#the official tag is as follows for those who may want to mute it !!!!

[childrenofthenightt]

grammys on the 5th how about a liveblog to spice things up !!!!!

[jeriafterdark]

813 - The Reprise, Part 4/? - Dec 19, 2021

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Three.1

Masterpost for all parts

Hey everyone, it's been awhile since my last update. I've been following Uncle Li's struggles against CAPA and the Chinese entertainment industry as a whole since my last update on Dec 3, 2021. I'll only be covering things that I feel are distinct steps in ZZH's case, or that may be important for c-ent as a whole.

Let's get to it.

Thank you to all the referenced translators on Twitter, they’re the real heroes here ^^ Do check them out and give them a follow if you’d like a play-by-play on ZZH/CAPA/Uncle Li.

1. Wang LeeHom (a famous C singer) / WLH had a recent scandal where his wife revealed many facts about their relationship

WLH's wife came out and revealed that he's been an abusive husband / neglectful husband and such to her, with receipts. How does this relate to CAPA/ZZH/Uncle Li? Well, Uncle Li even predicted that CAPA will allow this scandal to make it to the Hot Search on weibo to take the heat off of themselves. Although, CAPA hasn't added his name to their supposed "immoral actors" list, I wonder why...? (We all know why, money probably paid them off).

2. Dec 16 - Uncle Li / LXZ - posted an article from China Youth Daily (that was published Aug, 25, 2021)

It detailed many different people from artists to politicians who had their pasts dug up by others with the intent of causing one’s “social death,” which we collectively call ‘cancel culture’ here in the West.

“In fact, people’s behavior online is only a very small aspect of life, looking at one’s online past is overemphasized.” Moreover, who can open up their QQ (C facebook) from 10 years ago and not feel embarrassed?

It’s interesting that this article was published after 813. Was it in consideration of ZZH’s case? Or were they tone-deaf? Who knows. Uncle Li certainly is suave at choosing what to post, to call the attention of the government and its people.

3. Dec 15 - Uncle Li invited a few Law professors to livestream on several platforms including Bilibili, Weibo, etc on CAPA and any legal implications of their goings-on.

This was notoriously watched by millions of people, but the platforms kept interrupting his stream on multiple outlets. Not only that, the law firm who was involved was muted on Weibo too? They were only trying to educate the public about current laws that govern this industry. But of course, those with power and in power generally do not want the public knowing about actual laws that would help common people. I can see why their effort was thwarted. Uncle Li emphasized later that it’s not the platform’s fault, that he and the professors should have run it by BiliBili/etc first to warn them. The platforms are also under careful scrutiny by the government, so any wrong moves would be hefty fines. (Does this imply that there are those in the government also involved? I would say yes. Of course. For where is the most power often concentrated? That doesn’t mean the official stance of the c-gov is against Uncle Li, no. There are probably players in the government who are double dipping, benefitting from CAPA, and who have been sending threats to Uncle Li (he’s noted these threats before, but is unconcerned)).

The Weibo CEO also thought he was being cheeky by saying

"If you're a man, you'd last at least 10minutes. I know stamina for 60min is an issue for a middle aged man but I have faith in you."

It’s kind of insane to me that his PR department lets him speak lol. Does he think he’s that powerful? He’s made digs at Uncle Li’s pursuit for justice before. This is just another in a long line of childish insults.

To get back at him, netizens created a tag #来总 3秒# "Weibo CEO, 3 seconds"

4. A supposed contract to silence ZZH for 6 months - 1 year + Antis have been mobilized

Uncle Li shared an anonymous story that talks about anti’s (anti-fans, basically trolls or paid trolls), who took on the job to ruin ZZH. The contract included a clause stating that they must ensure that he disappeared for more than 6 mo to a year before they receive the rest of their payment. (Long screen-capped image here)

OP’s note: To have such powerful players and money back a concerted effort to destroy one’s career for at least a year… What did ZZH do? Was he that powerful and popular? Sigh. More on my thoughts later.

5. Happy News: ZZH’s mother received over 20,000 story submissions for her tea shop’s story contest

For her contest, “my story, your tea,” she received over 20,000 submissions. So she’s expanding to 20 winners :) I’m sure many of those stories are well-wishes from ZZH’s fans. She estimates that all will be completed by Dec 25.

6. Uncle Li ensures that the relevant authorities already have the case in hand.

The relevant gov. Agencies are looking into CAPA and are gathering evidence. This process may take awhile as they are trying to be thorough. So there may not be many new updates, but we’ll see. He optimistically said maybe he could get it done by this year?? Or up to a year or two from now. We’ll just have to sit tight. I’m glad that he’s still standing up for ZZH, for c-ent, and he’s clever enough to avoid all the dirt and mud that people are slinging at him. These were my impressions from Dec 3 to now, I forgot which tweets it was from but there were many with the same idea.

Conclusion so far, my thoughts:

Soooo, Uncle Li is ensuring that he’s plugging away at ZZH’s case. The tag “justice for the people '' is now at BILLIONSSS of views btw. And still no hot search. Who knew that Chinese entertainment was so interconnected, so corrupt that all the platforms essentially operate with shadowy back alley transactions? I didn’t know it was this bad. But I’m no expert in entertainment behind-the-scenes.

I think this experience teaches us all, even those outside of China, an important idea. That no matter who you are, you’re always vulnerable to someone digging up your past and smearing you. As long as the money is paid, and as long as you angered the right/wrong people. Sometimes, there will be an Uncle Li to stand up and defend you. But most of the time, there won’t be. So as a member of the public, when you hear a new rumor, or you’re so far removed from some celebrity’s scandal, just remember to keep in mind that what you hear may not be true. Give the situation time for concrete evidence to show. Don’t be baited into participating against hating someone. (Not that ZZH did anything wrong, to be fair).

You can always change your mind. The victim may have done some shit in the past, but they can also always change their mind. Let’s judge people for who they choose to be, right now. Not who they once were. I think that’s the best way forward. It’s NOT to say that I’m not annoyed, or I don’t fall into the rumor pit-traps either. But it’s too easy to ruin someone’s life. I don’t want to do that, or have a hand in that. I’m a fan of restorative justice, healing justice. I don’t want to punish someone forever, their life is only theirs, I don’t have to live it. Life sucks enough, the world is already dying, why make it harder for ourselves?

You can always change your mind, and so can other people~ Thanks for reading!

[no-disco]

Sounds, 27th June 1981. Photos by Virginia Turbett

transcription under the cut

photos and article taked from sacreddm.net on the wayback machine

  Five months ago the prospect of doing an interview shut inside an airless, sterile studio would have made Depeche Mode run all the way home to Basildon. But then five months, as Wowington Woy would say, is a long time in the wacky world of wock and woll. One look at Vince Clarke sitting confidently behind the mixing desk and shorts-sporting Martin Gore’s welcoming smile and I knew things would be hunky dory.

  Dan “The Man” Miller quickly ordered Martin back in front of the mike to contribute his part to the now characteristic Mode quasi-barbershop harmonics on a new track which might be the new single, or possibly the start of the (gasp) album.

  “I just can’t get enough, I just can’t get enough,” sung Mart.

  But he had, and stopped for a cuppa and a chat.

  Les Moders, as I’ve hinted, are now 100% more confident, talkative, witty and brighter than all other known brands of washing powder. (Shurely shome mishtake?) Vince set his synth onto random programming to break the icky atmosphere and we commenced. How appropriate! With one record set straight – ie Depeche Mode aren’t shy, incommunicative, fragile young things at all, here’s the official mode of pronunciation: Depech-ay, if you please. “It’s probably grammatically wrong,” said Vince. “But we like it that way.” [1]

  Okay. Depecheeee Mode are laying down lotsa new tracks, having come to a halt after mucho gigging around London following the surprise success of “Dreaming Of Me” and even bigger surprise of “New Life”. Up until now Andy and Martin have had day jobs so the touring principle is only now an ongoing viability. Offers of the calibre of Classix and Toyah had been pouring in, but Vince reckoned it wasn’t the best thing for them to do at the time. Martin considered that the Classix tour may have tied them irrevocably to the futuromanticism tag which they’ve steadfastly been trying (unsuccessfully) to avoid.

  But of the bands who secured deals following the “Some Bizzare” LP, Depeche have fared the best: their simple, uncomplicated synthi-pop tunes are terribly hard to dislike, after all.

  “We had a sad day on Tuesday, though,” said David Gahan, crest suddenly fallen, “we expected “New Life” to go up a bit more. I think we all thought it wasn’t gonna do much at first, but inside… You can’t tell.”

  Funny, ’cos “New Life” is definitely even more instant than the debut… Vince: “It’s really up isn’t it.”

  David: “We learned a lot from “Dreaming”, came in here and just did a better job on the next one.”

  And that riveting little synth riff is still locked in my head, reminding me of God-knows-what. Just an old r&b riff, said Vince. No, it’s a good job they do have insistent hooks – David reckoned people have beaucoup de trouble remembering the name:

  “I bet they get to the shop and forget the name. They go on, hum the tune and say oh, can’t remember the name, I’ll have that Duran Duran one instead!”

  Andy Fletcher suggested Dep Mod as an abbreviation in fine Orch Man tradition. An imaginary lightbulb above Vince’s head suddenly fired him with a cracking good idea.

  “When your photographer comes,” he smirked, “can we have a picture taken in the back of Dan’s Renault? Just like Spandau Ballet? Only there’ll be five of us in the back, and we’ll all be squashed up like this…” (David imitates dead sardine)

  OK, wrench those tongues out of yer cheeks, boys. Mutemobile, indeed? It is true that they did well in the US Disco charts and have great appeal for Europe too… deals are currently being set up with several different majors to get Mode released in France, Germany et al. Many doubted the ability of Mute and Miller to break the Modes, but for an indie they’ve broken the required barriers.

  David: “We would much rather have had points than big advances, and we’ve got that with Daniel – he’s proved he can get us what we want, there’s nothing he can’t do – that we haven’t found out yet!”

  Andy: “Indies are at their height, they never used to get in the charts before.”

  David: “And radio stations are more likely to play indies.”

  Vince: “They have to pay less royalties!”

  David: “Radio One have been very good to us – 3 plays a day on this one. They said they’d stick with it, give it lots of airplay.”

  So from the insecure, nervous and unsure start, things have actually turned out as they’d hoped?

  Vince: “It has really. You learn things very quickly. With Mute we know everything that’s going on, we’re in contact with distributors, pluggers and promotion people every day.”

  Andy: “What we don’t know is what a major is like. We’re quite happy with our set up, but we don’t know if the distribution could be better.”

  Aah, but Rough Trade gets you into those little shops that the hordes of independent buyers frequent, you lucky boys.

  Andy then proceeded to go off at a tangent (this is not unusual), musing about how the band’s audiences had changed, become much younger. No-one else agreed.

  David: “We get a varied audience, you can’t say that at all!”

  Vince: “In clubs an’ that, the audience is already there, they haven’t come to see us.”

  David: “Don’t be silly! You can’t say everywhere we play has a fixed audience!”

  Andy: “You’re getting worse than Martin now��� Martin hasn’t said one thing yet!”    Martin woke up. “I’m saving it up, it’s all going to come out in a minute, I’m just waiting for the right question.”

  We launched into a discussion about clubs, people not dressing up as much as they used to and the sight of Midge Ure sending lace-clad young girls into the water and into a frenzy at Crystal Pal last week.

  This caused much amusement.

  Andy: “That’s what Martin does!”

  Martin: “You’re asking for it, Fletch…”

  To avert a full-scale war, I mentioned my liking for the “Rio” mix of “Shout!”, B-Side of their first ever 12”. They love the rhythm, but the song? David loves it, Vince hates it, Martin says so-so. Humph. It’s the first dancefloor oriented thing they’ve done tho’, eh?

  Andy: “Apart from the things we did when we were Light Of The World…” Silence… laughter!

  They all paused to watch Daniel frowning in the control room, doubtless searching for that stray note out of tune. A conspiracy brewed. “What was that thing we wanted in Jaws about Daniel?” they whispered. “Nooooo – don’t put it in, he’d know it was us… if you say it, Andy, you’re the one – we all tried to stop you!” [2]

  Andy turned to me with a probing question. “Who told you about the folk group and church hall thing?” (Referring to a gossip item about their acoustic past). “We practised in a church hall, that’s all.” [3]

  And they’re recording in a deconsecrated church now! [4]

  David: “Yeah, we just love churches.”

  Martin: “You wait till you hear our new single – it’s a gospel song.”

  David: “It’s called “Have You Got The Sunshine Smile”.”

  Andy sung the words, gesticulating his finger at his smiling lips in Sunday School teacher style.

  David: “On the picture bag, there’s Andy’s face, and when you press his nose, a finger comes out and there’s Martin inside showing the actions. Martin doing the Mode!”

  And they chorused: “Have you got the sunshine HA-HA-HA HEE HEE.” I think this is what we in the trade call a joke…

  On entering studiospace, I’d noticed Darryl, Fan Club President and original Silicon Teen, scribbling away replies to D Mode fan mail. Are they getting lots?

  David: “Not really. We were just trying to impress you! We were s’posed to have this Postman come in just after you with a great big sack!”

  Andy: “Yeah, binfuls of used biros, hard skin on our fingers where we’ve been writing so much!”

  Well, I saw at least ten letters.

  David: “A lot of them are really young. This 13 year old boy wrote us a story using words from the singles and sent us some badge designs.”

  Vince: “We’re pop! Ultra pop!”

  Andy: “People write to us from up North but they haven’t seen us. We want to branch out from London, but first we must rehearse new material, we’ve been doing the same set for 4 months. The live show should be better, more danceable.”

  Daniel looked quizzical again. The boys told him to stop listening in.

  Andy: “He’s a great man. Look – the ultimate picture of Daniel Miller, father of electronic music…”

  Vince: “Grandfather, more like.”

  Daniel the scolding father retorted, “I can hear you.”

  A man from ITV arrived to discus Dep Mod’s appearance on a 20th Century Box prog on the Essex music scene, past and present. Depeche are to be filmed live at Croc’s in Rayleigh, and filmed au naturel around Basildon, all to be shown sometime in August.

  “You can film my usual Saturday morning routine,” joked David. “Have a sauna, go to a brothel, then a commando course… Nah, it’ll be Andy waking up at 5am, having ’is toast and going down the newsagents for his paper round. Boys next door!” He concluded, sensibly: “It doesn’t matter if we’re sitting on the loo – a minute on tele is better than a thousand radio plays.”

  Andy came over all pensive again, wondering why so many of their interviews spent more time talking about Daniel than the band.

  “There’s nothing really that people can say about us is there? All other bands go on about political things, we don’t talk about our views.”

  Dave: “We don’t have political views, I don’t think.”

  Andy: “There’s always an extrovert member of a band with strong views.” [5]

  Vince: “We don’t stand for anything united do we?”

  Andy: “We haven’t got a person who’s domineering.”

  David: “That’s good!”

  Andy: “On the other hand, that’s why our interviews are very empty, ’cause usually the loudmouth of a band goes on about what the Labour party are doing or something.”

  Martin: “Sexism always comes up too, especially with HM bands.”

  David: “They always talk about sex.”

  Vince: “It’s all that macho stuff.”

  Macho. Dep Mod certainly aren’t Macho. Now they were in a more reflective mood, I asked what their immediate hopes for the future were.

  Chorus: “Ultimate success!”

  David: “We’re happy as it is, we’d just like some money.”

  Vince: “We want to change our sound, get some new stuff together, get a good live show.”

  Vince: “We don’t want to get like Kraftwerk, we don’t want to use tapes any more. We’ve got a rhythm unit with a TV screen that plays Space Invaders as well!” [6]

  Andy: “We want to give the show more of an aura.”

  David: “Down the Bridgehouse?!”

  Now there’s a thought… anything else?

  David: “Yes, Andy would love to have a cult following, be underground. We have gigs in here when Vince is getting down on the mixer, and Andy sings! Things get on top of you in the studio – you have to do something to let it all go, so we come in here and scream and shout.”

  The lads played me a tape of impromptu raw electro-punk with Crass-style vocals by Andy, featuring a cover version of “Simple Simon Says”, “You’re Gonna Lose That Girl” and a sensitive rendition of a popular school hymn. There’s that religious influence again… But they need this relief valve from the precise orderliness required to produce their brand of neatly-packed pop songs – operating, generating new life for our pop kids.

  A lot of people know the name Depeche Mode now. Now you know who they are, what they are. Like their boss, they’re all heart – boys next door who turn into Ultra Popsters at the flick of a switch. Mode: strictly not avant-garde.

[minijenn]

Keys Comm #5

Woooo baby we got a big ol bundle of angst with this comm. Its for an anonymous commissioner, who wanted some angsty interactions between Sora and Young Xehanort following (spoilers?) Sora officially joining the Organization in Keys. This is a pretty fun dynamic to explore (its why its popped up in the last two chapters cause I think its fascinating), so enjoy the angstfest ahead (also if you reblog this do not tag any ships bc thats not what this is if you do i will scratch your eyes out k thanx!)

***

Even though he’s died on more than one occasion, Sora has never felt closer to death’s door than he does now. Now that he’s following his foes willingly, walking through the gates of a castle he’d once stormed as a conquering hero. Only to return as nothing more than a lowly slave.

Ansem and Xemnas head off in separate ways not long after they arrive, leaving Sora alone with Young Xehanort. The young master turns to him with his usual calm grin, though it's tinged with a touch of smug satisfaction that Sora might have once found sickening. But now, he can only incline his head in forced respect for his master, listening in solemn silence to whatever it is he has to say.

“Welcome to your true home, my thirteenth,” he says cordially. “After your last visit here, I trust you know your way around, so I’ll spare you the grand tour. I will, however, gladly show you to your room.”

Sora glances up at this, caught off guard. “...My room?”

“Of course,” Young Xehanort beckons him to follow as he continues on through the castle’s grayscale halls. “Did you really think we’d be barbaric enough to force our most invaluable member to sleep in a dungeon cell?”

“That’s… exactly what I was thinking…” Sora mutters, glancing down.

“I know,” Young Xehanort returns, reminding him yet again that his thoughts are essentially an open book to be read by his master, both old and young alike. “Still, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the room we’ve prepared for you. It used to belong to our previous thirteenth member, you know.”

Sora’s gaze snaps up when he hears this, a pang of grief tugging at his heart at even this indirect mention of Roxas. At even just the thought of any of the beloved friends he’s now lost forever. That grief stings even more when he steps through the threshold of the chamber Young Xehanort takes him to, a clean, largely vacant bedroom that he can all too easily imagine Roxas occupying. A bedroom that’s meant for the Organization’s thirteenth member, both back then… and even now.

“You can take all the time you’d like to settle in later,” Young Xehanort says, still standing in the doorway. “Your induction ceremony is set to begin shortly, and you mustn’t be late for it.”

“I-induction?” Sora glances back at him, confused.

“A way for you to formally accept your place among your fellow members,” Young Xehanort explains. “Believe me when I say they’re all very eager to welcome you into the fold, Sora. However, you will not stand before your Organization wearing that.”

Sora looks down at his usual clothes, already anticipating where this is likely going. Even so, he tries to bite back the rising dread when he asks the obvious question. “What will I be wearing then?”

Young Xehanort’s former grin returns as a bundle of black fabric appears over his outstretched arm. Sora takes in a small, sharp breath when he sees it, the final piece to tie his hideous new appearance together, meant to show exactly what side he stands on now. The side of darkness, the side of his master, the side of Organization XIII.

Sora says nothing as he takes the coat, staring down at it in muted despair. Of course, Young Xehanort only serves to rub salt in the wound with what he has to say next. “Wear it with pride, my thirteenth. It was made to help you to look the part of the role you’re very soon about to play.”

“...What “part” is that anyway?” Sora dares to ask, even though he knows he shouldn’t. “Now that I’m here, don’t I at least deserve to finally know why you chose me and what you want me to do?”

“You’ve already been told why,” Young Xehanort tells him as he turns to leave. “As for what… you’ll learn that in due time, my thirteenth. For now, you have an hour to prepare for your ceremony. I’ll be back to collect you when you’re ready. And remember: everything from the life you knew before must be cast off before you step into our ranks. You belong to us now, Sora; never forget that.”

“I-I won’t… master,” Sora replies, wishing with every fiber of freedom his ruined mind and broken heart has left that he could.

“Very good,” Young Xehanort says, still smiling as he leaves his thirteenth vessel to himself. True to his word, he returns exactly an hour later, and is visibly pleased to see Sora fully clad in his new black coat, finally ready to perfectly fit in among his fellow seekers of darkness.

“Our attire suits you well, Sora,” Young Xehanort notes as he looks over his newest vessel. “Isn’t this much better than those ridiculous clothes the lights gave you to wear?”

Sora doesn’t answer; instead, he glances back at those clothes, folded neatly on the bed behind him. Young Xehanort notices them too, as well as the look of longing written all over Sora’s face. Longing for something he can no longer be a part of. “I’ll dispose of those for you,” he offers, extending a hand out to receive them.

Sora hesitates, his sights still set on the clothes before he briefly offers his master a morose, pleading glance. “C-can I keep them? Please?”

“Really?” Young Xehanort raises a critical eyebrow at this request. “You wish to keep something that will only ever serve to remind you of all of the pain and turmoil you’ve been through? Didn’t you come here to escape the grief the loss of the lights left you with? Wouldn’t you much rather forget about the life you left behind? Don’t you want a fresh start, Sora? A clean slate? A new beginning with your new family?”

No, Sora desperately wants to say, but he doesn’t. He knows he can’t; because whatever family he used to have and love so dearly is long gone now. And the only one he has left is a family he never once thought he’d be a part of. Until now. “Y-yes,” he says softly, a single tear streaking down his cheek. “I do…”

“Then let us go so that family can receive you,” Young Xehanort says, his hand still held out. “But first, your old clothes.” Sora hesitantly nods, slowly taking the clothes from his bed before handing them over to the young master, his hands trembling all the while. “You may not believe it yet, my thirteenth,” Young Xehanort continues, urging Sora onward down the hall. “But you truly do belong here with us. At long last, you’re finally home.”

Sora says nothing to this, his head hung in saddened silence as he begins his solemn march to his long-awaited induction ceremony. Young Xehanort lingers behind for a moment as a dark corridor appears behind him and Saïx steps out of it, exactly as he requested. “Burn these,” the young master coldly commands, handing Sora’s old clothes over to the other member before he continues on his way. “I never want to see them again.”

***

Sora quickly finds that in a world with no real passage of time, the days blend together in a dull, dreary drudgery. He isn’t given any specific tasks to carry out like his fellow members are, with his master merely explaining that his true role is meant to be carried out “at a later time”. So instead, he’s largely left to his own devices. And most of that idle time is spent alone in his room, overwhelmed by grief as he openly despairs over everything that he so swiftly lost.

That grief hardly stays contained to his room however. His powers react to his immense misery, blackened spikes bursting from the gray ground not just in his chambers, but throughout the hallway surrounding it too. Complaints begin to file in from the other members, who find the unbreakable spires to be a gaudy nuisance at best and an impassable obstacle to getting around their own home at worst. And those complaints are what prompts Young Xehanort to pay his newest vessel a visit in the hopes of nipping this newfound problem in the bud.

He enters his thirteenth’s room without knocking, finding Sora sitting on his bed, his knees pulled to his chest and his face buried in them as he weeps softly. Countless black spikes litter the area surrounding him, all but destroying the once pristine room. Young Xehanort scowls as he steps past one of those spikes, interrupting his vessel’s despondent sobs when he speaks up.

“Why are you still mourning over the past?” he asks and Sora glances up with a startled gasp, his eyes still red with tears. “It’s been 2 weeks since you’ve joined our ranks, my thirteenth. You must learn to move on.”

“I-I… I can’t…” Sora looks away, his voice quiet and pained. “I miss them so much…”

“No, you don’t,” Young Xehanort counters as he approaches the bed. “What you miss is the memory of how you felt about them. If you let those feelings go, then you can finally find the strength to move forward.”

“I… I don’t know how to let them go…” Sora admits, leaving out the fact that he doesn’t want to let them go either. That he doesn’t want to forget them or how he felt about them or how much he loved them, how much he still loves them, even now that they’re all long gone.

“Then allow me to show you,” Young Xehanort extends a hand out. And despite his better judgement, it's a hand that Sora anxiously takes as he lets his master ease him into properly sitting up.

“The lesson you need to learn here is a simple one,” Young Xehanort begins, taking a seat on the bed next to him. “Your emotions weigh you down; they always have, and if you continue to let them get the better of you, they always will. You’ve been letting those emotions, your fear, your grief, your worry, cloud your mind and rule your heart. Your magic thus responds to them in turn, making your powers chaotic and uncontrollable.” He places a hand against one of the several spikes surrounding them. “Stopping those emotions from coming completely will take much time and practice for someone as young as you, but you can accomplish it eventually. In the meantime, you can start by suppressing them. And in doing so, you can finally begin to truly live the new life I’ve so generously given to you.”

Sora stays silent for a long moment upon hearing all this, trying to soak it all in. His tears have stopped by now as he finally takes stock of the mess his magic has made of his room, at the disastrous danger he’s always known his powers to pose. He tries to call them back in, but with his sadness still stirring so strongly within him, he finds it to be a largely impossible feat. Unless… “Suppress them?” he looks to his master, lost and confused. “Y-you mean… pretend I don’t feel… anything anymore?”

“Precisely,” Young Xehanort nods. “Pretend… until everyone around you believes in the mask you’ve put on. Until you believe in it yourself. And when you do, suddenly you’ll find that you won’t even have to pretend any longer. The mask will become real.”

This kind of advice is something that’s entirely new to Sora. All his life, he’s been told that his emotions are important, that they matter, that they’re what make him strong, what make him bold, what make him human. But now, he’s being told to throw those emotions away, to cast them off and put on the same mask of cold indifference that every other one of his fellow members so easily wears. It’s not a mask he wants, nor is it one he welcomes; but if it can numb the pain he still so powerfully feels, at least in some small way, then it's a mask he knows he might as well wear. At least until he doesn’t have to anymore.

So he closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and forces those emotions back into the depths of his heart. For as difficult as it might be, he somehow shoves the grief, the guilt, the pain, all of it under the surface, just as his master had said. And, when he opens his eyes again, he finds that every single one of the spikes his emotions had unintentionally created… is gone.

“I… it worked…” he balks, genuinely surprised.

“So it did,” Young Xehanort nods his approval. “But this is just the start of what you could do if you learned to truly control your powers, Sora. Your magic is very unique, so strong, yet so untamed in its current state. The lights wanted you to lock that magic, that part of yourself that’s so natural and so special, away simply because they deemed it to be ‘dangerous’. But here in the darkness, you’re free to wield those powers however and whenever you please. You’re finally free to be yourself.”

Free… not to express his emotions anymore, but his powers in their place. And really, now that he’s come all this way and has started settling into his place among the shadows, that’s exactly what Sora realizes he needs to do. To embrace who he is now… and leave behind whoever he used to be.

“P-please,” he begins, looking to his master earnestly. “I want to… I’ve never been able to…” he trails off, shaking his head as he steadies himself and starts his request again. “C-can you show me how to use my powers the right way, master?”

Young Xehanort grins broadly, a spark of what almost seems like pride flashing across his face as he places a hand on his newest vessel’s shoulder. “Oh, my thirteenth,” he says, his grip on the boy tightening ever so slightly as he speaks. “I would be more than happy to.”

***

Sora does what he can to avoid the other Organization members. He isn’t fond of the idea of forming a friendly relationship with any of his foes-turned-allies, and he’s certain just about all of them feel the same. So he mostly keeps to himself, only really leaving his room for the sake of magic lessons with his master and to fetch some food every few times a day. For the most part, he isn’t bothered by any of the other members he happens to pass by on his way to the castle’s kitchen. A few, such as Vexen or Demyx, will sometimes shoot him dirty looks, but otherwise won’t say anything to him. But of course, today on his way to get something for lunch, he’s unfortunate enough to quite literally run into two of the members who openly hate him most.

He’s largely lost in his own thoughts when he rounds a corner, only to collide squarely into Larxene. “Ugh! Stupid brat!” she hisses, harshly shoving Sora to the ground. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?!”

“Now, now, Larxene,” Marluxia says as he steps in to stand alongside her. “We shouldn’t be so rude to our newest member. After all, I’m sure it's very hard for him to focus on much of anything other than how much he misses his dearest, now-dead friends…”

“Pfft,” Larxene snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, poor little kiddo must be soooo lonely.” She grins wickedly as she suddenly reaches down, grabbing Sora by the front of his coat and pulling him up off the ground. “If you’re that bummed out, why don’t we keep you company for awhile?”

