#but I’m loving the scenes I got asked for

[kisses4reid]

not our scene | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,, - part 2

summary - an undercover mission causes realisations that otherwise would be squashed in denial

genre - fem!shy!reader x spencer, forced/wanted proximity, fake relationship -> real relationship, awkward idiots, fluff

warnings - awkwardness, mentions of trafficking and manipulation, realisations of love

w/c - 1.9k

a/n - second part!!! sorry for the cliffhanger that’s my favourite thing to do NOBODY COME AT ME. maybe third part/epilogue?? who knows. love y’all

The instrumental music that poured from the live band on the elevated stage came to a close, you and Spencer hovering on the opposite side of the expansive floors, discreetly keeping an eye on two large kitchen doors. The room erupted in applause, which you joined into, for the band, the man you assumed to be the main musician stood and bent at the hips with a sly smile - he knew he was good. The room quieted down to a small chatter from the abundance of people that filled the room. Women with large hats, velvet gloves, and bright lips cornered tall men in grey suits (or the other way around) and laughed like they’d known each other for many years. Men with peppering beards whispered to each other before letting out howls and pointing towards women who were not their wives. The wives stood silent. 

Spencer cleared his throat, breaking you out of your trance, “He’s been in there for around 10 minutes now. I’m gonna call it in, in case they’ve already got the tracker on him.” You nodded with a tight lipped smile, still recovering from the rollercoaster of emotions that dancing with Spencer had put you through. He glanced at you once more before holding down a button on his cuff and speaking out loud. You nodded along, in case anyone was watching - and also as a kind of self-soothing motion. 

You didn’t drink - well, not often. So when a different waiter came up to you both every 10 minutes asking if you’d like a variety of alcohol, you had to kindly decline each time. And each time you became more irritated. People laughed loudly, people danced in quick blurs, people came up to you both and stared at your dress for a little too long. Thankfully, Spencer took your hand (you’re still in love after all) and nodded with a smile that almost made you forget you were on a mission. 

The two of you escaped onto a balcony with a cold breeze accompanying the faster music that both of you wanted to avoid. Your night was already over, just as it started. One dance. You scolded yourself for wanting more, a longer night, for Webley to continue manipulating people. But you’ve done your job, you’ve completed your mission, and now you have to go home and act like all of it never happened.

“Great job, the officers have been notified and we’ve got a tracker on him now. You two can leave whenever-“

“I think we’ll stay for a bit.” Spencer spoke up, and it shocked you. It must’ve shocked Morgan too as the line went dead quiet. “Right, Y/n?” He gulped and eyed you with pleads. His tie was slightly askew, the wind flapping his jacket lightly, his eyes reflecting the stars that now hung high in the sky. 

“Y-yeah. This party’s actually…” You looked over the over-crowded floor, to your red and sore feet, to the bad alcohol standing on the waiter's trays. But then you looked over to Spencer. His eyes, his hair, his small smile, his red tie. “The party’s actually not that bad.” You say with a smile.

“Okay… don’t stay for too long. We don’t want everyone to be hung over for a flight home tomorrow.”

The balcony was made of white concrete pillars and marble floors, sconces of warm lights and vines of ivy that wrapped around the pillars and balcony like waves of seaweed. It was beautiful, just like the rest of the establishment, it was unfortunate its main use was to take advantage of innocent people. But you weren’t out there to think about that - at least that’s what you assumed. Spencer wouldn’t want to stay to talk about trafficking or crimes surely. 

In that moment, even after watching his small smile of excitement that you agreed to stay with him, all you wanted to do was kick off your shoes and take a goddamn breath. 

You walked over to the parapet of the balcony and was glad to see the top was a flat slab of concrete, just wide enough for you to pull yourself up and sit down. 

You sighed in relief, taking off your heels and letting them fall onto the shiny marble. 

Spencer followed your movements, standing next to you and looking out onto the view. City lights and stars blended in with each other from this angle. 

“Are you okay?” He asked gently. You smile, “That’s the third time you’ve asked me tonight. Do I look troubled?” He stood for a moment before turning his head towards you, his hair sweeping across his eyebrows in the breeze. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.” “Was it really that obvious?” “To me, yes… I think that if I didn’t pretend to enjoy tonight people would’ve been suspicious of us.” You frown slightly, “You didn’t enjoy the night?” “I didn’t enjoy the reason, nor the location. I enjoyed the people though.” He sends you a smile that makes your heart flutter and your cheeks redden. You hope he doesn’t see it in the dim lighting. 

Inside, the dance finishes and people clap, and you do too. Spencer glances at your hands and smirks slightly. “You don’t think they’re suspicious now? We danced once, and now we’re out here watching them like weirdos.” 

Spencer turned to lean on the balcony and look into the ballroom, shrugging. “We’re two young people in love,” he turned to look at you, eyes warm and deep, “alone time is what we need.” 

You bit the inside of your lip and stared at Spencer. His suit, his matching (skewed) tie, his hair and his eyes. He did the same to you, before gulping and looking down at the floor. He bent and picked up your shoes, turning them in his hands and observing. “These are too small for you.” You laugh at the obvious fact, “They’re JJ’s. She’s got the tiniest feet I’ve ever seen.” “You’re only one size above her.” “She wears high heels much more often than I do.” “You swap between sneakers and converse. You’ve only bought new shoes two times since I’ve known you. This is the second time I’ve seen you wear heels, and even then they were practically ballet shoes.” He smiled to himself like it was an inside joke. “Oh…” You looked down at your feet and realised he was exactly right, “I’m surprised you’re not wearing your black converse right now.” “Morgan didn’t let me. He said he was pressured to make me look good by all the girls.” He lifted a finger and turned fully towards you, “Did you know that sleeve buttons on suits were created to help doctors who worked in the war keep their sleeves up? Now, they’re a sign of intelligence and wealth. Also, a few weeks ago, you called me a grabologist because of my collection of ties, but did you know that the largest collection of suit ties is owned by a New Zealander woman called Irene Sparks. Now, I think I’d like to oppose that not with my own collection, but with Morgans.”

You smile at the memories of the girls dressing you up, fueling the sisterhood that the childhood version of you missed out on. You thought about Morgan, Hotch and maybe Rossi, and how they were probably dressing him up as well. It was truly a found family, something that you felt you belonged to. They knew your habits, they knew when you were lying, they knew a good portion of your past. And you knew all the same for the rest of them. But Spencer? 

Mentally, without realising, you had been creating essays for him since the day you met him. You made journal entries for everyone else, but for Spencer it was books on books of mental notes and facts and aspects of him and his life that you kept in the back of your mind, ready at any point to bring out and use. Why he wears mismatched socks, why he likes purple, why he can’t handle too many people talking at once, why he feels uncomfortable at hospitals, why he hasn’t contacted his father in years. And he knew no doubt even more about you. He had a talent for knowing your emotions and feelings like no one else could, and it made your heart palpitate every time he did it.

“I mean, you’ve seen my collection of ties but jeez, you’d think a guy who mainly wears t-shirts would keep his collection small. You’d like one of his, it's a green that matches that bedside table you painted once. Like those socks you got me last Christmas. But anyways, he somehow had a perfect red to match your… dress. Which by the way, I noticed a lot of people looking at you - and I don’t blame them. I think you look, um, I think you look incredible.” His rambling quietened down for a moment as he tried to avoid eye-contact with you, before he cleared his throat and continued on with his rambling (which mixed with compliments every second sentence). 

And suddenly, you realised this was all an excuse. You were in denial, so badly, that you thought of him as a subject of your devotion without stepping back and seeing the real picture. 

“Spencer…” You cut him off and he looked up with big eyes, surprised you spoke up. You were the only person that let him ramble, it may have been the only time you stopped him. “Wh- You wanna go home?” He saw your eyes, you looked in pain, in shock, in… “No, Spencer, I… Um.” You pressed your lips together and looked down - were you really going to say this? Were you really going to admit you loved the man in front of you without any evidence that he felt the same way? He was your coworker, your best friend. Everything could be ruined in just a few words. Suddenly, you wanted to take your train of thoughts back, to let him continue on with his rambling - it always calmed you down anyways.

Suddenly, his palm was held out in front of you with a small mint in the middle. You looked up at him and his worried but genuine smile. “Here,” he said softly. You took the mint in your hand and simply stared at it. To be loved, is to be known. “Um, Spencer. I…” His eyes were wanting, curious, they were so goddamn beautiful, “I… I love you.” 

His mouth gaped slightly and his cheeks reddened. Spencer gulped and fiddled with his fingers before chuckling nervously, “I was supposed to say it first.” “What?” “I was supposed to say I love you first.” You hopped down from the concrete railing, dress falling to cover your shins again. “I can take it back if you want.” You responded quickly. “No, no don’t take it back, even if you did I don’t think I could mentally accept that you had taken it back.” You covered your mouth with your hand and looked up at him in shock, “So you-” “I love you, too.” He nodded and took your hands from your mouth, holding them in his, “I have since the third week you’ve worked with the BAU.” 

“Oh, that’s great um…” You looked down at your intertwined hands and furrowed your eyebrows, “What do we do now?” “We could go to the McDonalds that’s a 10 minutes walk away or, I could kiss you.” He stared into your glistening eyes and wanted to pinch himself to see if this was actually happening. “I don’t-”

“You don’t like McDonalds, sorry, my brain is-”

“Just kiss me.” You replied exasperated.

“Okay.” He nodded and placed his hands on your waist.

taglist (open!!) - @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es @0108s22m @aurorsworld @theoraekenslover @c-losur3 @littlelearningbrat @khxna @laurakirsten0502

[moonstruckme]

7K!!!!!! And a birthday!!!! What a day!!!!!

For the celly can I please request “frozen peas pressed against a fresh bruise” with tasm!peter? Pretty predictable of a pairing but I just love how you write him

What a day indeed!! Thanks for requesting angel

cw: mention of blood, bruises, and general violence (not being inflicted in the scene)

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 685 words

Peter is lucky you don’t faint at the sight of blood. You tell him as much, which makes him chuckle, which makes you both wince as the cut on his lip reopens. 

He’s blooming with bruises. You can tell they’re going to be bad—they already are bad, but you know they’re going to get worse. You’re doing your best to mitigate the damage with what you have on hand. There’s a slice of plastic-wrapped cheese laid across the less severe bruise on his jaw and a bag of frozen peas pressed as delicately as possible to the darker one across his temple. Peter could probably hold either of these himself, but he’s decided to busy his hands with the edges of your pajama shorts and leave the work of nursing to you. 

“How’d you get this one?” you ask, stroking your thumb close to the one on his temple. 

“Same guy.” Peter’s voice is light, though you can tell he’s hurting by the way he’s barely moving his lips. “I think his main plan was to try to knock me out.” 

You feel your face scrunch, sympathy for your boyfriend and disgust for his attacker warring in you. He coils the drawstring of your shorts around his finger and smiles at you with the working side of his mouth. 

“It didn’t work.” 

“Maybe you should’ve stayed down,” you mumble. 

“That wouldn’t have really been consistent with the whole ‘neighborhood protector’ thing…” 

“Who were you protecting this time, though?” You aim for lightness, but the question falls with unintended weight between you. You rub your lips together, looking at the peas instead of him. “It was a carjacking. I mean, it still sucks, but nobody was being physically hurt except you.” 

“Hey.” Peter’s voice is soft, teasing. He strokes a thumb over your thigh. “You should see the other guy.” 

You expel a breath. It aches a little coming out. “I just…it feels like you put yourself in danger tonight for nothing.” 

