#will be continued when summer starts for me :}

[starmocha]

11 months — first father's day

[Sylus + Daughter ★ 1377 words ★ Masterlist ★ Birdie Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] Sylus' first Father's Day. Tag list: Under cut 【 request to be added 】

A/N: I'm over a week late, but life happens and all that jazz.

There was a warm breeze that passed through Linkon City, and within the city park, Sylus found himself drifting in and out of sleep on a picnic blanket on this lazy Sunday morning. Suddenly, he let out an overexaggerated grunt when he felt small little palms slapping against stomach repeatedly, joined by excited babblings.

He cracked one eye open, smirking at the sight of the eleven-month-old girl in her red-and-white pomegranate-printed summer dress giggling before she plopped down on the ground, instantly sucking her thumb.

“Trying to look innocent now, are you, my little birdie?” Sylus questioned with a smirk as he sat half-way up, with his forearms still grounded to hold his weight.

His daughter pulled her thumb out of her mouth and giggled at her father before clapping her hands together.

“It’s no use acting so cute,” Sylus teased, “I have my eyes on you. Don’t think this little façade of yours will work on me, my little birdie.”

Immediately, his daughter babbled again confused before she turned around and started crawling toward you. You instantly scooped the baby girl into your arms and nuzzled your cheek against hers. “Oh, dear, did the big bad guy over there scared you, baby?”

The girl squirmed in your hold before you set her down. You smiled as she attempted to stand up on her own. She took clumsy little steps back toward Sylus. Immediately he sat up, smiling, as his arms were outstretched.

“That’s it, good job, baby,” Sylus praised, “You’re doing so well today.”

His smile widened when he noticed you had whipped out your phone, holding it sideway as you recorded the scene before you. His eyes drifted back to his little girl, chuckling when she stumbled and fell on her bottom. Before she could cry, he encouraged her once more, “It’s alright. You’re fine. Try again, baby.”

As if she understood her father, the little girl pushed herself upright again, and stumbled her way back to her father before she collapsed into his waiting arms, giggling when he lifted her high into the air. She kicked her feet excitedly before Sylus lowered her back down, holding her close in his embrace. He kissed the top of her head, murmuring sweetly, “You did so well, my little birdie.” He lowered his voice so only you and your daughter could hear him speak, “Why, soon you will be running rampage around the base.”

You ended the recording, laughing. “I don’t think we will be able to babyproof the whole place for her,” you teased.

Sylus lifted his daughter back into the air, smiling when she giggled again and started patting his face excitedly with both small hands of hers. He blew a kiss into her stomach, chuckling alongside his daughter’s excited giggles and your laughter. “She has free reign of the base,” he said, setting his daughter back down into his lap, with her facing you. “It will be hers someday anyway.”

You sighed at him exasperatedly. “Aren’t you thinking too far ahead?”

He shrugged. “So what?”

Before either of you could continue your conversation, your daughter babbled loudly and reached for the array of picnic food you had prepared. You smiled, and picked up a plastic container full of cutup strawberries. You fed one to her, saying gently, “Chew thoroughly, baby.”

“How about me?” Sylus teased you, opening his mouth wide, waiting.

You pretended to roll your eyes at him before you fed him a cutup strawberry. “Chew thoroughly, Sylus,” you teased him back.

“Mm, it’s sweet,” he responded, and before you could react, he had already guided you closer to him, his lips pressed to yours in a tender kiss. It didn’t last for long, but it was still enough for you to freeze up until you both heard the baby girl between you both crying out:

“Ah, ah!”

Sylus chuckled while you laughed awkwardly and reached for another piece of strawberry. “Alright, Little Miss, here’s another strawberry for you.”

“Bossy little birdie,” Sylus quipped with pride, his smile unwavering as he watched his daughter happily eat her piece of fruit. He chuckled when she yelled out again for more strawberries. “She has the makings of a great leader.”

“You are incorrigible.”

Your daughter leaned in closer eagerly for her next bite, but suddenly her eyes widened in shock when she was lifted into the air, her vision of you—and her precious strawberries—gone, replaced by her father’s smirk. She cried out confused before giggling when her father blew another kiss into her stomach.

“Do you hear that, baby? Mommy thinks Daddy is incorrigible,” Sylus said with feigned hurt, clearly trying to provoke you, but instead of falling for his ploy, you matched his wits.

“Using our daughter to have your ways?” you questioned him with mock astonishment. “For shame. I thought you were above such underhanded moves, Sylus.”

He huffed in amusement at your attempts to mess with him, his crimson eyes brightening the more he noticed you trying to hide your smiles. “Sweetie,” his voice lowered, and discreetly, he motioned with his fingers, manipulating his Evol to pull you closer to him, until you were settled in his lap with your daughter in yours. You shivered as his breath brushed against your ear, too stunned to register what had just happened. “I can be even more underhanded than this.”

“N-not in front of our daughter,” you scolded him with rosy cheeks.

“Very well,” he conceded lightheartedly, but his hand on your hip pulled you closer until your head rested against his chest. He leaned down, kissing the top of your head, his playful tone now gone. In its place, there was a familiar sincerity, warm and trusting, as he kept his words soft for only you and your daughter to hear: “Thank you.”

“For what?” You peered up confused, meeting his amused gaze. “I didn’t do anything…”

Sylus shook his head in disagreement. He tilted your chin up, and another fleeting kiss landed on your lips. “This picnic. This life. Our daughter,” he listed each one patiently, continuing in that same gentle tone, “You have given me so much already, and I fear I am still greedy for more.”

“Ah ah!”

You both laughed and looked down at the baby girl in your lap, seeing her eyeing the container of strawberries again. She squirmed in your hold, hand reaching out for the elusive fruit. She cried out in frustration when you held her tighter.

“Looks like you are not the only greedy one here today, Sylus,” you teased.

Sylus discreetly used his Evol to grab a small piece of strawberry, motioning it closer until it was held between his fingers. He peered down at his daughter, seeing her eyes widened with eagerness, her mouth agape, waiting.

“Do you want this strawberry, my little birdie?” He guided the strawberry to his own mouth, but stopped when his daughter cried out in frustration again.

“Ah ah!”

“This is the last sweet strawberry,” Sylus said, “What does this little birdie have to trade for such a delicious fruit?”

Your daughter babbled in confusion, looking up at you for help.

“Did this mean old dragon steal your strawberry, baby?”

Your daughter squirmed and reached out to her father for her fruit.

“Maybe a kiss will appease him?” you suggested and held the baby girl up. You guided her closer to Sylus’ cheek, and in the next instance, your husband received a wet kiss.

“Such a generous trade,” he quipped, and fed his daughter the last piece of strawberry. “I feel like that kiss has earned you a strawberry farm, my little birdie.”

“Well, her first birthday is coming up soon,” you said, humoring him.

“Indeed,” he murmured, looking at you fondly again. “It’s already been nearly a year since she’s arrived…”

You both looked down at the baby girl in your lap, seeing her watching you both with wide-eyed curiosity. You kissed the top of her head. “Do you know how loved you are, our little birdie?”

Your daughter cried out excitedly in response, clapping her hands in glee.

“Thank you for coming into the world.” Sylus leaned down, his cheek nuzzling against his daughter’s before he kissed her cheek, “Thank you for being ours.”

Tag list: @lavlynyan @alfredosaws @solifloris @nezuswritingdesk @valkyyriia @yes-no-maybe-soo @natimiles @yourlocalcatscammer @callilypso @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @qyuin @sylusfluffymeow @asiaticapple @rainbowsnowflake @littleapplle @animegamerfox @deepspacenova 【 request to be added 】

[sweet-s0rr0w]

for @drarrymicrofic prompt wound - red string of fate silliness, 700 words.

***

The first time Harry felt his string was in the dusty aftermath of the Battle. Most of him hurt, and the rest felt numb, and so it was a few days before he registered the tugging, or discovered the length of scarlet thread wound around his little finger. A soulmate, he thought, with no small degree of bitterness. Something new to worry about.

There was no time for worrying that summer, though. That summer was already spoken for: first Scotland for the rebuild, then back home for the trials, and by the time the wind turned autumn-sharp, Harry’s string had disappeared.

It came back at Christmas.

“It’s nothing,” Harry insisted, as Ginny scrambled off the bed, pale-faced. “Whoever she is, she’s probably in Australia or something. Who cares?”

Ginny did, as it turned out.

She wasn’t the only one, either. Most people pretended it didn’t matter at first, but amid the dying gasps of each failed relationship, there it was again: something sour, something rotten. “I’m not your soulmate, anyway,” they’d mutter, as though they’d been tricked. As though Harry had tricked them.

He began to hide it: wearing gloves over the holidays, tucking his hand beneath long sleeves for those same two weeks every June. He’d feel the pull starting and make his excuses, Apparating home or disappearing upstairs. Alone, though, strangely, he found he didn’t mind it. He rarely saw the red of the string, which disappeared off into nothing; usually the only sign was a bloodless indent, just below the nail bed. He’d run his finger over and over the notch and picture a formless someone doing the same at the other end.

But who? And where?

“I mean, it’s got to be worth checking out, right?” he said to Ron, tugging on his rucksack outside the Portkey station. “Maybe it’s why I have such shit luck in love.”

But she – or he, as Harry increasingly suspected – wasn’t in Australia, after all. No matter; surely, with this, there was no rush. His instincts took him to the great gardens of Japan, the white sands of Bali, the bazaars of Jaipur. Then, frustrated, he continued west: northern Africa, southern Europe, where he paused in Rome for a brief, unsatisfying affair, then up through Germany; still, there was no sign of the thread.

“You’ve got to come back,” Hermione told him, voice staticky over the international Floo. Harry was in Dinard by then, heart-sick, belly heavy with beer and Breton crêpes. France had been the closest yet, he was sure of it. That first night, in Bordeaux, he’d been pulled abruptly from a dream, could have sworn he’d felt –

“It’s his tenth birthday,” Hermione reminded him. “He’ll be so disappointed if you miss it.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron chimed in, from somewhere in the background. “It’s been months. Face it, you have shit luck in love because you only date arrogant pricks.”

He was still bitter about Ginny, Harry reckoned.

Reluctantly, Harry Apparated in to the party, though it had been so long that he mistimed his jump, and ended up in Andy’s kitchen. He staggered forward, dropping both his suitcase and Teddy’s badly-wrapped present on the tiles.

“Excuse me,” came an affronted voice from somewhere near the fridge.

“Sorry, I–”

Then the man straightened, adjusted his collar and – oh god, it was Malfoy. And oh god, Harry was staring. It was just – he hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected Malfoy at all, and certainly hadn’t expected him to look like this. Malfoy was broader now, tanned, freckled, and he was wearing a linen shirt, open halfway down his chest. He looked like every one of the arrogant pricks Harry had dated. Harry’s mouth watered, and his heart pounded, and his little finger throbbed. Distracted, he flexed it, then when that didn't work he shook his whole hand in annoyance.

Malfoy inhaled sharply as the motion caught his eye. He stilled, almost dazed, then extended his own hand towards Harry.

Harry knew, of course, before he looked down.

“It doesn’t mean–” Malfoy began, cautious, at the same time as Harry said “we don’t have to–”

They both paused, laughing. Looped between the two of them, their red string shook.

Time slowed down. Around them, everything grew bright. Harry stepped forward, wound the thread loosely around his hand, and reeled Malfoy in.

“Hi,” he said.

[corpscs]

summer’s for the girls ⧗ yelena x new avenger!reader

♡ minors and men dni , no use of y/n , wlw , team bickering , everyone is annoyed and sweaty , smut 18+ , ice cubes , stonetop!yelena , yelena and reader are girlfriends , reader has unspecified electrokinesis ability , images are from pinterest , divider , this was edited by my cat so ignore any spelling or grammar mistakes i will probably find them later , russian is from google/reddit

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ♡ detka - babe , lyubimaya - my love

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ♡ masterlist , word count: 3.5k

bones’ now playing ▶︎ for the girls - hayley kiyoko

the watchtower was hot.

a heatwave was currently rolling across the east coast and caused a black out. the power was back on now, but the hvac system got fried in the power surge. oscillating fans could only do so much and the windows of the watchtower barely opened for safety purposes. all the team could do was sit and try not to move too much.

bucky walked into the room, his phone call interrupting the rare, natural peace the team had achieved all on their own, or maybe you all were just overheating. when bucky cursed under his breath, you decided to looked up from your book.

you and bob started your own book club after you got benched for a failed mission due to an electrical explosion, which totally could have not been because of you, but who knows? this week you decided to play some kind of sick joke and choose stephen king’s under the dome, 1,080 something pages. poor bob nearly had a heart attack, but you promised him way more than a week to read and marathon run of the show they made about it before he hesitantly agreed.

“alright.” bucky gruffed into his phone’s receiver. his hair was pulled into a haphazard bun, the shorter fringe pieces sticking to the sides of his sweat slicked face. “thanks, you too.” he hung up the phone with a sigh.

“so… what’s the verdict?” ava asked.

“two days.” and the entire room erupted into groans.

“why can’t we get a hotel?” john suggested. his shirt had been discarded long ago, now only wearing a pair of gym shorts. he was laying flat on the tile floor, the coldest place to be. it was also where ava chose to sit and hog one of three fans set up in the room.

“why? you offering to pay for it, taco bell?” you snorted. the nickname appeared after the sentry folded his shield.

“why should i? barnes’ got a bigger salary than all of us.”

“no hotels!” bucky’s commanding tone was enough to silence them all. “you’re avengers. if a little east coast heatwave can take you all out then we really are doomed.” he paused, feeling a slight draft behind him. “close the freezer, yelena.” bucky warned. even with his back to the bar he could see the russian draped over the bar’s freezer. she groaned before complying with his order, but slamming the cooler door in retaliation.

“you sure you can’t fix it, sparky?” john asked.

“i’m not a fucking engineer.” you rolled your eyes as yelena wandered back to the couch.

the blonde was clad in a grey tank top and black lounge shorts. flopping down to take up the remaining space of the two-seater, head on the arm rest and laying her legs across your thighs. you lifted your book to accommodate her legs before lowering your arms back down to her shins and continuing to read.

“eugh,” she made a face, throwing her head back in disgust. both of you were instantly aware of the slickness of your combined sweat, but didn’t care enough to move. “this is the worst!” yelena complained, yet she made no attempt to change her position.

“we’re all hot yelena.” bucky reminded her as he finished off his nth water of the day.

“yes, but my girlfriend is next to me. and she is sticky and wet, but not in the good ways.” she spoke to the ceiling before lolling her head to the side and locking eyes with bucky.

the others groaned in disgust while you laughed at bucky trying to downplay choking on his last sip of water. now deciding to neglect your book, you watched her laugh falter and then you watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed. the exposed skin of her upper chest and shoulders glimmered with sweat under the bright studio lighting of the tower ceiling. you decided to turn back to your book because it was way too hot to be allowing your mind wander in that direction right now.

“why do we even have leather couches?” yelena moved slightly feeling the stick of the material.

“easy to clean?” john suggested.

“john, i’ve never seen you clean one thing in this entire room before.” ava pointed out.

“yeah, well, i didn’t mean me.” he snapped before silence enveloped the group for a minute or two. the air is so humid and hostile you almost feared the next person who opened their mouth was gonna get themselves tossed out one of the open sliding doors.

“has anyone seen alexei?” ava blurted. they hadn’t spotted the man in a few hours.

“maybe he’s at the pool.” bob suggested. he’d been so quiet reading with his back against the cold stone of the wall you forgot he was there

“isn’t that pool like 80 degrees?” john asked.

“that’s colder than the air, right?”

yelena chose to ignore bob’s question, the last thing she wanted was to lash out at someone who didn’t deserve it. she reminded herself that she was just irritated and that bob was bob.

“he’s probably off drinking to forget about the heat. i don’t know.” she shrugged her outward shoulder slightly. a pause and suddenly yelena was sitting up like you had electrocuted her. the sound of her skin peeling off the material of the couch made you internally cringe.

“yelena, no.” you derailed her train of thought before she could even suggest something.

“oh c’mon, lyubimaya” she whined. “you did not even hear my idea.”

“i don’t need to.” you ignore whatever she grumbled under her breath as she continued to stare at the side of your face.

“you have been reading that same page for six minutes.” her eyes dropped to the page open in your lap.

“i’m distracted.” you side eyed her flipping the page. not because you finished reading it, but to prove a point.

“am i distracting you?” you made the mistake of fully looking at her. whisps of her bangs had fallen out of her headband and stuck to her brow. you could see a small bead of sweat dripping down her left temple.

“the team is distracting.” you lied.

“if i have to watch you two flirt in this heat i may actually stroke out.” john jokingly gagged.

“keep it up you guys.” ava feigned a cheer.

“i think you all got heat stroke.” bucky muttered before leaving the team with one final order, “drink some water.”

it wasn’t a moment later before alexei appeared in the room like a summoned spirit.

“and where have you been?” yelena asked her father in an accusing tone.

“cold shower.” he held up both hands closing his thumb and pointer fingers into a double okay sign. the rest of the team made sounds acknowledgment, but you could only imagine the future lecture from bucky about the water bill. you opened you book back up and attempted to read once more.

you managed to get two pages in before yelena was leaning close to your face,

“detka, i have a new idea.”

“of course you do.” you turned to your left, your faces now no more than two inches apart. her breath didn’t even feel warm against your already heated skin. her eyes moved to your lips before she jerked back, catching the half empty water bottle that walker just hucked in your direction. that action alone had some deprived part of your brain clicking to life.

“hey!” she scolded him.

“get a room.” he hollered. yelena huffed, and threw her legs off your lap, both of you releasing small twin ow’s at the sweat stuck skin ripping apart. you opened your mouth to complain but she leaned down and ordered you to wait ten minutes before following her, “you never heard my idea.”

