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Chapter Text

Prompt list for short prompt stories

Please comment couples or friendships or duo in general crossovers can be included with a prompt below
1. Getting lost somewhere
2. Pet names
3. Patching each other up
4. Hospital visit
5. Making fun of each other
6. Sleeping in
7. Drawing each other
8. Teaching each other how to do something
9. One of them is sick
10. Shopping together
11. Buying flowers
12. Dealing with children
13. Monopoly (Can be 2 or 3 couples)
14. Falling asleep on a couch
15. Having a mental breakdown after watching the other die
16. Singing old songs badly to cheer the other up
17. Comparing each other to art at a gallery
18. Choking and completely unnecessary mouth to mouth
19. Giggling at each other
20. Puppies
21. Watching old movies
22. Throwing each other into a swimming pool
23. Couple co-ordinated Halloween costume
24. Star-gazing
25. Someone has a headache
26. Aggressively cuddling
27. (Soulmate AU) tattoo of first words said
28. (Soulmate AU) seeing color for the first time when you touch
29. "Don't go where I can't follow."
30. "I know it's three in the morning, but I can't find my cat

31. Exercising
32. Night in a hotel
33. Watching the clouds
34. Walking in the rain
35. Climbing trees
36. Visiting a grave
37. Surviving a mob hit/attempted murder
38. Mistletoe
39. Snowball fight/building a snowman
40. Against a wall (smut)
41. On the floor (smut)
42. Shower/tub (can be smut or noy)
43. Kitchen sex (smut)
44. In a changing room (smut)
45. One of them is missing
46. Pregnancy announcement
47. Unexpected twins
48. Pretending to be a couple but falling in love
49. College dorm mate
50. College professor and student
51. Packing for camping/vacation (specify)
52. Setting up a camp site
53. A hike
54. Campfire fluff or smut (specify)
55. Proposal
56. Wedding (prep or ceremony)
57. Argument
58. Making up or forgiveness
59. Kitten(s)
60. Too much stress
61. Living room smut
62. First kiss
63. Love confession
64. Affair
65. First meet
66. Meeting while Undercover
67. Drunken hookup
68. Doing business with each other
69. Protecting each other
70. Reunions
71. Hate smut
72. Limo smut
73. Car smut
74. Coat closet smut
75. Comforting
76. Related/ twins
77. Letters
78. Cabin smut
79. One bed
80. Bickering
81. Camping smut
82. Kidnapping
83. Trapped together in place of writers choice
84. Cuddling
85. Sleepy love confession
86. Drunken marriage
87. Eloping
88. Crying in an elevator
89. Breakdown after losing a loved one
90. Giving advice
91. Getting advice
92. Meeting the family
93. Dancing at a club
94. Cyo
95. Public bathroom smut
96. Public smut
97. Club smut
98. Workplace romance
99. Hidden romance
100. Dress shopping
101. Roommates
102. Goodbyes
103. Roleplay
104. Talking about sex
105. Hallucinating the other
106. Sports
107. Sex toys
108. Sharing drinks
109. Secret kid
110. Conjuical visit( smut)
111. Dying in each others arms
112. Arrested
113 hangovers
114 platonic soulmates
115 wedding night smut
116. Tattoos
117.phone calls
118 confrontation
119 future together
120 working undercover as a couple
121 talking in eachothers dreams
122 coping with the death of a loved one

Chapter Text

Leighton Murray had always been intrigued by the concept of soulmates. The idea that somewhere out there, someone carried the same words etched onto their skin—the very first words spoken when they met—was both magical and mysterious. She’d seen countless couples flaunting their matching tattoos, their love stories forever inked.

But Leighton’s own tattoo remained blank. She’d yet to find her soulmate, and sometimes she wondered if she ever would. Her friends teased her, saying she was too picky, but Leighton believed in waiting for something extraordinary.

Then, one sunny afternoon, she bumped into Alicia at the campus coffee shop. Alicia, with her wild curls and eyes that held galaxies, spilled her latte all over Leighton’s notes. Leighton’s heart raced as she looked into those eyes—the kind of eyes that could unravel secrets and ignite passions.

“Sorry,” Alicia stammered, grabbing napkins to mop up the mess. “I’m such a klutz.”

Leighton’s heart fluttered. Could this be it? The moment her tattoo would finally reveal itself? She glanced at her wrist, half-expecting the ink to appear. But nothing happened.

“It’s okay,” Leighton replied, her voice steadier than she felt. “I’m Leighton.”

“Alicia,” she said, her smile like a sunrise. “Nice to meet you.”

Leighton’s heart sank. Those were ordinary words—no cosmic connection, no soulmate magic. Just a polite introduction. She tried to hide her disappointment, but Alicia noticed.

“What’s wrong?” Alicia asked, her brow furrowing.

Leighton hesitated. “It’s silly, but I thought… I mean, soulmates are supposed to have special first words, right? Something that sets them apart.”

Alicia laughed, a warm sound that wrapped around Leighton like a cozy blanket. “Maybe our souls are rebels. They decided to keep it simple.”

Leighton blinked. “You think so?”

Alicia leaned closer, her breath brushing Leighton’s skin. “Or maybe,” she whispered, “our real first words haven’t been spoken yet.”

Leighton’s heart skipped a beat. Alicia’s eyes held a promise—an unspoken connection that transcended mere introductions. Maybe soulmates weren’t about grand declarations; perhaps they were about shared moments, stolen glances, and whispered secrets.

They spent hours talking that day—about music, dreams, and the constellations. Alicia loved K-pop and heavy metal, while Leighton adored Broadway and pop divas. Their differences became their strengths, their quirks endearing.

As weeks turned into months, Leighton discovered that Alicia’s dream was an organic farm in Vermont, while she herself debated between economics and software development. They argued about overpopulation, laughed about exes, and shared secrets under moonlit skies.

And then, one lazy Sunday morning, Alicia traced her fingers over Leighton’s wrist. “You know,” she said, “maybe our tattoos aren’t just about words. Maybe they’re about the journey—the messy, imperfect, beautiful journey we’re on.”

Leighton looked at her wrist, where the ink remained stubbornly absent. But she realized something profound: Alicia’s laughter, her warmth, her unwavering support—they were the real soulmate magic.

So, they got matching tattoos anyway—a simple infinity symbol, a reminder that their souls were forever intertwined. And every time Leighton looked at it, she knew that their love story was written in laughter, shared dreams, and whispered promises.

Chapter Text

Christopher Moltisanti (CM): (leaning against the elevator wall) Adriana, this is all your fault. You just had to drag me into this mess.

Adriana La Cerva (ALC): (rolls her eyes) Oh, please. Like I planned for the elevator to break down? It’s not like I’m a mechanical genius, Chris.

CM: (crossing his arms) You’re always getting us into trouble. Remember that time you accidentally spilled wine on Tony’s favorite rug? Or when you misplaced Paulie’s lucky rabbit’s foot?

ALC: (snorts) Yeah, because those were life-altering events. And don’t get me started on your temper. You’re like a ticking time bomb, Chris. One minute you’re sweet, and the next, you’re smashing someone’s face into a car windshield.

CM: (leaning in) At least I don’t blabber to the feds like a canary. You think I don’t know about your little secret meetings with the FBI?

ALC: (nervously) Chris, I—

CM: (interrupting) Save it. I’ve seen the signs—the late-night phone calls, the hushed conversations. You’re singing like a soprano, Adriana.

ALC: (defensive) I did it to protect us! To keep you safe!

CM: (mockingly) Oh, how noble. But you know what? Maybe I should’ve taken that offer from Tony to whack you. Would’ve saved me a lot of headaches.

ALC: (teary-eyed) You wouldn’t. Chris, we’re supposed to be a team. Partners. You promised you’d always have my back.

CM: (softening) Yeah, well, promises don’t mean much in this life. You think I don’t see the way Tony looks at you? The way he pats your shoulder, like you’re some prized pet?

ALC: (whispering) Chris, I love you. And I’d do anything to protect you.

CM: (leans closer) Love? Is that what this is? Or is it just survival? You’re a liability, Adriana. A loose end. And I’m tired of cleaning up your messes.

ALC: (angry) You’re no saint, Christopher. You’re just as messed up as the rest of us. Maybe more.

CM: (voice rising) You think I don’t know that? But I’m loyal. To Tony, to this family. And loyalty means sacrifice.

ALC: (defiant) Sacrifice? Is that what you call it? Maybe I should’ve sacrificed you when I had the chance.

CM: (leaning in, dangerously close) Try it, Adriana. See how that works out for you.

Chapter Text

The rain fell in a gentle rhythm, tapping against the windowpane of Tabby’s room. She sat on her bed, heart racing, staring at the girl across from her—the one who had become her confidante, her anchor in the storm.

Imogen’s eyes held a vulnerability that Tabby had never seen before. They’d shared secrets, fears, and the weight of their pasts. The Millwood massacre had scarred them both, leaving them broken but resilient.

“Tabby,” Imogen whispered, her voice barely audible over the rain, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

Tabby’s breath caught. “What is it?”

Imogen shifted closer, their knees brushing. “I’ve been trying to find the right words, but they keep slipping away. Maybe it’s the rain—it makes everything feel more intense.”

Tabby nodded. “Rain has a way of revealing truths.”

