kaces-graham-crackers

[kaces-graham-crackers]

Summer Break/Updates: Almost Outta Here!

I am also done with school! It's been a wild but good semester! I hope you all are doing great. I hope you all are starting to enjoy this warmer weather! I'm moving out of my school's apartment soon! So i will be able to post a lot more! I will be moving out on May 14th, and I will take time to tie up any loose ends or essays the rest of the week. I'll be updating all the popular ones! Sprinkles of oneshots, for Jenna, Tara, and Wednesday. Updating Wednesday's story and Jenna's story. As well as finally start posting the Tara Carpenter x Reader. I must admit I'm itching to get back to my creative writing, it's very fun, and I do love sharing my writings with others and getting feedback or seeing my writing bring smiles to people's faces.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

Stirring the Quiet - (9) The Distance Between Heartbeats

Jenna Ortega x Reader

Summary: The six months starts. Distance lingers, the silence heavier than you expected. You both don’t name what this is—because naming it means admitting something has changed. Jenna calls miles away at the crack of dawn, wearing your favorite hoodie, like she’s afraid of what the quiet might say. And you don’t know if time will keep you both together—or pull you apart.

Word Count: 5.4k

The days leading up to her departure blurred together, slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I tried to hold onto them. I wasn't counting down in dread—not exactly—but every moment felt sharper, more defined like I was imprinting them into my memory so I could replay them later when the silence got too loud. Jenna must have felt it, too. She never said it outright, but she didn't have to. It was in the way she lingered a little longer when I walked her to her door, her fingers curling around my wrist like she wasn't ready to let go just yet—in the way she caught me staring and didn't call me out on it, just met my gaze with something unreadable before shifting closer. On the way, she reached for my hand absentmindedly—across café tables, on the subway, while wandering through the city streets—like it was second nature. There were dates—real ones, not just stolen moments disguised as friendship. We returned to the fall festival before the season changed, browsed through holiday markets as Christmas lights flickered in shop windows, and stayed up too late watching old horror movies in her apartment while the city outside lay wrapped in moonlight. She kissed me in the quiet moments when the world felt like it had shrunk down to just the two of us—soft, unhurried kisses that carried the weight of something neither of us wanted to name. Because naming it would mean admitting that, soon, she'd be gone. And then, the day arrived. I told myself I wouldn't make it harder than it had to be. I wouldn't make it dramatic. But as I gripped the steering wheel, sneaking glances at Jenna in the passenger seat, I knew there was no way to prevent this from sinking in. She was leaving. And even if it wasn't forever, even if it wasn't goodbye, it still felt like something between us was stretching into an unknown space neither of us could define.

Jenna sat with her hands tucked into the sleeves of my hoodie—her new favorite thing to steal, apparently—legs pulled up slightly onto the seat. It was oversized on her, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the fabric bunched around her frame like a second skin. The scent of my detergent, my warmth, still lingered on it, but she wore it like it was hers—like she hadn't straight-up claimed it the moment I let my guard down. The car was filled with the soft hum of music, something low and slow that neither of us had the heart to change. Outside, the city passed in hazy smears of neon and streetlights, but Jenna wasn't paying attention. Her fingers tapped against her knee, her eyes flickering over the familiar streets, the buildings, and the people like she was trying to memorize them before they slipped away from her view. Or maybe—just maybe—she was trying to memorize this. Us. Here. Now. I tightened my grip on the wheel, focusing on the road even as my chest tightened with something I didn't have a name for. I could feel the weight of time pressing in on us, the reality of this being our last drive together before she left. Before, everything shifted into phone calls, text messages, and missing moments instead of making them. She sighed quietly, sinking deeper into my hoodie, pulling the sleeves over her fingers as she could disappear inside them. "I hate this part." I didn't have to ask what she meant. I swallowed, forcing a smirk even though my throat felt tight. "Hate saying goodbye, or hate the part where you steal my clothes and then leave me here to suffer?" Jenna rolled her eyes but didn't fight the way the corner of her mouth twitched. "You act like I don't look better in your hoodie." I glanced at her, noticing how she was practically drowning in it. The hood pulled up just enough to shadow her face. And yeah—she did. She really did. "Not the point," I muttered, shifting gears as I pulled onto the highway. Jenna hummed, unconvinced, resting her chin against the collar of the hoodie like she knew what she was doing to me. Like she knew I wasn't mad about it at all. But I didn't press it. Because if she wanted to take a piece of me with her—something to hold onto while we were apart—I wasn't about to stop her.

The hum of the engine filled the spaces where words wouldn't come, where the weight of what was left unsaid settled in the air like fog. Jenna kept her eyes on the passing scenery, but I could tell she wasn't really seeing it. She was somewhere else. Maybe in the weeks leading up to this moment—each date, each stolen glance, each whispered promise wrapped in something fragile, something neither of us wanted to break. Maybe she was already ahead of us—six months into the future, where the distance had settled between us like an ocean we'd have to learn to swim through. I didn't want to think about that. Instead, I focused on now. On her curled up in my hoodie, stealing warmth from something that would outlast this moment. On the way, her fingers traced absentminded patterns against her knee as if she could distract herself from the inevitable. On the way, she shifted slightly closer without really touching me, her presence filling the car in a way that made my chest ache. My grip on the wheel shifted. "You still excited?" She hesitated before answering, and that alone told me everything. "Yeah," she said finally, but it was softer than I expected. Less sure. "I mean, I've been looking forward to this for so long, but… I don't know. It just feels different now." I glanced at her, catching the way she chewed at her lip, her gaze flickering to me before shifting back to the window. "You mean because of—?" I gestured vaguely between us because saying it out loud made it feel too real, too raw. Jenna let out a quiet laugh, but there was no amusement in it. "Yeah. Because of that." I nodded, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. Me too." She turned to me fully then, one hand pulling at the sleeve of my hoodie, twisting the fabric between her fingers like she was debating something. And then, just as I was about to ask what was on her mind, she reached out, letting her hand settle lightly over mine where it rested on the gearshift. I stilled. Her touch was soft, barely there, but the impact was immediate—like all the air in the car had shifted as the weight of the moment had finally landed between us. "I don't want to go," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, I do. But I don't." I swallowed around the lump in my throat, willing my voice to stay steady. "I don't want you to go either. But you have to." She sighed, her thumb brushing absently over my knuckles. "I know." Silence stretched between us again, but it wasn't heavy. It was something else—something unspoken, something that filled the car with all the things we wanted to say but didn't know how to. When we finally pulled into the airport parking lot, neither of us moved right away. Jenna stared straight ahead, shoulders tensing slightly as she let out a breath. "This is the part where we pretend it's not a big deal, right?" I huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah. I guess so." But it was a big deal. And we both knew it.

The walk through the terminal was slow, stretched by the weight of each step. I carried her bag even though she insisted she could handle it, and she let me, which felt like its own kind of goodbye. We stopped just before security. This was it. Jenna shifted on her feet, looking at me with something unreadable in her expression. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't sure what she was thinking. "You're gonna be okay, right?" she asked again, like she needed the reassurance like she needed to hear it one last time. I let out a slow breath, forcing a small smile. "I should be asking you that." Her lips quirked, but her eyes stayed serious. "You should. But you won't." I shook my head. "Nope." She exhaled sharply, her hands balling into the sleeves of my hoodie. "This sucks." "Yeah," I agreed, voice softer now. "It does." And then, without warning, she grabbed the front of my jacket and pulled me in. The kiss was immediate—no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just her and me and the weight of everything we couldn't put into words. It wasn't soft. It wasn't tentative. It was something else entirely—something desperate, something that tasted like goodbye and promise all at once. Her fingers curled into the fabric, pulling me closer like she could press me into her skin like she could take me with her. And I let her, let myself sink into it, let myself feel everything I'd been trying to ignore since the moment she told me she was leaving. When she pulled back, she didn't go far. Forehead resting against mine, breath mingling in the space between us, she whispered, "I'll call you when I land." I nodded, throat tight. "I'll be waiting." Her fingers lingered for a second longer before she finally, finally stepped back. And then, with one last glance—one last moment where the entire world narrowed down to just the two of us—she turned and walked toward the gate. I stood there long after she disappeared through security, watching the space she had just occupied, feeling the weight of her absence settle into my chest. Six months. I could wait. I would wait.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made everything feel heavier than it should've, stretching across the empty space like a weighted blanket I hadn't asked for. The door clicked shut behind me, locking me into the quiet, and for a moment, I just stood there, keys still in my hand, staring at the dimly lit kitchen like it might have some sort of answer for me. Mr. Noodles had other plans. There was a soft thump, then another, and before I could react, the small, fluffy traitor leaped onto the kitchen counter, tail flicking as he blinked up at me like he knew something was off. He could tell the apartment wasn't supposed to feel this empty. I sighed, dropping my keys into the dish by the door before walking over and running a hand through his fur. "It's just you and me now, buddy." Mr. Noodles let out a soft purr, pressing into my touch, and for a second, I let myself sink into the familiar rhythm—the simple comfort of something still being the same. But the quiet still settled in. I moved through the motions of dinner without really thinking. I popped a frozen meal into the microwave. I listened to the hum as it spun, the artificial glow from the appliance making the kitchen feel even more empty. I grabbed a fork, took the tray, and made my way to the couch, collapsing into the cushions like I could sink into them. Remote in hand, I scrolled aimlessly, looking for something to fill the silence. But nothing looked right. Nothing felt right. Not when— I froze. The cursor had landed on a show—our show—the one we had binged together, the one that had started as background noise but turned into something else entirely. My thumb hovered over the play button, and my heart hammered in my chest. And then, like a cruel trick of the mind, the memory hit.

The apartment had been warm that night, filled with the low flicker of the TV and the sound of Jenna's soft laughter as she curled up beside me, tucked comfortably into my side as if she belonged there. Mr. Noodles had claimed the armrest, his tiny body rising and falling in time with his steady purrs. The show played on, but neither of us was paying attention anymore. Not when Jenna had decided, for whatever reason, to lean over and whisper something absolutely absurd about one of the characters—something so ridiculous I nearly choked on my drink. "Jenna," I groaned, shaking my head, "you can't just say stuff like that." She grinned, unrepentant. "Why not? I'm right." "You're insufferable." "You like it." I had opened my mouth to argue—to try and argue—but she had seen it coming, dodging slightly, giggling as she moved just out of reach. A challenge. One she should've known better than to throw down. "Oh, you think that's funny?" I asked, already shifting. Jenna caught the shift too late. "Wait—" Too late. I moved fast, my fingers finding her sides and tickling just enough to make her dissolve into laughter. She squirmed beneath my touch, her face scrunching up as she fought back. "No—!" she gasped between breathless laughs, pushing at my hands. "Okay—wait, stop—!" I didn't stop. Not yet. Not until she flipped the game, managing to shove me back against the cushions, her hands finding my shoulders as she straddled me. Her hair was a little messy from the scuffle, and her breath was still uneven from laughter. It should've been funny. It should've just been playful. But then, the laughter faded, the energy between us shifting, deepening into something else entirely. The show was still playing, but it may as well have been white noise now. Jenna's hands were still braced against my shoulders, and mine had settled against her waist without even thinking. Her eyes softened. Her breathing slowed. And then—she leaned in. It was slow, deliberate, her fingers trailing up the back of my neck, the warmth of her palms grounding, anchoring, claiming. I barely had time to react before her lips pressed against mine, soft, sure, and aching with something I couldn't quite name. I kissed her back just as eagerly, sinking into the moment, into her, every thought slipping away until there was nothing left but the way she felt, the way she tasted, the way she was. When she finally pulled away, she lingered, eyes searching mine, lips parted like she was trying to remember how to breathe. And then, just above a whisper, she said, "Promise me." I swallowed, still catching up. "Promise you what?" Her fingers traced absent patterns at the nape of my neck, eyes flickering over my face like she was memorizing me, holding onto me. "Don't watch it without me." I let out a breathy laugh, tilting my forehead against hers, my own hands tightening slightly at her waist. "That's what you're thinking about right now?" She didn't smile. Didn't waver. "I'm serious." The weight of it hit me all at once. This wasn't about the show. This was about us. About her realizing, in real-time, just how much she was going to miss this—miss me. About her trying to hold onto something, even if it was as simple as a show we had made ours. My heart clenched, my throat tightening at the sight of her so bare, so unguarded. I cupped the side of her face, my thumb brushing against her cheek, offering her the one thing I could. "I promise," I murmured. "I'll promise you anything if it's gonna ease that pretty head of yours." She exhaled shakily, closing her eyes for half a second before pressing another kiss—softer this time—to the corner of my mouth, lingering like she didn't want to go. Like she didn't want this moment to end. I blinked back to the present. The frozen dinner sat untouched beside me. The TV screen still hovered over the show, and the cursor still hovered over the play. I swallowed hard, setting the remote down without pressing anything. Instead, I sat back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, and let the quiet settle in. Let myself miss her.

