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barnacles34 · 7 months ago

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Lost in Analysis (Winter x Male OC)

5k words, smut, fluff, happiness, data

Winter x Male OC

The thing about Junho Kim's[1] weekly debriefs with Minjeong Kim was that they followed a precise algorithm, an almost liturgical routine that both participants had wordlessly agreed upon circa Winter's third month of employment (viz. April 2024). The format went as follows: Winter would arrive at exactly 18:30 on Friday bearing a leather-bound portfolio containing the week's logistics reports, margin analyses, and projected Q3/Q4 modeling scenarios. Junho would pretend to study these for exactly twelve minutes while Winter sat in the ergonomic chair across his desk, her accent becoming pronounced in direct proportion to her anxiety level[2].

What happened on this particular Friday deviated from the algorithm in ways that would later prove significant, starting with Winter's arrival at 18:27[3].

"The Busan account numbers are off," Junho said, his photographic memory already detecting a 0.03% discrepancy in the third-quarter projections. The words emerged with the mechanical precision of someone who had learned human speech through technical manuals rather than conversation. "This is—" he paused, index finger tapping against his mahogany desk in a rapidfire motion that Winter had learned to recognize as his pre-explosion tell, "—unacceptable."

And then something unprecedented occurred.

Instead of her usual composed absorption of his critique, Winter's face crumpled into what could only be described as a squeaky whimper, a sound so incongruous with her usual professional demeanor that it seemed to physically stun Junho into silence. It was the acoustic equivalent of watching a Mercedes-Benz hiccup.

The algorithm crashed.

—

[1] Junho Kim, CEO of Quantum Logistics Solutions, net worth $2.3B (₩3.1T), possessed what his former Harvard professors called "an almost frightening capacity for data retention" and what his former therapist (sessions terminated after 2.5 meetings) called "a pathological inability to process emotional bandwidth."

[2] A phenomenon her roommate had dubbed "The Accent Anxiety Index," where her carefully practiced Seoul pronunciation would gradually give way to her native Busan satoori, ranging from barely detectable at Level 1 ("감사합니다") to full coastal at Level 10 ("아이고, 사장님, 이 숫자 영 아니네요").

[3] The 3-minute early arrival would later be explained by a complex series of events involving a broken elevator, two flights of stairs, and Winter's determination not to let her carefully constructed timeline collapse due to mechanical failure.

—

The following Friday's debrief began with Junho actually pulling out Winter's chair[4], a gesture so unexpected that she nearly missed the seat entirely. The portfolio was reviewed. The whiskey was poured (Junho's usual Macallan 25, Winter's Hwayo 41). And then, somewhere between the second and third drink, Winter's accent kicked into what would later be classified as Level 11 on the Southern Comfort Scale.

"You know what your problem is, sajangnim?" Minjeong's words carried the warm weight of soju and suppressed frustration, her carefully maintained Seoul accent dissolving entirely into coastal inflections. "당신은 인생을 마치 스프레드시트처럼 대하시네요. Everything must calculate perfectly, but people aren't numbers, and some of us are tired of being debugged like broken code."

Junho's finger stopped its habitual tapping mid-motion[5].

—

[4] A gesture learned from a WikiHow article titled "Basic Human Courtesy: A Beginner's Guide" that Junho had queued up on his tablet at 3:47 AM the previous Tuesday.

[5] Later analysis would reveal this as the exact moment Junho Kim, master of algorithms and logistics, encountered a variable his photographic memory couldn't process: genuine human connection.[6]

The office fell into a silence that could be measured in heartbeats (Junho's: an efficient 72 BPM; Minjeong's: an elevated 98 BPM). Outside, Seoul's financial district performed its usual Friday night exodus, the sound of departing Mercedes and BMWs creating a capitalistic symphony twenty-three floors below.

"시간이..." Minjeong continued, her Busan accent now operating at what could only be classified as Level 12[7], "Time isn't just money, 사장님. Sometimes it's just... time. Like those lunches you wolf down in exactly eight minutes while reading reports. Or these Friday meetings where you never actually look at me, just through me at some invisible spreadsheet floating in the air behind my head."

Junho's hand, still frozen mid-tap, slowly lowered to the desk. His photographic memory began involuntarily cataloging details it had somehow missed during their previous 47 debriefs: the way Minjeong's left hand always fidgeted with her portfolio's corner when nervous, how her voice carried traces of sea salt and summer festivals despite years of Seoul speech coaching, the fact that she had memorized his coffee preferences down to the precise temperature (81°C, no higher, no lower).

"I do look at you," he said, then immediately registered the statistical improbability of his own response[8].

Minjeong's laugh carried the particular timber of someone who had been holding it in reserve for approximately 11.7 months. "아니요, you really don't. You look at KPIs and performance metrics and quarterly projections. Did you know," she leaned forward, her accent thick as Busan fog, "that I've worn the same earrings every Friday for three months just to see if you'd notice?"

The earrings in question were small silver cranes, Junho's memory instantly supplied, purchased from a street vendor in Gukje Market during last quarter's Busan office inspection, chosen because their wings formed the mathematical symbol for infinity when viewed from the correct angle[9].

—

[6] A concept that would later require Junho to create an entirely new category in his mental filing system, located somewhere between "Acceptable Business Practices" and "Breathing Exercises (Mandatory)."

[7] A previously theoretical level on the Accent Anxiety Index, characterized by the complete abandonment of Seoul linguistic pretense and the emergence of what Minjeong's mother would call "우리 딸의 진짜 목소리" (our daughter's real voice).

[8] Statistical analysis of Junho's daily eye contact patterns, conducted by his personal AI assistant, revealed an average sustained eye contact duration of 1.3 seconds with all employees, making his current 4.7-second gaze at Minjeong a 361.5% deviation from the mean.

[9] A detail that would have impressed Junho greatly had he noticed it at the time of purchase, rather than at this precise moment when his brain was simultaneously trying to process the concept of infinity and the way Minjeong's eyes reflected the city lights like binary code translated into stardust.

—

The Hwayo bottle stood between them like a glass mediator, its contents depleted by exactly 73.4%. Junho found himself performing calculations he had never previously considered necessary: the precise angle at which Minjeong's smile disrupted his cardiac rhythm (42.7°), the correlation coefficient between her proximity and his ability to maintain coherent thought patterns (inverse relationship, R² = 0.97), the half-life of each satoori-tinged syllable in his auditory memory (approaching infinity)[10].

"There's a pojangmacha," Minjeong said, her words now performing linguistic gymnastics between Seoul and Busan, "down in Gangnam that serves 할매's 파전 just like back home. But you—" she gestured with her glass, creating small amber trajectories in the air, "—you probably have the exact caloric content memorized without ever tasting it."

"624 calories per standard serving," Junho confirmed automatically, then added, in what he would later recognize as his first attempt at human humor[11], "Not accounting for 할매's (grandmother’s) love."

The laugh that escaped Minjeong's lips was genuine enough to bypass all of Junho's statistical models for appropriate business interaction. It was the kind of laugh that made him wonder if his entire algorithmic approach to life had been operating on a fundamental error: the assumption that human emotions could be debugged rather than experienced.

"사장님," she said, then caught herself, "아니, Junho-ssi." The honorific shift created a quantifiable disruption in the office's atmospheric pressure[12]. "Do you know why I cry sometimes when you yell about the numbers?"

Junho's hands found themselves attempting to calculate an emotion he had no formula for. "I... have a working hypothesis."

"It's not because I'm scared or hurt," she continued, her Busan accent now wrapping around the words like a warm coast-side breeze. "It's because I see you turning yourself into code, like you're trying to compile a human being into binary, and..." she paused, searching for words in both Seoul and Busan vocabularies before settling on, "...그게 너무 아까워요."

The phrase hung in the air, untranslatable in its full emotional weight[13].

—

[10] A phenomenon that would later require Junho to create an entirely new mathematical framework he privately termed "The Minjeong Constant: Variables in Human Connection."

[11] Later analysis of office security footage would reveal this as his first non-data-related comment in approximately 2,847 hours of recorded business interactions.

[12] Advanced environmental sensors in the building's HVAC system actually recorded a 0.02% change in air pressure at this exact moment, though causation versus correlation remains a subject of debate among the building's maintenance staff.

[13] The closest English approximation might be "it's such a waste," but this fails to capture the uniquely Korean sense of regret for potential beauty lost to unnecessary efficiency, like trying to measure ocean waves in milliliters.

—

For exactly 15.4 seconds, Junho Kim—master of instantaneous data processing, champion of real-time analytics—found himself buffering. His mind, that perfectly calibrated instrument of calculation, attempted to run multiple subroutines simultaneously:

ROUTINE_1: Analyze the 2.3% tremor in Minjeong's voice during "그게 너무 아까워요"

ROUTINE_2: Process the 7.4mm dilation of his pupils upon hearing his given name

ROUTINE_3: Calculate the exact distance between their hands on the desk (23.7cm, decreasing by approximately 0.3mm per heartbeat)

ERROR: Stack overflow in emotional processing unit[14]

"I have a file," he began, then stopped, realizing that perhaps not everything needed to be classified and stored. "No, I mean... I remember every time you've smiled at work. Real smiles, not the ones you use for clients or difficult vendors." His fingers twitched, instinctively seeking a keyboard that wasn't there. "The data suggests that they occur most frequently when you're talking about Busan, or when you think no one is watching you arrange the office plants, or..." he paused, processing, "...or when you're correcting my humanity protocols[15]."

Minjeong's eyes widened, creating what Junho's brain automatically calculated as a 34.6% increase in their reflective surface area. "You... keep track of my smiles?"

"I keep track of everything," he said, then amended, displaying unprecedented runtime flexibility, "but your smiles occupy 43% more memory space than standard data points."

"아이고," Minjeong laughed, the sound carrying hints of sea breezes and noraebang nights, "only you would quantify feelings in percentages and memory allocation, 사장님[16]."

The Hwayo bottle now stood at 82.6% depletion. Outside, Seoul had transformed into its weekend configuration, all neon equations and binary dreams. But inside this office, something unquantifiable was compiling—a program written in neither Python nor Java, but in the ancient code of human connection.

"There's a logical error in your earlier statement," Junho said suddenly, his voice performing calculations it had never been calibrated for. "About me not looking at you."

"Oh?" Minjeong's eyebrow arched at precisely 27 degrees.

"I look at you approximately 2,347 times per day. My peripheral vision activates in your presence with 72% more frequency than baseline. I have memorized exactly 267 variations of your voice modulation between Seoul and Busan registers[17]. The error," he continued, his own accent slipping for the first time since Harvard, "is in assuming I don't see you."

—

[14] A phenomenon his Harvard professors had theoretically predicted but never successfully documented: the complete shutdown of pure logic circuits in favor of what they termed "human.exe."

[15] A private joke that had never made it past his internal firewall until this moment, referring to the way she subtly guided him toward more socially acceptable behaviors, like suggesting he say "good morning" to the cleaning staff or remember team members' birthdays.

[16] The honorific here carrying a new weight, somewhere between professional distance and affectionate teasing, a linguistic quantum state that would have fascinated physicists had they been present to observe it.

[17] This particular statistic would later become the subject of a 3 AM realization that perhaps "normal" CEOs don't maintain such detailed databases of their assistants' vocal patterns.

—

The confession hung in the air with the weight of a misplaced decimal point. Minjeong's hand, still holding her Hwayo glass, trembled at a frequency of approximately 3.2 Hz. The office's automated climate control system registered a sudden 0.7°C spike in local temperature[18].

"그래서..." Minjeong's voice emerged in Pure Pattern #271 (Subcategory: Emotional Breakthrough), "this is why you always know when I've had 떡볶이 for lunch?"

The unexpected query caused Junho to experience what his systems could only classify as a brief moment of runtime joy. "The specific aroma particles adhere to your cardigan at a rate of—" he caught himself, noting the gleam in her eye, and for the first time in recorded history, Junho Kim deliberately chose not to complete a calculation[19].

Instead, he found himself saying, "Your smile increases by exactly 23.7% when you eat 떡볶이. It's... optimal."

"최적화?" Minjeong's laugh carried notes of soju and starlight. "You're really going to data-analyze my happiness levels?"

"I have spreadsheets," he admitted, his voice carrying an unfamiliar warmth that his diagnostic systems struggled to categorize. "Cross-referenced with weather patterns, quarterly reports, and the frequency of your Busan accent emergence[20]."

"아이고..." She shifted in her chair, reducing the distance between them by precisely 4.7 centimeters. "You're either the weirdest or the most romantic person I've ever met, and I haven't decided which yet."

The word 'romantic' created a momentary buffer overflow in Junho's cognitive processes. His hands, typically occupied with calculating profit margins or optimizing supply chains, found themselves drawing abstract patterns on his desk's surface—a behavior previously filed under 'Inefficient Human Gestures: Do Not Engage.'

"I could..." he paused, processing, "...show you the data?"

—

[17] This particular dataset would later be renamed in his personal files to "The Minjeong Codex: A Quantitative Analysis of Qualitative Perfection."

[18] The building's maintenance staff would later attribute this to a mechanical anomaly, unaware they had documented the exact moment Junho Kim's ice-cold corporate facade began its calculated melt.

[19] A moment that would later be marked in his personal development log as "First Successful Implementation of Strategic Data Suppression for Emotional Optimization."

[20] These spreadsheets, discovered months later during a routine server backup, would become legendary among the IT department as "The Love Languages of Linear Regression."

—

Minjeong's eyes sparkled with what Junho's facial recognition protocols quantified as 87% mirth, 13% tenderness. "보여주세요," she said, the soju making her consonants softer, more Busan-bound. "Show me this data about me."

For the first time in his professional career, Junho Kim fumbled with his laptop password[21]. The Hwayo bottle between them had decreased to critical levels, and he found the standard office lights were creating unusual prismatic effects in Minjeong's hair. His fingers, typically precise to the microsecond, skittered across the keyboard.

"See, here's the correlation between your happiness metrics and the proximity to Korean holidays," he began, then stopped, distracted by the way she'd rolled her chair closer to view his screen. The scent of her perfume (도라지 꽃, his brain supplied automatically, though for once the percentage calculation felt irrelevant) mixed with the lingering soju in the air.

"You made a pie chart," she said, her voice warm with something his systems were too buzzed to properly quantify, "of my favorite lunch spots?"

"The data visualization seemed... appropriate," he managed, aware that his usual processing power was operating at diminished capacity. "Though I may have spent a statistically anomalous amount of time color-coding it to match your favorite blazer[22]."

Minjeong's laugh had shed all traces of its Seoul polish. "어머나, who knew the great Junho Kim was such a..." she searched for the word in both dialects before landing on, "...nerd?"

"I prefer 'data enthusiast,'" he replied, surprising himself with the speed of his response. The soju was definitely affecting his standard processing delays. "Though my enthusiasm appears to be... specialized."

"Specialized?" Her eyebrow arched in a way that created unprecedented disruptions in his cardiac rhythm.

"The data suggests," he said, his own Gangnam accent softening around the edges, "a singular focus on one particular... variable[23]."

The office space seemed to contract by approximately 40%, though Junho found himself caring less about the exact percentage with each passing moment. Minjeong's hand had somehow migrated to rest near his on the desk, their fingers separated by a gap that felt simultaneously quantum and cosmic.

—

[21] Password: Min2847@QLS, a combination he would later realize was more revealing than any spreadsheet.

[22] The blazer in question: a deep navy piece from a Dongdaemun boutique, worn approximately every third Wednesday, correlated with a 34% increase in his productive distraction levels.

[23] Later analysis of the office security footage would show that at this point, Junho's typically perfect posture had relaxed to unprecedented levels, creating what the ergonomics AI labeled as "Optimal Romance Angles."

—

"Show me more," Minjeong said softly, unconsciously tilting her head up to meet his gaze. Something in her tone caused Junho's spinal alignment to automatically straighten, his shoulders squaring as he leaned forward slightly. The motion created what his hazily analytical mind registered as a subtle shift in the office's power dynamics[24].

"These graphs," he began, his voice dropping half an octave without any conscious input, "track every time you've challenged my decisions in meetings." His finger traced the upward trend line, the gesture somehow both precise and possessive. "You're the only one who dares to correct my logic. It's... intriguing."

Minjeong's breath caught audibly. "사장님..." she started, then with visible effort, "Junho-ssi... you track even that?"

"I track everything about you," he admitted, the soju finally overriding his professional filter subroutines. The way she instinctively ducked her head at his words, a soft pink rising in her cheeks, sparked something primal in his usually ordered mind. "Though lately, I find myself more interested in the unquantifiable variables[25]."

"Like what?" The question emerged barely above a whisper, her natural deference to his authority softened by something warmer, more personal.

Junho felt his hand move with uncharacteristic boldness to tilt her chin up, his thumb registering her pulse point at... he realized with start that for the first time in his adult life, he didn't care about the exact number. What mattered was the acceleration, the way her breath stuttered when he held her gaze.

"Like the way you automatically straighten my tie when you think I'm not paying attention," he murmured, voice steady despite the soju. "Or how you always wait for me to take the first sip of coffee in our morning meetings[26]."

—

[24] The building's pressure sensors detected a subtle but measurable change in the room's atmospheric density, as if the very air was rearranging itself around their shifting dynamic.

[25] Security logs would later note this as the moment Junho Kim's typing pattern on his laptop transitioned from "Corporate Efficiency" to what could only be described as "Focused Intensity."

[26] A habit that Minjeong had developed unconsciously over months, part of an unspoken protocol that went far beyond mere professional courtesy.

—

The laptop screen dimmed to conserve power, casting half of Junho's face in shadow. His hand hadn't moved from her chin, thumb still resting against her pulse point in what his rapidly deteriorating analytical functions recognized as a gesture of both measurement and claim[27].

"You know what else I've noticed?" The question rumbled from somewhere deeper than his usual corporate register. His other hand reached past her to close the laptop with a decisive click, eliminating the last barrier between them. "You mirror my breathing patterns during long meetings. 호흡이... perfectly synchronized."

Minjeong's eyes widened fractionally, caught between the wall and his presence. "That's..." she swallowed, her professional composure wavering, "...very observant of you, 사장님."

