#having fun even though I sometimes need the walk through

[uwudonoodle]

Since Echoes of Wisdom uses the same assets as the Link's Awakening remake, my partner bought it for me so I could learn the controls and stuff before September. (I'm not an experienced gamer, and need all the practice I can get).

I recently got Bow-Wow, and I love him! He helps me with enemies since I'm not great at combat. Here we are seashell hunting on the beach. This game is so cute!

[icewindandboringhorror]

It's always interesting to hear about people's weird/unexpected "alternate life paths". Like, something that you could have done with your life, a job you almost took, a school you almost went to, etc - that was still actually realistic enough that it could have happened, but NOW it seems to not suit your current personality.

Like for example, I currently hate advertising (how manipulative it is, brands trying to be 'relatable', social media amplifying it to an obnoxious extreme, etc.) so much that even seeing a little ad before a youtube video is grating to even witness, but there was a point in time where I was genuinely seriously considering going into marketing/making commercials as a career lol. Or like, I have a relative who was very inclined to be a pastor when they were younger, even though today they're a super strong atheist, etc. etc.

[ame-to-ame]

My friends are so nice to me??? I love them???

[unluckilyimnot]

Playing with their hair – aether, kinich, wanderer, rin, sae, sakura

note: i'm just in love with aether and kinich recently and i needed to write something with aether's hair so why not had some of my fav characters along with them. that's probably not really good but i guess it's cute. ooc

m.list | rules

Aether is used to your hands suddenly laying on his hair, running through them when you walk behind him – it’s like an urge, you just have to. You stopped on your track, bowing to kiss his head, inhaling his shampoo a little and hummed at the sweet scent.

“You took my shampoo again,” you mentioned, not in a warning way, more like you appreciate it. He nodded lightly, delighting himself from the feeling of your hands still running through his hair, scratching his scalp a little before kissing it again.

Sensing that you’re about to go away, his hands take yours gently and his head bent down to look up at you. “Already leaving ? We can both take a break…” he said, subtly implying you to not stop yet, making you giggle.

“Sure, we can.”

That’s basically how he ended up sitting on the floor between your thighs, watching a movie while you brush his hair for him, kindly letting your fingers run down his beautifully long hair – trying small, low buns to one high ponytail.

“Having fun ?” You can hear the smile in his voice, amused as always when he let you enjoy his hair more than he does.

“Always.” you said while kissing his nose from above, hiding the tv from his sight for a mere second but he still whines at you for doing so. Such a crybaby.

Kinich sighs as he feels your hands examining his hair again. “Would you stop doing that ?”

He knows you’re not doing this to annoy him, yet it always kind of stresses him to picture you scanning his scalp without any invitation to do so. He also knows that you don’t care about what he says, continuing to play with his hair while you swipe away some dandruff here and there.

“What’s the matter,” you talked back, seemingly frustrated. “You never say anything when it’s to help you fall asleep.” you argued, feeling really satisfied when he doesn’t find anything to say after that. It for sure helps a lot, he can’t argue with that, but he really hoped you could realize that it works all the time and not only when he wants it to – which means he was getting sleepy, slightly closing his eyes while he still had a lot to do.

A satisfied sigh escaped his lips before he could hold it in and you hummed teasingly. Your hands moved from his head to his chest, your arms caging him against you and you laid your head on top of his. “Tired already ?”

“Shut it.” he sounded harsh but he still rested against your chest as well, feeling at peace being so close to you. He wasn’t really tired but if you let him, Kinich would for sure appreciate some quality time with his head in your chest and your hands in his hair. Not that he’ll say it to you.

Wanderer honestly never mind when you ask him if you can play with his hair, he’s usually already busy and not moving so someone touching his hair while studying doesn’t change much for him. He won’t say that it doesn’t make it easy to concentrate since he, sometimes, tends to focus on this more than on the words written in front of him but he still appreciates how peaceful it makes him feel when he’s particularly worried or stressed.

Your hand running through his short strands of hair takes him somewhere else where he doesn’t need to worry as much, he likes it, even if he would never be physically capable of telling you.

“You’re braiding it ?” he asks, half absent in his question – he just wanted to confirm the feeling of your fingers brushing past his cheeks repeatedly. You hummed softly in response, leaving the braid dying the second you let it go since his hair was too short to handle it. It doesn’t discourage you though, and before he can ask what you’ll do next, he can already feel your steady movement back to the same scheme and a soft chuckle left his lips.

“You want me to stop ?” you asked under your breath, probably still concentrated on what you were doing but still caught his sigh.

“No, it’s fine. Go on.” he assured before stepping back again into his study, more than relaxing by this short break.

Rin loves movie dates to his core, but it always gets him when you start touching his hair in the middle of the movie. It's like he's never getting used to it and he's jolting a bit every single time, making you chuckle. But you always kiss his head as an excuse after. 

There's something relaxing when your fingers start to twirl around his short hair, making him wonder who appreciates it the most between you and him. Because he for sure loves it. 

His mind drifts away easily despite himself and how badly he wants to follow the movie. He always finds some way to lean into you, craving for more like a cat and more often than not, he ends up laying on top of you. 

“Don't fall asleep this time Rin,” you joke while scratching his head playfully. He simply nodded, absorbed in the movie more than you gave him credit for. He just didn't want you to stop.

Sae hates it when he feels your hands finding his hair in the middle of the day. He spends quite some time styling his hair in the morning, even if it doesn’t look like it, and you being nearby automatically becomes a danger for that.

Not that he doesn’t like you touching his hair, he’s fond of it, he wishes he could die with you touching his hair, but not during the day. So as soon as he feels it, he immediately gets up and warns you. “Please don’t.”

But he knows it can't be helped and soon your lips meet his, kissing him sweetly – your successful way to distract him – so you can end up with your hands reaching the hair in his neck. Twirling your fingers around it, pulling ever so slightly to annoy him but he still lets you. Not without a sigh against your lips, but he knows damn well he can't hold you back when you're determined to do something. 

He wishes he could keep his hair pretty for the day at least once in a while but he can't blame you ; both of you like it very much. He can forget his image for yet another day if that means he can appreciate the relaxing feint of your fingernails on his scalp. Even if lately it's starting to be everyday, he won't mention it – or not seriously. 

Your smile is more precious than some good hair day. 

Sakura still isn't used to you touching his hair, he hasn't been used to gentle gestures in his life before coming here  –  especially regarding his looks. The second your hands find his hair, he flinches by reflex even if he knows that it’s only you around him. He doesn’t turn you down anymore though since you always let him know how you love his hair, for the color or the fluffiness ; it’s just the best thing in the word and it got to be your boyfriend’s hair. You must be blessed. 

You still try not to frighten him too much, and start by touching his shoulders then going up to his neck and finally the hair in the nape of it. Twirling it lightly with your fingers and you’re sure to catch him snapping his head to you with a blush. 

“What are you doing ?!” he asked as always, flustered but not telling you to stop anyway which made you smile sweetly. 

“I’m playing with your hair ? You want me to stop ?” you tilted your head to the side, trying to act cute and confused so he doesn’t have the heart to tell you no. And with a resigned look but his brows still frowned, he compiled without adding anything.It’s a win, once again. 

You then slowly but surely brush through all his hair, tossing it one side to another, mixing the two colors together then separating it again like a puzzle. That’s something you grew to love, separating his hair for him and that’s also your best excuse to touch it even when there’s people around. Even if he’s not fond of it.

He tends to lay a bit in your hand when you do so, or when you stop your hand in his hair, quietly liking the feeling now that you’ve given him some time. Not that he’ll say it to you, never, but he doesn’t need to for you to know. It’s just like you to notice how he relaxes around you and when you do it. There’s a small smile on your lips when he tries to catch your eyes but looks away instantly, blushing again, and it makes you wonder when he’ll stop blushing around you. 

“You’re cute, Haruka,” you said, brushing away his bang to kiss his forehead. And without a second of hesitation – when in fact yes, but you tried to ignore it –  he was arguing with you about how he is NOT cute, simply proving your point again and again.

Let me know if you like it !

[okwonyo]

DON’T MAKE NO SENSE ⸝⸝ 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗂’𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎

🍵 best friends and a little bit more

❪ 𝖶𝖧𝒾𝖲𝖯𝖤𝖱𝖲 ❫ ｡ enhypen pining over fem ! rea ⠀──⠀ fluff bsf2l ◜◡◝ mention of alcohol skinship kissing

REBLOG FOR A SMOOCH

분지 ܃ not everyone’s is as hot at jake’s .. >//<

HEESEUNG

before meeting any of you properly, people are already sure that you are taken. of course, they assume that you are each other’s lover without having to check twice. for the sole reason that they often get a sight of the two of you together at parties— where he acts like your boyfriend.

there is a very simple explanation to that ; guys hit on you a lot and he doesn’t like to witness this at all. so he decided, on his own, that he would be your fake boyfriend in order to protect your from any other men that thought of talking to you. you don’t complain, he is a very good boyfriend plus boys do tend to bother you too much.

for instance, tonight a random man is talking to you and won’t get the hint. therefore, your knight in shining armor steps in. he takes off his jacket as he walks towards you then puts it on your shoulders. he rests his hands on your waist after, pulling you closer, and under the stranger’s widened eyes, he leans down to your ear, kisses your cheek, “is he bothering you, sweet angel?”

JAY

you met him in kindergarten, when you were both two apples tall and half. as long as you remember, he has always been by your side. he has always been the one to jump in when you fell on the ground and started crying in the sandbox. he has been the one to defend you against mean middle schoolers. he was always the one guiding you through the crowded high school halls.

your best friend has always been protective of you. since the beginning of your friendship, he has felt as if he needed to take care of you— to make his own heart feel at ease. his habits has only grown more and more intimate as the time passed by. he cooks lunch and dinner for you because he knows that sometimes you forget, he drives you anywhere you need like your personally chauffeur, he pays for most of your stuffs.

he is really beyond happy to do the most ridiculous things for you, as long as he can take care of you. “i can do it on my own—” you start as he starts kneeling down. he cuts you immediately, taking your shoelaces between his fingers, “i know, but let me take care of you.”

JAKE

it originally started as a drunken game, a silly thing that would never happen again. the first time it happened was a party, under the heavy influence of alcohol, your friends decided to make you all play seven minutes in heaven. and of course, due to the sadistic universe, the bottle had to point to your best friend when it was your turn to spin it. it is not a secret that you made out for the entirety of the given time in that closet.

you both agreed to never do it again, that it was just for the fun of the game. but the feeling of his tongue in your mouth didn’t leave your head for weeks and he couldn’t stop biting his lower lip— in hope that it would feel the same as when you sucked his lower lip that night. it was obvious, at the way your eyes would dart to each other’s lips that you wanted to kiss again.

he lets his desire win after a month, and he thinks he deserves a prize for waiting that long. he kisses you during what is supposed to be a study session and you let him do it, you kiss him back with as much passion. “fuck,” his sighs into your mouth. “i missed you so much.”

SUNGHOON

as everyone else in the world, he feels attacked whenever anyone that isn’t him goes over his phone— or even when they do something as simple as peeking over his shoulder while he is on it. although he has absolutely nothing to hide, no one is allowed to touch his phone.

though, when he is asked about it, he can’t really explain why you can do it. it’s just different, okay? everything related to you is slightly different than when it’s related to others. “gimme your phone,” you don’t ask, but order and he obeys. he gives you his phone without hesitation, without asking you why.

has it gone as far as your face is saved in his face id, perhaps, but there is nothing wrong about that. he is too busy staring at your face to notice that you are going into instagram, down to his private messages. at the grin you make when you see a message from a girl he denied to like multiple times, he speaks, “i’ll block her.”

SUNOO

sometimes, he really does tell himself that you are very lucky that he likes you a lot. because there are some things that you make him do that are almost inhumane, that feels likely pure torture in a sense. but, he accepts to carry all your stuffs.

at this point, he has become your walking purse or shelf. you drag him in every shops you pass by and makes him hold the loads of clothes you bought. you make him hold your purse when you don’t want to anymore. you put your lipstick in his pocket to find it quickly.

now it’s a reflex, a natural instinct. whenever you are holding something— a drink, a paper, your phone— if he notices that you are strangling a little: he holds it for you without any hesitation. you’ll end up making him do it, anyway. and loves serving you.

JUNGWON

you never knew the existence of ‘friendship anniversaries’ until he came into your life. there is no one you know that is invested in the matter, who is so eager to celebrate the beginning of your friendship and the continuation of it with so much enthusiasm.

he shows up at your door around six in the afternoon, well dressed in a suit that hugs his waist, hair perfectly styled and his cologne making you feel butterflies in your stomach, “hi, pretty girl,” he greets you with a bouquet of flowers in hands. it’s so ridiculous, so lovely that it makes you blush each time.

you walk around all the pretty places he drags you to with the flowers by your side. there is always a moment of the night where someone asks you if you date is going well— obviously assuming that you are lovers. you both share a shy look, each year.

RIKI

your best friend used to not be a huge fan of physical touch. there was a time in your friendship, during middle school mainly, where he was unable to give you a hug without feeling forced to. and even when he did give you a hug, he would barely want to touch you— making the embrace comedicaly awkward.

but ever since he passed puberty, he has grown to love physical touch more and more. he picked up your gentle way of showing affection: through hugs, through touch, but only with you. and he gets very, very annoying when he wants it, when he wants to cuddle, “come here,” he whines.

you sigh, closing your laptop and putting it on your nightstand. he beams as he observes you laying down. the tall man gets comfortable, a little bit too comfortable. he entangles his long legs with yours, wraps his arms around your body and rests his head against your chest. you sigh, “i miss your middle schooler era.”

taglist ( open )

[deadsetobsessions]

Short DPXDC prompt #2, from @stealingyourbones.

“It’ll be good for you!” Dick threw an arm around Tim’s shoulders as he beamed his way through Gotham U’s campus.

“I could have done this online. They have virtual degrees. I could have hacked my way into one.”

“Yeah, but then you wouldn’t get the authentic experience!”

The group arrived at the dorm building, one of many, and Damian gave it a dubious once over.

“If this is authentic, I refuse to be a part of the locals.” Damian quietly remarked, before peering cautiously at Dick. “I have obtained my degrees. I do not need this experience.”

“It’s really not that bad, guys.”

“How would you know? You went to Blüdhaven for college.” Tim retorted with the voice of a young man resigned to despair. “You lived off campus and your door pin was Zitka’s birthday, month first then date second.”

“… Tim, why the fuck do you know that.”

“When I knocked on your door, that was just common courtesy. I didn’t actually need you to open it. I could have opened it myself.”

Dick’s smile brightens even further, with the light of an LED bulb instead of his usual sun, and places a hand on Tim’s head. “You’re creepy sometimes, you know that?”

“And you’re careless sometimes, you know that?” Tim groused. “Ugh, whatever. Let’s just get this over with. I can’t believe I’m going to have a roommate.”

“It’ll be fun! And if it isn’t, you can always swap roomies. We have enough pull to have that happen.”

“Doubtlessly.” Damian said. “This campus barely passes the bar of acceptability. Why is the campus like this. Why is it incorporated into the city.”

Tim smirked. Even though Damian spoke with formal language only found in the highest of echelons of society, Jon’s influence was beginning to make itself known. Good for him, the little shit. Privately, Tim thought the presence of a Kryptonian brought out the better sides of a bat. God knows Kon did, for him.

“Okay, enough whining you two! Let’s get Tim settled in.”

Tim elbowed Dick in the gut and kept walking into the building as his big brother wheezed dramatically. Damian rolled his eyes- he’s seen Nightwing take harder hits than Drake’s pointy elbows and walk it off- and followed. Unbeknownst to them, Dick all but beamed with joy at their solidarity. His plan was working.

——

Tim settled into the dorm, disgruntled at the small and uncomfortable twin mattress. The dorm smelt of faint mildew, had at least ten safety code violations, and had ventilation that probably hasn’t been cleaned since the last fear gas attack. The vent thing honestly might explain the state of Gotham U’s students and their proclivities to become supervillains. Tim is more tempted to go into villainy than ever before with these conditions.

That is, until his roomie walked in.

Step 1) reboot brain.

Holy shit, his roomie was HOT.

Step 2) notice all the weird things his roomie all showed unconsciously. Too graceful. Walking carefully, like how Kon does sometimes when he’s remembering to be careful with his fragile surroundings. Meta? Too sharp teeth.

Wait. Sharp teeth?

“Uh, hi. I’m Danny. You must be my roommate. Tim, right?” The guy, Danny, had a deep voice. And too sharp teeth. Because he smiled. It was a damn nice smile.

Step 3) bi panic. DID TIM MENTION HE WAS HOT??

“Uh. Hi. Yeah, I’m Tim.”

“Cool. What’re you majoring in?”

“Forensic Analysis. You?”

“Aerospace engineering.”

They looked at each other awkwardly. “Cool, I’m just gonna set my stuff down.”

“You’re not from here, right?” Tim asked and promptly flushed when an amused smile gets thrown his way.

“The accent give it away?”

“Yeah. Uh. You want a tour, man?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

——

It was flashes of things.

“Oh. I don’t go anywhere without my thermos.” Danny smiled, patting the dented thing. Except, Tim’s never seen him drink from it.

Or:

“Oh, woah. Food’s not attacking me.” And the thing is, Danny actually looked apprehensive before poking at the cafeteria food.

What??

And a month passes before Tim realizes he’s one hundred percent absolutely fucked.

Because it’s one thing if it’s an extremely attractive dork with brains and humor.

It’s an entirely different thing if the extremely attractive dork with brains and humor was a complete and total mystery. Tim is an absolute sucker for mysteries. It’s even more attractive than smacking him in the face with a brick!

“Hey, Tim?”

“Uh. Yeah?” Tim screamed at himself. He’s dated like fifteen different people! Why the hell is he so awkward with Danny?

(Tim was always awkward. He has that autistic rizz.)

“Tell me more about blood splatters?” Danny asked with a hopeful smile. Tim folded like wet paper. (It helps that he knows a lot- too much- about analyzing blood splatters.)

——

Outside of their window, Nightwing cackled to himself. It was worth using the Wayne name to get Tim the most interesting college kid Dick could find as a roommate. Who said Tim had the market corner on stalking anyways?

Nightwing flipped off of the roof, all but skipping home.

Robin, his patrol partner for the night, grimaced. For all Richard was his favorite, the man unsettled him at times.