The ceiling had never felt so heavy. I had been staring at it for over an hour now, sprawled in the middle of my bed, drowning in the quiet. Not the kind that settled or soothed—not the kind I was used to. This was something else entirely. A weight. A presence of absence. The apartment felt bigger without her. I knew that didn't make sense. Jenna had never lived here—she had her own place, her own space, her own life that ran parallel to mine but never quite fully merged. And yet, she was in everything. In the lingering smell of coffee from the cup she had stolen that morning. The extra blanket still draped over the couch was the one she always wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak. In the hoodie that was supposed to be hanging over the chair in the corner—but wasn't.

I had half a mind to call her out on it. To text her and say, You really couldn't leave me with that one, huh? But I already knew what she'd say. She had claimed it a long time ago—long before she threw it on, taking it with her. It's comfy. It smells like you. It's basically mine now.

The apartment was too still, too empty. My brothers were gone for the week, off on their annual Brother Week, which was essentially just an excuse for them to disappear on some poorly planned road trip and do whatever it was that brothers did when left to their own devices. Normally, I would have tagged along for at least part of it—keeping them from getting arrested or stranded in the middle of nowhere. But this time, I had stayed behind. And now I almost regretted it. At least with them here, the noise would have been enough to drown out the quiet, to keep me from feeling the way Jenna's absence had settled into my chest, deep and persistent. Mr. Noodles hopped onto the bed, landing against my side with an indignant little thump. He stretched out, pressing his warm little body against my ribs, tail flicking as he made himself comfortable. "Yeah, yeah," I muttered, running my fingers through his fur. His purr rumbled against me, steady and grounding like he wasn't concerned that the world had shifted under my feet. I exhaled, rolling onto my side, eyes flicking toward my phone. The screen was dark. No missed calls. No texts. I knew it was too soon. She was still in the air, somewhere between here and where she needed to be. Still caught in the in-between. And I was still here. Waiting.

The plane hummed, steady and rhythmic beneath her, but Jenna barely noticed. She had been staring at the same page of her script for the past ten minutes, eyes scanning over the words without really absorbing them. The reality of the past few hours was still sinking in—the goodbye, the kiss, the way your voice had wrapped around her name right before she turned to leave. Six months. She exhaled, shifting slightly in her seat, fingers tracing the corner of the page before flipping it shut. She wasn't getting any work done like this. "You always read scripts that intensely, or are you just trying to melt it with your eyes?" Jenna blinked, looking up to see the woman sitting next to her. She was familiar—not in a friend way, but in a Hollywood-you-know-of-each-other kind of way. Sophia Reyes. Rising indie darling, critically acclaimed for her last project. "Dangerous Hour" Sharp eyes, effortless charm. The kind of presence that lingered even after she left the room. Jenna smirked, setting the script aside. "I was trying to focus. Didn't work." Sophia hummed, tilting her head slightly. "Something more interesting on your mind?" Jenna hesitated for half a second but knew her silence was already an answer. Sophia raised a brow, a teasing smile pulling at her lips. "The person you kissed at the airport?" Jenna's stomach flipped, and she forced herself not to react too much. "You saw that?" "Not just me," Sophia said, shrugging. "A few of us. You weren't exactly subtle." Jenna huffed, shaking her head, but she could feel the heat creeping up her neck. Sophia leaned back in her seat, watching her. "So, partner? Lover?" She paused, then smirked. "Secret affair?" Jenna rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. She thought of your hands on her waist, the weight of your forehead against hers, the way you had whispered, "I promise you anything if it's going to ease that pretty head of yours." Her chest ached, but in a way that felt good. In a way, that told her you were still with her, even from thousands of miles away. She glanced back at Sophia, expression steady, voice firm. "They're my lover." Sophia's smirk didn't falter, but there was something thoughtful behind her eyes now. She hummed again like she was filing that information away for later. "Lucky them." Jenna didn't respond. Just leaned back into her seat, letting her eyes slip shut as the plane carried her further away from you. But before sleep could fully claim her, before the hum of the plane could lull her into something close to rest, a memory surfaced—one she hadn't even realized she had tucked away for safekeeping.

It had been raining that night. A slow, steady drizzle that made the city glow in slick reflections, puddles catching neon signs and stretching them into distorted colors. You had both been walking home from some late-night café run, hands stuffed into your pockets, shoulders brushing as you moved through the nearly empty streets. Jenna remembered shivering slightly despite the warmth of her jacket. It wasn't cold, not really, but the rain had a way of sneaking past layers and settling into her skin. You had noticed—because, of course, you had. Without a word, you had shrugged off your hoodie, the one she had been eyeing since the moment you met up that evening, and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest. She had tried anyway. "You're going to freeze." You had just grinned, unfazed. "I run hot." She had rolled her eyes, but her fingers had curled into the fabric, pulling it tighter around her. It smelled like you—like coffee and something faintly sweet like the cologne you always swore you barely used. It was also warm, the residual heat from your body sinking into her own, and she hated how much she liked it. Hated how much she wanted to keep it. But the moment that stuck with her wasn't the hoodie or the rain or the way the streetlights painted everything in muted gold. It was when you had stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk, head tilting up toward the sky. "What are you doing?" she had asked, hugging the hoodie closer. "Listening," you had said simply, eyes flickering back to her. "Doesn't it sound different at night?" She frowned slightly, confused, but then she listened. Really listened. When the world was quieter, the rain didn't sound the same. It wasn't just white noise. It was softer, almost melodic, weaving between distant car horns and the occasional sound of laughter spilling from a bar a few blocks away. She had never noticed before. But you had. And as she stood there beside you, her hair damp, your hoodie draped over her shoulders, she realized that was one of the things she liked most about you. The way you noticed things no one else did. The way you found something worth holding onto in the smallest, most ordinary moments. Jenna had looked at you then—looked at you. And maybe it was the rain, the streetlights, or the way your eyes softened when you caught her staring, but something had shifted. She had felt it. Later, when you had walked her back to her apartment, she had hesitated before stepping inside. Not because she didn't want to go in but because she wasn't ready to let the night end. You had sensed it because, of course, you had, and before she could second-guess herself, you had reached out—just the tiniest action, the briefest brush of your knuckles against hers. That had been enough. She had grabbed your sleeve and pulled you just a little closer. Not a kiss, not yet, but something close. A moment that lingered in the space between. "Keep it," you had murmured, glancing at the hoodie she was still wrapped in. "Looks better on you anyway." She had scoffed, but she hadn't argued. And when she had climbed into bed that night, the hoodie still faintly smelling like you, she had fallen asleep faster than she had in weeks. Now, thousands of miles away, Jenna let out a slow breath, fingers unconsciously curling against her arm, where the memory still lingered. Yeah. She could do six months. Because you'd still be there.

The wheels touched down smoothly, the faint jolt barely registering in Jenna's tired body. It was too early, but the city outside was already waking up, golden morning light stretching across the skyline as the plane taxied to a slow stop. She didn't waste time. The moment the seatbelt light dinged off, she reached for her phone, fingers moving on instinct before she even thought about it. The script was in her bag, and the emails were waiting for her—all of it could wait. She needed to hear your voice. Jenna stepped off the plane, adjusting her hoodie—your hoodie—over her head as she made her way through the private exit where her security team, Greg and Will, were already waiting by the car. Greg, the shorter one, was quick to flash her a grin. "Welcome back, boss. Miss us?" Jenna barely glanced at him as she slid into the backseat, phone in hand. "Yeah." Taller and quieter, Will shut the door behind her before entering the passenger seat. "Smooth flight?" "It was Fine," Jenna muttered, already pulling up your contact. Greg glanced at her through the rearview mirror, smirking as he started the car. "Didn't even hesitate. You calling them already?" Jenna ignored him. Will, ever the serious one, just exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Let her be, Greg." Greg shrugged, amused. "I'm just saying she barely got into the car before dialing. That's devotion, man." Jenna glanced at him but didn't bother defending herself. She tapped her screen, bringing the phone to her ear. The phone rang once. Twice. And then— "Jenna?" Your voice hit her like a punch to the chest. Immediate. Familiar. Like home. Her eyes fluttered shut, exhaling softly. "Hey, Slick." You sighed, and she could practically hear the relief in it. "You landed safely?" "Yeah. Just got in the car." She shifted, tugging the sleeves of your hoodie over her hands. "You stayed up, didn't you?" A pause. Then, quieter, "…Maybe." Jenna smiled. Greg made a mock gagging noise up front. "God, you're both so gone for each other. It's disgusting." Jenna reached over and smacked the back of his seat. Will sighed. "Greg, drive the damn car." But Jenna wasn't paying attention to them anymore, not when she felt the softest vibration against her wrist—a gentle buzz from the distance bracelet you had given her before she left. She looked down, her heart twisting. You had touched yours. Without thinking, Jenna pressed her fingers against it, signaling back. The moment she did, another vibration came in return. She exhaled slowly, eyes flickering shut for a moment. A memory bloomed in her mind—the weight of your arms around her, the warmth of your body against hers in that quiet moment before she left.

The suitcases stood by the door. Neither of you acknowledged it. Jenna stood before you, the soft glow of your bedroom lamp casting shadows along the curve of her cheekbones. The room was quiet, save for the city's hum outside and the fabric's faint rustle as she played with the bracelet. You had just fastened it around her wrist, fingertips brushing against her pulse point, lingering in a way that made Jenna's breath hitch. "It vibrates," you murmured, tracing the tiny sensor with your thumb. "When you touch it, mine will buzz too. So that you know, I'm thinking about you." Jenna swallowed, staring at the matching bracelet on your wrist. She lifted her gaze, eyes flickering between yours, and something shifted in her chest—something deep and heavy with the weight of missing you before she left. You smiled softly. "Go on. Try it." Jenna hesitated before pressing her fingertips against the bracelet. A second later, yours buzzed. Your eyes softened, and she felt that quiet pull between you—a connection, even in the distance. Jenna let out a shaky breath, and before she could stop herself, she stepped forward and pulled you in—arms tight, breath unsteady, chest pressing against yours. You caught her without hesitation, letting her fold into you. "I'm gonna miss you," you whispered against her temple. Jenna squeezed her eyes shut, tears silently falling. "You better." You laughed, soft and fond, before spinning her in your arms, earning a surprised yelp that turned into laughter. The moment slowed. Your forehead pressed against hers. She felt your breath fan across her lips, your hands steady on her back, anchoring her. "You'll use it when you miss me, right?" she murmured. You grinned. "Of course." But Jenna's fingers curled into the collar of your hoodie—her hoodie now, actually—and her voice was quieter this time, almost fragile. "Promise?" You reached up, fingertips brushing away the stray tears, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. "I promise," you murmured, your free hand resting on the small of her back. "Anything for you, Jen." She kissed you then. Slow. Deliberate. A silent, unspoken goodbye that wasn't a goodbye at all.

You chuckled, snapping her out of her daze, and she could practically hear the smile in your voice. "Okay, maybe a little. But it's fine. I wanted to hear from you anyway." Jenna leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. The hum of the car and the distant sound of the city outside faded into the background. "Yeah?" "Yeah." A beat passed, then softer, "I missed you." Jenna swallowed. She knew it had barely been a day, but that didn't make it any easier. She tugged at the hoodie's sleeve, fingers fidgeting as she let out a quiet breath. "I missed you too." Greg and Will remained silent in the front, professional as always. However, Jenna still turned toward the window for a little privacy. "You get any sleep?" you asked. "A little." She glanced at the city passing by, familiar streets stretching ahead. "You?" A pause. Then, with a teasing lilt, "Not really. Your fault." Jenna smirked. "Oh? Do tell." "You left and took my favorite hoodie hostage. The betrayal kept me up." She laughed, a genuine one, and Greg side-eyed her in the mirror with a knowing look. She ignored him. "You're an idiot," Jenna murmured, shaking her head. "And you're still in my hoodie," you shot back. "Smells like me, doesn't it?" Jenna didn't answer right away. She shifted, fingers tugging at the sleeve again, biting back a smile. "Maybe." Your laugh was soft, but she could hear the way your voice dropped slightly, more intimate now. "Good. Then you won't forget me." "Like that's possible," she muttered. A pause. Neither of you spoke, but the silence was comfortable. The kind that didn't need filling. Jenna sighed, glancing at the skyline again. "I'm gonna be busy for a while, but I'll text when I can. And you better pick up when I call." "Always," you promised. Something warm settled in her chest. Greg pulled up to the hotel, slowing to a stop. Jenna hesitated. She didn't want to hang up yet. "You still wearing the bracelet?" you asked, like you knew. She glanced down at her wrist, at the simple but significant piece of jewelry you had given her before she left. "Yeah," she murmured. "Still wearing it." "Good," you hummed. "Then I'm still with you." Jenna closed her eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in. "You are," she whispered. Will cleared his throat slightly, signaling that they had arrived. Jenna sighed. "I gotta go." "I know," you said, voice soft. "Call me later?" "You know I will." A pause. Then— "Jenna?" "Yeah?" "Try not to miss me too much." Jenna scoffed, rolling her eyes even as a smile broke through. "Impossible." And with that, she hung up, gripping the phone tightly before exiting the car.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

New Story Ideas

If you have an idea or trope you'd like to see in writing, I'd be glad to bring it to fruition!

