#Putting yourself in danger without your powers?

[impishjesters]

Type of Yandere - Saja Boys

content warning(s): extreme yandere behaviour, unhealthy relationships, possessive behaviour, gaslighting, manipulation, harm of others, dependence, isolation, stalker/stalking behaviour, power imbalance, delusional behaviour, there's probably more tags worth noting but that's the jist of them A/N: Should go without saying, but if any of the warnings make you uncomfy, then don't interact. I didn't list who the warnings belong to, so please don't risk upsetting yourself. I didn't go into as much detail as I had liked, but I'll probably be making more yandere content later anyway, so yippie.

Jinu 🐦‍⬛

▶Jinu is possessive over every part of you, so possessive that you’re not allowed to make choices without his approval. He��s trained you subconsciously to seek him out and gain his approval when it comes to a list of things.

▶The relationship on the surface level is completely healthy, two lovebirds over the moon for one another. Jinu doesn’t hurt you, no, not physically and not even with his words, he’s just… persuasive. You don’t want to do that. What if you get hurt and something happens? Who will look after your family? What about the plans the two of you have? You can’t risk anything, no, no, baby.

▶Jinu makes more than enough to pay the bills and keep you in a comfortable yet lavish lifestyle, so that means you’re forbidden from working. He won’t keep you from your hobbies, provided they keep you at home, but working? No, no. He’s the one making the money, you don’t need to lift a pretty little finger, baby. You have to stay dependent on him, he’s what keeps your family afloat and out of debt.

▶Jinu is the king of his words and smooth-talking himself into the great graces of your family, your family adores him, and your mother may have slipped up a few times calling him her son-in-law. Not that Jinu isn’t by this point, he’s already long since decided on marrying you.

Abby 💪🏻

▶There’s never a moment when Abby isn’t seen with you, ever the (over)protective boyfriend. He doesn’t treat you like you’re stupid (he does), but he knows better of the dangers out there.

▶Abby is not beyond staging events just to prove himself, getting his friends to put you in unsafe situations just to swoop in and save you. (And unfortunately, depending on how reluctant you are or not, he’s staged much larger and more terrifying things. Sometimes even letting you get roughed up before “saving” you.)

▶If Abby has work, you’re brought with him unless he has a trusted “babysitter” for you, but even then, he prefers you being dragged to his work. Regardless of whether it’s a public event, he brings you with him, and you’re always sitting just off the side of the stage. Out of public sight, but not his.

▶He works on a reward system, the better you behave, the nicer he his, if you misbehave, he won’t get physical unless absolutely necessary. You’re his baby doll, emphasis on the doll, but most importantly, you’re his, and he wants what’s best for you. You’re his entire world.

Mystery ❔️

▶You run through his mind the same way his blood runs through his veins, constantly. To invest his mind anywhere else was simply a waste. Why think of anything else when he could think of you? He’s a victim of his own obsession.

▶Mystery loses sleep over you, watching you through his cameras, stalking you. Every time you dress up, every time you go somewhere, he’s right there imagining himself beside you. A simple little lunch date for yourself? He’s not far away and day dreaming that he’s in the chair across from you and pretending the two of you are on a beautiful date together.

▶The worst part of it is he’s so focused on you that even when he neglects himself, he’s still just as fucking attractive as if he took care of himself. Constantly having to threaten people for trying to flirt with him when he’s already happily taken with the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid eyes on, you.

▶For a while the most of what Mystery will do is send you gifts, big, small, innocent, creepy, all of it. The gifts are mostly harmless, for a lack of creativity towards a better false identity, everything is simply signed off with a question mark. It starts off innocent, but eventually the gifts become too specific for comfort, that thing you wanted and only mentioned to one friend? Yeah, it’s yours now, and no, your friend didn’t buy it for you.

▶Whether you return his feelings or not, as soon as Mystery has made his move on you, set to make his dreams a reality. He’s protective (read: suffocating), and you can say goodbye to being let out unless he’s particularly confident you won’t run away. Even if you do, that won’t stop him from tracking you and bringing you back kicking and screaming.

▶Mystery doesn’t like lying to you, but if it’ll keep you safe and in his care, he’ll lie about everything and anything, even if it hurts you. It’ll hurt him to do it, but he’ll fill that empty spot so you won’t hurt anymore.

Romance 💕

▶Romance fully believes it’s love at first sight for both of you, reading far too deep into every nice thing you do or say towards him. But if you’re in love with him, why are you dating someone else?

▶He doesn’t like to get his hands messy, but seeing your s/o constantly being in the way pushes his buttons and he’ll use brute force if necessary (all without letting you know it was him who hurt your s/o). So when you come crying to him about your s/o breaking up with you over text and disappearing, he’s all tears and frustration to play along. The second you’re crying in his arms is the second you’re caught.

▶Manipulation is as easy to Romance as breathing is, and as soon as he’s taken advantage of your emotional state from the heartbreak, he’s already planning out everything needed to keep you as his s/o. Making promises of all the things your ex couldn’t or wouldn’t do, telling you everything you wanted to hear (he planned to fulfill most of it after all, he absolutely adores his beloved), to keep you with him. Any signs of dispute on your end are met with cruel reminders of how someone else wouldn’t do these things for you, wouldn’t love you the way he does, or take care of you the way he does.

▶You have to earn the privilege to go anywhere without him, not that you would leave him, he’s made sure of that. He has you on a tight leash (if you can call it holding you by the collar while the leash hangs untouched a tight leash), not keeping you trapped at home, but not giving you the complete freedom you want. You will return to him every night and ask for his permission to go out or do things.

Baby 🍼

▶In his eyes, you were made for him and him alone. A twisted version of his love that centers around keeping you tied down to him, if not willingly as a lover, then unwillingly as his property.

▶To the public eye, Baby is just that, a baby, innocent and harmless to anyone around him. A skill he’s used his entire life to manipulate things in his favour, especially when it comes to you and the people in your life.

▶Baby is the King of manipulating and gaslighting you into doing what he wants, but not without risk of his temper and impulsive behaviour slipping out at times. He just cares so passionately about you that the mask slips up.

▶He knows everything about you, even if you don’t know it; he knows the pass code to your phone, knows your password, email, and a list of your immediate family and close friends. Any of them that he doesn’t like are removed from your life one way or another, and the worst part? He doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt seeing you cry when someone you care about disappears.

▶To make matters worse, when someone Baby doesn’t approve of you being around starts getting too close for his comfort. He’ll become clingier, making it known he doesn’t want them around, and if they persist, there’s a high chance they’ll join the list of people he’s killed.

[mindfulmindthief]

Hypnotic Abuse

This is a more serious post, apologies for people who want purely hypnosexy content.

Hypnotic abuse is a very real thing, although practically, it's just partner abuse with a unique set of methods. I pointed towards it in my past post You were so well trained, but having been around the hypno-space for a long time now, it's something I've seen plenty of.

Hypnosis, even being consensual-nonconsent, requires consent. It requires boundaries. And, it requires care. Some people (and some files) don't respect those boundaries, don't respect their partners, and view their own pleasure or power or control as more important than the well-being of their play partners. This takes many forms.

Some give suggestions, commands, and training which they know harms their partners, changes them in ways they don't want, or which they simply wouldn't consent to while awake. Others use hypnosis as a way of comforting their own insecurity, trying to 'trap' or addict or obsess their partners through hypnotic control, or to ensure they can't even consider others. Some try to fracture parts of you for them alone, or play with your emotions, or manipulate your fear to drive you closer to them. Some take full advantage of the malleability of memory, and fill gaps in your memory with those things they know you'd never be OK with. And, especially over time, patterns and behaviors can be put in place that harm your health, physical, mental, or emotional that are hard to move past. All of this can happen without hypnosis, but hypnosis can make this much faster and more potent, and particularly when there are gaps which allow things to happen without your knowledge, it can be a bit more insidious. Of course, for some people, these elements are part of their consensual dynamic, but much like you can't just hit somebody when you're mad 'because they like impact play', it's important to distinguish consensual kink from cruelty.

Finding your way out

There are many red flags, but if you notice negative control (using pain, or fear or anxiety to stop you from doing things), increasing 'gaps' of remembering your sessions without explanations, if your food or water intake is being controlled, or if you find yourself feeling addiction beyond enjoyment, and you didn't enthusiastically consent to these things, I would recommend asking questions. One nice strategy is to listen to the post-induction chunks of files, to see what you're listening to, or to use a transcriber program to write it out. If you're working live, you could set up a recorder to capture everything that's happening on screen or in the call, to see what you're being told that you're forgetting. Or, frankly, if you don't trust them, don't play with them. There are many hypnotists in the world.

Most critically, if things seem off, you can stop and break communication. And even if you're deep into it, you can block them, you can leave them, you can cut them out of your life. You can do and eat and say what you want. It's not easy to leave, but it is something you can do, and something they cannot stop. https://www.thehotline.org/ has resources if you're in danger locally, or need a place to go when you leave.

With all this said, you have agency. Hypnosis is a strong force, and it's not uncommon that even smart and saavy people are tricked or trapped, but you are not completely helpless. If somebody gives you an order that you don't think is OK, you can force yourself awake, and should practice doing so.

The control will also fade once they are gone. Hypnotic control is not magic, it is patterns of behavior and changes of perception. If you're in a different car, you'll reach for the controls in the wrong places for a little while, not thinking, but you'll learn. If you've been told the world is different, it'll take a little while to see reality more clearly, but you will eventually. The process will be scary, it will make you feel it will never end, and longer term abuse can lead to longer term effects, but when it's not being reinforced, it will fade.

You can disrupt it, too. Do the things you were not allowed to, and anticipate the control, and fight back. Push on the edges, explore them. Make the control feel ridiculous, and laugh at the weakness of the person who was so insecure that they needed to do that to you. You don't need another hypnotist to 'fix' you, and be cautious with 'deprogramming'. There are files that help remind you that this control can be abandoned, and let you feel a sensation of washing it away, and hypnotic work can sometimes be helpful in skilled and careful hands. But you don't need hypnosis to undo hypnosis, and don't believe anybody telling you that the only solution to old control is new control. Ultimately, it's your mind, and you have more control than anybody else.

And, you can heal. Much like humans can heal from any other flavor of abuse, you can heal here too. PTSD is PTSD, whether it came from waking events or not so much. Dependence and addiction are dependence and addiction, no matter what you were made to depend or addict. And nutrition is important, you can be healthy at any size, and are beautiful how you are. Hypnotic abuse is different in origin, but it is not so different in consequence. Therapy can help, talking to friends can help, and time will help too. Healing won't be easy, but it will happen.

But this abuse happens, more than the community would like to be the case. If it's happened to you, I am so sorry, but you'll heal. You're not 'dumb', you didn't 'ask for it', and inexperience is not a cause, it's their fault for being predators. This is not on you. If it hasn't happened to you, that's wonderful, keep an eye out, ask questions, and be cautious, so you don't have to. And if you're not sure whether it happened, this is actually pretty common too, so ask hard questions, and maybe talk to a friend in the community to see what they think.

I'll end with an offer, which I hope no one needs: I've helped a number of people to process these situations before. Not as a therapist, that's not my job. Not as a 'deprogrammer', because I'd rather talk about how you can help yourself and build agency. Instead, feel free to reach out, because I'm a hypnotist who knows enough of the tricks to be able to point them out. Perhaps I can help you understand what happened, so it feels less like magic and more like boring abuse from a sad little person. And maybe I can help you identify the patterns that show that this is just another example of something that's happened to many smart, capable, and strong people before. This is, despite all my other posts, really just a conversation. You will be quite awake and aware. But still be skeptical, ask questions, even and especially of those who offer help when you're vulnerable, and if there's another person with experience that you trust more, talk to them instead. If you need help, get help, no matter who it's from.

But, stay safe. Be careful. Think about trust. And once you've done that, have wonderful, blissful and brain relaxing experiences with this wonderful kink.

[taintandviolent]

drabble word count: 789 warnings: female reader, no y/n, no mention of reader's appearance, sexual tension, bantering/flirting, reader gets up close and personal with Oz, but no smut. a/n: a quick drabble for @penguinweek's day one; tuxedo! dividers by @/saradika-graphics!! ALSO HAPPY BIRTHDAY OZ BABY I LOVE YOUUUUUUUU!!!

It wasn't every day that the Penguin walked in, wanting a custom tailored tuxedo. At least, it wasn't every day for you that that happened. Irving seemed unfazed by it though, too busy helping another regular. "Take care of him, will you? Full measurements. On the chart. You know the drill."

You did. You'd done it before with many different men, and this was no different, despite your interest being piqued. He's already waiting on the small platform, facing the half-circle of mirrors. His jacket is off, draped over the nearby chair, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He sees you in the mirror standing behind him, clipboard in hand, measuring tape draped around your neck like a doctor's stethsocope.

"Where's Irv?"

You smile and step around to the front. Oz was clearly a creature of habit. "He's assisting another client. I'll be taking your measurements today. Is that okay, Mr. Cobb?"

Oz gives you a quick nod. "Sure, knock yourself out, sweetheart."

You step behind him again, taking the tape off your neck. First, the shoulders. You stretch the tape along the back of him — he's deliciously broad. You didn't need the numbers to tell you that, your eyes did just fine. You try to hide the adoration from your face; most men that came in here were average; it was rare that got such a hunk of man like this. He watches you from the mirror, and every time you look up, your eyes meet.

Next, his arms. You gently press the tape to his wrist and stretch it up to the curve of his shoulder. You take notes as you move along his body, making sure not to forget anything.

"You always this gentle?"

"Would you prefer I be rough?"

"Irv is. He tosses me around, y'know. Gets what he needs."

You smile and come around to the front of him, holding his gaze tightly. "I get what I need, too."

You step up onto the platform, putting yourself in front of him. Now, without the mirror, the only place he can look is at you. You drag the tape along the width of his chest.

"You uh, always get this close to your clients?"

"I can't measure you from across the room, Mr. Cobb."

That gets a chuckle out of him, low and gravelly.

Next, the neck. You wrap the tape around his neck, your fingers precise and gentle with their movements. Onto the stomach. You can't avoid pressing your breasts against his chest as you wrap the tape around his large belly. Oz lifts his arms slightly, allowing you more room. His body is big and warm and it takes everything in your power not to stay there, enveloped by the intoxicating blend of his cologne and his personal notes.

Still, somehow, you pull away. Next, you measure the hips, and copy down both those measurements.

You kneel before him, slipping your hand between his large thighs. You wrap the tape around his inner thigh. Your face is front of his groin, and you can't help but lean in slightly. He visibly stiffens. You quickly jot down the measurement.

"Dangerous to kneel in front of a guy like me."

You pause, looking up at him, dragging your gaze deliberately up his body. Oz's muscles tighten again, and this time, a pang of arousal pulses in his groin. You can almost read this thoughts. Big, pretty eyes, at this angle…

You laugh finally, a girlish, musical sound. You tap his thigh with your index finger, and he obeys, walking his feet out an inch or so. Just enough to allow your hands to slip inside. Holding the tape at the bottom of his leg, you stretch it upwards, upwards, upwards, your knuckles are just centimeters from bumping softly against the bulge that rests there.

When your hand disappears, Oz exhales a big breath, his broad chest deflating slightly. You get to your feet gracefully, your chest brushing against his stomach. For a moment, neither of you say anything, just stare. Finally, you heave a sigh and step down from the platform. "All done. Your tux will be done in five days."

"Might need another fitting before then."

"Why's that? Are you the type of guy to ruin tuxedos, or just the women who tailor them?"

Oz's eyes glimmer with something dangerous, but he doesn't answer. Your professionalism slips back into place, and you smile tightly. Nod.

A grin tugs at Oz's mouth as he watches you leave, shutting the door behind you. Once outside, you rest against the back of the door for a moment, your chest heaving slightly with arousal. You drape the tape back around your neck.

You hoped he would be back.

[fleshandfiction]

Whiskey and Scars ── .✦

Pairing: JacksonTommy x Reader

Summary: A year after Joel’s death, your bond with Tommy has deepened. In the quiet moments of grief, your feelings have grown stronger while spending whatever time you could spare with Tommy. He’s become a constant presence, offering solace without needing you to fix anything. With every glance and touch, you’re left wondering: can this last, or will it fade away with your grief?

Warning: Reader is fem presenting • Violence • PTSD • Trauma recovery • Near-death experiences • Strong language • Emotional repression • Slow-burn tension • Dysfunctional relationships • Grief/guilt themes • Power dynamics • Rough emotional intimacy • Secret relationship • Post-apocalyptic setting • Horseback injury • Clicker attack

WC: 4k

PART1 PART2(HERE)

AN: Thank you to ANON for this suggestion. I hadn't thought about doing a part two to Whiskey and Scars until now. There's a bit of a time jump but i still hope you enjoy it.

"Hurry up or we'll be late," Ellie yelled. You could hear her voice all the way from downstairs. "Jesse will act like he's got a stick shoved up his ass if we are."

"In a minute!" You said, rushing around, struggling to get your shoes on. "I swear I'd rather go through a hoard of infected than try to pull these on again," you muttered to yourself.

When you finally pulled them on, grabbing your jacket as you ran out your bedroom door. Stomping down the hallway and the stairs to see an annoyed Ellie standing there with her arms crossed.

"If Jesse yells at us for being late," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm telling him it's your fault." There was a light smirk on her lips and you knew she was just teasing.

"It was the boots I swear," you added, putting your hands up in surrender. "They had a mind of their own."

Ellie shook her head at you, walking towards the door. The cold winter air of Jackson hits your face, making you shiver. The winters were awful here—beautiful—but awful. The snow had blanketed everything in sight. Your porch, the sidewalks, the roads—just all of it—making it harder to traverse around.

The wind was whipping your ponytail around before you donned your beanie. You walked over to Ellie's horse, waiting for her to saddle up before you got up behind her. The ride over to the stables felt longer than normal. The slow trudging through the snow, inch by inch—makes the day already tedious. The only appealing thing is seeing Tommy. Just the thought of him warms with a peculiar feeling—one you hadn't thought you would feel again after Joel.

It's been a year since his death, and each day has been harder than the last. Having to walk through those familiar roads knowing you won't see him standing there—it hurt like hell. But during that time, after that night in the Tipsy Bison, something shifted. The light touches, the soft smiles—they started to mean more.

Tommy started to come by your home more often. Offering a hand for repairs or seeing if you needed anything. There weren't any expectations attached to it—just simply him being his usual charming self. And during those quiet moments between him repairing the broken faucet in your bathroom or that pesky draft from one of your bedroom windows—not a fondness but the kind of new love that didn't need a loud declaration.

Those silent confessions told in acts of service turned into soft touches and midnight promises. Tangled together in bed sheets and moans, you and Tommy became bound together in grief and then affection. It's been a secret all this time—wanting peace amongst the danger that lurks outside the walls of Jackson.

At least that's what you told yourself. It wasn't entirely a lie, but also not the full truth. The truth is that both of your individual pains of losing Joel brought you together quicker than you had liked. You loved him. And were too damn afraid of saying anything. So instead of admitting anything, you chose to stay silent, hiding your feelings in an attempt to stay sane.

Finally, the barn came into sight as you and Ellie dismounted from Shimmer, walking her into the barn to check over supplies before the patrol headed out. The moment you stepped through the sliding doors, Jesse stood there in the middle, arms crossed and clearly pissed off.

"I told you he'd act like he got a stick shoved up his ass if we were late," Ellie whispered, hiding a laugh with a cough.

You started laughing before Jesse cleared his throat, as you attempted to hide behind a cough as well. But he clearly didn't find it funny. His eyes were narrowed, and if looks could kill, then you would be dust.

"You better be glad Tommy isn't here yet," Jesse warned.

You walked past Jesse, patting him on the shoulder as you went to your horse to ready them up for patrol. You could hear him huff out loud at your lack of time management before walking in tandem with you.

A few minutes go by as you are making sure your saddle is secure, you hear a voice catching your attention.

"We need to get moving soon."

Glancing up, you see Tommy standing, acting disappointed that you're not all ready when he got there. But when his gaze fell on you, his eyes softened slightly enough to let you know that he missed you. Despite you being at his house the night before. A brief flash of you two tangled together in his bedsheet, him whispering in your ear about how good you felt—

"Hey! Are you good?" Ellie asked, waving a hand in front of your face.

You snapped out of your Tommy—induced haze and looked at her, hoping she couldn't see the blush creeping up your neck. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."

"I don't know how since you fell asleep at like 8 P.M. last night. Like the elderly," She joked, nudging you with your elbow.

Before you could answer, Tommy butted in again, sensing your hesitancy on Ellie's eventual questioning. The relationship between you and him was a secret for now. And you wanted to keep it that way for a bit.

“Alright, it doesn’t matter who went to sleep at what time. What does matter is that we saddle up and get movin’,” he said firmly.

The laughter died down as all of you turned to get on your horses and led them out of the barn. As you trotted towards the Jackson gates to leave, Tommy came up beside you. He got close and leaned in, whispering to you where the two nosiest people in town couldn't hear.

“Are you okay, baby?” he asked gently, eyes full of concern.

You smiled, heart softening at the concern in his voice. "Yes, I'm ok. I just think Ellie has been suspicious of us lately. I can tell she's been watching us more closely."

"That's Ellie, alright," he chuckled softly. "It's going to be either we tell her or she finds out on her own."

You said nothing else, turning your attention fully to the looming gates that protect the entrance to your home. They are imposing. Almost like they are whispering to you about the danger that lies behind them. This is the first time you've been out on patrol since Joel died. The last year consisted of you staying in town, helping out Maria with whatever tasks she needed. But a few days ago, Tommy convinced you to try again. To not let your fear forever paralyze you.

So now here you are riding onto the icy terrain armed with your gun, Tommy, and friends by your side. But your fear is nothing compared to the danger you'll face outside those walls. And what you could lose all over again.

After riding out for ten minutes, the group broke off into pairs of two: Ellie with Jesse and you with Tommy. It was quiet for the most part, save for the occasional rustling in the trees that turned out to be some small animal. It was strange being out there again after everything that had happened over the last year.

Like a movie playing in slow motion as you relived that moment of having to bring Joel's body back to Jackson, it being pulled by a horse. And the thought of being bundled in that sheet, dragged across the snow, was a haunting image.

"Are you alright?" Tommy's voice breaking through the cloud of pain and torment.

You looked to him, unable to hide the hurt look in your eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just hard being out here."

He gave you a sad smile, understanding how you felt. You saw the pain he was in as well. His brother, the man he grew up with, is now gone, and that stings far more. One of the many reasons you two gravitated towards each other.

"You are allowed to miss him, you know. I wouldn't ever make you try not to. I understand it."

"Thanks, Tommy," you said, edging your horse closer to his, leaning just enough to give him a quick peck on the cheek. The smallest action sent him smiling bright and wide as he focused on the trail in front of you. As silence fell over you two, a happy memory floated into your brain for once.

"Did he ever tell you how we met?" you said, your voice barely above the wind.

“Not exactly. He just mentioned Kansas City, and that’s about it,” Tommy said, rubbing the back of his neck.

You nod, your eyes tracking the path ahead, but your mind is already slipping into the past.

Kansas CIty

You were holed up in an abandoned half torn down laundromat, not dead but not entirely alive either. It wasn't no bite or gunshot wound, but a damn twisted ankle and the reality of you running out of supplies.

Which is how you ended up hiding where you were now. You got the bright idea to try and raid a small building you saw nearby since you knew it had food and supplies. The kicker was that it was guarded.

They weren't FEDRA since you knew they had been run out by a resistance group. So it had to be them.

Your instincts were telling you to run and not look back. To not try and enter that damn building. But your need for supplies overrides everything else. You were able to enter undetected, eventually getting to a small room where they had some ammo and other provisions.

Everything was going well until someone walked in seeing you raid their stash. Immediately they launched at you as you dodged their attack, knocking them out with the butt of your rifle. Unfortunately somehow more of the others had been alerted to your location and you only had a few seconds to leave.

In the ensuing chaos, you tripped over an object, not paying attention to what it was and a shot of pain went up your leg. Still you had to run and find safety. Now you are in the laundromat, going over the sad excuse for supplies that you were able to grab.

As you were sorting through your bag, you felt a gun barrel being placed onto the back of your head. You mentally cursed yourself for not paying attention. You started to reach for your gun when someone else stepped into view aiming a gun at your face.

"Don't you dare."

Ellie stepped into view, and then she looked to be about fourteen but clearly had a good amount of knowledge on how to handle herself. The person holding the gun to your head steps to the side, letting you get a full view.

It was Joel.

"I don't mean you any harm. I'm just trying to wrap my ankle and I'll leave," you said, raising your hands in surrender.

His eyes were cold and stern. He was a man worn down by the harshness of the apocalypse and guarded. For a second, he glanced over at Ellie, eyes softening before turning back to you.

Joel's voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"You injured?"

You nodded slowly, wary but still keeping your hands visible. "Yeah. Twisted it when I was running away from these guys who tried to jump me. I just need to wrap it, and I'll be out of here."

His eyes narrowed at the mention of a third party. "Why would they attack you?"

You gave a half—hearted shrug, the kind people do when they are too tired to lie but too guarded to tell the full truth. The kind he's seen a thousand times.

"They were hoarding supplies," you said, voice low but steady. "I went for some of it. Got caught and one of the guards with the butt of my gun and ran. On the way out, I tripped over something and twisted my ankle."

Joel stared at you, searching for any signs and hints of a lie. At this point, all the running you've done over the last day and the last twenty damn years, apart of you felt if he tried to shoot you, you wouldn't even try to stop him.

He studied like a test he really wanted to pass. You just sat there on the floor too exhausted to care. But then you knew where his mind was going. If you knocked out that one soldier then what happened to the ones you encountered on the way out?

"Look, the guy I knocked out is alive as for the other soldiers..." You stopped, thinking of the correct way to say your words. "They may be alive or not. I'm not sure. I did what I had to. It's either you kill or be killed out here as you know."

He took a few more seconds before huffing and lowering his gun just a bit and giving you some breathing room.

