u/jackdppalt

You almost threw the raffle ticket away.

It was buried at the bottom of your work tote beneath receipts, a crushed granola bar, and a permission slip one of your sons swore was “not due until tomorrow,” which meant it had definitely been due yesterday.

The prize was absurd. Five nights at a luxury island resort. All expenses paid. Flights, suite, spa credit, dinners, the kind of vacation designed for women who owned linen pants and had time to “find themselves.”

You laughed when your coworker told you to enter.

Then you won.

Of course you did. Life had recently developed a cruel sense of humor.

Three months ago, you found out about your husband’s affair. Not because he confessed. That would have required courage. You found out because he got careless, because men always do eventually, and because the universe decided you deserved to discover your marriage was falling apart while folding towels.

Since then, everything had been noise. Work emails during school pickup. Dinner half made while someone cried over homework. Your husband saying he wanted to “talk when things were calmer,” as if calm was a package that might politely arrive at the front door.

You were tired. Working mom tired. Bone deep tired. The kind of tired that still remembered to buy cereal.

So when your boss handed you the glossy envelope with the resort logo, you smiled, said thank you, and immediately decided you were not going.

That night, your sister found the envelope on your counter and looked at you like you had offended every woman in your bloodline.

“You’re going.”

“I have the boys.”

“You have me.”

“You have a life.”

“I have a couch, leftover wine, and a deep desire to judge your husband from inside your house.”

You laughed despite yourself.

Her expression softened. “You need this.”

“I need a lawyer, a nap, and maybe a new personality.”

“You can get two of those after the island.”

So you went.

Not because you were brave. Not because you suddenly knew how to choose yourself. You went because one Friday morning, after packing lunches, finding a missing sneaker, and listening to your husband ask if you were “really sure about this,” something inside you finally locked into place.

Fuck it.

Let him wonder.

The island looked too perfect to be real. Blue water, white sand, palm trees, a suite with ocean views, and a bathtub deep enough to make poor decisions feel elegant.

For the first day, you did almost nothing. You slept. You ate mango with your fingers. You sat under an umbrella and read the same page of a book six times while your mind kept drifting back home.

By the second night, restlessness got the better of you.

The resort’s beach bar sat near the water, glowing with lanterns and filled with barefoot strangers pretending they had no real lives waiting for them elsewhere. You almost turned around when you saw the couples. Honeymooners. Anniversary people. Women leaning into men who still looked at them like a privilege.

You ordered a drink anyway.

Something strong, pretty, and free.

You had just taken your first sip when the man beside you said, “That looks like the kind of drink that either changes your life or ruins your morning.”

You turned.

And there he was.

Edd Harrington.

Dark brown sun touched hair, lazy smile, linen shirt open at the throat, and forearms resting on the bar like he knew exactly what he was doing. His eyes did not skim over you or slide away in search of someone easier.

They settled.

That was the dangerous part.

You lifted your glass. “It can do both if it’s ambitious.”

His smile came slowly. “Good. I respect ambition.”

“You say that like a man who’s been personally victimized by a cocktail umbrella.”

“I have survived worse.”

“Clearly. You’re wearing linen after sunset.”

He glanced down at himself, then back at you. “That bad?”

“Devastating.”

“I’ll try to recover.”

“I wouldn’t rush. Self awareness can be painful.”

He laughed, low and genuine, and something in your chest loosened before you could stop it.

For a while, the conversation stayed easy. Bad resort music. The conference he was avoiding. The couple at the end of the bar punishing each other with cheerful silence. He was funny without begging to be laughed at. He listened without looking bored. He let silence sit between you like it belonged there.

Then, somehow, he learned you had sons.

He did not flinch.

Then he learned you were married.

His gaze dipped briefly to your bare left hand.

“Complicated?” he asked.

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “That’s a polite word for it.”

“I can do polite.”

“Can you?”

“Briefly.”

You should have left it there. Instead, maybe because of the rum, maybe because of the island, maybe because a stranger’s kindness was sometimes more dangerous than a husband’s apology, you said, “He had an affair.”

Edd went still.

Not with pity. Just still enough that you knew he had heard you.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You shrugged, because if you did not, you might cry into a cocktail with a pineapple wedge in it.

“It happens.”

“It shouldn’t have happened to you.”

Such a simple thing. Such an ordinary thing.

But the way he said it made your throat tighten.

You looked toward the water. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he said quietly. “But I’m starting to want to.”

The silence that followed was full of bad ideas.

So you did what any sensible woman would do when faced with a handsome stranger, a wounded heart, and an ocean full of moonlight.

You changed the subject badly.

“Truth or dare?”

Edd blinked, then smiled. “Are we twelve?”

“Emotionally? Maybe.”

“Fine. Dare.”

You looked around the bar, then nodded toward a sunburned man sitting alone three stools down. “Order a drink for a stranger.”

“That’s your dare?”

“I’m warming up.”

Edd accepted with the grave seriousness of a man being sent to war. He bought the stranger a ridiculous pink cocktail, complete with a paper umbrella, then returned to you wearing a look of deep personal suffering.

“He thinks I’m flirting with him.”

“Maybe you are.”

“He invited me to karaoke.”

“See? Life changing.”

His eyes narrowed with amusement. “Your turn.”

“Dare.”

He looked toward the water. “Run into the ocean.”

You stared at him. “Absolutely not.”

“You asked for dare.”

“It’s cold.”

“It’s the Caribbean.”

“At night. That’s different.”

“Coward.”

That did it.

Five minutes later, your sandals were abandoned in the sand, your dress was hitched in one hand, and you were running toward the black glittering water while Edd laughed behind you. The ocean hit your calves like a dare of its own, cold enough to steal a shriek from your throat.

“You’re terrible,” you called back.

“You’re the one still running.”

He joined you in the shallows, trousers rolled, shirt damp at the hem, grinning like this was the best decision either of you had made in years.

Maybe it was.

By the time you made it back to the bar, your legs were wet, your hair was windblown, and the bartender did not bother hiding his smile.

“One more,” Edd said.

You reached for your drink. “Getting competitive?”

“Curious.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It is.” He leaned against the bar, close enough that your damp shoulder nearly brushed his chest. “Dare.”

You looked up at him. “Kiss me.”

For once, he had no answer ready.

The humor faded first. Then the ease. What remained was quieter, heavier, and far more honest.

His gaze lowered to your mouth.

“That your dare for me,” he asked, “or for you?”

Your pulse betrayed you.

“Yes.”

Edd’s smile returned, but softer this time. Slower. He lifted his hand, not touching you yet, just letting his fingers hover near your jaw like he was asking a question neither of you wanted phrased out loud.

Then he kissed you.

Not for the room. Not for the joke. Not like a man trying to prove something.

He kissed you carefully at first, giving you every chance to step back. When you did not, when your hand found the front of his shirt and stayed there, the kiss deepened into something warm, reckless, and entirely too easy to want.

When he pulled away, your breath was uneven.

So was his.

The bar noise returned slowly around you. Glasses clinking. Music humming. The tide moving in the dark.

Edd looked at you like he was deciding whether to be noble and hating every second of it.

“My turn,” he said.

You swallowed. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

You tried to smile. “That’s not how this works.”

“I know.” His voice was low now, rough at the edges. “I dare you to come back to my room.”

The air changed.

Not dramatically. Not like in the movies. More like a match struck in a closed room.

You looked at him. At the damp linen clinging to his chest. At the careful distance he was keeping, even now. At the open invitation in his face and the restraint beneath it.

“You say that to every woman you meet at beach bars?”

“No.”

“Good answer.”

“Honest answer.”

You looked toward the resort, glowing beyond the palms, and then back at him.

Somewhere far away, your old life waited with its broken promises and impossible choices.

Here, Edd Harrington waited with his hands to himself, his eyes on yours, and a dare hanging between you that neither of you could pretend was harmless.

You took one slow sip of your drink.

Then you set the glass down.

“Lead the way.”

—-
Hey!
I’m Edd 23M and hope you enjoyed this little prompt that turned into more of a creative writing exercise. I’m currently a lot like the Edd in our story- still in grad school and insatiably drawn to under appreciated women, particularly when it comes to my RP. I’m looking for a literate partner to help me explore this set up in a longer term context. The plot has many directions it can go in and can implement other kinds of kinks or elements depending on what we decide- I do ideally see this as the start of a longer term affair for the characters that follows them home when the realize they live closer than they realized to each other back home, amplifying the tension after the initial encounter.

I don’t have many preferences for my partner other than fast responses and good communication skill, although I would appreciate older partners in this context who align with the character captured in the prompt (I’m a slut for authenticity). I do engage in RPs almost exclusively in the first person and using a self-insert. If either of those are deal breakers I don’t think this will work out but hope you find someone to explore a prompt with! Feel free to use this one if you like. I’m also open to conversing or having a deeper chat about the whole premise in general if that’s more your speed :)

Building a connection with my partner is also important to me OOC and want to make sure that we take the time needed before and during the RP to ensure we maintain good boundaries and cater to each others desires for the story. Please include a little about you in your bio, what drew you to the prompt, kinks and limits, etc. I’ll provide me own along with a thorough description to get us started

I am 18+ and all characters and participants must be 18+

You almost threw the raffle ticket away.

It was buried at the bottom of your work tote beneath receipts, a crushed granola bar, and a permission slip one of your sons swore was “not due until tomorrow,” which meant it had definitely been due yesterday.

The prize was absurd. Five nights at a luxury island resort. All expenses paid. Flights, suite, spa credit, dinners, the kind of vacation designed for women who owned linen pants and had time to “find themselves.”

You laughed when your coworker told you to enter.

Then you won.

Of course you did. Life had recently developed a cruel sense of humor.

Three months ago, you found out about your husband’s affair. Not because he confessed. That would have required courage. You found out because he got careless, because men always do eventually, and because the universe decided you deserved to discover your marriage was falling apart while folding towels.

Since then, everything had been noise. Work emails during school pickup. Dinner half made while someone cried over homework. Your husband saying he wanted to “talk when things were calmer,” as if calm was a package that might politely arrive at the front door.

You were tired. Working mom tired. Bone deep tired. The kind of tired that still remembered to buy cereal.

So when your boss handed you the glossy envelope with the resort logo, you smiled, said thank you, and immediately decided you were not going.

That night, your sister found the envelope on your counter and looked at you like you had offended every woman in your bloodline.

“You’re going.”

“I have the boys.”

“You have me.”

“You have a life.”

“I have a couch, leftover wine, and a deep desire to judge your husband from inside your house.”

You laughed despite yourself.

Her expression softened. “You need this.”

“I need a lawyer, a nap, and maybe a new personality.”

“You can get two of those after the island.”

So you went.

Not because you were brave. Not because you suddenly knew how to choose yourself. You went because one Friday morning, after packing lunches, finding a missing sneaker, and listening to your husband ask if you were “really sure about this,” something inside you finally locked into place.

Fuck it.

Let him wonder.

The island looked too perfect to be real. Blue water, white sand, palm trees, a suite with ocean views, and a bathtub deep enough to make poor decisions feel elegant.

For the first day, you did almost nothing. You slept. You ate mango with your fingers. You sat under an umbrella and read the same page of a book six times while your mind kept drifting back home.

By the second night, restlessness got the better of you.

The resort’s beach bar sat near the water, glowing with lanterns and filled with barefoot strangers pretending they had no real lives waiting for them elsewhere. You almost turned around when you saw the couples. Honeymooners. Anniversary people. Women leaning into men who still looked at them like a privilege.

You ordered a drink anyway.

Something strong, pretty, and free.

You had just taken your first sip when the man beside you said, “That looks like the kind of drink that either changes your life or ruins your morning.”

You turned.

And there he was.

Edd Harrington.

Dark brown sun touched hair, lazy smile, linen shirt open at the throat, and forearms resting on the bar like he knew exactly what he was doing. His eyes did not skim over you or slide away in search of someone easier.

They settled.

That was the dangerous part.

You lifted your glass. “It can do both if it’s ambitious.”

His smile came slowly. “Good. I respect ambition.”

“You say that like a man who’s been personally victimized by a cocktail umbrella.”

“I have survived worse.”

“Clearly. You’re wearing linen after sunset.”

He glanced down at himself, then back at you. “That bad?”

“Devastating.”

“I’ll try to recover.”

“I wouldn’t rush. Self awareness can be painful.”

He laughed, low and genuine, and something in your chest loosened before you could stop it.

For a while, the conversation stayed easy. Bad resort music. The conference he was avoiding. The couple at the end of the bar punishing each other with cheerful silence. He was funny without begging to be laughed at. He listened without looking bored. He let silence sit between you like it belonged there.

Then, somehow, he learned you had sons.

He did not flinch.

Then he learned you were married.

His gaze dipped briefly to your bare left hand.

“Complicated?” he asked.

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “That’s a polite word for it.”

“I can do polite.”

“Can you?”

“Briefly.”

You should have left it there. Instead, maybe because of the rum, maybe because of the island, maybe because a stranger’s kindness was sometimes more dangerous than a husband’s apology, you said, “He had an affair.”

Edd went still.

Not with pity. Just still enough that you knew he had heard you.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You shrugged, because if you did not, you might cry into a cocktail with a pineapple wedge in it.

“It happens.”

“It shouldn’t have happened to you.”

Such a simple thing. Such an ordinary thing.

But the way he said it made your throat tighten.

You looked toward the water. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he said quietly. “But I’m starting to want to.”

The silence that followed was full of bad ideas.

So you did what any sensible woman would do when faced with a handsome stranger, a wounded heart, and an ocean full of moonlight.

You changed the subject badly.

“Truth or dare?”

Edd blinked, then smiled. “Are we twelve?”

“Emotionally? Maybe.”

“Fine. Dare.”

You looked around the bar, then nodded toward a sunburned man sitting alone three stools down. “Order a drink for a stranger.”

“That’s your dare?”

“I’m warming up.”

Edd accepted with the grave seriousness of a man being sent to war. He bought the stranger a ridiculous pink cocktail, complete with a paper umbrella, then returned to you wearing a look of deep personal suffering.

“He thinks I’m flirting with him.”

“Maybe you are.”

“He invited me to karaoke.”

“See? Life changing.”

His eyes narrowed with amusement. “Your turn.”

“Dare.”

He looked toward the water. “Run into the ocean.”

You stared at him. “Absolutely not.”

“You asked for dare.”

“It’s cold.”

“It’s the Caribbean.”

“At night. That’s different.”

“Coward.”

That did it.

Five minutes later, your sandals were abandoned in the sand, your dress was hitched in one hand, and you were running toward the black glittering water while Edd laughed behind you. The ocean hit your calves like a dare of its own, cold enough to steal a shriek from your throat.

“You’re terrible,” you called back.

“You’re the one still running.”

He joined you in the shallows, trousers rolled, shirt damp at the hem, grinning like this was the best decision either of you had made in years.

Maybe it was.

By the time you made it back to the bar, your legs were wet, your hair was windblown, and the bartender did not bother hiding his smile.

“One more,” Edd said.

You reached for your drink. “Getting competitive?”

“Curious.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It is.” He leaned against the bar, close enough that your damp shoulder nearly brushed his chest. “Dare.”

You looked up at him. “Kiss me.”

For once, he had no answer ready.

The humor faded first. Then the ease. What remained was quieter, heavier, and far more honest.

His gaze lowered to your mouth.

“That your dare for me,” he asked, “or for you?”

Your pulse betrayed you.

“Yes.”

