face and fucking up your dreams of keeping me your shirley temple dearest forever. Sorry, but I couldn’t exactly do something about the passage of time.”

“Look, are you sick? Should I get a doctor?” Caroline had asked, ignoring his outburst. And then she had ignored his protestations while she rang up the concierge doctor and had Roman examined, pronounced mildly feverish, and tucked up in bed with non-prescription sleeping tablets that he grudgingly took. He was knocked out into a velvet dark where the confusion couldn’t find him while Caroline sat up in the sitting room and plotted what she was going to do with her suddenly failing prodigy.

**

Roman had been performing since he was 13, while Caroline all but claimed that he was 10 or under. She’d had him taking lessons since he was 6, first because 5 year old Shiv had refused the teacher Caroline had hired for her. Caroline’s ideas of what a daughter of the Collingwood estate should learn were somewhat Victorian, but not so much so that she couldn’t accept her winsome little son’s need to please and substitute him into all the lessons her furious tomboy daddy’s girl refused.

Roman wasn’t sure sometimes if it was a positive thing or not that he took to the music so well. It was good, though, basically. The notes knocked all the other chatter out of his head while he was at the keyboard. It was an excuse to avoid any suggestion that he should be out playing ball and running track and other other things healthy rich boys should be doing to prove they were healthy rich boys, the robustness Logan wanted to demand of his sons. It was reason for him to beg to go with Caroline when the great divorce finally came down, and he was looking at being trapped in New York under Logan’s thumb, under his disappointed sneer with Ken and Shiv and the suffocating corporate edifice that Logan wanted to feed him to, by way of a strong American education to ‘toughen him up.’ Between military school and Caroline’s ambitions to make a celebrated prodigy of him, Roman came down in the camp with fame and acclaim and without push ups and 6am roll call. 

Caroline and the lawyers had lobbied hard and won him, and carried him back to England when he was 12, and at the time Roman didn’t even mind how clear Caroline had made it just how much of Logan’s wealth she had had to give up to take away even the leftover Roy son. “But we’ll make it worth it, won’t we, RoRo,” she’d said, patting his shoulder with a long, cool hand as she’d settled him in place on their chartered flight – no more private jets of their own for Lady Collingwood and son, but they weren’t reduced entirely to commercial. 

And he had made it worth it for her. Little Roman had been in magazines and newspapers, he’d played in country halls and churches as a budding artistic curiosity before he’d caught on, and Carloline’s connections had started to bring him serious acclaim. That was around when the boys at school, where he was a day boy of moderate academic standing and middling popularity for a few idyllic years, had discovered his little musical career and had promptly made his life hell. He was 15 and Caroline was selling him as marginally twelve, and it had suited her to take him from school and start him with private tutors, old school ties cachet be damned, to further obscure his real age. It would be a shame, after all, if his graduation was announced when newsworthy, and rob them of the last few years of the blurry edge of his being a child genius before he had to stand on his own two feet as an adult talent.

Roman wasn’t altogether clear that he was going to be an adult talent. He had skill, he knew that. He’d worked at it hard enough, under Cawthorne, under Billings, under Olbermann, under his own boredom, solitary inclinations, and lack of ability to think up anything better or more satisfying to do with his time – beyond the usual intense fantasy life that plagued an isolated teenage boy who only vaguely dreamed of touching anything warmer than a set of ivory keys. But he could hear talent when it was played in front of him, he could hear it in the recordings he studied. Roman didn’t really think he could hear it when he played, no matter what his mother and the musical martinets she employed said about it. 

He spoke with his siblings, sometimes, on the phone, but they didn’t have much idea what to say to one another. Shiv made fun of him for starting to pick up an English accent, and afterwards he’d tried harder to cling to the flattened tones of upper crust new yorkers, the vestiges of his Americanness that made him feel the coolly observant outsider on the Collingwood estate. Kendall was even harder to talk to, his vacillations between painful earnestness and aggressive detachment. Roman knew that Logan had his claws into Ken deep as they would go and he shivered to realize it but there was nothing he could say to Kendall to warn him that he would hear. Nevertheless, Kendall was the one who had come to see him play the first big concert Roman had done when he was 16. Kendall was 18 then and free to arrange his own transatlantic flight. The two of them had had coffee at the hotel afterwards, like a couple of grown ups in a movie. Kendall had told him all about his future at Waystar, the first year of his business degree, and how he, Roman, would have a place at Waystar, too, for as long as Kendall was there, if he ever decided he didn’t like the piano anymore. Then Kendall had told him, bright eyed, leaning close and flushed, how great coke and pussy was and how fantastic a time Roman was going to have once he got a little freedom from Caroline’s gilded cage. “You gotta go to college, man, you gotta cut loose and see what you’ve been missing, it’s the only way to wake up and live,” kendall had insisted. 

Roman had thought about getting away to go to college, it had been a compulsive fantasy and fear ever since he was 17 and should theoretically have been taking his exams and applying to the ivory towers of the land. Or not of the land, it would be an excuse to get back to New York, Juilliard was a real possibility if he’d been free to try. Not that they’d reached out officially, but a contact of Caroline’s who sat on the board had told him after a concert that he needed only to apply. Caroline had been happy to let many smitten and enthralled college officials pay them court and pay them fees and hire him for exclusive concerts at private manors and halls, which had given him expectations. But when Roman had asked seriously to apply, put his career on hold and further his studies, Caroline had frozen him out. After the first few dismissals, she hadn’t even been willing to acknowledge she heard him asking. He’d threatened to apply without her permission, unnecessary once he turned 18, and that was when he realized that she, as his mother and manager, had been compensated for all his concerts and his CD deal and royalties. If Caroline wasn’t interested in paying his tuition, he had very little that was strictly his own, and few skills or even education beyond his playing, given how little he and Caroline had actually followed through with his tutors after pulling him from the day school. If there were exams to pass to usher him to classes without the benefit of an official diploma, he had no firm concept of how he’d do. He wasn’t dumb, he did know that, but how that translated into the real world beyond music and his mother’s affluent friends, he’d always been a little afraid to find out.

*

Caroline had put the idea abroad that he was sick. A bad flu, stricken with a fever, terrible aches, nervous exhaustion, the poor boy is bedridden, no, no, she was looking after him in the Hamptons house Caroline had kept in the divorce, not quite bad enough for a spell at a hospital, though she wasn’t going to lie, the strain was such on both of them that the doctor had suggested it, but her Roro wouldn’t like it and certainly a mother knew what was best for her boy, no, no he wasn’t contagious, it was merely his delicate constitution and the great whirlwind of touring he’d been doing this last year, it was bound to catch up with him. No, no, he wasn’t taking visitors, there would be no interviews, the further three concerts he’d missed had been cancelled and refunded, and the London weekend planned for two weeks hence had been postponed, with new dates to be announced when the schedules could be coordinated. The London concert date slid by while he hid in his room, and he’d been unable to give his mother a clue about when she should begin arranging for a fresh slate of appearances, even though she’d been inundated with calls.

Roman had listened to Caroline give the spiel multiple times as she paced with tight-faced sharpness that belied her airy tone up and down the sitting area in his room while he sulked in bed. He’d even agreed with some of the story when he first heard it. He was tired and worn down after the long marathon of concert dates over the last 20-ish months. He’d even truly and obligingly run a fever the first few days of his sudden involuntary break, complete with restless and achilly twisting limbs and heavy, muddled head, queasy, unwilling stomach. Caroline had sent the maid up with broth and toast twice a day and let him sleep and sleep, with the heavy green curtains pulled tight against the midwinter daylight. 

But by the end of the first week, when they should have been boarding the charter flight back to england so that he could begin preparation for the next concert appearance, Roman had awoken clear headed and replete with youthful energy, or near enough, anyway to rise and scrub himself down in the shower and come down for breakfast. To know that he was perfectly well enough to get on a plane, to go to rehearsal, to meet with whatever cultural arts reporters his mother might arrange for him to see. Yet he knew that he wasn’t going to do any of that. He couldn’t. 

He said as much to Caroline, who asked him with less-than-motherly confusion and concern, more like accusation, why on earth he couldn’t, why was he doing this to them. He still had nothing more for her than a pained shrug and “Fuck if I know. Sorry, mom, but uh… I’m a blank.”

“Have you even tried? Have you sat down and even tried to play since we left the city?” she had demanded.

The truth was he had. In the midst of his fever he’d been unable to sleep the first night the small prescription of sedatives had run out, and he’d slipped across the hall to his music room and sat at the familiar old upright where he’d taken his summer lessons years ago, knowing he wouldn’t wake his mother, who slept at the other end of the long hall and under the influence of her own sleep aid, and had played through his favorite, “Raindrops,” and on the unthinking momentum of that, the first movement of the piece from the concert that wasn’t without a hitch. Then, as he’d geared up for the second movement, imagined around him the hall, the seeking eye of the conductor, the orchestral cues, the notes had dissolved from under his hands, from out of his head. In their place there had only been more of the ringing emptiness. His fingers had fumbled and stiffened for the first time since he was 10. He’d tried “Raindrops” again, backing up to what had worked already, and fumbled that, too, missing measures, panting as he forgot what came next. His head had swum, the room whirling around him with fever and horror. He had slammed down the cover over the keys and leaned on his folded arms against it until he could steady his breathing and his legs enough to flee back to bed. 

That was the last time he’d tried to play. Roman had worried he’d lose more pieces he’d previously had by heart if he tried them without understanding what was going on. 

“Yes, mom,” he had admitted, “I’m not that much of a coward. I did give it the ol’ college try… Didn’t go great. Went really, totally awful actually. So uh. If you don’t want a repeat of last time, I’ve probably gotta stay ‘sick’ for a while.”

“Roman!” she exclaimed, “This is hardly the time to be joking! This is your future that you’re dangling over the cliff!”

“Believe me, I am completely fucking aware it’s my future,” he protested.

“Oh, Roman, you do know how I wish you wouldn’t swear. It doesn’t suit your image and what if you slip up in public?” she said with an exasperated gesture as she got up and went for her pack of cigarettes in the kitchen drawer. Caroline’s attempts to quit smoking never seemed to stretch as far as actually disposing of her stash. 

