#Authenticity Over Approval

[wickedzeevyln]

✮ Clone ✮

“You don’t want to be left out in the cold, do you? Is that a nod? I thought so. Wise decision. Now shrink. Eyes on the ground. Drown your voice out.”They hiss behind your ears, poison the well where your aspirations come for a drink, and do the thinking for you. Don’t trust your own judgment. You’ve been warned. You are intravenously fed with ideas of which the interest compounds over time until…

[rdlain]

@sailor-moon-rage doesn't understand the sex appeal of a stick nd poke covered never-went-to-college woman selling shrooms out of her basement and I pity her for it

[crescendo-if]

DEMO - [TBA: July 2025] | RO INTROS | RO APPEARANCES

You're nothing if you weren't born to be a star.

You've spent your entire life unwanted and ignored, from curious eyes drifting right over you to the next person to talent agents and competition judges brushing you off without even sparing you a second thought. Blindsided when you were left behind by the one person who you thought believed in you, you're done standing in the shadows waiting for someone to take notice of you.

You're set out to prove them all dead wrong.

However... determination alone isn't enough to carry you through the music industry's ruthless pursuit to snuff out the dreams of young talents before they even catch a spark. You need a certain type of long-lasting grittiness to survive the low-paying gigs hosted in the seediest bars imaginable. Especially when three years after you moved to the Angel's City, those same bars are still your main source of income, despite having cultivated a decent online following.

But finally, the stars have aligned, and you have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity from somewhere you never saw coming. Elysium's lead vocalist and Olympian Records' holy grail, a rockstar with the most massive—and arguably most obsessed—fanbase in the country has clocked you as the next big thing to grace the music scene. They’ve convinced Olympian you’ll be the next them in ten years, placing some high expectations on your shoulders.

Whether their endorsement is a magnificent stroke of luck or a curse that threatens to poison every choice you make from here on out, you'll rise to the occasion because there's no other option for someone like you.

Until you're a star, you'll never stop reaching for the sky.

Play as an up-and-coming singer, determined to fight their way to the top of the charts no matter the cost.

Customize your own predestined star's appearance, personality, and career image. Are you confident or anxiety-ridden? Open and friendly or aloof and defensive? Are you loved by the public or do they love to hate you? Is fame and the stage or your music more important to you?

Design your own music and lyrics, and choose from one of three mainstream genres (rock, pop, or both of them combined: pop-rock) to focus on. Write about whatever your little heart desires, as long as the label approves it.

Choose your biggest strength, the attribute that allows you to stand out above all the others; do you have the voice of an angel, perfect for any type of song? Or are your songwriting capabilities unmatchable by even those who boast the most prestigious awards?

Launch a passionate romance with one of nine available options and try not to let it ruin your budding career in the process. Straying too close to the fire means you're bound to get burned eventually.

Navigate what it means to be an artist under Olympian's label. Are you relishing in the attention and luxury, or is it all a little too uncomfortable? Is every rumor you hear the truth, or are they all coming down from the top? Will you compromise your artistic vision to garner their favor, or will you fight tooth and nail for the authenticity of your music?

Explore LA and Hollywood while experiencing all the fun (and not-so-fun) pastimes they have to offer and meeting some famous names with wildly different intentions.

Open for the biggest band in the country, joining them on their world tour and flying from place to place on their private jet. Paris, London, Rome, New York, Las Vegas, Tokyo, Orlando all of it awaits you.

And, most of all, watch as your name goes up in flashing lights and you transform into the star you were always meant to be.

★ The Rockstar: Tristan/Trisha Hydra, aka HADES/MEDUSA (m/f) ★

The witty, hypnotizing, and impulsive egomaniac lead vocalist of Elysium, the band with the world record for most-sold album ever. With their endorsement, Hydra seems to have made themselves your unofficial mentor, and you their protégé. Is that because they truly believe you're meant for the big leagues, or because they made a rash decision in the heat of the moment and now they're facing the consequences?

★ The Traitor: Jonah/Juliette Ziegler (m/f) ★

Your former best friend who abandoned you when they hit it big is nothing like you remember them to be. That mischievous and dazzlingly charming kid with dreams bigger than the whole sky vanished without a trace in your absence. All that remains is a frost so icy you'd almost think you were the one who wronged them.

★ The Ride or Die: Cia/Cian Avila (m/f) ★

You're not sure how you would've survived this long without your now-roommate and longtime friend, the blunt, snarky, and constantly irritated by something electric guitarist/tattoo apprentice Cia/Cian Aliva. When LA's being its usual brutal self, you can always count on them to be there when you get home, however much they may grumble about moving here in the first place.

★ The Manager: Ethan/Elena Sun (m/f) ★

Every famous superstar needs an equally talented manager. With a cleverness that could rival the King of Ithaca, an unwavering devotion to their client's success, and a creativity that makes you wonder why they don't write songs themselves, E is the epitome of a perfect manager on paper. But how much of it is genuine exactly?

★ The Pop Princess: Natalie "Marigold" (f) ★

The pop music sensation has another claim to fame than just her music; her widely scrutinized long-term relationship with T Hydra. Even the most astute of internet sleuths can say with certainty that nobody saw that relationship coming. Overnight, she—and her music—skyrocketed to the top of the trending searches. And now everyone in America knows her name because you can't mention Hydra without thinking of Marigold. She's scored the dream life everyone wants, that's what they all say.

★ The Rival: Damian/Devyn Thunder (m/f) ★

Cocky jackass. That's the best way to describe C Thunder. They're undeniably talented and their voice is one most people would kill for, but all of that's offset by their insufferable smirk and smug demeanor. You'd sooner jump off a bridge than spend a single minute alone with them, but Olympian seems to have other plans after signing them.

★ The Sweetheart: Stella/Eli Rose (m/f) ★

The other winner of Upstaged Season two and the only child of a beloved late actor, they're (one of) Hydra's notorious rival. You're not sure what rule of Upstaged says it's required to hate your competition to win, but Hydra's certainly fulfilled it. Rose… you get the feeling they couldn't care less about whatever grudge Hydra holds against them. How could they when they're being pulled in a hundred different directions daily without a break?

★ The Daredevil: Lucifer "Luci" Morningstar (m/f) ★

The Olympian-signed electric guitarist is the classic image of a daredevil; chaotic, reckless, and far too relaxed causing havoc. It's no surprise some of the gossip magazines have dubbed them as batshit crazy. An accurate rating, they'd remark. You get the feeling they're a little proud of the title, or maybe they've just chosen to embrace it.

★ The Bodyguard: Bellamy Ortega (m) ★

Cool, calm, and collected isn't enough to define Hydra's personal bodyguard—also coincidentally your new neighbor—as you get a distinct feeling that even getting stabbed wouldn't faze him. So, obviously, Hydra's constant game of putting their life and reputation in danger for the thrill doesn't either. Or maybe he’s just had a lot of practice pretending it doesn't.

★ Rue Bèrd: (f) ★

A keyboardist signed with Olympian who freelances as your friend in her spare time.

★ Adrian Park: (genderfluid) ★

A producer employed by Olympian and Rue's long-term partner. They're also your friend when they want to be.

★ Karry Cenderat: (f) ★

Elysium's manager who conjures up a miracle every time she keeps another scandal from reaching the press's grubby hands.

★ Billy Matthews: (m) ★

The mysterious owner of the record label who drops by to see how things are going once in a blue moon.

★ Johnny Locks: (m) ★

A sold-out stadium rockstar whose second claim to fame is being dubbed the nicest guy in rock. Also famously Hydra's first, and only, mentor.

★ Samson Ryland: (nb) ★

The bass guitarist of your new band. They're welcoming enough, but you've been around enough musicians to know they're wary of you joining the group.

★ Anthony Lance: (m) ★

The drums, Anthony doesn't feel the need to pretend for niceties sake. He doesn't like you intruding in the band and he makes that very known.

Crescendo is rated 18+.

P.S. There are a multitude of spoilers below this.

All of the following are elements that will eventually be in the final game. There will be specific content warnings available at the start of every chapter. Please read at your own discretion; this story may be distressing for some readers.

Mentions and/or depictions of mild and moderate violence

Mentions and depictions of drug and alcohol use/abuse and addiction

Mentions of suicide, suicidal thoughts, and death

Mentions and depictions of mental health issues, including depression and anxiety

Explicit sexual content

Explicit language

General immoral behavior

And more

Extra tags; @interact-if

[rainydetectiveglitter]

What Not to Do Based on Your Chiron Placement

Chiron represents our deepest wound and the part of us that feels unhealed, rejected, or insecure no matter how much we try to “fix” it. Instead of embracing and working through this pain, many people unconsciously overcompensate, self-sabotage, or fall into toxic patterns.

I've been thinking about Chiron a lot lately lol and have been diving deeper into it. If you’ve ever wondered why certain issues keep showing up in your life, your Chiron placement could be the key. It might reveal where you're unintentionally making things worse.

So here’s what not to do based on your Chiron’s house placement. Take what connects, leave what doesn’t.

Chiron in the 1st House (Aries)

❌ What Not to Do:

Create a false persona to hide insecurity.

Brag or exaggerate to feel superior.

Constantly compare yourself to others.

Let self-doubt stop you from being authentic.

💡 The Mistake: Trying to “prove” you’re important instead of embracing who you are.

Chiron in the 2nd House (Taurus)

❌ What Not to Do:

Base your value on money, status, or possessions.

Hoard wealth or fear spending out of insecurity.

Self-sabotage financially because you feel undeserving.

Believe that financial success = personal worth.

💡 The Mistake: Thinking material security will fix inner insecurity.

Chiron in the 3rd House (Gemini)

❌ What Not to Do:

Over-explain or talk over people to sound smart.

Fear speaking up because you doubt yourself.

Interrupt conversations to prove your point.

Assume no one understands you, so you stay silent.

💡 The Mistake: Believing you have to “perform” intelligence instead of trusting your natural voice.

Chiron in the 4th House (Cancer)

❌ What Not to Do:

Stay stuck in toxic family patterns out of obligation.

Cut off family without processing your emotions.

Believe you’ll never create a loving home for yourself.

Seek comfort in nostalgia instead of healing old wounds.

💡 The Mistake: Thinking you can either erase your past or be trapped by it—when the real power lies in healing it.

Chiron in the 5th House (Leo)

❌ What Not to Do:

Seek validation through performance or creativity.

Avoid creative risks out of fear of rejection.

Compare yourself to others and feel inadequate.

Pretend you don’t care when deep down you do.

💡 The Mistake: Thinking you need applause to be worthy when true creativity is about self-expression, not approval.

Chiron in the 6th House (Virgo)

❌ What Not to Do:

Work yourself to exhaustion to prove your worth.

Obsess over routines or control every detail.

Fear structure and avoid responsibility.

Believe you’re only valuable if you’re useful.

💡 The Mistake: Tying your self-worth to productivity instead of valuing yourself as you are.

Chiron in the 7th House (Libra)

❌ What Not to Do:

Seek constant validation from relationships.

Fear intimacy and push people away.

Let relationships define your self-worth.

Stay in toxic partnerships just to avoid being alone.

💡 The Mistake: Thinking someone else will complete you when true healing starts within.

Chiron in the 8th House (Scorpio)

❌ What Not to Do:

Fear vulnerability and avoid deep emotional connections.

Use power or manipulation to control others.

Obsess over betrayal and hold grudges.

Avoid intimacy because of past wounds.

💡 The Mistake: Believing power comes from control when true strength is found in trust and surrender.

Chiron in the 9th House (Sagittarius)

❌ What Not to Do:

Play the guru or act like a know-it-all.

Overcompensate with degrees, travel, or “big” experiences.

Dismiss other perspectives out of insecurity.

Give up on searching for meaning out of fear you’ll never find it.

💡 The Mistake: Thinking external knowledge will replace internal wisdom.

Chiron in the 10th House (Capricorn)

❌ What Not to Do:

Define yourself by success or status.

Fear failure so much that you don’t even try.

Chase validation through your career.

Let others’ opinions dictate your path.

💡 The Mistake: Thinking your legacy is only tied to external achievements when true impact comes from authenticity.

Chiron in the 11th House (Aquarius)

❌ What Not to Do:

Try too hard to be liked and accepted.

Avoid social connections out of fear of rejection.

Change yourself to fit in.

Seek approval from the wrong crowds.

💡 The Mistake: Believing you have to earn belonging when true connection happens by being yourself.

Chiron in the 12th House (Pisces)

❌ What Not to Do:

Suppress your pain or avoid deep healing.

Escape into addictions or unhealthy coping mechanisms.

Over-identify with suffering or play the martyr.

Avoid spirituality or dive too deep into illusion.

💡 The Mistake: Thinking you have to either avoid your wounds or be consumed by them—when true healing comes from integration.

No matter where your Chiron is, the biggest mistake is trying to cover up the wound instead of working through it. True healing happens when you stop proving, stop performing, and start accepting yourself. flaws and all.

[4vanaa]

—01 MEET THE CAMERONS.

MASTERLIST

Parenting Style:

You:

⌗ you’re the glue that holds everything together. you’re the calm in the storm, trying to create some order amidst the chaos rafe and the kids inevitably bring. you're fair but firm when it comes to rules and expectations, though you’re not afraid to bend the rules to make everyone happy sometimes.

