#phryneff

For you, anything. 37: “...then I picked up your coffee by mistake.” - “All I want is an apology.”

"What the fuck, Bosco?"

Bosco's hand stilled on the mouse. Usually they'd find the combination of shrillness and a drawl intoxicating. Usually the anticipation of the voice's owner making her way into the office, throwing herself down on the cracked leather couch, and kicking her shoes off, would be nearly unbearable. Usually Jasmine was a joy.

But as she entered Bosco's office, heels clicking furiously on the tile, hair frizzed as if jolted by lightning, Bosco couldn't find the joy they'd once had.

They kept their gaze trained on the computer screen, closing and opening a browser tab to appear busy. Hopefully busy enough that Jasmine would feel ignored enough to turn around.

Jasmine dropped the coffee cup on Bosco's desk, letting the lid pop off.

"Thanks, I-" Bosco tried, their anxiety settling briefly.

Jasmine didn't want it to settle. "You took my coffee. This is your oat-milk mess."

"Oh, um..." Bosco stumbled, trying to focus on opening and closing that tab. Maybe writing an email would get Jasmine out of their office. Maybe getting her a new coffee?

"I-then I picked up your coffee by mistake," Bosco settled on. They opened a new email and started typing Daya's address into the recipient box, followed by the subject line: HELPPP

"Yeah." Jasmine was pointed. Her arms were crossed. Her gaze was hot. Bosco felt like it was the day Daya broke the air conditioner on purpose all over again, but without the implication that Bosco should fuck Jasmine on their desk.

"I can go get you a new one." Bosco typed in the body of the email again: Jasmine is in my office and I'm scared. Also a little turned on. I think she wants to kill me. "After I'm done working on this," Bosco drew out.

"You're not working, you're stalling," Jasmine shot back.

The room shifted. Bosco finally looked up, finding Jasmine's painted lips fixed in a pout. Her arms uncrossed, and she started pulling at her fingers.

Okay so I may have taken this in a different direction and made it a little more angsty, a little more hurt/comfort than expected, but I’m hoping we still like it! This takes place a bit after Jasmine didn’t reciprocate Bosco’s feelings (so somewhere in the 3rd chapter). Enjoy!

_____

“Is that my shirt?” 

Jasmine was exhausted. 

Exhausted from rehearsal, which raged ever-forward despite her aching muscles and over-occupied mind dropping choreography. 

Exhausted from her coworkers asking about Bosco, asking if they’d made any plans for the wedding, asking to see the ring again; Jasmine’s smiles and replies as glistening and fake as the ring itself. 

Exhausted from Bosco’s icy demeanor and steel-blade words, the way Jasmine could only hold their attention while perched in their lap, washing away disappointment with fading kisses, hoping they had ached for her touch as much as she ached for theirs. 

So when Jasmine was met by the stringent and sterile question—as though they’d lost all emotion for Jasmine; she’d rather them be angry—she could only manage to roll over, pressing her face into the back of the couch with a grunt. 

Bosco’s even footfalls became louder, closer, and all Jasmine could do was groan. She wasn’t interested in a fight today, especially a fight over a t-shirt. 

It was Bosco’s, of course. That was the reason she’d dug it out of the pile on their floor. It was worn and soft and smelled like them. And if Jasmine’s couldn’t have Bosco’s arms around her after a long day, since she’d fucked that up splendidly, Bosco’s shirt would have to do. 

“Is that my shirt?” Bosco’s hand splayed across her back. They said it carelessly, though Jasmine knew better. They wouldn’t ask if they didn’t have a reason. 

And damn it, she couldn’t train herself to stop leaning into their touch. So, she withdrew from the crease in the cushions, washed a hand over her face, and said “Yeah. And I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“That’s a first.” Bosco settled onto the couch, right beside Jasmine, all curled up, held togehter tight. “Must have had a really shitty day.” 

Jasmine expected their hand to go away once they sat down, but it only trailed down to rest on her arm. A cool and even weight. It could have been nice, Jasmine thought. Just like old times, when Jasmine would come home stressed and tired and aching and Bosco’s touch could pull it all from deep within her muscles and throw it up into the air. But this time, with Bosco’s touch so fickle, the mocking metal of Bosco’s ring—that Jasmine knew they hated, that they wore in case they ran into one of Jasmine’s friends while out and about—only added to the weight of her stress. 

“It must have been extra shitty,” Bosco tried again. “Because I already wore that shirt and I spilled, like, three drinks on it.” 