[cuteandhughesy]

Met You At The Right Time, This Is What It Feels Like | Quinn Hughes

summary: falling in love with quinn through your shared years at college (umich!quinn x reader)

[word count] 3.3k

warnings: NSFW! university relationship | kissing | mentions of drinking and partying | smut | loosing virginity | mentions of p in v intercourse | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

a/n: based off this request! this was so fucking fun and cute to write and now I want quinn as my boyfriend ! so hope you all feel the same

🎵 feels like by gracie abrams

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

ღ bf! quinn hughes who you first met at the rink. one of your good friends was dating another one of the wolverines and asked you to accompany her to his game.

quinn had spotted you during the warm-ups. your smile wide and amused as you watched all the athletes warm up in their own routines. you were joking with chloe—your friend—while her boyfriend tossed you both pucks over the glass. quinn almost passed out when you glanced his way—sending him a sweet, reserved grin. he forced himself to smile back, and when that made you blush and look away, quinn knew that he had to know you.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who asked his teammate about you as soon as the game finished—a victory for the wolverines, thankfully. he attempted to sound nonchalant and uninterested, but his teammate knew quinn too well. he wrapped quinn up in a firm, annoying side huge and gave him a nugie, all while saying 'does huggy bear have a crush on y/n?'

quinn thought the name suited you perfectly. thankfully quinn doesn’t need to ask again before his teammate is getting your number from chloe.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who texted you the following night. at first you were confused—a random number sending you a message with no identification other than a simple 'hey, is this y/n?' curious and intrigued, you responded immediately; 'this is she. who's this?'

quinn's response was immediate, 'shit, sorry. it's quinn hughes.'

and of course that made you giggle into your palm, feet kicking like you're an oversized excited child. because quinn fucking hughes was texting you. quinn hughes, the cutie who sits two rows back from you in kinesiology class. quinn hughes who was stupid good at hockey and was looking at you during warmups the day before.

you don't even care how he got your number (he told you regardless though, obviously), all you cared about was him wanting to text you in the first place.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who after a week and a million shared text messages later, you run into at a local coffee shop—where you merely miss spilling your entire iced chai down the front of his light coloured hockey hoodie.

he freezes and stutters at the sight of your flushed face, and his nerves only build when he sees that you're not nervous to talk to him. quinn quickly realizes he has some sort of infatuation with you, and before he can sike himself out he asks you on a date.

quinn asks in the middle of your scentence, but you don't even care. he's cute—he's dorky. 'would you wanna get dinner together sometime? like maybe thursday, if you're free?'

you are so free.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who picks you up at your dorm room before your first date. he lives off campus with his friends, and he borrowed his roommates car to come and get you. he brings you flowers—which you put in an empty orange juice bottle that you filled with water—and hugs you at the door. it’s kinda awkward and so perfectly quinn.

he lets his hand hover your lower back as you walk to the car, and of course he opens the door for you. quinn lets you play your music in the car, and he lets you talk his ear off—he can’t help but admire how comfortable you are around him. he thinks you’re like sunshine.

quinn takes you to a local italian restaurant, where you order chicken alfredo and he orders spaghetti bolognese. the conversation flows between you easily, and by the time desert rolls around, you’re sharing a lava cake—your respective spoons swiping at each others while playfully fighting for the same bites.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who after bringing you back to your dorm, grabs your wrist before you can walk in. your roommate isn’t home yet, and you can smell the peonies quinn brought that you left in the jug by the door.

you blink at him curiously, because you’ve already shared your pleasant goodbyes and made plans to see each other again. ‘you okay?’

quinn’s palm is sweaty where it wraps around you. he’s nervous, and he swallows roughly—eyes darting around your blushing face like he can’t get enough. ‘can I kiss you?’

your answer is pushing up to your toes and wrapping you arms around his neck. that’s when quinn leans down, kissing you timidly but also firmly. he’s never felt lips softer than yours, and you’ve never had a kiss turn your stomach inside out the way quinn’s did.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who asks you on a second date, and then a third, and then a fourth. each date is accompanied by a kiss, and another kiss—until all it feels like you’re doing is giggling and kissing like teenagers.

he’s a gentleman, and never makes advances that you aren’t comfortable with. quinn brings you to the beach for sunsets, kissing you under the glow of the setting sun. he takes you to the movies and to a local pottery class—sneaking kisses anytime your eyes meet.

he asks you to be his girlfriend on your fourth date while you’re both still in the car, hands twitching against his pants nervously. you’ve never smiled bigger, and you squeal in excitement, leaning over the centre console and kissing him.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who has never had a serious girlfriend before, only stupid month or so situationships and meaningless hookups. so now that he’s got you, an actual girlfriend, he’s enamoured by all the little ‘girlfriend’ things you do.

quinn goes feral when you wear his clothes. the sight of you waking up in his cozy bed, blinking tiredly while his shirt rides up your body, revealing your underwear…quinn just about dies.

you cook dinner for him, and you always tickle his back when he’s falling asleep. you want to watch all his favourite movies, and you want to learn about hockey—which leads to him teaching you how to skate, where you inevitably fall and bring him down with you.

you’re the perfect girlfriend. and even though quinn stresses he doesn’t need you to fold his laundry or pick up his shampoo when you notice he’s out, he appreciates it more than he could ever express.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who always is getting you flowers. whether it’s a pre-made bouquet from the grocery store, an arrangement he picked out at the florist, or a bunch of wild flowers from the park beside his house, quinn is giving you flowers.

when he’s at the grocery store he always picks up your favourite ben & jerry’s ice cream, as well as your favourite drink. quinn always makes sure you have water before he gets in bed himself, because you’ll be upset if you don’t, and he lets you tuck your feet under his legs because they’re always cold.

quinn is the sweetest boy you’ve ever known and he is constantly making sure you’re content before anything else.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who takes your virginity. you’ve only had one boyfriend and that was back in highschool—the farthest you’d gone with him was kissing and a little groping. when you tell quinn that you’re a virgin, he’s a little nervous—especially because he’s already hovering over you, painfully hard while your bare tits are starring at him. the only reason he’s nervous is because he wants you to be comfortable and sure. he wants it to be perfect for you.

but when you assure him in a breathy whisper, your small nimble fingers reaching out and squeezing his dick, quinn can’t hold himself back any longer. he fucks you soft and sweet, bucking into you at a pace that has your breath hitching. quinn checks on you through the whole thing, scattering kisses along your face and neck while you’re moaning in pleasure.

it’s perfect for you, and that makes it perfect for quinn.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who plays a little extra hard when you’re in the crowd. there’s something so special about having you watching him in the stands during his games, cheering him on and jumping up and down with excitement. quinn swears he can hear you over the crowd, and that always pushes him a little bit more.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who always makes sure to comfort you when you’re stressed—and vice versa.

you often get overwhelmed with your school work. you’re very smart and have a jam packed schedule, and a lot of the time if you want to spend time with quinn, you’re bringing your textbooks and laptop so you can get some work done. quinn hates the way you sigh shakily when you reach a difficult question. you’re tired and done with school, and most of the time it makes you emotional.

when you begin to cry quinn darts to you, wrapping you in a hug while you sob into his shoulder. he rubs your back soothingly, squeezing your arms and sides comfortingly. he whispers words of reassurance in your ear until you’ve calmed down, and when you inevitably get back to work, quinn helps you. even though he has no fucking clue what you’re working on, the effort makes you melt.

quinn is always the most stressed when he’s dealing with an injury or illness—because that puts a pause on hockey. you know how much hockey means to your boyfriend, and seeing him so broken about not being able to play just wrecks you. in times like that, it’s the little things you do that help quinn feel better.

making him food and making sure he’s stocked up on drinks and getting his electrolytes. massaging his shoulders and giving him head scratches. if he’s injured you make sure he’s got everything in reach so he doesn’t have to move, and if he’s sick you make sure you’re in reach, because all quinn ever wants is you.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who isn’t a huge party guy. he prefers staying in—watching movies and hockey highlights until he’s falling asleep, preferably with you tucked into his side.

you’ve always been more outgoing than quinn, and mingling is one of your favourite things to do. so every now and then when you go out, quinn joins you. he loves watching you in your element—dancing with your friends and talking to anyone who will listen. and when you’re wrapping yourself around quinn, blinking and pouting up at him all pretty asking him to dance with you, quinn never declines.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who has a few lovey dovey nicknames for you—lovey being one of them. there’s a few more common terms of endearment like babe, baby and beautiful that often slip from his lips like second nature. they’re the safest ones, the nicknames he’ll call you around his friends and yours like it’s no big deal. but then there’s the nicknames he reserves for when it’s just you both—honey, his girly, and your personal favourite: lovey.

your nicknames for quinn are simple—usually just babe or baby. but on the odd occasion when everything feels really soft and intimate, you’ll can him bubba.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who’s love language is words of affirmation. he didn’t realize it until after he met you that it was his love language, but anytime you praise him or reassure him, quinn’s stomach swoops and his heart flutters excitedly. he’s obsessed with the way you speak to him, and he’ll never get tired of it.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who knows your love language is physical touch. you love being close to quinn. if you’re not sitting next to him, you’re sitting on him—trying to get as close as possible at any means necessary. you love wrapping your hands around his arm, and throwing your leg over his hips when you’re in bed together.

quinn can be a bit awkward when it comes to physical contact, especially in public, and you understand and respect that. so when you’re out together and he kisses your cheek or wraps you in a hug, it makes it just that much sweeter.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who may not always go out to parties with you, but will always drop you off and pick you up if you need a ride. it could be a local bar or a random sticky frat house, quinn will be there if you need him.

he’s the most patient human in the world. guiding you to the car while you babble about nonsense—completely hammered. quinn pulls over if you feel sick, even if you has to pull over 15 times in a 5 minute ride. he helps you shower if you’re sticky, and he puts you in pyjamas before you get in bed—no matter who’s place you’re at. quinn makes you chug water and take advil, and he makes sure you’re sleeping on your side incase you get sick.

and he doesn’t even mind doing it either. as long as you’re safe and okay, quinn will do whatever he needs to.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who says I love you first. you’ve been dating for 6 months, and spring is blooming in michigan. it’s the first really warm day of march, and he’s taken you to the pier for a afternoon date.

you walk the pier and have shitty boardwalk food—laughing, kissing and talking about anything and everything. dates like this are always your favourite. just you, quinn and the comforting atmosphere.

you had been mid talking about the book you were reading, a book that was making you angry because you claimed the plot was ‘stupid’. you were telling quinn about the main character, hands moving animatedly as you talked when quinn just said it.

‘I love you so much, y/n’ he said quitley. but you heard it, and your previous ramble comes to a halt. you blinked once, and then again, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. and then tears begin forming in your eyes, and quinn smiles. ‘don’t cry lovey’ he said, pulling you into his chest.

but of course you continue to cry, holding onto quinn like your life depended on it. and when you look up at him and say it back, lashes all wet and nose running, quinn thinks you’ve never looked prettier.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who has to be almost sneaky when it comes to having sex with you. you live in a dorm room with a roommate, and he lives in a house with four other teammates. quinn doesn’t have his own car, and neither do you. having sex is like trying to curate a spy mission.

you have to plan times you’ll be alone, which is usually in your dorm room between 5 p.m and 6:30 p.m while you’re roommate is in a clinical lab. that’s always the best sex with quinn because he doesn’t have to hold back. he holds you against the mattress with his body, and there’s a pillow shoved under your hips while he slips in from behind. quinn pounds you into the mattress until it’s creaks, and he has to cover your mouth to muffle your moans. after all, it’s still a dorm room and you have neighbours.

but there are times when you’re both too impatient and horny. his roommates are scattered through his house, half downstairs and the other only a room over. quinn’s simple and innocent kisses soon turn more heated, and before either of you can think logically, you’re exposing only the essentials so quinn can slip into your heat while he holds your legs open.

your moans are muffled with his lips, and he shoves a pillow between the wall and headboard to not give away what you’re doing.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who gets really stressed once scouts starts checking him out for the upcoming draft. you notice in the way his shoulders are tighter, and he starts to get a little distant.

of course it hurts your feelings, but you understand the pressure he’s feeling. so like the sweet girlfriend quinn knows you to be, you reassure him. you’re not too pushy, and you’re not overwhelming. you kiss him gently and whisper your confidence in him when it’s just the two of you, facing each other in bed—nothing but the moonlight illuminating you.

it helps him more than you’ll ever know.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who is a silent jealous type. he knows you’re social, and he also knows that guys love that. when you’re at parties and mingling your little heart out, lots of guys will try and make advances on you.

you ooze confidence, and your smile is so fucking pretty that quinn almost understands these guys. but you’re his girlfriend, and the sight of these boys trying to touch you and flirt with you makes his blood boil.

of course you don’t entertain them, but that doesn’t stop the jealousy that stirs within your boyfriend. you can always tell when quinn is feeling jealous because his body gets tense and he pouts like a little boy. it doesn’t matter where you are—could be the beach and strangers are checking out your body, or a grocery store and a man compliments your smile, quinn always has the same jealous reaction. and that’s no reaction at all expect that frown.

when you see it you’re instantly moving, wrapping yourself around quinn and giving his pulse point a little kiss. and when you murmur that you love him, quinn always cracks.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who even when you’re fighting, never raises his voice at you. it doesn’t matter how frustrated he is, or how pointless your argument is, quinn would never yell. most of the time is just makes you angrier, because why can’t he just put you in your place—especially when you know you’re being annoying and stupid. but quinn always just tries to problem solve in a calm, soothing voice.

but don’t worry, he puts you in your place in other ways ;)

ღ bf! quinn hughes who asks you to stay with him for a few weeks in the summer at the lake house before the draft.

if quinn wasn’t in love with you already, seeing you with his family would’ve had him falling. you always cook breakfast with ellen in the morning, the two of you giggling and chatting like you’ve known each other for ears. you go golfing with quinn and his dad, and even though you suck at it, jim has nothing but praise and encouragement for you.

jack and luke tease you like you’re their sister. they push you into the pool and steal your fries when you’re not looking, which always makes you laugh. you blend in with his family so well, quinn can’t do anything but smile and admire it all as it unfolds.

you sit with quinn during bonfires and movie nights on the couch, sharing quick kisses when you both think nobody is watching—news flash, somebody is always watching, which usually ends with his mom cooing or his brothers teasing. you and quinn both wake up a little extra early, stifling moans as quinn pushes into your heat in the uninterrupted hours of the morning. you swim like kids, go grocery shopping with his brothers, dance in the moonlight as taylor swift songs, make out on the boat when everyone else stays back. it’s perfect. its simply just you and quinn.

ღ bf! quinn hughes who you sit beside at the nhl draft. he’s nervous, your hand clutched in his clammy one while his thumb runs over your knuckles absentmindedly. just before the draft starts, you squeeze his hand three times, a silent I love you. and quinn squeezes back.

his name gets called and you feel like crying. he hugs his parents first, and then quinn turns to you, a smile on his face while your eyes begin to go misty. he kisses you, in front of the cameras and the crowd because he knows you’re going to be together for the rest of your lives, and the nhl might as well get used to you now, because you’re not going anywhere.

[enhani-ki]

ENHYPEN AS YOUR "HOMEBOY"

warnings : very short, maybe a little suggestive :)

HEESEUNG

your homeboy who's too naturally flirty. it happens all the time that you don't even catch it anymore—you thought you'd become numb or immune to it.

you're his food buddy. you always share bites and judge menus together.

sometimes you'll talk about something deep like fear of failure or what dreams even mean anymore—and he'll tell you how far you've come, or let's you know just how proud he is of you. sometimes you'll get shy and flustered, sometimes you'll roll your eyes, and sometimes, you just straight up cry.

"what?" he'd say, all wide-eyes and innocent. "what did i say?" "what the hell did i do?"

if it were anyone else, they'd fall for him every time.

JAY

your homeboy who shows you love through quiet actions. he surprises you with either little or big gifts like: a drink you mentioned once, a charm you saw at a stall, jewelry, or a designer t-shirt you've been eyeing nonstop. doesn't need a 'thank you' and never ever made a big deal out of anything.

jay loves taking naps with you. he's also not loud but for sure gets that random energy burst. sometimes he starts yapping, your heads would bump together because he's moving so much.

truth is, he'll probably do and give you whatever you ask. jay loves seeing you happy and he loves it more when you're comfortable in life.

JAKE

your homeboy who treats you like you're one of his beloved dogs. he loves taking walks with you outside and he's always affectionate. he touches your back or waist, sometimes he gets protective without realizing it.

jake gets those bursts of cute aggression whenever he looks at you, randomly slapping your thighs (gently?) while laughing biting his lip or biting his tongue out.

like heeseung, he's also naturally flirty.

his eyes light up and he gets excited when you let him treat you or spoil you even a little.

SUNGHOON

your homeboy who always clock your tea. he always bickers with you and nagging like you've been married to him for 15 years.

he tries to be patient but will 100% call you out when you start acting dumb or when you don't take him seriously. still, he's the one who gets worried the most for you, always checking in on you.

karaoke nights. he shows you his exclusive tiktoks. whenever he goes shopping with you, sunghoon wants you to take everything you want and he just pay for it.

SUNOO

your homeboy who matches your energy so perfectly. you're both full of genuine love and compliments, it's like a competition on who loves who more.

you do skincare or make-up together. you both take each other on dates and post cute pictures with lovey-dovey captions.

with him, it's glittery, chaotic, and lowkey kind of romantic. he's your soulmate for real.

JUNGWON

your chillest homeboy. makes sure you're fed, makes sure you both went to the place you wanted to check out, he lets you pick where to eat, and like to puts a hand in your shoulder while walking together.

he always has the best reactions whenever he listens to your rants. jungwon knows all your gossip, even knows the life story of people he's never met.

always calm, unbothered, and quietly devoted to your comfort. people are always mistaking you for a couple though.

NI-KI

your clingiest homeboy but be on some nonchalant shit sometimes, it's annoying. dramatically calls you into his room for an 'emergency' only to ask you to turn off the light because he's too cozy to move.

he runs to you when the others tease him and back him into the corner. "can you tell them i'm right?" "back me up, please? just this once?" even though you always do.

you message each other every day. he always win at every games, makes fun of you, then feel bad after.

ni-ki loves his nap sessions with you, sometimes you even wake up with his arms wrapped around your waist.

fake trips and you have no idea why. he loves it because you spoil him all the time but when it's his turn to do the same for you? it's 1000/10, chef's kiss, he knows everything you want and he'll give it to you.

note : i hope i understood what platonic means TT

マスターリストm.list

[bananayuyu]

Lust is in the Air

Pairing: Hongjoong x f reader

Genre: smut

Word count: 6.4k

Summary: Your best friend drags you along to a family wedding, wanting to add some fun to your all too serious life. Turns out her uncle is the one who really provides the distraction.

Warnings: smut, MDNI, age gap (Hongjoong is 40 reader is 23), some talk during sex about the age gap so really don't read this if you don't like that, some dom/sub dynamics, throat fucking, degradation and praise, bratty y/n, use of pet names (baby, doll), ass eating, anal, unprotected sex

A/n: Sometimes I see a random video of him and I'm reminded all over again how hot I think a very mature Hongjoong would be. Especially if he was mocking me and making me feel pathetic. Yeah this was pure horny, quite filthy for me. This isn't as proofread as my normal stuff so apologies for any mistakes

Read it on ao3

------

Well, maybe it was a good idea. You had been staying in every weekend since the breakup, and maybe being forced out of the house would be good for you. Force you to interact with a few people, to actually put some effort into your appearance. Maybe put on a little makeup, or actually brush your hair.

"Please don't say no," Beatrice says through the phone. "My family would love it if you came, and I'd love it if you came. And we haven't had a chance to spend a weekend like this in forever. There will be free food and free booze!"

"I know you're worried about me, Bea," you respond, sighing.

"I'm not inviting you out of pity," she says.

"I know, I know. Just, give me some time to think it over. I've got an assignment I need to finish for one of my classes, I think it's due this Sunday night. So if I can't finish it this week I'll need to do it this weekend," you reply.

"Okay, just text me. I'm not gonna invite anyone else as my plus one, if you don't end up coming. So no rush, take your time," she says.

"Thank you. You know I appreciate you so much," you say, sighing into the cushion of your couch.

"You know I feel the same," she says, sighing too. You'd both been through breakups recently. It seemed like your hardships always occurred on nearly the same timeline, making you both able to rely on each other for understanding. And she knew getting you out of the house, especially for a weekend wedding, would be good for you. Her cousin's family was rich and hadn't held back in their planning, booking the fanciest hotel in town for everyone. They were paying for everything; the food and drinks of course, and everyone's hotel expenses. You'd knew you'd go. You'd try to finish the assignment beforehand. But even if you didn't, you'd still go.

Driving up to the front of the hotel together felt surreal. Beatrice had asked to take your car, as it wasn't the bright purple color that her's was. This place was fancy, and though neither of your cars were deluxe, at least your's was black.

"Miss McArthur?" the valet asked once you rolled your window down.

"Yeah, that's me," Beatrice said from the passenger seat, reaching over you to hand him her ID. "This is my plus one, y/n. She should be on the list."

After a brief look at his clipboard the man gave you both a satisfied nod. "Do you ladies have any bags we can carry up for you?" he asked.

"Yes, in the trunk," Beatrice answered for you, which you were grateful for. You'd never interacted with a valet before, never been in such a fancy situation in your life. You stumbled out of the car a bit awkwardly, your jean shorts and t-shirt looking ridiculous next to the suit and tie of the man in front of you. He held out his hand to you and for a moment you paused, wondering if he was offering to take your hand. But then you realized he was actually offering to take your keys. Duh.

"Thank you," you said quickly, heading around the car to meet Bea as you walked behind the man carrying your bags.

On the sixth floor you entered your shared room, a spacious and beautifully decorated space with a huge window covering the far wall. It was a sliding glass door, that led out to a balcony overlooking the river below. In the afternoon sun the water glittered, but you knew the view at night would be the real show, absolutely magical.

"Everyone is meeting in the restaurant at 7," Bea tells you, glancing at her family's group chat.

"Well then I've got a little over two hours to make myself look at least a little bit nice. Like maybe I actually belong here," you laugh, opening your bag to grab the casual dress you'd packed.

"Oh dinner tonight won't be fancy, wear whatever," Bea replies, kicking off her sandals.

"Okay but, with your cousins family not fancy would still probably be a little fancy, right?" you ask.

"You don't need to worry about fitting in, dude. No one will care," Bea replies.

"I just don't want to look like an idiot," you say, eyeing her.

"Y/n, you really need to stop worrying. This weekend is about us having fun. I'm not even that close with my cousin Amana, to be honest. We'll probably barely interact with her family. But we get to attend this fancy wedding, all expenses paid. Just wear whatever you feel like, do whatever you want to. Just promise me you'll have some fun," she says.

"Okay, fine," you respond, rolling your eyes jokingly. "I guess I'll try to enjoy this super nice luxury hotel for the weekend."

Bea laughs in relief, at hearing you joke around. It was what you both needed more of; you both had serious work and school lives already to contend with. And seriously disappointing dating lives, too.

As seven approaches you both make your way to the elevator, pausing at you exit the door to inspect the slight amount of makeup you'd put on. You hadn't worn any in weeks and it made you feel really pretty, along with the flowly sundress and sandals you'd decided to wear. You weren't always one for such feminine clothing but today it felt right, and you both bounced down the hall, spirits high. Bea led the way through the lobby to a long hallway, past what looked like a bar and some other room that had a bouncer, to the large restaurant at the end. Immediately you saw the long tables lined up, clearly set up for the wedding party. This wasn't the dress rehearsal, just the welcome dinner. It was only Friday, and the wedding wasn't until Sunday. Immediately you spotted the wine and appetizers filling the table, scanning the tables to try to find your seats.

"I can't find us Bea," you laugh, awkwardly walking past family members you'd never met before.

"Y/n, you're at our table," you hear a familiar female voice say, and turn to see Bea's mom.

"Oh, hi! Thank you!" you say as you walk over to her, giving her a quick hug.

"So glad you could join us sweetie," she says, gesturing to your seats. "See, you and Beatrice are near the end there, across from Nathan. Oh and have you met Beatrice's uncle Hongjoong before?" she asks, gesturing down the table.

You look down to see Beatrice sitting, pulling her chair under her and smiling wide. Across from her, in a casual but fitted grey t-shirt, a man smiles back, handing her a glass of wine he's just poured. He is striking, with jet black hair and tattoos, piercings donning his right ear. His jaw is sharp, his teeth perfect when he smiles. He looks maybe 27, 28. He's wearing an expensive watch, or at least a watch that looks expensive to your eyes, and a small simple chain necklace. His hair is cropped short at the sides; he looks so put together, so professional. So mature. So fucking attractive.

