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coriihanniee · 11 days ago

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WE'RE GONNA BE TIMELESS — ⋆˚𝜗𝜚

𓂃۶ৎ ALTERNATIVE : boynextdoor reincarnated in present time, their connection remains unbroken

𓂃۶ৎ PAIRING : boynextdoor x f!reader

𓂃۶ৎ GENRE(S) : historical romance, reincarnation, contemporary romance, angst to comfort, fluff, slow burn, soulmates, second chance romance

𓂃۶ৎ WARNING(S) : mentions of war, violence and death, emotional distress, subtle themes of grief, trauma and healing

𓂃۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 1.7k - 2.5k words / member

𓂃۶ৎ A/N : several of you wanted a continuation to my we would've been timeless fic so here it is! this is a birthday special post since today is my birthday~ as a present and to express my gratitude, I decided to give all members the happy ending they deserve!

strongly recommended to read first :

WE WOULD'VE BEEN TIMELESS (part 1)

SUNGHO 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : world war II (1939 - 1945)

˖➴ PAIRING : nursing major!sungho x uni student!reader

The university café thrummed with its usual Monday mayhem—orders barked over the grind of beans, chairs dragged impatiently across tile, the sharp tang of espresso clinging to the air like a second skin. You moved through it with quiet focus, a delicate balancing act of textbooks, a slipping laptop bag, and a paper cup filled too close to the brim with hot americano.

You were nearly at the lone empty table when the impact came—sudden and clumsy, a shoulder brushing yours hard enough to tip your center. Coffee sloshed over the edge, searing against your wrist and bleeding into the fabric of your sleeve. You sucked in a breath, startled.

“Oh my god—I’m so sorry,” a voice stammered, low and laden with genuine remorse.

You turned.

A boy stood before you—tall, slightly out of breath, brow creased in concern. He blinked as though stunned by the collision, or perhaps by something more. Before you could speak, he reached instinctively for a stack of napkins, moving with quiet urgency as he began blotting the spill with a care that bordered on reverent.

“I didn’t see you,” he murmured, almost to himself. “God, I wasn’t watching—”

His touch, though brief, was light. Thoughtful. Not the careless fumbling of someone desperate to fix a mistake, but something gentler, more deliberate.

You opened your mouth to assure him it was fine, that no harm was done—but the apology caught in your throat when your eyes met his.

Something shifted.

The room did not fall silent, yet the clamour faded into distance. He stared at you with a peculiar stillness, his expression caught between apology and awe. There was a flicker of something behind his gaze—something quiet and ancient. Not recognition, not quite. But familiarity. The kind that runs deeper than memory.

As though, in that brief moment, he’d stumbled into something forgotten. As though he had known you once—not here, not like this—but across time.

And in the space of that glance, you felt it too.

Something in you stilled.

“Do I… know you?” he asked, the words tentative, like they surprised even him.

You shook your head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

But the moment lingered. Like two ghosts brushing shoulders in a life they no longer remembered.

He introduced himself—Sungho, a final-year nursing student. His voice was steady but warm, with a trace of shyness that made you feel oddly at ease. When he offered to buy you a new coffee, you hesitated, not because you needed one, but because there was something in his gaze—something quiet and steady—that made it hard to say no.

As the two of you stood waiting for your drinks, the conversation unfurled easily—too easily, like you were remembering rather than meeting. He asked your name, made you laugh with a joke about caffeine being the only thing holding students together. And even when silence fell between you, it didn’t feel awkward. Just… natural.

Comfortable, in a way that didn’t make sense.

After that day, you started noticing him everywhere.

At first, you thought it was coincidence—catching a glimpse of him by the reference shelves in the library, his nose buried in a tattered anatomy textbook. Then again in a lecture hall, sitting alone in the back row, headphones in, eyes scanning the screen with quiet focus. Another time, waiting under the same bus stop you used every Thursday night, hands in his pockets, staring out at the rain like he was remembering something just out of reach.

Each encounter felt like stumbling into a conversation you’d never quite started—but somehow already knew how to finish.

One evening, as rain tapped against the windows of the quiet study hall, Sungho glanced up from his notebook. His voice broke the hush, low and almost hesitant. “I had the strangest dream last night. I was a soldier. And there was this nurse—she kept me alive. She had your eyes.”

You froze, pen pausing mid-word.

Something in the way he said it—soft, like he didn’t quite understand it himself—sent a shiver down your spine.

Because just hours earlier, you’d woken in a cold sweat, heart racing. A dream still clinging to your skin like the scent of smoke. You’d been in a field hospital, walls groaning as explosions rang out nearby. Dust rained from the ceiling, cracks splitting through concrete like veins. And in that dream, there’d been a soldier—his uniform torn, eyes wild with fear—as he pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it hurt. As if the building was collapsing and you were the only thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

And those arms… were his.

You couldn't manage to say anything at first.

But then, during a casual conversation, he reached for your drink and his sleeve pulled back. A scar, jagged and pale, marred the inside of his forearm.

Without thinking, your fingers reached for it.

“Shrapnel,” you murmured. “I mean—how did you get it?”

Sungho blinked. “Bike accident. When I was twelve. But…” He looked down at your hand. “When you touched it—it didn’t feel like the first time.”

His brows furrowed as though trying to summon something long buried. “It was like… muscle memory. Like my skin knew your touch before my mind could catch up.” He shook his head softly, almost in disbelief. “I haven’t thought about that scar in years, but when your fingers grazed it, something just… shifted.”

The air between you changed. Not dramatic, not loud. Just quieter. Denser. Like a page had turned in a book you hadn’t realized you were reading.

You didn’t know what to say, only that you felt it too—something ancient and echoing, stirring beneath your skin.

Days passed. Neither of you brought it up again, but it lingered, unspoken and undeniable. Something had cracked open between you.

A week later, he sent a text.

> Found an antique shop. I don’t know why, but I feel like I need to go. > Will you come with me?

The shop was dim, musty, and hidden in a forgotten corner of the city. Dust clung to the air like a memory, and the shelves sagged beneath the weight of relics long abandoned. Time seemed slower here, suspended in the quiet hush of things left behind.

Sungho drifted through the aisles as if pulled by an invisible thread, until he stopped at a glass display filled with war memorabilia. His gaze fixed on a rusted pocket watch. Slowly, his hand rose toward it, fingers trembling.

“This watch,” he whispered. “I’ve seen it before. I don’t know how—but I have.”

From behind the counter, the shopkeeper—an older man with tired eyes and a voice softened by years—watched you both. “That came from a field hospital in Gangwon,” he said. “There's something else from that collection. Wait here.”

He disappeared into a back room and returned with a weathered envelope. Inside, wrapped in tissue like something sacred, was a photograph.

A field hospital. A line of nurses and injured soldiers.

And at the center—him.

Sungho, or someone who wore his face, one arm in a sling. And beside him, a nurse. Her hand rested protectively on his shoulder, her eyes hauntingly familiar.

Yours.

You couldn’t breathe.

Sungho turned the photo over. Written in faded ink:

"Nurse L/N and Pvt. Park. Found in rubble after bombing. 1944.”

The shopkeeper’s voice softened. “Witnesses said they never ran. When the building collapsed, they were still holding each other.”

Sungho’s hands trembled as he cradled the photograph, his gaze anchored to the faces frozen in sepia. There was a flicker in his eyes—something ancient, aching, as though a door had cracked open inside him, letting in a memory too heavy to bear.

“They found this watch in his hand,” the shopkeeper said softly, nodding toward the tarnished timepiece in the glass case. “It stopped the moment the bomb struck. In his pocket, they found a letter—unfinished. He wrote that amidst all the ruin, she was the only peace he had ever known.”

Silence gathered around you, thick and fragile. It clung to your skin, to the photograph, to the aching quiet between heartbeats. You felt it in your bones—that this wasn’t grief for strangers, but something buried deep within you, long-lost and long-mourned.

The shopkeeper’s gaze lingered. “You two… you resemble them quite closely. It’s uncanny. Almost as if…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

Sungho didn’t hesitate when he bought the watch. No one spoke of how his hands shook as he handed over the bills, or how your eyes refused to leave the image of the nurse and the wounded soldier, their silhouettes etched with unspeakable tenderness. There were no questions, only the unspoken understanding that whatever this was, it mattered.

Outside, under the awning as rain whispered against the pavement, Sungho finally broke the silence. His voice was low, raw. “I keep thinking about them. About the moment they must’ve realized there was no way out.”

You swallowed around the tightness in your throat. “But they weren’t alone,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “They had each other. Even at the end.”

Sungho looked at you then, his eyes shining with something too vast for words. “Some things,” he said, “are more important than survival.” His breath caught. “If it were me… if it were us…”

He trailed off, but the rest hung between you like a vow neither of you had to speak.

The watch, now warm in your clasped hands, pulsed faintly between you, as though echoing with a heartbeat once lost to war. And in that moment, there was no past, no present—only the weight of what had always been. A tether, invisible and unbreakable.

“I don’t remember them,” Sungho whispered, rain clinging to his lashes. “But I miss them. I mourn them like I knew them. Like I loved her.”

Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden. There was nothing romantic in the way he said it. No grand declaration. Just a quiet truth lodged deep in his chest.

And somehow, you knew he already had. In another life, in another war, he had stayed.

You reached for him. Fingers tangled with his, grounding you both in a present that felt like a continuation of something unfinished.

You didn’t notice the watch had begun ticking again—its heartbeat restored after decades of silence.

Some bonds are stitched too deeply into the soul to be unsewn. Some loves remember even when the mind forgets.

In this life, there were no bombs. No letters left unsent. Just two strangers finding each other in the middle of ordinary chaos, tethered by a history that refused to die.

And in this life, they’d have time.

RIWOO 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : victorian era (1837 - 1901)

˖➴ PAIRING : literary preservationist!riwoo × antique bookstore owner!reader

The bookstore was your sanctuary. Nestled between a cozy café and a vintage clothing shop, Bound by Time specialized in rare and antique books. As the new proprietor—having inherited it only months ago from your late grandmother—you found solace among the shelves of timeworn spines and the scent of aging paper, as if the past itself had taken refuge there.

The bell above the door chimed, its sound delicate and familiar. You glanced up from cataloging a recent acquisition of first editions. A man stood just inside the doorway, dark hair dampened slightly from the mist outside, his gaze wandering the room with the quiet reverence of someone who believed in the sacredness of forgotten stories.

"Can I help you find something?" you asked, setting your pen aside, your voice gentler than usual. Something about his presence asked for softness.

He turned toward you, and in the silence that passed, his eyes held something that startled you—recognition, confusion, then a wistful smile. "I'm looking for..." He hesitated. "I'm not sure. Something called to me from your window display."

"That's my grandmother's doing," you replied, standing slowly. "She curated the Victorian literature showcase before she passed. I haven't had the heart to change it."

He stepped further in, rainwater softly pooling beneath his shoes. "Lee Riwoo," he said, offering his hand.

As your fingers touched, a strange sensation swept over you—a flicker, like recalling a dream you had long ago and weren't sure was ever real. You pulled your hand back a breath too quickly.

"Do you collect antique books?"

"I'm a literary preservationist," he said. "I restore rare manuscripts. This is my first time here. I travel often for my work, but... this place felt familiar."

Over the next hour, Riwoo wandered your shelves with a kind of hushed wonder, his fingertips tracing the spines as though memorizing their histories. His gaze lingered longest on the Victorian section, and you watched from behind the counter, your chest aching with a curiosity you couldn't explain.

Finally, he approached with a weathered diary in hand. "I was commissioned to restore this," he said. "It's from the mid-1800s. Several pages are damaged. I was hoping you might have paper from the same era—your grandmother's collection, perhaps?"

The diary, bound in cracked leather, trembled faintly in your hands as you opened it. The ink had faded and bled from years of water damage. But the handwriting within—looped and elegant—struck you with something more than familiarity. It struck you with grief.

"This handwriting..." you murmured.

"I know," Riwoo nodded. "It feels strangely familiar, doesn't it? I've been having trouble sleeping since I received it. Dreams of places I've never been, people I've never met."

You examined the diary more closely. It belonged to a nobleman who wrote of his younger brother's scandalous love for a servant girl—a love that ultimately ended in heartbreak when he was forced to marry within his class. Many entries were water-damaged, the ink blurred beyond recognition.

"I might have some matching paper in the back room," you offered. "My grandmother collected restoration materials."

The storage room was narrow, cramped with drawers and trunks of brittle documents and parchment. As you sifted through them, Riwoo stood behind you, and the air thickened with an unspoken tension. Not the kind born of discomfort, but the kind that lives in the breath before a memory returns.

"Have we met before?" he asked, voice low. "I can't explain it, but... you feel like someone I've waited a long time to find."

You smiled without turning around. "I'd remember meeting someone who restores books like a ritual."

Over the next weeks, Riwoo returned with the diary in tow, setting up at the corner table beneath the stained glass window. Sometimes he would read aloud, his voice reverent, coaxing lost stories back to life.

The first dream came like a whisper—fragments at first, then vivid scenes that left you waking with tears on your pillow.

In them, you were someone else yet entirely yourself. A servant in a grand estate, moving through shadows, your heart aching for someone you couldn't have. And there was Riwoo—not quite him, but unmistakably him—dressed in nobleman's finery, his eyes following you with longing across crowded rooms.

"You can't have what you want, Riwoo. It's not possible."

Your dream-self's words echoed in your mind long after you woke.

You said nothing about these dreams, convinced they were simply your imagination running wild from the diary's stories. But Riwoo grew more agitated with each passing day, his focus on the diary becoming almost obsessive.

"The pages near the end," he said one evening, voice strained. "They're different—like someone else took over the writing. More desperate. More raw."

You peered over his shoulder at the damaged pages he was carefully treating. "Can you make out what it says?"

"Fragments. The nobleman's brother—he was in love with a servant girl. His family forced him to marry someone of his station, but..." Riwoo's finger traced a line of faded text. "He never stopped loving her."

That night, your dreams shifted. You saw Riwoo standing at an altar, his face a mask of composure while his eyes screamed silent apologies. You watched from behind a pillar, your heart shattering as he pledged himself to another. Before the ceremony ended, you slipped away, unable to bear witnessing more.

You woke gasping, a physical ache in your chest. When you arrived at the bookstore, Riwoo was already waiting outside, his face pale, dark circles beneath his eyes.

"I can't sleep," he said simply. "I keep dreaming about them—the nobleman's brother and the servant girl. It feels like I'm remembering, not dreaming."

Something in his voice made you shiver. "What happens in your dreams?"

His eyes met yours, filled with a grief that seemed centuries old. "I lose her. Over and over, I lose her."

The air between you crackled with unspoken recognition.

Days later, Riwoo called you after midnight, his voice urgent through the phone. "I found something. Come to the store. Please."

You found him surrounded by pages on the floor, his hands trembling as he held a partially restored section of the diary.

"Look at this," he whispered.

The entry described the day after the wedding—how the servant girl had disappeared from the estate without a trace. The nobleman wrote of his brother's descent into despair, his frantic searching, his slow surrender to hopelessness.

The final pages became increasingly difficult to read—not just from water damage, but because the handwriting deteriorated, as if the writer could barely hold a pen.

"There's a change here," Riwoo said, pointing to a particular passage. "The nobleman stopped writing. These last entries are from his brother."

With painstaking care, he had revealed the final legible words:

The laudanum offers temporary peace, but I find myself increasing the dose each night. My wife suspects nothing; she has long since accepted that our marriage exists only in name. I dream of my love each night—standing in the garden where we last spoke, promising to wait for me. I have searched for five years with no trace of her. Tomorrow, I shall join her in the only way left to me. Perhaps in another life, we will find each other again, and I will be braver than I was in this one.

Your hand flew to your mouth, a sob catching in your throat. "He took his own life."

Riwoo nodded, his expression haunted. "The nobleman's final entry confirms it. He found his brother's body in the study, an empty bottle beside him, clutching something in his hand."

"What was it?" you whispered.

"That's where the diary ends. Water damage destroyed the rest." Riwoo's voice cracked. "But I found something else."

From between the leather binding and backing, he carefully extracted a small, folded piece of paper that had somehow survived intact. As he unfolded it, his hands shook so badly he nearly dropped it.

It was a letter, the ink faded but still legible. Addressed simply: To her, when fate allows us to meet again.

The first line made your heart stop:

My dearest, followed by your name—your actual name, written in a hand you somehow recognized.

The world tilted beneath you as you took the letter, vision blurring as you read:

By the time you read this, I will have left this world, unable to bear its emptiness without you. Know that I searched for you until my strength failed. My greatest regret is not having the courage to defy convention and claim you as mine when I had the chance.

I make this vow with my final breath: I will find you again. In another time, another place, where the barriers between us no longer exist. Where I can love you as you deserve to be loved—openly, completely, without shame or hesitation.

If your soul recognizes mine as I know it will, please forgive my weakness in this life. In the next, I will be worthy of you.

Eternally yours,

L.R

The letter slipped from your trembling fingers. You raised your eyes to meet Riwoo's, finding them filled with tears and a recognition that transcended understanding.

"It's my handwriting," he whispered, voice breaking. "And your name."

The room spun around you as fragments of memory—not dreams but actual memories—crashed through your consciousness: standing in the shadows of a grand estate, watching him from afar, the brush of his fingers against yours when no one was looking, his whispered promise:

"I love you. And I will find a way to make this work. I'll make it work, I swear."

A promise he couldn't keep then.

"We found each other," you breathed, the realization both beautiful and devastating. "After all this time."

Riwoo reached for your hand, his touch igniting not just the familiar flicker of recognition, but a flood of emotion so powerful it brought you to your knees. He caught you, arms wrapping around you as though he'd been waiting lifetimes to hold you again.

"I don't—I don't remember everything," he said, his voice raw. "Just feelings. Fragments. But I know it's you. I've always known it was you, from the moment I walked into this store."

You buried your face against his shoulder, overwhelmed by grief for what was lost and wonder at what had been found. "You didn't have to wait for another life," you whispered. "I would have run away with you then."

"I know," he murmured against your hair. "That's why I've spent this lifetime looking for you—to make it right."

Outside, rain began to fall, washing the world clean. Inside, surrounded by the fragments of your shared past, you held onto each other as the barriers of time crumbled around you—two souls finally completing a journey that began more than a century ago.

Not every memory would return. Not every wound would heal. But in that moment, as Riwoo's tears mingled with yours, you understood that some connections were never meant to be broken—only temporarily lost, then found again when the time was right.

JAEHYUN 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : 1920s Hollywood

˖➴ PAIRING : actor!jaehyun x script doctor!reader

The moment you met Jaehyun on the set of Bright Silence, something ancient stirred within you. It wasn't déjà vu—it was deeper, like muscle memory embedded in your soul.

You'd been hired as a script doctor for the troubled production, tasked with breathing life into dialogue that felt stilted and forced. The director had called you their "last hope" with the kind of desperation that made your stomach clench. This was your chance to finally make a name for yourself in the industry after years of uncredited rewrites and ghostwriting for more established screenwriters.

The first day on set, you were making notes when he walked past—casual, unhurried. Myung Jaehyun, Korea's most sought-after actor making his Hollywood crossover. His eyes met yours briefly, and something electric passed between you. He faltered mid-step, his expression shifting from polite disinterest to something unreadable. For a moment, neither of you moved, locked in an impromptu staring contest that felt weightier than it should have.

"Have we met before?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of genuine confusion.

"No," you answered automatically, though the word felt like a lie on your tongue. "I don't think so."

He nodded slowly, unconvinced. "I'm Jaehyun."

"I know." You extended your hand. "I'm the new writer."

His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady, and for a bizarre moment, you had the overwhelming urge to never let go. A flash of something—a dimly lit room, his face illuminated by a different kind of light—passed through your mind.

"Strange," he murmured, reluctantly releasing your hand. "I feel like I know you."

That night, you dreamed of golden sunlight and long shadows, of hushed whispers and the mechanical whir of old film cameras. You woke with a start, heart racing, the phantom smell of smoke in your nostrils.

The studio lot where Bright Silence was being filmed had history—one of the original Paramount backlots that had survived decades of Hollywood's evolution. Walking through it sometimes felt like traversing through time itself, modern equipment jarringly out of place against the backdrop of buildings that had witnessed the birth of cinema.

You found yourself drawn to the oldest section, a preserved slice of 1920s Hollywood. During lunch breaks, you'd wander there, notebook in hand, telling yourself you were seeking inspiration. In truth, you were chasing the gossamer threads of dreams that felt increasingly like memories.

One afternoon, you found Jaehyun there, standing in front of Building 8, an old soundstage rarely used now except for period pieces. He was so still he might have been a statue, staring up at the faded lettering with an intensity that made you pause.

"They used to film the silent movies here," he said without turning, somehow knowing it was you. "The ones shot in black and white."

"Yes," you replied, though you hadn't known this for certain. "Before the talkies changed everything."

He turned to you then, his eyes reflecting the same confused recognition you felt. "I keep having these dreams."

Your heart stuttered. "What kind of dreams?"

"Old Hollywood. Black and white film. A script." He hesitated. "And fire. Always fire at the end."

The word sent a shiver down your spine. Since meeting Jaehyun, you'd developed an inexplicable aversion to open flames. Yesterday, when the gaffer lit a cigarette near you, your hands had begun to tremble so violently you'd had to excuse yourself.

"I've been having dreams too," you admitted. "But they don't make sense."

Something shifted in his expression—relief, perhaps, at not being alone in this strange experience. "How about we head out for lunch? We have an hour before they need us back."

At the small restaurant just outside the lot, tucked away from prying eyes and eager paparazzi, you talked. Not about the dreams directly—they felt too intimate, too bizarre to articulate fully—but about everything else. How writing had always been your refuge. How he'd fallen into acting, discovered in a photography shoot when he was nineteen.

"Sometimes when I'm on set," he said, stirring his iced latte absently, "it feels like I've done this before. Not just acting, but..." he searched for the words, "...like I've lived this specific life before."

You understood completely. "Like déjà vu, but prolonged."

"Exactly." He looked at you intently. "Since I met you, it's gotten stronger."

The confession hung between you, neither willing to explore its implications further. Instead, you discussed the script, the changes you were making, how his character needed more depth, more conflict.

"He loves her," Jaehyun said suddenly, referring to his character. "That's his real conflict. He loves her but doesn't know how to tell her before it's too late."

You blinked. That wasn't in the script—not yet, anyway. But he was right; it was exactly what was missing.

"How did you know that's where I was taking the story?"

He didn't answer immediately, his gaze drifting out the window to the studio lot in the distance. "I just felt it. Like I've played this role before."

That night, you pulled out an old box from your closet—university projects and early attempts at screenplays. Something had been nagging at you since your conversation with Jaehyun. A half-remembered project, something about Hollywood's golden age.

Near the bottom of the box, you found it: a screenplay titled Burning Bright. Your final project for your screenwriting course. You didn't remember much about writing it—just that your professor had called it "surprisingly authentic" for a period piece and that you'd received an A.

With trembling fingers, you flipped through the pages. It was a love story set in 1920s Hollywood—a screenwriter and an actor falling in love during the production of a film. Your eyes widened as you read. The dialogue, the scenes, they felt achingly familiar yet strange in your own handwriting.

The final scene made your blood run cold. The screenwriter, trapped in a burning studio, the actor desperately trying to reach her as flames consumed the building.

You dropped the screenplay like it had burned you. There, on the last page, were the words:

FADE TO BLACK as smoke engulfs the frame. The only sound: JAEHYUN screaming her name as the building collapses.

Jaehyun. You had named the character Jaehyun.

But you'd written this years ago, long before you'd ever heard of him.

Sleep eluded you that night. When you finally drifted off near dawn, your dreams were vivid and terrifying—smoke filling your lungs, the heat unbearable, someone banging on a door you couldn't reach.

Production moved to the old soundstage the following week. The director wanted authenticity for the climactic scene, and Building 8 provided the perfect backdrop with its vintage architecture.

You arrived early, the screenplay from university tucked in your bag. You hadn't shown it to Jaehyun yet; it felt too strange, too personal. How could you explain that years ago, you'd written a story about a character with his name dying in a fire?