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

while you had tried to think up the possibilities of yelena’s idea, you actually did not think of this. but here you were, laying on one of her bleach stained towels, back against your mattress. yelena straddled one of your legs, sitting comfortably despite the temperature of the room. the hum of that fan that’s been running for thirty-some odd hours straight drowned out whatever playlist yelena had playing. it was pointed towards the bed and softly blew around the lose wisps of her hair.

beside her was a metal bowl full of ice cubes.

“ready?” she asked reaching her hand into the bowl. she took a single ice cube into her hand as she adjusted her knees to straddle your hips.

“go for it.” you gave her a lazy ‘okay’. she grinned and placed the ice cube between your collar bones. you gasped from the cold sensation spreading across your skin, goosebumps prickling down your shoulders and arms.

she dragged the ice between your collar bones and chest, avoiding the hem of your tank top. but the ice melted quickly on your heated skin, some soaking your tank and the rest slipping down around your neck. she dragged the cube to the center of your sternum, under the tank top before holding her hand over the material. it didn’t take long for the ice cube to melt completely through the warmth of your chest.

although the ice was startling, the minor relief from the hot air was good enough.

yelena unceremoniously yanked your tank top down below your breasts. and when you heard the threads of the fabric snapping, you scolded her with a gasp of her name.

“relax, i’m pretty sure this one was mine anyways.” was.

“i don’t think so.” your voice pitched upwards into a shriek as she pinched your nipple with cold fingers. “you said you don’t like spaghetti straps.” you recalled catching your breath back.

“i don’t.” yelena agreed. she didn’t like them. she remembers the conversation you two had about waking up tits out because that type of tank top tends to travel in any given direction while sleeping. it was one of the first times yelena was fully honest with you about something. she didn’t like that vulnerability, being exposed. and you were so understanding, you always were.

so no, she would never tell you that the real reason why she gave you all her spaghetti straps a few weeks after that was the very same reason she hated them. you’d probably call her some sort of pervert.

dipping her hand back into the bowl, yelena picked out a new ice cube placing it on the same spot between your collar bones. she dragged the cube in the same path as the first one before sliding it to the opposite nipple she had pinched before. it didn’t feel bad, but it felt strange. like your brain couldn’t figure out if it hurt with all much sensory input against the air in the room.

you gasped loudly, your hand instinctively moving to grab at her wrist. yelena was obviously faster than you and she grabbed a hold of your wrist with her free hand instead. heat flooded your core when she laughed in your face at your attempt to push away. but she held it there until the ice cube was too small to hold in her fingers anymore so she let it melt against your heaving chest.

“c’mon, it must feel nice.” she moved her soaked hand to rub the water across your chest.

“it’s cold.” you wined.

“but it is so hot in here.” she countered. “and you are sweaty. i bet you smell horrible.”

“yelena!” you gasped in embarrassment. now trying to wiggle yourself out from under her.

“i am no better!” she laughed, squeezing her thighs around your hips. “it is, like, 40 degrees in here.” your physical strength was almost infantilizing compared to yelena, and it was too hot to keep up a fight you can’t win.

“i don’t know the metric system, babe.” maybe your delivery was more snarky than you had intended because yelena yanked up her your tank top before dropping an ice cube directly to your belly button. you shrieked loudly, your free hand now going for her wrist. she decided to let you grab her, knowing your physical strength alone isn’t enough to move her hand.

“be careful with your hands detka. you do not want not shock me, again.” you instinctively bucked up against yelena, your hips twisting to avoid the cold sensation. she only followed and controlled your movements.

by the time the ice cube on your stomach melted, her your tank was nearly soaked through with the combined back sweat against the fitted sheet. she allowed you to sit up and wiggle the material off your arms fully.

yelena paused briefly, only allowing herself time to admire her girlfriend, but not really allowing you a full chance to recover. her ice cold hand slipped from it’s spot on your middle and down the below the waistband of your shorts. the cold digits ghosted over your panties and you squealed once again reaching for her.

“ah-ah, please keep your hands to yourself this time. that was very rude.” yelena chided, though she understood it was your natural reflex to the cold. she took some sympathy on you and reached for the hem of her own sweat-soaked tank. she peeled it off, leaving her clad in a black sports bra, before she unceremoniously dropped the cotton onto your bare chest. “since you want something to hold on to.”

she grinned as you immediately gripped the grey article between your fingers. it was damp against your own sweaty palms and it smelt strongly of yelena.

she used the m distraction to sit up and pull your shorts and panties down. the sweat coating your thighs working extra hard against her, but winning the struggle with some extra effort from you.

yelena manhandled you back to where she wanted before straddling you once more. you watched her with wide eyes as she grabbed another ice cube. placing it back against your belly button. you gasped as she slowly brought it down your lower abdomen before holding just above your cunt.

your lips pressed into a thin line to keep your shrieking to a minimum. normally she would be against it, after that one time you accidentally bit through your lip hard enough that it bled for more than a few minutes. and yelena would rather drink bleach than sit through another meeting, where mortifying enough, she shared real reason behind the injury and not because they thought you two had some sort of physical dispute. after that incident yelena said no more and called the ego boost collateral.

her free hand reached to grip your jaw, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to hold you in place. “be careful.” she warned, feeling your unsteady breaths against her hand as you nodded.

the ice cube was about the size of nickel now and her fingers had long since lost their feeling. yelena originally was going to let this ice cube fully melt before she got another, but she decided that she was too eager to see your reaction to wait. after shuffling back just ever so slightly to brace for your reaction, she slipped the remains of the ice cube directly beside your clit.

your entire body seized up, your mouth finally opening in a dramatic gasp. “oh my god!” you shrieked, repeating the phrase like a mantra. “lena!” your legs jerked from under her but the weight of her hips held your knees firmly in place.

when you arched too far off the bed for her liking the hand that once gripped your jaw pushed your chest back down to the bed. her hand held just below where you still gripped her tank top. “i think you can handle it.” her voice carried a song to it’s tone.

you shook you head while crying out dramatically, “its cold!” your legs still tried working against her, but she didn’t budge an inch. her height made her seem unassuming, but she was 5 foot something of solid muscle.

what remained of the ice cube quickly disappeared with the heat from your folds, but yelena kept her hand there. only giving you a break from the cubes, her nearly ice cold fingers still sliding mindlessly through the added water in your arousal. she selfishly took this time to warm her own fingers back up. you called her name softly as she tucked her thumb around your clit, rolling the bundle around slowly.

“yes, lyubimaya?” she drawled, not really paying attention to you. she said something else in russian you couldn’t understand before her cold pointer finger was slipping inside of your heat. you gasped, walls fluttering around her digit. she pumped it slowly before adding her middle finger alongside it. she curled her fingers before slipping them out to toy with your clit. her finger pads moved in steady circles and figure-eights your breathing sped up and your grip on her tank top tightened.

fearing destruction of the garment, your right arm had reached to grip the nearest item of bedding, which happened to be the white top sheet yelena had pushed over. it didn’t take long for her to make you cum.

and while you were catching you breath, yelena brazenly pinched your clit between her knuckles. just because she can. your hips jerked, unsure if you wanted to run to or from the feeling. “see,” she said simply. “not so bad?” you wanted to protest. to bicker that yes, she was being mean. but her fingers were toying with your clit once more, and any protests died out into moans.

the ice cubes left in the bowl where nearly half melted now, their crystallized edges now smooth and rounded like well-worn sea glass.

you watched her grab the next one. the look in yelena’s eyes alone should have had you nervous, but your brain had yet to fully catch up.

without hesitation she slid the ice cube through your folds as your body tried to clench up. but her fingers still pushed through, the ice cube breaching your hole, her two fingers holding it inside you.

you had long since given up attempting to keep quiet. you squealed doing your very best to try and run from her. yelena chased your hips with her hand, lifting the pressure off your thighs ever so slightly. even when the ice melted and the water soaked her hand, she kept it in place, just pumping slowly.

yelena began to rub lazy circles on your clit with her thumb. you moaned loudly, eyes fluttering as your tired body practically hummed with the warm feeling after all of the cold. after she felt you were worked up enough, distracted enough, she effortlessly used a combat move to flip you onto your stomach. landing with and oof, you turned your face to the side to look back at her.

“watch it.” you grumbled as yelena pulled your hips up and back towards her.

“you’re fine.” was all she had to say. before she slotted her knee between your knees. your breath trembled as your clit slid down her thigh.

the feeling from the ice cubes had long left and now your body was warming by the second. “lena.” you gasped out as she pushed her fingers back through your entrance, using her free hand to help fuck you back into her hand. she used that thigh between your legs to help rock you forwards after the pull back, stimulating your clit.

you were now hot. too hot. you honestly might pass out. now you were no longer paying attention to anything anymore. only gasping out into the crumpled sheets below you.

you were so close. yelena knew it. she could feel it. you’re hips were squirming against her hold now, yet she tried her best to control your rhythm. when she felt it, felt your body seize. she kneed your thighs apart, as far as your hips would go. the hand that had been thrusting now rubbed your clit in short circles prolonging your orgasm. still cumming, you were so in your own head that you never noticed her pause to each her hand into that metal bowl.

yelena used her dry hand to push your hips down and open before she shoved the final ice cube inside. you attempted to close your legs, but she had you practically sitting in her lap face down. then when you tried to pull forward, she yanked you right back into place, keeping your hole plugged with her fingers until the cube melted down.

you’re certain that you had a momentary black out from shock and you almost couldn’t catch your breath. still yelena didn’t move. she was watching you and waiting for you to move first.

“i think i’m dead.” was the first thing you said, arms moving slowly to stretch forward above your head.

“i can confirm that you are not.” she rolled you off onto your side, putting the bowl of cold ice water on the night table.

“i think i saw God.”

“and what did she look like?” yelena’s voice was farther away as she reached around bedding and fished out a water bottle, she knew she had stored somewhere.

“you.” you said with a giggle.

“you are so flirty.” she laughed landing a playful slap on your sensitive cunt. you jolted, but stayed put until she yanked you back to a sitting position. she handed you the uncapped water bottle which you drank greedily.

“do you think bob would want to get ice cream with us?” yelena blurted. you blinked.

“since when did we decide to get ice cream?” yelena shrugged.

“i don’t know somewhere in the middle.” she made an obtuse gesture with her hands.

you huffed, “i need like twenty minutes and a cold shower.”

˖ . ݁𝜗☠︎︎𝜚. ݁₊

if you’re in hot temperatures wherever you are be sure check up on pals with no ac and remember to DRINK WATER!!!

this would have been up earlier today, but i was victimized by another nap. also this ended up being SO MUCH longer than i had intended. at some point i got way too high and kept on going and going,, also sorting out some sort of master list

𓉸 ♡ ,

bones

[jinusajas]

06/26/25; 10:45am

jinu saja x fem.reader

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

{ baby, i’d give up anything to travel inside your mind | baby, i fall in love again come every summertime | my daddy taught me to choose 'em wisely, but you don't have to try | ‘cause, baby, i fall in love every summertime }

thinking about spending a hot summer morning lazing around in bed with jinu. the air conditioning would be on at full blast as your limbs remained tangled with jinu’s as evident from your escapades the night before.

his hands would gently trail down the length of your body, pressing your bare back closer to his naked chest while peppering butterfly kisses across your skin. you would lazily smile in your sleep, not quite waking up as you allowed your demon lover to explore the expanse of your body.

his touches start out innocent enough-

with him placing a lingering kiss at the back of your neck-

hands caressing at your skin, almost reverently, before moving to the front of your chest. goosebumps would erupt in the wake of his lingering touches, and your breathing would hitch when he manages to cup at your sensitive sex. the palm of his hand would explore the slight dampness of your heat before tracing at your outer lips.

upon feeling his fingertips entering your slick walls, your eyes flutter open, pressing yourself even further into his chest while allowing jinu to continue his ministrations on you. upon feeling your honeyed arousal staining at his fingertips, he would let out a pleased grunt of your name-

spreading your legs even further for him when he removes his digits from you before slotting his cock between the fat of your thighs. letting out a soft keen when he manages to stroke himself back to full hardness with the help of your center, you braced yourself against the pillows as he slowly sheathes himself within your walls.

he groaned, the sound low in his throat as your slick folds parted around the swollen head of his cock, drawing him in inch by torturous inch. your scorching heat engulfed him like a velvet vice, threatening to push him over the edge instantly. hiding his face within the back of your shoulder, he sets a brutal pace, driving into you over and over again-

using so much force that it makes the headboard of your bed bounce in tune to his movements.

the sensation of his cock constantly pushing into you, impaling you over and over again, was almost too much to bear as you cried out to him. your moans echo throughout the room as jinu lets out a low hiss in response, feeling his balls tighten with the need to shoot his seed within your depths.

with just a few more desperate thrusts, jinu pushes his cock deeper inside of you, feeling your walls fluttering around him as you milked his dick for all he was worth, spilling your juices all over his cock just as he fills you to the brim with his seed.

entirely spent by the end of it, jinu removes his softening cock out of your heat, pressing a lingering kiss against your temple before bringing your body closer to his chest. and when the pleasure still lingered even as your eyes became heavy with sleep-

you found yourself dreaming of children that had his eyes and shared your smile, giggling while running through a field of flowers.

end notes: it’s not funny how deeply in love i am with jinu

(;﹏;)

i wrote this in 30 minutes, so it’s nothing too special, but still i wanted to thank you readers for helping me get to 3.5k+ followers 🥹 ♡ there will be more jinu (and saja boys!) stories to come !

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[r66dusthewriter]

Hiii! I love your works so much — they’re so amazingly written. I was wondering if I can request you do the Hot Ones interview for Drew Starkey with the Outer Banks cast — only if you want to!

I hope you have a great day!!

‘Big news for the unemployed’ | Hot ones versus

Pairing: Drew Starkey x fem!reader.

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: I started my little (a casual 11h first day shift) side/summer student job a few days ago. I filed a complaint to HR and had a screaming match with my supervisor the same night. I have never longed for unemployment the way I do now.

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: none

Word count: 1.5k

When Drew spun the bottle, it landed squarely on Maddie, signaling that your team would kick off the first round.

“As the only kook here” Drew began, a grin playing on his lips as he read from the card, “I’m pitting pogue against pogue in a three on three challenge. Lose a game or fail to answer a question and your entire team must eat a deathwing. However, if you pass my test, then I will suffer the wrath of the last dab” 

He glanced up and smiled at Maddie “Madelyn, the bottle landed on you, so your team will answer the question first”

You sat closest to Drew, your legs intertwined beneath the table with his, a comforting reminder of what the two of you had.

“Alright, Y/n” Drew said, nodding toward you.

“Shoot,” you replied confidently.

“Outer Banks has hooked viewers for four seasons with its countless twists and turns,” Drew continued, eyes twinkling “However, name one storyline you think should've never made it out of the writers’ room”

The entire cast gasped dramatically.

“Is this your way of trying to get me fired?” you joked, laughter bubbling through the group.

Jonathan turned to you, a grin on his face “Do you want to eat that wing?” he asked, his eyes searching yours. You shook your head rapidly.

“Oh I know!” you said with a confident tone “Sarah getting shot where she did and literally being able to sprint the next morning. Like, give my girl a break” 

“That’s why I love you!” Madelyn shouted, laughter rippling around the room.

“That’s a solid one,” Chase agreed, nodding appreciatively.

Meanwhile, Drew slipped off his rings, mentally preparing to take on the dreaded deathwing. 

“Oh, now I feel bad” you murmured, worry flickering in your chest.

“You worry too much about him,” Jonathan said with a smile. “He’ll be alright.”

Chase chuckled, watching Drew carefully pull apart the wing. “Oh you’re shaking” 

Then Drew took his first confident bite, a big one, causing you to gasp.

“Just relax,” Madison advised Drew “Oh my god. Big bite!” 

“Baby, no!” you whispered, soon covering your mouth, hoping the mic hadn’t caught that. “He doesn’t have to eat the whole thing, does he?” you asked, turning to the producers.

“Yes, he does. Yes, he does,” Jonathan repeated with a smirk.

“It’s okay baby. I want to” Drew nodded and assured mouth full, the pet name barely audible.

“He does.” Jonathan assured further “He’ll want me to do it and i’d respect that”

Once Drew finished, the chewing looked agonizing. His fist covered his mouth as he fought through it, and you looked at him with concern while the rest laughed and cheered him on.

“It’s getting hot” he coughed, face warming up but proud.

By the time round three rolled around, Drew picked up the next card with a dramatic flair, eyes scanning the words before he read aloud.

“After five years of long shoot days in remote locations, our cast has become like a family. So now, it’s time to see how well you know your co-stars in the game of ‘Who posted it’, you’ll be shown a series of Instagram photos and must correctly identify whose account it is from. The losing team must eat a death wing”

Groans and nervous laughter erupted around the table as the challenge began. Despite a strong start, your team stumbled through the last few images. The final buzzer sounded and the opposing team cheered as the loss was confirmed.

You let out a dramatic sigh, then confidently picked up one of the fiery wings from the tray. 

“I’m usually really good with spice,” you said, squinting at it skeptically, “but why do I feel like this is not gonna go well for me?”

“No, no, no, you got this ba–” Drew began, but was cut off by Jonathn, who grinned and shouted  “Eat that wing baby!” taking Drew’s words right out of his mouth. 

The table burst out laughing as you gave Drew a playful glare and took a bite. At first, your expression stayed neutral. You chewed, shrugged. “That’s actually really good, it’s not that—oh”

The second wave hit. Your eyes widened slightly as the burn kicked in, creeping across your tongue. The opposite team laughed as you blinked through the rising heat.

“I take that back!” you gasped, fanning your mouth. “That’s warm… but good” 

“Look at us!” Madelyn clapped, looking at both you and Carlacia as she chewed. “Taking it like champs…it is really hot though”

Drew leaned over with a smug smile and whispered just loud enough for your mic to catch it faintly, “Knew you’d make me proud”

You grinned, mouth burning but your pride fully intact.

For the final round, the stakes were turned up, quite literally, as each of you added a dollop of the infamous Last Dab hot sauce on your next wing. 

Drew read the final challenge with mock gravity in his voice, holding up the card like it was a royal decree.

“The treasure of the Royal Merchant has caused many to betray their closest allies. This game is no different as we have come to a final ‘Winner Takes All’ challenge. That’s right. No more teams, it’s everyone for themselves in the most cutthroat party game of the seven seas ‘Musical Chairs’” Drew read.

Groans, laughter and a few exaggerated threats echoed around the table as you all stood and the crew prepared the game.

You soon found yourself circling the chairs just behind Drew, tension high and competitive glints in everyone’s eyes. The music stopped suddenly and chaos ensued. You and Drew dove for the same chair at the exact same time. He ended on your lap as the others looked around for who lost. With your arms around him, you patted his chest and he chuckled as he stood up.

“Oh, it’s me,” he announced with chivalry, stepping aside and reaching for his wing

“What a gentleman,” Carlacia teased with a smirk.

“He just didn’t want to sleep on the couch tonight,” JD added under his breath, which you barely heard, making the ones who did erupt in laughter.

Drew shot you a wink, high fived you with a grin and took his wing like a champ, downing it as applause rang out.

“You gotta get outta here” Madison told him, waving dramatically.

“Alright, fuck y’all,” Drew said with a grin, stepping off set as the others booed him playfully. 

The game whittled down quickly, with chairs disappearing and cast members losing left and right. When it came down to you and Chase in the final showdown, adrenaline surged. The music cut out, and with lingering reflexes, you claimed the last seat.

The cast cheered off-frame, someone yelling, “Attagirl!” 

“I told y’all to put your money on that girl!” Madison added proudly.

Once the clapping died down, the cast re-emerged and Drew held out the trophy with dramatic reverence. 

“And here we have it…the wing of champions,” he declared, handing it to you.

You took it with a grin, and held it up, turning toward the camera as the rest of the cast rallied around you. 

“Thank you all for this.” you began in mock sincerity. “The wings were really hot and I’m just honored to survive this. But more importantly, I’m really hoping I can take home the ones we didn’t eat” 

You glanced pointedly at a producer off-camera.  

The cast and crew burst into laughter as you finished “Outer Banks Season 4 is now streaming on Netflix, please watch it… . But seriously though…I’m dead serious about the wings—can i? I have ziplock bags in my purse.”

The screen faded to black as the entire set cracked up behind you.

—--

The "First We Feast” Instagram post announcing the video with the cast blew up almost instantly, but after the full video dropped, the internet practically caught on fire.

Clips were reposted across Tiktok, fan accounts captioned everything from your teary-eyed wing victory to Drew handing you the trophy but what really set the comments section ablaze was the chemistry. 

drewdorabl3 I counted three ‘baby’s’ and two babes’. I am NOT okay.

obxsuperfan1 Just checking if I’m having auditory hallucinations…did anyone else hear Y/n call Drew ‘baby’?

rafesleftsock And Drew too! If you’re wrong then I need my hearing checked too.

mells134 I turned on the captions. They definitely said it!

drewswife.09 here y'all go again. they’re bestfriends 🙄

ikervt Me when i’m delusional

89kovcg Jobs people. JOBS

p0gu3l0v3r Ughhhh the way he looks at her

yenakls445 anyone else hear JD talk about how Drew didn’t want to sleep on the couch? 😭

dellaos.cc yes omg! 

89kovcg Huge news for the unemployed.

c3rtifiedpoguecollector who’s gonna tell them we heard everything?

y/n/y/l/n tell what to who? I’m so lost y’all

madelyncline babe just go ahead and log out

Speculation turned into full-on obsession as fans began dissecting every glance and laugh. Someone even made a compilation called “Every time they forgot they weren’t alone” on TikTok. It had a million views in a couple of hours and naturally, more chaos ensued yet you and Drew, thanks to your lack of social media presence, remained mostly unaware.

[harkness-pet]

my house of stone, your ivy grows, and now I'm covered in you - pt. 1

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader

Plot: you are a gardener who starts working for Agatha, a housewife of a rich man who’s never home. as the summer blooms, so does the tension between you two.

Tip me if you like my work and want to support me :)

You weren’t looking for anything special that summer, but since the flower shop you had been working at closed, you needed something new, preferably something that was outside. 

When Mrs. Agatha Harkness Whitmore posted a notice at the town’s market bulletin board, asking for someone to care for her garden through the summer, your fingers had plucked the little white card without hesitation.

The house she owned stood at the edge of town, wrapped in ivy. It was enormous and you could only imagined it went back generations of Whitmores. It seemed to be full of ghosts.

But the first time you met Agatha, she wasn’t some brooding figure in the shadows. She wasn’t even the owner, she was the owner’s wife. 

She was lounging by the pool, sunglasses perched in her wavy, dark hair, skin already kissed bronze by the early summer sun. She looked like a 1970s movie star.

“You must be the new gardener,” she said, a slow smile blooming across her lips.

You nodded, trying not to stare. She looked like a painting — all curves and calm and careful elegance.

“My husband’s been pestering me about the garden for ages, but I just don’t have the green thumb.”

You tried to smile politely, your hands stiff at your sides.

“You’ll find the tools in the shed. But if you have questions,” she added, lifting her glasses just enough to meet your eyes, “ask me. Not him.”

Then she settled back, arms behind her head, and let the sun drape itself over her body. That day, you clipped roses with shaking hands.

~~~

The days passed slowly. You wore cutoff shorts and tied your hair back with a scarf, sometimes humming Fleetwood Mac songs under your breath. Agatha rarely left the house except to sunbathe. 

But when she stretched out in her chair, the silk of her robe falling open just enough to show the dark line of her bathing suit beneath, your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t know where to look. You didn’t know how to breathe.

But she always watched you.

At first, it was little things, a glass of lemonade left on the table, her voice drifting out through the open French doors, murmuring about how “the petunias look like they might finally cooperate.”

Then came the conversations.

You would be kneeling in the dirt, hands deep in rosemary and thyme, and she would call to you.

“Do you like Fleetwood Mac?” she asked once, lazily twirling a glass of iced tea in her fingers.

You looked up, sweat on your brow. “Who doesn’t?”

She smiled faintly. “You remind me of Stevie. Wild. Young. Intense eyes.”

You didn’t know how to answer that. So you smiled and changed the subject.

But the conversations kept happening.

Books. “Have you read The Bell Jar?” she asked one afternoon. You had, and you talked about it for nearly an hour. 

Dreams. You told her about wanting your own herb shop someday, a big garden with a greenhouse and a crooked little sign by the road.

She listened like no one ever had.

Once, on a blistering afternoon, you were on your knees trimming lavender when her voice floated over.

“You’re baking out here,” she said. “Come have a drink.”

You turned. She was sitting up now, that same black one-piece clinging to her like it had been painted on. Her hair was pinned loosely, neck bare, skin glistening. You hesitated, hands dirty.

She lifted a glass and tilted her head. “Come on. I won’t bite.”

You stood, wiping your hands, trying not to feel every inch of her gaze travel over you. She handed you the glass — lemonade with fresh basil, ice clinking — and smiled when your fingers touched.

“I like watching you work,” she said casually. “You have this way of moving. Very... focused.”

You swallowed too quickly. “Thanks.”

“I used to love gardening,” she continued, looking out over the beds. “When I was younger. Before the house got too big and the marriage too... dry.”

You didn’t know what to say. You took a long sip and let the silence stretch.

“I wanted to be a writer,” she said almost as an afterthought. “Before I became Mrs. Whitmore. Before I became someone’s trophy.”

“What would you write?” you asked after a while. The surprise etched on her face made you hesitate whether you said something wrong. “Sorry, you don’t-“

“I’d write historical fiction,” she confessed, voice almost a whisper. “Ask me more things.” 

You stared at her, wordless, and her hand reached out and squeezed your arm. “Please.”

That was the first time you felt the heat shift — not the sun, but something between you. Something that wasn’t just your wishful thinking. 

A week later, she asked you to put lotion on her.

It was late afternoon, the sun dropping gold across the pool deck. You’d just finished laying mulch in the herb bed, your shirt sticking to your back with sweat. She was already there, as always, reclined, skin glowing.

She turned her head lazily as you passed. “Sweetheart,” she said, that husky drawl of hers curling around the word, “would you do me a favor?”

You stopped. “Of course.” Of course. Anything. Everything. 

She held up a bottle of sunscreen. “My back. I’ve been out here too long and I can’t reach. You don’t mind, do you?”

You took it from her, your fingers brushing hers. She turned over slowly, her robe slipping away entirely, and the sight of her — bare back, curve of hip, the way the suit dipped low… made you thirsty and lightheaded. And it was definitely not the sun’s fault. 

Her skin was golden, glowing. You knelt beside her, your legs brushing the warm stone tiles, and uncapped the bottle.

You squeezed the lotion into your palm. You swallowed, rubbed your hands together, and then laid them gently on her back.

Her skin was hot beneath your fingers. You moved slowly, careful, tracing the edges of her shoulder blades. She let out a low hum, not of discomfort. Approval, maybe. Her head turned slightly, her cheek resting on the towel.

“Your hands are strong,” she murmured.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t trust your voice. You just kept rubbing, watching the way the light danced across her spine, trying not to fall apart at the seams.

As you slowly worked the lotion in, you could hear her humming under her breath, a sound that filled the silence, made everything feel intimate. It wasn’t a song or a tune; it was just a soft, satisfied hum, like she was savoring every moment.

You applied more lotion, your fingers now pressing gently into the muscles of her shoulders, working out the tension there. The motion of your hands on her body became more methodical, more thorough, and you felt the muscles in her back relax beneath your touch.

She tilted her head back slightly, closing her eyes as if giving herself over to the moment. Her breath became slower, deeper. And just as you reached the curve of her spine, she let out another soft sigh, her body tilting slightly, giving you more access.

"That feels good," she murmured, her voice a little thicker now, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself. “You know exactly where to press…”

You smiled, feeling her soft skin slip under your fingertips as you continued. Her skin was warm, almost burning in the heat, but it was comforting. With each glide of your hands, you could feel her breath getting heavier.

You leaned in closer, your hands traveling down her back, pressing deeper into the small of her back. You could hear her heartbeat pick up ever so slightly, the shift in the rhythm unmistakable.

"You’re tense," you said softly, pressing your palm against her lower back and kneading gently.

Her breath caught, and she let out a tiny, involuntary moan, the sound like a secret shared between the two of you. You couldn’t help but smile at the way her body reacted to you, how she seemed so alive under your touch, as if your hands were pulling something from her she couldn’t hide.

Without thinking, you moved lower, your hands gliding down her back to her hips. The lotion left a trail of smoothness behind, and as you moved lower, your fingers brushed against the side of her ribcage, feeling her body shift ever so slightly under your touch.

She let out a small gasp, her eyes fluttering open, meeting yours for the briefest of moments before she turned her head away, biting her lip as if to hold back the emotions rising in her. Her legs shifted slightly, her thighs pressed together. The gesture wasn’t intentional, but it was enough to catch your attention.

You could feel your own pulse quicken, your breath coming a little sharper now as you continued.

"Tell me if I’m hurting you," you murmured, but there was a teasing edge to your voice.

She shook her head slowly, her voice a quiet whisper. "No... don’t stop."

Her words felt like a challenge. She wanted you to keep going. 

You let your hands roam a little further, your fingers now massaging the back of her thighs. You couldn’t stop yourself. It wasn’t just the way she had asked, nor the hum of pleasure that escaped her lips. It was the way her body responded to every movement of your hands, the way she needed this from you.

Then her phone rang and it broke the spell. You flinched back as if someone had slapped you. 

She seemed to also realise the position you were both in and she didn’t meet your eyes again. She reached for her phone and murmured a quick “thank you”. You turned away and pressed your eyes shut when you heard her answer the call with “hello, darling.”

You saw Agatha’s husband only a handful of times. He didn’t seem to be home very often. Agatha once said he only came home late and expected warm dinner and warmer bed. You didn’t want to think about that. You didn’t want to think about him too much because you hated him far too much for someone who had never even met the guy properly. 

Your mind didn’t have that much space for hatred, though, as it was entirely occupied by Agatha. 

How she tilted her head when you talked about your garden. How her eyes softened when you told her about the basil you were growing from seed. How she listened. Really listened. 

One morning, you nicked yourself on the rusted edge of the pruning shears. A clean slice across your palm, blood welling before you could even curse.

You pressed your shirt to the wound and cursed under your breath, wondering if you should run into town for antiseptic. But before you could make up your mind, Agatha was there.

Barefoot on the flagstones, a linen blouse knotted loosely at her waist. Her robe draped over one arm. Her expression was unreadable.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” you said quickly, but she was already crossing to you.

“Sit.” Her voice was softer than usual. No teasing. Just quiet command.

You obeyed. She knelt before you, brows drawn in a line of concern you hadn’t seen before. She cradled your hand in hers, gently tugging the cloth away. Her thumb brushed near the wound.

“You really should be more careful,” she murmured.

She disappeared into the house and returned with a small tin. Rubbing alcohol. Gauze. A bandage. You watched her move, quick, efficient, but still elegant, like everything else she did.

When the alcohol touched your skin, you hissed.

“Shh,” she said, glancing up at you. “Almost done.”

Her fingers worked gently, but something about the moment slowed time. The way she touched you. The way her brow furrowed, eyes flicking up every so often to meet yours. And you... watched her the whole time.

She looked at you then. Fully. Something in her face softened even more, and for a breathless second, it seemed she might kiss you.

But she didn’t.

She patted the bandage gently and stood, brushing her hands on her thighs. “There. Good as new.”

You were not good as new. You were ruined. And she had no idea.

Or maybe she did.

You didn’t mean to fall under her spell. She was older. Married. Untouchable. But those long, sun-warmed days blurred the lines between right and wrong. There was something about her, something caged and dangerous, something soft and aching, too. You saw the way her eyes lingered on you a second too long. You heard the way her voice lowered when she asked how you slept the night before.

You caught her watching you from the upstairs window. You were trimming the hedges, sweat dripping down your neck, and something made you glance up.

She didn’t move away when you met her gaze. She didn’t pretend she wasn’t staring. She just stood there in the thin white curtain, dark silhouette against the glass. Watching. Wanting. Waiting.

You didn’t wave. You didn’t smile. You just let her look.

And then one day you stayed too late. The sun had already begun to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows over the lawn. You packed your tools slowly, unwilling to leave, your skin still humming from the way Agatha’s hand had brushed your wrist earlier while passing you the clippers. A touch that meant nothing. A touch that meant everything.

She’d gone inside an hour ago. She didn’t say goodbye. Just disappeared through the French doors. 

You almost didn’t go looking for her. You told yourself she was fine. She always was. Sharp and composed and untouchable.

But something tugged at you. You wandered around the side of the house toward the open window in the sitting room. The lights were off inside. You were just about to call her name when you heard it.

Not a sound you’d ever heard from her before.

A choked inhale. A low, soft sob.

You froze. For a moment, you thought about pretending you hadn’t heard. You could leave now. Walk away. Let her have this private storm.

But your feet moved before you decided. You stepped up to the open door and found her there.

Agatha was curled in the corner of the couch, knees tucked under her, one hand pressed to her mouth. Her other hand clutched a glass of wine, nearly full. Her head turned slightly when she heard you, but she didn’t lift her face.

“I didn’t expect you to still be here,” she said, voice rough, almost hoarse.

“I was just leaving.”

She nodded. Wiped her cheek quickly with the back of her hand. “Sorry. Don’t— It’s just a headache.”

You stepped closer. “Agatha…”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, sharper this time, her armor trying to snap back into place. “I don’t need—”

But you crossed the room before she could finish. You knelt in front of her.

Gently, you reached out and brushed the tear from her cheek. Your touch was feather-light and her breath caught.

Her eyes locked on yours, wide and dark and full of everything she wouldn’t say. Sadness. Fear. Hunger. Loneliness. She didn’t flinch when you touched her. She didn’t move at all.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like you see me.”

“I do see you.”

That undid her more than anything. Her chin trembled, just for a moment. Her grip tightened on the wineglass like it might be the only thing anchoring her to the world.

You cupped her face fully now, thumb smoothing across her temple. You didn’t kiss her. You didn’t say anything stupid or brave. You just stayed there for a breath too long.

And then you stood.

“I have to go,” you said quietly.

She nodded, still watching you. Neither of you said goodbye.

You walked out into the dusk, heart hammering, and knew that whatever was happening between you, this wildfire, this slow ache, was no longer something you could control.

And neither could she.

~~~

The next day, with the sun burning high and no breeze to speak of, Agatha appeared on the poolside again. It looked like whatever happened the day before had been a mere dream, but her expression revealed that something had changed. 

She wore a sheer white robe that slipped off her shoulders, revealing a dark purple one-piece that clung to her. You noticed her watching you several times and you were waiting because you knew. You knew that the barrier between you was crushing down. 

“You must be boiling out there,” she said finally, her voice low.

You wiped your forehead with your sleeve and internally exhaled. Here it was. 

“Come cool off,” she said, and this time it wasn’t a suggestion.

You hesitated. The pool shimmered in the blazing sun.

“Is your husband home?” you asked, careful.

Her mouth quirked. “He’s away for the week. Business. Or golf. Or another woman. Who knows.”

You walked toward the water.

“Strip,” she said, before you reached the edge. “You’ll ruin those clothes.”

So you did. You peeled your shirt off slowly, eyes on hers, and felt a thrill run up your spine when she didn’t look away. Her gaze was direct, unflinching. You almost stopped breathing when you realised that what you saw in her eyes was hunger. 

You slid into the water only in your underwear and let it envelop you. She joined you. Silent. Close.

And when your fingers brushed hers beneath the surface, neither of you moved away.

She tilted her head at you and moved closer, her fingers intertwining with yours. “I didn't expect you when I put the ad for gardener.”

“What did you expect?” you asked and your hand was already sneaking around her waist below the water and you were pulling her closer ever so slowly.

Her eyes burned at the move. “Someone quiet, who comes and gets the job done.”

“Oh I can definitely get the job done,” you promised with a smirk as you finally pulled her flush against your body.

She whimpered and raised her legs around your waist. “You’re dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” you echoed. “Me?”

She laughed softly. “You act innocent. But these words and… I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

You grip her hips firmly. “And how exactly is that?”

She hesitated and then her voice dropped. “Like you want to do very bad things.”

You leaned in just enough to feel the warmth of her breath.

“Maybe I do,” you said, eyes locked on hers. “But I think you’d let me.”

That surprised her, the shift in tone, the confidence in your voice. Her mouth parted slightly. “Oh?”

You tilted your head. “Look where we are. You. Me. Alone in your pool. No husband. No excuses.”

She gripped your shoulders firmly and then her hands trailed up to hide in your hair. “Hm,” Agatha hummed and god, you felt the sound in every cell of your body.

Then the world stopped as you stared into each other’s eyes, breathing heavily even though you didn’t even kiss each other yet.

And in that moment you finally kissed her.

No hesitation. No testing the waters. You took her mouth like it was something you already knew. Her lips parted under yours with a soft gasp, one hand instinctively curling around your hair harder, tugging.

The kiss went on. Her breath hitched, her body instinctively moving even closer. For a moment, she let herself be kissed, kissed like a woman someone truly wanted.

When you pulled back, just slightly, her lips were parted and flushed.

She stared at you for a long second, expression unreadable.

Then: “Christ. I really should fire you.”

You grinned. “But you won’t.”

“No,” she admitted. “I really won’t.”

And this time, it was her who reached for you with a hunger so fierce it left you both breathless.

~~~

You were still feeling almost high after the intense make out session in the pool. It was a shame you had to leave, but Agatha’s friends from a book club were coming and it was better for you to leave. 

She planted a soft kiss on your lips and pressed a note into your palm before she opened the door for you to leave. 

You read it with shaky fingers on the way to your car. 

Come tonight. Midnight. The greenhouse.

Your heart leapt.

~~~ 

Midnight came slowly.

You didn’t sleep. You laid in your room, the attic room you rent above the bakery in town, and stared at the ceiling fan spinning shadows overhead. Every time you blinked, you saw her. Agatha. In the pool. In the lounger. Her eyes locked on yours.

You dressed quietly. Soft jeans. A loose cotton tank. Nothing that screams intention but everything that could be slipped off in a moment, if needed.

You walked the two miles to her house by starlight. The air was thick and warm, the night breathing around you. Crickets sang in the tall grass.

The greenhouse stood at the edge of the garden, tall and domed, a cathedral of glass and iron that always felt a little sacred, even in daylight. Tonight, it glowed faintly from within.

A single lamp burned inside, tucked behind a pot of orchids.

And she was there.

Agatha.

She stood among the ferns, barefoot, her silk robe falling open at the collar to reveal a satin slip beneath, dark plum, clinging to her in all the right places.

“You came,” she said.

You swallowed. “You asked me to.”

A faint smile played at her mouth. She closed the space between you slowly. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Why?”

“Because this…” Her hand lifted to touch the edge of your shirt. “Is a line neither of us is supposed to cross.”

You breathed in. She smelled like roses and wine. Like summer nights.

“But you want to.”

She nodded. “I think I’ve wanted to for longer than I’ll admit.”

You touched her then. Your hand, light on her waist. Her breath caught.

You could still walk away. You knew that. But your hands were already memorizing her curves, already pulling her in.

And then her mouth was on yours.

The kiss was quiet at first. Just the slow press of mouths learning each other. Her hands found your hair. Yours found her back, the silk slipping beneath your fingertips.

She moaned, soft, surprised, when your lips parted hers, when your tongue brushed hers. The sound shot straight through you.

You guided her back against the potting table, orchids and ivy swaying around you like a jungle. The greenhouse was humid, the glass fogging, the smell of soil and citrus all around you.

She broke the kiss, only to whisper, “Take this off.”

You obeyed, shirt falling to the floor without a second thought.

Her fingers trailed down your ribs. “You’re so… young,” she said, but her voice shook. “Too young for me.”

“I’m old enough to know what I want.”

That did something to her. Her eyes darkened. She pulled you closer and kissed you like she was starving. Like no one had touched her in years. Maybe no one had.

She guided your hand to her hip. “Then show me.”

Your first time together was a mix of lips at your throat, whispered orders, hands guiding yours. But her body betrayed her, however much she wished for control, she found herself surrendering to you. 

You found the places that made her gasp. The way her hips rolled when you kissed the hollow of her throat just right.

She laid back like she belonged there, bare legs tangled, hair fanned around her. Her chest rose and fell quickly. Her lips were already red from your mouth. Her fingers curled against the stone.

You kissed her throat, her shoulder, the place just under her ear that made her gasp.

You moved slowly, not to tease, but because she deserved to be cherished.

Every time your hand moved lower, she arched into it. Every time your lips found skin, she broke a little more.

When you finally touched her, your fingers gathering the wetness between her legs, your fingers curling inside her, she bit her lip so hard you thought she’d bleed. You found the rhythm that made her shake with pleasure as she was desperately grasping at your shoulders.

“Please,” she whispered, not to beg, but to give permission.

You didn’t rush. You gave her everything she didn’t know how to ask for.

And when she broke beneath you, trembling, breathless, cursing softly into your shoulder, she clung to you like she didn’t want to come back from wherever you had taken her.

Her voice, after, was barely a whisper. “God, what are you doing to me…”

And in that moment, she was yours. Complete, fierce, and helpless.

Afterward, you laid on the greenhouse floor, tangled in your discarded clothes, half-covered in a blanket she had pulled from a storage bench.

She brushed your cheek with the back of her fingers.

“You scare me,” she said softly.

“Why?”

“Because you make me feel alive again.”

She fell asleep in your arms that night. 

When you woke up, the sun was beginning to rise. The greenhouse was golden again and forever drown in your passion.

Agatha was still there, curled against you, hair messy, lips bruised, a faint smile on her face. 

And you knew you were fucked. 

[secretlifeofliyahh]

FLATLINE

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

warnings: cussing, angst, one kiss

↳ side note: paige comes home and sees you

𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 paige bueckers x fem!reader (angst | one kiss | gxg | very long)

You weren’t supposed to see her.

Not again. Not here. Not in Minnesota. Not after she left you standing in the damn hallway of Hopkins High with nothing but a shaky breath, wet cheeks, and a heart that hadn’t stopped flatlining since the day she boarded that plane to Connecticut.

But here she was.

Back in the place she once called home. Back where it all started. Back in the grocery store parking lot at 7:47pm on a Thursday like her presence wouldn’t rip something raw and unresolved open in your chest.

She saw you before you could duck your head.

“Y/N?”

Her voice was exactly the same — soft, lilting, just enough rasp to remind you of summer nights on your porch when she'd read you poetry with a flashlight under her chin and pretend it was Shakespeare.

You froze.

Not from fear. Not from surprise.

From anger.

“You really came back?” you said, teeth clenched.

She blinked, already defensive. “I mean… it’s home.”

You laughed once. Bitter. “Oh, now it’s home.”

She flinched.

Because she knew.

She knew what she did. She knew what she left behind.

You.

She texts you later.

“can we talk?”

You leave her on read.

She tries again the next day. Then the next. Until finally, it’s Saturday night and your chest feels too heavy with everything you’ve never said, and she sends you a final one:

“i’m outside.”

You look out the window. She’s in that same gray hoodie she used to wear after practice, leaning against her car like she doesn’t know you’ve dreamed of yelling at her for years.

You walk outside.

You don't say a word.

“I didn’t know how to say goodbye,” she mumbles before you can open your mouth. “So I didn’t.”

You squint at her through the porch light.

“And you think that’s an excuse?”

“No,” she admits. “But I was seventeen. I thought if I left fast enough, it’d hurt less.”

“For who?”

That lands.

She shifts her weight. Looks down at her shoes. “You,” she says, almost like a whisper. “Me. Both of us.”

“You didn’t just leave, Paige. You disappeared. I had to find out from your mom that you were gone. You kissed me the night before and said you’d call, and then I never heard from you again. You acted like we—like I—meant nothing.”

“You meant everything,” she says immediately.

You scoff. “Yeah. Sure. That’s why you couldn’t even text back once.”

“I didn’t know how to deal with it. You were the one person who made this place feel like more than just a stepping stone. And I needed to leave. For me. For my career. But if I stayed for you, I knew I’d never go.”

“And you couldn’t have told me that?”

“I was a coward.”

The words hang in the night.

“I thought about you every day,” she continues, slower. “In dorm rooms. After games. On the court. I looked for you in every crowd like maybe you’d show up and scream at me or something.”

You finally look at her fully, throat dry. “And what would you have done if I had?”

“I would’ve deserved it.”

The porch light flickers. She’s standing so close now you can smell that same vanilla body wash she used to steal from your shower. You hate how much of her you remember.

“I didn’t just lose my girlfriend,” you say, voice cracking. “I lost my best friend.”

“I know,” she whispers. “And I’m so sorry, Y/N. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve me—at least not how I was back then.”

You laugh bitterly. “Then why are you here now?”

She swallows. “Because I never stopped loving you.”

The silence after that is so loud it could break the moon.

You breathe, just once, before speaking.

“You don’t get to come back and say that like it’s supposed to fix everything.”

“I know.”

You take a shaky step toward her. Then another. And then you’re right there, close enough to see the shimmer of guilt in her eyes.

“I don’t forgive you,” you say.

She nods.

“But I missed you,” you add, a whisper.

“I missed you more.”

And then, you don’t know who moves first—but her hand is on your cheek and your fingers are in her hoodie and she kisses you like nothing’s ever changed, like time is a liar, like seventeen didn’t shatter everything you ever had.

Just one kiss.

One breath between two broken girls who never got their goodbye.

And maybe this isn’t a beginning. Maybe it’s not even a second chance.

But it’s something.

And for now, that’s enough.

END.

TAGLIST @2prettyyjayahhh , @24hrssofnea , @americasfavoritelesbian , @archivessofkassidee

[itsnotyouithink]

AFRAID

SUMMARY: After a study session thick with tension, a quiet dare slips between the two of you: pass the test, and Tara will be at your next game. You’ve never cared about school — but now every page, every note, feels like a shot at something you can’t name yet.

PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader

WARNINGS: mature language

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: being sick during summer is terrible and wtf is this heat

previous chapter | next chapter

—————————

The lawn was a frying pan. Your team? The eggs.

You were drenched—shirt clinging to every dip of muscle, sports bra soaked through, ankle taped and already starting to throb again. Your mouth tasted like Gatorade and iron. Coach had you running suicides like he'd personally been offended by your existence. And still, you didn't stop.

Because she was there.

Tara Carpenter sat under a sad excuse of a tree with crossed arms and murder in her eyes, looking like she'd rather be set on fire than outdoors - which you guess was one in the same considering the temperature. Her navy T-shirt was stuck to her back, her black shorts riding up her thighs, legs folded beneath her like she was trying to vanish into the earth. Sunglasses dangled uselessly from her fingers.

Her book was open but completely ignored. Her eyes, though?

All yours.

You caught her more than once. Every time you wiped sweat from your jaw, every time you winced and shook out your ankle, her gaze drifted. And every time you caught her, she looked away just a little too slow. Like she knew better. Like she couldn't help it.

When Coach finally called for water, you didn't go to the cooler. You went right to her.

You dropped to the blanket like your body had short-circuited, one leg stretched out, one arm slung lazily across her textbook. Your head tilted back, neck glistening, chest rising and falling like a warning siren.

"I hope you're writing this down," you muttered. "This is what greatness looks like."

"You're sweating all over my Criminal Law notes," she replied dryly.

"You're welcome. They've been blessed."

"I'm going to set you on fire."

"You already have, Carpenter."

Her mouth twitched.

Just a little.

From her other side, Mindy made a noise that sounded vaguely like a scream into her hands. "Can you two not flirt during heatstroke?"

Anika peeled her sunglasses off. "No, this is amazing. This is enemies-to-lovers but the enemies part is just foreplay."

Tara turned her face slightly toward you. Her cheek was flushed. Her jaw tight. But her voice? Smooth as ever. "You look like you just lost a fight with a hose."

You grinned. "You still think I'm hot."

"You're literally steaming."

"You like it."

"You're delusional."

"You're obsessed."

She exhaled hard, then turned back to her book—still untouched. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

"Oh, I do," you said. "I just want to hear you say yes."

"To what?" she asked, not looking up.

You leaned in, voice lower now. "Come to the game."

Tara blinked.

"You've never come to one," you continued, still close. "You sit here during practice. You ask questions during tutoring. But you've never seen me play. Really play."

Her fingers tapped against the spine of the book. Then stopped.

You tilted your head. "Scared it'll make it worse?"

"Make what worse?" she said too fast.

"The thing you're pretending not to feel."

She rolled her eyes. "You've had one too many heat strokes."

"Forty points, Carpenter. I’ll drop forty next week, if you show up. You don’t want the team to lose, now do you? Oh, and you should bring me Gatorade."

She stared at you. "You think you'll actually hit forty?"

You smirked. "If you're there? Easily."

"And if I say no?"

"I won’t even get off the bench."

She tilted her head at you with a smirk, “Seeing you fail is my excitement, why would I let you succeed?” Tara shrugged, “Besides, you’re exhausting."

You let your knee brush hers. Let it linger. "You're still here."

She looked down at where your leg touched hers, then back at you. "If—and this is purely hypothetical—you pass your film studies test..."

You leaned closer. "Yeah?"

"Maybe I'll show up."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe."

You looked down at her mouth. Then back up. "Do I get anything else?"

"Yeah," she said, eyes flicking to yours. "A cold Gatorade and a restraining order."

You laughed. "I'll take the Gatorade."

"You're not getting the kiss."

"I never said kiss."

"You were thinking it."

You didn't deny it.

She didn't move away.

Mindy clapped like someone had just hit a buzzer-beater. "Oh my Gosh, she's gonna show up and she's gonna fold."

"I'm not folding," Tara snapped.

But when you stood—slowly, lazily, stretching enough for your jersey to ride up and reveal just a sliver of your lower stomach—her sunglasses came up faster than her defense ever could.

You turned as you jogged back to your team, calling over your shoulder, “I’ll text you my favorite Gatorade flavor later!"

Tara didn't answer.

But her thumb hovered over her phone screen for the next ten minutes.

And her eyes?

Locked on you.

⸻

Your dorm room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of notebook pages and the occasional groan you make when your brain short-circuits.

The overhead light is too harsh, so you've turned it off and settled with the small desk lamp in the corner, which casts a yellow glow across your notes. Your film studies textbook lies cracked open in front of you, highlighters and loose paper scattered around it like the remnants of a storm. Your laptop screen is split between the lecture slides and the Google Doc you're barely holding together - Brad Pitt glares at you through the screen.

You've read the same sentence four times. You don't even know what mise-en-scène is anymore. You're sweaty from practice, sore from pushing through drills on a busted ankle, and your eyes are starting to blur—but none of that matters as much as the fact that if you fail this test, she doesn't show.

A passing grade is all you need, B- or higher! That's the deal. And you want her in the bleachers more than you've wanted sleep in a week. You stare at the screen again, thumb hovering over your phone. It's past midnight. You've already chugged an iced coffee. It didn't help.

You send the text.

[1:03 AM — You]

you up or do you value sleep and sanity

You watch the typing dots appear, vanish, reappear. Your heart thuds like a free throw.

[1:05 AM — Tara]

what's wrong

is this a medical emergency

did you forget what a director is again

You smile in spite of yourself.

[1:05 AM — You]

worse

i don't get any of this

can you come help

like actually

i think i'm gonna fail and then i'll never get to see u in the student section

There's a longer pause this time. Then:

[1:07 AM — Tara]

give me ten minutes

don't do anything you’ll regret, i’ll be right there

You stare at the screen. Blink. Sit up straighter. Something tight and strange winds low in your stomach.

Tara Carpenter is sneaking out. For you.

————

Ten minutes later, she's in the hallway.

Well—trying to be in the hallway.

The dorm's fluorescent lights buzz low overhead, flickering slightly, and she pulls the hood of her sweatshirt up like she's about to commit a crime. Her arms are folded tight across her chest, and she walks like someone trying not to be perceived. Tara had never been in the athletics dorms before - Chad chose to go a more safer route for himself after the murders. She rolled her eyes at the spirit practically oozing from the walls — the bold signs, posters of the athletes, and the infamous Bulldog statue at the end of the hall wearing a crown and funnily enough, your jersey.

She's nearly to your door when she hears them.

"Carpenter?" a voice calls down the corridor. "No way."

Tara freezes. Slowly turns her head.

There, just outside the lounge, half a dozen of your teammates are sprawled across beanbags and couches, a few still in practice gear. One of them—Dani—is eating instant noodles straight from the cup and staring like she's just seen a ghost.

Tara blinks. "Hi," she says flatly.

"Wait," Ava says, sitting up so fast her hoodie falls off one shoulder. "You're here? For her?"

"I'm... delivering notes," Tara lies. Poorly.

"For her film test?"

"Yes."

"Right. At one in the morning."

Tara sighs.

Dani's eyes narrow. "Are you two, like... dating?"

"Absolutely not.”

"So you're just studying in her dorm. At 1 a.m." They all glance at each other quickly, like they’re in on a joke she isn’t a part of.

Tara mutters something under her breath. Then, louder, "Can you just point me to her door?"

The team snickers as Ava leans her head out dramatically. "End of the hall. Left side. You'll hear the tragic groans of someone crying over poor formatting."

"Tell her she owes us sprints if this ends in a forehead or cheek kiss," Dani adds. Another one of your teammates chimes in, “Full suicide sprints if it’s on the lips!”

"I'm ignoring all of this," Tara mutters, already walking again.

⸻

You swing open the door.