You’re still not quite looking at him, but you see his eyebrows scrunch in your periphery. The levity saps from his expression. “Sweetheart, I wasn’t in any real danger. I always make it back, don’t I?” 

“Barely,” you murmur, softer than soft. 

“I’ll be good as new in a couple days,” he assures you. “Super strength and super healing and all that, remember?” 

“I know. It’s scary when you come back like this, though.” 

“Hey.” Peter taps your thigh. You look at him, and he rewards you with a little smile. “It’s not like it happens all the time. These guys were waiting for me. They knew I was coming and they got the jump, but that’s not, like, a regular thing.” 

“I know,” you say again. “I just wish you’d pick your battles sometimes. If no one’s getting hurt, and you are getting hurt, maybe it’s not always worth it. You could at least consider leaving things be some of the time.” You smile back at him, and it’s a bit watery. “The cars will be okay.” 

Peter looks back at you for a minute. You look down, embarrassed—you’re not even the one getting hurt, what right do you have to get all emotional about it?—but you can still feel him studying you. After a while, he says, “Okay.” 

You blink. “Okay?” 

He smiles. Not like he’s consoling you this time, but like he can’t help it. “Yeah, baby. I don’t want to scare you for nothing. So I’ll try” —he sighs— “to pick my battles a little bit. Sometimes.” 

You feel teary again. “Thanks,” you say thinly. 

Peter’s brows hook in the middle, his hand moving up to hold your hip as though to steady you. “Sure,” he says softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was freaking you out so much.” 

You laugh, shrugging and wiping wetness away from your bottom lashes. He pouts. 

“Kiss?” 

It’s an easy request to oblige. You kiss Peter on his top lip, the good side, but when that’s not enough for him and his bottom lip splits again anyway, he says he doesn’t mind.

[i-love-ptv]

You Know Me..𐙚⭑

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Based on the prompt: “no, i’m not going to give you a bite because i know you’re not going to like it. then you’re going to ask me how the hell i like it, and i don’t want to listen to that right now.”

Wc: 915

No warnings! Just fluff tbh! :]

An: This is a random blurb I made today at 6am lololol

buttttt NEW CHARACTER UNLOCKED!!! It’s fall, and i’m missing stranger things rn 😣

ALSO!! I don’t know who made the prompt, since I got it from Pinterest, but if y’all know, tell me!!

Not proofread, i’m tired

feedback is ALWAYS appreciated mls <333

You truly think that you’re being discreet. Taking subtle glances at your boyfriend, and more specifically, what he’s eating.

Steve’s mom has this special tuna casserole recipe, and she made it on the off-chance she’s actually home.

Just looking at it makes your stomach turn a bit, it takes you back to the dinner you had at Steve’s house when he first introduced you to his parents.

You can’t remember what his mother made, but what you do remember is how after Steve dropped you off at your house with a kiss, you were in and out of the bathroom all night.

You blame it on the fact that you may have a sensitive stomach, it’s not uncommon!

But, a part of you felt bad, she put her time and effort into making a meal for you. She doesn’t even really do that for Steve himself.

So you couldn’t just reject it, besides, your mother always told you to ‘try everything first!’.

So now, that’s exactly what you were going to do.

Steve had only come back to your shared home with one plate, so you had to think strategically.

Maybe you could distract him, tell him something’s wrong with the bathroom sink. Yeah! That’ll work!

“No, I’m not going to give you a bite because I know you’re not going to like it. Then you’re going to ask me how the hell I like it, and I don’t want to listen to that right now.” Steve’s sentence catches you off guard.

You whip your head towards him, staring at him like a deer in headlights.

“..What do’ya mean, honey?”

“No, don’t give me that look. Baby, I know you, and I know you aren’t the biggest fan of my mom’s cooking. I’m not either.”

You jump up at this, nearly falling off the couch, which makes Steve grab your waist with his free hand. He tries to get you to sit back down, rather than kneel on the couch.

“What? I love your mom’s food!” You practically yelled, your voice picking up in pitch.

Steve gives you a look, in both disbelief and amusement.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to lie to me. D’you remember the 4th of July?”

You cringe at the memory of that day.

Steve’s family, meaning his parents, two aunts, an uncle, his grand-parents, and like four cousins - two of which, were kids - had came together for the 4th of July.

Steve, of course, invited you. He figured it would be better for him to bring you so you could meet his family, and so that he didn’t have to be alone.

The company was great, you loved talking and getting to know everyone, especially his grandmother.

But when it was time to eat, you were a bit….Hesitant, to say the least.

Steve’s dad worked the grill, and to be honest, you didn’t think it was going to be all that good, but it was!

But your dinner was spoiled by Steve’s mom’s watery macaroni and cheese, her oddly sweet potato salad, and her rock-hard rolls of bread.

But you refused to cause a scene, so you shoved all your thoughts down, and ate.

…Which resulted in you barking at Steve, telling him to drive home faster so you could use the bathroom.

You shiver at the thought of how you spent the rest of the night, in and out of the bathroom.

“Yeah, but, I think it was cause I ate too much!” You stammer, before continuing. “I’m all good now, though! Let me try some!”

You try to reach over to the plate, which is being tilted away from you by Steve’s right hand.

Your hands are resting on the brunette’s shoulders, while your body leans in the direction of the food.

“Baby, please. You don’t have to eat my mom’s cooking, I know it’s not good. Please save us both the trouble.” Steve sighs, you know he’s not mad at you.

He’s actually anything but.

He admires how you’re pushing down your feelings, only to uplift his and his mother’s. But he doesn’t want you to think that you’re required to do so.

After another 5-ish minutes of you blabbering on about how you ‘want to try her hard work’ and Steve arguing back, you slouch back onto the couch with a huff.

“I know y’wanna be nice, baby. But you don’t have to.” Steve softy coos, while rubbing your stomach.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to Steve.”

Steve hums at you, and moves your legs from his lap as he stands up.

You track his body, as he walks into the kitchen, scrapes his plate, then sits it in the sink.

Steve goes back to the couch, picks you up, and then lays you on top of him once he’s comfortable laying down. He puts a blanket onto the two of you, and then rubs your back.

Steve leaves a firm, but sweet kiss on your forehead. “My sweet girl, always so nice to everyone, huh?”

You giggle softly, your eyes growing heavy at the feeling of him drawing shapes on your back.

The last thing you remember is him briefly reaching over you, and using the tv remote to turn down the volume.

Steve doesn’t know how he got so lucky with you, but he’ll spend the rest of his life thanking any, and every god for you.

And you’ll never be able to lie to him.

Cause he knows you.

────♡────

[gguk-n]

Hi could please write one where the reader is bengali and celebrates Durga Puja with Lando in india ( ollie or kimi works too but I'm not sure if you write for them)?

I did a ‘spin the wheel’ and got Ollie.

Puja Vibes

Ollie was as white as white gets and his girlfriend was the embodiment of the Bengali culture prancing around. She had helped Oliver expand his horizon; taught him new experiences and delicious food. She will argue, that there’s no dessert like Bengali dessert.

So, when it was time for Y/N to return home for Durga Puja, Ollie would be joining her too since he had no races or prior commitments.

They hadn’t dated for long but Ollie had showered her with gifts on Christmas and taught her all his family traditions. Y/N just wanted to do the same for him.

At the airport, they landed together with Ollie in tow who was enamoured by the hustle and bustle of the city. He saw cows crossing the road like it was another Tuesday and no one batted an eye. Y/N pointed out all the building explaining the significance and the reason behind their construction during the colonial era on the way to her home.

At home, preparations for Durga Puja were in full swing. Y/N’s uncle and aunt had decorated their house ornately. Oliver greeted everyone.

The festivities would start the next day. Everyone was up bright and early for the invocation (bodhon) Oliver was mesmerised by the shining lights and the bright colours and the beautiful way Goddess Durga was dressed.

The main event was Maha Ashtami which Y/N’s father had great pleasure in explaining to Oliver. Oliver was like a kid in a candy store; eyes wide open and mesmerised by the events unfolding in front of him.

You would find the poor boy following Y/N around like a lost puppy. It was adorable watching him hold onto her saree palo as she walked in front of him. “Lemme hold your hand” Ollie whined. “Everyone is here for the festival. What will the elder’s think?” Y/N reasoned. In Indian culture, blatant show of affection was frowned upon especially in the older generations, the younger ones couldn’t care less. That’s why Ollie was walking around holding her palo.

They were stood next to each other while Y/N’s mother made the preparations for Maha Ashtami. “Your dress looks so beautiful. Red truly is your colour” Ollie said. “Thank you babe” she said. “How did you do this?” He asked playing with the folds. “My mum helped. I’m still pretty bad at tying a saree” she said. “Is that what it’s called? A saree” he said enunciating each word. “Yup, it’s an Indian traditional wear but everyone wraps the cloth around them differently, depending on the region of the country” she explained. His mouth formed an O in understanding.

They finished up the celebration with all the rituals being done and Oliver asking way too many questions each step of the way.

On the last day after Vijaya Dashami, after the immersion in the water everyone returned back home, exhausted by the events of the past days when Y/N’s cousin showed her a video; actually a few.

One video, had Ollie following her around like a lost puppy. The other one was of him holding her palo so as to not get lost. And the last one was straight out of a Shah Rukh Khan movie where Ollie’s watch had gotten stuck in her palo and he tried to free himself while actively trying to follow her and not let her know that he might fray her outfit. Eventually, he did free himself but his eyes never left her as he walked behind her.

She showed the video to Ollie and the Shah Rukh Khan scene from Om Shanti Om. Ollie was seen laughing, “didn’t know I would be getting my Bollywood moment this year during Puja” she said. “I’m happy I could be of service, m’lady” he said tipping his imaginary hat. “I would still have loved if it was Shah Rukh Khan” she teased. “Wow! I can’t believe this.” He acted hurt with his hand on his chest. “You are unbelievable.” She muttered pressing her lips on his cheeks. “Don’t try to bribe me with kisses” he huffed. “I’m not. I love you my cute little bear” she cooed. “I’m not cute” he huffed again. “Sure, my rasgulla” she laughed pinching his cheeks. “I like that dessert. Can I have some more?” He replied lost in thought. “I’m sure my mother will find great pleasure in feeding you” she said laughing. “Let’s go” she said pulling him along. “I love you Y/N.” Ollie called out while being dragged along. “I love you too” she replied turning to look at him.

Y/N’s family cooed at them, young love

Hope you liked it! I tried my best

[pparacxosm]

wounded in

(blue-eyed son part 2: electric boogaloo !!!! ; (hate to be that gal but you may have to read the first bit for context); homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; nonlinear narrative; tw office job; tw coworkers; tw mcdonald’s; the sound of music stuff is for myself; i fucking love sound of music; and i fucking love cats (the animal not the musical, though that's lovely too) so there’s that; pushing a patrick zweig can’t spell agenda; tw new england maybe; i gave new rochelle a better rap this time; kiss scene kindaaaa ??..? ; tashi coaching patrick after new rochelle is canon to me; tw descriptions of emojis; what if i told you there’s a part 3; then what)

You hold in a bout of laughter when Patrick brings the drinks to the table.

His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, which wasn’t that long ago, in scale. In bones, in feels like a while.

Dear old New Rochelle. Far enough out that the city is a twinkle on the horizon like a cluster of stars, far enough that there are some actual stars above you, now. It’s odd to see him in New England. It’s odd to see him in jeans. But then it’s September.

