#Windows Repair Tools

[yamicsoftwindowsrepair]

Restore and Optimize Your PC with Yamicsoft’s Windows Repair Software

Over time, every Windows system can run into issues��slow performance, broken settings, missing files, or even registry errors. That’s where Yamicsoft’s Windows Repair Software steps in, offering a complete toolkit to fix, clean, and optimize your PC with just a few clicks.

Why You Need Windows Repair Tools

From system crashes to application failures, many common problems are caused by corrupted settings, invalid registry entries, or leftover files. Instead of reinstalling Windows or calling tech support, Yamicsoft empowers you to:

Repair system functions and settings

Restore broken or missing features

Fix registry and configuration errors

Clean up unnecessary files and leftovers

What Yamicsoft Offers

Yamicsoft Windows Manager includes a powerful repair module with features such as:

✅ System Repair Wizard – Fixes common Windows issues automatically ✅ Registry Repair Tool – Detects and corrects corrupt or outdated entries ✅ System File Checker – Scans and restores critical Windows files ✅ Repair Center Dashboard – One place to manage all fixes quickly and safely

Performance Meets Protection

Unlike basic repair apps, Yamicsoft’s tools also include:

Backup & Restore: Create safe restore points before changes

Optimization Tools: Speed up boot time and improve system responsiveness

Cleanup Utilities: Remove junk files and reclaim disk space

Conclusion

Don’t let minor issues turn into major headaches. With Yamicsoft’s all-in-one Windows Repair Software, you can restore your system to peak performance safely and efficiently.

Take control of your PC—repair, optimize, and enjoy a faster Windows experience today!

[subjectsix]

I don't know I'm not done talking about it. It's insane that I can't just uninstall Edge or Copilot. That websites require my phone number to sign up. That people share their contacts to find their friends on social media.

I wouldn't use an adblocker if ads were just banners on the side funding a website I enjoy using and want to support. Ads pop up invasively and fill my whole screen, I misclick and get warped away to another page just for trying to read an article or get a recipe.

Every app shouldn't be like every other app. Instagram didn't need reels and a shop. TikTok doesn't need a store. Instagram doesn't need to be connected to Facebook. I don't want my apps to do everything, I want a hub for a specific thing, and I'll go to that place accordingly.

I love discord, but so much information gets lost to it. I don't want to join to view things. I want to lurk on forums. I want to be a user who can log in and join a conversation by replying to a thread, even if that conversation was two days ago. I know discord has threads, it's not the same. I don't want to have to verify my account with a phone number. I understand safety and digital concerns, but I'm concerned about information like that with leaks everywhere, even with password managers.

I shouldn't have to pay subscriptions to use services and get locked out of old versions. My old disk copy of photoshop should work. I should want to upgrade eventually because I like photoshop and supporting the business. Adobe is a whole other can of worms here.

Streaming is so splintered across everything. Shows release so fast. Things don't get physical releases. I can't stream a movie I own digitally to friends because the share-screen blocks it, even though I own two digital copies, even though I own a physical copy.

I have an iPod, and I had to install a third party OS to easily put my music on it without having to tangle with iTunes. Spotify bricked hardware I purchased because they were unwillingly to upkeep it. They don't pay their artists. iTunes isn't even iTunes anymore and Apple struggles to upkeep it.

My TV shows me ads on the home screen. My dad lost access to eBook he purchased because they were digital and got revoked by the company distributing them. Hitman 1-3 only runs online most of the time. Flash died and is staying alive because people love it and made efforts to keep it up.

I have to click "not now" and can't click "no". I don't just get emails, they want to text me to purchase things online too. My windows start search bar searches online, not just my computer. Everything is blindly called an app now. Everything wants me to upload to the cloud. These are good tools! But why am I forced to use them! Why am I not allowed to own or control them?

No more!!!!! I love my iPod with so much storage and FLAC files. I love having all my fics on my harddrive. I love having USBs and backups. I love running scripts to gut suck stuff out of my Windows computer I don't want that spies on me. I love having forums. I love sending letters. I love neocities and webpages and webrings. I will not be scanning QR codes. Please hand me a physical menu. If I didn't need a smartphone for work I'd get a "dumb" phone so fast. I want things to have buttons. I want to use a mouse. I want replaceable batteries. I want the right to repair. I grew up online and I won't forget how it was!

[diagnozabam]

Actualizarea Windows 11 KB5043145 Provocă Probleme Majore: Reporniri Aleatorii și Erori BSOD/GSOD

Microsoft a lansat recent actualizarea KB5043145 pentru versiunile Windows 11 23H2 și 22H2, însă aceasta a cauzat multiple probleme utilizatorilor, inclusiv reporniri neașteptate ale PC-urilor, erori de tip BSOD (Blue Screen of Death) și GSOD (Green Screen of Death). În unele cazuri, PC-urile afectate intră automat în modul Windows Automatic Repair Tool și direcționează utilizatorii către…

[vashu2004]

How to Repair Corrupted OST Files on Windows 11

Repairing corrupted OST files is crucial for maintaining access to your Outlook data. OST files can become corrupted due to various reasons, including software glitches, virus attacks, and hardware failures. Fortunately, there are effective methods to repair these files. Users can utilize built-in tools like ScanPST or recreate the OST file by deleting it and syncing it with the Exchange server. Additionally, third-party tools like WebbyAcad OST Recovery Tool can provide advanced recovery options when built-in methods fail, ensuring that important data remains accessible.

[filehulk]

MacDrive Standard

While Windows dominates the operating system market, many users also choose Mac OS X, likely drawn by Apple’s signature sleek interface. Switching between Windows and OS X can sometimes be challenging, but MacDrive Standard simplifies this process. MacDrive Standard is a specialized tool designed to allow Windows users to seamlessly access Mac-formatted drives, making it especially useful for…

[differenteagletragedy]

What if you are married to Simon but you still have eyes and Price is right there, what then ↓

It's so hot. The sun is beating down outside, summer in full swing, but inside your house the heat is oppressive. It's suffocating.

"Simon, just call someone to fix it," you whine, walking around until you find your husband with his shirt off and sweat dripping down his back, reading something on his phone.

"Don't need anyone to fix it," he mutters, not looking up at you. "Can do it myself."

You groan, because it's painfully clear at this point that he in fact cannot fix it. It's been three days since the air conditioning went out, and three days of Simon trying everything he can think of to fix it. He's been flipping breakers, messing with the thermostat, taking tools to the unit outside, but nothing's worked, because Simon does not know what he's doing.

"I'm going to die," you tell him, sinking down onto the couch. "I'm going to perish and it's all going to be your fault."

You see him smirk, but he still doesn't look up. Instead, he tells you, "You're going to survive this, sweetheart. Going to have it up and running by tonight."

"Why won't you call an actual repairman? Why are you insisting on whatever this is?"

"Cute," he says, finally glancing up at you with a grin. "You're the one who married a stubborn bastard, what do you think?"

You think it's a mix of pride and sheer unwillingness to be outsmarted by a hunk of metal and parts, but you don't say that. Instead, you continue whining.

The next morning, Simon still hasn't figured it out. You tell him more directly, dramatics aside, that you're very uncomfortable and would just like to solve the problem in a normal, reasonable manner.

He makes a deal with you. He's not ready to completely give up and call in outside help just yet. But he will call Johnny.

"Does Johnny know how to repair a heating and cooling unit?" you ask, entirely unconvinced.

He answers, "Johnny knows a lot of things."

A couple of hours later, Johnny comes over, his own tools in tow, and he's brought along a surprise -- Kyle.

You keep your groan to yourself this time and just bring the men drinks while they work. Or, well, while Johnny and Kyle nod while Simon tells them everything he's done that hasn't worked. It doesn't take them long to switch from water to beer, and at this point you're pretty sure you're actually going to die.

"You know," Kyle says at one point, carrying the latest round of empty bottles to the trash, "I think the captain had something like this happen a few years back. I seem to remember overhearing him talking to the missus about it in a call."

"Is that why she divorced him?" you ask. "He wouldn't call a repairman and kept telling her he could fix it himself?"

Simon gives you a look, and you give it right back -- you know you're being cheeky, but the heat really is miserable.

But Kyle only laughs and shakes his head, saying "No, I don't think that's what did it. He got it fixed, I believe, he's pretty handy with things like that."

It's your turn to shoot Simon at look. Your husband shakes his head, twisting the top off another beer, and says, "Absolutely not."

"Simon."

"Sweetheart."

"Please."

An hour or so later, John arrives. And, ever so slightly, the atmosphere shifts. Simon, Johnny and Kyle stand just a little bit straighter, their voices get the tiniest bit more business-like. They're not standing at attention now that the captain is here, it's not that notable, but now it's clear that someone is in charge.

It's cute, you think as you watch them. You smile softly, watching Simon as he gives John a debriefing on everything he's tried so far, and you don't notice that John's eyes linger on you just a fraction of a second longer than what might be considered acceptable.

The captain is the one who finally gets the air conditioning running again, but it's no small effort. From the window, you watch as Price tinkers with something within the unit, and you smile when you hear it kick on, a nearby vent starting the work of circulating cool air through the too-hot house.

"What did you do?" you ask John, a bit of wonder in your voice, when they all come back inside to make sure everything is in order. "Simon's been going at it for days and you got it in half an hour."

The older man gives you a small, tight smile, reaching out to tap Simon's shoulder lightly.

"Just a blown capacitor, love," he tells you. "Easy enough fix."

You return his smile like you always do -- you like John. Always have. It's something, you think, about how similar he can be to Simon. Both men are strong and solid, deeply masculine in a way that's natural, not forced. They both have deep, rumbling voices that you feel in your chest when they speak. And sometimes, though you don't know John as well as you know Simon, of course, you think that the captain has something wild in him, too. Some kind of ache that runs deep through him, one that he's muzzled and tamed long ago.

Your Simon struggles with it still, though less since you married him. It's why he still wears a mask on the job, and why he wrestles, on a base level, with the idea of being seen.

John, you think, wears a different kind of mask. You can see it when he comes over for dinner some evenings, in the way that even after a full meal, dessert and a glass of scotch, the tension stays in his shoulders. You've never seen the man relaxed, and from what Simon's said of him, he hasn't either. It's his tight grip on control, of himself and those around him. He clings to it.

"Is that thing really working?" Johnny asks, grabbing another beer. "It's still hot as hell in here."

"It'll take a while to cool down, but it's working," John answers.

He's as sweaty as the others, but he doesn't complain. Instead, he lifts the hem of his t-shirt up to wipe his face. You look down -- your eyes just tracking the motion, you tell yourself -- to see his belly bared, covered in a thick coating of dark hair and just the slightest bit soft.

When you pull your eyes back to his, he's giving you a grin, but if he caught you staring, he doesn't say anything.

"You wanna get Price a drink?" Simon asks, smirking at you. "For saving your life and all."

You nod, turning back to the kitchen, pulling out the scotch you keep just for him and trying to clear your head.

Sure, John is an attractive man. So is Kyle, so is Johnny. And for that matter, so is Simon. Your husband.

But still, when you return to the group of men gathered in your living room, your fingers brush against John's as you hand him the drink. And you can't help but think about what that beard would feel like against your cheek, between your thighs. How it would feel if, even for just a little while, you were the thing he felt that desperate, innate need to control.

[stellamarielu]

So I've had this Pope Cody fic idea swimming around in my brain, and I'm not sure what to do with it, so I'm dumping it on y'all. I'd love to really hash it out into a multi part series but I fear I won't be able to commit, so please just take this half assed explanation of the idea instead!

It starts when you move into the neighborhood, right across the street from the cody's. You inherit your grandmother’s house after she passes, and while it's old and could use a few renovations, you're just happy you don't have to pay rent anymore.

Then, just like she does anytime some new moves onto the street, Smurf invites you over for dinner. She's always mindful of her family’s appearance to the neighbors, trying to win them over and get ahead of any concerns they might have over the constant carousel of questionable visitors and over the top ragers taking place at the Cody household.

You accept the invitation and the whole night Pope watches as you fall for Smurf’s phony whimsy— fake smiles and compliments sent your way across the dinner table. While he would normally roll his eyes at the sucker on the other end of her antics, tonight he can’t help but watch the naive glimmer in your eye, and the way you sit so politely in your chair as Smurf attempts to woo you over.

He obsesses over it— the way you look so out of place in their kitchen. Your smile is real. Your laugh is genuine, and very pretty. He’s drawn to you, drawn to your novelty. Your innocence. Fascinated by your perception of life, and how pure everything must be in your eyes; your inability to see Smurf’s deception, the ease in which you giggle at Craig’s inappropriate jokes, the gentle way you avert your eyes, and the shy smile on your lips when you catch Pope’s stare lingering on you.

So after that night at dinner, he starts watching you. It's harmless really. Glancing out the window every so often to see if your car is in the driveway. Staying in his truck for a few extra minutes after he gets home, observing you through the privacy of his tinted windows. Noticing that you leave your blinds open far too long after the sun goes down, peering through your kitchen windows to watch as you do dishes, or eat alone at your dining room table.

One day he’s pulling into the driveway when he notices you across the street. The trunk of your car is wide open and your lugging groceries bags by the handful out of your back seat. He barely has time to contemplate his decision before he appears next to you, surprising you with his presence and almost making you drop the groceries in your hands.

He greets you abruptly. Taking the bags from you effortlessly, like the brown sacks filled to the brim with ingredients weigh absolutely nothing. He stands, waiting for you to lead him into your house, so you do, leading him up the porch and through the front door.

You show him to the kitchen, where he places the bags on a table, making a quick, simple comment about the house being nice. You reply with a "thank you" before rambling on about how it's your grandmother's old house and it could use a lot of work.

In an effort to prove the home is a bit of a fixer upper, you mention the handle on the kitchen sink broke clean off that morning and you still need to call someone out to fix it. He immediately brushes past you, inspecting the broken sink without a word. Then, with a simple, "I can fix it,” he’s lugging in a tool bag and repairing your sink in record time.

You talk to him in the few minutes it takes him to fix the issue. Asking him simple questions with each one earning you a curt response.

"Should I call you Andrew or Pope? I noticed your mom calls you Andrew, but your brothers call you-" "Andrew."

Nonetheless you get to know him a little bit. It's enough for him to offer help anytime you need it. The water pressure in your shower is shit? He's on it. You need to update a few light fixtures? He's there to make sure you don't have to lift a finger. Patchy drywall in the garage? Looks brand new in one afternoon. It becomes his new hobby— fixing your house— being around you.

He spends so much time at your place working on projects, that your relationship blooms naturally. It feels almost like taking in a stray dog; extending a hand just for him to sniff around it until he eventually warms up to you.

You ask him more questions until you realize he doesn't like answering them very much, so instead you tell him about yourself. You allow his reactions to your words, the way he watches carefully when you bring up certain topics, to direct the course of your conversations.

You learn the easiest way to get him to talk is by making him food, the company of sitting across from someone during a meal somehow makes him feel a bit more comfortable. He opens up to you little by little over home cooked meals at your dining room table, the ones you insist he eats because he's spent all evening working hard and the least you can do is feed him.

He never turns down your offer, always accepting with a kind smile and letting his guard down long enough to clear his plate.

There's a safety in the meals you prepare for him— the way you sit peacefully across from each other. It's different from the way Smurf cooks for him. When she does it, it's manipulative, a reminder that she holds power over him, that he needs her to take care of him. But with you, it's an extension of gratitude. An attempt to get to know him. It's so innocent— endearing. He becomes addicted to it, staying longer than he needs to while working on something just to ensure you'll invite him to stay for dinner.

He fills his time with quick meals in your kitchen and little projects throughout your house until the boys find a job.

He's busy scouting and planning, and you start to notice he's around significantly less. He's shown up on your doorstep like clockwork everyday for weeks, and now all of a sudden you haven't seen him in days.

Until he knocks on your door early one morning. It's the day after the job, and he's noticeably banged up. With an open cut on his cheekbone and a black eye he just stands in front of you, apologizing.

He's not really sure how to communicate why he hasn’t seen you in days, or why he’s even at your door. All he knows, is that he just wants to see you. To watch the way you smile at him— to be reminded that he's not all bad. That there's some kind of hope hidden in the way you make him lasagna and let him fix your kitchen sink.

Of course you ask him what happened. You ask him if he's okay, but he doesn't respond, just stares. And the next thing you know, you're inviting him in for breakfast. No more questions, just an offering of quiet connection over eggs and fresh fruit.

[dailynnt]

Dirty bike repair

ᯓ Summary: In the garage, amidst the sounds of rock music and metal clatter, Jungkook is repairing his bike, absorbed in his work. You enter quietly, dressed only in his T-shirt, and he senses your presence even before you approach. You ignite his desire with your eyes and words, and he cannot help himself.

ᯓ Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ The Reader, Jungkook/Y/N

ᯓ Age restrictions: 18+

ᯓ Size: one shot

ᯓ Tags: established relationships, Jungkook!biker, passion, sexual tension, love, unexpected twist, tshirt, hot moment, intimacy, extreme relationships, unprotected sex

ᯓ From author: I spent the whole day writing chapter 9 for "One Night..." but this suddenly popped into my head! I had to write it and post it 🤭😱 So I hope you enjoy this short scene with a hot atmosphere ❤️‍🔥 Hugs to every my army who reads 💘🫶🏻

ᯓ Dedication: Of course, this story for my favorite, beloved girls: : @kelsyx33, @curse-of-art, @mskookie, @kooko009, @myjungkookthighs, @medstudentlifestyle, @someoneelse0109, @minimoninini, @byeolluvher 💜 I love you girls so much 🥹

ᯓ Warning: English is not my native language, so please be lenient with mistakes in the text 🥹

The metallic smell of oil mingled with the warm scent of spring air that barely made its way through the open garage window. Inside, there was the sound of tools clattering, rock band music playing in the background, and in the middle of it all, there was Jungkook.

He stood leaning over his bike, completely absorbed in his work. His muscles were visible under his T-shirt, and his dark hair fell over his forehead, slightly damp with sweat.

You came in silently, stood in the doorway, leaning on the jamb. Only the edge of your smile betrayed your intentions. But he sensed you even before he turned around, as if his inner compass had always pointed to you.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye, still fiddling with the detail.

Your legs-white and slender-were crossed. You were wearing his old, too-big slippers. And you were wearing only his T-shirt, thin, white, and smelling of him. It was long, but not long enough to cover you completely. He knew there was nothing underneath. And you knew that he knew.

His gaze rested on your hips for a moment, but he looked down and continued working. Although his movements were no longer so confident. You noticed this and came closer.