The building felt different today—oppressive, almost hostile. As the crew set up lighting and cameras, you found yourself moving away from the vintage heat lamps they'd brought in for the period aesthetic. Their glow made your skin crawl.

Jaehyun arrived looking exhausted, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he'd slept as poorly as you had. When he spotted you, he made his way over immediately.

"I found something," he said without preamble, pulling a small envelope from his jacket. "In the studio archives. I was doing research for the role and..." he trailed off, handing it to you.

Inside was a photograph, brittle with age and burned at the edges. The image showed a man in 1920s attire, standing on what was clearly this very soundstage. The man was undeniably Jaehyun—or someone who looked eerily like him, down to the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Next to him stood a woman, but her image was partially destroyed, the right side of the photograph blackened by fire. Only half her face remained visible, but what you could see made your stomach drop. It was like looking in a distorted mirror.

"Turn it over," Jaehyun said quietly.

On the back, in faded ink: Hollywood Star Myung Jaehyun and his screenwriter, 1928. The last picture before the fire.

The room seemed to tilt around you. "This has to be some kind of joke."

"That's what I thought too." His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed his unease. "But I couldn't find any record of who placed it in the archives. It's been there for decades, according to the archivist."

Before you could respond, the director called Jaehyun to set. He gave your arm a gentle squeeze before walking away, leaving you with the photograph and a growing sense of dread.

They were filming the scene where his character confronts his rival. The vintage heat lamps glowed ominously in the background, casting long shadows across the set. You watched from a distance, unable to shake your discomfort.

Everything was going smoothly until one of the heat lamps malfunctioned, sparking violently. It was a minor issue, quickly handled by the effects team, but the moment you saw Jaehyun walk toward it, something inside you fractured.

"Stop!" The word tore from your throat before you could stop it. "Get away from there!"

The entire set turned to stare at you. Jaehyun froze mid-step, his expression shifting from confusion to concern as he took in your panic-stricken face.

The director called for a break, clearly annoyed at the interruption. As the crew dispersed, Jaehyun approached you cautiously.

"What's wrong?" he asked, leading you to a quiet corner away from curious eyes.

Your hands wouldn't stop shaking. "I don't know. When I saw you near that lamp, I just—" You broke off, unable to articulate the visceral terror that had gripped you. "I think I'm losing my mind."

Instead of dismissing your fears, he took your hands in his, steadying them. "You're not. Something's happening to both of us." He hesitated. "Last night, I dreamt of a fire again. But this time, I remembered more. I was trying to reach someone—banging on a door, screaming..." He swallowed hard. "Screaming your name."

Your eyes met his, and in that moment, something clicked into place—not a full memory, but the shadow of one, like looking at your reflection in troubled water.

"I wrote a screenplay in college," you said quietly. "About a screenwriter and an actor in 1920s Hollywood. The actor's name was Jaehyun, and they both died in a fire."

His grip on your hands tightened. "When did you write it?"

"Years ago. Before I knew you existed."

A long silence stretched between you as you both grappled with implications neither of you wanted to face.

"Do you think we're..." he began, unable to finish the thought.

"I don't know what we are." You pulled the photograph from your pocket, studying the half-burned image. "But I think we've been here before."

The director, impatient with the delays, decided to shoot the climactic scene the next day. It called for dramatic lighting, heightened emotions—and fire elements controlled by the special effects team.

The mere thought made your stomach churn. You considered calling in sick, but the prospect of Jaehyun facing those flames alone was somehow worse.

You arrived to find the set transformed. The vintage architecture of Building 8 now prominently featured in the shot, with carefully controlled fire elements positioned strategically around the perimeter.

Jaehyun found you before filming began, his face drawn with concern. "You don't have to stay for this."

"I do," you insisted, though every instinct screamed at you to run. "I can't explain it, but I feel like if I leave..."

"Something bad will happen," he finished for you. "I feel it too."

When filming began, you stood as far from the fire elements as possible while still maintaining a view of the set. The scene called for Jaehyun's character to make an impassioned confession, surrounded by the symbolic flames of his inner turmoil.

As he performed, something shifted in the atmosphere. His delivery wasn't just good—it was transcendent, as if he was channeling emotions from somewhere beyond himself. The crew fell silent, captivated.

"I should have told you sooner," he was saying, the scripted lines taking on a different weight in his mouth. "Before it was too late. Before the fire stole the words I never spoke.”

Your breath caught.

That last line wasn't in the script.

Jaehyun's eyes found yours across the set, filled with a recognition that transcended the present moment. For a heartbeat, the decades between then and now seemed to collapse, and you weren't on a movie set in the present, but somewhere else—somewhere you'd been before.

One of the fire elements flared unexpectedly, higher than it should have. Someone from effects cursed, rushing to control it. Jaehyun didn't flinch, his eyes still locked with yours as if nothing else existed.

"Cut!" the director shouted, breaking the spell. "Effects, get that under control! Jaehyun, that was brilliant, but stick to the script."

Jaehyun nodded absently, his attention still on you. As the crew reset for another take, he made his way to your side.

"Those weren't my lines," he said quietly. "They just... came out."

You nodded, understanding completely. "It felt right, though."

"It felt like something I've spent lifetimes chasing.”

The weight of his words settled between you—not a full confession, but the acknowledgment of something unfinished, something that had been waiting decades to be resolved.

You could almost hear the echo of a different time, of a different version of him, still trying to say what had never left his lips.

A whisper, a touch, a confession lost in the haze of fire and smoke. The burning that had taken everything from you both.

The director called for positions. Jaehyun squeezed your hand once before returning to his mark, surrounded once more by the controlled flames that nevertheless made your heart race with ancestral fear.

As filming resumed, you watched him deliver his lines—the right ones this time—but the wrong ones still lingered in the air between you.

“Before the fire stole the words I never spoke.”

You didn’t know what he meant. Not fully.

But somewhere deep inside—beyond memory, beyond logic—you understood.

There were nights you still woke to the phantom scent of smoke. Moments when the touch of warmth on your skin made you flinch without reason.

A life you didn’t remember.

A love you had never finished.

Whatever had been left undone in the 1920s—whatever words had been swallowed by flame and fear—still pressed against the edges of your heart, waiting.

The universe rarely offered second chances. Rarer still was the chance to recognize them when they came.

You watched him now, the set lights soft on his face, his expression too serious for the lines he recited.

As if he remembered, too.

As if some part of him knew there had once been a fire, and that it had cost him everything he hadn’t been brave enough to say.

The past tugged at you, quiet and merciless.

This time, you would not wait for the world to end to tell him you were already his.

TAESAN 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : zombie apocalypse

˖➴ PAIRING : reincarnated unaware!taesan x reincarnated aware!reader

The Gwangju subway station hums with mechanical precision and indifference. Steel carriages arrive and depart with mathematical certainty, carrying bodies from one destination to another as they have for decades. You stand on the platform, your reflection fragmented in the polished tiles of the opposite wall—pieces of yourself scattered across the surface like the memories that haunt you.

It happens when you least expect it. The scent of antiseptic and industrial cleaner. The fluorescent lights flickering twice before steadying. The distant screech of brakes against metal rails. These ordinary elements of metropolitan life shouldn't trigger anything in you, and yet they do.

Blood on your hands. The weight of a gun. His eyes—lifeless but somehow still filled with forgiveness.

You blink, and the vision dissipates like morning fog. Your therapist calls them "intrusive thoughts with vivid imagery," likely stemming from trauma or an overactive imagination. She doesn't know about the dreams—dreams so visceral, so painfully real that waking feels like dying all over again. Dreams of a world consumed by chaos, of survival against impossible odds, of him.

Taesan.

The name never leaves you. It sits on the tip of your tongue during your waking hours, burns itself into your consciousness during sleep. A name that belongs to someone you've never met in this life but somehow know more intimately than yourself.

The subway car approaches, its headlights cutting through the tunnel darkness like searchlights. People around you shift forward in anticipation, clutching bags and phones, their faces illuminated by blue light. No one else flinches at the sound of the brakes. No one else hears the groans of the undead in the mechanical whine.

Only you.

The doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss. Bodies file out, others push in—the eternal dance of urban commuters. You step inside, finding an empty seat by the window. Your reflection stares back at you, features blurred against the backdrop of the station sliding away as the train pulls out. You look tired. You always look tired these days.

Three stops later, the doors open again. You don't look up immediately—there's no reason to. But something shifts in the atmosphere, something imperceptible yet undeniable, like the air pressure changing before a storm. A prickling sensation crawls up your spine, and your eyes are drawn up as if by magnetic force.

He stands there, scanning for a seat, dressed in a charcoal suit that sits perfectly on his shoulders. His hair is shorter than in your dreams, styled with modern precision. No dirt on his face, no blood on his hands. Clean. Unburdened.

Alive.

Taesan.

Your heart stutters, then races. Your lungs forget how to function. The subway car suddenly feels too small, too hot, too loud. Is this another hallucination? Another cruel joke your mind is playing?

But no—other people see him too. A woman offers him her seat. He declines with a polite smile, gripping the overhead handle instead. He looks... normal. Ordinary. A businessman on his evening commute. Not a survivor. Not a protector. Not the man who died in your arms, confessing love with his last breath.

You stare, unable to look away, cataloging the similarities and differences between this man and the one who haunts your dreams. The same sharp jawline, the same penetrating eyes. But his posture is different—relaxed, not constantly coiled like a spring ready to unleash. His hands are smooth, lacking the calluses from weapons and hard labour. This Taesan has never had to fight for his life. Never had to make impossible choices. Never had to protect you.

And yet, it's him. Every cell in your body recognizes him, calls out to him across the distance between you.

He doesn't notice you. Not at first. He's preoccupied with something on his phone, thumb scrolling with casual indifference. You wonder what mundane concerns occupy his mind. Work deadlines? Dinner plans? So far removed from survival, from the visceral reality of existence that consumed your shared past life.

The train lurches slightly as it rounds a bend, and his gaze lifts momentarily, sweeping across the car. For a fraction of a second, his eyes meet yours, and the world stops.

Something flickers across his face—confusion, perhaps. A slight furrow between his brows, a momentary pause in his breathing. He blinks, and then looks away, returning to his phone with practiced nonchalance. But you see the tension in his shoulders now, the slight stiffness in his posture that wasn't there before.

Did he feel it too? That electric shock of recognition? That soul-deep knowing?

The automated announcement chimes overhead: "Next station: Hwajeong 1-ga." His stop, somehow you know. You shouldn't know that, but you do, just as you know he takes this train every weekday at exactly this time, that he lives alone in an apartment overlooking the river, that he drinks his coffee black with just a hint of sugar.

Knowledge that isn't yours to possess in this lifetime.

The train slows, and he moves toward the doors, still not looking at you. Your heart pounds against your ribs like a wild animal seeking escape.

Say something. Do something. Don't let him walk away. Not again.

But what would you say?

The absurdity of it freezes you in place as the doors open. He steps out onto the platform, merging seamlessly with the evening crowd. In seconds, he'll disappear, swallowed by the city, and you'll be left with nothing but dreams and fragmented memories that might be delusions.

Your body moves before your mind decides. You're on your feet, squeezing through the closing doors at the last possible moment, stumbling onto the platform. The crowd jostles you, impatient bodies pushing past on their way to exits and transfers. You scan frantically, catching a glimpse of his charcoal suit ascending the escalator.

You follow, heart thundering in your ears, unsure what you'll do when you catch up to him—if you catch up to him. The escalator seems to stretch endlessly upward, each mechanical step too slow for the urgency building inside you. By the time you reach the top, he's already passing through the ticket gates, moving with purpose toward the eastern exit.

"Taesan!" His name tears from your throat before you can stop it, echoing against tile and concrete.

He stops. Slowly, methodically, he turns around. From twenty meters away, his expression is unreadable, but his posture is rigid with surprise. For a long moment, he simply stares at you across the distance, commuters flowing around both of you like river water around stones.

Then, deliberately, he walks back towards you.

Each step he takes coils the tension tighter in your chest.

What if you’re wrong? What if this is just some cruel twist of fate, a mirror image meant to break you? Or worse—what if it is him, but the man you loved is gone, replaced by something unrecognizable?

He stops before you, close enough to see the amber flicker in his dark eyes. Those eyes—his eyes—once so full of warmth as they watched over you through every danger, once clouded with pain as life slipped away, now look at you with nothing but uncertainty.

"Do I know you?" His voice is the same—deep, slightly rough around the edges, but missing the weariness, the weight of a world collapsed.

You swallow hard, reality crashing down.

Of course he doesn't remember. Why would he? The universe isn't that kind. It gave you these memories—this curse—and left him blissfully ignorant.

"I'm sorry," you manage, voice barely above a whisper. "I mistook you for someone else."

A lie. A necessary one.

He studies you, head tilted slightly, brows drawn together. "Are you sure? You seem... familiar."

Hope flares, bright and dangerous. "Familiar how?"

He frowns, eyes narrowing as if trying to bring something into focus. "I don't know. It's strange, but I feel like..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Never mind. It's nothing."

But it's not nothing. You can see it in the way his gaze lingers on your face, searching for something he can't articulate. A connection he feels but doesn't understand.

"Have we met somewhere before?" he asks, the question tentative, as if he's not sure he wants the answer.

Your heart constricts with painful clarity. In his eyes, there's no recognition of shared foxholes or whispered confessions in the dark. No memory of the night he told you,

"You don't have to carry all that weight alone. We're in this together."

No recollection of his final words, gasped between labored breaths,

"I love you. I never... I never said it, but I do. Always."

Just polite confusion from a stranger who might have passed you on the street once.

"I don't think so," you lie again, each word like glass in your throat. "I'm new to Gwangju."

Another lie. You've been drawn to this city for months, pulled by something you couldn't name until this moment. Some cosmic thread connecting you to him, even across lifetimes.

"Ah," he says, nodding slightly, but the furrow between his brows doesn't smooth out. "Well, I'm Taesan. Han Taesan."

The name vibrates through you like a struck bell. It's confirmation of what your soul already knew—this is him. Reborn, remade, without the scars and traumas of a world that never happened in this timeline.

"Nice to meet you," you say, offering your name in return. It feels surreal, introducing yourself to the man whose blood once stained your hands, whose weight you felt grow cold in your arms.

An awkward silence stretches between you, filled with the ambient noise of the station. Commuters brush past, announcements echo overhead, and somewhere distant, a train rumbles into motion.

"Well," he says finally, shifting his weight. "I should probably..." He gestures vaguely toward the exit.

"Of course," you say quickly. "Sorry for bothering you."

He nods, turns to leave, then pauses. "Actually," he says, turning back. "Would you like to get coffee together sometime?"

The question catches you off guard, leaves you momentarily speechless. This isn't how you imagined this encounter going. You'd prepared yourself for dismissal, maybe even suspicion or fear. Not... this.

"You don't have to," he adds, misreading your silence. "It's just—" He stops, seemingly embarrassed by whatever he was about to say.

"Just what?" you prompt gently.

He looks at you directly then, something indefinable in his gaze. "I can't shake the feeling that I should know you. It's probably nothing, but..." He trails off with a self-deprecating smile. "I don't usually do this. Ask strangers for coffee, I mean."

“It's too late. You know it is.”

“No!”

“You should've stayed away from me. I'm not the man you think I am.”

You blink away the memory, forcing yourself back to the present. To this Taesan, who looks at you with curiosity rather than shared understanding.

"I'd like that," you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

His smile—genuine, unguarded—makes your chest ache. You've seen that smile before, but so rarely. In another life, smiles were precious commodities, rationed like water during a drought. This Taesan smiles easily, without the weight of survival pressing down on him.

"Great," he says, pulling out his phone. "Can I get your number?"

You exchange contact information, the mundane action feeling strangely surreal. In your past life, such normal activities had been rendered obsolete—no phones, no casual meetups, no easy exchanges of pleasantries.

"I'll text you," he promises, pocketing his phone. "There's a good café near here that stays open late."

"I look forward to it," you reply, and mean it despite the storm of emotions raging inside you.

He nods, seemingly satisfied, then turns to leave again. This time, you let him go, watching as he moves through the crowd with that same casual confidence, so different from the hypervigilant man of your memories.

As he disappears around a corner, you stand frozen, trying to process what just happened. The weight of your memories presses down on you—the apocalypse, the losses, the final, brutal moments of Taesan's life in that other reality. The gun in your hand. The decision you had to make.

"Taesan,"

"I'm so sorry."

One last look.

One last breath.

One last shot.

You shut your eyes against the memory, the weight of it sinking into your chest like lead. When you open them again, the subway station is just that—bright lights, hurried commuters, distant echoes of announcements bouncing off sterile tiles.

No groaning bodies.

No blood staining the ground.

No apocalypse.

Just you, standing in the present, shackled to a past that only you remember.

Your phone chimes, its soft ping a cruel reminder that the world moves on, indifferent to the wreckage it leaves behind.

Taesan, still keeping a promise he never made, unaware of the price you paid to survive.

> Coffee tomorrow evening? 7 PM?

You stare at the words, as ordinary as they are devastating.

In another lifetime, you held him as his body grew cold. Felt the life slip away from his eyes. Made the impossible choice to end his suffering before the world could claim him fully.

And now, here he is, asking you for coffee.

The reply slips from your fingers with a quiet "Yes." But beneath that simple word, your heart shatters, a crumbling, jagged thing.

Grief lingers like the taste of ash. Hope feels like an open wound.

A lifetime of unsaid things stretches between you—memories that you carry, but he can never know. Memories that belonged to a world that has long since crumbled to dust.

As you step into the cold night, the city alive around you, you wonder if this is your penance—or your salvation. To be the only one who remembers what was lost. To carry the ghosts of a love that never had the chance to breathe, alone.

But maybe this is it.

Maybe memory is your only salvation.

Not to reclaim what was shattered, but to hold on to the possibility of something new, something free from the horror of the past.

In this life, Taesan doesn’t need you to be his shield.

He doesn’t need you to carry the weight of his death in your bones.

He just needs you to be here.

The you who made it through the ruins, the you who dares to hope despite the wreckage.

The night air cuts sharp against your skin, the city sprawling endlessly beneath you. The lights flicker like dying stars, far too distant, too cold.

Above, the real stars are silent witnesses to the story that only you know.

Tomorrow, you'll meet him—this stranger who feels like home. A man who loved you in another life, but who won’t remember a thing.

Maybe, if the universe owes you anything, you'll hear him say those words again—

Not as a final confession, but as the start of something whole:

"I love you. Always."

And maybe this time, always won’t just be a fleeting echo. Maybe it will stretch into forever.

LEEHAN 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : 18th century, coastal village

˖➴ PAIRING : marine ecologist!leehan x intern!reader

Leehan woke with a gasp, sheets twisted around his legs like kelp. The same dream again—drowning, but not afraid. Arms reaching for someone in murky water. A voice calling his name. And always, always that crushing sense of loss when he woke.

"Just a dream," he muttered, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

But it never felt like just a dream.

The digital clock by his bed read 3:12AM—the exact time he'd woken every night this week. Outside his window, a full moon hung low over the city skyline, its light catching on the distant shimmer of the bay.

Leehan's apartment was fifteen miles from the ocean, but some days he swore he could smell salt in the air. Some days he caught himself staring at the horizon, as if waiting for something—or someone—to emerge from the waves.

His phone buzzed. A text from his supervisor at the marine research center:

> Don't forget we have a new intern starting tomorrow. I need you to show them around.

Leehan groaned. The last thing he needed was babysitting duty. He'd joined the research centre to study marine ecology, not to play tour guide. But the grant money was good, and the location—right on the coast, with its own private beach—was perfect for his research.

Even if being near the water made his chest ache with a longing so profound it threatened to hollow him from within.

The marine research facility gleamed in the morning sun, all glass and steel perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the bay. Leehan nodded to the security guard and swiped his key card, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder as he made his way to the main lab.

"There you are!" Dr. Kwon waved him over. "Our new intern is waiting in the tide pool room."

Leehan checked his watch. "They're early."

"Eager to start, I guess." Dr. Kwon handed him a folder. "Show them the basics, then get them started on cataloging the samples from yesterday's collection."

Leehan took the folder without enthusiasm and headed to the tide pool room—a sprawling space with shallow tanks mimicking the coastal ecosystem. As he pushed open the door, the smell hit him: salt water, marine algae, the particular mineral scent of shells. It usually calmed him, but today it made his heart race.

And he laid his eyes on you.

You were leaning over one of the pools, fingers trailing in the water, completely absorbed. The morning light caught in your hair, casting a glow around you that seemed almost... iridescent.

Something ruptured inside Leehan's chest—recognition, fear, longing—so intense he nearly staggered backward. A tidal wave of emotion surging against the fragile shores of his composure.

"Hello?" you called, turning at the sound of the door. "Are you Leehan? They said you'd be showing me around."

Your voice. It was both foreign and achingly familiar. Like a melody from childhood he'd forgotten until this moment—the notes unchanged but somehow carrying the weight of years.

"I—yes," he managed, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "I'm Leehan."

You smiled, and the world tilted on its axis.

"Nice to meet you," you said, extending a hand. "I'm really excited to start working here."

When your fingers touched his, Leehan heard it—the sound of waves crashing against a wooden boat. The distant cry of seagulls. A laugh carried on salt-laden air.

"You were the best thing I ever found on the surface."

"Have we crossed paths before?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

You tilted your head, studying him with curious eyes. "I don't believe we have. But..." You paused, brow furrowing slightly. "You do seem familiar somehow."

Leehan released your hand, taking a step back. This was madness. He was acting like a lunatic over a complete stranger.

"Sorry," he said, trying to sound normal. "You remind me of someone."

"No worries." You smiled again, but this time, there was something hesitant in it. "I get that a lot."

Leehan cleared his throat, gesturing to the tide pools. "You seemed pretty comfortable with these already."

Your face lit up. "I've always loved the ocean. My parents say I could swim before I could walk." You laughed, the sound rippling through the room like water over stone. "I've been drawn to water my whole life. Weird, right?"

“Not weird at all,” Leehan thought, a chill racing down his spine like frost forming on glass.

"The thing is," you continued, turning back to the water, "sometimes I feel like I belong out there more than on land." Your cheeks flushed slightly. "Sorry, that probably sounds ridiculous."

Leehan stared at you, unable to look away. Because it didn't sound ridiculous—it sounded like the words had been pulled from his own soul, a confession he'd never dared make aloud.

The tour of the facility took twice as long as it should have. Leehan couldn't explain the way he kept finding excuses to show you one more room, one more exhibit. Couldn't rationalize why talking to you felt like speaking a language he'd forgotten he knew.

By the time they reached the lab's private beach, the sun was high overhead, casting diamond-bright reflections across the water's surface.

"And this is where we do most of our field collection," Leehan said, his voice steady as he gestured to the pristine stretch of sand and tide-polished rocks. "The currents here carry in some unusual specimens—things you wouldn’t expect to find."

But you weren’t listening.

The wind had already tugged at your curiosity, the sea drawing you forward like it recognized you. You slipped off your shoes and stepped onto the sand, the grains cool beneath your feet, the scent of salt and sunlight filling your lungs as you walked—almost trance-like—toward the water’s edge.

"Be careful," Leehan called after you, his voice sharper than he meant it to be. A flicker of unease coiled in his chest. "The tide rises fast here. It catches people off guard."

You turned to look back at him, eyes glinting with mischief beneath the low afternoon light. A smile curved your lips—playful, knowing.

"Relax, marine ecologist. I wouldn’t last a day without the sea."

The words hung in the air, too familiar.

“Relax, fisherman. I wouldn’t last a day on land.”

Leehan stiffened.

They echoed somewhere deep in his bones, brushing against a memory that didn’t quite belong to this lifetime. A shoreline not unlike this one. A voice like yours, laughter caught on the wind. Those almost exact same words——spoken in another time, maybe even another world.

He couldn’t explain it, but they landed in his chest with the weight of something once lost and almost remembered.

For a moment, he just stared at you. And though he didn’t know why, something in him whispered: You’ve said that before.

"You should be careful. If anyone sees you—"

"They'll try to kill me? I know. Humans are predictable."

"Not all of them."

"No. Not all of them."