[kaces-graham-crackers]

❤️ Thank You for 200 Followers!!!!

Wow! I just checked my activity page, and I must say this: Thank you guys soooo much! I originally made this page to post my Ebonhowl: The Raven's Hound story, but Stirring the Quiet started, and I just ran with it. The oneshots, then other stories came about, posting Ebonhowl, came last. All of this was not planned, but thank you guys for the support, words of encouragement, feedback, and everything. I have not been as active as when I started, but you guys have supported me, and it keeps me motivated, no matter if I'm drowning in schoolwork or work in general. I just wanted to thank you all for sharing just everything, and here's to the next 200!

As for future plans for this page, I'm still working on Stirring the Quiet (it's been slow), but these one-shot ideas have been rolling out, as well as Twelve Tolls 'Till Midnight! and Lure of Darkness. Next week is my birthday! So I may not get a chance to post (it depends if I'm busy next week), but I will try to put something out.

Thank you all for the patience and love! You are beautiful, and Keep shining!

Let me know if you have any feedback, recommendations, or anything in mind you want me to write! I definitely love hearing from you guys!

[kaces-graham-crackers]

A Love to Die For - Valentine's Special

| -Wednesday Addams x Reader- |

Summary: A fierce fencing duel with Wednesday Addams turns rivalry into fascination. As blades clash, sharp wit and reckless defiance ignite curiosity and desire, blurring the line between enemies and something deeper. Victory is only the beginning, as an unconventional confession leads to an unexpected challenge of hearts.

Word Count: 1.6k

Somewhere along the way, this rivalry had become something else. It was supposed to be simple—an exchange of sharp words, a competition that never tipped past the edge of control. But the moment you challenged Wednesday Addams to a duel, that line blurred. Yoko had leaned against your desk, fangs glinting in the dim light of your dorm, entirely too smug for someone offering terrible advice. "If you want to impress Wednesday, do it in a way she'll actually respect." You had raised a brow. "By fighting her?" "By beating her," Yoko corrected. "Or at least making her work for it. She doesn't care about compliments—she cares about opposition. If you challenge her and hold your own, she'll be thinking about you for days." It made a disturbing amount of sense. But standing here now, on the polished fencing mat beneath the cold hum of the gymnasium lights, you were starting to think this was a terrible idea. Wednesday stood across from you, rapier poised, dark eyes calculating even through the mesh of her mask. There was no hesitation in her stance or doubt in how she held her blade. She had already measured you and begun dismantling your technique before the duel started. She wasn't wondering if she would win. She was determining how long it would take. Still, you lifted your blade. If she wanted to crush you, she'd have to earn it. The match began.

Blades clashed, the sharp ring of metal cutting through the still air. Wednesday fought like she knew the outcome before it arrived—every strike designed to lure you into a mistake, every shift of her weight a silent command you refused to follow. But you weren't a fool. You had studied her just as much as she had studied you. She favored control. Precision. Restraint. So you gave her chaos. A feint where there shouldn't be one. A reckless advance when caution would have been wiser. She adapted quickly—of course she did—but for a fleeting moment, you could see it. The way her fingers tightened around the hilt of her rapier. The sharp flicker of something electric in her expression. Amusement. Excitement. She was enjoying this. It nearly made you hesitate. And that, of course, was precisely when she struck. One misstep. One fraction of a second where she predicted your movement before you did. She turned the momentum against you in a single, fluid motion, her rapier slipping past your defenses like this had been inevitable all along. The strike's sting barely registered—what did was the sudden, breathless closeness. Her blade rested against your side, not pressing, just lingering, deliberate, and absolute. Victory. She had won. But the way she was looking at you? It felt like something else entirely. You yanked off your mask, exhaling hard. Your pulse was roaring in your ears, but Wednesday? She wasn't even out of breath. Her expression remained unreadable, but her gaze was too heavy and lingering like she was still assessing you. As if she were deciding something. And then—just as quickly as she had dismantled you on the mat—she turned and walked away. Leaving you standing there, gripping your rapier like you could still salvage something from the wreckage.

From the sidelines, Yoko let out a low whistle. "Well. That wasn't a total disaster." You shot her a glare, still trying to catch your breath. "I lost." "Yeah, but she looked at you like a person instead of an obstacle. That's progress." You opened your mouth—then closed it. Because she wasn't wrong. And that was exactly what scared you.

Wednesday sat at her desk, fingers resting idly against the worn spine of a book she hadn't turned a page of in twenty minutes. Thing tapped against the desk impatiently as if demanding an answer to a question neither of them had asked. Wednesday ignored him. Her mind was still elsewhere. Still turning over every second of the duel—how you fought without discipline but made up for it in instinct and unpredictability. The way you had dared to challenge her at all. You had been reckless. Unrefined. And absolutely fascinating.

Enid sprawled across her bed, finally noticed the silence. "Okay, you're thinking too hard. What's up?" Wednesday lifted a brow. "I think hard all the time." Enid rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but this is different. You're brooding." Thing tapped again. Wednesday exhaled, slow, and measured. "They fought well," she admitted. "Poorly executed but undeniably persistent." She tapped her fingers once against the desk, almost thoughtful. "They do not know when to surrender." Thing slammed a hand against the wood. Enid blinked. Then—her face split into a knowing grin. "Oh. Ohhh." Wednesday frowned. "What?" "You like them." The accusation was made Wednesday, but only for a fraction of a second. She closed her book with a soft snap. "That is a drastic oversimplification."

Enid cackled. "Oh my god, you totally do." Things dramatically flopped onto his back. Wednesday was inhaled, slow, and patient as if speaking to children. "I merely find them… intriguing." She considered it for a moment longer, tilting her head. "I suppose I'll ask them out." Enid choked. Thing threw himself off the desk. Wednesday lifted a brow, watching them flail in disbelief. "You're both being ridiculous." Enid pointed an accusatory finger at her. "You—Wednesday—you just said that like you were deciding to conduct a science experiment!" Wednesday simply folded her hands over her lap. "Perhaps I am." Thing slammed the floor in frustration in an attempt to face-palm. Enid groaned. "Oh my god. This is the worst enemies-to-lovers I've ever seen." But Wednesday ignored them both. Because for the first time in a long time—She was curious. And that? That was dangerous. You should have expected it. Really, you should have.

But when Addams appeared at your dorm door on Wednesday at exactly 9:06 PM, rapping her knuckles against the wood with the precision that suggested she had calculated the most effective knocking pattern for optimal response time—yeah, you hadn't expected that. You stared at her, still gripping the door handle, brain scrambling to catch up. "…Addams?"

Wednesday lifted her chin slightly, her expression unreadable except for the sharp flicker of something in her dark eyes—like she was studying you, assessing how best to deliver a blow. "I have decided something," she said, with no preamble. You blinked. "Um. Okay?" Thing appeared on your desk, signing to warn you of the incoming disaster. Wednesday barely acknowledged him. "I've given the matter appropriate consideration," she continued, voice flat, clinical-like she was delivering a scientific thesis instead of… whatever this was. "And I've come to a conclusion." A pause. A long pause. "…Are you gonna tell me, or are we standing here until the next century?" She didn't even blink. "We should go on a date." The words hit like a punch to the sternum. You blinked again. Once. Twice. Brain buffering. "… I'm sorry, what?" Wednesday tilted her head slightly as if contemplating the possibility that you had lost all cognitive function. "A date," she repeated, unaffected. "A courtship. An outing for mutual observation and analysis, culminating in the determination of compatibility." Your jaw dropped. "Did you just—did you just ask me out like it was a lab report?" "I fail to see how else one would ask someone out." You ran a hand down your face, your brain struggling to keep up with reality.

Wednesday Addams. Asking you on a date. You squinted at her, trying to read between the lines. "Wait. Is this another mind game? Are you trying to humiliate me in some slow-burn, Addams-style revenge plot?" Wednesday blinked, expression as unreadable as ever, but her voice dipped just slightly—lower, quieter. "I do not waste time on things that do not interest me." Your stomach did something that felt dangerously close to flipping. And then—just like that—you understood. The fencing match. The scrutiny. How she had studied you was like an enigma that required solving, a puzzle that was suddenly worth solving. Wednesday didn't just challenge people. She tested them. And somehow—you had passed. You exhaled, still struggling to process the reality of your life choices leading up to this moment. "Okay, um. First, that's the creepiest way anyone's ever asked me out." Wednesday hummed, pleased. "Good." "Second of all—are you seriously interested in me?" Her dark eyes didn't waver. "I would not waste my time otherwise." …Okay. That was probably the closest thing to a confession you would ever get. You crossed your arms, tilting your head. "Fine. Where exactly would we be going if we go on a date?" Wednesday clasped her hands behind her back, her posture almost too composed, as if she had already anticipated the question. "There is a cemetery just outside Jericho that dates back to the early 1800s," she said with zero hesitation. "They host midnight burials for reenactment purposes. I believe it would be both informative and engaging." You stared. Thing threw himself off your desk. "… You're taking me to a funeral?" "A simulated funeral," she corrected. "There will be organ music." You dragged a hand down your face, questioning every decision that led you here. "…You know what? Fine. Let's do it." Wednesday's eyes glinted, satisfied. "I knew you would say yes." Oh god, what had you just agreed to?

|Back in Wednesday's Dorm| "You're actually going on a date," Enid whispered, half in shock, half in delight, watching as Wednesday methodically polished the buttons of her usual black attire. Wednesday didn't look up. "I would not have asked otherwise." Thing tapped aggressively on the desk, asking what she planned to do next. Wednesday considered. "If the evening goes well, I may ask them to assist in an exhumation." Enid screamed into her pillow.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

The iconic duo of Jenna and Sabrina at SNL50 last Sunday night. Found on X.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

📜 ˜”°•.˜”°• 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 •°”˜.•°”˜

"Like a cat slipping between shadows, some stories wait to be discovered." 🖤🐾 | Below lies the collection, each thread woven with ink and passion. |

| ☕ 𝕊𝕥𝕚𝕣𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℚ𝕦𝕚𝕖𝕥 - Jenna Ortega x Reader |

A story of slow sips, stolen glances, and the quiet ache of something unspoken.

Part 1: Sweet Mistakes

Part 2: Brewin' Between the Lines

Part 3: Sips with Stardom

Part 4: Hidden Verses

Part 5: Quiet Signals

Part 6: Behind the Curtains

Part 7: Tangled Thoughts, Clear Hearts

Part 8: Promises in a Kiss

Part 9: The Distance Between Heartbeats

Part 10: ...Coming Soon...

| 🔪 𝙸 𝙽𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝙺𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝙵𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚄𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚈𝚘𝚞 - Tara Carpenter x Reader|

Part 1: Fear Looks a Lot Like You...Coming Soon...

| 🕷️ 𝔏𝔲𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 - Wednesday Addams x Reader |

There was something about them—an unspoken pull, a gravity between shadows and curiosity, between wariness and something far more dangerous.

Part 1: Of Disdain and Distance - (Excerpt)

| 🐈 𝒦𝒶𝒸𝑒'𝓈 𝒪𝓃𝑒𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓉𝓈 ℒ𝒾𝒷𝓇𝒶𝓇𝓎 |

Short-lived but never shallow—some stories only need a moment to leave a mark.

Trick or Treat, Kiss or Keep - Halloween Special - Astrid Deetz x Reader

To Die For - Halloween Special - Monster Hunter Wednesday Addams x Werewolf Reader

Steps of a Midnight Waltz - Halloween Special - Jenna Ortega x Reader

Sweet Foundations - Christmas Special - Jenna Ortega x Reader

Twelve Tolls 'Till Midnight - Part 1: The Wish That Wouldn't Burn - Christmas Special - Wednesday Addams x Reader

Twelve Tolls 'Till Midnight - Part 2: The Final Toll - Christmas Special - Wednesday Addams x Reader...Christmas 2025...

Decked Under the Mistletoe - Christmas Special - Tara Carpenter x Reader

You Wrote This for Me? - Valentine Special - Jenna Ortega x Reader

My Eyes on You - Valentines Special - Tara Carpenter x Reader

A Love to Die For - Valentine Special - Wednesday Addams x Reader

| 🐺 Ebonhowl The Raven's Hound - Wednesday Addams x Female Character (Orginal Character) |

Bound by blood, haunted by shadow—where the beast ends and she begins is a mystery even the dark cannot answer.

Prologue

Chapter 1: Welcome to the Macabre -...Coming Soon...

