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therandomburrito · 2 years ago

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HOW TO MAKE FLUFFY PANCAKES

There were three glasses laid out in front of us, a bottle of our favorite beer in between. You sat across me, eyes busy glancing away and around me. Too bad you didn’t see me roll my eyes. I cursed our common friend under my breath. “That sneaky bastard,” I said, not too loud that people from the other table could hear me, but loud enough for you to notice and make it seem like I was referring to you.

After what seemed like hours, our eyes finally met and rested on each other’s faces. There is a face I loved seeing. Your deep set eyes, your hair that grew slowly into a curly mop, your cute cheeks. I felt the urge to pinch your face the way I used to before. “Before.” One of the many words that carry a different weight especially when you are involved. The memories seem like a world and a lifetime away.

“Well, I guess we’re stuck with each other now. Remind me again not to let our friend M rope me in on a free dinner deal,” I finally said, in the most matter-of-factly tone I could fake. I thought my casual approach to the situation somewhat hid the increasing increments of pain that started to resurface. I felt the ground slowly open up to swallow me whole, as if there was a slow upheaval of the earth and I am standing right in the middle of it, unable to move.

“It’s so annoying,” you said as you sighed so deep, the Marianas trench seemed like a shallow puddle in comparison.

“I could just walk out and leave this place and not even pay, you know. I could block this mutual friend who set this death trap up, go home, and play Fire Emblem to my heart’s content.” I thought to myself. I could just uproot myself from this situation and have you fend for yourself. And I know you have those thoughts too. But something kept me from leaving, like I was nailed to the spot. And I know you were too. We were somehow rooted to our seats. Perhaps it was the gravity of the words between us that were left unspoken.

“So I heard you’re quite the influencer now,” you said, your tone so dangerously close to blatantly mocking me. With a tinge of jealousy, I suspect?

“Well, I do have a channel with a steady growing amount of followers and sponsors, so...I got that going. Which is nice. And I heard you’re a manager now,” I replied in a casual tone.

“I oversee a few people remotely, yeah. How’d you know?”

“People tell me stuff about you. Unsolicited, mind you.”

You sneered. “Ever the Spider, you Lord Varys you.”

“What can I say? You can take Spymaster off of Westeros, but you can’t take Westeros out of the Spymaster.” And for the first time in almost 3 years, we laughed together. Cordial. Jovial. Carefree. It felt like a rush of fresh air in a stale room.

I dared to look at your eyes. And I saw you looking back at me. Against my base instincts to look away, I held my gaze, and surprisingly, you did too. My heart ached with pain I thought were long buried beneath the sleeping earth.

You said it before I could. “What went wrong between us?” I found myself pushing a lump on my throat I didn’t realize was there. The old me would have found a hundred creative ways to deflect the question, or retort with a scathingly sarcastic remark. But I was tired of hiding behind the cruel mask for so many years. You were a bull charging at me with your question, and decided to take you by the horns.

“Honestly, it was my fault. I never should have thought I could save you from yourself. I never should have assumed our bond would be a good motivation to get your act together. I...I never should have let you in…” I decided to leave the last words to myself. “I never should have let you in my heart and my life…” But you had that look on your face. Like you knew what the words I decided to leave unsaid were.

“You held our friendship hostage in hopes that I would be a better person, that’s what you did!” Your tone felt like a finger pointing at my chest with accusation. I took a deep breath. I had low expectations for this unforeseen reunion, but this was a new low, even for you.

“I see you still like playing the victim. Didn’t the directors inform you that you suck at that role? You’re being a one-trick pony, and that trick isn’t even that good.” I retorted. I tried to keep my voice calm, but I could barely conceal the venom dripping from every word.

“Fucking smartass.”

“Thank you, you fucking dumbass.” I replied.

And now we’re back to square one. To hating each other. We were cutting and scraping silverware against the plates, like we were in a contest on who could make the loudest noise.

“Look...I’m sorry. I really am. I guess it’s not fair to blame it all on you…” you said, breaking the cacophony of grating noises. There was something about the way you said those words. Quiet, almost hushed. And slow. Deliberate. Laborious, even. As if each word was physically plucked out of your throat.

“No shit, Sherlock. About time you realized that. Now say it out loud, will ya?” I almost kicked your shins, just to make you speak up. As to why, exactly, I really don’t know. Part of it was just to tease you, like the good old days. Part of it was just to satisfy that side of me that waited to hear this admission.

“I freaking hate you,” you said.

“And I hate you too. But you know what, I couldn’t count the nights when I stare at my phone screen, going over the message I wanted to send to you, but would ultimately delete at the last minute. I couldn’t count how many times I wanted to trade calm, boring nights for days where we just argued over pointless things for hours on end. I miss you. Immensely. Terribly. I miss how you were always there for me at the end each tiring day. I miss spending time with you, geeking out over whatever topic we can find, just you and me and our friends. I miss you so bad. But I realized that just because I miss you doesn’t mean I should welcome you back to my life. We’re toxic for each other, and I know you know that.” My voice was starting to escalate, shaking as it kept going higher. If people were staring at our table, I really didn’t care at that point. I tried to dig out the hatchet I buried, only to find out it was in my hand all along.

I saw your Adam's apple bobbing up, then down. I saw your eyes glisten as you looked down on your finished plate. “See, I’ve been trying to set aside my pride from time to time, and I see that you’re...being comfortable with being raw and vulnerable with me now,” you said.

“Around people, in general,” I corrected. “But yes, I’m starting to shift my perspective on being vulnerable. It’s quite cathartic, really. Just some tiny changes I did in my life since we parted.” I felt myself getting more calm, more grounded. I forgot just how you could put me on a rollercoaster of emotions just by pressing the right buttons.

“I guess our time apart made us better individuals,” you said, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips.

“It’s funny you say that, because I just saw this random video one day about how to make your pancakes fluffier, and no I don’t mean your ass.”

You mouthed “oh my gosh” as you slowly leaned back to your chair and rolled your eyes.

“Here comes one of your signature off-tangent topics…”

“Hey, admit it. Nobody does it like I do. Besides, it’s not really off-tangent. I have a point. You know I always do.”

A barely amused laugh from you. “Alright, then. So you were saying, fluffy pancakes..”

“So there was this segment from a morning show, right? And they invited this chef to demonstrate how to make fluffy pancakes. And so he said: ‘You separate the egg whites from the egg yolks into different bowls. You whisk the yolks until they are uniform in color and consistency, and then you whisk the whites until they are properly aerated and they form stiff peaks. It’s like in some relationships. Sometimes, you need to separate, spend some time apart to be better versions of each other, and when the time is right, you come together again to make something great.’ And I swear, even the hosts were like, in shock? Or in awe? I don’t know. They did not see that analogy coming. Neither did I, really.”