"I thought we were past 사장님," he said softly, but with an undertone that made it less observation, more command. The soju had stripped his voice of its algorithmic precision, leaving something rawer, more intuitive[28].

"Jun...ho..." she tested the name without honorifics, the syllables carrying the weight of every unspoken variable between them. Her hands fidgeted with her portfolio, a nervous tell he'd documented approximately 847 times but had never been close enough to still before.

Until now.

His free hand covered both of hers, instantly calming their movement. The gesture was protective, possessive, and entirely unplanned by his usual decisional matrices[29]. "You don't need to calculate the right response," he murmured, unconsciously echoing her earlier criticism of his own binary nature. "Your instincts have a 99.9% accuracy rate."

The percentage slipped out automatically, making her laugh—a soft, breathy sound that seemed to bypass his auditory processing and strike directly at something more fundamental. Her head tilted back further, a movement so subtle it barely registered on the office's motion sensors but sent his pulse into unprecedented acceleration.

"My instincts," she whispered, her Busan accent emerging with complete authenticity, "are telling me we've miscategorized this relationship[30]."

—

[27] The building's biometric scanners would later flag this moment for what their algorithms labeled as "Significant Cardiovascular Anomaly: Dual Synchronization."

[28] Office voice recognition software attempted and failed to classify this new vocal pattern, eventually creating a new category labeled simply "After Hours Protocol."

[29] The exact pressure of his grip would have registered at precisely 7.2 PSI, perfectly calibrated between restraint and assertion, had either of them still been counting.

[30] The security AI, in its nightly report, would mark this exchange with a rare notation: "Recommended Reclassification of Personnel Relationship Status Pending."

—

"Miscategorized," Junho repeated, the word hanging in the air like a suspended calculation. His hand moved from her chin to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her hair with unprecedented decisiveness[31]. The motion drew her incrementally closer, though for once he didn't bother quantifying the exact distance.

"yes..." Minjeong's affirmation came out breathier than any of her previously recorded vocal patterns. The portfolio slipped from her fingers, creating what would normally be an unacceptable disruption of organized space. Neither of them moved to retrieve it.

"You know what's interesting?" Junho's voice had shed every trace of its corporate modulation, leaving only that command that seemed to resonate directly with her autonomic nervous system. "I've run approximately 2,847 scenarios of this moment in my head[32]."

Her hands had found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the precise Italian wool of his suit. "And?" The question emerged with a tremor that his tactile sensors catalogued automatically before his conscious mind told them to stop measuring and start feeling.

"None of them..." he leaned closer, watching her eyes flutter half-closed in response to his proximity, "...included the variable of you looking at me exactly like this."

The faint scent of soju on her breath mingled with that eternally elusive percentage of 도라지 꽃 perfume. Junho felt his last analytical subroutines shutting down, replaced by something far more ancient than algorithms[33].

"Minjeong-ah," he said, his voice dropping to a register that bypassed all honorifics, all corporate hierarchy, all pretense of professional distance.

Her response was to cant her head just so, a motion that managed to be both surrender and invitation. "Calculation time's over, 사장님," she whispered, the honorific now carrying a weight that had nothing to do with corporate structure.

—

[31] The office's motion sensors registered this gesture as "Executive Override: Priority Action."

[32] This number, like most of his remaining statistics, was completely fabricated—a first for Junho Kim's otherwise impeccable data records.

[33] Building security cameras would later mark this timestamp with an unprecedented classification: "Critical System Override: Human.exe fully activated."

—

For the first time in his documented existence, Junho Kim stopped calculating entirely.

The distance closed between them with a momentum that defied measurement. His hand tightened in her hair, angling her face upward as his other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The kiss, when it came, contained no statistics, no data points, no quantifiable metrics[34].

Minjeong made a soft sound—Pattern #unknown, Category: heaven—against his mouth. Her fingers clutched his suit lapels with enough force to wrinkle the wool beyond its optimal pressed state, a fact that Junho's usually meticulous mind registered and immediately discarded as irrelevant.

Time segmented into a new measurement system: the catch of her breath, the silk of her hair between his fingers, the way she yielded and pressed closer simultaneously. Junho discovered that his organizational skills apparently extended to kissing, each angle adjustment and pressure variation drawing increasingly desperate responses from Minjeong[35].

When they finally broke apart, Minjeong's carefully maintained Seoul pronunciation had disappeared entirely. "아이고..." she breathed against his mouth, "당신이..."

"Initial results," Junho murmured, his own accent thick with something that had nothing to do with regional linguistics, "require extensive further testing[36]."

She laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest where she was still pressed against him. "Did you just turn our first kiss into a quality control protocol?"

"Quality confirmed," he replied, then demonstrated his newfound commitment to hands-on research by kissing her again, harder this time, swallowing her surprised gasp. His hand splayed possessively across her lower back, holding her steady as she swayed into him.

—

[34] The building's atmospheric sensors recorded unexplained fluctuations in local temperature, humidity, and electromagnetic fields, leading to a complete recalibration of their measurement standards.

[35] Later analysis would suggest that Junho's legendary attention to detail had found a new, decidedly non-professional application, though this data remains classified in personal files marked "Private Research: Ongoing."

[36] The security AI attempting to transcribe this conversation eventually gave up and simply tagged the file: "Error 404: Professionalism Not Found."

—

Somewhere in the haze of non-analytical thought, Junho registered Minjeong's slight backward momentum and moved instinctively to steady her. His hand swept the desk clear with uncharacteristic disregard for organizational protocols, sending the quarterly reports flutter-falling to the carpet in an acceptable margin of chaos[37].

"Jun...ho..." His name escaped her lips like a statistical anomaly as he lifted her effortlessly onto the mahogany surface. Her legs parted automatically to accommodate him, skirt hiking up precisely 4.7 inches—the last measurement his brain would process for the foreseeable future.

"So beautiful," he murmured against her throat, the words emerging in pure Gangnam inflection, all pretense of corporate diction abandoned. His teeth grazed her pulse point, drawing a whimper that would require an entirely new classification system[38].

Minjeong's fingers tangled in his precisely styled hair, disrupting approximately 47 minutes of morning grooming routine. "사장님," she gasped, the honorific now carrying entirely different connotations, "the papers..."

"Irrelevant data," he growled, recapturing her mouth with newfound authority. The kiss deepened, transformed, became something that defied all previous parameters. Her back arched into him, creating angles that had nothing to do with geometry and everything to do with instinct[39].

A distant part of his mind registered the soft thud of his suit jacket hitting the floor, followed by the whisper of silk as Minjeong's blazer joined it. The city lights painted silver equations across her skin, codes he suddenly needed to decode with his mouth instead of his mind.

—

[37] The office's normally pristine state would require exactly 23.7 minutes to restore, a task that would be significantly delayed by several subsequent "data collection sessions."

[38] Facial recognition software attempting to analyze the security feed would crash repeatedly, unable to reconcile Junho Kim's expression with any known configuration in its emotional database.

[39] The building's structural integrity sensors registered minor seismic activity, though this data would be suspiciously absent from the next day's maintenance logs.

—

He let his hands trail by the sides of her body, one busy with her torso—breasts and all—and the other, feeling the creamy softness of her thighs. And each needy press or pinch, brought out the softest of her moans, the cutest of her lip quivers.

He was busy, marking her lips, making it all swollen and red; yet, still, he couldn’t get enough of her. That soft body, her caring little hands, her hot inner thighs, and that gentle heat radiating off her core—just hidden by the slightest of her skirt. “Minjeong.” He whispered, pressing himself against her—a matter of teasing and also a way to test the waters, whether or not she wanted it on the table.

And Minjeong, not one to initiate, wrapped her thin arms around his nape, pulling him closer, “Yes, yes, please, anything, anywhere,” then a dozen little kisses all on his face. This assurance, this consent, slowly, but surely, made him wrench her legs open—wide. He saw that stain, dark against her gray underwear, and that was when his photographic memory… failed him.

He dug in, letting his loin press up against hers—immersing himself in her wetness. Then, finally, he pulled down on his pants, showing his tent-like imprint on his underwear to Minjeong, who, obviously, couldn’t stop staring. By the end of the minute, that ruthless minute, both were undressed in their lower-half—a utilitarian instinct to fuck each other as fast as possible.

Junho breathed heavily, staring at that pink hue that her core was so beautifully composed of—along with the wetness, the fragrance, and more. “Minjeong…” He held his shaft, lining it up straight on her wetness. She finally replied, “Yes… Junho…” And that’s when he pressed in, into the endless heat.

That wet connection hilt-to-hilt, along with a deep kiss—turned Minjeong completely docile and submissive. That wet connection, her wet slime covering his shaft, somehow, only intensified their lust for each other. He pressed in again, faster this time, earning that soft mewl. “Mhm, fuck me,” she whispered, again and again. He kept honoring those wishes, going deeper, and faster. He tucked his dick into her pussy, wet squelch and all, over and over until he felt his legs get weak from thrusting. Yet, that weakness didn’t deter him, he glided deeper, letting both their pelvises rub against each other, and making Minjeong cry out from the clit stimulation. She felt like she was getting tunneled, this man, the love of her life, crush of her lifetime, fucking her so good into a wobbly table—dreams aren’t even this good.

“I’m gonna cum, Minjeong.” He whispered, low and growling.

“Inside. Please. Inside…” She whispered before getting overtaken by her orgasm.

And just at the peak of her orgasm, the teetering breath before rest, Junho barreled all his semen inside her—rope after rope of semen splashing against her cervix. “Holy fuck.” they both said in conjunction.

—

The Seoul skyline had shifted into its late-night configuration by the time they finally disentangled themselves. Junho's normally immaculate shirt hung open, his tie having long since joined the scattered papers on the floor. Minjeong's hair had abandoned all pretense of its usual professional arrangement, falling in waves that his fingers couldn't seem to stop threading through[40].

"이게..." Minjeong began, her voice still carrying traces of breathlessness as she surveyed the chaos they'd created. Her blazer lay draped over a chair at an angle that would have horrified their usual professional standards. "I should reorganize the—"

"Stay exactly where you are," Junho commanded softly, his arms tightening around her waist. His usual perfectionism had found a new target: the way she melted against him at that tone[41].

She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, her smile pure Busan sunshine. "데이트하자... be my 오빠?" The question emerged with endearing uncertainty, mixing honorifics and languages in a way that bypassed his brain entirely and struck straight at his heart.

"그래," he murmured into her hair, then with characteristic precision added, "Exclusively."

Her laugh carried notes of joy and residual shyness. "Then as your girlfriend, I should really clean up this mess..." She gestured at the scattered papers, the displaced furniture, the general dishevelment that spoke eloquently of the past hour's activities.

"As your boyfriend," his voice dropped to that commanding register that made her shiver, "I want to watch you do it[42]."

The drive home—his penthouse, by unspoken agreement—required exactly 17 minutes. Neither of them bothered to count.

—

[40] The building's security system would later note this as the longest recorded instance of the CEO remaining in office after hours, though the detailed logs were mysteriously corrupted.

[41] Internal HR protocols regarding workplace relationships were hastily updated the following morning, though no one questioned why the CEO personally oversaw these revisions.

[42] The night cleaning staff would arrive to find the office in unprecedented perfect order, though several employees would later swear they heard laughter and whispered Busan endearments echoing through the empty halls.

Fin

#winter smut #aespa smut #aespa #kpop smut #male oc #female idol #smut

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kyri45 · 6 months ago

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✨ShadowPeach Bio Parents Bio AU Q&A! 23/12✨

Welcome to the Q&A! A space where I can answer related or similar question about the Shadowpeach Bio Parents AU! If you submitted your ask anonimously, then you’ll have to check the whole post if it’s answered here, if it’s not, worry not! Your asks might have been used for a future comic or just in the queue~

@boonalina ha chiesto: Question: Why does Wukong's biblically accurate form have two faces? Also, was there some inspiration for you that made you want to design him like that? (Since I know he doesn't have any canonical Kaiju form in LMK) Also also, DAMN that Kaiju fight was so freaking pretty!! The colors were so well done!

thank you!! He has 3 actually, but in the panels you can see 2 bc the third is facing away from the camera aha.

Anonimo ha chiesto: would you make a Shadowpeach bio parents au zine?

yes I would. But it requires an enormeous amount of organization, plus you need multiple people to organize a zine, from contacting, to marketing, to production, to logistic etc… I don’t have the time right now as I’m already working.

@stro-lmk-enjoyer ha chiesto: Head canon that Red Son uses/used to use the ‘rubber duck’ method while working. The rubber duck method is: when making something by yourself you may get stuck/stressed out because you can’t find a solution to a problem. Have a rubber duck on your desk just so you can verbally explain your problem, which could help you solve it by actually hearing it out loud. But a side effect of this is now Red Son will talk to himself while he works, even if it does help it still freaks his parents out hearing him mumbling to himself when they pass his room. Just something I learned recently when watching a video about writing a characters backstory 👍 I thought you might like this too! Bye <3

i know need Red Son just talking about project to a cute rubber duck and MK finding it adorable.

Anonimo ha chiesto: Will LBD come back ? Even if it is just in a dream ?

maybe

Anonimo ha chiesto: how old is MK ? Like 18-21 ???

almost 22.

@haru7110 ha chiesto: IS MEI IMMORTAL LIKE MK AND REDSON IN THE SHADOWPEACH AU??? I NEED TO KNOW!! Fornoreasonwhatsoeverobviouslyhahahahaha (angst purposes)

no Mei is not immortal, but I would guess she has a lifespan slightly longer than average bc of her family.

@cutvdo ha chiesto: When you first draw Red Son in his human form he looked small, but later he looks bigger (probably from you getting more comfortable drawing him). I like to think he changed his human form a bit because he found out MK likes big man

this is the best conclusion ever. He would fr fr

Anonimo ha chiesto: Guess you could say MK got his own personal monkey tree

omfg-

@aizieweex ha chiesto: Hey Kyri!!! I LOVE your art, aaaand thanks for the recent repost of my animatic (or animatik?...I honestly don't know which is more correct, I'm not a native speaker at all), I literally screamed, lol (And still screaming). I wanted to ask, how many parts of the comic are you counting on? Do you already have a certain planned number of chapters? Anonimo ha chiesto: Hello! How long will the shadow peach bio parents au be?

there will be 9 parts in total. I don’t know the exact number of chapters left but I can assume around 30.

@copyrightedbystarkindustries ha chiesto: Love your art!!! Are you planning on putting shadowpeach au stuff on your redbubble in the future?

Yes I do! But first I need to finish my job which will be more or less on the 20th of January.

Anonimo ha chiesto: Does MK use a glamour to hide some scars or something his parents aren’t supposed to find out about ?

yes

@twilight-bai-he ha chiesto: When you said during the livestream that MK will have a new outfit when he is magical girl, What do you mean by that ?

that he will eventually own a new outfit as “official outfit” let’s say. That isn’t his temporary fighting outfit he has now.

@magician-kitty ha chiesto: You think Mac will get more flustered now that Wukong’s more muscular thanks to all that weight lifting from the previous chapters?

a little bit yes.

@whotookfinn ha chiesto: Hey!! I’m absolutely in love with your art, it’s so beautiful and wonderful and IM OBSESSED. Anyway, I’m not sure if you’ve been asked this before, but who’s your favorite lmk character to draw?

macaque and Mk, they fluffy.

Anonimo ha chiesto: I HAVE A QUESTION! after your shadowpeach AU will be finished will you do other lmk Au????

nope.

@cjtuy ha chiesto: My question is about tang and pigsy are they married I've always wondered this

no they are not married, but it’s something they have been thought for a little bit. They known each other for years and got together for one. They know they work very well as a couple, and marriage would only be a more “official” way to show their union. It’s on their mind, maybe they will plan it in the near future

Anonimo ha chiesto: Have you seen that Brandon Roger's clip where he loses his kid? I can just imagine macaque going through that right now with mk being kidnapped. "Mothers adrenaline is kicking in!!" "have you seen my son, he's about this tall, clearly gay but we haven't had the talk" https://youtu.be/dJJUFrENZ_o?si=lbacsYlJr8XpaDQQ (this is the sound just in case)

LMAO I know that video by heart yes absolutely those would be the parents.

Anonimo ha chiesto: In the Bioparents AU, is Redson actually going to be able to court so Mk in the end after the whole celestial situation?

they will have time to do their stuff after the heaven shenanigans.

@ashmeertheimp ha chiesto: I hope you are having a lovely day/night and are healthy and well AND TYSM FOR THAT SPICYNOODLES KISS I LOVED IT AND MY HEART WAS ABOUT TO BURST! Anyway I was wondering if mk and Redson parents are gonna have quality time with there Nephew in spirt/potential son in law?

mm yes. Post heaven shenanigans but yes.

@cpazy ha chiesto: About that,

It means that Mac and MK's powers have to do with the moon cycle, like on a full moon they get stronger or something like that? And if there is an eclipse where the moon turns red, their powers would go out of control?

Yes, but the opposite. On a full moon they are weaker, while on a new moon they are stronger.

Anonimo ha chiesto: Hello! Not a question but I just love and ADORE your shadowpeach bio parents au! ❤️ Recently you had posted about LMK fic recommendations, I wanted to recommend "The Constellations Within Us" and it's sequel "Epilogue: Axis" (ongoing) by cloud_somersault on AO3. It's one of my favorite LMK/Shadowpeach fics! The writing and world building are stellar and it includes similar themes as the ones in your comic, like the themes of reconciliation, shadowpeach angst and repairing their friendship and their joint custod- I mean- mentorship of MK! It's a really good fic and I highly recommend giving it a read! https://archiveofourown.org/works/48308065 And again, love your comic so much! Have a great day! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

aaahhhh I will definetely check them out!