[kaces-graham-crackers]

My Eyes on You - Valentine's Special

| -Tara Carpenter x Secret Admirer Reader- |

Summary: It starts with a note—small, unsigned, tucked into Tara’s locker like a secret waiting to be unraveled. One at her usual café, slipped between the pages of a book she was reading. Each one too personal, too knowing, referencing moments and memories she didn’t realize someone else had been holding onto. The final note—a time, a place. The answer is waiting in the dark; the admirer is finally ready to be seen.

Word Count: 3.5k

The final bell sliced through the low hum of conversation, a signal that sent students spilling into the hallways like floodgates had been opened. The usual chaos of end-of-day energy buzzed around you—weekend plans being made, lockers slamming shut, the steady stream of people funneled toward the exit.

Beside you, Tara walked quickly, fingers toying absentmindedly with the edge of an envelope she had just pulled from her locker—another one. “Alright, let’s see what my little ghostwriter has to say today,” she mused, already peeling it open. Mindy, Chad, and Anika slowed their steps just enough to listen, equally nosy and entertained. Chad groaned. “Again? What is this, like, the third one this week?”

“Fifth,” Tara corrected, unfolding the note with the same air of nonchalance she had every time, as if it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t slowly picking apart the edges of her mind. Your stomach twisted as she smoothed the paper, eyes scanning the words before reading them aloud. "I wonder if you ever noticed how they looked at you that night at the ice cream shop. The way you made it hard for them not to fall. The way you always do."

Silence.

Anika let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s kind of... romantic?” “Or creepy,” Mindy added, arms crossing. “Who even remembers that night?” You did.

You remembered how Tara had ordered her usual—chocolate with sprinkles—then, for unknown reasons, attempted to balance the entire cone on the back of her hand. She’d made it three steps before it tumbled, a mess of melted ice cream and laughter, the kind that doesn’t just fade away but settles somewhere deep, like an old song stuck on repeat. And maybe, you had looked at her a little too long that night. Tara scoffed, shoving the note into her pocket with practiced ease. She played it off like it was nothing and didn’t sit in the back of her mind like the others did. Like she wasn’t already dissecting it, wondering who had been watching her so closely.

If there was one thing about Tara Carpenter, she didn’t like not knowing.

The group stepped outside, the evening air crisp against your skin, thick with the familiar scent of damp pavement and the distant burn of street food carts from the edge of campus. Students filtered onto the sidewalks, peeling off toward dorms, Ubers, and whatever half-baked plans they had for the night. Chad slung his backpack over one shoulder, exhaling sharply. “This is getting weird,” he muttered, glancing between Tara and the half-crumpled note in her grip. “First the locker notes, then the one in your notebook, and now this?” He gestured vaguely at her pocket, like the mere presence of the letters was an affront to common sense. “How the hell are they even leaving them without you noticing?”

“They’re sneaky,” Mindy supplied, ever the voice of rational paranoia. “Or you just don’t pay attention.” Tara rolled her eyes. “You’re both being dramatic. It’s just some random admirer. No big deal.” Anika smirked. “You like the attention, though.”

Tara didn’t deny it. Instead, she shrugged, nonchalant, but there was something else beneath it—a flicker of thoughtfulness as her fingers absently brushed the edge of her pocket. “I just think it’s funny,” she mused, voice lighter than the look in her eyes. “They remember stuff. Specific things. They’re either incredibly observant or completely obsessed.” Quinn chimed in, “Or both” lips twitching with amusement. “And I, for one, think that’s hot.” Tara was right. The notes weren’t just recycled compliments or half-hearted poetry. They were deliberate—threaded with memories, details so specific they felt like echoes of something intimate. Little moments she hadn’t realized someone else had been holding onto.

As the group neared the edge of campus, the natural rhythm of parting ways set in. Chad was already absorbed in texting someone, Anika and Mindy were murmuring about where to get food, and Quinn peeled off toward the subway without a backward glance. But Tara lingered, hands stuffed in her pockets, shoulders loose but mind elsewhere. "You gonna keep them?" you asked, keeping your tone light, though something about the weight of her answer already hung in the air.

She glanced at you, then looked away just as quickly, a barely-there smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Probably. Maybe one day I’ll figure out who they are." Something was behind her voice, something layered beneath the teasing—a challenge, a certainty. She was already putting the pieces together, forming a list of possibilities.

And if she kept looking and followed the trail long enough, she would find the answer. The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time you and Tara found yourselves sprawled out in the living room of her apartment, an unspoken tradition after long school days. The coffee table was cluttered with remnants of a shared snack—half-eaten chips, a bottle of soda, Tara’s feet propped up like she had no intention of moving anytime soon.

Tara had all six notes fanned out in front of her, scanning them one by one, brow furrowed in concentration. You leaned over slightly, pointing at the most recent one about the ice cream shop.

“Alright, so whoever this is, they were there that night,” you said. “And they remembered it in a way that isn’t just casual. Like… ‘I saw you spill ice cream on yourself’ is one thing. But this?” You tapped the line Tara had read aloud earlier. The way you made it hard for them not to fall. “That’s personal.”

Tara hummed, running a finger over the note. “It could still be a coincidence.” You shot her a look. “Five other notes, Tara. At this point, it’s a pattern.” Before she could respond, unlocking the front door made you glance up.

Sam stepped inside, shrugging off her jacket. Her hair was slightly tousled from the wind outside. She blinked when she saw you both camped out on the floor, and then her gaze flicked to the scattered notes between you.

“… Okay. What conspiracy are we unraveling tonight?”

Tara sighed dramatically, tossing one of the notes toward Sam as she flopped back onto the couch. “I have a secret admirer.”

Sam caught the note midair, raising an eyebrow as she read it. She stayed quiet for a moment, then exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple like this was the last thing she needed to deal with tonight. “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?” Sam asked, already walking toward the kitchen. Tara smirked. “Why? You jealous?” Sam scoffed, opening the fridge. “I’m exhausted. And the last time someone started leaving weird messages around, I had to stab a guy, so forgive me for not being thrilled about this little romantic mystery.”

You chuckled. “Not everything is a potential murder, Sam.”

She shot you a pointed look as she grabbed a water bottle. “In this family? Everything is a potential murder.” Tara rolled her eyes, sitting up again. “Look, it’s someone in our friend group. They’d have to be close enough to know all these details about me.” You nodded. “So, let’s break it down. Who was at the ice cream shop that night?” Tara glanced at the notes again, thinking. “Me, you, Mindy, Anika, Chad, Quinn—”

“And Ethan,” Sam added from the kitchen.

You paused. “So basically… everyone we know.” Tara groaned, running a hand through her hair. “Great. That narrows it down.” Sam leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Or… you could just not entertain this.” Tara ignored her, eyes scanning the notes again, fingers tapping idly against her thigh. The admirer had been careful, deliberate. But not careful enough. Someone in your friend group was watching.

The following note arrived at the usual hangout spot—Mindy’s apartment, where the group had piled onto the couch for their weekly horror movie night. The air smelled like popcorn and leftover takeout, and the coffee table was already littered with empty cups and snack wrappers.

Tara had been sitting beside you, legs tucked under her, fully prepared to ignore Chad’s commentary about why horror protagonists always make the worst decisions. But as she reached for her phone, a note brushed against her fingertips inside her jacket pocket. Her stomach sank as she pulled it out, carefully unfolding the small piece of paper, already knowing what it would be. Mindy noticed first. “Oh, for the love of—another one?”

Tara ignored her, smoothing out the paper as she read aloud.

"I wonder if you know how you pull people in without trying. How your laugh lingers, how your presence shifts the air. If only you could see yourself the way I do." The room fell silent.

Chad groaned dramatically, running a hand down his face. “Okay, that’s it. This is officially romantic stalker levels now.” Mindy leaned over, peering at the note. “Gotta admit… they’ve got a way with words.” Tara’s expression was unreadable, her thumb running over the ink as if she could feel the weight of the words. This was different from the others. More personal. The admirer wasn’t just watching her anymore. They were hoping she’d see them too. Anika nudged her playfully. “So, do you have any guesses yet, or are we still pretending this isn’t completely messing with your head?”

Tara huffed, folding the note carefully before tucking it back into her pocket. “I don’t know. It has to be someone close, but…” She trailed off, her gaze flickering briefly toward you before shifting away just as quickly. She wasn’t ready to finish that thought. Not yet. But she knew you would have her back whoever or whatever would happen next. The night air was crisp, cutting through Tara’s jacket as she adjusted the strap of her bag and fumbled with the keys in her pocket. The streets of New York were still alive around her, the dull roar of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from passing strangers, the rhythmic buzz of the city that never quite slept.

She was exhausted. A full day of classes, followed by an impromptu hangout at Anika’s place, had drained whatever energy she had left. All she wanted now was to get home, shower, and maybe—maybe—finally stop thinking about the secret admirer that had been slowly unraveling her brain for weeks. It had become a routine: a note here, a whisper of a memory there, moments from her life reflected at her like she was walking through a house of mirrors. She wasn’t sure when it had stopped feeling like a game. Tara stepped into the elevator of her apartment complex, jabbing the button for her floor before leaning against the cool metal wall. The ride up was quiet, the distant hum of the city fading into the background as she let her head fall back, exhaling slowly.

She was starting to think she’d never get an answer. Then the elevator doors slid open. And she saw it. A single envelope was placed carefully at the foot of her apartment door.

Tara stopped breathing.

It wasn’t wedged under the door like a delivery, nor had it been tossed carelessly to the side. It was placed deliberately, centered perfectly, as if waiting for her to pick it up.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she stepped forward, kneeling slightly to grab it, fingers trembling just a little as she turned it over in her hands. No name. No initials. Just a tiny, folded note, simple and unassuming. But Tara knew better. She exhaled sharply, pushing the door open with her shoulder before stepping inside, kicking it shut behind her as she walked straight to the couch, already unfolding the paper.

The handwriting was familiar now. She had spent weeks staring at it, tracing her fingers over the ink, memorizing how the words slanted slightly, like the writer had been hesitant and confident all at once.

But this time, it was different.

This time, there were no riddles, no carefully crafted phrases meant to make her think. This time, there was just a single message.

“Meet me on the rooftop. Sunset.”

Tara’s breath caught. There was no signature. No initials. Just instructions.

For the first time, the admirer wasn’t hiding behind poetic confessions or lingering memories. They were asking her to meet them. Her fingers clenched around the paper, pulse pounding in her ears.

She had spent weeks playing this game, reading notes, searching for connections, and chasing a shadow that refused to be caught. Now, they were stepping out of the dark. And she was going to see them. Her first instinct was to text you.

She didn’t know why—maybe it was because you were always there when she found these notes, the one person who didn’t roll their eyes or brush it off. Maybe it was because she trusted you to keep her grounded when things felt slipping out of her control.

Tara: You free?

You: Always. What’s up?

Tara:… meet me. Roof.

She hesitated before hitting send, but only for a second. She didn’t want to go alone no matter who awaited her.

When Tara pushed open the rooftop door, the sky melted into soft shades of orange and pink. The crisp evening air greeted her first, followed by the distant hum of the city below, but none of it registered—the moment her eyes adjusted to the dimming light, she stopped short.

The rooftop had been transformed.

Roses, carefully arranged, petals scattered across the surface. A table set for two, candlelight flickering inside small glass jars. A bottle of chilled sparkling grape juice sat in an ice bucket, beads of condensation forming along the glass, next to her favorite meal, plated with precision, waiting for her like something out of a dream.

Her breath hitched. She felt you step up beside her, the warmth of your presence grounding her before she could spiral.

"This is…” She trailed off, shaking her head. "Okay, what the hell?" She turned slightly, scanning the rooftop, waiting for someone to step forward. But no one did. No movement. No shadow emerging from the dimming light. The realization sent a strange chill down her spine.

No one was here.

She exhaled, a mix of frustration and disbelief curling in her chest. "I don’t get it. Who—" She stopped because you weren’t looking for anyone. You were looking at her. And suddenly, it was too quiet. Before she could speak and string together the thousands of questions screaming in her head, you opened your mouth. Tara’s mind was short-circuiting. The notes, the memories, the lingering glances that never seemed out of place until now—it was all you.

She didn’t know what to say.

For weeks, she had been searching for an answer, turning over every possibility, teasing out every clue, only to realize the answer had been standing next to her the whole time. Her jaw tightened as she exhaled sharply, trying to process it all. “You seriously had me running around like a lunatic over this?” You huffed out a laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “In my defense, I didn’t think you’d go full FBI mode.”

Tara shot you a look, arms crossing. “You were writing me anonymous love letters. What did you expect me to do? … not wonder who the hell was obsessed with me?”You blinked. “‘Obsessed’ is a strong word.” Tara scoffed, pulling one of the notes from her pocket and unfolding it dramatically. “Oh, I don’t know. ‘I wonder if you know what you do to people’ seems intense.” You groaned. “Okay, yeah. Maybe a little obsessed.”Silence stretched between you for a beat. Then—Tara raised a brow. “So?”