“All that drama for fluffy pancakes, huh. Wow. And were the aforementioned pancakes fluffy and jiggly as promised?” You shook your head in disbelief.

“I know, right? And yes, they were. And, he made a pretty good point too.” We laughed briefly. Then we sighed. Deeply. Again.

“So...do you honestly think we’ve become better versions of ourselves already?” you asked, and I found the honesty in your voice both heartbreaking and endearing.

“Of course we have. We’ve achieved a lot of things ever since we parted. I practically bared my soul to you earlier, and you apologized. You almost never say sorry before. We’ve grown, yes. I’ve forgiven you, yes. Even though you didn’t think you had to. But I did, so I could move on somehow. But forgiveness doesn’t require reconnection.” I said, pouring my heart out.

“We used to fight. We used to argue every fucking day. But no matter how hard we bicker, we always end up OK before the day ends, remember? Because at the end of the day, we cared about each other. We still chose to be with each other's company, and we’d rather be nowhere else,” you said.

“You talk of friendship and love with blurred lines. I always hated that about you,” I said with utter pain and bitterness and longing.

“But still. Can we...try...again?” I looked at you as you said those words. Your eyes looked hopeful but determined. There will be a clear answer before we leave the table.

I guess there’s no point in holding back my tears now. They just fell on my cheeks, happy to be free from their cage in my heart where I kept them for years.

“I thought you’d never ask me that…”

#pov literature stream of consciousness writtenword

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ellanainthetardis · 7 years ago

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“Let’s Wing It!” Fic Exchange (1st wave)

This is my first entry for the “Let’s Wing It” Fic Exchange. My prompter was @lux-i-fer and her prompt was the song Astoria by Marianas Trench (check the lyrics here). Her kinks were: deckerstar and wing scars. Her quicks were: dan/Lucifer.

I tried to follow the song as much as I could so I hope you like it! This one takes up right where season 1 left us and goes AU.

[FF] or [AO3]

Let The Melody Save Me

Lucifer realizes with a pang that he misses the stars as he stares at the cloudy sky that hangs over Los Angeles. They are never clear in the city. They are never as clear as they used to be eons ago either, masked by pollution and the lights from the neon beams on nearby clubs roofs or the endless caravan of cars in the streets below. He remembers lighting them one by one, flying amongst them, a sea of sparks and warmth. He remembers the wind in immaculate feathers and the simple joy in racing ahead of his siblings.

He remembers and, perhaps, it isn’t the stars he misses as much as the freedom of his wings.

He remembers and he cannot help but ask why in the safety of his mind even though he knows why. He pushed too far and, contrary to popular belief, his Father isn’t the forgiving kind. At least not when he is concerned.

Although tonight…

The cigarette is slowly burning itself between his fingers and he brings it to his lips in an afterthought. What was tonight? The question keeps twirling and turning in his head. It hasn’t stopped haunting him even as he laid the facts bare for Amenadiel. How much of it is his Father’s plans? Malcom was his brother’s mess but how much of that was planned? Detective Douche’s betrayal and unexpected righteousness… The spawn in danger… The Detective rushing to the rescue… His inevitable following in her footsteps… Dying for her. Going back to hell for her.

Was it all a ploy? He cannot help but wonder. Has Chloe been put on his path just for the purpose of him later dying for her? Just so he would beg for a deal and his Father would opportunely show him the empty cell and exchange his mother’s life against the Detective’s? Is it why the human has such strange powers over him? Was it the ultimate goal or is there more to come? And, if so, how long has it been in the work? That’s the problem with omniscient beings. It is always almost impossible to tell.

Easy deal in Lucifer’s opinion.

His Mother against the Detective… Not a hard bargain at all. A choice he would make time and time again in a heartbeat.

The sound of the elevator disturbs his silent reflection but he barely gives a cursory glance over his shoulder, certain it will be Maze crawling back home. Where else would she go? He is her home. Her very existence is wrapped around his. She was created for him, to serve him, guard him, protect him – annoy him, one might claim. And, yes, those were other times, times when that kind of relationship was a thing, times when he took some sort of pride in who he was, times when he delighted in punishing the guilty, times when he almost enjoyed the Lord of Hell title because he was so angry against his Father it felt good to evacuate some of that fury onto deserving preys… Those times are gone, though, and he isn’t sure what Maze is now. No longer the good soldier, no longer the lover, no longer the loyal second… He isn’t sure they are even friends anymore.

But if he knows one thing it’s that she will be back and thus he expects her to come out of the elevator, not… When he realizes who it really is, he drops his cigarette and crosses the penthouse in a flash, his dark eyes studying the Detective and the spawn wrapped in a thick blanket in her arms, searching for any sort of injury.

They might be safe from Malcom but his Mother is at large and he cannot think of a reason for the Detective and her child to be there unless…

The girl is sound asleep, face buried in her mother’s neck, her features relaxed and peaceful, perfectly secured in the Detective’s embrace. He wonders if he ever felt that way with his own mother and draws a blank. He cannot remember. He doesn’t think so. Too many children. Too much resentment clouding the happy moments.

The Detective looks unsettled but unhurt. Her hair is tied up in a messy ponytail and her eyes are a little red. He lifts his eyebrows at the pajamas she’s wearing under the leather jacket but doesn’t comment just yet.

“I had a nightmare.” she whispers – either not to wake the child or because she finds it difficult to admit as much, he isn’t sure. “You were dead. You were…”

“I’m fine, Detective.” he cuts her off softly. “I assure you.” She shakes her head and he can feel she is about to crash. She is frayed at the edges, has been for days. “How about we put your spawn to bed, yes? She can have the guest room. She is house trained, isn’t he? I just had it redone…”

The Detective doesn’t even crack a smile, no rebuke comes at all. She briefly tightens her arms around her daughter and then nods, handing her over. It occurs to him she wants him to take the child and he instinctively steps back only to relent when he notices the weariness on her face.

Unsurprisingly, he isn’t gifted at carrying small children and he feels awkward as he climbs the few steps to the bedrooms, leaving the Detective to make a beeline for the bar and the mess of broken glass. He is stunned when she doesn’t follow, stunned that she trusts him enough to take care of Trixie because he knows the girl is her world. It makes him strangely determined not to butcher the mission.

He places the child on the bed as quickly as he can and steps back, happy to be rid of the cumbersome weight. Then, he remembers the tears and the snot from earlier, the terror on the child’s face as she clung to her mother… It is all he can do not to let his eyes flash red. It is a good thing Malcom is in hell but it is regrettable he won’t be there to oversee the punishment.

Tiny socked feet are poking out from under the blanket the child is wrapped in and, before he can tell what he is doing, he makes sure they’re tucked back under it.