“N-no thanks,” Sora shudders, trying his best to pull away from Larxene’s surprisingly tight grip. “You really don’t have to-”

“Nonsense,” Marluxia says with a smug smirk to perfectly match Larxene’s. “We’d be remiss if we didn’t take the opportunity to spend some… quality time with our newest member. And besides-” Sora gasps in sudden fear when Marluxia summons his deadly scythe, Larxene’s knives flashing into her free hand as she holds them up threateningly. “We both have some unfinished business with you, number thirteen.”

Larxene abruptly throws him to the ground once more, calling upon a dark barrier in the space behind Sora to keep him from slipping away. “Aw, don’t look so scared, Sora,” she chuckles as both her and Marluxia brandish their weapons. “We just wanna have a little fun with you…”

“Fun indeed…” Marluxia agrees, drawing the tip of his scythe in dangerously close to Sora. “And perhaps… just a little payback too…”

Sora is unable to stifle a pained cry as the scythe suddenly rips across the right side of his jaw, creating a long, deep cut that tears all the way up toward his nose. The blood from it leaks across the rest of his face, to the point that he accidentally catches a taste of the bitter fluid when it inevitably leaks into his mouth. He doesn’t get a chance to nurse the new wound however, before a sharp, brutal shock ripples its way through his body, sending him flying back hard into the barrier behind him. Larxene laughs in twisted amusement as she keeps her electrifying magic pouring into him, until he quickly reaches the point where he can’t bear the agony of it any longer.

“S-stop!” he cries in the seconds between shocks. “P-please… stop…”

“You’ve resorted to begging for mercy?” Marluxia sneers unsympathetically. “And just when I thought you couldn’t get any more pathetic.”

“Seriously, what are you? Some kind of dumb dog that thinks those sad little puppy eyes of yours will convince us to cut you some slack? Please,” Larxene scoffs, raising her knives to toss them his way. “Get over yourself. You might have gotten lucky enough to beat us both before, but you’re nothing now.”

“Nothing more than a shadow of who you used to be,” Marluxia adds, raising his scythe high for another painful strike. Sora braces himself for the brunt of both attacks, closing his eyes and shielding himself away from the vicious torture they both intend to put him through. And yet in the end, those attacks never come.

He opens his eyes seconds later when he hears the sounds of Marluxia and Larxene’s weapons striking solid metal. The pair winces in apt surprise when Young Xehanort fends them off, using a bit of his own dark magic to swiftly shove them both away. He stands in the space between the duo and Sora, his Keyblade called upon seemingly for the purpose of defending his newest vessel from their violent ire.

“Do you two really have nothing better to do with your time than harass our newest member?” he scowls coldly at Marluxia and Larxene as they begin to pick themselves back up from his brutal attack.

“W-we were just-”

“I know exactly what you were doing,” Young Xehanort abruptly cuts Larxene off. “Whatever disdain you might harbor for our thirteenth must be put behind you. He is one of us now, and I expect you to treat him as such. Do you both understand or is that too much for your simple minds to comprehend?”

Marluxia and Larxene exchange frustrated glance at this, both of them clearly humbled and embarrassed by their young master’s admonishment. In the end, however, Larxene crosses her arms, simply nodding as she glares away. Marluxia is similarly bitter as he offers his answer aloud. “Yes, master.”

“Then in that case, you’re both dismissed to return to your actual duties instead of wasting your time standing around here,” Young Xehanort instructs, dismissively waving them both away.

The pair quickly retreats after this, though not before they both look past Young Xehanort to offer Sora one final hateful glare. He only barely hears Larxene hiss something about him being “master’s pet” to Marluxia before they round the next corner, finally leaving him alone with that master once more.

“I apologize for the misguided hostility of your fellow members, Sora,” Young Xehanort turns to him, extending a hand out to help him up. “It seems as though some of them are having a hard time letting the past go. Are you alright?”

As shaken as he still is by the recent attack, Sora struggles to collect himself enough to do much of anything else outside of accepting the hand his young master is offering to him. “I… y-you… you saved me…” he mutters, bewildered by the very thought.

“Of course, I did,” Young Xehanort offers him a cordial, almost kindly smile. “You’ve suffered more than enough by now. There is no need for you to suffer any more, especially at the hands of your own allies. You’ve been through enough of that when you were back with the lights, I’m sure.”

Sora sighs at this mention of his lost friends, though he maintains his mask well enough as he lightly traces the scar now marring most of his face. He flinches when Young Xehanort suddenly reaches out to touch it too, though as soon as his fingers so much as skim the still-bleeding cut, his skin weaves itself back together, the pain that it caused him all but disappearing completely.

“There,” the young master tilts his vessel’s chin up a bit to inspect his now-clean face. “Like it never happened. After a few more of our lessons together, I’m sure you’ll be more than capable of defending yourself against the petty wrath fellow members might decide to inflict against you. But until then, you can depend on me to protect you, my thirteenth.”

Even against the emotions he’s still trying to keep hidden under the mask, Sora can’t help but feel something he can’t believe he has toward his young master of all people. A sense of genuine gratitude, a deep, genuine gratefulness for the protection Young Xehanort is offering him, for the kindness he’s extended toward him in a time when he so desperately needs it most. In the absence of anyone he might have once sought that same sort of kindness from instead. “T-thank you… master,” he whispers, bowing his head in respect that, perhaps for the first time, is completely earnest, completely on his own accord.

“Think nothing of it, my thirteenth,” Young Xehanort’s smile widens in the satisfaction of knowing he now has Sora exactly where he wants him. In knowing that he now owns every part of his thirteenth vessel: body, heart, and mind alike. “After all, it’s my job to warmly welcome you into our ranks. And I’m so glad to see that you're finally starting to feel like you’re right at home here with us. With me.”

Commissions are CLOSED

[bexterbex]

A Soul to Mend His Own | Ch. 2

A Kylo Ren x Modern! Reader in a soulmate au with some canon divergence. —————————————SLOWBURN————————————–

He is already the Supreme leader, searching the universe to find you, his Empress. Your name on his wrist has been the only constant in his life, while you have doubts about his existence and his acceptance of you. He isn’t in the database and why did the name Kylo Ren cover Ben Solo?

Originally posted on my Ao3 Crystallclover. If you missed Chapter 1, Click Here

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Chapter 2: An Arrival to be Remembered

UFO has been sited entering the Earth’s atmosphere

Unknown armed and masked being exit ship heading towards the White House, is the President in danger?

Aliens spotted in D.C.

You woke up to the sound of your alarm, and got out of bed. You have been in the habit lately to start your day without checking your phone first. Mostly to avoid early morning emails from your boss before you have even had coffee.

You head to the bathroom relieve yourself, wash your face, and brush your hair. Exiting the bathroom you head to the kitchen and make yourself some breakfast and coffee. You enjoy the sunrise through the large windows in your apartment. Finishing eating you immediately wash your few dishes and get ready for work. You pick out your work ‘uniform’ of a black blouse and black trousers. You head to the bathroom to brush your teeth, put on a little makeup and get changed.

Heading back to the kitchen you prepare a to-go cup of coffee and pull out your lunch for work. Finally, you check your phone.

First, you see an email from your boss reminding you for the 10th time about the morning meeting that you have every Thursday. It isn’t like you to forget something you do every single week for the past year. Never once have you been late, in fact, he was always the one to forget. You wonder if these emails were meant more for him and less for you. But he was always the micromanager.

Next, you check your texts. Your usual morning photo from one of your siblings about one of your nieces/nephews. Another one from Hayden asking if you were still on for tomorrow night’s weekly bar trip. You answered ‘Yes 😀 .’ Another from Carter asking what you think of the news headlines this morning. Odd, although this isn’t the first time you two had discussed something like this it was odd to receive a text like this from them first thing in the morning.

You open Twitter to see #alieninvasiondc trending. You scroll through the news tag. Every major news site around the world is talking about the shuttlecraft that landed on the White House lawn last night, and the armed and armored soldiers that departed from the craft. All of the soldiers wore white armor, except one in silver. There was one who was in all black and a red-haired human-looking man among the group. Not much is known other than they haven’t been seen leaving the White House.

You text Carter back ‘Just looked now, either this is a hoax or the world as we know it is coming to an end. I’ll see you at work.’

You packed your work bag, grabbed your car keys and set off to work. You park in the ramp attached to your building and walk to the elevator. You wave at the security attendant to the opposing skywalk like you do every morning. You arrive at your floor and buzz-in. You say hi to Nancy in reception and head to your desk.

Strangely all of the televisions in the office were muted and tuned into CBC News, normally the one in the break room and the ones in reception were on, the others only really got used during Hockey Games or events like the Olympics. Your boss was in the walkway with his attention turned to his phone.

You set down your things at your desk and boot up your work computer while setting up your laptop on its stand. You did your usual check through work emails until the 9:00 AM weekly meeting. Your boss hasn’t moved from his position in the walkway.

8:55 AM hits and you grab what you need and head to the conference room. The tv was on in here as well. The others in the Marketing department filled in after you. Your boss, Scott, had yet to move from his place in the walkway. 9:00 AM hits and you continue small talk with your co-workers, most of the conversation is directed at the events in D.C.

9:05 AM your co-worker Ally sends a Slack message to your boss. He looks up from his phone to the clock on the wall and runs into his office. After a few minutes, he rushes out and into the conference room.

“Sorry, I am late everyone the Wife is just paranoid over this Alien Invasion thing. I can’t get her to stop texting me,” he chuckles.

Ironically this isn’t the first time he has been ‘late’ to a meeting after being on the phone with his wife an hour after work already started.

Suddenly you all get an Emergency Alert System notification on all of your phones.

‘International Emergency: Please tune in to your local news broadcasting station to receive an Emergency Report.’

Scott asks, “where is the damn remote?”

Ally hands it to him, he unmutes the tv.

The headline reads: ‘President of the United States has an Important International Government Update’

Live from Washington D.C.

On the screen, it shows the President of the United States, with the silver soldier, one in all black and the red-haired man from the video of the invasion last night.

“I have an important announcement. Earth has been contacted by people from space who call themselves the First Order. The First Order has informed me that they would like to peacefully work with Earth. As long as we fully cooperate as an entire planet no harm will come to any of us. Currently, our galaxy is at war, and the First Order seeks our help, in return of offering Earth protection from a group of people called the New Republic.

They have explained to me and the U.N. as a whole that the New Republic is not to be trusted along with their mercenary army called the Resistance. It is through my decision and the decision of the U.N. that we will cooperate and join forces with the First Order to be under their protection.

All citizens of Earth in the next 7 days must register with the First Order. You will be given a citizen number, some citizens may be reassigned to work directly with the First Order. All military personal will be reassigned to be under the First Order. You should not worry as most citizens will be unaffected, life will go on as normal. As long as citizens follow these orders and any orders to come, we shall be safe,” said the President. The President moved out of the way for the man in all black and with a black mask to move to the podium.

“I am the Supreme Leader of the First Order. I promise no harm will come to those who cooperate with us. We seek to peacefully transition your planet, as you know it Earth, to a primary First Order Planet. We value honesty and loyalty, along with hard work. We strive to rebuild the Empire and to maintain order in the galaxy. That is all,” The man's voice was distorted through the mask he was wear, it sounded mechanical or digital but it had a deep sound.

The broadcast cut back to the news anchor. “Currently all citizens of earth are to report to their a local city government building or town hall within the next 7 days for First Order registration and possible reassignment. All citizens must remain calm and do as the government has directed. Any questions or concerns will be answered by local government officials and First Order personnel. All foreign citizens to Canada will follow the same protocol as citizens. All citizens are asked to bring various forms of identification, such as a Passport, driver's license, birth certificate, social insurance number card, any immunization forms, military I.D. and more. You can find a full list of required documents at the CBC website or at canada.ca. As a reminder, all citizens are urged to stay calm and to follow all orders regarding and following First Order registration. Citizens are also advised to stay tuned to local news sources for any updates.”

The conference room sat stunned at the announcement.

“Well were f*****,” said Scott. “We are all surely f*****. Who are these people to think they can just take over like that? Do they think we are just going to sit by and let them brainwash us? Let them take everything from us?”

“I don’t think we have a choice, you heard the U.S. President, the U.N. is in agreement. This is for our own safety. If you are going to go against them and get yourself killed keep us out of it,” said Daniel one of your marketing co-workers.

“I’ll talk to Henry, and see if we can all take the week off, who knows this may be the last time we even get to see our families,” and with that statement, Scott left the conference room.

You sat there not really moving, processing what you just witnessed on the tv and the confrontation between Scott and Daniel. So did the rest of your co-workers. You could tell they were all in shock, the world as you knew it was about to change, the future had shifted.

All of your phones went off again. This time it was an email from Jonathan the CEO.

‘All employees will take today, tomorrow and next week off, in order to give proper attention to the government mandate. Please be safe and I hope to see you all come -Henry G. Wells’

Everyone in the conference room got up and went to their desks. The office was silent, except for the sounds of items being put away and people gathering their things. You were almost done getting ready to go when Carter appeared next to you.

They didn’t speak, for fear of being the first one to break the ominous silence. Carter just looked at you expectantly. You finished packing up and walked with them out of the office. The elevator was packed but silent. Everyone got off and walked to their cars. Carter followed you to yours.

Keeping their voice down, almost to a whisper, they asked, “I know I texted you this morning about all this but what do you think now? Do you want to go back to your place or mine?”

You thought about it for a moment before responding, “let’s go back to mine. We can discuss it from there.”

Carter accepted your response and went to their car to leave. You followed suit. Today was not what you expected.

Tags: @sheadre 

[leidensygdom]

Dungeons and dragons, podcasts and original content

Well, I had been meaning to do this for a while now, so I'll share my thoughts on the matter. It's a bit venty (specially towards podcasts and such), so please, feel free to skip if you'd rather not read it.

Anyways, hello! I'm Sygdom. I have been dwelling around the Dungeons and Dragons "fandom" for about 6 years now, even if I started playing in a game around 2 years ago. Before that I had been RPing in forums that used some DnD content (specially the races) to a degree, but strayed a lot from the canon and relied mostly in homebrew stuff.

The Dungeons and dragons tag (and adjacents) have been always really helpful for me to show my content. The grand majority of my art is regarding my own characters (and those of the people I RP with), and currently it's mostly all related to the dnd campaign I run. And I had always found the tag and fandom to be a nice and welcoming place for these: It was a great way to share my art with people with similar interests (specially those who like drow and tieflings, the two races I draw and use the most). One of the most freeing things was to be able to produce original content that still could appeal to people due to dnd serving as a base everyone knows, and I have enjoyed plenty seeing how other people use and draw their own characters within this common imaginary.

One of the biggest appeals was to avoid needing to do fanart to hopefully get noticed. Most artists have struggled with this: You either do fanart of popular things or get a hard time getting noticed, unless your art is great, or you have plenty of luck. Once you get popular it's easier to do original content that still may get noticed, but getting there is incredibly hard. And DnD was very helpful to avoid that: While it still has some bases, it's really just a common blank canvas a lot of artists have used to create their own world and characters.

And then, podcasts happened.

I think everyone knows about CR by now. It's very much an ideal scenario for a campign: It has a DM with over 20 years of experience in the field, Voice Actors playing their characters masterfully, and plenty of following and resources to be able to make an incredibly detailed and fleshed out game. It did get incredibly popular, and... Somehow, I feel like it added that whole fanart-dependency on the dnd fandom. As much as art shouldn't be competitive, you can expect most of the dnd tags and race tags (specially for tieflings and firbolgs) to be pretty much filled with fanart of CR. And it's of course much easier to reach bigger audiences if you draw something that's more widely known than your own character.

I guess it's somewhat stressing for original authors to have to compete against widely known characters, and for the dnd fandom to get mixed in with fans of the podcasts, who do end up taking a lot of the space that was previously filled with original content. Even muting those tags can't really help much by now, and I guess it makes me sad to a degree. Some authors that previously produced mostly original content do end up doing fanart, as it's much easier to grow that way, and it ends up impacting how much original content is produced.

I don't want to get on the Mercer Effect, since that's another topic (and my players are pretty nice and not prone to compare me to professional DMs), although it is one of the most obvious consequences. There is also the whole influence the big podcasts may have to official publications, to the point some lore is getting tweaked to better suit podcasts, and I guess I'm fearful drow are retconned to be very much inspired by podcasts. There's certain expectations, and of course, as it has brought a lot of new people to play dnd, some have taken it as their basis of what dnd is like or how should a DM be, or even how certain races should be and act.

And I guess the biggest downside is discourse and fandom drama. It's not something that would happen often in dnd, since there wasn't really much of a common basis for it to stir, but now I've found my Twitter timeline (which has worse filtering than Tumblr’s) filled to the brim with drama stirring from podcasts that ends up spreading everywhere. There's also people willing to police or critique your original content on the basis of the podcasts, which- It's just sad. I mean. One of the biggest appeals of DnD is building your own stories and own characters, working on your campaigns, making something for you and your players. People shouldn't really be compared to existing campaigns, but it happens awfully often.

To sum it up, I just wanted to vent somewhat on how it feels to be someone who enjoyed the original part of dnd in a world filled with podcasts and fanart of them taking over. It was one of the few spaces that allowed for people to do their own thing, and I feel it's slowly losing itself. I want to encourage artists and authors to -of course- keep doing their own thing, and try to remember people that original content -while it may reach less audiences- is still very much appreciated and loved.

[wickednerdery]

Title: Out of Time Author: @wickednerdery Fandom: Marvel Pairing/character: Loki x Stark!OC Rating: FRC Summary: “I’m always VIP.” Notes: So I found this gif on Google - if it’s yours, I’m happy to credit - and it inspired this idea where Loki (after escaping with the Tesseract in Endgame, perhaps?) ends up in a strange cyberpunk/futuristic Earth. No idea if I’ll continue this or what, but it HAD to come out, lol!

Chapter 2

The Midgard he arrived at was not the one he left. It was older, wilder, both brighter and darker in turn. Loki shifted into Midgardian garb before approaching a main street, nothing looking familiar. The cars ran on their own, machines walked alongside mortals, and the sky above was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.

“Hey, you lookin’ to jive?” A man asks from behind leopard-printed leather mask. 

Loki takes the other in fully. Boots, hooded jumpsuit to match the leopard-print mask, and wild burgundy mohawk. The lights at the knuckles of his gloves alternate between red and yellow as he closes fist, then glow pure yellow across the board as a small, square, tab appears from between two fingers.

“Three million credits.” Heterochromatic eyes smile. “Thirteen million for VIP.”

“I’m always VIP.” Loki waves his hand, the man switches a plain white plastic bit for a red one, stamped with golden mask. “Now, tell me more about this ‘jive’.”

“Ms Stark! Ms Stark!!” The crowds, press and plebeians both, call for her as she steps from black auto-motive. Some cheer in excitement, telling her they love her. Others scream in tirades, declare her a “Tuhao war bitch”. Interviewers ask about men, women, freedom versus security, and her thoughts on Stark technology used to hold down the lower class.

“Sorry, no questions this evening. Not for Ms Stark anyway.” The voice of her car is that of her ancestor. Red lines blaze from head and tail lights, demarcating a barrier and allowing her to carry on into the museum unaccosted. “But I’d be more than happy to answer some, maybe take any praise you have for her.”

Once away from the masses, Ana tugs at the collar of her cocktail dress. It unravels gold, falling to the floor as a gown for the evening. Simple trick really, more to do with sewing than technology, but it never fails to turn heads. “Tony...” she smiles. “Don’t get yourself a parking ticket talking to all your fans.”

“Of course not, when have I ever done that?” The auto replies in her ear. 

“Last week? That time in Tokyo...that other time in Mumbai.”

“Okay, okay, point made. I’m out.”

Ana chuckles as car tires screech away in the distance. She carries on, men stepping aside with bowing heads to let her in. Her name is a whisper of reverence on their lips. Upon entering the exhibit turned ballroom people catch sight of her and begin to applaud.

“Ladies and gentleman, CEO of Stark International, chairperson of the Avengers Youth of America, and head of Earth’s Legion of Scientific Security...Ms Ana Roget Stark!” In the official announcement by the museum’s spokesperson the applause rises in volume and gusto.

Loki looks up, drink in hand, with interest. Stark? His lips curl in amused interest. He scans the crowd, then moves his focus back to her. Like the Stark he knows, she’s wholly confident and reveling in the face of adulation. While more polite, her smile indicates she believes herself worthy of the love she receives.

Her eyes scan from the balcony, land on the mysterious man in black. When he lifts his glass in notable salute, her brow goes up a fraction. Then she turns to the museum head. “Yes, yes, thank you for that...way too impressive introduction. I really would have just settled for Nobel prize winning person of the century.” She laughs, all but Loki join in. “My great-grandfather, Anthony Stark, unknowingly started this museum when he passed, leaving behind his suits and prototypes in the workshop of Stark Tower. Some still unfinished, some ready for mass production to make the world safe in his absence. They were able to be preserved and, yes, even improved upon as this place was created around them. As much as the Starks may have given to this museum, it gave back to the world. It is a sprawling testament of technology and innovation, of how far we have come and how far we can go. I thank all of you, each and every one, for your commitment to science, to knowledge, and to this museum in particular. I encourage you to continue that commitment tonight at the auction and in going forward with your donations.” Her eyes return to the man whose eyes never left her. “Thank you for coming, I look forward to speaking with you all before the night is over.”

Loki does not approach the lithe beauty with his enemy’s name, but his eyes do not leave her either. She swans about the room with the same confidence as the Stark he knows, but her manner is more delicate. She uses more deference in approaching others, is more flattering toward them than herself. Her show is alluring, appealing, boarding on arrogant but never crossing the line. Yet, when she does finally approach him, her manner changes.

“So, how did you do it?” She’s direct, no longer glad-handing, but nevertheless rapt with anticipation as she sits beside him at a table. “Cyber worm? Reverse engineering? Or did you figure out the sequence and use the key-code?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s no clue what she’s talking about, can’t even think how to answer.

Ana’s face falls to disappointment bordering on annoyance. “You bought it pre-rigged. Figures. I send out a golden ticket and people can only think about the quick buck.” She sighs, starts to get up. “I hope this was worth whatever the invite cost you, because it’s all you get. I don’t have time for fans.”

“Wait.” His hand flies out, takes hold of wrist.

She twists free, grabs his wrist in retaliation, and hits him with 75,000 volts via taser ring worn on her middle finger. She keeps hold until he’s limp, then releases and lets him tip over the table like a drunk. “Security, toss the lump in black at table 17.” Frustrated at her failed test, done with the night, Ana heads out a discreet side door that leads to the rest of the museum.

Looking over the reconstruction of the late Tony Stark’s penthouse Ana sighs. This is still where she feels most at home. Here and her own workshop, but she’s no mind for innovation right now. “How did you do it? How did you keep going?” She asks her ancestor aloud. Failures didn’t bother her, they were always part of success. It’s lack of momentum that drives her to darkness, to the functional bar where she pours two fingers of old school whiskey.

“You are a Stark.” Loki, in more regal and battle-ready gear, stands before the screen display of old New York. “Though a far fairer one, to be sure.” He winks, laughs when glass drops, shattering at her feet.

“Who are you?” Hand goes to her ear first, patching her into Tony, then the ruby and gold bracelet. She rubs it, anxious. “Oscorp? Stane International? Yak?” Ana takes him in, his new suit and the wild glint in his eye. “Or are you one of the anarchists? AIM? One of those anti-techs groups?”

He laughs. “Oh no, I’m my own man, Ms Stark. I don’t follow, I am followed.”

“Well, you have my attention, Mr...Mystery Man. What do you want?”

Loki hadn’t thought that far ahead. He’s merely intrigued by her, by wherever, whenever, he’s arrived.

“Really? I give you the floor and you stand mute?” Ana smirks. “Fascinating...and pointless. Thanks for the disruption and broken glass.” She starts to make another drink.

“Not curious how I got here then?”

“Only when you plan on leaving.” New glass in hand she heads out of the exhibit. She sees a biohazard symbol swimming across a fully masked face, hears the huff of the silencer, and feels the world slip past her as she goes down.

In a flick of his wrist Loki blasts the man through the wall, rushes to Ana as her gold dress goes red, then black, with blood. He gets arms under before her head hits the floor. “You’re not allowed to die until I wish it.” He watches her eyes widen in surprise, as if she didn’t expect him to be real.

“H-How...noble...” She snarks through the blooming pain, her world going dark as the mystery man’s suit.

So...that’s everything I have that’s clear in my mind for this right now, haha! Like, I know that Ana lives and all, but I’m not sure after that. I’ve some options: Loki leaves her to recover and stalks her from afar, Loki brings her back to her home and keeps her semi-captive there, Loki leaves her, but she seeks him out in gratitude and interest. ...But, even then, unsure of the sweeping story - is there a set enemy to go against together? Do they become enemies themselves? Or is this more of a romance? Is there more time travel?? So many questions/ideas, not enough determined yet, lol!

I’ll take suggestions though, haha!! 😉

Side Notes: Tuhao is a Chinese term referring to people of wealth. By “jive” the guy means party, in general. The description of the sky is a pull from William Gibson’s Neuromancer (awesome book!). The groups Ana lists are all from Marvel, all enemies of Iron Man in one way or another. And, yes, her self-driving car has the voice and personality of Tony Stark - he is her main AI, just as JARVIS and FRIDAY were Tony’s.

Tagging: @lady-crowned-with-stars​, @beccaliciooouuusss, gravitational-anomaly, @fuckthatfeeling, @v-2bucky, @ultrarebelheart​, @tarithenurse​ @latent-thoughts​ @chibiyanai​ @lukeevansandjdmobession​ @sweetfictionalworld​ @ladyfluff​ ...And I legit don’t know who else to tag anymore lol

[autumnslance]

how do you get into roleplaying on a ff server? like how do you do it and how do you know if your character is lore compliant? ;A; pls youre a big inspo to me

*Hugs Nonny* Getting into RP on a FF server can vary; I don’t actually RP much these days, outside of some friends I already have connections to--and that in itself can be difficult just due to Life! It can take time, and patience, and some fits and starts.

And this gets...really really long, so buckle up and go below the cut, please. :)

The cut got broken by an edit. Sigh.

In game there’s always the RP status tag, and just doing RP with folks in public spaces. There may be trolls now and then, but they can be ignored. I personally find Balmung’s Quicksand area too busy and anxiety inducing and not actually all that conducive to actual RP, even “meet at a tavern” walk-up type. But unless you already have a ready-made group of friends/FCmates willing to RP more than some random walk-ups with you, it may take some legwork to find folks you can and want to write with.

Social Media There are a couple of RP community blogs, like @mooglemeet​ and @ffxiv-crystal-rp​  and plenty of server-specific ones. There’s also some Discords for these communities. They host and advertise events and reblog people who are looking for RP contacts. Some of them have running gdoc calendars and in game linkshells and fellowships as well.

Shofie has a good post about Tumblr/social media RP blogging.

@shofie-ffxiv

It’s a fact now that social media outside game is a way to make contacts, or even a medium for RP itself. There are few centralized websites/forums for server RP communities anymore. Making connections over your social media, like Tumblr and Twitter, can help find RP. You can’t just throw your own character info out there or reblog prompts hoping others bite, though; you have to put in some work and show interest in others, too. This can be difficult and even scary. That’s OK.

RP is about collaboration and creating with other people, which means finding folks you can write with, and who see you as someone interesting but also interested in them and their OCs. If you want to keep it a solo endeavor focused on your own OCs, write fanfic (which I’ve actually made friends and gotten RP interests that way too through comment interactions, so hey).

If you reblog a prompt from someone, see others on your dash reblogging prompts, if people reblog that prompt post from you? Send them asks! Alternatively, don’t wait for prompts, just send asks, comments, or chats saying hello and things you notice or like about their blog/character/posts they make. Try to form connections with people you think are genuinely interesting and might be fun to talk with. Social media should be, well, social.

BUT respect boundaries, too. Don’t try sarcasm or jokes with people you don’t actually know, it tends to go over poorly. Unless someone’s specifically posting a naughty meme/prompt, keep stuff you others send clean and polite, especially if it’s unsolicited and you’re not already friends (doubly so if you don’t know how old they are IRL, there are laws you do not want to break). Respect if people aren’t open to random asks or chatting with new followers, or say “no” to RP, and know it’s not personal--it’s just what they have time, energy, and emotional/mental capacity for. Don’t give up on other people, though. This stuff can take time and effort to find those you click with.

