#it's really hard to figure out the who he is | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darkmatilda · 1 day ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢'𝐦 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: it's time to return the second favor. and for that reason, spencer finds himself invited by you...on a date?

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist!female reader, fake date at the bar, reader's ex makes an appearance, kinda inspired by blank space taylor swift

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.5 k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request

[unknown number] wake up pretty boy

[unknown number] time to pay your debt

Spencer, sitting on his bed with a book resting on his lap, stared at the message for a moment, his brows slightly furrowed. Evening, the warm glow of his lamp making it easy to read. He had the next day off, no real plans, just a quiet night ahead. The sudden chime of his phone had caught him off guard.

For a split second, he was surprised—but he didn’t have to think too hard to guess who the sender was.

He typed out how did you get my number, then deleted it before hitting send. Something else was far more interesting. And a little concerning. That second message. Pay your debt. She remembered about that now, at this hour?

Before he could ask, another text came in.

[unknown number] taking you on a date

[unknown number] dress nice

For a moment, deeply confused, he just stared at his phone, already sensing somewhere deep inside that this was going to be a really weird night.

[spencer] What do you mean by ‘date’?

A minute or two passed. He didn’t put his phone down. Didn’t even look away from the screen.

[unknown number] the one who asks questions loses his way

His fingers moved automatically.

[spencer] That’s not how the saying goes

✓ Seen 10:12 pm

Reid sighed. He had absolutely no plans to go out that evening, and he wasn’t thrilled about the fact that he hadn’t been given any details about this so-called date. Unless she was joking? There was something off about this—some kind of trick, a twist he hadn’t figured out yet.

The only thing stopping him from ignoring her messages—something he very much wanted to do—was the simple fact that he did owe her. Technically, twice. Though he had managed to repay one of those debts in an easy way, requiring almost no effort on his part.

He had a feeling this second one wouldn’t be nearly as simple.

And now he found himself wondering what exactly she meant by dress nicely.

"Wait, one more time. We’re going there as her… what?"

"Mental support," she said, moving forward with that usual quick stride of hers, the sharp tapping of her heels almost aggressive. Whether unconsciously or fully aware but not caring, she got a few steps ahead of him, speaking without turning back. Her voice hung in the night, street air.

Spencer hated when she did that. It made him feel like a dog on a leash. He sped up to match her pace.

"Well, I heard you," he scoffed. "Doesn’t mean I get what you mean. And maybe you should clue me in if I’m supposed to be part of…whatever this is”

She stopped with a sigh so heavy it was as if giving him any details about something he was supposed to be part of was beyond her patience and strength. Hands tucked into the pockets of his blazer, he gave her a questioning look as she finally turned to face him.

His gaze dropped—quick, casual. Or at least, that’s how he thought it looked. Even at night, under the less-than-ideal glow of the streetlights, he could register how her outfit hugged her figure, emphasizing every curve.

At work, she dressed more formally. With her looks, that face, and the unshakable confidence she carried, she could probably make a burlap sack look like a designer gown. But Spencer had noticed something about the way she dressed for nights like this. Or rather, the way she became something else entirely. Like she belonged to the night, completely in her element.

Quick, casual glance—yeah, right.

To make the situation even more embarrassing, she snapped her fingers in front of his face, demanding his attention.

"Alright, listen up," she started, shifting her weight onto one hip. "I’m explaining this one last time. My friend, Liv—you might know her from my team…"

"Olivia, you mean," He said her full name in confirmation, recognizing the woman he had indeed seen before.

"Do you really have to correct me on how I call my own friends? Anyway, fine. Olivia has a date tonight with some guy she met online. The thing is, Olivia is a hopeless romantic who’s waiting for the love of her life to magically show up at her door, but she’s also buried in work and can’t even remember the last time she went on a date. Plus, she’s a little worried about ending up with some psycho. You know what I mean."

"All too well," he nodded, recalling all the missing persons cases that had started exactly like this—an online match gone wrong.

“Exactly. So Olivia asked me to come along. You know, for physical backup if anything goes sideways. And mental backup. Just to make her feel safer."

Well, he didn’t want to praise her out loud, but it was…nice of her. Okay, nice wasn’t the perfect word—honestly, the fact that she even had to do something like this was a little bitter at its core—but it didn’t change the fact that she was being a good friend.

He watched her for a moment, not even realizing he had gone quiet. He realized he’d never actually seen her interact with her people, her team, but he had somehow assumed their dynamic was more… detached. Not that she genuinely considered them her friends and actually cared.

"Finally caught up, genius?" she asked, a hint of teasing in her voice.

Spencer snapped out of it. Okay, so maybe she cared about her friends—but she was still seriously unbearable.

"I get it. Except for one thing," he replied, matching her slightly rude tone, one that made him sound almost offended. She raised a brow, nodded as if giving him permission to continue, and started walking again—this time at a slower pace.

Actually, they were moving at almost the same rhythm now, nearly side by side.

"Why do you need me for this?"

Their eyes met, but this time, she didn’t look like she was about to mock him. In fact, the corners of her lips lifted slightly, as if she thought that was a very good question.

"Because tonight, pretty boy, I plan to stay completely on the sidelines," she explained. "Not interfering with my friend or her date in any way. Being completely invisible."

"Invisible?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows.

It wasn’t even just about what she was wearing. Drawing attention was simply an unavoidable part of her presence. She nodded in confirmation.

"Exactly. But I figured that to keep away all the desperate guys trying to get my number, all I need to do is bring one with me," she looked like she was trying not to laugh. "You’re gonna be my scarecrow."

Spencer's mouth fell slightly open, completely at a loss for words.

"You…you are just… just…"

"Amazing, smart, beautiful, wonderful…"

"Shameless. That’s the word"

For a moment, she didn’t respond, her expression filled with a strange kind of complacency.

"Love when you compliment me," she said in an overly sweet tone.

"That wasn’t—" he started, but then cut himself off, realizing there was probably no point in arguing with her. He sighed.

"You’re welcome."

Despite the late hour, the bar wasn’t overcrowded. Sure, there were plenty of people inside, but most were engaged in quiet conversations over their drinks. Spencer noticed quite a few couples. As if they were one of them, they found a secluded spot in the corner, right next to a small pool table made of dark wood with a striking green surface.

"That’s them," the woman discreetly motioned with her head toward the pair at the bar— a cascade of blonde curls and the man accompanying her. She fixed them with an assessing gaze, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Hm. He looks like his pictures. I’ll take that as the first good sign."

"She shows you pictures of her dates?"

"Every single time. We rate them on a scale from one to ten."

Spencer wasn’t surprised in the slightest. His gaze briefly shifted in their direction, though he made sure not to stare, not wanting to make them look weird. The pair seemed to be talking a little shyly—it was obvious this was their first meeting.

“So,” he started. “Is this what we’re going to do all night? Just stand here?”

“Basically, yeah. I mean, we don’t have to just stand around like a couple of creeps, staring at them. We can enjoy our date. Just because it’s fake doesn’t mean it can’t be fun,” she said, slowly circling the pool table until they were on opposite sides.

She slipped off her outer layer, and Spencer couldn’t help but notice that her outfit underneath did anything but help her stay invisible. Reaching for a pool cue, she nodded at him.

“What are you waiting for?”

“You want to play?”

“No, I want to duel you with the cues,” she scoffed. “I’m a professional, you know.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow slightly as he grabbed a cue of his own.

"Professional?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Mhm. World championships and all that. But that was a while ago. Then came the injury, and I had to say goodbye to my career. After that, I had no idea what to do with myself, so I became a chemist," she said, with a casual shrug.

He chuckled at the made-up story, setting the pool balls up into a perfect triangle at the center of the table. Once they were ready, he gestured for her to go ahead.

She refused with an exaggerated, almost overly generous smile. "Oh, no. Amateurs go first."

He held back a roll of his eyes, leaning over the table. The balls scattered across the surface, and from that point on, he'd play with the cue ball. It was her turn now, and Spencer watched her movements closely.

"I didn't know your story before the FBI job was so fascinating," he remarked, trying to throw her off a little.

They hadn't made any bet, but there was a subtle competitiveness in him now.

She shrugged.

"I don't think it's fascinating. More tragic. Lost dreams."

"Right, sorry for my disregard. What kind of injury was it?"

She paused for a moment, focusing on her next shot. One of the balls sank smoothly into a pocket, and a small smile played on her lips.

"Shoulder," she replied casually. "Sometimes it still acts up. I have to go for regular massages."

"Poor thing," he said, his tone teasing.

Her gaze briefly scanned the entire bar, landing once again on her friend. Nothing seemed to bother her, so she returned to the game.

"We're playing just for fun? Don't you think that's a bit boring?"

"Sorry, I don’t want to bet with you again. Paying off debts with you is never easy."

"Come on. You’re having fun with me”

"You think so?"

“No. I know it."

She potted another ball, gaining the upper hand. Spencer puffed his lips, deciding to focus more on the game. They both did, though it didn't stop them from continuously exchanging similar comments, remarks, and jabs. And despite the countless huffs and eye rolls, he had to admit, he was really having fun. With her.

And even more fun when he realized he was close to winning.

With a certain satisfaction, he noticed she was watching his moves with more attention, her eyes slightly narrowed with cool competition. As he leaned over the table again, she moved toward him lightly, almost as if tiptoeing. She passed by almost unnoticed. In fact, he only realized how close she was when her breath softly grazed the inside of his ear as she spoke in the voice of a social commentator.

"Ladies and gentlemen, to the surprise of the entire audience, amateur Spencer Reid has managed to take the lead," her whisper was laced with feigned suspense. Of course, he refrained from moving, making sure not to make a mistake from distraction. "Will he manage to win today's tournament?"

He straightened up with a sigh, which made her step back slightly. He gave her a look full of mock pity, and she responded by slowly blinking her eyes, imitating the gaze of an innocent angel.

"I'm pretty sure this counts as sabotage," he remarked.

She raised both hands in the air, as if defending herself against the accusation.

"Hey, I'm not doing anything," she denied, a subtle spark in her eye. She gave a quick nod toward the table. "Come on, finish it."

Spencer, uncertain and sensing she was up to something, tried to refocus. When he found the perfect angle and was about to hit the white ball, something nudged his elbow, causing it to roll in the completely wrong direction.

He directed a look at her, mouth open in indignation.

"This is... this is cheating, pure cheating..."

"No idea what you're talking about!" she shot back. She pretended to be serious, though in an incredibly clumsy way. Her lips kept trembling, trying to form a smile, and she struggled to suppress it. "I didn't do anything. Your hand must have slipped..."

At the sight of the expression on his face, she couldn't hold back anymore and burst into laughter. It mixed with the sound of his incessantly muttered, mildly irritated comments under his breath, which absolutely didn't reach her conscience. In fact, it seemed to only make her feel more smug. Spencer finally gave in, letting out a sigh.

"I demand a fair rematch."

With her arms crossed over her chest, she raised an eyebrow.

"Go ahead, then," she said, grabbing the cue stick again.

Her friend and her date were still deep in conversation, sitting much closer than before, with small smiles on their faces. They didn't seem like they were in any hurry to end the evening. A few new people had arrived at the bar, making it louder, but Spencer didn't even notice. He was completely focused on this small, occupied space between them where they were slowly giving in to the growing rivalry, even though nothing had been wagered. It was probably just about pride.

His opponent was doing everything in her power to make his game harder. He'd abandoned all pretenses of fairness and stood right beside her whenever she leaned over the pool table. He didn't even intend to nudge her—but when he was close, she assumed he would and became incredibly cautious, often elbowing him in the ribs to make space for herself to focus. Despite all of this, they were laughing. He even forgot for a moment that he had planned to spend the evening entirely differently.

They played a few more rounds, each of them winning the same number of games. He announced the next one, but before starting, he briefly disappeared into the bathroom. Simply because, well, he needed to use it.

As he washed his hands, he could hear the hum of conversations, laughter, and music, all muffled by the door. It felt a bit warm, despite the fact that he'd taken off his jacket a while ago. For some reason, he suddenly became self-conscious about how he looked, though he hadn't thought about it at all before. After all, it wasn’t like he was on a date with some woman he was trying to impress. Still, driven by some inner impulse, he fixed his hair and smoothed the fabric of his shirt with his hands, rolling up the sleeves so they wouldn’t get wet while washing. He hesitated for a moment before lowering them again, surprised to sense someone's gaze on him.

The tall man with black hair, a rather sturdy build, and narrow glasses on his nose didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was staring at him. Spencer wasn’t sure if he should just walk away, but something made him raise an eyebrow skeptically. He had no idea what was going on.

“Do we know each other?” he asked, genuinely considering the possibility.

He couldn’t recall this man from anywhere, which, given his memory, pretty much ruled out the idea.

“No,” the man replied briefly but confidently, still not breaking eye contact. After a moment, he added, “But I know your friend. I know her well.”

Reid stood still for a moment, embarrassingly slow to realize which friend the man was referring to. It wasn’t until a few seconds later that it struck him—this guy had likely been watching their game for a while and was talking about her. Before Spencer could say anything, the man continued.

“Actually, I used to date her. And listen, I’ve got some advice for you. Just give up on her.”

Spencer blinked, trying to process if he’d misheard.

“Beg your pardon...”

“I’m serious, man. Not because I’m jealous or anything like that,” he quickly clarified, raising both hands as if to declare his sincerity. “It’s just simple, you know, guy solidarity. Don’t waste your time.”

He was struck by a strange feeling that his conversation partner had some mistaken idea about their relationship. Besides, even though the man had clarified that he wasn’t jealous, he sure sounded like a jealous ex. Spencer knew he should just laugh it off and walk away. After all, he wasn’t dating her, didn’t intend to, and whatever the guy had to say about her shouldn’t matter. Yet, his legs refused to simply walk away.

Some curiosity, one he couldn’t shake off, took hold of him.

“What do you mean?” he asked hesitantly.

A slight smirk appeared on the man’s face as he noticed he had Spencer’s attention.

“I get that you might see something in her. She’s pretty, you have to give her that. At first, even...kind of charming in her arrogance. But once you get to know her...it’s a strong word, but you need to know, she’s fucking insane.”

The language seemed to twist strangely in his mouth.

“That doesn’t tell me much,” he replied dryly. “I mean, anyone could mean something different by saying fucking insane.”

The man scoffed with a bit of contempt. Spencer was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable with the whole conversation.

“Okay, you’re probably going to deny it and defend her because you like her, I’ve been there, I get it.”

Because I like her? He almost denied it but stopped himself, letting the man continue.

“She’s just insufferable in the long run. She acts like she knows everything, gives orders, always has to have the last damn word. And you know, at first, you think she’s just playing that part. And then she’ll start acting, well, you know…”

Spencer felt the urge to laugh.

“Submissive?” he suggested, the missing word that seemed to want to spill from the man’s mouth.

“Normally. Just normally.”

Something started to smell between them. A distinctive scent. Wounded male ego.

That alone was enough for Spencer to know not to take this conversation seriously. That alone was enough for him to know he could end this conversation whenever he wanted. But before he could take a single step away, he thought about the entire evening he'd spent with her. Everything, from the first message he’d received while still at his apartment.

He counted how many times during their meeting he’d just laughed, having more fun than he’d had in a while. In some unclear way, he felt he owed her that.

“Let me sum this up,” Spencer began, gesturing with his hand and never breaking eye contact with the man. “Because this, in its way, is strange to me. Funny, even, when you think about it.”

The man furrowed his brow, listening. Spencer remained unfazed as he continued.

“First, you met a commanding, confident, and, okay, a little cheeky woman. That didn’t scare you off, though, and you decided you wanted to start a relationship with her. And when it happened, you were surprised she was commanding and cheeky? You know, she doesn’t pretend she’s not like that. You knew what you were getting into.”

"Fine, you know what, this doesn’t make sense," the man sighed. "Do whatever you want. Just remember, I warned you. One day, you’ll be grateful for this."

"Maybe you're right," Spencer admitted, nodding slowly. "It doesn’t make sense."