Imogen’s fingers trembled as she reached for Tabby’s hand. “I’ve never felt this way before. It’s like my heart is caught in a tempest, and you’re the eye of the storm.”

Tabby’s pulse quickened. “Imogen…”

“I love you,” Imogen blurted out. “I’ve loved you since that night in the woods—the night we faced our demons together.”

Tabby’s chest tightened. “Imogen, I—”

Imogen pressed her lips against Tabby’s—a kiss that tasted of rain and longing. Tabby’s mind whirled, but she surrendered to the moment, melting into Imogen’s embrace.

When they pulled apart, Imogen’s eyes were wide. “Wow.”

Tabby chuckled. “Yeah. Wow.”

And so, in the quiet of Tabby’s room, with rain as witness, they confessed their love—a fragile, beautiful thing that defied the darkness around them.

Imogen traced Tabby’s jawline. “I don’t want to hide anymore. Not from you.”

Tabby cupped Imogen’s face. “We’ll face whatever comes together.”

As the rain continued to fall, they whispered promises—promises to heal, to protect, to love fiercely. The past couldn’t be erased, but maybe—just maybe—they could find solace in each other.

Chapter Text

The air in the room hummed with anticipation. Neon lights flickered, casting electric shadows on the walls. Maddy and Cassie stood close, their breaths mingling, hearts racing. It was a moment they had both secretly yearned for—their first kiss.

Cassie’s fingers trembled as she reached for Maddy’s face. Her lips were soft, painted a daring shade of crimson. Maddy’s eyes held a mix of vulnerability and desire. She leaned in, closing the gap between them.

Their lips met—a collision of fire and longing. Cassie tasted like cherry lip gloss, and Maddy couldn’t get enough. The world outside ceased to exist; it was just the two of them, lost in this stolen moment.

Maddy’s hands slid down Cassie’s back, pulling her closer. Cassie’s heartbeat echoed in her chest, a rhythm that matched Maddy’s own. Their kiss deepened, tongues dancing, exploring. Cassie’s nails grazed Maddy’s scalp, sending shivers down her spine.

Outside, the party raged on—the bass thumping, laughter spilling into the hallway. But in this dimly lit room, Maddy and Cassie were cocooned in their own universe. Cassie tasted like rebellion and vulnerability, a heady mix that intoxicated Maddy.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Cassie whispered, “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Maddy grinned, her heart doing somersaults. “Me too.”

They leaned their foreheads together, catching their breath. The neon lights painted their skin in electric hues—blue, pink, and a hint of purple. It was a kiss that defied rules, that blurred lines. And in that moment, Maddy knew she’d never forget it.

Chapter Text

Miranda Hobbes, the sharp-witted lawyer, had always been practical and guarded when it came to matters of the heart. But sometimes, love sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

Robert, a charming detective, entered Miranda’s life during a routine investigation. Their paths crossed at a crime scene, where Miranda was providing legal counsel to a witness. Robert’s rugged good looks and no-nonsense attitude intrigued her, and soon they found themselves sharing late-night coffee at the precinct.

As weeks turned into months, their relationship deepened. Robert was patient, understanding Miranda’s commitment to her career and her hesitance to let anyone in. But he persisted, showing up with takeout dinners after long days in court and listening to her rants about legal loopholes.

One rainy evening, as they sat on Miranda’s couch, Robert took her hand. “Miranda,” he said, “I know we’re both guarded. But I’ve never felt this way before.”

She studied his face—the lines etched by years of service, the kindness in his eyes. “Robert, we’re from different worlds.”

He leaned closer. “Maybe that’s why it works. You challenge me, Miranda. You make me want more.”

And then, in that dimly lit living room, Robert kissed her—a kiss that tasted like vulnerability and possibility. Miranda’s heart raced, and for the first time, she allowed herself to feel.

As their relationship blossomed, Robert became a fixture in Miranda’s life. He attended her work events, met her friends, and even tolerated her obsession with takeout Chinese food. But he never pushed for more.

One evening, after a particularly intense trial, Miranda found Robert waiting outside her apartment. His eyes held a mixture of nerves and determination.

“Miranda,” he said, “I’ve been thinking.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous territory.”

He chuckled. “I want more than this. I want forever.”

Miranda’s heart stuttered. “Robert, we’re not the fairy-tale type.”

He knelt on one knee, pulling out a small velvet box. “Miranda Hobbes, will you marry me?”

She stared at the ring—a simple band with a single diamond. It wasn’t extravagant, but it felt right. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Robert,” she whispered, “you’re proposing in the rain. This is so cliché.”

He grinned. “I know. But clichés exist for a reason.”

And so, in the pouring rain, Miranda Hobbes—the woman who believed in facts and evidence—said yes. Robert slipped the ring on her finger, and they kissed, raindrops mingling with their laughter.

Their wedding was intimate—a small outdoor ceremony with close friends. Miranda wore a sleek white dress, and Robert looked dashing in his detective uniform. As they exchanged vows, Miranda’s voice wavered, but she meant every word.

“I promise to be your partner in crime,” she said, “to argue with you, challenge you, and love you fiercely.”

Robert’s eyes never left hers. “And I promise to protect and serve—both as a detective and as your husband.”

And so, Miranda and Robert—the unlikely couple—became husband and wife. Their love story wasn’t flashy or dramatic, but it was real. Imperfectly real.

As they danced under the stars, Miranda whispered, “I never thought I’d find this.”

Robert held her close. “Sometimes, love surprises us.”

And in that moment, Miranda Hobbes—the skeptic—believed in happily ever after.

Chapter Text

The Iron Throne room lay in ruins, its once grandeur reduced to smoldering rubble. Daenerys Targaryen stood amidst the ashes, her heart torn apart. She had achieved her lifelong dream—conquering King’s Landing—but at a devastating cost.

Jon Snow, her love, her confidant, now lay lifeless at her feet. His eyes, once filled with unwavering loyalty, stared blankly into eternity. The weight of her actions pressed down on Daenerys, threatening to crush her soul.

“Why, Jon?” she whispered, her voice echoing through the desolation. “Why did it come to this?”

The battle had been fierce. The bells had rung, signaling surrender, but Daenerys couldn’t silence the rage within. The city that had betrayed her family—the city that had taken so much from her—was now hers to claim. And she had unleashed her dragons upon it, fire and blood raining down.

Jon had tried to stop her. He had pleaded, his voice desperate, “Dany, no! They’ve surrendered! The people—innocents—don’t deserve this!”

But Daenerys had been consumed by her own fury. She saw only the Red Keep, the symbol of her family’s downfall. She saw only Cersei Lannister, the woman who had mocked her, who had taken her friends, who had killed Missandei. And she had burned it all.

Now, as the smoke cleared, she knelt beside Jon’s lifeless form. His blood stained her hands, and she wept. The Iron Throne, the very thing she had fought for, seemed meaningless now. Power, vengeance, destiny—they were hollow words.

“Jon,” she murmured, brushing his cold cheek. “I loved you. But I destroyed everything.”

And then she heard it—the soft rustle of wings. Drogon, her last remaining dragon, landed beside her. His eyes held ancient wisdom, and he nudged Jon’s body gently.

“Forgive me,” Daenerys whispered to her fallen love. “I never wanted this.”

Drogon’s mournful cry pierced the air, and flames erupted from his mouth. The Iron Throne melted, its twisted metal dripping like tears. Daenerys stepped back, her heart breaking anew.

“You were right, Jon,” she said, her voice trembling. “I ruled over a graveyard.”

The Unsullied arrived, their faces grim. They had witnessed their queen’s descent into madness. Grey Worm, their leader, looked at Daenerys with a mix of sorrow and anger.

“She is our queen,” he declared. “But she must answer for her crimes.”

Daenerys nodded, her resolve firm. “Take me,” she said. “I will face justice.”

As they led her away, she glanced back at the smoldering throne room. Jon’s body lay untouched, a silent testament to their tragic love. She wondered if he would forgive her—if he understood the darkness that had consumed her.

“I loved you,” she whispered to the ashes. “And now, I pay the price.”

And so, Daenerys Stormborn—the breaker of chains, the mother of dragons—walked away from the ruins, her heart heavy with grief. The Iron Throne was gone, but the weight of her choices would haunt her forever.

Chapter Text

Leighton: (nervously) Tatum, I didn’t expect to see you here.
Tatum: (crossing arms) Well, you should have. It’s my sister’s engagement party, Leighton. I’m not about to miss it just because you’re here.
Leighton: (swallows) Right. Look, Tatum, about what happened—
Tatum: (rolls eyes) Save it. You don’t get to waltz back into my life after ghosting me for months. Not anymore.
Leighton: (voice trembling) I know I messed up. But I’ve changed, Tatum. I’ve accepted who I am, and I—
Tatum: (interrupting) You accepted it? Great. So, what? You’re out and proud now? Is that why you’re flaunting your new girlfriend all over social media?
Leighton: (defensively) It’s not like that. I—
Tatum: (leaning in) You think I didn’t see the photos? You think I don’t know how you’ve moved on? Well, newsflash, Leighton—I’ve moved on too.
Leighton: (voice breaking) Tatum, please—
Tatum: (shaking head) No, Leighton. You don’t get to play the victim. You broke my heart. You made me feel like I was never enough. And now you want forgiveness?
Leighton: (desperate) I never wanted to hurt you. I was scared—
Tatum: (sarcastic) Scared? You think I wasn’t scared too? But I faced it. I faced my feelings for you, and you know what? I survived. And I won’t let you ruin my sister’s engagement party with your guilt trip.
Leighton: (voice pleading) Tatum, I love you—
Tatum: (laughs bitterly) Love? You don’t know the first thing about love. Love isn’t just about saying the words; it’s about actions. And your actions spoke louder than any declaration you ever made.
Leighton: (voice breaking) I regret hurting you, Tatum. I—
Tatum: (leaning closer) Regret? You know what I regret? Ever falling for someone as closed-off as you. But I won’t let you ruin this night for me. So, go back inside, Leighton. Dance with your new girlfriend. Pretend like everything’s fine.
Leighton: (voice desperate) Tatum, please—
Tatum: (shoving Leighton towards a waiting limo) Get in. You want to talk? Fine. We’ll talk. But not here. Not now.

