Work Text:
A Strange Magic Rock Star AU drabble.
“Love is deleterious to the vocal cords at the best of times.” PG Wodehouse
It was at a party that she met him again.
The Bog King, lead singer of Broken Carapace.
It had been a year since Marianne last saw him, his thin, sharp frame curved into a predatory stance, huge hands clenched into fists and his face contorted in an almost inhuman sneer beneath his sharply angled eyebrows. To be fair, she couldn’t have looked much more friendly, seeing as she was standing there with her knuckles bleeding after she had punched him right in the jaw. But, to be completely fair, he had just been screaming obscenities at her little sister while looming over her, looking like he was about to wring her neck.
The crack of Marianne’s knuckles breaking on his jaw had cut off his tirade and for about fifteen seconds his face had gone utterly slack, relaxing for the first time that evening. He had stared at her, taking in her bare feet and fighting stance, the wild disarray of her hair and the makeup smeared across her face from crying. She knew exactly how she looked at that moment because the image had been all over the magazines for weeks afterwards, underneath headlines like “Pop Singer’s Sensational Meltdown!” and “Good Girl Gone Bad!”
He had stared at her, absolutely astounded for those fifteen seconds. Then his face hardened, thick, jagged eyebrows drawing down again, casting shadows to further emphasize the dark makeup around his eyes. Lips peeled back to reveal rows of disorderly teeth, several of them chipped so they were pointed and looked almost like fangs. A breath was inhaled, the prelude to further shouting, no doubt, as he twisted his head to one side until it gave a sharp crack.
Marianne had stared up at him, her rage equaling his for all that she was barely over five feet tall while he loomed somewhere above six and a half. She had just been plunged into the worst night of her life and an infuriated rock star barely even registered at that point compared to the betrayal of an unfaithful boyfriend. A fountain of repressed anger was welling up in her now, exploding in spurts and ready to go full on volcanic eruption if given the least opportunity. And it looked like this was the perfect opportunity, she thought, looking into blue eyes that blazed with a rage that no doubt matched the intensity of the flames in her own brown gaze. He looked every bit as mad as she felt and ready to fight it out then and there. The corner of Marianne’s mouth curled up, wry and painful. How strange it was that the one person to understand her anger was the one she was currently the most angry at.
Dawn plucked at Marianne’s elbow. “Leave Boggy alone, Marianne.”
“Bog!” The rock singer snapped, but the moment seemed to have snapped, too. He looked at Dawn and the tension in his face did not ease but altered from angry to anxious. Marianne felt a similar shift in her own attitude, seeing tears leaving sparkling trails down Dawn’s pale, frightened face. Even with her makeup smudged from crying Dawn still looked every bit the innocent teen pop singer she was marketed as. Marianne, meanwhile, knew she looked more demonic than angelic at the moment, a closer match for The Bog King than the younger half of the Fairwood Sisters.
The Bog King glanced away, the palm of one hand sliding over his jaw and around to the back of his neck, smearing a small trail of blood that had leaked from the corner of his mouth. Drops of blood fell from Marianne’s clenched fist in time to her pulse, and she became aware of the crowd pressing around them and the flash of cameras. Their handlers and entourages finally arrived, pulling them away from each other and the cameras, shoving shouting journalists out of the way. Before the crowd could sweep them away Marianne and Dawn cast a backwards glance at the rock singer.
He was standing, head and shoulders above everyone else, still looking at them. His jaw was working and he seemed to be working up the nerve to say something. Just before the crowd swallowed them up Marianne met his eyes and faintly heard a grunted, “Sorry.” And was left to wonder exactly what The Bog King was playing at.
Now they met again, having both apparently had the same idea to slip out of the party for a cigarette. Marianne had been playing the repentant prodigal daughter all evening and the stress of it was bringing her close to losing it and doing something drastic. Like screaming, or shoving someone’s head through the buffet table. She wasn’t supposed to be smoking, but of the possible array of bad habits she had sampled in her life smoking rated pretty low, and she figured her father would find it more acceptable than alcohol, or the recreational drugs circulating in the back rooms at the party.