“Lucifer?” a small sleepy voice whispers. He detects the latent fear in it, the uncertainty.

“Sleep, child.” he answers – pleads, really, because he wouldn’t know how to deal with the spawn’s crying aside from tearing limb to limb whatever upsets her. “You have nothing to fear here. I’m watching.”

“Okay.” Trixie says and, just like that, she rolls to her other side and she is fast asleep once more. She is clutching something to her chest and he realizes belatedly that it’s a small tattered stuffed bunny. So innocent. It enrages him that someone tried to hurt her, used her to get to them.

Malcom is lucky that the throne of Hell sits empty, he thinks, he is really lucky.

He waits a few seconds to make sure the spawn is back asleep – because he somehow guesses the Detective will protest if he leaves her in any sort of distress – and, once certain the child is down for the count, he goes back to the living-room where Chloe has been helping herself to whatever she’s been able to salvage.

“I am having a strong case of déjà-vu.” he smirks. “Can we fast-forward to the part when you take off your clothes?”

“I’m not drunk, Lucifer.” she denies with an irritated huff. If the gaze she turns toward him is devoid of any vapor of liquor it is also strangely haunted. “You died.”

“So you said.” he dismisses, fishing an only partly broken glass and pouring himself one. “Do you often dream of me, I wonder? I hope they are usually more pleasant because…”

“No.” she cuts him off and she sounds in pain. “You died.”

He isn’t sure what she saw. Or thought she saw.

He isn’t sure what to answer. He dismissed it before, got out of the loop with a joke and a smirk, ignored the puddle of blood a few feet away from them but now… Now his Mother is at large, Maze is missing, Amenadiel is his usual jerk, Chloe almost died and he misses the stars. He doesn’t know how the last part ties to the others but there are nights when he feels the weight of his millenniums and tonight is one of them.

He wishes she has never come because it would have been easier.

He doesn’t protest when she hops off the stool and forces him to do the same. He doesn’t try to stop her when her fingers frantically run along the shirt, stop on the hole the bullet left…

“Detective.” he begs her. He doesn’t know what for. To stop there maybe. Not to look further.

He isn’t ready for her to snatch her child and run away. He isn’t ready for her to realize he has been telling the truth all along. He isn’t ready for…

She tugs on the shirt, untucks it from his pants and almost tears the buttons open and all he can do is stand there and let her do as she pleases because…

Fingertips brush against the unmarked skin of his stomach, stirring something in him. He reacts to her like he always does. There is nothing sexual in her touch. It is desperate, a little rough… And yet he twitches for her, attracted like he couldn’t remember ever be before.

A moth to a flame…

He is used to being the flame, not the bug.

Her thumb pokes and probs more firmly, hard enough to bruise with her so close, but he doesn’t deny her that either. It takes almost five minutes before she accepts there is no gaping hole, no injury, no explanations to the puddle of blood staining the hangar’s floor.

Her palm rests there, on his stomach, and there is a thousand innuendos he could make but his lips remain sealed. He sees it in the tension in her shoulders under the leather, he feels it in the quivering of her fingers, he hears it at her ragged breathing…

“I never lied to you.” he murmurs eventually. Because it all comes down to that, doesn’t it? He never lied to her. He never pretended to be someone he wasn’t – well… He never…

“It’s true.” she says flatly and, somehow, he doesn’t think she’s talking about the absence of lies. She looks up, then, and he can only lick his lips and avert his eyes. Hesitant fingers dance in the air, reaching out, stilling, and then cupping his cheek, forcing him to look back at her. “I need to know what happened back there. I need to know what…” Her breath catches in her throat. “You died.”

“I can’t die.” he denies and then makes a face, feeling obligated to amend. “Well, not entirely true. It seems I can die around you but my soul… My soul, my essence if you will, will simply go back to Hell so, really, it is a matter of semantics… What do you consider death? If…”

“You went to Hell.” she interrupts.

“It hasn’t gotten any more pleasant in my absence, let me tell you.” he sighs. Her fingers twitch on his cheek and he waits for her to withdraw, to confront him on the evil elephant dancing in the room they have yet to name… But she does neither so he hesitantly continues. “I talked to my Father. Sort of. We made a deal… I exchanged my services against a favor, so to speak.”

“Your life.” she says with enough confidence that he frowns a little.

“No.” he scoffs because it is preposterous. He would never have dealt with his father for something so trivial as his own life. It certainly isn’t worth submitting to the humiliating prospect of asking Him for help. “Yours.”

He isn’t ready for the kiss.

And he hates himself a little for giving in to it – although that also puzzles him, there are a lot of things he isn’t proud of and there aren’t on the same scale at all as giving in to this when he knows she might not be in her right mind, and really they’ve been over this before but it still confounds him and…

Her arm sneaks around his waist, her hand directs his head how she wants it and her lips are hard against his. When her tongue pokes at them, he can only open his mouth. There is no taming the fire within him, no telling what side of him she is calling out : Lucifer or Samael? Sometimes, he thinks she brings out the light in him but, at moments like this, his baser instincts take over and he doesn’t know who he wants to be for her. Lucifer doesn’t deserve her and is painfully aware of it but Samael has been gone for so long now and he was kind of a prat… And maybe, he thinks when she deepens the kiss, maybe he isn’t supposed to be one or the other, maybe he is supposed to be both and…

And this is madness.

And he would know.

He draws back when she tries to push his jacket off his shoulders. She frowns a little.

“Darling, I don’t think you’re thinking straight.” he says gently, with regret.

He wants this, wants it more than anything, and while he doesn’t entirely understand it, he knows it isn’t just about getting her in his bed. He had thousands of people in his bed. This is different. This is more. This needs to be done right.

“You died tonight.” the Detective retorts. “Because of me.”

He blinks, mystified. “Unless you were secretly Malcom in disguise and pulled that trigger, I do not think so.”

“You died because you followed me, because you wanted to help me.” she clarifies, shaking her head as if he is being obtuse on purpose. “You… you died for me.”

“I am fine, Detective.” he insists.

“It’s not the point!” she exclaims with some anger, letting go of his waist to punch his chest once.

It hurts more than he cares to admit and he pouts at her. “What’s the point, then?”

“The point is… What you did for me…” Her voice trails off as if she’s not quite sure how to express it. “I trust you. With my life. With Trixie’s. With everything I have. I trust you. And… And…” She seems frustrated by her own incapacity to word whatever inconvenient feelings she is experiencing and, in the end, she sighs and frames his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “Don’t you see?”

He searches her eyes, not quite sure what it is he is supposed to see until he finds it.

He remembers falling. He remembers the mind-numbing terror, the seething pain, the certainty that the crash would be terrible… And it is right there in her eyes. The fall.