Leighton leaned into her touch, so responsive no matter what it was she was doing to her. tatum could appreciate that. Maybe even appreciated the way it made her feel so special inside a little too much. She wondered if leighton would always be this way. Wondered if she was only this way with her.
“Tatum-”
“No more talking, Leighton,” she said, dropping to her knees ,on the carpet of the limo, in front of her.
leighton was in a silk dress that was , long and flowy. Tatum reached up and took hold of her underwear, dragging it down her legs. She could see the damp spot right in the center of them, undeniable proof of what she was capable of doing to the girl in front of her. tatum knew her own looked about the same right now, if not more dampened.They didn’t always rush it like this when they were together before. Sometimes she took her time with leighton, kissing every inch of her skin just because she could. She loved it especially when leighton would ride her face, shaking and trembling against her tongue, yet refusing to stop the sporadic thrust of her hips because it just felt too good.Today was not a day for that. Leighton parted her legs without tatum asking her to. It was one sign of many that she was aching for this as badly as tatum was. She sunk to her knees; eyes locked intensely on Leighton's. tatum bunched her skirt up at her hips, wanting leighton to watch the way she fucked her. She knew leighton liked watching, too.She placed open-mouth kisses along her inner thighs, just a slight tease before she delivered exactly what she knew leighton needed. leighton gasped and squirmed in response, inching herself closer, as though tatum were avoiding her by accident.
“Fuck me. Please,” leighton begged her.
She already knew tatum liked to be begged. tatum hadn’t known herself until leighton started doing it. Honestly, it drove her fucking crazy. She could almost hear the blood rushing through her ears.Her tongue was inside of her before leighton could say much else. It was equally as rewarding for her to finally taste leightons again, to hear the deep moan she released, to feel the slight clench around her tongue and imagine the slope of her neck as she threw it back.Tatum lapped at her, skipping the teasing altogether now because they really were risking a lot the longer this went on for. She could get leighton off in thirty seconds if she wanted to, that’s how well she’d come to know the other girl’s body. Luckily, they weren’t in that much of a rush.She kissed her way up, sucking gently on leighton’s clit and watching the way leighton looked down at her, a hand landing on tatum's head, pressing her down. Tatum would never admit it, but her arousal peaked at the idea of Leighton using her for her own pleasure. Sometimes she wanted to be nothing but a warm mouth to Leighton , and she felt too ashamed and embarrassed to ever say it out loud.
“Hold your skirt,” tatum instructed her, because she couldn’t keep it raised and finger leighton at the same time. Not without completely losing her balance.
Leighton fumbled for the wrinkled fabric, clutching it in her spare hand. tatum gently slipped two fingers into leighton , pumping them faster the more leighton’s body responded to them. Her tongue tapped against Leighton ’s clit in short bursts, her mouth continuing to provide precise suction.It was almost too soon, the way leighton began shaking, her eyes clenching shut, her mouth dropping open in a silent scream. tatum maintained her pace, watching in delight as leighton's orgasm hit her, her hand pushing roughly at tatum's head to keep her in place as she rocked her clit against her tongue. tatum could have stayed like that all night, only pulling away once leighton told her she'd had enough.
“Eating you out in the kitchen. How original,” tatum said, smirking as she rose to her feet.
She eased her fingers out of leighton, sticking them into her mouth for only a moment before leighton was grabbing her wrist, pulling those same fingers into her own mouth. tatum watched her, mesmerized.
“Leighton ” she whined, so unlike herself.
She couldn’t help it. leighton was like her own personal kryptonite. A deadly weakness she neither wanted nor had any control over. tatum could feel the throbbing intensify between her legs, could recognize the dizzy feeling leighton sent straight to her head.
leighton’s tongue wrapped around her fingers, tasting all that she could of herself and tatum’s own saliva before finally pulling them out of her mouth. Tatum reached for her face, cradling it in her hands.
“Fuck,” was all she could manage, fidgeting in place now because it almost hurt to be that turned on.
leighton kissed her with a grin on her face, like she was proud of undoing tatum the way she had. Tatum let her. She was in no position to fight with her right now, not when her legs felt like mush and her heart was beating so fast in her chest, she thought she might be having a heart attack.

Chapter Text

Claire sat on the edge of their bed, her fingers massaging her temples. The headache had crept up on her, a relentless throb that pulsed in sync with her heartbeat. She glanced at the clock—past midnight. Henry was out there somewhere, slipping through time, and she couldn’t shake the worry that clung to her like a shadow.

Henry, her enigmatic husband, was a time traveler. His disorder, known as Chrono Displacement Disorder, had woven their lives into a tapestry of unpredictable moments. When he vanished, he left behind empty spaces—empty rooms, empty conversations, and an empty bed.

She remembered the first time she witnessed his time-traveling episode. They were in their tiny apartment, Henry laughing as he recounted a story from his childhood. And then, without warning, he vanished. His clothes remained, neatly folded on the couch, but Henry was gone. Claire had panicked, her heart racing, until he reappeared minutes later, disoriented and pale.

“Are you okay?” she’d asked, brushing her fingers against his cheek.

He’d smiled, that crooked grin she loved. “Just a little dizzy. Time travel does that.”

Claire had learned to live with it—the sudden disappearances, the unexplained absences. But tonight, the headache gnawed at her patience. She wondered if it was a side effect of loving a man who danced through time like a ghost.

The bedroom door creaked open, and there he was—Henry, disheveled and weary. His eyes met hers, and she saw the guilt etched there. He’d been gone for days this time, lost in some distant era. She wanted to scold him, to demand answers, but the pain in her head silenced her.

“Hey,” he whispered, crossing the room to sit beside her. “How are you feeling?”

Claire leaned into his warmth. “Headache. It’s like my brain is unraveling.”

He traced circles on her back. “I’m sorry, Claire. I wish I could control it better.”

She sighed. “Why do you do it, Henry? Why risk everything just to jump through time?”

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Because I want to be with you. In every moment, across every era. Our love defies time itself.”

Claire rested her head on his shoulder. “But it’s hard, Henry. The waiting, the uncertainty.”

He kissed her forehead. “I know. But when I’m out there, I see our future. Our daughter, Alba, growing up. Our laughter echoing through centuries.”

“And what about now?” Claire asked. “What about this moment?”

Henry cupped her face, wiping away a tear. “This moment is everything. I ache for you when I’m away, Claire. But when I return, it’s like coming home.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the ebb and flow of time around them. “Promise me, Henry. Promise that you’ll always find your way back.”

His lips brushed against hers. “Always.”

And in that fragile space between past and present, they held each other—their love transcending the boundaries of time. Claire’s headache faded, replaced by the warmth of Henry’s touch. For now, they were together, and that was enough.

Chapter Text

Hannah and Elijah had been friends for years. They shared an apartment in Brooklyn, navigating the ups and downs of life together. Their bond was unique—a blend of sarcasm, late-night conversations, and a shared love for quirky coffee shops.

One chilly evening, they found themselves at “Helvetica,” a café across the street from their usual haunt. The place was minimalist, with white walls adorned only by black-and-white prints. Hannah sipped her cappuccino, her eyes scanning the art on the walls.

“Look at this one,” she said, pointing to a photograph of a couple kissing in the rain. “It’s like they’re lost in their own world.”

Elijah leaned in, studying the image. “Yeah, it’s beautiful. Passionate. Intimate.”

Hannah’s heart fluttered. She wondered if their friendship could ever evolve into something more. Elijah had always been there—through breakups, job changes, and existential crises. But lately, she noticed the way his eyes lingered on her, the warmth in his smile.

As they left the café, the rain started. They huddled under Elijah’s umbrella, their shoulders brushing. The air crackled with tension. Hannah’s mind raced. Should she risk it? Could she ruin their friendship?

Elijah stopped at the corner, his gaze intense. “Hannah,” he said softly, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

Her heart pounded. “What?”

He hesitated, then cupped her face in his hands. His lips met hers—a gentle, tentative kiss that sent shockwaves through her entire body. It was like stepping into a new dimension, where friendship blurred into something deeper.

When they pulled away, Hannah’s cheeks flushed. “Elijah…”

He grinned, his eyes shining. “I’ve wanted to do that for ages.”

“But why now?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s the rain. Or the art. Or maybe it’s just us.”

