#i want to have enough money in my savings account that i don’t have to worry about getting sick or taking a day off

[alagaisia]

This is something I learned at one of the pre-op visits for my breast reduction! My surgeon was basically I think an independent surgeon (as I guess I would imagine is common for “cosmetic”/plastic surgeons?) and she was telling us a little bit about what to do for talking to insurance about the surgery and stuff, and she mentioned that for us going through insurance it would be at a particular hospital, but she also often did surgeries where people didn’t use there insurance, and she did those at some other place, and the price she charged up front was much lower, because that was the actual cost of the surgery (and equipment and everyone’s salaries etc.) and she had to raise the ticket price significantly when people would go through insurance, because the insurance company would negotiate that price down, and then keep some of the money. (Obviously for us and many others it still worked out to be cheaper for us out of pocket to go through insurance, but the amount she made was roughly the same even though it would look like she charged thousands more for my breast reduction than for someone not using insurance)

So, when you get those bills from your insurance after a doctors visit, and there’s that little table that tells you, this is the cost of the visit, this is the discount we got you, this is how much we paid, this is how much you still have to pay?

That line about “we got you this discount” is misleading. They actually caused the provider to raise the initial cost of your care by that amount, or more, in anticipation of the insurance company refusing to pay the full amount so that they could tell you they got you a discount.

"Why does a 15-minute visit with a doctor cost 150 bucks in America???" you're gonna want to read Money-Driven Medicine, by Maggie Mahar, and probably also The Social Transformation of American Medicine, to answer that question. It is not because your doctor is a greedy bastard; your doctor does not see most of that money. It is because the system is broken to a level that is truly impressive in its dedication to making a shit ton of money for insurance company executives and shareholders.

[mostlyvoid-partiallyflowers]

WHY CANT THIS MOTHERFUCKING REPUBLICAN LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE it’s literally the same four ads on loop every six posts good fucking god

[dilf-hunter-fantasies]

I was wondering if you'd write anything about Joel and free use?

Love your account babe💗

thank you so much babe, i loved this idea! i hope you enjoy my take on it. i was fantasizing about...

renting a room from joel miller and striking a deal to lower your rent. 

3.5k words 🍒warnings: explicit smut, no outbreak au, age gap (reader in college), female reader, brief mention of f masturbation, free use!!, size kink, pussy pronouns, unprotected piv, use of: sweetheart, darlin' 

click here for more of my writing

So you end up short on options for housing after breaking up with your ex. You know it seems weird to be a young woman willing to rent a room from an older man who is …well in all versions you spin it…a total stranger. But, your aunt swears he’s a good guy. 

She used to live in his neighborhood, knew his daughter, figured he has the extra room and put you in touch. And all things considered, she hasn’t led you astray. I mean, he hasn’t murdered you. 

Okay, it’s not that bad. He doesn’t give off murder vibes either. More like…grumpy single man vibes. But that works out for your arrangement. You’re both pretty quiet and you keep to yourselves. And he’s not too bad to look at. You catch yourself straddling a line between not being the creep yourself and just wanting to get to know him a little bit. 

The real problem has nothing to do with him and everything to do with you. Well with your bank account. You’ve been bleeding your measly savings trying to keep up with life and the job you have isn’t really enough to live off of. It was a dream to find a hybrid schedule and work for a non-profit with a mission that matters to you. But it doesn’t pay for shit. 

It’s not like Joel’s overcharging you or anything either. Nothing is affordable. 

And now you’re on your last legs. If you can’t keep this together you’ll have to pack it up and crawl home to your family? Not an option. It’s not like you haven’t been applying for other jobs either. But you either don’t hear back or the schedule won’t work with your classes. 

So here you are. Pacing back and forth in your sparsely decorated room. Between your bed and your desk, wearing a groove into the carpet, chewing on your fingers and obsessively checking your phone to see if your sage friends have any better advice. 

They don’t. 

Well, they suggested selling feet pics online, but even if that could be lucrative—it doesn’t get you the money to spend by tomorrow. You toss yourself onto your bed, exasperated. Last resort. You’re gonna have to be honest. 

It takes a long time to gather the mental courage. You stare at your ceiling for so long your eyes blur. You can hear Joel in the kitchen and with a deep breath you force yourself up, dragging your feet down the hallway until you see him. 

The kitchen is warm, whatever he’d made for dinner earlier smells good. So good it makes your stomach growl, announcing your presence in the doorway. The sound makes you grimace—for a split second you’re tempted to hide. To run back to your room and pretend like there won’t be any consequences if you just don’t bring it up. Ever. 

Too late. He shuts the dishwasher with a loud click and turns, his sharp brown eyes meeting yours. You immediately regret this idea. Your feel like you’re sinking into the floor. You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at him now. 

“Hey,” he says gruffly, his voice low and even. He turns back away from you, putting leftovers in the fridge, like it’s no big deal you’ve been standing there silently like a weirdo. “You need something?” 

Your throat is suddenly so dry, you can barely unstick your tongue to speak. “Yeah…uh, can I talk to you for a second?” 

Joel pauses mid-motion, before shoving the last container onto the shelf and letting the fridge door shut, trapping you in the silence together. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks toward you. The way his shirt stretches across his shoulders makes you nervous for reasons you don’t want to analyze right now. 

“Sure.” 

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, your hands twisting in front of you like they’re trying to strangle each other. His eyes flick down to the motion, and you force yourself to stop. 

“So, uh…I was wondering—” You swallow hard. You can do it. “I need to talk to you about my rent.” 

His eyebrows lift, and your chest tightens. 

“Let’s hear it then.” 

“It’s just that I’m in kind of a tight spot right now. Work’s been—well, it’s been fine but money’s tight, and I just—” You’re rambling. Words all running together. “I’m not saying you’re charging too much or anything like that, but—” 

“Slow down,” Joel holds up a hand, and the rest of your words fall flat. His voice is calm, but firm. “You sayin’ you can’t afford it?” 

“I can!” you blurt out. “I mean, I can’t by tomorrow, but I can soon. I just thought, maybe we could work something out. Like…if you could give me some more time or if I could do something to work off some of what I owe.” Joel tilts his head slightly, studying you in a way that makes your skin prickle. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just thinking, and the silence stretches too long for comfort. 

Finally, he exhales through his nose, dropping his arms and leaning his palms on the counter behind him. His voice is lower when he speaks again, quieter, like he’s weighing every word. 

“You wanna do something for me?” 

Your heart skips, and you blink up at him. Maybe that was a dumb suggestion. You don’t even know what you have to offer. The house is always clean, the yard maintained, he seems to enjoy cooking. 

“Uh, yeah?” your face contorts a little as you try and come up with a suggestion. “If you’d consider giving me a discount.” 

His lips twitch, just the barest hint of a smirk, and something about it makes the air in the room shift. 

“Well,” he drawls, “If I’m cuttin’ you a deal,---” 

“You’ll consider it?” You look at him with a smile already starting to break on your face. You can breathe. 

“Maybe you can cut me one, too.” He finishes his sentence. Your mouth hangs open, but nothing comes out. There’s something behind his words you don’t fully understand, but it’s stuck in the air between you. 

“What kind of deal?” you manage to get out, your voice hesitant. 

Joel pushes off the counter, closing the space between you in a way that’s casual, but calculated. He’s close enough you can make out the lines at the corners of his eyes, the salt-and-pepper in his beard. His gaze holds yours, steady and charged with something new. 

“You say yes,” he starts to explain, his voice dropping into a gravelly timbre that makes your pulse quicken. “And I’ll knock your rent down as much as you need. Simple.” 

The room suddenly feels small, too warm, like his gravity is holding you in place. 

“Say yes to what, Mr. Miller?” Your voice is soft, just a whisper rolling off your tongue. You have an idea what he’s proposing. The way his eyes flicker with something dark and knowing when you refer to him as Mr. Miller. The crackle in the air between you. 

“I think you know what I mean.” 

You shake your head, ever so subtly, wrinkling a brow. In what feels like slow motion, Joel tips your chin up, between his thumb and curled forefinger. Your face is on fire. Somehow exposed even though nothing else has changed. 

“Whenever I need you. Wherever I want you.” 

For a second you think he might kiss you. It feels like everything in your body is calling to him. His mouth is so close to yours. The words are still replaying in your mind. 

But he pulls his hand back. “Think about it,” he murmurs and brushes past you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body. He glances back at you once on his way out of the room. “Offer’s on the table, sweetheart,” he says over his shoulder. “Up to you.” 

You’re left standing, still as a stone, heat prickling up your spine as his words replay in your head. 

What the fuck just happened?

“Hey!” you call out, starting down the hall after Joel. “Wait.” 

He turns, hovering in the doorway to his room. 

“Uh, are you talking about sex?” 

“Yep.” 

Your breath hitches. The corner of his mouth quirks, smug. You look at him with fresh eyes. He’s an attractive guy. Not exactly pleasant, but not a jerk. You can’t imagine he’d have a hard time picking up a date. 

“I’m not a whore, you know.” “I know, darlin’.” His face softens a little. 

The next couple of days are filled with tension so thick it’s impossible to ignore. Whenever you’re in the same room you can feel his eyes lingering on you. He brushes past you in the kitchen in the morning, his hand grazing your hip when he reaches for his coffee mug. 

You catch him watching you from across the room, leaning against the counter like he has all the time in the world. His eyes roam all over your body, dark and deliberate, and you can feel the promise in his gaze. 

It’s driving you fucking insane. You thought he’d have made a move by now. Hell, you thought he’d have made a move the second you agreed to his deal. But he’d only made sure you each had a few ground rules and that was it. End of conversation. 

“Have a good night now, darlin’. Hope you sleep better without having to worry about your rent.” 

Right. You didn’t have to worry about rent. You just had to spiral in your own room wondering when it would happen. How he’s going to take you.

It’s got you so worked up thinking about him you keep spacing out during your work meetings. Swiveling restlessly on your office chair in your bedroom, trying to remember to look focused and add your two cents in for participation. 

But all you can think about is Joel. You’re on high alert whenever you hear his truck roll into the driveway, the door slamming shut with a thud. His heavy steps coming down the hall. You wonder when he’ll want you. You know he meant it. 

You hope he meant it. 

That night, his footsteps pause outside your door, his presence thick in the air, setting your pulse racing. It makes you squirm, adjusting the skimpy pajamas you’ve taken to wearing as your heart beats faster. You can’t tell if he’s debating coming in or if he’s just fucking with you, but it’s got you breathless. 

The next morning, you’re standing in the bathroom doorway, brushing your teeth when Joel suddenly appears, shirtless and still damp from his shower. He gives you a lazy once-over, stepping close enough that you have to press yourself against the door frame to let him pass. 

His voice is low and teasing as he murmurs, “You’re in the way, sweetheart,” leaving your cheeks flaming. 

The next day, you’re still tense. 

Stretching in your desk chair as your coworkers read through their budget updates and data tracking for the grants you’re funded through. It’s hard to stay focused, Joel has taken over all of your thoughts. 

Jaz finishes her update and another department leads the rest of the meeting. You’re shuffling your notes around mindlessly, barely hearing a word. Every thought in your head is Joel, Joel, Joel.

Last night, you’d nearly combusted when he finally walked away from your door. You’d been seconds from begging him to come in, to just take you already. By the time he left, your thighs were slick, and the ache was unbearable. You had to handle it yourself, coming hard and fast on your fingers, imagining it was his thick, calloused hands instead.

But now, twelve hours later, the tension is already back. Worse than before. Every noise in the house puts you on edge. His truck rumbling into the driveway. The front door shutting. 

The meeting drags on, voices fading into a blur—until a soft knock jolts you back to reality. 

Before you can answer, the door swings open, and Joel steps inside like he owns the place—which, technically, he does. He leans against the frame, arms crossed, looking completely unbothered by the fact that you’re clearly in the middle of something.

Your heart races. Your eyes flick to your camera to make sure it’s off. Muted. Thank God.

Joel doesn’t say anything, just watches you with a smirk that makes your stomach flip. His dark eyes roam over you, slow and deliberate, and it’s like every molecule of air has been sucked out of the room.

He takes his time crossing the space between you, letting the silence stretch. You can feel the heat radiating off him as he crowds you, hands bracing the arms of your chair, caging you in.

“You gonna tell me to stop?” he drawls, his voice low and gravelly.

Your throat is so tight you can’t even speak. You shake your head.

Joel’s smirk deepens. “That’s what I thought.”

His big hands tug you to the edge of your chair, spreading your knees wide. He runs his palms along your thighs, leaving a trail of heat that burns your skin through your soft leggings. 

Your heart jumps to your throat, chest tight. 

The thought of your coworkers just a click away only heightens the thrill. 

Joel doesn’t hold back. Pulling you to stand. Turning you to face your desk and pressing until you lean your elbows on the smooth surface, framing your keyboard. 

You arch your spine eagerly, holding your breath, bracing for his next move. He smooths a palm over the curve of your ass, humming softly to himself, before slipping his hand between your legs. 

You tilt your head, a shaky breath escaping as his fingers press against you, making your thighs tremble. You know he can feel how wet you already are through the thin material. All day you’re wet for him, just waiting and waiting. 

His touch is firm and you grind into it without thinking, making him laugh under his breath. “Shit,” he murmurs. “She needs it worse than I do, huh?” You don’t answer. Just dropping your head between your shoulder blades as he rubs circles against your clothed pussy. 

He retracts his hand, swiftly pulling your leggings down, exposing your puffy, wet folds to the cooler air. 

You stay folded over, forehead resting on your desk, ass arched in presentation. You don’t know what to expect next, your pulse thunders in your ear as you wait. 

His hands frame your cunt, spreading you wider so he can look closer. You’d be self-conscious being studied so closely if you were any less desperate for him to touch you. But all you can do you is silently beg him to do something. 

“Christ,” he murmurs reverently, dropping to his knees behind you. “Just a taste first.” It sounds like he’s talking to himself. You don’t care. 

You gasp sharply the second his tongue dips between your swollen lips. It’s so much better than your fingers and your frustrated, rushed orgasms last night. It’s so much better. 

He uses his whole face, diving deeper, as he groans into your pussy. Your meeting is still in progress, but the voices coming through your speakers could be speaking a foreign language. They mean nothing to you right now. 

The only thing that matters is between your legs. You’re almost embarrassed at how close you already are. You don’t know if you should say anything. If he cares if he makes you cum. Before you can think any harder, he’s back on his feet and you’re whimpering at the loss. 

“I know.” 

The soft clink of his belt followed by the sound of him unzipping his jeans has your knees weak. The thrill that shoots through you is like lightning, ripping through your system and activating every nerve in your body. 

Be good," he growls, dragging his cock through your slick.

“Oh, fuck,” you can’t help the awe and the relief. The heat, the thickness, the pressure. It’s everything you need, but not enough at the same time. He continues for a moment, coating his length in your arousal as you try to swallow down your needy moans. 

He slots his blunt tip at your entrance, adding enough pressure to make you suck in air. Without even seeing it, you know it’s going to be a stretch. Like he can read your mind, or at least your body, he runs his hand soothingly over your spine. 

It shouldn’t melt your nerves so fast, but the gentle touch eases your mind. For reasons you can’t explain—feelings really, you feel safe. 

“We’ll start slow this time, sweetheart. Don’t worry.” 

And then he’s nudging into you, working you open around his wide cockhead. It’s mildly uncomfortable, but you welcome the dull ache. Your throbbing pussy has been begging for it. He pulls back, repeating the slow movement, splitting you open for him a little further each time. 

It makes you needy, you try to push back against him, but he only swats at your ass. “I told ya to be good.” 

Your cheeks feel hot at the scolding. 

“Sorry, Mr. Miller.” It comes out more confident than you expected, your voice smooth and low. 

You can feel the way his dick twitches at your response before he continues, painstakingly slowly, filling you up. You’re still frustrated, but each time he thrusts into you, your knees almost buckle and you know he hasn’t made it all the way in yet. You’re still hungry for that feeling, for his hips to meet your ass, flush. 

You can’t hold back your moans as he drags along your nerves. He already has your eyes rolling back and he’s not even fucking you yet. 

Until he stops, held still halfway inside of you. You blink your eyes open, trying not to whine. 

He says your name like he’s been calling it and you’ve been ignoring him. “Hmm?” you respond. 

“Think they’re waiting for your answer.” 

“Oh, shit.” 

Joel still doesn’t move. You unmute your mic, trying to steady your voice. “I’m really sorry, uh, can you repeat the question?” 

“Just confirming your mid-cycle reports are already submitted.” 

“Yes.” 