Roman sighed and walked over to open the french doors to the covered patio despite the chilly weather and curled up sideways in one of the pair of rattan chairs so that Caroline could finish her lecture with the aid of nicotine while adhering to her rule about smoke in the house. He pulled his robe collar up around his ears and tucked his feet between the chair cushions trying not to shiver. “I think it probably maybe doesn’t matter if I swear as much as pop if I can’t do another concert without going into a fucking fugue state,” he muttered into his knees as Caroline settled herself with her lighter and her coffee cup and her basalt ash tray on the small glass table beside her. 

“Roman, you must stop this now,” she snapped, “You can’t take this defeatist attitude. I don’t know where you got it from, it certainly wasn’t from me. And certainly not your father, for all his faults that man wouldn’t admit defeat if it throttled him.”

“I know, I know. Logan and Carolines fail son, that’s me. Guess I was just born with it,” he snarked, mugging a fake smile. She rolled her eyes and scowled at him before remembering that she was trying to prevent frown lines and smoothed her face with a conscious little shrug. He felt like telling her that the smoking was working against her more than normal human expressions, but one argument at a time was enough for the morning. 

“You can’t just give up, Roman. Just think of all the work we’ve put in, that you’ve put in, over the years, all for this. The connections are made, the concert schedule is lined up! We have a manager who isn’t a thief, and your CDs are selling well at every event! Just consider how easily that can all fall apart if you stop showing up when people expect you. You’re twenty years old, Roman. Who knows how long you can skate along on your youthful genius – not long at all, if you earn a reputation for being an unreliable diva.”

“Glen Gould had no social skills, moved to the Canadian wilderness and stopped giving concerts and everybody was still dying to buy his stuff or work with him,”

“You are not Glen Fucking Gould, Roman, and you’re setting yourself up for defeat if you try to pretend otherwise.” 

“Language, mother,” he scolded with a sarcastic smile in retaliation, and then went back to scowling at his sharply bent kneecaps. “And thank you for that, without your input I never would have known that I was only a fleeting echo of the real ex prodigy superstar. Of course.”

“Maybe you could break your wrist,” Caroline said thoughtfully, not paying attention to his grumbling, “Not actually, of course, that would never do, but we could get you one of those big medical braces or something conspicuous like that. Say that you did it in your tennis lesson or you came off your bicycle or something. Then you would need at least 6 more weeks to heal and the whole winter schedule could reasonably be pushed back.”

“And I’m supposed to have been playing tennis in barely above freezing weather, in January, while I’m also sick with a mysterious monster flu bug and-or victorian lady hysterical exhaustion?”

“Or riding your bicycle. Or skateboarding even, teenagers do skateboard, I hear all about it. And you could have been delirious. Or stir crazy from being cooped up in your bed!” she gestured her cigarette at him after tapping her ash, “I’m not sure you’re not, you know. I think I am. We’ve been holed here for weeks, thanks to you. And they couldn’t make you hold to your contract with a broken bone.”

“Ugh, you’re a crazy person,” Roman complained, slithering out of the patio chair in annoyance and hugging himself for warmth, “And I’m gonna end up actually sick again if I stay out here and let you blow smoke at me. I’m going back to bed.”

“I’m just trying to think of something constructive,” Caroline called after him as he strode back into the kitchen breakfast room, “You could try helping me instead of complaining. You can’t just turn into a lump and expect it all to be peachy, Roman. Roman? Are you listening to me?” 

But by that point he’d scurried to the foot of the back stairs and could reasonably pretend he hadn’t heard her. He hoped she’d remember to shut the french doors soon, there was a terrible draft. 

**

Caroline’s friends and Roman’s benefactors who among the so-called inner circle of supporters and who knew to where they had retreated, had been sending flowers and little get well gifts to show how much they cared about the poor little piano boy who was apparently teetering on the edge of collapse. The gifts spoke to just how firmly Caroline’s campaign to keep him a little child in the public’s eye had taken hold. The vases of flowers on the foyer table had powder blue ribbons, and there were a number of teddy bears, big and small, lined up in front of them. One person had sent, absurdly, an etch a sketch, and more rewardingly, someone had sent a small package wrapped in blue paper with red balloons that had turned out to be a gameboy color, which Roman had plucked from the pile of get well cards before his mother could see it and make him give it to the housekeeper’s kid. 

Caroline didn’t believe in video games, at least for boys like Roman. He was too impressionable, she said, and his hands were too valuable. His father, or rather his father’s assistant in all likelihood, had sent him a playstation and a dozen games for his birthday a couple years ago, but Caroline had swooped in and bundled it back out of his room within a week, berating him for letting it take up too much of his practicing time. Which it hadn’t, he was still practicing the same number of hours and making all his appropriate appearances, he was only playing video games when he would otherwise have been doing homework, or napping, or jerking off because he was 17 and an otherwise healthy human male, but he wasn’t going to argue with his mother about that, thank you very much, and anyway, he had actually given himself a blister on his thumb from the controller from playing so long so maybe it was for the best. But he’d always meant to go find it in the attic one day and show her he could make his own decisions. Probably. About his hobbies.

Roman hesitated at the base of the front stairs and then looped back around to the foyer table, and detached one of the bears from it’s arrangement, a soft cream thing with small round ears wearing blue pajamas that had clutched a ‘get well balloon’ on a stick, and tucked that under his arm, too, before darting back up the stairs. Caroline was making her usual mid-morning raft of reassuring phone calls in the office at the back of the house so she wouldn’t see, and anyway she’d never cared the way his father had about ‘girl’ toys and their appropriateness, but still. The instinct was there to sneak, and the habit. 

He wasn’t going to fake a broken arm, Caroline had acknowledged that much the night before at dinner. He wasn’t going to just bounce back and get on his merry concert tour either, despite her wishes, and he didn’t even understand why. It wasn’t defiance. It didn’t even seem to be a breakdown, he didn’t feel particularly unhappy or upset when he wasn’t sitting in front of the keys and feeling the notes trickle out of his ears or whatever they were doing instead of making their way to his hands. When he was just sitting around in his bed or pacing up and down the music room he felt basically normal and fit, no different than all those weeks ago when he’d pulled off a perfectly successful appearance in Coln. 

His mother had threatened to call in a therapist for him, a psychiatrist, something. Obviously there was something wrong with him, and there was nothing he could do besides shrug and agree that probably that was right because if there was nothing wrong with him the fateful concert would have chugged along just fine. But he couldn’t think of anything to say to a psychiatrist, and he told her that, too. 

“It’s not like we’re broke without it, right? I mean, right?” he’d tried to wheedle out of her the night before, “Like, I know it cost you, in the divorce, Pop wasn’t crazy about splitting up his kids. And the tutors and everything. But still, come on mom, we’re sitting here in our hamptons house and I’ve been selling out concerts for the last 5 years. Plus, the CDs. Sales can only go up if I turn into an interesting recluse, right? The intrigue of it all? If I don’t play again, it’s not like we’ll be ruined, right?”

“Roman… No, no, not ruined, no. But you should be aware… There was a reason I married your father. It wasn’t quite a fairytale you know, the estate…. Life is long and expensive, my dearest. More So than you can possibly think. And your talent, even if nothing else, I know you can’t see it, but it’s such a rare gift, surely you don’t want to just throw it away just because things got a bit complicated for the first time? Wouldn’t that be sad? Wouldn’t you miss it? I thought you loved music, dearest!” 

“I do. I do! And even if I got tired of it, which, you know, could happen someday, I don’t know what the fuck else I could do. It’s not like I’ve got, like, marketable life skills. It’s not like you let me go to college, mother, despite what you said about the point of sour Mr. Whatshisface with all his textbooks who tortured me about the cromwell and the roundheads and Shakespeare and geometry and whatever for 3 years.”

“It wasn’t a matter of letting you or not, Roman. You were perfectly clear you didn’t want to go to Oxford or Cambridge, you wanted to go to a performing arts school which seemed terribly redundant. You agreed with me, Roman, I know you remember that.”

“Sure, okay, I remember, I remember, but. Mom, this is why I’m asking. Are we okay without it? If I take a, like, delicately artful hiatus for six months, a year? Really, honestly, no waffling, no Caroline hyperbole, would we be okay through that?”

“Well, yes, certainly, we could coast along nicely for that long, and much longer, if it was truly necessary,” said his mother with a heavy sigh and a defeated shrug of her hands, “But the thing to remember, Roman, is that you are a famous boy right now. You are in the public eye. You and Charlotte Church are the child darlings of the music world right now, and I know you’re smart enough to realize that the public’s patience and memory isn’t long. Not terribly long at all, my dear. If this hiatus of yours carries on too long, you’ll find that it’s a hiatus that continues on. These aren’t threats, dearest, I’m not saying this to scare you or make you upset, but you need to be aware of certain realities of the world. So that you can make an informed decision. It’s a serious thing, Roman, it’s our future.”

“Yeah, yes, Mom, I know. It’s our future. Listen, I’m not hungry anymore, okay? I’m gonna go… sit in front of the keyboard and pretend I can practice, I guess.”

“Must you always be so dramatic, Roman?” she’d sighed and slumped theatrically back in her louis XVI dining chair, clutching her glass of white wine. “This isn’t the end of this conversation, you know,” she’d warned as he fiddled with his plate and put his napkin beside it with exaggerated care, pretending he wasn’t simply running from the scene of the argument, “You need help, dearest, that’s obvious whether you believe it or not. I’m going to find someone who can sort you out. Just you wait and see, it’ll all come right in the end.”

“Right, uh-huh. I mean, if you’re really concerned about our cash flow in the future, maybe you shouldn’t waste your money on some sports-psych-y hack but whatever, mom. We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it, right?”

So he’d slunk off and stared at his sheet music, slouching on the piano bench in the music room with the curtains pulled wide to let in the faint glow of moonlight over the seafront. He’d run scales and stretched.  He’d trilled and fiddled with a bit of jazzy nonsense with no origin and no aim until he was just plunking at mid notes to fill the quiet. Then he’d sat and sat, ambivalent, with his mouth full of dread. His head ached and he’d given up and gone to bed.