⌗ you’re the one who handles the serious stuff, like school projects, making sure everyone gets to their activities on time, and having family meetings when things get too crazy.

⌗ your biggest challenge is managing the emotional rollercoaster that is rafe's unpredictable behavior while also balancing the needs of the kids.

⌗ you’re a very hands-on parent, emotionally available for your kids. giving them the space to grow but also have a warm side. you always know when to step in with advice or affection and when to let them figure things out on their own.

Rafe:

⌗ rafe tries to be the “cool dad” who doesn’t follow any rules, especially when it comes to his teens. he’s big on freedom, thinking his kids should have the freedom to make mistakes and learn from them. but when it comes to his younger kids, he's surprisingly soft. when you’re not around, rafe’s the one sneaking treats to the kids or letting them stay up way past bedtime because “who needs sleep anyway?”

⌗ rafe’s biggest flaw is his impulsiveness, which often leads to trouble. he's not exactly a role model in terms of structure, but his kids love him for his authenticity, especially when they’re old enough to understand how flawed he is.

⌗ while he's overprotective in some ways (especially with his oldest daughter), rafe does everything with love. he’s not the parent who will sit down and have deep heart-to-heart talks, but he’ll show love in unconventional ways, like fixing a bike or defending them fiercely when someone dares to challenge them.

⌗ rafe can’t resist showing off to the kids—whether it’s bragging about something ridiculous or trying to impress them with his "skills." but he’s deeply emotional when it comes to his family and would do anything to protect them (even if his methods are questionable).

The Kids:

AVA CAMERON (15)

PERSONALITY ava is headstrong, sarcastic, and fearless. she takes after both you and rafe—she has your intelligence and sharp wit but rafe’s defiance and impulsiveness. she’s known for pushing boundaries, especially with rafe, whom she has a love-hate relationship with. she’ll challenge him on everything, but deep down, she knows he’d do anything for her.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HER DAD ava and rafe constantly butt heads. she thinks his overprotectiveness is ridiculous, but she secretly craves his approval. she’ll act tough, but she’s incredibly sensitive, and rafe is the first person she goes to when she needs emotional support (though it’s rarely obvious to anyone else).

RELATIONSHIP WITH HER MOM you and ava have a special bond where you can communicate with just a glance. you know when she’s upset or hiding something, and she knows you’re the one she can go to when rafe is being... rafe. she trusts you even though she keeps a lot of her emotions locked away.

FUN FACT ava is known for sneaking out of the house with her friends or boyfriend, and while rafe might rage over it, you just give her a disappointed look, and she feels guilty enough to come clean.

MILO CAMERON (10)

PERSONALITY milo is a mischief-maker who often finds himself caught between his older sister’s drama and rafe’s wild ideas. he’s sarcastic but with a more dry sense of humor and often the mediator when things go off the rails in the family. milo is the kid who, when faced with chaos, will either laugh or attempt to solve it with a quirky solution.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS DAD milo is rafe’s favorite person to hang out with because milo can keep up with his energy and unpredictability. they do a lot of “guy stuff” together, like fixing things around the house, going on “secret” adventures, or talking about the things rafe pretends to be an expert at.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS MOM you and milo are like two peas in a pod. he’s very emotionally in tune with you and often tries to cheer you up when he knows you're dealing with rafe’s chaos. he knows how to make you laugh in the most stressful moments.

FUN FACT milo has a knack for getting out of trouble. if he gets in trouble at school, he’ll somehow find a way to talk his way out of it, often with rafe’s unintentional help.

POPPY CAMERON (3)

PERSONALITY poppy is the wild child, known for her tantrums and her adorably mischievous smile. she’s fearless, loves to run around the house, and has a particular love for barry (who, of course, enables her chaos). she’s the youngest, so she gets away with everything, and she knows it.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HER DAD rafe is a softie when it comes to poppy. he’s the one who’ll give her anything she asks for, even if it’s a sugar-loaded snack before dinner. he finds her tantrums funny rather than frustrating, which makes you roll your eyes—but secretly, you love how much he dotes on her.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HER MOM you’re the one who has to deal with poppy’s “I want this NOW” demands. poppy has you wrapped around her little finger, and she knows it. she’s also the first to notice when you're upset and will crawl into your lap to comfort you, even if it’s just by offering you a cookie.

FUN FACT she has rafe under her spell and often drags him into her mischief.

FAMILY DYNAMICS

DINNER TIME at your house is a mix of chaos and love. ava will be sulking about curfew, milo will be chatting about his day with such enthusiasm that you and rafe can’t help but laugh, and poppy will spill her drink all over the table, leading to more chaos.

RAFE WILL ALWAYS try to sneak in action-packed movies (and somehow convince you to let the kids watch them). you’ll try to suggest a family-friendly comedy, but it’s usually a battle. in the end, everyone ends up in the living room, snacks everywhere, with rafe on the couch like a proud, mischievous child.

RAFE GIVES THE WORST, but most well-meaning advice. he’ll tell ava to “not let anyone tell you what to do” when she’s dealing with bullies at school. when milo gets in trouble for a school prank, rafe will secretly high-five him while you give rafe a disapproving look.

EVERY TIME ONE of the kids gets in trouble, rafe somehow shows up with a spontaneous adventure—a trip to the beach, a surprise boat ride, or letting them stay up an extra hour to do something “fun.” it’s his way of showing love, but it doesn’t always help their behavior.

YOU’RE ALWAYS THE ONE to solve the problems rafe causes—whether it’s calming down ava after an argument or cleaning up after poppy’s mess. but your kids know that, despite the chaos, you’re the rock of the family. your love for them is unshakable, even when things are a mess.

a/n: meet the maybanks coming tm <333

🏷️: @rafecameronswifeyy @papercranesandinkstains @akobx @delicatevamps @sereneera @ethanthequeefqueen @zuccheromorena @theanonymousloser @chalahyung01 @mystic-megumi @acidfeens @judesgfirl @rubiehart @callieyanderechan @amterasuu @smithieandy @theeternaloptimistt @marleymarleymarleymarley @lilygrxcem @fieryghxul @luvelola @aias-fxtns @starkeysbaby @brxght-world @drewsswifeyy

[nadvs]

♡ㅤׄㅤִㅤ ୨୧  rafe cameron & his sweetheart girlfriend ✧

ᝰ rafe didn’t realize just how badly he craved kind, gentle love until he met her. he assumed every relationship he’d be in would be dysfunctional but then this girl, who’s sunshine personified, comes into his life and he has never wanted someone more.

ᝰ he’s a nervous wreck the whole time he pursues her. she’s well aware of his bad reputation and the fact that she takes the time to get to know him with open arms instead of letting gossip influence her makes it all the more clear to him how sincere she is.

ᝰ just because she’s sweet doesn’t mean she takes his shit. rafe is a victim to his own temper at times and when he snaps at her, she calmly tells him to cool down and talk to her about what’s really bothering him. she doesn’t escalate arguments. she talks him down. and he loves her for it.

ᝰ rafe would die of embarrassment if anyone saw what he’s like with her. he loves when she plays with his hair and leaves kisses all over his face. his favorite place in the world is on top of her, his head on her chest, wondering how he got lucky enough to win the heart he hears beating.

ᝰ she’s his best friend and maybe his buddies would give him shit for that, but it’s true. because he has never known a bond like this. not only does he have fun with her, but he actually feels understood for once. eventually, she knows him better than he knows himself.

ᝰ rafe hates crying but he hates it the least when it’s with her. he’s used to being told to toughen up. but she doesn’t do anything of the sort. she holds him, consoles him, keeps her gaze off of him because she knows he hates being looked at when he’s in this state.

ᝰ she’s the first one to say the word love and rafe has never felt happier in his life. he has felt love for her for months, but knows he wouldn’t survive if she didn’t say it back. he kisses her hard, whispering that he loves her over and over, making up for every time he thought it but couldn’t say it.

ᝰ the feeling he gets from having somebody worry about him is unreal. he’s used to being neglected and ignored, but she shows her concern for him in countless ways. she’s always reminding him to drive his motorcycle carefully. he eventually tacks a photo of her on his dash as a reminder not to speed because he has a reason to live now.

ᝰ rafe isn’t surprised that his family adores her. his father mentions something in passing about her being a good apple. she even makes ward crack a smile with one of her jokes every so often. rafe doesn’t know how somebody could be so perfect. he’d love her even without the approval but he’s comforted by the fact that he doesn’t have to worry about it.

ᝰ she sees something in rafe that he doesn’t see in himself. he actually likes who he is around her. he’s still rough around the edges with others, but he’s his most authentic self with her. she’s on his mind all day and he misses her every minute they’re not together. he calls her his angel, because that’s truly what she is to him.

inspired by an ask from @putherup 💘

[anakinstwinklebunny]

Author's note: happy BUNNYCEMBER everyone :3

Summary: day before Christmas, kids fast asleep..so what's better way than to make sure you were a good girl this year?

Cinnamon in the air, fire clicking in the ingle

Warm blanket, hot chocolate with extra portion of whipped cream perfectly blending into the Christmas scenery you, Anakin and your twins had put on.

You could hear the faint rustle of Anakin fumbling with the large sack of gifts he insisted on dragging out of the bedroom to make the moment more authentic for the sake if the kids decide to suddenly wake up to see the 'Santa'. When he finally emerged, your giggles started before you could even take in the full scene.

“Stop laughing,” he grumbled, though the crooked grin tugging at his lips said he didn't mean it

But how could you not laugh? ANAKIN SKYWALKER, in a full Santa suit—complete with the fake beard hanging precariously under his jaw—looked like he was on the verge of a cosplay catastrophe. The suit clung too tightly to his broad shoulders, and his tousled hair was already poking out from under the red hat.

“Santa Skywalker, huh?” you teased, watching as he crouched by the tree, carefully arranging the presents. “Shouldn’t you have an elf helping you with all that?”

“Oh, I do,” he quipped, straightening and dusting his hands off. His gaze turned sharp as he stalked toward you, leaving the sack by the fireplace. “But I think my elf’s been a little naughty this year.”

Your laughter bubbled up again as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. The beard had slipped entirely off his chin, leaving him free to press soft, warm kisses along your neck.

“Have you been a good girl this year?” he murmured against your skin

“Good enough,” you whispered back, though the grin you couldn’t suppress betrayed your innocence.

“Mm, I don’t think so,” hands slipping down to cup your ass through your cozy pajama shorts. “Because a good girl wouldn’t be giggling at Santa like that. A good girl would be sitting on his lap, showing a little respect.”

Your laughter turned breathy as he nipped lightly at your collarbone, his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt to brush against your skin. “Is that what you want? For me to sit on Santa’s lap?”

His hummed in approval, his lips trailing up to your ear. “That’s exactly what I want.”

Before you could respond, he tugged you toward the couch, pulling you down so you were laying on it. The warm touch of his hands on your thighs as he spread your legs made you forget the ridiculousness of his costume. The way he looked at you—like you were the only gift he’d ever need—had your pulse racing.

“You look so beautiful,” his tone softening “But I think Santa deserves to see a little more of you.”

His hands were everywhere—trailing up your thighs, gripping your hips, sliding over your stomach while his lips captured yours in a deep kiss.

With one swift motion, he pulled your shirt off, leaving you bare to the warmth of his gaze. His eyes swam in the look of the curve of your breasts - as if he was salivating like a dog

“I don’t think I’ve told you enough how fucking good you look tonight,” his gaze dropping to the lacy bralette you’d thrown on earlier. His fingers slipped beneath the band, teasing the soft skin of your breasts. “This? It’s a gift, isn’t it? Wrapped up just for me.” he pulled on a strap and let it go, giving you a light smack from it

You barely managed a breathless, “Maybe"

“I’ll unwrap it,” he said, pulling the fabric down to expose your perky breasts. “Cause what a Santa I'd be if I'd neglect such a present from my favorite girl?”

You gasped as his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking gently before biting just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you, letting it run down to pool between your legs

“You laugh at me in that stupid suit, but look at you now,” he rasped “Trembling for me. Always trembling for me.” His lips moved harder, like a starving man in need, leaving marks that you were sure you’d see in the morning.

“Tell me,” he demanded, making sure to pay equal attention to your other breast - because after all, how he could just neglect the other when the two of them are so perfect because they're yours? “Tell me how bad you want me right now.”

“So bad,” you managed, your fingers tangling in his hair as he carried you to the couch.

“Not good enough,” lips kissing your belly till he reached your hips - biting and licking the skin there. His fingers yanked your pajama shorts off, leaving you in those lacy panties he had bought you last year for Christmas. He knelt between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs as he stared down at you like you were a true feast. “Say it like you mean it.”

You swallowed hard, heat pooling in your stomach as his fingers teased the edges of your panties. “I want you, Ani..I nee--.”

“Uh-uh,” he interrupted with another letting go of the material to let it smack against your skin “Santa.”

“just-please-,” you whined, cheeks heating at his words.

“That’s better,” he murmured, dragging the lace down your legs before leaning in, spreading your thighs even more and burying his face between them "oh baby..like a true candy cane" his tongue flicked over your entrance in a way that had your back arching off the couch. “But I don’t think you’re ready for me yet..”