There are new lines on his face already. He’s aging quicker now, as if to make a point.

Drinks are on me,

Is the first thing Patrick told you, when you walked in in a juniper parka. Scanned the room, picked out his booth.

Is this the part where you tell me you’ve opened a savings account? you said, trying to seem completely blasé about it. It would have been childish to be thrilled by such meagre chivalry at twentyeight. I feel like I should pay, you’re in my city.

Yeah, but you’ve hosted me enough for now.

That’s what you are, half the time. A host to him.

A museum. Thumbing through a rolodex of all the different shades of blue his eyes could go in one humid night.

You pass on more nights out than you accede to. You got a cat. You’re getting LASIK soon. But what it really looks like is that you’re wearing glasses to show that time has passed.

“What’re you smiling about?” Patrick asks, placing the foamy mug of beer in front of you.

You wipe discreetly under your eyes, spreading the mascara smudge. “Just thinking about how my aweinspiring generosity has rescued you from the misery of total squalor.”

Patrick chuckles. “Well, they say to pay it forward.” He sounds pleased as he lifts his own mug with a wink.

You look out the window. There’s a film of dust on it. There’s dust on the faux-chintz curtains too.

You start to wonder if that’s what he really thinks. That this is him going forward.

Patrick picks up the plastic menu. “We ordering sidedishes or do we want a full dinner? What’s good in Wellesley?”

You try to laugh, though the noise has the distinct tender hue of a sob. But you’re sure you feel mostly fine. “What are you doing here?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing in Wellesley?”

Patrick looks up at you with bright, twinkling eyes. “Challenger in Boston. Thought it’d be a waste not to come see you.”

You clench your jaw to prevent more runny mascara. It’s stupid. You don’t much like waste either. But you’re not going to weep in front of Patrick like a child.

“You hungry?”

You nod, picking up your own menu, hiding your face behind it.

His hand reaches suddenly across the table, trying to touch yours. You pull away, but make it look like you didn’t.

“Bet you had a hard time leaving Tobes for the night,” he says, trying to lift the mood.

“Um yeah. A little. I like to imagine what she gets up to when I’m away.”

“My sister had a cat, when we were young. My sister was, like, seventeen, and I was eight, so pretty big gap.”

Because he has to clarify those sorts of things. Because you don’t know he has a sister. You don’t know anything.

You find it hard to picture him pinned down in any humane way. It’s always his beautiful leg (now sheathed in denim) writhing in a bear trap. Always his papery wings unfurled and pinned against a picture frame like a butterfly. Something metamorphosed. Something capable of a great change, and that must be tortured for it.

“She found the cat in an alleyway. She called it Patrick.”

You lift your eyes. You feel it bubbling in you like magma, the urge to coo. You feel all soft these days. And maybe that’s just open heart season, and the passage of time. But you see a vivid meridian in your life, and it falls right along the night you met this guy. And this back half is all soft, so you sort of want to blame him.

You swallow.

“Well, that’s sweet.”

Patrick lowers the menu. “Nope,” he shakes his head, that huge smirk on his face, like his name is on every ticket of the raffle, like he’s cheating at something. “Let me tell you what she used to do. She used to put the fucker in, like, a blanket, right? And she’d lift it up like a sack, with him inside, and he’d obviously start clawing and making all of these noises—“

He makes the noises. Just starts whipping his head around and making kitten growls, imitating this cat with his name. You get the sense that this is one of those anecdotes that explains a lot about a person.

“—And she’d come into my room, in, like, the middle of the night—this is real psycho shit—and she’d lift my covers and drop the cat. And the shit would fucking claw at me and bite me, just—“

He’s doing the noises again. And now he’s clawing at the air with his hands.

He stops, and the way he closes his mouth around his grin makes his teeth look like they’re trying to escape past his lips. But it looks sort of lovely.

“When the fuck died, Saskia texted me. She was like, oh, he loved you so much, you should’ve said goodbye.” He pauses, widens his eyes, looks at you with the pointed intimacy of sharing in this ludicrousness.

You roll your eyes. But you catch yourself smiling. You like the idea of him being mauled like that, skin deep. You get the sense that life has done to him a lot of that—those growls and scratches. And that sounds a little fucked. But what you like about it is how he seems so unmoved now, by this psycho shit. This flailing animal, this torture device. Pinning him down. He's laughing.

You try to imagine him as a child, but the proportions are all comically bizarre, in your mind’s eye.

“Pork chops,” you say, throwing the menu aside. “I feel like stuffing my face.”

Patrick gets three sausage egg McMuffins on the way to the New Rochelle Country Club—and fries, and a hash, and a soda—and he’s eating the second by the time you pull out of the drivethru.

There is a compelling sense of chaos to how he drives. Like, he’s so bad at driving. Three different people honk at him in a dozenminute window. And you feel content knowing that whatever had had your heart thumping last night has not shrivelled and died with the morningtime. Though now it’s maybe a partial distress for your safety. But you get the sense that, maybe, this is actually the person you are now. The woman who sleeps beside a rugged stranger and buys him breakfast and doesn’t care how he speaks with his mouth open while he’s eating the fries. Doesn’t care about the writhing mire of half chewed potato on his tongue. The way his lips gleam pink with salt.

“I need to listen to really specific music to, like, get in the zone? If you don’t mind?”

He sounds so uncharacteristically shy, for brief a moment. You have to lean forward and look to see he isn’t joking. He isn't.

“Uh— yeah, of course. It’s your car.”

He slides a Sound of Music soundtrack disc into the mouth of the dashboard.

You laugh so hard you fold over.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, and shifts is his seat, peeling the unfamiliarly clean skin of his thighs off the leather before sitting back down. He’s tearing into his third breakfast sandwich with a reckless abandon reserved for death row. He laughs around the bite, glancing, bemused, between you and the road, and, ultimately, spending more time looking at you.

“What?” he laughs around a halfmasticated mouthful. “What?”

There are tears sluicing down your face. You can’t breathe. You think you can, and then you start laughing again, and you can’t.

“How do you solve a problem like Maria?” Patrick hums cheerily as he noshes. It’s a gross and wonderful noise, the food moving between his teeth, circumventing Hammerstein.

You think the large coke is probably no performance enhancer, not only because he all but tumbles out of the car when it’s hardly halfway parked (poorly, you’ll add).

“Fuck, need to piss,” he says frenetically.

When you know the notes to sing…, carols Julie Andrews.

You’re still laughing. Crying. Your tummy fluttering painfully.

Patrick makes you order dessert too, since you’re celebrating.

Celebrating what? you had to ask, though, at the time, you were wearing an impish, knowing, frankly celebratory sort of smile.

Patrick feigned great offense. He said, I’m fucking here, aren’t I?

He wants you to have sundaes together. You spill some ice cream on your skirt. He finds that funny. He’s always got this weasel smile, like he’s constantly ready for amusement. He’s shaved, at some point between now and then. The hairs on his face are sparser. The skin on his face looks milky and organic like a crinite litchifruit.

The frumpy diner was his idea too.

He’s spent some time on the veritable extremes of the economic spectrum—that’s what life tends to be for him; veritable extremes, scratching him meanly—and now he just wants to play at being the average wage earner.

“You really are welcome to stay with me, if you’d like.”

Patrick looks at you like he’d rather shoot himself.

You sort of marvel at his sense of pride, as if it were a rare stone, swallowing light and spewing it out at all angles. The Sociology course you took in uni had a whole two modules on personal pride. It is one of the few emotions that are unique to humans.

Patrick—for his weasel smile and beastly hunger and feline anti—is remarkably proficient in being human. In the real, visceral parts of it. In wielding his emotions like kaleidoscope hues. Dancing freely in confinement.

“When are you leaving?”

“Don’t worry about that. If you have time for breakfast tomorrow, we can—”

“Mm, not tomorrow, I don’t think. But I have no plans this weekend.”

You say it with this weird, bright intonation, like you’re jesting. Which—a lot of things feel like a bit of a joke these days. But he seems to understand you well enough. Delivers a curt, unspurned nod, and even a smile. Not the weasley, chronicling one. The wolfish one that makes his eyes crinkle up.

“Come here then,” he says.

Patrick leans in for a hug. You can’t avoid it. He enfolds you in a fascinatingly soft, burning embrace. He still smells sort of musky and acrid. Like even though he can shower regularly now, he maybe doesn’t as often as he should. But you find a gross comfort that. This pleasantly fetid, human man. His cologne smells like a wine cellar.

He says, “It’s nice to see you again.”

Something churns in your belly. Maybe the pork chops. Maybe the ice cream. This whole fucking day. You accidentally deleted some files and IT spent five hours trying to help you unsheathe them from oblivion. You felt like a failure. And now you’re here and,

“Fuck, you’re still so cool.”

You push away from him with a forceful laugh.

You used to be able to tell your sister all kinds of things. But, lately, you haven’t been able to talk to anyone about anything.

Working so many years for a soulless corporate hive mind has turned you into an expert at short, polite, and meaningless feedback that only varies with inflection.

“Right”, “Sure”, “Got it”, “Whatever you think is best”, “Already on it”.

Half the time you sound illiterate. The other half, you sound like you could have written Prozac Nation.

When your sister asks, how was New Rochelle? she expects you to say something annoyingly vague and ominous in your cool, collected adjunct’s voice, like: Everything is under control.

But, instead, you say, “Do you and Mark still go to mass? I really want to start giving more of myself away.” And you’re wearing this smile that’s utterly sincere.

That’s what spooks your sister.

Of course, you want to tell her more. Because your sister married a Herman Melville character; one of those grizzly, stinky, sacerdotal men who don’t want to work but don’t want to lose either. You know your tale of Linklateresque, serendipitous connection would render her mesmerised and marginally jealous.

But, soft and charitable as you may now be, you keep it all to yourself.

Patrick is still in Massachusetts a fortnight later. You say you’d have loved to come and see him play, but you’re really busy, and he says not to sweat it. Insists really. Maybe even begs. Do not sweat it.

You text him, presumably a day or two afterwards, and ask how it went.

Smahsed it!, he texts, and garlands the (misspelled) notion with eight sunglassfaced emojis. You counted. Dibner? he texts.

Then, a moment later,

*dinner?

You get to see your first New Rochelle sunrise.

You slink out of bed with toothfairy softness, even though Patrick is sleeping the sleep of death—with a deep, miserable snore like a resounding dirge to prove it—beside you. Your pillow wall, in the night, had collapsed like Berlin in 89.

You step outside. You check your phone, first, but you do go outside. You do believe in fresh air in the mornings, even if you don’t have the fortitude for mindfulness and journaling.

The parking lot is a vast open soul. Regretfully resigned and stunningly silent.

The sky looks like a bleeding mouth, but the hard grey edges around it don’t seem to care. The concrete enterprises and litter splay do not want anything to do with this bruise. A tart, sort of sewery smell makes your eyes water.

Cars drive by too fast. 

You think, in some faraway capacity, you can hear the soft, rhythmic thunk of tennis balls hitting asphalt. But it’s only your heart.

You hear things. You see things.

You don’t want to sound like some haunted Victorian heiress with a mystical past, but you do.

In the break room, mostly.

So you hadn’t noticed before. Your coworker, Sam, goes fucking wild for tennis. Sam’s slobbering lewd and voracious over tennis. It’s hard to witness. In fact, you feel dirty witnessing this. You should call HR. Sam’s in the break room doing an onanistic oneman scene play about tennis.

Or maybe he just kind of likes it.

And you hadn’t noticed it before.

