Sneak peak at the polytrix fic that won the poll below 😉
Her hair was purple, which was weird. Weird and definitely not super attractive in a way that beckoned Zoey to run her hands through it. The braid it was in seemed permanent, and she momentarily wondered if those purple strands had ever been free from the confines of those perfectly woven strands. Slung over her right shoulder, the ends brushed just below her jean-clad knee. The jeans were shockingly baggy for a prissy rich woman, light wash fabric falling perfectly around her ankles in a way that screamed tailored. Zoey’s eyes trailed an uncontrollable path; down the braid to the jeans, up and up and over smooth, pale skin exposed by the form fitting—and cropped, oh my god—white tank clinging to her toned upper half, and finally settling on her face.
The woman’s brow was quirked, clearly entertained by the way the shorter girl had soaked in the sight of her. Zoey scolded herself, married, she’s married.
“Zoey, is it?” the married woman smiled wider as the name left her mouth, “we’ve been looking forward to your arrival.”
She must have imagined the way Mrs. Ryu’s eyes trailed down her body. The pink tongue that peaked out to wet her lips must’ve been a trick of the light.
The sweet and savory scent of her perfume fogged Zoey's brain momentarily, she stuck her hand out in introduction. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you and Mr. Ryu as well,” she smiled back, brain definitely not lagging on the woman’s soft skin in her hand, nor the firm grip of her handshake.
Mrs. Ryu laughed and let go of her hand. It was a musical thing, a sound that Zoey could get lost in if she tried hard enough.
“Oh, I suppose we didn’t include that little detail,” she said, almost to herself. “I’m sure my wife would have gotten a good chuckle out of that comment.”
The younger girl’s face went beet red, eyes widening as she opened her mouth before shutting it again. She tried to school her expression, expunge the mortification painted across her cheeks. Wife. Gay. Gay wife.
Something to Take the Edge Off Pt.1 (Samantha Carpenter x Reader)
A/n: Long time no see everyone! Cut me some slack on this one, I haven't written a fic in a while. Going back to my roots and writing filthy lesbian intercourse; part two will be out tomorrow. Enjoy :)
Description: You run into a stone cold douche-bag at the club... unfortunately she's hot.
WC: 2.5k
Warnings/tags: Drug and alcohol use (weed), the clurb, toxic, Tara x Amber mentioned, immense sexual tension, college AU, next part will be ALL smut so forgive me for splitting them up please.
IT was an art, truly, the way in which Amber could drag you into the conniving embrace of danger. She was just so insistent, so honest-to-god committed to getting you out of your dorm and into the real world.
“Come onnn,” she whined, voice dragging in a way that told you there was no chance of getting out. Her hair was pulled back from her face, strands falling out in an effortlessly messy way. The shorts she wore were sinfully short and black fabric clung to her like a second skin, a cropped tank just barely covering her chest. In the many, many years of knowing her, you’d discerned that this was her “going out look.”
“Amber,” you groaned, irritation lacing your tone, “midterms are next week, dude.”
She sighed with exasperation, flopping back onto your bed. “Exactly,” her hands fiddled with the comforter beside her, "which means that we should go out and find you someone to help you destress before your lack of orgasms makes you implode and you don’t make it to exams because you’re too busy being dead.”
You had to try exceptionally hard to keep the smile from creeping onto your face. She had a point. It had been a while, and you weren’t exactly the best at keeping the frustration from hindering other aspects of your life; vibrators could only do so much.
“I can see the gears turning from here, which means that you’re folding,” she grinned proudly, sitting up and heading to your closet.
And so, the next hour and a half was spent scolding her for the trashy outfits she thrust out to you, minutes ticking by until the clock struck eight forty-five PM. You begrudgingly settled on a form fitting, short black dress with no sleeves that she had found buried in the deepest, darkest part of your closet. It stopped around your mid thigh, neckline swooping low to reveal an immodest amount of cleavage. Unfortunately, you looked good.
“Honestly, I’d be down to stay in and fool around,” Amber joked with an approving sweep of the eyes. You sat at your desk, the makeup mirror you’d had since before you could remember reflecting yourself back to you. It had been a while since you’d gone for the seductive look, eyeliner sharp where you drew the wings. They sharply cut off the smokey eye that you hadn’t seen on yourself since freshman year. The rest of the look was routine to you, contour shaping your face and mascara holding curled, long lashes in place.