Your fingers slid over his shoulder, stopped at his collarbone, and slowly went down his chest.

"Are you busy?" your voice was soft but challenging, like a rose petal with hidden thorns.

Jungkook sighed, couldn't stand it - he turned his side to you and wiped his hands on a cloth. His gaze quickly went over your body - your disheveled hair, swollen lips, a slight blush. Traces of what had happened between you a few hours ago.

"Uh-huh. There's an important race tomorrow, I have to get it repair by morning." He said, carefully studying your reaction. Your lips pouted slightly, looking at the bike with disappointment. This amused Jungkook. He smiled knowing you wanted more, but he was interested in teasing you.

Jungkook put down the tool and walked over to the sink and opened the water to wash his hands. He looked at you in the stained mirror. You stood by the bike and looked at it. You bent over slightly, and Jungkook saw your bare buttocks. He instantly became aroused.

He finished washing his hands and dried them with a paper towel. He turned and slowly walked over to you.

You gave your boyfriend a short, innocent look. You noticed his ironic smile and knew that your plan was revealed.

"Let me guess..." he smiled, taking another step toward you, "My girl wants me again?"

You laughed and leaned on the seat of the bike, crossing your arms. Through his T-shirt you were dressed, he could see the burgundy circles of your nipples, which were already erect and resting against the fabric.

"I came to see you fixing your bike. I was wondering what you look like when you're concentrating. It's... hot."

Jungkook laughed, hoarse, low, with that slight mockery that made you want him even more.

"Came in this," he pointed to his T-shirt, "to see me work." He walked over grabbing you by the shirt and pulling you to your feet. His big hand squeezed your bare ass. "You didn't even put on your underwear, you were in such a hurry to see bike being repair?"

"Well, I'm sorry," you whisper as if you're guilty, although a mischievous twinkle sparkles in your eyes. "You know, I was just... bored. And then I remembered what your mouth looks like."

Jungkook raised his eyebrows, snorted with satisfaction, easily pressed you against the bike's tank, your ass feel the cold metal. His body is almost close to yours, his palms confidently holding your hips. His lips are dangerously close.

"Remember my mouth?" his voice is low, like the thunder before the storm. "So what do you want, huh? Do you want me to remind you?"

You gulped for air but didn't answer - instead, you brushed your lips against his neck, leaving a hot trail across his damp skin. He cursed softly, pulling you even closer.

"You're a bad girl tonight," he muttered, his hand slipping under your shirt, his fingers lightly touching your stomach and then your pussy, "Instead of letting me finish, you want me to do you like this... right here?"

You squeezed his forearms, spreading your legs slightly. Your body trembled at his every touch. He felt your wetness as he fingers it over the folds.

"Just... remind me how good it is to be yours." you whispered.

And he did.

He knelt down in front of you, his palms resting on your hips, warm, steady, as if his touch were the only thing keeping you in reality. One flick of his tongue and you swayed, gripping his shoulders.

"Fuck, I'll never get enough of this pussy," he muttered before continuing. He knew how to push you to the limit. And he knew how to keep you on it for a long time.

Your moans drowned out the music, and the air became damp with your breaths. You clenched your fingers in his hair, pulling him even closer. He tasted you like the most precious drink, taking his time, as if he wanted you to memorize every inch of his tongue.

And when you were already trembling, barely holding back a scream, he stood up, grabbed your hips, and lifted you up easily.

"I asked you not to distract me," he whispers right into your lips, but you feel his hardness resting against you and realize that he can't stop himself anymore.

"Well, then finish with me and get back to your bike," you tease, biting his ear.

He grabbed you by the waist strongly and carried you to the table. Jungkook sat you down on the cold metal table. Your legs involuntarily spread apart, and the hem of his T-shirt slid up, exposing you.

"You're sneaky. You came right here. You're make me crazy."

"And what are you going to do about it?" your breath hitched as his palm stopped where you were already burning.

"First, I'll make you regret that you come here when I was busy. And then I'll make you ask for more."

Jungkook kissed you, roughly, greedily, with the same insatiable hunger, as if he wanted to reach your very soul. His tongue penetrated your mouth, captivating you, subduing you, making you lose touch with reality. His hands tore at the sides of your T-shirt without taking it off completely, leaving it hanging down on your shoulders like the most alluring piece of jewelry on your body.

His fingers-hot, slightly rough from working with metal-confidently moved lower, pushed you apart, and entered you. Your passage received them with a wet waterfall.

"Kook..." you breathed out, losing control, already in the grip of desire.

"Hush, baby. Let me feel you."

His fingers moved rhythmically, steadily. Your body arched every time he penetrated deeper, harder. The only sound in the air was the sound of your breaths and muffled moans.

"Oh... you're so wet... just for me, aren't you?" he whispered with a husky voice that burned you deeper than any touch.

He quickly pulled down his sweatpants, also nothing underneath. His cock was hard, hot, ready. He took hold of your hips, guided himself to your entrance and, without hesitation, entered you with one deep, strong thrust.

You arched back, bit your lip, screaming not from pain but from a wave of sudden pleasure. He froze inside you, deeply, giving you time to get used to it.

The kiss connected you again - long, passionate, with tense tongues intertwining. You moaned into his mouth, your hands sliding down his back, your nails leaving red marks.

Jungkook pulled your lower lip with his teeth, then let go, looking into your eyes with that predatory smile that made you tremble.

First move. The second. The rhythm was born in his hips, steady, sharp, each stroke a blow to your consciousness. He took you without shame, with the same authority with which he had always touched your heart.

"Fuck..." he breathed out, kissing you again, "You were made for me. For my hands. For my body."

You wrapped your legs around him, holding him tight, whispering his name in his ear. His voice was a low, ragged growl, and he was picking up the pace, harder, deeper.

The garage was filled with the sounds of your bodies - the thumps, the wet sighs, the moans, and that muffled "mine" he branded you with over and over again.

When your body began to shudder and your breath hitched, he knew you were on the verge. A few more hard thrusts and the explosion.

The orgasm hit you like a storm, wave after wave. You trembled, clutching him, and he entered deeply a few more times and came out with a jerk, spilling hot semen on your stomach. His cock shook, his body trembled with yours.

Jungkook sank down against you, resting his forehead on your shoulder, breathing heavily.

For several minutes you just stayed there, in silence, amidst the smell of oil, sweat, and pleasure. His fingers stroked your thigh, he lifted his head and looked at you, his eyes sparkling.

"So, my love, how did you like the bike repair? Was it interesting...?" he asked, smiling with the corner of his lips and gently running his finger over your stomach, smearing drops of his passion.

You laughed hoarsely, barely turning your head to him.

"If every repair looks like this... I'll probably break your bike every day," you joke, still breathing heavily, your fingers tangled in his hair, stroking the back of his head.

"You would do that, my seductress." Jungkook replies in a low, still slightly broken voice and kisses your neck. "You'll stay with me until morning, right? I don't want you to leave."

You squeeze his hand.

"Yes, I'll stay until the morning." You answer quietly, almost whispering, and that special moment comes between you - not just after lust, but after deep intimacy. Real intimacy. He feels it. And so do you.

"Shall we go to the shower?" he suggests softly, standing up a little, but not moving too far away from you. "I want to wash all the dust off of you... and leave you with just kisses."

You nod and smile.

"And I thought you were going to leave something else..." you tease, glancing down.

"If you don't stop, there will be a second round in the shower," he replies, picking you up, not letting you take a step.

"Round two? Maybe three?" you joke. You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"You will drive me crazy, that I'll fuck you all night so you can't sit up in the morning."

"You sound promising." you tease.

And when you disappear behind the bathroom door, the garage is still warm, smelling of gasoline, oil... and the first real confessions made without words.

[yamicsoftwindowsrepair]

Unlock Peak PC Performance with Yamicsoft’s Windows Optimization Tools

Is your Windows PC running slower than usual? Experiencing long startup times, unnecessary background processes, or storage bloat? With Yamicsoft’s powerful Windows Optimization Tools, you can bring your system back to life—faster, cleaner, and more efficient than ever.

Whether you're using Windows 10 or Windows 11, Yamicsoft’s suite of utilities provides comprehensive system optimization in one convenient platform.

🚀 All-in-One System Optimizer

Yamicsoft’s optimization tools are designed to make your Windows system:

Faster – Reduce startup times and increase responsiveness

Cleaner – Remove junk files, broken shortcuts, and registry clutter

Smarter – Monitor resources, tweak services, and streamline apps

Safer – Enhance security and privacy with real-time protections

You don’t need to be tech-savvy—Yamicsoft provides user-friendly dashboards and one-click solutions for deep system management.

🧰 Core Features of Yamicsoft’s Optimization Suite

🧼 1. System Cleaner

Erase temporary files and cache

Remove old Windows updates and logs

Clean registry errors without risk

🚀 2. Startup Manager

Control which programs launch at boot

Improve startup time significantly

Eliminate hidden startup bloat

📁 3. Disk Analyzer

Identify large and duplicate files

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[multch]

Caught.

Art the clown x Reader [18+]

CW: Smut\ afab Reader

Pt.1 (Thoughts)

Art just caught you red-handed pleasuring yourself but he doesn't seem to react… at first.

There stood Art the clown, leaning up against the wall with a shit eating grin- Oh God no.

Oh God no.

It was in this moment, you felt as small as a starved mouse. Has he always towered over you?

Holding your breath, your gaze hesitantly lifted to meet with his eyes.

Surely he couldn’t hear you in there… And obviously he couldn’t have been waiting outside the whole time.. right?

But what if he had. Would he be disgusted? His face contorted into a disturbed grimace. Could it change your relationship? Would he be so enraged as to consider you his next victim- ready to skin you with his bare hands. Gosh why did you ever think that was a good idea! 

Your lust was your hamartia- the trigger that would spiral into your gruesome demise; a death without an ounce of dignity.

It was as if that doorway was a picture frame holding- you- a moment frozen in time. Your face was flushed bright red and your chest heaved up and down as if you had just ran a marathon. 

Your eyes were wide in shock and pure terror.

As your gaze met his, you couldn’t help but sigh as he walked right past you. How could he be so calm? His smirk dropped as he practically shrugged you off as if you were translucent- as if you weren’t there…

What the hell?!

*

There it layed unfinished. It would only take you a few minutes to stitch back up the final rip.

Across your desk were numerous tools you used throughout the night; The jacket you worked on mere hours ago, several pairs of sharp fabric scissors and an array of pins and needles strung with thread.

Despite the busy crowd of your work-station, you remained alone. 

Where could he be?

*

You looked up at the cheap clock sitting on the wall; 2:15am.

Clutched carefully in your hand, you carried his newly repaired costume with you. When you would return it to him, you would finally be able to go home- that is if you could find him…

It was your 4th time circling around the store and only one thought remained in your mind; 

Where on earth was that damn clown!?

Walking into storage, you were met with the familiar dark and dusty sight you dreaded seeing so often. Luckily, since meeting Art, you were able to evade stock retrieval long enough during your shifts to delegate it to him at night. Unfortunately, every once in a while you would still have to venture out back during the day when issues were too urgent. 

It wasn't rare for liminal spaces to creep you out so the avoidance was understood with a few simple honks of a horn. 

“Hey Art… you in here?” You shivered.

The room was cramped and lined with unstable wire shelving overflowing with cardboard boxes of various sizes. As there were no windows, who knew what could be hiding in the shadows. 

As your eyes adjusted to make out shapes within the darkness, your hand crept around the wall beside you for a light switch.

Aha! There it was.

As you went to flick the switch your heart suddenly dropped.

That’s not the switch… 

Two cold hands grabbed your arm in an instant, pulling you towards a firm chest.

Shit!

“Art! Oh my goodness I am so sorry,” you blurted, “I was just looking for the lightswitch, I didn’t mean to-” 

While what you could see was limited, what you knew was abundant. Your cheeks burned up as you realized what you just did. You didn’t flick the lightswitch, you just hit Art’s nipple- god that’s so embarrassing! You practically screamed at yourself.

What did you drag yourself into! First you think he caught you finger fucking yourself to the thought of him. Now you're in a dark storage cupboard and he's completely naked! 

It's not even his fault, you sighed. You're the one carrying his repaired clothes- Damn it! You should've given him something to wear- you work in a costume shop for christ’s sake!

There, you continued to ramble on and on. Uttering something about an extra Santa costume. Suddenly, you gasped as Art pulled you closer towards himself.

Oh.

Seems like Art noticed your distraction and gave you something else to think about. Yes, he was naked but that didn't interest you when you knew you could lean into the tenderness of his sharp touch.

It ran through you- that burning, stinging sensation everywhere his skin touched yours. He was frozen. He kept pulling you closer into his chest like he needed you to survive. Like your warmth was addictive.

His arms wrapped around you like a snake while he tucked your legs between his thighs.

You looked up at him only to be met with the same shit-eating grin as last time.

What a pervert.

He was infectious. Once you had laid eyes on those disgusting tar black teeth and dark doe eyes, it was as if a command came over your soul. The corners of your lips unconsciously lifted into a smile. Maybe you would take advantage of this proximity for once…

Laying a quick peck on his bottom lip, you chuckled as you knew his facepaint had transferred to your own.

Art always knew how to make you laugh as he reared back to make an exaggerated shocked face. Quickly, he returned the offer by giving you a toothy grin before smashing his lips into yours.

Driving your bodies forward and away from the initial wall, Art bites your bottom lip as a plea for entry. Your back arches against the shelving as he pushes into the kiss. You let him- loving each and every second of pure bliss. 

His tongue explored every inch, every tooth, every surface. It felt like you two stayed like that for eternity. It was as if once you would open your eyes, the night would be long gone.

You winced when you were forced to pull yourself away- heaving large gasps for air. 

You couldn’t believe it. First thing you’re working a simple 9-5 and next thing you know you’re making out with the most infamous murderer in all of New York. The thought was enough to send a surge of energy rising through you.

But is this all? It’s been 3 whole years where you’ve spent countless nights fantasizing about and being subject to his mindless antics. 3 whole years. 

You swallow the lump in your throat as you turn back to Art, placing your palm against his hollow cheek. 

Whatever, you were happy to finally show your devotion to him at last…

As your lips hover over his, you gaze into his eyes. Pitch black with not a soul in sight, yet a carefulness he held while looking back at you. Back at you until… 

You felt a strange sensation graze against your thigh.

It was in the moment you learnt it was possible for the white clown to turn a subtle shade of pink. 

His eyes dodged down as he seemed to shuffle slightly further away. Choosing to hide in the shadows again, Art took a couple hefty steps backwards until all you could make out was the outline of his prominent features within the shadows.

“Oh shit..” you uttered under your breath. Art was hard. Oh my goodness, Art was hard and embarrassed. 

Weighing up the pros and cons, you quickly bit the bullet and made up your mind. You were going to take that risk even if it could cost you your life. Art was everything you wanted and more. He had been so helpful over the past few years, you thought he deserved a small favor in return.

Stepping across the small storage room, you land in front of him- placing your hands on his chest. His skin was frigid and without a pulse.

“I can help you with that,” you whisper into his ear.

Despite the quick shocked expression Art played with, it was as if you caught his sincerity for a second before he snaped back into miming an over-emphasized swooning motion; fanning himself with his hand before pretending to faint.

His eyes stare far into yours as if seeking reassurance before acting on his own accord.

You nodded. Falling to your knees, you steadied yourself with both hands holding onto his legs. 

There it was. 

While you had seen it plenty of times, you had never imagined it from this angle. It was ample in length and wide in thickness. The sight was enough to make your mouth water.

You carefully grip the base and work your hands up and down his shaft before placing it in your mouth.

Paying attention to every ridge and bump, you slide your tongue across his length. As you begin bobbing your head back and forth, you look up to find Art’s embarrassment is long gone.

His eyes are shut tight and his mouth gapes open like he's lost for words. (if he had any, that is)

While you pulled closer and closer towards the base of his cock with every thrust, Art put his hands on the crown of your head, pulling you further into him.

Sliding down your throat, you gagged as Art thrusted his shaft into the roof of your mouth. 

For someone so shy before, he’s taking control of this alot more than you expected..

Drool pools at the corners of your mouth, dribbling slowly down your chin. Art takes notice and drags his hand down to wipe it with his shaky thumb.

Fuck- he was so far down the back of your throat, you swore it was a miracle you were till breathing by now.

Thick white ropes coated the walls of your mouth. The action sent you bucking back as it forced you into a coughing fit. God was he bitter tasting.

He flung back before patting your head. It felt degrading- almost as if you were his pet in need of praise after completing a trick.

Lifting your gaze to look up at him, he sends back a dramatic shocked face before shifting to his usual wide grin.

As you stuck your tongue out, you chuckled before swallowing his seed.

*

Zipp! And that was the last of it. All that was left was to lock up the store and you were done. Your desk was cleaned, your repairs were finished and your clown friend was very happy. 

While you loved your job, you were terribly excited to finally go home and have a long rest (maybe even a sweet treat too)

You let out a chuckle as you watched the live footage displayed on the security cameras. Despite being colorless and grainy, the expression on Art’s face was clear as day. There, he waved into the camera- his face imitating the pure joy of a small child* in a candy store; with a large smile and immense energy radiating from him.

(*As pure as he can get considering he’s a murderous hell spawn, but we won’t talk about that…)

He tipped his tiny top hat towards the camera, then swiftly turned on his heels to face the exit.

Ding! Ding! Ding! The bell rang out as Art made his exit, and it was as if he had suddenly vanished.

You couldn’t wait for tomorrow… 

Maybe work could be a bit more exciting from now on, you thought.