There’s a lot, for your part, that you were content not noticing around the office.

But now every errant tenniscentric commentary makes your hands feel sore and weightless without the presence of a gun.

“No, you don’t get it, Deirdre, this is like if LeBron played a game at some random Y, and got dunked on by this fuckin’ nobody, and then just… quit the game.” He sounds tumid with bewilderment. “Just fuckin’ dipped!” Sam’s incredulous. “Forever!”

“LeBron…?”

“Fuck, Deirdre, you’re killing me.”

You slot the mouth of your bottle beneath the spout of the water cooler. You close your eyes—zombieleaden, uneven on the tiles; it’s only 10—and listen to the halting trickle, trickle… stream. The plastic goes cold against your palm as the water rises.

“All because of some… fuckin’,” Sam snaps his fingers, “Fuck, I forget the name.”

Peter Zeppelin, your mind supplies dryly.

It is then that Sam chooses to notice you. Points his finger. Wide smile. “Oh-ho, here’s trouble!” says Sam.

Sam and you have had enough one on one conversations for you to list on your one free hand, and you wouldn’t be spoiled for digits. But, all the same,

“Here’s trouble!” Sam announces, “Big shot boss babe, huh? Back from kickin’ rear in New Rochelle. I know you’re glad to be back.”

You don’t say anything. You feign responsiveness, flash a stilted smile. But you don’t say anything. Because what would you say?

Outside the men’s bathroom of the New Rochelle Country Club, you fidget awkwardly, standing against a wall and trying to look inconspicuous. Patrick’s duffel sits at your heels like a staunch hound.

Your gaze meanders around the venue with an idle sense of inquiry.

You’d expected a certain echelon of grandiosity, anyway. And the country club is nice—you feel silly casting any judgement at all—if a little outdated. All glossy wood-panelling and pea green outdoor carpet.

You can see yourself, warped and bleary, upon the polished floor. The bar flourishes a glassy sheen and cloistered amber rows of lavish whiskeys.

Through glass windows, golf splays unfurl, ceaseless viridescence, beset on all sides by sharpcornered hedges.

People mill about with the air of the lookedafter, and polo shirts as white as the maw of God.

Which is nice—it’s all nice—and all, but your chest seems to enwreathe a stark state of dread. You feel the sort of nausea that would rack you as a child. Floating in the curtains at your dance recitals, like an anxious little poltergeist.

When Patrick emerges from the loo, he is whistling. Fluting finely the swooping tune of ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’.

“You certainly seem unburdened,” you murmur, gaze shadowing him as he draws near. You know you sound unconvinced. For his part, he looks undeterred.

Slings his bag over his shoulder like it is floatable, even as you know it bears the poundage of half a man’s life.

He grins, flashing a canine.

To you, he has just eaten his weight in greasy, leaden carbcloth, and proceeded to piss for twelve minutes straight.

But Patrick seems imbued by morningshine.

He throws a heavy arm around you, squeezes your shoulder. Says, “Look alive!” Says, “I’ve had a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, the breakfast of champions, and I’m about to get paid!”

You wince a bit at his volume, and also because he seems to be emanating a bit of that morningshine. Not to speak of the heat. Searing from his very bones.

If nothing else you admire his buoyancy. In that way, the warmth—even as the sun blooms above you—is a fascinating comfort.

Like something to be shared.

You say yes to dinner.

You keep having dinner. He keeps taking you out for dinner, and to decent places, too, places you haven’t even been to around here.

You’re sitting across from him. You’re eating, as one does. He’s regarding you with something like awe. Though you wouldn’t know it, because he regards, too, his plate, when the waiter rests it before him, with a sort of comical reverence. Even though you’re pretty sure he’s not starving, anymore.

But hunger’s not always about those sorts of things, you suppose. Maybe he's just still hungry.

He’s winning a lot. Must be, if he’s taking you out all the time, and—hey—maybe you can get him to sign something for Sam. That’d be nice of you.

Patrick watches you eat.

You try not to stare back at him. As long as you keep chewing, you won’t have to ask why he’s still here.

“That’s a nice shirt,” he says after a long silence.

You smile. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t text you for months, many months, after New Rochelle. You’d given him your number, because you wanted to put the ball in his court, and—fuck—here’s hoping you didn’t say that.

But you can’t recall.

It’s been months.

So, when you do get the text, you’re pleased to see it’s aptly contrite.

ypu probably think I’msn idiot, it reads, and it’s late at night and you’re already in bed, stewing over NYT Connections.

You eye the ID. Maybe: Patrick Zweig, but that’s implied—so many implicit little shards—because not a lot of people are so tortured by the prospect of your opinion on them so as to text you at 1 AM. So.

Define idiot, you text back.

dictionary defenition is Patrick Rupert Zweih. There’s prpbably even a lil picture of me next to it.

A few moments.

A bad one.

Ten or eleven emojis of abject terror.

You consider this—not a bad picture of him (though he doesn’t quite strike you as wildly photogenic anyway), just... This Whole Wound—and tap the side of your phonecase in tentative thought.

Your full name is Patrick Rupert Zweig? Tough.

Like ypu didnt already look me up.

You blink. Whoa—okay.

Not a humble idiot, I see, you type.

You don’t know where you get the balls. There’s a sweeping litany of long, gorgeous miles between your bed and New Rochelle, but maybe he can smell you thinking as much because,

Im in MA next week

In the registration room, a man with a binder asks his name, and Patrick sheathes his canine in a way that makes him look conspiratorial and bemused. You suppose it’s become an inside joke.

The ATP official seems to gleam with recognition when Patrick does give his name—his real name—and he says, “Oh wow, that is you!”

You can’t see his face from this angle, but you can envisage the way his moue has settled in confusion.

Apparently, the ATP official was a line judge at the Junior US Open back in 06.

You try to think back to what you were doing in 2006. Probably populating your microcosm in The Sims. Trapping little imitations of those who had scorned you in swimming pools to drown.

“You were really something back then, huh?” says the ATP official.

Your eyes flicker to Patrick’s profile. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that.

The official hands Patrick a packet. There’s a little map of the facility in there, in case he gets lost. His first match is against one Gonzalez, on court seven.

Patrick says, marginally halting, “Hey, so, is there any chance of an advance payment on the prize money.”

The official blinks.

“Because I know I’m guaranteed a minimum of four hundred dollars even if I get knocked out today—“

You frown a bit at that. The official frowns a lot at that.

“Well,” he says, “Generally we don’t give out winnings until a player makes his way through the tournament…”

A beat.

Then,

“You could always just lose today. Then we’d have to cut you a check this evening.”

Patrick hardens to bone. You hope he has another lifeaffirming piss in him. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he turns to leave, but flicks you a glance that seems to ask that you spare him the judgement.

You leave New Rochelle today. Good as the night’s sleep may have been, he knows better than anyone that life’s loveliest things are fleeting.

So—fine—you don’t begrudge him. Instead,

“He seems hopeful,” you say wryly.

“Must’ve been thrown off by my pretty caddie,” he says dismissively. Maybe a little bristled.

The warmup courts, deep blue plane, shimmer in the sunheat.

Patrick takes the asphalt, flicks his racket around by its handgrip as though refamiliarising himself with the palmfeel for the first time in a while. Which—well—doesn’t give you confidence, at risk of contesting Julie Andrews.

He practices his serve. Starts to work the ball up and down the court. Hits a few forehands, a few backhands.

Then,

“He was lying,” he yells to the bleachers.

The bleachers are mostly empty. A few errant loiterers. Bored spectators who have finished their lunch earlier than their friends. What have you.

He’s looking at you, though. With a staggering precision from so far away.

“What?”

“That guy. He was lying. Or… bigging it up. Or whatever. I wasn’t really something, I was just decent.”

He strikes a ball over the net. You can see, from here, the vibration ricochet through the racketstrings with a shudder that has you expecting music to flutter out.

You lean back in your seat, sort of sliding down against the glossy plastic, a tremor of induced electric tickling your bum through your jeans. You cross your arms.

“That’s kind of bullshit,” you call out.

He spares you a glance, sort of doubletakes, and you can see the corner of his mouth tremble with intrigue.

He takes another ball from the basket. Tosses it up. You watch the neon starsphere spin fleetingly in the air before being walloped to oblivion. And what do you know of tennis? But you do think his serve is a thing of beauty. Beauty measured in power and precision, sure (he hits the ball straight and hard and fast and low, just barely clearing the net), but you can also see the way his muscles work beneath his skin. Which—you know.

Patrick walks to the fence that partitions the courts from the stands. He leans over, rests his arms on the palisade, and looks at you.

“This was the whole problem,” he tells you, “Everyone was always telling me how good I was. And it got to my head. And now I’m here.”

It’s a shabby imitation of humility. What it really is, is an attempt to scale down the apogee, so the fall seems less mythic. So the years seem less unkind.

“I didn’t come here to watch you sulk just because some guy was nice to you.”

Patrick grins. His cheeks are flushed with heat, and there are little spots of sweat on the hollows where his skin and bones meet. But he seems to know not to exert himself fully right now.

“You think I’m sulking?”

“I think you seem pretty torn up for a guy who’s going to play a thirty minute match, and walk away a few hundred dollars richer.”

He makes a noise like you’ve wounded him, but he seems elated.

“A few hundred dollars?” he says, raising his brows. “So you’ve lost your faith in me.”

“I have some,” you allow, and you’re not surprised to find that you really do. “Just don’t choke.”

Patrick wears the smile of a newly crowned Miss Universe. He looks touched that you’re being so frank.

“I won’t,” he says, with a sense of finality and what you feel is an incongruous tenderness. “I’m pretty good at dealing with pressure. My parents always used to take me to work with them and tell employees to come to me at random intervals with madeup highstakes scenarios. Like, pretending to have a breakdown, and saying they needed me to help them out and make the final decision. Some of them could cry on command.”

You try and fail to hide a look on your face that divulges how demented you think that anecdote is. But you try to find something neutral to say.

“Well, maybe you’re lucky,” you tell him. “I was horrifically nervous as a child.”

“Not anymore?” he asks, swinging his racket idly, and you get the sense he’s actually very interested in how you will answer.

So it’s hard not to answer him honestly.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, and you look away from his eyes, and instead at the sky. You’re alarmed to find they are precisely the same tincture of aegean. “Mostly not. But if I have to give a presentation or speak up in a meeting, I have to take one of those beta blockers, you know? Propranolol?”

You are stricken, at odd moments, in New Rochelle, in Massachusetts.

You get the sense that he’s trying to be cavalier. But, at the same time, there’s this unmistakable fragility about him. Like it wouldn’t take much to knock him down.

You are stricken by how he’s managed to maintain this cocksure swagger for so long. With such a brittle, aching core.

How easily it all might’ve been shaken by the wrong person, and the wrong word.

You love the smell of your dear kitty’s head right after a bath. The fluff of dandelions and baby bird. You love toweling her, taking her little paws in your hand and prying the toes open.

Toby pretends not to like being fussed over, but she doesn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, most nights, she falls asleep in your arms.

When he pays you the visit, Ms Tobes is breathing evenly in your arms, your thumb caressing the organtender slope of her silky head.

You open the door, and great weeping gales have been jostling your windows all evening. But he is in shorts.

Patrick’s been in New England for nearly a month.

There’s an odd sort of look on his face, and an unlit cigarette behind his ear.

Hands in his pockets, he leans against the door frame, staring down at you. You feel a remarkable heat radiating from the downy flesh of his bare legs.

