#you are more than welcome to disagree

[badgerstep]

on one hand i 100% don’t trust the erin hunter team as it stands now to ever write a disabled character even a quarter of the way decently

on the other hand i desperately want to see more cats with disabilities in general. more cats with birth defects, cats with cerebellar hypoplasia, cats who develop arthritis young and stop being able to use their paws or move without pain, cats who are vision impaired or hard of hearing, cats with neurodivergence, cats born without one of their limbs, cats born with extra limbs, cats with tails that are too short for balancing properly, cats with impaired sense of smell and taste, cats with intellectual disabilities, cats with sensory processing disorders, cats with dissociative disorders, cats who deal with psychosis, cats who are born disabled, cats who become disabled later in life,

and just. there’s such a wealth of information on all different kinds of cats with all different kinds of disabilities. there’s myriad stories to tell there.

but the writing team is so tightly bound to their ableist ideas of what makes a good character and what makes a cat At All that they get ignored.

and idk about you but . sometimes i would rather be seen depicted poorly than ignored completely.

[bixels]

So i have a small nicpic i wanted to share with you about your interpretation of spike in the au and i want to make two things clear before i talk

1) i havent watch the series for a little while as of now so i might be misnterpreting a aspect of this chatacter that might have never been there and only apeared in fan content and personal interpretation (since that whats been keeping me on the fandom)

2) this is not a big problem about the au i matured enough to not get angry at a interpretation of a fictional charater

Now here i go

I feel spike being the same race as the rest of his familie makes him lose a part of his character that might have not been central but was still something interesting about him and is the idea of not mayhering how diferent he looked from his adoptive family (and his cominty as a whole) he was he was still seen as part of it

Again this isnt a big problem with the au as a whole its just a small nicpic that i have about the au and its not going to make me hate the au

This was just my opinion that i wanted to share and im interested to know your opinion about what i said

I understand this criticism and agree that having Simon/Spike be a different race than Thea could speak to their relationship in the original show.

My reasoning for designing them both to be African American is this. I believe Simon's adoption is enough to explore the feelings of separation and exclusion he may have with Thea and her family. The original show doesn't bring up Twilight and Spike's racial differences much because they originally didn't consider Spike to be a part of Twilight's family. As far as I know, there's no moment where someone says, "Wow! You're telling me you're related to Twilight Sparkle? But you look nothing alike!" because Spike was more so Twilights... familiar than anything.

Later episodes that explore their familial dynamic poses the conflict through Spike's adoption. There's one episode where Spike's "biological father" returns, and Spike accuses Twilight of not being his real family, which breaks her heart. There's another that delves deep into Spike's feelings of exclusion from Twilight and Shining Armor's siblinghood. Basically, in discussions of family dynamics, the show places more emphasis on Spike's identity as an adopted sibling rather than a dragon.

I really do believe a multiracial family would be good representation, but the racial dynamics would not be something I'd be interested in getting into. That's not to say I find real multiracial families problematic or uninteresting or unappealing or unimportant. I just wouldn't be interested in having to explain in-text that Simon (non-black) and Thea (black) are related over and over; it would grow tedious. It adds an extra level of writing complication and opens up racial discourse (discourse that I feel is unrelated to their relationship in the original show) that I don't want to concern myself with, especially because I have no experience in navigating such discourse.

[onceuponaneverafter]

i get the vibe that jacks gives really nice hugs. like, he never hugs anyone (not, like, EVER) so literally nobody knows but if he did. it would be surprisingly amazing

[dxxtruction]

Sooooo, Armand did tamper with Louis memories but my next question is why? I find 'he wanted to manipulate him' a bit crass of a read; lacking. That's not to say he hasn't, or that he'd be so dense to not know that he had, rather that this wouldn't be what motivates him. So, what does, and why did he do it?

Suppose it's easiest to start with the core of it, which is that most anyone typically acts out of a need to cling to (or run from) some sense of self or identity, especially when it's called into question. We have to reckon with how others see us just as much as we have to reckon with how we see ourselves. Grappling with finding relation to the changing and unchanging facts about ourselves - the total amalgamation of what makes us 'us' - comes with an interplay of inner and outer perceptions surrounding everything we do, or seem to do in both these eyes. Armand is called into question by Louis. And from what we know of his character is that his identity is heavily internally clung to two things: A necessity for having control, and a desperate need to be loved.

It's important that how those manifest in him is deeply rooted in the traumas he's faced (Which he wants to run away from in the form of seeking and identifying with said control/love. Even at the expense, knowingly or not, of replicating those cycles). So, it's like he's living in near constant response to it. Leaving him without much else to find identity in.

And loss of identity directly feeds into his traumas as well, it being one of them, done repeatedly. Making the process of having any ambiguity on part of how another views him - particularly from those he cares deeply about the opinions of, especially on matters of love - difficult to accept, and easy to deny. In other words: he needs whatever sustained self image he can hold on to, so struggles identifying with the truth about Louis' feelings about him being so opposed. Upon question, he can't accept what not being loved would do to that image and finds himself seeking the comfort of living in denial.

So, I'd say that then could explain most of it. Being motivated to maintain certain perceptions in the form of tampering with memory: the means through which said perceptions are perceived. Making everyone live in this denial with him also appealing to his controlling. Thus returning this sense of self back to him in both aspects. The emotional wound does explain (not forgive) why he takes to it in the way he does.

But let's go deeper, because there's more to the very situation (1973) as to why. Why would Armand go out of his way to tamper with Louis memory as well, when they'd already reached a kind of conclusion that does appear to keep their companionship? What, to his mind, called for it given the situation?

Harkening back to above, Armand defines himself around Louis in a major way. Louis is his love, is his need to be loved. There's a developed co-dependancy between them. They're at such point both exploiter and exploited in this. His happiness, is Armand's happiness, is reason enough to preserve it in a way that is agreeable. And that agreement is a tricky one to play a balance with, like they honestly shouldn't be together after Paris, but this goes without saying. It's been on Armand, mostly, to make this relationship work. (And even if it was mostly one of a lot of a denial, I like to imagine there are large periods where it has, and they've lived a relatively normal relationship, had this 'dreamy balance' or it simply wouldn't have lasted so long - with or without mind fuckery).

He wants it most too, which is how Louis is able to have some control over Armand. Control in how Louis ability to love him is very conditional and rests a lot on Armand's ability to satisfy, gratify, console, and control Louis for his own protection - despite knowing he'll never make up for Paris he does everything to earn Louis anyway. So could Armand have chosen to do this to be perceived as someone able to earn it still? That's one option. Very plausible.

Louis has a complicated love for Armand, it's there and isn't, but he also can get from Armand whatever he can squeeze out of him, and in this past he takes heavy advantage of it. As Armand is susceptible to his own much greater necessitation to be loved by him, making him go out of his way to do this 'earning'. However, as had been revealed, for Armand this is played up in part to uphold for Louis' perceptions that he really has that much power over him.

Because what we also have to factor in is Armand's other aspect - control. The line, 'Armand preserves my happiness even when I can't or wont. He had a hunch you might prove useful in later times', is rehearsed in much the same way this entire dynamic is one of great rehearsal. It's practiced, or it would be chaos.

There's certainly a part of Armand that likes being in the submissive role too, he likes what comes with it, but he can't be in total service to Louis, and Louis can't be without rules - or there's no control. Rules, roles, scripts, are very important to Armand, they're a way to facilitate a controlled setting, and he's really the one to enforce the parameters of what those are more so than Louis is. See; when Louis breaks from these things of agreement, what Armand normally gives him goes away.

I picture Louis as like the playwright of the relationship - the one facilitating everything - while Armand seems to then stage direct everything about it, sometimes secretly. In this way, Armand places himself as moreso being the one to meet his own satisfaction, gratification, consolation, and control (he has more overall power here in a duel sense) than Louis. Louis own meeting of these things still factor into it, though. Remember; his happiness, is Armands happiness, is his role to maintain so the play will keep writing itself. The curtains would close on their relationship otherwise.

This is the 'balance' of agreement between them, and again, it's entirely likely such balance just could not be maintained were those memories to stay as they were, almost like the jig is up. There's a factor here of Armand probably catching that Louis wouldn’t be comfortable in this relationship knowing more apparently Armand had so much more power over him this whole time. He knew, of course, but in their roles they could forget. This switch up in dynamics over those few days revealed the imbalance of things, a truth about it, and those needed to be masked back up. Theatre.

But let's explore some other ideas too.

I would first repeat myself in more context, Armand tampers with the script for the express purpose of preservation - of its dynamics, its roles, its rules, and of Louis. Nothing has the ability to change if nothing happened and Armand perhaps wanted to go on as if nothing really did - again there's denial. Armand finds reason in preservation to remove those memories. Preservation of Louis is in several ways preservation of himself, is preservation of their companionship. A companionship which is what he defines himself through - his love, his control.

But tacked onto this there's also this protecting Louis from himself - from the knowing of what he did (the arguing, the attempt, and what came after) and why it all happened. This is maybe Armand's way of going about excusing it? But, he probably does think this is to an extent true. He does think he's protecting him with this, preserving his happiness. There's an argument to be made that Louis wouldn't be alive without Armand acting in this way. That, hypothetically, the reminder would be fuel to attempt again, so perhaps there's merit to this excuse. It is ultimately still an excuse though. It's still a fucked up form of protection. One that can't actually allow Louis to move past into healing from the actual causes of things. Or Armand for that matter.

Removing those memories could also be because of a remorse on his part, Armand's regretful role in how he acted during all of it. He doesn't want to be remembered that way. Yet again with identity, and with denial. This isn't the image of who he wants to be. This isn't how he would paint himself.

Armand in this stage director role also just has a tendency to do that - and edit himself out. It'd not be shocking that such a heightened situation would call for heightened dramatics. I don't see Armand taking it to this extreme as being a common thing, this could've been the only time too. That we can't actually say for sure is the terrifying part, the potential is always still there once you know its there. (and the point was never to know it's there).

There's a part of me that wants to say that pairing the 'cut' with Daniel's isn't without it's place in this either. It seems pointed. Armand's jealousy of Daniel over Louis preferring him motivating removing any memory that he ever did have reason to find Daniel so favorable, let alone bond deeper with him over those days. He was making sure further contact was unlikely to happen? Compliant willingness for it now could be a matter of knowing it's a lot safer to do so. Louis seems in a lot better place than he was. Armand can't really say no at this point. And he couldn't tell him why it ever would've been dangerous to begin with, just be extremely on guard about the whole thing.

Really, there's not an easy answer to it that we can point to and say: it's this one. I wouldn't be surprised if it was all these things building to a list of reasons, and more than the one's I've listed. Ends up with more pros than cons? But there could also be hardly calculation at all and it's a purely emotional choice, coming from an emotional place.

A very damaging choice, regardless, among several other damaging choices, and it's one I think can be read with all this nuance without mitigating that. I hope it's been clear I'm not trying to. Intentions don't = impact. Investigation into the intentions doesn't take away from that.

I'm very interested to see how it all plays out, how they handle this on the impact side of things. If they'll actually give more of an answer. Rolin says some interesting things here: x. That alludes to how they're going to address this whole thing about memory - it's monstrous quality - with some of the same nuance I've given. And how a blanket statement on blame, and who did what, isn't where this kind of conversation will end up going.

[sirenium]

I try my damn near hardest to avoid shipcourse on this blog. However, I have so many qualms with the anti side of things that I need to say something.

