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minnie-cai · 1 month ago

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Everyone talks about homeless Patrick Zweig this. Hobosexual Patrick that. We get it. We all love seeing him messy. He sleeps in his car, and fucks girls to crash in their hotels. But what about you?

What if you’re the one without a place to sleep? What if you’re the one sleeping in your car?

Yeah. You.

What if you’re the one with a toothbrush in your old and nasty bag and a phone charger that only works if you bend it sideways? You’re the one in the parking lot of a 24-hour gym, while your phone is balancing on your thigh, your legs curled tight under you. The car smells like fast food and laundry. You’ve opened your socials especially, you have been refreshing Tinder all night… for no particular reason, no plan. Just bored. Just wet. Just trying to find a bed.

Then it buzzes.

“You’ve got a Match. Start chatting now!”

Then…

Match.

Patrick, 32.

Bio: Tennis & tits. Not always in that order. (My serve isn’t the only thing that’s hard to return.) Above average serve. Above average dick. Forehands, backhands, and you on your hands.

You blink. Then your eyebrow raised. Then laugh out loud.

His pics are… something else. Shirtless. Holding a racket, flexing his arm. That one mirror selfie with a towel slung so low it should be illegal. Looks like a typical fuck boy who looks for hookups often.

You type:

Is your bio real or just bait?

He replies fast.

Come find out. 9 pm.

And he sent his pin location to the conversation as if he’s not even scared or has any survival instinct in his body if you’re a killer or not. But you’re already changing your top in the front seat like it’s instinct.

Because honestly?

You’d use the last drop of your gas for air-conditioning, a mattress, and maybe…maybe… a cock if it comes free with room service.

Why not? You want somewhere to lie down where your legs don’t touch the steering wheel. And if Patrick Zweig going to rail you just to get it?

Fine.

He totally can. While you fall asleep face-down in his hotel pillows.

By 8:55, you’re walking through the doors of the hotel like you can afford the rooms. Patrick’s in the corner of the bar, sprawled on the stool like it’s own his place. He’s got a drink in hand, half a smirk, and legs spread just wide enough to make your thighs twitch.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says as you slide into the seat beside him.

“Didn’t think you’d be hot and real,” you tease him, chuckling.

He orders for you. Something expensive. Not that you care because he looks like he’s someone who will pay just to fuck someone. He doesn’t ask what you like, just says, “She’ll take whatever will get her tongue loose and sloppy.”

Your pussy clenches like it’s trained when he said that.

You just smirked at him before you sipped slowly at the drink that slid in front of you. He watches the whole time… mouth, throat, legs. He doesn’t even pretend that he’s not looking. He just leans in and murmurs, “You keep looking at my mouth like you want it somewhere.”

You shrug, tipsy already because he ordered something strong for you. “Maybe I’m just bored.”

Patrick laughs like that’s the right answer like it’s his favorite thing you’ve said all night. He knocks back the rest of his drink, throws a few bills on the bar without even looking at the total, and then lowers his face close to your ear.

“Come upstairs,” he says, low like he only wants you to hear it. It doesn’t feel pushy. Not needy and not begging for it. It’s just a simple, filthy suggestion, like you’ve already said yes with your body (the way you already squirming and shivering by just his hot breath touching your skin) and he’s letting your mouth part.

You don’t answer. Just stand, grab your things (basically just a small purse with 10 dollars in it, your phone, and lipstick), and follow him through the lobby like you’re supposed to.

The elevator ride is quiet, and loaded. You feel his eyes on your legs, your ass, your reflection in the walls of the elevator. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even move. Just watches you from the corner of the mirrored wall with too charming smirk that translates to something he knows exactly how this going to end. He looks like the kind of guy who jerks off to cheap porn. But you kind of respect it. Because you’re… well… you’re here to fuck him just to feel a soft mattress again, right?

Room 804.

He swipes the key card, nudges the door open with one foot, and steps back to let you in first. What a gentleman.

You walk into a king bed, with blackout curtains, and floor-to-ceiling windows and it’s clean in an expensive way. Air-conditioned hums, all white linen, and slick carpet, too perfect to fuck in. Which means he’s going to.

Patrick drops the key card on the desk, then turns and looks at you like he’s deciding where to start. Or maybe trying to break the ice.

“You want another drink?” he asks. His voice is deep now, raspier than it was at the bar. You don’t know if it’s the whiskey or you.

You nod. He pours. You take it. Neither of you sit.

He watches you drink. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, not really he just leans back against the dresser with one hip, one brow lifted like he’s sizing you up, or deciding what position he’s going to do to you.

“You always come back to hotel rooms with strangers?” he asks, voice low, dragging with that lazy accent. Dry. But feels like a tease, not an insult.

You swallow. “Only the hot ones.”

That gets a smirk out of him. Oh, that cocky smile. He tips his glass back, watching you over the rim. You’re close now. Too close. One step between his knees and your back would hit the wall.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmurs, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. “I don’t actually care what your answer was.”

Then he reaches for your waist.

It’s not gentle. He drags you in like you just did something bad and he's angry about it and he spins you fast, presses your front body against the edge of the dresser before you can make a sound. Your glass nearly topples, your palms slap the wood, and you exhale so hard it’s almost a gasp.

“You don’t seem like the type to waste time,” he says, breath skating your ear.

And you don’t answer, you don't need to because your brain’s already gone mushy.

His fingers are at your waistband a second later, moving fast now, impatient, like he’s had enough of the games and already knows you’ll take whatever he gives. Well, he's not wrong in that field. Not really. He drags your jeans down so roughly the button nearly pops, muttering something like fuck under his breath while he strips them past your thighs, past your knees, like he’s got a plane to catch and all he wants is to be inside you first.

“You wore this for me?” he scoffs, looking down at your underwear, that’s barely there, probably slightly damp already. “Or you always like this?”

It shouldn’t turn you on. It shouldn’t. But your whole body pulses with heat at the way he says it. Mocking. Mean. Like he knows something about you that you won’t admit out loud. Like he’s reading the part of you that gets off on being disposable. Or being just a hook-up. No feelings. Just casual things.

He grabs your chin in one hand, rough and possessive, tilting your face up until you’re looking at him. His pupils are blown, jaw flexing like he’s trying to hold something in. But he’s not gentle. You are not a glass. You are not special. Not when you just meet on Tinder and you don’t even have a proper conversation besides him telling you to find out if he has a big dick.

Never pretended to be nice just to get something.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you in my room,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s daring you to object. “You walk in here soaked through your jeans, looking like you’ll beg for it.”

You gasp. His hand is between your legs now. Just pressing, not even moving. Holding you there like he wants to feel the twitch of every heartbeat through your cunt. Just cupping it whole in his big hand.

“…and you think I’m gonna play nice?”

You can’t speak. You can even barely breathe.

And when he finally moves behind you, grabbing your hips, walking you, and pushing you more inside like he owns you already? Your legs go weak on instinct. All wobbly. Knees not working.

And that’s the moment it hits you: you’re not here because he’s hot. You’re here because he doesn’t care why you are here. He doesn’t even have to dine or wine you.

You raise an eyebrow but don’t move right away. Just stand there with your drink already in half and your lip curled like you’re weighing whether this man is worth using your gas for.

Then, slowly, you start walking… left the glass on a flat surface and walk past him, into the dim room, tossing your purse to the floor and crawling onto the mattress like you own it. You stretch out on your back instead of your knees, legs crossed at the ankle, one arm behind your head like you’re posing for a photo shoot he wasn’t invited to.

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you murmur, glancing toward him with a smile. Taunting him. “You always bark orders before your dick’s even out?”

He hums. “You always talk this much before opening your legs?”

“I just like to check if the bait you put in the app is legit.” Your fingers drag slowly down your front, teasing the waistband of your panties. “Tennis pro and… ‘Above average dick’ was it?” You even use your hands to quote the above-average dick from his bio just to piss his shit off.

That makes him pause.

Then he starts walking.

“No pressure,” you add lightly, nails scraping the lace. “I’m sure it’s hard to live up to all that… size.”

He’s at the edge of the bed now, shirtless, belt undone, looking at you like you just took his trophy away from a tennis match. His cock is already thick behind the zipper, straining. He palms himself once. Not for pleasure… just to show you. Proving a point, maybe. But it ends up being shown to you when he pulls his pants down.

“Tell you what,” he stated, grabbing your ankles and yanking you flat to the bed, dragging your body toward him, your calves getting out of the bed frame. “Why don’t you keep talking shit… while I stuff you so deep you forget how words work.”

You laugh, head tipped back, knees falling apart as he shoves your panties down. “Wow,” you say breathlessly, “that’s… motivational”

And then he leans in, hand fisted around the base of his cock, and smacks it against your cunt. Once, twice, wet and heavy. And he’s lining it up.

Your hips twitch with every hit, cunt slick and practically clapping back at him. The squelch is obscene. You’re hot from the chest up, grinning like a girl with nothing to lose. Honestly? You don’t have anything to lose at this point. Gain, maybe. A bed, that’s it.

“You always find pussy this easy between matches?” you ask, eyes half-lidded, baiting him. “Or just desperate ones who’ll take you raw off an app?”

He snorts but doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head, lazily, like he’s deciding whether to answer or fuck you for that. You see the way his grip tightens around himself, cock jumping against your folds.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you whisper, just enough to mock him.

He leans in suddenly, bracing one hand beside your head. The other fists your hair back until your neck arches sharp.

“You talk a lot for someone this wet,” he mutters, and slides in without warning, deep and thick, and you are thanking yourself because you got so wet easily and it doesn’t hurt much anymore. Your body… or cunt, rather, is not used to his size.

You choke. Actually choke. Hands scrabble against his stomach, nails dragging down as your back bows off the mattress. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease in. He just bottoms out like he owns the goddamn part he’s sliding between your legs.

“F-fuck,” you whimper.

He’s not even fully inside before he starts rocking slowly, maybe he’s nice enough to see that you want him to let you settle with his size first. It is just enough motion to feel every inch split you, drag you wide, make you clench and seize around him like a fist.

“Should’ve led with your pussy instead of your mouth,” he growls in your ear. “Would’ve skipped the drink.”

Then he flips you.

He grabs you by the hips and turns you over like you weigh nothing, like you’re just another girl (technically you are) in his bed who talked too much before taking cock. Your cheek hits the mattress, breath punched from your lungs as his palm splays across your back, holding you down. But he started caressing your back while his other hand remained on your hips as if he didn’t want you to move at all.

“Ass up,” he mutters. “Don’t make me say it again.”

So bossy. So annoying. But you’re already moving, legs shaky as you scramble to your knees, arching without thinking, without pride. On all fours. He drags the length of his cock through your slick again at a mocking, slow pace like he’s checking to see if you’re still wet after the way he talked to you. Spoiler? You are. Worse. Sloppier.

“Jesus,” he huffs. “You’re soaking. What, the drink made you this needy?”

You want to snap something back. You really do. But the second you open your mouth, he’s pushing in so deep it feels like it hits the back of your throat. Your fingers claw at the sheets, a choked gasp catching in your throat as he bottoms out.

And then he just stays there. Settling inside you.

Deep. Full. Letting you feel it. Letting your pussy flutter and grip around him while he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, just leans over, like he’s waiting for you to admit how desperate you already are.

He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, cock twitching like he’s enjoying the way your cunt tightens in waves around him. You’re breathing through your mouth, face crushed against the sheets, knees barely holding like your whole body’s trying to compute what the hell just happened.

His fingers drag up your spine, light and lazy before he fists your hair and pulls you back enough to whisper it.

“Say it.”

Say what? You think. Your jaw clenches. You won’t. You won’t. You are not that desperate, right?

But the weight of him has you trembling. He has your thighs quaking like you’re trying to hold back something dangerous. And when he finally rolls his hips, just once, slow, like he’s testing you, it knocks the wind out of your lungs.

“Say it,” he breathes again, mouth in your ear now. “Say you needed this.”

You whimper. Hips jolted back against him without permission. You hate him. You hate him.

You love how it feels.

He laughs under his breath like he already knows. Like you’ve already told him without a word. His other hand slides to your throat, not tight, just enough pressure to make your whole body hum. To feel something.

Then he pulls out halfway. What an asshole. He lets you feel the drag, the loss before slamming back in with one deep, punishing thrust that makes your mouth fall open in a helpless, broken moan.

“Jesus,” he groans, voice ragged now. “You’re fucking made for it, aren’t you?”

You’re not… you’re not. It just happens you are using your body to your benefit to get something you want. Bed. Soft pillows. Nice room. Nice sleep.

His hands grip your hips like he owns them. Like you’re not just some girl he picked up after two drinks and suggestive ‘come with me upstairs’ bullshit. He holds you there, steady like he’s making sure you feel every inch of him, the weight, the stretch, the pain of being filled without warning. No rocking, no thrusting, just the full, filled, unrelenting pressure of his cock deep inside you while your body tries to adjust around it.

You breathe hard against the mattress, hips twitching under his grip. He doesn’t let you move. Not really.

“You’re not saying anything,” he mutters, low and cocky, hovering over your back. Chest almost touching your back. “What, cat got your tongue? Thought you had a lot to say about my profile.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m just… getting used to being split in half, thanks.”

He laughs. Like there’s something funny. Fuck there isn’t. He probably thinks you’re pathetic. “Yeah?” Then he pulls out slowly, dragging against everything inside you, and slams back in with a snap that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Let me help you get used to it.”

Now he moves. Rough and fast, no rhythm at first, sloppy like a virgin, and the sound of skin and breath and the slick, filthy wet of it all. He rocks you forward on each thrust, forcing your knees wider, his hands digging in harder, using your hips like handlebars. Like a grip for leverage, not care. You swear he gets deeper every time or he hits the spot with each thrust.

Your fingers claw the sheets. Your thighs shake.

“Fucking made for it,” he growls again, more to himself this time, like he can’t believe how tight you are, how wet, how much you’re already falling apart for him.

You feel it in your teeth when he slams in again. Feel it in the base of your skull, where your forehead’s mashed to the sheets, in the pathetic little gasps you keep swallowing against the mattress. He’s panting harder now, muttering filth under his breath, swearing, low and ragged, things like “fuckin’ tight,” and “so wet for a stranger,” like it’s a compliment and a threat rolled into one.

He doesn’t stop moving. Don’t pause to let you catch your breath. Just tightens his grip around your hips, bruising, and pulls you back to meet every thrust like he wants to hollow you out.

“Should see yourself,” he grits. “Fucking dripping. Like your cunt knew I was coming.”

You let out a cracked little moan. The kind you can’t swallow. The kind that sounds like yes even if you don’t say it. One hand fists the sheets. The other’s somewhere under you, numb, forgotten. Your whole body’s gone slack, pliant, just flesh he can fuck into whatever shape he wants.

Then he slows.

Not soft. He stays deep, grinding it in like he wants you to feel every inch, every twitch, every fucking vein. You choke. Your thighs shake.

“Bet you say this to all the girls,” you manage to whisper, voice hoarse, cheek smeared with drool and heat. Just to get back to his words earlier. “Any city. Any hotel.”

He huffs a breath right over your ear, dragging his cock out just enough to make you clench down, desperate.

“Nah,” he murmurs, hips pulling back.

Then he drives it back in, all at once, deep, and just how you like it. “Just the ones who take cock like you do.”

You cry out, unfiltered. And he laughs, he’s even pleased, and breathless, still buried in the base like he’s never pulling out again.

You’re half-gone already, mouth slack, eyes wet, fingers curled into the sheets like you’re trying to claw your way out of your own body. He’s still there, deep, solid, anchored, driving into you like he knows your pussy better than you do like he’s trying to teach it something it won’t forget.

And it listens. It flutters. It chokes on him.

“Jesus,” he pants.

You want to talk back. You want to laugh, or moan, or say something smart and cruel, but your brain is slowing down or maybe you are just cockdrunk, all heat and pressure and stretch. The slap of skin fills the room, louder now, rougher, wetter. Clap, clap, clap. He’s close. You can feel it, his rhythm faltering, hips stuttering, breath catching like his body’s trying to warn you.

And then you hear it.

That groan.

That deep, helpless, fucked-out sound that says he’s about to come and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Your forehead pressed to the mattress, thighs trembling like you’re about to snap in half.

“You gonna pull out?” you pant, blinking tears off your lashes as he rails into you.

He doesn’t answer.

Don’t slow down.

Just grunts under his breath and grabs your hips tighter, dragging you back into each thrust like your body belongs to him now, like the question was rhetorical. Like the answer’s already happening.

You know it. Feel it.

The stutter in his rhythm. The tense, desperate twitch of his cock inside you. The soft, breathless noise he makes when he presses all the way in and stays there.

Then…

Spilling. Flooding. His cum forces its way deeper as your body clenches around him.

You freeze. Your mouth opens. “Patrick,”

“F-fuck sorry,” he breathes, forehead resting against your spine, totally unbothered. Too calm. You can hear the smug in it. Hear the fucking smirk. You can tell he’s not really sorry.

“Patrick.”

He shifts his weight, presses deeper, somehow still half-hard, and exhales like he just did something inconvenient, like dropping a towel on the floor.

“Felt too good. Couldn’t help it.”

Bullshit. He didn’t even try.

You start to push back against him, thrusting your ass to him, but he pins you there and drags a palm down your spine like it’s no big deal. This is just what happens now.

“You’ll be fine,” he adds, quieter. Still inside you. Still leaking.

“Don’t act like you didn’t like it,” he adds, cock heavy and wet against your ass, half-hard and twitching like he could go again if you even looked at him the right way.

You hum, cheek pressed to his pillow, lashes sticky and stuck together. “It was… good,” you murmur, voice a little shy, a little too quiet. You fiddle with the comforter between your fingers, then, almost too fast to clock, you add, “You’ll, um. Cover Plan B, right?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets out a breath through his nose, like he’s smiling but trying not to give you the satisfaction.

He snorts, rolls onto his back, and throws one arm behind his head like he’s getting comfortable. Not leaving. Not tossing your clothes. Not panicking about what you’re gonna do next.

You roll over too, slower, adjusting your leg like it’s not leaking from the cum he just spilled inside of you, like gravity isn’t already doing its humiliating thing. “It’s late,” you murmur. Yawn a little, all fake innocence. “Didn’t even realize it was almost three.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares up at the ceiling like he’s waiting for you to say what you actually mean. But you won’t. Not out loud. You just stretch, and mumble, “Kinda dangerous out. You know. Sketchy.”

Still, he doesn’t bite. Just blinks at the ceiling. So you sigh, dramatic and helpless, like the thought hadn’t occurred to you until now.

“Would it be so dumb to drive somewhere now, huh? Like… might as well just crash and go in the morning or whatever…”

Patrick turns his head. Raises a brow, he’s just holding himself not laughing. “Are you asking if you can stay?”

You blink back at him. Too shy to ask if you can crash. “What? No. I’m just saying it’s late.”

He huffs. Then throws the comforter over both of you and mutters, “Jesus. Just go to sleep.”

This isn’t what he does. He doesn’t do this. In normal times like this? It’s clothes back on before the sweat dries, some fake ass words like “You get home safe, okay?” while he’s already unlocking the front door, not looking back. Or he leaves, whatever’s easier. He doesn’t let them stay. Doesn’t let them sink into his sheets like they belong there.

But he hasn’t moved. And you’re still here. All warm skin and soft whining and sticky thighs and little sighs like you won something. Like you planned this.

He clears his throat. Stares at the ceiling. “And, no cuddling or whatever,” he says, like it’s an important reminder that he needs to say it before it happens.

You don’t answer. Just shift a little closer, calf brushing his under the comforter. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.

No cuddling. No promises. No ride home.

Guess the app works.

#the crowd is spreading their legs and waiting #i’m the crowd #this was the sloppiest toecurlingest smut i’ve ever read #the dialogue is scrumptious #ughhhhh neeeeedddddd #challengers smut #patrick zweig

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minnie-cai · 1 month ago

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stalker!connor murphy x reader

He isn’t a stalker. Not in the way people mean when they say it with fear or disgust. Connor doesn’t lurk in shadows to hurt anyone. He doesn’t follow you because he wants to control you. He just… wants to be near you. It started small. You laughed in the hallway once, and he looked up. Not at you, exactly—just in your direction. And something inside him quieted. Like the noise in his head had been turned down for the first time in days. After that, it became a habit. Then a comfort. Then a lifeline. He never speaks. Never intrudes. You wouldn’t even know he was there. But Connor watches you like someone trying to stay warm by a window—close enough to feel the light, too far to ever be let in. He doesn’t want to own you. He just wants to matter to something. To someone. And in the absence of being known, he clings to the feeling of being near. Even if you never look back. Even if you never learn his name.

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

✧˖° stalker!connor who memorizes the sound of your footsteps in the hall, not because he means to—but because it’s the only rhythm that ever settles him.

✧˖° stalker!connor who never plans to follow you home, but walks the long way anyway, just to see where you disappear when the sky starts turning blue-gray.

✧˖° stalker!connor who never says a word, but knows the exact shade your lip curls when you’re pretending to laugh. And hates the world for ever making you pretend.

✧˖° stalker!connor who once sat on a bench outside your dentist’s office for forty minutes just to see if you were okay after missing school. He never told anyone why he was late.

✧˖° stalker!connor who doesn’t have pictures of you, just blurry memories—how your fingers tremble when you’re zipping up your coat, how your backpack always slides off your left shoulder.

✧˖° stalker!connor who collects the silence you leave behind like souvenirs. The warmth of where you stood. The breath you didn’t know you held.

✧˖° stalker!connor who thinks if you ever looked at him—really looked—your eyes might undo him completely. And he’s not sure if he wants that or if it would destroy him.

✧˖° stalker!connor who isn’t trying to be part of your life—he just wants to be close enough to believe he could have been.

#ho did i wake up in 2017 cuz i’m writing for connor murphy again???#connor murphy #connor murphy x reader #connor murphy x you #connor murphy fanfiction #connor murphy angst #connor murphy headcanons #dear evan hansen #deh #deh musical #mike faist #mike faist connor murphy #mike faist deh #mike faist x reader #dear evan hansen fanfiction

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minnie-cai · 1 month ago

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Connor Murphey wakes up and throws his disheveled locks into a messy bun. "Connor!" His mom calls from downstairs. He rolls his eyes, shoving his arms through an unwashed flannel button up. "In a minute, mom!"

"Connor, come down here! It's important!"

He groans, looking into the mirror of his bathroom for a quick moment. His sad, wet, bisexual eyes look back at him. He's so plain, so... ordinary looking. His hair is in a messy bun, for fucks sake! No wonder he gets bullied at school.

Connor runs downstairs but stops at the site of a figures at the foot of it. It's his mom, nursing a beer and a pack of cigarettes, and... failed tennis player Patrick Zweig!

"I sold you to Patrick Zweig for a beer and a pack of cigarettes. Pack your things."

"No! But, but, mom!"

Patrick smirks. He's wearing his tennis clothes and holding a racket even though they're inside and there's no tennis court for miles. "Come on," he says in a surprising British accent (isn't he American?), grabbing Connors arm and pulling him to his overstuffed CR-V. His mother smokes three cigarettes at once as she watches. At least she spares him a wave before slamming the door behind them.

"Why are you buying me!?" Connor cries out, trying to not find his new... Owner? So hot (impossible). Patrick smirks. "I'm not sure. I had some inexplicable urge and an extra beer and pack of cigarettes. " He says in his British accent. Connor sits over a pile of trash, his head against the ceiling of the car and his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. "Well... I guess at least I'll be able to live in a mansion now, right?"

Patrick smirks, starting the car and pulling out the driveway. "Wouldn't call *this* a mansion, but sure."

Oh. Connors sad, wet, bisexual eyes watch out the blurry, dirty window. Down the street he can see his neighbor being bought by One Direction. That should've been him.

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minnie-cai · 1 month ago

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༊*·˚ Working Man

pairing; mechanic!riff lorton x housewife!reader

tags/warnings; infidelity, significant age-gap marriage (older husband x younger reader), emotional neglect, implied marital coercion, sexual themes, references to fertility pressure, implied manipulation and gaslighting, mild period-typical misogyny, mentions of abandonment and child neglect, smoking and alcohol

word count; 4.1k

summary; In late 1950s West Side New York, you’re a young housewife stuck in a marriage built on duty, not desire. When a trip to the garage introduces you to Riff—a grease-stained, sharp-eyed mechanic who sees you for who you really are—it sparks a slow, dangerous unraveling. What begins with a glance becomes a ritual. And then, a reckoning.

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

The screen door creaks behind you as you step onto the sun-warmed porch, the hem of your yellow cotton dress brushing against your knees, a bit too modest for the way the July heat clings to your skin like syrup. The cicadas drone in the trees. Somewhere down the road, a radio blares a tinny tune, cheerful and out of place. You grip your woven basket in both hands like it’s a lifeline.

Your husband, Gene, had handed you two dollars that morning with a grunt and a half-mumbled list: tomatoes, string beans, new mason jar lids. And, as he’d said last night with a dry cough and that same tired glint in his eye—“We’ll try again tonight, alright sweetheart? You ain’t pregnant yet, and the Lord wants us fruitful.”

You hadn’t said much. Just nodded. You never said much around Gene.

The flea market’s only two blocks into town. You know the route by heart. Past the church with its peeling white paint, past the dry cleaners with the gossiping wives out front, past Joe’s Auto Repair, where the air always smells like hot rubber and gasoline.

That’s where you see him.

Leaning against the brick wall just under the “Goodyear Tires” sign, Riff is striking a match, cigarette pressed between his lips. His coveralls are unzipped to the waist, white tank undershirt clinging to sweat-dampened muscles like a second skin. His hair is slicked back, the kind of defiant wave no comb dares tame. Grease stains his hands, his forearms flex as he lights up, and for a moment, he squints toward the sun—and right at you.

You freeze like you’ve stepped barefoot on a snake.

His gaze lingers. Not in that polite, blink-and-gone way most men in town look at you. No, he sees you. His jaw ticks, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and you can’t look away even as your fingers tighten on the basket’s handle.

You walk past without a word, heart pounding too loud in your ears.

It’s three days later when Gene says he needs a belt picked up for the Ford. “Rattlin’ again,” he mutters, spitting into the sink after brushing his teeth. “Go down to Joe’s. I called ahead. They’ll have it.”

You know exactly who they is.

You take your time getting ready. Lipstick, just a little. Your best dress—powder blue, tight at the waist. When Gene leaves for work, you wait a full ten minutes before stepping out, basket empty this time, but your stomach full of nerves.

Joe’s is half-shadowed by the sun when you arrive. You walk through the open garage door and the air changes—warmer, louder, alive with the scent of oil, rust, and man. Tools clink. A radio plays slow blues from somewhere deep in the garage. You don’t see Joe.

But you see him.

He’s under the hood of a car, brow furrowed, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with grit. Riff.

He notices you instantly. Straightens. Wipes his hands on a rag. Doesn’t smile, but recognition flickers behind his eyes.

“You lost, girlie-girl?” he drawls, voice rough as gravel and twice as dangerous.

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“No,” you say, forcing a smile. “My husband called ahead. For a… a fan belt.”

“Right,” he says, tossing the rag onto the workbench without looking away from you. “Gene Miller’s wife. I remember the voice.”

He steps closer, close enough for you to smell the smoke and sweat and something else—raw masculinity. You tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, your throat dry.

“You got a name?”

You hesitate.

“It’s alright,” he says low, a smirk tugging at his lip. “I’ll learn it eventually.”

You don’t remember breathing until you’re walking back out with the belt in your hand, your fingers still tingling from where he brushed them handing it to you.

The affair doesn’t start that day.

But it starts then.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You told yourself you wouldn’t go back.

Gene had the belt. The car ran fine. There was no reason—none—for you to return to that garage. But the days after felt longer. The silence at home heavier. You went through your routines like a ghost, vacuuming rooms already clean, peeling potatoes with slow, mechanical hands, your thoughts drifting to smoke curling from a cigarette and forearms streaked with grease.

You start walking to town more. At first, it’s just to the market. Then the bakery. Then nowhere in particular.

But each time, you find yourself walking past Joe’s.

And sometimes—sometimes—he’s there.

It becomes a quiet ritual. A glance. A flick of his eyes to yours. He never waves, never calls out. But you feel his stare like it’s a hand on your back, pressing. Daring.

Until one morning, two weeks later, you walk past and he says, “You always in such a hurry, darlin’?”

You stop. The heat blooms across your chest like a sin exposed.

He’s sitting on the hood of a cherry-red Impala, legs apart, arms folded, like he owns the street and knows you’re about to fall to your knees on it.

“I—” you start. “I was just walking.”

His lip curls, not quite a smile. “Seems like you’re always just walking. But never stopping.”

You swallow. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The gold band on your finger glints in the sunlight. His eyes flick to it. Then back to your face.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

And just like that, he hops off the car and turns his back to you.

You stand there, stupid and burning.

The next day, you don’t pass by. You walk into the shop.

He’s under another car when you come in, and your heart is hammering hard enough you feel it behind your eyes. You wait until he slides out from under the chassis, rag in one hand, hair damp with sweat.

“Well,” he says, looking you over slowly. “Didn’t expect to see you on purpose.”

You walk in further, past the signs that say “Employees Only,” past the point of decency.

“I was just… in the area,” you lie, voice barely more than a whisper.

He leans against the lift, folds his arms again. His eyes don’t leave yours. “That what you told your husband?”

You flush. Look down.

He chuckles. A rough sound. “Don’t be shy now, doll. You came all this way.”

Something in you snaps. Or frees itself.

You raise your chin. “I wanted to see you.”

That silences him. His gaze sharpens like a blade.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

But he nods toward the back. “Come on. Office is quieter.”

You follow him past stacks of tires and the smell of gasoline, your heels clicking on the concrete. The office is small, hot, and dim. A fan rattles on the desk. There’s a chair, a filing cabinet, and not much else.

He closes the door behind you with a soft click.

The sound is deafening.

“Alright,” he says, stepping closer. “Now what?”

You open your mouth. No words come out.

So he steps even closer, and now your back is to the filing cabinet and there’s nowhere to run.

“You got a name?” he murmurs again, slower this time, like he wants you to hear what it sounds like on his tongue.

You whisper it.

He repeats it, almost reverent.

And then he leans down, just enough so you can feel his breath on your neck.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asks. “Once I touch you, sweetheart, you don’t get to pretend anymore.”

You nod.

Barely.

And then his lips are on yours.

Not gentle. Not soft. But hungry—like he’s been waiting for this moment since that first glance on the street, and he’s done pretending it’s anything but what it is.

His hands cup your face first, then slide down, rough and warm, smearing a faint line of grease across your cheek. He tastes like smoke and something wild. Your fingers curl into the front of his coveralls and pull.

You don’t care about the ring.

You don’t care about Gene.

You only care about this.

This heat.

This escape.

This man.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You’ve never floated home before.

The pavement barely exists beneath your feet. The houses blur past like half-painted scenery, the smell of motor oil clinging to your skin like perfume. Inside, your mouth still tingles. Every part of you feels rewired—sensitive, alive, flushed with the echo of Riff’s mouth and the pressure of his body against yours.

You touch your lips once before stepping through your front door.

Inside, the kitchen smells like stew. You’d left it bubbling low before you went to town—Gene likes it with potatoes and thick carrots, heavy on the salt. You pull your apron on, check the oven, and set the table, your hands moving on instinct while your mind spins somewhere else. Somewhere far from the sterile yellow wallpaper, from Gene’s heavy footsteps and the muted clink of his belt buckle tossed onto the nightstand.

You’re humming.

You never hum.

Gene notices.

He walks in around six, same as always, rubbing his back like he always does, frowning at his shoulder like it’s personally failed him.

But then he looks up.

And he stops.

“Huh,” he grunts, dropping his coat on the chair. “You look… different.”

You tilt your head. Smile a little. “Different how?”

He squints, like you’re a painting someone hung crooked.

“You’re glowin’ or somethin’. Been in the sun too long?”

You shake your head. “Just had a nice walk.”

Gene grumbles approval. “Maybe it helped clear your head. Been uptight lately.”

You serve him stew. He eats in big bites, loud, satisfied. You barely touch yours, too busy sipping the warmth of remembered heat off your tongue. Your thighs press together under the table. You think of grease-streaked fingers pressing into your hips. A voice rasping in your ear.

After dinner, you wash dishes in the sink. You feel Gene’s eyes on your back.

That quiet, calculating look.

Then his voice, low and hopeful. “Why don’t you get ready for bed early tonight?”

You pause, the dish slipping slightly in your hand.

“Sure,” you say.

You brush your hair longer than usual. You don’t bother with the long nightgown—just the slip. You crawl under the sheets, and when Gene joins you, the mattress sags the same way it always does.

But you are different.

He kisses your neck—clumsy, always too damp—and usually you lie still and wait for it to end. You let him climb over you, breathe heavy, grind and grunt like a tired machine hoping it’ll work if it just tries hard enough.

But tonight…

Tonight you close your eyes.

And picture Riff.

You pretend it’s his mouth on your collarbone.

His weight pressing you down.

His voice whispering filth.

You arch without thinking. Your hips move with rhythm. Your mouth falls open and lets out a soft, startled moan.

Gene freezes.

“…You alright?”

You moan again—louder this time—and grip his shoulders. You’re not even looking at him. Your eyes are locked on the dark ceiling, vision painted with the image of Riff’s face between your thighs.

Gene pulls back slightly, looking down at you.

You’ve never looked like this. Not once.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asks, almost suspicious. “You drunk?”

You shake your head, panting. “Don’t stop.”

Your voice is breathy. Needful. Almost pleading.

Gene hesitates.

Then he picks up the pace—clumsy, encouraged—and you turn your head away, biting your knuckles as you come with a soft gasp, thinking only of the man who kissed you like you were made of fire and sin.

When it’s over, Gene collapses next to you, panting.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then: “You ain’t never sounded like that before.”

You don’t answer.

He glances over at you.

You’re smiling.

Just a little.

And that unsettles him more than your moans ever could.

You don’t knock this time.

You walk into the garage like you belong there, the morning sun casting long shadows across the concrete floor. It’s early. Earlier than any decent housewife should be out without a reason. But you didn’t want decent today. You wanted him.

Riff’s got his head under the hood again, sleeves pushed up, tank top stained, a smudge of oil across his jaw. You just stand there for a second, watching him.

He looks like a man who moves. A man who works for what he has. Sweat down his neck. Grease under his nails. No gold watch. No sagging belly, no sagging expectations. Just muscle, movement, and heat.

And he’s your age. Your actual age.

When he hears your footsteps, he straightens—glances over, then grins.

“Well, look who came crawling back.”

You lean against the nearest workbench, crossing your arms under your chest. “You knew I would.”

He chuckles, tossing his wrench onto the tray. “Yeah. But I figured it might take longer.”

You try to act casual. You really do.

But then he’s walking toward you, wiping his hands, and your heart starts doing that desperate little dance again. He gets close enough that the heat rolls off him in waves.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and real.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You got that look again. Same one you had when you walked in the first time. All quiet, like you’re tryin’ not to scream.”

You smile faintly. “I feel better now.”

“Yeah?” He steps in, closer. “Tell me why.”

You don’t hesitate. “Because I kissed someone my age yesterday. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m just a hole for babies and hot dinner.”

He stiffens—just a little. Eyes narrowing.

You go on. “Gene’s twice my age. You know that?”

“I figured.” He crosses his arms, watching you now like a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands. “He treat you like a kid, too?”

“He treats me like a recipe. Do this. Be that. Bake it right and it turns into a son.”

Riff’s jaw ticks.

You look up at him. “You—you don’t look at me like that. You don’t talk down to me. You look at me like I’m… I don’t know. A woman. One you actually want.”

He leans in, nose almost brushing yours. “That’s because you are one.”

You close your eyes for a second, breathing in the scent of him—sweat, metal, Marlboros.

“And you’re the first man I’ve kissed,” you whisper, “who didn’t taste like medicine and stale whiskey.”

That gets him.

He groans low in his throat, hands going to your waist, pulling you to him with that same casual control that makes your knees weak. His lips are on yours again, but this time it’s slower—surer. Like he’s claiming the moment, not just stealing it.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You know how good it feels,” he mutters, “to be wanted by someone who sees you?”

You nod. You know exactly.

You look down at your fingers on his chest. “I dreamed about you last night.”

He smirks. “Yeah? You think about me while you’re lying next to that old bastard?”

You nod again.

“Did he touch you?”

Another nod.

“Did you moan for him?”

You bite your lip.

“Or was it for me?”

Your breath shudders. “For you.”

He laughs once, dark and pleased.

“Good girl.”

And the thing is—it doesn’t feel demeaning. Not like it would coming from Gene.

It feels earned. Shared. Desired.

You don’t feel small. You feel dangerous.

Because for the first time, you’re not just somebody’s wife.

You’re his.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It’s a slow afternoon at the garage.

Clouds hover like a threat overhead, thick and swollen with late-summer rain. The air smells like hot pavement and ozone, and inside the garage, it’s quiet except for the distant hum of the fan.

Riff’s stretched out on the creeper, legs splayed, one boot tapping a lazy rhythm on the concrete. You’re sitting on an overturned milk crate, sipping a soda he pulled from the machine out back, glass bottle sweating in your hand.

Neither of you’s in a rush today.

“You always this quiet?” he asks suddenly, voice drifting from beneath the Buick he’s half-tucked under.

You glance over at him. “Only when I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

You pause. Then answer honestly.

“That I’ve never had a moment like this before. Just… sitting. Talking. Not waiting for someone to need something from me.”

Riff slides out from under the car and props himself on one elbow, looking at you with an expression that’s more curious than flirtatious for once.

“No one ever talks to you?”

“They talk at me. Gene does. The women at church do. But it’s always about dinner or babies or what makes a good wife.” You swirl the soda in the bottle. “Nobody really asks what I like.”

Riff wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it aside. “Alright then. What do you like?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I’m askin’. What you like. Not your husband. Not your preacher. You.”

You bite your lip. “I like walking alone when it’s not too hot. I like when songs on the radio end soft, like they’re afraid to leave. I like the smell of cigarette smoke—but only on you.”

He chuckles, low and surprised. “That last one’s dangerous, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

He sits up, resting his arms on his knees, eyes never leaving you now. “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t… you know. Stuck.”

“All the time.”

“What’s the dream, then?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It used to be getting married. That’s what girls are told to want. A house, a man, a family. But now…” You shake your head. “Now I just want a place where I can sit with someone and not feel like I’m playing a part.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then: “That’s not a dream. That’s just being free.”

You nod slowly. “Maybe that’s the new dream, then.”

Riff leans back against the wall. “You could have that, you know.”

“I could have it with you?”

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t look away either.

“I think you already do.”

You let the silence settle between you, not heavy—just full. Full of what hasn’t been said yet. What might never be.

But for now, it’s enough.

You sip your soda and let him work, and he lets you sit close, and for the first time in what feels like years, you don’t feel like you’re in someone else’s story.

You feel like you’ve started your own.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It rains harder than it has all summer.

Thick drops pound the roof of the garage, echoing like war drums, rattling the roll-up door. The sky is dark, wind slashing through the trees out back. The kind of storm that keeps everyone home. Everyone but you.

You showed up soaked to the knees, breathless from running the last few blocks, cardigan clinging to your shoulders. You didn’t even knock. You just walked in, giggling like the place belonged to you now.

Riff didn’t say a word—just grabbed a faded shop towel and started drying your arms, slow and careful, like you were something breakable. He came close. His cigarette was barely hanging off his lips and his brows were furrowed while he mumbled something about how you’re going to get sick. Your head tilted to watch his face with a soft smile before you playfully started pressing small kisses around his face, making him break into a reluctant grin.

Now you’re both sitting in the garage office, the cot folded down, the air heavy with petrichor and engine oil. You’ve got a blanket wrapped around you, hair still damp, and he’s sitting at the edge of the cot, nursing a cigarette between two fingers.

Neither of you’s in a rush to speak.

Eventually, you do.

“You ever think about leaving this place?” you ask, voice soft under the noise of the storm.

Riff exhales smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling.

“All the time.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

He glances over at you, one brow raised. “Maybe for the same reason you haven’t.”

You look away.

“Where would you go?” you ask instead.

“Out west,” he says without hesitation. “Arizona. Maybe New Mexico. Somewhere hot and dry where the air don’t stick to your skin. I’d open my own shop. One I could name after something that’s mine.”

You smile a little. “What would you call it?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe after a girl.”

You go still.

He looks over again, something warmer in his eyes now.

“Not sayin’ who. Just… maybe.”

The rain softens outside, just a little, turning to that gentler rhythm you could fall asleep to if you let yourself.

“You ever miss your family?” you ask after a pause.

He goes quiet at that.

“I don’t know if you can miss what never really felt like yours,” he says eventually. “Old man drank himself into a pine box before I hit ten. Ma packed up and left a year later. I learned early not to expect anyone to stay.”

You reach over and take the cigarette from his fingers, press it to your lips. It’s still warm. Tastes like him. You hand it back.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“For now,” he replies.

There’s no accusation in it. No bitterness. Just truth.

You scoot closer. Press your side against his. The blanket shifts with you, and he lets you lean into him, lets you rest your head on his shoulder like you belong there.

“You know the worst part?” you whisper.

“What?”

“I never used to think I deserved more than what I had. Not until you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“You always deserved more. You just needed someone to remind you how to want it.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, you hold that warmth like a secret between your ribs.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t have to.

He just puts his arm around your shoulder, keeps you close, and for once, neither of you needs anything else.

Not yet.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The next time you see Riff, the sky is overcast, thick with the smell of rain and exhaust.

You don’t bring a list. You don’t need a reason.

He knows that now.

You step into the garage and he doesn’t ask why. He just looks up from under the hood of a pickup and wipes his hands, like he’s been waiting for you since the moment you walked away last time.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” you say softly.

“That’s enough.”

It is.

You’re in the back of the shop again, this time not quite naked, but close enough—his hands up your skirt, your mouth on his throat, the ache in you too loud to ignore. Every breath is a betrayal, and yet it’s the most honest thing you’ve done in years.

When it’s over, you lie there in the quiet, legs tangled in his, your head on his shoulder. The fan hums. The radio crackles something low and moody from the next room.

“I thought about leaving,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just runs a hand through your hair, fingers slow and thoughtful.

“Thought about what I’d pack. Where we’d go.”

Still nothing.

Then finally—carefully—he says, “But you didn’t.”

You shake your head against his chest. “Not yet.”

He exhales through his nose. A short, humorless sound.

“Still waiting for the right moment?” he asks.

“I don’t know if there is a right moment.”

He shifts beneath you, not angry, just aware—that edge creeping back into his voice.

“Or maybe you’re just waitin’ for someone to decide for you.”

That stings.

Because he might be right.

But you sit up slowly, smoothing your dress, and look at him with eyes that have seen two lives now—the one you were assigned, and the one he lets you steal piece by piece.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You already don’t have me,” he says, soft but sharp. “Not really.”

You lean down, kiss him slow—less like a goodbye, more like a promise.

“I have this,” you murmur. “And I’m not done with it.”

He grabs your wrist before you pull away. Not to stop you. Just to feel you. Like he doesn’t trust you’ll come back, even though you always do.

“You come when you need to,” he says. “But don’t expect me to wait forever.”

You nod. “I know.”

You slip out the door, heart tight in your throat, and walk home under the drizzle with your stockings damp and your lips tingling from his kiss.

Gene is in the living room, snoring in his chair.

You step over his feet, hang your coat like nothing happened, and start peeling potatoes for dinner.

Outside, thunder rumbles softly in the distance.

Inside, your pulse still hasn’t slowed.

There’s no decision yet.

Just want.

And the quiet, steady promise that you’ll find your way back to Riff again.

Because you always do.

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minnie-cai · 2 months ago

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mechanic!riff lorton x housewife!reader

It starts with a chore. Two dollars in your hand, a list from your husband, and a summer heat that clings to your skin like sin. The streets of West Side New York are loud and cracked, lined with gossiping women and the smell of city sweat—but it’s the garage that stops you. Him. Riff. Smoke curling from his mouth, coveralls unzipped to the waist, looking at you like you’re not just somebody’s wife. Like you’re someone. You tell yourself you’re just passing by. But the truth is, you keep walking past Joe’s Auto like it’s gravity. And he keeps watching like he knows. You weren’t looking for freedom. But you found him. Grease-stained hands, soft with you. A body that wants, not owns. And in a city built on noise, you find silence in the space where he touches you. The affair doesn’t start that day. But it starts then.

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

✧˖° mechanic!riff who never calls you by your name until he’s got you pressed to a wall, breath warm against your throat, whispering it like a secret he earned.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who doesn’t ask why you’re there, just hands you a bottle of Coke and wipes his hands slow, watching you like he’s waiting for the truth to fall out of your mouth.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who laughs low and dangerous when you say you’re married, like he already knows you’re not taken where it counts.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who touches you like he’s fixing something—patient, precise, and with reverence only he believes you deserve.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who calls you “good girl” and makes it feel like rebellion, not obedience.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who holds you after, smokes in silence, and doesn’t need to talk—but always listens.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who smells like sweat, smoke, and gasoline, and now you can’t smell any of it without tasting him.

✧˖° mechanic!riff who knows you’ll always come back. But doesn’t know if you’ll ever stay.

#riff lorton #riff west side story #riff lorton 2021 #mike faist #mike faist riff #west side story #west side story 2021 #west side story fanfiction #riff lorton x reader #riff lorton x you #mike faist x reader #mike faist west side story #challengers #art donaldson #challengers fanfic #riff lorton headcanons #mechanic!riff #art donaldson x reader #minnie rambles

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minnie-cai · 2 months ago

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it feels weird that we're moots and haven't directly interacted but you're such a good writer that it kind of intimidates me

HIIII don’t be intimidated at all, i barely ever write also i saw ur blog when you first followed me and i thought you were super cool lmao. tysm for the compliment, i try <333

#challengers #minnie rambles

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minnie-cai · 2 months ago

Text

the art donaldson candle theory…

my theory….

#he has patrick under the candle #because he’s a tiny man #little rat controlling him under the candle #minnie rambles #mike faist #art donaldson

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minnie-cai · 2 months ago

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art falling in love with his nutritionist!reader?

TW: heavy implications of ed, pathetic art...

he hated. HATED. his last nutritionist. tashi hired her, and having tashi and a nutritionist on his ear telling him what to eat and what not to eat was enough to make him want to eat nothing at all.

he might've developed an ed...he doesn't pay much attention to it tho. all he knows is that since his retirement and divorce he hasnt been eating...like at all. he feels guilty whenever he does so much as think about fast food, but when he tries to eat healthy food he gets the urge to throw up. so he does the mature thing and gets a nutritionist.

he's scared, in lack of better words. he doesn't want to repeat the same cycle he had with his old nutritionist. you were coming to his house, and god was he nervous. yet when you arrived, he couldn't deny how pretty you were. hair in a blowout, hands neatly clasped infront of you. and your smile was oh so sweet and eased his heart. "hi!" you stuck your hand out, and his much bigger hand shook your smaller one.

"hey," he smiled back and stepped back so you could come in. he offers you a seat on his counter, and he leans against it. his biceps flexing subconsciously as he smiles awkwardly. with you sensing his nervousness you start questioning him about his eating habits, past and present. he's open, about his old nutritionist, possible ed and all of his struggles. he feels like he's in a therapy session with how you listen to him attentively.

"so you have trouble eating?" you ask softly and he nods. "yeah, i just cant find myself actually digesting it. specially if i want to keep a good physique." you hum, nodding as you look up at him. he swears he could get lost in your eyes.

"well you know you can add a few sweets and oils every now and then, right?" you say slowly, almost if talking to a child. he stays quiet, he has been told to not eat eats and/or oils at all. "c'mon." you take out a chocolate bar and he internally cringes at the sight. "we each get a bite, 'kay?" you take a small bite. humming at the flavor. "okay your turn," you pass the chocolate to him, looking at him expectantly.

he gulps, frowning. "i really cant." you smile softly at his words. "there's no rush, but you really wont process if you dont start. a few meals wont ruin you."

it takes minutes to try convince art to bite into the chocolate.

an hour later and he's crying into your chest. whining about not being enough and feeling so lost. or atleast that's what you think he's saying, his cries are too much for u to understand completely what he's saying. he clings to you, burying his face into your breasts. your hand rubs his neck up and down as you try to calm him down. "there there...its okay, we'll take it one step at a time, okay?" he nods, fingers curling around your hips.

he doesn't quite remember what happened after that, he just remembers begging you to not leave him and inevitably sleeping in your arms. and when he wakes up, he is greeted by greasy eggs, orange juice and a side of greens.

oh, you're definitely better than his last nutritionist.

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minnie-cai · 2 months ago

Note

going on honeymoon with art😭🙏🏻🙏🏻 something romantic and personal and he loves reader so much

a/n: this is the last ask in my inbox APPLAUSE PLEASE!! everything else is only drafts i need to finish but the inbox is empty after that and i’m thriving with the writing lately idk look at me being consistent. this is - i think the first request i ever got on this account and to this day i’m not sure if it was for a bot or a fic so uh… blurb? anyway enjoy. this is set post arttashi divorce when he remarries reader and no warnings because it’s pure fluff

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The morning slips in slow, golden, and quiet.

You wake up to the weight of Art’s arm draped over your waist, his breath steady against the back of your neck. The sheets are tangled around your legs, warm with sleep and the leftover heat of him. Outside, waves murmur against the shore, and somewhere distant, a gull calls out like it’s the only sound in the world that matters.

His thumb moves lightly over your skin, almost absentminded—like even in sleep, he can’t not touch you.

“I know you’re awake,” you murmur, your voice hoarse with morning.

He hums, pressing his face into the curve of your shoulder. “How’d you guess?”

“You twitch when you’re pretending to be asleep.”

He chuckles, his mouth brushing your skin. “Busted.”

You roll over to face him. His hair’s a mess. There’s a faint pillow crease on his cheek. And his eyes—still half-lidded and heavy with sleep—look at you like he’s trying to memorize this exact second.

“I like waking up like this,” he says quietly. “With you.”

You smile, brushing your fingers down the side of his face. “Yeah?”

“I used to wake up tense. Like I’d already lost something overnight. But with you…” He trails off, then exhales. “It feels like I’ve already won.”

The morning moves slowly after that. Lazy kisses. Room service coffee. Lily asleep in the other room, giving you just enough time to live in the stillness of now.

By afternoon, you’re walking along the shore, sandals in hand, waves lapping at your ankles. Art walks beside you, his fingers brushing yours, not quite holding yet. The sky is huge and blue and soft. Your feet sink into damp sand with every step.

“Do you ever think about how weird this is?” he says suddenly, looking out at the water.

“What part?”

“All of it. This life. Us. Me, here, not playing. Not chasing anything.”

You stop and look at him. “Do you miss it?”

He thinks for a second, then shakes his head. “No. I miss feeling like I mattered. But I don’t miss that version of me.”

“You matter now.”

“To Lily, yeah.”

“To me,” you say, stepping closer. “You matter to me.”

Art’s face softens—almost like it hurts, the way you say it. He pulls you into his arms right there, barefoot in the sand, water washing over your toes, and kisses you like the whole world quiets around it.

When he pulls back, his voice is barely a whisper. “I love you. More than I know how to say.”

“You don’t have to say it,” you breathe. “Just stay here. With me.”

He nods, forehead resting against yours. “Always.”

And so you stand there—wind in your hair, salt on your lips, his arms around you—soaking in the kind of love that doesn’t need fixing or proving. Just feeling. Just being.

The morning slips in slow, golden, and quiet.

His thumb moves lightly over your skin, almost absentminded—like even in sleep, he can’t not touch you.

“I know you’re awake,” you murmur, your voice hoarse with morning.

He hums, pressing his face into the curve of your shoulder. “How’d you guess?”

“You twitch when you’re pretending to be asleep.”

He chuckles, his mouth brushing your skin. “Busted.”

“I like waking up like this,” he says quietly. “With you.”

You smile, brushing your fingers down the side of his face. “Yeah?”

“I used to wake up tense. Like I’d already lost something overnight. But with you…” He trails off, then exhales. “It feels like I’ve already won.”

The morning moves slowly after that. Lazy kisses. Room service coffee. Lily asleep in the other room, giving you just enough time to live in the stillness of now.

“Do you ever think about how weird this is?” he says suddenly, looking out at the water.

“What part?”

“All of it. This life. Us. Me, here, not playing. Not chasing anything.”

You stop and look at him. “Do you miss it?”

He thinks for a second, then shakes his head. “No. I miss feeling like I mattered. But I don’t miss that version of me.”

“You matter now.”

“To Lily, yeah.”

“To me,” you say, stepping closer. “You matter to me.”

When he pulls back, his voice is barely a whisper. “I love you. More than I know how to say.”

“You don’t have to say it,” you breathe. “Just stay here. With me.”

He nods, forehead resting against yours. “Always.”

And so you stand there—wind in your hair, salt on your lips, his arms around you—soaking in the kind of love that doesn’t need fixing or proving. Just feeling. Just being.

#challengers #art donaldson #minnie writes #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson fluff #art donaldson fanfic #art donaldson x you #mike faist #challengers fanfic #challengers headcanons #art donaldson headcanons

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minnie-cai · 2 months ago

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Jaw dropped because the time cast series is so good!!! Wtf 🤯

thank you so so much!!! something in my history nerd heart is very soft for that au and i was super excited to release it. it was supposed to be pushed for may 5th but i just couldn’t wait!!

#minnie rambles #timecast au #challengers

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minnie-cai · 2 months ago

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TIMECAST - Gilded Age

False Bottoms

detective!tashi duncan x illusionist!reader

c.ai bot | moodboard and introduction

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You see her before she sees you.

Or maybe not. Maybe she’s been watching since the first velvet curtain swept open. Maybe her gaze has already cut through every mirror trick, every sleight-of-hand, every well-timed puff of smoke you’ve used to keep the world guessing. Maybe she saw you before the lights even came up.

Detective Tashi Duncan sits in the sixth row, center. Tailored black coat, brass watch chain catching the stage glow. Sharp as a blade. Still as judgment. She does not smile. Not even when the dove flutters out of your sleeve and lands on your shoulder like a trained whisper.

You knew she was coming.

The city’s already buzzing. The Van Alst girl gone without a trace. Her last known location? The Lyceum. A playbill with your name scrawled in gold.

They think you had something to do with it. And maybe you did.

But not the way they think.

You finish the set to thunderous applause, step behind the curtain with the roar still vibrating through your ribs, and exhale like you’re shedding skin. The stagehand offers water. You wave him off. There’s a knock at the back.

You know who it is.

You make her wait.

Then you open the door with a smile sharp enough to cut velvet.

“Well, well,” you say. “She finally graces me with her presence.”

Tashi steps inside like she owns the floorboards. “Detective Duncan. I’m looking into the Van Alst case.”

“Oh, darling. If you’re trying to interrogate me, at least offer me a drink.”

She doesn’t rise to it. “She was seen leaving with someone in costume.”

You walk around her, slow, trailing a finger along the edge of your vanity. You can feel her eyes on you like tension drawn too tight. You stop at your perfume bottle and spritz it once, for effect.

“And you think that someone was me?”

“You were the only performer unaccounted for after curtain call.”

You spin to face her. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I’m thorough.”

You tilt your head, studying her. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

That gets her. Her brows twitch together.

“I don’t forget faces,” she says, but her voice has changed—just slightly.

“No,” you murmur. “But you do forget nights.”

She stares at you. And for a moment, just one flicker of candlelight between you, she wavers.

You don’t give her more. Not yet.

Instead, you hand her a black feather, plucked from the floor beneath your dressing stool. It’s from the act—but not from the show.

“Follow the feather,” you say, smiling. “If you want to know where she went.”

Tashi takes it like evidence. But her eyes say she’s taking something else, too.

Interest.

Curiosity.

And something deeper. Something she doesn’t know how to name yet.

—

You don’t like being followed.

But if anyone could make a shadow feel like a promise, it’s her.

Detective Duncan appears beside you in rain-slick alleys and gaslit foyers like a woman conjured from focus alone. Always watching. Always composed. As though she’s piecing together your tricks, even the ones that aren’t illusions.

You drag her through velvet-curtained gambling halls, late-night cabarets where women wear knives under their garters, and parlor rooms where the floor creaks in code. She complains. You tease. She threatens to leave. But she doesn’t.

And each time she stays, you let her in a little further.

Once, she brushes your wrist while reaching for a dropped glove. Your breath catches. She notices.

She always notices.

—

The first time you undress in front of her, it’s not for seduction.

You’re limping.

A bad fall during the escape tank trick—someone loosened the latches. You’re soaked, bruised, half-furious, and buzzing on adrenaline.

She barges into your dressing room without knocking. You turn, corset half-undone, chemise clinging to your ribs.

“You were supposed to wait outside,” you snap.

She closes the door behind her. “And let you bleed in silence? Not likely.”

You hate how calm she is. How her hands are already reaching for the ties at your back. How she says, “Hold still,” like she owns the right to touch you.

The corset peels away. She’s gentle. Too gentle. And that’s worse.

“Does it hurt?” she asks.

Only everywhere.

You nod. She finds the worst bruise—purple, blooming across your spine—and touches it like an apology.

“It’s nothing,” you say, voice thin.

She doesn’t move. Her breath is near your ear. “It’s not.”

You turn. Slowly. Her hand is still on your waist.

“Detective,” you say, carefully, “if you kiss me now, it won’t be a riddle. It’ll be the truth.”

Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But close.

“I’m not here for games,” she says.

You press your body to hers, slow and full of intent. “Then you’re in the wrong profession.”

And then you kiss her.

It’s not soft.

It’s not polite.

It’s silk gloves against lapels and fingers pulling hair loose from pins. It’s breathless, bruising, backed against your vanity mirror, with the scent of powder and heat and maybe—just maybe—fear.

Not of her.

Of what it will mean if you let her in.

—

You don’t have sex that night.

But you come very close.

She kisses you like she’s been waiting to solve you. You kiss her like you’re daring her to try.

But when her hand skims your thigh and your lips part for her name, something shifts.

She stills.

You pull back.

You don’t ask why. She doesn’t explain.

The silence hums between you, charged and unresolved.

Before she leaves, she presses her fingers to your lips and says, “You make it very hard to stay objective.”

You whisper, “You make it very hard to stay dressed.”

She doesn’t smile. But her eyes linger.

—

You don’t lie—no, not exactly. You just don’t give the whole story. You say things like “I escaped” and “I got out” and “You don’t want to know what they made me do,” and for a time, that’s enough.

But it catches up to you.

Secrets always do.

It happens fast—too fast. You’re on your way to meet a source at a private club masked as a flower shop. Tashi beside you, sharp in her coat, hands tucked into pockets like they could hold back everything the world wants to take.

You round the corner.

And the world takes anyway.

Two men. Well-dressed. Polite as knives. They don’t ask—they grab. Tashi fights like hell. You scream her name. There’s blood. Yours? Theirs? You don’t know. All you know is the crack of bone and the sickening thud of her hitting the ground.

They flee.

You run.

And when you get to her, she’s dazed, bleeding from the temple, looking up at you like you might vanish.

You don’t.

You take her home.

—

Your flat above the theater smells like velvet and smoke and secrets. You lay her on the chaise. Strip off her coat. Her shirt. You clean the blood with trembling hands and call it care.

She blinks slowly, murmurs, “You have a nice place.”

You whisper, “Don’t die in it.”

She laughs. Or tries to. “Dramatic.”

“You’re bleeding on my chaise longue. I’m allowed some flair.”

She closes her eyes. Her breath evens. Her fingers curl loosely in yours.

And you sit beside her all night, watching the way her chest rises and falls, like something you might one day learn how to trust.

—

She wakes to candlelight.

You’re across the room, smoking. Wrapped in your dressing gown, legs curled under you like a cat at rest.

But you’re not at rest.

You’re shaking.

“I used to work for them,” you say.

No preamble. Just the truth. Straight to the bone.

Her voice is rough. “The ones who took the Van Alst girl.”

You nod. “The ones who tried to take you.”

Tashi sits up slowly. Her head tilts like she’s trying to see a different version of you. One with blood on her hands. One who didn’t flinch when the girl disappeared.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t think you’d still want to touch me if you knew.”

Silence.

Then:

“Try me.”

You look at her.

And it’s not the same look she gave you in the mirror weeks ago, when your corset came off and your deflection cracked.

This is different.

She sees you now. Not the magician. Not the illusion.

You.

—

You’re in her lap before you realize it.

Her hands are on your thighs, firm and grounding, and your face is buried in her shoulder. You don’t cry. You just breathe. Let yourself be held like a person worth it.

Her voice is in your hair. “You’re not heartless.”

Your answer is a kiss.

This one is quiet. Less bite, more ache. Her hands cradle your jaw. You part your lips, let her in, and for the first time, it’s not about power or performance.

It’s surrender.

You guide her to your bed.

And when you climb into her lap and press your mouth to hers, you whisper, “Touch me like you know who I am.”

She does.

Every inch.

Every bruise.

Every secret.

You ride her fingers slow, desperate, gasping her name into her neck while the city burns and blinks below you.

You come with her hand between your thighs and her mouth at your breast and your name—your real name—on her tongue.

And when she kisses your ribs after, you know you’ll never be able to lie to her again.

Not even in riddles.

—

The girl was never missing.

Not in the way they said.

She’d been there the whole time—backstage, hidden in plain sight. New makeup. A fresh stage name. One of the rotating girls in your chorus line, brought on by your former manager during your brief absence from the city.

You hadn’t looked closely. You’d been too busy watching Tashi. Wanting her.

But Tashi looked. And Tashi saw.

“She’s not just scared,” she said one night, after watching the girl backstage. “She’s drugged.”

You hadn’t wanted to believe it.

But when you watched the girl again—how she flinched at raised voices, how her eyes slid away from mirrors—you knew. She was trapped in the very show that had once been your own escape.

And now you had to get her out.

—

The plan is simple.

A final show.

One grand performance.

You bring Tashi backstage before curtain. Her fingers ghost the edge of your corset as she helps fasten the final hook.

“She trusts you,” Tashi says. “That’s what matters.”

“No,” you say softly. “You trust me. That’s what matters.”

She doesn’t respond. Just holds your gaze like you’re the only truth in the room.

You step on stage to thunder.

The lights blind. The mirrors spin. The crowd roars for distraction.

And beneath it all, the girl waits in the wings.

When the smoke pours in, you signal.

Tashi moves like a shadow—quiet, precise, sure. She reaches the girl. Wraps a coat around her. Takes her by the hand.

They vanish.

And when the smoke clears, you’re alone at center stage. Arms raised.

“For my final illusion…” you say, voice steady, “I’ll show you how something real can disappear.”

And then you’re gone too.

—

The world rights itself slowly.

The girl is safe. Reunited with her family. Your manager? Gone. No trial. Just whispers of exile. You don’t ask for justice. You already got it—on your terms.

And Tashi?

She comes back.

Not because of the case.

Because of you.

—

You sit together in the empty theater, days later. The stage bare. No costume. No script. Just you in a robe, hair down, eyes smudged with old mascara.

Tashi stands in the aisle.

“You stayin’?” you ask.

“I was offered a position in D.C.,” she says. “I turned it down.”

You arch a brow. “Why?”

She crosses to the stage. Steps up.

“You,” she says.

You blink.

No riddle. No smoke.

Just that.

You walk to her. Wrap your arms around her waist. Bury your face in the crook of her neck.

“You’re not as cold as you want people to think,” you murmur.

“And you,” she whispers, “are not nearly as heartless as you pretend to be.”

She tilts your chin up.

Kisses you like you’re the act she never wants to end.

And this time?

There’s no curtain call.

Only the warmth of her hands.

And the softness of something real.

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minnie-cai · 2 months ago

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TIMECAST - Golden Age Of Piracy

To Plot A Storm

cartographer!patrick zweig x pirate!reader

c.ai bot | moodboard and introduction

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Smoke still clings to the deck like a sulking ghost, thick with salt and gunpowder. You step over a shattered beam, boots slick with the blood of men you didn’t bother to ask names for. Your coat flares behind you, wind catching the torn edge, and you drag it shut with one hand as your eyes settle on the mess of uniform and attitude they’ve dragged to the brig.

He’s not what you expected. Not a sailor. Not a soldier.

He’s slight, sharp-shouldered, glasses somehow still perched on his nose despite the scuffle. He’s got ink on his cuffs and an expression like he’s trying very hard not to breathe through his mouth. His jaw is clenched with the moral outrage of a man who just saw a library defiled.

“Captain,” Bones says dryly, nudging the prisoner forward with the butt of a pistol. “Says he’s a cartographer. Naval, but civilian. Won’t shut up about his qualifications.”

“I am a cartographer,” the man snaps, glaring sideways. “Royal Navy Contracted, Oxford-trained, and absolutely not a combatant.”

You crouch to his level. Tilt your head. He flinches when your coat brushes his knee.

“Tell me, Oxford, do you often chart your way into pirate fire?”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“You were on a Navy ship.”

“I was documenting longitude discrepancies in the Meridian approaches.”

“Ah.” You grin. “So you were being annoying.”

His lips twitch—tight with frustration. “I was being accurate.”

You reach for the keys at your belt, consider, then toss them to Bones without looking. “Put him in the brig. If he talks too much, gag him with one of Mira’s socks.”

Bones grimaces. Patrick sputters. You walk off before either of them can say more.

The next time you see him, he’s sitting stiff-backed in the brig, surrounded by men who smell like sweat, salt, and a complete lack of respect for the Queen’s English.

He corrects Mira’s grammar within three minutes.

By the fourth, he’s being used as a hat stand.

You crouch again, just outside the bars. He glares at you through his spectacles.

“I believe this is a violation of the conventions on treatment of civilian captives.”

You pick at a nail. “I believe you’re too mouthy for a hostage.”

“I’m only mouthy because I’m surrounded by people who can’t distinguish between ‘less’ and ‘fewer.’”

You blink. Slowly.

Then: “I like you.”

His jaw drops.

You stand, smiling. “You’re not worth a ransom, but I think you might be worth keeping.”

You find him in the navigation room the next morning, hair mussed from sleep—or a lack of it—lips pursed around some complaint you don’t let him finish.

You slap the rolled parchment onto the table between you.

“What’s this?” he asks warily.

“A mystery,” you say. “And a job.”

He adjusts his spectacles. You watch his fingers, delicate and ink-stained, as he unrolls the map.

His eyes narrow. “This is nonsense.”

“That’s not how you say thank you, Captain, for not throwing me to the sharks.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “There’s no such island. Not here. Not anywhere. These coordinates are impossible.”

You lean in, close enough to smell the starch still clinging to his collar. “Then explain why every man I’ve ever known who’s gone looking for it never came back.”

He looks up at you, visibly weighing your madness. “Correlation does not imply causation.”

“I’m not asking for causation, Professor. I’m asking for a course.”

He hesitates.

“I help you,” he says slowly, “and you don’t let Mira hang me off the mast by my britches again?”

You grin. “Deal.”

It takes less than a day for the crew to nickname him Professor.

It takes less than two for him to correct every single one of them at least once.

Niko, trying to explain a compass reading, gets a full two-minute lecture about magnetic deviation and hemispheric bias. Mira starts calling him “Fancy Charts.” Bones pretends to take notes just to mess with him.

You don’t stop them.

You enjoy it.

You enjoy him.

Watching him stumble across the deck like a newborn deer, watching his horror at the hammocks, watching him try to hold dignity in a shirt Mira dyed pink by accident.

He corners you on the fourth day, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Your crew is impossible.”

You smirk. “Aye, but they’re loyal.”

“Loyalty doesn’t make them grammatically sound.”

You grin wider. “That so?”

“I counted seventeen misuses of ‘ain’t’ in a single conversation.”

“I counted one man still breathing because he’s useful.”

He pales slightly, but squares his shoulders. You like that, too.

You step closer. “Say ‘ain’t’ one more time, Professor.”

He glares. “I refuse.”

You lower your voice. “Coward.”

“I prefer precision.”

Your breath brushes his cheek.

He doesn’t step back.

A week in, a storm brews.

Patrick warns you.

You ignore him.

It hits like God’s own temper tantrum, and the crew—bastards that they are—shove the two of you into the charting room and bar the door.

“Don’t come out,” Mira yells through the wood. “Not ‘til one of you admits something or murders the other.”

You pace.

He fidgets.

Rain drums the deck above. Lightning flashes against the parchment on the walls. You can hear Bones laughing outside like it’s a tavern brawl.

“I told you this would happen,” Patrick says.

“Yes, and I ignored you.”

“Well that’s encouraging.”

“I didn’t say it was a good decision.”

He scowls at the maps. “You could at least admit when you’re wrong.”

You cross your arms. “That would break the natural order of things.”

“You are infuriating.”

“You’re obsessed with commas.”

“They matter!”

“You don’t.”

It slips out sharper than intended. He flinches. You regret it instantly.

The silence that follows is heavy—heavier than the storm.

“I know I don’t,” he says finally, quietly. “Not out here.”

You stare at him.

He’s not looking at you. Just at the floor. At his own boots. Like they’ve betrayed him too.

You step forward. Touch his arm. He doesn’t pull away.

“You do,” you say. “You matter.”

He blinks. “Why?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Because you make good maps.”

His lips twitch. “That’s not very romantic.”

“I’m not very romantic.”

“You flirt by threatening to stab people.”

“And yet here you are.”

When the storm breaks, he’s still in your room.

He stays.

You don’t ask why.

You don’t have to.

Later, you catch him correcting Niko again—with patience. Mira nearly faints from shock.

Bones starts calling him our cartographer.

You don’t correct that, either.

You watch as Patrick begins to stand without swaying. As he stops flinching when Mira tosses him food. As he argues back with Bones. As he sharpens Niko’s compass without being asked.

You watch him become crew.

He still yells about grammar. But now, they laugh with him.

You think it’ll be the island that kills you.

It’s real.

Against all odds, it’s real.

Looming in the fog, full of cliffs and secrets and the kind of beauty that always spells disaster.

You send the rowboats out anyway.

You and Patrick walk the shore alone, maps in hand, pistols hidden beneath your coats.

You find ruins—ancient and strange and not on any chart.

He stares at them like a man seeing god.

You stare at him.

And when he says your name—not Captain, not you, but your actual name—you kiss him.

Hard.

Messy.

Desperate.

He kisses back like he’s trying to catalogue it.

You tangle fingers in his hair and forget how to be cruel.

You return to the ship in silence. The taste of him still lingers. But neither of you says what it means.

Days pass. You’re supposed to be focused. Charting, sailing.

Instead, you’re watching him.

He’s leaning over the map table, candlelight catching in his hair, the salt-wind curling his shirt at the edges. You were supposed to be talking about currents. Instead, you’re watching the way his throat moves when he swallows.

NSFW content past the divider

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You move behind him slowly. No warning. No sound. Just presence.

He stiffens when he feels your breath on the nape of his neck—but doesn’t step away.

Your fingers brush the curve of his waist.

He exhales. Not startled. Something worse. Something deeper.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, voice low and taut like a line pulled too tight.

“Do you?”

“You think if you get close enough, I’ll fall apart.”

You lean in—until your chest brushes his back, your hands splayed flat on the table on either side of his hips. He’s trapped, but not resisting.

“I don’t want you to fall apart,” you murmur. “I want you to come undone.”

He makes a sound—half breath, half break.

You don’t touch him yet. Not properly. Just the heat of your body behind him. The whisper of knuckles grazing fabric. His spine arches ever so slightly—like a compass needle tipping toward something it shouldn’t want.

You place a single hand on the small of his back. Lightly. Like blessing or blasphemy—you’re not sure which.

He shudders.

Your mouth finds the space just beneath his ear. “Still think I’m doing this to win?”

“I think,” he says, strained, “that you don’t know how not to.”

You drag your fingers along his side, slow and reverent. As if his skin is ink you’ll smudge if you go too fast.

His head drops forward. He breathes like he’s drowning and doesn’t want saving.

“I hate how you touch me,” he whispers.

“No you don’t.”

“No,” he agrees hoarsely. “No. I don’t.”

You turn him, finally—his breath shallow, pupils blown, every inch of him begging for more and too proud to say it. You kiss him like it’s a storm you’ll never survive. Like the only way to map the contours of his body is by tracing every inch with your palms, your mouth, your teeth.

He kisses you back like he’s memorizing coordinates he’ll never write down. Like he’ll never get another chance.

Your hands are in his shirt, his fingers twisted in your coat. There’s no gentleness left—just gravity. Just need.

When he gasps, you catch it with your tongue.

When he claws at your belt, you let him.

When he says your name like it’s both a curse and a confession—you swallow it whole.

His breath is shallow as you pin him between your body and the edge of the map table. The charts beneath his hands crinkle—carefully drawn lines smudged beneath shaking fingers.

“Say it,” you whisper.

He swallows, hard. “Say what?”

“That you want this.”

His eyes close, lashes trembling. “I’ve wanted this since you first threatened to throw me overboard.”

You smile. “Romantic.”

His reply is a gasp—your hand sliding beneath the waistband of his trousers, fingers skimming skin that’s too warm, too soft for someone so sharp. He shudders violently, breath hitching as you cup him through thin cotton, his body betraying him completely.

“You’re already this hard for me?” you murmur against his throat. “Pathetic.”

“You’re cruel,” he breathes, but he rocks into your palm like he wants more of it.

“You love it.”

You press your mouth to his collarbone, then lower—tongue tracing the bones of him like coastline. You unbutton his shirt slowly, lazily, like each layer is a secret you’re peeling away. He watches you with glassy eyes, skin flushed, trembling under your touch.

You bite at his ribs. Kiss his stomach. He twitches violently when your mouth brushes just above the line of his cock, still trapped in those proper naval trousers.

And then he begs.

“Please,” he whispers, voice raw and ragged.

You undo his trousers and push them down slowly. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking, and he groans like it hurts.

You wrap your hand around him and his hips buck helplessly. He grabs the edge of the table, knuckles white, charts slipping under his grip.

“You’re going to come just from this?” you whisper, amused.

“I’m going to come,” he chokes out, “from you.”

You lick a stripe along the underside of him, slow and indulgent, and he nearly folds in half. Your tongue circles the head, and when you take him into your mouth, his breath leaves him entirely. He makes a sound—utterly unguarded. Desperate.

You set the pace—slow, deliberate. Letting him feel every flick, every press, every inch of heat and pressure. His thighs are trembling. He reaches for your shoulder, unsure if he’s asking you to stop or stay.

You pull back, spit and pre-come glistening on your lips.

“You’re not coming yet,” you say.

“Why not—?”

You silence him with a kiss, dragging him toward the cot. You push him down and straddle him, skirts bunched around your hips. He stares up at you like you’re the sun—too bright, too close, too much.

You guide him inside you slowly, watching his eyes roll back, his hands flying to your hips like instinct.

You’re tight. Warm. Wet. And the way he fills you—perfectly, painfully—makes your breath catch. You sit fully down on him, grinding once, deep and slow. His hands tremble against your waist.

“I want you to watch me,” you tell him, rolling your hips again. “Don’t you dare close your eyes.”

He watches.

He watches like you’re myth. Like you’re map and monster all at once.

You ride him slow and hard, using him for every inch of tension he’s ever made you carry. Every argument. Every correction. Every moment you wanted him and hated that you did.

He’s saying your name now. Over and over.

“Please—Captain—please—”

You grab his wrists, pin them above his head. Lean down until your breasts brush his chest, your lips an inch from his.

“Do you want to come inside me, Patrick?”

He groans like the question hurts. “Yes—God, yes—”

You fuck him harder.

Until the table rattles. Until the candle flickers. Until the whole ship might as well be listening.

And when he comes, it’s with your name in his mouth and your body wrapped around him like a storm.

You follow seconds later, clenching around him, your voice in his ear like thunder.

You collapse beside him, both of you breathless and ruined.

And still—still—he has the audacity to whisper, “You misplaced a modifier back there.”

You bite his shoulder. He yelps.

You’re both smiling.

You lie tangled together in the humid dark, legs draped over maps neither of you are going to be able to use without remembering how your sweat soaked through the parchment.

He’s quiet.

Which is new. And suspicious.

You brush a curl from his forehead. His skin is damp, his breath finally slowing.

Then he says, “If we’re being honest…”

“Mmm?”

“That was… grammatically chaotic.”

You grin. “You want to revise my syntax, Professor?”

He hums. “I’d start with the way you incorrectly placed your—ah—emphasis.”

“Tell me where I misplaced it and I’ll pin you down again.”

He opens his mouth.

You straddle him before he can answer, press your hand to his chest, feel his heart lurch like a ship pulling from shore.

“Go on,” you say. “Be precise.”

“I was going to say—” His voice cracks as you roll your hips gently. “Gods, Captain…”

“I like it when you call me that,” you murmur. “Say it again and I’ll misplace something else.”

He groans.

You kiss his jaw.

And suddenly the teasing stills—just for a moment. You press your forehead to his. Let the silence stretch.

When you speak again, it’s quieter.

“You okay?”

He nods, mouth soft. “You?”

You nod back.

And neither of you say the word feelings, but it hangs between you anyway—unsaid, but not unacknowledged.

You lean in again, press your lips to the corner of his mouth.

“You’re mine now, compass.”

He looks dazed. “That a declaration?”

“That’s a threat.”

His smile curves slow and deep. “Then threaten me again tomorrow.”

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minnie-cai · 2 months ago

Text

TIMECAST - Roaring Twenties

The Pink Pony Club

pianist!art donaldson x burlesque dancer!reader

c.ai bot | moodboard and introduction

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The music was never written down.

Art played it like a secret, fingers moving from muscle memory, heart memory. No sheet. No name. Just a tune he’d stumbled into one night after watching her dance and never managed to shake loose.

It didn’t match the other numbers. Too slow. Too sad. It had no business lingering beneath rhinestones and tassels. But it fit her. The real her. The one he only caught glimpses of between routines—when the lights dimmed and the sweat on her shoulders hadn’t yet cooled.

Carmen—though that wasn’t her name, he was sure—had a laugh like a brass bell and walked like she’d never been taught to apologize. On stage, she glowed. A constellation of sequins and hips, dazzling and deliberate. Offstage, she smoked French cigarettes and swore like a man on leave.

Art kept his eyes down when he played. Most nights.

Except for hers.

She was halfway through her number, some wild, thumping thing with feathers and a chair, when she caught him.

Not just looking. Watching.

Her mouth curved mid-spin, slow and dangerous. She pivoted, winked, and blew him a kiss so theatrical the crowd howled.

He fumbled the next chord.

The number ended. Applause. Laughter. A crash of cymbals. Carmen disappeared behind the velvet curtain, and Art was left blinking at ivory keys like they’d betrayed him.

It wasn’t until an hour later, after the last call had been whispered through shadowed booths and the club was quieter than a prayer, that she approached.

He was still at the piano. Always was. Tinkering with chords like they might one day answer a question he didn’t know how to ask.

She perched on the edge of the piano bench without asking. One long leg crossed over the other. Glitter smudged along her collarbone like stardust.

“That song,” she said. “The slow one. The one you always play when I dance. Is that for me?”

Art didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.

“I just…” He cleared his throat. “Play what fits.”

A beat of silence.

Then Carmen laughed, soft and sharp. “You’re lucky I like flattery, sweetheart.”

She slid off the bench and disappeared into the dressing room corridor, scent trailing behind her like rose perfume and danger.

Art stared at the keys a long time before touching them again.

—

The Pink Pony Club was never silent, not really.

Even after the doors locked and the girls peeled rhinestones from their skin, there was always a hum. A low, ambient hush like the place had its own pulse. The walls held secrets in their velvet folds. Lipstick prints on half-drunk glasses. Ghosts of applause in the rafters.

Carmen lit a cigarette with one hand, the other holding her silk robe shut at the chest. She was perched on the piano bench again, bare legs crossed, one heel dangling from her toe. The smoke curled around her like mood lighting.

Art played.

He didn’t ask what she wanted. He just let his fingers move—minor chords, soft harmonies, a lazy rhythm like the stretch after a long, slow kiss.

She hummed along under her breath.

“Do you ever sleep?” she asked, eyes closed.

“Sometimes,” he said.

Carmen cracked one eye open. “That a joke?”

He shrugged.

She took another drag. “You always play like you’re dreaming.”

“That’s when it sounds right.”

Silence again, except for the music.

Carmen reached into her robe pocket and pulled something folded and worn. She slid it across the top of the piano toward him. Art stopped playing.

It was a flyer. Faded. Creased from being carried too long. A girl in feathers smiled from the page, kicking her legs in silhouette. The headline read “Amateur Night—$20 Prize” in a cheap, jagged font.

“That’s me,” she said.

He looked up.

“I was seventeen,” Carmen said. “Didn’t even know how to sew a snap into a bodice yet. I borrowed shoes from a girl I met in the train station bathroom.”

Art didn’t ask how she got there. He just waited.

She tapped ash into a teacup. “I didn’t win. But Miss Kitty saw me. Told me I had legs like a chorus line and the face of a woman who’d never lose a fight.”

Art stared at her for a moment.

Then, carefully, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a thin, leather-bound book. He laid it between them. Inside, faded pencil notations danced across yellowed pages. Sheet music. Some finished. Some not.

Carmen raised a brow. “This your diary?”

He gave a small, helpless smile. “I don’t… write things down. Not really. But this is how I keep them.”

She touched the edge of a page, delicately, like it might flake apart.

“Play me one of these,” she said. “Something no one’s heard before.”

Art hesitated.

Then he turned the book, laid it flat, and began to play.

The song was slow. Not sad, but wistful—like a window left open on purpose. A melody that didn’t ask anything of you, just stayed awhile and listened.

When it ended, Carmen blinked and cleared her throat like she hadn’t meant to.

“You got a name for that one?”

He shook his head.

She leaned back. “Call it Glitter.”

Art looked at her.

She smiled, a real one this time. Smaller. Softer. “That’s what it sounded like. Glitter in a drain.”

—

They called her Sugar Lace.

She arrived on a Tuesday with a battered suitcase and a voice that tried too hard to purr. Said she came from St. Louis, used to work the Rivoli, knew how to handle men and high kicks in equal measure.

Her curls were firetruck red. Her heels were too tall for the way she walked. Her perfume came in waves, like someone had spilled it on her train ticket.

Carmen clocked her before she even finished her introduction.

Too gay. Too eager. Too much brass, not enough brass band.

But Miss Kitty took her in anyway. Because Kitty always did.

Kitty didn’t turn girls away. She took the raw ones, the bent ones, the ones with lipstick too dark and shoes too big. She’d press a compact into their hands, teach them how to glide instead of walk, and make them family before anyone else could ruin them first.

“You don’t have to be the best,” Kitty said once, holding a girl while she cried in a beaded bra. “You just have to be yours. Everything else is rehearsal.”

Still, Carmen had earned the late night slot with blood, bruises, and boa fluff. So when Sugar Lace strutted onstage in Carmen’s eleven o’clock spot four days later, something behind her ribs twisted sharp.

From his bench, Art noticed too.

He always did.

⸻

Carmen was in the wings, arms crossed, one brow arched like a challenge. Her corset still clung to her ribs from the earlier number. She hadn’t even taken her lashes off yet. That’s how fast the schedule had flipped.

Miss Kitty stood behind her, cigarette smoke curling around her like a halo. “She’s a novelty act. Just passing through. Don’t bristle.”

“She’s flailing.”

“She’s trying.”

“She stole my slot.”

Kitty smirked. “No one steals from you, baby. Not without consequences.”

Carmen’s eyes flicked to the stage.

Sugar Lace was mid-routine, something involving a velvet swing and a poorly timed glove toss. The crowd liked it well enough—men laughed too loud and slapped tables—but there was no rhythm. No tease. Just noise and skin.

And the piano?

It didn’t sing.

Carmen’s head snapped toward the bench.

Art’s fingers were still moving, but the tempo was wrong. The chords a little off. The cue for the bridge came too early, then too late. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

Sugar tripped her exit spin, laughed like it was part of the act, and jogged backstage to scattered applause.

Kitty didn’t say a word.

Carmen did.

She waited until the next act had started—one of the twins with champagne bottles and a comedy bit—then found Art exactly where he always was after a misstep: by the side piano, fussing with a page of fake sheet music like it might confess for him.

“You messed up,” she said, arms folded across her chest.

He didn’t look at her. “Sorry.”

“You don’t mess up.”

“I just wasn’t… focused.”

“Try again.”

Art glanced up, eyes meeting hers, cheeks already flushing.

“She took your number,” he said softly. “I didn’t like it.” He shrugged.

Silence.

Then she leaned down, placed a hand on the bench beside his, and kissed his cheek. A quiet press of mouth to skin. Nothing flashy. Just real.

“Don’t go starting a fire on my account, piano man,” she whispered. “Unless you want me to dance in the flames.”

⸻

Later that night, the girls were curled up in the dressing room like cats after a long hunt. Robes slipped from shoulders. Stockings dangled from the edge of the vanity. Glitter stuck to everything—skin, mirrors, even the doorknob.

Goldie passed around a tin of balm for bruised feet. Jo flipped through a gossip rag, reading the horoscopes out loud in her fake radio voice.

Lorna was painting her nails with bootleg polish, one leg kicked up on the makeup table. “Carmen, you hear your replacement?”

“She’s not my replacement,” Carmen said, biting into an apple like it had personally offended her.

“She cracked her knuckle on the swing,” Jo offered. “Heard it from Theo.”

“She’s got nerves,” Kitty said, appearing from the hall with a fresh martini in hand. “She’ll learn.”

“She doesn’t listen,” Carmen muttered.

“She’s scared,” Kitty replied. “You remember what that felt like?”

Carmen didn’t answer. Only clicked her tongue in annoyance.

Goldie grinned. “Art sure listened.”

Jo whooped. “You see that chord sabotage?”

Lorna raised her glass. “To shy boys with good ears.”

They clinked imaginary glasses and howled with laughter. Carmen rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.

Across the room, tucked half out of view, Art sat alone with a paper napkin full of notes, scrawled staves, and tiny sketches of stars in the margins.

He wasn’t laughing. But he looked like he wanted to.

And Carmen? She looked at him and felt it.

The spark.

—

It started with a kiss behind the prop curtain.

It was after a long set. Carmen still glittered at the collarbones, sweat like pearls at her hairline, her robe clutched loosely over her costume. Art had just finished packing up the second piano—his fingers still tingling from playing her exit number like it was a love letter he wasn’t allowed to send.

She passed him in the hallway, didn’t even pause, just grabbed his tie and pulled him into the dark behind the curtain.

The kiss was fast. Heat and lipstick. A bite on the bottom lip.

She didn’t say anything after. Just slipped away like nothing had happened.

But it did.

God, it did.

⸻

The next time was in the back storage closet between sets. She cornered him while he was reaching for a fresh music stand. Kissed him again—slower this time, mouths fitting like they’d rehearsed it. Her thigh pressed between his. His hands, awkward and reverent, found her waist like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold her even now.

She broke the kiss and whispered, “This doesn’t have to mean anything.”

He nodded.

It already meant everything.

⸻

It kept happening.

A dressing room when no one was looking. An empty stairwell at midnight. Once, breathless, against the hallway wall while the show thundered through the floorboards above them.

She touched him like she needed something from him—release, relief, quiet. He let her take it. Gave himself up in pieces.

But he never touched her like that.

He touched her like a hymn.

⸻

Art didn’t know how to be casual.

He tried. He told himself he could. But every time Carmen kissed him, he melted into it like sugar in heat. Every sigh was a song he wanted to write. Every time she undid her robe for him, he wanted to kneel.

She’d press him against the cool tile of the back room, kiss his throat, pull open his shirt with impatient hands. He’d slide his palms up her thighs, feel silk and strength and softness. He’d breathe her in like she was the only real thing in the city.

She’d laugh—low, wicked—and tell him not to get sentimental.

And he never said it out loud, but—

Too late.

⸻

One night, after, they lay tangled in the dressing room chaise, her head on his chest, their clothes half-askew.

He traced the edge of her arm with two fingers. Light, like a breeze. Her skin raised under it.

“You always touch me like I’m breakable,” she murmured.

“You’re not,” he whispered back.

“But you think I am.”

He didn’t answer. Just kissed the back of her hand.

It wasn’t love. Not exactly.

But it was something blooming wild and impossible in the dark—like orchids in a whiskey glass.

—

“Okay,” Jo said, leaning across the vanity with a cherry popsicle between her teeth, “so when are you gonna admit you’re absolutely, catastrophically, full-body stupid over the piano man?”

Carmen blinked. “Jesus, can I breathe?”

“Nope,” said Goldie, kicking her heels up on the chaise. “You’ve been walking around with that just-fucked shimmer for weeks.”

“You’re glowing like a cabaret Virgin Mary,” Lorna added, rifling through someone else’s lipstick bag. “Spill it.”

Carmen didn’t mean to.

But it was late, and her robe was falling off one shoulder, and she still smelled like his cologne from when he pulled her into the stairwell between sets. And her thighs? Still trembling a little.

So she smirked, twisted open her perfume bottle, and said, “Fine.”

Jo straightened.

“I’m fucking him,” Carmen said.

Screaming. Absolute chaos.

Goldie fell off the couch.

Lorna choked on her gum.

Jo slapped the mirror. “Oh my god. You’re fucking Art?”

Carmen lounged. “I’ve fucked him in the linen closet. Twice in the prop cage. Almost on the piano bench, but he got shy.”

“You corrupted a musician,” Goldie gasped from the floor.

“He said ‘oh fuck’ like it was a prayer,” Carmen said, grinning. “He says my name like it’s gonna kill him.”

Jo threw her popsicle. “You bitch.”

“He holds me like I’m gonna break,” Carmen continued, dreamy now, voice going all warm. “But he eats me out like he’s trying to ruin my afterlife.”

Lorna screamed. “I need him to teach a masterclass.”

“I’m gonna die right here,” Jo said, wheezing. “Art ‘I-blush-when-you-say-bra’ Donaldson? With the tongue of God?”

“And the hands,” Carmen added, dazed.

Goldie climbed back onto the couch like a ghost. “Tell me he calls you ‘ma’am.’ Tell me he whimpers.”

“Oh, he whimpers. He asks. He begs.”

The room exploded.

Jo was crying. Lorna rolled off the table. Goldie was chanting, “I knew it, I fucking knew it,” like a victory song.

Carmen tucked her chin into her palm, smug and soft at once. “And now,” she added, “he looks at me like he’s halfway in love and doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it.”

Silence.

Then a long, collective awwwwwwfuckkkk.

Jo wiped her face. “I’m gonna be sick. That’s adorable.”

“He’s gonna write you a fucking symphony,” Lorna said, starry-eyed.

“He did,” Carmen admitted, quiet now. “He played it for me after I let him take my stockings off with his teeth.”

Even Kitty—passing by the door—stuck her head in, arched a brow, and said, “Just make sure you’re not leaving a mess on the floorboards.”

Carmen winked. “No promises.”

—

It was half past three and the club was asleep.

The glitter had settled. The air was thick with old perfume and spilled gin. Somewhere, the record player was warbling a tune no one had flipped in hours.

Theo was behind the bar, wiping glasses and humming to himself, when Art slid onto the stool in front of him—shirt rumpled, tie loose, face a little too flushed for someone who definitely hadn’t been drinking.

Theo looked up. “Jesus. What the hell happened to you?”

Art stared straight ahead. “I think I’m in love with Carmen.”

Theo blinked. “…Okay?”

Art buried his face in his hands. “She climbed on top of me and told me not to come unless she said so and then kissed my neck and I think I blacked out for ten minutes and also she stole my glasses after.”

Theo set the glass down carefully.

Art kept going. “She bit me. Like actually bit me. And I liked it. Like, a lot. And then she made this sound—like a gasp but also a laugh—and I swear to God my soul left my body.”

“Okay.” Theo leaned on the bar. “What exactly do you need from me here?”

Art looked up, wide-eyed. “I don’t know. Advice? Perspective? A cigarette? A shovel to dig my grave?”

Theo sighed. “I pour drinks for a living. I once got broken up with because I didn’t know what ‘astrological incompatibility’ meant.”

“I’m so fucked,” Art said, voice rising. “She’s cool. She’s hot and charming and terrifying. She could eat me alive and I’d thank her. She laughs when I beg. And then she cuddles me like I’m breakable.”

“Sounds like you’re having a great time,” Theo said dryly.

Art slammed his head onto the bar. “She calls me baby. Like she means it. Like I’m hers.”

Theo slid a whiskey across to him. “Here. On the house. For your suffering.”

Art didn’t drink it. Just stared at it like it might hold answers.

Theo, against his better judgment, softened. “Look, man. She keeps coming back to you, right?”

Art nodded miserably.

“She kisses you after? Not just the… you know. Stuff?”

Art blushed. “Yeah.”

Theo shrugged. “Then maybe stop spiraling and let it be good. Not everything has to make sense. Especially not in this dump.”

Art looked up slowly. “She moaned my name.”

Theo put a hand up. “Nope. And we’re done here.”

Art smiled.

It was soft. Nervous. Stupidly, blissfully content.

“Thanks, Theo.”

“I did nothing.”

“You were here.”

“Tragically,” Theo muttered, walking away. “Fucking musicians.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She didn’t knock.

She never did. She just slipped in past the curtain like a secret, still in her robe, cheeks pink from the dressing room heat. Her heels were off. She walked barefoot across the sticky floor like she owned it.

Art was alone onstage, the club empty now except for the two of them. The lights were half-down, just enough for shadows to lean into everything. He was playing something soft. Something new.

She didn’t speak. Just slid onto the piano bench beside him like gravity had dragged her there.

He didn’t stop playing.

She leaned her head on his shoulder. Pressed her lips to his neck. Light. Thoughtless. Familiar.

He breathed out hard.

“You left a button undone,” she murmured. “I thought you were trying to kill me.”

“I didn’t—”

She unbuttoned the next one. Slow.

“You’ve got the softest fucking skin,” she said, and he swore his soul left his body.

“I, uh—”

She kissed his throat. Lower. Dragged her nails lightly down the back of his hand where it rested on the keys.

“I came here to say thank you,” she said, voice like warm smoke. “For letting me be a greedy, filthy, terrifying thing around you.”

He swallowed. “You’re not—”

She looked up at him. “I am. And you like it.”

He did.

He liked it more than he’d ever liked anything in his life.

“I can’t breathe when you look at me,” he admitted.

She straddled his lap.

“Good,” she said.

He kissed her like he was scared of being good at it. She bit his lip until he stopped being scared.

⸻

They didn’t have sex on the piano bench.

They almost did.

But then Carmen looked at him, fingers curled in his curls, and saw something tender in his eyes—something not just hard or needy, but open.

So she leaned in close, cheek pressed to his, and whispered:

“I want to hear the song you wrote me. The one you don’t want me to know about yet.”

Art froze.

Then—without a word—he adjusted the bench, flexed his fingers, and began to play.

Carmen sat in his lap, wrapped in robe and affection, listening to her heart get played in harmony.

The melody was all her edges.

And all his softness.

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