It is only once he sees it that he realizes his second fall has come and gone without his noticing.

“What do you want?” he asks in a low voice, regretting now more than ever that his powers don’t work on her because then he could be sure. But the fact that she is immune to him is part of the charm, isn’t it? The fascinating mystery. The perfect riddle. The irresistible pull.

“You.” she whispers and there is no uncertainty at all.

He knows it’s not right. He knows because he feels it in the next kiss. This same nagging sensation that he should put a stop to it, insist on them having a real conversation, make it clear that the unsaid thing is clearly understood – the d word has yet to be pronounced and he’s not talking about the thing that is so obviously happy about the new developments.

He knows it’s not right because, even as the kiss grows messy and they start pulling at each other’s clothes, he barely has enough presence of mind to steer them to his bedroom and nudge the door shut just in case the little brat wakes up and comes looking for them and it shouldn’t be him who thinks of such details but her. He knows under normal circumstances she would never do that with him in his penthouse when her daughter is asleep in the next room.

He knows.

He knows but it feels good to drown in her. So, like a good little moth, he crashes into her flame and he lets her chase the memories away, let her make him forget about dying, about Hell, about his Mother lurking out there, about how terrified he is about that…

He has never been good at resisting temptation. He doesn’t believe in resisting temptation.

And Chloe might be the biggest temptation he has ever faced.

It is only after, once they’re both lying between his tangled creased silk sheets, him on his stomach staring at the window and her on her back staring at the ceiling, that he feels the sickening bout of fear again. Because if he loses her over this…

It isn’t how it was supposed to happen.

He is sure of it.

Somewhere somehow, something went off course.

And he can pretend he doesn’t see it, he can pretend he doesn’t know, but lying to himself is getting harder and harder nowadays… So a part of him waits for her to stand up and flee, to toss the M word – mistake or monster or possibly both – grab her child and run so far he will never find her again. He waits for the familiar pain of rejection, waits for the moment he will wander around the empty penthouse and pretend he doesn’t care, waits for the moment he will pour himself a glass, light a cigarette and sit at his piano, he waits for…

She shifts behind him and he knows she just reached a decision. He closes his eyes and he waits and…

She drapes herself over him. He feels her breasts against his side, her head on his shoulder blade, her leg slowly hooks over his ass…

Her fingers are hesitant when they dance on the edge of one of the scars on his back. She doesn’t touch but she is itching too, he can tell. He doesn’t know if he wants her to or not. He doesn’t know anything anymore. He is lost and confused and not sure how he is supposed to act. This isn’t a one-night-stand and he doesn’t know the script, doesn’t know what he is supposed to say or do. She didn’t flee but there is still something odd between them where there used to be ease.

“Did it hurt?” she asks softly.

“When I fell from heaven?” he snorts because this is such a pitiful line humans use and the opportunity is too good to pass. And also, perhaps, because he doesn’t want to talk about it.

He wants to tell her but he doesn’t want to at the same time. Humanity has been judging him since its dawn, blaming him for every little thing going wrong, and he cannot take the same from her. He isn’t the monster they believe him to be but he isn’t quite as innocent as he likes to claim. His has been a long life. There were periods of shadows. Dark times when he reveled in people’s suffering just because his own was unbearable. He isn’t ready to share everything yet. It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t want it to matter. Not here. Not now. The Silver City and Hell are far. The two of them are caught in between. A breath suspended in the air. And for now he wants it to be enough.

“Can we do this?” she whispers against his skin, pressing a long kiss at the base of his nape. “Do you want to?”

“Anything you want, darling.” he purrs, rolling over and trapping her under him, ready to go another round – ten other rounds if that’s what she wants. That’s something he knows how to do. That’s something he excels at. She flips them other with a small laugh and he steadies her with his hands on her hips, eyes sparkling in delight. “What a beautiful view…” She shakes her head at him, her hair briefly veiling her face, the ponytail having long succumbed to his fingers. He brushes the strands back, letting his knuckles trail down her cheek with a tenderness that surprises even himself. “What do you want me to do, Chloe? Anything I can give. And you will find that stretches quite far, pun fully intended.”

Her amusement makes him feel better about the whole thing. She won’t flee. And he won’t lose her. Whatever doubt is nagging at the back of his mind, he locks it away.

“Us.” she says firmly. “This. I don’t share, Lucifer. I know monogamy isn’t your thing but…”

“Yes.” he vows without thinking twice about it. He cannot claim to have ever understood what the big deal about exclusivity or cheating is. So many things to experience, so many different people to play with… He never felt the pull to commit to one person before.

But Chloe Decker…

Chloe Decker is entirely different.

“Okay.” she smiles and it’s bright and carefree and he props himself on his elbow to kiss her just because he can.

°O°O°O°

Lucifer pretends he understands the rules of a relationship. They pretend the normal rules apply to him. At no point is the devil issue addressed and he pretends that doesn’t bother him.

He can’t say he’s really happy when Dan comes back into their lives, even if he cannot help but feel some grudging respect for the douche. He is jealous, insecure about their brand new relationship, terrified she will turn away from him and run back to her ex, unsure about how to behave.

All those rules that seem obvious to the Detective, they aren’t to him.

He doesn’t understand why he isn’t allowed to kiss her at the precinct but is allowed to grope her and push her against a pillar at the Lux. He doesn’t understand why she claims he doesn’t have to be involved in the day to day life of her child but seems so disappointed when he refuses to drive the spawn to school when she’s late for work. He doesn’t understand why he isn’t allowed to spend the whole night at her place or why she simply can’t bring the child to the penthouse and settle her in the guest room instead of one of them having to sneak out of bed to work around babysitters or schedules.

There are a thousand rules he doesn’t understand.

He tries to drag her to Linda’s office once, so the doctor can talk some sense into her, but it isn’t exactly successful. They somehow end up discussing underlying issues, the unacknowledged devil thing comes up and Chloe’s “I’m fine with it” claim somehow rings wrong. The doctor, who still refuses to actually believe in his story, doesn’t seem any more convinced than he is.

He probes later on, once they’re in bed and sated because that’s when it’s the easiest to really talk, but he’s careful and a little nervous about it and he soon gives up on the subject altogether. He decides it doesn’t really matter. She knows. She seems to have accepted it without going insane – not always a given. And the thing is, as confusing as it is, he likes the exclusive relationship. He would have declared this sort of life boring before trying it out with her.

“I don’t love Dan anymore.” she tells him, almost out of the blue, as they share a coffee on their way back to the precinct. “It’s over. As cute as you are when you’re jealous, you really shouldn’t be.”

He huffs and puffs at the ridiculous notion of the devil being jealous but there is a new relieved spring to his steps.