@astro-nomaly ha chiesto: Per ur Bio Parents AU, what happens when a courtnapping occurs, but the person getting napped isn’t actually into the courtnapper, and doesn’t want to be napped? Does courtnapping have a “leave whenever you want” clause or..? (I love ur au akshhenwb)

they are allowed to refuse anytime. If the kidnapper doesn’t allow the he’s a dick

@thecardboardbutterfly ha chiesto: Since everyone is starting to fear for tomorrow, I decided to share my convoluted thought I got yesterday night at like, 3AM to lighten the mood a bit (.3.)~* So Technically, given that Lmk is very much based on Journey to the West, maybe it's not that much of a stretch to call Lmk fan content of JTTW, like some kind of future AU or something. Which means your AU is fan content of Lmk. See where I'm getting at? Because your comic is so popular in the fandom, there is fan content of your AU out there, which is already fan content. Which means we reached a point where we have fan content (fanarts and various inspirations of the bio parents AU) of fan content (said bio parents AU) of fan content (Lmk) of a piece of content (JTTW). The chain is GETTING LONGER BOYS. I personally think it's funny. My apologies for everyone who lost their brain/ last remaining braincell reading this x)

omg. It’s a fan-inception!

Anonimo ha chiesto: Will Red Son and MK ever have a bad date?

I like to believe EVERY date will have would be comically bad. But I think that’s because they still need to understand that they don’t fall under the “typical demon date” or “amatonormativity” umbrella. The best date they could have is just them training and having lunch later, or them playing videogames or netflix and chill.

@sollythesalt ha chiesto: Dumb question but do you remember the scene in lmk where Wukong said he has stage fright? I wonder if you're gonna do something with that knowledge…. Ps: Keep doing your magic queen we love you and your art✌️💅

oh u bet I did

#ask box #shadowpeach bio parents au

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max1461 · 4 months ago

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Well this user has me blocked. I think the CCP's development strategy was pretty successful but I'm not sure why they had to ban bishie boys from tv. My concrete solution to improve the function of the party would be just don't worry about the bishie boys on tv, just let them be. It's ok, and even good, for there to be bishie boys on tv.

Also go back to power sharing and institute more checks and balances this time so that it's harder to dismantle. I know the ML line is that checks and balances are bullshit but they really do work; government is a coordination problem, no man governs alone, and if you set up the system so coordination around an autocrat is logistically and structurally difficult for the various politicians and career functionaries then guess what, you'll get fewer autocrats!

I'm not even asking for democracy here! Democracy is 90% fake anyway. I mean, yeah, I do think that 10% matters, but whatever.

I've got a few more. How about roll back the War on Terror rhetoric and racial profiling in Xinjiang? How about get rid of the re-education camps to which people can be sent against their will without trial? That's actually called a "prison", and I don't think War on Terror shit will be any more effective in Xinjiang than it was in Afghanistan, and also, yes, I do admit there's a moral component here—I think that racial profiling and imprisonment without trial are bad, in addition to not being necessary or particularly useful for, uh, development. Would you condone these things in the US? On the grounds of development?

Well, the US is capitalist. Unlike China, which—

Ok, so explain to me how all the SOEs and like, limitations on financial instruments and shit make racial profiling very useful for development? It's ok to do racial profiling and imprisonment without trial if you have enough SOEs. For development... it's just part of the development strategy.

The party could maybe do some wealth redistribution? Build stronger social safety nets? Xi claims welfare makes people lazy. I think he's wrong about this. I also think one of China's biggest economic issues is lack of domestic consumption which is going to hit especially hard if Cold War 2 keeps ramping up. You know what increases consumption? A little welfare, a little stimmie, a little free money from the government. I do also think that, morally, there is an obligation to give poor people free money. But you can set that aside I suppose.

Wait, why do we care about China's development anyway? Why do we want the CCP's development strategy to succeed? Is it because development in China has lifted 800 million people out of absolute poverty, and that is *gasp* morally good? And we, being moral, might want to see it continue? Or is it because of a bunch of Marxist word salad that shakes out to the same position in different words?

It's the latter, probably. Oh well.

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strangelittlestories · 10 months ago

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Something interesting about archaeology is that it’s actually not that interesting: even when you’re on a dig, most of it is dirt and logistics and fragments.

Something scary about ghosts is that they’re actually not that frightening: even when you have a haunting, most of it is ectoplasm and low-key longing and echoes.

The fascinating bit about both is that, sometimes, when you piece all the boring bits together, you get a story; a story of how people used to live. It will probably be a story about something mundane, like how people cooked or what their bathroom solutions were.

For example: at this particular dig, we found fragments of large cooking pots in a few larger buildings. The smaller buildings that seemed to be individual homes did not have *any* surviving cooking pots (not even any copper remnants); however, they did have at least one well preserved earthenware bowl inscribed with runes.

These runes turned out to be a close match to an early rune of co-locating folk magic, seen primarily in the Katabasic region. The bowl was also adorned with a slate inlay, of a kind that was often used to write upon in chalk.

The apparent conclusion? This settlement operated a communal cooking operation that delivered food to order. We would assume the recipient would write their request in chalk on the slate inlay of their bowl, and the runes would briefly trick reality into thinking the inside of the bowl and the inside of the pot occupied the same space. Thus, the bowl would magically fill with food.

So, yeah. These folks had invented magical Doordash.

I briefly considered trying to replicate their system on my travel mug. The coffee on the dig site was *dreadful*, so I figured I could have my husband make some nice single origin cold brew back home (or maybe a nice pot of darjeeling second flush?) and teleport it in. But as it was likely tied to local hospitality folk magic, this would likely run across three problems: 1. Range limitations. 2. It may only work for community members. 3. Folk magic sometimes used local deities or spirits as intermediaries and popping a new request in the inbox of a dormant god was usually a bad call.

Oh, and reason number 4: the bowl we’d excavated was extremely haunted.

This may, in fact, explain why it was so well preserved. Theurgic suffusation is the term - if the spirit is clinging tightly enough to the atoms of the object, then time starts to think the material is just as undying as the soul.

You know how I mentioned the scary thing about ghosts is that they’re not scary? They only persist as fully ensouled beings as long as their unfinished business can feasibly *be finished*. Even with generation blood debts, they still tend to become unviable with a couple of centuries. Then the soul slowly starts to move on, leaving only an imprint on the umbra. That’s what’s scary about ghosts: even that which is undying will be eaten by history.

Except this blighter apparently.

So I ran a chemical analysis on the trace molecules left on the lining of the bowl. Then I ran the runes through a penumbral simulation matrix.

The bowl contained traces of calcified aconite. The runes showed an exploit in the magic; the teleportation could be hijacked by holy petition or speculative conjuration.

The ghost had been poisoned. Murdered.

And if they were still a ghost, then whoever killed them was *still around*.

I really really hope that I never meet whatever person or creature is apparently still alive close to a millennia after they murdering someone in a way that is both *really clever* and *really nasty*.

But oh buddy, oh pal … what I want may be immaterial. For surely do intend to figure out the whole of this story.

---

With thanks to Ellie for the submission of the Archaeologist (fearless, frightened, fancy) to the Character of the Month club.

Want to submit your own characters for my stories? Consider supporting me on Ko-Fi with a recurring donation https://ko-fi.com/strangelittlestories

#writing #microfiction #flash fiction #short story #writeblr #wtwcommunity #character of the month club #urban fantasy crime story

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followingthebutterflies7 · 2 months ago

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Sweeter Than Honey | Part Two: Mistakes

Mob Boss!Spencer Agnew x FBI!Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Series Summary: You were sent undercover to infiltrate the world of the most dangerous mob boss on the FBI’s list, Spencer Agnew. But the more you find out about him, the more you lose yourself.

Series Warnings: Mature themes that include emotional manipulation, psychological tension, dubious consent, morally grey relationships, violence, organized crime, and mild language.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

--------------------------------------------------------

Part Two: Mistakes

Every step you take toward him should feel like progress. So why does it feel like falling?

You were in.

Officially.

On paper, you were an independent contractor overseeing “transport solutions” for Agnew Holdings LLC, one of Spencer’s polished, legitimate fronts. A boutique logistics consultancy based in Manhattan, the kind of place Fortune 500 executives smiled at in boardrooms, unaware that a criminal empire thrived under the polished glass.

In practice, you were stepping deeper into a world where everything glittered, but nothing was clean.

The office was a minimalist dream: brushed steel, matte glass, and expensive silence. Modern art hung from the walls, but it was the kind you forgot the moment you looked away. Every surface gleamed like a mirror, daring you to find a fingerprint.

You sat at a sleek desk near the operations floor, pretending to focus on mock manifests for overseas shipments. Most employees worked silently, hunched over laptops and quarterly reports, but you could feel the tension that undercut the place, a quiet hum of watchfulness, as if the walls themselves were wired for sound.

You worked hard to look busy. You already knew every file by heart, the FBI had given them to you.

Now, you just had to act like you’d built them yourself. The routes, the customs paperwork, and the legal loopholes. All of it a polished lie.

Every twenty minutes or so, a man in a discreet black suit would walk past your door. They never spoke. They didn’t have to.

Security at Agnew Holdings wasn't there to make anyone feel safe. They were there to remind you that you weren’t.

--------------------------------------------------------

It had been two weeks since your meeting with Spencer. You hadn’t seen him since.

You told yourself that was a good thing. You told yourself that meant you were doing your job.

But every day he stayed silent, some part of you wound tighter.

You weren’t foolish enough to think he’d forgotten you. Spencer Agnew wasn’t the kind of man who forgot.

He was the kind of man who waited.

And Alex Tran made sure you didn’t forget that either.

He didn’t speak to you after that first brutal vetting. Not the second day. Not the third. Or the fourth. Not even after a week.

But you felt him.

Watching.

Every call you answered. Every file you adjusted. Every key you pressed.

It was a ghostly pressure between your shoulder blades, an invisible thread pulled taut and trembling.

You gathered information carefully, methodically. Files you shouldn’t have had access to. Internal codes slipped between meeting minutes. Logistics anomalies disguised as clerical errors.

Every night, you loaded new scraps of intel onto an encrypted flash drive hidden inside the seam of your briefcase. Every night, you debated whether you'd be caught the next morning.

Because Alex Tran wasn't watching you like he suspected something. He was watching you like he was waiting for you to prove it.

By the start of your third week the tension broke.

You were reviewing a set of international cargo routes at your desk when the shadows shifted.

You didn’t hear him approach. You just felt him standing behind you, silent as a blade being drawn.

"Come with me," Alex said, his voice low and unreadable.

You stood smoothly, careful not to show hesitation, and followed him down the gleaming corridor. The deeper into the building he led you, the more polished glass gave way to raw, blackened steel. Security keypads replaced doorknobs. Cameras blinked like patient red eyes.

The door he opened wasn’t marked, there was no window. Inside there was a private conference room, empty except for one chair.

You sat.

Alex stood.

“You’re under review,” he said flatly.

You crossed one leg over the other, casual. “By you?”

A flicker of something, maybe amusement, crossed his face.

"No."

A pause, deliberate.

"By him."

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show.

“Should I be nervous?” you asked, voice light.

Alex stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint scars along his knuckles.

“You should be perfect.”

--------------------------------------------------------

The review wasn’t a conversation.

It was a trap.

That afternoon you received a shipment file routed directly to your terminal.

Urgent. Sensitive. High-value electronics scheduled for midnight pickup at a secondary dock.

At first glance, it looked routine. Until it didn’t.

The truck manifests were incomplete. The shipping codes were off by a single digit. One container had an internal flag you didn’t recognize.

It was too messy to be accidental. It wasn’t an oversight. It was bait.

You didn’t call attention to it. You had a choice to make.

If you flagged it for review, you’d look paranoid, or worse, incompetent. If you ignored it, you risked walking into a fabricated "mistake" that could get people killed.

Either way, you’d lose. Unless you rewrote the game.

You stayed late into the night, creating a new transit schedule.

You rerouted the trucks to avoid compromised areas, sending them to much quieter and safer zones. You created new manifests with a digital footprint that looked weeks old. You spoofed confirmation calls from fake dispatchers.

You covered the holes they had left like a seamstress repairing a perfect counterfeit suit. You wrapped the whole thing in so much plausible deniability, it looked like it had always been right.

By the time dawn broke over Manhattan’s skyline, the shipment was clean, intact, and impossible to trace back to you.

No alarms. No deaths. No failures.

Exactly the outcome you were trained to deliver.

But you didn’t celebrate. You knew better.

Because Alex Tran was already watching from the shadows of the operations floor, arms crossed, face unreadable.

And somewhere, maybe even already reading your file, Spencer Agnew knew too.

You survived the test. But survival wasn't victory. It was just the next move on a board you were only beginning to understand.

And if the last few weeks had been about earning your place, the next would be about keeping it. While pretending not to notice how the walls were already starting to close in.

--------------------------------------------------------

That night, Spencer requested a meeting.

Private. No details. No Excuses.

You were simply told to be there.

You prepared carefully but not obviously by choosing a tailored black dress, sharp heels, and a watch that looked expensive but wasn’t. Professional enough to blend in. Subtle enough not to look like armor.

Still, it felt like armor.

Because walking into Spencer Agnew’s penthouse felt like walking into the lair of something ancient and patient.

His office was nothing like the sterile precision of Agnew Holdings.

It was old-world luxury: dark wood paneling, vintage maps framed in burnished gold, velvet armchairs worn smooth at the arms, heavy leather-bound books filling floor-to-ceiling shelves. A low fire burned in a marble hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the Persian rugs.

Everything smelled faintly of smoke, leather, and something richer underneath; amber, sandalwood, the kind of scent that stayed on your skin long after you left.

You arrived exactly five minutes early. He was already there.

Spencer stood near the massive window, a glass of amber liquor in hand, his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loose and forgotten around his neck.

The city stretched out behind him, skyscrapers gleaming like the teeth of some sleeping monster. The lights painted shifting patterns across his profile, jaw shadowed, hair curling rebelliously against his temples, gaze unreadable.

He didn’t turn when you entered.

"You handled the test," he said, voice low, almost thoughtful.

You didn’t pretend not to know what he meant.

"I handle a lot of things," you said smoothly, stepping further into the room.

Now he turned.

Slowly. Deliberately.

His gaze swept over you, not admiring, not possessive, just…thorough. Like he was cataloging you. Assessing not the surface, but the seams beneath it.

Yet somehow, it still felt devastatingly intimate.

"Most people fold under pressure," he said. "Or they posture. Pretend they're smarter than they are."

You lifted your chin slightly. "And I did neither?"

He stepped closer, his glass catching the firelight.

"You adapted," he said simply.

The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward. It was something heavier. Denser. The kind of silence that asked questions neither of you were ready to answer.

You felt the air stretch taut, charged with something that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with proximity.

Spencer studied you. Not the way a man admires a woman, but the way a hunter respects the prey clever enough to set its own traps.

"You’re not like the others," he said, voice dipping lower.

You gave a soft, practiced smile. "I’ve heard that before."

"But do you believe it?" he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Because the truth was dangerous. And you weren’t entirely sure which version of you he was speaking to anymore. The operative? The persona? Or something more raw underneath?

He stepped closer again. Too close. Close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne, layered over skin and expensive whiskey.

Close enough that you felt the subtle, electric pull between you. A thread stretched tight, daring either of you to cut it or tie it tighter.

Your breath caught, just for a second. But you didn’t step back. And he didn’t push forward.

He simply looked at you, really looked at you, and for one suspended moment, it felt like the entire city fell away.

"You’re dangerous," he said quietly.

The words should have been an accusation. But they sounded almost like a compliment.

And for a terrifying second, standing there with your heartbeat too loud in your ears, you weren’t sure which of you he meant.

You didn’t break eye contact.

You didn’t breathe.

You didn’t move.

Finally, Spencer gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he’d decided something you weren’t privy to.

"Welcome to the real game," he said.

And just like that, the moment broke. He turned back toward the window, lifting his glass again. Dismissed, without ever actually dismissing you.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and stepped back toward the door, your heels silent against the thick carpet.

You told yourself the rush of adrenaline in your veins was just nerves. Just the high of getting closer to the mark.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

But your hands were trembling slightly when you closed the door behind you.

And you didn’t know if you were running away from him-

-or yourself.

--------------------------------------------------------

You made the call to Marlowe from the back stairwell of your apartment building.

It was nearly midnight. The city buzzed faintly below, but up here it was cold, quiet, forgotten.

You leaned against the chipped brick wall, burner phone pressed to your ear, the concrete under your heels still holding the heat of the day.

Marlowe answered on the second ring, voice rough and immediate.

“You’re doing well,” she said, skipping any pleasantries, the connection crackling with static over the burner phone. “We’ve got intel suggesting he’s moving something heavy soon. Guns. Bodies. We’re not sure yet. We need details.”

“I’ll get them.” you said. But something in your gut twisted, slow and delicate. There was a pause, just long enough to feel deliberate, before Marlowe spoke again.

"You're getting close," she said. "Maybe closer than you should."

You didn’t answer.

Marlowe’s voice sharpened, cutting through the cold.

"Keep your head clear," she said. "He’s not your ally. Not your confidant. And sure as hell not your..."

She trailed off, the word left unsaid, heavy between you. She didn’t need to say it. You both heard it anyway.

"He's your mark," she finished.

The reminder landed with a dull, familiar weight.

You swallowed.

"I know," you said.

There was another long silence.

Marlowe’s voice dropped lower. Softer. Almost pitying.

"Do you?" she asked.

Not accusing.

Just... tired. Like she’d seen this before. Too many agents thinking they were the exception. Too many agents who forgot which lies belonged to them.

You closed your eyes. You didn’t answer.

You hung up instead, the line cutting to dead air.

For a long moment, you stayed there, phone cooling in your hand, breathing in the faint smell of rain and asphalt and something metallic beneath it.

The words echoed anyway.

He’s your mark.

You repeated it silently. Over and over.

Until it sounded like the lie it was becoming.

--------------------------------------------------------

Your progress wasn’t loud, it was made in careful, patient inches.

You worked your way into the transport operations the way water wore down stone, silent, persistent, inevitable.

It started with small tasks. Internal schedules. Double-checking manifests. Confirming carrier licenses. Quiet things no one wanted to bother with.

You did them all without complaint.

You smiled at the right people. Listened more than you spoke. Made yourself invaluable without making yourself noticeable.

By the end of your first three months, no one questioned why Elise Hawthorne’s name was on the logistics rosters. No one blinked when you started making small adjustments to transport routes, optimizing loads, sidestepping random inspections.

You became necessary.

And that was when the real opportunities began.

First came the observation runs.