Edd’s smile returned, but softer this time. Slower. He lifted his hand, not touching you yet, just letting his fingers hover near your jaw like he was asking a question neither of you wanted phrased out loud.

Then he kissed you.

Not for the room. Not for the joke. Not like a man trying to prove something.

He kissed you carefully at first, giving you every chance to step back. When you did not, when your hand found the front of his shirt and stayed there, the kiss deepened into something warm, reckless, and entirely too easy to want.

When he pulled away, your breath was uneven.

So was his.

The bar noise returned slowly around you. Glasses clinking. Music humming. The tide moving in the dark.

Edd looked at you like he was deciding whether to be noble and hating every second of it.

“My turn,” he said.

You swallowed. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

You tried to smile. “That’s not how this works.”

“I know.” His voice was low now, rough at the edges. “I dare you to come back to my room.”

The air changed.

Not dramatically. Not like in the movies. More like a match struck in a closed room.

You looked at him. At the damp linen clinging to his chest. At the careful distance he was keeping, even now. At the open invitation in his face and the restraint beneath it.

“You say that to every woman you meet at beach bars?”

“No.”

“Good answer.”

“Honest answer.”

You looked toward the resort, glowing beyond the palms, and then back at him.

Somewhere far away, your old life waited with its broken promises and impossible choices.

Here, Edd Harrington waited with his hands to himself, his eyes on yours, and a dare hanging between you that neither of you could pretend was harmless.

You took one slow sip of your drink.

Then you set the glass down.

“Lead the way.”

—-
Hey!
I’m Edd 23M and hope you enjoyed this little prompt that turned into more of a creative writing exercise. I’m currently a lot like the Edd in our story- still in grad school and insatiably drawn to under appreciated women, particularly when it comes to my RP. I’m looking for a literate partner to help me explore this set up in a longer term context. The plot has many directions it can go in and can implement other kinds of kinks or elements depending on what we decide- I do ideally see this as the start of a longer term affair for the characters that follows them home when the realize they live closer than they realized to each other back home, amplifying the tension after the initial encounter.

I don’t have many preferences for my partner other than fast responses and good communication skill, although I would appreciate older partners in this context who align with the character captured in the prompt (I’m a slut for authenticity). I do engage in RPs almost exclusively in the first person and using a self-insert. If either of those are deal breakers I don’t think this will work out but hope you find someone to explore a prompt with! Feel free to use this one if you like. I’m also open to conversing or having a deeper chat about the whole premise in general if that’s more your speed :)

Building a connection with my partner is also important to me OOC and want to make sure that we take the time needed before and during the RP to ensure we maintain good boundaries and cater to each others desires for the story. Please include a little about you in your bio, what drew you to the prompt, kinks and limits, etc. I’ll provide me own along with a thorough description to get us started

I am 18+ and all characters and participants must be 18+

You almost threw the raffle ticket away.

It was buried at the bottom of your work tote beneath receipts, a crushed granola bar, and a permission slip one of your sons swore was “not due until tomorrow,” which meant it had definitely been due yesterday.

The prize was absurd. Five nights at a luxury island resort. All expenses paid. Flights, suite, spa credit, dinners, the kind of vacation designed for women who owned linen pants and had time to “find themselves.”

You laughed when your coworker told you to enter.

Then you won.

Of course you did. Life had recently developed a cruel sense of humor.

Three months ago, you found out about your husband’s affair. Not because he confessed. That would have required courage. You found out because he got careless, because men always do eventually, and because the universe decided you deserved to discover your marriage was falling apart while folding towels.

Since then, everything had been noise. Work emails during school pickup. Dinner half made while someone cried over homework. Your husband saying he wanted to “talk when things were calmer,” as if calm was a package that might politely arrive at the front door.

You were tired. Working mom tired. Bone deep tired. The kind of tired that still remembered to buy cereal.

So when your boss handed you the glossy envelope with the resort logo, you smiled, said thank you, and immediately decided you were not going.

That night, your sister found the envelope on your counter and looked at you like you had offended every woman in your bloodline.

“You’re going.”

“I have the boys.”

“You have me.”

“You have a life.”

“I have a couch, leftover wine, and a deep desire to judge your husband from inside your house.”

You laughed despite yourself.

Her expression softened. “You need this.”

“I need a lawyer, a nap, and maybe a new personality.”

“You can get two of those after the island.”

So you went.

Not because you were brave. Not because you suddenly knew how to choose yourself. You went because one Friday morning, after packing lunches, finding a missing sneaker, and listening to your husband ask if you were “really sure about this,” something inside you finally locked into place.

Fuck it.

Let him wonder.

The island looked too perfect to be real. Blue water, white sand, palm trees, a suite with ocean views, and a bathtub deep enough to make poor decisions feel elegant.

For the first day, you did almost nothing. You slept. You ate mango with your fingers. You sat under an umbrella and read the same page of a book six times while your mind kept drifting back home.

By the second night, restlessness got the better of you.

The resort’s beach bar sat near the water, glowing with lanterns and filled with barefoot strangers pretending they had no real lives waiting for them elsewhere. You almost turned around when you saw the couples. Honeymooners. Anniversary people. Women leaning into men who still looked at them like a privilege.

You ordered a drink anyway.

Something strong, pretty, and free.

You had just taken your first sip when the man beside you said, “That looks like the kind of drink that either changes your life or ruins your morning.”

You turned.

And there he was.

Edd Harrington.

Dark brown sun touched hair, lazy smile, linen shirt open at the throat, and forearms resting on the bar like he knew exactly what he was doing. His eyes did not skim over you or slide away in search of someone easier.

They settled.

That was the dangerous part.

You lifted your glass. “It can do both if it’s ambitious.”

His smile came slowly. “Good. I respect ambition.”

“You say that like a man who’s been personally victimized by a cocktail umbrella.”

“I have survived worse.”

“Clearly. You’re wearing linen after sunset.”

He glanced down at himself, then back at you. “That bad?”

“Devastating.”

“I’ll try to recover.”

“I wouldn’t rush. Self awareness can be painful.”

He laughed, low and genuine, and something in your chest loosened before you could stop it.

For a while, the conversation stayed easy. Bad resort music. The conference he was avoiding. The couple at the end of the bar punishing each other with cheerful silence. He was funny without begging to be laughed at. He listened without looking bored. He let silence sit between you like it belonged there.

Then, somehow, he learned you had sons.

He did not flinch.

Then he learned you were married.

His gaze dipped briefly to your bare left hand.

“Complicated?” he asked.

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “That’s a polite word for it.”

“I can do polite.”

“Can you?”

“Briefly.”

You should have left it there. Instead, maybe because of the rum, maybe because of the island, maybe because a stranger’s kindness was sometimes more dangerous than a husband’s apology, you said, “He had an affair.”

Edd went still.

Not with pity. Just still enough that you knew he had heard you.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You shrugged, because if you did not, you might cry into a cocktail with a pineapple wedge in it.

“It happens.”

“It shouldn’t have happened to you.”

Such a simple thing. Such an ordinary thing.

But the way he said it made your throat tighten.

You looked toward the water. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he said quietly. “But I’m starting to want to.”

The silence that followed was full of bad ideas.

So you did what any sensible woman would do when faced with a handsome stranger, a wounded heart, and an ocean full of moonlight.

You changed the subject badly.

“Truth or dare?”

Edd blinked, then smiled. “Are we twelve?”

“Emotionally? Maybe.”

“Fine. Dare.”

You looked around the bar, then nodded toward a sunburned man sitting alone three stools down. “Order a drink for a stranger.”

“That’s your dare?”

“I’m warming up.”

Edd accepted with the grave seriousness of a man being sent to war. He bought the stranger a ridiculous pink cocktail, complete with a paper umbrella, then returned to you wearing a look of deep personal suffering.

“He thinks I’m flirting with him.”

“Maybe you are.”

“He invited me to karaoke.”

“See? Life changing.”

His eyes narrowed with amusement. “Your turn.”

“Dare.”

He looked toward the water. “Run into the ocean.”

You stared at him. “Absolutely not.”

“You asked for dare.”

“It’s cold.”

“It’s the Caribbean.”

“At night. That’s different.”

“Coward.”

That did it.

Five minutes later, your sandals were abandoned in the sand, your dress was hitched in one hand, and you were running toward the black glittering water while Edd laughed behind you. The ocean hit your calves like a dare of its own, cold enough to steal a shriek from your throat.

“You’re terrible,” you called back.

“You’re the one still running.”

He joined you in the shallows, trousers rolled, shirt damp at the hem, grinning like this was the best decision either of you had made in years.

Maybe it was.

By the time you made it back to the bar, your legs were wet, your hair was windblown, and the bartender did not bother hiding his smile.

“One more,” Edd said.

You reached for your drink. “Getting competitive?”

“Curious.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It is.” He leaned against the bar, close enough that your damp shoulder nearly brushed his chest. “Dare.”

You looked up at him. “Kiss me.”

For once, he had no answer ready.

The humor faded first. Then the ease. What remained was quieter, heavier, and far more honest.

His gaze lowered to your mouth.

“That your dare for me,” he asked, “or for you?”

Your pulse betrayed you.

“Yes.”

Edd’s smile returned, but softer this time. Slower. He lifted his hand, not touching you yet, just letting his fingers hover near your jaw like he was asking a question neither of you wanted phrased out loud.

Then he kissed you.

Not for the room. Not for the joke. Not like a man trying to prove something.

He kissed you carefully at first, giving you every chance to step back. When you did not, when your hand found the front of his shirt and stayed there, the kiss deepened into something warm, reckless, and entirely too easy to want.

When he pulled away, your breath was uneven.

So was his.

The bar noise returned slowly around you. Glasses clinking. Music humming. The tide moving in the dark.

Edd looked at you like he was deciding whether to be noble and hating every second of it.

“My turn,” he said.

You swallowed. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

You tried to smile. “That’s not how this works.”

“I know.” His voice was low now, rough at the edges. “I dare you to come back to my room.”

The air changed.

Not dramatically. Not like in the movies. More like a match struck in a closed room.

You looked at him. At the damp linen clinging to his chest. At the careful distance he was keeping, even now. At the open invitation in his face and the restraint beneath it.

“You say that to every woman you meet at beach bars?”

“No.”

“Good answer.”

“Honest answer.”

You looked toward the resort, glowing beyond the palms, and then back at him.

Somewhere far away, your old life waited with its broken promises and impossible choices.

Here, Edd Harrington waited with his hands to himself, his eyes on yours, and a dare hanging between you that neither of you could pretend was harmless.

You took one slow sip of your drink.

Then you set the glass down.

“Lead the way.”

—-
Hey!
I’m Edd 23M and hope you enjoyed this little prompt that turned into more of a creative writing exercise. I’m currently a lot like the Edd in our story- still in grad school and insatiably drawn to under appreciated women, particularly when it comes to my RP. I’m looking for a literate partner to help me explore this set up in a longer term context. The plot has many directions it can go in and can implement other kinds of kinks or elements depending on what we decide- I do ideally see this as the start of a longer term affair for the characters that follows them home when the realize they live closer than they realized to each other back home, amplifying the tension after the initial encounter.

I don’t have many preferences for my partner other than fast responses and good communication skill, although I would appreciate older partners in this context who align with the character captured in the prompt (I’m a slut for authenticity). I do engage in RPs almost exclusively in the first person and using a self-insert. If either of those are deal breakers I don’t think this will work out but hope you find someone to explore a prompt with! Feel free to use this one if you like. I’m also open to conversing or having a deeper chat about the whole premise in general if that’s more your speed :)

Building a connection with my partner is also important to me OOC and want to make sure that we take the time needed before and during the RP to ensure we maintain good boundaries and cater to each others desires for the story. Please include a little about you in your bio, what drew you to the prompt, kinks and limits, etc. I’ll provide me own along with a thorough description to get us started

I am 18+ and all characters and participants must be 18+

You came to Hawthorne University with two suitcases, a stack of worn paperbacks, and the kind of ambition people from your hometown called unrealistic.

For most of your life, you had been the cliché everyone underestimated. The quiet girl in the corner. The scholarship student with ink on her fingers, thrifted sweaters, and a habit of correcting professors under her breath. Hawthorne was all marble halls, old money names, and students who treated tuition like a family tradition. You treated it like survival.

Then, in your second year, the letter arrived.

\\\\\\\*\\\\\\\*Scholarship under review.\\\\\\\*\\\\\\\*

Your advisor had said it gently, as if softness could dull the edge of it. A strong research paper might help your case. A faculty reference would help more. Better yet, she knew a graduate student in your field who could supervise your work and serve as your official academic reference.

Edd.

He was everything Hawthorne loved to protect. Old money polish, former fraternity charm, tailored coats, careless confidence. The kind of man who looked like he had never had to ask for anything in his life. He was intelligent in the most irritating way, sharp enough to see through weak arguments and smug enough to enjoy pointing them out.

And now, somehow, he had become the person standing between you and the scholarship you could not afford to lose.

Your arrangement had started politely. Then it became competitive. Then personal. Long afternoons turned into late nights, arguments over theory turned into lingering looks, and every correction he made on your drafts felt too much like a challenge. Edd seemed to enjoy getting under your skin, and worse, he was very good at it.

Tonight, the two of you are alone in one of Hawthorne’s private reading rooms, a spacious chamber tucked deep inside the old library. Tall shelves climb toward the vaulted ceiling, heavy curtains frame dark windows, and a low fire burns in the stone fireplace, painting everything in gold. Your notes are spread across the long oak table between you. His jacket hangs over the back of his chair. Your patience is wearing thin.

“You know,” Edd says, leaning back with your latest draft in hand, “you argue beautifully when you stop trying to sound like you’re proving something.”

You look up from your notes. “And you almost sound useful when you stop trying to sound impressed with yourself.”

His mouth curves, slow and infuriating. “Careful. I’m your reference, remember?”

The reminder should make you cautious. Instead, it makes the air feel warmer.

You reach for the paper, but he does not let go right away. For one suspended second, your fingers brush his. The fire crackles. The room feels too quiet, too large, too sealed away from the rest of the university.

Then the lights outside the reading room dim.

You turn toward the door as the lock clicks into place.

Edd rises first, crossing the room with that composed confidence of his. He tests the handle once, then again. It does not move.

When he looks back at you, the teasing has not fully left his face, but something sharper has settled beneath it.

“Well,” he says, voice lower now, “it appears Hawthorne expects us to keep working.”

The silence that follows is thick with unfinished arguments, unspoken threats, and every charged moment the two of you have pretended not to notice.

You are locked inside the library with the one man who holds your future in his hands.

And he is watching you like he has finally run out of reasons to keep his distance.

\\\\\\\\-
Hey!

Hoped you liked this prompt! My name is Edd 23M and I’m looking for a partner to explore this RP with in a long term and detailed romance. I’m open to this being more of a vanilla set up or a darker one depending on how we get along. I can share K+L and desc once we get acquainted! Bonus points for Asian/South Asian RP partners :) please use the word stereo in your opening so I know you read all the way here.

I am 18+ and all characters and participants must be 18+

You arrived at Hawthorne University expecting ambition to be enough.

That was your first mistake.

Hawthorne did not simply educate its students. It studied them. Ranked them. Rearranged them when convenient. The university liked to call this tradition, though most traditions did not require signed waivers, monitored housing, and a dean who smiled like she already knew how your life was going to end.

By your third year, you had learned how to survive it.

Do not look impressed. Do not let anyone hear you panic. Keep copies of everything. Never underestimate a school with enough money to make a bad idea sound like a fellowship.