“Great.” 

You mute the mic again and Joel slams the rest of the way home, making you cry out in surprise. 

He doesn’t hold back now, his rough hand gripping your hip as he takes you, low grunts echoing in your room as he snaps his hips forward. Your ass ripples, bouncing off of him with every thrust and the filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin fill your ears. 

He hits so fucking deep at this angle, you can barely think. His balls slap against you and for some reason that makes you even more crazy for him. You meet his every thrust with the same energy, fucking hard. So hard your desk rattles, but neither of you can be bothered by it’s structural integrity. 

He keeps you on edge, pounding into you as the pressure builds. When you shift slightly, his cock drags over the devastating spot that makes you nearly wail.

“Yeah?” he asks as if you could respond right now. “Right there?” 

“Mmm,” is all you can manage. 

“Good. Let me have it. Rub that pretty clit of yours for me, I wanna feel her trying to milk me dry.” 

Fuck. His filthy words nearly send you over the edge immediately, but when you slip your own hand between your legs, it’s euphoric. Furiously working at your slick, swollen bundle of nerves you drive yourself to the brink. 

“Gonna–ah!--gonna cum,” You get the breathy, gasping words out right as your pussy starts to clench around him. He groans lowly, making you see stars as your climax tears through you. 

The waves are still rolling through your muscles, your core still tensing, when he pulls out. The slick sounds as he pumps his cock rapidly are obscene and you don’t want them to stop. But then you feel his hot cum painting your ass, and you’re moaning in unison. 

Then he’s pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before slinking out of your room. You grimace. Tuning back in to the speaker still rambling on about god knows what on your computer. Before you can move, Joel is back with a small towel to clean you up. 

You’re stuck in a daze. A blissed-out state, as you straighten up and pull your leggings back up. Joel’s about to slip back out the door as if nothing happened. Before he steps out of the room though, he gives you a knowing smirk, “You did good for me, darlin’.” 

You’re left staring at the closed door, breathless and trembling, the heat of his touch still lingering on your skin. Rent isn’t the problem anymore. Joel Miller is.

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[qusaiatef96]

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gaza-evacuation-fund

But no one cared about my campaign and the donation became much less than before and the last donation was more than 24 hours 💔💔😭

I just want to pay my hospital money and I want to protect my family from danger and from disease. I don’t want anyone to get bad. It was a difficult day. The doctors told me to stay in the hospital for 48 hours to receive adequate treatment because my situation has become dangerous and they can’t get me out before I get treated, otherwise I will die. I will die, my friends. Help me with the donation campaign, my friends, before it’s too late🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

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@gaza-evacuation-funds

[gothcsz]

Body Language | Pornstar!Javier Peña x Fem!Reader | Part 2 to this bad boy right here | ~8.2k wc | Series Masterlist | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: Caught in a charged and unexpected moment with Javier Peña, you struggle between resisting his relentless seduction and giving in to the tension that has been building since the last shoot.

Tags: smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, no use of Y/N, reader is shorter than javier but other than that no physical descriptions, some dirty talk, semi-public sex (we're in an elevator this time around), reader really doesn't like javi, steve being steve, other shit i’m probably forgetting.

A/N: this was supposed to be a short lil thing but then my ass had to drag it out just a little because their dynamic is very fun to write 😭 he's like whyyy don't you like me and she's like how much time do you have? lmfao. this is dedicated to @auteurdelabre 🖤 #1 pornstar javi stan, i almost submitted this for your trope off but decided to save that honor for my other story! anyways, i hope you guys enjoy javier begging to eat you out 🥂 let me know what you think 🖤 mandatory mutual tags: @almostempty / @miss-oranje-disco-dancer

You sit in the cramped waiting room outside of Robbie’s office, the stale air clinging to your skin as you shift uncomfortably in the worn-out chair. The place is too quiet, save for the muffled sounds of the city outdoors.

You glance at the clock on the wall, anxiety creeping up your spine. You have a shift at the bar in an hour, and time is slipping through your fingers. The laundry, the groceries, the endless list of errands— it all piled up today, and now you’re cutting it too close.

But you need this check. It’s the only reason you’re here, tapping your foot in impatience. If you don’t get it today, the money won’t hit your account in time to cover rent, and you really don’t want another lecture from your landlord. It’s bad enough you’re already behind— no need to give him more ammunition to chew you out.

You sigh and lean back, eyes closing as you try to drown out the frustration swirling in your head. That’s when you hear the unmistakable ding of the elevator down the hall and turn your head to see who’s joining.

Your stomach drops and you sit up straight. No. Not now. The air feels heavier, thick with that familiar irritation, as the slow, deliberate sound of boots against the tile grows louder. 

Javier Peña.

Just the thought of him sends a hot wave through your being, a mix of irritation and something else you refuse to acknowledge. You don’t want to think about that last shoot, the one where things shifted. Where shit got weird. You behind the camera, filming as always, while he was balls deep in another woman, claiming you were on his mind.

“Bet you’d look just as pretty like this, nena.”

“Did you like what you saw? Like watching the way I fucked her but was thinking of you the whole time?”

It was like he’d stripped you bare with just a few words, leaving you more exposed than them in the midst of their carnal fucking. And the worst part? You’d been affected by it. Skin on fire, pussy wet. It also didn’t help that Steve had heard it too. The mic catching the flirting, the hitch of your breath getting stuck in your throat, clear as day.

He’d asked you about it later at Lucky’s, as promised, all smug and drinking that God-awful beer. But you’d brushed him off, hoping he’d drop it. Thankfully, he had— for the most part— but you could still feel his restlessness, wanting to stir the pot.

Now, Javier is here, of course, because the universe just loves to mess with you. You roll your eyes and cross your arms, leaning back against the chair in defiance. You refuse to look at him. You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he gets under your skin. 

His footsteps stop just a few feet away, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore. You can feel him looking at you, feel the weight of his brown eyes like a physical thing as they rake over your body.

You keep your gaze glued to the wall, focusing on the ugly, generic painting hanging there like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“You gonna act like you don’t see me?” His voice is deep, smooth, and frustratingly cocky, just like always. 

You grit your teeth, biting back a response. You won’t give him an inch. Not again. This motherfucker will take a mile.

“Okay, so that’s what we’re doing.” Before you can react, he plops down beside you. You stiffen immediately, moving your crossed knees to the side, angling yourself away from him, as if the few inches of space will protect you from the onslaught of whatever the hell he’s about to say next.

He spreads his thighs wide, his posture screaming obnoxious confidence. You just barely catch a glimpse of his bulge pressing up against his left thigh and how the fuck does it look so big even when he’s soft? “You know,” he says, voice dripping with that lazy, arrogant drawl, “you’re the only woman that treats me like this, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”

You snort, the sound sharp and humorless. You still don’t bother looking at him.

Javier frowns, flitting his tongue across the top row of his teeth. “Is it because I came off too strong the first time we met? ‘Cause if that’s the case; then I’m sorry. Can’t help myself from flirting with pretty little things like you.”

You roll your eyes so hard, it’s a wonder they don’t fall out of their sockets. He doesn’t sound sincere at all.

Thing is, you didn’t mind the flirting. Even if he, like he’s so romantically put it, does flirt with pretty little things all the time; it did make you feel like just that. Pretty. It’s what came after that soured your Javier Peña experience.

He huffs, like a petulant child, frustrated by your silence. You don’t give him the satisfaction of even a glance. Instead, you shift in your seat, your mind racing, wondering what the hell is taking Robbie so damn long. He never works, barely lifts a finger unless there’s money or something else in it for him, and now, suddenly, he’s busy? Yeah, right. He’s probably in his office jerking it to one of his films, getting off on his own work. Typical.

You’re done waiting. With a sharp movement, you stand, startling Javier, though you still don’t give him the time of day. He’s used to women catering to his every whim, hanging on his every word. You aren’t going to be one of them. Not even if he did manage to get you all hot and bothered.

You stalk over to the door and knock harder than necessary. “I’m busy,” his voice grumbles through the wooden surface, and you resist the urge to scream.

“And I need my check. Just slide it under the door or something,” you snap, the urgency in your voice making it clear that you’re not in the mood to get fucked around with.

There’s a pause, followed by the sound of shuffling papers before the door cracks open just enough for Robbie to stick his hand out, an envelope clutched between his fingers. He practically shoves it into your hand before slamming the door shut again.

You stand there for a moment, staring at the envelope with your name scrawled across the front. Surrounded by imbeciles. Just one shift to get through tonight, and then maybe, just maybe, you can get some peace. Enjoy the first weekend off you’ve had in months.

Now that you have what you came for, you spin on your heel and stride down the hallway, ignoring the handsome pornstar still lounging in the chair behind you. From your peripheral, you can see him sitting there, skinny jean clad legs spread, looking all annoyingly sexy without even trying. It would be so much easier if he were ugly— or literally anyone else. But no, it’s Javier fucking Peña, with his ridiculous good looks and that cocky smirk that could probably charm the panties off half the city if he wanted to (it probably has, to be honest).

You mentally map out the next hour: hit the bank, dash home to change, then off to work. You could walk to the bank, maybe catch a taxi home if you’re lucky. But with traffic in this city, luck isn’t really on your side. You start considering your options— do you skip changing and just head to work as you are? Would your other boss even care if you showed up a little underdressed? You’re so lost in your thoughts, focused on cutting corners to save time, that you don’t hear the quiet footsteps behind you.

It’s not until the elevator dings and you step inside that you realize you’re not alone. Javier’s slipped in just before the doors close, sliding smoothly into the cramped space beside you. The sudden proximity makes your heart do this stupid little jump, and you curse yourself for it. You’re trapped now— stuck way too close to him in the tiny metal box.

The air feels charged, his presence impossible to ignore yet again. The smell of his aftershave hits you first— spicy, with a hint of something woodsy, layered under the scent of his leather jacket and the faint, lingering whiff of cigarette smoke. He tries to drown it out with minty gum, but it’s still there, clinging to him like an old habit. And damn it, your knees go a little weak, despite your best efforts to stay cool.

The height difference between you is glaringly obvious now. You’re eye level with the habitually open portion of his cream colored shirt, the buttons undone just enough to give a peek at his brown chest. It’s frustrating how effortlessly he pulls off the whole rugged look— like he doesn’t even try, but somehow manages to look better than most men who spend hours on it.

You swallow hard, trying to focus on anything but the fact that you can smell him, that you can feel the heat radiating off his body in the tight space. He’s just too close, and the damn elevator isn’t moving fast enough. You’ve got a million things to worry about right now—rent, work, your life— and the last thing you need is to be distracted by him.

But, like always, he’s right there, invading your space, making it impossible to think of anything else.

“What the fuck do you want?” You snap, breaking your vow of silence. You frown up at him, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface as you cross your arms defensively over your chest— a bad move, you realize too late, as the motion only pushes your braless tits together beneath the thin fabric of your tank top.

Predictably, his eyes drop immediately. You curse yourself for not wearing something more substantial. It’s not like I was planning to run into him today, you think to yourself.

“To understand why you hate me so much,” Javier says, his voice low, carrying that annoyingly casual tone, as if this whole conversation is nothing more than a mild inconvenience to him.

Your brows knit together, and a dry laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it. “Well, for starters,” you bite out, “you can’t even look me in the eyes when you ask.” 

His gaze snaps up so fast it’s almost comical, his dark eyes locking with yours, defiance flaring there. But there’s something else too— something that makes the air between you even more tense. You hold his stare, daring him to say something, to make this worse for himself. His expression tightens, but you continue before he has a chance to speak. “And I don’t hate you. I just don’t like you. You annoy the shit out of me.” 

He flinches, just barely, but you catch it. The smallest chink in his armor. You reach around him, your hand brushing against his side as you press the button for the main floor. The contact sends a ripple of awareness through you that you try to ignore. You don’t have time for this— for him.

Javier scowls, his mouth pulling into a frown that mirrors yours, and before you can react, he half-turns and punches a button for a different floor, effectively canceling your request. The elevator jolts, shifting direction. 

You groan audibly, exasperation washing over you. “And here you are, proving my point,” you mutter under your breath. Every second you waste in this shitty elevator with him is another second closer to being late for work. Another second closer to not getting everything done that you needed to today. He’s not just in your way—he’s deliberately in your way, and the worst part is, he knows it.

“You don’t like me,” he counters, turning back to face you fully, his tone edging into frustration, “but you never even gave me a chance.” His jaw is set now, his eyes searching yours as if he’s waiting for you to crack, to admit that there’s more to it than just annoyance. Like he wants you to say it’s something else, something deeper.

If you had the luxury of time, you’d lay it all out for him, explain in excruciating detail just why you’ve avoided giving him that chance. How his arrogance grates on you. How his charm, though admittedly effective, feels hollow. How the way he flirts isn’t even the problem—it’s the way he looks at you, like he knows something about you that you don’t want to admit.

But you don’t have that kind of time.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, taking a deep breath in a vain attempt to steady your nerves. “As fun as it’d be to stand here and explain this shit to you like a child,” you say, your voice tight, “I have important things to do, and you’re keeping me from them.” You jab the elevator button again, hoping the damn thing will just go where you need it to without another unnecessary detour, but you already know it’s a losing battle. 

Javier shifts closer, just slightly, his presence looming. You can smell that damn aftershave again, all spice and leather and smoke, and it only pisses you off more because your body reacts to it before your brain can stop it. You feel your resolve slipping, just a little. His eyes are on you, unwavering, intense in a way that makes you want to both slap him and pull him closer at the same time.

“I’m not trying to keep you from anything,” he replies, softer now, the edge in his voice gone. His tone is almost... apologetic? No. It can’t be. Javier Peña doesn’t apologize. At least not in any way that feels real.

You don’t even bother responding, just stare at the numbers above the door, willing them to move faster. The sooner you’re out of here, the better.

“Just—fuck, give me something. Anything,” he growls, frustrated as all hell. His eyes are wild, and you can see the cracks in his usual suave demeanor, like he’s barely holding it together. “Ever since that last shoot, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head, and I don’t know why. You think you’re exasperated? How the fuck do you think I’m feeling over here?”

You raise a brow, leaning into your disdain as you pout at him mockingly. “Oh, boohoo. Cry me a river. A girl doesn’t like me back, wahh.” You mimic the sound of a crying baby, bringing your fists up to rub against your cheeks in the most exaggerated way possible. Then you drop the act, face deadpanning. 

His eyes narrow, and you think you’ve finally hit a nerve. Good. Let him stew in it. But instead of backing down, he does something you don’t expect— he turns, reaches out, and slams his palm against the emergency stop button. The elevator lurches to a sudden halt, the hum of motion disappearing as the car freezes between floors.

Your eyes widen, a sharp spike of adrenaline shooting through you as the reality of the situation sets in. “What the hell, Javier?” You’re about to cuss him out, to let him know exactly what kind of shit he’s just gotten himself into, but before the words can leave your mouth, he takes two long, purposeful steps toward you.

Instinctively, you move back, the sudden intensity in his eyes sending warning signals through your brain. But there’s nowhere to go. You can’t escape the tight confines of the elevator, your back is pressed up against the cold metal railing. You swallow hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as his broad body looms over yours, trapping you in a way that leaves you feeling both furious and breathless.

He’s too close. His chest brushes against yours, and you can feel his gaze as it drags over your face, down your neck, and lower still, lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle.

Any insult you were ready to hurl at him gets stuck in your throat. You hate how your pulse quickens, how your breath catches. You can feel every inch of him— solid muscle, tense with whatever storm is brewing behind those dark eyes. 

For a brief, dizzying moment, you forget to be mad. You forget that you’re supposed to dislike him, that he’s the last person you should let get under your skin like this but somehow is the only one who’s able to. All you can focus on is the way his breath fans across your cheek, the way the small space between you crackles with tension, like a wire pulled too tight.

“You think this is some kind of joke?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, making your pussy tingle in ways you wish it didn’t. “You think it’s easy for me to just... shrug it off? Because it’s not. Not when I keep thinking about you, and I don’t even fucking understand why.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something that catches you off guard, making you pause to wonder if this really isn’t a game to him.

But you can’t let him see that. You can’t let him know how much he’s getting to you (even though he’s more than aware). So instead, you tilt your chin up defiantly, forcing your voice to stay steady. “And stopping the elevator? Trapping me in here with you? That’s your brilliant solution?”

“No,” he breathes, voice dropping to a near whisper as his face inches closer to yours. “But it’s the only way I could get you to stop running from me.” 

You hate how your stomach flips at his words. Hate how much you’re fighting against the instinct to lean into him instead of shoving him away. Every part of your body is screaming at you to tell him to fuck off and leave you the hell alone.