[itsgivingmami]

Domestic beach Rhea domestic beach Rhea domestic beach Rhea domestic beach Rhea

Painting shit, cooking, child (?), swimming, early mornings, having sex on that balcony you talked about, conjoining their properties, gardening, gardening, painting shit, chores

The Sky Looks Better From Her Porch-

Coastal Town AURhea Ripley X Reader

The night is perfectly still except for the hush of the ocean. The small seaside town lies quiet behind you — windows dark, doors closed, everyone long asleep with the exception of some rowdy teenagers driving through and staying the night behind obnoxious at the motel. Warm summer air clings to your skin, the cicadas buzz around like they were made to fill silence and everything around lingers heavy with the scent of drying salt and distant honeysuckle. Above, a high moon drips silver light across the sand and gentle waves. After the long, hot day you and Rhea spent working around the house — sweat and laughter shared over repairs and rearranging furniture — this peaceful beach feels like another world. You kick off your sandals at the dune’s edge and sigh as the cool sand squishes between your toes. The heat of the day still radiates faintly from the ground, mixing with the ocean’s damp chill. Beside you, Rhea slips her hand into yours, lacing fingers with a familiar ease, chunky rings and calloused palms. Her thumb strokes over your knuckles in a small, absent circle, a quiet gesture of affection. In the moonlight, you glance up at her and find she’s already looking at you. A soft smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

“Come on,” she murmurs, nodding toward the water. Her voice is low and warm, sending a little shiver of anticipation through you. Together you walk toward the shoreline, hand in hand wobbling on sinking sands as your legs protest from hours of work. The rhythmic rush of gentle waves grows louder, and a cool breeze lifts strands of your hair from your neck. You still feel the day’s warmth simmering under your skin — not only from the summer heat but from the way Rhea has been with you all day. There’s a quiet intimacy between you now that wasn’t there a few days ago, a knowledge in every shared glance and touch. Whether you were scrubbing floorboards or fixing that loose shutter left rattling by the storm, you felt her eyes on you, felt the heat of unspoken promises in her smile. Every accidental brush of arms or playful touch when passing tools only stoked the already lit, slow-burning fire between you. By the time night fell, the air itself seemed to throb with unspent tension and desire.

Now, standing at the water’s edge, you grin and squeeze Rhea’s hand, excitement fluttering in your belly. The ocean stretches out before you like a dark, beckoning mirror for the moon. A small wave rushes over your feet, cool and shocking. You gasp softly at the contrast against your hot skin. Rhea huffs a quiet laugh at your reaction and releases your hand. “Cold?” she teases.

You shake your head, determined. “Refreshing,” you correct with a playful smile. The truth is it is cool, but deliciously so. After such a sweltering day, the water’s caress feels heavenly. Another wave foams around your ankles, and you bite your lip, already eager to go deeper. But before you can take another step, Rhea’s fingers hook gently under the hem of your t-shirt.

“Let’s get this off you, sweetheart,” she says. Her tone is soft — not a question, but a tender directive. Confident, protective, affectionate. The dominating note in her voice sends warmth blossoming in your chest, then lower. There’s no hesitation in her movements as she helps peel away your clothing. You raise your arms willingly, heart fluttering at the reverence in her eyes. Rhea lifts your shirt up and over your head, slow and careful, as if unwrapping a cherished gift. The moon’s glow washes over your newly exposed skin. A balmy breeze skates across your bare midriff, raising a trail of goosebumps. Rhea’s gaze follows, and you feel seen — completely, worshipfully seen — under her eyes

She tosses your shirt to a dry patch of sand above the tideline, then steps closer. Her fingertips, still a little rough from handling tools earlier, skim down your arms and ignite sparks beneath your skin. When her hands find the waist of your shorts, you inhale sharply. Even now, after all the intimacy you’ve already shared, being undressed by Rhea makes your pulse quicken and cheeks warm. Maybe it’s the open air, or the moonlight, or just her. She has a way of looking at you like you’re something precious.

“You sure?” she asks softly, hooking her thumbs into your waistband. The glint in her dark eyes is playful, but there’s an undertone of earnest care. Always attuned to you — making sure you’re comfortable.

You answer by covering her hands with yours and guiding them further down, giving a cheeky little push. “I am if you are,” you murmur. Your boldness earns you a quiet chuckle.

“Oh, I’m definitely sure,” Rhea replies, a grin flashing over her face. In one smooth motion, she kneels in the sand as she draws your shorts and underwear down. The fabric slips down your thighs, then your calves, until you can kick them off. Before you can feel too shy about standing naked on the beach, Rhea tilts her head and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your hip. A gasp catches in your throat. Her lips there are warm and reverent, the scrape of her piercings just barely grazing your skin. It sends a thrill through you. She lingers, nuzzling the sensitive spot just below your navel, her strong hands caressing the backs of your thighs. Soft possession. You tremble, fingers finding their way into her hair for balance — and maybe to silently beg for more. Rhea’s hair is thick and slightly damp at the ends from the humidity, the dark strands sliding between your fingers.

She plants one more kiss — just above your belly button — before rising to her feet. The naked hunger in her eyes as she looks you up and down makes your breath stutter. Under the moon’s silver gaze, you feel like the only two souls on earth. “You’re so beautiful. Let me see you.” There is such genuine awe in her voice that all your nervousness melts away, replaced by a liquid heat of desire and trust. You let her ease your arms open. She rewards you with a slow smile, then surprises you by suddenly tugging her own tank top off in one fluid pull.

Your eyes roam appreciatively over Rhea’s revealed form. Moonlight etches every line of her toned body — the defined muscles in her arms and shoulders, the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts. She is breathtaking. Scattered tattoos darken her tan skin. You’ve traced those tattoos with your fingers in daylight, but under the soft night glow they look almost magical, sigils of shadow and light on a goddess. A spattering of old scars and new scrapes mark her here and there, tangible proof of her strength and tenderness combined.

Rhea notices your admiring stare and quirks a brow playfully. “Like what you see?” she teases. You don’t even have the wits to feel embarrassed at being caught; instead, you nod slowly, drinking her in.

She chuckles, stepping out of her loose jeans and kicking them aside. “Good,” she purrs. “Because I’m all yours.” In the darkness, she extends a hand to you once more. Her rings catch a glint of moonlight — faintly cool against your heated skin as she takes your hand. All yours, she said, but the way she carries herself — the quiet command in her voice, the sure grip of her hand — makes it clear that you are hers as well. The thought sends a delicious little thrill through you.

Completely bared to the night and each other, you and Rhea wade into the ocean. The first higher wave splashes at your knees and you squeal softly at the temperature. It’s cooler than bathwater, but the day’s heat in your body quickly adjusts. Rhea wraps an arm around your naked waist, steadying you as the sandy seabed slopes downward. Her touch is reassuring and strong. She leads you in, deeper and deeper, until water foams around your hips, then your ribs. When a small wave breaks against your back, you lurch, but Rhea is there, holding you close with a protective arm. You both dissolve into quiet laughter as a bit of saltwater sprays your faces. You sputter, wiping droplets from your lashes.

Rhea’s dark hair is slicked back now, dripping at the ends; a few rivulets trace down her neck and chest. You watch a bead of water roll between her breasts and disappear, your mouth turning dry despite the ocean all around. The sight stirs boldness in you. The two of you are alone, entwined in moonlit water — free and half-dreaming. With a mischievous grin, you crane up and plant a sudden kiss on Rhea’s jaw, just shy of her ear.

She hums at the affection, tightening her arm around you. “Mm, what was that for?” she asks, voice rumbling pleasantly from her chest.

You shrug coyly, running a hand over her shoulder underwater. “Just felt like it,” you say. Your fingers drift to toy with a lock of her wet hair at the nape of her neck. “Plus, you had a drop of water… right here.” You kiss the spot again, slower this time, lips lingering against the pulse point beneath her ear. You feel more than hear the soft intake of Rhea’s breath.

Before she can respond, you suddenly twist out of her hold and dart a couple of steps away, laughing. The water resists your movement, but you push through it, creating an arc of spray. Rhea blinks in surprise at the loss of you in her arms. A wicked thrill dances in your belly at her confused look. You splash her lightly, giggling. “Catch me, if you can,” you challenge, eyes flashing with daring.

For a split second, Rhea just cocks her head, that lopsided grin of hers spreading across her face — half amused, half predatory. Playful dominance ignited. “Oh, you’re in trouble now,” she drawls.

You let out a squeal and try to paddle farther out, but the water makes you slow and Rhea is incredibly fast when she wants to be. In two powerful strides she’s on you. A delighted shriek escapes you as her arms come around your waist from behind. You’re lifted off your feet as easily as if you weighed nothing. Water cascades off your limbs as Rhea spins you around and draws you flush against her slick body.

“Got you,” she growls softly against your neck. Her voice is rich with triumph and something darker that makes your stomach flip — the darker side of her coming out to play. Your heart skips and then races as she holds you caged against her front. One of her arms crisscrosses your front, just beneath your breasts; the other circles your hips, keeping you pinned to her. The cool waves lap at your lower bodies, but everywhere Rhea’s skin meets yours, you feel heat. You stop squirming, melting into the solid warmth of her. In truth, you never really wanted to get away. This was exactly what you wanted — to stir her up, to feel that confident power in the way she touches you.

Rhea nuzzles into your wet hair, her lips finding the shell of your ear. “Naughty girl,” she murmurs, the affectionate chastisement sending a hot flush through you. Her teeth graze your earlobe and you gasp, hands coming up to grasp at her forearm that’s banded across your chest. She’s holding you so securely, as if daring you to try to escape again. But all you do is whimper softly, leaning your head back against her shoulder and you spot the night sky above, a smear of stars and moon, as Rhea begins to pepper slow, teasing kisses down the side of your neck. Each press of her lips, each flick of her tongue against your skin, draws another trembling sigh from you.

“You think you can just tease me and run off, hm?” Rhea’s voice is a low rasp. You can hear the smile in it, though, wrapped in desire. The hand she has across your front slowly drags upward, and your breath catches as her palm cups your breast. Her fingers find your nipple, already peaked from the cool water and arousal, and she rolls it in a gentle pinch. Pleasure spears straight from that tight bud to the pit of your stomach; you cry out softly, arching your back. Your ass rubs against Rhea’s hips as you writhe, and you feel, unmistakably, the shiver that runs through her at the friction.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” she groans against your neck. There’s a slight strain in her voice now — she’s as turned on as you are. You grin breathlessly, loving that you have any effect on this confident, breathtaking woman.

“That was kind of the idea,” you manage to gasp, even as her hand sends another wave of sensation through your body. You reach back with one arm, looping it around Rhea’s neck to hold on as she torments your nipple with deliberate tenderness. If the cool of the water then runs down her neck from your arm bothers her she doesn’t mention it. Your other hand covers the one she has splayed at your hip, and you lace your fingers through hers under the water. The gesture makes her pause for a heartbeat. Slowly, she interlocks her fingers with yours, both of you holding tight while her other hand continues its slow, sensual circles over your breast. The mix of sweetness and sinful touch makes your head spin.

Rhea’s lips curl against your throat. “Such a brat tonight,” she chuckles, affection thick in every word.

“This was your idea,” you point out, she gives your nipple a firmer pinch. You whimper and press your thighs together under water, seeking relief for the ache building there. Immediately, Rhea’s hand releases your breast and skims down your torso, as if she read your mind. Her fingertips trail over your stomach, then trace the curve of your hip. She grips your thigh, urging one of your legs to hitch up

“Here,” she whispers. “Put your leg over mine, love.”

Breathless, you obey, lifting one leg and hooking it back over her strong thigh. The water buoys you slightly, making the position easier as she half-supports you. This motion opens you up, and the next gentle wave that rolls by causes your body to press more firmly against Rhea’s front. You feel the heat of her center briefly rub against your backside and it makes both of you moan softly.

Rhea slides her hand from your thigh inward, fingertips gliding through your folds under the water. She groans appreciatively against your ear at what she finds. “So wet for me already… and not just from the ocean,” she purrs. It’s true — your arousal has been steadily building, mixing with the saltwater on your skin. When her fingers part your slick folds, a deep shudder wracks through you. The water’s coolness contrasts with the searing heat of her touch. Your free hand claws lightly at the arm still bracing your upper body, fingernails digging in as pleasure spikes.

“There you go,” Rhea soothes, kissing along your jaw as two of her fingers tease your entrance, circling slowly. “I’ve got you. Let me take care of you darlin.” The nickname drips from her lips as richly sweet as the feeling coiling in your core. You surrender utterly, every muscle in your body going lax against her. You trust her completely — with your body, with your heart, with this moment.

She slides one long finger inside you and you both gasp. Even with the water easing the way, the sensation is intense. She doesn’t rush it, giving you time to adjust as she curls that finger inside sends sparks flying behind your eyelids. Your head falls back on her shoulder, and she turns to capture your parted lips with her own. The kiss is slow and consuming. You taste salt on her mouth, taste the faint mint of the tea you both had after dinner, taste a hunger that matches your own. Her tongue finds yours in a languid dance, and you moan into her mouth when she adds a second finger inside you. Your leg around her trembles, supported firmly by her thigh, and your joined hands under the water clutch each other desperately.

The night folds itself around you — the susurrus of waves, the distant cry of a night gull, the shimmering moonlight — all of it blurs as Rhea steadily works you open. The pleasure she builds in you is deep and tidal, like the ocean itself. Her thumb finds your swollen clit and begins to rub in slow, deliberate circles that make you keen against her lips. She swallows each of your soft cries with gentle kisses, murmuring praise: “That’s it, love… I know it’s good… I’ve got you… let it happen.” Her fingers curl inside you just right, pressing on that spot that makes your toes curl into the water. Heat licks up your spine, your body tensing as the wave of release draws near.

You break the kiss, gasping for air. “Rhea— I’m…” is all you manage. Your voice is thin, trembling with need.

“I know,” she whispers, forehead resting against yours now. Her dark eyes are locked on your face, observing every flicker of pleasure that crosses it. “I can feel it. Come for me, sweetheart.” The command in her voice — gentle, encouraging, yet unquestionably in control — is all you need to tumble over the edge.

Your climax crashes over you like a sudden wave. You cry out, the sound lost to the open air as your body jerks in her arms. Rhea holds you tightly, anchoring you against the storm of bliss. Your inner walls clench around her fingers; she groans at the sensation but keeps them moving, drawing out your pleasure, coaxing you through every pulse of ecstasy. Stars dance behind your closed eyelids. You’re distantly aware of your fingernails digging into the back of her hand (the one still intertwined with yours), and you loosen your grip, but she only squeezes your hand harder, letting you ground yourself in her.

“Good girl,” Rhea murmurs as aftershocks ripple through you, making you shiver. She slowly stills her hand, buried deep between your thighs, and holds you as you come down. You’re breathing hard, body limp and sated. If not for her firm embrace, you’re sure you’d slip under the water, boneless and spent. Rhea presses feather-light kisses along your hairline and temple, murmuring soft, sweet things you can barely process but feel all the same: praises, soothing sounds, your name mixed in with little endearments. You blink your eyes open finally, and realize they’re stinging with tears — not of sadness, but overwhelmed emotion. Perhaps it’s the intensity of it all: the setting, the tenderness, the way she cherishes you. It’s almost too much, in the best way.

Rhea gently withdraws her fingers, eliciting a final aftershock quiver from you. She unwraps your leg from her thigh and turns you in her arms so you’re facing her now. Your knees feel weak, so you cling to her shoulders, and she supports your weight without question. “You okay?” she asks softly, peering at you in concern when she sees the shine in your eyes. Her strong hands slide up and down your back reassuringly.

You answer by leaning in and kissing her — a tender, grateful kiss. Your lips still tremble against hers, but you pour everything you feel into it: Yes, I’m okay. More than okay. That was incredible. You’re incredible. She seems to understand. When you break apart, both of you smiling, you rest your forehead against hers.

A breeze skims over the water’s surface, stirring a slight chill now that your passion has warmed and spent itself. You shiver, and Rhea immediately rubs her hands briskly over your arms. “Let’s get you warmed up,” she says. Ever the protector, she won’t have you catching cold on her watch. You nod. As blissful as the water is, your body is cooling and starting to crave a soft towel and Rhea’s even warmer embrace on dry land.

You tilt your face up to look at Rhea. Her gaze is on the horizon now, where the moonlight dances on the water. Her profile, lit softly in silver, is peaceful. Loose strands of her dark hair stick to her cheek and forehead. Gently, you reach up and brush them back. She turns her attention to you, and the smile that curves her lips is pure adoration. Your heart gives a little flip; you don’t think you’ll ever get used to being on the receiving end of such a devoted look.

Rhea touches your cheek, tucking a damp lock of your hair behind your ear. “How’re you feeling my love?” she asks quietly. The question is laced with meaning — physically, emotionally — all of it. Her other arm stays wrapped securely around your waist, as if even now she can’t bear to let you drift an inch away.

You snuggle closer, covering her hand on your cheek with your own. “Perfect,” you say, and you mean it wholly. Your limbs are pleasantly heavy, your heart light. “Maybe a little tired,” you add with a soft laugh.

Rhea grins. “I wore you out, did I?” There’s a hint of smugness in her voice. You roll your eyes playfully and pinch her side in retaliation. She squirms with a chuckle, then retaliates by kissing the tip of your nose.

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” you quip, feigning lightness, but there’s unmistakable sincerity beneath it.

“Anytime you need a midnight swim…” Rhea winks. Then she grows a touch more serious, brushing the pad of her thumb over your cheekbone. Her eyes search yours as if making sure you truly are alright, that you’re happy. Whatever she sees in your face makes her expression soften even more. Her next words come out a bit quieter: “I love you.” It’s the first time she’s said it out loud. Your heart seems to stop and then surge with joy in your chest.

You feel your eyes burn again, and you bite your lip, smiling so wide it almost hurts. “I love you too, Rhea,” you whisper. Saying it feels like finally exhaling a breath you’d been holding for days. She lets out a little content sound — halfway between a laugh and a sigh of relief — and pulls you even tighter against her.

You rest your head on her shoulder, tucking under her chin once more. Her embrace is your safe harbor; you could stay here forever, listening to the steady beat of her heart beneath her damp skin. After a moment, you mumble, “We should probably head back soon…” You think of the cozy house down the road, of dry clothes and the bed that surely misses you both. Yet you make no move to get up just yet. Neither does she. “Stay over tonight?”

“Couldn’t make me go home tonight if you tried,” Rhea replies. She isn’t ready to let this moment go, not quite yet. And truth be told, neither are you. One of the towels has slipped from her shoulder, but she doesn’t seem to notice the night air anymore. She just rubs warmth into you, up and down, her palms broad and soothing. You’re exhausted and blissed out, and if you’re not careful, you might actually fall asleep right here in Rhea’s arms on the sand. Not the worst fate, you think with a smile.

Rhea tilts her head and presses a lingering kiss to your hair. Her lips move against your crown as she speaks, voice velvety and earnest: “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” It’s as if she sensed the last flicker of insecurity in your heart and needed to banish it. Perhaps she’s reassuring herself too — that this is real, that neither of you is dreaming.

Your throat tightens with emotion at her words. You slide your arms around her waist beneath her towel, holding on as if to silently say me neither. A gentle night breeze ruffles the edges of the towels around you, cocooning the scent of salt and sand and her. You let your eyes drift closed, knowing that when you open them, Rhea will still be here.