"So you needed supplies and decided to raid a guarded building alone?" Ellie's voice cut through the uncomfortable silence. "That's either desperate or dumb."

"How about both? You said, letting out an exasperated laugh. You knew you probably looked crazy but there were worse things to be worried about.

Her eyes glanced at your ankle, already swollen and incredibly painful. "That looks bad. You got any bandages?"

"Except for the wrap I have up there, there's one left."

You see her look at Joel, a knowing gleam in her eyes. Joel's eyes battled with Ellie's before he finally gave you, sighing before looking back at you.

"You aren't leaving tonight."

"What—"

"You are injured and running out of supplies. We have a spot a few miles from here. You walk with us and you can stay for one night. If you can't then we'll leave you here with a bottle of water and you'll have to figure it out."

You took a few seconds to decide not because you were unsure but because your ankle screamed the second you shifted weight onto it. Still, you grit your teeth, get up slowly, and steadied yourself with one hand against the cracked wall.

Joel watched the whole thing in silence, like he was cataloguing every move you took. Assessing whether you would slow them down or get them killed.

"I can keep up," you said, breath coming short.

"Better," Joel muttered, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "Let's go."

The memory faded and now you are back in the present. Tommy held a sad look as you recounted memories of his brother. It hurt but it was nice to remember him.

"Joel was an asshole that night," you remarked, smirking when you remembered later that night at camp. "He didn't sit by me, in fact he sat as far away as he could. But he still watched me like a hawk. Until Ellie forced him to come over."

Tommy let out a small belly laugh. "That sounds like her."

"It does. It really does."

You continued to ride in silence after that for a few minutes, subtly glancing over at him.

"Tommy?"

"Yes sweetheart?"

You smiled. "Thank you."

He furrowed his brow, confused as to what you were thanking him for. "For what?"

"For sticking by me. After his death. After the shit I did, getting drunk and showing up to patrol while being wasted, it was stupid of me to do that. You didn't judge me. You just let me be. And for...helping me heal."

He knew what you meant by that. How the two of you grew genuine feelings and became close. How he holds you at night and whispers into your ear when you need his touch.

Before Tommy could answer, there was a screeching noise that rang out through the trees. The two of you stopped, rifles ready to aim at whatever threat was coming your way.

The sreech split through the trees again, closer now, shrill, a sound that'll strike fear into the hearts of the strongest men. Suddenly, an infected broke through the treeline, barreling towards you. You took hold of the reins to urge your horse to run. But it was too late. limbs were jerking unaturally, its half—mushroomed face twitching, one arm dragging behind them like it was broken. Not a runner. A clicker.

It shrieked again, a sound that made your skin crawl.

Suddenly, your horse reared, kicking wildly.

The world tipped, and a sickening jolt as you slammed into the snow, pain bursting through your shoulder and ribs. You rolled, vision swimming, but just in time to see the clicker lunge for you.

Your gun was thrown, god knows where, when you were bucked off, and your knife? You had no clue where that was either. You barely managed to hold up your arms in defence before it crashed into you. Teeth snapping just mere inches away from your face. It reeked of rot and fungus. You screamed through gritted teeth, wrestling with it as you struggled to gain leverage over it.

It was in that moment that you truly feared for your life. Where everything began to flash before your eyes like it did in movies. All the progress you made over the last year, healing and rebuilding your life while finding love with Tommy—it was about to become all for naught.

Your grip slackened, almost ready to accept it. Until a shot rang out, deafening you as you saw the clicker's head exploded as it fell limp to your side. You look up to see a figure hopping off their horse and running frantically to you.

It was Tommy.

"Fuck—Fuck, are you alright? Are you injured? Or bit?" He choked out, hands roaming over your body as he checked if you were hurt.

You nodded, breathing heavy as you tried to make sense of what just happened. "I'm fine. A bit sore from the fall and I think my ribs might be broken. But I'm not bit."

Tommy's face cracked as the moment passed, and the silence between you fell into place like it belonged there. The dead body of the infected lying beside you was ignored when he placed his hand on both sides of your face, cradling it as he touched your forehead with his.

He was silent. Breathing deeply, inhaling the scent of your skin, your hair—just everything to let him know you are there. Alive. Not infected.

"I thought—I thought I lost you," Tommy whispered, voice breaking with grief, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "When I saw the clicker on top of you, scratching away, I thought it got you."

His tears come out in full force, the dam breaking as he lets out his fears of losing one of the only good things he had left.

"Oh Tommy..." You murmured, hugging him as both of you kneeled there, holding each other and not caring if anyone saw. His arms wrapped around like he was trying to anchor himself to shore. His chest heaved against you, each trembling inhale betraying how close he's coming to unraveling.

"I didn't think, I just acted. Because I couldn't stand the idea of having to see another person I love having to be wrapped up and dragged back to Jackson."

Love.

Tommy said love.

Your heart began to beat a new rhythm, one of hope and new beginnings. One of true happiness and serenity. The two of you have been together for the last half of the year, not having said that, knowing it through his actions rather than words. But hearing it loud, it's something entirely different.

It makes everything real between you. Setting it in stone. You lifted up his face, holding it as you brushed your thumb across his cheek. All you could think of doing in that moment was to kiss him.

And you did.

Your lips weren't soft. They were cracked, a bit dry but Tommy didn't care. You were soft, sweet, and everything he could want. Both of you were patient with the other, not demanding a damn thing and letting things flow as it did. His lips moving against yours were hungry, aching for more.

But the current setting wasn't exactly the place to do so.

"I love you," you blurted out, the words trembling on your lips like they’d been waiting to escape for months.

His look of surprise was evident by the way he lifted his head quickly, needing to look at you in the eyes and making sure he wasn't hallucinating.

"Say that again," he said softly.

"I love you."

He smiled brightly, tears still brimming in his eyes as held your face. "I love you too baby."

The sound of another pair of horses' hooves galloping towards you cuts through the sweet moment. You started to search for your rifle until you saw who it was.

It was Ellie and Jesse.

Ellie hopped off Shimmer with a panicked look on her face, eyes darting from the dead clicker to you still being held in Tommy's arms. "Holy shit! Are you okay? What the fuck happened?"

Jesse came right up behind her, gun still half drawn , scanning the treeline for anything that might still be lurking.

"Clicker came out of nowhere," Tommy explained. "Her horse bucked her off and she fell to the ground. And I shot the clicker in the head."

Ellie knelt down next to you, her hands hovering awkwardly like she wanted to help but didn't know how. "You okay?" Her eyes narrowed, but her voice is softer now. You could tell what she was asking.

"Yeah. Not bit. Just banged up," you said, trying to sit up, wincing as fire flared through your ribs. "Think something might have cracked."

Ellie's gaze landed on your hand still being laced between Tommy's. She raised a brow, a realization settling over her before Jesse cuts in.

"We should go before any more infected show up and decide to make a meal of us."

Tommy nodded, helping you stand up as gently as possible to avoid any pain. You still winced as you stood spine straight but bared it through clenched teeth.

"You guys ride ahead of us back to Jackson. Tell Maria what happened and send word to the infirmary," Tommy said, authority laced within his tone.

Ellie and Jesse nodded, walking back to their horses and heading back. As they saddled up and turned to leave, Ellie took one last glance over her shoulder, smiling at the two of you closely embraced before riding off to follow Jesse.

As their silhouettes disappeared into the thick snow and gangly trees, silence fell again.

Tommy stood behind you, one hand on your wrist to steady you, the other picking up your rifle from the ground. "You okay to ride?"

"No," you groaned, shifting your weight. "But let's get it over with."

He didn't waste time. He helped you onto his horse like it was second nature. Once you were on his horse, he grabbed the reins of your still spooked horse, which had been pacing in a small circle nearby.

"Easy girl," Tommy muttered. "Ain't gonna leave you out here."

He gave your horse a firm neck pat before climbing up in front of you, settling into the saddle with you wrapping your arms around his waist. Your own was trailing obediently behind.

Your arms tightened more around his waist, his hand finding yours, resting over your knuckles for a moment, thumb brushing along the skin. Like he was saying, "I'm here" without opening his mouth. The snow fell into slow, lazy flurries around you as the trees blurred past you, the woods finally still and quiet.

And in the silent ride back to Jackson, ribs screaming, heart still racing, infected blood soaking the snow, you didn't think about the pain. Or the fear. Or that damn clicker that almost took everything from you.

You realize that for the first time in a long fucking time, you weren't just heading back to town.

You were heading back with the man who made it feel like home again.

[gem-knight-lady-opal]

Marc:

Also, Marc earlier in the episode

[phantom-dc]

Bruce sighed.

He never thought he would die like this. When he started out as Batman he was certain he would meet his end fighting the criminal underworld of Gotham. When he got older and life got stranger, he believed he would die fighting off a threat like Joker or Deathstroke, maybe even Darkseid. Being used as a human sacrifice to the King of the Infinite Realms was not on that list, let alone being a willing sacrifice.

Unfortunately, it had been necessary. An asteroid was on collision course with Earth. The asteroid had a colony of sapient alien life on it, so destroying it was not an option. As the League grew desperate, Constantine revealed a similar incident had happened a few years ago. The King of the Infinite Realms had, along with his subjects, turned the Earth intangible and both the Earth and the Asteroid had survived. Constantine isn’t sure why or how, but there are signs an extremely powerful ghost had merged realities and in the process erased the memories of this event from the entire population of Earth! The only reason Constantine knows about it is because a Demon with time-based powers told him during one of their poker games. Summoning this King was risky, as they had no idea what the King would want in return, but this entity seemed like their best bet. Now Bruce thinks they had been wrong.

Superman pulled Bruce out of his thoughts:

“Bruce, are you sure you want to go through with this? If we work together, we might be able to-”

Bruce cut him off:

“No, Clark. You heard Constantine. If we do not hold up our end of the deal, the Ghost King could simply make his ally, this “Clockwork”, reverse time to before the planet was saved. The Earth and the asteroid will still be destroyed, killing everyone on both. This is the only way.”

Clark looked dejected. He knew his friend was right. The King had turned the entire Earth intangible with one hand! He knew the League couldn’t defeat this foe, not without help. Any being that could help them would demand even more bloodshed in exchange, though. One human life in exchange of saving the entire planet had been a steal, according to the Justice League Dark. Clark looked at Bruce:

“Are you going to put on your cowl? This will be the only chance you have to tell the other Leaguers who you are.”

Bruce looked at his cowl. He had taken of his suit, so that his family had something to bury. But to reveal his identity to anyone other than Clark....

“I will keep it on. Even if I die here, I cannot risk anyone finding out my identity and using it to get to my family. I hope the League understands.”

Bruce is pulled into a hug. As Clark holds him as close as he can without breaking bones Bruce cannot help being filled with regret. He wanted more time with his family and, dare he say, friends. This was not how things were supposed to go. Clark pulls away and seems to want to say something:

“Bruce, I just want you to know, I-”

“WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON, B?”

Suddenly Nightwing enters the room, along with the entire Bat-family. Even Alfred and Oracle, donning masks, are there. They looked confused and scared, which made sense. They had all been summoned to the Watchtower, and when they had seen non-field members there as well they knew something was very wrong. Robin stepped forward, demanding an explanation:

“Father, what is happening? Why did you ask for us here? Explain yourself this instant!”

Red Robin looked ready to fight, staff in hand and in a low stance:

Where is the danger? Who is the enemy? Do you have intel for us? ARE YOU BEING MIND CONTROLLED?

Spoiler yanked at Red Robin’s cowl, pulling him out of his paranoid spiral:

“Easy, Captain Paranoid! Let him speak!”

Red Hood was clearly agitated. It was never a good sign if he was asked to the Watchtower:

“The fuck is going on, old man? Are you dying or something? That’s my stick, not yours!”

Bruce steeled his nerves. This was not going to be an easy conversation. How does one tell their family they are going to die and there is nothing to be done about it? Things had been going well for them, too. Dick and he hadn’t fought as often anymore, Jason had not called him names when he patrolled Crime ally last week, Tim hadn’t done anything that could be considered villainous (that he knew of) and Damian had not stabbed any goons for a month. Truly things had been good. Bruce knew this would mess it all up. He feared Jason would start killing again, or Damian would take out his grief on the criminals or Tim would… Well he had no idea. Last time Bruce disappeared Tim blew up so many LoA bases (he still wasn’t sure whether there had been people inside or not), so it was anyone’s gue-

“Sir, could you please elaborate on why we are here? I’m assuming it has something to do with the reason for this dreadful cold, and perhaps your lack of a shirt?”

Bruce sighed. Alfred always knew how to get through to him. With a heavy heart he told them everything. He would sacrifice himself for the survival of both planets. There was nothing to be done about that, and he asked them to please accept his decision. Naturally everyone was outraged. Amidst the chaos, Orphan asked a question:

“Why you?”

Bruce explained that, according to Constantine, the King had asked for a single sacrifice in return: “To feast on a non-magic, non-meta mortal human that will not resist being consumed.” It had pointed specifically at Batman, making sure they all knew which one it wanted. There had been no time to negotiate the prize, so he had accepted. After that it had left immediately for Earth, turning it intangible so the asteroid flew through harmlessly and fulfilling its end of the deal. Orphan seemed to think for a bit, before speaking up again:

“We’ll miss you.”

She hugged Batman. The others, realizing there was nothing they could do, at least not before facing the King, joined in as well. Bruce told them how proud he was of everyone. That they were strong and brilliant, and to please protect each other and Gotham in his stead. He thanked Alfred and Oracle for their help over the years and to please continue to support the others with the same strength they used to help him. After a moment they were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Wonder Woman had entered the room. With a saddened expression, and a dented doorhandle that showed her tension, she had come to collect her friend.:

“Batman. It’s time.”

Bruce nodded at her. Thanking her, he tried to leave with her, but was stopped by Alfred. After a quick hug, Alfed offered Bruce a cookie from the plate he had brought along:

“Every man deserves a final meal. I’m sorry this was all I have to offer.”

Taking a grateful bite, Bruce allowed himself to indulge in the taste of home.

“Thank you, Alfred. This means more to me then you realize.”

Steeling himself once more, Batman and the others followed Wonder Woman to the main room. It was the largest room in the Watchtower, several stories high with observation platforms, security screens showing cities all over the planet and a teleportation platform. As they approached the room, Batman was surprised by the cold that radiated form the entrance. Opening the door the source of all the cold and grief became visible to the group. Signal had to shield his eyes:

“What the hell!?!”

There it was, the High Ghost King of the Infinite Realms. A giant being, which had been so large they had to move to the observation platform to speak with it. Even then it towered over the heroes. It’s skin impossibly dark, with constellations spotting its tail & torso. The stars converging on its lower arms, making it look like it was wearing glowing white gloves, the same as a strange symbol on his chest that seemed important. The stars on its neck blending seamlessly with its hair, yet leaving its head completely dark aside from a few little spots on its face. The only facial feature they could make out where 2 Lazarus green eyes, focused on the new arrivals. On its hand, a ring with a skull on it that had freaked out the Lanterns. On its head a dark crown covered in patches of frost, and its own Aurora Borealis spreading from it. The room had already been partially covered in frost simply from the King’s aura. Power emanated from it, which had caused several members that had been dead and revived before to kneel on reflex, which was frightening even if they managed to get up on their own again.

Martian Manhunter had tried to peek in the Kings mind, hoping to find a way to convince the King to spare Batman, but he had been unsuccessful. As soon as he tried his knees buckled, and he had been pushed out. Ever since the Ghost King had radiated frustration. Now, as Batman entered wearing only his cowl and some spare pants, that frustration seemed to spike dangerously. Was the King upset he had been left to wait for his offer?

"What the fuck is this? I didn’t ask for a striptease, especially from some old Frootloop!”

“Constantine, what’s wrong? What is it saying?”

Batman was worried. He had not expected more anger from the being when presented with the offering. Looking at Constantine, he saw the magician frantically looking through the pages of his books, desperately looking for a translation.

“Hang on, mate. I’m doing my best here! Ehrm… no, that’s not right… Something about mating? Maybe he likes you, Bats. He also said something about “the absence of clothing” so…

Suddenly he is cut off by a strange sound coming from the Ghost King. It makes a strange motion with its body and its giant maw opens, as more of those sounds escape. It reminds Robin of Alfred the Cat when he has a hairball. However, there is more sound in the Watchtower now. The Red Hood is clutching his stomach as he is doubling down in laughter.

“HAHAHAHA!!! WHAT? HOW THE FUCK DID YOU TRANSLATE THAT BADLY? HOLY SHIT!”

The Ghost King stops making the noises, and it’s eyes snap to Red Hood. It moves it’s head closer to him, casually passing it through the barrier Constantine had put up. Constantine’s swears in surprise, but the King seems not to care as it “speaks” to Red Hood:

"Oh, thank the Acients! Someone who understands Ghost Speak! Can you PLEASE help me and translate for us? This trench coat guy is terrible, and somehow twists everything I say in the worst way!"

Red Hood relaxed, looking up at the Ghost King’s giant head.:

“Sure man, no problem. I’m pretty sure he is using like 3 different dictionaries to get this far. I saw him first translate Ghost to Pixie, Pixie to Gnome and Gnome to Demon before telling us in English! So, what’s up?”

Batman was stunned. The Ghost King actually face palmed. What the heck was going on?

"Of course he is. That explains why it sounds like he is putting this through Google Translate 4 times! These guys summoned me to save the Earth, which, totally cool. Happy to help! But a summons makes it official, which means I need to get an offering. I can’t leave without it or I face a mountain of paperwork from some stupid bureaucratic eyeballs for not following proper procedure. But I can always ask something simple and get it over with. No biggie, right? WRONG.”

Red Hood actually grabs a chair to sit on. Not even in a somewhat respectful way, he is sitting on it backwards, casually leaning on it.

“Oh, boy. How badly did they fuck up? Gotta be big since Batman over there is ready to be eaten?”

The King glares at Constantine, who puts up his bravest “time to out-bollock a Eldritch Demon” face. The King is not impressed:

"Man, I asked, and I quote: “I’d like to eat a regular human meal that doesn’t fight back, like that guy would eat!” I wanted it to be clear I didn’t want blood, or corpses or virgins or any of the other horrible things stupid cults try to give me! I just wanted a burger or something! But then Mr. triple dictionary over there somehow turns that into: ‘’I wish to feast on a non-magic, non-meta mortal human that will not resist being consumed, and it must be that one.” I’ll admit I was pointing at one of the non-supers, but that didn’t mean I wanted to eat him! I just wanted to make sure it was normal food, something that doesn’t fight back!”

Red Hood looked confused, asking if the King’s food usually fights back. The King rolls it’s eyes:

"In life, I lived with mad scientist parents who treated lab safety as a suggestion at best and a chore for teens at worst. Put enough samples in the fridge and you get a whole new type of Thanksgiving trauma. Dang, I’m getting even more hungry. I’d love some turkey right now. Could you get them to bring me some food? That way I can have my sacrifice and leave…”

Red Hood stands up. He asks if the King can wait a few more minutes, claiming that after all that frustration he deserved something better. Getting a nod from the Ghost King, the Red Hood suddenly shouted over the platform railing towards the waiting Leaguers:

“FLASH! Get your squad up here, and bring pen & paper! I got a job for y’all!”

Zooming up every member of the Flash family gets a list of things to get and a warning not to tell the Bats what’s on it, or Red Hood will shoot them in the knees. Looking at the lists, they quickly caught on what was going on and promised they wouldn’t tell. This was way too funny! Red Hood does a fake bow to the King, clearly amusing himself.

“Don’t worry, your Hungry-ness! Your sacrifice is being prepared! Anything else we can assist you with?”

The Ghost King seems to tilt its head in amusement. Whatever Hood was doing, it was working, which honestly was the only reason nobody had tackled him to the floor.

"Actually, if you could get that Frootloop to put on a shirt that would be great. He is shivering and honestly, I’m worried he’s going to poke someone’s eye out with a nipple. Why is he shirtless anyway? Please tell me he wasn’t actually trying to seduce me or something, he’s old enough to be my dad! Gross!”

This caused Red Hood to again double over in laughter. Everyone was confused, what could possibly be so funny in this situation? Constantine had frantically tried translating during their conversation, but it had gone too fast for him. He gave up when the King mentioned eyeballs and seduction, accepting he wouldn’t get anywhere like this. Batman however couldn’t resist his need to know everything anymore.

“Hood, report! How are you communicating with the entity?”

Red Hood turns to Batman, walks past him and towards Alfred, grabbing one of the cookies he had brought with him. As he walks back and hands it to the Ghost King, he starts to explain:

“Honestly, not sure. It feels instinctive, like a second mother-tongue. Pretty sure it’s some sort of “dead-guy-language” you learn when you die. Speaking off: Turns out Constantine is a VERY unreliable translator. Spooky here is actually pretty chill! He used you as an example to make sure we knew what he wanted, not to demand you as a sacrifice. He is in fact pretty ticked that you guys tried to feed B to him. Speaking of: Batman? Put a shirt on, for fucks sake. You look like you’re going to freeze your tits off.”

This earned a round of giggles from Green Lantern & Green Arrow. Now that the tension had left the room, other Leaguers also smiled in relief. Besides, it’s always fun to see Batman being the butt of a joke. Sure enough, Batman let out a frustrated sound, that got the rest of the Bats to join in on the fun. They understood that their dad in fact felt rather silly right now, which meant that they had more to gossip about soon. Constantine now was wondering what Hood was up to:

“Mate, I did my best! Sorry for not being fluent in every language in existence. What the hell did you send the Flash to get? The bloke is a scientist and denies magic when it’s right in front of ‘im! What could they possibly get that I couldn’t-”

At that moment, the Flashes zoom out of the Zeta tubes and zoom across the observation deck. After a few moments of red and yellow blurs, the deck is covered with tables filled front to back with food! Picking up a receipt that fell to the floor, Batman realizes this is take-out from all over the world. Seeing a puddle of Lazarus water grow on the floor, he looks up. The Ghost King is actually drooling! Red Hood steps aside and gestures to the feast:

“Welp! There is your sacrifice! One. And I also quote: “regular human meal that doesn’t fight back, like “that guy” would eat!” Well, more of a feast then a meal, but I’m sure a big guy like you can finish it, and you can always take home the rest I guess. Bon Appetit!”

Opening his giant maw, the Ghost King digs in. Well, as much as he can. He actually looks kind of silly eating everything with a tiny fork. Still, judging from the purring sound emanating through the Watchtower it’s to the Kings liking.

"DUDE, THIS IS SO GOOD? I need to know these restaurants! You want a bite for helping me out? You saved me SOOO much annoying paperwork, I was about to bail!”

Picking up a plate of karaage, Red Hood took of his helmet revealing a second mask underneath and dug in as well:

“Don’t mind if I do, this smells fantastic! Oh shit, you should try this stuff, it’s great!”

Red Hood being allowed to partake in the offering so casually caused Constantine to do a double take. He realizes he seriously misjudged this entity. Still, that didn’t explain the horrific stories about him. He would need to do some digging into that, maybe with Hood as a translator. For now he takes a swig of his drink. The world was saved, no one died or lost their Soul and he didn’t make any new enemies he thinks. Plus, Batman felt like an idiot, and that always made the Brit smile.

All in all a good day!

[motthe]

there's no death here | robert "bob" reynolds

ཐིཋྀ thunderbolts caught me with a bob-shaped hole in my heart.

warnings: spoilers from thunderbolts, super!reader, fem!reader, not sure if I'll make a bunch of parts or even finish this idea so be warned, gonna go ahead and say canon-divergent to save my ass bc im no marvel expert.

masterlist | ao3

You weren't built for battle—the powers you had were more defense based than anything—but you had been trained by the best of the best. The countless lessons left your survival skills above subpar, and maybe you could make use of your size and strangle a man twice it, but those things didn't make you a hero.

And being around so many of them for so long, it's disturbingly easy to start to feel useless.

“Born or cursed?”

You didn't remember who had asked it. You do remember you had been younger, that you'd been more or less adopted into the world of the Avengers without ever truly being thrown into it. Wanda and Natasha had been your everything, especially when it came to helping with your powers. Between the supernatural and the mental side, they had done wonders.

Sitting around and not making use of yourself would be spitting on their memory, so it wasn't long before you were dragged into government business. Reading minds was handy, but picking apart memories? Entering their psyche?

You were gold to detectives and last resort for men in black suits who would “talk” to criminals if you didn't.

The work had drained enough from you by the time Bucky showed up on your doorstep with a bottle of liquor and a favor.

“This isn't what I do,” you told him, looking over the files. “I'm not a therapist or a teacher. If Void is as powerful as you say it is—”

“It can be beaten,” he explained. “We've done it before. I just need you to help Bob block it out. You know how to do that.”

“With other people's thoughts,” you argued.

He shook his head. “You suppress memories. You put them into neat little boxes for your agent work.”

“You want me to make him forget something that dangerous?”

“I want you to show him he's not alone when it comes to this side of superpowers.” Bucky stood, a warm hand coming down on your shoulder and squeezing. “We've all been scattered. It's a shit team, the New Avengers, but it's something, kid.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, Bucky,” you sighed.

“I know. Wouldn't be asking you for your help if you were.”

The door shut to your apartment in farewell, but one visit from the Winter Soldier had too many opening at once. Flashes of earth's most mightiest heroes, of old friends, dead friends, missing ones.

Getting dragged back into that mess was asking for trouble.

Sipping on free alcohol, you flip through the packet of Robert “Bob” Reynolds. Sweet face, fucked past, and a far more fucked psyche for the powers he'd revealed in the last hit on New York.

Cursed, you decided by the end of your research, frowning as a picture slipped free. The New Avengers were definitely a ragtag group. Bucky was the only one you knew, Yelena you learned more than enough about through Nat digging around her head one time too many. Alexei Shostakov as well, but he was easy to pick apart at one glance. Anything revolving around Ava Starr and John Walker was rumors or passed down the grapevine.

Your phone vibrated. Checking it drew a deep line between your eyebrows. Someone was asking for another questioning, this time through the mind of a rampant serial killer in Chicago. They didn't have enough on him.