“Do you know what I think it is?” The words come out in a low, dangerous drawl, the kind that seems to wrap around your throat and squeeze. He leans in, crowding your space, eyes boring into you with an intensity that has your pulse skyrocketing. “I think you’re too fucking stubborn to let yourself have any fun. The idea of me fucking you is enticing, isn’t it?” His lips curl into a smirk, the kind that drips with arrogance and dark promises. “Could see it written all over your face that night at the hotel. That look in your eye while I was fucking Lexxie.”

His accusations slam into you, pulling up the exact moment you’ve been trying to bury. It should have been a professional gig, routine even, nothing personal… except that wasn’t the case. Not with the way he looked at you the entire time, his eyes locked on yours, daring you to react.

And, fuck, you had reacted. You felt the heat rise in your face, the way your body betrayed you as you stood behind the camera, mouth salivating, thighs pressing together.

“Javier…” You push at his chest, your hand meeting the hard wall of muscle beneath his shirt. The intent is to shove him back, to create some space between you. But the second your palm makes contact, it’s like the air shifts, and instead of moving him, it’s like you’ve anchored yourself to him.

Goddamn him. Goddamn you for your spineless ass, for not being able to follow through on resisting the temptation that he is.

He smirks wider, clearly reading the war going on behind your eyes. “You were shaking,” he continues, his voice a dark whisper that coils around your insides. “Damn near moaning while you watched me go down on her. Rubbing those thighs together while this pretty ass was in my face as she was sucking my cock.” 

His large hand snakes around you, catching you off guard, fingers gripping a handful of your ass and pulling you closer. Your body collides with his, and that’s when you feel it— his erection, hard and insistent, pressing into your stomach. The heat between you flares up to unbearable levels, and you can’t help the small gasp that escapes your lips. His touch sends a jolt of electricity through you, every nerve ending in your body on high alert, buzzing with want.

“You’re delusional,” it’s breathless but you’re still determined to keep some semblance of control. You squirm in his grip, your body betraying your words, the friction making your mind tilt. “You just can’t stand the fact that, for once, a woman isn’t throwing herself at you. That I’m not kissing the ground you walk on or falling to my knees, ready to suck you off.”

His hold tightens briefly, pulling you even closer, and for a second, you wonder if you’ll be able to break free at all. It’s damn near impossible to ignore the ache building between your thighs at this point. But somehow, you manage to slip out of his grip, your body twisting away from his until you’ve backed yourself into the far corner of the elevator. 

You can’t breathe. Not properly, anyway. You’ve never felt so on edge, so exposed in such a small space. Every fiber of your being screams at you to keep your distance, to reassert control of the situation, but there’s a part of you— dangerous and impulsive— that wants to step right back into his arms.

Javier doesn’t move, but his eyes stay glued to you, watching your every movement like a predator stalking its prey. The elevator is still locked in place, a silent reminder that you’re trapped here with him until one of you decides to relent. His jaw clenches, and you think he’s going to say something cutting, something to tear you down. But instead, he surprises you.

“You’re right.” His voice is rough, but it carries a weight that’s different from the cocky arrogance he usually hides behind. “I can’t stand it.”

His words hang in the air between you, heavier than you expected. There’s no smirk this time, no sarcastic bite. Just honesty, and it’s a fucking curveball.

You weren’t prepared for him to actually admit it. For once, he’s not trying to fuck with you, not trying to win.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

You swallow hard, the weight of his confession making your heart leap out of your chest.

You don’t know what to say, so instead, you just stand there, staring at him, your body buzzing with a cocktail of adrenaline, lust, and confusion. Because as much as you want to dislike him, as much as you need to dislike him for your own sanity, you can’t deny the way your pussy responds to him. The way your mind keeps pulling you back to that night, to the way he made you feel without even touching you.

“Get over it,” you snap, cutting him off before he can sink any deeper into this conversation. You don’t need to entertain this further. It can’t happen, and it will never happen. The second you fall into bed with him, it’ll be game over. Javier Peña isn’t just a casual fuck— you know deep down he’d be the kind that wraps himself around your soul and doesn’t let go until he’s consumed every inch of you. 

The problem is, you’re terrified that you’ll let him. It’s why you’re so dead set on not giving in.

You cross your arms over your chest again, as if trying to shield yourself from the strength in his eyes, the way he seems to reach into your very core with just a look.

You try to focus on anything else— on the fact that you still need to get to the bank, then to your apartment, and finally to your bar shift. You don’t have time for this shit, for the endless back-and-forth with him.

But then he says your name.

The sound of it on his lips makes you close your eyes, every muscle in your body tensing. Damn him. It sounds so fucking sweet, almost reverent, and you know if you make the mistake of looking at him right now— if you see those beautiful, pleading brown eyes— you’ll fold.

He says your name again, softer this time, and the way his voice wraps around each syllable has your resolve teetering on the edge of collapse. “Please, just let me show you how good I can make you feel,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his breath fanning across your cheek. “Just one taste, nena, por favor.” 

And for the first time since you met Javier— he’s begging. You never imagined that he, of all people, would beg for anything. But here he is, his voice low and thick with desire, pleading with you to give him just one chance.

You blink your eyes open slowly, trying to process the whirlwind of emotions that have been ignited by his words. The synapses in your brain light up like fucking fireworks, each one triggering a new thought, a new possibility. There’s a moment— a split second— where you picture it.

You imagine his hands on your body, his lips trailing fire down your skin, his mouth between your legs. The image flashes so vividly, so intensely in your mind, that it steals the breath from your lungs. 

You can practically feel the way he’d elicit things you’ve been trying to suppress. Your legs go weak just thinking about it, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to ground yourself, to remember who you are, what this is. 

But your cavewoman, horny brain betrays you— racing ahead, picturing every possible outcome. You can’t help but wonder how good it would feel to let him in, just once. How it would be to let him take control, to let him show you, like he’s promising, just how good he can make you feel. 

You’re already late getting to the bank. You should be focusing on that, on getting out of this damn elevator and away from him, but your body won’t cooperate. Every part of you is ablaze, screaming at you to just give in.

Javier’s standing there, staring at you with those chocolate eyes, his dark brows drawn together, pouty lips parted just slightly as he waits for you to say something. Anything. He’s laid it all out in front of you, leaving you to make the next move. And fuck, as much as you hate to admit it, you want to. You want to let him pull you into his world, even though you know it’ll consume you. You want to feel his hands on your skin, his mouth everywhere, his name slipping from your lips.

But you can’t. 

If you give in now, you’ll never be able to walk away from him, and you can’t afford to let yourself get tangled up in Javier Peña. He’s chaos wrapped in temptation, and once you let him in, there’s no turning back.

You swallow hard, your throat tight as you try to hold on to the last shred of control you have. “Javier,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out. You feel like you’re on the edge of a cliff, teetering between desire and self-preservation. The weight of his gaze presses down on you, and for a moment, you think you might just jump.

But then, with every ounce of willpower you have left, you take a shaky breath, shaking your head and breaking the spell he’s woven around you.

“No,” you say, the word barely above a whisper, but firm enough to anchor you back to reality.

His face falls, the fire in his eyes dimming just a little. You almost regret it, almost, but then you remember who he is. What he does. And you know you made the right choice, even if every part of you is berating otherwise.

You stand there, locked in a silent standoff, both of you doing a piss poor job of pretending like you don’t want to tear each other’s clothes off right here in the elevator. 

You’re hoping—no, praying— that he’ll finally let it go. That he’ll stop pushing, stop testing your resolve, and just leave you alone. You’re begging for him to go back to what he does best, to leave you to your job— both of them.

You break eye contact first, glancing down at your watch. You’re definitely not going to make it to your shift on time. Shit. You need to phone your boss and give him a heads up before this gets even worse. But right now, you can’t seem to focus, not with Javier standing there like a Roman statue, immovable and perfect, watching you with that infuriating intensity.

“Now, if you can get the elevator to take us down, I’d really appreciate it,” you say, but the words come out softer than you intended. You hate how small your voice sounds, like you’ve already lost the upper hand, and you mentally slap yourself for it. 

But he doesn’t budge. He just stands there, watching you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world, and it makes you want to scream. His gaze is piercing, boring holes into your entire existence, and it’s taking everything you have not to crumble beneath it.

“Do you really mean that?” He asks as he brings a hand up to smooth down his mustache. There’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips, like he already knows the answer. “Because everything about your body language is screaming otherwise.” 

When the fuck did he get so close again? He’s right there, towering over you, and suddenly the air between you feels impossibly thin.

“It’s my fuckin’ job to read a woman’s body,” he continues, his voice growing huskier with each word. “And you know what yours is telling me right now?”

Your pulse quickens, your heart slamming against your ribcage, and you can’t find the words to respond. You don’t trust yourself to speak— not when his presence is drowning you in your own body. 

He leans in, lips so close to your ear that his breath almost has you fainting. “It’s telling me that you want it.”

Your stomach flips, every nerve ending in your body coming alive as his curved nose barely grazes your skin. The touch is featherlight, but it sends electricity straight to your cunt. You grip the railing behind you like a lifeline, your knuckles flushed as goosebumps ripple across your skin. 

Javier’s smirk deepens, the asshole clearly enjoying the effect he’s having on you. “Stop fighting it, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet, his hand sliding down the length of your figure in a way that feels too natural, too right. “Let me show you how good I can make you feel…”

You should stop him. You should. But you don’t. You can’t. His hands are on you now, moving with a confidence that’s impossible to resist. One large hand finds its way to your tit, groping it gently through the thin fabric of your tank top, and you gasp, the sound escaping your lips before you can stop it. Your body fails you, head falling back against the elevator wall, your chest arching into his touch. 

The way his hand moves, so sure, so practiced, has your resistance crumbling, piece by piece. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your neck, peppering soft, teasing kisses along your sensitive skin. “Barely done a thing and you’re already gone.” 

Your mind is spinning, your resolve completely undone as you melt under his touch. Every kiss, every graze of his lips against your neck feels like it’s unraveling the last bit of control you have. His body is pressed up against yours, and you can feel his erection through his jeans again, the hard (pun intended) evidence of just how much he wants you.

God help you, it feels too good to resist.

You sigh, a low, breathy sound that’s equal parts surrender and relief. His lips trail lower, his hand still groping your breast, and you let him. You let him because you’ve been fighting this for too long, and right now, you just want to feel something. 

Javier grins against your neck, his breath hot on your skin as he pulls you even closer, his voice hoarse in your ear. “Told you,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “I knew you wanted this.”

You don’t respond. There’s nothing left to say. You’ve given in, you’ll figure out how to pick up the pieces later, but right now? Right now, you’re letting yourself fall apart.

It’s like your whole body just deflates against his, sinking into the solid warmth of him as if all the fight has finally drained out of you. You’re giving him the green light, and he knows it. The grunt that escapes his throat is guttural, and you feel the weight of his palm pressing harder against your chest, his thumb and pointer finger expertly pinching your now hardened nipple through the fabric of your tank top.

“After this,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint, “if you don’t want me anymore, I’ll leave you alone.” His words are punctuated by a sharp tug at your nipple that sends a surge of arousal straight between your legs. Then his hand moves, sliding up to cradle your jaw with a surprising gentleness. He tilts your head so that your eyes meet his, forcing you to look at him— forcing you to really see him. “You have my word.”

You search his eyes, not entirely sure what you’re looking for— honesty, maybe? A hint of something real beyond the heat of the moment? Whatever it is, you can’t find the words to respond, so you just nod weakly, your breath bated. 

Javier smiles at that, a slow, predatory grin, and he leans in as if to kiss you. But you stop him, your hand pressing against his sternum with just enough force to halt him in his tracks.

“No kissing,” you say, your voice more resolute than you feel. “You said one taste, so get to it.” You’re setting boundaries, trying to keep some semblance of control in this situation. No kissing, no fucking— just head. That’s all this will be. He’ll get a taste of you, and you’ll finally get a taste of what all the hype is about. Then it’ll be over, and you’ll go your separate ways. That’s the deal.

His frown deepens, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features, like he’s not used to anyone telling him no in any capacity. But it’s brief, because he’s not about to take the proverbial bone you’ve thrown him for granted. He agrees in his own way, pivoting without protest, his mouth returning to your neck like he’s already forgotten the attempt to kiss you.

Now that the rules are clear, you allow yourself to let your guard down— just a little. It’s not like your sex life has been riveting lately, and truth be told, you can’t even remember the last time a partner went down on you willingly. At least you’re getting something out of this fucked-up little arrangement, and for now, that’s enough. 

He kisses and licks a line down your throat, his stubble scraping deliciously against the sensitive flesh. You sigh, your breath hitching as you feel his hands roaming your body with a confidence that should piss you off but doesn’t. 

His rough palms map out your curves like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory. He’s groping, squeezing, learning you in a way that makes you feel like you’re his personal discovery. 

The warmth of his breath, the skill in his movements— it’s intoxicating. You can’t help but respond, your hips shifting, your body bending instinctively toward him when one hand slides up under your shirt, fingertips brushing the underside of your breast.

He’s good at this, you’ll give him that. Too damn good. It’s almost like he’s a fucking pornstar.

You hate that you’re enjoying it so much, hate that you’re already melting under his touch like some lovesick fool.

“Don’t overthink it,” he murmurs against your skin, feeling the nerves radiating off of you. 

His touch lingers as he reaches the button on your denim shorts, undoing it with a flick of his fingers before pulling down the zipper, slow and deliberate.

“You and these damn shorts…” you hear him say, more to himself than to you. His voice is gruff, frustrated, like he’s been waging a silent battle against his own restraint. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and tugs them down over your hips, watching as the fabric slides off your skin. You step out of them, standing there in nothing but your underwear, top and sneakers, exposed in ways you hadn’t intended to be when you walked into that office earlier today.

His brows shoot up, and you feel the heat rush to your cheeks. Of course, it’s laundry day. Of course, you’re left wearing your least practical pair of underwear— this skimpy, lacy purple number you hardly ever break out. The delicate string disappears between the cheeks of your ass, and the sheer front does little to conceal the soft tuft of hair just below your navel. 

And he’s drinking it all in.

“Fuckin’ hell, nena,” he breathes, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and lust. His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and hungry. “You always walkin’ around like this?” His hands grip your hips, and before you can even formulate a response, he’s sinking to his knees in front of you, taking his sweet ass time, like this is some kind of worship.

“No, I—” Your voice is breathy, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “I had to do laundry today…” It’s all you can manage, barely coherent as his lips begin pressing soft, teasing kisses to the inside of your knee.

He throws one of your legs over his shoulder, steadying you, his fingers gripping your thigh with enough pressure to leave you keening. You brace yourself against the elevator railing, your body tense with anticipation, your mind a chaotic swirl of logic and lust. You barely notice as the check you came here for flutters to the floor beside you, forgotten.

Don’t forget to deposit that, the reasonable part of your brain chimes in, but you tell that bitch to shut up because Javier Peña is currently on his knees in font of you, about to take you on the ride of your fucking life, and you’re nowhere near strapped in.

His head is tilted up, lips brushing dangerously close to where you want him most, and all rational thought is slipping through your fingers like sand.

He looks up at you then, his dark eyes glinting with something wicked, and your breath catches again. You don’t know how to feel about any of this anymore. There’s a line you swore you wouldn’t cross, but now that he’s right there, so close to giving you what you’ve craved for longer than you care to admit, it’s hard to remember why you drew that line in the first place.

Javier’s lips graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and a quiet moan escapes your lips before you can stop it. He smirks against your skin, his fingers tracing a slow path up your leg, sending shivers coursing through you. “Relax, bonita,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “I’ll take care of you.”

You want to tell him to hurry up, to stop teasing, but all that comes out is a shaky exhale as his hands part your thighs wider, positioning you exactly how he wants you. His grip is firm, possessive, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ll survive whatever it is he’s about to do to you.

You don’t even have time to dwell on the thought before his mouth is on you, lips pressing a lingering kiss over the thin fabric of your panties. The sudden pressure sends a shockwave through your body, and your eyes fall closed, surrendering to the moment. His tongue teases the fabric, nudging against your already soaked cunt, and you can feel the wetness seeping through the lace. He hums low in his throat, savoring the first taste of you.

“These are so pretty. Don’t think I’ll take ’em off.”