"You’ve been good on paper," the Operations Director said one afternoon, dropping a sealed file onto your desk with a grunt. "Let’s see how you are on the ground."

You nodded crisply, hiding the flicker of satisfaction curling through your chest.

Two days later, you found yourself in a sleek black SUV, bouncing down the battered side streets of the industrial district. Clipboards, cargo checks, and cold-eyed men packed into the schedule ahead of you.

Alex Tran was waiting by the first truck. The first time you had seen him that month, but not the first time you had been aware of his watchful eyes.

Dressed down in tactical black, gun at his hip, gaze cold enough to freeze asphalt.

"You’ll stay close," he said without greeting.

You nodded once, matching his pace as he led you through the inspection.

He didn’t speak much. He didn’t have to.

Every once in a while, you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, not with curiosity. With calculation.

As if he were trying to solve an equation where none of the variables added up. You were confusing him, he was starting to trust you. Something that he didn’t do. And it was making him angry.

You played your part during the operations perfectly.

Professional. Precise. Helpful but not pushy.

You caught a forged manifest within ten minutes at the first handoff. Quietly corrected a load discrepancy at the second. Smoothed over a bristling argument between two drivers at the third.

You didn’t flinch when weapons were checked, or when they were pulled on you. You didn’t ask questions when the crates were heavier than declared, just waved them through.

You just did your job.

And Alex saw it. He didn’t say it. But you saw it in the way his mouth tightened. The way he stopped hovering quite so closely.

It was a start.

At the end of your fourth month with Angew Holdings, you found something waiting for you on your desk.

No note. No signature.

Just a small, velvet-lined box.

You checked it for traps first. Reflex.

Inside was a slim, understated silver pen. Heavy, expensive, engraved with your initials. Subtle. Professional. Perfectly you.

Then you found it. Tucked beneath the satin lining, almost invisible, a single slip of fine cream cardstock. Three words, handwritten in black ink:

Good work. -S

Your throat tightened. Not from sentiment. From something more dangerous.

Approval from Spencer Agnew wasn’t a gift.

It was an invitation. And a warning.

You tucked the card and the pen away carefully, heartbeat steady.

When you looked up, Alex was standing across the operations floor, watching you.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

His disapproval was written in every taut line of his body. Your carefully built trust with him now broken into fragments.

Approval from Spencer had marked you.

And Alex didn’t trust anything that wore Spencer’s attention like a medal.

Over the next week, you were no longer just shadowing ground operations, you were organizing them. Setting schedules. Signing off on manifests. Escorting high-value shipments through the last stages of transfer.

You weren’t at the center of Agnew Holdings. Not yet. But you were in the bloodstream now. Moving through the arteries of a machine built on steel and blood and secrets.

And it was working.

Marlowe’s encrypted updates came in cautiously optimistic.

You were getting closer. You were gaining trust. You were setting the stage for the bigger moves ahead.

But under the careful victories, something gnawed at the back of your mind.

A slow, quiet awareness.

That every step deeper you moved into Spencer Agnew’s world was a step further away from the version of yourself you still pretended to be.

--------------------------------------------------------

Halfway through your fifth month, everything went sideways.

It should have been routine.

You were shadowing a simple exchange, paperwork, handoffs, signatures, the kind you could almost sleepwalk through by now. Two trucks. Six men. A quiet warehouse by the docks, thick with salt and diesel fumes.

The only strange thing had been Spencer himself.

He insisted on overseeing it personally. No explanation. No warning.

Unusual for him, the man who built distance into an art form.

Still, you played your part. Smiled. Nodded. Blended.

Until you stepped out of the car and realized something was wrong.

It was too quiet.

No seagulls screaming over the water. No radios buzzing from the port authority checkpoint. No distant thrum of trucks or container lifts.

Dead silence.

The hair on the back of your neck prickled just seconds before the first shot shattered the air.

Gunfire ripped down from the rusted catwalks above, sharp and sudden, turning the night into chaos.

Screams.

Scrambling boots on concrete.

The metallic clatter of weapons drawn in panic.

Chaos.

You dropped behind the nearest crate, pulling the gun Alex had insisted you carry. The cold metal bit into the flesh of your hands.

You weren’t supposed to use it, hadn’t even planned on it. You weren’t supposed to even look like you could. Your FBI training would give you away in half a heartbeat.

But then your eyes found Spencer.

He wasn’t ducking. He wasn’t even moving for cover.

He stood in the open, calm, almost... curious. Like he was trying to read the pattern inside the chaos.

You opened your mouth to shout just as you saw it. The glint of a rifle barrel overhead, trained directly on him.

"Spencer!" you yelled, voice cracking through the gunfire.

He turned toward you, just a fraction, just enough.

And you moved without thinking.

The gun rose.

Your hand was steady even though your heart wasn’t.

One shot.

The man on the catwalk jerked backward, arms flailing like a broken marionette, before he fell in a sickening echo of boots and steel.

For one suspended second, the world held its breath.

Spencer’s eyes locked onto yours, not in shock, not in anger.

In recognition.

Spencer looked at you. Really looked at you.

Something electric and terrible passed between you.

And then someone yanked him back toward cover, and the world exploded again.

More shots. More shouting. You ran, heart hammering, the metallic taste of adrenaline burning your throat.

You survived. You all survived.

The clean-up took hours.

The shooters were hired freelancers, dead ends. No fingerprints, no ties, no convenient stories. The docks were re-secured. The shipment was intact, whatever it was. You didn’t ask.

You sat on the edge of a battered shipping crate outside the warehouse, the night air cool against your sweat-soaked skin.

Your hand was still trembling.

Not from fear. From something worse.

From the memory of Spencer’s eyes when he realized what you had done.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

You told yourself it was instinct.

You told yourself it was to preserve your cover.

You lied.

He found you there, sometime past three in the morning.

Spencer emerged from the warehouse like a ghost. His shirt bloodstained, sleeves pushed back, jacket slung over one shoulder, hair damp with sweat. None of the blood was his.

He moved differently now. Looser. Rougher around the edges. The king’s crown was crooked.

His armor had cracks. Maybe you had put them there.

He crossed the cracked concrete without a word and stopped in front of you. You didn’t look up immediately. You didn’t trust yourself to.

"You saved my life," he said quietly.

You exhaled a shaky breath and forced your gaze upward.

Spencer’s face was shadowed, half-lit by the distant floodlights. He looked at you like he was seeing something new, something he hadn’t known to look for until now.

"I thought you didn’t trust new people," you said, voice soft and hoarse.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"I don’t," he said.

He crouched in front of you, folding himself into your space without hesitation, without asking.

"But maybe I should."

His hand brushed against yours, not quite taking it, not quite letting it go.

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt.

It was a simple touch. It should have been meaningless.

But it wasn’t.

You could feel it, the possibility coiled between your skin and his, warm and treacherous.

Spencer searched your face like he was hunting for the real answer beneath all the careful lies.

"Why’d you do it?" he asked.

Your throat tightened.

For a second, just a second, you almost told the truth.

Because you didn’t want to see him fall. Because you didn’t want to lose the way he looked at you. Because some reckless, traitorous part of you didn’t want to be his enemy anymore.

But you didn’t say any of that.

You didn’t say anything at all.

You just met his eyes, steady, practiced, and let the lie sit heavy between you.

For the mission. For your cover. For survival.

But you couldn’t tell Spencer any of it. Of the truth or the lies.

You took a deep breath, letting the corner of your mouth tug into a wry, careless smile. Your own armor.

"Can’t afford to lose the most lucrative job I’ve had in a while," you said lightly, voice dry.

A joke. A shield. A plausible excuse.

Spencer didn’t laugh.

He just looked at you, long enough and deep enough that the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding twisted painfully inside your chest.

He knew.

He knew you were lying.

But he didn’t call you on it. He just nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and stood.

The moment between you snapped like a brittle thread pulled too tight. Without another word, he walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the warehouse. His footsteps fading, swallowed up by the stillness of the night.

You sat there alone, frozen for a moment longer. Your body thrumming with the aftershocks of adrenaline, denial, and something far more dangerous humming just beneath your skin. Your heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.

Then a faint shift in the air. The subtle scrape of a boot on concrete.

You looked up.

Alex stood in the doorway, half-shrouded in the dim light spilling from the floodlights outside. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.

But his eyes- Sharp. Cold. Alive with something simmering just beneath the surface.

He had been watching.

For how long, you didn’t know. Long enough. Long enough to see too much.

You straightened slowly, slipping the gun you had used back into the hidden holster inside your jacket. Every movement careful. Measured. Controlled.

Alex didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just watched you with that same ruthless precision, like a man weighing whether to pull the trigger or wait for a cleaner shot.

"You were sloppy," he said finally, voice low and flat.

You let out a breath you hoped sounded steadier than you felt.

"No one else noticed," you said.

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Something sharper.

"He did."

It wasn’t a question.

It was a statement of fact.

You said nothing.

Alex pushed off the doorframe and crossed the space between you in three slow steps.

He didn’t get in your face. He didn’t have to. His presence alone pressed down like a weight.

"You’re here to do a job," Alex said quietly. "Not catch bullets for him."

"I was protecting the shipment," you said, evenly. Another lie to add to your long list. But it was not as clean as you wanted it to be. Not clean enough for Alex.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you.

"You keep telling yourself that," he said. "Maybe you’ll even believe it."

The words landed like a bullet between your eyes. Fast, deep, deliberate.

You lifted your chin, refusing to flinch.

"Is that a warning?" you asked.

Alex’s eyes narrowed, just slightly.

"No," he said. "Not yet."

And then he turned and walked away, vanishing into the shadows with the same silent efficiency he'd arrived with. Leaving you alone with the gun at your hip, the blood on your hands, and the gnawing certainty that it wasn’t just the mission slipping out of your control anymore.

--------------------------------------------------------

Tag List: @tenderhornynihilist

#spencer agnew x reader #spencer agnew #smosh #smosh fanfiction #smosh fic #smosh x reader #mob boss #mob boss au #fbi #alex tran #secret agent #smosh games

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yexthiccxa · 6 months ago

Text

Secrets of the Second Shift - (Part 1)

summary: By day, you are a strong, independent, and dominating force at a successful tech company. By night, you live a second life as an escort at Blinded Bliss, a high-end hostess club. Here you relinquish every ounce of control you hold during the day. It isn’t about the money—you don’t need it. You’re there because you crave freedom of letting go. But when you meet a mysterious client leaves you wanting more, you discover his hidden life might be more similar to yours than you think.

wordcount: 4.7k

full fic c/w: choso smut, choso/fem!reader, choso/oc, modern!au, some plot, plot what plot, porn with plot, gentleman!choso, soft!choso, praise kink, blindfold sex, oral, fingering, vaginal sex, enemies to lovers, fingering, oral, multiple orgasms

Tumblr Master List | Read this chapter on AO3!

✦✧✸✧✦ 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ✦✧✸✧✦

This week has been long, the type of week where minutes feel like hours and hours feel like days. It’s thirty minutes to five and each tick of the second hand feels like it’s crawling to meet the finish line. Thankfully it’s Friday—the one day a week where you can let loose and finally feel free.

The thought of this type of bliss only brings forth anticipation, but before you can even think of turning off for the week, an email hits your inbox and your stomach drops.

Subject: Acquisition Notice - Zenin Tech & CurseCore Solutions

It’s from Naoya Zenin, your manager—charismatic enough to climb the corporate ladder, but smothered with an ego that thrives on undermining the women around him. You click on the email with disdain written all over your face.

As you may have heard, Zenin Tech Inc. has successfully acquired CurseCore Solutions. Their team will be joining ours, and we will be having a team meeting to discuss logistics and the integration of both companies first thing Monday morning. Please be prepared for the transition and be ready to contribute to the planning process. I expect full cooperation from everyone.

You read it again, trying to process the information but the words blur your mind. You knew this acquisition was going to happen, but not this soon—just weeks before your promotion. This was supposed to be your moment, but knowing the financial state of the company, this would push the review cycle and send everything into chaos.

Your heart sinks as the frustration rises within you. Naoya’s name alone sends a ripple of irritation through your veins. It’s no secret that he never plays fair. But this, this is personal. Your promotion was in the bag, and now? Now it’ll be anyone’s game, and you’re not willing to let that go.

The anger boils over, and before you can talk yourself down, you're already standing in front of Naoya’s office door. Your fist knocks sharply against the wood, and you don’t even wait for a response before you enter.

Naoya doesn’t look up from his desk as you storm in, his eyes still glued to the screen. His usual self-satisfied smirk is plastered on his face.

“You have 2 minutes. I’m about to pack up,” he states—voice laced with annoyance as he finally glances up.

“This is going to mess with everything and you know it” you snap, unable to hold back the frustration anymore. “I’ve spent months in this uphill battle with you trying to build this product and this entire team with the shitshow that you handed me. And now we’ll have to bring on all these people who have absolutely no idea what they’re doing?”

Naoya’s gaze turns cold, and he leans back in his chair with the casual arrogance that makes you want to slap him. “What can I say, the company came with a great manager and his team was the deal breaker. It’s just business.”

My jaw dropped to the floor. No words could describe the rage that coursed through me.

“If you’re as good as you think you are, your promotion will still come through. If you think CurseCore’s manager is a threat, then maybe you should reevaluate,” Naoya sneered.

You narrow your eyes, knowing this is just another attempt to reclaim his power. The words linger in the air between you, unspoken but clear: try all you want, a woman like you could never reach the top.

You force a smile, tight-lipped and brittle. "We'll see about that, Naoya."

With that, you turn on your heel and leave, your mind racing. This felt like you were climbing a slippery slope, but you’ve worked too hard to let him win. Determination fills your heart and you’ll do whatever it takes to secure your place.

As soon as you step out of the office, you close your eyes for a moment, drawing a slow, deep breath to center yourself. The anger you feel from the encounter with Naoya is just a shadow, fleeting and unimportant. You can’t afford to let it control you. Life working at Zenin Tech was only half the battle. The other half outside of work is a whole other story.

As you pack up your belongings and make your way to the car, you feel your shoulders lighten and the furrow between your brows soften.

Outside of the office, you’re not the sharp, dominating force who claws her way through Zenin Tech. Instead you’re the woman who offers herself to the thrilling sensations that await you behind the platinum doors of Blinded Bliss—a high-end club where clients come to indulge in everything they can’t have in their daily lives. Here, your power comes from relinquishing control.

You could say Blinded Bliss is a hostess club, and you could call yourself an escort, but it doesn’t feel anything like that. You don’t do it for the money—thankfully Naoya pays you enough to keep you stable. What you truly do it for is the escape. For once in your life, it’s a space where you don’t have to fight for every inch of respect. You can just exist and bliss naturally follows—plus, getting paid a little extra never hurts.

You walk through the platinum doors and take comfort in the entryway’s soft curves and dim lighting. The transition in your demeanor is always a smooth one. The change of clothes, the makeup, the deliberate shift in posture. By day, you are calculated, efficient, in charge—but by night, you are dripping in sexual prowess.

Your manager, Satoru Gojo, meets you as soon as you walk in. His presence is immediately soothing, as always. If there’s anything Satoru knows how to do, it’s how to take care of his girls.

“Ah, there she is—one of my favorites,” Satoru croons.

“You say that about all your girls,” you playfully chuckle.

Blinded Bliss may have started out as your typical hostess club, but Satoru has turned it into something that feels out of the norm. While client satisfaction at the club is important, your satisfaction is non-negotiable . No scrubs, no duds, only suitable matches allowed for each of the girls—otherwise they’re banned until a new recruit comes along who can match your style. After all, what else can you give a man who has all the money in the world? Apparently nothing, except the satisfaction of knowing how and who will pleasure his girls.

"Big night," Satoru says, his eyes sparkling behind his signature blindfold. "We’ve got high rollers on the client list, and I’ll be handling your sales personally this time around.”

You smile, the tension in your chest loosening.

Typically everyone switches off when it comes to sales negotiations and matching clients—one girl acts as the sales assistant, while the other presents herself in the hot seat. When a deal is made the sales assistant may step away.

It’s always nice when Satoru’s in charge. His easy confidence makes you feel like you can just relax and let everything else fade away. The world of Zenin Tech, the pressure of the job, the promotion—none of it matters here.

After getting ready, you head to your assigned room and Satoru greets you at the door, “Welcome my dear, your throne awaits.” He opens up to allow you in first and follows shortly behind you.

The room is large enough to house various drawers, a vanity desk and cloud cushioned loveseat, but still small enough to feel cozy and intimate. The walls are dark with leather clad panels that bounce off waves of diffused lighting (and provide excellent soundproofing). One end of the room features a mirror that practically spans the entire wall. The other has a bed, the hot seat , with a canopy frame—which looks like it’s meant for decor, but is not-so-secretly meant for restraints.

You make your way to the bed and brush your fingers against the delicate blindfold you’ll wear for the night.

“New set?” you ask Satoru.

“Like I said, we’ve got some heavy hitters tonight—needed to do a little refresh. Plus this one is thicker so you can truly see what I see—or rather don’t see.” Satoru’s words feel like velvet.

He picks up the black cloth and ties to cover your eyes. Your view instantly turns black and you feel your mouth tug into a slight grin.

The warmth of his breath hovers over your neck as he unties your robe, revealing your supple breasts and smooth curves. Satoru gently slips it off your shoulders and your nipples begin to harden—whether it be from straight arousal or the cool air surrounding you, you’re unsure.

“Tonight, just focus on how you feel ,” he whispers. “...and let me handle the rest.” He kisses your forehead and directs you to the edge of bed.

You’ve done this dance with Satoru countless times, but each time, the sense of anticipation still rushes through you. All you have to do now is wait.

Satoru makes his way to the seat of the vanity desk to your left and you hear his muffled voice speak into his mic, “Let’s begin.”

✦✧✸✧✦

The sound of a creaking door filling the room and heavy footsteps settling in lets you know that bids have started. You can sense each client’s presence, their eyes on you—evaluating, appraising—despite the blindfold shielding you from their gaze.

Normally, the thought might unnerve you, but here in this room, a sense of calm washes over you. Though he may sit silently, you know Satoru is doing the exact same thing to them. He’s been with enough women and men to know what constitutes the best of the best.