If your first inclination after seeing someone explore fiction is to call them a pedophile (as an insult, no less!), abuse enabler, and/or urge your followers to mass report them, you are a problem. Maybe it's because I grew up during the golden days of fandoms, where ship and let ship was the norm and not whatever this shit is, but it's bizarre to see people get cancelled for being a proshipper. I just don't have it in me to care about what people do to that fictional child. It's none of my business.

I've noticed a trend from antis of anything: anti radqueers, antishippers, anti hazbin/helluva etc, and it is that their arguments are extremely self centered. 'It's romanticizing MY abuse/trauma/condition!' as if that stranger on the other side of the screen couldn't possibly have similar trauma etc and copes with it differently. "It triggers ME!" then don't actively seek out that material and get mad at the creator. It's a 'me! me! me!' mindset.

See, me personally? I don't care if someone makes and romanticizes a fic that capitalizes on my trauma. I don't care what reason they have, either; whether it's to cope with their own trauma or to simply have fun, I do not care. No amount of harassment from a bunch of teenagers can change the fact that I don't care, and the fact that there are others OLDER THAN ME, someone who will be 19 in July, who condone and enforce anti views is terrible.

Creative freedom shouldn't even be a debate or discourse situation. People need to grow the hell up and get over themselves.

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

Can I ask when the last time “dick worshipper”, etc. has actually been used by a radblr woman? Not a black-pill orbiter; they’re awful to everyone and don’t tend to last long here. I mean from someone in radblr, claiming to be a radical feminist or supporting radical feminism. I know it used to be fairly common years ago. So did political lesbianism, which pissed everyone off for different reasons. Most of those people either left or just don’t show up in my circles anymore, and those that do again don’t last long. So where is this coming from? I see it referenced but no recent examples. I am seeing a hell of a lot of recent homophobia from women in radblr though. Every woman I’ve seen addressing the homophobia has stated the misogynistic terms aren’t okay, again, even though from what I’ve seen it hasn���t happened for a long time. Whereas I’m seeing a ton of defensiveness and doubling down in regards to the homophobia. And there seems to be this demand of all lesbians and non-lesbian pro-separatist women to denounce the “dick worshipper” type comments, and it’s like, A) they already have and B) if they’re not the ones who said it can you stop conflating pro-separatist arguments with that shit? Again, this is just what I’ve seen. Maybe the “dick-worshipper” comments are all over some areas of radblr, but they’re not from anyone I follow or have seen on my dash for years. I’d say for the last four or five years the only time I’ve seen it is from women asking not to be called that--which, I agree, I don’t want to be called that and I don’t want to see other women called that. It’s just, I haven’t been called it or seen it for a long time, so something’s not adding up.

[fakehelper]

Okay so this is something that I held off on saying outright because of Natalie and the sway she had over the RPC, but one of the reasons that we require fcs to have a large following if they're not already in the entertainment industry (or trying to be in the industry) on GPN is because it feels oddly dehumanizing and tokenizing to take people who agreed to be part of a documentary or are in someone else's vlog because they are disabled or an ethnic minority and trying to use that person as an fc for "representation". While there isn't an abundance of disabled actors, they are out there, and I would much rather use an actor or model than an activist or someone who is literally just disabled and happens to be in a video, because they're not trying to break into the entertainment world, they're just living their lives.

Not to mention, when those people are only in one documentary or an episode of a show about disabilities, you're not going to get a lot of resources anyway, so it's not sustainable to use them as an FC. Just, when you're going forward and making resources of normal non-famous people because you think they'd be "good representation," please think twice about why you're actually making those resources. Would your time be better spent gifing a disabled actor or singer or model who is actually famous or even someone who's trying to break into the industry, who will likely have more footage down the line and actually give people more incentive to use that FC? Or are you just trying to gif as many people as you can to say that you're inclusive?

[inkykeiji]

While we’re on the topic of our daddy sukuna >.< lmao i dont picture him to physically hurt reader in a way that tnii would if that makes sense??? Like ik ppl asked about tnii breaking brones and scaring/burning reader like hes done in the past, but i only see sukuna being sadistic during sex and a LOT of biting and marking. Like a lotttt of biting during sex

oh really!? i see sukuna to be violent literally all the time! as a character he is extremely sadistic and so clearly finds utmost joy and amusement in hurting others in any way, shape, or form, and i don’t see that being something that would go away simply because he’s infatuated with reader (if anything, it might even be worse in some ways because he wants the most severe reaction + wants all of her attention). what better way to prove that he is completely, totally, utterly in full control and ownership of her than to hurt her? mark her up? make her cry? remind her that he could snap a bone almost instantly?

he thinks she looks so pretty when she’s in pain, he thinks she looks the very prettiest when she’s in pain. his favourite bone to snap is her pinky finger, because he loves how adorably delicate it is, loves that sharp initial gasp and then the sticky squeal of pain that follows as her eyes well up and her chin starts to tremble and her lashes and cheeks glitter with salt <3

so i guess we’ll agree to disagree HEHE tho i do agree with you 100% that he LOVES biting, particularly biting hard enough to bruise and break the skin, because those are the marks that last the longest <3 i can also see him being into carving his name somewhere on her body using either his own claws or some other tool!

[theboarsbride]

ASPEC PEOPLE HAVE LASER EYES AND FAT PEOPLE ARE THE PRETTIEST PEOPLE ON EARTH THAT OTHER ANON CAN CHEW GRAVEL AND COPE ABOUT IT!!!!!!

C O R R E C T!!👏

[mooralltach]

Do the Dutch get offended when you say they're from Holland instead of the Netherlands?

Depends per person, I'd say? I've heard from some people that they don't really like it, I think because there's also provinces called North Holland and South Holland and those parts would make the 'actual' Holland, which is not the entirety of The Netherlands.

I for myself don't mind it at all, as far as I know Holland is also just another name for our entire country, as it's been used like that in past by ourselves as well as other countries. I use it myself too if people don't know much about The Netherlands, and they often do recognize it when I call it Holland.

However. We do get offended if you call it (a part of) Germany 😂

[atlas-affogato]

There we go, thats the energy for tonight

[a-lady-in-shining-armour]

I’m going to need to see some actual evidence that the IBA is corrupt and spouting easily proven lies that destroy their own credibility because saying oooh ~Russia~ is like not it.

I don’t underestimate how much of a mindfuck it would be to be literally assigned a gender at birth and then have puberty turn your life upside down. I really feel for anyone going through that and think that the concept of calling an imperfect male a female is sexist and cruel.

But considering it’s such a rare medical condition it’s hard to deny that it seems to be over represented in elite sport and specifically in female elite sport. If you want to argue that a Y chromosome and male puberty is simply a natural advantage like being tall then why bother having female sports at all? A female wrestler was disqualified for being 100mg overweight- it’s crazy and unfair that two boxers were potentially allowed to have the advantage of male puberty without being disqualified!

the takes i've seen on here regarding Imane Khelif are frankly confusing as hell. I feel like I must be missing something.

because the alternative is that a bunch of gender critical radical feminists suddenly decided that being raised a certain way and treated a certain way and identifying a certain way is all that matters to define womanhood. and that the the widely reported "two failed sex tests" and widely reported lab results indicating XY chromosomes don't matter at all.

I truly don't understand what is going on here. What am I missing? I genuinely don't get it.

[5sospenguinqueen]

Going To The Chapel | Arthur Leclerc x Reader

Summary: A glimpse into life with Arthur Leclerc since your engagement. 

Warnings: Fluff. Marriage. Pregnancy. Suggestive comments

Requested: Yes by @1800-love-me . requested newlyweds/new dad arthur

F1 Masterlist

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yn_ln just posted

liked by lilymhe, oscarpiastri and others

yn_ln i had the most amazing weekend with my girls. thank you for planning such a relaxing time away. only one week left until i marry the love of my life  tagged: alexandrasaintmleux, bestfriend, charlotte2304

1,617 comments 

charles_leclerc i’m still disappointed that i wasn’t invited :( 

→ alexandrasaintmleux you had a bachelor party to go to, mon coeur 

→ charles_leclerc yeah but they didn’t have matching robes

→ arthur_leclerc i offered to wear matching underwear with you? 

bestfriend thank you for not saying “only one week until you marry your best friend” because i would’ve had to kill myself, and then you 

→ yn_ln oh

arthur_leclerc my beautiful girl. i cannot wait to marry you 

→ yn_ln counting down the days until i can call myself your wife 

→ user1 ugh, i need a love like these two 

alexandrasaintmleux you’re going to make the most beautiful bride 

→ yn_ln once i work off the hangover you inflicted on me

→ alexandrasaintmleux you didn’t have to keep drinking the prosecco

→ yn_ln you didn’t have to keep topping my glass up! 

→ bestfriend she was getting you drunk enough that you would agree to run away with her and not marry arthur

→ arthur_leclerc hey! 

charles_leclerc just posted

liked by carlossainz55, scuderiaferrari and others

charles_leclerc a day full of tears and joy. i’m so proud of you, little brother. and beautiful yn, you have been part of this family since arthur first brought you home to us but now we can officially call you leclerc 🤍

5,516 comments

user2 love how he posted an individual pic of yn but not his brother 

→ yn_ln i’m the family favourite out of the two of us 

→ arthur_leclerc i would disagree but you are my favourite 

user3 i love how close charles would’ve had to get for that veil pic

→ alexandrasaintmleux we did have to keep dragging him away from them  

→ charles_leclerc i’m just so happy! 

francisca.cgomes the most beautiful bride 

user4 i love that photo of the two of them sat at the table together 

→ charles_leclerc thank you. i had to sneak back to get it but it was just the two of them in their own little world 

→ yn_ln i was telling him how desperate i was to get out of my dress

→ user5 and he was telling you how desperate he was to get you out of your dress?

→ arthur_leclerc yes

lorenzotl i love you both so much. welcome to the family, yn 🩷

user6 oh okay. this has reminded me of how alone i am 

user7 the cutest couple! 

yn_leclerc just posted

liked by charles_leclerc, francisca.cgomes and others

yn_leclerc sand, sea and a new surname 🏖️

2,347 comments

user8 she changed her name! 

charles_leclerc did you do anything other than kiss? geez 

→ pierregasly it’s their honeymoon. i bet they did a lot more than kiss 

→ charles_leclerc ew

user9 look, we all know you spent the honeymoon shagging each other but you didn’t need to post proof

→ user10 and to think these are the photos they thought were acceptable to share liked by yn_leclerc 

arthur_leclerc my favourite place will always be beside you 

→ yn_leclerc i may not let you leave

→ oscarpiastri married arthur is a cheesy arthur 

alexandrasaintmleux i’m loving these photos! 

→ yn_leclerc maybe you should be next 

→ charles_leclerc don’t give her ideas! 

user11 oh a leclerc thirst trap was not what i was expecting 

user12 is this pr approved? 

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arthur_leclerc just posted

liked by oscarpiastri, pierregasly and others

arthur_leclerc coming soon. baby leclerc

3,549 comments

alexandrasaintmleux i’m so excited for baby leclerc to arrive. is it bad that i’ve already bought loads of clothes?