Respect and communication with RP partners is pretty key.

Do curate your feeds and don’t be afraid to unfollow/mute/block folks, either. I’m selective in who I follow and remove as needed, too, for my own mental health. I miss so much of the discourse and drama and that’s fine by me. Also it costs nothing to not step in on a lot of the drama when it does pass in sight.

Profiles I have static RP profile pages for my girls here on Tumblr (and a lot of other static links and pages, but I’m weird about organizing like that). This way, if people want to write with me, send me prompts, if I sent them prompts, or they want to otherwise interact with my characters, the information is handily available. For some folks, this makes all the difference in who they choose to interact with: how easily can they find even basic info about your OC?

Some people make Carrds. Some folks have gdoc links, or use Dreamwidth, etc. Just keep the links in the blog’s sidebar menu, and/or in the blog desc so people can see ‘em on mobile. There are templates out there, or you can make your own. Feel free to snag mine if you’d like. A lot of times people also copy their profiles to rebloggable posts when looking for RP contacts. Profiles are a good way to let folks know just the at-a-glance basics about your character(s).

I picked a simple theme with a simple layout that makes it easy to add and show off links. I put them in the blog desc to make them easy to find on mobile, too.

[Images: links from my blog sidebar menu showing how over organized I am]

RP, Stories, Lore Post some stories or RP logs (with permission of others involved) or even just random little blurbs and headcanons, as well as any screenshots, art, aesthetic posts for your OCs. Have something of interest to show for your character, too, so some of those folks your interacting with have something of their own to see and ask about!

If possible, try some light RP with friends and FC Mates who are amenable. Go to events, even if just to lurk at first. When you do get up the nerve to talk to people, don’t try to throw a character’s entire backstory at them, or try to steal the limelight--RP is collaboration, back and forth, and a lot like real conversation. Maybe come up with little light things to talk about if asked; a recent adventuring job, a silly shopping incident, etc. They can break the ice or just give you something to reply with for a few minutes.

Lore Compliance is Variable. Some people really want lore compliance, others are OK bending it here and there, while still others throw it out the window entirely. If you want to be super lore compliant...read. There’s a LOT of information, in game and out, for finding lore; from official publications and website material, to tools like Garland Tools site, to compilation blogs like @mirkemenagerie.

Note what’s important for your concept. Narrow it down. Characters aren’t going to know or be or do everything, so only worry about what’s necessary for the base idea. And be flexible; it’s SE’s sandbox, we just play in it, and they can change things any time. They usually do it in the guise of characters not knowing/having all the correct information, at least, but also some places just don’t exist in game yet so we don’t have info.

I’m unspecific about a lot of elements of Aeryn’s childhood, for instance, other than “traveling merchants near Thavnair.” I don’t have to be super specific. I can keep most details vague, and focus on her family and those relationships.

Dark, as my first character, has a fairly simple backstory that I’ve expanded on and adjusted over time as I learned and came up with new info. I also bet no one remembers I originally said Dark was from the North Shroud. I’ve changed things (now from East Shroud, due to the proximity to Gyr Abania and its Hellsguards) as I learned more about the world and my character. You don’t want to change things willy-nilly, but sometimes being flexible and smoothing down some rough edges and making small changes can be fine, especially as one gets more lore over time.

Iyna has a pretty detailed backstory, that came from a basic idea, and checking dates in the pre-Calamity timeline. I based her being taken and trained the way she was not only on what info we have about Garlemald’s imperial practices with conquered provinces, but borrowed a bit from real life and the re-education schools many Native Americans were forced into (though I haven’t gone into detail on that yet, either). I tied the turning point in Iyna’s life to a major event that wasn’t the Calamity, and have left plenty of space in between for me to fill in as time goes on and I learn more about her and the world.

The world isn’t static, and is bigger and more diverse than what can be shown in the game. There’s space in the margins for plenty of weird stuff and contradictions or unusual cases. So read up on what you can, ask questions, and then find where in those spaces your OC fits. Then, find people who enjoy similar tastes in lore compliance (or non-compliance), and who enjoy playing with you and your OCs, and not worrying about the rest. Can’t please everyone, nor get along with everyone, so don’t try; just find what works for you, and who works with you, and don’t police anyone else’s pretendy fun times, either.

There’s no magic answer on the “right” amount of lore compliance, or how to quickly and easily find RP partners or break into the broader RP community.

I hope this helps at least a little bit! Good luck in finding your niche for RP, and maybe I’ll see you sometime at an event :)

[haich-slash-cee]

Is the print publishing world picking up online/fandom terms? How they are using them? How do we feel about this?

So this is... attention-getting, for folks who like to follow publishing and meta stuff.

https://twitter.com/sapphicxrey/status/1215065948677443584

https://twitter.com/TorDotComPub/status/1233391556750647299

(2nd tweet -- TW, mentions of non-con)

Are we seeing the beginnings of book publishers directly borrowing from online/fandom culture in promoting their books? How do we feel about these examples?

More below cut.

Exhibit #1: screenshots of Bonds of Brass promo from Jan 8 2020. (Which is probably going to have reactions of “haha, cute” at most.)

Transcript of blurb: 

“If you like... 

forbidden romances, “there’s only one bed”, cityships, weaponized umbrellas, powersuits, secret princes, best friends, best friends PINING, fake dating between PINING best friends, tactical streaking, the minivan of starships, cigar-chomping cyborg ladies, scary empress moms, galactic-level bisexual disasters, LEGACY (WHAT IS A LEGACY?), rooftop hopping, golden trios, rumblin’ drums, bootleg fireworks, BIG SPACE BATTLES PEW PEW, a surprisingly functional public transit system, mob trouble, one hell of a pilot, the inherent DRAMA of empire, a nice interlude in a river, smoking a joint that’s been on the floor, sick stunts, slick grifts, hiding in a dumpster, or any combination of the above,

 Then you might like 

BONDS OF BRASS”

The Twitter responses seem to be generally enthusiastic. (And also, “FinnPoe! FinnPoe!”)

Personally, I’m intrigued from a meta-view of “oh so that’s definitely pulling from online world and fanfiction world, interesting. I wonder how much fanfiction culture is starting to influence print book culture and promotion.” Maybe I’ve got some questions like, “Ok so moneymaking companies such as Penguin are now using culture developed by the not-moneymaking-world of fanfiction? How do we feel about this?” Anyway, the book looks cute, I’m interested enough and I might get it from the library.

I suspect many people’s reactions are along the lines of “hm, interesting”, “sounds like a lark”, or “haha they’re using AO3 tags as promo”, etc. 

Exhibit #2, screenshots of DOCILE promo, from Feb 28 2020 (today is March 1 2020), and screenshots of Twitter responses so far:

(*CW, non-con discussion)

Tweet transcript:

“DOCILE by @KMSzpara:  

-Dubcon/Noncon 

-Dramatic Trillionaire Content 

-BDSM and then some more BDSM and then a lot more BDSM

 -Hurt/comfort and hurt/no comfort

 -Cinnamon roll of steel 

-The most scandalous kink: love 

-Courtroom, bedroom, & Preakness drama

[Tor book website link]”

So this is getting mixed reactions on Twitter. All dozen or so reactions, so far. Here’s text transcripts and bio info from repliers, below. I’m being a little obsessive, mostly to show that there’s a mix of queer, book-ish people in the replies (including the author).)

Noncon is nonconsentual sex, rape. Even in fandom it's a content tag, not a promotional term. I can't imagine being a rape survivor and seeing this come across my TL. -- @WriteSomeGood [queer rainbow] [Cis queer homemaker, aspiring author, maker of incredible cinnamon buns. She/her] [has a Tumblr page]

I’m not a survivor but it was an instant “no thank you” from me. And I was sincerely looking forward to this prior to. This is the most immediately off-putting marketing push I’ve seen for a book in a long damn time. -- @AGAWilmot [Author, editor, artist. Co-EIC of @anathemaspec. @SFU alum. The Death Scene Artist/W&W 2018. Ace/enby. They/them. Horror is my comfort food.]

Whichever intern wrote this tweet, deserves a full time job. With benefits. -- @simeontsanev [Aspiring writer, post-aspiring musician, and overall geek  He/Him /[queer rainbow]/ To the world we dream about, and the one we live in now! http://simeontsanev.com]

Idk why everyone thinks it’s always an intern writing copy and not a team comprised of extremely skilled social media experts, editors, publicists and marketers, and their assistants  I worked on those tags with my editor and a good friend!! -- @KMSzpara [Kellan. [queer rainbow]  Speculative fiction writer. Queer agenda.  Hugo & Nebula finalist.  DOCILE 3/3/20 from Tor Dot Com Publishing.  He/him.  Rep @suddenlyjen] *The author, bio page and twitter page.

this is CUTE! -- @MSSciarappa  [queer rainbow] I do books. he/him.

I am Extremely Ready for this content thank u -- @JessicaBCooper [Journo ☽ Writer of faerie, villain fuckery & cruel desires ☽ Lestat & Loki's love child ☽ Aleksander Morozova's side-hoe ☽ Rep'd by Kate Testerman @ktliterary]

I’m listening -- @MerynLobb [Government worker. Weightlifter. Nihilist. Aspiring cult leader. Avid user of words, often bad ones. #AMM R6 Mentee. she/her]

Soon! Soon!! -- @castrophony [Geek. Gamer. Cosplayer. Bibliophile. Scientist. She/Her.]

[happy reaction gif] -- @TorDotComPub [Providing a home for writers to tell SFF stories in exactly the number of words they choose. All our titles are available globally in print and DRM-free ebook.]

[throwing stuff in dumpster, unhappy reaction gif] -- @cursedgravy  [name's xavi, im a transman and i like to daydream about making content] 

For more context, here’s the blurb from the author website. Below is the blurb from the publisher’s site:

“Docile

K.M. Szpara

K. M. Szpara's Docile is a science fiction parable about love and sex, wealth and debt, abuse and power, a challenging tour de force that at turns seduces and startles.

There is no consent under capitalism.

To be a Docile is to be kept, body and soul, for the uses of the owner of your contract. To be a Docile is to forget, to disappear, to hide inside your body from the horrors of your service. To be a Docile is to sell yourself to pay your parents' debts and buy your children's future.

Elisha Wilder’s family has been ruined by debt, handed down to them from previous generations. His mother never recovered from the Dociline she took during her term as a Docile, so when Elisha decides to try and erase the family’s debt himself, he swears he will never take the drug that took his mother from him.

Too bad his contract has been purchased by Alexander Bishop III, whose ultra-rich family is the brains (and money) behind Dociline and the entire Office of Debt Resolution. When Elisha refuses Dociline, Alex refuses to believe that his family’s crowning achievement could have any negative side effects—and is determined to turn Elisha into the perfect Docile without it.

Content warning: Docile contains forthright depictions and discussions of rape and sexual abuse.”

So that’s a lot of info and reactions.

Personally: at first glance, I absently skimmed the tweet and “hurt/comfort” popped out, and I was like “What? Mainstream publishing is cool with this now? I was wondering if ‘hurt/comfort’ would one day become commonly used in publishing [related post]. But this is way sooner than I thought.” And then I read the rest of of the tweet and thought, “Wait, what?” 

And then I started reading through the tweet replies and thought, “OK, at the risk of getting a bunch of Tumblr drama, I want to bring this to the whump community and see how people feel."

As for myself, one of my squicks is non-con, and I’m not really interested in hurt/no comfort. So just from the tweet, I know the book is not for me. The official blurbs confirmed that. In this sense, this is like skimming Ao3 tags on a fic and saying “pass” on a story.

However, I have questions about the specific promotion of the book. So the official blurbs are pretty standard. What about that tweet, which Tor (and the author, who helped put it together) put out? Because I think an official publisher’s Tweet comes with different context than Ao3 tags.

First, the different internet spaces. You can filter tags on Ao3 and Tumblr. I know you can mute words on Twitter, but is that the same thing? Also, would people be expecting these tags on Twitter? Compared to Ao3 or Tumblr or Tumblr Whump spaces?

Within the Tumblr Whump community, from what I’ve browsed, the community attitude (guidelines?) seem to be “Write and discuss what you want. Be sure to tag it, use content warnings, or otherwise clearly communicate if you have things that may be triggering. Respect people’s squicks/triggers. Walk away from what you don’t like.” Like, tumblr whump has a very specific culture of trying to balance discourse/stories about potentially very dark stuff, but also wanting to make sure the IRL people and Tumblr users are okay. There’s always posts going around about how to do this, are we doing this in the right way, ethics, so on. Also -- and people can correct me -- the whump tumblr space might be where tags are content warnings for people to stay away, and also what people might actively look for. So if any space is going to discuss if this promotional tweet checks out, I feel like it’s this space. 

Also, to note again, Tor Tweets are in the money-official-publisher-world, not unpaid-tumblr-people or unpaid-fanfiction-fandom-world.

Maybe I just want to ask, “Hey those first two tweet responses, does they have a point? Tor using ‘noncon’ as official promotion? On Twitter?” I mean, I’ve previously written, “The CW and TW tags that Ao3 writers use, I really wish those were used with published books as well.” But somehow, the Tor tweet was not quite what I was expecting. Maybe for reasons similar to that first tweet response. (I guess one could debate if a tweet is really promotion or just information... you know what someone can correct me, but I’m gonna say that a Tor.com tweet is promotion, compared to information like Ao3, and that tweet was there for promotion.)

Those tags operate within specific Ao3 and Tumblr cultures and infrastructure. I don’t hang around Twitter for whump stuff, IDK what the culture is. Anyway, does dropping these tags into a promotional tweet from Tor.... translate?

The tweet is evidently gathering the people who are there for it, and the people who aren’t there for it are quickly realizing that they are not there for it. But personally, the Tor website blurb does a better job at that, using writing that I’d expect from a publisher for communicating fictional non-con situations. (Maybe the blurb content warnings are what I wanted more of, when I said I wished for CW and TW in books.)

Anyway, there’s no huge drama about that Docile book promo on Twitter, as far as I can tell. So this is a niche thing, right now. But. The promo for Bonds of Brass and for Docile might be the beginnings of a trend of well-known book publishers borrowing from online writing / fandom culture and terminology in order to promote or categorize their books. These two promos might set a precedent or have other significance.

So if anyone has discourse on the tweets or potential future trends... 

[ambitionsource]

AMBITION Season 2 ♫ “Got A Lotta Livin’ To Do” [ 2.08 ]

CREATED BY Esther (rapunzles) & Maggie (quincywillows) || S2 Tag || Official Page

YOUTH IS WASTED ON THE YOUNG – Devastating news sends the junior class reeling. When decisions are made for all the wrong reasons, everybody must face the consequences. Eric is haunted by signs he may have missed.

62 Minutes (16K words) || CONTENT WARNING: mentions of suicide; underage drinking; mild physical harassment. Take care of yourselves and read with discretion.

[ ← Contingency Plan ] [ S2 Synopsis ] [ World Uncertain → ]

( Follow along with the music on Spotify here! )

INT. AAA - HALLWAY - DAY

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Lovely” as performed by Billie Eilish & Khalid || Performed by Isadora De La Cruz, Riley Matthews, Maya Hart, Charlie Gardner, Zay Babineaux, and Lucas James Friar

The soft piano eases us into the episode, a long shot of the hallways of AAA less lively than usual. Whereas there is often dancing, laughter, and commotion in the opening hours of the school day, today it’s still.

ISADORA DE LA CRUZ is the first person to appear, standing alone in front of the display case outside the auditorium. There are photographs from Into the Woods up, and that’s what is holding her focus as she delivers the opening verse. As she turns and begins to walk down the hall, CHARLIE GARDNER appears within frame and joins in the vocals, growing more and more distant the further Isadora walks from him.

The whole number progresses with this disjointed sort of feeling -- the students being together, but feeling distinctly apart. The vocal focus shifts from the two of them to MAYA HART then to RILEY MATTHEWS and ZAY BABINEAUX, their voices melting seamlessly into one another due to the heaviness of the delivery.

The moment it all comes together is about halfway through in the second verse, when all of them come together along with LUCAS FRIAR. Zay behind Isadora, Charlie behind Maya, Lucas behind Riley. The six of them look straight at the camera with blank expressions as they march down the hall, seemingly in sync for this one captured moment of grief.

Oh I hope some day I’ll make it out of here...

It’s a long, continuous shot, staying with Maya as she abruptly halts and the other five disperse around her. She’s standing in front of Farkle’s locker. Frozen, transfixed by it. She lifts her hand to touch it and then decides against it, pulling her hand back. She swivels away from it, the riffs of her classmates echoing as she drifts her way back towards the auditorium.

INT. AAA - DRESSING ROOM HALL - DAY

We’re following Maya as she walks, making her way through the hall...

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

And out into the wings, stage lights down and house lights up as she passes through the stage and towards the stairs to the front and center section of seats. The rest of the junior A class is there amongst them, but they’re blurry and out of focus.

Maya settles into one of the chairs, camera rotating around to see the stage. JACK HUNTER, ERIC MATTHEWS, HARPER BURGESS, and SHAWN HUNTER are assembled, expression and demeanors somber as they address the A class. As the song comes to an end and their voices become audible, Jack’s words of understanding still feel far away.

Jack: … understand how overwhelming this might be. Which is why we are going to process it together. If there is anything you need…

The focus is back on Maya, having spun our way around to the front. Easing in on her empty expression…

Cue title sequence.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Jack and Eric continue on with their opening remarks, explaining the resources that they have available in light of what has happened with Farkle Minkus. Harper and Shawn nod along, equally as solemn. Harper seems particularly fragile, hands clasped so tightly in front of her she’s turning her knuckles white.

Additionally, as Eric explains, he’ll be available at any hour the next week if any of them need to come talk through what they are feeling about the situation. He emphasizes that the worst thing any of them can do at this time is isolate themselves, and every one of them up on stage -- and any other faculty -- are there for them.

INT. AAA - HALLWAY - DAY

The halls continue to feel muted even though the day marches on. At one end of the hall, NIGEL CHEY talks softly with YINDRA AMINO and JADE BEAMON. He reaches out a hand to touch Jade’s elbow, extending comfort.

A little further down, ASHER GARCIA and DYLAN ORLANDO are having a difficult conversation. Asher isn’t looking at him as he swaps items from his bag to his locker, meticulously nitpicking at the books on the shelves as a distraction. Dylan is leaning against the row with his arms crossed, delicately broaching the conversation.

Dylan: You heard what Mister E said. The worst thing we can do right now is isolate, and that’s all he’s been doing for months.

Asher: I know.

Dylan: That has to be the reason he said any of that stuff, anyway. It’s like you said, it’s like he wants to push people away. I’m not saying it’s right, or anything, and you know I’m on your side. I’m just thinking that --

Asher: Okay, but even if he didn’t mean it, he still said it. And you know I’m not just -- I know what you mean. I do. [ fussing with his backpack ] But at what point do we say okay, this is all I can take? I’ve been pushing the line further and further back because of exactly that, because I don’t want him to be alone, because he’s my friend, but where do we draw the line? When does it finally become too much --

Asher nearly drops his backpack and gasps, catching it and cursing under his breath. He takes a moment and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. Dylan frowns, reaching out and rubbing his shoulder.

When he’s pulled it together, Asher turns to face him. His tone is soft, touching Dylan’s arm.

Asher: You know I’m not going to tell you what to do. You can make your own decisions. I just…

[ Dylan listens attentively. He shifts his hand to touch Asher’s cheek, a subtly encouraging gesture that signals it’s safe to say whatever he needs to say. ]

Asher: Right now, I can’t. I just... need space.

A reasonable request, considering how much he’s already done for Lucas. Dylan nods. Asher gives him a tight smile, sharing a quick kiss before he closes his locker and shuffles down the hall for his next class.

Dylan watches him go, releasing a sigh and leaning back against the lockers.

Jack, pre-lap: It is imperative that we act with caution.

INT. AAA - JACK’S OFFICE - DAY

Our junior faculty is assembled, CORY MATTHEWS joining Harper and Shawn in meeting with Eric and Jack. The principal is seated at his desk, leading the more candid discussion of how they should approach a guaranteed difficult week. Cory says what they’re all thinking.

Cory: I just can’t believe it.

The main takeaway from the meeting seems to be that whether they like it or not, the group of them are role models in this situation. How they handle this will help inform the students on how to handle it, so it’s up to them to be in control of their emotions and act as pillars for the A class to lean on. Harper questions if this means they’re just pretending it didn’t happen, obviously the one struggling the most with keeping her emotions in check.

Eric refutes this take, pointing out that their primary role is still to be a teacher. He warns against initiating conversations about it, as some students may not want to talk about it or address it yet. Those who want to seek conversation will come to them, and if anyone seems in need of counseling then Harper is encouraged to send them his way.

Harper: And what about you? Are you sure you can handle taking on all that extra… have you even gotten to take a moment for yourself?

Eric: When we’re here, our responsibility is for the students. I can handle myself on my own time.

Shawn is the one to point out the other obvious threat -- overreactions. He doesn’t suspect they’ll have any copycats or anything, but then, they didn’t realize it soon enough with Farkle either. The fact of the matter is, there is a lot boiling under the surface of these kids right now because of this, and they’re guaranteed to release that pent up energy eventually. They should be even more vigilant than usual.

Jack seconds the notion. Speaking from experience, some teenagers are very good at concealing what they’re feeling...

INT. AAA - GIRLS DRESSING ROOM - DAY

One such student is Isadora, who is having lunch with Maya. They’re hidden away in the girls dressing room, away from the noise and constant chatter of the cafeteria.

For all intents and purposes, she seems to be handling the news better than others. She’s at least being open and talkative about her attempts to process it, gently nudging Maya into conversation about it.

Isadora: Something similar happened at my last foster home... I won’t go into details, but… it’s like... they kept telling us the same thing over and over again. About feelings, and guilt and all that sort of shit, but none of it really helped. I don’t know what… [ a beat ] This isn’t very helpful either, is it?

Maya isn’t taking to it, that’s for sure. She’s silent, lunch untouched on the countertop next to her. She’s got her feet up on the counter and is hugging her knees, leaning her head against the cool mirror. Not talking, not eating, just… nothing.

Isadora gets the hint, settling into quiet as well. But she assures her that if she does want to talk, she’s there for her.

INT. AAA - ERIC’S OFFICE - DAY

Riley has gone to Eric for lunch, bright with an idea in the chair across from him. It’s a muted sort of enthusiasm, but her eyes are sparkling as she speaks.

Riley: I wanted to run it by you first, though, because I didn’t want to accidentally do something that might make things worse or have some unintentional psychological consequence. I just thought that… it might be nice. For all of us, but also for him. To honor him. [ a beat ] Do you think it would be okay?

Eric: I don’t see any obvious “psychological consequences” in that idea, no. [ smiling ] I think that’s a lovely idea, Riley.

Riley manages a smile. She quickly finishes her food and gathers her things, claiming she wants to get started on organizing it. Eric rises with her, requesting she hold on a second.

He comes around the desk, gently asking if she’s handling everything okay. In light of everything that has happened… he just wants to know. And if there’s anything he can do, can she promise that she will please, please tell him before it gets too deep to come back from.

Riley pauses. Then she pulls her uncle into a hug, the two of them sharing a tight embrace. Every touch means a little bit more right now.

Riley: Promise.

She pulls back first, giving him a smile and heading out. Eric watches her go, a little choked up. He clears his throat, trying to shift back into work mode.

INT. AAA - DANCE STUDIO - DAY

Zay and Charlie are in their usual studio, but they aren’t dancing. The mood is deflated, the two of them sprawled on the floor in what seems to be the start of stretches that never went anywhere. Instead they’re talking, Zay laying on his side and propped up on his elbow. Charlie is leaning back against the mirrors, legs stretched out and feet resting on Zay’s hip.

And even their conversation isn’t its usual rapport. It’s soft and listless, both of them trying to process something that feels impossible to grasp. Zay carries most of it to fill the silence, working through his disbelief and attempting to reconcile that with the collective perspective they all had of Farkle.

Zay: I don’t know. I guess someone that… when they have that sort of personality, you never really think --

Charlie: Could’ve been me.

Charlie says it without thinking, staring at the ballet bars across from them. He only snaps out of his daze when Zay nudges his knee, concern in his features. He repeats the question of what the hell Charlie meant, obviously worried about the statement. Charlie quickly covers it, claiming he just meant that it really could’ve been any of them. Personality and background aside.

Zay doesn’t seem all that placated, so Charlie elaborates. He explains how alone he felt at the end of last year, how easy it is to stumble into those dark places and not really know how to dig yourself out. He’s lucky that he had a support system in place, as well as someone there for him in a way that no one else could be.

He tilts his head to lock eyes with Zay, sincerity shining through his tired gaze.

Charlie: I hope you know how much you mean to me.

The sentiment kind of speaks for itself. Zay softens, placing his hand on Charlie’s leg and gently stroking his knee.

Zay: Ditto.

Charlie waits a moment before placing his hand on top of his. Off their joined hands --

INT. MATTHEWS APARTMENT - NIGHT

Riley and Cory are having dinner together, just the two of them as it may very well be from now on. The two of them skirt around the elephant in the room for a bit until Riley mentions her idea to honor Farkle, stating that that’s what has taken up a majority of her attention.

Tentatively, Riley asks Cory how he’s feeling about the whole thing. Although they don’t give him much credit, he was one of his teachers. He must be thinking about it. So she opens the floor for him to actually get to talk about it instead of putting on a brave face like he does at school. Cory contemplates it.

Cory: Weirdly enough, I keep thinking about first semester.

Riley: Yeah?

Cory: Yeah. Doesn’t have anything to do with the last couple of years, but that’s what I keep coming back to. First week of school isn’t easy for a teacher. Not just because we’re also coming off the freedom of summer, but because there’s a whole new crop of kids to learn about. Not to mention all the others you’re backlogging from other years, but that’s beside the point. At least at Triple A we’re only dealing with about fifty a year, but still a lot to take in.

Riley: I can imagine.

Cory: But Farkle wasn’t like that. It was partially the name -- hard to forget a name like that, so I figured I would match the face pretty easily. But the real reason was because even from the first week, he was always two steps ahead of me. Didn’t matter if it was history or english -- and I do not envy Mr. Norton for having to battle with him in science and math. First week of classes, I’m doing an introduction on Shakespeare, and his hand just shoots up about ten minutes in and he basically takes over the lecture. [ clearing his throat ] I was irritated at the time, a little bit, because it kind of felt like he was stealing my thunder. But came to appreciate it after a while. It was nice to have a student who valued his academic intelligence just as much as his performing ability. [ weakly ] Think maybe I should’ve told him that, at some point.

Riley smiles bittersweetly, reaching across the table to touch his hand. Cory lets out an embarrassed laugh, swiping at his eyes. He holds her hand more securely, locking eyes with her.

Cory: I’m so glad that -- I’m so glad you’re still here with me, Riley. I really, really am.

The statement is loaded, and carries plenty of meaning. Glad she’s there with him and not on the same path as Farkle; glad she’s there with him when everyone else seems to have gone away -- his wife, his son. He’s grateful that, in spite of everything else, she’s still there at his side.

Riley squeezes his hand in return, nonverbally returning the sentiment.

INT. FOSTER HOME - KITCHEN - NIGHT

Isadora is helping BEATRIX TORRES prepare lunches for the younger siblings. Beatrix asks her how she’s grappling with what happened to that classmate of hers, and she brushes it off as if she’s not all that bothered. Sad, of course, but it is what it is. Beatrix doesn’t seem convinced, but before she can question further, STEPHEN VAN HERSCHING requests that Isadora come join them in the dining room.

INT. FOSTER HOME - DINING ROOM - NIGHT

Isadora saunters into the seat across from him and KAREN VAN HERSCHING at the end of the dining table, expecting this to be another meeting to discuss her “behavior” as of late. They hadn’t yet confronted her about the outburst of last week, so she’s resigned as they tentatively begin the conversation.

Only it takes a turn she is not at all anticipating.

Karen: With all of this in mind, we feel it might be time for you to be relocated.

Isadora, stunned: … what?

Stephen, delicately: Clearly, we’re simply not clicking the way we’re supposed anymore. You must have noticed you’d been in respite care more often than usual these past few months, and we’ve been butting heads more than living harmoniously.

Karen: It’s not a comfortable environment for any party, and your siblings are starting to recognize it too. Perhaps that’s a sign that this just… isn’t a good fit.