He hooks his fingers into the delicate fabric and pulls it aside, exposing you to him completely. The cool air hits your slick folds, a contrast to the heat of his breath as he hovers just inches away. He’s staring, taking you in, and when he curses under his breath, it’s like he’s caught off guard by how badly he wants this. Wants you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, as he drags his nose up and down the length of your wet slit. The touch is maddeningly light, just enough to make you clench involuntarily, your body reacting without permission. More of your slick leaks out of your pussy, a response to the subtle stimulation, and you grip the elevator railing tighter to keep yourself from falling with how weak your knees get.

Javier flattens his tongue, delivering a slow, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit, and it’s like your entire body ignites at once. You throw your head back, a ragged cry of his name ripping from your throat as your hips buck instinctively, searching for more of him, more of that friction that feels like pure electricity.

He’s not done, though. Not even close. One hand snakes around your thighs, strong and sure. His middle and pointer fingers spread you open, forming an upside-down V, and then he does something so filthy, so perfectly Javier— he spits directly onto your exposed pussy.

The sound alone could get you off, but the sensation is something else entirely. His saliva mixes with your slick, making everything wetter, hotter, and you feel like you’re unraveling before he’s even truly begun. A series of high-pitched moans spill from your lips as he latches his mouth onto your cunt, sucking and licking with a precision that has your entire being quaking.

Lips, tongue, teeth—he’s using everything he has, dragging you deeper into a haze of pleasure where nothing exists but the heat coiling in your belly, tightening with every flick. He’s devouring you, utterly relentless, and it’s too much but not enough, all at once. Every nerve ending is on fire, your thighs trembling as you fight to keep your balance. His grip on your leg tightens, keeping you locked in place, helpless to do anything but take what he’s giving.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, pulling back for just a moment, leaning his cheek against your inner thigh. His face is glistening, covered in your arousal, but his eyes are dark and hungry, never straying from your face. “With noises like that and a pussy this pretty— you’d be a fucking sight on camera.”

His words send another jolt through you, dirty and wrong and so fucking hot that you nearly forget how to breathe. He nips at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, leaving faint marks in his wake, before diving back in with that skilled tongue of his. He’s a man with something to prove, alternating between broad strokes and tight circles, zeroing in on your fleshy clit with a precision that makes your head spin.

It’s obscene, the way he’s working you over, all these years spent perfecting this art, but there’s a rawness to it too, a desperation like he can’t get enough of you. You’re soaked, dripping onto his face, and he laps it up like a man starved, the sounds of his mouth slurping against your wetness filling the small space around you. Your moans are louder now, more desperate, each one pushing you closer to that edge where you’re not sure if you’ll survive the fall.

His fingers tighten on your thigh again, and then he’s dragging them lower, inching toward your entrance as his tongue flicks mercilessly against your clit. When he slips two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you nearly scream. The combination of his mouth and his fingers is enough to send you spiraling, your legs trembling uncontrollably as you arch into him.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he grunts when he pulls away to get a good look at your beautiful face and how you look when he’s making you feel like you’re on top of the world. It’s enough to get him to latch onto your clit, sucking on it harshly.

“God, Javier,” you gasp, your voice shaky, barely coherent. You can’t think, can’t form any rational thought, not with the way he’s pulling you apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the pleasure.

“Let go,” he growls against you, the vibrations of his voice sending shockwaves through your core. “I’ve got you, nena. Just let go.” 

And with that, the dam breaks. You’re coming hard, hips jerking wildly as waves of pleasure crash over you, your entire body shaking with the force of it. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up for a second, working you through it with that relentless mouth until you’re gasping for air, hands clenching at the railing so hard you’re surprised it hasn’t snapped. 

Your vision blurs, your mind goes blank, and all you can do is hold on as Javier takes you on the ride of your life, just like you knew he would.

You don’t know how long it takes you to come back into your body after letting him take the reins for a little. You’re trembling, legs weak and body heavy against the cool metal wall of the elevator. He’s still on his knees, knuckle-deep inside you, lazily curling them as if savoring every last second.

His mouth trails soft, teasing kisses across your soaked panties, and the tenderness of the act startles you, nearly pulling you under again. But then he withdraws his fingers, slipping them into his mouth with an almost obscene groan, tasting you one last time as if to commit your flavor to memory. He carefully adjusts your underwear back into place.

Javier stands to his full height, your leg falling from his shoulder, towering over you. His hand comes to rest lightly on your waist as if to steady you. “You okay?”

You nod, though your bones feel like jelly. Your eyes stay closed as you try to gather yourself, forcing yourself back into reality, back into the woman who doesn’t fold like a house of cards for her co-worker. You bend down to retrieve your shorts and check from the floor, fingers fumbling with the zipper as you button yourself back up. He presses the button to resume the elevator, the gears shifting as you’re slowly carried back to the main floor. 

And just like that, it hits you. It happened. You’ve came on Javier’s tongue and fingers. You swore it wouldn’t— swore up and down that he was nothing more than a nuisance at work, a distraction you wouldn’t let get to you. But here you are, post-orgasm, in a goddamn public elevator, of all places, with the man who was supposed to be just a headache.

“Hope you got your fix because it’s never happening again,” you mutter, trying to summon the biting edge to your words, almost like you’re trying to convince yourself as much as him.

Javier just smirks, that infuriating glint back in his eyes like he already knows better, but he doesn’t push it. Not now.

The elevator doors slide open with a sharp ding, and the scene before you is worse than any nightmare you could’ve concocted in the heat of the moment. Two firefighters, the building manager, and— of course because why the hell not— Steve Murphy are standing there with varying degrees of shock and amusement.

You can see the moment Steve takes it all in— your flushed cheeks, the slightly mussed state of your clothes, Javier standing just a bit too close to you. His blue eyes narrow, then widen, and then he breaks into a shit-eating grin so wide you could slap it right off his face.

“Well, well, well,” Steve drawls, barely containing his laughter. “What do we have here?”

Your stomach sinks. Not again. 

Javier, ever the cocky bastard, simply raises an eyebrow and slides his hands into his pockets, all cool nonchalance like he hasn’t just been between your thighs minutes earlier. “Just crapped out on us randomly,” he says smoothly, and you want to strangle him for the audacity.

Steve chuckles, shaking his head as if he’s in on some big joke that only you and Javier are the punchline for. And as you step past him, cheeks burning, all you can think is that this will never, ever happen again.

But even as you repeat it to yourself, a small part of you— the part still buzzing from the memory of Javier’s mouth— wonders if you’re lying.

[multifariousqueer]

can you write miles 42 having readers bank account, card ALL that on his phone and gets mad if she purchases shi with money he didint give her. its really crazy but its miles 42....what do you expect??? hehe

Sure love!!!

A/n: y’all I love you so much but I need you guys to start requesting regular miles fanfic pls. Although 42 miles owns my 🩷

It was just a simple necklace. It was the Vivienne Westwood necklace that you saw everyone around you wearing and wanted so badly. You knew Miles would get it for you in a heartbeat but a part of you wanted to get it for yourself. It had been a long, stressful semester but you struggled through it all and got to a point where ou were passing with A’s and B’s. Coincidentally, you had gotten a job at Starbucks after months of applying and you had about $1000 saved up of your own money that you were waiting to spend on something special. That was, until that “something special” came along in the form of Miles.

You never knew what he did but you knew he was making 8x your salary in a month. It seemed like anything you wanted, you got when you were with Miles; shoes, clothes, books, makeup any and everything you wanted, it was yours in a matter of days. It’s worth mentioning that Miles is extremely overprotective and wants to know everything about what you’re doing and buying because he loves you and cares about your habits.

Even on Miles’s birthday when you dipped into your savings to get him the latest Jordan’s, he was furious that you had to use your own money:

“Damn Ma, these are valid. How much were they?”

“Oh don’t worry about it” you said

“I said, how much were they.” His eyes narrowing in on you because he knew how much they were because he was gonna buy them 2 weeks ago but decided not to.

“$500. I’ve been saving for them for you, baby. It’s all good” you tried to assure him

“Aight. thank you.” He said, pulling you close to him, the scent of the Dior Sauvage cologne you also bought him, filling your nostrils

But deep down you knew he was pissed off and mad that you spent your own money, so after a long talk about how he should be able to keep tabs on you and keep you safe, you gave him your Apple Pay and banking info for emergencies only but of course it’s Miles and being the overprotective boyfriend he is, he checks it everyday for any “extravagant purchases” made by you or someone else.

Of course he isn’t crazy, he set a $25 limit for you before he steps in and asks what’s up. Once, you were at a mall with your friend and found the cutest shirt at Urban Outfitters and decided to buy it. The price tag read $50 but you went ahead and got it; the same happened at Bath and Body Works and Tilly’s and as you made your way to the bathroom, you got a text from Miles:

Miles: did someone take your card?

You: no why??

Miles: why’d you spend $150 in an hour??

You: I’m at the mall

Miles: so? I pay for your shit

You: dawg it’s $150. It’s not that deep 💀

Miles: I ain’t yo “dawg” and yes it is when Yk I buy you shit

You: you aren’t my sugar daddy

Miles: I basically am atp. I’m sending you $1000, buy something cute

You contemplated leaving him on seen but you remembered how he hates that so you replied:

You: Okay

You had saved up enough to get the necklace and when you got it, you were ecstatic. You thought about all of the possible outfit combos and how good it will look against your brown skin but your thoughts were interrupted by a certain someone:

Miles: what’d I tell you, Mami?

You: ?

Miles: don’t play dumb, yk I would’ve bought you that necklace in a heartbeat but instead you wanted to be miss independent and buy it yourself. I guess since you’re so independent, I’ll stop sending you that $1000 every week. How about that?

You: ok

Miles: ?

You: we can discuss this when I get home

Miles: K

You: k

It was a long ride home but eventually you accepted that Miles was gonna rip your head off and there wasn’t anything you could do about it.

When you got home, he had three of the necklaces, two huge teddy bears, a bouquet of your favorite flowers and the newest pair of Jordan’s waiting for you:

“What’s all this?” You smiled and asked

“I told you I’ll pay for your shit, y/n” miles said, with a small smirk on his face

[mugiwara-lucy]

Hello, everyone! While I am VERY proud of the Democrat voter turnout for Early and Mail In Ballots; here's ANOTHER thing to keep in mind.

Two of the Supreme Court's chairs will be up for grabs and the next president will be able to put in two new justices that are younger. Currently there's a 6-3 demographic in the Whitehouse with 6 being Republican and 3 being Democrat. SHould Kamala win, she can put two more Democrat court younger justices in and we'll be 5-3 (the five being Democrats!) and we'll have a less corrupt SCOTUS.

Should Trump win......he'll stack the Supreme Court with younger justices and the Supreme Court will be locked HARD RIGHT for AT LEAST 30 years.......do we REALLY want that??

And keep in mind, one of the justices (Clarence Thomas) was talking about giving a look at gay marriage if he comes back into office.

And I bet one of the Supreme Court justices that Trump will put will be Aileen Cannon, the person who threw out Trump's stolen documents case. We ALL KNOW he stole those documents for nefarious reasons......do we REALLY want someone like that in office??

Here is the link below to register to vote along with the deadlines varying by state! Also, your own vote isn’t enough! Get as many people as you can to vote for Kamala be it your friends, cousins, parents, grandparents, old friends from high school and college, coworkers, boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, stepchildren (if they’re 18 and over) and the list goes on and on but every vote counts! ALSO PLEASE check your registration DAILY because MAGA WILL purge your voter registration!!!

And early voting has started! And if you don’t wanna vote on November 5th, Early Voting is another option! Like I said get as many people as you know and try early voting that way you can avoid MAGA fuckery on November 5th! Down below is a list of dates by state:

And Mail in Ballots are ANOTHER option I highly recommend!! And like I said get as many people as you can to take advantage of this option! BUT if you decide to go with Mail In/Absentee Ballots; PLEASE mail your ballots at the ACTUAL USPS office!! That way MAGAts won't fuck with it.

And if you’re an American who lives overseas; PLEASE use the option of voting overseas since I know every country other than North Korea, Russia and China do NOT want to see Trump’s stinky ass back in the Oval Office! Here’s a link below:

Like I said last night....because of Trump's first term, we had Roe v Wade, Affirmative Action and Chevron overturned. I bet all the money in my savings and checking accounts that Interracial Relationships, Women’s right to vote and Gay Rights will be done away with should he be back in office. BET MONEY.

We're doing well....let's NOT get complacent like 2016.

THANK YOU.

[loafysainz]

hey gorgeous! how are you? can i request a story where carlos is just a normal guy with an average paying 9-5 and y/n is secretly a millionaire that’s a ceo with a massive company but hides it and lives in his small house and his average lifestyle but he somehow finds out and is complete shock? if not no problems ❤️

MY RICH GF | CS 55

carlos sainz x fem!reader

warn: no warn

hope you like it sender!! 🤍

There’s a saying—if you’ve ever read Fortune, the magazine that actually knows where the world’s richest hide their money:

"Not every millionaire is easy to pin down. Don’t trust any rich list you see—it barely scratches the surface." And that’s exactly how people describe The YLN Family.

Carlos had no clue. Not a single one.

Because as far as he knew, you were just a normal, stable employee at Finance Corporate—some mid-level corporate job that paid well enough but wasn’t flashy. You had a nice apartment, dressed well, never seemed to stress about money. But nothing about you screamed insane generational wealth. He never questioned it. Why would he? Not everyone in his life had to be ridiculously rich.

What he didn’t know was that your family owned the biggest car manufacturing empire in the world. That your father had spent millions making sure his family name was nowhere near any public records, that your assets were buried under layers of shell companies, trusts, and offshore accounts.

The only article that had ever mentioned your parents was some old feature in Legacy & Wealth, calling them “the ghost millionaires of the auto industry.” But that was it. No photos, no real details. Just speculation.

And Carlos? He was so far from putting the pieces together. He still thought youre just regular employee, but maybe you just saved up. He still thought it was a little weird that you never mentioned money struggles, but maybe you were just really good at managing finances.

The thought that you could buy and sell half the grid without breaking a sweat? Never even crossed his mind.

*****

Carlos had planned the night perfectly.

His company had been invited to the grand launch of your own company—some huge new venture that, apparently, was a big deal in the industry. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about going, but when he realized it was a black-tie event with free-flowing champagne, he figured he might as well make the most of it.

And since he didn’t want to go alone, he’d asked you to come with him.

"I can’t," you’d said over coffee that morning. "I have to work late."

He hadn’t pushed. You were always responsible like that—always staying late, never complaining. He even felt a little bad for you, missing out on a fancy event just to sit in an office under fluorescent lights.

Except now, standing in the middle of the ballroom, Carlos wasn’t sure whether to laugh or just be pissed.

Because there you were.

Not in an office. Not in work clothes. Not stuck behind a desk.

You were standing at the front of the room, shaking hands with executives, your name being announced like royalty. And as the words left the speaker’s lips—"Tonight, we celebrate the launch of (Company Name), a vision brought to life by none other than YFN"—Carlos finally realized.

You hadn’t been "working late."

You were hosting this.

Carlos downed the rest of his drink and walked up to you just as you stepped away from a conversation.

"You know," he said, voice laced with something sharp, "I didn’t realize 'working late' meant champagne and a whole damn ballroom."

You turned, eyes widening slightly in surprise before settling into something softer. "Carlos—"

"Guess I should’ve asked what kind of company you work for, huh?" His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Would’ve been nice to know my girlfriend isn’t just 'doing fine' but actually—what do they call you? millionaire heir?"

There was a pause. You exhaled, pressing your lips together before tilting your head slightly.

"Are you mad?"

Carlos blinked.

He wanted to say yes. Wanted to tell you how stupid he felt for never realizing. But the truth was, he wasn’t angry. He was just—stunned.

"I don’t know," he admitted. "Should I be?"

You sighed, shifting closer. "I didn’t hide it to lie to you. I just… I wanted to be normal. With you."

Carlos let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. "And what, you thought I wouldn’t be able to handle it?"

You shook your head. "I thought you wouldn’t look at me the same."

Silence stretched between you. Then, finally, Carlos let out a dry chuckle, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

"You know, I should’ve guessed something was off when you never complained about rent."

You laughed, warm and genuine, and Carlos felt the last bit of his frustration melt away. Because at the end of the day, you were still you—the person he’d fallen for. The same way he was still him. And this? This was just another thing to understand about each other.

"So," he said, smirking slightly. "Since you’re secretly rich, does this mean you’re paying for dinner next time?"

You grinned, leaning in just enough for your perfume to cloud his thoughts.

"If you’re nice to me."

Carlos exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

And just like that, everything was right again.

[bitchesgetriches]

Everything You Need to Know about How to Increase Your Income

Make more money at the job you have

One of the simplest ways to increase your income is to just make your current employer pay you more. But while it may be simple, it ain’t always easy.