The memory—was it a memory?—vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Leehan disoriented and unsteady.

You had reached the water's edge, letting the waves lap at your feet. You closed your eyes, face tilted toward the sun, and for a moment—Leehan could have sworn he saw something shimmer around you, like scales catching light.

"Are you alright?" your voice broke through his daze. You were looking at him with concern, still standing in the shallow water. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Leehan blinked, trying to clear his vision. "I'm fine. Just... the sun."

You frowned, unconvinced, and started walking back toward him. But as you took a step, your foot caught on something beneath the surface, and you stumbled.

Leehan moved without thinking, crossing the distance between you in seconds, catching you before you fell.

Time ceased to exist.

Your eyes met his, wide with surprise. His arms were around you, holding you steady, and every point of contact burned with a strange familiarity that threatened to consume him whole.

"I would have chosen you."

"Do you hear that?" you whispered, not moving from his embrace.

Leehan swallowed hard. "Hear what?"

"I don't know. It's like..." you shook your head, struggling for words. "Like someone's singing, but far away. A lullaby, maybe."

Leehan listened, but all he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears and the steady rhythm of the waves—a rhythm that seemed, impossibly, to match the beating of his heart.

"I don't hear anything," he said softly.

You stepped back from his arms, a flash of embarrassment crossing your face. "Sorry. That was weird."

"It's okay," Leehan assured you, though nothing about this felt okay. Nothing about this felt normal.

You bent down, reaching into the water where you had stumbled. "Look at this," you said, straightening up with something in your palm. "I think this is what I tripped on."

In your hand lay a small, weathered piece of metal. It looked ancient—green with patina and crusted with sediment. But as you turned it over, a shape became clear.

A crude, handmade harpoon tip.

Leehan's vision blurred, the edges of reality softening. For a heartbeat, he was somewhere else—somewhere cold and dark and desperate. He could feel rough wood beneath his palms, hear the screams of men, taste blood and salt on his tongue.

And arms—strong, unyielding—wrapped around his chest, dragging him back. He fought against them with everything he had, throat raw from shouting, but the grip only tightened. They were holding him down, keeping him from leaping into the chaos. From saving someone.

"It was always going to end like this, Leehan."

"Leehan?" Your voice pulled him back, anchoring him to the present. "You look pale. Maybe we should go back inside."

He nodded, unable to form words around the lump in his throat. As you guided him away from the water, your hand gentle on his arm, he noticed you were still clutching the harpoon tip.

"You should throw that back," he said, his voice rough with emotions he couldn't name. "It's just trash."

You looked down at the object in your hand, then back at him, a strange expression crossing your face. "I don't think I can," you admitted quietly. "It feels... like it's important somehow. Like it's been waiting for me."

Leehan wanted to argue, wanted to grab the rusted metal and hurl it far into the ocean where it belonged. But he couldn't explain that impulse any more than you could explain why you wanted to keep it.

As you walked side by side back to the facility, the sun glinting off the water behind you, neither of you noticed the way the tide had changed, pulling back unusually far from the shore—as if the sea itself was holding its breath, waiting.

Waiting for a story, centuries old, to finally find its ending.

Or perhaps its beginning.

You paused at the edge of the beach, turning back to gaze at the water one last time. The wind picked up, carrying salt and memories that belonged to someone else.

"By any chance…” you asked softly, "Have you ever grieved for something you don’t recall losing?"

Leehan looked at you, at the way the sunlight caught in your hair, at the yearning in your eyes that mirrored his own. And for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to voice the ache that had followed him through endless nights of drowning dreams.

"Every day," he whispered. "Every single day of my life."

Something passed between you then—understanding, recognition, the first fragile thread of a connection that spanned lifetimes. As you turned together to walk back to the world of science and logic and things that could be explained, Leehan felt it—the subtle shift in his heart, like the turning of a tide.

Something lost was finding its way home.

WOONHAK 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

˖➴ PAST LIFE : present day, with a twist of supernatural

˖➴ PAIRING : fighter!woonhak x highschool student!reader

The first time you met Woonhak, you had no idea just how much your life was about to change. It was late at night, and you were walking home from a study session, streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. That's when you saw them—three figures in the distance, their postures aggressive as they surrounded someone against the wall of a building.

Your instinct told you to walk away, to mind your own business, but something pulled you closer. As you approached, you could make out a man—tall with broad shoulders—facing down the group. Despite being outnumbered, he seemed oddly calm.

"Just hand over your wallet," one of them demanded, voice echoing in the empty street.

The surrounded man—Woonhak, though you didn't know his name yet—simply shook his head. "I don't think so," he replied, his voice steady and controlled.

What happened next was almost too fast to follow. One of them lunged forward, but Woonhak moved with a precision that was breathtaking—a fluid sidestep, a redirection of momentum, and suddenly the attacker was on the ground. The others rushed him at once, but Woonhak's movements were practiced, efficient. He didn't even seem to be striking them so much as using their own force against them.

Within moments, all three had backed away, cursing as they retreated down the street.

You stood frozen, your legs barely holding you up as you watched him straighten his jacket. The silence that followed felt deafening.

Finally, you managed to speak, your voice betraying your awe. "That was... Where did you learn to do that?"

Woonhak turned to you, seeming to notice your presence for the first time. His expression softened as he met your gaze. A small, reassuring smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though there was something unreadable in his eyes—something that made your heart skip a beat.

"Just someone who knows how to handle himself," he said with a lightness that didn't quite match the intensity of what you'd witnessed. Then, his voice softened, his gaze never leaving you. "Are you okay? You shouldn't be out here alone this late."

You felt strangely drawn to him, despite the circumstances of your meeting. "I'm fine. I was just heading home when I saw... all this." You gestured vaguely at the now-empty street.

"I'm Woonhak," he said, extending his hand.

When your hands touched, something electric passed between you—a jolt of recognition that made no sense. His eyes widened slightly, and you knew he felt it too. For an instant, your mind was flooded with images: the two of you running through darkness, the gleam of silver weapons, creatures with glowing eyes, and blood—so much blood.

You gasped and pulled your hand away, the vision disappearing as quickly as it had come.

"Are you alright?" Woonhak asked, concern etching his features.

"I—" you started, then stopped, unsure how to explain. "Did you feel that?"

His expression shifted, a flicker of something—recognition, maybe—passing through his eyes. "Feel what?" he asked carefully, but something in his tone suggested he might know exactly what you meant.

"Nothing," you said quickly. "I should go."

You hurried away, heart pounding, but couldn't shake the feeling that something momentous had just occurred—like pieces of a puzzle you didn't know you were solving had suddenly fallen into place.

A few days later, you were working the closing shift at the campus library when you looked up to find Woonhak standing before your desk, his expression a mixture of determination and uncertainty.

"I need to talk to you," he said without preamble. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about our meeting."

As you walked together after your shift ended, he finally spoke the words that had been weighing on him.

"When we touched," he began hesitantly, "I saw... things. Things that couldn't be real, but felt like memories." He looked at you intently. "You saw them too, didn't you?"

You nodded slowly. "It was like remembering something I never experienced," you admitted. "You and me, but in some kind of... fight? Against creatures that couldn't possibly exist."

Woonhak stopped walking, his eyes serious. "What if they were real? Not here, not now, but somewhere else? Another life?"

"You mean reincarnation?" you asked skeptically, though the word felt right somehow.

"I've been having dreams since I was a child," he said. "Fighting monsters, protecting people. I always thought they were just nightmares, but lately they've been getting more vivid." His voice dropped. "And since I met you, I've been seeing you in them."

Over the following weeks, as you spent more time together, the visions became more frequent, more detailed. They always followed the same pattern—you and Woonhak fighting side by side against creatures of darkness. In these visions, he moved with the same precision you'd witnessed that first night, but with weapons that glinted silver in the moonlight. And you were there too, not as a bystander but as a fighter, your movements synchronized with his as if you'd trained together for years.

One evening, as you sat together in a quiet corner of a park, watching the sun set, a particularly vivid flash overtook you—a memory of standing in a dimly lit room, surrounded by ancient texts and weapons.

"We were hunters," you whispered, the realization settling over you. "In another life. We hunted... supernatural things. Together."

Woonhak's hand found yours, and instead of pulling away from the visions that contact triggered, you both leaned into them, allowing the memories to surface.

"We were good at it," he said with a small smile that felt both new and achingly familiar. "A team."

But as the memories became clearer, so did the shadow that seemed to hang over them—a sense of impending tragedy that coloured each recollection.

The final piece fell into place during a thunderstorm weeks later. As lightning cracked across the sky, you both experienced the same vision simultaneously—the moment when it all ended.

You were in an abandoned church, cornered by a creature more terrible than any you'd faced before. Its eyes glowed red in the darkness, its form shifting between human and something decidedly not. You remembered the fear, the certainty that this was an enemy too powerful to defeat.

Woonhak stood before you, his silver blade catching the moonlight as it filtered through the broken stained-glass windows. His silhouette looked too small against the monster looming in the dark, but his voice didn’t waver.

“Run,” he said, calm and certain, like it was the only answer. “I'll hold it off.”

You shook your head, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. “No. No, I can't leave you.”

Your hands trembled around your weapon. But his didn’t. His never did.

“You’re safe,” he had once whispered in a world that no longer existed, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch so tender it made your chest ache.

“I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

That memory hit like a scream in a quiet room—loud, unwanted, real.

The creature lunged.

But it didn’t go for him. It went for you.

Claws, long and gleaming with death, carved through the air.

And Woonhak moved.

Not like a soldier. Not like a hunter.

Like someone who had loved you across lifetimes.

“No!” you cried, the word torn from your throat too late.

He stepped in front of you, without hesitation, like he had always known he would.

The sound—the sound of claws meeting flesh—was wet and final. His body jerked. You saw the blood before you even understood where it came from. He didn’t scream. He didn’t even falter.

With the last of his strength, he drove his blade into the creature’s heart. They fell together—his body folding to the ground like paper, like it was never meant to hold that much pain.

You dropped beside him, hands reaching, grasping, praying.

“Please—please, stay with me—Woonhak—”

“Then we’ll fight together,” he had said before, firelight dancing in his eyes.

"You and me. Together.”

You pressed your hands to his wounds, but there were too many. Too deep. You couldn’t stop the bleeding. Couldn’t stop time.

His eyes, half-lidded and fading, still found you. Still managed to hold everything he’d never gotten to say.

“Live,” he breathed, voice barely a whisper.

"Find me again."

Your fingers clutched his as his hand began to go slack in yours.

And in that moment, as his grip faded, another memory surfaced—soft and slow, like the last warmth before winter.

“Because... I don’t want to lose you,”

“I don’t know when it happened, or why... but I think I’m falling for you.”

You blinked, but this time, your tears fell onto his bloodied skin.

There was only silence.

A stillness so loud, it split your heart open.

In the present, you both sat in stunned silence as the memory faded, rain pounding against the windows.

"You died for me," you said, your voice barely audible above the storm. "In that life... you sacrificed yourself."

Woonhak's expression was solemn as he reached for your hand. "And I'd do it again," he said with quiet certainty. "In any life."

The realization of what you had been to each other—what you might be again—hung between you, too vast to fully comprehend.

"Do you think that's why we found each other?" you asked. "Some kind of cosmic second chance?"

Woonhak considered this, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. "I don't know if I believe in fate," he said finally. "But I do know that when I saw you that night, something in me recognized you. Not just from dreams or visions, but from somewhere deeper." His eyes met yours, and in them you saw the echo of countless shared moments across time. "Whatever we were then, whatever brought us together now—I'm grateful for it."

As lightning illuminated the room once more, you both understood that some connections transcended ordinary explanation—that souls could recognize each other across the boundaries of life and death, time and space.

"So what happens now?" you asked.

Woonhak smiled, that same reassuring smile you'd seen in both your present and your shared past. "Now we write a new story," he said simply. "One where neither of us has to say goodbye.”

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

perm taglist : @lvlyhiyyih @supi-wupi @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @s0shroe @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @mydeepestsecrects @brownetry @pumpkg @heeheesang @jungwonbropls @prodkwh

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blueberrybirdsworld · 9 days ago

Text

Collision 5/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut

Warning : none

Serie Masterlist

CHAPTER 5 :

PLEASE FEEL FREE TO COMMENT AND REPOST TO MAKE THIS STORIE LIVE :)

Max’s apartment was glowing with the warmth of soft light and low music. The table was crowded with half-open pizza boxes and Pietra’s expertly-arranged charcuterie board. Someone was already arguing about whether to rewatch The Grand Budapest Hotel for the fourth time. Lando was pacing.

When the buzzer rang, Pietra swirled her wine and sauntered to the intercom.

She opened the door and blinked. “Oh my god.”

Ariana stood in the hallway, the December air still clinging to her cheeks, which were tinged pink with cold. Her long chestnut hair had been swept half-up, tied with a bold red ribbon that fell in elegant tails down her back. She wore a slouchy grey knit sweater that slipped just slightly off one shoulder, paired with a white pleated mini skirt. Tall, deep red leather boots climbed her legs with polished confidence.

“You again,” Pietra said, smiling wide.

“Me again,” Ariana echoed, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

The two of them laughed, the awkwardness melting before it even formed.

“You look…” Pietra gestured vaguely. “Like you walked out of a winter-themed fashion editorial.”

“I wasn’t sure how casual really meant,” Ariana said, stepping inside.

“It means you win,” Pietra said, already linking arms with her. “God, you know how to dress.”

Ariana felt a flush of surprise and something else—a sense of ease. She liked Pietra, she realized. The loud, confident girl had a calmness underneath, the kind that drew people in without overwhelming them.

Then, across the room—he saw her.

Lando had been leaning against the kitchen counter, half a beer in his hand, when his eyes lifted—and everything else seemed to vanish.

He looked like someone who’d forgotten how to speak.

He set the bottle down, a little too fast, and walked over.

“Ariana,” he said, voice low, a little husky. “Wow.”

She tilted her head. “Hi.”

“You look…” His gaze traveled from her ribbon to her boots and back to her eyes. “Very good.”

She laughed—genuinely. He smiled wider.

“You clean up well too,” she added, her voice soft.

He offered her his hand without thinking. “Come meet everyone.”

Introductions blurred into conversation. She met Max, who had the kind of dry sarcasm that made her laugh within ten seconds. The rest of the crew was warm and welcoming, filling the room with a comfort that was noisy but kind.

And the questions came quickly.

About ballet. About her life. About how long she could stand on her toes without crying.

Ariana fielded them all gracefully.

“Six days a week, usually,” she said when someone asked about training. “Some days we rehearse until our feet go numb.”

“Wait, but isn’t that… bad?” Max asked.

“We’re trained to work through pain. It’s not ideal, but it’s part of the life. You just learn to listen to your body better. I’ve dislocated a toe mid-performance and kept going.”

The room fell silent for a beat.

“Okay, that’s badass,” someone said.

Ariana laughed.

Lando hadn’t stopped watching her. He hovered nearby, offering her a fresh drink before she could even ask, nudging a pillow closer when she tucked her legs beneath her. His compliments came in casual brushstrokes.

It wasn’t just flirtation. It was attention. And Ariana noticed.

She’d never had someone make her feel seen without being put on a pedestal. Not until now.

When the food was brought out—an unapologetic lineup of pizza boxes stacked in glory—Ariana picked a slice with mozzarella and roasted tomatoes, settling comfortably on the couch again.

And then came the question.

“Wait,” one of the guys said, brow raised, “do ballerinas even eat pizza?”

Ariana blinked, confused. She glanced at Lando.

“I mean… of course I do,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Another voice chimed in: “Aren’t you supposed to be, like, on a super strict diet? I always heard ballet girls don’t eat carbs.”

She blinked. Then laughed. Really laughed.

“Maybe in the nineties,” she said. “But not anymore.”

Everyone leaned in, suddenly fascinated.

“Being a ballerina is being an athlete. A professional one. We train nonstop, and we burn thousands of calories. If we didn’t eat, we’d collapse.”

“Wait, thousands?” someone asked.

“Yes,” she said with a grin. “And no, I don’t live off lettuce and lemon water. I love food. I need food. I try to eat healthy, yes, because I care about my body—but salad three times a day is not healthy. I eat protein. Good carbs. Chocolate when I want it.”

Lando, beside her, smiled. Proud.

“There are dancers who still have toxic relationships with food,” she added, quieter now. “Because the pressure’s real. The ‘stay small’ stigma still exists. But it’s changing. We’re stronger now. We’re allowed to be strong.”

Then everyone toasted.

Ariana caught Lando’s eye. He raised his glass softly in her direction, that signature grin melting into something gentler.

And she couldn’t stop herself from smiling back.

Later, as the lights dimmed and the movie flickered across the TV, Ariana curled deeper into the couch cushions. Lando was next to her now, their shoulders just barely touching.

Ariana had always been good at reading rooms.

The longer she stayed in one, the more she could feel it—when it pulsed with too much laughter, or when it begged for a lull. She loved people. Loved stories. But there came a point where the noise curled in around her too tightly, and she needed to step back, to breathe again in her own rhythm.

Tonight, in Max’s flat, that moment came just after the movie ended.

The screen faded to black. Someone turned the lights back up. Jokes were traded over dessert and drinks, louder again now, but Ariana’s smile had softened into something quieter. Her energy was fading gently. Not in a bad way—just in the way things always faded with her: delicately, without complaint.

Lando noticed it right away.

She’d tucked herself further into the armrest, her hand holding the edge of her empty glass, legs crossed neatly beneath her. Her eyes still followed the conversation, but less actively now, like someone sitting at the edge of a waltz, watching instead of dancing.

She looked at him, and there was a subtle flick of her eyes toward the hallway.

He understood instantly.

The balcony was cold.

But the kind of cold that sharpened the air and quieted the noise.

It stretched just outside the kitchen window, wrapped in a string of forgotten fairy lights from someone’s old birthday. Two metal chairs. A weathered table. A view of the neighboring rooftops, lit by the city’s amber glow. Not glamorous—but honest. A pocket of peace above the world.

Ariana stepped outside first; arms folded lightly over herself. Lando followed behind, closing the door with the softest click.

He didn’t say anything.

He just stood beside her, close but not touching, leaning his forearms on the rail. She was in profile beside him, face turned to the sky, breath blooming faintly in the cold air. Her red ribbon fluttered once in the breeze, delicate against the oversized grey knit that swallowed her shoulders.

They stood in silence.

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t empty.

It was gentle.

Like two people breathing in the same rhythm without needing to prove they were there.

After a long stretch of quiet, she finally spoke.

“You’re very good at that.”

“At what?”

“Letting silence be what it is.”

He smiled. “Not scared of quiet?”

“I prefer it,” she said. “Sometimes, I think silence says the things I don’t know how to say.”

He nodded. “Same.”

They were quiet again after that.

He looked at her when she wasn’t looking—admired her, really. Not just her face, which caught the soft city light like something out of a dream, but the calm she carried. The restraint. The kind of poise he’d never had in his life, and yet… he felt safe around it.

Like maybe he didn’t have to fill every space with jokes or movement.

He could just be.

“You always sneak away like this?” he asked eventually, voice low.

A small smile touched her lips. “When I can.”

“Because of people?”

“Because of noise. Expectations. I love people, I do… but after a while, it gets heavy.”

He nodded. “I get that.”

“Do you?” she asked softly, almost like a challenge.

He looked down at the streetlights below. “My life’s never quiet. Track days. Interviews. Fans. Press. Team meetings. Flights. Even when I’m alone, I’m on. It’s like the noise keeps following me around.”

“And yet here you are,” she said, turning toward him now, her face close. “With me. Quiet.”

“I like it better like this.”

She smiled again, slower this time. More real.

Their eyes met—and stayed.

The moment stretched.

She was looking at him with that wide, curious gaze again, like she was figuring something out she hadn’t expected to discover. The wind picked up slightly, brushing her hair into her face, and Lando, without thinking, reached up and gently tucked it behind her ear.

Her breath caught—just enough for him to hear it.

His hand lingered. Not on her skin. Just near.

The tension changed.

It wasn’t quiet anymore. Not really. It buzzed. It ached.

Ariana’s eyes flicked to his mouth.

Just once.

Then back to his eyes.

Neither of them moved.

But the space between them seemed to close without help. His hand dropped slowly to her jaw, hesitant, like a prayer in motion. Their foreheads were close now. Too close. Her lips parted just slightly.

Then—

“Oi! Anyone seen the wine opener?”

The balcony door creaked open with a clatter.

Ariana stepped back so fast she nearly bumped into the chair behind her. Lando turned toward the voice, blinking like someone pulled out of a dream.

It was Max.

In socks and holding a corkscrew.

“Ah. Found it. Never mind,” he said, oblivious, disappearing back inside.

The door closed.

Silence fell again—but it was different now.

Charged. Unfinished.

Ariana was looking down, one hand nervously adjusting the sleeve of her sweater.

Lando cleared his throat, voice rough. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

They stood there for a second longer, the almost-moment still hanging between them, breathless and fragile.

Then she looked up at him and whispered, “Next time, maybe.”

His eyes met hers.

Soft. Certain.

“Yeah,” he said. “Next time.”

@landonorris

Quiet nights with loud friends🍕✨

Liked by @arianariverria, @maxfewtrell and @pietra

@maxfewtrell

I wonder what you were doing on that balcony...

@pietra

you’re welcome for the candlelight and the entire concept of ambiance

@carlossainz55

I can’t believe you didn’t burn the pizza this time. proud.

@softlapclub

this is such a vibe, what even is this new aesthetic era??

@filmfoodandformula

slide 4 is the most intentional accidental aesthetic I’ve ever seen

@gridandgrace

Ariana liked… interesting 👀 just sayin

@pietra Pizza night supremacy

Liked by @maxfewtrell and @arianariverria

@filmfeedgirls

Any party that includes a movie and pizza is a success

@f1andchill

petition for Pietra to host every hangout from now on

@maxfewtrell

not even a picture of me. terrifying.

@dancecorecollective

Who is that girl with the red rubbon ??

@curatedchaosx

Ariana liking this post, are they friends now ?

Instagram Story – @arianariverria

@vibesinballet

Ariana liking Lando’s and Pietra’s posts? 👀 hmm. Interesting.

@gridsofts

Her story feels like it’s from the same night as Pietra’s post… cozy crossover content???

@justalittleslowburn

no one’s saying anything but the vibes are vibing…

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @esw1012, @lilyofthevalley-09

Let me know if you wanted to be added to the taglist !

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austinbutlerslovers · 7 days ago

Text

Star Student

Label Mature 18+

Summary Professor Butler casts you as the lead in the annual college play, coaching you through the difficulties of acting with ease, until it comes to an intimate scene, where he teaches you a lesson you’ll never forget.

🚨Depraved Smut 🚨 Teacher student relationship • unequal power dynamics • broken boundaries •sexual favors from a professor • manipulation •coercion• obsession •angst• regret• edging •fingering • clit play• romance denial • kiss it better • oral sex fem receiving• size kink• p in v• interchanging positions •multiple orgasms•squirting• oral gratification from student •dubcon 🔗 Masterlist

📖 Proofreaders @purejasmine @peggyao3 🎬Scene Consultants @eternal-love @aust-een ✨ Inspo via request 💝

Star Student

Your spring semester in college is a whirlwind of academic chaos. Between endless group projects, partying and essays stacking up faster than you can keep track, the sleepless nights in your dorm leave your vision blurry.

But above all the unforeseen excitement as a freshmen, nothing compares to the thrill of landing a coveted spot in Professor Butler's Advanced Acting Course.

After impressing him with your intuitive talent over the first few weeks, and absolutely nailing the annual audition, he chooses you to star in the annual production of A Streetcar Named Desire.

Now, with the performance looming ahead and expectations high, your nerves begin to rise.

He has cast you as the female lead, Blanche DuBois, a coveted role brimming with vulnerability and raw sensuality…a part that demands you kiss your co-star, Stanley, in front of a packed house.

You've never kissed anyone on stage before, and the thought of it makes your stomach flutter with sudden spikes of anxiety.

But Professor Butler becomes your lifeline, your mentor, your anchor, and he rehearses with you daily, guiding the cast with his quiet, unshakable energy.

