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wbbobsesser · 3 days ago

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ᯓ sweet spot — chapter two

pairing: paige bueckers & azzi fudd

notes: i really enjoyed writing this chapter! looking forward to writing more and seeing where it goes. i love the idea of paige being completely obsessed and gone for azzi i couldn’t not make her that way. please keep in mind this is meant to be silly and unserious so don’t take it too literal. i hope you enjoy this chapter— i’m already working on the next one, so it should be expected soon. love you.

wc: 2.5k

it had been three weeks.

three weeks of pretending azzi fudd didn’t occupy 99% of paige bueckers’ waking thoughts. three weeks of trying not to stare during film, of forcing herself not to “accidentally” sit next to her at every team meal. three weeks of scrolling through azzi’s social media accounts like they held the secrets of the universe. three weeks of watching every reposted workout clip like it was a sacred ritual. three weeks of dying. slowly. softly. lovingly.

it was hell.

because azzi was still azzi.

sweet. soft-spoken. warm to everyone.

she high-fived her teammates. she brought extra protein bars to practice in case anyone needed one. she complimented everyone, everyday.

and paige? paige was losing her mind.

she’d never felt like this before. not about anyone. there had been hookups, of course. flings. a very short-lived situationship with a girl from back home who smoked too much weed and ghosted her after two weeks. but azzi?

azzi made her feel like a middle schooler with a crush. like she was trying to act normal during a fire drill while her entire body was combusting.

and the worst part was that azzi didn’t even know.

or maybe she did, and she was just too nice to say anything.

practice had ended an hour ago, but paige was still in the gym, sitting on the bleachers with a bag of ice balanced on her knee and her phone glowing in her lap. she wasn’t texting anyone. she was just looking at azzi’s most recent post: a photo from the locker room after the team’s first practice. azzi smiling, flushed, holding up a peace sign. caption: “i love it here already.”

she’d liked it within 0.3 seconds of it going up.

now she just sat there, staring at it like it might change.

“hey.”

paige nearly threw her phone across the gym. she looked up. it was azzi, hair pulled into a high bun, hoodie slung over one shoulder, and a water bottle tucked under her arm. she looked like a nike ad. or her own personal dream.

“you good?” azzi asked, stepping closer. “didn’t see you leave with everyone.”

paige sat up straighter, hiding her phone screen. “yeah— just icing. knee’s a little sore.”

azzi nodded, then sat next to her. right next to her. their knees almost touched. paige stopped breathing.

“you looked good today,” azzi said, like it was just a fact. “sharp on that last drill.”

paige shrugged, trying to act chill. “you always look good.”

silence.

paige’s eyes widened. “i mean— you played good. you looked good playing. like— your shot. your form. it was— good.”

azzi laughed quietly. “thanks.”

paige wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

they sat in silence for a few moments, the quiet hum of the lights buzzing overhead. azzi leaned back on her palms, gazing out at the empty court.

“you like being here?” paige asked finally, voice low.

azzi turned her head, smiled. “yeah. i do. it’s… different. but good-different. i feel like i’m supposed to be here.”

paige nodded, then swallowed. “you are.”

azzi’s smile lingered. “what about you? you still like it?”

paige glanced down at her hands. “i used to think it was just about winning. getting a national championship. now… i don’t know. it feels like it matters more when you have the right people around.”

azzi looked at her, something soft in her eyes.

before paige could completely combust, someone called from down the tunnel— lou, probably. something about team dinner.

azzi stood, brushing imaginary dust off her pants. “you coming?”

paige blinked, then nodded. “yeah. just need a sec.”

azzi lingered for a moment. “you sure?”

“positive.”

azzi gave her one last look, then jogged off.

paige watched her go, heart a tangled mess of hope and helplessness. she grabbed her phone again and looked at the photo. zoomed in just a little.

yeah. she was so, so screwed.

the team dinner was supposed to be casual. nothing fancy— just some bonding, a little pasta, maybe a couple of dumb games nika liked to spring on them out of nowhere. coach had even given them the evening off to “build chemistry,” which everyone knew really meant “don’t get in trouble and try not to burn the dorm down.”

paige almost didn’t go.

because azzi.

and because paige had barely survived three practices without turning into a puddle every time azzi looked in her direction. but nika wouldn’t let her skip, practically dragged her by the collar out of her room with the promise of free garlic knots and good lighting for selfies.

the restaurant was small and loud, with big booths and sticky menus. half the team was already there, squeezed into one corner and tossing crumpled straw wrappers at each other. azzi sat near the end, her curls pulled up and her smile lighting up the table like a lantern.

paige picked the seat next to her before she could think twice.

“hey,” azzi said, voice soft over the buzz of conversation. “glad you came.”

paige nodded too fast. “yeah. me too. i like… food.”

azzi blinked.

nika snorted soda out of her nose.

lou choked on her breadstick.

“smooth,” aubrey muttered, bumping paige’s knee under the table.

but azzi just laughed— a quiet, melodic sound— and passed paige the basket of garlic knots like she hadn’t just committed a social crime. “i meant to tell you— you’ve got a really quick first step. it’s hard to guard. you kinda burned me yesterday.”

paige blinked. her soul left her body.

“i— uh. i didn’t mean to? i mean, i did, but not like— burn— like basketball, not like… fire.”

nika buried her face in her hoodie.

azzi smiled. “i got what you meant.”

it was fine. everything was fine. except her hands were sweating and her fork was now mysteriously on the floor. paige reached down to get it and hit her head on the table.

azzi leaned over, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “are you okay?”

“never better.” paige’s voice cracked. she never wanted to die more.

later that night, paige laid in bed, phone screen glowing inches from her face. she should’ve been asleep— they had weights in the morning. but instead, she was twenty minutes into another accidental deep dive of azzi fudd’s instagram.

it started innocent. a few scrolls. a couple likes.

and then she found him.

noah.

the boyfriend. azzi’s boyfriend.

smiling next to azzi on some beach in california, both of them mid-laugh. another post from valentine’s day— azzi in his hoodie, captioned “my favorite human.”

her stomach twisted.

azzi didn’t post often. but when she did, the captions about noah were always so full. like she really meant them. paige lingered on one in particular— a photo of the two of them in front of the usc gym. the caption read: “through every win, every loss, every late night practice— you’ve been my home. i love you so much.”

paige closed the app.

then opened it again five seconds later.

she wasn’t proud of herself.

she was about to close the app for good when nika barged into her room with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape.

“you’re so gone for her.”

paige flinched so hard she dropped her phone.

“excuse me?”

“don’t even try to deny it,” nika said, plopping onto the bed like she owned it. “you short-circuit every time she so much as looks at you. i’ve never seen someone so flustered.”

“i don’t—”

“you do.” nika pulled paige’s pillow out from under her and whacked her with it. “you’ve got the biggest gay panic i’ve ever seen. and i roomed with lou.”

paige groaned, burying her face in her hands. “she has a boyfriend.”

“yeah, and you have zero chill,” nika leaned back. “i’ve never seen you like this before. nervous, shy. it’s weird.”

paige didn’t answer. she couldn’t.

because now, every little moment replayed like a loop— azzi’s compliment. the softness in her voice. her dimply smile that lingered too long.

well, fuck.

practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but paige was still out there, lazily flipping a ball between her hands as the last few teammates trickled out. her shirt clung to her back, sweat drying slowly in the gym's faint breeze. she could’ve left. should’ve. but something told her to stay.

and then azzi appeared.

“hey,” she called softly, pulling her hair into a ponytail as she approached. “you staying to shoot?”

paige’s heart dropped to her knees, then tried to crawl back up her throat. “uh— yeah. just a little.”

azzi smiled, grabbing a ball from the rack. “mind if i join you?”

“join? no. i mean yes. i mean— of course.”

they started with simple catch-and-shoot drills. easy rhythm. azzi’s release was still perfect, every shot as clean as glass. paige couldn’t stop glancing sideways, watching the way azzi’s eyes followed the arc of each shot, the way she bounced lightly on the balls of her feet after every make.

paige hit her stride eventually, sinking threes from the corner, then fading toward the wing. they passed back and forth, no words, just the soft echo of the ball and their sneakers squeaking on the court.

azzi shot like she was born doing it. No wasted movement. every jumper was soft, clean, perfect rotation. paige tried to stay focused— tried to match her rhythm— but she kept getting caught in the way azzi would laugh lightly when she missed, like even failure didn’t rattle her.

“your arc’s so pretty,” paige said before she could stop herself.

azzi looked at her. “mine?”

paige nodded, suddenly shy. “yeah. it’s, like… the perfect rainbow.”

azzi smiled. “thanks. yours is faster, though. quick release. super smooth.”

paige’s stomach did an actual flip.

“thanks. i, uh— yeah. i work on that,” she said, for what felt like the tenth time this week. why was she always saying the same thing around her? like she had five phrases and two working brain cells?

they continued shooting.

after a few more rounds, azzi passed her the ball and stretched her arms over her head. “you know, you’ve got such a calm confidence about you. like, on the court. even when you mess up, you never look rattled.”

paige literally missed the rim.

not the net. not the backboard.

she missed the rim.

azzi’s eyes widened, a little startled. “you okay?”

“i— yeah. i’m just— tired,” paige mumbled, retrieving the ball like it wasn’t the most humiliating moment of her life.

azzi laughed, light and genuine. “that was kinda cute.”

paige stopped breathing.

she didn’t even know what to say. her mouth opened, but no words came out— just a small, embarrassed sound like a kicked puppy.

azzi tilted her head. “sorry, was that weird?”

paige shook her head fast. “yes. i mean, no. i mean— not weird. totally fine.”

azzi walked over and gently bumped her shoulder. “you’re funny.”

you’re funny.

paige wanted to throw herself into the sun.

just then, nika popped her head into the gym.

“ohhhh,” she called, loud and dramatic. “what’s this? a little after-hours hoop date?”

paige glared. “we’re just shooting.”

azzi, ever the sweetheart, smiled and waved. “hey, nika!”

nika waved back and winked directly at paige. “don’t stay too late, lovebirds.”

she disappeared before paige could cuss her out.

azzi giggled. “she’s funny.”

paige swallowed hard. “yeah. real funny.”

they kept shooting a little longer. paige never fully recovered from the embarrassment she put herself through.

when they finally called it a night, azzi walked beside her toward the locker room. “i’m really glad i transferred,” she said quietly.

paige looked over. “yeah?”

azzi nodded. “everyone’s been really welcoming. especially you.”

paige could barely breathe.

“oh. uh.” she blinked, thinking of the words. “well, you’re easy to welcome.”

azzi’s smile curled into something almost shy. “that’s really sweet.”

paige scratched the back of her neck. “i mean it. you’re… like. good. at everything. and nice. and— you know. people notice that.”

“people like you?” azzi teased, gently.

paige almost dropped her water bottle. “i mean, yeah. maybe.”

azzi smiled so softly, paige thought she might cry.

paige was halfway through tying her shoes when she spots azzi just a few feet away, standing by the gatorade cooler, laughing at something aubrey just said. it should be normal. it is normal. but paige’s brain short-circuits the same way it always does lately when azzi’s in the room.

and then it happened. a moment. a mortifying, soul-leaving-your-body moment.

“yo, paige!” nika yelled across the gym. “you left your phone in the locker room. again.”

she tossed it with a perfect spiral. paige reacted late and fumbled the catch. the phone hits the floor with a dramatic thud, screen up, very much alive, and very much still open to instagram.

specifically, azzi fudd’s instagram page.

a beat of silence. then a few beats.

someone snorted. probably aubrey.

paige dove for the phone, her face already bright red.

“i’m fucking killing myself,” she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut.

out of the corner of her eye, azzi’s gaze landed on her. she never said anything. but she smiled.

oh, jesus.

during a quick water break, azzi was sitting beside paige on the bleachers, who was untying and retying her sneaker for no real reason. nika and caroline are arguing about music again. nobody was really listening.

“god,” azzi groaned softly, scrolling through her phone. “i forgot how cursed my finsta is.”

paige, stretching her calves, froze like someone hit pause. “you have a finsta?”

azzi laughed. “unfortunately— i don’t call it that, though. more like my friends-only account,” she paused. “my friends at usc made me make one. it’s mainly me complaining about homework or pictures of my boyfriend.”

she didn’t mention the username. but paige tucked the information away in the back of her mind.

“sounds cool,” paige said casually, but her mind was already in overdrive. she knew what she’d be doing later, that’s for sure.

paige was supposed to be writing a paper. she had three tabs open for it. but none of them matter. what mattered was the list of usc mutuals she’s stalking, scanning every tagged photo of azzi from the past two years.

it took time. it took way too much time.

but eventually, she found it.

@fuddleazzi. azzi’s not-so-secret account.

private. 63 followers. the profile picture was azzi in a pair of massive ski goggles, wearing a bright smile with her dimples on display. no bio, no nothing.

paige stared at the screen for a full five minutes, thumb hovering over the follow button.

she doesn’t press it.

instead, she swiped up, into the messages app and texted nika:

p: i found azzi’s secret account and i think i deserve a metal

n: SEND ME THE @ U MANIAC

p: it’s private. should i request or would that expose me as terminally obsessed

n: baby u already dropped u phone OPEN TO HER IG. embrace ur downfall

paige groaned into her pillow.

she didn’t request.

but she did screenshot it.

and maybe saved the profile pic too.

just in case.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige x azzi #uconn wbb #pazzi #pazzi fics

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whoevenisjavier · 22 hours ago

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EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

The plan was to finish your thesis. You didn’t actually want to meet a neighbor with a past you can google and a history caught on tape. Or did you?

a/n: the adult content t-shit gave me ideas. btw, my first story here and I swear this is not a TED talk about morality. critical thinking? yes, bc the story needs it. moral lectures? absolutely not. porn? you'll see. this is just for fun — enjoy, i guess. the storys finished already, so I'll post the next chapter soon.

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. inaccuracies about joel miller (I know his parents aren't chilean but bear with me). javier peña is there too. do I have to add anything else here? I don't know how to do these things.

wc: 9k

This time, your parents aren’t waiting for you at the bus terminal like they’ve done every year for the past three. It’s a good thing, a sign you’re standing on your own now, with your own car, but you still miss seeing their smiles through the fogged-up bus windows.

That moment always made you feel like you belonged somewhere.

Driving through the streets of Lake Placid on your way home feels like walking through your childhood memories. The stores look almost the same — sometimes with a fresh coat of paint — and the people, though not exactly familiar, are the daughters and grandsons of the adults you grew up around before moving to New York. Their faces carry just enough resemblance to make you do a double take.

When you park in your parents’ driveway and pick up your phone for the first time in two hours, there’s a message from your mother.

“We’re in the backyard having a welcome barbecue for the new neighbor! You can go up to your room and rest if you want some time alone or come eat. Can’t wait to see you. X.”

You smile as you step out of the Jeep, the door creaking behind you, and breathe in the cold, clean air rolling down from the mountains and the lake that wraps around the village where you were born. Your parents’ house sits above Mirror Lake Drive, right at the edge of the hill on the northeast side of the village, and from your bedroom window on the second floor, you can see the lake and the distant peaks of the High Peaks.

A far cry from the view outside your New York apartment: nothing but gray swallowed up by buildings. It’s the perfect setting to finally finish your thesis.

As you grab your two suitcases from the back seat, your eyes wander to the house next door, which had been empty for the past three years, mostly because the previous owners were asking too much for it.

Buying real estate in Lake Placid takes careful thought, since turning a profit is unlikely even with upgrades and expansions – the village is just too isolated. So if you’re buying here, it’s not for the money. It’s because you want a life far away from the city.

The house in question is a larger and more luxurious version of your parents’, made of gray stone, with cute white-framed windows, and for the first time in months, you see the lawn freshly trimmed and a new pickup truck parked in the driveway.

Probably the new family your mom mentioned.

The house is empty when you walk in, but you can hear laughter and voices drifting up from the backyard. You head the opposite way, climb the stairs to your room, drop your bags, take a shower, and spend a good while debating whether to sink into sheets that smell like home for the first time in ten months or go downstairs and find something to eat.

Hunger wins.

You throw on a warm sweater and go down. When you open the back doors, six pairs of eyes turn toward you, but it’s your mother’s squeal that makes you smile, followed by the tight hug she and your father give you.

“There’s our girl,” your father says to the others, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he says your name. You give a small wave. “She always comes home for the holidays.”

The couple sitting together you recognize. They’ve been friends with your parents for years.