He doesn’t seem confident, nor does he seem unperturbed. He seems… pensive and maybe even penitent, but he wears it with a fascinating poise. There’s still something wounded and vulnerable about the way of his shoulders, the slant of his mouth. It's the softness that kills you, anyway, you think incoherently. 

You peer up at him, dubious, through the briar of your lashes. He looks down at Toby, at the sweep of your finger over her head. You do not know if it is he or Toby who purrs.

When he speaks, he is whispering very softly, though there’s a frayed, low seep of his voice in his throat. It feels revoltingly intimate.

“When Patrick died,” he says, “The cat. I felt so shitty. I had this weird feeling of—like—I don’t know. Shittiness. Because of how Sassy said what she said. You should’ve said goodbye. What am I supposed to do with that, y’know?”

You swallow. The hallway is so vacant and noiseless you can hear the plush shuffle of his running shoes against the carpet. Dutifully beyond the boundary of your home, even though he’s been here quite a few times now.

“Patr—“ you croak.

“I’m not in Massachusetts for a game,” he tells you, shrugging hopelessly and almost smiling. But failing to. Which you register. “There’s no challenger in Boston. There’s just you. In Wellesley. All these… fucking ponds everywhere. Private schools. Bunch of rich little assholes who need a tennis coach, I bet. All these res—fuck. You know,” he shifts, taking the cigarette from his ear and gesturing with it between the two of you, “We’ve been out, like, twenty times, since I’ve been here, and there’s still, like, fifty restaurants we haven’t been to.”

You stare up at him. Your palms, where they cradle Toby, grow damp. The throbbing organ of your heart takes up residence in your throat. There’s a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall.

You lift one trembling finger to your lips.

Please, don’t say anything else, you beg with your eyes. Please, not in front of Toby.

Patrick’s eyes glint ruefully. Almost ominously. He seems insulted by your gesture, but he understands. He always understands. He never holds anything against anyone.

“No need for that,” he says very quietly. “I come in peace.”

He moves closer, breaking the enclave where the carpet of the hall meets the vinyl of your floor, until he is inches away.

A head taller, yet shrinking, as if you were seeing him from across a room.

He smells very good today. He smells like spice and bergamot and the laundered fabric of his navy blue halfzip. You sort of miss the musk. Of course you think of New Rochelle. You think of Bob Dylan and Hello Kitty and thermostats. Fucking Sally.

You lift your chin.

“I’m not asking you to—“

Patrick leans forward, his nose touching your nose.

“I’m gonna do the tennis,” he speaks the words into your mouth, voice like gravel melting in the sun.

You part your lips. A part of you hates him, hates how he’s insinuated himself in your life without warning. Another part, however, is asleep and betrays you.

He shushes you, though you’re sure you haven’t said anything. It’s just that you’re crying now. Completely still and silent. Weeping like the dead, because the dead weep, too.

He shakes his head, his nose brushing over yours, says shhh like you’re a cat, and, even then, Toby only stirs between your fingers.

“It’ll be good,” he says, and you’ve heard him sound convincing. You know that right now he sounds… something else. And he’s still shaking his head as he whispers, “It’ll be good, I’ll be good. I have a coach, I’m not done, I love the tennis.”

You look up at him. Lick your lips, which, when you’re so close, also means sort of licking his. Sort of licking into him. You want to say, fuck your tennis and fuck you too, but you also want to fuck him and you want to fuck his tennis, too.

You think of New Rochelle.

Patrick’s hand meanders upward toward Toby, and, if his cigarette was lit, you’d see sweeping coils of smoke floating heavenward.

It isn’t lit, but still.

You catch him quickly. You hold him by the wrist.

His skin is nauseatingly warm.

“You love it?” You sound unimpressed now. Your mouth moves over and around and against his as you speak.

“I do.”

“You love it, you love the tennis?” You’re sort of spitting it at him, and he tastes it.

And he thinks of Patrick the cat, how he lay there and was mauled. Pinned down. He thinks he’d let you draw blood, now, if you really wanted to.

“Tennis doesn’t love you.”

“Do you?”

There is time enough for you to answer. But when a sound is finally made it is only Toby, who mewls.

Patrick smiles. You feel the seam of his lips touch your lower teeth. “Didn’t think so.”

He straightens, his lips swiping your nose on his way up. He gently removes his arm from your grasp, your nails scraping is skin.

You exhale sharply. You feel stung.

Poor Toby, caught between your beating hearts. Patrick steps away. He places the cigarette between his lips, and then you do not stop him from touching Tobes. He strokes her gently.

“You got a lighter?” he asks around the cig.

There are three aflame candles in your home right now. He can smell the vanilla. You shake your head. He smiles again. Toby purrs. Patrick’s fingers touch yours between the heather fur.

You feel a strange ignition in your bones.

The game begins.

Everything is quick and violent.

You don’t know if tennis is actually quick and violent, or if that’s just him.

You are astounded by just how much a man can sweat. You are spellbound by the visceral implication of being drenched in one’s own exertion.

Gonzalez is younger. A little bit more thrilled to be here. And he’s got the kind of easy, quick thoroughness that means he probably practices with a ball machine at home, but not a lot of real experience.

Patrick makes brutal work of him.

There is a certain way his muscles tense through his forearm and the pulse travels up his bicep when he strikes the ball. His shirt rises as he twists to send it flying over the net. There is so much laboured breath and dripping skin.

He has you sit exactly where you sat during warmups.

Between sets, he extends his arm, taut and sweatsoused, and points to you with the scratched edge of his racket, one eye closed like he’s mapping trajectory. And he does sort of have this bloodhungry precision in his gaze, like a marksman.

You feel it in your neck, the ache of your focus, how your eyes water for lack of blinking as you swivel your head side to side. You do not close your mouth once.

He hits the ball again, and then again. Each with an almost startling accuracy. Each with a deep and fleshsatisfying thwack that makes your very ear canals thrum with the sort of pain that has you expecting the warmth of dripping crimson on your shoulders.

But it’s not just the force that strikes you. It’s that precision. That bulletgleam precision.

He seems to know, with a profound, animalic certainty, exactly where to place each shot.

At times, they will land exactly where the last landed.

And by the time his adversary cottons on, he has set his hungry eyes upon another target.

It’s beautiful.

You start to wonder if you have ever—ever—looked so fucking beautiful doing any single thing in your life. This strange and beautiful violence. Refined and delicate violence. He is violent and graceful.

Patrick groans when he hits the ball. Makes a guttural sound, a pained sort of sound, like he loses something of himself with each forceful departure.

The sun beams down, and you see his beautiful legs flex aglow with the beautiful gleam of his abject labour.

You think, fuck—

New Rochelle is beautiful.

“You know, I could have gone pro.”

Sam leans back in his Herman Miller chair. Takes a deep quaff of his coffee before pointing to Deirdre with his mug.

“You played for two years in middle school,” Deirdre deadpans, her gaze unmoving from her monitor as she populates a spreadsheet with who the fuck knows.

“This is huge, D,” says Sam, unhurt, “This is like if Jamal Mashburn started coaching the fuckin’ nobody that demolished LeBron at the Y.”

Deirdre seems to have forgotten this analogy, which, for her part, Sam first made months ago now.

“But also if Mashburn was married to Lebron,” adds Sam.

Your computer screen casts depressing polygons across your glasses. You slide your AirPods in. You don’t want to know where Bob Dylan will appear on your Spotify Wrapped.

I met one man who was wounded in love. I met another man who was wounded in hatred. And it’s a hard, it’s a hard— It’s a hard, it’s a hard—

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

[carnelianly]

hi bae i recently followed you and i love every single thing you’ve posted,,, idk if this is a safe space but… like hitting art… him letting you and telling you he loves you and kissing you after

omg this is definitely a safe space babe let’s talk about this!!

hi this is my public service announcement that this is not a healthy relationship dynamic and you not ever put your hands on your partner. that is not okay irl unless there is expressed consent. this is also a very romanticized depiction and theoretically there should be more discussion and communication okay okay, end scene and with that out the way->

the first time you hit art being during an argument. you slap him after he says something a little too provocative, because art’s always been the type to say things to try and get under your skin when he’s mad. like he’s trying to get you to react and be the bad guy, stoop to his level.

but you slap him for saying something just a little bit too out of line, and the whole argument comes to a screeching halt as he stumbles back, holding his cheek in his hand as he looks down at the floor, and then back up at you in fear. he’s petrified.

and you just look baffled with yourself, not even realizing that was something you were capable of. you look down at your hands, like you didn’t know they could do that, and then back up at him.

he gulps. he thinks he’s in for it. but there also a weird feeling he can’t quite place. there’s that rush of adrenaline he got from the hit, and that bubble of shame welling up in his stomach.

he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but it kinda felt good to watch you lose your temper, for you to break and fall from that pedestal he puts you on, and to see you for what you are. and you look hot when you’re angry. for a good second there he thought you were gonna kill him, and it was horrifying, sure, but.. god, is he getting hard?

he’s definitely lightheaded, standing there completely still, as if if he didn’t move, you wouldn’t notice that he’s getting turned on from the fact that you just hit him. you slapped him. you hurt him, god it stung so bad, why is he so fucking turned on from it?

“art?” you murmur, not wanting to cross the distance yet, “i… i’m so sorry, i.. can i get closer and take a look?” you sound unsure, tense, like you’re afraid that he’s upset at you. of course you’re worried, but he can’t help that it’s a hit to his heart. you’re worried that you’ve just ruined everything and he’s biting his lip trying to keep in the horniness.

he nods at your question, and you come closer, tentatively reaching out to pet his cheek, “oh.. oh baby, i’m so so sorry, i.. i really didn’t mean to do this. that doesn’t change what i did, but—“

“hey,” he cuts you off, trying to ease your nerves, “i’m not mad at you. we’re okay. you’re okay. it didn’t hurt that bad, just for a second there it stung.” and you sigh, closing your eyes.

art never told you how hard he came jerking off in the shower that night. he couldn’t have asked for sex right then and there, you were so frazzled and distracted and it wasn’t the right time, but thinking about how mad you looked for him going until he came so hard he was seeing stars.

a couple weeks later you’re making out with him on the couch, lips on his, straddling his lap, before he gasps out, “slap me,” his words move past his lips in a daze, he doesn’t even realize he said them until it’s too late.

you pull back, brows furrowed, “…what? uhm.. art, if this is some kinda joke—”

“no, baby, i.. i mean it.. please hit me, like last time. it was so hot..” he whispers, leaning in to kiss your neck delicately, “please, baby.”

and he eventually gets you to oblige, a good amount of begging usually works on you. so you slap him again, and he moans this time, surprising you both, but there’s something so hot about how his face contorts into pleasure when you slap him.

you lean back in to keep making out with him, and your hand brushes his cheek sweetly, as if apologizing, but he doesn’t need that. he needs you to hit him again and again until he gets dizzy.

and this begins the cycle of passionate make out sessions being routinely interrupted with a slap on his cheek or some other form of pain like your nails digging into his skin, carving moons into him.

and every time, without a doubt, he looks up at you with the most pleasure-filled look in his eyes and he mouth hanging open as he smiles slightly, whispering, “i love you,” even as his skin tingles from the aftermath. and when you lean back in to kiss him, gripping his face roughly, especially right over the sensitive skin you slapped, he knows you love him too.

[billybutcherrtrash]

It’s a Cover

Requested by @bohemianblasphemy

You sat beside Billy, shifting awkwardly as you looked around the room. You hadn’t expected to see so many familiar faces who didn’t even remember you. Billy smirked as he nudged your arm.