You leaned into your hands, sighing.

Across the block at a red-light, Bucky glanced at his phone and smiled as he read over the text.

“I need to meet him before I agree to this.”

The light flicked green.

The Watchtower was a shadow of the place you used to know. Repairs were still being made leaving people crawling on every floor but the top level had been finished for two weeks now, leaving the New Avengers with their shared space.

Bucky had promised the team would be out when you arrived, save for Bob. As it was quiet when the elevator door opened, you were glad to see he'd kept that promise.

“Welcome back,” he called, walking up.

“Which room did you snag?” you scoffed, eyeing the decor. Minimalist, neutral tones. Far greyer than the old room you remembered.

“The biggest.” He said it like it was obvious. Maybe it should've been.

Hearing movement, you both turned as a shadow passed by the windows. The hunched shoulders were a dead giveaway, soft eyes flittering between the floor and you as the young man stepped down.

Bob wore a dark blue sweater that drowned his figure and dark jeans. His hair was still a shaggy length and dark brown from the recent pictures you'd seen. By all accounts, he looked normal, but the anxiety flowed off him in waves that crashed against your head.

His mind extends way beyond others.

“Hi,” he greeted softly, clearing his throat. “You're, uh, Bucky's friend?”

You introduced yourself, stepping forward to offer your hand. He was quick to step back even across the room, body tensing.

“Wait, don't. I'm not sure if I—”

“When's the last time you transported someone into a shame room?”

The shock on his face had you glancing at Bucky for answers.

“Last week,” he said, crossing his arms. “Nothing super dangerous. Uncomfortable, but we get a lot of repeats so we break off easily enough.”

“Wait, so how much do you already know?” Bob asked, arms wrapping around himself.

“Enough,” you and Bucky respond.

Bob sighed, head nodding along as he turned away. “Great, guess that makes it easier.”

“I wouldn't say that; you're guarded now.” You moved closer, keeping your steps slow and your hands behind your back. Bob remained tense but didn't shy away. “Bucky called me here to see if I could help you, but I came here to see if you even want it.”

“Well, uh…” he swallowed, head bowing.

Do you want my help? His eyes flashed wide, breath catching as he looked up. You kept your expression neutral as you raised a brow. Do you? This will only work if you want to put in the effort.

“Can you see everything?”

You fought not to smile at the childish awe in his voice as it echoed back to you. I'm not looking. I'm listening.

A series of curses and panicked background commentary had you laughing.

I've heard and seen a lot. Honestly, don’t worry about it.

“That's easy for you to say,” Robert grumbled. “I cant control my thoughts like you can.”

“Would you like to?”

“It's not that I don't want your help,” he said, hands tangling into his sweater. “I just don't want to hurt anyone again. A lot of people… Some don't snap out of what I make them see. It's bad.”

“I have faith in my mental state,” you assured him. “Mental barriers, especially. I need to see just how powerful you are, though. Because if you get past mine, that means I'll be training you through trial and error. It's risky but it's not impossible.”

Bob looked to Bucky. “Do you think that's a good idea?”

Your old friend shrugged. “I brought her in because she's good at what she does. Whatever she wants to do, I have to trust it's the right decision.”

“I could hurt her!” Bob breathed and looked back to you. “I could hurt you really, really bad. Are you sure you know what you're signing up for?”

“I read through your files. I saw the extent of your powers and the aftermath of the accident,” you explained. “I'm prepared to help you with all things mental and psychic, but trust has to go both ways.”

You raised your hand again. He flinched, shuffling back.

“You want to help me now. What if that changes?” he whispers. “What if you see what it's really like and it scares you?”

“We won't know unless we try.” You took a step. Hand outstretched.

Bob looked at Bucky again, as if waiting to see if anyone would disagree. Whatever he searched for wasn't there.

He sighed and met your gaze. Pale blue eyes, you noted, with colors shifting around the pupil.

“Okay,” he nodded, holding up a shaky hand. The skin was bitten raw around his nails, skin dry but warm. The moment you felt it, there was a pressure against your mental shields. You could see the darkness clouding around you, searching for a way in, but you held firm.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, arm trembling as he stood there. His eyes were closed, head turned away.

You smiled, holding in a laugh as you used your other hand to grab his. “I'm fine, Bob. You're definitely powerful.”

“But you didn't see anything?” he said, eyeing where you were joined.

“I've had years to work on my mental barriers. You can't breach what doesn't have an entrance.” You squeezed his hand. “This is a really good sign. I'm going to have to let you in at some point to see just how potent your power is, but we'll work up to that.”

“You really don't see anything?” he whispered, hope rising in his expression as he searched your gaze.

“Just you,” you promised, unable to keep from smiling. “We'll have to work on your projection. Your thoughts are…loud.”

His face flushed red as he pulled away, sputtering an apology. There was some halfass excuse about the bathroom as he fled. Bucky stepped up to fill the empty space.

“What was he thinking?”

“None of your business,” you chuckled. “You got a guest room for me?”

But you had to admit you were flattered. Mens’ thoughts usually came up with the same descriptions for you at first glance. All your life you'd been met with disgusting thoughts and hateful opinions or plain “hot” and “sexy.”

This might've been the first time a man had ever thought of you as “radiant” before.

[navybrat817]

For your consideration:

Imagine Bucky, the strong and dangerous and stern super soldier that by all accounts is terrifying as an opponent, being unable to stop himself from coming in his pants because of you. Maybe you don't even have to touch him; he gets so lost in the taste of you that he has to start grinding against the mattress, and accidentally comes when you do.

I've had this image in my head for days and had to share it somewhere, sorry 🫠

Nonnie, I love this so much. 🫠

Feral

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky gets a little feral now and then.

Word Count: Over 1.2k

Warnings: Oral sex (f. receiving), implied sex, possessive behavior, slight feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Hope you lovelies enjoy. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky gets in a feral mood every now and then. He may let you know with a text that simply says, “Be ready.” and other days he won't give you a warning at all. By the time you hear his deep growl or see his pupils so blown that the blue irises nearly disappear you know you aren't leaving the bed for the next day. Or two.

Today you don't even hear him coming.

You’re in the middle of a shower when he suddenly shoves the curtain aside, and you’re lucky you don't have a heart attack or slip and fall. A shriek still leaves your mouth when you lock eyes with the ex-assassin and you see the blown pupils, and you're about to have a heart attack for a completely different reason. You hope your schedule is clear because you know he’s going to thoroughly ruin you and you’d rather not try to pull yourself back together for a while.

“Bed. Now.” His growl should make you move, but you’re still under the water and trapped by his massive body.

You don't move around him fast enough and he doesn't care that his clothes get wet when he grabs you and throws you over his shoulder. All he cares about is making you wet. At least he has the good sense to shut the water off before carrying you away. He’s thoughtful like that.

He drops you unceremoniously on the bed, the comforter now soaked as well thanks to your dripping wet body. Removing his shirt and tossing it aside, you get a moment to take in the view of Bucky Barnes looking at you like a man starved. He’s a beautiful canvas of muscles and scars, yet he looks at you like you're a real work of art. You wordlessly spread your legs and invite him to feast on what belongs to him. It would've been rude to keep him from his meal and you weren't cruel.

Not to mention no past lover can ever live up to how Bucky Barnes eats pussy.

He drops to his knees and pushes your legs open more, licking his lips as gazes at your twitching hole on display. He brushes some of the hair from his face to get a better look, and it only makes him look more wild. Untamed. It doesn't take much for him to arouse you, but the way he growls at the sight of you has you feeling like a goddess. You’re on your back, but he’s on his knees ready to worship and you’ll gladly accept his offerings. However he chooses to give them to you.

“I know you’re starving, Bucky. So eat,” you finally tell him, wanting him to have his fill. Whatever puts him in this mood, you’ll go along for the ride.

But before he dips down to feast, he moves up your body like a sleek cat and fastens his mouth to yours. He won't take from you without at least one kiss. You moan low as you kiss him back and feel him grind against you. It surprises you that he still has his pants on, but he’s getting rid of them soon enough.

You can't help but touch one of the scars near his shoulder, making him gasp into your mouth. He’s so strong. So powerful. Life dragged him through hell and he didn't escape unscathed, but he survived.

“Mine,” he murmurs so softly you almost miss it as he kisses down your body. Every kiss is a reminder of who you belong to. You’ll always be his.

“Yours,” you gasp when his nose nudges your clit and he inhales deeply. You remember when the smell of your arousal used to embarrass you, and now you wonder why it ever bothered you since he loves it so much. His metal fingers part your folds and he drags his tongue along your slit with a hum, lapping up your wetness. “Fuck…” you whimper, bringing a hand up to play with your breast.

“Not yet,” he growls, pushing his tongue deep inside.

Your free hand flies to his head and you choke on a moan as you clench around him. If he was speaking more, he’d tell you how beautifully bittersweet you taste, how your pussy is made for him, how desperate you are for him to fuck you with his cock, how you're all he needs. A mix of praise, profanity, filth, and love. Hearing him growl and grunt as he feasts tells you more than enough.

“So good,” he grunts between licks, his flesh hand digging into your shaking thigh when he slips two metal fingers in. You recall gushing all over the metal the first time he made his arm vibrate. He likes having the scent of your arousal on the metal, almost as much as he likes having it on the fingers of his right hand.

You lift your head when you hear shuffling on the bed, your eyes wide when you see his hips rise and dip. You’re all too familiar with that motion. “Bucky… are you…”

“Pussy’s so fucking good. I can't… I can’t stop,” he groans, rolling his hips like he can't stop himself from humping the bed because of how good you taste. “‘m so fucking hard for you.”

Your man’s cock can be sensitive some days. Grinding against him can make him get off in his pants. You went down on him once and just the feeling of your breath against his shaft had him shooting off before you wrapped your mouth around him. And with his rebound rate, you never have to worry if he gets off before you because he’ll still take care of you.

“That’s so hot,” you admit, your mouth falling open when he moves his fingers and tongue in time with his hips. “It’s okay, big boy. Make a mess in your pants for me,” you beg, wanting him to get off to you.

His growl has a bit of a whine to it when he looks up at you, his lips and chin glistening. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you smile, your fingers carding through his hair again. You don't want him to feel embarrassed.

He looks relieved. “Then make a mess on my face first,” he demands, dipping his head back down and making quick work of building your orgasm back up.

Pulling your hips down to meet his mouth, it isn't long before your orgasm tears through you. Your head nearly falls back as the tidal waves crash over you, but you keep it elevated enough to catch the stutter in his hips and the telltale husky moan against your sensitive hole. It almost triggers another orgasm watching him rut before he slumps against the bed like you.

Your head spins. Your heart pounds. And you smile. Bucky Barnes just came in his pants because you came. Yeah, you feel like a goddess and then some.

“You came in your pants for me,” you breathe. “That’s love.”

Your smile only widens when he pulls his mouth and fingers away to unbuckle his pants, your walls clenching when takes himself out. He’s large and thick as he strokes himself, and you can also see a bit of the evidence of him finishing in his pants. It gets you hot all over again, and now you need to make a mess around his cock while he finishes inside you. It’ll satisfy you both.

“Yeah, that is love,” he groans, brushing his thumb over the weeping tip. He still has a bit of the feral look in his eyes. “Now I need to fuck you with my cock at least twice before I eat again.”

Yeah, you’re in for a long and fun weekend.

I need him, okay? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[all-my-love-for-harry]

Strictly Professional

pairing; ceo!jake seresin x fem assistant!reader

summary; Jake Seresin was power wrapped in expensive suits and sharper edges, and you were the calm in his perfectly calculated storm. But one unexpected week away was all it took to turn the game into something dangerously real.

word count; 13.5k

warnings; power imbalance, an asshole to everyone but you trope, smut, overstimulation, one bed trope, oral (fem, sooo much pussy eating), dom!jake, lowkey bossy!reader, age gap, i have no idea about business talk so inaccurate references (i wacthed a video and prayed for the best), i think that's it

a/n; this was so fun to write. i'm actually loving writing smut HAHAAH i have soooo many smut fics planned it's crazy, can't wait for you to read them!!! also the smut in this is SO good, let me know what you think!

masterlist

The elevator doors slid open with a polished chime, and the day officially began with the low hum of fear and productivity that seemed to follow Jake Seresin wherever he went.

Outside, Manhattan was barely awake — sunlight bouncing off steel and glass, yellow cabs honking like it was a contact sport, steam rising from subway grates like the city itself was sighing. But up here, on the 49th floor of the Seresin International Building, the air was already thick with nerves.

You stepped into the marble-floored hallway with two coffees in hand and your phone pressed to your ear, rattling off a list of calendar edits to Jake’s London liaison without missing a beat.

“No, push the Barclays call to Wednesday. He’ll never make the 10:00 if that acquisition meeting runs long. And tell them not to call his personal line again — he blocked the last intern who did.”

Your voice was calm. Unbothered. Efficient. Unlike the junior staff who all glanced up with wide eyes the second they saw you approaching — not because they were scared of you, but because they knew he was close behind.

Jake Seresin: thirty-something billionaire, CEO of one of the most influential private investment firms in the country, and, as Forbes once lovingly put it, “a nightmare in Tom Ford.”

He was brutal in boardrooms. Sharp-tongued, sharp-jawed, a little too good-looking for everyone's comfort. Most people around here called him Mr. Seresin. You just called him Jake — mostly with a sigh, sometimes with a threat, and often through gritted teeth.

You passed by your own desk — a minimalist sanctuary of Post-its, color-coded files, and exactly three pens you would murder someone over if they were taken. You didn’t stop. You never did. Your stilettos echoed on the floor as you beelined straight for his office.

You didn’t knock.

“Someone’s already behind,” you said brightly, breezing in and placing the coffees on the polished walnut desk like it was your damn job — which it was, but only barely. “This was supposed to be our twenty minutes of silence. Instead, you scheduled yourself a breakfast call with someone who thinks you’re charming. You see the problem here, don’t you?”

Jake looked up from the sleek screen of his tablet, eyes narrowing like you were the most exhausting thing in the world.

He was wearing a black button-down — sleeves rolled to the elbows, top button undone — and a watch that probably cost more than your apartment.

“How generous of you to bring me coffee and insults before 8 a.m.,” he said, voice low, smooth, and laced with sarcasm.

You dropped into the chair across from him. “This one’s decaf. I figured you’d appreciate a gentle decline into madness today.”

Jake didn’t look amused. Which, to be fair, he rarely did — unless he was toying with someone. Like now, with that infuriating tilt of his mouth as he leaned back in his chair.

“You really should be nicer to your boss,” he said, sipping the coffee anyway.

“I would, if my boss wasn’t a corporate gremlin in Prada.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “I wear Tom Ford.”

You sipped your own drink, unimpressed. “Exactly.”

Their routine was practically scripted now — one whole of constant sparring, matching each other beat for beat. Everyone in the building knew better than to interrupt when the two of you got going. There had been rumors for a while. Whispers by the elevators. Speculation about whether it was all professional or if there was something more, something physical, simmering under the surface.

You’d deny it, of course. He was your boss. He was impossible. He was infuriating.

...And okay, yes, sometimes he made you want to throw your phone out the window just to get his attention. But still.

“You have ten minutes before your call,” you said, rising again. “Try not to insult anyone’s intelligence until after your second coffee.”

“I make no promises,” Jake said, watching you go like it was his favorite part of the day.

There was a reason no one lasted long as his assistant. Jake Seresin was demanding, short-tempered, impossible to impress. You, however, had never blinked.

You were always five steps ahead. The first one in, the last one out. The type of person who carried three chargers, memorized schedules like a Rolodex, and had the uncanny ability to keep your cool while your billionaire boss told the Wall Street Journal to go to hell — mid-interview.

And unlike everyone else, you didn’t fear Jake.

You handled him.

Which made him insufferably interested.

You hadn’t seen that look in his eyes lately — not since the night of the company gala, six months ago, when you’d worn that black velvet dress and he’d stared at you for so long, you’d excused yourself just to stop the tension from combusting.

Nothing had happened. You didn’t let it. But sometimes — when you passed each other in the hallway, when you handed him his notes in the middle of a meeting — you’d feel it again.

That spark. That ridiculous, inconvenient something.

But this was New York. This was work. You didn’t have time for a crush on your boss, especially not one who wore power like a cologne and treated meetings like cage matches.

So instead, you kept things exactly where they were.

Snarky. Functional. Professional.

By 6:42 p.m., the office had emptied. Jake was still in his office, sleeves still rolled, jaw tight from a day full of idiots.

You dropped a folder on his desk without looking up.

“Your itinerary for the quarter’s investor presentations,” you said. “You’ll find the files for each city tabbed and color-coded. Also, your mother called again.”

Jake groaned. “What did she want this time?”

“Apparently, to know if you’re ‘still incapable of forming an emotional connection.’ Her words, not mine.”

He shot you a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, immensely.”

There was a beat of silence as he looked down at the folder, thumb resting on the corner of the cover. “Did you include the San Diego conference dates?”

You blinked. “Conference?”

“Next month. I’ll be presenting on private equity trends. They just confirmed I’m the keynote speaker.”

You rolled your eyes. “Because of course you are.”

Jake didn’t argue. Just smirked.

“We’ll need to book travel,” he added. “Hotels. Make sure they don’t stick me in one of those soulless penthouse suites again.”

You jotted it down. “Anything else, Your Highness?”

His smile widened. “Yeah. Don’t forget to book your ticket, too. You’re coming.”

You froze. “What?”

“You’re my assistant,” he said simply. “I need you there.”

You stared at him. “Fine. But I’m picking the hotel. If I’m stuck on a conference trip with you, I at least want decent lighting and room service that doesn’t come with attitude.”

Jake raised his brows, amused. “Sounds like someone’s already looking forward to it.”

You turned to leave. “Sounds like someone’s getting replaced by a tablet app next fiscal quarter.”

-

If there were sirens for a CEO meltdown, they’d be blaring by 9:13 a.m.

Jake Seresin strode into the office like he’d personally been wronged by God, Wall Street, and the concept of Mondays. He was a vision in black-on-black, suit jacket flaring behind him like a villain in a corporate thriller, hair perfectly in place despite the wind, jaw set like he was going into battle.

Everyone else? They ducked.

Phones were slammed onto receivers. Lattes were hidden like contraband. One poor intern accidentally closed her browser and had to restart her entire system.

You didn’t flinch. You barely looked up from your screen when he stormed past your desk with a barked, “Meeting in fifteen—move it.”

You calmly took a sip of your espresso. “Someone didn’t get their avocado toast this morning.”

Jake didn’t respond. He never did when he was in this kind of mood. That was fine. You’d learned to give him space — and then handle him like a bomb technician once the smoke cleared.

The shouting started ten minutes later. You didn’t get involved.

It was Madison this time — sweet, slightly shaky, probably one of the better interns. You heard her voice crack through the frosted glass wall, her attempt to explain a scheduling mishap met with Jake’s low, clipped tone slicing through her like ice. You didn’t go in. You didn’t even glance up.

Because that wasn’t your job — not right now.

You’d learned long ago that Jake didn’t respect people who tried to save him from himself in public. But when the doors closed and the boardroom was empty — that’s when he listened.

His office door clicked shut. You gave it exactly one minute before walking in.

Jake was seated at his desk, elbows on the edge, hands steepled in front of his mouth. His eyes were locked on the city outside, but you knew he wasn’t seeing any of it.

You walked in without knocking and set the correct file on his desk — Petter-sen, not Peterson — and then sat down across from him without a word.

He finally looked over. “She gave me the wrong file.”

“I noticed,” you said flatly.

Jake scowled, but you didn’t blink.

“You know,” you said calmly, “if you yell at every new hire, HR is going to make you do another empathy seminar.”

“They always get it wrong.”

“And maybe that’s a training issue, not a screaming issue.”

He looked at you like you’d just suggested building a treehouse in Times Square.

“Madison will recover,” you added, flipping open your tablet. “But maybe next time just raise an eyebrow. You have a very intimidating face. Use it.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, watching you. The heat in his expression was still there, but it simmered into something cooler — thoughtful, almost amused.

“You never take my side,” he muttered.

“I’m on your side,” you corrected. “Which is why I don’t let you self-destruct.”

Jake didn’t apologize. He never did. But he muttered something about getting Madison reassigned — not fired — and sent her a gift card for that overpriced pastry place on 3rd without saying who it was from.

You saw the email. You said nothing.

That was the arrangement.

He yelled. You didn’t flinch.

He stormed. You let the storm pass — then walked in with calm hands and sharp eyes and fixed it all.

You didn’t make a scene. You didn’t call him out in front of his team. You were his person, and you’d learned to wield that power precisely: never too loud, never too soft, always effective.

The rest of the day went smoother.

Jake signed documents. You handed him coffee and didn’t bring up the intern again. He glanced up only once — when you told him his 4:30 was pushed to 5:00 — and gave you the barest nod, but you caught it.

Thank you, it said.

You nodded back, and went on with your day.

The office was quiet in that eerie, after-hours way — lights dimmed to save energy, the city glowing like an electric dream outside the glass walls. Most of the building had emptied hours ago. The only sounds now were the hum of the air conditioner and the rhythmic clack of your keyboard.

Jake sat at his desk across the room, sleeves rolled up, tie long gone, and jaw clenched in concentration as he flipped through reports that had been marked URGENT for no good reason. His blazer was draped over the back of his chair, and he looked — unfairly — like the villain in a very expensive noir film. Rumpled. Rich. Slightly dangerous.

You, on the other hand, were perched on the low credenza by the window, balancing your dinner in one hand, your tablet in the other. A white takeout box sat on the floor beside you — a perfectly timed delivery from the hole-in-the-wall Thai place that knew your order by heart.

Jake glanced up without looking at you directly. “If this curry melts a hole in my stomach, I’m suing.”

You didn't even look up. “It’s medium heat. You’ll live.”

He poked at his noodles suspiciously, fork halfway to his mouth. “You said that last time.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re underpaid.”

That made you smirk. You took a sip of your drink, not bothering to argue. “Eat. You’re less of a tyrant when you’re fed.”

Jake’s lips twitched as he stabbed at his food again. “Do your boyfriends know you talk to your boss like this?”

You blinked.

It wasn’t a loaded question — not the way he said it — but it still managed to feel personal. Jake Seresin never asked about your life outside of work. Ever. You were his assistant. A well-oiled machine. You scheduled meetings, filtered emails, anticipated moods, and made sure he didn’t combust in a boardroom.

Small talk? Not your thing. Not his either.

Still, you didn’t let your surprise show.

You let out a laugh instead. “That’s assuming I have time for a boyfriend.”

Jake’s eyes flicked up at that.

You raised a brow. “Do you see how much of my time you take up?”

“Are you suggesting I’m needy?”

“I’m suggesting you’re high-maintenance.”

He snorted into his drink and leaned back in his chair. “So no boyfriend?”

You shook your head, returning your attention to your tablet. “No time, no patience, no desire to babysit someone who doesn’t know how to send a calendar invite. Next question?”

Jake just hummed like he was satisfied with the answer and went back to his food. You didn’t press it. You didn’t ask why he’d suddenly grown curious about your love life. And he didn’t offer anything back.

As always, you both stayed in your lanes.

By the time you were packing up, the city had fully slipped into night. The windows reflected the office like a ghostly double — you brushing crumbs from your skirt, Jake slipping his laptop into his leather case, rolling his shoulders with a quiet sigh.

You reached for your coat. “I’ll call a car.”

“No need,” Jake said, already grabbing his own.

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ll drive you.”

There was no question in his tone. Just a statement. Like the meeting’s moved to Thursday or I signed off on that memo. Neutral. Decisive.

You stared at him. “Since when do you drive me home?”

He held your gaze like it wasn’t even a little strange. “Since now.”

You gave him a look. “Is this because I insulted your spice tolerance?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t even like Midtown traffic.”

“I like not letting my assistant get murdered by a freelance Uber driver more.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You weren’t in the mood to hail a car anyway.

So you followed him down to the parking garage — your heels clicking against the concrete, the tension just a little different than before.

Not romantic. Not dramatic.

But new.

A shift.

And neither of you said a word about it.

The elevator pinged in the garage, echoing through the cold concrete structure like a cue from a spy movie. You followed Jake past the sea of sleek black SUVs and mid-tier sedans… until he stopped in front of an Aston Martin.

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

He didn’t look at you. Just hit the unlock button. The car chirped back, smug as hell.

“This is the most obnoxious thing I’ve ever seen,” you said, arms crossed. “You drive an Aston Martin to the office like you’re late for a martini and an assassination.”

Jake finally turned, smirk firmly in place. “Would it help if I told you I have a license to kill?”

You scoffed. “Only thing you’re qualified to murder is a quarterly report.”

He said nothing else. Just stepped around and opened your door for you like it was the most normal thing in the world. You stared at him for a beat before sinking into the butter-soft leather, equal parts impressed and annoyed.

The car purred to life like a predator. Quiet. Sleek. Very on-brand for the man who hated being questioned and made grown men sweat in boardrooms.

You gave him directions quietly, your voice the only thing cutting through the low hum of city traffic. He nodded once at each turn, no GPS needed — just a surgeon’s precision behind the wheel, the same control he exercised in every room he walked into.

Jake Seresin was not a man who did small talk. Not at work. Not in his car. And certainly not after 10 PM.

So you didn’t bother. You let the silence stretch out between you like a silk ribbon. Strange, how comfortable it felt. How normal.

No posturing. No awkward filler. Just the city glowing around you, painting soft reflections onto his sharp profile.

He looked good behind the wheel. Of course he did. Hands loose on the leather, watch catching the occasional flicker of streetlight. Calm. Focused. Ridiculously attractive, in that completely infuriating way of his.

You crossed your legs and looked out the window.

Eventually, you pulled up in front of your building.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the door. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Bond.”

Jake leaned back slightly, one arm draped casually over the steering wheel. “You’re welcome, Miss Moneypenny.”

That earned him a smirk from you. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

You stepped out, heels clicking against the pavement again as you made your way toward the lobby doors. For a moment, you didn’t look back. You assumed he’d already peeled off into the night like the man on a movie poster he so clearly thought he was.