You laughed at her comment, your days of experimenting with the black haired psycho were long gone. Besides, her and her fuck buddy had seemed to be getting pretty close lately. Knowing her though, Tara would have to try extra hard to tie Amber down.
“Let’s go before I change my mind.”
—
The club was stuffy, ceiling fans pushing around the smell of alcohol and people. So many people. It took a minute for your eyes to adjust to the strobing lights, the dance floor, the crowded bar. Some trashy remix pounded through the room and vibrated your brain with every beat. It was textbook definition, hands running over bodies to the beat of the music, women settling men with disinterested looks and glazed over eyes as they rambled about man things, even a couple of spilled drinks on the floor. Amber stood at your side, gaze sweeping over the sea of bodies. You deduced that she was looking for something.
Someone.
“Amber,” you began, tone stern as you put two and two together and came back with a very suspicious four, “You did not invite me out just to run off with Tara.”
The culprit smiled menacingly–fucking psychopath–and feigned confusion. “What?! I can’t hear you over the music!!”
A loud, exasperated sound of annoyance left your mouth as you abandoned her and made a beeline for the bar. You needed to be less sober, and you needed it now. Amber trailed behind you, eyes still searching.
You knew nothing about Tara, having only seen her in passing a few times as she meandered out of Amber’s room in the early hours of the morning, neck covered in dark bruises. She was pretty enough, big doe eyes and messy brown hair; clearly a bottom.
Your eyes found her before your dorm-mate’s did–or, more accurately, found the tall and dark mooded woman who sat next to her at the bar top. It was just a coincidence that Tara inhabited the stool next to her
Her side profile grew clearer as you drew closer. That sharp jawline captured your attention first, then those sharper eyes, peering lazily at her drink as she swirled it around in its glass with disinterest before bringing it up to her lips and downing it in two gulps. You watched her tongue dart out to clean up the liquid remaining on her mouth, which was perfectly tailored to match her features; a full bottom lip that made your stomach flip.
“Hey, stranger,” Amber said, voice low and teasing as the two of you approached, sliding into the empty stool next to Tara.
You looked at the only other empty stool awkwardly, considering it momentarily before ultimately throwing caution to the wind and taking your seat next to the actual stranger. Up close, you could see the hard lines of her face, the harder muscles under the skin of her arms that were revealed by her tank top.
She looked at you.
Her eyes were completely black. You couldn’t tell if it was from the dark lighting of the club or if she just sported that look 24/7; a look that screamed power. That very look held you in place as she inspected you, gaze flickering down to your lips, lower to your neck, then to your chest and further to the exposed skin of your crossed legs.
The chill that ran through you must’ve been from the slowly spinning ceiling fans, nothing else.
Playing nonchalant, you turned away from the inspection and flagged down the bartender before ordering three shots for yourself and something fruity to sip on.
The first shot burned on the way down but you somehow managed to keep the grimace off of your face. It was straight vodka and you prayed that it would save you from the oppressive feeling washing over you as you downed the second one.
Before you could do the same to the third and final one, a lithe, rather large hand grabbed the little glass. You watched with wide eyes as the woman next to you tilted her head back, neck stretching in a filthy way that heated your face, and downed it.
“The fuck?” you gasped out with an offended tone.
All she did was smile at you, a wicked upturn of the lips, as she drank up your reaction. Her fingers circled the rim of her own glass, which had been replaced at some point. You couldn’t help the way your angry gaze fell over them, watching those steady fingers move. Her forearm twitched with the movement, tendons and muscle flexing slightly under your eye–which was definitely done purposefully–along with the stretch of her toned bicep.
“Something wrong?” she rasped, that liquid smooth voice going straight to your core.
You couldn’t help the scoff that escaped your mouth. “That was my shot.”
Her smirk only widened to a sinister grin.
“Sam, order her a new one and leave the poor girl alone,” Tara called from her other side, eyes rolling in annoyance. “I can’t take you anywhere these days.”