Isadora chokes back her emotions, instead arguing as bluntly as she can manage. She points out that this has nothing to do with the foster siblings and everything to do with them -- they’re giving up on her because she’s not “normal” the way they’d like her to be. They’ve never known how to handle her, and now they’re giving up because they’re tired of pretending to put in an effort to understand her.

Stephen: Now I wouldn’t say --

Isadora: Of course you wouldn’t, because that would go against your perfect charitable narrative. Take in kids and give them homes, sure, as long as doing so makes you feel good about yourself and offers no potential challenges that you might have to actually lift a finger to work through.

Karen: See, this is exactly what we’re talking about. If you were intent on making this family dynamic work --

Isadora: If you were intent on making this work, you’d act like actual parents and try to understand the children you host rather than shaping them into your good samaritan trophies. When you’re an actual parent, you don’t just toss your kid out when they don’t suit you anymore!

Karen shuts the discussion down, stating that this is how things are going to be. Isadora reins in her frustration and puts on a stony expression. Karen continues to explain how long she’ll have to pack her things, what they’re doing to start arranging for her relocation, but sound goes fuzzy and sort of peters out.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “No Roots” as performed by Alice Merton || Performed by Isadora De La Cruz

The bass line starts in as the Van Herschings continue to mutedly talk at Isadora, finally dismissing her. As she marches from the table and starts to move through the home she launches into the opening verse, keeping her emotions tempered for as long as it takes her to escape to the upstairs.

INT. FOSTER HOME - ISADORA’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

The door slams as she gets to the chorus, volume growing in pitch as she starts to meltdown over the ordeal. She’s being dropped again, removed and shoved off to the next person. Nothing ever lasts, no one ever stays. On top of everything else…

Enraged, Isadora rips a poster down off the wall. That destructive action seems to expand into an all-consuming energy, Isadora basically tearing her bedroom to shreds as she progresses through the rest of the number. It’s a dizzying display, leaving her surrounded by debris by the time the rendition comes to an end.

She stands amidst the ruins of what her temporary home used to be, breathing heavy and clearly exhausted. Then she leans back against the door and slides into sitting, tucking her head into her knees.

INT. AAA - ERIC’S OFFICE - DAY

The silence of Eric’s office is a stark contrast to the anger of moments earlier, the only sound being the active tick of the wall clock. Maya is seated in the chair opposite him, Eric patiently attempting to get her to speak about how she’s dealing with this. Anything at all.

She’s not biting. It’s truly jarring to see Maya Hart so quiet, usually so animated and the natural center of attention. She’s just… void, having nothing to say because she has nothing to give.

Eric: I just want you to understand that there’s no wrong way to process this. Whatever you might be feeling -- sadness, guilt, anger -- all of that is valid. You have the right to feel it, whatever it might be. You don’t have to process it alone.

For now, it seems like she’s content to do so. She continues her silence, avoiding his gaze as she stares blankly at the floor. Eric frowns, obviously wishing there was more he could do.

Anne Marie, pre-lap: Please let me know if there’s anything you need.

INT. AAA - JACK’S OFFICE - DAY

ANNE MARIE WINTHROP is visiting Jack, having brought him lunch from one of his favorite spots. She’s clearly there to offer him comfort, well aware of how difficult this week is going to be for him. Whatever she can do to help, she wants to be able to do it.

Jack claims he’ll be fine, right now all he can do is focus on work and try to keep the tides level. She exchanges a brisk kiss with him, heading out just as Lucas appears in the doorway for a meeting.

The two of them nearly bump into one another, looking at one another in confusion. Anne Marie is certainly no administrator Lucas recognizes, and Lucas wanders the main office too casually to be just some random student swinging by for a visit. Yet, they have absolutely no sense of who the other person is.

Jack seems to sense their trepidation, jumping to introduce them. Anne Marie offers a hand to shake as he does so, which Lucas looks at with a mixture of reluctance and amusement. Is she for real?

Jack: Lucas is one of the technicians in the junior class.

Anne Marie: Oh. Sorry if I’m being rude, I just -- Jack’s never mentioned you, is all.

Lucas, flatly: Yeah, well, there’s not much to say about me. [ shaking her hand ] I’m sort of like the gum under his shoe he just can’t scrape off.

Jack: That’s not true.

Lucas: It’s okay though. He’ll get rid of me some day, I’m sure. A little more scraping and scrubbing, and all grime comes off eventually.

Jack cuts him off, stating he’s said quite enough. An interesting first impression, that’s for sure. Anne Marie delicately removes her hand from his, raising her eyebrows at Jack and assuring him she’ll see him after work. Lucas waits until she’s gone to speak, sliding into his usual seat.

Lucas: You never mentioned you had a girlfriend.

Jack: That’s not exactly relevant information for you to know.

Lucas: We talk about everything else. You know everything about me. [ bluntly ] Shitty parents, booth hopping, failed not-relationships…

Jack waves him off, as that’s definitely not what he wanted to discuss. He cuts to the main reason he requested Lucas come by, checking in on how he’s handling the news about Farkle.

In an instant, Lucas clams up. He says he doesn’t see why he’s checking on him when there’s plenty of people way more distraught than he is. He and Farkle weren’t close. They weren’t even acquaintances. The only thing they had in common, in fact, was how hated they were by everyone else.

But that isn’t the point. When things like this happen, Jack states, people cope with it regardless of how immediately attached to the person they were. He wanted to talk with him and make sure he was okay, because he knows for a fact he won’t be going to chat with Eric. His behavior last week was indicative of that much. Lucas sheepishly claims he’s fine, and the only reason he acted that way was because he doesn’t need to have everyone in his business.

But it’s not convincing to Jack, and he continues to push out of concern until Lucas slightly cracks. He lashes out about yeah, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Not because he gave a shit about Farkle, but sort of because of exactly that reason.

Lucas: So you want to know what I’m feeling? I’m feeling like absolute shit. But not for the reason everyone else is, the reason I should be, because I’m heartbroken or sad or suffered some great personal tragedy. And that’s all part of it -- I feel like shit because I am shit. I’m shit because this horrible thing happened, and all I can focus on is me. Because we were both trash, but if anyone deserved it… [ huffing ] Because for three years, I treated Farkle like shit, and I can’t stop doing it to everyone else, and now he --

Lucas can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He swallows whatever he was going to say, slouching back in his seat and pressing his knuckles to his chin. Jack attempts to process everything he just said, wondering where to even begin.

Lucas: Is that what you wanted me to say? Is that what you wanted to hear?

He gets up without waiting for a response, making a quick escape. Jack sits there, dumbstruck, not at all sure how to unpack all of that. Wanting to help, but not having any idea how -- not even sure he can. Perhaps he should’ve heeded Eric’s advice about not pushing conversations…

INT. AAA - HALLWAY - DAY

Riley is at Farkle’s locker, having been opened by Harley to be cleaned out and returned. She’s gathering his things in a bag, also getting a feel for what she’s working with in whatever her grand idea is.

She sighs, shifting her focus to the inside door. There are still those lingering photos from last year, striking a nerve in her she wasn’t expecting. She gently touches the Les Mis cast photo, then shifts her gaze to one he has of him and Maya. It was taken on their hooky day, and somehow captures just how greatly Farkle cherished their friendship before he blew it all up.

Riley’s eyes are glossy, but she’s pulled from the moment by the conversation of a couple seniors a few lockers down. They’re discussing how heavy the week has been because of the junior class, neglecting to realize that the locker of who they’re chatting about is only a few feet away.

They both agree they’re eager for the weekend to unwind for a hot minute, highlighting the underground NYU party that they both got the deets for. Yeah, they’re still in high school, but this is one of those ones where they let seniors in for a few bucks so long as they dress the part and don’t go too overboard.

Interesting information to overhear. Riley absorbs the details as she hides behind Farkle’s locker door, stopping herself just in time from subconsciously bending his photo of Maya.

INT. AAA - BLACK BOX THEATER - DAY

The bell rings, pulling the junior class back together for lecture. They all saunter into the black box, the mood somber and all eyes avoiding the empty seats in the room. One less occupied than it should be. A couple of students are visibly shaken, like NICK YOGI who is far from his usual level of energetic, and HALEY FISHER, who is wiping tears on her sleeve a few rows back.

Harper steps up to the board and attempts to proceed on like business as usual, but she keeps losing her train of thought. She gets caught on Haley crying in the back of the room, wanting to say something, but remembering what Jack and Eric said about operating with caution.

Charlie: Miss Burgess? [ after she looks at him ] Are you alright?

No. No, Charlie, she’s not. As if the question is the trigger, Harper starts to cry. She apologizes and tries to pull it together, but then she’s sobbing harder. Totally eclipsed by the reality of what has happened and unable to run away from it any longer.

The A class stares at her, uncertain what to do or how to respond. The room feels frozen in the agony of it, until Shawn steps up and joins Harper at the front of the classroom. He leans in close, muttering to her with a semblance of privacy.

Shawn: Go. I’ve got them, just go.

Harper blinks at him, stunned, but takes his directive. She rushes out of the room, still trying to pull herself together. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Shawn awkwardly clears his throat and then attempts to take over the lesson to the best of his ability.

INT. AAA - DRESSING ROOM HALL - DAY

Catching up with the junior A class, they’re scattered about the auditorium during breakout sessions. But no one is actually rehearsing anything, mostly just coming together to comfort one another. DARBY WINTERS and SARAH CARLSON are in the dressing room hall, Sarah hugging Darby as she cries.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

In the wings, Zay, Yindra, and Nigel are seated on some spare acting blocks. Charlie and Clarissa are in the backstage area, comforting a distraught Haley who cannot seem to stop crying. In the back center section of the house, the techies are huddled together. NATE MARTINEZ has his arm around DAVE WILLIAMS, who is flushed and rubbing his eyes. JEFF MONROE is massaging Jade’s shoulders while she continues to costume in spite of how she’s actively crying, preferring to focus on something productive rather than wallow.

Dylan breaks from the techie huddle, gently scratching Asher’s back as he passes him to let him know he’s going. He makes his way back down through the house and up onto the stage, heading to the other side of the wings in pursuit of something or someone specific.

INT. AAA - COSTUME LOFT - DAY

He finds who he’s looking for soon enough. Isadora is no longer so in control of her emotions, aggressively sawing at a piece of wood with safety goggles on. Dylan claims he’s happy he found her, as he wanted to see how she was doing. He knows she’s been kind of dealing with a lot of shit lately, let alone on top of this.

Isadora, unimpressed: Oh, do you now?

Isadora pulls off her goggles and steps away from the wood, avoiding looking at him. He persists in expressing his concern anyway, stating that they’re friends and it’s important for people not to feel alone right now.

Unintentionally, this comment is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Isadora snaps, saying it’s a shock for him to call them that when they’ve hardly interacted much in the last few months. Where was he when the entire techie crew decided to cold shoulder her? Or after the blow up in class when her mom visited -- he sure didn’t come running after her then. He didn’t try to get Lucas to lighten up on her, none of them thought to invite her to their new techie holiday plans.

Then it just spirals from there, Isadora no longer able to keep the lid on her emotions about anything. What’s going on with the Van Herschings, how her friendship with Lucas has deteriorated, the fact that she can’t seem to get the balance between two worlds right. How she knew something was up with Farkle, and she tried to reach out, but she didn’t do it right because she never does anything right. She could’ve done more, and yet she fucked up that too.

Dylan listens without argument to all of it, an unfair but willing recipient of all her anger. He lets her snarl at him and throw blame around and completely meltdown until she runs out of steam, collapsing down against the chain link that separates the costuming supplies from the set building supplies. She descends into tears, hiding in her arms and at rock bottom.

For a beat, uncertainty. Then, without a word, Dylan walks over and joins her on the floor under the shadow of the costume loft. He doesn’t touch her, or offer an uplifting word. He simply sits with her, being another presence in the room. There with her to sort through all that turmoil.

Tangible proof that she’s not as alone as she feels.

INT. ANGELA’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

ANGELA MOORE returns home, greeting Shawn who is working on the couch. She tiredly explains that she went to pay a visit to the Minkus family.

Shawn: How are they?

Angela: About how you’d expect.

She settles onto the couch with him, allowing him to drape an arm around her shoulders. She cuddles close, shaking her head and claiming that she can’t imagine what they’re going through right now. She only knows what she’s struggling to grapple with, and that’s already difficult enough. Shawn nods along, kissing her temple.

Angela: I just keep thinking… if I hadn’t gone away. If I hadn’t taken the job, you know, and I was still his teacher…

Shawn argues against the train of thought before it even starts. There’s no sense in trying to figure out if one or two tiny decisions were deciding factors in something like this -- and they rarely ever are anyway. She was his favorite teacher, after all, if anything she already did more good for him than anyone else.

Angela sighs, trying to accept that as truth. She asks how everyone else at AAA is doing, and Shawn admits it’s tough. He mentions what happened with Harper, speaking sympathetically about his co-teacher for perhaps the first time. As he’s doing so, the reality of their warped dynamic seems to hit him full force.

Shawn: … fuck. I’ve got to fix this, Ange.

Her expression says it all. Maybe so. He gives her another long kiss on the forehead before climbing to his feet.

INT. FOSTER HOME - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT

Isadora is meeting with her SOCIAL WORKER, the latter explaining what this process will be like as she is relocated. She’s hardly listening though, as this is far from the first time she’s heard the spiel.

When the caretaker explains that she will be squatting at the Van Herschings until she’s assigned a new home, that seems to strike something in Isadora. From the way her eyes are burning, it’s clear that doesn’t resonate with her. No way is she going to just hang around in a place where it’s been made clear she’s no longer welcome.

INT. MATTHEWS APARTMENT - NIGHT

Riley is pacing the living area, on the phone with TOPANGA LAWRENCE. She’s explaining the laborious process of moving upstate, only switching topics to what is going on with Riley far too long into the conversation.

Riley, flatly: Well, I don’t know if you heard, but one of my classmates overdosed. So.

Although her advice is well-meant, Topanga’s immediate response is to start problem-solving, which is not what Riley wants to hear. She can’t even get a word in about her project for Farkle, Topanga dominating the conversation with thoughts on how to cope and questioning the environment of the school that would push a student to that.

Topanga: You know, there really are some excellent schools here upstate. If you’re ever feeling as though things at the art school are just too hectic…

A nice suggestion, but exactly the opposite of what Riley needs right then. She’s sick of jumping from place to place only for it to constantly fall apart -- what she wants is for the home she’s built at AAA to become hospitable again. All in all, the conversation leaves Riley feeling more claustrophobic, directionless, endlessly doing the wrong thing regardless of how much right she’s trying to do.

She hangs up, collapsing into the bay window and looking out towards the twinkling lights of the city. Still bustling with activity in spite of how the world seems to have frozen around them.

She could sure afford to unwind for a hot minute…

INT. MATTHEWS APARTMENT - MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT

Maya’s phone is ringing, Katy lighting up the screen once again. Maya reaches out and hits ignore, stuffing her phone in her pocket.

Her expression is still hard to read as she gathers her duffle bag onto her shoulder. She’s dressed in dark clothing and obviously on a mission, no longer doing nothing but gearing up to certainly do something.

She crawls out onto the fire escape with her duffle, disappearing into the night.

EXT. LUCAS’S APARTMENT - LUCAS’S FIRE ESCAPE -  NIGHT

Lucas is seated out on his fire escape, also looking out into the night. He’s clenching his jaw, picking at the scabs on his hands again, seeming restless and a far cry from coping well over someone he wasn’t all that close to.

Swiftly, he pulls out his phone and dials a number. He waits impatiently until they pick up, eyes shining with mischief.

Lucas: You busy? [ a beat ] I gotta do something.

INT. GARDNER HOME - DINING ROOM - NIGHT

The Gardner family is assembled for dinner, ELEANOR GARDNER leading them in prayer before they settle in for the meal. This evening is a bit out of the ordinary, however, as Eleanor includes a plea of forgiveness for Farkle’s mortal soul and to have mercy on him. Charlie opens his eyes in shock, blinking at his mother as she wraps it up with prayers towards the Minkus family and a curt amen.

Charlie is the only one not to repeat the word. Eleanor glances at him, surprised to see the disturbed expression on his face. She questions what’s going on, and Charlie asks what the heck she meant by including Farkle and asking for his “forgiveness.”

Eleanor treads cautiously, understanding that Charlie is likely overwhelmed by what’s happened and thusly pardons his attitude. She reminds him that suicide is a mortal sin, one of the gravest a human can commit as it goes against God’s power over human life. She’s merely hoping the Lord will take mercy on him when the time comes for his judgment.

Charlie: Well, don’t you think that’s a bit cold?

Eleanor: I think it’s a bit cold to decide that your wants and desires are greater than the will of the Lord.

Charlie: Maybe, but… don’t you think he deserves a little more sympathy? You don’t know what was going on with him, or even who he was. The Bible even says that mental health can absolve responsibility of it as a mortal sin --

Eleanor: Which is up for Him to decide, not me, and certainly not you.

Charlie wants to say more, but he finds he’s out of words. He just feels sick, staring at his mom as if he doesn’t even recognize her. Rosie looks back and forth between them, uncertain. Ambrose starts to say something to assuage the tension, but Charlie beats him to it. He pushes away from the table.

Charlie, disgusted: I need to be excused.

Eleanor: Perhaps that’s a good idea.

He marches out of the room without looking back. Eleanor and Ambrose watch him go, both appearing concerned. Rosie and Daisy keep their heads down, pushing around their food but not eating it.

INT. GARDNER HOME - CHARLIE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Charlie escapes into his room, slamming his door behind him. He paces restlessly before flopping down on his bed, grabbing his pillow and screaming into it to muffle the sound.

When he puts it down, he pushes himself back into a sitting position. He runs his hands through his hair, letting out an exhausted exhale. His gaze drifts out his balcony and towards the lights of the city, Charlie getting lost in the view for a moment.

Slowly, his expressions hardens to a glare.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “A Lot of Livin’ To Do” as performed by Bye Bye Birdie Original Broadway Cast || Performed by AAA Juniors

Charlie kicks off the first verse, on edge and bristling with energy. He pushes himself off his bed and into a pace, then seems to be struck with an idea. He quickly packs a bag and climbs out onto his balcony.

EXT. GARDNER HOME - NIGHT

Charlie lands outside his balcony and looks up at it as he backs onto the sidewalk, finishing off his verse as he sprints towards his car.

INT. MATTHEWS APARTMENT - MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT

Riley takes up the brunt of the next verse, singing about “men of 19 or 20, who are suave and reckless and true.” She’s dressed up and looking glamorous in bold makeup, a leather jacket she took from Maya’s closet, and semi form-fitting clothes, but she also… doesn’t really look like herself. She looks as though she’s trying to be something she’s not -- which is precisely what she’s doing.

She musters her confidence in the mirror before grabbing her purse and clambering out of the bay window.

INT. FOSTER HOME - NIGHT

Isadora is following the same routine. She has stuffed everything she cares about into a backpack and an overnight bag, clambering down the stairs and marching into the night without anyone noticing. Not intending to ever come back.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

Kicking off a pattern for the episode, the rest of the number is split between events happening in real time, and a fictionalized performance on the AAA stage. In this case, that performance belongs to the A class (sans everyone featured out and about), Nigel taking on the vocal heft of the performance.

The strangest thing about their otherwise enjoyable rendition is how jarring it is to see Asher without Dylan. Asher is amidst his classmates, dancing with Jade and the other techies in the grounded stage performance, but his boyfriend is nowhere to be found.

EXT. NEW YORK STREETS - NIGHT

That’s because Dylan, on the other hand, has met up with Lucas and they’re jogging the back streets of a wealthier district in the city. They’re alight with chaotic energy, as Lucas is kicking up his thievery to even higher levels tonight. Dylan tosses him a tool as they come around one of the fancy, shiny sports cars sitting parked on the street, Lucas starting the process of breaking into the vehicle.

He succeeds, pulling open the door and disabling the security mechanism swifter than it can react. He and Dylan exchange grins, Lucas climbing behind the wheel.

EXT. NEW YORK STREETS - NIGHT

Maya has taken up residency in an alleyway, a busy street just overhead. She’s hard at work, opening her duffle to reveal an assortment of spray paint. Her expression is removed and determined, setting to work as she starts graffiting right over the camera.

EXT. BABINEAUX HOME - NIGHT

Zay’s car is the only one in the driveway as Charlie pulls up on the curb, abruptly killing the engine. He jogs up to the door, knocking urgently. He’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, unable to stay still.

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ENTRYWAY - NIGHT

Zay descends from upstairs and pulls open the door in confusion, finding Charlie on the doorstep. Not even a second passes before Charlie steps inside and pulls Zay into a kiss, showing zero hesitation in initiating.

Something about this kiss is different, too. Insistent. Impatient. Zay is startled for a moment until he catches up and kisses him back, shutting the front door.

INT/EXT. NEW YORK STREETS / STOLEN CAR - NIGHT

Lucas and Dylan seem to be having the time of their lives, speeding down the night streets in their joy ride vehicle. Dylan shouts into the night and nudges Lucas on the arm, the latter grinning and picking up speed.

EXT. NEW YORK STREETS - NIGHT

Isadora is wandering the streets, obviously not sure where the hell she’s going to go. She’s so distracted she almost walks right into the streets, only getting startled out of it when a police siren snaps her out of it.

She hops back onto the sidewalk as the cruiser breezes past, lights blinking and sirens blaring.

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Things have grown serious for Zay and Charlie as well. They’re deep into kissing, but Charlie still seems to be operating with a more frantic tenor than normal. There’s a moment where Zay pulls back and starts to question if this is okay but Charlie steers right past it, pulling him back into it.

Kisses deepen… shirts come off… Zay fumbles back onto the mattress and Charlie follows...

EXT. NEW YORK STREETS - NIGHT

Maya is finishing up her project, startled out of her focus by the distant sound of sirens. She scrambles to gather her things and takes off into the darkness.

EXT. COLLEGE PARTY - NIGHT

Riley approaches the entrance to the underground college party, being held at what seems like an old warehouse of some kind. She makes tentative eye contact with the older guy monitoring the doors, but he doesn’t pay her any more attention than the other college girls slipping inside.

She smiles to herself, descending down the steps and into the party scene.

INT/EXT. NEW YORK STREETS / STOLEN CAR - NIGHT

The fun comes to an end about the same time as the song, the A class underscoring the blare of sirens as they catch up to Lucas and Dylan. The world around them reflects blue and red as Lucas stares at the rear view mirror, expression shifting from thrilled to alarmed.

Lucas, fiercely: Shit.

They pull over. Dylan glances over his shoulder at the lights and then back to Lucas, panicked.

INT. AAA - ERIC’S OFFICE - NIGHT

Eric is still at school, working overtime and cleaning up his office as an excuse to avoid everything else. His fragile bubble pops though as he finishes clearing his desk, stumbling upon some old notes he made to himself about Farkle and his behavior.

He stares at it, hands shaking. His expression twitches, betraying his strong facade.

INT. HARPER’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Harper is pacing her apartment, on the phone with STELLA CASTILLO. She assures her that she doesn’t need to come home from her touring gig early, the situation is tough but she will handle it just fine. She misses her though, and can’t wait to see her again.

There’s a knock at the door, a surprise to Harper. She lets Stella know she has to go, hanging up and going to answer the door.

Shawn is on the other side, obviously a shock to her. He acts nonchalant as he greets her with an eyebrow raise, awkward but just charming enough that he can pull it off.

Shawn: Wanna grab a drink?

Off Harper’s uncertain expression, as “Die Young” floats in --

INT. COLLEGE PARTY - NIGHT

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Die Young” as performed by Kesha || Performed by Riley Matthews

Speaking of drinking, the college party is in full swing! Riley is right in the center of it all, leading a spunky and high energy rendition of this pop classic. She’s parading around with red solo cup in hand, dancing with friendly college girls, having a rocking good time. She also catches the eye of a handful of boys, being a bit flirtatious in her devil-may-care state. There are older men of 19 or 20…

It’s the most wild she’s ever been, and it’s obvious she’s reveling in it. Accommodating and unassuming Riley Matthews, finally doing something because she damn well feels like it.

INT. JACK’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Jack and Anne Marie are having a quiet conversation, interrupted by a knock at the door. Jack goes to answer it, unexpectedly finding a winded and very flushed Eric standing outside.

Eric, broken: It’s my fault. It was my fault.

Jack allows him inside the apartment, guiding him in and immediately trying to get him to calm down. But Eric is in emotional hysterics, doing everything aside from actually crying. He can hardly breathe, he’s tripping over his own words, the works. Jack exchanges a look with Anne Marie, not sure what to say.

She gets the message, grabbing her coat and purse and stating that she’ll give them some space. As she goes, she gently touches Eric’s shoulder and expresses her sincere condolences for everything that has happened. Then she exchanges a cheek kiss with Jack, stepping out and leaving them alone.

Eric grows more frantic, totally incomprehensible. Jack guides him towards the couch and gets him to settle, trying to get him to listen instead of spiraling out of control.

Jack: Eric.

Eric: How many times did we say we needed to bring him in to chat? How many times did I remind myself that I needed to see him but let it get brushed aside by something else? How many times did I meet with him, only to let him go without making any progress?

Jack: Eric --

Eric: We knew, Jack! I knew that something was wrong, I saw the signs, and I didn’t act quick enough! I failed him! It’s my fault, it’s my fault he --

Jack: Eric!

Jack grabs his shoulders, jostling him lightly to get him to pause. He does, allowing Jack the chance to retort. He shifts one his hands to grip the side of his neck, locking eyes with him.

Jack: This is not your fault.

Eric looks like he wants to argue, but he’s out of words. He stares at Jack, eyes glassy and still trembling. Jack holds his gaze… and then pats his shoulder gently.

Jack: Let me make some coffee.

INT. NYPD PRECINCT - HOLDING CELL - NIGHT

Dylan and Lucas are seated on the bench, the former looking nervous while the latter is slouched back against the concrete wall, resigned. Dylan is fidgety, twisting the bracelets on his wrist and tapping his feet and bouncing his leg.

Dylan: This is bad. This is so bad.

Lucas, sharply: Would you calm down? We’re white, we’ll be fine.

The door opens, an OFFICER entering and unlocking the cell. She informs them that someone paid their bail, but they have paperwork to process so they absolutely should not leave the precinct. However, they can retrieve their things and meet with their bail out. Lucas and Dylan exchange a look, following the officer out of the cell.

INT. COLLEGE PARTY - NIGHT

Riley is just finishing pouring herself another drink when THOR (20) sidles up to join her. He’s attractive, sandy-haired, just the right amount of charming. He engages Riley in conversation, asking her a little more about who she is and commenting that he hasn’t seen her around before.

The conversation seems fun for her. She enjoys playing mysterious, leaving him with little answers but accepting his invitation to go dance.

INT. JACK’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Eric has had the chance to settle, no longer frantic but instead having transitioned into a numb sort of state. Jack returns with steaming mugs, handing one to Eric who takes it robotically. Jack sits down next to him, placing the coffee on the table.

Jack: Do you have any idea how much I respect you? Especially now.

Jack points out how hard the last week was on all of them, but especially Eric. And now he has to carry his feelings about it all on top of the collective school emotions, hardly getting any time to process it for himself. So it’s no wonder that he’s feeling overwhelmed --

Eric: I could’ve done something. I could’ve stopped it.

Jack: You know that’s not true. You know that’s not how these things work.

Eric: It was my job. It’s my job to protect them, and I failed.

Jack: Eric, listen to me. [ leaning forward ] This is not your fault. You did not fail. And if you did, then it’s on both of us. It’s both of our jobs to take care of those students. So if it’s on you, then it’s on me too.

He reaches forward and pats Eric’s knee, getting his attention. Eric stares at his hand, then slowly lifts his gaze to meet his eyes.

Jack: You know we work together. We should’ve tackled this together, and we’re going to handle it together. [ softly ] You are not going to face this alone.

Eric hangs on his every word. There’s something about the moment that’s deeper than just a moment of camaraderie, one that neither of them can place but that certainly exists between them… when Jack’s cell phone rings, making both of them jump. He digs for it in his pocket.

Jack, apologetically: Could be the Minkus --

Eric nods, understanding. Jack jumps to his feet, frowning at the number on his caller ID as he steps away to answer it. Eric takes the moment to collect himself, letting out a sigh and hiding his head in his hands.

He straightens up when Jack shouts from the kitchen, startling him.

Jack: He what?

Jack flurries back into the room a second later, scrambling to find his coat. Eric asks what the hell is going on, but in his frenzy Jack isn’t very helpful.

