#usually i get busy with dinner and stuff halfway into its airing but tonight i am already done with everything

[smittenskitten]

I am so unhyped today that I might fall asleep and just watch it tomorrow. Even though they are trying to lure me in with a false sense of security, I know what they'll do.

Or I can watch the first 10 episodes and watch episode 12 next week.

Apparently final ep will have a theater viewing on 23 July... What does that mean? People can already fast track ep 12 today (I think). And we should be able to watch it normally next week so why July 23???? So late after it actually aired!!!!! Is this a special episode or something??? I need answers.

[rosy-cheekx]

Alone Again, Naturally

Three times Martin should have called for help.

(I twisted my ankle on Sunday and was bummed bc I missed my partner so…this happened…oops.)

-

1.

Martin’s phone was missing, though he was pretty sure he knew where it was. That thing, that wormy, writhing mass of a woman had it. Destroyed it. His only chance of rescue from this nightmare. Replaying the image of dropping the phone, abandoning it as he ran, would do him no good. His coworkers hadn’t noticed he was missing, or if they had noticed, they hadn’t stopped by. And they shouldn't, of course, it would only put them in danger. But still, it stung a bit, to know that he’d been gone for what, three days now? and no one cared.

He could become a statement from this, Martin realized, his death narrated in Jon’s smooth, clipped voice, and then they would finally learn what happened to that large, oafish researcher who was transferred to the archives with them and disappeared overnight.

Martin sighed through his nose noisily, as if he could expel the dark thoughts with the sound. “Christ, Blackwood. Getting awful morbid there.” Talking to himself had become a staple of his isolation. For one, it drowned out the ever-present knocking on the door and the squelching rustle of the worms. He honestly wasn’t sure whether the sounds were still real or if they had become such a constant that his brain just filled them in anyways.

His voice was the only other sound available to him with his computer not working and his phone gone. His clock radio had played static on every channel, and he had been grateful for the white noise at first. But the longer Martin left the radio on, the sound began to morph from the hissing of dead air to a choir, indecipherable and haunting. There were no words and yet he could understand the message: come home to us. We need you, we miss you, let us show you how much we love you. With us, you’ll never feel lonely again, we promise. Martin had come to, hand on the doorknob to his flat, radio in hand. After that, he had removed all the batteries from anything that could make noise. Since then, he could only trust his own voice; everything else was a trap.

The can opener, unfortunately, had been electric too. He had been so proud of his purchase, a real attempt at adult cooking. (He never seemed to use the manual ones and could never get the grip right.) With the power out, assumedly caused by Prentiss, he had to get creative when it came to “making dinner.” For Martin, this meant sawing open a tin can with a serrated knife, eating it with a fork, and praying no metal shavings were lurking in each mouthful. Tonight’s feast: another can of tinned green beans and the last can of pineapple. He didn’t even like green beans, why had he ever bought these?

Martin gritted himself against the awful sound of metal on metal as he cut into a tin of beans, hissing sharply through his teeth and letting his mind wander. Maybe he could strain the beans? Let them dry? It would probably be better than the wet and soggy mush he was bound to find. Maybe he could put some crackers on them for a crunch? Pretend it’s a bad soup? As he was finishing his indelicate surgery, Martin tipped the can into the sink a little, hoping to strain the bean juice and improve the meal even a little. As he removed the last of the lid, he saw it.

There, in the sink, wiggling its way out of the drain. Another worm. Martin shrieked and jumped back, dropping the can in the sink with a clatter. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and began to stuff them down the sink, plugging up the drain as best he could. For extra measure, he plugged the faucet as well, suddenly terrified of accidentally swallowing one in a glass of water. Once the adrenaline rush had passed, Martin felt it: a stinging in his palm. They must have jumped at him, must have bitten him. It would be over soon, he knew it. He would be like Prentiss, a mass of tiny bodies. He braced himself to feel something, but nothing changed. Martin frowned, chewing on his lip in confusion, and hazarded a glance down to his hand. There was no worm in his palm, nothing wriggling and biting deep into his muscle, just a slice along the flesh of his thumb, dripping blood from where he must have cut himself on the tin can.

Sheepishly, Martin rolled his eyes at his defeatism. Did it hurt like hell? Yes. But he wasn’t going to become a worm monster. Not today. Grabbing a few more sheets of paper towel, Martin hissed in pain as he pressed them to his wound, making his way shakily to the paltry first-aid kit he kept in his bathroom. He was clumsy in his wound care, only able to use one hand to open the kit and the individually wrapped plasters, while the other pooled blood in his palm uselessly. The antiseptic had stung like hell and the plaster was off-center, but eventually, the job was done. Martin had managed.

“See?” He asked himself softly. “All better. We didn’t want the green beans anyways.” Martin was alone, but he would be fine. He could take care of himself.

——

2.

Martin’s phone had become less and less useful since his time in the Archives. Sasha and Tim had been distant in the end, their group texts dwindling into occasional messages regarding whether not someone had contacted so-and-so regarding their statement. He and Jon had called and texted quite a bit, before the Unknowing, when Jon had been in China, America, and wherever else Gertrude’s breadcrumbs had led him. But since the explosion, their messages lay at a standstill, a “good luck! come home safe :)” still waiting to be sent to “Jonathan Sims--Boss.” He used to call his mother every week, but the outgoing calls had dwindled as she returned less and less of them, until he received an apologetic voicemail from Steady Waters Care Home a few months ago.

Now, the only messages he received were his work emails and an occasional text from Peter with a request or two regarding The Magnus Institute. Not even spam calls reached him anymore. That was all fine by Martin. He was busy running the institute; he didn’t have time for social calls, even if he wanted any, which he didn’t. Martin had taken to leaving his phone in his work office, knowing he wouldn’t need it outside the building anyways. It was becoming something like a desktop mouse to him in its versatility.

It was a Thursday, and it was late--Martin’s watch read 11:09. Thursdays were Martin’s days to deliver paperwork to the archives. He could only ever do it at night when he was sure Jon had either gone home (or was asleep at his desk at the very least). Peter Lukas had been working Martin to the bone with all the paperwork he would hand off with a wave of his hand and an “I’ll be back next week Martin. Please don’t call me,” and this week’s stack of statement requests, financial approvals, and quarterly reviews would fall to Martin instead. Who knew running a front for feeding an all-seeing eldritch deity would require so many business expenses?

Martin. Martin knew. He had reviewed and approved each and every one.

It was the week after Halloween, so the list of those eager to give a statement was longer than usual. Hellweek, Tim used to call it, a grin on his face as Jon would frown and shake his head. The stack of folders Martin carried in his arms eclipsed his eyesight as he carefully made his way down the hall, the Lonely silencing his footsteps and the shuffle of his clothing. The elevator was broken this week, thanks to a visit from one of the Fairchilds. Martin clumsily opened the door to the stairwell, turning to the side slightly to see the steps that descended into the basement he knew so well. Cautiously, he began his way down the stairs, arms clutching the stack of paperwork and binders tight to his chest. The basement was eerily silent; even Martin’s muted steps echoed in his ears.

The door to the Archives creaked slightly, and Martin realized his mistake: he hadn’t propped the door. The thin streak of light that painted his way down the steps thinned and faded in time with the slow squeak of the door. The click of the latch sealed his fate: Martin was in the dark. He didn’t mind the dark, in principle, though his new awareness of the Fears heightened his concern considerably. He stepped down slowly, feeling for the steps with his foot as he went.

Halfway down the stairs, Martin heard a soft flutter as a few papers shifted in his stack. He hoisted the pile and tried to readjust it as he stepped once more. The combination of the changes in the balance of the papers and his weight combined were too much for his brain to process at once and he overcompensated on his step, putting his weight down a little too early. Martin felt the rush of adrenaline as he tried to catch himself, hands clutching uselessly at the paperwork in his hands as if it could save him and he felt himself tumble to the ground. Falling sideways, he hit his shoulder hard on the steps, momentum carrying him down the remaining steps to the floor. The loose papers not held in binders and folders scattered in what Martin was sure was every direction.

Martin was frozen on the floor, pain pulsing through his shoulder. He sat up tentatively, patting himself down as he set down what remained of his stack of folders. He wasn’t bleeding, but his ears were ringing and his arm hurt like hell. Listening carefully for the sound of anyone reacting to his presence, he rotated his shoulders carefully, wincing as throbbing radiated up his arm. He must have dislocated it. Patting his legs down, Martin found his phone in his pocket. He must have forgotten to put it on the charger. He...he could call someone, should call someone. His shoulder was dislocated.

He could call Jon.

He pulled up his text messages, the cursor blinking back at him, blinding in the dark. Jon was surely awake, he knew that man’s sleep schedule was worse than his.

good luck! come home safe :)

safe :)

safe.

“Shit.”

He couldn’t call Jon. It would undo everything he and Peter were trying to build up. It was all for Jon anyways, to keep him safe, to keep them all safe. No. He had to do this alone. It was best that way.

Martin sat himself up carefully. He had taken enough first aid courses (rather, he had watched them for free on the internet) to know how to set it back in place and he knew it would not be pleasant. He drew his right knee up, and clumsily unknotted his tie, using it to secure his arm to his knee. Martin closed his eyes tight and leaned away from his knee, rotating his shoulder as he stretched away, wincing in anticipation until he felt the wet pop of his arm slotting back into place. Sparks shot through his vision, his only grounding point in the dark, and he huffed out a cross between a moan and a curse.

He carefully made a fist with his re-set hand, tensing the muscles in his arm. Determining it to be good enough, Martin felt his way to his feet and grabbed the wall to steady himself. He knew there was a light switch somewhere--ah.

The light clicked on and he winced at the sudden change, letting his eyes adjust behind the safety of his lashes. When he opened his eyes again, he surveyed the mess of his paperwork, gathering it methodically. It took him another half hour, back against Tim’s old desk, to resort his files before setting them in the file basket he had installed on the door to the Archivist’s office, the rest going on the desk of Jon himself. He would see them all in the morning. At least Jon was home, resting.

When Martin emerged from the Archives, he glanced down at his watch, wondering if it was too late to hail a cab. He frowned at his watch; the face was cracked, the hands stuck at 11:11. He must have cracked it in his fall. “Make a wish,” Martin mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes. He was pretty sure his wishes were out of reach, hopeless. As long as he would be safe after all this, Martin could sacrifice a few wishes.

——

3.

Martin was on a walk. He had been doing that a lot, since his and Jon’s escape to Scotland. There was something comforting about the long stretches of rolling hills and rocky cliffsides, utterly devoid of menacing fear entities or bosses hellbent on destroying the world. Jon would come with him sometimes, especially in the early days when leaving each other’s presence was challenging to say the least, but Martin sometimes just needed the space. He loved Jon, he knew he did, and Jon did too, but sometimes the presence of another would build up and stifle him, an unbearable heat radiating off of Jon until Martin had to just go for a bit.

It was raining today, a bassy rhythm beating down on Martin’s umbrella as he walked a familiar cliffside path. He could see a rocky beach below him, waves made of roiling ink, more black than blue. The rain was comforting to him, distinguishing this ocean spread before him from the ocean of the Lonely and drowning out any thoughts that passed through Martin’s head. He stepped around a patch especially muddy gravel, glancing down and seeing a ghost of a reflection staring back at him.

Martin had been in a cold place today, withdrawn from the rest of the world. He had felt the fog blossoming over his mind and had known he needed to go for a bit, center himself, remind himself he was real. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither would his sense of self again, though he was making progress. Jon understood that sentiment, perhaps better than anyone else in the world, and had kissed him softly at the doorway, squeezing his hand in an unspoken promise. Martin tensed his own hand in a fist, still feeling the heat of Jon’s calloused palm under his, reveling in the idea that someone loved him the way Jon did, that someone loved him the way Jon did and that Martin loved Jon back. Martin felt his body solidifying under the rain, felt the wind buffet against him rather than pass through him.

Martin was thinking about going home when it happened.

Home, or Daisy’s safehouse, was a humble affair: reinforced windows, minimalist, a few guns hidden in the floorboards, lots of fresh fruits and vegetables from the village down the hill. It had been easy to reassign this place in Martin’s mind as home. He hadn’t felt at home since...well, definitely not since Prentiss. Maybe not before either.

The rain was letting up, and the brolly was forgotten in favor of letting the rain drop down into his hair, sopping his curls and plastering them to his skin. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so content to be in the rain. Things weren’t good, but they were the best they’d been in a while.

The next thing Martin knew he was on the ground, ankle twisted and both shins scraped, blood and dirt mingling on his legs. He tried to stand up and cried out as his ankle immediately gave way, the hope of putting weight on it dashed on the rocks of the beach far below him.

Martin Blackwood crawled to a tree, leaning his back against it, not minding the dirt that was sure to collect on his back and rump. He winced and massaged his ankle, already feeling it begin to swell under his fingertips. With his free hand, a silver scar shining between his forefinger and thumb, he reached for his phone from his jacket pocket, hands shaking as he clumsily dialed the only number in his list of favorites.

“Martin?” Jon’s voice was warm through the tinny speakers. “I hope you’re well.” It was carefully not a question, though Martin caught the notes of careful concern.

“Tch-” Martin sucked air through his teeth. “I fell, Jon. I twisted my ankle, I think? Can’t-ah-can’t walk.”

“Oh. Martin, dear,” Jon’s voice was softer, and Martin could practically see his love’s fingers, itching to do, to fix. “Do you need me to—I can come get you, if you like. I haven’t…I haven't looked. But I can, if you want me to.”

Martin smiled despite himself, hearing Jon’s cautious phrasing. “Please, yes. I’m pretty sure I’m near a picnic park, if you want to drive there and get me? Not sure this is a drivable trail.”

“Did you pass anyone?”

“…no?”

A pause. Martin heard static crackling through the phone. “No one will be there. I Know where you are, Martin. I’ll be there soon.”

Ten minutes and enough ice packs to ease the pain of a full rugby team later, Martin was laying in the back of Jon’s small car, heat blasting on him to dry his now-soaked clothing. There were perks to having an all-knowing partner, it turned out.

Later that evening, Martin was tucked into the couch, his head pleasantly nestled in cushions and his feet in Jon’s lap, who was carefully massaging his feet and ankles, probing for any long-term injuries with his Eyes. A mug of tea grasped between his hands, Martin sighed softly and felt warmth flood his face. He hadn’t been alone this time. He wouldn’t be alone ever again.