A shift in the music had you reaching for your drink, which the woman had thankfully left alone. You suddenly felt too hot, despite the previous chill.
All Sam did was shrug. “She ordered three of ‘em,” she argued and took a slow swig of her drink, “figured one was for me.”
“Why the fuck would one of them be for you?” the tension in your body was prevalent in your voice.
“I dunno,” Another shrug, “you don’t exactly look like you can take three shots back to back, princess.”
Amber’s laugh reached your ears from three stools away, and you were grateful for the low lighting as it hid your frustrated blush. Princess? Princess?
Hands pushing into the bartop, you stood. Princess? Your legs moved, turning to go somewhere, anywhere else. No way were you gonna sit there and be disrespected by some egotistical piece of shit, no matter how hot said piece of shit was. You could go dance, drown out the stress of midterms with some random’s hands on your waist.
You only got one step away before a strong hand caught you by the wrist, tugging you back and forcing you to spin back around. What you saw was only slightly shocking, a slight flicker of regret filtering through her otherwise unwaveringly cold stare. Huh. Weird.
When your eyes fell to the fingers still wrapped around your arm, she seemed to snap out of it before releasing you. She cleared her throat.
“Sorry,” that deep, raspy voice dipped with sincerity.
The two of you exchanged a look charged with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. She was hotter when she apologized, you discerned. The way her dark brows furrowed with genuine regret made you want to smooth them with your fingers. The way that tongue peaked out for the second time that night to wet her lips again.
“It’s whatever,” you sighed, too tired to have a pissing contest.
She ran her hands through her hair, an uncharacteristically bashful move, before tilting her head to the side and looking up at you.
“You smoke?” She questioned, eyes falling to your mouth again before elaborating, “Weed, I mean.”
You cracked a small smile at that, at the way she seemed to be expecting a yes to come out of your parted lips.
“Only if it’s free,” you shot back, turning and sauntering out of the club as the alcohol warmed your body. You were only a little hopeful that she was following you, not sparing a glance back to make sure.
Crisp air nipped at your bare skin when you finally exited the building, a sigh of relief escaping you along with the tension in your spine as the heat of bodies disappeared. It was a beautiful night, beautiful for New York at least. The lights of the city winked lazily, horns honking in the distance before blending into the sound of wheels rolling on the road and chatter. You welcomed the smell of tobacco and pavement as your back pressed against the brick wall behind you.
There was a pleasant buzz present within you. Nothing too serious, but enough to make you smile to yourself as you closed your eyes momentarily.
When you opened them a minute or two later, the woman was standing in front of you with her hands in the pockets of her baggy jeans. She’d thrown on a black leather jacket, because of course she wore a leather jacket, and the fabric matched the dark, focused pupils that looked back at you.
Wordlessly, she removed her hands from her pockets and revealed a lighter before reaching into the inside of her jacket, pulling out a blunt. She raised her brows at you in question, head tilting again. “Free weed?”
You couldn’t stop the way you rolled your eyes, “You lace this?”
“Oh yeah,” she laughed, “I laced this blunt that I’m about to smoke, whether you share it with me or not. Just for fun.”
She popped the filtered end in her mouth, holding it between her lips and cupping around it. The lighter sparked once, twice, before an orange flame materialized. She shoved the lighter back in her pocket as she took a slow drag. The end of the blunt lit up as oxygen was pulled through it, slowly traveling as she smoked. You watched with mild interest as her eyes closed and her head tilted back through the hit, body visually relaxing.
When her eyes opened again, she grabbed the smoking object from her mouth and held it between her middle and ring finger. It struck you as odd, the two fingers that she chose to hold it with, but before you could read too much into it, she was holding them out to you in a lazy offering. A truce of sorts.
She held the smoke in for a moment, letting it sting her lungs before slowly breathing it out in a gray haze. Simultaneously, you took your hit. It was smaller than hers–not by much–and when you managed to get through it without coughing a sense of pride washed over you. Weed was always better when it was free.
“So,” you started, feeling the need to fill the silence, “how do you know Tara?”
Sam shook her head in amusement, taking the blunt back and laughing a bit. “Sister,” she supplied before taking another pull. She passed it back to you.
The air smelled like weed and the deep, musky cologne that Sam had on. It was making you a little dizzy.
“I’ve never seen you on campus before,” you continued, the smoke from your second hit leaving your lips as you spoke. You would’ve remembered seeing her around, it would’ve been impossible not to. Your eyes followed the movement of her hand as she accepted the blunt again, catching on the veins poking out from beneath the skin and lingering there.
She didn’t respond for a moment, and when you looked up she was already watching you. A knowing quirk of the lips pulled at her face, eyes glinting mischievously as if she’d caught your eyes on her hand.
“I’m out of school,” she answered, “Tara drags me out here every once in a while. Says it's good for me to socialize.”
The rest of the blunt is smoked in comfortable silence, both of you leaning back against the cool brick. Sam’s eyes were lidded by the end of it, red rimmed and heavy as she looked at you with a lazy smile. Every once in a while, you’d catch her eyes dipping to your chest or your thighs and try to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat as she openly checked you out.
When you’d smoked the last of it, she dropped it to the cracking pavement and stepped on it with a booted foot. “You like women?” she asked abruptly with a knowing look of amusement.
The weed had settled into a warm and hazy thing, and if you’d been sober you would’ve stuttered out an awkward answer and cringed after. You weren’t sober, though.
“What’s it matter to you,” you inquired, reflecting the same dopey smile she was giving you.
“Wanna know if I’ve got a shot at getting you back to my place,” her hands were back in her pockets now, head lazily resting against the wall. “Although I feel like I can make an educated guess.” Before adding an afterthought, “I paid your tab.”
A dog barked in the distance. A man yelled. A frat guy rode past on a scooter. New York pulsed beneath your feet.
NEW YORK, NEW YORK - MAY 01: PHOEBE BRIDGERS attends the 2023 Met Gala Celebrating "Karl Lagerfeld: A Line Of Beauty" at Metropolitan Museum of Art on May 01, 2023 in New York City.
Hi!!! I love your writing I think it’s incredible. I was wondering if I could request a Melissa x reader where reader gets hurt on set or something and starts crying so Melissa comforts her and they are already dating but Melissa comforts reader and takes care of her injury and it’s just really fluffy. Thank you ❤️
a/n: Hope this is decent! Thank you so much for the support <3
The Whole Thing? (Melissa Barrera x Reader)
Description: You have an unlucky day, but Melissa cheers you up in the way only she can.
WC: 1.1k
Warnings: mentions of blood, public embarrassment at it's finest.
YOU prided yourself on the ability to perform all of your own stunts, often earning praise from directors for making their job easier. They’d have you take sparring lessons on occasion for the more intense shots which gave you a decent understanding of self-defense and a muscle mass to match.
Though you enjoyed the challenge, the filming of Scream Seven was a nice break from the exhaustion of your normal roles that typically required you to work longer, more intense days. It still had its downsides, forcing you to sprint away from the ‘killer’ over and over again so that they could get the perfect take and painting you in fake blood that took forever to get out of your hair. However, it was still one of your favorite experiences as an actress.
While the break from your usual gigs was nice, the best part of shooting for Scream was getting to spend more time with your girlfriend, Melissa, who happened to also play your girlfriend in the movie. The writers decided to spice things up and bring in your character to play the lead alongside Jenna and Mel in hopes of catering to their fans who were hungry for more sapphic content. Melissa immediately suggested that you get the role, setting up your audition and cheering you on from the sidelines.
Unfortunately, being good at your job didn’t make you any less clumsy.
All day you’d been tripping over everything on set and giving your co-stars small heart attacks, hands swiftly shooting out to steady you. Melissa took the brunt of it, sticking to you like glue ever since you’d run into your makeup artist and sent her spiraling; apologies spilling from her lips as if she’d flattened your dog on the sidewalk.
Even soldiers had to take bathroom breaks though, and Melissa was only human.
She’d only been gone for two minutes at most, the extra large tea she'd chugged on her lunch break finally catching up with her. It all happened in slow motion. One minute you were on your feet, walking away from the set and towards the communal coffee table, and the next you weren’t.