“S’matter love, none of these fucks are even paying attention to us.” He asked.

You scowled at him, “I can’t breathe in this dress.”

The dress Annie has picked out left little to the imagination and felt like it was squeezing your ribs. It was an emerald green that she said matched your eyes. That paired with the ridiculous shoes Kimiko had chosen were going to be the death of you.

“But ya look like a treat.” He winked at you.

“Can we just do what we came for?” You asked, as he slid his arm around you. “And stop staring at my boobs.”

His touched sent chills over your skin and caused you to tense.

“Gotta keep up appearances.” Billy grinned.

“My boobs are not for your entertainment.”

“Can ya blame me?” He smirked.

He guided you down a hallway, arm holding you tightly against him.

“Must be nice covered neck to toe.” You said, still annoyed you were the one showing so much skin.

“Well, take it off and we can switch.” Billy teased.

You elbowed him, more annoyed now.

“Should be right back here somewhere.” He said, his hand squeezing your hip.

Nothing in the tower was familiar, not having been on this floor when you worked for Vaught. Annie has told you exactly where to find Ashley’s office to plant devices. Sure enough you’d found the door you’d been promised was there. You pushed the door open, Billy close behind and headed straight for her desk. You bent down and picked up her pencil cup, placing one under it while Billy placed a few more around the room.

“These cunts are terrible at security.” Billy mused as she stepped closer to you.

“You’d think not, but it’s mainly on the lower floors. Mostly at check in and the doors.”

Your eyes move to meet Billy’s, only to find him staring at your body. You shifted awkwardly, not sure what to say. You hadn’t noticed before but he looked good when he was cleaned up and in a suit. His hair was slicked back and he had trimmed his beard for this. You shivered as you realized you were feeling something other than anxiety as he continued to stare.

“I, um…uh…should…” You stammered to think of a sentence, causing Billy to smirk.

“What’s wrong, little Dove? You enjoying the idea that I’m enjoying the idea of you?” He asked, stepping closer.

You swallowed, completely braindead at the words he’d just spoken. His hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer. You hadn’t realized you were even freezing until you felt his warmth pressed against you.

“We’re on a mission.” You said, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, technically.” He agreed.

His face moved to be inches from yours, your heart pounding in your chest.

“This couple…thing is just a cover.”

“Doesn’t feel like a cover.” Billy shrugged.

You barely had a chance to think before Billy pulled you into a kiss just as the door flew open and Ashley barged in.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?” She yelled, gawking at the scene before her.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry, love. This little lady couldn’t wait until we got home.” Billy grinned smugly.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” Ashley yelled.

You giggled a little and headed for the door. Billy followed as you headed for the nearest elevator. You spammed the button, as if it would make it come any quicker. The two of you fell into the small box, giggling. Billy pressed the lobby button and turned to you.

“Well, dodged that bullet.” He smirked.

“How did you know she was coming?” You asked.

“What? I didn’t.” He raised an eyebrow.

“I thought that’s why you…?”

The ride down was quiet as you realized he didn’t kiss you because he knew Ashley was coming. You made your way outside and to the car, getting in quietly. Neither of you spoke the whole way back to the flatiron apartment. Billy let you in first, following you in. You quickly rushed to the bathroom to change out of the dress, careful not to damage it. Finally you emerged in your street clothes, finding Billy had undone his tie and it hung loosely on his shoulders. You couldn’t help but think how handsome he was. Had he always been this attractive?

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” You asked softly.

He gave a weak smile and nodded, “Course, love.”

You started for the door, ready to be home and process what had happened.

“You looked beautiful tonight, really.” Billy called after you causing you to stop and turn.

A small smile played at your lips, “You look pretty handsome yourself.”

“Tomorrow. Let me know you got home safe?”

“Or you could walk me.” You said as you took a few steps back.

“I can definitely do that.” He grinned.

[feinforyakk]

"Momma Y/N: The Unofficial Jujutsu High Guardian"

---

You never planned on becoming the mother figure of Jujutsu High, but somehow it happened. One minute you were a sorcerer like everyone else, and the next, you were scolding Gojo for his irresponsibility and packing lunches for your students like they were your own kids. Now, you're the glue holding this chaotic family together.

Scene 1: Y/N’s Morning Check-In

You stroll into the common area with a basket of breakfast goodies, a warm smile on your face. Nobara is already up, fussing with her makeup, while Megumi sits quietly on the couch, buried in a book. Yuji bounds into the room with that same endless energy you’ve grown to love.

“Good morning, everyone,” you say cheerfully, setting the basket down.

“Morning, Y/N!” Yuji grins, immediately diving into the breakfast treats.

“Did you all eat properly this morning?” you ask, eyeing Megumi, who mumbles something incoherent.

Nobara rolls her eyes. “Y/N, we’re sorcerers, not children.”

“Doesn’t mean you can skip meals,” you reply, raising an eyebrow. “Megumi, eat something. And Yuji, slow down. You’re going to choke.”

The students smile, knowing this routine is now part of their lives.

Scene 2: Gojo Being… Gojo

As you’re cleaning up, Gojo saunters in, his usual smirk plastered on his face. “Ah, Y/N, my favorite person,” he drawls.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Gojo, what did you do this time?”

He chuckles, feigning innocence. “Nothing! But if you happen to get a call from the higher-ups about a mission I might’ve ‘forgotten’ to report...”

“Gojo,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You can’t just ‘forget’ about missions. You have responsibilities, you know.”

He shrugs playfully. “That’s what I have you for, Y/N. You keep me on track.”

You swat at him with a dish towel. “I’m not your babysitter.”

“Of course not,” he grins, leaning in closer. “You’re more like... the school mom.”

You shoot him a withering look. “Go do your job, Gojo.”

Scene 3: The Overprotective Mom Mode

Later in the day, you’re heading out with your students on a field mission. As always, you can’t help but worry.

“Megumi, stay close to Nobara. Yuji, don’t rush in without thinking, alright? And Nobara, please don’t antagonize any curses unnecessarily.”

They all nod in unison, half-listening, half-amused by your motherly concerns.

“Y/N, we’ve got this,” Yuji says with his usual grin, but you can’t help the way your heart clenches. You may not be their real mother, but you feel responsible for them in a way that goes beyond just being their mentor.

“I know,” you reply softly. “Just… be careful, alright?”

They all exchange knowing smiles before Yuji pulls you into a quick hug. “You worry too much, Y/N.”

“It’s my job,” you laugh, patting his head.

Scene 4: Bandaging Megumi’s Wounds

Back at the school after the mission, you find Megumi nursing a small cut on his arm. Of course, he hadn’t said a word about it during the mission.

“Megumi,” you scold softly, taking his arm gently. “You should have told me you were hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t resist as you pull out a first aid kit.

You carefully clean and bandage the cut, your touch gentle but firm. Megumi looks away, slightly embarrassed, but there’s a softness in his eyes. He won’t admit it, but he appreciates your care.

“You’re like a mother hen, Y/N,” Nobara teases from across the room, watching with a smirk.

You laugh, ruffling Megumi’s hair. “Someone has to look after you guys.”

Scene 5: Late Night Conversations

It’s late, and you’re sitting on the porch, enjoying a quiet moment when Yuji joins you. He looks thoughtful, his usual cheerful demeanor a little subdued.

“Something on your mind?” you ask, offering him a soft smile.

He hesitates, then sighs. “It’s just… I think about all the people we fight for, and sometimes it feels like we’re just cogs in a machine, you know?”

You place a hand on his shoulder, your gaze warm and understanding. “You’re not just a cog, Yuji. You make a difference. Every day, in everything you do.”

He smiles, the weight lifting from his shoulders. “Thanks, Y/N. You always know what to say.”

Scene 6: The Constant Worrier

You’re sitting at your desk, grading papers when Gojo walks in, his usual carefree grin in place.

“Y/N, you look stressed. Need a break?”

You look up, exasperated. “I wouldn’t be stressed if you didn’t let the students run wild half the time.”

He chuckles, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re always worrying about them. It’s cute.”

“Someone has to,” you reply, shaking your head. “They’re still kids, Gojo.”

“They’re stronger than you give them credit for,” he says softly, surprising you with his serious tone. “But... they’re lucky to have you. We all are.”

Your heart softens at his words, and you can’t help but smile. “Well, someone’s got to keep you all in line.”

Scene 7: Celebration Time

After a particularly tough mission, you decide to treat the kids (and Gojo) to a little celebration. You bring out a homemade cake, earning surprised but delighted looks from everyone.

“Y/N! You didn’t have to do this!” Nobara exclaims, already eyeing the cake with excitement.

You smile, feeling warmth fill your chest at their happiness. “You all worked hard. You deserve it.”

Yuji practically bounces in his seat, his energy contagious. “You’re the best, Y/N!”

Gojo, of course, takes credit. “See, this is why I keep you around, Y/N. You spoil us.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the laugh that escapes. “I spoil you because if I didn’t, you’d all fall apart.”

Scene 8: The Unofficial Jujutsu High Mom

It’s late again, and you’re the last one awake. As you pass by the dorms, you peek into each room. Megumi is fast asleep, his book falling off the bed. Nobara’s phone is beside her, the screen still lit. Yuji is sprawled out, as usual, snoring lightly.

You smile softly to yourself, closing their doors quietly. They may not be your biological children, but you feel fiercely protective of them. They’re your family now, in every way that matters.

As you make your way back to your room, Gojo’s voice calls out from behind you.

“Still doing your rounds, huh, mom?” he teases.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Someone’s got to keep you all alive.”

Scene 9: Final Reflection

In the quiet of your room, you reflect on how this all started. You came here as a sorcerer, determined to teach and train the next generation. But somewhere along the way, you became something more to them. A guardian. A caretaker. A mom, in every sense of the word.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[aplaceinme]

Buck was the one who proposed to Tommy. He did it at their home, a house that they bought together and little by little fixed until it became the home they never really had before. 

He decided to do it on their usual date night so that Tommy wouldn't suspect anything was amiss. Buck cooked Tommy’s favourite dishes, and he even bought the expensive wine.  The table was set with a bouquet of flowers he picked up and with candles.

 While he was cooking and setting the table, Buck kept touching his pocket to make sure he had the ring with him. He had went to the jewellery with Eddie, and had picked a simple white gold band with diamonds. 

Once Tommy had arrived, he had been pleasantly surprised by the set up, and had thanked Buck profusely, all the while not knowing what was to come.

It wasn’t until they had finished the main course and were about to start with dessert that Buck got on one knee and proposed.

The actual proposal was a beautiful and heartfelt speech that Buck had previously prepared. He told Tommy how much he loved him, how happy he was with him, and how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. He had closed the speech with a line based on one of the scenes of Tommy’s favourite romcom, which he had made Buck watch several times. 

“I’m just a guy, standing in front of another guy, asking him to marry me.” 

Crying and chuckling, Tommy had, of course, said yes. 

The ceremony was small, with only their closest friends and family members invited. Bobby officiated it, with Eddie as Buck’s best man and Lucy as Tommy’s.  By the end of the ceremony, everyone had shed some tears.

While at the party, before the cake was cut, Tommy went up to the little stage that had been set up with a guitar in hand. Since Buck had been the one who proposed, he wanted to surprise him and do something for him on their wedding day. 

So, Tommy started playing the song, ‘Calico Skies’ by Paul McCartney. 