But you don’t know the woman who smiles sweetly at you, and you definitely don’t recognize the man, at least twenty-five years older than you, who keeps a neutral expression as he sips from a beer can. He doesn’t seem particularly friendly, but maybe that’s just the impression left by the slightly graying mustache and broad shoulders.

Two minutes later, you’re settled into a lounge chair with everyone in the backyard, a warm burger on your plate and a cold beer in your hand.

“I told Joel he’d have trouble with the house,” says the sweet-smiling woman to your parents, continuing the conversation they were having. “But he really wanted a place here, so I just supported him.”

“What kind of trouble are you having with the house?” your mom asks Joel — the mustached man, now officially identified.

“Nothing major,” Joel replies in a deep, firm, polite voice. “Had to redo the plumbing in two of the bathrooms and fix the heating in the kitchen sink, but it’s all fine now.”

“And are you liking it here?” you venture. You glance at the woman. “You and... your wife?”

Joel gives a faint smile.

“Tess isn’t my wife. And yeah, I’m liking it. It’s peaceful. Not too many teenagers. Feels like paradise.”

“What’s with the teenage hate?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious, silently filing away the Tess isn’t his wife detail.

“Fewer teenagers means fewer cell phones.”

Your response is a light laugh that earns a slight eyebrow raise from Joel, but you go back to your burger and let him be.

The conversation between the adults shifts to Fleetwood Mac, Lake Placid families, suggestions for places Joel should check out, and gossip about someone’s daughter who apparently got knocked up by the neighbor’s grandson, or something like that. You listen in, partly because you’re curious about the latest news (true or not) in the town you grew up in.

Your parents mention that you’re staying longer this time to get a change of scenery and finally work on your thesis, and that’s when the dreaded question comes. From Tess.

“And what’s your thesis about?”

Your mother holds back a laugh, because despite the seriousness of the topic, the initial reactions are always the same.

“I study anthropology,” you say. “My thesis is about the influence of pornography on male behavior over the years.”

That’s because the way men acted around you had always bothered you. When you were ten, wearing a cute chiffon skirt to the grocery store, they stared. When you were fifteen, walking home from school in your uniform, you heard disgusting things shouted at you on the street.

It wasn’t until you got older and realized that behavior like that isn’t natural (and why would it be, if women don’t do it?) that all your anger turned into the foundation for your research.

Tess raises her eyebrows and smiles slightly while the older couple gasps in surprise. Joel doesn’t react at all, except for rubbing the condensation on his beer can with his thumb.

“That’s a very interesting topic,” Tess comments, glancing at Joel, who briefly looks at her, then back at you. “Do you have any conclusions yet?”

“A few,” you say, though you already know the core of your research is the objectification of women’s bodies for the industry’s gain. “But I don’t want to bore you—”

“What’s your research method?” Joel cuts in before you can finish.

“Sorry?”

“Your research method. The system you’re using for the thesis.”

“Mixed methods,” you say, but you sense something more behind the question. Something slightly aggressive that you can’t fully pin down. “I did some fieldwork in New York.”

“Did you interview anyone from the industry?”

You shake your head.

“No one agreed. At least not the newer actors and actresses. The more established ones charged absurd fees just to answer ten questions.”

Joel says nothing, and the silence is broken when your father makes a joke about the topic. Everyone laughs—including you.

The barbecue lasts another hour at most before people start saying their goodbyes. Your mom wraps up two burgers for Joel, and he thanks her sincerely.

Then he turns to you and says:

“Good luck with the thesis, sweetheart.”

You nod, and you could swear you catch a faint smirk at the corner of his lips before he waves goodbye and walks off.

You run into Joel again at the market three blocks from home, standing in front of the fruit display, looking stuck between red grapes, green grapes, and oranges.

Joel’s voice comes suddenly from your left.

“What deep philosophical truth are you hoping those grapes will reveal to you?”

You startle, turning toward him with your hand over your heart as if that could slow it down. Joel raises one eyebrow as he begins placing seedless green grapes into a plastic bag.

He’s wearing worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt over a white T-shirt. Thin-rimmed glasses rest on the strong bridge of his nose.

He smells like pine and something expensive—you guess it’s aftershave.

“Hi,” you say first, then quickly add, “I was trying to decide between grapes and oranges.”

“Grapes are sweeter this time of year.”

“But I like sour fruit.”

“Then go for the oranges.”

“But grapes are easier to eat. More practical.”

Joel gives you an impatient look, and you answer with a laugh. You grab a plastic bag and start selecting oranges.

After a short silence, while Joel ties off his grape bag and begins picking oranges too, you ask:

“Are you liking it here?”

Joel murmurs:

“There are some interesting things. Sarah likes it.”

“Your wife?” you ask quickly. Too quickly.

“My daughter. Just turned fifteen.”

Oh. Great. He’s a dad. You glance at his hand but see no ring. Joel notices.

“What’s with the marriage obsession?” he asks, although not rudely.

You shrug.

“I’m just curious. And you’d better brace yourself. The older ladies in Lake Placid are going to eat you alive with questions about your relationship status.”

“Really? Why do you think that?”

You freeze with your fingers wrapped around a particularly juicy orange. Without meaning to, you basically confessed that you think he’s a catch: attractive, polite, middle-aged, apparently wealthy, and tall. What other reason would the ladies have to shift their attention from their knitting?

You avoid his eyes.

“You bought the house that had been on the market for years. They’ll want to know who the buyer is,” you say, a half-truth.

He grunts, as if to say he doesn’t care about any of that, ties his orange bag, and places it in the cart. He glances at your basket, scanning the hygiene items (specifically the pads) and the chocolate bars.

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

You shake your head. He does too.

“Then let’s go. I’ll give you a ride home. It’s raining.”

His tone doesn’t invite objection and you don’t want to argue. Silently, and after grabbing a bag of green grapes too, you follow him through the market. He picks up a box of chocolate cereal, milk, kale, and oats, and then you both head to the checkout line.

You pay for your items first, so you end up waiting under the automatic doors, arms crossed beneath the blasting air conditioner.

People come in shaking umbrellas, mumbling about how unexpected the rain is or how cold the drops feel.

Older women walk in, spot Joel, and start whispering to each other with that smile every woman — no matter her age — immediately recognizes. The universal woman-smile.

He, seemingly unaware to all of it, pays with his card, grabs the bags with one hand, and walks over to you.

“Need help?” he asks, motioning toward your three bags.

You shake your head. He nods once and tilts his head toward the door, signaling for you to follow him across the crowded parking lot.

His pickup truck is parked near the exit—big and sturdy. You both get in at the same time. The inside smells good but feels stuffy from the rain, so he turns on the A/C and runs his hand through his graying hair to shake off the water.

“It rains a lot here,” he mutters as he starts the engine and buckles his seatbelt. You do the same. “Not sure I like this humidity.”

“Where were you living before?”

“Los Angeles.”

Your eyebrows rise. You can’t picture him with the stereotypical California vibe. It doesn’t fit.

So you ask the million-dollar question:

“What did you do there?”

The sound of the windshield wipers is your only response for a few seconds. Long enough for you to wonder if you crossed a line.

“A bit of everything,” he finally says, and you understand that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Yeah. You were being nosy.

Weird. Joel is weird, and everything about him makes you feel like you should think he’s an assassin, or a retired California mobster, anything that would kick your survival instincts into gear. You probably shouldn’t be sitting in a closed space with him like you’ve known him for years.

“Nothing illegal,” Joel adds when your silence starts to stretch.

That makes you laugh.

“Very reassuring.”

He smirks. At a red light, his fingers tap lightly on the leather steering wheel.

“How’s the thesis going?” he asks.

“Honestly? I haven’t opened the file since I got here.”

“Procrastinating?”

You hum in agreement, resting your head against the seat.

“I think I’m stuck.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I need to watch some films to move forward.”

He freezes. Then he lets out a low chuckle. You defend yourself:

“I’m serious. I need to understand which narratives work best and why, and connect that to how they influence real-life behavior.”

“Makes sense,” Joel says.

“It does,” you reply, a little proud. You glance at him. The shape of his nose, the mustache, the gray-streaked beard. Then you add, “But it feels weird watching porn in my parents’ house, even if it’s for educational purposes.”

“Porn isn’t always for educational purposes?”

You gasp in horror.

“No!” you exclaim. “Porn is not educational. People don’t have sex like that in real life.”

“Hm…”

“You disagree?”

“I do,” he says plainly. “People do have sex like that.”

“I didn’t mean physically, Joel. Sex is easy: a good position, one thing inside the other, and done.” You catch yourself, because not all sex involves penetration, and something about Joel makes you think he wouldn’t mind sitting through a lecture on inclusivity if it came to that, but you add: “What I meant is that sex doesn’t happen like that. It’s not normal to open the door for the pizza guy and two seconds later be bent over the couch.”

“Says who?”

The frustrated growl that escapes you seems to amuse him. You know he’s teasing, and his grin proves it, but you can’t resist continuing.

“Not to mention the incest plots or the underage fantasies. Do you really think sex happens like that?”

His smile disappears instantly.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No, I’m not. You can’t separate porn genres like some are less harmful than others, because even the ones that seem ‘harmless’ fuel the same industry that writes those sick scripts.”

“We’re here.”

He cuts you off with that simple phrase, and when you look out the window, you realize he’s right — you’re in front of your house. You turn your gaze back to him, and he meets it firmly, returning all the intensity you just threw his way.

You swallow and reach for your bags.

As if you hadn’t just delivered a monologue on the ethics of pornography, you simply say:

“Thanks for the ride.”

He doesn’t respond. You step out of the truck and walk to the door of your house, feeling like a kid who just got scolded, which is ridiculous. But even more ridiculous is the fact that Joel only drives away after he sees you walk safely inside, even though he literally lives next door.

You meet Sarah — Joel’s fifteen-year-old daughter — the next day.

After running along Mirror Lake Drive, you get home with your lungs burning and your body drenched in sweat, the elastic band of your pink sports bra stuck to your back. As you’re kicking off your sneakers at the door, you spot a pair of pink Converse, way smaller than anything anyone in your family would wear.

In the kitchen, there’s a skinny, unfamiliar girl sitting at the counter, two open books spread across the marble, her curly hair pulled up into two puffs.

She lifts her head, and her brown eyes hit you with a soft echo of familiarity.

“Hi,” you say, as if it’s totally normal to have a stranger in your house.

She waves back. Before you can ask “who are you?”, your mom walks into the kitchen and calls your name.

“This is Sarah, Joel’s daughter. Sarah, this is my daughter I was telling you about.”

Sarah gives you a shy little smile, and you smile back, a bit frozen by the fact that you’re standing face-to-face with Joel’s daughter. You’re not even sure why it freezes you.

“Joel had to spend the night out because he needed to go to New York, and he asked if Sarah could stay with us,” your mom explains.

“I’m old enough to stay alone, but my dad’s crazy,” Sarah chimes in, and you laugh.

You don’t think she’s old enough to stay alone, especially in a new town, but you don’t say that.

What you do say is:

“So, Sarah... what are you studying?”

Sarah needs help with her social studies homework, so after you shower and change into something comfortable, you sit down next to her and go over the assignments together. That’s when you realize she’s ridiculously smart and funny, slipping little jokes into the conversation, blending internet memes with historical facts, and talking to her turns out to be genuinely easy and fun.

Your mom serves dinner, you both eat, and then you settle onto the couch with your Kindles, each of you leaning against an end and your feet meeting in the middle of the cushions.

You’re in the third chapter of Ghost Radio when she calls you.

You peek over the top of your Kindle to let her know you’re listening.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Twenty-six.”

She looks up at the ceiling as if doing mental math. Then, reaching some conclusion, she raises her eyebrows.

“Why?” you ask.

“No reason,” she shrugs, turning back to the book she was reading. Another question follows, this time without looking at you. “Are you dating anyone?”

“No. I ended my last relationship six months ago.”

“Was he older?”

“No,” you say with a laugh. “I mean, yes, but only by about three years. Why do you ask?”

Sarah wiggles her feet like she’s a little too excited about something.

“Just scientific curiosity,” she says, but her tone sounds more like a villain plotting something mischievous.

The next morning, Joel comes to pick her up at eight o’clock. You’re the one who opens the door since your parents left early to go to the farmers’ market to buy honey and vegetables.

He’s standing on the porch, wearing a thick leather jacket, jeans, and heavy boots. He looks exhausted, and the two-day beard growth makes him even more intimidating.

“Good morning,” you say.

Joel looks you up and down in your pajamas: heart-printed pants and a tank top. You realize too late that you’re not wearing a bra.

“Good morning,” he replies, lifting his eyes back to your face. “I’m here to get Sarah.”

“She’s finishing breakfast. Come in.”

Before he can protest, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him no choice but to step inside and follow you to the kitchen. You hear his slow, hesitant footsteps as he returns to the room filled with the smell of butter and coffee.

Sarah is sitting at the counter, devouring pancakes. Joel walks over, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and they exchange a few quiet words before he says something that makes her nod and hop down from the stool, leaving the kitchen.

You hear her going upstairs, probably to grab her things.

“How was the trip?” you ask, filling a mug with coffee and placing it in front of him on the marble.

Joel stares at the pink mug like it’s a threat but eventually wraps his big hands around it. You take a sip from your own cup and look at him over the rim, just the counter between you two.

“Good,” he says simply. He gestures toward the coffee. “Thanks. I needed that. Drove back and forth without stopping to rest.”

“Just thinking about it makes my back hurt.”

“I want my bed.”

You watch him over your cup, blowing on the surface of the coffee. You imagine him in the silence of his own house, in his bedroom, in his own bed. You wonder what color the walls are, what the sheets look like, and whether he sleeps clothed or not.

“Sarah’s really smart,” you say, pushing away the mental images.

That earns a small smile from him.

“She’s fantastic, my girl. But she’s cocky, so don’t tell her that.”

“She takes after someone.”

“I’m not cocky.”

“I’m joking,” you say lightly, offering peace because you don’t want to relive the animosity from the last time you saw him. “Is the coffee good?”

“Very.”

“Want to take some pancakes? Bet you’re hungry. I’ve eaten, Sarah’s eaten, and my parents always grab breakfast out when they leave early.”

Joel drums his fingers against the ceramic, looking like he’s fighting an internal battle, as if accepting food from you would be a terrible crime. Still, you take his silence as a yes and start stacking the remaining pancakes into a thermal container.

When you’re done, you walk around the counter and hand him the container with both hands.

“Here.”

Joel takes it with his left hand. With his right, he reaches out and gently pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says quietly, and you freeze.

He walks past you, saying something to Sarah, who apparently has come back downstairs. Feeling a warm flutter deep in your belly, you turn and follow them to the living room. You hug Sarah goodbye, promise to send her books for her Kindle, and then walk them to the door.

You smile when Joel thanks you for looking after Sarah and asks you to pass his thanks to your parents as well.

You watch them cross the lawn between your gardens, and just before Joel enters his house, he turns to look back at you.

You could swear he deliberately and slowly sweeps his gaze over your body—from your feet to your head.

And then he goes inside.

And you have to mechanically force yourself to close the door.

That same night, you start watching the films.

As you work through your research, you put together a report listing the names of the ten most famous stars from each decade between 1970 and 2020, five male, five female.

You already have a pretty clear idea of what defined the main point of pornography in the ’70s: the start of structured scripts and absurd, fantastical narratives that, one way or another, tied a woman’s pleasure directly to a man’s. Like in Deep Throat, where they came up with a story about a woman whose clitoris is located at the back of her throat. You can already guess what the most "effective" method of stimulation would be.

Porno chic was created to make adult content more palatable to the general public, especially as debates about the legality and morality of filming started to gain traction during that decade.

Sitting on your bed with your laptop open in front of you and your tablet resting on your lap for notes, you watch the films at 1.5x speed while eating green grapes.

You knew you might get aroused watching them, because dopamine responses are inevitable, but apparently there's nothing about '70s pornography that even remotely stirs your body. It feels like you're watching a National Geographic documentary.

You can't push away what Linda Lovelace wrote in her autobiography about the most famous film of that time, the one that made millions of dollars: There was a gun pointed at my head the entire time, she said.

You swallow hard and return to your notes.

By the end of the first week of this stage of your thesis, you finish watching the films from the '90s. You note the radical shift in the female body ideal — all the actresses with breast implants — and the peculiar aesthetic of VHS tapes, since this was the era when films started being widely distributed in that format.

What stands out most, though, is the shift in perspective. Gonzo-style pornography centers the camera exclusively on the man, making him the sole focus, and by extension, reducing women to mere tools for male pleasure. The camera's focus on women's bodies is restricted almost entirely to their genitals, which explains a lot about the birth of violent pornography during that time.