Wrapped in Rhea’s embrace under the moon’s tender vigil, you have never felt more safe or more loved. The two of you remain curled together on the shore, whispering the kind of sweet, quiet promises that only midnight and the ocean will ever know. In the morning, the sun will rise on a new day — but for now, time is suspended for you and the woman who holds your heart, each of you secure in the knowledge that neither is going anywhere without the other.

—

Rhea stands barefoot in the soft hush of dawn, hands wrapped around a steaming mug as she leans against the kitchen counter. Through the open window of your coastal cottage drifts the scent of the sea, salty and cool, mingling with the rich aroma of fresh coffee. She smirks as if she can still see the two of you wading last night, your head thrown back against her shoulder. Pale golden light spills in with the sunrise, painting long stripes across the wooden floor and warming Rhea’s skin. In the quiet, she allows herself a rare moment of stillness. Her dark lashes flutter with each slow blink as she gazes over the rim of her mug to where you lie sleeping.

You’re curled up on the couch just a few steps away, tangled in the sheets the two of you pulled from the bed at some point in the night to “watch a movie before bed” knowing full well you wouldn’t be getting back up. One bare shoulder peeks out from the linen folds, gilded by the early sunlight. Your face is half-hidden by a tumble of hair, and your lips are parted in the gentlest sigh with each sleeping breath. Rhea’s chest tightens at the sight. She watches you like a secret she doesn’t want anyone else to find, utterly mesmerized by how serene you look in this fragile sliver of morning. In this light, you are all soft curves and warm glow, and God, Rhea thinks, you’re beautiful.

The cottage is still except for the quiet tick of the old clock on the mantel and the faint crash of distant waves outside. Last night’s bouquet of crimson roses sits in a vase on the kitchen table, perfuming the air with a sweet, floral note beneath the smell of coffee. Beside it, two empty champagne flutes catch the dawn light, a leftover sparkle from the celebration you shared. A pair of your heels and a little black purse lie discarded near the couch, their glittering details now still and calm after the excitement of yesterday. Each detail of the room feels sacred to Rhea—the scattered evidence of laughter and passion, of you in her life. She rolls her sore shoulders and smirks to herself at the dull, pleasant ache in her muscles. It’s the kind of ache that has nothing to do with her usual workouts or the long hours at her shop, and everything to do with how close the two of you were last night. A flush of pride and tenderness warms her from the inside out.

Rhea takes a slow sip of coffee, trying not to make a sound. The strong, dark roast is laced with a drop of honey—your preferred way to sweeten it, she’s learned. The taste makes her smile against the rim of the mug. This is what she never knew she needed: a quiet morning bathed in gold, the taste of salt and honey in the air, and you—you still here, dreaming peacefully after a night in her arms. She can hardly believe she gets to have this. A part of her is afraid to blink, worried the entire scene might vanish if she does and she’ll wake up surrounded by the floating dust of her shop with a home she can’t fill. So she keeps her eyes on you, memorizing every detail: the way the sunlight turns your hair into a tousled halo, the gentle rise and fall of your blanketed form, the subtle twitch of your fingers as you begin to stir. Rhea wanted to kiss you so bad in that moment that it’s a physical ache—an ache deeper than muscle, nestled somewhere in her heart. She chews the inside of her cheek, suppressing the urge to crawl back into those sheets with you and press her lips to every inch of your sun-kissed skin. Not yet, she tells herself. Let her sleep a little longer. Still, her pulse quickens at the thought.

Quietly, Rhea sets her mug down. The porcelain clink is barely audible, but her eyes dart to you to make sure you haven’t woken. You only snuggle deeper into the pillow with a soft murmur, and Rhea’s lips curve into a gentle grin. Mine, she thinks, the word reverberating like a prayer. It surprises her, how fiercely true it feels. She steps closer, drawn helplessly to your side. The floorboards are cool under her feet as she moves carefully avoiding the creaky boards, but the sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains guides her path. Rhea sinks down to a crouch beside the couch, bringing herself level with you. With a careful hand, she adjusts the sheet to cover your shoulder where the morning breeze had kissed it chilled. Her fingertips can’t resist brushing lightly over your bare skin as she does—just a whisper of a touch, tracing the line of your shoulder to the curve of your arm. Your skin is warm and impossibly soft under her thumb. Rhea’s throat tightens with affection so acute it almost hurts. In sleep, you subconsciously lean into her touch, and she feels her heart slip a beat.

Her gaze falls to your hand resting just above the blanket’s edge. In the pearly light, she notices the way your fingers are curled loosely, palm turned up as if waiting to be held. There’s a faint pink mark on your ring finger— a scratch from moving a book shelf that had it out for you. She lifts your hand gently, her much larger hand enveloping yours, and with her thumb she tenderly smooths over that little mark on your ring finger. What would it be like… The thought unfurls before she can stop it. What would it be like to actually slide a ring onto that finger one day? Her ring. A promise of forever.

Rhea swallows, suddenly feeling the rapid thud of her heartbeat in her ears. The idea strikes her both as wildly premature and absolutely, undeniably right. A swell of emotion rises in her chest—hope, love, and a tiny seed of fear all tangled together. She pictures it for a split second: you in front of her, eyes wide and shining with tears of joy as she asks you the question that’s now echoing in her own mind. She can almost see a golden band catching the light on your hand, feel the way it would seal the two of you together. The image is so beautiful it terrifies her. Rhea shakes her head softly, as if to clear the daydream. It’s far too soon to be thinking like this… isn’t it? She brushes the thought away hastily, blowing out a slow breath. Yet it stays—stubborn and sweet—hovering at the edges of her mind like the scent of honey that lingers in the air. She leans her forehead against the back of the couch for a moment, closing her eyes. Her fingers are still entwined gently with yours, and she gives your hand a delicate squeeze, grounding herself in the present: you’re here, in front of her, warm and safe now. That’s what matters this morning, she tells herself.

Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks, and Rhea senses the subtle shift in your breathing as you begin to wake. She lifts her head, watching intently as your eyes slant open, soft and bleary with sleep. For a heartbeat, you look confused—until you spot her. Rhea’s face is inches from yours, a tender smile already on her lips. Good morning, she had planned to say, but the words catch in her throat at the way you gaze at her. A slow, dreamy smile spreads across your face, and Rhea’s world tips sideways. How is it possible that you can look at her like that—as if she is the sunrise?

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” Rhea finally whispers, her voice low and husky from the quiet. She reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. The pad of her thumb caresses your cheek in the aftermath, savoring the heat blooming there. You nuzzle into her touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world, a contented little hum escaping you. The sound makes Rhea’s heart do a slow flip.

You begin to push yourself up, intending to sit or reach for her, but Rhea is quicker. With a soft growl of disapproval—more a rumble in her chest than a truly stern sound—she presses her palm lightly against your shoulder to keep you down. “Ah, ah,” she chides gently. “Stay right there. I’ve got you.” There’s a playful authority in her tone, a gentle dominance that makes your pulse quicken beneath her hand. You relent with a quiet laugh, sinking back into the cushions. Rhea hovers over you, her dark hair falling forward a bit, her eyes searching yours. In them, you find only adoration and a hint of that confident mischief you love so dearly.

Satisfied that you’re not going anywhere, Rhea lets her hand drift from your shoulder to cradle the side of your neck. Her thumb traces the outline of a faint bruise she left just below your collarbone—a tiny mark from last night’s passion that deepens her smug smile. “How’d you sleep, darling?” she murmurs. The endearment slips out without a second thought; in the golden quiet of this morning, it feels as natural as breathing. You bite your lip, pretending to consider, and Rhea arches an eyebrow, waiting. “Perfect,” you whisper at last, one of your hands coming up to rest over the strong hand she cups at your neck. Your fingers can’t even circle her wrist completely—she’s that much bigger—but you squeeze her hand in return. “Though waking up to you is the best part.”

Rhea’s breath hitches. She’s never been one to blush, not outwardly, but your words send warmth flooding through her that has nothing to do with the sunlight. “Yeah?” she rasps softly. Her thumb sweeps along the line of your jaw now, a reverent, lazy stroke. “Lucky me.” There’s a rough honesty in her tone, cracking just slightly at the edges with emotion. You see it in her eyes: Rhea is marveling at this as much as you are. The formidable, confident woman who usually greets the world with a smirk and raised chin is now looking at you like you hung the stars. It makes your chest ache. You tug gently at her hand, guiding her down toward you. “C’mere,” you whisper. It’s as much an invitation as it is a plea.

Rhea doesn’t need to be asked twice. She yields, lowering herself until her weight is partially against you, half beside and half atop, careful not to crush you against the cushions. The couch dips under her as she shifts, one arm slipping beneath your shoulders to pull you close. The sheet twists between your bodies, but neither of you care. All you feel is the warmth of her bare skin where it meets yours and the steady thump of her heart as she presses her chest to yours. Rhea’s face hovers above yours for a deliciously tense moment. She studies you, her green eyes flickering over your features—the curve of your lips, the blush high on your cheeks, the way your own eyes flutter shut in anticipation. She realizes she’s smiling, a slow, almost predatory grin at how eager you are for her kiss. God, I love you, she thinks, the words blazing through her like sunlight. Her hand at your jaw tilts your face up just so, holding you exactly where she wants you. And then Rhea kisses you.

It’s a gentle kiss at first—her lips brushing yours in a soft, searching caress. You taste coffee and sweetness on her mouth, and underneath that, something uniquely Rhea. A quiet sound escapes you, and that’s all the encouragement Rhea needs. She deepens the kiss, pressure growing just enough to make your toes curl under the sheets. Her dominance is subtle but sure: she captures your lower lip between hers, suckling lightly in a way that makes you gasp. Her arm around you tightens, keeping you firmly against her as she claims your mouth with slow, deliberate passion. Each move is unhurried, savoring. She’s kissing you like she has all the time in the world, like she plans to still be kissing you when the sun is high and even when it sets again. And you, blissfully caged in her embrace, wouldn’t dream of stopping her.

When Rhea finally pulls back, it’s only because you’re both breathless. She presses one more small kiss to the corner of your mouth, an almost shy gesture that contrasts with the heat that just passed between you. Your eyes flutter open to find her gazing at you, face close and haloed by the morning glow. Neither of you speaks for a moment. Foreheads touch, noses brushing in an intimate nuzzle. You feel her fingertips drawing light circles on your hip now, just above where the sheet covers you, a promise of affection with no rush for more. This quiet is comfortable—golden and sweet—filled only with the faraway call of gulls outside and the shared rhythm of your breathing.

Rhea’s mind drifts, as it has a habit of doing when she’s this close to you. She remembers the thought that struck her minutes ago, the one she tried to dismiss. With you warm and pliant in her arms, your lips still tingling on hers, it returns now with full force: forever. A lifetime of mornings just like this one. Waking up to your sleepy smile and the soft rasp of your voice. Bringing you coffee in bed and stealing kisses that taste of salt air and honey. Slipping a ring onto your finger that glints as bright as the sunrise—making you hers in every possible way. The intensity of that longing makes her tremble, just slightly. Instinctively, she holds you closer, as if anchoring herself to the present moment. She’s not ready to voice any of this, not yet. It’s too new, too sacred a dream to put into words. But as you cradle Rhea’s face between your hands and kiss her once more—sweet and light, a silent I love you—she knows the idea isn’t leaving her. It nestles itself into her heart, turning fear into a gentle anticipation.

“Hungry?” Rhea asks softly, her lips curving against yours in a playful smile. There’s a rasp of emotion still in her voice, but also a brightness now—a quiet excitement for the day ahead. You grin, recognizing the spark in her eyes. Whether she means for breakfast or for something else entirely, you’re not sure, but either way you nod. Mmhmm. Your stomach flutters as Rhea eases back, rising to her full height and scooping you up with ridiculous ease. You squeal in surprise, arms looping around her neck on instinct. She chuckles, low and pleased, cradling you against her chest as if you weigh nothing. “I’ve got you,” she repeats, and the confidence in her tone makes your cheeks warm. Standing tall in the soft morning light, Rhea holds you like a bride in one arm while grabbing the forgotten coffee mug with the other hand. The picture of domestic bliss with a touch of her playful strength—it makes you laugh in pure delight.

She carries you the few steps back into the kitchen area. Gently, she perches you on the counter, and you gasp at the cool marble against your thighs. Rhea smirks, stepping between your knees to shield you from the morning chill. Her hands find your waist, thumbs rubbing reassuring circles there. “Stay,” she commands softly, and you do—your legs dangling, arms still around her shoulders, utterly content to let her take care of everything.

For the next few minutes, you watch Rhea move about the tiny kitchen, refusing to let you lift a finger. She reheats the coffee and pours a second mug for you, adding just the right touch of honey the way you like in a pastel mug, its siblings still hidden in the cabinet with the rest of your ginormous mug collection. Every so often she glances back at you, and each time her eyes soften in a way that makes your heart flutter. Sunlight catches in her messy dark hair and dances over the tattoos that coil along her arms. There’s a small scratch on her back—your doing, from last night—that peeks out beneath the hem of the old band tee she’d thrown on. The sight of it makes you smile lazily, pride and affection welling up. Mine, you think, echoing her earlier sentiment, though neither of you speaks it aloud.

When the coffee is ready, Rhea returns to you. She hands you your mug, then wraps an arm around your back to steady you on the counter as she leans in to clink her cup softly against yours. “To us,” she says in a half-joking, half-tender toast. Her breath ghosts warm against your cheek. To this morning, her eyes seem to say. To every morning that might follow. You beam at her, nudging your mug against hers once more. “To us,” you echo, and take a careful sip. It’s perfect—hot and sweet, and exactly what you need.

Rhea watches you drink, her arm still secure around you. There’s a subtle pride in her gaze, as if making you happy is the most important job she’s ever had. You take another sip, then another, savoring the way the honeyed coffee spreads warmth through you. Outside, a golden sunbeam breaks through a passing cloud, flooding the kitchen in light. Dust motes dance around you both like tiny stars. Rhea squints slightly at the brightness, but she doesn’t move away; instead, she only tucks you closer into her side, sheltering you from the glare with her broad shoulder. The gesture is instinctive, protective—so Rhea. You bite your lip to hide a smile as you lean your head against her strong shoulder.

In the comfortable silence, Rhea’s thoughts wander once more. She realizes she isn’t scared anymore—not right now. The fears that nipped at her earlier have quieted, soothed by the simple reality of you here beside her, warm and content and hers. Maybe the future is uncertain. Maybe the idea of forever will always be a little frightening. But as Rhea presses a kiss to your temple and hears you sigh in bliss, she knows one thing with unwavering clarity: every bit of that future, every sunrise and salty breeze and slow kiss, she wants to share with you.

Her free hand finds yours atop the counter. Gently, she interlaces your fingers, her thumb brushing over that same ring finger once more. She smiles, a private, hopeful smile that you catch just a flicker of when you tilt your face up to hers. Someday, she thinks, heart swelling as you smile inquisitively back at her. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but someday, she’ll find the courage to ask. And if the answer is as golden and sweet as this morning, then Rhea knows it will be worth every ounce of daring.

For now, she has this moment, and that is enough. The two of you stay like that, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, sipping coffee in the quiet dawn. Outside, the ocean whispers against the shore, and the first gull cries out to announce the day. You rest your head on Rhea’s shoulder, and she turns to press her lips into your hair. Neither of you needs to speak. In the stillness, in the glowing light that turns both salt air and sweet honey into something sacred, Rhea holds you close and silently promises you everything. And as the morning sun climbs a little higher, she dares to imagine that promise shimmering on your finger one day—a secret dream, lingering like the taste of honey on her tongue, as enduring as the sea.

And later that day when you come bouncing out the bedroom in a white sundress ready to go visit Pearl in town you missed the way Rhea stumbled and growls to herself.

—

Rhea stepped cautiously through the door, ears filled by the distant hum of voices and gentle music. At first, the room seemed to be empty – just a soft glow of string lights and the faint scent of jasmine wafting through the air. It felt serene, almost ordinary, until you flicked on a switch and the lights fully revealed the gathered faces. “Surprise!” erupted in unison, and Rhea’s breath caught in her throat.

She froze a moment in the threshold, stunned. Around you, the warm glow of candles and fairy lights bathed the living room in golden softness. Rhea could hardly believe her eyes. There were flowers pinned up like confetti, an intricate banner overhead spelled out with her name in your handwriting, and an array of food laid out on the table – all her favorites.

Buttercream cupcakes with lavender petals, tiny quiches with thyme and goat cheese, a charcuterie board arranged in a sunflower pattern. Rhea could see the careful details: the cups with her monogram, her favorite records quietly spinning in the background, a low hum of music you had lined up – a gentle instrumental her mother used to play. Each element you had thought of. Each detail spoke to how deeply you knew her.

Her eyes found you across the room. You stood in the center of it all, wearing that warm smile that made her heart lurch. You were handing out glasses of sparkling grape juice to friends. You laughed as you met her stunned gaze, raising a hand in greeting. “Welcome, honored guest,” you teased softly, voice full of happiness. Rhea’s lips quivered into a grateful smile even as her eyes filled with tears.

Rhea’s world narrowed to this space you had created for her. She felt the gentle warmth of the string lights as they draped around the room like a protective cocoon. Music floated through the air – soft jazz, her secret love, which you had discovered. The scent of rosemary and lemon thyme from the appetizers mingled with her own perfume and the faint trace of something spicy she couldn’t quite place – was it you, or a favorite dish you’d included? Every sense told her that you had built this moment just for her.

She stepped in fully, crossing the threshold. Your eyes were warm, luminous. In an instant she was rushing across to you. Friends and acquaintances greeted her with hugs and claps on the shoulder as she passed. But there was only one who mattered to her right now, beating in her heart like a drum.

Her cheeks felt hot with emotion as she came to you, slipping her arms around your waist and letting you hold her in a fierce hug. “You—” was all she could manage at first. Over the noise and bright lights, she faintly heard you asking if she liked it, if she was okay. But her world had narrowed further until it was only you and her embrace.

Rhea pulled back slightly, hands on your chest, steadying herself. “You did all this for me?” she choked out, voice thick. You smiled and brushed a kiss to her hair. “Of course,” you murmured. “I wanted you to feel how much we all care. We love you.” Even as you said it, Rhea’s heart cracked open.

Tears spilled down the sides of her cheeks. She tried to wipe them away on her sleeve, but two of your gentle fingers covered her hand to halt the motion, giving her time. Instead, she pressed her lips to them, tasting salt mingled with the sweetest comfort. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Everyone here was happy and smiling at her, not pitying her like she had always expected on past birthdays. It was nearly overwhelming.