They laughed at their own expense, a habit they’ve always had, that Jasmine’s always loved. It’s like their laugh was the sun and Jasmine could do nothing besides bloom in its direction. Even now, knowing Bosco had this anger toward her at a constant simmer, knowing that Bosco resented this fake relationship and all its spoils, she still caught herself sitting up and turning toward Bosco, nodding as she exhaled. 

“There it is,” Bosco scrunched their fingers, grabbing at Jasmine’s arm. It was calm for a moment, so still that Jasmine could see the dust floating off of the bookcase by the light of the lamp. 

Until Bosco started again, “You know I still care, right.” 

It was aching and honeyed, the way Bosco said it, like they’re trying to soothe a wound they know Jasmine has, that she caused herself as collateral damage when she denied Bosco’s true feelings. The splitting wound of knowing not loving yet means losing care forever. And it made tears well up and spill silently. 

“I do still care about you, you know.” Their hand took hers now. Her fingers found their way to Bosco’s, intertwining, familiar. 

Their face is creased, like they’re thinking hard. It’s the same face they had when Jasmine asked them about the fake proposal, when they’d asked Jasmine to be together for real, when Jasmine asked them to stay; they were turning over something, letting the words percolate, knowing that once they gave a response, they’d never be able to pull it back. 

“I know,” Jasmine finally said. She hoped it’d urge Bosco forward. 

When they take a deep breath and free their hand from hers, resting on her hip instead, Jasmine knows it worked. 

“Makes me think of the first time you stole my shirt.” Bosco fingered at the hem. “It was the tan flannel and it hung off your shoulders. And when I asked ‘Is that my shirt?’ you said ‘You mean our shirt?’ like you were proud of coming up with that one.” 

Jasmine did remember. Jasmine hadn’t done laundry in weeks and by then it was too snowy and icy outside to even think of hauling herself and her clothes to the laundromat. So she grabbed Bosco’s flannel from off the back of the couch and tucked herself into it, let it make her warm. 

“That was just the first one you noticed.” Jasmine didn’t bother stopping her smile from cresting. “I used to steal the big gray one too.” 

Bosco nodded and smoothed down the shirt once more. They let their hand linger, let Jasmine’s words linger, before giving Jasmine’s hip one last pat and getting up. 

for blind date au

This one was such fun to write! I hope we're all in the mood for a little protectivesco because that's what we're getting! This is set during the blind dating, while Bosco's visiting Jasmine at her work.

I hope you enjoy! And I have more around this scene and concept if anyone wants to pop in and chat!

It was quiet in the diner until it wasn’t. 

At first, all that punctured the silence was Jasmine refilling coffee mugs for guests lining the counter, two construction workers who clinked their spoons around the mugs as they stirred in packets of sugar and little cup-fuls of creamer. 

And then it was only the din of the only full table in the diner. A group of teenagers in stage makeup and sweats piled into the corner booth, picking at a couple plates of fries and exchanging milkshakes for dipping, who reminisced about the play they’d just starred in earlier that night. 

And then it was only Jasmine, retying her striped apron before settling her elbows on the counter, hands holding the weight of her drooping head, fingers woven into that frazzled, pale gold braid of hers. She sighed, hot breath close enough to tickle Bosco’s neck, enough to snap them out of sketching an outline for the next advert they were shooting, before muttering, “Forty-five more minutes. And then I can go the fuck to bed.”

“You want me to entertain you until then?” Bosco quipped, their stylus tapping against the chrome rimmed counter. “I’ll try to do it, but I’m ready to sleep too.” 

This takes place post epilogue in Blind Date AU.

56. “Just marry me already.”

115. “you weren’t supposed to hear that!”

____

When the shower ran, Bosco called.

It was part of their routine, really. Jasmine would get home from dance, and in the instances when she wouldn’t strip off her sweatshirt and sports bra before crossing the bathroom threshold—her silent invitation for Bosco to join her, she’d spend at least twenty minutes in the shower, scrubbing away the grime and sweat of dance before making herself a snack.

And in those twenty minutes, Bosco had taken to calling Jasmine’s parents.

They left messages each time, figuring that they had grown sick of their calling, but nonetheless, they persisted. The messages they left were long, rambling like a river, thick with praises of Jasmine, heavy with pleas for their attendance at their wedding, and coarse with reminders that spiteing their only daughter after all these years was nothing more than another unnecessary hurt for everyone involved.