Santa Isn’t Coming and Neither Is Your Promotion: How To Get Promoted

How I Chessmastered Myself Into a Promotion at Work

The First Time I Asked for a Raise

You Need To Ask for a Fucking Raise

Ask the Bitches: “Can I Quit With Unvested Funds? Or Am I Walking Away From Too Much Money?” 

The Ultimate Guide to Growing Your Salary

Make more money at your next job

All that said, you’re statistically more likely to increase your income faster by job hopping! So if your current employer doesn’t want to pay you more, leave that sinking ship behind in pursuit of a higher salary.

Job Hopping vs. Career Loyalty by the Numbers

The Fascinating Results of Our Job Hopping vs. Career Loyalty Poll

How NOT to Determine Your Salary

When It Comes to Salary Negotiations, Are You Asking for Enough?

What To Do When You’re Asked About Your Salary Requirements in a Job Interview

If Your Employer Refuses To Negotiate Salary, Try These 11 Creative Counteroffers

Season 4, Episode 9: “I’m on the Wrong Career Path. How Do I Convince a New Industry To Take a Chance on Me?” 

Invest your way to more money

Of course there are some who say the true path to wealth is passive income: when you stop working for your money and instead let your money work for you. And they’re not wrong! Here’s how we recommend you increase your income passively.

When Money in the Bank Is a Bad Thing: Understanding Inflation and Depreciation

Investing Deathmatch: Investing in the Stock Market vs. Just… Not 

What’s the REAL Rate of Return on the Stock Market?

Dafuq Is a Retirement Plan and Why Do You Need One? 

Procrastinating on Opening a Retirement Account? Here’s 3 Ways That’ll Fuck You Over.

Season 4, Episode 1: “Index Funds Include Unethical Companies. Can I Still Invest in Them, or Does That Make Me a Monster?” 

Small Business Investing: A Kinder, Gentler Alternative to the Stock Market 

The Dark Magic of Financial Horcruxes: How and Why to Diversify Your Assets 

Make more money through side hustles

When it comes to side hustles, we have traditionally advocated caution. The last thing you want to do is burn out in pursuit of a second income stream. But with enough wits and fortitude, a side hustle could help you increase your income by leaps and bounds.

Romanticizing the Side Hustle: When 1 Job Isn’t Enough

Season 2, Episode 9: “I Use My Free Time to Volunteer. Should I Focus on Making Money Instead?”

Stop Undervaluing Your Freelance Work, You Darling Fool

Freelancer, Protect Thyself… With a Fair Contract 

Season 4, Episode 10: “I’m a Freelance Artist. How Do I Price My Work Fairly Without Losing Clients?”

Ask the Bitches: My Boss Won’t Give Me a Contract and I’m Freaking Out 

“Independent Contractor” My Ass: How to Stop Wage Theft Through Worker Misclassification 

Becoming a Millennial Entrepreneur (In the Midst of a Pandemic) With Katelyn Magnuson 

11 Awful Mistakes I Made as a Self-employed Freelancer, and How You Can Avoid Them

The Magic of Unclaimed Property: How I Made $1,900 in 10 Minutes by Being a Disorganized Mess

I Am a Craigslist Samurai and so Can You: How to Sell Used Stuff Online

What to do when you make more money

Once you increase your income, you might find yourself… not quite bored, but finding you have a little more bandwidth to handle the stuff that matters. It can be a jarring transition! Here are our thoughts on the matter.

Season 3, Episode 7: “I’m Finished With the Basic Shit. What Are the Advanced Financial Steps That Only Rich People Know?” 

Season 3, Episode 4: “The More Money I Save, the More I’m Scared To Lose It. Can I Break the Cycle of Financial Anxiety?” 

How to Avoid Lifestyle Inflation … and When to Embrace It

Ask the Bitches: I Know How to Struggle and Fight, but I Don’t Know How to Succeed

Update: I Know How to Struggle and Fight, but I Don’t Know How to Succeed 

The FIRE Movement, Explained 

I Was Happy to Marry a Poor Man. Then Things Changed.

I Have Become the Rich Relative I Always Wanted 

Believing in Miracles: A Conversation with Chris Dane Owens on Money, Creativity, and Self-Funding Art 

I Now Make More Money Than My Husband, and It’s Great for Our Marriage 

Season 2, Episode 1: “I’m Financially Stable, but My Friends Aren’t. The Guilt Is Crushing!”

The Resignation Checklist: 25 Sneaky Ways To Bleed Your Employer Dry Before Quitting

Advocate for systemic change

We don’t endorse an attitude of “I got mine.” So once you increase your income, there are lots of ways to use your newfound financial breathing room for good! Lift as you climb, my friend. Here are a few ways to do so:

Wallet Activism: Using Your Money for Good with Author Tanja Hester 

Woke at Work: How to Inject Your Values into Your Boring, Lame-Ass Job 

Raising the Minimum Wage Would Make All Our Lives Better

Post a Salary Range in the Job Description, You Fucking Cowards

1 Easy Way All Allies Can Help Close the Gender and Racial Pay Gap

The Truth About Unions: What Has Organized Labor Done for You? 

How To Support a Labor Strike with 3 Simple Steps

Everything in moderation

One last thing, my lambs: don’t crush your spirit while chasing the goal of a higher income. Working hard is hard work. If you find these tactics are leaving you exhausted and demoralized, you might be on the road to burnout. And that road leads nowhere good!

That’s why we just released our glorious new Burnout Workshop. Click the button below to take a peek!

Get the Burnout Workshop Here!

[tsukimefuku]

CHAPTER THREE PT. II: DIMINISHED CAPACITY ❀ HIGURUMA SENSEI SERIES

masterlist link | mdni! | oopsie, is that... a special banner? gee I wonder if there's something to see at the end of this chapter, huh?

❀ diminished capacity.

Diminished capacity refers to an individual’s impossibility to form the intent necessary for committing any criminal act, because their capacity to fully comprehend the nature of their actions is impaired. It doesn’t, however, completely exclude their responsibility, and they may be held accountable to a lesser offense.

wc: 5.5K ❀ pairing for the series: professor!higuruma x student!reader

❀ tags and c/w.

non-curse au. college au. slow-burn romcom. professor and college student pre-relationship. internship interviews suck. nobara likes to steal food from people. mentions of hypothetical violent crime. nanami gets pestered by gojo even here. higuruma likes sunflowers. nanami has a sixth sense.

❀ notes etc.

Apologies to any colleagues reading the word “evidence” in place of “proof” and feeling like tackling me with a broom, lol. Also, a huge thanks to everyone who came around for part one, I hope you guys get to enjoy reading this just as much I enjoyed writing it.

Argh… Monday.

Internship hunt was hell. There was no other way to spin that wheel. You knew it’d be incredibly hard, but not this hard.

Mondays were cursed days, but to know that not only cursed, they’d also start with terrible interviews — plural — was not in your bingo card for this week. Between  oh, you just started criminal law I this semester? and we will let you know laid the crumbling sounds of your utmost despair of knowing full well you were in for a ride for those next few days.

Well, if only daydreaming about him could save you.

It didn’t, though.

Unfortunately.

You arrived at the campus cafeteria where you were supposed to meet Nobara. Even on a fairly uncomfortable chair, she slouched nearly enough to slide down onto the ground like a rag doll, and it didn’t take you much to realize these past few days were throwing her through the wringer too.

“You look like death,” you joked as you pulled your chair to sit with her, putting your tuna sandwich and can of soda over the table.

“And you look like… like… hmph,” she scoffed while rolling her eyes and propping herself back up again.

“No snarky comeback? Are you that tired?” 

“Leave me alone,” she replied, and apparently, she really wasn’t in the mood for playful banter. You took a bite out of your sandwich, pondering if you should ask her about it, but she beat you to it. “Why is getting internships this early in college is so damn hard?”

“Apparently, places don’t trust complete newbies or youngsters,” you noted, “and they want someone who has already studied all the necessary subjects prior to hiring. Also, people with prior experience are preferred.” 

“Yet these are internship opportunities! Aren’t interns supposed to be newbies who are going to learn from the experience they’ll get through the internship?” Nobara irritatedly inquired, her implied commentary more a complaint than a question. You nodded.

“Absolutely. It makes no sense, it’s like they’re just trying to hire a junior lawyer with less rights and a lower pay rate,” you churned out through your mouthful of tuna and mayonnaise, “now that I think about it, it’s probably that, actually.” 

“I can’t go back home! I mean, I made it all the way here. If I had to go back I would never get over this. I need some money, and I need some money soon, otherwise this will all just have been a waste of my time. I should just get a part time job already instead of insisting in starting my internship as fast as possible.” 

Nobara covered her face, and she sounded genuinely upset. You paused your munching for a bit, and after washing it all down with a few gulps of soda, you leaned towards her, pulling her hands from her face.

“Hey, Nobara, we’re not letting that happen, okay? Neither me, Maki, Yuuji or Megumi.” you offered in an attempt to comfort her. She let you peel her palms away, and gazed at you in a mixture of frustration and anger, which softly subsided after your comment. You decided to push your luck, just a bit. “We can refugee you in Megumi’s car. We’ll get you a hammer so you can hit passerbies for shits and giggles to let some collegiate steam out.” 

Consternated, she shook your hands off of her while you chuckled. She made her best effort to still look pissed, but you noticed a tiny smile forming on the edges of her mouth.

“That’s a shit plan, but I’ll take you up on that hammer offer,” she said, and you smiled at her, a gesture she finally reciprocated.

“I’d expect no less from you. So, tell me, in which area are you looking for internships? Fashion law?” 

“Nope, entertainment.” Nobara picked your half eaten sandwich in her hands and took a bite before you could protest. “Maki had told me it was easier to get internships in entertainment law to garner some experience for a future in fashion law, but honestly? I’m skeptical now.” 

“There might be some openings soon. Have you tried Professor Gojo’s firm? It’s the same as Professor Nanami’s, isn’t it? I mean, that giant firm with dozens of departments and that nearly every teacher at our college seems to work for.” You stretched your hand to get your sandwich back, but she slapped you away. “Hey!” 

“I need it more than you, I’m sad!” 

“I’m sad too! I had four terrible internship interviews today, give it back!” 

You both entered a silly slapping match, and the few people walking past the table would look away nervously in fear of getting dragged into the middle of whatever war was going on over a cheap cafeteria tuna sandwich.

“You were having interviews today too?! How come you never told me?! I’m gonna eat your food for not telling me stuff, you’ve been weird ever since that party that you went off for a smoke and dipped!” She took another humongous bite and you jumped over the table, finally snatching whatever remained of your food out of her hands.

“I haven’t been weird!” you had, “and yes, I did. I am interviewing for internship openings in criminal law, but… well, you’ve been through that these days yourself. You know the drill.” 

She grunted with tuna smeared around her mouth, trying to reach for the rest of your sandwich, and it was your turn to slap her.

“Stop it, Nobara. Quit being so stingy and buy one for yourself!” 

“Not when I can eat your food for free,” she joked while taking a big gulp from your soda can, and you sighed, which only gave her a shit eating grin. “Did you interview for that spot they announced today?” 

“What? What opening?”

“I just saw it, there was a new flyer on the main hall board. It’s an internship for criminal law, apparently under the guidance of Professor Geto,” Nobara said while shrugging. “Apparently the huge firm now has a criminal law department too. It was announced last week or so.” 

“Did it say up until when they were taking applications?” 

***

Each and every tendon in your body tensed as you sat with the perfect lady-like crossed ankles at the 45º angle under your second-hand suit. The meeting room was, for the lack of a better word, mighty, having an entire glass wall peering into the rest of the office, and towered over you high enough to have you feeling like a tiny speck of dust humbly drifting its way over the clearly expensive brown, leather couch. A few people walked by as you waited, and the mahogany table seemed big enough to fit three people. It was probably worth your entire year’s tuition, and you wondered if the ceiling height really needed to be tailored for elves. Or ents. Tree people, perhaps.

The firm’s name hung high right in front of you, the logo and letters made out of stainless steel illuminated by LEDs behind it. Opulence wasn’t a big enough word to describe that pompous display of corporate wealth.

You were fished out of your rags to riches daydreams by the pivoting door opening, figuring it was your interviewer for the position. 

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the already well-known foxy-eyed, long haired Professor to come in, but a much more stoic individual with the polar opposite for a hair, not only in length but in color too. You already knew him from afar, as your commercial law Professor. He carried himself in a dignified manner, and upon further inspection, not only was his navy blue suit absolutely pristine, he also didn’t have a single hair strand out of place. You got up to greet him, bowing respectfully, and he returned the gesture.

“Good afternoon, Mrs.,” he said as he sat down on his chair across from you, “my name is Nanami Kento and I’ll be responsible for your interview today.”

You introduced yourself, and remarked, “apologies, but I thought Prof- I mean, Mr. Geto would be the one responsible for this interview today.”

 “As it stands currently, the criminal law department is my responsibility,” Nanami clarified, “so I decided I’d be the one responsible for interviewing our future team. I currently work in our corporate law department.”

You acquiesced with a professional smile. Something about how every tiny detail in him was on point gave you enough leads to conclude that of course this man took it upon himself to be the one responsible for the interviews.

“I’ve read in your resume that you are currently undertaking criminal law I and criminal procedure law I,” Nanami said as he held your resume in his hand, glancing at you and then at the paper, “which isn’t ideal for an intern entering a newly built department.”

Harsh enough?

You readjusted yourself on your chair before speaking.

“Yes, I am.”

He hummed quietly and pulled another paper sheet from his briefcase, and even if his facial expression was perfectly collected, something about how the edges of his lips curled gave away that he was less than happy about whatever was written on it.

“Our HR insisted I should bring this questionnaire with me today, so that I could ask you this list of questions as part of our interview,” he stated, his words followed by a quiet sigh. Nanami then proceeded to tilt the paper towards him and took a moment before proceeding. “Tell me more about yourself in three… captivating anecdotes.”

His voice sounded robotic, as if he was feigning not to loathe the question at hand, and deep down, you did find it amusing. Not enough to distract yourself from the fact that you were usually horrible at interviews altogether, though.

“I’m currently in my late twenties. I started law school last year, and worked during my early twenties to save money for tuition. I’m really passionate about criminal law, that is why I applied.”

Oh, God. What was that?

Well, you sounded robotic too, listing off obvious factualities as if providing a recipe’s ingredients. Both of you stared at each other in silence, wondering if that was what this question was supposed to infer, and it took the two of you so long to speak up again that it became uncomfortable.

Clearing his throat, Nanami unconsciously loosened his tie — barely — before continuing.

Well, at least I’m not the only one who’s uncomfortable.

“What…” he paused for a moment, and seemed to be biting down a discontented sigh, “animal would you be?” His gaze quickly darted down the sheet of paper, and his displeasure was palpable. For someone with such a straight face, his eyes were very telling.

What are these questions? Are we a hip tech company? Nanami thought to himself, wondering if he should make a new list to leave at HR. He was quick to discard the thought once he realized that meant he’d be telling other people how to do their jobs, something he did enough of already.

You didn’t quite know what the hell to answer.

“I… don’t know? I haven’t really thought about that in my life? A cat, perhaps?”

“I haven’t thought about that either, don’t worry, that’s unimportant. Let’s move on to the next question. How…” Nanami lifted an eyebrow, and that alone was enough to tell he was absolutely consternated, “many basketballs can fit inside a bus?”

“… Huh?”

Is this serious?

“I apologize, I believe there must have been some sort of mix-up at the HR, let me…”

Nanami was interrupted by three knocks on the glass wall. You both turned your heads to see Professor Gojo pointing at something — the paper Nanami held in his hands — while subsequently making a thumbs up, a wide grin smeared all over his face.

Without uttering a word nor missing a beat, Nanami got up, walked towards the glass and pulled on something you hadn’t yet noticed. Immediately, blinds slowly descended in front of the glass wall, and Nanami calmly walked his way back to his chair as Gojo’s face tried to keep peering inside the meeting room, descending alongside the rim of the blinds. He kept plastering his hands over the glass like a mimic.

A faint pained moan and a thud echoed once the blinds were about a foot away from reaching the floor.

“Is everything okay?” you inquired, pointing at Gojo’s direction.

“Ignore that.”

That wasn’t a request. You nodded. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Perfect. Let’s also ignore this for a while,” Nanami remarked while putting the sheet of questions aside with his fingertips as if it was radioactive. “Let’s try something else.”

Nanami had this feeling — a familiar one — that he’d be able to pry from you what he needed to know if he went about this interview in a more practical fashion. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“I’m going to describe a hypothetical scenario, and I want you to debate it with me,” he stated.