→ charlotte2304 competing for favourite aunty already, i see

→ yn_leclerc favourite aunty will be whichever one of you gets me a drink first when baby is here

user1 the charles leclerc project is happening 

→ scuderiaferrari we are already having a mini f1 car made 

user2 you’ve only been married 6 months

→ user2 oh

→ user3 honeymoon baby 

charles_leclerc i’m so glad you finally told people. the amount of baby ferrari gear i’ve had made that i have wanted to post 

charles_leclerc i am going to make the best uncle

→ lorenzotl *second best uncle

yn_leclerc i didn’t realise having a baby was going to create a leclerc civil war 

landonorris that is more of your wife than i wanted to see 

→ arthur_leclerc just say congrats, mate

oscarpiastri i guess this means our affair is over

user4 somebody enjoyed their honeymoon a little too much 

arthur_leclerc just posted

liked by logansargeant, scuderiaferrari and others

arthur_leclerc our baby girl was born late last night. she is happy and healthy, and yn is doing well

4,478 comments 

yn_leclerc i love you, mon amour. i couldn't have done this without you

→ arthur_leclerc thank you for blessing me with the most amazing family

charles_leclerc can confirm, she also smells so good

alexandrasaintmleux she’s wearing the little booties i bought! please give baby and yn a huge hug from me

→ user5 you don’t get to meet baby?

→ alexandrasaintmleux i’m not currently in monaco but visiting them will be the first thing i do when i’m back

user6 girl dad arthur incoming! 

charlotte2304 missing those baby cuddles already 

→ yn_leclerc we’re home tomorrow so please come over 

→ yn_leclerc you can cuddle baby whilst i have a wash 😂

user7 a baby girl! 

francisca.cgomes you put my giraffe in the bed with her 🥹

→ pierregasly don’t let her meet baby leclerc, please. i’ve only just gotten her a puppy 

→ yn_leclerc oh but how cute would a baby gasly be! 

→ pierregasly no!

→ arthur_leclerc nobody warns you that your wife will be broody again the second she’s had a baby

→ yn_leclerc excuse me, i think you mean no one warns you that your husband will be begging you for a second baby

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yn_leclerc just posted

liked by francisca.cgomes, carlossainz55 and others

yn_leclerc in honour of mon bébé turning 1 yesterday, please enjoy some snippets of this past year. it has been both exhausting and incredible, and i couldn't have done it without my amazing family

2,091 comments

charles_leclerc i can’t believe my niece is one already. she’s growing too fast 

→ arthur_leclerc which is why we should have a second one

→ charles_leclerc yes! that is a great idea

→ yn_ln this is why i don’t leave the two of you alone with her anymore

user8 that pic of arthur and baby leclerc sleeping?! never wanted kids before but now

→ user9 like he was cute before but now he’s a dilf?

→ yn_leclerc i can’t believe i just had to read that 

→ arthur_leclerc you called me a dilf last night?

alexandrasaintmleux being aunty alex this past year has been the best part of my adult life 

→ yn_ln you can take her for the week if you like. she’s teething so…

→ user10 haha this is so real if you’re a mum 

pierregasly who let charles wear that goofy hat 

user11 omg charles and baby leclerc though 

arthur_leclerc why have you never shown me that photo of us sleeping! she’s literally smiling in her sleep from my cuddles! mon coeur! how could you keep this from me

arthur_leclerc what other photos have you been keeping from me

arthur_leclerc i’m not helping you make a second one until you show me all the photos 

→ yn_leclerc does that mean i get a break from you?

→ arthur_leclerc now people are going to think i mount you all the time

→ charles_leclerc ew why did you word it that way liked by yn_leclerc 

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requests are open

tag list

@peachiicherries @rosecentury @c-losur3 @heavy-vettel @evie-119 @raizelchrysanderoctavius @lilorose25

[sanguineterrain]

(AFAB reader, more subby, comes fast, eager Jason at the people's request 🤲)

IF you praise Jason while he's inside of you, he will come first.

Jason thinks that this is a design flaw. You... disagree.

You discover it by accident the second time you have sex. The first time is negligible—Jason was nervous about being intimate with you and doing a good job, and he was a big ol' virgin, so obviously when you stroked his face and told him what a good, sweet boy he is, he blew his load. Obviously.

The next time has him seeking you out after patrol. He's freshly showered and maybe a little worn out, but he misses you. Moreover, Jason is prepared to fuck you. Show you that he can take charge and not rut on you like a dog. Jason's one of the most disciplined people ever. Certainly the most disciplined that you've known. You're telling him that you sink onto his cock and all of a sudden, that control swandives out the window? Impossible.

No, Jason knows better this time. He's going to be gentle, obviously, but he's focused on your pleasure. He finds you in bed already but not asleep because you can't sleep until he's home, not completely.

He prowls the bed, trying to hone his instincts. Having sex with you is just like any task he has assigned. Everything narrows to this moment. All of Jason's attention is on making you come first.

You greet him softly. This is where Jason is tricked. Jason forgets what a soft voice belies. You don't even realize you're doing it. You tell him you missed him and kiss him hotly, kiss down his neck, rake your hands through his hair. You tell him what a good man he is, keeping Gotham safe, protecting you and everyone in it, and Jason is hard.

Damn. Jason had meant to keep this on his terms. Get hard from your pleasure. But you catch him off guard like this, warm and soft and free with your praise. All you have to do is spread your arms and welcome Jason in and his fat cock is pushing against the waistband of his boxers.

He shudders as you scratch the nape of his neck, nip his ear. But then Jason clears his head, fights through the thick honey of your presence. No, he has a mission. He intends to complete it.

Jason throws himself into your body instead. He knows his size is all-encompassing. You're swallowed up in his arms, caged in between his shoulders. Yes, good. Jason wants you to feel overwhelmed in the best way, the way he feels when he's with you.

You say faster, so Jason goes faster. You say slow down, so Jason slows down. You say rub my clit, so Jason rubs your clit. You pull him closer with your ankles digging into his back, so Jason steadies himself and fucks you deeper.

And then Jason forgets the lesson. Forgets what makes you so persuasive.

And when you gasp in his ear, "you're fucking me so good, angel," Jason feels his gut tighten dangerously.

"Wh-what?" he asks, hips stuttering.

You grin, eyebrows contorting in pleasure. You grab his face with both hands. Jason's brain is sending him warning signals.

"Ease up," you tell him gently, so Jason eases up. Your grin grows.

"You're such a good listener," you say. "That's why you fuck me so good, Jason."

Gut tightening. Jason wrangles his urge to empty his balls in your pussy. No, he's being good! He's a good boy, not a good dog. Good dogs can't do anything but whimper and come and come.

You scoot closer, forcing him deeper into you. Jason shudders. You wrap your arms around his neck, bring his face close to yours. Jason braces himself with his hands on either side of you.

"Yeah, you're so good." You pet his hair. "You were made to be inside of me, honey bunches."

Briefly, Jason thinks about if the roles were reversed, if it was you inside of him. He thinks you'd probably be able to hold off better than he can. This is actually fucking impossible. You're so wet, pussy a hundred fucking degrees. And when you make him slow down, Jason feels the drag of his dick against your walls, and everything in his brain turns to static.

"If you wanna come, you can come," you say sweetly. Danger, danger! You look up at him, having the gall to look innocent. There's no way you don't know what the hell you're doing.

"Wanna make you come first," Jason says, voice stronger than he feels.

You hum sympathetically. "But you're so sensitive, baby. Can feel you shaking."

Jason shakes his head, locks in. No, he's going to make you come first. He starts to fuck you in earnest, his thrusts hard enough to make you squelch against his cock.

And then you go in for the kill.

"You're so pretty," you say. Jason's eyes flutter. Your gaze turns predatory.

"Yeah, pretty and good and strong. You're my big, strong guy, aren't you? You thought about this all day, I bet. Thought about how you'd make me feel good. You don't have to think about it anymore, sweetpea. All you need to do is get hard and come inside of me."

Jason shakes his head again. No, no, he's not going to give in. He can hold it. He can be good.

"Good boy," comes your sweet voice. "Good Jason. You fuck me the best. No other guy could do it for me like you can. You'd tear open anybody who tried, wouldn't you?"

Jason nods eagerly even though his balls feel tight. Yes! Yes, he would! If you told Jason to bite, he'd only ask how hard. He'll drown his muzzle in blood for you.

"Uh-huh," you say knowingly. "I love you, Jason. I love you so much. I'm yours. And you're mine."

That does it. The last of Jason's control shoots into your cunt in hot spurts. Jason tears up out of frustration and pleasure. His mouth is open in a silent shout.

You grin and keep to yourself how easy it'll be to get knocked up off of your boyfriend's fat cock. A few sweet words and he's coming. That's when you start to believe that this is a habit, not an outlier, for your virginal boyfriend.

"Fuck," Jason says, lashes thick with tears. "Fuck, fuck. I was s'posed ta hold it."

You coo, wipe his tears with your thumbs. "It's okay, baby. I don't mind. We can practice."

Yes, you'll practice, alright. Practice how many times you can make Jason come inside of you. And if Jason's truly bent out of shape about not making you come, well, you have no issue with training him how to eat you out.

(The first time Jason makes you orgasm before himself, he gets so excited he comes.)

[theoldsports]

SHITHEAD.

Art Donaldson x Reader.

warnings: a lot of them. 18+, slapping, begging, major angst, brat!Art, an argument with make up sex. Art is really manipulative because… he is a bit and we all know it. [Y/N] is very ill-tempered too. it’s dirty.

can be a part ii to SPONTANEOUS, or read as a standalone. this is my favorite piece of writing i have published on this account.

The bed was empty beside [Y/N]. She stared at Art’s empty side of the bed. The soft green sheets and mix-matched pillowcases went unoccupied. Not because he wasn’t home, but because [Y/N] hated Art so he had to sleep downstairs on the couch.

It wasn’t that she really hated Art. She did hate him right now. Not in a funny way. Their drive home had been silent. Poor Art didn’t know how to facilitate conversation that wouldn’t worsen the situation. His sorrowful eyes, but honest eyes kept glancing from the road to where [Y/N] sat in the passenger seat. The real showdown had started between them something awful when the door to their house slammed shut.

See, Art cried when he got mad. Or sad. Or profoundly excited. Their wedding photos were two-thirds Art crying and trying not to show that he was crying.

Art hadn’t cried tonight yet. That pissed [Y/N] off. She was furious and he seemed to feel absolutely zero discernible feelings about that.

They argued all the time. It rarely lasted all too long.

It was different this time. When [Y/N] started to say something cruel or shout or weep, Art got a little smaller, but he alarmingly stood his ground. He averted his gaze and said “I respectfully disagree,” or “What the fuck do you know about how I feel?” in a dangerously level tone.

Fighting with Art about this wasn’t fun. He was too cool about. He knew he was right. [Y/N] wanted to yell and scream because Art was so relaxed and condescending in his tone. When the man who had spent his teenage years getting referred at competition after competition as literally Ice tonelessly said: “Jesus Christ, aren’t you bored yet? What, going to over-explain the same information to me again, or…?” Finally, that had made [Y/N] drag herself to bed and yank the door closed violently enough that she felt the metallic vibration run all the way up to her shoulder.

And she was still laying there, staring at Art’s side of the bed.

At the Zweig’s party that night, there were a few hot topics in the Donaldsons’ sphere:

1) Lots of congratulations from people that had known them grow up, but hadn’t seen them since the wedding or prior.

This was mostly very kind. It dragged that smirk up Art’s face and caused his fingers to dig tighter into [Y/N]’s waist. That look of pride and tenderness on his face was more than welcome.

2) Lots of questions about Patrick. His lack of attendance was felt.

Both Donaldsons dodged these question as much as they could. Art kept an eye on [Y/N]’s liquor consumption. He knew how embarrassed she would be if she said something she regretted in front of Patrick’s family. Patrick had hurt them both, but Art’s heart went out to [Y/N]. Her world had been built around Patrick’s from a young age. Art was trying to engineer his own world higher around her so she wouldn’t be able to see the old place and people that had burned her over the walls.

3) “You’re married. When are we going to be seeing a little Donaldson running around?”

