#i was supposed to be there half an hour ago

[zenithsturniolo]

⇢ 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐑!𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐅𝐓

1k words — drug use, suggestive content, use of “angel”, lowk asshole chris

you weren’t supposed to be here this late. but then again, you weren’t supposed to care if he remembered either.

chris had texted you a few hours ago, something short and blunt— come over if u still need — and even though it was past eleven, even though you’d already gotten into your comfiest sweats and tied your hair up in that stupid clip he always made fun of, you went.

you told yourself it was for the weed. told yourself you were bored. told yourself you didn’t care.

his place is dim when you knock. smells like weed and candle wax, like old smoke clinging to the walls. that familiar haze that sticks to your clothes, to your skin, to your thoughts long after you leave.

he opens the door shirtless, low gray sweats hanging from his hips, chain resting heavy, eyes already red-rimmed and half-lidded like he’s been coasting all night.

“took you long enough,” he mutters, stepping back to let you in. no greeting, no smile. just the usual.

“wasn’t rushing,” you shrug, closing the door behind you. “figured you’d be stoned and grumpy either way.”

he scoffs, the sound lazy and mean. “and yet you still showed up. desperate.”

you roll your eyes, toeing your shoes off, ignoring the heat crawling up your neck. “maybe i just wanted to be your last client of the night.”

he glances over at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes for half a second. “that right?”

you hum, pretending to browse the stack of lighters on his counter even though you always use your own. you never actually need one from him, but the way he watches you when you do this — pretending like he doesn’t — it always feels like a quiet ritual.

“midnight’s in, like… fifteen minutes,” you say casually.

he lights a blunt, eyes flickering toward the oven clock. “so?”

you don’t answer right away. you’re used to this. his clipped voice, the cold mask he wears like armor. you’ve told yourself a hundred times not to expect more, but something in you still stings.

it’s your birthday in fifteen minutes, and even though you didn’t come for that, even though you knew he’d probably forget, some stupid part of you still hoped.

you perch on the edge of his couch, legs tucked under you, arms crossed loosely like you’re trying to stay small. “nothing,” you say. “just thought maybe you’d, i don’t know… say something.”

he exhales smoke without looking at you. “say what?”

you raise your brows, the silence stretching between you. “i don’t know. maybe something like happy birthday?”

he doesn't answer. for a second, you regret bringing it up. your throat goes tight, dumb with disappointment. he passes the blunt to you wordlessly, his face carved from shadow and apathy. you take it and inhale slowly, trying not to care. the smoke burns down your throat, settles deep in your lungs. makes it easier not to feel too much.

“figured you forgot,” you mutter.

“didn’t forget,” he says flatly.

you glance at him. he's still not looking at you, but his jaw ticks— that tiny shift he does when he's lying or pissed or both. your eyes drift toward the counter. there’s a small box there. black ribbon, no tag. definitely wasn’t there last time. your heart tugs.

“what’s that?”

“nothing.”

“looks like something.”

“don’t be annoying,” he grumbles.

you stand anyway, crossing the room to grab it. it’s heavier than you expect, neatly tied, too purposeful to be nothing. a flicker of hope twists in your chest, stubborn and stupid.

“this for me?” you ask, already knowing.

he doesn’t answer.

you peel the ribbon, open the box... and freeze.

inside is a small silver lighter. sleek, engraved, matte finish. your initials are etched into one side, and on the other… a tiny etched outline of a blunt and a halo.

you blink. it’s stupid. ridiculous. and it makes your throat close up.

“you hate birthdays,” he mutters from behind you.

you turn around slowly. “i never said that.”

“you said they’re performative. that no one ever gets it right.”

“doesn’t mean i don’t wanna feel special sometimes.”

he shrugs. “so you get a lighter. big deal.”

you let out a soft laugh, teary without meaning to. “you engraved a fucking blunt with a halo on it.”

he finally meets your gaze. red eyes, tired mouth, but there's something soft in the way he looks at you now. like he’s letting you see the part he always hides.

“suits you,” he says. “you’re a pain in the ass but you’re still kinda my angel.”

your breath catches.

“shut up,” you mumble.

he stands, takes the box from your hands, sets it gently on the table. then, without asking, he pulls you close by the waist and sits back on the couch, dragging you down with him. you land straddling his lap, knees pressed into the cushions, heart pounding like it wants to leap into his hands. he pulls the blunt from your fingers, takes a drag, then slips it between your lips. lights it with your new lighter. you hold his gaze, feel the warmth of him beneath you, anchoring you like gravity.

“you’re high,” you whisper.

“no shit.”

“and nice.”

he glares. “don’t ruin it.”

you giggle, tilting your head back as you exhale smoke. his hand slips beneath your hoodie, fingers splayed across the small of your back, steady and possessive, like he doesn’t plan on letting you go.

it’s midnight now. you don’t say it. you don’t have to. he shifts just enough to brush his mouth against your jaw. not a kiss, just enough to feel him. just enough to ache for more.

you close your eyes, and chris breathes you in.

and then, real quiet, like it physically pains him to say it, “happy fuckin’ birthday,” he mutters into your hair, blunt still burning in his hand.

“now shut up and stay right there.”

a/n: thank you @chloe444 for the request! this was supposed to be out yesterday n i’m sorry for the delay love, but I hope you like it. I hope you had the best birthday ever ilysm :)) also... thinking of making a dealer!chris au. got some ideas 🤷

+ find more dealer!chris here + find my entire masterlist here

🏷: @drewswife @k4urltzx @courta13 @briizysturn @y2kstarr @adorechris @dolliraez @rriverscuomo @sturnsblogs @mattspillowprincess @mattsplaything @sturns-mermaid @auttysturnz @sonnyangelsweetiee @izzylovesmatt @ribbonlovergirl @matts-girlfriend @pair-of-pantaloons @444sturns @weron1ka @grrrrcherries  @matts-wife @thicknick19 @slvtf0rchr1s @devotedlyteenagemusic @adoremattsturns @slut4chrisloads @cayleeuhithinknott @lyingbymalcom @sturniolo1trips @chrissbxby @alexisa78 @ariheartsmatt @slutformatt17 @chestersturn @kenziesturniolo54 @malsmind @chrismoans @sophsturns @surprisecurlyfriess @sturnslutz @passionfruitchris

© zenithsturniolo

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 8

theme: homoerotic friendship turns into ex best friends turns into fake-real-ish best friends turns into jealousy and confusion turns into this mess

A/N: The moment you've all been waiting for lol. (Edit: But.... this chapter is still angst)

WC: 4.8K

**** Chapter 8 **** 

Bowling was two weeks ago. It should’ve been out of her system by now. But something about that night stuck — not like a wound, exactly, more like a splinter: small, quiet, but impossible to forget once you’ve felt it.

Paige didn’t dwell on it. Not out loud, anyway. 

She kept things light, laughed when she was supposed to, didn’t say anything when Lexi started showing up uninvited to team hangouts or loitering in Azzi’s apartment — even on nights Azzi wasn’t there.

Lexi had a way of inserting herself into the middle of things — like she belonged there. Like the room had been waiting for her all along.

Lexi Reyes. UConn’s star pitcher. Transferred in from UCLA. Known for her fastball and her following — a walking highlight reel with a reputation Paige was pretty sure Azzi hadn’t heard. At least not the full version. Kathryn and the soccer girls had filled in the gaps one night after practice, trading stories that sounded more like cautionary tales than gossip. Paige never told Azzi what she heard. Maybe it wasn’t her place. Maybe it was something else entirely.

“She’s a lot,” Paige muttered around a bite of food, watching Lexi spin her car keys like a fidget toy while hovering near the building entrance, clearly waiting for Azzi.

Aubrey, tugging her hoodie over her head nearby, didn’t even pause. “If I don’t like somebody, that usually means something.”

Paige blinked. “That bad?”

Aubrey just shrugged, but the kind that spoke volumes. “Let’s just say I trust my gut. And my gut says she’s shady as hell.”

They never talked about it again, but it stuck. If Aubrey wasn’t sold, there was probably a reason. The girl liked everyone.

Still, Paige told herself what Kathryn had told her: You’re just protective. She’s your best friend. That was the story. Neat. Reasonable. She told it every time Azzi laughed too hard at something Lexi whispered.

Things with Kathryn, on the other hand, were… good.

Not easy — their schedules were chaos, and soccer was basically a traveling circus lately — but good in the way that felt earned. Intentional. Like they were both trying. Kathryn showed up even when she didn’t have to. Even when she was running on four hours of sleep and post-game soreness and the kind of exhaustion that lived behind your eyes.

Like the night she texted Paige from the team bus saying, craving popcorn and your face — and twenty minutes later, there she was, hair damp, hoodie zipped halfway up, a bag of Skinny Pop tucked under her arm. Paige hadn’t realized how much she needed the knock on the door until it came.

They didn’t talk much that night. They didn’t need to. Kathryn kissed her slow, touched her like Paige wasn’t made of fragile parts, like want and safety could exist in the same breath. Her fingers moved like a promise, and her smile — sleepy and sure — undid something in Paige that had been wound tight for weeks.

She stayed the night. We’ll just leave it at that.

Lately, Paige needed those kinds of nights — the ones that didn’t ask questions or remind her of everything she couldn’t control. Rehab was dragging. Her return date kept slipping further away, like something on the horizon that never actually got closer.

She hated watching practice from the sidelines. Hated how the team kept moving like nothing was missing — like a song she still knew all the words to, but wasn’t allowed to sing anymore.

Just smile. Clap along. Pretend your mic isn’t off.

Most days, she kept herself busy. That was the rule: keep moving, keep smiling, keep the ache at a low hum.

But this morning, while digging through her desk drawer for a hair tie, her fingers brushed something small.

A corner. Smooth edge. Something half-buried beneath tangled charger cords and old photos she hadn’t looked at in months.

She paused — long enough for her brain to flicker — but then her hand landed on a hair tie, the thing she’d been searching for.

So she moved on.

She didn’t open the box. Didn’t even register it as something new.

Didn’t know she was that close to finding it again.

Azzi

She never brought up the bowling night to Paige.

Figured if Paige wanted to talk about it, she would’ve by now. She’d made one offhand comment — something like “She seems like a lot” — back when everything was still loud and awkward and Lexi had first inserted herself into the picture. Azzi hadn’t responded. She’d just let it hang there, like the smoke trail after a firework. And since then? Nothing.

Maybe Paige didn’t care. Maybe she was just trying to keep things easy — for the team, or for herself. Maybe Azzi was doing the same.

Whatever the reason, they hadn’t talked about it. And honestly, Azzi wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Things had finally started to feel stable again. Practice had good energy. Paige and her had settled into something that resembled normal — not like before, but steady enough. The team was clicking. And they were headed west for the Phil Knight Classic — ranked matchups, national coverage, new gear they weren’t even allowed to post about yet. The kind of trip that made everything else blur at the edges.

Just basketball. Just them. Just enough to forget the rest, at least for a little while.

They were all camped out at the gate, waiting to board. Backpacks spilling open, travel hoodies up, empty Starbucks cups lined up like trophies on the floor. Ice was halfway through braiding Amari’s hair. Lili was nose-deep in a paperback. Nika had claimed two chairs like a throne.

Azzi was half-scrolling, half-listening to the low hum of conversations around her, when Aubrey slid into the seat beside her like she owned it.

“You’re not slick,” Aubrey said, tilting her head toward Azzi’s phone. “You knew what that selfie was gonna do.”

Azzi blinked. “It was just good lighting.”

“Uh-huh.” Aubrey grabbed the phone and held it up. “Caption: ‘just thinking’. Come on. That’s bait.”

“It’s literally a mirror selfie.”

“It’s a thirst trap disguised as introspection,” Aubrey deadpanned.

From a few seats down, Lili leaned in. “How many DMs?”

Azzi shrugged, but she could feel the flush rising behind her ears. “I don’t know. A few?”

“Define a few,” Ice called out without looking up from her Switch.

“Double digits?” Caroline guessed. “Or like... international waters?”

Amari grinned. “Didn’t someone send you poetry last week?”

Aubrey started scrolling. “Oh my God — ‘You look like a poem I can’t stop reading’. Who writes that? Who even talks like that?”

“Apparently her followers,” Lili said. “She’s got options.”

“And then there’s Lexi,” Aubrey said, tapping Azzi’s screen like it owed her an explanation. “Again.”

Azzi shrugged, trying not to make a thing out of it. “So she commented on a post. You all do that too.”

Aubrey gave her a look. “Yeah, but we don’t drop off coffee during study hall like it’s a rom-com grand gesture.”

“It was one time.”

“And the surprise Venmo for lunch?”

Azzi blinked. “It was five bucks.”

“Mmhmm,” Aubrey said. “Lexi’s just out here investing in your happiness, huh?”

“She's just being nice,” Azzi said again, softer this time. Like if she said it enough, it might be true.

Aubrey grinned. “Real nice…”

Azzi rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Because the truth was… Lexi had been persistent. Since Ted’s, she’d been around. Texting often — not just flirty stuff, although there was plenty of that — but little things. Compliments. Memes. Good luck before practices. One morning, she’d left protein muffins outside Azzi’s door with a note that said, For my favorite jump shot.

Azzi hadn’t asked for any of it. But she hadn’t told her to stop either.

Azzi hadn’t asked for any of it. But she hadn’t told her to stop either.

If she was being honest, it felt kind of nice — being seen like that. By someone new.

Lexi was hot. And fun. And knew how to make people feel like they were the only one in the room.

So whatever.

It wasn’t serious. It didn’t have to be.

She could feel Paige watching. Just a glance, a quick flick of the eyes, but Azzi felt it anyway. Like static in the air.

Paige hadn’t said anything since that night at the bowling alley. No comments. No warnings. Just silence. But Azzi had felt the shift — the way Paige went quiet whenever Lexi’s name came up, the way she looked away too quickly when Azzi mentioned something vaguely nice Lexi had done.

She didn’t know what to make of it. Didn’t want to assume.

So she didn’t.

If Paige had something to say, she’d say it. She always did. And if she didn’t… well, maybe that said something too.

Azzi popped in a headphone and leaned her head back against her backpack, letting the sounds of the gate fade into background noise. Her screen dimmed. The conversation moved on without her.

She closed her eyes.

Whatever.

Paige

Paige didn’t want to sit next to Azzi.

Not because she was mad. Not exactly. It was more… complicated than that.

She was still lowkey embarrassed about the whole bowling night — the dumb competitiveness, the way her voice had snapped sharper than intended, the heat that rose to her cheeks when Lexi leaned into Azzi like it was nothing. Paige hadn’t meant to spiral. But she had. And now she didn’t know how to act.

They’d somehow landed in this weird fake-real-normalcy. Like two people playing the roles of people who used to know how to talk to each other.

So when they got to the back of the plane and Azzi casually asked, “You sitting here or what?” Paige didn’t really have it in her to say no.

She shrugged. “Yeah. Sure.”

The flight was long and late. Most of the team had already claimed their windows and neck pillows and snacks. The cabin lights were dimmed to that fake-nighttime blue. Paige settled in, tugged her hoodie tighter, and stared ahead like the seatback screen was broadcasting peace.

Azzi nudged her knee. “You wanna play something? I downloaded that dumb fruit slicing game again.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “What is this, 2014?”

“Shut up. You’re gonna love it.”

She passed over her phone, and Paige took it, their fingertips brushing — just long enough to register. Azzi leaned in a little, close enough for Paige to catch the faint scent of whatever citrusy thing she always used in her hair.

They didn’t say anything at first. Just shared the screen in silence while Paige sliced through falling fruit with lazy precision, like muscle memory.

Azzi laughed under her breath when Paige missed a pineapple. “Wow. Tragic.”

“Please,” Paige said, flicking a banana off the screen. “I’m warming up.”

It wasn’t much. But it was something — a flicker of ease, a small pocket of time where the air between them didn’t feel like it had to be navigated. Where it felt like they could maybe still make each other laugh.

It felt—normal. Almost easy. Like the kind of moment they used to fall into without even thinking.

And then Paige noticed it.

Just above the collar of Azzi’s hoodie, on the curve of her neck, barely visible in the soft cabin light — a bruise. Small. Faint. Definitely not from practice.

She tried not to flinch. Just stared a little too long. 

Her stomach flipped.

Azzi caught the shift in Paige’s gaze, followed it, and instantly tugged her hood higher like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t noticed. Like Paige hadn’t just seen proof of someone else’s mouth on her skin.

Paige didn’t say anything. Just clenched her jaw, handed the phone back.

But her thoughts didn’t stay quiet.

She tried not to care. Tried to tell herself it wasn’t her place — that whatever this thing between them was or used to be, it didn’t give her a right to feel anything now.

But she did. Of course she did.

The bruise was small. Faint. A whisper, really. But it said more than anything Azzi had in months.

It said she’d moved on. Or was trying to.

She shifted in her seat, suddenly too warm under her hoodie. The game wasn’t fun anymore. The moment — whatever it had been — was gone. They played for another minute or two — silent, trying to force lightness back into the space between them.

And then a banner popped up at the top of Azzi’s screen.

Lexi: still thinking about how good you looked last night 😵‍💫

Azzi swiped it away quickly, but it was too late. Paige had seen it. And her fingers froze just long enough for the fruit to explode across the screen and end the game.

Silence stretched between them like a rubber band, pulled tight and trembling, waiting to snap.

Paige looked down. Then back at Azzi.

She shouldn’t say anything. It wasn’t her business. Azzi could do what she wanted.

But the words were already climbing up her throat, heavy and sharp.

Maybe she could say it gently. Maybe she could pretend it was just concern. Maybe Azzi wouldn’t see through it.

Her voice came out low, like she was aiming for chill and missing by a mile.

Paige swallowed. Cool. Smooth. Definitely didn’t sound unhinged.

“I’m just saying, Lexi’s kind of a player,” she managed, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to spiraling. “Everyone knows it.”

Her heart was doing that thing where it felt way too present in her body — loud and fast and everywhere at once. She knew she should shut up. Let it go. Take the L and move on. But something about that bruise on Azzi’s neck — about Lexi’s name lighting up her screen like a punchline — made the words claw their way out anyway.

She could still see it: that night at Ted’s, the way Azzi had laughed at something Lexi said, head tilted, eyes bright, like Paige wasn’t three feet away and fully unraveling. Like she hadn’t ever mattered at all.

This was dumb. This was probably jealousy. Or trauma. Or some combination of both, garnished with emotional immaturity and a long history of not knowing when to shut up.

“I don’t think she’s…” Paige exhaled hard through her nose, jaw flexing. “I don’t think she’s in it for the right reasons.”

There it was. Out in the air between them.

Paige wanted to melt through the floor. Or eject herself out the plane window. Either option would’ve been less humiliating than this.

Azzi turned toward her, slow and sharp. She crossed her arms like it gave her something to hold onto.

“Wow. Okay.”

“I’m not trying to start shit,” Paige said quickly. “I just… I’ve seen how she’s moving. And I don’t want you to get messed up over someone who’s not serious.”

Azzi scoffed, quiet and cold. “Right. So now you care?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Azzi shot back, voice tight. “You don’t say a single thing for weeks and now suddenly you’re worried about me?”

Paige looked away first. Out the window. Into the nothing-dark of a red-eye flight where everyone else was sleeping, not spiraling.

The silence between them wasn’t silence anymore. It was noise in her chest. A buzz behind her ribs.

Two steps forward. Three steps back. Always.

Azzi didn’t say anything else. She slid her phone into the seat pocket, turned toward the aisle, and pulled her hood up like that was the end of it.

Paige stared straight ahead.

This. This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to sit here.

Azzi

She didn’t get it. Still didn’t get it.

Why Paige had to come for Lexi like that.

It wasn’t like she knew her — not really. A couple glances, one passive-aggressive comment at a bowling alley, and now suddenly Lexi was a “player” and didn’t have the “right intentions.” Whatever that even meant.

Azzi wasn’t trying to fall in love. She wasn’t trying to get married. She was just figuring it out. Trying something new. Letting herself breathe a little. And yeah, okay, maybe she liked Lexi more than she meant to. Maybe that was part of the problem.

Because Lexi had been… really nice. Sweet, even. She’d walked Azzi back to her apartment in the rain one night and made a dumb joke about it being cinematic. She brought Azzi her favorite smoothie after practice with her name written in cursive Sharpie across the cup.

She was bold. Cheesy. Kind of irresistible.

And there was that night. The one with the ice cream. They’d both had late study sessions and ended up walking to the gas station down the block because it was the only thing open. Lexi bought two pints of Ben & Jerry’s — didn’t even ask, just handed Azzi her favorite and said, “Don’t say I never pay attention.”

They sat on the curb outside Azzi’s building, sharing one spoon and talking about tattoos they’d probably never get. Lexi had reached for her hand without asking. Kept playing with her fingers while she talked. It wasn’t subtle. And when she leaned in to kiss her — slow, certain — Azzi didn’t stop her.

It had been nice. Warm. Familiar in a way she hadn’t expected.

And it was the first time she’d kissed a girl who wasn’t Paige.

She didn’t want to overthink it. Didn’t want to turn this into something it wasn’t.

So she tried to shake it off — Paige’s speech on the plane. The judgment in her voice. The way it made Azzi feel like she was doing something wrong just for letting herself feel anything outside of her. Like this tiny flicker of something new was already a mistake.

Paige had no idea what it had taken just to get here.

And Azzi got it. She did. Paige cared. Paige always had. But sometimes that care showed up sideways — sharp and unspoken, like a bruise you didn’t realize you had until someone pressed on it.

By the time they got to the hotel, it mostly felt fine again. No dramatic standoff. No lingering tension.

Just a moment in the elevator — Paige standing next to her, close but not touching. The soft hum of lobby music playing from the speaker overhead. The kind of quiet where you can almost hear the things people aren’t saying.

Then Paige broke it.

“I’m sorry if that came out harsh earlier,” she said. Her voice was softer now. Not careful, but… sincere. “You’re still my best friend. I guess I’m just a little protective. That’s all.”

Azzi nodded. She didn’t trust herself to say much more than that.

But there was a pause — a long one — and when she looked over, Paige was already watching her.

It was the eyes. It was always the eyes.

For a second, Azzi was back in that gym in Colorado.

USA Basketball training camp. Seventeen years old. One second she was sprinting through a transition drill, the next her knee gave out — just buckled, sharp and sudden. She didn’t even feel it right away, just heard the sound. That awful, unnatural pop. And then the pain hit.

She remembered hitting the floor, hard, and gasping like the wind had been knocked out of her. The gym felt too bright. Her hands shook. Everything blurred.

People crowded. Coaches. Trainers. Whistles blew.

But the only person she really saw was Paige.

Paige, already on her knees beside her, before anyone else had moved. Her face was pale, eyes wide, mouth parted like she’d forgotten how to breathe. One hand hovered over Azzi’s shoulder, not touching yet — like she didn’t want to hurt her, but couldn’t not be near her either.

Azzi remembered the way Paige looked at her — like she was the one in pain. Like someone had taken the floor out from under her. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t panic. It was something else entirely. This open, gut-level heartbreak that Azzi hadn’t known what to do with.

She’d been the one crying. She’d been the one injured. But Paige’s eyes were the thing that stuck with her.

Because that look?

It said everything. It said I wish it were me. It said I don’t know how to fix this, but I’d do anything to try.

That was the kind of care Paige Bueckers gave people. Wordless. Fierce. Immediate.

It scared Azzi, a little. Even then.

Azzi blinked, and they were back in the elevator.

Back in this moment. Present day. And then—

Buzz. Paige’s phone lit up in her hand. FaceTime call. Kathryn’s name across the screen.

Azzi took a step back.

The elevator dinged. Paige swiped to answer. And just like that, the moment was gone.

Paige

The tournament went well. That’s what everyone kept saying, anyway.

Two big wins. Ranked teams. National attention. And Azzi— Azzi was a headline.

She’d gone off in the championship game against Iowa. Just two points in the first half, then twenty-two in the second like it was nothing. Seven for seven in the third quarter alone. Every shot effortless. Every step like she was floating.

Paige watched it all from the bench, clapping when she was supposed to. Smiling when the cameras panned her way. Pretending like something inside her wasn’t unraveling one missed moment at a time.

Azzi looked unstoppable. Paige felt like she was standing still.

She hated that it was hard. She wanted to be nothing but happy — for Azzi, for the team, for the program. And she was. But also… she wasn’t.

The travel had messed with her knee more than she expected. Tightness. Dull pain. A throbbing ache that settled deep and stayed there, like background noise. She hadn’t even played. She hadn’t done anything — and still, her body felt like it was folding in on itself.

That was the part no one talked about. Not the comeback or the highlight reel. The part where your body betrays you in silence. Where you do everything right and it still isn’t enough.

Paige didn’t say any of that. She iced. She stretched. She smiled when the trainers asked how she was feeling.

But in her head, she was spiraling.

What if the best version of her was already behind her? What if she was chasing something that didn’t even exist anymore?

It felt like too much some days. Too heavy. Too loud. Too far.

The flight home sucked.

She sat in her window seat, hoodie up, headphones in — but no music played. Just the quiet hum of the cabin and everything she didn’t want to think about.

Just her and the thoughts she hadn’t figured out how to say out loud.

Azzi was a few rows up, curled sideways in her seat, laughing at something Ice had said. Paige could hear it — that soft, full laugh that made people look over without meaning to. The kind of laugh that used to be hers.

She looked away before she could get stuck in it.

She wasn’t jealous. Not really.

Just tired. In every way a person could be.

****

She didn’t know what else to do.

Her body hurt. Her chest felt tight. And her thoughts kept looping the same four questions on repeat: What if this is it? What if I don’t come back? What if I’m already behind? What if I can’t catch up?

It wasn’t just about her knee anymore. It was about everything the injury had taken from her — the rhythm, the edge, the part of her that used to feel solid no matter what. She used to wake up and just know. What she was chasing. What she was made for. Now? Now it all felt a little fuzzier. Like the clarity had gone quiet, and she didn’t know how to get it back.

She didn’t say that out loud. She couldn’t. So she cleaned her room instead.

She told herself it was just to feel productive — throw some laundry in, toss a few empty bottles, maybe vacuum the corners she usually ignored. But really, she was trying to shift something inside her. Make space. Shake loose the weight pressing down on her lungs.

Maybe if she cleaned her room, her head would follow.

So she straightened her desk. Refolded sweatshirts. Pulled open drawers she hadn’t touched in weeks. Dust clung to her fingertips, and she welcomed it — physical proof that something was being lifted.

And that’s when her hand caught on something small.

A box. White. Plain. Wedged in the back beneath some birthday cards and a half-used notebook.

She didn’t recognize it at first. Didn’t think anything of it.

But when she opened the lid, her breath caught in her throat.

A bracelet.

Pink and purple beads. White blocks spelling one word:

PURPOSE

For a second, she just stared at it.

Not exactly like the one she had made for Azzi all those years ago — after the ACL tear, when Azzi sat on her floor in tears and told Paige she didn’t know if she could come back from this. Paige had made her a bracelet to remind her that strength wasn’t something you waited for — it was something you decided to keep showing up for.

But this one? This was new. Azzi had made this one — for her.

And the word…

Paige didn’t just know this word. She had lived it.

Purpose was the thing she clung to when the pressure got loud and the silence got louder. It was what she whispered in the training room, in late-night prayers, in between ice bags and cortisone shots and days where she didn’t feel like herself.

Everything happens for a reason. This isn’t wasted. There’s purpose in this.

She’d said it so many times, she’d started to believe it.

Azzi knew that.

And she had chosen this word on purpose.

Paige’s hands started to shake.

It was slow at first — barely noticeable — just a tremble at her fingertips. Then her chest tightened, like there wasn’t enough room inside her ribs for everything she was feeling. The tears came faster than she could stop them. No warning. No pause. Just a sudden, full-body kind of grief that made it hard to catch her breath.

And then she saw the note.

Folded beneath the bracelet, her name written across the top in Azzi’s handwriting — steady, careful, familiar.

She picked it up with both hands like it might fall apart.

She read:

P,

When I tore my ACL, you gave me a bracelet. I wore it every single day. It reminded me that I could get through it. That I’d come back stronger. That I wasn’t done.

You believed that before I could. And it changed everything.

So I made you one. Not the same — because you're not where I was. You’re where you are.

I picked the word you always come back to. The one that holds you up when nothing else can.

Don’t lose it. Or break it. Or forget what it means.

And hey — happy birthday.

Love, Az

****

Paige let the letter fall into her lap, her fingers still curled like she didn’t trust the air around her not to take it back.

It felt like all the wind had been knocked out of her — not suddenly, but slowly, like she’d been holding her breath for months and hadn’t realized it until now.

She folded in on herself, pressing the bracelet to her chest, her breathing uneven and shallow.

This wasn’t just a gift.

It was Azzi — thoughtful and steady, always noticing more than she let on — reaching out in the quietest way possible. No explanations. No expectations. Just… this.

Something small. Something soft. Something Paige hadn’t even known she still needed.

But Azzi had known. She had seen her. Even from a distance. Even in silence.

And instead of asking for anything, she’d given Paige the one thing she hadn’t been able to find on her own.

Belief.

In the middle of silence. In the middle of distance. After almost a year of not talking, of walking past each other in hallways and pretending it didn’t still hurt — Azzi had still made this for her.

She had still remembered.

And Paige didn’t even know when she’d left the box. Her birthday had come and gone in a blur of awkward smiles and late texts, and she hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t even opened the drawer.

Azzi probably thought she didn’t care. That it hadn’t meant anything. That it got lost in the noise.

But now, holding it— Clutching it—

Paige felt like her heart was cracking open in the best and worst way — like something long-buried had finally surfaced and didn’t know how to settle.

She pressed the bracelet to her chest, blinking up at the ceiling like that might steady her. Like that might be enough to hold her in place. But the tears came again anyway — slow, quiet, impossible to stop. The kind that came from somewhere deep, the kind that knew exactly what they were mourning and didn’t need to explain why.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was breaking.

She felt like maybe she wasn’t lost at all.

She just needed to remember what she was made for.

And maybe… who she was made to come back to.

[cobbled-peach]

˗ˏˋ જ⁀➴ acts of non-affection

when a late-night case load threatens to derail your plans, Spencer steps in with a "strictly practical" offer

cw: sunshine!fem!reader x post-prison spencer. reader talks about wearing makeup. not much else to say, just though this was a fun dynamic. a/n: when I was writing this, I had sort of an age-gap in mind, but that doesn’t really translate. So maybe I’ll give these babies another lil story at some point and develop on that. this was just a fun, small story while I work on something bigger and get through some requests !!! w/c: 2k

Friday nights at the BAU were always a gamble.

Sometimes the team made it out before nightfall. Sometimes not at all. Tonight fell somewhere in the middle: a limbo of sorts, where the bullpen was half-empty and the overhead fluorescent lights hummed like they were ready to call it quits too. The hallway murmured with agents’ quiet goodbyes, blinds rattling softly as they were drawn shut one by one.

It had been a long week. Grueling. Not just in hours, but in weight. It was heavy; the sort of case that lodged itself deep inside and refused to be shaken loose. The aftershocks still lingered in the air – metaphorically, emotionally, and painfully literal in the form of a mountain of paperwork.

You were still at your desk. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, jacket thrown over the back of your chair. You’d wanted to look like the picture of dedication; an agent hammering through work with unwavering professionalism.

The truth? The thought of spending another few hours alone with this pile of files was enough to make you consider crying into your keyboard. Seriously. Your soul was actually aching.

It was a losing battle, and you were painfully aware of it. But hope had always been your favorite bad habit.

You stared at the stack with a sigh that originated from deep in your chest. There was no way you’d finish this and still make it to your dinner plans. And you’d really been looking forward to this one. A date – something finally outside the BAU. Easy. Normal. Just dinner. You’d picked out your outfit four days ago, perfume already set out and waiting. You’d even memorized the menu like it was part of your prep for a case.

But you weren’t one to leave work unfinished.

Especially not now. Not with the team running on fumes. There had been a quiet tension all week. Too-tight smiles. Long, exhausted looks. Even your usual optimism – "relentless," as Garcia once called it (which was saying something, coming from her) – could only stretch so far before starting to feel tone-deaf. You didn’t want to be the agent who slacked behind when everyone was struggling.

So, with a barely concealed disappointed sigh, you pulled out your phone and started typing. Another cancellation. Another “rain check?” Not the first, and definitely not the last. You hated how practiced you’d gotten at writing them. Someday, someone would look over your romantic history as a trail of sweet apologies and slowly vanishing matches. You’d lost count of the number of times you’d let potential soulmates slip away because federal work took precedence.

‘Big night?’

The familiar voice came from behind, breaking the silence.

You turned, finding Luke Alvez leaning against his desk, arms crossed. The tilt of his head suggested he already knew the answer.

‘Was supposed to be,’ you said with a wry grin. ‘Dinner plans. With an actual human. Real food, no blood spatter analysis. I was even going to wear lipstick.’

‘Must be a special guy if you’re willing to step out of the realm of FBI professionalism,’ he teased, light, but slightly strained with exhaustion.

‘I was feeling bold,’ you said with a playful shrug. ‘But alas, my hot date with bureaucratic despair wins again.’

‘Wait—this wasn’t the date with moustache guy, right?’ (You’d only offered a vague description. Garcia had given him the nickname). ‘The one who was going to take you to the Italian where they handmake the pasta in front of you?’

‘Don’t remind me,’ you said with a small groan. ‘He was literally taking me to carbohydrate heaven. I was emotionally invested.’

‘You might still make it,’ he offered, half-hopeful. He already knew the chances were unlikely. ‘Leave a few papers for tomorrow. No one will chase you down over it.’

A hesitation on your end. A tiny flicker of temptation in your chest.

But then you shook your head. ‘If I leave this many, I’ll end up rushing to get it done tomorrow. And if I rush, I’ll miss something. And then Emily will hit me with that look.’

Luke winced in sympathy. ‘The lip-press. Brutal.’

‘Exactly. So, tragically, ravioli and wine will have to wait. Paperwork is calling.’

Luke gave you a mock salute. ‘You’re stronger than me,’ he said, and you smiled more genuinely this time. ‘If I was you, I’d already be halfway to the wine and pasta.’

‘I’ll live vicariously through your freedom, then,’ you responded brightly, despite the fact your heart was sinking just a little.

As he turned to leave, you settled back into your chair, noticing the subtle hint of movement from a few desks down.

Spencer Reid.

He’d always been… bristly, for lack of a better word. Distant. Curt. Formal to a fault. It wasn’t like you’d expected warm hugs, but you hadn’t anticipated an emotional barbed wire to surround him.

He looked up from behind the shield of a computer screen, eyes flicking towards you. Just for a moment, not enough to count. Barely even a tilt of his head. He didn’t speak, but that was to be expected. He never spoke with you.

There was a strange stillness. Quiet and calculating. The pause was too long to be accidental. Like he was deciding something.

He looked away as you pushed from your desk to grab a cup of coffee – a humble ally to your late-night paperwork, something to hopefully bribe your willpower into working and getting things done.

Three minutes in the kitchenette. Water boiled. Mug filled. And then you were returning to your desk.

Except it wasn’t empty.

He was at your desk.

Spencer was at your desk.

And thumbing through your files, no less.

Your first thought was that in the two minutes it had taken for the water to boil, reality had somehow shifted and you were now in an alternate dimension. Or maybe he’d been body-snatched.

Either way, you froze mid-step. A moment of total suspension, where you blinked hard and tried to reset the scene.

But no, he remained. Dividing your files into two neat piles with a furrowed brow. Categorizing with some unknown, internal metric. Scruitinizing.

You’d never moved across the bullpen so fast, all but sprinting, skidding to a halt beside your desk and setting the thoroughly-sloshed coffee down.

‘Whoa, whoa—Reid. What are you doing?’ Breathless. Inconclusive if it was from the sprint across the room, or the panic of seeing him look through your work.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look up.

‘Dividing them,’ he responded curtly.

‘Yeah, I can see that. Why?’

‘You told Luke you wouldn’t be able to finish them all.’

‘Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you’re here.’

‘I’m taking some.’

‘Huh?’ You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice. Definitely body-snatched. ‘You’re doing what now?’

‘Half,’ he said plainly, pulling the heavier stack of paperwork towards himself.

‘Okay, what?’ You laughed. Incredulous. Bewildered. Your eyes widened a little in confusion. ‘Are you sick or something? Should I be checking for a fever?’

He gave you a deadpan look, and you raised your hands in defense.

‘Kidding,’ you said. A beat of silence. ‘You’re seriously taking half?’

‘I can finish it tonight,’ he responded with a nod.

You let out another disbelieving laugh. ‘You do remember you have your own paperwork, right? You can’t take it all on. Surely you know some statistics about burnout, or something.’

‘I've accounted for them.’

Another pause, eyes still wide and confused. You attempted a different tactic. ‘You don’t have to rescue me.’

‘I’m not.’

More silence. You stared at him, trying to understand what was happening, what had shifted. This was the same man who barely spoke to you unless it was case-related. Who responded to your warmth with indifference.

And now he was… helping?

You gawked at him. ‘Are you sure I shouldn’t be checking you for a fever?’

The look he gave you this time was withering.

‘Because this is very un-Dr. Reid of you,’ you continued. ‘Like… I would not be surprised if you had been replaced by an android while I was making coffee.’

Nothing. Not a smirk. Not a twitch.

Tone-deaf joke, or just an emotionally closed off Reid? Maybe a mix of both.

You sighed. ‘I didn’t ask you to do this.’

‘I never said that you did.’

‘And you’re sure this isn’t going to make you burn out or implode or whatever?’

‘I won’t implode.’

You stared at him. Hard. ‘And you’re sure you’re not an android?’

He ignored that. As was to be expected.

Spencer turned to walk back to his desk, but something about the exchange was nagging at you. The abruptness of it, perhaps? Your mouth opened, then closed again, reminiscent of a fish. He was halfway to is desk when you called, following behind, ‘Reid, wait—’

He paused. Barely. Turned halfway with a clenched jaw.

‘—why are you really doing this?’

He ran his tongue across his top teeth, jaw ticking slightly as he glanced down at your files, then back to you and your now crossed arms.

‘You were visibly upset,’ he said finally, tone clipped. ‘That affects accuracy. A 2.8 second emotional distraction can double the likelihood of error. This is a practical solution to your… date crisis.’

The way he said those words was indecipherable. Annoying, because you were meant to be a profiler who could read micro-expressions, but he was giving nothing away. As usual.

You studied him. ‘So… damage control? Over paperwork I haven’t even started yet?’

‘Exactly.’

You raised a brow next. ‘Not because you wanted me to have a nice night?’

‘I don’t care if you have a nice evening or not,’ he responded, mechanical and flat. ‘I care about correctly filled in paperwork.’

You placed a hand over your heart, clutching it in mock betrayal. ‘Ouch. That’s seriously cold. Ruthless, even. I’m sort of devastated.’

He simply turned and walked away.

You watched him sit, pull your files closer, an start working in the meticulous way that was so Spencer Reid. Like this wasn’t strange at all. He was doing something nice. Not kind, or warm, but helpful. In a repressed and reluctant sort of way.

There was something mildly captivating about watching him work, too. He’d get into the zone with unwavering, clinical concentration that you were a little envious of. Only a little, though.

You slipped your jacket over your arms, firing a quick text to ‘Mustache’ that let him know you were actually okay for the date. He responded quickly, plans back on and in place. A much needed reprieve from the monotony of paperwork and the chaos of murderers.

You were set to go, until a thought struck. You glanced at the undrunk coffee on your desk. Still hot. Still steaming. You picked it up and walked over to him, setting it down on his desk which earned an almost horrified look.

‘I’m not going to drink it,’ you explained. ‘You can have it, if you want.’

‘I’m not touching your mug,’ he said, visibly uncomfortable. You saw his fingers twitching in distaste at the thought.

‘Germs?’ you guessed, familiar with his somewhat eclectic ways. ‘Fair enough. I can pour it into your own mug?’

‘Please—don’t.’

You smiled sheepishly. ‘I just feel like I owe you.’

‘You don’t. I’m not doing it as a favor, and I’m not doing it for you. It’s a practical solution, like I said before.’

‘Still, thanks,’ you said, softening your voice. That had him pausing mid-sentence for half a second, before he returned to writing. ‘Even if you’re not doing it for me.’

He said nothing, and you took that as the end of the conversation. Turned and walked to the elevator. In your hand, your phone was buzzing with “Mustache’s” messages; what time he’d be coming to pick you up and how he was really excited you were doing this.

You hummed thoughtfully. Spared a final glance through the glass doors into the bullpen where Spencer was seated at your desk. Knee-deep in your files, illuminated by a slightly yellow-hued lamp on his desk.

He didn’t look up. But you smiled at him anyway.

taglist: @curatedbylucy @cynbx @internallysalad @jeuj @redorquid @thoughtwriter @whitenoisewhatanawfulsound @written-in-the-stars06 please feel free to comment to be added to the taglist, or go to this post here :)

[mrsjjongstby]

"I don't hate you." - Y.JW

Pairings: academic rival!jungwon x fem!reader Synopsis: One late night project session turns into you both confessing your actual feelings. Warnings: angst if u squint really hard, comfort, fluff, skinship WordCount: 634

You didn't mean to stay up this late in the seminar room. 

The room is silent except for the air conditioner's sound and the typing of the keyboard. The rest of the group left hours ago, their unfinished parts all forced into the shared document with half hearted excuses. 

Now, it's just you and him. (its just me nd uuuuu~ locking eyes ins- sorry. ill stop.)

Jungwon. 

The bane of your existence, the calm to your storm, the person who you always feel the need to compete against and the person whose name is always a constant next to yours in everything. 

You hear the soft click of his keyboard stop. Then the sound of his chair creaking as he leans back. 

“Still not done?” he says. 

You don’t even look at him. “Still watching me?” 

“I’m trying to see if you'll actually ask for help for once.” 

You turn to face him, brows raised. “I don’t need help.” 

He tilts his head, amused. “Right. That’s why you’ve been stuck on the same paragraph for twenty minutes.” 

You slam your laptop shut and glare at him. “Do you ever shut up?” 

A pause. He smiles—but not like he’s mocking you. More like he’s tired. Tired of this back and forth. 

“Do you ever stop trying so hard to prove something?” 

You blink. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Jungwon leans forward now, his voice lower, more serious. 

“It means,” he says, “you treat everything like it’s a battle. Like if you let anyone help you, you lose.” 

“Because people like you never actually help. You just want to take over.” 

He exhales, rubs his temples. “You really think I care about outshining you?” 

You cross your arms. “Don’t you?” 

His eyes finally meet yours. And there’s something different in them now. 

“No,” he says, voice soft. “I care about you not burning out. I care about this project because you clearly do. And… I guess I care more than I should.” 

Your chest tightens. 

“That’s not funny.” 

“I’m not joking.” 

For a second, neither of you speak. 

Then he says your name, just your name and it sounds… warm. Like it belongs in his mouth. 

“I don’t hate you,” he says. “I never did. I just didn’t know how to talk to someone who always kept me at arm’s length.” 

You blink back the heat rising to your cheeks. 

“I don’t hate you either,” you whisper. “But I was scared.” 

Jungwon’s smile is small and real this time. 

You don’t know who moves first—maybe it’s you, maybe it’s him—but suddenly, you’re sitting closer. His shoulder touches yours. He looks down at your laptop and nudges it open. 

“Let’s finish this together,” he says. 

And for once, you don’t argue. 

Later that night, he walks you back to your dorm, hands in his pockets. 

“Still think I’m out to one-up you?” he asks, grinning. 

You glance at him and smirk. 

“Still you,” you say. “But now I kinda like it.” 

He bumps your shoulder. 

You let him. 

After a bit of walking, you stop in front of your door, neither of you moves to go inside. 

There’s a strange tension in the quiet — not sharp or uncomfortable, but warm.  

You look up. 

He's already looking at you. 

There’s a pause. A breath. His voice drops, barely a whisper. 

“Can I—” 

You don’t let him finish. 

You kiss him first. 

It’s not perfect. It’s a little hesitant. But when his hand cups your jaw and he pulls you in, you feel something fall into place — something that’s been tugging at both of you for far too long. 

When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours. 

“You’re really annoying sometimes,” you murmur. 

He laughs softly. “So are you.” 

Then he kisses you again — slower this time. 

And just like that, the war between you ends. 

A/N: this is an anon requesttt!!!!!! hope they like ittt!!!!!!!! nd hope u guys like itt!!!!!! this is my first wonnie fic sooo yeahhh! stay hydrated!!!!!!

[pittsick]

CHERRY LIPGLOSS & EMO BOY.

PLAYLIST && BOT RELEASE.

summary: after months of teasing flirtation behind the hot topic counter, you finally gives in to the pull of patrick zweig—scene king, bratty flirt, and walking contradiction. when your stolen moment in the storage room turns heated, patrick takes his time breaking you in with dirty praise, rough fingers, and all the cocky charm he’s been holding back. it’s messy, breathless, and just the beginning of something dangerous.

pairing: scene emo!patrick x sunshine!afab reader.

cw: +18. mdni. 2.5k words. graphic smut. fingering (reader!receiving), protected penetration. soft dom patrick. naive virgin reader. impact play (thighs & cunt slapping), praising. dirty-talk. dumbification. multiple orgasms. dacryphilia. overstimulation. drooling. messy makeout. short oral through panties.

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @imperishablereverie @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste @grimsonandclover

You knew it was going to happen eventually. You just didn’t know it would happen in the storage room of a Hot Topic, surrounded by boxes of skull-print socks and anime figurines.

But that’s just what being around Patrick Zweig did to you.

You’d been flirting with him for months. Not in a loud, confident way like the other girls who batted their lashes at him by the band tee wall. Yours was softer—offering him extra buttons when he came to the register, complimenting his chipped black nail polish when he reached for his wallet, pretending not to notice when he lingered by the counter even after his receipt printed.

He’d flirted back, of course. In his own way.

Calling you sweetheart with a twist in his voice that made your stomach flip. Giving you smirks that looked like secrets. Letting his fingers brush yours when he passed you his phone to scan his rewards.

You were opposites in every way. Where you wore soft colors and lip gloss that smelled like strawberries, Patrick wore black mesh and enough eyeliner to drown in. Your aesthetic was all pastel sweaters and fuzzy clips. His was a walking Hot Topic clearance rack from 2006—chains, skinny jeans, shredded sleeves, and that ever-present smirk behind a lip ring piercing.

And somehow, it worked.

You’d built something in those months. A tension. A pull. You didn’t know exactly what he saw in you, but you’d catch him staring sometimes, like he was trying to figure out how someone like you had ended up working in a place like this.

He never pushed. Just waited. Until tonight.

The mall was nearly empty. You were checking the accessories stocks in the back when you heard the familiar squeak of the front gate rolling up. Your manager had left an hour ago, and your shift was officially over—but you were dragging your feet. Yet, all you wanted was to see Patrick again.

Speak of the devil.

“Hey, pastel princess,” came that drawl behind you—soft, amused, cocky. The nickname he gave you as teasing.

You turned, heart jumping. “Patrick. You’re not supposed to be here.”

He was standing in the doorway of the back room, framed by the flickering overhead light. His shirt was ripped in three places, layered over a fishnet long-sleeve. Chains swung from his hips. His black bangs fell messily across his eyes, framing that smug little half-smile like a picture in a cracked frame.

“You said to stop by after close.” He shrugged, playing with the chains of his jeans.

“I meant like… out front. Not in the storage closet.”

He stepped inside anyway. “You’re the one who left the back door propped open.” He teased again, smirking like he so knew how to do.

You flushed, hugging a folded tee to your chest. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.” He reached you in three slow steps. “Been thinking about coming all day.”

You stared at him, lips parting slightly. His voice was low, almost lazy—but there was heat behind it. Real heat. The kind you’d only heard in whispered fantasies at night when your room was dark and your fingers drifted beneath your sheets. Like the air had shifted and you knew exactly was going to happen; something you both had thought about before but never acted upon.

Your eyes fell to his lips, red flushing your cheeks with the ideas running through your mind. Of what was going to happen.

“Patrick…” Your voice was smaller than you meant it to be.

His eyes dropped to your lips. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” you said quickly, almost breathless. “I just—I’ve never…” It was embarrassing to say. Something flickered across his face. Not surprise. Something gentler.

His fingers brushed your cheek. “That’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

And just like that, the air in the room changed.

Patrick kissed you like he’d been dreaming about it for weeks. Like he’d been holding back every time you smiled at him from behind the register or blushed when he called you baby.

He kissed with his whole mouth—open, messy, tongue dragging against yours with hungry precision. The cool touch of his lip ring made you whimper, and he swallowed it eagerly, gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were finally in his hands.

“God, you taste so fucking sweet,” he muttered, kissing down your jaw, your neck. “Knew you’d be like candy. Even look like one.”

You gripped the hem of his shirt, your fingers slipping beneath the holes in the fabric. You could feel the hard lines of his stomach under the fishnet. Every little sound he made vibrated through you.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he murmured, tugging your cardigan off your shoulders.

“No,” you said quickly. “Please don’t stop.”

That grin came back—dark and dangerous. He backed you into a stack of folded hoodie boxes, hands roaming your body with a worshipful kind of greed. When his fingers reached the hem of your skirt, he paused.

“You’re really letting me ruin this cute little outfit?” he asked, cocking a brow. “This baby pink, virgin-girl aesthetic?” His way of asking if you were sure of what you were doing.

You squirmed, nodding. “It’s yours.”

That broke him.

Patrick dropped to his knees like it was instinct, hands already sliding up your thighs beneath your pastel skirt. He moved with the kind of focus that made your breath hitch—the kind of hunger you’d only imagined in late-night fantasies again, but even your dirtiest thoughts hadn’t gone this far. That made your breath hitch.

“Fuck, you’re soft everywhere,” he murmured, pushing your skirt up with both hands. “Bet you’re soaked, huh? All that sweet little smiling and pretending—you’ve been aching for this.”

You nodded helplessly, your fingers curling in the fabric of your skin to pull it up some more as he nosed against your inner thigh. The tip of his nose smelling your skin as if it was the last thing he’d ever smell in his life.

He hooked a finger under your cotton panties—white, simple, with a delicate little bow at the waist that now looked obscene between your thighs—and dragged them down slowly, his lip ring brushing your skin as he went. When he got them off, he brought them to his face and breathed in. The disgusting pervert.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he groaned. “You smell like fucking heaven.”

You could barely breathe. Your legs were shaking.

Then his mouth was on you—hot, wet, and absolutely filthy.

He started slow, tongue dragging flat from your dripping hole to your clit, letting out a low hum like he was tasting frosting straight from the bowl. But then he got mean with it. Sloppier. He licked and sucked and groaned into your pussy like he’d been starving for it. When his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked just hard enough to make your hips jump, you whimpered.

“Patrick—”

“Yeah, baby?” he said between licks, his voice rough and amused. “That feel good?”

You nodded rapidly, breath catching when he licked right against your entrance and pushed two fingers in at once—slowly, but firmly. They filled you more than you expected, the stretch hot and satisfying. He moved them in slow curls, tongue flicking over your clit in time.

“Shit—tightest little cunt I’ve ever felt,” he grunted, thrusting his fingers a little deeper. “You been keeping this sweet pussy all to yourself?” You cried out softly, overwhelmed already, and he laughed—low and cruel and adoring all at once.

“Look at you,” he cooed, licking a stripe up to your clit and slapping your inner thigh hard enough to make your breath catch. “You love it. Getting your virgin cunt eaten in a dirty storage room.”

He rubbed your clit harder with his tongue, letting spit drip down his chin. His fingers never stopped, stretching you open, curling just right inside you, brushing that special spot that left you breathless. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he asked, voice vibrating against your pussy. “You gonna soak my fingers like a good girl?”

You were panting now, shaking, but not quite there—everything was building slowly, pressure mounting.

“Feels good—so good—just don’t stop,” you gasped.

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” he promised. “I’m gonna make you fall apart so fucking hard you forget your own name.”

He slapped your pussy lightly then—not hard, but sharp—just enough to jolt you. You moaned at the sensation, your slick making an audible mess between his fingers.

“You like that? You like getting your pussy slapped, you filthy girl?”

You whimpered, hips twitching. He slapped again—just once more, and returned to rubbing your clit with his spit-slick thumb while he fucked you with his fingers, deeper and faster now.

“I’m close—Patrick—oh god—”

“Say my name when you come. Let me hear who’s making this sweet thing cry.”

And when you finally tipped over the edge, it wasn’t a dainty little climax—it was devastating. Your whole body seized, thighs clamping around his head, your slick gushing around his fingers as your voice cracked on his name. You were moaning and drooling and trembling in his grip, and he loved every second of it.

“That’s it,” he groaned, still fingering you through the aftershocks. “Fucking ruined.” When he pulled his fingers out, they glistened with your slick. He licked them clean, watching you the whole time.

“Still with me, baby?” he asked, tugging his belt loose with one hand.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah…” He leaned in and kissed you—wet, messy, you could taste your own sweetness in his mouth. You moaned into it. “Good,” he murmured. “’Cause I’m not done with you yet.”

Patrick tugged a condom from his back pocket—ripped it open with his teeth, like he was showing off just how ready he’d been for this. You watched him shove his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself, your breath catching at the sight of him hard and flushed and heavy in his hand. Tip leaking pre-cum, veins running along the length of him.

He stroked himself slowly, eyes locked on you as he rolled the condom on. “Still wanna keep going, baby?”

You nodded, wide-eyed. You were flushed, fucked-out from his mouth and fingers, but aching for more. Your thighs were trembling where they hung open, but he didn’t hesitate—he stepped in close, grabbed your hips, and tugged you forward on the stacked inventory box like he owned you.

“This your first time, right?” he asked, voice a little gentler now under the gravel.

“Yeah…”

“Okay,” he said, brushing your hair out of your face. “I’ll go slow—at first. I’ll take care of you, baby.”

He lined himself up, rubbing his tip through the slick mess he’d already made of you. You gasped, your whole body twitching when he tapped against your overstimulated clit. Then he gripped the back of your thighs and tilted your hips just right before starting to press in.

It burned a little—he was thick, stretching you open in ways nothing had before—but it was good. So, so good. Patrick hissed through his teeth, jaw clenching. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re tight.”

He rocked forward slowly, giving you time, but every inch felt like fire—like he was imprinting himself on your body. You whimpered, head falling back as your hands fisted in his shirt.

“That’s it,” he murmured, leaning close to kiss the side of your throat. “You’re taking me so well. Just like I knew you would, sunshine.”

When he was finally seated fully inside you, he didn’t move right away. He just held you there, hips snug against yours, letting you adjust. “Breathe for me, sweet girl. I got you.”

You listened to him, taking deep and full breath, and nodded your head at him. At that, Patrick started to move his hips.

Slow at first—just gentle pulls and pushes, his hands steady on your waist; but every thrust made a wet slap echo in the quiet storage room. His pace started to build, pulling moans from your lips you didn’t even know you could make.

“You like getting fucked like this?” he panted. “On a fucking cardboard box, dripping all over me, stuffed full for the first time?”

“Yes—oh God—yes—”

“Bet you never thought your first time’d be with some scene boy in eyeliner fucking the brains out of you behind a wall of Nightmare Before Christmas backpacks, huh?” He joked, lightening the mood.

You whimpered, though. Your head was fuzzy, your body too hot. Every time he snapped his hips forward, the stretch burned so good, your eyes rolled back.

“Too much?” he asked, even as his pace deepened.

“No,” you gasped. “Just—just more—please—”

That made him grin, wicked and warm. “Knew you were a needy little thing. All that pastel bullshit’s just a cover. You were made to be ruined by me, sunshine.”

He grabbed your face, tilted it up, and kissed you deep—filthy and hot, all tongue and teeth. You moaned into his mouth, your spit slicking both your chins. When he pulled back, there was drool connecting your lips, and he groaned like it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

“Fucking dripping for me,” he growled, pulling out halfway just to slam back in. You gasped. Then he slapped your thigh—hard—and your pussy clenched around him so tight he nearly lost it.

“Oh, you liked that? You liked getting spanked like a dumb little baby?” You whined, eyes glazed. “Say it.”

“I—I liked it—”

“Say you’re a dumb little girl who needs my cock to think straight.”

You hiccuped a moan, eyebrows furrowing as you didn’t even think twice before replying to him. “I’m a dumb little girl—I need your cock, Patrick—please—”

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he growled. “Gonna make you come again. Gonna fuck you through it until you’re crying.”

And then his hand was between your legs again, rubbing circles over your clit while he pounded into you just rough enough to rattle the boxes beneath you. His other hand snaked behind your neck, pulling you into another kiss—sloppy and messy and full of whimpering breath.

The pressure built again—slower this time, but hotter, deeper. Every thrust was angled just right, every filthy word spilling from his mouth sinking into your skin like tattoos.

“You’re gonna come, baby. I can feel it. This sweet little cunt’s choking me—gonna soak me again, aren’t you?”

“Yes—yes—I’m gonna—”

“You gonna drool all over me while I fuck the thoughts out of your head?” You were drooling. You felt it on your chin, warm and sticky and completely unbothered as your body started to spiral.

“That’s it. Come for me. Let go. Show me how dumb you get for my cock.”

And you did.

It hit like a wave—sharp, all-consuming. Your walls clamped down around him, your mouth opened in a silent scream, and tears spilled from your eyes as your thighs trembled violently. Patrick groaned, hips stuttering, and you felt the sudden jerk of his climax too as he came inside the condom, fingers bruising your hips.

He stayed there for a moment, both of you panting and fucked-out and soaked with sweat and slick and drool. Then Patrick leaned in, brushed the hair from your damp forehead, and kissed your cheek.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You okay, sunshine?”

You nodded, blinking at him with glassy eyes. “Yeah… I think so.”

He pulled out slowly, wincing at the sensitivity, and tied off the condom before tossing it into the trash can by the wall. Then he grabbed a random Sleeping With Sirens hoodie from a shelf and tucked it around you, gently wiping the spit and sweat from your face with the sleeve.

“You did so good, baby,” he murmured, praising you. “First time and you took it like a fucking dream.”

Your thighs were still twitching. You leaned into his chest, letting his arms fold around you, his breath warm against your hair.

“Still wanna go on that date next week?” you mumbled sleepily, too comfortable to move.

He laughed—soft and real. “Oh, sweetheart. After this? I’m never letting you out of my sight again.” He kissed your forehead and you felt the cold metal of his lip ring piercing on your sweaty skin. “Want me to get you home now?”

And you only nodded at him.

[cherriesnkisses]

dancing with the devil

word count: 2.2k

content: swearing, mention of drugs, mention of weapons, mention of violence, alcohol

this is my first-ish actual fic, please be gentle :,) hopefully this might become a mini "series" of sorts!

“George, do you know much about human anatomy?” Harry cuts off the man across from him, who was nervously rambling.

“Um...No, no I can’t say that I do, boss.” George responds while tugging lightly at his collar with two fingers. Harry hums in response, taking a sip from his old-fashioned and swirling the liquid around in his glass. He has one ankle resting on the opposite knee, leaning back casually in the leather booth with his free arm resting on the wooden back. 

“Well,” He exhales as starts to speak. “In your skull, there’s something called a brain. This organ is very useful when it comes to daily tasks, such as thinking.” Harry slowly leans forward, resting his elbows on the table as his gaze narrows on George, who looks like he’s about to shit himself. 

“Do you have a brain, George?” He asks, his voice alarmingly calm for such a conversation. “I...Yes-” George starts to speak, just before being cut off yet again. “Wrong.”

“Because, if you had a brain, I don’t think you would be sitting across from me right now at 11 o’clock at night telling me about an assignment you were supposed to complete four. Hours. Ago.” Harry’s voice lowers even more, speaking almost through gritted teeth at the end.

George stutters a bit, although not really saying a whole lot of anything. “You have 12 hours,” Harry says bluntly, sitting back once again in his seat. “If it’s not done by then, I’m blowing your brain out across this table myself,”

“If you even have one.” He adds under his breath as an afterthought, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “Get out. Go.” 

George all but sprints out of the booth, pushing past the curtain that separates it from the rest of the club. Harry sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as his shoulders untense. 

At 22 years old, just a year after taking over the organization when his father was shot and killed by a rival, he’s feeling the stress of it all. Even though he was raised in this lifestyle by his father with the intention of inheriting it all eventually, he severely underestimated the pressure. 

When he manages to get some free time, he spends it at Crimson Key, a club that he runs within the city. The main floor is filled with customers, dancers, bartenders, and dozens of security guards. The basement, available to and known only by certain people, is where any spare crates go. An assortment of guns, drugs, and so on. While Harry does have a few warehouses under heavy surveillance, it’s never a bad idea to have something extra as a backup plan.

While Harry is looking out over the main floor of the club from his area on the VIP floor, assessing the night's crowd, his gaze zeroes in on a specific someone at the bar. 

You.

You’re not like anyone he’s seen here before. Actually, you’re not like anyone he’s seen ever in his life before. 

It’s something about your vibe. The way you present yourself. He watches intently while you greet the bartender, your polite smile nearly making everyone around you fade out of Harry’s vision. No one else even matters.

Harry decides that he has to talk to you.

After discarding a cigarette that hadn’t even had the chance to be lit yet and making his own path through the people, it isn’t very long before he’s coming up beside you just as the bartender is handing you your drink and you’re reaching for your purse. “It’s on me, Charlie.” He interjects. Charlie glances between you two, but nods with a small smile and steps over to another customer. 

Harry turns his gaze to you, offering a half smile as he leans his elbow on the bar counter. “Haven’t seen you around here before, darling.”

You blink at the stranger who’s just paid for your drink, caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the tall man beside you. He’s dressed in a black suit, the fabric tailored perfectly, his curls slightly messy as if he’s been frequently running a hand through them out of frustration. The top button of his white dress shirt is undone, slightly exposing the edge of his chest tattoos. 

“Oh,” you say, startled but polite. “You really didn’t have to do that, but thank you.”

He tilts his head at you, studying your face like you’re a puzzle that doesn’t quite make sense. “Didn’t have to. Wanted to.”

You laugh softly, unsure if it’s nerves or surprise, and offer him a warm smile. “Well…that’s very sweet of you.”

He lifts an eyebrow. Sweet. That’s not usually a word people associate with him. Your voice is light, and your expression so open…like you don’t quite register the way the room shifts around him when he’s present. Like you don’t know who he is.

This fact intrigues him.

“You’re new here.” he repeats, more observation than question.

You nod. “Yeah. My friends dragged me here. They think I work too much and need to get out more.”

“Do you?” Harry hums.

You glance around at the club. The pulsing colorful lights, the crowd, the music. “Maybe. I work a lot. It’s nice to have a change of pace, though. This place is…kind of cool.”

His lips twitch, almost into a smile. “Is it?”

“Mhm.” You take another sip of your drink, then gesture slightly toward the ceiling. “The lights, the music…it’s all a little dramatic, but in a fun way. Makes you feel like you’re in a movie.” You giggle softly at your own remark.

Harry studies you for a long moment. There’s not a single trace of calculation in your expression. No hidden agenda. No sharp edges. Just soft sincerity and a glass in your hand with some fruity drink that probably doesn’t even remotely taste like alcohol. 

“You always so cheerful?” he asks, watching you closely.

You smile, a little sheepish. “I guess so. It makes life nicer, don’t you think?”

He hums, lifting one shoulder. Instead of responding, he flips his gaze down to your drink, then back up to your eyes. “What are you having?”

“Vodka Sunrise,” you respond brightly. “I know, I know, not very cool. But it’s pretty and sweet, and it’s pretty. You can’t be sad drinking something so colorful.”

Harry laughs. Actually laughs. It’s short and quiet, but real. It surprises even him.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice a little softer now.

You tell him, and he repeats it back, slow and deliberate.

“I’m Harry,” he says next.

You nod, offering your hand instinctively, like manners come so naturally to you. “It’s really nice to meet you, Harry.”

He takes it, and your handshake is so gentle it almost makes his chest ache a little. He considers turning on some extra charm and kissing the top of your hand, but he decides to keep it slow. 

In the back of his mind, he recognizes how odd it is to want to be a little slow with a woman. It’s not like he’s a Saint. But for some reason, it’s different with you.

“You mentioned you work a lot,” Harry mentions. “What do you do?”

“I’m a baker!” Your eyes literally sparkle as you reply to him, like the mere mention of your career is the best thing in the whole universe. “I just opened my own space, actually.”

Harry blinks, momentarily thrown. “A baker?” Adorable. 

You nod enthusiastically. “Yep. I specialize in cake decorating, but I do a bit of everything. Cupcakes, breads, cookies. I love making things that bring people joy.”

Harry gives you an up-and-down glance, trying to picture you in an apron, hands dusted with flour and eyes focused while carefully icing a birthday cake for a 4-year-old. It’s foreign to him. He’s used to blood and lies and power games and manipulation. Not…pastries and joy.

“And you just…opened it? Like, on your own?” he asks, a little quieter now. The way he says it, it sounds more like respect than disbelief.

“Yeah,” you say with a nod. “It’s been a lot of work, but it’s mine. I named it Petal & Pastry.”

Something about the way you say that, proudly and softly, punches through a layer of armor he didn’t realize was still intact. Petal & Pastry. 

“Petal & Pastry,” he echoes. “That’s���cute.”

You scrunch your nose at him, playful. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He smirks faintly, eyes dropping to your lips for just the briefest of seconds before meeting your gaze again. “No. Just unexpected.”

There’s a pause between you, but not an uncomfortable one. The music swells behind you, bass low and hypnotic, and the lighting overhead shifts from purple to a moody red. Harry looks more dangerous under this light, all sharp jawlines and mystery.

You don’t seem to notice.

“Would you like to dance?” Harry asks suddenly. This question momentarily surprises himself. He doesn’t ask women to dance. He usually just gets their name then takes them elsewhere for a quick distraction. Hell, sometimes he doesn’t even do names. 

You look up at him, your face once again lighting up. He finds himself proud that it’s him making you sparkle like that. “Yeah, sure.”

His hand finds the small of your back, warm through the fabric of your dress as he leads you toward the dance floor. The surrounding people yet again automatically part like the red sea for him, which you briefly notice, but don’t let yourself think too much on for now.

The music deepens as you step into the rhythm, and the moment he turns to face you again, the rest of the room feels far away.

He slides one hand to your waist, and you place your own on his shoulder, letting him guide you. His movements are smooth, confident without being overbearing. You can feel the strength in him, the control, but he holds you like something delicate. 

You smile, watching him. “So what do you do, Harry?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick away for a second, just a second, but you catch it. He clears his throat before he responds.

“I run the place,” he says smoothly, with a small shrug of one shoulder.

You nod. “The club?”

“Mhm.”

“Is that all?”

There’s the pause again. A bit longer this time. His jaw shifts slightly, like he’s mentally weighing something.

“For now,” he replies.

You tilt your head, amused. “That’s a very vague answer.”

“And a very intentional one,” he responds without missing a beat. “You don’t strike me as someone who’d like the truth, anyway.”

You blink, taken aback.

Not offended, just intrigued. “May I ask why?”

He leans in just slightly, his voice lowering as he nears your ear. “Because I think you live in a very different world than mine, (Y/N).”

There’s a weight to those words. A warning, possibly? But the way he says it…it doesn’t feel threatening. No, it almost feels protective.

“Maybe,” you reply softly. “But I don’t mind visiting.”

That makes him smile. Not smirk. Not grin. Smile. A real one. One that you can see in his eyes, not just on his lips.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You’re something else. Not because you’re clueless. More so pure and untouched, in a way that’s not stupid or naive. It’s rare. It’s dangerous. 

You have a soft smile resting on your face as you stare up at him. “Well…if you ever need a sweet treat, I know a place.”

That earns another real smile.

“You offering me sweets, darling?”

You hum, a faint blush forming that you secretly hope is hidden by the lighting. “I might be.”

Harry straightens a little, a new thought forming. “You got a card?”

“Hm?”

“A card. For your bakery.”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, I think I do.” You fumble around in your small purse, pulling out a pale pink card with dainty floral detailing and handing it to him with pride.

Harry takes it between two fingers and glances at it.

Petal & Pastry Bakery Pastries made with heart. (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N) Owner & Head Baker

He tucks it into the breast pocket of his suit without a word. You don’t know it yet, but that pocket is usually reserved for much colder things.

“I’ll stop by,” he says casually, but there’s weight in the promise.

You smile up at him. “You better.”

Just then, a familiar face appears behind you. One of his men, hovering near the edge of the bar with urgency in his eyes. Harry glances over your shoulder briefly, then back to your face.

“I have to take care of something,” he says smoothly, although there’s a glimmer of regret in his eyes.

You nod, stepping back slightly and letting your hand fall from his shoulder. “Of course. It was nice talking to you, Harry.”

He gives you a long look, then dips his head just a little closer.

“Don’t forget to save me something sweet, yeah?”

With that, he turns and disappears into the crowd, becoming a shadow swallowed by red light and bass.

You watch him go, intrigued and fighting the butterflies in your stomach.

While Harry’s second-in-command is filling him in as they walk towards the door leading to the basement, he’s already thinking about your laugh like it’s a song stuck in his head.

-

Hopefully this is good! It's not super proofread because it's 2:30am and I was too excited to wait until tomorrow. Let me know how you like it and if you want to see more of them!

[infiniteglitterfall]

Honestly now I'm imagining Israel running security for the entire thing and refusing entry (to the country) for anyone who didn't pass the vibe check.

I'm also, continuously, imagining how many reporters would be like, "holy shit why were there so many missile alerts?? I had to run to the bomb shelter during the actual performance?? It literally interrupted France's song and they had to get a do-over?! And everyone said this was normal?!"

Idk what it would actually be like if Israel hosted Eurovision these days. (It must have hosted it before, right? Wait, Eurovision was in Tel Aviv in 2019?!)

Just looked it up and yeah. People whined about it being in Israel, no countries actually ended up dropping out, and....

When Israel won the right to host this year’s Eurovision Song Contest, the event was anticipated as a golden opportunity to showcase a side of the nation rarely seen in global coverage of the “conflict.”

Then the rockets began to fall.

Over the weekend, Hamas and Palestinian Islamic Jihad fired hundreds of rockets into Israel, killing four people and wounding many more.

A large part of the country spent the two days running for cover and taking shelter in safe rooms as the Israeli army and Hamas once more traded blows.

That was before the actual event. But:

During the fighting, the incoming CEO of the Tour Operators Association, Yossi Fattal, told Haaretz that he did not believe the conflict would have a negative impact on tourism for the event.

“The question is if tourists [already in Israel] are asking to leave, and the answer is categorically no,” he was quoted as saying. “I assume that on [Monday] we’ll start to get questions from groups coming in the next few months, but anyone who is supposed to be coming in the next few weeks I don’t think will cancel.

“A few months ago they fired 500 rockets at us and then came the anti-tunnel operation, and there wasn’t a single cancellation. It’s logical that tourists would want to leave, but I haven’t heard of a single group that has given up and is going home,” Fattal said. “If once hundreds of rockets could bury Israeli tourism, that’s not the situation today.”

And in another piece:

Just days ahead of the Eurovision Song Contest, violence flared between Hamas in the Gaza Strip and Israel.

Sirens did not sound in Tel Aviv, but in Ashkelon and Ashdod — just half an hour by car from Tel Aviv— people were repeatedly forced to flee to the safety of bomb shelters.

Over the course of just two days, Hamas and Islamic Jihad fired about 700 rockets at Israel from the Gaza Strip, four Israelis were killed and dozens wounded. The Israeli army attacked more than 300 targets in the Gaza Strip; according to Palestinian reports, 25 people were killed.

...The reasons for the escalation may be complex, but Islamic Jihad has declared the ESC an occasion to push its agenda: "We will prevent the enemy from successfully holding a festival aimed at damaging the Palestinian narrative," the terrorist organization said.

Sure. That's what Eurovision is. A festival aimed at damaging the Palestinian narrative. That's practically its slogan. 🙄

In the event:

The Israeli national broadcaster, Kan, blamed Hamas for the interruption, though the Palestinian militant group has not commented.

The TV broadcast was not affected.

Viewers tuning in to the Kan webcast saw the warning: "Risk of missile attack. Please take shelter," under a fake logo of the Israeli army and the sound of a rocket-warning siren.

Aerial images showed simulated explosions at sites near the Eurovision venue and the warning: "Israel is not safe. You will see."

Evidently the bombings half an hour away from Tel Aviv did happen during the Eurovision rehearsals:

And unrelatedly, I really enjoy a lot of the liveblog above, including this:

S!sters take the stage for Germany

Germany’s female duo S!sters sings “S!ster” about, you guessed it, sisters!

Adding to the meta-ness of it all, the faces of the two are projected all over the performance hall.

The two are not sisters.

tbh didn’t want none of yall antisemites in the holyland in 2026, but i’d be lying if i said that the collective scare yall had last night for a few minutes wasn’t honestly well worth it. esc 2025, it was a real pleasure. 🤝🏼

[lucydixon]

Just Breathe

Summary: When you don't show up to hang out at Helvete as planned, Faust goes looking for you and finds you in bed, looking like you'd been dragged to hell and back, and tries to comfort you. Warning: Mentions of SAD, Dissociation, anxiety, sleep deprivation, panic attack. This one is for @maxxiemoa

You were supposed to meet Faust at Helvete after work, and when you didn’t show, he didn’t think much of it initially. He figured you were running late and went about his day. The minutes stretched into hours, and by the end of his shift, he was wondering if you’d forgotten that the two of you had planned to hang out. 

You hadn’t been dating all that long, just a few months, but he already knew that he loved you more than he’d loved anything in his life. He had yet to tell you, afraid of coming on too strong, but the two of you spent just about every spare second together. 

This was the first time you’d blown him off, and he had no reason to think it was anything more than an accident. 

He called from the store, frowning when it almost immediately went to voicemail. 

After going back and forth inside his head a few times, he walked a few streets over to the coffee shop you worked in to check if maybe you’d gotten stuck working late. 

The man behind the counter, whom he vaguely recalled was your boss or something, recognized him immediately as your boyfriend and sighed tiredly. 

“She’s not here,” He told Faust right away. 

“How long ago did she leave?” The tired, slightly annoyed look on the older man’s face was making him uneasy. 

“Pretty much as soon as she got here,” he shrugged, “she looked like shit so I sent her home.” 

“What do you mean?” He frowned, brows lightly furrowed. He could feel his heart rate picking up as worry began to tug at him. “Like, she looked sick?” 

“Sick, tired, I don’t know.” The man shook his head dismissively. “She just looked rough.”

“Huh,” Faust muttered under his breath before ducking back outside. 

Maybe you’d just slept through the phone ringing?

He couldn't fight the urge to go check on you and gave in immediately.

By the time Faust made it to your apartment, he was well past worried, especially after you didn’t answer the door. 

He knocked again and fidgeted in front of the door, contemplating using your spare key to let himself in. He knew where you kept it, and after a minute, he decided that he was worried enough to risk you being mad at him for using it and let himself in. 

It was eerily quiet in the apartment, enough so that he wondered if maybe you hadn’t gone home after leaving work. He stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him, glancing around at the uncharacteristically messy entryway. 

Your boots looked like they’d been toed off and left where they’d been when you stepped out of them. Your jacket and purse were on the ground a little further inside as if you’d thrown them, it’s contents spilling out onto the hardwood floor. He called out your name and got no answer, so he wandered further into the apartment.

He found you in bed, wearing headphones and staring at the ceiling blankly. The music was so loud that he could hear it from the doorway. 

Well, that explained the missed phone call and knocking. 

Faust stood over you and only grew more concerned when you didn’t so much as blink when he waved a hand in front of your face. 

He understood what the old man had meant when he’d said you looked rough. Your eyes were bloodshot, redrimmed, and framed by dark bags. 

He’d seen you just a day before, and you were fine. 

What the hell happened after he’d left the previous morning? You’d only been apart for a day and a half, yet you looked like you hadn’t slept in a week.

“Angel?” his fingertips brushed over your cheek, and only then did you react. 

You finched away from his touch and stared back at him with wide, startled eyes before his face registered, and you relaxed. 

Slowly, you pulled the headphones off your ears and sat up. 

“Hey.” You breathed, offering an obviously forced, tight-lipped smile. “What’re you doing here?” 

“I was looking for you." he sat next to you on the bed, unable to hide the worry clouding his features. “You weren’t answering the phone.” 

“Oh,” You frowned, looking a little out of it, “my music was pretty loud.” 

“Are you okay?” he reached out to cradle your face in his hands. “What happened?” 

“Nothing,” you muttered, looking away, but leaned into his touch, “I’m just hanging out.” 

“I know you weren’t at work, Angel.” He tried to keep his tone light despite his concern, “You don’t look so good. Did you sleep?” 

“I don’t think so.” You admitted softly. 

“Why not?” Faust frowned. “Did something happen? You look like you’ve been crying.” 

“No,” you sighed tiredly, “I think it’s the weather, maybe, or stress, I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” he let go of your face and pulled you into his lap gently, glad when you let him, and tucked your head under his chin. “I was just worried, I’m still worried.” 

“I just feel shitty” you breathed shakily, soaking up the warmth he offered. You found that it helped a little. “How’d you know I left work?” 

“When you didn’t come by the store, I went looking.” He muttered into the top of your head. 

“I stood you up!” You gasped, suddenly full of guilt, and pulled back to look up at him. “Oh, god Faust, I’m so fucking sorry I completely spaced!” 

He opened his mouth to tell you it was fine, but you kept rambling, only getting more upset as you went, eyes welling up with tears. 

“Fuck, I’m the worst girlfriend ever and you still ran all over town looking for me I can’t believe I forgot-“

“Whoa.” He cut you off, looking so fucking worried that it made your chest feel like it was caving in “Don’t cry Angel. It’s alright.” 

“It’s not!” You sobbed, falling apart at the seams. The comfort and look of concern was just too much after sitting around all day, staring at the ceiling,  trying to avoid the unrelenting anxiety that had come out of nowhere the night before. 

“Hey, come here.” he pulled you into his chest and wrapped his arms around you, wide-eyed and unsure of what to do. “You’re okay, I’m not mad at you or anything.” 

“I could never be mad at you.” He rubbed his palm over your back while you shook in his arms, “never.”

You sobbed into his chest, unable to stop and very much embarrassed to be causing such a scene in front of him, but you couldn’t stop once you started. 

The more you tried, the more frustrated you grew with yourself, which only made it worse. Your breathing was just getting more and more laboured until you were gasping for breath. 

“It’s just so fucking stupid” you choked out in between sobs “you can go. It’s okay,” 

“Stop that.” He squeezed you tightly, frowning hard. “I’m not going anywhere, Angel. Just catch your breath.” 

“It’s alright.” He tried to keep himself from freaking out, but he was starting to think that you were gonna get yourself worked up enough to pass out if you didn’t stop “you’re okay, just breathe.” 

Eventually, you either tired yourself out or he managed to calm you down. He wasn’t sure which one it was, but he was sick with relief, still holding you in his arms. 

“Why are you so upset?” He tried after a few minutes had gone by, muttering softly into your hair, “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t sleep.” You admitted shakily, speaking so quietly that he barely heard you. “And every time I can’t sleep, I start thinking that I’m never going to be able to fall asleep, and I get real freaked out thinking about it, which just makes it extra hard to get to sleep, and it kinda spirals from there.” 

“Why didn’t you call me?” He frowned. “I would’ve come over and sat with you.” 

“I didn’t wanna bother you,” you breathed, playing with the hem of his shirt. “I always get sad for no reason when the weather gets bad, and not sleeping just made it worse, I guess. I don’t know.”  

“You could never bother me, Angel.” Faust ran his fingers through your hair. “Not in a million years. I’d do anything for you.” 

“You didn’t sign up for any of this.” you sighed, scrubbing your hands over your face “I’m really sorry for not showing up and for freaking out, it’s not fair of me to-” 

“I love you.” He blurted, unable to keep it in. There was a millisecond of panic, but really, it just felt good to say it out loud.

“You-” You pulled away slightly to look up at him like he was crazy. “You love me?” 

He nodded, looking so confident that you had to believe him. 

Your lips parted in shock. 

“You don’t have to say it back.” He muttered, pressing his forehead up against yours so he could stare into your eyes, “But I’m signing up for all of it. Even this. You’re stuck with me now, Angel. No matter what.”  

“Faust, I-” you breathed, looking back at him with wide eyes, but full of conviction and what looked to him like relief. “I love you too.” 

“Yeah?” He couldn’t stop the goofy smile tugging at his lips. 

“Yeah.” You sniffled, leaning into him.

"Why don't we lie down and see if you can sleep?" He proposed, pulling away to kiss your forehead, then your cheeks, before finishing with a soft, sweet kiss to your lips.

"What if I can't?" You muttered, looking unsure.

"Then we stay here until you do." Faust shrugged, pulling you along as he settled on the mattress. "It'll be okay, Angel."

A part of you wanted to argue with him. To tell him that he didn't know that for sure, but a bigger part desperately wanted to be curled up next to him under the blanket, so you went along willingly, burying your face in his chest once he got himself situated and put an arm around you.

He ducked down to kiss the crown of your head and bit back a laugh when he heard you snore softly, fast asleep after less than a minute curled into his side.

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

[anythinggoesbutme]

Raincheck

Grayson Hawthorne x Lyra Kane

Warnings: Mild illness, fever symptoms, fluff, light caretaking, off-screen restaurant cancellation, implied physical intimacy (nothing explicit), emotional vulnerability.

Synopsis: When a fancy night out is sidelined by Grayson falling unexpectedly ill, Lyra decides the best kind of date is the one where she’s exactly where he needs her—by his side.

Word Count: 855

The suit hung on the back of the bedroom door like a promise—sleek, navy, tailored. Grayson had spent too long choosing it, too long adjusting the cufflinks, only to end up here: half-dressed, sprawled on the living room couch, head tilted back against the cushions with a feverish flush across his cheeks and the vague awareness that something important was supposed to be happening.

“Grayson,” Lyra’s voice was soft, no longer reprimanding like it had been an hour ago when she found him gripping the bathroom sink, pale as marble.

He cracked an eye open. “I feel like hell.”

“You look worse.”

A groan rumbled from his throat, but it ended in a laugh—weak, rasping. He turned his head to look at her and saw her tugging her earrings off, the long, delicate ones she’d bought specifically for the restaurant they were now very much not going to.

“I’m ruining this,” he mumbled. “We had reservations.”

“We had a night out. This is a night in.” She dropped the earrings on the coffee table and sat beside him, her hand landing against his forehead before he could move away. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m fine.”

She raised her brows. “You almost passed out trying to button your shirt.”

He closed his eyes again and let his head rest against the couch back. “Damn tailored buttons.”

“I already called the restaurant. Raincheck. They were sympathetic.” She stood and reached for the throw blanket from the armchair. “Now stop arguing and lie down.”

He watched her with that tired, gray-blue gaze of his, one that always made her feel like he was memorizing her. But tonight he was too exhausted for charm. His movements were sluggish as he stretched out along the couch, and Lyra tucked the blanket around him with the same care she might use to tend a bird with a broken wing.

“Do you want soup?”

“No,” he croaked, and then, “Maybe later. Just—don’t leave yet.”

She softened. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She settled beside him on the narrow edge of the couch, legs curled under her, one hand resting lightly on his chest. The silk of her dress rustled when she moved, a shimmer of elegance against the dullness of sick day air.

Grayson exhaled. “You’re still in your dress.”

“I was trying to decide if I should change into sweats or let you enjoy the view while it lasts.”

He cracked a smile. “Definitely the view.”

Lyra shook her head and leaned over him to grab the remote. “Alright, Mr. Fancy Plans. Movie night. Your pick.”

“Too tired to choose.”

“Then it’s my pick.”

“God help me.”

She laughed and flipped through the streaming options until she found an old mystery film he liked—something black-and-white, atmospheric, with sharp dialogue. It started playing softly, just loud enough to cover the sound of his increasingly congested breathing.

She glanced down after twenty minutes and found him half-asleep, his head tipped toward her thigh. His hand had found hers, fingers laced loosely.

“I know you wanted tonight to be special,” she whispered, thumb brushing across his knuckles.

Grayson stirred but didn’t fully wake. “Still is.”

Her chest ached a little at that. He always had a way of saying the right thing when it mattered.

The fever kept him drowsy through most of the film. At one point, he shifted, resting his cheek fully against her leg, murmuring her name in a voice so quiet it barely registered. Lyra threaded her fingers through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp, and he sighed like her touch was the only relief in the world.

An hour later, she coaxed him into drinking some water and swallowing fever medicine. He grumbled but didn’t resist. His skin was too warm, his pulse a little quick, but nothing alarming. Just enough to worry her a little. Enough to keep her from leaving the room, even for a second.

When the movie ended, she muted the screen and sat quietly, watching his chest rise and fall.

“Still here?” he murmured, half-waking.

“Always,” she said.

He blinked slowly. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever canceled a reservation for.”

She smiled. “That’s not a high bar.”

“Still true.” His hand reached for hers again, and she gave it willingly.

They sat in the stillness, the kind only shared between people who didn’t need to fill every silence. Eventually, he fell asleep again, this time deeper, more peacefully, his fever breaking in the quiet hum of the television’s afterglow.

And Lyra stayed.

She stayed through the night, curled beside him, makeup smeared, dress wrinkled, hair in disarray—none of it mattered. Because somewhere in the messy middle of their perfect date turned imperfect night, she realized something.

Love wasn’t in the reservations or the formalwear or the soft candlelight of the restaurant they missed.

It was here—his fingers twitching slightly in sleep, the way his breath evened when she was close, the warmth of his body beside hers even when feverish.

It was staying, when she could have left. It was choosing to care, even when it wasn’t convenient.

And for them, that was everything.

[yunaversalluv]

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull

ᴀ ɪɴᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄɪᴀɴ!ᴇʟʟɪᴇ x ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴛ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜᴇʀ!ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull m.list

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ `౨ৎ~

In the hush of a too-quiet apartment, Ellie stumbles across a photo that stops her cold — not a performance shot, but something quieter, rawer, real. Sent without words, it says more than she’s ready to hear.

Nothing is said. But everything shifts.

cw for this chapter// emotional vulnerability / introspection, themes of loneliness and isolation, mental health undertones, unspoken romantic tension, ambiguous consent in emotional exposure

note - sorry for the late posting this was supposed to posted yesterday & earlier today, but a lot has happened. this chapter was not proofread so i apologize for any mistakes!

taglist - @miajooz @talyaisvalslutsoldier @lesoulew @elliespotion @valeisaslut @mariesmagix @eriiwaiii2 @liztreez @re1daway @wrappedinvines @eleanorsghost @fangirlinc @wwefan2002

CHAPTER SEVEN: UNCAPTIONED

The hum of the mini fridge is the only sound in the apartment.

It’s a low, steady whirr, broken only by the occasional click when the compressor shifts. The kind of sound you stop noticing until silence would be louder. Ellie sits on the floor in front of the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, knees bent up like she’s trying to fold in on herself. The place is dim, all the overhead lights off, just a single lamp in the corner casting soft gold against the wall, and the blue glow of her phone screen washing her face in pulses.

Her eyes flick back and forth, scrolling, scrolling. Headlines. Dumb memes. Half-filtered images of brunch plates and mirror selfies and tour flyers she forgot to answer emails about. Snippets of strangers’ lives she doesn’t care about—too pretty, too loud, too curated, like someone turned the saturation up on everything and expected her to care.

Her thumb pauses. She’s been scrolling for so long her eyes sting.

A tagged photo stops her cold.

It’s her. Mid-performance. Sweat gleaming along her jaw, hair clinging to her cheek, lips parted in some word she doesn’t remember singing. The light catches just behind her, haloing the blur of her guitar strap. The caption says, god-tier angst lesbian energy. It’s followed by three heart emojis, a crying face, and a gif of a girl fainting.