His mouth was magic against you, every flick of his tongue pulling you closer to the edge. His lips teased, sucked, and swirled against your sensitive clit, making you squirm in need. The pressure was unbearable, but not enough to push you over—yet. Your hands gripped the cushions beneath you, your breaths shaky as you whimpered his name, craving more.

“Santa doesn’t deliver until I hear real begging,” Anakin's voice muffled as he sucked gently, then harder, making your legs tremble around his head.

“Ani, please…” you begged, voice barely above a whisper “I need you. Now.”

He pulled back, eyes dark, a smirk playing at glistering his lips. “You sure, baby? You want Santa to stuff you full like one of his toys?”

You could barely form words, nodding desperately, body trembling with. The ache between your legs was nearly unbearable, but you knew he was holding you at the brink, just waiting for the right moment.

“That’s my girl,” Without another word, Anakin shifted, positioning himself above you, and after all the cursing at the thick belt, he entered you, filling you oh, so completely. The stretch of him inside you made you both gasp. His eyes shut, trying not to spill already, before he started to move - slow at first, yet deep, just perfectly enough to build much more pleasure in your body

“Anakin… please…” you gasped, fingers clawing at his back as you tried to pull him closer, needing him so desperately. “Don’t stop. Just go harder.”

He groaned, eyes wild, brows furrowed in this so painful yet so pleasurable, even delicious squeeze of your walls. “You want it like that, huh? You want me to fuck you like an animal? Like Santa's little doe?”

“You’re not gonna be able to walk tomorrow, baby. I’ll make sure of that.” he whimpered “Do you feel how deep I am, sweetheart? No one else could fuck you like this. No one else deserves to.”

His hands were all over you now, gripping your hips, pulling you closer, thrusting into you with a speed and force that had your body shaking beneath him. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, your breath ragged and quick as the pleasure built higher, closer and closer to the edge.

You couldn’t hold back anymore. You needed to let go. “Anakin… I’m close, please…” you whimpered, your body tightening around him, your entire body on the edge of breaking apart.

The pace of his thrusts quickened, his breathing ragged as he pushed you closer to the edge. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna let Santa give you the best Christmas present you’ve ever had?”

And with one final thrust, you did, your body convulsing around him as waves of pleasure washed over you. Anakin followed moments later, his groan muffled against your neck as he spilled into you.

“Happy Christmas, love” Anakin muttered, lips brushing against yours

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @deceptiive @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @r0b-in

[patientreflections]

The Failure of Manufactured Momentum

In 2025, can Hollywood continue with the same old party tricks and expect applause? It’s a question I found myself pondering after stumbling upon an onslaught of post BAFTA social media content where one continuous storyline piqued my interest…and not in a good way. 

I don’t usually wade into fandom conversations, but I’ve always had a soft spot for Bridgerton—and Colin and Penelope’s story was my favourite from the books. Beyond that, I’ve kept my distance. I don’t ship actors or keep up with stan drama. But something about this weekend’s BAFTAs, and the very deliberate press rollout that followed, caught my attention. Not just as a viewer, but as someone who’s worked in a corporate public relations adaject role for over a decade and finds the Hollywood machine endlessly fascinating (and completely outdated).

What we’re seeing right now with Luke Newton and Antonia Roumelioti is a textbook example of trying to manufacture momentum when there’s no organic traction to begin with. The cracks are showing. With every single post and article that popped up on my FYP and Instagram feed these past 48 hours, the more I felt like I had a bad case of deja vu. Did I just read the same headline over and over again? Yes…but from different outlets and yet it all felt the same. Interest piqued. Clearly the press kit made the following demands: 

Couple Focused; Antonia is to be treated in the headlines with the same level of celebrity as Luke

Curated Images - the same set of approved images over and over again

Approved language. We get it, Antonia is “glamorous” 

Ah, manufactured momentum, the Hollywood PR machines old faithful approach when you have nothing of substance. Let’s be honest: Antonia is being positioned as a public figure, but the foundation is incredibly thin. There’s no significant modeling campaign to anchor her in that world. Her dance history, beyond being a teenage contestant on Greece’s Got Talent, hasn’t evolved into any noteworthy professional credits. And as an “influencer,” an angle that feels unconvincing, the aesthetic is curated, sure, but there’s no substance—no strong personal voice, no visible passion, no cultural or philanthropic cause to connect with. The identity being presented is vague, and vague doesn’t hold attention for long. Did it ever?  

This isn’t a case of the public being harsh. It’s that there’s nothing anchoring her presence outside of proximity to Luke. And for a rollout to work, there has to be something to build from—an existing spark of interest, a story, something people can latch onto. Right now, that just isn’t there. In PR terms, it’s a classic case of a lack of narrative coherence. 

It’s also not helping that the timing feels off. One year out from Bridgerton S3, and Luke’s visibility has been notably muted.  While Nicola Coughlan has gone from strength to strength since then, Luke’s career has remained.... steady at best. He’s the only Bridgerton lead with a season of the show not signed to one of the major agencies, and despite being positioned as a romantic lead, his trajectory feels… stalled.  So this moment, framed as a kind of visibility push, doesn’t feel rooted in authentic career growth. Instead, it reads as strategy: tie this reveal to a known milestone, hope for carryover attention. The fact that Nicola’s name had to be threaded into nearly every headline surrounding this weekend’s appearance says a lot - borrowed equity. It suggests his team knows he doesn’t generate enough coverage on his own—and that’s a hard truth, but it’s one the public is picking up on.

Unsurprisingly, the reaction has been indifferent at best. Well until it took a turn for the worse. Take the Entertainment Tonight instagram post. When a media push goes a bit too far, it can lead to consequences. Using Nicola’s name here and sidelining her accomplishments to push a couple narrative, well, it was a choice someone made. A bad one at that. Viewers are seeing through the strategy, and instead of buying in, they’re disengaging. That’s the risk when you try to force relevance without real public demand. If anything, this rollout has highlighted just how little genuine excitement there is around either of them right now.

So the question is: where does this go from here? Because from a PR perspective, you can’t build long-term interest on shallow foundations. At some point, there needs to be actual growth—either from Antonia showing a clearer sense of self, or from Luke stepping into a stronger career phase that doesn’t rely on nostalgia or association.

Until then, this push will likely keep feeling exactly as it does now: calculated, hollow, and a little too late.

[teratocore]

You know. I kinda feel the need to push back on the common claim that Ozai “pitted Zuko and Azula against each other” because it’s way more true that his intention was to make Azula feel superior through his approval and to make Zuko feel inferior through a lack of it. The whole thing with having a megalomaniacal parental abuser like this is that one child is the scapegoat while the other is the golden child. It’s horrific because it’s inescapable for either sibling. Azula has to be perfect because otherwise she will be treated like Zuko, this is something she basically says aloud in season three. Zuko knows that even when he returns to his father’s side and is in his father’s graces he will never be enough for Ozai, he will always be walking on thin ice until the day he makes a wrong step and it’s over for him. This could be anything from the day it is revealed that Zuko never killed the avatar to once again speaking out of turn. It is very obvious that there is never any authentic competition happening between these two from day one, even as they are both clearly being abused. Ozai’s abuse thrived on the appearance of pitting these two against each other as if they ever had equal chances of winning his preference between them. It was a losing game from the start, but Azula was more useful to him as a subordinate and Zuko was more useful to him removed from the picture.

[glowettee]

✧・゜ how to radiate confidence in social situations (even when you're screaming inside) ゜✧:・゜✧

hey lovelies! ✧

let's be honest - we've all been there. standing in a room full of people, smile plastered on, while our internal monologue is having a complete meltdown. that was literally me last weekend at this networking event where i knew absolutely no one and spent the first 15 minutes hiding in the bathroom (classic me behavior).

but over time i've collected some little tricks that help me appear confident even when my insides are doing gymnastics. thought i'd share in case any of you are fellow social anxiety girlies too!

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the body language hack ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

our bodies can actually trick our minds into feeling confident. before entering any intimidating social situation, i find a private spot (usually the bathroom, let's be real) and stand in a "power pose" for two minutes. arms on hips, shoulders back, chin up. it feels silly but it genuinely changes my nervous system.

another tiny thing: keep your hands visible, not crossed or hidden in pockets. something about this signals confidence to others and eventually to yourself.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ prepare your conversation toolkit ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

nothing makes me panic more than awkward silence, so i always have a mental list of conversation starters ready. not just "what do you do?" but questions that actually lead somewhere interesting:

"what's been keeping you busy outside of work lately?"

"have you read/watched anything good recently?"

"what's something you're looking forward to this year?"

the secret is asking questions that you genuinely want to hear answers to. people can sense authentic curiosity, and it takes pressure off you to be "interesting" when you're focused on being interested.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the "i belong here" mindset shift ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

this one changed everything for me. i used to walk into rooms thinking "i hope they like me" which immediately put me in a position of seeking approval. now i try to shift to "i wonder if i'll like them."

it's such a subtle change but it puts you in the position of the observer rather than the observed. suddenly you're not auditioning for acceptance - you're just seeing if this person/group is your vibe.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ embrace the awkward ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

the biggest confidence killer is trying to be perfect. there's actually something magnetic about someone who can laugh at themselves when they trip over a word or spill their drink.

i've started just naming the awkwardness when it happens: "well that came out completely wrong, let me try again!" people actually connect more with your humanity than your perfection.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the 5-second reset ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

when i feel myself spiraling into overthinking, i use this tiny reset: i take a deep breath, count to 5, and remind myself that most people are too worried about themselves to be analyzing me.

seriously, the same insecurity that makes you worry about what others think is the exact thing that prevents others from thinking about you as much as you fear!

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ aftercare is essential ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

confidence isn't just about how you act in the moment - it's also about how you treat yourself after. i used to dissect every interaction, cringing at everything i said.

now i have a rule: no social autopsies. instead, i celebrate that i showed up at all. sometimes i'll even buy myself a little treat on the way home as a "well done for being brave" gift.

remember, true confidence isn't the absence of fear - it's just the decision that something else is more important than that fear. and with practice, those screaming-inside moments get quieter and less frequent.

what about you? any confidence hacks that help you in social situations?

xoxo, mindy 🤍

[eelnoise]

home (nsfw!)

yall want some sweet zoro drabble? i was both in my feels about him and WAY too horny at the same time. cw: piv sex, super intimate sex, afab!reader, idk wc: 785

Every time Zoro slides into you it feels like the first time all over again. His breath catches as he tightness of your heat squeezing around him with a fierceness that steals the tension from his muscles. His eye slips shut, lips parting around a quiet curse as his head tilts back, surrendering to the sensation. 

Each time with you is a gift, one he doesn't take for granted, but one he takes his time with. Your walls grip him like it's home, and he treats you always as if he may never return. 

Wide hands trail along your skin as he sheaths himself fully within your welcoming warmth. Each tender touch is silent praise, and your breathless cries are the liturgy he yearns to hear. Zoro drinks in the exquisite spectacle of your face as it mirrors the bliss you feel, your body swaying and trembling in the timeless rhythm of passion. 

With the keen eye of a master swordsman, he studies your every response, committing each one to memory as a poet would a sonnet - a key to unlocking the enigmatic workings of your spirit and the boundless depths of your devotion.

And when he begins to thrust, it's with a painstaking, almost worshipful slowness that belies the ferocity of his desire. Each measured stroke is a deliberate claiming, a silent affirmation of the inalienable bond that ties your bodies and souls. 

His hands, those battle-hardened instruments of war, now serve a far nobler purpose as they map the contours of your form with a reverence bordering on fervor. They grasp and squeeze, kneading your pliant flesh as if to forge it into the very essence of his being, to merge your curves with the hard angles of his own body until you are inseparable. Yet it never feels like it's enough.

You cry out and grasp him toward you, your limbs tangling around his back and forcing your lips to his in a kiss that he eagerly reciprocates. It starts slow, a lock spewing wordless sentiment, but when it turns to all tongue and teeth, the lock splits. 

Zoro’s pace begins to quicken and he hungrily devours your wails of approval. His arms bare you tightly against him, and as the kiss breaks he nestles his head into your shoulder, ensuring that the sounds of your intoxicating euphoria echo right into his ear.

His eye burns with a wild hunger when your legs wrap around his waist, splaying you open and exposed beneath him. The raw vulnerability in your cries, shimmering with unshed tears of pleasure, ignites that all familiar raw want within him.

You whine his name, a sound etched in longing and so authentically genuine that, with herculean effort, Zoro has to summon every ounce of his restraint. His jaw clenches as he fights to maintain the rhythm, to hold back the tidal wave of rapture that threatens against him from within. You are the priority, the main act, and he means to give your finale. 

His cock twitches with wild abandon, each throb harmonious with the desperate clench of your walls around him, the frequency escalating with every forceful surge of his hips. He can feel the inferno building within you, your body tensing like the string of a bow pulled taut, ready to snap at any moment.

Zoro thinks you're exquisitely, heartachingly beautiful when you cum, always pulling back to see the sight of you giving in. Your brows furrow, your eyes close, and his name gets thrown in between the high.  And though his hips drill into you, his hand comes to rest upon your cheek, easing you through the ecstasy with as much tenderness as he can give through his own hedonistic hubris. 