Your brows furrowed. “So…?” She gestured vaguely. “Aren’t you going to explain yourself? Or am I supposed to be so charmed by this grand rooftop gesture that I swoon and fall into your arms?” You smirked, arms crossing. “Would that work?” Tara rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

You inhaled, exhaling slowly before shrugging. “Look… I wanted to tell you. I did. But every time I got close, you’d get excited about the mystery, and I—” You shook your head, running a hand through your hair. “I chickened out. I figured if you were looking for the answer, maybe—just maybe—you wanted to find it.” Tara tilted her head, considering you. “And if I didn’t?” You swallowed. “Then I guess I would’ve spent Valentine’s Day up here alone, eating an embarrassing amount of pasta and wallowing in my bad decisions.”

She let out a sharp breath, something like a laugh, and shook her head. “Jesus. You’re an idiot.” You grinned. “An idiot who likes you, though.” Tara bit her lip. Something in her expression shifted, something softer—dangerously close to fond. “... Yeah,” she murmured, not looking away this time. “I kinda figured that part out.” She was still standing close—too close—and suddenly, it wasn’t the city air making it hard to breathe. Tara’s gaze flickered over your face, searching, weighing something. 

“You made me go through all of this just to tell me something I probably already knew, didn’t you?” You smirked. “I dunno. I think you kinda liked the chase.” Her brows lifted. “Oh? That what you think?” You shrugged. “I mean, you didn’t have to come up here. You could’ve just ignored the note. Tossed it. Pretended you weren’t interested.”

Tara sucked in a slow breath, her lips curving ever so slightly. “… Maybe I like knowing how far someone’s willing to go for me.” Your heart stumbled out your chest. She was teasing, but something was dangerous beneath it—something honest.

You wet your lips. “Would you be mad if I kissed you right now?”

Then—she smirked.

“Depends,” she said, tilting her chin slightly. “Are you gonna make me chase you for that too?”, and just like that—you were done for. Because before you could think, before you could overanalyze or second-guess or do anything remotely rational, you leaned in.

Tara met you halfway, and suddenly, nothing else mattered.

The city faded. The roses, the flickering candlelight, the skyline stretching beyond the rooftop—all of it blurred, dissolving into the background the second her lips touched yours. She kissed you like she had been waiting for this—like she had spent the past few weeks unraveling a mystery only to realize she had been at the center of it all along.

She met you halfway, but it wasn’t enough. Not for her. Not after weeks of chasing a mystery, weeks of untangling riddles and second-guessing what she wanted. Now that she had you right in front of her—now that she knew it had always been you—she wasn’t going to hesitate. So she didn’t. Her hands slid up, gripping the collar of your jacket before moving—faster than you expected, rougher than you expected—to the back of your neck.

And then she pulled. There was nothing soft about it. Your breath barely had time to hitch before her lips crashed into yours—a collision, not a question. It was all at once—weeks of tension, wondering, and wanting, all spilling into how she kissed you now. Firm. Certain. You made a quiet, startled noise against her mouth, fingers twitching at your sides before finding their place—one hand pressing against the curve of her waist, the other sliding up to cup the back of her head.

She tilted her chin, deepening the kiss, swallowing the sharp breath you took like she wanted to keep it. Your head spun, lungs burning from how completely she had just stolen the air from them. When she finally eased up, she didn’t let go. Her fingers lingered against your skin, her grip still firm against your neck, like she wasn’t ready to step away. Her breath was uneven when she finally spoke. “Took you long enough.”

You exhaled a short laugh, forehead brushing hers. “Me? You’re the one who had me running all over the city like a detective.” Tara hummed, thumb tracing absent circles against the nape of your neck. “And yet, you still showed up.”You smirked. “Guess I like the chase."

Her lips twitched. “Not anymore, you don’t.” And just like that, she kissed you again. Slower this time. Still firm. Still claiming. This wasn’t an answer—it was a statement. A fact.

Your pulse was a wreck when she finally pulled back, but her hands were steady. She turned slightly, glancing toward the table—the one you had spent hours setting up, the one she was just now acknowledging. Her grip on your neck didn’t waver, but her lips curled as she exhaled.

“You went all out, huh?” You swallowed, still trying to remember how to function. “Yeah. I mean... figured if I was going to confess, might as well make it dramatic.” Tara hummed, finally letting her fingers slip away from your skin—slow, reluctant. She took your hand instead, tugging you forward. “Come on,” she murmured, leading you toward the table. She glanced at you from the corner of her eye, smirking. “Let’s see what you planned for our first date.”

And you—still breathless, still dazed, still wrecked from the way she had just pulled you in like she had been waiting forever to do it—had no choice but to follow.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

You Wrote This for Me? - Valentine's Special

Jenna Ortega x Writer Reader

Summary: The journal shouldn’t have been there. She shouldn’t have seen it. But the words are inked, the confessions buried in scribbled margins. Unfinished. She turns the page. The door opens. And now, there’s no taking it back.

Word Count: 1.5k

“Okay, but hear me out—unicorns are terrifying.” You scoffed as you stirred the pasta, glancing over your shoulder at Jenna, who sat comfortably at your kitchen table, script in hand. “Unicorns?” you repeated, unimpressed. “You mean the glittery, rainbow kind?”

Jenna smirked, flipping a page. “No. Think The Thing meets The Last Unicorn—except instead of spreading magic and joy, it hunts people. Horns like spears, glowing red eyes, and it camouflages itself as a stuffed toy when it needs to hide.”

You paused, setting the wooden spoon down. “... Okay. I’m listening.” Jenna grinned, pushing the script aside to grab her water. “It’s an indie horror project. The director wants something totally absurd but terrifying.” “And they chose you?” you teased, arching a brow. Jenna took a slow sip of water, leveling you with a look. “Yes. Because I embody fear itself.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You embody five foot nothing and need a ladder to reach my top shelf.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she reached for her script again, flipping to a heavily annotated page.

“So, in this scene, the unicorn—”

Before she could continue, you realized you were missing ingredients. “Shit,” you muttered, glancing at the counter. “I forgot a few things for dinner. And we need drinks.” Jenna raised a brow. “You say that like we’re not just having pasta.” “I was gonna open a bottle of wine, if that’s alright with you, Ortega.” She smirked. “Ah. Fancy.”

You grabbed your jacket. “Bodega’s just a block away. Liquor store’s right after. Be back in fifteen.” Jenna waved a dismissive hand, already distracted by the script. “Bring me something good.”

You smirked. You had a plan for that.

Jenna spent two minutes flipping through her script, highlighting a line, trying to focus. But her eyes kept drifting back to the leather-bound journal sat just a few inches away, dark and worn, standing out against the otherwise neat surface of your kitchen table. It didn’t belong there.

And that’s what made it off. She ignored it. Then, as if possessed by something beyond her willpower, she reached for it. Just a peek.

She flipped past the first few pages—dates, random notes, the kind of scribbles people made when they were half-asleep. But then, a page caught her eye. And suddenly, breathing felt harder, and there it was. Her name. And below it, crossed-out lines, footnotes scrawled in the margins—like you had written and rewritten them too many times, unable to get them right.

Jenna’s lips parted slightly as she read. “She looks at the world like she’s memorizing it. Like every moment is something worth keeping.” A quiet exhale left her as her fingers traced the ink. The way she spoke. The way she carried herself. The way she laughed—not her polished, camera-ready chuckle, but the real one.

Below it, one line that wasn’t crossed out: “I love the way she exists.” Jenna blinked, pulse hammering. This wasn’t just writing. This was her. Her hands tightened around the journal, a war raging in her head. She should put it down. She should pretend she never saw it iInstead, she turned the page. And that’s when she saw the poem.

Short, unfinished, scribbled like you had tried to ignore it:

"If I were braver, I’d tell her." "If I were braver, I’d say it plain." "If I were braver—"

A key in the door.

Jenna’s head snapped up.

You stepped inside, a bag of groceries and a bouquet of flowers in one hand. Jenna barely noticed; your eyes flicked to the table, to the open journal in her hands, and in that moment—she saw the exact second you realized what had just happened.

A beat of silence. Then, softly— “…You read it.”

Jenna swallowed, gripping the pages a little tighter. She could lie. She could say it was an accident. She could pretend she hadn’t just read the one thing she had no business knowing, but instead, she lifted her gaze to yours. “…You wrote this for me.” And for the first time all night—

You didn’t have any words left.

Which was ironic, considering you had spent weeks—months— spilling them into that journal. Hiding them in half-sentences, crossing them out, leaving them unfinished like that would somehow make them less real. But now? Now Jenna was sitting at your kitchen table, holding your secrets in her hands.

You gripped the bag of groceries a little too tightly, your fingers flexing around the bouquet of flowers, still wrapped in plastic.

“I—”

You what? Didn’t mean for her to see? Weren’t ready? Meant to tell her after you worked up the courage with a glass of wine? None of that mattered now. Jenna’s eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and unreadable. “You wrote this for me,” she said again, softer this time. Like she was still processing it herself. Your throat went dry. “Jenna—” She glanced down at the open page. Her fingers ghosted over the words again, a quiet intensity settling in her features. “…How long?” she asked. You blinked. “What?” Jenna tilted the journal slightly. “How long have you felt like this?” Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You exhaled sharply, setting the groceries down before you dropped them. “Jenna, can we—can we not do this like this?” She didn’t move. Didn’t look away. And that’s when you realized: She wasn’t going to let you dodge this. Not now. Not after everything she just read.You swallowed, fingers flexing at your sides. “…A while.”

Jenna’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

So you kept going. “A long while...” A beat of silence stretched between you, thick with something you couldn’t name. Jenna closed the journal slowly, resting her hand on top of it. And then, she stood.Your breath caught.

She stepped around the table, each movement deliberate. By the time she was standing in front of you, you had completely forgotten how to breathe. Jenna tilted her head, studying you. You had seen this look before. On set, when she was locked into character. In interviews, when she was asked something she actually cared about. That sharp focus, that quiet intensity.Only now—Now, it was entirely on you.

“You were going to tell me tonight,” she murmured. It wasn’t a question. Your gaze flickered to the bouquet of flowers on the counter, then back to her. You gave a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah. I, uh… thought I’d have a little more control over the reveal, though.” Jenna’s lips twitched. “You should’ve hidden it better.” You huffed. “I didn’t think you’d go through my things, Ortega.” “I didn’t. It was just… there.” She hesitated, a quiet edge creeping into her voice. “Like it was meant to be found.” Your heart slammed against your ribs.

For a second, you didn’t know what to say. But then—Jenna took another step closer, and your brain completely short-circuited. Suddenly, she was standing right there, barely a breath between you, her gaze flickering from your eyes to your lips and back. And holy shit.“You’re freaking out,” she murmured, amusement creeping into her tone. “I am not—” You cleared your throat. “—freaking out.” Jenna smirked. “You’re standing completely still.” You blinked. “That’s called being normal, Jenna.” “No,” she said simply, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s called being scared.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—”

Jenna reached up, gently tugging on the front of your shirt. Not pulling, not forcing. Just holding. And suddenly, the air shifted. Your pulse roared in your ears as her thumb brushed absently against the fabric, the warmth of her hand spreading through you like wildfire. “…You don’t have to be,” she said softly. Your breath hitched. And that was it. That was all it took for every single thought in your head to vanish.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, before your doubts could catch up to you, before anything else could get in the way—You leaned in. And finally—You kissed her. Soft. Slow. Tentative at first, but then—Jenna exhaled against your lips like she had been holding back just as much as you had, and then her hands were sliding up, one curling around the back of your neck, the other gripping your shirt just a little tighter.

And holy shit.

It was so much better than you had imagined. Your journal hadn’t been able to capture this. The way she sighed against your mouth, the way her lips moved like she had been waiting for this just as long as you had, the way her body fit so perfectly against yours like she had always belonged there. By the time you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless. Jenna’s eyes flickered open slowly, dazed but smug. “…So,” she murmured, voice lower than before.

You swallowed. “So?” She smirked. “Was that how you were going to end your confession?” You gave a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “Honestly? The journal kinda did that for me.”

Jenna hummed, pleased. “Good.”

Then, before you could say anything else, she grabbed the front of your shirt and pulled you in again. Honestly? This ending was way better.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

I'm curious: Would you guys ever be interested in some Arcane x Reader stuff?...

If so, who would you guys like to see?... I have a few in mind, but I want to hear from you!

[kaces-graham-crackers]

Twelve Tolls 'Till Midnight - (Part 1: The Wish That Wouldn't Burn) - Christmas Special

Wednesday Addams x Reader

Summary: Nevermore’s Yule Log tradition is simple—write a wish, burn it in the fire, and let the embers carry it away. But when one wish refuses to burn, Y/N finds it perfectly intact among the ashes. At first, it’s just a mystery. A harmless, unanswered question. But then, strange things start happening. And with each passing day, you can’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—is watching. And the clock is ticking.