But something made you glance over your shoulder.

He was still there.

Engine running. Lights low. Waiting.

He didn’t drive off until you pushed the door open and disappeared inside.

You stood behind the glass a second longer than necessary.

And then, with a blink, he was gone.

-

The Aston glided through the city like a knife through silk, each green light bending to his will. The tires barely whispered over the pavement. Inside, the cabin was still, insulated — like him.

He tapped the pad by the garage and drove into the private elevator, where the lift recognized the car and started rising. No buttons. No human contact. Just convenience.

It should have felt like power.

Instead, it felt like procedure.

The elevator doors opened directly into his penthouse. All glass and steel, floor-to-ceiling views of the New York skyline twinkling like a billion-dollar constellation. Marble floors that echoed with every step. Furniture handpicked by a designer he couldn’t remember the name of. The whole place looked like a GQ cover — immaculate, minimalist, and cold.

Too big for one man.

He tossed the keys onto the tray near the entryway, walked past the abstract art on the wall that cost more than some people’s cars, and went straight to the bar. Crystal decanter, aged scotch. He didn’t bother with ice.

The amber liquid caught the light like gold as he poured. He swirled it once, then took a slow sip, letting it burn down his throat.

The silence was deafening.

He stared out the window at the city that never shut up. Sirens, traffic, laughter rising from the streets below — all of it just barely muffled by the triple-pane glass.

He could have stayed at the office. But he'd offered to drive you home. Didn’t even think twice. Just said it like a fact and expected you to get in the car.

And you had.

Jake leaned back against the bar, drink in hand, replaying the last few minutes in his head.

That damn smirk of yours when you called his car “obnoxious.”

The way you slouched in the passenger seat like you didn’t care he was your boss.

The quiet, easy rhythm of your voice as you gave directions.

The laugh when he mentioned a boyfriend.

I don’t have time for boyfriends.

Neither did he. That wasn’t news.

He took another sip and ran a hand through his hair.

You were sharp. Always on. You called him out when no one else dared, but never in public. You were smart enough to survive him and confident enough to annoy him, which somehow earned his respect and drove him insane in equal measure.

Most assistants were scared of him by week two. You weren't.

You were still here.

And now, against all logic, he was thinking about the way you looked in the reflection of the passenger-side window. Your silhouette illuminated by the soft dashboard lights. The way you disappeared into your building with that little half-wave.

Jake exhaled a quiet laugh under his breath.

“You’re losing it, Seresin,” he muttered, setting the glass down with a soft clink.

You were just his assistant.

Brilliant. Efficient. Unbothered by his moods.

And yet —

There you were, in the middle of his penthouse silence, sharper than the scotch on his tongue.

The offices were a study in quiet fear.

On the fortieth floor of a sleek Midtown skyscraper, the air was crisp with money and nerves. Polished concrete floors. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Art that cost as much as the employees' annual salaries. A minimalist color palette that made everyone feel like they had to speak in hushed tones or risk being escorted out.

Jake Seresin’s name wasn’t just on the letterhead — it bled into every corner of the building like gospel. The staff practically snapped to attention when the private elevator chimed. Conversations died. Keyboards stilled. Backs straightened.

You didn’t bother looking up from your computer.

He walked past reception in that deliberate, unhurried way that somehow made everyone more tense — Armani suit sharp enough to cut glass, jaw set, eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses despite the indoor setting. He barely acknowledged the hushed greetings from various VPs, just a flick of his hand here, a grunt there.

But when he passed your desk?

He paused.

You kept typing, only glancing up when you felt him stop beside you.

“You forwarded the call with Simpson to 11:00?”

You nodded, tapping a final key before turning in your chair to face him. “And moved your investment committee to 2:30. I already prepped the file for you.”

Jake pulled his sunglasses off. His eyes — always sharp, always scanning — softened slightly.

“You leave anything for me to do?”

A dry smile tugged at the edge of your mouth. “Just show up and look like you don’t want to kill someone.”

He exhaled a quiet huff — a laugh by his standards — and kept walking.

From across the room, eyes followed the interaction like hawks.

Behind you, one of the junior analysts whispered to another, “Did… he just smile? At someone?”

You pretended not to hear.

Later, in the boardroom, the air was tense enough to shatter. A mid-level manager was stumbling through a quarterly report, stuttering over projections and missing key numbers. Jake leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Everyone could feel it coming — that low, blistering scorn he delivered like a scalpel.

Until—

You cleared your throat. “I think what he meant to say is the forecast accounts for the foreign currency losses, which is why it’s skewed in Q3.”

Jake’s eyes cut to you. You met his gaze, cool as ever, as if daring him to contradict you.

Silence. Then—

“Fine,” Jake muttered. “Keep going.”

The manager looked like he’d just avoided the electric chair. The rest of the room stared at you like you’d just tamed a lion.

Jake, of course, didn’t say thank you — he never did. But the fact that he hadn’t shredded the poor guy into a cautionary tale was proof enough: your voice was the only one he listened to without question.

Later that day, a new hire accidentally spilled a triple-shot espresso over the edge of her desk and into the hallway — mere moments before Jake’s routine midday sweep of the floor.

Chaos erupted.

A blur of paper towels, mumbled apologies, and sheer panic rippled through the space. The poor girl was scrambling on her knees, trying to mop up the mess when Jake turned the corner.

He stopped.

The girl froze like a deer in headlights.

Jake’s brows lifted just slightly. “Are we redecorating?”

She squeaked.

You appeared behind him, holding a dry cleaning bag over one arm.

“She spilled coffee,” you said calmly, like you were talking about the weather. “But don’t worry. It’s not on the rug. And that stain over there was already there — you just never noticed.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but not at you. At the fear in the intern’s face.

Jake turned to the girl. “Clean it up. And get another one.”

Then he walked away.

You followed after him, casually tossing over your shoulder, “Maybe decaf this time.”

He shook his head, biting back a grin he didn’t want anyone else to see.

In private, in the safety of his glass-walled corner office, Jake watched you through the tinted glass. The way you moved through the chaos like it didn’t touch you. The way people instinctively leaned closer when you spoke. The way you never once bowed your head when he barked orders — and how he never barked at you.

He hated inefficiency. Hated incompetence. Hated noise.

But you?

You were calm. You were sharp. And he trusted you in a way that unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

Jake’s jet was waiting for them at Teterboro, gleaming beneath the late morning sun like it had rolled off the pages of Forbes. A sleek Gulfstream G800 — the kind of aircraft that screamed I could buy your entire existence and not blink.

You adjusted your sunglasses and tilted your head as you took in the sheer absurdity of it.

“Let me guess,” you said, rolling your suitcase behind you. “You named her ‘Ego.’”

Jake barely glanced at you as he handed his bag off to the pilot. “No. That’s the yacht.”

You snorted. “Of course it is.”

He gave you a smirk as he walked up the stairs, impossibly confident in his custom-tailored navy suit. You followed — slowly. More slowly than usual.

Jake noticed.

At the top, he turned to glance back, one brow raised. “Need a hand, sweetheart? Didn’t know heels and staircases were such mortal enemies.”

“It’s not the heels,” you muttered, taking another cautious step up. “It’s the whole... flying death machine thing.”

Jake’s mouth twitched. “You’re afraid of flying?”

You scowled. “I prefer being on the ground where the oxygen lives.”

That earned a low, amused laugh. “You work for a man who travels every other week and you’re scared of planes?”

“I suffer in silence. Like every underpaid woman in a capitalist society.”

He ushered you inside with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “You’re not underpaid.”

You paused just long enough to smirk back. “I am a woman in a capitalist society, though.”

Inside, the jet was a study in excess: leather seats like thrones, dark walnut trim, gold fixtures. A glass decanter of scotch sat ready beside a small fridge stocked with Evian and green juices — your green juices, you noted with a raised brow. Jake really did take notes when he wanted to.

You plopped into a seat across from him and immediately buckled in.

Tightly.

Jake settled across from you, stretching his legs out like he owned the sky. Which, technically, he did.

“Should I be worried?” he asked, his tone dry as he loosened his tie. “You’re looking at the safety card like it’s a will.”

You were, in fact, gripping the laminated sheet like a lifeline.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re pale.”

“I’m fine,” you said again, but it came out through clenched teeth.

Jake watched you for a beat longer, then leaned forward slightly, voice lower. “You trust me?”

That caught you off guard. Your hands faltered for a second on the armrest. You narrowed your eyes.

“You fly with me,” he added. “You work beside me. You’ve seen me fire five people in a single afternoon. You know what I’m capable of. Do you trust me?”

You stared at him, throat suddenly dry.

“…I do.”

Jake smiled, and it was softer than you were expecting.

“Then relax.”

The engines roared to life.

You flinched.

Jake tried not to laugh — and failed, just a little. “You know we haven’t even left the runway, right?”

You flipped him off.

He laughed again — full and rich this time — then unbuckled long enough to reach into a side drawer and toss you a small pillow.

“For your comfort, princess.”

You looked at the pillow. Then at him.

“I swear to God, Seresin—”

But then the wheels lifted.

And you gripped the armrest like it owed you money.

Jake’s smirk lingered as he watched you close your eyes, tense from head to toe. And yet, when you peeked one eye open, his gaze was already on you.

Not taunting this time.

Just watching.

Like he was trying to figure you out.

At cruising altitude, the tension in your shoulders eased slightly — mostly thanks to the glass of champagne Jake poured for you himself, with an arched brow and the sort of slow smirk that made you feel like the main character in a rom-com you hadn’t auditioned for.

“You know,” you muttered, sipping carefully, “this doesn’t feel like the same man who once threatened to fire an entire marketing team because someone used Comic Sans in a pitch deck.”

Jake, reclined in his leather seat with a glass of neat scotch balanced in one hand, didn’t even flinch. “That font is a war crime and you know it.”

You smirked into your drink, legs crossed, your laptop bag at your side like a shield. You were trying — very hard — to maintain normalcy. Which was hard considering your boss had not only poured you champagne, but now looked… interested in talking.

“So,” he said after a moment, eyes still on you, “do you have siblings?”

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Siblings. Brothers. Sisters. Weird cousins. You strike me as the oldest child.”

“I am the oldest child,” you said slowly. “How did you—?”

“Control freak energy. You read entire emails, and you reply in full sentences. That’s classic firstborn behavior.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, what BuzzFeed quiz did you pull that from?”

Jake just smiled and sipped his scotch.

Your jaw clenched, brain short-circuiting slightly. “Why are you asking about my family?”

He shrugged. “Just trying to distract you.”

“I have champagne. I’m not distracted. I’m alarmed.”

Jake tilted his head, amused. “Do you ever turn it off?”

“Turn what off?”

“The smart-ass act.”

You gave him a faux-sweet smile. “Do you ever stop acting like Patrick Bateman with a Rolex?”

That made him laugh — really laugh — and you had to admit it was… nice. It lit up his face in a way that made you feel like you were seeing something you weren’t supposed to. Something human.

“I’m serious,” you said after a beat, still watching him warily. “What’s gotten into you? You’re being almost…”

“Charming?” he offered.

“I was going to say ‘suspiciously non-sociopathic,’ but sure, let’s go with that.”

Jake leaned his head back against the seat, one arm slung lazily across the armrest. “Maybe I just like messing with you.”

“That I believe.”

He tilted his head slightly to watch you. “You know, I never figured you for someone who was scared of anything.”

You swallowed, gaze drifting to the window for a moment, then back to him. “Everyone’s afraid of something.”

“And yours is… heights?”

“Crashing.” You corrected. “Falling. Not being in control. Take your pick.”

Jake was quiet for a second, eyes scanning your face. You wondered — uncomfortably — what he was thinking. And then—

A slight shudder through the cabin.

You stiffened instantly, grip tightening on the champagne glass.

Jake didn’t miss it.

“It’s normal,” he said calmly. “Just turbulence.”

“Yeah,” you said through gritted teeth. “Normal. Totally fine. Great.”

The jet bounced again, more aggressively this time.

You sucked in a sharp breath and set the champagne down on the tray table. Your hand was shaking, and you hated that he could see it.

Jake shifted.

Without asking, he unbuckled and moved to the seat next to you, settling beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your eyes widened. “What are you—?”

“Helping,” he said simply.

You stared at him as he reached across the seat and took your hand — not forcefully, not dramatically, just… gently. His palm was warm, steady.

You blinked down at your joined hands, then up at his face.

Jake Seresin, who once fired an intern over an incorrect lunch order, was now holding your hand mid-flight like this was something he did.

“What the hell is happening?” you whispered.

“Shhh,” he said, eyes on yours. “Just pretend I’m your emotional support billionaire.”

That startled a laugh out of you, even as the plane gave another gentle sway.

Jake kept his eyes on your face. “Better?”

You exhaled slowly. “A little.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

You looked at him again, hard. “You don’t… seem like the kind of man who does hand-holding.”

Jake smirked faintly. “I’m full of surprises.”

And for once, he didn’t follow it up with a jab or a condescending remark. He just let the silence settle — and somehow, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

The turbulence passed. The cabin smoothed out. The fasten seatbelt sign dimmed.

But Jake didn’t move his hand.

And you… didn’t pull away.

Eventually, you relaxed back into your seat, fingers still laced with his. The leather was soft against your back. The champagne glass stayed untouched. And Jake — infuriating, complicated, impossible Jake — sat beside you quietly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

It should’ve been weird.

But it wasn’t.

Not even a little.

The plane touched down with a gentle thud on the tarmac of San Diego’s private airport, and the moment the wheels kissed the runway, you could finally breathe.

Jake had let go of your hand somewhere over New Mexico — slow, almost reluctant — and gone quiet after that, returning to the cold, closed-off version of himself you were more familiar with. You didn’t mention it, but you felt it like a cold draft beneath a door. The shift. The boundary snapping back into place.

The ride from the airport to the hotel was sleek and silent, chauffeured in a black SUV with tinted windows and complimentary bottled water that probably cost more than your rent. Jake answered emails on his phone. You reviewed the presentation schedule on your iPad. The world settled back into its roles: you, the assistant; him, the untouchable boss.

But something still lingered — like phantom warmth on your palm where his hand had been.

You pushed the thought away as the SUV pulled up to the grand circular driveway of the hotel. It was the kind of place that looked like old money and smelled like eucalyptus and exclusivity. Bellboys in tailored uniforms moved quickly to grab luggage, the doorman nodded with practiced elegance, and the marble lobby gleamed under high chandeliers.

Jake strolled in behind you, casually tucking his sunglasses into his jacket pocket, leaving a trail of silent awe as hotel staff and guests alike registered the CEO of Seresin International in their lobby.

You, already in full assistant mode, approached the front desk with your confirmation emails at the ready.

“Hi,” you said to the impeccably dressed receptionist. “Reservation under Seresin International. It should be for two rooms — a suite and a standard.”

The woman at the desk smiled warmly and began typing. Her perfectly-manicured nails clacked softly on the keys.

“Welcome. Yes, I see it right here—one-bedroom suite, single king bed.”

You blinked.

“No—sorry. It should be two rooms. One suite, one standard.”

She frowned slightly and turned the screen to check again. “No, I have only one reservation. One room.”

Your spine stiffened. “That’s not possible. I booked two rooms. I have the confirmation right here—”

“I understand,” she said patiently. “But I only have one reservation under your company name. It’s the executive suite with a single king bed.”

You stared at her, mouth open slightly. “So not even two beds? Just one? That’s ridiculous. We don’t even need a suite—”

“Ma’am,” she said with a placid smile, “the reservation is nonrefundable.”

You were already pulling up the email confirmation, about to weaponize your most condescending lawyer-voice even though you were not a lawyer. “This is ridiculous. Someone in your booking department obviously screwed this up—”

“Problem?” came a drawling voice from just behind your shoulder.

You didn’t even turn. “Yes. Your hotel is apparently incapable of properly reading a reservation form.”

Jake stepped up beside you, arching a brow at the receptionist who, now clearly recognizing him, looked like she was about to offer him her social security number if he asked nicely.

Jake looked back at you, entirely unbothered. “So they only have one room?”

“One bed, Jake.”

He nodded slowly, then looked at the receptionist with that infuriating, charming smile of his. “Honest mistake. Just give us the key.”

You turned to him so fast your earrings nearly hit your face. “What?”

He didn’t even flinch. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine. We’re not—this isn’t—we’re not sharing a bed.”

Jake turned to you, calm and borderline amused. “It’s a king. I don’t snore. We’ll survive.”

“You don’t snore,” you repeated, scandalized. “You’re Mr. ‘I Demand Excellence’ and now you’re just—just letting this slide?”

“Would you rather argue about it for the next thirty minutes while they try to ‘look into it’ and tell us they’re fully booked anyway?” he asked dryly, signing the check-in paperwork. “Or would you rather go upstairs, shower off the recycled air, and have room service deliver a $50 salad?”

You opened your mouth to protest, to fight, to shout about principles and boundaries—

—and then the receptionist handed Jake the keycard, smiling like she’d just handed over her firstborn.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Seresin.”

Jake turned to you and extended the key.

“Shall we?”

You stared at him. “Who are you?”

Jake only smirked. “Just trying not to scare the staff.”

“Since when?”

He didn’t answer. Just gestured toward the elevators with a gentlemanly flourish.

You narrowed your eyes, snatched the key from his hand, and stalked toward the elevator with your carry-on rolling behind you. Jake followed, quiet but smug.

And as the elevator doors closed behind you, sealing you both in a mirrored box with plush carpeting and soft jazz, you found yourself wondering—not for the first time—if maybe Jake Seresin was full of surprises after all.

The elevator dinged softly as it reached the 21st floor, the penthouse level.

Jake stepped out first, rolling his sleek black luggage like he was gliding down a runway, while you followed with a mixture of dread, exhaustion, and righteous fury still bubbling under your skin.

When you reached the door at the very end of the hall — naturally, the nicest and most dramatic door on the floor, with an ornate brass handle and a discreet “Presidential Suite” plaque beside it — Jake gestured gallantly for you to do the honors.

You ignored him and slid the keycard through the reader. The light flashed green with a soft click, and you pushed the door open.

The suite was… gorgeous.

High ceilings, sweeping city views, walls of floor-to-ceiling windows. A modern, chic living room with a gas fireplace, a dining nook with a marble table, and a full bar that looked like it belonged in a Bond villain’s lair. To your left was the sprawling bedroom, where a single, painfully luxurious king-size bed sat dead center, flanked by two nightstands and a soft Persian rug.

You stared at the bed.

It stared back.

Jake rolled his luggage inside like he had not just volunteered the two of you for a week-long game of platonic cohabitation Olympics. He dropped the handle and stretched lazily, spine cracking in at least three places.

You slowly turned toward the couch — low-backed, designer, obviously worth more than your yearly rent — and tilted your head, considering the probability of it being even remotely comfortable for sleeping. Not great.

“Don’t even think about it,” Jake said behind you.

You turned. “Think about what?”

“The couch.”

You crossed your arms. “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

“You absolutely were.” He dropped onto the bed, bouncing a little with the sheer cloud-like give of the mattress. “If you’re waiting for me to offer to sleep on the floor, I’m not doing it.”

You blinked. “You’re not serious.”

Jake toed off his shoes, then reclined like he owned the damn suite. (He probably did own the suite. Or the chain. Or the continent, who knew.)

“Your back will seize by midnight on that couch. I’ll be asleep, and then you’ll writhe around dramatically and blame me for it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I would not blame you for my bad back.”

“You would. And you’d whine about it for at least 72 hours.”

“I don’t whine.”

Jake gave you a look. “Sweetheart, you once complained about the espresso machine at the office like it had personally offended your ancestors.”

“That’s because it sucks, and if we’re being honest, it’s not espresso—it’s burnt sadness in liquid form.”

Jake smirked. “Exactly.”

You glared. “This is deflection.”

He shrugged, rolling onto his side. “Just share the bed. I won’t bite.”

He paused, then added with a devil-may-care grin: “Unless you want me to.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Your brain blue-screened for half a second before it caught up with your mouth. “Excuse me?”

Jake didn’t move. Didn’t even look at you. Just reached for the remote on the nightstand and turned the TV on like he hadn’t just casually lobbed a sexual innuendo into the air between you like a grenade.

You stared at him in disbelief. “Did you just—was that—was that a joke?”

“I don’t know,” he replied lazily, flipping through channels. “You tell me.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your thoughts were screaming but none of them were coherent.

He was still not looking at you. Still pretending like this was the most casual, innocent exchange in the world, like he hadn’t just cracked the entire foundation of your professional tension with a single perfectly delivered line.

You turned toward the bathroom before your face could betray the tiny flicker of heat crawling up your neck.

“I’m taking the first shower,” you snapped, marching toward the door.

“Take your time,” Jake called after you, voice smooth. “I’ll just be here. Not biting.”

You slammed the bathroom door behind you with more force than necessary.

And inside the oversized, spa-like space, you stared at your reflection in the mirror — at your wide eyes, your flushed cheeks, the flustered energy vibrating in your chest — and muttered, “What the hell just happened?”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind Jake, and the sound of running water started a moment later.

You were already in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows like a fort, your iPad balanced on your lap. Work was open, glowing quietly in the dark, a spreadsheet in desperate need of organization. But you were very aware that no amount of pivot tables would distract you from the fact that Jake Seresin was about to exit that bathroom… in what? A robe? A towel? Nothing?

You swallowed and focused hard on the screen.

He was taking forever. On purpose, you were sure.

And then, finally, the water stopped.

You refused to look when you heard the door open. Refused.

You could hear him padding softly across the room — barefoot — and that was fine. That was normal. You didn’t even blink when he dropped something onto the dresser with a casual thud. But then he walked into your peripheral vision, and all your self-restraint disintegrated like sugar in hot tea.

He was shirtless.

Of course he was.

Just a pair of black boxer briefs riding low on his hips, skin still damp from the shower, hair a little tousled and curling faintly at the ends. He smelled like his cologne — expensive and devastating — and something clean and citrusy from the hotel shampoo.

You looked once. Just once.

And regretted it immediately.

Because damn.

He was obnoxiously fit. Broad chest, defined abs, and a deep V that disappeared under the waistband of his underwear like an arrow pointing straight to hell. You could see the towel slung casually over one shoulder, the way he ran one hand through his wet hair, like he was starring in a shampoo commercial and knew it.

You focused on your screen. “You couldn’t wear a shirt?”

“I could,” Jake said, walking past the foot of the bed to plug in his phone, “but I just took a shower.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

He smirked, not looking at you. “Are you scandalized, sweetheart?”

“Mortified.”

“Don’t worry,” he said lightly, finally climbing into the other side of the bed. “I won’t bite.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

“I’m very consistent.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t look up. Not even when the mattress dipped as he settled beside you.

It wasn’t fair. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who should use a three-piece suit as armor for his personality. Out of the office, without the power tie and the thousand-dollar watch, he just looked like a man — a smug, annoyingly gorgeous man — with muscles for days and way too much confidence.

Jake leaned back against the headboard, stretching one arm behind it and casually brushing his fingers through his damp hair again. The whole room suddenly felt warmer.

He glanced over at your iPad. “You’re still working?”

“Yes,” you said, not looking at him. “Because one of us has to make sure the merger doesn’t implode.”

“You’re off the clock.”

“I’m never off the clock.”

Jake tilted his head slightly, watching the way your fingers flew across the screen. “You know, most people in bed this late are watching trash TV or texting their exes.”

“I don’t have an ex. Or time for trash TV.”

He hummed. “Tragic.”

You didn’t reply. Just kept typing, ignoring the fact that his thigh was maybe one inch away from yours under the comforter. Ignoring the slow, almost casual way he let out a low exhale, like he was perfectly at peace while you were dying inside.

The tension was thick. Almost painful.

Your iPad screen dimmed.

Jake was still watching you. Or maybe not watching, but aware. You could feel his presence like static electricity. Like if either of you moved too suddenly, something might snap.

You exhaled slowly and turned off the iPad, setting it on the nightstand.

Then, as if on cue, Jake shifted slightly, laying fully onto his side now, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting across his waist. You could feel his eyes on you again.

“What?” you asked quietly, staring up at the ceiling.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m admiring.”

You turned your head toward him slowly, eyes narrowed. “That’s worse.”

Jake just smiled, low and lazy. “You look good when you’re annoyed. It’s cute.”

“Go to sleep, Seresin.”

“You first, boss.”

You rolled to your side, back facing him, cheeks burning, heart thudding like it was trying to escape.

And behind you, Jake shifted too — just enough that his knee brushed the back of yours.

He didn’t move it.

Neither did you.

The silence stretched. Comfortable and tense all at once.

And somewhere deep in your chest, where irritation usually lived when it came to Jake, something softer settled in its place — like a seed waiting to take root.

This trip was going to ruin you.

The next two days passed in a blur of hotel carpets, endless coffee, and conference rooms so aggressively beige they made your soul shrivel. Jake glided through it all like the cocky CEO he was — perfectly tailored suits, cool confidence, answering every question like he owned the building. Which, to be fair, wasn’t a stretch. He had sponsored half the event.

You were at his side every moment. Clipboard, tablet, schedule, presentations. Managing him like always — flawlessly — and for the most part, nothing changed.

Except it did.

It started small.

The first morning, he handed you your coffee with a smirk. “One sugar, no cream, just like your soul.”

You blinked at him, brows raising. “You remembered my order?”

“Of course.” He sipped his own. “I like my assistants caffeine-dependent and emotionally unavailable.”

You stared.

He walked away like nothing happened.

The second shift came that afternoon, during a panel. You leaned in to whisper something — a reminder about time — and Jake turned his head slightly toward you, close enough that your words brushed the shell of his ear. His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

And then he said, completely straight-faced, “If you whisper in my ear like that again, I can’t be held responsible for my behavior.”

You recoiled, flustered. “What the hell, Seresin?”

“I’m just giving you a heads-up,” he said, shrugging and refocusing on the speaker like he hadn’t just short-circuited your entire nervous system.

That night in the hotel room, he stripped off his shirt like usual, casually tossing it onto a chair. You didn’t flinch anymore. You’d trained your eyes to stay up.