“Okay.”

“A client comes to this office being investigated of homicide and he wants to hire the firm to represent them in Court. They intend to plead not guilty.” you nodded, and Nanami continued, “The victim was shot, but there was no gun to be found in the crime scene. However, the client was the only person in the vicinity apart from the victim’s body. The client’s clothes — a long sleeved shirt and jeans — are evidence that has been collected at the crime scene, but no forensics were requested for it by the prosecution. When questioned in their first meeting, the client is adamant that they did not commit the crime. The attorney needs to decide which path to take regarding evidence they’ll request or submit. Now, I ask you, which type of evidence would the attorney request if the client is truly innocent?”

You took a deep breath while mentally going over the hypothetical scenario Nanami had just relayed, and considering all he mentioned, there was only one possibility.

“If my client was truly innocent, I’d ask for forensic evidence on their clothes. Guns leave gunpowder vestiges on things like clothes, so if this person didn’t actually pull the trigger, there should be no gunpowder on their sleeves.”

Nanami acquiesced, but remained silent. 

Ok, this is not the only thing he wants to know.

“Also… I’d tell exactly that to the client.”

Nanami’s face remained completely expressionless, but something about how he tilted his head less than an inch gave you the feeling that he seemed pleased with your answer.

“And why would you do that?”

“We need to work with accurate information. If the client was lying, and we submitted a request for that evidence — forensics on their clothes — we’d be tanking their defense. They need to know what we’ll be submitting as evidence and why. I believe telling that to our client would be enough to sway them into telling us the truth,” you sighed, before concluding, “people lie. Even when they shouldn’t.”

Nanami silently picked your resume back into his hands, and seemed to scan it quickly with his eyes. You knew your chances were slim, considering you had just started Criminal Law that very semester, something he didn’t fail to notice.

After a minute, he spoke again.

“Would you be willing to use some of your spare time to study topics you might not have seen yet in criminal law?”

“Yes.”

Your heart was thumping in your chest. This was it.

Here goes nothing.

“Then, it’s settled. Can you start on Monday?”

***

This wasn’t Higuruma’s usual go-to wish when he found himself behind the Passo’s wheel, but truth of the matter was, he hoped more than anything for his car to breakdown before he got to his destination. It wasn’t something completely out of the question considering his car’s track record, but as if some destiny’s mockery had been bestowed upon him that morning, even the clack-clack-clacks he was already used to hear for the past three months were gone. As Murphy’s Law would have it, the Passo glided over the asphalt like butter. 

“Of course you won’t fail me when I need you to, you unreliable piece of-”he muttered to himself under a discontented huff.

Put upon wasn’t strong enough to convey how Higuruma was feeling, his knuckle-white grip around the steering wheel being enough to give him a sharp pain in his palms that would surely follow him for the next few hours. In a sense, he had been knuckle-white tense ever since that morning, thinking about this endeavor he was kicking himself to push through. It was the nth time he’d tried to make that visit over the past year, one that he dreaded with each and every fiber of his being. 

The Professor eyed his passenger’s seat for a second, his gaze lingering on the plastic bag he carried with him that day. Inside, there were a bottle of Kirin, an incense, and a single sunflower. The flower was definitely too long to fit properly inside the bag, and it’s head peeped though the opening, yellow petals flickering while the car moved, every ridge on the road seemingly making it jump further and further out of its container.

With one hand on the wheel, and the other reaching out, he tried shoving the sunflower back into the bag, and in between eyeing the bag, then the road, picking the flower, pushing it, the bag sliding off the seat, loud news coming on the radio, Higuruma getting startled, his glasses slipping down his nose bridge, him pushing them back in place with his shoulder, tires screeching, a car horn, his heart pounding and his ears ringing, Higuruma came to the sensible conclusion that he should, as any responsible adult would, take a break.

I need a smoke.

Who he was visiting was definitely not going anywhere.

Checking where he was, Higuruma noticed a cafe nearby, and as fate would have it, there was a single parking spot right in front of it. He maneuvered the Passo, and the car fit neatly in between the white lines. Higuruma pulled his sunflower shawl — this time, not caught under any death trap, but laid over his back seat  alongside your scarf —, threw it around his neck and got out. He took a moment to stretch his fingers in the cold air, his breath clouding in front of his mouth, and tapped around his coat to take his wallet, finally inserting some coins into the park meter and crossing the guardrail by the sidewalk. 

He’d have exactly thirty minutes to get his shit together.

The cafe was warm, inviting, and strangely familiar, its orange light almost emanating the smell of coffee beans, croissants and decadent redemption for weary travelers. The store front had a glass display through which he saw an assortment of sweet and salty baked goods. Higuruma would probably pick one of those to eat — the greasiest one, if possible —, had he not been carrying a rock in place of his stomach for the past few hours.

With his resolution waning, he mindlessly took a step back while peeping, and sighed, his tired sigh weighing on his body deciding for him that an espresso was probably the way to go.

Stepping inside, Higuruma paid no mind to whatever was around him, and waited for his turn in line to order his drink. Across from him, you nearly choked, half a donut shoved into your powdered-sugar smeared mouth, nearly spilling your own coffee over your second-hand suit.

After your interview, you thought it’d be a good idea to have a snack, and made your way inside the closest, warmest, coziest cafe you found, which was across the firm. 

At that moment, you found yourself in a cliché adult life predicament — you just saw someone you knew, but they didn’t see you. Should you go over to greet them? Should you not? Would simply leaving be rude? Should you go actually talk to the man you definitely had — and shouldn’t have — a crush on?

You clutched your coffee harder as the thoughts flew around in your mind, as second nature at this point to avoid giving him another beverage shower.

After some quick consideration, you decided you would at least say hello, after all, it was the polite thing to do. You shoved the rest of your food into your mouth, washed it all down with the rest of your coffee, haphazardly cleaned around your mouth with a napkin and slowly walked towards him, stopping a few feet away. Somehow, he still hadn’t seen you, apparently too immersed in thought.

That was when you noticed a shawl around his neck.

It was pretty damn ugly.

“Professor, hi!” you greeted, and Higuruma got yanked out of whatever daydreams — or waking nightmares — he had been simmering in while waiting in line.

“Oh, hello. I didn’t expect to meet anyone here,” Higuruma replied, “I just stopped by for a snack.”

“Oh, nice. Their coffee is pretty good,” you said, “I got the espresso.”

“And… I hope that you’re finished already? With your coffee, I mean.” he asked while checking your hands, his usually unaffected tone slightly playful, earning him a chuckle from you.

“Rest assured, I’m not assaulting you nor your ugly shawl with my coffee,” you quipped, but his eyes only widened. His owlish eyes blinked once, and then twice, in absolute silence.

That was when you realized.

Oh. I said that out loud.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Awfully hypocritical of both of us, huh?” he noted, with a discreet smile pulling on his lips. 

Relieved, realizing he hadn’t taken offense, you sheepishly returned his smile, “I guess so. I don’t think I’ll get to keep being hypocritical about our ugly scarfs, though. I can’t seem to find mine, it’s been gone ever since that party.”

It was like a light bulb went on in Higuruma’s mind, and he cleared his throat before saying, “well, I may just prove you wrong. Follow me.”

Not fully understanding what he meant by that, you stood by him while he paid for his coffee, got it and walked outside. The cold winter breeze prickled your cheeks and your uncovered neck like hair-thin razor blades, and you followed Higuruma towards a car that wasn’t all that strange to you. Upon further inspection, you noticed that it was indeed his car, the old navy blue beat up thing you used as a shield for the wind during that night when you tried and failed at least half a dozen times to light a cigarette.

And then met him, and gave him a vodka scare.

And helped patting him dry with your-

“Here,” he called out, opening the door to the back seat. Sure enough, you saw that red, frizzly old thing tangled up in a ball.

“My scarf!” you reached inside and took it out, instantly throwing it around your neck. Higuruma noticed how you were genuinely pleased to have finally found it, and thought to himself that he’d most likely feel the same way if he ever lost and found his beat up, old shawl. 

It was just one of those things imbued with a sense of history and familiarity that only beat up, old tokens from days past had.

“Thank you,” you whispered, while sliding your fingers through the worn out cotton. “It was a gift. I might complain about it more often than not, but-”

“But it’s an important part of your life,” he replied, and you both glanced at each other while you nodded.

“Yes. Something like that. It’s my favorite curse to carry around while complaining about it, you know?” you mused, adjusting it around your neck and gratefully welcoming the warmth it brought around your neck. 

“I think I do,” he answered finally, taking a sip from his coffee.

“Let me repay you,” you offered. “Can I offer you a snack, or anything? Perhaps a smoke?”

“I’ll take you up on that cigarette offer,” he replied, and you pulled your pack out of your coat. Giving it a few taps, a cigarette popped up, and you took it in your lips, pulling another one and handing it to him.

Against his better judgement, Higuruma was slightly disappointed, and for a second, felt like kicking himself over it.

Idiot, you can’t seriously be expecting her to light a cigarette for me every time she offers you a smoke. Actually, I shouldn’t expect that at all.

 Against his will, Higuruma felt his cheeks warming up, and he tried his best to dive his face into his shawl while politely took the cigarette off your hands. You didn’t notice his moves and offered him your lighter — the same yellow, disposable one he had given you days ago. He picked it up, lit his cigarette and returned it.

“I see you still have it,” Higuruma noted, smiling gently, and you acquiesced.

“It has been my faithful companion for these past few weeks. I’m just glad I haven’t lost it like I lost my scarf,” you said before chuckling.

Higuruma leaned over the guardrail with his elbows, finally relaxing after… God knows how long. Slowly, he seemed to be getting lost in thought, and you seized the opportunity to better look at his shawl.  It had a sunflower pattern that went in a straight line right in front of it.

Still looking around as he stewed in his silent contemplations, you noticed there was a bag laying on top of his passenger’s seat. Peeping through it, stood a single sunflower, and what seemed to be the top of a Kirin bottle.

A sunflower man, hm?

The thought amused you as the corners of your mouth perked up in a gleeful smile, but you were quickly pulled out from it.

“Do you work nearby?” he asked, while taking a drag from his cigarette. “This is far from campus.”

“No. I mean, not yet. I was just… chasing my dreams,” you remarked, puffing some smoke. “What about you, Professor?”

Higuruma chuckled softly.

“I was being haunted by mine.”

You must’ve looked puzzled, because he quickly amended, “I was just on my way to visit someone and took a break for some coffee, that’s all.”

“Oh, I see,” you replied, realizing you were probably getting in his way. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you from your appointment. I-”

“It’s okay, there’s no one waiting for me. Or so I like to think.”

That comment left you with more questions than answers.

“Apologies. I don’t mean to keep you from going about the rest of your day too,” he bid behind a curtain of smoke, “and thank you for the cigarette. I really needed it.”

With your final puffs, you put your cigarette out and smiled at Higuruma.

“It’s okay, Professor. I should really get going, though. We are, indeed, far from campus and I’d like to get to my dorm before it’s dark.”

With a bow, you walked away, leaving Higuruma to his own devices. He sighed, alone with himself and his thoughts once again, turning his attention once more to the bag he had inside his car.

“Hiromi,” a familiar voice called out. Higuruma turned around, only to be met by Nanami, who had a indecipherable expression on his face.

Minutes before, Nanami decided to visit the nearby cafe and check if they had his favorite casse croûte that day. He wouldn’t mind getting a croissant, though.

 Upon stepping outside his building with dreams of pastries swirling around his overworked mind, he noticed you and Higuruma outside the cafe, and figured that was the perfect opportunity to approach you both and introduce you as the new intern for the criminal law department. It was just a matter of time before Higuruma accepted his offer, as Nanami thought, and you’d be both working together. However, before he could, Nanami noticed you and Higuruma were chatting, and not only that, but you approached Higuruma’s car and got something — apparently belonging to you — from his back seat. The ugliest red scarf Nanami had ever seen.

… What?

Nanami then remembered that you were a student on the very same university he tended to.

The same one in which Higuruma was a teacher too.

Why does Hiromi have things belonging to a student in the backseat of his car, of all places?  

Nanami was at a loss for words, and faltered for a few moments, wondering how he should ask Hiromi about this. That is, if he even should ask Hiromi about anything at all. Nanami decided to watch from afar, and something about the way Higuruma was carrying himself bothered Nanami.

He had only seen his best friend behaving like that in very specific scenarios, ones in which Hiromi definitely shouldn’t be interacting with a student of his.

After you left, Kento finally walked towards Hiromi, still uncertain if he should question his friend about the nature of your relationship with him. He could be imagining things.

But something was definitely disturbing him, he was sure of it. Something he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“Kento, hi! Oh… I had forgotten, your firm is nearby, isn’t it?” Hiromi asked while looking around. “Sorry, I always seem to forget where it is. That explains why this cafe felt so familiar. Care for a smoke?”

“No.”

“You haven’t smoked with me in a long time,” Higuruma offered, pulling his own cigarette pack from his coat’s inner pocket. 

“I quit years ago,” Nanami reminded him, trying to put an end to this conversation detour.

“You still smoke on special occasions,” Higuruma offered, “eh, I wish I had your resolve.”

“You do, you just fail to direct it at things that will benefit you in the long run.”

“Just my little human shortcoming, I guess,” Higuruma finally replied, sparing Nanami a soft smile. He walked towards his car while unlocking it, “Let’s have something to eat, the coffee opened up my appetite. I just need to get more coins in case I end up going over the meter’s time limit, hold on.”

“Hiromi,” Nanami said once again, his tone graver than usual. That caught Higuruma’s attention.

“Hm, is everything okay?” Higuruma asked while leaning into his car.

Before Nanami could go on with his planned line of inquiry, he noticed what was over passenger’s seat. Especially the sunflower.

“Are you at it again?” Nanami asked, gesturing with his head towards it.

“Ah, you saw it…” Higuruma commented, as if he was a child being caught red handed while making a mess out of the house. “Well, yes. I’m trying to, and failing at it once again.”

“You know you don’t have to go, right?” Kento offered, while pulling some change from his pocket. “I have coins, we’ll be fine. Let me get you a snack, this cafe has the best casse croute around.”

“I do have to go, though,” Higuruma closed the door and stepped back onto the sidewalk. “I should, at least.”

Higuruma’s earlier energy seemed to wane ever so slightly, his shoulders falling while he slouched, unconsciously making himself smaller. 

“I don’t think I’ll manage to do it today, either,” he finally said, his eyes low on his feet, and his voice barely above a whisper.

Assessing the situation, it was clear that Higuruma was in no way in the right mindset to have that conversation regarding you, so Nanami put a mental note on it to ask about it at a later time. He stepped beside Hiromi and put a hand gently on his shoulder, sighing.

“Is it low tar?” Nanami questioned, clearing his throat to disguise his displeasure.

“Hm, what?”

“Your cigarette. Is it low tar?”

Higuruma huffed, a tiny smile forming on his lips as he said, “yes, yes it is.”

In a smooth motion, Higuruma pulled his pack back out of his coat and took two cigarettes out of it, handing one to Nanami along with a lighter. With the disposition of a man ready to face the electric chair, Kento pursed his lips around the cigarette, and lit it, only to be thrown in a coughing fit moments later.

“How the mighty do fall,” Higuruma noted with a discreet smirk on his lips, “you used to smoke more than me.”

“Shut up,” Nanami managed to churn out in between coughs, “this brand is awful.”

His friend chuckled while taking one long drag from his cigarette.

“Hey, Kento.”

“What?” Nanami considered tossing the cigarette as far as he could, but tried his best to survive it, even if just for Hiromi’s benefit.

“Is that offer still on the table? To…” Hiromi paused for a moment, clearing his throat, “hm, work in your firm?”

Managing to get his throat and lungs under control, Nanami glanced at Hiromi, knowing full well that good things came to those who wait.

Just like he had.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

Hi, did you know I like to shamelessly plug people's work? No? So, yeah. I love doing that.