If women exist solely for male pleasure, then it’s no problem if they’re violated, right?

And just like that, the normalization of male domination in pornography begins, which, of course, spills over into social behavior.

You shut the laptop in front of you and lie down on the bed, closing your eyes. You doubt even a sixteen-year-old boy has seen as much porn as you have in the past few days, and there’s still so much left to do.

You reach for your tablet and pull up the list of male stars from the 2000s.

Tyler Cross, Javier Peña, Max Thunder, Ryder Grey, and Clint Fury.

Is there someone in the industry whose only job is coming up with these ridiculous pseudonyms?

You get up, leaving everything behind, and head toward the kitchen to find something to eat. It's already past eleven at night, your parents are asleep, and the only light in the living room comes from the lamp. On tiptoe, you’re halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rings.

You freeze like you're in the middle of a crime scene.

A doorbell ringing at eleven at night in Lake Placid? Something must be on fire.

When you open the door, it’s Joel standing there on your parents' porch, looking anxious.

“Hi,” he says. Another meeting where you're in pajamas and he's fully dressed. “It's dangerous to open the door in the middle of the night like that.”

“Great way to start a conversation. I'm calculating how many seconds it'll take me to get to the kitchen and grab a knife.”

You get a somewhat tense smile.

“I’m still not used to these small-town habits.”

“I get it. I would never open the door for anyone after eight p.m. in New York, but here it’s normal.”

He nods, then asks,

“Were you sleeping?”

You wrap your arms around yourself as a cold breeze sweeps by.

“No, I was studying. Is everything okay?”

“I need a favor,” he says bluntly. “Sarah’s asleep, and I have to head back to New York. Can you stay at the house tonight?”

“Is everything okay?” you repeat.

“My brother’s wife just went into labor. He asked me to be there. I should be back tomorrow night.”

Your eyes widen, and Joel nods as if to say, “Exactly, got it?” You hold up a finger to ask for a minute, then run upstairs to grab your slippers, your robe, and your phone. When you come back, Joel is still on a call but waits patiently until you close the door before leading you to his house.

He lets you step inside first, and even with the urgency of the situation, it feels a little like you’re a twenty-year-old girl walking into a guy’s house for the first time, especially when Joel shuts the door behind you, finishing up his call.

The house is warm, clearly lived in by a family. There’s a big rug in the living room, a brown leather couch, and pictures of Sarah hanging in the hallway: lifting a soccer trophy, carrying a skateboard, the two of them at the beach. A line of photos shows her growing up, from a baby all the way to now.

The last photo is of her at Jewtraw Park, right here in Lake Placid.

“You can sleep in my room if you want. If that’s too weird, the couch is really good too. I left some blankets and a pillow right there,” he says, pointing to the armchair. Then he adds, “Everything’s clean. The guest rooms aren’t ready yet.”

You roll your eyes.

“I know, Miller. Relax. I’ll manage.”

“Okay. Give me your number. I’ll text you so you have mine. And if you need anything, call me.”

You say your number, and he types it into his old, barely-hanging-on iPhone.

“Thanks,” Joel says, genuine. “Really.”

You smile and give his arm a quick rub without even thinking about it.

“No problem. Just let me know if you need anything.”

After showing you where Sarah’s room is, where the extra blankets are, and telling you about ten times you can eat whatever you want, he leaves. You quickly text your mom, explaining the situation and letting her know you’re staying at Joel’s, then settle down on the couch.

Little signs of Joel are scattered around the house. The reading glasses forgotten on the coffee table, the suede jacket hanging by the door, the boots by the entryway, the faint smell of the same lotion you caught on him at the store.

You feel a little like a criminal as you get up and start quietly wandering through the rooms.

The kitchen is beautiful and organized, but there are a few dishes left in the sink. Since you’re still awake, you start washing them.

You move on to the dining room, all wood furniture and a classic chandelier, and then to a small office off to the side. It feels almost too empty except for the bookshelves. Just a desk with a laptop sitting on it, making you think it doesn’t get much use.

You head upstairs.

Sarah’s door is closed, but you walk softly down the carpeted hallway to the room at the end.

You push the door open, heart pounding like you’re about to find a monster—or Joel sitting on the bed saying, “Snooping where you shouldn’t be?”

Instead, you find a huge bed neatly made with gray sheets, dark curtains, and matching desks on either side. There’s a closet and a door leading, you assume, to a bathroom.

It’s empty in the way you’d expect a fifty-year-old man’s bedroom to be.

You almost give in and crawl into his bed but force yourself back downstairs, turn off the main lights, and curl up on the couch, which really is pretty comfortable.

It takes a while to fall asleep in a strange house, but when you finally do, your dreams are filled with gray beards and gray sheets.

You wake in the middle of the night to the ping of your phone. You rub your eyes, still dazed from sleep, and grab the phone from the pillow beside you.

4:47 a.m.

It’s a text from an unknown number:

“Hi. Joel here. Sorry for the hour, I hope you’re sleeping. I just got to New York. Please let me know when Sarah wakes up. I’ll need to call her.”

A sleepy smile tugs at your lips at how formally he writes, no abbreviations at all. You save his contact as Miller.

You type back:

“hey. don’t worry. I’ll let you know. everything ok over there?”

“Why are you awake?”

You don’t tell him it was his text that woke you.

“New place… light sleeper.”

“I see.”

An “I see” with a period and everything. Then another message:

“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m in the waiting room, and Tommy’s with his wife. She’s been in labor for seven hours.”

You type: “ouch. hoping all goes well. lmk if u need sth”

“What kind of vocabulary is that?”

“don’t you have bigger things to worry about, grumpy?”

The impossible happens: Joel Miller sends you a smiling emoji.

You reply with one sticking its tongue out.

His next message comes in text again:

“Tell me about your thesis.

“you’re really curious about it.”

“It’s an interesting topic.”

“sure… men and their obsession with porn.”

“I’m not obsessed with porn. I don’t even remember the last time I watched it.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard—it sounds way too intimate.

You type back:

“last time I watched was this afternoon.”

You get a single question mark in response: “?”

You clarify:

“for my thesis. I’m at the stage where I have to watch films.”

“Oh. How are you doing that?”

“picking stars from each decade and watching two movies for each. starting with the 2000s tomorrow.”

Joel reads your message but doesn’t reply right away, which is odd. He had been responding immediately. You wonder if something’s happened at the hospital, if everything’s okay with his sister-in-law.

You stare at the screen until it goes black. Three minutes later, his reply pops up:

“Who are the stars from the 2000s?”

“looking for suggestions?”

“No.”

You open your report from iCloud and copy the list of male and female stars from the 2000s. You send it over.

He reads it. Another little pause.

“I see.”

Then another question:

“And how are you watching? Like a documentary?”

“yeah, pretty much. I put on the films, watch them critically, and take notes.”

“And they don’t affect you?”

“in what way?”

He reads the message but doesn’t answer. After ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, you take a deep breath and type courageously:

“are you asking if I get turned on?”

Again, no response.

Still, you type back:

“i do. it’s inevitable and natural. but only starting with the '90s films. the ones from the '70s and '80s were way too gross for that.”

This time, a reply comes.

“Gross?”

“yeah. the men were really disgusting. it’s obvious they had no idea how to have sex to actually please a woman.”

“I see.”

You picture Joel Miller, tall and broad-shouldered, sitting in a sterile hospital hallway, texting you about porn while waiting for his nephew to be born.

The thought makes you smile to yourself. You burrow deeper under the blanket and decide to be a little bolder.

“do you have a favorite genre of those movies?”

“To watch?”

You frown. What else would it be for?

“yeah”

“I don’t watch them.”

“okay, but if you were going to watch one today, what type would you choose? one with a storyline, straight to the point… what? help me out for the research.”

You almost chew on your lower lip as you watch the little “typing” bubble appear and disappear three times. Finally, he sends a simple response:

“No storyline, not a lot of talking. Something filmed in the morning, in bed, right after waking up.”

“morning sex?”

“Yes.”

Before you can stop yourself, your mind fills with images of Joel’s bed, the same gray sheets now rumpled and tossed aside. The cold morning light pouring through the window, the scent of him still on the fabric, the warmth of sleepy skin, the scratch of his beard against the sensitive part of your neck.

A big hand adjusting and lifting your leg into the right position, low, sleepy moans filling the space.

You snap your eyes open wide.

“got it,” you type back, heart racing.

“Do you have a favorite genre?”

“i hate porn,” you reply.

“Okay. But if you were going to watch one today, what would you pick?”

He’s throwing your own question back at you, meaning you can’t dodge it.

You type the whole answer at once but hesitate a dozen times before finally pressing send, knowing Joel will understand exactly what you mean and exactly what you like. It’s probably not right to tell your parents’ neighbor, who’s at least twenty years older, but you don’t take it back.

“in the car. an age gap where he looks a little older than her, slightly graying, and he’s desperate for her, desperate to do things to her in the backseat.”

“Things?”

“you know what I mean.”

“Say it clearly.”

“desperate to go down on her.”

And again, he responds:

“I see.”

Your cheeks burning, you turn off your phone screen.

But another message buzzes through:

“Good choice.”

You cross your legs and lock your phone again.

The next time you wake up, it’s to Sarah poking your cheek with an insistent little finger. She’s standing over you by the couch, looking at you like you’re a science experiment.

The sunlight pouring through the living room windows makes you wonder if it’s already past ten.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, still poking your cheek.

Yawning, you answer,

“You’re about to have a baby cousin.”

Sarah squeals.

Joel calls her twenty minutes later, right after you text him—carefully avoiding rereading the messages you sent each other during the night—that she’s awake.

Afterward, you eat breakfast together, and Sarah gets ready for school, where she’ll stay until six in the evening. You wait until the bus picks her up before going back to your house, crawling into bed, and sleeping a little more.

When you wake up again, it’s time to log onto a video call with your boss, even though you’re technically on vacation.

You help your mom with some work in the garden, bake muffins, and by late afternoon, you lock the door to your bedroom, find a cozy spot in bed and open your laptop again.

2000s.

Now all the actresses definitely have implants, bleached hair, heavy makeup, thin eyebrows, and elaborate hairstyles: exactly the fantasy for any guy with a DVD player and one hand free.

But it’s also the beginning of the internet era, meaning access to all of it is even easier than it ever was with VHS tapes.

Roleplay everywhere. Boss and secretary, student and teacher, best friend's mom, best friend's dad. A fantasy world that definitely fried a lot of men’s brain circuits.

You start with the male stars.

First up is Tyler Cross. He's a tall actor with spiky, gelled hair, a tribal tattoo on his left bicep, and a defined six-pack.

You watch a POV movie, new at the time, and another where he plays the older brother’s best friend. It’s set in a girl’s pink-walled bedroom, teddy bears thrown to the side, and it’s all absolutely disgusting.

You glance at the clock after finishing Tyler Cross’s films. 5:55 p.m. You figure you’ve got about fifteen minutes before Sarah gets home, so you decide to at least start Javier Peña’s movies.

You type his name into the search bar.

The results flood in. One of the first titles you see: No Overtime for the Babysitter: Daddy Comes Home Early!

You roll your eyes. Great, now they’re coming for babysitters’ labor rights too.

You click the movie. It takes a moment to load.

The cover stares back at you while the loading icon spins.

The actress is gorgeous, with breasts you immediately envy and long black hair. Her lips, glossy and slightly open, look like she’s mid-moan. She’s one of the first actresses you’ve seen who isn’t drowning under a pound of makeup.

The scene starts with her dusting some furniture in the living room.

She’s wearing a mini-skirt and a light blue crop top made of thin fabric that shows her stomach. Definitely very appropriate attire for her job.

The sound of a door unlocking fills the room, and then it swings open.

The actress sighs:

“Oh! Mr. Peña! You’re home early!”

The camera pans to Mr. Peña. You blink at the screen.

Javier Peña has that classic '80s kind of handsomeness. He’s tall, lean but broad-shouldered, his dark hair messy in a way that somehow suits him. The thick mustache above his tight lips and the long sideburns give him the look of an old-school movie star, and you have to double-check the release date of the film. 2002.

He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a loose tie, his gray blazer slung over his left shoulder. But it’s his brown eyes that catch you — because they’re familiar. It feels like you know them.

“The meeting was canceled,” Peña says, tossing the blazer onto the couch. “My daughter’s asleep? You can go now.”

The gasp that escapes your mouth is quickly muffled by your hand when Javier Peña’s voice fills your ears through the headphones, because you immediately realize where you know it from.

The voice is a little softer, younger, with more of an accent — but it’s the same voice.

Joel Miller’s voice.

“She is,” the actress says sweetly, crossing the room. Javier looks her up and down — from her bubblegum-pink painted toes to the way her chest strains against her top. “Are you sure, Mr. Peña? You seem really stressed out. Can’t I help you with something?”

You freeze where you are, heart hammering against your ribs. Holy shit.

“Help how?” Javier asks, raising an eyebrow, pretending to be disinterested.

She smiles, grabs his hand, and leads him to the couch, urging him to sit.

You’re almost ready for her to drop to her knees in front of him, because that would be the obvious next step, but that’s not what happens. The actress — Mila, her name — circles behind the couch, leaning over him to start unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re so tense, Mr. Peña,” she says, pouting as she undoes each button. “Taking care of the house by yourself, your daughter…”

The shirt falls open, revealing a firm, broad chest.

“So responsible… No one to help you out…” She leans in and whispers against his ear: “No one to suck your cock.”

The shocked laugh that bursts out of you is immediately covered by your hand again.

Javier’s shirt falls completely open, and he takes Mila’s hand, guiding it straight to his pants, her long red nails vivid against the gray fabric.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Mmm…” the actress moans, massaging him through the fabric. She runs her hands back up his shoulders. “That’s right. You do.”

She moves to kneel in front of him, but Javier clicks his tongue and says:

“Take off your clothes.”

You feel a pulse low in your stomach. The actress smiles and obeys.

Once she’s fully naked, she starts to kneel again, and Javier spreads his legs wider, tossing his shirt aside.

She massages him through his pants for a few more seconds before tugging the zipper down and pulling his pants down with both hands. He’s not wearing underwear, of course he isn’t, and suddenly, you’re staring straight at Joel Miller’s cock.

Large, hard, slightly veiny, every inch of it.

Javier shifts on the couch, gathers all of Mila’s soft hair into one hand, and with the other, guides himself to her mouth, and—

Someone knocks on your bedroom door and you nearly slap the laptop closed.

“Honey, I think Sarah’s getting home from school. Aren’t you going to greet her?” your mom asks.

“I am,” you say, but your voice comes out too soft. You clear your throat and try again: “I’m going, Mom. Just a second.”

“Okay!”

Your mom leaves you sitting there, staring at the wall with wide eyes and a racing heart, so much slick between your legs you have to stand up, clean yourself, and change panties before going downstairs to greet Sarah.

She gets home, you both go into Joel’s house, you make her a sandwich, and she heads upstairs to shower. You stay on autopilot, your head still completely full of Javier Peña... and Joel Miller.

Holy shit.

The man was a porn actor.

And apparently, a very successful one, because you distinctly remember seeing that his films topped the charts for years. Is he still doing it?

You rub your eyes and fight the urge to shove your fist in your mouth and scream.

The irony is almost too much. Fate is throwing a former porn star into your lap when it knows all too well the thesis you’re writing, and all your hatred for the industry.

You order pizza for you and Sarah. You eat while watching a cheesy teenage romance movie that keeps her glued to the TV. When she’s yawning hard, you ask if she has any homework (she doesn’t) and send her off to brush her teeth and get into bed.

She hugs you goodnight and heads upstairs. You hear her brushing her teeth, then the door to her room closing.

You take a deep breath. Pull your phone out of your pocket. You type in the search bar: Javier Peña. The image results flood the screen.

Joel Miller in a thousand different styles. At industry parties in clothes that scream early 2000s, at photoshoots with other actresses, even holding up a trophy that reads—

You lean in closer to make sure you’re not misreading it.

Longest Orgasm of 2006.

Wow. Congratulations.

The Google summary confirms it: Joel Miller, born in 1981 in Arlington, Texas, to Chilean parents. Porn actor, best known as Javier Peña. Joel Miller became an advocate for porn actresses’ rights, one of the main reasons he left the industry in 2010.

One of his last public appearances as Javier Peña was in 2016, co-hosting an adult film awards show alongside Tess Servopoulos, his former career agent. Since then, very little is known about Joel Miller, though several producers have tried to lure him back with massive paychecks, even for solo work.