[bramblepeltao3]

HBD Ardyn

A tiny ficlet that came to me this morning for the trash man’s birthday

Del smirked, very much pleased with her hiding place. She wondered quietly what she would do the day she was no longer small enough to fit anywhere and everywhere. Perhaps by then she could simply make people do whatever she wanted, no sneaking required. Wouldn’t that be cool?

She worked on controlling her breathing to make sure she was as quiet as possible. There weren’t as many workstations in this office, just the one, so not enough fans were buzzing to mask the inconvenient sounds her body made to exist.

Man, having no body at all would be the most cool.

Finally she could hear the door open and two sets of footsteps walking towards her. ‘Yes,’ she thought to herself, ‘he brought the student in this time.’ That was perfect, it meant the lead scientist would be saying all the important stuff out loud to them. The pair of nice, polished shoes sat in the desk chair while the clean but cheap shoes stood next to it.

“There are a number of clearance steps you have to pass to get into this information,” the lead scientist man began, “first is a username that’s different from your standard one. It’s your first initial, last name, and year of birth.”

Del grinned. She could easily figure out that information for the majority of the employees here.

“And the default password is capital M Magitek1234. Make sure you change it when you get started.”

Jackpot! There was no way every single employee took the time to change their password. She was as good as in now.

“Next you need to enter the security clearance code. Write this down but eventually you should probably memorize it…”

Del closed her eyes and listened intently, knowing the pen and paper that was her own memory would capture it with ease. 

“And finally you have to click the dialogue box asking if you accept responsibility for what you do on the terminal.”

Oh, yes she would happily accept responsibility on someone else’s behalf.

“And you’re in. Now,”

The six year old listened to the tutorial on how to use the charting system. She would probably be able to figure it out herself, given enough time, but she wanted to spend as much of it as possible reading everything she could.

Halfway through the navigation button explanation, the lead scientist adjusted his legs and kicked the bottom of the desk she was hiding under. She flinched instinctively, but successfully stayed quiet.

Until some dust broke loose into the air and made its way to her. She tried to hold back, even keeping her hands held over her nose and mouth. But the reflexes of the human body could not be stopped, and in spite of herself she sneezed. It was small, barely a squeak, but as soon as she made it the man in charge stopped talking. He pushed his chair back from the desk and whispered something she couldn’t make out.

He knew. 

The student bent over, eyes going wide when he saw her. 

“Uh, yes Doctor, there is a-”

“I know, her name is Delphia and she’s a rotten little brat. Her room is in the north hallway, number 375. Take her back there and lock the door.”

Del had a single moment to make a decision: she could easily escape from this situation if she so chose to. She could squirm back up the way she came between the wall and the back of the desk (the gap existed so the computer could be plugged into the wall outlet, she only needed to push it a tiny bit to get through). From there she could jump back to the ventilation opening and escape. But then everyone would know her secret passageways and there would certainly be repercussions. So the other option was to simply make this idiot teenager think she was an innocent little girl and ditch his grasp the moment the door opened.

Del put on her best innocent little kid face and crawled out from under the desk. Luckily the dust was already making her eyes water, and she used that to make herself look even more pathetic.

“I’m sorry doctor! I was scared and needed to hide!” She said, laying it on even thicker when she looked towards the younger man.

“You’re a liar and a waste of everyone’s time. This isn’t a daycare, go back to your room!” The old man who had no power over her commanded.

Del temporarily stifled her pride and sniffled. “Yes Sir.” She took the boy’s hand and let him walk her to the door. She had everything she needed now anyway.

“So, Delphia right? How old are you?” The boy asked as they walked through the doorway.

“I’m six years old…” she answered quietly.

“You’re kind of young to be in a place like this. What were you hiding from?”

Del forced her lip to tremble. “The monsters,” she whispered, “they’re all over and they said they’re gonna get me.”

“Awe, I’m sure nothing here would want to hurt a cute little kid like you!”

She tired of this exchange. Pretending to be a big baby made her skin crawl but it certainly had its benefits.

“You can just leave me here, I can get back by myself,” she said while rubbing her eyes with her free hand.

“Oh it’s no trouble Delly.”

WHAT did this guy just call her?

“I’m sorry for being a bother, I know all of you guys are super busy.” She could feel herself willing him to let go of her hand.

The boy looked at her, then back towards the office, and spent a long amount of time trying to think. Del swore she could see smoke coming out of his ears.

“I’d better do what he said. It’s okay though, do you want to sing a song while we walk to make it less scary?”

Fuck. Time for Operation Shock Value.

“No, I don’t want to fucking sing, are you stupid?” Del asked in her normal voice.

The words had their intended effect as the boy let go of her hand and stepped back in disbelief at what he heard.

Del took a moment to stick her tongue out, expose her middle finger, and took off running.

“W-wait, hey, Delphia!” His loud footsteps were quick behind her. The older scientists were much easier to run from.

She turned a corner slightly too fast and slid, barely recovering before falling and continuing on. It gave him enough time to close the gap she’d pushed so hard to create. Just as she thought her fun today was over with, she turned another corner and-

“Uncle Ardyn!” She squealed, slowing to a stop and reaching her arms up to the only adult in the whole star who was worth a damn.

“Well well, what sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into today, Delphia?” The Chancellor asked as the boy’s footsteps stopped behind her.

“Ch-chancellor Izunia?” He asked.

“One and the same,” Ardyn answered with a grin, scooping Del up into his arms. She turned and spit out her tongue once again in a show of victory. “Has my little niece been giving you trouble?”

“N-nie-? Uh, Chancellor, Sir, I was asked to-”

“He was chasing me! I was just trying to play a game and he was so mean.” Del turned to give her puppy dog eyes to Uncle Ardyn. It was simply for the fun of it, as she knew the man could always see right through her.

“Tsk tsk,” Ardyn wagged his finger at her before poking her on the nose, “now what have we said about lying, little finch?”

“That it’s a normal coping mechanism for children from abusive households,” she repeated from memory.

“Indeed it is. And?”

Del huffed. “And it’s still a bad behavior and I should do better to stop relying on it…”

“Very good. You can return to your business now, young man,” Ardyn said politely. He turned around and began to walk down the long hallway, still carrying Del gently. 

“Uncle Ardyn I didn’t know you’d be here today!” Del chirped.

He chuckled. “Your father asked me to come by for a special presentation. And one you shouldn’t even think about listening in on.”

“Aaawe,” Del whined. He was the one person she didn’t want to disappoint. So if he said she shouldn’t do something, she would usually behave.

Usually. 

“Now now, you wouldn’t mope about on your Uncle Ardyn’s birthday would you?” 

“Birthday?” Del asked. She knew in theory that birthdays were an important thing. Her birthdays until now were an excuse for her mother to throw another big party to show her off like a prop. Her sixth birthday came and went with nothing but a simple gift from Uncle Ardyn: a small orange cake. It was the best thing she’d ever eaten in her whole life.

She began to feel a distressing disappointment. “I...I didn’t get you anything!” 

Uncle Ardyn laughed before kneeling and putting her down in front of her personal computer terminal. “I have no need of material possessions, but if you would like to do something nice for me on this day, perhaps you could mind your manners at tonight’s dinner?”

She rolled her eyes and stifled a whine. If that’s what he wanted then that was what she would do.

“Okay…” She forgot tonight was her weekly Dinner with Dad night. She much preferred eating in the cafeteria with the interns who found her wit and sass charming. Also they had better food in the cafeteria. “What should I study today?” She asked before climbing into her chair and turning on her terminal.

“Hmm, why don’t you learn how an engine works? And give me a full report at the end of the day.”

She nodded enthusiastically. She loved updating the Chancellor with everything she learned between his visits.

“Yes! I can do that!”

“Very good, now that’s why you’re my favorite niece.” He gave her another gentle tap on the nose, eliciting a snorting giggle.

“Do you have any other nieces?” She asked.

“Oh, now and then.” He gave her a quick pat on the head, and made his way to her father’s workroom.

Uncle Ardyn was so weird. That’s why she loved him.

[arckook]

around and around - two

pairing: cho seungyoun x reader, kim wooseok x reader

au: idolverse

warnings: none

wordcount: 3.9k

description: you’ve had a one-sided crush on your close friend seungyoun for who knows how long, but things don’t stay so black and white when he introduces you to his new groupmate kim wooseok.

next

“Cool outfit.”

You talk through the mouthful of noodles you’re currently chewing, as Seungyoun spins around in front of you in his blue and black ensemble.

“I know, right?” he says, looking excited. “I think these are the best ones since the first outfits.” “What, your red ones?” at his nod, you nod back. “Yeah, those were cool too.” “What would you even call this style?” Seungyoun asks, checking himself out in the mirror to your side. “Like, techy or something?” “I was thinking dark superhero,” you suggest, slurping up some more noodles. “Don’t you have to go soon? I feel like your leader will be mad at me for taking up your time.”

“Seungwoo-hyung?” Seungyoun shakes his head. “No way, he’s not that strict with me and Wooseok since we’ve already experienced all of this stuff.”

“Oh,” you hum, finishing up the last of your cup noodles. You know you really shouldn’t have eaten that, but ever since your head manager Sungjoon went on leave a few weeks ago, your female managers have been a lot less picky about what the four of you are eating- and you’ve all been taking advantage of that.

“By the way,” you speak up again as you take the ramen cup over to the sink to wash it out so you can recycle it. “How’s Kim Wooseok?”

“Wooseok?” Seungyoun sounds a little confused. “I mean, he’s good. Did you guys talk a lot or something?” “Not really,” you reply honestly, tossing the ramen cup in the recycling and going to sit back down on the couch, smoothing your hands over your pants. “Just a little bit.”

Truthfully, you haven’t spoken to Wooseok since those very brief texts a few weeks ago. You did see him just for a moment earlier when you went to drop by X1’s waiting room, which is when Seungyoun decided he wanted to hang out with you while the other music show performances were going on.

You’d been nervous at first, about hanging out with Seungyoun. You thought he might ask you why you left in such a rush that day, and you still felt a little awkward, honestly. But he hadn’t, and the two of you have known each other long enough to start talking with few inhibitions.

“He asked if you were feeling better, right?”

Surprised, you frown as your head snaps over to Seungyoun, who’s now leaning against the makeup counter in the room. “Huh?”

Your friend frowns back at you. “Wooseok told me you hurried back that night because you were suddenly feeling sick. He said you mentioned it while I was gone. I gave him your number so he could ask if you were feeling better.”

“Oh, right,” you nod, smiling, going along with the story. “Sorry, it’s been a long week so it kind of slipped my mind. Yeah, that’s all he asked about.”

The conversation goes on until both of you decide it’s time to go back to your respective groups to touch up makeup before you go on stage, but something keeps nagging at you.

He couldn’t even bother to ask you himself if you were feeling better, even though Wooseok told him you were sick.

Does he even care at all?

That night, you stare at your phone, the empty text bar staring back at you, somehow feeling menacing. You’ve typed out the message a few times, then decided there’s no point to sending it, then feeling the urge to send it again.

You sigh in frustration, writing it out one more time.

Wooseok-ssi, did you tell Seungyoun that I was sick a few weeks ago? When we all had dinner?

“Whatever,” you mutter, pressing send spontaneously and then chucking your phone to the other end of your bed so you can pretend you didn’t just send that.

Ding!

You groan. You just threw it over there, and now you have to sit up and reach all the way across your bed?

Despite the inconvenience, you lean over and grab your phone from where it had been precariously sitting halfway off of the edge of your bed.

Yes. You were acting weird so I had to make something up.

You don’t know what you were expecting, but Kim Wooseok really just seems like a straightforward type of guy.

You roll over onto your stomach, trying to think up a reply. Or should you even reply? It’s not like you’re friends with him, and he already answered your question.

Oh, well, thanks for that! Seungyoun-oppa suspected nothing thanks to you :)

That message might be a little bit cringy, but you’re just trying to come off as nice to him, since he probably already has a weird impression of you with the way you reacted to him realizing you like Seungyoun.

If you’re so thankful, give me money or something

You let out a snort at his response. Okay. Maybe this guy isn’t as cut and dry as you thought. You’re trying to think of something witty to respond with when your phone dings again.

Good luck on continuing your promotions, Y/N-ssi. Goodnight.

You smile a little at the thoughtful message.

Thanks, goodnight!!

You send your own message of goodnight back, then set your phone on your nightstand, knowing you should get to sleep.

Jamiezzz wooahhhhh, Y/N!!!!! you look hot 😋😘

You laugh at Jimin’s message in the groupchat. Along with her text, she’d sent a few of the pictures from your latest sportswear endorsement. You and Soohyun had done the advertisements together, and while your youngest groupmate had felt totally comfortable in the skin-tight clothing, you were a little awkward during the whole thing. You guess it turned out well though, since the pictures of you Jimin attached honestly did look pretty hot.

Hyunggu🤪 There will be an article with 48739857382 comments about these pictures in like 2 hours, bet

Beoneon I thought you did this photoshoot with Soohyun Y/N?

You thirst over my lil sis again and I’ll fight you for real if we ever end up on a show at the same time

You cackle as you send your reply to Vernon, knowing he had asked his question with total innocence, and would be really embarrassed to read what you implied.

“Look that way,” the stylist doing your hair points to the left, so you look that way, awkwardly holding your phone up to your face so you can see the screen still.

Beoneon I literally didn’t mean it like that but ok

Jamiezzz guys do better you need to hype Y/N up NOW!!! she said this was a challenging thing for her

You hahahaha its ok

Hyunggu🤪 So I have to hype up Y/N but all my pics just get roasted? Make it make sense

Jamiezzz that’s cuz you a fool

You chuckle to yourself at your friends’ antics, then scroll back up and look at the photos of yourself again. Why hasn’t Seungyoun said anything?

Well… he’s probably busy. But then again, his group ended promotions two weeks ago when you last saw him at MCountdown. They probably just got back from Thailand yesterday. Your fingers hover over the photos. It’s not that you’re worried about what he thinks of how you look. You’re just curious.

Youn You worked hard, Y/N👍🏻

You read the message probably ten times over as soon as it pops up on the screen, unable to keep a giddy smile from rising on your lips.

Until that’s all that he says, the conversation in the group chat going on without him.

You worked hard.