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[revehae]

hii would u be comfy writing about jaehyun being a manipulative stepdad and he like guilt trips the mc into having sex and he talks like mad dirty? no pressure💕

tw // dubcon, bit of guilt tripping

“that’s it, baby. i knew you’d looked pretty sucking my cock,” jaehyun said, smoothing a hand down your head of hair.

your knees ached even though they were pressed sharply into carpet flooring. jaehyun knew you bruised easily, he had seen a number of your underwhelming incidents result in those purple blemishes on your legs, and yet he still had you sitting here in front of his bed. in front of your mother’s bed.

your mouth sucked him in and out the best it could, though he was bigger than you had hoped. your cheeks were starting to get sore too, but you knew you couldn’t stop.

you owed him a favor. many favors, jaehyun had told you, but he’d thought himself lenient by only asking for one. at least, for now. he would cheerfully accept you on your knees for him, taking his cock deep between your pretty, perfect lips.

it was the least you could do. after all, it was jaehyun that you called when you needed a ride in the ungodly hours of the night, not wanting your mom to know that you had been out drinking so late. it was jaehyun that helped you pay your car note when you couldn’t scramble together the money one month. jaehyun that threatened off some exasperating guy you’d gone too far with one drunken weekend.

when you thought about it, maybe he was right. what did jaehyun get in return for saving your ass, time and time again? he wasn’t your father, not really. and he certainly wasn’t your boyfriend. did you really think your thanks yous would be enough to account for his money and time?

of course, it wasn’t. but to jaehyun, your lips wrapped around him, tight and soft and warm, choking on him because you couldn’t handle the sheer size of him, was more than enough.

“should i cum on your face, or on your tongue? are you going to swallow it?” jaehyun asked you, though it seemed more like he was trying to decide what he wanted.

your face burned hot in shame at his words, haunted by the reminder that this was your stepfather. this was your mother’s husband. this was wrong.

“i think i want you to swallow it,” jaehyun said, tenderly holding your cheek in his hand. “i want to see if you can take it all. those boys want you back for a reason, don’t they?”

[werepuppy-steve]

if i ain't got you

steddie | wc: 1,425 | cw: none | songfic | ao3

have some hurt/comfort, cj style. happy thanksgiving even though it's already 1am my time <3

The kitchen is so thick with tension you could cut right through it like butter. Eddie’s washing the dishes and Steve’s putting away the leftovers from dinner. They haven’t spoken a word to each other the entire night, not since that afternoon when they were screaming at each other.

Other people would say that they don’t remember what or who started the argument in the first place, but Steve knows exactly what happened. All because he let his dumb mouth get ahead of his brain. And it’s not like he hasn’t tried to apologize—he tried the second the words left his mouth and then five more times after that but Eddie wasn’t having any of it.

Which is fine, he’s allowed to stew in his hurt feelings for as long as he likes, but Steve is worried that this might be the first time they go to bed with one of them still mad, and he doesn’t know if he can handle that.

He shuts the fridge and turns around to lean against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, letting out a quiet sigh. Eddie’s back is turned to him so he can only see the movement of his shoulders as he scrubs the dishes harder than he ought to.

He’s still pissed, then.

Steve lets out a quiet sigh. He’s the one that started this whole mess so he’s got to be the one to fix it. He needs to come up with something to get Eddie to at least look at him.

He stands there for a few more minutes as he thinks but then the light bulb in his brain flicks on and he leaves the kitchen.

Eddie’s probably washed this bowl three times already but he doesn’t care. He’s still worked up from his and Steve’s fight earlier, he could drop the bowl and it could shatter in the soapy water and he wouldn’t even blink an eye.

How dare he, Eddie thinks bitterly, rinsing the soap off and placing the bowl in the dish drainer a little harshly. How dare he think he has the right to even insinuate.

All he wanted was to spend the extra little bit he’d had left over from his paycheck on some new mini’s he’d seen down at the bookstore and a couple of books that had been on his list for ages. He made sure to put back enough to cover his half of their rent and bills. He was careful.

But Steve still had to go and open his stupid rich boy mouth.

Eddie feels the familiar prickle of white hot anger on the back of his neck and he takes a deep breath to calm himself. It’s not his fault that he grew up poor. Wayne did what he could to support the both of them on his single paycheck every month, but that money only went so far. There wasn’t enough to spare to open an account with the bank, so they just went without.

Unlike the Harrington’s, who apparently had accounts open across multiple cities and even a couple overseas.

Steve’s father had drilled the importance of wealth management into him from an early age and made him use his first allowance to open a savings account at the age of ten. His boyfriend had a goddamn retirement account by the time he was eighteen.

So when Steve goes and assumes that Eddie doesn’t know how to handle money just because he wants to splurge for once and buy something he enjoys, Eddie thinks that his anger is a little more than justified.

Eddie’s eyes sting with oncoming tears and he blinks them away with a shake of his head. He doesn’t need to cry right now.

As he reaches for another dirty plate, music suddenly fills the kitchen from the Bluetooth speakers on the counter, soft piano trilling and the melodic humming with an R&B beat.

He freezes when arms slowly circle his waist from behind and Steve rests his chin on his shoulder.

Some people live for the fortune

Some people live just for the fame

“Dance with me,” Steve murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to Eddie’s shoulder.

Eddie suppresses a shiver and the instinct to lean back into him. “I don’t-”

“Eddie.”

Another kiss, this time under his ear. Fingers gently trace along his arm.

Some people think

That the physical things

Define what’s within

Eddie’s walls crumble like sawdust when Steve laces his fingers between his own soapy ones. He lets Steve pull him away from the sink and they slowly sway in the middle of their kitchen. He can see straight into the living room, where they’ve already set their Christmas tree up in the corner by the window, fully decorated even though it’s still November. They’ve got a hodgepodge of decorations and knick knacks already set on various shelves and tables with Christmas lights strung in almost every doorway.

As they dance in a slow spin, their cheeks pressed together, Eddie thinks back to how much fun they had setting all of it up. How Steve held the mistletoe above his head every chance he got just to be able to kiss him. All of his remaining anger slowly melts away and he’s left with the overwhelming feeling of how much he loves this man.

Some people want diamond rings

Some just want everything

But everything means nothing

If I ain't got you, yeah

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, and he sounds like he means it. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier, when I said you should be more responsible. You were right. It’s your money and you’re the only one who gets a say in how you spend it.”

Eddie sighs and tightens his arms around Steve’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, too. I got defensive, but I shouldn’t have yelled at you like I did. I should’ve listened to you when you tried apologizing the first time.”

Some people search for a fountain

Promises forever young

Some people need three dozen roses

And that's the only way to prove you love them

Eddie pulls back a little and looks at Steve for the first time in what feels like ages and is flooded with emotions that make his chest tighten when he sees the soft smile on his boyfriend’s face and the love in his eyes.

Eddie cups his cheek and leans in to press a soft kiss to his equally soft lips before resting his head on Steve’s shoulder with a soft sigh.

Some people want it all

But I don't want nothing at all

If it ain't you, baby

If I ain't got you, baby

“Are we really slow dancing to Alicia Keys?” he asks after a moment. Steve shakes with silent laughter and Eddie gently smacks him in the shoulder. “It’s a serious question, Stevie. I need to know if it’s a contender for our wedding playlist.”

It’s Steve’s turn to freeze now and Eddie can’t hold back his giddy smile when he pushes him back by the shoulders and gives him a wide-eyed look.

“Wedding playlist?”

“Well, I was planning to wait until Christmas to pop the question, but. Yeah. I even got a ring.”

Steve gapes at him like a fish before yanking him in for a kiss by the front of his shirt. It’s more teeth than lips because they can’t stop laughing long enough, but they eventually get a hold of themselves when Eddie wraps his arms around Steve’s neck again and presses close, thier lips slotting together seamlessly.

“So I take it that’s a yes?” Eddie asks between kisses.

Steve nips at his bottom lip. “Only if you learn to stop kicking your socks off in your sleep and leaving them under the covers at the end of the bed.”

“They twist around my toes, Stevie,” Eddie pouts, trailing kisses along Steve’s jaw. “Makes ‘em feel like pigs in a blanket.”

Steve tilts his head back to give him more room, the music completely forgotten. “Then don’t wear them to bed at all.”

“But then my feet will get cold. Do you want me to put my icicles on your legs, Steven? Would that make you feel better?”

Steve throws his head back for a completely different reason and groans. “You’re going to be even more difficult once we’re married, aren’t you?”

Eddie grins against Steve’s throat. “Absolutely, oh husband of mine.”

Some people want diamond rings

Some just want everything

But everything means nothing

If I ain't got you, you, you

permanent taglist:

@yournowheregirl @steves-strapcollection @thefreakandthehair @stobinesque @vecnuthy

@tboybuck @flowercrowngods @starryeyedjanai @matchingbatbites @corrodedbisexual

@theheadlessphilosopher @patchworkgargoyle @sentient-trash @wormdebut @legitcookie

@corrodedcoughin @steddieas-shegoes @wynnyfryd @sidekick-hero @simplebtromance

@tangerinesteve @stevesjockstrap @steddie-island @spectrum-spectre @pearynice

@worstsequence @devondespresso

[wwaheoh]

"Running Into Them at the Mall", Cunning Hares x gn!Reader, SFW, Fluff

a/n: can you tell i'm even worse at writing happy things?

At the mall, you were perusing through some movie tapes, action, comedy, horror… nothing that you felt was good enough for the Cunning Hares Weekly Movie Night. Usually you’d go to the video store on Sixth Street, Random Play, to find movies, but since you’d heard about them having to make a new account and helping Wise save Belle from the Hollow, you didn’t want to also put pressure on them to get more movies when their main income was basically gone for the time being.

Sifting through the remainder of the ‘New Release’ row, a familiar voice rang out from behind you.

Nicole ///

“Hey! Looking for a movie?” You could hear the smile in her voice. Looking back, Nicole got close, in her usual getup, hair a soft pink, basically pressing against you as she looked at the movie you had been reading the description of. “Ooh~ cheating on Random Play huh?” She spoke with a playful, teasing tone, slyly wrapping her hand around yours to get a better look at the movie you were checking out “No! Just heard about everything and don’t want to impose. I think we've watched everything there ten fold.”

“Mm, and you didn’t want to come with me to the mall?” “You got your nails done, they’d take longer to be finished than it would to check out all the movies in this whole store!” She looks at you with a deadpan expression, “Hey, perfection comes with time (and money).”

After picking out a movie, you rented the tape out for the week, before heading to the food court to grab some food before home. You realize that she had basically gotten you to buy her free lunch for the day before heading back to the base…

Billy ///

“Yo!” An artificial voice of Billy spoke behind you, nearly spooking your soul out of you. For such a loud metal-bodied guy, he was surprisingly quiet. “Whatcha looking for?” He peaked over your shoulder, “Ahh, mm, never thought you’d like this sorta movie? It ain’t Starlight Knights: The Movie but whatever, c’mon! There’s an arcade here, heard they got God•Finger, gotta get my name onto the top of the leaderboard!”

Giggling at his antics you agreed, but you reminded him that you had to pay before leaving. The movie you got wasn’t particularly your kind of movie, more dramatic and less action-y explosion-y type.

He got Number One on the Leaderboard, with you landing at Number Three.

Anby ///

Turns out, Anby was also shopping at the mall, having accidentally taken the shopping list you made- that you’d forgotten at the base.

“Hello.” The usual monotone voice had a happy tone to it, something hard to hear had you not been as close to her as you were. Turning from the movie you’d been reading the description of, you waved with a smile. “Hey Anby! Wanted to try a different spot to find a movie.” She nodded, crouching next to you to read the text on the movie cover you were holding. “This doesn’t seem to be the type of movie you’re usually interested in.”

“Yeah, been just browsing for now… wait. Why are you here? Don’t you pick next week?” “Huh? The shopping list I picked up said I was to find a movie for this week.”

You looked at the bag she held in her hand. You looked at the bag you had resting by your side. You looked at her cute face, soft white hair framing it like a picture.

“That was my shopping list.” You broke the news to her.

“Oh.”

“That was $40.”

“Nicole’s going to blow a lid.”

“Yeah…”

The two of you went through the extensive inventory of movies available in the shop, choosing one the two of you believed Nicole would like. Maybe this would save you two from Nicole’s wrath.

Nekomiya ///

a/n: i didn't forget her this time!

“Ooh? Looking for a movie?” You nearly jumped out of your skin. The sneakiness of a street cat- er, catgirl, was not to be underestimated. “What’re ya thinking?”

“Hey Nekomiya, just browsing. Nothing’s really catching my eye.” “Well, y'know what they say! You can’t think on an empty stomach, meow!” You stared at her with a deadpan expression. “Did you come here all the way just for some free lunch?”

“Aha… no! (Maybe).” You sighed, but understood. Commissions had been low recently, on the account of Nicole- and by extension the whole of the Cunning Hares, working to aid the citizens in the lawsuit against that corrupt construction company. Awful business that.

“Alright, c’mon. I’ll go check out, then let’s get some fish in that belly!” “Hey! Not all of us want fish!” “Then what do you want?” ”Mackerel…” “That’s fish.”

Bringing the video tape to the front, you paid before making your way over to the food court with Nekomiya.

[thebearer]

Annnnnnd how would Lip act in the situation of the devastation fic

i’ve had to think about this tbh. bc he kinda already had his own version with the unexpected pregnancy news of freddy.

but i started thinking in terms of lip’s reader leaving and taking the kids with her, and genuinely, i can’t think of a situation where that would happen and she would come back. like they’d be done.

now, with that being said, i could see lip and you getting into a fight- a huuuuugggeee fight. bigher than the one when you found out you were pregnant with amelia. this is based off of lip with best friend!reader who’s a elementary school teacher. she does pretty well, has a salary and insurance so wayyyy better than anything lip grew up with, but they’re not rich by any means. truly comfortable. lip’s working at the auto shop, still doing odd ball jobs but more full time, got promoted to a shift supervisor and got a raise. you both share a bank account together bc it makes it easier.

debby (bc it’s always debby and i’m a debby hater sorry) does something stupid. stupid enough to need bail money, stupid enough that she might get franny taken away or placed into custody elsewhere. debby calls lip, wailing and frantic for money, and lip, of course, rushes to give in.

comes to you all frantic and manic. “hey, uh, i-i need to move some money alright?”

“move some money? why?” you frown. “lip, are you- is everything alright?”

“debby got arrested.” lip mumbles. he’s known you for a while, a long while, he knows your disdain when it comes to debby and her carelessness. more so, his incessant need to always pull her out of the hole she dug herself in. “she needs money for bail.”

“woah, woah, hold on.” you stop him. “you’re- you’re not- lip, absolutely not.”

“what?” lip snaps. “absolutely not? what-“

“-lip.” you glare at him lightly. “no, we-we don’t have that kind of money right now. jude starts daycare next month, and the daycare fees are going to double-“

“-yeah because you insist on puttin’ them in that fancy ass one by your school.” lip scoffs. “couldn’t leave them with mrs. mcgee. too fuckin’ good for that.”

“yeah, i am too good to leave my babies with a lady who chain smokes and watches the price is right all day.” you glare. “i want my babies to go somewhere safe and- that’s not even the point right now. lip, no. you’re not doing it. we can’t afford it.”

“we can fucking afford it. don’t start this shit with me-“

“-lip, we might have the money for it, but that does not mean we can afford it. that’s our savings, our safety net-“

“-and this is my family. my sister.” lip gritted his teeth. “isn’t that what the safety nets for, huh? for shit like this? unexpected bad shit?”

“not for debby.” you snap, finality in your tone. “not for someone who continues to make bad decisions and not learn from them and then wants you to run and get her out of it every time. i’m sorry, lip. this time i’m not letting you do it.”

that escalates bc one, you told lip he couldn’t do something which just made him turn more stubborn, and two, he’s blinded with irrational rage.

“what about franny, huh? she’s your fuckin’ niece, you’re gonna just let her get put in the system-“

“-franny is more than welcome to stay here. i will gladly take her while debby’s figuring shit out, but you have kids you need to think of. two kid that are yours that you need to think of, lip!”

“don’t you fucking dare.” lip snarls. “don’t you use my kids against me.”

“i’m not using them against you! jesus, lip, you don’t get to just come in here and tell me what we’re doing with our money! that’s my money in there too, ok? i’m telling you right now, if you fuckin’ use my money on this, and not think about our kids, you might as well just not come home.”

lip is furious, leaves without another word, slamming the door hard behind him leaving you in the house with freddy and baby jude. you’re fuming, upset, hurt- he’s feeling the same. lip is furious, furious at you telling him what to do.

he ends up at ian’s house after coming dangerously close to going to the alibi. ian talks him down, tells him you’re right, which was not what lip wanted to hear.

“debby can wait. she’ll get out soon enough and she can figure it out.” ian rolls his eyes. “she shouldn’t have been such a fuckin’ moron.”