**

Chapter 2

Roman hadn’t gone down to breakfast the next morning. He didn’t want to hear more of his mother’s cajoling and scheming. He knew that the housekeeper wouldn’t bring anything to him because Caroline had strict orders to keep him from actually playing the invalid now that he was physically recovered, so he was starving but willing to wait until she finished her meal and went back up for her long morning routine of creams and sprays and self-admiration to steal a banana and a protein bar and collect the post. He’d taken his prizes, snack, bear, gameboy, gushing get well letter from the daughter of the Julliard recruiter lady who had a crush on him and thought he was the sweetest and most pathetic little puppy of her mother’s collection of potential talents guiltily half crumpled in his pocket, and camped out in the sitting area of his room. 

He remembered her, Jessica, thin and mousy with blushing cheeks brushed with glitter, with designer jeans practically falling off her hips in that way that made his mother scoff and complain about the tactlessness and brazenness of young women these days. She’d been 2 years younger than him but two inches taller, which had made him prickly and uncomfortable at the time, as had the way she’d tried so earnestly hard to flirt, whispering and touching his arm. She’d smelled so strongly of strawberry body spray and teenage hopes, he’d been able to taste it and feel something like sympathetic embarrassment. In retrospect, though, he was flattered, and he wished he’d been nicer to her, less sarcastic. He kept her letter thinking maybe he’d write back and maybe she’d talk to her mom for him, and maybe… the vague hopes had clashed with his current impossibility, but they lingered. He left the letter in his dressing gown pocket as he draped it over a chair in his room and settled in for a long day of doing absolutely nothing.

He put the TV on, a Dawson’s Creek marathon on cable with the volume down to hide their annoying whiny voices, and sat halfway upside down playing Zelda while the blood rushed in his ears. The squishy soft pajama bear was tucked in the crook of his arm, because it made a good rest for the gameboy, he told himself. His feet dangled over the arm and the back of the small sofa in his sitting area, his heels tapping and twitching idly against the blackwatch chintz upholstery as he jammed the buttons of the game.

It was this thoughtless sprawl that Caroline and Gerri Kellman found Roman as they came sweeping in without warning.

“Oh, Roro, why can’t you sit up like a human being sometimes, you are a nice young man not a monkey,” complained Caroline. “I know you’re in a funk but you mustn't be churlish. I did tell you I'd be bringing you some help. This state of affairs can’t continue indefinitely, dearest, you know that. You can’t languish forever, no matter how embarrassed you may be, or secret yourself away in the wilderness.” Caroline turned from scolding her son to posing with ingratiating poise towards the polished yet hesitant woman she’d brought with her, “I’m sorry for the state of my son, Madam Kellman. For some strange reason, I thought he would be ready for the day at two-thirty in the afternoon. Straighten yourself up, Roman and come say hello to your new music tutor, Madam Gerri Kellman. She trained Alexander DuBois – you know, the one who was the title soloist at the Proms last year. And Michelle Abitaboul, isn’t that right?”

“Uh-huh… she was one of mine for a time, yes,” said Gerri, looking cautiously between them, eyeing Roman with cool, unreadable blue eyes as he scrambled up and tried to shove the bear and the gameboy discreetly behind him. “Listen, Lady Collingwood, I wasn’t aware this was an ambush. Perhaps we should give, um–”

“Roman,” his mother prompted.

“Right.”

Gerri Kellman was blonde, straight backed, elegantly pretty and stern, with icy blue eyes, a firmly set full mouth, expressively arched brows, with her curling hair brushed back into a high chignon, tendrils escaping across a high, smooth forehead. She was neither old nor young, clearly younger than Caroline, but she was also old enough and confident enough, self-possessed enough that she seemed a figure of natural authority. She wore a blue suit dress with sharply tailored lines, the upright collar framing the gentle curve of her jaw and the clear cerulean of the fabric made her eyes gleam and setting off the rosy neutral of her lipstick. Hammered silver square earrings, each with an aqua cabochon glittered in her ears, drawing his attention to the tilt of her head, a cool pondering interrogatory. The force of her assessing stare pinned him haphazardly where he stood, his game and the flicker of the television forgotten. 

“Um, hi,” he said with an awkward giggle, “Sorry, hi, sorry –  Mom, I didn’t actually agree to– You sure didn’t give me any warning here, huh?” he gestured sharply at himself, indicating his rumpled pajamas, the striped chambray kind his mother bought for him that made him feel like a little boy in a merchant ivory film but he’d given up the “I’m not eleven anymore” argument on that front to fight it on more important issues, which he was currently regretting, because it wasn’t the impression he wanted to be making. Not that he wanted to be making an impression at all at the moment. He’d told her no to a new coach, no to a new maestro taking over his life and turning him in pretzels again. He’d told Caroline no more, he’d pick his own whoever if he wanted to when he’d turned 18 and fired Cawthorne, and she’d stuck to the deal ever since, so he’d thought– but of course he should have known that if he rocked the boat, she’d rock it back.

“Jesus christ, mother, I’m not going to–” He shook his head and rubbed his hand roughly through his hair, and then switched his attention to the interloper, trying to pretend that he wasn’t in his night clothes and being stared at with growing dismay by a gorgeous woman who probably saw him as a recalcitrant child. 

“Listen, Madam, um…”

“Kellman,” she supplied shortly in a soft, clear voice that nevertheless sparked with impatience, “But I don’t use those titles. I’m not in the business for the delusions of grandeur. Just Gerri is fine.” 

“Right. Sorry. So. This is awkward, but as you can see, mom didn’t let me in on her plans. There’s been a misunderstanding, kind of. I’m taking a break, a hiatus, a, I don’t know, fucking hermit mode disappearing act, and i’m not in the market for another coach or whatever she told you you’d be doing. No offense, I’m sure you're great at it, but,” he shrugged awkwardly and rubbed at his ear.

“Don’t be so appallingly rude, Roman,” snapped Caroline. “I’m terribly sorry about all this willfulness, Madam Kellman, Gerri, though I suppose it’s only fair that you know what you’re up against with this one.”

“Perhaps I should come back another time,” Gerri said cooly, not as though she was embarrassed or unsure in front of their argument, but as though she was annoyed with them for wasting her time. “Let the two of you… figure out where you stand on your needs.”

Roman was surprised by the sound of her voice, soft and sweet and almost girlish even as it was frosty as ice. 

“Oh, nonsense,” said Caroline with a dismissive gesture and the obvious intention to steamroll any objections to her master plan, “In any case, if you find Roman worthy of your tutelage I’m the one who will be employing you, not him, so I’m the one with the ultimate say. You musn’t pay any attention to his protestations, he does want to continue his training, he’s just had a blow to his confidence and he’s wallowing in it. I don’t know where he gets it from, certainly not from me. Roman will come to his senses before long and I want him well prepared.”

“Well, then. That’s your prerogative, of course, Lady Collingwood. I’ve simply found that a willing pupil is far more likely to make progress in his work, however…”

“Of course he’s willing,” snapped Caroline, “Once he gets over his dramatic embarrassment, he’ll be right back at it like a little pro. You don’t throw away a gift like that, do you, Roman.”

Roman reflexively winced a smile of acquiescence to the skewering look his mother shot at him, but she’d already moved on, back to smiling silkily and insisting at Gerri, who was clearly on the verge of expressing more concerns, and was looking them both over carefully. His skin crawled with the awareness of their little double act of doubt and judgment in perceiving him. 

“I’ll leave you to do your little interview, then, shall I?” said Caroline with more smooth insistence and utter refusal to hear more objections from either of them. “His practice room is just across the hall, I’m sure he’ll give you the best performance he can, given the circumstances, and then you can come and tell me if you’re willing to take the case, all right?” she gestured between them a final time and with a final firm nod of satisfaction, she swept out of his room, clearly unwilling to hear any further argument. Gerri stood frowning after her for a long, leaden moment.

“Great, fine, Mom, thanks for that.” Roman muttered to himself as Caroline flitted away. He turned back to Gerri Kellman who gave a tight, polite smile that conveyed mainly that she was annoyed to be dropped into the middle of this but was patient and was presumably being paid enough to carry on regardless, for as long as it took to extract herself. 

“Well, Mister Roy,” said Gerri in her devastating cool honey voice, “While you’re already on the back foot, as it were, I think it best to come clean now. Your mother had reached out to me before all of this, because you’d expressed an interest in making the shift to New York. She was interested in me working with you. So I was at the concert at Tully Hall.”

“You mean the concert that wasn’t?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, god, just fuckin’ shoot me now, okay, I need to be put out of my misery.”

“There’s no need to be so dramatic. It just seemed better to tell you now and get it out of the way. There’s no reason to be ashamed, Roman. It was clear from the audience that you were under severe strain and in no fit state to appear in concert. That’s in large part why I was willing to take the chance to meet you when your mother called to ask me to get you stage ready again, even though I usually choose not to deal with parents of talents who have… Lady Collingwood’s particular attitude. I was afraid that someone with a more impatient nature would grab you up, run you through some practice clinics and shove you out there again. Or maybe even re-debut mid work. I’ve seen it happen, and it’s a mistake. My proposal is this, Roman. If you want to work with me, you will stop all performing now, entirely, until I say otherwise. No more, not even if you or your mother beg and bribe me. Not even private little friendly recitals for all her generous friends, or I’ll have nothing more to do with you, do you understand?”

“Well,” said Roman, staring dumbfounded and feeling buoyant in the wake of a lifting of a profound and steady weight suddenly and unexpectedly lifting, a weight he hadn’t even been fully aware had enclosed him until Gerri offered a way it might shift, “Okay then.” Roman laughed, and found that he was grinning wholly sincerely for a moment before he collected himself and nodded with more measured agreement, trying not to seem too eager, “For fucking sure I can live with that. As long as I can blame you, to her.”

“Of course, Roman,” Gerri said wryly, “It’s my job after all. Now. I’ll go across and choose the pieces you’ll play for me so I can assess, while you get dressed, hmm?” 

“Oh! Right, clothes, of course.” Roman cringed again and spun on the spot in the direction of his closet while Gerri strode out. He had the sense that she was laughing at him behind her cool pursed lips, but he found he didn’t mind all that much. “Thank you!” he called out as she closed the door behind her, meaning it for much more than the chance to make himself presentable. 