With Art keeping an eye on [Y/N]’s drinking, she hadn’t really been keeping an eye on him. She just assumed he would keep his shit together. Art drinking in public was never really a concern. He wasn’t a big drinker anyway. At this point, his career mattered more and he was approaching his mid-twenties which made him feel surely less young than he had once. He wasn’t a casual beer guy either. It was Patrick who liked beer and Art who would have a moledo or something sometimes. Art did like white girl drinks, though. Tequila and fruity stuff. He had been able to shoot shot after shot of vodka like a pro in college at a season-end celebration.

Art was a tight-lipped man, but he was a giggly drunk who he got pretty comfortable talking out of his ass from behind a glass with an umbrella in it. Art was rarely comfortable with anything, so a drink or two at a party was welcome to him.

Another important point of context is that the largest point of tension between Art and [Y/N] was starting a family. They desperately wanted a child together, but they disagree on when. [Y/N] felt like she was fresh out of college, so she figured they had plenty of time. Art felt that he was fresh out of college, so he figured they may as well get to it.

Their arguments about this were once semi-regular. In the last four months or so, Art timidly bowed out and hoped [Y/N] would tell him when she was ready (sooner rather than later). He got tired of the low-tier shouting matches. Instead, he would pick fights about things that were decidedly lower stakes when he was bored.

Art had let [Y/N] field comments about family planning throughout the night. Unfortunately, when Art was polishing off a second drink, he ran his mouth a little bit.

Knowing he was the designated driver that night, Art did go easy. Art was also, like, five pounds. While he could hold his liquor with grace, he always got giggly. He watched with heavy eyelids as [Y/N] walked away to collect another drink following the dinner portion of the evening. The paper placecards with their shared last name emblazoned on them rested comfortably in Art’s inner jacket pocket to be kept as a memory.

Some guy who sold boat insurance and liked to rub elbows with talent was talking Art’s ear off. Art couldn’t remember his name, but [Y/N] would know it.

This was the precise moment that got Art in trouble.

Because when the guy whose name Art was sure started with an R said: “So! You’re married. When are we going to be seeing a little Donaldson running around?”

Art said:

“Any day now, I hope. Tomorrow. I’m good to go. [Y/N] thinks now’s not a great time for her.”

He had said it with a smirk and a stupid little laugh. It was basically locker room talk. Big deal. He would’ve said it to Patrick with [Y/N] present in the room. This guy wasn’t Patrick and he was technically speaking behind her back.

Art had forgotten how close they were standing to the bar. He had forgotten that the frequency of his pitchy tenor was known to carry. He had forgotten that he was well known to be an instigator of fights even though he never actually threw the first punch. He had forgotten that he hadn’t been whispering. He had forgotten that this guy… Richy? Ronnie? was pretty much a stranger who had no business knowing their business.

Now, Art was sleeping on the couch and his side of the bed was empty.

Jackass.

[Y/N] stared still at the empty bed and didn’t know how to articulate her upset to an Art who had seemingly yet to feel ashamed.

She had a headache and was tired. But sleep wasn’t going to come easy and all she had to look forward to was a hangover.

Art didn’t really snore, but he was a heavy breather when he slept. The lack of his white noise made the A/C blowing and the stairs creaking too loud. Maybe all of this was on [Y/N] for making Art uncomfortable, she dared to think.

Then she reminded herself that it was Art’s fault for talking too much and for drinking when he knew he was supposed to drive home.

[Y/N] rolled over to face away from Art’s spot. All she could think about is how his hands always sleepily pawed at her to pull her back when she got too far away from him before he fell asleep.

“So, what’d you do?” Patrick asked.

“She hates me.” Art replied. It was almost a question.

“I asked what you did, not what she feels. She already told us what she feels and it’s that she hates you.” Patrick stated. When Patrick had stopped through town for a match, he had come by for dinner with, well, his best friends. This had been right after they’d gotten engaged.

Art sniffled. He didn’t want to cry in front of Patrick. Art would sooner cry in front of his own father. Both men would have laughed in his face, but it would have stung more from Patrick. “We got into a fight yesterday. A big one. Like, the first, uh, big one. She’s worried about the f—“

“The future? Please,” Patrick said bitterly. He frowned and his jaw tightened, but he combatted it by tossing Art a smile before the other man noticed the tension. “Stupid. You’re gonna marry her. You’ll play tennis. She’ll do her… columns? Articles. I don’t get what it is that she does—“

“She writes for—“

“Sure, yeah. You’re gonna have two kids so you can each pick a favorite one. And she’s gonna be a pain in your ass forever. Don’t be a pussy.”

Art sniffled again and stared at the floor. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I didn’t think I did,” Art said meekly. “I don’t get it. She gets so mad sometimes. At me.” Patrick stared at him blankly. Art had to know that he was usually at least a little bit the problem.

“Did she do the thing where she calls you a—“

“Shithead bastard?”

“Shithead bastard.” Both boys said at the same time. Art dragged his hands through his hair and looked up at Patrick. Both of them quirked a smirk at the other.

“See,” Patrick started. “You’ll be fine. Fuckin’ go after her.”

“And say what!”

“Uh… ‘I’m sorry?’ You do that kinda shit. She’ll like that.”

It was impossible to know how long [Y/N] laid there. The clock was on Art’s side and she would get spitting mad if she rolled back over.

She could just go downstairs and tell Art to come back to bed. He was probably sleeping just fine.

“Hey, hon, you don’t hate me, right?” Art’s voice whispered in the darkness.

[Y/N] was fairly certain she had imagined it. She had not heard his sweaty feet on the stairs or his fingers against the doorknob. Quickly, [Y/N] whipped over to face the door behind her.

There was Art. His sweatpants sat low on his hips and his shirt was long gone. Clothing didn’t often survive the night on Art’s back.

Really, she couldn’t help but wonder how long it had taken Art to work through coming upstairs so quietly. “Mm?” [Y/N] groaned in question.

Art rocked his right shoulder into the doorway to lean. His arms were crossed and his eyes straight ahead on her from what [Y/N] could tell in the glow of the hallway’s thermostat. “Please just tell me you don’t hate me and I’ll let you go back to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

With a sigh, [Y/N] sat up and rolled her cracking shoulders back. “I don’t hate you, Art.” Her heart melted a little bit. [Y/N] knew it was immature, but her special attack in arguments since childhood was to bandy around the word hate a lot. Not that she had said it to Art tonight, but she had no doubt said it before. More than once. More times than she could count, maybe.

She was surprised Art had never asked this before. That surprise hurt in an a way that was too complex to describe. “I could never hate you.” [Y/N] continued, voice hushed only because it was dark out.

Art’s posture relaxed slightly. “You promise you don’t?” Said Art’s evermore crippling lack of self-confidence.

“I promise.” [Y/N] replied calmly.

“Okay. Thank you.” Art said in a small voice.

“I love you, baby. I don’t hate you. You shouldn’t have to ask that. I’m sorry I made you feel like you even have to ask that.”

Art frowned sharply. “No, I’m the one that should be sorry. You told me nicely not to talk about—“

“Don’t play that. You have to know you don’t feel like you did anything wrong, so you don’t have to invent a situation where you’re some horrible person.”

Art was silent.

[Y/N] continued. “I’m pissed because you told Randy,” RANDY. His name was RANDY. That’s it. “Our business. My business, really. He’s an asshole. It’s fine. Well, not now, but eventually. But you kinda martyred yourself on it. You don’t have to do that and I don’t hate you. You know I don’t… Right?”

“I’m sorry.” Art said quickly. He was gifted at making every single minor problem his own fault. He knew he was a little bit of an awful person for that, but he would die before admitting it. Art would hide behind his martyring habit as long as his cross could hold him, though. [Y/N] hadn’t noticed before this moment, but she could see the shining of his eyes in the digital blue-green glow. Tears. This time, less than obvious waterworks. Aw.

“I’m sorry. I’m still pissed at you for running your mouth, but I’m sorry too.”

Art nodded, said nothing else and reached for the doorknob.

Here is a frustrating thing about Art.

He said he was going to leave for downstairs once [Y/N] said she didn’t hate him. He started to make good on that vow. If he says something, he’s going to do it, even though he doesn’t have to do it.

“Come on,” [Y/N] called louder than she’d been whispering. “Come here, pretty baby.”

Pretty Baby by Blondie had been their wedding song. She had been calling him that for almost as long as she had known him. Saying it, or hearing the song always made that stunning, small crooked smile stretch up beyond his sad puppy eyes all the way to his ears.

Art’s kryptonite was pretty baby. They both knew it.

He turned to look at her with a slight blush on his cheeks, almost visible in the dark. Art shifted one of his feet childishly over the other in apprehension.. “Don’t make me say it again. I don’t like to ask twice.” [Y/N] reminded him.

After a hasty nod, Art was in bed before he [Y/N] blinked. The blonde sat bolt upright beside [Y/N] with his eyes wide. Hesitant, but coyly so. He knew this pattern. The agony and shame from her brutality would only last so long. Housepets loved to cause trouble for treat.

Not to say that Art liked to start fights so he could play some low-status lapdog that got to feel his wife’s fingers comb through his hair the way he liked as a reward for an apology. The man bit his cheek to avoid a devious smirk. A part of him did like to do that sometimes, though.

He always got away with it. He was such a nice boy.

[Y/N] rolled her eyes and leaned back into the threadbare pillows. With a finger, she beckoned Art nearer. Hesitation eliminated, Art flopped slowly down beside [Y/N]; she on her back, he on his side, facing her. Delicately, Art’s fingers dragged down [Y/N]’s arm to curl in her fingers.

Not long after that, his plush mouth climbed down from her neck. Then shoulders and collarbones. Then bicep. Elbow. Forearm and wrist. Down her hand to her silver-studded ring finger. Each kiss with accompanied with an honest and dutiful I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He was sorry. Genuinely. Sorry for the upset he brought his wife, but not the cause. Art’s beautiful duel-colored eyes glanced up at [Y/N]’s blown pupils through her own fingers.

“I didn’t mean to talk about you like that… I just… I love you so much that I want more of you. That’s all, honey,” Art laid his head on [Y/N]’s upper chest and his mouth moved against the front of her throat. “I’m just a little stupid, huh…”

Under his lips, Art could feel the rumble of a laugh rip through [Y/N]’s throat. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair to hold him in place. “Do-don’t talk about yourself like that,” she mumbled and gave his hair a lovely tug with both hands. He whimpered. [Y/N] wanted to bottle that sound. Art would always remember what she said next and how she said it: “Only I get to talk about you like that… St-stupid.”

This was the version of [Y/N] he was going to remember when he thought of her every day for the rest of his life. That sentence, the way her hair hung from where he had pushed it away from her neck. The sting of the cold metal from her wedding ring on the back of his neck and the stone of her engagement ring pressing into where he reached his palm to place his hand over hers. There was just the wrong amount of clothes between them. Her eyes ringed smoky from the makeup smudges and the exhaustion.

“Say it again.” Art whispered, swinging a knee over [Y/N]’s thighs so he could stare down at her. His forehead pressed softly against [Y/N]’s.

[Y/N]’s mouth fell open slightly with a breathy exhalation. Holy shit. “What, pretty baby, you want me to tell you how stupid you are? You like that?” [Y/N] almost whispered into Art’s still lips. He was too shocked to kiss her back, but too turned on to pull away. Art whimpered louder than before. [Y/N] felt him nod.

So she didn’t hold back. “You think I need to punish you after you behaved like that today or something? You need to atone for what a moron you were, shithead?” [Y/N] kept her tone light enough to just about tease as her nose trailed along the side of his. Her objective was to belittle. Her nails slid down Art’s muscular, sturdy back.