They stood there, drenched but glowing. The city blurred around them, and for that moment, it was only Hannah and Elijah—their laughter, their shared secrets, and now, their first kiss.

As they walked back to their apartment, Hannah’s mind raced. She replayed the kiss—the softness of his lips, the warmth of his touch. Maybe this was the start of something beautiful. Maybe their friendship had been the canvas, and now they were adding colors, strokes, and layers.

Inside their cozy living room, they stood by the window, raindrops tapping against the glass. Elijah took her hand, his thumb tracing circles on her palm. “Hannah,” he said, “I want more.”

She met his gaze, her heart swelling. “Me too.”

And so, in that quiet room, they kissed again—a kiss that held promises of laughter, shared coffee cups, and rainy days. It wasn’t passionate like the art at Helvetica, but it was real. It was theirs.

Chapter Text

The boutique hummed with soft music and the scent of lavender. Mouse and Noa stood amidst racks of dresses, their fingers grazing delicate fabrics. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting patterns on the wooden floor.
Mouse held up a crimson dress, its bodice adorned with intricate embroidery. “What do you think, Noa?”
Noa tilted her head, studying the dress. “It’s stunning. But maybe something softer? You know, to match your heart.”
Mouse blushed. “Soft, huh? Like this pale blue one?”
Noa’s eyes softened. “Exactly.”
As Mouse slipped into the dressing room, Noa browsed nearby. The mirror reflected her own reflection—a girl with secrets, a heart guarded by thorns. But Mouse had a way of unraveling those thorns, one gentle touch at a time.
“Mouse,” Noa called, “how’s it going in there?”
Mouse’s voice floated out. “I need help with the corset. Can you—”
“—lace it up?” Noa finished, her heart fluttering.
She stepped behind the curtain, where Mouse stood in the pale blue dress. The corset lay open, its ribbons waiting to be woven together. Noa’s fingers trembled as she reached for the laces.
“Mouse,” she whispered, “you’re beautiful.”
Mouse blushed again. “Only because you see me that way.”
Noa’s breath hitched. “I see you, Mouse. All of you.”
As she threaded the ribbons, their eyes met in the mirror—a tangle of vulnerability and longing. Mouse’s skin warmed under Noa’s touch, and Noa’s heart raced.
“Tell me something,” Mouse murmured. “Why do you wear armor?”
Noa hesitated. “Because I’ve been hurt before. Because love can be a battlefield.”
Mouse leaned back, her head resting against Noa’s shoulder. “But what if we’re each other’s safe haven?”
Noa tightened the laces, their breaths mingling. “What if we’re the ones who heal each other?”

Noa stepped closer to mouse’s body placing kisses on her bare shoulder and up to her neck, as mouse moaned lightly against noa’s grip while noa whispered "Maybe we should ditch the clothes altogether."

Mouse's heart raced. " Noa, are you suggesting—"

Before she could finish, noa turned her and pulled her into a passionate kiss, while undoing the ties of the corset allowing the dress to slip off Mouse's Body , forgotten. Their laughter mingled with desire as they explored each other's mouths, hands roaming freely.

"Guess we're not buying anything,"

While in a fiery display of passion,pressed their bodies against the cool wall of the boutique's dressing room, their lips locked in a heated kiss. Their hands roamed eagerly, exploring every inch of each other's bodies, as their desire intensified with each passing moment the care of being caught flew out of their minds as pleasure overtook every part of their bodies. With each thrust of Noas finger against the soft and squishy surface of Mouse's cilt , their moans mingled in a soft fashion, filling the air with an unmistakable symphony of pleasure and moans.

Chapter Text

The rain pelted the asphalt, creating a symphony of frustration. Rue and Jules stood in the dimly lit parking lot, their breaths visible in the cold air. The argument had escalated—words flung like daggers, emotions raw and unfiltered.

“You don’t get it, Jules!” Rue’s voice cracked. “You never do.”

Jules clenched her fists. “And what’s that supposed to mean, Rue? That I’m incapable of understanding?”

“You left me!” Rue’s chest heaved. “When I needed you most, you ran away.”

Jules stepped closer, her eyes flashing. “I left because you were suffocating me! Your addiction, your darkness—it consumed us both.”

Rue’s anger flared. “You think it was easy for me? Watching you explore other relationships while I drowned in my own pain?”

Jules shook her head. “You’re not the only one with scars, Rue. I’ve been through hell too.”

“But you left!” Rue’s voice cracked. “You chose to leave me behind.”

Jules’s voice softened. “I left because I loved you too much. I couldn’t bear to watch you destroy yourself.”

Rue’s tears mixed with rain. “And what about us? What about our love?”

Jules’s fingers brushed Rue’s cheek. “Our love was a wildfire, Rue. Beautiful and destructive. I had to protect myself.”

Rue’s anger gave way to desperation. “I can’t lose you, Jules. Not again.”

Jules’s gaze held hers. “Maybe we’re too broken, Rue. Maybe we’re better apart.”

The words hung in the air—a fracture in their connection. The rain washed away their tears, leaving only the echoes of what once was.

Rue’s voice trembled. “Is this really the end?”

Jules hesitated. “I don’t know.”

The tension hung heavy in the air as rue and jules glared at each other. Neither willing to back down. The parking lot seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next explosive line.
But then, unexpectedly, jules’s lips twitched into something resembling a smirk.Before rue could decipher the meaning of it she felt her body being pinned to the hard surface of her car. jules’s lips pressed passionately and hardly on to her former lovers lips while opening the door of the car and moved rue to lay her down in the back seat. While a fiery display of passion,pressed their bodies against the cool leather of the cars interior on a chilly fall afternoon, their lips locked in a heated kiss. Their hands roamed eagerly, exploring every inch of each other's bodies, as their desire intensified with each passing moment the care of being caught flew out of their minds as pleasure overtook every part of their bodies. With each thrust of jule’s finger against the soft and squishy surface of rue’s cilt , their moans mingled in a soft fashion, filling the air with an unmistakable symphony of pleasure and moans.As rue came down from her own high she flipped jule on her back in an instance, undressing her from the bottom down, continuing in a similar fashion as her partner,making her scream in the comings of pleasure.

Chapter Text

Prompt list for short prompt stories

Please comment couples or friendships or duo in general crossovers can be included with a prompt below
1. Getting lost somewhere
2. Pet names
3. Patching each other up
4. Hospital visit
5. Making fun of each other
6. Sleeping in
7. Drawing each other
8. Teaching each other how to do something
9. One of them is sick
10. Shopping together
11. Buying flowers
12. Dealing with children
13. Monopoly (Can be 2 or 3 couples)
14. Falling asleep on a couch
15. Having a mental breakdown after watching the other die
16. Singing old songs badly to cheer the other up
17. Comparing each other to art at a gallery
18. Choking and completely unnecessary mouth to mouth
19. Giggling at each other
20. Puppies
21. Watching old movies
22. Throwing each other into a swimming pool
23. Couple co-ordinated Halloween costume
24. Star-gazing
25. Someone has a headache
26. Aggressively cuddling
27. (Soulmate AU) tattoo of first words said
28. (Soulmate AU) seeing color for the first time when you touch
29. "Don't go where I can't follow."
30. "I know it's three in the morning, but I can't find my cat

31. Exercising
32. Night in a hotel
33. Watching the clouds
34. Walking in the rain
35. Climbing trees
36. Visiting a grave
37. Surviving a mob hit/attempted murder
38. Mistletoe
39. Snowball fight/building a snowman
40. Against a wall (smut)
41. On the floor (smut)
42. Shower/tub (can be smut or noy)
43. Kitchen sex (smut)
44. In a changing room (smut)
45. One of them is missing
46. Pregnancy announcement
47. Unexpected twins
48. Pretending to be a couple but falling in love
49. College dorm mate
50. College professor and student
51. Packing for camping/vacation (specify)
52. Setting up a camp site
53. A hike
54. Campfire fluff or smut (specify)
55. Proposal
56. Wedding (prep or ceremony)
57. Argument
58. Making up or forgiveness
59. Kitten(s)
60. Too much stress
61. Living room smut
62. First kiss
63. Love confession
64. Affair
65. First meet
66. Meeting while Undercover
67. Drunken hookup
68. Doing business with each other
69. Protecting each other
70. Reunions
71. Hate smut
72. Limo smut
73. Car smut
74. Coat closet smut
75. Comforting
76. Related/ twins
77. Letters
78. Cabin smut
79. One bed
80. Bickering
81. Camping smut
82. Kidnapping
83. Trapped together in place of writers choice
84. Cuddling
85. Sleepy love confession
86. Drunken marriage
87. Eloping
88. Crying in an elevator
89. Breakdown after losing a loved one
90. Giving advice
91. Getting advice
92. Meeting the family
93. Dancing at a club
94. Cyo
95. Public bathroom smut
96. Public smut
97. Club smut
98. Workplace romance
99. Hidden romance
100. Dress shopping
101. Roommates
102. Goodbyes
103. Roleplay
104. Talking about sex
105. Hallucinating the other
106. Sports
107. Sex toys
108. Sharing drinks
109. Secret kid
110. Conjuical visit( smut)
111. Dying in each others arms
112. Arrested
113 hangovers
114 platonic soulmates
115 wedding night smut
116. Tattoos
117.phone calls
118 confrontation
119 future together
120 working undercover as a couple
121 talking in eachothers dreams
122 coping with the death of a loved one
123. Love triangle
124. Getting back together
125. Making breakfast together
126. Birthday
127. Eating takeout food
128.. Buying each other a present
129.. "Help! My soulmate is possessed by the devil"
130. Picnic
131. Making out in the office
132. Date night
133. Drive-in movie
. "Dance with me"
. "Come on. Tell me a story"
. Spending time with their kids
. Daydreaming about the kids they'll have together someday
. Adopting a pet
. Spending the day at a carnival or fair
. First anniversary
. Stranded
. Planning a trip
. On vacation
. Fixing the other's coffee just the way they like it
. Moving into their new place
. Public displays of affection
. Modeling for each other
. Rainstorm
. Valentine's Day
. Jealousy
. Lipstick stains on the collar
. Picking a couple song
. Kissing and making up
154. Appreciating how sexy their partner looks

Chapter Text

The sun dipped low over the Manhattan skyline, casting a warm glow on the rooftop where Max Wolfe, Audrey Hope, and Aki Menzies sat. The city buzzed below them—their playground, their canvas. They were the new generation—the heirs to secrets, scandals, and love.