Tara's standing there in a black zip-up hoodie, sleeves pulled over her hands, her bun falling apart in the best possible way. Her eyes are tired, but alert, dark and shining beneath the low dorm hallway light. There's a red flush creeping up her neck—probably from the walk, maybe from passing your teammates, definitely not from nerves, definitely not.

"You rang," she deadpans.

You step back and gesture her inside. "Welcome to the disaster zone."

She steps in, eyes sweeping over the room with that same semi-judgmental expression she always wears when she's trying not to smile. Your desk is an explosion of papers and coffee cups. Your bed is half-made, like you gave up halfway through fixing it and decided to suffer in it instead. The desk lamp in the corner casts everything in this golden-yellow haze, soft and a little hazy, like the warmth left in a gym after a long practice. She tries to ignore the posters practically hanging off the walls - Fight Club, The Arctic Monkeys, and a poster of.. a pie with the mathematical pi symbol in the middle?

Tara drops her bag with a soft thud and moves toward the bed like it's routine—like she's done this before. She sinks onto the edge, crossing her legs under her and tugging one sleeve down so it hangs over her knuckles.

You eye her, amused. "Comfortable?"

She lifts a brow, tugging her hoodie tighter. "If I'm gonna babysit your academic survival, I get a soft surface."

There's a flicker of something behind the sarcasm—a softness to the way she settles in, back straight against your pillow, like she belongs here. Her knee bounces once before she steadies it with her hand against the royal blue sheets.

"Wow," you say, settling into your desk chair and spinning it halfway toward her. "You've grown into such a nurturing presence."

"Shut up and open your notes."

You grab the crumpled packet from the pile and scoot closer, spinning the chair to face her directly. You're close now. Not close enough to touch. But close enough to feel the subtle pull of her presence. The way her breath shifts when you lean forward. The small, almost-invisible tension in her shoulders when your knee bumps the side of the bed.

Her eyes flick to your ankle—still wrapped, still swelling slightly. She doesn't say anything about it. Just gestures at the notes. "Start."

You try. You stumble. You're tired and wired and every word feels like static.

"Okay," she says after a beat, "Define diegetic sound."

You glance at her. "Um..."

She leans forward slightly, just enough for her shoulder to brush your bent knee. Her voice drops. "Don't make me regret this."

"Sound that... exists in the story world?"

Tara hums. Approving. Barely.

You glance up at her. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are watching you closely.

"And non-diegetic is like... the score, voice-over, stuff only the audience hears."

She nods, slowly. "Not bad."

You smirk. "I'm hot and smart. Dangerous combo."

"I wouldn't go that far," she says, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

"And yet," you say, flipping the page. "You came all the way down here just to watch me study in short shorts.

Tara blinks. Her gaze drops—too quick, too obvious.

You grin.

"I came to stop you from failing."

"Same thing."

She exhales, but it sounds like she's trying not to laugh. She takes your notes from you, her fingers brushing yours—warm, quick, deliberate. There's a pause when they touch. You feel it. She does too.

"Okay," she murmurs, skimming the page, "talk to me about cinematography."

You groan. "That's the one with... framing?"

She nods. "Composition. Lighting. Color. Movement. It's what you think of when something feels like a movie."

"Like this?"

You gesture vaguely between the two of you—her on your bed, hoodie rumpled, lamp casting golden shadows across her collarbone; you, in a hoodie you never zipped, sitting a little too close, leg pressed against the mattress like it's holding you up.

She doesn't answer right away.

Instead, she looks at you. Really looks.

"You're tired," she says quietly.

You blink. "That's your takeaway?"

"You look like you're gonna pass out."

"Maybe I'm just overwhelmed by your beauty."

She snorts. "You're ridiculous."

"You're pretty when you're annoyed."

"I'm always annoyed."

"Exactly." You smile.

There's a beat of silence.

You watch her carefully. The way her fingers curl slightly in the fabric of your blanket. The way her mouth opens like she's going to argue—then doesn't. Her lashes are dark, casting soft shadows on her cheeks. You want to trace them with your thumb.

"You're not gonna fail," she says again, gentler this time.

You nod, biting your lip. "You think I'll pass?"

Her voice lowers. "I think you want to impress me."

Your mouth curves.

"I think," she continues, "you'd study for twenty more hours just to make me show up."

You tilt your head. "Would it work?"

She leans back on her hands. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"You're still flirting," she murmurs.

"You're still here," you counter.

She blinks slowly. Doesn't reply. Just... watches you. The quiet between you stretches and deepens, full of all the things neither of you are saying out loud. Tara glared at you, “Is that your favorite line?”

You shrug and push your notes off your lap. "Okay, lightning round."

She straightens, already smirking. "You're gonna fail the lightning round."

"If I get four out of five..."

"No."

"Three out of five?"

"Still no."

"You don't even know what the deal is."

"I know it involves kissing."

You pause. Let the silence hang.

Then: "Is that a no?"

She doesn't answer right away. Her eyes linger on your mouth for a second too long.

"Three out of five," she says finally, voice barely above a whisper. "You pass. I come to the game. And... we talk about the rest after."

You exhale slowly. "That sounds dangerously close to a yes."

"It's dangerously close to a maybe."

"Progress."

She looks down, smiling—just for a second. The kind that slips out before you can stop it. Then she grabs your notes and whacks you lightly in the chest.

"Back to work."

“No lightning round?” You argue. The response that’s given is a simple glare, “You ruined that idea when you involved kissing you into the mix.”

But when she shifts forward again, her leg brushing yours, her voice low and quiet as she starts quizzing you—there's no mistaking the way the air tightens between you. No denying the soft press of something growing where grades and flirting collide.

She stays for another hour.

And when she finally gets up to leave, her hoodie sleeves pulled back down to her wrists, she pauses in your doorway.

You glance up.

Her mouth opens.

Closes.

Then, quietly, without looking at you: "B- and up, right?” You nod, heart skipping.

"Okay," she says, backing out of the room. "Make me show up, Varsity.”

The door shuts gently behind her.

And you sit there, notebook still open, pulse hammering in your throat, knowing damn well: you're not just passing that test.

You're playing for her now.

⸻

The doors to the humanities building creak open behind you, but you're already squinting into the heat.

It's late morning, but the sun's high and heavy—spilling down across the quad, coating the sidewalks in gold and turning every step into a slow drag. The humidity hangs low, dense and unmoving, the kind that makes your skin feel just a little too tight and your shirt stick to your back in damp, uncomfortable patches.

You've got your hoodie tied around your waist like a security blanket. Your shoulders ache from sitting too stiff for too long, and your brain feels like it's been rung out and hung on a line to dry. You survived your Film 101 test—barely—and you haven't even had the nerve to check your grade yet (you were busy shedding an exhausted tear or two in the bathroom).

But then you see her.

Tara.

Standing near the low brick ledge that curves around the quad's edge, partially shaded by a tree that does absolutely nothing to help with the heat. She's leaning casually against the stone, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle, the toe of her sneaker lazily tapping the ground in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

She's in a fitted black tank top and soft gray hoodie unzipped halfway, sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Her hair's pulled half-up in a loose, slightly messy twist that should look careless—but on her, it's lethal. A few strands of her bangs stick to the sides of her neck, damp from the heat, and the breeze lifts the rest just enough to make her look like she walked off the set of a film you're not cool enough to be in.

Her sunglasses are perched on her head, nudging her hair back from her face, and she's holding an iced coffee in a way that's almost theatrical—lazy, precise, like she knows it draws attention to her ring covered fingers.

She doesn't see you right away.

But when she does—her eyes flick up, and she smiles just barely, like it's a secret she wasn't going to share unless you made the first move.

"You look like hell," she calls as you approach, her voice flat and fond at the same time.

You drag a hand through your hair, still catching your breath from the nerves of the exam. "Thanks. I'm going for post-apocalyptic student athlete."

"You nailed it. Very The Road, but make it sweaty."

You stop a few feet from her, close enough to smell the faint sugar in her coffee and the sharp, clean scent of whatever soap she uses. She's got her whole I'm too cool for this act on full display, but her eyes are too sharp to sell it. She's scanning you—taking in your flushed face, the slight drag in your step, the twitch in your fingers.

"So," you say, trying not to sound too breathless, "how much do you know?"

She sips her drink, lets the ice rattle. "About what?"

You tilt your head. "Don't play dumb, Carpenter."

She doesn't look at you right away. Instead, her gaze flicks to some imaginary spot past your shoulder, like she's debating how much to admit.

Then: "You passed."

You blink.

"You got a solid B," she adds. "He curved it."

You let out a breath so loud that it turns into a laugh, half-shocked, half-weightless. "Holy shit. I was ready to fail and spiral for like, a month."

"You still might," she says, smirking over the rim of her cup.

You squint at her. "How'd you know?"

Her lips twitch. "The portal updated twenty minutes ago."

"Did you check before I got out?"

"I was... curious."

You raise a brow. "Curious?"

She shrugs with one shoulder. "Nosy. Whatever."

You grin, stepping just a little closer, enough that your shoes are nearly touching. "Admit it. You care."

Tara scoffs. "I care about the chance of never having to tutor you again."

"When I do pass and I don’t need you anymore, you're gonna miss me." When I don’t need you anymore, that hit Tara.

"I'll manage."

There's a pause—too long to be casual. Her eyes drag over your face, lingering for a second on your mouth before flicking away.

"So," you say, softer now. "You're coming?"

Tara raises a brow.

"To the game," you clarify, even though you both know what you meant.

"I never said that."

"But you implied it."

"I implied a maybe."

"But now it's a yes."

She crosses her arms, iced coffee nestled in the crook of her elbow, fingers drumming lightly against her bicep. "You're awfully confident."

"I passed the test we thought I’d bomb. What's more impressive than that?"

She laughs under her breath. "Is that what this is? A seduction via GPA?"

"I have layers."

"Mm. Like a freshman's film analysis."

You grin. "If you come, I'll drop forty."

She hums. "That sounds like a threat."

"It's a guarantee."

Tara eyes you like she's trying to figure out if she should kiss you or kill you. Maybe both. She shifts her weight, her knee grazing yours in a way that doesn't feel accidental at all.

"And what do I get if I show up?" she asks.

You don't even blink. "A free show. Me, center court. You, second row. I'll even do a special hand signal at you if I'm feeling bold."

"I will walk out."

"You'll stay. You'll bring Gatorade. Red."

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"It is now." The grin on your face makes her shift her stance, you keep talking like you usually do. “I was thinking a hand gesture like this,” you put two fingers over your heart and then point it to her, “or if I’m feeling really bold I could do the full-on I love you sign.”

Tara doesn't reply. Just watches you for a moment, jaw tightening slightly like she's trying to hold something back—an eye roll, a laugh, a blush. She turns, finally, slowly beginning to walk away.

But halfway down the path, she tosses a final look over her shoulder.

"If I show up, it's not for the Gatorade," she says, almost too quietly.

You swallow hard.

"Then what's it for?"

She smiles—sharp and low and dangerous. "You'll find out. If you don't choke."

And then she disappears into the heat, leaving you dumbfounded.

[triglycercule]

hi Gang its murder time trio back with another Mettaton

haha! i guess you could say they Kist. wait that not the right ship whoops

[sepptember]

roo putting sunscreen on u and then squeezing ur side when he’s applying it on ur back (ESP IF YOURE TICKLISH THERE)

uhm yes! ily and this got me thinking and uhm yeah, i need him.

cw: probably ooc rooster & clumsy writing.

The sun kisses your skin, coating your body like a glaze of hot honey. you take it in, a long awaited exhale finally escaping your lungs before you call for Rooster — “Roo,” You coo, your voice filled with content only a warm summer sun can bring you. “Would you put sunscreen on my back, please?”

“Course I can.” He immediately begins to rummage through your beach bag, pushing aside your bathing suit cover, extra beach towel, and the sweet treats you insisted on bringing in case you got hungry.

You should have known there were other plans hidden beneath that stunning smile of his. He kneels beside you, careful to not cover you in sand and squeezes the sunscreen into his palms. It's cold when it meets your skin, sending a sudden wave of goosebumps along your heated skin.

He starts at your shoulders, coating as much skin as he can before he presses the heels of his palms gently into the skin of your back, massaging muscles you didn't even realize were tense. It makes you melt into your beach towel, body relaxing and letting his hands explore your body in such a loving and tender way.

Until his hand reached your ribs, his fingers immediately squeezing your side and making you jump.

“Rooster!”

He just smiles, taking full advantage of your surprised state and continuing his attacks at your most ticklish spots, pulling a series of boisterous laughs from you that make him smile.

“I trusted you, Bradley Bradshaw.” You say in reprimanding that only comes across as a weak statement, interrupted by your smile and forced giggles. “Never again!”

He stops, leaning over where you are left heaving on the ground, his forearm resting in the sand as his hand brushes along your cheek. “Oh, what ever shall I do now?” He says, amber eyes meeting yours, making his playful grin melt into something more endearing.

“Make it up to me?”

“I can do that.” You don't get to respond before his lips are pressing to yours.

[grapejuicebrat]

back to friends

It starts with a lie.

He says, “Hey.”

You say, “I’m good.”

And you both pretend that’s enough.

⸻

You haven’t seen Rafe Cameron since he slammed your car door on a Wednesday night in April and never opened it again.

Spring turned into summer without him.

You dyed your hair. You started wearing rings. You slept on the right side of your bed instead of the middle.

Your friends started saying things like “I’m so proud of you.”

But none of it mattered the second you saw him in that shitty gas station parking lot in OBX, leaning against his truck like heartbreak hadn’t ever touched him.

The same tousled hair. That smug, sideways smile.

And a bottle of Coke pressed to his bottom lip like it had taken your place.

⸻

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says.

You want to say, I live here too, Rafe.

But instead you just shrug. “Didn’t think you looked at me anymore.”

He doesn’t flinch. He never does.

“We were better as friends,” he says. “Weren’t we?”

You snort. “We were never friends. We were a habit.”

His jaw ticks. He looks away.

You walk to your car. You don’t look back.

⸻

You last four days.

Four days of pretending you don’t still check if he views your stories.

Four days of lying to your best friend, saying, No, I’m over it. I swear.

Four days of trying to delete his playlist but stopping halfway through every time because some part of you still thinks maybe he’ll come back.

⸻

He texts you on the fifth day.

Rafe: You busy?

You: Do you care?

Rafe: Always did.

Stupid.

So stupid.

But you go anyway.

⸻

He’s sitting on the hood of his truck when you get there. The dock near Figure Eight where you first kissed. Where he told you he’d never felt like this before.

Now he looks up like nothing’s changed, like your history isn’t sitting in the passenger seat of your car with its arms crossed and a gun to your heart.

“I missed you,” he says, voice low.

“No, you didn’t,” you answer. “You missed how I made you feel.”

He exhales through his nose. Nods once. “You’re not wrong.”

You sit beside him.

It’s quiet.

It always was, with Rafe. Everything loud in the world — but never between you. The screaming happened in silence. The worst pain came without words.

“You look happy,” he says.

You blink. “Do I?”

“No,” he admits. “Not really.”

⸻

You talk for two hours.

About nothing. About everything.

He tells you Topper still can’t keep a girlfriend. That Sarah moved again. That he stopped drinking during the week.

You nod. Pretend you aren’t noticing how his hand keeps brushing yours.

And then he says it.

“Let’s just go back to friends.”

You freeze.

He looks at you like it’s a solution.

Like it’s a fix.

But friendship was never what broke.

It was the in-between. The almost.

The I love yous that never made it past his teeth.

So you say the cruelest thing you can muster in the softest voice:

“You don’t want to be my friend, Rafe.”

He stiffens.

You continue, “You want me close enough to keep, but not enough to lose. You want someone who will stay when you disappear. I was that. I’m not anymore.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not right away.

Then: “You really done?”

You nod, even though your throat closes around it.

He nods back.

And that’s it.

No kiss.

No fight.

No screaming or slamming doors.

Just two people pretending to rewind something that broke in the fast-forward.

⸻

You get in your car.

Drive away with your windows down.

The breeze doesn’t help.

Nothing does.

He texts you later that night.

Rafe: If we can’t go back to friends, do I lose you for good?

You type. Delete. Type again.

And finally, you send:

You already did.

[carnatedrugs]

Fix me.

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Hi guys! I was struggling with my LOVE for Simon Riley so I wrote this and I'll just leave a first chapter. English is not my first language SO IM SORRY IF ANYTHING WRONG and I don't know if I need to continue but let's just leave it here for now.. heh ; - ;

Chapter 1

The train was late—too late, I’d say. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed; the summer heat was torturing me, melting my brain, making it hard to concentrate on anything. "Why did this damn piece of metal have to break now?" I huffed in frustration, eyeing the engine my father had built for my car. Now I had neither a car, nor a father to fix it.

Our relationship had always been... complicated. Maybe I’ll get into the details later. Despite our issues, there’s no denying he was a gifted man. The whole village relied on him—if it could be fixed with hands, he could fix it. Me? Not so much. I have my own talents—at least, I like to think so. But you know how it goes when parents want you to continue their legacy. So yeah, now you get why our relationship was tricky.

But none of that matters right now. I’m standing under this merciless sun, waiting for the fucking train. No one in my small town could fix the engine, so I had no choice but to travel to another city. I’ve never traveled like this before. I was content with where and how I lived. But without my dad around, I might as well throw the car away and forget it ever existed. Still, I made a choice—to find at least one person on this planet who could understand my father’s work and fix what he left behind.

Luckily, I’d heard rumors about a genius, someone who could fix anything. They said he was on another level—more magician than mechanic. Of course, no one could confirm that. I’m not someone who usually believes in miracles, but I’m desperate enough now to hope the rumors are true.

After what felt like forever, the train finally arrived. The ride would be long—apparently this so-called genius isn’t fond of people, and his home is far off the beaten path.

While watching the endless landscape pass by—fields, wires, smoke columns from distant furnaces—I started thinking about how hard these past four months had been. Money was tight, work was draining. The timing of this breakdown couldn’t have been worse. I couldn’t wait for another paycheck to get it fixed—without the car, my job becomes nearly impossible.