So when Jasmine only removed her scrunchie, flicking it at Bosco’s chest with a crisp laugh, shaking her head along with it as though she were shaking off the stress and strain dance had put on her body as well, Bosco tried her father once more.

“It’s me, Bosco…again.” They leaned against the back of the sofa. It was the same opening line following the same voicemail message. They settled the phone between their ear and shoulder, pulling their fingers back until they heard a crack.

“I’m sure you’re getting sick of me calling, but I’m again asking you to reconsider…” After at least sixty phone calls, all met with the same lack of response, it was hard to hold a considerate tone. “Your lack of response to the invite. It was due two months ago, and I know both of us—Jasmine really, but both of us would appreciate you coming.”

As if on cue, Bosco could hear Jasmine singing some old love song from the sixties, her voice muffled by the water, but still clearly off-key. They eased back onto the couch, letting themself fall over the edge and onto the seat, legs dangling, sinking into the music and the well-loved leather.

“I know you don’t like me. We’ve met before—I’m not sure if you remember—but I remember you not liking me—”

And as Jasmine tried to hit the high note, her words slurred but shrill but sweet, Bosco broke into a grin.

“I’m pausing a lot. Jasmine’s singing right now.” They scrubbed through their hair, tugging at the roots. “And it’s bad. You probably already know that. She told me all about how you’d come to her recitals and didn’t hold back, but it’d be okay because you’d all get ice cream afterward. How it was the reason why she got into dance in the first place, so she could perform at the recitals but not be embarrassed while singing.”

“She’s not embarrassed anymore though, clearly.” They trailed off with a chuckle. “She does this every day, and every day I’m home when she gets home, I just listen to her sing in the shower and it just makes me so happy. And I tell her that, even when she shoves me off, especially when she shoves me off for joining in. And I’m not really good either.” Another chuckle.

There’s a stillness, but Bosco assumes Jasmine’s just concentrating on shaving her legs, or that they’re at the end of a song. And they close their eyes and take it in.

“She stopped and I kind of miss it. I really love it when she does this. I love that I get to hear her every day.” They drag their hand through their hair before landing on a strand and twirling. “It’s dumb, but I just love her. And anyway, we want you to come. We want you to see that. You’ll see that even though it’s also dumb, she loves me too, and—”

A wet sob broke through the stillness.

Jasmine stood at the crest of the hallway, loosely grasping a towel, dripping on the hardwoods.

“Baby, no.” They could only manage a whisper, pulling themself up and approaching her. They folded her into their arms, her wet hair pressing into their shoulder. “You weren’t supposed to hear that. I —”

Bosco fisted her hair as she pressed deeper against them, arms locking around their waist, towel slipping a bit.

“I know I said his RSVP probably got lost in the mail. Your mom’s too, but…” They knew it was a lie, pretending that the response was simply lost rather than nonexistent. “I thought I could fix it for you.”

When Jasmine pulls herself off Bosco’s shoulder, they’re quick to wipe the tears away with their thumbs, to smooth her wet hair back and off her shoulders.

“I was gonna ask if you had a hair clip.” Jasmine’s voice was small, like if she’d grow any louder, she’d break.

Bosco kissed her cheek, tasting salt on their lips as they muttered against her, “I have a few of yours, yeah.”

It’s quiet for a moment. That same kind of still Bosco felt when Jasmine started singing. If Bosco looked closely enough, they could see Jasmine thinking, they could see the gears inside her turning, though rusted by her tears.

Bosco turned. “I’ll go get your clip now.”

But Jasmine caught their wrist before they could wander too far. “You’re telling him you like my singing. That you love me.”

She asks it like a statement, but Bosco knows it’s a question. She doesn’t know why Bosco’s doing this.

“I do love you. And your singing.” Bosco said, fitting their fingers between Jasmine’s, keeping her close. “Maybe if he saw that we loved each other he would change—”

“Just marry me already.”

Jasmine’s quick to cut them off, though there's a fresh set of tears streaking through. The towel became nothing more than an afterthought, hitting the hardwood with a wet smack as she drags her hand across her face, wiping the tears away.

Bosco tried to laugh, tried to dispel the tension. “I’m trying, I swear.”

But Jasmine met them with a faint laugh only, pulling their joined hands close to her chest.