The Bellweather Program was Hawthorne’s newest academic experiment, though the brochure did not use the word experiment. It preferred phrases like “collaborative excellence,” “intellectual partnership,” and “domestic scholarly development,” which sounded like something a committee invented after discovering fanfiction and misunderstanding the point.

The offer was simple.

Free housing. Private archive access. A research stipend large enough to make your bank account stop sending warning signs. Faculty mentorship. A direct recommendation from the provost.

The catch was also simple.

You had to live with Hawthorne’s other highest performing student.

Edd Harrington.

Of course.

Everyone knew Edd. He was calm, polished, and irritatingly difficult to embarrass. He came from the sort of family Hawthorne did not admit so much as inherit. His name was on buildings, scholarship dinners, and at least one oil painting where a dead relative looked like he had personally invented generational wealth.

You knew him for a different reason.

A year ago, you had accused a professor of hiding archive records to protect a donor family. Edd had been brought into the hearing as a graduate representative because he knew the collection. In front of the panel, he had taken your argument apart with surgical politeness.

Afterward, he had found you outside and handed you a receipt with a file number written on the back.

“You were right,” he said.

You stared at him. “You could have said that in there.”

“I could have,” he said. “But then I would have missed the part where you looked like you were deciding whether to ruin my life.”

You had hated him immediately.

You had also used the file number.

Now Hawthorne had decided the two of you belonged in Bellweather House together, a private residence at the edge of campus where “exceptional minds” could be shaped through proximity, routine, and whatever legally distinct form of coercion the university had stapled into the housing contract.

The dean did not even pretend it was only academic.

She called you both into her office the week before move in, folded her hands over the contract, and explained that Hawthorne had spent generations producing brilliant men who burned out alone and brilliant women who left before the institution could keep them. Bellweather was meant to correct that.

“Partnership,” she said, looking between you and Edd. “Not just collaboration. Attachment. Loyalty. A shared life of the mind.”

You stared at her.

Edd stared at her.

She smiled.

“Great thinkers do not thrive in isolation. They require friction. Stability. Intimacy.”

There it was.

Not hidden. Not implied. Printed between the lines in expensive ink.

Hawthorne wanted to see if two ambitious people could be pressured into becoming something useful together. A research team. A public success story. Maybe even a future donor couple with matching last names and a deeply unwell origin story.

You tried to decline.

The dean reminded you that your stipend, housing, research privileges, and recommendation were all attached to the program.

Edd tried to decline.

The dean reminded him that the Harrington family had publicly endorsed Bellweather and that withdrawing would create an unfortunate impression.

For one brief, miserable moment, the two of you were allies.

Neither of you liked it.

Move in day arrives cold and wet, the kind of weather that makes the whole campus look guilty. Bellweather House waits behind an iron gate, all ivy, old stone, and warm windows. It is too pretty to trust.

Edd is already on the front step when you arrive.

Naturally.

He stands under the awning with a leather duffel at his feet and the same cream colored housing packet in his hand. His coat is damp at the shoulders. His expression is composed in a way that makes you want to commit a very small crime.

“You’re early,” you say.

“You’re late.”

“I was hoping the house would reject you before I got here.”

“It tried. We bonded.”

“That is unsettlingly believable.”

His mouth almost moves. Not quite a smile. Worse, because now you know he is choosing not to.

Before either of you can say anything else, the door unlocks.

Not with a key.

With your campus cards.

A green light flashes above the handle. The lock clicks open, and somewhere inside the house, a soft chime sounds.

Edd looks at the door.

You look at Edd.

“That felt personal,” you say.

“It welcomed you with more warmth than you’ve shown me all year.”

“I save warmth for people who do not sabotage me in hearings.”

“I gave you the file number.”

“You did that after the sabotage.”

“Character development.”

“Bare minimum arc.”

He actually smiles then, quick and quiet, like he regrets it as soon as it happens.

Inside, Bellweather House is beautiful in the way traps are sometimes beautiful. Polished floors. Tall windows. A sitting room with a fireplace. A kitchen already stocked with groceries neither of you requested. Two desks facing each other in the study, close enough to feel deliberate.

On the table sits a welcome basket.

Tea. Coffee. Two notebooks. One jar of honey. A printed schedule. A note from the dean.

Collaboration begins at home.

Below it, in smaller script:

And the best partnerships do not stay theoretical.

You stare at the card.

Edd reads over your shoulder. “That is insane.”

“Finally. A good take from you.”

“No, genuinely insane.”

“It’s Hawthorne. They put a crest on insanity and call it tradition.”

You pick up the printed schedule.

Mandatory shared dinners three nights a week. Morning progress logs. Weekly faculty evaluations. Joint research hours. Observational wellness reviews. Conflict resolution sessions. Social attendance as a pair.

At the bottom, in smaller print, is a line about “encouraged emotional and domestic bonding as part of the Bellweather outcome model.”

You read it twice.

“They are trying to academic journal us into dating,” you say.

Edd’s expression goes flat. “They are trying to academic journal us into marriage.”

You look at him.

He looks back.
“That was a joke,” he says.

“Was it?”

A beat.

“No.”

You both head down the hall in search of the bedrooms.

There is one bathroom.

One closet.

One dresser.

One bedroom.

And one bed.

The room is silent except for the rain ticking against the windows.

The bed sits in the center like it has been waiting to be discovered. Large. Neatly made. White sheets, dark wood frame, folded university blanket at the foot. Two pillows placed side by side with the confidence of an institution that has never once been told to mind its business.

You check the packet.

“Mine says two bedrooms.”

Edd checks his.

“Mine says two bedrooms.”

You look at the bed again. “So either the house ate one, or Hawthorne is lying.”

“Hawthorne does not lie,” Edd says. “It drafts language.”

You walk to the closet and open it.

Half full.

One side already labeled with your name. The other with his.

You close it.

Slowly.

Edd exhales through his nose. Not a laugh. Not quite.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I said nothing.”

“You are thinking something unbearable.”

“I’m thinking the labeling system is thorough.”

“I hope the next great thinker discovers how to fight you.”

“You would miss me.”

“I would heal.”

You take out your phone to call housing.

No signal.

Edd checks his. Nothing.

Then the wall phone in the hall rings.

Neither of you moves at first.

It rings again.

Edd answers it.

You watch his face as he listens. The slight narrowing of his eyes tells you enough.

He hangs up.

“Well?”

“Housing says the single bedroom arrangement is temporary.”

Your grip tightens around your packet. “Temporary as in tonight?”

His eyes lift to yours.

“Temporary as in the term.”

You stare at him.

Outside, the rain comes harder. Inside, the fireplace clicks on by itself in the sitting room, casting warm light down the hallway like the house has decided to be romantic at gunpoint.

You take the receiver and call back.

A woman from Housing Services answers in a voice so calm it makes you feel violent.

You explain the problem.

She explains that Bellweather participants are expected to resolve domestic challenges cooperatively.

You explain that there is one bed.

She pauses, then says the bed is queen sized.

You hang up.

Edd is watching you.

You point at him. “Do not say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were absolutely going to.”

“I was going to ask whether the bed size was meant to reassure us or challenge us.”

“That was somehow worse than what I expected.”

“I like to exceed expectations.”

“You like to be insufferable in rooms with good acoustics.”

“And yet here we are. One room. Excellent acoustics.”

The words sit between you a little too long.

You look away first, which annoys you immediately.

The practical options are obvious. One of you takes the bed. One of you takes the floor. You could drag the chair in from the study. You could stack blankets on the rug. You could call the dean and threaten legal action. You could do many sensible things.

None of them explain why neither of you has moved.

Edd takes off his coat and lays it over the back of the chair by the window. His sleeves are rolled from carrying boxes, his hair still damp from the rain. He looks less untouchable in this room. Less like a name Hawthorne protects. More like a person trapped in the same mistake.

That is worse.

He looks at the bed, then at you.

“You take it,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“The bed. Take it.”

“That is suspiciously decent.”

“Try to survive the disappointment.”

“And where are you sleeping?”

He glances at the floor.

You follow his gaze.

The rug is thin, decorative, and clearly chosen by someone who has never loved another human spine.

“You’re not sleeping there.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

“That is either sad or an attempt to sound mysterious.”

“It can be both.”

You fold your arms. “I’m not letting you martyr yourself on a decorative rug.”

“I’m not asking permission.”

“No, you’re doing that thing where you act noble and hope nobody notices it is still just another way to control the room.”

His expression changes.

Just a little.

Enough.

The humor drops out of the air, and suddenly the bedroom feels smaller than it did before.

Edd steps closer, not much, but enough that you notice. Enough that the rain and the fire and the ridiculous, waiting bed all seem to go quiet around him.

“Fine,” he says. “Then tell me what you want.”

It should be an easy question.

It is not.

You look at him. He looks back.

Neither of you smiles.

The first night has barely begun, and already Hawthorne has taken the locks, the walls, the separate rooms, and every polite excuse you had left.

All that remains is the bed between you.

And Edd, waiting for your answer.

—-

hey!

I’m Edd and I hope you enjoyed this little set up as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m 23M and currently a law student who just got out for summer and am looking to destress with some RP. I have always loved academia based romance so this prompt tries to encompass that with a fun quirk to move things in the right direction. This prompt is supposed to play up a classic setup for a cult like prestigious school setting us up to be together- but if you have any that you’re more inclined to explore feel free to come with a prompt! Clearly this one lends itself to some fun world building angles and I’d love to hear your thoughts and how you’d change it!

A bit about myself: I play exclusively in self insert which can be a deal breaker for some- so if you’re such a person I apologize. I also do heavily prefer for my partner to have a similar background to their character/ self insert as well. I’ve RPd on and off for years and am comfortable writing at different levels if you’d prefer a more drawn out arrangement or something ‘hot and quick’. I’m flexible on the prompt itself if you want to come with ideas or changes to make it more engaging. This setup could lend itself well to a cheating angle which is something I’m happy to explore! I have no preferences for appearance although have always found interracial setups to be fun (white man + Asian/South Asian). I write exclusively in the first person.

Banter and humor are big parts of this for me so I’d love for you to really lean into expressing yourself and including some good dialogue. If things get stale or it feels like it’s just a sex fest then I tend to disappear.

I can share k/l and a description when we’re acquainted. I am looking for longer term partners who are open to developing something we can both enjoy for a while- happy to break some walls too and engage in more direct nsfw convos if you’re up for it ;)

I look forward to hearing from you- please include the word ‘orange’ 🍊 in your first message so I know you made it here (: (more active on disc!)

You came to Hawthorne University with two suitcases, a stack of worn paperbacks, and the kind of ambition people from your hometown called unrealistic.

For most of your life, you had been the cliché everyone underestimated. The quiet girl in the corner. The scholarship student with ink on her fingers, thrifted sweaters, and a habit of correcting professors under her breath. Hawthorne was all marble halls, old money names, and students who treated tuition like a family tradition. You treated it like survival.

Then, in your second year, the letter arrived.

\\\*\\\*Scholarship under review.\\\*\\\*

Your advisor had said it gently, as if softness could dull the edge of it. A strong research paper might help your case. A faculty reference would help more. Better yet, she knew a graduate student in your field who could supervise your work and serve as your official academic reference.

Edd.

He was everything Hawthorne loved to protect. Old money polish, former fraternity charm, tailored coats, careless confidence. The kind of man who looked like he had never had to ask for anything in his life. He was intelligent in the most irritating way, sharp enough to see through weak arguments and smug enough to enjoy pointing them out.

And now, somehow, he had become the person standing between you and the scholarship you could not afford to lose.

Your arrangement had started politely. Then it became competitive. Then personal. Long afternoons turned into late nights, arguments over theory turned into lingering looks, and every correction he made on your drafts felt too much like a challenge. Edd seemed to enjoy getting under your skin, and worse, he was very good at it.

Tonight, the two of you are alone in one of Hawthorne’s private reading rooms, a spacious chamber tucked deep inside the old library. Tall shelves climb toward the vaulted ceiling, heavy curtains frame dark windows, and a low fire burns in the stone fireplace, painting everything in gold. Your notes are spread across the long oak table between you. His jacket hangs over the back of his chair. Your patience is wearing thin.

“You know,” Edd says, leaning back with your latest draft in hand, “you argue beautifully when you stop trying to sound like you’re proving something.”

You look up from your notes. “And you almost sound useful when you stop trying to sound impressed with yourself.”

His mouth curves, slow and infuriating. “Careful. I’m your reference, remember?”

The reminder should make you cautious. Instead, it makes the air feel warmer.

You reach for the paper, but he does not let go right away. For one suspended second, your fingers brush his. The fire crackles. The room feels too quiet, too large, too sealed away from the rest of the university.

Then the lights outside the reading room dim.

You turn toward the door as the lock clicks into place.

Edd rises first, crossing the room with that composed confidence of his. He tests the handle once, then again. It does not move.

When he looks back at you, the teasing has not fully left his face, but something sharper has settled beneath it.

“Well,” he says, voice lower now, “it appears Hawthorne expects us to keep working.”

The silence that follows is thick with unfinished arguments, unspoken threats, and every charged moment the two of you have pretended not to notice.

You are locked inside the library with the one man who holds your future in his hands.

And he is watching you like he has finally run out of reasons to keep his distance.

\\\\-
Hey!

Hoped you liked this prompt! My name is Edd 23M and I’m looking for a partner to explore this RP with in a long term and detailed romance. I’m open to this being more of a vanilla set up or a darker one depending on how we get along. I can share K+L and desc once we get acquainted! Bonus points for Asian/South Asian RP partners :) please use the word stereo in your opening so I know you read all the way here.

I am 18+ and all characters and participants must be 18+

You came to Hawthorne University with two suitcases, a stack of worn paperbacks, and the kind of ambition people from your hometown called unrealistic.

For most of your life, you had been the cliché everyone underestimated. The quiet girl in the corner. The scholarship student with ink on her fingers, thrifted sweaters, and a habit of correcting professors under her breath. Hawthorne was all marble halls, old money names, and students who treated tuition like a family tradition. You treated it like survival.

Then, in your second year, the letter arrived.

\*\*Scholarship under review.\*\*

Your advisor had said it gently, as if softness could dull the edge of it. A strong research paper might help your case. A faculty reference would help more. Better yet, she knew a graduate student in your field who could supervise your work and serve as your official academic reference.

Edd.

He was everything Hawthorne loved to protect. Old money polish, former fraternity charm, tailored coats, careless confidence. The kind of man who looked like he had never had to ask for anything in his life. He was intelligent in the most irritating way, sharp enough to see through weak arguments and smug enough to enjoy pointing them out.

And now, somehow, he had become the person standing between you and the scholarship you could not afford to lose.

Your arrangement had started politely. Then it became competitive. Then personal. Long afternoons turned into late nights, arguments over theory turned into lingering looks, and every correction he made on your drafts felt too much like a challenge. Edd seemed to enjoy getting under your skin, and worse, he was very good at it.

Tonight, the two of you are alone in one of Hawthorne’s private reading rooms, a spacious chamber tucked deep inside the old library. Tall shelves climb toward the vaulted ceiling, heavy curtains frame dark windows, and a low fire burns in the stone fireplace, painting everything in gold. Your notes are spread across the long oak table between you. His jacket hangs over the back of his chair. Your patience is wearing thin.

“You know,” Edd says, leaning back with your latest draft in hand, “you argue beautifully when you stop trying to sound like you’re proving something.”

You look up from your notes. “And you almost sound useful when you stop trying to sound impressed with yourself.”