Max leaned back, his fingers tracing patterns on the concrete. “You know, someday we’ll have kids.”

Audrey raised an eyebrow. “Kids? Max, we’re barely out of college.”

Aki chuckled. “Let him dream, Audrey. Max has always been the romantic.”

Max ignored the teasing. “Think about it. Our kids—part Max, part Audrey, part Aki. They’d be unstoppable.”

Audrey leaned against Aki, her gaze distant. “What would they look like?”

Max closed his eyes, imagining. “Our daughter—wild curls like yours, Audrey. And Aki’s eyes—dark and mysterious.”

Aki grinned. “And our son—Max’s confidence, Audrey’s wit.”

They fell silent, lost in their daydreams. The wind tousled their hair, and the city lights flickered like stars.

“Our daughter,” Audrey said, “would be fierce. She’d wear leather jackets and read poetry.”

Max laughed. “And our son? He’d be the tech genius, hacking into Gossip Girl’s servers.”

Aki nudged Max. “And what about their names?”

Max considered. “How about Luna? For the moon that watches over us.”

Audrey’s eyes softened. “And Orion—for the constellations we’ve mapped together.”

Aki leaned closer, his voice low. “And secrets. Our kids would inherit secrets.”

Max’s heart skipped. “But they’d also inherit our love—the kind that defies expectations.”

Audrey traced circles on Max’s palm. “Our kids would be extraordinary.”

They sat there, the city sprawling around them—their dreams weaving together. Max imagined bedtime stories, whispered secrets, and laughter echoing through their loft.

“Our daughter,” he said, “would ask about our past—the parties, the scandals.”

Audrey smirked. “And we’d tell her about the time we crashed a gala and danced on tables.”

Aki’s gaze lingered on Audrey. “Our son would inherit your courage, Audrey.”

She blushed. “And your loyalty, Aki.”

Max took their hands, their fingers entwined. “Our kids would be our legacy—the threads of destiny we’ve woven.”

And so, they sat there—the dreamers, the lovers—the rooftop their sanctuary. The stars blinked overhead, celebrating their someday.

Chapter Text

Bill nursed his coffee, the bitter warmth seeping into his veins. The morning sun slanted through the blinds, casting shadows on the worn countertop. Hangovers were a familiar companion, like old friends who overstayed their welcome.

Frank stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his temples. His tattoos peeked out from under the sleeves of his flannel shirt—inked memories of a life before the world crumbled. Bill had always been curious about those tattoos—the faded symbols etched into Frank’s skin.

“You look like death,” Bill said, not unkindly.

Frank grunted. “Pot calling the kettle black, old man.”

They’d met in the early days of the outbreak, when chaos reigned and survival was a daily battle. Bill had been holed up in his safehouse, a fortress of scavenged supplies and paranoia. And then Frank had stumbled in, bleeding and desperate.

“You’re not staying,” Bill had declared, but Frank’s eyes held a stubborn glint. He’d patched up Frank’s wounds, and in return, Frank had shared stories—of lost loves, of narrow escapes, of the tattoo parlor he used to run.

Bill traced the rim of his mug. “Why the ink?”

Frank rolled up his sleeve, revealing a faded rose intertwined with barbed wire. “This one? Reminds me of my daughter. She loved roses.”

Bill’s chest tightened. He’d lost too many people—friends, family, lovers. But Frank’s grief was a raw wound, still bleeding. They’d both seen the world crumble, watched civilization unravel like frayed threads.

“You ever regret it?” Bill asked, nodding at the tattoo.

Frank’s eyes held a thousand stories. “Nah. Tattoos are memories. Pain turned into art. Keeps me grounded.”

And so, they became unlikely companions. Bill’s gruff pragmatism balanced Frank’s poetic soul. They scavenged together, fought off infected, and shared stolen moments of laughter. Bill’s safehouse transformed into something more—a refuge, a haven.

One night, after too much whiskey, Frank revealed another tattoo—a compass on his ankle. “Lost my way once,” he confessed. “This reminds me to find it again.”

Bill leaned closer. “And did you?”

Frank’s lips brushed against his. “Maybe.”

Their kisses tasted of survival, of hope in a broken world. They navigated the ruins together, their tattoos mapping out their journey—the inked coordinates of love and loss.

But love was a dangerous game. Bill had seen too many hearts shattered, too many promises broken. Frank was a tempest, a whirlwind of passion and vulnerability. And Bill? Bill was the anchor, the steady hand that kept them from drifting apart.

One morning, as the sun painted the sky in shades of redemption, Frank traced the scar on Bill’s cheek. “You’re my compass,” he murmured.

Bill grunted. “Don’t get sentimental.”

But Frank’s eyes held a truth Bill couldn’t deny. They were survivors, warriors with ink-stained skin and haunted pasts. And maybe, just maybe, they could find solace in each other—the last of them, clinging to hope amidst the chaos.

Chapter Text

One chilly evening, after a particularly heated exchange in the courtyard, Monet found herself alone with Zoya in the school coat closet near the over the top auditorium . The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting shadows on the marble tiles. Zoya leaned against the sink, her eyes wide and searching.

“You really hate me, don’t you?” Zoya’s voice was soft, vulnerable.

Monet scoffed, crossing her arms. “Hate is such a strong word. Let’s just say I find your sudden rise to popularity suspicious.”

Zoya’s lips curved into a half-smile. “You think I’m after Julien’s crown?”

“Isn’t everyone?” Monet shot back. “But you—you’re different. You’re not just chasing the throne. You’re rewriting the rules.”

Zoya stepped closer, her breath warm against Monet’s cheek. “Maybe I’m tired of playing games. Maybe I want something real.”

Monet’s heart raced. She had never been one for vulnerability, but Zoya’s proximity shattered her defenses. “What are you really after?”

Zoya’s fingers brushed Monet’s wrist, and suddenly, they were no longer enemies. They were two girls navigating a world of privilege and secrets. “I want to know who I am,” Zoya whispered. “And maybe, just maybe, I want to know you too.”

Monet’s resolve crumbled. She pulled Zoya into an embrace, their bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. The brick of the closets walls were cold, but their warmth ignited a fire within. Monet buried her face in Zoya’s hair, inhaling the scent of jasmine and rebellion.

“Monet,” Zoya murmured, her lips brushing Monet’s ear. “We don’t have to be enemies.”
"God, I love you so much." Monet whispers as she brushed her lips against Zoya's

and you have no idea how much I love you. Was Zoya’s last thought until she felt her mouth against the peeking bare skin on her chest, while she pushed the spaghetti straps of her dress allowing it to pool to the floor.they were pinned against the wall making out for a long while before Monet began stripping off her dress still pinning her against the wall. Rubbing her thumb over her bottom lip, she kissed her again, her mouth hard and warm against hers. she kissed her way down the side of her neck, leaving a love bite on the small spot where her neck met her shoulder, before lowering her face to her breasts, breathing in her sweet scent.Nuzzling one of her nipples with his nose, Monet watched as the small, tender peak tightened and flushed pink with arousal, before giving it a slow lick with his tongue. Taking it between his lips, she gave it a gentle tug, while she slid a hand down between her legs to cup her, making her gasp in surprise at both touches.Gently, she slid one finger then another inside of her, smiling against her breast when she felt her shudder around her fingers as she began to stroke her, getting her ready. Thumbing her clit, she did to it what she was doing to her nipples, circling and touching it, making her shiver with each caress. she dropped kisses onto her smooth belly, before moving down lower as she settled her face between her thighs, rubbing her hand over her before she lowered her head and opened her mouth.she licked her, her tongue replacing her thumb, circling her clit before dipping in for a taste of her, earning a shocked gasp from Zoya in response. she did it again and again, holding her legs open as she used her mouth on her, in a way that no one has ever done.She whimpered, arching up into her, unable to control her body as she touched her, tasting her with her tongue. Her body trembled from the sensations she was creating inside of her, feeling like she was about to burst. she knew she was close, so very close, and she wanted to be inside of her when she came, to feel her come from the inside."Hold on, sweetheart.", she murmured, kissing the soft skin below her belly button, before mummering

"So tight,Zoya, so tight, baby.", she kissed her warm mouth, "So good."