Rhea drew in a shaky breath, looking around at the gathering. Everyone was watching, eyes warm. The air was full of soft conversation and laughter. The sight should have made her retreat, the center of attention. But instead she felt like you had built an embrace around her with all these caring eyes, welcoming her home.

She saw people she admired, parts of her life, all here because of you. Even new acquaintances, friends made recently, had come just to celebrate. Some held glasses, raising them as she passed by with you. “To Rhea,” they cheered. A well-wisher handed her a little card, which she accepted with a trembling hand. She felt so seen in every glance, like each friend was a mirror showing her how they saw her – gentle, strong, worthy of joy. For the first time, she began to believe it herself.

Your hand found the small of her back, guiding her through the guests. You whispered, “Let me get you a drink,” and her throat tightened. It was a surprise party – meant to celebrate her – but you were always hers, too. The thought made her head swim with a kind of dizzy happiness, that she was yours as well in this carefully built world.

Rhea managed a few words of thanks to the helpers – “I love the cupcakes,” “Lavender is my favorite,” “Your playlist is perfect.” Each compliment you had earned came out haltingly as if stepping through cotton. Finally she said thanks to you, voice soft. “This is… the kindest, most beautiful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

You smiled at that, pride shining in your eyes. “You deserve it, more than anyone,” you said quietly. Rhea could feel heat rising in her chest. Deserve? She had always thought so little of what she deserved.

Careful not to break the spell, you guided her gently to a quiet alcove at the back of the room. Rhea’s fingers twined instinctively into yours as you moved away, leaving the circle of guests behind. You weren’t leaving the party entirely – just taking a breath together.

Outside on the small balcony, string lights draped overhead like a miniature Milky Way. The night was warm, still. In the distance, the city lights shimmered and the buzz of the party inside was a muffled glow below. The air smelled faintly of the magnolia tree by the railing, and something earthy from the pot of basil by the sliding door.

You quietly closed the door behind the two of you. Rhea’s senses shifted. The world felt smaller – focused solely on the two of you now. The din of celebration was still there, a comforting murmur through the glass, but this porch was your private sky, your own little world.

Rhea’s not good at this part—receiving. Holding soft things without crushing them. But the ache in her chest when you laugh? When you blush? When you look at her like this moment might be your favorite of the whole night?

It’s unbearable.

It’s perfect.

It’s going to destroy her.

“You okay?” you murmur, stepping closer, voice low. Private.

She nods.

Then shakes her head.

Then reaches out and drags you in by the waistband of your dress, hands firm, grip unrelenting, until your knees knock into hers and your glass clinks against the deck railing.

“Ree?” you breathe.

Her eyes are dark, unreadable. Her voice is lower than it’s been all night.

“You did all this… for me?”

You smile. Tilt your head. “Of course I did.”

No hesitation. No agenda.

Just you.

Rhea doesn’t even mean to pull you in harder. Doesn’t mean to press her mouth to yours like she’s starving. But it happens anyway. Because suddenly her hands are on your hips, her thigh sliding between yours, and you’re already gasping into her kiss like she’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

You let her take the glass from your hand. Set it on the railing. Your fingers thread into her damp curls, still kissed with sea salt from earlier.

She kisses you deeper. Slower.

“Get on.”

You blink, lips parted, heart stumbling in your chest. “Here?”

A nod. A command. Her voice velvet and heat. “Now.”

And you do.

You straddle her thigh slowly, the thick denim rough against the softness between your legs, the pressure immediate. Her hands anchor you there, one gripping your waist, the other trailing up your back beneath the hem of your sweater.

“Atta girl,” she murmurs, proud and possessive and just a little rough. “Take what you need.”

You rock once.

“It’s your birthday yknow,” You remind her, that the night is about supposed to be about her, her happiness, her pleasure. She growls at you like it forced its way from her ribcage and her hands come to hold your hips tightly.

“I know,” she breathes like she’s the one riding watching you, “so give me the gift I want,”

And she watches you unravel.

Your mouth drops open. Your hands find her shoulders for balance. Her thigh flexes beneath you, firm and sure, grinding up as you move. She keeps you steady, guides your rhythm, breathes your name like worship. Like threat.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” she growls against your jaw. “Look at you. Fuck.”

The sounds of the party keep on below. No one knows you’re here—panting against her neck, riding her thigh like it’s the only thing in the world. Your body’s soft, your moans are sweeter than any song the speakers could play.

She presses her mouth to your ear.

“Think I’d let anyone else see you like this?” she whispers. “No, baby. You’re mine.”

Your breath shudders. Your hips stutter. You cling to her like the night’s too big without her touch.

“Good girl,” she murmurs. “There you go. That’s it. Make a mess on me. Come for me, baby. Come now.”

And you do.

With a quiet cry, with your face buried in her neck, with your whole body trembling. You come undone, completely, absolutely hers.

Rhea kisses your temple, your cheek, your lips. Soft now. Gentle. Her arms wrap tight around you, holding you through the aftershocks, through the quiet.

The wind lifts the edge of your sweater. The stars are visible overhead. And from here, the party feels miles away.

When you pull back, breathless and glowing, she brushes your hair behind your ear and says, low:

“Thank you for tonight.”

You smile, eyes soft.

“Happy to make you feel loved,” you whisper.

And she kisses you again.

Because you do.

And she is.

—

The house smells like lemons and margarita rim and you.

Sunlight cuts through the kitchen window in slanted beams, catching on motes of dust and the edges of bubbles floating from the sink. You’re barefoot, of course—always barefoot—and half-drenched in soap suds, your hair twisted up, an old tank of hers hanging loose off one shoulder like it doesn’t belong to anyone anymore, like it was always meant for you.

You’re supposed to be cleaning.

Rhea’s supposed to be helping.

Instead, she leans in the doorway with her arms crossed, hips tilted, watching you slide half across the tile in a way that’s more dance than chore. having far too much fun for someone who did too many jello shots last night. You’ve got a sponge in one hand, your other arm flung wide for balance as you spin once, laughing at your own almost-fall.

“You’re gonna bust your ass,” Rhea calls, voice low, teasing. Still hoarse from a night of singing, sipping and then sleep.

You glance over your shoulder, grinning. “Not if I stick the landing.”

“You’re not wearing socks. It’s a health hazard.”

“Says the woman who climbed a roof barefoot to hang string lights.” Rhea doesn’t respond right away. She just watches.

God, you look like summer. Like joy with a pulse, like warmth people in cold places yearn for. Like the kind of reckless that makes her want to drop everything she’s holding and follow you anywhere.

She walks in slowly, hands dragging through her hair, pretending to be more composed than she is. You’re singing now—half real, half humming—words drifting in and out like you’re too full of light to bother catching all of them.

The floor is slick with soap. A trail of bubbles streaks from the sink to the hallway. One of the dish towels is soaked and abandoned across the dining chair like it gave up halfway through the job.

“You’re a menace,” Rhea says, grabbing another towel to mop at the counter.

You don’t answer.

You slide straight up behind her and wrap your arms around her waist, wet tank sticking to her shirt, bare legs against denim, your mouth pressing a quick kiss between her shoulder blades.

“Bite me,” you murmur.

And that’s how she knows she’s lost.

Rhea turns around, towel still in one hand. She doesn’t even try to keep a straight face. “Oh, you wanna play that game, do you?”

You raise both brows, eyes sparkling. “What game?”

She lunges before you can run.

You shriek—loud and delighted—and dart around the island just in time to dodge her grab. But she’s fast. And tall. And determined. You barely make it past the fridge before her arms wrap around your waist and lift you straight off the ground like you weigh nothing.

Your laughter is breathless. Wrecked. Glorious.

“Rhea!” you yelp, kicking slightly, hands grabbing her shoulders. “Put me down, the floor’s—”

She spins you once, then does exactly that—sets you down right in the middle of the soap-slicked tiles.

And you immediately slip.

But Rhea’s hands are still on you, catching you before you fall, holding you steady like she always does. You’re both breathless now, tangled in the middle of a half-clean kitchen with music still playing and the smell of citrus and lavender curling around the open windows.

Your hands rest on her chest, your forehead pressed against her collarbone. Your laughter slows.

“You okay?” she murmurs, brushing your hair back with soap-wet fingers.

You nod, still grinning. “Perfect.”

“Even with the soap floor and the near-death experience?”

“Especially because of those.”

Rhea leans down and kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the tip of your nose.

“You,” she murmurs, “are absolute chaos.”

“And you,” you say, tilting your head to meet her gaze, “are smiling more than I’ve ever seen you.”

She softens instantly.

Because it’s true.

Because you said it like a gift, not a compliment.

And she wants to earn it every day for the rest of her life.

You’re still tangled up when you tug at the edge of her shirt, wrinkling it more than the washing machine ever will.

“You know this means we have to re-mop, right?”

Rhea groans. “Unless…”

“Unless?”

“…We just make it worse.”

And then she’s dragging you down with her—right into the mess you both made.

You squeal as your knees hit the wet tile, as her body presses over yours, laughter and kisses mixing into something that has nothing to do with chores anymore. Just soapy kisses. Damp tank tops. Hands sliding over skin.

The floor never gets finished.

But Rhea doesn’t care.

Because your smile is the only thing in the house worth polishing.

—

The bell above the surf shop door jingled softly as you stepped inside, the familiar scent of salt, cedar, and sun-warmed resin enveloping you. The late afternoon light streamed through the large front windows, casting golden patterns on the wooden floor.

Rhea was at her workbench, focused intently on sanding the curve of a new board. Her hands moved with practiced precision, muscles flexing beneath her tank top as she worked. She looked up at the sound of the bell, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Hey, you,” she greeted, brushing a strand of hair from her face, leaving a smudge of dust on her cheek.

“Hey,” you replied, crossing the room to press a quick kiss to her cheek. “Thought I’d keep you company while you finish up.”

“Always welcome,” she said, her eyes softening as she looked at you.

You wandered around the shop, admiring the rows of surfboards in various stages of completion, the tools neatly arranged on the walls, and the sunlight dancing across the metal surfaces. One particular beam of light caught your eye, reflecting brilliantly off a set of sharp shaping tools.

Drawn by the shimmering light, you reached out, fingers hovering just above the polished metal.

“Careful!” Rhea’s voice rang out, sharp with concern.

You jumped, turning to see her striding toward you, her expression a mix of exasperation and worry.

“Why do you insist on injuring yourself?” she asked, gently pulling your hand away from the tools.

“The light was reflecting all cool,” you explained, a sheepish grin on your face.

Rhea sighed, resting her forehead against your shoulder. “What are you, some kind of bewitched crow?” she mumbled, her voice muffled. “Always chasing shiny things.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around her. “Maybe I am. But you’re the shiniest thing in here.”

She looked up at you, eyes narrowing playfully. “Flattery won’t save you next time.”

“Noted,” you said, leaning in to kiss the tip of her nose.

Rhea chuckled, pulling you closer. “Come on. Let’s get you a safer distraction.”

She led you to a cozy corner of the shop, where a small couch and a stack of surf magazines awaited. As she returned to her workbench, you settled in, content to watch her work.

—

The sun hung high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the backyard garden. Rhea stood among the rows of blooming flowers and thriving vegetables, her hands covered in soil as she tended to the plants. The scent of lavender and rosemary filled the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly turned soil.

You emerged from the house, carrying a tray with two glasses of iced tea, condensation dripping down the sides. “Thought you could use a break,” you said, offering her a glass.

Rhea took it with a grateful smile, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You sipped your tea, surveying the garden. “It’s looking amazing. You’ve really outdone yourself.”

She chuckled, taking a seat on the edge of a raised bed. “Couldn’t have done it without your help.”

You sat beside her, letting the sun warm your skin. “Remember when we first started this garden? We had no idea what we were doing.”

Rhea laughed, the sound rich and full of joy. “We planted tomatoes in the shade and wondered why they didn’t grow.”

You grinned. “We’ve come a long way.”

After finishing your drinks, you both returned to the garden, working side by side. You weeded the flower beds while Rhea pruned the rose bushes, occasionally stealing glances at each other and sharing smiles.

As the afternoon wore on, you found yourself near the hose, a mischievous idea forming. You picked it up and sprayed a gentle stream of water in Rhea’s direction.

She yelped, turning to face you with a mock glare. “Oh, it’s on now.”

Before you knew it, a full-blown water fight had erupted, laughter echoing through the garden as you chased each other around, getting soaked in the process.

Eventually, you both collapsed onto the grass, breathless and dripping wet. Rhea turned to you, her eyes shining with happiness. “I love you, you know.”

You reached out, intertwining your fingers with hers. “I love you too.”

—

The sun’s barely cleared the roofline when you catch her around the waist a small whine leaving you.

Your arms loop slow, deliberate, just above the hem of her tank. Warm palms under cotton. Fingertips against bare ribs. She’d be lying if she said it didn’t wreck her a little, the way you always know exactly how to melt her spine first thing in the morning.

“Babe,” she warns, voice low and scratchy with sleep. Her keys are in one hand. Her boots are laced. She’s technically five minutes late already. “I gotta go.”

You hum into the back of her shoulder, ignoring her completely. “Are you sure you don’t need help sanding things?”

Rhea turns just enough to glance down at you—your cheek against her back, one eye squinting up like maybe she’ll say yes just to keep you close. You’re in her shirt again. It hangs off one shoulder, too soft to handle. Your legs are bare. She curses under her breath and plants her feet firmer.

“You’re a menace,” she says.

“I’m a muse,” you correct.

“Menace muse.”

You laugh—light and muffled against her skin. “Can I come with you?”

“You said you were painting today.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You were excited last night.”

“Now I’m excited about you.”

Rhea groans. Actually groans. Lets her head fall back with theatrical agony. “Why do you do this when I have to leave?”

“Because it works.”

She should go. She should pull away. But your hands slip under her shirt just a little, your palms flat over her stomach, and she sways into it without thinking. Her chest rises on a sigh. One of your thumbs brushes the scar near her ribs and she has to breathe through her teeth.

“Alright, Picasso,” she says, voice softer now. “What if I bring your paints across the lawn later? Set you up in the back corner of the shop while I work on boards?”

You perk up instantly. “With the radio and the kettle?”

“Sure.”

“And the snack shelf?”

“Don’t push it.”

You lean into her side now, eyes closing like this is the exact spot you belong. “We’d be very productive.”

“You’d be distracting.”

“You like that.”

She grins—can’t help it. Presses a kiss into your hair, quick and grounding. But you don’t let go. And she… doesn’t really want you to.

“Should I set you up a studio upstairs even though you’re across the lawn?” The words slip out casually. Too casually. She’s already halfway through tying the strings of her hoodie when you freeze against her back.

You pull away just enough to squint up at her.

“That space barely fits your bed and dresser,” you say slowly, like you’re unsure if this is a bit. “It’s not going to fit studio stuff, I have like 4 different easels,”

Rhea lifts a brow.

“Okay,” she says, like it’s obvious. “But what if my bedroom stuff wasn’t there?”

The silence hits different this time.

Your lips part. Then close. Then part again like you’re trying to keep up with what she’s just implied—but your heartbeat’s already giving you away.

“Where are you gonna sleep, babe?” you ask, not teasing now. Just quiet. A little unsteady. She shrugs. Turns to face you fully. Her hand comes to rest low on your hip.

“Here,” she says. “With you.”

The back door creaks a little in the wind. The kettle inside the house clicks off. Somewhere down the road, a gull cries sharp and far away.

But in this moment—it’s just you and her. Your wide eyes. Her thundering pulse. And the wordless stretch of morning light between two bodies that already live like they belong together.

You’re still blinking at her. Still stunned.

So she cups your cheek.

Leans in.

And murmurs against your mouth:

“Think about it. I’ve already got the keys.”

—

It’s nearly closing when the bell over the surf shop door jingles, and Rhea doesn’t bother looking up. She’s wrist-deep in polishing wax, sleeves shoved up, sweat glinting at her temples. “Jay,” she calls without looking. “If this is about your board again, I’m filing for custody.”

“I’d like partial visitation rights,” he replies easily.

That earns a grin—crooked, tired. “You’re worse than the tourists.”

Jay shrugs as he crosses to the workbench. “Not my fault I like things smooth.”

Rhea wipes her hands on a rag. “What do you need, wax boy?”

He leans on the counter. “Your girlfriend said you needed help moving a dresser.”

That makes her still. Just for a second. “She did?”

“Yeah. She stopped by the café this morning. Said something about making space today and needing an extra hand “obscenely heacy” with furniture.” He tells her as if it’s just a regular occurrence, air quotes and all.

Rhea blinks. Her mouth opens. Closes.

Jay arches a brow. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” she says. “I—no.”

But she’s already moving, heart thudding hard, pulling the rag from her waistband and tossing it aside. She grabs her keys off the hook by the door without another word.

“So… is that a yes or no on the wax?!”

Jay watches the door bounce on its hinge a couple times, the chimes swinging in the quiet. He glances around the shop, an extra pink mug on the back counter next to her black one, there’s a new throw blanket on the worn sofa, pencils and broken charcoal scattered on the side table. He smiles softly and grabs a post it from behind the small cash counter.

‘Down to help when you’re done being love birds, call me- J’

She’s already halfway across the lawn when she sees the light on in your bedroom window. Your bedroom. Her breath catches.

You’re inside—back to the door, hair pinned up with half a pencil, wearing cutoff sweats and one of her old tanks. You’re dragging a chair toward the corner of the room, eyebrows drawn in concentration.

She knocks once.

You turn.

“Oh,” you breathe with a content smile. “Hey, I was gonna text—”But she steps inside without waiting. Her voice is quiet. Uneven.

“Jay said I needed help moving a dresser?”

You nod, already tagging her to the centre of the room with you. “Your plants can go there,” you say, pointing to the patch of sun-soaked floor beside the window. “I already cleared half the closet.”

Rhea stares at you.

Not like she’s surprised.

Like she’s breathless.

“You want me here?”

“You’ve been here, Rhea.” And that’s all it takes. She kisses you before the chair’s moved, before you finish clearing her bedside table and adding an extra hamper.

Hands still rough from work, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw like she’s checking if you’re real. You melt into it easily, instinctively, fingers looping around the hem of her shirt like you always knew this was the moment it would happen. Her mouth moves against yours with that slow intensity she saves for things she can’t quite say yet. Gratitude. Relief. Want.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing like you just made it through a storm.

“You cleared half the closet,” she murmurs.

You smile. “Well, I use the other half.”

Her chest lifts in a small, stunned laugh, eyes still closed.

“And the dresser?” she asks.