You hear the key turning in the lock.

You lock your phone at record speed and sit up straight on the couch, eyes wide open. Joel will probably think that you’ve been doing cocaine on his coffee table.

He walks in, shrugging out of his coat, and looks at you.

“Hey,” he says, kicking off his boots. “Everything okay?”

You nod, then try to use words:

“Hey. Yeah.”

Joel gives you a strange look, glancing up the stairs.

“Sarah’s asleep?”

You nod again.

Oh, Mr. Peña. You must be so tired. Can I help you? My God. You’re the babysitter working overtime.

“Are you really okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Um… I…” you rub your hands over your thighs. “I’m just tired. That’s all. Is everything okay with your sister-in-law?”

“She’s fine. I’ve got a nephew now,” Joel murmurs, collapsing onto the couch across from you, legs spread, hands over his eyes. “And he’s so small. I almost didn’t have the nerve to hold him. I don’t even remember Sarah being that tiny.”

“Ha ha.”

At your awkward laugh, Joel drops his hands and studies you carefully, narrowing his eyes. He watches you for a moment, like he’s seeing right through you.

Joel says,

“You found out who Javier Peña is.”

You freeze, hands clenched in your lap. Joel rubs his temple with a heavy sigh and sits up straighter.

“Which one did you watch?”

You swallow hard.

“The babysitter one.”

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, sweetheart.”

“The film’s from 2002. I think the actress’s name was Mila? She was trying to comfort you about being a single dad.”

Joel raises both eyebrows.

“I know the one,” he says with a dry, humorless laugh. “Right. Here it is. I was Javier Peña for ten years. I guess I still am, when the paycheck’s good enough. I made porn movies. They’re out there.”

“Still are?”

“Not for films. Just for appearances or special gigs at awards shows.”

“Oh.”

He says your name firmly.

“That industry — it’s your thesis. You know those actors and actresses are real people. I’m one of them. Are you going to stop treating me like a normal person now?”

“It’s weird,” you say softly. “Sorry, Joel, but it’s weird seeing you like… that… and then coming here and seeing you being Sarah’s dad, being… Joel Miller.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not,” he sighs, collapsing back onto the couch. “I’m way too tired to be mad, honestly. We can talk more about it later if you want. I’ll even help you with your thesis if you need. But not tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for staying with Sarah, seriously,” he says, shifting back into Dad mode. “Let me pay you.”

“No way,” you say quickly.

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off:

“You said you’d help me with my thesis, right?”

He just looks at you. You explain,

“I’ll take that as payment.”

Slowly, he nods. And just like that, you have a deal.

That night, you head upstairs again and lock the door.

You open your laptop, type Javier Peña into the search bar, and scroll through the films. One title catches your eye: Neighbors: The Lust Lives Next Door.

The irony.

The title is ridiculous, sure, but the movie isn’t. He’s the married woman’s neighbor, and when her husband goes out of town, Javier shows up at the door asking if everything’s alright because he heard a noise and got worried.

He’s wearing tight jeans and a short-sleeve, light pink button-down shirt.

They head upstairs to check the bedroom.

She sits at the edge of the bed while Javier kneels down to look under it, but when he straightens up again, he sees the actress isn’t wearing any panties. Of course.

Two minutes later, Javier spreads her legs and goes down on her for a good while, his dark eyes locked on hers. And you could swear the moans are real. Either that, or she’s a damn good actress.

It’s when Javier starts whispering in her ear — loud enough to be picked up by the mic, but low enough to sound private — that your own fingers hover at the waistband of your pajama shorts.

He grips her thigh firmly, legs wide open, about to sink into her, both of them watching where they meet.

“Like this?” Javier asks.

She nods.

He licks his fingers and touches her clit. Her left leg trembles slightly.

“Sensitive? You’re not gonna come again for me?”

You swallow your shame and remind yourself that no one will ever know about this.

You slip your hand into your panties.

You close your eyes, listen to Javier whispering filthy things into the actress’s ear, and feel your pulse thudding in your ears and the slickness between your fingers.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction

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softsunnyy · 14 hours ago

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Kinnie with the Canucks ! ♡

you're filming a silly trend, a "mini-blog" of your son going to a Canucks game to watch his dad play. But seeing him so happy makes you think, and all you can focus on is him.

i started writing this a while ago and just remembered i never finished it, so here it is. Btw, the nickname is a short way of saying "pumpkin", bc i love that nickname and i already thought of a whole reason behind it. Also, i was inspired by this and this video + i was listening to "Love Story" while finishing it

i can make this a series if y´all want.

from the moment your little one got mic'd up, he started babbling and trying to narrate as best he could. And to make him feel more comfortable, they asked you to be the one recording him. So the boy constantly looks at you, talking about how excited he is to see his dad play.

now, this isn't strange or new to him; in fact, it's quite common. But it's always a new experience, and you know that Quinn's little copy idolizes him more than anything in this world, and he experiences every game as if it were Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final.

you unconsciously smile at how easily he talks about the place, showing the spectators around, the outside of the locker room, everything, and then makes his way to his special seat, near the glass, where he can watch the game up close.

“dad’s coming out any minute, we’ll see if i can get a puck,” he said, mouthing the words in a funny way, his cheeks flushed, his smile exactly like Quinn’s. Behind the camera, your heart melts once again, knowing your husband would give him every puck and every stick in the game if his little one asked.

you hear him talk, but all you can look at is him. His hair, his cheeks, his smile. His sweet chuckle, and the way he moves his head when he talks. The way now his big and bright eyes focus on the rink instead of the camera.

you used to jokingly comment about how you spent months carrying him for him to end up being an exact copy of Quinn. But it’s true. And he’s more than happy and proud to look just like him.

when your little one first became interested in hockey, you should have seen it coming. Of course he wants to play defense. Of course he wants to be the best.

he’s fast, he’s very agile. And everyone knows what he wants.

“i wanna play like dad when i grow up. He’s so cool,” he smiled. And at that moment, the players came out for warmups. Your little boy sat on the edge of his seat, more attentive than ever, and Quinn was quick to find you, quickly going to the glass, hitting it with his stick, smiling when his son laughed, tapping the glass with one of his little hands.

Quinn didn’t even have to hear the question; he immediately went to get a puck, tossing it over the glass, and you had to be careful, catching it and passing it to your son, trying to capture the moment without moving the camera too much.

you hear a few people around you making “aww” sounds, watching the moment when mini Hughes smiles, his face lighting up even more.

he’s like a little fan, even though he sees his dad almost every day, and when Quinn is away, they spend hours talking on facetime, no matter how tired both are.

and no matter how much time passes, you know he'll still be this obsessed.

as the game progresses, he starts yapping and just talking, talking about how good his dad is, how he's the star of the team, and how much he loves his uncles, Quinn's friends. You smile, listening and trying to pay attention to the plays. You know it was originally meant to be a mini-blog, something they could post on tiktok for the Canucks' account, but you can't tell him to stop, or just cut the recording. Not when he's talking so happily, so excitedly, melting your heart. You know this should be seen, that everyone should get this dose of cuteness, even if it's a thousand-hour video.

and when it's Quinn who scores a goal? oh god, he screams and jumps, and you're sure he's the loudest. The people around congratulate him, knowing who he is, and making his smile even bigger, to the point where his cheeks cramp and his eyes are barely visible.

your heart aches; you wanna see him this happy forever, because it's all he deserves. And you love that it's Quinn who brings all of that to him, because it happens to you too. From the moment you met him, he's always been the first to make you smile, to be there for you every moment, to make you feel safe and increasingly confident. Quinn has always been your sunshine, and it feels right that he also is for your son, the fruit of your intense love for each other.

after the game, you walk behind him, who takes short, quick steps, trying to reach the locker room and see his dad. As the others leave, they pat him on the head, then wave to you and the camera. Happy with this victory.

when Quinn comes out of the locker room, he barely manages to bend down, reaching his son's level just as he throws himself into his arms. You see them laugh, do a little spin, and you know that all of that can be heard in the video through the microphone. Joy and love, in their purest and most beautiful state.

“hi, Kinnie,” your husband laughed, saying one of his son’s many nicknames, securing him in his arms before walking over to you, giving you a small peck. “Hi.”

“hi, dad,” your son replied. Then Quinn noticed the camera, and you paused for a moment to explain, watching him nod before looking down at his tiny copy. “Did you enjoy the game? i think mom recorded you yapping.”

“i was paying attention! i was just telling ´hem about the game,” he tried to defend himself, slightly blushing. “Mommy wasn’t even paying attention,” he said this time, making you both laugh.

when the video was posted, everyone was asking for the extended version, knowing that the video had been edited to fit on tiktok, so soon everyone could enjoy the full version on youtube as well.

thousands of comments talking about how mini Hughes inherited his dad's yapping, or how similar they are, and how loved he is.

and even though you try not to expose him too much on social media, videos of him in his little-games sometimes go viral, because of the way he skates, perfecting skills that many kids his age can't do yet; or videos of him "training" in the summer with his dad, his uncles, and his grandparents, in a family full of success, talent, and love.

everyone knows that little Hughes is the most loved, and that his future is bright, surrounded by people who will help him become a star. They even talk about how he'll be better than Quinn.

and you love it, you love knowing that he´s loved, that he's supported. You love knowing that you chose the perfect man, and that he gave you the ideal family. Because the bad days don't matter when the day ends and you all cuddle on the couch again. Because the good days will remain in your memories for years.

because no one will love you both the way Quinn does, and no one will love him the way you two love him.

and the internet is here to see that.

#☀️💞#softsunnyy #quinn hughes #dad!quinn #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes one shot #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes blurb #qh43 x reader #qh43

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tsunodaradio · 2 days ago

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house handy ⛐ 𝐃𝐑𝟑

“if there are leaves that need to be swept, i’ll sweep them. if there’s rubbish that needs to be emptied, i’ll empty it.” — harris dickinson on being domesticated (or: the one where daniel gets to slow down a bit)

ꔮ starring: daniel ricciardo x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 1.6k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff fluff fluff. mentions of food. established relationship, post-f1 daniel. inspired by the dickinson quote in the synopsis. ꔮ commentary box: every so often i miss dric and something like this gets written. shoutout to this one spotify playlist for being the perfect writing accompaniment. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

There’s a cup of coffee on your bedside table when you wake up.

It’s a specific Australian brew, one your boyfriend has proudly touted as Danny-approved. Anything less would be a travesty. The steam curling from the mug draws you out of your sleep, reminding you of less than favorable experiences with the drink—days spent working yourself to the bone, evenings chugging the drink to stay awake for FaceTime calls.

Groggy, you take a sip. It’s perfect in a way you’ve never quite nailed. The right amount of sugar, just a hint of milk. The caffeine shot straight to your system gives you just enough energy to drag yourself out of bed.

It doesn’t take too long to find him, even if you weren’t expecting to find him at all.

You follow the music.

If he could help it, Daniel would never bother your rest; he knows how little of it you get as is. In the mornings, his footsteps are quiet. He pitches his voice low when he’s on the phone. And he tries to hum, not sing.

Key word: Tries. Better word: Fails.

He attempts to muffle his Bluetooth speaker with an old racing jersey, but the sound leaks through the fabric anyway. You feel the vibrations of the Noah Kahan song in your toes as you wordlessly pad into the kitchen. The space smells like maple syrup and flour, like what used to be good about off-seasons and long weekends.

Daniel is too busy wrestling with a pancake to notice you at first. He’s singing, almost like it’s a stage whisper of some sorts.

We ain’t angry at you, love, your boyfriend croons to himself, you’re the greatest thing we lost.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when you wrap your arms around his waist.

“Jesus Christ!” The words escape him in a surprised back of laughter. “You move like a freakin’ ninja, I swear.”

A drowsy smile curls on your face as you rest your cheek to his back, in the space between his shoulder blades. You had always teased him for being something like your personal radiator. He’s solid and warm in your arms, enough to make you want to crawl back into bed.

“You’re here,” you mumble into the unjustifiably soft material of his sleepshirt.

You feel him chuckle. The sound ripples through his body, through his obvious resistance in turning around and hugging you properly. He’s far too dedicated to the pancake in the non-stick pan to give into your sleepy brand of affection.

“Where else would I be?” he teases lightly.

Austin, you nearly say, because you’ve memorized the race calendar like the back of your hand. But you bite your tongue at the last second, holding back the remark when you remember—right. Right.

He’s not even looking at you, but Daniel already knows. He’s always had a sixth sense for anything that had to do with you. With a low hum, he flicks the stove off, sets down his spatula, and finally turns to face you.

He looks better now. It’s a sigh of relief, a major grace. The days after Singapore had been rough, had dimmed his megawatt smile like it was a popped lightbulb that could never be replaced. But then the days turned into weeks, and the media frenzy died down, and proper goodbyes were given to those who mattered most to him.

“Don’t do that,” Daniel chides, tugging at your chin.

You had started chewing on your lower lip, the way you did when you were deep in thought. Hadn’t even noticed it. Of course Daniel had; of course he knew just the way to look at you and hold you in a way that made you feel like you were unraveling.

“Sorry,” you say softly.

“Don’t be,” he says without missing a beat.

He leans down slightly, just enough. You feel his stubble first. The brush of his five o’clock shadow on the top of your head. And then there’s the kiss—the firm press of his lips to your forehead.

Your eyes flutter close as your arms tighten around him. He doesn’t pull away immediately, doesn’t move an inch even as the song on his phone transitions into a new one. So clean the house, clear the drawers, mop the floors, and stand tall, like no one's ever been here before or at all, the singer trills.

“I’m not used to you being around again,” you finally confess, the words almost lost as you bury your face in Daniel’s chest.

“I figured,” he huffs. “Gotta get more used to it, though. I’m going to be home a lot more now.”

You strain your ears, trying your best to see if there’s anything lingering beneath his words. Is there any pain you might need to patch up? Any anger you might need to unpack?

No. Not this time. Daniel says it like a fact. He sounds a bit wistful, and maybe a touch sad. But—for the most part—he’s folding himself back into your life. It’s in the way he sets the table for breakfast and chatters with you about everything except the elephant in the room. It’s in the small argument you have on who will wash the dishes before you settle on a compromise: you wash, he dries. It’s in the afternoon he spends moving around your apartment like he can’t quite relax, like there’s a part of him still behind that cursed second seat.

“Danny,” you call out to him exasperatedly, but he’s not listening.

He sweeps the leaves from your porch. He folds all the laundry. He inspects the cabinets and shelves, which is pretty much the last straw for you.

“Daniel.”

He freezes, hands bracing your bookshelf. The expression on his face—as if he’s a kid caught rifling through the cookie jar. “What?” he asks, already halfway into being defensive.

“What are you doing?”

A beat. He’s looking at you, gauging you, to see how driven crazy you are. It’s truthfully not much, but the warning signs are there. Your arched eyebrows, crossed arms, pursed lips.

He does the unwise thing and tries to play it off.

“Making repairs,” he says. The second word rises in intonation—making repairs?—almost as if he’s asking you, challenging you to stay otherwise.

“You can barely even work a hammer,” you deadpan.

“I take serious offense to that.”

“Danny, c’mon.”

“There’s a loose screw here, I swear—”

“Ricciardo.”

He’s dropping the act before you can even get half his surname out. “Alright, alright.” He crosses the room in a couple of quick strides, settling down next to you. “You caught me.”

The couch groans underneath your combined weight. He perks up, as if pleased to have found something he can work on, but the look on your face has him sheepishly curling into your side. Absent-mindedly, you begin to curl your fingers through his hair.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, treading as delicately as you can manage.

An outsider might not see anything wrong. Daniel curls around you like a parentheses, pulling you into him until you’re tucked together. He’s been holding you like this a lot as of late. Arms around your middle, face burrowing into the side of your neck. Relearning your curves, keeping you from slipping through his fingers.

“Nothing,” he murmurs against your skin.

You pinch the back of his neck. He whines in protest.

“What’s going on in your head, love?” you rephrase.

The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. It holds like a held breath. When Daniel responds, it’s in the deep exhale of the truth.

“I don’t know how—” He pauses, inhales, pushes on. “I don’t know how to be.”

“Be what?”

“Just be.”

Ah.

Daniel has gone stock still next to you, as if the confession is one that will have him condemned. It makes your heart ache. You’re the last person in the world to ever think bad of this man, and you make it clear as you plant a kiss between his scrunched eyebrows.

“It’s okay,” you say soothingly. “You’ve got time.”