Monte kissed her repeatedly, stroking her tongue with hers, the taste of her still on his own. She whimpers softly as she rubs a hand over her breasts, her belly, down lower between her legs where they're joined, back up again as she moves her fingers in and out of her, her thrusts going deep. She rubbed herself against her, loving the feel of her against her, as she moves over her, inside of her, feeling her everywhere. Lifting her hips up against her fingers, her body opens for her, stretching to take more of her fingers inside. Crying out her name when she comes, her body quivers mercilessly around her, triggering a sort of quiver in Monte's stomach.

Later that night, they retreated to Monet’s room. The silk sheets cradled them as they whispered secrets, their laughter echoing off the walls. Zoya’s lips tasted like rebellion, and Monet’s heart raced as they explored uncharted territory.

As dawn approached, Monet pulled Zoya closer, their bodies entwined. “Maybe,” she whispered, “we can be more than enemies.”

Zoya’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe we can be everything.”

And so, in the heart of Manhattan, Monet de Haan and Zoya Lott rewrote their story. They cuddled beneath moonlight, their tangled limbs a testament to vulnerability and desire. In a world of schemes and shadows, they found solace in each other’s arms.

Chapter Text

Claire Fisher’s life had always been entwined with death. As a member of the Fisher family, owners of the Fisher & Sons Funeral Home, she’d grown up surrounded by grief and the quiet acceptance of mortality. But it was Ted Fairwell who taught her that life could be more than just a procession of funerals.

Ted, the attorney at Braeden Chemical Legal Department, entered Claire’s life when she started working as a temp secretary. He was different—steady, pragmatic, and unafraid to reveal his Republican leanings, even if it ruffled her liberal sensibilities. Their first date was a mix of awkwardness and unexpected connection. Claire’s heart fluttered when Ted took her to the hospital after she received news of her brother Nate’s stroke. In that sterile waiting room, she saw something in Ted—a positive force she needed.

Their relationship blossomed, and Claire found solace in Ted’s arms. They laughed over shared playlists, his “un-hip” songs blending with her indie favorites. But life had other plans. One evening, as they sat in their cozy apartment, the shadows of the past crept in.

Ted’s eyes widened. “Claire, I need to tell you something.”

She sensed the gravity of his words. “What is it?”

“I used to work for the mob,” Ted confessed. “I was their attorney, laundering money, covering up crimes. But I got out. They think I know too much.”

Claire’s heart raced. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“They found me,” Ted said. “They want me dead.”

The next few days were a blur of fear and desperation. Claire and Ted became fugitives, darting through dimly lit streets, always looking over their shoulders. The mob’s hitmen were relentless, closing in on them. Claire’s world shifted from funeral homes to survival. She learned to shoot, to trust no one, and to love fiercely.

One night, as they hid in a dingy motel room, Ted’s face was pale. “Claire, I’m sorry. I dragged you into this.”

She touched his cheek. “We’re in this together.”

They made a desperate plan—to confront the mob boss, expose their secrets, and hope for redemption. The showdown took place in an abandoned warehouse. Claire’s heart pounded as Ted faced the man who’d once been his employer.

“You’re a dead man, Fairwell,” the mob boss sneered.

But Ted stood tall. “I won’t be your pawn anymore.”

The gunfire echoed, and Claire watched in horror as Ted crumpled. Blood stained his shirt, and she screamed his name. The mob boss fell too, lifeless.

Claire held Ted, tears streaming down her face. “Stay with me, Ted.”

He smiled weakly. “I love you, Claire.”

In the ambulance, Ted clung to life. Claire whispered promises, her fingers entwined with his. They survived the mob hit, but Ted’s wounds were grave. As the sirens wailed, he whispered, “Remember our playlist.”

Claire nodded, tears blurring her vision. “I’ll play it for you every day.”

In the hospital, Ted’s breathing grew faint. Claire held his hand, feeling the fragile thread between life and death. He squeezed once, then let go.

Claire played their playlist, the un-hip songs blending with her grief. She vowed to live—for Ted, for redemption, and for the love that had defied the shadows.

Chapter Text

Sansa stood on the battlements of Winterfell, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The wind tugged at her auburn hair, and the chill seeped through her cloak. Jon was leaving, and she couldn’t bear the thought of him riding away from her.

He stood beside her, his dark eyes scanning the landscape. “I have to go,” he said quietly. “The Night’s Watch needs me.”

Sansa clenched her fists. “You died once,” she whispered. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Jon turned to face her, his expression pained. “Sansa, I have to protect the realm. The White Walkers are coming.”

She stepped closer, her breath catching. “And what about us? What about you and me?”

He hesitated, then reached for her hand. “We’ll find a way,” he promised. “I’ll come back to you.”

Sansa shook her head. “No, Jon. Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly. “I’ll always come back for you,” he murmured against her hair. “I swear it.”

But as he mounted his horse and rode away, Sansa couldn’t shake the fear that this might be their last goodbye. She watched him disappear into the distance, her heart heavy with longing.

“Don’t go,” she whispered to the wind. “Please, Jon. Don’t go where I can’t follow.”
And somewhere beyond the Wall, Jon heard her plea, vowing silently to return to her side, no matter the cost. Their love was a fragile flame in a world of ice and fire, but he would fight to keep it alive, even if it meant defying death itself. For Sansa Stark was his anchor, his home, and he would not leave her behind.

And so, as the snowflakes began to fall, Jon rode toward the unknown, guided by the memory of Sansa’s touch and the promise he had made. He would face the darkness, but he would always find his way back to her, no matter the odds.

For love was the one thing that could defy even the coldest of winters.

Chapter Text

The newsroom buzzed with tension, the air thick with deadlines and breaking stories. Will McAvoy, the seasoned anchor, and Mackenzie McHale, the brilliant producer, had danced around their feelings for years. Their chemistry crackled like live wires, but obstacles—professional and personal—kept them apart.

One fateful night, after a particularly grueling broadcast, they found themselves at a dimly lit bar. Whiskey flowed, inhibitions dissolved, and the room blurred. Will’s tie was askew, and Mackenzie’s laughter echoed—a melody he’d longed to hear.

“McAvoy,” she slurred, leaning close. “You’re not half bad.”

He grinned, the room spinning. “High praise from you, McHale.”

And then it happened—the drunken proposal. Will dropped to one knee, swaying, and held out a cocktail napkin. “Marry me,” he declared. “Right here, right now.”

Mackenzie’s eyes widened. “Will,” she whispered, “we’re both tipsy.”

“But we’re brilliant,” he insisted. “Together, we’re unstoppable.”

She laughed, her cheeks flushed. “And what about our history? The fights, the missed chances?”

Will’s hand trembled. “History be damned,” he said. “I want you. Forever.”

And so, in that smoky haze, they exchanged vows—slurred promises and whiskey-soaked declarations. The bartender served as witness, and the neon sign flickered like a celestial blessing.

“By the power vested in me,” Will began, “by this bottle of bourbon, I pronounce us—”

“—married,” Mackenzie finished, her eyes shining. “For better or worse.”

They stumbled out of the bar, giggling like teenagers. The city lights blurred, and the world spun. They hailed a cab, and Mackenzie rested her head on Will’s shoulder.

“Are we insane?” she murmured.

“Absolutely,” he replied. “But love is madness, McHale.”

They arrived at her apartment—crumpled suits and tipsy kisses. The bed creaked, and they laughed, tangled in sheets and memories.

“Will,” Mackenzie whispered, her fingers tracing his jaw. “What if this is a mistake?”

He kissed her, slow and sweet. “Then it’s our beautiful mistake.”

Morning brought clarity—a hangover and a marriage certificate scrawled on a napkin. They laughed, sober now, and faced the newsroom—their colleagues gaping.

“Congratulations,” Charlie Skinner said, grinning. “You’ve outdone every breaking story.”

And so, Will and Mackenzie navigated their new reality—a newsroom romance, fueled by whiskey and defiance. They fought, they loved, and they anchored the chaos together.

Years later, when asked about their drunken marriage, they’d smile—their vows under the influence, a testament to passion, recklessness, and the magic of a dimly lit bar.

Chapter Text

Sookie Stackhouse paced the dimly lit room, her heart racing. The air smelled of damp earth and old books—a mix of comfort and unease. Outside, rain tapped against the window, a melancholic rhythm that matched her thoughts.

Eric Northman, the ancient vampire with icy blue eyes and a wicked smile, lay on the bed. His once-pale skin now bore dark veins—the telltale sign of Hepatitis V. Sookie had seen it before—the slow decay, the fading strength. But this time felt different. This time, it was Eric.

“Sookie,” he whispered, his voice weaker than she’d ever heard it. “I’m sorry.”

She knelt by his side, brushing her fingers over his forehead. “Don’t apologize, Eric. You’re dying because of me.”

He chuckled, a raspy sound. “Always the martyr, aren’t you? It’s not your fault.”

“But it is,” she insisted. “I should’ve found a way to cure you sooner.”

Eric’s hand trembled as he reached for hers. “You’ve done more than anyone else would. You’ve always been my weakness, Sookie.”

She blinked back tears. “And you’ve been mine.”