He tells you when someone is particularly interested, but none of them have what he’s looking for. Not yet. There is occasional back and forth questioning, but he ultimately rejects the first few—his commentary light but cutting.

“Pass. Too boring.”

“Too aggressive.”

“Nope—aura’s all wrong for you.”

“Could use a little work—visually.”

Finally, the door opens with a slight creak, and a new presence fills the room. The energy is different this time—sharp, commanding, but strangely composed.

“Hmm.” Was that Satoru’s hum of approval? Intrigue? Or Both?

The silence shifts as you feel someone approaching.

“Haven’t seen you around town,” Satoru starts. “Passing by?”

You hear a male’s voice, his tone is low and rich. “No, I’m new—just moved here for work.”

“Welcome, we’re so delighted to see you here tonight. What do you do for work?”

“I work in tech—you can say I always keep busy. But while I’d love to chat, I seem to be a bit distracted. I think we have more important things to focus on." You’re still seeing black, but you sense him shifting his gaze. "Like the gorgeous woman who’s in front of us.”

He makes his way towards you. His footsteps are deliberate, and before you can register the sudden tension, you feel him pause. “May I?”

Typically clients direct their questions to Satoru, but you feel the rumble of his voice flow straight to you.

You tilt your chin upwards to signal your agreement, exposing the area between your neck and collarbone.

As you feel the man motion towards you, Satoru interjects, “Above the waist only—below will cost you.”

Your senses tell you that his focus never wavers. Despite the cover over your eyes you feel the heat of his gaze burn right through you.

His voice is tender, but resolute, “Oh no worries, I have every intention of following through, but first…”

Goosebumps crawl across your skin as you feel his breath nearing. But to your surprise, you feel his hand gently take yours. His grip is comforting and steady. He runs his thumb gently across your knuckles before pausing directly on the three delicate stars tattooed between your thumb and pointer finger—a reminder that no matter what path you’ve chosen, the stars will always align for you.

His lips press a delicate, respectful kiss into your skin. “Such a pleasure to meet you today,” his voice is low, but clear.

There’s something about him—something both powerful and unnervingly calm—that makes you shiver. Even Satoru seems to pause for a moment, his usual playful demeanor slipping just enough to notice the shift.

This is no ordinary client.

“Love, why don’t we give the man a taste?” Satoru’s cue to move to the next phase.

“Gladly,” you purr as a devious smile sweeps across your face.

You feel the mystery man kneel down towards your center. The thought immediately tightens your core, causing yourself to drip with desire, but you stop him just short of his destination.

Your hands meet his hair, but you notice that your fingers are blocked from running them through. You feel one…no—two, hair ties around his hair and gently guide him up until your breaths mingle and your foreheads touch. “No need to rush, we’ll have all the time in the world for that.”

“Forgive me,” he apologizes. His words are not guarded, accepting of the fact that good things come to those who wait.

The man’s head nudges as the sound of Satoru scraping his seat across the room fills the quiet air.

“Take a seat and you can have a taste. Play your cards right and you’ll get your fill.” Satoru directed to the man, his tone slightly edged with menace. Satoru takes a spot next to you at the edge of the bed and it’s your cue to open your legs.

You scoot back just enough to have your heels rest on the edge and knees bent above—giving the man a full display of all you have to offer.

“Such a pretty little pussy you have there,” the man murmurs—each word sending a wave of ecstasy to your folds.

You tilt your head slightly towards Satoru to signal that you’re ready. Within milliseconds you feel Satoru’s slender fingers swipe the pool of liquid resting on your flesh and bring it towards your clit. The initial shock sends chills, but the sensation is hot to your core.

A quiet moan escapes as he circles the sensitive area of your body. Without a second thought, you take your hand, the one still warm from the mystery man’s kiss, and gently slide two fingers in and out of your entrance—perfectly matching Satoru’s pace. You two have mastered this song and dance. Countless attempts with only a handful of successes.

Your breath becomes shallow and hurried while your insides begin to coil. Heat builds from within and each touch gets you closer and closer to your peak.

Your craving for desire causes your naughty inner thoughts to leave your mouth, “Satoru I love when you touch me like that.”

Satoru loves this tactic because it makes or breaks each man who comes through this room. He lives to prey on each client's unique mix of power or vulnerability. Do they become impatient, possessive, and retaliate? Uncomfortable, uneasy, and eventually break? Or do they simply remain secure and patient knowing that whatever Satoru does to pleasure you, they can do it ten times better?

When you hear the subtle thud of the man leaning onto the back rest of his seat, you know you have a winner.

Silence fills the room as he watches—eyes locking onto each stroke. His hums echo your moans every time he sees the wetness cling to your fingers. You could feel him studying every bit of you—the way your star tattoos flex with every pulse, the way your pussy twitches when Satoru strokes your clit. Your yearning for lust only leaves him wanting more.

“I could watch you do this all day,” his voice carries a smoky edge.

You feel a steady pull in the air, the energy swirling between the two of you. Without a word, Satoru yields, his approval evident in the subtle lift of his hands. You follow his lead, lift your own and gesture to the man in front of you. Are you ready to have a taste? You don't need to speak—he's been waiting for this since the moment he set his sights on you.

Despite your lack of vision, you can hear the faint rustle of fabric and his steady breathing draws closer. Finally, the warmth of his mouth closes around your fingers, sucking every last bit until he’s satiated. “You truly do taste as good as you look” he praised.

You smile and sense Satoru’s nod of approval. The air is cool around you as he lifts himself off the bed and makes his way to the door. “Enjoy,” he croons as he departs from the room.

The door clicks and you realize you two are finally left alone.

As he releases the hold from his lips, the man moves towards you. You feel the warmth of his body guide your back onto the bed. The faint scent of his cologne—spiced and earthy—fills your lungs, grounding you even as your heart races. You can almost feel the weight of his gaze on you, dragging across your skin like a whisper. The intensity sends a shiver down your spine and an ache between your thighs.

“Does he always make you feel that good?” the man asks. His teasing tone suggests that he already knows the answer.

You feel your brows lift and get ready to challenge, “Think you can do better—”

Before you can finish your thought, you feel his grip secure your waist and his lips press against your neck. The instant heat that floods through you tells you everything you need to know.

As the initial shock settles, he kisses his way down to your collarbone while his hands slide towards your folds. His hands are strong, and his fingers are thick. Even the slightest swipe causes you to whimper.

He slowly glides two fingers into your entrance, filling every crevice with erotic delight. The feeling curls through your stomach and radiates to the tip of your toes. If his hands could make you feel this way, there's no telling what other parts of him could do.

You’ve felt the touch of many men but something tells you that this one is not like the others. His touch is commanding, yet not aggressive. His cadence is gentle yet still purposeful. It’s as if he’s giving his everything, but with only your pleasure in mind and asking for nothing in return.

“Oh fuck, yes, ” you moan loudly—grateful for the sound proofed walls. You ride his fingers in hopes of him going deeper.

“You’re so fucking wet. Do you like it when I do this to your pussy?” The timbre of his voice vibrates through you.

Your lips part, but no words come out—they’re caught in the tension coiled tight between you. All you can do is let your touch roam his body. His arms were honed to perfection, his chest solid and firm, his abs defined and sculpted, all reflecting the build of a mythical god. You don’t need to see him to visualize this beautiful man and all the filthy things he could do to you.

The silence draws a chuckle from him—soft, rich, and entirely too confident . How could he not be? Every move left you speechless.

“No words? I’ll take that as a yes.”

His rhythm doesn’t cease, but you feel his warmth drift away, gradually moving towards the lower half of your body.

“If you enjoy that, I have a feeling you’ll love this even more.”

He situates himself right in between your legs, planting kisses on the insides of your thighs. As he works his way towards the center you feel your body climb to its peak.

The first touch of his lips sucking against your clit immediately sends your body into euphoria. From there, his tongue and hands work in tandem to pleasure you in ways you didn’t know you could comprehend. His mouth is wet and warm—mixing with your fluids to effortlessly slide his fingers inside and out. Each stroke builds upon the last, until you're on the brink of eruption.

Your back arches, causing you to grab hold of the ties on his hair, momentarily pinning him as close as you can get him. You continue to savor the pleasure by grinding against his tongue. “Fuck, that feels so good. I’m so close,” you cry in delight.

The grip your thighs have on him grows tighter by the second, but he lifts his head just enough to whisper into you, “Yes that’s it. Louder. Let me know how much you need it.”

His words spark a fire and immediately send you into a spiral. Your moans intensify, growing louder, more insistent and raw.

“Oh yes, don’t stop—F-fuck, don’t stop.”

In a final crash—the tides of ecstasy flow through you as you come undone and lose control. You feel your entire body shudder as he slips himself in for one last time. His tongue keeps moving but his strokes pause so he can feel your inner walls pulsate against his fingers. Your thighs clench around him as you let out a symphony of pleasure.

When you release him from your hold, he kisses his way back up your body—ending his trail with a kiss that claims your lips with undeniable authority. He pulls away—you get the feeling that he’s trying to get a good look at you, but you grip his collar and bring him back to echo your claim.

Your tongue travels through his mouth, allowing you to taste the subtle notes yourself coming undone. He catches a nibble of your lip while he grabs your ass. Instantly, you melt. The ache between your legs returns and it longs to be filled. You do everything you can to strip him down until you can feel his length graze your skin.

In all your time at Blinded Bliss, you’ve never cared to see or get to know your clients. Usually the blindfold comes off at their request, never yours. But today, you want this man—no, need this man. At this point, there’s not a single ounce of decency or control left in your brain. All that’s left is your body’s desire to test the limits and see who this man is and how good he can make you feel.

Between the tumbling to undress and the ravenous kissing, you momentarily break the connection between your lips. His breath felt hot as you both lingered for a moment.

Instinctively you asked, “Am I able to see the man who’s been keeping me in the dark or will all of this remain a mystery?

“Hmm, someone is becoming a bit hasty, I see,” he teases—placing one more delicate kiss onto your lips. “Personally, I enjoy anonymity,” he whispers—fingers traveling back down to your slit. He buries his head into your neck before returning his exploration of your mouth with his tongue.

“Are you scared I won’t like what I see?” You smirk.

He pauses, deliberately sliding the trickle from your center onto your clit—echoing Satoru’s move from earlier that drove you crazy. “On the contrary, I think you might like it a little too much —or so I’ve been told.” his tone laced with a low, modest confidence.

Between the rumble in his voice and his movements on your clit. This man sends you in a complete frenzy.

“But that’s not the point,” He continues. “Keeping it like this means no pressure. No attachments. No strings. Just us in the moment–and this .” He plunges two broad fingers deep inside you, stretching you from the inside.

You try to speak but your words come out breathless. “For the record, I’ve come across many individuals with bold claims. I can assure you that you don’t have to worry about me getting attached.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about you—I’m worried about me.”

Butterflies in your stomach form, keeping you irresistibly drawn to him. Though he remains unseen, you feel the prolonged connection of his gaze.

He finally moves to position himself to your side. You feel him pull away as if he’s extending his reach, unfazed as the tip of his flesh grazes across your thigh.

No stay, please. You whimper as the needy thought crosses your mind. You’ve become addicted to his touch and will do anything to keep him close. Little do you know, he has the same idea.

The distinct crinkle of a condom wrapper fills the room as it falls to the floor. Moments later his warm touch lands on your knees, gently guiding your legs further apart until he can fit in between them. You feel him tease your entrance and instantly begin to gush.

The shock turns your whimpers into moans. “Fuck, please—” you plead, shifting your hips to show him just how much you crave him.

“For someone so eager to see what's going on, something tells me you’re enjoying the suspense a lot more” he quips.

His remark leaves you speechless, but so impeccably turned on.

“Do you want me to fill you with this dick?” He growls.

“Yes—” you breathe. “Please—”

His dick enters you, causing a momentary flash of pain as you adjust to his size. You don’t know how big he is, but if his hands were any indicator, you know that this is only the beginning.

“God you’re so tight,” he grits as if he’s trying to hold back his own release.

He slowly slides into you and you can’t help but moan as your pussy takes him inch by inch.

“That’s my good girl, we’re almost there.” His grip on your waist tightens, making you feel safe as he draws closer to you.

There’s more? He’s already budging against your cervix and you don’t know if you can take the rest.

When the gap between you closes, you exhale—feeling completely filled by his shaft. Your body is searing with pleasure but you try to hold back the tension winding up inside of you.

He rhythmically thrusts himself into you, filling the air with nothing but the sound of your skin slapping against each other. He palms your breast, rubbing the knot of your nipple which causes you to release a cascade of shaky whimpers. You knew this was coming, but you weren’t prepared for the euphoria it would bring.

His breath becomes labored, but the way he glides in and out tells you that he’s enjoying himself. “Fuck—you feel so good. I can’t believe I get to fuck this pretty little pussy.”

Unraveling, there’s no other word for it. You’re starting to unravel and you can’t control yourself.

Without warning, you feel his other hand grab yours��moving it towards your mound. He keeps his hand over yours, resting his thumb gently over your tattoo. as he guides you to massage your clit. This definitely doesn’t stop you from coming undone, but at least he’s giving you back the sense of control you secretly yearn for.

“I’m so close, I think I’m gonna come,” you cry out.

“Show me how beautiful you look when you come,” he replies.

His vibrating timbre triggers your release. Once again a surge of pleasure washes over you, like a flood of light piercing through the darkness of your blindfold. Every nerve in your body seems to come alive, a warmth spreading from your core to your fingertips.

“F—fuck yes, I’m coming!”

His breath is unsteady but his tone does not waver, “Come for me.”

You feel him jerk his hips for a final thrust until you both become a mess of pulsating flesh. Your insides are milking every last bit of him and he roars with desire. After fully draining himself into you, the weight of his body covers you—the firmness of his chest contrasting the softness of yours. The moment settles and you feel your breaths gradually syncing to a calm rhythm.

You both lay in silence until he finally lets out a deflated sigh.

What was that—disappointment? Frustration? Regret? Your stomach turns, but not in a good way. “Is everything ok?” you ask.

He lets out a nervous chuckle—more a release of tension than humor. “So much for no strings,” he mutters, almost to himself. “This is gonna be harder than I thought and we've only just begun.” Hmm, attached so soon?

Clients getting attached isn’t new; in fact, it’s honestly great for business. You’ve heard this sentiment countless before. But this time, something feels different. For the first time, you’re scared you might agree.

#jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #choso smut #choso kamo smut #choso x reader #choso x you #kamo choso smut #kamo choso x reader #choso kamo x reader #kamo choso #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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woodlandwizard77 · 11 months ago

Text

A Step by Step Guide to Losing Your D**k

I recently wrote a series of messages to my aunt talking about all the steps I need to do to get bottom surgery, a penile inversion vaginoplasty at Mt. Sinai, in the next year or two. Its a long list. And everytime I added something she had a sort of “wow thats rough” reaction, but to me its just the to do list. So I decided to write them all out.

Start transition DONE

Most insurance companies and surgeons require you to have socially transitioned and have done HRT for at least 1 year at the time of operation

For social transition, this was March of 2024

For HRT it will be January of 2025

Get a referral to a surgeon (I am here)

In my case, Mt. Sinai in Manhattan

My Doctor referred me, but Mt. Sinai takes self referrals

Start laser hair removal

Book a consultation (I am here)

Go to laser frequently enough to satisfy surgeon

Convince Mom and Dad to help out DONE

Get 2 letters

Social Worker (1)

PCP's Office

Social Worker (2)

Mt. Sinai

Consultation with Mt. Sinai’s team

Wait 3-6 months (I’m here)

Bring letters

My insurance only requires 2, less than Mt. Sinai thinks insurance will need, and Mt. Sinai provides 1 of them. Meaning the other is through IHS Behavioral

Schedule Social Work pre surgical consult appt

Schedule Mental Health and Medical Clearance with Registrar

Go to NYC for 1-2 nights, maybe for each, hopefully just once

Maybe also for Social Work thing

Consult with Surgeon

Wait until I’ve worked about 12 months to get short term disability

Probably summer (ASAP) and when Mom has time off

Do logistics

Book an airbnb, hotel, etc for recovery

Starting a few days after OR date and lasting a little over a month

Within a 90 minute drive of Mt. Sinai

Rural enough that Mom is comfortable to help and can go home if someone else shows up

Probably New Jersey, maybe Hudson Valley

Has at least 1, preferably 2, separate bedrooms

Has 2 beds

Has ADA accessible entry

Has a kitchen

Has a full bath, preferably and a half

Has internet and preferably a TV

Lodging for Mom + Dad/care team while I’m in OR

Probably 5-7 days

Preferably with a 1-2 day buffer period before OR date (included in the 7 day estimate) so I can enjoy the city

Either within a short walk from Mt. Sinai or on the same subway line as Mt. Sinai

RW, 1, or ACE

Someone to help me get from recovery location to Mt. Sinai while not in NYC

Develop and get list of items needed for recovery

Dilator

Pads

Gowns/loose clothing

Comfort food

Coordinate missing 8-9 weeks of work

Take care with who knows what before I leave

Inform HR, department manager, and work friends whats up

Get cleared for surgery and get an OR date

Probably a 6-12 month date from clearance

Get pre clearance testing through PCP or a lab in hometown

Go to NYC for that if need be

Week Before Surgery

No alcohol, no aspirin, NSAIDs, herbal supplements, or fish oil

Consult for other non aspirin blood thinners (which I am not on)

No alcohol for 3 weeks after as well

Tylenol/Acetaminophen is okay

Go downstate

See friends from NYC?

Bring Mom/Dad?

Do something fun in Manhattan

Get a COVID test

Take an anti-bacterial bath

Day before surgery

Breakfast before 9am

Last meal

Drink Golytely bowel solution around noon

Chemically induced diarrhea

Clear fluids only after golytely

(includes coffee, tea, water, broth, some juices)

Nothing goes in the stomach after midnight

Some medication okay with a sip of water

HRT??? (switched to injections)

Get surgery (a penile inversion vaginoplasty)

1 to 1+½ days

I’ve heard of as long as three

3-5 day hospital stay

Mom and Dad probably stay in Manhattan then

Go to recovery location

Drive with seat reclined

Stay for 4 weeks, pretty much bedridden

Go to follow ups

Dilate

Go home

Continue recovery for another 2-4 weeks at home

Follow up with PCP

Return to life

#mtf girl #transgender #transfem #trans woman #srs #bottom surgery #mtf bottom surgery #transblr #transition journal #queer #lgbtq #lgbtqia #gender affirming care #gender affirming surgery

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zoro-sremedy · 20 days ago

Text

In the fine print. Four. The fault clause.