They both knew Art was a masochist on his worst days. Did he get off on being degraded sometimes? Sure. But this series of events was ridiculously new and exciting for [Y/N]. And shockingly obviously for Art too.

His hips pressed into her pathetically. “What? Did you need help with something?” She asked innocently when she felt Art’s hard-on against her thigh. [Y/N] kissed him distractingly warmly for how she was treating him. Art’s head spun and he couldn’t seem to make sense of anything anymore. He had backed himself into the best kind of corner.

Across Art’s hips and side went [Y/N]’s left hand, to the front of his sweatpants. Humiliatingly, Art blinked tears out of his eyes and screwed them shut. His mouth opened and closed, but no intelligent sound came out. [Y/N] planted a kiss at the corner of his parted lips. His strong arms boxed [Y/N] protectively in from above, but she had him locked into place, really. “Baby, if you want something, you know you have to ask for it.”

“Nnh,” Art tried, eyes stuck shut. His attention was mostly spent hold himself up over his wife. His insanely gorgeous wife. [Y/N]’s other hand grabbed his jaw tenderly. He still didn’t look at her. Art was gathering his courage. “Yo-you already told me I couldn’t have what I wanted.”

With a sharp inhale, [Y/N] grip went from gentle to nonexistent. At the lack of contact, Art’s damp eyes crept open one at a time to see if his brattiness had overstepped the situation. His frightened eyes caught [Y/N]’s. She popped the side of his face sharply with an open palm. Art blinked and tipped his head to the side like a dog.

That was big trouble, huh?

“Fuck,” he said. Both of them panted in sync. “I’m sorry.” He meant it.

[Y/N] pulled Art’s face to hers and kissed him hard. “I love… you.” She said.

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (05)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 9.4k

Aliyah's Notes: i have two exams in five years and i still haven't slept, so if u notice any mistakes pls ignore them. i'll fix them when i have time, and yes a scene is inspired by the maddest obsession BUT ANYW AHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! THIS CHAPTER IS INSANE AND PLS DONT SCREAM AT ME FOR THE ENDING LIKE IM SO SORRY BUT IT HAD TO BE DONE

“Hey, you want to know something?” Sarah said, approaching you as you sat quietly at a table, lost in thought. Beside her, two girls: one had mid-length brown curls and sun-kissed blonde highlights, gave you a friendly grin, her energy light and approachable. The other had wavy, jet-black hair that framed her face, her features both sharp and effortlessly beautiful. They were stunning, you thought, in a way that felt both comforting and a little intimidating. “I never liked her. Even back when she and my brother were together, I never got along with Chiara.”

The girl with the highlighted curls nodded, sliding into the seat next to you. “Same here. There’s always been something... off about her,” she agreed, scrunching her nose in a way that made you smile. “Oh! I’m Kiara, by the way,” she added quickly. “Different spelling than Chiara, but I promise we’re nothing alike.”

The girl with the wavy black hair gave a little wave as she took the seat across from you, her smile warm and easy. “And I’m Cleo,” she introduced herself with a slight accent. “Can’t say I disagree with Sarah and Kie here. Chiara’s just... kind of a staple at these things. She’s always been around, so the guys still invite her out of habit.”

“And if they didn’t, she’d probably throw a tantrum,” Sarah added, rolling her eyes in exasperation. 

You felt a warmth creeping into your cheeks as you looked at the three of them, surprised by how welcoming they were. “Thanks, girls. I’m Y/N, by the way,” you said shyly, offering a small smile. 

“Girl, we know who you are,” Cleo came to sit on your side and nudged you softly. “But don’t worry, you’re part of the group now—Chiara who?” she joked, making you all laugh.

You cleared your throat, glancing between the three girls who were deep in conversation. The question had been sitting heavy on your mind since the moment you met Chiara. “So… Rafe and her—did they used to date?”

The girls exchanged a look, the brief silence almost uncomfortable. It was as if they were weighing their words, deciding what to say or what to hold back. Their reluctance only made you want answers more. Who was Chiara to Rafe, really?

Finally, Sarah glanced away, a frown crossing her face. “It’s… complicated.”

You couldn’t help but lean in, unable to stop the curiosity stirring in your chest. “How complicated?” you pressed. “Were they exes? Friends with benefits? Did they break up right before Rafe and I got together? Or was it just her holding on to a crush he never—”

Kiara gently placed a hand over yours, her eyes warm and understanding. “Y/N, it’s okay. You don’t have to overthink it, alright?”

You sighed, the uncertainty making your stomach twist. “I just wish I knew what they are—or were—to each other. Rafe hasn’t said a word about her. Not a thing.”

Cleo gave you a sympathetic look, and Sarah hesitated, biting her lip as though weighing whether to say more. Finally, she began, “Wait, so he really didn’t tell you about what they—”

But Sarah’s words were cut off abruptly as Rafe’s voice broke through the noise of the party. “Sweetheart, can we talk?”

The girls turned toward him, their expressions ranging from surprise to mild disgust.

Kiara shot him a skeptical look, brows raised. “Who did he just call ‘sweetheart’?”

Cleo’s eyes widened as she put her hands up in mock innocence. “Definitely not me.”

Sarah shook her head, holding back a laugh. “Don’t look at me. My brother’s never called me any nickname. So, nope, not me either.”

Their eyes turned back to you, and it clicked. Rafe’s gaze was fixed on you, his face serious, almost imploring. You fidgeted with your hands, glancing over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Chiara. She was a few steps away, engrossed in a conversation with JJ, yet her eyes were unmistakably trained on you and Rafe. Her expression was unreadable, something between irritation and curiosity, and the ambiguity of it only frustrated you more.

Rafe’s voice softened, his eyes searching yours. “Y/N, let’s go. Please?”

“I’m serious about her, Chiara,” was what Rafe replied earlier, his voice firm but before you could register the words, Chiara grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the garden without so much as a second glance in your direction, leaving you alone in the middle of the party—feeling like a complete idiot.

You weren’t sure how to feel about Rafe’s words. It was exactly what you’d hoped to hear, but his delivery had been off, and the way he left with her immediately afterward left a sour taste. You remember watching them through the windows. Their conversation looked intense. Chiara’s hands moved wildly, gesturing with a frustration that seemed matched by Rafe, who kept sighing and tossing his arms up in exasperation. Whatever they discussed, it was clearly charged.

But now, Rafe was standing in front of you, his expression unreadable as he asked to talk. About what? You didn’t know. Maybe he’d finally explain who Chiara was to him or put to rest the suspicion twisting in your gut, though you doubted he would. Instead of lingering on the countless possibilities, you took a steadying breath, nodded, and followed him outside.

The night air was cool, a stark contrast to the party’s warmth, and you found yourself standing on the porch beside him, facing the quiet street. For a moment, silence fell between you, thick and awkward, as if neither of you knew where to begin. He glanced at you and you felt a flicker of anticipation mixed with unease, wondering what he’d say—if he’d finally give you the answers you were looking for.

Rafe leaned against the porch railing, arms folded, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “Look... Chiara just… she doesn’t handle change well,” he said, his tone flat, almost dismissive. “She’s just… used to things being a certain way. She's dramatic."

You crossed your arms, holding back the questions building up. “Right. So, she drags you outside because she’s feeling… what? Dramatic?”

He glanced at you, then quickly looked away, jaw tightening. “It’s not like that,” he said, his voice clipped. “She’s… she’s just not used to seeing me with someone else.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your tone light. “Oh, so I’m the problem?”

Rafe sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “No, it’s not you. It’s…” He paused, as if weighing how much he wanted to say. “She just thinks… I don’t know, she has her own ideas about things. She probably assumed things were the way they used to be.”

You frowned. “Used to be?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, and when Rafe didn’t answer right away, you continued. “So, you two were… what? Together?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly. Things just... overlapped for a while. It was just… a thing. A long time ago.”

Your patience was wearing thin. “And by ‘a long time ago,’ you mean… what? Last week? Last month?”

Rafe exhaled sharply, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Shit, why does it matter? Whatever it was, it’s over, alright? I didn’t think I had to spell it out for you.”

“Maybe you do need to,” you shot back, feeling your cheeks heat. “I think I deserve to know when I’m about to walk into a situation where some girl is going to pull you away and act like I’m the one intruding.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, and he leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing. “She’s not just ‘some girl.’ She’s… someone I’ve known for a while. And she’s… complicated. Okay?”

“Right. ‘Complicated.’” You let the word hang in the air, dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure it’s just so complicated that you couldn’t even bother to tell me about her before dragging me into this.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “It’s not like that. I just… I didn’t think she’d show up here. I didn’t think it would matter.”

You shook your head, folding your arms tighter around yourself. “Well, maybe it does matter, Rafe. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like she has some claim on you.”

"What?" Rafe’s eyes flashed with irritation, and he straightened up, clearly done with the conversation. “Look, she doesn’t have a fucking ‘claim’ on me. It’s nothing. Just… drop it.”

The bluntness of his words stung, and you took a steadying breath, keeping your voice as even as possible. “Fine,” you said coolly, shrugging as if you weren’t affected. “But you might want to let her know that.”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath before his gaze met yours again. “You’re overthinking it. She’s… she’s just used to being a part of my life, and now things are different. She’ll deal with it.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly. “Funny, because from where I was standing, it didn’t look like she was planning to just ‘deal with it.’ It looked like she was… I don’t know, trying to stake her territory or something.”

Rafe sighed, looking away again. “That’s just how she is. She’s always… been intense. Doesn’t mean anything.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, feeling a mix of frustration and something uncomfortably close to jealousy. “So, I’m just supposed to ignore it? Pretend she didn’t pull you, my boyfriend, outside to… to lecture you about me?”

“Exactly,” he replied, his tone abrupt. “It’s just noise. Don’t pay her any mind.”

The simplicity of his response only fueled your irritation. “Right. Because I should just… ignore all of this and act like nothing’s wrong.”

“Look, I didn’t ask her to make a scene,” he said, his voice sharper now. “And I didn’t think she’d come here tonight. She just… showed up, okay?”

You paused, studying his expression, which was a mixture of defensiveness and something else you couldn’t quite place. “So, what’s the story with her?” you asked, trying to keep your tone casual, though you knew it was anything but.

Rafe let out a frustrated breath. “There’s no ‘story,’ alright? She’s just… she was around for a while, that’s it. We had… an understanding.”

You raised an eyebrow, the vagueness of his answer only adding to your frustration. “An understanding,” you repeated slowly, crossing your arms tighter. “Well, it seems like she didn’t quite get the memo that whatever ‘understanding’ you had is over.”

He shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the house as if hoping someone would interrupt. “She’ll get over it. I just didn’t expect her to… make it a whole thing.”

“Maybe she made it a whole thing because you haven’t made it clear to her that it’s… nothing,” you said, emphasizing his own words back to him.

Rafe’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why are you making this such a big deal? It’s not like we're actually together. This—" he said, moving his fingers between you two "—is fake, in case you forgot.”

“Oh, right, because it’s so normal for the girl you used to have… whatever with to show up at a party and act like I’m the one intruding.” You shook your head, exasperated. “Forgive me for wanting to understand the situation.”

He shrugged, still not meeting your eyes. “It’s just… old history. Not worth bringing up.”

“Then maybe you should have thought of that before dragging me into this,” you shot back, your voice laced with frustration.

He finally met your gaze, his jaw set. “Dragging you into what? It’s not like I invited her here.”

You raised an eyebrow, challenging him. “Did you invite me here to watch your past blow up in front of us?”