The man gave him one last look before scoffing and walking away. Reid was left in the bathroom alone, actually reflecting for a moment on the entire conversation. He didn’t think he should have been a part of it at all. The guy must’ve assumed he was interested, or that they were dating. He didn’t have any insight into what their relationship really looked like. In any case, Spencer imagined what it would be like if another guy were in his place. Her actual date. I wonder if a conversation like that would make him turn away, push him away entirely.

After a moment, he concluded that no, it probably wouldn't have. Assuming, of course, that the other guy wasn’t a complete idiot, blindly believing the words of a hurt, maybe even a little jealous ex.

Though, maybe he couldn’t really judge from his position. The position of someone who wasn’t planning on dating her, and who wasn’t interested in her in that way.

He thought for a moment about whether he should tell her about the conversation. He decided against it, not wanting to spoil or ruin the good mood of their evening. Instead, he straightened his hair and, completely unfazed by what he'd just heard, returned to the pool table where she was leaning, clearly growing impatient with his prolonged absence.

"Finally," she hissed at the sight of him. She almost shoved the cue stick into his hand, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "I thought you were trying to escape me. The thought of another loss scared you, huh?"

He paused for a moment, staring at her face—the slightly parted lips, the warm bar light reflecting in her eyes, and the familiar, confident gleam. For a brief moment, a fleeting thought crossed his mind—what did she even see in that guy?

But almost immediately, he dismissed it, considering it none of his business, and took the cue stick from her, ready to start the next game.

#diva reader ♱#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spence reid #spencer reid criminal minds #doctor spencer reid #criminal minds fic #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x y/n

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happy74827 · 2 days ago

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White Lies

[Spencer Reid x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: You have constantly lied to your mother about your private life, as she was one to disapprove of everything, but those "harmless lies" become a lot more serious when you forget to cancel plans with your closest friend.

WC: 3036

Category: Fluff, Fake Dating, Sassy!Reid {TW: Reader’s mom is Authoritarian}

Another drafted idea that I finally wrote up because Spencer is the definition of pookie, and you cannot change my mind. This is also a dedication to my girl, @yoursacredqueenmother, for matching my crazy delulu fantasies 🫶💖

『••✎••』

Your mom has always been a force of nature—a whirlwind of opinions, expectations, and unsolicited advice that sweeps through your life like a hurricane. She’s the kind of woman who believes she knows what’s best for you, even when you’re pretty sure she doesn’t. Ever since you turned 30 last year, her visits have become more frequent, and her nagging has reached a fever pitch.

"You’re getting old, sweetheart," she’d say, her voice dripping with concern that felt more like judgment. "You need to settle down, find a nice man, start a family. I’m not going to be around forever, you know."

The words were always delivered with a smile, but they stung like a slap. You love her, you really do, but her constant pressure makes you feel like you’re failing at some unspoken test of womanhood.

So, to get her off your back, you’d started lying. Little white lies at first—"I’m seeing someone, Mom, it’s just early stages"—but they quickly snowballed into more and more elaborate fibs. Soon, you were telling her that you were dating a doctor who wanted nothing more than to start a family with you but was waiting for the right time.

It was easier to make up a fictitious doctor than to explain the real reason you were still single.

Because the truth is that the man of your dreams is already in your life, he's been here for years, and he's always been the perfect friend. The problem is that he's a little hard to read. You have no idea how he feels about you or if he sees you as more than a friend.

You'd tried to tell him how you felt about him before, but the words had stuck in your throat. He’d seemed so confused, so shocked by the mere suggestion of romance. Maybe he just didn't see you that way. Maybe you’d ruin your friendship by even mentioning the idea.

This led to where you are now: alone, frustrated, and trying to figure out how to keep your mother from butting into your personal life. You’d thought maybe she’d drop the issue after your birthday, but she’d come by to "surprise you" last night and is now currently sitting at the kitchen table, looking around your apartment with an expression of vague disappointment.

"Honey, you’re an adult now," she says, not looking up from her coffee cup. "You can’t keep living like this."

She gestures at the living room, which is scattered with discarded letters and half-read books. The mess is a symptom of the chaos in your head as you’ve been too preoccupied with thoughts of him to worry about cleaning up after yourself.

"It’s not that bad," you mumble, though you know it is. Even he’d commented on the state of your apartment when he’d last stopped by, and his place is usually worse than yours. Messy, not dirty. He’s a bit of an organized hoarder.

"Well, maybe not for a single girl," she sighs. "But what if Doctor Whoever comes over? Don’t you want to impress him?"

You bite your lip, trying to keep your temper in check. This is the problem with your mother—she has a habit of steamrolling over your feelings, and you've never been able to stand up to her. You’d thought you were done having this argument when you turned 30. Apparently, you’d thought wrong.

"Mom," you begin, your voice firm. "I told you, he doesn't care about stuff like that. He's more concerned with things like—"

The doorbell rings, interrupting you mid-sentence. Thank God. You’re not sure what you would have said, but any excuse is better than none. You figured it was the mailman, late with that package you’d been expecting, but when you just so happen to glance at the calendar (the one your father bought you last Christmas, with pictures of cats wearing hats), your stomach drops.

March 21st, which may not seem important, and it really isn’t, unless you look closer and realize that the cat in the picture is wearing a lab coat and is holding a beaker. Because that, my friends, is not just a picture. It is a reminder.

The one thing you had not wanted to forget.

The one thing, apparently, you had forgotten.

You’d been so busy trying to avoid your mother’s questions about your non-existent boyfriend that you’d completely lost track of time. The calendar sits there, taunting you, and all you can think is:

Oh, no.

Because the person who had rang the doorbell? It was him. He and his adorable grin, hazel-like eyes, and messy brown hair. He probably even brought a bag of those terribly expensive chocolates you love.

You want to cry. Of course, it had to be that day, the day of all days, the day you'd been secretly anticipating for all month.

Chess day. It was a monthly ritual you'd started with him when he'd discovered that you, too, were a fan of the game. You were absolutely terrible at it, and he won every time, but honestly, you didn't care. Chess day was just an excuse for you to spend time with him.

Except today, you have company, and it’s not exactly the kind you want him to meet.

You were supposed to call him, but in your haste to please your mom, you completely forgot.

Your mother’s gaze shifts to the door, and her eyebrows rise as if she can sense his presence on the other side. "Well, aren’t you going to answer that?"

No.

That's what you wanted to say. Instead, you hear yourself saying:

"Yeah, just a sec."

And, like a complete idiot, you open the door.

You open the door, and he’s there, all bright-eyed, smiling, holding a box of chocolates and his perfectly polished travel chess set. You feel like the biggest jerk in the world.

"Uh, hey!" he chirps, his voice making your stomach flip. He doesn’t seem to notice the tension in the air or the fact that your mother is standing right behind you, peering curiously over your shoulder. "I know I’m a little early, but I needed to pick up some things and..."

He trails off as his gaze settles on your mother. She’s eyeing him like a hawk and doing what she does when meeting a new person: leaning forward slightly, squinting her eyes, and tilting her head. You can see the wheels turning in her mind.

"Is this him?" she asks, her eyes wide with excitement.

Before you can stop her, she grabs your wrist and pulls you aside. You stumble into the kitchen, and she takes your place, smiling warmly at him.

"So, you’re the doctor," she says, her voice full of approval. "My daughter has told me so much about you!"

Oh, this is bad. So, so bad.

"Uh," he begins, clearly caught off-guard. His eyes dart to yours, and you were expecting his classic confused puppy look, but this time, it’s different. He looks... honored? No, that can't be right.

"She… talked about me?" he stammers, looking back at your mother.

She nods. "All the time! In fact, I was starting to think she’d made you up. It’s good to know my daughter has such a handsome young man in her life."

You want to die. Right there, on the spot. But, somehow, you manage to force a smile, even as your heart pounds with anxiety.

And your mother? She beams.

"It’s lovely to meet you finally," she gushes. She reaches out and shakes his hand, and he stares at her with a dazed expression. "My daughter has always been a bit shy, and she tends to keep things close to the vest if you know what I mean."

"Mom, please," you cut in, mortified. "Stop."

He still hasn't said a word, and the silence is killing you.

"Well, come on in, then," your mother continues, ignoring your protests. "I insist. After all, I can't wait to learn more about my future son-in-law!"

And this is when the situation goes from bad to worse.

This is when he freezes, and the box of chocolates threatens to slip from his fingers. You watched as he struggled to form a coherent sentence.

"I... Uh, that's not... we’re not..."

"Yes! Yes, we are!" you shout, desperate to cover up his stammering. He looks at you, his expression shifting from confused to shocked, and it’s like a punch in the gut. "That’s right, Mom. This is him. My boyfriend. Doctor Whoever."

"Oh, sweetie, this is so wonderful!" Your mother is so busy clapping her hands with delight that she doesn't notice his reaction.

"Doctor… Whoever?" He looks offended and a bit hurt. "What’s that supposed to mean—?"

"Shush!" You hiss, silently pleading with him to keep quiet. He must have caught your desperation because he shuts his mouth.

It allowed you a moment to process everything. Your mother is smiling widely, her face filled with delight. She doesn't even seem bothered by the fact that he’s currently dressed like a college professor with an evident love for scarves.

Meanwhile, he’s standing there, blinking stupidly, looking as if his entire world has been flipped upside-down. He seems torn between anger and elation, and honestly, it’s confusing as hell. You want to grab him and apologize and explain that this was all a mistake, but you can’t. Not with your mother right there.

So, you knew what you had to do.

"Mom! Say, would you mind doing me a huge favor and just give us like a few minutes? We have some important totally-not-boyfriend stuff to discuss."

"Sure, honey." She grins. "I'll do some unpacking. How about that?"

"Perfect!"

She practically skips into the other room, leaving the two of you alone. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut.

The sigh you let out is one of relief, tinged with the faintest hint of dread.

Though, he was the first to break the silence with words.

"I didn’t realize we were dating," he says, his voice low. He's not quite glaring at you, but it's a close thing. "Last time I checked, statistically, dating requires at least two people. Which leads me to the logical conclusion that you are, in fact, a liar. Unless this is some strange, newfangled term for friendship, in which case, I think it would be more appropriate for me to refer to you as the "teller of lies" rather than a—"

"I know, I'm sorry." You blurt out, your cheeks flushing with shame. "I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. She was asking all these questions, and I couldn't tell her the truth, and then she just kept talking, and I couldn't get a word in edgewise, and... I panicked. Okay? That’s all."

"What do you mean, couldn’t tell her the truth?" He narrows his eyes. "Is something wrong? Did you get yourself into trouble?"

"No! No, nothing like that."

"Then, what is it that you can't tell her?"

He steps closer, and the concern in his eyes makes you feel even guiltier.

"Look, don't worry about it, alright? It’s not important." You turn away, refusing to meet his gaze.

"If it isn’t important, then why are you so embarrassed?"

"I’m not embarrassed."

"Your cheeks are flushed," he points out. "And you tend to rub your thumb against your forefinger when you’re feeling nervous or stressed. Which, coincidentally, is also something you do when you’re lying."

Damn it. You should’ve known better than to lie to a profiler.

"You don’t know what it’s like to be interrogated by my mother," you snap, harsher than intended. You soften your voice before continuing. "It’s like she’s constantly see-sawing between disapproval and pity. She means well, but when she’s around, I feel like I'm being crushed under the weight of her expectations."

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

"And I know, I know, that’s not an excuse for lying. I just... I’m sorry, okay? It was wrong and selfish and... I didn’t mean to drag you into it."

You brace yourself for the inevitable rejection, the anger, the disappointment. Instead, you hear him let out a sigh, followed by the familiar look of resolve that comes over him when he's faced with a challenging puzzle.

"You know, when we first met, you used to lie all the time." He glances at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "You would say things like, 'I don't watch rom-coms,' and, 'I have a real job,' and, most infamously, 'there's no such thing as aliens.'"

"Hold on a minute—"

He ignored your protests, his smile growing wider.

"You’re not that bad of a liar. Actually, you’re pretty decent, considering your lack of social skills. So the fact that you’ve managed to fool your mother is pretty impressive."

"Hey—"

"And, honestly, it’s a little flattering."

"I— Wait… what?" You gape at him, trying to figure out what's going on. "Flattering?"

He shrugs, but you can tell he's trying not to blush.

"Liars tend to use people they know well or trust implicitly when they need a cover story because they have more information about them and are therefore more believable. So, by lying about your fake boyfriend, that being me, it suggests that you trust me enough to make a convincing cover story, and the fact that you are embarrassed about the deception implies a certain amount of fondness."

"You can't know all that from a simple lie."

"Can’t I?"

There's something in his tone, the slightest hint of a tease, that makes your heart flutter. He's always been like this, so damn perceptive. You never knew what to make of it.

"It’s actually a well-established behavioral theory," he continues. "Deceivers typically show affection toward the person they are attempting to deceive. In fact, a study in the 1970s—"

"Spencer, please." You hold up a hand. "I get it."

"I'm not so sure that you do."

There's an intensity in his gaze that makes your stomach do backflips.

"Because," he murmurs, moving a little closer, "if you did, I wouldn’t have had to spend the past three years of my life wondering why my best friend keeps avoiding my gaze."

"You noticed that?" You squeak, suddenly finding the floor very interesting.

"I notice everything."

He takes a step toward you, and it’s so quick, so unexpected, that you can't help but glance up. He's actually extremely close, his face mere inches from yours, and you find yourself frozen, unable to speak, unable to think, as his eyes lock with yours.

"I notice that the color of your eyes changes depending on the lighting." He pauses, and his voice grows softer. "And I notice that your pupils dilate when I'm near. I notice the way you breathe, the way you laugh, the way you chew your bottom lip when you’re deep in thought. And I can’t help but notice that the closer I get, the faster your heart rate becomes. That could be a number of things, of course, and not just an indication of arousal, but considering the context, the likelihood that it’s due to anything other than sexual excitement is simply—"

"Spence," you breathe, your pulse pounding in your ears. You’re not sure what to do, so you blurt out the first thing that pops into your mind. "Do you want to be my fake boyfriend?"

There’s a moment of silence, followed by a quiet snort.

"I thought I already was."

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but the tension between you has lessened. Now, he’s simply staring at you with a smug smile, and it's like a dam has burst. The words tumble out of your mouth, spilling out like water from a leaky faucet.

"Well, then, you should know that my boyfriend is absolutely infuriating and has a tendency to ramble about obscure facts at inappropriate moments. And he’s really, really bad at taking a hint."

His smile widens, and his voice takes on a teasing tone.

"Oh, he is, is he? Tell me, is he good at chess?"

"No, he’s terrible at it."

"Then, he sounds like a total loser."

"Yeah," you admit, biting back a smile. "He’s the biggest loser I know."

"In that case, you should know that my girlfriend is incredibly frustrating and a compulsive liar who uses her boyfriend for cover stories. She also tends to cheat her way to victory despite still losing most of the time."

"I do not cheat!" You protest, playfully punching him on the shoulder.

"No, you just make up rules on the spot in order to justify why you lose so badly."

"You’re one to talk. You’re the one who’s been letting me win all this time."

"Perhaps," he grins. "Or maybe I’ve been letting you believe that."

You narrow your eyes.

"Are you admitting to me what I think you're admitting?"

"What is it that you think I’m admitting to?"

"I think you’re admitting to me that you’ve been throwing our chess games all this time."

"That sounds like the ramblings of someone who cheats and is trying to project their own faults onto others."

"Oh, you know what—"

And that's when the bedroom door swings open, and your mother's voice cuts through the air like a knife.

"Ahem."

She's standing there, smiling, and holding a box filled with old pictures and baby toys. Your father had sent it to you last year, hoping that you’d have children soon and use it, but you’d put it in storage, intending to deal with it later. Apparently, your mother had decided now was the perfect time.

The both of you share a look, and it's clear that he’s thinking the same thing as you.

"Not interrupting, am I?" She asks, glancing from him to you and then back again. Her smile was practically glowing, and she had a strange look in her eyes as if she were a cat watching a bird. "I was just looking for a place to put these old things and thought maybe my daughter's boyfriend might be interested in seeing them."