He mumbles something inaudible into your collarbone. Something about the hour, something about you. You give an absentminded hum in response. Right now, all you can do is let the moment pass.

Let Daniel find his footing. Let your apartment feel like a home again. Let Sundays be exactly that—not a race weekend, not the loss of his life. Just a weekend. Just a Sunday.

After a couple of minutes, he breaks the silence. “I think I’d like to be a house husband.”

That makes you giggle. “What?” you ask, giving his forehead a light flick of your fingers. “A house husband?”

He pulls his face away from where he’d been hiding. And there it is, you think to yourself. The face-splitting smile that has whiskers crinkling around his eyes. God, the things you would do to keep Daniel smiling like that.

“I’d be pretty good at it, no?” he teases. “I can cook. I can clean.”

“The pancakes were burnt this morning.”

“And you said you loved them.”

The bickering brings laughter, and the laughter gives way to breathless kissing, and the kissing lapses into another bout of silence. This one is a lot more companionable, as if Daniel’s spirits have been lifted after only a couple of bad jokes and exchanged smooches.

Relief rattles out of Daniel in a soft sigh. A quiet, wordless acquiescence of This is my life now.

He looks like he doesn’t regret it. You want so badly to keep it that way. ⛐

#daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one imagine #f1 imagine #daniel ricciardo fluff #f1 fluff #formula one fluff #⛐ kae prix #⛐ dr3

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johanna-swann · 3 days ago

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Okay, so this is going to sound very conspiracy theory like, but here's what I think happened (in regards to Bobby's death, Tommy being back, Eddie still not being back and a general outlook on season 9).

I think Tim Minear came back to the show, they moved to a different network, they churned out half a season somehow between multiple strikes and other adjustments. They put a lot of money into the opening disaster which worked and got fans excited. They peppered in soap opera style plot points throughout the rest of the season (wedding episode, Buck coming out, Doppelgänger plot, reintroducing Bobby's background, new Henren kid) because the fans care about the characters and what happens to them. There was barely any procedural in this drama throughout most of season 7, it was 90% the characters' personal drama they showed.

But people were willing to overlook this because at least all the characters had stuff going on and there were extenuating circumstances. Then season 8a rolled around. Once again they went big on the opening disaster, after that though?

Most of the plots introduced in season 7 were dropped immediately. Bobby was suicidal at the end of last season, he's fine in 8x01 though. The conflict between Eddie and Christopher is mentioned here and there, but we don't see Eddie working on his issues. Ortiz is defeated and written out of the show in the very first episode after the opening disaster. Athena gets her thriller plot in the opening disaster and then gets sidelined for the next idk how many episodes. Maddie and Chimney are barely main characters at all, they mostly just exist in the background. The only relevant plot they kept going was Bucktommy, but even they only got insubstantial comedy side plots until they were suddenly broken up. The mid-season finale was a huge let-down and there was barely anything interesting going on in the show anymore.

Here's where the conspiracy part begins: Without the distraction of at least one engaging plot to follow and the lack of new episodes coming in viewers started to notice that the show was treading water. Then the feedback started to trickle in and it wasn't good. I think that's when they decided that they really had to do something that would shake things up and change things permanently. They had already filmed the serial killer two parter though, so they only made small changes / additions (Buddie goodbye scene) and started to really write stories with a lasting impact again post 8x10.

Call me crazy, but I think they really didn't plan to bring Tommy back, not so soon and not as Buck's love interest. That's not what the interviews sounded like back in November. But then, only a few episodes after the break-up suddenly Tommy was back, they showed how both Buck and Tommy still have feelings for each other and literally made Buck say the words "I am not in love with Eddie". There will be no more "will they won't they" "queerbaity-ish" plots between Buck and Eddie, that conversation is over. They gave a nod to the fandom by bringing it up like "yeah, we see you" and at the same time let them down gently by saying "we're going another direction though". That is a very permanent decision for a show that doesn't like change. The way they keep bringing Tommy back, even when he's only mentioned, could very well also mean he's here to stay which means giving Buck, the resident perpetual bachelor, a permanent love interest. Another huge change.

The second thing they did was remove Eddie from the equation. Not completely, not permanently, not yet. But let me just throw the idea out there: What if this was a test run? A "let's not get rid of him just yet, let's see if we can manage without him first". So they sent Eddie to Texas. Finally did something with that plot, even if it was severely disappointing and made no sense. (The problem was that Eddie had issues he didn't work on and in the process hurt his kid and broke his trust. Then we see them in Texas, but suddenly Eddie's mom is the actual problem while Christopher is super chill around Eddie? When the last time we saw them speak to each other Christopher barely wanted to talk to Eddie? Make it make sense.) Anyway, Eddie still got his screen time, but they kept him firmly separated from the 118. Buck was on the phone with Eddie a few times, mostly so Eddie would have a scene partner who he could talk to openly, nobody else even mentioned Eddie. Bobby accidentally called Ravi "Eddie" twice, but I think that was more about Ravi feeling like maybe he doesn't belong rather than Bobby actually missing Eddie. So yeah, maybe this was a trial run to see if they can do season 9 without Eddie and so far I have to admit, I don't really miss him? I'm sure they could've worked him into the recent two parter, but they definitely didn't need him.

Third they brought back Ravi and this time everyone is happy to have him there. Buck tries to actually be his friend this time around, gets to be a mentor figure for him and Ravi has his small "maybe I'm not cut out for this" to "I'll commit domestic terrorism if that's what it takes" arc. 8x14 really cemented that Ravi is a part of the team and he chooses to be a part of this team. He's a pall bearer in Bobby's funeral for god's sake, he belongs to the 118 - a 118 that needs new members because they're losing at least one this season. So. Ravi main season 9?

Big change number 4 - Bobby's death. A main character death is a big, big stunt. If they decide they don't like Tommy for Buck after all, they can change their minds later. If they decide they want Eddie back, they can leave options open to bring him back later. Bobby's death? They can't walk that one back. Bobby and Buck are probably the most central characters for the firefam (Bobby as the patriarch and Buck as the link between all sides of the family) and Peter Krause is no small name on tv. This is not a move they would've pulled if they weren't committed to making drastic changes to a show that previously had come to a bit of a standstill. They want to change the very foundation of this show. If they're willing to kill off one of the main characters among main characters, what else are they willing to change? Some of the above? All of it?

The final piece is still very vague, but they also said they wanted to keep Athena connected to the 118 in a tangible way. People have suggested that May might become a firefighter, but tbh I don't think it would fit. She already was a part of the first responder network for an entire year and then decided to go to uni anyway. Athena went to uni and then decided to become a cop instead, May did it the other way around. Why would they change that again now? I think it's more likely that a) Harry graduates and applies to the academy or that b) they'll make May and Ravi a couple. The latter could also make sense if they're trying to keep the same amount and kinds of couples around. If Buck and Tommy really get back together and become a permanent fixture in the 911 universe, May and Ravi could be the new "will they won't they" couple who keep running into stupid hurdles because they're not sure what they're doing while Bucktommy slowly settle down.

Conclusion: Big changes are on the horizon for 911, they already vaguely teased that there may be cast changes other than just Peter Krause being gone for season 9. I think they decided that some major changes needed to happen during the winter hiatus and then talked about a few possibilities, tried some of them and are now ready to finalise those decisions. Maybe one of the reasons that filming is coming along so slowly is that they weren't sure yet which route to go, had to re-shoot scenes or filmed several versions to choose from. (There are soooo many stills that never showed up in an episode.) Idk, but what I do know is that there are a lot of possibilities for permanent change to choose from and they seem committed to actually go through with those changes this time.

#long post #911 abc #911 spoilers #911 critical #911 discourse #eddie diaz #bobby nash #ravi panikkar #bucktommy #athena grant

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twig-tea · 2 days ago

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Heesu In Class 2 Ep9: What an Episode of Television

I'm still breathing through my emotions after watching the latest episode of Heesu. If you haven't watched yet, tomorrow is the finale and I highly recommend catching up so that you can sit with the emotional overwhelm of this ep before we get the last episode!

I have been loving how this show understands queerness and how queerness especially while closeted can be overwhelming, and the ways in which the show has used the heterosexual storylines in the side characters to highlight, underscore, and uplift the emotions that come with the closet.

@neuroticbookworm wrote beautifully about the build of emotions this episode, and @lurkingshan perfectly described how much the visual metaphor of the climactic scene affected me and @happypotato48 did a beautiful job putting the metaphor into words. @dramadramallama captured my feelings about the way the show said to camera that a gay crush has additional concerns that make confessing so much harder, and @bengiyo wrote an excellent analysis of how the heterosexual stories have been in service to the main story.

I'm going to build on some of the things not already mentioned, so read these posts too!

Everything in this show is so carefully calibrated to work together to tell this story, and it is breathtaking. I'm still thinking about the way Heesu tested the waters with his siblings by mentioning the lesbian who asked him for advice at school and how he was so relieved that SeungWon has lesbian moms from several episodes ago because at the least there is one person who he knows won't hate him just because of his queerness. That was such a good foundation for the way we get fully immersed in Heesu's struggle with the closet in this episode and why he's having such a difficult time telling his friends what's going on with him. And as Ben mentioned in his post, Chan Young and Ji Yu are also out here illustrating some of the things Heesu is worried about, with their struggles with parental rejection and peer ostracization/attention.

In addition, one of the smaller storylines this episode was Ho Sik confessing because he was encouraged to, and being rejected. I love this happening now because it's another illustration of how much easier it is for heterosexuals to confess. Ho Sik was unsure he was going to be accepted, but he was not afraid of the whole school hating him, of his friends rejecting him, of his life being upended because of the confession. He gets to just be sad and move on (with someone waiting in the wings).

Heesu's sister's stories and the way they relate to the queer experience struck me as well this episode. The reveal that Hee Jong bailed on her ex the way Yeong bailed on Gyu Ho (sorry for the Love in the Big City spoilers but if you haven't seen that show yet you just gotta go do that before you do anything else anyway) was a battering ram to my solar plexus. Her siblings have thought that he abandoned her, but it was the other way around. And she did it because she was scared. The fact that she's gathered her pride and her courage and will be joining him after all even without expectation of their romance reigniting is beautiful to me, and such a good example for her younger sibling that being afraid and holding yourself back hurts the people you love who you inevitably are holding yourself back from. And the message that even if you've hurt one another, and your relationship ends, it doesn't necessarily mean that you can't go back to being friends is a good one. It's not always true, but it's something Heesu needed to hear while gathering his own courage to confess to Chan Young, not because he wants a romantic relationship anymore but because he values their friendship.

Chan Young and Heesu's friendship has see-sawed across the series, as first Chan young and then Heesu's secrets got in the way. They are parallel stories and by showing us Chan Young isolating from Heesu first (around tennis), we understand the emotions behind why he' so upset when Heesu does the same thing to him (we saw Heesu upset at Chan Young when he wouldn't tell him about tennis for this very reason--so that there's precedent for Heesu's secret being such a big deal to Chan Young now). Chan Young revealed to his dad that he was going to go for tennis and he turned to his friend, because he knew Heesu would have his back even though he hadn't shared his worries or plans about tennis with him before. But coming out is different. Chan Young tried to turn on the light in Heesu's bedroom to get him to spill what's bothering him, but Heesu could not tell him even in the dark while they were in his bedroom. He needed the neutral location of the classroom, and I'm unwell about how scared Heesu is that Chan Young is going to hate him, that he didn't feel safe telling him at his house, or was worried it would force Chan Young to leave if it made him not feel safe there. The way our presence is sometimes such a threat that we have to worry about that makes me physically ill.

That being said, Chan Young being so upset that the best friend who is currently saving his life (maybe dramatic, but as someone who also left home to stay with a friend when things were too much, it feels this way) doesn't trust him with something is valid. Everyone has the right to come out in their own time when they're ready, and should not be forced or rushed. And, at the same time, when we don't tell someone such a fundamental truth about ourselves, it isolates them from us and does not allow them to fully know us. Both of these things are true, and the tension between them is why the closet is so miserable. I loved Chan Young calling this out explicitly this episode: Heesu does not trust him with who he is, and that hurts; just like it hurt Heesu when Chan Young wasn't sharing his concerns about tennis and his family with him. Both of these two have struggled being vulnerable with one another, and these conversations are necessary for their friendship to deepen. Heesu making the decision to not just come out to Chan Young but to confess that he had a crush is him laying all of his cards down, and is excruciatingly vulnerable of him. I'm so proud of Heesu that he was able to get to this place, and Chan Young for opening up first and being such a good friend that Heesu felt safe enough to trust him with this.

Finally, shout out to Ji Yu for being my voice in this show lol she has been such a good friend through this whole series and the way she keeps pushing Seungwon to tell Heesu the truth while supporting him in his lies has been peak best friend behaviour. I love that Seungwon has not had the same pressure of the full closet this whole time and how the fact that his secret-keeping is narratively held differently than Heesu's secret keeping was so deftly done. Heesu is in this black hole and the only way out is through, and Seungwon is both terrified of him leaving it and desperate for him to do it. I love that the show calls out that Heesu's unresolved crush on Chan Young is holding both of them back, and that Seungwon has committed to confessing and made it as clear as he can without confessing that he has feelings for Heesu (and he's been extra careful to clarify that he does not have feelings for Ji Yu), so that Heesu is not left uncertain or emotionally toyed with.

This show has been excellent slow build television, grappling with how queerness complicates one-sided love, how the closet is soul-destroying and so isolating, how our first love does not have to be our best love, and how being honest about what we want and having courage and support to go after it is the route to happiness. I'm so excited for tomorrow's finale.

#heesu in class 2 #bl meta #typed so that i can stop thinking it #except this didn't help i'm still so in my feelings

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pearl-is-cool · 15 hours ago

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Soo uhm hiiii!!

my first writing post!!! I'm excited!! I've been in the community a while now but I've never written before so I hope you like it!!! I just got this thought one day so here yah are!

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Baker!Reader (who is kinda just like him)

2000+ words and vague mentions of self harm + a hard past.

xx pearl xx

You're a Baker by trade.

Well, you have a bakery, but you serve coffee and things as well. Nothing fancy, and your speciality is still baking, but it can't hurt.

It's nice work. Tucked away in a little English village, where everyone knows everyone and everything. Community had been something you'd craved for a while, and even if it means practically everyone knows your business, it's worth it. Sweet and peaceful.

When you told your parents about the small shop + flat you'd bought near the coast, they'd almost kicked you out right then. You zoned out a little while they went on, but you caught 'a waste of potential!' And 'that's all you're doing with your life!'

So yes. All in all, it had been a very good investment.

You bake, and you heal, and you go down to the beach. It's always cloudy around here, your nearer Scotland, after all. Even the scars on your arms fade from pink to something tanner.

It's calming. You make friends with the woman who runs the local pub (there's another a bit down left sides road but you wrote off that man when he told you about his podcast.) Her name is Ester and she's in the middle of her 2nd trimester her stomach slightly round. She lets you feel the baby kick one time, and you almost burst into tears right there.

You never thought you'd have this. Peace and quiet and community and friends. Esters husband teaches you how to fix the sink in your flat and gives you a belly laugh when you ring him up to tell them both about how you fixed it on your own.

You keep your flat cleaner (though dishes still occasionally pile up in the sink. You always get to them before it becomes too much though.) You make small talk with the villagers (some of them are still learning to trust you but things are going well!) And make people who drive through on their way to somewhere else coffee and tell them fake stories you make up for fun.

It's quiet and repetitive, and you've never been happier.

...

You have regulars a lot. Most people in the village like a pastry or a quick coffee or tea in the morning before they start work. There's an engine company a few miles back, and sometimes the employees come in for something to eat on a lunch break.

Then you get a new regular.

You've never seen him before, but the other villagers setting down don't turn to look or even glance up. Which is strange because he's wearing goddamn combat boots in the middle of spring for Christ's sake.

You give him a strange look out the corner of your eye, but go on with this random man's coffee he is impatiently tapping his foot on the ground for. You're taking extra long because he said, "Do it quick. I need to be somewhere more important soon." When you asked what he wanted to order.

Ester asks how you stay in business at least twice a month.

Finally you give the man his coffee (it's almost cold) and accept his money. Then next is the man.

You glance up and frown again at the mask covering his face. At the hoodie covering his hair. For a second, you almost wamt to ask why, but then you decide it's none of your business.

"What do you want to order?" You ask politely.

"Coffee. Black." He replies gruffly and slightly muffed from behind the mask.

"Alright. That will be £3:50." Oh, thank God you don't have to chat to this man. You don't hate chatting to the villagers because you know that in the end, it will have a payout (them trusting you), but the people who work at the engine place are... inconvenient.