Word Count: 3.1k

Snow had dusted the grounds of Nevermore overnight, clinging to the stone pathways and blanketing the ancient rooftops in a thin, icy sheen. The air held the chill that bit through coats and scarves, turning breath into fleeting ghosts in the evening air.

Despite the cold, warmth thrived inside the common rooms, where the academy was fully immersed in the holiday season. Wreaths hung from the doors, golden ribbons were draped along the railings, and the crackling fireplace illuminated the sprawling parlor in a flickering orange glow. A vintage Christmas record played somewhere in the background—a jazzy, eerie rendition of Carol of the Bells that somehow fit Nevermore's unsettling aesthetic.

It wasn't an official school event, but the students had made their own tradition out of gathering in the weeks before break. Some strung lights across the bookshelves, others sprawled across the couches in clusters, indulging in hot cider, peppermint bark, and whatever holiday treats had been smuggled into the dorms.

I stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching as Xavier struggled with a particularly tangled set of lights. His frustration grew as the string looped around his wrist for the third time.

"Are you winning?" I deadpanned.

Xavier huffed, tugging at the cord like it had personally wronged him. "If by 'winning,' you mean slowly losing my will to live, then yes."

Next to him, Ajax—whose idea of 'helping' was offering unsolicited advice while eating a candy cane—grinned. "Bro, you gotta work with the lights, not against them."

Bianca curled up in an armchair near the fireplace and scoffed. "If you had to deal with Xavier's questionable decorating skills every year, you'd know that's a lost cause."

Divina chuckled from where she sat, nestled comfortably against Yoko's side. "Maybe we should let the artist stick to painting."

Yoko smirked. "Or make him the Christmas tree instead."

That earned a laugh from the group, even as Xavier shot them all an unimpressed look.

I leaned back against the wall, hands shoved into the pockets of my flannel. Despite the easy comfort of the moment, I felt the faintest tug of something… off. It wasn't the Christmas cheer—it was too easy to get wrapped up in the warmth of it all, in how my friends naturally fit together like pieces of an unspoken tradition. No, it was the presence of someone sitting in her usual corner of the room, untouched by the festivities but watching them all like she was collecting evidence.

Wednesday Addams.

She was perched on the arm of the couch, a book in her lap, and her posture was rigid despite the casual setting. Her dark gaze flicked up now and then, scanning the room, lingering in places longer than necessary. She was too perceptive for her own good, and I knew it was only a matter of time before her curiosity sank its claws into something.

"Hey," Yoko's voice broke through my thoughts, and I turned to see my dormmate watching me with a knowing look.

"I think it's time to start the important discussion of the night." Yoko nudged her drink toward me in mock seriousness. "You confessing your undying love for Wednesday."

I choked on my cider. "Excuse me?"

Divina sighed, shaking her head. "Yoko. Subtlety."

"What?" Yoko gestured vaguely. "It's Christmas. Confessing is like, a thing."

I exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. "It's also a thing to not embarrass me in front of an entire room of people."

"Pfft, they're all distracted," Yoko waved off. "Besides, me and Divina are the only ones who know, so chill."

I shot them both a pointed look. "Enid knows, too."

Divina lifted a brow. "You think she told Wednesday?"

My stomach twisted at the thought. "No. I trust her."

"Okay, but why haven't you told Wednesday?" Yoko leaned in. "Be honest."

I hesitated, gaze flickering toward Wednesday's usual spot, only to find her already staring in our direction. Of course.

I turned back quickly, exhaling. "Because she wouldn't care."

Yoko made a tsk sound. "See, I know you're smart, which is why it baffles me that you're being so dumb."

I shot her a glare. "Gee, thanks."

Divina shook her head. "Y/N, Wednesday likes you. Enid sees it. We see it."

I scoffed. "Wednesday doesn't like anyone."

"Correction," Yoko smirked. "She tolerates very few. You're at the top of that list."

I rolled my eyes, refusing to engage further. "I don't know why I even talk to you two."

"Because we're right," Yoko sing-songed.

Across the room, Enid was having a very similar conversation with Wednesday.

"I think you should tell them," Enid said, voice light but firm.

Wednesday, still watching me from a distance, didn't look up. "Tell them what?"

Enid sighed dramatically. "That you like them."

Wednesday's eyes flicked to her roommate, expression unreadable. "That would be unnecessary."

"Would it?"

Wednesday went back to her book. "They wouldn't be interested."

Enid groaned, dragging her hands down her face. "You know they like you, right?"

Wednesday's brow twitched. "You're speculating."

"I'm not. Yoko and Divina literally know."

Wednesday hummed, flipping a page. "That sounds like gossip."

"That sounds like me being right and you avoiding your feelings."

"Feelings," Wednesday repeated flatly. "A fascinating concept."

Enid gave her a deadpan look. "You're impossible."

Wednesday smirked. "And yet, you persist."

Before Enid could further argue, the lights in the room flickered suddenly, the warmth of the common area dimming as a draft rolled through.

I straightened. "Huh."

Wednesday's fingers tightened around her book, gaze flickering toward the fireplace.

It shouldn't have been possible—the fire had been crackling brightly all night. And yet, as they all turned toward it, a single piece of parchment sat in the embers, untouched by the flames.

"Uh," Xavier blinked, stepping closer. "That's weird, right?"

Enid frowned. "Did someone throw a wish in late?"

Slowly, I stepped forward, crouching down. Carefully, I reached for the paper, my fingers brushing the surface.

It was smooth. Unburnt.

And written in ink darker than the shadows was a single sentence.

A wish.

Someone's wish.

And for some reason, the fire refused to take it.

My fingers brushed against the slip of paper nestled among the embers, its edges still intact, untouched by the fire. 

A perk of being a Flame Atronach—I was unharmed.

That wasn't right. The Yule Log tradition was simple—write your wish, burn it, and let the flames carry it away. But this one refused.

Curiosity got the best of me. The fire was still going, flickering orange and gold, yet the paper sat there, defiant against the heat. Carefully, I reached in, feeling the warmth lick at my skin but never entirely burn. It was strange—almost as if the fire itself had decided to spare it.

I plucked the paper from the ashes, brushing off the soot as I went to unfold it. The handwriting was neat, precise, and immediately familiar.

Before I could read a single word, Enid practically tackled me.

"Whoa, whoa—what do you think you're doing?" she yelped, grabbing my wrist before I could fully open the paper.

I frowned. "Reading? Someone's wish didn't burn. That's weird, right?"

Enid's eyes widened in horror as she snatched the paper from my fingers. "You can't read it! That's like… like, instant bad luck. It definitely won't come true if you do!"

I blinked, taken aback by how serious she sounded. "You actually believe that?"

"Yes," she said, deadpan. "Do you want to be responsible for some poor soul's wish going up in smoke? Well, not going up in smoke, but—" She shook her head. "You get what I mean."

I hesitated. A part of me wanted to brush it off, to open the paper and solve the mystery. But Enid looked genuinely distressed, and despite my skepticism, I wasn't cruel enough to stomp all over whatever holiday magic she believed in.

With a sigh, I reached for the fireplace again. The flames curled around my fingers, warm but strangely harmless. I tossed the paper back into the fire, watching as it landed among the embers.

It didn't burn.

Enid chewed her lip. "It's probably just some weird mishap," she decided, but her voice hinted unease.

I couldn't blame her.

As the flames flickered, failing again to consume the wish, I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just a random fluke.

But, like the others, I let it go.

That was mistake number two.

Later that night, The strange incident with the wish should have faded into the background, drowned out by the usual Nevermore chaos. But as the night wound down, something lingered.

It clung to the air like the scent of smoldering wood, like the faintest trace of something just out of reach.

By the time I got back to my dorm, the warmth of the holiday gathering had been replaced by an unsettling chill I couldn't quite shake. Yoko was already sprawled across her bed, scrolling through her phone, earbuds tucked in, vibing to whatever playlist she had on rotation.

I tossed my jacket over my chair and exhaled as I sat at my desk, the dim glow of my lamp casting long shadows against the walls. But even as I tried to push the thought aside, the memory of that unburned wish gnawed at the back of my mind.

I should've paid more attention to that feeling.

Because by the time the clock struck midnight, Nevermore had already started to change.

At first, it was subtle.

I wasn't a light sleeper, but something stirred me awake—a shift in the air, a wrongness that hadn't been there before. I blinked against the darkness, the room bathed in nothing but moonlight filtering through the window. Yoko was still asleep, her breathing steady and undisturbed.

Then I heard it.

Tick.

It was distant, almost deafening, like an old clock shifting gears after years of neglect. I sat up, frowning.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It was coming from outside.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I crept toward the window, pressing a hand against the cold glass. The Nevermore courtyard stretched below, silent beneath the dim glow of lanterns.

And that's when I saw it.

The old clock tower—the one that had been broken for years—was moving.

I watched, frozen, as the massive hands jerked into motion, slow and deliberate, like something that had been trapped in stillness was finally waking up.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound rattled in my bones, deep and resonant, like a pulse thrumming beneath the skin of Nevermore itself.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until another sound broke the quiet.

A whisper.

It came from directly behind me.

I spun, pulse hammering in my throat, but my room was empty. Yoko was still asleep, undisturbed. The shadows in the corners of the room sat still, unchanged.

Swallowing hard, I glanced back at the window. The clock continued ticking, slow and steady.

I didn't know why, but I had a sinking feeling this was only the beginning. Meanwhile, in Wednesday's dorm, Wednesday knew something was wrong.

She had felt it the moment the first ember sparked.

Sitting at her desk, a candle flickering at her side, Wednesday's fingers hovered over the spine of a book she had long abandoned reading. The air in her dorm was… off. It wasn't tangible. It wasn't something she could pin down with certainty. But there was a shift in the very fabric of Nevermore—a pulse of sorts.

The anomaly of the unburned wish nagged at the back of her mind, an unsolved equation demanding resolution. Wishes were nonsense—foolish sentiments wrapped in superstition, meant to be reduced to ash. And yet, one had refused. Defied the flames entirely,

That was not a coincidence.

She hadn't believed in the tradition, of course. The very idea of wishing for something was as repulsive to her as cheerful holiday music or Enid's excessive use of glitter.

It had been meaningless.

At least, it was supposed to be.

Now, she wasn't sure.

A memory flickered in her mind—the moment the slip of parchment left her fingers and landed in the fire, the flames devoured it instantly.

And then… the clock tower had started ticking.

That old thing had been broken for years.

She tapped her fingers against the desk, deep in thought.

What did the others say earlier that night? That a wish refused to burn?

Her jaw tightened slightly.

If a wish had survived the fire, then logically, it had to be connected to whatever this phenomenon was.

The clock. The feeling in the air. The change.

She closed her book with a quiet snap, her mind already working through possibilities.

Something had been set into motion. 

The following morning, Breakfast at Nevermore was its usual mess of clashing personalities and half-dazed students. The dining hall buzzed with conversation, forks clinking against plates, the occasional burst of laughter breaking through the hum.

I slid into my usual seat, still feeling the weight of the night pressing against the back of my mind.

Across from me, Enid was already halfway through a muffin. "Morning, sunshine! You look…" She squinted, tilting her head. "Okay, not to be rude, but kinda haunted?"

I huffed out a laugh, rubbing my temple. "Great. That's exactly the aesthetic I was going for."

Yoko dropped into the seat next to me, sunglasses firmly in place despite the dim lighting. "Yeah, you were kinda twitchy last night. Bad dreams?"

I hesitated, my gaze drifting to the others across from me where Bianca, Xavier, and Wednesday sat.

Wednesday, as always, was absorbed in some old tome, her usual resting murder face in full effect.

"No," I admitted, lowering my voice slightly. "But something weird happened."

Yoko raised a brow. "Weird, how?"

I hesitated before saying, "The old clock tower was working."

That got their attention.

Enid's eyes widened, her muffin forgotten. "Wait—what? That thing's been broken forever."

"Not anymore," I murmured. "It started ticking again last night. Right at midnight."

Yoko frowned. "Okay, weird, but maybe they fixed it? You know how Weems is. Probably had maintenance finally patch it up or something."

"Yeah. Except…” I exhaled. "I swear I heard something after. Like—whispering."

Yoko's expression didn't change, but Enid visibly shuddered. "Nope. Absolutely not. We are not starting ghost season right before Christmas."

"I mean… it is Nevermore," Yoko pointed out. "Ghosts kinda come with the territory."

"Still," Enid huffed, crossing her arms, "it could be anything. A creaky old building making noises? Drafts? Your imagination?"

"Could be," I said. 

At the same time Wednesday sat:

The dining hall was its usual mess of noise and movement, students scattered in their usual places, laughing and talking over plates of food.

Wednesday barely registered any of it.

She sat at her usual spot at their table, her mind still tangled in speculation, barely listening as Xavier attempted (and failed) to hold a conversation.

It wasn't until Y/N walked in that something shifted.

She felt it—a tug, a sharp pull of attention.