The shared look between the two of you solidified what was going through both of your minds. This was indeed going to be a long, long afternoon.

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spoonies-and-knives · 2 days ago

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[id 1/ a tweet by Antoine (@/AJohnsonHist): The chiropractor really told me that because I'm Black, my bones are naturally denser than other 'races.' When I asked what he based that off of, things got awkward lol. Needless to say I'm getting a new chiropractor

Below is a reply by AmandaBeth @/AFon789: I had a pharmacist (which requires a doctorate) tell me black people have an extra muscle in their calves which is why their such good athletes. When I told him that's not true he looked at me like I was crazy.

/end id 1.]

[id 2/ tags which say: #same thing about a midwife on twitter who had her mentor tell her that black skin is 'thicker' so u have to jab us harder with needles #when we say white supremacy and systemic oppression this is what we mean #false white notions of black bodies are held as fact and readily taught and parroted by medical students who then #use it in their practice and it is dangerous and costs lives #like thats the systemic part. thats the supremacy (of white reality as fact) #like is it clicking? /end id 2]

[id 3/ tags which say: #maybe if we all think very hard #we can figure out why the idea that black people are stronger tougher and feel less pain may have come from #and who that notion may have benefited #spoilers: it is absolutely fucking was not black people #even now this is a way of treating black people with less care and consideration #no matter how hard you try to spin it as a positive /end id 3]

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riddlesrizzler · 2 days ago

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𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙆𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙡𝙚𝙙𝙜𝙚

summary: The price of books these days is outrageous.

characters: mattheo riddle. ravenclaw!reader

warnings: none, just fluff

word count: 663

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Mattheo Riddle was not a studios person. He didn't spend his nights buried in his textbooks, he never planned out essays in advance, and the only reason he even showed up to class most days was to make sure you didn't work yourself into an early grave.

So when you walked into the library, ready to gather everything you needed for your upcoming project, and found every single relevant book missing, you understandably distressed.

"What do you mean all the books on magical architecture are checked out?" you asked, staring at Madam Pince in disbelief.

The librarian huffed. "I mean exactly that. Someone got to them first."

You frowned, gripping your list of sources. "But that doesn't make sense. No one else is going this topic for their project. Who would-"

A slow realization settled over you, your eyes narrowing.

There was only one person who would go to such lengths to bother you.

—

You stormed into the Slytherin common room, marching straight past a very startled looking Theo and Enzo.

"Where is he?" you demanded.

Theo smirked. "Wow, I don't think I've ever seen you this mad."

"Mattheo," you said through gritted teeth. "Where is he?"

"That depends," came a familiar voice from behind you. "Are you looking for me because you missed me, or because you want to kill me?"

You turned on your heel, and sure enough, Mattheo was leaning casually against the doorway of the common room, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"You stole all the books I need for my project," you accused.

He tsked. "Stole is a strong word. I borrowed them."

"You don't even like books!"

"That's not true," he said, smirking. "I like you. and you like books. Therefore, I have an appreciation for books by association."

You crossed your arms. 'Give them back."

He tilted his head, pretending to consider. "Hmm, I don't know. See, I put in all this effort to check them out for you. Seems only fair that I get something in return."

You gave him a flat look. "Mattheo."

He grinned. Unphased. "One kiss per book."

Your mouth fell open. "You- you blackmailed me for affection?"

He shrugged. "I prefer to think of it as an exchange of goods and services."

"You are unbelievable"

"And yet, here you are, still madly in love with me."

"That is not what this is."

Mattheo stepped closer, smirk softening into something almost playful. "Come on, sweetheart. You're always so stressed about projects. I figured I'd help you out and have a little fun while I'm at it."

You signed, running a hand through your hair. "You really expect me to-"

"A deal's a deal," he cut in, raising a brow. "Unless, of course, you don't want the books..."

You groaned, but the warmth in his gaze made it hard to stay mad. You stepped closer, rising onto your toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

"There," you muttered. "Now give me my books."

Mattheo chuckled. "Sweetheart, that was one. you still owe me fove more."

You face flushed. "You are insufferable."

You huffed, glaring at him for a moment before finally conceding. You kissed the other side of his face, then his forehead, then his nose- and each time, he grinned wider, clearly reveling in your flustered state.

"Two more," he murmured.

You hesitated, heart thudding, before leaning in and pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth.

His smirk flattered, dark eyes flickering over you with something deeper.

Your breath hitched.

"Last one," he said softly, his voice lower.

You swallowed, pulse racing as you finally kissed him properly, you lips meeting his in a way that made the entire common room disappear.

Mattheo didn't let you pull away so easily this time. His hand found your waist, tugging you closer as he deepened the kiss, his usual teasing replaced with something far more intoxicating.

By the time you broke apart, you were breathless.

Mattheo smirked, brushing his thumb over your cheek. "You know, I was going to give you the books anyway."

You glares at him, although it lacked any real malice. "I hate you."

His grinned wideded. "No you don't."

You smile the smallest bit before turning away.

He was right, you don't.

#slytherin #slytherin boys #harry potter #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #slytherin aesthetic #my works #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo imagine #mattheo fluff #mattheo x you

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dreamersparacosm · 2 days ago

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under the checkered flag - epilogue blurb 3!

prompt ; in which you take a ride (literally and figuratively.)

warnings ; this is straight up you riding him in his race car. that’s all folks.

request ; linked here

part of the under the checkered flag universe

Jungkook’s racecar wasn’t made for comfort—not with its stiff leather seats and unforgiving angles—but that’s the last thing on your mind when his lips are on yours, your body slotted on top of his in the driver’s seat of his Ferrari F40. The car smells like leather and gasoline, with the lingering remnants of burnt rubber from earlier races, his cologne lingering in the upholstery, invading your nostrils and bloodstream.

It’s like something out of an elaborate Fast and Furious AO3 fanfiction (and you’re pulling some inspiration from them in this moment.)

It all started like this: Jungkook had pulled his racecar into his driveway, the low purr of the engine settling into silence as he parked, fingers still drumming against the wheel like he wasn’t ready to let go of the rush just yet. And maybe you should have let him have his moment when you stepped out of the house to welcome him, but when you had seen the bright red vehicle, the sleek body practically begging to be taken back onto the road, the words were tumbling out of your mouth.

“Can I ride in it?”

And of course, he could never say no to you.

Not when you were standing there in that damn sundress, soft fabric brushing against your thighs, looking at him with those eyes that made him weak in the knees.

He had just sighed, a little dramatically, like he had to pretend he wasn’t already unlocking the passenger side door.

“One ride,” he had muttered, but you didn’t miss the smirk playing on his lips as he added, “Don’t get any ideas.”

And yet, here you are now: straddling him in the front seat, chair reclined as far back as it can go, getting all the wrong ideas.

He’s so damn hot like this, half-lidded eyes watching you through dark lashes, tousled hair begging for your fingers, his grip flexing against your skin every time you shift. You, however, feel like a teenage girl sneaking kisses with the bad boy behind the school bleachers.

It’s laughable how desperate you are for him, how insanely good he looks in the most casual outfit yet it’s doing so much to you. Your lips trail down, moving from his mouth to his jaw, your faded lip gloss leaving shiny marks on his golden skin.

He’s close to giving in — you can tell by the way his breathing is more strained than ever, the way his tattooed hand tightens on the back of your head as your lips wander, the way your name falls from his mouth like he’s begging himself to not give into you. He cannot afford to explain to his manager why he so desperately needs to clean the inside of his car.

“What are you doing?” His voice is low, laced with amusement and disbelief, despite him knowing damn well what you are alluding to.

But you don’t hesitate, your mind already made up, voice muffled against his pulse. You are a woman on a mission. “We are fucking in this car.”

Jungkook is short-circuiting. There’s no other way to explain it. Because you, his sweet, sweet girlfriend, the one who used to trip over her own words just talking to him, who blushed if he so much as teased you, who once nearly choked on a sip of wine when he casually mentioned how good you looked in red, just looked him dead in the eye and said, “we are fucking in this car.”

Like you hadn’t just sent his brain into a full system reboot.

He blinks at you. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure.

“I—” he starts, then stops, swallows hard, shakes his head as if he’s trying to clear it. He’s trying to think of something, anything about how this car is worth more than a small house, about how many races it’s won, about how it’s been with him through every victory, every moment of his career.

But then he really looks at you. The straps of your sundress are slipping slightly off your shoulders, the fabric bunched up around your thighs, exposing more skin than should be legal, your breasts sitting perfectly, rising and falling with every heavy breath you take. Your lips are swollen, slick and pink from his kisses, your eyes glazed over.

Suddenly, Jungkook doesn’t give a shit about the car. Doesn’t care about the fine leather seats, the pristine dashboard, the million-dollar vehicle that built his career. Doesn’t care about anything but being inside you.

“Fuck it,” he breathes against your mouth, his voice hoarse. “You wanna fuck in this car? We’ll fuck in this car.”

Jungkook’s lips are hot, open-mouthed, trailing down your throat, the metal of his lip ring cool against your burning hot skin. “You look so good right now,” He moans wantonly, making no effort to hide behind his usual stone-cold appearance.

He pulls your tits free, the fabric of your dress pooling around your waist, leaving you exposed to the parking garage in his house (because, well… you two never even made it out of the driveway) and Jungkook loses his mind. See, the thing about sundresses, they’re deceivingly innocent. A little fabric, a little flowy, a whisper of fabric against the skin. But on you? On you, they’re a goddamn hazard. You don’t wear them like normal people do. No, you wear them around the house, barefoot, hair tossed up like you couldn’t be bothered, and, most egregiously, with nothing underneath. This is one of those times where he’s questioning where the fuck your underwear is.

His mouth is on you in an instant, lips closing around your nipple, tongue laving over the sensitive bud. His eyes meet yours as he shucks just hard enough to make you dig your nails into his scalp and beg for more. “Jungkook, ah—“

“You like that, baby?” He murmurs against your skin, his voice so cocky, so smug. He’s sucking his way across your chest to your other breast, making sure to devote just as much attention to it. He pulls off with a wet pop, his lips bright pink, his breath heavy.

You roll your hips slowly, dragging yourself against the throbbing bulge beneath his pants, every press of your soaked core against him. “Didn’t know my car turned you on so much,” He teases.

You have fully lost the ability to speak, no words exiting as you drag your clitoris against the rough fabric of his jeans. Anything, something, to feel some kind of stimulation and relief.

His hands fly to his belt, fumbling and pulling at the leather strap, the metal clinking loudly in the quiet of the car. His chest heaves as he yanks it free, all the while you giggle breathlessly, still rolling your hips against him, making it so much worse, but also making it so much better. “God, I cannot wait to be inside you,” He mutters, mostly to himself.

His jaw clenches as he finally manages to shove his pants down enough to free himself, his cock springing up, his tip red from how much he’s been holding back. “You’re really about to ride me in my fucking car?” He exhales, his pupils blown so dark that they swallow up every trace of color in his irises.

“What?” Your lips curve into a wicked little smile, tilting your head, mock innocence dripping from your voice. “You scared?”

That little act you have going on really does it for him. “Never, baby.” He grits out.

You lift yourself just slightly, aligning yourself with him, the tip of his cock nudging against your entrance. The stretch is so intoxicating that you need to muffle your moans into the palm of your hand, mewling from the immense burn as you bury him deep inside you. His hands move down to the curve of your ass, his large hands leaving prints on your skin.

“Fuuuck,” His head falls back against the headrest of his seat, right against the Ferrari logo. “Why are you always so fucking tight?”

“Oh my god, Jungkook,” You nearly cry out, hands flying to his clothed chest to try and stabilize yourself. You lean down, pressing your bare tits against him, the space inside the car trickling with humidity.

Jungkook is watching you like a man possessed, gripping the soft flesh at your hips so tight it borders on bruising.

But, you don’t care. You don’t care about the way your head keeps bumping against the top of the roof, don’t care about the way your thighs burn, don’t care about anything except how good he feels inside you, how every little bounce sends shocks of pleasure up your spine.

“That’s it, baby,” he pants, “Riding me so good like you always do, yeah?”

“S-so good, Kook,” You gasp, the only sound in the car being your head repeatedly slamming against the roof you’re certain there’s a concussion in your future.

“Careful, baby,” he mocks, but his tone is shaky, uneven, “Gonna break my car if you keep hitting your head like that.”

You huff, frustration bubbling, but you won’t stop, not until you get what you need. “Don’t care,” You whimper, moving quicker, the wet sound of your juices coating his cock filling the small space, drowning out everything else.

Your hands cup his face, fingers threading through his damp hair, trying to kiss him, needing to taste him, but every time your lips get close, your consistent bouncing only allows for you to brush your lips against his. “Holy shit, you look so sexy right now,” He moans against your mouth. “You’re so perfect, so so so perfect.”

Your walls tighten around him because he means it. His words aren’t just filthy whispers in the void. They’re real, honest, it’s unfiltered adoration poured into you. “Can tell you’re close, baby. God, you look so hot when you cum.”

Jungkook nearly cums right then and there with how tightly your walls are clinging around him. He can tell you’re close, eyes nearly rolled back into your pretty little head. Usually, he’s good about holding out. Really good. He can last for ages, a result of all the fucking you two have been doing ever since you began dating and he realized his girl was nothing short of a freak. But something about how you struggle to hold his gaze, hips frantically moving up, down, in figure-eights, eyes fluttering shut, tits bouncing near his throat where he’s holding back a string of curse words… well, it’s fucking hot. He realizes he might cum before you, and his hand reaches down, finding your clit with ease and rubbing the bud with the pad of his thumb.

Your whole body jolts at the added intensity, the pleasure hitting like a freight train, thighs trembling violently“I, fuck, I can’t—I’m—”

You can’t even finish the sentence, your orgasm ripping through you so hard it almost hurts, your entire body convulsing as you scream his name. And you don’t even realize he’s finishing too, caught up in your own haze, until you feel a rush of warmth inside you as he finally spills into you.

The car reeks of sex, the windows fogged up. Your body just kinda.. collapses on top of him, heartbeats slamming against their respective ribcages. His arms stay lazily wrapped around you, fingers tracing nonsense patterns along your spine, cock slowly softening inside you.

“You know,” Jungkook whispers in your ear, his voice lazy, “I’m gonna have to spend a stupid amount of money getting this car deep-cleaned now.”

You groan against his chest, swatting weakly at his arm. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

He laughs, “I’m serious, baby. This is a million dollar car. Do you know how much of a pain it is to clean the upholstery?”

You lift your head, propping your chin on his chest to glare at him, “You’re literally a millionaire. You’ll survive.”

Jungkook hums, pretending to mull it over. “Yeah, but I’d rather spend my money on spoiling my girl, not on my car.”

You groan again, hiding your face in his warmth, and he chuckles, full and satisfied.

And yeah, maybe you did just ruin his precious racecar, but if the way he’s still holding onto you is anything to go by, you’re pretty certain he doesn’t mind.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

#well.#going into hibernation now until price of desire drops #bc I am going out all weekend w my friends starting tn and I need to be normal #pce out #jeon jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jungkook fanfic #bts #bts army #bts x reader #bts smut

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midnightshindig · 2 days ago

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Hey👀👀 could we get some first kiss rex hc that are just emotional as hell?? Not necessarily angsty hes just feeling feelings😞🙏

Rex Splode x Reader: First Kiss

ughhhh i'm not over rex

also what the HELL Rudy

gonna deadname him forever sorry guys, not a biggot just a hater </3

hcs under the cut!

Rex is a nervous bitch

he hasnt really had a first kiss he's cared that much about since he was fourteen with Eve

and even then he was fourteen so he didn't really know how big of a deal it was

BUT this is post-lobotomy Rex

and he really likes you

and he can't mess this up

he can't "Rex it up" as Amanda lovingly put it when he begged her for help

"Pleaaase Amanda- you're a woman- kinda- you know about this romance junk!" he pressed his palms into prayer and knelt at her, shuffling towards her comedically as she rolled her eyes

"First-!" she shoved a pointed finger into his face "Don't call romance 'junk', it's annoying."