Mostly.

He climbed into bed beside you, gave you one of those lazy, lopsided grins, and said, “Just so you know, you talk in your sleep.”

You froze mid-scroll on your tablet. “…I do not.”

“Last night you mumbled something about… spreadsheets and betrayal. It was dramatic. Very you.”

You shoved the comforter higher and glared at him. “If you ever repeat that, I swear I’ll poison your green juice.”

Jake just chuckled and turned onto his side, back facing you, his shoulders shaking slightly from silent laughter.

You did not stare at his back muscles.

Much.

The second day, it only got worse.

He held open every door, casually pressing his hand to your lower back each time.

He handed you pens like he was placing rings on your fingers.

At one point, when you were mid-conversation with a client, he stepped behind you and adjusted your blazer collar, fingers ghosting over your neck like it was nothing.

But it was not nothing and you nearly dropped your tablet.

Even now, walking beside him through the hotel’s long marble corridor after the evening keynote, you were still off-balance. Still trying to figure out what the hell was happening.

“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” Jake commented, his hands in his pockets, voice smooth.

You shot him a sidelong look. “Are you flirting with me?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Would it work if I were?”

You stopped walking. “I’m your assistant.”

Jake paused too, turning toward you, the dim hallway lights casting a soft glow over his face. “So?”

You blinked. “So, what’s gotten into you?”

He smiled slightly. Not smug — not this time. Just… amused. “Nothing. I just like messing with you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Right. Of course. God forbid you go five minutes without being insufferable.”

Jake leaned in, close enough that your breath caught. “You’re cute when you’re flustered, boss.”

And with that, he turned and kept walking, leaving you frozen in place, rethinking your entire existence.

That night in the suite, you didn’t speak much. Jake showered first. Came out shirtless, as usual. Didn’t even acknowledge it. He scrolled on his phone, tossed you a bottle of water without looking.

But the tension was there.

Unspoken. Crackling. Pressed into every inch of the shared air between you.

You crawled under the covers, flicked the lamp off, and stared at the ceiling.

Jake lay next to you, one arm behind his head, gaze fixed on nothing.

After a moment, he said quietly, “We’re a good team, you know.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the outline of his profile in the dark.

“…Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

He glanced over at you, eyes searching yours in the low light. “Try not to dream about me too loudly tonight, boss.”

You groaned into your pillow. “You’re insufferable.”

And yet, your lips curled into a traitorous smile anyway.

The third day dawned with pale gold light bleeding through the suite’s sheer curtains. You were already awake when Jake emerged from the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, steam following him like a cloud. His usual smirk was missing — replaced with a yawn and a scratch to his abs that you definitely didn’t notice.

Much.

You’d both fallen into the rhythm of the conference. Meetings, panels, coffee breaks, networking events. Coordinated in your chaos, like always.

Except now, something was different. Jake had been quieter that morning. Not cold, just… watchful. You caught him glancing at you more than once as you got ready — his gaze trailing from your heels to the neat twist in your hair. But every time you looked up, he was already pretending to check his watch or adjust his cufflinks.

By noon, the two of you were at a rooftop luncheon hosted by some fintech giant. The catered food was suspiciously pretty, the kind of salad that made you crave a burger just by looking at it. You and Jake had split up momentarily — he was across the space, talking to some board member in a navy suit, expression sharp and unreadable. You stood by a tall cocktail table, sipping something vaguely citrusy and waiting for him to finish.

And then he appeared.

You hadn’t even noticed the older man until he was suddenly beside you, all fake charm and far too much cologne.

“Well, hello,” he said, giving your figure a slow, pointed once-over before offering his hand. “Didn’t realize this event came with such… lovely scenery.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’m Marcus Klein. Real estate investments. And you are?”

“…Just here for work.”

He grinned, undeterred. “Bet you make a hell of an assistant, huh? Do you come with the suit, or is that just part of the fantasy?”

Your spine went stiff. You took a step back, glancing subtly around for Jake.

“Let me buy you a drink,” the man continued, eyes still traveling places they had no right to be. “Maybe slip away from all this corporate crap, get a little more… comfortable.”

You opened your mouth — ready to tell him off — but before a single syllable could escape, a hand landed firmly on your waist.

“Is there a problem here?”

Jake.

The tone of his voice was low. Dangerous. Like the hum of a storm before it cracked open the sky.

Marcus turned, clearly unimpressed. “We’re just talking, buddy—”

“No,” Jake said, deadly calm, “you were talking. She wasn’t interested.”

Marcus chuckled nervously. “Didn’t realize she was spoken for.”

Jake stepped forward, blocking your body with his, hand still planted at your hip. “She’s not a piece of property. She doesn’t need to be spoken for. But you do need to fuck off before I forget where I am and put your ass through that railing.”

A stunned silence fell over your little corner of the rooftop. A few heads turned. Marcus went a shade paler.

“Alright,” the man muttered, backing up with hands raised. “Message received.”

He disappeared into the crowd.

You exhaled, only then realizing how tightly you’d been gripping your glass.

Jake turned to face you, jaw still clenched.

“You okay?” he asked, voice tight.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Thanks. He was just—”

“I saw.”

You glanced up at him. His expression was still stormy, eyes narrowed, chest rising and falling faster than normal.

You touched his wrist gently. “Jake.”

That broke the tension — a little. He looked down at your hand, then back at your face.

“He shouldn’t have talked to you like that,” he muttered. “I should’ve been—”

“It’s not your fault.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you like the wind had been knocked out of him. Then his hand — the one at your waist — shifted, almost without him realizing it. His thumb brushed a light circle against your dress.

“We’re getting out of here,” he said quietly. “Come on.”

You didn’t argue. You just followed him, pulse still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with Marcus Klein.

You didn’t say much on the ride back to the hotel.

Jake was still worked up — you could feel it radiating off him like heat from asphalt. His jaw was tight. One hand on the steering wheel, the other flexing restlessly in his lap. You tried to thank him again for stepping in, but he only gave a clipped, “Forget it,” and turned up the AC.

So you rode in silence.

When you reached the hotel, he didn’t wait for the valet. Just tossed the keys and stormed inside, not looking back to check if you were following. You were.

The elevator ride up was thick with unspoken words. You stood at opposite ends of the cabin, your reflection fractured in the mirrored walls. Jake was breathing hard, like he’d just come off a sprint.

By the time you entered the suite, he still hadn’t cooled down.

Jake yanked off his suit jacket and threw it over a chair. His fingers tugged loose the first two buttons of his shirt, then he stalked to the minibar and poured himself a drink — straight scotch, of course. No ice. No words.

You stood by the window, arms crossed over your chest, watching him.

“What is wrong with you?” you finally asked, sharp but confused.

Jake didn’t answer. Just took a long swallow of scotch, then tossed the glass down a little too hard.

“Jake.”

He looked at you — really looked at you. Like he was seeing you for the first time. Like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say.

And still… he said it anyway.

“You’re mine.”

The words punched the air between you.

You blinked. “What?”

Jake didn’t flinch. Just took a step closer, eyes locked on yours.

“That guy—” He exhaled sharply, like just remembering it pissed him off all over again. “He looked at you like you were something to take. Like you were just decoration. And it made me want to rip his fucking head off.”

Your throat went dry.

“Jake…”

“I know you’re my assistant. I know I’m your boss. I know I’m the last person who should be saying this, but fuck it.” He ran a hand through his hair, the raw edge in his voice shaking something loose in your chest. “You’re mine. I feel it every time you roll your eyes at me. Every time you hand me a coffee and mutter some smart-ass comment under your breath. Every time I walk into a room and the only thing I’m looking for is you.”

You stood frozen.

“I don’t want anyone else touching you,” he said, softer now. “Talking to you like that. Hell, even looking at you like they’ve got a chance. Because they don’t. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Your mouth parted, but no words came out.

Jake took a step forward.

“I know it’s not part of the job description,” he said, voice lower now. “I know it’s complicated. But I had to say it.”

Another beat passed. Then two.

And finally, you spoke — voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re serious.”

Jake gave a bitter little smile. “Dead serious.”

You swallowed hard. The tension between you had always been there — unspoken, electric — but this… this was a spark to a powder keg.

Slowly, you stepped toward him. Each step measured, hesitant, until you were standing just a breath away.

“Say it again,” you said quietly. “Say it like you mean it.”

Jake stared at you — then reached out and touched your wrist, fingers light and tentative, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“You’re mine,” he said, low and certain. “And I’m yours.”

His mouth was on yours before you could even fully process what he’d just said. One hand curled possessively around the back of your neck, the other flattening against your lower back, dragging you flush against him with no space left to think, to breathe, to do anything but feel.

Jake kissed like he did everything — with confidence, with precision, like he already knew exactly what you liked. He tilted your head, deepened it, exhaled into your mouth like he was finally getting a taste of something he’d been craving for too long.

You could barely keep up. His touch was firm, practiced, but there was an edge to him now. A hunger beneath all that control.

You stumbled back toward the bed, bumping into the edge as Jake’s hands slid down your hips. He paused just long enough to press his forehead to yours, his breath uneven.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and rasped. “Because once I start—”

You didn’t let him finish. You surged forward and kissed him again, tugging him down with you as your knees hit the mattress. “Shut up, Seresin.”

A deep, throaty laugh vibrated against your lips. “Yes, boss.”

Clothes came off in rushed, frantic layers. Your blouse unbuttoned halfway before Jake got impatient and yanked it over your head. His shirt was already long gone, leaving his golden skin and sculpted chest on full display. You barely had a second to ogle him — all abs and muscle and smugness — before he lowered his head and dragged his mouth along your jaw.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered, lips brushing down the column of your throat.

You arched toward him, heat curling in your belly. “Maybe I do.”

His hand slid up your thigh, coaxing it higher as he knelt between your knees, his body caging yours without fully pressing down yet.

“Always so mouthy,” Jake murmured, fingertips ghosting over the waistband of your underwear. “Bet you talk back in bed, too.”

“I give orders,” you shot back, breath catching.

Jake’s eyes flared, his smile devilish. “Then tell me what you want.”

That made you pause — blinking up at him. He wasn’t teasing. Not really. His voice was low, quiet. Like he meant it.

You swallowed. “Take your time.”

Jake raised a brow. “Not what I expected.”

You smirked. “I’ve waited this long. I want to feel everything.”

His pupils dilated. “Say less.”

And then he lowered himself, dragging his mouth over your stomach, down your thighs, spreading you open with careful, reverent hands. His fingers splayed against your skin like he couldn’t bear not to touch. And when his mouth met you — slow, deliberate, hungry — your hands flew to his hair, anchoring yourself to the only thing in the room not spinning.

Jake was good. Too good. Focused. Intent. Like the only thing he cared about in the entire world was the sound of your breathing catching and the way your thighs trembled. He didn’t rush. Not once. Just built you up and held you there, murmuring soft praise against your skin, coaxing every sound out of you until your voice was wrecked and your back arched clean off the bed.

You were still trying to remember how to breathe when he kissed his way back up your body — lips slick, eyes dark.

“That’s once,” he whispered, nipping your bottom lip.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “You’re counting?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “We’re not done yet.”

You gasped as his fingers slid between your legs again, teasing.

“Jake—”

“Say my name like that again,” he groaned. “Swear to God.”

You gripped his shoulders, dizzy. “I thought you were in control here.”

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “I am. And you’re gonna let me take care of you — over and over again.”

His words — low, possessive, tender — sent another jolt through you.

And he did. He made good on every promise, every smirk, every arrogant line he’d ever thrown your way. Until you were tangled in the sheets, pulse stuttering, nails dug into his back, your voice raw from saying his name too many times to count.

At some point, you ended up curled into his side, heart still racing. Jake reached for the comforter, pulling it over the both of you before pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Bossy little thing,” he murmured fondly.

You breathed out a laugh, cheek pressed to his chest. “Don’t get used to this.”

He grinned, trailing his fingers down your arm. “Too late.”

They didn’t go back to the conference.

In fact, they barely left the suite.

The only time the bed was made was when they peeled the sheets off just to toss them to the floor again. The minibar had been emptied, room service was left untouched, and the Do Not Disturb sign stayed firmly on the door — like a warning, like a promise.

Jake had a one-track mind and a laser focus, and unfortunately for your legs, it was entirely directed at you.

He’d wake you with slow kisses down your spine, hands gliding under the sheets, brushing between your thighs like he was just checking if you were still as soft and warm and wet as he remembered. (You were.)

And then he’d disappear under the blankets with a sinful little chuckle, like a man on a mission.

“Jake,” you groaned more than once, half-pleading, half-scolding.

“Mhm?” he’d reply lazily, nuzzling closer to your hipbone. “Still not done tasting you.”

Because that was the thing: Jake Seresin loved eating you out like it was the last meal he’d ever have. Like your body was a map he needed to memorize, one moan at a time. He’d pin your thighs open with those strong, broad hands of his, settling between them like he belonged there. And at this point, maybe he did.

He never rushed. Not once.

There was something about the way he watched you — sometimes with eyes half-lidded, sometimes sharp and focused like he was cataloguing every reaction. He’d lock eyes with you when you tried to squirm away, when your hands fisted in the sheets or in his hair, when you whimpered his name and gasped out how good it felt. And then he’d smirk, just a little, and go right back to driving you out of your mind.

“You always this bossy in bed?” he asked, voice low, teasing, right before dragging his tongue over you again.

“Only when you’re being too slow,” you shot back, breathless, trying to glare but failing miserably.

Jake laughed — a warm, gravelly sound against your skin — and doubled down, making it his mission to wring every reaction out of you.

There was one afternoon, the fifth day maybe, where he laid you back on the bed and kissed down your body with something close to reverence. He paused at your navel, then further, parting your thighs like he owned them.

You were already panting, fingers twitching against the comforter.

“I ever tell you how pretty you sound when you fall apart for me?” he asked softly, lips brushing over the inside of your thigh.

You tried to sass him, to throw out something snarky, but then he did something with his tongue and your brain just… fizzled.

And when he didn’t stop — when he kept going long after you thought he would, long after your voice had gone hoarse from calling his name — you felt tears prick the corners of your eyes.

It wasn’t just the overstimulation. It was the way he held you, touched you, the quiet hum of satisfaction in his throat every time your hips stuttered or your body trembled under him. Like he didn’t just want you unraveled — he wanted you adored.

At some point — some long, dizzy stretch of afternoon light — you finally begged him to come up and kiss you, tugging on his shoulders, your limbs boneless and trembling.

He did. Mouth slick, eyes gleaming, grinning like a man who’d just conquered a city.

You pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “You’re gonna kill me.”

Jake just smirked. “Not yet, sugar. I’ve got plans for after dinner.”

You rolled your eyes and tried to shove him off you.

He didn’t budge. He just wrapped his arms around your waist, dragging you on top of him like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he needed to feel your heartbeat against his to remind himself you were real.

And as the sun dipped outside, painting the curtains gold, you realized something that scared you more than all his teasing ever could:

You were starting to hope he didn’t stop.

The final night settled like a soft sigh over the city, the glow of the skyline bleeding in through the sheer hotel curtains, casting the room in dusky gold. It should’ve felt like the end of something — the last page of a chapter — but in that quiet space between dinner and packing, it just felt still.

Jake was behind you, his hands at your waist, thumbs stroking the bare skin above the waistband of your sleep shorts. You stood at the window like you’d done every night, pretending to admire the view when really, you were buying yourself a few more moments — moments before the spell broke, before you went back to being his assistant and he went back to being your boss and none of this could happen again.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he murmured, voice low against your neck.

You didn’t answer right away. Because if you turned around now — if you looked at him — you weren’t sure you could keep pretending this was just a fling. Just an accident.

“Just tired,” you lied, soft.

Jake’s hands tightened slightly at your waist. “Liar.”

That one word sent a flicker through your belly.

You turned your head a little. “Excuse me?”

He moved closer, chest flush to your back now, and when he spoke again, his mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re not tired,” he said, voice dark, almost smug. “You’re overthinking.”

You hated that he was right. You hated that he knew he was right.

“Jake—”

“I get it,” he cut in gently, but firmly, arms sliding fully around your waist to pull you against him. “We go back tomorrow. It’s back to boardrooms and meetings and pretending we don’t look at each other like we want to rip each other’s clothes off in the elevator.”

Your breath hitched.

He turned you slowly in his arms, eyes scanning your face with quiet focus, his hands staying at your hips.

“But I’m not pretending anymore,” he said, the honesty in his voice knocking the wind from your lungs. “I don’t want to go back to pretending. Not after this.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted.

“I know you feel it too,” he added, voice rough now. “The way you melt for me. The way I can’t stop touching you because I’m scared I’ll forget what it feels like when we’re back in that damn office and you’re making snide comments about my suits again.”

A breathless laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Jake grinned.

And then — like gravity had its own rules around the two of you — you were kissing him again.

This time, it was slower. Less frantic than the other nights. More intentional.

Jake kissed like he had all the time in the world, like you weren’t leaving tomorrow, like he could memorize you piece by piece if he just took his time. His hands mapped your back, your waist, the curve of your hips — warm and sure and patient. When he pulled back, his gaze dropped to your mouth.

“Take your shirt off,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow. “So bossy.”

“Only matching your energy, sweetheart.” He grinned. “Besides, you know I like to watch.”

You did.

You also knew exactly what he meant.

You peeled the fabric over your head slowly, relishing the way his eyes tracked your every movement, how his tongue flicked across his lower lip when your bra followed.

He growled, low in his throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smirked, stepping back toward the bed. “Then come die happy, Mr. CEO.”

He was on you before your back even hit the mattress — mouth on yours, one knee between your thighs, hands pinning your wrists above your head.

“You know, I had every intention of going slow tonight,” he whispered against your neck, dragging his lips along the skin there. “But then you had to go and get all bratty.”

You gasped as his teeth grazed your collarbone.

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupted, licking the sting away. “But that’s alright. I like you mouthy. Gives me more reason to shut you up.”

“Jake—”

His hand slipped between your thighs, dragging the waistband of your shorts down just enough to slide his fingers over you.

“God,” he groaned. “Still so fucking wet for me.”

You moaned, arching into him.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, lips brushing your ear.

“I want you to—”

“Uh-uh,” he cut in, teasing again. “Be specific. You’re the bossy one, remember?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Fine. I want your mouth. Now.”

He laughed — dark and thrilled — and then disappeared between your thighs with a reverence that made your skin shiver.

Jake worshipped you. That was the only word for it. His mouth moved over you with purpose, with precision, tongue teasing and flicking and curling until your thighs trembled and your hands clawed the sheets. He held your hips down, humming like your moans were his favorite song, eyes locked on you when you dared to look down at him.

When you came, he kept going — slow, lazy licks that made you writhe, that dragged the heat in your belly back to life.

“You can give me another,” he said, like a promise, like a challenge.

You whimpered, already overwhelmed.

“Don’t you want me to come back with you?” he teased, mouth still on you. “Then let me ruin you properly. Let me make sure no one else even tries.”

Another climax rolled through you with a cry.

He didn’t stop until you begged.

And then he finally moved back up, bracing himself above you, his lips red and slick, his pupils blown wide.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, kissing you softly now, almost sweetly. “About not wanting this to end.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding painfully.

“I don’t either,” you whispered.

His forehead pressed to yours. “Then let’s not.”

And when he sank into you that final night, slow and deep and grounding, you both understood that whatever had started in a sleek corner office back in New York had evolved into something else entirely.

-

The hum of the jet engines filled the silence like a secret.

You sat across from Jake in the plush leather seat, your legs curled beneath you, the afterglow of the trip hanging in the quiet air between you. Below, the world stretched endlessly — clouds scattered like silk across the sky, cities tucked beneath them, unaware of the shift that had happened in the space between takeoff and landing.

Neither of you had said much since boarding. There hadn’t been a need.

Your body still hummed from the way he’d touched you last night. The way he’d looked at you. Like you weren’t just his assistant anymore. Like you were something else entirely — something sacred.

Jake sat across from you, a tumbler of water in his hand instead of scotch this time, the sleeves of his black button-down rolled up, throat bare where the first few buttons had been undone. His jaw flexed when he glanced at you. You were in one of his shirts — his favorite shirt, in fact — sleeves too long and hem brushing your bare thighs. You hadn't meant for it to feel intimate, but it did.

Everything about today felt intimate.

“You’re quiet,” you finally said, voice soft but steady.

Jake looked at you slowly, eyes darker than usual, thoughtful. “So are you.”

“Just… thinking.”

He nodded once. “Same.”

You tucked your chin into your palm, watching him. “About what?”

Jake let out a breath — not quite a sigh. “About how I’m supposed to go back to pretending you’re just my assistant again.”

That made your heart do something complicated in your chest.

“I don’t want to pretend either,” you said softly, honesty slipping through before you could edit it.

His eyes flicked up at you at that — something tightening in his jaw. “Then don’t.”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you rose slowly to your feet.

Jake followed your movements like you were gravity itself. His eyes never left you as you stepped over, climbed into his lap, and settled your knees on either side of his thighs.

It was quiet for a moment.

Just your breathing

Just his hands finding your waist, sliding beneath the hem of the shirt to touch skin he already knew by heart.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low, rough.

You nodded. “I just want to feel you again.”

He leaned in, his forehead pressing gently to yours. “Then ride me, baby.”

The way he said it made your breath catch.

Slowly, you reached between your bodies, unbuttoning his slacks, your fingers careful but aching with need. He helped, lifting his hips just enough so you could free him, and then he sat back in the leather seat, watching you through half-lidded eyes like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

You slid your panties to the side and sank onto him slowly.

Jake’s head fell back, a quiet fuck escaping his lips.

He felt so good — thick and warm and grounding. You paused for a moment, adjusting, breathing. His hands were already on your thighs, thumbs stroking lazy, soothing circles.

“Take your time,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You moved slowly at first, rocking your hips in steady, rolling motions. Jake didn’t try to take control — not yet. He let you lead, but his hands never left your body. One traced up your spine, fingers curling around the nape of your neck. The other gripped your hip, steadying you, guiding you with soft pressure when you faltered.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

Your hands were braced on his shoulders, your breath stuttering each time you sank down. His praise made your body clench around him — and he felt it.

“Oh,” he groaned, grip tightening. “Do that again.”

You did.

And again.

And again.

The rhythm grew messier, needier. You leaned forward slightly, your forehead resting against his. Jake brought a hand to your jaw, holding you there.

“You feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “So warm. So perfect.”

His lips brushed yours, just barely. Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

You whimpered, the tension coiling tighter in your belly, your thighs starting to tremble with the effort of holding on.

“Jake—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, sliding his hand between your bodies, finding the place he knew would undo you completely.

You gasped.

“Let go,” he whispered. “I wanna feel you fall apart on top of me.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit like a wave, stealing your breath and your balance. Jake held you through it, one arm around your waist now, cradling you to his chest as you shook. You collapsed against him, burying your face in his neck as he murmured praise into your hair.

“You’re okay,” he said, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you.”

You were still coming down when he shifted beneath you, lifting you gently as he thrust up once, twice, chasing his own release. His fingers dug into your hips as he groaned into your skin, spilling inside you with a shudder.

The cabin was silent except for your breathing.

You stayed like that — tangled together in the middle of a private jet, a mess of limbs and sighs and promises you hadn’t made out loud yet.

Jake finally leaned back to look at you.

“You know we’re not pretending anymore,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.

You nodded.

And smiled.

“Good,” he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because I don’t want to sleep another night without you.”

You kissed him softly, sweetly, like an answer.

And then you stayed in his lap the whole way home.

[rpwprpwprpwprw]

jeon jungkook fanfics recommendations that will ruin your sleep schedule 🪩 (jungkook masterlist)

hey my babies 💗 ... it’s been a long time since i posted my last list and i missed so much. Thank god I’m still doing my silly reviews when i can, cause life can be so so hectic sometimes. But between the busy schedules and stressful tasks, fanfiction light up my days through the cracks and i’m so grateful. This wouldn’t be possible without these amazing writers that deserve all the love and praise for putting these masterpieces into the world. Thank you so much 💗 That all being said, hope you guys enjoy my list and my reviews ofc :

🌟 the love bug by @jungkxook | pairing: jungkook x reader | genre: spiderman!jungkook + fluff / smut | spiderkook, spideykook | completed

summary: every night, jungkook puts on the red mask and flings himself confidently into perilous danger; but that same heart of steel that fuels his will and spirit seems to fail him whenever it comes to you

🌟 handle with care by @dreamersparacosm | pairing: jungkook x reader | completed

summary: in which your landlord sends an electrician to fix your power, and you end up learning firsthand the magic of blue collar dick.

🌟 web between us by @nvrngl | pairing. bts ﹢ spiderman!jungkook x mj!reader ﹢ flu | ongoing (?)

summary: it's the middle of the night and jungkook stumbles ( yet again ) through your window, wounded, sheepish, irresistably adorable.

🌟 bitchin by @kinktae | pairing: fratboy!jungkook x reader | genre: 1980s au, eventual smut, e2 | completed

summary: The 80s were a time of choices. Which perm was right for you? What color neon would you wear next? None of these choices, however, were more questionable than a certain deal you made with Jeon Jungkook.

my review, my review, my review, my review, my review, my review, my review (i think this is one of my favorite fanfics EVER)

🌟 delivery date by @dntaewithluv | Pairing: pizzadeliveryboy!jungkook x reader (pieceofyou!jungkook x reader) | completed (i guess)

summary: Everyone’s raving about the newest pizza place in town, Pizza Paradise. One Friday night, you find your curiosity piqued and decide to see if it’s really worth all the hype. However, it turns out you’re much more intrigued by the gorgeous blonde delivery boy than the cheesy contents of the box he’s carrying.

🌟 study break - part one by @ggukivrse | pairing: jungkook x f!reader | genre: college au, established relationship, smut (?) | ongoing (?)

summary: in which you’re all distraction and no remorse, and jungkook keeps coming back for more.