Jack: I have to -- Lucas. He -- I need to go to the station --

Eric: The station? What --

Jack: Please, feel free to stay as long as you need. I’ll be back soon. [ a beat ] Hopefully. Shit. Jesus --

Jack exits in a huff, leaving Eric alone in his apartment.

INT. COLLEGE PARTY - NIGHT

Dancing with a cute stranger at a hazy college party is all fun and games… until it isn’t. Although it doesn’t seem all that out of place considering how other duos around them are acting, when Thor makes an unexpected move and kisses Riley’s neck she clearly isn’t on the same page. She might be tipsy, but she’s cognizant enough to know that’s not the direction she wants to go in.

She jerks away on instinct, Thor still keeping a hand on her arm. He asks her if everything is okay, seemingly innocent. She clears her throat and searches for an excuse, laughing nervously and stating that she doesn’t feel much like dancing anymore.

In the midst of backing away, somehow Thor manages to back her into a dead end against a wall. He suggests that they can go somewhere else if she wants, not reading into her discomfort despite how obvious it feels. Hands shaking and feeling distinctly cornered, Riley grasps for any excuse she can think of.

Riley: I, um… I have to use the restroom.

INT. COLLEGE PARTY - BATHROOM - NIGHT

Riley skirts past a couple of drunk college girls, ducking into a stall and trying to catch her breath. She starts to tear up but talks herself down, knowing she needs to keep her cool. She needs to stay calm, and then she needs to figure out an escape plan.

After a moment, she pulls out her phone. She fumbles to open it, going to her messages and scrolling back to find the right contact.

INT. NYPD PRECINCT - LOBBY - NIGHT

Dylan and Lucas emerge from the hall with the officer, retrieving their items from a plastic bag from when they were arrested. As they direct their attention to the main waiting area, the identity of who bailed them out quickly becomes clear.

Asher marches away from the counter, eyes wide and voice frayed.

Asher: WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?

He’s interrupted before he can even finish the question, Dylan barreling him with a bone-crushing hug. He embraces him with everything in him, obviously so relieved he’s there.

Lucas looks a little less thrilled. He stares at them, confusion shifting to defensive disdain.

Lucas: You called Asher?

Asher pulls back from the hug first, glancing between them. Dylan speaks before he can address Lucas, asking how the hell he paid to bail them out.

Asher, reluctantly: … the fund.

Dylan’s face drops, mortified. The last thing Asher should be doing is dipping into his college fund to get them out of trouble -- especially after expressly stating he needed space.

Dylan: I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call. They said call someone, and my first thought was --

Asher: It’s fine. But I’ll ask again. [ looking right at Lucas ] What the hell happened?

Lucas holds his glare, not knowing what to say. He’s saved by the bell, or in this case, his phone ringing. He steps away to answer, turning away from Dylan and Asher. As he frowns at the caller ID and answers the call, in the background Asher takes Dylan’s face and questions whether or not he’s okay.

Lucas: Hello? Riley? [ a beat ] Wait, what? [ a beat ] What?

Dylan and Asher shift their attention to Lucas, watching him warily as he starts to pace. Whatever he’s hearing on the other end, it can’t be good news.

Lucas: Stay where you are. Don’t talk to them. Where are you? [ a beat ] Okay, stay put. It’s going to be okay. I’m coming. It’s going to be fine.

Lucas hangs up, alight with restless energy again. He marches back over to the other two, exhaling shortly before locking eyes with Asher.

Lucas: I need your car.

Asher: I’m -- what? No.

Lucas: I need to go. Riley is -- I have to go now.

Dylan: What’s wrong with Riley?

Lucas: I have to go. Give me your keys.

Asher, stunned: You’re seriously telling me --

Dylan: They said we couldn’t leave --

Lucas: GIVE ME YOUR KEYS!

Asher flinches, reflexively tossing them in his direction. Lucas catches them, not even saying thanks as he sprints out the doors. Dylan and Asher whip around to watch him go, wearing matching shocked expressions.

Dylan, with dread: We’re so fucked.

Asher glances at him then back to where Lucas left, slowly shifting from shocked to pissed.

INT. JACK’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Eric has returned from the kitchen with another cup of coffee, familiar enough with Jack’s apartment from all the hours they’ve spent working together. He settles back onto the couch, breathing deeply and trying to get himself to relax.

He shifts his focus to the paperwork Jack has on the table -- the student files of the junior class. Likely in preparation for their senior summary reports. He flips through them idly, smiling lightly at the grinning portraits of the junior class and their photos from the last three years.

Eric stops cold when he gets to Farkle, smiling smugly back at him from his sophomore student portrait. There’s a subtle shift, just barely perceptible, between that image and the one from junior year. Eric swallows, gently putting down the report back onto the table. He puts it right next to Isadora, and Charlie on the other side.

All of them, right there in front of him. All having no idea how much they mean to him, how desperately he wants to protect all of them like his own family.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “These Are My Children” as performed by FAME Original Broadway Cast || Performed by Eric Matthews

Eric kicks off this impressive vocal performance, sorting through the student files as he articulates how important this role and his influence on the children means to him. He uses the full expanse of Jack’s living room to work through his emotion, delivering a powerful rendition.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

In keeping with the other performances of the evening, the number is split half between his location and half on the AAA stage, railing into the performance with everything he’s got. It’s cathartic, at the very least, and it certainly makes the point crystal clear.

The students at Adams are his children. And he never wants to let another one slip through the cracks ever again.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “HUMBLE.” as performed by Kendrick Lamar || Instrumental

INT. ASHER’S CAR - NIGHT

Lucas is parked outside the college party, staring at the building with obvious reluctance and disdain. He can hear the bass thumping from outside, and a crowded, loud, rowdy hole in the wall is the last place he should be when he’s already on the block for the joy ride.

But he goes anyway. Lucas scowls and climbs out of the car, slamming the door.

INT. COLLEGE PARTY - NIGHT

From the moment he enters the space, it’s overwhelming. Lucas frowns at the haze of smoke and odor of alcohol and weed, weaving his way through the crowd and scanning for Riley. College girls spot him and share interested looks and giggles, but he doesn’t pay any attention.

Finally, he finds her.

Lucas: Riley -- Riley!

He pushes through the crowd to get to her, Riley whipping around when she hears his voice. Her eyes are wide and uncertain.

Riley: Lucas?

He finally makes it to her side, taking her arm and pulling her from the fray. He double takes when he actually gets a good look at her, taking in her… new style. He seems a bit torn on whether or not he should consider it attractive or not, and well aware that this isn’t the time to be thinking about that anyway, but Thor addressing them grabs his attention before he can make a decision either way.

It’s not just Thor, but Thor with friends. There’s about three of them now, and Thor questions where Riley is going so soon. Lucas can tell from her body language and the way she kinda ducks behind him that they’re what caused her to call him in the first place. He does his best to keep things from escalating, calmly explaining that they’re just going to head out.

Thor: Oh, well, you don’t have to rush out. I thought we were having a good time. Weren’t we? [ off Riley’s hesitant expression ] Of course she’s shy now. It’s okay, you don’t have to get bashful around your boyfriend.

Friend, slurring: Didn’t have those problems earlier.

Friend 2: Thor was just telling us how friendly you are. Thought we’d come get to know you ourselves.

Riley looks like she’s going to be sick. Lucas narrows his eyes, fighting a losing battle in keeping control of his anger.

Thor: It’s not like it’s a problem, you’re welcome to join us. [ loftily ] Thought we might have more fun as a group, actually.

Lucas, sharply: Yeah? You think it’s fun to hit on a minor?

That comment seems to hit something in Thor’s drunk friends, but they’re not sober enough to remember why that should be problematic. There’s a little more of a tense back and forth until Riley tries to end it, taking Lucas’s arm and starting to pull him away.

Riley: Lucas, let’s just go. Come on.

Friend: Yeah, go on then, bulldog. Woof!

Lucas is scowling, but he follows Riley’s directive. It’s only after they’ve turned away that Thor makes a crucial mistake.

Thor: Her loss. Fine, then. Go be a nobody somewhere else, slut!

Everything happens so fast. In a second, Lucas has spun back around and thrown a punch, hitting Thor so hard and quick that he falls backwards into his friends. As they’re reacting and regaining their bearings, Lucas doubles back to Riley and starts to drag her out of there.

Lucas: Come on. Come on!

Riley tears her gaze away from the carnage, taking his hands and holding on for dear life as he shoves his way through the crowd.

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Zay and Charlie have evidently been making bold moves of their own. The untidy quality of the bed sheets is enough of an indication, although Charlie is in the process of fixing them for the sake of fixing something. He might want to start with his hair, which is equally messy, but that seems to be far from his mind. He’s fidgety, looking caught between guilt and discomfort as he restlessly makes the bed.

Zay returns from the hall, having just done some tidying up himself and pulling on a sweatshirt. He tells Charlie not to worry about it, in much lighter spirits than his boyfriend. Charlie can hardly look at him, swiveling away once his distraction of nitpicking has been taken away.

Sensing that something might be up but not wanting to jinx things, Zay searches for upbeat ways to break the silence. He’s rambling, almost, scrambling for anything to say that will make the oddly serious air between them disappear.

Charlie, suddenly: This wasn’t good.

Zay: … well, I don’t know if I would say that. Sure wasn’t perfect, but uh, you know, I don’t think it’s necessarily supposed to be. First time. [ a beat ] Like a lot of things, I think it just takes practice --

Charlie: No, no, not that. It was… fine. I mean, it was okay. I don’t -- it wasn’t good that we did this. That I did this.

It grows quiet. Zay chews the inside of his cheek, obviously trying to grapple with the unpleasant turn this is taking. He isn’t sure what to say.

Zay: If you mean… if this is about the “Heavenly Father,” or whatever --

Charlie: No, it’s not that either. It’s just… I just think that… [ exhaling ] I don’t think I did this for the right reasons.

Zay frowns. Doing what they decided to do tonight is already an overly emotional endeavor, and that’s heightening the way they’re reacting to one another. But he knows he doesn’t want the conversation to go where it’s going.

Zay, quietly: … you said it was okay. I asked you like, a thousand times, because I wanted it to be okay --

Charlie: I know. And when I said it --

Zay: I didn’t even know if -- I wasn’t sure either, you know? [ quicker ] I didn’t know if I was ready either but I figured if you were, if you seemed so sure, then --

Charlie: It’s not that I… it didn’t have anything to do with you.

Zay: Then why? Why would you do it if it wasn’t about you and me?

Charlie grimaces, running his hands through his hair. He snaps out a response, explaining what his mom said at the dinner table about sin and this backwards way of thinking about Farkle, and he can’t stop thinking about Farkle in general, and how life is so fucking short and abrupt and holds all these choices that he has no control over. So he just… he just wanted to do something. He wanted to choose to do something and have control over it and feel like it was okay.

Zay, stammering: And you didn’t think -- you didn’t think to tell me about that?

Charlie: I don’t know! [ voice cracking ] I just knew that I wanted to be with you, and I wanted to feel something, and have control over something, and not have my mom’s voice in my head confirming that empathy means nothing if the Lord doesn’t agree and how I can never fucking tell her about this --

Zay, exasperated: Are you ever going to tell anybody?

That’s enough to stop Charlie dead in his tracks. Zay is looking at him, vulnerable and worked up, and Charlie wants to be able to tell him what he wants to hear. Even in the midst of how confusing and overwhelming it all is, he wants to be able to give him that reassurance.

Instead, he hesitates. He hesitates just a second too long.

Zay’s lip trembles, expression shifting as he attempts to keep it together. He shakes his head, turning away from him and letting out a shaky breath.

Charlie: Zay, I’m not saying that… like I said, this doesn’t have anything to do with you.

Zay: It should. This is one of the things that should.

Charlie: I didn’t mean to --

Zay: You know that I don’t… I would never expect you to… but we’re supposed to be doing this as a team. We’re supposed to be together on this.

Charlie, tearing up: We are --

Zay: And it’s supposed to be leading towards something! If we care about each other and this means something it’s supposed to be moving towards a future -- you even said just last week that…

He can’t get his thoughts together. He can’t wrap his head around how spectacularly this has spun out, how he feels closer to him than ever but also betrayed and confused and a cocktail of every other emotion they’ve made each other feel in the last eight months.

Zay: What are we even doing?

Charlie shakes his head, stepping forward and taking Zay’s arm.

Charlie: We are -- Zay, listen to me. Listen. [ choked up ] Zay, I --

Zay: What?

Zay whips around to face him, meeting his gaze. Not letting him hide, waiting for him to say what he hasn’t been able to say.

Zay, softer: … what do you want to say to me, Charlie?

Charlie stares at him, glossy-eyed. Mouth parted open, the words on the tip of his tongue -- what he feels so strongly it’s consumed him inside and out.

But he can’t say it. He can’t put it into words the way Zay needs to hear.

Zay nods, not surprised. He gently pulls his arm from his grasp, turning away from him and wiping at his eyes. Charlie stands frozen, unable to move.

Zay: [ almost inaudible ] I think you should go.

Charlie, tearfully: Zay --

Zay: Please. [ a beat ] Just go.

Charlie waits a moment longer, hoping things will go back to before. Hoping somehow everything will go right side up again, that they’ll be the same… but it doesn’t. It won’t. He swallows back his tears and robotically gathers his things, glancing over his shoulder at Zay one more time before he disappears from the room.

Zay grits his teeth until he hears the front door close. Then he lets out a broken exhale, collapsing onto the bed and hiding his head in his hands.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Secret Love Song, Pt. II” as performed by Little Mix || Performed by Zay Babineaux

Delicately singing the opening notes of this coveted Little Mix ballad, Zay works his way into what is his most heart-wrenching and emotional performance to date. There’s no choreography or extravagance to distract from the killer vocals, just raw emotion and impressive pipes.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

His performance follows the same pattern as the others, splitting its time between his grounded location and the imaginary AAA stage.

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Zay rounds out the piece by approaching his window, looking out and seeing Charlie in his car. He’s clearly crying, mirroring Zay’s own tears, but right now there’s too much distance between them. Too much weight from hasty decisions that they can’t take back or redo.

He pulls it together and drives away, Zay watching him go. Then he slides back down against the wall, leaning his head against the window sill.

INT. BLUE’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

There’s a knock at the door, BLUE NGUYEN jogging in from the bedroom to answer. He looks through the peephole and then pulls open the door, a windswept and tired Isadora standing there with her bags on the doorstep.

Neither of them say anything. Blue steps back and lets her into the apartment without hesitation, gently shutting the door behind them.

INT. ASHER’S CAR - NIGHT

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Love Like This (Acoustic)” as performed by Kodaline || Instrumental

Lucas has parked a ways away from the party in a mostly empty parking lot. The music plays softly over the radio, set to one of Asher’s usual stations, but otherwise it’s quiet.

They aren’t looking at one another. Lucas is chewing on his thumbnail, keeping his gaze trained out the window. Riley is making herself as small as possible after the evening she’s had, hugging herself and slouched low in the passenger seat.

After a long moment, Lucas lets out a sigh.

Lucas: What the hell were you thinking?

Oop. Wrong thing to say. Riley looks at him, staring in disbelief.

Riley: What was I thinking? [ a beat, louder ] What was I thinking? You’ve got to be kidding me!

Valid reaction. Lucas cringes as Riley lays into him, straightening up and reminding him of all the stupid choices he’s been making in the last few months. The terrible attitude. The stealing. The shutting down and shutting out of people who actually care about him, who have done nothing but try and help him and he’s given back bullshit.

Riley: So you have the nerve to ask me what I was thinking? No. Sorry. I know this was dumb, and I know I shouldn’t have done it, and I had to pay for it. But I am not going to take a lecture from you!

[ There’s a long silence. Riley huffs, slouching back against the seat and crossing her arms tighter across her chest. ]

Lucas: … you’re right.

Riley: And I think -- [ realizing what he said ] What?

Lucas, defeated: You’re right. I’m stupid. I’ve been… I’ve been fucking up non-stop basically since summer. [ a beat ] Most of my life, if we’re being honest, but… whatever. That’s not the point.

Lucas goes on to repeat that she’s right, and he knows he’s fucked everything up. Now all there’s left to do is deal with it, regardless of how much he wishes he could keep running from it. Riley examines him for a long moment.

Riley: Well, if tonight demonstrated anything, I think it’s safe to say that running sort of creates more problems than it fixes.

Hard lesson to learn, but it seems they’ve both made it there eventually. They absorb the sentiment for a moment before Lucas speaks again, asking what he actually cares about. He looks at her, speaking more gently.

Lucas: Are you okay?

Riley, exhaling: [ after a long silence ] No. I’m not.

[ Lucas frowns. It looks like he wants to do something, but clearly has no idea what or how anything he might say or do could be remotely helpful. ]

Riley: But I will be. [ with a scoff ] Someone has to be.

Sad, but true. And it’s the mentality she will survive by, so she’s not letting it go quite yet. Lucas nods, shifting his gaze back out the dashboard window.

This gives her the chance to look at him again. She takes him in, finding the words she wants to say.

Riley: Thank you for coming. When I called. You didn’t have to --

Lucas, without hesitation: Of course I did.

He shifts his intense expression back to her, immediately softening when they lock eyes. It’s the first time they’ve really looked at one another all night -- it’s the first time they’ve really looked at one another in what feels like too long --and as soon as they do it’s difficult to look away. A million and one feelings floating between them, left unspoken.

Lucas manages to look away. He focuses on the car, remembering everything waiting for him back at the precinct. He murmurs about getting Riley home and turns on the engine, reaching for the gear shift.

Riley meets him there, touching his hand and keeping him from putting the car in drive. Lucas freezes and glances down at their hands, then at her, uncertain.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even look at him, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Keeping her hand on top of his, finding warmth and comfort in it even in the midst of so much chaos and darkness.

Lucas lets his gaze drift back to their hands. He hesitates… then flips his hand over and links their fingers together. Holding her securely, confirming the notion that she’s not alone.

The two of them sit there in silence a while longer, fingers intertwined and thoughts left unsaid.

INT. BAR - NIGHT

A refreshing change of pace, the rustic-style bar is bustling and lively with adults enjoying their Friday evening. Harper and Shawn are two of those responsible adults, clinking their shot glasses together before downing another at their high table. Shawn nearly chokes on his and Harper cracks up, signaling that both of them might already be a bit tipsy.

Shawn: You can hold your liquor, Burgess. [ coughing ] I’ll give ya that.

Harper: [ with a shrug ] I went to Triple A.

Shawn: Touche.

Harper smirks, picking at their shared nacho platter. There’s a beat of silence between them, then Shawn opts to speak.

Shawn: You’re right about a lot of things, I’ll give you that too. Mostly about me.

Harper, cringing: Well, I don’t know if --

Shawn: No, no, don’t diminish yourself on my account. Stuff you said to me… [ taking a sip of his beer ] Spot on, basically. Except the neckbeard comment. I will argue that.

Harper lets out a laugh, somewhere between amused and nervous. Shawn grows more serious, waiting for her to make eye contact with him.

Shawn: Truth is, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Never have. I got this job because my brother did me a favor, chance to get my life back on track, and I figured okay, sweet. I’ll get upright, find a better alternative, and blow this joint.

Harper: But…

Shawn: But those kids, man. They’re devious. They get in your head, and it’s like, suddenly you care about them. Suddenly you care more about their well-being than your own, and you can’t just walk away from that. [ a beat ] So I’m still here, but that doesn’t mean I know jackshit. Certainly not anymore than you do, even though I sure felt the need to make it seem like I did. [ a beat, sincerely ] And I’m sorry about that. You got thrown in the deep end, and I didn’t throw you a life preserver. That’s on me. And I’m even more sorry it took something like… all this to snap me out of it.

Harper absorbs this, trying to determine whether or not it’s genuine. Then she nods, taking a sip of her own drink.

Shawn: But I’ll tell you this, something else you should know about me. When I turn over a leaf, I turn it over. I’m telling you I’m on your side now, and you better believe it. [ raising his bottle in cheers ] We’re in the underworld, Burgess, but we’ll navigate together. Sound cool?

There’s a moment of contemplation. Then Harper manages a smile, clinking her glass against his. As their drinks meet --

EXT. NYPD PRECINCT - NIGHT

Asher’s car door slams, Lucas walking sheepishly from the parking lot to where Asher is waiting for him on the curb. He’s got his hands stuffed in his pockets, glaring at Lucas and shuffling restlessly from foot to foot. There are clearly things both of them want to say, but it’s gotten harder to speak now that they’re in front of one another again.

Lucas: Where’s Dylan?

Asher, shortly: His dad came to pick him up.

Brisk conversation. Lucas has made it to join him on the curb. He tentatively holds out his keys -- Asher snatches them from him, stepping off the curb without comment. Then he thinks better of it, whipping back around and approaching Lucas again. When he speaks, his voice is strained with anger, but also trembling.

Asher, fiercely: The next time you want to ruin your life, you can leave Dylan out of it!

Lucas attempts to cover for himself, to offer some sort of explanation that makes all of this better, but he can’t. There’s nothing he can say, and there’s no way to make this better. Asher clenches his teeth, eyes glossing over as he shakes his head at everything Lucas starts to say.

Asher: Look, you can do whatever you want, Lucas. You were right the whole time -- it doesn’t matter. Not to you.

Lucas: That’s not true.

Asher: You can do what you want, but I can’t do it anymore. I can’t. I’m done.

Asher turns to go, starting to head into the parking lot. Lucas steps down off the curb after him.

Lucas, panicked: Asher --

Asher: Don’t!

Both of them freeze. Lucas pauses and then steps back, respecting his wishes. Asher hesitates for one last second, almost turning around… and then he marches towards his car.

Lucas watches him go, looking more regretful than we’ve ever seen him. That is, until he turns back towards the precinct and sees Jack impatiently waiting for him by the front counter, looking absolutely livid.

INT. ASHER’S CAR - NIGHT

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Younger” as performed by Ruel || Performed by Asher Garcia

The instrumental starts just as Asher shuts the car door, taking a moment to absorb what the hell just happened. He lets out a sigh and falls back against the driver’s seat, pressing his palms to his eyes and trying to keep from crying.

EXT. NEW YORK STREETS - FLASHBACK - NIGHT

Asher’s performance takes on a slightly different structure than the rest, still split between the real world as he drives home and the AAA stage, but also this blast from the past. It’s essentially a fabrication of the origins of Lucas and Asher’s friendship, the two of them sneaking out late at night in freshman year to go wander around and talk. From the way they both grin and crack up as they go, despite being cast in shadow, it’s a stronger advocate for their relationship than anything we’ve seen as of late.

The things that Asher is so deeply holding onto, wishing things were that simple again.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

But as mentioned, he takes the stage too, and the emotion of the rendition makes it near masterful. The performers in the A class might be chilled to know there’s some serious talent hidden in the depths of the techie crew, and Asher is perhaps the most prominent example.

INT. GARCIA HOME - ASHER’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Asher makes it back to his bedroom as the song hits the bridge, clearly exhausted. He slips off his shoes and shrugs off his jacket, going to organize his things off his desk but getting caught on looking at his bulletin board again.

Carefully, he pulls another photo from the second layer of pinned items -- a picture of him and Lucas from freshman year. It’s difficult to look at, painful to acknowledge how much he feels like has changed. As he sings the lyrics “but we’re out of time,” he folds the picture in his fingers, like he’s crumpling it for good.

EXT. NEW YORK STREETS - FLASHBACK - NIGHT

The memory of Lucas and Asher have made it to Central Park, on the Gapstow bridge. Both of them are looking out over the edge, Lucas no longer looking at Asher.

Asher takes a moment to look at him -- really examine him, trying to figure him out. Wondering if the time they’re spending together is worth it, or if he’s wasting his energy on someone who will never return the favor.

Only this time, he doesn’t just stand there until Lucas is ready to move. As the song builds to the final chorus, memory Asher turns and hesitates one last moment… before walking away. Heading in the opposite direction, leaving Lucas behind him.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

Which launches him right into the last chorus, delivering the powerful vocals with resounding emotional force. It’s obvious how difficult this is, how much it hurts, how badly he wishes this wasn’t how things were.

So I can't call you my brother, the way that we used to When we were younger, younger...

Asher finishes out the performance with a flourish, nearly stumbling as he backs out of the spotlight. He’s tear-stained, flushed, running a hand through his hair and honestly disoriented as he tries to figure out what he’s supposed to do next.

Then he exits the stage, leaving it empty and cold.

INT. BLUE’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Isadora is in the living room, set up on the couch to crash for a few days. Blue comes in ready for bed, asking if there’s anything else he can get for her before he calls it a night. She assures him that it’s all good, and makes a point of thanking him for letting her stay. He tells her any time.

But it’s clear Isadora will not be finding rest any time soon. She scrolls through her phone, hesitating on the brink of a decision. Then she sits up, hitting call on her phone.

After a moment, VALERIE DE LA CRUZ picks up on the other end. She asks what’s up, and there’s a second where Isadora pauses. Then she starts to tell her everything, starting with Farkle and spiraling down into everything that’s happened since.

Actually opting to let her mother in, in spite of how unfamiliar the practice feels.

EXT. NYPD PRECINCT - NIGHT

Jack and Lucas exit the precinct, the former leading the charge and digging his keys from his pocket. Lucas lags behind, not wanting to have to go home but also not sure he wants to face Jack’s disappointment. It’s harsher than usual because it’s quiet. He’s not reprimanding him, he’s not yelling. It’s just… nothing.

Lucas: Aren’t you going to say anything?

Jack: I don’t think you want to hear what I want to say to you right now.

Lucas stops in the middle of the parking lot, not following him anymore. Jack realizes he’s no longer behind him, spinning and finding him waiting. Looking at him, expression blank, not defensive or waspish or bitter. Just waiting.

Jack sighs, holding his arms out.

Jack: Okay, you want to hear it? I don’t want to say anything because I don’t think it’s worth the effort.

Lucas, quietly: … not worth the effort.

Jack: Yes. Because there’s nothing I could say that I haven’t already said to you before. Don’t do this, don’t do that, think. Think. Think! But you never do. You never listen, and we always end up back in this spot, starting over again.

Lucas: … I didn’t mean for...

Jack: [ growing frustrated ] I can’t keep doing it, Lucas! I can’t keep sticking my neck out for you and trying to help only for you to take advantage of it at every turn. You can’t help somebody who doesn’t want to be helped. So I’m not wasting my breath anymore. [ a beat ] Now get in the car so I can take you home.

Jack doesn’t wait for him to respond. He walks over to his car and unlocks it, keeping true to his word and not wasting anymore energy than necessary.

Lucas stands there for a moment, absorbing the full consequences of his actions. It’s like it’s all collapsing on him at once, domino after domino falling over until there’s nothing left. He’s caught in the red glow of Jack’s tail lights, a tear spilling over and sliding down his cheek.

He wipes at it hastily, sniffling and then shuffling his way over to the car. He climbs into the passenger seat without a word.

INT. HOSPITAL - LOBBY - NIGHT

Maya is still dressed in her graffiti garb, removing her knit cap and twisting it in her hands. She seems a bit lost as she tries to figure out where she’s going, the nurse at the front desk asking if there’s something she can help her with. She assures her she’s fine, and when she informs her that visiting hours are done for the evening, she explains she’s just here to pick up her sister from visiting their father.

She makes up a room number and sends the nurse on a wild goose chase, waiting until she’s out of sight to head down the opposite hallway and exploring for herself.

INT. HOSPITAL - HALLWAY - NIGHT

Maya makes her way along, reading spare paperwork and files as she goes to try and figure out where exactly she’s headed. Finally, she arrives at her destination, frozen in the doorway and unable to progress any further. The temporary nameplate on the door confirms she’s made it.

F. Minkus.

Maya peers around the door.

INT. HOSPITAL - FARKLE’S ROOM - NIGHT

And there is FARKLE MINKUS. Fatigued and hooked up to a dozen little wires but alive, seemingly snoozing in his hospital bed. A laptop and briefcase on the window seat indicates that he’s already got a visitor, but no one is around.

Maya stares at him for a long moment, until the sight of it becomes too much. She starts to turn away, making her escape --

Farkle: Maya?

She winces, not sure she actually heard him. She glances back over her shoulder, Farkle half-awake and blinking at her from across the room. He looks confused, but not upset to see her there. Maya deliberates before easing her way inside, taking the seat next to his bed.

Maya: … hi.

Farkle: What are you doing here? [ dazed ] Visiting hours are… except for family…

Maya: I just wanted -- I had to see you.