"Maybe think of it as a mini vacation—the one you always wanted," I whispered, forcing a sigh.

I work as a tutor for school kids. Since I was struggling financially, I started taking clients from nearby towns. They paid more—I didn’t have much of a choice. So yeah, I need that car back.

After countless kilometers of fields and lakes, I finally dozed off. My body had given in, but my mind kept spinning. Each bump on the tracks felt like a knock on the door of my nerves. Four months of holding everything together—and now this. I stared out the window, but the scenery blurred into something meaningless. What if this trip was a waste? What if he couldn’t fix it? What if I was chasing a ghost? The engine wasn’t just a piece of machinery. It was the last thing my father ever made for me. A cold thought slipped in: maybe it was never meant to be fixed.

I pressed my forehead against the window. The glass burned from the heat outside, but I didn’t move. The world rolled on, and I felt like I was stuck in place.

Taking these complicated thoughts aside I tried to cheer myself. I’m finally shifting my focus away from work, to steal a few hours of sleep. But just as I started to drift, the train jerked to a stop. I groaned from the sudden jolt and the ache in my back. Looking out the window, I saw a small village nestled among green hills, with quaint houses and scattered farms. The village looked like it had been plucked from a forgotten blueprint—where nature and machinery coexisted in a delicate, rusted balance. The cobblestone paths were lined with copper piping, some of them hissing gently with steam. Wind turbines, some broken and tilted, spun lazily above wooden rooftops reinforced with iron brackets and rivets. The air smelled like oil, coal, and lavender fields. An interesting mix.

As I stepped off the train, a rush of cool air filled my lungs. For a moment, I felt relief. This wasn’t my final destination—I still needed to find a ride to reach the “magician.”

I dragged my cart off the platform, the engine perched awkwardly on top. Back aching, hope still clinging to me, I headed into the village.

After asking around, one kind old man agreed to drive me where I needed to go. Everything went surprisingly smoothly. The people here were warm, the landscape beautiful, and I found what I needed faster than expected. That gave me a pause—maybe this “genius” wasn’t a magician after all. Maybe he was just a regular guy, and this trip was all for nothing.

"There’s no turning back now," I muttered, trying to quiet my doubts.

Lost in thought, I spotted a large windmill standing still against the sky. The car stopped. I got out.

"He lives here," the old man said, helping me unload the cart.

"Thank you so much!" I said with a smile as he drove off. Probably should’ve asked him to come back later. There’s no way this guy’s fixing it today. Looks like I’ll be staying in the village.

The moment that thought crossed my mind, exhaustion finally caught up with me. But rest would have to wait. I took a deep breath and approached the windmill.

It was quiet here—peacefully, almost hauntingly so. The air felt still. Lonely, that’s the word. Maybe it was just me.

I knocked on the heavy wooden door. No answer. Of course, I didn’t expect it to open right away, but it felt like no one was even inside.

"Maybe he went somewhe—" Before I could finish, the door creaked open with startling force. I stepped back, heart skipping a beat.

Standing in the doorway was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a skull mask that clung tightly to his face like it belonged there. One arm, bare and marked with tattoos that told a story I dared not ask about, rested tensely at his side. He didn’t move much—just enough to study me. His eyes were steel-gray, the kind you don’t forget.

There was something military about him. Not in uniform, but in presence. In the way he stood, how his gaze scanned me like a tactical assessment. A man used to violence. Used to solitude.

He didn’t speak right away. Just watched me, expression unreadable beneath the bone-white grin of the mask. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed, bored, or thinking ten steps ahead of me. Maybe all three.

When he finally opened the door wider, I realized I hadn’t breathed in several seconds. “Surprise” doesn’t even begin to cover what I felt.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, hello! My name is Y/N. Sorry to bother you, but it’s kind of urgent. I’ve got an engine��one that’s pretty complicated. No one back home could fix it, and... that led me here." I tried to sound calm and confident, though the man in the skull mask standing silently in front of me didn’t make it that easy. He looked more like a serial killer than a mechanic.

He didn’t say anything—just listened, eyes never leaving mine. Then he gave a short nod and stepped aside, holding the door open.

Confused, I hesitated, then gave him a weak, awkward smile and turned to grab my cart.

"Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you," he said, stepping closer, his voice low and dry. It wasn’t aggressive, but it didn’t need to be. It felt controlled, like everything else about him. Calculated.

I tried to answer, but my voice came out thin. "It’s okay."

His voice sent shivers down my spine. Maybe it was the suddenness of it. Or maybe it was how deep and rough it sounded. I hadn’t expected him to speak at all.

I couldn’t stop staring at the mask. At his silence.

He didn’t rush. Just took the cart like it weighed nothing and held the door with a nod, as if to say Move. I tried to make sense of what was happening. I snapped back to reality and hurried inside the windmill.

[ruebossanova]

her watch: the series - part 11: tethered by heat

bodyguard!abby x female!reader

word count: 4.1k

warnings: SLOWBURN, smut af, olderlabby x younger!reader, reader is spoiled & bratty but sweet, nyc rich socialite vibe (think gossip girl)

summary: just read it bro

masterlist

————————————————————————————

the third week of june slid in with a kind of warmth that curled itself around your bones and stayed there. the house had quieted down after graduation and the whirlwind of the trip to greece. the tan lines on your hips were still fresh, the hickeys abby left on your thighs faded to soft bruises you touched at night when you missed her hands.

she hadn’t been required to be on the clock as often anymore. your dad said something about the threat level lowering during summer, fewer events, fewer public appearances. she was still there, of course. still stayed in the guest room, still hovered when you went out. but she wasn’t glued to your side like she used to be. not unless you asked.

and you did.

every single day.

"come lay with me," you'd whisper, pulling her down onto the oversized sectional while your mother cooked dinner in the next room.

"i'm not off yet," she'd mutter, eyes flicking to the hallway, jaw clenched like it always was now that things were soft between you.

"you will be in two hours," you’d murmur, lips brushing her shoulder.

she always folded. not instantly, but eventually. always.

mornings passed slow. she’d bring you breakfast sometimes without saying much, setting the tray beside you while you scrolled on your phone in bed. eggs. toast. a single raspberry placed in the middle of your plate just to make you smile. she’d pretend it meant nothing.

but everything meant something now.

you knew she needed a break. knew it from the way her eyes lingered on the window when the sunlight hit just right. from the way her hand would pause on the doorknob when she thought you were asleep. she was burning at both ends, even if she wouldn’t say it.

so you planned a trip.

“i found this place,” you said one evening, curling up beside her on the couch. your laptop balanced on your thighs, the screen glowing with photos of pale pink beaches and turquoise water. “we could go. just us. it’s safe. private. no one would know.”

abby raised an eyebrow. "you know i can't just leave."

"you wouldn't be leaving," you said, tone gentle, coaxing. "you'd be resting. with me. for once."

her eyes scanned the screen again. the bahamas. a private bungalow. open air bathrooms. a hammock on the deck.

"we could swim," you continued. "and eat fruit for breakfast and fall asleep with the windows open. you'd like it. you'd sleep better."

she exhaled, head tilting slightly. like maybe she was trying not to smile.

"and if something happens?"

"you'll still have your gun," you teased, nudging her hip with yours. "you'll still be able to protect me. you'll just be doing it… topless."

that made her laugh. quiet and reluctant, but real.

"you're evil," she muttered.

"you love it," you whispered, kissing her cheek.

and a few nights later, she said yes.

the tickets were booked. you both packed lightly — swimsuits, sundresses, abby’s fitted tanks and loose shorts. sunscreen and lip gloss and a polaroid camera that she said was ridiculous but ended up taking half the photos with.

the flight was smooth, your fingers threaded through hers beneath a shared blanket. she let her head rest against yours when you started to doze, her thumb tracing light circles into your thigh.

harbour island was quiet. soft. the kind of place that didn’t ask much of you. the pink sand beaches felt like something out of a dream, and the air smelled like salt and flowers and something warm you couldn’t name.

the bungalow was tucked at the edge of the beach, with shuttered windows that opened to the sea. inside: white sheets, bamboo floors, and the kind of quiet that made you both exhale.

abby stood by the window the first night, watching the waves.

"do you feel it?" you asked, stepping behind her, arms looping around her waist.

"feel what?"

"peace."

she was quiet for a moment.

"yeah," she said softly. "yeah, i think i do."

and just like that, summer began.

⸻

the first full day on the island started slow, just the way you liked it.

sunlight spilled across the bed in thin stripes, warming your skin before you even stirred. outside, the sounds of gentle waves and birdsong crept through the open windows, and for a moment you stayed still—nestled into abby’s side, her arm heavy around your waist, her breath soft against your neck.

neither of you had said a word yet. but her fingers curled slightly against your stomach, like she didn’t want to let go.

“we should get up,” you whispered eventually, voice hoarse from sleep.

abby grunted into the pillow. “no we shouldn’t.”

you giggled softly, stretching. “come on. we have a whole island to explore.”

“you’re warm,” she muttered. “and i’m comfortable.”

you turned in her arms so you could see her face — the barely opened eyes, the tousled hair, the lazy smirk starting to form.

“we’ll come back for a nap,” you promised, brushing your nose against hers.

her lips curved. “fine. you win.”

breakfast was easy and sweet — fresh fruit, soft bread, honey drizzled on warm pastries. you sat barefoot on the terrace, legs in her lap, abby picking mango slices from your plate like she had every right to.

the day bloomed from there. the two of you wandered into the nearby village hand-in-hand, dressed in light clothes and big sunglasses. you tugged her into tiny shops with painted tiles and sun-faded postcards. she held your bag without complaint, trailing behind you like a shadow with a crush.

“you’re really relaxed,” you noted, watching her sip iced espresso at a quiet corner cafe.

“it’s the sun,” she replied, flicking her gaze toward you. “or maybe it’s you.”

you blushed, kicking at her ankle under the table.

by the time you made it back to the villa, the sun had dipped low, casting the whole sky in watercolor orange and gold. your skin was warm, your cheeks flushed from sun and laughter, and abby looked like she belonged in this place — tan lines forming, hair messy, smile slow and rare.

as you stepped into the bedroom to change, she lingered at the doorway, her eyes dragging over the hem of your dress as you reached back to unzip it.

"you staying to watch, or you helping?" you teased, glancing over your shoulder.

she stepped forward without a word, hands replacing yours.

the air shifted.

she undressed you slowly — carefully — like every inch of skin she revealed mattered. and when you were bare before her, she didn’t say anything. just took a deep breath and stepped closer.

her lips found your neck, then your shoulder, then lower. you gasped as her mouth trailed down your body, and when her hands gripped your thighs, grounding and strong, you melted.

“lay back,” she whispered, voice rough.

you obeyed.

her mouth was reverent, slow, patient and devastating. you moaned her name like a prayer, your fingers in her hair, your hips rising to meet every stroke of her tongue. she didn’t stop until you were trembling, until your thighs shook around her shoulders, until your voice broke open on a breathless gasp.

and still — she didn’t pull away.

when she finally came up for air, her mouth shiny and her eyes dark, she kissed her way back up your body. “you’re gonna kill me one of these days,” she murmured against your jaw.

“worth it,” you breathed, tugging her closer. “so worth it.”

that night, curled against her chest, you swore the waves outside were echoing your heartbeat — steady, full, and entirely hers.

⸻

the day after was even hotter—humid and golden, the kind of heat that clung to your skin like silk. you spent the afternoon lying together on the private stretch of beach just down the slope from your villa, under a shaded canopy with cold drinks and soft towels. abby wore black swim trunks and a white tank top, sunglasses perched low on her nose, a book in her hand she hadn’t turned the page of in over fifteen minutes.

you, in your smallest bikini, kept glancing her way. watching how her fingers tapped the spine of her book. how her jaw flexed every time your legs shifted. how the sweat gathered at her collarbone and made the neckline of her tank cling tighter to her chest.

"you're staring," she murmured without looking up.

you smirked. "so are you."

she turned her head toward you slowly, one brow raised. "how could i not?"

the air between you thickened, and you rolled onto your side, propping yourself on one elbow. “you could do something about it, you know.”

abby sat up then, her sunglasses sliding down her nose, her eyes locked on yours. “don’t tempt me.”

"too late," you whispered, crawling over to straddle her lap.

she exhaled sharply, hands immediately gripping your hips. “in the middle of the beach?”

“we’re alone,” you said, lips brushing her ear. “besides… i need you.”

her jaw clenched. “say that again.”

“i need you, abby.”

she stood in one smooth motion, lifting you with her—hands under your thighs, lips brushing your shoulder as she carried you back to the villa.

—

you didn’t even make it to the bed.

the moment the door closed behind you, you were against the wall, mouths crashing together, hands everywhere.

abby's fingers curled into your bikini straps, tugging them down with agonizing slowness, her mouth not leaving yours for a second.

"been thinking about this since you moaned my name last night," she growled, pressing her thigh between your legs.

you gasped, rolling your hips down against her. "then shut up and do something about it."

her grin was dangerous.

she kicked off her shorts, pulled off your suit bottoms with a quick drag of her fingers, and carried you to the bedroom. you pushed her down onto the bed, both of you laughing breathlessly, then climbed over her again, thighs tangling.

your mouths met in another hungry kiss, tongues teasing, teeth grazing.

"this what you wanted?" abby breathed against your mouth.

you nodded, forehead pressed to hers. "want you like this. want to feel everything."

you rocked forward, your core grinding against hers, and both of you moaned at the contact. her hands flew to your waist, guiding you as your hips moved in tandem—wet and hot and dizzying.

“fuck,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “baby… don’t stop.”

you didn’t.

the rhythm was slow, then faster, frantic, your bodies slick and desperate against each other, gasping and moaning each other's names. her hands gripped your hips hard, grounding you, and your head dropped to her shoulder, every nerve ending alive.

“you’re so fucking perfect,” she rasped into your ear.

“i’m yours,” you whispered back, voice breaking.

and when you came—tight, shaking, breath caught in your throat—she followed right after, her jaw clenched, her fingers trembling against your skin.

you collapsed into each other, sticky and flushed, kissing softly now. gently. reverently.

"you okay?" she whispered, thumb stroking your cheek.

you nodded, eyes fluttering closed. “never better.”

you lay tangled in the sheets again, the fan whirring above, the ocean wind dancing through the curtains—and this time, it felt like you’d found a secret that belonged only to you and her.

⸻

the next morning started quiet, soft.

the ocean breeze carried through the villa, fluttering the sheer curtains that lined the wide-open windows. you stirred first, eyelids fluttering as the sunlight filtered over the bed. abby was already awake, sitting at the edge of the mattress in nothing but her loose sleep shorts, back curved, forearms braced on her thighs.

she was watching the ocean, but when she felt your eyes on her, she turned. there was a softness there. not quite a smile, not quite sadness—just something quiet. something open.

"couldn't sleep?" you asked, voice still raspy with dreams.

she shrugged, reaching back to sweep her hair into a loose bun. "just thinking."

you rolled closer, sheets tangled around your hips, bare chest pressing lightly to her back as you wrapped your arms around her waist. "about what?"

abby leaned into your touch, head tipping slightly against yours. "this. you. how different everything feels."

you pressed a kiss to her shoulder, fingers tracing slow patterns across her stomach. "good different or scary different?"

"both," she murmured.

breakfast was late and lazy, eaten outside on the sun-warmed terrace. abby cooked while you squeezed fresh orange juice, music low in the background. there was a peace to the morning—a kind of rhythm that came with knowing each other deeply, comfortably.

she wore an old tank top, low on the sides, her sports bra visible with every move. you caught yourself staring at her arms again, her back flexing as she flipped golden brown slices of bread in the pan.

"you're staring," she said without looking.

"you're flexing."

"i'm cooking."

"same thing, really."

she huffed out a quiet laugh, and your heart swelled.

the two of you spent most of the day near the water—lounging under the shade of a swaying palm, toes buried in the sand, ice-cold drinks in hand. abby was starting to tan, her freckles standing out darker across her shoulders and nose. you leaned over at one point and kissed the bridge of it, grinning when she scrunched her face.

"what was that for?"

"just had to. you looked too good."

she shook her head, but her smile gave her away.

that afternoon, you took a scooter up the winding path to a lookout point. the wind whipped through your hair, and abby’s arms were tight around your waist as you drove, her voice in your ear saying, "slower," and "you missed the turn," and, occasionally, "fuck, you're gonna kill us."

but when you reached the top, it was worth it.

cliffs stretched endlessly before you, the ocean sparkling far below. she stood behind you, her arms around you again, and together you watched the sun begin its slow descent.

"ever think about the future?" you asked quietly, leaning back into her.

"all the time," she said.

"what do you see?"

abby was quiet for a long moment. then, softly: "you. safe. happy. wherever that is."

you turned in her arms, hands resting at her waist. "i want that too. but with you in it. not just watching. with me."

she kissed you then—soft and sure, hands cradling your face. it wasn’t rushed, wasn’t urgent. just full.

full of everything unspoken. full of everything yet to come.

and as the sun set behind you, you held onto her like she was already your future.

because maybe she was.

⸻

that evening, the sky burned with orange and soft pink, and the heat of the day lingered long after the sun dipped below the horizon. back at the villa, you both moved in a comfortable haze—flushed from sun and salt, skin warm, hearts warmer.

you stood at the bathroom sink, brushing out your hair in the dim glow of the vanity lights. abby leaned in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, her gaze slow and lazy.

“you look good like that,” she said, voice a little rough from the sea breeze and maybe something else.

you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “like what? half-drenched and windburned?”

“yeah,” she murmured. “like you’ve been kissed by summer.”

you stepped closer, tossing your brush to the counter. “funny,” you said, looping your arms around her waist. “summer hasn’t kissed me yet.”

her hands found your hips automatically, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of your sleep shorts. “that a hint?”