🌟 married for 7 days by @kooklovee | Pairing - bf!Jungkook x gf!Reader | Genre - mostly fluff, smut | completed

summary: Matching rings and a joke—your boyfriend says you're married. What he didn’t expect is for you to play along the whole trip... And the more you pretend...the less it feels like a game.

🌟 dilf jk: series masterlist @venusiangguk | pairing: jungkook x reader / dilf jk x grocery store clerk oc | genre: strangers to lovers, friends with benefits, smut, fluff | ongoing (and im waiting for updates everyday)

summary: you find a baby in your store and in turn, a dilf finds you

my review, my review (i think about this fanfic pretty much everyday)

🌟 just this once by @ggukivrse | pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader | genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff (?) | ongoing (?)

summary: when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no. after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

🌟 ghosts just wanna have fun by @sugaxjpg | Couple: Jungkook x Reader | Psychic!AU & MedSchool!AU | Filed under: fluff, crack | completed

summary: When Jungkook discovered that he could communicate with dead people, the last thing he expected was that they would be there to give him romantic advice.

🌟 secret encounters by @jiminsafairy | waiter!jungkook x reader | completed

summary: in the middle of an awfull date, when the hot waiter gives you a note: 'meet me in the bathroom'. And you don't hesitate to follow him.

🌟 apart-mental issues (my review my review) by @mister0ctopus | mini-series | Pairings: Neighbor JK x Reader | completed

summary: Just your awkward and embarrassing encounters with your next-door neighbor, Jungkook.

🌟 EXBF!JUNGKOOK HEADCANNONS by @dearjoons | exboyfriend!jungkook x exgirlfriend!reader | completed

summary: REQUEST: “i was thinking like you guys are still somewhat friends after the breakup (maybe in the same friend group or smt) and he’s still very much in love with you type thing ykk 🤭”

🌟 Fuck me Up (FMU) by @jungkoode | genre: enemies to lovers, emotional slow burn, smut with plot, fuck buddies | ongoing

summary:

When your search for affordable NYC housing leads you to apartment 6B, you think you've hit the jackpot. That is, until you realize your new roommate is the guy from that one wild night on January - the one who ruined you for anyone else. Now you're stuck sharing walls with the living embodiment of your worst mistake, and the sexual tension is thick enough to choke on. Between his emotional damage and your trust issues, this arrangement is a disaster waiting to happen.

But hey, at least the hate sex is phenomenal.

my review, my review, my review, my review

🌟 basic needs | jjk, myg by @ggukivrse | pairing: jungkook x f!reader, yoongi x f!reader | rating/genre: m, smut, roommates au | little bit of jk x yoongi | completed

summary: missing sex while being stuck in your apartment with your two roommates during quarantine is being the worst nightmare you could've imagined. fortunately, you're not the only one who's touch starved.

🌟 something In the silence by @cgvejjk | genre : soft, cozy, comforting. | pairing ,, best friend!jk x bsf!reader | completed

summary: two best friends who are in love but won’t admit it, but what happens when one makes a move?

🌟 Never to Forever by @sushispective | Genre | rivals!au, angst, slow burn, comedy, fluff | Tropes | e2l, academic rivals | ongoing ?

summary:  Rivals logically, but lovers illogically. Jungkook and you never gave the other a second, with snarky comments and sharp retorts, but when things spiral out of control, will the banter return?

🌟 OUR LITTLE LIFE by @kookooluvr | pairing: dad!jungkook x (fem) mom!reader | genre: fluff, smut (angst is barely sprinkled in here and there) family!au, slice of lifelau, businessman!jungkook, sahm!reader, lots of cute married couple moments | ongoing

summary: moments in your little life with the man of your dreams, from the domesticity found in early morning burnt toast and bedtime kisses to late-night diaper disasters, passive-aggressive arguments about laundry, and him proving that married sex can in fact still break the headboard.

my review, my review (COWBOYKOOK)

🌟 after school hours by @jeonette | genre : enemies to lovers | pairing : jungkook x reader | completed

summary: A classic 90's enemies to lovers skit. Mixtapes, rooftop hangouts, and harmless bickering between classes. But somewhere between hallway glances, stolen car rides, and one kiss under the stars, everything changed.

🌟 Ghost!AU with Jungkook by @springday-aus | Genre: fluff, platonic bc he’s literally dead | ghost!jungkook, mentions of ghost!Yoongi and neighbor!Taehyung | completed

summary: ghost!jungkook basically

🌟 accidental roommates by @jjkeverlast | pairing dilf!jk x fem!reader | oommates AU, hate to love, fluff, angst, humor | completed

summary: moving apartments is stressful and difficult enough as it is. all the planning and packing and multiple moments of rearranging furniture; all you crave is peace. yet it seemed like peace was far within reach as the owner of the apartment had left out one tiny crucial detail from the ad — a ripped tattooed adonis, coupled, with a tiny baby daughter will come as your roommate.

feel free to recommend your fanfic or anything you like 🌟💗

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 2 — POWER IMBALANCE

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — blade, jing yuan, aventurine

— warnings. — fem! reader, power imbalance, oral (fem! receiving), toxic & manipulation, hard syx, dom/sub

⚝ — BLADE

blade feels to you like a storm, his grip on you endlessly overwhelming yet not because he's forcing it on you, no, but because his dependence on you was suffocating.

the stellaron hunter was dangerous, you were very much aware of it, although never pondering on the fact that you were playing with fire here.

his cock slides in between your folds before slipping to your hole, right then, you can feel the hot push of his tip, slow at first, but persistent, burning and stretching you. blade opens you up as you clutch at his shoulders each time, you're certain you can take him, you can't— it won't fit—such always crosses your mind but, you see, your skin was burning and hungry, submitting to him, to his cock sliding in fully— so smooth on your walls, thick inside, searing.

blade clings to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to sanity, and well— maybe you were, he certainly looks at you with an intensity that borders on desperation, a string he needed to hold on to if he wanted to keep at least a little bit of humanity inside himself or else, he’d fall apart.

"you ground me," he murmurs, voice low, his hand searching for your own as he grips it a little too tightly— his neediness haunting as he slumps forward, still thrusting hungry shoves of his cock into you as the rhythm changes just a little, but the pressure was increasing, becoming more meaningful.

in this rare moments, the way his hands tremble slightly when he brushes your hair behind your ear, there’s a tenderness, yes, but you cannot shake off the feeling of being scared of him— were his words the truth? did he mean what he said? would he hurt you in the end or are you really the one to put a light in his dark, twisted world?

⚝ — JING YUAN

jing yuan was always in control, his charm making each and every friend or foe bend to his will effortlessly— and well, you’re no exception. 

frankly, he's used to people following his lead without question, without turning on their own brains, his words were so fittingly persuasive that you barely even notice when you started agreeing with everything he said.

you whine out a breathy, "fuck, more—" as he laps at your clit, the vibrations of his hums and groans making you arch your back into him— you're so sensitive, jing yuan makes you feel all of it with his tongue, all the nerves down there and how muscle slurped and licked a stripe along your slit to tease you, shamelessly moaning against your pussy right after.

"i’m only looking out for you," he lazily mumbles into your cunt, "I know what's ugh—, what's best for you," his fucked out grin disarms you completely as you look down, admiring the view of his hands, big hands, clutching at your trembling thighs before he gives your stomach an anticipatory twist.

he's not forceful though, don't misunderstand, yeah? because simply, jing yuan doesn’t need to be, his self assured confidence made it feel like any resistance would be literally ridiculous. 

after all, his charisma pulls you in, his beauty and face being chocolate box pretty, ethereal and powerful, leaving you wanting to please him too, so badly yeah, to stay on his good side.

⚝ — AVENTURINE

from the outside, aventurine was unable to be read— and even once you got close to him, you found yourself having more difficulties reading him.

his standards were impossibly high, that's for sure, and he never hesitates to point out when you fall short. for some reason he critiques everything you do, from the way you handle the tasks he's given you to your smallest habits, never failing in exhaustedly rolling his eyes with an edge of frustration.

however, wasn't it just amazing how he was always there to clean up the "mess" you made in getting all the tasks wrong, or anything really.

something unmistakable random could happen in your life, even just a favorite item you suddenly lost and aventurine would always be there to help you— like a white knight.

of course, you cannot question him on anything, he was your superior and losing your job would be the last thing you wanted, next to losing the little relationship you've built over the last couple of months with him.

you feels it in your legs, your stomach, your hands, your soul when he touches you— pleasures you.

it's the desire overtaking you first, making you give yourself up entirely to the harsh rhythm of his hips displaying no mercy. aventurine hisses as you squeeze him, the faintness in his head almost making him swoon as your leg tremble and his cock throbs hard in you, the tremulous thrill inside your belly building to a merciless dance.

"i’ll be here, buried right here—" he hums and grinds his hips, his fingers drawing a line on your stomach, up and down, "feel that? you feel me there?"

"not that you, fuck— deserve it," he grunts, cupping your cheeks and brushing a thumb over your lips, "you made so many mistakes today," he breathes while staring down at his cock splitting your puffy cunt.

he adds, "you should be thankful i was there,"

an embarrassed, little sorry was all you managed to get out in return and ugh— the friction of him rubbing against your walls felt absolutely sickening, like you're about to cum and scream any second now.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[mattsundaes]

contravention

soshiro hoshina x f!reader

Hoshina finds himself in a precarious situation when his repeated use of the No. 10 suit sends his body into a rut, one that's only further exacerbated when you let yourself into his office without warning.

wc: 3.2k

c: 18+ only, friends to lovers, rut dynamics, breeding kink, oral sex (f & m!receiving), cum eating, squirting, unprotected p in v, creampies, too many creampies to count, copious amounts of cum, a ridiculous amount of orgasms, pussy drunk!hoshina, required horny suspension of disbelief, author takes great liberties with human biology

a/n: this one goes out to the two requests i received for hoshina + office, in addition to an older request for him in a rut!

SPICY SLEEPOVER — ROUND V

There are three things Soshiro Hoshina promised himself when he was sworn into his position as Vice-Captain of the Third Division—

To give his life to the JAKDF. 

To do everything within his power and abilities to ensure the safety and preparedness of each and every officer under his watch. 

—and to never let himself get involved with a fellow officer. 

…after all, sentimentality is a dangerous weapon to hang oneself with.

The third is the reason he’s currently staring at you with wide, panicked eyes as you step past the threshold of his locked office door, your brows furrowed as you point what appears to be a hairpin in his direction. 

“You’ve been holed up in here for days, Soshiro,” you frown, your gaze tracking across the uncharacteristically messy state the room is currently in. Paperwork is left askew across the surface of his desk, a haphazard pile of blankets and pillows stacked on the couch, and an array of takeout food and drink containers is stacked precariously atop the filing cabinet. 

Soshiro grips the edge of his desk, teeth grinding as he fights to ignore the surge of possessive, blinding heat that unfurls inside of him at the sound of his given name on your lips. 

(It was an exception he was too weak to deny you, not when you’ve become the closest friend he’s ever had in the years since you joined the Defense Force.)

You begin to walk toward him, and his nostrils flare, chest heaving as the familiar, soft scents of your perfume and shampoo invade his senses, amplified like never before. 

“S-stop,” he gasps, hunching forward, palms flat against the desk as he inhales sharply. 

Your voice has an edge of panic to it as you stride closer. “Soshiro?”

He backs up, putting several more feet of space between the two of you, though the added proximity does little to quell the blazing fire your presence has ignited in his veins. 

“I…there’s….,” his throat burns as he tries to talk, “…a side effect from Number 10.”

A rut, to be precise. 

Biologically, it makes zero sense. There are no reported cases on file across the JAKDF of similar side effects as a result of kaiju weaponization. And Soshiro’s not even wearing the goddamn suit, he hasn’t been since he collapsed in the middle of the training grounds earlier in the week without warning. 

But the medical team at the Third Division has since hypothesized that it’s a particular irregularity resulting from the repeated usage of the No. 10 suit which has simply tricked his body into believing it’s going into an animalistic rut, of sorts. 

His cock has been achingly hard nearly round the clock all week, a thick and throbbing presence between his legs no matter how many times he brings himself to completion. 

Mortifyingly, after the higher ups insisted on contacting Captain Gen Narumi of the First Division to see if he had any insight, the other man had nearly laughed himself out of his seat as he suggested Soshiro try “fucking it out of his system.”

And this is where your presence has now become a problem. 

Deny it as he might, there’s a traitorous golden thread of sentimentality for you that runs deep in Soshiro’s veins, one that has nearly cost the team a mission on several occasions at times when he’s found himself too focused on your individual wellbeing on the battlefield. 

He sees the way you look at him. 

He feels the way his stupid, reckless heart throbs against his ribcage in your presence. 

He knows what this could be—what the two of you could have. If only he was weak enough to bend to the will of his own desires. 

But under the influence of the rut currently sinking its ruthless fangs into his better judgment, he’s a weak man. 

He’s a weak, hungry, desperate man who wants to claim you as his. 

Who wants to breed you, to fill you with his seed, to pump every last drop of cum he has left to give into the tight, slippery warmth of your cunt. 

This is why he’s been avoiding you specifically, why he’s teetering on the frantic edge of panic as he feels his body’s visceral, uncontrollable reaction to your presence. 

You sigh, expression softening. “I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

He stares at you in confusion and chokes out, “What?”

“Well…Captain Narumi called me to ask how you were doing, which threw me off. He didn’t go into much detail, but I…I got the gist of it.”

“That asshole…” Soshiro groans. 

“I think he was trying to be nice, if you can believe that. But I just…I know you like thinking you have to shoulder every burden yourself, and you hate asking for help. And you’ve been ignoring all of my texts. So I’m here now to offer you whatever help you may need.”

Soshiro maneuvers himself behind the side of his desk, if only to hide the stiff erection currently tented at the front of his pants. “This…I don’t…this ain’t somethin’ you can help me with.”

Putting your hands on your hips, you huff. “You look like you’re barely keeping it together. And I…” you scratch the back of your head, looking a bit sheepish, “I may have done some research. On the internet.”

“Research?!”

“I mean, I know the mental gymnastics of applying the concept from animals to kaiju to humans isn’t exactly laying the groundwork for the next peer-reviewed scientific study…”

“Do ya even know what you’re saying?”

You sidestep around the barrier of the desk, and Soshiro backs up again, his shoulder blades hitting the wall, the obvious outline of his cock in his pants the least of his concerns now. 

“I’m saying that your body probably isn’t going to revert back to normal until you satisfy the conditions of your rut.”

A subtle shiver runs through him. “I’ve tried,” he grumbles, looking off to the side. 

“Oh?” you ask, an odd look crossing your face, one that he can’t quite read—but it makes something inside of him clench all the same. 

“By myself, I mean,” he continues. “Many times, actually. S’not changing anything.”

“Because your body wants you to breed someone. Well, probably in the hypothetical sense, like just finishing inside of them…,” you reply, matter-of-factly. Like his cock isn’t threatening to thrash its way past his zipper at the sound of those words on your lips. 

He inhales slowly, looking up at the ceiling for a moment before finding your gaze once more. “‘m not goin’ out and findin’ some random—“

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Excuse me?” Soshiro’s not sure he remembers how to breathe. 

“Use me, breed me. Whatever it’s going to take to get you out of this room and back into commission.”

He’s going to lose his fucking mind. 

“I can’t—“

“I trust you, Soshiro. I trust you more than anyone else. I don’t think you understand how much you mean to me. And I know you refuse to let yourself care about anyone enough to become a liability…but I’m here if you want me. If you’ll have me.”

Everything inside of Soshiro feels like it’s reaching a breaking point, a fever pitch. He takes one step toward you, and then another. 

—and it’s almost excruciating, the distance that remains, every cell and fiber in his body helplessly, desperately drawn toward your gravitational pull. 

“…also I…the contraceptive part is covered. So I won’t actually get pregnant. You can come inside of me as many times as you need to…”

Another step. 

“…or as many times as you want to…”

He’s standing directly in front of you, his muscles tensing painfully as he begins to feel the warmth of your body heat. 

“I locked myself in here to stay away from you,” he rasps. 

Your face falls a fraction. “Am I that terrible of an option?”

“No.” He sidesteps, and you turn to face him, your backside leaning against his desk. “You were the only option I want.”

You blink, clearly a bit taken aback by the admission. “Then why didn’t you tell me? I feel like I’m not exactly subtle about my feelings…”

“Cause I don’t know if this is goin’ to stop if we do this. I don’t know what kinda side effects there might be afterward.”

“Are you trying to scare me off with the threat of a potential sex sabbatical if your boner doesn’t go down?”

He bites the inside of his lower lip. “I’m tryin’ to warn ya that I don’t know if we can go back to normal after this…it’s more than just sexual…there’s this possessive feeling eatin’ me alive whenever I so much as think about ya.”

You lean more of your weight back into the desk, letting one of your feet slide forward to nudge against Soshiro’s. 

“You know just about everyone in the entire Defense Force already thinks we’re dating, right? Captain Narumi started crying laughing when I got into an argument with him over it.”

Soshiro’s self control is dangling by the edge of a frayed, treacherous rope. 

“You really wanna do this?”

“I was already yours, Soshiro. Even if you weren’t ready to acknowledge it.”

A ragged exhale leaves him at that, every last piece of his desire falling at his feet and bursting into flames. And when you meet him halfway as his lips come crashing into yours, Soshiro knows there’s no turning back. 

Distantly, Soshiro knows that if he were in the right state of mind, this would unfold in a far different manner. He’d settle down into his office chair, tugging you into his lap to kiss you soft and slow and languid. 

He’d take his time, familiarizing himself with each dip and curve of your body. Every corner, every plane. Every little sound and reaction. He’d use his lips and his fingers first, until you’re pliant and sated under his touch. 

He’d kiss the corner of your mouth and worship the very sight of you, tell you just how fucking terribly in love he is with you. 

But you know him better than anyone else, and he you. 

So when he gets out an, “I’m sorry,” between frantic, sloppy kisses as his hands fumble for the button of your pants—

When you gasp at the feeling of his fingers grazing your slit and bite down on his lower lip and moan into his open mouth, “Next time.”—

He knows you understand all that he wants to give you to, that this wasn’t how this was supposed to go. That you trust him and want him enough to let him fuck you through his rut like an animal moments after you’ve shared your first kiss. 

Despite the unbearable ache of his cock, which only grows worse when you begin to palm him through his pants, Soshiro still manages one thing—one moment of pleasure that he’s fucking dreamed of giving you over and over again. 

He has little regret for the way he swipes all of the paperwork off of his desk in one go before he sets you down on top of it, memos and unanswered letters the furthest thing from his mind when he finally has the taste of your cunt on his tongue. With your legs spread wide, he eats you out with reckless abandon, the heel of one hand shoved against his dick as he plunges two fingers of the other in and out of your dripping wet hole. The keening, needy sounds you make only fuel him further, your back arching up off of his desk as he thrusts his tongue into your tight channel, greedily lapping up every last drop of the arousal that’s slipping out of you. 

“Oh my god, Soshiro,” you cry out, fingers scrambling for purchase and eventually coming to tangle in the dark violet locks of his hair. 

When you come on his tongue, moaning and shaking as you roughly tug in his hair, it’s the most wonderful fucking sound Soshiro’s ever heard in his life. He groans when a searing wave of pleasure bursts inside of him, an unexpected orgasm filling his boxers with hot ropes of cum. 

You hardly have time to recover before he’s carrying you over to the couch, setting you down in the messy nest of blankets and pillows strewn about on the wide cushions. But before he can do anything else, you’ve pushed him into a sitting position and shuffled around to kneel between his legs. 

“Ya don’t have to…”

“Please.”

He can hardly deny you, especially not when he hears the satisfied sound that tips out past your lips when you slide down his pants and boxers to find the sticky mess of cum already coating his dick and balls. 

His dick that’s already hard again. 

“Did you come while you were—“

“Yeah,” he rasps, dragging a hand through his mussed hair. 

You bite your lower lip. “Soshiro, that’s so hot.”

He doesn’t have a chance to come up with an eloquent response, because his entire body seizes up with pleasure as you lean forward and take his cum-covered cock into your mouth. Soshiro wonders how he’s ever going to recover from this—the sight of your kiss swollen lips smeared with filthy, sticky cum and saliva. As you lap it from his balls. As you suck every last drop off of him until he’s coming again right down your throat. 

Soshiro thinks he’s going to climb on top of you when his cock stiffens once more, to stare down at you and press messy, hungry kisses to your lips as he thrusts inside of you. 

But you’re adamant that you think he needs something else the first time, something more akin to the primal needs his body is succumbing to. 

Soshiro knows you were right when he lines up his flushed, weeping cock with your slick, quivering entrance from behind while you lean forward on your hands and knees, the need in his body now burning hotter than ever before. 

It takes exactly three thrusts inside the dizzingly tight, soaked warmth of your cunt for Soshiro to reach his next climax without warning, cum exploding from his cock as his hips violently stutter while he fucks his seed inside of you. It feels so good, he’s worried he might pass out, but his hips won’t stop rocking into the plush curves of your ass. 

You whimper as you feel him fill you deeply, fingers digging into the blankets and couch cushions beneath you as your body rocks backward into him. 

“More, Soshiro,” you beg. “I know you’re not done. I need more, too.”

Soshiro nearly growls as something desperate and feral unfurls like the crack of a whip inside of him, folding his body over yours and sinking his teeth into the soft juncture between your shoulder and your neck as his cock hardens again inside of the grip of your tight channel. You moan as he bites down, whining and gasping as you reach back to tangle your fingers in his hair.

Soshiro’s balls ache as the wet sound of skin slapping on skin fills the room, his throat dry and his muscles straining with the desire to pump you full of more cum. 

“Harder, Soshiro,” you gasp, rocking backward to fuck yourself on his shaft. 

He’s helpless to do anything but oblige as his hips begin to snap into yours at a brutal pace, his fervor only unraveling further when you shout as you squirt all over his hand right after he starts playing with your clit, your cunt rapidly spasming and contracting around his cock. 

“Breed me, please,” you whine, gasping for air, your chest heaving. 

He slams inside of you to the hilt as he comes hard, brokenly groaning in pleasure as the euphoric grip of your pussy milks the cum from his cock. 

“Don’t stop,” you plead when he pulls out, feeling the way his cock is hard once more as it rests against your ass. 

“S’ gonna make a mess,” he heaves, entranced by the load of cum dripping out of your cunt and sliding down the backs of your thighs. 

You shiver when he runs two fingers through it, the sound dissolving into a moan when he gives in to the unexplainable urge to lean forward and lap some of his sloppy mess directly from your folds. 

“Good,” you choke out.

It’s so fucking filthy—the amount of cum that slides out of you as he tries in vain to fuck it all back inside. The way you come again for him a third time from the feeling of the hot, sticky mess squelching inside of you as he murmurs against your ear, “Gonna fuck a baby into you. That what ya want?”

Soshiro’s so pussy drunk he can hardly think straight when he finally gets you where he really wants you—moaning into his mouth and dragging your hands through his hair as you straddle his lap on the couch. You alternate between riding his cock and letting him ease your pliant body up and down his length as he grips your hips, blazing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses along the curve of your jaw as he groans about how good you feel. 

The state of the leather couch is a lost cause as you bounce up and down on his shaft, cum slipping from your cunt and coating the base of his cock in a creamy ring of fluid. Drenching his balls and his thighs as he fucks up into you harder, his seed sloshing around in your fucked out hole. 

When he comes again, his head drops against the back of the couch as he tries to catch his breath, groaning as he watches a fresh wave of cum leak out of you with hooded eyes when you lift yourself off of his cock. 

His still hard cock. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he sighs as it twitches with interest when you reach down and swipe your finger through the cum, licking it off slowly as you hold his gaze. 

“One more,” you whisper, leaning forward to slot your lips with his. 

You wrap your hands around Soshiro’s cum-covered cock, moaning softly as you rub your clit up against the firm base while you begin to stroke his length. It’s so intimate and sensual, the way your body presses up against his, the roll of his hips as he slowly twitches upward and fucks your fist before climaxing one last time.

–

Soshiro rouses from a deep, heavy sleep hours later, your head on his chest, your bodies tangled together in a pile of blankets on the couch. And he’s relieved to realize that he finally feels back to normal again. Albeit, every muscle in his body aches, and he doesn’t even want to begin to think about the mess the two of you left behind before passing out, but it’s a relief all the same.

When you snuggle up closer on his chest, he pulls you close and presses a kiss to the top of your head, whispering, “Mine,” into your hair.

“Is that still your dick talking?” you ask, tired and amused.

“Nah, just me,” he murmurs, lips curving upward in a content, relaxed smile. 

[miniscapes333]

What makes your FS obsessed with your body? (18+)

PICK A PILE READING LOVES ;)

👇 [PILE - 1] 👇[PILE - 2] 👇 [PILE - 3]

Disclaimer: The images featured are not mine. All credit and rights belong to their original creators. PILE 1

There’s something about your body that haunts them it’s beyond attraction, beyond just physical desire. It’s the way you carry yourself, the sheer confidence in every movement, like you know the power you hold over them, and you use it well. The curves, the softness, the way your skin feels under their touch it’s intoxicating. They can’t get enough of tracing the lines of your body, committing every dip and rise to memory, their fingertips lingering like they never want to forget. And it’s not just your body itself it’s the way you move it, the way you tease without even meaning to, the way you stretch, the way your lips part when you’re lost in thought. It drives them mad in the best possible way.

But it’s more than just the visual it’s the way you react to them. That little gasp when they grip your waist, the shiver when their lips graze over your skin, the way you melt just right when they hold you close. They are obsessed with the way your body responds, with how easily you give in to pleasure. The way your breath hitches at the right touch, the way your fingers clutch at them like you don’t want them to stop. It’s a fire they never want to put out, a craving they don’t think they’ll ever satisfy. They love earning your pleasure, love knowing that every sound, every arch, every desperate pull is because of them. And the way your body fits with theirs? Perfect. Like you were made just for them.