Mazes comes back but her sudden claim for independence leaves him unsettled.

A little like hopelessly looking all over the city with Amenadiel for their mother.

When he finally tells Chloe about that, she’s not happy at all. She wants to know why he hasn’t told her before and explains about how they are supposed to be a couple and should share their problems. They end up kissing and make up easily.

There are a few tentative questions about his mother but he shuts that line of interrogation quickly.

“She’s dangerous.” he warns her. “And I don’t want her anywhere near you.”

It’s the closest they’ve ever come to actually directly talk about who he is, about who his parents are, but there is a murder to solve, a runaway goddess to find and no time to waste in talking.

When his Mother finally shows up on his doorstep in the body of Charlotte Richards, the decision to keep her as far away from Chloe as possible is one taken in the blink of an eye. Even as he agrees not to send her back, his resolution on that front never falters.

He wants to believe what Charlotte is saying, what she is offering… He wants to believe her so badly, to be the good son once more, the favorite… But he doesn’t trust her. It comes down to that. His parents are both master manipulators and he cannot, won’t trust them.

He doesn’t understand the discrepancy between the way his parents treat their children and the way humans deal with theirs. Every time he watches the Detective with Trixie – either of the Detectives, really – he feels an odd lump in his throat because this is how it should be.

And, if he still stiffens when the child hugs him at random, he tries not to be too harsh when he dismisses her. She is too much like her mother in a lot of ways, he cannot help but somehow soften around her.

“You would never let Detective Douche kick her out the door without doing anything to help her.” he observes quietly, one day, as they’re fixing lunch while Dan is helping Trixie get ready for whatever outing he’s taking the girl to. Camping or something alike. Lucifer doesn’t quite care beyond the fact it means he can have Chloe to himself all week-end.

“No mother would do that.” she frowns, adding a pinch of salt before turning to him. Her face falls when she realizes. He looks away, not liking the pity in her eyes. Still, he doesn’t push her away when she wraps her arms around him and props her chin on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“It really isn’t your fault if I have the worst mother.” he snorts.

“You’re a much better person than your mother or your father ever was.” she declares firmly.

“Clearly.” he huffs.

An amused smile plays on her lips but she remains mostly serious. “What would you do if I kicked Trixie out?”

He frowns, really not following that line of thoughts. “Didn’t we just establish you would never?”

“Humor me.” she grins. She looks so sure of herself…

He shrugs. “I could hardly leave the spawn to the streets, now, could I? Even if she’s named after an exotic dancer…”

He’s not quite certain what he did to deserve the deep kiss he receives but he doesn’t press further. The conversation makes him a little uncomfortable.

For a while, he thinks he can balance everything. Chloe, Charlotte, Amenadiel, Maze and the police work… It is a precarious thing but he makes it work. And he is strangely proud of himself, beams when Linda tells him he is doing well considering his past experiences…

So, of course, it’s the moment Uriel chooses to show up.

Because the devil cannot have good things, that’s a fact.

He’s terrified for Chloe. The whole time, he is terrified for Chloe. He sees how Charlotte believes he is more worried about her than about his pet detective. He sees and he doesn’t dispute it but he knows he will push his mother in Uriel’s arms in a heartbeat if it comes down to that.

However, he doesn’t quite want to hand her back either.

And so he dances on a thin line, aware that Amenadiel and Maze have a point but unwilling to admit it.

He understands Trixie and her sudden need for her mother to read her a story. If he could, he would have lied with both of them and listened to Chloe’s voice all night just because… Because waking up in a world where her voice is a memory isn’t a possibility he wants to entertain. He cannot lose her.

So he goes to Uriel.

And when his brother threatens her, he loses it. The wrath comes from within, a wrath he’s been feeling since the dawn of time, a wrath like no other, a wrath that’s been the source of his powers for a very long time, the wrath of the favorite son, the wrath of the morning star…

When Uriel dies, a part of himself dies with him.

He goes back to the penthouse, goes back to his mother and can barely put a foot in front of the other.

He drinks himself to oblivion – or at least tries to. He doesn’t know how many days he spends locked at Lux. He ignores the calls, the voicemails and the texts. It’s a few days before he shows up to a crime scene, still wasted and has to deal with Chloe’s disappointed face and hurt eyes.

She doesn’t ask if there were other people during his few days of hard partying, as she calls it, but he knows she wants to and it makes it worse. Not really because it tends to show she doesn’t entirely trust him but mainly because it’s the most serious problem she can think of.

She realizes quickly that there’s something else though and she presses and presses and pushes and prompts until he feels his head is about to explode.

So he does eventually explode.

Once the investigation is closed and he failed to get himself shot, once they’re back at her house, blissfully spawn free for the evening, once she starts asking him again…

It all comes out in a torrent of angry words. Uriel, the threat on her life, his mother, his father, how unfair they’re all being to him, how unfair she is being to him… How much he deserves to be punished for what he did.

He gets angrier than he means to. He’s hurting and sad and he feels guilty. The wrath is there too, bubbling right under the surface, almost impossible to contain now that he has let it out to play…

He doesn’t realize what he’s done until he’s in full devil mode, eyes burning red, human mask gone…

Chloe stands there and stares, her mouth open in a silent scream… Her hand has fallen to her gun at some point and he can only stare back and pant and wonder…

The way she’s looking at him is like a punch in the guts and he makes an effort to calm down, to at least get his appearance under control. When he’s sure the fires of hell aren’t blazing in his eyes anymore, he takes a step forward.

She takes three back and he’s sure she would have gone further if there hadn’t been a wall behind her.

He stops.

He laughs.

It’s bitter and broken. He understands, naturally. That’s why it all felt a bit off. She’s never said it. She’s never said he’s the devil. And maybe she knew but maybe she’s been playing pretend, fooling herself into thinking he’s a normal man.

Maybe they’ve both been playing pretend.

“I shall go, then.” he says and he hopes she will stop him.

She doesn’t.

He had his heart broken enough times to know what it feels like but it hurts afresh every time.

Falling isn’t the hard part, after all.

It’s the inevitable crash that’s the real kicker.

°O°O°O°

He doesn’t hear from her for weeks.

He knows what’s going on in her life because Linda comes to Lux now and then, hoping to lure him back into therapy – something he has altogether given up. She and the Detective have struck a friendship apparently, which has extended to Maze, and that’s how he knows Chloe and his demon have taken to sharing a flat.

That’s the worst idea he’s ever heard but between a glass of scotch and a tumbler of whiskey he manages not to really care. Or to pretend not to, at least.

It’s the Douche who tells him they’ve finally gotten divorced. Dan comes to the club late one night for a drink, full of questions about Lucifer’s sudden disappearance that he cannot answer without making another human go mad. He asks after Trixie without really knowing why. He misses the girl a little. That’s what the devil came down to: missing a little human monster.