His mouth curves, slow and infuriating. “Careful. I’m your reference, remember?”

The reminder should make you cautious. Instead, it makes the air feel warmer.

You reach for the paper, but he does not let go right away. For one suspended second, your fingers brush his. The fire crackles. The room feels too quiet, too large, too sealed away from the rest of the university.

Then the lights outside the reading room dim.

You turn toward the door as the lock clicks into place.

Edd rises first, crossing the room with that composed confidence of his. He tests the handle once, then again. It does not move.

When he looks back at you, the teasing has not fully left his face, but something sharper has settled beneath it.

“Well,” he says, voice lower now, “it appears Hawthorne expects us to keep working.”

The silence that follows is thick with unfinished arguments, unspoken threats, and every charged moment the two of you have pretended not to notice.

You are locked inside the library with the one man who holds your future in his hands.

And he is watching you like he has finally run out of reasons to keep his distance.

\\-
Hey!

Hoped you liked this prompt! My name is Edd 23M and I’m looking for a partner to explore this RP with in a long term and detailed romance. I’m open to this being more of a vanilla set up or a darker one depending on how we get along. I can share K+L and desc once we get acquainted! Bonus points for Asian/South Asian RP partners :) please use the word stereo in your opening so I know you read all the way here.

I am 18+ and all characters and participants must be 18+

You came to Hawthorne University with two suitcases, a stack of worn paperbacks, and the kind of ambition people from your hometown called unrealistic.

For most of your life, you had been the cliché everyone underestimated. The quiet girl in the corner. The scholarship student with ink on her fingers, thrifted sweaters, and a habit of correcting professors under her breath. Hawthorne was all marble halls, old money names, and students who treated tuition like a family tradition. You treated it like survival.

Then, in your second year, the letter arrived.

Scholarship under review.

Your advisor had said it gently, as if softness could dull the edge of it. A strong research paper might help your case. A faculty reference would help more. Better yet, she knew a graduate student in your field who could supervise your work and serve as your official academic reference.

Edd Harrington.

He was everything Hawthorne loved to protect. Old money polish, former fraternity charm, tailored coats, careless confidence. The kind of man who looked like he had never had to ask for anything in his life. He was intelligent in the most irritating way, sharp enough to see through weak arguments and smug enough to enjoy pointing them out.

And now, somehow, he had become the person standing between you and the scholarship you could not afford to lose.

Your arrangement had started politely. Then it became competitive. Then personal. Long afternoons turned into late nights, arguments over theory turned into lingering looks, and every correction he made on your drafts felt too much like a challenge. Edd seemed to enjoy getting under your skin, and worse, he was very good at it.

Tonight, the two of you are alone in one of Hawthorne’s private reading rooms, a spacious chamber tucked deep inside the old library. Tall shelves climb toward the vaulted ceiling, heavy curtains frame dark windows, and a low fire burns in the stone fireplace, painting everything in gold. Your notes are spread across the long oak table between you. His jacket hangs over the back of his chair. Your patience is wearing thin.

“You know,” Edd says, leaning back with your latest draft in hand, “you argue beautifully but when you’re angry it sounds like you’re trying to do an impression of a fire alarm.”

You look up from your notes. “And you almost sound useful when you stop trying to sound impressed with yourself.”

His mouth curves, slow and infuriating. “Careful. I’m your reference, remember?”

The reminder should make you cautious. Instead, it makes the air feel warmer.

You reach for the paper, but he does not let go right away. For one suspended second, your fingers brush his. The fire crackles. The room feels too quiet, too large, too sealed away from the rest of the university.

Then the lights outside the reading room dim.

You turn toward the door as the lock clicks into place.

Edd rises first, crossing the room with that composed confidence of his. He tests the handle once, then again. It does not move.

When he looks back at you, the teasing has not fully left his face, but something sharper has settled beneath it.

“Well,” he says, voice lower now, “it appears Hawthorne expects us to keep working.”

The silence that follows is thick with unfinished arguments, unspoken threats, and every charged moment the two of you have pretended not to notice.

You are locked inside the library with the one man who holds your future in his hands.

And he is watching you like he has finally run out of reasons to keep his distance.
——

hey!

I’m Edd and I hope you enjoyed this little set up as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m 23M and currently a law student who just got out for summer and am looking to destress with some RP. I have always loved academia based romance so this prompt tries to encompass that with a fun quirk to move things in the right direction. This prompt is supposed to play up a classic setup for this power dynamic but if you have any that you’re more inclined to explore feel free to come with a prompt! We don’t have to start at the exact endpoint of this prompt and can move forward or backwards depending on what we need.

A bit about myself: I play exclusively in self insert which can be a deal breaker for some- so if you’re such a person I apologize. I also do heavily prefer for my partner to have a similar background to their character/ self insert as well. I’ve RPd on and off for years and am comfortable writing at different levels if you’d prefer a more drawn out arrangement or something ‘hot and quick’. I’m flexible on the prompt itself if you want to come with ideas or changes to make it more engaging. This setup could lend itself well to a cheating angle which is something I’m happy to explore! I have no preferences for appearance although have always found interracial setups to be fun (white man + Asian/South Asian). I write exclusively in the first person.

Banter and humor are big parts of this for me so I’d love for you to really lean into expressing yourself and including some good dialogue. If things get stale or it feels like it’s just a sex fest then I tend to disappear.

I can share k/l and a description when we’re acquainted. I am looking for longer term partners who are open to developing something we can both enjoy for a while- happy to break some walls too and engage in more direct nsfw convos if you’re up for it ;)

I look forward to hearing from you- please include the word ‘orange’ 🍊 in your first message so I know you made it here (: (more active on disc!)

You came to Hawthorne University with two suitcases, a stack of worn paperbacks, and the kind of ambition people from your hometown called unrealistic.

For most of your life, you had been the cliché everyone underestimated. The quiet girl in the corner. The scholarship student with ink on her fingers, thrifted sweaters, and a habit of correcting professors under her breath. Hawthorne was all marble halls, old money names, and students who treated tuition like a family tradition. You treated it like survival.

Then, in your second year, the letter arrived.

**Scholarship under review.**

Your advisor had said it gently, as if softness could dull the edge of it. A strong research paper might help your case. A faculty reference would help more. Better yet, she knew a graduate student in your field who could supervise your work and serve as your official academic reference.

Edd.

He was everything Hawthorne loved to protect. Old money polish, former fraternity charm, tailored coats, careless confidence. The kind of man who looked like he had never had to ask for anything in his life. He was intelligent in the most irritating way, sharp enough to see through weak arguments and smug enough to enjoy pointing them out.

And now, somehow, he had become the person standing between you and the scholarship you could not afford to lose.

Your arrangement had started politely. Then it became competitive. Then personal. Long afternoons turned into late nights, arguments over theory turned into lingering looks, and every correction he made on your drafts felt too much like a challenge. Edd seemed to enjoy getting under your skin, and worse, he was very good at it.

Tonight, the two of you are alone in one of Hawthorne’s private reading rooms, a spacious chamber tucked deep inside the old library. Tall shelves climb toward the vaulted ceiling, heavy curtains frame dark windows, and a low fire burns in the stone fireplace, painting everything in gold. Your notes are spread across the long oak table between you. His jacket hangs over the back of his chair. Your patience is wearing thin.

“You know,” Edd says, leaning back with your latest draft in hand, “you argue beautifully when you stop trying to sound like you’re proving something.”

You look up from your notes. “And you almost sound useful when you stop trying to sound impressed with yourself.”

His mouth curves, slow and infuriating. “Careful. I’m your reference, remember?”

The reminder should make you cautious. Instead, it makes the air feel warmer.

You reach for the paper, but he does not let go right away. For one suspended second, your fingers brush his. The fire crackles. The room feels too quiet, too large, too sealed away from the rest of the university.

Then the lights outside the reading room dim.

You turn toward the door as the lock clicks into place.

Edd rises first, crossing the room with that composed confidence of his. He tests the handle once, then again. It does not move.

When he looks back at you, the teasing has not fully left his face, but something sharper has settled beneath it.

“Well,” he says, voice lower now, “it appears Hawthorne expects us to keep working.”

The silence that follows is thick with unfinished arguments, unspoken threats, and every charged moment the two of you have pretended not to notice.

You are locked inside the library with the one man who holds your future in his hands.

And he is watching you like he has finally run out of reasons to keep his distance.

\-
Hey!

Hoped you liked this prompt! My name is Edd 23M and I’m looking for a partner to explore this RP with in a long term and detailed romance. I’m open to this being more of a vanilla set up or a darker one depending on how we get along. I can share K+L and desc once we get acquainted! Bonus points for Asian/South Asian RP partners :) please use the word stereo in your opening so I know you read all the way here.

I am 18+ and all characters and participants must be 18+

You blame the storm.

That is the story you decide on before you even leave the house.

Hallow Hills had always been the kind of town that treated privacy like a decorative concept. Curtains moved when cars slowed. Mailboxes became courtrooms. A man could not buy ant traps at the hardware store without someone’s aunt deciding his kitchen had failed morally.

So when Edd came back in June, everyone knew by dinner.

He had finished law school, inherited his uncle’s place at the far bend of Briar Lane, and returned for the summer to make the house livable before deciding what to do with it. The place had sat empty for nearly two years, sagging behind its pine trees with peeling shutters and a porch that looked one good sneeze away from collapse. Then Edd arrived with a rented truck, a stack of lumber, and the weary, focused look of someone trying to fix more than a house.

There were only two homes on that crooked corner of the street: his uncle’s old place and yours.

Everyone else lived farther down, where the road widened and people had children, dogs, opinions, and porch cameras. Up here, it was mostly trees, bad cell service, and the kind of quiet that made small sounds feel personal.

You noticed him because he was there. That was all.

Or that was what you told yourself.

It helped that noticing anything was easier than noticing your own marriage. Your husband had been gone more than home for the better part of a year, always on some work trip, always delayed by a client dinner, a missed flight, a meeting that moved. He still kissed your cheek when he left, still texted apologies with the right punctuation, still sent flowers when he had missed something too obvious to ignore.

But lately there were hotel charges in cities he had not mentioned, cologne on shirts he claimed not to have worn, and the familiar cowardice of a man who came home tired from lying but expected praise for showing up at all.

The marriage was not over, technically. Technically was doing a lot of work.

So, yes, you had noticed Edd across the bend, sanding porch rails in the evenings, hauling old boards to the curb, playing music low while the house slowly remembered how to stand upright. You noticed the light in his windows because there were so few lights up here. You noticed the sound of his hammer because your own house had grown too quiet. You noticed when he worked late because you were usually awake anyway, sitting at the kitchen table with your laptop open and your wedding ring turned around on your finger. He’d clearly noticed you too- always waiving when you’d walk by or steal a look for a while as you came home after the gym.

That did not mean anything.

Not officially.

The storm has been gathering since sunset, pressing warm air against the windows and turning the sky over Hallow Hills a dull, bruised purple. Dinner is an abandoned idea on the counter: wine, crackers, a wedge of cheese you have decided not to interrogate. Your laptop is still open at the table, another work email waiting with the calm menace of someone who uses “circling back” in earnest.

Your husband is in Chicago. Or Dallas.

Or wherever men go when they stop bothering to make their stories memorable.

Then the kitchen lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

Gone.

The refrigerator hum dies. The microwave clock vanishes. Your house settles into the dark as if it has been waiting all day to be dramatic.

You stand there for a moment, barefoot, bottle in hand, listening to thunder move closer over the trees.

There is a breaker box in the laundry room. You know this. You even know, in the general way adults know things they prefer not to test, that one of the switches probably controls the kitchen.

Still, the laundry room is dark. The windows are black. The whole corner of Briar Lane has gone quiet except for the wind dragging itself through the branches outside.

Across the bend, Edd’s house still has light.

That seems relevant.

You grab a flashlight and shoes before your dignity can organize itself.

His uncle’s house looks less abandoned than it did in June, though not by enough to brag. The porch has been partly sanded. Paint cans sit beneath a tarp. A stack of old boards leans against the railing like exhausted witnesses. Warm light spills from the front windows, and music plays somewhere inside, low and uneven, as if the speaker keeps cutting in and out.

You knock.

For a few seconds, nothing happens.

Then the door opens.

Edd is there in an old T-shirt damp at the collar, paint on one forearm, his hair pushed back like he has been running his hand through it too often. He looks surprised to see you, which is either flattering or mildly insulting, given that there are only two possible visitors on this end of the street and one of them is a raccoon.

His gaze drops to the flashlight in your hand.

“Everything okay?”

“My kitchen lights went out.”

He glances past you toward the road, then back. “Just the kitchen?”

“And the microwave. Very serious.”

“That does sound grave.

“I wasn’t finished using the clock.”

That earns the smallest smile. Not a smirk. Not performance. Just a tired, reluctant thing that makes him look younger for half a second.

“Did you check the breaker?”

You look toward the porch railing. “I considered it from several angles.”

“So, no.”

“I assessed the possibility.”

“From a distance?”

“A safe one.”

He nods, accepting this with more gravity than it deserves. “Probably wise.”

That is the thing about Edd. He does not try too hard with the joke. He simply leaves it there and lets you decide whether to pick it up.

He reaches back inside for a pair of shoes and a small tool bag, though you both know a tool bag is probably excessive. The gesture is kind, or maybe just gives him something to do with his hands.

The first drops of rain begin as you walk back, spotting the pavement between your houses. The distance is short, but the corner feels strangely private in the dark. The rest of Hallow Hills sits around the bend, out of sight and temporarily uninformed. Up here, there is your porch light, his windows, and the trees shifting overhead.

“I saw your kitchen go dark,” he says after a moment.

“You were watching my house?”

“I was looking out the window.”

“At my house?”

“At the storm.”

“Conveniently located behind my house.”

His mouth twitches. “Geography is difficult to argue with.”

You glance at him, and for a second you both smile at the ground like teenagers with better credit scores and worse judgment.

Inside, your house feels different with him in it. Not transformed. Nothing that dramatic. Just altered slightly, like a room after someone has moved one chair and now you cannot stop noticing it.

You lead him to the laundry room. The hallway is narrow enough that he has to turn sideways near the shelves, careful not to knock over a basket of clean towels you have been pretending you mean to fold.

“Sorry,” you say, shifting out of his way.

“You’re fine.”

It is a normal thing to say. People say it constantly.

Still, in the dim beam of the flashlight, it lands with unnecessary weight.

Edd opens the breaker panel and studies it for about three seconds.

“This one tripped.”

You lean in, though there is nothing to see that does not immediately incriminate you. The kitchen breaker is plainly sitting in the wrong position, labeled in your own handwriting from the last time someone more responsible had helped you.

“Oh,” you say.

He looks at the label. Then at you.

You lift the flashlight a little higher. “In my defense, the handwriting is terrible.”

“It’s your handwriting.”

“Then I stand by my statement.”

The corner of his mouth gives in again. He flips the switch.

The kitchen lights come back. The refrigerator resumes its low hum. From the counter, the microwave chirps awake, smug and fully informed.

“Well,” he says, closing the panel. “That was almost an emergency.”

“It was dark.”

“It was.”

“And there was weather.”

“There is.”

“And I didn’t want to die in the laundry room.”

“I can see how that would ruin the evening.”

He says it gently, almost under his breath, and the humor slips into something quieter.

Rain starts properly against the windows now, steady and close. Edd does not step away from the breaker box right away, but he does not move closer either. He just stands there with one hand resting on the panel door, looking down the hallway toward the warm light of the kitchen.