*

Gerri had come out especially to interview Roman, thanks to the unusual situation and the generous bonus Caroline had given her for the hassle of the shuttle ride out to the Hamptons. She made it thoroughly clear to Roman that she would not become like his live-in musical nanny and stay with them as they flitted around the world. Gerri worked from her home, her studio, her piano. All of her students had accepted these terms, and she didn’t care who his father was, he would, too, if he wanted to work with her. If he was serious about his training and recovery, he and Caroline would go back to New York full time – Roman told her this wouldn’t be a problem, they could settle in the apartment Caroline had bought and furnished during the separation and barely used since – and Roman could get himself to Gerri’s studio in the East Village promptly every tuesday and saturday at ten am, clean, dressed, rested, sober, not hungover, and ready to work.

“I don’t care if you’ve practiced in the intervening days, I don’t care if your girlfriend is in town, I don’t care if your brother dragged out to party the night before, I want you present and willing to buckle down,” she told him sternly, at the end of the interview, the steely skepticism in her piercing gaze making his skin tingle and his heart beat fast. “And if you’re only showing up to waste my time, call to cancel instead. I have plenty of other things to do with my days.” 

Roman had stammered his enthusiastic agreement to the terms. “I’m reliable, I swear,” he added, “No matter what my mom’s said about me. I’m a grown up and I can show up.”

She stood looking down at him where he sat, taut as a bowstring on the piano bench, gripping the edge of the seat so he wouldn’t fidget. Her clear, thoughtfully hooded blue eyes seemed to scrape over him as if looking for a tell-tale mark of honesty or a fatal flaw. 

“All right, then, Roman. Glad to have you on board,” she said calmly, and nodded and then began tucking away the sheet music she’d brought back into her capacious soft turquoise leather bag. 

She wore big chunky rings on both small, capable hands, smooth square silver inlaid with lapis on the index finger of her right hand and an antique looking large oval of onyx set with a small pearl in the middle on the ring finger – did that mean she was married? What kind of man gave his wife a black wedding ring? – and a gold ring on the left middle with a smooth opalescent lozenge of moonstone that glowed and flickered in the light from the piano lamp. He stared. He had the wild thought of catching her hand and putting the very tip of his tongue to the glowing stone. He flushed and shifted awkwardly on the bench, hyper aware of her arms reaching thoughtless and brisk over his shoulders. She smelled of dry spicy violet and soft, earthy things, he could tell as she moved in close and away. She moved with simple economy, nothing coy or posed, as if she were used to mainly her own company. and seemed totally unaware of his attention. 

How that was possible, he wasn’t sure. Roman knew he’d stared at her, somewhere in the whirlpool between wary and covetous. Maybe she was used to it, going through life with a presence like that.

He’d been preoccupied, too, with the wonder of the instinctual ease with which he’d played every note she’d put in front of him. No sweating, no reeling, no sucking pit of black. Gerri said, here Roman play this, let’s see what you make of it, and he’d smiled nervously at her, sure it wasn’t going to happen, and then it had. He’d played. Some unconscious part of him had taken over and moved his hands confidently on the keys. He didn’t really have a conscious procedural memory of that either, but he knew it had happened, he’d heard the notes ringing clear in the room, felt the vibrations of them in his chest, even taken note of Gerri’s half suppressed look of thoughtful approval.

“We’re going to need to work on your posture,” she’d told him, as an addendum, “And perhaps on variety of genre. Loosen you up. Find you a less suffocating approach. It’ll be a process, Roman, but I think you can take it.”

*

So, at the beginning of February, on a bright, bitterly cold day, Roman had put on his parka, double checked for the ‘cab fare’ card Caroline had set him up with so she didn’t have to remember to have cash on lesson days (“this is not so you can go buy junk food and video games, Roman,” she’d scolded), picked up his old lesson bag, a beat up canvas beach bag that he’d covered with sharpie skulls while dying of boredom while waiting for a string of auditions at 15, and took himself down to the East Village. It was a long ride in midmorning traffic, but he didn’t try to occupy himself with the book in his bag. He’d been too nervous to eat breakfast and his body buzzed with bright, sharp hollowness. He wasn’t sure if Gerri could possibly be as strange and bewitching as he remembered her. He was afraid that the new setting, and his own nerves, might have spoiled whatever magic it was that let him play anyway when she commanded. He hadn’t practiced at all after they’d picked up their bags and headed to the city, and he was sure Gerri would be able to tell.

Gerri Kellman’s studio was on a surprisingly quiet, narrow, tree-lined residential street around the corner from a more bustling part of the neighborhood. The street was all embellished brickwork and pre-war architecture, old paving slabs, low, wrought iron fences and brisk air moving through the bare winter trees. Gerri’s place was the second house in from the corner, a tall stately building standing a little taller than the ones beside it made of sandy red stone with a steep, gabled roof. It had a stack of wide bay windows, each lintled with heavy stone brows, straight stone steps up from the sidewalk and a masonry arch over the door. The sturdy front door was painted muted lilypad green, and had a panel of geometric stained glass in candy red and blue, and a weathered door knocker above the knob in the shape of a lady’s hand clasping a ball, patinated a dully gleaming bronze with age and use. Roman stood shifting from foot to foot, trying to slow his heart rate enough to not come off like a maniac from the first moment, and scrubbed his palms against his jeans. His hands were sweating in spite of the wind-scrubbed, freezing weather. Then he grasped the lady’s metal hand and rapped three times.

Chapter 3

Gerri Kellman was just as enchanting as he remembered from the Hamptons house interview, despite his improbably vivid recollection of that day. She answered the door quickly, though not as quickly as if she’d been waiting on him and ushered him in with brisk grace and a precise gesture of her hand. 

She was wearing a soft looking wrap dress in a color between olive and evergreen, perfectly neat, the vee of the neck was demure, leaving just enough decolletage to show off the piece of carved jade she wore on a fine chain against her collar bones, and the skirt fluttered modestly below the knee, but none of this seemed to help. The twist of fabric where the dress overlapped drew his eyes dangerously to the curve of her hips and Roman struggled not to stare. He dragged his eyes up, and quickly realized he was in trouble, tried not to stare at her cleavage, demurely hidden though it was, and landed on the gentle slope of her shoulder, the taper of her wrist as she held open the door. Every curve of this woman was magnetic, meanwhile her wide, pale eyes seemed to spear through him with unfailing accuracy, catching him out as starstruck and shambling. He made an abortive sound of dismay and appreciation that became a choked cough. Blood rushed dizzyingly in his ears. Oh, so this is what it’s like, he thought obliquely and then discarded the line of thought in desperate self preservation. “Hi,” he squeeked, took a breath and tried again, “Um, good morning, hi, I’m not late, see?” 

“Good morning, Roman. I’m glad to see you can follow instructions,” she said with a wry quirk of her mouth and a tilt of her head, watching him amble past with intentional nonchalance, “If you’d like to leave your coat, there’s the hall stand,” she nodded to a bulky piece of edwardian furniture made of smooth dark wood on Craftsman lines, a combination bench, hall table, umbrella stand and coat rack set with a slightly murky beveled mirror. On the table stood a chinese vase of hectic white peonies, and Roman almost knocked into them and then caught his own eye over top of the mirrored image of the blooms as he shucked his coat, thinking he looked feverish and furtive in the warm gloom of the foyer.

“Studio’s on your right, Roman,” called Gerri, leading the way ahead of him. 

Roman managed to get his bulky coat to stay on one of the brass hooks after a couple fumbles and hurried to follow, brushing his hair out of his eyes with both hands as he went, though it predictably fell right back down in his way. 

The studio space had clearly once been the grand parlor of the house when it was originally built. The ceilings were high, with plaster moldings along the walls and a rosette to ornament the frosted and molded glass chandelier. The walls were done with damask paper in muted sage and dark stained linenfold, lined with bookshelves. Tall windows of the bay spilling winter light through ivory lace net sheers, tightly folded rose colored curtains pulled back neatly. The floor was worn wide plank hardwood the color of brandy, and the only furniture was a stately art deco channel back sofa and matching chairs in dusty-blue jacquard with a small brass drum table between them on one side of the room, and the real star, a glossy black baby grand in the center of the room, far enough from the radiators and the windows that it would be safe from concentrated heat and drafts. The bench before it was not the glossy black wooden one that would have come with the instrument but an upholstered Victorian object with dark, curved legs and dusty red jacquard cushion, looking well worn around the corners. 

By the piano but far enough away to pick up the resonance of the room was a tall, narrow spindle of a mic stand with a decent looking microphone attached. Roman traced the cords, bundled into a vinyl safety keeper, back to one of the book cases where there was a hifi setup, topped with a bulky beigy gray reel-to-reel unit. “What’s with this stuff?” he asked, gesturing at the sound equipment. 

“Don’t worry, Roman, I won’t record anything you don’t okay. Some of my students find it helpful to be able to play their lessons back. It can help identify problems in phrasing that they don’t hear in the moment. It can also be rewarding for the student to hear a progression of their advancement. It’s not a professional setup by any means, and street noise is a factor regardless, but it can be a useful tool.”

“Okay,” he said with a shrug, “Might as well give it a try. As long as you don’t end up selling Roman Roy bootlegs,” he joked, “Caroline would pitch an almighty shitfit about that.”

“I assure you, I leave the album selling business to the talent,” Gerri assured him crisply, and then with a touch more concern, “Only if you’re certain, Roman. I wasn’t sure you’d want to start a record given your, uh, current issues with an audience.”

“It’s fine,” Roman asserted breezily, not fairly sure that he wasn’t totally fine with it but at the same time intrigued by the idea of a record of their work together. He already knew it would be important, his work with Gerri. “After all, the audience is still just the two of us in the future, right? So only we will know if it sucks absolute ass. I’m cool with it.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, grimacing at his turn of phrase and his smarmy grin but strode over, the low heels of her smart pumps ringing on the wooden floor, and fitted a new reel into the machine with easy precision and hit a couple buttons. He could hear the faint whir of the tape turning, or felt he could. “Settle in then, Roman,” she said, coming back to loom over him somewhere behind him and to the left, “I assume you’ve brought what you’ve been working on?”

So he fumbled his sheet music out of the folder of his bag and fidgeted his way into place on the padded bench. Couperin, a favorite of his for the expressive phrasing and the baroque rigor, and for the way the flow of small, precise notes always impressed. He flexed and clenched his hands, feeling them freezing and stiff with nerves and cast a glance over his shoulder at Gerri, the dark green shape of her dress, softly curved, the glint of her pale hair in the winter sunlight, a solid presence that was both intimidating and reassuring. He warmed his icy fingers against the back of his neck, letting his short, blunt nails scrape his skin, shivering with it, and then dove in before he had too much time to think. He barrelled through Les Barricades Mistérieuses, and Les Calotines. Gerri stopped him mid way through Tic-Toc-Choc just as his awareness of her coming up behind him tripped him into fumbling a trill. 