There are crumbs like that, left by friends. Linda, Maze, Dan, Ella… They all come to Lux, apparently somehow missing his company, and they let out information about Chloe. Crumbs. He’s desperate for them.

He pretends not to care.

He drowns in booze, women and men… He acts as though this little foray in humanity hasn’t happened at all. He acts just like he had before he met her. He tries to lure Maze back, tries to convince her it could be like it’s always been, but she simply shakes her head and mutters something about self-destruction.

He’s so busy pretending to have gotten over it, over Chloe… It hurts more than he’s willing to admit when the Detective calls Maze instead of him the day they find themselves with a murder that’s a little too strange for the LAPD.

Maze brings him on board quickly enough, after all Uriel’s blade is nothing to trifle with, but it hurts that Chloe didn’t call him.

He imposes himself in the investigation, tries to show her that they can still work together at least, tries to salvage that part of his life… She flinches every time he comes too close and there’s only so much of that he can take.

At the end of the case, once he’s made sure the flaming sword is safely hidden and his mother understands how angry he would be if she pulls something like that again, he slumps behind his piano and drums on a few keys without any passion.

Singing doesn’t comfort him.

Playing doesn’t comfort him.

Drinking doesn’t comfort him.

Sex with random humans doesn’t comfort him.

He’s dying.

There’s a hole in his chest, his heart is missing, and it feels like dying.

°O°O°O°

He doesn’t want to go back to Heaven and his mother’s schemes are getting tiring. She doesn’t understand why he refuses, naturally. She doesn’t see.

It doesn’t make any difference.

Hell or the Silver City… At least in Los Angeles he has the Lux. It’s the only thing he has left and they will have to pry it away from his cold dead hands.

Obviously, that’s when the owner dies and the son wants to sell it, sell his home like it doesn’t matter at all. He finds himself on Chloe’s path once more. She doesn’t flinch away from him anymore but she doesn’t go out of her way to touch him or be overly friendly either.

He misses her kisses, the softness of her skin. He misses everything.

She doesn’t look like she’s missing him.

Maybe that’s why he’s so surprised when she sits down next to him at the piano in the deserted club and tells him she saved the Lux.

“You saved my home.” he breathes out, marveling at her proximity because it’s been so long, so long…

“I know how much it means to you.” she says simply. Her fingers wander on the keys and he can only watch her as she so obviously gathers her courage. “I’m sorry, Lucifer.”

That’s not something he hears often.

“Shouldn’t I be the one to apologize?” he hesitates. It’s one of those rules he never understood, isn’t it? He’s usually the one who does wrong when it comes to their relationship and…

“No.” She shakes her head, sounding sad. “I told you I was alright with… Who you are.”

“The devil.” he states plainly because it’s been left unsaid for long enough.

“The devil.” she repeats and he doesn’t miss the shiver. “I told you I was alright with that when we got together but… I don’t think I really…” She stops and sighs. “It wasn’t fair of me. I should have make sure I really understood. When I saw your real face…”

“You got scared.” he supplies. “You shouldn’t feel bad about that, Detective, it happens to the best of you. What matters is… You are here.”

He doesn’t keep the hope in his voice in check. He can’t. It seems he never learns.

She smiles but it is a little forced. “You should come back to the precinct. I need a partner.”

His own smile is short-lived, a little pained. “Only to the precinct?”

She doesn’t pretend not to understand and he doesn’t know if he’s glad for that or not. They’ve been dealing in pretences for so long it seems odd to stop now.

“I don’t know.” she admits.

It’s not a no but it’s not a yes either.

They’re still not fixed when she leaves.

And maybe it explains why he kisses Maze the next day when she comes with news of his mother trying to blow up Chloe’s car and of his brother covering for her. Maybe that’s why they fall on old patterns, familiar ones, comfortable ones. Maybe that’s why they hurt each other while rolling in bed. Maybe that’s why he comes with Chloe’s name on his lips and she sobs Amenadiel’s name in his neck.

Sex with Maze has always been good but right now it feels cheap, wrong. It’s a mistake and they both know it. He doesn’t really understand why. He doesn’t understand what has changed, why he can’t enjoy a good lay like he used to, why everything brings him back to Chloe.

It hurts not to understand.

“We’re broken.” he tells her very seriously once they’re lying on their backs and staring at the ceiling, sharing a cigarette. They must be. They’ve been lovers for millenniums and it has never felt so… empty.

“No, we’re not.” she shrugs. “You love her.”

He wants to protest, to huff and deny… It scares him deeply that she might be right.

“Do you love him?” he asks instead. Because that’s something else he doesn’t understand. Lust, yes. She’s a demon, lust is part of the package. But love? And if a fallen angel in love with a human is a little ridiculously cliché, a demon in love with an angel is maybe even worse.

She takes her time answering that, blowing out the smoke of the cigarette until it forms a vaporous cloud over their heads. “I don’t know.”

It’s confusing how much people don’t know when it comes to feelings.

°O°O°O°

Charlotte tries to turn Chloe against him, to prove him the Detective cannot be trusted, that he would be better off running home to the clouds with her and Amenadiel…

He wants to be surprised when Chloe stands by him but he is not, not really. Awed, yes. Humbled, too. But surprised?

She shows up at the penthouse just as he’s about to leave for her brand new apartment with her favorite burgers and fries. He has the vague idea he can try to salvage… something, that maybe it wasn’t what Charlotte intended but something good can come out of it anyway. His mother wanted to show him where home is and he thinks she was successful in that.

Because home equals with Chloe.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have rushed into this.” the Detective says quietly after taking a sip of her red wine.

They’re sitting on the balcony and their hands are entwined and he doesn’t quite know what it means but he doesn’t want to ask either in fear she will bolt.

“Wrong timing.” he agrees.

“Maybe… Maybe we could try again.” she suggests and his heart soars before it crashes down quickly, like a fledgling trying out their wings for the first time.

“I’m still the devil, Chloe. Nothing changed.” he tells her quietly.

“I changed.” she argues, squeezing his hand. “Before it was… I needed time to… accept it.”

“To accept me.” he clarifies with self-loathing.

“No.” she protests. “To accept… I’ve never really been religious, you know. It’s a lot to take in. And… Yes, maybe I got scared because it’s so much bigger than me…” He opens his mouth to make a clever remark, his lips stretching into an amused grin, but she rolls her eyes. “Don’t even dare make a pun.” He cannot help but smile. For real this time. He feels his whole face soften faced with her fire. It’s a different fire than the one he bears within his core, it doesn’t burn like hell, it flares like life. She shrugs, her gaze softening too. “I treated you like a normal guy and I didn’t want to get involved in all the… divine business and I guess… I guess that wasn’t fair. So… I’m here now. For the whole thing. If you want me.”