"That's Bea's uncle?" you ask her. It's not just his age that makes you ask. It's the fact that he's basically your dream come true. You see the muscles in his arm flex as he pours Nathan a glass too, and it makes your eyes cross for a moment.

"Well technically I think he's a second cousin, once removed, or something like that. He's a part of Wooyoung's family." Wooyoung was her husband, Bea's dad. You'd met her parents, and her brother Nathan, but never anyone else in her extended family. And you struggled to recall ever hearing about a Hongjoong before. You stared at him a moment before he moved his eyes over to you, catching you off guard. His look was mischievous, like he wants to play or mess with you. It made it hard to believe this was someone Bea called 'uncle.'

"Do you want to sit?" Bea's mom asked you.

"Yeah, sorry," you smiled at her, making you way down.

"Y/n! This is my uncle Hongjoong, and Hongjoong, this is y/n," Beatrice says as you pull out your seat next to her.

"Very nice to meet you," he says with an outstretched hand, his handshake strong and confident in a way that makes your body tingle.

"You as well," you reply, with a bashful smile. Immediately Bea asks you a question and you respond on auto-pilot, not even really hearing. Because your head is swimming in water just from being in this man's presence, and you can't focus. You don't even notice the glass of wine he'd poured you until he sets it down by your appetizer plate, gently bumping the stem on the rim of the plate to make a gentle clink. The sound makes your eyes snap up, and for some reason he looks amused.

"Oh, thank you," you say to him, bowing your head slightly. That mischievous smirk is back on his face when you lock eyes again, like he's trying to tell you something, but you can't be sure what it is. You certainly hope he's thinking what you're thinking. God, he's fucking stunning.

Those are the only words you speak to each other for the entirety of dinner. With so many people in attendance the restaurant is loud, louder still as everyone becomes tipsy, and then outright drunk on the unlimited wine.

"Hey, my parents want me a Nathan to go take pictures with them on the golf course nearby. They booked a photo shoot or something," Bea tells you, rolling her eyes slightly. "I'm not sure when we'll be back but feel free to like, go to the hot tub or do whatever around the hotel," she says.

"Okay, sounds good. Thank you, seriously," you say as you hug her. "I hope it's fun."

"Oh, I'm sure it will be," she laughs. "My parents and their family photos," she shakes her head, making you giggle, as she slowly makes her way to meet her brother at the front door of the restaurant.

You take stock of yourself for a moment, making sure you have your phone and your wallet in your purse, making sure your room key is still in your wallet. You take the last swig of your second glass of wine, patting yourself on the back for not overdoing it this first night when basically everyone around you did. You start sipping on your nearly empty glass of water too, knowing you don't want to wake up hungover tomorrow. The table is basically empty, with everyone slowly clearing out or making their last requests at the bar. You decide you'll go explore in a moment, go scope out the pool and hot tub situation, and maybe see if you can figure out what room is behind that bouncer. But just as you start standing up, Hongjoong approaches the table.

"I got some more waters for the table, but it looks like they've all left," he chuckles, his arms full.

"They went to do a family photo, Bea said," you reply, stuck for a moment awkwardly between sitting and standing. Hongjoong nods, like he already knew.

"Oh, were you about to leave too? Don't let me keep you," he says, the glint back in his eye again.

"I was thinking I'd go take a look at the pool and hot tub, maybe explore a bit," you say. It sort of takes you by surprise that you're sharing this with a total stranger, given your usual instinct to not share anything with people you don't know. You easily could have excused yourself, and been exploring the hotel alone. But deep down you know why you're sharing it. You hope he picks up on that reason, too.

"That's a great idea," he says, gently setting the waters down. "Mind if I join you? I was thinking of exploring the hotel some myself."

Bingo. You smile, eyes fluttering at him for a second. You truly don't even mean to do it, but the way he looks at you has you feeling shameless.

"Sure, I wouldn't mind," you reply, stepping out from your chair and gently pushing it into the table.

"Want to take a water with you?" he asks, holding one out.

"I don't think we can just take the glass with us," you reply, narrowing your eyes at him.

"Oh, who cares," he says glancing over his shoulder, seeing all of the wait staff occupied at the bar with everyone's last minute orders. "I'll carry it out, if you're that worried," he says, cocking his head slightly to the side and eyeing you with what must be mock pity.

"Fine," you roll your eyes at him, trying to fight the smile forming on your face from betraying how much his tone and facial expression are affecting you. You turn around and start strolling out of the restaurant, not even waiting for him. Once you're exiting he's already caught up, two water glasses in hand. You turn to your right, heading for the lobby.

"Wrong way, y/n," Hongjoong says lowly from behind you, making you stop in your tracks. "The pool is out those doors at the end of the hall."

"The sign in the lobby says the door to the pool is by the front desk," you reply, looking over your shoulder at him. The hallway is dimly lit, and the shadows on his face make his jaw look even sharper.

"Well that door also leads to the pool," he says, gesturing to the end of the hall. You just stare at him a moment, not sure why you feel the instinct to argue. "You don't believe me?" he asks, chuckling and looking you dead in the eye, before obviously snaking his gaze down the entirety of your body. Now that he's standing you see the fitted black pants and black dress shoes he's wearing, making his outfit look even more professional. His thighs look strong, and his stance is one of confidence, his entire demeanor cool and collected. You want to come up with a witty retort but can't think of anything, so you just start walking the way he's said to, again passing him by without slowing down to meet him. You open the doors gently but don't stop to hold them for him, brattiness taking ahold of you. Maybe it's the fancy hotel, or the wine, but you feel like a princess who deserves whatever she wants. And right now that's to piss Hongjoong off a bit, and see the pool.

"I thought nice girls hold doors open for the elderly," he says once he's exited too, sidling up to you. You stand by the long edge of the pool, taking in the lights below the surface that dance through the water. You turn to him and roll your eyes, taking the water glass he offers you immediately. "So, what do you do?" he asks.

"I'm still in school, I'm in my senior year," you say, turning back to the water. "And I work part time as an administrative assistant in the Dean's office, to help cover some of my tuition."

"College senior," he says, like he's mulling it over. "So that makes you how old?"

"Guess," you say, turning to him again, this time with your whole body.

"22," he replies. His voice low, like he's hesitant to say it.

"Close, 23," you say, not lowering your voice to meet his.

"And how old do you think I am?" he asks you, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Mmm, like, 38?" you joke, squinting your eyes as you look intently at his face. The feeling of wanting to piss him off still hadn't left you.

"How astute," he replies, nodding. "People usually think I'm younger."

"You're actually 38?" you ask, bewildered.

"Actually, 40," Hongjoong replies, making your eyebrows shoot up.

"You're lying," you say, rolling your eyes and shaking your head at him.

"Wow, second time tonight you've thought that. I don't know what I've done to make you think so poorly of me," he replies, that mischievous look again painting his face.

"Oh, shut up," you say, rolling your eyes harder this time, wanting to reach out and playfully punch him. Or maybe not so playfully. He's looking more and more perfect by the second, and his attitude, the way he's just so confident and calm, is making you hot and bothered. You know it maybe it's wrong, but now that you know his real age you find this whole scenario even hotter. If you were honest with yourself you'd always dreamed of fucking an older man, but the few you'd gone on dates with or had the chance to talk to had always been so immature, insecure, and underwhelming. Just like all the other guys you'd dated. It was a massive disappointment to learn that age didn't often give people that self-assured demeanor that you so desired. But clearly it did sometimes; the proof was standing in front of you.

"That wasn't very nice," Hongjoong replies, fixing you with a look of disapproval that makes your thighs clench involuntarily, as the two of you stare each other down merely feet apart. You hold his gaze as long as you can before you look down at your feet, his stoic demeanor feeling like a brick wall you can't break through.

"You're very pretty, y/n," he says, stepping forward to lift your face up to his.

"Really?" you ask him, eyes wide. Playing it just the way he likes.

"I know you know how pretty you are, you've been giving me those eyes all night," he says, looking like he disapproves. "You're a bit of brat, too, aren't you?" he asks, his hand moving to the side of your cheek.

"No comment," you giggle, and he grabs your hand, bringing it to his upper arm. You grab onto his bicep as he moves his hand to your waist pulling you two closer.

"Dance with me," he says, pulling you slightly into his chest.

"There isn't any music playing," you say, laughing. And it's the way that he doesn't just automatically laugh at your little comments that really gets you going.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you didn't like me very much," he says seriously, pulling you in and starting to rock you back and forth. You dance together for a few minutes, no words being exchanged as your bodies get used to the proximity, as your mind begins to swim again, even more so now that his hands are on you. You want him to kiss you, do anything, now, but he keeps his hands where they are, still leading you around in slow circles. Fuck it, you think. You lift your hands to his face and pull him in, your lips meeting in a perfect kiss, his hand on your waist moving up your back as he holds you to him, leaning you back as he deepens it. You hold steadily onto his bicep for balance, your breathing fast as you stick your tongue in his mouth, not hiding your desperation. You don't care to, not when you've spent two months without this feeling, tortured over the idea that no one at your school would ever consider you an option after your last relationship ended the way it did.

And just when it seems like you're the only desperate one, Hongjoong moves his hands down, running them up your thighs and under your dress to find your panties. He finds none, much to his surprise, which makes his dick harden even further. He gropes your ass, deepening the kiss more, making you arch your back in neediness. And then he snakes his hand around, slowly moving to your core, before suddenly running a finger over your slit, making you gasp. You've forgotten where you are, totally engrossed in the feelings he's giving you. You buck your hips against his hand, moaning pathetically into his mouth, your legs feeling like they might give out on you. He starts circling your entrance, finally pushing one finger in maybe an inch, when you finally remember where you are.

"Wait, fuck, not out here," you say, pulling back from him. He pulls his hand away immediately, his fingers glistening in the lights of the night.

"You don't want everyone to see?" he asks, a smirk on his face.

"Not when the people paying for me to be here could see," you say. Your lips look swollen and wet from the kiss, and it makes him want to grab you again.

"You're the one who kissed me," he says, his voice low. And you know there's more he's implying, that you weren't just the one who kissed him but that you had rocked against his hand, had wanted his touch. That you'd kissed him desperately, making him unable to stop himself. The implication is inappropriate, the accusation he's laid on you not fair in the slightest. He has no way of knowing what you were trying to make him do, or what you wanted to happen. You hadn't said a word. And yet, he's totally right, making it hard for you to respond.

"That's-," you sigh, your pussy still throbbing from your proximity.

"My room is on the 7th floor," he says.

"Okay," you reply. It's all you can say. You stand completely still, stuck to the spot, waiting for him to move. Instead he puts his wet fingers in his mouth, sucking off your slick in one smooth motion, humming in satisfaction. Your mouth gapes at his lewdness, struck now by just how visible you both obviously are.

"Let's go," he says, motioning his head towards the door.

Your legs move automatically, your mind playing over and over the visual of him licking his fingers, the look of utter bliss on his face. As you walk the hallway he comes behind you, putting a hand on the small of your back, making your body melt into him slightly. It feels good but you gently remove his hand, not wanting anyone to see. You pray that neither Bea nor any of her family are in the lobby when you enter, and thankfully, your prayers are answered. Nor does anyone join you two on the elevator, which makes you willing to stand closer to Hongjoong than you would any other stranger. But still, you don't touch him. As you both exit you walk behind him, almost enough space between you that you could believably look like two total strangers, walking to separate rooms. Until he unlocks his door, holding it open as you slip inside, like you're really not supposed to be in here.

As soon as he closes the door he's pulled you to him, his back slamming into the wall as you nearly crash together, the air between you thick with lust.

"I'm almost twice as old as you, y/n," he whispers in your ear, feeling your pussy clench against his thigh that you're straddling, your mouth on his neck. "You like that," he states, not even asking you anymore. "You like that I'm way too old for you. Too old to be touching you like this."

It's wrong, so wrong and you know it, but the further he pushes it the more you're surrendering to what's happening, to what your body truly craves.

"You've never been fucked right by those stupid boys at your college, have you? You need me to fuck you right, to show you how good you can feel. That's why you were bratty with me, you wanted me to be riled up. Want me to fuck you hard, like I'm mad. Like I'm punishing you," he growls, his breathing heavy as you bite down on his neck, sending sparks of pain and pleasure through his head. "Fuck, you really want me mad, don't you?" he asks and you whine in response, your whole body tingly with anticipation.

"Get on your knees," he says, pulling you back from him, your hair already a mess from his hands, the straps of your dress falling down your shoulders and nearly making your tits spill out. "Open your mouth," he commands, and you follow immediately, your wide eyes looking up at him in desire, his thumb running over your bottom lip. "I like when you do what I say," he says, pinching your cheek and making you blush, the praise making your insides turn to jelly. He unzips his pants smoothly, undoing the button and swiftly pulling out his hard cock, the tip a slight shade of red and already leaking slightly.

"Look what you did to me," he says, palming himself, your tongue nearly falling out of your mouth as you salivate over his beautiful cock. "I thought for a moment I'd have to come up here and deal with this all on my own, after you eye-fucked me all dinner," he continues, slowly stroking his length, moving closer to your open and waiting lips. "I should have known you weren't wearing any panties from the way you were acting," he says, gently running his tip along your outstretched tongue, spreading your spit around your face with it and making a mess of you. "No bra, no panties. You wanted to be fucked tonight." Slowly he enters your mouth, gently holding your head as he pushes further in, gently tapping the back of your throat and making you gag. You moan, your pussy clenching around nothing, wanting him to fill all of your holes at once. "That feels good, doesn't it. Gagging on my cock," he smirks, your eyes fluttering closed as he pushes in again, this time a little harder. "Eyes on me baby, don't look away," he says, slowly beginning to fuck your throat, gently enough not to choke you but deep enough to make you repeatedly gag, your spit covering his cock and running down your chin, your face a complete mess. "Fuck, your mouth feels good," he groans, his face scrunching up in pleasure for a moment, before he looks down to meet your eyes again, which are now glued to him, glued to every change in his expression, every flick of his tongue across his bottom lip. "I'm gonna go harder baby, I know you can take it," he warns you before picking up his pace, his cock nearly bottoming out in your mouth as he holds your head in place, repeatedly fucking into your throat. You're automatically swallowing around him, your body's reflexive actions taking over. "Fuck, so good," Hongjoong sighs, your head feeling light from the lack of oxygen and your body swimming in pleasure. You could let him use your throat all night if he wanted to, especially if he keeps talking to you like that. Like you're dumb and you don't even know what you want. Like he has to tell you or you'll never figure it out.

Finally you choke hard, your body instinctively pulling you back, and he pulls out of your mouth letting you catch you breath, stroking a hand through your hair. You run a hand across your mouth, trying in vain to clean yourself up a bit, wiping the saliva on your dress and staring up at him open mouthed, your entire body covered in a sheen of sweat.

"Hey, don't ruin this," he says pulling at your dress, moving behind you to help take it off. He slowly undoes the zipper, gently pulling the straps down and off your arms before helping you stand to step out of it. Completely bare, you stand in front of him, his hand coming up to spank you, grabbing your ass hungrily in his hand. You yelp at the impact, like you weren't expecting it. Like you hadn't been sticking your ass out ever so slightly, arching your back to add to the affect. "Don't write checks you can't cash, doll," he says, making you giggle and turn your head to face him, a look of utter delight on your face. "It really makes you happy when I scold you, doesn't it," he says, staring you down.

"Why are you so clothed?" you ask, finding your words.

"You want to see me naked?" he teases.

"Just seems like you're hiding something. Maybe under all that nice clothing you're really not that built," you laugh, knowing it would strike a nerve. It wasn't hard to tell that he cared about his figure.

"Go sit on your hands on the bed," he retorts, his eyes narrowing, as he starts taking off his watch, undoing the clasp on his chain. He sets both down on the table gently, pulling his shirt over his head next, revealing that most of his abdomen is also covered in tattoos, his broad shoulders and broad chest. Slowly he sits on the side of the bed to untie his shoes, periodically looking up at you to make sure you haven't moved, moving almost comically slow. You wriggle in anticipation, watching him slowly reveal himself, his muscular thighs finally on display to you as he pulls down his pants and boxers, his cock hard and a deeper shade of red now, still glistening from your spit.

"Lay on your stomach," he says, moving over you when you oblige, raking the hair out of your face so he can see you. "This is what you get for sticking your ass out," he says, swiftly moving down to lick over your hole, making you gasp at the coldness of his tongue. Immediately the feeling runs to your clit, your entire crotch alive with pleasure, your back arching instinctively to meet his movements. He spreads your cheeks to get better access, moving his tongue in quick circles around your tight entrance, your body slowly relaxing from the pleasure he's providing.

And suddenly he's off of you, reaching into his bedside drawer and pulling out a bottle, swiftly lubing the fingers of his right hand and moving them to your waiting hole, gently pushing one in. You groan, the tight muscles stretching already, your body arching even further to give him the perfect angle as he gently starts pumping in and out of you.

"You like getting your ass eaten, I knew you would. So dirty," he says, making you whine in agreement, your brows scrunched together in pleasure. Soon he adds another finger, the stretch again making you groan, your body instinctively tightening up at the intrusion. "I know you can take it," he says, not even attempting to comfort you. "Don't brats like getting their asses fucked?" he asks, his words making your clit ache, your body finally releasing again as he works you open with two fingers, taking the opportunity to quickly add another. "I knew it," he says, satisfied with how quickly he's stretched you open, how pliant your body is in his hands, how he's getting exactly what he wants from you. Still fucking you with his fingers, he opens the lube bottle again with his other hand, generously dousing his achingly hard cock. Gently he pulls his fingers out of you, frozen for a moment staring at the way your hole has opened up, nearly drooling from the visual.

"Spread you legs," he says, pushing your knees apart himself, pulling you ass up towards him, just where he wants you. Lining himself up, he slowly pushes in, the stretch even more severe this time, making you whine in pain, your breaths short and stifled with your head now shoved into his pillows. "What, you can't take it? Is it too big?" he asks, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "My little brat can't take my cock in her ass?"

Tears start forming in your eyes from how turned on you are, the pain a secondary feeling as it all starts to feel just right, as it starts morphing into only pleasure as your muscles finally relent. You feel like you're being split open, like you're opened up more than ever before, like he's gutting you from the inside. Finally he bottoms out, reaching into you further than you thought you could feel, your clit throbbing painfully with need.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans from above you, brushing a hand along your cheek in an almost sweet gesture, seeing the single tear stain on your cheek. He waits a moment, waiting to feel if your body is ready, and suddenly your hips are moving into his like your body is begging him to move. He slowly pulls out, almost all the way, then thrusts back in, making you gasp at the intense pleasure, your breath nearly getting caught in your throat. Grabbing your hips he starts forcefully thrusting, chasing his own pleasure as he's sucked into your ass, the tight muscles threatening to make him come in an instant. Desperate for some relief you move your hand to your clit, desperately trying to circle it as he rocks you hard with the force of his thrusts. His eyes are glued to your ass, glued to the way his cock looks buried inside you, and your face, the way your mouth hangs permanently open as you moan in earnest, clearly not controlling a single sound that is coming out. The raw sounds make him fuck into you even harder, the way you sound so pathetically fucked out, like you can't believe this feels so good. Eventually his eyes roam down again and spot your hand, swatting it away in an instant, his anger boiling up again.

"Is my cock not enough?" he scolds, his voice gravelly from breathing so raggedly, the air in the room stiflingly hot. In this position it's hard, but quickly he finds a good angle and lands a sharp smack on your clit, the pain lancing through your core like lightning, and suddenly your whole body is shaking, your nerves completely on fire. "Even with my cock buried in your ass you want to piss me off, don't you?" His voice is raised, nearly to the point of losing control, but still very calculated. He lands another sharp slap on your clit, this time not as hard, but in an instant your orgasm washes over you, your whole body shaking hard as you squeeze down around his cock making it hard for him to keep moving.

"Fuck, baby, shit," Hongjoong curses, his climax hitting him by surprise, his cock milked by your tight walls squeezing down on him, your body taught with just how hard you came. His orgasm crashes over him fast and hard, his body going limp just after yours does, as you both collapse in a pile on the bed, his cum coating the walls of your ass in silky wetness. Your legs are still shaking, tucked up underneath you, his cock still buried deep inside. The position is awkward but you don't even feel it, the pleasure still rippling through you as you breath hard into the soft pillow. Hongjoong crashes onto your back, his arms instinctively wrapping around you, his chest and stomach rapidly rising and falling from his heavy breathing. His skin feels sticky and hot against yours, his hot breath fanning over your cheek as he plants a kiss there, intently watching your face as you come down.

"I'm gonna pull out now, okay?" he asks, eliciting a hum of agreement from you. Slowly he pulls backwards, his cum spilling out of you the moment he's pulled out entirely, spilling down your ass cheek onto the bedsheets. Hongjoong makes his way to the bathroom, quickly cleaning himself up before grabbing a washcloth for you, dousing it in luke warm water. Coming back to the bed he gently moves you onto your back, to the side of the pool of cum. He gently wipes you down, making you moan when he brushes over your clit, making himself chuckle.

Glancing over at the clock beside his bed you see it's nearly 11pm, your mind spinning. Quickly you move to the ground to rummage through your purse, glancing at your phone to see a text from Beatrice reading 'I'm back now, don't stay out too late miss.'

Be back soon, you write back.