“You had power,” you say.

He turns back. “What?”

“Your house. It still had lights.”

“Old wiring,” he says. “Different lines, maybe. Or luck.”

“Show-off.”

That gets him, softly.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The house is too quiet around the rain. The kind of quiet that makes every small movement feel intentional.

Edd clears his throat first. “I should probably let you get back to dinner.”

You glance toward the counter: the open wine, the crackers, the cheese with its unresolved legal status. Your phone lights up beside the laptop.

A text from your husband.

Delayed again. Don’t wait up.

No apology this time.

You turn the phone facedown.

“Yes,” you say. “Very formal dinner.”

Edd sees enough not to ask. That is either tact or mercy. Maybe both.

“Black tie?” he says.

“Emotionally.”

His eyes return to yours, and the joke thins but does not disappear. It stays between you, useful and fragile.

The smart thing would be to thank him and walk him to the door. He would go back to his half-finished house. You would pour one glass of wine, answer no emails, and tomorrow the whole thing could become nothing more than a mildly embarrassing neighborhood favor.

But rain is coming down hard now, blurring the windows and silvering the porch steps. His house is only across the bend, but it suddenly looks farther than it is.

“You can wait it out,” you say.

It comes out casual enough that your pride is intact .

Barely.

Edd looks at you for a second longer than necessary. Not triumphant. Not smooth. Almost cautious.

“Yeah?”

“If you want. Since you’re already here. And since you saved me from the breaker I absolutely could have handled.”

“I never doubted you.”

“You doubted me immediately.”

“I had concerns.”

You smile despite yourself.

His answering smile is small, real, and a bit more dangerous that you anticipated

“All right,” he says. “I can wait a little.”

You turn toward the kitchen. He follows after a beat, quiet behind you, while the storm settles over the two houses at the end of Briar Lane like it has decided to keep a secret.

——

hey!

I’m Edd and I hope you enjoyed this little set up as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m 23M and currently a law student who just got out for summer and am looking to destress with some RP. I’ve always been drawn to cliche older woman / younger man dynamics and have loved exploring it via RP and am seeking a partner who also enjoys the idea. This prompt is supposed to play up a classic setup for this dynamic but if you have any that you’re more inclined to explore feel free to come with a prompt!

A bit about myself: I play exclusively in self insert which can be a deal breaker for some- so if you’re such a person I apologize. I also do heavily prefer for my partner to have a similar background to their character/ self insert as well. I’ve RPd on and off for years and am comfortable writing at different levels if you’d prefer a more drawn out arrangement or something ‘hot and quick’. I’m flexible on the prompt itself if you want to come with ideas or changes to make it more engaging. This setup could lend itself well to an affair angle which is something I’m happy to explore! I have no preferences for appearance although have always found interracial setups to be fun (white man + Asian/South Asian). I write exclusively in the first person.

Banter and humor are big parts of this for me so I’d love for you to really lean into expressing yourself and including some good dialogue. If things get stale or it feels like it’s just a sex fest then I tend to disappear.

I can share k/l and a description when we’re acquainted. I am looking for longer term partners who are open to developing something we can both enjoy for a while- happy to break some walls too and engage in more direct nsfw convos if you’re up for it ;)

I look forward to hearing from you- please include the word Green in your first message so I know you made it here (: (more active on disc!)

I am 18+ and all participants and characters must be 18+

You blame the storm.

That is the story you decide on before you even leave the house.

Hallow Hills had always been the kind of town that treated privacy like a decorative concept. Curtains moved when cars slowed. Mailboxes became courtrooms. A man could not buy ant traps at the hardware store without someone’s aunt deciding his kitchen had failed morally.

So when Edd came back in June, everyone knew by dinner.

He had finished law school, inherited his uncle’s place at the far bend of Briar Lane, and returned for the summer to make the house livable before deciding what to do with it. The place had sat empty for nearly two years, sagging behind its pine trees with peeling shutters and a porch that looked one good sneeze away from collapse. Then Edd arrived with a rented truck, a stack of lumber, and the weary, focused look of someone trying to fix more than a house.

There were only two homes on that crooked corner of the street: his uncle’s old place and yours.

Everyone else lived farther down, where the road widened and people had children, dogs, opinions, and porch cameras. Up here, it was mostly trees, bad cell service, and the kind of quiet that made small sounds feel personal.

You noticed him because he was there. That was all.

Or that was what you told yourself.

It helped that noticing anything was easier than noticing your own marriage. Your husband had been gone more than home for the better part of a year, always on some work trip, always delayed by a client dinner, a missed flight, a meeting that moved. He still kissed your cheek when he left, still texted apologies with the right punctuation, still sent flowers when he had missed something too obvious to ignore.

But lately there were hotel charges in cities he had not mentioned, cologne on shirts he claimed not to have worn, and the familiar cowardice of a man who came home tired from lying but expected praise for showing up at all.

The marriage was not over, technically. Technically was doing a lot of work.

So, yes, you had noticed Edd across the bend, sanding porch rails in the evenings, hauling old boards to the curb, playing music low while the house slowly remembered how to stand upright. You noticed the light in his windows because there were so few lights up here. You noticed the sound of his hammer because your own house had grown too quiet. You noticed when he worked late because you were usually awake anyway, sitting at the kitchen table with your laptop open and your wedding ring turned around on your finger. He’d clearly noticed you too- always waiving when you’d walk by or steal a look for a while as you came home after the gym.

That did not mean anything.

Not officially.

The storm has been gathering since sunset, pressing warm air against the windows and turning the sky over Hallow Hills a dull, bruised purple. Dinner is an abandoned idea on the counter: wine, crackers, a wedge of cheese you have decided not to interrogate. Your laptop is still open at the table, another work email waiting with the calm menace of someone who uses “circling back” in earnest.

Your husband is in Chicago. Or Dallas.

Or wherever men go when they stop bothering to make their stories memorable.

Then the kitchen lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

Gone.

The refrigerator hum dies. The microwave clock vanishes. Your house settles into the dark as if it has been waiting all day to be dramatic.

You stand there for a moment, barefoot, bottle in hand, listening to thunder move closer over the trees.

There is a breaker box in the laundry room. You know this. You even know, in the general way adults know things they prefer not to test, that one of the switches probably controls the kitchen.

Still, the laundry room is dark. The windows are black. The whole corner of Briar Lane has gone quiet except for the wind dragging itself through the branches outside.

Across the bend, Edd’s house still has light.

That seems relevant.

You grab a flashlight and shoes before your dignity can organize itself.

His uncle’s house looks less abandoned than it did in June, though not by enough to brag. The porch has been partly sanded. Paint cans sit beneath a tarp. A stack of old boards leans against the railing like exhausted witnesses. Warm light spills from the front windows, and music plays somewhere inside, low and uneven, as if the speaker keeps cutting in and out.

You knock.

For a few seconds, nothing happens.

Then the door opens.

Edd is there in an old T-shirt damp at the collar, paint on one forearm, his hair pushed back like he has been running his hand through it too often. He looks surprised to see you, which is either flattering or mildly insulting, given that there are only two possible visitors on this end of the street and one of them is a raccoon.

His gaze drops to the flashlight in your hand.

“Everything okay?”

“My kitchen lights went out.”

He glances past you toward the road, then back. “Just the kitchen?”

“And the microwave. Very serious.”

“That does sound grave.

“I wasn’t finished using the clock.”

That earns the smallest smile. Not a smirk. Not performance. Just a tired, reluctant thing that makes him look younger for half a second.

“Did you check the breaker?”

You look toward the porch railing. “I considered it from several angles.”

“So, no.”

“I assessed the possibility.”

“From a distance?”

“A safe one.”

He nods, accepting this with more gravity than it deserves. “Probably wise.”

That is the thing about Edd. He does not try too hard with the joke. He simply leaves it there and lets you decide whether to pick it up.

He reaches back inside for a pair of shoes and a small tool bag, though you both know a tool bag is probably excessive. The gesture is kind, or maybe just gives him something to do with his hands.

The first drops of rain begin as you walk back, spotting the pavement between your houses. The distance is short, but the corner feels strangely private in the dark. The rest of Hallow Hills sits around the bend, out of sight and temporarily uninformed. Up here, there is your porch light, his windows, and the trees shifting overhead.

“I saw your kitchen go dark,” he says after a moment.

“You were watching my house?”

“I was looking out the window.”

“At my house?”

“At the storm.”

“Conveniently located behind my house.”

His mouth twitches. “Geography is difficult to argue with.”

You glance at him, and for a second you both smile at the ground like teenagers with better credit scores and worse judgment.

Inside, your house feels different with him in it. Not transformed. Nothing that dramatic. Just altered slightly, like a room after someone has moved one chair and now you cannot stop noticing it.

You lead him to the laundry room. The hallway is narrow enough that he has to turn sideways near the shelves, careful not to knock over a basket of clean towels you have been pretending you mean to fold.

“Sorry,” you say, shifting out of his way.

“You’re fine.”

It is a normal thing to say. People say it constantly.

Still, in the dim beam of the flashlight, it lands with unnecessary weight.

Edd opens the breaker panel and studies it for about three seconds.

“This one tripped.”

You lean in, though there is nothing to see that does not immediately incriminate you. The kitchen breaker is plainly sitting in the wrong position, labeled in your own handwriting from the last time someone more responsible had helped you.

“Oh,” you say.

He looks at the label. Then at you.

You lift the flashlight a little higher. “In my defense, the handwriting is terrible.”

“It’s your handwriting.”

“Then I stand by my statement.”

The corner of his mouth gives in again. He flips the switch.

The kitchen lights come back. The refrigerator resumes its low hum. From the counter, the microwave chirps awake, smug and fully informed.

“Well,” he says, closing the panel. “That was almost an emergency.”

“It was dark.”

“It was.”

“And there was weather.”

“There is.”

“And I didn’t want to die in the laundry room.”

“I can see how that would ruin the evening.”

He says it gently, almost under his breath, and the humor slips into something quieter.

Rain starts properly against the windows now, steady and close. Edd does not step away from the breaker box right away, but he does not move closer either. He just stands there with one hand resting on the panel door, looking down the hallway toward the warm light of the kitchen.

“You had power,” you say.

He turns back. “What?”

“Your house. It still had lights.”

“Old wiring,” he says. “Different lines, maybe. Or luck.”

“Show-off.”

That gets him, softly.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The house is too quiet around the rain. The kind of quiet that makes every small movement feel intentional.

Edd clears his throat first. “I should probably let you get back to dinner.”

You glance toward the counter: the open wine, the crackers, the cheese with its unresolved legal status. Your phone lights up beside the laptop.

A text from your husband.

Delayed again. Don’t wait up.

No apology this time.

You turn the phone facedown.

“Yes,” you say. “Very formal dinner.”

Edd sees enough not to ask. That is either tact or mercy. Maybe both.

“Black tie?” he says.

“Emotionally.”

His eyes return to yours, and the joke thins but does not disappear. It stays between you, useful and fragile.

The smart thing would be to thank him and walk him to the door. He would go back to his half-finished house. You would pour one glass of wine, answer no emails, and tomorrow the whole thing could become nothing more than a mildly embarrassing neighborhood favor.

But rain is coming down hard now, blurring the windows and silvering the porch steps. His house is only across the bend, but it suddenly looks farther than it is.

“You can wait it out,” you say.

It comes out casual enough that your pride is intact .

Barely.

Edd looks at you for a second longer than necessary. Not triumphant. Not smooth. Almost cautious.

“Yeah?”

“If you want. Since you’re already here. And since you saved me from the breaker I absolutely could have handled.”

“I never doubted you.”

“You doubted me immediately.”

“I had concerns.”

You smile despite yourself.

His answering smile is small, real, and a bit more dangerous that you anticipated

“All right,” he says. “I can wait a little.”

You turn toward the kitchen. He follows after a beat, quiet behind you, while the storm settles over the two houses at the end of Briar Lane like it has decided to keep a secret.

——

hey!

I’m Edd and I hope you enjoyed this little set up as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m 23M and currently a law student who just got out for summer and am looking to destress with some RP. I’ve always been drawn to cliche older woman / younger man dynamics and have loved exploring it via RP and am seeking a partner who also enjoys the idea. This prompt is supposed to play up a classic setup for this dynamic but if you have any that you’re more inclined to explore feel free to come with a prompt!

A bit about myself: I play exclusively in self insert which can be a deal breaker for some- so if you’re such a person I apologize. I also do heavily prefer for my partner to have a similar background to their character/ self insert as well. I’ve RPd on and off for years and am comfortable writing at different levels if you’d prefer a more drawn out arrangement or something ‘hot and quick’. I’m flexible on the prompt itself if you want to come with ideas or changes to make it more engaging. This setup could lend itself well to an affair angle which is something I’m happy to explore! I have no preferences for appearance although have always found interracial setups to be fun (white man + Asian/South Asian). I write exclusively in the first person.

Banter and humor are big parts of this for me so I’d love for you to really lean into expressing yourself and including some good dialogue. If things get stale or it feels like it’s just a sex fest then I tend to disappear.

I can share k/l and a description when we’re acquainted. I am looking for longer term partners who are open to developing something we can both enjoy for a while- happy to break some walls too and engage in more direct nsfw convos if you’re up for it ;)

I look forward to hearing from you- please include the word Green in your first message so I know you made it here (: (more active on disc!)

You blame the lights.

That feels important to establish.

Not your curiosity. Not the fact that you’d noticed Edd moving into his uncle’s empty place up the road for the summer. Not the shirtless roof work, or the way the neighborhood suddenly had the emotional stability of a group chat whenever he walked past with a toolbox. Definitely not the fact that you’d found yourself glancing toward that old fixer-upper more often than was strictly normal for a grown woman with bills and enough work emails to radicalize a saint.

No. This is about electricity.

Your kitchen lights flicker once, twice, then give up completely while you’re standing there in socks, holding a half-open bottle of wine and pretending dinner might still become something more ambitious than crackers and whatever cheese hadn’t betrayed you yet. The microwave clock dies. The overhead light vanishes. Somewhere in the dark, your phone buzzes with another work email, because apparently capitalism can see in the dark.

You stare at the ceiling.

“Perfect,” you mutter. “Love that for me.”

You know, vaguely, that there’s a breaker box. You also know, vaguely, that it contains switches. You may even know, less vaguely, that flipping one of those switches would probably solve the problem in under fifteen seconds.

But it’s Friday night. You’re tired. Your boss spent the afternoon using the phrase “urgent alignment” like it was a spell from Harry Potter, your house is now doing its best impression of a haunted Airbnb, and just up the road there happens to be a law student with broad shoulders, a working knowledge of tools, and the unfortunate habit of looking like a CW reboot of every bad decision you were supposed to be too sensible to make.

So, really, this is about public safety.

Mostly.

You grab a flashlight, pull on shoes, and march up the road with the confidence of someone making a practical choice and the inner monologue of someone absolutely not making a practical choice.

Edd’s uncle’s house looks half-rescued from ruin. One side of the porch has been sanded down, the other still looks like it belongs in a Stephen King establishing shot. Paint cans sit near the steps. A ladder leans against the siding. There’s warm light spilling from the front windows, music playing low inside, something old and familiar that makes the whole place feel less abandoned and more dangerously cozy.

You knock before you can change your mind.

For a few seconds, nothing happens.

Then the door opens.

And there he is.

Shirtless.

Of course he is.

Because apparently the universe has a writers’ room, and every single person in it is twelve years old.