“just saying,” you whispered, lips brushing her jaw. “i’ve been waiting.”

abby’s breath caught. her hands tightened, grounding you against her. but she didn’t kiss you yet. instead, she leaned down, her lips brushing just beneath your ear. “you drive me crazy when you tease.”

“i know,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes. “that’s the fun part.”

you spent the rest of the evening curled on the couch, bare legs tangled over hers, a bowl of fresh strawberries between you. you fed her one, slow and deliberate, your eyes locked on hers.

she bit into it, a drop of juice slipping down her lip. you leaned in and caught it with your tongue, and the look she gave you in return nearly lit the room on fire.

“you really wanna start something tonight, huh?”

you grinned. “maybe i do.”

but she didn’t take the bait—not yet.

instead, she pulled you closer, letting your legs tangle tighter, her lips brushing your temple. “not yet,” she said softly. “but soon.”

and with her arms around you and your cheek against her shoulder, you both knew the night was far from over.

you fell asleep like that—wrapped around each other, the ocean whispering outside, the promise of more lingering like electricity in the air.

⸻

you weren’t sure what woke you.

maybe it was the breeze brushing across your bare skin, or the subtle shift of abby’s body beneath yours. maybe it was just the way your pulse had been steadily rising for days, tension coiling tighter every night you fell asleep in her arms, untouched but wanting.

but this morning — early, just past dawn — you opened your eyes and found her already watching you.

the light was soft, barely there, casting shadows over the lines of her face. she looked serious. quiet. and then her fingers brushed your jaw.

"come here," she whispered, voice hoarse.

you leaned in slowly, and her lips met yours — warm, sure, no hesitation this time. her hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against hers, your thigh fitting snug between hers beneath the covers.

you kissed deeper, your fingers burying into her hair, tugging gently. she groaned, low and rough in her throat, and the sound lit something hot behind your ribs.

“been thinking about this since naples,” she murmured, her mouth grazing your neck. “since you wore that sundress and smiled like you knew what you were doing.”

“i did know,” you whispered back. “i wanted you to look.”

her teeth nipped gently at your jaw. “you wanted me to want you?”

“i wanted you to break,” you breathed. “like you are now.”

her hand slid beneath your shirt, palm dragging up your stomach, slow and firm. “baby, i broke the second you kissed me on that damn beach.”

you whimpered, arching into her touch as her fingers brushed under your breasts, teasing.

“abby—”

“shh,” she said, soft but firm. “let me take care of you.”

she kissed you again, deeper now, tongue parting your lips. your hips rocked on instinct, grinding slowly against her thigh. she felt it — the slick heat through your shorts — and her grip tightened.

“fuck,” she whispered. “you’re soaked already?”

“been wanting you,” you gasped, your nails digging into her back. “all week.”

she pushed the covers back, pulling your shorts down your thighs. her eyes dragged over you, hungry, reverent. “look at this pussy,” she said softly, thumb brushing your clit with just enough pressure to make you cry out. “fuck, you’re so wet for me.”

your hips jerked, and she caught them in place with her strong arm, holding you down as her fingers slid lower, slipping easily through your folds.

“you want my fingers?” she whispered, voice right against your mouth.

“yes,” you breathed. “abby, please—”

she gave you two, deep and slow, sliding them inside in one firm thrust that made your breath catch. you clenched around her, moaning softly as she curled them, searching until she found exactly what made your back arch.

“that’s it,” she muttered. “fuck, that’s it. you’re so tight. so fucking perfect.”

you rocked against her hand, your body trembling as she pumped into you, her thumb circling your clit just enough to keep you right on the edge.

you were babbling, lost in it, begging and gasping and barely coherent. “don’t stop, don’t stop, please—fuck, abby—”

“not gonna,” she promised, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “i’ve got you, baby.”

your orgasm hit hard — sudden and hot, your whole body clenching around her, thighs shaking. you cried out her name, fingers fisting the sheets, riding it out as she kept fucking you through it, slow and deep until you finally collapsed.

she didn’t stop kissing you, not once. not even when your legs went limp, not even when you couldn’t speak. she kissed your cheeks, your neck, your jaw, her free hand brushing sweaty hair from your face.

“you okay?” she murmured.

you nodded, barely able to catch your breath. “yeah. more than okay.”

she smiled, eyes soft. “good. ‘cause i’m not done with you yet.”

and the way she looked at you — steady, focused, wanting — made your stomach flip again.

you knew this summer had barely begun.

⸻

the sheets were tangled around you both, warm and sticky from the heat of your bodies pressed close together. the afterglow wrapped the room in a gentle haze, a quiet kind of happiness that filled the space between you.

abby’s breath was slow, steady, but her fingers trembled slightly as they traced light patterns along your side. you turned your head to catch her eyes—dark and searching, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw.

“why’d you hold back before?” you asked softly, your voice just above a whisper.

she hesitated, then exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing a bit. “fear, mostly. guilt. i’ve always felt responsible for you — more than just as your bodyguard.”

you reached up, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “abby... you’re mine,” you murmured, voice thick with feeling. “you don’t have to be perfect to be loved.”

for a moment, her guard slipped. she kissed you—soft, hesitant at first, then with growing certainty, like she wanted to believe every word you said. when she pulled back, her lips trembled slightly, but there was a new light in her eyes.

“i’m trying,” she admitted. “for you.”

“and i’ll be right here,” you promised.

⸻

the sun dipped low, casting a warm golden glow over the resort’s beachside restaurant. you slipped into a slinky, deep-green dress that clung to your curves just right, the fabric shimmering with every step. abby wore a loose linen shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal the smooth skin at her collarbone.

over dinner, the conversation flowed easily—soft laughter mixing with the rhythmic sound of waves. when the meal ended, abby took your hand, guiding you to the small dance floor lit by lanterns swinging gently in the ocean breeze.

her hands settled on your waist, steady and sure. you rested your cheek against her neck, inhaling the scent of salt and cedarwood.

slow and unhurried, you moved together, the world narrowing down to the feel of her breath, the warmth of her body.

as you walked back to the bungalow, abby’s lips found the soft skin just below your collarbone. the bite was gentle but deliberate, a hickey blooming beneath your dress strap—a secret only she would know, and one that left a delicious ache every time you thought about it.

“can’t have you forgetting who you belong to,” she murmured, eyes dark and playful.

you smiled, heart pounding.

⸻

the last night wrapped around you like a storm. the moment you stepped inside the bungalow, the air crackled with desperate need.

abby’s hands were everywhere—pulling you close, lips crashing against yours with a hunger that matched your own.

you pressed against the door, fingers tangling in her hair as she lifted you onto the counter. the cool surface was nothing compared to the heat pooling between your legs.

her fingers slid inside you—fast, deep, messy—drawing gasps and moans that filled the small space.

“fuck, you feel so good,” she groaned, voice thick with desire.

you arched into her touch, hands roaming over her back, tracing every line and curve.

“please,” you begged, voice shaky, “let me touch you.”

abby hesitated, then with a small, breathless sigh, she nodded.

your hands found her hips, your lips trailing down her neck as you lowered your mouth to her most sensitive places. your tongue swirled, flicked, coaxing her breath into ragged gasps.

she clutched your hair, tugging gently as her hips pressed back against your mouth, riding your tongue with a wild, desperate rhythm.

when she came, it was with a soft cry, body trembling against yours.

you held each other close afterward, skin slick and hearts pounding, the world outside forgotten.

“you’re mine,” you whispered into her hair.

“always,” she breathed back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

tags; @zombiecatsass @mxmsuki

[amber-aura]

Let us Live since we must Die: Chapter 4: Happy Birthday?

Summary: In 1932, something happened in Mississippi. Something no one could explain. In 2001, a baby was born under a sky that remembered. In 2025, she’s about to find out why. Breana Rae has the power to tear through space, but what she really wants is to connect the pieces of her past. When a rare celestial event reawakens the ghosts of a buried tragedy, Breana is pulled into a mystery far older and far deeper than she ever imagined.

Pairing: Remmick x black!oc

A/N: This chapter was planned to be edited and released 3-5 days ago, but I fell sick so it's late :( But good news! The story officially begins!

Warnings: 18+ comments only. Minors, you can read but do not interact with any of my works. Angst, graphic mentions of blood and gore, eventual smut, slow burn, slurs, mentions of suicide, emetophobia, sexual assault, murder, etc. Will continue adding more as the story progresses for the sake of any new readers.

Word count: 5k

Typing. Typing. Still typing...

Breana had been glued to her laptop for nearly two hours straight, her fingers a blur across the keyboard as she dove deeper into a rabbit hole of research. The hum of the AC in her loft barely registered anymore, her focus razor-sharp as she scanned through articles, forums, archived records—anything that could shed light on 1930s Mississippi.

Her assistants were mildly baffled. Why the sudden obsession with the early 20th century South? Why Mississippi of all places? But they knew better than to pry. Breana had her moods and her muses. Sometimes it was ancient myths. Other times, avant-garde fashion history. This time, it was Jim Crow-era Mississippi. They didn’t ask questions. They just brought her coffee and kept her schedule clear.

Breana didn’t need to start from scratch. She already knew a decent amount thanks to her parents' love of documentaries and her own curiosity about history. But now? Now she needed clarity. Context. Details. She wasn’t just learning—she was piecing something together.

Even so, just reading about that time made her skin crawl.

“Nope,” she muttered to herself, eyes scanning a headline about the rise of white supremacy groups in the 1930s. “Couldn’t have been me.”

The very idea of living back then was a nightmare. No air conditioning. No decent healthcare. No advanced tech. No women’s rights. No rights for people of color—well, not real ones. It was technically illegal to just exist freely if you were the wrong shade of melanin or had the wrong chromosomes. And sure, America still had its systemic bullshit in the present day, but at least she could talk about it without being shot on sight.

“Fair wages? Nonexistent. Racist police? Oh, they been here. The Klan? Running wild like they were police.”

She shook her head and leaned back in her chair, letting out a deep, tired sigh. “And don’t even get me started on that god-awful Mississippi heat. No thank you.”

Her lips curled in slight amusement as her mind drifted to the everyday inconveniences of life back then. Making food from scratch—every single time. Relying on radios for news. Dresses with petticoats and stockings in the middle of summer, no deodorant worth a damn.

“Oh no, they got me fucked up,” she muttered, scrolling past a sepia-toned photo of women in heavy dresses and lace gloves. “I wouldn't wear a damn velvet corset in July. That’s not elegance. That’s a slow bake.”

Still…not everything about the era was a total bust. She had to admit—1930s fashion? S'alright. The silhouettes were graceful, the fabrics had texture, and those sweetheart necklines? Iconic. If she could snatch some of those designs and remix them for a stage outfit, she just might.

But it wasn’t the style that kept her glued to the screen. It was the people. The culture. The pain, the joy, the survival. She wanted to know what kind of world Mary, Elias, and the others had lived in before everything went to hell. What kind of music floated through their windows at night. What kind of dreams they whispered in the dark, even when the world tried to silence them.

She wasn’t just curious anymore. She felt tethered.

Something about it—about them —was pulling her deeper. And part of her didn’t mind being pulled.

Breana clicked over to her notepad document, eyes scanning the bullet points she’d messily typed out while going down this historical rabbit hole. She read them out loud, more to herself than anyone else.

“Alright…if I were to actually be in 1930s Mississippi—God help me—I’d have to know how to play the part. Let’s see…”

She adjusted in her seat, legs crossed, hair tied up in a scarf now to keep it out of her face. She’d pulled it up in frustration an hour ago, and now it kind of matched the vintage vibe she was reading about. Cute. Maybe unintentionally prophetic.

Always use formal titles when speaking to white people. Even if they’re being disrespectful, which they will be, say “yes ma’am” and “no sir.”

Do not look white men in the eye for too long.

Avoid walking alone at night, especially outside of your own neighborhood.

If someone accuses you of something, don’t argue. Just survive.

Breana blinked. “Jesus…”

That last line stung more than it should’ve. But it was true, wasn’t it? That was the law of survival for Black folk back then. Hell, even now sometimes.

She sighed again and kept reading.

Keep your speech “mild.” Don’t sound too educated around the wrong crowd. Don’t draw attention.

Smile when necessary. Stay polite. But never too friendly.

Segregation is the law. Don’t sit at the front of buses, don’t drink from the wrong fountain, don’t use the wrong entrance.

“Don’t breathe too loud. Don’t exist too much. Got it,” she muttered bitterly, highlighting that line just to remind herself it wasn’t hyperbole.

She scrolled further.

Jobs available to Black women: domestic work, sharecropping, laundry, seamstress, midwife if lucky.

Education limited—especially in the South.

Medical care? Almost nonexistent unless you know someone.

Her lips curled in frustration.

And yet, somehow…Mary, Elias, their community—those people had laughed, loved, danced, lived. All while under a system designed to suffocate them.

She didn’t know whether to feel proud or overwhelmed.

Then there were the notes she wrote specifically for herself:

Learn the lingo.

Clothing: Wear dresses. Loose, breathable. Light cotton or linen. Natural look. Wear your hair "short and kept" like the white women (eye roll)

Keep modern expressions to yourself unless you wanna get side-eyed. No slang from TikTok, dummy.

Learn how to cook something from scratch. You’ll need that to earn trust. Or survive. Or both.

Breana leaned back again, staring at the ceiling now. Her eyes were tired, but her spirit felt wired.

This wasn’t just research anymore.

She was prepping for something. Something she didn’t quite understand yet—but her gut said she’d need all of this. Soon.

And if this strange new path was going to demand she walk into someone else’s century? 

She’d be ready...not-

But Lord, it better not be during the peak of summer. She could handle trauma, magic, vampires—but she drew the line at sweating through a cotton petticoat.

“Let me go back with common sense and a heat-resistant body, God,” she muttered, stretching her arms with a dramatic sigh. “Please and thank you.”

Then, she saved the file and titled it simply:

“How to Survive the 1930s"

Just as Breana was about to close her laptop and maybe take a break before her brain melted from history overload, there was a knock on her open studio door.

“Hey, Bree?” one of her assistants, Rayna, peeked her head in, followed by Malik right behind her, holding a smoothie like he knew she hadn’t eaten all day.

“Your birthday’s tomorrow,” Rayna said, walking in like it was breaking news. “You need to decide what you wanna do. Party? Dinner? Photoshoot? Private island escape? Aliens-only rave?”

Breana blinked, still a little mentally stuck in 1932 Mississippi. “Uh…”

Malik handed her the smoothie. “At least drink this before you fry your brain.”

She took it. “Thanks.”

Rayna flopped onto the arm of the nearby couch. “So? What are we doin’? The people are gonna be watchin’. This is the first birthday since your EP release and you’ve got followers foaming at the mouth waiting to see you do something glamorous.”

Breana sipped the smoothie, eyes a little glazed. “Can we just…eat some good food and chill? That’s really all I want.”

Malik raised an eyebrow. “Like…chill-chill or your version of chill, which means binge watching Spongebob and somehow getting drunk on ice cream?"

Breana smirked without answering.

Rayna rolled her eyes playfully. “Alright. But for real, you do need to post tomorrow. Instagram, TikTok, all that. Fans are already making edits with your countdown posts.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Breana waved a lazy hand. “I’ll post somethin’. Y’all can take a picture or whatever.”

Rayna side-eyed her. “We are not just gonna take a picture . You’re a brand. Your whole aesthetic is like…soul-deep goddess trapped in a dreamscape.”

“Okay…” Breana replied dryly, sipping again. “Then let me dreamscape in peace tonight.”

Malik laughed. “We’ll let you rest. Just don’t ghost tomorrow. You gotta give the people something. Even if it’s just a selfie with your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat,” Breana mumbled.

“Well…you seem like you should have one. You give cat girl energy.”

Rayna and Malik left, still teasing as they went. Breana stayed seated, smoothie in hand, staring ahead at nothing in particular.

Her birthday was tomorrow.

And something was coming.

Something…

Breana stared down at her notes again, the pages covered in scribbled questions, bullet points—her own chaotic little web of connections.

Logically, there was only one conclusion to draw from all of it. The kind of conclusion that would’ve made her raise her eyebrows if someone else had said it out loud.

Time travel.

That’s what everything was pointing to.

She blinked slowly at the thought, as if waiting for her own brain to catch up to what she’d just admitted.

“I can’t seriously be entertaining this,” she muttered to herself.

But...wasn’t she?

She could already open rifts. That alone threw the rulebook out the window. That day when her emotions surged and the very fabric of reality tore open in front of her—that was the moment the impossible stopped being “impossible.” It was the moment she learned the world wasn’t just weird—it was malleable .

And now?

She had an alignment happening on her birthday—the same rare celestial alignment that last occurred on the day she was born. She’d just met two vampires from 1932 Mississippi , the exact same era her DNA test pointed to when tracking her ancestral roots. The timing was too perfect, too unnerving.

Like she kept saying, none of this was a coincidence. None of it.

The rational part of her brain begged her to calm down. Breathe. But the deeper part—her intuition, her soul—whispered something else.

“Prepare.”

Breana exhaled sharply and tossed her phone from one hand to the other, thinking.

“Let’s just say I do go back in time…” she whispered, eyes scanning her notes again.

Her thoughts drifted to Mary and Elias—two undead souls tethered to the past but walking quietly through the present. They knew that world, the one she was beginning to suspect she’d soon be entering.

Assuming they weren’t too busy—considering, you know, the whole being-vampires-and-can’t-go-outside-during-the-day thing—maybe she could shoot Mary and Elias a quick text.

Just for comfort to check up on them.

Breana sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at her phone like it might bite her back. Her fingers hovered over the group chat and hesitated.

Then, she just started typing.

Breana: good morningggg. hope y’all aren’t sleeping in too much 😅

Breana: i was thinking about our convo from last night. you free to talk again later?

She stared at it for a second, then hit send. She figured if they were still asleep— actually can they sleep? She doesn’t know. Whatever, they’d just get to it when they could.

To her surprise, the typing bubbles popped up immediately.

Mary Mary: Good mornin’ girl ☀️ we’re always up dw, what’s up?