"I should be going," you say, trying to stand up, your wobbly legs making it difficult. Hongjoong is at your side in a moment, stabilizing you, helping you to sit down on the bed while he grabs your dress off the floor. You hastily pull it over your head, running your fingers through your hair and feeling the knots that have formed. Quickly you zip the back of your dress, shove your phone in your purse and stand to slip on your sandals, not wanting to keep her waiting. The sudden quietness of Hongjoong also has you feeling slightly on edge, and really your head is just spinning, from every unexpected thing that happened.

"I'm not still mad, you know," he says gently, grabbing your hand as you move to breeze past him.

"Yeah?" you ask, looking at him with confusion.

"You don't need to still be acting like a kid who is in trouble," he says, kissing your hand. "That was just, that. You can talk to me like anyone else, now."

You eye him, swallowing thickly. What does one even say, now? Could he tell how inexperienced you were with hookups?

"I'm not sure what's going on in that pretty head of yours. I hope it's happy thoughts."

You nod, a smirk playing on your lips. You're speechless, unable to think a complete thought. It all just plays in your head, his tongue on your ass, his fingers stretching you out, his cock pounding into you so hard. And the smack on your clit, the way it made you come so fast, the ghost of the feeling still present in your core.

"Not those thoughts. You're gonna jump me again," he laughs, and finally you smack him, punching his arm soon afterwards. Pushing past him you walk fast, opening his door and spinning around, your eyes piercing as you meet his.

"What, you can't take my teasing?" he asks, but suddenly his door swings shut, your face gone in a flash.

As you saunter down the hall to the elevator you feel fucking amazing, swinging your purse over your shoulder and flipping your hair to the side, your sleepy eyes boring holes into the metal doors.

Well, she did tell you to have some fun. You just hoped Beatrice wouldn't be too mad you fucked her uncle.

[homeofthelonelywriter]

“Thanks, Simon, I owe you!” The soldier watched you rush around the apartment, making sure you had grabbed everything you needed, with a smile. “Don’t worry, love, you go have fun at Pilates. The little one and I will have a great time.” His hands, gentle on your shoulders, steered you out the door before he closed the door, keeping you from coming up with an excuse to stay after all.

If he was completely honest, he was actually kind of excited to spend some one-on-one time with your daughter. After all, if he wanted to have any chance of getting with you, he would have to charm the little girl first. Maybe that was why he had stopped at a toy store before coming to your apartment, picking up the doll you had told him about—the one your daughter had seen in a commercial a few weeks ago and had wanted ever since. Kids could be bribed, after all, right?

And thankfully, everything went well. Your daughter had a field day with the tough soldier. Making him play pretend, having a tea party, and playing hide-and-seek, all before she sat him down and did his make-up. When dinner time rolled around, she even managed to convince him to ignore whatever you had prepared for the two of them, and instead order pizza.

“This is mommy’s favorite.” She pointed one of her little fingers at the menu before pointing to the one you always ordered for her. He rang in the order and grabbed the money from his wallet, preparing it by the door. The food arrived sooner than later, and Simon sat down in the living room, your daughter right beside him, while they watched ‘Frozen’. Simon even sang along, much to your daughter’s enjoyment.

All too soon, you walked through the door, apologizing for taking longer than you had planned, but when you entered the living room, you stopped, a grin forming on your face. Simon, makeup still on his face, was lying on your couch, your daughter almost asleep on his chest as she was muttering things. The moment Simon noticed you, he smiled and carefully waved to you, not wanting to disturb your daughter. You walked closer, crouching down next to the pair, trying to hear what she was saying.

She looked up at Simon, her eyes drooping shut, but she fought against sleep with everything she had. “You’re beautiful and capable of great things.” She paused to take a little breath. “Like murder.” Your eyes widened, as did Simon’s. Your daughter stopped talking for a moment, and you almost thought she had fallen asleep, but then she spoke up again. “Don’t do that though.” Your hand clasped down over your mouth to stifle the laughter threatening to bubble out. “Unless it’s completely necessary.” That was it. You started laughing, falling back onto your ass, as Simon’s chest started to jump up and down, showing his laughter and disturbing your daughter’s rest.

With almost closed eyes, she peered at the two of you, clearly confused. “Mommy?” You calmed yourself before answering. “Yes, baby, I’m back. Let’s get you to bed, huh?” She nodded, almost asleep again.

When you reached for her, Simon shook his head. “I got her.” Without an issue, he sat up and shifted your daughter to lie in his arms. You guided the way to her room, where Simon gently put her down before tucking her in and leaving the room. Before you left, you pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead and wished her a good night. Outside, Simon was waiting for you, and the moment you made eye contact, you burst out laughing again, reminding each other to be quiet, as you walked back down to the entrance hall.

“Thank you, Simon, I really appreciate your help.” He grinned at you, rubbing the back of his neck as the two of you stood there. “Anytime. She is a sweetheart…even if weird sometimes.” You chuckled, agreeing with a nod. Silence fell over the two of you, but you interrupted it before it could grow awkward. “Well…I’ll let you get on your way, it’s already late.” Simon nodded, stepping out of the door as you opened it. But before he could walk away, you reached up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Thanks again. Good night, Simon.”

A/N: Some cuteness. Based on this TikTok

[evermoreness]

moonlight and mending | remus lupin

pairing: remus lupin x fem!reader

summary: since it's your seventh year at hogwarts, you have to choose a path for a future job, and you chose to be a healer and help madam pomfrey. you just didn't know remus lupin was a regular patient.

obs: this is going to be a series. here's part two of this story.

masterlist

The hospital wing was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the morning light filtering through the tall windows. You were already up, sleeves rolled to your elbows as you organized a tray of healing potions. You had been helping Madam Pomfrey for a while now, and despite the occasional sleepless night, you loved every second of it.

This was where you belonged.

Every student at Hogwarts had to choose their paths on future jobs by the seventh year. Some would go with the professors to learn a specific path, like aurors or politics and others would go with Hagrid (if they had interest in magical creatures). It was fun.

You would not spend all your days at the hospital wing, since there were other students helping around Madam Pomfrey. But sometimes you would ignore this fact and just stay around for more hours than needed.

You had just finished restocking the dittany when Madam Pomfrey entered, her expression tight with concern.

“Another patient?” you asked, reaching for a clean cloth and a basin of warm water.

She nodded, already moving toward one of the empty beds. “Yes, and he’s in rough shape. A regular of mine, unfortunately.”

Before you could ask what she meant, the doors swung open, and Madam Pomfrey levitated a limp figure onto the bed.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Remus Lupin.

He looked terrible—his school robes were torn, his face pale and slick with sweat. Bruises and scratches covered his arms, and there was a deep gash along his collarbone, seeping blood onto the sheets. His hair was messier than usual, strands sticking to his forehead.

You had seen Remus around, always in the company of his friends, always with a soft smile and warm eyes. He was quieter than the other Marauders, more reserved. But this—this was a side of him you had never seen before.

“Will he be alright?” you asked, stepping closer.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. “He always is.”

She glanced at you, her sharp eyes softening slightly. “I’ll leave you to clean his wounds. Be gentle with him.”

You nodded, rolling up your sleeves further as she walked away.

Gently, you dipped the cloth into the warm water and pressed it against a cut on his cheek, dabbing away the dried blood. He stirred, a soft groan escaping his lips.

“Remus?” you said gently. “Can you hear me?”

He let out a breathy sound before his amber eyes fluttered open. They were hazy with exhaustion, unfocused at first, but as he blinked, they found yours.

“You’re awake,” you said with a small smile, hoping to reassure him.

His brows furrowed slightly. “Where…?”

“The hospital wing,” you answered, still carefully cleaning the wound on his cheek. “Madam Pomfrey brought you in.”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable before he huffed a weak chuckle. “Must be bad if I don’t even remember getting here.”

“You look like you got into a fight with a troll,” you teased lightly.

He smiled faintly. “Did I win?”

“Hard to say. The troll might be in better condition.”

That earned a soft laugh from him, though it ended in a wince.

“Stay still,” you scolded gently. “I need to clean these properly, and that won’t happen if you keep moving.”

“Alright,” he muttered with a small smile, but he did as you said.

You continued working in silence, carefully dabbing at the scratches along his arms. His body tensed slightly under your touch, but he didn’t complain.

Then, your gaze landed on the wound on his chest—a nasty gash running diagonally across his ribs, partially covered by his torn shirt. You hesitated before clearing your throat.

“Um… I need to get to the wound on your chest,” you said, a little hesitant. “Can you…?”

His tired eyes widened slightly as he realized what you meant. “Oh. Right.”

There was an awkward pause before he weakly reached for the buttons of his shirt, his fingers trembling slightly.

You quickly stopped him, your hands gently brushing his. “Here, let me.”

He stiffened under your touch but didn’t protest as you carefully undid the buttons of his bloodstained shirt. As you pushed the fabric aside, your breath hitched.

His torso was littered with scars, old and new, crisscrossing his skin like a map of past battles. The fresh wound along his ribs was deep, still oozing.

You swallowed hard, trying to push aside the questions burning in your mind. What had done this to him?

Instead of asking, you dipped the cloth in the warm water again and gently pressed it to the wound.

He hissed through his teeth.

“Sorry,” you murmured. “I know it stings.”

“It’s alright,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re gentler than Pomfrey, at least.”

You smiled softly. “She believes in tough love.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he muttered, his voice slightly strained.

Wanting to distract him, you asked, “So, what do you usually do when you’re not getting yourself nearly killed?”

His lips twitched. “Read, mostly.”

You knew that the best way to distract the patients was by talking to them, about anything, so they could think about something else besides the pain.

“I could’ve guessed that,” you said with a small laugh. “Any favorites?”

He relaxed slightly at the question. “I like Defense Against the Dark Arts. And anything to do with magical creatures.”

“Magical creatures, huh?” You carefully applied the healing salve to his wound. “You don’t seem like the type to go wrestling with a dragon.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “No, definitely not. But I like learning about them.”

You smiled, tying off the last bandage. “Well, you’re all patched up. Try not to move too much.”

Remus let out a long breath, his eyelids growing heavy. “You’re… really kind,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “Get some rest, Remus.”

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before they finally closed.

And as you sat beside him, watching over him as he slept, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to Remus Lupin—something hidden beneath the scars and the quiet smiles.

You just didn’t know what it was yet.

The morning was long.

You didn't have any classes this morning, despite still being Tuesday.

You figured it was best to stay by his side.

At least, until lunch, because after that you would have some charms classes.

You sat beside Remus, watching over him as the hours crept by, the hospital wing bathed in sunlight and quiet. His breathing was shallow, his forehead damp with sweat. A fever had settled in not long after he had fallen asleep, and you had spent the past few hours placing cool cloths on his forehead, ensuring he didn’t overheat.

Madam Pomfrey had come in once to check on him, nodded approvingly at your dedication, and left you to it.

You didn’t mind.

There was something about watching over him—something that made you feel… protective. Maybe it was the way he had looked at you before drifting off, like he wasn’t used to someone being this kind to him.

Or maybe it was just that he seemed to carry too much weight for someone so young.

You sighed, dipping the cloth in cool water again and pressing it lightly to his forehead. He shifted slightly in his sleep, brow furrowing, but he didn’t wake.

A soft murmur left his lips—too quiet for you to catch.

You leaned closer. “Remus?”

He didn’t respond, just turned his head slightly, a faint crease between his brows. His fingers twitched where they rested by his side.

“Nightmare?” you whispered, watching his expression.

You wanted to reach for his hand, to soothe him, but you hesitated. Instead, you gently ran your fingers through his damp hair, hoping the touch might calm whatever dream he was trapped in.

Slowly, his features relaxed again.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

And so, you sat there, watching over him, making sure he didn’t shift too much in his sleep or try to tear off the bandages in unconscious discomfort.

You kept taking care of the other students there, it was almost lunch time when your eyes glanced toward Remus—only to find his amber eyes already on you.

You came closer, staying by his side on the bed. “You’re awake.”

His lips curled slightly. “Yeah, unfortunately” His voice was rough with sleep.

You gave him a small smile. “How do you feel?”

He hesitated, as if he was actually assessing himself. “Like I got into a fight with a brick wall and lost.”

You smiled. “Well, you look better than some hours ago”

His brows lifted slightly. “Was I that bad?”

You gave him a look. “You had a fever, you were shifting in your sleep, and I had to stop you from undoing your own bandages twice.”

His eyes widened slightly. “I… did that?”

You nodded. “You don’t remember?”

“Not at all.” He looked both embarrassed and surprised. His gaze flickered toward the bowl of water and the pile of damp cloths beside it. “You stayed all morning?”

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “It’s part of the job.”

He studied you for a moment before shaking his head. “No. Madam Pomfrey would’ve done it if it was just ‘part of the job.’ You chose to stay.”

You hesitated. “…I didn’t want you to be alone.”

His breath hitched slightly. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just looked at you as if trying to figure out how to respond.

Then, softly, “Thank you.”

Your heart warmed. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” he said, holding your gaze. “No one’s ever… done that for me before.”

The weight of his words settled between you.

You frowned slightly. “What about James? Sirius?”

“They’re great,” he said immediately, but then he hesitated. “…They don’t see this part of me. I don’t let them.”

Something in his voice made your chest tighten.

Carefully, you reached out, brushing your fingers over the bandage on his arm. “You don’t have to hide when you’re hurt, especially not from me or what else i won't know how to help.”

His breath caught, and for a long moment, he just stared at you, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

Finally, he smiled—small, but real. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You returned the smile. “Good. Now, do you think you can eat something, or do I need to force-feed you porridge?”

He chuckled. “I’ll eat. If only to avoid that fate.”

You grinned. “I’ll go get you something.”

As you walked away, you could still feel his gaze on you.

Remus was still staring at the doorway where you had disappeared when you returned, carrying a breakfast tray in both hands.

“Alright, hospital food isn’t exactly a feast, but it’s warm, and you need it,” you said as you placed the tray on his bedside table.

Remus sat up a little, wincing as he adjusted his position. He looked down at the tray—porridge, toast, and a steaming cup of tea.

You noticed his hesitation and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re picky.”

He smirked faintly. “No, just… hospital food isn’t usually something to look forward to.”

You rolled your eyes. “Just try a little bit, alright?”

With an amused chuckle, he picked up the spoon and took a tentative bite of the porridge. It wasn’t terrible, which was the best compliment he could give it.

As he ate, you had already moved on, fussing over the other students in the ward.

“Drink more water, Gabe, you’ll feel better faster.”

“Maggie, you’re supposed to rest, not reread your Transfiguration notes.”

“Barty, don’t poke at your stitches, I swear to Merlin—”

Remus found himself watching you, a faint smile playing on his lips.

You were different.

It wasn’t just that you were kind—you loved this. He could see it in the way you moved, the way you spoke to everyone, the way you cared. It was like second nature to you, tending to people, making sure they were comfortable.

And yet… you were also a normal student. That much was obvious.

It hit him suddenly—he’d seen you around before. Not just in passing, but in the places he liked best. The library, tucked away in the quietest corners, flipping through thick medical textbooks and advanced Potions guides. The Astronomy Tower, where the view was the clearest. The courtyard, always with a book in your hands.

You weren’t just here. You were everywhere.

How did you balance it all?

Remus was still lost in thought when a hand appeared in front of his face.

He blinked and looked up.

You were standing there, a familiar-looking chocolate bar in your hand.

“Madam Pomfrey sent this,” you said with a smile. “She said it would help you feel better.”

Something warm settled in his chest.

He took the chocolate from you, running his fingers over the wrapper before glancing up at you. “She actually let you give it to me instead of forcing it on me herself?”

“She’s busy,” you said, shrugging. “But I think she knows I’d make you eat it either way.”

Remus chuckled, unwrapping the chocolate and breaking off a piece. As soon as it melted on his tongue, he sighed.

“Better?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Much,” he admitted.

You smiled in satisfaction before sitting on the edge of his bed. “So… I have a question.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “How do you do it?”

Remus blinked. “Do what?”

“Everything,” you said, gesturing vaguely. “I mean, you’re top of the class, always reading, and somehow, you still have time to get into whatever mischief your friends drag you into.”

Remus smirked. “I could ask you the same thing.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m serious.”

He considered you for a moment before shrugging. “I guess… I don’t really think about it. I just do what I need to do.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

There was a comfortable silence between you.

Then, Remus glanced down at the chocolate in his hand. “You know… I’ve never had someone take care of me like this before.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Not even your friends?”

He hesitated. “They try. But I don’t let them.”

“Why not?”

His fingers tightened slightly around the wrapper. “Because… I don’t want them to worry.”

You frowned. “That’s a terrible reason.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Maybe.”

You would say something else, but some other patient called. You smiled before turning around and going around to help others.

Hours later, the hospital wing was quieter. Most of the students had left, and Remus, finally feeling somewhat human again, was sitting on the edge of his bed, stretching his sore limbs.

You stood in front of him, holding a neatly folded set of fresh Hogwarts robes.

“Well, you look better,” you observed. “Still a bit pale, though.”

“I’m always pale,” he said dryly, though he smirked.

“Fair point,” you said, handing him the uniform. “Come on, get changed. You can’t walk around looking like you just wrestled a hippogriff.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

You smiled, rolling your eyes playfully. “Just change, Lupin.”

He chuckled but stood, wincing slightly as he moved. You turned around, giving him privacy as he carefully removed the old ripped uniform he was using from earlier, and pulled on his new uniform. His movements were slow, careful not to aggravate his still-healing injuries.

After a few moments, he let out a small sigh. “Alright. You can turn around.”

You turned, scanning him critically before nodding in approval. “Much better.”

“You sound like Madam Pomfrey,” he said, amused.

You gasped in mock horror. “Take that back!”

“Never.”

You huffed but smiled, grabbing your bag from the chair. You had already changed into your uniform earlier, ready to head to class. “Come on, I’ll walk with you.”

Remus blinked in surprise. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you said, giving him a pointed look. “But I want to.”

His lips parted slightly, but no argument came.

He liked your company.

So, instead of protesting, he simply nodded. “Alright then. Lead the way, healer”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname but walked beside him as you both left the hospital wing.

The corridors were bustling with students heading to their next classes. You and Remus walked side by side, keeping a comfortable pace.

“So,” you started, adjusting the strap of your bag, “what’s your favorite class?”

Remus hummed. “That’s an easy one—Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

You grinned. “I should’ve guessed. You do always get top marks in it.”

He shrugged. “It’s practical. Useful.”

“Okay, but what about for fun?” you asked, tilting your head. “Not just what’s useful—what do you enjoy?”

He hesitated, then said, “I like Charms.”

You brightened. “Me too! It’s so satisfying when you finally get a spell just right.”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding. “And you?”

“Besides Charms? I love Potions,” you said. “It’s precise, methodical… and it helps with Healing. I like that.”

Remus smiled. “That makes sense. You’re really good at it.”

You looked at him, surprised. “You noticed?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well… yeah. I mean, you’re always top of the class, and I have seen you brewing in the library before.”

You chuckled. “Guilty. I like experimenting.”

“What’s the best potion you’ve made?”

You thought for a moment. “Probably a modified Wiggenweld Potion. I adjusted it to work faster without causing side effects.”

Remus raised his eyebrows, impressed. “That’s incredible.”

You shrugged, but his praise made you warm inside.

“What about books?” you asked. “I know you’re a reader.”

He smirked. “What gave it away?”

You laughed. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I always see you in the library with your nose buried in a book?”

He chuckled. “Fair enough. I like anything about magical creatures, honestly.”

You nodded. “I can see that. You seem like the type to befriend a werewolf or something.”

Remus nearly tripped.

You didn’t notice, continuing, “I love medical books, obviously. But for fun? I like Muggle literature.”

He recovered quickly, forcing himself to focus. “Muggle literature?”

“Yeah,” you said, grinning. “There’s this Muggle author—Stephen King. Have you heard of him?”

Remus’s eyes lit up. “I have! The shining is brilliant.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’ve read it?”

He smirked. “I grew up in a half-Muggle household. My mum had loads of Muggle books.”

“Oh, I love that,” you said excitedly. “Okay, tell me—what do you think of Jack Torrance?”

Remus chuckled. “Misunderstood, the man was literally being controlled by evil spirits”

You gasped dramatically. “Correct answer. I knew I liked you, Lupin.”

Remus blinked, caught off guard, but you just laughed, nudging him playfully.

He laughed too, shaking his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this light.

Before he knew it, you had reached your classroom.

You stopped at the door, turning to face him. “Well, this is me.”

He nodded, suddenly wishing you had a further walk.

“Thanks for walking with me,” you said with a smile. “And take care of yourself, okay?”

Something about the way you said it made his chest tighten.

He nodded. “You too.”

With a final smile, you turned and disappeared into the classroom.

Remus stood there for a moment before shaking his head with a quiet chuckle.

Then, with thoughts of you still swirling in his mind, he dragged himself to his own class, already looking forward to the next time he saw you.

Getting closer.

The days passed, and somehow, without either of you truly realizing it, you and Remus had begun to gravitate toward each other.

It wasn’t a conscious decision—at least, that’s what Remus told himself.

At first, it was small things.

You’d see each other in the library, sitting a few tables apart, until one of you would move closer—always under the excuse of needing a book the other was using.

You’d pass each other in the halls, exchanging small smiles, sometimes stopping for a brief chat about classes, assignments, or whatever book you were reading that week.

Remus, always more reserved, didn’t say much in the beginning. He would listen as you talked, and surprisingly, he never got tired of hearing you speak. You had this way of filling the silence without overwhelming it.