 “Roman,” she said, with a note of concerned hesitation and then paused for a breath, as if gathering her thoughts. All she said, though, was, “There is no particular merit taking these pieces at breakneck pace. They’re spritely but you still need to leave room for the notes to form and the audience to hear them.”

“Right. Sure, yeah. Usually, I. I don’t usually don’t do it like that but I, uh.” He shrugged helplessly, mute with indecision and unable to say that he was distracted by her presence. That he’d pinned all his hopes on the strange aura of her that had distracted him in just the right way to make it possible to play that day in the Hamptons but now there were expectations and how he wanted to impress her.

Gerri flipped through his folder and found Ombres Errerants by Couperin, a slower piece in the grouping and set it before him. “I’d like you to try this one. Pay attention to your pacing, Roman, let me hear your interpretation.”

“Sure. Can do.” He sat, icy hands heavy on his thighs through his jeans, reading over the notes to refamiliarize himself with the piece. He put his hands over the keys without making a sound, feeling the smooth ivory under his fingertips and watching Gerri’s calm anticipation beside him out of the corner of his eye. He took a slow breath trying to calm the pace of his heart, knowing that with his mind racing this quickly the notes would race too, no matter how carefully he applied himself.

“Roman?” she asked softly, when the hesitation dragged on, “Are you alright?”

“I, uh. Sorry, I don’t know? Why I’m not, uh. You know.” he gestured at the keys and then rubbed roughly at the side of his head. “I think maybe you’re making me nervous? No offense.”

“Hmm. You were fine back at the Hamptons,” she said, with a thoughtful purse of her lips.

Roman shrugged broadly. If he knew how to articulate it, he would have by now, he thought, but he just sat, running his fingers along the worn edge of the bench cushion.

“Okay. I guess we jumped in too quickly. Well, we can work with that. I’m going to go into the other room and make a fresh pot of coffee. Roman, go back to your most basic warmups again, get settled in without me over your shoulder. Then you can start again or we can have a cup and talk this out. Sound good?”

“Um.”

“Good,” she said briskly, turning and heading out of the room with an unhurried grace. “I want to hear you basic exercises, Roman, and pay attention. I’ll be able to hear if you get lazy on the fingering,” she called as she walked into the back of the house, “Get going, kiddo, come on.”

Somehow it was easier without Gerri right at his elbow. He ran through his warmups, dutifully thoughtless and with slowly loosening hands, filling the absent space of time while Gerri was in the other room with familiar exercises and bit of overly familiar recital workhorse Bach, telling himself it didn’t matter that much that she was still probably listening in. Then he tried Ombres Errerants again, once haltingly and again more smooth, probably still a little fast. Roman had tracked the click of her heels as she came back into the room with the waft of fresh coffee, though she hadn’t stood quite as close. Maybe she’d realized she was spooking him, or maybe she wanted to watch him work from a distance. He turned the last page of Ombres and reached for the next piece, but she stopped him again and set her own sheet music in front of him. He did a double take at the title.

“What the fuck, man really? Girl music, are you serious?” 

“Don’t be an ass,” she snapped, with a roll of her eyes as she retreated to her stance of observation, “I did tell you, Roman, we need to get you used to more different genres, out of your comfort zone and out of your head. These arrangements aren’t as easy as they look.”

He shot a glance at her over his shoulder to see if she was putting him on. Gerri was smirking at the balking grimace on his face, but she gestured with the hand not holding her mug back at the music in front of him. “If Joni is so easy, let's hear you knock it out of the part, huh?”

So Roman plunked his way through a sight read, hearing himself miss the timing and realizing he hadn’t been so unfamiliar with a piece of music in front of him in years, and certainly not in front of any audience. It gave him a cold, squirming feeling in his gut but it was thrilling too, in a strange kind of way, he could feel Gerri’s sustained amusement at his back but he didn’t think it was ill meant, not really at his expense. It was interesting, too, different, fun actually, he found himself giggling as he took another run at the more extreme jazzy syncopation he could recognize but hadn’t tested himself out on much before. 

Gerri tapped him between the shoulder blades with a none too gentle finger. “Focus,” she prompted, but he could hear her smiling at him. Then she took an experimental fingertip grip of the tops of his shoulders and tried to encourage him to straighten out his slouch, a familiar move from many teachers before, but teachers before hadn’t started an electric, full body crackle in him when they touched him that didn’t quite abate. “Your posture is atrocious. I’m sure that’s not the first time you’ve heard that, Roman.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Roman tried to subtly lean back into her touch like a cat asking for a scratch but Gerri seemed to take it as if he was shrugging her off and she stepped back again. Roman cleared his throat and reminded himself that whatever reaction he was having, Gerri Kellman saw him as just another messy student to whip into shape. Respecting his boundaries, whatever. He probably didn’t even register. He’d gotten over the mind-wiping nerves when she stood near and now he wanted to lure her closer, he wanted to bask. Roman was aware that instead of fixing one problem, he’d found an entirely new one that was closing dangerously over his head – Roro’s first adolescent infatuation, he thought sarcastically as he settled into Joni’s phrasing, and only about a decade late.

“Okay, let's hear those first two Couperin pieces again. I want you to bring that looseness to it,” she prompted, reorienting him.

So he flipped back through his music and played for her, half distracted by the nascent wonder of attraction, strange and surprising and, yes, somewhat shameful, sparked by half glimpses of his new teacher out of the corner of his eye, the way it seemed to glow in his body. He felt lit up in a new and startling way, if people lived with this all the time he wondered how they could focus, could breath, but it was a light feeling, too, bearing him upward in a whole new way. His fingers moved on the keys and felt the notes ring in the airy space of Gerri’s studio, giving the notes and himself space as he breathed and wondered.

“That’s much better,” said Gerri when he’d finished, “Very much better. See? you do have a sense of what emotion he’s trying to express when you’re not preoccupied by showing off.”

“Right,” agreed Roman uncertainly, terribly conscious that he hadn’t been paying attention to his phrasing at all but trying to guess how close Gerri would have to stand to feel her body heat on his back.

“Now, let me turn off the recording and let’s have some coffee and talk about the blanking out. If you’re amenable to that, Roman?”

“Uh…. I mean okay, I guess, but I don’t know why that’s happening so…” he shrugged, and shifted on the bench so he could turn to look at her. Gerri was busy fussing with the hifi equipment, he heard the solid clunk of a button and the tape coming to rest, but her body language was casual. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, to fail to explain it to someone who wasn’t staring him down with furious curiosity and judgment.

“I know you don’t know,” said Gerri with a coolly coaxing tone that seemed to leave no room for refusal, “That’s why I think we should talk about it. Come on, we can sit in the breakfast room.”

So he followed her, her coffee mug in hand and her neatly clicking heels, his eyes drawn both to the curve of her hips in the jersey dress and to the soft, glossy swirl of her pale curls, twisted loosely at the back of her head. He could see a pair of daintily carved horn combs holding the chignon in place like some kind of blowsy edwardian lady. Roman had to stick his hands in his jeans pockets so he wouldn’t reach up and touch the baby ringlets escaping at the back of her neck. 

[weissaddams]

are you ready for it?

Chapter 1 - paper rings

Why Wednesday said yes to the forsaken reunion was beyond her.

Not really.

Enid asked her, practically begged her to come, with the promise of rare Lycan books from the Sinclair family library if she did.

After the initial shock of learning that werewolves did, in fact, have libraries, Wednesday quickly said yes to the reunion.

She still thinks it was pointless because Enid met up with their friends every month. Wednesday rarely joined, sure, but she didn’t require periodic in-person updates about their lives when Enid was literally a wall away. The blonde was more than happy to give her unprompted updates regarding their little group’s lives every now and then.

They were both accepted at Columbia. It was truly fortunate that it was a 6-hour drive from San Francisco. No pesky werewolves dropping in unannounced.

No arms even had to be twisted because despite their rather questionable extra-curricular activities in Jericho, Wednesday and Enid had pristine academic records. Enid was even toe-to-toe with Bianca for a handful of their classes before Wednesday came along.

Bianca and Eugene got into Harvard. Yoko and Divina were in Yale. Ajax and Kent went to NYU. They were all relatively close to each other.

Since the two applied to the same university, Wednesday and Enid thought it would be stupid if not impractical not to keep living together. They’d already gotten used to each other’s quirks and schedules. Why change anything?

Since Columbia was where Fester had gone for Uni, the Addams already owned a little Victorian house 10 minutes away from campus. They moved in two weeks before classes started.

Enid’s mother wasn’t too keen about looking like her daughter was mooching off the Addams wealth, so she’d allowed Enid to stay with Wednesday on the condition that their utility bills would be footed by the Sinclair pack. It was a small price to pay, if it was a price at all in order to stay together.

The Sinclair pack hadn’t even bothered to drive Enid to the Addams manor for the last half of summer or help her move into campus. No, they just sent her a new credit card and all the things in her room. Enid was pretty sure said room would be a pile of boxes if she ever decided to visit her so-called home.

The moment Wednesday’s mother found out, the older seer took her girls shopping in a district Enid didn’t even know existed. She'd spent so many summers with Wednesday family and she still wasn't used to how generous they were. Who buys their daughter's best friend a brand new wardrobe? 

Morticia didn't think Esther Sinclair could disappoint her any further. How could any parent not want to spoil and cherish someone as bright and colorful as Enid? She would adopt Enid if it didn’t somehow complicate things for Wednesday.

Gomez, never really one to be bested, obtained a matte black, hybrid Range Rover for them. Obtained being the operative word, Gomez would not settle for any vehicle that wasn’t bullet proof. Not in this country. He also had to take into account that Wednesday would likely prefer to drive a manual instead of an automatic. Enid was about the opposite.

Though, both girls usually walked to class. It was only 15 minutes away by foot, after all. They named the Rover Edgar Allan but Enid started calling him Eddie as a nickname.

A few days after they moved in, Enid had ordered them Thai food for dinner since they were busy putting away the last boxes of their things. She’d opened her wallet to get cash to tip the delivery person when she spotted a glint of black that she was sure wasn’t there the last time she used her wallet.