Breana felt a little relieved at the warm response, then quickly followed up:

Breana: nothing deep just had some more questions and i dunno, y’all are chill to talk to. plus it’s my bday eve lol

Mary Mary: Ohhhh! 👀

Mary Mary: I was just tellin Stack you prob got folks lined up for tomorrow. You got plans yet?

Before Breana could reply, Stack beat her to it.

Stack: i told her you was gon’ be booked n busy

Stack: but if you ain’t, we’ll happily steal a few minutes after sunset 😎

Breana grinned a little at that. She replied:

Breana: yeah it might be a busy day but i don’t got plans set in stone yet.

Breana: might just do something chill

Breana: or disappear and hide from the world for 24 hrs, haven’t decided 💀

Mary’s reply came fast:

Mary Mary: Girl that’s valid tbh

Mary Mary: But if you feel like talkin tonight, we’ll be at the usual spot. Just text

Stack: bring snacks

Mary Mary: 🙄

Breana chuckled and was feeling a weird comfort bloom in her chest. These two were something else. Unusual as hell, literally, but familiar in a way she didn’t expect. 

But it was good to know someone was out there who could hold space with her in the meantime.

She stretched her arms over her head, rolled her neck, and whispered to herself:

“Okay. I’m not alone.”

Not yet, anyway.

Breana: btw been doing some research this morning

Breana: about your era...

A pause. She watched the three dots flicker under Mary’s name. Then:

Mary Mary: 👀 Oh really now, why tho?

Breana bit the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t say “just in case I get yeeted through a tear in space-time.” So instead:

Breana: idk just been thinking more about stuff you two said

Breana: trying to understand the time y’all came from

Breana: it’s wild to think about how different things were back then and how much hasn’t changed too

Stack chimed in, of course.

Stack: girl it was a whole other planet back then

Stack: no AC, no internet, no rights, and bread was a nickel 😭

Stack: mary used to churn her own butter lmao

Mary Mary: STOP LYING TO THIS GIRL I AIN’T NEVER CHURNED NO DAMN BUTTER

Breana laughed aloud, then replied:

Breana: 😭😭 y’all are ridiculous

Breana: but fr, it’s interesting. learning how folks survived, how they dressed, talked…

Breana: even the little stuff like what people cooked or how they dealt with the heat

There was a pause before Mary responded again, this time a bit more sincere:

Mary Mary: Well, if you ever got questions about how life really felt back then you know we got stories for days

Mary Mary: Not just the bad stuff either

Mary Mary: We laughed a lot, we danced, we loved hard…it wasn’t all pain

That hit Breana deep. She stared at the message for a while, then replied:

Breana: yeah. i’d love to hear more of those stories sometime

Breana: i’ll text y’all tonight after i get some stuff done

Stack: we’ll be up. undead and wide awake 😂

Mary Mary: Behave, Stack

Mary Mary: Talk soon, Bree 💙

Breana smiled down at her screen, then tossed the phone on her bed again and leaned back with a soft exhale.

What time was it now? 11:30—late morning bleeding into early afternoon. Still quiet enough for peace, but just loud enough for distractions. With nothing else urgent pulling at her attention, Breana flopped onto her bed and unlocked her phone.

Might as well check in.

She opened FaceTime, called a few close friends just to hear their voices, share some quick laughs, and pretend—if only for a minute—that everything was just normal. Then came the scroll. Instagram. TikTok.

Tik...

Tok...

Her thumb stopped on a video with her name in the caption. Birthday posts. A handful of them, actually—fan edits, countdowns, even an astrology TikTok theorizing about what each planet means for your life according to your zodiac for tomorrow’s planetary alignment.

She didn’t even blink. She’d liked so many spiritual and astrology videos that her fyp had flooded.

At first, the news unsettled her.

But not anymore.

No more anxiety, no more questioning. She'd decided: whatever life had planned, it was gonna do it anyway. Might as well face it with her chin up.

A couple of minutes later, her assistants popped in, practically buzzing with excitement.

“Okay, quick reminder,” one of them said, clipboard in hand. “Tommorows your birthday gathering. Just a small thing. Parents, friends, your fave stylists, and us.”

“And yes,” the other chimed in, “we’ll be posting. Everyone’s gonna wanna see what you’re up to tomorrow, so we’re spreading it across Insta and TikTok, don’t fight it.”

Breana just nodded, letting herself smile a little. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

They didn’t need to know what was looming in the back of her mind. They didn’t need to know she was halfway convinced this was her last normal birthday.

Let them have their fun. Let the posts go up.

If tomorrow really changed everything…then tonight? Tonight she’d have her cake. And she was damn sure gonna eat it too.

Today had officially become tomorrow.

Breana's birthday had arrived.

She sat quietly in a velvet-backed chair, legs crossed at the ankles, while her hairstylist gently tugged and twisted her hair into one of her favorite styles—an intricate criss-cross rubber band braid pattern at the crown, with the rest of her hair was loose and full. The stylist’s fingers moved with care and precision, like an artist touching up the final strokes of a masterpiece.

Breana held her phone up and captured a few shots in the mirror—angles, lighting, a little lip gloss pop—before uploading the final look to her Instagram story. She tagged her stylist with a glitter emoji and a heart. Grateful, always.

Once her hair was finished, her assistants ushered her back into her room, chatting excitedly about the day’s schedule and what would be posted when. Together, they helped her slip into her outfit for the party—a dress she had chosen weeks in advance but still gasped at when she saw herself in the mirror. 

It was a black and white, off-shoulder bow-tied stunner, perfectly hugging her form while still giving her the freedom to breathe, to move, to feel . She paired the dress with sheer transparent tights and tall, sharp black stilettos.

Then came the descent down the hall to the living room.

The second she stepped into view—

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”

The room erupted with voices, flashes of phone cameras, and a collective energy so warm it made Breana pause for a moment, just to soak it in. For a second, the air felt slower.

She almost cried.

There they were—her parents. Her friends. Her inner circle. All gathered just for her. She hadn’t seen her parents in nearly two months, which made their presence that much more emotional.

“Mom! Dad! ” she beamed, practically running toward them, heels clicking across the hardwood floor with power and precision—because yes, Breana was that girl who could run in stilettos and not fall once.

“Hey, darlin’! Happy 25th birthday!” her dad said with a voice full of pride as he embraced her.

“Hey baby, we haven’t seen you in a minute! Ooooh you look beautiful ,” her mom chimed in, pulling her into a hug like she was still fourteen.

They laid their gifts on the table—among many others from friends and colleagues—wrapped in everything from sleek matte black paper to glittery, rainbow explosion chaos. It was a corner of love and celebration.

The party buzzed around her with the sweet comfort of soul food scents drifting through the air—collard greens, baked mac and cheese, fried chicken, candied yams, cornbread—the works. It had been catered by a high-end Black-owned spot Breana personally requested, and the flavor alone felt like coming home.

Then came the cakes.

Yes— cakes.

The first one? A classic vanilla layered masterpiece, made just for Breana by her parents.

At the top, in blue frosting and yellow letters, it read:

“What’s funnier than 24? 25. Happy birthday!”

Breana burst out laughing. “ Y’all are too much! ” she said through giggles. Spongebob was one of her favorite cartoons of all time, and this was peak humor. 

The second cake, much larger and meant for guests to share, was a red velvet cake adorned with edible flowers and gold flakes. 

Photos were taken nonstop—candid moments, selfies with her besties, and formal poses with her family. Her assistants worked behind the scenes, uploading clips, tagging everyone, managing posts across Instagram, TikTok, and Twitter.

Breana didn’t bother checking her phone. Not yet.

Right now, all she wanted to do was laugh, eat, hug everyone in the room, and hold onto this little oasis of love as tightly as she could.

The laughter in the living room echoed behind her like a sweet chorus, champagne glasses clinking, music humming low beneath the hum of conversation. Someone had just made a joke and everyone erupted, including her parents. It was a perfect moment.

Too perfect.

Breana’s smile faltered just slightly as something pulled at her gut. A tight, cold little thread that hadn’t snapped since the moment she opened her eyes this morning.

She blinked once, twice.

The alignment…

She didn’t say it out loud. She didn’t have to. That thought alone made her mouth go dry.

“Oh crap,” she said softly, just enough for her assistant to hear. “I forgot something—I left it in my room, just give me one sec.”

Before they could even respond or follow up, she turned with a casual wave and headed back down the hallway. Her heels clicked a bit faster this time, but not enough to raise concern. Her heart, however, was pounding.

Once in her bedroom, she shut the door gently—no slam, no theatrics. She was calm… enough.

Until she checked her phone.

The screen lit up with a burst of notifications.

Instagram DMs. Comments. Story tags. TikTok mentions. Duets of fans singing her songs. Edits of her best performance moments. Birthday tributes, fanart, memes—even one dramatic video of someone pretending to faint at the thought of meeting her.

“Happy Birthday, Breana!!! QUEEN ENERGY!!”

“She’s 25 and still not aging?? How??”

“Hope this is your best year yet!!”

Her finger hovered above a video of her laughing earlier at the cake. Her assistants had already edited and posted it. She smiled at her digital self.

Then a new banner appeared at the top of the screen:

Mary Mary & Stack 💙:

Happy birthday, Bree. Don’t get too drunk, see you tonight or tomorrow -Mary Marywhat she said. hope it’s a good one young blood. 🥂 -Stack

She smiled. But the warmth didn’t last.

Because that gut feeling returned—stronger now.

She quickly opened her search bar and typed without fully thinking:

“Celestial Alignment Time May 7th, 2025”

The top result loaded instantly:

“The peak alignment will occur at approximately 1:47 PM PST…”

Breana glanced at the time on her phone.

1:44 PM.

Her breath caught.

She stood there, frozen, as the realization punched through her chest like a bass drop.

“Three minutes… ” she whispered out loud.

Then panic set in.

“Okay—okay okay okay okay okay,” she mumbled, backing up a little, gripping the phone like it was an anchor and she was already being pulled out to sea. Her breathing quickened. She felt a burn behind her eyes. Her hands started to sweat.

Forget her earlier nonchalance. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready.

Breana inhaled deeply—once, then twice—holding the breath in her chest like it might glue all her nerves back in place. She checked the time again. 1:46 PM.

One minute.

She set her phone down on the nightstand. No more looking. No more spiraling.

Just go back out there.

She shook her arms out, forced her best I’m-not-panicking smile, and opened the door.

The second she stepped back into the living room, the atmosphere swallowed her whole again. Jazz music played now, something her stylist picked, smooth and classy. Her parents were dancing together by the windows, her friends chatting by the champagne table. Someone had popped open another bottle.

“There you are!” one of her assistants called out. 

“Come on, come on, we’re about to cut the big cake!” another friend shouted, holding up her phone to record.

Breana nodded, moving toward the table, blending back into the birthday rhythm. She accepted hugs, opened a gift or two, and even let one of her friends convince her to take a sip of mimosa (non-alcoholic, thank God—her nerves didn’t need help).

“Alright, make a wish!” her dad announced with a proud grin, already holding up his phone.

The candles flickered, glowing warm and golden against the frosting.

One minute left…

Breana stared at the flames.

She didn’t make a wish.

She just closed her eyes and thought, Please…not yet.

Then she blew them out.

Cheers erupted. Everyone clapped, and someone from the back yelled, “TWENTY-FIIIIIIIVE!” like it was the age of legend.

The party pressed on.

The house had gone quiet.

The party guests were gone. Empty champagne glasses littered the kitchen counter. Wrapping paper lay crumpled in a pile beside the couch. Her parents had already gone to bed in the guest room. Her assistants had gone back to their hotel after helping her change and unwind.

Now it was just Breana. Alone in her room. Back in her pajamas, her makeup wiped clean, her hair in a bonnet.

She sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, staring out the window.

The moon hung heavy and silver above the city skyline. The sky was too still. Like the world was holding its breath again.

Her phone sat quietly beside her.

Breana exhaled, a hand resting on her knee. She hadn’t expected to have time to see Mary and Elias tonight, but it looked like she just might. Her fingers hovered above the screen, ready to text—

And then she looked out the window.

There they were.

The planets. Aligned.

It was stunning in a haunting kind of way. A string of bright pearls suspended in a velvet-black sky. She’d seen the predictions, the mockups, the TikToks claiming this was it —the moment the world would shift. And now…here it was. Real. Tangible. No turning back.

She wasn’t about to check any news headlines about the “effects” either. If she didn’t have powers, she would’ve dismissed all the online panic: memory loss, time displacement, emotional distortion… Like, girl please...

But as she's known ever since she was eighteen, nothing was impossible anymore.

And she was grateful— relieved, even—that the day had gone by without incident.

Until—

BrrrrrNNGGG—!!

A shrill, splitting hum cracked through her skull.

“Ah—!” Breana’s hands flew to her head. Her eyes slammed shut, her chest seized up, and her heartbeat started hammering like a war drum. The air shifted. Thickened. Her whole body trembled as the sky outside took on a strange glow—celestial, yes, but tinged with something uncanny. Ominous.

Her ears rang.

No— screamed.

The sound wasn’t normal. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t here. It was coming from…somewhere else. Inside?

She stumbled back from the window, breath hitching. She needed her intuition to say something , anything. But her mind was static. A broken signal.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Her knees buckled.

She hit the floor.

Gasping.

Eyes wide and unseeing.

Her powers stirred. Not gently. Not the way they usually did. This was violent. Chaotic. She felt her chest thrum like an amplifier as a soft bluish-purple light began to glow from beneath her skin.

“No—no, no, no—” she whispered.

She glanced down, trembling.

Her whole body was glowing now, pulsing brighter and brighter like a living beacon. Her fingers twitched. She couldn’t move her hands from her head. Couldn’t open a rift even if she wanted to. Her powers were acting on their own, building toward something she didn’t understand.

She needed something to anchor her.

Her phone. Her memories.

She forced her eyes open and spotted it—just out of reach, where she’d left it near the window.

“C’mon,” she rasped. “Please…”

She crawled—every muscle heavy, like moving through water. The light around her body swelled, warping the shadows in the room, distorting the walls just slightly like heat haze.

Her fingers brushed the phone.

She snatched it with a shaky hand and shoved it into her pants pocket. Her other hand scraped against the floor, trying to find grip to push herself up. She glanced toward her desk, where her laptop and notebook sat—pages of the notes she had taken earlier.

Too far.

No time.

The glow surged again, and the room vibrated softly like a low hum of thunder before a storm.

Breana staggered to her feet.

Fucking hell, why—

Breana didn’t even get to finish the thought.

Her mind went blank.

Still glowing, still trembling, her body began to lift. Slowly. Unnaturally. Her feet left the ground like she was weightless, suspended in a cocoon of pulsing violet-blue light.

Above her, the ceiling shimmered. Then— crack.

A rift opened.

Not one of her own.

This one wasn’t drawn by her hands, wasn’t triggered by her focus. It opened like it had a will of its own. It pulsed—once, twice—like a heartbeat, warping the ceiling into a glowing spiral of nothingness.

Then, just as suddenly, it snapped shut.

And Breana crashed to the floor.

Hard.

The air left her lungs in a harsh gasp as she landed, light still pouring from her body in surges.

She groaned, barely able to process what had just happened. A rift opened…without her? That wasn’t supposed to happen. Her power always needed her focus, her will. This felt like something—or someone—else had pulled the thread instead.

Then came the knocking.

Knock knock knock.

“Breana?” her mom called out, her voice tinged with concern. “Sweetheart, are you okay in there?”

Another knock. Firmer. Sharper.

“Breana?”

Then her father’s voice joined, worried and commanding.

“BREANA?!”

But Breana couldn’t answer. Her mouth opened, but no words came. Just a pained, breathless sound.

“Ah…”

She clutched her chest, shaking, drenched in sweat as the light from her skin flickered erratically.

Their voices faded.

Not because they stopped talking.

But because she was slipping.

Her eyelids grew heavy. Her limbs went numb. The sounds of her parents shouting became distant—like she was underwater, sinking deeper and deeper.

And then…

Silence.

Total, perfect silence.

Breana’s eyes fluttered shut.

That moment was the curtain call of her time in this chapter.

<Chapter 3 Chapter 5>

[alsmailbox]

Chapter 2

Woah this is what I have so far

The four turtle brothers had been in the middle of a fight, Leonardo the blue red eared slider was fighting hypno potamus the magician mutant villain. Leo was About to make a portal till he heard the giggling of a child throwing him off causing him to look around and accidentally bump into his younger brother Mikey.

The impact causing them both to fall backwards and land into a pile of construction sand. Getting up from the sand they both went back into combat with the hippo.

After the fight the four brothers retreated back to their lair in the sewers. Climbing down the ladder and talking about how the fight went before Mikey decided to bring up what happened between him and Leo. "Yeah, but what happened back there Leo?" "What do you mean?" Leo replied acting a small bit confused. "Y'know when you bumped into me and we both landed in that pile of sand." Mikey responded acting confused back.

"Oh that... i don't know what happened. I heard something like laughing? It sounded as if a kid was laughing at us but i tried looking around and found nothing! And then i bumped into you." "What do you mean a laughing child? I checked the perimeter of the area we were taking action in and i didn't find anyone else except for a camera, but i didn't pay any mind to it since i don't think it saw me and we weren't even going to be anywhere near that area." Donnie the middle brother said acknowledging the conversation.

"Aside from all of that, what do you mean you heard a kid laughing Leo?" Raph added to conversation "Yea its like they were laughing at us, but there was no kid and it sounded like it came from above me." Leo explained emphasizing the us.

——————————————————

Later as they all are in their rooms, Donnie is on his computer just searching random stuff on the internet in hopes to cure his boredom (or playing Roblox and making kids cry with voice chat).

Also cover art for chapter one significant other let me post it :)

[pickaropoprocks]

Fighting battles that have ABSOLUTELY been seen before (wanting to restart my Animal Crossing New Leaf town so I can begin the game from scratch and as myself as I am now vs. not wanting to restart my town because nostalgia and I'd miss my villagers)