Edd stands in the doorway with damp hair, a towel slung around his neck, and a smear of white paint near his ribs. His jeans hang low on his hips, one hand still braced on the door like he was expecting a normal interruption and not you standing there with a flashlight, a deadpan expression, and the sudden urge to forget every noun you’ve ever learned.

He blinks.

You blink back.

His gaze drops to the flashlight, then returns to your face. Slowly, very slowly, his mouth starts to curve.

“Hi,” he says.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to ask if everything’s okay.”

“With that face?”

His smile gets worse. “My face?”

“The innocent contractor face. Very HGTV after dark.”

He looks down at himself, as if only now remembering he opened the door half-dressed. This is plainly a lie. Men like Edd do not accidentally answer doors like that. They may claim accidents. They may build entire legal defenses around accidents. But nobody with abdominal muscles and paint in cinematic locations is innocent.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry enough. “I was painting.”

“At nine o’clock?”

“I’m a law student. My relationship with normal hours is mostly theoretical.”

You lift the flashlight. “My kitchen lights went out.”

His eyebrows rise. “Just the kitchen?”

“And the microwave.”

“Tragic.”

“It had the time on it.”

“Devastating.”

“I came for help, not sarcasm.”

“Then you came to the wrong porch.”

You give him a look.

He reaches for a T-shirt hanging over the banister just inside the door, then pauses, eyes flicking back to yours. Not smug exactly. Worse. Amused in a way that suggests he knows exactly how long it took you to notice he hadn’t put it on yet.

“Should I…?” he asks.

You refuse to look anywhere except his face. Unfortunately, his face is also a problem.

“Do whatever helps you focus on electrical safety.”

“That answer feels carefully drafted.”

“You’re not the only one who can sound expensive.”

He laughs, soft and low, then finally pulls the shirt on. Somehow this does not improve the situation. Now he looks like he’s about to fix your breaker and ruin your standards in one errand.

He steps onto the porch, grabbing a small tool bag from beside the door. “Did you check the breaker?”

There it is.

The question.

The betrayal.

You consider lying. You consider telling the truth. You consider inventing a raccoon. The raccoon option has promise.

“I checked it emotionally,” you say.

Edd stops on the top step. “Emotionally.”

“I stood near it and felt unsupported.”

His grin spreads. “That’s not usually step one.”

“It is for me.”

“Did you flip the switch?”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you always this condescending when a woman arrives at your door in distress?”

“No. Sometimes I wait until we’re at the breaker box.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“That’s ugly of you.”

“I know,” he says, walking beside you down the steps. “I’m working on it.”

The road back to your house feels shorter with him next to you. Annoyingly short. He smells faintly like soap, paint, and summer heat, which is the kind of thing you would mock in a romance novel and then secretly underline. He keeps his pace easy, matching yours without making a point of it. The flashlight beam bobs over the pavement between you.

“So,” he says, “lights go out and you immediately thought of me?”

You glance at him. “I thought of your toolbox.”

“That’s very objectifying.”

“I’m comfortable with that.”

“I have layers.”

“I’m sure. One of them was missing when you answered the door.”

He looks over at you, and the porch lights from the houses along the street catch the edge of his smile.

“That bother you?”

It is not said like a joke this time.

That is the problem with Edd. He can banter like a man auditioning for a Netflix rom-com, then shift half an inch lower and make the air feel crowded.

You keep walking.

“Should it?”

His smile fades into something quieter, more attentive. “Depends what you came over for.”

“Lights.”

“Right.”

“And possibly to confirm whether the neighborhood rumors were accurate.”

“Which rumors?”

“That you’re here all summer fixing up your uncle’s house.”

“That one’s true.”

“That you’re studying law.”

“Also true.”

“That you’ve been terrorizing Mrs. Alvarez by taking your shirt off in the yard.”

He coughs out a laugh. “That is not true.”

“She said you were sanding shutters like a Chippendale with student debt.”

“She said that?”

“Not in those words. Her phrasing was more Catholic.”

He shakes his head, still smiling as you reach your driveway. “Good to know I’ve made an impression.”

“On the shutters, yes.”

“Of course.”

Inside your house, the kitchen is dark and warm and suddenly much smaller than it was before. Edd follows you to the breaker box near the laundry room, his shoulder brushing yours once in the narrow hallway. Barely a touch. Barely anything.

Naturally, your nervous system treats it like breaking news.

He opens the panel, scans the switches, then points.

“This one’s tripped.”

You lean closer, pretending to inspect it. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

He looks at you.

You look at the breaker.

The switch is very clearly in the wrong position.

It is, in fact, embarrassingly obvious.

“You knew,” he says.

“I suspected.”

“You suspected the switch that says ‘kitchen’ might control the kitchen?”

“Electrical systems are complex.”

“You walked to my house for this.”

“I walked to your house because the situation required a qualified professional.”

“I’m not an electrician.”

“No, but you did open the door like a calendar firefighter, so I made an executive decision.”

Edd stares at you for one second.

Then he laughs.

Not polite laughter. Real laughter. The kind that loosens his face and makes him look briefly, unfairly beautiful. You regret nothing. You regret several things. You are undecided.

He flips the breaker.

The kitchen lights flicker back on.

The microwave beeps awake with the smug little chirp of a machine that knows exactly what just happened.

“There,” Edd says. “Emergency resolved.”

You fold your arms. “Heroic.”

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

“Too late.”

He closes the breaker panel, but he does not move away. Neither do you. The hallway is narrow. The house is quiet. The refrigerator hums back to life in the kitchen, and outside, crickets fill the silence like they were hired for atmosphere.

Edd’s gaze dips to your mouth for one reckless second before returning to your eyes.

“You know,” he says, voice lower now, “next time you need an excuse to come over, you can probably do better than a breaker switch.”

Your pulse does something profoundly unhelpful.

“Who says I needed an excuse?”

His expression stills.

There it is.

The line. The shift. The moment when the joke stops being quite so safe.

Edd takes one slow step closer, careful enough to give you room, close enough that you notice anyway.

“No one,” he says. “But I was hoping.”

You hold his gaze.

The smart thing would be to thank him, walk him to the door, and spend the rest of the night pretending this was just a neighborly favor with unusually good lighting.

Instead, you glance toward the kitchen.

“I was about to open some wine,” you say.

His mouth curves, but this time there is nothing casual about it.

“At nine o’clock on a Friday?”

You smile.

“That a problem, counselor?”

Edd looks at you like he has already lost the argument and is thrilled about it.

“No,” he says. “I think I can make a case for staying.”

——

hey!

I’m Edd and I hope you enjoyed this little set up as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m 23M and currently a law student who just got out for summer and am looking to destress with some RP. I’ve always been drawn to cliche older woman / younger man dynamics and have loved exploring it via RP and am seeking a partner who also enjoys the idea.

A bit about myself: I play exclusively in self insert (🤯) which can be a deal breaker for some- so if you’re such a person I apologize. I also do heavily prefer for my partner to have a similar background to their character/ self insert as well. I’ve RPd on and off for years and am comfortable writing at different levels if you’d prefer a more drawn out arrangement or something ‘hot and quick’. I’m flexible on the prompt itself if you want to come with ideas or changes to make it more engaging. This setup could lend itself well to an affair angle which is something I’m happy to explore!

Banter and humor are big parts of this for me so I’d love for you to really lean into expressing yourself and including some good dialogue. If things get stale or it feels like it’s just a sex fest then I tend to disappear.

I can share k/l and a description when we’re acquainted. I am looking for \\\*longer term partners\\\* who are open to developing something we can both enjoy for a while- happy to break some walls too and engage in more direct nsfw convos if you’re up for it ;)

I look forward to hearing from you- please include the word Green in your first message so I know you made it here (: (more active on disc- check bio!)

(i am 18+ and all participants and characters must also be 18+)

You blame the lights.

That feels important to establish.

Not your curiosity. Not the fact that you’d noticed Edd moving into his uncle’s empty place up the road for the summer. Not the shirtless roof work, or the way the neighborhood suddenly had the emotional stability of a group chat whenever he walked past with a toolbox. Definitely not the fact that you’d found yourself glancing toward that old fixer-upper more often than was strictly normal for a grown woman with bills and enough work emails to radicalize a saint.

No. This is about electricity.

Your kitchen lights flicker once, twice, then give up completely while you’re standing there in socks, holding a half-open bottle of wine and pretending dinner might still become something more ambitious than crackers and whatever cheese hadn’t betrayed you yet. The microwave clock dies. The overhead light vanishes. Somewhere in the dark, your phone buzzes with another work email, because apparently capitalism can see in the dark.

You stare at the ceiling.

“Perfect,” you mutter. “Love that for me.”

You know, vaguely, that there’s a breaker box. You also know, vaguely, that it contains switches. You may even know, less vaguely, that flipping one of those switches would probably solve the problem in under fifteen seconds.

But it’s Friday night. You’re tired. Your boss spent the afternoon using the phrase “urgent alignment” like it was a spell from Harry Potter, your house is now doing its best impression of a haunted Airbnb, and just up the road there happens to be a law student with broad shoulders, a working knowledge of tools, and the unfortunate habit of looking like a CW reboot of every bad decision you were supposed to be too sensible to make.

So, really, this is about public safety.

Mostly.

You grab a flashlight, pull on shoes, and march up the road with the confidence of someone making a practical choice and the inner monologue of someone absolutely not making a practical choice.

Edd’s uncle’s house looks half-rescued from ruin. One side of the porch has been sanded down, the other still looks like it belongs in a Stephen King establishing shot. Paint cans sit near the steps. A ladder leans against the siding. There’s warm light spilling from the front windows, music playing low inside, something old and familiar that makes the whole place feel less abandoned and more dangerously cozy.

You knock before you can change your mind.

For a few seconds, nothing happens.

Then the door opens.

And there he is.

Shirtless.

Of course he is.

Because apparently the universe has a writers’ room, and every single person in it is twelve years old.

Edd stands in the doorway with damp hair, a towel slung around his neck, and a smear of white paint near his ribs. His jeans hang low on his hips, one hand still braced on the door like he was expecting a normal interruption and not you standing there with a flashlight, a deadpan expression, and the sudden urge to forget every noun you’ve ever learned.

He blinks.

You blink back.

His gaze drops to the flashlight, then returns to your face. Slowly, very slowly, his mouth starts to curve.

“Hi,” he says.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to ask if everything’s okay.”

“With that face?”

His smile gets worse. “My face?”

“The innocent contractor face. Very HGTV after dark.”

He looks down at himself, as if only now remembering he opened the door half-dressed. This is plainly a lie. Men like Edd do not accidentally answer doors like that. They may claim accidents. They may build entire legal defenses around accidents. But nobody with abdominal muscles and paint in cinematic locations is innocent.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry enough. “I was painting.”

“At nine o’clock?”

“I’m a law student. My relationship with normal hours is mostly theoretical.”

You lift the flashlight. “My kitchen lights went out.”

His eyebrows rise. “Just the kitchen?”

“And the microwave.”

“Tragic.”

“It had the time on it.”

“Devastating.”

“I came for help, not sarcasm.”

“Then you came to the wrong porch.”

You give him a look.

He reaches for a T-shirt hanging over the banister just inside the door, then pauses, eyes flicking back to yours. Not smug exactly. Worse. Amused in a way that suggests he knows exactly how long it took you to notice he hadn’t put it on yet.

“Should I…?” he asks.

You refuse to look anywhere except his face. Unfortunately, his face is also a problem.

“Do whatever helps you focus on electrical safety.”

“That answer feels carefully drafted.”

“You’re not the only one who can sound expensive.”

He laughs, soft and low, then finally pulls the shirt on. Somehow this does not improve the situation. Now he looks like he’s about to fix your breaker and ruin your standards in one errand.

He steps onto the porch, grabbing a small tool bag from beside the door. “Did you check the breaker?”

There it is.

The question.

The betrayal.

You consider lying. You consider telling the truth. You consider inventing a raccoon. The raccoon option has promise.

“I checked it emotionally,” you say.

Edd stops on the top step. “Emotionally.”

“I stood near it and felt unsupported.”

His grin spreads. “That’s not usually step one.”

“It is for me.”

“Did you flip the switch?”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you always this condescending when a woman arrives at your door in distress?”

“No. Sometimes I wait until we’re at the breaker box.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“That’s ugly of you.”

“I know,” he says, walking beside you down the steps. “I’m working on it.”

The road back to your house feels shorter with him next to you. Annoyingly short. He smells faintly like soap, paint, and summer heat, which is the kind of thing you would mock in a romance novel and then secretly underline. He keeps his pace easy, matching yours without making a point of it. The flashlight beam bobs over the pavement between you.

“So,” he says, “lights go out and you immediately thought of me?”

You glance at him. “I thought of your toolbox.”

“That’s very objectifying.”

“I’m comfortable with that.”

“I have layers.”

“I’m sure. One of them was missing when you answered the door.”

He looks over at you, and the porch lights from the houses along the street catch the edge of his smile.

“That bother you?”

It is not said like a joke this time.

That is the problem with Edd. He can banter like a man auditioning for a Netflix rom-com, then shift half an inch lower and make the air feel crowded.

You keep walking.

“Should it?”

His smile fades into something quieter, more attentive. “Depends what you came over for.”

“Lights.”

“Right.”

“And possibly to confirm whether the neighborhood rumors were accurate.”

“Which rumors?”

“That you’re here all summer fixing up your uncle’s house.”

“That one’s true.”

“That you’re studying law.”

“Also true.”

“That you’ve been terrorizing Mrs. Alvarez by taking your shirt off in the yard.”

He coughs out a laugh. “That is not true.”

“She said you were sanding shutters like a Chippendale with student debt.”

“She said that?”

“Not in those words. Her phrasing was more Catholic.”

He shakes his head, still smiling as you reach your driveway. “Good to know I’ve made an impression.”

“On the shutters, yes.”

“Of course.”

Inside your house, the kitchen is dark and warm and suddenly much smaller than it was before. Edd follows you to the breaker box near the laundry room, his shoulder brushing yours once in the narrow hallway. Barely a touch. Barely anything.

Naturally, your nervous system treats it like breaking news.

He opens the panel, scans the switches, then points.

“This one’s tripped.”

You lean closer, pretending to inspect it. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

He looks at you.

You look at the breaker.

The switch is very clearly in the wrong position.

It is, in fact, embarrassingly obvious.

“You knew,” he says.

“I suspected.”

“You suspected the switch that says ‘kitchen’ might control the kitchen?”

“Electrical systems are complex.”

“You walked to my house for this.”

“I walked to your house because the situation required a qualified professional.”

“I’m not an electrician.”

“No, but you did open the door like a calendar firefighter, so I made an executive decision.”

Edd stares at you for one second.

Then he laughs.

Not polite laughter. Real laughter. The kind that loosens his face and makes him look briefly, unfairly beautiful. You regret nothing. You regret several things. You are undecided.

He flips the breaker.

The kitchen lights hum back on.

The microwave beeps awake with the smug little chirp of a machine that knows exactly what just happened.

“There,” Edd says. “Emergency resolved.”

You fold your arms. “Heroic.”

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

“Too late.”

He closes the breaker panel, but he does not move away. Neither do you. The hallway is narrow. The house is quiet. The refrigerator hums back to life in the kitchen, and outside, crickets fill the silence like they were hired for atmosphere.

Edd’s gaze dips to your mouth for one reckless second before returning to your eyes.

“You know,” he says, voice lower now, “next time you need an excuse to come over, you can probably do better than a breaker switch.”

Your pulse does something profoundly unhelpful.