Amanda sighed a long, heavy sigh, and pinched her temple

"And two, I'm calling in reinforcements."

two hours later Rex is in his room with Mark, Eve, William, Amanda, and Rudy all piled in

Rex isn't sure why William OR Rudy are there, but he figures more the merrier

"ooookay." William starts, leaning onto his propped up knee "You've been seeing this person for how long?"

Rex swallowed his spit nervously "uhm... we've been like talking and going on dates and shit for a few weeks- uhhh..." he starts counting on his fingers before Rudy cuts him off

"Rex and Y/n have been mutually exclusive for two months and three days."

Eve's jaw goes slack "Two months?! Rex what the hell?" her scolding is teasing yet bewildered, a playful hand gesturing from its place around Mark's shoulder "Just kiss them already, why are you being a wuss?"

Rex buries his head in his hands, overwhelmed by the overlapping conversation and criticism as the room erupts into dialogue

"I JUST-" he calls out, quieting the room

"I want to make it memorable. And... special."

His face is on fire

he's blushing so hard it hurts

Okay now they HAVE to help him figure this out

so three hours of brainstorming and meticulous planning-- some light lunch and snacking-- later, Rex has a game plan

Everyone shuffles out of his room as quietly as they can, except for Eve, who tells Mark she'll catch up in just a minute

The door closes them into the same space, alone

"Oh, uh... what's up, Eve?" Rex's shoulders tensed as he took in Eve's serious expression and folded arms

She broke out in a small smile "Do you really like this person, Rex? Like you're not going to cheat and be a dick?"

He nodded a small, but intentional nod. Intimidated as fuck by his ex-girlfriend.

She responded by rushing forward and pulling him into a bone crushing hug

"oOoooo I'm so excited for you" she pulled him closer, as he slowly wrapped his arms around her in return

"Ha- Thanks, Eve. I appreciate it."

Eve pulled back and stared into his eyes intensely "Don't freak out, just be yourself, okay? I'm so happy for you, Rex."

As they separated and Eve made her way out, Rex flopped back onto his bed

He'd just received the blessing of his only true friend, this couldn't possibly go wrong.

A few days later, and you're reading in your room

a slip of paper came under the door

"Hm?" you set your book down and went to retrieve it

It was a crude drawing of the two of you-- yourself and Rex-- in the mountains?

It was hard to tell

he was not a good artist.

Regardless, you opened the door to find another piece of paper

and another

all littered with doodle of the two of you, tracing through the GotG HQ to the "back door" so to speak

"Rex?" You inquired cautiously, fearful it may be a trap

"Hey!"

you flung around and caught Rex's nose in a high kick, before realizing your mistake and covering your mouth in surprise

"Ah!! Rex!! fuck- I'm so sorry!"

Rex hit the snowy floor like a crumbled piece of paper, holding his bruised nose and trying to shake it off

"iiiii'm good! I'm fine! Wuh-uhh... fuuuuck." He steadied himself by leaning onto you a little, wrapping an arm around you

You assessed the situation, thankfully not having broken his nose

"Oh Rex, I'm so sorry... and after all your hard work with those drawings.... is there anything I can do to help?"

"You can kiss it better."

The silence was thick with romantic tension, and you stared at him wide eyed while he stared back in abject horror-- at himself, not you

"No-NO! FUck- this wasn't- Ugh! Stupid- Stupid0" he groaned, sitting in the snow and leaning against the GHQ

You looked down at him, confused

He just held his bruised face in his hands "That's not how it was supposed to go."

Carefully, you sat next to him in the thick, powdery snow.

"How what was supposed to go?" you placed a loving hand on his upper arm

Rex leaned into your touch, eventually leaning his head onto your shoulder "I wanted to say all this shit about how much you mean to me- and how much of a better person I want to be for you, and all this stuff..." he pulled out snow-soggied crumpled notecards, passing the ball of paper to you as you deciphered key phrases and bullet points

He sighed again, nuzzling into your shoulder "Iwanted our firstkiss tobe special, yknow?" he looked up at you with the saddest eyes, obviously welling with tears "You deserve that much."

Now it was your turn to blush so hard it hurt

or maybe it was the cold.

"R-Rex- I don't... I mean..."

the longer you trailed off the louder the thumping in Rex's chest got

eventually, though, you spit it out

With a warm affect "Rex, you're so perfect."

and you leaned down, kissing his lips gently

He reacted swiftly, bringing his hand to your cheek, warmth bringing solace and comfort to the bitter cold threatening to permeate your layers the longer the two of you sat in the snow.

The kiss lasted what felt like forever

but in reality it was maybe three minutes

You noticed Rex opening and closing his eyes, to check if you were still there

When you finally had to part lips, Rex sifted himself up to be level with you, allowing him to wrap an arm around your shoulder and pull your head to his chest

"I really like you, Y/n. And I want to be a good guy for you."

"You are a good guy, you're the best guy I could ask for."

"No. I'm not. But don't worry, babe." his humorous tone crept back into the serious situation, easing the tension a little

"I'm going to be."

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lyricwritesprose · 2 days ago

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"Karim?" Joey says very quietly. We're both pretending to use the library computers. Neither of us are. We're here because it's fucking freezing out there and it's warm in here, and the librarians are pretty good about not throwing anyone out unless they're making noise or causing trouble. Freezing doesn't matter to me but I worry about Joey, he's got things going on that turn his self-care skills into pure shit.

"Yeah?" I say, just as quietly.

"Need a reality check."

Yeah, that's one of the things that's going on. Joey gets more or less anchored depending on the day. "Go ahead," I say.

"Thought I saw you fly off yesterday." Joey frowns. "Yesterday? Maybe Monday. Shit, what day is it?"

It's a fast struggle but a surprisingly difficult one. I don't like life on the street any more than the rest of us, but Seriously Bad Things could happen if my real name gets out. I could just lie to Joey. He'd believe me. It might not even bother him that much. He's hallucinated before. All I'd have to do…

Is lie to him about the state of his own brain.

Yeah. No. "Yeah, you saw that."

Joey thinks about this for a moment. He's scrambled at times but nobody ever said he was dumb. He's got a degree in astronomy. Planets sometimes talk to him but when he's on top of his game, he's sharp. "Shit."

"I'd like it not to get around."

"Why the hell not? You could be a star!"

"I could also be an experimental subject or a guy whose family is strapped to a big machine with a laser pointed at them. Prefer to avoid."

"Yeah, but—but why stay here?"

"Same as everyone else, I'm dead broke. Look, even if it weren't for ADHD issues it is really hard to hold down a job when you might have to disappear at any given second to save someone's life. You know? And I won't take money from my sister, she's barely scraping by already." And has mixed feelings about me ever since I terrorized her nasty piece of work ex, since she's bright enough to figure out that I couldn't have done that without some sort of power.

"I guess you can't just rob a bank," Joey muses. "I mean, I guess you could, but—"

I sigh. "The truth is, if some costume figures out how to do that without violence, I usually give 'em a lecture and let 'em go. Just because I won't do it doesn't mean I don't get it. Way I see it, I'm here to protect people, not things."

Joey nods. "Seems like there should be ways you could make life easier for yourself, though."

"Mm. Sometimes. There are some ways it is easier. I don't feel the cold and I don't feel the heat, that's something."

"Lucky motherfucker," Joey says without rancor.

"And, well, you've probably noticed. That things do tend to happen to those bullshit benches."

I see the start of a smile on his face. "The ones you can't lie down on."

"Yeah, those. The dividers get ripped out eventually and nobody knows how, you know? Honestly it's a stupid idea anyway, even if it wasn't for us, who wants a bench where you can't even sit next to your date? A bench where you can't sit next to someone is called a fuckin' chair, and what sort of bitch goes to city hall and says, "I'd like to install a park chair?" Who's ever heard of a park chair? Dumbfucks."

Joey nods in perfect understanding. Then he says, a little hesitantly, "You know the Golden Tomato?"

"I couldn't afford that kind of yuppie food even when I had a place, but yeah, I know it."

"They've put spikes out front. Like, little nubbles in the concrete so people can't sit down under their awning."

I think about this. On the one hand, I've got to be very careful about the favors I do, but this is a good cause…

"Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised if something happens to those, but, Joey? Really keep it under your hat."

"Even if I wanted to tell, nobody believes a schizophrenic," Joey pointed out. "Especially one with the twitches. Fucking bitch doctors." Tardive dyskinesia virtually always happens because some son of a bitch screws up on dosage, and—as Joey can tell you—it's also an instant ticket out of a job interview.

There are reasons I look out for Joey. Beyond, you know. Liking him. Kind of useless as fuck anyway, liking him, I'm ninety-nine percent certain he's straight, but it would take a real shitful asshole to drop a friend just because I'm never going to get in his pants. We've got each other's backs, that's what's important.

"I worry a lot about people getting scooped up and questioned," I admit. I could probably stand to talk to a psychologist about it, actually, but…who? "Don't worry about it. I trust you."

And I will probably never admit to Joey exactly how much that took to say.

You're a superhero. While in your suit, you're beloved by the city, but outside of it? You're a homeless man, unable to get a job nor pay rent because of your duties.

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vampireimiko · 1 day ago

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Mark Grayson x Superhero!Reader !!

warnings, none !

note, mark is actually my boyfriend like

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° You take your role on the Teen Team, protecting your teammates is your top priority. Whether it’s throwing up a shield at the last second or teleporting someone out of danger, either way, you always have everyone’s backs.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Mark had already known of your powers since you told him about them the first time the two of you met. Just by the description, he was already fascinated. Seeing you in action for the first time was literally MIND BOGGLING for him 😭. The way you could simply grab someone and teleport them to safety or conjure up a shield to save someone in the nick of time. Don’t even get him started on when you’d disappear mid battle and he’d start worrying about what happened to you, but then he remembers you can go invisible!

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He loves how in sync the two of you are during battle. Marks lost count of how many times you’ve yanked him out of the way of a punch or blocked an energy blast for him. “You know, one day I won’t need saving,” he jokes. “Mhm. And one day I’ll stop babysitting you. Guess we’ll both have to wait and see.”

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Mark brags about you constantly. If he’s not talking about how cool your powers are, he’s talking about how much you mean to the team. “They saved my ass, like, five times yesterday,” he tells Eve. “It’s kinda their whole thing.”

He loves when you teleport short distances just to mess with him. Like when he’s looking around for you, only for you to appear right behind him. “Dude, I swear one day you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

“That’s the goal,” you reply with a smirk.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° You two have the best post-battle banter. He’ll be covered in bruises, you’ll be exhausted from using your powers too much, and yet, you’ll still be teasing each other. “You really need to stop leading with your face,” you say, inspecting his newest black eye. “And you need to stop burning yourself out saving my reckless butt,” he shoots back.

Outside of fighting, you and Mark are practically attached at the hip. He loves that you’re one of the few people who can keep up with him. Getting him to race you different places around the world was always a fun experience. When Mark realized you teleported faster than he could fly he was in awe.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Whenever you’re training and visibly getting tired, Mark is quick to grab you and tell you to stop over exerting yourself. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” he says, arms crossed as he gives you that worried look he always does when you push yourself too hard. “Not me, Cecil, or anyone else.” You huff but let him drag you to sit down, secretly appreciating the way he always looks out for you.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° When Mark realizes he likes you, he panics. He starts getting flustered every time you casually touch his arm or teleport too close to him. One day you’re patching up a scrape on his face, and he just stares at you, heart racing. “You okay?” you ask, raising a brow. “Yeah! Yep! Totally fine!” (That man is not fine 😹)

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° His confession is so awkward and rushed. “So, uh, I like you. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. And I think you’re really cool, not just ‘cause of your powers, but because you’re you, and I—uh—yeah.” You blink, amused. “You just figured that out?” Mark groans, facepalming. “You knew?” “Mark, I think everyone knew.” You giggled teasingly.

additional note ! it infuriates me that there’s no more invincible thursdays 😿

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

#spirits works 🤍#invincible #invincible x reader #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #black reader #x reader #fem!reader #male!reader #gn reader #gn!reader

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everlastingserenitys · 2 days ago

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MY NEXT DIVORCE?

summ. single father sylus hasn't gotten any action lately, until you found him.

pairing sylus x f!reader cw. dilf!sylus, divorcee!sylus, kinda pervy too, p in v, dirty talk, almost getting caught, oral, fingering a/n I really really like this one mmm

cross posted from ao3 ;3

It got to the point where Sylus stopped caring about his divorces.

He never liked any of the women he’s been with, anyway.

Except for the fact he did get one of them pregnant.

After their daughter was born, the wife got bored of him, so she left the kid to Sylus.

Now he had full custody of the child.

But years passed and he hadn’t gotten any action or any new relationship after his most recent wife left him.

He was so close to giving up, until one night…

Sylus was sitting at the bar like it was any regular day. He swirled his glass in a circular motion, watching the drink flow in his glass.

He let out a heavy sigh as he day dreamed into thin air, the sounds of the music deafening his ears and he looked around, hoping to find someone tonight.

Sylus pinched the bridge of his nose and took off his glasses.

Then, he felt tapping on his shoulder. Sylus turned to the person tapping him and almost fainted.

His eyes darted up and down at your figure resting against the empty barstool next to his. His eyes immediately make eye contact with your miniskirt showing off everything under.

He examined your whole outfit head to toe, it was like you were begging to be fucked tonight. And he wanted to be the one to give you that.

Sylus raised an eyebrow at you, picking up his glasses from the table and putting them back on.

Your fingers graze his bicep and his breath hitches. It was obvious the feeling was mutual. Sylus got up from his seat and threw a few bills on the counter before dragging you out of the bar.

“If you wanted it that bad you could’ve used your words.” He mumbled, his grip tightening on your wrist as he rushed to the car.

The back door flung open and you were slammed in the backseat. Sylus large figure loomed over you and his face inched closer and closer towards you.

“Tell me you want it, please” Sylus begged, the last word slipped out in a desperate whine and it was obvious he needed it more than you.

“I need it…” you sigh, your fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt. You lightly tug on the buttons, letting each of them slip off one by one.

“Damn it, sweetie..” he groaned, watching as your fingers slid through each button, one by one. Eventually each button was off and the shirt draped to his sides.

Your eyes dart to his perfectly toned chest and, instinctively, you glide your fingers along his abs. As your cold fingertips make contact with his hard abs, Sylus was already acting like a puppy who just ran a marathon.

His face was flushed in a bright pink tone and his breath was getting ragged by the second, he couldn’t control himself anymore and crashed his lips onto yours.

Sylus pushed his tongue deep in your mouth, causing both your tongues to intertwine together. His chest was pressed against you and you felt like you were going to collapse any second.

“W-wait! Here?” You pull away and glance around the car, Sylus sighed and looked around the car as well.

“My daughter may be home in a bit but I guess we could go to my place.”

Your eyes widened, “daughter? Then maybe I shouldn’t-”

“Why would I get on you if I had a wife, sweetie?” Sylus chuckled, giving you a quick peck on your lips and headed over to the driver's seat.

You slump in your seat and watch as Sylus starts up the car. You look out the window and back at the rear view window, where you make eye contact with Sylus.

“So, how old is your daughter?” You ask, while fidgeting with your fingers.

“Thirteen.”

“Ah, nice..”

Sylus nodded and switched the conversation. You didn’t realize how fast time passed until Sylus told you, you both were already at his house.

He stepped out the driver's door and quickly opened your door. His arms wrap around your waist and he lifts you off the seat, carrying you to the front door.

Sylus fumbled the keys out of his pocket and when he finally got it out, he didn’t realize it but his hands were shaking as he tried to open the door.

The key slicked in the keyhole and Sylus pushed open the door.

The second the door flung open he placed you on the ground and shoved you against the wall. His shirt was still undone and you felt the hardness of his abs brush against your chest.