That said, it’s not necessarily for good reasons. Maya explains what Eric said, about all the emotions she might be feeling. And he’s right -- she is feeling all of that. She’s furious at him, furious that he would do this without even thinking about the rest of them. She’s mortified by the prospect of him not being there -- never being there again -- despite her statements that she’s better off without him. And because of that she’s confused, not sure whether she wants to forgive him or not but now all the things she was upset with him for originally feel trivial or stupid, which isn’t fair because he still did those things. And those things shouldn’t just get wiped clean because he tried to escape them permanently.

More than anything, though, she admits that she can’t believe he was going to leave without her. That he was just going to leave her behind in the most irreversible way possible, and she can’t even begin to wrap her head around that. She doesn’t want to exist in that world.

Maya: Everyone kept saying I needed to talk to someone. I had to talk to someone about you, about what happened. They kept saying that, but the only person who… the only person I could even fathom wanting to talk to was you.

That much, Farkle can understand. He’s clearly out of it, and it’s a wonder how much of this he’ll remember later, but it’s helping Maya to say it.

Maya: I just wanted to talk to you, but I don’t know if that’s what I wanted to say. I’m not sure what else to say. I’m still trying to… figure it out. I just hope that you -- I hope you realize --

She can’t articulate it. Farkle squints at her, trying to understand.

Maya: I don’t want this bullshit world if you’re not in it, Farkle. You got that? I’m not -- we’re not all dandy but -- it’s bullshit if it’s not with you.

Maya doesn’t offer the chance for clarifying questions. She rises from the seat and makes a hasty exit, disappearing before anyone can catch her or Farkle can ask something she doesn’t yet know the answer to.

INT. HOSPITAL - HALLWAY - NIGHT

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Nothing Stops Another Day” as performed by Ghost Original Cast || Performed by Maya Hart

As Maya winds her way through the halls of the hospital, she launches into what is essentially the thesis of the episode -- and in some ways the season. Darkness is going to eclipse the light sometimes, and there will always be bad in the world. But the world keeps going regardless, and she can either succumb to it and disappear, or keep marching onward in spite of it.

Because the world keeps turning, and I guess it always will I can choose to turn around or I can choose to just stand still Either way, nothing stops another day...

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

Of course, Maya delivers an equally stirring rendition while on the fictional AAA stage, completing the trend for performances of the evening. And, tellingly, this lyric rings particularly true as we come out of the frost of February and launch into the rest of our season:

Winter can’t hold back the spring, no matter how dark it may seem…

INT. MATTHEWS APARTMENT - MASTER BEDROOM - NIGHT

Maya climbs back through the bay window, Riley already seemingly in bed and asleep after the crazy night she’s had. As Maya makes her way to her bed, she stops when she sees the item that has been left on her comforter.

The photo from Farkle’s locker of the two of them. Obviously left there by Riley, figuring she might want it all things considered.

As Maya rounds out the performance, she steps up to her future moodboard and adheres the photo to it. Surrounded by everything else, but taking a definitive space.

INT. AAA - BLACK BOX THEATER - DAY

The A class has assembled again on Monday, having survived another tough week. But the ripple effect of everything that has happened peeks through in subtle ways, like Maya nowhere near as glamorous and put together as usual and letting that vulnerability show. Isadora is next to her, equally as tired but still marching on. Asher is sitting closer to Dylan, their hands linked in his lap. Zay and Charlie can’t look at each other. Lucas is nowhere to be found.

Harper takes the front of the classroom, Shawn settling back against the teacher desk in the back and crossing his arms. Harper starts by apologizing for her outburst late last week, then explains that the reason she’s sorry is not because she had one, but because she wasn’t being candid with all of them. The truth of the matter is, this is just as difficult for her as it is for them, and she’s also feeling conflicted, overwhelmed, reckless, unsure.

In the midst of her speech, she grows uncertain. She glances back towards Shawn, who gives her an encouraging nod. Having her back, as he said he would.

She clears her throat, getting back on track. Some of her former confidence back intact, she explains that it doesn’t do anybody any good for them to struggle through this alone, so they’re going to get through it together. The class seems into this, offering weak smiles and nods. Dave gives an endorsing thumbs up.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Smile” as performed by Glee Cast || Performed by AAA Juniors

Harper gestures Riley up to stand with her, allowing her to take the reins and explain her idea of how to honor Farkle. As the soft guitar strums float in…

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

The junior A class keeps it painstakingly simple for this performance, in their regular clothes and seated along the edge of the stage. Dylan and Dave play their guitars, Riley taking the gentle opening verse and then allowing the vocals to pass amongst their classmates. The divas abstain from solos, instead giving Yindra, Clarissa, Darby, and Yogi the chance to shine.

INT. AAA - HALLWAY - DAY

While this unfolds, Riley leads her classmates in the decoration of Farkle’s locker. They’re adorning it with photographs, letters, flowers and warm wishes and small things for him to find when he finally returns to school. Each of them are taking the matter seriously, but also finding joy in the task. Lots of exchanged timid smiles, a couple of nervous laughs.

The reason Lucas is not in class is because he’s playing guard dog, set up on the floor next to Farkle’s locker and keeping people from stepping on the display or being careless around it. Putting his protectiveness and delinquency to good use. No one tries to stop him.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

A fair majority of the A class have shed tears in the process of the performance, but somehow it’s a good thing. Relieving, a sense of catharsis, all of them sharing in the emotion together rather than attempting to fumble with it on their own. Riley reaches out and takes Maya’s hand -- Isadora squeezes Dylan’s shoulder.

It’s nice to hear their voices in harmony again, singing about looking towards the future with optimism rather than dread. It’s not going to be easy, and there’s much to rebuild, but Maya’s earlier sentiment is right -- winter can’t hold back the spring, no matter how dark it may seem.

INT. HOSPITAL - FARKLE’S ROOM - DAY

Their assembled voices float over our last shot of Farkle, asleep in his hospital bed but in recovery. Completely unaware of the impact he’s had, how grateful people are that he’s still there. STUART MINKUS is there with him, having fallen asleep in the chair by his bed and holding his son’s hand.

You’ll find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile…

END OF EPISODE.

IF ANY of the content in this episode has been triggering, please reach out and talk to somebody you trust and who can help you. The following links are resources including hotlines, prevention organizations, and international numbers.

Suicide Prevention: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

List of Suicide Hotlines: https://ibpf.org/resource/list-international-suicide-hotlines https://suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html

[save-the-spiral]

InkWizTober Day Twenty-One: Treasure + Summons

Welcome to day twenty-one of inktober! I wrote more about pirate101 because I Could Not Resist. I made a crew of OCs for Queen now, continuing on (this post). Tried to not accidentally mention SU characters or school gemstones in the process. Warnings for limb loss, weapon mentions, blood mention, general pirate stuff.

(link to prompt lists) (link to inktober tag)

She understands now.

The urge, the calling. Once out on the open skyways, where everything is laid out like a feast, the hunger sets in. It seems so simple, at first. Just a matter of survival. Her against the world now. 

She wants. And for the first time, she can do whatever she needs to in order to get whatever she wants. She finally feels worthy of her name.

Masks become regular, a mask above a mask. A disguise of rags. One that quickly becomes a disguise of a gaudy, secretive captain. Dressed in rich blacks, draped in gold and silver, a large black hat with a broad ostrich feather dyed gold.

People mutter about her. They scatter in fear of this captain running a ship with no crew, who never drinks at pubs, who will stare with shadowed eye sockets from her mask. They wonder who and what she is. Most bets are that she’s a new rival to the young captain who had been both dominating and helping the Spiral in one swoop. Some think she’s some old legend revived by a witch doctor.

Queen is glad to know that no one suspects her. No one suspects a defective Armada puppet. Not even when she brings several haywire battle angels under her protection, giving them names and clothes and freedom like they’ve never known. They all call each other sister, and tell their tales.

No, at the closest people get is assuming she was once Valencian royalty, and got sick of the Armada. Only one of those is right.

Now when she walks its not the straight backed, aristocratic sway of a proper lady. Her left leg was destroyed by a Monquistan guard who tried to play hero. It still aches, even when replaced by the slightly shorter limb of a fallen Armada musketeer. She limps, and even that is enough for people to look away quickly, still able to pity her and feel disgusted in the same glance. 

Queen loves the imperfection. It makes her more alive. It makes her feel like a pirate, battle worn.

She has stolen now. She steals and lies and cheats, even in her written notes to communicate with people outside her crew. She kills now, blood and oil and strange magics all the same when they spill under her blade. She does whatever she wants, never answering to anyone anymore. 

And so she’s a pirate now. Enemy of every government. Something to be feared. Something free and living outside of any society. The power is intoxicating, but she works hard to remember to never put herself on a pedestal. Arrogance was Kane’s downfall, it could easily become hers. 

Queen is humbled, however, when she and her crew finally reach the Skull Island Skyways. Every pirate here seems more vicious than they could ever be, all of them almost bored by the wanton violence. Crime is the way of life here, it is what builds every single home, what fuels every fire.

Queen feels like she’s coming home, another misfit finally finding her island. Her crew of fallen angels can only agree, all of them awed by the bright skies, the flourishing greenery, the intricate flags flying high. They’ve reached paradise.

Their ship is moderately sized, with plain black flags only depicting a delicate golden wing. A reminder of their past, what they all were meant to be. They wear black and don masks, metal bodies resistant to the heat. When they dock at Skull Island itself, they all glance at each other as if they cannot believe it. 

Even Queen finds an artificial breath shuddering out of her chest, a protocol meant to quiet her gears. A majority of her old protocols were to make her quiet, unseen. She tends to ignore them gleefully now.

Her right hand, an ex-angel she gave the name Sterling, was gripping the plain wooden wheel to their ship so hard it had begun to creak in complaint. Queen gently places a hand on Sterling’s shoulder, hearing faint muffled clicks as every joint in her right hand’s body relaxes. 

“Anchor down.” Queen calls, voice almost drowned by the loud sounds of ships and crews casting off or also docking. Two of her crew mates, Rhodium and Rhenium, the ones who insist on acting like twins, drop the anchor and high five, always more youthful than their sisters.

The dark wood of the deck clacks awkwardly with her limping gait, her heeled original leg sharper than the almost flat musketeer’s leg. Queen gestures for Sterling to follow, gathering her crew near the largest mast, waiting for their look out to slide down from the crow’s nest.

The crew’s lookout, given the name Malachite for her penchant for greens, slides down with ease. Her calm demeanor is betrayed by nervousness, and her hands shake under green gloves, fiddling slightly with her guns.

Malachite nods nonetheless. “No battles anywhere, seems as busy as usual.” 

Rhodium and Rhenium are practically vibrating, eager to explore the island, too childish for their own good. “Let’s go then!” They say in unison, holding hands.

The crew all turns to Queen. She wants to protect them all, and her chest aches with something she has not been able to name. A dozen ex-angels, all of them lovingly named by her, named after precious and unique things, stones and metals. To remind them that they are all people now, that they have worth. 

And now she had to decide if she could trust them to stay safe on an island full of pirates that would rip them to shreds if they caught wind of the clockwork hidden under baggy clothes and masks, boots and gloves and mystery.

Zircon, ever surly and combative, crosses her arms with a sharp click and, if she were able too, would surely frown. “Everyone settle down. We cannot all go at once, too many masked pirates draws attention.”

“Don’t we want that though?” Sterling asks with a quirked head. “We want to speak to Avery, after all. He would be intrigued by a new crew.”

“But they could think we were-” Malachite cuts herself off, “Well, they could assume the wrong thing. Shoot first, ask later. Then they get one of our bodies and-”

“We could take them.” Zircon scoffs. “But I still say only Captain and Sterling go.” 

More of her crew chime in, Stichtite with her wild ideas, Spectrolite with the inevitable pun, Osmium trying to pick a fight with Meteorite. The others try to add their two cents, only for it to be drawn into arguments and jokes, all while Queen tries to decide.

“Okay- everyone, listen.” Queen says. And they all do, going dead silent, and it feels like a ghost ship for one dreadful second before Rhodium giggles. “So. The plan is now that I and Zircon will go to Avery. Malachite and Sterling, you go to the pub.”

Queen is proud of the way Zircon handles herself, adjusting the dangerous mace on her shoulder, not bragging as she once may have, not overcompensating. Malachite stands at attention as well, nervous energy gone now that she has a mission. Sterling is as reliable as ever at her side.

Queen continues to speak now, reassured. “Gather any intel about current events on the island, especially the young captain. Don’t make a big deal of being on my crew, but mention it. Cobalt, you are in charge of the ship while we are away, if anyone comes to talk to you, tell them to wait for our return.” 

With a small nod to herself, adjusting her feathered hat, Queen holds one hand on her scabbard as she jumps ship, unbalanced on the dock. Sterling quickly follows, helping Queen regain her land legs. 

Zircon and Malachite follow, and they begin to walk from the docks to the beach, all of them covered head to toe in cloth or armor, revealing only the flash of blade or the barrel of a gun.

Once Sterling and Malachite break off from the group, Zircon follows Queen closely, acting the part of loyal guard dog, staring down anyone who even thinks of grabbing the bounty on the head of her mysterious Captain.

It’s a rather high bounty, to be fair. Queen is rather proud of that fact. To not have an official name, but to be feared nonetheless, it is something that does her rogue heart proud.

They enter Avery’s Court to many stares, whispers in all accents like a rushing tide. A few people scamper, some of them off to tell others, some in fear.

Queen recognizes quite a few people who she has met in battle and thoroughly beaten. Even they leave her alone, pirate’s honor in this haven as coveted as gold, only the scum at the bottom of a yum barrel would bother attacking her now in this sanctuary.

They walk up to Captain Avery’s door and knock. This is a demonstration of fearlessness, of daring that only so few can possess. Avery is a respected man, too crafty for his own good. The pirate that bet everything and won, who made Skull Island, who guides the young captain through the Spiral, who was able to retire alive and wealthy.

Queen admires the man, but only as one can admire a leader, never as a person. She resolved to be attached to no man as soon as she realized what Kane had been turning her into. 

The door opens to Captain Avery seated at a long table, sipping tea. The young pirate captain and their right hand are seated as well, looking uncomfortable. All three turn to look at her. 

“I had been waiting for an opportunity to meet you, mysterious captain of the Pyrite Swan. Why don’t you and your friend come in for a spot of tea?” Avery grins, a gold tooth shining in the sunlight. “I promise we all can make it worth your while.”

When Queen sits, Zircon stands at her shoulder, mace in hand. Neither speak, and the similarly mute young captain looks confused, their face soft with baby fat and scarred by their journeys. 

Zircon hands Queen a golden quill and a roll of parchment, and Queen turns to Avery, waiting for him to speak.

She can only wait to see what game they’ll be playing soon enough.

[violetsmoak]

Pieces of April [5/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530

Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who, not either of our boys!), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro.

Author’s Note: And now, for a change in POV!

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

Of course, right after Jason leaves, the baby wakes up.

And starts to wail.

Tim freezes, all of his reflexes seemingly dissolved by the unyielding sound that such a tiny creature should not be able to produce.

Whatever Jason said about him being calm, in actuality, he’s completely freaked out over this whole baby thing.

Over the whole Jason’s baby thing.

This whole situation is just not in his area of expertise, nor does it require any of his previous training. And he can’t really see a situation where, on the infinitesimal chance Jason decides to give up vigilantism and become a stay-at-home-dad, he’d ever ask Tim of all people to babysit.

But then, right now, Jason’s not here.

The nurse from earlier returns, offering him a sympathetic look.

“It’s about time for her next feeding,” she tells him. “Do you want us to take her, or would you like to do it?”

Take her, please, Tim wants to say but bites his tongue.

He wasn’t talking out of his ass when he acknowledged that babies needed to be held. Human contact is good (even if that wasn’t basic medical knowledge, his own semi-neglected childhood can attest to that) and he all but volunteered himself for this to help Jason. He should at least do what he can.

Holding down the fort apparently includes holding down the baby…

“If you could just show me…?” he suggests, a sheepish smile pasted on and hopefully hiding his inner unease.

As expected, the woman’s expression turns into a mixture of amused and charmed. She chatters, motioning for him to take the chair Jason was sitting in before; Tim sits and lets her arrange the baby in his arms, showing him a light, gentle rocking motion to try to calm her.

“I’ll be right back with her formula,” the nurse says, though Tim barely hears her over the furious wailing.

He squints down at the scrunched-up face, trying to figure out how he ended up in this situation. Also, what exactly possessed him to call Jason his partner?

Because it’s the first believable thing to come to mind that didn’t involve spontaneous resurrections?

And technically, it’s even true. Sometimes.

And he was worried about Jason.

They may not be brothers, but they are family, and with that comes a certain awareness of each other. He knew the minute he saw Jason outside the dive bar that he was freaked out. He decided he would help him then, and he’s not about to back out now even if things have become way more complicated than anticipated.  

The nurse returns with the bottle of formula, and as soon as she’s explained how to properly position and feed the baby—apparently there’s more to it than just sticking a synthetic nipple in her mouth and waiting for her to chug—and prevent gas, she vanishes again.

To allow them “bonding” time.

Not what I thought I’d be doing when I got up this morning…

Tim’s done the baby thing before—sort of. But Steph’s daughter was bigger when she was born. Jason’s is tiny, and Tim is half expecting her to break into pieces before his eyes. Whatever manufactured confidence he had before, had been in the moment—and mostly for Jason’s benefit.

It had been imperative to get the infant out of the other man’s arms while he was clearly on the verge of a panic attack. Especially since no one ever knows how a cornered Jason Todd might react.

Not that I think he’d ever hurt an infant, but he doesn’t exactly process shock the way normal people do. It never hurts to have contingencies.

As he watches the baby guzzle her formula with surprising gusto, Tim finds himself going over a mental list of things that have to be dealt with if they’re going to get through life’s latest curveball more or less intact.

Paperwork for the baby. Arrangements for the mother’s body.

Isabel Ardila.

He knows her name only from the files as the woman Jason was seeing prior to the Joker’s last assault on the bats. She was caught in the crossfire, forcibly dosed with heroin to play on Jason’s past traumas, and following her recovery, ended things with Jason.

Or Jason ended things with her, Tim’s not sure. He never asked and he doesn’t intend to.

However it ended, clearly there was enough estrangement that she didn’t bother to tell Jason he was a father. It’s a decision he can, unfortunately, imagine the reasons for, even if he’s not sure he agrees with them.

Not like we can do anything about that decision now, though.

The baby slowly goes limp in his arms, and Tim has a brief moment of irrational, paranoid panic—has she been drugged?—before realizing she’s just fallen back asleep.

“Right. Because that’s a normal thing that babies do,” he murmurs to himself, and carefully maneuvers himself over to her crib to put her down on her stomach, like he’s seen in countless television commercials.

Then, uncertain, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and does a quick internet search, balking at the sheer amount of SIDS related articles, and scoops her up again to reposition her on her back.

Should probably tell Jason about that when he gets back…

Assuming Jason comes back.

Or even wants his help.

Which, Tim decides, he’ll offer anyway. Though that may mean playing to his strengths more than anything, preparing for every eventuality and having a series of back-up plans.

He highly doubts Jason’s thinking of any of that right now.

Phone in hand Tim begins typing quickly, pulling up tabs in his search engines for whatever concern pops into his head as he reads.

He suspects Jason is too uneasy about the whole situation to want to keep the baby, so Tim’s going to have to research adoption agencies through official and unofficial channels.

Open or closed, not sure what option he’d go with.

And then, there’s always the small chance he will keep his child. It’s a possibility that seems as likely as Bruce’s sudden predilection for joining the Russian ballet, but stranger things have happened in the family.

He skims through several forums and advice blogs for how to care for a newborn, makes a list of important supplies they might need in the immediate future and forwards it to Tam.

It’s several minutes later that his phone chimes, notifying him of her list of replies.

- Why the hell did you send me a list with diapers?

- Is this for a baby?

- Omg, did you kidnap a baby?

- Is that a thing that happens?

-First ninjas, now baby-napping?

Tim sighs and rolls his eyes. Normally he’d find her bemused and slightly-panicked responses a little amusing, but he doesn’t have the energy to go into details, even if Jason hadn’t sworn him to secrecy.

-A friend of mine has an emergency. Drop everything off at my apartment, please.

There’s a beat, another chime, but Tim doesn’t get a chance to read the message as his screen suddenly switches. The air is filled with a generic ringtone that Tim hastily mutes, eyes flicking to the baby and back to his screen. The number flashes ‘Unknown’, but Tim recognizes the number from earlier that day.

He stands, wanders away from the crib to answer quietly. “What is it, Harper?”

“Jay called me,” the older man says without preamble. “Told me everything. About the kid, about Isabel.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees quietly. “I’d say shock is an understatement.”

“No shit.” He sighs. “Listen, I talked him down as much as I could, but the rest is on you.”

“What? Why?”

“He says you’ve been helping him.”

“For now, until someone more qualified comes along,” Tim retorts, implication heavy in his voice.

Roy catches it because he lets out a bitter laugh. “Sorry to burst your bubble, bird boy, but that ain’t gonna be me.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve been in literally the same situation.”

“And I can’t right now. So I need you to be there for him.”

“He needs his friend,” Tim argues. “And he’s made very clear I’m not one of those.”

“Then you'd better become one fast, because I can’t.”

“Why the—” Tim’s eyes flick to the infant, and he can’t help giving in to the impulse to censor himself, lowering his voice, “—heck not?”

“Because I’m in a bad place right now,” Roy snaps. “I’m not in a good way for being around a kid, okay? I…” He pauses, like he’s weighing something, and then exhales. “I…fell off the wagon again.”

Tim's stomach sinks. 

“Roy…”

“Don’t tell Jaybird,” Roy orders. “I just…I need to sort myself out before I can be any kind of help for him. I show up there now, I’ll just add to his problems.”

“But—”

“This is you being tagged in, okay? Don’t fuck it up.”

There’s a harsh click in Tim’s ear, leaving him listening incomprehensively to the dial tone for several seconds.

“Are you…are you kidding me?!” he hisses after a moment, only just refraining from throwing his phone across the room in frustration.

He didn’t realize before Roy’s call just how much he was counting on someone else to step in and take over in the emotional support department.

I’m not cut out for this. This sort of thing…it should be Dick. Or Alfred.

He spends the next hour once again reviewing what he did to get roped into all this.

When Jason comes back—and something inside Tim unknots in relief that he did come back—he’s as ashen-faced as before. This time, though, there’s a determined set to his shoulders.

They stand and stare at each other in silence for a good five minutes before Tim realizes Jason’s waiting for him to speak first.

Right. Tagged in. Let’s do this. Ease into it.

“So, what are you going to do?”

Tim winces.

Yeah, that wasn’t exactly subtle.

Jason doesn’t seem to notice the awkward, though.

“No idea,” he replies heavily, leaning against the doorjamb and letting his head thunk lightly against it.

“Social Services is obviously an option.”

“No way in hell,” Jason snaps, straightening up and looking fierce. “I don’t trust them. And you can’t tell me with all the Wayne resources you’ve got access to, we can’t find something better.”

Tim expected that. He might not have had the exact same harrowing experiences with foster care as Jason did, but his very brief stint left him with a hint of that same disillusion with the system.

It’s not something I’d wish on any kid, least of all Jason’s.

“We can look into it. Organize the best possible adoption scenario without dealing with Social Services. There are actually a lot of couples in the community who would be willing to adopt.”

“No. This kid isn’t growing up anywhere near capes or masks or stuff like that.”

Okay, that’s understandable. It also makes it less likely he intends to keep her.

“Whatever we do, it will take some time,” Tim cautions. “Placing a child with a family isn’t going to be as easy as sticking someone in Witness Protection.”

Jason snorts and shakes his head. “Only you would think that’s easy.”

“So, now that that’s figured out—what are you going to do once the tests are finished?” Tim asks, focussing on the practical. “I don’t find a family within the next day or so, you’re going to need to bring her somewhere. Assuming you’re adamant about keeping the rest of the Family out of this?” That receives only narrowed eyes in response. “Stupid question, sorry. But she’s going to have to stay somewhere until then. I wouldn’t recommend leaving her here at the hospital, for a number of reasons.”

Jasons frowns, thoughtful. Then,

“I’ll keep her for now,” he decides with a heaviness that Tim suspects is caused more by fear than dislike of children. “Until we find a better place for her. Some family that won’t mind doing this in private.”

“Okay,” Tim nods. “On that note—where exactly will you take her?”

Jason falters, looking like he’s not entirely sure what to say to that.

“I…my safehouses aren’t exactly babyproofed.”

“I don’t think that’s an issue until they start crawling,” Tim replies, trying for humor but the very idea sparks another flash of panic in Jason’s eyes. He’s looking at Tim now with something dangerously close to expectance, and a realization hits Tim.

He doesn’t want to be alone with this.

And it’s the fact he’s never seen Jason look so vulnerable that sparks a truly terrible idea.

I’m so going to regret this.

“I have a spare bedroom,” he offers, earning a sharp glance from Jason. “Just until you wrap your head around this and figure out the next move.”

He half expects Jason to scoff, or laugh in his face or say something insulting.

It’s decidedly worrying when the only thing that happens is Jason’s shoulders slump and he nods.

Jason’s shoulders slump, and he nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, that would be…good. Thanks, Drake.” He pauses, considering something, and then adds, “Tim.”

Next Chapter

________________________________________________________________

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[pengychan]

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 12

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

To see the version with art by Dara, check it out on Ao3.

Tag for all parts up so far.

A/N: A bit late, but here's an update! Thanks for @senoraluna for proofreading, because I wrote half this chapter while drunk off my ass.

*** Héctor is a serious cuddler, even in his sleep. Especially in his sleep.

Imelda found out as much pretty early on, and - especially warm nights aside - she doesn't mind at all. On cooler nights such as this one, she's actually rather grateful to have him draped around her like a human blanket. She gets to lie awake for a time, listening to his breathing, basking in the warmth of his skin against hers, feeling his heartbeat, and there is nowhere else she'd rather be. Come morning she'll wake up first, and poke him in the ribs to wake him up. It always works, and the resulting yelp as he's startled into awareness never fails to make her laugh. Or maybe she'll think of a more pleasant way to do so, with no nightclothes in the way and-

Clack.

The sound of the front door opening and then closing, quietly but not quietly enough, puts an end to that very pleasant thought. There are steps and those, too, are trying to be quiet - 'trying' being the key word.

He may come up with an excuse as to why he’s there, but Imelda knows that the little photoshoot - ‘Photoshoot Two’, as Héctor called it - they sent him is the real reason why he's just come crawling back. He probably got in his car as soon as he could leave whatever toilet stall he'd managed to run to. Again.

Not that he'll get to have any tonight, though. She and Héctor already had their fun; he'll have to wait and, if he behaves, he might get to take part next time. Serves him right for trying to force them into going out for the fourth evening in a row.

“Come on, just a drink to celebrate.”

“We’ve been having drinks to celebrate for the past three nights, Ernesto.”

“So what’s one more?”

“I have a headache and work to get done in the morning.”

“Well, Héctor is coming. Right?”

“Uh, actually…”

“Come on!”

“I just need to rest a bit before our big day, you know. Have a quiet night in, and--”

“We can rest tomorrow!”

“I think I’ll pass. You go and have fun.”

“Ugh, fine. You to stay here and bore yourselves like an old couple!”

Clearly, he forgot what happened last time he accused them of being two bores aged before their time, so Imelda saw it fit to send him another reminder. Héctor was more than eager to help.

The steps come closer, and then stop at the bedroom door. Imelda stays still, eyes shut and cheek pressed against Héctor's hair. She half-expects Ernesto to come in and approach the bed, and she has a remark ready for that - "of all times to come late rather than early!" - but there are no more steps, no sound at all except for Héctor's steady breathing and her own, the faint noise of traffic in the distance.

Imelda opens her eyes to see he's standing in the doorway. They forgot to close the blinds again and, in the sharp light cast by a street light, she can see the look on his face as he stares at them. She'd expected lust, she'd expected disappointment; longing is not what she thought she'd see. She wonders how many people got that special Kicked Puppy look from him, but she knows deep down - and with no small amount of smugness - that this look is different. This one is reserved to them alone.

Are you going to gape for much longer?, she almost asks, but she knows that would wake Héctor up and really, she's had such a pleasant evening; every bone in her body feels like cooked asparagus and she has never felt less inclined to start a fight - especially since she knows her husband would be all for letting him in. So she just lifts her free arm in a mute invitation, and he takes it.