Ellie scoffs under her breath, nose scrunching faintly. She scrolls past without thinking.

Then scrolls back.

Looks at it again.

Double-taps it. Immediately feels weird about it.

She exhales, jaw shifting. The last show was fine. Packed. Hot. Loud in a way that scraped the inside of her skull. She doesn’t remember much besides the lights in her eyes and the ache in her jaw from clenching too tight during the encore. It’s all a blur. Flashes of color and sound and faces she didn’t really see.

Her thumb hovers over her texts.

Nothing from Jesse. Not since yesterday. Dina sent a blurry photo of her cat asleep on a pile of laundry three hours ago. It’s stupid. Dumb cat, floppy and useless. Still, Ellie taps it open. Smiles faintly when she sees the cat’s tongue sticking out. She starts to type a response—

Then her screen lights up.

A name.

Your name.

Her whole body freezes like something inside her just short-circuited. Her thumb stops mid-word. Her breath catches in her throat.

A message.

No words.

Just an image.

Ellie swipes to open it, slow like she’s bracing for a hit. The preview loads — high resolution, sharp focus. She can already tell it’s one of yours.

Of course it is.

It’s her hands.

Just her hands — resting on her thighs, palms down, after the show. Her jeans look stiff with sweat. Gaffer tape’s still stuck to one knuckle, half peeling. There’s a raw spot near the edge of her nailbed. One of her rings has slipped a little. The light is dusky, somewhere between stage-blue and shadow-purple. She’s not posed. Not framed for attention. It’s quiet. Still. A moment she didn’t even know she gave you.

There’s tension in her fingers — like she was still coming down from it all — but also softness. A curl in the way her hand rests, slack now, drained. Like she was finally just existing.

Not performing.

Not bracing.

Just… her.

Ellie stares.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink for a second.

It feels like falling through the floor.

The air shifts, tightens. Her pulse kicks up behind her ribs.

No caption.

No message.

Which means she has to interpret it.

Has to fill in the silence with something that sounds like sense. She doesn’t know how. Doesn’t even know where to begin. Her throat’s dry. The image is so still, and yet it hits her like sound. Like melody. Like something vibrating too deep in her chest to name.

She lowers the phone, blinking fast, like her body’s trying to keep up with whatever just hit her.

She doesn’t know what to do with it.

She doesn’t know what to do with you

You didn’t mean to send it.

Not at first.

You’d been sitting in the quiet too, wrapped in the familiar glow of your editing screen. It wasn’t about deadlines tonight. Wasn’t about deliverables or tagging the right account or archiving everything before your memory of it faded.

You just felt… off. Restless. Like something was itching under your skin and you couldn’t figure out where to scratch.

You pulled up the folder again, not because you had to — because you needed to. Something in you kept reaching.

And there it was.

That frame.

The lighting wasn’t perfect, not technically. A little uneven. A little dim. But that made it better somehow. More honest.

Her hands. Relaxed, but not quite. Callused fingertips still twitching with the echo of the last chord. There was something about the curve of her fingers, the visible dirt beneath one nail, the line of faded ink near her wrist — all of it threaded with a kind of unspoken ache you couldn’t look away from.

You remembered when you took it. How she’d slumped onto the amp after soundcheck like the air had finally gotten too heavy.

And how she’d looked up.

Not startled. Not annoyed. Just tired. Real.

She saw the camera. Saw you behind it.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t pose.

Just met your gaze, unflinching.

And let you take it.

That stayed with you.

Now, hours later, it’s still open in a separate window. No title. No edits.

You stare at it for a long time.

You don’t write a caption. You don’t attach a message. You just drag the image into the text field, hesitate a second longer than you want to admit…

And hit send.

Then you shut your laptop.

You don’t check if she’s seen it.

You wouldn’t know what to do if she didn’t.

You wouldn’t know what to do if she did.

Ellie’s thumb is still hovering over the photo.

The apartment feels too quiet now. The fridge hum’s not enough to fill it. Her own breath sounds too loud in her ears.

She should say something.

She should type something dumb. Cool shot. Nice angle. Didn’t even know you took that.

Something that buys her time.

But her hands won’t move. Her fingers feel numb.

Her mind’s spinning in slow circles — not panicked, not frozen, just… suspended.

She taps the corner of the screen. Saves the image to her favorites. Stares at the little heart icon that flashes for half a second before disappearing.

Then she opens a note app. Blank screen. Cursor blinking.

She types:

not sure what you see when you look at me like that but i wanna believe it’s real.

She reads it. Feels her face go hot. Too much. Too open.

Deletes it.

Tries again.

i don’t like photos of me. but i keep looking at this one. why?

Deletes that too.

Leans her head back against the couch cushion, eyes closed. Exhales through her nose.

Her phone slips in her lap. She lets it.

She scrolls back to your thread again, opens the photo once more. Fills the screen with it. Just her hands. Just that small, raw moment she didn’t even know someone saw.

Her thumb brushes the edge of the glass. It’s almost a caress.

Like touching it could explain anything.

She doesn’t reply.

She doesn’t know how to say what it made her feel without sounding like something she’s not ready to admit.

But she opens her music app.

Scrolls to the playlist you made her. The one with the lo-fi cover art and the one-word title.

She picks that song.

The one you sent two nights ago. The one with the soft piano and breathless vocals that felt like sleeping in someone else’s bed and trying not to fall apart.

She hits play.

The first notes drift out into the quiet.

Ellie lies back on the floor, the carpet rough against her spine, hoodie pulled up over her chin. Her fingers curl loosely over her chest, like they don’t know where else to go.

Eyes closed.

Song playing.

Heart aching.

And somewhere between verse and chorus, she thinks—

What would I look like if I let someone love me?

She doesn’t have an answer.

But now, she thinks maybe…

You might.

[mandarinmoons]

Annabel Lee (rewritten)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gender neutral reader Genre: Fluff Summary: Not being able to fall asleep for days, Spencer comes over to help find a remedy to your sleepless nights Words: 874 A/N: This is a rework of my first ever fic! I wanted to see how much my writing style had changed over the course of a year and tried to give a new spin to the piece that started it all <3 The divider used is by @cursed-carmine and you can find it here!

For the past week, every time you tried to close your eyes and sleep, you would be tossing from one side to the other, not feeling any more tired than you did an hour ago. Whenever you found a position comfortable enough to settle into, you would still be looking at the clock every half an hour, wondering when you would doze off.

When talking about the issue with Spencer, he was quick to list off several suggestions to try and help you find something to help you rest. From herbal tea to playing soothing nature sounds, everything he named you had already tried and you weren’t any closer to a peaceful night's sleep than the last option you had tried.

As Spencer kept listing off options to help you with your predicament, you felt your eyes doze off and your eyelids got heavier with every second. Spencer’s voice seemed to have a soothing effect on you and it was hard to keep your eyes open as your body seemed to be at ease for the first time in a good while.

“Y/N, are you okay?”

Blinking the sleep away from your eyes, you caught Spencer’s worried stare as his eyes darted over your sleep deprived face. And then it hit you, the solution to your restless nights was right in front of you.

“I’ve never been better.”

Watching as the rain kept pouring down, a shiver went down your spine as the temperature dropped significantly over the past few hours.

The clock kept ticking closer to nine in the evening and Spencer was supposed to be here soon. You told him to come over for a sleepover as you both witnessed how you slumped in your seat at work when Spencer listed off a series of sleep remedies. Perhaps listening to him talk when trying to doze off for the night might do the trick.

A knock was heard at the front door and you hurried to open it. Seeing Spencer’s soaking figure at the entrance nearly caused you to laugh, he was clutching the strap of his satchel with one hand while his other hand was set on the bag, trying his best to make sure not a speck of water ruins the contents he was carrying.

Pulling him in by his arm, you ran to get him a towel and swiped it across his face, gathering the rain water on his cheeks and pushing away the hair stuck to his forehead.

“Would you like some tea?”

“Yes please.”

Draping the towel over his shoulders, you both went to the kitchen and waited for the water to boil as Spencer tried to dry himself off. He sat down on a stool to make himself comfortable and opened his satchel to take out some books. Seeing how the spines of the books were well cracked, it was obvious that the volumes were well loved.

“I brought a couple of books to read.”

“Really? What about?”

“Mostly poetry. I marked a few I thought you would like.”

Spencer handed you the book and you skimmed through the pages, your eyes taking in the beautiful words.

As you flipped through the pages, there was one specific poem that caught your attention and you knew you had to ask Spencer to read it for you.

After Spencer managed to get himself dry, both of you managed to make yourselves comfy in your bed, a pillow behind his neck and your head in his lap as you listened to him read the verses from the poems he had picked for you. You couldn’t remember a time you felt as relaxed as you did in this moment.

Your eyes watched his lips move gently as he read the lines of the poem you had asked him to read to you. You couldn’t describe it how, but the poetry being read out by Spencer made the experience a hundred times better than reading it by yourself.

“Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,” 

With each word you felt heat pool to your cheeks. Hearing the words roll off of Spencer’s tongue only made you lean into him more as he focused on the book in front of him, trying his best to read at a speed to help you feel more comfortable over time.

Reaching the end of the final verse, Spencer closed the book and placed it on the dresser, looking down to see the state you were in. Your eyes were barely open and your cheek was squished against his thigh while he brushed some hair out of your face.

“How do you feel?”

“Good. A bit tired.”

“Well that was the point, wasn’t it?”

Chuckling at his comeback, Spencer lightly poked your cheek which caused you to laugh more and leave Spencer smiling at your sleepy state. His thumb brushed over your cheek as he took in the events of the evening, he had been concerned about you the day he saw you walk into work with your eyes barely being able to stay open and he wished there was something he could do for you, and now he had.

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep now?”

“Without a doubt.”

You can find my masterlists here! Let me know your thoughts in the comments and like & reblog to support <3

[wordoftheimaginary]

carved my name wrong on that gravestone (you don't even know my date of birth) by deniigiq

I received this photo a few hours ago while talking with a friendn.

She asked me if I'd read this fic and what I thought of it.

Two points to address: First, I did read this fic, and I essentially agree with everything you said about the story.

Especially the point about the half-hearted information. I really felt that way in the conversation between Arthur and Merlin about Gwen. I felt like I was with my parents or friends talking about things I wasn't aware of, and I had to beg them for answers. We're readers, we're not supposed to feel that way unless we get answers by continuing the story, but that's not the case here, especially since it's an omniscient point of view story. I found myself with the same questions.

Then the last sentence was a bit harsh and provocative. You could have said it another way. But basically, I agree; these are questions about the story itself, and there's no opinion on the story, only questions about the twists and turns of the story.

An author, writer, or musician has no problem answering about the story. But I've noticed a few times that fiction authors refuse to answer questions about their own story, even though they're not necessarily negative criticisms.

In my opinion, if it's public, it's so people can see what you're creating. And inevitably, when people see something, they form an opinion about it (we're not going to turn our brains off). You can't stop them from having their opinion; if you don't want them to give it to you, most platforms allow you to disable comments.

Personally, I like to write, and I've written a few fictions. However, I published them anonymously because I wanted people's opinions, but I didn't want people to know it was me. Even though it's a pseudonym, people would know it's me, I feel like my pseudonym is me, and publishing anonymously protected me even more. As if negative criticism wasn't for me? Does that make sense?

I left the comments open to get people's opinions goes without saying, given the different points of view on my writing and the different questions.

I don't know if I'm the only one who thinks that?

I hope someone sends me the rest of this story. If the author responds, I also want answers to my questions.

I kwon is an Impopulary opinion

And besides us, have others also been lost in this story?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65401267

[crystalpallette]

so I finished side order recently

[mobydyke]

is anyone else tired of going through personal growth or is it just me

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Thinking about a character model height sheet from the TAS BTS book that had magneto be 6’10 and charles 4’8 when seated like girl ……….. why the fuck ……. greedy….

[suzukiblu]

a quickie lil' Saturday night kink meme! ✨️🍑✨️

( for reasons that totally don't have annnnnything to do with me being extremely ADHD and/or susceptible to anons randomly asking me about fun writing meme options when I was already halfway debating doing a writing meme this weekend. definitely not. )

Send me an ask with a kink and a DC character and/or pairing included, and I will write you a lil' bit of related kink and/or porn in return! Also open to just getting sent a kink if you want surprised, and I'll do dealer's choice for the character or pairing.

Also-also, not a mandatory thing, but bonus points for:

a) rarepairs,

b) KON rarepairs,

and

c) giving me a reason why you think the kink vibes with the character/pairing.

Multiple requests are fine; just please send 'em in separate asks, it makes it way easier for me to answer them.