Sylus held onto you as his hips rock against yours. His needy lips eventually found yours and he brings you into a fierce, suffocating kiss

Sylus’ fingers slip under your skirt and he lifts it up, your bare pussy was on display for him and he let out a growl of need.

His fingers sunk in your soaking cunt and he stroked it lazily, his large fingers were enough to stretch you out enough. You squirm under his touch and he pulls away, pushing you down on your knees.

Sylus’ fingers reached his belt and he unbuckled it in a swift motion. He pressed his boner against your wet lips and slid his fingers in your hair, directing you to look up at him.

“Suck.”

You grin. Your cold tongue darts to his chest and you slid it down his chest, letting it make contact with his rough, warm skin. Your tongue lingers on his faded happy trail and Sylus let out a needy whimper as his fingers tightened on your hair.

“Keep…going” he groaned, pushing your head further down. Your lips kiss his boner which was already dripping through his boxers and eventually, suck up the mess all over him.

An impatient sigh left sylus’ lips and he pulled down his boxers. His hard cock sprung out in a quick movement. Your eyes widen and you wrap your fingers around it.

You leaned in closer and you slid your tongue against his dripping tip.

Your lips latch onto the head of his cock and you deliberately push his whole length, deep in your mouth. The tip of his cock made contact with your throat and you held back a gag as you continued thrusting yourself back and forth on his cock.

“That’s good….soo good..” he groaned, pushing your head in and out. A whine slipped out of your lips and you grabbed onto him tighter.

“‘m gonna cum!” He moaned, pulling your head away and releasing all over your face. A streak of warm, white cum sprawled all over your face and you chuckle.

Sylus laughed in response and quickly cleaned up your face. When he finished, he lifted you off the ground, your legs shook as you got up and Sylus carried you to his room.

“My kid should be home in ten minutes… let’s make this quick, yeah?” He asked as his glowy ruby eyes looked into yours. You nod and Sylus kicks open his bedroom door, placing you on the bed.

You plop on the bed, your breasts bounced at the impact and you immediately notice Sylus’ eyes dart towards there.

He grabbed onto your thighs as he spread your legs apart. You moan as he aligned himself between your spread legs.

He rocks his hips against yours. The friction of his sloppy cock making contact with your dripping pussy was making you get turned on.

Sylus was already hard. He slicked his cock on your pussy, rubbing himself back and forth until he felt it was good enough.

“Sylus! just put it i-inngh?!”

Sylus thrusted his cock in your hole, not even half his length was inside you and your cunt looked like it was about to rip off any second now.

“Shit…you’re so tight, are you a virgin?” Sylus moaned, pushing more of his length inside you. You shook your head and thrusted yourself in him.

“You sure?”

“I promise!” You whined. Soft begging filled the room and you were getting more desperate by the second. Your hips buck at the feeling of his tip reaching your cervix and continuously pound into it.

“Sylus more!”

“More? Beg then.”

“P-please mo—mmph” your begging was interrupted when sylus’ fingers shoved deep into your throat. He gave you a warning glance and that’s when you knew what was going on.

His daughter came home, earlier than expected.

“Dad?! Where are you?” His daughter yelled. Her muffled voice sounded like it was getting closer and closer.

“I’m here, sweetheart. Give me two minutes, yeah?” Sylus yelled back. He continued to pound into you as his daughter's footsteps faded away.

Sylus pulled his fingers out of you, a gasp escaped your lips as you beg for release already. He nods and thrusts himself into you one last time, letting pleasure spark through you as a streak of cum pools out of him.

He placed his fingers between your cunt and stretched it out, watching his and your cum stream out of you.

He pulled away and plopped on top of you.

“How am I going to leave?” You chuckle, pushing his head away from your chest. He groans and hugs you again.

“Just stay the night, I'll tell my daughter I started seeing you.”

part 4 of untamed desires | sylus -> next work

#sylus love and deepspace #sylus smut #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #lads smut #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace smut #sylus #qin che #lads sylus

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aardvaark · 12 hours ago

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leverage rewatch: s1e1 "the nigerian job"

i love that nate’s very first line is threatening to punch this guy in the throat, said while day drinking alone in a bar. really sets the stage for how broken up he is at this moment.

on the opposite end, hardisons first line is insulting the tech for this heist lol. immediately clear this team is gonna be a problem (affectionate) for nate.

eliot’s first line is said to somehow both commend and mock hardison ("you’re not as useless as you look") and that is a pretty good look into their dynamic for the whole series lol.

hardison and parker’s very first on-screen interaction is hardison being enamored with her (and eliot teasing him about it) <3

hardison telling eliot "i don’t even know what you do" is a fun little line because it starts to show how much the team actually know about each other before this heist. like, nate knows a decent amount about all of them, and they know a bit about nate. but hardison knows nothing about eliot, and eliot’s (previously mentioned) first line also implies that if he does know anything about hardison, it’s probably not much either. im gonna elaborate on this in a separate post before i get off track lol.

parker’s first *mention* comes before she’s actually on screen, when nate is looking through the files of the team he’s gonna work with and says that "parker is insane". people have pointed this out a bunch of times before but this is a really perfect first mention of her because we will spend most of her arc throughout the series showing that this isn’t really true! by season five, she’ll get to finally "respond" to that introduction of hers - "they said i was crazy, but i never was. i never was". and it’s really interesting to see nate go from being the person who calls her insane to fully trusting her with leading the team when he’s gone.

i still think about the giant sheet of glass that parker lets fall to the ground in the first heist lol. are the people on the street okay

also love the "why the f-" [cut off] line that parker gets. i think that's the closest we get to one of the main characters saying fuck?

nate calling them children in the first episode. ironic for a guy who did NOT set out to be a father figure to these weird criminals who are gonna follow him around for the next five years.

parker being the one to introduce the chess metaphor my beloved <3 shes very perceptive! and she also just knows that "crime is fun" and nate's bound to enjoy it lol.

hospital scene from the extended pilot <3 how come eliot's chained to a chair instead of a bed like the rest of them? anyway, i wish more people watched the extended pilot because in the season 1 finale when eliot shoves the hard hat on hardison's head, you should know that he's getting petty revenge for when hardison shoved eliot's head into the roof of the cop car in this scene.

nate saying there's "payback, and if it goes right, a lot of money" for eliot and "a lot of money, and if it goes right, payback" for parker, he's got their (current) motivations nailed already.

parker and hardison being like "yeah sure lets go get whatever a 'sophie' is" vs eliot asking lol. but he also evidently follows regardless. yeah thats pretty much how nate's gonna be, sorry eliot, you'll get used to this.

i find nate and sophie's first scenes so sweet. he watches her terrible acting but from his expression you'd think she was gonna win an oscar. and when she sees him in that alley, she's trying to continue being the cool and mysterious femme fatale but she's clearly so happy underneath - he came and found her! he sought her out! he's playing her side now, and that changes everything! (and one day soon she'll realise - oh shit, this changes everything. but tonight she's just over the moon). i know they're very much not the fan favourites, but u gotta admit that their interactions in the pilot... chefs kiss!!

in the next scene at hardison's apartment, (btw, rip hardison's awesome pilot apartment which we never see again), sophie is dressed down and intently listening and taking notes which is fairly unusual for her. but not out of character necessarily - when she mentors parker in grifting later, she encourages parker to take handwritten notes.

"that's an odd thing for you to know" "that's an odd place for you to be" (eliot and sophie's lines). he picks up on her suspicious knowledge and she challenges him right back. and he immediately knows to only trust sophie about as far as he can throw her.

i wish we got to see a little of sophie meeting the others! but there's no time and it would be an unnecessary scene. i like that their introduction to sophie was her awful acting though, because that will always be their first impression - not of an incredible grifter, but of a much sillier and more genuine version of sophie than we otherwise see for most of season one.

parker laughing at hardison's joke is also adorable.

no comments on the eliot + nate pool table scene, because @laser-tripwires has already written an incredible analysis of that interaction here. :) !!

actually the only thing i will mention is eliot saying that they all know about nate's kid dying - that's very important. nate wouldn't want them to know his vulnerabilities. even if they just pity him... well to him, that might be worse.

eliot saying "incoming" about sophie walking over is also really funny to me. referring to her like she's something dangerous, and he's joking but he's not wrong!

okay where did sophie get the "black king, white knight" line from? she was not there when parker said that. maybe everyone speaks in chess metaphors in the leverage Crime World.

#lvgwatch25 #leverageposting #leverage #the nigerian job

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thesernotthedroidsurlooking4 · 2 days ago

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just finished season 4 (rewatch) and gosh, you’re putting into words a lot of my own ponderings…

I have never, ever been able to watch this season without getting fairly mad at Dean on Sam’s behalf, especially during the last two episodes. That’s not giving Dean hate—he’s just acting in character, according to how his issues manifest. Both brothers are messed up, we know this. But it always feels like the show portrays Sam and Dean’s fight… strangely.

We can agree what the main arc of the season is, correct? That both Sam and Dean are getting manipulated away from each other: Dean by heaven, and Sam by hell. And when they clash, both must thus be coming from an at least somewhat compromised state. Both are right, both are wrong; this is what fulfills the thematic mirroring of their arcs. This plotline serves as a preparation for Dean being Michael’s vessel and thematic foil/parallel, and Sam being Lucifer’s. Both of these baddies are to serve as physical incarnations of each brother’s issues, weaknesses, and dark sides.

BUT. But it doesn’t quite feel framed in such an equal, mirroring way during Season 4. It feels like the show is endorsing Dean far more than Sam in the end, but this feeling can be so hard to pin down. It’s a real mindfuck, actually. How much are we supposed to agree with Dean? I can’t tell what the writers really think, either, but it feels like Sam is constantly being told that what he’s doing is wrong, that he’s “completely off the reservation.” This ends up being correct when he accidentally frees Lucifer. But Dean is being warned far less that his soldiers’ mindset and simplistic if-it’s-supernatural-we-kill-it attitude is playing right into the angels’ hands. According to the story’s own thematic logic, showing any bias towards one brother isn’t right. Sam’s utilisation of the demon blood is a true dilemma, and should be treated as such.

I’ve never been able to decide myself what was the right choice for Sam to make, without any knowledge of Lilith’s death being the final seal and all that. Sam’s been given a power that genuinely saves people, and leaning into it is their most effective way of fighting demons, by far. Season 4 is full of examples of this—Sam keeps saving their asses, and I can’t figure out another way for the Winchesters to avoid death or disaster in many of these episodes. The “problem” is that this power comes from a demonic source. That’s it. Even when we find out that Sam’s power booster is drinking demon blood, the show just… hasn’t given us a real reason to condemn Sam for using it other than “but demons.” Yeah, demons are bad and we shouldn’t trust them, that the show has given us evidence for. But what about this power of Sam’s, specifically, is bad? Sure, Sam’s been acting colder, more arrogantly, and more ruthless, but all of these traits started back in Season 3, before he was drinking demon blood. Those are standard Sam emotional issues for his arc right now, and we haven’t been given any evidence that the demon blood is responsible. The story only gives us three reasons, only near the end, why it was wrong: a) its addictive qualities, b) moral problems with sourcing it from demons who are possessing innocent people (which was only an issue in 4x22), and c) we’re told that too much demon blood will make sam less human and change him forever, which is followed up with Sam’s eyes going black while killing Lilith (also only something that happens in 4x22). All of these reveals happened later on, assuming good, intentional writing, to purposely keep fans guessing about whether Sam was in the right. And yet, before these reveals, the show kept repeating to Sam that he was wrong. It wasn’t just from Dean, but also happened with characters like Chuck. This setup makes it sound like we’re supposed to agree with Dean, who thus far only dislikes what Sam is doing because it it’s supernatural in origin, and not human. Are we truly supposed to just take Dean’s word for it, when the show has, in previous episodes, challenged Dean’s black-and-white thinking surrounding the supernatural in episodes like 2x03, with Lenore and Gordon? We shouldn’t, then, right? And yet the show keeps repeating his warnings to Sam, as though he’s correct (and seems to justify him using that episode with the rugaru, 4x02 or 4x03, I forget which).

So my real problem is, I guess, that the show doesn’t seem to fully commit. Which is it, huh? That Sam’s demon blood powers are a true dilemma and the audience must keep guessing as to whether Sam is in the right to use them, all the way up until the surprise reveal in 4x22 that Ruby had been manipulating him into freeing Lucifer? Or that Dean keeps warning Sam against becoming a monster, but Sam betrays him by refusing to listen?

… that’s it that’s my TED Talk uh have a nice day I guess

i actually. oh my god. it’s been so long that i’ve forgotten about the absolute insanity of s4. i’ve become acclimated to sam mistreatment by the show but i genuinely think s4 is SO fucking insane because like. it’s back when supernaturals good! and yet! sams narrative arc is INSANE! in a fascinating and yet genuinely awful and horrifying way!!! and like. is that intentional?? spn is a horror show surely it’s intentional but did they actually realise what they were doing can i realllly trust that? is it smart and meta because when you put thought into it it’s really fucking clever but did they actually or did they genuinely unconsciously think dean is the actual moral compass of the show and that disobeying him is blasphemy?? or is that an intentional writing choice a la family is hell a la god is a nuclear familial patriarch?? i like to think the latter but

like. supernatural is an experiment. an experiment in how many times you have to state something about a character, even if it’s directly Not What Happens and actually genuinely false, before a fandom will accept it as 100% true. an experiment in, well, if you never directly call out that your protagonist is an unreliable speaker and narrator, will your fans ever realise?

and the answer for the first is Pretty much you can just say it once - i think as soon as most people heard ‘dad said i have to save you or kill you’, they internalised it as Sam WILL go evil and Dean will have to save him or kill him and what’s more, Dean has the right to make these choices, because everything about Sam is obviously inherently Dean’s. nevermind that sam has always tried so hard to be good and his most ‘morally grey’ era in the show is during active manipulation and is still just because he is trying SO hard to do the right thing. and the answer for the second is They will never realise, because most fans still think that dean saying sam chose a demon over him means it’s what happened.

and i don’t even know if the writers knew what they were doing during any of that. i have to believe some did. hopefully most. but i don’t even know anymore late season sam writing has made me so much less optimistic. maybe they just believed dean was fucking correct

#yeah if you can’t tell I am also a psychic!sam truther #and think he should have been given the chance to develop some psychic abilities later on while clean #and work through that season 4-5 trauma #y’all were so right for that take #sam winchester #supernatural

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the-froschamethyst4 · 2 days ago

Note

Hey so I wanted to request for a ghost x reader, let say she is a new team member top of her field. The only usually thing is that she fights funny, she fights like Bayonetta. If you don't know how Bayonetta is please check her fighting scenes on YouTube.

I really love your writing and hope you can do the request soon. Tag me

Kicking Ass, Taking Names Later

𖤐Pairing: Ghost x Sargent! F! Reader

𖤐Pronouns: She/Her

𖤐AN: Tbh, had no idea who Bayonetta was but a quick Google and YouTube search later figured it out. And yeah…that is a very…interesting…fighting style and I’ll be getting right on that ( @tired-writers-world )

𖤐Warnings: smut, harsh language, dancing fighting style, kissing/making out, codenames, badly translated French,

𖤐Summary: She's the new Sargent for Task Force 141 and Ghost just can't seem to take his eyes off her, when she is training

————

"Alright, she's crazy," Price says, watching his new recruit to Taskforce 141, her name is Y/n L/n and she isn't really new to the Military, she's a Sargent.

She was transferred from the French Military to be here for a mission with the 141 men. She was fortunate to be here, and now when it came to training the boys got to see how quick and cheeky her fighting style is.

She was training with Gaz. Gaz was getting second hand of how good she is. She had him in a headlock, her legs around his neck and she was giving him some teasing words.

"I was told you were good," she says.

"Then l-let me go and I can show you," he grunts. She let's him go and they stood up, Gaz pushes his thumb against his nose thinking it was bleeding. Y/n stood tall, hands behind her back as she waits for Kyle's attacks.

He rushes at her, but Y/n dodges his punch, she moves behind him and kicks his back foot out making him land on his knee.

"Hey!"

"You're not showing me that you're good." She gives him a teasing smile.