Rafe let out a bitter laugh. “This is what I get for trying to bring you around my friends. Next time, I’ll keep it strictly professional. How’s that?”

You felt a pang of hurt, but you masked it with a tight smile. “Perfect. I’ll remember that for next time, Rafe.” You turned away, taking a few steps back toward the house, hoping he’d get the hint that you were done.

But Rafe’s hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you. “Wait.” His voice was low, reluctant, but there was a softness there you hadn’t expected.

You turned, catching his gaze, which had softened just slightly. “What?”

He hesitated, then let go of your wrist, his fingers lingering just a moment longer. “I just… I didn’t expect her to react this way. I thought… things were clear between us.”

“Clearly, they’re not,” you replied, unable to keep the edge from your tone.

Rafe sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll try to talk to her, alright? Make sure she understands. But can we just… leave it here?”

You watched him, seeing the frustration, the tension in his shoulders, and you knew he wasn’t about to tell you any more than he already had. So, instead of pushing it further, you forced a casual shrug. “Fine. Whatever. It’s none of my business anyway, right?”

A flicker of something passed across his face—surprise, maybe, or regret. “Right. It’s not,” he said, though his voice was quieter, as if the words didn’t sit right with him.

You nodded, biting back the urge to say anything more. “Great. Glad we’re on the same page.”

An awkward silence settled between you, the tension thick and unresolved. Rafe shifted, glancing toward the house. “We should get back. People will start talking if we’re both out here too long.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” The sarcasm was sharp, but you didn’t care; you were too irritated to soften it.

He shot you a look, somewhere between exasperation and apology, but said nothing as he turned to head back inside. You followed a few paces behind, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down on you, every unanswered question lingering like a shadow.

Before reaching the door, Rafe paused, his hand resting on the doorknob as he glanced back at you. “Listen…” He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “It’s… just a lot, okay? Give me some time. I’ll sort it out.”

You held his gaze, unsure whether to believe him, but you nodded once. “Fine. But make it clear, Rafe. I’m not here to play second fiddle to some girl from your past. My life is on the line and I don't have time to worry about this sort of thing.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but whatever he was about to say, he swallowed back. Instead, he gave a tight nod and pushed open the door, slipping back into the noise and light of the party. You followed him and plastered on a fake smile while wondering if you’d ever get the truth out of him.

For the next hour, you put on a mask, pretending everything was fine—like nothing happened. But no matter how hard you tried to push the thoughts away, they lingered, clouding every moment. What was Rafe and Chiara’s relationship? You forced yourself to focus on the laughter, the music, and the warmth of the people around you, determined to enjoy the night with Rafe’s friends. Yet every so often, your mind drifted back to Chiara and Rafe, leaving an uncomfortable knot in your stomach.

Rafe took you around the room, introducing you to his teammates: Topper Thornton, Kelce Miller, JJ Maybank, Pope Heyward, and John B Routledge. They each greeted you with a friendly smile and a welcoming vibe. You found yourself particularly drawn to Topper's lighthearted humor and Pope's quiet charm, making it a bit easier to relax. But it was the girls who truly helped lift your spirits. Their energy was infectious, and you quickly found yourself laughing and swapping stories as if you’d known them forever.

Just as you were in the middle of an animated conversation, you heard someone call out, "Miss supermodel!" You turned to see Topper staggering toward you with a mischievous grin, clearly several drinks deep. “Come drink with us! You haven’t had a single sip all night!”

You couldn’t help but smile as he swayed slightly, holding up a red cup with a challenging look. He finally came in front of you and you had to shake your head. “I’m sorry, Topper. I can’t drink tonight. I’m on contract.”

He whined and threw his head back. “Why? A little sip won’t hurt you, right? Come on, please.”

You laughed, shaking your hands as he pouted dramatically, swaying slightly. “Topper, you’re wasted! I think you’ve had enough for both of us.”

He held his heart in mock offense. “Oh, come on! Just one tiny sip!” He held out the cup, swirling it a little as if to tempt you. “Look, it’s just tequila! You can handle tequila, right?”

You hesitated, glancing down at the cup and then back at his hopeful face. “I really shouldn’t… If anyone from the agency finds out, I’m in trouble.”

“Who’s gonna know? It’s just us here, right?” He looked around, grinning mischievously. “Your secret’s safe with me. And, hey, you can’t just let me be the only one embarrassing myself tonight.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes playfully. “Alright, one sip. But that’s it, okay?”

Topper’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Yes! That’s all I’m asking for.” He held out the cup, his face eager with anticipation.

You took the cup from him, feeling the weight of all the eyes on you as his friends turned to watch, clearly amused by the scene. Raising the cup to your lips, you took a big sip, the tequila burning as it went down. You scrunched your nose at the taste, earning a round of cheers from Topper and the girls.

“There we go! Wasn’t so bad, was it?” he laughed, throwing an arm around your shoulders.

“Awful,” you teased, wiping your lips. “But now you can’t say I didn’t drink with you.”

Topper gave you a victorious grin. “I knew you’d come through! You’re practically one of us now.”

You should’ve known.

Less than an hour later, you were stumbling across the living room, thoroughly tipsy and clinging to Kiara, who was somehow even more drunk than you. The two of you were giggling uncontrollably, reduced to hysterics over the silliest things—the pretzels shaped like animals, the crooked painting on the wall. Every little thing was hilarious, and the alcohol only seemed to amplify your laughter and loosen your inhibitions.

Lost in your little bubble, you didn’t notice Rafe watching from across the room, his gaze sharp and unblinking as he kept tabs on you. He hadn’t seen you like this before—free-spirited, a little reckless, and definitely wilder than he was used to. He couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched you shout out something along the lines of, “Everyone should just strip already!” before lifting the hem of your top, ready to make good on your words.

That was Rafe’s cue. In a flash, he crossed the room, slipping his hands over yours before you could pull your shirt over your head. His touch was firm, grounding, a stark contrast to the chaos around you. "Whoa there," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement, but his eyes were warm, almost protective.

You blinked up at Rafe, a goofy grin plastered across your face as you realized he was standing right in front of you. The room spun just a little, but his steady hands on yours felt oddly comforting.

“Rafe!” you slurred, beaming as though you hadn’t seen him in days. “Fuck! Isn’t it, like, super hot in here?”

Rafe smirked, shaking his head. “I think that’s just the tequila talking, baby,” he replied, steadying you as you swayed. His fingers stayed wrapped around yours, almost possessive, but he didn’t let go.

You pouted, glancing around at the half-dressed friends who were now laughing at your enthusiastic outburst. “Fine, but I was just trying to help everyone loosen up, you know?”

“Oh, trust me, you’ve definitely loosened up,” he chuckled, his eyes scanning you, both entertained and slightly exasperated. “Maybe… a little too much.”

You leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a playful whisper, “You know you enjoy it.”

Rafe’s gaze softened, but there was something else there, too—like he was seeing a side of you he hadn’t before. “Maybe I do,” he replied, his voice low, almost as if the words had slipped out unintentionally. He cleared his throat, his grip tightening on your hands. “But I also love it when you’re not stripping in front of half my team.”

You giggled, reaching up to playfully ruffle his hair. “Aww, big, tough Rafe is jealous I haven’t stripped to him first, is that it?”

Just then, Kiara stumbled over, clearly in search of more entertainment. “Hey! Let’s play a game, everyone!” 

Rafe sighed. “Alright, I think that’s our cue to leave,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he looked back at you.

You tugged on Rafe’s arm, leaning into him with a dramatic pout. “Nooooo… let’s play the game, and then we can go,” you insisted.

“Y/N, you’re beyond wasted,” he said, arching an eyebrow in disbelief. “I doubt you’ll even be able to play the game right.”

“I am not drunk,” you protested, crossing your arms defiantly. The words slurred just slightly, giving you away. Rafe’s skeptical look only deepened. “I’m just a little tipsy,” you amended quickly, giving him a grin. “Come on, don’t be such a buzzkill.”

He hesitated, watching you with a mixture of amusement and concern. For a moment, he seemed ready to argue, but as you flashed him your brightest, most convincing smile, he sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fine,” he muttered, finally giving in.

You joined everyone on the floor, settling into a circle with a bottle of vodka at the center and shot glasses placed around. The music was turned down, but the room’s energy buzzed with anticipation. You found yourself between Rafe on your left and Sarah on your right. Across from you were Pope, Cleo, John B, and Chiara, each giving you encouraging grins or a raised brow.

Kiara took charge with a gleeful smile. “Alright, you all know how Never Have I Ever works, right?” She scanned the group, receiving nods all around. “Perfect! If anyone wants to skip a question, you take a shot. Simple enough. Should I start?” She tapped her chin playfully before flashing a mischievous grin. “Never have I ever dated someone at least ten years older than me.”

A chorus of laughter and surprised murmurs rippled through the group as Rafe, Kelce, and Topper each dropped a finger. A few gasps followed, and your eyes darted to Rafe, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"So, you’re into cougars, huh?” you whispered, unable to hide your amused smile.

He shrugged, glancing at you with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Not anymore,” he murmured, his gaze flicking to your lips. The slow lick he gave his own sent a spark through you, making you gulp and look away quickly. Was it the alcohol, or did he just do that on purpose?

JJ smirked, taking the lead for the next round. “Alright, let’s up the stakes. Never have I ever been in handcuffs…and I don’t mean the kind from a police station.”

The number of people lowering their fingers was surprising. Sarah, John B, Kelce, Chiara, Cleo...and even you. As soon as you put your finger down, Rafe snapped his head in your direction, his eyes wide with surprise. You avoided his gaze, a sly smirk playing on your lips as you focused elsewhere, feeling his lingering stare and the unspoken question in his eyes.

“Lots of naughty people here,” Kiara smirked, eyeing the group of us who had fingers down. Her grin was wicked as she surveyed the room, making everyone squirm just a little. “I see y’all… I see y’all! Alright, someone else ask the next question!”

Topper jumped at the chance, grinning as he dramatically raised a finger. “Never have I ever had a crush on someone in this room,” he declared, looking around with a teasing sparkle in his eyes.

You watched as some people—those who were obviously in relationships (and Chiara)—put their fingers down, laughing and giving each other cute looks. You shrugged, you didn’t relate to that question. You didn’t do anything, leaning back as others shared knowing glances. But then, Rafe nudged your shoulder, leaning down close enough for you to feel his breath against your ear.

“Come on, put a finger down,” he whispered, his voice low and warm. His hand rested on your knee, his thumb grazing in gentle circles, as if to coax you into admitting something.

You shook your head, letting out a sleepy laugh. “I don’t have a crush on anyone,” you slurred, clearly drunk. Your words came out slower, a bit softer, and you could feel Rafe chuckle beside you, probably entertained by how far gone you were.

“Did you forget we’re together?” he asked, amused. Without waiting for your response, he took your hand and put a finger down for you. His touch was gentle, yet possessive.

JJ spotted the exchange, laughter bursting out of him as he pointed at you. “Oh, damn, Rafe! She actually forgot she even likes you!”

Rafe shot him a mock glare, flipping him off with a grin. “That’s on you, fuck-heads, for handing her all those shots,” he retorted, pointing an accusatory finger around the group. “We’re gonna head out soon if she keeps this up.”

“No! Don’t go!” Cleo’s voice suddenly cut through, practically pouting. “I like her! Don’t take her away from me—us!”

Pope waved his hands, laughing as he tried to steer the game back on course. “Alright, let’s just keep this moving before the girls start crying. Here’s one—never have I ever had a threesome.”

The room went quiet, people hesitating to react. Then smirks appeared, and the accusations started flying at JJ, with Topper and a few others pointing fingers. “Come on, man! We literally saw you making out with two girls at once last month!”