Enid rarely used her wallet because Wednesday insisted on paying every time they ate at restaurants or went to cafes. She usually kept cash in it for tips because the raven usually only brought the card ever since she learned how convenient it was. So, she is very much surprised to find a shiny black credit card in one of the slots with her name on it.

She quickly puts down their dinner and walks to the living room where Wednesday and Thing are trying to pry open one of her ridiculously taped boxes from San Francisco.

“Wednesday? Why do I have a black credit card that looks just like yours in my wallet?”

Wednesday curses whoever taped Enid’s parcel with such passion. It even broke the scissors Thing brought her.

“We won’t have the same schedule like Nevermore, so father and I thought it best to get you yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yes, yours. We’ll still use mine but if you’re ever without me, you can use yours.”

Hers? Could she even afford to to have one of these black cards? She wasn’t that clueless when it came to the Addams wealth. She was pretty sure Wednesday’s card didn’t even have a credit limit. Now, she apparently had her own card with no limit? Her brain was going bonkers.

“No need to worry about what you use it on. It’s connected to the family account but Lurch is the one who makes sure to diligently pay the dues every month. Mother and Father won’t be privy to whatever you wish to spend on.”

The conversation they had after that was considerably complex. Enid never did think she’d have to explain to Wednesday how there was no need for her own black card. Generous as it was.

Her pack was more than capable of giving her an allowance. They’d already been doing it for her brothers and they were even paying for their boarding. Enid was living with Wednesday for nearly no cost at all!

Though Wednesday was confused at first, they’d come to a compromise in the end. Enid would use the card whenever they went out together and for emergencies. Like if she suddenly needed cash to bail Wednesday out of jail or buy tickets to the upcoming Seventeen concert.

Emergencies. Yes.

Their house was like a miniature version of the manor. Two adjacent bedrooms. One bathroom on each floor. Balcony connecting to an office space. Open floor plan for the kitchen and living room. Library/music room next to the pantry. Veranda overlooking a small garden. It was quaint and more than enough for both of them and Thing whenever Fester wasn't making use of his services.

It was an adjustment to sleep in separate rooms at first, but they’d gotten the hang of it after a couple of weeks. It didn’t help that for the first few nights they’d fall asleep huddled together in front of the fireplace while Wednesday read and Enid facetimed with their friends.

Nothing was official between them, but nothing was unofficial, either.

Thing would sometimes say they were like an old, married couple but Enid would only tell him off for calling them old and Wednesday would ignore him.

Everything was dreadfully peaceful until six months later when Enid decided they should have a reunion at their little house. It could be the housewarming party they never got to have!

Wednesday sighed. It was going to be a long weekend.

--

are you ready for it? master post

--

The chapter titles might be a stretch so if you think of Taylor Swift song that fits this chapter more, please tell me!

Not sure how many chapters this one will be. It’s just really fun to build a world around them so this chapter ended up really long. They work in just about any AU or with any headcanon. This is mostly inspired by TS songs like Wenclair Fic Idea No. 1. which I promise to somehow write into this.

Lol let me know what you think! 

[molochka-koshka]

How about 34. — mint? 👀

Sorry for the wait and sorry this is so long and mostly uneventful but I have a second part started already heheh It was originally going to be a little red riding hood au thing but it's only barely that now? It's fine, it's fine, it's just fluff

Herbal Remedies Ship: Ulbrig Olesk x Aldis (AU) Tags: Fluff, a little spooky stuff, very slow burn (nothing really happens yet but it's fine) Words: 1563

The path ahead of Aldis is clear and maintained, the dirt road edged with cloudberries, mint, lichen and moss covered boulders, and the tracks of little animals that have made their way through the woods before her and who’ll come scurrying back after her.  Birdsong punctuates the pleasant breeze that sweeps through the trees, the air is crisp and clear, and puffy white clouds roll lazily across the bright blue sky through the pines overhead.  

Aldis leans down on the side of the path, bending at the waist to pluck handfuls of mint growing wildly on the side of the road.  Good for anxiety, stomach aches, insomnia, she thinks, cool blue eyes looking over the other herbs growing nearby, just further off the road.  She tucks the fistfuls of mint into a wicker basket hanging lazily in the crook of her arm, the leaves and broken stems staining the white cloth inside slightly.  It doesn’t bother her.  She follows the wild herbs, foraging through them.  Ground ivy for colds, wood nettle for allergies and teas, linden blossoms and hawthorn and juniper and wild garlic and flowers and roots and sweet cloudberries all make their way into her basket, ready to be used in tinctures and teas and poultices.  It’s not magic, not really, but it’s all useful in its own way–especially when made with love and care.

She turns, starts to head back towards the path.  It’s only when she’s been walking for a good 15 minutes that she realizes she’s lost.  She doesn’t think that she’d wandered off the path that far, surely she just needs to retrace her steps, make her way back to the last landmark she remembers–but what landmarks are there really in a swath of wild herbs?  She sees a patch of mint that’s been picked over already, did she do that?  She takes a different direction from there this time.  She still can’t find the road.  She stops then, looking around, turning in place.  The trees all look the same, maybe denser now, darker, brambles twisting and twining at their bases and catching on the hem of her dress as she turns.  Had there been brambles before?  She doesn’t remember seeing them, at least.

The air feels colder here, on the bitter end of crisp, she pulls her cloak up tighter around her neck and pulls her hood over her head, fitting her horns carefully through holes in the fabric.  The soft mint-green fabric hangs in folds around her head and shoulders and billows out behind her in a sudden gust of wind that manages to make its way through the trees.  She should have brought a guard with her.  She can manage on her own usually, and usually Freyr insists that she bring someone with her when she goes on these little walks, but she’d managed to slip out on her own without an escort today.  She’s a witch–even if Freyr doesn’t know that little fact about her–and she can handle herself just fine.  

She feels the tips of her fingers tingle with frost as she prepares a spell.  She doesn’t feel like she’s alone anymore.  She knows this feeling.  She turns again, brambles clinging and tearing at her dress, and sees a wall of white fog behind her.  Shapes move in the fog, looming, massive but almost fluid in the grace with which they seem to phase in and out of existence in the thick fog.  She hears a dry rattling sound, like dry sticks clacking against each other.  The world around her starts to swim, and she feels like she might pass out, the corners of her vision starting to go black.  A shape starts to emerge from the fog, tall and lean, an elk–

She turns and runs.  Her dress and cloak snag and tear on the brambles around her, branches whipping at her face and arms and chest as she sprints through the woods away from it.  She knows what it is, she owes everything to it, but she doesn’t want to face it.  She runs until her lungs burn and her legs grow nearly too weak to stand, and when she finally collapses it’s nearing dark and she’s even more lost than she was before.  Dark, quiet voices whisper in the trees, and the fog she’d so desperately been trying to outrun starts to filter into the clearing she lies in, and her heart races still even if she can’t even muster up the strength to drag herself away from all of it.

Aldis manages to prop herself up slightly with her back against the stump of a fallen tree, every breath dragging itself out of her lungs like knives against flesh and her vision begins to swim again.  She squeezes her eyes shut, fear overtaking her and resigning her to flee in the only way she can now–by just not seeing what the beast will do to her.

The voices stop abruptly, and a warmth seeps into her chilled body.  Birdsong returns to the woods (she hadn’t really noticed its absence until now).  When she opens her eyes, a man is there, crouched in front of her, a hand outstretched and nearly brushing her cheek.  She flinches back, thwacking the back of her head against the stump.  Apparently, she does it with enough force to knock herself out cold.

When Aldis wakes up, it’s somewhere warm and comfortable–a bed that practically swallows her up, lined with furs and heavy quilts and plush pillows and more than a few large feathers.  She sits up slowly, a hand coming up to caress the back of her head where a dull throbbing pain radiates out.  The smell of woodsmoke and fresh bread fills the air, along with something unplaceable but distinctly masculine.

The room is comfortable, small with walls of cobbled stone and wood, a high arching ceiling with exposed beams above her, a large window in the roof letting in natural light–from a sunset.  Or a sunrise, she can’t tell, but either would mean that she’s been here for far too long.  Aldis sits up fully, swinging her legs out off the side of the bed, in time for the wooden front door to swing open and a hulking figure to enter.

Aldis tenses on the bed where she sits, blue eyes growing wide at the sight of the imposing man as he enters, his frame filling the doorway and his head tilting down just slightly to clear the top of it.  When he straightens up inside and notices her awake, he smiles warmly.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you like that,” he says sheepishly, warm, slightly gruff voice filling the space between them.

“You didn’t,” she starts, noting the pitying look he casts at her.  “I mean you did, but I was frightened already.”

He sets a bundle of firewood down by the hearth and approaches her.  “What frightened you then?”  There’s a hint of relief in his voice, the corners of his eyes crinkling faintly with a small smile.

Aldis stares up at him for a moment, then releases a breath.  “Ijiraq,” she explains.  “I ran into one years ago and it’s never very far away now it seems.”

His smile fades almost instantly.  “So you’ve been cursed then,” he says, voice low and serious now, all warmth gone from it.

“Something like that.  If you could point me in the direction of the road though, I can be out of your hair–you won’t have to deal with my curse at all, I assure you.”

He waves a hand, turning and crossing the room to a shelf lined with little trinkets.  “Nonsense,” he says, large hands grasping a small wooden effigy.  He spits on it, then rubs his saliva into the wood with the hem of his shirt.  “This should help just fine.”

Aldis takes the effigy between two fingers, holding it out away from herself slightly.  “Oh!  Is this… Is this magic?” She asks, feigning curiosity.  She’s familiar enough with ‘folk magic’, and more palatable kinds of magic like that.  She always claims to partake in that, not in the witchcraft actually practices.  Better to be safe than burned at the stake, after all.

“Nah, not exactly,” he replies, cheeks flushing slightly.  “But it’s better than magic anyway.  I can walk you back to the path too, if you’d like,” he offers, extending a hand out towards her.  “Ulbrig Olesk.”

Aldis takes his hand gently, about to let him kiss it–like most men would–but instead he gives it a firm shake that requires movement from her entire arm.

“Aldis Monstad,” she replies, smiling broadly up at him.  He helps her to her feet, and leads her towards the door.