And after? When the heat settles and the urgency turns to something softer, they’re still obsessed. The way you glow, the way your body hums with satisfaction, the way you lay there tempting even in your stillness. They could spend hours just watching you, tracing lazy patterns over your skin, admiring every inch of you. They want to worship you, not just in the heat of the moment but long after, in the way they touch you absentmindedly, in the way they pull you closer even in sleep. To them, you’re everything the pleasure, the addiction, the obsession they don’t ever want to let go of. And honestly? They never will.

PILE 2

There’s something about you that keeps them on edge a slow, burning obsession that simmers just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at any moment. It’s the way you hold yourself, the quiet confidence, the air of mystery wrapped around you like silk. You don’t give everything away so easily, and that’s what kills them the most. The tease of it. The way you make them earn every touch, every glance, every little reaction. You know what you’re doing. It’s in the way you stretch, the way you lean in just so, the way you let their gaze wander over you like you know they want to devour you whole. And they do. It’s in the way their fingers twitch at their sides, aching to grab, to feel, to possess. The restraint makes it unbearable, but it also makes you unforgettable.

They’re obsessed with the way you feel beneath them, the way you move when you finally let go. Because as much as you play at being untouchable, the moment you surrender to pleasure? It’s intoxicating. The contrast between the control you carry in the world and the way you break for them behind closed doors it sends them spiraling. They worship your body, the curves, the strength, the softness in all the right places. They take their time with you, tracing the dips of your spine, gripping your hips with a possessiveness that borders on reverence. They want to mark you, to leave reminders of just how deeply they crave you, to make sure you feel their obsession with every lingering kiss, every slow drag of their lips over your skin. You turn them into something primal, something dangerous. And they love it.

But it’s not just about the way you look or how you feel it’s the power you have over them, and the fact that you know it. The way you meet their gaze, unshaken, knowing exactly what they want, knowing that you could deny them just to watch them unravel. It’s maddening, it’s exhilarating, and it keeps them coming back for more, needing more. You haunt their thoughts, their dreams, the space between reality and fantasy. They could have you a thousand times over, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Because you don’t just exist in their arms you consume them. And they wouldn’t have it any other way.

PILE 3

There’s something about you that leaves them breathless. It’s not just the way your body moves, the way your skin glows under dim light it’s the way you carry yourself, the confidence that drips from your every step. You have this untouchable aura, something ethereal yet dangerously enticing. They watch you with a hunger that borders on desperation, the kind that makes them restless, aching, starving to touch, to taste, to claim. You’re their forbidden fruit, a temptation so sweet it almost feels unfair. And the more they reach for you, the more you slip just out of grasp, teasing them with a glance, a smirk, the subtle way you stretch, knowing how their eyes trail every movement. It drives them insane.

And when they do have you? Oh, they hate how weak you make them feel. The way your body molds so perfectly against theirs, how effortlessly you make them lose control. You play them like a game, a delicate balance between surrender and dominance, and they’re obsessed with the way you unravel them. They think they’re in charge until you tilt your head, whisper something in that wickedly soft voice, or let your nails drag slow and deliberate down their back. They want to pin you down, to prove they’re the one with the power but the truth? They belong to you. Every inch of their body, every thought, every craving. Even when they leave, your touch lingers like a ghost, like an ache that won’t fade, like an addiction they don’t want to break.

But what truly obsesses them? It’s not just the physical it’s how you make them feel. You strip them bare in more ways than one. No matter how smooth they are, how much charm they wear like armor, you see through them. You make them yearn, make them beg, make them question if they’ll ever be satisfied even if they have you a thousand times over. And yet, you always leave them wanting more, just a little more just enough to remind them that they could never, ever get enough of you. And that? That’s what keeps them up at night, keeps their hands restless, keeps them coming back for you only you.

Paid readings availabe - check them out here 🫶🏾

[lvrclerc]

✶ STRANGER, DANGER AND VANILLA SWIRL

summary: the night you met franco colapinto involved stealing, melted ben & jerry's, blunt honesty, and kissing a complete stranger, because you were pretty sure you were never going to see him again. except, by morning, you do see him again, and he looks way more familiar this time around.

F1 MASTERLIST | FC43 MASTERLIST

pairing: franco colapinto x journalist!f!reader wc: 6.5K cw: meet-cute, tooth-rotting fluff, stealing, reader doesn't know anything about f1, like one suggestive joke, slightly ooc franco note: requested here! i think you healed my writer's block with this request actually because it was so much fun to write, and it's been a whileeee since i had fun writing. hope u like it <3

BEING A JOURNALISM major wanting to step into the world of sports implicitly meant that one had to possess few unofficial prerequisites: unwavering neutrality for the times the players you so heavily supported got royally screwed over by the game, a rabid competitive edge for the mere opportunity to write half a column in an outdated magazine because you topped the class, mastering the ability of a poker face when thrown in a den of sexist, castrated cats—not to confuse with lions.

Nowhere on that imaginary list was lying with practiced ease. And yet, as the last student in your year without an internship for the final semester, you’d reached an inevitable conclusion: desperate times called for desperate measures. What harm could one tiny fabrication really do?

Staring at the empty white of your document screen-burning your already hyperventilating computer, the title blinked at you smugly as if it knew better: INNOVATIVE F1 QUESTIONS FOR DRIVERS AND STAFF. See? That one little white lie was already taking you places, as you’d somehow landed an internship at a motorsport-based social media company. 

Your only problem was that you didn’t know a single thing about Formula One, or motorsports, or racing. At all.

The ad popped up as you were wasting away your time on social media, a pathetically common occurrence when procrastinating for your finals. It was a golden opportunity, you weren’t dumb enough to let it slide— they were looking for temporary staff to help cover the Imola race, whatever that was, and you were looking for anything that might convince the administration that your academic year hadn’t been a total joke. Unfortunately, you were dumb enough to believe it could actually work.

They were sending you, along with a small team, to interview drivers and staff alike. Being the intern, and supposedly in training, meaning expandable, you’d been put in charge of coming up with questions—original ones, at that: no ‘What’s your favorite track?’ nonsense, they precised. 

You learned the difference between the Driver’s Championship and the Constructors Championship yesterday. You usually covered hockey, the NHL, a real punch-in-the-face sport. There was no way you could go beyond asking them what shade of tires they were using unless they decided to do a 180° and start racing on ice.

So here you were, in your rented Italian apartment with decaying paint, a squeaky couch, and the muffled chorus of your snoring colleagues. Your laptop screen buzzed diml,y and the void of your thoughts stared back at you as the clock crept dangerously close to one in the morning. Ten sentences, that was the goal: ten measly, coherent, original questions. The cursor blinked at you like it could see right through your sad attempt at powering through your lie. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, your body aching for sleep, but you couldn’t allow yourself the sweet deliverance of unconsciousness until you’d typed something. Tiredness, you told yourself with misplaced pride, was not an option.

However, ice cream was.

Five minutes later, you were half-dressed for crime in an old hoodie three times too big for you, sleep shorts honoring the adjective, and the great fashionability of flip-flops with sports socks, slipping out the front door with the grace of a goblin. The streets were mostly quiet, save for the occasional whir of a moped in the silence, and you could feel the cooling asphalt beneath the plastic sole of your shoes. The flickering fluorescent glow of the 24-hour convenience store, growing more intense the longer you walked, called to you.

You didn’t know what you were looking for exactly, whether it be comfort, an escape from racing cars and your withering GPA, or a much-needed sugar rush, but you were pretty sure it came in pint form.

You entered the store under the obnoxious screech of a bell. It didn’t seem to faze the cashier, who was fully slumped behind the counter, head tipped back in a mouth-breathing slumber. If someone walked in to rob the place, you had a feeling they wouldn’t be met with much resistance apart from the occasional belted note from the ambient europop.

Tempting.

You shuffled further inside, wandering among the empty aisles in search of the frozen section, and physically recoiling when the temperature dropped a certain amount of degrees as you reached it. The freezers hissed and cracked, the strip lights illuminating the stacks of sad frozen meals and desserts. You dragged your feet along the tiles, arms wrapped around yourself, eyeing the glistening line of tubs in front of you. You needed something sweet, vaguely comforting.

Your heart finally settled on the Ben & Jerry’s Half-Baked pint, your favorite and, as fate would have it, the last one left. You smiled to yourself, already imagining the therapy-like comfort of vanilla, brownie chunks and cookie dough it would bring you. You reached out for it.

But so did someone else, and your fingers brushed.

You flinched, instinctively yanking your hand back a little too dramatically. You hadn’t even heard him walk up, he just appeared at your side in a strange warmth, his palm colliding with yours on its way to reenact the world's least romantic meet-cute. 

Your eyes finally snapped to the intruder. He looked just as startled, if more amused, brows lifted in mild apology. He was tall, a good fifteen centimeters above you, and his tousled dark curls were half-hidden by the hood pulled over them, accentuating the drowsiness in the darkness of his eyes. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway up on his forearms, and a slight redness flushed his cheeks, which might have been from the cold or eventually the awkwardness of this exact moment.

“Sorry,” he said, an accent you couldn’t quite place swirling around the words. “Didn’t see you there. Didn’t expect someone to also be craving ice cream this late, either.” He offered you a lazy grin, and your stomach did something deeply irrational. He was objectively good-looking, for a stranger.

“You’re alright, don’t worry,” you answered, voice light but guarded. You were tired, unarmed, which weren’t ideal conditions to spar with a man, even though you wouldn’t expect someone who looked like he belonged in a mildly expensive cologne ad to come to fists in the middle of a convenience store.

His eyes dropped to the pint of ice cream, still sitting in the open freezer. “Half-Baked, huh?” he asked. “Strong choice.”

“It’s the best one,” you shrugged.

He tilted his head, as if considering. “Eh… debatable.”

Nonchalance thrown aside, and any desire of survival with it, your jaw detached from your body along with your carefulness. Debatable? “I won’t even dignify this slander with an answer.”

“It’s not my favorite,” he answers, looking far too entertained. “But I respect it. Like… top five material.”

“Top five? You’re insane.”

The smile he already wore on his lips widened and—great—now, he was laughing. The disbelieving sound pleasantly echoed around the quiet store and empty aisles, leading you to cross your arms on your chest as if the gesture could protect you from the charming presence of the stranger. 

Somehow, the pint was still sitting between you, dangerously unclaimed.

“Soooo,” you dragged off, cutting the brown-haired man short in his semi-mockery. “By that logic, you wouldn’t mind letting me have it.” 

His head tipped back just slightly, studying the flickering lights as if wisdom might descend on him and save him from this moral dilemma. “No,” he ends up saying after agonizing seconds. “I want that one.”

“You don’t even like it.” You stared at him, incredulous.

“I do,” he countered. “It’s just… not my favorite.”

You groaned,dragging a hand down your face. Frustration rose through you like molten lava, enough to make the frozen rows next to you melt. “Listen,” you start, as calm as you could muster, “I had a shitty day. I’m having an even shittier evening. If you had even an ounce of decency in your body, you’d let me walk out of here with my favorite ice cream and my last shred of will to live.”

You reached for the tub. You weren’t even surprised that his hand followed, yet you had to fight the urge to scream. Now, your fingertips were dueling on the cardboard.

“Big talk about dignity from someone wearing flip-flops with socks,” the stranger retorts, that shit-eating grin growing wider by the minute.

This time, you were actually offended. It was one in the morning, you were getting a subjective necessity, not walking the Met Gala. The fact that he, out of all people, had the nerve to make fashion commentary in his wrinkled basketball shorts and downright ancient sneakers was next-level ridiculous. “Oh, please,” you snapped. “Big talk from someone trying to steal ice cream he doesn’t even believe in.”

“Oh, so we’re believing in ice cream, now?”

You stab your finger in his chest. “This is about morals.”

“Right,” he hums, nodding. “You’re the one trying to emotionally blackmail me with your tragic backstory.”

The daggers you were trying to stare at him with didn’t seem to reach his back nor his smugness. The two of you were still standing in the middle of the aisle, each with a hand on the poor tub of Half Baked. The bright, white lights above you were becoming more overwhelming the longer you spent underneath them.

“So we’re really doing this?” you asked. “Neither of us is backing off?”

The stranger leaned closer, and the slow movement had you pausing at the soft delicateness of his features. The maddening smirk tugging at the corner of his lips sobered you instantly. “You’re admitting defeat?”

You scoffed, inching your grip tighter on the ice cream. “In your dreams, maybe.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, amused and searching, before finally tilting his head with a tired sigh, giving the impression he was oh so generously offering the solution for world peace. “... We could share it.”

You frowned in confusion. He rolled his eyes, gesturing toward the pint with a nod. “There are plastic spoons near the register. We could do split custody— ten bites each, top.”

“There’s literally other ice cream. Like, so much,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the frozen aisles around you. You paused, then added with a pointed look,  “Also, I don’t know you?”

“Well, I’m Franco Colapinto,” he replied with a lopsided grin.

He laughed. It was an easy sound, coming out low and deep from his chest that rumbled more than it echoed. It sent an involuntary flutter up your spine, which you firmly blamed on your lack of sleep and not the stupidly attractive curve of his lips.

The name tickled something in the back of your brain. It was somewhat familiar, even though you couldn’t quite pinpoint in what way. Frankly, you were too tired and too emotionally invested in your current argument to attempt to dig deeper in the drowsiness of your memories. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you said cautiously, unsure of the reason why you were even entertaining him.

His smile widened. “Great. Now we’re not strangers anymore.”

“That’s… not how it works.”

“Sure it is,” Franco nodded, serious. “I know your name. You know mine. We’ve shared an argument, introductions… that’s practically a friendship. What’s an ice cream after that?”

Your eyebrows shot up to high heavens, though your mouth still tugged up at the corner in the semblance of a disbelieving smile. This entire interaction felt like a fever dream, and Franco Colapinto might have been the strangest man you'd ever met, which explained why the two of you now stood side-by-side at the front of the convenience store, facing the soundly snoring clerk, both patting down your respective pockets.

A curse escaped you when you hit the bottom seam of your hoodie pocket and found nothing: no wallter, no leftover coins, not even a crumpled receipt. Nothing. Franco glanced over, two pathetic white plastic spoons in hand, with his brows raised in a silent question.

“Uh…” you started, wincing. “I may, or may not, have… forgotten my wallet. In my apartment.”

One second passed. Another. Before you knew it, Franco was trying his very best, which was to say, not at all, to hide his snorting. He was doing so openly, no longer bothering to attempt to cover his amusement. His shoulders shook with the force of i,t and the only thing you could do was stare at him, dead-eyed.

“Oh my God, good thing we decided to share, huh?” the brown-haired man managed through a laugh. “Just imagine if you were alone in there, broke as hell.”

You threw your very empty hands in the air. “You act like you’re about to save the day!”

“I am,” Franco taunted, a mock heroicness in his voice as he patted his shorts’ pockets with an exaggerated flourish, only for the performance to crumble when his face fell. He patted again, and again. “Oh shit.”

Words couldn’t possibly be put on the satisfaction rising inside you. You crossed your arms, a smugness usually unknown to you dripping from every word. “Don’t say it.”

“I left my wallet in my hotel room,” he said anyway, sheepishly.

You both stood in front of the counter, spoons in hand, and the pint of Ben and Jerry’s still clutched protectively between you. The soft buzz of a fluorescent light filled the awkward silence as you stared each other down, unsure how to proceed.

“Well…,” Franco started eventually, voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial. “He is asleep.”

As if in agreement, the clerk let out a snore, louder than the others.

You turned to him comically slow. The idea, which settled comfortably among your thoughts earlier, came back full force as you waited for him to explain his own thinking process.

Franco shrugged with one shoulder. “We could just— take it? I could always come pack and pay tomorrow.”

“That is literally stealing.”

“You were thinking it too,” he pointed out.

“I was not!”

“You definitely were.”

“I thought about it,” you corrected, “but I never said it out loud, which makes me the moral compass in this situation.”

“You and your morals,” he laughed, only to promptly try to hide with a small cough, throwing a quick look at the clerk.

You stared at him. Condensation was gathering between your fingers, seeping into your skin, and truth be told, your eyelids were growing too heavy for your own good, and a pitifully blank document was still waiting for you in your crumbling rental. You didn’t have enough faith in yourself, nor enough patience, to go back and get your wallet. Frankly, you doubted Franco was any more motivated. ”You’re really gonna come back and pay?” you asked, hesitant.

“Promise,” and the glint behind the depth of his eyes looked sincere enough for you to believe him.

He slipped the pint from your hands, balancing the two spoons in the other, and nudged the door open with his shoulder. The bell above it gave a lazy jingle at the movement, echoing in the stillness around you.

“C’mon,” he called with a wink, casual as anything. “Let’s go be criminals.”

Against all logic, reason and legality, you did. Your steps were slow and sure, forming an unspoken pact in their trajectory.

At least, they would have been if the clerk hadn’t stirred at that exact moment. 

A low rustle could be heard from behind you, followed by a sleepy grunt and the unmistakable sound of someone shifting behind the counter. A groggy mutter in Italian filled the air, low and accusatory. Your Italian was rusty at best, but you were pretty sure it wasn’t anything kind or a wish for a good night. Judging by Franco’s face, he seemed to have caught enough of what the man said to make him pause. He turned to you slowly, lips parted. Your eyes widened in a silent question to which he didn’t answer.

In that moment, frozen in amber, you saw your entire career flash in front of your eyes. Your major, thrown away in flashes of red and blue.

You mouthed one word: Run.

“Wait, are you serious—?”

You were already gone.

You bolted out of the door, Franco hot on your heels, the bell above you clanging in metallic indignation. The hoarse complaints of the clerk faded to background noises, swallowed by the wild slap of your flip-flops against the cobblestones. The wind tore through the loose strands of your hair as street lights passed by in a delirious blur. Franco’s breathless laugh reverberated against stone walls, so reckless and uncontainable it made you laugh too, even as you sprinted around a corner, then another, burying yourself further into a maze of sleepy streets you had no idea how to escape from. Finally, the knotted gravel gave way, spitting you both into the hush of a small, empty park.

You collapsed onto the nearest bench, doubled over, panting and wiping the sweat beading on your forehead. Franco was quick to drop beside you, clutching the pint of Ben and Jerry’s to his chest. “Okay,” he gasped, grinning widely through labored breathing. “I think we’re in the clear.”

You chortled, a deeply unattractive sound of such magnitude it turned into a cough. You buried your face in your hand to try to stifle it, just like  the growing grin thinning your lips. “Oh my god,” you managed to say, strangled with disbelief. “I’m going to get arrested. I’m going to get fired. I’m going to get banned from Italy for stealing.”

“It doesn’t sound like you believe in Half Baked anymore,” Franco teased, leaning back. You elbowed him with a groan.

In the comfortable silence, broken by giggles every now and then, the brown-haired man ended up prying the lid off the ice cream you so valiantly fought for with a triumphant flourish, which you fondly rolled your eyes at. You both stared down the pint, impatient to dive into your prized possession.

Soup.

The only word that could be used for what was once ice cream was soup. A sad, goopy mess of once-frozen chocolate and vanilla now swirled lazily in the container, brownie bits drifting. The heat of your argument, during which you left the freezer door open, along with the sprint across town, had completely melted it.

There was an awkward pause as you stared at the liquid. “Well,” Franco started, “can it be considered as a milkshake?”

You glanced his way and as soon as your eyes met, you couldn’t hope to hold the pretense of seriousness. Another snort escaped you and morphed into a loud, unstoppable laugh that you were sure the neighboring houses could complain about. Franco stared at you, a glimmer of wonder in the dark of his irises, before following suit until you were both wiping at the corners of your eyes, entirely done with the ridiculousness you managed to bury yourselves into.

“Criminal masterminds, truly,” you managed to wheeze out. “We really took that long to make up our minds?”

Franco offered you a spoon between two laughs. “After you, partner in crime.”

You took it, and for a split second your fingers brushed against the others’, making you pause just enough to see his smile twist into something reserved for the depth of the night. You felt a familiar warmth tighten your face, yet tried not to pay it too much mind as you plunged it into the puddle. You took a bite. The taste and consistency were objectively disappointing.

Still, cold sugar was cold sugar, and it was perfect.

You passed the pint back and forth, settling comfortably deeper into the bench, still warm from the remnants of the day, as the quiet of the very first hours of the morning wrapped around you like a blanket shared at a sleepover—something uniquely yours. The adrenaline faded slowly, making way for gentler words and inflections of voice, as well as the stunning realization the stars above you shone a little brighter than they did before.

Topics went and passed easily. You found out Franco Colapinto was an easy man to talk to: he was laid-back and attentive, slipping subtle jokes and flirtations in-between sentences you could almost miss if he wasn’t looking at you the way he did. You would huff at his attempts, but never quite push him away.

You conversed about every insignificant detail of your lives. The horrible state of your rental apartment and your colleague Maggie’s incurable snoring problem as well as the catastrophic, overpriced pizza you ordered on your first night here. Franco went on about his incredibly passionate vendetta against decaf coffee. Along the way, you learned he wasn’t Italian—well, only by his father—and that the interesting swirl of his tongue around words was Argentinian, that his favorite movie was Interstellar. You told him you never watched it. He berated you for half an hour.

In an interesting turn of event, the conversation drifted toward fashion. “Wait,” you interrupted with a mouthful of ice cream, pointing your spoon at him. “You’re not allowed to judge my flip-flops ever again.”

“The whole combo is a crime against fashion,” he answered, without missing a beat. “Even in the dead of the night.”

You rolled your eyes at him for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, yet none of them had contained any animosity. The spoon clinked against the nearly empty tub as you scooped again. “Well, can’t blame me. This night’s been… weird. The whole day, actually.”

Franco’s gaze turned toward you, not quite literally, as his eyes hadn’t left you ever since you sat down. “You said you were having a shitty day earlier.” A simple affirmation, to which you nodded without much thought. It was true. “Why?” he asked.

You hadn’t noticed how close you had physically gotten until your head dropped backward to face the sky, only to meet Franco’s arm replacing the wooden edge of the bench. He had an arm around your seat, you were tucked to his side, and the balm of his presence enveloped you whole. It eased you into confession with a compassionate simplicity.

“Because I’m a fraud,” you admitted, not without the addition of a largely over-dramatic sigh. 

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he didn’t interrupt. The inevitable sign that you had to explain the pathetic situation your hubris had gotten you entangled in.

“I… sort of, maybe, eventually bluffed my way into an internship with a motorsports media company,” you explained. The second his lips parted in surprise, embarrassment pooled hot in your chest. It might have been the first time you were ashamed of your actions. “Do you know anything about F1?” you blurted, hoping to get ahead of it.

Franco stared at you for several seconds, facial traits comically deprived of any expression. “Not at all,” he deadpanned. “Apparently, they race cars?”

You debated whether to laugh or groan. He was teasing, and it was working— you chuckled against his shoulder as your head dropped to the side. “Me neither! I didn’t expect to do something useful during this internship, so I thought one little lie couldn’t hurt!” you exclaimed. “Now they have me interviewing drivers and staff with ‘innovative’ questions before the race. Innovative. The only team I knew of was Alpine because I liked the blue and pink combo. I thought they were winning the championship!”

Franco choked mid ice cream bite, halfway through a laugh.

“And apparently they’re swapping drivers left and right?” you pressed on, waving your hands around. “How does swapping drivers midseason make sense? It can’t be efficient. It sounds more like a swinger scandal than a strategy!”

The longer you spiraled, the more Franco’s features disappeared in the dark of his hoodie, the shoulder you were lying on shaking in what looked suspiciously like a laugh. When he finally emerged at the end of your rant, he threw his head back, no longer concealing his giggling. He finally calmed under the stern look you gave him.

“Well,” he said, voice hoarse and warm, “maybe don’t say all that to their faces.”

“I’m not going to!” you scoffed. “I’m already one imaginary question away from losing my job and my opportunity at graduation and humiliating myself on the paddock.”

The arm Franco had around the bench was now resting on your shoulders, pulling you further—if discreetly—closer to him. “What type of questions did you have in mind?”

You listed out the sad sentences you’d typed and deleted in your document, and the brown-haired man next to you could only answer with a few snickers here and there through every few words. You shot him a raised eyebrow, daring him to do better, and that was all he needed: your voices echoed across the empty park as the night stretched thin and silver around you. He navigated you through the strange language of Formula One with ease, translating jargon you’d only ever skimmed past into something that made sense. Focus on their personality, make it human, he insisted. You reminded him that you didn’t even know most of their names.

Still, it spiraled— like it often did with him, you’d grown to notice. From brainstorming about questions on the ethics of DRS to what races they put on to hype themselves up, you found yourselves answering the questions instead of directing them. The topic of who would survive the longest in a zombie apocalypse came up, and your restricted knowledge of the sport only made the conversation more ridiculous by the minute. You threw out the name of George Russell. Franco had tears of laughter in his eyes.

“You know a lot for someone who supposedly doesn’t know anything about F1,” you noted

He gave you a one-shouldered shrug, accompanied by a smile. “Just picked stuff up. My entourage is really into motorsports.” Then, as if confessing a secret, he leaned into your space, his voice dropping levels to lower down to a whisper. “And I enjoy helping pretty girls.”

Your laugh came out in a breath at the comment, yet something in the air had inevitably shifted—slightly, but there nonetheless. The quiet amusement between you faded into silence, which only left the distant hum of the waking city and the occasional buzz of a street lamp above the park as a soundtrack. The ice cream pint was empty. The sky was lazily painting itself pastel.

Franco was close, so much you could feel the heat of his breath sweeping over your lips, the intoxicating depth of his perfume engulfing you whole. Your knees were brushing hesitantly against each other, your body pressed to his side like gravity kept inexplicably pulling you in, deciding what you wanted before your mind could catch up with the situation. The shadows of the rising light painted his face a sharp golden. His eyes were on yours. They never left.

Were you really about to kiss a man you had known for no more than five hours? You weren’t sure, but Franco didn’t seem to be pulling away. Neither were you.

“¿Vas a besarme?” he murmured, barely above a whisper, his pupils dilated and trained on the curve of your mouth.

You didn’t know what it meant and truthfully, you couldn’t care less. You didn’t want to ruin whatever it was with overthinking, and logic had been left in aisle seven the second you accepted to share that damned ice cream. All you could really tell was that your heart beat loud in your chest, from nerves and anticipation alike, and he was just there. Waiting.