And what fascinated him the most?

You never got bored of him.

Most people—besides his closest friends—didn’t have the patience for his quiet nature, for his habit of getting lost in thought, for the way he preferred books over crowds. But you never seemed to mind.

If anything, you enjoyed talking to him.

And Remus liked listening to you.

Slowly but surely, Remus began seeking you out.

If he saw you in the Great Hall, he’d wave you over. If you passed each other in the corridors, he’d slow his steps so you could walk together. If he spotted you alone in the common room, he’d sit beside you, pulling out a book without a word.

And you? You found yourself looking for him, too.

One evening, you sat at your usual table in the library, a thick Potions book open in front of you. You were muttering ingredients under your breath, trying to memorize an antidote recipe, when a familiar figure slid into the seat across from you.

“You talk to your books a lot,” Remus observed, setting his own book down.

You looked up, smirking. “And yet, you still sit with me. What does that say about you?”

He chuckled. “That I’m patient?”

“Or that you secretly enjoy my rambling.”

He shrugged, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe.”

You grinned, flipping a page. “What are you reading?”

“Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,” he said, holding up the book.

You raised an eyebrow. “Planning on running off to become a Magizoologist?”

“Not quite,” he said, amused. “I just like creatures.”

You hummed, tilting your head. “If you could be any magical creature, what would you be?”

He hesitated for a second. “A werewolf.”

You blinked, surprised. “A werewolf?”

He nodded slowly, studying your face. “Yeah. They’re misunderstood. People assume they’re just mindless monsters, but… they’re not.”

You frowned slightly, considering his words. “You’re right. They don’t choose to be that way.”

Remus swallowed hard, watching you carefully. “You don’t think they’re evil?”

You shook your head. “Of course not. I think… I think most of them are probably just scared. And lonely.”

Something in Remus’s chest ached. He had never heard anyone say that before.

“You’re… different,” he said softly.

You gave him a curious look. “Different how?”

He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You just… are.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “That’s a very vague answer, Lupin.”

He chuckled. “It’s the best you’re getting.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’ll figure it out eventually.”

“I’m sure you will.”

You eyed him suspiciously but let it go. “Well, I’d be a phoenix.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“They heal people,” you said simply. “And they always come back.”

He stared at you for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then, quietly, “That suits you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.

For a brief second, neither of you spoke.

Then, he cleared his throat, turning his attention back to his book. “You were mumbling potion ingredients earlier. Studying for something?”

You exhaled, shaking off the strange warmth in your chest. “Yes. Madam Pomfrey’s quizzing me tomorrow, and I cannot mix up the bezoar antidotes again.”

Remus smirked. “Do you want me to test you?”

Your eyes lit up. “Would you?”

He nodded, and for the next hour, he quizzed you, throwing in the occasional joke just to make you laugh.

The Marauders.

Of course, being friends with Remus meant that you were friends with the Marauders now.

One evening, you sat cross-legged on the Gryffindor common room floor, surrounded by parchment and books. Remus sat beside you, his own notes scattered around. Across from you, James Potter and Sirius Black were sprawled on the couch, watching you both with lazy amusement. Peter Pettigrew sat on the armrest, nibbling on a biscuit.

“So, let me get this straight,” James said, stretching his arms behind his head. “You spend your free time—voluntarily, I might add—working in the hospital wing?”

You looked up from your parchment, raising an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“And you enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

James exchanged a look with Sirius, who smirked. “Merlin’s beard, Moony, you’ve found your twin.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Because enjoying something that requires effort is such a crime?”

“No, but we just assumed no one else was as much of a workaholic as you,” Sirius teased.

You snorted. “I love what I do, thank you very much.”

Peter perked up. “Does that mean you’re good at Potions?”

“She’s brilliant,” Remus answered before you could, flipping a page in his book.

Sirius grinned. “Oh, that’s good to know.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why?”

James leaned forward, an eager look in his eyes. “Because we need a potioneer for our next prank.”

You stared at him. “You want me to help you prank people?”

“Yes,” Sirius said smoothly, “because you’re cool.”

Remus made a sound like he was choking on his own breath. “Cool?”

James ignored him. “Think about it. You brew us something—nothing harmful, just a little mischief—and we execute it.”

You tilted your head, considering. “Would this be used on everyone or just specific people?”

“Filch,” Peter answered immediately. “And Snivellus.”

You hummed. “No harm, no permanent damage?”

James put a hand over his heart. “On my honor.”

You smirked. “I could make an odorless dye potion that only reacts to moonlight.”

Sirius gasped in delight. “That’s genius.”

“Imagine Snape walking around, thinking nothing’s wrong, and then—BAM—his face turns green under the full moon,” James cackled.

You smiled sweetly. “You’ll owe me chocolate.”

Sirius clapped his hands together. “Deal.”

Remus sighed, looking at you with an exasperated but amused expression. “You do realize you’re enabling them?”

“Oh, I know,” you said innocently. “But it’s fun.”

James grinned. “She’s one of us now, Moony.”

Remus looked at you, then at them, then sighed again, rubbing his temple. “Merlin help us all.”

[midday-clouds]

Yandere Batfamily x Neglected & "Immortal" Reader 》 III

Part I Part II Part IV Part V

Took me so long to figure out how the rest of the story could go XP Also, I've seen how some of y'all want the reader to become a vigilante/villain :) It is definitely possible but not with the current story idea I have in mind. Maybe one day, I'll make a side story where the reader becomes a vigilante/villain

CW: Violence (Bar Fight), Stalking, Blood, "Death"

It has been a few weeks since you moved into Bludhaven and Nightwing being your nighttime companion

He always comes over to your apartment with a couple of injuries and asks to stay a bit

With Nightwing’s instructions, you learn to bandage injuries to help the hero

Maybe it’s because your mental wounds from your neglectful family are still fresh, but Nightwing quickly started to grow on you.

It just feels nice to have a friend while adjusting to your new life.

It also could be because he actually came to the rescue when you were attacked

This does make you wonder why Batman didn’t save you in Gotham but who knows what that big guy does.

Another thing you wonder about sometimes is who Nightwing is.

You were never really curious about the vigilantes in Gotham, even though four well-known vigilantes resided there.

Ever since you met Nightwing, you tried doing some research on him but you immediately stopped when you saw the words “Richard Grayson” in an article.

While the batfamily would be more than happy to stay in Bluvenon so they can meet you, Gotham needed them. (Also they may overwhelm you)

Because of this, the family (except Dick and Jason) return home where more plans are made.

Jason decided that he will be the next person you meet and he won’t take no for an answer.

There is one problem though, you’ve seen Jason with his Red Hood attire

You may not have connected the dots at the time but you definitely will when you see him again.

After debating with Dick, Jason finally agrees to primarily watch you from a distance

In an attempt to meet more people, you decided to participate in some summer events that your college was hosting

You make a couple of friends and go out together

College classes are just around the corner and your friends suggested going out to a bar

This is a special moment so you decide to go with them

You all made plans on the designated driver and kept an eye out for your drinks

When you go to the bar, it's almost sunset.

This is your first time drinking but you trust your friends to keep you safe. (You ended up hating the taste)

Unknown to you, Jason is watching you from outside of the bar

If it was Dick’s turn to watch over you, he’d drag you back to your apartment.

Jason just allows you to have your fun time with friends, getting lost in how happy and innocent you seem.

This all crashes down when a fight suddenly happens right next to you

You and your friends try to get away from the scene but you're suddenly knocked to the ground

A drunk person slams a glass of alcohol next to you, probably mistaking you for someone else, which gives you a ton of small cuts.

Jason quickly puts on his mask and breaks into the bar. He beats up any drunk person who tries to stop him from reaching you.

Your sober friend tries to pull you away from the fight but is worried about all of your cuts

Red Hood suddenly appears to drag you and your friend away from the fight.

The fight gets worse and some random person seems to have called the ambulance

When the ambulance arrives, your sober friend hands you over to them and Red Hood disappears

You’re given a few bandages before the medic has to focus on another injured individual

In your dizzy state, you manage to slip away to stop the ringing in your ears

Something in you also told you it wasn’t safe to go to the hospital

Walking through an alley, your bandages seem to loosen and you eventually collapse on the ground from blood loss

Red Hood steps away for a second and you suddenly disappear.

He didn't want to be seen by the ambulance so he got onto a nearby rooftop to update Nightwing on the situation.

At least you didn't get far but the blood pooling under you slowly grows. This would be the second time you died

Nightwing appears and finds you wrapped up in a jacket while Red Hood picks you up off the ground.

One of the walls of the alley seems to have gotten a hole from Red Hood punching it out of frustration

Getting closer, Nightwing can see that you were given fresh bandages before being wrapped up in Red Hood’s jacket.

Also, you’re still breathing!

Seeing that you may still be alive, you’re taken to Nightwing’s apartment

Red Hood places you on the bed while Nightwing contacts Batman.

After one final look over and a blanket thrown over your body, Red Hood joins Nightwing in the living room

You slowly wake up in an unknown room and immediately sit up

The first thing you notice is how dark the room is

Squinting a bit, you find a lamp on the nightstand and turn it on

You find yourself in a bedroom with a blue and black color palette

There’s a desk in front of the bed with two computer monitors

You turn on the computer to see the date and immediately recognize a name

Richard Grayson

The name is enough to fill you with annoyance but you try to stay focused

How did you get here? Are you back in Gotham? Back at the manor?

You go to the bedroom door to find a living room instead of a hallway

Maybe you were still in Bludhaven?

This room definitely looks like it belongs to Dick

You never found his room in the manor but you did learn about some of his interests when you tried to befriend him (Alfred had to tell you all this)

As you finish snooping around the bedroom, a sound from the other room makes you freeze up

You quickly turn the light off, lay back on the bed, close your eyes and pretend to be sleeping

There are some voices in the living room but it's hard to hear past the sound of your racing heartbeat

Your heart almost stops when you hear the bedroom door open and the voices get louder.

At least you can actually understand what they’re saying now

They mention Batman, Robin, Demon Spawn, and other things you don't understand.

Maybe this was Dick and his friend talking about vigilantes? Though…one of them sounds familiar….

Your train of thought is cut off by someone putting their wait on the bed and running their hand through your hair

To distract yourself, you try to recognize the voice the best you can. Could it be Nightwing? Does Dick know him?

A kiss is placed on your forehead before the two people leave the bedroom.

After waiting a couple of moments, you open your eyes and confirm that you’re alone.

You slowly slip out of bed to try to listen to hear more of their conversation.

It seems that they called someone because there are new voices but it isn't that clear

The conversation begins to scare you as they talk about you.

Calling you their sibling/daughter and status on how your injuries were healing

Based on what is being said, you figure out that five vigilantes know quite a bit about you…

Deciding that you’ve had enough, you find a way to sneak out of the apartment

Looking out the window, it looks like you're a few floors high.

You carefully open the window as quietly as you can and peek outside to find a fire escape just one window away

You must be lucky because you reach the stairs safely and immediately start going down the stairs

The sun is about to rise and you realize that you don't know where you are

You run around for an unknown amount of time before finding a bus stop

There isn't any money on you so you just pick up a map for the bus route

Looking over the map, you’re able to find a familiar street before finally making it home

It took you a long time to get a new key because you basically had nothing on you but eventually, you were able to finally collapse on your bed

You fall asleep immediately

By the time you wake up, it is night again

Getting up, you start making yourself some food while some research on vigilantes

Focused on finding answers, you’re able to connect the dots on who the vigilantes are based on your information from when you lived in the manor

At some point, a knock is heard from your window

On instinct, you walk over to your window and open your curtains

Seeing Nightwing and his dumb smile fills you with rage. Which you are more than happy to let him know

You close your curtain and can faintly hear Nightwing trying to talk to you from the other side of the window

Well, it seems that you now know their identity

Jason saw and heard you run off. He and Dick were about to follow but Bruce told them to not follow you

The next night, Jason watch you reject Dick as he tried to pretend last night didn’t even happen

But it seems you weren’t having any of it

Dick returns to Jason, dejected

A new plan would have to be made, and Tim knows exactly how to get back on track

[theonottsbxtch]

MILLION DOLLAR WOMAN | OP81

an: i head to france tomorrow guys, today is my final day of freedom rip. this was so fun to write because imagine just finding out your partner is a millionaire fr, based off of this request

wc: 2.5k

Oscar could see her sitting at the dining table through the floor-to-ceiling windows as he parked his car. The quiet of their home in Monaco always took him by surprise—no revving engines, no buzz of the pit crew. Just her typing away on her laptop with her usual cup of tea. She looked up as he walked in, gave him a quick smile, and then returned to her screen. Always so relaxed, even as he walked in carrying the tension of a bad training session.

"Good day?" she asked, barely looking up. He nodded and mumbled something about a corner he'd taken too fast. She listened but didn’t pry. She never did. That's how she was. She was more interested in weekend hikes than race standings, in cooking simple meals than joining him at fancy team dinners. It was a refreshing kind of simplicity, though sometimes a little mystifying. She didn’t ask about the sport or his schedule, never got jealous over the fans, and didn’t seem to care about the lifestyle that came with dating an F1 driver.

In a way, it was...perfect. He didn’t have to worry about her growing tired of his schedule, or about her expectations getting out of hand. She worked her 9-to-5, met him after, and never asked for more. The fact that she paid for her own things when they went out had caught him off-guard at first, but she’d laughed and shrugged it off when he offered to take care of the bill. "I’m used to it," she’d said. And that had been that. No strings, no expectations.

Tonight, she must’ve been finishing something for work, because she was typing away with focus. He walked into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, glancing over his shoulder at her every now and then, content. The glow of her screen was the only light in the room; the apartment was quiet but comfortable, like this was all they’d ever need.

“How’s work?” He asked as he shut the fridge.

She briefly looked up, “Long” she sighed but smiled at him.

As he walked past her he placed a brief kiss on her forehead and slid onto the sofa, stretching out and letting the quietness of home sink into his bones. She was already back to her typing, nodding to herself as she worked through whatever was in front of her. It was one of those things he found himself both fascinated by and grateful for—she didn’t need him to fill the silence. She seemed just fine with her job, her laptop, her little rituals that didn’t have anything to do with him.

Oscar watched her for a moment before pulling out his phone, scrolling through emails and messages. A lot of them were about his upcoming sponsorship deal, a whirlwind of numbers and logistics. He thought about calling his manager to check the final figures but decided against it. Just thinking about it wore him out.

He read email after email as he heard the scrape of a chair, he looked up to see her stand up and take a call in their terrace, something he adored about this house.

Then his phone rang, Mark, he picked up automatically. “Yeah, hey,” he said, voice still soft from the calmness of the evening. As he talked through the details with him, he realised he needed to jot something down. With no pen or paper in reach, he glanced over to the dining table where she always kept a notepad beside her tea.

Oscar rose, walking over to her seat, quietly picking up her pen. But as he did, his eyes fell onto the screen of her laptop, where her banking app was open.

It was one glance, just a flicker of his eyes, but enough for him to catch sight of the balance there. He paused mid-sentence, his own words catching in his throat.

That number didn’t look right.

Surely it was missing a decimal.

Wrapping up the conversation with Mark, he wrote down what he needed, and looked at the screen once more. In that time, she’d walked back into the room, her feet padding on the cool granite of their dining room floor.

Oscar couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

"Hey," he said, voice a little strained, still trying to process what he was seeing. "Uh…how much money do you make?"

She blinked, the corner of her mouth lifting in that effortless way of hers. "Enough," she said with a little laugh. "Why?"

Oscar blinked, struggling to wrap his head around it. This was his girlfriend—quiet, low-key, not a trace of the usual high-gloss life he’d always associated with wealth. He’d seen people obsess over money, hover around him just because of it, make a whole lifestyle out of it. But her? She was the woman who insisted on bringing packed lunches to work, who chose thrift shops over boutiques, who still wore her decade-old watch without a second thought. She was content. Comfortable. But this…

"That’s…a lot of ‘enough,’" he said, pointing at the screen, unable to mask the amazement in his voice.

She just shrugged and closed her laptop, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "I guess I don’t really talk about it, huh? Not exactly first-date conversation."

He leaned back against the table, watching her with a strange mix of awe and curiosity. "Not even, like, fourth-date conversation."

"To be fair, I didn’t ask what you make, either," she pointed out, quirking an eyebrow at him. "Money’s not really…our thing."

He felt a laugh bubble up in his chest. She was right, and yet, here he was, dumbfounded. She’d been living in his world all this time, never asking him for anything, never trying to claim any part of the lavish life he could provide. Now, he realised, maybe she didn’t need it at all.

"So…why not mention it?" he asked, still trying to understand. "I mean, I just assumed…" He trailed off, feeling a little sheepish.

"I know," she said, her smile turning gentle. "I guess I liked that you assumed. It made things easier. It let me be just…me. No expectations, no need to fit into any box."

Oscar nodded slowly, taking that in. It made sense, but it still felt surreal. Here was someone who, from the very beginning, hadn’t wanted anything from him other than his time, his company. She wasn’t here for his lifestyle or his status, things he’d been conditioned to believe were a part of every relationship he’d ever have.

He glanced at her laptop again, unable to stop himself from wondering. “So, wait—what exactly do you do? Something like…senior management?” he asked, half-joking, his tone teasing.

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head as the absurdity of it all settled in. He was still trying to wrap his head around the whole idea—his girlfriend, his laid-back, thrift-shop-loving girlfriend, was apparently not only financially secure but really well off.

She raised her eyebrows, a sly smile creeping across her face. “Something like that,” she replied, taking a sip of her tea.

He squinted at her, suspicious. “Oh, come on, don’t leave me hanging. How high up are you, really?”

She glanced away, as if considering her words, and then said it, almost like a casual aside. “I’m the CEO.”

He blinked, the statement hanging in the air like a punchline he hadn’t quite caught. “Wait…CEO? As in, like, the CEO?”

She laughed, shrugging it off like it was nothing. “Just of a mid-sized company, Oscar. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Darling,” he said slowly, realising dawning. “What company?”

She paused, her eyes darting away, and he could see the hint of mischief there. “Ever heard of Catalyst?”

“Catalyst…wait, as in Catalyst Dynamics?” he asked, his voice growing louder with shock. “The same Catalyst Dynamics that sponsors my team?”

She pressed her lips together, trying—and failing—not to smile. “Do they?”

“Oh, you are kidding me!” he exclaimed, grinning in disbelief. “You’ve been secretly spoiling me this whole time!”

She shook her head, looking away as though he’d accused her of something scandalous. “Oscar, it’s a sponsorship, not a…spoiling thing. Besides, that’s business. I keep it separate from…this.” She gestured between the two of them, clearly trying to play it cool.

But Oscar wasn’t buying it, not for a second. “Oh, no you don’t.” Before she could say another word, he leaned down, scooping her up and carrying her toward the sofa.

“Oscar!” she yelped, laughing, half-protesting, but she didn’t resist.

He set her down on the cushions, pinning her playfully as he hovered above her, grinning with that spark of mischief that usually only showed up on race day. “You’ve been keeping this a secret, haven’t you? The big boss lady, looking out for me, pretending you’re just this regular 9-to-5 woman…”

“Oscar, I’m not spoiling—”

“Oh, we’ll see about that.” He grinned wider, fingers finding her sides as he started tickling her, his hands relentless. She burst into laughter, twisting and squirming, but he didn’t let up.

“Okay, okay!” she managed between laughs, her breath coming in gasps as he kept up his assault. “I admit it, I admit it!”

“Admit what?” he asked, pausing, a playful gleam in his eyes as he waited for her to say it.

“Fine!” She was breathless, cheeks flushed from laughter. “Maybe I had a tiny bit of a hand in sponsoring your team, maybe. But it wasn’t to spoil you! It was just…good business.”

He chuckled, finally letting up, settling beside her on the sofa. “Good business, huh?”

She took a deep breath, still smiling as she nudged him. “I mean it. I didn’t want you to feel any pressure…or obligation. This—us—is different.”

Oscar looked at her, his heart feeling fuller than he’d expected. “Different is right.” He slipped an arm around her, pulling her close. “Guess I’m just lucky to be dating a CEO with a secret soft spot.”

She laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder, content. “And I guess I’m lucky to be with someone who never needed me to be anything but…me.”

As they settled into a comfortable silence, Oscar’s mind was still spinning, pieces clicking into place one by one. He glanced around their beautiful apartment—the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sleek, minimalist design. The place had always felt like an oasis, calm and understated, like Anna herself. But something new was nagging at him now.

“Wait…” He looked down at her, narrowing his eyes. “That’s why you won’t let me pay rent, isn’t it? You said this place was your dad’s, but it’s not, is it?”

She bit her lip, trying not to smile, but the faintest hint of a smirk gave her away. “Well…okay, maybe it wasn’t technically my dad’s. He…may not have anything to do with it.”

“Sweetheart!” he said, laughing as he sat up, staring at her in mock betrayal. “So you’ve just been letting me think I’m staying at this family-owned place when all this time you’re the one paying for it?”

She shrugged, looking at him with playful innocence. “It’s already been paid for. Besides,” she added, her smile widening, “I like the idea of you feeling at home here without any pressure.”

“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m onto you now. You may be this relaxed, low-key CEO, but you’ve secretly been spoiling me this entire time. Admit it!”

She laughed, a bright, carefree sound. “Fine, I admit it—I may have bought this place. Technically. But it’s still your home, too.”