She didn't look up at first, but something in her instincts twisted, that same sensation of something being wrong settling in her chest.

Then, a voice.

"I swear to God, if Enid calls me 'haunted' one more time, I'm throwing her into a snowbank."

Wednesday stiffened.

The voice had been clear. Too clear.

And yet—no one had spoken.

Her gaze flicked up, sharp as a blade, locking onto Y/N.

Y/N had just sat down across from Enid and beside Yoko, placing a tray on the table.

Wednesday's frown deepened. She had heard… something.

But Y/N hadn't said a word.

She clenched her jaw, shaking it off. Perhaps she had misheard something in the noise of the dining hall.

And yet—when she looked back at her plate, her ears still buzzed.

A few minutes passed.

Wednesday focused on her food, tuning out the useless chatter around her. She had almost convinced herself she imagined it—until it happened again.

"What is she staring at? If I have something on my face, someone better tell me."

Her fork stilled against the plate.

Her grip tightened around the handle.

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her gaze—straight to Y/N.

They weren't speaking.

They sat there, sipping coffee, not saying a single word.

But Wednesday had heard her.

Loud and clear.

Her breath stilled.

This time, she knew she hadn't imagined it.

The realization settled like cold steel in her gut.

She was hearing Y/N's thoughts.

No. That wasn't possible.

That wasn't how telepathy worked. There was no logical precedent for suddenly understanding someone's thoughts.

And yet—there it was.

Her hands curled into fists.

The sensation wasn't constant. It didn't come in waves. It came in bursts—only when she focused on Y/N.

Her mind was a fortress, yet something had torn a hole in the walls.

For the first time in a long while, a flicker of frustration ignited in her chest.

She hated things she couldn't control.

"I guess Enid's right…it must be my imagination..." 

In the present: 

She suddenly dropped her fork, pushing her plate away.

Bianca arched a brow. "You good?"

Wednesday stood abruptly. 

And that's when Wednesday spoke.

"You're wrong."

Her voice cut through the conversation like a scalpel.

Enid jumped, startled. "Jeez, Wednesday—do you always have to sneak up on people?"

Wednesday ignored her, stepping into place at the head of the table. Her gaze locked onto me, studying me like a puzzle she had already started solving.

"The clock tower. When exactly did it start working?"

I hesitated. "Midnight."

A flicker of something crossed her face—calculation, recognition. Interest.

She already knew something was happening. 

Later that night, Enid sat cross-legged on her bed, tossing popcorn into her mouth while Thing lounged beside her, flipping through an old magazine.

Wednesday stood by the window, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

Enid squinted at her. "Okay. You've been in a mood all day. What happened?"

Wednesday didn't respond immediately.

She should have kept this to herself, ignored it, and buried it in research until she could make sense of it.

But something about this wasn't normal.

Finally, she spoke.

"Something happened."

Enid groaned, flopping backward. "Care to elaborate, or are you gonna keep being cryptic?"

Wednesday turned, deadpan. "Would it matter?"

Enid pouted. "Probably not."

Thing tapped against the bed, prompting her to continue.

Wednesday inhaled slowly.

"It started this morning."

She didn't mention specifics, and she didn't tell Enid that every time she looked at Y/N, a voice whispered into her mind.

That she could hear things she shouldn't.

She understood Y/N in a way she had never done before.

And the worst part?

The voice was infuriatingly distracting.

Wednesday clenched her jaw, pulling her sweater tighter around herself.

She had a growing suspicion that whatever was happening…

It was only going to get worse.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

Decked Under the Mistletoe - Christmas Special

Tara Carpenter x Reader

Summary: A holiday party, a little too much eggnog, and a rivalry that’s anything but friendly. Tara Carpenter swears she won’t be the first to crack, but with the whole friend group watching—and meddling—fate has other plans.

Word Count: 1.5k

The holiday season had crept into New York like a quiet snowfall, slow and inevitable. Fairy lights were strung across the streets, wreaths hung on doors, and the faint sound of Christmas music spilled from every other storefront. The chill in the air was just enough to nip at exposed skin, a crisp reminder that December was in full swing. Inside the Carpenter apartment, however, the warmth of bodies, laughter, and the lingering scent of cinnamon and hot chocolate made it feel like an entirely different world.

“Alright, everyone, listen up,” Mindy announced, clapping her hands as she stood in the center of the living room, grinning like she was about to announce the greatest event of the century. “We’re making bets.”

I arched a brow from where I was sitting on the arm of the couch, nursing a cup of hot cocoa. “Bets?”

Mindy nodded. “Holiday bets. You know, harmless stuff—who’s gonna drink too much eggnog first, how long until Anika falls asleep on the couch, and of course—” she turned toward Tara with a smirk, “—which one of you is gonna break first.”

Tara, who had been in the middle of sipping her cocoa, froze mid-drink. “What?”

“Oh, don’t ‘what’ me, Carpenter.” Mindy waved a hand between us. “You and Y/N have been dancing around each other for months. It’s exhausting. Someone’s gotta fold.”

Tara scoffed, setting her mug down with a thud. “Please. If anything, Y/N would break first.”

I smirked, leaning forward. “Oh? That sounds like a challenge.”

“It is,” she shot back without hesitation.

The rest of the group laughed, fully entertained by our ongoing back-and-forth. It was no secret that Tara and I had an… interesting relationship. We got under each other’s skin, pushed buttons, and exchanged sharp remarks like they were gifts. It wasn’t toxic, not really—it was just our thing.

“So what’s the bet?” Chad asked, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

Mindy’s grin stretched wider. “Who caves first and admits they actually like the other.”

Tara rolled her eyes. “That’s stupid.”

“Agreed,” I added. “Mostly because there’s nothing to admit.”

“Sure, sure,” Mindy said, clearly not buying it. “But just in case, I’m putting my money on Tara caving first.”

“Excuse me?” Tara snapped, looking personally offended.

Mindy shrugged. “You’ve got that little glare, but it’s totally just covering the fact that you’re dying inside.”

Tara muttered something under her breath and crossed her arms, looking away. Sam, from her spot in the kitchen, simply sighed and continued stirring her tea, clearly tuning out our antics.

The night continued as expected—banter, games, and far too much sugar. At some point, Chad got wrapped in tinsel (“I am the Christmas King,” he declared), Anika did, in fact, pass out on the couch, and I caught Tara glancing at me more times than I could count.

Then came the mistletoe.

It wasn’t planned—not on my part, anyway. One second, Tara and I were arguing over which Christmas movie deserved the top spot (“Die Hard is a Christmas movie!” “It absolutely is not!”), and the next, Mindy was shoving us right under the doorway where, sure enough, a tiny sprig of mistletoe hung mockingly above our heads.

“Oh, would you look at that?” Mindy feigned innocence. “House rules say you gotta kiss.”

Tara’s jaw clenched. “Mindy.”

Mindy beamed. “Tara.”

A heavy silence stretched between us, the warmth of the apartment suddenly feeling a little too hot.

Tara folded her arms and scoffed. “Yeah, not happening.”

“Aww,” I teased, tilting my head. “What’s wrong, Carpenter? Afraid you might like it?”

She rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might sprain something. “Please, in your dreams.”

“So you have thought about it?”

“You are insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still standing here,” I pointed out.

Tara glared, jaw tightening as she flicked her gaze toward the mistletoe, then back to me. I could see her debating it, weighing her options. Then, with an almost resigned exhale, she grabbed my hoodie and yanked me down, pressing her lips to mine in a way that was far more forceful than necessary—but I wasn’t complaining.

The room collectively lost its mind.

Someone (probably Mindy) whooped, someone else clapped, and I could vaguely hear Chad shouting, “Called it!” over the noise. But none of that mattered, not when Tara was kissing me like she had something to prove, her lips warm and a little too soft, her grip firm like she wasn’t planning to let go just yet.

Then, just as suddenly, she pulled back, her eyes burning into mine, her lips slightly parted.

“There,” she muttered. “Happy?”

Mindy was practically vibrating. “Oh, ecstatic.”

Tara huffed and turned to storm off, but before she could fully escape, a solid punch landed against my arm.

I grunted. “Ow, what the hell?”

Sam, standing beside me now, shook out her hand like she was barely fazed. “That’s for every time Tara’s come home ranting about how annoying you are.”

I blinked. “She rants about me?”

Sam ignored me. “And if you mess with her? I’ll make sure you never walk again.”

I swallowed. “Noted.”

With that, she turned and walked off, leaving me standing there, rubbing my arm while Mindy cackled in the background.

“Well,” she mused, “that was worth every penny.”

Chad clapped me on the back. “Merry Christmas, dude.”

Tara, across the room, was pretending to be completely unfazed. But when our eyes met, she held my gaze for a second too long before looking away, her cheeks still tinted the faintest shade of pink.

Maybe Mindy had been onto something after all.

The party had finally started winding down, guests slipping on their coats and saying their goodbyes, laughter still lingering in the air like the scent of cinnamon and pine. One by one, the group trickled out into the chilly New York night, some still buzzing from the evening’s events—especially the mistletoe situation.

I grabbed my jacket and stepped outside, shoving my hands into my pockets to brace against the cold. Tara was right behind me, moving quietly as the others scattered toward their cars or the sidewalk, chatting amongst themselves. When I reached my car, I expected her to just say goodnight and head off, but she lingered, shifting slightly on her feet.

It wasn’t like her. Tara Carpenter wasn’t one to hesitate. But here she was, looking uncharacteristically unsure.

I leaned against the car door, smirking slightly. “Something on your mind, Carpenter?”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Yeah,” I mused. “But you’re still standing here.”

Tara sucked in a breath. “Do you… like me?”

I tilted my head, pretending to consider it. Then, grinning, “What gave it away? The months of flirting? The fact that I let you win that stupid gingerbread argument? Or was it the part where I didn’t drop dead after you kissed me?”

Tara groaned, shoving me. “You’re the worst.”

I caught her wrist before she could move away. “But to answer your question—yeah, I do.”

She hesitated for a beat before closing the space between us, pressing her lips to mine.

Then—

“OH MY GOD, IT’S OFFICIAL!”

We turned to see the entire group on the stoop, Mindy fist-pumping, Chad doubled over laughing.

Tara groaned and buried her face in my neck. “Kill me.”

I laughed, pulling her closer. “Way to embarrass my girlfriend, guys.”

Tara twitched and jabbed me in the ribs, making me wince. “Ow—”

“Don’t push your luck, genius,” she muttered. Then, before I could recover, she kissed my jaw with a smirk. “Besides… looks like I won after all.”

The group cheered again as I groaned, Tara’s laughter warm against the cold night air.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

The Lure of Darkness - (1) Of Disdain and Distance (Excerpt)

Wednesday Addams x Reader

A/N: I do not know who drew this beautiful image on the far right, but! All credit is reserved for the original artist! If you know the artist, please message or comment so I can properly give credit!

Summary: Nevermore is full of stories and mysterious events, and as a Dark Archivist, Y/N is meant to record them—not be part of them. But a mix-up with Wednesday Addams changes that, pulling them into her world of sharp words, sharper stares, and a rivalry that’s far too entertaining to ignore.

Word Count: 1.1k

The halls of Nevermore Academy felt alive, each step echoing against stone walls that seemed to carry secrets from years past. Shadows stretched and shifted under the dim light, curling around pillars and disappearing into the edges of the corridor. Only my second week here, and already, I could sense the weight of the stories woven into this place, each one pressing close as if daring me to record it. For a Dark Archivist, Nevermore was both a refuge and a test—a place that invited curiosity but demanded restraint. 

I glanced down at the small, leather-bound journal resting in my hand—a symbol of my family’s legacy, the Silent Scribes. Its ancient cover, darkened by time, seemed to hold the weight of centuries within it, as if every story it contained was etched into its worn edges. To anyone else, it might appear as just another book, but to me, it was both a duty and a privilege. Only those of my bloodline could reveal its secrets, its pages bound by a quiet enchantment passed down through generations. It was a reminder of the unbreakable vow to record but never interfere, no matter what story lay waiting within.

I was still lost in thought, running my fingers over the journal’s worn cover, when I felt the unexpected impact of someone bumping into me. The force knocked me off balance, and before I knew it, my books and papers scattered across the stone floor, mingling with another set that had fallen. I crouched down to gather the mess, my frustration mounting, when a bright, panicked voice broke through the moment.

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! We should’ve been paying more attention!” The girl was already crouched beside me, frantically gathering my scattered notes and handing them back with an apologetic smile. Her blonde hair, streaked with a kaleidoscope of colors, seemed to shimmer even in the dim light of the hallway. Her bright energy was almost startling, a sharp contrast to the somber atmosphere that clung to the corridors.