"Just hold still then."

"Fine," like Gaz wanted she stays put and he starts to charge at her again, pinning her to the mat and Soap who was standing off to the side ready to mediate when it was necessary watched as Gaz held her wrist and was throwing some playground insults at her, only to feel legs wrap around his neck and yank him backwards off her body.

She cat flips up on her feet and looks at Gaz who held his neck while on his back.

"Sorry for going to hard on you," she says. She puts her hand out for him to take, which he does.

"Yeah? No problem, and no hard feelings," he gives her a smile.

"Y/n!" Price calls for her. She turns and sees the man standing with his arms crossed over his chest, she takes a towel and wipes her forehead.

"Evening Captain," she says with a smile, she then turns to the man standing next to Price. "Who's he?" She asked.

"Oh, right, Sargent this is my Lieutenant Simon Ghost Riley."

"Ghost? Oh yeah, Gaz and Soap was telling me about you," she slightly giggles.

"Something funny about my name?" He asked, a bit serious.

"No, but you get dropped on your ass a lot," she was talking about training, Ghost may know what he is doing on the field, but during training he gets his ass handed to him quite often.

Her giggles were the only thing Ghost was really focusing on.

"You speak English pretty well," Simon wanted to change the subject. "For a French woman."

"I learned English in the second grade, and after that, I started to use it more then my native language."

"I don't hear an accent?"

"I hide it very well, when I speak English." She says to him.

"I can't tell if they're flirting or she's trying to get under Ghost's skin," Gaz whispers to Soap.

"Maybe both," Soap whispers back.

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

During the mission, Y/n was partnered up with Ghost to go into this bunker, they were on a search and rescue mission while also trying to stop this illegal weapon smuggling, and cartel.

Y/n was in front while Ghost covered her 6.

"Go ahead," she says.

"Hand signals, Sarg."

"You think I use hand signals? Go, Lt," she whispered yelled at him.

"Use them," he grumbles while walking by her. She rolls her eyes and now she was covering him.

The rest of the time it was silent between them. Ghost looks over his shoulder feeling Y/n had pushed up against him.

"You're too close, Sargent."

"I'm trying to look too."

"How are you a Sargent, but take things so unserious?" He asked, annoyed.

"I do take things serious!"

"Back up," he growls under his breath, and she did.

"Will you two stop bickering?" Price says over their earpieces.

"Why'd I get paired up with the French woman?" Ghost says.

"Because she's good," Price reminds Ghost, who looks over his shoulder seeing Y/n have a smirk on her face.

"Because I'm good," she teased Ghost.

"So good she doesn't use hand signals?"

"Shut up, I'm good and you know it," she walks by him and points her gun up and she goes around the corner.

"Hey, you can't just take off," Ghost whispered yelled and chased after her.

"Oh here we go," Soap joins in.

When going through the bunker, Y/n was off on her own looking at a room that looked like was burnt. She picks up a few burned items and picked up a burnt stuffed giraffe. The head was hanging on by a tread, and she felt tears in her eyes.

"What the hell?" Ghost walked.

"I think they were holding children here..." she shows him the stuffed animal.

"Sick bastards."

"Let's move on," she drops the stuffed animal and wanted to leave this room behind, but she doesn't want to forget about it, she used the back of her hand and wiped the tears away from her eyes and Ghost watched as her emotions almost showed.

"Sarg-"

"Let's go," she says again.

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

They got to a door that looked like a safe, Ghost had battered the door opened and as they had abruptly entered the room guns and lasers were pointed at the both of them.

"DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" The man in front yells. A small amount of men pointed their weapons at them.

"DROP THEM NOW!" Another yells, Ghost with a grunt tosses his gun to the ground and Y/n does to, both putting their hands up and placing their hands behind their head.

As Y/n kept an eye on the guy in front her hand goes to the handle of her dagger that was held in the back of her vest. She quickly pulls it out and throws it at the front guy.

He holds his bleeding neck and drops to the floor, the men tried to fire at them but Ghost grabbed his pistol and fires at one of the guys. One goes after Y/n.

She lifts her leg and kicks the guy in his stomach sending him to the ground, but he gets back up and tries to go after her feet, she jumps and lands on the guys back, not hard enough to break his back but enough to put him in some sort of pain.

Another goes after her but she swings her foot out tripping him, the one she jumped on, grabbed his dagger from his vest, Y/n grabs his wrist fighting with him, pushing him back taking his hand and twisting it downwards to his stomach.

He was trying his best to avoid the end from going into his stomach, but giving his hand a good push the blade had gone into his kidney.

The other man had something a bit...bigger. A fucking machete, she backed up as the man swung the bigger knife. Her back hit a table and she jumps on it. He tries to slam the blade down, but she had jumped over him.

And grabbed the pistol from the dead mans vest and pulled it out and fired a few shots at the man.

Ghost had some blood on him, but he watched Y/n and how she could handle herself, and her fighting style was weird, he didn't know what she was doing but it was impressive.

"Allez (come on)," she says, he shakes his head and follows her.

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

After the mission that turned out to be a success. Ghost had sat across the table from Y/n. She was drinking a beer while speaking with Gaz.

Ghost was still amazed she could fight like that.

"Y/n, where did you learn to fight like that?" Ghost had asked her making her stop her conversation with Gaz and looked at Ghost.

"What do you mean? I've always fought like that."

"I know, but like...did the French Military teach you?"

"Yes and no. They did but I put my own twist on it," she smiles at him. "Pourquoi veux-tu apprendre aussi, Ghost (why are you wanting to learn too, Ghost)."

"I don't understand," he says.

"Why Ghost, do you want to learn?" She rephrases.

"No, not really, I have my own fighting style thank you very much, but...damn...I've never been so impressed with how someone fights like you."

"I fight like a girl."

"A very...very hot girl." He confesses.

"WOAH! GHOST!"

"MATE COME DOWN!"

"Oh?"

"Sorry...I think..." he questioned himself. "It's just impressive, that's all," he says, not wanting to talk about it anymore.

"Aww, someone likes Y/n," Soap teased and Ghost smacked him upside his head. "Ow!"

"Shut up," he mumbles.

"Ghost, even though we didn't seem eye to eye at first, I am flattered...we should work together some other time," she smiles at him.

"Sure," was all he said.

"HEY LOOK CAP'N IS ABOUT TO SING!!" Soap yells as the guys all cheered for Price stepping onto the stage. Ghost had his head down but moved his eyes up to look at Y/n who was smiling at Price singing oh so awful, but it was just funny to watch.

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kumkaniudaku · 6 hours ago

Text

A Lovely Night

Summary: Terry and Patrice prepare for prom and a new level of their relationship.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC (Patrice Ellis)

Word Count: 8.8K

Warnings: None

At the tender age of 13, with braces still on her top row of teeth and dreams of marrying a pop star who didn't yet know her name, Patrice came to three conclusions: she was leaving St. Pius after 8th grade, she definitely did want to be a teacher someday, and she was going to have a prom date before she graduated high school.

The third conclusion came as she sat by herself at the 8th-grade formal, watching throngs of white children dance to censored hip-hop music in pairs and large groups while she was but a beautiful wallflower without the pleasure of being asked to attend. If not for her mother preemptively purchasing a dress before Patrice could confirm a dance partner for the evening, she would've stayed home and wallowed in her room. Better to cry in private than to suffer the embarrassment of visible loneliness in public. But, while she fought incoming misty tears threatening to smudge the mascara her mother had so graciously allowed her to use, Patrice swore that things would be different by her senior year. Her luck would turn. Shit, she might even be prom queen.

Years later, when dreams began to catch up to reality, Patrice's 8th-grade formal debacle seemed primed for a remix. One month until prom and still no prospect for a prom date was social status killer number one. She'd worked hard in her senior year to reinvent herself, shed the reputation she'd inadvertently received as Terry's cute but strange shadow friend, and step into a new image as the senior hottie she was destined to be. Becoming Homecoming Queen was step one in the plan. Step two was senior class president. Step three, the hardest of them all, was having a small army of young men vying for a chance to take her to the ball. So far, only the weird junior from AP Calc had stepped up. Everyone else had slowly split into pairs, preparing matching ensembles, limo rentals, and after-party plans, leaving Patrice as a lone wolf destined to repeat past failures.

"Is Napheesa really going to prom with Nate? Like for real?"

Wednesday evenings were set aside for family spaghetti night and Calc homework with Terry via ooVoo video chat. She'd completed her first task of sharing something sweet and sour from her day around the dinner table. After lying her way into something sour that didn't include her prom woes, math with Terry was a welcomed distraction.

Patrice wiped away wayward red sauce from her mouth with her hoodie sleeve before refocusing on Terry's face taking up her laptop screen. "Yeah. He asked her Sunday when they were hanging out. It was kinda cute, really. I think he sang a song or something."

Terry snickered. "Nigga swear he Trey Songz." He mocked Nate and the R&B hearthob's singing voice in one go, sending him and Patrice into laughter. When they finally calmed down, Terry settled into a more serious temperament. "Corey's going with Jasmine. I think they're wearing red."

"I heard. He showed me his tux. You know he's planning to wear red shoes? I told him he was gonna look like a Mississippi pimp, but he don't listen. Is the answer to number six 375?" As quickly as she'd delivered more news, Patrice was already on to the next thing.

Terry smiled at how her face scrunched in confusion. "No. I think you miscalculated somewhere."

"Shit," she whispered. "Don't tell me. Let me figure it out." Terry watched in rapt silence, enamored by Patrice's prominent features, which were made more striking by a neat ponytail showcasing her face as the main attraction.

He waited silently as she typed the expression into her calculator again, battling whether now or in person was a good time to ask his question. If he waited again, he risked chickening out like he did before they parted ways in the senior parking lot to beat the morning tardy bell. He decided to strike while she wasn't looking at him with those beautiful brown eyes.

"So…uh…you going to prom with anyone?"

She scoffed without looking up. "No. At least not yet. Usher still hasn't responded to my emails. I sent Chris Brown one, too, so maybe he'll come through."

"Good luck with that," he chuckled. Nerves tried to caution him on moving forward. A rational, fully formed frontal lobe would've told him to quit while he was ahead. Teenage folly made him open his mouth to say, "Wanna go with me?"

Patrice paused her work to look up and smile. "You sure? We don't have to. I wouldn't be mad if you asked someone else."

"I'm asking who I want to go with. Unless you givin' me the run around like Phee did Cam."

"No," Patrice cut in, rolling her eyes. "I was just saying!"

Terry smiled. "So we're going to prom together? Me and you? In Carolina blue? You see how I made that happen? Creative writing really might be worth it."

A genuine, hearty laugh came from Patrice's mouth as she threw her head back in reaction to Terry's terrible attempt at an off-the-cuff poem. Or so Terry thought. Really, she'd released years of pent-up fear and expected disappointment. Finally, in the 11th hour, Patrice had a prom date. Sure, it was her best friend she'd been falling more in love with day by day with no indication they'd ever be together, but it was something. Dream realized. Victory.

"Yeah, we're going to prom together," she confirmed after her giggle attack had ended. They stared at each other momentarily, basking in the implications of a night under makeshift stars in the swanky event space across town. Patrice fought to look back at her calculator and announce what had to be the correct answer this time. "It's 215. I multiplied by 23 instead of multiplying 2 and 3. Movin' too fast, I guess."

Terry nodded proudly. "Yeah. You got it. Good job."

As Patrice moved on to a new exam prep question and rolled through the math aloud, the bitter taste of dissatisfaction coated his tongue. The spark he expected from asking the girl he'd been falling deeper into what he knew of love with was nothing more than a quick flicker of excitement – fun but empty. He could do better. Especially if he wanted his true intentions of turning a friendship into something more substantial to stand a chance.

Two mornings later, with a day separating Terry's promposal and the opportunity to back out before their paring was set in stone, Patrice bounced into Francis from a doctor's appointment with a new lease on life and big news to share with Napheesa.

She opened her locker as usual before fourth-period English, looking for her orange class notebook and the assigned textbook. She found them both without issue and nearly pranced off to class with nothing but gossip on her mind until she noticed the index card taped to her locker mirror.

Can you meet me in the library after school? 398.2. I'm sure you know what that means.

The handwriting looked more feminine than Patrice was accustomed to, not matching what she'd seen from Napheesa's notes back and forth in class or from Corey, who'd mastered the forgery dark arts. Still, she tucked the instructions into her everything binder's inside pouch and kept it close until the final bell rang.

Like a spy on a top-secret mission, Patrice dodged conversations from her classmates, threaded her body between students walking to and fro in the main hallway, and quietly ducked into the library on the hunt for the mysterious being requesting her presence.

398.2. It took Patrice an entire class period to decipher what the collection of numbers meant. Too short for a phone number, obviously, she thought to herself. It wasn't a locker number or any other location in the school. Area codes didn't come with decimals. She thought long and hard, willing the answer into existence. Realization smacked her in the head with the full force of Mike Tyson on her way to Terry's locker to grab her sociology notebook. The Dewey Decimal System. More specifically, the section of the library dedicated to folk and fairytales.

Led by an ironclad knowledge of the library's layout and excitement nearly pouring from her pores, Patrice speed-walked past the librarian's station at the front, waved hello to Ms. Wanamaker re-stocking returned library books from seniors trying to clear their outstanding balances before fines set in, and turned the corner onto her intended row.

Snow White piqued her curiosity first. The book appeared to jut out from the rest, so she glanced around for any lookie-loos straggling nearby and pulled it off the shelf. Nothing. Patrice shrugged and put the book back before focusing on other possible answers. Fairy Tales from The Brothers Grimm turned up nothing. Some weird book of Greek myths briefly felt like cracking the code but ultimately fell flat. Patrice had been duped. Led astray. Lied to. She was sure someone was watching through shelves and laughing at how she'd been fooled in a scavenger hunt.

Some hopeful part of her brain directed Patrice's annoyed attention to the book spine conspicuously sticking out amongst its neighbor. She thought about what she might do if she were to flip through another dud and settled on knocking everything down as she yanked the worn edition of Cinderella from its spot. Luckily, a quick flip to its front cover ended her search.

I don't know if I'm your Prince Charming, but I want you to feel like a Cinderella for a night. Will you go with me to the ball? I'll have you home before the clock strikes 12.

She recognized this handwriting, slanted and slender, on another index card. Patrice ran her index finger over the words and gave them another full read, not noticing the tall young man slowly revealing himself at the end of the aisle with a smile on his face and the gleam of mischief in his eyes.

"I should've done this the right way the first time," he spoke, startling Patrice. He lifted his hands in surrender and disarmed her with a smile. "My bad."

Patrice smiled back. "Since when did you learn the decimal system?"

"If I tell you, I can't take you to prom. So, you either gotta answer the question on the card or get the answer to yours. Which one is it?"

"Give me your answer."

Horrified confusion and feigned annoyance flashed across Terry's young, handsome face as he watched Patrice double over in stifled laughter. He chuckled and kissed his teeth as he stepped closer. "Patrice, be serious. Will you go to prom with me? I'm really asking."

Terry's sincerity, both in his voice inflection and in how his brows knitted in anticipation of a response, made Patrice stand up to her full height and smile back at her best friend.

"Of course, TJ. I will absolutely go to prom with you."

A fist pump and smile in the back corner of the school library was as good as any contract signed in black ink with a felt-tipped pen and the appropriate amount of witnesses. It was official official. Terry and Patrice were going to prom together.

News of the expected pairing spread through the halls like wildfire, the truth morphing into something of a fairytale itself as it passed from person to person. Terry had asked Patrice in the library on one knee or in the parking lot, and they kissed, or between classes, and Patrice cried. Actually, Patrice asked Terry! In one version of events, Terry had abruptly reneged on his promposal to Junior cheerleader Cierra and asked Patrice at the last minute. A messy affair in a messy love triangle between the messiest best-friend duo the school had ever known, according to some twisted version of events.

Neither Patrice nor Terry cared to clear up rumors or refute gossip. They were too busy prepping for the best night of their young lives.