Screw it.

You pulled him in.

It was heated, reckless, and you abandoned yourself into it, leaving caution thrown to the wind. His lips met yours halfway between a laugh and sigh and you swore you’d felt him smirking against your lips before you opened your mouth, giving him the access you both hopelessly desired. Franco kissed the way he talked: smooth, disarming, anticipating your every move with a hand on the dip of your waist and guessing what you liked, gauging your reactions by swallowing every exhale he could tease out of you. He tasted like vanilla, like bad decisions, like everything you could have possibly wanted in the span of a night. Your hands curled in the fabric of his hoodie, his fingers brushed along your jaw, and for a brief, dizzying second, it felt like the spark of something unexpected.

But when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, the first ray of sunlight brushed your features at the same spot his fingers caressed.

“I… We should go,” you managed to breathe out.

He nodded, the shadow of a smile thinning the pink of his lips. The silken chill of dawn crept through your hoodie as you both stood up, exchanging awkward sentences you barely registered amidst the buzz of your brain. Franco kissed your cheek, uncharacteristically gentle. “See you soon.”

You grinned because it was the polite thing to do, not because you believed him. No one ever really meant that. See you soon was only the prettier version of a goodbye, which is where you were leaving him. Overwhelmingly bittersweet, contrasting with the empty ice cream tub in his hand.

You walked back to your crumbling Italian apartment, trying not to turn around—the scent of his perfume on the hood of your sweater and the lingering taste of him on your lips made the task remarkably more difficult than you thought it would be. The air seemed to smell like vanilla swirl. A smile stuck to your face like melted chocolate.

By the time your fingers hit the keyboard, the questions you both brainstormed spilled easily onto the page along with the few terms and techniques Franco had clarified for you. You didn’t even reread them, you just wrote until the sun was fully filtering through the blinds and your colleagues had gotten up to make coffee. Maggie asked you where you went—apparently, your little escapade had woken her up as you left. You didn’t tell her about Franco, nor did you tell any of them.

After all, you didn’t expect to see him again.

Which is why you wholeheartedly believed he was a hallucination when you bumped into him on the paddock later that afternoon.

The day had been a confusing series of events. Your all-nighter, no matter how pleasant, had taken a lot of energy out of you, and was the reason you spent your morning alternating between getting ready and ten-minute naps, much to the team’s dismay. Even in the burning afternoon sun hovering above the Imola track’s paddock, you weren’t quite awake enough, and carbureted solely on your third can of Redbull—the iron grip you had on it threatened to split the metal in half.

They had sent you and Maggie, your unofficial camera woman, in search of the Mercedes hospitality to find the infamous George Russell that wouldn’t survive a zombie apocalypse according to Franco. The memory took your attention off your surroundings for a single second, pulling a chuckle out of you.

The impact jolted through your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance.

You stumbled back a step, hands fumbling to protect the expensive media badge swinging from your lanyard. The paddock was alive with voices, soon-to-be rolling wheels—and you were about to become very acquainted with its asphalt.

The same hands that tripped you were the ones that caught you. You were about to curse out whoever had the audacity of being so inconsiderate, but stopped as the words were about to leave your mouth. “Careful there, partner in crime,” came an amused voice, with an overly familiar vocal timbre.

Your gaze shot up.

The brown curls, hair damp with heat, were the first thing to come out of the tired blur hindering your vision. Then was the infuriating smirk you had grown accustomed with, only to make way for the delicate traits of his eyes. The pink and blue racing suit was last, with white letters and sponsors across his chest. Alpine.

Your stomach dropped. “... Franco?” You were not sure if you were asking for him or accusing him.

He helped you up, detaching you from the grip of his arms only to face you with a proud smile. One you were itching to slap off his face. “Told you I’d see you soon,” he commented. Soon was an understatement—you had kissed him mere hours ago.

“You— You told me you didn’t know anything about F1.”

Franco hummed in agreement.

“You’re an F1 driver. For Alpine.”

“Maybe.”

Your jaw slackened. Franco Colapinto’s name had sounded familiar for very good reasons that were included in the hundreds of articles you went through, you realized, along with the mortifying understanding that you had openly called his team’s strategy a swinger scandal. Still, the words that left your mouth weren’t apologetic, and not even close to a stutter.

Instead, you stabbed a finger in his chest. “You lied to me!”

Franco arched an eyebrow, his gaze going from the nail you had buried in the softness of his suit to your offended expression. “Ah, I thought you wouldn’t be the one telling me off about one little omission.”

The callback to your late-night admission caused heat to flare up your cheeks, which seemed to greatly please him. He continued, his smug smile not faltering a tiny bit. “So… are you going to interview me here or…?”

“No,” you answered, words sharp and eyes narrowed. “We’re actually here for George Russell, so if you’ll exc—”

“Ohhh,” Franco cut in. “The zombie apocalypse non-survivor. That George Russell.”

You opened your mouth—ready to deny, deflect, eventually flee from the most delirious situation known to mankind—but Maggie appeared beside you, making her presence known with an obnoxious cough and eyes darting between you and Franco. “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever that is,” she starts, “but do you guys know each other?”

“No,” you blurted.

“Yes,” Franco said at the same time.

Maggie narrowed her eyes, flicking from the F1 driver to you. “Ooookay, because if you did it would be amazing on camera, with this whole…,” she made a vague hand gesture, “chemistry and all.”

“There’s no chemistry,” you insisted, silently pleading with her.

“There isn’t? I thought we had at least some, after everything,” Franco countered, not even bothering to hide his glee.

And before you could try to snark back with something, anything, that could save this interaction from the clout-chasing endeavors of your colleagues, Maggie was already pulling her phone out from her back pocket. “That’s great! I’ll tell the team we’re bumping Russell up,” she chirped, already sliding away and ordering the second half of your group around.

You slowly turned back to Franco, mouth agape in disbelief. The silence between you was thick, filled with lingering memories and entirely too proud on his end. His arms were crossed on his chest, and his cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair.

Feigning ignorance, Franco threw a grin your way. “Come on. If your first interview is with me, it’ll be easier. We already practiced, remember?”

He seemed to revel in your squirming. You remembered alright. You recalled the warmth of his arm around your shoulders, the roughness of his hands threading through your hair, and the icy aftertaste his lips left on yours that no coffee, as strong as you could possibly make it, could wipe out. It was all too vivid in your mind, despite the drowsiness. It lingered, stubborn, just like him.

Franco didn’t need to be made aware of that, he already looked too pleased with himself. “Yeah, when you lied about not knowing anything about motorsports.”

“And you lied about knowing F1 for your internship,” he fired back. “It feels like fate, doesn’t it?”

You let out a slow, dramatic sigh, pinching your nose bridge. “It feels like an addition to my headache.”

He studied you. There was a difference in the light of day, switching perspectives on what happened when the blanket of nighttime wrapped around people, but his eyes seemed to strip off all those artifices bare. The chatter around you narrowed down to white noise as he took a step forward, shrinking the comfortable gap you had installed.

“Interview me,” Franco breathed, eyes boring into yours, “and I’ll make it up to you for messing with your schedule, and for our questionable first meeting.”

You scoffed at him, but taking a step back was a thought too far removed from you. You basked in the heated air, whether it be from the sun or the man in front of you, much to your own incomprehension. “And how would you make it up to me, Franco?”

Franco’s lips curved slow and deliberate. “With a date.”

“A date?” Your heart paused, catching up with his words before your brain could.

“Yeah. A real one, this time. No heist.” Obviously, that was too normal a sentence for him, because he added almost immediately, “unless you’re into that. Then there will be a heist. Again.”

You punched his shoulder, albeit with not much conviction behind it, which made him chuckle, the sound pooling like liquid sunlight on your skin.

A date. Franco Colapinto was definitely the strangest, and boldest, man you had ever met in your entire life. You would be lying to yourself if you even attempted to deny the fluttering of your chest when the idea crossed your mind. “No stealing,” you affirmed, steadier than you expected yourself to be.

A visible weight seemed to have been taken off his shoulders as he answered. “Promise,” and the glint behind his eyes had a whole other shade, this time around.

Just as you were about to respond—with what, you didn’t know yet—Maggie’s voice cut through the bubble Franco and you had carefully stepped in. All of a sudden, the overwhelming presence of other journalists, staff members, commentators and fans were noticeable enough to break the moment you both became engulfed in.

“You two ready to set up the interview?”

Franco didn’t move. He glanced in your direction, waiting.

Taking a chance on a man you had met in the dead of the night over stolen ice cream and fake identities was a dubious decision, at best. Kissing that same stranger on a park bench like a hormonal teenager, even more so. Every instinct, every rational thought was screaming in bright, flashing red to turn around from this uncharted territory.

And yet—

“Yeah, we’re ready. Just… give us a second.”

Franco flashed you a smile, shameless, just as bright as the midday sun washing over you, and somehow, impossibly, it made your heart ache. Not from regret, but from the terrifying thrill of wanting more of it.

It was probably a terrible idea, but so were all the ones that led you here. Look how far they’d gotten you.

What was one more?

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[shadykazama]

Sun Wukong/The destined one (mostly relationship) headcanons!

The people have spoken and the people crave monkey business. So let's get down to it!

❤

Post journey Wukong is a wiser, stronger monkey, but don't let him fool you he's still a trickster at heart.

When you first meet, he has you refer to him as 'Great Sage'.

Earning the right to say his given name isn't so much a big moment as it is just him beginning to care for you. You slip up, whether it be because you were sick or injured or just not thinking, and he doesn't correct you. In fact he kind of likes it.

He doesn't make a big deal out of it, but if you watch closely you can see his tail twitch and his eyes lost in thought.

One character flaw you'll have to deal with, even when you're just friends, is Wukong thinks he knows what's best. He's old and wisened and POWERFUL; if he thinks he knows something will be best for you, he'll do it without so much as telling you.

Credit to Hanibalistic! Their one shot about Wukong and stealing an immortal peach for a mortal reader was perfect and exactly how I think he'd act! That impulsive, "I care about this person and will do what I think is best for them regardless of the consequences or their opinion" is very... him.

Hey, we all have our flaws. (Just don't tell him that.)

On the positive side, he wouldn't let a scratch befall you. At some point you'll stop instinctually defending yourself because of how safe you feel with him. Which is heavily ironic considering how often he himself will put you in dangerous situations just to pull a prank.

But besides your poor heart from getting scared so often, you have nothing to worry about. Wukong won't leave room for even one mistake to slip by him.

Expect him to never call you by your name, almost ever. He chronically tends to call people by titles or nicknames. From calling the tang monk, master, or how he'd call Bajie 'idiot' for most of the book- just expect something. He'd only refer to you by name if he were really serious.

Something I personally find really funny that isn't represented in many medias with him is that he's OLD. He's old as hell and he knows it. In the book he'll often refer to basically everyone as 'nephew' or 'little brother' which is oddly endearing and also really funny.

I feel as though most people don't utilize how heavy he is- even in movies and stuff. His staff is like thousands of pounds! You aren't moving him unless he wants you to. God forbid you end up cuddling. Even while resting I never think he'd put his full weight on you, but you'd definitely be stuck.

Will never refuse to help you, but will tease you endlessly for needing it. "Helpless little thing aren't you?"

His love language is gift giving and acts of service.

He's impulsive with words, but look at how he treats you and you'll see how he cares.

Considering his connections, expect to have the world at your fingertips. He'll never leave you wanting, you'll always be satisfied. There is no gift beyond his reach. Just be careful what you ask for, because he WILL get it one way or another.

He is a king, a leader- it's basically second nature to be serviced, and that's why it's so important how he acts toward you. For you, he stays vigilant, ready to catch you if you fall or feed you when you're hungry. For you, he'll carry you in his arms if you're tired. For you he'd put himself in servitude.

Monkeys also show affection to one another by grabbing at each other for attention, and grooming one another's hair.

I don't think he'd have any trouble getting your attention, he's very vocal! So he'd focus more on your hair. Don't be surprised if he randomly starts combing through with his fingers or just playing with it. It's calming for him, and another form of affection.

You've changed him for the better... And for the worse. He happier, more content and occupied (which is good for everyone). BUT, should you ever disappear or get stolen from him he would surely devastate heaven and earth to get you back. The last thing anyone needs is another, more wrathful, Wukong rampage.

Expect to get shown off at every convenience! You're his king/queen and he'll make sure everyone knows it.

You have the BIGGEST wedding. And I think the best part would've been the Chuangmen, which is a wedding game tradition, usually meant for the groom to prove his loyalty, devotion, and desire to marry the bride by completing tests made by her bridesmaids. There are a ton of really interesting Chinese wedding traditions that I would recommend reading about, but with the sheer power of Wukong, these challenges in particular could've been absolutely ridiculous!

Wukong isn't jealous, no that would be ridiculous, he has nothing to fear. That by no means doesn't mean that he doesn't get offended on your behalf. He's gotten upset at not being greeted properly, there's no way in HELL he doesn't get pissed if someone were to flirt with you. They're lucky if all he does is kill them.

Feel free to make fun of him for not being able to swim. He'll absolutely make you regret it, but do it anyway it'll be funny.

Am I the only one that thinks he'd be great with kids? 🤚

Like COME ON- the dude probably helps take care of the baby monkeys on his mountain. He tells them cool stories to get them riled up. Will lay down and let them play with his hair while you read or sing to him.

Give this man kids I dare you.

That's a topic for a different post 😌

Likes kissing you on the top of the head, will also lay his forehead against yours just to be close to you.

These two designs I really like for him! Y'all let me know in the comments which version is your favorite <3

💙

The destined one may look like Wukong, but they're certainly different in... most areas.

Being selectively mute makes things a good share more difficult to communicate with him than Wukong, but it has it's charms.

You'd just been... tagging along with him. He didn't mind, unlike the wolves and undead he'd been beating through, you proved no threat to him.

He figured you would just leave on your own- or die. But by some miracle even he didn't understand, you stuck by him through rain and dust storms alike. By the time you made it to the New West he felt obligated to keep you around.

For the first time since you started following him, you were actually in danger. And to both of your surprises, he dropped what he was doing to protect you.

Don't bother asking him why. Whether you do, or simply tell him thank you, he'll just wave you off. But you notice him walking closer to you than normal after that. No longer were you left to catch up with him while he sprinted off; he'd keep stride with you now, glancing at you every now and then.

He CAN talk, and he probably surprises you the first time he does. It's not even for something important. It's just one fateful night where you happen to decide to mess with his hair. You'd pull away after a moment and he'd rumble out a little, "Don't stop."

Now that you KNOW he can talk, it's even more annoying when he refuses to answer you.

He finds it amusing when you get frustrated with him about it. He can't help it. The whole time you're grumbling or ranting at him, he's just staring at you with his stoic face... thinking about how cute you are.

Feel free to give him a name. Not like he'll argue with whatever you pick-

But really, please call him something other than "the destined one". He'd never really needed a name before, but he'd treasure whatever you decide to call him.

He probably has a nickname for you too, he just only says it in his head...

Will click his tongue at you to get your attention. (Absolutely does the 'tsk tsk tsk' thing people do to call their cats)

Speaking of getting your attention- ^ remember how monkeys show affection by just kind of grabbing each other and squeezing and pressing their head against each other?

Yeeeeah. He's a touchy monkey. He won't ask for affection, so he kind of just does it himself. Will rub his head on you, not unlike how cats or rabbits do to mark things they like. Except he's just doing it to be affectionate.

Gets cuteness aggression and WILL just grab you.

If it wasn't obvious, his love languages are physical touch and quality time.

Doesn't need help putting armor on, but if you want to help he won't stop you. (The closeness makes his heart beat fast)

If you were ever both in a bad spot- being threatened and not in a place to put up a good fight, he'd cover your body with his and bare his fangs at whatever was trying to hurt you guys to intimidate it. (It probably wouldn't work- but it's an instinctual response.)

If your feet got cold in the snow in the New West he'd pick you up and let you rest on his back for awhile.

Likes when you rely on him like that, it makes him feel stronger. And besides it just "being his destiny", knowing you'll get hurt if he loses helps him focus during fights.

Terribly jealous individual.

The glare he would give someone is straight up deadly. Watch out for how his tail flicks around when he's irritated too 🤭.

Absolutely adores the sound of your voice, it could bring him out of a coma fr.

Doesn't mind being little or big spoon, he just likes cuddling. Wraps his tail around you when you do.

Always always makes sure you eat before he does, even though he's the one doing all the fighting.

Will let you win play fights (most of the time).

Hearing him laugh is the cutest thing ever I swear- It probably took you off guard the first time you manage it.

Doesn't know how to take compliments.

Probably short circuited the first time you complimented his appearance.

Very gentle, slow kisser. Likes having you in his lap, but will grab cheeky kisses every now and then too. Will tilt your chin up when you kiss, every time.

Art by @marcu-bug

[taeyongdoyoung]

lobos, we cannot stop hunting

summary: the full moon comes and you insist on staying with your best friend despite his valiant warnings to make you run away from him... pairing: werewolf!chan x reader genre: smut, fantasy, best friends to lovers warnings: *takes a deep breath* heat suppressants, hugging, werewolf transformation, kissing, making out, hair-pulling, eating out, begging, fingering, overstimulation, consent is established multiple times, slightly mean dom!chan but overall a sweetheart, praise+degradation, size kink (duh), unprotected sex on the floor, knotting, breeding kink, mating *exhales* author's note: happy halloween, baby stays!!! 🐺 make sure to get some yummy treats and always remember to say the magic words please and thank you 😈 but ESPECIALLY please as the king of the wolves taught us 😉🛐 word count: 1.8k

"It's a full moon tonight," your werewolf best friend Chan says.

"So?" you murmur, not even bothering to look up from your phone. Those F1 reels that keep popping up on your feed are so interesting! "You've got your pills and stuff? You'll be fine, same as always."

"I ran out, actually," Chan scratches the back of his head nervously.

You put down your phone. Sorry, sexy F1 guys, you can wait.

"Can't you get more?" you ask him.

"No, my doctor is out of town. It's his anniversary with his wife and his phone is turned off."

"Goddamnit, Chan, and you tell me that now?" you are immediately worried about your best friend.

Before he started these pills, Chan told you that the full moon was like really bad on him. As in, he was completely out of control and had these...urges that he had to take care of by himself. Basically, he was in a lot of pain. He's been using these pills for the last two years and they've been working miraculously. Chan was pretty much like a human during the usually dangerous for werewolves full moon. Thankfully, his doctor has been very helpful in giving him plenty of these amazing pills.

"I'm sorry...I thought I had one left but I must have miscalculated."

"Chan, I keep telling you to write these stuff down in advance," you shake your head. "What are you going to do tonight?"

"Suffer through it, I guess. I was just giving you a heads-up so you can get out of here...like right about now."

"What? No way I'm leaving you alone!" you argue passionately. "What if you die?"

"Uh, I'm pretty sure I won't. But you don't get it, without my pills, I could unwittingly put you in danger. My best chance to make sure I'm not a menace to civilized society is to lock the door and tie myself up or something."

"That sounds horrible!" you cry out, feeling intense sympathy for your best friend. "I don't want to leave you alone."

"You have to!" Chan insists. "I would hate myself if I hurt you."

"You won't!" you keep trying to persuade him. "I trust you more than anyone else in the universe."

Chan shakes his head, still hesitant.

"Please, you should leave before the moon comes up."

Little does he know it has already begun to rise...

"No, I'm not leaving you," you keep saying and wrap your arms around him.

Chan desperately tries to push you away. But it is too late.

As the moon's power grows, so does his. The only thing that prevents you from continuing to embrace him is his oncoming transformation. Your arms fall weakly to your side as you witness the impossible. His generally tender, adorable features quickly turn into sharp, wolflike and kind of intimidating ones, if you have to be honest. But this is your best friend, your Chan, you keep reminding yourself. And all the fear disappears from your body. As you kneel down next to him, you run your hand through his soft fur, trying to pet him.

He initially snarls and tries to scare you off but the more you insist, the more he relaxes under your gentle touch. God, you can't believe he was afraid he'd harm you. He's just...a big puppy.

You can't resist the temptation and you hug him again. He's so fluffy you're gonna die! And then, the unimaginable happens. He fucking purrs! Oh dear, if you had already been having a hard time trying to hide your feelings for your best friend, then seeing him like this would surely be your demise.

Then, unexpectedly, he shifts back to his human form, taking you by surprise. One, because that was faster than you'd expected. Two, because he's entirely naked, but doesn't seem perturbed by it. You try your best to look him in the eyes because uh...you're still not sure where this is going.

"Please, go, I don't think I can control myself any longer," Chan begs.

"Control what?" you're so confused. "I already witnessed you in your wolf form, you seem pretty chill."

"It's not my wolf form you should be scared of," Chan warns darkly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if you don't get out of my sight in the next ten seconds, I'll fuck you until you pass out. And maybe even after that."

Oh? Wait...OH!!!

"Was that supposed to be a threat or a promise?" you quirk your eyebrows at him.

"Hold on, don't tell me you're actually excited by the prospect?" Chan wants to make sure.

"I mean...don't threaten me with a good time," you shrug calmly.

Chan kneels next to you, grabbing your hands tightly.

"I'm serious right now, don't play with me."

"What makes you think I'm not serious? I trust you, I want you, I lo- Uh, I like you a lot, whatever you do, that won't change," you mentally curse yourself for almost saying the big L-word. You hope he didn't catch that.

Judging from Chan's expression, he seems pretty satisfied with your statement.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," he whispers and kisses you harshly, biting your lips and making a mess.

Your mouths are linked by an unending streak of saliva, but honestly you couldn't care less as he claims you, pushing his tongue deeper down your throat, gripping your hair with his fingers for better access. You are already melting. You spoke too soon. You are definitely not ready for this. But you wouldn't be able to make him stop, even if you wanted to.

"Last chance," Chan breaks the kiss to give you the opportunity to back out. To get out of here while you still can.

"Do your worst," you challenge him recklessly and he kisses you again, even harder than before if that is possible.

You know that your best friend, despite his shy and cute demeanour, is physically stronger and bigger than you, but seeing him like this, completely losing control is such a thrill you make sure to commit the picture to memory as vividly as you can.

Chan takes off your clothes in a hurry and just like a hungry wolf, attacks your pussy. And starts devouring it as if it's his last meal on Earth. He doesn't even make the effort to get to the couch, which is so close. He just takes you right there, on the floor. You shake uncontrollably, but he grips your thighs to stop you from moving.

"Please, please, please," you keep repeating even though you have no idea what you're asking for. For him to keep going? For him to stop? You don't know anymore.

"I like it when you beg," Chan smirks against your folds and dives back in, swimming in your water.

It doesn't take you long to burst, completely letting go for him.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful," he praises you, not giving you time to recover and tracing circles around your entrance with his big fingers.

"No, you," you whisper weakly, trying to make him slow down by pushing his hand away. Needless to say, your efforts are in vain. "I'm s-sensitive."

Chan laughs cruelly.

"You can take it," his words are meant to be reassuring but they're not, as he sticks his finger inside of you.

It's just one but it's already so thick you are beginning to lose your mind.

"C-chan, p-please," you cry for him.

"What is it, sweetheart? You want another?" he mocks your lack of coherence and adds a second finger without waiting for your approval.

"N-no, I c-can't," you shake your head desperately.

"Yes, you can," Chan seems fully convinced, adding a third finger. "You're so tiny, gotta stretch you up real good to be able to take my cock next. Don't you want that, babygirl?"

"Yes, I want it," you are quick to agree and do your best to relax for his big fingers.

"Gonna let me take this sweet pussy with my wolf cock? Claim you as mine? Give you my pups?" he asks gently, his unrestrained actions in complete contrast with his sweet words.

"Yes, yes! Gonna let you breed me like the stupid bitch I am," you answer, degrading yourself in the process.

"That's what I like to hear, darling," Chan praises you and makes you come again on his fingers.

You are almost about to pass out. But somehow you manage to hold on for the next part. You want to feel it. Every second of it.

"Are you sure?" he asks once again, melting your heart.

"I've never been more sure about anything in my life," you reaffirm your belief in him.

Chan doesn't wait for a second offer and slides his cock inside of you. Fucking hell, if you thought his fingers were pretty huge, his manhood is on a whole different level. You try to adjust to his monstrous size and focus on his beautiful eyes instead. He's still your Chan, your sweet-

"Fuck, your pussy's so small, gonna rip you in half," Chan grunts loudly.

Okay, not so sweet after all.

"Please, don't. Or do, it's fine by me," you attempt to make a joke.

He laughs and kisses you again, going in deeper. You wrap your hands around his neck in a tremendous effort to ground you, help you remain conscious through it all.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Chan keeps talking meanly. "Want me to ruin that tiny pussy of yours?"

"Yes, yes, I want it all," you repeat mindlessly, not caring about the consequences anymore.

Then, as if by some miracle, you feel his cock growing even more while inside of you. Is that even possible? You thought it was just a myth.

Luckily, you're wetter than ever and your pussy easily swallows his knot.

"Gonna fuck you full of my cum, make you my mate, is that okay?" Chan wants to be sure.

"It's okay, Chan, I'll be your mate," you promise, not even sure what that means. But whatever it is, you're fine with it, as long as it's with Chan...

Then, he releases his wolf seed inside of your pussy, making you feel so full, so warm, so complete.

"Take it, baby, I know you can," he reassures you and you do your best to accept his overflowing victory.

It is a total mystery how you still haven't passed out. But you're grateful for it. You'd like to treasure this moment forever.

"I don't think I'll be able to let go of you anytime soon," Chan chuckles softly, still inside of you.

"That's alright, I think I can get used to this," you respond happily, kissing him again.

"Great. 'Cause I don't plan to ever stop hunting you, my sweet little prey," Chan vows.

"I am but a willing victim to whatever it is the full moon did to you," you smile contentedly.

"And if it's not just the full moon?" Chan asks, biting your earlobe playfully with his sharp teeth. "What if I want to have my way with you every night?"

"Who needs sleep anyways?"

The End