“what about franny then, huh? you’re gonna just let her go into the system? let cps get her until then?” lip spat furiously.

ian scoffs. “franny is with carl right now. he’s bringin’ her here tonight.”

lip burns with embarrassment, feeling petulant but still pissed. “hey, word of advice?” ian smirks. “quit bein’ a hard headed jack ass and go home and apologize to your wife before she comes to her senses and leaves your ass for good.”

and lip is still mad but it’s dwindling, a guilt replacing it instead. he just needed to calm down, to think straight. walking back to your house, he had the time to.

lip jammed his key in the door, the ridges not sliding the usual way, not clicking. so he tried again, turning the key with no luck- it didn’t budge. he pulled on the knob, twisting again and again but nothing. “stupid fuckin’ piece of shit door.” lip grumbles, knocking on the door.

he waits, huffing, knocking louder. when there was still no response, lip goes to pull out his phone, only then does he see the pink envelope with his name on it on the welcome mat.

lip opens it up to find a note:

“phillip,

since you insist on doing whatever you want without asking me or considering our family, i decided i would do the same. you can go stay with debby since you chose her over me and my kids.

ps. don’t bother with the lock, i had them changed xoxo”

he found his car keys under the envelope. lip was furious, absolutely fucking furious and sick and upset and just overwhelmed with every emotion possible. you hadn’t even given him his lighter, so he took a walk to the corner store to buy a pack of spirits and a lighter. he called you on his way back, not surprised when you didn’t pick up.

“hey, you know, i know you think you’re bein’ real fuckin’ funny but this shit isn’t funny, ok? i didn’t choose debby, i didn’t do shit, alright? so let me back in the house and let’s be adults about this.”

then another voicemail.

“alright, seriously? you’re not gonna let me in? you’re not gonna let me come say goodnight to freddy or jude? that’s fucked up. really fuckin’ fucked up.”

“you’re bitchin’ me out about not spending money, and-and you get that done? get the locks changed? how much did that cost huh? you can use money to be petty and childish but i don’t get a say in what i want to use it in?”

“ok this is ridiculous. let me in. talk to me. be a fuckin’ adult.”

“seriously? where the fuck am i supposed to sleep tonight? i know you’re fuckin’ seeing’ these- i can fuckin’ see you! just let me in!”

you don’t budge. don’t reply back, don’t answer the calls. he knows better than to bang on the door, wake jude or freddy up, and truthfully… he’s a little terrified at the moment. very scared that you’re truly done with him, that ian was right and you’d come to your senses.

so he slept in his car. in the driveway, thankful it was warm that night and he had a few spare shirts and things in the back. he waited until the next morning, when he knew you’d be up with the boys, to ring the doorbell.

his anger had vanished to fear and guilt, retreating back to you with his tail tucked between his legs, all sad eyes and gentle apologies that you deflected with anger still bubbling.

it definitely took him a while to make it up, a very long while before you actually gave him his new key. he had to make it up to you, work on his communication and his sharing especially with you.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

WYD 1

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Summary: A fan makes an offer your can't refuse.

(based on suggestion he's been overworking himself for weeks if not months. He knows he needs a break but his work is too important. Maybe what he needs is someone to take care of him so he can focus more on work. from @thezombieprostitute)

Characters: Bucky Barnes

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You can’t help but grin as you scroll through the comments. There aren’t many but those that are there give you that rush of adrenaline. More so, the interaction is great for your wallet.

As a faceless creator, your interaction is limited. You prefer the smaller community. Your might not be the most lucrative account on OnlyFans but it pays your rent, just about.

It’s the only secret you’ve ever had in your life and it’s a big one. You don’t think anyone would believe it. Not you. Not the librarian’s assistant on part-time salary in her corduroys and stuffy oversized cardigans.

It wasn't exactly an opportunity you were fond of, more of a last resort. You don’t fantasize about the men on the other side of the screen, as flattering as they can be. They have a similar sort of desperation, but the crux of it is somewhat more pitiful.

It’s the private message waiting for you that surprises you. That alone is behind a paywall, a feature many users forego when they’re only there for the quick wank. You shudder at the thought, often avoiding that reality of your side hustle.

You’re nervous to check but alone in the stacks, with not much else to do, your curiosity gets the best of you. You tap the icon and bring up the chat from BB. No profile pic, no info, just a message.

‘Are you interested in a private arrangement? 5k/week guaranteed.’

Great, a scam. You roll your eyes and close the app. Stupid. But why would someone pay for content just to try to con you. It’s a pretty big gamble.

You tuck away your phone and sigh, pacing up and down the aisle. The soft flutter of pages and stagnant silence. It’s so dull, you’d rather deal with anything else for the minimum wage and uncertain hours. Still, the freedom lets you tend to your other business.

A few minutes later, out of habit, you bring out your phone again. You linger in the blindspot of the cameras and unlock it. The app pops up as you left it. Another message.

‘Don’t leave me on read.’

The demand startles you. You should just block but you know that it’s money in your pocket. You’re not gullible, more greedy.

‘5k? Okay, sure.’

You press send and hide your phone behind your back and wander on. Your insides squirm. You’re not stupid enough to believe it. You look again at the end of the next shelf.

‘If you want more, we can negotiate. We’d have to meet to do that.’

You scoff aloud and quickly look around. There’s no one there to be disturbed. You evasively sit at one of the desk and hide behind the wooden cubicle that encloses it.

‘I’m not stupid’, you reply.

‘No, but you’re gorgeous. Pick the place. Let’s talk.’

‘Good luck finding whatever you’re looking for but it’s not with me,’ you type, skin razed and speckly.

‘I mean it.’

‘You’re not real. Your 5k is less real. Save your money and stop messaging.’

You wait, watching the screen. Your ears prick as you listen to the lull of the forgotten library. You can hear a cart rolling a few aisles back. You can’t get caught on your phone again.

A new notification blips up in the app before you can black the screen. ‘BB sent a tip’. You click it without thinking and bring up the tip; $1,000. A thousand? A message pops down and you quickly flick the chat back over the screen.

‘Believe me now?’ He challenges.

You take a breath and lock your phone, tucking it up your sleeve as you stand and turn down an aisle, passing the approaching cart as you refuse to look at the employee behind it. You go to the catalogue computer and pretend to tidy the little paper slips and pencils. You wait until the wheels squeak onward.

You slide your phone out and press your fingertip against the censor. The screen opens and the next message taunts you.

‘Give me a place and time’.

You hesitate and peek around, paranoid that others could read your mind just by looking at you.

‘Send a pic. Then I’ll meet,’ you counter.

‘You first, doll. Face for a face.’

You don’t like this and yet, you’re messaging.

‘After you,’ you insist.

No answer. You shake your head and put your phone back under your cuff. You carry on and head up the stairs to the next level. When you look at your phone again, there’s a response waiting for you.

A man with bright blue eyes and a sculpted jawline. Handsome, almost breathtakingly so. Your surprise is undergirded by your insecurity. Well, might as well send your own and let him change his mind. You scroll through your miniscule collection of selfies that don’t make you cringe and send one off.

You can’t look away as you wait. You know what’s coming. Rejection. Finally…

‘Place, time. Make sure to buy yourself something nice.”

You stare at his answer, dumbfounded. Are you really going to do this?

[passengerprincessblog]

“Lewis, Next Door” ~ pt 2 Lewis Hamilton x reader

Warning: age gap (lowkey?), alcohol.

Summary: Y/N’s night out spirals into chaos, leading to a desperate late-night call to Lewis that she barely remembers making. But when he shows up to help-, slightly annoyed, and undeniably magnetic—she finds herself teetering between embarrassment and intrigue.

The bass thumps in my chest, so loud I feel it in my bones as we sway and stumble together under the neon lights. MK Club in Monaco is packed, bodies pressed together in a wave of glitter, laughter, and the haze of way too many drinks. Winter break has finally started, and my friends—Janelle, Isabella, and Séraphine—and I have decided that tonight is all about celebrating our freedom. Maybe we’re overdoing it, but who cares? We’re young, we’re back from school, and we deserve this.

I lean into the music, my head spinning in the best way. “We’re out of money,” I realize, looking down at my half-empty drink, frowning. Not a cent of parental allowance had dropped in any of our accounts yet. My own savings were being bled dry by all this fun, and, seriously, what’s the point of being a rich kid in Monaco if I can’t order bottles of Ace of Spades?

Séraphine slings an arm around me, her face flushed and eyes glassy as she shouts, “We should just try to flirt with some guys! Get ourselves a table!”

Janelle shakes her head, looking a little worse for wear, her lids drooping as she slurs, “No… Alain will kill me if he finds out I pulled something like that again…”

As they debate, an idea pops into my head, striking like a flash of drunken genius. I grin, barely able to focus, but sure of one thing: I have Lewis’s number. Lewis, my neighbor and friend of my dad, but also ridiculously rich, famous, and possibly my ticket to a few more rounds. So what if it’s 2 a.m., right?

“I’ve got it, guys. I know someone,” I announce proudly, though the words come out like a tangled mess.

Séraphine squints at me, laughing. “You’re drunk, Y/N. You don’t know anyone.”

“Oh, yeah?” I pull out my phone, holding it up triumphantly as I squint at the screen, fingers fumbling over the contacts. “There it is.” I hit the call button, holding the phone to my ear, my friends watching me with barely-contained curiosity.

The call rings a few times, and just as I’m about to give up, a low, groggy voice answers.

“Hello?”

The confidence I had fizzles, but I swallow my nerves. “Lewis?” I slur, hearing my voice in that weirdly bold way only a couple of drinks can make possible.

There’s a pause. “Y/N?” He sounds confused, and I hear him shift like he’s sitting up.

“Yeah. Are you out?” I ask, the music blaring through the phone. I feel the eyes of my friends glued to me as they wait, wondering who I’m talking to.

“What? Where are you?” he asks, voice sharper now, more alert.

“I’m at MK,” I say loudly over the noise, feeling smug.

There’s another pause, and then he says, almost to himself, “MK? You’re not even old enough to be there… And, wait… are you drunk? It’s 2 a.m.—”

I cut him off, a playful edge to my tone. “I was just calling to see if you wanted to come and get us more drinks,” I say, though the words tumble out in a barely coherent mix of slurs and giggles.

There’s a long, exasperated silence on the other end.

“Hello?” I ask, annoyed he’s taking so long to answer.

His sigh is audible over the phone. “Do you… need me to pick you up?” he asks, his voice lined with something that sounds like he’s already resigning himself to it.

“No! I don’t,” I reply with confusion. “You’re so boring,” I add before hanging up. My friends laugh, and we go back to dancing, somehow managing to snag a few more drinks from guys around us.

It’s 3:00 a.m. by the time I manage to stumble my way back to my parents’ penthouse, swaying down the hallway in my heels. My purse feels like a black hole as I dig through it, searching for my keys. They have to be in here somewhere, right?

But after minutes of searching, I realize they’re not. “Shit,” I mutter, slumping against the wall, the reality sinking in. I don’t want to wake up my parents like this—tipsy, disheveled, and very obviously not sober.

I slide down to the floor, feeling my frustration tip dangerously toward tears. I’m too drunk for this. I stare at my phone, desperate for some kind of solution, and in my daze, I remember… Lewis. Again, I don’t recall that I just called him an hour ago, and with no other option, I hit his number.

After a few rings, his tired voice picks up. “Yes?” he says, clearly woken up again.

“Lewis?” My voice breaks a little, the earlier playfulness gone.

He sounds a little more awake, sensing something’s off. “Y/N? What’s wrong?”

“I… I can’t get into my house.” My voice trembles with a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

“Wait… are you outside right now?” he asks, the tone of his voice shifting instantly, more alert.

“Yeah… I don’t have a key,” I mumble.

He sighs deeply, and I hear him rustling, like he’s getting up. “Okay… give me a minute.” He hangs up, and I wait in the dimly lit hallway, feeling stupid but relieved.

A few minutes later, the door down the hall opens, and there he is, looking tired, standing there in nothing but sweatpants. Even through my drunken haze, I can’t help but notice how he looks, the way his gaze meets mine across the hall, his face softening when he sees me.

“Come here,” he says, his voice a low, quiet command. The authority in his voice stirs something in me as I pull myself up, stumbling toward him, heels clicking with each unsteady step. His eyes drop to what I’m wearing—a short dress, tight enough to get the attention of every guy at MK tonight—and he looks away, maybe to save me from feeling self-conscious. Or maybe to save himself.

“Come in,” he murmurs, stepping back and letting me walk inside. His place feels dim, warm, quiet—a stark contrast to the loud, chaotic energy I’d just left. The moment I step in, I sway, and his hand catches my arm, steadying me.

“How much did you drink?” he asks, his voice edged with concern as he leads me toward the living room. “Why did you drink so much?”

I flop onto his couch, letting out a lazy laugh as I lean back. “I don’t know,” I reply, slurring, barely caring how much of a mess I must look to him right now.

He disappears for a second, returning with a glass of water, holding it out to me. “Drink that. You need it.”

I take a sip, and he watches, standing over me, his expression somewhere between annoyance and amusement. “Look… I don’t have a key to your parents’ place, so you’re kind of stuck for now. Do you have a friend nearby?”

I shake my head, setting the glass aside and sinking further back into the couch. “No… I don’t know.” My voice is soft, almost defeated.

He sighs, glancing at the clock. “It’s 3:17 in the morning…” he mutters, and I let out a giggle, finding it all absurdly funny.

He shakes his head, but there’s a small, reluctant smile on his face. “You’re a mess,” he says, voice teasing.

I sit up, pouting. “No…” I argue, slurring as I try to mimic his mock-scolding tone.

“Yes…” he says, meeting my gaze, and for a moment, his eyes linger on me, trailing down to my dress. His hand reaches up, almost instinctively, to brush a stray lock of hair from my face, his touch surprisingly gentle. I look at him, something bubbling up in me—a boldness from the alcohol, or maybe just the thrill of being near him like this. I reach out, letting my hand rest on his thigh, feeling the solid warmth of him.

He looks at my hand, then at me, his gaze suddenly intense. He reaches down, covering my hand with his, his grip firm as he lifts it off his leg. “No… no, Y/N. You need to sleep this off,” he murmurs, voice low but soft.

“Hm? No… I’m fine,” I insist, leaning closer, letting my eyes half-close as I give him what I hope is a sultry look.

He lets out a breath, amused but resolute. “Yeah… that’s definitely the alcohol talking.” He stands up, guiding me gently to follow him. “Come on. I’ve got a spare bedroom. You can sleep there, okay?”

I frown, feeling my hazy hopes sink, but I’m too tired and too out of it to argue. I stumble along behind him, my heels clicking down the hallway as he opens the door to a guest room. I step inside, feeling the plush carpet beneath my feet, a cozy contrast to the cold, hard floors of MK.

“Just get some sleep, alright?” he says, rubbing his eyes, clearly exhausted.

“Wait,” I call, almost whining, as he turns to leave. “Can you…” I pause, heart pounding, barely believing my own boldness as I turn around, showing him the back of my dress. “I can’t sleep in this…”

He sighs, and I can tell he’s fighting an internal battle. “Y/N…” he starts, his tone edged with caution, like he’s about to refuse. But then he relents, stepping forward. His hands come to rest on my hips, strong and steady, the warmth of his touch seeping through the thin fabric. I feel my breath catch as he pulls me closer, his fingers brushing against the small of my back.

For a moment, his hands linger, almost as if he’s hesitating, feeling the weight of the moment as much as I am. Then, with deliberate slowness, he raises one hand to the top of my zipper. His fingertips graze the bare skin at the base of my neck, and I can’t suppress the shiver that runs down my spine.

He inches the zipper down slowly, each pull of the zipper loud in the quiet of the room, his touch leaving a tingling trail down my back. I can feel the soft brush of his knuckles against my skin as the dress loosens, exposing more of my back, inch by inch. His breathing is steady, but there’s a tension there—a restraint that feels almost tangible.

The zipper finally reaches the base of my spine, and his fingers linger there, as if reluctant to break the contact. My skin feels electric, every nerve heightened, and for a moment, he doesn’t move, his breath warm against the back of my neck. It’s like he wants to say something, to break the charged silence between us, but he holds back.

He clears his throat softly, his voice a quiet murmur in my ear, almost a command. “There. Now… get some sleep.” His words are gentle but firm, like he’s trying to steady both himself and me. And then, just as slowly as he approached, he pulls away, letting his hands fall from my back, the absence of his touch leaving my skin cool and craving the warmth of his hands.

As he steps back, he meets my eyes briefly, a flicker of something unreadable passing between us. For a second, I think he might close the space between us again, say something, or do something that will change everything. But he only gives me a small, careful nod, a final reminder of his restraint, and turns toward the door.

“Now… sleep,” he says once more, his voice soft but unwavering. With one last look, he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

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Princess