You nod toward the far wall. “It's shitty. I figured we could use it at the shop but I didn’t want to scratch the floors.” Something in her flickers at that—gentle, sharp, familiar. The kind of emotion she’s spent most of her life avoiding because it meant losing control. But now it just means she gets to keep something. Someone.

You.

“God,” she says, voice quiet, “you really want this.”

You step back just enough to take her in fully. The sweat-damp collar of her shirt. The sawdust still on her boots. The disbelief softening her mouth.

“Of course I do,” you say, tilting your head. “You asked me and I can’t find a single reason to say no,”

Rhea shakes her head once, slow. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You’re gonna wreck me.”

You grin. “Little late for that.”

She groans, pulls you into a hug that lifts you slightly off your toes, then sets you back down like she’s claiming space with her body. One hand settles at the small of your back, the other tangling loosely in your hair.

And for a long moment, she just holds you.

No jokes. No teasing. No armor.

Just her.

Just here.

You whisper into the side of her neck, “Do you want to help me finish setting it up?”

She glances around the room. The opened drawers. The candle you’d lit an hour ago that smells like vanilla and driftwood. Her mug already in the sink from the night before. Her boots tucked near the back door.

Her mouth softens again, eyes almost reverent.

“No,” she says, dragging her thumb across your lower lip like a promise. “I want to lay you down in this bed and christen it as ours .”

And when she picks you up this time, you don’t stop her.

You just smile and whisper, “Welcome home.”

—

The morning was already warm by the time Rhea laced her shoes and hit the sand. Leaving you sleeping in the bed you now share with a soft kiss to your crown and a grumble about being safe on your part. Golden light spilled across the tide like a blanket still half-pulled over the ocean’s body. Her tank was damp with spray before she’d made it past the dunes, feet pounding steady along the shoreline, breath syncing with the rhythm of her stride.

It was a run she knew by heart now—soft earth near the waterline, her shadow long in the early sun, gulls flitting overhead and her thoughts slowly uncoiling. A way to burn through the thoughts she’s learning to leave behind, choosing to replace them with what you’re building for her, the images you’re painting behind her eye lids. But today—just past the curve near the jetty—something tore out of the dunes like a small hurricane.

Sand exploded.

Paws thundered.

And suddenly, a massive dog was barreling toward her.

Rhea skidded to a stop, heart jumping.

“Whoa—hey, easy!”

Too late.

He launched straight into her, a blur of grey and ears and uncoordinated limbs. Her knees buckled. They both went down in a whirl of salt and fur and sand.

The dog was enormous. Some kind of Great Dane mutt, with a wide chest, gangly legs, and seaweed stuck to one of his ears. Rhea braced her hands against his shoulders, laughing despite herself as he slathered a lick across her cheek and wagged his entire body with joy.

“Okay, okay! Jesus—you’re bloody heavy.”

No collar. No tags. Just wet fur, soulful eyes, and a tongue the size of a bath towel.

Rhea sat back in the sand, heart still racing as the dog flopped beside her with a groan like he’d just completed a marathon. His tail thumped in the wet sand. She looked around—nobody in sight. No distant voices calling a name. Just early sun, endless dunes, and one very pleased dog panting at her feet like she was the best thing he’d ever found.

“Great,” she muttered. “You’re lost, aren’t you?”

He sneezed in response and rolled onto his back.

Rhea sighed. Swiped the sand off her knees. Then leaned down and rubbed his belly because… well, he was there. And he clearly wasn’t leaving.

Fifteen minutes later, she’d searched up and down the beach. Nothing. No other runners. No beachgoers. No posters on the lifeguard hut. And every time she walked more than ten feet away, the dog followed—bounding, loping, tongue flapping like a flag.

“Alright, you’re mine for now,” she said, watching him plop beside her on the curb outside her shop. “But you better not eat my boards.”

He sneezed again and wagged his tail like a drumbeat.

—

You wake up alone and roll out of bed, going to make coffee for when Rhea gets back. You place your hands against the sink and yawn before rising again. It’s quick but a flash of white catches your eye and sure enough in Rhea’s window.

“Come over when you’re awake baby,” in scrawled writing, you grab her flannel off the back of the kitchen chair and slip on your sandals. Making your way across the lawn to the shops backs door, you knock twice and let yourself in.

“Okay, don’t freak out,” she said the moment you stapled through the door, which is usually Rhea for I did something slightly questionable but undeniably charming—voice breathless and weirdly giddy. “But I think we should keep him.”

“Keep who?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “He found me. He’s sandy, massive, and possibly the size of a small horse.”

You stare at her confused, sleeves rolled, a piece of toast still in your hand. You barely stepped through the door before something tackled you from the side.

“Holy—”

You went down hard, oofing as an enormous grey and goobery blur pinned you with affection. The dog panted happily above you, drool flying, tail slapping the floor like it owed rent.

Rhea, standing near the workbench, tried not to laugh. She failed.

“I see you’ve met.”

You blinked up from under the dog’s bulk, squinting through fur.

“He’s huge.”

“He’s perfect.”

“He just body-slammed me into next week.”

“He’s enthusiastic,” Rhea corrected, already crouching to tug him gently off you. He obeyed immediately, slumping down next to you like he’d claimed you as his second favorite person in the world.

Rhea offered you a hand up.

You took it, brushing off your— her shirt. The dog pressed his head into your thigh and groaned, soulful and adoring.

You looked at Rhea.

She looked at you.

“Dammit,” you muttered reaching down for him. Rhea’s smile was soft, a little crooked. She scratched behind his ears and nodded. “

“Do you think he has people?”

“I looked. Didn’t see anyone. No collar, no microchip.” She reached down, giving his ribs a rub. “But he’s not scared. Not starving. He found us like he meant to.”

You knelt again, this time letting him lean into your chest.

“He smells like seaweed,” you murmured.

“So do you sometimes,” Rhea teased.

You elbowed her.

And then—

Then you caught it.

The way she was watching you, eyes soft and wide, like the sight of you curled up on the surf shop floor with a drool-happy Great Dane was something holy.

You smiled.

“What’re we gonna name him?”

Rhea looked down at the dog. He wagged his tail once. Twice.

“Something big,” she said. “Something dumb. Something that fits.”

You tilted your head. “Atlas?”

Rhea grinned.

Atlas groaned in approval.

And the surf shop—already full of boards and salt and sawdust—grew just a little more alive.

—

The candles are mostly wax now.

One’s burned down to a pool, wick flickering inside it like the last breath of something sacred. Another leans slightly in its glass—crooked but still standing. Rhea doesn’t move to fix them. She doesn’t move at all.

She just watches you.

You’re perched on the stool in front of your easel, legs bare, one foot curled against the rung, the other grazing Atlas whose happily snoring. Your robe has slipped off one shoulder. It’s black—her favorite one on you—and it’s barely tied. Like you forgot to finish the knot after refilling your wine. Or maybe you just didn’t bother.

You’ve got a drink in one hand. The brush in the other.

There’s raspberry pink on your wrist and ultramarine under your thumbnail. Your hair’s a mess. Tipsy and barefoot, skin glowing in the soft spill of candlelight, you look like you’ve been painted already. Or conjured. Or summoned.

And Rhea can’t stop looking.

She’s got her elbow hooked on the kitchen counter behind her, a drink sweating in her palm, one hip leaned lazy against the wood. There’s no music. Just the tick of a wall clock, the wind through the cracked window, and the faint sounds of your breath when you exhale too slow.

The painting doesn’t matter. Not to her. She can’t even see the front of it.

All she sees is you.

The focus in your eyes. The looseness in your limbs. The way your bottom lip drags through your teeth every time your brush moves a little too close to the edge. The way your breath catches when the candlelight shifts the shadows on the canvas.

You’re beautiful when you’re still. But like this?

She wants to fall to her knees for you.

Rhea takes a sip of her drink, eyes not leaving your body.

You sigh—soft, distracted—and set your brush down, flexing your fingers like they’ve just come back to you. You twist in your seat to reach for another color, and that’s when your robe slips.

Further this time.

The knot doesn’t hold. The silk pools at your hips, and suddenly, she can see the entire line of your back, the sweet curve of your waist, the side of your breast, bare and lit by flame.

You don’t notice.

You just hum softly and sip your wine, your fingers streaked with paint, a curl of hair falling across your cheek like it was placed there for a reason.

Rhea forgets how to breathe.

She sets her glass down without looking, stepping forward. Quiet. Careful.

You don’t turn. But your voice is warm, still soft with wine and sugar and sleep.

“You’re staring.”

“Can you blame me?”

You laugh, throat low and open. “Is it the painting or the robe?”

“It’s you,” Rhea says, and you freeze just slightly.

Her hands come to your hips, palms warm against silk. She presses close behind you. She’s still wearing her tank, but her jeans hang loose at the hips, her belt unbuckled, her body heat turning molten where her chest brushes your back.

Your lips part.

She leans in, her breath against your ear.

“You look like a sin someone prayed for.”

You shift in your seat, leaning back into her. The robe slips more. Your head turns slightly—like you want her to kiss your neck. She does. Once. Then twice. Her teeth scrape gently across your pulse.

Your eyes flutter. “Rhea…”

She presses her thigh between your legs from behind, guiding you with a hand at your hip.

“Keep painting,” she murmurs. “If you can.”

You shudder.

Her thigh fits right. Tight. Firm between yours. Her hands skim up your ribs, under the robe, fingers sliding over soft skin, slow and sure and reverent. She doesn’t rush.

You grind against her thigh, slow at first, and she groans softly into your hair.

“You have any idea what you look like right now?”

You shake your head, breath hitching.

“Fuckin’ divine,” she whispers. “Messy and warm and mine.”

Your body moves against her, the rhythm lazy and sinful. Rhea’s hands slide up to cup your breasts, fingers dragging over your nipples as her lips trace the curve of your neck.

You’re gasping now, panting into the air like she’s pulling sound from your lungs.

“You’re not painting,” she teases, one hand sliding down to your thigh, tightening her grip.

“Can’t,” you manage. “Fuck—can’t think.”

She grins. “Good.”

Her thigh flexes. You cry out, quiet and desperate, one hand still clutching your wine glass, the other reaching blindly for the brush—dropping it instead as your hips stutter and her name slips from your mouth like a prayer.

She holds you through it.

One hand on your stomach, the other between your legs now, fingers sliding against you slow, then faster, just enough.

“Come on, baby,” she murmurs. “Give it to me.”

And you do.

She kisses your shoulder when you fall forward, chest heaving, mouth parted, robe clinging to sweat-slick skin.

“Next time,” she growls, voice wrecked, “I make you finish the painting before I finish you,”

You laugh. Wrecked. Warm. Completely hers and allow her to carry you to bed, heavy paws trotting after you

—

Rhea is halfway through her toast—shirtless, barefoot, hair tied up in the laziest knot imaginable—when the scream happens.

Your scream.

She drops the toast immediately.

“Baby?!”

There’s no answer. Just the slam of the back screen door and a yelp that sounds half-laugh, half-absolute-terror.

Rhea bolts.

Atlas beats her there.

By the time she steps out onto the back patio, the Great Dane is mid-sprint—ears flapping, mouth open, legs all limbs and sand—as he barrels toward—

A seagull.

A very loud, very surprised seagull that had the audacity to land next to you while you were watering the basil. You’re frozen. Still holding the watering can like a weapon. The bird squawks, takes off, and Atlas launches himself three feet into the air with a feral bark like he’s auditioning for the Coast Guard.

He lands with a thud and skitters sideways into a lounge chair. You blink. Then dissolve into laughter so hard you double over. Rhea laughs, too—once she’s sure you’re not actually in danger. She jogs over, eyes crinkling. “You okay?”

You nod, wiping tears from your cheeks. “He tried to kill it.”

Rhea places a hand on your lower back and leans into your space, warm and smug. “Told you he already picked you.”

You grin. “You jealous of the bird or the dog?”

“Both,” she mutters. “But mostly the dog. He took the middle of the bed and gets to protect you?”

You nudge her playfully. “Maybe next time you’ll bark louder.”

She growls against your ear in response—low and teasing—and just like that, the whole day begins again: with laughter, soft kisses, and the sound of paws chasing shadows across sun-warmed sand.

—

The porch smells like rosemary and sea salt.

Not a recipe—just life. Just summer steeping into the air. The kind of scent that clings to skin and makes everything feel like it was always meant to be soft.

You’re curled into one corner of the porch swing, bare legs folded beneath you, wrapped in a cotton hoodie that still smells like Rhea—warm, sun-dried, faintly herbal, with a hint of something sharper underneath. Her tank is loose on you, too, one strap sliding off your shoulder every time you lean forward to sip from the cocktail she made. Something tart. Pink. Glittering with melting ice and rimmed with chili sugar.

The sun’s just beginning to dip, and the sky is drunk on it. All honey-gold and orange creamsicle, smeared with clouds that look like they were finger-painted by gods. The porch lights have already flicked on above you—bare bulbs strung between the eaves, glowing warm as candle wax. One of them hums faintly. Another swings just slightly in the breeze.

Atlas barrels past again, all paws and flopping jowls, barking once at a firefly like it personally offended him. He skids into the edge of the grass and gallops back the other direction, chasing it like it’s the moon. You laugh into your drink, your mouth gone sticky-sweet with citrus, and catch Rhea watching you from where she’s leaned against the railing.

She’s still in her joggers from earlier, a sports bra and a loose tee thrown over top—one side hitched up enough to show a stretch of tattooed skin. There’s a faint flush along her chest from the last heat of the day. Her eyes are on you like you’re not just something to admire, but something to hold. To know. To keep.

“You’re in my clothes again,” she murmurs, lazy and fond.

You grin, smug. “Maybe you should stop leaving them where I can find them.”

“Maybe I leave them on purpose.”

“Oh?”

Her eyes glint, and she takes a sip straight from the bottle she’s been nursing for an hour now—something dark and rich that she claimed was too good to mix. She sets it down and wanders over barefoot, slow and loose-hipped, until she’s standing just beside the swing.

She leans down. Plucks your drink from your hand. Sips it with a smirk, tongue flicking across her bottom lip like she’s testing more than just flavor.

Then, without asking, she swings one leg over the bench and drops down beside you—long, lean, solid Rhea, all heat and ink and quiet power. Her thigh presses against yours. She smells like sweat and shampoo and smoke and skin.

You can feel the joint tucked behind her ear before she even pulls it free.

She lights it with one hand and holds it out to you, her fingers brushing your lips as you inhale. The burn is soft. Slow. Like honey gone dark.

You exhale into the air between you, and Rhea watches the smoke drift upward like it’s art.

“Y’know,” she says, voice gone lazy with wine and affection, “this—” she gestures, vaguely, at the swing, the dog, the half-buzzed quiet—“might be it.”

“It?”

“The dream.” Her head tips against yours, heavy and warm. “Fireflies, you in my hoodie, dog with a stupid name. Little bit high. Sunset turning your skin gold. This is it. This is everything.”

Your throat aches, suddenly, in the best way.

“You’re high,” you say softly, teasing.

She hums. “Yeah. On you.”

You roll your eyes but lean into her, body slotted to hers, and when she kisses your temple, it’s slow. Thoughtful. A promise drawn in skin.

Atlas bounds back up the steps, tongue lolling, flops his entire body across your feet like he’s been chasing the secrets of the universe. You giggle and reach down to ruffle his ears. Rhea watches you with something deeper now—something older than the sea.

When she speaks again, her voice is a little rougher.

“You ever think about forever?”

You blink. Look over at her.

“Like… this?”

She nods. “This. You. A house that smells like paint and salt and burned toast. Big dumb dog. Me bringing you coffee before you’re even awake enough to open your eyes.”

Your breath catches.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think about it.”

“Me too,” she says.

Then she kisses you again—slow, open-mouthed, tasting of sugar and smoke and everything sacred. Her hand cradles your cheek like you’re the most fragile thing she’s ever trusted herself to touch. Like she’s already planning how to love you better tomorrow.

The swing creaks beneath you.

The porch lights flicker.

The fireflies rise like stars.

And somewhere deep in your chest, the moment folds into your bones like it’s always been waiting.

Like this—like her—was always meant to be your home.

—

If you made it this far I am very proud of you, that was a long one! Likes, comments, and blogs always appreciated. Hope you enjoyed see you soon for some regularly scheduled program fics

[deansbeer]

full of surprises ・ VHACKER. ៸៸៸ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ! ♡ pinned library

eighteen plus. minors do NOT interact.

SYNOPSIS. helping vinnie in the garage, your knowledge, and skills with cars over the years come to surface, unveiling a secret you'd kept hidden.

WARNING(S). fluff | smut | fem!reader | explicit language | thigh riding | fingering | breeding kink.

KARI NOTES. while i was scrolling through pinterest, i fell down a rabbit hole of photos of vinnie working on cars.

the soft clanking and muttered curses drifting from the garage pull you away from your mindless scrolling on your phone. you glance at the clock, noticing it's past midnight already. vinnie told you he'd be done working on his car by now but it seems he's hit another snag in repairs.

sighing, you slide off the couch and pad down the hallway. vinnie's bent over the open hood distractedly turning a wrench, smears of grease decorating his gray tank top and forearms in a way that makes your heart flutter. you admire his toned physique for a moment, always loving when he gets hands on.

"any luck, babe?" you ask softly, not wanting to startle him. vinnie jerks up with a grimace, rubbing the back of his neck. "ah, no not yet. this damn fuel pump is being a real pain in my ass. i've replaced every other part but it just won't prime right."

he kicks the tire in frustration earning a soft chuckle from you. striding over, you stand on your tiptoes to peer into the engine compartment. years spent helping your dad under the hoods of countless vehicles have given you more than a casual understanding.

"mind if i take a look?" you inquire, already sliding some gloves from the table beside you. vinnie gapes at you in disbelief. "i had no idea you knew about cars, babe," disbelief colors his tone but you can also detect a hint of thrill at discovering another layer to you.

"my dad always said it's a good skill for any woman to have. now scoot over, let me see what's going on." vinnie readily obliges, interest overtaking his previous annoyance as you step into his place. running an analytical eye, you soon spot the issue.

"ah, there's your problem. the fuel filter is badly clogged, no wonder it can't draw fuel properly. just needs a replacement, should clear it right up." you declare confidently, removing the filter to examine. vinnie peers over your shoulder in amazement.

"damn baby, you never cease to surprise me. i'm seriously so impressed right now, you've got me feeling all kinds of things." he purrs against your ear, hands sliding around your waist from behind. a shiver runs down your spine at his breath on your skin but you maintain focus, humming thoughtfully.