“Well, miss Monstad, let’s get you home.”

The walk back to the path is uneventful, and the walk back to civilization is even more boring once Aldis is alone again.  She’d invited Ulbrig to town with her, she’d like to treat him to a warm dinner at the inn at least, but he declines.

She carries the effigy tucked in a pocket on her dress, fingers prodding at it lightly as she walks.  It’s useless, apart from reminding her of the gentle mountain of a man who took her in and saved her–but in that way, it’s priceless to her.  After all, how hard would it be to get lost again?

[lab-trash]

Today is mother's day and I got my dad a present. Multiple actually.

For background, my mom doesn't live with us. She moved out in 2021 and she moved back in with her parents just a couple months ago. She was neglectful when she did live here and I can't remember a single promise she ever kept.

My dad took over her (tiny amount of) responsibilities when she left and I think it made me appreciate him more. My dad wasn't there a ton when I was a kid, but that was because he had a job that required a 45 minute commute, and it's not like he was gonna get anything better to support our 8-member family. My dad has always tried his best.

(Fun fact: The day I bought a #1 Dad Mug at a thrift shop that matched my mom's very unique #1 Mom Mug was the same day my mom's mug broke. Talk about symbolism.)

In October he took in a homeless trans kid that my sister's partner was friends with. Both that kid and my sisters partner are going to be in our family pictures this coming Thursday.

At Walmart, I saw a pillow that said "mama bear" on it. And immediately I was like, I have to get this for my dad. For context, my dad is a bigger man with a big beard and long hair. He's a bear. He's also greygender and pretty much only uses his agab terms because, well, he's 45 and it doesn't really matter to him.

After seeing that pillow, I decided I didn't want to just do that. I got him a cuticle remover (he was talking about how he enjoyed it), some new hair things and hair clips (again, long hair), some oatmeal cookies that I know he likes, dark chocolate peanutbutter doves, and some liquid death, which we'd recently had a laugh over the existence of before promptly realising its actually really good. Lastly, a peanuts card that I picked up last minute.

I had to fit everything into a box from work so he wouldn't see anything and I brought it home under the pretense that my coworker had given me some miscellaneous items while decluttering. I brought it into my room, set everything up and put it behind my door.

I went around and had everyone sign it, only barely managing to get my sister before she left for work (unfortunately her partner left earlier than we anticipated, so I couldn't get them to sign the card) and I put everything into this tall bag with a unicorn on it. It was one of the only bags that was big enough to fit everything, and I just thought it was so perfect.

I was also planning on giving him a painting I did in middle school of the northern lights— I have all of my paintings from middle school tucked away on my bookshelf— but I couldn't find it.

I had to go to the store with him when he picked up my sister, so I couldn't just wait for him to get home. I had to wait til he went out to the van, sprint upstairs, grab this bag that's easily 15 pounds because of the liquid death, rush back downstairs, hide it between our couches, rush out to the van, then rush back inside when we got home and set it up on a couch for him to open.

It went over really well, which was something i was worried about right at the end there, since he'd asked me and my sister if we told our mom happy mothers day. I hadn't, but my sister had. They were talking about it when they entered and I beckoned dad into the living room for his mother's day gift.

Overall, I spent about $60 on the gift. And I don't regret it. One of the biggest things of note with my mom was that whenever we celebrated mother's day, I would always try to put effort into it to make her happy. And it was never... really appreciated. I remember one year I got this sort of clear trophy-wine glass thingy and put some chocolate in it, and I had all of her kids sign the lid. She didn't take it when she left. It was sitting in our kitchen (with half of our deadnames on it, might I add) until a few months ago. If she'd left it in dad's room, I think it'd be less hurtful, but she left it on the microwave cart where we all saw it every day. Mocking us both with our deadnames and our failure of a gift.

Buying for my dad wasn't like that. I know even if I fucked up one of the items, he'd enjoy even the existence of it at all. I could've just bought the card or just the pillow and he would've been happy. But I didn't, almost because of that fact. My dad would be happy with less, so he deserved more.

[the-robot-bracket]

You said i could submit more propaganda so here you go.

Steam powered giraffe propaganda time because i can so:

They are a band of steampunk robots. And a couple of months ago they celebrated their 15-year anniversary. They do a lot of different genres with their songs. For example, honeybee is slow and rips your heart out whenever you listen to it. Then you have fart patrol which is goofy and you can't help but smile. And there's the band lore. 

A guy called Peter A Walter built them in 1896 to impress this girl called Delilah Morreo

Who then died then got brought back as a vampire by the other guy trying to impress her

Then she killed the other guy and found a way to fix her being a vampire and became a wraith. 

(It is worth also mentioning that she is canonically a lesbian)

Other lore facts include

They are canonically war veterans and pretty much all of them have fought in multiple wars

The Beatles opened for them at one point

The robots run on QWERTY "The first truly intelligent computing device for the home of 1999"

Ok time for character facts

First up Rabbit (Played by Isabella Bunny Bennett)

She changes her appearance so much that it is hard to keep track sometimes

Was in love with a toaster her name was Jenny (Jenny got dropped 8 minutes after she was bought and Rabbit didn't have the warranty)

In a couple of the iterations of her costume, she has worn up to 6 belts

Next The Spine (Played by David Michael Bennett) (Probably worth noting that Isabella and David are twins)

He has a titanium alloy spine that's his backstory

He can detach his spine from his chassis 

He loves the wild west and cowboys

He has the brain cell (always)

Zer0 (Played by Bryan Barbarin)

Zer0 was built out of three incomplete systems

He was left in a basement for nearly 100 years 

Has his own cereal brand called ZER-0'S

Hachworth (Played by Sam Luke)

He has a moustache (That's all you need to know about him)

The Jon (Played by Jonathan Sprague)

The Jon is powered by crystal pepsi

He apparently has no brain, and inside his chassis is a void in which several hot dogs and a koi fish float around.

He has a cowboy mode

And last but not least Upgrade (Played by Erin Burke)

She has not received an upgrade since 1996

She left the band in 2011 to become a princess

Her existence was erased from the lore when she left the band then she got retconned back into the lore (I don't know when exactly but around the time of the band's 10th anniversary)

I would do things with the albums but that would take waaayyy too long. Thanks for letting me ramble they are all i have been able to think of for months. Yea so if you get a minute listen to their music and i hope I've convinced you to vote for them.

.

[sauriansolutions]

God dammit God damnit

Tw... bad irl stuff, dead animal/dead pet tw's, severe depression/abuse/suicide tw's. Please I beg you to just scroll past this if you think you don't have the spoons to handle seeing it. Trust me I get it, if it wasn't my stuff I wouldn't want to know about it either.

Fuck I'm really not doing okay.

I just got back from my typical overnight shift, then went grocery shopping for the the 5 things I could afford, and finally came home to find

MY FROG DIED.

She was a little, underweight, green tree frog I got at one of the horrible chain pet stores because they had "boring, normal" tree frogs on sale, and this poor girl was underweight and had only one eye. (I called her Odinna.)

I had her for almost two years. I brought her with me, as one of my few possessions I wasn't forced to just abandon due to lack of space, when I moved cross-country after I couldn't afford to stay as a resident of the state I used to live in anymore.

I found her dead body while receiving a string of texts from my boss chewing me out for apparently stocking a product incorrectly. Some highlights:

"Don't ever (do task I previously claimed I entrusted to you) again!"

"All of (task) has to be redone because you fucked up!"

"If my boss would have seen this. Or his boss. Holy hell."

*also, photos of the hours of work I did last night being angrily undone, just to push the point home?*

I *put a product on the shelf wrong.* (I was never told the correct way.) Call the fucking firing squad, I guess.

It's not even these specific things, it's.

I don't have anybody I feel like I can safely talk about things like this with, otherwise I wouldn't be dumping this on the blog I tried to make for happy escapism.

I've been in so many long-term abusive relationships, I guess I don't know how to NOT be treated like shit. I've been trying though? I'm worried I might be too autistic and cptsd to even recognize what is a toxic relationship versus, I don't know, a normal snag between folks?

Pretty sure my boss and my roommate have been treating me like shit for awhile though. And I'm so dumb, I'm only just starting to recognize the patterns. Again. AGAIN. The same ones that--

Oh but, idk, maybe it's just me though? Maybe I am in fact so annoying, I deserve to have eyes rolled at me, to be cut off every time I try to talk, to be spoken to in this clipped, exasperated tone. Spoken *at*, more like.

But?? I don't think literally everything I say is stupid. I don't think literally everything I do deserves to be ignored if done well; and don't think I deserve to be excessively, humiliatingly berated if I make, (what seem to me at least? it's entirely possible I am the idiot?) really small, ultimately unimportant, and understandable mistakes??

Maybe I'm also insane to think this, but oh no I'm going to go THERE. Yeah so um... I feel like maybe I should be making a living wage? Hey, that would be cool. Maybe I should get at least like, ONE 15-20 minute food break on my "8 hour" overnight shifts? Maybe I should be getting healthcare (and maybe like what, 401k? Other kinds?) of benefits too, (what other kinds of benefits even exist? Dental? Vision?? Who the fuck has ever had their employer buy them glasses that sounds crazy!), esp considering I'm continuing to work my ass off while raw dogging it through venlafaxine withdrawals (lost my health insurance so fuck me I guess!!) and basically destroying my mental health, working anytime, all the time, full-time, with mandatory overtime--

That's only the tip of the goddamned iceberg, but enough, enough, I'm depressing myself too much to go on even just writing this.

Writing this is an exercise in acknowledging that it's all stuff that happened, not some nightmare. And had an effect on me. I had gotten so good at drugging and drinking myself to sleep, and ignoring, and ignoring,

I feel so trapped. I've been trying to like myself more, and there's a certain point that means you have to actually act on things like this, or else you... don't really like yourself that much, do you?

So, even though it is the most anxiety inducing thing ever, I have dipped my toes into "acting on it." To the extent that, recently, for the first time in my life, I've been willingly leaving jobs, friendships, and romantic relationships--if they feel like, if I told my therapist (who exists in my head, I can't afford one) about how they treat me, I can easily imagine them being like, "Wow okay so first of all, red flags all over the place!"

I've been doing this to my own detriment. I'm alone and stuck, unable to afford solo housing, or appropriate medication, or even food and other basic life necessities some of the time.