Pin cushions and yards of organza covered Patrice's living room floor by Sunday afternoon, turning recently the replaced grey carpet into a sea of light blue as her Aunt Sybil eyeballed measurements and cut the fabric into careful shapes to match the pattern Patrice and Imani had agreed was perfect for a Cinderella-inspired gown. Glitter. She needed glitter tucked into every inch to turn an ordinary dress into one that sparkled in the right light. Rosalyn requested sleeves for modesty, and Patrice agreed, not because she wanted to, but because she knew compromise was her best friend. They settled on sparkling flower appliqué details on the bodice to bring in the event's garden theme, a dainty off-the-shoulder sweetheart neckline with draped sleeves to satisfy her beaming mother, and a soft corset to create a ball gown illusion for the flowing, floor-length-skirt. A masterpiece in Patrice's eyes. Especially the hidden thigh-high split she and Imani schemed, plotted, and cried to have included when Rosalyn wasn't listening.

Hair, makeup, nails, and fragrance were all Patrice thought about for days. She sat with Napheesa on Google for hours, looking for the perfect photos to show their beauty service providers when the time came. Every detail, down to the number of tendrils springing from her bun to add a little Princess Tiana into her Disney fantasy, was carefully crafted to fit the vision she'd had of herself since the 8th grade.

Terry hadn't dived head-first off the prom prep cliff, but he was close. Marvin couldn't understand why his son was suddenly so hell-bent on switching to the younger barber and his creative cuts until Diedra pulled him aside for a quick update in the Richmond Girl saga. He couldn't have any old fade. He needed something to stop Patrice in her tracks and garner enough praise to fuel him until he was 21. He'd work every weekend until boot camp to pay off that extra $50 plus tip if it meant his haircut was precise.

A trip to the tailor turned a baggy, hand-me-down wedding tux into something tailored for his brand new, 6'3" frame. Diedra watched with pride in her shining eyes as Terry stood tall and allowed the much smaller shop owner to stand on a step ladder and adjust the jacket's shoulders to Terry's proportions. Take in the waist here, lengthen that hem, get the fit of that cummerbund just right, not too shiny on the shoes or too dark on that blue – he's got a date with the prettiest girl in the world, and he can't get caught lacking. Another $150 withdrawn from his parent's bank account, another step closer to the best night of his short life.

The final puzzle piece was the paramount matter of transportation. Terry's Explorer had been out of commission since October, both from punishment and mechanical issues. He'd improved his behavior, but the starter was still shot, and any indicator that his dad would fix it went away when Terry chose to sign his life away to the United States.

Terry knew the perfect set of wheels to act as a chariot for his princess. The creamy, off-white Cadillac with less than 40,000 miles and a sick interior parked in their garage would take him from best friend to boyfriend in 15 minutes flat. He just needed the permission.

Slinking out of his room, Terry coached himself through a pre-planned script as he jogged down the front porch steps to the tall, greying, light-skinned man diligently trimming healthy green hedges per his wife's instructions.

"Hey, Pop. You need some help?"

Marvin looked up at his son, confusion sheening his blue-green eyes, and shrugged. "If you wanna, I won't stop you." A man of few words and enough brains in his head to know when his boy was about to ask for something.

Taking his father's half-hearted invitation, Terry slid on a pair of working gloves nearby, grabbed the garden hedge sheers lying in a pile of other tools, and began carefully chopping at his mama's award-winning bushes.

They worked silently for several long minutes, two tall, slender Richmond men toiling away in the mid-April breeze until Terry mustered up enough courage to make his request known. "Dad, could I…maybe, um…drive your car for prom? Just that one night?"

"The truck?" Marvin knew the answer but wanted to teach his only son a lesson in the type of directness that made boys into men.

"No. The Cadillac. Our friends are doing the limo thing, but I want to – I'm just not trying to spend the whole night with them. It's easier if I can put the money for the limo towards dinner and really enjoy myself. With Patrice. Together for probably the last time."

Marvin listened to his son's appeal without looking away from his task, mulling over the answer he already had in his head. He'd been in young love before and knew all of the fear and excitement from exploring matters of the heart.

Terry watched his father continue to prune errant branches and leaves from the collection of perfectly green hedges, feeling the pieces of his plan for a magical night blow away in the wind. He'd already begun working through how to get $50 to Corey by the end of the night when Marvin set his shears down and started rifling through his coverall pockets.

He pulled out a crisp $100 bill, allowed his neutral expression to brighten into a small smile, and extended his hand toward Terrence. "Hold that for dinner." Then he reached into another pocket to pull out a ring of keys to toss in Terry's direction. "And hold these for this evenin'. I gotta see you drive her before I let you off by yourself. You fuck up my Caddy, and you won't make it to Parris Island, Tybee Island, or Island Seafood down the street without a cane because I'm gon' need at least three toes for my car."

"I got it, Dad," Terry laughed. "I promise. I'll have it back a little after 12. Treece got a curfew.”

"Mhmm. She got your little nose wide open, too. When y'all gon' stop all that playing and do the real thing?"

Terry hoped he could return to his father triumphant by next Saturday night to proudly proclaim he and Patrice had finally decided to do "the real thing." He spent the whole week counting down the seconds until he could ask for her hand at the dinner table, confess his feelings, earn a big kiss, and walk into the event center as Francis Edwards High School's newest couple.

Patrice considered the possibility of going from best friend to girlfriend all week but kept her fantasies locked inside her mind for fear of interrupting Napheesa's now 15-minute-long, one-sided conversation.

The school week's events had long faded into vapors to make way for the dizzying sights and sounds of salon visits, light lunches to keep bellies flat, and gossip-filled chatter of prom preparation. Patrice and Napheesa sat side by side in massage chairs that made their bodies shake and jerk from an overzealous contraption while their feet soaked in bowls of bubbling lukewarm water. Their mothers had dropped them off for coordinated early morning nail appointments they both hoped would fit into 90 minutes. Napheesa had to be on time for her beautician or else she'd spend an extra hour at the hair salon. Patrice didn't have a fancy chair to sit in for her appointment. Still, Ms. Brenda's daughter liked to get off track in her kitchen studio, and she didn't have the time or patience for anyone to ruin her plans.

Napheesa flipped through color swatches while she multitasked providing updates to her best friend and picking which shade of baby pink would match her dress best. "Corey said his after-party is invite-only, but you know how he gets when he get a crowd. Everybody and they mama gone be over there. You and Terry sure y'all don't wanna ride in the limo with us so you don't have to worry about finding a place to park in his neighborhood? I don't think he'll care about the money at this point."

"Nope. Terry says he wants it to be just us, and I think he already got his dad to let him use the car." Patrice answered, smiling at the thought of being alone with him in a fancy whip.

"Okay, then! You didn't tell me about the Cadillac, now! I'm jealous." Napheesa teased. She noticed her friend's bashful smirk and reached over to playfully push her shoulder. "How you feeling about tonight? You nervous? Excited? What?"

All of that and then some, Patrice thought to herself before answering. "I don't know! I think I'm just ready to see him," she confessed. "We've never been, like, alone alone. What if I say something silly or trip and fall or something? Now the night is ruined, and I gotta come home by 8 o'clock." Patrice sighed and mentally settled on a classic French tip for her nails and feet. "I think it'll be fun. I'm just ready to skip to then."

"The way Terry acts like you're the second coming of Kevin Hart, I'm sure there's nothing silly you could do or say to make him end the night early. He might even fall down with you so you don't feel alone." The young ladies dissolved into laughter at the image of Terry's long, lanky body lowering to the ground just to make Patrice feel better about her blunder. "Just have fun, P. High school is almost over, and if you not with that boy by May, we not talking about his ass when we get on campus."

Patrice feigned offense. "We'll still be friends! I can't talk about him at all?"

"Not a peep. We only talking about fine college niggas after graduation. So, lock it down or get ready for orientatioooon." Napheesa's exaggerated body roll turned Patrice's giggling into a full-on cackle loud enough to eclipse the nearby whirring of an electric file.

Patrice would've laughed herself into a stomach ache if not for the loud ringtone trilling in her purse. Napheesa didn't need to see who was awaiting an answer to their call. The slight smile on her friend's face and starry eyes were answer enough.

"Hey, TJ," Patrice chirped as two nail techs rolled up to start their service.

In his bedroom across town, Terry eyed his face in the bathroom mirror, trying to decide which parts of his facial hair to tell his barber to keep. "What's up, Treece. Wait, are you out already?"

"Yeah. I didn't want to end up late, so me and Phee decided to get our nails done early." Patrice passed greetings between her two best friends before continuing. "What's up with you?"

"I'm on the way to the barbershop in a little bit. I just wanted to tell you I'll be by to pick you up at 5:30 so we can get to dinner on time. The food's gonna suck tonight and I don't want you to be hungry. Think you'll be ready by then?"

Patrice smiled and softened her voice. "Yeah. I'll be ready."

"Um…" Terry cut himself short, smiled at the fleeting thought of seeing his Cinderella float toward him in something spectacular, and then picked up his thought again. "I'm excited to see your dress tonight and hang out. I think it's gonna be a good night."

"Me too. I get to see you in a tie for the first time."

Terry chuckled. "And this stupid waist thing my mama's making me wear. They're gonna follow me to your place, by the way, so be ready to take pictures for forever."

"That's okay. You just make sure you don't come over there looking better than me," Patrice joked. A clean-cut, suited and booted Terry could rival Hollywood's finest leading man. She'd put money on that.

"I could never. You win that battle every time." His compliment settled on Patrice's ears and heart like light snow coating freezing cold lawns in those Hallmark Christmas movies her mom loved so much. Terry smiled at her silence before noting his father's second honk in as many minutes. "See you later, Treece. I gotta get out of here. Love you."

Patrice looked to Napheesa pretending not to listen to every word of their conversation then tried to lower her voice. "Love you, too. See you later."

Another velvety smooth goodbye left a young girl with dreams of locking more than arms with her occasionally brooding, often sweet prince swooning in a building full of strangers and her amused best friend.

"Cute shit, mom and dad." The parents joke had gained traction in the school hallways and grown legs to follow Patrice into the world via a sniggering Naphessa. Patrice looked over at her friend with a sour look and received gut-busting laughter in return. "Damn, y'all sound like my parents."

"Shut up!"

-----

Staring at her daughter in the small vanity mirror tucked in the room's back corner, Rosalyn had never seen a more beautiful girl in all her life. The baby she'd spent hours of grueling labor to usher into the world, her first of three pregnancies and two births, had grown into a young woman preparing to enter the world as a free bird spreading its wings for the time.

Tears gathered in the inner corners of her eyes, threatening to garner a groan and quiet complaints for it was the third time in an hour she'd felt like crying. Leon joked with her the first two times, remarking that Patrice's eventual wedding might send her to the upper room if this was how Rosalyn would act for prom.

Rosalyn twirled a perfectly spiraled tendril from Patrice's bun around her finger after removing the perm rod giving it shape and smiled. "You're such a pretty girl, P. Don't let anyone tell you that you aren't. Alright?"

"Yes ma'am," Patrice answered as she looked back at her mother through the mirror. She took careful stock of her appearance, trying to see what in her reflection her mother saw to say such a thing.

Brown skin, smooth as luxury chocolate and covered in just enough makeup to highlight ancestral high cheekbones and youthful features, complemented shining eyes and mouth full of pearly whites her parents had paid a fortune for in middle school. She was pretty. Beautiful. A stunning amalgamation of her mother, and her mother, and her mother's mother long before she was a twinkle in the universe.

A larger roller removed from the right side of her forehead unfurled a bouncing bang. Rosalyn kept it in place with a careful mist of spritz. "The next time I get to see you like this, you'll be getting a new last name." Patrice looked away bashfully, trying not to imagine wedding bells and a church full of family watching her walk down the aisle to the one she…loved? Loves. She did love him, she thought. She was sure of that much.

Rosalyn slowly slid the other large roller off Patrice's left side, giving it equal attention to the first. "Have fun tonight, alright. I know you'll be okay with Terry, but I'll tell you anyway: be safe. You know you can call whenever you need us. We'll come get you, no questions asked."

"I know. I don't think I'll have to call. Terry knows to have me back by midnight, and we don't get into trouble." Partially true. They didn't get into much trouble. Nothing significant or life-changing. Not yet, anyway.

"I'm not worried about it," Rosalyn said, fixing a small sparkling tiara to the base of Patrice's bun. "So…do you like him? From my vantage point, it seems like you like him, but I could be wrong. What's the scoop?"

Patrice groaned. "Mamaaa!" An immediate desire to cover up the truth made her body hot with embarrassment. But something in her mother's knowing smile compelled her to come clean. "Yeah. I do. I like him a lot."

"Ain't no crime in that. It's okay to like a boy. You know your daddy was a boy I liked at one point. We don't expect you not to like anyone. We just want you to be smart. Don't have no babies yet."

"Maaa!"

Rosalyn chuckled at Patrice's teenaged disgust and prepared to pour more on for fun's sake when two knocks rapped against the bedroom door before Leon poked his head inside. He took a sweeping look over his only daughter and smiled. "Look at my little girl. They should be putting you in the children's books, huh?" Patrice said thanks with a small, timid smile before Leon dropped off pressing news. "The Richmond boy and his folks are comin' in. Lookin' like it's time to make your entrance."

"Thank you, Daddy. Can you tell him I'll be out in a little while?"

Leon accepted his marching orders with a nod and smile, then disappeared to entertain the growing swell of voices filling the living room.

Smiling, Rosalyn slid the cape shielding Patrice's glittering dress from debris off her daughter's chest and draped it over her arm. "Alright, pretty girl, it's your show now." She leaned down to press her cheek to Patrice's in a warm display of affection. "Knock his socks off, you hear? He's here to see you. Give him a show."

Give him a show. While Patrice mentally unraveled what that meant, Terry stood in the living room rocking back and forth on his heels and checking his wristwatch for the time. Zorah and Zanah talked on the couch while Junior snuck glances at the two identically beautiful girls and tried to keep the camcorder upright to ensure he didn't get a slap on the back of the head from his mother. Diedra chattered a mile a minute to her husband and good friend, saying something about pictures and keepsakes that Terry didn't care to hear.

He wanted to see Patrice. Weeks of waiting and dreaming every chance he got to let his mind wander came down to the soft tick, tick, tick of his silver link watch as the minute hand turned 5:29 pm into 5:30 pm—showtime.

Terry heard a door close down the hall and listened for the footsteps moving in his direction before looking up to see Mrs. Rosalyn appear in the hallway's threshold. She smiled at him first then addressed the room. "She'll be out in a few. Just grabbing a few last things."

"Oh my Gooood! I can't wait to see her. I know she'll be beautiful!" Diedra clasped her fingers at her chest as if it were her daughter preparing for a grand reveal. "Girls, come over here. I want you to see!"

Zorah and Zanah moaned and groaned about their conversation being cut short but followed directions anyway to avoid what existed on the other side of disobedience. Junior tracked both girls with his eyes until a nervously rocking Terry cut off his sightline. He looked up at the young man confused.

"Why you shakin' like that, Terry," he asked, genuinely unable to fathom why the boy might be nervous. "You seen Patrice a million times."

But not like this. He'd seen her in sweats and a T-shirt or dressed up for school, but not like this. That fact became abundantly clear as her high heels tapped across the hardwood floor, stepping closer to reveal a modern marvel amongst mere pretenders. Whatever he'd dreamed up in the back of classrooms or while tucked in his bedroom at night paled compared to what stood before him.

Shock. Awe. Amazement. Diedra squealed as if the Queen had walked into the room. His twin sisters whistled and gave praise like only pre-teen girls could. Even Junior had to nod in approval to give credit where credit was due.

Terry could only see Patrice in all the noise. The way her dress shimmered in the sunlight streaming through the glass storm door at the front of the house. How her makeup made her look like a movie star in her greatest role to date. Heels helped her legs stand out from the hint of split peeking back at him. Her hair was beautiful, her nails were beautiful, her lips, shoulders, and eyes were beautiful – Patrice was beautiful.