He’s walking quietly across the room the next moment, stripping as he walks and leaving his clothes to fall on the floor. He’d better pick them up in the morning, she thinks, and doesn’t say as much only not to disturb her husband’s sleep. Which is disturbed anyway, because the mattress tips and the springs creak when Ernesto slips under the covers, and it is enough for Héctor - who usually needs the aid of a trumpet to be awakened any time before dawn - to stir.

“‘Nesto?” he mumbles. One arm tightens around Imelda, and the other stretches out for Ernesto. He grins against her skin when he grabs that hand and presses it against his cheek. “Liked the pictures?”

“You two are the worst thing that has ever happened to me,” Ernesto informs him, and the grin widens.

“How many visit to the toilet?”

“Chingate.”

“Imelda already did,” Héctor says innocently.

“I want to be in the next one,” Ernesto says. She can feel him pouting against her skin, and holds back a laugh. Instead, she yawns. “In the morning,” she mutters, and neither argues. She’s about to suggest they should shift - Héctor is usually in the middle, it feels wrong for him not to be and since he woke up he may as well move - but she has no time to say anything. Ernesto moves suddenly, and his arms are around both of them, his face pressing against their joined shoulders. Much like Héctor, he feels pleasantly warm.

“The worst thing that ever happened to you,” Héctor says aloud, grinning at Imelda over his head. She returns it with a smirk of her own while Ernesto heaves a long sigh.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, and for a time they do. There is some shifting around, and Imelda is soon half-asleep, not really caring which one of them is going to wind up in the middle.

In the end, no one does. Morning catches them in a messy pile, with Imelda awakening slowly to the sunlight. There is warmth and quiet breathing, the occasional snore and twitch, sleepy mumbles and fingers running over skin, through hair, and it isn’t a bad thing to wake up to - it isn’t too bad at all, and their bodies awaken before their minds entirely catch up.

Eyelids still heavy with sleep, Imelda can barely tell that it’s Ernesto’s chest beneath her head, and if it’s Héctor’s cock poking her. If she chose to focus, she would be able to tell whose hand is it on her breast and whose hand is resting on her thigh. But she’s still half-asleep and so are they, and she finds she likes it that way. After all, it’s Sunday; one lazy morning cannot hurt.

Imelda keeps her eyes closed, reaches for Héctor’s morning erection, and begins to lazily stroke its head with her thumb. There is a sigh, sleepy and yet shuddering, and Héctor’s cock twitches in her hand. He shifts closer but just barely, as sleepy as she is, and lets out an almost dreamy sigh. A thumb brushes over her nipple, and the hand on her thigh slips between her legs, to cup her mound. She tilts her head to kiss exposed skin - whose and where, it hardly matters. If she were to guess she’d say it might be Ernesto’s neck, but she won’t guess. She’s not awake enough to.

Another sigh from her husband, and her hand beings grow slick with precum. Another hardness is poking her, but she feels a hand - Héctor’s? Ernesto’s own? Does it matter? - reaching to grasp it, and Ernesto’s chest rises and falls in a long, content sigh. The hand between her legs - whose? Does she care? - parts her folds, and she feels gentle pressure on her clit, tiny circular movements that get a sigh out of her as well. It’s all very slow-- the touches, the build-up, even the orgasm coming in long, gentle waves.

Imelda doesn’t get many lazy mornings but, all things considered, she could do this more often.

*** 

“He’s about to say it.”

Imelda’s whisper is barely audible, for Héctor’s ears only. Leaning against the door with his arms crossed, he glances over to the bed. Ernesto has lain down every single charro he owns and is going over them all, walking back and forth like a general inspecting troops, his back to them.

“He’s not that bad,” Héctor whispers, gaining himself a look that clearly says ‘just wait’.

Ernesto pauses in front of a blue charro, shakes his head, then walks past it to a deep red one with golden stitching Pepita has chosen to lay onto. He reaches out as though to move her. Pepita flattens her ears and hisses. Ernesto pulls back his hand.

Smart choice, that: it’s hard to play guitar with a torn-up hand, and Ernesto wants to play at his very best tomorrow. It’s not every day you meet with your record label to sign the deal, give an interview to announce an album is officially in the pipeline, and perform on live TV right afterwards. He’s very obviously nervous, even if he tries to act like nothing worries him.

Héctor is… sort of nervous, too, but it’s easy to think everything will go smoothly with Imelda’s steady presence by his side, watching Ernesto try to pick an outfit for the following day. An exhausting process, truth be told, from the moment Ernesto walked in with armfuls of clothes asking for help.

They are now down to the last five suits and he has yet to make any decision other than ‘don’t bother the cat’. He finally sighs, and Héctor knows he’s about to lose a bet just a moment before he turns.

“I have nothing to wear,” Ernesto finally declares, and Imelda flashes Héctor a smug grin.

Told you he’d say it.

Héctor pretends not to have seen it. “You have plenty to wear.”

“Maybe I should go naked.”

“That’s unadvisable,” Héctor says.

“I look great naked.”

“That’s debatable,” Imelda speaks up.

Ernesto pouts. “Well, if your murderous cat wasn’t sitting on the charro I was thinking of wearin-”

“Afraid of a kitten now? You can try and move her.”

“If she’s such a nice kitty, why don’t you move her for me?”

“She’s comfy where she is,” Imelda says, and glances down at the charros. “Besides, I don’t think the red one does you any favors.”

He frowns. Héctor knows very well that the red charro is one of his favorites. “No?”

“Too aggressive. You’d look better in blue,” she adds, taking a step closer. “Or the white one, but Héctor will be wearing his white one. It goes well with his guitar.”

“We could both wear white.”

Héctor laughs. “If you want us to look like we’re trying to get into a church choir,” he says. “Or as angels in the church’s Nativity play, like that time when I was six. Remember how we used ropes to make me fly? I think we did pretty well.”

Imelda raises an eyebrow. “You knocked down the star and caused it to wreck Jesus’ cradle.”

That causes Héctor’s smile to fade a bit. “Ah. You remember that.”

“I played Mary. It nearly hit me,” she reminds him. “By the way, what were you thinking?”

Héctor shifts. “... Well, I guess it seemed seemed a good idea at the time.”

“You almost gave Sister Gregoria a stroke. And thank God Jesus wasn’t a real baby.”

“See? No one was hurt and it all worked out,” Ernesto points out as he picks up the blue charro, holding it up. Imelda rolls her eyes.

“Whose idea was it, anyway?”

“Ernest--”

“Héctor’s.”

“Hey!”

“It was absolutely your idea. My ideas tend to work.”

“You were the one who said everyone would be impressed if we actually flew across the stage!”

“Well, if course they would be. Angels fly. It’s what the wings are for,” Ernesto points out, carefully hanging the charro. “But you were the one who suggested we try it with ropes.”

“Well, your idea involved a trampoline hidden off stage! And-- and I didn’t see you stopping me after putting the idea in my head!”

“Why should I?”

“Because you were ten and I was six, for one.”

“Didn’t make me your babysitter.”

Héctor huffs, crossing his arms. “Some amigo,” he mutters, but truth be told he’s nowhere as mad as he pretends to be.

He has very fond memories of that day, despite the unmitigated disaster; of the look on his parents’ face as they seemed torn between red-faced embarrassment and the almost inhuman effort not to burst laughing in front of the rambling nun handing them back their child, covered in sawdust from head to toe, broken makeshift wings hanging sadly from his back. They had at least made it to the car before they’d both laughed, and the lecture that had followed had been more an afterthought than anything else.

The one who couldn’t keep himself from laughing, right there and then, had been Ernesto’s father, who’d been dragged there by his wife to watch a play he clearly gave no fucks about only because their son was in it. It was surreal, really: big, foul-tempered, scary Estéban de la Cruz roaring with laughter in the midst of a stunned silence.

He hadn’t even bothered to listen to a word of what Sister Gregoria was trying to say: he’d just kept laughing, picked up his stunned son with one arm, and walked right out with tears of mirth in his eyes - followed by a wife who looked embarrassed and relieved in equal measure.

“I wasn’t even sure he knew how to laugh,” Ernesto would tell him the next day, still in a sort of stunned awe. “He kept going until we were home and then some more. I think I heard him laughing in his sleep at night.”

Entirely unaware of his fond recollections, Ernesto is talking to Imelda - ignoring Héctor as he always does when he’s absolutely, disastrously in the wrong.  “So, the blue one? You sure?”

Imelda shrugs. “It’s not bad,” she concedes. “I don’t think anyone will be focusing on your clothes only, anyway.”

“... Right. I need to make sure my hair is at its best, too,” Ernesto mutters, turning to glance at his reflection in the window nearby. Imelda is rolling her eyes hard enough to make Héctor think they must be close to falling out of her eye sockets.

“I assume they will have someone to fix you up before the interview.”

“Well, true,” Ernesto concedes. “At least they won’t have to work too much on me. I already look good.”

Imelda rolls her eyes. “Now that you’ve picked the outfit--”

“I need to pick the shoes.”

“No you don’t. I made you a pair.”

“You-- what?”

“She made us shoes for the occasion,” Héctor explains, a wide dumb grin spreading on his face. He hadn’t suspected a thing, because Imelda already had their measurements and didn’t need to ask for them again, and he’d believed her explanation of having orders to catch up when he’d noticed her working longer hours than usual in the past couple of weeks. She’d surprised him the previous day, and now it was Ernesto’s turn to be surprised.

As expected, he blinks at Imelda, entirely taken aback. “Ah. I… gracias,” he mutters, sounding somewhat awkward. It’s how he sounded when Héctor’s father gifted him a moño charro for his birthday - one he’d spent mostly at their place.

Imelda smiles. “Don’t thank me yet, we need to make sure they fit,” she says, like there is any chance at all she might have gotten the measures wrong. She might have mentioned something on how weirdly small Ernesto’s feet are, but now she spares his ego and doesn’t bring it up. As she steps out of the room - followed by Pepita, who seems to have decided Ernesto’s red charro is not comfortable enough - Héctor’s grin widens.

“Isn’t she amazing?”

Ernesto doesn’t reply, but neither does he scoff as Héctor expected him to. He turns to see his best friend brushing a hand across the charro he’ll wear tomorrow, slowly.

“... Maybe my parents will see the interview tomorrow,” he says, very quietly.

Oh.

It’s a possibility Héctor hadn’t thought of, but it’s far from impossible, given that by now news might have spread throughout Santa Cecilia; it’s not often that someone from their town is on national TV, let alone two people.

“I guess they might,” he says, slowly. Ernesto’s family was always an uncomfortable subject, and one they avoided entirely since that entire fiasco with the letter. Héctor has no idea what was written on it, if Ernesto read it at all or if he destroyed it as he said he would; it doesn’t seem wise to ask.

“I hope they do,” Ernesto mutters, brow furrowing. “I hope my old man chokes on that.”

Not a word of his mother, who could barely choke out her question - “How’s Ernesto?” - without crying. There is a sudden knot in Héctor’s stomach, and he ignores it. “Well, you sure showed him.”

A moment of silence, then a shrug. “He’ll probably just switch channels. It’s your family that should be here to watch us.”

It’s a thought that has crossed Héctor’s mind several times, with every milestone - they should be here to see me - and it stings every time. As Ernesto picks something up from the bed, he makes an effort to shrug, like it hasn’t hit him as hard as it did. “Well, guess it wasn’t to be, and-- what…?’

Ernesto holds out his hand and there it is - the moño charro Héctor’s father gifted him, not long before he died. He wears it for all the important concerts, and Héctor is glad he does, but there is a tiny nagging voice in the back of its mind that sometimes reminds him that he has no gift left from his father, that their home was gutted by the explosion and fire and next to nothing could be salvaged. Other than some inheritance and a life insurance policy payout, he was only left memories and a few photos.

“I think you should wear this tomorrow.”

Wait, what?

“Wait, what?”

“Do you need your hearing checked? Not ideal before a musical performance on TV.”

“Oh, ha-ha.”

“I’m serious, Héctor!” Ernesto exclaims, seizing his shoulders. “Look at me in the eye and tell me your hearing is fine.”

“Really no--”

“Because if it isn’t and you mess something up on national TV, I will die.”

“Hey now--”

“I will literally drop dead.”

Ay, dramatic as always. Héctor laughs, slapping his arms off him. “My hearing is fine, pendejo. I just mean-- well, it’s yours.”

“And you’ll give it back after the performance,” Ernesto mutters, pushing the the moño charro in his hands. “Come on.”

He does take it, and swallows back a lump in his throat. “... Gracias,” he murmurs. Before Ernesto can reply anything Imelda is back with the brand new shoes for them, and they let the matter drop. Still, later on - before he folds everything neatly on a chair for the next morning - Héctor stands in front of the mirror, tries it on, and stares at the reflection.

As he did in other times of his life - the day he moved to Mexico City, the day he got engaged, the moment he stood with Imelda before the altar - he tries to imagine what their parents would think of him, tries to imagine what they would say.

You did good.

We’re proud of you.

His vision goes blurry, and he reaches to wipe his eyes, but never does: Imelda’s arms are around him the next moment, her head pressing against his back, and his hand stays in mid-air. He blinks, tears fall, and then he smiles. “Te amo.”

“Lo sé,” she murmurs, and holds him a little tighter.

***

“... And you have quite a following on social media, too. What would you say is your secret?”

“My beautiful face.” 

Ernesto’s quip makes Imelda roll her eyes, but her lips do curl into a smile and by the sound of it, the audience in the studio found it absolutely hilarious. The sound of laughter causes Pepita to lift her head and glance over at the TV screen, where Héctor and Ernesto are sitting on a sofa in front of the interviewer.

Héctor is a little hunched over and leaning forward, all wide grins and gangly limbs, while Ernesto is sitting back, one leg crossed easily over the other and a charming smile on his face. Laughing, Héctor elbows Ernesto in the ribs. It causes him to lift his hands.

“Just kidding, just kidding. Well, it did take quite a lot of networking, but I think music is what we really have going for us,” Ernesto says, the smile widening. He looks perfectly at ease, like he was born to be on camera. By looking at him now, it’s hard to guess how many sleepless nights he spent checking the hit count for their songs on Spotify, planning streaming events and networking with the nebulous bunch of people he refers to as ‘people who matter’. “It’s what it’s all about, our greatest passion, and I think that speaks to people.”

“And what good music it is,” the presenter says. “Here’s footage of your latest performance…”

The footage is shown, the interview continues, and Imelda finds herself frowning slightly. It’s going well, but she can’t help but notice that Ernesto is the one talking most of the time, with Héctor only replying to questions directed specifically at him. He can be as much as a charmer as Ernesto if he wishes, in his own cheeky way, but it’s obvious he’s leaving much of the spotlight to Ernesto.

And that… irks her. Not too much, because she knows Héctor cares very little for the fame and always happily left that aspect to Ernesto, but something still gnaws. They should come across as more of a team, not Wonderful Ernesto with a side dish of Héctor.

“Héctor writes all of their songs,” she tells Pepita, polishing the pair of shoes she just finished while still staring at the TV, Ernesto’s face filling the screen. He’s babbling something about believing in a dream and seizing his moment. “Should at least mention that.”

But Héctor looks happy and, well, her gaze pauses on the moño charro he is wearing. It was… nice of Ernesto to let him wear it for the occasion, and the pang of annoyance grows neglectable. Still there, but neglectable - and it helps that, when they move on to discuss the upcoming album, Ernesto does finally acknowledge Héctor’s role as the songwriter.

“So, will there be any songs that no one has heard yet?”

They share a glance, grinning. “Well, our agent said we can’t speak of such details,” Ernesto says, pride obvious on his face as he mentions they have an agent now. “But you never know with Héctor. I’ve had him waking up in the middle of the night during a hotel stay screaming before he grabbed a bunch of napkins, wrote a song on them, and passed out again.”

More laughter, including Imelda’s own, and Héctor slaps his arm. “It was one time,” he protests, but Imelda knows very well it happened at least on three occasions. By the time the interview ends and they prepare to play on stage for the audience, the earlier annoyance is gone.

“What song are we going to hear?” the presenter asks, and Héctor grins, picking up his guitar.

“Un Poco Loco,” he says, and glances at the camera. “I wrote it for my wife.”

Ay, mi amor. 

It makes Imelda a little sorry that she’s not there in the studio - she was offered to come, but had too many orders to catch up with - but then again, she thinks, it doesn’t matter.

They will see plenty of each other that evening.

***

“... Then we had another bottle, I think Armando was moments away from rolling under the table by the time--”

“The counter on Spotify is going crazy!”

“That’s great, ‘Nesto. Anyway, it went really well-- I mean, you saw us, so you know it, but… it went really well.”

“You did wonderfully,” Imelda says, smiling back at him. Sitting at the desk before his laptop, Héctor wishes he could reach through the screen to kiss her just now. They will be back in Mexico City late the next morning, and it feels like an unbearable long time. “Now get your idiot friend to drop his phone.”

“Sure,” Héctor says lightly, and turns to glance at Ernesto over his shoulder. He’s pacing back and forth across their hotel room, eyes fixed on the screen of his cell phone. “Imelda says you should drop the pho--”

Thud.

As the phone falls on the ground, the rubber guard on it the only thing that keeps its screen from shattering, Héctor recoils. On the screen of his laptop, Imelda blinks.

“... I didn’t mean you should literally drop--”

“We’re trending on Twitter,” Ernesto announces, immediately picking up the phone again. He stares at the screen a few more moments, as if to double-check, then his expression breaks in a wide smile. “We’re trending on Twitter!” he repeats, like it’s the ultimate seal of approval, and leans in to kiss Héctor.

It feels good, deep and thorough and tasting like the tequila they both had, but it lasts too little. Just when Héctor is about to reach down for Ernesto’s belt and give Imelda something really fun to watch, his friend pulls back and holds up his phone again. “All right, just a quick photo for Instagram, okay? Smile at the cam--”

Oh no, not now. Héctor grabs his jacket and yanks his head back down into another kiss. “Forget about that,” he says, pulling back to grin and his widened eyes. “Best if this stays a private spectacle.”

“I’m recording, by the way,” Imelda speaks up. Both turn to the screen to see she’s resting her chin in her hand, looking awfully pleased, eyes half-lidded. “Feel free to go ahead.”

“Really no--”

“There may or may not be a surprise for you once you undress him.”

There is a sound that is part a scoff, part a laugh and part a groan, and then Ernesto is kissing him again, pulling him up on his feet, reaching to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“I want a copy,” he mutters against Héctor’s throat, only to get a sharp order out of Imelda.

“Then get on the bed,” she says, sounding all the world like a movie director, except for the curl of her lips and the glint in her eyes. “With him on your lap.”

Until not too long ago, Ernesto would have argued, snapping something on how he took no orders - but now, he clearly is beyond that. They’re on the bed the next moment, and good thing the laptop is already angled so that Imelda gets the full view. Héctor glances down at Ernesto’s flushed face and grins as Imelda speaks again.

“Undress.”

“Going to enjoy the spectacle?” Ernesto asks, but he does do so without tearing his gaze from Héctor. He reaches to unbutton his jacket just as Héctor goes to unbutton his, fingers fumbling.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re not tired of performing yet,” Imelda says, amusement in her voice and something else that is well on the way to turn into arousal. And, well, Héctor’s duty as her husband is to help along, isn’t it?

With a smirk, Héctor leans in to undo Ernesto’s tie with his mouth, pushing the jacket off his shoulders before he pulls back with it still in his mouth. Their eyes meet, and Ernesto smiles back, slightly out of breath… and the reason why is obvious, already poking his thigh through his trousers. Best to take care of tha--

“Get his trousers off, Héctor,” Imelda’s voice comes again from the screen, soft as velvet.

Well, great minds do think alike.

He drops the tie and slides down, until he’s kneeling between Ernesto’s legs. He glances up, grins, and takes the zipper in his teeth, pulling it down slowly and relieving some of the fabric’s pressure on his cock - which is fully hard at this point. He nuzzles it a moment, and Imelda speaks before he can pull down the underwear with his teeth as well.

“Get up.”

Imelda’s voice is like the crack of a whip but oh, is her breathing fast. Héctor glances towards the laptop to see she’s leaning against the backrest, lips parted and skin flushed. One hand is reaching beneath her blouse and the other is nowhere on screen, but he has a pretty good idea of where it is.

“Sí,” he rasps, and stands. Ernesto stays on the bed a few more moments, panting, until Imelda speaks again and he recoils.

“Both of you. Come closer.”

They do, Ernesto almost stumbling over the trousers that have fallen around his ankles. Pushing off his jacket and getting the shirt off him takes little, leaving him down to his underwear. Ernesto steps out of his trousers and kisses Héctor’s neck, trailing down to nip at his collarbone. As he does, Héctor looks over his head towards Imelda.

She’s almost a vision like this, with her blouse open and a breast exposed, a nipple visible through her kneading fingers. Her lips are parted, pupils blown open, and by now she probably has several fingers in her. He smiles, breathless, and she smiles back before mouthing, ‘turn’.

Ah, right-- they planned this next bit. Héctor turns, unbuckling his belt and offering Ernesto his back. Within moments he’s pushing the shirt and jacket off him, kissing his neck and reaching into his trousers-- then he stills, and Héctor holds back a laugh.

“Wha-- is that lace?”

From the screen, Imelda laughs. “Get his trousers off,” she almost purrs, “and find out.”

Ernesto kneels and the trousers are pushed down almost before Imelda is done speaking, Héctor loses his struggle not to laugh, glancing at Ernesto over his shoulder has he cups his ass. He’s staring at the lace underwear Imelda picked for him with wide eyes, clearly speechless. “The moment?” he mutters, confused.

“For you to seize,” Héctor and Imelda say at exactly the same time, and Ernesto’s baffled expression melts in a guwaffing laugh.

“Oh, you think you’re so clever,” he mutters, and yanks Héctor’s arm to make him turn to him.

He lets out a yelp, but truth be told he’s… not surprised when he sees Ernesto reaching for his tie on the bed, not really. He glances at Imelda, and she nods, licking her lips.

Let him.

He does let Ernesto tie his hands, biting his lower lips. Ernesto rolls his eyes, face flushed and really hard in his underwear. “Was the fake tattoo really necessary?”

“Who says it’s fake?”

“Your fear of needles, that’s what.”

“Oh, sure, what about yours and that time in Oaxaca--” Héctor trails off with a yelp when Ernesto tightens the knot just a little too much.

“We’re not discussing that now,” he snarls, and physically throws him face down onto the bed.

“Hey now--” Héctor begins, starting to lift himself up on his elbows - but suddenly Ernesto’s hands are back on his ass, his mouth his brushing over it through the lace, and he finds he doesn’t really want to protest. A glance at the screen confirms that Imelda is very much enjoying the scene, too, and that settles it: Héctor drops his head back on the mattress, and lets Ernesto do as he will.

And what he does is tease an awful lot, all small kisses and nuzzling as though Héctor’s cock isn’t hard as stone and straining against the lingerie. He lets out a low whine, trying to buckle his hips, pressing his ass more firmly against Ernesto’s lips and warm, warm hands. He feels him smile against his skin just as Imelda lets out a hum.

“Well, are you going to seize your moment, or not?”

A growl, and the lingerie is pulled down roughly, the brush against his erection almost making Héctor cry out. Through half-lidded eyes, he can see Imelda leaning closer to the screen. Her skin is flushed, some hair sticking to her sweaty forehead.

“Now get yours off.”

Again, no protest or retort: Ernesto’s hands fly to do just that. A bit too quickly, really, because at the first attempt the elastic band of his boxers slips from his fumbling fingers and hits his skin again in a resounding smack, followed by a less than dignified yelp and laughter from both Héctor and Imelda. “Nice grito,” he compliments him.

“Pretend it’s from me,” Imelda adds.

“Very funny,” Ernesto grumbles, and takes off his boxers, letting it drop on the ground. With a chuckle, Imelda waits a moment - wait, is she having a drink? Was that glass there all along? - before leaning back. One of her hands is still off camera and very likely in her own underwear, if she has any on at all.

“Sit back on the bed,” she instructs, and turns her gaze to Héctor, who feels a shiver going down his spine. “And you get on his lap.”

He does and, before long, everything is drowned out by pleasure as he straddles Ernesto’s legs, bound arms over his neck, thrusting his hips up into his friend’s fist - against his cock, it’s such a tight fit, so warm and hard and he can feel every vein and twitch, every grumble in Ernesto’s chest and the puffs of breath against his face. He could come from just this, but oh, when Imelda orders Ernesto to turn him around, lube up and fuck him, Héctor nearly sobs with relief.

“Fuck-- fuck, fuck--” Ernesto groans against the nape of his neck, canting up his hips to push into him deeper, stroking him at the same steady rhythm. Through a veil of tears, he can see Imelda panting, too, head tilted back and mouth open as both of her hands disappear under her skirt. Their gazed meet, she smiles, and he smiles back breathlessly - so lost in the moment that he’s entirely lost track of time, and it doesn’t matter at all.

He could keep this up for his entire life, and he’d die without a single regret.

***

[Back to Part 11]

[On to Part 13]

[bts-svt-mx]

Maid For You (Part 2) Taehyung x Reader

Author: bts-svt-mx

Taehyung x Reader

Jungkook x Reader

Rating: Fluff, M, eventual smut if i get to it lol

Tags: Slow burn, Enemies to Lovers AU, Idol! Taehyung, Taehyung x Reader, Jungkook x Reader, Hoseok, mentions of other members

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 (M), 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

Word Count: 2,000

Description: Wanting to get out of your parents house and experience what the world had to offer is way more expensive than people tell you it will be. So when your glamorous “manager to the stars” cousin Hoseok hooks you up with a  job as the live-in maid for a hillside, massive mansion, you feel as though life might actually be looking up. That is until the mansion’s absentee high profile celebrity owner surprises you by moving back in leaving you to wonder if this mansion is big enough for you and his huge ego. 

“Not that I’m not enjoying the show… but may I ask,” Kim Taehyung, Grammy winning world famous pop star, looks you up and down as his features twist into something more stern, angry even. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

You were going to kill Hoseok.

Chapter 2:

They say to never meet your idols, and after today, you think you know why.

There you are, in front of one of your favorite singers in the whole world and all you can do is stand there looking like a cat caught with his hand in the fishbowl.

The utter look of displeasure plastered on his face made you feel uneasy.  You can’t help but stare blankly at him taking in his rude tone of voice.

Is this real? Have the chemicals just gotten to your head? You thought you had read the labels and made sure they were safe but you probably should have opened up a window or- “Hello?” Snap, snap, snap. Kim Taehyung’s hand is now directly in front of your face snapping repeatedly.  “What, are you suddenly mute now?” He scoffs moving out of your immediate personal space once again.

Curse your awkward staring. You always knew you had a bad habit of staring off into space. And today that space just happened to be occupied by your favorite idol in the world. “Y-you hired me.” It comes out kind of like a squeak but you speak up again, voice a little shaky from the surprise he just gave you. “I’m Y/N…” His face is still blank. Zero recognition going through his brain. “The live in maid...” You continue. Shouldn’t he know who he hired to take care of his home? Or at least know your name if he didn’t know your face? This whole situation is so awkward. You were in your pajamas still for goodness sake!

You blame stupid Hoseok.

Taehyung’s stare that once made your knees weak a year ago makes your stomach settle weirdly now that it’s actually directed towards you. He’s like a photograph come to life. A beautiful, rude picture. God, why did he have to open up his mouth and ruin it?

“I didn’t hire you.” Taehyung spits. “My manager did.”  He leisurely walks around the room picking up random things and analyzing them. It’s odd. He looks as though he’s never seen this place before. He looks... out of place.

“Just like he does everything without my permission,” he mumbles, almost as an afterthought. Looking over to you, a slight smirk creeps over his once unreadable expression. “And where did he find you? Craigslist?”

Your jaw literally drops. How dare he ask you a question like that? You would think he’d be a little bit more considerate since you’re pretty much strangers. Obviously he doesn’t know his basic manners or how to be a decent person for that matter.

If there’s one thing you hate, it’s blatant rudeness. It’s like a light switch. 0 to 100. Your blood begins to boil.

It’s official, you’re pissed.

Well this is definitely not what you always imagined meeting him would be like. More like you imagined you’d run into him on the side of the street, him knocking you over. And he’d catch you before falling to the ground, look into your eyes and- well.. that fantasy popped like a pink bubblegum bubble stretched too far. The initial shock and excitement of coming face to face with your favorite idol had subsided and now you were just angry at his disrespect and quite frankly, kind of offended for Hoseok’s sake too.