Brief summary:

A merger puts them on opposite sides of the table… and then all over each other. Sex, secrets, and sabotage—falling wasn’t part of the plan, but some deals are made in whispers and signed between the sheets.

Word Count: 4.3k

Risk assessment 18+ mdni, smut and crack, stablished relationship, unprotected sex, riding, oral sex (she to he), mentions of gun, very little to no violence.

It started with a delay.

Then another.

And then came the fire on dock 3.

You barely had time to process the frantic messages piling in before Ace burst into your office—eyes wide, tie askew, phone in one hand and coffee in the other, like the world was actively ending.

"Don't panic," he said.

You blinked. "That's never a good sign."

"I'm panicking," Ace admitted, dropping into the seat across from you. "Somebody sabotaged the new shipment. The high-grade equipment from Sphinx—gone. Like kaboom gone."

Your blood went cold.

"And guess what?" he added grimly. "Some asshole's already leaking internal reports to the press. Guess who they're blaming?"

You didn't have to ask.

You already knew the names they were tossing around like knives.

Yours.

Zoro's.

Your heels echoed against the marble floor, each step sharp, calculated. The moment you stepped into the conference room, the place tensed—Marco gave you a small nod, Izo looked deadly bored but observant as always, and your father sat at the head of the table, arms crossed like he was bracing for war.

A few department heads from logistics and security were already mid-argument.

"She's too close to One Piece Co.," spat one of them—Hiroto, a guy who's been pissed ever since you got promoted above him. "Her judgement's compromised."

"Compromised?" you repeated coolly, taking your seat. "Because I'm dating someone? Please. You think Zoro's whispering state secrets in bed? That's rich, Hiroto, especially coming from someone who accidentally CC'd our entire Japan branch in an internal memo titled 'dumb upper management'."

Marco choked on his coffee.

Izo didn't even bother hiding his grin.

"Let's be clear," you continued, tone like steel wrapped in velvet. "Zoro's not in charge of security. I am. And as of now, my report shows no breach from our side. You want to chase shadows? Do it on your own time."

"But we can't just ignore the optics—," another suit started.

"Optics don't cause fire—"you snapped. "Sabotage does. And unless anyone here has actual proof that my personal life is responsible for our internal leak, I suggest we move the conversation to solutions. Or better yet—shut up and let me handle it."

The room fell into stiff silence.

Your father watched you for a beat, unreadable as always, then gave the faintest nod. "You heard her. We're done here."

A few days later and a meeting with Ace, Luffy and Zoro. All of you had a plan to catch the rat, if there was one.

Location: Private loading dock, 2:07 a.m.—dim lights, sea breeze, and secrecy.

The moon cast silver streaks across the loading bay, glinting off the polished black SUV's and stacked shipping crates like some noir moving set. It was quiet. Too quiet.

You stood at the edge of the dock, arms folded, the chill wind tugging gently at your coat. You'd been here an hour early—nerves, mostly, and a habit. Your eyes scanned the shadows until you heard footsteps behind you.

"Still don't sleep much, huh?" Zoro's voice was low, familiar, and warm.

You didn't turn. "Still don't make noise when you walk."

"That's a compliment coming from you, golden ears." He stepped beside you, hands in the pocket of his fitted jacket, looking over the water like he wasn't mentally cataloging every corner of the dock. "How many guards are on the inside?"

"Four. Rotating in two's, every thirty minutes. Fake shipment's marked with the green tag." You handed him the tablet, which he took without looking at—eyes still on you. "We've been logging keystrokes on every security terminal too. If someone tries to access the info from our side, we'll know."

He finally glanced down at the screen. "Thorough as hell."

"I have to be." You paused. "Too many people waiting for me to screw this up."

"Too many people are stupid," he replied flatly, before his tone softened. "But you're not. You've been running circles around them since day one."

You tilted your head, a sly smirk tugging at your mouth. "Is that your version of flirting?"

"I could say something worse," he muttered, taking a slow step towards you.

Your breath hitched slightly, but you didn't back away. "Go on then."

Zoro leaned in, close enough that the wind wasn't what raised goosebumps on your neck. "You're hot like this. Confident. In charge." His voice dropped. "Drives me insane."

You held his gaze, the tension between you coiling tight like a drawn bowstring. "Then wait till we catch the bastard. I'm planning on being insufferable."

He smirked, eyes flashing. "Can't wait."

Before the moment could melt into something hotter, a low beep buzzed from your earpiece. Ace's voice crackled through. "We've got movement. North entrance."

You gave him a quick kiss then pulled away, professionalism snapping back into place. "Let's go catch a rat." Zoro rolled his shoulders. "Just don't get distracted looking hot with a gun."

You didn't even look back. "That sounds like a you problem, cutie."

On the other side, inside the cramped van, Ace was half-sitting, half sprawled across a tangle of wires, cameras, and snack wrappers. His headset was askew, and he had a bag of chips tucked under one arm.

"Okay so we got visual on two figures heading towards the green-tagged crate, he whispered, crunching obnoxiously into the mic. "One is definitely big Mike—that bastard owes me fifty bucks from poker night."

Luffy, who was balanced upside down in the passenger seat with his feet up the roof and chewing on a meat skewer, grinned. "Should I go now? Now? Now? Should I jump out the van ninja-style or pirate-style?!"

Ace elbowed him. "Sit your meat-stick ass down. We're waiting for the signal."

Luffy looked dramatically offended. "This is the most boring stakeout in history. No treasure. No cannonballs. Just you and your crumbs."

"And a corporate mole, dumbass."

"Who touches sushi shipments! The disrespect."

Ace checked the tablet, zooming in. "Okay. Movement confirmed. Zoro and boss lady are moving in."

You and Zoro moved like shadows across the concrete, flanking either side of the crate as the two figures approached it. The taller one—Big Mike, confirmed—knelt down and cracked the panel open with practiced ease.

Big Mike was hunched over the crate, using a makeshift device to access the internal tracker. The second guy—a nervous runner—stood watch, constantly glancing around.

"C'mon, c'mon, "Mike muttered. "Just a few more seconds and this crate disappears off the grid… Blackbeard will pay double for this haul."

Then—floodlights exploded in. He froze, squinting into the brightness. The runner bolted. Mike tried, but—

"You're not fast enough for that, Mikey." Zoro stepped out of the shadows and snatched him by the collar like it was routine. Mike wheezed as his back slammed against the crate.

"Hey man—Zoro, right? We worked together on that east dock project—remember?" Mike laughed nervously.

Zoro's grip tightened. "You also rerouted seven shipments, handed classified specs to Blackbeard, and tried to pin it on Whitebeard Co."

He slammed him again.

Mike whimpered. "I was just following orders man—!"

"Wrong company for that excuse," you said, stepping into view.

Mike's face went white. "Shit."

You crouched a bit to his eye level, perfectly calm. "You were so careful. A few keystrokes here, a bribe there. But you got cocky, Mike. You forgot I check server logs for fun."

You flipped a flash drive in your fingers like it was a dagger.

"You used the other idiot's login at 3:12 a.m. on a Sunday. Sloppy."

Zoro let go just enough for Mike to crumple down on the pavement. The runner had been tackled halfway down to the pier by Ace, who came dragging him back by the hoodie like a lost puppy. "He's squealing already. Says Big Mike told him it was 'just insurance work'. Idiot didn't even know Blackbeard was involved."

Luffy walked up last, chewing a chocolate bar. "That's what you get for trusting a guy named Big Mike. That's a villain's name."

Mike groaned as you snapped zip ties on him yourself, standing tall and steady, all business. Even with chaos all around, you were sharp, collected—and God help Zoro, hot as hell.

He stood there silent as you called in a cleanup and the police to the side, heart pounding in his chest for all the wrong reasons.

Ace nudged him. "You good?"

Zoro didn't look away. "Yeah. Just figuring out how soon I can propose."

—

The door hadn't even closed all the way behind you before Zoro had you pinned up against it, one hand cupping your jaw, the other firmly gripping your waist.

"You were terrifying tonight," he said low against your lips. "It was hot."

You grinned, breathless, fingers slipping into the fabric of his shirt. "You wrung a man like a towel. You really think you're any better?"

He kissed you—slow and deep, like he finally had time to savor it. No interruptions. No emergencies. Just the adrenaline of victory finally giving away to the crash only you could break.

When you finally pulled apart, he let his forehead rest against yours.

"Everyone's been breathing down our necks for weeks," you whispered.

"And we still kicked ass."

"We make a good team," you murmured, watching the way Zoro's jaw flexed when you stepped in close, fingers brushing down in front of his shirt—slow, unhurried, like you were staking a claim.

His breath caught, just a little. "Damn right we do."

But before he could move, you did.

You pushed him back, claiming his mouth in a searing kiss, walking backwards slowly to the stairs. You turned around and walked ahead, letting your hips sway subtly as you made your way to the stairs. His footsteps followed behind, unhurried but heavy, like he was soaking in every second.

The moment you hit the top of the stairs and glanced over your shoulder with a sultry stare? He surged. But when his hand reached for your waist, you caught-it mid air and stepped aside again, making him miss.

He chuckled softly, watching you stroll in the master bedroom like you owned it. The city lights cast everything in silver and shadow, and by the time he caught up, you were at the foot of the bed, taking your jacket off with excruciating slowness.

He tried to help you, but you just tutted and made him sit on the bed. "You're only watching today." Zoro raised a brow, amused. "Is that so?"

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his without fully kissing him. "You don't get to touch unless I say so. Can you handle that?"

His jaw flexed, eyes darkening. "Yeah. Try me."

You smiled—slow and wicked—and pushed him back with a hand to his chest. He let you, reclining on the bed like a king granting the moment. But you were the one in charge tonight.

You pulled his shirt up slowly, letting your hands smooth over warm skin and lean muscle. He hissed when your nails dragged across his abs—the kind of pain he liked. You stood back at the foot of the bed, arms folded, letting the silence stretch. Zoro leaned back on his elbows, shirtless and flushed, waiting—but not moving.

"You're being good," you mused.

"For now," he said gruffly. His eyes dropped to your hands as they dropped to your t-shirt, lifting up over your head and throwing it somewhere. Your jeans came next, sliding them down slowly as you turned around while bending over and giving him a show as your spine arched beautifully and your ass looked gorgeous.

You didn't look at him as you stepped out of them, but you felt his gaze—hot and unblinking, dragging over every inch of skin you revealed. You were still in your lingerie: delicate black lace that hugged your hips and barely covered your breasts, sheer enough that nothing was really hidden.

You reached behind your back and unhooked the clasp.

Zoro's breath stuttered.

You let the bra fall forward and caught it one hand, tossing it lazily to the side. You took your time walking over, hips swaying, breast bouncing slightly with each step—his eyes glued to every inch like a starving man.

"You like?" you asked, pretending not to notice the way he was gripping the sheets again.

"You know I do," he muttered, voice thick. His eyes didn't leave your chest, but he still didn't move. "You're torturing me."

You smiled sweetly. "Good." Then walked over and climbed onto the bed, straddling his lap, your bare skin brushing his and reached for his wrists and brought his hands up, letting him hover just beneath your breasts.

"Wanna touch?" you teased, brushing one nipple against his knuckles.

He groaned.

"Tough," you said sweetly, and let go.

"You're gonna pay for this later," he muttered, nearly a growl.

"I'm counting on it," you whispered, grinding against him just enough to make him moan softly. "But right now, you're going to be so good for me."

He reached for your waist, but you stepped out of reach, eyes glinting. "Lie down, Zoro."

He raised a brow. "Getting bossy again?"

"Still think you're in charge tonight?" you teased, already sinking to your knees at the foot of the bed.

He sat back against the pillows, watching you with sharp, hungry eyes. "Not stopping you." You curled your fingers against the waistband of his pants and dragged them down slowly, watching him twitch with anticipation. He was already flushed hard, the kind of thick that makes your mouth water.

You didn't start gentle.

You licked a stripe up the underside first, slow and deliberate, just to watch his chest rise sharply. Then you sucked him in deep all at once, past your lips, past your throat, until your nose brushed his green happy trail and he swore under his breath, head snapping back.

"Holy shit—" His hands clenched into the sheets, thighs tensing like he was holding himself back from thrusting up. You pulled back with a slick pop and licked alongside the shaft like it was the best thing you'd tasted all week. "You said you liked me in control," you murmured, voice gone smoky.

Zoro looked completely wrecked—his pupils blown wide, chest heaving, one hand running through his hair like he needed something to anchor him. "You're gonna kill me."

You smirked. "Not until I'm done."

You sucked him in again, deeper, slower this time—but with purpose. You let your tongue work along the base while your hand twisted near the tip, letting spit and heat make it a mess. You moaned around him wantonly and felt the way he jerked, his body betraying every ounce of restraint he had left.

"Fuck, baby—" His voice cracked when you hollowed your cheeks and took him even deeper, swallowing around the head. "You're gonna make me come like this—" You looked up at him through your lashes, lips stretched around him, and moaned again.

You let spit drip down his shaft, using your fist to smear it along the base while your mouth worked the tip like a favorite treat. Each sloppy sound echoed in the room, shameless, obscene—and Zoro looked like he was losing religion.

That did it.

Zoro reached out blindly, threading his fingers through your hair but not guiding—just holding, like he needed the anchor or he was going to lose it. You bobbed your head faster now, matching broken breaths, until his thighs tensed again and he hissed, "Wait—fuck—wait—"

But you didn't.

You swallowed him to the base one last time, tongue teasing just under the crown, and he broke—eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a groan so filthy it made your core clench.

When you pulled off, he was half-gone, panting, dazed, his hand still tangled in your hair like he wasn't ready to let go. You liked the corner of your mouth, wiped your lips with the back of your hand, and gave him the most wicked smile he'd ever seen.

“Look at you,” you purred. “All that muscle and no fight left.”

"…You vixen," he muttered hoarsely, helping you up to sit on his abdomen. "I need ten minutes. Then I'm turning the fuckin' tables."

Zoro's chest was still rising hard when you leaned down, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You alive?" you whispered, lips brushing his cheek as your fingers toyed with the edge of his jaw.

His eyes cracked open, still glazed. "Barely."

You giggled and kissed him properly this time, slow and deep. He groaned, kissing back, his hands sliding up your thighs like he'd finally remembered they were his to touch. But when he tried to flip onto your back, you stopped him with a single finger on his lips.

"Mm-mm. Not yet."

He narrowed his eyes. "Woman—"

"You said ten minutes. You didn't even make it to five." You rocked your hips slowly against him, feeling the way he was already hardening again beneath you. "Just relax. I've got you."

“Condoms—” he muttered, breathless.

“No need,” you whispered against his lips. “I want all of you.”

The sound he made was nearly feral.

His growl vibrated in his chest, but his hands stayed where they were, gripping your hips. "You're playing with fire."

"Then burn with me," you whispered, reaching down to guide him back inside. Zoro swore through his teeth, hands clenching as you sank onto him inch by inch. You gasped—it was so much— and he looked up at you like you'd just cursed him with something sacred.

"You're tight as hell," he grunted. You smiled, slow and sinful.

"And all yours."

Then you started to move. Slow at first, teasing grind and little circles of your hips, letting him feel every slick inch.

Zoro's head tipped back into the pillows, mouth parted in a low moan. You leaned forward, letting your breasts brush his chest, just to feel his abs tighten when your nipples dragged against him. His hands gripped your thighs harder.

You started slow—rolling your hips, one hand braced on his chest, the other tangled in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan. His hands tightened against your hips. "You look so good like this," you whispered, leaning down to nip his jaw. "Letting me use you."

A muscle in his cheek twitched. "You think I'd let anyone else?" he ground out.

You laughed—but it hitched into a gasp when he suddenly grabbed your hips and thrust up into you in one smooth, brutal motion.

"Zoro—!" you cried out, fingers digging into his chest.

"Ten minutes is all I needed," he growled, sitting up. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other sliding up—calloused fingers tracing up your ribs, your side, until he cupped your breast fully in his palm. "You thought you could keep teasing me and not pay for it?"

You moaned louder, grinding against him now, hands gripping his shoulders. "This was supposed to be my show—"

"Still is," he said, voice reverent and hoarse. "Just helping, love."

He sucked a bruise into your throat as his other hand slid his other hand slid up your body, rough fingers brushing the swell of your other breast. His thumbs flicked your nipples, making you cry out again, body arching into his touch.

"You think I wasn't going crazy when you stripped for me?" he muttered, mouth against your collarbone. "The way you moved, the way you looked at me like you owned me?"

Your only answer was a broken moan and the roll of your hips so deep it made your head spin.

"You do," he murmured, like a confession. "But I'm not gonna let you forget who you're riding."

You didn't stay put. Even through your haze, you ground back—fighting him for control, watching him curse, drowned in pleasure. At your mercy. "You love this, don't you?" you purred, bouncing now—higher, faster, matching his pace, letting your body do the talking. "You love how I ride you."

"I love you," he said hoarsely, right before you dropped your hips again and he choked on a groan.

You're breath caught—just for a second.

He said it like it wrecked him, like it had been clawing its way out of his throat all night. No hesitation. No apology.

And damn if that didn't make your whole body clench around him. A wicked smile curled on your lips, but your voice was low, breathless. "Say it again."

Zoro opened his eyes—dark and burning—and sat up fully, chest to chest, one hand still wrapped around your waist, the other cradling your face like he didn't care if he came or died right then.

"I love you," he said again, firmer this time, like a vow. "I fucking love you."

You kissed him like you'd been starving for it. Like you could taste the truth on his tongue. And then you moved.

Harder. Deeper. Riding him like you were never coming down. Your hips moved in frantic rhythm now—bodies slick, breath tangled, your fingers locked in his hair as his hands gripped your ass to thrust up and meet you, again and again.