You set your phone down in your lap, a frustrated sigh passing your lips. He won’t even say that you look pretty. He’s never really said something like that. He probably doesn’t even think of you in those kind of terms.

“Something upsetting happen?” the stylist asks you. You smile at her through the mirror. “Nothing important.”

This time, at a get-together with all of your friends, plus Kim Wooseok who has tagged along again, you don’t sit next to Seungyoun. You doubt he notices, but you did it on purpose.

It’s not really dinner out somewhere like you usually do- you all just decided to hang out, drink beer around a floor table at Jimin’s apartment. You’re leaving to go on a trip with your members to film for your reality show in a couple of days, and Vernon is on a short break in between tour dates, so it’s the last time you’ll all be able to gather for at least a few weeks.  

“Aren’t you two tired? I feel like you guys have been working nonstop for the past two months.” Nathan, who has finally made an appearance at one of your gatherings, refills everyones’ glasses with beer.

“Uh-huh,” Vernon answers halfheartedly, leaning back against the couch behind you. You pick up your glass and take a swig. “Tired is an understatement.” “That new manager isn’t giving you guys a break, huh?” Jimin asks you, which you nod at. “Yeah. He booked us to film a CF the literal day after we get back from Hawaii.” “Too bad that Sungjoon guy quit,” she hums, offering you a sympathetic expression.

You’ve been doing a good job tonight, of pretending like you don’t have feelings for Seungyoun. You’ve been talking a lot more to Vernon and Jimin since they’re next to you, and with all the drinking games going on, there hasn’t been a whole lot of group conversation.

That changes, though. Of course it does.

“Out of beer!” Hyunggu eventually announces, gesturing around to all of the empty glasses on the table. “Who’s going to get more?”

You stand, brushing down your clothes. “I will. I need some fresh air.” “Someone go with her,” Jimin mutters, slumped over on the couch. “It’s a dangerous world for women.”

You roll your eyes, ready to object-

“I’ll go. Come on, Y/N.”

Surprised, you look over as Seungyoun stands up, scooting behind Wooseok and Hyunggu to get into the main part of the living room.

“Alright,” you say, shrugging to seem nonchalant. “Be right back,” you tell your friends, grabbing your bag off of the kitchen counter.

Seungyoun puts his hand on top of your head as soon as you walk out the door of the apartment, ruffling your hair. “No more drinks for you when we get back, okay?” “What?” you laugh and give him a skeptical look as his hand slides down from your head to wrap around your shoulders. “Cho Seungyoun, I have the right to get wasted before I go on vacation.” “You already drank a lot,” he says, shaking you gently. “Your new manager will get mad at you.” “How do you even know that,” you grumble, even though he’s totally right. “I can tell,” he says, smiling down at you.

Your heart is beating furiously fast.

Seungyoun looks the best like this, you think. When he has no makeup on, and his hair is just falling over his forehead unstyled, and he’s wearing a hoodie and jeans. When his smile is calm and relaxed and for you. When he doesn’t feel like a public figure, who people know and love, but just him. Just Seungyoun.

He lets go of you when you get into the elevator, and immediately you miss the feeling of his arm wrapped around you.

“The two of us haven’t hung out together in a long time,” Seungyoun comments as the elevator starts descending. You glance over at him and he meets your eyes. “And you keep being too busy.” “I’m not the only busy one between us,” you tell him, patting his arm. “Anyway, we’re hanging out right now.” “We’re just going to the convenience store to get beer,” he chuckles. “Kind of a boring hangout session if you ask me.”

That stings. You look away, at the elevator doors, at the ground. Anywhere but at him.

You wish you could tell him. It’s not boring to you, doing something like buying cheap beer at a corner store with him. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing if you’re doing it with him. But you guess that he’s bored with you unless something fun is going on.

“Yeah,” you agree softly.

“Anyway, let’s hangout when you get back! When both of us are less busy, obviously.” Seungyoun continues the conversation without even a pause. “I don’t think that’s really possible, though,” you respond, feeling half-hearted now that you’ve been reminded that his smiles and gentle touches mean nothing to him. “You’ll probably have a comeback and then it’s award season.”

“We’ll make time for it somewhere,” he says, then holds out his pinky as the elevator doors open. “Promise?” You look up at him, reluctant, but give in, hooking your pinky around his. “Promise.” “Yay!” Seungyoun shakes your joined pinkies, then lets go of your hand to open the door to the apartment complex, leading you out into the crisp air of Seoul at night. “I’ll hold you to it.”

What happened last night?

You’ve read Kim Wooseok’s message a few dozen times at this point. He sent it this morning, at around ten. It’s ten pm now, and you still haven’t answered.

You’d figured he would have noticed that your mood was a little dampened after you came back to Jimin’s apartment with Seungyoun, more alcohol in tow. Even though Seungyoun advised you to stop drinking, the way he kept smiling and laughing cluelessly made you want your mind to be a little foggy. You’d been a little quiet, but that’s how you get when you drink anyway, and your friends probably hadn’t noticed anything different.

But Kim Wooseok seems to have the perceptive skills of a fortune teller.

You and Soohyun had gone to get dinner together after doing a pretty long vlive earlier, but now you’re alone by the Han river, having wanted some time to yourself to think before you go on the trip with the girls.

Your thumbs hover over the screen, but instead of typing, you just sigh, looking out over the river. You like the river a lot. When you were a trainee, you used to come and sit on the banks with the other trainees and eat snacks from the convenience store after practice. You were supposed to be studying when you didn’t have practice, but you always thought if you debuted, you wouldn’t need to have good grades anyway.

You’d been really stressed out, in those days. Worried about your debt to the company, whether you were good enough to debut, missing class all the time to go to special dance seminars. You’d been so anxious about the company finding out that you went on a date with one of your classmates that you told him the next day you didn’t think you could actually date him.

You should’ve just dated him. Maybe then you would have gotten in trouble, and then never developed an interest in Seungyoun because the experience of getting yelled at by the CEO would have scarred you.

You shake your head, laughing a little at yourself.

Ding!

Expecting a text from one of the members or your manager, you look down at your lap, eyes widening when you see the text.

Are you sitting by the river right now?

“What the…” you stand up immediately, looking around with a frown. Is Kim Wooseok literally a fortune teller or something? A psychic? Whatever someone who can see the future is called.

How did you know that?!?!

You text back, squinting to try and see if anyone walking around looks like him.

Hold on.

“Hold on?” you repeat out loud, in awe. What is going on?

You stand there in confusion for about twenty seconds, until someone walks off of the bridge that’s nearby and starts walking directly towards you.

“Are you a psychic?” you ask Kim Wooseok when he approaches you, hands tucked into his coat, mask over his mouth, glasses on. You see his cheeks lift up slightly like they do when he barely smiles. “Yup.” You give him an incredulous look. “Be honest.” “Are you telling me you actually believe in psychics, Y/N-ssi?” Wooseok says, his head tilting slightly to the left. “I was walking with a friend and saw you.”

You squint at him, not answering. This time he actually laughs, probably in disbelief. “What? You believe in psychics more than that?”

“No,” you start, crossing your arms. “That just doesn’t make sense. You don’t even live over here. It’s nighttime so it’d be hard to see me even from close by, but you somehow spotted me from that bridge?” “So what, you think I’m stalking you?” Wooseok says, looking unimpressed. “I’m just saying it’s weird,” you reply, clasping your hands together and looking around. You hear Wooseok chuckle under his breath, which kind of surprises you because he’s usually pretty serious.

“Anyway…” you start, since your legs are tired from all the dancing you did in your vlive earlier. “Want to sit down?” Even though you can’t see his whole face, you can tell that Kim Wooseok is skeptical. “On the pavement?” “Hey, there’s a step!” you point at where you’d been sitting before. Yeah, it’s just the side of the river, not one of those pretty grassy banks, so it’s just concrete steps. “Well, even if you won’t, I am.” you sit back down, stretching out your legs.

“Whatever,” you hear Wooseok mumble, and then sit down next to you.

A few seconds pass in silence, and then he speaks up again.

“It was really easy to spot you because you’re not wearing a mask, and you’re wearing the same sweater you were yesterday.”

You look over at him with wide eyes, and then down at yourself, and then laugh. “Oh, yeah, I guess you’re right. It was on my chair so I just put it on before coming out.” “Why don’t you wear a face mask?” Wooseok asks, sounding curious. “Don’t you care if people notice you?” You shake your head, leaning back on your hands. “People don’t really come up to me at night even if they recognize me. I think that happens more with male idols. Anyway, masks are stuffy and I’m not doing anything bad so I’m gonna show the world my face.” Wooseok shrugs. “As long as you don’t care if Dispatch tracks you down or something like that.” “Are you nervous?” you grin mischievously as you look sideways at him. “There could be an article out tomorrow about us meeting each other at night.” He glares. “Don’t even joke about that. My career would take a blow.” “What about my career?” you ask, scrunching up your brows. “That part isn’t relevant to me.”

“Pfft,” you flip your hair over your shoulder. “Whatever. I’m sure even if they got pictures of us your company would pay anything they asked to make sure nothing would get released.” “Probably.”

“By the way,” you say, looking at Wooseok out of the corner of your eye, a little sheepish. “Sorry I ignored your text. It’s kind of awkward that you showed up out of nowhere before I replied.”

“I expected you to ignore it,” he says. “You seem bad with confrontation.” “You can say that again,” you mutter.

“...He said something, didn’t he?” Wooseok says, looking over at you. “Seungyoun.” You match his gaze, teeth biting into your bottom lip. You look away. “It’s not that he said something in particular. It’s just that sometimes I realize that… that he just doesn’t care about me the same way I care about him.”

Wooseok is quiet for a moment, then he sighs under his breath, but he doesn’t talk.

“Sorry,” you tug on your fingers, chuckling although you know it sounds kind of strained. “I don’t mean to complain to you, I know we’re not really friends or anything…” “You don’t talk about your problems to people, do you?” he says, turning to face you. Still fidgeting, you shrug. “Just my members sometimes, I guess. I don’t want to trouble anyone.” Wooseok sighs again, a sharper sound this time. He looks away from you, and out of your peripherals, you can see him looking up at the sky. “I get that.”

“Well if you have problems, you can tell me about them if you want,” you blurt out, not really knowing why. Wooseok looks at you, his expression a mix of surprise and confusion. “I’m a good listener and I give good advice.” “Nothing about how you handle your personal issues makes me believe that.” You bite your lip again. “I mean… I’m good at giving other people advice, I’m just bad at implementing it in my own life.” He pauses, then gives a short nod. “Hm.”

“How about this then?” you say, turning towards him completely. “I’ll be your personal advice-giver, and in return, you can keep me updated on Seungyoun.” “Updated?” Wooseok looks unconvinced. “I told you I’m not a stalker.” “Not like that,” you roll your eyes. “I just mean, like… I don’t know. Bring me up and see what he says. Or, if he shows interest in another girl. I want to know so I can force myself to give up on him if things look too dire.” “I think things are already dire for you,” Wooseok mutters, but it sounds like he made it purposefully loud enough for you to hear. He speaks up louder after that. “I don’t want your bad advice, but I’ll help you if you buy me food.”

Well. That’s honestly probably a better idea.

“Deal.” you hold out your hand. Wooseok looks at it, still seeming skeptical, then reaches out and grasps it. His hands are pretty, you notice, as he shakes yours once, firmly.

“Don’t be weird about it,” he says, a warning tone in his voice. “What?” you scrunch your nose. “I’m not weird.” At this, Wooseok laughs. Actually laughs, not the awed one from before. “Not weird? I’m amazed you even said that.” “Whatever,” you shrug, leaning back on your hands again. “People like my personality.” “I’m sure your fans find it… endearing.” “Why’d you have to say endearing like that?!”

“What’re you so peppy for?” Eunmi asks when you get back to your apartment. You shrug, dropping your keys in the dish by the door. “Just ‘cause.”

She gives you a doubtful look as she mixes up what looks like some bibimbap at the breakfast bar. “Did Cho Seungyoun text you or something?” “Nope,” you say, popping the p. “I’ll see you in the morning, unnie!” “Huh?” she calls after you. “L/N Y/N, I swear if you went out to see him-”

You shut your bedroom door behind you, feeling very content.

You pull out your phone, tapping on Kim Wooseok’s name, and snap a selfie with the peace sign up to send to him.

Let’s work hard, Wooseok-ssi! Pick a place to eat, for when I get back from Hawaii~~

A few minutes go by while you take off your makeup and do your skincare routine before you check to see if he’s responded.

Just go to sleep 

You nod to yourself. That seems like him.

You sleep well that night.

[lady-divine-writes]

Moral Arguments

Summary:

Crowley doesn't exactly take assignments anymore, but sometimes he does things for fun - like answering the call of a broken-hearted woman summoning a demon on St. Valentine's Day. But what Crowley thinks is going to be a simple hex-and-go turns into more emotionally charged than he bargained for.

Notes:

Inspired in part by this post.

(AO3)

“Creatures of the Underworld …”

“Yup. That’s me.”

“… on Earth and below …”

“Gotcha.”

“… I summon thee!”

Crowley throws up his hands in frustration. Ten more minutes of this, and he’s going to start pulling his hair out.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m summoned! I’m summoned! Let’s get a move on, will ya? I’m late for a date!”

“Demons of vengeance! Hear my plea! Do my bidding!”

“Let’s have at it then, girlie!”

“Lords of the Dark!”

“Oh, bollocks! Here we go again!”

“I, Samantha Westin of West Berkshire, call you to my aid!”

“Ugh!”

Crowley, hidden between a dresser and a closet, in a shadow created by several taper candles throwing light, slides down the bedroom wall and sits. He’d been summoned here, but not really. Only very specific spells can truly summon him. It’s not a simple matter of yelling out, “Oi! Demon! Get your bum over here! I need you to do something for me!”

If that were the case, he’d never get a moment’s peace.

But this was different – an amateur incantation but on a day of the year when demons get the greatest (and easiest) opportunity to make mischief – and Crowley appreciates easy; when people from all walks of life will call for a demon like they’re ordering take away and invite them into their homes with little to no thought of the consequences.

St. Valentine’s Day.

Crowley doesn’t do much in the way of official assignments for the big bosses anymore, but old habits die hard, and this one’s too tempting to resist. He’s running late for dinner with his angel, but this was going to be fun. He could risk being a few minutes late.