"flattery will get you everywhere mister, now hand me the socket wrench so i can get this fixed," you demand gently, holding a hand back expectantly. vinnie hurriedly passes you the tool, enthralled by your take-charge demeanor. within minutes the new filter is installed and you're reassembling the compartment.

flicking your gloves away, you turn to face vinnie's adoring gaze with a smile. "alright big man, give her a start, and let's see if that did the trick." he grins, pressing a swift kiss to your lips in thanks before jumping into the driver's seat.

the cars roars to life on the first try, rumbling smoothly without any hiccups. vinnie whoops loudly, leaning out the window with glee. "fuck baby, you're amazing! that was the perfect fix. come here, i gotta give you a proper reward."

giggling, you allow vinnie to tug you into his lap as he's sat in the driver's seat. his mouth latches onto your neck desperately, hands roaming your sides. "i'm so turned on by how smart and skilled you are. drives me crazy knowing you could probably rebuild this engine from scratch if you wanted," he growls between kisses.

heat pools low in your belly at his adoring praise. you slide his hands up under your shirt, craving his touch. "mhm, maybe i will someday just to watch you swoon. but for now..." twisting, you capture vinnie's lips hungrily.

he sighs into the kiss, deepening it instantly as his tongue delves between your parted lips. you rock against his firm thigh. vinnie groans, hands gripping your hips to guide your movements.

"fuck, i need you so bad. let's take this inside, i wanna worship your perfect body properly." he breathes heavily, pupils blown wide with want. you nod eagerly, already scrambling from his lap toward the house. vinnie follows, hastily towing you the rest of the way by your wrist.

as soon as the bedroom door clicks shut he's pinning you against it feverishly. your shirt disappears followed by his as he assaults your collarbone with rough kisses and nips. a gasp escapes your throat, grabbing handfuls of his hair to encourage the delicious treatment.

vinnie hikes your legs around his waist, lifting as if you weigh nothing at all. the hard line of his erection presses relentlessly against your core through the multiple layers still separating you, seeking friction. you grind down needily, desperate for more contact.

"slow down, baby, 'm not going anywhere," he pants, carrying you to the bed and laying you out like a feast. vinnie quickly divests the rest of your clothing, gazing in awe at your naked form beneath him.

"so perfect, and all mine." his worshipping words steal your breath, stomach clenching deliciously. when his mouth latches onto a pert nipple to suckle, you cry out loudly at the exquisite sensation.

vinnie takes his time lavishing each breast and curve of your body with wet kisses and love bites, mapping every sensitive spot until you're writhing and begging for more. finally his fingers dip to your dripping core, circling your swollen clit teasingly.

"fuck vinnie!" you babble, back arching off the mattress at his feather light touches. he chuckles darkly, sinking two digits into your core. "you take my fingers so well baby. bet you'll feel even better wrapped around my cock though, what do you think?"

a choked moan is your only response, eyes rolling back as he pumps his fingers leisurely. vinnie slowly adds a third, stretching your entrance deliciously full. his thumb rolls firm circles over your clit in time, driving you to the edge at an agonizing pace.

just as your orgasm begins to crest, he removes his hand entirely leaving you keening. vinnie stands to remove the last of his clothing, hard length jutting proudly from his slender hips. the sight alone could make you cum but he hasn't given permission yet.

crawling back over you, vinnie slots his cock against your dripping entrance and leans down to claim your mouth in a filthy kiss. "gonna make you feel so good, fuck you senseless until you can't remember your name. that's what you want isn't it?"

you whimper desperately, nodding fervently against his lips. "please, i want to feel you so deep inside me. use me as rough as you like, i'm all yours baby." his restraint snaps, and with one powerful thrust, he's fully seated to the hilt within your clenching heat.

you cry out loudly at the relentless stretch, walls spasming deliciously around his girth. vinnie groans deeply, staying locked in place to adjust before beginning a punishing rhythm of hard, deep strokes. his hips snap violently, balls slapping your swollen flesh with each impact.

all you can do is hold on for dear life, nails raking down his sweat slicked back as he fucks you into oblivion. vinnie pistons his hips with animalistic drives, pounding directly into your most sensitive spots unerringly. a constant litany of filthy praises tumble from his pretty lips, only spurring you nearer the edge.

"fuck you look gorgeous taking my cock sweet girl, your pussy was made for me i swear. gonna fill you up, have your belly swollen with my babies, you want that, baby? want me to come inside you while i fuck my name out of that beautiful mouth?"

the depraved imagery plunges you over at last, walls constricting vinnie's member in a vice grip. your orgasm tears through you with ruthless intensity, eyes rolling back as you scream his name. he chases his own release, fucking you through the aftershocks until spilling deep within your quivering channel with a guttural groan.

collapsing together in a sweaty heap, you trade sloppy kisses and whispered 'i love you's' while coming down from ecstasy. vinnie curls around your sated form protectively, pressing sweet affection into any skin he can reach.

"you never cease to amaze me, sweetheart. i love how full of surprises you are, constantly keeping me on my toes. and damn do i love when you take charge like that, so fucking hot." he sighs contentedly, nuzzling your hair.

[oneforthemunny]

how you like them apples |cowboy!eddie munson x reader|

prompt: you surprise eddie with his favorite fall treat, and, oh, is he surprised.

since i'm feeling so fall, i decided to write a ficlet around my love cowboy!eddie. also follows the lore that sweet girl is not the best cook lmao. super fluffy. genuinely nothing but the sweetest fluff and love.

Your head turned at the rumble of the truck, moving slowly down the gravel driveway towards the house. Eddie always drove much slower than you, always on to you about speeding down the gravel, flinging it everywhere. 

The red truck’s bed was filled with lumber, left over from the recent renovations the Ives’ family had done to their new fence, just up the road- well, that’s what Eddie always said, it was more like a good ten miles away. Irvine Ives had called Eddie up last night, asked him if he wanted it before he took it to the junkyard. He knew Eddie was repairing a patch in the fence a Bronco he was training had kicked out. 

“Back so soon?” You grinned, pressing a hand over your brows to shield you from the September sun. Not as bright as it was in June, but still unforgiving in the middle of the day. 

“Yep, wasn’t much, but I think I got what I needed.” Eddie hummed, turning the key and killing the ignition, cigarette still lit between his fingers. “Think I got enough to patch it though. Just gonna need to repaint it since it’s not the same kinda wood.” 

Your brows raised, walking over towards the driver’s side, leaning in towards the window. “I can help you with that.” You hummed, breathing in the cloud of smoke he exhaled with a content sigh. “I love to paint.” 

Eddie grinned back at you, a soft crease in his dimples that made your body buzz with excitement. “Yeah? We can go to town tomorrow if I get this done. Pick out a color.” 

“That sounds like fun.” You beam. “I was going to say we need to go to the grocery anyways, so that works out.” You hum, a large brown bag catching your attention, nestled beside Eddie in the passenger seat. 

“What’s that?” You ask, leaning on the door to see. “Apples?” 

“Yeah, Mrs. Ives insisted I take a few. Said their trees were overflowin’ with ‘em.” Eddie nodded towards the bag, lightly tapping your hand to move, opening the truck’s door. “Figure I’d give a few to Medusa. Try to do something with the rest, maybe.” 

You nodded slowly, wheels in your mind already spinning with an idea. Eddie handed you the apples, cradling the bottom until you got your grip on the heavy bag. “‘M gonna go start on this. Try to get it done today.” 

“Ok,” You hummed, hugging the apples to your chest. “Have fun, baby.” 

Eddie snorted in laughter, head ducking down, stealing a quick kiss from you. “I shouldn’t be too long.” He looked back at you, eyes narrowing in suspicion as you simply nodded, pulling the screen door open and slipping in the kitchen. 

Normally, you’d offer to come help him, sit with him and talk about nothing in particular, and hand him the tools while he worked. Not this time. You didn’t seem mad, or upset- really, you seemed perfectly happy. Which left him a little suspicious. 

The clanging of a large, steel pot falling on the floor soothed his worries, left him grinning to himself in humor as he started off to the barn. 

“Sift? What does- like move it around?” You muttered, brows pinched in concentration that was teetering on annoyance. Your eyes squinted in concentration, trying to decipher the loopy, old school cursive on the faded, yellowed recipe card in front of you. 

The first time you found the recipe box, it was buried under piles of other things, lost in the mess that was Eddie’s bachelor pad before you moved in- really, before you were in his life. His Mamaw Munson’s recipes, all her best dishes, all in one tin box. He sat in the kitchen with you between his legs, he’d poured over each one, told you which ones were his favorite, sometimes even added a little anecdote that had you beaming with joy. 

“Oh, this one was one of my favorites, baby,” Eddie had said, eyes lighting as they scanned over the card. 

“Apple Cobbler. She’d bake it in this cast iron skillet so it’d stay hot, and we’d put vanilla ice cream over it- holy shit, it was so good.” Eddie swallowed his drool, he could practically taste it still. “She used to have an apple tree before it got blown away by this bad tornado one year. But she’d go and pick them every fall when they were ripe, and she’d always make it for us. It was my favorite thing.” 

Looking at the recipe in front of you, you could see why Eddie loved it so much. It did sound really good. 

It was just very complicated. 

“Take your peeled- shit,” You looked at the sliced apples, still with the skin on, in the bowl in front of you. “Why wouldn’t you say that before I added the other stuff, Mamaw?” You huffed, pulling the drawer open for the whittling knife. 

The kitchen was a disaster, sticky and flour filled, bowls piling high in the sink; and you hadn’t even gotten halfway through the recipe. Grabbing a handful of the butter and sugar rolled apples, you placed them on the counter’s free space, carefully carving around the edge where the skin was. 

This isn’t too bad, not taking as long as I thought it would, You thought to yourself, finally in a grove of cutting around the skin, tossing the apple back in the mixture. 

A smoky, sugary, thick smell alerted your senses on your last few apples. Turning, you saw the filling that was supposed to be simmering, now bubbling with thick, burnt globs in the pot. You grabbed the handle with a panic, shoving it to the free stove eye, turning the hot one off. 

The mixture, which was supposed to be a light caramel brown, was a deep dark molasses shade. You lifted the whisk, cringing at the toughness of the gooey substance. “It’s ok,” You shook your head lightly, looking at the clock. “That’s- whatever. It’ll bake and soften in the oven.” 

Pulling out the pan, you shoved the now skinless apples to the bottom, scraping the hardened filling mixture on top. The wooden spoon nearly broke trying to mix it in, sticking out of the cemented filling. 

You could see Eddie through the small window over the sink, down to the last stake in the fence, already beginning the wiring. He’d be done soon, this had to cook for forty-five minutes, and the kitchen was a disaster. 

“It’s fine, it’ll be fine.” You muttered to yourself, pouring the batter on top, not bothering to smooth it out like the instructions said- there was no time for that Mamaw. Instead, you slid it in the oven, turning the timer. 

Eddie came in just as you’d finished putting your last dish away. Your body surged with excited heat, smug that you might actually get away with your little surprise- well, as long as he didn’t go to the back porch, where the burnt filling was in the pan, cemented in. 

“Mm,” Eddie sniffed the air, sugary and a little… smoky? “Smells good in here, baby.” He gave you a dazzling smile, hoping you wouldn’t pick up the hesitancy in his tone. 

It was no secret that you weren’t exactly the best cook. Not that Eddie cared, but after you almost burnt the house down making lasagna, he was a little weary when you’d cook. 

“Does it?” Your eyes lit up, filled with excitement that he wouldn’t dare take from you. Whatever you’d made, no matter how charred or inedible it was, he’d scarf it down with a grin if it’d make you happy. Even if it gave him food poisoning like the chicken ala king did. 

“Yeah, what’re you makin’?” Eddie reached for the oven’s handle. 

You pushed it closed with a click of your tongue, smacking his hands away. “Don’t.” You shook your head. “It’s a surprise.” 

And you were true to your word. It certainly was a surprise. 

When you placed the concoction in front of Eddie, grinning so big, so proudly, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but grin back. “Wow, you, uh, you made this for me, sweetheart?” He smiled, eyeing the plate in front of him. 

“Yes,” You giggled, topping the runny dough on top with a scoop of ice cream. “You said it was your favorite, and when you brought the apples home, I just thought I’d surprise you.” You chirped, sliding him a spoon. “I followed your Mamaw’s recipe.”

“You spoil me, sweet thing. You know that?” Eddie smiled, heart swelling at the sentiment. You really did spoil him, were too good and too sweet to him- even if you’re cooking wasn’t as good. 

“Try it.” You sat next to him, bursting with excitement. “I know it won’t be as good as hers, but I think I did a good job on it.” 

Eddie looked down at the plate, swallowing the dread building in his throat. He dug his spoon, sawing it through the thick middle until it finally came out in a clean cut. Taking a large scoop of ice cream, hoping it would mask the flavor, he took a bite. 

“Is it good?” You leaned forward, eyes rounded in hopefulness, scanning his features eagerly. 

Eddie hummed, his teeth cemented together from the filling, sure his crown might pop out from the material. The filling was tough, the dough undercooked and lacked something that made it rise, but the apples were delicious- just like his Mamaw’s except…

“Oh,” Eddie winced before he could help it, finger digging in his mouth. He pulled out the hard thing that was wedged in his molar, turning it with a brow raised. “Is that- is that a seed?” 

Your face fell, looking at the seed back at Eddie. “Well, yeah, from the apples.” You said, heart skinning in your chest. “I didn’t- it didn’t say to take them out or anything, so I just left them in.”

Eddie swallowed, stomach turning lightly at the bite. “No, it’s- I mean, it’s good, baby. Some people take them out, but- no, this is, it’s really good.” He nodded, smiling at you gently. “‘S really good.” 

“Really?” You squeaked. “Better than the muffins?” 

“Yes,” Eddie said truthfully, whole heartedly. That was the truth, this was so much better than the mess that was the blueberry muffins. “So much better. This is really good, sweetheart. You really surprised me. Too sweet of ya to do this.” 

You squealed, hugging him tightly, legs straddling his waist in the chair, lips pressing kisses over his cheeks, his chin, his lips. Eddie’s arms wrapped around you, squeezing you into him, playfully nipping at your jaw to hear you squeal, before his lips caught yours, pulling you into a heated kiss. He’d eat all your burnt cobblers if it meant you’d be happy like this, if it made you this happy. 

[ckret2]

So I heard y'all are really eager to see Bill shipped with an old man. This is what you wanted, right??

(Sorry, it's still gonna be a while yet before we get to the old man y'all are looking for.)

Chapter 80 of that fic with human Bill as the Mystery Shack's increasingly casual prisoner: the government comes snooping around the shack again, scaring the crap out of everybody—including Bill, who's too nervous about getting arrested to realize he's being flirted with.

####

Bill woke late in the morning to the smell of dead fish and a subtle but insistent full-body itch. It was one of the most pleasant mornings he'd had since he died.

Sunburn, he thought. No surprise there. He dragged the false nails that had survived since the girls' sleepover across his shoulder and reveled in the way the pain was momentarily relieved and then flared back up twice as strong as before. Sunburns had always been one of his favorite human sensations, that constant pleasant background burn prickling across his skin and blazing higher any time he was touched; he hadn't realized just how much he'd been missing them while he was locked inside. He wasn't built to be out of the sunlight.

While most of him just vaguely itched, the bands of skin around his waist and upper thighs where he'd applied the anti-sunscreen were on fire. When he tossed aside his bedsheet to inspect, he was satisfied to see the difference the anti-sunscreen had made—the skin was only slightly darker and ruddier, but it was visibly leathery with tiny bumps. It was a good start. Still—they might have been more visible if the rest of him were less sunburned.

He pushed that thought from his mind. He'd sooner die again than admit that sunscreen might have been a good idea for any reason. If the lines weren't visible enough after the sunburn healed, next time he could strengthen the anti-sunscreen recipe and shoot for blisters, that might leave scars.

He dug his nails into one of the more deeply burned lines and was hit with a dizzying rush of euphoria as the burned skin screamed in pain. Oh, he could happily do that all morning. But first maybe he should get some breakfast.

He rolled off the sofa, landed on all fours on the floor, and grabbed Journal 4 from under the sofa—he'd left it there with the pages spread out so the watery fish brains he'd finger painted on each page didn't glue the book shut. He documented last night's "dream"—he'd haunted the halls like a ghost, collecting what tools he could access to start repairing the portal—then hid the journal behind the sofa in the window seat's cushion where it belonged. He still needed to find a better hiding place for it. Maybe after breakfast. 

There hadn't been a grocery run since he'd acquired his new fridge, so all he had upstairs were half a dozen condiments, a bag of tortilla chips, and enough cider to kill a horse. If he could get somebody to open the kitchen fridge, maybe he could steal the eggs, that was probably the single most nutrient-dense ingredient currently in the house; that'd keep him going between meals until grocery day...

Where were his clothes.

The t-shirt and bikini he'd worn to the beach yesterday were still flung across the sofa; but the box he'd stuffed all his other clothing in had vanished. He stared at the shelf it was supposed to be on. His hoodie. Who'd stolen his skin?

He scowled.

He folded his Pony Heist bedsheet lengthwise, folded it around his waist and rolled it down like a sarong, pulled on the t-shirt and his eyepatch, and stalked from his room.

The kids' bedroom door had been left open. No sign of Bill's clothes in there, but he found an important clue: Dipper's ever-present mountain of dirty clothing was gone. Laundry day. Soos must have mistaken Bill's box of perfectly clean clothes for dirty laundry and stolen the whole thing. Great.

While he was momentarily unsupervised in the kids' room, he flipped through Dipper's journal, annotated some of the recent pages with helpful info and added an embarrassing anecdote about Ford's research years (all in code, of course), and stole Mabel's glass pyramid and a pair of pink sunglasses that were shaped like the words "RAD DUDE" from her bedside table. He stashed the pyramid in his room on the window seat.

And then he headed downstairs, trying to mentally calculate the most impactful way to whine about his clothes having been stolen in order to make Soos feel as guilty as possible without making himself look pathetic.

"Hey Bill!" Mabel called from the living room. She held up a couple of headbands; she'd wrapped two pipe cleaners around each that stuck up like antennae. Foam stars were glued to the ends of one headband's pipe cleaners and pompom bees to the other. "I'm making deely boppers! Do you want one?"

"More than anything!" Bill claimed the one with bees and shoved it down over his tangled hair. Mabel was in here doing crafts, Dipper was watching crappy local TV—Bill couldn't get into the gift shop with them in here as witnesses. "Hey, here's something crazy: did you kids ever notice the stairs to the attic have 32 steps going up and 28 steps going down?"