He hands over 3 pound coins and a 50 pence they clatter onto the counter, and you pour them into the cash register.

He moves away to go sit down at one of the arm chairs in the corner. It's one of Esters spares its brown fake leather, slightly worn but comfy.

You get to making the man's coffee. It's a simple procedure that you've done thousands of times, and you let your mind drift away as you push onto the counter.

He comes up to collect his coffee cup and leaves the shop, and that's the last thiught you give to him for the rest of the day.

...

He comes in the next day and orders the same thing and sits in the same chair as he waits for it.

Exact same interaction

You forget all about him again.

...

He comes in the next day.

...

And the next.

...

And the next.

...

For a full week, he comes in orders, coffee waits, then leaves.

Then he's gone.

You don't think much of it.

...

He comes back again now. For two weeks, he comes in to get a black coffee and then leaves.

By the second week, you see him walking in (unless you're talking to someone, but most of the time, he comes in at what? Like 8? No one can be bothered to get a pastry or something at 8 unless they work at the engine place.) You've already got the coffee going. You think his eyes crinkle slightly when he sees you do it.

Maybe you're imagining it.

...

He doesn't come in on the Monday after.

It's weird you didn't really pay much attention to the hulk of black in the corner, but when he's gone, you feel it like someone left a window open that you can't find to close. A cold wind making you shiver.

Again, you ignore it. Your life here is good right now. You don't need another man to come in, make everything confusing, and mess all of it up again!

...

He's back two months later.

You raise an eyebrow as he walks through the door, limping slightly.

"Should get a crutch for that." You say automatically, turning to start the coffee machine. He visibly starts at you talking to him but relaxes into it.

"Hm." He grunts. "Make me look a bit dumb I think. Too small."

You hum in assent peering up at him. How actually did you not notice how absolutely fucking massive he was? Christ you have been in your own head. You should go for a long walk, try to focus on everything bit your thoughts. That's what got you here in the first place.

You slide the coffee onto the counter and he takes it hesitating for a second before he sits down in the armchair and stays to finish it.

...

This goes on for another week before he dissappears again.

...

You wake up panting at 3 in the morning. Bad dreams are the worst these days. You were probably dumb for thinking they would go away if you'd moved but a girls gotta hope right!?

You rise, shower shove some porridge down your throat state at the dishes and sigh. You have the time and we don't want a repeat of what happened back in the city.

After you've gotten most things sorted around the apartment you decend the stairs and start probably the best time of your day.

You knead bread and zone out lost in the simplicity of it all. The desserts are harder but you've done most of these things so much that it's just muscle memory at this point. It's calming and you feel almost out of your body whilst you do it. But in a good way. In a better way.

It's seven by the time your finished and since you always open at 8 you try out something you've been thinking about for far too long.

Black coffee cake.

Pure coincidence of course.

You don't even think about him once while you do it.

...

He starts coming in 5 months later and now since it's a pattern you've gotten used to it. You see him rounding the corner onto he other side of the street and you make his coffee.

He comes in and you slide it into his palm. He freezes for a second and your lips twitch up.

"Made you one of them every day you were gone." You say as a joke. "Have to pay me back loads."

He blinks and you think he smiles for a second before he ask if he can have a to go box for the cake.

...

He asks your name one day a faint twitch behind the mask as you say it.

He tells you his. Simon. You hadn't considered it for his name before (when did you get this curious about a strangers life? Christ you need to go for a walk) but when you repeate it back to him it slides off your tounge like honey. Like you should have been saying it the whole time before.

Later you bake honey cupcakes with lemon buttercream.

Not a coincidence.

None at all.

...

He comes in again and you hand him his cake to go and the coffee you think you could make in your sleep by now.

"M goin' away for a while now."

"Huh are you? Don't forget me." You say deadpan. Talking with Simon has become less of a chore and more of something you look forward to everyday.

"As if I could." He snorts slightly and your lips twitch.

"Well," you conclude handing him some change. For once he doesn't have the exact amount of money. "Have fun while your gone I suppose."

"Eh. I'll try."

He walks out there the bell ringing clearly and your chest squeezes painfully-

Ah. Well. That's not convenient.

...

While he's gone (you really should have asked him how long he was going away for.) You hire Alices girl from down the road, Sammy. She sweet and serves people with a smile and a swish of her shiny blonde hair. Ester tuts when she comes in and tell hers to eat more.

"Christ's sake girl I can see your collarbones!" She laughs and smiles

"Its all good Ester I'll be fine pinkie promise!"

Ester rolls her eyes and gives you a tub fulled with mashed potatoes and sausages to sneak into her locker.

You melt into it smiling at Ester faintly until she snaps her fingers in front of your face and tell you to get on with it.

...

Esters stomach is rounder now. She says she thinks the baby will come early.

"Just a turn in the wind I think. Little bugger really wants out don't he?" She says one day while you help her shift the furniture in the pub. (She's insistent on the baby being a boy and she is rarley wrong so you accept it. It's a fact of life. The sky is blue the grass is green Ester Green is always right.)

She had refused to go on break while she was pregnant even at her husbands insistence. He was practically crying when she told him she could push some chairs around. She got you in to help though so fairs fair.

She grins at you one day tilting her head slightly.

"How would you feel about bein' Godmother?" She asks out of the blue when your finished.

"Huh?" She shrugs

"Your the closest person here so he wouldn't be brought out his home town and my mams in a nursing home. I know I haven't known you long and you don't have to say yes I know your cramped for space but," She looks at you sharp and attentive. "You've gotten through shit. I don't know what shit and I hope you'll tell me when your ready but I feel you'd teach him things. Good things. How to bake bread and how to get through life even if its a pain in the bloody neck. I trust you."

"Your gonna have to stop sweating so much when you baby arrives." You manage to wheeze out your eyes glazed over choked up.

...

He comes back in February. The eyebrow you raise when he comes back in, you be engraved in stone for its majesty.

"Look what the cat dragged in, eh? Old Simon Riley."

He huffs out a laugh. "Leaves hard to get." Ah, military. That makes more sense.

You used to be good at flirting, you think. Well, at least the boys you tried it on used to fall for it. But you're scared that if you try it again, it might come too easy, and if that's comes too easy, how easy will the rest of it be to pick up again? And you have responsibility now. Don't pick the wrong guys they always tend to stick around longer.

Your a godmother now.

"Hmh. We've got toffees now."

"Alright. Hand it over then." You give him the coffee and drop the toffee into his outstretched palm.

"How much?"

"Free." He narrows his eyes, and you shrug. Sammy brings her little sister here sometimes when they fight too much at home, and you've gradually gathered a collection of sweets to grab and go for free.

Ester stared you dead in the eye for a good minute before sighing and muttering under breath. "Better person than me. Better person than me."

...

"I'm a godmother now." You say one day as an opening

"Huh." He pauses for a few seconds. "You'll make a good one."

You don't talk again, afraid he'll hear the crack in your voice.

...

He comes in every day as normal to make conversation. Whenever he steps through the door and the bell jingles, your heart starts skipping into your chest. You know what it means, of course, and it's really rather annoying. You didn't come here to get a crush you came there to recover for Christ's sake.

You chat at the counter for longer and longer every day until sometimes a customer comes in, and you have to shoo him away or before his coffee gets cold.

On Wednesday, he comes in, and while you're talking about something meaningless, he passes and says.

"Uhm. Thanks. For not yknow. Commenting on the mask and all." You blink at him as he shifts clearly uncomfortable.

You shrug. "Eh. I just don't care." He huffs, and his eyes definitely crinkle this time.

"Glad for it."

"Sure you are. Now go away and drink your coffee before it gets cold. Christ sake." You mutter warmth prickling in your cheeks.

He chuckles (an actual laugh now you're getting somewhere) and slopes off out the door.

...

He comes in on Friday.

"I gotta go away again."

"Do you know? Huh."

"Yep. 3 months this time. Back on May 7th."

"Hmh. I'm glad I won't be wasting my time making your coffee every morning now."

"Cause you've got people linin' at the door for this coffee." Your lips twitch slightly.

"Course. Can't you see them all?"

He rolls his eyes slightly. When he's turning to leave, you manage to choke out a soft "Goodbye."

He falters slightly the only indication he heard you before he leaves not looking back as he does so.

...

May 7th creeps up on you, and before you know it, it's April 30th, and you're arguing with Lottie (Sammys sister). "We can't turn this into a sweet shop." You say for the millionth time. "I don't know how to make sweets."

"You can learn!" She retorts pouting. You run a tongue over your cheek. God, you're soft.

"Tell you what. Since it's your birthday tomorrow, I'll set up a sweet corner. It stays for the day, then it's gone, okay?"

She grins now sweet and gap-toothed and skips away smugly.

...

It does not stay for the day.

In your defence, Lottie has really good puppy eyes!

Ester stares daggers at you.

"You are..." she cuts herself off.

...

May 7th is here, and here comes Simon. Whatever his last name is (you should really ask him that) followed by several too-tall military men. A man with a beard one with a mohawk (God Betty is going to bug him about that) and a pretty one with a moustache.

The pretty one with the moustache comes up to order. Flashing you a smile and asking for 4 black coffees (all of them?! Christ on a stick. Do they forbid having taste in the military or what?!), a slice of carrot cake, coffee cake, caramel shortbread, and a croissant. (Maybe they don't.)

You look for Sammy, but she's balancing plates on her arms, trying to gather all of them up from the group that ate here later.

You huff. God, you need more staff. You hate talking to people, and Simons friends look exactly like they like a chat. You breathe in a sigh and gather the coffee cups, cakes, and the pastry onto a large tray.

You feel nervous all of a sudden. It's just Simon. You try to remind yourself. Just Simon. He tells you dad jokes and complains about people leaving litter on the walking paths.

You pick the tray up and carry it over, settling it down on the table as the men glance up at you with far too much interest.

"So," the one with the mohawk says. "You're the future, Miss Riley, huh?"

#call of duty #cod #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost #tf 141 #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost x reader #fanfic #ghost fanfiction #ghost x reader fanfiction #fanfiction #i hope you guys like it!!!#it might not be very good since its the first time ive written in awhile but i hope you still enjoy!

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katsu28 · 5 hours ago

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hiiiii... first off, i wanted to say that i love your work so so much. i'm usually a silent viewer but i wanted to come out and tell you that your work is absolutely stunning. secondly, i was wondering if you were still taking requests from that prompt list in the pinned post. i was thinking 3,26 and 24 for the absolute comeback lando made during jeddah. if not, all good. do not feel pressured at all to write this ❤️

i appreciate u so much thank u!!! <33

3. hiding face in neck, 24. whispering in their ear, lips touching the skin + 26. kissing the top of their head. lando norris x reader, 1.2k. request something from here :)

Tenth on the grid isn’t near where Lando wanted to be for tomorrow’s race. Crashing out of qualifying definitely isn’t what he wanted either, not for him, but especially not for the team.

Jeddah is a tricky track, so full of tight corners and narrow straights that it could’ve happened to anyone. It just so happened that he was the unlucky one this time around.

He’s already beating himself up even before he gets out of the car. Fucking idiot, were his exact words on the radio, echoing through your headphones in the guest area of the McLaren garage, marking the exact moment your heart sank for him. It had already nearly jumped out of your chest as soon as you saw his car wobble, nearly stopped when he slammed into the barrier coming out of a turn.

A little later, after the session ends and Verstappen has taken pole, you finally find Lando. His feet drag along the floor, helmet dangling from his fingertips as he trudges into the garage looking far from happy.

His eyes find you immediately after he sets his gear down and you smile at him with what you hope is reassurance masking your concern, waiting for him to make his way over to where you are. He buries himself into your arms as best he can with the box wall between you, hiding his face in your neck like it’ll let him hide from the world.

Things like this are inevitable in every driver’s career, but Lando has always taken the setbacks rather hard. Always blaming himself, getting in his head about all the what ifs and could’ve beens. You can’t solve his problems for him, but you can help in other ways.

You squeeze him tightly, as if all your worries and his disappointment could melt away the closer you hold him. He’s here, he’s okay.

“M’okay, baby,” Lando mumbles, words muffled against your skin. Your fingers comb through the damp curls at the nape of his neck, palm splaying across warm skin just so you can feel his pulse under your touch. Lando pulls away just a bit, enough to speak clearly. “I’m fine, I promise. No damage—to me, at least. Car’s fucked.”

“The team can fix it. They will fix it,” You insist, bringing one hand up to cup his face. Your thumb strokes over his rosy cheek, eyes boring into his with such firmness you want him to feel it too. “Everything will be fine tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

You can’t promise him anything—not really—but you nod anyway, sealing when you hope isn't an empty promise with a kiss. “I promise, Lan.”

-------

You swear you haven't blinked since lights out.

Your eyes have been glued to the screen above you the entire race, headphones clutched to your ears so you can hear exactly what's going on with Lando. You’ve even got the F1 app open on your phone to track live timings so you don't miss a thing from the depths of the garage.

With every overtake, every gained position, your heart pounds a little faster. You’re even sweating a little bit, which would be odd given that you’re not actually the one in the car. But when your boyfriend is racing for his life out on track with only a handful of laps to go, you’re a ball of nerves.

You mutter encouragement under your breath the whole time like Lando can hear you, fingers crossed so tightly it’s starting to hurt as the laps tick down to the final one. Anything is possible until he flies by that checkered flag.

Lando crosses the line fourth.

He’d put up a phenomenal drive, fighting his way past seven very impressive opponents, managing his tires, keeping up the pace. In your eyes, he’s a winner all the time, but especially now. With what happened yesterday, a P4 comeback is sure to put some confidence back in him.

You find him chatting with Oscar after his post-race media duties, completely unaware of your appearance as you start to creep towards him from behind.

Oscar does notice, but doesn’t say anything when he spots you over his teammate’s shoulder, just tries his best to hide his grin so as to not blow your mission.

Lando's still going on and on about tire degradation when you pounce on him from behind.

“Fucking hell!” He screeches, nearly keeling over backwards before he manages to get his hands under your thighs for support. At the excited kiss you smack to his cheek, he lets out a loud exhale. “Baby, don’t do that! I thought I was being mugged!”

“In the middle of the paddock? Seriously?” You giggle, both feet back on the ground. You smile at the younger boy across from you. “Hi, Oscar! Mega drive today, congrats on the win.”

Oscar’s cheeks tinge pink and he grins, rocks back on his heels a little. “Glad you thought so.”

“Alright, mate, don’t you have your own girlfriend to bother?” Lando huffs dramatically, hooking an arm around your shoulders. You roll your eyes playfully at his change in demeanor. “Go on, get out of here, kid.”

“See you on the plane, old man,” Oscar shoots back, sidestepping the halfhearted swipe Lando takes at him. He holds his fist out towards you for a bump. “Great to see you again.”

“Likewise. Say hi to Lily for me.” You wait for Oscar to disappear into the team hub before turning your attention on your boyfriend, hands on your hips, brows raised. “Why are you like this?”

“Me? Baby, he was seconds away from giggling like a fucking schoolgirl. I’m telling you, Oscar definitely has a crush on you.”

“He has a girlfriend, Lando. You’ve met Lily, you’ve seen them together. He’s head over heels for her, and you’re being ridiculous.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Let’s stop talking about him now.”

You drape your arms around his neck, tilting your chin up at him with a smile. “You’re lucky I find your weirdness attractive.”

“Luckiest guy in the world, I always say,” He hums, beaming back at you. “So, what’d you think of the race?”

“You did amazing today, Lan,” You say, nearly squeezing the life out of him with your hug. He pushes in closer to hear you over the bustle of the paddock and you do the same, putting your lips right against his ear for your next whispered praise. “I’m so proud of you, d’you know that? I'll always be proud of you, wherever you finish, whatever you do.”

“Yeah, I know,” He says bashfully, grinning ear to ear. His arms wrap tighter around you. “Thanks to you. My lucky charm.”

“Nuh uh, that’s all you, baby,” You reply with a shake of your head. Lando can only smile bigger, kissing the top of your head four times in succession, four lucky kisses for his lucky charm. “Ready to go home?”

“Ugh, beyond. I need a fucking shower,” He groans, tipping his head towards the night sky. His gaze snaps back to you just as fast, this time with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Wanna join?”

“Way to ruin the heartfelt moment, you horndog.”

“Don’t act like you weren’t thinking the same thing!”