They’d danced around each other for years—attraction, danger, secrets. Sookie, the telepathic waitress, and Eric, the vampire sheriff. Their paths intersected, collided, and entwined. But now, with death looming, there were no more games.

“Sookie,” Eric said, his eyes locking onto hers, “I want you to remember something.”

“What?” Her voice cracked.

“When I first met you,” he began, “I thought you were just another human—annoying, fragile. But then I tasted your blood, and everything changed. You were like a burst of sunlight in my dark existence.”

Sookie swallowed hard. “Eric…”

“I’ve loved you,” he confessed, “in my own twisted way. And I regret nothing.”

She leaned down, pressing her lips to his. “I love you too, you big idiot.”

His laughter turned into a cough, and she wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. “Sookie,” he murmured, “promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Live,” he said. “Live for both of us. Find happiness, even if it’s without me.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” he whispered. “I’ll always be with you.”

And then, in that small room, surrounded by rain and memories, Sookie Stackhouse held Eric Northman as he slipped away.

Chapter Text

The carnival lights flickered, casting a warm glow over Rust Cohle and Maggie Hart as they sat on a bench. The air smelled of cotton candy and adventure, and Rust’s usual stoicism softened.

“You know,” Maggie said, her voice low, “this place reminds me of that night.”

Rust glanced at her, his eyes guarded. “The night you came to my apartment.”

Maggie nodded. “Yeah. Revenge for Marty’s infidelity.”

Rust’s jaw tightened. He’d been used, a pawn in her game to hurt Marty. But now, sitting here, he felt something else—a connection, fragile yet undeniable.

“Clarity comes after you do,” Rust murmured, echoing his own words from that night.

Maggie leaned closer, their shoulders brushing. “You were vulnerable, Rust. I saw it.”

He scoffed. “Vulnerable? Me?”

She smiled. “For all your macho nihilism, you’re sensitive. Drawn to me, maybe.”

Rust’s gaze softened. “And you? Why did you come?”

“To end things with Marty,” Maggie confessed. “I wanted a permanent split.”

They sat in silence, the carnival swirling around them. Rust’s hand found hers, fingers intertwining. For a moment, they weren’t detectives or ex-lovers—they were just two people seeking solace.

As the Ferris wheel turned, Maggie rested her head on Rust’s shoulder. “You know,” she said, “sometimes life is like this—round and round, up and down.”

Rust grunted. “And sometimes you end up with a sore backside.”

She laughed, the sound carrying over the carousel’s music. “Maybe. But it’s worth it.”

And so, under the star-studded sky, Rust and Maggie cuddled, their pasts and pain momentarily forgotten

Chapter Text

Tobias Beecher stumbled through the dimly lit corridors of Oswald State Penitentiary, his mind a kaleidoscope of fractured memories. The walls seemed to close in on him, whispering secrets he couldn’t decipher. He clung to sanity, but it slipped through his fingers like sand.

“Keller,” Beecher muttered, the name echoing in the hollow spaces. “Chris Keller.”

He rounded a corner, and there Keller stood—a phantom, a mirage. His eyes held promises and betrayals, love and violence. Beecher’s heart raced. Had Keller ever truly existed, or was he a figment of this nightmarish hallucination?

Keller smirked, leaning against the graffiti-covered wall. “Beecher, my man. You look like shit.”

Beecher’s fists clenched. “You’re dead. I killed you.”

Keller laughed, a haunting melody. “Did you? Or did you just bury me deep inside your guilt-ridden soul?”

They circled each other, their footsteps echoing. Beecher remembered the first time they’d met—the chemistry, the forbidden desire. Keller had been his downfall, his salvation. They’d danced on the precipice of madness, and now Beecher wondered if he’d ever stepped back.

“Why are you here?” Beecher asked, his voice raw. “Why torment me?”

Keller’s eyes darkened. “Because you need me. You crave the chaos—the pain and pleasure intertwined. Remember our nights? The taste of blood and sweat?”

Beecher’s head spun. “I loved you.”

Keller’s laughter cut through the haze. “Love? Beecher, love is a prison. We were inmates long before Oz.”

They were close now, their breaths mingling. Beecher traced the scar on Keller’s cheek—the one he’d inflicted. “I wanted to break free.”

Keller’s lips brushed Beecher’s, a phantom kiss. “But you’re still trapped, my sweet Toby. You can’t escape me.”

Beecher’s mind fractured further. Had Keller ever whispered love or only manipulation? The lines blurred—reality and illusion merging. He tasted salt—the tears or the sweat, he couldn’t tell.

“Tell me,” Beecher pleaded. “Are you real?”

Keller’s eyes bore into his. “Does it matter? We’re bound by our sins, our twisted dance. You’ll hallucinate me until your dying breath.”

And then Keller faded, leaving Beecher alone in the cold corridor. The walls whispered secrets once more, and Beecher sank to the floor. Had he ever loved Keller, or was it all a fractured illusion?

As dawn approached, Beecher wept—for the man he’d killed, for the love he’d lost, and for the madness that clung to his soul.

Chapter Text

The White Lotus hotel stood like a pristine oasis against the turquoise waters of Maui. Its walls whispered secrets—the laughter of guests, the rustle of palm leaves, and the hushed confessions of lovers. Portia, a travel writer seeking inspiration, arrived with anticipation. She’d heard of the hotel’s mystique—the one-bed-only trope that promised unexpected encounters.

Jack, a mysterious stranger, crossed her path in the lobby. His eyes held a hint of mischief, and his smile was both inviting and enigmatic. They exchanged pleasantries, and Portia felt a spark—an inexplicable connection that defied the hotel’s rules.

“Portia,” he said, extending his hand. “Jack.”

She hesitated, then shook it. “Nice to meet you.”

He leaned in, his voice conspiratorial. “You know about the legend, right? The one bed?”

Portia chuckled. “Yes, it’s like a romantic game of chance.”

They were assigned the same room—a luxurious suite with a king-sized bed. Portia’s heart raced as they entered. The room was opulent, the scent of orchids lingering in the air. The bed beckoned, its pristine sheets inviting.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Shall we flip a coin?”

She laughed. “Or we could share.”

And so, they did. Portia lay on one side, Jack on the other. The room held its breath, waiting for fate to unfold.

“Tell me about your travels,” Jack said, his fingers tracing patterns on the duvet.

Portia spoke of distant lands—the bustling markets of Marrakech, the misty temples of Kyoto. Jack listened, his eyes never leaving hers. He revealed nothing of himself, yet she sensed hidden depths—a past etched in shadows.

As night fell, they lay side by side, the moon casting silvery ribbons across their faces. Portia’s heart raced. She wondered if this was destiny or mere coincidence.

“Have you ever loved someone?” Jack asked, his voice raw.

Portia hesitated. “Yes. But it’s complicated.”

He turned toward her, his breath warm on her cheek. “Life is messy. Love even messier.”

Their hands brushed, and Portia felt the weight of unspoken words—the ache of missed chances, the longing for connection. She wondered if the White Lotus had orchestrated this—a cosmic joke or a cosmic gift.

“Why are you here?” she whispered.

Jack’s gaze held hers. “To escape. To find answers.”

Portia understood. The hotel was a refuge—a place where souls collided, seeking solace or redemption.

As dawn painted the sky, they lay entwined, their bodies close but hearts distant. Portia wondered if they’d ever meet again outside these walls.

“Promise me,” Jack said, “that you’ll remember this.”

She nodded. “I won’t forget.”

When morning came, they parted—a silent agreement to keep their secrets. Portia left the room, the bed still warm from their shared night.

In the lobby, she glanced back. Jack stood by the window, watching her. Their eyes met—one bed, two souls, and a lifetime of questions.

As Portia stepped into the sunlight, she wondered if love was a game of chance or a deliberate choice. Perhaps the White Lotus knew—the whispers of its walls echoing through time.

Chapter Text

Tom Wambsgans, the impeccably dressed executive with a penchant for sarcasm, and Cousin Greg, the tall, awkward, and perpetually confused Roy family member, stood side by side in the hallowed halls of the Met. The gallery’s marble floors echoed with the soft murmur of art enthusiasts, their footsteps reverent as they moved from masterpiece to masterpiece.

Tom adjusted his cufflinks, surveying the room. “Greg,” he said, his voice dripping with faux sophistication, “art is like life—a delicate dance of colors and chaos.”

Greg squinted at a Jackson Pollock painting, its splatters of paint resembling a chaotic explosion. “Yeah, but what does it mean?”

Tom leaned in, his breath warm against Greg’s ear. “It means that sometimes life throws paint at you, and you’ve got to turn it into something beautiful.”

Greg frowned. “Or messy. Like spaghetti sauce on a white shirt.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “You’re missing the point, Greg. Art is about interpretation. Take that Picasso over there.” He gestured toward a cubist portrait. “See how the fractured lines represent the fractured nature of existence?”

Greg squinted. “Looks like someone cut up a face and rearranged it.”

Tom sighed. “You’re hopeless. But fine, let’s play your game. If you were a piece of art, what would you be?”

Greg scratched his head. “Maybe… a melted clock? You know, like that Salvador Dalí thing.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Ah, the ‘Persistence of Memory.’ Interesting choice. So, you’re saying you’re a bit… warped?”

Greg grinned. “Well, time is relative, right? And my life feels like a Salvador Dalí painting—stretching and bending in strange directions.”