"Fuck, baby—just like that," he growled into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. "You're so good. So fucking perfect—"

You moaned louder, the coil in your stomach tightening fast, too fast. Every stroke hit deep, perfect, your nerves frayed and your mind unraveling. You clung to him as your body started to shake.

"zoro—Zoro, I—"

"I've got you," he gasped, voice rough with the edge of his own release. "Come for me, love. Let me feel you."

Pleasure ripped through you like a tidal wave, spine arching, thighs trembling around his waist as your climax tore a cry from your throat. You collapsed against him, body twitching, barely registering the way he grunted your name before he followed—his own orgasm chasing yours with a deep, guttural moan as he buried himself in you, hands clutching you to his chest like he couldn't stand to let go.

For a moment, all you heard was breath. Ragged. Messy. Real.

Then—his hand smoothed along your back, gentle now, grounding. You shifted slightly, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, heart still thudding too hard. Zoro kissed the top of your head, then your temple, arms wrapped so tightly around you it was like he could shield you from whatever storm was coming next.

And maybe that's why it hit you then—because you felt safe.

"I love you too."

It slipped out soft, small. Like you were afraid the words might burn if you said them too loud.

Zoro's body tensed beneath you for half a second. Not rejection. Just surprised. He didn't speak, not right away. So you kept going quiet, vulnerable, your voice barely above a whisper. "I do," you said, voice shaking. "I've just… tried so hard not to. Not this fast. Not again."

You lifted your head to look at him, blinking through the haze and the sting in your eyes. "It's just… it's been a long time since I let myself feel something like this. It's so strong, it scares me. You scare me."

His hand came up to your cheek, rough thumb brushing under your eye where a single tear had slipped. If it was from the mind blowing orgasm or the moment, you didn't really know. "Hey," he said softly. "I mean it, too. When I said it earlier. I love you."

You blinked at him. He looked wrecked and exhausted and so damn sincere.

"I'm scared too," he admitted, voice hoarse. "But I'd rather be scared with you than without you."

He exhaled like it gutted him, then leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're not alone in this. I'm right here." You nodded slowly, like you needed to believe it. Maybe you already did.

"I've got you," he whispered again, voice hoarse and steady. "You don't have to be scared of loving me."

You kissed him then—soft, trembling, but real. Like surrender.

You stayed like that for a long moment—his arms around you, your heartbeat slowly calming against his chest, his softening length still inside you. Warm. Close. Steady.

But the mess between you had started to cool, and the stickiness reminded you just how much of a mess you'd both made.

You shifted a little. “We should probably… shower.”

Zoro let out a soft grunt of reluctant agreement. “Yeah.” But he didn’t move, just pressed a kiss to your temple. “Don’t wanna let go yet.”

You smiled, still tucked against him. "Don't be nasty, Zo'"

He groaned softly at that, a tired smirk tugging at his mouth. "Fair."

Slowly, he lifted you with him—muscle flexing as he stood, arms holding you tight as if the moment you might slip away. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and let him carry you to the bathroom.

He sets you down gently on the cool tile, then turned on the water, adjusting the temperature with practiced hands. You watched him in the soft glow of the vanity light, his back to you, broad and strong.

Your heart clenched again.

He stepped in first, then held out a hand to you. You took it.

The warm water hit your skin and made you shiver, not from cold—but from everything. His hands were careful now, reverent as they ran soap down your spine, across your hips, over your thighs. You did the same to him, touching every inch, grounding both of you in silence and suds and soft kisses under the spray.

The shower was quiet, warm, and full of tenderness.

Zoro stood behind you, one hand on your waist, the other gliding over your body in slow, reverent paths. You leaned back into his chest, letting the steam wrap around you both.

His lips brushed the curve of your shoulder. "Still scared?"

"A little," you admitted.

"But you're still here."

You turned in his arms and looked up at him, water beading down his cheeks and collarbones. "I told you—I love you."

He smiled, slow and quiet. "Say it again."

You did.

And this time, it didn't hurt. It felt like breathing.

A while later you padded back into the bedroom wrapped in one of his fluffiest towels, hair damp and clinging to your shoulders. Zoro followed a beat later, towel slung low around his hips, water still glistening on his chest. He looked unfairly good for someone who'd just been thoroughly wrecked—and wrecked you in return.

"You're hogging all the fluff", he muttered as you flopped onto the bed. You tossed him the other towel from the footboard. "Then dry off and come cuddle me, big guy."

He smirked and started patting himself down with the same absent focus he gave everything after a long day—methodical, a little grumpy, still riding the edge of adrenaline. You watched him without shame, chin resting on your arms. Every scar, every groove of muscle, felt familiar now. Yours, in a way that made your chest feel too small to hold it.

Once dry, he dropped the towel and tugged on the clean boxers you'd left out for him, then slid into bed behind you without a word. His arms curled around your waist like it belonged there. It did.

Curled in bed against him, your voice was a whisper in the dark.

"I don't wanna lose myself in this."

"You won't," Zoro said, half-asleep, hand tracing lazy lines on your spine. "You're not the kind of woman who disappears. You're the kind people orbit around."

You smiled against his chest, a little breathless.

"And if you ever forget," he murmured, dragging your thigh over his hip, "I'll remind you."

You let a soft laugh, kissed his jaw, and closed your eyes—safe, warm loved.

And this time, when you fell asleep, you didn't feel like falling alone.

one two three four

#one piece #one piece roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro #zoro smut #one piece smut #zoro x reader #zoro #one piece law #one piece trafalgar law #one piece zoro #one piece luffy #vinsmoke sanji #monkey d. luffy #crocodile smut #mihawk smut #dracule mihawk #crocodile one piece #fire fist ace #ace smut

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lynxgriffin · 24 days ago

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So, something to note about dess being the person in the code, if she is, there IS a way for that to be true AND for her to be the knight, if we go back to the spelling bee, berdly and noelle were much smaller, meaning this spelling bee took place a few years back bare minimum, and noelle froze up at the word "december" implying dess had already gone missing by this point, meaning bare minimum, if she IS the person in the, she's been there for a few years, but if you look at the person in the codes dialouge, it doesn't seem like the dialougue of a person who's been in there for years at this point, they point out the darkness surrounding them, and even call for help. In my mind, there are 2 solutions to this: 1. It's not dess, and whoever it is, is new to being there, wherever "there" is. Or 2. It IS dess, but not the present day dess, i mean, noone ever said that the person in the code's dialouge had to be happening at the same time as the story right? What if were hearing their dialouge from years ago? I mean, they only talk once per chapter, which is a little weird considering that's a full day between speaking, clearly we arn't seeing events on a 1-1 time scale with whats happening in the main plot, maybe she found a way out by now, or hell, talking it one step further, maybe this is her origin story for BECOMING the knight.

Ooooh, I'm already on board with unusual scenes not happening as concurrently as we think, and that there's especially a discrepancy between how the player and the characters experience time. (I suspect the opening goner maker scene might actually be a good amount of time before the game actually starts with Toriel waking up Kris). So it could work that the dialogue we're seeing in the code is from much longer ago! There's still some logistical questions there, but that at least opens up a possibility of Dess currently having more agency than we think, and maybe having the ability to create fountains herself.

#ask lynx stuff

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fearfulfertility · 6 months ago

Text

CLASSIFIED OPERATION SUMMARY

DRC, Planning & Evaluation Office, Logistics & Infrastructure Division

Date Initiated: [REDACTED]

From: Assistant Director [REDACTED], Logistics & Infrastructure Division

To: Director [REDACTED]

Subject: Operation Overdue

Background

Paternity Compound 110 exceeded maximum capacity due to an influx of high-multiparity surrogates and operational delays due to the ongoing [REDACTED] in the Philadelphia metropolitan area. Overcrowding led to strained medical staff and diminished care standards.

Operation Overdue was launched to mitigate these risks. It was a cross-country air transport initiative intended to distribute surrogates to Paternity Compound 133 in Portland, far below occupancy capacity. This initiative required covert execution to avoid public attention and ensure all surrogates reached their destination intact.

Paternity Compound 110 (Philadelphia)

Paternity Compound 110 is an aging and overcrowded facility located in a repurposed commercial structure in Philadelphia. Designed to house a maximum of [REDACTED] surrogates, it currently holds over [REDACTED] (20% over capacity), leading to severe resource strain and cramped conditions. Despite its deteriorating infrastructure, the compound remains operational due to its proximity to a high-fertility urban population, ensuring a steady influx of conscripts.

Paternity Compound 133 (Portland)

Paternity Compound 133 is a modern, state-of-the-art facility in a remote area outside Portland. It is designed to accommodate up to 1,000 surrogates and boasts cutting-edge medical technology and advanced monitoring systems. However, its location in a region with a lower urban population has led to concerns about underutilization, with only a sporadic influx of conscripts to fill its capacity.

Transport Details

Stage 1: Ground Transfer

Surrogates were loaded into climate-controlled transport vehicles with hydraulic lifts to accommodate limited mobility.

Vehicles were disguised as commercial cargo containers to minimize civilian interference.

Stage 2: Cross-Country Airlift

[REDACTED] cargo planes were requisitioned from [REDACTED] for the operation. Each aircraft was retrofitted with cushioned flat beds, oxygen units, and onboard medical stations.

Medical personnel monitored surrogates for complications, administering sedatives to those exhibiting distress or restlessness.

“Flying cargo is one thing. Flying this cargo? Another beast entirely. I could hear the medical staff scrambling in the back every time we hit turbulence. It wasn’t until we touched down that I realized how close we came to disaster.” - [REDACTED], Pilot

Stage 3: Arrival & Integration at Compound 133

Surrogates were offloaded and delivered to their assigned wards, where medical personnel assessed their condition.

Immediate hormonal stabilizers were administered to counteract the physical strain caused by altitude changes and prolonged immobility.

Mobility & Transport Constraints

Issue

Many surrogates, especially those late term (+25 days), were unable to walk or sit upright due to the size and weight of their pregnancies. The average weight of surrogates and supporting equipment was over [REDACTED] lbs, +300 lbs average surrogate weight, 489 lbs max weight transported.

Solution

Specialized equipment, such as reinforced stretchers, forklifts for heavier surrogates, and bariatric wheelchairs, was employed to move surrogates from Compound 110 onto the planes. Stretchers were secured in a palletized format inside the aircraft to maximize space.

“The forklift crew had a hell of a time loading the bigger ones. You’d think they were moving industrial machinery, not people. One was so massive they had to be rolled onto the stretcher like a beached whale. It wasn’t pretty.” - Anonymous Ground Technician

Issue

While the standard [REDACTED]-type plane has a cargo capacity of approximately [REDACTED] lbs and an internal volume of [REDACTED] cubic feet, the vehicles needed retrofitting to accommodate the unique needs of heavily pregnant surrogates. This included safety measures for turbulence and environmental controls to maintain appropriate temperature and pressure levels.

Solution

The [REDACTED]-class plane could transport [REDACTED] surrogates per flight with DRC modifications.

Planes were equipped with mobile dividers so that if surrogates suffered complications, they could be rapidly isolated from view for treatment or birth. Climate control systems were enhanced to maintain a stable environment and portable restroom facilities were added for staff use (surrogates were catheterized to avoid the need for movement).

“They told me this was for my own good, but I can barely breathe in here. Every bump in the air made it feel like my belly was going to burst. I just want this to end—I don’t care where we’re going.” - Surrogate S110-523-Q

Key Incidents

Mid-Transport Medical Emergency

During the flight, Surrogate S110-399-Q, pregnant with septendecuplets (17), began exhibiting severe respiratory distress. Initial symptoms included difficulty breathing, chest tightness, and visible [REDACTED]. Onboard medical personnel swiftly administered oxygen and sedatives to stabilize, but within minutes, signs of early labor emerged, prompting the emergency medical team to prepare for an in-flight delivery.

The medical team worked tirelessly to assist the surrogate as he delivered all 17 fetuses before arrival in Portland. Each newborn was immediately evaluated for viability and determined to be stable. As expected, the surrogate's vital signs rapidly declined following the final birth, and he succumbed to [REDACTED] failure.

"I’ve never seen anyone that big in my life. I couldn’t stop staring. His belly was so massive it looked like it was about to split open. When he started struggling to breathe, the medical staff was all over him, but the sounds he made… it was like he was suffocating under his own weight..." - Surrogate S110-403-I, Observed Situation

Public Visibility Concerns

Several bystanders filmed the convoy and uploaded clips online during the ground transfer stage. DRC Cyber Security immediately intervened, scrubbing social media platforms and issuing cease-and-desist orders to content creators.

Surrogate Stuck in Chair

One surrogate, pregnant with octodecuplets (18), experienced significant growth during the flight, reportedly due to hormonal surges and fluid retention. Upon landing, the crew discovered that the surrogate had become physically wedged in his reinforced seat due to his expanded abdomen and swollen extremities. Extraction required the partial disassembly of the seat and the use of specialized equipment to free him.

“I wasn’t even surprised anymore. His belly was literally spilling over the armrests. That’s when you realize these missions aren’t just logistical—they’re borderline impossible.” - Anonymous Transport Specialist

Behavioral Issues

Three surrogates attempted to resist boarding at Paternity Compound 110, citing fears about the unknown destination and poor treatment. They were sedated on-site and securely transported.

Post-Operation Notes

Total Surrogates Transported: [REDACTED]

Surrogates Expired En Route: [REDACTED]

Fetuses Delivered During Operation: [REDACTED]

While operational challenges were anticipated, the results align with DRC efficiency standards. The use of modified cargo planes and specialized medical protocols ensured the safe delivery of most surrogates despite several complications during transit.

Additional safeguards are required to manage the physical strain of long-term pregnancy during extended transport. Enhancing hormonal regulation pre-flight may mitigate extreme growth events.

Stronger sedation measures, particularly during boarding, will reduce incidents of resistance and streamline pre-departure logistics.

Transport plans must minimize exposure to the public. Future operations should prioritize routes and timing to limit interaction with civilian populations.

Conclusion

Operation Overdue underscores the complexities of large-scale surrogate relocation efforts and demonstrates the DRC’s capacity to execute such operations precisely and adaptively. Lessons learned during this mission will inform future strategies, ensuring the continued success of critical population sustainability initiatives.

----------------

Click Here to return to DRC Report Archives

#mpreg #mpregkink #malepregnancy #mpregbelly #pregnantman #mpregmorph #mpregcaption #mpregstory #mpregbirth #mpregart #mpregnancy #aimpreg #mpregroleplay #malepregnant #caucasianmpreg

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theresattrpgforthat · 2 months ago

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This is kind of a weird one I guess but do you have any recommendations for urban fantasy games with crunchy combat that can utilise battle mats or terrain? ideally ones where the general population don't know the fantasy elements exist. Something with a vibe like fighting monsters and gangs in abandoned malls and subway stations instead of dungeons.

I wanna build terrain for an urban fantasy game but all the ones I see seem to be ones where combat isn't a huge focus, or they're very rules light, or combat is super deadly so you don't have an opportunity to screw around with positions a lot.

Thanks -w-

THEME: Urban Fantasy w/ Combat.

Hello! This is a pretty tall order, and I think that what you're looking for is closer to a war game than a ttrpg. I'm going to include a few tabletop games here, since that's my thing, but I'm also going to show you a little bit of what I found from the Wargame Vault, in case you find that to be a little more in your wheelhouse.

CAIN, by Tom Bloom.

Humanity is cursed, host to a roiling psychic sea barely understood or controlled, a phenomenon arising purely from the darkest portions of the human soul. While most humans are blissfully unaware of its presence, others are more sensitive. When it grows wild in these hosts, SINS appear, terrifying supernatural monsters that are anathema to reality itself.

CAIN is the solution, the global supranational shadow organization dedicated solely to the hunting and execution of sins. It’s mission is clear, its purpose steadfast. Is there anything better than a good hunt? Just think, you’re all set to slaughter to your heart’s content.

YOU are an exorcist, a powerful psychic soldier and tool of CAIN, honed and wielded for one purpose: WIPE OUT THE STAIN.

From the same person who brought us Kill Six Billion Demons and Lancer, CAIN is definitely focused on the hunt of something that regularly, everyday people can't see. The game uses d6 dice pools, and draws on a lot of narrative cues that I've seen in places like Blades in the Dark, so I don't know if it's necessarily as map-oriented as you'd like, but there might be something tactical in the choices your characters might have to make.

CAIN also puts a fair amount of stock in something called a Category, which is a scaling system to help you determine how effective any given action might be, depending on your character vs the type of supernatural power they are up against, as well as an exorcist's level of skill, the number of people involved, or how much of an area one might need to cover. The game definitely feels like it will reward you if you manage to attain some system mastery, so if you like that kind of challenge, you might like CAIN.

Majestic 13, by Snarling Badger Studios.

MAJESTIC 13 is miniatures-agnostic tabletop wargame where you command an elite team of alien hunters in a secret war to protect the Earth.

To the public, the modern era of alien encounters started in Roswell, New Mexico, on July 8th, 1947, with reports of a downed alien craft, which were quickly retracted and replaced by the story of a weather balloon. The public remains suspicious but accepts the story and moves on. Conspiracy theorists claim the government absconded with alien bodies and technology and hid everything from the people. Both stories are, of course, wrong.

Secrecy? Check. Monsters? Check. Terrain & combat? Absolutely check. Majestic 13 is not necessarily an urban fantasy game, but I think that you could swap out the aliens for fantasy monsters and you'd be pretty darn close. This is also a war-game, so it's definitely focused on the logistics of a drawn-out fight, rather than narrative beats. I think perhaps one of the biggest drawbacks of this game is that it's designed for only 1-2 players, so it would be difficult to bring this to a larger table.

Mad as Hell, by SoulMuppet Publishing.

Mad as Hell is an anti-capitalist demon-hunting exploration of activism and community. Play as Radicals, members of various Communities, banding together to fight the literal demons of capitalism.

The only way to kill demons is to understand what quiet violence created them in the first place, work out how to solve that problem, and turn it into a weapon. You might kill a demon of mouldy water with a purifier, a demon of poison-laced diet drugs with its own reflection, or a demon of bigotry with a pride flag. Unless you address the root cause of the problem, the wound in the world will continue to fester, and the demon will be reborn, free to wreak havoc. To defeat the demon truly, you need to make meaningful social change in your communities and help those around you.