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post a new fic :)

#requested!#lando norris #lando norris x reader #ln4 x reader #lando norris fic #lando norris fluff #lando norris x fem!reader #lando norris x you #lando norris imagine

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reilemon · 1 day ago

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Hey-o, Rei's boyfriend here hijacking her page with an updated D&D analysis of lads. Honestly I've probably been thinking about this a bit too much and figured I'd post my final opinion on what each one of them would be, class-wise, in a D&D 5e universe. So for anyone interested in a random guy's opinion on the topic, here goes:

Rafayel - I am keeping my original opinion for a Bard: College of Whispers. I did think about the potential of multiclassing into a Rogue: Assassin for a more stealthy approach, but that may be more suited for his myth card. Straight Whispers Bard seems right to me.

Xavier - Also mostly keeping this one to my original opinion, which is a Paladin: Oath of Devotion. Main reason I like this one is the Channel Divinity it gets, really matching the light-sword vibe. Maybe ignore the first tenet of the oath for this one though ("Don't lie or cheat." - yeah sure...). Alternatively, he could fit as an Oath of the Watchers due to him being a hunter, but sadly no light-sword then.

Zayne - Originally I was sure he is some kind of cleric, with Astra and all. One bit of a problem though - clerics get absolutely no cold-based spells. Now, generally, of the three classic elemental types in 5e (fire, cold, lightning) cold is the forgotten middle child. Fire is the absolute family favorite and found everywhere, while lightning is found less often but still has some features dedicated to it specifically (Storm Sorcerer and Tempest Cleric for example). Cold has basically nothing, so it's not unusual that clerics wouldn't get cold-based spells, but I refuse to make a Zayne build without cold damage in there. Therefore, I think this is a better alternative: Sorcerer: Divine Soul. This changes him from being a follower of a god to having actual divine blood within him, which is more in line with his myth but meh. The main reason for this choice is the ability to get spells from both the Cleric and Sorcerer spell lists, which allows for both healing/support spells (Cleric) and cold-based spells (Sorcerer) to be chosen giving him the same combat feel while keeping the divine aspect.

Sylus - The original idea was a Shadow Monk, but after thinking about it for a bit, I think he is better suited as a Ranger: Gloom Stalker Conclave. Not your usual ranger though, this one we would build as a Strength Ranger with the Unarmed Fighting Style. I think this gives the closest Sylus vibe I can think of in 5e - a beefy unarmed fighter with shadow abilities. What sold me on this idea was the fact that Sylus has a soft spot for animals and nature, and his tracking abilities as well. Not your usual Ranger, but I think the vibe is much better this way than the original Monk idea. Caleb - Now this guy gave me some trouble initially, because firearms are not often found in 5e - or any futuristic stuff really. But then I remembered something about a specific feature, and I was immediately sold, so here goes - Artificer: Armorer. Now, I thought about Artillerist as well due to the drones, but I think Armorer fits him better for one reason alone. The Arcane Armor feature says so: "The armor replaces any missing limbs, functioning identically to a body part it is replacing." which is just perfect. Going the Infiltrator armor model route gives him an energy blast to shoot as well, but Artificers have an optional rule that gives them Firearm Proficiency, which would be in line. As far as I know Caleb is a smart-ass who likes tinkering with stuff, fitting an Artificer very nicely.

Man that took a while to type out... Feel free to comment your own opinions, I love doing things like this - I've been playing D&D and other TTRPGs for like 10 years now. Have a good day y'all!

-Rei's boyfriend

#love and deepspace

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bots-and-cons · 1 day ago

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Ratchet, Knockout and Soundwave x sick human female reader?

I asked this because I myself am sick with a cold and I just feel like it would be nice to read something regarding some of my favorite characters taking care of a sick reader

A/N: Finally trying to get some writing done. I've got a couple of posts with Ratchet and Knockout about this already, so you can find those here, here and here. I only did Soundwave, since I've already done similar stuff for the other two and since it's a scenario, it's a character limit of one anyway

You'd never been sick the entire time he'd known you, so why now? Did it have something to do with the time of year? Were humans more likely to get sick in the winter, when it was colder and wetter? It certainly seemed like it, you had been sick for over a week now. Soundwave had been with you in your home, in holoform for a few nights, but other than that, he'd been stuck at the Nemesis. He wanted to take care of you, but he also needed to do his job.

He wanted to slip away again, but to his surprise, you showed up at the Nemesis before he could leave.

"Hi" you said, dragging a big suitcase behind you.

Soundwave's visor showed a question mark, as he pointed at your suitcase.

"Oh this?" you asked, motioning at the suitcase. "You're the only who won't get sick too, and I was tired of being cooped up at home, so I decided to come here. You know, like a sleepover?" you chuckled, but it turned into a cough.

"Acceptable" was the audio clip Soundwave played to agree to your plan.

He didn't think it was the best idea for you to be out and about, but you were correct about the fact that you weren't contagious to him. Other humans would of course get sick if they spent time with you, so it was understandable that you would prefer to be at the Nemesis. That you would prefer to be with him.

Soundwave accompanied you to his habsuite, and helped you set up your little nest in the corner of his berth. You had brought blankets and pillows in your suitcase, so you could be comfortable.

"Do you have more work to do today?" you asked as you settled into your little corner.

Soundwave considered it for a moment, but he just shook his head and sat down on the berth next to you.

"That's nice, I picked a good night then" you smiled tiredly.

Soundwave did still have some work to do, but it wasn't time-sensitive, so he could just do it the next day. Now he would much rather take care of you.

"How are you feeling?" Soundwave asked, by using an audio clip you recognized to be from the TV-show you'd introduced him to last week.

"I'm getting better, slowly but surely. I don't have a fever anymore, but my throat still hurts, and I have a bit of a headache" you shrugged.

Soundwave nodded, looking like he wasn't quite sure if you were being totally honest with him.

"I swear, I'm fine, or at least I'm gonna be soon" you assured him.

Soundwave took you at your word and just hoped you would get better soon. He wasn't really well versed in how human illnesses worked or how something like this might affect you, but from what he'd observed, it didn't seem life-threatening. You just mostly seemed annoyed to be sick.

Soundwave placed his hand on top of your head and petted your hair. It was a comforting gesture, and it made you smile. It was nice to have someone who you could hang out with, without fearing you might get them sick too. You weren't sick very often, but this time the illness was especially persistent, which was very annoying. Soundwave's presence helped a lot, even if he couldn't be with you all the time, you knew he did his best to spend time with you and to take care of you.

"Hey Wavey?" you asked.

Soundwave turned to face you, with yet another question mark on his visor.

"Thanks for spending time with me and taking care of me, I know you're busy, so I appreciate it" you smiled tiredly.

Soundwave nodded and gave you another head pat, with a smiley face on his visor. He was glad to spend time with you, and even if he felt like he wasn't much help with taking care of you, you didn't seem to mind. You looked tired, so Soundwave pulled one of your blankets over you and pressed his forehead against yours for a moment.

"Yeah, I know. I need to rest" you rolled your eyes with a chuckle as he pulled back.

Soundwave decided to stay with you until you fell asleep, and then go finish his work. He didn't have to wait for long, you fell asleep in under ten minutes. He raised his visor a bit and pressed a kiss on your forehead, before heading back to work. You would be safe in his habsuite, and he would be back before you woke up.

#transformers #tfp #transformers prime #maccadam #decepticons #soundwave #tfp scenarios #reader insert #tfp x reader #transformers x reader #platonic transformers x reader

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iwantmyprizepet · 3 days ago

Text

𝒱𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓈𝒽 ℐ𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒴𝑜𝓊 - 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 4/?

Summary: Your doubts started to fight off any hope you had surrounding feelings for Agatha. Then of course…she looked at you. (??? so dumb. did I mention I hate writing these yet?)

Warnings: Just a little..something naughty, 18+, Alcohol.

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: It’s dawning on me how silly it is to drop a story that takes place around Christmas as summer nears. It’s when I started writing this and I guess it kind of just happened. Oh well, too late to back out now. I promise it’s not super hardcore holiday centered. If it’s not your cup of tea I apologize. Agatha will very much so start to shadow any care about dumb holidays soon. Christmas in May? Here we come? - Mich (I've been dreading posting this I think it's such a boring chapter. I promise the next one is better…I hope lol)

AO3 Previous Part Next Part

I felt on edge the rest of the night after Agatha left, unable to place exactly why.

After closing up, I ran to the grocery store which nearly pushed me into overload from the chaos inside.

Little visions slipped in here and there as I ran the aisles. Visions of tackling the public mayhem with Agatha by my side.

When I got home, the quiet of my apartment elevated the sound of my thoughts.

Hateful little things nagging at the back of my mind now as I put groceries away. Not pretty enough. Too young. Not good enough. Not an ounce of a chance.

My flustered state continued into the morning.

I was already running late to get to my parents and couldn’t find my annual thanksgiving sweater. It wasn’t anything special, just a dark green sweater I wore every year. It was completely ridiculous, but I felt near tears searching for it.

I hadn’t felt this generally overwhelmed in a long time.

I debated calling Chloe, but resisted knowing she’d have enough on her plate today. Some of her family members were quite, interesting. Interesting in a concerning political view type of way. I knew she’d be stressed enough on her own by now.

Finally, after digging for a century I found the sweater in a far corner of my closet.

I hurried out the door after finding it nearly sending myself sailing down the stairs.

——————————————————————————

I got swept into cooking as soon as I arrived. It was blazing hot in the kitchen and while they meant no harm by it, my parents were asking too many questions.

I wanted to be present so badly, but a dark pull constantly brought my thoughts to her.

I felt near a boiling point by the time everyone else started to show up.

After about twenty minutes after the whole family arrived I excused myself. My kitchen duties were finished and I was in need of a huge distance from the pulsing entertainment of the house.

Mom’s concerned stare followed me until I was out of sight.

Usually the loudness of my family was endearing, funny and I’d join in. Right now it just felt like being in the middle of a thousand cymbals crashing.

My mood was probably more obvious to everyone than I let myself realize.

I shut the door and sunk onto my old bed letting out a long sigh.

After a mere few seconds Agatha eased into my mind. It was settling and distressing all at once.

As I stared at the ceiling a thought came over me and I reached for my phone.

Opening the browser I typed in her name along with our town and state.

My brain consumed the word CEO right away.

A scroll down led me to an article about her house. Some local news site showing pictures of the listing before she bought it. It was like something out of a movie.

I was spiraling the more I looked. Closing the tab I tossed my phone off the bed. It landed on the carpeted floor with a soft thump.

The fact that I even allowed myself for a second to think I stood a chance with her. The clear age gap aside, paled in comparison to the wealth she seemed to have. Obviously so with the fifties she threw around like change.

Shaking my head I brought my hands to my face. I sucked deep slow breaths in and out trying to steady my wobbling chin. How could I have allowed myself to fall so fast for her?

The search dug it in deep how despite my inner turmoil, I really had let myself form a bit of hope.

Now I just felt silly with a pang in my chest.

Every memory I had of myself around her was causing me to cringe. I felt like a blade of grass to her sun.

A little while had passed, my body temperature dropping back to a normal level. I knew I had to get back soon before a search party was sent up.

While I had calmed down, I was laced with constant unwanted thoughts. My mood soured more and more by the minute.

With force, I made my way back down stairs plastering a smile to my face.

The usual joy my cousins kids brought me just seemed to wear me down.

I of course still entertained their games, but even at their young ages they seemed to pick up on my emotional absence.

Dinner passed in a blur of conversation. I interjected enough to fly under the radar.

It’s what I told myself anyways.

Knowing Agatha was alone today was just another lingering plague on my brain.

After we all finished eating I shooed everyone away taking it upon myself to clean everything up.

The kitchen was spotless when I walked out of it and into the living room. I sunk into a corner half listening to everyone around.

Finally, just after seven my final aunt left the house.

I poured myself another glass of bourbon and breezed past my parents as they walked back from the front door.

“I’m gonna shower quick. I’ll be right back.” I called over my shoulder not waiting for a response.

I grabbed the bag I packed and headed for the bathroom joined to my room.

I took a long sip of the bourbon I’d poured and placed it down a little too heavily.

Walking to the counter, I took in my appearance. Every little imperfection seemed to be obvious today. I closed my eyes, Agatha’s face dripping into view.

After my shower, I headed back down with an empty glass.

Mom and dad were at the kitchen counter laughing at something. They both went quiet upon my entrance.

I placed the glass on the counter, keeping my eyes away from theirs.

After a moment dad grabbed the glass, refilling it with a couple of cubes and some more bourbon. I looked up to him with a small smile, nodding and grabbing the glass.

“Something bothering you, honey?” Mom asked quietly.

I shrugged swirling the ice cubes in the glass.

“Just, overwhelmed the past couple of days. Nothing to worry about.” I responded and finally looked up to her. “Really, work has just been a lot no big deal.”

I was grateful they dropped it there, even though they both clearly didn’t want to.

The three of us settled into the night. Our annual tradition of watching The Griswold family Christmas commenced. A growing guilt from how distant I was today mixed into everything else.

My moms concerned glances lingered throughout the whole film.

The movie ended and I hugged them both goodnight before slipping off to bed.

Typical thoughts of Agatha drifted me to sleep. Swirling around me in a grey cloud.

——————————————————————————

Morning came, the smell of breakfast drifting through the air stirring me. There she was at the forefront again, right off the bat.

Agatha fucking Harkness.

I pulled myself out of bed and made my way downstairs, desperate for water and distraction.

My parents had Christmas music playing softly, dancing about the kitchen singing along. I laughed shaking my head at them as I walked to the fridge. “Good morning my beautiful daughter.” Dad said brightly as I poured myself a glass of water.

“Morning.” I mumbled draining almost the whole glass in one swig.

Mom eyed me closely as I finished off the glass. Always worrying.

After breakfast I was coerced into going to tag a tree.

Sitting in the back of my dad’s truck had me feeling like a kid again. Usually a welcome feeling, now had me only thinking myself inferior to Agatha.

Agatha this, Agatha that I was sick of it at this point. Sick of how bitter it was making me ruining usually enjoyable moments.

The breeze whipped around the tree farm. A woman with her children were searching next to us. Her hair lay dark and wavy.

I of course thought of Agatha.

My parents chose their usual ten footer. I could foresee it now, dad and I fighting it through the door after picking it up in a week.

I picked myself a modest five foot tree, full with strong branches.

We made our way back and I found myself itching to get home. Craving the silence and comfort of my own space.

With hugs and arm fulls of left overs, finally I got into my car and headed home.

The strip was empty when I pulled up. It took two trips to drag everything upstairs.

After a shower and filling up on a plate of leftovers, I sunk into the couch heavily.

For the first time since meeting her, I found myself dreading seeing Agatha.

——————————————————————————

The overwhelming churn bled into Saturday.

A demanding, entitled wave of customers rattled through the doors consistently. Even Chloe seemed to feel the weight of it.

“Is it just me, or is everyone being extra rude today?” She asked annoyed, arms crossed.

I groaned elbows dropping to the counter. “I thought it was just me.”

“Must be ass hole convention in town.” Janice chirped into the conversation from the back.

I nodded in agreement with a light chuckle.

I slumped around more and more as closing time neared, no sight of Agatha. While I was definitely dreading seeing her, it was worse not to. It started to solidify my worries about myself, how I looked to her.

I finished up cleaning twenty minutes to closing. Chloe and Janice left thirty minutes ago.

The idea of seeing Agatha was slipping away.

Just after that thought I heard a car door. My head shot up, heart thumping hard seeing a black Maserati.

With a rush, Agatha breezed herself in.

A tension soaked relief moved through me.

After all this time worrying about seeing her again, now that she was in front of me all I could think about was folding into her.

“Hey, you.” She said it so casually, like we’d known each other for years. I wondered if she had any clue how much turmoil she was causing me.

“Hi.” I replied steadily trying to calm my nerves.

“Sorry to come in so late.” Her hair fell in it’s usual waviness today, soft and windswept.

“Oh, it’s fine no problem.” I walked myself closer to her. I stopped halfway clasping my hands behind my back, anxiety growing under her gaze. “The usual?” I asked fighting to put a smile on my face.

“No.” She answered stepping right to me, perfume sweeping my senses.

My eyebrows pinched together, head tilting looking up to her. I waited for her to answer my silent question.

She smiled softly fiddling with a gold ring on her pointer finger.

“I was in the neighborhood and just wanted to see how your holiday went.” It was the first time she’d said something to me with a hesitation.

I let out a sigh shoulders dropping. I imagined my forehead falling onto her chest, her arms wrapping me up tightly. Instead, I sat on the nearest stool. “It was alright. Stressful, but good.” I admitted.