Mabel and Dipper looked at each other; and then ran for the stairs. "No way!" "How's that possible?"

That would keep them occupied for a few minutes. Bill backed through the gift shop door.

Wendy looked up from her phone. "What up, dude."

"Hey, cool girl!" He spun around on his heel and trotted over to lean against her counter. "If anyone asks, you let me into the shop."

"Got it." She glanced at Bill's sarong. "Is this the return of Toga Guy?"

"Nope; laundry day."

"Oh, yeah. Washing machine's been going all morning," Wendy said. "Soos says Ford's been running around in a coat that smells like nasty lake water, so he stole it."

"And stole my box of perfectly clean clothes." Bill refused to entertain the possibility that this might be partially his own fault for making his room smell like dead fish. The smell would air out! "So I'm gonna humiliate him for it in front of his tour group."

Wendy laughed. "Don't do that, man. You know what he's like, sometimes he makes goofy mistakes." She gave him a quizzical look. "You keep your clothes in a box?"

Right, he'd been keeping Wendy teetering on the edge of thinking Bill was in an unsafe situation here. Was there any benefit to her knowing how inhumane his living conditions were? Not at the moment, when things were finally improving. "Shack's run out of guest rooms and I didn't need new clothes in the mindscape! We just shoved my clothes in a crate until we can get a spare dresser or something." Topic change! "Hey—I saw your brother beating up a fish at the lake yesterday."

"Oh yeah, you mean dinner? Marcus was so proud of his catch. He did the worst job deboning it, though. I almost got a surprise lip piercing." Wendy stuck out her tongue. "What about you guys? Soos says you fought Bigfoot or something?"

"They did. Ask the Stans for the details; while they were catching fish, I was catching rays," Bill said. "And I think I was more successful than them."

"Suntanning?" Wendy took in his blatantly sunburned appearance.

"Unless you're about to say 'oh wow, you look great!' say something different," Bill said. "Anyway, I'm a wilting houseplant! I have a sunlight deficit I'm trying to catch up on." He glanced wistfully toward the window in the door and the bright beautiful day outside. "If I didn't have to ask someone to let me in and out, I'd be out there right now."

He'd been angling for Wendy to graciously offer to help escort him outside. Instead, she said, "Oh, dude, we leave the door unlatched during the day. You can just walk through it backwards like you do from the living room."

"Wait—really?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

He gave her a skeptical look; but when he glanced through the door's window, he could see himself standing out on the porch just a few seconds in the future. All right, he wasn't complaining. "Then I'll see you later." He sauntered over and backed through the doorway.

It worked. He was outside. He stepped off the porch and spread his arms, soaking in the sunlight. Look at that—escape was really that easy the whole time. He could have just backed through a couple of doorways. A little frustrating that he was learning this after he'd found a complicated workaround that required climbing on the roof, but this would make his life easier in the future. He walked back into the doorway again.

It didn't budge. He kept trying to walk for a couple of seconds before his brain forced him to accept that there was, in fact, a door there, and it wasn't getting out of his way. Did the doorway trick only work in one direction?! How did that make sense! The doorway to the living room handled two-way traffic just fine!

"Hey!" He spun around and gave Wendy a death glare. She laughed silently. He knocked furiously. "Hey, I'll get you for this, see if I don't!" When Bill had his power back, maybe he'd make her into a gargoyle on the outside of the Fearamid while the rest of the town was nice and cozy in his throne. See how she liked being locked outside. Pyramids didn't even need gargoyles.

She just waved at him, oblivious to the danger she was courting.

He muttered, "Oh, Icy, if you weren't Raina's kid..." She was Raina's kid, though.

All right, fine, no big deal. He wasn't letting anyone think this bothered him. Eventually a tourist would come along and let him in. If the Pines caught him and got mad, he could tell them that Wendy had tricked him into getting stuck outside, and it wouldn't even be a lie. (Would they believe him, though? Mabel would. Ford definitely wouldn't. Bill thought he at least ought to earn points for nicely sitting on the porch like the obedient dog they wished he was...)

A dented beige car rolled into the parking lot; Bill perked up as three out-of-place-looking men in black suits stepped out. Well, look who was back. "Hey, nice car! Much subtler than the fedmobile you were driving yesterday."

Agent Powers almost stumbled mid-step when he noticed Bill. "Er—yes. I appreciate the recommendation."

Bill got to his feet and leaned with one hand on a post. "I see you at the beach, I see you at this tourist trap... I'm starting to think you're on vacation, agents!"

Solemnly, Powers said, "I can assure you we're not."

"Definitely not," Agent Trigger agreed.

Bill glanced past them. Agent Dale was grinning broadly and snapping photos of the Mystery Shack with a camera hanging around his neck. "Wow, this place is so much fun." He tilted his head back to get a picture of the totem pole.

Bill raised his brows.

Trigger said, "Those are investigation photos."

"Sure," Bill said.

"We're looking for the owner of the Mystery Shack," Powers said. "I don't suppose you've seen him, ma'am?"

"Not yet. I think 'Mr. Mystery' is giving a tour right now."

"I see. Thank you for your help, ma'am." He almost moved to head inside, then hesitated.

He'd been doing that a lot around Bill the last couple of days. "Something else I can help you with, agent?"

"Uh—" Powers cleared his throat and flushed faintly red high on his cheeks. "I—feel that I ought to inform you that you're... looking even more exquisite today." Trigger stared at Powers.

Bill—slouched; sunburned; barefoot; fingernails and toenails painted in four different sloppy styles; and wearing a child's bedsheet with cartoon ponies on it, a purple puma t-shirt so large the neck hole slipped down his shoulder, an eyepatch with hot pink "RAD DUDE" sunglasses on top (and faint tan lines showing where he'd been wearing his eyepatch on the other side yesterday), and bumblebee deely boppers—said, "Tell me something I don't already know!" He laughed. "Kidding—that's impossible."

Powers nodded sharply and turned away, wearing an odd look somewhere between disappointed and relieved. "Dale, you stay out here and take some readings."

Dale flashed Powers a thumbs-up and pulled out a tablet.

Powers opened the door; Bill quickly pushed off the post. "Hey! Aren't you gonna hold the door for me?" He had something that looked like a skirt on, he could exploit that social norm today.

"Er—" Powers stopped in his tracks. "Yes, of course, ma'am."

"Aren't you a gentleman!" Bill swept back inside.

Wendy laughed at his grand reentrance—but petered out as she noticed the overdressed new visitors. Bill split off from the agents to circle the shop and try to look like a normal tourist, but he mouthed toward Wendy, "Feds." Her eyes widened.

"Excuse me, miss," Powers said to Wendy. "We're looking for the proprietor. Do you know when he'll be available?"

"Uhh..." All knowledge she previously had of the shack's tour schedule fled her mind in the face of a legit government agent. She circled around the counter. "I'll... tell Soos you're here."

Powers frowned. "'Soos'?"

"Yeah, um—Jesús Ramirez? The owner?"

Trigger muttered to Powers, "I think that's the handyman."

Wendy said, "He took over the business last year."

"Apparently our intel is out of date," Powers said. "Very well. We'll wait here."

Wendy veered toward Bill on her way to the museum and hissed, "Take the register—"

"Hell no," Bill hissed back. He wasn't letting the government know he worked here if the shack was under investigation. "Where's Melody?"

"Out. She slept bad."

Hmm. Strange. "I'll distract the suits." He wanted to snoop, anyway. "Go."

Wendy gave him an exasperated look, but ducked into the museum.

Bill sidled up to the agents, who were inspecting the display of alien-in-a-tube keychains. Trigger picked one up and murmured, "Are they suspended in jello?"

"That has to be a health hazard."

"Good likeness of the real thing, though."

Bill stopped in his tracks. There weren't a lot of places in the US where a government agent could have a personal meet-and-greet with an alien corpse in a glass tank. They must have been assigned to one or two investigations in Hangar 618. Strange; he would have thought there was more than enough going on in Gravity Falls to keep their schedules filled.

He shook off his misgivings, leaned on a display cabinet near the agents, and said loudly, "So!" He tried not to grin too widely when both agents jumped. "Looks like it's just us until the next tour."

Powers' cheeks turned pink again. "It looks like it." He cleared his throat and tried to surreptitiously adjust his tie. "I... suppose I'm overdue to ask you your name?"

"Call me Goldie!" Before Powers had an opportunity to dig deeper into Bill's identity, he asked, "So what brings you by the shack, agents? I don't think you ever explained what you're investigating!"

"Yes, that would be because it's classified. That information is shared strictly on a need-to-know basis," Powers said. "But we're here to check on last week's gravitational anomalies and an odd power surge that was witnessed over the weekend." (Bill loved this chatterbox, funniest secret agent ever.)

"Oh wow. Sounds exciting," Bill said, voice just a little too flat to sound convincing but a little too forceful to sound like he didn't mean it. (Always keep 'em guessing.) "Any leads?" He doubted it.

"Not yet," Powers admitted. "We've tracked similar power surges in Gravity Falls for decades, and last year several occurred concurrently with other gravitational anomalies; but our investigation last year..." Powers exchanged a glance with Trigger. Trigger just grimaced in irritation. Powers finished, "didn't find anything conclusive. So." His voice took on an edge of frustration. "Here we are. Looking around town."

"Again," Trigger grumbled.

Bill was surprised they could even remember last summer's gravitational anomalies. He'd expected Ford had completely erased their memories of the case; but he hadn't seen exactly what term Ford had plugged into the memory gun. "D'ya expect to find anything conclusive this time? Or is this just a routine follow-up on an old case."

"More of a routine follow-up," Powers said.

"Standard procedure," Trigger added.

"Except," Powers said, "that two days ago, we also received an anonymous tip that a dangerous individual may be hiding in this very building—and that they pose an immense risk to national security."

Trigger said, "Possibly global security."

Bill learned what it felt like for a human's blood to run cold. "Huh," he said. "Interesting."

"Witnesses claim the power surge appeared to originate in this part of the woods. We think this individual might have been involved," Powers said. "But it's probably nothing you need to worry about, ma'am." (Bill must have looked more alarmed than he'd meant to.) "We receive tips like this all the time. I doubt we'll find anything interesting here. All the same—"

The gift shop door popped open and Agent Dale poked his head in. "Sirs!" He held up a beeping tablet. "I'm picking up a signal from one of our flash drives."

Powers and Trigger turned their full attention to Dale. "Which one?" Trigger asked.

"The one we lost last summer."

The agents exchanged a look.

Soos hurried through the curtain to the museum, Wendy following close behind. "Hey, dudes! Welcome to the Mystery Shack! What can I get for you, a tour? Souvenirs? Um, bribes...?"

Bill grimaced. As Wendy passed, he muttered to her, "He does not have the grace at this Stanley does."

Powers's eyes darted between Dale and Soos; and then settled on Soos. "Mr. Ramirez. I'd like to have a word with you about your business. Privately."

"O-of course! I hope you don't think we're up to anything or anything." Soos pulled aside the museum's curtain. "Just step this way. Through my magic portal to a world of wonder and whimsy!"

"If I have to," Powers said tiredly. "Trigger, Dale—you two follow that signal. I want that flash drive back."

"Yessir." They hurried out of the gift shop.

Before Powers followed Soos into the museum, he turned to Bill. "My apologies for disrupting your trip, ma'am, but I'm afraid the next tour may be... delayed." A look of panic flashed across Soos's face.

"I can come back tomorrow!" Bill waved off the apology. "Watching a small-town business owner get investigated by the feds is way more exciting! You oughta check his financial records, I bet there's all kinds of tax evasion going on here!" Soos's panic escalated to sheer terror.

To Bill's surprise, something akin to fear flashed across Powers's face as well. "You think we're—? That is—we're not that sort of federal..." He cleared his throat loudly, mumbled, "Very kind of you," and hastily retreated after Soos, cheeks red.

What the hell was that? Powers had been paying way too much attention to Bill the last couple of days. Was it possible he was playing dumb? Did he already know that Bill was the "dangerous individual" in the Mystery Shack? Was he just trying to figure out the best way to bring Bill down and drag him in—

"Man." Wendy laughed, keeping her voice low. "You really distracted him. What'd you do to the poor guy?"

Bill leaned on the counter by the cash register. "What?"

"He's head over heels for you." At Bill's blank look, Wendy said, "Wait, did you not notice?"

Bill opened his mouth. Nothing came out while he tried to reconcile Wendy's claim with the idea of his body ending up suspended in a glass tube in a secret military base. "What?"

"Did you see him?" Wendy asked. "He can't stop staring at you, every time you glance at him he gets redder, you said one nice thing to him and he completely fell apart..."

Bill mentally ran through the last two days. Ohhh. In retrospect, that did explain why Powers had offered to rub sunscreen on him. "I barely even noticed! I'm used to everyone treating me like that! At least four people fall in love with me daily," Bill said. "I turn heads and drop jaws everywhere I go. I've got a whole collection of lower jaws preserved in formaldehyde." Admittedly, not all of them had dropped naturally. A few had been coaxed.

"Most people just steal their partners' shirts, but alright. I can respect a good murder trophy collection."

"There's a fine line between a lady-killer and a serial killer," Bill said cheerfully, "and I'd know! But enough about my love life!" As much of a relief as it was to realize Powers wasn't plotting Bill's arrest, that didn't mean it couldn't change. "What did you guys do with the flash drive with the agents' secret mission?"

Wendy shrugged. "Dunno, I wasn't here."

And Bill hadn't been either. While the Stan twins had been recounting their tragic life history, Bill had been fully occupied at the Quadrangle of Qonfusion, repairing the damage Ford had done before the portal opened and trying to get his Henchmaniacs to chill out about those guys who'd died. (Seriously, none of the dead guys had even been among the Henchmaniacs' A-listers, who cared?) By the time he'd realized something interesting was happening, the agents' memories were already erased and they were heading out of town.

"Okay. Great." He backed into the living room. "If you see 'em again, slow them down."

####

Bill pounded on the guest room door and waited.

"Just a second!" Ford answered the door, his freshly laundered coat in one hand and a Bigfoot fur-covered lint roller in the other. "What is—? Bill." His expression immediately closed off. His gaze flicked up to Bill's bumblebee deely-boppers. "What are you wearing."

"High fashion, not important. What did you humans do with the flash drive you got from the eagles?"

"The what from the what?"

"Last year. Right after you got home. Government agents. Little black plastic stick full of knowledge."

"Oh, that. Fed it to the goat," Ford said. "Why."

"Because the agents put a tracking device in it, and they're tracking it right now."

Ford's brows shot up. He hurried to the guest room window; Bill peeked around him.

Agent Trigger and Agent Dale were wandering around outside, Trigger in the lead while Dale trailed behind him looking at a tablet screen and saying, "Warmer... warmer... colder... okay, now warmer again..."

"Damn." Ford rushed to the back door.

Bill grabbed him by the sweater before he could get outside. "Whoa there, cowboy. If they see you, do you have a story prepared for why the 'superior officer' who sent them packing last year is still here?"

Ford raised a finger. "I... do not." He rushed to the stairs. "Kids!"

"Grunkle Ford!" Dipper stumbled to the bottom of the stairs, sweating and breathing heavily. "Hey—" Mabel ran into him from behind, nearly knocking them both down. They grabbed the banister for support as they panted. Dipper tried again, "Hey... did you know... the number of steps on the stairs..."

"Yes yes, the half of the staircase hidden by the turn in the landing changes when you can't see it," Ford said. "Dipper, Mabel, we have an emergency. I need you to catch the goat! Now!"

####

Gompers gnawed placidly on a paper towel hanging out of the trash can. He detected the subtle bouquet of rotting bell peppers. And was that spilled orange juice? Truly delectable. He took another bite.

The back door burst open. Gompers turned to stare as Dipper and Mabel charged outside.

He bleated indignantly as they scooped him up between them. Dipper hissed, "Go, go, go!"

They hauled him inside and slammed the door.

Trigger and Dale circled around the corner of the shack. Dale said, "It should be right... huh. That's weird."

"What is it?"

"The signal from the flash drive just moved."

"Moved? Where?"

Dale walked in a small circle, trying to get the tablet to re-triangulate the flash drive's location. "Inside the shack."

Trigger frowned at the door.

####

"C'mon, Gompers," Mabel hissed, trying to drag him down the hallway with Dipper. "We've gotta get you somewhere the government guys can't see you through the window!"

Gompers bleated again. Dipper smacked a hand over his mouth.

All three froze as someone knocked on the door. Voice low, Dipper said, "We're not home. Nobody's home right now." Mabel nodded.

####

Bill lurked next to the living room door, listening to the conversation in the gift shop as Powers said, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Ramirez. Oh, and by the way—you wouldn't happen to have seen any top secret government flash drives around the place, would you?"

There was a long pause. "Why, no," Soos said carefully. "I have not."

"Then do you have an explanation for why my agents detected one in this vicinity... and it's moving?"

There was an even longer pause. "Perhaps it was... eaten. Without our knowledge," Soos said. "Mayhaps by some variety of creature."

"Hmm," Powers said. "Perhaps. Would you mind if we look around for it."

"Uhh... yes. I would mind," Soos said. "Please don't."

Powers sighed deeply. "Fine. We'll be back." The floorboards creaked as he walked toward the exit. "Trigger, Dale—let's move out."

The household didn't heave a collective sigh of relief until the gift shop door had shut.

####

(A lot of y'all have been waiting for the Bill Seduce A Government Agent plot for like a year and a half. We're finally here! Yay!

Back in April when I was starting to write this plot in earnest, I was trying to figure out a reason why the agents would turn their attention on the shack (and the Pines family) again that was more threatening than just "yeah there are more gravity anomalies, again. whatever." And @quartz-the-moth-cat solved it with one word: "Gompers." Genuinely that one suggestion pulled the whole plot together. So thank you again for that.

In the months since TBOB came out, a lotta folks have incorrectly assumed I've made changes to my plot due to TBOB or that eerily TBOB-compliant things I wrote before the book were actually written after. So I think I'm gonna start documenting what I'd already planned/written, because I'm petty and I don't want TBOB to get credit for my own ideas:

The entire Agent Powers plot arc was written before TBOB came out. Adding fish brains to J4 was a post-TBOB addition (since we now know that's how he controls books), as was the bit with the agents discussing aliens and the aside about Hanger 618. And the chatter about stealing people's lower jaws, because in the wake of TBOB I think I need Bill to crack more jokes about gore & body horror. Nothing else in this chapter was changed due to TBOB.

I'm looking forward to hearing y'all's comments!!)

[yamicsofttechnology]

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