“No, we should just do it.” Jasmine glanced up to meet Bosco’s gaze, and though it was hard to see her teary-eyed, they held tight. “I don’t care if they’re there or really anyone else is. We could do it tomorrow. Just go down to the courthouse and do it. Have something later with our friends and your family and…”

Jasmine’s breathless, closer now than before, her lips an inch away from Bosco’s with every breathy word. “I just want you now.”

Bosco thought about protesting, calling up the invitations they’d already sent, the venue they’d already booked, the dress Jasmine had already ordered, much less finding two people who were willing to wait around City Hall with them all morning. But as Jasmine closed the distance, lips slotting between theirs, hands intertwined, hair wet and lush and her body pressing ever closer…

1. "Why does it sound like you're saying goodbye?"

7. "It wasn't supposed to end this way."

21. "You can't just act like nothings wrong when it is!"

Would also love 19. "Would you have said yes?" from any jasco au cuz to me the more angst there is, the greater the fluff when they finally get together. Oh, and I'm just in love with your writing style, perfection really, hope you keep doing this 🥰

Anon, the way in which you've inspired me to tear up while crying and to share that experience with everyone else? It's absolutely magical. Also you're truly right that all the angst prompts are so so fake dating au.

So here's a little fic, set during chapter 3 of fake dating au. It uses 21. "You can't just act like nothing's wrong when it is" and 19 "Would you have said yes?"

Enjoy!

———

For the first time in months, Jasmine didn’t feel that unexplainable warmth settle into the pit of her stomach when Bosco wrapped their arm around her waist. Instead, she felt their nails dig crescents into her exposed side. Like a constrictor had a hold on her, was dangling her. Like she was swaying throughout the entire engagement party as the two were passed from friend to friend, congratulations to congratulations.  

But Jasmine couldn’t complain about Bosco’s stiff movements. It was enough to drag your fake fiancee along to an event where everyone thought you two were genuinely engaged. It was near criminal to make them keep playing along, as Bosco’s straight, stony stare ahead at their apartment wall betrayed, not even paying a glance at Jasmine as she emerged in that spaghetti strap dress—the same one not a month ago Bosco had torn from her and then so lovingly sewn back together the next morning. And it was practically a war crime to press kisses to their cold, flat lips, each icy with the reminder that Bosco wanted them to be real, that Jasmine had extinguished their wishes days ago. 

Jasmine was glad to be done with the event, throwing her keys into the bowl by the door and sinking into the couch. 

But Bosco lingered, meticulous as they shed their jacket, lined their heels up against the wall, twisted their hair up and out of their face. And when they finally joined Jasmine on the couch, they sat an ocean away, their side pressed against the arm of the couch, legs folded up underneath them. 

Jasmine had never seen them look so small. 

The air hung like a wet curtain on a breezeless day. Dank. Putrid. Thick. 

And Jasmine, as she usually would, cut it. 

“Thank you for, um…” Jasmine fiddled with the ring. The pale white stone. The dainty vines wrapping around it. “You know, still coming and, um—” 

Jasmine was faltering, but Bosco didn’t cut her off out of kindness. 

“I can’t keep doing this anymore.” 

There Bosco was again, staring straight ahead. They were cold, unflinching. Like there was nothing they could urge themself to do besides stare straight ahead at the potted plant next to the TV. 

All Jasmine could do in response was wring her hands out, again brushing against that cool metal. She was torturing herself and she knew it—with every brush against the ring, she was back in that cabin, her hand tender in Boscos, her name sweet on their lips. 

“We just have to get through one more and then find a way out.” 

Jasmine knew it was the wrong answer the moment Bosco wretched their gaze away from the wall, facing Jasmine. Their brow was pulled taut. Their hands graphing each other until their knuckles turned white. Their lips pressed thin. 

“You can’t just act like nothing’s wrong when it is.” Bosco closed their eyes and shook their head, disappointed as Jasmine kept fiddling. She couldn’t meet their gaze, so they didn’t offer any more. “Maybe you can. But I can’t.”  

“I know you want out, that’s what I’m trying to say.” Jasmine held her voice constant, wanting to hold Bosco as well. If only she could take them and pull them close, wind her pinky with theirs like they would when they wandered around the market each Sunday. “Maybe we should take a minute before we plan and, kind of…cool down.” 

“Jasmine.” Bosco was clenched. Her name had to fight through a forest of razors to come out, to hang between them from its noose. 

“Let’s just go to bed—“ 

“You cannot possibly still think that’s what I want.” They heaved a breath. And their girp on the couch cushion was firm, planting those came nail-crescents in the pillow that Jasmine still felt dug in her waist. “It’s like you don’t fucking—forget it.” 

Bosco’s up on in an instant, already slipping back into their jacket, jamming their feet into their sneakers. 

“I get it.” Jasmine tried not to bite it back, tried to keep herself composed, but found herself dragging her fingers through her hair, tugging, letting the frustration breathe. “You’re in love with me and I won’t say it back. You want me and I apparently don’t want you back enough.” 

“Abolutely fucking dense,” Bosco muttered to their phone, tapping frantically. 

“You want too much!” Jasmine steadies herself as she shoots up, still unsteady in her heels. “I said I wasn’t in love with you yet. I had feelings but I couldn’t call them ‘being in love.’ And if you could just wait for me, I could get there.” 

She’s closer now, having moved steadily toward a paralyzed Bosco. Frozen in their place, spinning frozen words. 

But for every ounce Bosco was icy, Jasmine was aflame. 

She jabbed a fingernail square into their exposed chest, right at a purpling, taunting hickey she didn’t even have the pleasure of forming. “You say you’ve waited years, you go on about how long you’ve loved me, how much you’ve loved me, and you don’t have the patience for me to catch up.” 

Bosco slid their phone back into their jacket before taking up their keys fignering through them. Jasmine knew they were ignoring the closeness, ignoring her hot breath gracing their lips, the searing of her fingertip. 

Jasmine feared Bosco was putting on their final act as fake-girlfriend: the death of the fake-girlfriend. 

“I shouldn’t have to wait.” 

The keys clanged with their grating metallic ring, as though measuring seconds, minutes, slipping away from Jasmine. 

“I’m not asking for a lot—” 

“I wasn’t done.” Bosco had always been swift, cold. But in this instance, they’d cut down to Jasmine’s bones in three words, rendering her silent. She withdrew her finger, letting her hands grip on her dress. 

“After everything I’ve done for you, with you. The relationship I thought we had with each other. I shouldn’t have to do any more for you to love me.” Bosco bit their cheek and sucked in air, as though through a cigarette. “And I shouldn’t have my hard-won feelings insulted as you parade me around to all your friends, acting as though the love I wish you had for me were actually real, while I have to both pretend it is and remind myself it will never be.” 

And as Bosco threw those last words, their jaw tight, the grip on their keys tighter, all Jasmine could muster was a nod. 

They stood in that thick air for a moment, maybe two. For Jasmine, the time began blurring together, each instant growing lost in the tangle of Bosco’s words. I shouldn’t have to do any more for you to love me. 

Bosco yanked the door open. With their hip propped against the door frame, bored expression returned to their face, they delivered their final blow. 

“You know when you asked me ‘If you knew you were going to fall in love with me, would you have said yes to being my fake-girlfriend?’” Bosco twirled their keys until Jasmine nodded toward her hands, now rubbing the velvet of her dress clean off. “And I said ‘I would. Because I always want more of you.’ Do you remember that? Were you listening then?” 

“Yes,” Jasmine replied wetly. She knew where Bosco was headed; the fat, hot tears now trailing from her cheek to her chin knew as well. 

“I’ve changed my mind.” 

Jasmine couldn’t help but let a sob break forth, couldn’t keep her hands from flying up to wipe the snot from her nose, let it trail across her cheek as well. “Please,” Jasmine said. It was all she had left. 

“I’m gonna go sleep at Daya’s.” 

(Basically the jasco teachers au 😂)

👄 sharing their first kiss

😬 confessing feelings

📆 office romance

“Are you trying to turn me on or are you really just that oblivious?”

The people wanted a little soft and a little horny and more after the sex ed prompt, and who am I but a woman of the people? This happens a few days after the sex ed prompt (and catch the slight angst I couldn't help but include.) Enjoy!

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

“Are you trying to turn me on, or are you really just that oblivious?”

Jasmine says it without a lick of vigor in her tone, the sultry notes Bosco discovered she was capable of clearly missing. And yet, they jolted at the sound of Jasmine behind them.

“Wait, what?” Bosco pulls their ear bud out and sets it down gently, pretending as though Jasmine hadn’t caught them off guard.

She points at the screen. “The whale documentary. You know, from the time we taught sex ed?” She rests her other hand on Bosco’s shoulder, the fabric of their starched button down suddenly not feeling thick enough. “It’s like you knew I was coming.”