“Thanks,” I said, glancing up as I reached for another paper. “But you don’t have to apologize. I actually walked into—” My words faltered as my eyes flicked to the figure standing just behind her, silent and still. Her dark gaze was fixed on me, unblinking and intense, like a shadow made tangible. It was the same girl I’d noticed striding through Nevermore’s halls before—Wednesday Addams. Her presence was unmistakable, as was the stark contrast she shared with the vibrant blonde now kneeling beside me. They were inseparable, yet opposites in every sense, like night and day forced into an uneasy orbit.

Enid glanced back at Wednesday, her expression a mix of exasperation and apology, before turning to me with a bright smile. “I’m Enid Sinclair, by the way,” she said, extending a hand while still kneeling. “And this here is my charmingly grumpy roommate, Wednesday Addams.”

“Charmed,” Wednesday deadpanned, her cold stare unwavering as her dark eyes seemed to assess me.

“Wednesday isn’t really the… apologetic type,” Enid continued, leaning in slightly, as if sharing a secret.

“If you value your ability to walk, I suggest you develop a sharper sense of awareness,” Wednesday said, her tone sharp and steady, like she was stating an undeniable fact.

Her words hit a nerve, and I felt a slight edge creep into my voice. “Duly noted,” I replied, standing and brushing off my papers. “Though it seems I’m not the only one who could use a lesson in paying attention.”

Wednesday’s dark eyes narrowed just slightly, and for a moment, I thought she might respond, but her silence felt just as deliberate as her words.

Before the tension could thicken, I let out a small breath and added, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention either. This was my fault too.”

Enid beamed as she handed me another paper. “See? Now that’s how it’s done.”

Before Wednesday could respond, Enid jumped to her feet, placing herself between us, her hands on her hips. “Wednesday!” she scolded, her tone equal parts playful and exasperated. “Seriously? Can you go one encounter without threatening someone? She already apologized!”

Wednesday’s expression didn’t waver, her face as still as stone. But her gaze flicked briefly to Enid, as if silently deciding whether to dignify the moment with a response.

“She’s still working on her people skills,” Enid said to me with a conspiratorial grin, lowering her voice. “But I promise, deep down, she’s got a heart… somewhere. Really, I swear.”

Enid continued, her tone bright and inviting. “To make up for this, you should totally sit with us at lunch. I’ll introduce you to our friends—I promise, they know how to make people feel welcome. What do you say?” She shot a pointed look at Wednesday, who remained stoic and unimpressed, before turning back to me with a warm smile. 

The invitation caught me off guard, but there was something so genuine in Enid’s expression, so unguarded, that I couldn’t help but smile. Her warmth felt contagious, a stark contrast to the quiet storm brewing beside her. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Wednesday’s jaw tighten ever so slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing her otherwise stoic face, like a shadow briefly passing over the moon.

“I’d like that,” I said, meeting Enid’s eyes with a nod.

“Great!” Enid chirped, handing me one last loose sheet of paper before springing to her feet. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder at Wednesday, her expression almost daring her to follow suit. “See you at lunch!” she added with a bright smile, waving as she tugged Wednesday along by the elbow.

Wednesday didn’t resist, but before turning away, she gave me a final look—a gaze that felt more like an assessment than anything else. Then, with a swish of her dark braid, she followed Enid down the hall, their footsteps soon fading into the quiet.

I knelt to gather the last of my things, carefully tucking my journal into my sling bag. As the strap settled across my shoulder, something felt… different. Lighter. I froze for a moment, my fingers brushing the bag’s edge.

The sensation lingered as I stood, the weight—or lack of it—nagging at the edge of my awareness. But Enid’s invitation soon took over my thoughts. Her bright energy and warmth were a stark contrast to the sharp edges of Wednesday’s presence, which had lingered far too long for my liking. Her words, her stare—it clung to me, like a faint imprint on the air around us.

I shook my head, hoping to dispel the faint heat creeping into my cheeks. Adjusting the strap of my bag, I exhaled slowly. Whatever this was, I had a strange sense it would make for a very interesting day.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

Valentine's Day One-shot (Top Three will be written!)

[kaces-graham-crackers]

Sweet Foundations - Christmas Special

Jenna Ortega x Reader

Summary: A holiday party, a gingerbread competition, and a little too much icing—what starts as playful chaos turns into something neither of them expected. In the glow of Christmas lights and whispered confessions, some foundations prove sweeter than they seem.

Word Count: 1.5k

Los Angeles wasn’t exactly known for white Christmases, but that didn’t stop my apartment from looking like something straight out of a New York holiday window display. Warm string lights draped across the ceiling, twinkling against the garlands woven with red and gold ribbons. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, its ornaments catching the glow of the fireplace video playing on the TV, crackling sounds and all. The smell of cinnamon, vanilla, and fresh pine lingered in the air, mixing with the cocoa and gingerbread cooling on the counter.

The night had settled into something easy—familiar, even. Everyone had arrived hours ago, bringing that infectious, chaotic energy that came with a group of actors who barely had time to see each other outside of work.

But now, the gingerbread competition was underway.

“Okay, everyone, listen up,” Percy announced dramatically, clapping his hands as he stood at the front of the living room like a game show host. “You have exactly twenty minutes to construct a masterpiece. No shortcuts. No store-bought frosting magic. Only skill, determination, and the Christmas spirit.”

Emma crossed her arms. “You’re only saying that because you and Hunter stacked your walls together like Lego bricks before we started.”

Hunter shrugged, unbothered. “Survival of the fittest.”

I glanced at Jenna, who was already methodically arranging the gingerbread pieces in front of her, eyes sharp with focus. “You take this way too seriously.”

She raised a brow. “There’s no too seriously when it comes to gingerbread architecture.”

Joy smirked from across the table. “She’s been this way every year, by the way. Christmas competitions? It’s like her Super Bowl.”

Jenna rolled her eyes, but the small twitch of her lips betrayed her amusement.

I shook my head, grabbing a piping bag of icing and squeezing a dollop onto the edge of a gingerbread wall. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

We worked quickly, each team focused on their own creations. The living room buzzed with holiday music and scattered conversation, interrupted only by the occasional muttered curse when someone’s house collapsed (looking at you, Emma).

Jenna, true to form, was building with the precision of an architect. The walls stood perfectly straight, her lines of icing clean and even.

I, on the other hand, was struggling to get a gumdrop to stay on the roof.

“You have the structural integrity of wet cardboard,” she murmured, barely sparing me a glance as she piped another perfect snowflake onto the side of our gingerbread house.

“Excuse me,” I shot back, grabbing a handful of mini marshmallows. “Some of us are here for the vibes.”

She smirked. “And some of us are here to win.”

Without thinking, I reached over and swiped a streak of icing across the tip of her nose.

For a second, she just blinked. Then, slowly, her lips curved into something dangerously playful.

“Oh, you are so dead.”

Before I could react, her fingers found a container of rainbow sprinkles.

“No—Jenna, don’t you dare—”

A shower of sugar rained down onto my hair.

Gasps filled the room.

“Oh my God,” Emma whispered, eyes wide in mock horror.

“Not the sprinkles,” Percy added.

Laughter erupted around us as I tried (and failed) to wipe the icing and sprinkles from my face.

Jenna, smug, leaned back, arms crossed. “That’s what you get.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Oh, it’s on, Ortega.”

Before I could grab the bag of powdered sugar for revenge, Joy cleared her throat. “I hate to break up whatever this is, but we still have a competition to finish.”

I exchanged a glance with Jenna, breath still caught somewhere between laughing and plotting.

She was close—closer than I’d realized, cheeks slightly pink from the warmth inside, a dusting of powdered sugar lingering on her sleeve from earlier.

She nudged me with her knee under the table. “Truce?”

I exhaled, pretending to think about it before giving in. “Truce.”

And somehow, neither of us moved away.

The Christmas playlist hummed in the background, a mix of jazz renditions and the occasional pop cover of classics. Emma had taken over DJ duties, dramatically belting out All I Want for Christmas Is You into a candy cane while Percy recorded from the couch.

Hunter had somehow ended up half-buried in Christmas pillows, still tangled in the tinsel that was supposed to go on the tree.

Joy was sipping hot chocolate, perched on the arm of the loveseat, watching the mess unfold like an amused narrator.

Jenna was next to me on the couch, cradling a mug of cocoa in her hands, but her focus wasn’t on the chaos around us anymore. 

“Hey,” Joy’s voice cut through the easy hum of conversation, pulling everyone’s attention back. She leaned forward, her smirk barely hidden behind her mug. “So… which one of you wants to admit it first?”

A pause. Then Hunter groaned. “Oh, here we go.”

Joy grinned. “I just love a good Christmas confession.”

The room stirred with amusement, but it wasn’t until she turned her gaze in my direction that my stomach flipped.

“You know what I’m talking about, Y/N,” she said smoothly. “The crush.”

Laughter bubbled up from the others, some leaning in, waiting for the reaction.

The room collectively turned, and suddenly, the warmth of the fireplace video was nothing compared to the heat crawling up my neck.

Jenna shifted beside me. “Wait, what?”

Joy’s smirk widened. “Oh, come on Jenna. You know how this works. Someone always has a holiday crush.” She took a sip of her cocoa before tilting her head. “So? Who’s the lucky person?”

Emma gasped. “Wait. Oh my God. Is it someone here?”

Jenna stiffened. It was subtle, but I felt it—her shoulders went rigid, fingers tightening just slightly against her mug.

“Yes, I do have a crush on someone here…No big deal,” I muttered, attempting to brush it off, but the damage was done.

Conversations shifted soon after, the topic buried under the sounds of more laughter and Hunter’s tinsel-related accident, but I knew one person who wasn’t letting it go.

I noticed the way her eyes lingered on me, thoughtful, almost hesitant.

Then she stood, stretching slightly before catching my eye.

“Hey,” she murmured, voice soft, “can we talk for a sec?”

The cold hit first. A crisp December wind swept through the city, carrying the distant hum of car horns and muffled Christmas music from somewhere below. The view stretched for miles—twinkling lights, high-rise buildings, the glow of holiday decorations reflecting against glass.

Jenna leaned against the railing, arms wrapped around herself. The soft glow of the city caught in her eyes as she exhaled, breath visible in the cold.

“So…” she started, voice careful. “Who is it?”

Fingers curled around the metal railing, the coolness grounding against the warmth buzzing under my skin.

“Who’s who?”

She rolled her eyes. “Your crush.”

She hesitated. “Emma thinks it’s Percy,” she continued. “But I kind of thought… maybe Joy?”

The laugh escaped before it could be stopped. “Joy?”

Jenna’s lips pressed together, cheeks slightly pink.

Shaking my head, the words came before second-guessing could creep in. “It’s not Joy.”

She hesitated. “Then who?”

A breath. A decision.

The distance between us was small, but suddenly, it felt monumental.

Reaching up, a thumb brushed against the corner of her sleeve, the same one dusted with powdered sugar from earlier.

Then, finally, softly, “It’s you.”

Jenna stilled.

Her breath hitched, lips parting slightly as if forming a response, but none came.

Panic crept in, but before it could fully take hold, her voice cut through.

“You idiot.”

The disbelief in her tone made me blink. “Excuse me?”

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I thought you had a thing for Emma.”

“Emma?”

“She kept saying you were always texting her, and I saw you talking—”

Groaning, a hand ran through my hair. “I was literally asking her for advice on you.”

The space between us felt charged now, thick with something unspoken but impossible to ignore.

“Say it again,” she murmured.

Pulse roaring. “Say what?”

“That it’s me.”

A step closer. “It’s you, Jenna.”

And then—she closed the gap.

Soft. Warm. Familiar in a way that made no sense, yet perfect all the same. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla clung to her sweater, the press of her hands against my jacket grounding and electric all at once.

When she pulled back, her nose bumped against mine, a small, breathless smile tugging at her lips.

“About time.”

The laugh came naturally. “You’re one to talk.”

She rolled her eyes, but the grin stayed. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

She did by kissing me again. 

When the two of you finally re-entered the apartment, the warmth of the party greeting you once again, Emma’s gaze snapped to Jenna’s slightly flushed face, then to yours. Her eyes widened.

“No way,” she gasped, pointing an accusing finger. “I knew it.”

Hunter groaned, tossing his hands up. “Damn it, I had money on Percy.”

Jenna just smirked, sliding her fingers discreetly into yours before shooting Emma a look.

“Guess you don’t know everything.”

You laughed, squeezing her hand.

Christmas had never felt warmer.

And that’s how the night ended—wrapped in fairy lights, laughter echoing from inside, and the warmth of something new, something electric, settling between us.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

Hiatus Ended: I'm Back!

Howdy guys! It's been a bit! I will admit it! I had a lot of things and got a little busy! Nothing bad! All good things! But I will still write; I must return to the content train! I am back in school, but I will continue to pump out some writing for you all! You all have supported these stories, and your encouraging words have continued to fuel my fire to write! I still owe you all three Christmas specials I did not forget, But I won't leave y'all hanging with Striring the Quiet; that is still a work in progress! Thank you all a lot for the love and support of everything! <3

[kaces-graham-crackers]

Polls: I'm doing the top three!