She sat on the stool next to me, her knee brushed mine on accident as she did.

“How was your ‘just another day’?” I asked mimicking her explanation of the holiday.

She laughed looking down, hair falling on either side of her face.

“Takeout and a bottle of wine. Quiet, but okay.” She said smile not reaching her eyes just like the other day.

My heart ached for her. The idea of her being so lonely on a holiday seemed unfathomable. Someone as kind and beautiful as her having nobody. It didn’t seem possible.

“Agatha?” I paused building the courage to ask. “Don’t feel the need to answer, but how is it possible you have no one to spend a holiday with?”

Her lips pursed, finger tapping on the counter as her eyes darted around everywhere but on me.

“My father was never around. Mother passed away years ago, not that we were ever close. Any other family lives far away and well, I find myself having mostly acquaintances and colleagues. Not so many friends.” She answered me honestly.

A confidence tried to mask the uneasiness on her face.

“No great love in your life?” I asked bracing for the answer.

Long distance relationships were a thing, complicated situationships and also me not having a chance either way was a thing. I reminded myself of that over and over again.

She let out a laugh, rings clinking on the counter as she slapped it.

“It’s always about money or power.” She rested her chin back on her thumb, pointer finger brushing her lips. “I think I’ve given up on it all together.”

It sent a dark feeling through my chest. Not that I couldn’t agree with her sentiment.

“Yeah, I kind of agree.” I forced a laugh. “Well, not the money or power part but ready to give up on it all together part.”

She nudged my knee. “A pretty young thing like you. Why’s that?”

I fumbled on words, her own sending a mix of dread and want through me. The words young and pretty being side by side felt bittersweet.

Against all of my better judgement, I decided on the truth.

“Well, I suppose between cheating and manipulation and” I faltered for a second looking over her shoulder. “And disappearing I guess, I don’t know. It doesn’t seem worth the ache.”

I looked back to her, her whole face pinched in anger. My face dropped searching her for any sign of what caused the change.

“Someone did those things to you?” She asked in a gritty tongue.

Uneasily, I laughed waving my hand. “First long relationship cheated, we were young. Second long term well, I suppose I didn’t realize how much control she had until it was over. How much I lost being with her. She just up and left one day, no word.” My light hearted explanation didn’t seem to ease the anger seeping off of her. “But.” I said clapping my hands to my legs. “The past is in the past I suppose.”

I smiled trying to desperately change the atmosphere around the subject.

Her face softened then, an anger still lingering a presence around her forehead.

“That is despicable that someone would treat you that way.” There was no joking behind her words, she spoke them seriously.

I shrugged rubbing the back of my neck, regretting even mentioning any of it.

“It’s the reason I’m back here and I am perfectly okay with my little life here so, I suppose it was meant to be. Despite how awful it was in the moment.” She finally smiled then fingers dropping just shy of my arm on the counter.

“Well, I suppose I can even be a little thankful for that.” A smile so soft, aimed right at me and my pattering pulse. “Although, if you need me to track someone down and destroy them, do let me know.”

I leant forward laughing at that, arm pressing into her hand that lay so close a moment ago. She laughed too, fingers pressing up into my arm impossible to ignore.

It was joking the way she said it, but something in her eye told me she was only half joking.

“My own personal hitman, just what I’ve always wanted.”

We laughed, her fingers flexing into my arm again making my heart nearly stop. Every second felt like slipping on ice around her.

“I do aim to please.” She said it in a devastating tone.

Free hand making a show of flicking her hair behind her shoulder, chest puffed and chin up.

I held back an audible groan looking at her. As if on it’s own wave length, my arm brushed into her hand underneath it. In an instant, as if in reply her fingers moved against me again.

In this moment with bated breath and a racing heart I thought, how could she possibly not feel it too? I instantly started feeling that annoying budding hope slip in.

The next thought was the clear age gap. It just couldn’t be possible, her forming an interest in me.

Stop getting your hopes up stop stop stop.

Her eyes flicked behind me as my thoughts raced. Her face dropped fractionally and looked back to mine.

“I suppose I should get going.” She said quietly, thumb pressing light as a feather against my skin.

My head snapped behind me, the clock reading five past closing.

“Right.” I looked back to her nodding my head. “Yeah, I guess so.”

I pulled my arm away from her hand and stood. I missed the feeling instantly. She stood and I followed, both of us walking to the door.

“See you tomorrow?” She asked shoulder pressed into the door, pausing as she always did.

I nodded smiling. “I’ll be here.”

A push against the door, a nod, a wink and she was gone.

I stood in my usual daze she left me in, skin still tingling where her hand was.

——————————————————————————

Sunday was flying by since the start of it. The later the day went on, the more my nerves built up.

I grew to expect her later in the day now. I let Chloe and Janice go again, the act becoming a regular thing. It was often before, but not like it was now.

I started pushing holiday storage boxes out after they’d left. I needed something distracting to do.

Changing the playlist coming through the speakers to one with holiday songs instantly cheered me up.

I’ve always loved the holidays. No matter the drama, it brought people together. Despite the stress, it still seemed to always bring out an extra kindness from most. Made you want to be kinder to someone who looked like they were going through it.

Now if you asked me before I moved back if I liked the holidays, it would have been a bahumbug.

A young couple sat in a corner table talking and laughing. I did a quick clean before cracking open the totes. The couple left not long after.

Two stragglers popped in for drinks in the ten minutes that followed and then I was alone.

It was just shy of an hour until closing when her Maserati pulled up.

I placed the small step ladder I was carrying down in the corner.

I had just lined up our Christmas mugs on the counter after cleaning them. A mixture of green, white and red mugs. Our logo on either side surrounded by Christmas lights.

Anne fought me a little on ordering them, arguing it was a waste to get mugs for one month.

My pleading convinced her and we sold so many the first year. Every order that came in sold out near instantly.

Needless to say I already had a fresh batch on the way for the season.

I watched her as she walked in, unable to help the smile she always put on my face.

Everything was black apart from her red sweater. As if she somehow knew the occasion she’d be walking in on.

“Hey.” I greeted, the chipper mood decorating had me in obvious.

“Well, hello smiley.” She replied only making it grow.

She peered over the counter at the red and green totes. Her intoxicating scent mingled with the air distracting me as it always did.

“Am I going to be coerced into being a helping hand for decorating?” She asked playfully.

“Oh, you don’t have to help.” I laughed leaning closer to her. “Might have to watch though.”

One of her inviting hums sounded at that.

“Well, give me something festive for the occasion.” She said placing her purse down and shrugging her coat off. “Not too sweet.”

A delicate, thin gold chain hung around her neck. Gold rings on random fingers to match.

Her hands straightened and brushed down her sweater after she got her coat off. A questioning eyebrow raise from her struck me to realize I should be making her requested drink, instead of staring.

“Festive and not too sweet.” I said a little too loud. “Yes ma’am.”

Another hum sounded from her behind me. I could feel her eyes on me as I grabbed a red and green mug.

I placed a single squirt of peppermint and mocha into the bottom of both cups. Filling the rest with coffee from the pot I stirred them well. With a finishing touch, I shook them with a light dusting of the peppermint chocolate shavings we kept in a jar. Just enough for the eyes to enjoy.

I turned to her with both mugs in and took a sip of mine. Nodding with a shrug I accepted it, placing mine down and handing the green one to her. She eyed it smirking, cupped hands warming around the mug.

“I like the mugs.” She said before taking a light sip.

Another warm hum came up from her, eyes closed. I wanted to be close enough to feel the vibrations of it.

“Approved?” I asked softly.

Her hooded blue eyes opened with a nod.

I took another sip from my mug before turning back. I’d cleared the shelves where we kept our mugs out front for drink orders, storing the usual mugs on shelves in the kitchen.

I boosted myself up, kneeling on the counter to place the holiday mugs precisely. Red, white and green in that order. Finishing they all sat in an even line ready to be used.

I turned, hopping down just catching the tail end of Agatha looking away from me. I tried not to read into it too much.

“I’m sorry.” I laughed and took a sip of my coffee. “This must be very boring for you.”

Her head snapped to me. “I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.”

I almost took it as sarcasm, but the look she gave had me taking it as a serious statement.

“Give me something to do.” She requested fingers flexing as she played with her chain.

“You really don’t have to help.” I felt I needed to make that clear, she didn’t seem too into holidays. The last thing I wanted was her to feel forced into participating.

Agatha clapped her hands to her thighs before standing.

“I’ll just start putting things out.” She stated heading over to a tote. I held my hands up. “Okay, wait wait wait there’s a place for everything.” She laughed, hand to her stomach. “I knew it.”

“What?”

“You just seem very particular about things, I was right.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t respond. She was right, I did tend to be a bit precise with everything. I could tell if someone had moved something an inch in my house.

Chloe regularly informed me of how neurotic I was with making sure everything was in it’s rightful place. I always shot it right back, that I would’t be as neurotic at work if she wasn’t so messy. She refused to help me decorate for Christmas after the first year she was here. Hence me dragging everything out after she had left.

“Okay.” I started to change the subject. “You can put these on the third shelf down by that table.”

I pointed to where I wanted them and gestured to the four snowmen in one tub.

“Any particular order, sarge?” She asked waiting with a look like she knew I’d say yes.

There was in fact a precise order I put them in every year. Just to prove her wrong I shook my head and turned away.

That’s how the next half hour passed. I had just started to hang the last strip of garland in the back corner. It was the highest spot out of them all, I struggled with it every year.

I usually didn’t have anyone around when I did, so it usually got hung with me in an odd stretch across multiple objects to get to it. It was almost a tradition at this point, risking my life for a string of garland.

I was very aware of Agatha watching me as I reached for the corner, stood up at the very top of the step ladder on my tip toes.

I could bring my full size ladder in, but that seemed like a lot of effort for a single strip of garland. That’s what I told myself every year and every year I nearly died hanging it.

I nearly fell to the ground when I felt warm hands press to my lower back and left hip. They strongly steadied my fumble. When I did regain balance I remained frozen under her touch.

“Don’t want you to fall.” She said gently and low. I began to falter for far too long, every second was loudly ticking from the clock. All I could get my brain to focus on was her touch on me.

Shaking hands finally moved as I reached to hang the garland again. The hand on my hip held a little tighter, the one on my back pushing slightly harder as if to give me an extra boost.

Finally I reached the hook it latched to securing the strip of shimmering gold.

Her hands didn’t leave me until I stepped to the floor. I stilled again when I did, her body dangerously close behind mine.

She did exactly what I could only think of doing. Stepping closer she pressed ever so lightly against my back. My eyes fluttered closed for a second. “Dangerous maneuver.” She said on a warm peppermint breath. “It does look nice though.”

I knew she could hear my shaky breathing. There was not a possibility it wasn’t audible to her.

“Yeah.” It was all I could muster in response.

The bell above the door broke the trance. Agatha stepped back in an easy way.

“Hey bud.” Brooks greeted bustling through the door. Chloe followed smiling sheepishly, like she knew something was disturbed.

“Hey guys, what are you doing here?” I tried to ask out casually, hands and voice still trembling slightly.

Nothing felt casual at all. The worst part was how uncomfortable Agatha looked now. I’d never even think she possessed the ability to feel anything but in control of all situations.

Her head hung down now, hands behind her back a pinching look tracing her face.

“Wanted to see if you would care to join us on a trip to Tempests tonight?” Brooks asked casually as if he didn’t just shift an entire balance.

It was a restaurant we regularly went to.

“You should come too.” Chloe said gently towards Agatha, clearly grasping the gravity of the moment with how carefully she said it.

I stepped closer to Agatha just as she moved away. She made a show of looking down at her phone.

“I actually have to get going.” She picked up her coat and started to slip it on. “Business call in twenty, can’t miss it. Have fun tonight.” Everything about it felt like a lie. Dismissive and hurried, an almost irritation behind her words.

She finished buttoning her coat and grabbed her purse. Her hand went to, I’m sure fish for her wallet. I took long strides over to her and stopped her hand. “I’ll walk you out.” I said quietly. Her eyes wouldn’t hold mine, but she nodded.

I stepped out first holding the door for her. The cold air fell nicely on my warm face. In a silence, we both stepped to the drivers side door of her car.

“I had fun.” She said finally meeting my eyes.

It seemed honest, but an uneasiness hung behind it.

“Are you sure you have to go?” I asked inching a bit closer.

“Yes.” She nodded and her eyes ghosted over me before looking off to the side. “Yeah, I hadn’t been paying attention to the time.”

I nodded back looking down at my shoes.

Her hand fell to the door handle. In a rush of insanity I reached out placing my hand over the one that held her purse.

“I had fun too.”

A true smile reached her eyes at my words. The hand that lingered on the door handle reached over, sandwiching my hand between both of hers.

“I’ll be away on business for a few days, I won’t see you until next weekend most likely.” She said it with a slow hesitation.

“I’ll be waiting.” I replied instantly squeezing the hand that was under mine.

For a second I felt like I might have the high point. Like I somehow, maybe might be effecting her like how she effects me. The voice telling me to keep my hopes down was duller than the rest in the moment.

Her demeanor changed like wiping a chalk board. She held herself to her usual punctual poise. “Good.” With a wink she turned, opened the door and got in.

I moved behind the car and to the curb, watching her drive away.

I thought about dramatically running after her car for a few seconds. Making her roll down her window and kissing her. I shook the daydream away.

I walked back in, Chloe wincing and shrinking down as I did.

“I’m sorry.” She apologized “We really didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I shrugged her off and walked over to the decoration bin. “It’s fine.”

“We saw what happened.” She paused. “With the ladder.”

I scoffed grabbing the battery candlesticks for the window sills.

“So you’re just spying through windows now?” It came off more irritated than I meant it to.

“Really, it’s not like that.” Brooks chimed in cooly. “We were walking up and just saw it happen through the window. We legit both froze, dude. Then we thought it would be weird if you saw us driving away or turned and saw us staring so we waited a minute then came in. Honestly, we were like two fools outside fumbling with what to do.”

I laughed at the thought and it eased the tension as they joined in.

“Listen, there was nothing to interrupt anyways. It’s all good.” “Lady.” Chloe nearly yelled, her eyes wild and wide. “Don’t give me that bull shit. That was not nothing.”

“Easy tiger.” Brooks said patting her shoulder with a chuckle.

“Yeah, tiger.” I jested placing the last candle in the window with sticky tac. “Now if you wanna get to the restaurant, help me finish up and put these bins away.”

Luckily, Chloe and Brooks took the hint that I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

Dinner was nice and easy as usual. The topic of Agatha Harkness didn’t return. Still, it didn’t displace her from my thoughts.

They pulled away after dropping me off, leaving me to admire the lights and decorations through the cafe window. The view settled a warmth in my chest and I couldn’t help but smile. I’d beaten everyone on the strip to it this year I realized, for the first time.

The ladder still left in the corner sent a chill down my spine. I pretended it was from the wind and walked up the stairs.

——————————————————————————

Monday came and went nicely. I spent all morning decorating the apartment for the first of the month.

Chloe and Brooks came over later on in the day. I invited them over for dinner and a movie.

The rest of the week on the other hand? Passed at an agonizingly slow pace. The memory of Agatha’s touch had a sick twisted way of infiltrating every other thought.

I found myself wondering just as often, if she was thinking about me.

——————————————————————————

I opened my eyes slowly in bed, the strand of Christmas lights in the kitchen the only thing lighting my apartment.

A sound from near the window startled me to attention. Slowly a figure inched forward into the light. “Agatha?” I asked confused, sitting up in bed.

A low drawn out hush pushed past her lips.

As she stepped closer to the bed, her arms crossed over her torso. Slowly, her hands grabbed the hem of her sweater pulling it above her head.

“Agatha?” It came out in a croak this time.

She threw the sweater to the floor, gold necklace and a purple laced bra the only thing covering her upper half.

Her mouth formed another hushing sound.

Stopping just a foot shy of the bed, her hands found the button of her pants. In a blink she undid them, bending to drag them down her legs.

“What…”

She cut me off. “Quiet.”

Smiling a wicked grin, her hands disappeared behind her back. Another quick second had her bra falling to the ground. I let out a whimper heat pooling low inside of me.

“Good girl.”

The door bell rang snapping my head like a rubber band breaking. I went to turn back to her, but it rang again.

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

I woke with a jumping start to my alarm blaring. My breathing was at a panicking level, heart racing to a concerning degree. An ache between my legs stole almost every ounce of my attention.

A fucking dream.

“Oh, fuck.”

I said it out loud just to assure myself, how absolutely screwed I was.

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