Tom chuckled. “Fair enough. But me? I’m more of a Renaissance man. Classic, refined, and slightly overrated.”

Greg squinted at a Botticelli painting of Venus rising from the sea. “You think you’re like her?”

Tom struck a pose, hand on his hip. “Why not? Beauty, power, and a touch of scandal. Plus, I’ve got better hair.”

Greg snorted. “Yeah, but you’re missing the seashell.”

Tom winked. “I’ve got other assets.”

As they moved through the gallery, Tom and Greg continued their banter. They compared themselves to abstract sculptures, impressionist landscapes, and even a minimalist white canvas that left Greg baffled.

“You’re like that blank canvas,” Greg said, pointing. “Simple, yet mysterious.”

Tom smirked. “And you’re the scribbles in the corner—a chaotic afterthought.”

Greg nudged him. “But we’re both part of the same exhibit.”

Tom’s expression softened. “Yeah, Greg. We are.”

They stood there, surrounded by centuries of creativity, their laughter echoing off the gallery walls. Maybe art was like life—messy, beautiful, and open to interpretation. And maybe, just maybe, Tom and Greg were each other’s masterpieces—a blend of colors and chaos that somehow made sense.

As they exited the gallery, Tom leaned in. “Greg, if life is art, then you’re my favorite brushstroke.”

Greg blushed. “And you’re my… uh, fancy frame?”

Tom chuckled. “Close enough.”

And so, in the shadow of great artists, Tom Wambsgans and Cousin Greg—the odd couple of the Roy family—walked out into the New York streets. Maybe they’d never hang in a gallery, but their banter, their quirks, and their shared moments were their own kind of masterpiece—a work in progress, forever evolving, and utterly unique

Chapter Text

The neon glow of Noonan’s Bar cast a hazy light over the mismatched tables and worn-out barstools. Kite Man, Chuck, leaned against the counter, wiping down a glass absentmindedly. His heart raced, and his mind replayed the events of the past hour.

Golden Glider, Lisa Snart, sat across from him, her silver eyes searching his face. She’d always been the calm one, the voice of reason. But tonight, reason had fled, leaving only raw emotion in its wake.

“Chuck,” Lisa said softly, “you can’t blame yourself.”

He clenched his fists, the glass slipping from his grip. “I should’ve been faster. I should’ve—”

“No,” Lisa interrupted, her gloved hand reaching across the table to touch his. “We both knew the risks. We chose this life.”

“But I never thought…” Chuck’s voice cracked. “I never thought I’d watch you die.”

Lisa’s lips trembled. “And I never thought I’d watch you fall.”

They’d fought Darkseid’s minions together, side by side. But when the dust settled, Lisa lay broken, her golden armor shattered. Chuck had carried her back to Noonan’s, praying for a miracle. But miracles were in short supply in Gotham.

Harley Quinn, their friend and fellow bartender, hovered nearby. She’d seen it all—the battle, the fall, the desperate flight back to safety. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face streaked with tears.

“Chuck,” Harley whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”

“But I—” Harley choked on her words. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—”

“You’re not a superhero,” Lisa said gently. “None of us are.”

Chuck’s gaze shifted to the window, where rain streaked down the glass. The city outside was a blur of lights and shadows. He’d lost Ivy, the love of his life, and now Lisa—the woman who’d healed his broken heart.

“Maybe I’m cursed,” he muttered. “Maybe I bring death to everyone I care about.”

Lisa’s fingers tightened around his. “Chuck, listen to me. We’ve faced worse odds. We’ll find a way to fix this.”

“But how?” His voice cracked. “How can we bring you back?”

Harley stepped closer, her eyes fierce. “We’ll find a Lazarus Pit. Or a magic spell. Or—”

“No.” Lisa’s voice was firm. “I won’t risk your lives for mine.”

“But—”

“Chuck,” Lisa interrupted, “we’ve had our moments. Our stolen kisses in the alley behind Noonan’s. Our late-night talks about life and death. If this is the end, I want you to remember those moments.”

He swallowed hard. “I’ll never forget.”

Lisa leaned across the table, her lips brushing his. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Live,” she whispered. “Live for both of us.”

Chuck nodded, tears blurring his vision. “I will.”

As Lisa pulled away, Harley wrapped her arms around him. “We’ll get through this, Chuck. Together.”

He glanced at the shattered remains of Golden Glider’s armor, the wings that would never fly again. “Together,” he echoed.

And in that dimly lit bar, surrounded by broken dreams and lost love, they clung to each other, their hearts shattered but still beating. For Kite Man, Golden Glider, and Harley Quinn, the night was a storm of grief and pain.

Chapter Text

Charlotte sat in the back row of Professor Harry Goldenblatt’s lecture hall, her notebook open but her mind wandering. His voice, rich and resonant, filled the room as he discussed the intricacies of literature. She’d never been so captivated by a professor before—his passion for the subject was contagious.

After class, she lingered, pretending to organize her notes. When he finally noticed her, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and she felt a flutter in her chest. “Miss Thompson,” he said, “I hope you found today’s discussion enlightening.”

She blushed. “Yes, Professor Goldenblatt. Your insights were… inspiring.”

He chuckled. “Inspiring, huh? Well, I’m glad to hear that. Perhaps we can continue this conversation over coffee sometime?”

Their coffee dates became a secret ritual. Charlotte reveled in Harry’s intellect, his wit, and the way he listened to her—really listened. But there was more—a tension simmering beneath their discussions. Forbidden glances exchanged in crowded cafes, fingers brushing accidentally as they reached for the same book.

One rainy afternoon, they found themselves alone in the library stacks. Charlotte’s heart raced as Harry leaned in, his lips dangerously close to hers. “We shouldn’t,” she whispered.

He kissed her anyway, and the world blurred. The forbidden thrill of their connection ignited something primal within her. She was no longer just a student; she was a woman with desires that defied rules.

Their love unfolded in stolen moments—their bodies entwined in Harry’s office, the scent of old books and desire lingering. Charlotte wondered if this was how great novels began—two souls colliding, writing their own story against the backdrop of academia.

But secrets weighed heavy. Charlotte feared discovery—the scandal, the ruined reputations. Harry, too, grappled with guilt. “We’re living an unwritten chapter,” he confessed one night. “A love story that defies logic.”

She traced his jawline. “Maybe some stories are worth the risk.”

As graduation approached, Charlotte faced a choice: follow convention or embrace the unknown. Harry’s tenure hung in the balance, and their love teetered on the edge of revelation.

In the quiet of his office, he cupped her face. “Charlotte, my muse,” he said, “what do you want?”

She kissed him, tasting both love and uncertainty. “I want us,” she whispered. “Even if it means rewriting the rules.”

And so, Charlotte and Harry’s love story remained hidden, etched in stolen glances and whispered confessions. They were the best-kept secret of the university—a forbidden romance that transcended age, status, and reason.

Chapter Text

The snow fell in delicate flakes, blanketing the city in a hushed stillness. Grace stood on the sidewalk, her breath visible in the frosty air. The world had turned monochrome, and she welcomed the quietude—the way it muffled the chaos inside her.

Elena appeared at the corner, her eyes wide with childlike wonder. She wore a crimson scarf that contrasted beautifully with the white landscape. Grace’s heart skipped a beat—Elena was both an enigma and a revelation.

“Grace!” Elena called, her voice carrying across the snow-draped park. “Come on! Let’s build a snowman!”

Grace hesitated. Their lives were entangled in secrets—the kind that could unravel everything. But Elena’s smile was irresistible, and the snow held promises of innocence.

“Okay,” Grace said, her voice barely audible. *“Let’s build a snowman.”

They worked side by side, their gloved hands shaping the snow. Elena’s laughter echoed—a melody that thawed Grace’s defenses. They rolled the snow into a base, stacked it higher, and adorned it with pebbles for eyes and a twig for a mouth.

“Our secret snowman,” Elena declared, brushing snowflakes from her hair. *“He’ll guard our memories.”

Grace’s heart clenched. Memories—the ones they shared and the ones they kept hidden. She wondered if Elena knew about Jonathan, about the courtroom drama that had torn their lives apart.

“Elena,” Grace said, her voice raw, *“why did you choose me? Why did you come into our lives?”

Elena’s gaze softened. “Because,” she replied, *“sometimes we find solace in the unexpected. You’re like a snowflake—unique, fragile, and impossible to forget.”

Grace’s tears mixed with the snow. “And Jonathan?” she whispered. *“What did he mean to you?”

Elena’s smile wavered. “Jonathan,” she said, *“was a tempest. Passionate, destructive. But you, Grace, you’re the calm after the storm.”

They stood there, the snowman between them—a silent witness to their tangled emotions. Elena’s fingers brushed Grace’s, and for a moment, the world blurred—the past, the present, and the secrets they held.

“We can’t undo the past,” Elena murmured. *“But maybe we can build something new.”

Grace nodded, her heart thawing. “A snowman,” she said, *“and a promise.”

And so, they stood there—their breaths mingling, their hearts fragile as snowflakes. The snowman watched over them, its twig mouth curved in a knowing smile.

“Grace,” Elena whispered, *“let’s keep this moment. Let it be our secret.”

And as the snow continued to fall, Grace and Elena leaned into each other—a fragile alliance against the chill, against the unraveling truth.