“It was written that I would love you

From the moment I opened my eyes

And the morning when I first saw you

Gave me life under calico skies

I will hold you for as long as you like

I'll hold you for the rest of my life…”

Once the song ended, Buck had tears in his eyes. He went up the stage and kissed his husband passionately. They both couldn’t wait to start living their happily ever after as husbands. After all, you don’t find it… You make it.

[lilsoftext]

•~* HIDDEN AWAY *~•

-chris sturniolo x female reader

-summery: chris surprises sof with a much-needed weekend getaway to a secluded cabin in the woods, away from the pressures of public life and social media.

——————————————————————————

It had been a hectic few weeks for Chris and Sof. With work, social media commitments, and their friends constantly around, they barely had time to themselves. Both of them needed a break—something far from the flashing lights of cameras and the ever-watchful eyes of the internet.

Chris had planned it quietly, booking a small cabin a few hours outside the city without telling Sof the details. The only hint she had was that he told her to pack a bag for a few days. When she had asked for more, Chris just smiled and said, “You’ll see. Trust me.”

---

The car ride was filled with the soothing hum of the road beneath the tires, broken only by the occasional conversation and the music playing softly from the speakers. Sof leaned her head against the window, watching the trees blur past, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the bracelet on her wrist. Chris glanced at her from the driver’s seat, smiling to himself at how peaceful she looked.

“You okay over there?” he asked, reaching over to gently squeeze her knee.

She turned her head to look at him, offering a small, contented smile. “Yeah, I’m good. Just wondering where you’re taking me.”

Chris grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I told you, it’s a surprise.”

Sof playfully rolled her eyes. “You and your surprises. What if I don’t like it?”

“You will. I promise.”

She leaned back in her seat, letting out a sigh of mock exasperation. “Fine. I trust you.”

---

A couple of hours later, they pulled up to a small cabin nestled in the woods. The air was crisp and cool, with the scent of pine trees surrounding them. Sof’s eyes widened as she stepped out of the car, taking in the scene.

“Chris, this is beautiful,” she said softly, her breath catching as she looked at the cozy cabin, smoke lazily curling from the chimney.

“I thought we could use a little getaway,” he replied, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. “No cameras, no internet—just us.”

Sof leaned back into him, her hands resting on his. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

They stood there for a moment, taking in the quiet of the forest around them, before Chris kissed the top of her head and grabbed their bags from the car.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get settled in.”

---

Inside the cabin, it was just as cozy as it looked from the outside. There was a stone fireplace in the living room, a fluffy rug spread out in front of it, and large windows that let in the soft glow of the afternoon sun. A small kitchen was tucked into the corner, and there was a door that led to what Sof assumed was the bedroom.

“This place is amazing,” Sof said as she wandered around, running her fingers along the wooden furniture. “How did you even find it?”

Chris shrugged, setting their bags down by the door. “I have my ways. I just wanted us to have some time alone, you know? No distractions.”

Sof turned to him, her heart swelling with affection. “I love it. Really.”

He smiled, walking over to her and pulling her into a warm embrace. “I’m glad. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.”

She pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes as she breathed him in. “Me too.”

---

The first night was spent lounging by the fire. After a quick dinner they made together, Chris lit the fireplace, and they curled up on the rug with a blanket. Sof had brought a book, but she barely got through a few pages before she put it down, too content in the moment to focus on anything else. Chris was lying next to her, one arm draped over her waist, his head resting on her shoulder.

“Do you think we’ll ever get used to all of it?” Sof asked quietly, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames.

Chris shifted slightly, looking up at her. “What do you mean?”

“The attention. The constant noise. Sometimes it feels like we don’t get a moment to ourselves.”

Chris was silent for a moment, then he sat up, propping himself on his elbow to face her. “I don’t know if we’ll ever get used to it. But we can have moments like this. We can make time for each other, even if it means disappearing for a few days.” He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “And when we’re together like this, that’s all that matters to me.”

Sof looked into his eyes, her heart melting at his words. She cupped his face in her hands, her thumb brushing gently against his cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Chris smiled, leaning down to kiss her softly. “Good thing you won’t have to find out.”

They stayed like that for a while, the only sounds coming from the crackling fire and the occasional rustle of the wind outside. It was peaceful, and Sof couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so at ease.

---

The next morning, Sof woke up to the smell of coffee brewing and the sound of birds chirping outside the window. She stretched, feeling the warmth of the blankets around her, and smiled as she realized where she was.

She found Chris in the kitchen, already dressed, flipping pancakes on the stove. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard her footsteps, grinning.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Sof smiled, walking over to him and wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. “You’re up early.”

“Had to make breakfast for my girl,” he said, turning his head to kiss her on the forehead.

She laughed softly, resting her chin on his shoulder. “You spoil me.”

“Only because you deserve it.”

They ate breakfast by the large windows, watching the sunlight filter through the trees. It was such a simple moment, but Sof cherished it. There was something about being away from the rest of the world, with no obligations, that made everything feel more real—more meaningful.

After breakfast, they decided to explore the area around the cabin. There was a small trail that led down to a lake, and the two of them spent the afternoon walking, talking, and laughing. Sof couldn’t help but notice how light Chris seemed—like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

They reached the lake just as the sun was beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the water. Sof stood at the edge, looking out at the reflection of the sky on the surface. Chris came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her once again.

“This is perfect,” Sof said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Chris nodded, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Yeah, it is.”

They stood there for a while, watching the sunset in comfortable silence. Sof felt Chris’s arms tighten around her, and she closed her eyes, letting herself get lost in the moment.

“I love you,” Chris murmured, his voice soft and sincere.

Sof’s heart skipped a beat. She turned in his arms to face him, her eyes searching his. “I love you too,” she whispered back, her voice full of emotion.

Chris smiled, his eyes shining with affection. He leaned down and kissed her again, this time with more passion, as if sealing the words between them.

---

That night, they returned to the cabin, their hearts full and their spirits light. They spent the evening talking about their future—about the things they wanted to do together, the places they wanted to see. Chris told her about his dreams, and Sof shared hers, feeling more connected to him than ever before.

When it was time for bed, they curled up together under the blankets, Chris’s arm draped over her waist once more. Sof closed her eyes, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, and smiled to herself.

For the first time in a long time, everything felt right. And as she drifted off to sleep, she knew that no matter what challenges came their way, they would always have each other.

And that was all that mattered.

——————————————————————————

I hope you enjoyed it. if you have any request, leave them down below.

lilsoftext <3

[novasillies]

wip (not) wednesday

in honour of hitting 100k words (WHAT THE FUCK) of this fic I am gonna drop a wee little snippet I suppoossseeeeeeAAAAAAAAAGAGHG

This is from the beginning (ish) of the 6th and final chapter of Third Time's The Charm season 1: 'Promises, Fools'. i only have a handful of scenes left in this chapter and then I'm DONE!!! (she says as if it's not already like 20k words long (FREE MEEEE))

“I need you,” were the first words he whispered into the soft rustling of sheets as Derek began to stir behind him. A real answer to the question he’d asked earlier. Derek probably didn’t hear. Or maybe he was too close to asleep to answer properly. Or to understand. Or maybe he just didn’t want to. He could almost hear the bullshit answer Derek would give him back if he gave one at all. ‘I’m right here,’ he’d say. ‘You already have me.’ “I don’t wanna be Him,” were the next words he said, an eternity of silence later. Derek’s hand stopped where it had been tracing back and forth right beside the concave scar tissue left over from that night at the mall. It was the only one of his scars that made him nauseous to touch. It had hurt, when the grimoire was out of his skin. It ached and burned if he strained too much. It itched. But then he’d touch it and that phantom sensation of touching his own internal organs made his stomach lurch. That and couldn’t sleep on his front or back anymore.  “Who?”  “Him,” Stiles answered, “Me. The Other Me.” After a moment, Derek answered into his skin, “I know.” Stiles took in a shaky breath, “I don’t want to. I don’t… I…” His brows met in the middle. Derek’s fingertips started to move again, more conscious in their comfort. “I don’t understand you.” He could feel the way Derek’s brows moved, just as his did, against the back of his neck, “What do you mean?” “I burned your house down,” Stiles answered mildly.  Derek’s breath caught against him, “You didn’t–” “I did,” Stiles said, “I burned it down with you and Peter inside. And you carried me to the hospital.” He turned around, unflinching with the unwanted power of his spark muting any pain from his scars once again, to stare straight into Derek’s eyes. Into the horribly familiar way his jaw tightened and his green eyes sharpened. He waited for Derek to adjust his arms around his waist before he went on, “And when I left to try and go back in time, you even went to Scott to help find me.” He blinked slowly at the just as slow downturn of Derek’s brows, “I don’t understand how you could react like that.” Those green eyes darted down for just a fraction of a second before they rose again, “It’s complicated.” “Well,” Stiles said, “I didn’t think it would be simple.” Derek’s left eye twitched, and he licked his lips, “It’s not–” He huffed a little, shifting where he lay, “It felt like it was my fault you lost control like that.” Stiles said nothing.  “The Other Stiles didn’t…” Derek’s eyes shifted away slightly, “He didn’t have to say much to convince me to keep you busy at the formal. I…” He frowned, “I guess I felt like I was…”  Stiles got sick of waiting for him to finish that sentence awfully fast, “You know He’s not gonna be better than what we saw of Him just because you love me, right?” Derek met his gaze, steadfast, “You know he’s not another you, right?” Stiles’ stomach turned.  “I said last night you don’t have a choice,” Derek nodded, “and I meant it. I love you, Stiles. And that means I love you even when you think you’re at your worst.” “You shouldn’t,” Stiles spat with narrowed eyes, “My worst is deadly, Derek. My worst is getting possessed and stringing together elaborate plots to kill and terrorise as many as possible. It’s wrecking my car. It’s shattering mirrors and vomiting and snapping necks and burning down houses.” The words flowed out of him like molten lava, “Blind faith is the killer of devotion, you remember that?”

Oh boy, oh boy. what a joyful conversation. yikes!! anyway. i am having a whale of a time writing this (how in the world is that actually a saying. are whales well known for their recreational fun???) and cannot wait for the like two people that r gonna read it wowowww

ofc no-pressure tag to the og gangster @patolemus (and anyone else who so wishes to share. please do!! love love love)

read the prequel (or the original fic i guess?), Twice And For All, here <3

[iamgonnagetyouback]

jess mariano fic where they bicker a lot and the whole town is tired of it (especially luke 💀) and fem!reader calls him sunshine because he's so obviously NOT sunshine and he calls her princess and they're so mean but also they're in love your honor (pre-dating)?????

thank you so much for the request love!!

𝟷𝚔 || 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒

♡ ︎ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You and Jess hated each other, and the town was tired of it.

♡ ︎ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: None

♡ ︎ꜱʜɪᴘ: Jess Mariano x Reader

You were wiping down the counter at Luke’s, rolling your eyes for the hundredth time that morning as you listened to Jess clatter dishes in the back. Since the day he showed up in Stars Hollow, you’d been at war. He had this knack for getting under your skin, always with some snarky remark or that cocky grin that made you want to throw a coffee pot at his head.

And, of course, Luke—bless his exhausted heart—thought it would be a good idea for you to train Jess when he started working at the diner. Which meant you were stuck with him every shift.

"Careful, Princess," Jess muttered as he brushed past you, grabbing plates to bring out to a table. "Wouldn’t want you to break a nail."

You shot him a glare, biting back the urge to snap something worse. "Please, Sunshine, if I wanted your advice, I’d ask for it."