Oscar pulled her close again, marvelling at how effortlessly she balanced everything—her high-powered job, their quiet, easygoing life together, her uncanny ability to make him feel like the luckiest man in the world. “You know what?” he murmured, looking into her eyes. “I don’t care if you own half of Monaco. You’re still my love.”

She grinned, leaning her forehead against his. “Good,” she whispered. “Because you’re stuck with me.”

They stayed like that for a moment, her nestled into him, the quiet warmth of the room settling around them. But Oscar couldn’t resist one more question, the thought gnawing at him.

He tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, a smirk playing on his lips. “Alright, one last thing, Miss CEO.” He paused, eyes twinkling. “Is your net worth bigger than mine?”

She tried to stifle a laugh, her eyes darting away as if avoiding the answer itself. “Oscar…”

He gasped, leaning back in exaggerated shock. “Oh my god, it is, isn’t it? You’ve got me beat!”

“I’m not answering that,” she said, biting back a smile as she pressed her lips together stubbornly.

“You don’t need to,” he replied, grinning even wider. “The silence says it all. Here I thought I was the big shot, and my girlfriend’s out here just quietly sitting on an empire.”

She laughed, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “Well, maybe I just like watching you think you’re the fancy one.”

He pulled her close again, laughing softly. “Alright, fine. But don’t think I won’t bring this up anytime you try to sneak the bill.”

She grinned, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Deal.”

Oscar chuckled, still shaking his head in disbelief. He leaned back, looking up at the ceiling as if he’d just pieced together some incredible mystery. “You know, our kid is going to be spoiled,” he said, the words slipping out with a grin.

He felt her shift beside him, and when he looked down, her expression had softened, her eyes faraway, a little spark of excitement in them. “They won’t,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Humble start, just like we both had.”

“Oh, so you’ll be the strict parent, then?” he teased, arching an eyebrow. “The one laying down the law?”

She laughed, giving him a gentle shove. “So I’m the bad cop?”

“Absolutely. I’m not budging on this.” He grinned, taking her hands in his as he leaned in close. “You’ve been lying to me for four years about practically everything. I think that officially makes you the bad cop in this relationship.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face was warm, even a little shy. “Fine, I’ll take ‘bad cop’… but only if you’re ready to be the softie who gives in.”

Oscar laughed, wrapping his arms around her, feeling that sense of joy settle in even deeper. “Deal, I was already planning on it” he whispered, his voice full of promise. And as he held her close, he realised he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Oscar pulled her even closer, his hands resting gently on her cheeks as he took in the warmth of her gaze, her face illuminated softly in the low light. The playful edge between them softened into something deeper, and the laughter faded into quiet, shared breath.

Slowly, he leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a soft, lingering kiss that held all the words they hadn’t said. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers curling there as she melted into him, and for a moment, everything—the teasing, the surprises, the whole world around them—faded away.

the end.

[thehmn]

Here’s a job you probably never even knew existed but is perfect for episodic stories.

Years and years ago I worked for a substitute/temp company, meaning other companies could ask for, say, five workers for any kind of job for anywhere from a day to a month and my company would then pick out five of their employees with suitable skills and ask us if we wanted to take the job.

You can imagine I ended up getting all sorts of wacky experiences. This was the job where I was hired to clean a dirty old kitchen with 10 other people at a mansion but got lost one day and walked into a cultish room with an altar and thrones lined up along the wall.

And when I say any kind of job I mean it. People asked for all sorts of unskilled work but the company also got requests for specialized work that only certain workers could do. I spent a week in an empty building where I only saw the other worker who had been hired along with me attaching wheels to carts. At another job we were sent up through a hole in the ceiling at a mall where we cleaned out old boxes. A particularly beautiful job entailed “braiding” small transparent tubes down a wall at a temporary closed factory while the sun was shining through ceiling windows which made the tubes glitter like glass. No idea what that job was about. We did anything from cleaning to preparing food to clearing a building site to factory work to hauling fish to painting to looking after animals to-

And if you like dressing your characters up you’re going to love this; our company didn’t have their own uniform because we were always dressed in the uniforms of the companies we were hired out to, or the companies would dress us in work appropriate clothes like overalls or aprons. I was once handed a cute long dress to wear while I sold pancakes.

I realize some of it sounds dangerous but it was all perfectly safe. Sometimes companies just needed extra help with something for a few days. The only reason why I stopped was because the work wasn’t stable and you never knew how far you’d have to travel to the next job. It was fun though.

[tokkiwrites]

summary: you own a local flower shop, and with each passing day, you notice the same man come byㅡ watching. you try to forget about him and try your hand at dating, but you didn't know you were his from the first day he laid his eyes on you. tags: obsessive/stalker!sergei kravinoff , afab reader, mention of violation, short mention of murder, mean sergei, degradation, unprotected p in v (spooky!), head m receiving, breath play, creampie, slight breeding kink. /ᐠ - ˕ -マ⁩ authors note 𑁯 ✿ happy spookytokki kinktober!! the last fic is her, wowza! i had so much fun writing all of these for you guys, n i hope you enjoyed them as much as i did. this has around 4.48k words, so it's the longest of the bunch. i loved the premise. >:) obsessive kraven and flower shop owner reader. remember, this is all fiction, and i dont encourage behavior like that in real life!!! anyway, maybe i will make it into a series. not betad!

It started in April. You remember because the daffodils had just come in, their yellow heads still stiff from the cold. You’d been wiping down the counter, lost in your routine, when you first noticed him— standing across the street, his eyes fixed on your window. He wasn’t a regular, not even someone you’d ever seen around town, but something about the way he stood there, hands buried in the pockets of his worn coat, made you pause.

He hadn’t come in that day, just lingered for a while before moving on. But the image of him stayed with you long after—broad shoulders, sharp features, his face caught in the shadow of his collar like he was hiding something.

That was six months ago.

Now, it’s October. The light is thinner, weaker, as you arrange chrysanthemums in small clusters. You catch sight of him again today, across the street like always. It’s not every day, but often enough that you’ve come to expect it. Sometimes, you wonder what he does in the moments between his appearances, where he goes. Why he always walk past but never stops.

You try to shake it off, focusing on the customer in front of you. An older man, looking for a dozen roses, but his words don’t quite register. You’ve seen the way Sergei watches the shop, the way his gaze follows people inside, lingering too long when you talk to other men. You shouldn’t care, but the thought of it—of him—sends a strange warmth flooding through you.

The old man clears his throat, and you snap back to reality, managing an awkward smile as you finish wrapping the bouquet.

“Thanks,” you mumble, handing it over.

Outside, Sergei is gone.

It’s three days later when the bell above your door finally rings, and he steps in. The air shifts with his presence, something heavy and deliberate in the way he moves toward the counter. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t soften the rough edges of his voice when he finally speaks.

“Do you have anything that lasts longer than a week?” he asks, his gaze holding yours in a way that makes it hard to breathe. His accent is faint, buried under years of elsewhere, but it’s there, just enough to make the question sound more like a demand.

You blink, trying to remember what he said. “Uh, the lilies,” you manage. “They—um, they hold up pretty well.”

He nods, eyes shifting to the bouquets behind you, though you can’t shake the feeling that he’s still looking at you, not the flowers. He doesn’t say anything. he just lets the silence stretch between you until you turn to gather a few stems. Your fingers tremble slightly, and you hope he doesn’t notice.

“You’re here a lot,” you say quietly, not sure why you decided to speak now, but needing to fill the space. “I mean… passing by.”

Sergei’s lips twitch, just enough to show the hint of a smile, but there’s nothing warm about it. “I walk this way often.” You nod, though the answer feels hollow, like it’s only part of the truth.

As you wrap the lilies, you feel his eyes on you, studying you, and something about it is thrilling in a way you don’t want to admit. When you finally hand him the flowers, your fingers brush his, just for a second. His skin is rough, cold, and the touch leaves a shiver running up your spine.

“Thank you,” he says, but there’s something strange in his voice, like the words are unfamiliar to him. Then, without another word, he’s gone.

By November, you’ve almost convinced yourself that it’s nothing. Sergei’s just a quiet man, someone who happens to walk by your shop. You try not to think about him too much, though that’s easier said than done. The men who come into the shop are kind, sweet even. You’ve gone out for coffee a few times, tried to meet their eyes, and pretend you felt something for them. But it never lasts.

None of them leave you breathless like Sergei does with just a glance.

And that’s the problem. You don’t know him. You know nothing about him, except the way he makes you feel—on edge, watched, but also... wanted. It’s confusing, this push and pull, this desire for someone you barely know. And it doesn’t help that, whenever you catch his gaze, there’s something dark in it. Something possessive. Something that makes you wonder what he’s thinking when he sees you talking to other men.

it's like you already belong to him; and you know it.

It’s late November when it happens again. The first cold snap has set in, the chill making your breath cloud the window as you adjust a vase of poinsettias. The shop is quiet, and you’re alone, lost in thought, when the door opens and Sergei steps in once more. His presence fills the space, the air somehow feeling heavier, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

“I’ll take the white ones,” he says, gesturing toward the lilies. His voice is lower this time, rougher, like he’s been thinking too much or not sleeping enough.

You wrap them in silence, aware of his eyes on you again. The tension between you feels thicker today, almost unbearable. As you hand him the bouquet, you can’t stop yourself from asking, “Do you ever buy these for someone?”

Sergei’s eyes flicker, narrowing slightly. For a moment, you think he won’t answer, but then he leans forward just a fraction, his voice low and controlled.

“No."

It’s just a word, but it wraps itself around you, a confirmation of something unspoken. You look down, feeling heat rise in your cheeks, and when you glance up again, he’s already turning to leave.

“See you soon,” he mutters before the door closes behind him, and you realize that you want to.

It’s late December now, and the snow has started to fall, gentle flakes that coat the windows of your little shop. The poinsettias are in full bloom, their deep reds and whites filling the space with a festive calm. But your mind isn’t on flowers today. It’s been difficult to focus lately—especially after last week.

That was the day Sergei saw you cry.

You hadn’t meant for anyone to see. The shop had been empty, the late afternoon light casting long shadows as you sat on the stool behind the counter, head in your hands. You’d just finished arguing with Mark, a guy you’d been seeing for a few weeks. Nothing serious, but you thought maybe it could be, until he said something that cut deeper than you expected. Something cruel, dismissive, about how you were "too quiet," how it was "hard to keep a conversation going with someone who never has anything to say."

You hadn’t even responded, too stunned by the way he looked at you, like your softness was some kind of weakness. So you let him leave, biting your lip until the door closed behind him. It wasn’t until later, when you were alone, that the tears came.

Sergei must have been watching from across the street, unnoticed as usual, though this time he didn’t just walk by. You hadn’t seen him enter, hadn’t heard the bell chime, but suddenly he was there, standing in the corner of the shop. Silent. His eyes were on you, sharp and steady, watching the tears slip down your cheeks.

For a moment, he said nothing. Didn’t ask if you were okay, didn’t offer any words of comfort. He just stood there, his expression unreadable. But something about the way he looked at you made you shiver—not from the cold, but from the feeling that he liked seeing you like this. Vulnerable. Soft and broken, just for him to witness.

You’d wiped your face quickly, embarrassed, pulling yourself together before he could say anything. And then, just as silently as he’d appeared, Sergei had left, the door closing softly behind him. You didn’t know what to make of it. The way his presence lingered after he was gone, like a shadow that clung to the edges of your thoughts.

It wasn’t until a few days later, after another argument with Mark, that things turned. Mark had come back, all apologies and excuses, but something about the way he spoke to you still felt off. He’d asked you to meet him after work, so you did, more out of habit than desire. The conversation hadn’t gone well. He was frustrated, saying things he didn’t mean, but the look in his eyes as he spoke made you flinch. It wasn’t until he grabbed your wrist—harder than he should have—that the tears started again. This time, not out of sadness, but fear.

What you didn’t know was that Sergei had been watching. He always seemed to know when you needed to be seen, always appeared at the edges of your world when you thought you were alone. Later, you would wonder how he knew where to find Mark. Whether he followed him, waited, or if it was just luck that they crossed paths that night after you’d gone home, shaken and silent. All you knew was that Mark never came back.

You didn’t see the violence, didn’t hear the crack of bone or the dull thud of a body hitting the ground, but when the news came days later—a body found in the river, no suspects—you felt the air in your lungs freeze. You tried to convince yourself it was a coincidence, tried to push away the gnawing suspicion in your gut. But when Sergei came into the shop the next day, silent and cold as always, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew. That he had done something.

It was snowing again when he walked in, the cold biting at the edges of the door before it clicked shut behind him. You were alone, rearranging the poinsettias for the third time that day, trying to distract yourself from the unease settling in your chest.

“You alright?” His voice was low, almost a growl, breaking the silence. His accent was sharper today, more pronounced, as if he was trying to draw you in with the weight of his words.

You didn’t look up right away. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though it didn’t sound convincing even to your own ears.

He took a step closer, his boots heavy against the wooden floor, and you felt the tension settle over you like a second skin. When you finally met his gaze, there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch. A darkness. Something more than just quiet observance. Something possessive.

“Mark,” he said slowly, testing the name in his mouth like it was something he had already chewed up and spat out. “He won’t bother you anymore.” You blinked, confused, the words hanging in the air between you like a dense fog. He wasn’t asking. He was telling you. And in that moment, you understood. “What did you do?” Your voice was barely a whisper, but you couldn’t tear your eyes from him.

Sergei didn’t answer right away, just watched you in that way he always did—intense, unblinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you expected, but no less terrifying.

“I did what needed to be done.”

Your heart raced, the realization sinking in. You should have felt scared, horrified even, but instead, you felt... safe. Like, in some twisted way, Sergei was protecting you, looking after you in ways no one else had.

It was wrong. You knew it was wrong. But standing there, in that small shop filled with delicate flowers and fragile stems, you felt something stir inside you—a recognition of the dark and dangerous things hiding just beneath the surface of his calm exterior. You should have told him to leave. You should have been afraid. But instead, you took a breath, nodded slowly, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Sergei’s lips twitched again, that almost-smile that never quite reached his eyes. Then, without another word, he came closer, the cold air from outside still clinging to him. "Is it wrong I want to kiss you right now?" he asks, voice rough, like the question wasn't even thatㅡ it was undeniable.

You couldn't speak. The words stuck in your throat as your pulse quickened. You should say something, anything. You should step back, put distance between you, but you didn't. Instead, your mind raced with a thousand thoughts, none of which seemed capable of grounding you.

Sergei's gaze flickered to your lips, his hand lifting slightly, like he might reach out and touch you but was holding himself back, his restraint barely visible under the surface. There was something raw in his voice, something that made your chest tighten because you weren't sure if it was wrong- or if it was exactly what you wanted too.

But it was dangerous. He was dangerous. You knew that now. You'd felt it from the start, Still, you stood frozen, much like the trees outside. You swallowed hard, finally finding your voice, though it was barely a whisper. "I don't know if it's wrong..."

His fingers brushed your jaw, slow, deliberate, as though testing your reaction. And then, so bitter, he murmured, “Is it wrong that… I want to see you cry, but not by the hands of others?”

The words stood there between you, filling the space with something you couldn’t quite name. Your breath caught in your throat, a sharp, involuntary intake, the meaning of what he said settled over you like ice. You should have felt fear—anyone else would have—but instead, there was only that pulse of something in your core you couldn't ignore.

His thumb traced the edge of your cheek, lingering near your lips, his eyes still locked on yours. You tried to swallow the sudden lump in your throat, your heart pounding in your chest, but the intensity of his gaze pinned you in place, making it impossible to move or even think clearly. it all felt hazy.

You should step back, should pull away. This was crossing a line, a line you hadn’t even realized existed until now. But you didn’t. You stood there, the tension between you thick enough to suffocate, his words playing over and over in your mind until he spoke again.

Sergei’s hand moved to your chin, tilting your face upward, forcing you to meet his eyes. There was a heat there, something primal and raw, something he wasn’t hiding anymore. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer, yet somehow even more dangerous.

“I don’t want anyone else to hurt you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your lower lip, “but I want to see you break—because of me.” The confession should have terrified you, should have sent you running. instead, you felt yourself leaning into his touch, your body betraying the warning signs flashing in the back of your mind.

“Why?” you whispered, voice trembling. Sergei’s eyes flickered with amusement, as if he was mocking you. “Because,” he said slowly, his grip on your chin tightening just enough to make your breath hitch, “I want to know how far you’ll let me go.”

You could feel the space closing in, feel the weight of his words sinking deeper. It was a game nowㅡ his game, one you weren’t sure you knew how to play, but it was too late to back out. And somehow, some part of you didn’t want to.

you'd let him do it all. anything.

You stared at him, unsure of whether you should push him away or pull him closer. But the truth, the part you couldn’t admit to yourself, was that a twisted, hurt part of you wanted to let him see you break, wanted to be undone by him and only him. "Please kiss me." you manage to pull out from the pit of your soul, your senses filled by his smell mixed with the ones in your flower shop.

In one swift, consuming motion, he kissed you. It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It was intense, fierce, like he'd been holding back for too long. His lips crashed against yours with a hunger that matched the heat rising in your chest. You felt his fingers thread into your hair, pulling you closer, as though he needed to feel you against him, needed to claim this moment.

And in that instant, all the fear, all the uncertainty, melted away. There was nothing left but him.

For a few seconds, he pulls away from the kiss, staring at your puffy lips and blushed cheeks, like he’s studying the effect he has on you, savoring it. "I want to have you crumble through my fingers and then build you up just to have you kneel at my feet again." It’s twisted, wrong, but it lights something inside of you, making you drip with arousal.

"You want this." he breathes against your lips, "I can see it." Sergei leans in, nose now flush to your neck as he huffs a deep inhale. "Smell it." you can feel him smile against the skin of your shoulder, palms riding down to cup your hips, grip not easing. "Feel it." he draws a long strip from the crook of your neck up to your ear, earning a soft moan from your parted lips. "Let me ruin you."

It wasn't a request but a demand, one that you were far too deep to deny him. the panties you had on were already soaked, and your hair stood up on end as Sergei trailed his calloused fingertips down your back. "Please..." it sounded so pathetic, weak, but that made him desire this even more. he listened to your pleads in no time, practically ripping the clothes off of you. the cold air hit your body, making it sting, nipples now pebbled. this was never something you imagined could happen, you fully naked and him fully clothed, scanning you as if you were his next full course meal.

"Kneel." this catches you off guard, but he's quick to notice the lack of response so he takes it in his own hands to make you obey. He roughly pushes you down to your knees, tapping the top of your head to look up at him. he's fast, unapologetic and carnal. he's what you're notㅡ what you need.

"Say you're sorry." The word cuts through the air, sharp and commanding, but you couldn’t understand why, it left you dumbfounded and for a split second, you just stare at him, breathless, unsure. "F-for what?" Sergei, ever attuned to your hesitation, doesn’t wait for you to respond. His patience isn’t one of his virtues, and you’re learning that quickly. he tuts, rolling i strand of your hair through his digits. “What do you mean ‘for what?’” he repeats slowly, his voice dripping with disdain, as though you should already know. “How many guys have you seen since you met me?”

Your stomach tightens at the accusation, the memory of each fleeting, empty attempt at connection flashing in your mind—Mark, and the others who never seemed to fill the space Sergei occupied without even trying. He leans down, his voice dropping to a near whisper, but there’s nothing soft about the way his words cut into you. “Even though you knew—felt—that you belonged to me?” it makes you realize you’d never stood a chance.

"Say it." you can feel the truth claw its way out. “IㅡI’m sorry.” a satisfied gleam flashing in his eyes. But the hunger remains. He isn’t done, not yet.

“Good girl,” your tummy flips as he says those words, a soft smile creeping upon your face. that feeling dissipates quick as you hear the buckle on his pants come undone and with a swift motion his zipper coming down.

"Show me how sorry you are." Sergei bites, taking out his hard-on and letting it spring free. your eyes widened at the sight. you'd never seen something so bigㅡ it was intimidating, but the churn in your stomach pushed you closer, slowly wraping your rosy lips around the tip. "yeah, like that. i wanna see you choke on my cock, c'mon." he says before thrusting deep in your throat, "Maybe if you weren’t such a needy whore.." he drags out "I would've fucked that pretty pussy like you wanted me to. But you don't deserve it. Not yet. You need to know who you belong to." he snaps his hips, the tip of his dick promptly hitting the back of your esophagus, drool and tears already dripping down your face.

for a moment he stops, and you feel him pull out a little bit, leaving only half of his shaft inside of your mouth, two of his fingers pinching your nose, cutting off your air supply. he was toying with you. "what if i keep you like this? make you sit like this, unable to breathe at all, with my cock down your throat... get you all dizzy and stupid." it was so sweet the way he said such bad things.

tears well up in your eyes, mind spinning as your heartbeat picks up, yet his hips don't budge and the pinch on your nose strengthens. "Look at me." and you do, all teary eyed and fucked out. Sergei's chest heaves up as he mutters a low 'God.', his other palm coming up to wipe your tears away. "You're so pretty like this." he lets go of your nose and you finally take in a big gasp of air just as he pulls back and burries his cock deep in your throat again making you gag. "So pretty when you cry."

his moves are deliberate, large palms on both sides of your head as his hips snap. drool pools from your mouth, falling onto your exposed thighs. you try to hold onto his legs for a little stability, but it was all too disorienting, so you were left at his mercy. with a few more harsh thrusts, he comes ropes down your throat and onto your tongue with a loud groan. "Swallow. All of it." You obey, the salty liquid now all gone from your mouth.