You felt the conversation slipping in and out, barely paying attention to the bickering. Your head felt heavy, and with each passing second, you found yourself drifting further. Almost without realizing it, you leaned into Rafe’s shoulder, your head resting there like it had always belonged. His arm wrapped around you, hand trailing up and down your shoulder in comforting circles, and you closed your eyes, feeling strangely at peace. His warmth surrounded you, making the noise around you blur into the background. For a fleeting moment, you wondered if you could stay like this forever.

Across the room, Chiara’s eyes narrowed as she caught sight of the two of you, her jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. Her stare was sharp, piercing, and a flash of something darker seemed to flicker there.

“Hey, guys! Let’s stop arguing and actually play,” Sarah called out, snapping everyone’s attention back to the game. She pointed at you and Rafe, grinning. “Those two are practically out like lights! Okay, here’s one: never have I ever had sex in a movie theater.”

Laughter erupted again as John B hesitated, clearly too shy to admit to anything. You looked up at Rafe, raising an eyebrow playfully as if to ask if he’d ever done something like that. He met your gaze, shaking his head.

When he raised his brow to ask you the same question, you mimicked his gesture, shaking your head. But then, with a mischievous glint in your eye, you leaned into him, dropping your voice to a whisper. “Bathrooms, though… I’ve done it there.” You weren’t sure why you said it—he hadn’t even asked. “I don’t know if that counts…”

Rafe’s brows shot up in surprise, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Guess you’re freakier than you look.”

You chuckled, leaning back. “What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t look like the type?”

He shook his head slowly, letting his eyes wander over you, his gaze lingering on your lips before it drifted back up to your eyes. “Not exactly,” he murmured, voice low.

“Oh?” you asked, hand drifting to rest on his thigh, watching the glint in his blue eyes intensify as he looked down at your hand. “Come on, Cameron. Tell me what I look like, then.”

His fingers traced light patterns under the hem of your shirt, brushing over the skin at your waist in a way that made your breath hitch. He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “You look like you want to be fucked roughly,” he paused, letting his words linger before he added with a smirk, “but maybe you should get some sleep instead.”

You playfully swatted his arm, pushing yourself upright with a laugh. “Screw you, Rafe.”

With a grin, he pulled you back to his side, wrapping his arms around you as you settled against him again. “Oh, come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice gentle but teasing. “You know I’m just messing with you—”

Chiara Romano’s voice cut through the chatter with an edge sharper than before. “Okay, my turn now,” she said, raising her head, her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you feel uneasy. “Never have I ever…” she paused, letting her gaze linger on you a moment longer, her lips curling into a smirk that held none of the warmth and humor everyone else’s questions had. “... never have I ever filmed myself in the bathroom puking my guts out after eating.”

A shocked silence fell over the room. You felt the air freeze, every eye darting to Chiara in disbelief, and then back to you. The words hit like a punch to the gut, and the humiliation was instant and overwhelming. Your face flushed as the awful memories flooded back—the horrible moment that video had been leaked, exposing your bulimia to the world without mercy. You’d spent months trying to rebuild, to reclaim your own story, but now it was out in the open again, with a cruelty that left you breathless.

Your cheeks flamed with humiliation, and your chest tightened as if the air had been sucked out of the room. You felt every gaze on you, piercing, questioning, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet anyone’s eyes. Your fingers curled around your tighs, gripping tightly, almost leaving red marks.

You closed your eyes the moment you felt tears coming up. You didn’t want to cry in front of everyone, it was embarrassing enough that they got reminded of the most embarrassing moment of your life—crying would embarrass you even more. None of them know what you went through after that video got leaked. No one knew the nights you spent in rehab centers getting mocked for the video—as if everyone there wasn’t in because of mental illnesses too. They didn’t know the amount of strength it took for you to finally get clean… only for you to relapse again this afternoon.

They didn’t fucking know!

Rafe stood up beside you, his body going tense beside you. His jaw clenched as his eyes narrowed at her. “What the fuck is wrong you?” he yelled, his voice sharp, like he was barely holding back.

She shrugged, feigning innocence, though the smirk stayed firmly on her face. “What? I thought we were all sharing our secrets here, right? After all, the video has already been leaked for everyone to see, like, years ago… didn’t think it was such a big deal.”

You felt like you were drowning, the walls closing in on you as Chiara’s words rang in your ears. Without thinking, you bolted for the door, the need to escape driving you forward. You pushed past Rafe, who instinctively reached out for you, but you couldn’t stop. You needed to get out, away from the judgment, away from the stares that felt like daggers. The cold night air hit you as you stepped outside, but it didn’t matter; all you could think about was putting as much distance between yourself and the party as possible.

The rain poured down in sheets, drenching you instantly. You stumbled through the downpour, your heart racing as you made your way toward the car, the asphalt slick and glistening under the streetlights. You couldn’t believe it had come to this, running away like some frightened child, but the humiliation burned too fiercely to stand another moment.

Behind you, you heard Rafe call out your name, his voice cutting through the sound of the rain. “Y/N! Fuck—wait!” He sounded frantic, his tone a mix of worry and urgency. You could hear him rushing after you, his footsteps splashing through puddles as he chased you down.

“Just leave me alone!” you shouted over your shoulder, the words coming out more desperate than you intended. You didn’t want to feel his pity, didn’t want him to see you like this—broken and exposed. 

“Look, I’m so sorry for what she—”

“I don’t want your fucking pity, Rafe!” you turned around to see him running toward you. His clothes clinging to his body. “Just go back there, and leave me alone for the night, alright?”

“I’m not leaving you!” he shouted back, his voice firm. You could hear the determination in his tone, and it both soothed and angered you. Why wouldn’t he just let you go?

You reached the car, fumbling with the door handle, your fingers slipping as the rain poured down, obscuring your vision. You wanted to get inside, to hide from everything—from Chiara, from your mistakes, from the shame that clung to you like a second skin.

Just as you finally got the door open, Rafe was there, blocking your way. He stood next to you, soaking wet but unbothered, his expression fierce and protective. “Y/N, please,” he urged, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Come on… Just… just talk to me.”

His presence was grounding, but you couldn’t shake off the overwhelming tide of emotions surging through you. “What’s there to talk about?” you asked, your voice broke. “It’s all out there for everyone to see. I couldn’t handle it back then and I… I can’t handle it now. I can’t…” you felt tears pooling at your eyes.

Rafe took a step closer, rain cascading down his face, but he didn’t reach for you. Instead, he held his hands up, palms facing you. “Don’t run away from this.”

“Watch me,” you shot back, glaring at him through tears. “You can’t fix this, Rafe, so just let me go.”

“I am not letting you go,” he insisted. “What she did was cruel—she felt miserable seeing us together. You know better than this.”

“Do I?” you echoed, feeling your own resolve wavering as you locked eyes with him. “It’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one with the history she just exposed. You’re not the one who’s been ridiculed for something that was leaked against your will!”

“Neither am I the one hiding in a corner, sulking because some jealous bitch decided to take a cheap shot,” Rafe countered, his frustration evident. “You’re stronger than this, so stop acting like you’re not. Stand up for yourself!”

“Stand up for myself?” You laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in the rain. “And how do you suggest I do that? By going back there and asking her to apologize? By acting like it doesn’t hurt?”

“Why give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s getting to you?”

“Because it’s easy!” you snapped, frustration boiling over. “It’s easier to run away and hide than it is to face the pain! Don’t you get that? I thought I was done with all of this, and now I’m just… I’m back to square one. I thought you understood me better than that.”

“Clearly, I don’t,” he said, his tone cutting. “You want to hide, and I’m not going to let you hide from yourself. I care about you, Y/N...”

You felt your heart pound in your chest, caught between anger and a flicker of something deeper. “What you care about is saving face. You want the perfect girlfriend who can handle anything. But I’m not that person, Rafe. I’m a mess. I have issues, and I’m tired of pretending I’m not.”

He stepped closer, the tension between you thick and electric. “And I’m not asking you to pretend. I’m asking you to be real. To be honest about what you’re feeling. We can face this if you’d just let me help you instead of pushing me away.”

You hesitated, the rain drumming a steady rhythm around you as you stared at him. “Maybe I don’t want your help. Maybe I don’t need anyone to fix me.”

“Then why the hell are you running away from this?” he challenged, his voice rising again. “Because it’s too hard? Because it makes you uncomfortable? Life is uncomfortable, Y/N! That’s the reality, and running away doesn’t change that.”

“I just don’t want to do this right now,” you shot back, the weariness of the night creeping in. “I didn’t sign up for a therapy session. I wanted to have fun, to forget, and now it feels like I’m being dragged back into all the crap.”

Rafe’s expression softened slightly, but his resolve remained. “And you can’t forget by ignoring it. You have to face it, and I’m not going to let you do it alone. If that means we argue, then so be it. But I’m not walking away.”

You looked away, biting your lip to keep the frustration at bay. “Maybe you should. Maybe it would be easier for both of us.”

“Easier? For who?” he challenged but you couldn’t answer him anymore.

You didn’t have the strength to fight. You sighed. “Can you get me home or not?”

He ran his hands through his buzzcut and nodded. “You’re not gonna say goodbye to everyone?” You shook your head, not wanting to get back in there and look at them staring at you. “Alright… get in the car, then.”

You climbed into the passenger seat, the cool leather sticking to your damp clothes. Rafe slipped in beside you, his jaw set, hands gripping the wheel. Neither of you said a word, the silence thick and uncomfortable, each of you lost in your own thoughts. You stared out the window, watching the raindrops race each other down the glass, trying to focus on anything other than the weight of the tension that hung between you.

Your heart was still pounding, the adrenaline from the confrontation lingering in your veins. You could feel the shame gnawing at you, the humiliation settling into a deep, aching hollow inside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Rafe shifting in his seat, glancing at you every so often, his mouth twitching as if he wanted to say something. But he kept quiet, his gaze fixed on the rain-soaked road ahead. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, a small, nervous rhythm that betrayed the stillness in the car.

The silence was suffocating, heavy with words unsaid. You could feel the questions he wanted to ask, the concern he held back, but he didn’t press. Part of you appreciated it, yet another part of you wished he would just break the silence, say something to shatter this unbearable quiet.

You stole a glance at him, his brow furrowed, jaw clenched. He was clearly wrestling with something, struggling between respecting your need for space and his own instinct to reach out. But his restraint made everything feel even more surreal, like the two of you were strangers again, pretending not to know each other’s pain.

Eventually, you wrapped your arms around yourself, feeling the chill of your damp clothes seep into your skin.

When he pulled up in front of your apartment building, he kept the engine running, his hands still gripping the wheel tightly. He didn’t make any move to get out or say goodbye. He just sat there, glancing out the window before looking back at you, his lips parting slightly as if he might finally say something.

With a quiet sigh, you pushed the door open, stepping out into the drizzle that had softened into a gentle mist. The cold bit into your skin, but you barely noticed. You closed the door behind you, barely looking back, willing yourself not to dwell on the weight of his stare as you turned toward the entrance of your building—but you paused, feeling a pang of dread at the thought of stepping into your apartment alone. The quiet and emptiness that usually felt like a sanctuary now seemed suffocating. You hesitated, glancing back at the car where Rafe still sat, staring out into the rain.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you turned back and walked toward him, knocking gently on his window. He looked up, a mixture of surprise and uncertainty crossing his face as he rolled the window down. The awkwardness was palpable, hanging between you like a fragile thread.

“Do you… want to come up?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just—I just don’t feel like being alone right now.” You glanced away, feeling vulnerable, exposed. This wasn’t easy to admit, especially not to him.

