Dylan Garcia 

The scent of fresh paint and sawdust clung to the hallway like cheap cologne was thick, pungent, impossible to ignore. It had started two days ago, the sound of a moving truck, the dull thud of furniture being dragged, low voices echoing through the shared wall of my apartment. New neighbor. Great.

I hated disruptions, especially when new people came. I built my life around the quiet, where no one cares about my existence. The silence was safe, predictable, and perfect for the things I liked to do when the world went to sleep, until this new ‘neighbour’ suddenly came, my nighttime routine was disturbed. This new neighbour was awake at midnight. I could hear the creak of his footsteps, a low hum of music, and once, just once, I thought I heard a deep, masculine laugh that made my skin erupt in goosebumps.

I tried to shake it off, maybe I was overthinking. Overstimulated from too many late-night ASMR sessions. Midnight Daddy still lingered in my thoughts like the ghost of an orgasm. Even now, my body hummed with the memory of his last video. The breathy way he’d said, ‘Good boys like you deserve to be used.’ I could still feel the phantom ache in my thighs, the soreness in my hips from how hard I’d fucked myself the night before. God. I was addicted. I needed a cold shower or maybe another session.

The elevator dinged as I stepped into the corridor, arms full of groceries. Black tank top and some fitted white joggers, nothing exciting. I was not paying attention to what was in front of me that I ran smack into a wall of muscle and a solid chest.

“Ah!” I yelped, almost dropping my bag of groceries when his arm caught them.

“Shit—sorry, I didn’t see you there,” came a voice, deep and calm and so goddamn familiar I nearly dropped everything. My heart slammed against my ribcage.

“Whoa,” he said with a short laugh. “Strong grip on that milk, huh?”

I looked up. Tall. Fucking tall man. Easily over six feet, broad shoulders beneath a gray hoodie, long fingers wrapped around a bottle of almond milk like it was nothing. He had jet black hair that curled slightly at the nape, and a strong, stubbled jawline that could cut through glass. But his eyes, God his eyes, were a soft, mischievous green. Like he knew something I didn’t.

“I—uh—yeah. I guess I do,” I stammered.

He smiled. Slow. Confident. That kind of smirk that could make you stupid. My stomach clenched. Then, he spoke again.

“I’m Charles, by the way. Charles Johnson. I just moved here.”

That voice. That fucking voice. I recognize that voice anywhere. It was lower in person, less polished, as if he was whispering into a microphone. His husky resonance voice settled in my spine like a heatwave. It was unmistakable. Is he… no, it can’t be.

I blinked. My knees almost gave out.

“I-I’m Dylan Garcia,” I managed, my voice cracking embarrassingly. “Uh, welcome to the building.”

“Thanks. I hope I’m not disturbing you that much.”

He handed me the bag that he’d caught. Our fingers brushed. Mine were cold from the refrigerated bag. His hands were warm and strong. I sucked in a breath.

“I like it quiet,” I said without thinking.

He tilted his head, eyes dragging slowly over me. “Oh? Well, I’ll try to behave then.”

The way he said behave made something stir low in my stomach. My thoughts went sideways. I imagined him in nothing but sweatpants, kneeling over me, whispering, ‘Be a good boy for Daddy.’

Fuck. I needed to go.

“W-Well, I should… put these away,” I mumbled, stepping back too quickly. One of my bags slipped again, and he bent down immediately to pick it up. As he stood, his face passed so close to mine I caught the scent of sandalwood and leather.

“You alright?” he asked, voice gentle.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

His lips quirked.

“Late nights?” he asked.

My heart skipped. Was he teasing me? Does he know?

“Something like that,” I muttered.

He gave me a final nod and stepped into his unit. As the door closed behind him, I stood there for a full thirty seconds, groceries forgotten, pulse hammering. That was him. That was fucking ‘Midnight Daddy’. I’d bet my entire porn folder on it.

I bolted into my apartment, dumped the groceries, and pressed my ear to the wall. Nothing. Just silence. But I swore I could feel his presence on the other side like a phantom hand around my throat. I scrambled to my laptop and opened Xhub. I typed in his channel and coincidentally, there were no new uploads for the past 2 days, fuck is it really him? 

Then, out of the blue, as if it were on queue, an announcement post was uploaded. It was a livestream schedule.

12:00 AM – “My good slut – Interactive Dom Session”

My fingers hovered over the keys. Is it really him? Did I just fucking meet Midnight Daddy? What should I do? Yes, I am one of his biggest fans, but I don’t want to assume anything without evidence that it's really him. What if he were just a normal person who happens to have a deep voice? It would be embarrassing to never show my face to him again.

For the rest of the morning, I tried to distract myself. Laundry. Vacuuming. I even reorganized my cabinet and color-coded my shirts like some obsessive neat freak. Pathetic. But no matter how hard I tried, his face, those sharp cheekbones, that infuriating smirk, and his voice, that voice, still burned in the back of my skull.

“Fuck it,” I muttered. My cock was already half-hard anyway. “I’ll just, fuck, deal with it my way.”

I went to my bedroom, yanking open the drawer beside my bed. My fingers curled around the familiar toy, the pink plug with the little gem at the base. Cute. Deceptive. My hands shook as I coated it with lube, slick and shining under the dim light. My hole clenched in anticipation, twitching like it already knew what it wanted.

I bent over the edge of the bed, face buried into the sheets, and pressed it against me. The stretch burned sweetly as I eased it inside. 

“Ahh—fuck…” I moaned, the sound muffled, needy.

In my mind, he was there. Charles. Leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place. His dark eyes stared at me. His voice was low, commanding, wrapping around me like barbed wire and silk all at once.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

I whimpered out loud, clenching around the plug. “N-no…”

“Stay bent over. I’m not done with you yet.”

“Please,” I whispered, rutting against the sheets, the fantasy spiraling.

I grabbed my phone, fumbling to press play on my favorite Midnight Daddy file. The familiar title glowed up at me, Obedient Toy for Daddy.

The second his voice filled the room, I broke. That deep timbre, gravelly and sharp, poured out of the speaker like molten heat.

“Hands flat. Ass out. Don’t you dare move until I give you permission.”

“Yes, Daddy…” I moaned, grinding helplessly against the mattress. My body obeyed even as my mind cracked open to the truth—this wasn’t just some faceless voice on a screen anymore. He was next door.

Every filthy word, every growl that used to be a fantasy was suddenly flesh and blood, leather and chain.

I pushed the plug deeper, trembling, whispering back to the voice like he could actually hear me. 

“More… please, Daddy, I need more…”

“Good boy,” the recording purred. “Spread yourself. Show Daddy how hungry you are.”

I did. My shaking hands reached back, pulling my cheeks apart, my face hot with shame and arousal. “Fuck—ahhh—look at me, Daddy. Please, look at me.”

In my head, he stepped closer. His breath brushed my ear, heavy and dark.

“Pathetic little toy. You think I don’t hear you through those walls?”

“F-fuck…” I gasped, grinding harder.

“Louder. Beg for it. Let the whole building know who you belong to.”

I choked on a cry, the mix of reality and fantasy blurring until my sheets, my walls, my skin were all on fire.

And I wasn’t going to stop.

Not until Charles Johnson, Midnight Daddy himself, made me his.