Fighting her way out of the crowd that stank of perfume and warm bodies, she thought that if her father really cared about her sobriety—and not just the appearance of it—he wouldn’t drag her to these parties and the endless temptation they held. Powder, pill, or anything you fancied, available upon request, no questions asked. She knew too well how easy it was to lay your hands on the stuff at parties like this. Hadn’t Roland been glad to show her the ropes? Urge her to relax, have a little fun. And she had needed to relax. The stress of being a celebrity, maintaining an image, pleasing her father and being a good example for her little sister … it had been easy enough to justify a little private relaxation.
A year later, after her very public meltdown, she was out of rehab and ready for a fresh start. If there was such a thing when the magazines dragged up old stories to boost circulations, and what was a better eye-catcher than innocent teen pop star growing up and growing up bad? In the open air of the backyard Marianne gritted her teeth and hissed in a breath. One mistake and you were branded forever. How long before people stopped asking her what went wrong with Roland? Roland who had managed to keep his clean-cut image in spite of all the mud being thrown around. It was Marianne was labeled irrational, out of control, her disheveled image published everywhere while his pristine smile continued to grace the world with it’s precise bleached glow beneath his carefully styled golden curls.
A different face caught her eye and pulled her from her thoughts. This one was a far cry from the symmetrical good looks of her ex, instead sharp and aggressive, even at rest as The Bog King smoked a cigarette while he leaned his long form back against a tree. The heel of his hand rested on his chin, the cigarette sending up spirals of smoke from between his fingers. His eyes were closed and as Marianne watched he ran his free hand through his spiky black hair, sweeping the disordered black strands back from his face. He leaned his head back and took a long drag on the cigarette, releasing the smoke in a heavy sigh.
Marianne knew his face well, she had often seen its twisted smile leering down at her from billboards, or its dark rimmed eyes peering at her over the bridge of a guitar in an ad. The Bog King had a reputation as someone who reveled in his image as a bad boy rocker and everything about him certainly seemed to play up to that idea. But looking at him now, abstaining from the noisy revels within, his face more tired than anything else, she suddenly couldn’t remember ever hearing a thing about him actually doing anything particularly questionable. Rumors abounded, and there was his behavior at the red carpet event a year ago … but otherwise, nothing.
Suddenly, she wanted to see if his eyes were really as blue as they looked in the posters. She hadn’t had time to really notice when she was socking him in the jaw. But, more urgently, she needed a nicotine fix.
“Hey, gimme a cigarette.”
The Bog King’s eyes flew open and his face pulled tense as he stepped away from the tree.
Wow, Marianne thought, his eyes really were that blue. But maybe it was just the eyeliner. That perfectly applied eyeliner, making his eyes pop like that. She saw recognition hit him and his jaw tighten, his lips beginning to form an outraged, “You!” But his cigarette burned low in his hand, the glowing orange edge of it biting at his fingers so that he yelped in surprise and dropped it, waving his hand to get rid of the hot ash, displaying long black fingernails in the process.
“Yeah, me.” Marianne smirked at his undignified motions. Rubbing his burned fingers he frowned at her, face returning to the scowl that adorned albums and magazines across America. Did he know how his black brows framed his eyes and made his glare that much more intense? “Gotta cigarette? I lost my purse and nobody makes dressed with pockets anymore.”
She held out a hand.
He stepped back a pace, leaning away from the outstretched hand.
“I’m not going to punch you.” She tilted her head, “If you give me a cigarette.”
He gave her an exasperated look, but some of the wariness left him as he fished in the pocket of his signature leather jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He tossed it to her. She caught it an extracted one. “You got a–”
A lighter snapped open and the tiny flame danced in the rock star’s hand, holding it as far away from himself as possible while still having his hand actually attached to his body.
“Thanks.” Marianne said, pleased with his discomfort. She had worked a lot on her anger issues in the past year but she still hadn’t entirely forgiven him for shouting at Dawn. Not even his strange little apology had appeased her entirely. It had helped, though. He had looked so genuinely ashamed. And she had done such a lot of out of control things herself that she couldn’t help but wonder if he was fighting his own angry impulses and, like her, not always succeeding.
Still, he deserved to suffer a bit more, considering how hard Dawn had cried that night. So to light her cigarette Marianne bent over the offered lighter, taking his hand to guide it into a better position. She felt him flinch at her touch, but just looked up at him with an unapologetic smile. He huffed at this, taking his hand away and shutting the lighter with a snap, but she saw a distinct pink glow on his pale face. It heightened when she reached out again, but he relaxed when he realized she was just returning the carton of cigarettes.
Marianne stood back, resting most of her weight on one foot to relieve some of the ache from her heels. She held her elbow cupped in her hand, lipstick-stained cigarette between two fingers. The burn of the nicotine in her throat helped banish the lingering scent of perfume that clung to her from the party and she felt her ever-present knot of tension between her shoulders ease a little. That tension never went away, not since she had come home and her dad had launched a campaign to restore her image as a wholesome pop star, repentant of her transgressions. He had insisted that her dress be a innocent pastel, her makeup understated, and her hair simple and sweet. Which was why she had applied intense purple lipstick, amped up the eyeshadow and eyeliner, gelling her hair into artistic disarray, and putting on a pair of deadly black heels to counteract the dress. A chunky black belt and her father’s attempt at pure and innocent pop sensation was completely undermined. And she looked good, too.
The Bog King thought so, too, if the way he was surreptitiously staring at her was any indication. Or perhaps he was only astonished by her transformation. And, then again, maybe he was making sure she didn’t arrange her fingers into a fist and let one fly right into his nose.
“What is your name, anyway?” She asked him. She couldn’t remember it mentioned in any interviews. She couldn’t remember reading any interviews with him, actually. “I mean, your friends don’t call you The Bog King, do they?” She tapped her chest in imitation of the chest-thump that had accompanied his tirade to Dawn.
“The. Bog. King!” He had bellowed at her, fist slamming into his chest hard enough to leave bruises, “Not Boggy!” That had apparently been the point of irritation that sparked his outburst.
The rock singer shifted, his shoulders hitching up toward his ears, fingers playing with the lighter, flicking it open a shut. A familiar tension played around his jaw, just as he had before that ashamed little “Sorry”. This time no words came out and he just shook his head, running a hand through his hair and looking away.
“So, what is it? Bog?”
He nodded.
“Really?” She wrinkled up her face.
His sharp nose jabbed at her indignantly and his lips parted over his gritted teeth long enough to snarl out a, “Yes!” Marianne did not react except to look unimpressed. He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck and growling to himself.
“Your friends really call you—”
“BK!”
Marianne recognized the two newcomers that popped out of the house from Broken Carapace’s group shots. The tall, plump woman was a drummer and the skinny man with the lopsided smile trailing behind her was a guitarist. Their names escaped her at the moment. No doubt Dawn knew their first, last, and middle names too. “Need any help?” The guitarist called, far too bright and eager for a proper rock star, Marianne thought.
“Griselda sent us.” The woman said, her voice low and gravelly.
The Bog King, Bog, or BK, pinched the bridge of his nose. Marianne could hear his teeth grinding together and the sound itched up and down her spine like nails on a chalkboard and she wished he would stop.
“You’re not in the party,” The bright and eager one explained.
Bog held up his hands, lighter tucked under his thumb, and formed a T. Time out.
“We’ll come back around in ten minutes.” The drummer nodded, understanding some signal that Marianne did not.
“Hey,” Said the bright one, pointing at Marianne, “Isn’t she–?”
Bog stabbed a finger at the house. The drummer took the hint, grabbing the bright one and pulling him back the way they had come.
“BK?” Marianne asked, flicking away the end of her depleted cigarette.
Bog shrugged. She could still hear his teeth scraping back and forth.
She should go back in herself. But the thought of wading back into that sea of bodies and enduring the thump of music cranked up so loud it was mere noise was a daunting thought. The ball of tension between her shoulders seized up again, making her realize it had actually relaxed quite a bit during the interlude. Bog had gone back to leaning on the tree and she joined him, the prick of bark biting through the back of her dress and scraping her spine. He flinched again, moving his arms away from her, but when she didn’t move any closer he folded them across his chest and remained where he was.
“I don’t want to go back in.” She whined. “It’s loud and hot and everybody’s shouting. Why are parties supposed to be fun when you can’t hear yourself think?”
“Yeah.” The grinding of his teeth stopped to allow the one breathless word passage. She was almost sure he had an accent of some kind, but he wasn’t giving her much opportunity to work out what it might be.
“Rehab so so much quieter.” She grumbled.
She froze, the tension in her shoulders winding so tight she thought something would snap. No one knew she had been in rehab. No one actually knew about the drugs. The public meltdown had been played off as stress-induced—which was not entirely wrong but neither entirely true. Rumors of drugs and alcohol ran rampant, but that was standard. There was no actual evidence.
Until now.
Straight from the horse’s mouth.
She felt sick. There went all dad’s plans.
“What?” Bog unfolded his arms and turned a bit toward her, wondering no doubt about how white and strained she had suddenly gone.
“Nobody’s supposed to know I was in rehab.” She slid down the tree, dress snagging on the bark. “I’ll bet you’re just as pleased as anything, Mr. The Bog King. Finally see that irrational, delusional, ditzy pop singer completely ruined. Serves her right for punching you in in the scruffy jaw.”
“R-rehab?” The single word came after an eternity and there was a strange hesitance. Then he slid down to sit next to her. He handed her a cigarette and lit it for her, ignoring the way her hand was shaking. Then he held out a round piece of plastic with number stamped on it. She recognized what it was. She seized it like a lifeline.
“This is–?”
“Yeah.”
“You–?”
He nodded, lighting himself a cigarette and leaning his head back to look up at the tree branches hanging overhead.
Marianne turned the plastic chip around in her hand. It was a sobriety chip, that they passed out at support meetings to commemorate milestones of sobriety. She had her own, but her father wouldn’t let her carry it around. He had just handed her a nice juicy scandal to sell the tabloids.
“Aren’t you worried I’m going to say something?”
He rolled his head around to look at her, one eyebrow raised pointedly.
“If I rat you out then you’ll rat me out, is that it, BK?”
Bog spread out his hands in an expansive gesture, cigarette tucked between two fingers. “Mmm.” His jaw worked for a moment and the words spilled out, a little too quick, “Mmm. Mutually assured d-destruction.” He quickly took another drag off his cigarette, allowing himself to cover up his face.
Definitely an accent, Marianne thought. She raised her own cigarette to her lips with trembling fingers. “Thanks.” She said, flipping the plastic chip around in her fingers, “Confiding … confiding in people has turned out badly for me in the past.” She inhaled and set her shoulders straight again, “So I keep my guard up.” She made a fist and threatened Bog with it.
He was not threatened, so she jabbed at him. He caught her fist and shoved it away, holding up a scolding finger, a smile playing across his face. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck and getting cigarette ashes in his hair.
“I keep my guard up,” She said again, “And never trust anybody.”
Her last few words were echoed by Bog and they spoke them in unison, the chance making them both laugh a little. Yes, he was rolling his Rs, Marianne decided. Scottish? Why did magazine articles never say anything useful? Dawn probably knew, but Marianne had never paid much attention to her enthusiasm for bad boy rockers. Marianne traced her fingers on her hand, feeling where his fingers had touched, guitar callouses catching on her skin. She was leaning her head on the tree, tilting to look up into his eyes. His eyeliner really was perfect. How did he get it like that?
“Sorry I punched you.”
“Hm.” Black-tipped fingers checked his jaw, as if the bruise might still linger even after all these months. “I—I …” He swallowed and tried again, “Your … sister. S-sh–” He stopped again and attended to his cigarette, a muscle jumping along his jaw and cheek. On an exhale he managed, “Sorry.”
“She was really excited about being your date that night.”
Bog looked at her like she was crazy. When he was startled, she noticed, he sat up straight.
“Our dad doesn’t know, but Dawn is a huge fan of yours. She likes your “soulful” songs.” Bog’s face twisted up in distaste and Marianne laughed, “That’s what she calls them. She’s been disappointed you haven’t written anything softer in awhile.”
“Soulful.” He snorted.
“Totally soulful. Some of your earlier stuff, kind of sappy for a rock star.” The relief caused by the plastic token in her hand, the proof he wouldn’t out her, and the relief of actually talking to someone who understood, was making her a little giddy and it came out in teasing. She handed him back to the token and he stashed it back in his pocket.
“Soulful.” Bog snorted again and then started to sing, looking away from Marianne and vaguely up at the tree again. “Wise men say only fools rush in–”
“Do not.” Marianne said. She recognized the song from the first word. It had been her breakout hit, the song that had thrust her into stardom and cemented her image as the pure and delicate princess of pop. It had been a nice enough song to start with but the hype surrounding it and her inability to escape it, made her loath it.
Undeterred by her warnings Bog continued to sing, pitching his voice exaggeratedly high, “But I can’t help falling--”
“Not that song! It wasn’t my idea, I swear! They wanted covers of classic songs!”
“Oh, I can’t help falling–”
“Stop!” Marianne grabbed his collar and pulled back her fist in mock threat.
“–in love with you . . .” He trailed off when she yanked the collar of his leather jacket, because it brought them into eye contact, faces barely inches apart. Marianne saw the red glow spread across his cheeks, lighting up his ears, and she had a strong suspicious that her own face was coloring too. What right did this idiot have to have eyes that vividly blue? It should be illegal. The dopey, confused look on his face should be illegal. No rocker should look so … so cute.
She shoved him away and he allowed himself to be shoved without protest, his jacket hanging crookedly as he fell back against the tree, the amber pendant around his neck glittering as it settled back into place. Heels sinking into the soft ground, Marianne stood up, brushing at the back of her dress and hoping there wasn’t too much dirt staining the white fabric. She snatched a stick off the grass and struck a pose with it as if it were a microphone, shoulders rolled forward in imitation of Bog. In a deliberately soulful tone she began to sing:
“I was born to love you . . .”
“No!” Bog dropped his cigarette as he sprang to his feet.
Marianne extended a hand as she continued to sing, mimicking his movements in his music video, “With every single beat of my heart! Yes, I was born to take care of you! Every single day …”
“Please, stop!” Bog groaned, covering his ears.
Marianne had to stop, she was laughing too hard at his reaction. “Am I that bad? C'mon, I was just getting to the up bit with the guitars! Okay, don’t like that one? How about: I’m just another heart in need of rescue,” She dipped the microphone-stick as he used to do in his older shows and music videos. She broke character a moment to say, “And this is where the girls all screamed, right? Imagining they were the microphone?”
Bog’s eyes were squinted in pain and he was rubbing one knobbly finger back and forth across his upper lip as if he were trying to hold back the words that were no doubt demanding to be shouted at Marianne and her mockery. She just smiled.
“An’ I’m gonna hold on!” She clutched at the air as she emphasized ‘hold on”, “For the rest of my days, 'cause I know what it means—”
“As the river flows, surely to the sea,” Bog broke in with her old hit single again, “Darling, so it goes, some things–”
The stick smacked across his shoulder, he winced but laughed at her fury, retreating backwards, clasping his hands over his chest as he sang, “Sugarpie honeybunch!”
“That ones not even mine!” Marianne smacked at him with the stick and he danced backwards and out of range, “It’s Dawn’s! I never liked that song to begin with!”
“I just can’t help myself.” He put one hand on his chest and extended the other in a beseeching gesture. He snatched his hand back just before the stick whipped across his palm. Circling around her, hand extended again but out of reach, he continued the song, “I love you and nobody else, ooooh!” For a man who dedicated his life to growling songs at the top of his lungs he managed to pour a devastating amount of syrupy sweetness into that lingering note.
“Dawn would kill to hear this.” Marianne surrendered to giggling and dropped her stick. “She wouldadore doing a duet with you. A soulful duet.”
“What—what about you?”
“Me?”
“S-soulful or—or–” He rubbed his upper lip again, looking a bit lost, then assumed a stance she recognized from his performances, he stalked forward a few steps in an intimidating way. Which wasn’t hard for him to accomplish, considering his height. “'Cause I’m evil! My middle name is misery!” He sang a couple line for his latest album.
“Do I like …soulful or . . . angry? Those seem to be your two settings, no in-between.”
Bog snorted and dropped his posing.
“Angry.” He glanced up and she shrugged, embarrassed, “I know a lot about being angry. Your bitter singing appeals to me. Not that I’m a fan. Not like Dawn.”
A pause. “Really? A fan?”
“Really. She was so excited when our manages arranged the whole publicity stunt with you being her date for that show. She was gushing about it for a week. Then . . .”
Bog covered his face and groaned.
“Yeah, you totally ruined that. Then I flew in and trampled on the pieces.”
Bog smacked his hand against his forehead.
“What was your problem, anyway?”
There was a deep, sullen silence.
“Really, no explanation? Ugh! Would you stop grinding your teeth!”
He had hunched over again and was pacing up at down, jaw moving visibly as he did things to his teeth that would make a dentist cry. Marianne was agitated herself. The question was simple.