Rafe blinked, clearly caught off guard. He hesitated, the tension in his posture softening as he considered your request. “Uh, yeah… sure,” he replied, though there was a touch of awkwardness in his voice, like he wasn’t sure he was the right person for this. Still, he killed the engine and got out of the car, following you toward the entrance.

Inside the building, you moved wordlessly up the stairs together, the elevator’s light out as usual. The quiet between you was no longer charged with unspoken tension but instead carried a strange, subdued calm. Each step felt heavier, and you could feel his presence just a few inches behind you, grounding you in a way that felt strangely comforting.

When you finally reached your door, you unlocked it and stepped inside, flicking on a dim light that bathed the space in a warm, muted glow. Rafe followed, taking in the familiar yet intimate details of your apartment as he shrugged off his jacket. He looked unsure, like he didn’t quite know where to stand or what to say, so he hovered near the doorway.

You offered him a small, grateful smile and gestured toward the couch. “You can sit, if you want. I’ll make some tea or something,” you mumbled, moving toward the kitchen before he could respond. The warmth of your apartment slowly started to chip away at the lingering chill from the rain outside, and you felt a hint of comfort beginning to settle in.

When you returned with two mugs, Rafe had taken a seat on the couch, his gaze still wandering around the room, perhaps more at ease now. He accepted the tea with a quiet “thanks,” and you sat beside him, the silence stretching out once more, but this time it didn’t feel as heavy. 

You can feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that your knees almost touch, and every so often, your eyes meet and then dart away, a faint spark igniting each time.

It’s you who finally breaks the voice, your voice soft. “I’m going to change. I can… One of my friends’ left his clothes there, I can give them to you, if you want?”

Rafe looked up from his mug, his expression caught between surprise and a hesitant relief. “Yeah, that’d be… that’d be great,” he replied, glancing down at his damp clothes, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

You rose from the couch, moving to your room to dig through the small pile of clothes left behind from friends. Finding an oversized hoodie and some sweatpants, you returned and handed them to him, offering a half-smile. “They might be a little big, but better than wet clothes.”

He nodded, accepting them with a quiet “Thanks,” and stepped into the bathroom to change. The moment he was out of sight, you took a deep breath, feeling the quiet around you settle into something both calm and unfamiliar, his presence somehow easing the edges of your earlier anxiety. You wrapped your arms around yourself, still shaken by everything that had happened, but also oddly comforted by knowing you weren’t alone tonight.

When he emerged, dressed in the loose-fitting hoodie and sweats, he looked different—more relaxed, less guarded. He took a tentative step back into the living room, running a hand through his damp hair as he caught your eye, almost sheepish.

You managed a faint smile, gesturing to the couch again, and he sank down beside you. He set his mug on the table, his fingers fidgeting slightly before he leaned back, settling in.

“Well, I... I’ll just go change. Make yourself comfortable,” you said, your voice soft but inviting. Leaving Rafe in the living room, you headed to your bedroom, slipping into a comfortable black tank top and a pair of Hello Kitty pajama pants—the ones Nina, your agent, gifted you when you’d first arrived in the U.S. They were worn in with memories, each time you wore them a reminder of how far you’d come. You removed your makeup and pulled your hair into a ponytail, feeling lighter and more yourself.

When you reemerged, you noticed Rafe standing in the hallway, intently studying a small collection of photos you had on the wall. You approached him quietly, noticing that he was particularly focused on a picture of you from when you were nineteen, dressed in a deep green saree at a friend’s wedding in the States. You were surrounded by your group of friends, all of you smiling.

“You looked beautiful,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking louder might disturb something precious in the moment.

“Thank you…” you murmured, feeling a soft warmth rise in your cheeks. You glanced back at the photo, remembering how special that day was. “I really like this one. I’d just arrived here and didn’t know many people yet. Then a few friends invited me to the wedding, and I felt... confident, you know? Like I could start fresh here. And wearing a saree again just felt like home—the color, everything... It was my first time going to a wedding here.”

“And how did it feel?” he asked, genuinely curious.

You let out a small laugh, recalling the night. “It was just like back home, only better in some ways. No one really knew who I was, so I didn’t have any aunties critiquing me. Though they did make sure I had enough food to last a week,” you chuckled, a smile playing at the corner of your lips. The memory was comforting, a reminder of the warmth that had welcomed you into this new life.

“The color suits you,” he said, his eyes still lingering on the photo before meeting yours with a hint of a smile.

“You sure you’re not only saying that because it’s your favorite co—”

Before you could finish your phrase, he closed the space between you, his hands finding your face as he pulled you into a rough, heated kiss. His lips crashed against yours with a passion that caught you completely off guard, leaving you breathless, swept up in the sudden intensity of his need.

When he finally pulled back, your pulse was racing, and you stared at him, dazed. “Why… why did you kiss me?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, still trying to catch your breath.

A slow smirk spread across his face as he brushed his thumb over your cheek. “I wanted to know what you tasted like… again,” he murmured, his voice thick with a teasing confidence that made your cheeks flush.

You swallowed, still feeling the lingering heat of his lips. “And what do I taste like?”

He studied your lips for a moment, then met your gaze with a dangerous glint. “Come il mio,” he said softly in Italian, his words like a promise before his mouth captured yours again, this time slower but just as consuming.

Without breaking the kiss, he guided you back into the living room, his hands firm as they slid around your waist, drawing you close. He lowered you onto the sofa, his lips moving from your mouth to trace a path down the curve of your neck, igniting your skin with each graze of his mouth. His hand slipped to the small of your back, pressing you deeper into the cushions as he continued kissing you, his breath warm against your skin, leaving you dizzy and yearning for more.

You moaned softly when he kissed and sucked the curve just below your collarbone. His lips pressed firmly against your skin, his mouth hot and possessive. The gentle graze of his teeth sent a jolt of desire through you, leaving you breathless and wanting for more. He lingered there, sucking and kissing with a fervor that made you ache for him, making you grind against him unconsciously.

“That’s going to show, Cameron,” you tried to scold him, breathless, feeling both exposed and exhilarated as he moved lower, tracing the outline of your neck.

A wicked smile curled at the corners of his lips, his breath warm against your skin as he murmured, “Good. I want everyone to know.” The rasp of his voice, thick with desire, made your insides flutter as he leaned in closer, his mouth capturing the tender skin just below your ear. 

He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark and hungry as they roamed over you. Your flushed skin, your red and pulped lips, and your hard nipples. He was admiring the evidence of his claim. The look in his gaze made your pulse quicken, both thrilling and intoxicating, as if he were savoring the sight of you beneath him.

“Shit! You look perfect like this,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over one of the marks he’d left behind. The softness of his touch contrasted sharply with the heat pooling in your core, making you feel both cherished and utterly desired. “Like you belong to me.”

You sat up abruptly, a surge of confidence washing over you as you peeled off your top, revealing your bare breasts to the air without a hint of shame. Maybe it was the way his eyes roamed over you, filled with wonder and desire, as if you were the most beautiful sight he had ever encountered. Or perhaps it was the intoxicating buzz of alcohol still coursing through your veins, amplifying your boldness.

Either way, you didn't care.

“I’m the luckiest motherfucker on earth,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and awestruck, before sinking back onto the sofa, his lips finding your skin with fervor. His mouth was like fire against your breasts as he sucked and kissed, igniting a wild heat within you. You threaded your fingers through his closely cropped hair, tugging gently as you lost yourself in the pleasure of his touch. His tongue flicked against your nipple, sending delicious shivers coursing through your body, and you couldn’t help but wonder how you had gone so long without him.

As his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants, your breath hitched with anticipation. His hand glided up your thighs, tantalizingly close to where you needed him most. “Rafe…” you breathed, your voice trembling with longing. “Please…”

“Please what?” he challenged, his tone teasing but laced with desire. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

“Just… touch me. I want you to touch me,” you moaned, your hips instinctively rolling against his hard cock-straining against the fabric of the sweatpants you gave him.

“Touch you where?”

His playful question sent a spark of frustration through you, and instead of answering verbally, you guided his hand, placing it firmly on your pussy. “Here. Touch me here. Please…”

In an instant, your pajama pants were gone, discarded like the inhibitions that had held you back. He kissed his way down your stomach, trailing hot kisses over the fabric of your panties, before moving to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. A shiver ran down your spine, and you couldn’t resist glancing down at him, but something tugged at your thoughts. You called out his name, your voice breathy.

“Yes, baby?” he replied, looking up with hunger.

“Take it off.” You pointed at his shirt, and without hesitation, he stripped it off in one smooth motion, revealing his chiseled torso. He climbed over you, his body hovering just above yours, radiating warmth and strength. You couldn’t help but reach out, exploring his body—his hair, his lips, his broad chest, and the defined muscles of his abs.

With a sudden intensity, he kissed you again, their lips melding together as if they were made for one another. But after a moment that felt too short, he pulled away and descended between your legs once more.

Just the image of him between your legs could make you come.

“God, I want to taste you,” he groaned, his fingers touching your clit through your panties. “Tell me, pretty, do you want me to taste you?”

You nodded.

“Words, baby.”

“I do,” you moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders as you wrapped your legs around him. “I want you so fucking much, gosh!”

As the heat in the room swelled, just when you thought Rafe would finally remove your underwear, he suddenly stopped. His hands ran frantically through his hair as he began to pace around your living room, his agitation palpable. Confusion washed over you, your brow furrowing in concern as you sat up.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Rafe, please talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I can’t do it,” he said, shaking his head, the anguish in his eyes cutting through the atmosphere like a knife. “I can’t do this—”

“Do what? What are you talking about?” Panic tightened your chest as you searched his face for answers.

“Have sex with you,” he finally admitted, his gaze finally locking onto yours. “I can’t have sex with you, Y/N.”

The world around you faded, and a cold wave of vulnerability crashed over you, leaving you feeling exposed and raw. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes as you scrambled to grab your black top from the floor, pulling it over your head, a desperate attempt to cover not just your body but the aching hurt in your heart. “Wha… why? Why can’t you? We were doing so well… I thought it was good.”

Rafe stepped closer, his expression softening but shadowed with pain. He cupped your cheeks in his warm hands, but instead of comfort, it felt worsel. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears as he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, as if he were trying to transfer some of his strength to you. But then, he turned and walked toward the hallway to put on his shoes, and the ache in your chest grew.

You couldn’t let him leave like this. Panic surged through you as you sprang to your feet, rushing to the door to block his path. “Tell me why,” you insisted, your voice cracking as you wiped away the tears that had begun to fall.

“Y/N, you’re drunk…”

“So are you! You’re tipsy!” you threw your arms up in frustration. “Why does that matter? I want you. You want me—”

“Because I don’t want you to regret it,” he said, his voice breaking as if the words were tearing him apart. He sighed deeply, the weight of his decision hanging heavy between you. “I don’t want you to hate yourself when you wake up in the morning because you slept with me.”

“That’s not going to happen, Rafe. Please don’t leave. Stay here with me—we don’t have to do anything,” you pleaded, desperation dripping from your every word. 

But his mind was made up. He leaned in, brushing his lips softly against yours one last time, a sweet farewell filled with unspoken emotions. As he asked you to step aside, you felt a piece of your heart crack. You moved reluctantly, watching as he walked toward the elevator, each step echoing in your mind like a countdown to the end.

Just before the doors closed, he turned back, his expression a mixture of regret and sorrow that mirrored your own. “I am sorry, sweetheart.”

And then he was gone.

Since then, you haven't heard from him in two weeks.

chapter six