“Chloe, I always want you.” he declares before he can stop himself.

She smiles and he swears that smile would be enough to light up the whole sky. He leans in, she leans in and, naturally, that’s the moment the elevator pings and a stewardess walks in.

He sends her packing but the mood isn’t right anymore and this time he knows better than to rush it.

°O°O°O°

Learning that Amenadiel blessed Chloe’s mother, that his Father put her on his path on purpose, is a hard blow. The fact that the information comes from his mother whose motives he knows to be less than selfless is perhaps even worse.

Of course, then he goes straight to the Detective to find her poisoned and he stops caring about all those manipulations. What he feels for her is real. No matter who decided to put her there, no matter if she was created to… To what? What has Chloe ever done aside from convincing him to stick far away from Hell? She makes him vulnerable but that isn’t such a bad thing in his book. That’s how he learned to value life. That’s how he learned…

Going to hell for her is an easy decision, one he doesn’t even have to think hard or long about.

He presses a kiss to her forehead and promises to come back before he leaves for the room right below hers.

He does come back, thanks in part to his mother’s timely intervention. It doesn’t mean he forgives her, not really, but she helped save Chloe and that has to count for something.

He’s not next to her when the Detective wakes up, he leaves the room to Trixie, the Douche and her mother, not quite sure where he fits now. He’s not quite sure what he should do either. The knowledge of her origins disturbs him. Free will is a precarious little thing.

A part of him wants to run and never look back or, perhaps, to only look back once he has a real plan of attack. He needs to get rid of his mother. And if he can get back at his father in the process, he’s all for that. That would be the clever thing to do. Leave Chloe, for her own good.

But the moment he finally gets over himself and enters the now empty room to sit next to her… The first thing she does when she opens her eyes and sees him there is smile. And the idea of never seeing that smile again hurts too much for him to bear.

You love her, Maze claimed with so much certainty it troubled him. Now he sits there and he thinks love is such a small word for what he feels.

“Did you really go to hell for me?” she asks, sounding tired and a little too weak for his tastes. It will take a few days to get her back on her feet, he figures.

He dismisses that with a wave of his hand because it’s not really the important part. It doesn’t matter what he did, he would do it again in a heartbeat.

“I used to bring the light.” he tells her and he isn’t sure why. It isn’t what he came here to say. He isn’t sure what he came here to say, truth be told. Goodbye perhaps. “I used to shine brighter than all the other stars, did you know? That’s why they called me the morning star. I love the light. I think that’s why my father cast me out into darkness.”

Hell was cold and dark. He brought the fire but the flames there are dull and freezing. Nothing can dispatch the taint of Hell. Nothing.

“Lucifer…” she frowns, outstretching her hand.

What else can he do but take it?

“I think I am drawn to you because you are the brightest light I’ve seen in a very long time.” he confesses. “I miss flying amongst the stars and so He created you for me, because He knew I wouldn’t be able to resist.”

A moth to a flame, isn’t that what he used to think?

“I don’t understand.” she admits. “Doesn’t He create all lives? Why me specifically…”

“As if he cared…” he scoffs. “No. He lets you humans breed. It takes something special for him to send an angel and bless someone into a new life. And you… He created you for me, Chloe, there’s no other explanation that makes sense. To manipulate me. He plays a long game, you know… He knew I would find you eventually. He knew I would…” He stops and licks his lips because this is the hard part. The part he dreads. “This is the second time he makes me fall but this time I do not mind it so much.”

“Lucifer…” she breathes out, something like awe or pain in her voice. He isn’t sure which and he isn’t sure he wants to find out. If she had trouble accepting the divine thing, he doesn’t think she will take this any better.

“You were destined for me.” he insists because she needs to understand without any doubt. He won’t have a repeat of the devil fiasco. “Everything you are feeling for me… It was His plan all along. None of it is real.”

“It feels real.” she counters.

“It would.” he chuckles bitterly. “But where does that leave us?”

She studies him and he avoids her eyes.

“Do you mind it that much?” she asks quietly. “If it’s true… If He created me for you… Do you mind it that much?”

“Of course I bloody mind!” he snaps, a hit of fire flashing in his eyes. She doesn’t flinch away from it this time around though. But she looks sad and that he cannot bear. “I mind the trap, Chloe. I mind the manipulation. I don’t… I don’t mind you.”

She’s the best thing that has happened to him in a very, very long time.

She relaxes and squeezes his hand. “Maybe He was trying to do something nice for you, something to make you… happy.” She frowns, a small amused smile playing on her lips. “Assuming I make you happy.”

“You do.” he replies without a moment of hesitation. “You know you do.”

But he has his doubts about his father ever doing something nice for him.

“Then, maybe we just… We try to be happy together.” she suggests. “And… We can tackle everything else once I’m out of here. Your mom, the heaven thing…” She flashes him a small smile. “We can get through everything, Lucifer, we’re the best team.”

And they are. And so, instead of leaving quietly like a thief in the night as he planned, he remains in that chair and suffers the suffocating hug the spawn bestows upon him when she shows up with Maze the next morning.

°O°O°O°

They do get everything sorted eventually and his mother is sent to another universe for a new bing bang.

And they even manage to make it work between them relatively well in the meantime – he’s still confused by all the rules but she takes the time to explain them now.

So, of course, the whole victory night they’ve carefully planned by sending the spawn over to Detective Douche’s apartment is ruined by someone making a jump on him.

Waking up in a desert isn’t his idea of fun, it’s much too Moose-like for him – he didn’t like the guy even then. It takes him a few seconds to feel them behind him. The pain is mild, like sore muscles…

But the thrill…

The thrill…

He’s up there before he even pauses to think about how or why or who. He’s soaring high and low, testing the wings out, rejoicing in the wind in their feathers… Missing limbs finally recovered, he goes higher and higher until the sky darkens and he can twirl amongst the stars.

And he laughs.

Oh, he laughs…

He missed them, he missed their song and he gets lost in the brightness of them until another melody calls to him, a softer one, like the beating of a human heart. Chloe’s heart. His own morning star.

He follows it home.

He lets it save him.

Again and again.

#deckerstar #chloe decker #lucifer morningstar #lucifer #thedeckerstarnetwork #let's wing it fic exchange #let's wing it #fic exchange #the devil sings so well stories #Let's Wing It! Fix Exchange

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razzleblg · 8 years ago

Text

Flower Boy Intellectual (Wonhui)

Word Count: 1,265

Tags: romance, swearing, libraries, coffee shops, mentions of other members, college AU, weed brownies, mention of Samuel

Tiny rain droplets raced down the coffee shop window, stopping then speeding up in intervals. Junhui watched them slide while trying to work on his homework. College was kicking his ass but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He only had difficulty concentrating because of this one thing.

Jeonghan came over with freshly brewed Earl Grey tea, which he kept a stash of for his friends when they had something troubling on the mind. His small café, “More Pastries Than Coffee,” had become a hangout for the kids who wanted a quiet time alone to read or study. The dim, soft yellow lights and couches that were various shades of brown provided a comfortable and lived-in feel, even though a coffee shop is no place to live.

“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout, Junhui?” Jeonghan asked in a quiet voice so he didn’t wake Jihoon and Joshua up. They were working on stuff for their music theory class and fell asleep an hour prior.

“Nobody,” Junhui sighed. He watched more rain drops race and disappear into the little window puddle at the bottom.

“Oh, it’s definitely somebody. Tell me, Junnie.” Jeonghan sat across from Jun and handed him his tea.

“Don’t you have weed brownies or something to make for tomorrow morning, hyung?” Jeonghan gave Junhui a look. “So, there’s this guy that I saw at the library and he looked so soft and attractive. He was totally adorable and I smiled at him and everything… but I tipped over a book cart.”

“Jun, you’re so stupid. You should’ve talked to him.” Jeonghan rubbed Jun’s back like a mother would her distraught son.

“I would’ve but he looked so intellectually advanced and kind of intimidating. But, like, also super soft and cuddly. I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong things.”

“It’s okay, I’m pretty sure I know who you’re talking about. If it’s who I’m thinking of, you should be totally fine. But you can’t find him in my shop, you’ve gotta hang out at the library to see him.”

“Can’t I stay until the rain stops?” Junhui pouted and looked out the window to see a slightly empty street. Street lamps lit up small areas and made the town look warm and inviting.

“Of course you can, Junnie. Now, I don’t know when Jihoon and Shua are gonna wake up so lord have mercy on my soul.”

Junhui sat in the section he last found the boy, hoping he could find him again. The library was silent and nearly vacant, save for a few students who were trying to get volunteer hours in. They briskly walked around, shelving books that people had left on the table or on the cart. Junhui had been sitting in his chair for three hours, studying for his Astronomy exam that he had coming up. There was no sign of the Intellectual anywhere.

Until he walked in.

Wearing a light blue pullover hoodie that covered his hands, the boy walked into the library with a stack of books in his hands. His hazelnut-colored hair fell into his eyes. Junhui thought he looked like a flower boy.

The boy dropped the stack into the book return and set off to find more to read. Junhui wondered how the Flower Boy Intellectual could look so cool while searching for a book. He had a very innocent and gentle look. Relaxed face and dreamy eyes.

Junhui had been staring for too long. The boy looked over and raised his eyebrows with an unamused expression on his face.

“I won’t say anything too harsh since you’re cute and you’re not staring at my butt,” the Flower Boy Intellectual started. His voice was deeper than Junhui thought it would be. Like, Mariana’s Trench type of Deep. “But, next time you wanna stare, come talk to me first.”

Jun was dumbfounded. He opened his mouth to say something but couldn’t find the words. He would usually be very confident and kind of cocky but this guy is something different. This guy was turning him into a softer version of himself. Instead of speaking, Junhui just smirked and walked over to Flower Boy.

“I know you were staring at me before you tripped the other day.” The smirk disappeared from Junhui’s face and appeared on Flower Boy’s.

“Oh, um, you saw that?” Junhui scratched his head awkwardly.

“I’m pretty sure everyone in the library heard about it, plus I was standing right in front of you.” They sat in silence for a bit before Flower Boy spoke up again. “I, uh, never caught your name.”

“It’s Junhui, Wen Junhui.” Jun reached out his hand to shake Flower Boy’s. “And yours?”

“Wonwoo, Jeon Wonwoo.” Wonwoo grabbed his hand and pulled him close. “How about you take me on a date? I’ll meet you at More Pastries Than Coffee at six tomorrow night. Don’t keep me waiting.”

“U-um, yeah sure I’ll see you.” Junhui pulled back and let go of Wonwoo’s hand. Oh my fucking god, Junhui thought. I’d not only like to thank God but Jesus as well for this life-changing moment that is happening here at this very moment. “I hang out at the shop all the time so I definitely won’t be late.”

“Hand me your phone, please.” Jun hurriedly attempted to dig his phone out of his pocket. Wonwoo took it and put in his number. He handed the phone back to Junhui who looked at the screen and did a mix of cringing and blushing. Wonwoo had entered himself as ‘Babyyy ^-^.’ “I sent a text to myself from your phone, so I have your number. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night then.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that, they parted ways, Wonwoo slightly giddy about his date and Junhui screaming into the phone at Jeonghan about Wonwoo.

Junhui arrived at More Pastries Than Coffee an hour early with jittery nerves. Jeonghan greeted him once again with a cup of freshly brewed Earl Grey and a smile on his face.

“Junnie, are you nervous about your date?” Jeonghan asked him.

“Hell yeah, Jeonghan-hyung. He’s so cute, oh my gosh, I don’t wanna screw up and barely say anything like I did at the library.” Junhui played with his own fingers in hopes to distract himself.

“Throw your nervous vibes out the window because Seungcheol is coming back home and he’s bringing his nephew with him. If you’re nervous about your date then I’m gonna be nervous about Samuel’s visit.”

“Okay, hyung.”

“Remember, be yourself, and don’t try to be a nervous dickwad, please and thank you.” Junhui sat on the couch in the shop scrolling through his daily dose of memes while he waited for Wonwoo to show. At 6:01, he started to panic because oh my goodness, what if Wonwoo had gotten hit by a fucking bus or something?

At 6:05, however, Junhui’s theory had been proven wrong, and Wonwoo walked in the coffee shop door with his signature oversized pullover and specs resting on his nose. Junhui held his breath for ten seconds because wow, he’s beautiful.

“Are you ready to go, Junhui?” Wonwoo asked, motioning towards the door.

“You bet I am, baby,” Junhui replied, his usual relaxed self coming back to him. It was Wonwoo’s turn to blush.

They walked out the door with Wonwoo’s arm and Junhui’s waist, his hand tucked in the pocket of Jun’s leather jacket, and Junhui’s arm thrown around Wownoo’s shoulders. Jun smiled at himself and Wonwoo for scoring this Flower Boy Intellectual.

In the background, there would be Jeonghan lurking for pictures.

And there you have my first entry for @write-svt ^-^ strong power, thank you

-Aleah

#write-svt #wonhui #wonwoo #junhui #jeon wonwoo #wen junhui #idk if this is crack or romance tbh #i just wanted to write wonhui

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