That’s what he’d originally thought.

He’s closing in on over half-an-hour.

Samantha leans over a book on the floor in front of her. She reads a bit, then jumps nervously. She grabs a container of salt by her knee and spills it out in a circle around her.

A protective ring –a boundary between her and any potential evil.

“Aw!” Crowley coos sarcastically to himself. “She fancies herself a white witch! How adorable!”

He has to give her some credit. Whatever book she bought, it’s from someone who knows an inkling of their stuff. Salt is effective against evil creatures, but only minor ones, like the insects of the demon world. Still, considering no one would want their house invaded by a horde of demonic termites or zombie ants, it’s nothing to sneeze at.

“Find a photograph of the offending and fix your eyes upon it.”

“Okay, okay.” Crowley sits up, wondering if he should miracle himself up a bag of crisps. “Finally! Things are gettin’ good.”

“Tear up the photograph,” she reads, “and proclaim his sins into the dark.” She takes a deep breath, then lets it out. “Okay. Here goes.”

She begins to tear the picture in half, then fourths, and Crowley rubs his hands excitedly together.

“So let’s see. What did this crank handle do, huh, Sammy? Stepped out with another bird, I’ll wager.”

Samantha carefully places the torn pieces of the photograph into a small wooden bowl, part of her arsenal of witchcraft paraphernalia, and sighs. “He left me for my twin sister.”

“Ding, ding, ding! Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” Crowley licks his finger and marks a single, sparking tally into the air. “Well, you should take that as a compliment, love, really. He left for someone who looks exactly like you.”

“He stole my car …”

“Oh, we’re not done.”

“… broke into my house …” She takes a long breath, shuddered by the onset of tears. “He killed my dog …”

The grin that had been spreading on Crowley’s face falls into an immediate frown. “For Satan’s sake! This prick should be working for us.”

The woman stops, bites her lower lip as the tears gathering around her heart begin to fall.

“He hit me. Not just once. Not just twice. And he … he …” Her voice fails her, but she mouths the words, and Crowley rises to his knees, subconsciously gearing up for a fight. This is a new instinct for him, being protective of anyone, specially a mortal. He’s known right and wrong from day one. He’s felt anger over the injustices he’s witnessed, even remorse over the ones he’s helped cause. But, for the most part, he’s been fine sitting on the sidelines, inconveniencing people when he could for the greater good.

It’s a grey area – thwarting a crime. In the end, someone gets hurt or killed. When you’re in the business of harvesting souls, the who doesn’t necessarily matter.

Crowley simply finds a way to harvest a bit more selectively than other demons.

“Holy fuck!” he groans, tossing his head back and staring up at the ceiling. “Why? Why me? This was supposed to be a simple little fun hex-and-go. What am I supposed to do now?”

The real question, he discovers with very little wracking of his brain, is what would Aziraphale do?

“Sprinkle rose water on the pieces of the photograph and set them on fire.”

A conflicted Crowley watches the young lady search for her flask of rose water. He’d seen it beside her a moment ago – a simple vessel of water with roses floating in it that she probably prepared herself. She suddenly seems to remember where she put it because she spins around quickly with an anxious look on her face, mumbling, “No, no, no! Crap!” before she finds it tipped over onto its side. “Dammit!” She examines the empty flask, wet rose petals plastered to the sides, the water that had been inside soaking into her rug. She shakes her head and sets the flask down. “Of course! Of course! Just my luck! Now what am I going to do?” She gets on her hands and knees and goes searching for something to replace the water with. She finds another bottle within reach of her salt circle and grabs it. She reads the label, then gives it a sniff. She consults her book, and shrugs.

“Smells like roses. This should do.”

Crowley squints from the darkness to catch a glimpse of the label. This bottle isn’t rose water. It’s perfume. Not expensive perfume. The kind one buys at a corner market along with their milk and eggs on the way home. Perfume of that caliber is usually teeming with alcohol.

Flammable alcohol.

He watches as she gives the bowl a few spritzes, a subtle floral aroma filling the air. Then she goes for broke, untwists the top, and empties the contents into the bowl. The scent of roses smacks him in the face like a freight train along with an undercurrent of sharp and chemical. She grabs a book of matches, tearing four from the inseam, and strikes them.

“Jesus Christmas! She’s going to light herself on fire!” Flashbacks fill his brain of a heat seared inside his memory like a wound that refuses, even with time and treatment, to heal. Crowley leaps to his feet and materializes from the shadows, rushing at her, waving his hands to get her attention. “Stop! Stop! For Satan’s sake, stop!”

Samantha’s head snaps up. She drops her matchbook and scuttles backward, stopping when her hands hit the salt. With a snap of his fingers, Crowley extinguishes the flame before it has a chance to ignite the bowl.

“What the ---? What the fuck?” Samantha screams. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m a demon!” Crowley pats his chest dramatically as if she might mistake something else for the demon and him for a coat rack. “You know, the one you’ve been summoning?”

“I---I don’t believe in demons!” she yells and for a moment, all of Crowley’s worries about this woman setting herself, her house, and her neighbors ablaze dies with the absurdity of that remark.

“I … huh … what!? If you don’t believe in demons, why the bloody heck are you trying to summon one then? That’s literally the stupidest … you don’t dabble in magicks, young lady! That’s even worse than knowing what you’re doing!”

“It ---it wasn’t supposed to be serious! It was a coping mechanism!”

“Don’t talk to me about coping mechanisms! My entire existence is about coping mechanisms! Don’t do that!” Crowley snaps, catching her with his magic before she can jump to her feet and dive onto her bed for her cell phone. The bed is halfway across the room. Making a break for it would have taken her out of her circle. “Don’t break the ring of salt! Even terrible spells need to be ended correctly!”

“What happens if they aren’t?” she asks, relaxing when he releases his hold over her.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I want to know! I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know!”

“Cheeky little …” he mutters, fishing his phone out of his pocket, realizing how much this young lady and his angel would get along. “Let’s just say if you don’t want to know what it feels like to have your brains liquefied inside your skull and then drunk by demon maggots, you’ll end this spell. Meanwhile, I’m gonna call in some reinforcements.”

“Reinforcements?” Samantha swallows hard. “L---like … more demons?”

“Luckily for you, no. I run with a different crowd.”

“How do I end the spell?”

“Jump to the bottom of the page,” he says, phone to his ear. “It’ll tell you---Aziraphale?”

This isn’t the way Crowley saw this going. Back in the old days, he’d hex the guy and be done with it – make him go bald with his head hair growing out his nose, give him a festering boil on his face that would never heal, make him severely and flatulently allergic to his favorite foods. Only thing was, unbeknownst to the young lady who summoned him, she would be damned, too. That wasn’t even a demonic rule. That one came from the good book itself. It was the kind of two-for-one demons delighted in.

One that came with a divine loophole.

But not anymore.

For some bizarre reason, he’s taking this personally.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice barks over the line. “What the heaven has happened to you? You’re nearly an hour late!”

“I know, angel, I know. I got caught up with work.”

“You’re working? Tonight!?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll explain when I get there.” Crowley glances down at Samantha, reading through the spell, sniffling as the words take her back to why she was doing what she was doing a moment before. “I’ll be bringing work home with me. I need a little help.”

***

“There, there, dear,” Aziraphale says, handing Samantha a cup of tea. “Let’s talk this out, hmm? Tell us everything, and then we can come up with a solution.”

It took Aziraphale close to an hour over the phone to convince Samantha to get into Crowley’s Bentley and accompany him to his bookshop. When he did, he made Crowley swear he’d obey the posted speed limits.

When they arrived in under fifteen minutes, Aziraphale knew he hadn’t.

Remarkable seeing as they stopped along the way to pick up a friend.

“The solution is we should call the police!” Anathema says, bringing over a plate of cookies.

“I … I tried.” Samantha takes the plate with a small but grateful smile. “Everything he’s done, even with the evidence I have against him, and it’s still a his word against mine sort of situation. It’s almost like the police don’t want to listen. Like they think it’s not worth their time.”

“Sounds about right,” Anathema reluctantly admits, dropping onto a nearby sofa and accepting a glass of whiskey from an angrily hissing Crowley as he paces the floor.

Aziraphale watches on with sympathetic eyes. He’d asked Crowley in private why? Why did this mean so much to him? With everything he’d done in the past, why did this one woman’s plight trigger such a strong response? Crowley had confessed that he didn’t know, but mumbled something about those abusing the vulnerable beginning to get under his skin.

“So, what do you suggest, angel?” Crowley asks, peeking up when he feels his husband’s eyes on him. “What does it say in the rule book about dealing with a situation like this when the supposed good guys sit around with their thumbs up their arses?”

“Normally, I would recommend gentle persuasion, and if that doesn’t work, then a little forceful persuasion,” Aziraphale says. “But as I don’t feel the man in question would be receptive to that, and the authorities aren’t in the mood to help, maybe we should skip the usual steps and jump to the end.”

“And what’s the end?” Samantha looks nervously from Aziraphale to Anathema, then to Crowley staring at the man in white with a disbelief that erases the color from his face. All three have gone quiet, but they’ve seem to come to the same conclusion, and it stuns at least two of them.

Samantha is obviously missing something big.

“Well, you did summon a demon, my dear,” Aziraphale says kindly, but with a grave nod to his husband. “I’d say it’s about time that demon got to work.”

“Are you serious?” Anathema yelps, but not in a way that indicates she disagrees. In fact, she looks fully on board with this plan – whatever it is.

“What about the whole damnation clause thing?” Crowley asks in a lower than low whisper.

“Find a loophole, my dear. That’s what you do.”

Crowley grins, impressed at the ability of his innocent Aziraphale to straddle the grey line as well as he. During a discussion about guns, his angel had once said that they lend weight to a moral argument when wielded by the right people. He wonders if this falls under the same category. “Right. And what about dinner?”

Aziraphale escorts his demon to the door, kissing him softly on the lips before showing him out. “It’ll keep.”

[calif0rnia-lovers]

fake it ‘till you make it

chapter 1: you were mine first. 

summary: a trip down memory lane as Tre returns home to find his best friend dealing with the fallout of her divorce proceedings.

a/n: this chapter is really long. it’s essentially full of backstory. i didn’t want to post each part as its own chapter bc that would end us up with four short chapters. so...prepare for time jumps. kinda wanted to get the backstory out the way so that i can get into the good stuff. let me know what you think. i know it’s a reader fic but i just think aja naomi is so pretty that’s why you see her face :)

if there are typos bare with me. I forced myself to stop making changes and just posted it. songs are linked because i’m hella dramatic and moody when i write.

words. 8,960

2006: junior year in high school. (gif).

You say we're just friends but I swear when nobody's around You keep my hand around your neck, we connect

You're seated, alone, in the corner booth at Happy's Diner. The AP Calculus book and notes spread out across the table are the perfect repellants for teenage boys hoping to "keep you company" until your friend arrives.

Your friend who just so happens to be running extremely late. Halfway done with your second glass of soda kind of late.

Trevante comes strolling into the diner, pausing long enough to say hi to Happy before heading in your direction. Climbing over the booth, he slides in next to you.

"Sorry I'm late," he huffs as he settles in next to the window.

His arm drapes over your shoulder, as he reaches forward to drag your plate towards him. Keeping your focus on the problem you're solving, you blindly lift his left arm, turning it so that you can see the face of his watch.

"You are forty-eight minutes late." You shove his arm off your shoulder, it finding its place back to your shoulder instantly. "Why do you wear a watch if you don't know how to use it?"

"Why buy me a watch for my birthday if you know I can't use it?"

Trevante narrowly avoids the slap you send towards his hand, stealing a french fry and popping it into his mouth.

His neck rolls, a groan escaping his lips as you move the plate out of his reach.

"Come on, Y/N. I can't have any-"

"No. You can tell me where you were. What was so important you left me waiting for forty-eight minutes? I already ordered the dinner you promised me."

"You clocking me now?" His brow arches as he drags the plate across the table.

"When it affects me? Yes. Yes, I am."

Trevante lightly shrugs his shoulder before retrieving the ketchup. The fact he doesn't want to tell you causes you to lift his arm from over your shoulder.

Resting his arms against the table, he silently busies himself with cleaning your plate.

"Why can't we study at your place?

Trevante watched as your shoulders rise and fall, your brow furrowing as you reach in your backpack. You're willing to acknowledge his question isn't that strange. From the fifth grade, the two of you have always studied at your house. Your dining room table has years worth of homework sessions. When you entered high school, your study sessions had migrated to your bedroom.

Trevante could usually be found sprawled across your bed; arm tucked behind his head as he lounged on your pillows. While you were found seated on the floor, books and notes displayed neatly around you.  You would kill to be back in your room right now. Both of your giggles mingling with the latest playlist Trevante has downloaded on his computer. However, ever since your last study session, that doesn't seem like a great idea.

Your mind is still trying to make sense of what exactly happened. You were slightly hopped up on coffee, the late-night study session keeping you and Trevante up well past your parents. Trevante...was wired by something else. What exactly? You're not sure. He'd arrived at your place, hours before, in a shitty mood but refused to tell you why. You'd initially thought it was because you'd rejected his invitation to attend William Prescott's party because you needed to study. Trevante had gone to the party before meeting you. Whatever happened at the party had stopped him from being a semi-decent study partner.

You were used to the textbook attempts of avoiding his work. The television, conversations about something he'd heard in the locker room, etc. What you weren't used to was his fingers toying with your hair, or brushing against your thighs. His lips brushing against your shoulder.

You'd nearly caused him to break his neck on the stairs with how fast you got him out of your house that night.

You grip your eyes closed for a brief moment, an all familiar heat spreading across your skin as he studies your face.

"It's just, my mom...she said something about us having an open-door policy and raging hormones, and it just...weirded me out?"

"Raging hormones," he scoffs, his attention focusing on the problem you're finishing up. "Your mom thinks we're having sex? We used to take baths together."

Erasing your mistake, you try again. You don't respond until you've finished the problem. Sliding the nearly completed homework assignment in Trevante's direction, you pick up your soda.

"I know, that's what I told her. She seems to think guys became sex-crazed when they turn sixteen."

"It's earlier than that," Trevante teases as he looks over the work.

It takes him a moment to realize the assignment is his not yours. He'd given you the completed homework during third period.