“It couldn’t have really just been because she was calling you ‘Boggy’.”
He stopped pacing, his back to her. The silence hung thick and heavy over him, like a storm threatening to break but never following through.
The clouds dissipated when an unexpected wind blew in, a new voice snapping:
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! He stammers!”
Bog made a strangled noise and whirled around to face the shimmering figure that appeared out of the gloom.
“That was taking forever.” The woman complained, “Griselda sent me to find you. Oh, don’t snarl at me, Bog, I’m doing you a favor. Best to just say it outright and then maybe it won’t turn out like it did with the last girl and we won’t be subjected to more brooding Elvis covers.”
Bog snarled, making a move forward, hand balling into a fist.
“It’s worse in public.” The lady went on, “And by the time he got your sister alone to tell her to stop with the cutesy nicknames he was in quite the temper. That whole mess would have been avoided if he just took a few deep breaths.”
“Plum!” Bog roared.
“You stammer?” Marianne said, a laugh escaping her at the strange assertions of the shimmering blue lady. Marianne recognized her, she was Aura Plum, publicist for The Bog King and Broken Carapace. A strangely ethereal creature to represent a hardcore rock band, but there she was, clad in a glittering blue dress.
The laugh died on Marianne’s lips when she saw Bog standing there, one hand fidgeting with desperate energy at the amber pendant hanging around his chest, the other clamped over his mouth.The anger toward Plum had drained away when she laughed. His face was splotched with red, but he wasn’t angry, he looked … he looked like he was in pain. Like Marianne felt when she realized how conditional Roland’s love was. Her father’s was.
Oh, no.
He thought she was laughing at him! She was laughing at the absurdity of the idea he stammered! She had heard him go off on Dawn—she had heard him sing. She hadn’t thought he actually—
“Bog, I didn’t mean–”
He flung out a hand to cut her off and went striding across the lawn toward the gate.
“Bog, don’t go that way!” Plum called, “That’s why I came out—oh! Why doesn’t anyone ever listento me?” She watched helplessly as Marianne took off after Bog, forcing her aching feet to run even as her heels sent pain stabbing through her arches.
She caught up with him at he gate, having had to really push it to catch up to his long stride, grabbing his arm and turning him half around, “Bog, let me explain, I didn’t mean it like that!”
He snatched his arm away, “L-leave me alone, p-princess!” The last word he spat out, chin tucked down and eyes half closed with the effort of saying it.
He shoved the little side gate open just as she grabbed for his arm again and in an instant both of them were blinded by the flashing of paparazzi cameras.
It was a perfectly composed image, framed by the gate, The Bog King scowling at the world in his typical dark manner, good girl gone bad Marianne Fairwood echoing his expression, her hair and clothing suspiciously disheveled. She was clinging to Bog’s arm, startled by the camera flashes.
“I tried to tell you!” Plum called from somewhere out of sight.
Bog and Marianne exchanged looks. This was exactly the sort of thing her father was trying so hard to prevent. In mere hours the internet would explode with sensational rumors of a relationship between rocker and pop star. Any hope Marianne had of restoring her pure princess reputation would be lost forever.
She realized, looking up at Bog, she really wouldn’t mind in the slightest. She would welcome the shattering of her sweet little girl image with open arms. As for the idea of a relationship between her and Bog …
She took hold of his collar and pulled him down. He was off-balance enough from shock to allow her to manhandle him, his hands hovering uncertainly in the air, hesitant to touch her even to push her away. This only intensified when she kissed him firmly on the lips, determined to show him that she really wanted to continue exploring whatever was happening between them, the stammer was inconsequential. She was ready to listen to what he had to say, no matter how long it took. He went rigid while the paparazzi went wild. Somewhere she could hear Plum squeaking—in approval or horror it couldn’t be said.
Bog’s hands gingerly touched her shoulders and she was half-prepared for him to shove her away. She wouldn’t have blamed him. It almost seemed like he was, but the position of his hands suddenly changed and he wrapped his arms around her, finally returning her kiss while he dipped her backwards, her head supported in the crook of his elbow. Marianne realized, even through the sweep of breathless dizziness that overcame her, the stubborn knot between her shoulders melting away entirely, that he was dipping her like he did his idiotic microphone and she was going to kill him for that later. From the way he was smiling into the kiss, though, she had a feeling he knew that.