“Who says I needed an excuse?”

His expression stills.

There it is.

The line. The shift. The moment when the joke stops being quite so safe.

Edd takes one slow step closer, careful enough to give you room, close enough that you notice anyway.

“No one,” he says. “But I was hoping.”

You hold his gaze.

The smart thing would be to thank him, walk him to the door, and spend the rest of the night pretending this was just a neighborly favor with unusually good lighting.

Instead, you glance toward the kitchen.

“I was about to open some wine,” you say.

His mouth curves, but this time there is nothing casual about it.

“At nine o’clock on a Friday?”

You smile.

“That a problem, counselor?”

Edd looks at you like he has already lost the argument and is thrilled about it.

“No,” he says. “I think I can make a case for staying.”

——

hey!

I’m Edd and I hope you enjoyed this little set up as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m 23M and currently a law student who just got out for summer and am looking to destress with some RP. I’ve always been drawn to cliche older woman / younger man dynamics and have loved exploring it via RP and am seeking a partner who also enjoys the idea.

A bit about myself: I play exclusively in self insert (🤯) which can be a deal breaker for some- so if you’re such a person I apologize. I also do heavily prefer for my partner to have a similar background to their character/ self insert as well. I’ve RPd on and off for years and am comfortable writing at different levels if you’d prefer a more drawn out arrangement or something ‘hot and quick’. I’m flexible on the prompt itself if you want to come with ideas or changes to make it more engaging. This setup could lend itself well to an affair angle which is something I’m happy to explore!

Banter and humor are big parts of this for me so I’d love for you to really lean into expressing yourself and including some good dialogue. If things get stale or it feels like it’s just a sex fest then I tend to disappear.

I can share k/l and a description when we’re acquainted. I am looking for longer term partners who are open to developing something we can both enjoy for a while-

I look forward to hearing from you- please include the word Green in your first message so I know you made it here (:

I am 18+ and all participants and characters must be 18+

You blame the lights.

That feels important to establish.

Not your curiosity. Not the fact that you’d noticed Edd moving into his uncle’s empty place up the road for the summer. Not the shirtless roof work, or the way the neighborhood suddenly had the emotional stability of a group chat whenever he walked past with a toolbox. Definitely not the fact that you’d found yourself glancing toward that old fixer-upper more often than was strictly normal for a grown woman with bills and enough work emails to radicalize a saint.

No. This is about electricity.

Your kitchen lights flicker once, twice, then give up completely while you’re standing there in socks, holding a half-open bottle of wine and pretending dinner might still become something more ambitious than crackers and whatever cheese hadn’t betrayed you yet. The microwave clock dies. The overhead light vanishes. Somewhere in the dark, your phone buzzes with another work email, because apparently capitalism can see in the dark.

You stare at the ceiling.

“Perfect,” you mutter. “Love that for me.”

You know, vaguely, that there’s a breaker box. You also know, vaguely, that it contains switches. You may even know, less vaguely, that flipping one of those switches would probably solve the problem in under fifteen seconds.

But it’s Friday night. You’re tired. Your boss spent the afternoon using the phrase “urgent alignment” like it was a spell from Harry Potter, your house is now doing its best impression of a haunted Airbnb, and just up the road there happens to be a law student with broad shoulders, a working knowledge of tools, and the unfortunate habit of looking like a CW reboot of every bad decision you were supposed to be too sensible to make.

So, really, this is about public safety.

Mostly.

You grab a flashlight, pull on shoes, and march up the road with the confidence of someone making a practical choice and the inner monologue of someone absolutely not making a practical choice.

Edd’s uncle’s house looks half-rescued from ruin. One side of the porch has been sanded down, the other still looks like it belongs in a Stephen King establishing shot. Paint cans sit near the steps. A ladder leans against the siding. There’s warm light spilling from the front windows, music playing low inside, something old and familiar that makes the whole place feel less abandoned and more dangerously cozy.

You knock before you can change your mind.

For a few seconds, nothing happens.

Then the door opens.

And there he is.

Shirtless.

Of course he is.

Because apparently the universe has a writers’ room, and every single person in it is twelve years old.

Edd stands in the doorway with damp hair, a towel slung around his neck, and a smear of white paint near his ribs. His jeans hang low on his hips, one hand still braced on the door like he was expecting a normal interruption and not you standing there with a flashlight, a deadpan expression, and the sudden urge to forget every noun you’ve ever learned.

He blinks.

You blink back.

His gaze drops to the flashlight, then returns to your face. Slowly, very slowly, his mouth starts to curve.

“Hi,” he says.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to ask if everything’s okay.”

“With that face?”

His smile gets worse. “My face?”

“The innocent contractor face. Very HGTV after dark.”

He looks down at himself, as if only now remembering he opened the door half-dressed. This is plainly a lie. Men like Edd do not accidentally answer doors like that. They may claim accidents. They may build entire legal defenses around accidents. But nobody with abdominal muscles and paint in cinematic locations is innocent.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry enough. “I was painting.”

“At nine o’clock?”

“I’m a law student. My relationship with normal hours is mostly theoretical.”

You lift the flashlight. “My kitchen lights went out.”

His eyebrows rise. “Just the kitchen?”

“And the microwave.”

“Tragic.”

“It had the time on it.”

“Devastating.”

“I came for help, not sarcasm.”

“Then you came to the wrong porch.”

You give him a look.

He reaches for a T-shirt hanging over the banister just inside the door, then pauses, eyes flicking back to yours. Not smug exactly. Worse. Amused in a way that suggests he knows exactly how long it took you to notice he hadn’t put it on yet.

“Should I…?” he asks.

You refuse to look anywhere except his face. Unfortunately, his face is also a problem.

“Do whatever helps you focus on electrical safety.”

“That answer feels carefully drafted.”

“You’re not the only one who can sound expensive.”

He laughs, soft and low, then finally pulls the shirt on. Somehow this does not improve the situation. Now he looks like he’s about to fix your breaker and ruin your standards in one errand.

He steps onto the porch, grabbing a small tool bag from beside the door. “Did you check the breaker?”

There it is.

The question.

The betrayal.

You consider lying. You consider telling the truth. You consider inventing a raccoon. The raccoon option has promise.

“I checked it emotionally,” you say.

Edd stops on the top step. “Emotionally.”

“I stood near it and felt unsupported.”

His grin spreads. “That’s not usually step one.”

“It is for me.”

“Did you flip the switch?”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you always this condescending when a woman arrives at your door in distress?”

“No. Sometimes I wait until we’re at the breaker box.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“That’s ugly of you.”

“I know,” he says, walking beside you down the steps. “I’m working on it.”

The road back to your house feels shorter with him next to you. Annoyingly short. He smells faintly like soap, paint, and summer heat, which is the kind of thing you would mock in a romance novel and then secretly underline. He keeps his pace easy, matching yours without making a point of it. The flashlight beam bobs over the pavement between you.

“So,” he says, “lights go out and you immediately thought of me?”

You glance at him. “I thought of your toolbox.”

“That’s very objectifying.”

“I’m comfortable with that.”

“I have layers.”

“I’m sure. One of them was missing when you answered the door.”

He looks over at you, and the porch lights from the houses along the street catch the edge of his smile.

“That bother you?”

It is not said like a joke this time.

That is the problem with Edd. He can banter like a man auditioning for a Netflix rom-com, then shift half an inch lower and make the air feel crowded.

You keep walking.

“Should it?”

His smile fades into something quieter, more attentive. “Depends what you came over for.”

“Lights.”

“Right.”

“And possibly to confirm whether the neighborhood rumors were accurate.”

“Which rumors?”

“That you’re here all summer fixing up your uncle’s house.”

“That one’s true.”

“That you’re studying law.”

“Also true.”

“That you’ve been terrorizing Mrs. Alvarez by taking your shirt off in the yard.”

He coughs out a laugh. “That is not true.”

“She said you were sanding shutters like a Chippendale with student debt.”

“She said that?”

“Not in those words. Her phrasing was more Catholic.”

He shakes his head, still smiling as you reach your driveway. “Good to know I’ve made an impression.”

“On the shutters, yes.”

“Of course.”

Inside your house, the kitchen is dark and warm and suddenly much smaller than it was before. Edd follows you to the breaker box near the laundry room, his shoulder brushing yours once in the narrow hallway. Barely a touch. Barely anything.

Naturally, your nervous system treats it like breaking news.

He opens the panel, scans the switches, then points.

“This one’s tripped.”

You lean closer, pretending to inspect it. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

He looks at you.

You look at the breaker.

The switch is very clearly in the wrong position.

It is, in fact, embarrassingly obvious.

“You knew,” he says.

“I suspected.”

“You suspected the switch that says ‘kitchen’ might control the kitchen?”

“Electrical systems are complex.”

“You walked to my house for this.”

“I walked to your house because the situation required a qualified professional.”

“I’m not an electrician.”

“No, but you did open the door like a calendar firefighter, so I made an executive decision.”

Edd stares at you for one second.

Then he laughs.

Not polite laughter. Real laughter. The kind that loosens his face and makes him look briefly, unfairly beautiful. You regret nothing. You regret several things. You are undecided.

He flips the breaker.

The kitchen lights hum back on.

The microwave beeps awake with the smug little chirp of a machine that knows exactly what just happened.

“There,” Edd says. “Emergency resolved.”

You fold your arms. “Heroic.”

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

“Too late.”

He closes the breaker panel, but he does not move away. Neither do you. The hallway is narrow. The house is quiet. The refrigerator hums back to life in the kitchen, and outside, crickets fill the silence like they were hired for atmosphere.

Edd’s gaze dips to your mouth for one reckless second before returning to your eyes.

“You know,” he says, voice lower now, “next time you need an excuse to come over, you can probably do better than a breaker switch.”

Your pulse does something profoundly unhelpful.

“Who says I needed an excuse?”

His expression stills.

There it is.

The line. The shift. The moment when the joke stops being quite so safe.

Edd takes one slow step closer, careful enough to give you room, close enough that you notice anyway.

“No one,” he says. “But I was hoping.”

You hold his gaze.

The smart thing would be to thank him, walk him to the door, and spend the rest of the night pretending this was just a neighborly favor with unusually good lighting.

Instead, you glance toward the kitchen.

“I was about to open some wine,” you say.

His mouth curves, but this time there is nothing casual about it.

“At nine o’clock on a Friday?”

You smile.

“That a problem, counselor?”

Edd looks at you like he has already lost the argument and is thrilled about it.

“No,” he says. “I think I can make a case for staying.”

——

hey!

I’m Edd and I hope you enjoyed this little set up as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m 23M and currently a law student who just got out for summer and am looking to destress with some RP. I’ve always been drawn to cliche older woman / younger man dynamics and have loved exploring it via RP and am seeking a partner who also enjoys the idea.

A bit about myself: I play exclusively in self insert (🤯) which can be a deal breaker for some- so if you’re such a person I apologize. I also do heavily prefer for my partner to have a similar background to their character/ self insert as well. I’ve RPd on and off for years and am comfortable writing at different levels if you’d prefer a more drawn out arrangement or something ‘hot and quick’. I’m flexible on the prompt itself if you want to come with ideas or changes to make it more engaging. This setup could lend itself well to an affair angle which is something I’m happy to explore!

Banter and humor are big parts of this for me so I’d love for you to really lean into expressing yourself and including some good dialogue. If things get stale or it feels like it’s just a sex fest then I tend to disappear.

I can share k/l and a description when we’re acquainted. I am looking for \\\*longer term partners\\\* who are open to developing something we can both enjoy for a while-
I look forward to hearing from you- please include the word Green in your first message so I know you made it here (:

You blame the lights.

That feels important to establish.

Not your curiosity. Not the fact that you’d noticed Edd moving into his uncle’s empty place up the road for the summer. Not the shirtless roof work, or the way the neighborhood suddenly had the emotional stability of a group chat whenever he walked past with a toolbox. Definitely not the fact that you’d found yourself glancing toward that old fixer-upper more often than was strictly normal for a grown woman with bills and enough work emails to radicalize a saint.

No. This is about electricity.

Your kitchen lights flicker once, twice, then give up completely while you’re standing there in socks, holding a half-open bottle of wine and pretending dinner might still become something more ambitious than crackers and whatever cheese hadn’t betrayed you yet. The microwave clock dies. The overhead light vanishes. Somewhere in the dark, your phone buzzes with another work email, because apparently capitalism can see in the dark.

You stare at the ceiling.

“Perfect,” you mutter. “Love that for me.”

You know, vaguely, that there’s a breaker box. You also know, vaguely, that it contains switches. You may even know, less vaguely, that flipping one of those switches would probably solve the problem in under fifteen seconds.

But it’s Friday night. You’re tired. Your boss spent the afternoon using the phrase “urgent alignment” like it was a spell from Harry Potter, your house is now doing its best impression of a haunted Airbnb, and just up the road there happens to be a law student with broad shoulders, a working knowledge of tools, and the unfortunate habit of looking like a CW reboot of every bad decision you were supposed to be too sensible to make.

So, really, this is about public safety.

Mostly.

You grab a flashlight, pull on shoes, and march up the road with the confidence of someone making a practical choice and the inner monologue of someone absolutely not making a practical choice.

Edd’s uncle’s house looks half-rescued from ruin. One side of the porch has been sanded down, the other still looks like it belongs in a Stephen King establishing shot. Paint cans sit near the steps. A ladder leans against the siding. There’s warm light spilling from the front windows, music playing low inside, something old and familiar that makes the whole place feel less abandoned and more dangerously cozy.

You knock before you can change your mind.

For a few seconds, nothing happens.

Then the door opens.

And there he is.

Shirtless.

Of course he is.

Because apparently the universe has a writers’ room, and every single person in it is twelve years old.

Edd stands in the doorway with damp hair, a towel slung around his neck, and a smear of white paint near his ribs. His jeans hang low on his hips, one hand still braced on the door like he was expecting a normal interruption and not you standing there with a flashlight, a deadpan expression, and the sudden urge to forget every noun you’ve ever learned.

He blinks.

You blink back.

His gaze drops to the flashlight, then returns to your face. Slowly, very slowly, his mouth starts to curve.

“Hi,” he says.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to ask if everything’s okay.”

“With that face?”

His smile gets worse. “My face?”

“The innocent contractor face. Very HGTV after dark.”

He looks down at himself, as if only now remembering he opened the door half-dressed. This is plainly a lie. Men like Edd do not accidentally answer doors like that. They may claim accidents. They may build entire legal defenses around accidents. But nobody with abdominal muscles and paint in cinematic locations is innocent.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry enough. “I was painting.”

“At nine o’clock?”

“I’m a law student. My relationship with normal hours is mostly theoretical.”

You lift the flashlight. “My kitchen lights went out.”

His eyebrows rise. “Just the kitchen?”

“And the microwave.”

“Tragic.”

“It had the time on it.”

“Devastating.”

“I came for help, not sarcasm.”

“Then you came to the wrong porch.”

You give him a look.

He reaches for a T-shirt hanging over the banister just inside the door, then pauses, eyes flicking back to yours. Not smug exactly. Worse. Amused in a way that suggests he knows exactly how long it took you to notice he hadn’t put it on yet.

“Should I…?” he asks.

You refuse to look anywhere except his face. Unfortunately, his face is also a problem.

“Do whatever helps you focus on electrical safety.”

“That answer feels carefully drafted.”

“You’re not the only one who can sound expensive.”

He laughs, soft and low, then finally pulls the shirt on. Somehow this does not improve the situation. Now he looks like he’s about to fix your breaker and ruin your standards in one errand.