"Can you look this over?" He'd asked, hastily placing a kiss against your cheek before starting down the hall after William. "I'll make it up to you tonight. Dinner at Happy's at seven!"

You'd marked up most of the assignment in red while waiting for his arrival. The fact he'd attempted to do the homework without your help leading to you redoing it for him to soften the blow.

Releasing a sigh of relief, Trevante grins in your direction.

"You're so fucking smart, Y/N. It took me all last night to finish that."

You wince as his grip tugs against your shoulder, pulling your closer. His lips briefly press against your cheek. Your giggles fill the air as a second kiss follows.

"Stop," you giggle, lightly pushing against his cheek you watch him place a kiss against your palm before returning your focus on the math problem to his homework. "Don't think compliments will get me to finish your homework for you. You're finishing the rest. Right now. I'm only helping you make the corrections from now on. I only fixed it early because I can't be here until ten again."

Trevante's eyes roll as he accepts the pencil you offer him. "I've got plays to remember. I don't have time to ace AP Calc."

"And I have an entire European History essay to finish when I get home, so focus."

You spend the next thirty minutes helping Trevante finish working through his assignment. By the time you're finished explaining his mishap in the last problem, he's got a headache, and you're on your second plate of fries.

"You got that?"

"Yeah."

"Tre?" You wince at the sigh escaping his lips. "You don't sound too convincing. Do you need me to explain it again?"

You look up to find him watching you. His brow furrowed.

"What do you think of Prescott?" Trevante asks.

Your brow furrows as you concentrate on finishing the remainder of your shake.

"Prescott? As in William Prescott? The quarterback?"

"Yeah."

You attempt to read his expression, but whatever is on Trevante's mind, he isn't giving much away.

"He's...nice? I don't know, Tre," You laugh. "I don't know him. I mean, he's spoken to me maybe...three times. Each of those times is because I'm with you."

William Prescott was hard to ignore. Even if you weren't acquainted with him, it was impossible not to know who William was. His father was mayor, his mother, a member of the school board. Not to mention William was captain and quarterback of your school's football team. You share two classes with William. The fact you tend to sit in the front, and him in the back, making it difficult for him to talk to you. You can't even remember the last time he looked in your direction, let alone acknowledged you.

"I'm pretty sure he's gonna try and ask you out."

Your eyes roll as you uncap the highlighter in your hand.

"Right." You snort.

Concentrating on highlighting the formula before you, you glance up when you realize nothing else has been said.

"He asked me if you were seeing anyone," Trevante responds, his expression unreadable.

"And? What'd you tell him?" You ask the urgency in your voice, causing Trevante's eyes to roll.

He shrugs.

"I said not that I know of."

You let his words sink in, your brow furrowing. You're not sure what to say to that. If there was anyone who knew about what was going in your life, it was him.

"Okay..."

"I mean...I told him you weren't really looking for him. I figured he wasn't really your type. He's the quarterback, and you're..."

You wait for him to finish, but he doesn't.

"I guess you're the only exception to my newfound hatred for jocks?"

Lifting his arm, Trevante didn't bother responding as you gathered up your belongings before heading to the door.

two weeks later.

You keep your hands out before you. With your palms an inch away from the vent, you struggle to keep your entire body from trembling. Your dress is clinging to your wet body, the fabric's weight adding to the uncomfortable sensation on your skin. The air pumping through the ten-year-old jeep is a struggle on a good day. Paired with pouring rain on a chilly October night, it seemed the old vehicle wasn't going to be up to the task.

The rustling alongside you isn't enough for you to open your eyes, or move away from the slowly heating vents.

Trevante continues rustling through his gym bag. He is in search of an extra set of clothes. The spur of the moment thunderstorm that had erupted at the end of the game left everyone unprepared. You were in the stands, only really attending to cheer on your best friend, so you hadn't brought an extra pair of clothes. With the downpour, exiting the stands was a disaster. You didn't want to twist your ankle running down the slick foundation. By the time you made it through the gates of the field, you had to trek up the hill to the parking lot. You had struggled against the crowd to reach Trevante's jeep. By the time he'd met you in the parking lot, you were soaked to the bone.

After retrieving his shirt, Trevante grabs his letterman jacket for good measure.

"All right," he huffs as he tosses his duffle into the back. "This is all I've got."

Tugging the wet dress over your head, you toss it into the backseat before gladly accepting the longsleeved shirt.

The initial stripping off your clothes left Trevante frozen. In his haste, he hadn't considered the idea you might have to undress to get warm. His eyes had widened, his gaze instinctively drifting down your chest to the light pink bra you wore. He pauses to admire how the light fabric contrasts against your skin. You are too busy struggling to tug the shirt over your head to notice. Clearing his throat, Trevante shifts in his seat before focusing on adjusting the radio.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into coming," you mumble as you slip your arms through the sleeves of his shirt.

"You can use my jacket." Stealing a second glance in your direction, Trevante felt his shoulders relax once it became apparent you were decently covered. "It wasn't like you were doing anything anyway."

Shoving your arms through the sleeves of the jacket, you can't deny him a smile as a warmth passes over your body. The fabric is thick, capturing his scent. It feels as though its nearly twice your size.

"I was because, believe it or not; my world does not revolve around you, Rhodes."

"Right," he scoffs. "It's just boring when I'm not around."

Trevante glances apprehensively in your direction.

"So…" You wait for his sentence to be completed. When he doesn't speak, you glance across the car to find his thumb tapping against the steering wheel. "Will Prescott?"

A heat flushes over your skin at the mention of his name.

A light shrug rolls off your shoulder, your gaze diverting. "What about Will?"

"You're going out with him next week."

"Sounds like you already know the answer to that," you mumble.

The laugh that fills the car brings the heat to your face.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Trevante shakes his head before shifting the car into reverse.

You reach forward pushing it back into park.

"No, hold up. What?"

He looks at you for a moment before releasing a deep breath.

"It's just...he's kind of a player."

"William Prescott, a player?" Now it's your turn to scoff. "He's the captain of the football team-"

"That should tell you-"

"Oh, so does that extend to you?"

Trevante smiles, motioning for you to finish your sentence.

"Besides, you didn't even let me finish. Will's the second smartest kid in our class, and I know that because I'm the smartest. He's the poster child of our town. You can't be a poster child, slutting it up without everyone knowing. I haven't seen him date anyone since freshman year."

"Yeah you're right...must just be locker room talk." Resting his head back against his seat, Trevante runs his hand over his face. "What'd you wanna ask me?"

Suddenly your motives for attending the game seemed stupid. You'd texted Tre before the game, asking if he could give you a ride home.

"I need a favor." Your text had read, followed by "A big one. However, you have to promise not to tell anyone. Ever."

"Depends on how many laws we break," he'd responded.

"It's…" Your voice tapers off as you concentrate on the working windshield wipers. "A terrible idea."

"A bad as you picking William Prescott over me?"

When his teasing isn't enough to make you smile, Trevante sits up.

"I'm not a cheerleader, Tre. I don't have guys lining up after me like girls do you. I don't want my first kiss to be with a guy I barely know."

"Look, Y/N, I was fucking around about Will. He's not that bad. Pretentious, but not a complete dick…" Trevante's eyes widen. "You want me to…"

Suddenly the idea sounds stupid, and you're backpedaling.

"It's just I mean, he's the quarterback. Also, I know guys talk and-can't you tell when someone's like inexperienced with that kind of stuff? I don't want that being the only thing he thinks about when he's kissing me-and then he goes back and tells everyone during "locker room talk." Next thing I know, the school newspaper will be publishing that I'm a virgin-"

"Whoa-chill," he chuckles, the smile on his face stopping you in your tracks. "Okay?"

You nod. Your gaze drops to your hands. You're almost sure the heat burning your cheeks is visible to him.

You reluctantly look at Trevante as his touch finds your chin.

His lips press against yours, pulling your eyes closed. It takes a moment for your body to respond. By the time your brain processes what is happening, his lips are gone. His eyes are on you.

"Relax, y/n." He chuckles, his tongue passing over his lips at the sight of the range of emotions flickering across your face. He gently brushes his thumb along the curve of your jaw. "I'm not looking to break your heart. It's just a kiss."

"Just a kiss. Right."

You nod, but the action only causes Trevante to laugh for a second time. He knows the wheels are churning in your head. That, just like every aspect in life, you are beginning to overthink.

"Relax."

"Easy for you to say, Cassanova. Besides I am-"

A squeal comes out mangled with a gasp as his hands find waist and he's pulling against you. He's lifting you into the passenger seat and resting you against his lap. Your hands find his shoulders, the urge to push some space between you the first thought that crosses your mind.

There isn't much space you can put between the two of you with the steering wheel behind you.

You blink. Meeting Trevante's gaze, you feel the pulse of your heart skyrocketed as his hands move from your waist to your lower back.

Sensing your tension, Trevante smiles softly.

"I'll let you take the lead. I know you're big on learning on your own."

Suddenly you're aware of your surroundings.

The smell of rain against your skin. The soap from his rushed shower. The tap of the rain against the window, and roof of the car. The feel of his jeans against your thighs. The sensation that rushes across your skin with each shift of his jeans against your skin when you move. The muscles of his shoulders beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. The slight spike of his heartbeat as your touch drifts to his chest. The rise and fall of his chest as he takes a deep breath as he waits for you to kiss him.

Relax, Y/N. It's just a kiss.

When you blink, and your eyes lift to meet his, you find Trevante's gaze on yours. A tiny smile is on his lips, his head resting against the headrest. The sense of calm that seems to cover you from head to toe stems from the steadiness of his heart against your palm. His thumbs gently massage the outside of your thighs.

The sight of his growing smile causes one to spread across your lips in response. With a slight shake of your head, you place your hands along either side of his neck and lean in to kiss him.

His grip tightens around your waist, shifting your body forward so that you straddle him. Trevante's fingers are in your hair, keeping your lips pressed against his. The desire to feel as much of you as he can eliminate any remaining space between the two of you. Neither of you can keep track of who does what first. Who's tongue brushes against who's lips first, who's hands start to wander first, who's giggle melts into a groan as your hips shift instinctively against his.

Time seems to fall away as quickly as the rain.

His lips linger along the curve of your neck. The pain that had pulled a gasp of irritation from you, a few seconds prior, has been replaced by a much more addictive sensation. The kind that sends a shiver down your spine and digs your fingers into his shoulders. Your hips instinctively shift against his as the coolness of his breath fans the sensitive bruise forming against your skin. His lips press a kiss against the bruise, retracing their steps until they’re pressing against your lips suppressing your giggles.

The tap that echoes off the walls of the jeep causes you to jump. Your back pressed against the steering wheel, your heart skipping a beat as the horn fills the air. Trevante’s hands instinctively grip your waist, pulling you forward, steadying your body. He winces as your weight shifts, your hand pressing against his chest.

Through the damp window, you can make out a single figure. As if that isn’t enough to scare you, you realize the figure is surrounded by something much more frightening than a peeping Tom. The blending of red and blue lights flooding the car distorts the figure. A second tap, with the butt of the flashlight, against the glass follows.

“Don’t-” you catch Trevante’s wrist as he reaches to roll down the window.

“What? You think they’re gonna go away? We can’t exactly say we didn’t know they were there.”

The rain has stopped, leaving just the chilly October night air. You shiver against Trevante as he rolls the window down. There’s no point in climbing into the passenger seat, moving would only draw more attention to your current situation. Your face turns towards the passenger seat, Trevante’s hand lifting to shield his eyes as the flashlight floods the driver side.

Trevante blinks, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light residing on his face. His grip painfully tightens around your waist, his fingers attempting to send you a message, once he realizes who’s on the other end of the flashlight.

Your heart jumps into your throat as a man’s voice floats through the window.

“Game’s over Tre,” came a familiar voice. “You kids need to go ahead and clear out the lot. Take this somewhere else…Preferably with a condom, and off school grounds.”

Trevante nods quicker than intended. He clears his throat, his mind torn between focusing on hiding the fact you were half-naked in his lap and wrapping up the conversation so that he could roll up the window.

“Yes, sir.” He stammers, his weak smile arching the cop’s brow. “We’re – uh, we were actually getting ready to go grab some food. Kinda just lost track of time. But uh – we’ll go now. Sorry for the trouble.”

Trevante moves to roll up the window, but pauses as the officer rest his hand against the door. Cutting off the flashlight, he reaches in to clap Trevante on the shoulder.

“That was one hell of a game, kid” the cop whistled. “You’ve got some speed, son. Those boys from Eastside didn’t know what to do with yo-”

You grip your eyes shut as your father’s words come to an abrupt halt. His gaze lingers on the backseat, Tre’s eyes drifting shut once he remembers what’s in the back. Discarded in haste, your dress rested on top of his gym bag. The same dress your father had zipped for you this morning before you gave him a kiss and ran to catch the bus. You don’t have to turn and face to him to know that your dad’s shooting daggers into Trevante.

A shiver runs through your body as the door is yanked open flooding the jeep with the night air.

Pain shoots through your arm.

You wince as your dad’s grip tightens as he tugs you out the car. Your stomach flutters as nearly fall face forward towards the ground. Your dad pauses long enough to ensure both of your feet have planted before heading towards the awaiting squad car. You stumble forward as you struggle to match his much longer strides to prevent from tripping.

The initial shock is what allowed him to get you halfway to the squad car. But once you notice Ramos, his much younger partner hesitantly shrugging off the squad car, your heels dig into the ground.

“Dad, you’re hurting my arm –” You yank your arm back, the force causing your father’s grip to tighten. For a brief moment you both pause. The adrenaline from just a few moments before seems to have kicked into high gear as you meet your father’s gaze. “I can walk myself to the car.”

Trevante is already out of his jeep, partially afraid he might be drug out next. He watches you storm off to the car and takes a step in your direction. The more rational part of his brain tells him he should get back into his jeep and head home before your dad’s gun is out of its holster.

“Sir, I promise you, it’s not what it looks like-”

"Get your ass in the car, Tre."

It's not until you've slid into the back of the squad car, slamming the door as hard as you can for good measure, that Trevante realizes he was meant to join you.

Trevante hesitates. Pointing over his shoulder, he takes a step back towards the security of his jeep.

"Uh-my pop's will flip if I don't bring the car home."

"Don't worry about that," your dad smiles as he pauses to clap his hand on Trevante's shoulder. His grip digs into Trevante's skin, causing the young man to wince. "I'll explain it to him when I drop you off."

Once your dad is seated in the driver's seat, you lean forward, your fingers pressed against the grate.

"You're not going to let Ramos cuff me? Take me down to the station to prove a point?"

Your dad doesn't speak to you. Instead, he lifts his radio and shares that he's dropping two teenagers off at home.

In fact, he doesn't speak to anyone for the fifteen car ride home. He pulls up to the curb in front of your house and comes to a stop. You get out. You hop back as the squad car takes off. Driving past Trevante’s house, it does a quick U turn before speeding out of the neighborhood.

You take the front steps two at a time, not bothering to check if the door closes fully behind you. The last thing you need is for your mom to see you. You head straight to the shower, locking the door, and hoping no one will bother speaking to you. But as you cut off the light and head to your room, you know that is impossible.

You enter your room to find your mom seated on top of your bed, patiently waiting for you.

Your shoulders tense, your body bracing for the screams. But, your mom surprises you by quietly asking.

"Are you okay?"

"It's embarrassing. I wasn't doing anything-"

"That's not what your father told me." She interjects, your face falling into your hands. "He said you and Tre were...closer than usual."

You find yourself wondering if your father had recounted precisely how he'd found you.

"It was a kiss," you sigh. "Nothing else -- We didn't do anything else. We weren't going to."

"We're not surprised, sweetheart." Your mother's response causes you to blink in confusion. She was not lecturing you. She was using this opportunity to have yet another sex talk. "I mean -- your father is pretty surprised. But your father and I have had this conversation already. The two of you spend an awful amount of time together. You and Trevante have been friends for a while. You're both growing older, and your bodies are changing. He's noticing how your body's changing. You're noticing his-"

"Mom-"

"Your hormones are through the roof, your body might feel like it's hypersensitive around him. That's normal. You find yourself wondering if sex is as good as it looks on tv--"

"I don't need the sex talk again." You groan as you cross the room. Taking a seat beside her, you pick up your pillow before laying back. “And, what is it with you and hormones? This is the second time this week you’ve brought them up.”

Your mom doesn't quite believe you. "A mother’s intuition. The last time we had the sex talk, honey, you were a freshman. You weren't thinking about boys-"

"And I'm really not now," you mumble from beneath the pillow covering your face.

"Take that off."

You groan.

Doing as she says you allow her to tug against your hands pulling you up. Sitting against the headboard, you tuck your knees into your chest.

"Kissing can feel good. But it often leads to something more serious. I'm not as naive as your father. You can't stay a little girl forever. I just don't want you rushing into something you're not ready for. Or at least not with a clear head."

"Mom, I wanted to get my first kiss over with. So I'm not the only girl in the entire junior class that has never been kissed. Tre just did it as a friend. Nothing is going on between us. We're still best friends."

Your mom is silent for a moment. You feel nervous as her gaze studies your eyes before leaving your face. It feels like with just a look, she can visualize every moment from before, and what is to come. Heat races across your skin as you think of Trevante's lips against yours. It rushes to your thighs as her eyes find your neck. The place where his lips showed you that kisses didn't have to be on your lips to feel amazing. The place where your flesh was tender, bruised.

"Best friends still need to understand the importance of condoms." She smiles as your brows raise. You're not sure how you didn't notice it before, but she lifts the box of condoms from her lap. "You can't depend on a guy to have one. In fact, most will try and say you don't need them."

Noting your wide eyes, she says quietly. "It'll give your father more peace of mind if he knows you have these. Even if you're not planning on using them."

You take the box, tossing it towards the chair in the corner.

She gets up pausing long enough to press a kiss against your forehead.

"I think it might be best if Tre doesn't stop by for a while. At least until your father can cool down."

"Fine," you huff.

"Night sweetie."

You watch the door close behind her, listening to her retreat to her room. A few moments later, you hear her speaking to your father through the phone.

You get up, crossing the room. You retrieve the previously discarded box of condoms. Opening the top drawer putting the box of condoms inside. You're about to close it when you stop to rearrange the clothes inside. You cover the box from your sight. Pushing the drawer shut you take a deep breath.

You study your reflection in the mirror. You swollen lips, wide eyes. The bruise on your neck. You realize it won't be easy to hide it in tomorrow's heat. When you cross the room, you pause by the window. You realize Tre's curtains are open. The light in his room is on. From your windows, you can see directly into each other's bedroom.

No matter how many times you've shared this tidbit, Trevante doesn't seem to utilize the blinds. You tend to keep your blinds shut in the morning and after his return home from practice. Accidently spotting him walking around his room, stark naked in the eighth grade has made you overly cautious.

You are in the process of untying the string holding back your curtains when you realize he's moved in front of the window. From what you can tell, your father hasn’t done any physical damage to him.

Trevante tugs his shirt over his head lazily tossing it in the direction of his hamper. He pauses to release the breath he was holding. As he turns towards the window, you take a step to the side. Your breath hitches in your throat as you bump your elbow. 

He waits a moment. The light flooding from your bedroom making him hopeful you’ll check to see if he’s home. But you never do.

 two and a half years ago. (gif)

Catching my breath, pounding my chest

I’m loving you less, I need to confess.

What is it about firsts that the human brain loves so much?

It seems as though we always remember our firsts.

Our first kiss, the first time we heard our favorite song. The first time we felt an inkling of true love. We can remember everything down to what we were wearing, how fast our heart was beating, the weather. Everything. Down to the smallest of details.

When you're in love, being able to remember all of your firsts is a beautiful thing.

What about when you're no longer in love? When only one of you is still in love?

Suddenly, your firsts are different.

You begin to remember the first time you notice his lips felt different against yours. The first time his hand stops pressing against your lower back as he passes you in the kitchen for his morning coffee. The first time he stops whispering how beautiful you look when stealing a second kiss.

You remember the first time his phone lights up, illuminating the bedroom ceiling when he thinks you've dozed off. The first time he calls to tell you he's working late, so there's no need to postpone dinner. The first time dates that once seemed important only seem important when he is reminded of their significance. You even remember the first time you gave up on sending him reminders.

Most importantly, you remember the first time he tells you he isn't in love with you anymore.

It had come in your favorite restaurant: The Gold Eagle. William always took you there when he had news to share whether it be a promotion, the winning of a case, or when he wanted to renew your vows.

You weren't expecting any news in particular when he asked you to book a babysitter for Colby. Certainly not the end of your marriage.

The words had come abruptly -- or maybe it seemed abrupt to you.

How else would can you describe the shift in conversation from plans for your son's birthday party to not being in love anymore?

Abrupt. It is the only way to describe it.

When he'd first spoke the words, you didn't respond. Will had thought you hadn't heard him. Under the music and laughter surrounding you, he couldn't be too sure.

Will cleared his throat, shifting in his chair as he paused the action of cutting his steak.

"Did you hear me?" He'd asked. His brows knit together as he studied your face for any sign of acknowledgment. "Y/N."

You had heard him. Loud and clear.

Your mind concentrated on his word choice. It was meticulous.  There was a time when you loved that Will spoke that way. He never strung people along, or beat around the bush. He always told the truth, sparing someone's feelings came second.

You always knew where he stood, or so you thought.

"I don't love you anymore." Those were the five words that had come out of his mouth.

He hadn't said, "I'm falling out of love with you." He wasn't giving you a warning as to what might come. He was careful with his words because he knew you. He knew you were hoping he hadn't made his mind up. He wanted you to understand that there was no room for repairing.

There was a tiny part of you that was not shocked. That little voice, in the back of your mind, that has been whispering to you the last year. The tiny voice that has been telling you to trust your gut each time you doubted Will.

Reaching forward, you picked up the wine glass before you. Will's eyes observed as you downed the red contents of the entire glass.

He wiped at his mouth, his jaw tightening as you reach across the table for his untouched glass. He doesn't bother objecting as you down the entire glass of wine. He subtly waved off the young waiter approaching with a fresh bottle in his hand.

Will cleared his throat, sitting up in his seat.

"I've already drawn up an agreement. I believe you'll find that it takes both you and Colby into consideration."

He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket. He produced a white envelope.

"William-," you gasp, the air in your lungs escaping you for a moment.

For a brief second, the sound halts his passing of the envelope. He watched the welling of your eyes. His throat clenched as he tried to swallow.

"I don't want to fight you for anything. I told my lawyer that the money's not an issue."

"The money you got because I stayed home with your son? The money you earned being able to show up at all hours at the drop of your boss's hat because I put off getting my masters and furthering my career? Now you’re kicking me and your son out of my house --"

"I told my lawyer that the money's not an issue." He repeated. "I have opted to split it all, 50/50. I'll pay a set amount the first of each month. It will be enough to keep you and Colby comfortable. It will cover his tuition-"

"What do you want me to fix?" Your question had come out softly. The raised question pulled Will's eyes from the envelope. "I'll do anything you want. I'll-Please do not break up our family."

William knew this would happen. He knew that letting you down wouldn't be easy, no matter how much he tried. That is why he can't meet your eye as your plea hangs in the air. He can't watch you cry, his gaze returning to the envelope before him. The tears which blurred your vision are his one weakness.

As he watched you wipe at your eyes, Will found his confidence slipping away. He leaned forward and placed the envelope in the center of the table. He needed to present his out, needed to make the break clean. There was one piece of information he knew would make you take your previous plea back.

"She's pregnant," Will continued as you concentrated on finishing the wine in your glass. It takes a moment for his words to sink in. You blink, meeting his gaze. "She wants to keep it, and...so do I."

Suddenly, everything made sense — Will's insistence on hiring a  babysitter. There was a reason you were having dinner in a public place as opposed to the privacy of your dining room.

Will didn't want you to cause a scene, or at least knew you wouldn't. Not here.

"We can't have another kid right now, baby." You recited, the words halting his movements. "I'm swamped at the office. They're finally giving me a shot. I wouldn't want to leave you at home taking care of two kids just as I'm getting a break in my career."

Will shook his head. "I...It hasn't been right between us for months, Y/N. What's the point of staying together if we're drifting apart? Please don't say we need to stay together for Colby. I'm not leaving my son. But kids pick up on shit. No matter how good we are at faking it in front of him."

"Come on, y/n," he sighed as you glanced over your shoulder in search of your waiter. When you spotted the young man, you lifted your empty wine glass in the air. Will continued speaking the feeling he was digging himself into a deeper hole heavy against his chest. "This isn't a surprise to either of us-"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," you scoffed as you watched your hesitant waiter arrive. Sensing the tension between you and your husband, the young man quickly attempted to uncork the fresh bottle of wine. "I wasn't aware that my husband was fucking someone else while he was also fucking me-"

"Alexis and I-"

William watched your movements freeze.

The mentioning of the young paralegal's name seemed to break through the haze that had started forming on your mind.

"Could you be even more cliche? You fucked the office's teenybopper paralegal? And you got her pregnant? You could have just used a condom."

For a moment, William didn't react. He watched the range of emotions wash over your face. The frustration that morphs into disappointment. The resolution that forms as you reached forward taking the bottle of wine from the hands of the struggling waiter.

"He'll pay for it."

You removed the napkin from your lap, sitting it on the table. You picked up the envelope and shoved it into your purse. You're halfway to the door by the time Will can take out his wallet and pay.

The cold air hit you hard. The intake of fresh air causing your head to swirl. The burn of your chest and rush of your heart made the task of retrieving your valet ticket from your purse difficult.  

Once you found the ticket, you turned. The wind was knocked out of you as ran into a solid barrier.

"Whoa. You okay?"

Trevante caught his breath, his hands instinctively finding your waist to keep you from falling back.

You looked up at him, the recognization on his face causing his brow to furrow.

"Fuck," you groaned, your hands instinctively pushing against his chest.

The look on your face caused Trevante to ignore your request of space; his gaze drifted over your shoulder in search of an explanation.

"Hey, what's wrong?" He asked, the warmth of his hands finding your cheeks. His grip was firm, forcing you to stop your attempt to turn your face away.

You shook your head; your eyes gripped closed.

"I can't see you right now. You of all people. I cannot handle seeing you right now."

"Are you okay?"

Will's grip found your right elbow, his touch seeming to snap you out of it. Wiping at your eyes, you allowed him to guide your body closer to his.

"It's all good, man," Will smiled as he watched Trevante reach out to take your left hand.

"You sure?"

With one look, William knew he was not the one the question was directed to.

His weight shifted forward as Trevante takes in the scrunching of your nose. He knows the action very well. He knew that the silent breaths you take are an attempt to stop the tears in your eyes from spilling over.  But you also won't meet his gaze.

"Yeah, look, man. Y/N just had too much wine." Will chuckled as he retrieved the bottle from your hand. "I figured it'd be best she finished this one at home. You know how she is. Could never keep up with the guys."

You wrapped your arms around your waist, your eyes remaining on the ground before you as Will draped your jacket over your shoulders. You nod.

"I'm fine. Just ready to go home."

Trevante was thrown by how fast your entire demeanor had changed before his eyes. The tears were gone, along with the shaking of your voice. He almost thought he'd imagined it.

Before Trevante could respond, Will had led you back towards the valet. He helped you into the passenger seat, pausing long enough to give Trevante a wave before walking around the back of the car and getting into the driver's seat.

2019: this morning.

Concentrating on your son, you smile as Colby absentmindedly toys with the phone in his hand.

The headphones resting over his curls, obstruct any sound or conversations you don't want him to hear. After your reunion, he'd climbed into your lap to watch an episode of  Teen Titans.

You're both seated outside of the courtroom, patiently awaiting your turn. The clock on the wall, states you have five more minutes until your lives officially change.

They have changed steadily over the past few months, more noticeably for you than Colby. It took a while for him to understand that his dad was no longer living with you. William tried to stay present. He saw Colby more than you initially thought he would. The two of you alternate pickups and drop-offs at school. William stops by to share dinner with the two of you on Sundays, taking Colby to eat with him and Alexis twice a week.

When he's feeling up to it, Colby spends a week with his father. Usually, he opts for weekends. He hasn't warmed up to Alexis yet. Or their daughter.

Today is the first time you've physically held your son in two weeks. William had taken him to Atlanta to visit his parents for their wedding anniversary at the start of summer break.

"Thanks for letting me take him."

Instinctively, your eyes leave your Colby to find Alexis.

She is waiting beside William's lawyer, by the courtroom doors. She is cradling their daughter, Lola, in her arms. Although William's lawyer is speaking to her, Alexis's attention is focused on you.

"He is your son."

"I know, Y/N." William takes a deep breath. He releases it before adding. "I know two weeks is a long time, and you didn't want him to go...so thanks. It meant a lot to my parents."

You nod before looking in his direction.

"I'm shocked Alexis didn't show up with balloons, streamers, a "bride to be" sash, save the date cards...a marriage license for the judge to sign after she notarizes the divorce decree."

Your words harden William's jaw, his gaze sinking to his lap.

"We haven't spoken much about it," he breathes, but the wiping of his palms against his pants legs begs to differ. "We're still trying to settle in with Lola."

"But you have talked about it."

"She wants it to happen sooner than later."

"Well, you can come back here tomorrow and make it official. As of today, you are officially free of me, Mr. Prescott."

Most of the court proceedings are a blur — stipulations, and compromises going in one ear and out the other.

You didn't need to focus in on the words. You'd memorized that divorce agreement front to back. It's impossible not to when you've found yourself crying over it as many times as you have the past few months.

Many of those tear-filled nights, when you'd settled for a glass of wine over blowing William's brains out, you'd thought of calling your lawyer. She and everyone who learned the details of your split urged you to file under claims of adultery. It could increase the amount of child support and alimony, but it wouldn't give you any satisfaction. Your mother didn't care about satisfaction. She wanted you to hit William where it hurt, or at least where it would hurt Alexis the most, in his pocket. But you didn't.

It when you are having a lasting doubt about your decision when a slight nudge comes to your side.

Looking up, you find the judge's expectant gaze on you.

"Mrs. Prescott, would you like to keep your last name?" She asked for a second time. "You have the option of remaining a Prescott, or returning your legal name to that of your maiden."

"Um..." Alexis's brows shoot up at the hesitation. She leans over, whispering to William. He looks away from you long enough to respond to her. Keeping his last name had never crossed your mind, for more than a few brief seconds. It always seemed unimportant compared to ensuring you were financially stable for Colby. "I would like to keep it, your honor. It's the same as my son's."

William nods, his reaction falling on the opposite end of the spectrum when compared to Alexis's.

"Mrs. Prescott will keep her legal name," the judge noted. "As of today, upon the signing of the presented documentation, from both parties, your divorce will be finalized."

William meets your gaze. His fingers gently ruffle Colby's hair. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss against your son’s forehead. He finds himself reaching out to wrap his arm around you, his arm giving you a gentle squeeze. He accepts the pen offered to him by his lawyer. William’s hesitation catches the attention of his fiance, but not yours as you place a kiss against Colby’s cheek.

"To new beginnings," his lawyer smiles, squeezing William's shoulder. The pressure a mixture of reassurance and urge causing WIlliam to remove the cap before leaning over the document. 

"Yeah...new beginnings."

2019: later on in the day. (gif)

"Do I have to wear this?"

Tugging against the collar of his shirt, Colby attempts to undo the top button. The light green polo button-down was one of the many gifts found in Colby's suitcase, courtesy of William's parents. Each time he visits them, they send him home with an entirely new wardrobe.

He needs to start dressing like a young man, Y/N. William's mother would always say.

"Yes," you sigh. Taking a step forward, you ring the doorbell for a second time before moving back to stand alongside your son.

"Daddy's always making me dress like this," Colby huffs, giving the collar another tug. "I hate dressing like this."

"It's because you look so handsome," you gently tease. "If I unbutton it, will you feel better?"

Nodding, Colby allows a grin to slide across his face as you kneel down before him. Undoing the top button you watch him release a dramatic sigh of relief.

"Hold on, let me get my glasses. I believe my eyes are deceiving me. Y/N Prescott?" Stepping onto the front porch, Trevante's father joking adjusted the frames resting on his nose. "I can't remember the last time that husband of yours let you come down to this part of town. Last time I saw you, you definitely weren't this tall, little man. How are you, Colby?"

"Good, sir. Thank you for asking." Bouncing his weight against his heels, Colby pauses long enough to shake the hand offered to him. He attempts to take a step inside in search of the children's laughter from inside the house. But you catch his shoulder causing him to stay put.

Mr. Rhodes looks over your shoulder, his gaze scanning the street.

"Speaking of husband's, where's yours? I wish I could say I've forgotten what he looks like, but his face is all over town now that he's made partner at that law firm. What is called now?"

"He couldn't make it." Offering up the platter of brownies in your hand, you feel your shoulders relax as his attention shifts to the snacks. "I made your favorite."

Lifting the lid, Mr. Rhodes sneaks a brownie out.

"Go ahead and takes those in, sweetheart. You know the way. Let's not tell, the misses that I had one."

"Your secret's safe with me."

You keep your free hand on Colby's head as you make your way inside. He knows he must stay at your side until he delivers the gift for Trevante's mom.

With each step, you find you're surprised how familiar the house feels despite the number of years since your last visit.

The music blasting outside is muffled by the shut screen door leading to the back yard, and the laughter and voices coming from the kitchen.

Nearly all of the wives and mothers from the neighborhood are in the kitchen, ducking under and stepping around one another as they balance different plates and bowls. You remain off to the side, suddenly feeling out of place.

Trevante's mother spots Colby first, her squeal of excitement pulling a shy grin from your son.

"Colby Andrew Prescott, my angel!" Scooping him up, she quickly places a kiss against his cheek before stopping to give his face a good once over. "You have gotten so big! And so handsome, just like your father. I've missed you. Both of you!"

Pulling you into a tight hug, his mother places a quick kiss against your cheek.

"Can you be an angel, and take these out to Tre? We're running behind with the food."

Before you can respond, Trevante's mother has replaced the platter of brownies with a plate stacked high with hamburger patties.

She gives you a gentle push towards the back yard, leaving you no room for opposition.

When you'd gotten the call from her, a few days prior, you thought it was a mistake. Trevante was coming home, and she was inviting everyone in the neighboorhood to stop by the house. Your initial plan had been to not show. It wasn't as though the two of you were that close anymore. Surely no one would notice if you didn't attend.

Maybe that's why you pause in the doorway when you spot him across the deck.

He's peppering playful kisses against the cheeks of his niece. Her giggles fill the air as he catches her fingers before her lips before pressing a final kiss against her forehead.

Placing her down, Trevante picked up the tongs before removing the hot dogs from the grill.

"Can I have two of those?" Colby asks as he stops at your side.

"You can have as many as you want," Trevante chuckles as he takes a step in your direction. "Man, you've gotten big, kid."

Colby nods, his smile growing as he tilts his head back for a better look at Trevante.

"That's what everyone keeps telling me."

Smiling, Trevante squats down before Colby.

"How old are you now? Five?"

"No!" Colby's laughter fills the air as he rolls his eyes. "I'm eight. I turn nine in fourteen days."

"Fourteen, huh? I better start looking for a gift."

Colby's eyes widen at the offer, his head tilting back to meet your gaze. "My momma has the list...if you need help."

"Alright. I'll get a copy. Up top." Trevante winces as their palms collide, shaking his hand out. "Take it easy on me, lil' man. I'm not as strong as you anymore. How 'bout you go play for a bit. Work up that appetite?"

Lightly ruffling his hair, you watch as Colby takes off the yard towards the other kids. Your focus remains on him for a moment. When you look back to Trevante, you find his gaze on you.

He accepts the plate of patties you offer him, his gaze remaining on your face causing you to redirect your attention.

He knows the source of your gaze's redirection is him, but he doesn't look away. He finds his mind picking up on the visible changes you present. It seems now that you're in one another's presence, it occurs to Trevante the last time you were this close to him was two and a half years ago.

Placing the plate aside, he reaches into the nearby cooler.

"Want a beer?"

"Uh, no, thank you." You look up, watching as he twists the cap off of his bottle before taking a sip. "I'm Colby's designated driver. We're going to get ice cream later, so...lemonade for me..."

The heat on your skin causes you to point over your shoulder. "I'm actually supposed to help your mom. So, I'll see you later -- when I come back for the burgers."

"Okay." Trevante smiles. The passing of his eyes over you for a second time causes you to take a step back. "Look, don't be stranger. I don't want another two years to pass before you give me more than five words."

You nod. It takes you a moment to realize you haven't spoken. When you do, you manage an, "Okay."

There is a silence that rests between the two of you for a brief second.

"Just uh...come find me. Colby and I are at my parent's old house."

Trevante nods, his brow furrowing as his eyes linger on your bare ring finger.

"I know the one."

Turning, you start back towards the house but pause as you near the door.

Biting your lip, you release the breath weighing against your chest.

"Tre." At the sound of his name, Trevante glances back. You wait until he turns to face you to speak. Your gaze falls to your shoes. "What did my dad say to you that night?"

It was a question you found yourself pondering more frequently as of late. One you'd never mustered the courage to ask when the first shift in your relationship occurred.

His silence makes you think he's having trouble remembering what night you're speaking of. You had nineteen years worth of consecutive nights spent together to catalog.

When you look up, you find his gaze is across the yard. A soft smile is on his lips. Lifting his beer to his lips, Trevante takes a sip before taking a step back.

He meets your gaze before smiling, "these should be done in about twelve."

Taking a second step back, he turns and focuses on laying out the fresh patties across the grill.

..... to be continued .......

tags:  @chaneajoyyy @kemkem101 @l-auteuse @doublesidedscoobysnacks@ghostfacekill-monger @blackpinup22 @blkroyalltea @essaysbyciara@wakanda-inspired @eyestheyseeyou​ @hufflepuff-ish​

[poedamern]

Mena is always caught staring at the reader and the casts notice. They tease Mena about it and mena gets annoyed so he asks the reader out. Just fluffy stuff with our meens. Female reader please. Thank you!

PAIRING: Mena x Female Reader / LENGTH: 1.5KDISCLAIMER: Gif is not mine! + I cannot write short imagines for the life of me so I’m going to start adding word lengths to these things for you guys and my sanity haha.   

If you’d like to submit an imagine, please submit here! 

You looked beautiful tonight. I mean Mena always thought you looked beautiful but tonight, he just really felt your radiance shine through more than ever before. Your natural charm, your laugh, the way your hair fell so perfectly around your face, your make up bringing out the colour of your eyes and the way you smiled with each and every question. He smiled just looking at you. Being able to work with you on the set of Aladdin and getting to do a press conference with you by his side years later, it made him so happy. He missed you, more than he originally thought, so much so it was so obvious to everyone else. It was definitely a very Mena thing to get caught staring in the middle of the press conference.  

“–She’s an amazing person to work with and I mean, not even Mena can take his eyes off of her for more than a second, that’s just the kind of affect she has on those around her.” Will teased Mena during a question, a deep laugh rumbling in his chest. You laugh with the others, feeling flustered, watching as Naomi hits Mena’s arm, laughing at how obvious he was being. You notice how Mena stumbles for an answer, laughing along. “I mean, I’m not alone in this right?” He jokes with the audience, trying to cover the situation. The audience laughs and cheers in agreement before the MC moves onto the next topic, ending the press conference. 

With the conference over, the cast decided to go out for dinner to a restaurant just down the road, it was originally Naomi’s idea and well, what Naomi says usually goes. So the managers booked a table and everyone was off. You got in a car with Nasim and Marwan while Mena went with Naomi and Will. Everyone makes their way down to the restaurant and is led to a private dining space, outside the back of the restaurant onto a balcony. Drinks were served and meals were ordered. You were having a great time, drink in hand, Naomi by your side, talking about literally everything and anything. 

“I’ll be back, just need to go to the bathroom okay?” You tell Naomi. “Sure thing, I’ll order us another drink.” She winks playfully at you, sending you off so you can hurry on back before asking the waiter to grab two more mojitos. Seconds after you leave, Naomi b-lines for Mena who was sat next to Will. “I’ve never seen someone stare THAT hard before.” Naomi sighs dramatically, leaning over his seat. “Right? I can’t believe after all this time you haven’t made your move man. What’s the hold up?” Will adds, taking a swig of his drink, pointing his finger at Mena. Mena rolls his eyes and groans. “Guys please, it was one time.” – “One time!? So you staring at her literally five minutes ago wasn’t the second time today?” Naomi laughs. “Plus, today isn’t the only day and you know that.” Mena doesn’t respond and instead takes a sip of his drink, frustration settling in. They had a point but it was terrifying, coming to terms with your feelings for someone. “Do us and the world a favour and do something. We’re dying here.” Will adds before you walk back to the table, breaking up the interrogation without knowing.

The night runs long and you’re starting to get a headache from the loud talk and jokes from the table, so you get up and take your drink with you, wanting to take in this view Naomi had been raving about before you left the conference. You place your drink on the concrete railing and start working on taking out the tens of bobby pins in your hair– thinking at least that can help with the slight headache you’re suffering from. Twisting your fingers in awkward positions and setting the bobby pins aside you sigh, your arms getting tired. 

“Need some assistance?” You hear a familiar voice come from behind you. You turn, arms still up in the air and see Mena standing behind you, familiar cheeky smile on his face. “Honestly, maybe. I almost have it just–” You start before Mena interrupts you. “Let me.” He grabs a hold of your hands and sets them back down to your side, standing behind you before searching for the missing bobby pins. The movement and weight of his fingers running through your hair causes you to relax, smiling to yourself at the affect it has on you. 

“Thank you.” You mutter, hands playing with the sleeves of your dress.  “I haven’t even gotten them out yet.” Mena teases you, his laugh deep and low behind you. “I know but still. You always take care of me when I need it.” It was true, he was always there for you, especially more so on this press tour. 

Mena’s thoughts run wild as he takes out the last few bobby pins, one by one. He felt increasingly nervous the longer he stood by your side. Maybe it was the fact the others barraged him to talk to you moments ago and knew they were watching. But it was also just your presence, you just have that effect on him. “Done. I can’t see anymore in there.” He says, letting your hair fall down your back as he places his hands on your shoulders, rubbing them softly.  

You feel your cheeks flush at the touch, its so simple but everything had been building between you two, you knew it, he knew it, everyone fucking knew it. But it was special, what you two had. You were both scared to take the first leap. “Y/N, I– I don’t think you know how important it means to me to have you here.” Mena says softly, one of his hands coming up to push back the strand of hair that fell over your shoulder. You turn at the touch, Mena meeting you halfway, his other hand now resting on your waist. 