Terry's hand was out beckoning for her hand before he knew what he was doing. "Wow," he breathed out as he gently pulled her closer. He had to will away the urge to know if the gloss coating her lipstick-covered pout had a flavor to say something coherent. "You look…wow."

"You look like Cinderella! It's so cool!" Zanah said the most consecutive words she had spoken in ages at that moment, stunning Marvin.

"Shoot, you really are something! You even got the mean one to talk!"

All in the room laughed, leaving Terry and Patrice to admire each other openly. Patrice straightened the lapel of Terry's tux jacket, then moved on to his bowtie just to have a reason for stepping close enough to smell his cologne.

He looked down at her, peering through thick lashes, and watched her go to work with a smile. Seeing her nervousness comforted him. They could figure things out together.

Patrice smoothed her hands over his shoulders and finally looked up to smile at Terry. "You look really handsome, TJ. Mean it."

"You too." Terry immediately recognized his tongue-tied mistake and rushed to correct course. "I meant you look pretty. Beautiful! I'm sorry. You ready to get out of here?"

They were more than ready. As they stood in front of the Ellis residence, pinning boutonnieres, sliding corsages on dainty wrists, and posing for more photos than they could count, all Patrice and Terry could think about was sliding into the front seat of their chariot for the evening and rolling off toward the sunset. They got their chance 40-odd grueling minutes later once their parents had done all their doting and laid down the rules.

The first stop was dinner. Somehow, good fortune pushed Terry to pick the one Italian restaurant no other prom attendee in the city thought to cram into with their large parties clad in fluffy gowns and starched suits. That foresight got them a free dinner from a lovely Black couple enjoying a Saturday date night.

His foresight also saved them from the disaster of a dinner at the venue once they'd wrapped up their make-believe date night and joined their friends for the last formal night of their high school lives. Luckily, the thrill of dancing and taking Facebook photos on a handheld digital camera removed the need to eat anything life-sustaining.

Together, they sang in each other's faces like maniacs, moved about the dance floor until their feet hurt, and forgot all the cares and problems of tomorrow. The only break came when the Prom King and Queen were announced after dinner service began.

Terry and Patrice watched Corey accept his title like proud parents, recording him on their cell phones while hollering their support from across the room with the rest of the crew. All the work they'd collectively put into his campaign made his triumph feel like a win for the table, not counting Corey's angry date. She stormed off into the hallway moments after an innocent dance between the royal couple went from an innocent sway to Corey reveling in the attention of a young lady with at least six inches of height over him.

The DJ for the night quickly cut "Slow Jam" by Usher and Monica off at a faculty advisor's request once Corey got a little overzealous and transitioned into Chris Brown's "Winner" to invite all who were willing to sway in each other's arms to the dancefloor.

Patrice sat in her chair, watching couples slowly float to the dancefloor. She smiled at nothing in particular and bopped her head to the familiar song. Terry watched her like a hawk, suspended between being mesmerized and the pressure of knowing his time was quickly running out.

Nerves at dinner convinced him to stay mum about his feelings and enjoy Patrice's fun facts about focaccia instead. When he rested his hand on her fingers in the car, and she didn't pull away, he thought about pulling over for his rehearsed speech, but they were already behind schedule. Part of him wanted to whisper how much he loved her into her ear as she pressed her back to his front for official photos. He let the feeling pass, though.

Now, with the center of the dancefloor free for the taking and the time left before his princess needed to be returned to her home dwindling, he took a deep breath and scooched closer to her.

Baby, you're a winner

Didn't even take you twelve rounds to do it

You got the title now

I'mma tell the whole world

To give it up for my girl

"You wanna dance?" Terry meant for the question to sound more confident and less like a creep whispering into his date's ear. So, he scooched even closer, slid his hand around her waist, and tried again. "I'd really love to dance with you. Please."

Patrice turned in her seat to look back at Terry's eyes pleading for the chance to take her out on the floor and felt goosebumps spring up on her forearms. How could she say no to such a perfectly handsome face? She wouldn't if given the chance. "I'm following your lead."

Hand in hand, Terry and Patrice sauntered out into the center of an empty dancefloor, receiving applause and encouragement from people and friends who had caught wind of something special unfolding before them. They ignored the ruckus as best they could while arranging limbs around necks and waists.

If he were being honest with his mind and body, Terry wanted Patrice closer than what school officials would deem appropriate for a sanctioned event. Having his fingers gently grip her sides while they swayed too slow for the music felt like torture, but he persisted for the sake of the moment. He'd have his chances one day soon.

Patrice hoped Terry couldn't feel the wild thump of her pulse against her wrist as they draped near the nape of his neck. Being so close to him, smelling the residual mint of his gum mixed with whatever heavenly fragrance he'd borrowed from his father was enough to send her body into overdrive. So this was what attraction felt like? This was what all the Ebony and Cosmo articles meant when they discussed the scientific responses of women to men and vice versa. This was infatuation, unshakeable physical longing, and…love? Separately, they were manageable symptoms curable by time away and deep breaths. Together, in the confines of the small square they'd created with sync movements, they were too much and threatening to spill over into utterances she wasn't sure she was ready to release.

Terry dragging his thumbs up and down along Patrice's waist snapped her out of a deluge of competing thoughts, forcing her to look up at him. He smiled. "What you thinkin' about?"

"How bad a dancer I am," she joked, allowing self-deprecation to be her scapegoat for the nerves bubbling inside.

"It's not you," he chuckled. "I wasn't really listening to how fast this song is. I just wanted to get you away from everybody else so we could talk."

Patrice tilted her head in curiosity. "About what?"

A quick scan of the immediate area to confirm there were no eavesdroppers or class gossipers helped Terry gather his thoughts. He had plans for something grand, something unforgettable for the rest of their lives. But when he looked back down at her brown eyes, waiting for his next move, he could only confess, "Patrice, I love you."

"I love you, too, Terrence."

For a split second, through the strobing neon lights creating shadows on their faces and hiding actual reactions, Terry thought he could see a flash of connection in Patrice's eyes – a hint of unspoken confirmation that what he'd shared was received in full without explanation.

Patrice hoped he understood the added "I" or the addition of his entire first name to mean what she was too afraid to vocalize beyond a few simple words.

They had more to say and share to ease the weight on their heavy hearts and minds. Things too sacred for the dancefloor, back at the table with their friends, or in the parking lot as everyone loosened their ties, switched out their shoes, and planned to reconvene for the party of the century. So, they left their I Love You's with Chris Brown and darted into the night for sweet treats separate from the group.

Underneath real stars in a dark blue sky, they rambled on, recapping highlights over two cups of fresh churned Oreo ice cream, trying hard not to leave the evidence behind on his father's interior.

"Corey lucky he around all them people, or Jasmine would've kicked his ass," Patrice laughed. "Oh, and did you see Chris and Diamond leave together. I knew they had something going on!"

Terry chewed through a chunk of Oreo and shrugged. "People could say the same about us. Shit, people do say the same about us."

"Yeah, but…this is different. We're friends. Right?"

"We are right now, but…I don't know if I want to stay that way." Growing serious, Terry placed his half-empty cup of ice cream in the cup holder and turned in the driver's seat to face Patrice. He reached for her hand, and, for the second time that night, she didn't pull away. He took it as his sign to proceed. "I meant what I said back there. I love you. As more than my friend."

Patrice nodded, understanding, and tried to wish away the tears pricking her eyes as she smiled. "I know. I did, too. I…I love you."

That spark, the small burst of magic that had fought for centerstage all day, was back and bursting into fireworks above them, daring someone to make a move. Terry took the bait and brought Patrice's knuckles to his lips for a chaste kiss. She watched him close his eyes to savor the feeling of her skin on his mouth, thinking of all the ways she'd explain this to Napheesa when they had a moment to debrief.

"I want to be your boyfriend. You know, if… that's cool with you." He chickened out in the end, but the sentiment remained the same. He wanted more than one-armed hugs and childish giggles with Patrice. He wanted a real relationship. As real as it could get for two people at the precipice of adulthood.

Patrice sucked in a deep breath, unsure of how to force an answer through a throat tightening by the second. All she could mutter was a quiet "TJ…"

"It's okay," he smiled. Breaching the center console between them, he leaned to kiss her cheek. Patrice's eyes fluttered closed and reopened in enough time to catch Terry returning to the driver's side, preparing to start the engine. "Just think about it, okay?"

Patrice thought about dating and a wedding, Terry's fingers threaded between hers, his thumb softly caressing her knuckles, the butterflies in her belly, and what it meant to be in love as he drove them through familiar streets. It was all she could think about. It was all she wanted to think about.

Thoughts of finally letting go battled with the fear of what the end may look like and stuck with Patrice as they walked into Corey's "quiet" house party. Neither of them would ever understand how he could convince his parents to allow teenagers around the county to dance, scream, and be merry in their two-story home, but they didn't complain.

Corey was the first to point out their joint arrival and holdholding, only to be shooed away to spread the news amongst the others.

"Phee is in one of the rooms changing, I think. Or fucking with Nate. I don't know what's going on, bro, I'm not gon' lie to you."

Terry shook his head at his friend's antics, then turned to Patrice. "You want a drink or something? Water?"

"Water would be nice," she answered through a broad smile that Terry mirrored. "Can you grab a straw, too? I don't want to mess up my lip gloss."

"Cool. I'll find you."

Only God could pry their hands apart and send Terry on a mission for cold water and straw in a house where he could barely move without bumping into someone. Patrice watched him disappear around a corner before dashing down a hallway for sound counsel.

She opened doors to coat closets, bathrooms, and bedrooms, which were occasionally filled with people sneaking sips of alcohol, but they came up empty. Panic settled into her bones as she frantically asked for Napheesa until some generous partygoer pointed her toward the family sunroom.

There, she found Napheesa sipping something in a red cup and massaging her aching feet like a mother who'd had a long day at work. When she saw Patrice barrel through the threshold, her face brightened. "P! I was -"

"Terry told me he loved me!"

Napheesa choked on air as her eyes bugged out of her head. "What! Wait, wait, wait. Start from the top!"

"We were dancing, and he said he loved me; I said it back because, like, I do love him, right! We say that all the time! You hear it! But then he said it again while we were eating ice cream and asked me to be his girlfriend! Well, really, he asked to be my boyfriend, which is like, somehow more romantic than the other way around, and Napheesa, I don't know what to do! What do I do?"

Patrice spoke a mile a minute, not stopping for breaths or input until she'd unloaded her full stream of consciousness, like word vomit, all over the floor. Napheesa stared blankly and answered matter-of-factly.

"Just say it back." Plain and without flowery language, she offered sage advice. "Say it back. You just said you love him. So, say it back to him. Why are you making this hard? Do you love him?"

"Of course I do!"

Napheesa laughed in confusion. "So say it back, crazy girl! Go ahead. Do it."

"Okay. Alright," Patrice started. "I love Terry. I love him. I love Terrence Richmond. There. I said it." She listened to the words return to her and tried them out again. "I love you, Terry. I love you, Terry. I love you, Terry!"

"See how easy that was? You really need to see somebody about all that worrying, girl. Want me to ask my mama who she goes to?"

Patrice sighed and chuckled away her nerves. "No. I just-"

When Napheesa's eyes flickered up to the sunroom entrance and stayed, Patrice turned around to find Terry caught like a deer in headlights with two cups and a straw in his hand.

"They didn't have bottles, so I just put some ice water in these cups," he announced. "Am I interrupting girl talk? I can come back."

"Nope. I was actually on my way to find Nate and get some water." Napheese looked back at Patrice, winked her encouragement, and then stood to brush past Terry and back into the action. She pulled one cup out of his hand on her way out. "Thanks for the water. See y'all later?"

One cup down and thoroughly annoyed, Terry stepped into the sunroom and took Napheesa's previous spot opposite Patrice. He extended the cup and straw in her direction. "Here. This one's for you. Don't tell Corey I went through his mama's kitchen drawers."

"Your secret's safe with me."

Terry smiled as Patrice mimed a lock motion over her lips. She never dropped her smile or sipped from her cup, striking him as odd. "You okay?" he laughed. "Why you smiling so hard? Did Napheesa say something about me?"

She shook her head no but answered, "Yes!"

"Yes, what?" Terry questioned, confusion knitting his brows together.

Patrice placed her cup on the ground and grabbed both his hands, threading their fingers together like he did in the car. He gripped them tighter, looking into her eyes like they held all the answers.

"Yes, you can be my boyfriend. Because…I really, really want to be your girlfriend. You know…if that's cool with you."

Shock kept Terry glued to his seat, disconnecting his body from a mind turning somersaults in triumph. Patrice watched in amusement as his eyes darted across her face before he shot up and pulled her along for the ride.

They'd hugged each other plenty of times – to say goodbye and hello, for comfort when the other was feeling down, to be close for no reason at all – but they'd never embraced as more than friends. Patrice had never experienced how good it felt to be fully wrapped in his arm and pressed into a heart beating with love for her. Terry didn't know how having Patrice wrap herself around him would trigger a desire to shower her in never-ending affection.

Terry tried the feeling on for size, pulling away to kiss her cheek and then her forehead. "I love you." If given the chance, he could say it a million more times.

"I love you, too." Easy enough. Practice would make perfect, and Patrice was ready to put in the work.

An unseen force, the same magnetism from their shared Christmas joy in Patrice's bedroom months ago, pulled them closer for another go at a kiss they'd been putting off for far too long.

Eyes blinked closed. Tongues ran across lips to moisten them for an eventual meeting. Hands tried to wander south and close the gap between their hips. All their pining and preparation had come down to one mo-

"Hell yeah, P! Kiss your man!"

"Terry! Terry! Terry!"

"I knew it! They almost kissed on the dancefloor, too!"

Thwarted again. A small crowd of familiar faces had gathered at the threshold, excited to see their favorite pair finally go the distance. Embarrassed, Patrice hid her face inside Terry's suit jacket, and he wrapped his arms around her as an act of protection.

Laughing, he tried to shoo the onlookers away. "Man, get out of here! Y'all ain't ever heard of privacy?"

"Nigga, this my house! Ain't no privacy," Corey laughed. "Go ahead and kiss. This everybody moment! We been waiting forever!"

The small group agreed, but Patrice wasn't interested in the spectacle. She pulled away from Terry, slid her hand in his, and began leading them out of the room. "And you'll wait some more. This ain't a damn zoo! I thought we were here to have fun!"

They were. And they did. Disappointment quickly faded, making room for more singing, dancing, and aching feet into the late hours of the night.

Patrice had long ditched her heels for flats, extending the life of her party animal personal until a quick glance at a perfectly positioned wall clock indicated a quarter til midnight. She roughly pried Terry's drifting hands, trying to pull her backside closer to his front from her waist, and hurried him back to the car in hopes he could make up the distance with some expert driving.

Both of them prayed all patrol units were busy elsewhere as Terry guided them down empty streets and quiet neighborhood rows to return Rosalyn and Leon's precious cargo by midnight. Terry pulled into Patrice's driveway, cutting time dangerously close, opened the passenger door in a flash, and hurried her to the front door like the Secret Service escorting the president.

He watched Patrice shuffle through her purse for the housekey, wondering if now was a good time to return to that kiss. "Patrice, can I -"

"Found it! I really need to put this on a ring." She looked up at Terry and smiled. "I'm sorry, what were you gonna say?"

Terry shook his head free of previous plans and settled for a kiss on the cheek. "Good night, Treece. I'll text you when I'm home."

"Good night, TJ." Patrice looked at the light turn on in the living room through the glass panels on the front door, then back at Terry. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Go ahead. Don't get in trouble."

A blown kiss and one more wave sent Patrice back into her humble abode and Terry to his horse and carriage for the night. As he backed out of the driveway, looking both ways for traffic that would never come, he noticed the heel of forgotten shoes in his back seat.

Terry smiled to himself, recalling the story of the dazzling beauty and her lost slipper. Luckily, he didn't have to scour the city looking for the beautiful belle of the ball that stole his heart. He knew where to his Cinderella.

------

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