And here's the kicker.

I really, really don't want to die. In that sense, I'm not suicidal! But, I don't know how I'm supposed to keep existing like this without imploding or exploding in some way, though.

The worst part is just having no time, space, or resources to even start trying to heal. Nobody to even talk to safely... or, imo, ethically. I don't want to inflict this sadness and hopeless on some innocent bystander.

I'm sorry if you are the person reading this right now.

[mae-i-scribble]

Okay so orv has some fairly confusing concepts just thrown at you in the final bits of the novel, and i’m here to throw my 2 cents in on how the dimensional stuff works. Or at least how I understood it after reading and thinking on it for a hot minute. Obviously major spoilers so keep that in mind.

The most ancient dream is the lifeblood of this universe, a world where ways of survival has come to life because 15 year old Dokja’s longing was so strong and so powerful it manifested into reality. Every worldline that exists (sort of) is based in ways of survival. So how is it that 28year old dokja’s world was drawn along? Based on how most ancient dream works, he literally cannot look at worlds that don’t involve ways of survival, because that’s not the story he wants to see. However, it was inevitable that 28yr kdj would eventually become “seen” by the oldest dream, because 28yr kdj unknowingly brought the 1863rd yjh into his timeline.

Okay so. We know kdj is transported to the 1863rd round of ways of survival by secretive plotter, whether in the “original” story or one of the many other timelines isn’t really important, just that it was the 1863rd round for one such yjh. When kdj brings back yjh’s hope, that desire to live, he inspires 1863rd yjh not only to regress, but to find the world where kdj is, because kdj is the one who promised him that he could have a happy life. So yjh not only regresses, he travels across worldlines to find kdj, a fact backed up by secretive plotter who followed 1863rd yjh as yjh was going to “a world he didn’t know.” The moment 1863rd yjh regressed into kdj’s world, that is when the most ancient dream began to look at 28yr old kdj’s world. It wasn’t a world that could exist within the most ancient dream until it became entangled with ways of survival, and it is only because ways of survival started playing out in that timeline that kdj was able to travel to the 1863rd round at all. It follows the same paradox that the other major time paradoxes follow; in a world dictated by novel logic, the past can write itself alongside or after the future, and the future can exist before the past.

It also explains why 28yr kdj is both a character and a candidate for the most ancient dream. They ultimately are one in the same, but 28yr kdj comes from a world most ancient dream never could have imagined, because forget only focusing on ways of survival, 15yr kdj never even imagined himself capable of growing up. Of course 28yr kdj is going to be a “character,” because how else is the most ancient dream supposed to rationalize it in his mind?

Off topic, but it is somewhat funny in that in trying to bring about his own demise/trying to prove a point to kdj secretive plotter actually is responsible for creating ways of survival and bringing about the entire plot of the novel by letting kdj inspire hope in 1863rd yjh. Like wow. Fucked up big time didn’t ya buddy. Good thing you found your absolution bc if not that would have fuckin sucked.

[chalkrevelations]

So, second week of 15 Minutes with KPTS, which is about the time Ep 1 takes to pull back and begin showing us the families of our titular protagonists, notably their main drivers/motivators, aka Korn re: Kinn and Chay debt Chay re: Porsche.

I went a little past 15 minutes last week, and arguably, that extra minute and a half could also slot in here, as it mainly includes the Bodyguard Farm rolling up to rescue Kinn from a gas-station parking lot in the middle of Plebtown – which is our first look at Ken, Arm, Pol and Blurry Pete – and that’s kind of Kinn’s home environment, if you wanted to stretch it. (The bodyguards rolling up in fancy cars, not a gas-station parking lot in the middle of Plebtown. More’s the pity. It would probably be good for him, given the way he enjoys the wilderness in Ep 6.) We actually already saw a bit of this, as Kinn’s walking out of the family compound to the car when the ep opens, which is only just now hitting me – we get introduced to both Kinn and Porsche “on the job” before moving to home/family in the first half hour, and the fact that home is also technically “on the job” for Kinn tells us something about how he always has to have work face on – there’s no real private space for him to escape to, he lives in the family compound, where the family does business, which means that everything, at some level, is business, and he's never NOT the Heir To The Theerapanyakul (Mafia) Empire. That boundary blurring has not and will not serve him well.

So, we technically get Kinn’s home/family environment as the first one we have exposure to, and it’s pretty cold and emotionally off-putting, if glammed up (poor little rich boy?). But from here, we cut to Porsche on his motorcycle, rolling up to his slightly shabby home lit up in warm and inviting tones of yellow, with fairy lights in the trees and a swing in the yard and candles burning in the house, and where we’re introduced to more plot points than we realize at the time: Pictures of Namphueng and Red-Shirt McKittisawasd, along with Chay and Porsche; “Uncle” Arthee, after going a few rounds with someone who’s a better fighter than he is; debt debt debt; and discussion of “Chai,” who came around to collect the rent. Meanwhile, Chay’s trying to patch up Arthee, and apparently it’s a good thing Uncle was around, or they might have hurt Chay instead, and I’m left wondering once again about the actual extent of Bee Pongsate’s imprint on this script, two weeks after watching high-school student Sailom on Dangerous Romance get the shit kicked out of him over payment on a debt while his older working brother/caretaker wasn’t home.

Anyway, we’re immediately given a front-row seat to how overly parentalized Porsche is. The parental figures in the happy family photo are nowhere to be seen and in fact have their portraits set on a mantle between two lighted candles in a display reminiscent of a shrine. Porsche is in charge of family finances (prioritizing Chay’s tuition over the rent), and spends part of this time reassuring his baby brother when Chay apologizes for … existing and going to school. “Uncle” Arthee has (supposedly) lost all his money investing in crypto, looks to Porsche for answers and can’t even feed himself, apparently. Porsche tells Arthee and Chay to eat the dinner he brought home, saying he already ate, which is a blatant lie, and such a Mom poverty thing to do I could scream into a pillow. We’re also going to additionally learn later in this segment that the fighting skills we’ve seen Porsche display in his rescue of Kinn are mainly put to use underground street-fighting, when we smash-cut to a fighting pit that looks like an empty abandoned swimming pool, where guys are kicking the shit out of each other for the amusement of a lot of people in designer clothes who are busy dancing and literally waving around fistfuls of cash in between bouts of guys getting their teeth knocked out. We meet both Jom and the phoenix tattoo at the fighting pit. Apo literally struts around with Porsche’s chest literally pushed out like it’s a literal cockfight. We get our first badly integrated product placement. We get feral Porsche, tongue between his teeth, probably appreciating having somebody to take out his aggression and frustration on. We get Porsche getting kicked in the face, clotheslined and crawling to his feet before finally taking out his final opponent because the promoter told him to draw it out, and then getting shorted his fee because he didn’t draw it out long enough. ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?

I mean, yes – yes, I am, and I’m going to miss street-fighting Porsche when this plot thread just gets dropped later, but I’m also going to point out that there’s a significant single-mom-to-sex-work pipeline and say that the fighting pit is, maybe, another look at Porsche as hustler, particularly the way he’s supposed to fix his bout by extending it. We’ve seen him sell himself as sex appeal in his job at the bar, and he’s selling his body here just as much as if he was selling it for sex, and no less than he’ll be selling it to the Theerapanyakuls in order to help pay off debt and Chay’s tuition by working as a bodyguard + whatever kind of extra relationship Korn was envisioning with Kinn. Korn will buy Porsche as a companion for Kinn, just as surely as Kinn pays for the time and services of those very tasteful escorts we see him with, and I will remember all of this, every single bit of it, when we learn certain things later about Korn Theerapanyakul.

Anyway, back to the scenes with Chay and Arthee, and speaking of hindsight during a re-watch, I was very interested in watching Arthee’s face when he looks at the watch that Porsche brought home. When you know his background, you can realize he recognizes it, and it’s one reason he’s so apprehensive when he asks if Porsche stole it. He supposedly takes it and pawns it, but I have my doubts whether that actually happens or if he just shows up at the servants’ entrance of Chez Theerapanyakul with it in hand to return to Korn and gets given some money to make his story seem plausible. There’s also a point here when he apologizes to Porsche and says that he’s supposed to be helping them but he’s only making things worse. With re-watch hindsight, I have a moment to wonder how many levels he means this on, before I then suddenly wonder if this sadsack motherfucker is actually Vegas Theerapanyakul levels of manipulative and is using the truth to garner sympathy.

We spend less time with Kinn in this 15-minute segment, and the scene in Chez Theerapanyakul begins with Chan showing up typically stone-faced to report to Korn on the extent of Big’s gunshot wound and expected recuperation time, which is apparently months. Which is interesting, because as disposable as the bodyguards seem to be at other times, I’m a little surprised they’re willing to keep a winged one around for months of light duty – does he have to take a cut in pay? Or is Big special somehow? On hearing this, Korn looks around and asks “So, are you happy now?” in a “See how you fucked up?” tone of voice, and we pull back to see that Kinn is in attendance on his father, standing behind Korn and his potter’s wheel, where Korn is badly forming some kind of vessel and metaphor out of clay, attempting to mold it to his wishes (:coff coff:).

I suddenly realize that this is the first thing we ever hear Korn say to his son: “Are you happy now (that you have made a mess of things)?” Well, that’s going to set a trend. Also, if Porsche is overly parentalized in this segment, then by contrast, Kinn gets treated a lot like a recalcitrant child, an impression that isn't helped by his acting like one. He’s got his head down as Korn scolds him, telling him that, in this business, he needs to know his place (OH, REALLY, Puppetmaster?) and talking about how, when Korn was starting out, he had be be respectful and bring gifts. Kinn’s had his head down this whole time, but this is the point when we get a shit-eating grin as he reassures Korn that he sent Don an apology gift – a pile of goons literally tied up in red ribbon, we see. Kinn’s clearly amused with himself. Chan’s still stone-faced. Korn leaves, and Kinn looks at a computer tablet, which we eventually see has security camera footage from the alley of Porsche saving his ass from machete killers. (Oh, shit. Does that mean somebody’s got footage of every time Porsche fucked a customer, plus the VP meeting from Ep 13?)

Kinn wants to know if Chan's found Jom, yet.

Because that’s what Porsche said his name was.

:facepalm:

Gets us to 29:20 for this week.