The leftover pulses of pleasure that flutter around his cock tip him over the edge, and with a series of deep, guttural groans that emanate from the very depths of his being, he surrenders to the pull of his own release. Zoro's grip on your body tightens, hips jerking and twitching erratically, each buck coinciding with the bulk of his spend filling you up.

It takes a moment for him to roll off of you, bending his head to lovingly kiss upward from the valley of your breasts to your lips before tugging you effortlessly over him, where the only thing he wants is your continued proximity. 

He murmurs something against your temple and you whisper something into his chest, the result of which brings his arms to wrap around you once more, and holds you tightly, possessively, as if he means to merge your very souls in this moment until your shared breaths of exhaust even out into a welcoming, sated rest.

[ahmedmistrettaalyvezw]

Elon Musk Is about to Investigate Fort Knox: The Mysterious Veil of the US Gold Reserves May Be Lifted

On the intertwined stage of finance and technology, Elon Musk always breaks into the public eye in a vanguard manner. Recently, a startling piece of news has spread rapidly around the world: Musk has declared that he will investigate Fort Knox, the largest gold reserve storage site in the United States. This decision has instantly ignited public opinion and triggered endless speculation about the current state of the US gold reserves.

Fort Knox, this mysterious military base located in Kentucky, USA, covers a vast area. It is an important stronghold of the US Army and, more importantly, the core storage site for the US Treasury's gold. According to data from the US Department of the Treasury, Fort Knox stores over 147 million troy ounces of gold, approximately 4,581 tons, accounting for the majority of the US federal government's gold reserves. With a value of hundreds of billions of dollars, it occupies a crucial position in the global financial system.

However, over the years, the situation of the gold reserves in Fort Knox has been full of doubts. Since the 1950s, it has not undergone a comprehensive review. In 1974, there was a public inspection, but only some of the vaults were opened, and the proportion of the displayed gold was extremely small. Since then, apart from the simple "vault seal inspection" every year, there has been no substantial independent audit. This long - term lack of transparency has led the outside world to have many doubts about the authenticity and integrity of its gold reserves, and conspiracy theories have also become rife.

There are complex reasons behind Musk's intervention in this investigation. The well - known financial blog Zerohedge proposed to Musk on social media to confirm whether the gold in Fort Knox actually exists, which may have aroused Musk's curiosity. Republican Senator Mike Lee said that his request to enter the Fort Knox base was rejected. Musk reposted the relevant post and questioned whether the gold had been stolen. Subsequently, he clearly stated that he would "look for gold in Fort Knox", and his intention to investigate became increasingly strong.

Musk and his led "Department of Government Efficiency" (DOGE) may adopt a series of innovative methods in the investigation. With Musk's deep accumulation in the technology field, he is highly likely to use blockchain technology to track the origin and flow of gold. The decentralized and tamper - proof characteristics of blockchain can provide a more transparent and secure solution for verification, ensuring that the results are true and reliable. Musk may also leverage his powerful social media influence to mobilize public supervision, creating strong public opinion pressure to promote the investigation process.

However, Musk's investigation path is full of thorns. As a highly fortified military base, Fort Knox has strict security measures and complex approval processes. For Musk's team to conduct a comprehensive review inside, they must obtain permission from relevant departments, which is a difficult threshold to cross. There are differences in the US government's internal attitude towards gold reserves. Some forces may not want the secrets of Fort Knox to be easily exposed, which may lead to obstacles at the political level. Technical difficulties will also be faced during the investigation, such as how to achieve a comprehensive verification without damaging the gold storage environment and security system.

Once the investigation is successfully carried out and substantial results are achieved, the impacts will be multi - faceted. In the financial market, if there are differences, even slight ones, between the actual gold reserves in Fort Knox and the reported figures, it may trigger violent fluctuations in the global gold market, affect investors' confidence, lead to large - scale capital flows, and impact the stability of the financial market. From a political perspective, if the problems with the gold reserves are confirmed, it will trigger a trust crisis among the public towards the government, affect the implementation of government policies, and become a new focus of domestic political struggles. In the global financial system, the verification results of the gold reserves in Fort Knox may also reshape the international monetary pattern, affect the international status of the US dollar, and promote the development of the global monetary system towards diversification.

The investigation that Musk is about to launch on Fort Knox has attracted much attention. This not only concerns the truth of the US gold reserves but also may profoundly affect the global financial market, political pattern, and monetary system. We look forward to Musk using his wisdom and courage to lift the mysterious veil of the gold reserves in Fort Knox and bring clear and true answers to the world.

[yasministration]

Wishing you were somehow here again - Remus Lupin

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Phantom of the Opera

summary: you bring remus home to meet your parents, introducing him as your finacé. luckily for you, your parents approve of him, and you take remus out on a stroll in the vast gardens whilst your parents deliberate the wedding details. wc: 3k+ cw: smut, semi-public sex (in a garden, but there is privacy)

“Okay just smile, that’s what my mum wants to see. Plus, you’ve got a very handsome one, so you’ll win some extra points.”

Remus remembered the words you told him last night over dinner as you ran your fingers through his hair to make sure every single strand was in perfect place. He felt as though you were preparing him to meet your mother in that instant, but reminded himself to calm down; he had more than twelve hours.

But now, as he stood in front of the large, wooden double doors of the Black Manor, he felt as though he took those hours for granted, wishing you were somehow here again, with him. Preparing him like a pig for slaughter. Remus swallowed thickly, loosening his grip on the bouquet of blue tulips he held. Your mother’s favourite, according to you. When Remus finally knocked, the doors took less than three seconds to swing open, but instead of being invited inside, you slammed the doors shut behind you as you joined Remus outside.

Remus smiled at you nervously and you returned the smile, taking in his appearance from head to toe. “You look amazing.” You mumbled, quickly pressing yourself on your tippy toes to gently kiss him. Remus grinned; he knew he looked amazing. After all, you had insisted on dragging him to your family’s tailor to get him a fresh new three-piece suit.

“You got me a ring, let me get you this one thing.” You had pleaded, but your eyes warned him that there was no room for argument.

Satisfied, you reached for the door handle behind you, welcoming Remus into the house just in time for your mother to come into view, not a single wrinkle on the long dress she wore. As per usual. “Mother, this is-” “Remus Lupin. Pleased to meet you.” He said with a gracious smile. A smile that seemed so well practiced, just like every pureblood child had mastered. Except his was authentic.

Remus — forgetting his practice — offered your mother his hand for a hand shake but he quickly caught himself when she presented him her hand, palm facing the floor. He shook it awkwardly, bowing his head down before eagerly letting go. He tried hiding the blush on his cheeks by giving her the bouquet of flowers.

Your mother deeply inhaled, her nose snug against the flowers, closing her eyes as she relished in their scent, and sighing deeply. You shifted your weight from one foot to another, hesitating before informing her “He is my fiancé.”

Walburga summoned Kreacher to take the flowers away, and for a long moment she stared at you and Remus with menacing eyes that turned into slits, walking around the pair of you like a predator would to its prey. Finally, she put on an artificial smile, tilting her head to the side with friendliness she couldn’t make look natural even if she tried. She ignored your announcement, fixing her gaze onto the tall man, daring him to look away. “Remus, dear, I have to say, when I heard through the grapevine that you’d been spotted around my daughter, I came rushing to see you perform. So did Orion.” As though at the mention of his name, your father came strolling into the room, his chest puffed up. It didn’t take brains to know that he owned the place; held the power in the family. “That we did!” You father gruffly said, adjusting the lapel of his blazer.

Both you and Remus held your breath.

You approached your fiancé, linking your arm through his, hope fluttering in your chest. Your parents’ opinion on Remus’s performance would be their deciding factor on whether they would allow you to get married. “We thought you were absolutely wonderful.” You didn’t bother hiding the relief on your face, but Remus had more class than you, smiling politely at your parents.

“I’m glad to hear that. Mr. and Mrs. Black, I know it wasn’t very traditional to propose to your daughter without asking first, but I still want your blessing for her hand in marriage. Otherwise, I don’t think we’d be able to go through with it.” Remus looked back at you, and you nodded solemnly; all an act to make your script look convincing enough.

Your father stepped forward, clasping a hand on Remus’s shoulder. You couldn’t read his face, blank and neutral.

Terrifying.

“Remus Lupin,” He started, staring at the taller man directly in his eyes. “Welcome to the family, young man.” Your arms fell by your side in relief and you glanced towards your mother, who was making her way over to hug you. Just like you and Remus had to keep up your act, so did she. It was unusual for her to be affectionate, whether it was for show or now, but you would take it. Turning around to look at Remus, who was just being released from your father’s tight handshake, you couldn’t stop yourself from throwing your arms around him in a tight hug, digging your face in the crook of his neck.

Remus’s face flushed brightly and your mother laughed, scolding you softly. “Oh don’t embarrass the poor boy.” You sighed in annoyance at her words, but Remus was quick to get rid of your forming frown by ducking his head down to press his lips against yours softly. “Oh, never mind what I said, he isn’t shy in the least!” Remus kept you close to him even after you parted from each other, a soothing hand on your waist.

“Sweetheart, how about you show Remus around the grounds while your mother and I discuss important matters before dinner?” You nodded obediently, fingers sliding into Remus’s hand, intertwining with his as you dragged him back out the front door and into the enchanted gardens. Walburga huffed at the informal gesture when you turned your back, but Orion chuckled “Oh, let them celebrate. She doesn’t have any suitors or families to impress in her own home.” Walburga spun on her heels, and her husband immediately followed her into the living room to discuss the terms of your engagement.

Not only would the wedding details need sorting, but so would business negotiations. It was about time a theatre was named after the family name in Charing Cross, and that could quickly be arranged as a celebration of the news of your marriage. Besides, some people owed your father a couple of favours.

Outside, Remus cursed quietly as he tripped over the steps in front of the intimidating front doors of the Black Manor. His stress subsided into laughs, reflecting the ones that were flying out of your mouth as you dragged him further down the garden and into the tall hedge maze, where you’d debatably get the most privacy on the entire property. You didn’t stop running for a while, turning sharp angles to drag Remus down a memorised route, practiced steps leading you into the hedge maze’s centre.

Finally, you came to a halt, letting go of Remus’s so you could spin around, throwing your arms over his shoulder to slam your lips onto his. Remus gasped against your lips, hands coming down to rest on your hips. He chuckled quietly, breathing heavily into the kiss. Your hands trailed down until you were cupping Remus’s cheeks, humming into the kiss.

Remus broke the kiss, raising a hand to rest on the side of your neck, thumb caressing your skin softly. “We did it.” He whispered in a celebratory tone, a boy-like giggle ecstatically flying out from between his parted lips. One of your hands lowered to wrap around Remus’s wrist with the hand on your cheek. You pressed yourself on your tippy toes, kissing him softly again.

An unexpected whine broke out of Remus’s chest and you gasped as his fingers gripped your hips tightly, pushing you back until your back hit the edge of a pedestal, the sculpture placed upon it looming over you both. Remus gently sunk his teeth into your bottom lip and you parted your lips for him, opening your mouth slightly to meet his tongue in a passionate dance.

Remus tilted his head to the side so he could deepen the kiss and you cried out as his hands explored your body until they landed on your ass, groping at the flesh eagerly. One of your hands shot out to grip the collar of Remus’s shirt, tugging his body closer to you until it lay flat against yours. You desperately thrust your hips forward, grinding them against Remus’s. Your fiancé separated his lips from your momentarily as a primal groan rumbled in his chest.

“Are women in the Black family also expected to wait until marriage?” You breathed heavily, grinning up at him with a mischievous twinkle in your eye despite his question being sarcastic. “If they are, I’ve already broken that rule.”

Remus chuckled against your lips, a silent question lingering in the air. “So, are you going to touch me or not?” Remus’s breath got caught in his throat as you asked the question, almost unable to believe that the words were stumbling out of your sophisticated mouth. “Yes, I’d love to. I-uhm, I’m just not exactly sure how to.”

An unexpected laugh tumbled out of your mouth and Remus’s eyes widened as he realised what he’d just said. “Not in that sense! Not in-Your dress! Your dress is just so… elaborate.” Indeed, it was. The long layers of your dress went past your feet, so the tip of your heels were barely exposed when you took long, elegant strides.

“I don’t want to ruin it.” He added with a sheepish mumble. You curtseyed slightly, lowering your body down so you could grasp the bottom of the skirt of your dress. Remus stepped back, watching as you pulled the skirt higher and higher, until the lacy top of your stockings were exposed, held up by the garter that lay snug around your waist, underneath the structured torso of your dress. Remus gulped, an arm hooking around your waist to pull you towards the other side of the statue, where you would be hidden if anyone were to take a peek into the entrance of the hedge maze’s courtyard.

You gasped, eyes drawn to Remus’s hands which were quickly working to undo his leather belt. His trousers were quickly falling to his thighs, and you had to fight the urge to reach out to take his boxers off yourself. You gulped thickly, watching as Remus’s cock sprung out of his boxers. Before you could help yourself, your fingers were already wrapping around his length, stroking him teasingly.