He steps onto the porch, grabbing a small tool bag from beside the door. “Did you check the breaker?”

There it is.

The question.

The betrayal.

You consider lying. You consider telling the truth. You consider inventing a raccoon. The raccoon option has promise.

“I checked it emotionally,” you say.

Edd stops on the top step. “Emotionally.”

“I stood near it and felt unsupported.”

His grin spreads. “That’s not usually step one.”

“It is for me.”

“Did you flip the switch?”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you always this condescending when a woman arrives at your door in distress?”

“No. Sometimes I wait until we’re at the breaker box.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“That’s ugly of you.”

“I know,” he says, walking beside you down the steps. “I’m working on it.”

The road back to your house feels shorter with him next to you. Annoyingly short. He smells faintly like soap, paint, and summer heat, which is the kind of thing you would mock in a romance novel and then secretly underline. He keeps his pace easy, matching yours without making a point of it. The flashlight beam bobs over the pavement between you.

“So,” he says, “lights go out and you immediately thought of me?”

You glance at him. “I thought of your toolbox.”

“That’s very objectifying.”

“I’m comfortable with that.”

“I have layers.”

“I’m sure. One of them was missing when you answered the door.”

He looks over at you, and the porch lights from the houses along the street catch the edge of his smile.

“That bother you?”

It is not said like a joke this time.

That is the problem with Edd. He can banter like a man auditioning for a Netflix rom-com, then shift half an inch lower and make the air feel crowded.

You keep walking.

“Should it?”

His smile fades into something quieter, more attentive. “Depends what you came over for.”

“Lights.”

“Right.”

“And possibly to confirm whether the neighborhood rumors were accurate.”

“Which rumors?”

“That you’re here all summer fixing up your uncle’s house.”

“That one’s true.”

“That you’re studying law.”

“Also true.”

“That you’ve been terrorizing Mrs. Alvarez by taking your shirt off in the yard.”

He coughs out a laugh. “That is not true.”

“She said you were sanding shutters like a Chippendale with student debt.”

“She said that?”

“Not in those words. Her phrasing was more Catholic.”

He shakes his head, still smiling as you reach your driveway. “Good to know I’ve made an impression.”

“On the shutters, yes.”

“Of course.”

Inside your house, the kitchen is dark and warm and suddenly much smaller than it was before. Edd follows you to the breaker box near the laundry room, his shoulder brushing yours once in the narrow hallway. Barely a touch. Barely anything.

Naturally, your nervous system treats it like breaking news.

He opens the panel, scans the switches, then points.

“This one’s tripped.”

You lean closer, pretending to inspect it. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

He looks at you.

You look at the breaker.

The switch is very clearly in the wrong position.

It is, in fact, embarrassingly obvious.

“You knew,” he says.

“I suspected.”

“You suspected the switch that says ‘kitchen’ might control the kitchen?”

“Electrical systems are complex.”

“You walked to my house for this.”

“I walked to your house because the situation required a qualified professional.”

“I’m not an electrician.”

“No, but you did open the door like a calendar firefighter, so I made an executive decision.”

Edd stares at you for one second.

Then he laughs.

Not polite laughter. Real laughter. The kind that loosens his face and makes him look briefly, unfairly beautiful. You regret nothing. You regret several things. You are undecided.

He flips the breaker.

The kitchen lights hum back on.

The microwave beeps awake with the smug little chirp of a machine that knows exactly what just happened.

“There,” Edd says. “Emergency resolved.”

You fold your arms. “Heroic.”

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

“Too late.”

He closes the breaker panel, but he does not move away. Neither do you. The hallway is narrow. The house is quiet. The refrigerator hums back to life in the kitchen, and outside, crickets fill the silence like they were hired for atmosphere.

Edd’s gaze dips to your mouth for one reckless second before returning to your eyes.

“You know,” he says, voice lower now, “next time you need an excuse to come over, you can probably do better than a breaker switch.”

Your pulse does something profoundly unhelpful.

“Who says I needed an excuse?”

His expression stills.

There it is.

The line. The shift. The moment when the joke stops being quite so safe.

Edd takes one slow step closer, careful enough to give you room, close enough that you notice anyway.

“No one,” he says. “But I was hoping.”

You hold his gaze.

The smart thing would be to thank him, walk him to the door, and spend the rest of the night pretending this was just a neighborly favor with unusually good lighting.

Instead, you glance toward the kitchen.

“I was about to open some wine,” you say.

His mouth curves, but this time there is nothing casual about it.

“At nine o’clock on a Friday?”

You smile.

“That a problem, counselor?”

Edd looks at you like he has already lost the argument and is thrilled about it.

“No,” he says. “I think I can make a case for staying.”

——

hey!

I’m Edd and I hope you enjoyed this little set up as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m 23M and currently a law student who just got out for summer and am looking to destress with some RP. I’ve always been drawn to cliche older woman / younger man dynamics and have loved exploring it via RP and am seeking a partner who also enjoys the idea.

A bit about myself: I play exclusively in self insert (🤯) which can be a deal breaker for some- so if you’re such a person I apologize. I also do heavily prefer for my partner to have a similar background to their character/ self insert as well. I’ve RPd on and off for years and am comfortable writing at different levels if you’d prefer a more drawn out arrangement or something ‘hot and quick’. I’m flexible on the prompt itself if you want to come with ideas or changes to make it more engaging. This setup could lend itself well to an affair angle which is something I’m happy to explore!

Banter and humor are big parts of this for me so I’d love for you to really lean into expressing yourself and including some good dialogue. If things get stale or it feels like it’s just a sex fest then I tend to disappear.

I can share k/l and a description when we’re acquainted. I am looking for \\\*longer term partners\\\* who are open to developing something we can both enjoy for a while-
I look forward to hearing from you- please include the word Green in your first message so I know you made it here (:

I am 18+ and all participants and characters must be 18+

You blame the lights.

That feels important to establish.

Not your curiosity. Not the fact that you’d noticed Edd moving into his uncle’s empty place up the road for the summer. Not the shirtless roof work, or the way the neighborhood suddenly had the emotional stability of a group chat whenever he walked past with a toolbox. Definitely not the fact that you’d found yourself glancing toward that old fixer-upper more often than was strictly normal for a grown woman with bills and enough work emails to radicalize a saint.

No. This is about electricity.

Your kitchen lights flicker once, twice, then give up completely while you’re standing there in socks, holding a half-open bottle of wine and pretending dinner might still become something more ambitious than crackers and whatever cheese hadn’t betrayed you yet. The microwave clock dies. The overhead light vanishes. Somewhere in the dark, your phone buzzes with another work email, because apparently capitalism can see in the dark.

You stare at the ceiling.

“Perfect,” you mutter. “Love that for me.”

You know, vaguely, that there’s a breaker box. You also know, vaguely, that it contains switches. You may even know, less vaguely, that flipping one of those switches would probably solve the problem in under fifteen seconds.

But it’s Friday night. You’re tired. Your boss spent the afternoon using the phrase “urgent alignment” like it was a spell from Harry Potter, your house is now doing its best impression of a haunted Airbnb, and just up the road there happens to be a law student with broad shoulders, a working knowledge of tools, and the unfortunate habit of looking like a CW reboot of every bad decision you were supposed to be too sensible to make.

So, really, this is about public safety.

Mostly.

You grab a flashlight, pull on shoes, and march up the road with the confidence of someone making a practical choice and the inner monologue of someone absolutely not making a practical choice.

Edd’s uncle’s house looks half-rescued from ruin. One side of the porch has been sanded down, the other still looks like it belongs in a Stephen King establishing shot. Paint cans sit near the steps. A ladder leans against the siding. There’s warm light spilling from the front windows, music playing low inside, something old and familiar that makes the whole place feel less abandoned and more dangerously cozy.

You knock before you can change your mind.

For a few seconds, nothing happens.

Then the door opens.

And there he is.

Shirtless.

Of course he is.

Because apparently the universe has a writers’ room, and every single person in it is twelve years old.

Edd stands in the doorway with damp hair, a towel slung around his neck, and a smear of white paint near his ribs. His jeans hang low on his hips, one hand still braced on the door like he was expecting a normal interruption and not you standing there with a flashlight, a deadpan expression, and the sudden urge to forget every noun you’ve ever learned.

He blinks.

You blink back.

His gaze drops to the flashlight, then returns to your face. Slowly, very slowly, his mouth starts to curve.

“Hi,” he says.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to ask if everything’s okay.”

“With that face?”

His smile gets worse. “My face?”

“The innocent contractor face. Very HGTV after dark.”

He looks down at himself, as if only now remembering he opened the door half-dressed. This is plainly a lie. Men like Edd do not accidentally answer doors like that. They may claim accidents. They may build entire legal defenses around accidents. But nobody with abdominal muscles and paint in cinematic locations is innocent.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry enough. “I was painting.”

“At nine o’clock?”

“I’m a law student. My relationship with normal hours is mostly theoretical.”

You lift the flashlight. “My kitchen lights went out.”

His eyebrows rise. “Just the kitchen?”

“And the microwave.”

“Tragic.”

“It had the time on it.”

“Devastating.”

“I came for help, not sarcasm.”

“Then you came to the wrong porch.”

You give him a look.

He reaches for a T-shirt hanging over the banister just inside the door, then pauses, eyes flicking back to yours. Not smug exactly. Worse. Amused in a way that suggests he knows exactly how long it took you to notice he hadn’t put it on yet.

“Should I…?” he asks.

You refuse to look anywhere except his face. Unfortunately, his face is also a problem.

“Do whatever helps you focus on electrical safety.”

“That answer feels carefully drafted.”

“You’re not the only one who can sound expensive.”

He laughs, soft and low, then finally pulls the shirt on. Somehow this does not improve the situation. Now he looks like he’s about to fix your breaker and ruin your standards in one errand.

He steps onto the porch, grabbing a small tool bag from beside the door. “Did you check the breaker?”

There it is.

The question.

The betrayal.

You consider lying. You consider telling the truth. You consider inventing a raccoon. The raccoon option has promise.

“I checked it emotionally,” you say.

Edd stops on the top step. “Emotionally.”

“I stood near it and felt unsupported.”

His grin spreads. “That’s not usually step one.”

“It is for me.”

“Did you flip the switch?”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you always this condescending when a woman arrives at your door in distress?”

“No. Sometimes I wait until we’re at the breaker box.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“That’s ugly of you.”

“I know,” he says, walking beside you down the steps. “I’m working on it.”

The road back to your house feels shorter with him next to you. Annoyingly short. He smells faintly like soap, paint, and summer heat, which is the kind of thing you would mock in a romance novel and then secretly underline. He keeps his pace easy, matching yours without making a point of it. The flashlight beam bobs over the pavement between you.

“So,” he says, “lights go out and you immediately thought of me?”

You glance at him. “I thought of your toolbox.”

“That’s very objectifying.”

“I’m comfortable with that.”

“I have layers.”

“I’m sure. One of them was missing when you answered the door.”

He looks over at you, and the porch lights from the houses along the street catch the edge of his smile.

“That bother you?”

It is not said like a joke this time.

That is the problem with Edd. He can banter like a man auditioning for a Netflix rom-com, then shift half an inch lower and make the air feel crowded.

You keep walking.

“Should it?”

His smile fades into something quieter, more attentive. “Depends what you came over for.”

“Lights.”

“Right.”

“And possibly to confirm whether the neighborhood rumors were accurate.”

“Which rumors?”

“That you’re here all summer fixing up your uncle’s house.”

“That one’s true.”

“That you’re studying law.”

“Also true.”

“That you’ve been terrorizing Mrs. Alvarez by taking your shirt off in the yard.”

He coughs out a laugh. “That is not true.”

“She said you were sanding shutters like a Chippendale with student debt.”

“She said that?”

“Not in those words. Her phrasing was more Catholic.”

He shakes his head, still smiling as you reach your driveway. “Good to know I’ve made an impression.”

“On the shutters, yes.”

“Of course.”

Inside your house, the kitchen is dark and warm and suddenly much smaller than it was before. Edd follows you to the breaker box near the laundry room, his shoulder brushing yours once in the narrow hallway. Barely a touch. Barely anything.

Naturally, your nervous system treats it like breaking news.

He opens the panel, scans the switches, then points.

“This one’s tripped.”

You lean closer, pretending to inspect it. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

He looks at you.

You look at the breaker.

The switch is very clearly in the wrong position.

It is, in fact, embarrassingly obvious.

“You knew,” he says.

“I suspected.”

“You suspected the switch that says ‘kitchen’ might control the kitchen?”

“Electrical systems are complex.”

“You walked to my house for this.”

“I walked to your house because the situation required a qualified professional.”

“I’m not an electrician.”

“No, but you did open the door like a calendar firefighter, so I made an executive decision.”

Edd stares at you for one second.

Then he laughs.

Not polite laughter. Real laughter. The kind that loosens his face and makes him look briefly, unfairly beautiful. You regret nothing. You regret several things. You are undecided.

He flips the breaker.

The kitchen lights hum back on.

The microwave beeps awake with the smug little chirp of a machine that knows exactly what just happened.

“There,” Edd says. “Emergency resolved.”

You fold your arms. “Heroic.”

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

“Too late.”

He closes the breaker panel, but he does not move away. Neither do you. The hallway is narrow. The house is quiet. The refrigerator hums back to life in the kitchen, and outside, crickets fill the silence like they were hired for atmosphere.

Edd’s gaze dips to your mouth for one reckless second before returning to your eyes.

“You know,” he says, voice lower now, “next time you need an excuse to come over, you can probably do better than a breaker switch.”

Your pulse does something profoundly unhelpful.

“Who says I needed an excuse?”

His expression stills.

There it is.

The line. The shift. The moment when the joke stops being quite so safe.

Edd takes one slow step closer, careful enough to give you room, close enough that you notice anyway.

“No one,” he says. “But I was hoping.”

You hold his gaze.

The smart thing would be to thank him, walk him to the door, and spend the rest of the night pretending this was just a neighborly favor with unusually good lighting.

Instead, you glance toward the kitchen.

“I was about to open some wine,” you say.

His mouth curves, but this time there is nothing casual about it.

“At nine o’clock on a Friday?”

You smile.

“That a problem, counselor?”

Edd looks at you like he has already lost the argument and is thrilled about it.

“No,” he says. “I think I can make a case for staying.”

——

hey!

I’m Edd and I hope you enjoyed this little set up as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m 23M and currently a law student who just got out for summer and am looking to destress with some RP. I’ve always been drawn to cliche older woman / younger man dynamics and have loved exploring it via RP and am seeking a partner who also enjoys the idea.

A bit about myself: I play exclusively in self insert (🤯) which can be a deal breaker for some- so if you’re such a person I apologize. I also do heavily prefer for my partner to have a similar background to their character/ self insert as well. I’ve RPd on and off for years and am comfortable writing at different levels if you’d prefer a more drawn out arrangement or something ‘hot and quick’. I’m flexible on the prompt itself if you want to come with ideas or changes to make it more engaging. This setup could lend itself well to an affair angle which is something I’m happy to explore!

Banter and humor are big parts of this for me so I’d love for you to really lean into expressing yourself and including some good dialogue. If things get stale or it feels like it’s just a sex fest then I tend to disappear.

I can share k/l and a description when we’re acquainted. I am looking for \*longer term partners\* who are open to developing something we can both enjoy for a while-
I look forward to hearing from you- please include the word Green in your first message so I know you made it here (: