#that’s really what this conversation is about
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I could wax poetic about why Viktor's League backstory is inherently more interesting and more thematically resonant than where they went with him in Arcane season 2, but the cold hard truth is
a man covered in grease and probably blood who builds his own body out of scraps with his own two hands, can in fact build any contraption out of dinted metal sheets and a few screws including a deathray, performs deeply inadvisable operations on desperate but consenting people with his own tools, generates a cult following against his wishes because of his ability to inadvisably help people but the power's all his now anyway so he may as well, wants to clean up and save the undercity but is (only sort of) misunderstood as a walking Geneva Convention violation a freak and a supervillain, torments his arch-nemesis on at least a weekly basis and probably homoerotically hunts him for sport, had his life's work misattributed to people in the ruling class and is angry and tragic about it forever, tries to rip out his own emotions and is unsuccessful but pretends like he was not, is actually oddly kind to children, and is at the end of the day still just some guy,
is just hotter okay
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yieldtotemptation · 3 days ago
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ANACHRONISM ft. Mina
mina x male reader smut
part one of strange currencies
14k words
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Go ahead, try and pretend like any of this happened by accident.
Like you totally didn’t mean to charm some poor, pretty little thing; dazzle her with the wealth, the fame, the you of it all.
Have her spreading her legs for you, bunching her dress up over her thighs, serving herself up like she’s one of those ludicrously expensive banquets you frequent, pleading—
"God, I need you inside me, like, right this fucking second."
Because here’s the truth of it all, what you’ve come to realise about this woman who has never once in her entire life been reduced to something as pithy as poor or pretty or little; let alone anything short of extraordinary. This wildly successful, elegant to the point of being untouchable, and just really, really fucking gorgeous idol:
Nothing about Myoui Mina is accidental.
Even all this—her idea: showing up at your suite uninvited, leaning against the doorframe, panties hanging off her fingertips. Showing off how ridiculously drenched she is for you and how badly she wants you to do something about it.
If only these walls could talk.
“Hurry up,” she’s gritting out. Deadlocking the door behind her. Still not used to waiting for anything, apparently. “Come on, I need your cum. Anywhere you like. Just inside me. Now.”
You should be more surprised. Instead, you’re laughing. “Patience, darling.”
A step forward, pants hitting the floor, cock in hand. Running the tip of it across her folds, making it shiny with her slick, forcing this sigh from her lips.
You pause, just to make her whine. To make her give you what you really want to hear.
Mina bites her lip.
Squeezes her eyes shut.
She knows the deal.
"Please."
That word, that crack in the composure, the control that Mina is so used to maintaining everywhere else but here. It’s the thrill of it all—the challenge in the attempt. Taking someone like Mina, all perfect posture, sparkling teeth, effortless grace; and bringing her to her knees.
Figuratively speaking, mostly.
Only, her phone lights up.
You look down and see it, left abandoned on the floor somewhere in Mina’s rush to get to you. But now its glow is stark against the dark parquet, beaming with messages by the dozen. All different variations on the same question: where the fuck is she?
Her eyes flicker to the screen, then back up to yours. There's a silent conversation happening there—desire fighting with duty, lust with loyalty.
You make it easy for her.
A push is all it takes, really. Cunt yielding to your will, cock sliding into that ridiculous tightness.
She freezes.
Braces herself.
Whimpers.
“Priorities, Mina,” you grunt through it, breaching in deeper; assaulted by the heat of her cunt around you, choking each inch. “Remember, you asked for this.”
The phone keeps buzzing, panicked vibrations at your feet. Urgent messages becoming calls, flashing faces across the screen. You can see them one-by-one, see Mina’s reaction as they pop up—sighing when she sees her managers name, eyes widening when a rather flirty photo of Chaeyoung comes next, and then her entire body tensing, tightening around you at the next picture:
Her and her boyfriend, arms thrown around each other, both looking all beautiful and famous and so very much in love. The perfect couple; so picturesque it might as well have come right off a billboard.
“God, fuck,” Mina groans out, panting, breathless. “You’d think they’d—ah—just leave me alone for one—single—night—”
“Should we snap some photos? Add them all to a group chat, send them through? Let them see the look on your face and figure it out from there.” 
Mischief flashes across her eyes, mouth open to answer back with something that is no doubt clever and suggestive and designed to get you both into far more trouble than you’re already in—but she doesn’t get a word of it out.
You’re slamming into her.
Mina nearly comes apart then and there; eyes snapping shut, neck arching, back banging against the hard, unforgiving wood of the door behind her. Her lips round into this perfect ‘O’ of surprise, and this sweet, sweet needy whine comes slipping out from her throat.
And just like that, she’s all yours again. 
It’s not like the phone goes silent—it just stops mattering.
“Asshole,” she’s saying—grinning now, doing that Mina thing where she says one thing but means another, expecting you to read the underneath. Which this time is—touch me, pull me close, pin me and keep me fucking trapped while you fuck the air right out of my lungs.
“Now there’s an idea.” You’re kissing her, tongue past her lips, tasting the rush of the forbidden, the lines she’s crossing just so she can have you filling up her cunt.
And there’s all this noise—the sound of your cock thrusting into her, skin against skin, shaft into wetness; the buzzing of the phone, her cries of your name dying in your mouth.
Oh, you know it’s going to be brutal if anyone was to overhear, if you’re caught and all this gets out. The narratives that will be crafted, the cliché of it all, the sizzling hot headlines that will undoubtedly paint her, as they are wont to do, in a million different unfair ways.
Seductress. Gold-digger. Slut.
But even as you’re fucking her deep, lips marking up her skin, digging your fingers into the meat of her ass and making Mina cum so hard that all she can say is— “please, please, please,”
—you know the facts, no matter who’s begging who under the shine of the outrageously garish chandelier hanging overhead:
You're the one that chased her first.
(It’s incredibly fitting that this whole thing started with a celebration.)
Taking a step back, to months earlier, at a gala:
Where it’s becoming apparent to you, and seemingly, just you, that Mina’s the only one here that doesn’t look entirely out of place.
Or at least, she’s the only one that seems to fit amongst the grandeur; the imposing pillars and archways, the ornate cornices, the glint of gold and jade beneath the soft glow of paper lanterns, and the shadow of the palace itself, cast over the sprawling garden like a looming guardian.
The anachronism of it all is the concept, or so you’ve been told. The new, the future—your company—against the backdrop of the old, the traditional. A fusion event, meant to celebrate and honour the past right before yanking it to the future; and yet it all somehow feels so…
Boring.
The same faces, the same games; sharks in a sea of corporate sabotage and political machinations. They’ll smile for you, sing your praises to the highest heavens, do everything they can to make you remember their name—right up until the moment you show your back.
All this to say, it’s going to be very hard to last four hours without wanting to punch someone in the face just to make things slightly more interesting.
(Oh come, one and all. Throw yourselves at the feet of Korea’s youngest self-made billionaire, and hope that by some stroke of luck or misplaced charm, you might just catch a crumb from his table.
That’s what this whole exhausting circus feels like to you.)
So, when you’re about done with what seems like the hundredth round of fake laughs and vacuous pleasantries with yet another politician who’s trying to sell you on the importance of family, and coincidentally, his very marriageable daughter, you make your escape.
Something about needing a drink.
Ease out of the circle, let the noise of the gala swallow you up like you were never there, and navigate across the garden to the bar.
Where you find her.
Mina, something of an anachronism herself; looking more at home amongst the pagodas and the cherry blossoms than in the company of suits and ties and plastic smiles. Like she’s been painted onto the scene; rendered in living colour—stark white, midnight black, blue silk. Or cobalt. Maybe azure.
You’ll have to reserve some time later to ask her about the colour of her dress.  
What’s important is that she’s alone, which seems like a crime in and of itself, on account of, well, how fucking breathtaking she is. Add that she’s here at all, and it all amounts to some kind of serendipitous miracle.
(An idol, a celebrity, willingly spending her free time in the company of the elitist dregs of society? The world's gone mad.)
You don’t really need an excuse to join her; you know her, technically. Not intimately, but in that same way that everyone in this high society tapestry is threaded together. An award show here, a charity function there—the kind of acquaintance that lets you say hello without raising eyebrows, but not much more.
All this to say it makes some sense to slide yourself onto the barstool to her right, ignoring that the rest are completely unoccupied.
The smile that Mina gives you as you approach is a little sharper than it needs to be, a little too knowing.
“You’re not going to ask if this seat’s taken?”
You return the smile, a mirror image of hers, and lean onto the bar. You don’t even need to look at the bartender; your drink is in your hand, cold and crisp, the second you set it down. “I thought I’d risk it.”
“Neat trick,” Mina says, posting her chin on one hand, watching the sleek liquid slide down your throat. She’s got a flute of champagne in front of her, untouched.
There’s a gravity to her, you’re realising only when you’re this close. Something in the way the moonlight's kissing her skin, a blend of porcelain and peaches, glowing. Maybe that’s why she’s been left alone; the other guests were smart enough not to get swallowed up in it all. Better to appreciate at a distance than to drown in it.
She regards you for a beat, runs a finger around the rim of her glass. "Shouldn't you be off being the centre of attention somewhere? Shaking hands, kissing babies, that whole bag?”
“Nah," you’re dismissive, looking back out to the crowd milling about, lost in their own conversations and power plays. "This whole thing's more for them than it is for me."
Mina scoffs. Raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. You follow her eyes—across the banners, the placards, the giant projection cast onto the palace itself.
A brushstroke circle—the logo you designed—swirling around, stamping itself on what was once a symbol of absolute power, now reduced to just another stage for the rich and the elite and all their insignificant little games.
You feel the need to clarify. “For the company.”
Mina ripostes. “That just so happens to be named after you.”
“Just one of those funny coincidences.”
“Apparently so.”
It does occur to you that it should be somewhat startling how instantly familiar you feel around Mina. Slipping into casual conversation—light jabs, coded compliments; all soaked in insinuation. Just enough edge and implication to keep you on your toes.
There's an ease to her, to how she smiles, how she laughs, how she just sits there, all drop-dead gorgeous and oh, this? Nothing special, just how I always am.
So it’s only natural that somewhere in all this easy banter, between your third drink and her second, her hand lands on your forearm, your knee brushes against hers and you both decide to stop being so subtle.
You pick your moment, as she’s thumbing through a menu of drinks she’s already deciding she doesn’t want, to try to solve the mystery of her. Past the red of her lips, the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. Along the neckline of her dress, where the silk clings like it’s afraid of letting go, and down to where it dips and angles out; the open shoulder, the collarbone, the swell underneath.
It’s the sum of it all, you’re realising. The dress, the look, the woman.
(Accentuate without revealing. Tease without giving away the prize. Show off that flawless ass and dare the world not to look. And yeah, they fucking look. They all do.
You’re just the only one that doesn’t look away when you're caught.)
But now, you could reach out and touch her; unlatch the straps of her heels, run your fingers from her ankle up, up over the smooth expanse of her calf, her knee, the bare skin of her thigh right where her dress decides to daringly split, and underneath, until your hand is filled with the heat of her and all she knows is you.
You could complete her. Or she, you, you think.
Only, there’s a slight misstep in an otherwise immaculate ensemble.
A necklace.
A ridiculous, ugly, tacky thing. Hanging off her like a misplaced jewel on a swan; more ‘costume party’ than ‘refined modern gala’. Fighting the simplicity of her gown, offensively jarring, especially against the serenity of the moonlit garden.
Mina notices you staring. “A gift.”
“Boyfriend,” you realise, doing the math in your head. A careless present, given by someone who doesn’t know (or doesn’t care to know) her. Hoping the flash, the dollars spent overshadows the unfamiliarity.
(It doesn’t.)
“Partner,” Mina confirms. There’s a slight dip at the corner of her mouth, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of something unpleasant. It disappears as soon as it comes, but you caught it. “A little too old to have a boyfriend.”
“Hm.” You click your tongue. Narrow your eyes. You’ve been told that it makes you appear disarming. “And where is this partner?”
Mina’s smile returns. She takes her first sip of champagne. “You tell me. Don’t you sign off on all the invites?”
“Just the important ones.”
“Even so, not like he would have come if he was invited.” Mina leaves you to fill in the gaps. “A tad too public. For the both of us, really.”
“I see.”
And you do. You’ve seen your fair share of these types of arrangements, participated in a few, even. At the beginning, the secret of it all, the cloak and dagger; it’s exhilarating. But that only lasts so long. Eventually, like all things, it fades. Leaving you with someone who you don’t really see, who you don’t even know, and the sinking realisation that maybe the thrill was the only thing that kept it interesting. 
“So,” you lean forward, drawing your conclusion. “You’re here. All alone. Stuck in a relationship with someone dumb enough to let you go out looking like that.”
“Careful.”
“It’s just,” you offer, your gaze lingering on her throat, “You don’t strike me as the type to settle for anything less than you deserve, Mina.”
That makes Mina pause. Almost flinch. Imperceptibly if you weren’t looking so closely at her lips. The sound of her name rolling off your tongue, like it's always been there, waiting to escape—it has her reeling.
And yet, somehow, she recovers.
“Because you know me so well.”
So, you switch up, throw a curveball. “Is it the sex?”
To her credit, Mina barely reacts to that provocation, as if she was expecting the follow up. Just takes another sip of her champagne with a grace that seems rehearsed. You’ll have to try harder.
She shrugs a bare shoulder.
"Sex is just sex. It’s not everything."
“So, no sex at all, then.”
Mina’s smile is like a knife’s edge. “Are you always this forward?”
“All I’m saying,” you keep going, somewhat emboldened by the game, by the warmth of the whiskey poisoning your kidneys. “If it was me—”
Mina’s hand slides up your forearm, ending somewhere around your triceps. You’re close. Close enough to inhale her perfume; cinnamon, smoke, darker than anticipated. You’d fill your lungs with it, if you could. “If it was you.”
You take another drink. She watches.
And it clicks into place. What this really is. What she’s really doing here.
The slight tilt of her shoulder, a slip of her dress—just a fraction. A shift in her seat and suddenly, the silk has risen, too high, and there’s a stretch of skin leading up to a flash of lace that’s more moonlit than the night itself.
The suspicion sets in. Was she waiting for you?
Mina laughs.
You ask, “What’s so funny?”
“I was just thinking,” Mina says, lowly. Grinning, like she’s reading your mind. “How even you’re the same.”
“How so?”
“All you men. How you see me, how you’re looking at me right now.” She reaches up to her neck, taps the clunky stone hovering over her throat. Once. Twice. “Making it about you. You think I need saving.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Open once more to protest—
“That’s what you think.” Mina interrupts, smirks; and your eyes are on her lips, wondering if anyone would be able to pull you off them if you were so lucky enough to taste them. “What you want is to own me.”
“Mina,” you regard her, openly. Honestly. “I could never dream of owning you.”
She nods back towards your logo, emblazoned across the castle walls. “Because you’re clearly not the type of person that likes owning things.”
And there’s a realisation here, as she’s staring into your eyes—a real, actual, bone-deep revelation—that she's been doing the same thing as you this whole time. Reading you, until she's seeing through you.
The silence stretches, thick and sweet , and it’s obvious to see where this is heading. The idea that’s being sparked—lean in, kiss her right here, right now, with all these eyes on you. Kiss that smirk right off her face, steal whatever clever rebuttals she’s composing from her lips, the flirtations that she’s left hanging in the air. Replace them all with your name.
But it’s all hypothetical, for now.
“You’re not even thinking past right now, are you?” Mina asks, amused. "The rumours you've started just by sitting next to me."
"Rumours."
"The kind that ruins careers. That never leave. That would make him want to kill you if he found out."
Another sip, letting it burn down your throat. Think about it. Attack it from every angle—
(Doesn’t it just make sense; the billionaire, and his beautiful celebrity partner? Or even if there was a scandal, just a one-night fling; wouldn’t it be worth it?
You could both live off the thrill alone, it’d reignite whatever embers her boyfriend hasn’t stomped out yet.)
“Maybe I want the rumours.”
Mina’s eyes widen. It’s the first time she’s dropped her guard.
“If you were mine,” you start, and stop immediately, reining in that last word on the tip of your tongue. “If you were my girlfriend, partner, whatever label you want to put on it. I’d tell the whole damn world. Broadcast it on every channel. Make sure everyone knows exactly who I’m fucking every single morning, afternoon, night.”
You’re hitting the mark of something, you can tell, because Mina’s hand tightens around your arm, and she doesn't seem to mind when yours lands on her thigh. A flash; the thought of spreading them, of seeing her laid bare underneath you. Or flipped over in front of you, crumpling that dress around her waist, so you can take proper purchase of that ass that’s been hinted at all night long.
And all of a sudden, she doesn't seem to be as spoken for as she might have led you to believe.
She bites her lip. Keeps it there for a second, two, before letting it go.
“So, this is what you usually say to all the pretty girls you invite to these parties?”
The alcohol’s loosened your tongue enough to state truths you’re supposed to keep to yourself. “I usually don’t have to say anything at all.”
Mina challenges. “Must be nice, being this rich, cute, and charming.”
“The being rich part does a lot of the hard work.”
“So, the cuteness and the charm?”
“I’ll let you decide,” you finish, watching her smile spread, the corners of her eyes crinkle. It makes your chest tighten.
“I suppose, in your perfect world,” Mina surmises, and now she’s so close that your knee is splitting the difference between her thighs, and you’re already planning the logistics of it all—the where, the how— “this ends with you fucking my brains out behind one of these old houses.”
“I’ve got a few in mind.”
“I bet.” Mina takes one last pull of her drink, empties it, and sets it back down. “And afterwards? After you’ve made me forget my own name and made the entirety of my existence revolve around your cock—what’s your plan then? Who are we—who are you going to be?"
You finish off your own glass, setting it down with the same deliberate clink as hers. “You know, the funny thing about money is," you say, sliding your fingers up her thigh, higher, higher. "It can make you whoever you want to be. So, the real question is—who do you want me to be?"
You’re holding your breath as she answers: “Not some knight in shining armour. I don’t need a saviour. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Then what do you need?”
Mina inches, gets close, and now her breath’s a tickle on the shell of your ear. She bites. “Just someone to help me scratch an itch.”
There’s a moment, somewhere before Mina threads her fingers through yours, lets you lead her through the throngs of guests and into the shadows of the palace; where all of this—this want, this need, boils over. Where Mina kisses your cheek and warns:
“You don’t have the time for me.”
Now it’s your turn to grin; reaching up to her throat, slipping that necklace off her, leaving it to clatter onto the granite below never to be spoken of again.
“Maybe. But I can make every second count.”
This is how you end up:
Pinning Mina to some ancient wall; the moon’s spotlight spilling over the contours of her body, a hand tangled in her hair, the other pushing her dress higher up her thighs.
You weren’t lying, you did have a place in mind. Namely, by the west gate, where a house that used to be the servant’s quarters stood. It’s a part of the palace that’s been neglected in the reconstruction, and thus, ironically, the most authentic part of this whole sham.
A true hideaway for those not to be seen or heard; a building that’s seen centuries of service, of lives lived in the shadow of royalty, and now it’s going to bear witness to this, to you and Mina, undoing each other with every passing second.
Something a little sacred, a whole lot profane.
She’s smiling against your lips; a smirk, more likely. Because she’s new to this kind of thing—the almost romantic picture the two of you are painting—chaste kisses stolen in quiet corners of royal residences. The kind of thing that could fuel a dozen dramas.
But you both know better.
So, you let her start things off, let her set the pace for this evening's affairs. And Mina, to her credit, is gracious enough to tell you exactly what she wants.
(Kiss me harder, touch me here, please, please, don't let go.)
Twisting the lapels of your jacket in her hand, desperately pulling you closer, even though there's no more room left. Kissing you with longing. Making you believe that she's missed this—missed you—despite the fact that you've only just officially met. And sure, it's a lie, but it's a lie that feels so good, so right, that you’re willing to indulge her.
Indulge yourself.
Your lips veer off the corner of her mouth, ignoring the tongue and teeth that try to keep you there, the hand that kindly urges you to not stop kissing her.
Because you’ve got a ticking clock in the back of your mind, counting down the seconds before someone calls you or her away, or more problematically, catches you and her, a heap of limbs and lust and fucking in the dusty archives of history.
You break away, keep things moving, kiss your way along her neck, feel her heartbeat drum against your lips. Follow her neckline down, down; find this sweet little spot, a darkened freckle right on top of her collarbone that makes her sigh.
“Tell me something, honestly.” Mina finds her voice the same time your fingers meet the promised lace of her underwear, turning her words into these breathless moans. “How often do you do this?”
You tug the fabric pooling at her waist—once, firmly—and Mina’s dress slips from her shoulders, whispering down her arms and leaving her in nothing but flawless white and a strapless bra that matches the silk in hue. 
You smile, look up. “This?”
Mina clarifies, "Whisk some innocent girl away into a deserted corner and—"
She’s cut off by the click-clack of her bra releasing behind her back, your fingers slipping beneath the cotton, and you’re filling your hand with the swell of her breast; so soft, so perfect.
The sound when you touch her and she gasps; if only you could capture, keep it forever. You’ll just have to make sure she keeps making it—kneading gently, rolling the pebbled peak of her nipple between your thumb and forefinger, feeling it bead and tighten.
Your lips to her shoulder, you ask, “And what?”
Mina sighs, “fuck her completely, thoroughly senseless,” and you swear there’s something revelatory about how she says it—sinful ideas from saintly lips.
"Honestly?" You pause, your gaze lingering on the goosebumps rising across her skin. "You're the first."
Her laughter's a surprise; it's light, disbelieving. "First?"
"First tonight."
Mina's smile widens, her grip on your jacket tightens. "You're so full of shit," she says, but there's no malice in it. Just the thrill of the hunt. Or, being hunted.
You don’t bother to argue the point; let her think what she wants. Instead, you lean into it (into her), let your other hand snake around her thigh, over the elastic of her panties and lower, until you’re palming the curve of her ass.
Firm, taut, flawless—because of course it is; exactly like the rest of her. She’s so hot under your touch; the softness, the smoothness of it. And you know—without a doubt—you’re going to worship this ass.
A squeeze for good measure—balancing the fine line of respect and greed. Mina yelps—surprise, pleasure.
“God,” Mina shudders, does her best under the assault of your lips on her neck, fingers pinching, tugging, hand squeezing. "You're—oh, you're not so bad at this."
You press a kiss to her throat. “Flattery gets you everywhere, Miss Myoui.”
“Please, not with the government names,” Mina hisses, her cheeks flushing a soft pink that matches the glow of the lanterns outside.
“Apologies.” You chuckle, slipping your hand underneath the band of her panties, and around—down—pressing against her and sinking lower until you’ve got a proper hold of her. Soaking wet and dripping heat onto your fingertips.
A cry from her lips. A shiver. A buck of her hips.
Her hands shoot to your chest.
“Please, kiss me again.”
You oblige—how could you not, with the way she’s begging?
Her nails dig into your shirt, her breath hitches as you push your finger—your index—past her entrance and inside, and just before she can moan your name into the night air, you’re filling her mouth with your tongue, licking inside.
You kiss her like it’s your first kiss, like it’s your last. Like the only way to calm her down is with your mouth and your tongue and your teeth. She’s so wet and tight and pulsing around you, she’s trying to suck you in; and fuck, when you’re knuckle-deep she bites down on your lip so hard she nearly draws blood.
The moans that she's filling your mouth with; this symphony of want sends a jolt of pure, unfiltered desire straight to your cock. You're straining—against your trousers, against her thigh, straining against the urge to rip that dress off her and leave her bare, but you're not there yet.
It's about her, about needing her, making her beg for it. Making her so desperate that she'll do just about anything to get you inside her.
(Because there’s something about her, about Mina, that just makes you want to take your time. To learn the ins and outs of what makes her tick. The secret spots that make her moan into your mouth, the places to touch that make her shiver, the sighs and sounds that only you can coax out of her.
It’s etched into every line of her body; every curve and sharp edge—just pure heat from head to toe; And there’s a beauty so absolute in her perfection, the dash of makeup, the careful draping of her hair, it’s too good not to ruin. To not want to leave your mark on her in some way so that everyone knows she was once yours, if only for a night.)
“You’re just so needy, Mina.” You hum into her jaw, when your lips slip from hers and you struggle to resist the urge to leave these marks on her. Her cheek, her neck, her collarbone. Every part of her that she’s offered to you, every part you’re eager to claim. “Like it’s been ages since someone’s touched you like this.”
“I don’t—please—” is all Mina can manage, because the pad of your thumb is ghosting over her clit, pressing in and circling, and the way her pitch rises and she sighs your name gives you your answer:
It’s been a while.
“I don’t think—gah—” She tries agin, but you torture her with another finger, stretching inside her, sinking in and curling upwards. “I don’t think I’ve ever been touched like this.”
“Good,” you tell her, and she shivers when your voice rumbles through her, when you drop down and your lips go low again, and you take one of her stiff peaks between your teeth. “I don’t settle for second place.”
“Neither do—God—I—” Mina braces herself against the wall behind her, failing to find anything but cold brick to hold onto as you map out the rest of her with your hands and your fingers and your lips.
She’s so, so hot for you; you would’ve never predicted it, not in your wildest estimations. Never thought just how easy it would be to undo someone so poised and put-together like Mina, to render her into this puddle of need.
“So why don’t you show me then,” Mina breathes, voice trembling as much as she is. You suck deep, swirl your tongue, make her arch her back to push more of herself into you. “What all the—oh my—what all the fuss is about."
“As you wish, darling.”
And there’s part of you that’s recognising the awfulness of what you’re doing, taking something—someone—that’s not yours, and having her tell you all these things, finger fucking these words of oblivion from her lips, touch me, please I need it, kiss me harder, more, more, make me feel it, make me feel you.
But even that part of you is so, so small right now, buried deep down with everything that isn’t Mina, with everything that isn’t her pussy clenching around your hand, or the taste of tits on your tongue.
Ignore all thoughts of the after, of what happens when you’ve made her cum again and again, and you’ve wrecked yourself in the pursuit of it all. What happens when you return to the throngs of nobodies, all rumpled and flushed and red, and the whispers start flying, and the glances are no longer just knowing but shamelessly envious.
That’s a problem for future you.
Right now, you’ve nearly stripped her entirely, pressed up against a wall that’s seen more than its fair share of secrets, and your two—now three—fingers are ruining her in a way that has her dancing on that borderline.
“I’m close, so close,” Mina cries, but you already know.
Because you’re already giving it to her; everything she wants and then some. Touching her, fucking her with your fingers, pushing her higher, watching her unravel.
Making her whine against your skin, making her eyes squeeze shut like she’s afraid of what’s happening, afraid of how much she wants this.
“We’re only just getting started, Mina.”
You let her nipple pop out from your mouth, leaving it to bob in the cool night air, sensitive and dying to be back between your teeth. Hand shifts from her hip, sliding up to cradle her jaw, to tip her face back—force those deep, dark eyes to open so you can really look at her.
Panting, pupils blown wide, and the sight of her so undone sends another wave of heat straight to your cock.
“Look at me.” It comes out harsher, more of a firm command than intended. It does its job. “You're going to cum now.”
She nods, frantically, eyes locked on yours as your thumb traces over her bottom lip, feeling it plump and swollen from your kisses. Her tongue darts out, swipes over the pad, tasting herself and you; and you’re thinking about filling that mouth of hers, or maybe that cunt, or if she’s game, that tight, untouched little asshole.
But one thing at a time.
“I’m going to eat your pussy,” you’re saying everything you’ve dreamt of saying to her since you first saw her, first caught sight of that ass daring to wander past your line of sight; and suddenly, every raw, filthy thought you’ve had of her is coming to the surface. “Then I’m going to fuck you. Again and again. Your cunt, your mouth. That ass. I’m going to take it all. And you’re going to let me, aren’t you, darling?”
Mina breathes, nods, signing a verbal contract to let you do whatever the fuck you want with her, promising you all of her, every part of her you’ve so shamelessly craved.
“Good.”   
And so, you drop to your knees.
You glance up at her. She looks down at you.
Like she’s been burning for this; like she’ll combust if you make her wait a second longer.
Pushing her dress up until it's around her waist, keeping it up with your hands on her thighs, spreading her legs wider. And you’re seeing her pussy, the darkened, plump flesh—bare, wet, begging—and so, so pretty.
Fuck—what kind of guy could resist this?
(The kind that buys her jewellery without knowing the first thing about her. The kind that leaves her to sit alone at a gala like a trophy on a shelf. The kind that doesn’t get to taste her—doesn’t know how.
The kind that’s not you.
And maybe she was right—you do think you could save her.)
“What are you doing?” Mina huffs, impatient.
You smirk, unable to resist the urge to drag this out, to keep her on edge a little longer. "Just appreciating."
Mina's eyes narrow, but the smile never leaves her lips. "Well, appreciate faster."
You don’t need to be told twice.
Take her by the hips, spin her around, make her inhale—sharp. Force her to look away from you, to face the cold, indifferent wall, to brace herself.
“Wait, why—”
“Hold your dress up for me,” you mumble against her thighs.
Mina’s hands obey, holding the silk out of the way; and now she’s bent over, like a fucking present. Letting your eyes drink in her ass; unable to do anything but just stare.
How the moonlight kisses the curve, makes the shadows play against it. So perfect. So round and tight and full. Fruit so ripe you could pluck it from the tree with your teeth.
You’re leaning in, kissing the top of her thighs, right below where her cheeks spill over. Kissing up, a soft press of your lips to one cheek, the other, and fuck Mina’s trembling; barely holding it together, and you’re just getting started.
You drag your nose up, across the cotton of her panties and inhale her deep. Sweet and musky, a fine wine that’s been left to breathe, and she squirms.
Shivers under your breath.
And when Mina sighs something that sounds suspiciously like a warning—because she’s not the type to let you get away with anything like this so easily—you take the band of her underwear with your teeth, feeling the fabric stretch. Thin, delicate, begging to snap.
The panties fall away, down to her ankles. The sound of her heels tapping the ground as she lifts her legs to let it slide off, leaving her bare, vulnerable, and yours.
Mina goes still.
Hands spread her cheeks, and finally, you dive in, tongue first. Swipe along the crevice of her ass, taste the sweetness of her from bottom to top, forcing this gasp from her lips. You’re not shy about it—no room for anything close to it when your nose is pressed up against her asshole—and Mina’s thighs are trembling, muscles in her legs tightening like she’s trying to run away from what’s coming next.
But she won’t. You’ve got her pinned. You’ve got her right where she wants to be.
You flatten your tongue against her pussy, lick from cunt to asshole in one, long slow drag, make her sigh your name like it’s a prayer.
“I can’t believe—I never—no one’s ever—” She’s talking, trying to keep it together, trying to rationalise how something so filthy is making her fall apart in a million different, tremendous ways. But the words break off into moans, pure music to your ears.
“Like that?” You murmur against her skin, words disappearing into her.
“Oh my god, yes,” Mina cries out, a benediction. Her grip tightens on her dress, holding it up like a veil. A fucked-up kind of thing, marrying her cunt to your lips; arousal so potent you’re drowning it.
Because she’s a wreck, been a wreck since the moment you laid a hand on her. And now you just have to keep her there.
You let your tongue slide up and down her slit, teasing the folds, going lower, spreading her legs to lap up her clit until she’s begging for it—until she’s begging for you to push inside, to fuck her with it, to make her scream.
"Enjoy it, enjoy being so messy for me.”
"Oh—oh my God!" Mina cries out as you delve into her, and the sound echoes down empty corridors, bouncing off the walls, taking a grand tour of the palace. “I can’t believe—can’t fucking believe—"
You can't believe it either. That no one else has had the pleasure of tasting, of licking, of dining on this slice of Eden laid out before you. It's a crime against nature, really. A sin that you're more than happy to rectify.
"Fuck, you're so good," Mina voice is strained, her legs buckling under the weight of her own desire, she needs to post one hand onto the wall to not completely collapse into your mouth.
A dark chuckle escapes your lips. Feeling smug and utterly in control. "It's not rocket science, darling. Just a little bit of appreciation goes a long way."
But you're not just tonguing her ass because it’s there, because it’s what you’re into. You’re doing it because it’s driving her wild, because you know it’s a button that’s been left untouched, unexplored. And there’s something about being the first to do it that makes your cock throb, makes you want to worship not just her ass, but all of her.
Every part of her that's been neglected, overlooked, ignored.
"You have no idea," she breathes, her legs trembling harder now, "How good it feels."
You lean back, just a fraction, looking up at her, the tension coiling up her spine. "Oh, darling," you say, "I do. Believe me, I do."
A kiss into the small of her back, and you slide your finger back into her, once at first. So impossibly wet, stretching so easily for you, welcoming you right back in.
It’s all for you.
And you can’t get enough, so you add another, then another, stretching her even more, making her drench you and moan for you louder and louder.
You’ve figured it out. How to fuck her, lick her, press into her cunt just right. Finding the rhythm, that makes her breath skip and her body tense, that makes her pussy clamp down around your digits.
“Oh, God, oh, oh, oh—yes—right there—right there—” She’s panting, her hips jerking back, meeting every thrust of your fingers and your tongue.
You’re so close to making her cum—so close that you can almost taste it on the air—and she’s begging for it, so sweetly, so desperately.
“Please, please, don’t stop, I’m right there—” Mina’s hand reaches back, tangling in your hair, and she’s pulling you closer, grinding herself against your mouth.
Bury your face between her cheeks, fuck her fast with your fingers. It’s heaven down in the depths of hell; her thighs, her cheeks, her cunt, her ass. So soft, so wet, so very yours.
That whimper, that beautiful sigh that escapes Mina’s lips is her final invitation. You push your tongue inside her, opening it up, feeling the tightness, the warmth. The shock coursing through her as she surrenders to the unspeakable filth and bliss of your mouth on her asshole.
So tight, so clean, so delicious.
You lick and suck and kiss, fucking her with your fingers, pressing into her, exploring the depths of that tight little hole.
"This is, this is—” her voice strains, wonder, desperation, downright heat at what you’re doing to her. "No one’s ever done this to me. Keep eating my ass, please."
It’s her words that keeps you going, and it all becomes a blur of moans and shivers, of the way she tastes, smells, feels. But you don’t stop, you can’t, all you want to do is make that tight ring of muscle yours.
“Please let me cum. Now. Please. I need it—I need you—”
She needs you to never stop.
You take her, right there in the moonlit garden, hidden by the shadows and the foliage and the silk of her dress. You can almost feel the vibrations of her voice in your mouth, against your tongue, like it’s a part of her, like she’s speaking straight into your soul with every moan and gasp and plea.
The squelch of your fingers fucking her. Her cunt griping you, being devoured. Your tongue invading her ass. The way you’re ruining her for everyone else. Her cries.
She’s so loud.
It doesn’t matter.
The whispers of the gala seem so far away, so irrelevant. It’s all about Mina and her ass and your three fingers sawing in and out of her and she’s saying—
“God, fuck, how can you do this, how can you make me—fuck—"
The answer to her unfinished question: it’s because she’s worth it. It’s because of her, how she makes you want to prove yourself. Because of her hips and her thighs and her cunt and her ass and all of her, every single part.
And that’s your name on her breath, that’s your name when she’s close, that’s your name when she finally tips over, when her legs give way and she’s gasping it into the night.
“Oh my—”
Mina cums.
You swallow.
Drink your fill from her cunt, fill up your nose with her scent. Burn the memory of what it’s like to have your face buried in her ass and have her leaking down your chin. It’s a full body spasm that wracks through her, setting her soul on fire. She’s a star, a supernova, a fucking explosion on your tongue.
Her walls pulse around your fingers, squeezing, clenching, and you give it to her, keep fucking her through it, keep licking, because she’s still there, still hovering.
It overwhelms her—she lets it—you feel her body tighten, quiver, then release like a bowstring snapped.
“Fuck me, fuck me, please—yes, like that—right—right there—yes—yes—yes—”
A chant of yeses right before falling off a cliff and into an oh fuck, I’m cumming.
And you’re right there, knees in the dirt, smiling against her cheeks, holding onto her hips, making sure she doesn’t collapse entirely.
And fuck, she goes, and goes and goes.
Until the ground falls beneath her feet.
You’re there to catch her, to ease her down to the ground with you, hold her in your arms until her world stops spinning.
It takes a moment, two.
And she looks up at you, like she’s unsure of how she got there, in this tangle of sighs and limbs and you. But it doesn’t really matter because she pulls you closer, hand still buried in your hair, needing to kiss you just one more time.
Her taste lingers on your tongue—sweet and salty and so uniquely her. She kisses you again, a little less frantic this time. A little more like she means it.
It’s hard not to feel anything but pride.
Mina’s cheek is pressed to your chest, her eyes barely able to focus, her breaths coming in quiet, contented puffs.
And you’re coming to realise what kind of woman Mina is. Even now, when she should be an unrepairable mess—sprawled out on the cool floor with her dress in a puddle around her, her pussy still pulsing and leaking down her thighs—there’s this poise to her that’s downright intimidating.
She breathes, “You’re just a fantasy, aren’t you?” It feels like a warm hand sliding down your spine.
You lean down, kiss her forehead, tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
It’s peaceful. It’s perfect.
And then your emergency line rings.
Mina inclines her head. A spell is broken. “Well, that’s timing for you.”
You instantly regret the next words that come out of your mouth, the rational words that have never sounded more irrational. “I need to go.”
Mina’s far too polite, far too graceful to say what she wants to say, what you’re pleading her in your mind to say. But she knows the game. You both do.
She just nods, rewards herself with a peek at the tent angrily poking underneath your slacks.
“It’s fine,” she says. (It’s not). She reaches up to your lips, running a thumb over the gloss she’s stained you with. “I think I can handle it from here.”
Her other hand slips down to your thigh, gives you a courtesy squeeze as a farewell, and it’s all you can do not to jump. But you can’t, because the phone’s still ringing, because at the end of the day you’re still a billionaire with responsibilities and a reputation to uphold.
She’s kind of enough to give you an out. “You’re supposed to be giving a speech, right?”
Said responsibility and reputation has you answering, “Yeah.”
You’re stupid for it, stupid for even entertaining the idea of letting her go, or leaving her behind. But you’re not completely blameless—it’s near impossible to even think straight when all the blood in your body has gone south for the evening.  
“Are you going to be okay with,” Mina blinks down at you. “Your situation?”
It’s painful to even say it. “I guess I’ll have to be.”
Mina sits up, pulls herself off you, untangling her legs with a grace that seems almost otherworldly.  Pulls her panties back up, tucks them into place with a little shiver. Smooths her dress down, twisting it back in place.
You’re already regretting letting her leave before she’s even gone.
But the messages have piled up on your phone, and Mina can see it all, the endless frantic texts, the missed calls.
You’re late.
You’re needed.
The world’s waiting.
Mina reads your face, and you can’t tell if she’s impressed or disappointed. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
You stand up, help her to her feet, because that’s what you do—you take care of your own messes. She’s still smiling at you, and you want to tell her how much you wish you could stay.
“It’s okay,” is all she says, as you tuck your shirt back in and slick your hair down.
She’s redoing her own hair, trying to fix it into something presentable. Something less ‘I’ve been fucked raw against a brick wall’ and more ‘gee, quite a strong wind tonight’.
“I knew from the jump you didn’t have the time.”
You’re blurting out, “I can make more.”
“Not even money can buy that.”
Your phone rings again.
Mina’s eyes follow the screen, the glow lighting up her face. Ethereal. Yeah, that's the word for how she looks. You've never been sure of the definition but you're certain it fits.
And when she stands on her toes to kiss your cheek, to bid you farewell, she holds onto your shoulder long enough to whisper her address in your ear. “I’ll be waiting. If you can get away.”
“Why don’t I just come with you now?”
She laughs—but it’s empty, almost a little sad. “Because, you have a job to do, and I have an appearance to keep up. And unlike you, I’m not quite sure I’m ready to broadcast to the whole world who I’m fucking. Or who I’m going to fuck. If he’s not late, that is.”
And with a quiet breath, she’s gone.
A ghost in the moonlight, slipping away like she’s been painted out of existence, leaving you with the memory of her on your mouth and the ache she’s leaving in your cock.
You turn back to the gala.
The air feels somewhat colder.
The rest of the evening goes far, far too slowly for your liking.
While your absence has been noted, the whispers and glances are more curious than concerned. They don't know where you've been, and one of your assistants is kind enough to fetch you a new shirt to replace the one that's smudged with lipstick and makeup and Mina, before any real juicy rumours can start.
You try, and fail, to get things moving as quickly as possible:
(A business rival pulls you aside to congratulate you on the recent product launch—You're just thinking about Mina's ass.
A board member sings your praises about last quarter’s earnings, how you're really sticking it to those idiots that forecasted a downturn—You're only thinking about sticking it between Mina's thighs.
A reporter that sneaked in wants to know if you're planning another acquisition so soon after the last one—Yes, you're going to acquire Mina; find somewhere far away from here with another wall to pin her against and make her scream and ache all over for you.)
Thankfully, your assistant is at the ready before you can really make a scene, dragging you over to the stage and pulling you out of this shit show.
‘Just stepped away for some air’ is what you had assured her when she took the shirt off your hands, but really, there's no point trying to hide it.
She's seen that look before, that glow that you can't quite wipe off.
But she's loyal, she doesn't ask questions. Just tells you that you’re on in five, and that in the meantime, she’ll make sure the driver is ready for a quick exit.
So, you force yourself to smile, address the faces that meld together into a wall of teeth.
Make a speech that’s just a rush of words that you've recited countless times before. Innovation and growth, the future of the company, the same spiel from the annual report wrapped up in a shiny new bow.
But none of it matters. You're not even hearing yourself speak. You're hearing the echoes of Mina's moans, feeling the tremble of her thighs as you devoured her, replaying her orgasm in your mind again and again.
You can't wait to get off this fucking stage.
The second the applause dies down, you're off like a shot. The podium forgotten; the spotlight cold on your back. You grab your phone and slip out of the garden, dodging the eager hands that reach out for just a second of your time.
You find your driver waiting, just as instructed; Mina's address already punched in the navigation.
Just go, drop me off. Don't stick around. I'll call you to pick me up in the morning.
“It was cerulean,” is Mina’s amused answer to your admittedly idiotic question.
Not your best moment, to be fair. You raced up to her apartment so quickly that you really didn’t have anything more intelligent to say than ‘what happened to your dress?’ and ‘I wanted to know what colour it was’.
But still, show you the person living or dead that could have said anything coherent when being greeted by Mina, opening the door to her apartment—so unashamedly smug, and so very naked.
So what if you just stood there and stared?
Stared at the curves and dips, the way her hair cascades over her shoulders in inky waves, damp from a shower; making it cling to her skin, drape over her collarbone, her breasts. The nipples peeking straight at you, dusky, pointed, waiting the return of your tongue. Her pussy winking between her thighs, a treasure hidden in a sea of smooth flesh.
You don’t know whether to apologise for your lack of eloquence or thank her for being so incredibly distracting.
You kind of want to request that she turn around.
Mina laughs at what is certainly a stupid expression colouring your face; folds her arms across her chest, crosses one leg over the other. "Waiting for me to offer you a drink?"
You blink. “Thought you already gave me one.”
She scrunches her nose, answers, “I was only being polite.”
“I think we’re well past that.”
There’s that gravity again; shifting around Mina, tilting the world towards her until she’s pulling you into her apartment and you’re kicking the door closed behind you.
“Then hurry up and take me upstairs.”
There’s a part of you that feels like you should warn Mina when she tells you:
“Look, you’ve kept me waiting too fucking long. I need your cock, your cum inside of me. Right now. Before it’s too late and I change my mind. So, just please, please, please—”
But those kind of thoughts are lost halfway up the staircase; when you both decide that you just can't wait anymore, and your hands are back on her hips and your tongue is pushing into her throat.
Her fault, really.
Stripping you down the hallway, leaving a trail of your clothes through her kitchen; taking you by the cock. Firm, confident pumps as she leads you through her penthouse, refusing to give you a moment to breathe.
Because she’s obsessed with it. Obsessed with how it fills her hand, how it jumps at her touch, how it throbs when she squeezes it, strokes it.
“So big for me," Mina's says—to you, to herself, to your cock. "So perfectly, impossibly, big for me."
You’re never going to make it to the top.
Pressing her up against the banister, kissing her, hard. Deep, bruising kisses, because now that you’re out of the garden you don’t give a fuck if you’re leaving marks.
You just want her to remember this night, to feel it in every pulse and every breath.
Make her think of you when she’s with him, if she can even go back to him after this. Because you’ll both know that she’s yours even when she’s not.
“You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”
You look into Mina’s eyes. You can see it all, how the rest of the night will play out. You and Mina, tangled in her apartment. You and Mina, on top of the kitchen island. You and Mina, against the shower walls, on the living room floor, maybe even on the balcony.
You and Mina, until the sun rises.
You kiss her harder. “Is that a request?”
“Of course it is.”
Because now you actually have the time to appreciate her, to let your hands wander.
They glide over her body, mapping it out again, but slower this time. You've had your fill of the frantic touches, the greedy need. This is something else. This is savouring.
You start with your thumb at her navel, tracing the line down to her hips, then back up against to the base of her ribcage. It’s the feel of the muscles in her stomach tensing and relaxing as you touch her, the inhale and the exhale. How ridiculously tiny her waist feels in your hand, how your palm fits so perfectly into the curve of her side that you swear she’s been tailored for you.
Mina chokes on her breath as she tells you, “You’re going to have to stop, or we’re not going to make it to the bedroom.”
You don’t even slow down. You just don’t care.
Your hand rises, higher, finds her breasts again; cupping it in your palm. A thumb rolls over her nipple.
You pinch. She gasps.
You smile into her neck. “So, so, sensitive.”
Mina’s so willing, so keen to give herself over to you, to your touch. You’ve proven yourself to her already, made her cum with just your fingers and tongue. Now it’s just a matter of doing it all over again—but slower, better, more thorough.
You palm her breasts, rolling and pinching them until they’ve been given the attention they deserve, until she’s panting through your teases and caresses. Kneading the soft flesh beneath your hand and making her arch into your touch.
“You’re really going to take your time, aren’t you?” Mina mewls, half-sigh, half-plead. Grinding herself into you, making a shimmering mess on your waist. “Going to torture me until I can’t breathe.”
“It is your fantasy.”
Pull her closer, take a handful of that perfect ass once again. It hasn’t really been that long since you last had it in your hands but it’s all you’ve had on your mind. What it looks like under proper lighting, what it feels like without the dress in the way. What kind of noises will she make when you grope, and she doesn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing.
Press and squeeze, dig your fingers into her flesh. Not rough, but firm. Leaving little spots of red that will be gone by the morning.
Slide your finger down, down between her cheeks, and deeper, pressing into the sweet heat of her ass.
And then you feel it.
Her asshole. Wet and slick. Prepared.
A wink. A laugh. "Not my fault you're predictable."
You can’t fucking wait anymore.
She’ll just have to settle for the staircase.
Grab her by the hips—her ass, and pull her down with you onto the steps, her legs straddling you as you sit down.
Take her in—all of her. The curve of her, the line of her spine, the fucking paradise that’s her cheeks. Unbelievable.
You kiss into her back, follow down that trail right to where it swells, feeling the heat of her skin against your lips. You’re going to ruin this ass; permanently plant your flag there, mark it as property of you and your cock until she can’t take a seat without cursing your name.
Mina's shoulders tense when you pause, and she looks back over to you. There's a flash of nerves in her eyes, a gasp of "Here?" that's so faint you almost don't catch it.
Another kiss into her skin, you murmur, “Here’s perfect, Mina,” and she sighs when your finger presses against that puckered ring, cold with lubricant, made as ready as she’s ever going to be.
It’s the preparation that gets you; the idea of her in anticipation for you, for this, making sure she’s nice and primed. Mina at the store, still wearing that dress, fresh from her orgasm, buying lube. Mina in her bathroom, stripping herself bare, toying with her asshole, making it perfect for you.
And Mina, now, eyes clenched shut, breaths heavy as your digit is pushing through, slipping into her, and she’s so fucking tight around it.
“Oh my god,” she hisses through her teeth, a quiver in her legs as you push deeper into her tight channel.
Your hands shoot to her thighs to steady her, a reassuring anchor to keep her from toppling over as your finger fills her completely, twisting and turning, slowly but surely easing her into the idea of being taken.
It’s the moans that get you, the sighs as you intrude inside her. She’s so responsive, her breaths skipping and her pussy already starting to gush, coating your finger, your thighs, the steps below.
“You doing okay?”
“Yeah—yes,” Mina stutters, her footing slips just so, but she catches herself on the banister. “It’s—it’s intense. So intense. But don’t stop, I can take it. I want—I want more. I need this. I need this now, before—before I take all of you inside of me."
“You want more?” You repeat her words, before giving her what she needs—adding a second finger, pressing them in deep, making sure she’s good and open. The lube helps, but it’s the eagerness that gets her most of the way there; it’s that trust that she has in you, her willingness to let you take her here, in this way.
“Yes, please,” Mina cries, doing everything she can to not collapse on top of you, to not come completely apart.
You’re merciless, adding a third finger, stretching her until she’s panting, until she’s crying out, making this noise, this hushed whimper that takes the shape of your name.
“Please, please, please,” Mina whispers to herself, pushing back against you, starting to rock back onto your hand, taking your fingers into her ass.
“Not yet, Mina, not yet,” you tell her, because even though she’s close, even though she’s begging, you want her to be absolutely fucking desperate for your cock when the moment comes. 
You reach around her with your other hand, finding that button, already swollen and begging for attention. Playing with it, gently at first, a soft pressure to help her let go, to allow herself to let her voice echo up the staircase and through the penthouse.
God, how is she this sensitive, reactive to every little touch, to every exploration of her cunt, her ass, her body.
It’s the ceremony of it all; this lurid, obscene ritual that you’re walking her through. Making her ass bounce on your hand in this hypnotic movement, making her stretch around your fingers, making her repeat your name over and over until she’s convinced herself that all of her belongs to you.
These perfect, near-silent sighs. This unbelievable tightness. Mina’s body, turning itself into a fucking playground for your touch; to do with it as you will. Even if it means ruining her.
And it’s when you have her creaming all over you; down her thighs, making a mess of herself with these pushes and pulls, these declarations of how ready she is for you, that her body shakes with one last, long shiver.
She cums.
Softly, soundlessly, another cry of your name dying on her lips. A hand to your wrist to stop you abruptly, panting.
Tiny, tiny shivers, twitches in her thighs, around your fingers, leaving her barely there, barely with you. Head hanging low, chest heaving, catching her breath, putting herself back together again.
Time stretches before she's cognisant again, and she turns back, looking over her shoulder and straight at you. Eyes half-lidded, hazy, dripping with lust, anticipation, burning with need.
Deep, heavy breaths. And then Mina says the most devastating thing:
“I’m ready. Fuck my ass. Now. Please.”
A gunshot in the quiet of her home, rumbling through your bones.
Your fingers leave her ass, her cunt with a wet pop, forcing a whine from her throat at the sudden emptiness. A look at her asshole, how it clenches and unclenches, beckoning for you to fill it, to claim it as your own.
“Good girl.”
Holding her by the hips, lining her ass with your cock, nudging her opening with your tip and making her shiver. You don’t go in immediately; you hover, giving her one last out, to really see if she’s absolutely certain.
Mina trembles. Nods. That’s all the invitation you need.
“God, I—”
You push in, slow and steady, eyes on her ass as she takes you. So fucking tight, so intense, you can feel every part of her squeezing, accommodating you, moulding itself around your girth and swallowing you whole.
“Take it slow, darling, take it slow,” you whisper into her skin, guiding her down, telling her how good she’s doing, how good she is for you, how much you love her tightness, her trust.
It seems impossible at first, the grip she has on you, like you’ll never get in. But inch by agonising inch, she takes you, and it’s nothing short of total heaven.
Mina, so fucking beautiful in this moment of raw vulnerability; all sharp inhales and strained quivers wrecking through her, voice shaky as she tells you, “I’ve never felt anything like this, I never thought—fuck—I never thought I could take anything like this.”
“You’re doing so good,” you kiss your words into her, wrapping your arms around her, holding her.
“I can—I can do better,” she gasps, and you believe her.
But you still go slow, so painfully slow, even though every fibre of your being is screaming at you to just dig into her hips and slam into that glorious fucking ass and never look back.
“I can take it,” Mina breathes, “Do it, I can take it. I want all of you. In my ass. I can handle it.”
Mina nods, clenches her ass, her cheeks firming up around your throbbing cock.
“I want it to hurt so good.”
No more convincing required. You push in deeper, make her back stiffen, her muscles contract, making her cry.
It’s a dance, a delicate ballet of bodies, of breath and touch, of your cock inside Mina’s ass. Lost in it, in the feel of skin on skin, the sound of wet, needy noises that she’s making, her shudders in your arms.
Until finally, with a strangled gasp, she’s fully seated. You’re buried in her tight, hot ass, basking in the warmth of her, leaving you both winded and struggling for air.
Stillness overrides the moment, because it’s too perfect, too overwhelming, and the feeling. You need to get used to the feeling.
You break the silence first. “Mina?”
“I know. I know.”
A kiss against her neck, scraping the soft skin there. A whisper in her ear, your breath hot and ragged.
“I’m going to fuck your ass now.”
You always keep your promises.
Mina answers by leaning back into you, her hand finding yours, her nails running along your fingers as if to say, “Yes, please, now.”
Moving, so slow it’s almost painful. The drag of her ass around your cock like nothing you’ve ever felt before—like you’re sliding through warm, velvet-covered steel.
“Fuck, yes, please,” with every inch you pull out, and “Too much, so good, too fucking much,” when you push back in, deeper and deeper still.
It builds and builds, this sweet agony, each pass in her ass faster, harder, turning Mina’s cries and wails into moans of pure bliss. It takes time and long, hard fucking for her body to relax into this rhythm, letting you take her, own her.
A vision above you, sweat glistening on her back, hair matted and sticking to her shoulders, and Mina’s ass, a snug ring around your cock. You watch as your cock slides out of her, the way her ass clenches around the head, holding on for just a second before pushing all the way back down.
You can’t help but groan, “Christ,” as she moves on top of you like that. So gracefully, so beautifully, so fucking obscenely on your cock.
“Thank you—God—thank you, thank you, thank you.” Mina’s moans are pure music to your ears, she’s babbling, talking through the pain, through the pleasure. “So, so good, filling me like—fuck—never been filled up like this.”
And as you push on, push further and further until your cock is melting inside her, burning her up in every way she's ever dared to dream, you can see the smile curling onto Mina’s face. It’s pride, you’re realising. Proud of herself, proud of how she can take you, how she can handle this kind of depraved ecstasy.
“It feels so deep.”
Tearing her open. Revealing the tender, delicate core beneath the glamour, the lights, the unreal beauty that is Mina. Leaving her sobbing, pleading, whining for more, more, more.
Bouncing on you now, each more assured than the last, cries of nothing but need. Opening up to accept you fully, completely, her ass a tight fucking sleeve for you, coming down and wrapping itself around you like a searing hot second skin.
You know the truth, but you still want to hear it.
“How many?”
Mina has her answer ready: “You’re the—you’re the first.”
You grin. A smug, triumphant baring of teeth that spreads from ear to ear. “I have no fucking idea how that’s possible. How nothing has ever been up this tight, perfect little asshole.”
“Oh, there's been toys,” Mina moans, strained and shaky as you pump into her, “But you’re just the first that's real.”
“Then your boyfriend is a fucking idiot,” you growl into her ear, your hand moving to her throat, gently clasping, making her gasp, making her eyes go wide with shock, with excitement. “He doesn’t know what he has.”
“Enough about my boyfriend,” Mina's quick to answer, snapping, her head thrown back, eyes screwed shut. “Even though—even if—he wouldn’t, couldn’t dream of filling me like this. Filling me up so much that it hurts, so much that—fuck, it feels so right, so fucking right—”
“You love this, don’t you, Mina?” You ask, but all Mina can do is nod vigorously, too overrun by the fucking to form words. “Underneath it all, you’re just a dirty slut for it, aren’t you? Letting me use this pretty, tight ass like this.”
“I—” she stutters, right before confessing, “I love it.”
She slams her hips down on you, the stairs groaning with each thrust, not built to withstand this kind of punishment.
“I love that it’s you, love that you’re the first. I can’t believe it—just—I need it. I need your cock in me, so deep—I need you, I need you, I need you—so please don't stop.”
“I would never dream of stopping.”
Never.
Not when she’s begging like this, her voice hoarse and her body quaking. When she sighs and shivers every time you fuck a little faster, push a little harder, testing just how much she can take.
Tits jiggling with every thrust, cunt leaking all the way down your thighs, ass puckering and loosening.
Her whole body, yours.
Yours for the taking. Mina’s divine body, in all its sharp planes and ridged muscles, squeezing and coiling at every juncture, every penetration setting her alight.
You declare it, even though it doesn't need to be said. “Made for me.”
“Yes,” she’s nodding. Or rather, letting her head fall into one. “God yes.”
“Just been waiting for me for so long, haven’t you? Been waiting for the right cock to come along and split you in half.” You’re saying these things, these stinging words that you fuck into Mina, send shooting through her like sparks. She’s a live-wire, a fucking blackout waiting to happen.
Weeping down her thighs, choking out every whine, “Yes,” she whispers, “yes, yes, yes, been needing to be ruined. Needing it, needing you. So much, so much, so—fucking—right—”
“Fucking criminal that you had to wait,” you’re saying, loving this, so enraptured by all of it. “But I’m here now.”
Mina shivers, pussy clenches, and she just can’t stop saying, “Yours, yours, yours—”
Completely, totally yours, now.
You know it. She knows it.
It’s written in the way she takes your cock, in the way she loses herself to you, loses all semblance of composure and decorum, peels back all the carefully curated layers that make her Mina, until all there is to see and touch is the raw, unfiltered need that you’ve unleashed from underneath.
"Touch me, fuck me, take me, take my ass, I need more—"
Again, your fingers find her folds, sticky and swollen and waiting.
You touch her, press down on her clit. Circling it with the same rhythm as your hips. Striking a match in a dark room, lighting up her body in this blaze.
The noises that it all makes; the slosh of your fingers at her cunt, the squelch of your cock invading her ass, so fucking explicit, so fucking filthy. 
She’s erratic, breath catching, throat pulsing against your fingers, and she somehow, impossibly, clenches even more around you, suffocating your cock with just her tight, tight ass.
You keep that same tempo. That desperate, fucking unyielding beat that’s going to make her come, going to turn this idol, this mystery, this drop-dead fucking gorgeous woman who should belong to someone else but is now screaming proudly just how much she’s yours, into nothing but a trembling mess of whimpers and whines.
“More, fuck—oh my god, oh my fucking god—it’s so fucking good—so good—so fucking good—”
She’s reaching her peak—her voice, her body, her cunt, her ass—all of her reaching that perfect crescendo of pleasure that you’ve been orchestrating, that you’ve been waiting for.
“I’ve never—no one’s ever—fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Sinking into her, making her feel like she’s being torn apart and remade with every stroke, making her feel nothing like she’s ever felt before, making her feel like nothing but your fucking whore.
So, so close, barrelling towards it now, all these tears running down her cheeks, these filthy words slipping from her lips. Coming apart in your arms, because she’s never been this filled, this complete.
“Going to—going to cum—fuck me, harder, harder—going to cum all over your cock—” Mina tells you, a warning, the last one you get before she screams, “Too good—filling me—so good—give it to me—God—I can never go back—”
She shatters. Monumentally.
Into a million tiny pieces of pleasure, each one more brilliant than the last.
Her body spasms, her ass squeezes so fucking tight around your cock that you can feel the orgasm ripping through her, up her spine, through her throat, until she’s crying out and it’s hitting your ears—
“Oh my God, I'm going to—just, say my name—please, say my name when I—”
“Mina,” you say, and she cums.
“Mina,” you repeat when her pussy floods over your hand, ass smothers your cock.
“Mina,” again when it ripples across her skin, leaves her in fits, uncontrollable quakes, consumed by pure, unfiltered joy.
You watch the whole thing—watch her scream your name, watch her shake and quiver and fall apart, right there on your cock; and you're fucking her through it all, fucking her well past it, chanting “Mina” over and over again.
You'll never forget this, never forget this sight—this woman, this star, built up and broken down just for you.
“Mine,” you bite into her ear, because now, it’s true.
Mina’s barely there, eyes glassy, hand cradling your face. But she’s able to say it, because it’s branded into every bone of her body: “Yours.”
It’s a complete disaster.
And now you're cumming.
Brand new sensations, devastation in full measure—your soul ripped from your chest, until all that’s left is this impulsive, overwhelming need to give her your all, your everything—to fill her entire existence with just you.
You drive your cock into her once more, impaling her deep, and let go.
It floods her, rushes inside her, spills and spills.
Mina can't do anything but feel it—every pulse, every spurt. She throws her head back, her mouth open in this silent plea, satisfaction painted across her face as your heat surges inside her. Her ass milks you, needy for every drop, so, so thirsty for it.
“It's—cumming inside my ass—so, so nice, keep cumming for me.”
You hold onto her, throb inside her, pump ropes into her, and there's a kiss—hot and clumsy—somewhere in the midst of it all, your mouths colliding and tongues wrapping around each other in a futile attempt to last just that little bit longer.
Getting all dizzy and spellbound, floating back down to the ground as the last waves of your climaxes start to subside, until one of you says, “Thank you,” and the other echoes it back.
You stay like that, swallowed up inside her, dripping out of her ass. Lowering one hand from her throat, rising the other from her pussy, pulling her into an embrace, keeping her as close as you can while you both try to put yourselves back together.
It’s sex that soaks the air, fills the penthouse—sweat, lube, the musk of all the evidence you're leaving behind. Intoxicating, breathing it in, setting your nerves alight, rousing your cock inside her all over again.
But Mina, she’s a stunning catastrophe, torn asunder in all the best ways. Perfection not marred, but made better. Completed. Looking up at you with wonder, with gratitude, with a smile.
You look down at her and admit it, “Perfect.”
Mina laughs out loud, “Disastrously perfect.”
“This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”
You kiss her once more.
Mina kisses you back.
“Only if we make it one.” 
You think you can read her mind.
And she, yours.
It’s the only way any of this makes sense—how perfect you fit together, how well you read each other; fill each other’s needs without use of any words outside of curses and names and strangled pleas.
Printed onto your DNA, carved into your bones, these exact pathways you shape through her home and into her skin.
You do make it to the bedroom, somehow.
And then, exactly as predicted:
The shower, where Mina takes you into her mouth, gags herself around you, covers herself in your cum before letting the water wash it all away.
Then the kitchen, polishing off a bottle of wine, slurring promises into Mina’s cunt, having her rake the back of your scalp and scream the same promises back into your ears.
And finally, the living room, folding her over the couch, tumbling onto the floor with Mina, riding you so hard the neighbours below start banging on their ceiling in protest. 
It's only the balcony that goes untouched.
Maybe another time.
But that’s where it ends: sprawled across a lush rug, sticky with sweat and cum and wine, naked and bare. Ignoring the watchful eyes of the photos that line the walls and shelves—family, friends, her boyfriend. Just living in this bubble where the sun will never rise and the world outside ceases to exist.
Getting to know each other in ways few people ever do.
Tracing patterns into the small of her back, asking these questions. Is this what you always imagined you would be doing? How you thought your life would be? Does it ever actually feel enough?
Mina pokes and prods back, her nails lightly scraping against your chest, leaving half-moons in her wake. Do you think you could ever be happy? Do you ever wonder why it’s so hard for other people to keep up? Are you fucked up in all the same ways as me?
And it’s so easy to answer truthfully, to be honest, because you’re both still maintaining the façade of this just being a simple fling; a blip along the timeline of your lives.
The yours and mine of it all, all those promises you were spilling. Just callous words tossed in the throes of passion.
They didn’t mean anything real.
Because it’s not like you’re going to see each other again, not like there’s going to be a mess of emotions and consequences that will have to be dealt with in the morning after.
Eventually though, the light does slip through the curtains, the clothes come back on, and you’re kissing Mina against the doorway and thinking of a million reasons why you should stay.
"So, how long are we going to pretend that this is normal?" You broach, and it immediately feels like you’re breaking some unspoken rule. 
Mina’s keeping herself busy, hands at your shirt, buttoning it back into place, one by one. Hiding away evidence that her mouth, her lips, her teeth were ever on you.
She looks up at you. Smirks. “Fucking ‘til the break of dawn, giving each other orgasms that never quite end? Flooding each one of my holes with your cum?” 
You tilt your head. 
“I don’t know. This whole thing is… unique. Uncharted territory and all.”
“It goes without saying, but, yeah. Same for me.” You echo, “Unique.”
You reach for her, smoothing her hair back. The early morning light makes it shine like a crown of jewels. 
“Do you want it to stay that way?”
Mina considers. Leans into your hand. “You think we should make a habit out of this? I didn’t pin you for the type.”
“Neither did I, but it didn’t seem so bad when you were riding me on that couch,” you tease. “And in the shower, and on the staircase, and in the kitchen…”
She blushes, lips caught between her teeth, looking like she’s struggling to hold in a laugh. There’s this glint in her eye as her hand wanders up to your cheek, thumb hovering just shy of your mouth. For a second, you think she’s going to kiss you again.
But instead, she just looks at you.
Eyes you with something close to fascination, something that makes your heart stop. And you're reading each other’s minds again, knowing you're both going to lie, going to pretend like this was just a one-night thing. Something the two of you can easily wipe your hands with and walk away from like it never even happened.
Because this really is the first time—you’ve never done anything like this before. Sure you’ve dipped your toe in the pool of commitment, paddled around in the shallow end, but you’ve never fallen for someone proper.
Never worried about what someone's going to be doing when you’re not there, never thought about whether you’d be better off sticking around to find out. 
But you have a job. A company to run.
And Mina, a career. A boyfriend. A life.
So, you don’t make plans.
You don’t even ask for her number.
You don't need to.
Deep down inside you know you’ll find her again.
For now though, you spin your bullshit: “It’s probably for the best if we don’t, though.”
“Probably.” Mina agrees, but she can hear the same ticking clock as you.
The timer that’s already started, counting down to when she’ll inevitably be undoing the same buttons, redrawing the same patchwork of red and pink across your chest, and pulling you into her home and into her; fucking her pussy, her ass, her mouth, in all the ways she needs, until you’re spilling out of her all over again.
 “Definitely.” Mina unlocks the front door. “For the best.”
825 notes · View notes
luveline · 2 days ago
Text
𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝
You try to break up with your boyfriend. Aaron just wants to know why. (And what he can do to fix it.) [4k]
c: fem, stripper!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff epilogue, suggestive themes mdni. requested here 
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
I don’t want to see you anymore. 
The text doesn’t compute at first. He reads it twice. Reads the sender’s name, his heart stopped clean in his chest. 
He puts down his pen.
The idea that the text wasn’t meant for him crosses his mind, but that might further break his heart. He knows you have clients, but you don’t contact them outside of the club. 
His second thought is that he’d been a client unknowingly, but he made it clear to you those few months ago that he liked you as you, not as a service provider, and not as something to be bought. You thought he was trying to acquire you as a private escort. He explained it as what it was truthfully, if vulnerably.
He’s being broken up with, he surmises. Over text. By a woman he adores, who he’d thought was happy. Aaron opens his phone to call you, clicking your contact, bringing it to his ear. You don’t answer. He calls again and he’s clearly declined three rings in. 
He puts his phone down and has a few minutes of unbreathable heartbreak. Just a few minutes, his hand to his stomach, trying to think of things as reasonably as he can. 
Aaron doesn’t care that you’re a stripper. He might’ve at first. Denied his attraction to you, because of course he had feelings for you when you were standing against the side of the club in your dancing lingerie, who wouldn’t fall in love with you? Every fool lucky enough to see you undressed must assume the same thing. He thought it wouldn’t work, and that you’d never be interested in a man like him. 
Interviews for information lended themselves to rare moments of conversation. He liked how you talked, how your eyes moved to his, the way you watched his mouth. Your unusual friendship with Spencer drew you closer, and activated a rare seed of jealousy within him that helped him place you in his life. He had real, tangible feelings for you. 
And now it’s over. 
He scrunches his eyes closed and gets up from his desk. Puts his coat on, but leaves his things where they are on his desk. 
“Hotch?” Morgan asks as he descends the steps down from his office into the bullpen. 
“I’m not sure when I’ll be back.” 
“What happened?” 
Aaron turns to Morgan, hiding his panic as well as he’s able to. “I have a small emergency. It’s fine. Can you make sure things are okay here?” 
“Hotch?” Morgan asks again. 
Aaron keeps on going. He tries your number again on the way down. Three times, a fourth by the time he’s at the parking garage. 
The fifth time, you answer. 
He almost breaks the phone, its plastic body creaking in his hand. “Honey?” he asks. 
“I don’t want to see you anymore, Aaron. Is it hard to understand?” 
He’s taken aback. Some part of him had held onto the hope that it was a mistake. “Yes,” he says slowly, struggling to pull his keys out as his car comes into view, “it is.” 
“I don’t want to be with you.” 
“Have I upset you?” 
“Would that make it easier?” 
“No. I don’t think anything would make it any easier. Honey, this feels so sudden. Can’t we talk about it?” 
“I don’t want to see you.” 
“Please.” He can’t imagine never seeing you again. Just a few days ago he was sitting at the dinner table with you laughing opposite, your socked toes brushing his ankle. “Please, give me the chance to fix this.” 
“Aaron, it’s not really fixable. Please don’t call me again.”
“Y/N,” he says, firmer now. Anger leaks into his tone —what’s going on? “Let me come over. We need to talk about this.” 
“No–”
“It’s not fair to me for you to do it over the phone.” 
“…Okay. Fine. I’m at home, but I have work at six.” 
“I’m on my way.” 
He hangs up. Your terse allowance is all he needs to get in the car and drive, checking his watch. There’s plenty of time between now and six. He can figure out what’s wrong and hopefully change your mind.
He thinks about it more seriously as he’s parking outside of your place. Perhaps he doesn’t want to change your mind. You aren’t acting like you, none of your kindness can be found in such a swift dismissal, but he thinks of your foot under the table, your sock rubbing along his ankle without comment. 
He takes the stairs to your apartment. It’s not the nicest place to stay, but it’s far from a slum, either. He doesn’t worry about you when you’re home beyond the usual everyday fears: Is she eating? Sleeping? Having a good day? 
Now he’s thinking, What did I do? 
He gets to your apartment and pauses at the threshold. After a moment's deliberation, he knocks. 
“Come in, Aaron.” 
He pulls down the handle and lets himself in. You’ve mail piled on the sideboard and your shoes tucked under it, a coat rack further in bragging scarves and coats and jackets of all different colours. He’s always liked the interior of your apartment. It doesn’t feel as cold as his own, parts of your personality peeking in through everything, from the flowered tiles in the bathroom to the glass lampshade in the bedroom. 
You’re sitting in the kitchen with the light off. “Hey,” he says, voice already laden with relief he doesn’t mean to share. 
“Hi.” 
“Can I sit down?” 
You gesture for him to do as he likes. 
Aaron sits down at your table. It’s a small square just big enough to share dinner, plain wood edged in a darker slate grey outline. Sometimes when you’re feeling especially pretty, you’ll lean heavily on an elbow and grin at him, enticing him in for a kiss.
“What’s this all about?” he asks quietly. 
“I just think we’re… at the end of our relationship.” 
You don’t sound truthful. He knew there was something strange in your voice over the phone. 
“What’s making you feel that way?” 
“Does it matter?” 
Again, avoiding and evasive. 
He meets your gaze unflinchingly. “I care about you. I love you,” he says. “I know I can’t be who you pictured for yourself, and if you really can’t see a future for us, then… I’ll have seen it alone. I just wish I could understand this sudden change. Did I do something wrong?” 
“You’re not who I picture for myself,” you agree. 
“No?” he asks. 
“No. You didn’t do anything wrong, but I can’t see us together. We’re not the right fit.” 
You twist a ring around your middle finger. He thinks he’s starting to understand. “Do you think we’re not the right fit?” 
“Please don’t use your psychoanalysis on me.” 
“It’s not psychoanalysis, sweetheart, it’s– I know you.” He grimaces. “I’d like to think I do. And I’m allowing myself the audacity to believe you were happy with me just a few days ago. What happened between then and now to change your mind?” 
You stare at your two-toned table. Your mouth opens to talk, little but air making it out. Your shoulders begin tightening like you’ve been keyed between them, twisting and twisting. 
“What do you want me to say?” you ask. 
Dramatic, he’d hope you could say you don’t love him, or don’t care about him enough to let him convince you the rest of the way. “Is this really what you want?” he asks instead. 
Your staring turns to squinting. With a start, he watches a small tear drip from the corner of your eye to your nostril, to your cupid's bow. 
“No,” you say carefully, “it’s not what I want. I don’t like you being against me.” 
“Then what’s making you feel this way?” 
You cover your eyes with one hand. “I wanted to do this over the phone,” you say in a squeeze. 
He reaches for you but doesn’t touch. “I couldn’t let you.” 
“I just want you to be happy,” you say, so high he can barely understand you. “I’ll never be like you, Aaron. You’re so smart, and you’ve done so much. You’re a hero, and you must look so stupid with me. What do you think people say when they realise what I am?” 
“It doesn’t matter to me what they say. I know you, and they don’t.”
“What about what I think?” 
“What do you think?” 
You wipe your face roughly, eyes lit with an anger he’s unprepared for. “I told you, don’t psychoanalyse me. I don’t want to have to explain it, I just want to say what I have to say. I don’t want to be with you because you won’t be happy, and neither will I.” 
Aaron isn’t too prideful to recognise when he needs to fight for what he wants. He reaches over the table and takes your arm into his hand, picking it up, feeling down The length of it until he’s curled his hand over your smaller fingers. “We are happy,” he says softly, giving your hand a small shake. “I understand where you’re coming from. When we first met, I couldn’t have predicted that I’d be here with you now. I do wonder what people think when they ask me what you do and I tell them you’re a performer. I know we agreed to it, but there are moments where I feel like I’m being cruel to you. But just because there’s a stigma surrounding what you do, it doesn’t mean that you’re any lesser than me. You’re not less intelligent, or less accomplished. We chose different paths and I’m glad we did. If you weren’t a dancer I never would’ve met you.” 
“Do you know how it feels for me to come home to you sometimes?” you ask weakly. 
“I’d hope it feels as it does for me. Every time I see you, I’m relieved.” 
“Aaron, I get this rush of safety, like you’re– I’m finally safe. I can take care of myself, you know that, but now I have you it’s that I don’t even want to. And that’s stupid. I know that that’s stupid.” 
“What I’m thinking,” he says, soft, not as worried about being without you now as he is of the horrible way you’re feeling, “is that you’ve thought about all of this a lot. I’m glad you’ve taken time to reflect on us and your life, but I wish you’d thought more about what we both want.” 
“I want you to be happy,” you argue, as you had a few moments ago. 
“And I’m never happier than when we’re together.” He shrugs. “Love isn’t about work. Your job shapes you as mine shapes me, but you have to know that who you are is what’s important.” 
“I don’t know who I am…” 
“I know exactly who you are,” he says, rubbing a loving thumb over your knuckles. 
“I’m… I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you, on the phone. I knew if I talked to you like this I’d be too much of a coward to really see it through.” 
“I see. You’ve planned my heartbreak weeks in advance.” 
You shake your head sadly. “Aaron, we’re not good for each other. You make me this awful, weak version of me, and I’m no good.” 
“We have been nothing but happy since we met.” Aaron pulls your hand up and kisses the side of your wrist. He isn’t ashamed of you. He doesn’t make you weak, you aren’t. “I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes it feels like we’re from different worlds, but it’s not that melodramatic. You’re my partner. I love you. It’s hard not to think about what others think of us, but I know exactly what I think of you, and I know what you think of me, too.” 
You share a look. 
“I’ve never heard you talk so much,” you say, your frown fading. “I’m sorry.” 
“You haven’t done anything wrong.” 
“When I thought I couldn’t get any more embarrassing,” you mumble. 
“You aren’t embarrassing. Please, put the thought out of your head.” 
“Thought out of my head,” you repeat, still mumbling as you flex your fingers, pushing them between his and intertwining your hands. You bring them linked to your forehead and take a heavy breath. 
“Do you really want to break up?” he asks softly. 
Your breath warms his arm. “No.” 
“You can have the things you want, you know? I imagine that there are people who laugh when I tell them about you, but you have to know that their opinions would never matter to me.” He pulls his hand from your head to encourage you to meet his eyes. “No one else matters but me and you. We don’t have to factor in other people. We can just be together.” 
“I’m not worth all the fuss,” you say under your breath. 
“What, this fuss? Honey, a few weeks ago you cried in my lap because I got you that cake from the bakery. And you know what? I didn’t want you to cry, but getting to rub your back?” He chances a smile. “That made my night.” 
“You like making girls cry.” 
“Yes,” he says, trying not to grin like a fool as you stand from your chair and put yourself in front of him. He is no saint. He pulls you onto his thighs and wraps an arm around the small of your back, your legs either side of him. “That’s my goal in life, sweetheart.” His voice falls to a whisper as you hang your head against him, tip of your nose to a rough cheek. “Making you cry…” 
Your arms creep to his neck. Resting on him, rather than hugging. He doesn’t mind, he’ll do the hard work. 
“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 
“It’s okay.” He turns your face with his to press his lips to your cheek. “It’s alright, honey, bumps in the road happen with everyone.” 
“All my fault.” 
“Maybe next time, if you feel so strongly about something, you can just extend me that little bit of faith and… know that I’m here for you. Even if it did mean we wouldn’t be together, it doesn’t have to be that you’re alone, making such a big decision. Valiant,” he adds, enjoying the warmth of you seeping into his shirt, his face, his neck where your wrist is laid against it. “You’re not a coward. But I wish you wouldn’t be this brave about breaking my heart.” 
“Stop making me feel guilty.” 
His laugh is a breath against your cheek. “No, it’s fine, isn’t it? Use me and abuse me.” 
“Shut up. Stop, what is this weird guilt tripping you’re doing?” You laugh at his absurdity. “I’d never abuse you.” 
“I know. Just step on me a bit.” 
“Stop, stop,” you mumble, your voice turning slowly from self-pitying to honey, all that love for him he knew you still had like threads of gold shooting through it, “I don’t wanna step on you, I never would…” 
“Just rough me up a little.” 
“Never.” You press your face to his neck. “Thank you for not letting me do it.” 
“I won’t let you go so easily.” His hand trails up your back, feeling the softness of you beneath your t-shirt. Fat, muscle, all of it familiar, and treasured by his touching. 
He squeezes you rather tightly, then, but you don’t complain, you just sigh. 
“It’s not that you’re not who I picture for myself, like I said before,” you confess, leaning all your weight against him, barely held up by your legs either side of him. “You weren’t, but I didn’t realise that I could have you. I didn’t really know men like you existed. I should’ve known I was looking in the wrong age bracket.” 
“That’s not very nice. In my line of work they call that a feedback sandwich, honey. Something cruel between nice things to distract me.” 
“Sorry. Just had to get it in.” 
He considers your teasing a return to normalcy, guiding your head away from his with a hand to the back of your neck. “If this was a ploy to make me leave work early, consider it successful.” 
“I know your attention usually falls to other places, Mr. Hotchner–” You burst into giggles as he pinches the back of your neck, but it’s only to pull you in for a kiss, smiling against your parted lips as your laughter fades away.
You scrunch his shirt in your hand and kiss him nicely. 
“Sorry,” you say. 
“Forgiven.” Even if he did almost go into cardiac arrest at his desk. “I like begging to stay. It builds character.” 
“How long will you be like this?” you ask, shaking your head slowly, your smile poorly hidden. 
You’d needed a reminder, is all. Aaron isn’t solely business and sternness, he’s an idiot, your idiot, who likes to tease you, and doesn’t care who knows that. When he’s working he’s one person, and when he’s with you, he’s another. Both have their qualities and faults, but only one version is the one he needs to be with you. 
“At my age it’s perfectly normal to have a young and beautiful wife,” he says. “You’ve seen some of the other Section’s worker’s wives.” 
“I’m not that young,” you say. 
“So you admit it?” 
You reward him with a tired sigh, cuddling into his collar. 
…I'll never be your beast of burden. So let's go home and draw the curtains…
Aaron’s humming from the bedroom. He knows every classic rock song to exist, every word to every Beatles song. When the chorus comes, he sings under his breath, but you can hear him regardless. “Am I rough enough, am I rich enough? I’m not too blind…” he fades off. 
The music hums under your feet. Record player open on the floor, his Some Girls vinyl on the plate. 
You press a hand down your side. 
To inspire less worry on your part, you and Aaron are trying to be more open about the other sides of your lives. His work feels alien to you, and you worry that yours is dirty to him, despite reassurance that a job is a job. You know that already, but you can’t make yourself believe that he’s as happy as he could be if you were, say, a checkout girl. 
You’d make a cute checkout girl, he’d said. 
This is cute, too. Babydoll lingerie with feather edgings, starkly white against your skin. You fluff out the ends and neaten the crotch of your panties. Nothing is on show that shouldn’t be, but it’s still lingerie. It’s meant to excite. 
“Honey,” he says, dulcet tone carrying to the bathroom, “are you stuck again?” 
You laugh. “I bet you hope so.” 
“That’s accusatory in nature.” 
“I’m coming.” You give it a last glance in the mirror and head into the bedroom. 
Aaron’s sat against your headboard, flowery pillowcases behind his head and back. He discards the little figurine he’d been playing with out of boredom and looks you up and down, corners of his lips curling. 
“Home only,” he says. 
“I knew you’d say that.” 
“You look stunning.” His eyes seem darker. All pupil. 
“I have to wear some of these at the club, Aaron, that’s why I bought them.” 
Something in your voice makes him smile. “You said I could veto the ones that are too beautiful.” 
“I said too slutty.” 
“Honey, they’re all revealing in their ways. And I don’t have a problem with it…” He takes a breath. “Much. But some of these are meant for…” 
“The man who loves me?”
“Exactly.” 
He’d said something similar about the light blue set with darker flowers, the black set that showed the curves of your chest, and especially about the pink one-piece with white ribbons. That one gave him pause. 
“Spin?” he asks. 
One day it might bother Aaron that you dance, but for now he’s gently approving. Just wants you to be happy. So you do a little spin without any attempt to be sexy and beam when he whistles. 
“Beautiful. Really, honey, that’s the nicest so far.” 
“I have a confession.” 
“Yeah?” 
“This one was for you.” 
He’d know if you were lying. “For me?” he says, in that tone bordering stern, as much of his professionalism as you’re used to hearing these days. 
“Yes, sir.” 
“Don’t,” he says, seductions gone as he tips his head back into a pillow patterned with lavender and peony. “Unless you’re done trying those on, I don’t want to hear it.” 
“This is the last one.” 
“In that case.” He covers his face with a cushion. 
You look down. Your stomach is a little bloated from lunch, and you have a shaving rash on your left knee, but Aaron won’t mind. He never does. Without worry, you tread to the side of the bed and climb onto it, one leg over his lap. The last time you’d been sitting in his lap, you’d been teary-eyed and regretful. Fuck, what was I thinking? you ask yourself, slipping a hand under his rising shirt to feel his abdomen. It’ll never not be weird, the FBI man and his stripper girlfriend, but it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but him and you. 
You ease the pillow down his face. 
“Are you blushing, Aaron?” you ask. 
“Not purposefully.” 
“You look a little… hot.” 
“That makes two of us.” 
It starts slowly. The heat of you atop him, the pillows moved out of the way. You didn’t expect him to stay unbothered as you paraded your new spoils, but his willpower is remarkable, and he only breaks when you let yourself settle on his lap. His big hand cups your face. 
“That’s funny.” You lift up enough to be in kissing range, but don’t kiss. You just wait for him to react, holding your weight off of his chest. 
He finds the small of your back and drags. Your gasp isn’t your own, a breathy, excited thing as he brings your face to his for a kiss. Your lips almost immediately part in anticipation of his eagerness, of his hand on the back of your neck, and the unflinching heat of his mouth as he turns his head. Your noses brush. He wades in deeper, his own breath already failing him as the bridges of your nose press hard. 
They aren’t rough kisses, but there’s something desperate there. He holds you to him until he can’t, ushering you onto your back, his weight bearing down sudden and steady. 
“I can’t believe I nearly lost you,” he utters, stroking your cheek, edging back in to kiss you before you can reply. 
You wrap an arm behind his back and hike your leg, soft thigh naked and waiting for his touch. You didn’t nearly lose me, you think. To be lost, you’d have to be something worth losing, and you’re not sure you are, but Aaron? 
“I don’t think you could,” you mumble, forcing him to kiss your cheek, your jaw, the line of your throat. He nips at your neck, a shudder racing through you. 
“I have no intent of letting it come that close again, sweetheart.” 
His hand dances up your side to the soft hill of your chest. 
You hold the hair from his face and let him kiss you. He’s here to stay, no matter how odd a pairing you might make. You love him. That’s all he cares about. 
“Want me to do that thing you like?” you offer softly, mildly playful. 
He laughs into your neck. “No,” he says, “I think tonight is about you, hm? You’re all dressed up. I think that deserves a reward.” 
You knew he’d like the white babydoll. 
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
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kateschi · 1 day ago
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chef's kiss is not enough
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synopsis: a simple night out for good food changes when you meet the chef behind a dish that leaves you speechless.
pairing: chef!bakugou katsuki x f!reader
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the restaurant is cozy, the kind of place that doesn’t draw much attention from the outside but feels like a hidden treasure once you step inside.
soft lighting casts a warm glow over the wooden tables, and the low murmur of conversation mixes with the occasional clinking of plates.
you’re here with friends, seated at a corner table, menus spread out in front of you.
it’s the kind of night where you’re just looking forward to good food and laughter.
the waiter approaches, balancing several plates on his tray, and sets a bowl down in front of you. you thank him absentmindedly, but the moment your eyes land on your dish, you can’t help but pause.
it’s beautiful in its simplicity—steaming ramen served in a deep bowl, the broth shimmering under the restaurant’s soft light.
thin slices of pork rest delicately on the surface, alongside a soft-boiled egg, its yolk a vibrant golden color. green onions and a sheet of nori top it off, each detail deliberate and precise.
when you take the first bite, your eyes widen. the broth is rich and savory, the kind of flavor that seems to envelop your entire mouth.
the noodles are perfectly cooked, springy but not too firm, soaking up just enough of the broth.
each topping complements the next—the pork is tender, the egg creamy, the green onions adding a fresh, sharp contrast.
it’s the kind of dish that doesn’t just taste good; it feels like someone put their heart into it.
“oh my god,” you mutter, setting your chopsticks down for a moment. “this is incredible.”
your friends laugh at your reaction, one of them nudging you with their elbow. “you always get like this when the food’s good.”
“no, but this—this is different,” you insist, leaning closer to the bowl as if it holds some sort of secret. “this isn’t just good; this is like…life-changing.”
the comment earns a round of laughter, but you’re already distracted, glancing around the room for the waiter.
when you catch his eye, you raise a hand. “excuse me, who’s the chef here?”
the waiter looks surprised by the question. “our head chef is bakugou katsuki. would you like me to—”
“yes, please,” you interrupt, a little too quickly. realizing how eager you sound, you backtrack. “I mean, if he’s not too busy.”
the waiter nods and disappears toward the kitchen, leaving your friends to give you a variety of amused and curious looks.
“what?” you say defensively. “it’s not every day you eat something this good.”
a few minutes later, the kitchen door swings open, and the man who walks out is…not what you expected.
you were picturing someone older, maybe with a few gray hairs and a soft smile.
instead, this man—bakugou katsuki, apparently—is tall and broad-shouldered, his chef’s coat fitting snugly over a strong frame.
his spiky blond hair looks slightly damp, like he’s been working hard, and his expression is one of mild irritation.
he looks more like a professional athlete than a chef.
“what?” he says, his voice low and rough, as he strides up to your table. his crimson eyes sweep over the group before landing on you.
and for a moment, bakugou freezes. he didn’t know what to expect when the waiter said someone wanted to meet him—probably some pompous critic or a customer with a laundry list of complaints.
but you’re not what he expected. at all. there’s something about the way you’re looking at him, your eyes wide with a mix of nervousness and awe, that throws him completely off balance.
you’re…really pretty. too pretty, actually.
it’s annoying, how much it catches him off guard. his chest tightens, and he suddenly feels hyperaware of himself—his hands, his posture, the faint dampness of his forehead from the heat of the kitchen.
damn it.
“I, uh,” you start, faltering under his intense gaze. you weren’t expecting him to be so—well, intimidating. “I just wanted to say that the food is amazing. like, really amazing.”
for a moment, he just stares at you, his jaw tightening slightly. then he rubs the back of his neck, glancing away as if trying to compose himself. “thanks,” he mutters, his tone less gruff than before.
the way he looks away almost makes you smile.
he doesn’t seem like the type to take compliments well, and you can’t help but find it endearing. but at the same time, his presence is overwhelming, and you feel heat creeping up your neck.
“well,” he says abruptly, his eyes snapping back to yours. “if that’s it, I’ve got stuff to do.”
“right, of course,” you say quickly, nodding. “thank you again.”
he nods once, almost curtly, before turning and heading back toward the kitchen. you watch him go, your mind racing with thoughts you can’t quite organize.
the rest of the evening goes by in a blur.
you and your friends continue to chat and laugh, but your thoughts keep drifting back to bakugou. his sharp eyes, the way he looked almost flustered when you complimented him.
it’s distracting, and you can’t quite shake it.
as you’re leaving, stepping out into the cool night air, a voice calls out behind you.
“hey.”
you turn to see him standing in the doorway, still in his chef’s coat. he looks like he’s debating whether this is a good idea or not, his expression tight with something between determination and reluctance.
in his hand is a paper bag with the restaurant’s logo. “here,” he says, holding it out to you.
you blink, confused. “I didn’t order takeout.”
“it’s on me,” he says, shoving the bag toward you. his crimson eyes flick to the side, avoiding your gaze.
“oh, but—”
“just take it,” he interrupts, his voice firm but not unkind.
you hesitate for a moment before taking the bag. your fingers brush against his, and the brief contact sends a strange warmth through your chest. “thank you,” you murmur.
he nods, and for a moment, it looks like he might say something else. but then he just steps back inside, the door closing behind him.
when you get home, you open the bag to find a perfectly packaged serving of the ramen you raved about earlier. sitting on top is a small note, written in slightly messy handwriting:
xxx-xxx-xxxx the name’s katsuki. text me.
a smile creeps onto your face, and you find yourself thinking that maybe, just maybe, you will.
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kofi — navigation — masterlist
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do not copy, translate, or plagarize
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sourcherryandsprinkles · 2 days ago
Note
I saw your post about Rafe and Reader on a family vacation, and I liked it! So could you maybe do another part to that, like maybe they are at the beach or shopping etc and Rafe and Reader are being really touchy etc?
thank youuuuuu
🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷
Reqest: more rafe + family shenanigans
Warnings: Rafe being inappropriate, no smut,
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‘’There you are!’’ Wheezie exclaimed the moment you and Rafe strolled into the cabin, twenty-seven minutes behind the rest of the family. ‘’We’ve been back for almost half an hour. Where did you go?’’
‘’We got lost,’’ Rafe said coolly, taking a long sip from his water bottle, as if it was no big deal.
Beside her, Sarah wasn’t buying it. She crossed her arms and tilted her head, giving the two of you a pointed look. ‘’You got lost?’’ she repeated, her tone full of doubt.
You nodded, stepping in to back Rafe up. ‘’That’s on me. My lace came undone, and Rafe stopped and waited for me, but when we tried to catch up to you we took a wrong turn. Luckily we found our way back.’’ 
Rafe glanced at you, impressed by how you could lie on the spot so well. You even sprinkled some truth. You did take a wrong turn, but it wasn’t an accident. 
Being younger — and far more innocent — Wheezie was easier to fool with your lies. But Sarah wasn’t stupid, and neither was Ward, who was standing behind the kitchen counter and prepping for the barbecue tonight. He knew his son too well to be easily deceived. 
‘’Do you need help with the vegetable, Mr. Cameron?’’ you asked, your tone light and polite as you moved closer to the counter. It was an attempt to shift the conversation, redirect the attention away from your little detour.
Ward glanced up, giving you a small smile in thanks. ‘’Sure,’’ he said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the cutting board. ‘’You can chop these carrots and the bell peppers.” 
You slid into place, picking up the knife and getting started. 
‘’I’m gonna go shower,’’ Rafe declared. He came up to you and kissed the side of your face, his hand lingering on the small of your back. ‘’You’re welcome to join if you get bored with the carrots and bell peppers.’’ 
Sarah wrinkled her nose, having unfortunately heard. ‘’You’re disgusting.’’ 
He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his smirk behind you. 
‘’Rafe, come on. Wheezie’s here…’’ Ward reprimanded tiredly for the umpteenth time. 
Fortunately, the younger Cameron had her nose deep in her book and didn’t pay attention to what Rafe had said. 
You were good for Rafe, but your relationship was very physical. And with that came Rafe’s unfiltered mouth — much to his family’s dismay. They were happy for him, but they could do without the constant smacking and grabbing of your ass or any other non-PG display of affection.  
‘’What? I just want to save water, like you said we should. The planet and all,’’ he defended, playing the innocent card and talking out of his ass.
Unfortunately for him, Sarah didn’t buy it. Rafe never cared about the environment. 
‘’I’ve been doing good things to help lately. We even stopped using con—’’
‘’Rafe!’’ you cut before he could finish, your cheeks flaming up.
OBX taglist: @moralina@eudximoniakr @toylewestinnyc @rottenstyx@sweeterheartxamerica  @jordierama @viridwityy @izzy-laufeyson @kenzi-woycehoski @lilaconner @Katsukis1Wife   @hawkegfs @mommyruuetrue   @acornacreacure @snownjune @nmedina8611 @slvtherinseeker   @slvtherinseeker @poppet05 @1stevelacyfan @illf4iry @withbeautyandrage   @maybankslover @sunflowerziva @laylasbunbunny @Honey-marvel15 @leoluvsur-pappy @slytherhoes @kcskye123 @outerbanksacc   @pedrosprincess   @mikaelsonsstuff  @skyesthebomb   @a1mzcruml3y @iluurmom   @popeheywardssecretgf  @madelynie  @loverofdrewstarkey   @radiant-whore  @outsider-at-hogwarts @luci1fer @bbycowboi @rafecameronsbadussy @urbfsbitchlol @nomorespahgetti @bloodyhw @Veescorneroftheworld   @papayaboyluvr @slytherinambitious @darylscvmdumpster @tommysaxes @johannelis2302nely @lynbubble   @straberryshortcake143 @beth-gallagher22 @doestalker @rubyliquor @theflcwer @angelxxrose @sierraluvzz @cruzgrecia @evelestrange @sunnysunny133696  @under-seasoned-pasta @hoeforsirius   @buckyswhxre @emerald-09   @simonessolarsystem @rehead1180 @stvrkey  @ynmunson @riddle18  @love4ldr @withfireandbl00d @wonderland2425 @blublock404 @eddieslut69
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pucksandpower · 2 days ago
Text
Malfunction
Franco Colapinto x physician!Reader
Summary: Franco’s concussion has come and gone, but his desire to see the angel of a physician who likely saved his life has only gotten stronger … it’s just a shame that he tends to lose any semblance of composure when you’re around
Note: this is the much requested second part to Malpractice … but even better than the first part if I do say so myself 🫣
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The Las Vegas Grand Prix is a distant blur in Franco’s memory. The crash. The pain. The disorientation.
But there’s something else that lingers, too. Something soft that refuses to leave him alone.
It’s the image of you, kneeling in front of him, your hands steady even as his world spun. Your voice cutting through the haze, your gaze sharp and intense, demanding his attention. The way you pushed him to stay alert, to pay attention, to focus on something other than the chaos in his head.
Franco knows he owes his sanity, maybe even his life, to you.
It’s been a week since the crash, and he’s been cleared by the medical team to race again in Qatar, despite a lingering headache that’s been stubbornly hanging on. But it’s not the headache that’s bothering him. It’s the fact that you’re not here. You’re not at the track. Not in the garage. Not hovering over him like some kind of guardian angel.
He wants to see you again. Needs to.
He’s sitting in the Williams debrief room, surrounded by engineers who are talking a mile a minute about tire wear and lap times. But Franco is barely listening. He keeps checking his phone, hoping for some sort of miracle: a text, a call, anything that might tell him you’re here. That you’ve returned to the paddock.
But the screen stays empty.
“Franco, are you with us?” James Vowles’ voice cuts through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present.
“Yeah, sorry,” Franco mutters, rubbing his eyes. “What were you saying about tire strategy?”
James raises an eyebrow. “It’s fine. Focus on your recovery. We’re just going over the data from today’s practice. You’ve got time. But-” He looks around, making sure no one else is listening, “-don’t be distracted during qualifying tomorrow. We need every bit of performance we can get from you this weekend.”
“Right.” Franco nods, but his mind drifts again, his gaze slipping back to his phone. It’s like the rhythm of the weekend has been broken without you here, without the sharpness of your voice telling him he’s being an idiot, without your soft, steady presence making everything feel a little more manageable.
A soft knock sounds at the door, and Alex steps in, his casual smile immediately making the room feel a little lighter. His eyes flicker over to Franco. “How’s it going, mate?”
Franco immediately perks up. “Alex! You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He straightens up in his chair, suddenly interested in the conversation.
Alex raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Is that because you’ve missed me, or because I bring good news?”
“Both,” Franco grins. “But seriously, I’ve been thinking about something, and I need your help.”
Alex folds his arms, giving Franco a knowing look. “Uh oh. What have you gotten yourself into now?”
“It’s about Y/N,” Franco says, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Alex’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t seem too surprised. He sighs, already knowing where this is headed. “Ah, I should’ve known.”
“No, listen,” Franco presses, his voice a little more serious. “I need her to come to Abu Dhabi. She has to be there. I-” He pauses, trying to put his feelings into words. “I’ve been thinking about her all week. I just … I need to see her again.”
Alex raises both hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. You want me to convince her to come to a race just so you can see her again?”
Franco shrugs, looking entirely unapologetic. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
Alex shakes his head, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. “You really have it bad, don’t you?”
Franco hesitates, his smile faltering just slightly, then nods. “I do.” His expression softens. “She helped me when I didn’t even know what was happening. I’ve never had someone take care of me like that.”
Alex takes a moment, studying Franco’s face, then lets out a long breath. “Look, I can’t make any promises. Y/N’s a resident physician. Her schedule is insane. She barely has time to breathe, let alone fly out to the Middle East for a race. But-” He hesitates, as if weighing his next words carefully. “But I’ll ask her. I’ll see what I can do. But no promises, okay?”
“Just ask,” Franco says urgently. “I don’t care if it’s a long shot. I need her there.”
Alex chuckles, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. I’ll ask. But you owe me a beer if this works.”
“You got it,” Franco grins, already feeling the relief of having put his request into motion. “Thanks.”
***
It’s late by the time you’re wrapping up your shift at the hospital. The weight of your scrubs feels heavier than usual tonight, your body aching after hours of rounds and consultations. You’ve barely slept all week, the demands of your residency taking up every last ounce of energy. All you want to do now is crash into bed and forget about the world for a few hours.
But then your phone buzzes in your pocket, and the familiar name on the screen makes you stop in your tracks.
Alex.
You sigh, glancing around the empty hallway before answering. “Hey, Alex. What’s up?”
“Hey,” Alex greets you, his tone casual but there’s a hint of something else in his voice. “How’s it going?”
You roll your eyes, leaning against the wall. “You know, same old. Patients, paperwork, more patients. I swear, I’m starting to see people’s illnesses in my dreams at this point. What’s up?”
“Well, funny you should mention that,” Alex says with a chuckle, “because I’ve got a bit of a favor to ask.”
You brace yourself. “What now?”
“I need you to come to Abu Dhabi.”
There’s a beat of silence. “What? No. I can’t just drop everything and fly to Abu Dhabi. You know how insane my schedule is right now.”
“I know, I know,” Alex says quickly. “But listen, it’s not for me. It’s for Franco.”
You blink, unsure if you heard him right. “Franco? What does he have to do with this?”
“He, uh, well, he’s been asking about you. He really wants you to come. He … he kind of needs you there, Y/N.”
You frown. “Needs me? What, like for a medical emergency?”
“No, no,” Alex quickly reassures you. “It’s not like that. He’s just — he’s been a bit, you know, off since the crash. He keeps talking about how much you helped him, how much he needs to see you again. He’s … kinda, well, taken with you.”
You pause, processing the unexpected request. “Wait. You want me to go to Abu Dhabi just to … see Franco?”
Alex sighs. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and I totally get it if you can’t make it. I just thought I’d put it out there, because he’s really … well, he’s really worried about seeing you again.”
You take a deep breath, staring at the floor. There’s a tug at your chest. Franco’s crash. The way he looked when he stumbled into the garage, his eyes unfocused, his voice thick with concussion. And how you couldn’t help but care, couldn’t help but feel something stir in your chest as you took care of him.
“I don’t know,” you say softly. “I don’t know if I can get time off. I’ve got a million things to do.”
“Please,” Alex pleads, his tone sincere. “Just think about it. I’ll take care of the rest. You don’t have to worry about anything. Just — just come for the weekend. For him.”
You hesitate for a long moment. Your exhaustion is overwhelming, but so is the pull to be there for Franco, to check in on him after everything that happened.
“Okay,” you say finally, your voice quiet but firm. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Alex lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to him.”
“I’ll talk to my supervisor tomorrow and see if I can get a couple of days off. I’ll let you know.”
“Great. I’ll keep you posted. Thanks again, really.”
As the call ends, you press the phone to your ear, staring at the blank hospital hallway. Something in your chest stirs, a mix of curiosity and something else you can’t quite name. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get involved with any of these drivers. But Franco … there’s something about him. Something you can’t shake.
You don’t know what’s going to happen in Abu Dhabi. But you know one thing for sure: you’re going to see him again.
***
Franco is buzzing with energy as he walks away from the Williams garage after FP2. The track is alive with its usual Friday hum: team radios squawking, mechanics wheeling equipment, fans pressing against barricades for a glimpse of the action. Normally, this is his favorite part of the weekend — the calm between sessions when he can breathe and think through what’s next.
But today, his thoughts are miles away.
You.
Alex told him you’d agreed to come. He’s spent all week mentally preparing for this moment, imagining what he’ll say when he sees you again. He’d told himself he’d play it cool. That he wouldn’t come off as desperate or weird. That he’d be charming and effortless.
And now, as he walks toward the Williams motorhome, he’s running through those lines in his head like a script. But then, through the glass doors of the motorhome, he spots you.
You’re sitting at a table with Lily, wine glasses between you. You’re mid-laugh, one hand lightly gesturing, the other wrapped around the stem of your glass. The sound of your laugh doesn’t reach him, but your expression — warm and animated — is enough to stop him in his tracks.
Franco stares, frozen. For a second, he’s not a professional driver or a smooth-talking twenty-one-year-old. He’s just a guy, floored by the sight of someone he’s been thinking about far too much.
And then, because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, he walks straight into the glass door.
The sound is embarrassingly loud — a deep, resonant thud that draws the attention of a couple of mechanics nearby. Franco stumbles back, clutching his forehead as the door wobbles slightly on its hinges.
“Oh, come on,” he mutters under his breath, blinking rapidly to clear the stars dancing in his vision.
Inside, Lily gasps, already half out of her chair. But you — you just press a hand to your mouth, visibly trying to suppress a laugh.
Franco pushes the door open this time (successfully, thank God) and steps into the motorhome, trying to salvage whatever remains of his dignity.
“Didn’t know the motorhome was defending itself today,” he says, flashing a crooked grin as he rubs his forehead.
You’re still smiling, but there’s a glint in your eyes as you take a sip of wine. “I see you’re still finding creative ways to injure yourself.”
Lily, standing now, gives him a once-over. “Are you okay? That sounded bad.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Franco says quickly, though he’s still holding his head. “Just testing the structural integrity of the door. Very solid. Great engineering.”
Lily rolls her eyes, muttering something about grabbing an ice pack before disappearing into the kitchen.
You lean back in your chair, tilting your head as you look at him. “You know, you really don’t have to keep hurting yourself just to get my attention. There are easier ways.”
Franco blinks, momentarily thrown off by the teasing edge in your voice. But then he recovers, his grin widening. “Oh, so you noticed me, huh? Mission accomplished.”
You arch an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Hard not to notice when someone face-plants into a door.”
“Ouch,” Franco says, clutching his chest dramatically. “First my head, now my ego. You’re ruthless.”
You laugh, setting your glass down. “I’m a doctor. I call it like I see it.”
“And what do you see?” He asks, leaning casually against the doorframe (or at least trying to — he slightly misjudges the angle and has to correct himself, which makes him look anything but casual).
“I see someone who might need another concussion test if they keep this up,” you say dryly, though there’s a hint of amusement in your tone.
Franco seizes the opening. “Oh, you’ll give me a test? What, right here? Should I sit down? Or maybe lie down? Whatever you need, angel, I’m ready.”
You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch. “I’m off-duty, thank you very much. And stop calling me angel.”
“Why? It suits you,” Franco says without missing a beat. He steps closer, his grin turning just a bit sheepish. “You did save me, after all.”
“From driving with a concussion,” you reply, crossing your arms.
“Still counts,” he says, shrugging. “So … you’re really here. Thought maybe Alex was messing with me.”
You tilt your head, watching him carefully. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, for fun? He likes to mess with me,” Franco says, his grin turning rueful. “But I’m glad he wasn’t. It’s … it’s good to see you.”
Your expression softens, and you glance down briefly before meeting his eyes again. “It’s good to see you too.”
For a moment, there’s a silence between you. Not awkward, but charged. Franco shifts his weight, scratching the back of his neck. He’s been preparing for this moment all week, but now that you’re standing in front of him, he’s at a loss.
Lily reappears then, an ice pack in hand. She tosses it to Franco, who catches it against his chest. “Here,” she says. “For the door-shaped bruise you’re probably going to have.”
“Thanks,” Franco says, pressing the pack to his forehead. He winces slightly but keeps his gaze on you.
Lily looks between the two of you, her lips twitching as if she’s trying not to laugh. “Well, I’ll leave you two to … whatever this is,” she says, grabbing her glass and retreating toward the other end of the motorhome.
Franco watches her go, then looks back at you, his smile softening. “So … you’re here for the whole weekend?”
You nod. “Lily convinced me to stay. Said I needed a break.”
“You do,” Franco says quickly. “Definitely. Big time.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And why’s that?”
“Because …” Franco hesitates, then decides to go for it. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since Vegas.”
You blink, caught off guard by his honesty. “Franco-”
“I’m serious,” he interrupts, stepping closer. “I know I’m probably coming off like a total idiot right now, but I don’t care. You-” He gestures vaguely, as if struggling to find the right words. “You’re different. You’re not like anyone else here.”
“That’s because I’m not supposed to be here,” you say, your tone light but your eyes searching his. “I’m a doctor, Franco. Not meant for … whatever this world is.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head. “You could be anything, and I’d still want to know you. You’re …” He trails off, then laughs at himself. “God, I’m bad at this.”
You laugh too, finally relaxing. “A little, yeah.”
“But I’m trying,” he says, his expression earnest now. “And I’ll keep trying, even if it means walking into more doors. Or walls. Or whatever else gets in my way.”
You shake your head, exasperated but undeniably charmed. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously into you,” Franco counters, grinning.
You groan, but your smile betrays you. “Stop. That was awful.”
“Was it?” Hr teases, leaning just slightly closer.
“Yes,” you say firmly, though there’s a hint of laughter in your voice. “And I’m not letting you use your injuries as an excuse to flirt with me.”
“Then what excuse should I use?” He asks, tilting his head.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now. “How about none? Just be normal.”
“Normal,” Franco repeats, as if testing the word. “Okay. I can do that. Probably.”
“Somehow, I doubt it,” you say, but your tone is lighter now, your guard lowering just a fraction.
Franco grins, sensing the shift. He might not be smooth, but he’s persistent. And right now, that feels like enough.
***
The hospital hums with its usual rhythm: the sharp beeps of monitors, the steady shuffle of footsteps, and the occasional murmur of voices echoing down sterile hallways. You’re halfway through your shift, mentally cataloging a growing to-do list, when one of the nurses finds you near the break room.
She looks far too amused for your liking, a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Hey, Doc,” she says, her tone conspiratorial. “You’ve got a patient in Room 43. Interesting case. File’s by the door.”
You glance up from your notes, immediately suspicious. “Interesting how?”
“Let’s just say … not your usual trauma,” she replies, her grin widening. “Go see for yourself.”
With a sigh, you grab your tablet and head down the hallway. You’re too tired to entertain the nurse’s cryptic humor, but curiosity tugs at you anyway. When you reach Room 43, you spot the chart hanging by the door. You pick it up and start skimming, your brain automatically processing the medical shorthand.
And then your eyes land on the complaint: penile fracture.
You freeze. Your brain short-circuits for a good five seconds.
Penile fracture. Seriously? You take a deep breath, fighting the urge to laugh or groan. It’s not unheard of, but it’s rare enough to make your day a little more … colorful.
Squaring your shoulders, you prepare yourself for what’s undoubtedly going to be an awkward encounter. Professionalism, you remind yourself. You’ve handled weirder cases.
But all of that resolve shatters the second you open the door and step into the room.
Because the patient isn’t some anonymous stranger.
It’s Franco.
Franco, lounging on the exam table like he doesn’t have a care in the world, scrolling through his phone with his free hand. Franco, the same man you’ve been dating for months, who absolutely should not be in this hospital room right now.
Your mouth opens, ready to deliver your standard introduction, but no words come out.
Franco looks up at the sound of the door, his face breaking into that familiar, devilish grin. “Hey, angel.”
“What the-” You stop yourself, gripping the edge of the clipboard like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. “Franco, what are you doing here?”
He sets his phone down, looking at you with wide, innocent eyes. “I’m a patient. Clearly.”
You take a deep breath, setting the clipboard aside. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Nope.” He leans back slightly, gesturing toward himself with both hands. “Broken dick. You saw the file.”
Your jaw tightens as you step closer, lowering your voice. “Franco, this is a hospital. You can’t just-”
“I didn’t just anything,” he cuts in, feigning indignation. “I’m here because you abandoned me this morning. And now I’m suffering.”
You blink at him, completely thrown. “Suffering?”
“Yes!” He says, sitting up straighter, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays any attempt at seriousness. “You left me. Alone. In bed. With …” He lowers his voice dramatically. “An issue.”
Your brain scrambles to keep up. “An issue?”
Franco sighs, as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “Blue balls. A raging, unresolved situation. You’re a doctor — you know how dangerous that can be.”
“Dangerous?” Your voice rises slightly before you catch yourself. “Franco, I left because I had to come to work. Like a normal person.”
“Right, but normal people don’t leave their boyfriends high and dry,” he argues, his tone edging into the realm of petulant. “Do you know how much it hurts? It’s practically a medical emergency.”
You close your eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of your nose. “So let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “You’re here because you have blue balls. And instead of — oh, I don’t know — handling it with your hand and some lotion like a grown adult, you decided to come to my workplace and waste everyone’s time?”
“I don’t see it as wasting time,” Franco says, crossing his arms. “I see it as seeking expert care. From a very qualified, very beautiful doctor.”
“Franco,” you say warningly, but he’s already grinning.
“Besides,” he continues, his voice dropping into a teasing lilt, “don’t you think it’s romantic? I’m literally willing to suffer for you.”
“Oh my God.” You press a hand to your forehead, feeling a mix of exasperation and disbelief. “You are not suffering. And this is not romantic — it’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously sweet,” Franco counters, clearly enjoying himself.
You stare at him, torn between wanting to strangle him and laugh. “You know I could get in trouble for this, right? What if someone finds out I’m treating my boyfriend? Or worse, that you’re faking a medical emergency?”
“I’m not faking,” he says quickly, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “The pain in my cock is very real.”
“Franco.” Your voice is flat, and you fix him with your best no-nonsense look.
He hesitates for a beat, then leans forward slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to confess something scandalous. “Okay, maybe it isn’t a fracture. But it is painful!”
You throw your hands up, resisting the urge to laugh despite yourself. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.”
Franco pouts, his lower lip sticking out in an exaggerated fashion. “Come on, angel. Don’t be mad. I just wanted to see you.”
“You couldn’t have waited until my shift was over?”
He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m impatient. And in my defense, you looked very cute leaving this morning.”
You sigh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you love me,” he says, his grin widening.
“Don’t push your luck,” you warn, though there’s no real bite in your tone.
Franco leans back on the exam table, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who just disrupted your workday. “So … are you gonna examine me or what?”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Do you want me to call security? Because that’s where this is headed.”
“You wouldn’t,” he says, his confidence unwavering.
You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Try me.”
Franco holds your gaze for a moment, then sighs dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine. No exam. But only because I value our relationship.”
“Uh-huh,” you say, not even trying to hide your sarcasm.
He grins again, the kind of grin that’s always been your undoing. “You can’t stay mad at me, angel. Admit it.”
You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite your best efforts. “Franco, you’re lucky I like you. Otherwise, you’d be on your way out of here in handcuffs.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and he smirks. “Kinky.”
“Oh, for the love of-” You don’t bother finishing the sentence, turning toward the door instead.
“Wait, wait!” Franco calls after you, sliding off the exam table. “I’m kidding! Don’t go!”
You pause, looking back at him. He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, his expression softer now. “Seriously,” he says. “I just … I missed you. And I thought maybe this would make you laugh. Or at least roll your eyes. Which it did, so … mission accomplished?”
You sigh, feeling your resolve waver. It’s hard to stay mad at him when he’s looking at you like that — like you’re the only person in the world who matters.
“Franco,” you say, your voice quieter now. “You can’t just show up like this. I have a job to do.”
“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “And I promise I won’t make a habit of it. But … can I take you to dinner after your shift? As an apology?”
You study him for a moment, weighing your options. Finally, you let out a small sigh. “Fine. But only if you promise to behave.”
“I promise,” he says quickly, holding a hand over his heart.
“And no more faking injuries,” you add, pointing a finger at him.
“Scout’s honor,” he says, though the mischievous glint in his eye suggests otherwise.
You shake your head, exasperated but smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, you keep me around,” he says, grinning.
“For now,” you say, opening the door. “Now get out of here before someone sees you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Franco says, saluting playfully as he follows you into the hallway.
As he walks away, you can’t help but smile to yourself. Ridiculous as he is, there’s no denying that life with Franco is never boring.
757 notes · View notes
sceletaflores · 1 day ago
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come on into my bed with me (i know you want to)
pair: old man!logan howlett x fem!reader
wc: 4.1k
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, some sad vibes because i can't function without them, large age gap (but isn't that obvious by now? mid 20s/old as fuck), established relationship but only kind of, falls in the logan 2017 timeline but very loosely, LONGINGGGG, gratuitous nickname use (kid, baby, honey, ect), nasty dirty talk cause he's old and gross, not so dry humping, JUST THE TIP RAHHHH, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.
nat’s note: this was heavily inspired by imogen heap's 'i am in love with you' because that song fucks so hard and it really gave me lots of old man logan vibes. i was just so overcome with nasty thoughts that the beat possessed me and i blacked out and listened to it on a constant repeat while i wrote this instead of doing my a&p work. kisses!
dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!
you can't sleep, logan left his door open...
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Rain pelts at the smudged glass of your window, drops trailing down the span of the panes that you follow with your eyes.
It's been raining nearly all week, a rare thing in Mexico, especially somewhere as dry as Sonora.
You used to love the rain. You felt a special kind of comfort anytime night would come and there'd be a certain chill swirling through the air, that familiar scent of damp soil and wet stone rising as the first drops hit the ground.
In Sonora, rain is supposed to be a gift—a reprieve from the unrelenting heat, a chance for the dry earth to drink.
It should feel cleansing, like a reset of sorts, and maybe it would have a few months ago.
Now it just feels heavy, oppressive. Each raindrop splattering against the glass feels like a reminder of everything that's stuck, unmoving.
The soft noise of it was almost enough to lull you to sleep, but it was still no match for your wandering mind.
You’ve been finding yourself here a lot recently, shrouded in the scratchy sheets of your bed in the quiet dark encompassing your room, mind racing.
It was raining the first night he touched you.
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You've been with Logan and Charles for nine months.
A runaway hitchhiker turned caretaker after you fled from the meaningless scraps of your life back in Texas.
Logan found you on the side of the highway coming back from a shift in El Paso. One stop with the hazards on and a hasty conversation through a rolled down window later, you were throwing your bags in the back of his limo and climbing into the front seat.
You didn't realize until much later that he never truly asked you to stay, or to care for Charles alongside him.
It was only supposed to be a temporary arrangement, a roof over your head in exchange for your help. Watch over his ailing father for a few days while he went out to get him more medicine, that's what you settled on.
Yet somehow, here you are, nine months later.
You cook meals in a dusty kitchen that always smells faintly of motor oil, listen to Charles’ stories about a world you’ll never fully grasp, and watch Logan patch himself up in grim silence after he’s returned from whatever trouble found him this time. 
It's strange how the days seemed to stretch endlessly, but the weeks have slipped past like a blink. You carved out a routine in this crumbling house in Sonora, built something that resembles a life even if it feels borrowed, like a second-hand coat that never quite fits right.
At first, you weren’t sure what kept you here. Maybe Charles. 
You warmed to him almost immediately, drawn in by his gentle demeanor and the way he seemed to see right through you without a hint of judgment. 
Even when his mind faltered, slipping into tangled memories or distant fragments of a life long past, he treated you with a kindness you hadn’t felt in years.
You’d come to think of him as a king, regal and noble. A king stripped of his castle, yet still wearing a crown, if ever so skewed—a king nonetheless.
You still aren’t sure, but you can’t shake the sense that leaving now would be like tearing off a scab—painful and unnecessary.
And then, one night, the rain came.
You remember it vividly, a torrent so sudden and unrelenting. The downpour soaking the dry dirt surrounding the plant. 
You couldn’t help yourself from wandering out, stood barefoot on the porch as the cool air nipped at the skin of your arms and legs.
“You’re gonna catch a cold standin’ out here.” Logan said from somewhere behind you, his voice rough and low after the silence of a long shift.
You hadn’t moved, hadn’t even glanced his way. “I like the rain.”
There was a beat of silence before he stepped closer, the warmth of his body radiating against your back. His hand had been hesitant at first, a brush of calloused fingers against your arm. 
You didn’t pull away.
The heat of his palm felt scalding, causing goosebumps to pebble along your damp skin. His thumb swiped across the circular scar just above your elbow, a cigarette burn, one of many.
He didn’t say anything as he turned and walked back into the house. You learned quickly that Logan’s not the type to fill silences with empty words, but you both knew something shifted.
He came into your room later that night. The squeaky mattress of your bed dipping under his weight as he slid his hand down your stomach, pausing just above the waistband of your shorts, a silent question.
He didn’t kiss you, but the rain pattering against the tin roof was enough to swallow your soft moans and gasps.
You settled into something undefined—a constant push and pull of need and silence. Logan touched you when he needed to, and you let him because you wanted to.
It wasn’t love, not then. It wasn’t even comfort. But it was connection. A tenuous thread in the quiet storm of your lives.
You figured that was enough.
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The rain hasn't slowed. If anything, the howl of the wind is stronger than before.
The soothing rhythm of droplets hitting your window turned aggressively sharp, like darts thrown against a worn cork board.
The boom of thunder is nearly in sync with the pulse of your core, aching and insistent in its need.
It’s been weeks since Logan touched you last, his endless cycle of guilt stronger than it's been before. He’s never outright said it, but you know it’s there.
The silence between you both has stretched longer than you'd like to admit, a quiet that isn't comfortable anymore.
You know he’s got it in his head that he’s somehow taken advantage of you. A perverted old man falling weak to the pretty, young thing taking up space in the bed two doors over from him.
The thought stirs something deep within you, a mix of frustration and confusion. He’s not wrong, not exactly—but he’s not right either. You aren’t a child, and you aren’t helpless. You knew what you wanted, what you needed.
And that hasn’t dared to change.
You shift in bed, the sheets tangling around your legs as your body hums with a restlessness you can’t shake. The air in your room feels thick, charged, and suffocating, a mirror of the space between you and Logan.
He doesn’t understand that you want him too, that you weren’t some helpless thing to be protected or shielded from his darkness. It eats at you until your skin is practically buzzing with it, buzzing with the need to show him.
There’s only so much silence you can take before it becomes too loud to ignore. 
You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the hardwood cool against your bare feet. You know it’s late, but you don’t care.
You walk through the dimly lit hallway, the creak of the floorboards quiet under you as you make your way to Logan’s door. It’s cracked open, a yellow glow spilling through to guide you like a lighthouse guides its ships to shore.
When you reach the beat up wood you don’t hesitate, you push it open the slightest bit, peering through the widened gap. 
He’s there, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to you. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge you, but you know he knows you’re there.
You cross the threshold, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you pull the door shut behind you, leaning your back against it.
“Logan,” you say softly, your voice rougher than you intended.
He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he runs his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. The lamplight catches the sharp planes of his face, a familiar weariness etched into his features.
His fingers flex at his sides, and for a moment, you think he’s going to tell you to leave—to go back to your room where it’s safe, where you won’t make things more complicated than they already are. You almost brace for it.
But then he speaks.
“What’s wrong, kid.” His voice is nothing but a deep rumble, like gravel crunching underfoot.
You shrug noncommittally, hands messing with a stray thread hanging from the edge of your shorts. “Can’t sleep.”
Logan sighs long and slow through his nose, hands pressing into his thighs. “Thought you liked the rain.”
You smile faintly at the irony, chest swelling with something dangerous. 
You take a step further into the room, pushing yourself off the closed door. The familiar scent of him invades your senses. It’s a mixture of leather, earth, and something raw—something undeniably him. 
You stand there for a moment, letting the silence stretch thin and taut before you finally speak.
“Can I stay?” The words come out barely above a whisper, but they land like a crack of lightning.
You feel your heart thud painfully in your chest, not from fear, but from the sudden vulnerability that makes your skin burn.
The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in as you step forward, each movement slow and deliberate. You stop at the edge of his bed, the sheets pressing against the bare skin of your thighs.
Logan’s gaze flickers over his shoulder, meeting yours briefly before he looks away again, like he’s trying to convince himself that the ache in his chest isn’t real.
“You should go back to bed,” he says, voice gruff. “It’s late.”
“I don’t want to go back.” You shake your head even though he isn’t turned around to see it.
Without thinking, you crawl onto the bed, the comforter making soft shushing sounds under your hands and knees. You reach out, fingers brushing the back of his neck, the muscles there tight with strain.
Logan flinches slightly, but he doesn’t pull away, and that’s all the permission you need.
You shift closer, pressing your chest against his back, and letting your hands settle on his shoulders. The heat between you is electric, charged with something unsaid, something raw and undeniable.
“Please,” you whisper, your lips brushing against the back of his ear, your voice a mixture of defiance and desire.
Logan stiffens, but this time, you feel the shudder that runs through him, the way his body responds despite the walls he’s built around himself.
You know he’s torn, that he wants to fight this. You feel it in the tension that radiates from him, in the way his body seems to be fighting against the instinct to turn toward you.
But you don’t care anymore. You’re done with silence.
Your fingers slide down his back, feeling the rough fabric of his shirt against your skin as you press yourself closer. Your breath is hot against his neck now, and you can feel the rapid pulse in his veins beneath your lips as you hover just above his skin, waiting.
“Logan…” Your voice is softer now, almost pleading. You don’t know what you’re asking for, but you don’t have to.
His hand comes up, brushing against your wrist as if testing, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. But you don’t.
Instead, you lean into him further, your lips brushing the curve of his neck, whispering into the tension that still hangs heavy between you. “Please.”
The last shreds of Logan’s resistance snap under the cloying weight of your touch.
He’s moving before you can even register what’s happening, rearing up with heavy hands that land on your shoulders to push you backwards.
You fall back onto the bed with a soft gasp, bouncing on the mattress once, twice, before Logan follows. His body settles over yours like a warm blanket, thick forearms braced on either side of your head to support his weight.
"Why couldn't you sleep, honey?" he asks, dark eyes boring into yours intense enough to get your stomach churning. The green of them is deeper than normal, like fresh moss growing over stone.
“I was thinking,” you whisper, breathless. Your pulse races beneath your skin, you wonder distantly if he can hear it too.
“Thinkin’ about what?” he presses, breath fanning over your lips temptingly. 
Your brows furrow, a soft noise escaping you. You can't help but tell the truth. “About you.”
Logan hums, eyes trailing along your face slowly. He slots a knee between your thighs, groaning softly at the wet heat that seeps through to his jeans.
You gasp, hips bucking down instinctively. Your pussy aches desperately, leaking arousal into the cotton gusset of your panties.
His jaw clenches at the sound, muscle ticking just beneath the grey of his beard. “Is that right? You been layin' in that bed, thinkin' about me, gettin’ all worked up?"
Your face burns under his scrutiny, but you don’t shy away. You arch your back, pressing yourself as close to him as possible, letting the heat of your body speak for you.
“Yeah,” you breathe, the confession trembling on your lips. “I need you, it hurts.”
Logan exhales sharply, like the words knocked the air out of him. His hands slide from your shoulders, rough palms gliding down the skin of your arms before settling right under the swell of your breasts.
“Where’s it achin’, baby?” he asks softly, words almost getting lost in the dark of the room. “Show me.”
You let out a soft breath, reaching down to take his hand in yours.
Without breaking eye contact, you guide his hand down your trembling body until his palm rests over the apex of your thighs, where the damp fabric of your shorts clings to your swollen folds.
“Here,” you whisper, voice barely audible above the rain pounding against his window.
A low growl rumbles from deep in his chest, and his fingers press more firmly against you, feeling the slick heat that’s soaked through the thin cotton. His eyes darken further, the green almost swallowed by the black of his pupils.
Logan’s thumb drags over your clit, slow and deliberate, coaxing a needy whimper from your lips.
“Jesus,” he mutters, his voice thick. “You’re drippin’ for me, aren’t you? Didn’t even need to touch you, and you’re already so fuckin’ wet.” 
You whimper softly, bucking your hips against his hand, desperate for more.
"I've been like this all night," you admit, your voice going high and needy. "Thinking about how good you make me feel. How much I want you."
Logan’s eyes lock onto yours, and there’s something new swirling through them, something you’ve never seen before.
A beat passes—too long—almost agonizing. His free hand lifts from your hip, gently cupping your cheek, fingers brushing against your skin, like he isn’t sure if he has the right to touch you like this. 
His thumb brushes your lip, his gaze flicking to your mouth before returning to your eyes, asking for permission, even though neither of you had ever really needed it before.
"Logan," you say, the sound a little breathless, unsure of how to navigate this sudden shift, but he doesn’t keep you waiting.
He closes the distance in a heartbeat, lips crashing into yours with a ferocity you didn’t expect.
It’s like the world around you falls away, leaving only the warmth of his lips, the taste of him, and the pressure of his body against yours. The raging storm outside dulling until it’s nothing but fuzzy background noise.
His kiss is rough, deep, urgent, but there’s something more in it, a slow unraveling. Like he’s trying to carve himself into you, a permanent mark, a reminder that he was here, even if he never says it out loud.
Logan tastes like rich smoke and whiskey, the sharp edge of him mixing with the sweet burn of need. It sends your head reeling, arms coming up to circle around his neck.
You can’t find the words to describe it, not with the way his fingers slide through the wetness gathering at your entrance, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.
Your hips thrust upward, begging for more, your body hungry for the release he’s just out of reach of giving.
“Want you inside me, Logan,” you moan desperately, slick lips brushing his with every word. “Please.”
Logan's body stiffens against yours at the sound of your pleading, his grip tightening on your cheek like he's trying to anchor himself in the reality of what you're asking.
“Shit,” he growls under his breath, his forehead pressing to yours as he closes his eyes. His chest heaves, the tension in his body palpable. "I—" he pauses, struggling to form the words, but you can see it in his eyes. He's conflicted, desperate, yet still hesitant.
You move against him, your body restless, your need undeniable, feeling the rigid outline of his hard cock pressed firmly against your thigh. A thick plane of heat that has your pussy clenching around the tips of his fingers.
You don’t want to push him, not anymore. But you’re past the point of waiting for permission.
Your lips meet his again, softer this time, coaxing, until he finally gives in, groaning against your mouth as he kisses you back with an intensity that steals your breath.
“I want to feel you,” you whisper, your hands trailing down to the hem of his shirt, pushing it over the swell of his pecs. 
His skin is hot under your fingertips, rough and familiar. Your fingers trail lightly across his chest, nails scratching through the salt and pepper hair dusted across his skin as you urge him closer.
“Just the tip,” Logan mutters under his breath, barely above a whisper. His voice hoarse, like he’s bargaining with himself. “Just to make you feel good, but that’s it, understand?”
You bite your lip, the edge of frustration gnawing at you. It’s not everything you need, not everything you want, but it's something. And right now, it’s enough.
You nod your head, hands already moving to the front of his jeans. You undo the button with shaking fingers, tugging the zipper down and pushing the worn denim away. 
His cock springs free, already hard, leaking with the same desperation you feel. You run your fingers along his length, feeling the heat of him, the steady throb of his pulse.
Logan peels down the thin layer of your shorts, cursing under his breath when he finds you completely bare underneath, your slick pussy shining under the dim light.
You watch him, chest heaving, as he stares down at you—his eyes dark and full of something primal, something raw.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his fingers tracing the outline of your wetness. He groans low in his throat, his thumb circling your clit once before moving down, dipping inside you just barely. “You’re perfect, baby.”
“Logan,” you whine, thighs spreading in a clear invitation. You patience is running exceedingly thin, your whole body alight with the feeling of a raging forest fire
“I know,” he mutters, placating. He takes the throbbing length of his cock in his hand, swiftly settling between your legs. “I know.”
The thick head drags through your folds, smearing pre-come along your skin and adding even more to the mess between your legs.
A quiet moan passes through your swollen lips, your muscles tightening as he slides himself along your clit. A slow back and forth movement that sends sparks shooting up your spine.
Logan grits his teeth, his breath shallow, as he finally aligns himself with your clenching hole. 
The air around you feels charged, a taut thread stretched between anticipation and restraint. You shift your hips slightly, just enough to encourage him, your eyes locked on his as you beg him silently with your gaze.
Then, with a low growl that vibrates through you, he pushes forward, just enough to make you gasp in relief, the head of his cock sliding home in your entrance.
And though it’s only the tip, the sensation of him inside you is enough to set your world alight. 
You can feel it, deep in your bones—the simmering, searing heat that makes everything else fade into the background.
Logan presses his lips to your forehead, his breath hot against your skin as he keeps his movements slow, deliberate, his hands holding your hips steady. "This is what you wanted, huh? Got you begging for it, honey," he growls softly. "Even if I’m only givin’ you a taste."
His hips roll languidly, staying true to his word and never sinking deeper than the thick head of his cock. His hand grips the base tightly, his fist fucking slow strokes over the length of himself to where he’s spreading your pussy open.
His scarred knuckles bump against your clit with every stroke, fanning the fire building in your lower stomach.
“Feel so fuckin’ good, honey,” he groans into the skin of your neck, the pace of his hips speeding up ever so slightly. “Feels like heaven.”
You claw at the skin of his back, touch wild and desperate. It takes everything in you not to shift your hips down, to sheath the rest of his cock deep inside your and lock your ankles around his back so he can never leave again.
Logan’s lips find your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he shifts against you. “Tell me you want this,” he says, his voice low, almost a command, yet laced with something tender. “Tell me you want me.”
You meet his gaze without hesitation, your voice steady despite the tremble in your chest. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.” 
The words come out without thought, raw and honest, and you see something in his eyes shift—a flicker of relief, of something deeper than lust.
Logan groans like he got shot, his body shuddering above you as a low growl tears its way from his chest. He fucks into you faster, short, quick thrusts that steal all the breath from your lungs.
Sparks go off behind your closed eyes, bright white and glittering. You can feel yourself getting closer, your body trembling as you grind up against him, meeting him halfway, needing more, needing release.
“Logan,” you gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders harder, nails digging in. “I’m so close. Please—”
“Let go,” he growls, his pace increasing, his body pressing harder against yours. “Come for me, sweetheart.”
With his command, you unravel, the world spinning around you as the pleasure crashes over you, leaving you breathless, gasping for air, your body quivering beneath him as he holds you through it.
Logan follows, tearing himself from the tight grip of your pussy with a sharp jerk of his hips, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as he shoots thick ropes of come over your slick folds.
Your body shakes at the feeling, a breathless whimper pulled from your slack lips at the sticky warmth of his release.
He collapses onto the mattress next to you, his body shuddering enough to match your own. The room falls into a deep silence, the only sounds your mingling breaths and the distant sound of thunder.
A sick sort of dread bursts through the sweet afterglow of your hazy mind, settling in your stomach like a lead weight. You think that this is the moment where Logan will realize what you’ve done, that he’ll retreat back into himself and send you away.
Send you back to your own room and leave you to lay in the cold aftermath of your own recklessness.
You brace for it, the instinct to pull away, to protect yourself from his withdrawal, but it never comes. 
Instead, you feel his strong arm slide over your waist, pulling you closer, his body heat a stark contrast to the chill creeping in from the window.
His breath is warm against your neck as he shifts, his fingers tracing absent circles on your skin in a move that’s so endearingly human it has your chest aching.
"Stay here tonight?" he asks, his voice rough, almost a whisper.
Your heart clenches, tears burning at your waterline at the vulnerability of his tone. It breaks the dam inside you, relief and something dangerously close to love flooding your body in a bursting rush of water.
“Of course,” you murmur, your voice shaky.
Logan’s hand tightens around you, his thumb brushing over your ribs. He presses a soft kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder, settling onto the mattress with a slow breath.
You drift to sleep more relaxed than you’ve felt in years, even with the knowledge of the slow journey that lies ahead of you. It won’t be easy, it never is with Logan. You can’t find it in yourself to care.
Because even though the rain falls, the desert doesn’t bloom overnight. 
And neither do you.
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melody-magic · 3 days ago
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the thing about Dropout's transmisogyny problem in particular is that it seems to stem from the people at all decision making levels not having trans women as part of their worldview, literally forgetting we exist until we come into their vision actively.
like, let me put it this way. if i sat down to have lunch with brennan lee mulligan, i don't think he'd misgender me once. i think he'd be nice, and respectful, and listen attentively when i tell him what its like living as a trans woman and the difficulties that come with it. i really do! and then as soon as the conversation was over he wouldn't think about trans women again until the next time he saw one or heard about us. he wouldn't think of us when planning his games, when building his stories, or when casting his shows. so at the end of the day, yeah he'd be nice to me, but when he imagines the world, ANY world he can create, people like me do not feature in it unless we are already there for some other purpose, like to be someone's girlfriend, or to make a dick joke.
same with sam reich. when he goes into a casting phase, he and his team's rolodex (or perhaps i should say contact list to be more modern) is full of diversity! we can see it spanned across all the shows! except its strangely empty of one demographic and one demographic only. and when he does cast trans women, they're always drag queens first and trans women second.
there's something matt colville says when he finishes out some videos and livestreams, and while it may be pithy and chessy i think its relevant in this case: "imagine people complexly".
these people dont even imagine us, or consider us. to them, we don't exist, not because they don't believe in our existence, or they haven't seen it, or even because they actively hate us, but they simply dont consider it in any way until it is already presented to them. we are, quite literally, not a part of their vision of the world. how can we get them to imagine us complexly when they can't even imagine us in the first place?
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eu-nicola · 1 day ago
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not yours part 1
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summary: Rafe Cameron is the perfect boyfriend… but not yours, but Sofia’s. However, fate plays against you when you become the only person capable of understanding him in his darkest moments. What begins as a dangerous friendship soon becomes an attraction impossible to deny.
warnings: nothing for now
word counter: 9203
author’s note: english is not my first language
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In the eyes of the Kooks, you were always a Pogue. You could have perfectly coiffed hair, impeccable clothes, and an air of confidence that many of them envied, but no matter how hard you tried, you were still one of “the others.” After all, you were born and raised on the other side of the island, where the houses were small, the streets dusty, and the rules of etiquette didn’t exist. 
But that never stopped you. You always wanted more, you wanted to stand out, to shine as if the invisible line that divided the island didn’t exist for you. You liked being the center of attention, being the girl who walked into a party and made everyone turn to look at you. It was part of who you were. It entertained you, it filled you with energy. And maybe, deep down, you enjoyed a little bit of the scandal that a Pogue caused trying to be more than that. 
The first time you met Sofia was at one of those parties that the Kooks organized on the beach. You arrived late, as usual, but perfect. The tight black dress you had chosen highlighted every curve. You made sure every hair was in place and that your makeup highlighted your eyes impeccably.
You saw her alone, sitting in a corner, with a half-finished drink in her hand. She didn't seem comfortable in that place, as if she was out of place. Maybe that was what caught your attention. Unlike other girls, Sofia didn't seem to desperately want to fit in. There was something authentic about her, something that intrigued you.
"What are you doing here alone?" you asked her as you sat down next to her. Your tone was casual, as if you had known her all your life.
Sofia looked up and smiled at you, shy but warm.
"I don't know... I think this isn't my place."
"Well, sometimes, what we think isn't our place ends up being the best place of all," you answered, and without waiting for an invitation, you stayed there.
From that night on, you and Sofia became inseparable. She was quieter, more reserved, but that worked. Your explosive energy was complemented by her calm, and soon you were doing everything together: from afternoons on the beach to nighttime escapades to places where the Kooks didn’t dare to go.
It was inevitable that Sofia began to integrate more into your world. But she also began to enter theirs. Maybe too much.
The first time she told you she was dating Rafe Cameron, you felt like the world stopped for a moment.
“Rafe Cameron?” you repeated in disbelief as you looked in the mirror, touching up your eyeliner.
You were in your room, getting ready for another party. The air smelled of perfume and freshly opened makeup. Sofia was sitting on your bed, nervously playing with the hem of her dress.
“Yeah… I know he’s not exactly the kind of guy you like.”
He wasn’t. He never was. Rafe Cameron was the perfect definition of everything you despised about the Kooks. Arrogant, controlling, with that air of superiority that drove you crazy. And although you didn't say it openly, you knew he looked at you with disdain every time you coincided somewhere. As if you were usurping a space that didn't belong to you.
You took a deep breath, adjusting the necklace that adorned your neck, and decided not to say what you really thought.
“If it makes you happy… then fine.”
Sofia looked at you with a mix of relief and gratitude. You knew how much your opinion mattered to her, and you weren’t going to be the one to take that happiness away from her, even though something inside you told you it wasn’t going to end well.
Later that night the party was at its highest point. Music was booming from the speakers, laughter and conversations mixed with the sound of the sea gently lapping against the shore. The dim lights and strategically placed torches gave an almost magical air to the private beach where the Kooks were celebrating once again. Everything was perfect, at least in appearance.
You were there, as always, impeccable. Every accessory was in its place, every strand of your hair perfectly arranged, and your smile was as dazzling as ever.
But from the moment you walked through the door, Sofia was glued to Rafe Cameron.
He was leaning against one of the makeshift bars, a bottle of beer in his hand and that cocky grin he never seemed to be able to erase. Sofia, beside him, looked different. More radiant, perhaps, but also more… restrained. As if he somehow controlled her every move.
It bothered you. You couldn’t help it. You had arrived expecting to spend the night together, like you used to before Rafe came into the equation. But there she was, practically glued to him, laughing at his comments, looking at him as if the rest of the party didn’t exist.
You sipped a glass of white wine and forced yourself to smile when a couple of acquaintances came over to say hello. You chatted, laughed, and pretended you didn’t care. Because at the end of the day, you understood. He was her boyfriend. If you had one, you’d probably do the same. If you had a Rafe Cameron who looked at you like you were the only important thing in the world, you wouldn’t leave him alone either.
Still, you couldn’t help the pang of discomfort that settled in your chest every time you saw them together. It was like Sofia was slowly disappearing into Rafe’s shadow.
Someone offered you a drink, and you accepted with a flirtatious smile, because that was what you did. You always knew how to have fun, how to attract glances, how to make sure no one noticed that something was bothering you.
But as the night progressed, you realized that your eyes kept returning to them. To Rafe, who had his arm around her as if to make it clear that she belonged to him. To Sofia, who didn’t seem to notice anyone else.
“Are you going to stay there all night, or are you going to dance?” a boy’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You turned around and recognized him by sight. A Kook, of course, one of those who always tried to get close to you when you were alone.
You smiled at him, playful.
“What if I tell you that I prefer to stay here?”
He laughed, but insisted.
“Come on, I promise you'll have fun.”
You hesitated for a second, your eyes looking back at Sofia. She was still glued to Rafe, oblivious to everything else.
“Okay” you finally agreed, putting your drink aside. “Let's see if it's true.”
You went out onto the dance floor and let yourself go. Because if there was one thing you knew how to do, it was enjoy the moment, at least in appearance. You danced, you laughed, you let the music envelop you. But every time you turned, every time you moved to the rhythm of the music, you could feel Rafe's gaze on you. It was a strange, uncomfortable feeling.
For an instant, your eyes met his. His gaze was intense, cold, as if he were evaluating you. It wasn't the first time he did it. He always seemed to observe you that way, as if he wanted to remind you that you didn't belong in his world, that you were nothing more than an intruder.
But you didn't give him the pleasure of looking away. You held his gaze, defiant, with a smile on your lips, as if you didn't care in the least what he thought. Because at the end of the day, if you had learned anything, it was not to show weakness.
The music continued, the lights continued to flicker, and the night continued.
When the music began to slow down and tiredness settled in your body, you decided that it was enough for that night. You had danced, drank, and smiled enough to keep up appearances. You looked once more to where Sofia and Rafe were, still together, as if the rest of the party didn't exist.
You sighed, resigned. It wasn't your place to interrupt that moment. You knew that if you came closer, Sofia would want you to stay, but honestly, you had no energy left to keep pretending that everything was fine.
"See you tomorrow," you murmured to a couple of acquaintances as you left. No one stopped you, because they knew that when you decided to leave, there was nothing that would make you change your mind.
You took the path to your house, enjoying the fresh air that calmed the heat accumulated on your skin. The silence of the night welcomed you with open arms, and it didn't take long for you to slip under the sheets, leaving behind the noise, the lights, and the discomfort that had followed you throughout the evening.
The next morning, your phone rang earlier than expected. Sofia.
"Good morning," you said hoarsely, still half asleep.
"Good morning," she answered, with an energy that made you frown. "Are you awake?"
“Now yes. What's up?”
“I'm at Rafe's house. I thought you could come. There's a pool, some food... We could spend the day here.”
You bit your lower lip, hesitating for a second. The idea of ​​spending the day at Rafe's house wasn't exactly your ideal plan. The Cameron house had always seemed more like a display of power than a home. Every corner was designed to impress, to make it clear that they were the pinnacle of the Kooks. And although you knew how to move in that environment, it wasn't your favorite place.
“Sure, give me some time to get ready and I'll go.”
“Perfect. I'll wait for you.”
You hung up the phone and stood up slowly, stretching your arms over your head as you thought about what to wear.
You opted for a long, light white dress, which highlighted your tan and fell perfectly. You chose a white bikini as well, simple but elegant. You made sure your hair was styled to perfection, letting some soft waves fall to frame your face.
A touch of natural makeup, just enough to highlight your eyes and lips, but not over the top. You chose a small bag, where you kept the essentials: sunscreen, sunglasses, and your phone.
You looked at yourself one last time in the mirror, adjusting the dress and the necklace that discreetly glistened on your collarbone.
You grabbed your keys, placed your sunglasses on your head, and left the house.
When you arrived, Sofia ran out to greet you before you could knock on the door, her radiant smile lighting up her face.
“You’re here!” she said excitedly, extending her arms towards you.
“Of course I do!” you replied with an equally wide smile as you walked over to hug her.
The hug was warm and genuine. Sofia had always had that energy that made you feel welcome, like everything else disappeared when you were together. She pulled away slightly to look at you.
“You look amazing.”
“You do too,” you said sincerely, noticing how her face glowed despite the simplicity of her outfit. “You always look good when you’re happy, though.”
Sofia blushed a little and laughed softly. You knew exactly why she was so happy. You didn’t have to be an expert at reading gestures to figure it out: Rafe.
“Come on, we’re in the back,” she said, taking you by the arm and leading you to the pool.
They walked through the house until they reached the spacious backyard. The pool sparkled in the sun, surrounded by lounge chairs, umbrellas, and luxurious furniture. Everything was perfectly arranged, as if they had taken the scene from a magazine.
And there he was.
He was sitting by the pool, a beer in his hand, sunglasses covering his eyes. He looked carefree, like the whole world revolved around him. His hair perfectly combed, body relaxed but always in control.
Your eyes met his for a brief second as you crossed the garden. His gaze was cold, distant, as always.
“Hi, Rafe,” you said in a polite tone, keeping the smile light.
He barely raised his hand in a vague greeting, not even bothering to take off his glasses.
“Hey.”
Nothing more. A short, dry greeting, as if you were there out of mere courtesy. Then, he turned his attention back to the conversation he was having with one of his friends, as if your presence was insignificant.
You expected it. Rafe had never treated you with more than minimal courtesy, and that was when he felt like it.
You took a deep breath and turned to Sofia, who didn’t seem to notice her boyfriend’s coldness.
“Come on, I’ll show you where to put your stuff,” Sofia said excitedly, leading you to one of the lounge chairs. 
After you put all your stuff down, Sofia spoke to you again. 
“Come on, let’s go to the pool,” Sofia said, pulling you by the hand. “It’s hot, and the water is perfect.”
You nodded and took off your white dress, revealing the bikini you had chosen so carefully. 
The afternoon passed more peacefully than you had anticipated. The sun bathed the pool in a golden glow, and the soft music coming from the strategically placed speakers made everything seem like something out of a postcard. You and Sofia spent hours laughing, swimming, and enjoying the cold drinks you had brought. At times, the awkwardness that had accompanied you upon arrival seemed to fade away. 
Rafe and his friends were nearby, but they kept their distance, busy in their own bubble of conversations. 
At some point, Sofia stood up. 
“I’m going inside to get something to eat.” Do you want me to get you something?
“No, I’m fine,” you replied with a smile. You didn’t want to move. The sun, the water, and the atmosphere had relaxed you more than you expected. Sofia gave you a quick smile before disappearing through the sliding door into the house.
You were left alone, enjoying the moment. The cold glass in your hand, the soft murmur of the water in the pool, and the warmth of the sun on your skin. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the tranquility envelop you.
However, that calm was interrupted when you felt a slight tug on your hair. You frowned, opening your eyes. You had leaned against one of the umbrellas, and without realizing it, one of the fringes at the edge of the fabric had become entangled in your hair. You pulled gently, trying to free it, but it didn’t work. The lock of hair was still firmly caught.
You sighed, frustrated. Normally, Sofia would be there to help you in a second, but now she wasn't. You tried once more, this time with a little more force, but you only managed to get it more tangled.
"Perfect..." you murmured sarcastically, resigned to waiting for Sofia to return.
"Trouble?"
The male voice, low and slightly amused, startled you. Rafe.
He was a few steps away from you, with his hands in his pockets and that expression on his face that seemed to mix boredom with curiosity. He was watching you with those cold blue eyes that had always made you nervous, as if he was entertained by your little fight with the umbrella.
"Nothing I can't handle," you said quickly, trying to keep control. You didn't want to give him the pleasure of thinking you needed help. You gently tugged on the lock of hair again, but it still wouldn't come loose.
"Yeah, sure. You're handling it perfectly," he replied in a sarcastic tone, as he moved a little closer.
You looked at him, trying to keep your composure.
“Sofia will be here in a minute, don’t worry.”
Rafe raised an eyebrow, stopping right in front of you. The proximity made your skin crawl slightly.
“Or I can help you.”
For a moment, you were tempted to turn him down again. The idea of ​​accepting Rafe Cameron’s help was… strange. He wasn’t exactly the kind of person to selflessly offer help. But the reality was that Sofia would probably take a little longer, and you didn’t want to be stuck there anymore, humiliating yourself in front of him.
You sighed, reluctantly giving in.
“Okay… but don’t make it worse.”
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
That’s exactly what worries me, you thought. But you didn’t say anything.
Rafe moved behind you, and you felt his hands move closer to your hair. His fingers were surprisingly deft and precise, touching just enough to untangle the trapped lock of hair. You were surprised by how gently he worked, without tugging or causing pain. His closeness was undeniable, and for an instant, you were aware of the warmth of his body, the faint scent of mint, and something else you couldn’t quite place.
“Almost…” he murmured as his fingers slid through the last knot. Finally, the lock of hair came free.
You pulled away slightly, turning to face him.
“Thank you.”
He simply nodded, wearing that neutral expression he always seemed to carry with him. Before he could say anything else, you pointed towards one of the lounge chairs.
“Can you pass me the brooch I left there?”
Rafe calmly walked over to the lounge chair, picked up the small white brooch, and handed it to you. There were no snide comments or haughty looks this time. It was strange.
“Thanks again,” you said as you pinned your hair back, trying to ignore the slight nervousness the interaction had left you with.
“You’re welcome.”
And that was it. No more words, no lingering stares. Rafe returned to his spot by the pool, as if nothing had happened. You stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. There was something about his expression that didn’t fit with the image you had of him.
But you decided not to think about it too much.
Then the night came faster than you had expected. The party at the Camerons’ continued, but the atmosphere was much more relaxed. The pool lights created a soft glow over the water, reflecting the stars that were beginning to peek out in the night sky. You and Sofia retreated from the hustle and bustle of the party, looking for a respite.
“That was great, wasn’t it?” Sofia said, her voice filled with an energy that couldn’t be hidden.
You nodded as you walked over to one of the chairs near the pool, sitting down to enjoy the cool night air.
“Yeah, it was fun. Although, you know, always a little awkward with… some of the Kooks,” you replied, glancing sideways at Rafe, who was still talking to his friends in the distance.
Sofia laughed softly, as if those social tensions didn’t affect her as much as they did you. For her, being with Rafe was the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re staying, right?” Sofia asked, with an eager look, as if she needed to hear the affirmative answer.
You didn’t know what Sofia had in mind for the next day, but her excitement was contagious. You looked at Rafe from a distance, and although you didn’t say it out loud, you knew that if Sofia asked you for something, you would do it.
“Sure, why not?” “I want you to come with us tomorrow,” you replied, though a small spark of doubt lit up inside you. What exactly were they going to do the next day?
“Perfect,” Sofia said with a satisfied smile, as if she had achieved what she wanted. She then leaned slightly towards you, lowering her voice. “I want you to come with us tomorrow. Rafe is going to go racing on his motorcycle. He said he has no problem with you staying the night, if that’s okay with you. Would you like to join us tomorrow?”
You sat there thoughtfully for a moment. The idea of ​​spending another day with Rafe, back in his world of privilege, seemed strange to you. But it was also hard for you to say no to Sofia, especially when you saw how excited she was.
“Okay. What does it matter?” you replied, resigned to the idea of ​​spending the day with them.
The next morning came quickly, and the sun was already rising high when you woke up. The Cameron house was quiet at that hour, with most people still sleeping after the party the night before. When you checked your bag, you realized you didn't have anything suitable for what Sofia had proposed. The shorts and the t-shirt with the embroidery seemed like a comfortable option, but nothing too dressed up.
Sofia walked into the room you had stayed in, seeing that you were still getting organized.
"Are you ready?" she asked with her usual enthusiasm.
"Almost. I just... don't have anything to wear," you mentioned, looking at the clothes you had brought, a little out of place for a motorcycle ride.
"Don't worry!" Sofia said with a mischievous smile. "I'll lend you something. Those shorts are fine, you just need a comfortable t-shirt, right?"
Before you could answer, Sofia turned around and pulled a white t-shirt out of her closet. It wasn't anything over the top, but the edge of the t-shirt was adorned with small floral embroidery. Which might look plain, but it looked incredibly nice.
"Here, this should fit you well," she said as she handed you the t-shirt.
You looked at her, grateful, as you put it on. The fabric was soft and cool, something you needed for the morning heat. Then, you pulled on your shorts, arranged your hair the best way you could, and looked at yourself in the mirror.
When you left the room, Sofia was already ready, her hair perfectly coiffed and her energy bubbling.
“Let’s go!” she said, running towards the door. There was no way you could cope with her enthusiasm.
The two of you headed to the beach, where Rafe was already there, next to his bike. It was a sight in itself. Rafe’s bike, shiny and almost imposing looking, contrasted with his relaxed stance, as if the bike was an extension of him.
Rafe glanced at you briefly when you arrived, his expression somewhat unreadable.
The race began with a roar, and the feeling of speed on Rafe’s bike was electrifying. The wind whipped through your face as the sound of the engine mixed with the adrenaline in the air. Rafe was incredibly focused, and Sofia was smiling non-stop. 
As you continued down the road, you realized how skilled Rafe was. Every turn was taken with astonishing precision, and his ability to maneuver the bike quickly was evident. You and Sofia shared excited glances, both shouting words of encouragement, though you knew the real show was watching him. 
Finally, when the finish line was in sight, Rafe hit the gas. The bike roared as it took the final turn, and it wasn't long before he crossed the finish line with an undisputed victory. 
You and Sofia burst into cheers, though it was clear that Rafe's victory was what really mattered to her. She looked proud, and with good reason. Rafe had won in impeccable fashion, and the feeling of excitement was palpable.
Sofia stepped forward to hug him, while you stayed a step behind, observing the moment. Rafe's face reflected satisfaction. He didn't seem surprised by the victory, as if it was something expected.
You stared at Rafe for a moment, observing his relaxed face as he talked to Sofia about the race, but you quickly decided to leave those thoughts behind. There was something in his attitude that didn't quite fit, and you knew it wasn't worth wasting time on things that didn't make sense. The excitement of the day had already reached its peak, and you preferred to enjoy the moment.
You turned around, looking at Sofia, who had already begun to plan what they would do next.
"Let's celebrate!" Sofia said enthusiastically, interrupting your brief moment of introspection.
It wasn't an invitation, but an affirmation, and before you could respond, she had already taken you by the hand, gently pulling you towards where the others were. The celebratory atmosphere was in full swing: loud music, laughter, and an air of satisfaction permeating everything around them. When they arrived, everyone was there, enjoying Rafe's triumph, and even though you weren't part of that inner circle, you couldn't help but be swept up in the energy emanating from them. 
You sat next to Sofia on one of the lounge chairs by the pool, watching as people gathered around Rafe to congratulate him. The way he accepted the congratulations, calm and almost distant, seemed so natural to you, as if he was already used to being the center of attention. But something in you told you it wasn't that simple. There was an invisible barrier between you and him, as if the distance wasn't just physical, but emotional as well. 
But that night, you decided to let it be. You sat there, enjoying Sofia's company, and without thinking too much about it, you began to soak in the atmosphere. 
People started moving towards the dance floor, the music was getting livelier, and everyone seemed to be in a good mood. Sofia, still full of energy, looked at you with a knowing smile.
“Shall we dance?” she asked, without waiting for an answer, already getting up from the lounger.
You stood up after her, feeling that, at least for that night, you should enjoy yourself without thinking too much about anything else. Somehow, by surrounding yourself with the happiness of Sofia and the others, the feeling of awkwardness began to fade.
The day continued with a festive atmosphere, the music vibrating in the air. You and Sofia had completely let loose, laughing and dancing without a care, until suddenly Rafe approached her. On his face was a subtle smile, one of those smiles that you only see when someone has a deep connection with another person.
“Dance?” he said to Sofia, and she was quick to smile, her eyes shining.
You watched them as they glided to the center of the dance floor, their bodies moving to the beat of the music as if they were one. Something inside you, a mix of admiration and envy, stirred. There was something about the way Rafe looked after Sofia that made you think you might have misjudged him. After all, not everyone was willing to show that kind of tenderness in public. Maybe Rafe wasn't as cold as you had initially thought. 
You stared for a moment, but you didn't let yourself get caught up in those emotions. You decided not to think about it too much. Instead of just standing there watching, you let yourself go with the energy of the party and joined one of Rafe's friends who was nearby. He was outgoing and not afraid to chat, so the conversation flowed naturally. 
You laughed, you enjoyed yourself, and everything kept moving forward without your mind stopping on the images of Sofia and Rafe. But when you looked at yourself, you noticed something that worried you: the way that, with each encounter, you began to see more clearly how attentive Rafe and Sofia could be to each other. It wasn’t just a physical attraction, but something deeper, a connection you hadn’t anticipated. There was an understanding between them, something that seemed to flow effortlessly. And that, somehow, bothered you more than you wanted to admit.
Days passed, and as time went on, you started to see yourself closer and closer to them. Outings became common, and although at first you were a kind of guest in their circle, little by little you began to feel like you were part of it. You saw yourself walking along the beach with them, sharing laughs while watching Rafe throw out a sarcastic joke that made you laugh like never before. The atmosphere between the group was relaxed, fun, and you seemed to fit in perfectly. Almost as well as if you were one of the Kooks, as if you had always been part of that life. 
But something kept nagging at your head, a small knot in your stomach that kept growing. You realized that every time Rafe and Sofia looked at each other or subtly touched each other, a pang of jealousy ran through your body. How had you not noticed that before? How had you not seen how happy it made Sofia just to have him by her side? It was like a spark always surrounded them, and you wanted to be a part of that, of that security and affection that was evident on the surface.
You thought to yourself that maybe, just maybe, you had misjudged him. Rafe wasn't just the arrogant boy you had met at the beginning. There was something about his attitude towards Sofia that made you question everything you thought about him. You could see how he cared for her, how he took his time to make sure she was comfortable, how his eyes always looked for her in the middle of the crowd.
One afternoon, when everyone was on a terrace, and Rafe had approached to offer you a drink, you realized how much your perception of him had changed. There was a softness in his gaze, one you hadn't noticed before, and although it was something that confused you, you also admired it. You felt foolish for having kept yourself distant all this time, and a little jealous too, because deep down you knew you wanted something like that for yourself.
However, you just smiled and thanked him for the drink, not saying anything about what you were really thinking. It was easy to look at everything from the outside, but much harder to deal with what you felt on the inside. You were surrounded by friends, but the small discomfort you felt in your chest never completely went away. You wondered if you could ever be as lucky as Sofia, if you would ever find something that made you feel as alive and safe. 
That same day at night, after several hours of laughter, music, and drinks, the atmosphere at Rafe’s house was still lively. Sofia, as always, was in her element, enjoying the company of the two of you, but you already felt the energy starting to drain away. You had drunk more than you thought, and although it wasn’t enough to lose control, you did start to feel fatigue building up in your body. 
“I’m going to sleep,” you said to Sofia, who looked at you with a cheerful smile. 
“Sure, honey. The room is ready for you. Get some rest” he answered, still smiling.
You walked towards the stairs as you entered the halls of the house. It was a large and luxurious space, and the room you used when you stayed there was decorated with sophisticated details.
But before you reached the room, suddenly, you ran into Rafe. He was coming down the stairs, with a glass in his hand, apparently in a good mood, without the arrogant air he used to have. He stopped when he saw you and, as if he hadn't seen you coming, both of you collided a little. It was a strange moment: your body brushed against his, almost as if you were going to trip, but you managed to keep your balance with difficulty. However, what really made you feel uncomfortable was the look you exchanged. The air between the two of you became heavy for a moment, as if something had happened unintentionally.
Rafe, with a knowing smile on his face, was quick to let out a small laugh, as if he found the situation funny, and that only increased your discomfort. Your face instantly flushed, and for a second you thought you had gotten yourself into one of those awkward situations you always try to avoid.
“Wow, I didn’t see you coming,” he said, still with that carefree smile. His tone wasn’t mocking, but somehow his laugh felt like mockery.
Your mind raced and you didn’t know how to react, you just muttered something that didn’t make much sense, like an “I’m sorry” or an “excuse me,” and without thinking much, you rushed to the bedroom. The door closed behind you, and you instantly felt the awkwardness take over you. You lay down on the bed, covering your face with your hands and thinking about how you had handled the situation.
For a moment, you stood there, trying to calm your breathing, but Rafe's laughter still echoed in your head. You knew it hadn't been anything serious, but still, something about his attitude made you feel like you'd made a mistake by being so close to him. Why did it have that effect on you? The thought of being so close, in such a strange situation, didn't leave you calm.
In the end, you just sank into the comfort of the bed, trying to drown out the uncomfortable thoughts.
The next morning you woke up at dawn, although the sun hadn't yet reached its highest point. You felt a little disoriented at first, the echo of the laughter from the night before still echoing in your head, mixed with the feeling of discomfort that the encounter with Rafe had left you with. But, in the end, you got up the courage to get up and made yourself comfortable a little. You changed into something more comfortable but decent: a simple t-shirt and some shorts. You wanted to dress casually, but you also knew that it wasn't the time to be disheveled.
You walked down the stairs and headed towards the kitchen. The house was quiet, as if everyone was still deep in their rest after the night. You decided to sit in one of the chairs, looking at the soft lights that filtered through the window, observing the garden that stretched outside. Everything was so quiet that it brought you peace.
You were waiting for Sofia, you knew that she would soon appear, probably with a dazzling smile and something interesting to tell, but time passed and it wasn't her who appeared. Instead of Sofia, it was Rafe who entered the kitchen. At first you didn't notice him at all, but when you looked up, your eyes met his. He was still wearing the shirt he had worn the night before. Rafe looked at you with a slight smile, as if nothing strange had happened the night before.
"Good morning," he said, his voice low and calm.
You felt a knot in your stomach, and without thinking about it too much, shame washed over you again. You remembered what had happened the night before: the laughter, the unexpected shock, how uncomfortable you had felt. You blushed and, with a sigh, decided to talk about it, as a way to let go of what was weighing you down.
“Hey, Rafe... I'm sorry about last night,” you said quickly, not knowing if it was really necessary, but you needed to get those words out. You felt stupid for having created such silly tension, but you couldn't shake the feeling of discomfort anymore.
Rafe raised his eyebrows for a moment, as if he didn't understand why you were apologizing, but his expression quickly softened.
“You don't have to apologize,” he replied, smiling calmly. His tone was so relaxed that it reassured you, almost as if the situation hadn't been as awkward as you thought. “It was nothing.”
That, in a way, relieved you, although you still felt a little embarrassed inside. But what really surprised you was how you kept talking to him, as if all of that had never happened. Despite the initial awkwardness, something about his presence made you feel calmer. You realized how easy it was to talk to him. The words flowed naturally, without the nerves you had felt before. They talked about trivial things at first: the house, his life, they had even talked about what you had thought of him when Sofia said they were dating. 
The conversation slowly relaxed, without tension. You found yourself smiling more than you had planned, enjoying the talk without the awkwardness from before having room to grow. Rafe wasn't pressuring, he didn't make awkward comments, he just spoke with an ease that made you feel at peace, as if there were no expectations. 
A few minutes passed, or maybe more, and you were surprised by how much you were enjoying talking to him. You had never imagined that you would have such a relaxed conversation with someone like him.
You were about to make one more comment when Sofia finally appeared. She entered the kitchen with a big smile, clearly full of energy, as always.
“Good morning!” she exclaimed, approaching the table and hugging you immediately. “How was your night? Did you rest well?”
She and Rafe looked at each other for a moment, exchanging a knowing smile that made it obvious how comfortable they were together.
“Yes, everything is fine,” you said to Sofia, smiling. “Just resting.”
Sofia looked at you curiously, as if she felt there was something more between you and Rafe, but she didn’t say anything. The feeling of being there with them, as part of the group, grew stronger. It was strange how the dynamics of that house absorbed you little by little, even when you weren’t completely sure where you fit in.
A few days had passed since that conversation in the kitchen, and although the calm between you and Rafe remained, something in you urged you to step away a little. You didn't have a specific reason, you just felt the need to disconnect from it all. You had your own business to attend to, things you had put aside while enjoying the company of Sofia and the others.
Rafe's house, the parties, all of that was left in the background as you immersed yourself in your own thoughts. The days passed without you going near Rafe's or Sofia's house, without you seeing them or even caring about how they were spending their time. You kept yourself busy, focused on other things: personal tasks, things you had had to put off because you were caught up in the flow of the Kooks' social life. You found yourself returning to your routines.
It had been a while since you disconnected a little from everything. The need to return to your own space had faded, and now, at the end of those days of silence, something was urging you to return. You thought about Sofia and how, even though you had been away, you knew she was still your friend. The idea of ​​her now living with Rafe, as quickly as she had, seemed a little strange to you, but in the end, it was her life, her decisions. You decided it was time to go back, to meet them, although you didn't know exactly what to expect. 
Arriving at Rafe's house, the stillness in the air made you feel that something wasn't right. The door was ajar, and inside, there was an unusual calm. Everything was silent. You assumed that Sofia wouldn't be home; she had probably gone out. 
But as you moved towards the living room, you came across a scene you hadn't expected. Rafe was there, alone, in the center of the room. His posture tense, his hands shaking slightly. The first hint of something strange was that the phone in his hand was still in the air, dangling in his hand. It looked like he had received a call that had left him shaken. You could clearly see his labored breathing, his eyes scanning the room as if he was looking for something or someone, but at the same time as if he couldn't find it. The atmosphere in the house felt heavy, laden with something dark that you couldn't quite place.
You didn't know what to do. You didn't want to interrupt, but you couldn't just leave either. You assumed the call he'd received had left him in that state, though you weren't sure what it had been. The silence between the two of you was awkward, and as you thought about what to do, you cautiously approached.
You called his name.
"Rafe..." you said softly, trying not to startle him any more than he already was.
He glanced at you quickly, and his gaze, far from the arrogance he usually had, was filled with anxiety and some anger. His face was marked by a concern you hadn't seen before, and for a moment, he didn't seem like the Rafe Cameron you knew.
The tension in the air increased, and when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice sounded raspy, almost desperate.
"Go away!" he shouted, his tone a little higher than expected. The sound of his voice, so full of anxiety, made you take a step back, although, despite the sudden fear, something in you told you that you shouldn't leave.
You stood there, motionless for a moment, feeling your heart beating faster than normal. Rafe's panic was palpable, and the last thing you wanted to do was push him further. But, at the same time, you knew you couldn't just leave him like that.
"Rafe," you said, this time with a calmness that you didn't feel, but that you knew you needed for him to calm down. "I'm not going to leave."
His expression changed for a second, and he stared at you, as if trying to process what you had just said. A couple of seconds of tension filled the space between the two of you, but you didn't let him speak, taking advantage of the moment to move a little closer to him.
"It's okay, I understand that you don't feel well," you added, almost in a protective tone, although you said it without really knowing why. You didn’t know him as well as Sofia, but somehow, you cared for him more than you thought.
He took a deep breath, still shaken, and for a moment you thought you wouldn’t make it. But then, something in his gaze changed. His body, which was so stiff and tense, relaxed just a little, as if he was letting the words you had said reach him.
You moved a little closer, this time without him asking you to.
“How can I help you?” you asked softly. You knew that, in those moments, sometimes all you need is someone to be there, without pushing too hard.
Rafe looked at you a little confused, as if he wasn’t sure how to handle the situation, and then lowered his head, with a grimace of frustration.
“I don’t know…” he murmured, his voice still deep. “It’s just that… I got a call…”
You could see on his face that whatever had happened on that call had really affected him. You didn't say anything else, just waited for him to gather his thoughts, for him to feel ready to talk.
A few minutes passed in which the silence stretched out, and in that time, you were simply there, in the same room, giving him space, but showing him that you weren't willing to abandon him. Finally, he looked up, and in a low voice, he said:
“Thank you…”
You looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, you could see Rafe without the layer of arrogance and superiority that he always showed. You realized that, in that moment, he wasn't the self-assured boy that he had always been. He was just a person, vulnerable, dealing with something that he couldn't handle on his own.
You stayed with him as long as he needed, making sure that he wasn't alone in that moment. You didn't know what had happened with the call, or what was going to happen next, but a part of you understood something new about Rafe.
After that moment, something changed between you and Rafe, something that neither of you had anticipated. From that night on, you became the only person capable of understanding him in his darkest moments, without the need for words, without the typical facade of security that he used to have. What happened between you was something silent, almost imperceptible, but enough to leave a mark on both of you. 
At first, Rafe didn't admit it out loud, he didn't even make it clear in his gestures, but there was something in his behavior that was beginning to change. The days passed, and while Sofia continued to be busy with her things, you began to see a side of Rafe that you had never imagined. He became quieter, more introspective, but instead of the usual practical jokes and air of arrogance, there were now moments when he looked simply lost, as if you were the only one in the world who understood what he was really feeling. And you, somehow, began to understand it too.
There was something about the way he looked at you when his thoughts seemed to be beyond his control, when the shadows of his past or his problems came back to haunt him. There was something that told you not to judge him, something that urged you to stay calm and empathetic, even when the situation seemed out of place. Whenever he seemed on the verge of losing control, you knew what to do, how to approach him without making him feel vulnerable or weak. You knew when to step back and when to offer him your company without needing to talk too much. 
One afternoon, several days after that first meeting when you calmed him down, Rafe came home late, more undone than usual. He had had a fight with some of Sofia’s friends, and although no one in the house mentioned anything, you knew. It was as if everything he was trying to hide was crudely on display for you. When you entered the living room, he found you staring at the floor, shoulders slumped, and that expression only he could put on: a mix of repressed rage and deep sadness.
“Are you okay?” you asked softly, without pushing. You knew those words, though simple, could have more impact than you thought.
Rafe looked up, a little surprised by the calmness of your voice. Normally, he would have responded with a wry smile or a scathing comment, but instead, he looked at you and just said,
“I’m not.”
The tone was low, almost inaudible, as if he were revealing something he had never let slip before. You sat next to him without saying anything else, not forcing him to speak, but willing to stay there if he needed to vent. At that moment, you knew something had changed between the two of you.
The silence stretched out, but it wasn’t awkward. You knew Rafe didn’t need you to tell him what he should do or how he should feel. He just needed time, the space to be vulnerable without feeling judged, and in that space, you were the only one who could understand him. You didn’t need words to recognize the small gestures that betrayed him: the way his hand shook slightly or how his breathing quickened when something affected him too much. Those small details were what allowed you to see what others didn’t. 
As time went by, Rafe began to seek you out more often. Although he didn’t say it directly, you began to notice that there were times when he would simply approach you without a clear reason, without looking for a conversation, just so you would be close. On more than one occasion, he found you sitting on the couch, lost in your thoughts, and without saying anything, he sat next to you. No explanations were needed, because you both understood that just being together, without the need for words, was enough. 
There were days when he couldn’t hide what he felt, and without warning, the walls he had built around himself began to crumble. One day, after a particularly bad fight with Sofia, he came into the house, late at night. His face was tense, but there was something different about him. He didn’t yell, he didn’t hurl reproaches, but he just stood in the doorway, staring at you in silence, waiting for you to say something. And you did, you knew that what he needed was something that no one else gave him: reassurance.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?” you asked calmly, as you always did.
Rafe took a deep breath, letting the weight of his thoughts surround him for a moment. Finally, he slumped down on the couch, eyes closed, not wanting to show what he felt. But you knew. You knew that, even if he didn’t say it, he was seeking comfort, not in words, but in the way you looked at him, in how your actions offered him respite.
“Sometimes…” he said, in a whisper, while looking straight ahead, not really seeing you. “I feel like I'm alone, even when I'm surrounded by people.”
You didn't need to say anything else. You knew that what he had revealed wasn't something he wanted to share with many, but with you, he felt safe. Sometimes, just knowing that someone understood him gave him the comfort he so desperately needed.
That was the dynamic between you: you didn't need to always talk, or understand everything. You just needed to be there, to be the only one who, in his darkest moments, could offer him a soft light, without pressure, just letting time and space do their work. And in that silent understanding, you became the only person capable of understanding Rafe in his entirety, in his most fragile and dark moments, when no one else dared to enter.
Despite everything you shared with Rafe, there was something inside you that you couldn't ignore. A desire, an attraction that, even though you tried to hide it, kept emerging with every gesture, with every word he said to you in those moments when his guard was down. You found yourself watching him more than you should have, noticing the little details that had previously gone unnoticed: how the light played in his hair, the way he laughed, or how his tone of voice changed when he was relaxed, when he felt like he didn’t have to be the same old Rafe, the one everyone admired or feared. 
At first, you tried to ignore it. You said it was just the closeness, the way things had developed between the three of you, and that it was a passing phase. But it wasn’t just that. Every time he smiled at you or looked at you in a warmer way, you felt a tug in your chest that you couldn’t control. There was something else in you that was building, something that terrified you. 
You thought about Sofia, how happy she was with him, how much she had supported you in everything, and it tormented you to feel what you felt for Rafe. You felt guilty, like you were betraying a friendship you had cared for for so long. She didn’t deserve that, you thought. Sofia had always been loyal, fun, and even though she could be impulsive and a little blind at times, you saw her happy, devoted to Rafe, trusting him in a way you never could.
There were times when, after talking to Rafe, you were left alone, with thoughts running wild in your mind. You couldn’t stop thinking about him, about the way he made you feel special, about how his closeness disarmed you, how there was something in his fragility that attracted you, a side that no one else saw, but you did. You felt at a crossroads, trapped between what you felt and what you knew you couldn’t do.
It wasn’t just a physical attraction, it was something deeper. Something that made you want to hold him longer than a friend should. Something that asked you to be there for him in a way that went beyond friendship. It was the desire to be close to him, to take care of him, to become his refuge, and it terrified you how much you loved him without being able to control it. 
At first, you tried to suppress it. Every time you felt that need to be closer to him, to share more moments, you tried to convince yourself that it was just a phase, that it was because of the closeness of the last few months. But the more you denied it, the stronger that feeling became inside you, like it was an undercurrent that grew every time he looked at you with those dark, intense eyes. Those eyes that disarmed you, that seemed to see beyond your facade, beyond your friendship. 
Sometimes, you felt like you were walking on a tightrope. You knew that every moment you spent with Rafe, every conversation, every gesture, brought you closer to something you couldn't allow yourself. But you couldn't help it. The desire, the attraction, everything you felt for him, was growing inside you, and no matter how many times you told yourself it was a betrayal, that you should stay away, you couldn't stop thinking about what happened when he was around.
Every time Sofia left, every time Rafe was left alone with you, that feeling grew stronger, as if the air between the two of you became thick and charged with something neither of you dared to mention. It scared you, it made you uncomfortable, but you couldn't stop it.
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nerdykeppie · 2 days ago
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Holiday Shopping that fights period poverty for college students? Yep! Read on. :)
After the success of our June/Pride 2024 sales goal, where we managed to eliminate a lot of the debt we accumulated while I was unable to work earlier this year & stock up cash so we didn't have to borrow for payroll during the fall lull and also donate to @queerliblib, we were considering where to focus on this year when a conversation I had with my mom pointed me in the direction of our charity for Holidays 2024: the East Stroudsburg University Warrior Food Pantry, and specifically, stocking menstrual products at the pantry.
Without getting too much into the weeds about the details - which I'll talk about under the cut for those of you who are interested - here's the pitch: we need to hit a gross sales goal of $45K in December in order to pay our bills and payroll basically until Pride starts up. Businesses like ours are very much feast or famine, and we've got to eat and we've got people whose paychecks depend on us having the cash to pay them.
If we hit that goal, we'll donate the equivalent of 1% of our net profit from the month of December in period products -- tampons and pads, specifically, by request of the food pantry, and possibly reusable pads and menstrual cups, if the pantry wants that from us. (At the end of the day, this is about taking care of people the way they need, and we'll listen to the pantry staff about what people are requesting.)
We've currently got our Bottoms & Tops sale going, too, so you can buy 2 tops or bottoms from the linked collection & get 69% off the 3rd item from that collection.
Okay, so for the long version whys and wherefores:
My mom taught math at ESU for 35 years, and she and Dad now volunteer running the food pantry along with a couple of other people. ESU is a state school, and as such is one of the few remaining vaguely affordable schools in Pennsylvania. A lot of its students are self-supporting for one reason or another -- many are "non-traditional"/adult students, have kids, or don't have families that can support them while they go to school. Mom & Dad have pushed to expand what the food pantry offers to personal care items, which has been difficult due to a bunch of boring stuff about money and state entities and also people thinking 'that's not food,' but Mom is stubborn about it, because -- to paraphrase her -- how can you focus on class when you feel gross? This struggle has been especially difficult for menstrual products, and way more so for tampons, because it's a rather conservative area and... yeah. People get weird about it.
I've been really broke, with a young kid, and reliant on food pantries, which rarely, if ever, have any menstrual products, let alone tampons. Period poverty is very real, and it sucks.
Plus, I gotta tell you, if we can send a bunch of boxes of tampons and pads to the food pantry, well... Rumor has it this will help my mom win an argument over whether those items should be carried at all, because what are they gonna do, throw them out? They're here! They've been donated! Wasting them would be terrible. :)
So that's the pitch, guys. Help me make a direct, measurable difference in the lives of people at the school where I went to winter swim team, the school that fed me growing up... and help my mom win an argument about making people's lives better... and get your holiday shopping done while you do. ;) We start counting sales from the minute I hit post. :P
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myblogisatotalmess · 2 days ago
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MILD MOANA 2 SPOILERS AHEAD
I saw Moana 2 as a Polynesian person. I thought it was INCREDIBLE. I know many people already don't really like it, but I think it's because THIS specific movie, they went harder on the Polynesian culture.
The music is even more Polynesian, and written pretty much solely by Polynesian people. The culture is even more included in it's narrative and in the details, they show more tattoos, the Kava ceremony, speaking more of the Pacific Islander native languages, even some the humor is very Polynesian humor.
I personally really enjoyed the storyline, and I liked that it introduced a "morally gray" character to help guide Moana into realizing that you have to just embrace what's given to you. It's a great representation of what the ocean is. It's sometimes not as reliable and friendly as Moana expects it to be, and has grown accustomed to. So when she asks for the ocean's help and receives no answer, she's better prepared to face it as it comes, and adapt, and embrace it.
Not only that, but in terms of Polynesian deities, there isn't just one "good" or "bad". There are complicated morally gray deities. Pele, for instance, is a goddess known for volcanoes and destruction, but she is also known as creation and rebirth. The Earth is scorched by the flames and lava to make way for new land and healthier vegetation.
The songs aren't as "memorable" to those who aren't fully embracing the culture. For me, I got chills hearing the music. It felt authentic and from the heart and soul of the Polynesian people who sang it. Sure, many outside of the culture can't "sing along" to it, but that doesn't make it inherently bad, just because it's not marketable TO YOU.
For someone who's waited forever to have representation, and grew up with Lilo and Stitch being the only one (which wasn't that much in terms of representation.) To then seeing Moana come out when I was 16, and cried then. For then Moana 2 to come out tonight, and I cried AGAIN at 24 years old. My inner child was so excited to hear and FEEL what that representation sounds like, looks like, and means.
The original Moana was tippy-toeing into Polynesian culture, where it could still be marketable so everyone could enjoy it. Because they didn't want it to flop. It feels the same as a Polynesian person having to cater to tourists who only see the Polynesian culture as something they can exploit and be entertained by.
That doesn't mean that it was bad, it was moving tides in that time, and I would take that representation over the crumbs we've had before.
But this movie? Moana 2? This was for US. This was for the Polynesian cultures. This felt like a love letter to us, as a culture, to unite and know that we have community, and to feel seen, in all of our glory, and not a watered-down version to be "marketable" to others outside of our culture.
So, I expect people to not like it. But I also expect it to be because it's coming from a place where they don't understand how it feels to experience, love, embrace, learn, and educate others about Polynesian culture.
I love my culture, and I love my Polynesian siblings as a Kanaka Hawaiian. I love my Maori, Samoan, Tahitian, Tongan, etc. siblings. I love seeing a mix of all of our cultures come together and be represented.
For those who aren't a part of our culture, truly listen to our history and our struggles and successes. Educate yourself on how to be a better ally and find cultural appreciation (not appropriation) for our culture. We are real people with real stories. Not some fictional character (or Halloween costume/party favor/etc.) you can write off and only look at as "entertainment" and can only hold value when we're catering to you. That includes our music, our language, our dances, and our stories.
That's all for now. ❤️ I'll be willing to have adult, civil, conversations with others about differences in why you didn't enjoy it as much, but hate will be deleted and blocked. ❤️
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gorandomshesaid · 2 days ago
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#it always used to bug me when people quoted this because the source is lowkey a hypocrite who'd break his own ethics by the end of the show#if not the end of this conversation!!#but i can appreciate adama had some bangers and what is bsg but a conflict of what people hope their society to be and what it is
You're right about him breaking his ethics, but so does literally every single character on this show at some point, that's the whole point. It's hard to call it that but this is an idealistic Adama way before everything, even before he started putting "bodyguards" on people for the quorum elections.
I think he did some low-level policing (the mutiny aboard Astral Queen comes to miind) in s1, but it really ramps up after martial law is declared – and that's when he was shot.
By that time Roslin started taking drugs, Kara commited her own treason, Boomer kept secret what she pretty much knew the entire time, and Lee negotiated with terrorists. The only person who didn't break their own ethics was Baltar and that's only because he never had any in the first place.
I think it's a good quote and it's coming from an honest place at that point in the show. But then you add a few years of travelling, patrolling, and fighting, and the guy will try to commit suicide by Cylon while he's shacking up with the other leading party in the fleet. "Are we worthy of survival" indeed.
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rue-isabelle · 2 days ago
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rueee, i have a funny idea about the aphrodite series(?) tho it'll be a little bit different from how it goes so far... so... maybe let it be an au of it? like they(drivers) be like all into her but she's actually w toto n susie if you're into that 😂 lovelovelove the series and been reading it on repeat aaaa
No Part 2! This is not the ending, just a side idea
Aphrodite of Formula 1 (side story)
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Susie and Toto had been quietly enjoying the chaos Yn caused among the grid and their partners. Their shared secret—that Yn wasn’t just Toto’s assistant but the third, cherished member of their relationship—made every stolen glance, every awkward encounter, and every dramatic meltdown far more entertaining.
For months, the paddock had turned into a soap opera, and Susie and Toto had front-row seats.
---
The day Alexandra had her infamous meltdown, Susie and Toto couldn’t contain their amusement. Watching the footage on their phones, Susie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her coffee.
“She’s throwing a tantrum like a spoiled brat,” Susie chuckled, showing the clip to Yn, who smiled awkwardly, unsure how to respond.
Toto, always direct, smirked. “Ungrateful brat,” he corrected, his tone dripping with amusement. Later, when a journalist asked about the incident on live TV, Toto didn’t hold back.
“Well,” he said with a sly smile, “some people don’t know how to handle being second choice. Or third.”
The comment went viral within minutes.
---
Toto and Susie loved adding fuel to the fire.
One afternoon in the paddock, Kelly and Alexandra were lingering nearby, clearly irritated by the drivers’ infatuation with Yn. Susie nudged Toto and said loudly, “Isn’t it funny how Max and Charles always seem to be wherever Yn is? Almost like they forget they’re supposed to have girlfriends.”
Toto smirked. “You’d think they’d be more subtle.”
Both women bristled, glaring daggers at Yn, who was blissfully unaware of the jab.
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It was Susie who came up with the idea to get Pierre and Kika to buy Yn something extravagant.
“Tell them you’re looking for new lingerie,” Susie whispered to Yn during a quiet moment in the motorhome.
“What? Why?” Yn asked, confused.
“Just trust me,” Susie said with a wink.
Later that day, Yn casually mentioned to Pierre and Kika that she was thinking about updating her wardrobe. The next morning, a luxurious box of designer lingerie appeared in Yn’s hotel room, along with a handwritten note: Only the best for you.
Susie burst out laughing when she saw the gift. “I can’t believe they actually did it,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes.
---
Whenever George and Carmen were nearby, Toto made a point of complimenting Yn loudly.
“You look stunning today,” he’d say, his eyes lingering on Yn in a way that made George’s jaw tighten.
Carmen would smile politely, oblivious, but George’s thinly veiled frustration was obvious to anyone paying attention.
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It was during a quiet conversation between Susie and Rebecca that things got out of hand. They were discussing Yn’s flexibility, something Susie praised enthusiastically.
“She’s so graceful,” Susie said with a knowing smile. “Her yoga practice really shows.”
Rebecca agreed. “It’s impressive, really. She can bend like—”
Carlos, who had been within earshot, suddenly choked on his drink, his face turning beet red.
“Carlos, are you okay?” Susie asked innocently.
He muttered something incoherent, quickly crossing his legs. But when Susie and Rebecca started laughing, he stood up abruptly and left, muttering an excuse.
“Too easy,” Susie whispered to Rebecca, who was now in on the joke.
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Eventually, though, Toto and Susie’s amusement began to wear thin. The drivers were monopolizing Yn’s time, and both felt the sting of jealousy creeping in. So, they decided to make a statement.
At the next Grand Prix, the three of them arrived together, and the paddock was stunned.
Susie held Yn’s hand tightly, her fingers laced with hers, while Toto’s large hand rested possessively on Yn’s lower back. The trio moved through the crowd like royalty, heads turning as whispers spread like wildfire.
When they reached the Mercedes garage, Susie turned to Yn with a mischievous smile and leaned in, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to her lips. The kiss left no room for misinterpretation—it was passionate, intimate, and utterly unapologetic.
By the time Susie pulled away, Yn’s cheeks were flushed, and Toto was smirking. “Don’t be late,” Susie teased, winking at Yn before walking away, her confidence leaving everyone else in awe.
Toto, ever the gentleman, placed a hand on Yn’s waist and gently steered her into the garage. “Shall we?” he asked softly, his voice full of warmth.
The paddock was left stunned, the realization hitting them all at once: Yn wasn’t just Toto’s assistant. She was part of something far deeper, something none of them could touch.
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sandersstudies · 2 days ago
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What do you mean when you say, "correcting children"? Are you referring to corporal punishment? I hope this doesn't come off like I'm judging you, this is simply a topic I find really interesting and considering how much thought you put into your posts on childcare, it might be interesting to hear your thoughts, positive or negative, on this topic as well.
The fact that you read “correcting” and assumed “physically hitting the child” is actually wild to me. I’ve never put my hands on a child violently in my adult life, and I grew up in a home where I never had violent hands put on me by an adult.
Correcting children, to me, is usually just saying “hey, actually, we can’t do that.”
It could be moving a younger child away from a dangerous item (socket) or moving them because they are becoming dangerous to other kids or animals (hitting and biting).
It could be telling an older child “your behavior is distracting others, please step outside for a minute and calm down before you come back.”
It could be pulling a teenager aside and saying “your sexual remarks toward other students are not acceptable.”
If just our conversation alone is not enough, the discipline involved might be “if you can’t use kind hands with friends, you cannot sit with the other kids.” “If you push buttons in the light booth, you cannot go in the light booth anymore.” “If you continue to make inappropriate remarks about other students, I will be contacting your mom to pick you up.”
To me that’s what “correction” and good discipline is — facilitating the logical consequences of kids’ actions so they can learn to be kind to others and follow the reasonable rules of the space.
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guccigarantine · 9 months ago
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Jesset thinking about how Brnine doesn’t talk about Valence ever at all and thinking that if he died Brnine would probably do the exact same thing to him
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skullamity · 19 hours ago
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In my experience, this is a feature (not a bug!) for people with ADHD. As an ADHD haver who just turned 40, it has been my experience that the friends that have seen me as neglectful or unfriendly because of my time blindness and lack of friendship decay are generally friends who do not have ADHD-- they feel as though if we are not communicating constantly, then it says something about what I think of them (negative?), when I am really just lost in space and time and all it would have taken to get me talking to them again would be shooting me a "sup?" over text, just something to remind me that other people exist outside of my art/eat/sleep/adult responsibilities tunnel vision cycle that I poorly juggle every single day and then suddenly a whole year or more has gone by without me noticing.
Conversely, when I see friends who also have ADHD after months or years of failed attempts to line up our dubious schedules or just plain forgetting each other exist, the experience is basically the two of us locking eyes unexpectedly and then simultaneously shouting COUSIN!!!, rushing up to each other to hug or give each other excited back slaps and then carrying on like we never accidentally stopped being in contact.
The second one is INFINITELY less stressful!
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