There was a loose floorboard that you were unlucky enough to stumble upon, foot catching on it and hands sticking out in an effort to save yourself. It was admittedly one of the most embarrassing moments of your life save for that one incident from the seventh grade. You let out a girly little shriek before hitting the floor with a not so girly thud.
Melissa’s girlfriend senses tingled as she rinsed the soap from her hands, and she quickly scrambled out of the bathroom whilst simultaneously dripping water all over the floor. The sight she was met with made her heart drop.
You stood surrounded by crew members with your head tilted up and the bridge of your nose pinched between your thumb and forefinger. The makeup artist from earlier looked horrified as she attempted to assess the damage and calculate just how much concealer she would need to cover it all. Rivulets of blood poured from your nose and your lip was split open on the right side.
Your girlfriend pushed the crew out of the way, pulling your hand away from your nose and grabbing the sides of your face, keeping it tilted up as she scanned the injuries. Caught up in the spur of the moment, she tore the signature Samantha Carpenter jacket from her body and held the fabric of it up to your nose in an attempt to keep you clean. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t her brightest idea. A collective gasp ran through the room and made her roll her eyes.
“Oh, baby,” she sighed as she watched you try to keep your tears at bay, jaw clenched and fists closed, "You're having the worst day, aren't you?" her free hand tugged at a strand of your hair.
You nodded, lip quivering momentarily before the floodgates opened.
“That’s a wrap for today folks!” The director announced uncomfortably, beginning to say something else that was quickly ignored by Melissa as she wrapped an arm around you and ushered you out the door. She led you to her trailer and sat you down on the couch, grabbing paper towels from the counter to replace the jacket that you held awkwardly against your face.
She took the jacket from your hands, sitting down while placing it on her lap and gently grasping your face again. “Let me see,” she whispered, wiping tears from your cheeks with the soft pads of her thumbs.
Your bottom lip was swollen from where it had split on impact, bleeding slightly but looking as though it wouldn’t require stitches. She pulled your face to hers, kissing the cut as lightly as she possibly could and replacing the pain with pleasant little tingles.
"I think the worst part about this whole situation is the fact that we can't have any hardcore make out sessions until this stops hurting," her lower lip popped out in a little pout and you went to do the same thing, but the tug on your injured flesh prevented it.
The bleeding from your nose was slowing down, reduced to occasional crimson drops that were wiped away by her as soon as they slid down your skin. It still hurt like a bitch, but your ego was more bruised than your body was.
“One time I ate a prop apple on set in the middle of a scene,” Melissa admitted, seeming to read your mind.
You let out a watery laugh. “Like… the whole thing?”
“Of course not, no,” she clarified, waving a hand at the assumption. “I did swallow some of it though…”
“How-”
“I thought it was just bland at first! It’s not my fault that they look so real,” her lips turned up in a contagious smile that made your heart pound in your chest. “There she is! Thank God for embarrassing stories; I thought I’d never see you blush ever again.”
The statement only made you blush a deeper pink, turning your face to escape the sudden love-struck expression that played across her features.
"Am I embarrassing you? Am I embarrassing my little honey nut cheerio snookums bubba boo?" She teased, making excessive kissy faces as she leaned in for your cheek
"Mel, cut it out you psycho," you giggled, trying to push her away when she climbed on top of you and attacked you with her lips.
She pushed you back against the couch and laid down on top of you, effectively stopping you from running away as she continued her attack.
"Sorry, baby. I can't hear you," she lied, lips skimming over your forehead, "the apple made me deaf."
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt, forgetting all about the fall.
No, but really, I do honestly feel so much for the psychic damage inflicted on Harrow on Dios Apate Minor. Like. C’mon. This poor child. Forget being a repressed bone nunlet, John is her DAD.
He is a piece of shit abusive dad, but he’s definitely still dad. The man is like campaigning for the title of Harrow’s Surrogate Dad. And on top of being dad, he is also her Father because he is GOD. That’s double the dad. And can you imagine. Can you imagine. The absolute horrible moment when you’re a little egg and you learn about sex and the horrifying realisation that ohmygod, your parents have had sex first downs on you? Now imagine that. Imagine that but it happens because your dad is getting it on AT THE DINNER TABLE. IN FRONT OF YOU. YOUR DAD.
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