"Bend over the counter." you swiftly comply, scrambling to your feet. obliging his orders, you bend over the counter that still had a few petals scattered here and there, bare ass and cunt on full display. "mm.." sergei licks his lips before palming the small of your back "so pretty for me."

you completely shattered under his touch, his fingertips drawing small fires that spread through you in clusters, desperate whines escaping past your swollen lips. "please..." he roughly grabs you by the back of your head, leaning in to talk directly into your ear. "did i say you can talk?" you shake your head no, shuddering as you feel Sergei's beard rub against your pebbled skin.

pushing back your hips in gripe, you manage to get your face unwaveringly pressed to the countertop. "Don't be greedy now." With that, he nimbly plunged two fingers into your mouth, making you gasp. "Suck them like you did my cock." that's all you needed to hear, fleetly wrapping your lips around his thick fingers, sucking and swirling your tongue around them like there was no tomorrow.

pushing the fingers deeper, he wins a muffled gag, your tongue pressed flush against them. "yeah, good little whore." your walls were twitching around nothing, that familiar warm wetness spreading between your thighs that were parted by Sergei's knee. "Need'a prep youㅡ"

"No! pleaseㅡ hurry.."

he laughs, almost mocking you. "fuck, I'll tear right through you, little flower." Without any warning, he flips you over, fisting his shaft, aligning it with your fluttering entrance. "Filthy girl." inhaling a sharp breath, your muscles tense up as he plunges inside of your wetness all at once, with no warning. you writhe in pain for a bit, tears already spilling from the corner of your glossy eyes.

"Look at you swallowing me in." he groans, sinking his fingernails into the plush of your skin "c'mon, tell me you're sorry for being such an attention whore. apologize so i don't kill every man who looked your way." it was all so wrong, so dirty and vile, but it was making your tummy churn in excitement and blood pulse through your veins like nothing else. you felt so insane for liking the ideas Sergei put into your head, but you loved feeling insane as long as it was for him.

"I'm sorry, I'm so s-orry, pleaseㅡ" you moan as he drills deep into you, back flush to the cold counter. "Look at me. Look me in the eyes and apologize." he was so stoic, like he wasn't even destroying your insides right that moment. more tears fall from your eyesㅡ pleasure, fear, actually apologetic tears. you didn’t know which it was. but they fell like pearls. "I'm so-rry, 'm sorry, so sorry.." you were breathless, repeating those same words over and over again, as Sergei sped up his movements, your legs now closed together over one of his shoulders as he fucked into you with no remorse. "Shitㅡ fuck, 'm gonna come. gonna come so deep inside and make you keep it there, make you go to work with my come inside of you, fuck, you'd like that?"

"P-lease...pleaseㅡ! " With a loud plead, you reach your high, walls tightening around Sergei's shaft, causing him to growl. you were left shaking, thighs uncontrollably wriggling in the mans tight hold. with a few more pumps, he paints your walls with warm, white ribbons, panting soft 'you're mine's into the crook of your neck.

you cling to him, breathing in his scent as his seed slowly drips out from within you. you hear him hum before placing a soft kiss on the crown of your head. "my little flower."

[whoevenisjavier]

EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

The plan was to finish your thesis. You didn’t actually want to meet a neighbor with a past you can google and a history caught on tape. Or did you?

a/n: the adult content t-shit gave me ideas. btw, my first story here and I swear this is not a TED talk about morality. critical thinking? yes, bc the story needs it. moral lectures? absolutely not. porn? you'll see. this is just for fun — enjoy, i guess. the storys finished already, so I'll post the next chapter soon.

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. inaccuracies about joel miller (I know his parents aren't chilean but bear with me). javier peña is there too. do I have to add anything else here? I don't know how to do these things.

wc: 9k

This time, your parents aren’t waiting for you at the bus terminal like they’ve done every year for the past three. It’s a good thing, a sign you’re standing on your own now, with your own car, but you still miss seeing their smiles through the fogged-up bus windows.

That moment always made you feel like you belonged somewhere.

Driving through the streets of Lake Placid on your way home feels like walking through your childhood memories. The stores look almost the same — sometimes with a fresh coat of paint — and the people, though not exactly familiar, are the daughters and grandsons of the adults you grew up around before moving to New York. Their faces carry just enough resemblance to make you do a double take.

When you park in your parents’ driveway and pick up your phone for the first time in two hours, there’s a message from your mother.

“We’re in the backyard having a welcome barbecue for the new neighbor! You can go up to your room and rest if you want some time alone or come eat. Can’t wait to see you. X.”

You smile as you step out of the Jeep, the door creaking behind you, and breathe in the cold, clean air rolling down from the mountains and the lake that wraps around the village where you were born. Your parents’ house sits above Mirror Lake Drive, right at the edge of the hill on the northeast side of the village, and from your bedroom window on the second floor, you can see the lake and the distant peaks of the High Peaks.

A far cry from the view outside your New York apartment: nothing but gray swallowed up by buildings. It’s the perfect setting to finally finish your thesis.

As you grab your two suitcases from the back seat, your eyes wander to the house next door, which had been empty for the past three years, mostly because the previous owners were asking too much for it.

Buying real estate in Lake Placid takes careful thought, since turning a profit is unlikely even with upgrades and expansions – the village is just too isolated. So if you’re buying here, it’s not for the money. It’s because you want a life far away from the city.

The house in question is a larger and more luxurious version of your parents’, made of gray stone, with cute white-framed windows, and for the first time in months, you see the lawn freshly trimmed and a new pickup truck parked in the driveway.

Probably the new family your mom mentioned.

The house is empty when you walk in, but you can hear laughter and voices drifting up from the backyard. You head the opposite way, climb the stairs to your room, drop your bags, take a shower, and spend a good while debating whether to sink into sheets that smell like home for the first time in ten months or go downstairs and find something to eat.

Hunger wins.

You throw on a warm sweater and go down. When you open the back doors, six pairs of eyes turn toward you, but it’s your mother’s squeal that makes you smile, followed by the tight hug she and your father give you.

“There’s our girl,” your father says to the others, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he says your name. You give a small wave. “She always comes home for the holidays.”

The couple sitting together you recognize. They’ve been friends with your parents for years.

But you don’t know the woman who smiles sweetly at you, and you definitely don’t recognize the man, at least twenty-five years older than you, who keeps a neutral expression as he sips from a beer can. He doesn’t seem particularly friendly, but maybe that’s just the impression left by the slightly graying mustache and broad shoulders.

Two minutes later, you’re settled into a lounge chair with everyone in the backyard, a warm burger on your plate and a cold beer in your hand.

“I told Joel he’d have trouble with the house,” says the sweet-smiling woman to your parents, continuing the conversation they were having. “But he really wanted a place here, so I just supported him.”

“What kind of trouble are you having with the house?” your mom asks Joel — the mustached man, now officially identified.

“Nothing major,” Joel replies in a deep, firm, polite voice. “Had to redo the plumbing in two of the bathrooms and fix the heating in the kitchen sink, but it’s all fine now.”

“And are you liking it here?” you venture. You glance at the woman. “You and... your wife?”

Joel gives a faint smile.

“Tess isn’t my wife. And yeah, I’m liking it. It’s peaceful. Not too many teenagers. Feels like paradise.”

“What’s with the teenage hate?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious, silently filing away the Tess isn’t his wife detail.

“Fewer teenagers means fewer cell phones.”

Your response is a light laugh that earns a slight eyebrow raise from Joel, but you go back to your burger and let him be.

The conversation between the adults shifts to Fleetwood Mac, Lake Placid families, suggestions for places Joel should check out, and gossip about someone’s daughter who apparently got knocked up by the neighbor’s grandson, or something like that. You listen in, partly because you’re curious about the latest news (true or not) in the town you grew up in.

Your parents mention that you’re staying longer this time to get a change of scenery and finally work on your thesis, and that’s when the dreaded question comes. From Tess.

“And what’s your thesis about?”

Your mother holds back a laugh, because despite the seriousness of the topic, the initial reactions are always the same.

“I study anthropology,” you say. “My thesis is about the influence of pornography on male behavior over the years.”

That’s because the way men acted around you had always bothered you. When you were ten, wearing a cute chiffon skirt to the grocery store, they stared. When you were fifteen, walking home from school in your uniform, you heard disgusting things shouted at you on the street.

It wasn’t until you got older and realized that behavior like that isn’t natural (and why would it be, if women don’t do it?) that all your anger turned into the foundation for your research.

Tess raises her eyebrows and smiles slightly while the older couple gasps in surprise. Joel doesn’t react at all, except for rubbing the condensation on his beer can with his thumb.

“That’s a very interesting topic,” Tess comments, glancing at Joel, who briefly looks at her, then back at you. “Do you have any conclusions yet?”

“A few,” you say, though you already know the core of your research is the objectification of women’s bodies for the industry’s gain. “But I don’t want to bore you—”

“What’s your research method?” Joel cuts in before you can finish.

“Sorry?”

“Your research method. The system you’re using for the thesis.”

“Mixed methods,” you say, but you sense something more behind the question. Something slightly aggressive that you can’t fully pin down. “I did some fieldwork in New York.”

“Did you interview anyone from the industry?”

You shake your head.

“No one agreed. At least not the newer actors and actresses. The more established ones charged absurd fees just to answer ten questions.”

Joel says nothing, and the silence is broken when your father makes a joke about the topic. Everyone laughs—including you.

The barbecue lasts another hour at most before people start saying their goodbyes. Your mom wraps up two burgers for Joel, and he thanks her sincerely.

Then he turns to you and says:

“Good luck with the thesis, sweetheart.”

You nod, and you could swear you catch a faint smirk at the corner of his lips before he waves goodbye and walks off.

You run into Joel again at the market three blocks from home, standing in front of the fruit display, looking stuck between red grapes, green grapes, and oranges.

Joel’s voice comes suddenly from your left.

“What deep philosophical truth are you hoping those grapes will reveal to you?”

You startle, turning toward him with your hand over your heart as if that could slow it down. Joel raises one eyebrow as he begins placing seedless green grapes into a plastic bag.

He’s wearing worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt over a white T-shirt. Thin-rimmed glasses rest on the strong bridge of his nose.

He smells like pine and something expensive—you guess it’s aftershave.

“Hi,” you say first, then quickly add, “I was trying to decide between grapes and oranges.”

“Grapes are sweeter this time of year.”

“But I like sour fruit.”

“Then go for the oranges.”

“But grapes are easier to eat. More practical.”

Joel gives you an impatient look, and you answer with a laugh. You grab a plastic bag and start selecting oranges.

After a short silence, while Joel ties off his grape bag and begins picking oranges too, you ask:

“Are you liking it here?”

Joel murmurs:

“There are some interesting things. Sarah likes it.”

“Your wife?” you ask quickly. Too quickly.

“My daughter. Just turned fifteen.”

Oh. Great. He’s a dad. You glance at his hand but see no ring. Joel notices.

“What’s with the marriage obsession?” he asks, although not rudely.

You shrug.

“I’m just curious. And you’d better brace yourself. The older ladies in Lake Placid are going to eat you alive with questions about your relationship status.”

“Really? Why do you think that?”

You freeze with your fingers wrapped around a particularly juicy orange. Without meaning to, you basically confessed that you think he’s a catch: attractive, polite, middle-aged, apparently wealthy, and tall. What other reason would the ladies have to shift their attention from their knitting?

You avoid his eyes.

“You bought the house that had been on the market for years. They’ll want to know who the buyer is,” you say, a half-truth.

He grunts, as if to say he doesn’t care about any of that, ties his orange bag, and places it in the cart. He glances at your basket, scanning the hygiene items (specifically the pads) and the chocolate bars.

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

You shake your head. He does too.

“Then let’s go. I’ll give you a ride home. It’s raining.”

His tone doesn’t invite objection and you don’t want to argue. Silently, and after grabbing a bag of green grapes too, you follow him through the market. He picks up a box of chocolate cereal, milk, kale, and oats, and then you both head to the checkout line.

You pay for your items first, so you end up waiting under the automatic doors, arms crossed beneath the blasting air conditioner.

People come in shaking umbrellas, mumbling about how unexpected the rain is or how cold the drops feel.

Older women walk in, spot Joel, and start whispering to each other with that smile every woman — no matter her age — immediately recognizes. The universal woman-smile.

He, seemingly unaware to all of it, pays with his card, grabs the bags with one hand, and walks over to you.

“Need help?” he asks, motioning toward your three bags.

You shake your head. He nods once and tilts his head toward the door, signaling for you to follow him across the crowded parking lot.

His pickup truck is parked near the exit—big and sturdy. You both get in at the same time. The inside smells good but feels stuffy from the rain, so he turns on the A/C and runs his hand through his graying hair to shake off the water.

“It rains a lot here,” he mutters as he starts the engine and buckles his seatbelt. You do the same. “Not sure I like this humidity.”

“Where were you living before?”

“Los Angeles.”

Your eyebrows rise. You can’t picture him with the stereotypical California vibe. It doesn’t fit.

So you ask the million-dollar question:

“What did you do there?”

The sound of the windshield wipers is your only response for a few seconds. Long enough for you to wonder if you crossed a line.

“A bit of everything,” he finally says, and you understand that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Yeah. You were being nosy.

Weird. Joel is weird, and everything about him makes you feel like you should think he’s an assassin, or a retired California mobster, anything that would kick your survival instincts into gear. You probably shouldn’t be sitting in a closed space with him like you’ve known him for years.

“Nothing illegal,” Joel adds when your silence starts to stretch.

That makes you laugh.

“Very reassuring.”

He smirks. At a red light, his fingers tap lightly on the leather steering wheel.

“How’s the thesis going?” he asks.

“Honestly? I haven’t opened the file since I got here.”

“Procrastinating?”

You hum in agreement, resting your head against the seat.

“I think I’m stuck.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I need to watch some films to move forward.”

He freezes. Then he lets out a low chuckle. You defend yourself:

“I’m serious. I need to understand which narratives work best and why, and connect that to how they influence real-life behavior.”

“Makes sense,” Joel says.

“It does,” you reply, a little proud. You glance at him. The shape of his nose, the mustache, the gray-streaked beard. Then you add, “But it feels weird watching porn in my parents’ house, even if it’s for educational purposes.”

“Porn isn’t always for educational purposes?”

You gasp in horror.

“No!” you exclaim. “Porn is not educational. People don’t have sex like that in real life.”

“Hm…”

“You disagree?”

“I do,” he says plainly. “People do have sex like that.”

“I didn’t mean physically, Joel. Sex is easy: a good position, one thing inside the other, and done.” You catch yourself, because not all sex involves penetration, and something about Joel makes you think he wouldn’t mind sitting through a lecture on inclusivity if it came to that, but you add: “What I meant is that sex doesn’t happen like that. It’s not normal to open the door for the pizza guy and two seconds later be bent over the couch.”

“Says who?”

The frustrated growl that escapes you seems to amuse him. You know he’s teasing, and his grin proves it, but you can’t resist continuing.

“Not to mention the incest plots or the underage fantasies. Do you really think sex happens like that?”

His smile disappears instantly.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No, I’m not. You can’t separate porn genres like some are less harmful than others, because even the ones that seem ‘harmless’ fuel the same industry that writes those sick scripts.”

“We’re here.”

He cuts you off with that simple phrase, and when you look out the window, you realize he’s right — you’re in front of your house. You turn your gaze back to him, and he meets it firmly, returning all the intensity you just threw his way.

You swallow and reach for your bags.

As if you hadn’t just delivered a monologue on the ethics of pornography, you simply say:

“Thanks for the ride.”

He doesn’t respond. You step out of the truck and walk to the door of your house, feeling like a kid who just got scolded, which is ridiculous. But even more ridiculous is the fact that Joel only drives away after he sees you walk safely inside, even though he literally lives next door.

You meet Sarah — Joel’s fifteen-year-old daughter — the next day.

After running along Mirror Lake Drive, you get home with your lungs burning and your body drenched in sweat, the elastic band of your pink sports bra stuck to your back. As you’re kicking off your sneakers at the door, you spot a pair of pink Converse, way smaller than anything anyone in your family would wear.

In the kitchen, there’s a skinny, unfamiliar girl sitting at the counter, two open books spread across the marble, her curly hair pulled up into two puffs.

She lifts her head, and her brown eyes hit you with a soft echo of familiarity.

“Hi,” you say, as if it’s totally normal to have a stranger in your house.

She waves back. Before you can ask “who are you?”, your mom walks into the kitchen and calls your name.

“This is Sarah, Joel’s daughter. Sarah, this is my daughter I was telling you about.”

Sarah gives you a shy little smile, and you smile back, a bit frozen by the fact that you’re standing face-to-face with Joel’s daughter. You’re not even sure why it freezes you.

“Joel had to spend the night out because he needed to go to New York, and he asked if Sarah could stay with us,” your mom explains.

“I’m old enough to stay alone, but my dad’s crazy,” Sarah chimes in, and you laugh.

You don’t think she’s old enough to stay alone, especially in a new town, but you don’t say that.

What you do say is:

“So, Sarah... what are you studying?”

Sarah needs help with her social studies homework, so after you shower and change into something comfortable, you sit down next to her and go over the assignments together. That’s when you realize she’s ridiculously smart and funny, slipping little jokes into the conversation, blending internet memes with historical facts, and talking to her turns out to be genuinely easy and fun.

Your mom serves dinner, you both eat, and then you settle onto the couch with your Kindles, each of you leaning against an end and your feet meeting in the middle of the cushions.

You’re in the third chapter of Ghost Radio when she calls you.

You peek over the top of your Kindle to let her know you’re listening.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Twenty-six.”

She looks up at the ceiling as if doing mental math. Then, reaching some conclusion, she raises her eyebrows.

“Why?” you ask.

“No reason,” she shrugs, turning back to the book she was reading. Another question follows, this time without looking at you. “Are you dating anyone?”

“No. I ended my last relationship six months ago.”

“Was he older?”

“No,” you say with a laugh. “I mean, yes, but only by about three years. Why do you ask?”

Sarah wiggles her feet like she’s a little too excited about something.

“Just scientific curiosity,” she says, but her tone sounds more like a villain plotting something mischievous.

The next morning, Joel comes to pick her up at eight o’clock. You’re the one who opens the door since your parents left early to go to the farmers’ market to buy honey and vegetables.

He’s standing on the porch, wearing a thick leather jacket, jeans, and heavy boots. He looks exhausted, and the two-day beard growth makes him even more intimidating.

“Good morning,” you say.

Joel looks you up and down in your pajamas: heart-printed pants and a tank top. You realize too late that you’re not wearing a bra.

“Good morning,” he replies, lifting his eyes back to your face. “I’m here to get Sarah.”

“She’s finishing breakfast. Come in.”

Before he can protest, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him no choice but to step inside and follow you to the kitchen. You hear his slow, hesitant footsteps as he returns to the room filled with the smell of butter and coffee.

Sarah is sitting at the counter, devouring pancakes. Joel walks over, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and they exchange a few quiet words before he says something that makes her nod and hop down from the stool, leaving the kitchen.

You hear her going upstairs, probably to grab her things.

“How was the trip?” you ask, filling a mug with coffee and placing it in front of him on the marble.

Joel stares at the pink mug like it’s a threat but eventually wraps his big hands around it. You take a sip from your own cup and look at him over the rim, just the counter between you two.

“Good,” he says simply. He gestures toward the coffee. “Thanks. I needed that. Drove back and forth without stopping to rest.”

“Just thinking about it makes my back hurt.”

“I want my bed.”

You watch him over your cup, blowing on the surface of the coffee. You imagine him in the silence of his own house, in his bedroom, in his own bed. You wonder what color the walls are, what the sheets look like, and whether he sleeps clothed or not.

“Sarah’s really smart,” you say, pushing away the mental images.

That earns a small smile from him.

“She’s fantastic, my girl. But she’s cocky, so don’t tell her that.”

“She takes after someone.”

“I’m not cocky.”

“I’m joking,” you say lightly, offering peace because you don’t want to relive the animosity from the last time you saw him. “Is the coffee good?”

“Very.”

“Want to take some pancakes? Bet you’re hungry. I’ve eaten, Sarah’s eaten, and my parents always grab breakfast out when they leave early.”

Joel drums his fingers against the ceramic, looking like he’s fighting an internal battle, as if accepting food from you would be a terrible crime. Still, you take his silence as a yes and start stacking the remaining pancakes into a thermal container.

When you’re done, you walk around the counter and hand him the container with both hands.

“Here.”

Joel takes it with his left hand. With his right, he reaches out and gently pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says quietly, and you freeze.

He walks past you, saying something to Sarah, who apparently has come back downstairs. Feeling a warm flutter deep in your belly, you turn and follow them to the living room. You hug Sarah goodbye, promise to send her books for her Kindle, and then walk them to the door.

You smile when Joel thanks you for looking after Sarah and asks you to pass his thanks to your parents as well.

You watch them cross the lawn between your gardens, and just before Joel enters his house, he turns to look back at you.

You could swear he deliberately and slowly sweeps his gaze over your body—from your feet to your head.

And then he goes inside.

And you have to mechanically force yourself to close the door.

That same night, you start watching the films.

As you work through your research, you put together a report listing the names of the ten most famous stars from each decade between 1970 and 2020, five male, five female.

You already have a pretty clear idea of what defined the main point of pornography in the ’70s: the start of structured scripts and absurd, fantastical narratives that, one way or another, tied a woman’s pleasure directly to a man’s. Like in Deep Throat, where they came up with a story about a woman whose clitoris is located at the back of her throat. You can already guess what the most "effective" method of stimulation would be.

Porno chic was created to make adult content more palatable to the general public, especially as debates about the legality and morality of filming started to gain traction during that decade.

Sitting on your bed with your laptop open in front of you and your tablet resting on your lap for notes, you watch the films at 1.5x speed while eating green grapes.

You knew you might get aroused watching them, because dopamine responses are inevitable, but apparently there's nothing about '70s pornography that even remotely stirs your body. It feels like you're watching a National Geographic documentary.

You can't push away what Linda Lovelace wrote in her autobiography about the most famous film of that time, the one that made millions of dollars: There was a gun pointed at my head the entire time, she said.

You swallow hard and return to your notes.

By the end of the first week of this stage of your thesis, you finish watching the films from the '90s. You note the radical shift in the female body ideal — all the actresses with breast implants — and the peculiar aesthetic of VHS tapes, since this was the era when films started being widely distributed in that format.

What stands out most, though, is the shift in perspective. Gonzo-style pornography centers the camera exclusively on the man, making him the sole focus, and by extension, reducing women to mere tools for male pleasure. The camera's focus on women's bodies is restricted almost entirely to their genitals, which explains a lot about the birth of violent pornography during that time.

If women exist solely for male pleasure, then it’s no problem if they’re violated, right?

And just like that, the normalization of male domination in pornography begins, which, of course, spills over into social behavior.

You shut the laptop in front of you and lie down on the bed, closing your eyes. You doubt even a sixteen-year-old boy has seen as much porn as you have in the past few days, and there’s still so much left to do.

You reach for your tablet and pull up the list of male stars from the 2000s.

Tyler Cross, Javier Peña, Max Thunder, Ryder Grey, and Clint Fury.

Is there someone in the industry whose only job is coming up with these ridiculous pseudonyms?

You get up, leaving everything behind, and head toward the kitchen to find something to eat. It's already past eleven at night, your parents are asleep, and the only light in the living room comes from the lamp. On tiptoe, you’re halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rings.

You freeze like you're in the middle of a crime scene.

A doorbell ringing at eleven at night in Lake Placid? Something must be on fire.

When you open the door, it’s Joel standing there on your parents' porch, looking anxious.

“Hi,” he says. Another meeting where you're in pajamas and he's fully dressed. “It's dangerous to open the door in the middle of the night like that.”

“Great way to start a conversation. I'm calculating how many seconds it'll take me to get to the kitchen and grab a knife.”

You get a somewhat tense smile.

“I’m still not used to these small-town habits.”

“I get it. I would never open the door for anyone after eight p.m. in New York, but here it’s normal.”

He nods, then asks,

“Were you sleeping?”

You wrap your arms around yourself as a cold breeze sweeps by.

“No, I was studying. Is everything okay?”

“I need a favor,” he says bluntly. “Sarah’s asleep, and I have to head back to New York. Can you stay at the house tonight?”

“Is everything okay?” you repeat.

“My brother’s wife just went into labor. He asked me to be there. I should be back tomorrow night.”

Your eyes widen, and Joel nods as if to say, “Exactly, got it?” You hold up a finger to ask for a minute, then run upstairs to grab your slippers, your robe, and your phone. When you come back, Joel is still on a call but waits patiently until you close the door before leading you to his house.

He lets you step inside first, and even with the urgency of the situation, it feels a little like you’re a twenty-year-old girl walking into a guy’s house for the first time, especially when Joel shuts the door behind you, finishing up his call.

The house is warm, clearly lived in by a family. There’s a big rug in the living room, a brown leather couch, and pictures of Sarah hanging in the hallway: lifting a soccer trophy, carrying a skateboard, the two of them at the beach. A line of photos shows her growing up, from a baby all the way to now.

The last photo is of her at Jewtraw Park, right here in Lake Placid.

“You can sleep in my room if you want. If that’s too weird, the couch is really good too. I left some blankets and a pillow right there,” he says, pointing to the armchair. Then he adds, “Everything’s clean. The guest rooms aren’t ready yet.”

You roll your eyes.

“I know, Miller. Relax. I’ll manage.”

“Okay. Give me your number. I’ll text you so you have mine. And if you need anything, call me.”

You say your number, and he types it into his old, barely-hanging-on iPhone.

“Thanks,” Joel says, genuine. “Really.”

You smile and give his arm a quick rub without even thinking about it.

“No problem. Just let me know if you need anything.”

After showing you where Sarah’s room is, where the extra blankets are, and telling you about ten times you can eat whatever you want, he leaves. You quickly text your mom, explaining the situation and letting her know you’re staying at Joel’s, then settle down on the couch.

Little signs of Joel are scattered around the house. The reading glasses forgotten on the coffee table, the suede jacket hanging by the door, the boots by the entryway, the faint smell of the same lotion you caught on him at the store.

You feel a little like a criminal as you get up and start quietly wandering through the rooms.

The kitchen is beautiful and organized, but there are a few dishes left in the sink. Since you’re still awake, you start washing them.

You move on to the dining room, all wood furniture and a classic chandelier, and then to a small office off to the side. It feels almost too empty except for the bookshelves. Just a desk with a laptop sitting on it, making you think it doesn’t get much use.

You head upstairs.

Sarah’s door is closed, but you walk softly down the carpeted hallway to the room at the end.

You push the door open, heart pounding like you’re about to find a monster—or Joel sitting on the bed saying, “Snooping where you shouldn’t be?”

Instead, you find a huge bed neatly made with gray sheets, dark curtains, and matching desks on either side. There’s a closet and a door leading, you assume, to a bathroom.

It’s empty in the way you’d expect a fifty-year-old man’s bedroom to be.

You almost give in and crawl into his bed but force yourself back downstairs, turn off the main lights, and curl up on the couch, which really is pretty comfortable.

It takes a while to fall asleep in a strange house, but when you finally do, your dreams are filled with gray beards and gray sheets.

You wake in the middle of the night to the ping of your phone. You rub your eyes, still dazed from sleep, and grab the phone from the pillow beside you.

4:47 a.m.

It’s a text from an unknown number:

“Hi. Joel here. Sorry for the hour, I hope you’re sleeping. I just got to New York. Please let me know when Sarah wakes up. I’ll need to call her.”

A sleepy smile tugs at your lips at how formally he writes, no abbreviations at all. You save his contact as Miller.

You type back:

“hey. don’t worry. I’ll let you know. everything ok over there?”

“Why are you awake?”

You don’t tell him it was his text that woke you.

“New place… light sleeper.”

“I see.”

An “I see” with a period and everything. Then another message:

“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m in the waiting room, and Tommy’s with his wife. She’s been in labor for seven hours.”

You type: “ouch. hoping all goes well. lmk if u need sth”

“What kind of vocabulary is that?”

“don’t you have bigger things to worry about, grumpy?”

The impossible happens: Joel Miller sends you a smiling emoji.

You reply with one sticking its tongue out.

His next message comes in text again:

“Tell me about your thesis.

“you’re really curious about it.”

“It’s an interesting topic.”

“sure… men and their obsession with porn.”

“I’m not obsessed with porn. I don’t even remember the last time I watched it.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard—it sounds way too intimate.

You type back:

“last time I watched was this afternoon.”

You get a single question mark in response: “?”

You clarify:

“for my thesis. I’m at the stage where I have to watch films.”

“Oh. How are you doing that?”

“picking stars from each decade and watching two movies for each. starting with the 2000s tomorrow.”

Joel reads your message but doesn’t reply right away, which is odd. He had been responding immediately. You wonder if something’s happened at the hospital, if everything’s okay with his sister-in-law.

You stare at the screen until it goes black. Three minutes later, his reply pops up:

“Who are the stars from the 2000s?”

“looking for suggestions?”

“No.”

You open your report from iCloud and copy the list of male and female stars from the 2000s. You send it over.

He reads it. Another little pause.

“I see.”

Then another question:

“And how are you watching? Like a documentary?”

“yeah, pretty much. I put on the films, watch them critically, and take notes.”

“And they don’t affect you?”

“in what way?”

He reads the message but doesn’t answer. After ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, you take a deep breath and type courageously:

“are you asking if I get turned on?”

Again, no response.

Still, you type back:

“i do. it’s inevitable and natural. but only starting with the '90s films. the ones from the '70s and '80s were way too gross for that.”

This time, a reply comes.

“Gross?”

“yeah. the men were really disgusting. it’s obvious they had no idea how to have sex to actually please a woman.”

“I see.”

You picture Joel Miller, tall and broad-shouldered, sitting in a sterile hospital hallway, texting you about porn while waiting for his nephew to be born.

The thought makes you smile to yourself. You burrow deeper under the blanket and decide to be a little bolder.

“do you have a favorite genre of those movies?”

“To watch?”

You frown. What else would it be for?

“yeah”

“I don’t watch them.”

“okay, but if you were going to watch one today, what type would you choose? one with a storyline, straight to the point… what? help me out for the research.”

You almost chew on your lower lip as you watch the little “typing” bubble appear and disappear three times. Finally, he sends a simple response:

“No storyline, not a lot of talking. Something filmed in the morning, in bed, right after waking up.”

“morning sex?”

“Yes.”

Before you can stop yourself, your mind fills with images of Joel’s bed, the same gray sheets now rumpled and tossed aside. The cold morning light pouring through the window, the scent of him still on the fabric, the warmth of sleepy skin, the scratch of his beard against the sensitive part of your neck.

A big hand adjusting and lifting your leg into the right position, low, sleepy moans filling the space.

You snap your eyes open wide.

“got it,” you type back, heart racing.

“Do you have a favorite genre?”

“i hate porn,” you reply.

“Okay. But if you were going to watch one today, what would you pick?”

He’s throwing your own question back at you, meaning you can’t dodge it.

You type the whole answer at once but hesitate a dozen times before finally pressing send, knowing Joel will understand exactly what you mean and exactly what you like. It’s probably not right to tell your parents’ neighbor, who’s at least twenty years older, but you don’t take it back.

“in the car. an age gap where he looks a little older than her, slightly graying, and he’s desperate for her, desperate to do things to her in the backseat.”

“Things?”

“you know what I mean.”

“Say it clearly.”

“desperate to go down on her.”

And again, he responds:

“I see.”

Your cheeks burning, you turn off your phone screen.

But another message buzzes through:

“Good choice.”

You cross your legs and lock your phone again.

The next time you wake up, it’s to Sarah poking your cheek with an insistent little finger. She’s standing over you by the couch, looking at you like you’re a science experiment.

The sunlight pouring through the living room windows makes you wonder if it’s already past ten.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, still poking your cheek.

Yawning, you answer,

“You’re about to have a baby cousin.”

Sarah squeals.

Joel calls her twenty minutes later, right after you text him—carefully avoiding rereading the messages you sent each other during the night—that she’s awake.

Afterward, you eat breakfast together, and Sarah gets ready for school, where she’ll stay until six in the evening. You wait until the bus picks her up before going back to your house, crawling into bed, and sleeping a little more.

When you wake up again, it’s time to log onto a video call with your boss, even though you’re technically on vacation.

You help your mom with some work in the garden, bake muffins, and by late afternoon, you lock the door to your bedroom, find a cozy spot in bed and open your laptop again.

2000s.

Now all the actresses definitely have implants, bleached hair, heavy makeup, thin eyebrows, and elaborate hairstyles: exactly the fantasy for any guy with a DVD player and one hand free.

But it’s also the beginning of the internet era, meaning access to all of it is even easier than it ever was with VHS tapes.

Roleplay everywhere. Boss and secretary, student and teacher, best friend's mom, best friend's dad. A fantasy world that definitely fried a lot of men’s brain circuits.

You start with the male stars.

First up is Tyler Cross. He's a tall actor with spiky, gelled hair, a tribal tattoo on his left bicep, and a defined six-pack.

You watch a POV movie, new at the time, and another where he plays the older brother’s best friend. It’s set in a girl’s pink-walled bedroom, teddy bears thrown to the side, and it’s all absolutely disgusting.

You glance at the clock after finishing Tyler Cross’s films. 5:55 p.m. You figure you’ve got about fifteen minutes before Sarah gets home, so you decide to at least start Javier Peña’s movies.

You type his name into the search bar.

The results flood in. One of the first titles you see: No Overtime for the Babysitter: Daddy Comes Home Early!

You roll your eyes. Great, now they’re coming for babysitters’ labor rights too.

You click the movie. It takes a moment to load.

The cover stares back at you while the loading icon spins.

The actress is gorgeous, with breasts you immediately envy and long black hair. Her lips, glossy and slightly open, look like she’s mid-moan. She’s one of the first actresses you’ve seen who isn’t drowning under a pound of makeup.

The scene starts with her dusting some furniture in the living room.

She’s wearing a mini-skirt and a light blue crop top made of thin fabric that shows her stomach. Definitely very appropriate attire for her job.

The sound of a door unlocking fills the room, and then it swings open.

The actress sighs:

“Oh! Mr. Peña! You’re home early!”

The camera pans to Mr. Peña. You blink at the screen.

Javier Peña has that classic '80s kind of handsomeness. He’s tall, lean but broad-shouldered, his dark hair messy in a way that somehow suits him. The thick mustache above his tight lips and the long sideburns give him the look of an old-school movie star, and you have to double-check the release date of the film. 2002.

He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a loose tie, his gray blazer slung over his left shoulder. But it’s his brown eyes that catch you — because they’re familiar. It feels like you know them.

“The meeting was canceled,” Peña says, tossing the blazer onto the couch. “My daughter’s asleep? You can go now.”

The gasp that escapes your mouth is quickly muffled by your hand when Javier Peña’s voice fills your ears through the headphones, because you immediately realize where you know it from.

The voice is a little softer, younger, with more of an accent — but it’s the same voice.

Joel Miller’s voice.

“She is,” the actress says sweetly, crossing the room. Javier looks her up and down — from her bubblegum-pink painted toes to the way her chest strains against her top. “Are you sure, Mr. Peña? You seem really stressed out. Can’t I help you with something?”

You freeze where you are, heart hammering against your ribs. Holy shit.

“Help how?” Javier asks, raising an eyebrow, pretending to be disinterested.

She smiles, grabs his hand, and leads him to the couch, urging him to sit.

You’re almost ready for her to drop to her knees in front of him, because that would be the obvious next step, but that’s not what happens. The actress — Mila, her name — circles behind the couch, leaning over him to start unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re so tense, Mr. Peña,” she says, pouting as she undoes each button. “Taking care of the house by yourself, your daughter…”

The shirt falls open, revealing a firm, broad chest.

“So responsible… No one to help you out…” She leans in and whispers against his ear: “No one to suck your cock.”

The shocked laugh that bursts out of you is immediately covered by your hand again.

Javier’s shirt falls completely open, and he takes Mila’s hand, guiding it straight to his pants, her long red nails vivid against the gray fabric.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Mmm…” the actress moans, massaging him through the fabric. She runs her hands back up his shoulders. “That’s right. You do.”

She moves to kneel in front of him, but Javier clicks his tongue and says:

“Take off your clothes.”

You feel a pulse low in your stomach. The actress smiles and obeys.

Once she’s fully naked, she starts to kneel again, and Javier spreads his legs wider, tossing his shirt aside.

She massages him through his pants for a few more seconds before tugging the zipper down and pulling his pants down with both hands. He’s not wearing underwear, of course he isn’t, and suddenly, you’re staring straight at Joel Miller’s cock.

Large, hard, slightly veiny, every inch of it.

Javier shifts on the couch, gathers all of Mila’s soft hair into one hand, and with the other, guides himself to her mouth, and—

Someone knocks on your bedroom door and you nearly slap the laptop closed.

“Honey, I think Sarah’s getting home from school. Aren’t you going to greet her?” your mom asks.

“I am,” you say, but your voice comes out too soft. You clear your throat and try again: “I’m going, Mom. Just a second.”

“Okay!”

Your mom leaves you sitting there, staring at the wall with wide eyes and a racing heart, so much slick between your legs you have to stand up, clean yourself, and change panties before going downstairs to greet Sarah.

She gets home, you both go into Joel’s house, you make her a sandwich, and she heads upstairs to shower. You stay on autopilot, your head still completely full of Javier Peña... and Joel Miller.

Holy shit.

The man was a porn actor.

And apparently, a very successful one, because you distinctly remember seeing that his films topped the charts for years. Is he still doing it?

You rub your eyes and fight the urge to shove your fist in your mouth and scream.

The irony is almost too much. Fate is throwing a former porn star into your lap when it knows all too well the thesis you’re writing, and all your hatred for the industry.

You order pizza for you and Sarah. You eat while watching a cheesy teenage romance movie that keeps her glued to the TV. When she’s yawning hard, you ask if she has any homework (she doesn’t) and send her off to brush her teeth and get into bed.

She hugs you goodnight and heads upstairs. You hear her brushing her teeth, then the door to her room closing.

You take a deep breath. Pull your phone out of your pocket. You type in the search bar: Javier Peña. The image results flood the screen.

Joel Miller in a thousand different styles. At industry parties in clothes that scream early 2000s, at photoshoots with other actresses, even holding up a trophy that reads—

You lean in closer to make sure you’re not misreading it.

Longest Cumshot of 2006.

Wow. Congratulations.

The Google summary confirms it: Joel Miller, born in 1981 in Arlington, Texas, to Chilean parents. Porn actor, best known as Javier Peña. Joel Miller became an advocate for porn actresses’ rights, one of the main reasons he left the industry in 2010.

One of his last public appearances as Javier Peña was in 2016, co-hosting an adult film awards show alongside Tess Servopoulos, his former career agent. Since then, very little is known about Joel Miller, though several producers have tried to lure him back with massive paychecks, even for solo work.

You hear the key turning in the lock.

You lock your phone at record speed and sit up straight on the couch, eyes wide open. Joel will probably think that you’ve been doing cocaine on his coffee table.

He walks in, shrugging out of his coat, and looks at you.

“Hey,” he says, kicking off his boots. “Everything okay?”

You nod, then try to use words:

“Hey. Yeah.”

Joel gives you a strange look, glancing up the stairs.

“Sarah’s asleep?”

You nod again.

Oh, Mr. Peña. You must be so tired. Can I help you? My God. You’re the babysitter working overtime.

“Are you really okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Um… I…” you rub your hands over your thighs. “I’m just tired. That’s all. Is everything okay with your sister-in-law?”

“She’s fine. I’ve got a nephew now,” Joel murmurs, collapsing onto the couch across from you, legs spread, hands over his eyes. “And he’s so small. I almost didn’t have the nerve to hold him. I don’t even remember Sarah being that tiny.”

“Ha ha.”

At your awkward laugh, Joel drops his hands and studies you carefully, narrowing his eyes. He watches you for a moment, like he’s seeing right through you.

Joel says,

“You found out who Javier Peña is.”

You freeze, hands clenched in your lap. Joel rubs his temple with a heavy sigh and sits up straighter.

“Which one did you watch?”

You swallow hard.

“The babysitter one.”

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, sweetheart.”

“The film’s from 2002. I think the actress’s name was Mila? She was trying to comfort you about being a single dad.”

Joel raises both eyebrows.

“I know the one,” he says with a dry, humorless laugh. “Right. Here it is. I was Javier Peña for ten years. I guess I still am, when the paycheck’s good enough. I made porn movies. They’re out there.”

“Still are?”

“Not for films. Just for appearances or special gigs at awards shows.”

“Oh.”

He says your name firmly.

“That industry — it’s your thesis. You know those actors and actresses are real people. I’m one of them. Are you going to stop treating me like a normal person now?”

“It’s weird,” you say softly. “Sorry, Joel, but it’s weird seeing you like… that… and then coming here and seeing you being Sarah’s dad, being… Joel Miller.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not,” he sighs, collapsing back onto the couch. “I’m way too tired to be mad, honestly. We can talk more about it later if you want. I’ll even help you with your thesis if you need. But not tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for staying with Sarah, seriously,” he says, shifting back into Dad mode. “Let me pay you.”

“No way,” you say quickly.

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off:

“You said you’d help me with my thesis, right?”

He just looks at you. You explain,

“I’ll take that as payment.”

Slowly, he nods. And just like that, you have a deal.

That night, you head upstairs again and lock the door.

You open your laptop, type Javier Peña into the search bar, and scroll through the films. One title catches your eye: Neighbors: The Lust Lives Next Door.

The irony.

The title is ridiculous, sure, but the movie isn’t. He’s the married woman’s neighbor, and when her husband goes out of town, Javier shows up at the door asking if everything’s alright because he heard a noise and got worried.

He’s wearing tight jeans and a short-sleeve, light pink button-down shirt.

They head upstairs to check the bedroom.

She sits at the edge of the bed while Javier kneels down to look under it, but when he straightens up again, he sees the actress isn’t wearing any panties. Of course.

Two minutes later, Javier spreads her legs and goes down on her for a good while, his dark eyes locked on hers. And you could swear the moans are real. Either that, or she’s a damn good actress.

It’s when Javier starts whispering in her ear — loud enough to be picked up by the mic, but low enough to sound private — that your own fingers hover at the waistband of your pajama shorts.

He grips her thigh firmly, legs wide open, about to sink into her, both of them watching where they meet.

“Like this?” Javier asks.

She nods.

He licks his fingers and touches her clit. Her left leg trembles slightly.

“Sensitive? You’re not gonna come again for me?”

You swallow your shame and remind yourself that no one will ever know about this.

You slip your hand into your panties.

You close your eyes, listen to Javier whispering filthy things into the actress’s ear, and feel your pulse thudding in your ears and the slickness between your fingers.