Jasmine trails off into a giggle as she settles into the seat next to her, stirring a packet of sugar into her coffee.

“Ah, yes, I knew you were coming to the teachers lounge at our shared workplace and planned accordingly.” Bosco steals her mug and takes a sip, leaving a shocking red lipstick stain on the rim. “We’re moving into oceanic vocabulary, so I’ll be sure to keep my door closed during your prep-period, so you don’t get turned on my me saying préservation de l'environnement”

“I, uh…” Jasmine busies herself brushing her hair back into it’s claw clip, and Bosco knows just how much they’ve gotten to her, just how much the thought sticks with her. “It’s appreciated.”

Bosco takes their time studying her, the flush across her cheeks, how she pushes up the sleeves of her sweater, the clusters of rhinestones clicking together with her rapid movements. It all pulls them back to the fact that Jasmine had called them out for playing with her hair, for holding her head in their lap. The fact that Camden had pulled them aside the morning after and let loose that she’d accidentally, maybe, potentially said aloud to Jasmine that Bosco had a crush on her.

“Don’t you have any conferences?” Jasmine tries to retreat from the subject and push Bosco’s thoughts aside.

Just for a moment only. They shake their head and launch right back into “So how exactly did your idea of foreplay become, like holding hands and watching Planet Earth?” They rest their head on their palm, eyes bright, mischievous. Lying in wait for a reaction, a way of knowing whether Jasmine remembered what Camden had told her.

“Since when were you interested in my—” Jasmine throws back, before she’s cut off again.

“Do you have any more conferences tonight?” Bosco reaches out and fits a loose strand of hair behind Jasmine’s ear. And at Bosco’s touch, trailing down from her ear, across her jaw, Jasmine prickles. She runs cold.

And Bosco does the same, feeling the room shift beneath them.

Jasmine knows.

She swallows. “I just finished.”

“So you have nothing else to do?” Bosco presses their hand into Jasmine’s forearm, fixing their gaze on hers. Taking Jasmine’s blown-out expression for an answer, they continue. “Do you want to watch this with me?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath and Jasmine’s speechless, somehow speechless. She closes her eyes, like she’s unsure, like she’ll open them and not be met with Bosco sat across from her.

And then she responds, quiet. Quiet enough that it doesn’t fully break through the hum of the air conditioning, the minute hand on the wall clock ticking forward. “Are you actually flirting with me?”

Bosco knows the underlying question is “or are you just messing with me?” So. they bring their other hand up to clasp Jasmine’s.

“Yeah, actually I am.”

Jasmine’s fingers tangle with theirs, so they continue. “Look, I’m still trying to sort through the feelings I have for you, but…I know they’re there. For you. Whenever I’m with you. So if you want-”

With her touch, Jasmine leaves their words frozen on their lips, her hand atop Bosco’s face, thumb washing over their cheek. It’s gentle, Bosco thinks. They hadn’t expected gentle.

“I do want that,” Jasmine finally says, words lifting into a smile, eyes closed, cheeks high and bright.

And Bosco captures that smile. Jasminne’s lips are soft against their own, her grasp of their hand firm, pulling them ever closer, making Bosco press deeper. Their noses bump and Jasmine lets out a giggle, like pennies splashing when thrown into a well. And when Jasmine pulls away, she’s still got the trace of laughter and a red-tint to her lips.

“So how are you feeling now?” Jasmine trails down to cup their chin.

“Fucking....”

Jasmine jumps back, hands clasped, head turned.

A wince followed by a hiss to “shut up.”

After 15 billion years, I finally write! Here's some socialite AU jasco, right before the article comes out. This prompt is also inspired by the ask about Bosco with tattoos, as it's stayed on my mind all day. Enjoy!

10. “At least I kept my promises.”

“I saw something very interesting today.” 

The way Jasmine’s voice plumed from her lips, the words curling like smoke off a fresh cigarette, froze Bosco’s blood in its place. 

But there was no way it had gotten out yet, hadn’t it? Sure, their boss could be vindictive and cruel—there was no other way to make it in the world of tabloid reporting, as they had quickly found out. They’d only just refused to finish the original article; not an hour ago were they in his office, standing like a crumbling brick wall against hurling insults about journalistic integrity and dedication to the cause, as though anyone in the office had ever practiced such a thing. 