He turned to face you, an eyebrow quirked. "Sunshine?" Jess's voice dripped with sarcasm as he leaned in, so close you could smell the faintest hint of cigarettes and the leather of his jacket. "You’ve got jokes now?"

"Oh, yeah. You’re just a ray of joy, aren’t you?" You crossed your arms, refusing to back down.

"I’m not the one acting like I’m too good for this place," he retorted, eyes narrowing in that familiar way that made your blood boil. "I get it, you were the queen of Stars Hollow High, but guess what? No one cares here."

Your jaw clenched at the mention of your high school reputation. The "popular girl" label was something you'd worked hard to leave behind, and Jess wielded it like a weapon, knowing exactly how much it pissed you off.

"Maybe if you stopped acting like an arrogant jerk for five minutes, people wouldn’t hate you so much." You shot back, shoving a coffee mug into his hand.

"And maybe if you stopped pretending to be perfect, Princess, you wouldn’t be so insufferable." Jess’s smirk tugged at his lips as he called you the nickname he knew you hated most.

Before you could fire back, Luke’s voice boomed from across the diner. “Will you two stop for five minutes?!”

You turned, wide-eyed, just as Jess casually flipped the mug in his hand, and—of course—it slipped. The ceramic hit the floor with a sharp crack.

Luke threw his arms in the air. “Again?! Another mug? I can’t afford this many replacements just because you two can’t flirt like normal people!”

“Flirt?” you and Jess echoed in unison, horrified at the very suggestion.

You were about to respond when the door swung open again, and Lorelai entered, taking one look at the scene before shaking her head. “Oh, God. They’re at it again.” She grabbed Rory’s arm and started pulling her out of the diner. “Let’s go, Rory. It’s way too early for this.”

“But my pancakes—”

“We’ll get pancakes at Al’s. Come on.”

Luke groaned audibly from behind the kitchen window. “Can you two please just get along for one shift? Is that too much to ask?”

You shot Luke a look. "Tell that to your nephew. He’s the one who acts like he owns the place."

“Maybe because I’m the only one here who actually does any work,” Jess quipped, smirking as he leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed.

Your fists clenched, resisting the urge to knock the smug look off his face. "You're insufferable."

“And you’re spoiled.” His words were harsh, but there was something flickering beneath his tone, something softer, hidden behind the sharp edges of his sarcasm.

“Jess,” Luke warned from the kitchen, his patience thinning by the second. “I swear to God, if you two don’t quit it—”

But you couldn’t stop yourself. Something about Jess made your blood boil, but in a way that also made your heart race. Maybe it was the way he never backed down from you, always meeting your fire with his own. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you—like he was challenging you, daring you to push back.

"I’d rather be spoiled than miserable like you," you shot back, fully aware of how cruel it sounded.

Jess’s smirk faded, and for a second, just a second, you saw something crack in his expression. He stepped closer, voice lower, more serious. "Yeah? Well, at least I don’t pretend to be something I’m not."

Your heart thudded in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was anger or something else entirely. But the way he was looking at you now, eyes locked on yours, made your stomach flip.

Suddenly, you felt like you were standing on the edge of something dangerous.

"You don’t know anything about me," you whispered, hating how breathless you sounded.

"I know enough," he muttered, his voice quiet, almost vulnerable for once. His gaze flickered to your lips for a split second before he looked away, jaw clenched.

Before you could respond, Luke stormed over, slamming a towel onto the counter between the two of you. "Enough. Both of you. I’m not going to let you ruin this diner with whatever—" He gestured between you and Jess, flustered. "This is."

Jess backed away first, his usual arrogance slipping back into place. "Whatever you say, Uncle Luke."

You scoffed, shaking your head as you grabbed the coffee pot and moved to refill a customer’s mug. But as you walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between you and Jess. Something electric, something dangerous.

And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly why you couldn’t stay away from him.

@honesttogodbimbo your request is pretty much this only so check this out and you can tell me if you want something different instead! 💗

[burtonsdoodles]

I just found this in my drafts from WAY BACK when I was first noticing loads of the mirroring moments in Lone Star and since the new season begins airing this week (not that I’m gonna be able to watch it, being in the uk where Disney + won’t put it on until well after… I’m gonna have to avoid so much stuff… 😒) i thought I’d just post it, because it’s these little connective moments that I love and appreciate so much in storytelling… and one of the reasons why 911: Lone Star will always remain a standout show…

Some of these are more random and possibly unintentional than others, but I noticed them and jotted them down anyway…

The “he’s impressive” moment…

101: Carlos to T.K. about Owen

110: Carlos to owen about T.K.

208: Owen to Gabriel about Carlos

“Soulmates”…

105: T.K.: [when asked about facing rejection] “116 days ago when I asked my soulmate to marry me and he moved in with his trainer instead”

416: Carlos: “I’ll say hi, you’re T.K., I’m Carlos and we’re soulmates”

The red jumpsuit… (the likelihood is someone probably just really this jumpsuit)

201: Worn by gwyn in her first scene

414: Worn by Tommy when she address the congregation

Cookies…

T.K. during ice storm plot - making cookies with Gwyn

Carlos in 404 - Trudy forcing him to try the cookie she made

Instincts…

208 - Carlos: I trusted my instincts like you always taught me. Gabriel: the thing is son, you’ve got to have the right instincts. (this breaks my heart every time!)

404 - Gabriel: my son’s resourceful and he can take care of himself. Grier: I have no doubt that’s how you raised him. Gabriel: no, he figured that out on his own. (I love this moment every time!)

Bad call…

208: Owen and Carlos’s heart to heart over smoothies - when Carlos didn’t actually make a bad call

418: Owen and Carlos’s heart to heart over whatever alcohol they’re drinking - when Carlos very nearly did make a bad call

Uniform…

208 - Carlos: not that I have a uniform at the moment

404 - Darryl: where’s your uniform?

We make a good team…

110: T.K. and Carlos

212: Owen and Gabriel

Hey Carlos. Hey ….

101: Carlos arresting Michelle

301: Carlos arresting Marjan

You sure this is where you wanna be…?

103: To TK: You sure you’re in the right place, man?

308: To Gwyn: Lady, you sure this is where you wanna be?

Milkman Judd…

411: Judd is the milkman in Mateo’s dream

417: Judd brings in Owen’s milk from outside

I know you’re [not] ready…

204: salim to marjan: I know you’re not ready to get married yet, but I am… just not to you

412: Carlos to tk: I know you’re ready to be a father. And I have no doubt that you would be an amazing one. But I’m not so sure I’m there yet… or ever will be…

And that’s as far as I got with it - I wouldn’t be surprised if there are loads more that I missed… and we’ll see what season 5 brings because I expect a lot will be coming with this final season… there already was one in the trailer and when I heard it I knew this was gonna be an epic finale.

[thasorns-moved]

I cannot shake my thoughts about this and I’ll know I’ll keep this drama close to my heart. The fact that Myung ha’s ‘sunbae’ opened the riff to the world with the question “would you change it for me?” Also the fact that Myung ha’s alternate universe/game world started with the sound of an ocean tells already a lot about it but we won’t know until Episode 8 why. Throughout the series we watched Myung ha doing everything in his power to make Yeo woon happy while he himself couldn’t rely, couldn’t trust, couldn’t open himself up to him. We know the phrase of his ex gf “you don’t know how to love anyone.” left a deep scar in his soul which he carried with to the alternate universe/game. I try to think the system errors which occurred during the game was a way to change Myung ha’s mindset to not make the same mistakes and/or go on with his habitual habits he did in his life before he drowned himself. Also the different tasks was it actually for Myung ha to realize that he’s the one who makes Yeo-woon happy (which he didn’t). He retreated himself from Yeo woon because he couldn’t choose between the most important persons in his life as we saw his grandma died in real life which makes me think if he also knew that because in one sequence in the game/au it asked him if he wants to bring back some memories of Myung ha’s life. Also the last I love you from Yeo woon was the cherry on top to let the system completely crash where he distanced himself from Yeo woon. “I want to spend my remaining time making Yeo woon happy as best as I can. But it seems the more I try, the more unhappy I make Yeo-woon.” Which Myung ha remembers what Yeo-woon said: “whenever I see you, I both feel good and want to cry. I feel so much about every little thing. But I’m not happy at all right now.” Which again I try to think it is about why Myung ha doesn’t rely more on him? Why he doesn’t open himself up to him? A relationship is based off of trust, give and take… etc. but Myung ha goes into this relationship with deep rooted traumas which causes lack of self love. If one loves not itself enough how can they expect to love someone else which what explains Myung ha’s last phrase in the same scene so much. “Why did I think I could make you happy?” It’s as if he doesn’t think that a loner like him could be the one to give him love and happiness. What follows after is that he choses Yeo woon’s happiness even if he’s not his happiness… which again brings me to the beginning where Myung ha thinks “but I prefer lonely supporting characters to happy protagonists.” In this case he’s the lonely supporting character to our happy protagonist Yeo-woon. “But being fated to live that kind of life… is just so unfair.” He knew/knows how cruel life can be so he chose his happiness over everything and got vanished from the game. He realized by now that Yeo-woon is/was more important than he wanted to admit. Yeo-woon is/was a glimpse of happiness in Myung ha’s life. What brings us to the tragic backstory of his life and how he lived. All the obstacles he endured and went through led to his drowning (at this point we saw Yeo-woon’s obstacles in the alternate universe/game at least in my opinion). This is the turning point for Myung ha. “I was hoping if you saw yourself from someone else’s perspective, you would learnt to love yourself. I thought if you learned to love someone, you would be a little happier.” I want to make a reference here to the title itself “Love for Love’s sake” because all the sacrifices he did and cared more for others than himself… but he found happiness. In Yeo-woon. And he chose his own happiness for once. It’s the way he chooses all these things for himself, to open himself up for him, to rely and be cared for. “It would be nice to have someone. Someone who cares by my side. Someone who gives me chances when I fail and feel hopeless. It would be nice to have someone who always gives me love.” Which they found both in each other.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

sometimes i remember that gojo wanted to tell geto “we’ll meet again, right?” just before he died but forced himself not to knowing it would have cursed him and then i start thinking about how kind and thoughtful gojo is as a character and how he hasn’t been able to lean on another human being since geto defected and then i want to . Scream

[jiminiesfavouritecolourisblue]

Hi! I'm the guessing anon

Ik I said this is how far my imagination goes and I'll just wait for the chapter, but a last try lol

Namjoon is saying it to the Chief of Police ?

DING DING DING DING YOU GOT IT 🥳🥳🥳 I AM SO IMPRESSED 💜😱😱😱😱 my little genius guessing anon

And as promised, I shall give you a reward 😎 I’m not gonna give you the whole first segment because it’s not edited but I’ll give you the first few paragraphs of the chapter to explain the quote 😇

Enjoy 💜 x

Namjoon wasn’t all that impressed with seeing the Chief of police visiting his cell, the syndicate boss was dressed too well to belong there, it was almost an eyesore. A glance to the camera, the normal red blinking light absent tells him all he needs to know. There were no eyes or ears to this conversation.

“I thought I paid you to keep your men in line,” Namjoon says in lieu of greeting. “Was a bullet to the knee not warning enough for your dear Captain?”

“He wasn’t an issue when I spoke to him, the man was on leave!” the chief replied. “Your girl was the problem he-”

“Be very careful how you finish that sentence,” he advised with a deep angry rumble from his chest. “I am well aware who is at fault here, and regardless of what our little love does, she is never to blame.”