You feel his stare on you, eyes locking with your own. “Maybe I don’t.” You whisper, both of you close enough to hear. “– And that’s my fault.” Mena looks disappointed in himself, glancing down at your hands, taking them in his own. “For months, years, we’ve been by each others side and every time I see you, you make me just– so happy. It’s obvious, everyone sees it. It’s ridiculous.” He chuckles at his own words. “But all I ever want is for you to be happy, so, whatever I say, I–” He hesitates.

“Just say it.” You smile softly up at him, making him look back at you by placing a hand on his chest. “Nothing you say will hurt me. You know that.” You reassure him. You could feel his heart race against the palm of your hand and the butterflies instantly start to fly around your stomach. But you’re instantly distracted from the thought as Mena’s hand comes up to your face, caressing your cheek in his hand, his thumb running gently across your cheekbone. 

“I think we both know I can’t keep this from you any longer.” He leans forward, his other hand caging your hand on his chest. He takes in a shallow breath and looks you in the eyes. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you for longer than I’d like to admit. If loving you, makes you happy– I’ll do everything I can to keep it that way. Which leads me to the question–” You can no longer feel his heart racing in your palm cause all you can feel and hear is your own heart racing like crazy, head spinning. “Will you go out with me?” You chuckle softly under your breath and smile from ear to ear. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

Relief washes over Mena’s face and in moments both of his hands are caressing your cheeks, pulling you impossibly close before he catches your lips in his own. The kiss is electric and feels warm to the touch, your lips practically melting against his own. Grabbing a hold of his jacket with both hands, you pull him close to you, not wanting the kiss to end. Obviously happy at the act, you feel Mena smile against your lips before pulling away, resting his forehead against your own, noses touching. “I’ll take that as a strong yes.” He jokes, his dimple showing on his cheek. You scrunch up your face and whisper. “I’d be worried if you didn’t.” 

But in seconds your moment is interrupted by the cheers of the table. “Finally!” Naomi screams first, Will cheering right after her, laughing and clapping his hands. “Only took you a few years my man but you did it.” Will raises his glass at you and Mena. You can’t help but laugh and press your face into Mena’s shoulder, unable to hide your embarrassment and joy. Mena laughs and wraps an arm around your waist. “Mind your own damn business you drunks!” Mena yells back playfully. Mena will never live down this day but you will both cherish it forever. 

[kdinthecity]

Confessions of a Teenage Sugar Queen: The Fall

This is for @zutaraweek​ Day Four: Icarus. Trigger Warning: hints of abuse

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

Is it ridiculous that I am now curled up in bed with Zuko’s sweatshirt? I’m not even wearing it, just hugging it. My brain keeps replaying this tantalizing scene—his car windows all fogged up for a much different reason. If only we had been swapping spit instead of sob stories.

Would he think me a desperate fool if I just… kissed him? After confessing about my dead mother, yes… yes, he would.

I wonder what the scar feels like.

What would Mom say? I could use a little advice here. Is it too soon? Yes. Is he even my type? No.

Jet had a tragic backstory. A small voice in the back of my mind says.

But Jet was also an amazing kisser. Says an even smaller voice.

I can’t sleep, so I turn on Netflix. I’m halfway through season six of a dramatic series based on Greek mythology. Because I’m a dork. Coincidentally, the episode is about the goddess of love forming an escort service, of sorts, and is quite graphic in its depictions of the Erotes. I fall asleep thinking about simply kissing Zuko, but one thing leads to another, and then...

I am so embarrassed by my first ever sex dream (of such great detail) that I don’t think I can face him at work the next morning. It’s still raining, so I dread that Yue will assign Hahn and Zuko to the lab again, and I might slip and say boner instead of beaker or pussy dish instead of petri dish. Why am I’m such a mess? I blame Aphrodite and her meddling.

The gods have mercy on me. Zuko doesn’t show up at the center today. But this also worries me. Did he make it home OK in the rain last night? Should I text him? No, he's probably fine. This internal debate continues, and for the second day in a row, I’m terribly distracted at work. It’s only a matter of time before Yue notices.

That night, I snuggle up again with his sweatshirt, trying to calm myself in the storms of uncertainty. The relentless rain, among other things, has chilled me to the core. I’m nearly asleep when Zuko sends me a message, offering me a ride to work tomorrow. The gesture itself sends a jolt through my body, like lightening. Excitement and nerves quickly settle into that warmth I was craving—his comfort. As much as I would love to accept, though, he lives halfway between here and the Marine Center. It would be too far out of his way, so I shouldn’t inconvenience him.

God, I hate riding the bus. Especially in the rain.

But Zuko now says he’s staying with his Uncle.

Why didn’t he mention that before? I’m too tired to consider the reasons. I can just ask him in the morning.

I’m a downpour of nonstop chatter when I get in the car. I guess I do that when I’m nervous. I shouldn’t be since we had such a good talk the other day. But then I literally had a dream about kissing him and… stuff, so…

Once I finally shut up, I realize how quiet he is. He keeps his eyes trained on the road and doesn’t look at me at all. I can respect a careful driver, but something isn’t right.

“Zuko, are you OK?”

“Yeah, just tired.”

His voice is huskier than usual, and there is a dark circle under his right eye. I lean forward so I can catch a glimpse of the other side of his face, but he quickly turns his head away. I try to follow his sudden movement, but the seatbelt locks up on me, so I slump back in my seat.

“How long have you been staying with your Uncle?”

“Since last night.”

“Oh.” This doesn’t make sense, but I can’t figure out the best question to ask next, so we ride the rest of the way in silence.

“I’m just gonna drop you off and head to my next assignment, OK?” he says as he pulls into the Marine Center parking lot. “I can give you a ride home, too, if you want.”

“Sure, that’d be great.” He still won’t look at me, and now I’m worried that I did something wrong.

At the end of the day, Zuko is in Yue’s office, so I sit outside the door to wait for him. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but the walls are thin, and I can hear every word.

“Zuko, are you sure it’s not broken?”

“No, ma’am. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You look terrible.”

“It doesn’t affect my ability to work, so please, can I just—“

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Yue interjects. “It does affect your work when the summer camp counselor calls me and says you’re scaring the children.”

“The kids are always scared of the scar anyway, so it’s not—”

“Zuko, I’m pulling you from education. You can work in the lab with Katara. She’s behind on her reports and could use the help.”

As troubling as the conversation is so far, I'm elated at this news. The extreme distress in Zuko’s voice overshadows any fleeting joy I feel, though.

“But Dr. Arnook, please. My father won’t… I have to…”

“The Marine Science Center appreciates your father’s generous donations. We’ll make sure his patronage is properly recognized.” Yue’s tone has turned to ice.

“OK, but… could you maybe not tell him? That I’ve been reassigned? I just don’t want him to think I failed… again.”

“I will leave that up to you. What you tell your father is your business.”

“Thank you, Dr. Arnook. Thank you so much.”

“But Zuko, if I have any reason to believe that he is the one doing this to you… then I will make it my business. I will report him. I don’t care how much money he makes or how much he gives us, he can’t just—“

“D-d-don’t. It’s not what you think… Please, don’t say anything.”

My heart starts pounding, and I clutch my chest to suppress the rising ache when I finally see his face. His left jaw sports a nasty bruise, and his lower lip is swollen. The scar looks the same, but in that instant, I know. Whoever inflicted these fresh wounds was responsible for that one, too.

I didn’t think it was possible for me to hate someone so much, someone I've never met… and in defense of someone I've only just met, actually. Dad calls me fiercely loyal, so maybe that’s what he means. I joke about wanting to hit Hahn for being so stupid. This… feels different.

How could he do such a thing? And how do I make him pay?

Zuko scowls at me, and I immediately melt into a puddle of worry. He doesn’t want my pity, that much is clear. I’ve seen that look, and I understand that feeling. I do my best to mask my concern, but how do I show him that I care? I want to help.

“I’m sorry you had to wait,” he mumbles.

“It’s OK.”

About halfway through the torturous drive home, I take a chance in breaking the silence. “Hey. Let's go get some sushi. I’m starving. I have a favorite place not far from my house.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He might not answer at all. Or ever talk to me again.

“It’s Mushi Sushi on the corner of 43rd and Kings Road,” I add with an air of hopefulness.

He laughs. And laughs again. And then laughs some more. I like the sound of his laugh, but right now it’s unnatural and annoying. And he’s wincing in pain, too, which makes it borderline unbearable.

“What’s so funny!?”

He clears his throat. “That’s my Uncle’s place. I was headed there anyway.”

I gape at him. “Your Uncle is Mushi?”

“Well, his name is Iroh. But yeah.”

Zuko pulls his hood over his head and slides into a booth near the back of the restaurant. It’s more crowded than I expected and decorated with colorful banners and candelabras. I had forgotten about Mushi’s theme nights on the third Thursday of the month. If my dinner companion wasn’t in such a sour mood, we could have fun celebrating… whatever it is.

The server, dressed in robes presumably for the occasion, hands me a menu. “Tonight’s specials correspond with your table assignment. Let’s see, you’re seated at Icarus, so you can enjoy seafood soup, fried chicken wings, and ambrosia.”

“Ambrosia?” I ask.

“The nectar of the gods,” he says with a smile.

It’s Greek mythology night! My inner dork squeals with delight.

“I’ll give you a few minutes to decide.”

Zuko slumps even further down in his seat, like he wants to disappear. “Shit, I forgot about this. Let’s just get out of here, OK?”

“Aww. It looks like fun! Maybe it’ll make you feel better?”

“It’s supposed to be a sushi restaurant. I don’t want chicken wings.”

“You have to admit it’s kinda clever. Fried wings for Icarus?”

For the first time today, he makes eye contact. “Yeah, the guy who got burned because he couldn’t please his father.”

Oh.

I do my best to hold his gaze, but the intensity of it is almost too much. “That’s not really how the story goes, you know. Daedalus warned his son and tried to help him. Icarus fell to his death because he didn’t heed his father’s instructions.”

He looks away. “Daedalus built a maze to hold a monster. Icarus is better off dead anyway.”

I'm not backing off, though. “Seriously, did you sleep through sophomore second semester? You’ve got your Greek myths all wrong.”

“And you’re the expert? You probably get your info from that stupid show, Crossroads of Destiny.”

“I do watch that show. And it’s a great resource!”

“It’s not about Greek mythology! It just borrows from it. And butchers it. Honestly, how can you and my uncle watch that shit?”

He makes that incredulous face again with the one raised eyebrow. The shadow of his hood hides the trauma we’re both trying to ignore… by arguing… over nothing.

So, I laugh. And laugh again. And then laugh some more.

“What’s so funny!?”

“I can just see Mushi—I mean, Iroh on the edge of his seat with a remote control in one hand and a golden goblet of ambrosia in the other, waiting with bated breath for the season premiere of Crossroads of Destiny to start. I bet he dresses up for convention, too.”

“I did not attend CoDCon this year, although I considered it. I did dress as Dionysus at the annual wine festival last October. And coincidentally received a golden goblet as a souvenir.”

I hardly recognize the man, clad in leather armor, even though I’ve seen him before. He’s also wearing a broad grin framed by a course white beard and creases etched in thick skin, like that of his costume. I can tell he’s been through a lot—and would be prepared to take on anything. The heat of my embarrassment burns in my cheeks as I shake his extended hand.

“Odysseus at your service, my lady," he says with a bow. "Katara, I presume?”

I swear Zuko is blushing, too. So, he’s told his uncle about me?

“Yes, sir. Pleased to meet you. Er—nice job with the Trojan horse.”

“One of my finer moments, indeed! You're a good judge of character, but only half-right, I must say.” The old man winks at me. “I do wait with bated breath but not with remote in hand. I often watch shows on the iPad. It's much easier on these aging eyes of mine. Also, ambrosia is both a food and a drink, and for today’s menu, I’m serving it as dessert. I’ll bring you some, on the house.”

I open my mouth to say thank you, but Zuko’s groan causes both of our heads to snap in his direction. He probably did it out of annoyance with his uncle’s antics, but I am now reminded of his injuries.

Iroh is, too, as his countenance changes completely. “Nephew, you need to get ice on that. It’s still swollen.”

“I’m fine,” Zuko growls.

“I can help,” I offer.

“I don’t need help.”

Iroh sits down next to me, facing Zuko. His voice is so low that I strain to hear his words. “Nephew, you can hide behind your hood and sulk in the corner all you want. But you can’t deny the truth anymore. And part of that truth is that you do have people who care about you.”

Iroh then turns to me. “Take him upstairs to my apartment. There’s an icepack in the freezer. I’ll bring food up later… including that dessert I promised.”

Zuko slouches on a bar stool with arms folded across his chest, his mood matching the darkness of his marks—all of them—which I now carefully inspect.

I’ve never been this close to him, yet somehow I’m not as nervous as I thought I’d be… if we ever got to this point under different circumstances, that is.

Oh, how I wish the circumstances were different.

He flinches when I place the ice on his face, so I instinctively cup his other cheek with my hand and lightly trace the stubble at his jaw line with my thumb. The gesture is more intimate than I intended, but I hope to return some measure of the comfort he gave me. His sigh comes out more like a shudder—a release—as he leans into my touch.

I step forward and press our foreheads together. It’s a way of bracing myself to be strong for him. Because I need to feel a connection even if it is a small one.

“I don’t know what happened to you, and you don’t have to tell me, OK?” I whisper. “But I’m here… if you need to…”

“Thanks, Katara.” He closes his eyes and brings his hand up over mine to adjust the ice pack. When he lingers there, my body finally betrays me with a quickening pulse and a fluttering sensation in my stomach. I am standing but no longer steady. I am connected but not in control. I allow my fingers to slip to the nape of his neck and thread them through his hair. Because suddenly I need more.

Kissing him right now would be a matter of simply tilting my head. I feel the warmth of his breath. I hear him swallow. I smell the damn fabric softener that started this whole thing.

We are that close. It would be so easy.

Yet so… complicated. The trail of melting ice running down my forearm reminds me that I am here to help. He’s too vulnerable, and I don't want this—whatever this is—to be confused with pity. I do want to make him feel better, though. I don’t exactly understand what I’m feeling.

Because I’ve never felt this way before.