#barracuda.

GOD SHE HATES THIS. and you might think, why wednesday, you say that about everything! fuck you man, she actually really hates this. what’s not to hate about it? you forgo studying to stay up ALL night tending to your baby (your precious fanged geranium, poor thing, coming down with a cold) and yet you’re repaid with NOTHING (not nothing, per say, more like a fat F on your exam and a request put in for a tutor) but more aggravation. 

and it doesn’t help, like, not in the absolute slightest, that the tutor in question had to be the fucking t.a.

                                                the. mother. fucking. t.a. 

that broody, whole world done me wrong fucker? she can’t stand him. though it’s not if he did anything to her—it’s just a matter of vibes. and as much as she’d like to deny being anything like dad, they are both explicitly against hanging out with complete downers. and—what else? oh, yeah, it’s the stench of menthols off him—exactly the same brand as dad’s. every inhale around him is like a painstaking reminder of that geriatric mental case she ditched in singapore. ugh.

even now, sitting here and thinking about, wednesday can feel her face darkening, picking incessantly at her lips. she stops at the taste of blood, eyes narrowing when she pulls back and sure enough—blood on her fingers. fucking great. and all this her supposed ‘tutor’ is where? smoking break number 2. ass.

she exhales slow, tongue laving over the open cut on her lower lip. there’s no need to lose her cool, supposedly. it wasn’t as if he left her in the dark, more a brisk and chilly fill out the practice quiz i’ll be back. but that was at over ten minutes ago and how fucking long does it take a man to smoke a cig??? wednesday scowls, eyes fixing stubbornly on the sheet once more, going over the answers in her head.

she’ll give it five more minutes, before she heads out to rip him a new one. five more min—her eyes flick up at the entrance just in time, scowl deepening at the sight of him. “yah.” yah? YAH? bite your goddamn tongue. you’re not in the states. “are you here to tutor me or what?” switches easily to english, finding it to be a loophole of sorts, evident with the way her words roll off the tongue, edged with indignation. 

“because i don’t know any damn tutor who takes two smoking breaks out of an hour session.”