Remus’s hips thrust upward at the sudden pleasure, leaning deeply into your touch, nosing at the soft skin of your neck as he inhaled deeply, a guttural moan ripping out of his chest. Remus blindly searched for the hem of your underwear beneath the skirt of your dress you were helplessly holding up for him. His breath was shaky as he pulled your panties down, a loud rip echoing in the space. Remus’s eyes shot open and he was instantly apologising, unaware that his desperation had gotten the best of him, causing him to use more power.

“It’s okay Remus - just - put it in.” You let go of his cock, unconsciously licking your lips at the sight of the beady pearls of cum dribbling down his thick length. “Okay, fuck.” Remus cursed, eyes glued to your pussy, wet with arousal. Your knuckles were white with the tight grip you had on your dress, allowing Remus a full view of your cunt.

As Remus’s tip caught on your entrance, he brought his second hand down to rub unforgiving circles on your clit. As he pushed deeper into you, Remus let go of himself, a hand coming up to rest on the sculpture’s base next to your head. You moaned quietly, sighing in satisfaction as Remus dipped his head down to kiss you.

You brought a hand up to the nape of Remus’s neck, letting one side of your dress to fall back down, giving you partial modesty as your most private parts were covered back up. Remus leaned down a little bit, but he kept your lips linked in a thirsty kiss as his hands trailed to the back of your thighs. Suddenly, he picked you up, and you moaned loudly as he pressed your back against the sculpture behind you, gravity driving you down onto his cock with indescribable force.

You cried out loudly into the kiss, both hands flying to grip Remus’s shoulders, your dress bunching up around your connected pelvises. You broke away from the kiss, resting your forehead against Remus’s, eyes glued shut as a string of pleasured moans flew from your parted lips.

Remus grunted with every thrust of his hips into you, cock driving into you with a power you couldn’t understand. A choked out moan was stuck in Remus’s throat, his eyebrows furrowing at the feeling of your constricting walls sucking him into you, every ridge of his cock driving deeper into you.

“Faster, please.” You whimpered, guiding Remus’s face back towards yours in a desperate, open mouthed kiss, your tongues immediately tangling together in a messy kiss.

Remus was conflicted.

Your lips felt so good against his, and he revelled in the feeling of your tongue dancing with his. But he knew he would cum faster if you kissed him for any longer, and he didn’t want this moment to end, no matter the risk that someone may walk in on both of you. Either way, Remus continued kissing you, feeling as though he was a teenager again, having his very first kiss from the way his lips tingled, a knot of pleasure rolling in his gut.

He obeyed your request, driving his hips into you at a faster pace, bouncing you up in his arms so he could get a better grip on your body. One of his arms flew around your waist tightly, the other one snaking underneath your dress to caress your thigh before snaking up and grabbing a handful of your ass. He pushed his body further against you so that your body was propped up between him and the structure behind you, the base of his cock driving further into you so he pushed deeper into you with every drill of his cock.

You keened loudly, the only sound in the air apart from you and Remus’s moans being the slap of his meaty balls against your ass. “I’m so-” But you couldn’t finish the sentence, words getting stuck in your throat as you panted heavily.

But Remus got the message, moving one hand down to your front to abuse your clit with the tips of his rough fingers. He gasped loudly as your cunt clamped down on his cock, driving his hips forward and stilling his movements as a rush of pleasure overcame him, spilling his pleasure into you. He cursed loudly, increasing the speed of his movements on your clit as he realised he was coming before you.

However, at the realisation that your thighs had begun shaking, pussy fluttering around his cock as you suddenly let out a high-pitched cry of his name, Remus slumped in shoulders in relief, seeing you come undone in front of him. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead in a long, reassuring kiss.

“Fuck, I love you.” Remus mumbled, gently returning your legs to the ground. He kept a secure arm around your waist, just in case the muscles in your legs had failed you, but you were solidly standing, picking the layers of skirt off the two of you so Remus could pull out. “I love you more.” You finally replied with a sigh, leaning your head back against the stone behind you.

Remus chuckled with a shake of his head, muttering “Don’t start something you can’t finish.” He crouched down, reaching underneath your skirt to pull your underwear back up from where it resting around your ankles. There was almost no use though, the lace holding several holes in the fabric due to Remus’s rash movement.

“Give me a kiss.” You requested, reaching out to hold Remus’s jaw gently. He obliged, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, loving kiss. When you pulled away, you ran your hands down Remus’s chest, pulling your wand out of a secret pocket in your dress and muttering a quiet spell.

Instantly, all the creases that had been made on Remus’s suit disappeared, and with a repeat of the words, so did the creases on your dress. “Just so you know, when we return to the house to have dinner, my parents will probably have the wedding sorted out.”

Remus’s eyes widened and he laughed nervously, spluttering “Really!?” You hummed, guiding Remus to sit down on a stone bench with you. Running your hand through his hair, you pushed the strands back into place. Your eyes were filled with admiration as you stared at the man in front of you. He picked up your hand, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand.

“That’s probably what they’re discussing.”

Remus grinned, standing in front of you and offering you a hand. “Well in that case, should my fiancée and I take a walk whilst her parents organise our wedding?” Giggling, you took his hand, letting him pull you off the bed.

“Mhm, let me show you my bedroom. I won’t be living here much longer if I’m getting married.” Remus wrapped an arm around your waist, tugging you to his side snugly, but before you could wander far away, Kreacher apparated in front of you.

“Mistress Black has advised for Miss Black and her fiancé to come inside for dinner.” “Oh, thank you Kreacher.”

You shot Remus an apologetic look, but the man seemed happy nonetheless, giving you a sly wink. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to go explore your bedroom.”

“Okay. If they ask any questions you don’t have answers for, make it about your successful career, okay?”

taglist: @rory-cakes, @stta-princess, @arielthee-potterhead, @lettertovera, @bininisiwi, @superlegend216, abhootghiihii, @ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin

[princessbrunette]

shittysoundcloudrapper!jj was persuasive and he knew it. it took barely any convincing anyway, his pretty best friend was just so whipped for him.

“look all i’m sayin’ is all this could be yours.” he fans the money out, staring you down with the ghost of a smirk as you lounge on his bed. you push your mouth into the corner, considering his offer as you fiddle with the hem of your skirt. it’s not that you didn’t trust jj, you did — you’d just never been so exposed before. his friends would hear this song, strangers would hear this song — you almost couldn’t believe he was asking to record your moans as a backing track for his beat. as you think, your smile grows — the blonde creeping towards you until he’s stood right infront of you, looming over your curled seating position.

“c’mon mama, you smell that?” he caresses your face with the wad of money, running it over your cheek and beneath your nose. “yeah. that’s that paper. hard earned benjys. you wanna help me out, don’t you? know you do.” he cooes and you’re hypnotised, nodding your head with fluttering lashes. it’s times like this he was glad to have you under his thumb.

it’s later on in the evening that things are ready to commence. perhaps when you’d agreed to help jj out, he wasn’t quite clear on the task at hand. yes, he wanted your moans for his backing track — but he didn’t want you stood infront of a mic, awkwardly recreating a scene from pornhub premiums. no, he was after the real deal. authenticity. method acting, so he called it.

“‘cus like, i’on know what’s worse. a chick faking an orgasm when you’re fucking her, or faking it just for the sake of your music. nah, i think… we’re close enough to make the real thing happen. like — for artistic expression… purposes.” he explains as he sets up his little mic, pulling a pair of headphones over his ears to check the sound. “check, check.” he drawls into the mic before nodding in approval.

“so how are we gonna…” you furrow your eyebrows, always having been on the more innocent side of the sex spectrum. before you even get to attempt to verbalise your confusion, the blonde lifts his head — responding like it was no biggie.

“oh, i can totally go down on you. ‘f’thats cool.” his tongue darts out to swipe at the corner of his mouth and you feel your eyes widen. “really you just gotta lay there n’hold the mic. easy as shit.” he shrugs, finally sitting down and looking at you expectedly as you gawk.

“wait, really?” you giggle. you’d thought about it many times, jj maybank between your legs — but now it was all too real, and you didn’t know it would be happening so out of the blue, practically a business proposition. he’s in your space again, cupping your cheek in that way that was far too familiar to just be friendly.

“look — babe, you don’t gotta worry about things being weird, alright? i’m a munch, like actually — aaaand, are you tellin’ me right now, you would say no to a little head? i mean if you don’t want me to eat it you can always y’know, DIY—” he gestures a circular rubbing motion with his middle and ring fingers, alluding to getting yourself off instead. “little dj action. just need the moans to be real. m’going all out director mode here.” somehow, the thought of touching yourself infront of jj was more humiliating — so you shake your head, sucking on your lip in thought.

“no, you can do it.” you whisper and he grins.

“yeah? atta girl. what a team player.” your best friend praises before kissing you quickly on the mouth. something he always did, platonically — but now made your heart speed up a ridiculous amount.

as you lay back shakily on the bed, you think back on the lyrics scrawled in messy handwriting in the notebook he’d leave lying around — the contents pointing to him really being about that eating pussy life. something like ‘sucking all on her clit like it’s my lifeline — she asked to return the favour, already got mine’ underlined in red biro.

it’s a blur after he hits record, kissing on your thighs making you giggle and rubbing you until there’s a wet spot through the cotton of your panties. you know he’s smiling, because you can feel the upwards curve of his mouth when he starts kissing you through the fabric. you’re pleasing him just from letting out the sweetest whimpers, challenging himself to get you to moan louder for the sake of his song.

it’s not long before he’s got you bare from the waist down, legs fanned wide open with his arms round your thighs. by this point, he has to remind himself not to talk as to not disrupt the recording — and you’re doing him proud, not even having to try to release the most breathy, beautiful sounds that he knew would be perfect on the track.

you get pouty as soon as the whole things over, deciding your best friend was a total sicko. he’d gotten all kissy on you, wet lips smushed against yours, his eyes all hazy from arousal as he makes you taste yourself, murmuring about how you did such a good job for him before wandering off shamelessly to the bathroom to jack off. you get shy, still oozing your release onto his grey-blue bed sheets thinking back on the way you begged him to talk you through it. he was focused on his producing, but he couldn’t resist on whispering “there y’go pretty mama. lemme hear it, good girl.” whilst you cream on his mean fingers.

no one seems to think it’s a big deal but you, his friends john b and pope often lazing around his place smoking weed and playing on the playstation, totally unresponsive to jj sat sprawled on the couch with his laptop on his lap, chopping and editing away on some shitty producer plugin — your moans occasionally playing around the room as he clicks away, tongue between his lips in concentration, backwards cap snug over messy blonde strands.

the boys chime in with an occasional comment. “sounds dope, man.” pope hums out brainlessly as he stares at the tv, thumbing aggressively at the console joystick, the brunette beside him quick to agree.

“no yeah, sounds good.” he agrees, eyes even darting towards where you’re curled on the couch painting your toenails, trying to seem nonchalant about the whole thing.

when he drops the song, he promotes it everywhere — and whilst you asked for no credits for your… addition, it seems to go without saying that you’re the girl on the song, no one else even in question as wherever jj goes you’re seen hanging off his arm. his friends might not make a big deal, but you notice the stares when you go out.

rafe cameron has the audacity to corner you at the juice bar, wearing a smirk that just told you that he knew. “yeah uh, love your friends little song.” he stares you down, egging on a reaction. “been playin’ it on a loop for some reason.”

you avoid his eyes. “yeah, it’s pretty good.” you shy away, but he blocks your path.

“mm, for sure, yeah but uh, you— you know i could have sworn i recognised the… female voice in the back. got any idea who that might be or…?” his smirk only grows, licking his lips as he looms over you.

“nope…” the doe eyes give you away.

“huh, ‘cos it kinda sounds like a pretty girl i know.”

you run and tell jj, all sniffly and regretful — knowing that snitching on rafe to jj is only going to cause problems. his reaction is less defensive and aggressive than you imagined, instead leading you through to his bedroom by the waist.

“look, bae — people are gonna talk, alright? doesn’t mean shit. sure as hell don’t care about what rafe thinks.” he sits you down, standing above you as he curls a hand under your chin affectionately. “but hey, if the money wasn’t enough— think i can make it worth your while. y’wanna lay down for me, sweets? no mic this time. jus’ me and that pretty pussy.”

[lov3-lik3-ghosts]

Hey would you write Cullens x reader headcannons on Valentine’s Day? It’s okay if not!

Month of Cupid

Warnings: Not proofread. Human!reader. Little bit of Y/n lore. Can be read as gn!r

Authors Note: Hii lovely! I bouldered my way through writers block to get this posted on the 14th. I hope you enjoy, have a very happy Valentine’s Day!

| mother m-list

• Dainty little flowers + Alice + traversing through the woods while gold beams through every nook, igniting her skin into millions of winking stars = Any sane person's dream.

That’s it. That’s the headcanon. There’s genuinely no other way I imagine a date with Alice is — soft and sweet and so so authentic that you honestly can’t believe she just… exists.

• Emmett’s the only one out of the Cullen’s that doesn’t think to ask you. You’re his already, surely you already know you’re each other valentine. Know that he has the best damn date of your life planned, filled with all your favourite things (which really was him and wherever he was) and a healthy dose of his thick arms locking over your shoulders as he forces you back into his chest.