Under his guidance, the script becomes instinct, your lines needing only fleeting glances as his technique shifts to channeling the deep emotions and bold physicality into the characters.

Today Professor Butler stands at the front of the rehearsal hall, his sandy brown hair catching the late afternoon light filtering through the large windows. Trim and poised in a crisp white button-up, his sleeves are pulled back to reveal his forearms as he moves with the effortless grace of someone who's spent years commanding the stage.

“A Streetcar Named Desire is about raw human need,” he begins, his deep honeyed voice filling the room. “It’s not just a play it’s a collision of desire and desperation. Every choice you make on this stage has to give into that.”

He speaks with his hands, a habit that both fascinates and distracts you as they sweep through the air demonstrating the intensity of the play, his fingers coaxing the moment into existence.

“This is a world where want drives every move, Blanche’s longing, Stanley’s hunger,” he says, his voice rich with conviction. “You have to embody that fire.” His blue eyes scan the room, then settle on yours with a familiar smile of expectation. “Let’s see that come alive.”

His full lips always smirk when he speaks about acting, and you can feel his passion for it, his perfect side profile catching the light just so as he pairs you into groups.

“You two” he says as he teams you up with Jake who’s been cast as the male lead Stanley, his hazel eyes flickering with restless nerves beside your own unsteady energy.

“Blanche and Stanley are opposites, but they’re both driven by want. You’ve got to find that in yourselves and build that tension,” he directs.

You and Jake begin the Dive Bar Scene, where Blanche’s flirtation clashes with Stanley’s raw energy, and Professor Butler watches, his smirk—half-knowing, half-impressed, warming in amusement.

You can’t help but glance at Professor Butler, his unwavering attention always makes you feel the reward of approval in his eyes.

When he bites his bottom lip in contemplation, it sends a jolt right to your chest, and you fumble through the scene, until he speaks again, his voice cutting in with quiet authority.

“Blanche isn’t fragile, she’s toying with him to hold herself together,” he says, his eyes locked on yours intense and focused. “You’re close, but dig deeper. Unravel, let us see her desire.” He says his words a personal challenge for you.

As you begin again, you can tell he’s pleased with you as he pauses, resting a hand on his chin, his thumb brushing his jaw in that slow, tantalizing way that always makes your pulse race.

Professor Butler is entirely fuckable, a fact whispered in hushed giggles among the class, but his guard is impenetrable.

He calls you all "kids" or "my lovely students," brushing off heated glances with a playful deflection.

Even during frequent late-night rehearsals, when he leans close to adjust your posture, his breath warm against your ear, seeing you shiver from his touch…he never falters, never slips.

It's not just his looks that make him magnetic, it's his intelligence and presence, too. Professor Butler, has worked with legends like Robert De Niro, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Christopher Walken… names that feel larger than life, shaping his craft into something extraordinary.

He's had a successful career too, starring in films that racked up critical acclaim before stepping back to teach. Everyone knows he could've kept going, but he always says he wants to give back to the next generation, and damn do you feel so lucky to be part of it.

In the evening, after your particularly grueling rehearsal, you linger in the studio as the others trickle out, leaving you alone with him. You fidget with the hem of your skirt, the stress of the kiss scene for the finale pressing down on you like a weight.

"Professor Butler?" you ask, your voice softer than usual. "Can I talk to you about something?"

He glances up from the script he's been annotating, his blue eyes warm but curious. "Of course, kid. What's on your mind?"

You take a deep breath, stepping closer. "It's the kiss in Streetcar. I've never done anything like that on stage in front of people and I'm terrified I'll freeze up or… I don't know, look ridiculous." He sets the script down, leaning against the edge of the table, his posture relaxed and attentive.

"Hey, that's normal, first time I had to kiss someone on camera, I was a mess, sweaty palms, the whole deal," he grins, his voice dipping into that smooth, honeyed drawl you love.

His blue eyes spark with excitement, a glint of passion lighting them up as his hands gesture to emphasize his point.

"Here's the trick: it's not about the kiss itself. It's about what's behind it. Blanche isn't just kissing Stanley, she's grasping for control, for survival. You've gotta lean into her desperation, let it fuel you. The kiss is just the punctuation."

You nod, hanging onto his every word, he has a way of making everything sound possible, even poetic. "But what if I'm still nervous? Like, physically shaky?"

He smirks, resting his hand on his chin, a telltale sign he's pleased with your honesty.

"Then use it. Channel that into Blanche. She's a wreck too, right? Let your hands tremble, let your breath catch. Make it real." He pauses, then adds, "You ever see the TV Show Carrie Diaries? Look up the scene where I…well, where my character, kisses his girl in the swimming pool. Might give you some ideas."

Your smile quirks. "Wait, you were in TV shows?"

He chuckles, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

"Yeah, in my early twenties, that's where l got my start. It's all about gaining experience." He says his eyes glancing over you with a quiet intensity.

"Did you ever film a scene that involved more than just a kiss?" you tease, testing the waters, a playful lilt in your voice as you lean in slightly.

His blush deepens, as he rubs the back of his neck, a rare break in his composed exterior. "Well, uh… yes, I have. But even with cameras in your face and twenty crew members around, it still feels personal, and the body responds in ways you don't expect….Acting's funny like that…" He admits, his voice trailing off, then he clears his throat, steering the conversation back. "Anyway, watch it. See how the nerves can work for you."

You leave the studio feeling a rush of excitement and triumph, the honesty of words, and the way he blushed, all rolled into one, swirling in your mind, lingering long after the moment fades.

Later at night, sprawled across your dorm room bed with the lights out, you pull up The Carrie Diaries on your phone. The scene is easy to find, Professor Butlers first name is Austin, and he is much younger in this series, closer to your age but no less captivating.

His toned, tall frame is striking in a pair of black swim trunks, his sun-kissed skin glistening with a casual confidence that pulls you in, his every move radiating a magnetic ease.

You watch the playful banter unfold between he and his co-star, how he tries to kiss her and she pushes back, only for him to pull her into the pool with him.

They play-fight splashing each other in the water until the mood shifts, turning serious. His hands slide around her waist with ease, lifting her to him and drawing her close as he kisses her with a hunger that seems far too real.

The way he holds her, and the slow burn of that kiss becomes etched in your mind.

He's intoxicating, mesmerizing, and it doesn't help the stage fright for your own kissing scene, but it definitely plants another, far more dangerous idea in your mind.

Chapter 2: The Acting Studio

The next day class is upbeat and energetic. Professor Butler has planned a trust exercise: blindfolded confidence work.

You're paired with him for the demo, the rest of the class watching as he guides you through it. He ties a blindfold gently around your eyes, his fingers brushing your temples, and you swear you hear his breath catch for a second.

"Alright, kid," he says, voice low and steady. "I'm gonna lead you. Just listen to me, feel where I am."

You nod, hyper-aware of his presence and as he releases your hands, he guides you across the room, with his voice smooth and steady. "Alright step forward now…" he instructs, and you do, tentatively at first, the deprivation making you hesitate.

"Good, you're doing great," he says, his tone reassuring as you hone in on where he is.

The class fades away narrowing to just you and he as you step forward, your instincts taking over as you follow the sound of his voice. "You're almost there" he encourages.

When your palms press against his chest, you feel the warmth of him seep into your skin and he stops you, his fingers lingering on yours a second too long before he steps back. "You see?" he says, louder for the rest of the class.

"Trust is everything with acting. When you let go, when you give yourself to it, that's when the passion really begins." He says as he pulls off your blindfold.

You catch his gaze for a fleeting second, and there's something unguarded in those blue eyes of his, a flicker of heat that steals your breath, only to vanish just as quickly.

The rest of the session flies by, everyone feeding off of each other's energy with a newfound passion to perform as they build trust, but you're lost in a daze, unable to shake the moment with him.

After class, as you pack up your things he calls you over.

"Hey," he says, his tone casual and light as his eyes search yours. "l've got something to show you. Could help with Streetcar. You free tonight?"

Your heart skips a beat. "Yeah, definitely"You say without hesitation.

"Alright meet me at the studio, eight sharp." He says with his signature smirk, but there is a shadow behind it..something he isn't saying.

You've always been quick to read people, and Professor Butler is no exception.

He is kind, happy in nature, teaching is definitely his element, but you can tell there's something about you as his student that rattles his carefully curated demeanor.

And you, eager, sharp, and with a growing crush on him, are just as reckless and determined enough to uncover exactly what that is.

The clock on your phone reads 7:58 as you push open the heavy door to the acting studio, your nervous pulse thrumming in your chest.

The studio is dim, lit only by a pair of soft spotlights casting a warm glow across the hardwood floors of the stage.

Professor Butler is already there, standing near the center of the space, his sandy brown hair slightly tousled, as if he's been running his hands through it.

He’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt and jeans, a shift from his usual button-downs, and the casual look only amplifies his effortless allure.

When he sees you, his face changes from contemplative to a wide, beaming smile, the kind that lifts the corners of his eyes, and it makes your knees weak.

"There she is," he says, his voice bright with enthusiasm. "Right on time. I've got something set up for you to help with those Streetcar nerves."

He gestures toward a tripod in the corner, a small camera perched on top, its lens pointed at the open space where you'll be working, like a silent witness to whatever is about to unfold.

You step closer, your sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor. "A camera?" you ask, tilting your head.

"Yep," he says, picking up a thin stack of papers from a nearby table and handing them to you. "We're gonna run lines, block it out, and see exactly how you look. Sometimes watching yourself back is the best way to shake those jitters. Plus, I figured a little one-on-one could get you comfortable with the physicality of it."

He says with a small smile, "You good with that?" he asks resting a hand on his chin for a moment, and you feel a familiar heat creep up to your cheeks.

You nod, glancing at the script seeing Blanche and Stanley's most intense exchange, leading right up to the kiss. "Yeah, I'm good. I trust you," you say quickly as your eyes meet…because you do trust him.

There's just something about him…his warmth, his steady presence, that makes you feel safe, even as your pulse races with anxiety.

"Alright then," he says, switching the camera on with a quick tap. "Let's dive in. You're Blanche, I'll take Stanley. We'll start from the top of the scene, right after she's taunting him about his roughness. Ready?"

You take a deep breath, slipping into character as you step into the spotlight. The studio feels smaller now, the air heavy with the weight of the moment.

You toss your head back, channeling Blanche's fragile bravery, and begin: "You think I'd be afraid of you? You think I'd tremble in your big, clumsy hands?"

His posture shifts instantly as he embodies Stanley's tempered energy. He steps closer, his blue eyes darkening with intensity: "You talk a big game, Blanche," he drawls, his voice low and rough, tinged with that southern cadence he's mastered effortlessly. "But I see right through you, all that fancy talk …..it's just noise."

The script calls for him to circle you, and he does, his movements slow and intimidating sizing you up as you try not to falter.

You turn to him, your breath stuttering as he closes the distance sharply, standing at your side.

The air hums between you, the energy so heavy you can feel the heat of his body. Your line comes next, shaky but defiant: "You wouldn't dare touch me. You wouldn't know what to do with a woman like me."

He stops, inches away, towering over you just enough to make your heart pound. His smirk flickers, dangerous and knowing as he delivers Stanley's retort: "Oh, l'd know exactly what to do."He confirms his voice dropping an octave, his gaze locked on yours steady and unyielding.

The script denotes he'll grab your arm, yanking you in close, and he does, his grip firm his fingers squeezing against your skin as he pulls you to him. You fall forward, chest brushing his, and for a moment, you almost forget your lines entirely.

You tilt your chin up, Blanche's desperation bleeding into your own as the scene intensifies. "You're nothing but a brute," you whisper, your voice trembling, your true nerves rising and blurring the line between you and the act.

His hand slides up your arm, resting just below your shoulder, and you feel the heat of his palm through your thin shirt. His breath fans across your face, shallow and quick, and you aren't sure if it’s the aggression of the scene or something else simmering in his blue eyes.

The script denotes to pause here, right before the kiss, a beat of silence where Blanche's resolve crumbles and Stanley takes what he wants.

Your both at a stand still, breaths heavy, the space between you charged with uncertainty. His eyes flick to your lips, then back up, and you can’t tell if it’s planned or not, if this is still the scene or something more.

Your pulse thunders in your ears, and then, without warning, he breaks character and kisses you.

It isn't hesitant or staged. It is full-on, hungry, his mouth crashing onto yours with a force that steals your breath. His lips are soft and warm, parting yours as his tongue sweeps in, tasting you like he's been starving for it.

Your hands fly to his chest, script falling to the floor as your fingers curl into his shirt, kissing him back just as fiercely, a moan slipping out before you can stop it. He groans into your mouth, one hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

You devour each other, the camera long forgotten, the script a distant memory, nothing exists but the heat of his body, and the way he presses himself against you like he can't get enough.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulls back, his palm outstretched to hold you at arm's length. His chest heaves, his lips swollen and tinged a deep shade pink. His eyes are wide with something raw, shock, maybe, or regret.

"Wait," he rasps, his voice rougher than you've ever heard it. "We…shit, I didn't mean…" He drags a hand through his hair, stepping back further, the distance between you cold and abrupt after the fire you'd just shared.

You stand there, dazed, lips tingling, your own breaths staggering. The camera's red light still blinks in the corner, a silent witness to the line you both crossed.

You don't know if it was part of the exercise or if he'd lost himself as much as you did, but one thing is certain, the dynamic in the studio has shifted, and there is no going back.

Professor Butler stumbles toward the camera, his movements rushed, like he is trying to outrun what just happened. He pulls the camera from the tripod, holding it in his hands as he sinks onto the steps at the side of the stage.

His shoulders hunch as he stares at the tiny screen and as you watch him you can't help the small smile that forms across your lips. He's completely undone, his impenetrable guard fractured to pieces letting something real and vulnerable show through, and it thrills you to to no end.

You walk over to him, sitting on the steps close enough that your thigh brushes his. The heat radiating off of him is intoxicating, and you can't resist leaning in, your breath grazing his shoulder as he presses play on the footage.

The screen comes to life, and there you are Blanche and Stanley, raw and captivating. You nailed the scene, every trembling word and desperate glance is perfect, and watching it unfold again sends a fresh wave of heat through you. The way he grabbed you, the way your bodies had collided, it was hotter than you'd even realized, and your breaths quicken as you struggle to stay still sitting so close to him.

The kiss comes up on the tape, and his finger hovers over the pause button. The second your lips met on screen, he hits it, stopping the frame.

His eyes stare ahead, unblinking, as his voice comes out low and hesitant, laced with something dark. "That wasn't supposed to happen," he confesses, almost to himself.

"I'm your teacher. This… this is so fucked up."

He swallows hard, his jaw tight, his hand trembling where it rests on the camera. "You're too good, you know that? Too fucking good, and I-I shouldn't have allowed that to happen."

You freeze, caught between the thrill of his confession and the edge of fear in your gut. But your body betrays you, leaning closer, your voice barely a whisper. "Then why'd you kiss me?"

His head turns toward you, eyes filled with conflict. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he says, his voice hushed as he sets the camera down.

His breaths are heavier now, his chest rising and falling as his blue eyes stare at your lips, then back into your eyes filled with everything unspoken.

Your voice is a shy whisper as you look at him. “I liked it, Professor,” you confess, and he freezes, his breath catching, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.

“You shouldn’t say that,” he chastises, his voice low and firm, but he doesn’t pull away, and that’s all the encouragement you need.

“I mean it,” you say as you look at him, your eyes soft and honest. “I liked it when you kissed me, Professor Butler” You say without hesitation.

His jaw tightens, a war raging behind his eyes, and then he leans in, rushed and desperate, as he claims your lips a second time.

He kisses you with a deep urgent press of his mouth, and it lunleashes all of your desire for him as his lips move against yours with a reckless edge

His hands slide down your sides igniting a throbbing heat that pulses through your core, and you whimper as his palms glide up your thighs, his touch hesitant before turning bolder, his fingers slipping under the hem of your skirt

He grazes the soft fabric of your panties, stroking his fingers between your legs with agonizing precision, and you moan as he presses against your clit sending a jolt through you.

He breaks the kiss, the realization hitting before he can stop it. “I shouldn’t be touching you like this…” he says, his voice a shaky command. “I shouldn’t be doing this to you,” he says, his tone soft and broken, the hesitation overwhelming in his blue eyes as he looks at you unable to pull away.

You don’t tell him to stop… you can’t.

Instead you part your legs wider, a silent invitation letting him in, and he makes a soft, needy sound as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them smoothly down your legs in one swift motion.

Your heart is hammering as he leans closer, his beautiful hand trembling as he presses it between your legs, testing you. “Fuck,” he mutters sliding two fingers along your slick heat. “You’re already so wet,” he whispers, his voice shaky, reverent.

He glides his fingers gently up and down, holding on to the last thread of his restraint as you reach for his wrist.

“Please, Professor Butler,” you beg breathlessly, your pelvis titling up pressing yourself against his hand, and he lets out a desperate groan of surrender as he finally pushes his fingers in, slow and deep.

“You like this?” he breathes, his tone shifting darker, more commanding as his wrist flexes, thrusting his fingers just right and you nod, chest heaving as you try to stay focused.

“Show me,” he whispers, his thumb brushing your clit and you whimper, your hips bucking against his hand, and he watches you, his eyes locked on your face, memorizing every expression, every sound.

“Good girl,” he praises, thrusting deeper, steady and relentless. “You’re so obedient—fuck, you’re killing me.”

Your soft little gasps and whines spur him on, his words spilling out in a fevered rush. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Watching that tape, getting all worked up.” His fingers pump faster, slick and precise, and you moan louder, the sound echoing in the empty studio.

“Fuck I love your voice,”he praises, his tone filled with awe “So full of emotion and range when you act.” He reveals, his fingers making sloppy wet sounds as you feel them deep inside. “But what I’ve really wondered”he confesses, his voice low and desperate. “is how you would sound just like this.”

His words make your whole body tense as your hips twitch taking a pounding from his fingers until your moans come out wild unstoppable.

You crave every part of him now, his touch, his voice, his passion, your desperation rising as you ache for him to claim you completely. Your body writhes, slick and needy, your heart racing with a raw, reckless desire to be his, entirely consumed by the thought of him inside you.

"Professor Butler please," you breathe, clutching his arm. "Please-more—"

"More?" he echoes, his breaths quickening, his eyes sharp and dangerous. "You want to give me everything, don't you?" He coaxes, thrusting his fingers inside, hitting the sweet spot that makes your vision blur as you cry out, trembling.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” he says, his fingers jostling you as they thrust harder inside, “I should’ve known my star student would always give her everything," he praises, his voice a low rasp.

His filthy encouragement pushes you to the brink and you moan loudly enough that he covers your mouth, his fingers plunging into your core as you choke back sobs against his palm.

“Be a good girl and come for me,” he commands, his breaths fast and ragged.

Your body seizes, a rush of heat flooding through you as you come hard, squirting all over his fingers in a slick mess.

His hand over your mouth stifles your pleasurable moans, but the whimpers slip out anyway, soft and needy as he works you through it, his fingers relentless until you’re shivering and delirious.

He slowly pulls his hand back releasing you and his fingers are glistening with your slick, then he looks at you, his chest heaving, eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief.

You sit there, panting, skirt hiked up, legs wide, a dazed expression on your face as you see the camera lying forgotten beside him, the frozen kiss still on the screen, a memory now surpassed by the real thing.

You are hopelessly in love with him now, your mentor, your teacher, Professor Butler, the man who's just finger-fucked you on the edge of a stage.

Your breaths are shaky exhales, as your body recovers from the intensity of what he's done, and when you glance at him, your heart stutters.

He stares at his slicked fingers like they've betrayed him and he wipes them clean on his jeans, you quickly fumble to find your panties, pulling them back up over your thighs, feeling the wet fabric press against your skin.

He reaches for the camera with a jerky motion.

"I have to delete this," he says, voice low and rough, tinged with something heavy…guilt, maybe, or fear. "This can't… it can't exist. If anyone sees-"

"No!" you blurt, lurching forward to grab his arm. Your voice is desperate, pleading, and you don't care how it sounds. "Please Professor, don't. I-I want it. I want you to keep it." Your eyes lock on his, wide and pleading, and you see the conflict across his face. "It's ours. No one else has to know." You say shakily.

He pauses, his thumb hovering over the delete button, and for a long moment, he just stares at the screen. His blue eyes are stormy, torn between reason and whatever irresistible hold you have over him.

Finally, he exhales sharply, turning the screen off. "Fine," he mutters, relenting. "But it stays between us. Locked away. You hear me?"

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips as relief floods through you. "Yeah. I hear you."

He stands abruptly, gathering the tripod and script pages in a rush, like he needs to move to shake off the weight of it all.

You follow suit, tugging your skirt down and collecting your bag, your mind spinning with the memory of his fingers, his voice, the way he made you come on the side of the stage.

As you leave the studio together, the cool night air hits your face, but it does nothing to dim the heat you feel for each other.

"Good night," he says softly, his voice lingering in the air between you. "Good night," you reply, your tone dreamy, and drifting as a small smile forms across your lips.

You walk back to your dorm in a haze, every step light and floaty, your thoughts consumed by him, your body still on a high from his touch.

After your shower you lay in bed with the memory of him and a strange calm settles over you.

Maybe he will fuck you.

He could have tonight but he didn’t. Maybe that was the line he wouldn't cross, but you smile to yourself, a quiet, private thing.

You’ve already gone further than he wanted to go, and that alone feels like a victory. But you want for more. You want him entirely, you want him to lose control again when he takes you, and that idea alone makes your pulse race all over again.

Chapter 3: Restraint

The next morning, you arrive at class, your eyes meeting Professor Butler’s briefly, a fleeting spark passing between you before you tuck into your row, heart racing from the memory of last night.

The class is a test of restraint, and Professor Butler stands at the front, playing it cool—too cool. His posture is stiff, his voice tense as he outlines the day’s lesson: subtext in physicality, how to convey longing without words.

He wears a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his sandy brown hair is tamed, but you notice the tension in his jaw, the way he doesn’t move his hands as much when he speaks.

You, on the other hand, are a glowing mess, cheeks flushed, eyes smitten and burning right through him. Every time he glances your way, you catch the flicker of his indecision: look away or hold your gaze? He can’t decide, and it thrills you to no end.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together. “We’re pairing up. I want you to pick a moment of unspoken tension and play it out. Less dialogue, more movement.” His eyes sweep the room, landing on you, and your heart leaps.

“You,” he says, pointing and you practically jump out of your seat eager to be his partner, but then he nods to someone else behind you.

“And Jake. You two are together. I have something special planned for you.”

Your excitement fades, nerves creeping in as your co-star Jake, the tall sophomore with dark curls and a shy smile, stands up.

You like Jake well enough, but he isn’t Professor Butler, and the thought of performing with anyone else after last night feels wrong.

He looks at both of you, handing you scripts. “You two are going to play out the kissing scene, emphasizing the subtext in physicality.”

You and Jake nod standing to face each other, and Professor Butler circles you both to watch, just like he did last night, and his presence becomes a gravitational pull you can’t ignore.

“Start closer,” he instructs, his voice steady but edged. “Let the space between you tell the story.”

You try to focus, standing inches from Jake, acting out the dialogue mirroring last night’s intensity, but your pace is lagging, slow and distant in an awkward orbit.

Your mind is elsewhere, on Professor Butler’s hands, on how his lips felt against yours last night and your energy becomes soft, dream like, distracted.

Jake, picking up on the exercise, steps closer, his hand brushing your arm, pulling you to him gently leading right up to the kiss.

Your eyes lock and both of your faces break into wide, giddy grins, your shyness eating you alive, and just as quickly Jake leans in giving you a soft chaste kiss, it’s part of the improv but it jolts you all the same.

“Stop,” Professor Butler says, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. Everyone freezes, heads turning, but his eyes are fixed on you and Jake, his hands on his hips, his composure cracking.

“That’s not it…You’re rushing the tension, build it, make her want it, don’t just jump to the kiss.” His tone is sharp toward Jake, then his gaze lands on you, a flash of jealousy betraying his cool facade.

You bite back a smile, your lips still tingling from Jake’s kiss, but it’s Professor Butler’s reaction that lights you up.