Bosco could do nothing more than hang their totebag on the hook by the door, next to the leather jacket Jasmine had co-opted. They could do nothing more than stare blankly, their motions done as though for the first time rather than the thousanth, their mind still in the office rather than in Jasmine’s penthouse. Home. 

*

“There’s nothing more I can do,” Bosco tried again after a firm swollow, fiddling with their keys. They stood, feet planted in the dense carpet. The bare walls of the office sanatorium sterile, contracting.  “I can’t finish it.” 

“What, did your fingers break?” They’d always considered themself quick, but their boss was quicker. 

“I just can’t—” 

“Your girlfriend stop giving it up?” He stood now, hands pressed flat against his desk, sending a pen rolling over the edge with the force of the movement. He continued with an honest-to-god sneer before baring his teeth. “Not letting you in on the family secrets? Can’t fuck her political ties out of her anymore? Or her family’s off-shore accounts?” 

Bosco’s shoulders tightened with each accusation, knowing damn well he’d have none of that information, have no leverage, if Bosco hasn’t already written it. And with the article nearly finished, the document already shared with him and their editor, there was little they could do to combat it. 

“I can’t start a smear campaign against my own girlfriend.” They were quiet now. It would be better to be firm, clear in their conviction, but the realization that they were about to grind Jasmine’s life to ash had rendered them meek and small. 

“You already have.”

He shrugged and settled back into his chair. To him, it was a shrugging matter, as though stating bland facts. 

“You promised this article to your editor. And your editor promised this article to me. And I promised this article to the publisher. And I can’t imagine a world in which this article doesn’t fly off of every end-cap in America; it doesn't draw in hundreds of thousands in advertisement revenue on the site.” 

The thought of millions of readers finding this story thrown at their doorstep, millions of readers grabbing a copy at CVS and throwing it in with their prescriptions and brow pencils—it was as though it had just fallen on Bosco, causing them to stagger in their place. 

“I just won’t do it.” In standing their ground, they fumbled, their voice coming across choppy, staggered. The intention of sternness was there, clouded by shame, marred by regret. There was no way they could come across strong when their strength had been won by throwing Jasmine in harm’s way.

And while Bosco had felt as though their heart had been torn out, arteries pulled along with it, the whole mess lying, beating on the floor, their boss only looked bored. 

“Whether you’d like it or not, you’re going to keep your promise.” 

* 

Bosco dragged themself over to the couch, falling beside Jasmine. Jasmine unfurled herself from her blanket, pulling Bosco in with her now freed arms. 

“What was it, princess?” Bosco said, a hopeless prayer caught in their throat. Not the article. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t let me in on this. I mean, I should have suspected. You’ve been acting odd, but…” Jasmine sucked at the back of her teeth, letting out a few little tsks. Bosco felt their stomach pull itself back, feeling hollow despite Jasmine fingering their waist. 

“I’m sorry, Jas, baby.” Each word soaked through with future tears, the thought of the article coming out wringing out their stomach like a rag. “You’ve got to know that I love—” 

“So, I’m scrolling through my feed, and I see an interesting post from the same artist who did my butterfly tattoo.” Jasmine cut them off, trailing a finger down Bosco’s waist, hooking it in a belt loop. 

Bosco recoiled, but this time out of confusion. “What does—” 

And again Jasmine cut them off. “And I see a very familiar drawing tattooed on a very familiar hip…” 

And with that admission, with Jasmine tugging their jeans down to reveal a splay of freshly bloomed lilies, shaded as though caught in the light of dawn, Bosco filled with air again.

Bosco watched as Jasmine’s hand graphed their hip, gentle enough on their still healing skin, eyes wide with fascination, as though she’s learning Bosco’s body for the first time over again. 

“I know we were going to go together in a couple months, but then a slot opened up a couple days ago and…” Bosco trails off, taken by Jasmine stroking her thumb over the plush petals. “I had to do it. I couldn’t keep my promise.” 

Jasmine pulls her hand from their hip and grasps their chin instead, forcing their gaze to settle on hers. 

Current Masterpost

*Note: Don’t know why I buried this in the tags of a post from 2021, but I’m unearthing it now: if you’re planning on sending any queens hate, death threats, abuse, etc., consider instead: grow up, wash your face, file your taxes, don’t be a dick. We’re all doing this to have fun, so let’s all stay in our lanes here on this hell site (and Not send fics to queens because on god I’ll publish only via snail mail if I see anyone telling anyone outside of tumblr about these aus) and have a good time!*

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