He’s sweet… but a man like Emmett forgets how big he truly is

• Rosalie’s a hard woman to romance — you love a good chase, you’re no better than a man really and maybe it’s the fact that your mother never approved of any of your achievements or that you grew in a cold house with sparse affection but she’s sweet honey to your gaping wound. Soothing you with every drip drip drip of soft she is. So you do the romancing, plan the trip to the local volunteer centre with young children in need of external socialisation and after ask her to show you how the engine of her favourite car works and all its parts. She rolls her eyes but you see the soft twitch of her lips and the fondness in her gaze.

So yes, you put in some hard work but so does she. She’s soft and gentle with you and she whispers how much she appreciates all the effort you put into that day against your lips… after calling you out for staring at her under the car hood with your mouth agape

• Carlisle is all but your older rich husband but with actual benefits too. He’s traditional in most senses, he’s planning the date and paying for anything that it requires. If you travel, he drives. There’s a door, he’s opening it. The difference between him and ‘traditional’ men? He cares. And this February 14th is as good as any other with him, catered to everything you love, sweet and soft with candlelight and roses.

He loves making you happy, he claims, and you believe him but if you show him just how appreciative you are at the end of the night… well, who is he to complain?

• Edward’s somehow cohabiting both ‘unsure lover’ and ‘yeah. I know you. Why’re you surprised?’. Well, don’t know Ed, not like you can read minds. He’s sweet, he’s always sweet in some awkwardly charming sort of way and the way he wines and dines you is no different than that exactly. A nice, odd concoction of everything about him you love. Including his silly little tendency to still do human things. Yeah, he’s actually taken you out to eat and he’s actually staring pretty creepily in your eyes and through to your soul. You find you don’t really mind when you catch why he’s honing in on you, hanging onto your every word

• Jasper “from the south” Hale isn’t wasting a damn second when you suggest going line dancing. He hasn’t danced in a good long while and he’s rusty and he can’t teach you when you ask him too; you thought it was perfect timing. You’re both clumsy on your feet when you start the night off but he gains his footing quick and honestly, you kinda just wanna watch him dance and drool in the corner as though he wasn’t taking you home tonight and was a mere fever dream, lost to the winds. The smirk curling his lips tells you he knows exactly what’s you’re feeling

• Esme, the little sweetheart, asks if you want to bake with her and then binge medically realistic hospital shows. You’re about to propose something a little more inclusive, without food and coughing patients but she looks so hopeful and honestly, you don’t care what you do if it’s with her. So you bake, she enjoys the sweet aroma of fresh baked cookies and you eat your (her, really) masterpiece. The show is paused and unpaused between on topic banter or questions, you cuddled under her arm with her head under your chin and it’s a perfect representation of your relationship all around. Pure and tender

• Poly!Cullens make it all about you. You’re so young and fresh to the world and you need to be shown the importance of love and understanding and unconditional companionship.

They’ve all had their moments over the years, will have their moments again in the years to come but for now they’ll teach you the truth of love without expectance. Whatever you want, you all can find a way to participate somehow, someway.

Though, you jest, should probably keep the hearts under wraps. Wouldn’t wanna set off any vampires!

~ 𐀔 ~ 𐀔 ~ 𐀔 ~

P.s. I know valentines is usually considered romantic but I want to remind those without external romance right now that self romance is just as precious. Do something nice for yourself! You’re very loved <3

[halfmoonaria]

i’ll be watching you

pairing: lorraine day & female reader

summary: lorraine's quiet obsession with you grows as she battles her faith, her relationship, and feelings she can't control.

word count: 8.1k

warnings: religious topics & sins

The van rattled along the dusty Texas road, its engine coughing like it was on its last breath.

Lorraine sat near the back, the vibration of the bumpy ride jolting through the seat and up her spine. She kept her hands clasped tightly in her lap, gripping her bag as if holding onto it would somehow anchor her in this unfamiliar world.

RJ had promised this would be worth it—a once-in-a-lifetime chance to capture something "raw and authentic."

He hadn't mentioned the suffocating heat inside the van, the reek of cigarettes mingling with the sweet, sharp tang of cheap perfume, or the company she'd be keeping.

Maxine lounged near the front, legs sprawled out like she owned the place, while Bobby-Lynne leaned out the window, her laughter ringing out every few minutes, high and grating.

Lorraine stayed silent, a passenger on a trip she hadn't wanted to take, but one she'd been too weak to refuse.

When the van pulled over to pick you up, Lorraine didn't even glance toward the door. She had already decided what to think of you—another girl chasing the same shallow dream, as superficial and self-absorbed as the others.

The sound of your boots hitting the steps barely registered, and she kept her eyes fixed on the worn fabric of the seat in front of her.

Then you spoke.

"Hi, y'all."

Your voice wasn't what she expected—soft, warm, carrying only the faintest trace of a Southern drawl. Not like Bobby-Lynne's exaggerated twang or Maxine's clipped tone, but something quieter. Calmer. It made her look up despite herself.

The sun poured in through the open door behind you, outlining your figure in a soft glow. You stood there for a moment, a small smile on your lips, looking at each of them like you weren't the least bit intimidated.

Your presence didn't demand attention the way Maxine's did, nor did it clamor for approval like Bobby-Lynne's. Instead, it drew her in with something gentler—an understated confidence that felt entirely out of place in a van like this.

You climbed in, your movements unhurried, and as you found a spot across from her, you glanced over, catching her eye.

"I'm Y/N," you said, your voice cutting through the murmurs of conversation. "Nice to meet ya."

The smile you offered her wasn't forced or flirty, just... kind. She stared back, too startled to say anything, her lips parting as if to respond but nothing coming out.

She ducked her head quickly, pretending to adjust the strap of her bag, but the warmth of your gaze lingered long after you turned away.

The others quickly absorbed you into their noisy banter, asking questions, making jokes, but Lorraine barely noticed. Her attention kept flicking back to you, even when she told herself not to look.

Your voice was like a melody she couldn't ignore, the faint lilt of your accent weaving through the others'.

She watched the way your hands moved as you spoke, the way you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, even the way you sat—relaxed but somehow poised, as if this cramped, overheated van was the last place you'd rather be, yet you'd decided to make the best of it.

You caught her staring once. She froze, her breath hitching as her heart kicked up an uneasy rhythm.

But instead of looking away or calling her out, you smiled. It was soft, almost shy, and for a moment she wondered if you thought the same of her as the others did: the silent preacher's daughter, too meek to say no, tagging along to remind everyone of sin.

She wasn't sure why it bothered her so much. The way you looked at her didn't feel like pity—not exactly. And yet, that one small smile was enough to send a ripple of something unfamiliar through her chest, something she didn't want to examine too closely.

You weren't like Maxine or Bobby-Lynne, not really. They were beautiful in loud, obvious ways, with their perfect hair and sharp smiles. You were different—beautiful in a way that didn't ask for attention, yet somehow demanded it all the same.

By the time the van pulled back onto the road, Lorraine found herself stealing glances at you whenever she thought no one would notice.

The ride was long, the road bumpy, and the sun relentless as it painted the horizon in hues of gold and orange. But all she could see was you—the way the light caught in your hair, the way your lips curved when you laughed.

It wasn't just that you were pretty. It was the way you carried yourself, the way you existed without apology or pretense.

Lorraine didn't understand it, but as the hours stretched on, she found herself watching you more than she'd watched anyone else in her life.

And when you smiled at her again—just a small, passing thing, like the flicker of a candle—she felt something crack open inside her, something that made her both want to run and never leave.

That was when it started.

Lorraine didn't know what it was—not at first. It wasn't like some sudden, earth-shattering realization, not the kind of thing you read about in stories where the world tilts sideways and everything changes.

It was slower than that, quieter. Like water seeping into cracks she hadn't noticed were there, filling spaces she didn't know existed until they were overflowing.

At first, it was just curiosity. That's what she told herself, anyway.

You were different—so different from anyone she'd ever met. You didn't talk like Maxine or Bobby-Lynne, who spoke like they always had something to prove. You didn't move like them either, didn't push yourself to the front of every room or dress like you wanted people to look at you. And yet, Lorraine couldn't stop looking.

It wasn't even conscious at first. Her eyes would drift toward you without permission, catching on the way your lips curved when you laughed or the way you'd tilt your head when you listened to someone speak, your expression soft and thoughtful.

She noticed the little things—how your nails were painted pale pink, already chipped at the edges, or how you smelled faintly like vanilla whenever you brushed past her in the cramped space.

She caught herself doing it more than once, lingering too long or looking away too quickly whenever you turned toward her. It made her stomach twist, a sharp, guilty thing that she couldn't ignore.

She told herself it wasn't what it seemed. She didn't want to look at you like that—not in the way Wayne looked at Maxine or Jackson looked at Bobby-Lynne. That wasn't her. It couldn't be her.

Not with everything she'd been taught.

Her father's voice echoed in her head more often than she cared to admit.

The eyes are the window to the soul. And sin begins with the eyes.

She tried to believe that was all it was—just looking. But even as the words circled in her mind, they rang hollow. Because it didn't feel like just looking.

It felt dangerous.

You were dangerous.

And yet, she couldn't stop.

The worst part was that you didn't make it any easier. You were nice to her—too nice. Friendly in a way that wasn't forced, wasn't mocking. You talked to her like you actually cared about her answers, not just because it was polite. You smiled at her even when she barely said two words in return.

You didn't look at her like everyone else did—the preacher's daughter, the tagalong who was only there to keep the group from falling into sin. The quiet one who'd be clutching a Bible and praying for their souls before the trip was over.

No, when you looked at her, it felt... different. Like you saw someone else entirely.

And maybe that's what scared her the most.

Because sometimes, when you smiled at her like that, she wondered if you saw the things she was too afraid to admit even to herself.

It felt wrong.

Of course, it felt wrong. How could it not?

You were a girl.

Her father's sermons flashed through her mind—fiery speeches about sin and damnation, about the unnatural urges that led people straight to hell. She could practically hear his voice, deep and unyielding, reminding her that God was always watching.

But sometimes, when she was watching, it didn't feel like sin.

It felt... inevitable.

Like it had always been there, buried deep beneath everything she thought she was, waiting for someone like you to dig it out and hold it up to the light.

And maybe that was what scared her most of all.

Because as much as she hated herself for it—hated the way her stomach tightened whenever you leaned too close or the way her chest ached whenever you smiled at her—she didn't want it to stop.

She didn't want to stop.

It wasn't just that it was wrong. It was that she was already with someone.

RJ wasn't perfect—not by any stretch. He was passionate about his work, sometimes to the point of obsession, and he had a way of talking over her without realizing it.

But he cared about her. She knew that. She'd seen it in the way he always held the van door open for her, how he remembered her coffee order without having to ask, how he talked about their future like it was set in stone.

And maybe it wasn't the kind of love that made her heart race or her hands tremble, but it was steady. Safe.

Or at least, it had been.

Lately, RJ's touch felt heavier than it used to. His hand on her back when he guided her into a room felt more like a weight than a comfort, and the way he looked at her—so expectant, so sure—made her chest tighten in all the wrong ways.

And the worst part? It wasn't just about her. It was about you.

Every time you walked into the room, she felt it—the way her pulse quickened, the way her eyes sought you out before she could stop them. She hated herself for it. For all of it.

She tried to tell herself it didn't matter. That it didn't mean anything. But it did.

Because no matter how much she wanted to deny it, she knew the truth.

It wasn't RJ's name she thought of when her head hit the pillow at night.

And she knew it wasn't fair. To him, to you, to herself. But fairness didn't seem to matter anymore. Not when she was trapped in this endless cycle of guilt and longing, watching as you moved through her world like you belonged in it while she felt more out of place than ever.

She couldn't even look at RJ sometimes. Not without feeling like he could see it all—like he knew.

She felt like she was betraying him every time you smiled at her, every time your hand brushed against hers, every time you laughed and her stomach twisted in ways it never had before.

But it wasn't just about RJ. It was about everything. Her family, her faith, the expectations she'd carried on her shoulders her entire life.

She wasn't supposed to feel this way.

Not about you.

Not about anyone.

But she did.

And no matter how many times she told herself to stop, no matter how many prayers she whispered into the dark, it didn't go away.

If anything, it only got worse.

Because you were always there. Smiling, laughing, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, looking at her like she was normal when she felt anything but.

And the more she tried to resist it, the more she felt like she was drowning.

It was impossible not to watch you.

You had a way of commanding attention without even trying, an effortless magnetism that drew her eyes like a moth to a flame. She told herself it was innocent at first—just casual glances, nothing more. But casual turned into frequent, and frequent turned into constant.

Every breath you took seemed to pull her in deeper, every move you made felt like it was meant for her.

She noticed everything. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when the summer breeze caught it, the soft drumming of your fingers against your knee when you thought no one was looking. The curve of your jaw. The faint flush of your cheeks when you laughed. It wasn't just attraction—it was fixation, pure and simple.

And the worst part? You didn't even know.

You had a habit of walking just ahead of the group, confident and carefree in a way that left her breathless.

The sun lit up your hair like a halo, and she hated how much she noticed, how much it mattered. Her gaze followed you without permission, tracing the way you moved, the slight sway of your hips as you climbed the steps into the house or stretched your arms over your head after a long ride.

She tried to look away. Tried to focus on anything else. But it was like you'd taken up permanent residence in her mind, always lingering just out of reach.

Even in the quiet moments, when you weren't in front of her, you were still there.

She'd catch herself thinking about you when she was supposed to be helping RJ, your voice playing in her head, your smile flashing behind her eyes. It wasn't just the way you looked—it was the way you were. Bright and unguarded, like nothing could touch you.

You haunted her.

And she couldn't stop.

It didn't matter where you were or what you were doing. Laughing with Bobby-Lynne, leaning against the porch railing lost in thought, adjusting your clothes before filming started. Her eyes always found you.

You were like a beacon in the dark, drawing her closer and closer, even when she knew she shouldn't look. Even when she hated herself for it.

The more she watched, the more it felt like you were meant to be hers.

And the whole problem was that Lorraine had told herself from the start that she wouldn't look.

The moment she realized what kind of film RJ was making, she'd felt her stomach twist in disgust. It wasn't just about the immorality of it—although that alone was enough to make her chest tighten—it was about what it meant to be here, surrounded by people who seemed so shameless.

Sex before marriage was a sin. Watching others commit that sin was a sin. Hearing it was a sin, too, but she told herself that part didn't count. She couldn't help what her ears picked up.

But her eyes? Her eyes were her choice.

She swore she wouldn't watch. Not Maxine. Not Bobby-Lynne. Not you.

Especially not you.

Yet here she was.

She stood just out of frame, the heavy microphone in her hands, pretending she was focused on her job. She should have been looking anywhere else—at RJ, at the equipment, at the wall. But her gaze was locked on you.

And she couldn't tear it away.

You were in the middle of the room, bathed in the golden light RJ insisted on, your bare skin glowing as though it were meant to be admired. Every movement you made was deliberate, slow, and fluid, and Lorraine hated the way her breath caught in her throat.

It wasn't supposed to look like this.

It wasn't supposed to feel like this.

Her hands tightened around the mic as you shifted, arching your back ever so slightly. She could see every line of you—every curve, every muscle—and she felt as though she were drowning. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out RJ's quiet directions and the faint hum of the equipment.

She didn't want to notice how your lips parted, how soft sounds spilled from your mouth like a prayer meant only for her. She didn't want to see the way your eyes fluttered closed, lashes brushing your cheeks. And she certainly didn't want to feel the heat pooling in her chest, in her stomach, like something dark and forbidden had taken root inside her.

But she noticed. She saw everything.

You didn't even look her way, didn't seem to care that she was there. You were so focused, so lost in the moment, and it made it easier for her to stare.

The worst part was that it all felt real.

The way you moved, the way you sounded—it didn't feel like an act. And even if it was, she couldn't stop herself from imagining what it would be like if it weren't. If it were just you, without the cameras, without the others.

That thought alone made her want to scream.

She told herself it wasn't her fault. You were impossible to ignore. Anyone would be drawn to you in this moment. But deep down, she knew it wasn't true.

It wasn't anyone else.

It was her.

It wasn't just her eyes that betrayed her now—it was her thoughts.

She told herself it wasn't intentional, but the image was already there, unshakable. She imagined what it would feel like if it were her beneath you. If your touch was meant for her, if your lips formed her name instead of someone else's.

The thought left her reeling.

Her grip on the microphone faltered for a moment, her palms slick with sweat. She swallowed hard, her throat tight, as if choking down the weight of her own guilt. It wasn't just wrong—it was blasphemous. A sin beyond comprehension.

How could you think that?

Her mind screamed at her, the voice so loud and damning that it might as well have been her father's. She could practically hear his sermons echoing in her head, the fire and brimstone warnings about lust, about temptation, about damnation. And yet, even as the guilt gnawed at her, she couldn't stop.

You shifted again, the slow, deliberate arch of your back drawing her in like a magnet. The soft, breathy sounds you made were too much—too intimate, too real. Every curve, every movement seemed designed to unravel her completely, and she hated how easily it worked.

Her chest felt tight, her breath shallow, as if her body was betraying her just as much as her mind.

You're disgusting, she thought, her nails digging into the skin of her palm as if the pain could ground her, pull her back from the brink. But it didn't work. Nothing worked.

The more she tried to push the thoughts away, the stronger they became.

She imagined your hands on her, guiding her, claiming her, and it sent a rush of something dark and electric through her veins. It wasn't just desire—it was longing, raw and desperate, the kind that ached deep in her bones. The kind she'd spent her whole life pretending she couldn't feel.

And it terrified her.

She tore her eyes away, forcing herself to stare at the floor, at the worn wood planks beneath her feet. But even then, it wasn't enough. She could still hear you, every sound a brand against her soul, scorching her from the inside out.

The idea that she wanted this—wanted you—felt like poison. But the worst part wasn't the wanting.

The worst part was that, for one brief, fleeting moment, she imagined you wanting her back.

That thought sent her spiraling, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might break through her ribs. She clenched her jaw, her teeth grinding together as if she could force the thought away, but it was no use. The image of your hands on her, of your lips against her skin, was burned into her mind.

It was wrong. It was unforgivable.

But God help her, she didn't want it to stop.

That thought lingered long after the cameras stopped rolling, clinging to her like a second skin. It followed her through the rest of the day, its weight pressing down on her chest. Even as the others laughed and drank, their voices bouncing off the walls of the small cabin, Lorraine remained quiet, clutching her Bible and pretending to read, the words on the page a blur.

Her hands trembled when she turned the pages, her mind too full of you—of what she'd seen, what she'd felt, what she'd wanted.

By the time night fell, she was exhausted, every muscle in her body tense as though she'd been fighting herself for hours. When RJ led her to the room they'd been given, she followed in silence, her legs moving on autopilot.

Now, lying beside him in the dark, the bed creaking softly beneath their combined weight, she stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe through the fire still burning low in her stomach.

The small cabin creaked around them, the old wood shifting and settling as the night stretched on. The bed was uncomfortable, the mattress too firm, but that wasn't what kept her awake.

She knew exactly what it was.

Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her skin damp with sweat. It clung to her neck and shoulders, making her feel trapped, suffocated, as if the air itself were pressing down on her. She thought of her father's voice, his sermons about the flames of Hell. This is what he meant, isn't it?

Satan's fire, consuming her from the inside out.

She turned onto her side, her back to RJ, curling in on herself as though that might contain the shame threatening to drown her. But the moment she closed her eyes, there you were.

You were just down the 'hall', asleep on the couch. She could picture it too vividly—the soft rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, your hair spread out across the cushion, your body at peace in the dim light of the living room.

Her mind replayed the day's events in agonizing detail. The way you'd looked under the camera's gaze. The way you moved, so natural, so confident, as if you'd been born to be admired. The way your skin seemed to glow, the soft sheen of sweat catching the light.

She felt the heat rise in her again, shame creeping up her neck as she pressed her thighs together, desperate to quell the growing ache.

Your voice echoed in her head, soft and teasing, the way you'd laughed earlier that day when Jackson made some offhand joke.

The sound of your moans, still fresh in her memory, sent a shiver down her spine, her fingers curling into the sheets. She could see you so clearly—your skin glowing under the lights, the gentle arch of your body, the way you moved as though you were completely at ease, completely yourself.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry as her pulse pounded in her ears.

It wasn't just the memory of what she'd seen. It was the knowledge that you were close, completely unaware of the effect you had on her.

You'd volunteered to sleep on the couch, brushing off Wayne's half-hearted suggestion that someone else take it, and she hated how selfless you'd seemed, how kind.

It only made her feel worse.

She shifted again, her body tense, her skin sticky with sweat despite the cool night air drifting in through the cracked window. Her legs rubbed together under the sheets, and she froze at the sensation, shame washing over her in a tidal wave.

Her stomach churned as the thought of you invaded her mind once more, the memory of your body, your sounds, your smile. She squeezed her eyes shut, biting down hard on her lip to stifle the gasp threatening to escape.

It wasn't just desire; it was torment.

She shouldn't have watched. She should've turned away, closed her eyes, done anything but what she did. But no matter how much she tried to convince herself of that now, it didn't change the truth.

She had watched.

And she had liked it.

Every movement, every sound, every fleeting expression—it was all burned into her mind, and the worst part was she didn't want to let it go.

The cabin felt suffocating, the air thick with the weight of her guilt. She lay there, trembling, as the hours stretched on, her thoughts circling back to you again and again.

You, asleep, so close yet so far.

You, who had no idea what you'd done to her.

You, who would never know.

And Lorraine, too afraid to close her eyes, because she knew exactly what she'd see.

That's what brought her here, the quiet desperation thrumming under her skin as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She couldn't stand it anymore—the weight of the images burned into her mind every time she closed her eyes, the phantom sound of your laughter echoing in her ears.

She told herself it was for water. A simple glass of water to ease her dry throat. Nothing more.

It's only water. Was what she told herself as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the hem of her striped nightgown brushing against her thighs. The cool summer air kissed her skin as soon as she peeled the covers back, a welcome relief to the suffocating heat that had consumed her body.

RJ didn't stir beside her. His breath remained even, oblivious. She moved carefully, her bare feet meeting the wooden floor, and winced as its coarse texture bit into her soles.

Everything in this cabin seemed to be made of wood—rough, unpolished, as though designed to make you feel each step.

Each creak of the floorboards echoed in her ears as she tiptoed toward the door. Her breath hitched every time she shifted her weight, convinced for a fleeting moment that RJ would wake and ask where she was going. But he didn't. He never even flinched.

The handle was cool under her palm, the door groaning softly as she slipped into the hallway. The moonlight streamed in through the thin curtains, illuminating the narrow path toward the main room where the sink and the couch sat.

Where you were.

She told herself it wasn't about you. She repeated the lie in her mind as her feet carried her forward, her nightgown swaying with each step. It was about water. Her throat was dry. That's all it was.

But with every careful step, her heartbeat quickened, and her palms dampened. The closer she got to the big room, the harder it became to ignore the pull, the quiet voice whispering that she wasn't walking toward the sink at all.

The air shifted when she reached the room, the warm summer breeze filtering through the open windows and ruffling the hem of her nightgown. Her eyes landed on the sink first, a hollow pretense of her purpose for being there. But then they flicked to the couch, and everything else faded.

You were asleep, sprawled out on your side, one arm tucked under your pillow, the other draped lazily over the edge. The blanket you'd pulled over yourself earlier was half-kicked off, and your sleep shirt had ridden up, exposing the soft curve of your stomach. The moonlight cast a faint glow over your skin, making it almost luminescent, and Lorraine's breath hitched.

She stopped in her tracks, her hand clutching the fabric of her nightgown as though it might steady her. The thought of water dissolved entirely, replaced by a new, all-consuming awareness.

You looked peaceful, your chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, completely unaware of the world around you—or of her.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she stared, unable to move, unable to tear her gaze away. The gentle slope of your exposed skin, the slight parting of your lips, the way your hair fanned out across the pillow—it was too much and not enough all at once.

Her breathing grew shallow as she stood there, rooted in place, her grip tightening. She should move. She should turn away, fill a glass of water, and go back to bed.

But she didn't.

Her chest rose and fell in sync with yours, her own breaths growing ragged as she watched you.

She tried to remind herself that this was wrong, that she had no business standing there, staring at you like this. But no matter how loud that voice screamed in her head, her feet wouldn't budge.

Her gaze traced the delicate rise and fall of your ribcage, the way your body seemed to glow in the moonlight, and the warmth that she'd thought she'd left behind under the covers began to spread through her again.

Every breath you took, every slight movement of your body as you shifted in your sleep—she saw it all.

And she couldn't look away.

Until you moved again.

It was subtle at first—a soft sigh leaving your lips as your fingers flexed against the blanket, the tiniest hint of tension releasing from your body.

Then your hand slipped over the edge of the cushion, and Lorraine's heart began to race. She watched as you stretched, your back arching slightly, and let out a quiet murmur that sent a shiver crawling up her spine.

For one terrifying moment, she thought you might wake. Your lashes fluttered, and your head turned slightly, lips parting as though preparing to speak. Lorraine froze in place, her pulse a deafening roar in her ears, every muscle in her body stiff and bracing for the worst. What would you say if you saw her standing there? Would you scream? Would you ask her why?

She stumbled back a step, her heel catching on the edge of the wooden floorboard, and the soft creak that followed was louder than a gunshot in her mind. Her stomach dropped as she watched your body stir in response. The blanket slipped further down your waist, revealing more of your skin, and her eyes flicked to the smooth curve of your exposed hip before she could stop herself.

Her breathing quickened. You shifted again, this time with more purpose, and she thought for sure you were waking now. The panic clawed at her throat, her breath hitching in short, shallow gasps. What was she doing? What was wrong with her?

She had to leave.

Her bare feet moved in frantic little steps across the wooden floor, each creak of the boards beneath her weight feeling impossibly loud in the stillness of the cabin. The summer air that had felt soothing only moments ago now seemed to press against her skin, amplifying the heat she thought she'd left behind in bed.

She didn't stop moving until she reached the doorway of the bedroom, the soft sound of your breathing still lingering in her ears.

She dared one final glance over her shoulder, her gaze locking onto the rise and fall of your chest, the soft glow of the moonlight casting you in a haze that was almost angelic.

You stirred again, your hand brushing the edge of the couch as you shifted onto your side. Lorraine turned sharply, her heart hammering as she slipped back into the room she shared with RJ. She didn't bother to grab the water she'd told herself she needed. She wasn't thirsty anymore.

Her hands trembled as she pulled the covers back up, slipping carefully into the bed so as not to wake him. RJ didn't stir; his deep, even breathing filled the room, a stark contrast to her own erratic gasps for air. She clenched her fists beneath the blanket, pressing them to her thighs in an attempt to steady herself.

Her body betrayed her, burning hotter than it had all night, and she thought of her father. He would've told her this was Satan's fire, consuming her from the inside out for every sin she'd committed. And this sin—this one felt worse than all the rest.

Her mouth was dry. No—her mouth was watering. The contradiction made her head spin, and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the darkness would bring her some kind of peace. But it didn't.

And now she was back in this bed, beside RJ, her body trembling with emotions she didn't understand and thoughts she knew she couldn't let herself have. She couldn't let herself want you. She couldn't want this.

But she did. And it was killing her.

The silence of the room pressed down on her like a weight, heavier than RJ's presence beside her. She stared up at the ceiling, the faint creaks of the cabin settling in the cool night air doing little to distract her from the relentless swirl of thoughts in her mind. Her body was tense, every nerve alight with a sensation she didn't want to name.

She shifted beneath the blanket, turning on her side to face the wall. Maybe if she didn't look at him—if she pretended she was alone—it would be easier to find some kind of solace. But her body wouldn't stop its trembling, her mind refusing to let go of the image of you lying on that couch.

The soft glow of moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting long, pale lines across the wooden floor. She focused on them, counting the beams as though they could anchor her to something solid. Anything to drown out the sound of your quiet breathing echoing in her mind.

Her fists unclenched slowly, her muscles loosening by fractions as exhaustion crept into her limbs. She could still feel the warmth of her skin, the remnants of her earlier torment lingering like embers that refused to die out completely. But it was fading now, dulled by the weight of her body sinking into the thin mattress.

Her eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, though her mind fought to stay awake, as if sleep would only bring her closer to the sins she'd already committed in her heart. She pressed her face into the pillow, the scent of detergent and faint wood smoke grounding her for just a moment.

She didn't want to sleep. She didn't want to dream. Because she already knew what—or who—she'd see.

But her body betrayed her once again, her breathing evening out as the fire in her chest began to dim. Slowly, her thoughts dissolved into the haze of sleep, though they lingered just enough to torment her in the in-between moments where consciousness fought to stay alive.

Lorraine finally drifted off, the image of your soft smile and the sound of your voice the last things to follow her into the dark.

___

The morning sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, warm and unrelenting as it spilled across the bed. Lorraine stirred, her face pressed into the pillow, her chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. But even as she blinked herself awake, the remnants of her dream clung to her, vivid and insistent.

It wasn't the kind of dream she could shake off. It wasn't the kind she wanted to talk about either.

Her heart pounded as she sat up slowly, the weight of what she'd seen behind her closed eyes pressing heavily on her. Images she couldn't justify and feelings she couldn't name flickered in her mind like a film reel, just out of focus but impossible to ignore.

She had dreamt of herself.

Of being in the movie.

The very idea made her stomach twist. She knew what it meant to even think it, let alone dream it. It was a betrayal of everything she'd ever been told to value, to protect. But there it was, lodged in her mind, as if her subconscious had peeled back a layer of herself she hadn't known was there.

Throughout the morning, she moved about the cabin in a daze. RJ was busy setting up the camera for the next scene, his words barely registering as he explained angles and lighting. Maxine and Bobby-Lynne lounged on the porch, their laughter carrying in the warm breeze, carefree and loud.

And yet, Lorraine's thoughts remained elsewhere.

She couldn't stop replaying the dream in her mind—the way she had looked, the way she had felt. Confident. Beautiful. Free.

She wanted to dismiss it as nonsense, just a trick of her overworked mind, but it didn't feel like nonsense. It felt real, tangible, like something she was supposed to understand but didn't yet have the courage to face.

It wasn't just about the dream, either. It was about everything—the lingering stares, the secret thoughts, the quiet rebellion she felt building in her chest. She'd spent her whole life being the preacher's daughter, the girl who followed the rules, who knew exactly where she belonged.

But maybe she didn't belong there anymore.

The dream had sparked something in her. A defiance she didn't know she had.

And now, she couldn't stop thinking about it.

She wanted to prove something—not just to them, but to herself. That she wasn't just the preacher's daughter. That she could be more. That she could feel more.

The thought terrified her.

But it also thrilled her.

Which was why she decided to bring it up.

The room had been alive with chatter, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, the faint hum of Jackson's guitar mingling with the clink of beer bottles and low laughter. They'd all been lounging—Maxine stretched across the couch like a cat, Wayne sitting close by, Bobby-Lynne perched with a sharp grin, and you leaning back in one of the chairs, looking as effortlessly calm as ever.

Lorraine had been quiet, like always, sitting beside RJ on the smaller loveseat. But this time, something was different.

Her heartbeat was heavy, thudding against her ribcage as she gripped her bottle tighter, the condensation dampening her fingers.

It had been building all day—the thought, the idea. It had started as a spark, something she would've dismissed immediately, but it refused to leave her mind. The movie. The scenes. What it would mean if she...

The words left her mouth before she could overthink it again.

"I want to be in it."

The room had gone still, so suddenly it almost felt suffocating. All the casual chatter, the noise, the laughter—it evaporated in an instant. And every eye in the room turned to her.

RJ's reaction had been immediate, as she expected. Shock, disbelief, frustration. He'd leaned forward, his voice rising with each objection, his words sharp with desperation. He'd listed reason after reason—how the movie was already planned, how it was too late, how her father would never forgive her, how it wasn't right. He'd grasped at excuses, anything to sway her, to make her back down.

But Lorraine hadn't.

She'd held her ground, her gaze steady, even as her chest tightened with every word he spat at her. She'd kept her voice calm, her answers firm, but the weight of his resistance still gnawed at her resolve.

And then, you had spoken.

You, leaning casually in your chair, had smiled—not in disbelief like the others, not in mockery, but with something softer. Pride. It caught her off guard, that look. Like you were proud of her for finally speaking up, for doing something that wasn't expected of her.

"She's got a point," you'd said, your tone light but edged with a confidence that immediately shifted the energy in the room. "She's got a hot bod. Why not let the preacher show it off?"

The room had rippled with reactions—Bobby-Lynne's sharp laugh, Maxine's raised brow, Wayne's amused nod. RJ had sputtered, trying to regain control of the conversation, but your voice cut through his protests like a knife.

"She wants to do it, RJ," you'd continued, leaning forward just slightly, your eyes flicking toward Lorraine. "Let her. And honestly, it's not like it's gonna mess up your masterpiece, right?"

Your words shouldn't have meant as much as they did, but they settled into her chest like a warm glow, fueling her resolve in a way nothing else could. You hadn't laughed at her, or dismissed her, or tried to talk her out of it. You'd defended her, again and again, your calm voice countering RJ's panic with an unshakable certainty.

And that smile—that little smirk tugging at the corner of your lips—lingered in her mind long after the conversation had ended. It wasn't just approval. It was something more, something she couldn't quite name but felt all the same.

When RJ had stormed off, muttering angrily under his breath, and the others had gone back to their drinks and cigarettes, Lorraine stayed rooted in place.

She was still reeling from what she'd said, from what it meant. But more than anything, she was reeling from the way you'd looked at her, from the way her chest felt full and weightless all at once.

Conversations flared up again, quieter this time, but there was a charged energy in the air now, a mix of curiosity and excitement. The idea of Lorraine being in the movie had sparked something no one could ignore, even if RJ wasn't around to approve it.

Wayne, ever the opportunist, leaned forward with a sly grin, rubbing his hands together like a man ready to strike gold. "Alright then," he drawled, his voice cutting through the lingering tension. "If Lorraine's serious about this—and it seems like she is—guess the only question left is... who's gonna be in the scene with her?"

That question set off a ripple of reactions. Maxine groaned, stretching out further on the couch as if the conversation bored her. Bobby-Lynne smirked, taking a slow drag from her cigarette, clearly intrigued but not volunteering.

"Don't look at me," Maxine finally said, lifting her hands in mock surrender. "I'm not into girls. Not like that, anyway."

Bobby-Lynne laughed, flicking ash into the tray on the table. "Aw, c'mon, Max. Don't be shy. You sure you're not a little curious?"

Maxine rolled her eyes but didn't respond, leaving Wayne to glance around at the rest of the room, his gaze eventually landing on Jackson.

"What about you, big guy?" Wayne asked with a grin. "Think you're up for it?"

Jackson shrugged, his easygoing charm never faltering. "I mean, I'd do it, but isn't the whole point of this to shake things up? Add somethin' different?" His gaze flicked briefly to Lorraine, then back to Wayne. "Besides, maybe she'd rather work with someone else."

The room went quiet again, everyone glancing at each other, and then—inevitably—at you.

You'd been sitting back, watching the conversation unfold like it was the most entertaining thing you'd seen all night. But when all eyes turned to you, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

You didn't hesitate, didn't draw it out for dramatic effect. You just leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on your knees, and shrugged.

"Sure," you said casually. "I'll do it."

The simplicity of your response caught everyone off guard. Even Wayne blinked, momentarily speechless, before he laughed and clapped his hands.

"Well, that settles it, then!" he announced, his grin widening.

But you weren't finished. Your gaze slid over to Lorraine, who was sitting stiffly on the loveseat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looked like she was trying to disappear into the cushions, but her wide eyes were locked on you.

"That alright with you, preacher?" you asked, your tone teasing but not unkind. The way you said it—low, smooth, with just a hint of a smirk—sent a flush of heat crawling up her neck.

Lorraine's throat felt dry, her mind scrambling for something, anything, to say. She didn't trust her voice, didn't trust herself to speak without giving away the tangled mess of emotions roiling inside her. So she just nodded, quick and jerky, hoping no one would notice the way her hands trembled against her lap.

The room buzzed with approval, laughter, and a few offhanded comments about how good the scene would be. But Lorraine barely heard any of it.

All she could hear was your voice echoing in her head. All she could see was that smirk on your lips.And all she could feel was the sharp, dizzying pull of you—closer than ever now, in ways she wasn't sure she could handle.

Before she knew it, it was time.

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long, golden beams through the cabin's narrow windows. Dust particles floated lazily in the air, undisturbed by the nervous energy that had settled over the room.

Lorraine stood off to the side, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she watched the small flurry of activity around her.

Wayne adjusted the lighting, barking out instructions while Jackson helped move a piece of furniture out of the frame. Maxine lounged nearby, disinterested but present, while Bobby-Lynne added her own commentary from the couch.

You were in the corner, calmly sipping from a water bottle, looking far too relaxed for what was about to happen.

Lorraine couldn't stop staring.

Her heart was a wild, erratic thing in her chest, threatening to break free from her ribs altogether. Her palms felt clammy, her knees weak, and no matter how many deep breaths she tried to take, the tightness in her chest refused to ease.

She told herself this wasn't a big deal. It was just acting, just a scene. Just a moment she'd chosen to prove herself—to everyone else, to herself, to you. But as the minutes ticked closer to the start of it, all those rehearsed reassurances crumbled like ash in her mind.

Because you were there.

And that changed everything.

You caught her staring. Of course you did. You always did. A small smile tugged at your lips, playful and knowing, and you tipped your chin toward her as if to ask, You ready for this?

She wasn't. Not even close. But she nodded anyway, her fingers curling tightly against her arms.

The world felt like it shrank in those moments. The idle chatter, the shifting of props, Wayne's muttered complaints—it all faded away. All she could see was you, moving toward her now with a lazy confidence that made her feel both exhilarated and terrified.

"You alright, preacher?" you asked softly, your voice low and warm, and her stomach flipped at the teasing edge in your tone.

She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She could only stare as you reached for her wrist, gently tugging her toward the makeshift set. Your hand lingered on her skin for a moment too long before pulling away, and the loss of your touch was like a physical ache.

She followed you on shaky legs, her breaths shallow and uneven. She told herself not to look at you, not to let herself fall further into this impossible, sinful fascination.

But her eyes disobeyed her, drifting to the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your neck, the way the light hit your skin just so, illuminating every inch of you like something holy.

Every breath you took, every movement of your body, every subtle glance in her direction—she saw it all.

She always had.

And now, as she stood mere feet from you, about to do something she never could've imagined just days ago, it felt like everything inside her was on the verge of collapse.

She wanted to look away. She needed to look away. But she couldn't.

Not from you. Never from you.

Her pulse roared in her ears as Wayne called for quiet on set, his voice distant and faint compared to the deafening thrum of her own heart.

You turned to her one last time before the scene began, your eyes locking onto hers. And for a split second, the world stilled.

She wondered if you knew. If you could see it in her—the storm raging beneath the surface, the way every part of her felt like it was about to break free, shattering into pieces you'd unknowingly claimed as your own.

But before she could unravel completely, Wayne's voice cut through the moment.

"Alright, let's roll."

And as the camera's red light blinked on, Lorraine realized her secret was no longer safe—not from herself, not from God, and certainly not from you.