He looks rattled, his guilt surging back to the surface, as if seeing you kiss a boy your own age is supposed to fix something, to erase the line he crossed last night.

Maybe he hopes it will snap him out of whatever this is, remind him you belong with someone like Jake, not him.

But it doesn’t work. You feel it in the way his gaze lingers, the way his hand pulls into a fist at his side like he wants to pull you away.

Jake shuffles back, his grin widening, muttering a quiet “Sorry” under his breath, but you don’t respond, too busy watching Professor Butler as he steps back slowly pacing, trying to regain control.

Your cheeks glow hotter, your smitten eyes still locked on him, and you know, kissing Jake hasn’t fixed anything….It only makes you want Professor Butler even more.

The rest of the class resumes as you rehearse, but the air between you and Professor Butler is heavy with unspoken tension.

The studio empties out, the chatter of your classmates fading into the hall as they file through the door, but you linger behind, moving slowly, like a cat stalking its prey.

Your bag hangs loosely over your shoulder, and you let it drop to the floor, your eyes tracking Professor Butler as he busies himself at the front of the room, stacking scripts and avoiding your gaze.

He wants you gone, you sense it in the tight set of his shoulders, the way he keeps his back to you so long. But he doesn’t say it, and that’s enough to keep you there, toying with him.

“Professor Butler?” you call, your voice soft and laced with intent you can’t resist. You step closer, your sneakers silent against the floor, stopping just a few feet from him. “Can I ask you something about the exercise?”

He stiffens, his hands pausing mid-motion, and when he turns, his blue eyes are guarded, flickering with something he tries to bury. “Yeah, sure,” he says, precise and careful. “What’s up, kid?”

You tilt your head coyly in a move to draw attention. “I just… I feel off with Jake. Like I can’t connect. You see it, right?” You take another step, closing the gap, and his breath hitches faintly. “I keep thinking about last night. How it feels… different.”

His jaw tightens, and he crosses his arms in a flimsy shield. “Last night was a mistake,” he says, low and firm, but his eyes dart to your lips for a split second before snapping back up. “We’re not doing that again. You should go.”

You don’t move. Instead, you smile…just a little, just enough to nudge him further. “You sure?” You ask peering up at him innocently. “You didn’t seem to think it was a mistake when you had your fingers inside me.”

The words hang in the air, bold and unapologetic, and you can see the crack in his resolve, the way his hands squeeze his biceps.

“Stop it,” he snaps, uncrossing his arms as he steps back, but his voice wavers, betraying him. “You don’t know what you’re playing with. I’m your teacher. This—” He gestures between you, frantic. “This can’t happen. I don’t want it.”

But you see it, the bulge straining against his jeans, the way his chest rises and falls too fast. He’s lying, and you both know it.

You step closer, bolder now, your fingers slowly tucking into his belt loop to pull him in closer “Then why am I still here Professor Butler?” You ask your voice laced with a playful challenge.. “Why haven’t you kicked me out already?” You say staring into his eyes.

He exhales sharply, a sound of frustration and surrender, and then he moves fast, grabbing your wrist firm and pining your hand against the desk beside you.

“You’re becoming such a fucking menace,” he grits, leaning down his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your cheek. “You think you can just push me like this and I won’t break?”

Your heart races, exhilaration flooding as he towers over you, his control slipping. “I want you to,” you whisper, eyes locked on his.

That does it—He lets go of your wrist only to spin you around, pressing your hips firm against the desks edge, his body crowding yours from behind.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he mutters, and his hands are already on you sliding up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher. His fingers brush your panties, and he groans, low and guttural. “Damn it, you’re already soaked again.”

You gasp, arching into him wanting more, but he pulls back, leaving you in place as he goes to lock the studio door with a sharp click, the sound echoing in the empty space.

When he returns, his cock is hard and strained against his jeans, undeniable now as he presses it against you caging you in. “Is this what you want?” he rasps, his hand slipping between your legs, tugging your panties aside. “Me losing it? Taking you right here?”

“Yes,” you breathe, trembling under his touch and his fingers tease you, circling but not dipping in yet, still fighting himself, even now, as his free hand grips the table like it can anchor him.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, almost to himself, but then he gives in, his two fingers sliding in to you, slow and deep, stretching you with a precision that makes your knees buckle.

“Professor Butler it feels so good,” you cry out, your voice filled with lust as he thrusts steady and deliberate.

“You’re driving me insane, you know that? All damn class, with those eyes on me.”he grits.

You moan, soft and desperate, your hands bracing against the table as he works you open nice and slow.

“More Professor Butler please,” you beg, and he complies, his pace quickening, fingers curling just right, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down.

“Shit,” he curses, his control unraveling as your little noises fill the room. “You’re gonna take this aren’t you? Everything I give you.”

“Yes” you moan and his free hand slides up your back, pressing you down until your chest meets the table, and he leans over you, his hard cock grinding against your hip through his jeans.

“I try to stay away,” he says, pumping his fingers harder, faster, his voice dark and desperate. “I try to be good. But you—you just keep begging for it.”

You whimper, lost in him, your body tightening as he pushes you close to the brink, until you can’t hold back anymore, his fingers, his words, the weight of him pinning you down, it’s too much.

“Come for me,” he orders, as his lips brush your ear, and you do, climaxing on his fingers with a cry you can’t stifle, your walls clenching tight as pleasure rips through you.

He slows but doesn��t pull away, his breathing heavy as he feels you tremble beneath him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, easing his fingers out, slick and glistening. He steps back running his other hand through his hair, his cock still straining, untouched. “Get your stuff,” he says, voice hoarse but softer now, the fight drained out of him. “We’re done here.”

You straighten, dizzy and glowing, your love for him a wild, reckless thing as you pull up your painted and adjust your skirt. He takes advantage, sure, but you want it, you push him to it, and the thrill of it lingers as you grab your bag, casting him one last smitten glance before slipping out the door.

At night in your dorm room you lay sprawled across your bed, utterly wrecked. The play A Streetcar Named Desire is only a day away, and your mind feels like it’s been dipped in jelly, sluggish and sweet.

All you can think about is Professor Butler, his hands, his voice, the way he lost it and pinned you across a desk and made you come in the acting studio. Now the only thing on your mind is how badly you want him to fuck you until you see stars.

Chapter 4: Just a Girl

The next morning, you wake with a lingering smile, your body still on a high from Professor Butler’s touch, his voice echoing in your mind.

You head to the theater, heart pounding to see him again, to catch that spark in his blue eyes that makes your heart flutter with excitement.

The final rehearsal for A Streetcar Named Desire is today, the play set for tomorrow evening, and the pressure is undeniable.

You arrive early enough to see only few crew members adjusting props and Professor Butler is already there, standing near the stage, clipboard in hand. He’s in a sepia button-down, sleeves rolled up, but his posture is tense, his jaw set in a way that makes your stomach knot.

You approach slowly, a smile on your lips, “Good morning Professor Butler,” you say sweetly, your voice laced with intimacy.

He cuts you off turning sharply, his blue eyes cold, devoid of the warmth you crave. “No,” he says, his voice low and biting, a harsh edge you’ve never heard directed at you.

“We’re not doing this here.” He says his eyes darting over the crew members working dutifully. “Yesterday was another mistake ..a fucking stupid one—and it’s not happening again.” His words land like a slap, each syllable intensified as you stare at him.

“You’re my student. I’m your teacher. That’s it. Get it through your head.” You freeze, breath catching, heart plummeting, because the rejection stings, raw and unexpected.

“Professor Butler, please you don’t mean it,” you whisper, voice trembling, stepping closer, desperate to bridge the gap. “I want to be with you… you can’t just—”

“I can,” he snaps, stepping back, his tone brutal, blue eyes flashing with a mix of anger and guilt. “And I will. This stops now. You’re a kid, chasing something you don’t understand. I’m not your boyfriend, and I sure as hell am not yours to play with.” He voices, trying to keep his tone low. “Focus on the play. Be a good student. Leave it at that.”

His words shatter you, your chest tightening as tears prick your eyes. You want him so badly the ache hurts like a physical pain, he’s shutting you out, his denial now a wall you can’t breach.

You open your mouth to argue, to beg, but his glare silences you, “Go,” he says, turning to his clipboard, dismissing you.

You stumble into a seat, crossing your arms and sinking down, legs shaky, heart hammering. The cast trickles in, their chatter a distant hum as you open your script, trying to anchor yourself.

You throw yourself into, memorizing every nuance of Blanche’s lines, every stage cue, determined to prove your worth to him, to channel the pain into your performance.

Your eyes keep drifting to Professor Butler, standing at the front, directing the cast with precision and each time you look, tears well, stinging as they threaten to spill. His rejection cuts deeper than you expected, a wound that deepens with every glance.

Rehearsal begins, and you force yourself to focus, running scenes with Jake, whose timid acting feels like a shadow compared to Professor Butlers intensity.

You pour everything into Blanche, her fragility, her longing, her desperation, using your turmoil to fuel her. Your voice trembles authentically, your movements bold yet brittle, and the cast notices, their whispers of praise and awe lifting through the theater.

Jake grips your arm for the kiss scene, his touch gentle, and you flinch, remembering Professor Butlers firm grasp. Your eyes flick to him, standing in the wings, watching you with a neutral expression, and you catch a fleeting crack the tensing of his jaw, a shadow in his eyes. It’s not enough to undo his words, but it sparks a flicker of hope, he still wants you.

You push through the scene allowing Jake to kiss you deeper making your performance raw and electrifying driven by the need to show Professor Butler what you’re capable of, to make him see you.

When you pull away from the the kiss you glance over at Professor Butler but he’s focused elsewhere, intentionally avoiding your kiss with Jake, and the tears well again your vision blurring.

You blink them back, refusing to let them fall, channeling the hurt into Blanche’s unraveling. The final run-through ends, and the cast applauds, Jake whispering, “You’re incredible,” but it’s hollow without Professor Butlers approval.

As the theater clears, you linger, script clutched to your chest, eyes drifting to Professor Butler as he gathers notes, speaking to another student. You want to talk to him, to understand why he’s pushing you away when you both know the truth, but his words—“I’m not yours”—echo, rooting you in place.

A single tear escapes, trailing down your cheek; you wipe it away quickly, heart heavy with longing. Tomorrow’s the play, and you’ll be Blanche, flawless and fierce, but tonight, you’re just a girl broken by the man you love, acting through the pain, his rejection a fire that both burns and drives you.

Chapter 5: Muse

You arrive to the theater for premiere night of A Streetcar Named Desire and the air is filled with frantic energy. Backstage is a whirlwind of organized chaos as crew members dart about, adjusting velvet curtains and testing flickering stage lights.

A rack of costumes sways as a wardrobe assistant rolls them past, while props like a poker table and a tarnished brass lamp are shuffled into place from the prop warehouse.

You spot Professor Butler near the front of the stage, clipboard in hand, giving directives with calm authority.

He’s in a blue button-down, sleeves rolled up, sandy brown hair catching the glow of the theater lights, his blue eyes sharp yet distant.

He looks stunning, visionary, commanding, and you try not to get distracted as you head to wardrobe, your heart beat quickening despite the ache of his rejection.

In the cramped dressing room, you slip into Blanche’s costume, a delicate, cream-colored chiffon gown, the soft fabric clinging to your frame, paired with pearl earrings that evoke her fragile elegance.

Jake, as Stanley, wears a tight, stained white t-shirt, slightly torn, with worn jeans that hug his tall frame embodying Stanley’s raw edge. You exchange nervous smiles in the wardrobe room, the weight of the performance settling in.

Sitting in front of a bulb-lit vanity, you powder your face, the warm glow framing your reflection as your eyes drift to the mirror’s edge landing on Professor Butler in the background.

He’s been watching you, and as your gazes lock in the reflection, his blue eyes are filled with a mix of longing and restraint that silently echoes your own.

The moment holds, heavy and restless, until he looks away, jaw tightening as he busies himself reviewing prop placements with a stagehand intentionally avoiding your stare.

You weakly smile, eyes welling with tears as you understand the forbidden love you have for him. You love him fiercely… recklessly… but it’s a secret you promise to keep locked away, suffering in silence as the theater bustles around you.

You blink back the tears, focusing on your reflection, channeling the ache into Blanche’s desperate soul, determined to make tonight’s performance flawless.

When the curtains rise on stage, you’re a different person. No nerves, no hesitation, just Blanche DuBois, aching and luminous beneath the spotlight.

You meld into her like she’s always been inside you, waiting to be let out. Every tremble in your voice, every subtle gesture and glance is embedded with meaning. You pour everything into the performance, the longing, the desperation, the heartbreak.

When you argue with Jake, the theater is silent , not a whisper from the audience. And when you kiss him full on confident and alive—it’s seamless, charged with a kind of raw power you didn’t know you had.

At curtain call, you all hold hands and bow as the crowd erupts the applause crashing around you as the focused spotlights warms your skin, bight and dizzying.

As you rise from your final bow, you glance side stage and see Professor Butler there, just beyond the curtain. His smile is small, and real, a sense of pride flickering in his misty blue eyes, and it lights you up brighter than the stage lights ever could.

As the curtain falls, cheers and whistles echo across the theater and you head backstage into the celebratory chaos.

Ecstatic classmates hug and laugh shouting praises after a successful performance. Jake touches your shoulder, beaming. “You were absolutely amazing,” he says, and you glow, not just from the applause, not even from the kiss, but knowing it was your talent brought out from what Professor Butler sparked in you, the fire still burning bright inside.

As the chaos settles, your eyes scan the backstage area until you find him. Professor Butler is leaning near the stage door, his arms crossed, a fond smile curving his lips.

You approach slowly, the chiffon of your gown whispering with each step as the adrenaline surging inside you becomes something more.

His eyes soften as you near, the look in them doing something dangerous to your heart as you feel that spark, that pull, knowing what you want as you gaze up at him.

“You were incredible out there,” he says, his voice low and intimate. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

His words wrap around you, warm and private, and your cheeks flush under his gaze. The two of you stare at each other, caught in the moment, heavy with heat and anticipation, both of you aching to touch—but knowing you can’t. Not here. Not with people still darting past, the noise of the post-show adrenaline still filling the air.

You make a small daring gesture, your hand drifting toward his belt loop, fingers tucking in subtly at his side in a silent request for more.

His eyes flick down, a smile forming across his lips, and he gently takes your wrist, carefully pulling it back. “Not here,” he says, soft and steady.

He tilts his head, his eyes glinting with a question as he nods toward the hallway with an invitation.

“Come with me,” he says, his tone gentle but sure.

“Okay,” you whisper, your mind racing with anticipation.

You follow him, heart pounding, as he leads you through the backstage corridors, each hallway quieter than the last, until it’s just the two of you.

He stops at a large nondescript door, pulling out a set of keys, his movements quick as he unlocks it, and you both step inside, revealing the college’s prop and set storage warehouse.

It’s massive, high ceilings with rows upon rows of props and set pieces. Painted backdrops hang like giant tapestries, Grecian columns from past plays lining the wall with sets of knight’s armor.

Racks of period costumes in plastic wrap line one section, hats and crowns perched on shelves above, and a gilded throne from Hamlet sits beside a velvet-draped bed from Romeo and Juliet

You’re speechless walking in, your eyes scanning around every infamous theater prop before landing on a large scaled ship for the Odyssey.

Professor Butler closes the door behind you and locks it, the latch click echoing in the silence.

His eyes darken as he steps closer, his voice low and reverent. “I couldn’t stop thinking about us,” he confesses, each word heavy with longing.

“The way you channeled your heartbreak and commanded that stage tonight, I understood everything you felt about me,”he whispers, and before you can respond he tilts your chin up, his mouth claiming yours in a slow passionate kiss.

He gently backs you against a pillar, grasping your waist. “I can’t do this anymore,” he pleads between kisses, his large hands roaming your body, tugging your chiffon gown up. “Pretending I don’t want you is killing me,” he whispers, his hard cock pressing against you through his pants and you softly moan, fingers sliding up his neck to pull him closer.

“I want you too,” you confess, your voice shaking with needs as you look in his eyes, and that’s all it takes.

His fingers reach your hips, sliding your panties down, and he turns you around, bending you over a weathered table from a play, his hand sliding between your legs, teasing your slick entrance.

“My perfect little muse,” he praises, and you wait, expecting his fingers to slide in, but instead he sinks to his knees behind you almost worshipfully. “Let me satisfy you,”

You gasp, voice shaky as his large hands cup your ass, his tongue lapping at your core and pushing in with a warm probing glide. He hums against you, and the vibration making you moan, until he nips at your sensitive skin, drawing a sharp yelp.

“You taste so good to me,” he praises, his voice thick with lust. “I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he whispers, and he dives back in, his tongue swirling in circles, teasing your entrance before plunging slowly back in.

He eats you out until slick drips down your thighs, and you choke back sobs, your core throbbing under his relentless mouth.

“Fuck, you’re getting so wet,” he groans, and he wipes his mouth along your thigh, pulling back as he pushes two fingers in, stretching you wide with steady, precise thrusts.

You whimper as he gently flicks your clit, his fingers scissoring inside as your body rocks against the table, chasing the torturous pleasure.

“Don’t stop! …Please keep going… I’m so close!” you plead, hips pressing back to offer more and his fingers curl, hitting a spot that blurs your vision, pumping relentlessly until you lose yourself, back arching.

Your moans grow raw, desperate, your body trembling as you come, a shuddering cry escaping your throat as your walls clench tight on his fingers feeling the surge of release flood through you.

He slowly glides his fingers out as he stands, and you shudder, gasping, “Please…give me more, Professor Butler,” your voice threadbare as you peek back at him, and you tremble when you see he’s unbuttoning his pants.

“I’m going to give you everything this time,” he promises, a grin on his lips as his hands shove his pants down just enough to let his hard cock spring free, thick and heavy, daunting in its size.

You gasp, eyes widening, a mix of awe and nervousness and he places his palm on your back. He keeps you in place as he nudges the tip against you, the blunt pressure slipping making your core clench instinctively.

“Fuck, you’re gonna be so tight on me,” he whispers, his voice dripping with lust.

He pushes in, slow at first, the stretch immediate, overwhelming, a sharp ache that has your feet kicking out.

“Shh shh take it all the way in,” he soothes, his voice low and patient, “You’re my star student I’m giving you everything you wanted,“ he says one hand gripping your hip as the other keeps you steady.

You whine, your senses overwhelmed, a raw, keening wail erupting from your throat as his cock stretches you beyond belief, your feet kicking out against the floor

The sensation becomes too much, a delicious pressure that narrows your senses as he settles in, and he claps a hand over your mouth, muffling you completely unaware you’ve been making high pitched crying sounds the entire time.

“Fuck your little sounds are breaking me,”he rasps, his voice thick with lust.

He works himself deeper with several thrusts, each one harder than the last until your squirming, half-fighting it, half-taking it, your body resisting even as you crave more.

“Doing so good for me…such a good girl” he praises, slipping two fingers into your mouth to soothe you, and you give in to his encouragement, sucking on them, swirling your tongue and making him buck his hips even harder as you moan in pleasure.

“Fuck,” he curses, his restraint slipping as he starts to thrust faster, his need taking over as his thighs clap against yours with rhythmic force, the sounds echoing in the warehouse with your moans and stifled whimpers.

He slips his fingers from your mouth as your moans fade into silence, the pressure so deep and relentless, you can’t speak , you can’t even think, all of your senses consumed by his cock, and how well he fucks you with unrestrained awe.

“Such a good girl, taking me so well,” he says, his hand sliding between your legs to circle your clit. The wet squishing sounds are slick and messy until you can’t hold back anymore and you to come, squeezing tight against his cock.

He pulls out abruptly, the sudden emptiness leaving you aching, and his hands find your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulse hammering, as he carries you to the large stage bed.

Its canopy looms in the dim light, a silent witness to performances past, and he sets you on the edge, the bed tall enough to allow him to stand between your legs.

“You’re so damn pretty like this,” he praises, his voice low and reverent as he hitches your legs around his waist. “I’m gonna let you feel me all of me now,” he says, his hand cupping your jaw and he kisses you, soft and slow, nudging his cock against you, then pushes forward, filling you all over again.

The slow glide of his cock stretches in your pelvis deep, the aching fullness making your body quiver involuntarily as your back arcs overwhelmed by his size.

Your hands cling to his neck, anchoring yourself as he builds a steady rhythm, and his palms grip behind your knees, spreading you wide.

Your eyes lock, yours wide and pleading, his eyes dark with lust as his hips clap between your thighs, the force slamming your deepest point, your moans desperate feeling your clit throb as he wrecks you.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, feeling you take his cock deep, each thrust sending a jolt through your core on the verge of another orgasm.

Yes, Professor Butler!” you cry out, your voice trembling with need.

“Austin,” he responds, his voice a low, breathless plea, letting you call him by his first name for the first time, and the intimacy makes you fall for him all over again.

“Yes, Austin,” you say softly, voice pleading , looking up at him with worshipful eyes, and he groans, a deep, primal sound, holding your legs tighter, snapping his hips, harder seeing the the way you’ll do anything for him.

“Do you know how many times I watched our little tape?” he asks, his thrusts hammering fast now. “You know how many times I’ve wanted you like this?” he breathes, and you’re a feeble mess your moans rising higher, knowing you’re about to come.

“I wanted you all along, I wanted you to be mine,” he says, his tone resolute . “I won’t fight it anymore.”his confesses, his voice breaking and he kisses you, tongue diving in, as he delivers his most devastating thrusts, your core throbbing, as your eyes fall shut feeling the indescribable pleasure.

You pull from the kiss, unable to breathe, unable to think, begging, “Please…please,” not even knowing what you’re begging for. Then it hits, your body tensing as you orgasm, whimpering as a surge of your release soaks him, his thrusts rebounding faster, tighter.

He groans, breathing ragged, his cock twitching as he makes soft sounds of pleasure. “Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, pulling out abruptly.

He holds the base of his cock, stroking it as he guides you down onto your knees before pressing the tip to your tongue.

“Take it all for me,” he instructs, and you nod as he slowly pushes it in, guiding his cock and smoothly filling your mouth with a warm, weight that makes your jaw stretch to accommodate him. You seal your lips around it gently sucking trying and draw him in deeper and he groans in pleasure l.

“So pretty…such a good girl…satisfying me like this .” he praises and your knees press together, unable to withstand the surge of arousal from pleasing him.

He thrusts gently, the wet, slurping sounds amplifying each slick glide in your mouth as you whimper around his cock, the vibrations sending shivers up his spine.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, his voice strained. You look up into his eyes silently begging, and in that moment he comes, warm and slick on your tongue.

His voice is tense as he groans, slowing his thrusts to release more into your mouth, and he cups your jaw, guiding you to taste the last of him before pulling out.

His thumb wipes the corner of your mouth as he tucks his cock away, and he pulls you up into his arms letting you rest against his chest, your hearts pounding. You look up at him wide-eyed, and breathless, soft sighs escaping as you tremble.

He gazes down at you, his eyes softening as he traces his thumb along your cheek, “I can’t be without you now,” he says, his voice low and heartfelt, filled with unspoken promise.

You smile, heart beat slowing as you place your hands behind his neck pulling him down into a kiss. “I can’t be without your either,” you whisper against his lips.

He smiles, taking you into another kiss, and his fingers weave softly into your hair, holding the back of your neck. “My star student” he says with pride.

His thumbs slide down your neck as he pulls back slightly. “I’ll find a way to make this work, I promise,” he says, his gaze steady and affectionate.

“I know,” you respond, your eyes filled with trust. He looks at you a moment longer, as if envisioning a shared future before he smiles kissing you again,slow and tender.

You wanted him: your mentor, your teacher, your lover,

—and now you had him.

END 🎭

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suppermariobroth · 1 year ago

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In Super Mario Odyssey, crates exist outside of time.

In early versions of the game (1.0 or 1.1), a glitch exists whereby capturing a stack of Goombas that are touching a Life-Up Heart results in time stopping. All movement except for Mario's own is suspended and almost no interaction with objects is possible.

Top: note how Mario is unable to interact with NPCs while time has stopped. Not only do they not have collision, but all of their functionality is also removed. This applies to the vast majority of objects.

Bottom: however, crates and cardboard boxes are an exception. When Mario performs a Ground Pound on them, they still react to it and become destroyed even though time has stopped, showing that they are fundamentally different from other objects.

Main Blog | Twitter | Patreon | Small Findings | Source: YouTube user "MatyasYT"

#super mario odyssey #nintendo

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justtr · 5 months ago

Text

✰ ✰ ✰

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Agora hills by Doja Cat ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

The house on the hill was a refuge, almost invisible from the winding road leading to it. Surrounded by tall trees and the whisper of the wind, it seemed to exist outside of time, away from the world you were trying to escape. The silence of the place wasn’t cold or distant.. it was a comforting void, the kind of stillness that could only be found when you knew no one was watching.

Billie had found it months ago, a secluded corner where no one could interrupt you. “Our place,” she once called it, though she never needed to say it out loud for you to understand. Every detail spoke of her character: the wide couch at the center of the living room, the open windows letting in the pale glow of the moon, and the stack of vinyl records next to a vintage turntable that seemed to have been waiting decades just for her hands.

When you arrived that night, she was already there. Sitting on the edge of the wooden table in front of the window, one leg crossed over the other, her loose hair cascading over her face. Her black shirt hung slightly off one shoulder, and her baggy pants revealed a sliver of skin when she shifted her leg impatiently.

She didn’t say a word when you walked in. Her eyes swept over you from head to toe, as if she were taking in something she already knew by heart but could never tire of admiring. There was something about her gaze that always unraveled you: that glint of playfulness mixed with authority, as though control naturally belonged to her.

You closed the door behind you, but before you could take another step, Billie had already crossed the space between you. Her hand settled gently on the curve of your waist, guiding you toward her with a firmness that didn’t require words to be understood.

The air in the room grew heavier, as if her presence filled it entirely. The way her fingers traced small circles on your hip was deliberate, a touch that didn’t rush but seemed to claim you. Billie never asked for permission, but her touch was always an invitation, never a demand.

You leaned against the table as she tilted forward, her warm breath brushing against your neck. Her lips didn’t touch you right away; they lingered, playing with the boundary of what you knew she would do. It was her way of reminding you that here, in this hidden house, the rules were hers.

The window behind her cast her silhouette against the night, and the contrast between the darkness and the faint glow of the lamp on the table made every movement she made feel slower, more intentional. When her lips finally met yours, it was a soft collision at first, almost exploratory, but the way her hands slid up your back turned it into something deeper, more urgent.

The wood of the table creaked as she effortlessly lifted you, placing you on the edge as if that was the only place you were meant to be. She held you firmly, her hands large and warm, finding the perfect balance between strength and tenderness. Every movement she made was a statement, a reminder that here, away from prying eyes and judgment, you were entirely hers.

Her fingers grazed the hem of your shirt, barely touching the exposed skin as her eyes locked onto yours, silently asking if you were ready to follow her anywhere. But you already knew the answer. In this secret space, in this house on the hill, the outside world didn’t exist.

A smile instinctively spread across your face, born from the touch of her lips against yours.

Billie noticed it immediately. Her hands, firm and confident, guided you toward the nearby couch. The cold leather contrasted with the warmth Billie radiated as she positioned herself above you, her arms on either side of your head, claiming the space with a mix of authority and tenderness.

She watched you as if she wanted to capture every little expression on your face, as if time itself was hers to command. Her hair grazed your cheek, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. Her lips returned to yours, this time exploring you slowly-but not as a question. It was a statement, a reminder of what was hers.

Her mouth traveled to your neck, and your eyes widened slightly as you felt her find that sensitive spot she always knew how to reach.

You took a breath and murmured “the windows...are open”

Billie separates her lips from the tattoo on your neck to give a mocking look.. her expression was refined by the soft light of the lamp.. her shadow extending behind her made her look even more authoritative* “It's not like you mind if someone sees you “ she says near your earlobe.. licking the skin behind it so painfully slow.. it made your skin crawl and you closed your eyes fighting the urge to let out some sound. reckless for just her words”

Her fingers drifted lower, teasing along your stomach, your sides, always avoiding the place you wanted them most. She could feel your breath hitching in your ear, could feel you trembling with unspoken demands. She smirked, enjoying the power she held over you in these moments.

She pulls you close, one hand tangled in your hair while the other wraps around your waist. Her lips are demanding, assertive, as she kisses you with all the pent-up desire she's been holding back. The couch cushions shift beneath you both as she moves.

She breaks the kiss only to trail her lips down your neck, sucking and biting gently. Her hand in your hair tugs slightly, tilting your head to the side to give her better access. She grinds her hips against yours, the heat between your legs building once again.

She quickly undresses, her hands moving urgently as she reveals the strap-on already secured around her waist. She doesn't bother with anything else, just hikes your skirt up and pushes your panties to the side, the cold plastic of the cock pressing against your already wet folds.

With a swift, dominant movement, she pushes you down onto the couch, your back flat against the cushions. She climbs on top of you, her strong thighs caging you in.

She grabs the hem of your shirt and rips it open, sending buttons flying everywhere. She discards the ruined garment and reaches behind you to unclasp your bra, tossing it aside. "So pretty," she murmurs, her eyes roaming over your bare chest. "So fucking pretty."

“did you just rip my shirt” you say, leaning on your elbows and looking at her with your eyebrow raised

She smirks at you, unapologetic. Her hands move to your skirt, gripping the fabric tightly. With a sharp tug, she tears it open, leaving you bare except for your soaked panties. "You should've worn something easier to remove, love."

You're going to put it together button by button * you say, lying back down and pulling her by the neck for a heated kiss.

She settles between your legs, the cold metal of the harness pressing against your inner thigh. She kisses your forehead again, a gentle, reassuring gesture that belies the intensity of her gaze as she looks up at you. With a slow, deliberate motion, she aligns the strap-on with your entrance.

She can feel your body trembling beneath her hands, can see the pleading in your eyes even though you refuse to make another sound. She slowly, torturously, pushes forward, her cock stretching you open.

frustrated and desperate, you tilt your hips up, demanding the rhythm of the movements even knowing well that you were in no position to demand anything. She smirks at your desperate tilt, loving how you try to take control even when you're the one begging beneath her. She sets a maddeningly slow pace, pulling out almost completely before thrusting back in, teasing you with shallow strokes. "Look at you,"

She leans down to capture your bottom lip between her teeth, giving it a sharp tug before soothing the sting with her tongue. Her hips snap forward, filling you completely and stealing your breath. She does it again and again, each thrust harder than the last, each one driving you closer to the edge. “Billie-“

She cuts you off with another kiss, this one more intense, more demanding. Her hands grip your hips tightly as she pounds into you, the sound of the strap-on filling the room. "Shut up," she growls against your mouth. "Just shut up and take it."

Continuing her aggressive rhythm, she kisses you to prevent any more protests. Her tongue pushes into your mouth, dominating and possessive. Occasionally she breaks the kiss to deliver orders: "Hands on the couch," demanding that you submit fully to her control.

Her strong grip keeps your wrists secured above your head as she continues the intense pace, each thrust hitting exactly the right spot. She breaks away from your mouth to whisper in your ear: "Look at you... taking my cock so beautifully..."

She can feel you getting closer, your muscles tightening around her. She grins wickedly, knowing she has complete control over your pleasure, your body writhing beneath her. "That's right," she whispers in your ear, speeding up her thrusts.

She reaches between your legs, her fingers finding your sensitive clit and rubbing it in tight circles as she continues to pound into you. As you come down from your high, she slows her thrusts, eventually stopping entirely. She pulls out slowly, the strap-on slipping free from your now-sensitive body. She sets it aside and collapses on the bed next to you, pulling you into her arms. "Good girl,"

She strokes your hair soothingly, murmuring soft words into your ear as she holds you. You can feel her breath against your neck, her body pressed against yours possessively. After a few minutes, she pulls back slightly, her fingers tracing patterns on your stomach.

She smirks as she feels you tremble beneath her touch, knowing that even after that intense orgasm, your body is still responsive to her. She leans down and presses a soft kiss to your stomach, her fingers moving lower. "We are not done”

°•*⁀➷

you are missing two

She snorts again, frustrated that her arm isn't long enough to reach under the couch where she suspects the missing buttons might have rolled. She stretches her arm out as far as it will go, her fingers scrabbling at the floor, searching... "Dammit..."

Kissin' and hope they caught us

#billie eilish #billie eilish fic #billie eilish x female reader #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x you #strappon

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scorpioriesling · 8 months ago

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Invisible String - Part 2

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairing(s): Eris x reader

Warning(s): light angst if you squint. Please be advised; future parts might not be suitable for all audiences. Proceed with caution.

Summary: You'd taken the nanny position for the royal family over a year ago, not expecting what would come of it or how close you'd grow to the child you cared for. Things became tough for Eris when his wife left him and his daughter, and he found it increasingly harder to raise Riley himself. He soon realizes, you've provided a lot more than the typical job description duties for his daughter... and maybe for him, too.

SR’s Note: I added in the advisory so that younger / uncomfortable readers won't begin the series without knowing or expecting potential risks in content to come. For those who enjoy or look forward to content as such -- get excited! Nonetheless, I hope readers will enjoy this series that came to me in a dream one night. (; Much love to all.

Tags: @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @talesofadragon @rcarbo1 @mandziaaa @lilah-asteria @a-frog-with-a-laptop @kitsunetori (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Part 1

You paced back and forth awkwardly around your room, not sure what to do with your time. Normally, you'd give Riley a bath and see her off to bed -- but not tonight. Her father had come home during dinner today, and you almost couldn't believe your eyes when he'd materialized before the both of you in the dining room.

Gods, you'd never seen her so excited to see him come home in all the time you'd known the two. She truly missed him when he was gone, just waiting to see her dad come home at the end of the day. You understood; to be honest, you worried some nights when he would be gone late, always apologizing like his timing was the end of the world. He failed to realize that it was his safe return you were more concerned with.

You paused, shrieks of laughter heard from the opposite end of the Wing and you smiled to yourself. Padding over to your open doorway, you peeked your head out, listening as Eris' faint voice spoke with his daughter, saying something that had her giggling once more before you heard the distinct sound of her door latching shut. You retreated back into your room, trying to find anything to busy yourself as the sound of his shoes drew nearer toward your room.

"Could I offer any help with the last of those?" Eris asks, leaning casually against the doorframe as he gestures toward the stack of heavy boxes piled in the corner of your room. You turn, crossing your arms and then uncrossing them, not quite finding a comfortable position.

"Um... well, I could probably get them, tomorrow." You shrug, biting on your lower lip. Eris' eyes study your face for a long moment before he chuckles, walking over to the pile and pushing up his sleeves with such grace. He lifts the top box, his arms flexing under the weight as he adjusts his grip under the edges.

You try, really, really hard not to stare.

"I'll leave these outside to be picked up in the morning, unless you needed them to be kept for something?" He asks, and you all but shake your head before he heads out of your room, leaving you in awe. You shake your head, get it together. That is your boss, for Gods sakes. You take a deep breath, pushing your hair behind your ears before reaching for the next highest box, barely reaching the upper rim before its contents nearly spill over on top of you.

"Cauldron damned-" your curse is cut off when the box doesn't completely dump out on to you, but is caught haphazardly between your hands and one of Eris'. His other one is wrapped around your waist, preventing your impending collision with the floor.

"Woah! Woah," he says, his voice much closer than you expected and you open your eyes you'd inadvertently squeezed shut. He loomed over you, holding you so close to his chest that you sucked in a breath, your eyes widening when they met his peering down at you.

"I'm..." you made to stand, and he lifted the cardboard from your hands. "I thought I could help with that one." You said sheepishly. He chuckled, glancing sidelong at you.

"Always trying to do everything," he muttered. "Honestly, I'm just surprised to hear Y/N actually say a bad word out loud."

You set your hands on your hips, raising an eyebrow and ignoring his teasing remark.

"This is my mess, anyhow. I was just trying to help."

He turns, heading for the door once more.

"Allow me to help you for once, hm?" He says, winking and walking out. You roll your eyes, irritated at how warm your cheeks feel. You flit about the room, putting random smaller items away and folding a few articles of clothing as Eris makes the last few trips. When he comes back in for the final time, he sits on the edge of your bed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

You look to him, noticing his exhaustion from the day again. "Thank you," you say, and he looks to you again. He offers you a small smile, leaning back on his hands.

"For all that you've done, helping you move a few boxes is incomparable." Your lips curve upward as you place a few more of your skirts inside the drawers of the dresser, averting his eye. After a few shared moments of quiet, he speaks again.

"This room... its... I'm glad someone is using it again." He says, his hand running softly over the duvet. You glance at him, his fallen expression puzzling as you go about tidying up.

"Oh?"

He's quiet again before he looks at you. "I used to avoid coming in here, after... well, after Selene left." He says quietly, and you pause. The air feels thick, you try to keep breathing evenly as your mind races.

"She... the two of you didn't share...?"

"No." He whispers, looking at the floor. "She thought only mates should share a room."

You shoved the drawer closed, walking slowly to the bedside and sitting next to him.

"I'm sure this is common knowledge by now, but our marriage was simply a transaction, a sign of goodwill between our courts." He let out a humorless laugh. "No magic, golden thread there."

For everything he'd done for his court, all the battles he'd won, every fight he'd fought and all he'd witnessed... this was a subject he rarely discussed, as it seemed tomdrag him down the most.

"Eris..." You said softly, reaching out a hand timidly and placing it on his arm. He braced lightly against the touch, and you leaned closer. "I'm so sorry that you were treated that way-"

He sniffed, his hand rubbing along his jaw quickly before he stood, your outstretched hand slowly retracting with the distance between you two.

"It's alright. Nothing for you to worry about, anyway." He flashed a humorless half-smile, and you stared up at him with concern. You could tell it was a tough subject for him, and you definately didn't want to pry; but he didn't exactly have many other people to open up to.

"Well... alright then." You say defeatedly. He nods, turning and heading for the door. He looks over his shoulder only once more before closing the door behind him.

"Sleep well, Y/N."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

"Apple juice, please?" Riley asks, and you pour her a fresh glass, delivering it to her awaiting hand. She sips quietly, then blinks a few times when you sit down beside her. "Oh -- thanks!" She smiles.

You nod, silently praising her good mannered habits. You could still remember when you arrived at the Forest House, the little spitfire was ordering people around at the ripe age of three. "Give this!" and "Do that!" was all she managed, and though her heart was pure, you did encourage better etiquitte; luckily, it stuck.

"Daddy said he have a surprise," she swung her legs under the table, some of her juice swishing in her cup. You raised an eyebrow.

"Did he, now?" You weren't sure what she was talking about, or if there really was a surprise at all. Eris had made haste this morning, rushing past you this morning on his way out the door. He'd barely kissed his daughter goodbye before he was on his horse and halfway to the border-

"He did! He said he had one." She insisted, and you nodded in understanding. What it could be, you had no clue.

"Well, lets finish our dinner so we're ready when he gets home, yes?" You suggest, and Riley agrees, jamming the last of her chicken nuggets into her mouth and chewing with maximum effort. You shake your head, smiling at just how normal the girl was. You were just glad she found joy in chicken nuggets still, and didn't request challenging dishes every meal quite yet.

Insisting on wearing her fluffy pink footie pajamas, Rylie then sat in your lap on the couch, her stuffed beagle clutched in her hands as you brushed out her wet-clean locks.

"Braid it pretty?" She asks, and you leaned in, kissing the top of her little head. She grinned, holding her little beagle's head to her lips and kissing it's head just the same.

"Anything for you, Riles," you say, getting to work on the long strawberry strands. She sits very patiently for a four year old; that is, until you've secured the band at the end of your work and the front door creaks open.

"Daddy!" She's up in an instant, running to the door with glee and clinging to her father's leg the moment she spots him. You stay seated a moment longer, listening from the living area but not quite ready to see Eris yet. After the tense conversation last night, you couldn't help but feel... awkward, after the conversation.

After a few minutes, Riley has retreated to the living room looking rather dejected. Your brows knit as she stalks toward you, her beagle hanging limply from her fingers.

"Daddy says bedtime. You take me please?" She says, looking down at the floor. You frown, your hands lifting under her arms as she wraps her legs around your waist.

"Of course sweetie," you try to sound upbeat, but she only lays her head on your shoulder. You pet her head, wrapping your other hand around her to keep her propped up against your waist as you make your way to her end of the Wing. You look around as you go, not seeing any sign of Eris on your way. He literally just got home, what the Hell could he possibly have to do right now?

Once you reach her room, you place her gently atop her plush duvet, her eyes half closed when her head touches the pillow. You pull a loose blanket over her legs, knowing sometimes she gets cold at night, and kiss her little cheek one last time before moving toward the door.

"Y/N," she whispers. Your eyes meet hers in the dim light, your fingers stalling as they reach for the glowing tableside lamp.

"Yes dear?"

"Can you please read? Please?" Her bottom lip trembles. "D-daddy always reads... he reads my book..." she sucks in a breath of air, and you rush over to her bed, taking her little hand in yours.

"Yes, of course honey!" You say, hoping she will feel better. "I would love to read you a story," you look left and right, searching for any tomes near her bed. She lifts a limp hand, her finger pointing to the book resting at the opposite end of her bed.

"You'd like that one? The Kissing Hand?" She nods, one tear slipping free and running down her cheek. You hastily grab the book, and she scoots over, making a space for you to lay beside her. You scoot close, reaching an arm around her and she snuggles close as you flip open the book. Her little fingers wipe her tear from her cheek, and you begin to read.

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You weren't sure when you'd drifted off, but when you slipped back into consciousness, your back ached from its cramped position on the small bed. You looked around, the darkened room coming into view as well as the peacefully sleeping babe next to you.

You must have fallen asleep reading to her, you thought. Surely you'd left the lamp on though; its glow would come in handy now as you tried to slip silently out of her embrace, sneaking out in absolute darkness. At least the door was still cracked open.

You'd stumbled around quietly enough and made it down the hallway to the kitchen, the clock on the wall coming into view.

Four in the morning. Gods.

You kept walking, feeling along the walls until you found your bedroom door, and let yourself inside.

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You woke up that morning to the delicious smell of cinnamon and sugar, the comfort of your plush bed surrounding you as the first light of day drifted through your curtains. You yawned, stretching out your arms and slowly opening your eyes.

Ahh, what a lovely morning.

Morning. The sun was out.

You threw the covers off of you hastily, your bare feet hitting the cold wood floors in a rush as you lunged for your door handle. Riley was surely awake by now, and surely starving. You bounded down the hallway, your steps faltering when you heard her familiar ramblings from the kitchen and registered the smell of food wafting through the air.

As you approached, you watched in pure shock as Eris stood over the kitchen island, his hand holding his daughters as he helped her spread icing over a tray of steaming cinnamon rolls, smiling and talking along with her. He hadn't noticed you walk in; but she sure did.

"Y/N! Finally! You're awake!" She squealed happily, and you forced a smile, still confused by the scene before you. Eris looked up then, his eyes meeting yours only briefly before he went back to the treats he was making.

"Good morning Riley," you said hesitantly, stepping closer toward the island. Eris' eyes flicked up again, snagging on the silk pajamas you'd changed into before collapsing onto your bed last night. You crossed your arms over your chest.

"Good morning. Eris." You said, and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Morning Y/N." He said plainly before turning to Riley, lifting her off the counter and setting her on the ground.

"Bunny, why don't you set the table," he handed her the silverware and a few plates. "And we'll join you in just a few minutes?" She nods, skipping into the dining room, as Eris braces his hands against the countertop, his eyes locked on yours once more.

You stare back, shrugging when you can't understand the point of standing in silence. "What?" You ask. He sighs, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Y/N, I'm sorry for the... discussion. We had. The other night, it was... highly, unprofessional." He nodded, looking down at the pan of cinnamon rolls once more. You raised an eyebrow, a soft laugh erupting from your lips and causing him to flick his gaze to you again.

"What is funny?" He asks, seeming a bit taken aback.

"Nothing, no," you say, smiling softly at him. "I just... Eris, I live in your home. I spend every day with your daughter. I think we're beyond professional, aren't we?" You say. He cocks his head to the side, a small smirk curving the side of his lips.

"I suppose we are, then."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

"Daddy. These cimanim rolls. Are. Delicious!" Riley grins with delight, Eris' expression a mirror of his daughter sitting next to him at the table. You watch the two and your heart swells; one day, you could only dream of having something so special as that.

"Why, thank you Princess!" Eris says, and she holds her chin high. You shake your head at her, and Eris' eyes meet yours, his face giving away exactly what he's thinking. After a few more quiet moments, he speaks up again.

"Bunny, I wanted to ask you about doing something fun today," he says, and Riley immediately perks up.

"Fun?" She asks, and he nods.

"In the Town Square, there is the Autumn Festival, and it would make me very happy as your daddy if you would go with me-"

"Yesss!" She shrieks, every single one of her teeth showing as she smiles in excitement. You can't help but feel so happy for her -- she deserves time with her father, and he's finally home to spend it with her, doing something she had been longing to do anyway.

"Ohmygosh I can't wait! I will wear my Princess dress so everyone knows I am a Princess, okay," she explains hastily, only pausing to take a sip from her glass of milk.

Eris nods, looking to you. "I figured you may appreciate at least a day off as well," he adds quietly, and you offer him a gentle smile. Truly, you didn't need one, but you appreciated his consideration all the same. Riley doesn't quite catch the incinuation, though.

"Y/N, you have to wear a dress. You can't borrow from me this time because you're too big," she says, hopping from her chair. "You have a dress?" She asks. Your eyes meet her dad's and his mouth opens to answer first.

"Bunny," he starts. "I don't think Y/N was going to come today," he explains. Rileys brows knit in confusion as she looks at him.

"Why not?"

"Well," he says, trying to tread lightly. "Maybe Y/N has other things she would like to do today. It's okay though; just me and you can go." He says, but Riley looks to you, her eyes looking you up and down.

"What... what else do you want to do though?" She says, and you chuckle.

"Riley, honey, today you can go have fun with your daddy, alright? Me and you play here everyday," You reason with her. She doesn't let up, and Eris studies you from across the table.

"Daddy -- can Y/N just come too?" Riley says. You sigh, looking to Eris for help, but he only stares quietly at you, a small smile on his lips.

"I really will just stay here-"

"Yes." Eris says, and you meet his eyes, Riley spinning in happy little circles at the end of the table. "Y/N can absolutely come with us today."

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Part 3

#a court of thorns and roses #acotar #a court of silver flames #acosf #a court of frost and starlight #acofas #acotar smut #eris x you #eris vanserra imagine #eris vandaddy #high lord eris #eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris x reader #eris x oc #eris fanfic #eris vanserra fanfic

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baelabong · 9 months ago

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ꜱᴀᴀɴ? (ᴡᴏɴʏᴏᴜɴɢ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

rq: yessiree @geeminz

pairing: ump (international student)wonyoung x La Salle fem!reader

Plot: y/n being hotheaded after school. Almost screams her head off at some poor girl. Thank goodness Wonyoung’s beautiful face calmed the crazy girl

Note: ik this isnt that good or well written but i couldnt think of a cute interaction 💔💔

It was just another hectic afternoon along Taft Avenue, where the relentless Manila heat made everything feel ten times more chaotic. The sidewalk was a river of students—some in the distinct green and white of De La Salle University, others in the maroon of UP Manila—rushing to their next classes, ducking into nearby coffee shops, or hailing jeepneys.

You—Y/N, a third-year student at La Salle—were trying to navigate through the throng with your arms full of books. The weight of your bag was digging into your shoulder, and the sweat was starting to form at your temples. The last thing you needed was another reason to be late for class.

As you weaved through the crowd, someone brushed past you with just enough force to make you lose your balance. The collision sent your books tumbling to the ground, and you felt a spark of irritation flare up inside you. You turned around, ready to go off on whoever it was that had caused this mess, fully expecting to see some careless brat who couldn’t be bothered to watch where they were going.

But before you could unleash your frustration, you found yourself looking at a girl around your age, with a UPM lanyard around her neck and a concerned expression on her face. She immediately bent down to help gather your scattered books, her movements quick and efficient.

“I’m so sorry!” she said, her voice laced with genuine worry. The sound of her voice stopped you in your tracks—it was soft and sweet, the kind of voice that could melt even the hardest heart. Any anger you felt immediately began to dissipate as you watched her carefully stack your books.

You took a deep breath, trying to suppress the last remnants of your irritation as you knelt down to help her. “It’s… it’s okay. I wasn’t really paying attention either,” you said, though you knew that wasn’t entirely true. The truth was, you were caught off guard by her unexpected kindness, and it left you feeling disarmed.

Once the books were gathered, she stood up and handed them back to you, her smile gentle and sincere. “I’m really sorry about that. I should’ve been more careful.”

For a moment, you just stared at her, trying to reconcile the image you had in your head—the bratty student you’d been ready to snap at—with the sweet, apologetic girl standing in front of you. You were about to brush it off, when you realized she was waiting for you to say something.

“Uh, thanks,” you mumbled, still trying to process the sudden shift in your mood. “It’s no big deal, really.”

She smiled again, this time a bit more relaxed, and held out her hand. “I’m Wonyoung, by the way. I’m sorry we had to meet like this.”

You shook her hand, feeling that same strange spark you’d felt earlier. “Y/N,” you replied. “And yeah, it’s… not the best first impression, I guess.”

Wonyoung chuckled, a light sound that made you feel strangely at ease. “Well, at least it’s memorable, right?”

You couldn’t help but smile at that. “Yeah, I suppose so. Are you heading to class too?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, glancing at her watch. “I have a class over at PGH, but I’m running a bit late, as usual.”

“PGH? So you’re a med student?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“Something like that,” she said with a small smile, but then her expression shifted slightly as if she remembered something but not before you said“Wonyoung… that’s an unusual name. Are you an international student?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. It wasn’t often that people asked about her name so directly. “Yeah, I am. I’ve been here for a while, though. My parents moved here for work when I was younger, so I guess you could say I’m a local now.”

“That’s cool,” you said, and she could see the genuine interest in your eyes. “It’s always nice to meet people from different backgrounds. Makes this city feel a bit smaller, you know?”

She nodded, feeling a strange warmth in her chest. There was something about Wonyoung that made you feel at ease, like you could talk to her for hours without running out of things to say. But as the pedestrian light turned green and the crowd began to move, you realized you couldn’t stand there chatting all day.

As you both started walking, you found yourselves naturally falling into step with each other, the conversation flowing as easily as if you’d known each other for years. You talked about everything—school, the challenges of being a student in Manila, even the best places to eat around Taft.

When you finally reached the intersection where your paths would diverge, Wonyoung hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Hey, I know this might be random, but would you want to grab a coffee sometime? I mean, if you’re not too busy with school and all.”

You felt your heart skip a beat, surprised by the invitation but also excited by the possibility. “I’d like that,” you replied, your smile widening. “I’m usually at the café near DLSU after classes. Maybe we could meet there?”

“Sounds perfect,” Wonyoung said, her own smile brightening. “I’ll see you then, Y/N.”

With a final wave, Wonyoung headed off towards PGH, while you continued on your way to class, a spring in your step and a smile on your face.

#fem reader #reader insert #kpop #kpop girls #ive moodboard #ive wonyoung #ive icons #ive #wonyoung #wonyoung x reader #wonyoung x you #wonyoung x fem reader #ive x reader #ive x you #ive x fem reader #gxg #gxg imagine #gxg fluff

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cailinsblog · 6 months ago

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Collisions and love | Clayton Keller

Clayton Keller x reader

Send in request and please reblog pookies

The hallway leading to the media offices at Mullett Arena was quiet, save for the rapid clicking of Y/N’s boots on the linoleum floor. Her heart raced as she glanced at her watch. *Five minutes until the meeting starts.* She cursed under her breath, clutching a stack of papers and her ever-essential coffee cup. The life of an intern was chaotic, and today was no exception.

As she rounded the corner at full speed, she slammed into something—or rather, someone—solid and unyielding.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Y/N gasped, feeling the familiar sense of dread wash over her. She knew exactly who she’d bumped into before even looking up.

Clayton Keller stumbled back slightly but recovered quickly, his hands instinctively going out to steady her. “Whoa, hey, it’s okay,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “Are you okay?”

Y/N’s papers scattered everywhere, but miraculously, her coffee remained intact. She dropped to her knees immediately, frantically gathering the loose sheets. “No, no, it’s my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Clayton crouched down to help, his dark practice gear making him look effortlessly cool despite the early hour. “Here, let me help you,” he offered, his hand already reaching for a stray paper near his foot.

Y/N waved him off, her voice rushed. “No, really, I’ve got it. I’m just—ugh—I’m always rushing.” She groaned softly, her watch catching her eye. “Crap, crap, crap. I’m going to be late!”

Without waiting for further help, she snatched the last paper from the floor and scrambled to her feet. “Thanks, but I’ve got to run!” she said over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall.

Clayton watched her go, an amused smile tugging at his lips. As he stood, he noticed one last piece of paper lying near his skate bag. He picked it up, his eyes scanning the top. It looked official—something about a media schedule and player photo assignments.

“Guess you’ll be needing this,” he muttered to himself. He glanced down the hall, but Y/N was already out of sight. With no time to chase her down, he folded the paper carefully and slipped it into the pocket of his hoodie.

---

The next two days were a whirlwind of activity for Y/N. The team had several shoots lined up, and the stress of coordinating schedules, props, and locations was weighing heavily on her. But nothing compared to the panic of realizing she was missing *the* paper.

She had torn her office apart three times, checked her bag, and even retraced her steps in the hallway. Nothing. It was gone. And with it, her peace of mind.

“If I don’t find that schedule, I’m toast,” she muttered, slumping into her chair.

Her boss had been patient so far, but she knew that patience wouldn’t last. Especially not with deadlines looming.

---

By day three, Y/N was running on little sleep and a lot of caffeine. She barely registered the familiar surroundings as she sped through the hallway again, her thoughts consumed by the ever-growing list of tasks.

And once again, she turned a corner and collided—hard—with Clayton Keller.

“Oh, come on,” she groaned, stumbling backward.

Clayton caught her by the shoulders, steadying her with a laugh. “You’ve really got to slow down,” he teased.

Y/N sighed, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “Sorry, again. I swear I’m not trying to make this a habit.”

Before she could launch into another apology, Clayton reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out the folded sheet of paper. “I think this is yours. You dropped it the other day.”

Y/N froze, her eyes widening as she recognized the missing document. “No way.” She snatched it from his hands, holding it up as if it were a lost treasure. “Oh my god, I’ve been looking *everywhere* for this goddamn paper. You just saved my life.”

Clayton grinned. “Glad I could help. I was starting to wonder when I’d see you again to give it back.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, her nerves finally easing for the first time in days. “Well, considering how often I run into you, it was only a matter of time.”

They stood there for a moment, the bustling arena around them fading into the background. Y/N glanced up at him, really seeing him for the first time—his hazel eyes warm, his smile soft yet confident.

“I’m Y/N,” she said suddenly, realizing they’d never properly introduced themselves.

“Clayton,” he replied, offering a hand.

She took it, and the simple touch sent a surprising jolt through her. They held each other’s gaze, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fall away.

Then her watch beeped again, snapping her back to reality.

“Ah, crap,” Y/N muttered, tucking the paper into her bag. “I’m late again.”

Clayton chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You really need a new watch.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Thanks again, Clayton. I owe you one.”

Before she could dart away, Clayton took a step closer. “Actually, if you want to repay me, how about grabbing coffee sometime?”

Y/N blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Coffee?”

“Yeah.” Clayton shrugged, his easy smile making her heart skip a beat. “You know, when you’re not running late.”

She hesitated for only a second before nodding. “Okay. Coffee sounds great.”

Clayton pulled out his phone. “Can I get your number?”

Y/N smiled, taking his phone and typing it in. “There you go. Don’t lose that, or I’ll never forgive you.”

He laughed, pocketing his phone. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

Y/N glanced at her watch again, biting her lip. “I really have to go, but… I’ll be waiting for that text.”

“Count on it,” Clayton said, watching her disappear down the hall once more.

This time, though, she left with a smile, and Clayton couldn’t help but feel like their hallway collisions were the best part of his week.

---

Later that evening, Y/N’s phone buzzed with a new message.

**Clayton:** *Hey, it’s your favorite collision partner. Coffee tomorrow?*

Y/N grinned, her fingers flying across the screen.

**Y/N:** *Only if you promise not to spill it when I bump into you again.*

The rest, as they say, was history.

#hockey #nhl #nhl x reader #fanfic #clayton keller #clayton keller x reader #utah hockey club #nhl9 #nhl imagine #nhl smut #nhl players #nhl fic #nhl fanfiction #nhl hockey #nhl fluff

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tsumuus · 10 months ago

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meet cutes | my hero academia

a/n so random make ni sense and not proof read at all. i just love all these characters sm and think they need more appreciation

characters tenya iida, hanta sero, eijiro kirishima, denki kaminari

masterlist

tenya iida

The bustling streets of Musutafu seemed to never quiet, especially during the evening rush hour. You hurried through the crowded sidewalks, clutching a stack of documents to your chest, trying to avoid any collisions. The sky had a gentle orange hue as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the city.

Just as you rounded the corner near a small, bustling cafe, a gust of wind swept through, snatching one of your papers and sending it fluttering into the air. You gasped, reaching out futilely as it soared higher.

Suddenly, a blur of blue and white darted past you. Tenya Iida, in his hero costume, appeared, deftly catching the paper mid-air. He landed gracefully, adjusting his glasses and holding the document out to you. The sunlight framed him perfectly, making his appearance even more striking. You accepted the paper, your fingers brushing his gloved hand.

With a warm smile, he nodded at you. “Always happy to assist,” he said, before dashing off again, leaving you standing there with a racing heart and a newfound admiration for the hero who had saved your day.

hanta sero

The neighborhood park was your favorite spot for a morning jog. The dew-kissed grass, the chirping of birds, and the occasional rustle of leaves created a tranquil atmosphere. As you rounded the trail's curve, you noticed a commotion near the large oak tree in the center.

Curiosity piqued, you jogged closer, only to see Sero Hanta struggling with a tangled kite. It was a bright red dragon, its tail hopelessly entwined in the branches. Sero, now a seasoned pro hero, was trying his best to free it using his tape quirk, but the kite remained stubbornly stuck.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound catching his attention. He glanced your way, sheepish but grinning. Without a word, you joined him, climbing onto a lower branch to help. The two of you worked in harmony, hands brushing occasionally, the shared effort bringing an unexpected sense of camaraderie.

Finally, with a triumphant tug, the kite was free. Sero’s laughter was infectious, and as you handed the kite back to the grateful child who owned it, he gave you a thumbs up. “Great teamwork,” he said, his smile brightening your morning.

eijiro kirishima

The gym was quieter than usual, the perfect setting for a late-night workout. You focused on your routine, pushing through the last set of weights when a loud crash echoed through the space. Startled, you looked over to see Eijiro Kirishima, now a well-known hero, sheepishly picking up a toppled barbell.

He caught your gaze and grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. The dim lighting highlighted the sharp angles of his face, and you couldn’t help but notice the genuine warmth in his eyes.

You walked over, offering a hand. Together, you righted the barbell, your fingers brushing against his. He chuckled, a deep, hearty sound that reverberated in the empty gym. “Guess I overestimated myself,” he admitted, his laughter contagious.

As you returned to your workout, you felt his gaze linger, a silent promise of future encounters. There was something undeniably endearing about his honest clumsiness, and you found yourself looking forward to the next time fate would bring you together.

denki kaminari

The arcade was buzzing with energy, neon lights reflecting off the polished floors and flashing screens. You weaved through clusters of gamers until you spotted Denki Kaminari, your former classmate and now a hero known for his electrifying abilities, focused intensely on a claw machine. His usual carefree grin was replaced with a determined frown as he tried to snag a plush.

You couldn’t resist joining in. Standing beside him, you both took turns maneuvering the claw. After a few failed attempts, your skillful finesse finally paid off—the claw gripped the plush snugly and dropped it into the prize chute. Denki’s eyes widened in amazement, his grin returning full force. “No way! You did it!”

He offered you the plush toy, a spark of excitement evident in his eyes as your hands briefly touched. As you walked out together, the arcade’s lights painting playful patterns on his face, Denki chattered enthusiastically about his favorite games and hero escapades. His infectious energy made the evening feel like a whirlwind of laughter and camaraderie, leaving you with a smile and a sense of eager anticipation for what could unfold between you.

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buckysouvenir · 4 months ago

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between the lines (chapter 1)

pairing: bucky barnes x reader. warnings: none. word count: 717 words. author’s note: hey guys! starting a new series. i'm so happy i found inspiration again! happy to go into this new story with you. i already have about 7 chapters that are already written, so i think i'll be posting one every day!

reblogs, likes and comments are always encouraged and highly appreciated! thank you ♡

bucky barnes masterlist⠀ |⠀ series masterlist⠀ |⠀ next chapter

The first time Y/N met Bucky Barnes, she was running late. In her defense, it wasn’t entirely her fault. The printer in the communications office had decided to throw a tantrum, spitting out page after page of half-printed mission briefs. She’d spent fifteen minutes wrestling with it, finally managing to salvage what she needed, but at the cost of being almost ten minutes behind schedule.

Clutching the papers to her chest, Y/N dashed down the hallways of the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, sneakers squeaking against the polished floors. She rounded a corner sharply, narrowly dodging an agent holding a coffee cup, and headed straight for the debriefing room. Director Fury himself had asked for these files, and she wasn’t about to let a malfunctioning printer ruin her streak of reliability.

But in her haste, she didn’t notice the man stepping out of the adjacent corridor until it was too late.

She collided with what felt like a brick wall. The stack of papers flew from her hands, scattering across the floor in a chaotic mess. Stumbling back, Y/N caught herself against the wall and looked up—and up—to meet the startled blue eyes of none other than Bucky Barnes.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” she blurted, immediately crouching down to gather the scattered papers. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood there, stiff and uncertain, like someone who wasn’t used to being bumped into. His long hair was tucked behind his ears, and he wore a black hoodie and jeans that somehow made him look even taller and broader. His metal hand twitched at his side, the sunlight streaming through the windows catching on its polished surface.

“I… yeah, I’m fine,” he said finally, his voice low and slightly raspy. Then, as though realizing he should probably help, he crouched down to assist her with the papers. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Y/N said quickly, though her heart was racing. Partly from the collision, and partly because… well, she’d just run into Bucky Barnes. The Bucky Barnes. The man who’d once been the Winter Soldier and was now supposedly trying to rebuild his life. She’d heard whispers around the facility that he was there for rehabilitation, but she hadn’t expected to actually see him, let alone crash into him.

He handed her a few papers, his metal fingers surprisingly gentle as they brushed against hers. She tried not to stare, but it was hard not to when he was right there, all sharp angles and quiet intensity.

“Thanks,” she said, standing up and clutching the papers tightly to her chest. “And sorry again. I was in a hurry, and I… well, clearly, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s okay,” he replied, his lips twitching into a small, almost shy smile. “I’ve had worse.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at that, though she immediately felt bad. “Right. Of course. I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine,” he said again, and this time, his smile was a little more genuine. There was a moment of silence, awkward but not entirely unpleasant, before he added, “You… work here?”

“I do,” she said, nodding. “Communications team. I manage how information flows within S.H.I.E.L.D. and sometimes outside of it.” She gestured to the papers in her arms. “Which I should probably get to Director Fury before he starts wondering if I got lost.”

He nodded, stepping aside to let her pass. “Right. Don’t let me keep you.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then offered him a small smile. “It was nice meeting you, Bucky.”

His expression flickered, as though he wasn’t quite used to hearing his name spoken so casually. But then he nodded, his blue eyes softening just a little. “You too…”

“Y/N,” she supplied.

“You too, Y/N.”

With that, she turned and hurried off down the hallway, her heart still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with being late. As she disappeared around the corner, Bucky stood there for a moment, staring after her. Then, with a quiet shake of his head and a faint smile, he continued on his way, feeling just a little less out of place than he had before.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #between the lines

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blueberrybirdsworld · 4 days ago

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Collision 8/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : none

Serie Masterlist

CHAPTER 8 :

Texts messages :

Lando: Hi, I hope you sleep well :) So I have an idea Tomorrow. Noon. Wear something casual and comfortable. I’ll pick you up.

Ariana: Where are we going?

Lando: Surprise.

Ariana: Is it loud?

Lando: Possibly.

Ariana: Dangerous?

Lando: …Debatable.

Ariana: You’re making me nervous.

Lando: Good. See you at twelve, ballerina.

The next day, Ariana stood just outside her building, dressed in blue large jeans, a pale beige oversized sweater, and her favorite white sneakers.

She checked the time.

11:59.

Then she heard it before she saw it. The purr of an engine, low, velvety, almost feline. She turned toward the sound just as the car pulled up in front of her.

She blinked.

Lando stepped out from the driver’s side, sunglasses on, hair tousled, wearing a black hoodie and dark jeans, his grin wide and boyish.

“Told you it was casual,” he said, gesturing to the car.

Ariana stared. “Lando…”

“I know,” he said proudly. “She’s a beauty.”

She circled the car slowly, fingers trailing just above the paint without touching it. “It looks like it belongs in a museum.”

“That’s the idea,” he said. “It’s a Lambo Miura”

Ariana let out a slow breath, clearly impressed. “Okay… it’s stunning.”

“And it’s ours for the day,” he said, opening the passenger door with a smirk. “Your chariot awaits.”

She gave him a suspicious glance. “I’m starting to worry about this surprise.”

“You’ll love it,” he said, offering his hand. “Maybe.”

The drive was smooth, except when it wasn’t.

Lando didn’t drive recklessly, he was surprisingly in control but every now and then, he’d press a little harder on the gas just to see her flinch and grab the door handle, laughing at her own reactions.

“Relax,” he teased. “I’ve got you.”

“You say that like it’s comforting,” she muttered.

He looked over, still grinning. “Admit it. You like it.”

“I’ll admit I like the car.”

“I’ll take that as a win.”

When they finally pulled into a lot lined with cones and engine noise, Ariana’s heart dropped.

Rows of small, aggressive-looking go-karts idled at the far end of a makeshift track. Flags fluttered in the wind. Helmets hung from hooks. Rubber tire barriers stacked around corners.

Lando turned the engine off and faced her with a grin too wide to be trusted.

“Surprise.”

She stared. “Karting?”

“Yup.”

“You brought me to drive?”

He nodded, pleased with himself. “You said you wanted to see my world.”

“I thought your world involved… like, watching you drive. Not putting me behind the wheel!”

“It’s safe,” he promised, stepping out and walking around to open her door. “Controlled. Mostly painless.”

“I hate driving.��

He blinked. “You what?”

“I hate driving,” she repeated, folding her arms. “I don’t even have a license.”

Lando stared at her, jaw slightly dropped. “Wait. Wait—what?”

“I never got it,” she shrugged, unbothered. “Didn’t want to. Don’t like driving. It stresses me out.”

“You’re telling me…” He pointed at her like she’d just committed a crime. “You let me think you were a fully licensed, car-competent adult this whole time?!”

“We barely know each other!” she said, laughing. “You didn’t ask!”

He looked positively betrayed. “This feels like a major breach of trust.”

“I just don’t like driving. I prefer being the passenger,” she said casually, crossing her arms like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Of course you are. The ultimate passenger princess.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?!”

He held his hands up, already laughing. “I didn’t mean it like that! I just mean—like—you’ve got the vibe, you know? You like comfort, good music, someone else doing the work—wait, I’m making it worse, aren’t I?”

“Unbelievably,” she deadpanned, narrowing her eyes at him.

Lando winced. “Okay, okay, let me rephrase.”

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

He stepped closer, tilting his head just a little. “What I meant was… you can be my passenger princess. Professionally speaking, it’s a very exclusive role.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t hide her smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but charming,” he said, offering her an helmet. “Admit it.”

She snatched it from his hands. “I’ll admit you’re lucky I didn’t walk away after that comment.”

“Still get in the kart, though,” he grinned.

She eyed the helmet like it was a medieval torture device. “I don’t know about this.”

He leaned in, eyes warm. “Just one lap. I’ll be right next to you the whole time. You can scream, curse me, cry, whatever. Just try it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If I die, it’s on you.”

“You won’t die.”

“Not comforting.”

“You’ll look amazing in the suit,” he added with a wink.

Ten minutes later, Ariana stood in a full racing suit, red, tailored surprisingly well to her figure and helmet in hand. The boots were clunky, the gloves thick.

“You look so cool right now,” Lando said, adjusting her helmet strap.

“I feel like I’m dressed for combat.”

“You kind of are.”

He brought her to one of the smaller, beginner-friendly karts. “Okay. Foot pedals: right is gas, left is brake. No clutch. No gear shifts. You steer like a normal car, and that’s it. Think of it like a really fast bumper car.”

She gave him a flat look. “That is not reassuring.”

Lando climbed into the kart next to her, already grinning through his helmet. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

The first lap was chaos.

Ariana’s kart rolled forward slowly, her hands tight on the wheel, her eyes wide with panic. Lando drifted ahead, spinning playfully, yelling back, “You’re doing amazing.”

“Lando, I swear to God—!”

She turned a corner, barely, nearly clipping a cone.

“Just a bit more gas!” he called. “You’re driving like a grandma.”

“Shut up!”

He laughed so hard he nearly missed the next turn.

Despite her panic, despite the protests, despite the few times she almost did crash into the barrier, Ariana finished the lap.

And then another.

By the fourth, she wasn’t terrified anymore.

Still nervous. But not terrified.

And when she finally pulled into the finish area, her cheeks were flushed pink, her braid coming loose, and her eyes shining behind the helmet.

She climbed out of the kart with shaky legs, and Lando was waiting for her, helmet off, grinning like a man completely in love with his own prank.

She handed her helmet to him, breathless.

“That. Was. Horrible.”

He smirked. “You survived.”

“Barely.”

“You did great.”

“I hate you.”

“And yet…” he shrugged. “You came.”

“I must be out of my mind.”

He stepped close again, brushing a piece of hair from her cheek.

“You like my world a little now?”

She didn’t answer right away.

“Maybe.”

“Enough to do it again?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He grinned. “You will.”

And maybe she would.

Because for someone who hated danger and speed, she’d never felt more alive.

The drive back from the karting track felt quieter.

Not in a bad way. Just softer. Ariana was tucked into the passenger seat of the vintage car, legs curled up beneath her, one hand lightly resting near the gear shift, her other elbow leaning on the door as she stared out at the fading golden sky.

Lando watched her from the corner of his eye.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking.

“I can’t help it,” he replied. “I was just re-thinking on how you were a total natural back in the track.”

“Natural disaster, maybe.”

He laughed. “I’ve never seen someone brake before every straight line.”

“I enjoy caution!”

“Well, I enjoy how you almost crashed into the tire barrier with your eyes closed.”

“I didn’t close my eyes.”

“You did.”

She finally turned to him, eyes narrowed, lips twitching. “You’re lucky I like you, Norris.”

“Very lucky,” he murmured under his breath.

They stopped for food, he let her pick, since she was the one who’d nearly had a heart attack on the track.

She chose something cozy: Thai take-out. Spring rolls, warm noodles, coconut curry. Food you could eat on a couch with bare feet and music playing in the background.

By the time they reached her flat, the sky was ink-dark, and the city had grown quieter.

She looked at him at the door and, without much ceremony, said, “You’re coming up, right?”

Lando blinked. “Am I?”

She tilted her head. “You bought me food. It’s the least I can do.”

He didn’t need convincing.

Ariana’s flat was as precise and beautiful as she was.

Cream walls, soft amber lighting, wooden floors, and books stacked neatly in corners. Her throw pillows were perfectly arranged, and a few candle sat on the side table. There was a record player in the corner, dozens of vinyls organised by color by the side.

They kicked off their shoes, settled in with the food on her low coffee table, curled against each other on the couch.

Ariana sat cross-legged, chopsticks in hand, hair loosely tied up now.

“So,” she said, mouth full of noodles, “I’m plotting my revenge.”

He raised a brow. “Revenge?”

“For the public humiliation you subjected me to today. I screamed in front of small children. They laughed, Lando.”

“You screamed like a cartoon character.”

“You’ll pay for it.”

He grinned. “Can’t wait.”

She nudged his knee with hers. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I’m enjoying you,” he said easily.

Her smile faltered, just a little, and then softened into something quieter. “You’re smooth.”

“I’m honest.”

They kept eating, sipping warm tea she made in beautiful porcelain cups. The conversation stayed light at first : bad childhood stories, movies they loved, strange foods they hated, until, slowly, things began to shift.

Lando leaned in, resting one elbow behind her on the couch. Ariana had turned slightly to face him, her ankle brushing his shin, her fingers brushing his when she reached for the spring rolls.

Neither of them pulled away.

His eyes dropped to her mouth a few times. She caught him. She didn’t look away.

And then a thump sounded in the hallway.

Lando jumped. Ariana didn’t flinch.

A moment later, something small and cloud-like sauntered around the corner with the kind of slow, imperious grace that said this space is mine.

Lando blinked.

A white cat, pure white, fur like silk, tail curled and fluffy, strolled into the room, paused, and stared directly at him with ice-blue eyes like twin moons.

“Oh,” Ariana said casually, “that’s Aria.”

“Aria?” he repeated slowly, already shifting slightly away on the couch.

“My cat,” she said. “Gift from my brother, he names her after me saying we kinda look alike.”

The cat stared at him. Judging. Silently threatening.

“She looks like she’s planning something,” Lando whispered, frozen.

“She always looks like that.”

“I—okay, not to be dramatic, but I think she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you.” A beat. “She just hates everyone she doesn't know.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Ariana laughed, standing to collect their plates. “You’ll survive. Probably.”

Aria hopped onto the couch the second she stood. And, with horrifying calculation, curled into Lando’s lap.

He stiffened like someone had just placed a sleeping cobra on his legs.

“She’s… sitting on me.”

“Yes, means she likes you.”

“She’s blinking very slowly. Is that like… a threat?”

Ariana returned, smiling. “It means she trusts you.”

“Oh god.”

He looked down at the cat again, still unsure. She looked up at him with royal indifference, blinked once, and nestled deeper into his lap.

He cleared his throat. “I’m scared to move.”

Ariana curled closer, pulling a throw blanket over her. “For the record, she normally doesn’t sit on strangers.”

He cleared his throat, voice lower now. “For the record… I’m kinda scared of cats.”

Ariana turned toward him, surprised and then, a small, amused smile curved her lips. “Seriously?”

“They’re unpredictable,” he said, eyes still on Aria like she might bite at any moment. “They stare at you like they know your deepest fears. And then they pounce. Or leave. Or judge you for breathing too loud.”

She laughed, a real laugh, full and light. “And yet you let her sit in your lap.”

“I’m trying to be brave,” he muttered. “For you.”

Her expression softened instantly. “You don’t have to be brave for me, Lando.”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing at her now, “but I kind of want to be.”

She went quiet at that, the smile still on her lips, but something gentler now behind her eyes. Her fingers brushed his arm lightly, grounding.

“Ariana,” he said softly.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to kiss me again?”

She didn’t answer.

She leaned in instead, her hand rising to his neck, her lips brushing his like something remembered.

This kiss wasn’t like the one at the museum.

This one was slower… deeper… heavier.

His hands found her waist instinctively, tugging her closer, until suddenly she was straddling him, her cat long forgotten as her paws thudded to the floor in quiet protest. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers tangled into his curls. He gasped softly against her mouth, and she swallowed the sound like a secret.

She kissed like she danced: with precision, with purpose, with fire just under the surface.

They stayed tangled for what felt like forever, mouths learning, hands exploring, until they pulled back, breathless, her forehead resting against his.

He looked at her. “Ariana.”

“You can call me Ari.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

She nodded, smiling gently. “All my close friends do.”

He tilted his head. “Just friends?”

Her eyes gleamed. “You’re more than that.”

His hand found her cheek, thumb brushing her jaw. “And only close people call you Ari?”

“Very close,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, not rushed, not hungry, just soft and sure. A promise.

“I feel special,” he murmured.

“You are,” she said, lips brushing his. “You really are.”

Behind them, on the armrest, Aria stretched and yawned, unimpressed by romance, but silently approving nonetheless.

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @esw1012, @lilyofthevalley-09, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek

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sassenach77yle · 4 months ago

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THE YEAR ENDED clear and cold, with a small, brilliant moon that rose high in the violet-black vault of the sky, and flooded the coves and trails of the mountainside with light. A good thing, as people came from all over the Ridge—and some, even farther—to keep Hogmanay at “the Big House.”

The men had cleared the new barn and raked the floor clean for the dancing. Jigs and reels and strathspeys—and a number of other dances for which I didn’t know the names, but they looked like fun—were executed under the light of bear-oil lanterns, accompanied by the music of Evan Lindsay’s scratchy fiddle and the squeal of his brother Murdo’s wooden flute, punctuated by the heartbeat thump of Kenny’s bodhran. Thurlo Guthrie’s ancient father had brought his pipes, too—a set of small uilleann pipes that looked nearly as decrepit as did Mr. Guthrie, but produced a sweet drone. The melody of his chanter sometimes agreed with the Lindsays’ notion of a particular tune, and sometimes didn’t, but the overall effect was cheerful, and sufficient whisky and beer had been taken by this point in the festivities that no one minded in the least. After an hour or two of the dancing, I privately decided that I understood why the word “reel” had come to indicate drunkenness; even performed without preliminary lubrication, the dance was enough to make one dizzy. Done under the influence of whisky, it made all the blood in my head whirl round like the water in a washing machine. I staggered off at the end of one such dance, leaned against one of the barn’s uprights, and closed one eye, in hopes of stopping the spinning sensation.

A nudge on my blind side caused me to open that eye, revealing Jamie, holding two brimming cups of something. Hot and thirsty as I was, I didn’t mind what it was, so long as it was wet. Fortunately it was cider, and I gulped it. “Drink it like that, and ye’ll founder, Sassenach,” he said, disposing of his own cider in precisely similar fashion. He was flushed and sweating from the dancing, but his eyes sparkled as he grinned at me. “Piffle,” I said. With a bit of cider as ballast, the room had quit spinning, and I felt cheerful, if hot. “How many people are in here, do you think?”

“Sixty-eight, last time I counted.” He leaned back beside me, viewing the milling throng with an expression of deep content. “They come in and out, though, so I canna be quite sure. And I didna count the weans,” he added, moving slightly to avoid collision as a trio of small boys caromed through the crowd and shot past us, giggling. Heaps of fresh hay were stacked in the shadows at the sides of the barn; the small bodies of children too wee to stay awake were draped and curled among them like so many barn kittens. The flicker of lantern light caught a gleam of silky red-gold; Jemmy was sound asleep in his blanket, happily lulled by the racket. I saw Bree come out of the dancing and lay her hand briefly on him to check, then turn back. Roger put out a hand to her, dark and smiling, and she took it, laughing as they whirled back into the stamping mass.

Hogmanay ~The fiery cross

#the frasers #outlander #outlander starz #outlander series #outlanderedit #outlander fanart #jamie fraser #samheughan #jamie&claire #jamie and claire #claire beauchamp #dr claire randall #claire fraser #caitrionabalfe #outlander book #outlander books #hogmanay

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oldbutchdanielcraig · 8 months ago

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iwtv fanfic friday <3

happy weekend reading!

all human decisions by LuckyDiceKirby (@luckydicekirby) m, 19k

Daniel’s bastard maker had the advantage over him: he could travel by daylight. By the time Daniel woke at dusk, sprawled on the couch and actually literally tucked in, there was no sign of him. Well, fuck Armand. Daniel might be a newly minted best-selling conspiracy theorist whose sanity was being publicly debated on every existing social media platform, but he was still a journalist. He could track down one monstrous extremely divorced serial killer, easy.

(armand is sooooooo annoying in this. he's everything to me.)

colour me your colour, baby by hederabug m, 2.6k

“Daniel.” Daniel hears the soft, but insistent voice first as a distant call, as if she’s submerged in water. She breathes air when Armand’s hand grabs at her shoulder. “Wake up, lover.” Armand is on all fours, hands and knees on the bed above where Daniel’s still lying down, so they’re face to face. Armand’s brown eyes are glinting with some manic light, her face cast in shadow, striking chiaroscuro, lit only by the dull amber glow of the bedside table.

(rest assured i will be doing a dm yuri theme week soon and rest assured this will be on it. but it was too good not to include here. i need like 17 more fics in this series)

With His Heart Still Intact (They Didn't Do It Right) by CaravanOfCrows (@asthedeathoflight) t, 6k

A series of collisions; in which free will exists but fate isn't going down without a fight. (surely Armand and Daniel only have extremely normal feelings about freedom and agency and destiny)

(WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THE DM SOULMATE AU AGAIN. CAN WE TALK ABOUT IT PLEASE)

marketplace heart-eater by eggalbumin m, 6k

Daniel picks up a blade from the stack of discarded tools in the kidney tray. It has blood on it. “I’m a little scared to ask,” he says, with the aura of someone who isn’t very scared of asking at all, “but who’s blood is this?” Mine. Yours. My master’s, twice-diluted. Why does it matter anymore? It’s poison either way. “The doctor was just showing me how to do incisions. It’s fascinating work.”

(really fucking awesome armand character study. the first time i ever found marius compelling due to the fact that he's written from the lens of armand's tangled knot of being. like i think he should be killed with hammers as much as the next guy but he makes for such a fascinating narrative concept)

did you believe in the glass city by tei @bloodripelives nr, 5.9k

"Yes," Armand breathes. "Yes. Is anything they did to me worse than what I have done to you?" Daniel wants to say yes, but shit, he's not even sure what Armand had done to him. And whatever it was, he is sure that he would have let him do worse.

(daniel tracks down marius for the sake of armand's tangled knot of being. it goes as well as you would expect. so fucking beautiful and soooo fucking compelling. made me cry at least twice. read it now)

#iwtv #fic rec #devil's minion #iwtv fanfic friday #can i put works where marius is mentioned on my list or will i be tackled and killed.#sorry. i think he deserves to be killed as much as the next guy but looking at him through armand's eyes.... through the ultimate loverboys #eyes........#very compelling to me.#anyway i know i said i'm going to diversify my lists AND I WILL. but i didnt have as much time to read this week and these are #all crazy good so. here. have more armandaniel one shots

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mrfrogmouth · 3 months ago

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Day 11: Convenience Store/Emerald

The ice cream drops into Kara’s basket with a rattling thud that jars her frazzled nerves even more than the humming of the flickering convenience store lights. Alex’s words echo in her ears. Words like “reckless” and “unnecessary risk” and “I should send you to the medbay. I didn’t realize that fight with Corben had melted your BRAIN.”

Kara felt that last one was a bit much. It wasn’t like she’d been hurt or anything. And all those people in the L-Corp lab had been saved! As far as she’s concerned, that’s an absolute success! Kara drops another pint into her basket. It hits her already tall stack and rolls off. Should she get a fourth basket? No. The plastic grocery bags might rip on her flight home. She puts the pint back with a resigned sigh.

And you know what? Her plan had been solid. Sure, it was risky to go straight through the kryptonite powered robots without waiting for backup but she’d been on a time crunch! And maybe Alex should think about issuing less dumb orders if she wanted Kara to follow them. “Wait while we identify the bomb” what kind of stupid idea was that? It was already ticking!

She’s just turning the corner, still thinking about Alex and the fact that she’d actually seemed a little disappointed when Kara had told her Lena survived when she nearly slams into someone coming the opposite way. It’s only her superspeed that averts the collision as she jerks to the side just in time. In her distracted state, however, it is not enough to prevent one of her baskets from clipping the stranger’s arm, sending both her ice cream and their groceries tumbling to the floor.

“Oh— Oh my gosh I am so sorry! I can help you clean this up. I— Lena?”

And it is. Tied hair mostly covered by a junky black hoodie Kara hadn’t even imagined she owned, Lena stares back at her with equal surprise behind a a pair of sunglasses. She smells faintly of burned plastic. And alcohol.

“Hi… Kara. Nice… seeing you here?”

Kara doesn’t think it’s intended to be a question, but she answers anyway. “It is! I would’ve thought you had people to do your midnight shopping though.”

Lena says nothing. Probably would have been nicer if Kara hadn’t thrown her stuff all over the floor. “Oh! Here, let me help you with your… rope…and bleach.”

Both of them pause, surveying the unique collection of bottles of lighter fluid, rope, bleach, and cartons of boxed wine.

“Well. Lovely seeing you.” Lena says, and then she has her things shoved into her basket and is power walking down the aisle as briskly as possible without breaking into a run.

“Lena— Lena, wait!” Kara calls after her, scooping up her ice creams. Lena pays (in cash) and by the time Kara has paid and caught up with her she is opening the door of her car. “Lena!”

Lena pauses and looks back.

“Are you sure you should be driving?” Kara asks, “You seem a little. Uhh—” Sloshed? Tipsy? Buzzed? “…Tired.”

“I’m fine Kara. I drove myself here. I can drive myself home.”

“Oh, I’m sure, I just— I saw the news today.” Kara says.

Lena stiffens at her car door. “What about it? Not like it’s the first time.” She says. Her flippant tone is somewhat undercut by the force with which she throws her bag into the back seat.

“You almost died today. I— I heard Supergirl was cutting it pretty close with that bomb.” Kara says. It’s an understatement. After the robots and decoy bombs Kara only had arrived as it went off. It was a miracle Lena hadn’t been badly burned from the heat of the blast before Kara had gotten her cape around her.

Lena shrugs. “Yeah, well. Another gift from Lex.”

“Lena, that’s worse!” Kara says, harsher than she’d intended.

Lena stops, and Kara gets the impression that Lena is truly looking at her for the first time since they met in the store. She pulls down her sunglasses, and blinks in the sudden light. Tipsy or no, her gaze is as sharp as ever. Then she sighs.

“Tell you what. You tell me what drove you to buy 37 pints of ice cream, and I tell you what the lighter fluid is for.”

_______________

“It’s really not a big deal,” Kara is saying, as they enter the elevator to Lena’s office, her hands finally relaxing from the white knuckled fists they’d been in for most of the drive. If Lena crashes the car, Kara should be fast enough to keep everyone safe if she’s paying attention. I mean. If anything made drunk driving safe it’s having Supergirl in the passenger’s seat, right? “It’s not like I almost got blown up.”

Kara cringes at her own words— sweet rao why did she SAY that— but Lena only shrugs. “Seems like it matters to you.”

Kara doesn’t have much of a rebuttal to that. “Yeah. It does, I guess.”

“Kara?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Oh! Right. Alex and I argued.” It seems such a silly complaint now, standing next to Lena.

“What about?” Lena asks, pressing a fob to the elevator key.

Kara pauses, searching for the right words. “I… did something… risky. At work.” Lena meets her eyes with a smile.

“Kara Danvers? Do something risky in the pursuit of journalistic truth? Never.”

Kara laughs, but the laughter fades quickly. “Alex was investigating the same thing I was. And she… uhh. Didn’t like my methods.”

“Didn’t like you putting yourself at risk?”

“No. And today— today maybe came a little bit closer than I would have liked. But my plan worked! And nobody was hurt!”

“But you scared Alex.”

Kara sighed. “But I scared Alex.” The doors of the elevator open, and Lena pulls the bleach out of her shopping bag. “Sometimes I just feel like— I don’t know. Like she won’t let me be my own person. Like she’s so scared I’m going to get myself hurt that she won’t let me take a step on my own. Like she doesn’t trust me to. She’s always looked after me ever since I arrived. To the Danvers, I mean.”

Lena blinks. “You’re adopted?”

_______________

The smell of wine grows stronger when Lena opens her office door, and Kara tracks it to the large purple stain that has spread across the white rug by the desk. Kara looks at Lena in question and Lena lifts the bottle of bleach with a guilty smile.

_______________

“Have you ever bleached a rug before?”

“No, but it can’t be that hard. You just. Like. Soak it, right?”

“I guess? Don’t you need to dilute it?”

“Please. This isn’t even lab grade. It can’t be that bad.”

_______________

Ten minutes later, once they have thrown the now faintly smoking rug down the incinerator chute (Of course, I have an incinerator in my office. I run experiments, Kara), Kara finally asks, “So, you were going to tell me about the lighter fluid?”

“Ah! Yes. Would you grab the rope? We need to bind these papers.”

Lena doesn’t elaborate further until they’ve taken the old bags and stacks of papers and journals downstairs and out to the little park across the street from L-Corp. Or, well, Kara carries most of it as Lena struggles with her single bag. When Lena has her breath back she pants, “You’ve been holding out on me Danvers. What else do you have hiding under those cardigans of yours?”

“Me?” Kara feels her face heat as she chokes out, “Nothing! Nothing hiding. I mean. My shirt.”

Lena laughs like Kara’s said the funniest joke in the world and Kara relaxes. She should be more careful about lifting things. Alex would kill her if Lena found out she was Supergirl. Come to think of it Alex would kill her if she heard that Kara was alone in the park, at night, with Lena Luthor. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Do you have some compulsion that drags you to the nearest near-death opportunity?”

Kara hefts the papers. Alex can suck it.

“So, umm. What are all these?” She asks, depositing her stacks by Lena’s bag.

“My brother’s things form the L-Corp office. Apparently, he left behind some items last time he was here. Notes, Photos, and the like. Nobody claimed them after Metropolis, so they just sat in the office cabinet. The ones the police didn’t confiscate anyway.”

“Oh,” Kara says, eloquently. “And you wanted to do a… midnight de-clutter?”

“Yeah.” Lena says, with a satisfied nod. “I’m gonna set it on fire.”

“Wait, what?”

But Lena is already grabbing rocks and arranging them in a tight ring, dropping a few journals at the center. “Would you pass me the lighter fluid?” She asks, before taking a large chug from a carton of boxed wine Kara had not realized Lena brought with her. She passes over the lighter fluid anyway.

Lena sets about appropriately drenching the journals, takes another large gulp of wine (Kara scoots forward, hiding the other cartons behind the pile of paper.) then reaches into the bag. She freezes, then pats her pockets. “Damn!” She says, “I forgot to get matches.” She casts an eye across the park. “I suppose I’ll just have to make a spark.”

Kara doesn’t know much about fire-starting technique, and the practiced way Lena moves suggests she does, so Kara doesn’t really move while Lena spins a small twig into a log. She succeeds in creating a small flame… which promptly goes out as Lena attempts to bring it closer to the soaked journal kindling. After several more attempts with the stick and a string of curses Kara isn’t sure are entirely in English, Kara bends over a pair of rocks and pretends to start sparking them. After a moment the campfire goes up in a roaring flame and Kara pretends to blink away the smoke while her eyes stop glowing.

Lena beams at her. “You get more interesting by the moment, Kara Danvers. A veritable outdoorswoman.”

Ears burning, Kara says, “Alex taught me.” And then, unfortunately, opens her mouth again. “She really likes explosives.” Dear god WHY— But Lena just nods like that’s a perfectly normal thing to say. Maybe it is in the Luthor house. Or maybe Lena’s just too drunk to know the difference.

She tosses in a small paper pouch and the flames flash a brilliant, rippling green. Lena smiles. Her eyes reflect the fire like shining emeralds.

Kara feels a little dizzy. She’s hot again and she begins to sweat. She looks at the fading green flames again. Kryptonite? Lex is the kind of guy who would just have little baggies of powdered kryptonite in storage. What does she do now? Is this what Alex had been worried about? Kara begins to panic, before Lena picks up another paper sachet and whips it into the flames. Which promptly spark blue.

“Copper.” Lena says when she catches Kara’s eye, a twinkling smile. “We used to mix up chemicals for homemade fireworks. Lillian would get so angry. Apparently smelling like sulfer and smoke is unbefitting of a Luthor.” She bends over the pile of packets and Kara hears, “Ooh! Potassium Chloride!” before the flames turn purple.

And because Kara can never leave well enough alone, she says, “I am sorry, you know, about Lex.”

Lena stills with her back to Kara.

“Why? Nothing changed for me today. He’s a homicidal madman. That isn’t new. I feel more sympathy for all the people caught up in that attack at the foundry across town.”

“He was still your brother,” Kara says. “I’m sorry.”

“I guess that’s just how it is with siblings.” Lena replies. “You let them in close, they teach you everything you need to know, and then, when you least expect it, they stab you in the back.” She throws the last of the sachets into the fire. “Or blow you up.”

And then, to Kara’s horror, Lena begins to cry. She turns away from the fire, hurriedly wiping away the tears from her face. She sniffs loudly, and laughs.

“And, you know, I know it’s silly,” Lena says, voice trembling.“But I really thought he loved me.”

“That’s not silly, Lena.”

“Isn’t it? He’s done all these terrible things. This is— what? His fourth time trying to kill me? And even here, now, I look at these old notes and the only thing I can think about is when we used to sit in the treehouse and he’d tell me all about his latest projects.”

Kara picks up a photo from the pile. It’s old. Lena is probably around ten here. Lex still has his hair, a floppy early 2000s hairdo that looks almost comical knowing the man now. They’re playing chess. Lena is staring at the board, chewing on her lip with rapt focus, but Lex is looking at Lena. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. It almost looks like pride.

“My family— My birth family were complicated people. And some of them did things that I could never understand.” Kara thinks of Astra’s wild eyes, of Non standing proud and cold before Ft. Rozz, her mother’s hologram. “I could spend the rest of my life trying to find what I could have done, what I should have said to change their mind.” Kara flicks the photo into the fire. “Sometimes loving someone isn’t enough. Sometimes they go places you can’t follow.”

“Humans are just pathetic creatures I suppose. All of us chasing after useless things.” Lena says, and she tosses a pile of papers into the fire. Old calculations, landscape sketches, and notes fizzle as they hit the flames, sending sparks out across the grass.

“There’s nothing pathetic about loving someone, Lena. Even if it does nothing but hurt.”

Lena doesn’t respond, busying herself untying papers to burn. Kara stares at her a moment, a hundred somethings on her tongue, and then she hears something whistling in the distance.

“Are those sirens?”

“Run!” ___________

They sprint around the last alley corner and stop, panting. (Both of them, this time. Kara’s getting really good at this fake exercising thing!)

“I can’t hear them anymore,” Kara says. “I think we’re good.” Kara can actually still hear them, but they’re going the opposite direction, so that should be good enough. She and Lena stand in silence for a moment, both breathing heavily. They make eye contact. And burst out laughing.

“Oh my god!” Lena giggles, “Oh, I haven’t done this since boarding school.”

“What kind of boarding school did you go to?” Kara asks in alarm.

“The expensive kind.” Lena says, slyly. And was she always standing so close?

“It’s late.” Kara hears herself saying. “You should probably get yourself home.”

“Probably,” Lena agrees.

They stand there frozen, nose to nose in the alley, and Kara has that feeling again. Like there’s something there on the tip of her tongue. Like she should say something. Do something. And then two cats flings themselves out of the dumpster next to them with an awful yowling and they spring apart.

Lena clears her throat, straightening her dress. “Well, it’s very late. We should probably get back to the office. I need to drive you back home after all.”

Kara does convince Lena to call a cab this time, but they don’t speak for the rest of the car ride.

Lena pauses at Kara’s door.

“Thank you, for coming with me tonight. Not many people would help a Luthor with an unsanctioned nighttime bonfire.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No. No, I don’t get the impression you are,” Lena says with a wry laugh. “And don’t think I’m going to forget about you carrying down all those papers. Best be on your guard Ms. Danvers, or I’ll start calling you to help bring in all of the legal documents I have to wade through.”

“You could, you know.” What is she saying? Why can’t she ever just shut her mouth— “Call me, I mean.”

Lena smiles. “I might just take you up on that.”

When Lena has gone and Kara has shut the door behind her, Kara slumps down onto the floor.

Oh. Oh, Alex is going to hate this.

#supergirl #kara danvers #supercorp #lena luthor #kara zor-el #kara zor el #whumptober2024 #october prompts 2024 #supercorptober2024

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