He’s back on the other side of the kitchen, analyzing a red and olive colored ceramic rooster and for a moment, you think you see a look of relief and soft eyes before he picks up a similar ceramic frog next to it and cringes at it’s ugly yellow/green color. There he is, looking so nonchalant, not even caring how blunt he is being in the moment. Not even caring how his words might hurt you.

Standing up straighter you find your voice again. You don’t care who he is. You weren’t going to take this disrespect from him. “Your house would have looked like the Haunted Mansion by now if it wasn’t for me cleaning this massive place while you were out for months wasting money and partying it up in a different country every day.”

His gaze quickly snaps back to you, surprise reflecting in his face from your more than un-lady like tone of voice. What? So he can talk to you like you’re nothing but you can’t do the same back to him?

“And Hoseok’s a good man,” you continue.  “He works his ass off to make sure you’re happy every day which I’m sure can’t be an easy job.”

It’s true. Hoseok can’t really talk about his clients but he does tell you about how exhausted they make him. Hoseok never really lets it get to him though and you know he bounces back quickly, but still. No one disrespects your family like that.

“So who are you to blame him for hiring a damn housekeeper for you while you’re away?” you sputter out quickly. Woah Y/N. Where did all of this aggression come from? He had only really said 3 or 4 things to you. Granted, every one of those things was something insulting. Your confidence began to falter again. His hard gaze on you was making you self conscious. Tearing your eyes away from his for the first time, you look down and toy with the hem of your Mickey Mouse pajama shirt.

Wait, no. Look up again Y/N, you can’t give him the feeling he’s winning here.

“And who are you to make me feel like I’m the one intruding here?” You add, trying to fake more confidence. Voice raising to a yell. “You know nothing about me or this house. You look like you’ve never even seen this place before!”

Your own words hit your ears with a boom as they bounce off of the marble walls. Shit.. that was probably too far. Ugh. Why can’t you ever keep your mouth shut? You were so going to be fired after this. Goodbye to the freedom of the city, hello Mom and Dad’s house. Again.

Using both of his hands to push himself off of the edge of the countertop he’s leaning on, he scoffs. Expression once again unreadable. A closed book with no title.

“Of course I know you,” He speaks, eyes narrowing.

Slowly, he makes his way over to the refrigerator where you stand. You don’t know how, but he’s clearly taken back the control in this conversation.

Suddenly you feel small again. Obviously he isn’t used to being questioned and you just had to go ahead and run your mouth. 

“You’re just another fangirl desperately pulling any strings she can to get close to me.” He explains laughing slightly, but devoid of any real humor. It’s at this point you realize how tall and broad he is. Towering over you in the physical sense and also in the metaphorical sense. Closer and closer he walks. Suffocating you like a snake coiling around its prey.

His lips curl into a condescending smirk as he places his hand flat against the freezer door effectively trapping you in. “What? Do you actually believe in your insane, obsessed mind that you would have a chance with me if you got close to me?” His eyes scan your face, assessing just how much his words are affecting you. There’s hatred in his voice. Though for you or for himself, you’re not quite sure.

His face is so close. You could feel his breath on your cheek. Surprisingly very minty with a hint of jasmine, you think. And his cologne… Not too overwhelming but definitely distinct enough where you were certain you’d be able to pick it out anywhere from now on. It melted through the air, wrapping around you slowly until it was all that you could focus on.

Woah... it was really messing with your brain.

His other hand reaches out to move a strand of your hair that had fallen out of your bun while dancing just a few moments ago. Effectively ripping you out of your former lifestyle being the pseudo owner of this huge mansion and thrusting you into your reality of being a full time maid.

Because really, that was all you were.

Sure, you had your fun living in this house by yourself with all the freedom in the world at your fingertips. But did you expect it to last forever?

You don’t want it to, but your heart chooses this moment to start beating like it’s about to pop out of your chest. The look he’s giving you right now.. you know it well. And you’re sure it’s the one he uses to get any girl he wants, whenever he wants.

The only thing connecting the two of you physically is his fingers threaded around the strand of your hair. You might as well have been fully pressed against each other with the amount of heat you feel creeping up inside of you. And though you don’t really want to admit it, you have to physically restrain yourself from pushing yourself into him by gripping firmly onto the refrigerator door handle behind you.

“Well, you are quite pretty,” You didn’t know it was possible but his voice drops to an even lower octave. Vibrating through your chest as he speaks. 

He’s considering his next words carefully. Gaze following the lines of your face. Eyes meeting eyes, moving across the map of your face to your nose, your reddened cheeks, then finally landing on your lips.

“Maybe if you don’t turn out to be a complete psycho I might actually fuck you.” His eyes dark, smirk still plastered on his face. “You know, to get you out of my way and save us both some time.”  

What you thought was your heart about to burst out of your chest turned out to be a fit of laughter causing Taehyung to recoil quickly, pulling his hands from the side of your head and away from your hair out of surprise. His face contorting into something of a mix between confusion and disgust as you cackled in his face. You almost couldn’t get your next sentence out as you doubled over laughing.

“See...” More laughing. Any feelings of lust caused by his entrancing scent now replaced with amusement in an instant. “That’s where you’re wrong,” Even more laughing. Wow, it’s been a while since you laughed this much.

“I could give less of a fuck about who you are.” You say mocking his vulgar word choice. A few more giggles leaving your lips. Okay, it was a lie. You’ll admit that. The you of last year would have been freaking out about who was in front of the present day you right now. But the situation you were in is just so ironic! You had dreamed about meeting Taehyung for a couple of years now and now that it has actually happened, it’s so completely the opposite of what you had always played out in your head that it was almost… well, yeah actually it was just hilarious.

Who would've thought the world’s sweetheart would be such a complete and total douchebag?  

“Hoseok didn’t even tell me who owned this place.” You tried to catch your breath as the giggles finally subsided.  “I just needed easy money and a place to sleep. Hell, I don’t even know what you do for a living!” Okay, that’s another lie but honestly, who really cares at this point. Clearly the respect and love for him you had before was just of the image he portrayed to the media. 

That was not the man standing in front of you right now. And it made you more than a little angry. What’s a little white lie at this point when he’s been lying to the whole world for who knows how long?

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” You push yourself away from in front of the refrigerator putting the mop in the small cleaning supply closet a few steps away. Taehyung hasn’t moved an inch. Now it’s his turn to be speechless. “I have a job to continue doing seeing as I’m the main person making sure your house doesn’t end up looking like an abandoned dump with all the dust the piling up from no one EVER USING ANYTHING HERE,” You practically scream the last part in his direction, words reverberating off the walls once again as you turn swiftly on your heel to head rather quickly to your room on the West side of the mansion.

You had a phone call to make.

<-- Previous Chapter | Next Chapter -->

[quill-and-ink-writer]

Are They Still Beautiful?

Content warning for death, blood, amputation, and ableist language/concepts.

Word Count: 1506

Edited? Sort of.

“Everyone, up! Up! Insurgents by the lower pass. Attack on the trade post an hour ago. Get up and get moving, people!”

Elvira was on her feet in seconds, already tying back her golden hair. She looked across the barracks and grinned at Loella, her sister-in-arms. Loella was a stern young woman, made so by too many deaths in her short life. She was all dark skin and onyx hair and eyes carved out of obsidian. She frowned at Elvira’s expression.

“You find too much joy in war,” Loella said. She buckled her armor, bright white and gleaming in the still-dark room. “Someday, you won’t find it so rewarding.”

Elvira disagreed. In her opinion, no better reward than glory existed. As long as she was a soldier, she would have it.

“What do you think?” she asked. “My bow or my blade?”

Loella didn’t answer.

There were thirty soldiers in the third regiment, and they fell into position outside the barracks without command. Their armor glittered in the night, silver weapons at the ready. All who observed the soldiers standing at attention there would have only one word to describe the sight: beautiful. And they were beautiful, in a terrible, deadly sort of way. Elvira loved the feeling of power that accompanied being beautiful. She was unstoppable.

“Be on the watch constantly.” General Idama, a regal-looking man of about forty, paced in front of them, words flying from his tongue faster than a horse could gallop. “The enemy has Aristidian hostages at Lerin-” Lerin was the official name of the trading post. “-and may be surrounding the area between there and Aristide. It’s a small uprising, so I trust the third regiment should be able to handle it. Off with you!”

The soldiers cheered, and within the hour, the regiment was well into the neighboring forest, horses thundering down the only road connecting Aristide and Wasteland. Elvira scanned the trees. Loella did the same.

Wasteland was a place where imperfect beings were sent. They were the blind, or the deaf, or the mute, or the diseased. They were broken, missing parts of their bodies or minds. It was better for them in Wasteland. Why should they remain in a society where they would never fit in, never feel at home?

Over the past year, the number of insurgent attacks had doubled. Traders from Aristide were killed on the road to Wasteland. Armed caravans were targeted, guards slain and new Wastes taken by force. There had even been talk of returning to the Outside. Elvira couldn’t understand. Wasteland was a gift given to those who were different. They should appreciate it for what it was.

Another hour, and the third regiment approached the only trading post between Wasteland and Aristide. The sun was just beginning to rise. Elvira and nine other soldiers hopped off their horses and drew their weapons. Elvira opted for her bow until they found the rebels.

Owen threw open the doors to the trading post and slunk inside, his bow at the ready. Elvire followed after him. Her stomach churned as she took in the sight before her.

Five Aristidian bodies - two women and three men - lay bleeding out on the wooden floor. Gemstone eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling. Ruby red blood matted golden hair and trickled from open mouths onto flawless skin. On the wall was written one question.

“‘Are they still beautiful?’” Owen read, dark eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Where are the Wastes?”

Elvira didn’t answer.

After a quick search of the room betrayed no hidden Wastes, Owen and Elvira left the building. The door had hardly closed behind them when an arrow lodged itself in Owen’s chest. Elvira ducked, and an arrow whizzed past her head. Owen’s body fell to the ground with a sickening thud.

Elvira was used to fighting, but she never got used to death.

She nocked an arrow and let it fly, grinning with satisfaction as it buried itself in the chest of a rebel Waste. The man staggered back and fell to his knees. The woman next to him screamed and lunged towards Elvira, sword drawn. Elvira discarded her bow and met the woman blade for blade. Although Elvira was a skilled swordsman, the Waste got in a few good blows. Her iron sword caught on Elvira’s helmet, blade screeching across metal and dragging across her cheek. Warm blood trickled from the wound. The Waste snarled and danced around Elvira like a sprite, slashing wildly at her legs. Elvira evaded every blow but one, and she let out a terrible scream as the blade of the Waste’s sword sunk into her calf.

Elvira spun to face the rebel woman and stabbed her, her sword buried up to the hilt in the Waste’s flesh. It was quick work to dispose of her, and Elvira turned to her next opponent, bleeding but ready to fight.

The next Waste to challenge her couldn’t have been older than a teenager, but still he managed to disarm her. The grin was wiped off his face with a swift kick to his wrist. He dropped his weapon, and Elvira punched him in the face, savoring the crack of his nose under her fist. Maybe a broken nose was a lesson the youth could learn from.

A great, hulking brute of a man approached her. He was larger than any human Elvira had ever seen. She craned her neck to gaze upon his pockmarked face. Before she could react, the giant man had grabbed her by the arms and thrown her across the road. Elvira’s body crashed into the trees, her head snapping against rough bark.

Elvira heard Loella cry out to her, but she couldn’t form any words. She stared up at the sky, and everything faded to black.

When Elvira woke, it was days later. She opened her eyes to see Loella, stern as ever, staring down at her.

“Ellie,” she rasped, “why am I in the infirmary?”

“Your leg was amputated.”

Loella had always been straight-to-the-point.

“What?”

“The wound was infected. Fiona couldn’t do anything to save it. I saw it. The flesh was falling off your bones.”

Elvira’s heart raced. “I can’t- It can’t be gone. I can’t lose my leg. I can’t leave. Loella, I can’t leave.”

Loella’s face was stony. “The Wastes retreated. Half the regiment was killed or injured. We carried the injured back to Aristide and left the dead to be collected the next day.”

“Loella, stop-”

“We couldn’t find you at first. That man threw you into the woods farther than we thought. We left without you.”

“I can’t leave. Get my brother. He’ll-”

“We went back to collect the dead. I was the one who found you. I thought you were dead. You weren’t moving.”

“Please, Ellie, don’t let them force me out,” Elvira begged. “Please, Ellie. We’ve been friends for years. Get my brother. He can help. I promise.”

“When I picked you up, you groaned. I raced ahead of the others. By the time I arrived back at Aristide, there was no choice. Fiona had to amputate your leg, or you would die.”

“I would rather have died!”

Loella’s face fell. “I couldn’t lose you, too.”

“I don’t care,” Elvira snapped. “You should have let me die.”

Loella swallowed hard. She stood and walked out of the infirmary without a word.

Elvira would have looked at her leg, or whatever remained, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to see it. In any case, Elvira wasn’t alone for long. General Idama entered, his face somber. He wore white robes and several pieces of jewelry. Glittering rubies hung from his neck. Heavy sapphires and emeralds adorned his hands and wrists. A frown decorated his face.

“General-”

“Dame Elvira, daughter of Gemma, soldier of Aristide,” he greeted, using her proper titles, “I have come to thank you for your service to the city of Aristide. The Council commends you for your service and wishes you a long, peaceful life outside the service. Your courage and tenacity will be remembered for years to come. Believe me when I say that we have lost an invaluable warrior. Dame Elvira, daughter of Gemma, you are hereby officially discharged from the Army of Aristide on grounds that you are unfit for service.”

Tears burned in Elvira’s eyes. “General Idama, I can still fight. I can still serve.”

“I have also come to announce that you will be expected to depart from Aristide with the next caravan out of the city.  Any attempts to evade departure may result in an even harsher punishment. Arrangements have already been made. The caravan is expecting you at the end of this week.”

“General-”

“Your relatives have been notified.”

“I can learn to fight with one leg.”

“It has been an honor to have you in my charge,” General Idama said.

With that, he left the room, stoic as ever. The door slammed shut. Elvira stared up at the ceiling, and the tears came.

She was going to Wasteland.

@inknindecision @jess---writes @ultimate-science-nerd @iamidentical @chaos-reign

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[thepilotanon]

touch.

summary: “Kylo Ren was a failure, and he had a scar to prove his worthlessness.”

I...couldn’t resist? I have no excuse, I just had to write this because I know I wanted to give that emo space fridge love every time he spoke to Snoke. I hope you will enjoy it anyway! I hope to hear from you guys because I’m very happy how it turned out! Please enjoy!

tagging @kylokiwi @xmotherofbatsx @sdavid09 @starrfruit @el-eldritch @xseraphrosex @germansarechill for being supportive and super sweet like?? Why did Heaven allow you guys to leave. I won’t tag people often unless you’d want me to.

warning: mention of slavery and abuse, semi-nsfw but not detailed. Post Kylo gettin’ his sexy scar.

“You can’t hide from her forever, Commander Ren.”

Shooting a glare to the silver-armored captain, Kylo Ren was so tempted to choke Phasma before she spoke up again in the confines of the “hiding place” she found him in - an empty, unused control room. “Sooner or later, she will start to worry, and even I don’t need to have your abilities to know that you don’t want that to happen.” Keeping her gaze forward and in a ready stance, she made no move to leave his side just yet. “And, if I may be rather blunt with you...you look like shit, and can probably use her company.”

Leather gloves squeezing the metal chair he was sitting in, Kylo stared in disgust at his reflection from a metal plate on the wall. His black hair stringy from sweat, melted snow; skin damp from stress and dark shadows underneath his eyes, Kylo Ren no doubt did look like shit. It certainly didn’t help with the black bacta strips sticking down his face and into the collar of his cowl. Still kicking in the pain medication from the stitching he had finished hours prior, fighting in a airship and nearly destroyed an unwanted lifeforce he felt in his TIE Silencer, Kylo still felt the burn of the blue lightsaber’s mark on his flesh. The stench of his own burning flesh still haunting his nose and the words of his Master ringing in his ears, Kylo could barely recognize himself inside and out…

Kylo Ren was a failure.

“I won’t be held responsible of keeping her out of your way either, Commander,” Phasma added in casually. “Knowing how she is, she can slip through anyone’s grasp or make a bloody mess in a supply closet somewhere…”

It had been a good week since the last time Kylo saw his secret wife, Nova, First Order’s official trainer for personalized stormtroopers and Knights of Ren, as well as Supreme Leader Snoke’s praetorian guards at times. He knew she was informed of his return to the Supremacy, hearing he survived the destruction of Starkiller and the fight he dealt with from the scavenger girl who currently holds Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber. Any of those listed were not the bit of his worry, knowing that she wasn’t aware of the specifics of his day-to-day goals unless he were to contact her more regularly - but alas, he had been busy. No, Kylo was more worried about other matters.

Grabbing his cowl from the counter, Kylo stood from the chair. Keeping his back to Phasma, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Bring her to our quarters, Phasma. Don’t let anyone see her.”

“Of course,” Phasma nodded once before leaving the room, leaving Kylo to himself.

Nova followed closely to Phasma’s strong march, her legs moving a bit quicker to keep up with the captain’s long strides as she bounced to get the other’s attention. “How was the evacuation? Was it crowded in the ships at all? What was the weather like on the Starkiller base, Phasma? Phasma? Phasma! What was the planet like?”

“You are quite curious for one who is in the middle of a war, Nova,” Phasma sighed in her helmet, not sparing a glance as she took a sharp turn to the hallway leading to the private quarters of Commander Ren. “Certainly you have other important things to worry about.”

“Not when I’m stuck here,” Nova shook her head, reaching to hold on to Phasma’s unique cape to inspect it, pulling off a random scrap of metal. “Doesn’t feel like I’m in the middle of anything when nothing happens here…”

“You should be grateful,” Captain Phasma suggested in a mute tone, allowing the weaponry master to pluck off more scraps off her uniform as they approached the locked doors. “The Supreme Leader sees you as indispensable to keep you from fighting and the possibility of being killed. You’re safer here.”

“I’m bored here, worrying about my friend and husband,” Nova muttered lowly, bumping her forehead against Phasma’s armored back as she came to a halt. Rubbing her head as she looked up to the tall woman, she smiled innocently to Phasma’s visors. “I hope someday that I can actually join you two and be more useful to you than just mentoring others.”

The captain kept a silent gaze at her for one moment before raising a hand to rest ontop of the woman’s head, a very unusual gesture from the otherwise emotionless woman. “You mean a lot to us all, more than you realize, Nova. Appreciate that you don’t have to deal with what I have to.”

At that, Phasma turned her heel and marched back where she came, leaving Nova to watch her agily sneak out from being seen escorting her to her unpublic quarters. As much as Nova didn’t mind keeping her marriage a secret from everyone, including Supreme Leader Snoke, she did wish that there weren’t extra precaution put in place formed by her husband and friend…

Inputting the pin to enter the chamber, Nova noticed the familiar shadow not too far inside. A bright smile spreading on her lips, Nova waited until the doors hissed closed behind her before speaking with such joy. “Kylo!”

Running to his back and tackling him into an embrace, Nova buried her face into his clothed back. He smelled like his usual musky scent, a hint of burning wood and something that she could only describe as Kylo’s smell; he also carried new scents, too, from Starkiller, she guessed. It was cold and smelled wet, in a way she couldn’t really describe, but she melted into the radiating warmth he gave off. She also picked up the familiar hint of the throne room on him, making her also assume that he had spoken to Snoke before coming home to her. Nova was sure that he was stressed from seeing his Master after such a long mission.

Closing her eyes and grasping the front of his uniform, Nova sighed in relief as she nuzzled between his shoulder blades. “I’m so happy you’re home, husband. I’ve missed you so much, I thought I was going to go mad from being away from you for so long.”

He didn’t respond like he normally would, instead lifted his shaking, gloved hands to rest atop of her knuckles. His thumbs brushing her skin delicately, he hummed lowly at feeling her head shift behind him.

“Kylo?” Nova peeped curiously, trying to look over his shoulder to see his face. When he turned the other way, Nova frowned and carefully withdrew her hands. “Kylo? Why won’t you look at me? Didn’t you miss me at all?”

“I did,” Kylo said. “Very much.”

“Then, why won’t you look at me? What if I cut all my hair off or got a robotic leg you didn’t know about while you were gone?” Nova asked with narrowed brows, seeing his shoulders jump a bit to resist his chuckle. “Not that I did, but… Kylo, let me see my husband.”

“You can’t.”

“Why?”

Taking a deep breath, Kylo chewed the inside of his cheek. “During my mission,” he began, “I obtained an injury from the scavenger girl I told you about from our last discussion through the holopad. I fought against her and got injured.”

“The one the defected stormtrooper left with?” Nova watched his head nod once, making her blink. “Well, that can happen in battle, Kylo, even I know that!”

“It’s not like that, love… I don’t look the same anymore,” he ground out bitterly, hating himself for losing his stoic tone so easily in her presence. “I don’t want you to see me like this. I look too different, and…”

He didn’t move when Nova scurried around him - he couldn’t. He knew he would have to show his wife what happened to him eventually, as much as it would hurt him to see her react.

Shutting his eyes as soon as hers looked up to his face, Kylo bit his bottom lip and waited…

Feeling her soft hands touch his chin and began to lightly skim along his jaw, forcing him to crack his eyes open as she tilt her head with simple curiosity. Her fingers hovered over the black strips for a moment before she poked his nose, a little smile quirked on her lips.

“My husband still has his nose that I love to kiss,” Nova announced. Her palms pressed against the fat of his cheeks and her fingers slipped into his hair to touch his hidden ears. “And the big ears I love to whisper into. Your eyes are still there, and I can still see my reflection in them; strong jaw, beauty marks and your hair...even though it’s a bit messy right now, that’s okay. You look just fine to me!”

“Stop it,” Kylo tried with furrowed brows.

Getting to her toes, Nova stared deep into his eyes. He knew what she was doing at that moment, feeling the rare caress in the back of his skull. “Whatever Snoke has said to you, I think he needs to look in the mirror and rethink how he describes people when he looks like a hairless rodent.”

“Nova,” he warned.

“Other than that, you don’t look that much different to me, Kylo,” Nova shrugged, pressing a light kiss to his tense jaw. “Still just as strong and handsome as usual.”

Kylo resisted in rolling his eyes as he shook his head at her. “Stop trying to make this better. It’s pointless in what Snoke has said - I’ve failed, and I have the scar to prove it.”

Nova frowned, going to her regular height as something changed - her eyes gave off an unusual look he wasn’t used to receiving from her, a look she would normally give to someone she was giving lessons to. Within a second, Nova shoved him back, falling to the edge of the bed before she climbed into his lap, her hands starting to undo the buttons on her uniform top. When Kylo attempted to stop her by placing his hands on her hips to still her, Nova grabbed his wrists and pushed them away before continuing. Huffing, Kylo tried to stop her again and was met with the same result.

“Wife, I’m not in the mood to -” Kylo tried to tell her, only for her hand to cover his mouth as she pressed a light kiss under his eye.

“No,” she told him in response, taking off her jacket and remaining in her bottoms and her bra. Kylo didn’t resist to stare longingly at the revealed flesh of his wife, how the dimmed lights of their room seemed to give her a heavenly glow that he adored.

Taking his hands, Nova wrapped them behind her bare back and pressed his fingers to her skin. When she placed them exactly where she wanted, she held his hands there firmly. “Feel it?”

Kylo did feel it. The slightly roughened skin that trailed a long, diagonal line across her back; his middle finger slowly dragged along the scar that filled the of it, a habit he had in those moments in the shower when they shared hot water after a long day, or when she wore a backless top and slept on her stomach while he watched her in bed. He nodded, his brows furrowing as she let go to let him touch the scar. “I do…”

“From my first owner, when I failed him in my first spar with a senior slave,” she told him. “He took a knife and had me held down while he cut me. It hurt to move for almost a month, and I still had to train. I was probably three...”

Taking his right hand, Nova then brought it to touch the curved mark on her hipbone. “When I fought against someone who tried to steal from my next owner. He threw me and I fell into a pile of broken parts to the Speeder, wasn’t that much older.”

Kylo’s thumb rubbed beside the mark before she pulled the hand up to under her breast, where a faint, long indent started from under the bra and went all the way to her shoulder blade. “This one...I actually woke up bleeding, but I believed it was from another slave I didn’t get along with trying to give me a slow death. They weren’t that smart, as you can see - it wasn’t deep enough.”

“Love…” Kylo mumbled as he shook his head.

Tilting her head back, she pointed to a discolored blotch hidden in the corner of her jaw and went to under her ear. “Acid punishment from refusing to kill another child,” she said. Adjusting her seat on his lap, spreading her legs a bit and brought his hand to her inner thigh. While she still had her pants on, Kylo knew what she was guiding him to. He had seen it many times over their time together; he had touched it before and kissed it whenever he professed his love to Nova physically. A burn mark in a shape of an X, and Nova pressed her palm on top of his hand to keep it there. Her eyes softening with a slight hesitation before speaking.

“Before you came and took me away...when I was labeled a disgrace to the people on my planet for failing my ‘purpose’ to my last owner,” she said softly. “My least favorite one and sometimes I feel ugly every time you touch me there or see it.”

Kylo swallowed at the next words she spoke. “I never told you this, but it was actually the mark to signify my chance of being executed. The females on the planet get marked on their inner thighs and the males got it on the back of their necks. If they were to draw a line all the way down my leg, then I was expected to die.”

Her hands coming to hold his face, Nova made him look at her as she gave him a smile. “If you hadn’t decided to take me, the line would have been placed,” she confessed. “Every time I feel disgusted by the failures of my marks, you remind me that it was worth going through so much pain...because I went through all that and ended up falling in love with you, Kylo.”

Her finger touched the edge of his patch, a tingling sensation came from the touch but it wasn’t painful to him. “For so long I felt as a failure with no future, and the scars reminded me of that. When you touch me and tell me praises, when you kiss my marks and look at me the way you do...you make me feel so happy because I feel like I survived and can finally feel happy.

“This mark right here,” she said softly, brushing a falling tear from his eye before it could touch the strips, “only tells me that you fought hard and came out strong. You survived and came back to me. My husband was strong enough to survive a fight so I can see him look at me and let me love him. Snoke knows nothing of your true power, Kylo, and you need to see it too.”

Kylo took a deep breath, looking down to the scars on his wife’s torso. He knew she had other ones from the past, forgotten stories that were erased from time and his touch, and he had the same. Cuts and tiny scars decorated both of their skins, and many of them are never seen by anyone else but each other in the seclusion of their chambers. Nova’s ability to close off even the strong Snoke from looking into their sanctuary to reveal their flaws and still have an attraction to each other. The feelings they share that just seemed so right with the Force bonding them together so perfectly makes him forget everything his Master throws at him. Nova makes him forget everything wrong, makes him feel important…

Kissing the corner of his lips, Nova spoke against his skin in a loving tone. “My strong, handsome husband, with his beautiful scars,” she whispered. Peppering kisses closer to the bacta patches, her fingers went to his thick hair as she massaged his sore scalp. “My husband coming back to me and making me feel important for the first time in my life. I love you, Kylo.”

Unable to hold back any more, Kylo lifted his chin to seal her lips with his in a passionate embrace, his gloved hands slipping up her back and drawing her closer and pressing their hips together. His tears fell on either of them as he brought her onto their bed with his body hovering over her; his mouth never leaving her skin as he began working on removing the rest of her clothes and add his own to the pile. He shivered at the skin-to-skin touch as his naked hands finally touched his wife, exhaling in pure amazement at how soft she felt to his touch.

Kylo Ren was not a failure. Even as Snoke continues to call him weak or a child in comparison to the scavenger girl, it would eventually mean nothing to him as soon as he reunited with his wife. To him, her words were final, and not even the strongest being in the galaxy could change that once Kylo hears her voice.

As he whispered his love for her against her skin, kissing each scar he could reach from their current position of making love, Kylo felt himself piecing back together into a stronger warrior then he was before. To him, he can take on his challenges and keep on fighting as Nova waited for his return each time. Kylo Ren can keep going.

Kylo Ren was not a failure.

A bit of backstory for the {reader} that I thought would be interesting to share and maybe deepen the bond the {reader} and Kylo have together to be compatible. I’m VERY tempted to make a mini series of how Kylo met Nova/reader for another idea - I’m all over the place, I should stop.

I hope you enjoyed this little bit of fluff and stuff and get to hear from you guys on what you thought. I really appreciate you guys taking the time to read it!