Mad as Hell is rules-light, but it's also a combat game, where demons are representative of the evils that have arisen from a wounded world full of damaging power structures. You hunt these demons to protect the communities you are part of, and also to help combat the distress that arises from living in such a fraught environment.

I'm recommending this game mostly because it carries the fantasy setting that you're looking for, as well as focusing much of the game on conflict, although the conflict is probably less about a strategically-managed battlefield, and more about using what resources you have to solve what problems you can.

Right now the game is preparing to kick-start later this year, but the quick-start (linked above) is free to download. You can also download the Radical's Handbook if you want some in-world commentary from various contributors.

Dark Streets & Darker Secrets, by Old Skull Publishing.

Dark Streets & Darker Secrets is a Street & Sorcery Rules Light Role-Playing Game with an Old School spirit, just like its predecessors: Sharp Swords & Sinister Spells and Solar Blades & Cosmic Spells.

It’s a game about modern adventures in the world we live today, only with a layer of supernatural weirdness and horror. Characters are people who have found out about the mysteries and horrors that exist in the world and have decided to do something about it, be it battle it, join it, or simply explore its possibilities in any way they see fit. They will battle evil cultists, corrupted ghosts, bloodsucking vampires, and frenzied werewolves, or maybe they will be the horrors of others.

Dark Streets & Darker Secrets feels like a great option for GMs who want a bunch of tools to help them generate interesting adventures for their players. The game itself feels liked it draws from quite a bit of OSR sensibilities, which means that if there is strategy, it will mostly revolve around creative uses of your environment and the items on your person.

I'm not entirely sure whether or not terrain is something that would add to OSR-style games or not, but combat in this game system is pretty comprehensive, with rules about movement, cover, multiple attacks, and using spells. If you want to learn more about this game, you can check out this review on Questing Beast about the game!

The Secret World, by Star Anvil Studios.

An age is ending, and the darkest days are already here. Ancient enemies cast their avaricious gaze upon our world, threats both mortal and cosmic–once thought merely myth, but horrifically all too real–reveal themselves as the clock counts down towards apocalypse. Now, the “Bees,” the Chosen of Gaia, must step forth to defend the Earth against these dire threats. At the same time, they must work with secret societies who support the bees in their efforts to save humanity from unspeakable horrors.

In The Secret World: The Roleplaying Game, the players are those bees.

The Secret World requires the Savage Worlds core rulebook in order to play; it's a setting more than it is a standalone game. It's all about secret societies fighting against apocalyptic forces. Mechanically, I find Savage Worlds to be "crunchy" and I certainly wouldn't call it rules-lite… but it's also not exactly tactical in nature. Mechanical bonuses are awarded to characters depending on how you as a player role-play, and characters are built through a point-buy system, rather than through an advancement path often seen in class-based games.

That being said, the fact that the game tracks movement through pace means that having some kind of map or terrain to track your progress would be very helpful. The kind of weapon your character holds determines how much damage you might be able to do, and you roll for damage, meaning that you can't count on dealing the same amount of damage every time. If you like trad games, I think there's a lot you might like in both Savage Worlds and The Secret World.

When Nightmares Come, by Osprey Publishing.

When Nightmares Come is a tabletop miniatures wargame about modern day monster hunting and occult investigations. Players will form a team of paranormal vigilantes; self-taught occult specialists and monster hunters who call themselves the Nightwatch. These self-appointed members of the ‘watch look to tackle the supernatural horrors and investigate the strange disturbances that plague their city.

The core of the game, using the Action Dice Pool with its multiple die types, is fast and bloody, with tiered enemies, flexible player classes, quick combat resolution, and straightforward mission objectives.

When Nightmares Come also contains a roleplaying element that allows for non-combat challenges and dramatic encounters. This system uses the same dice types as the core game’s Action Dice Pool and emphasizes quick resolutions. This narrative system adds a fresh dimension to the core miniatures experience, particularly in longer campaigns where the promise of different foes and new story lines encourages long-term play-ability.

This looks like an excellent game for folks who like to play the underdog, combining the combat of monster-hunting with an investigation that point to plenty of mystery and hidden enemies. The publisher of this game also mentions a narrative system, which allows for dramatic encounters that might allow this game to straddle the line between war-game and TTRPG. Another great thing about this game is that appears to be some supplements designed by to community to help you get started, such as The Loa of Lockwood Court, and Gang Tags and Elder Signs.

Finally...

If you like what I do and want to leave a tip, you can check out my Ko-Fi!

#urban fantasy #combat #tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #game recommendations #dnd #asks #indie ttrpg

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bbstarkey · 1 year ago

Text

Difficult Arrangements

FEYD RAUTHA x Y/N reader - arranged marriage (she/ her pronouns)

18+ - please do not read/ interact if you are underage / uncomfortable

Warnings - Implied Smut, (It's on in part 2 <3 -), pregnancy mentions, arranged marriage factors, medical talk, speaking of breeding?

please interact! I love to see the feedback:)

PT.2 HERE-

“The best course of action might be a stimulant, something to engage her desire for more frequent intercourse?” She felt like the examination table was growing colder against her. She stared down at her socked feet, trying to keep herself away from the conversation the three men in the room were having regarding her desire to fucking her husband. Feyd stood next to her slumped form, growing increasingly annoyed with what he was deeming to be a ridiculous conversation. “What have the endless tests you’ve been performing resulted in? Seemingly a waste of time..” He responded, annoyed at their uncertain responses and experimental solutions. “Na-Baron, Sir… the sake of the lineage needs to make sure the compatibility is there..it’s unfortunately not very simple to resolve with just practical medicine.” She glanced at his blank expression, his jaw clenched; “So what are you two doing to assist the issue?” “We have been researching natural ways to accelerate or increase the probability of pregnancy and we believe the stimulants in specific foods can help. Another practice has been proven to help as well..” The medic adjusted his stance, not seemingly wanting to speak on it further. Feyd was losing patience fast, “And it is?” “Making sure there is a willingness from the female to er- engage, and for her to accomplish climax during the ovulation period…” Her brain felt like it could slip out of her head, three men discussing the logistics of her lack of orgasm and lack of pregnancy being connected. Her willingness to become impregnated with Feyd-Rautha’s child was being questioned. She sits across from dozens of scans and files on her body. Y/N blanked out the rest of the conversation, tired from her lack of sleep and her lack of breakfast. She had grown used to the schedule set by her husband and felt the effects of falling out of schedule. As the discussion toned down, she felt herself unable to daze off. “No, she won’t be touched or examined by a man. I’ve stated this before and I am growing quite a disdain for these stupid statements..” He wasn’t being difficult due to interest in her lack of comfort, it was more his. Feyd was territorial with what he deemed to be ‘his’. Every male around understood they could lose a limb, or their lives if they attempted to touch her. Guards were extraordinarily careful, whilst noblemen and relatives acted as though she simply did not exist. “Na-Baron, her the Na-Baroness’ nurse and doctor are off-planet and won’t be back for at least a week.” “Then, the examination will happen in a week. I would strongly advise both of you to step out and get back to finding more helpful solutions.” Both medics excused themselves as they stepped out. Leaving them alone in the examination room. Feyd glanced over her form, his hand slipped to the back of her neck, fingers against her soft hair. “Even more quiet than usual mouse…”

She could feel the tears building but she couldn’t do it, “I-I’ve grown quite tired of these appointments.” She whispered. “I just wish I would just be pregnant..” Feyd wasn’t one to show much empathy or emotion since their courtship. He was quite a lunatic and had complete disregard for anyone and everything around him. But he noticed her defeat, 6 months of marriage attempts since their wedding, and no heir. She was raised to strive for motherhood and couldn’t seem to accomplish the part of becoming a mother. “I have to get back to training, let’s get you to the dining room for breakfast.”

He walked next to her, keeping her at a close distance through their stride of the endless hallway. Her mind drifted off to how loving her parents were, how they held hands through walks and constantly embraced. She wasn’t sure how he would react to an attempt at affection. Although she craved the sweetness of a hug or a cuddle, she didn’t think to attempt anything. She slowed down to glance out the giant windows. She longed for soft grass fields and flowers to step through and lay in from her home world. Feyd could see her longing stare, he knew well that she wasn’t present in those silent moments.

They didn’t say a word to each other until they reached the dining room. The servants were setting up a big portioned breakfast. “I will be back after training, I want all of your portions eaten. I will be reported back to.” She nodded, not up for arguing with her husband today. Before she could step in, his strong arms pulled her in for a kiss. His lips were rough against hers, her hands instinctively reaching for his waist. Before it could deepen, he pulled away, allowing her to step back. “I’ll be devouring you for a nice late breakfast after training. Be good for me pet.” She nodded sheepishly, aware of his statement, and she approached her predetermined feast.

PT. 2 coming sooon

#feyd rautha #feyd x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune pt 2 #feyd oneshot #austin butler #dune part two #dune #dune movie #smut imagine #imagine #one shot #drabble #fanfiction #fanfic

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panerasbox · 2 months ago

Text

Stop the World -

Pairing: Chessy x fem!reader (present time)

Genre: Angst

warnings: character is engaged to someone else. internalized homophobia. use of y/n. slow burn.

word count: 2,330.

A/N: Here’s chapter 2! I know it isn’t christmas time but it’s literally snowing outside today where I live 😭 This chapter came out way sooner than intended because I felt like chapter 1 wasn’t enough to get people going. The next chapter(s) will be posted weekly! I hope you like it!

Chapter One 🎭 Chapter Two 🎭 Chapter Three 🎭 Chapter Four 🎭 Chapter Five 🎭 Chapter Six

The silence in my apartment was heavy, just Elizabeth and me with all that unspoken tension hanging between us. Her gaze was gentle but direct, like she could see right through the act I was putting on. The thought of going back there, seeing Chessy again, made a frantic voice scream inside me. It felt like pure self-inflicted torture, especially knowing about the ring and how firmly she’d pushed me away. It wasn’t just revisiting a place; it was like holding my hand over a flame.

But Elizabeth’s words kept replaying in my head: “Fighting something inside… Not as perfect as they seem…” Before I could overthink it, before fear completely took hold, I heard myself say, the words feeling reckless and carrying a tiny bit of hope I hated.

“Okay, Liz,” I mumbled, finally meeting her eyes. I took a shaky breath. “Okay. Fine. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do need to see for myself.” The decision didn’t bring relief, just a sinking feeling in my stomach.

A bright smile lit up Elizabeth’s face. “Oh, fantastic!” she said, practically bouncing. “When can you come?”

Reality hit. I ran a hand through my hair, the practical problems hitting me at once. “Whoa, hold on. Parker Knoll basically wiped out my summer vacation. My boss would probably explode if I asked for more time now.” I frowned, already stressed by the logistics.

Elizabeth waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t be silly, Y/n.” She leaned forward, resting a comforting hand on my arm. “There has to be a way. Please?”

I sighed heavily. “Believe me, Liz, I want to. But rent doesn’t pay itself. I can’t risk getting fired right now.” The familiar anxiety about money tightened its grip.

“Enough!” Elizabeth laughed softly, making me smile a little. “Okay, okay, no more worst-case scenarios! Simple solution: Christmas! That’s… what, about six weeks? Plenty of time to charm your boss or figure something out.” She said it with such confidence.

“And if ‘figuring something out’ means they say no?” I asked, trying to keep my tone even. She just wasn’t getting how tight my finances were. “Liz, I wish it was that easy.”

She gave me that knowing smile, her hand still warm on my arm. “Well, why can’t it be?” She chuckled. Then her eyes brightened. “Wait! If your job becomes a problem… why not just work for us? For me? Or Nick?” She announced it proudly. “Seriously! Nick’s swamped with vineyard paperwork, he could use the help. Or my design marketing could use a fresh perspective… Honestly, Y/n, it would be great!”

My brain stalled. Work… for them? Here? Could that actually happen? The work hurdle vanished, replaced by a bigger one: Chessy. What if she hated that? Me, just… here. Working for her employers. Would she think I was trying to hold on, invading her life? The thought made my skin crawl.

I took a deep breath, pushing those thoughts away for a moment. My dead-end job versus this chance, this potential mess. I met Liz’s hopeful gaze and managed a smile that I hoped looked determined. “You know what?” My voice felt surprisingly steady. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Elizabeth’s smile widened. “That’s fantastic!” she exclaimed, immediately jumping into planning. “Okay, Christmas it is! We’ll have the big Parker Knoll party, of course. You can have the guest room again. And seriously, about work, just think about it – Nick really needs help with the vineyard stuff, or my marketing could use your ideas…”

Her voice was full of happy energy, painting a picture that felt both exciting and terrifying. Okay, maybe I had a backup plan for work. But the real risk wasn’t my job; it was Chessy. What if seeing me here made everything worse between us? The thought made me feel sick.

What had I just agreed to? Maybe quitting my job, maybe even moving, all for a slim hope about someone who was engaged.

But the decision was made. Now, the waiting. Figuring out the time off, the secret calls with Liz, the constant worry. Six weeks until Christmas, until Parker Knoll, until seeing Chessy again. The anticipation wasn’t excitement; it was a tight knot of hope and fear in my stomach. All I had to do was get through it.

The crunch of tires on the gravel was loud in the still December evening. Parker Knoll appeared in the fading light, different from my summer memories. Instead of being sunny and open, it was it was dull and you could see a mist under the porch lights. Wreaths hung on the doors and even the stable gates, giving off a warm glow that didn’t calm the frantic feeling in my chest.

I turned off the engine. The sudden silence was overwhelming, making the thumping in my ears even louder. This was it. I took a deep, shaky breath, my hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

Before I could even think, the front door burst open. Elizabeth ran out, smiling, wearing a thick red cardigan that looked incredibly cozy in the cold. “Y/n! You made it! It’s so good to see you!” Her hug was quick and warm, smelling faintly of cinnamon and maybe mulled wine.

Nick was behind her, leaning against the doorframe, his usual easy smile on his face. “Welcome back,” he said, his voice calm and kind. “Glad the weather held out.”

I forced a smile, saying something about traffic being okay. My eyes scanned the area, already looking for her. They skipped past Elizabeth and Nick, drawn to the house itself—the light from the living room, the dark path to the stables. Every shadow felt significant. Was she inside? With the horses? Was she with Martin inside somewhere? The festive scene suddenly felt fragile, overshadowed by one question: Where was Chessy?

“Well, don’t just stand there!” Elizabeth said cheerfully, pulling me inside. “Come on!”

“I’ll get your bags,” Nick offered, patting my shoulder as he went to my car.

Stepping inside, the warmth of the house felt comforting, filled with the scent of pine and something delicious baking. Christmas decorations were everywhere. But the warmth didn’t stop the nervous feeling inside me. As I took off my coat, I turned to Elizabeth, keeping my voice quiet and trying to sound casual.

“Hey, Liz,” I started, clearing my throat. “Um… is Chessy… where is she?”

Elizabeth’s smile flickered for a second. A guarded look replaced the warmth. “Oh, she’s just in the kitchen,” she said, glancing slightly towards it. “I think she’s fighting with the new coffee machine.” Then, a bit louder, she called out, “CHESSY! Darling, Y/N’s here!”

A tense silence followed, then footsteps approaching the doorway behind Elizabeth. My breath caught. Chessy appeared, stopping in the kitchen doorway. She looked tired, with shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there in the summer. Her hair was pulled back messily, and she wore a simple sweater. Her eyes met mine—wide, startled, maybe even a hint of panic—before a polite, strained smile appeared on her lips. “Y/n,” she said, her voice quiet and neutral. “Hi. Welcome back.”

“Hi,” I replied, my own voice barely a whisper. “How have you been, Chessy?”

She gave a small shrug, the forced smile still there. “Good. Yeah, I’ve been good.”

I nodded, trying to smile warmly. “Hey, do you think… maybe we could talk for a minute?” Nerves made me touch my hair. “Somewhere private?” The hope in my voice felt too loud.

She paused, her gaze flicking away and back. Her eyes showed a mix of emotions I couldn’t read. After a moment, she finally nodded stiffly. “Yeah,” she breathed out. “Okay. Follow me.”

Chessy pushed open the front door again, letting the cooler air into the warm hallway. She nodded towards the wicker chairs by the railing, looking ghostly in the porch light. “We can talk out here,” she murmured. We sat down, the silence thick and awkward between us, broken only by the soft sound of wind chimes in the dark. The porch lights cast long shadows.

“Chessy,” I began, my voice thin. “I know this is probably really awkward. Me just showing up. But Liz came to see me, and… well, she said some things. She kind of hinted that maybe things weren’t as perfect as they seemed with you and Martin.” I took another shaky breath. “I guess I just… I had to see for myself. I needed to try and understand.”

Chessy didn’t look at me. She stared out into the dark yard. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and tight. “Liz shouldn’t have done that,” she said sharply. “It’s none of her business. And with all due respect, Y/n, it’s none of yours either.” She finally turned her head, her eyes cool and distant. “Things are fine. I’m happy. Martin’s wonderful,” she said, the words sounding empty.

“Are you?” I blurted out before I could stop myself, my voice soft but clear in the cold air. “Really? Because… Chessy, what happened between us this summer… that connection… it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt real. How do you just… turn that off and…”

“Turn it off?” Chessy interrupted, her voice finally cracking with something sharp—anger, maybe hurt. It vanished quickly, replaced by that forced control. “It wasn’t something to ‘turn off,’ Y/n. It was a moment. A confusing, complicated moment. Martin…” She hugged her knees to her chest. “Martin is my future. He’s stable, he’s kind, he loves me. That’s what’s real.” Her gaze flicked towards me, then away again. “This,” she gestured vaguely between us, “this was just… summer messing with our heads.”

Her words hit hard. Summer messing with our heads. Okay, I hadn’t expected a grand confession, but Liz had been so sure… and Martin, as nice as he is, just didn’t feel right for the Chessy I remembered.

I took another deep, shaky breath, trying to stay calm. “Chessy—“

“No, Y/n,” her voice was firm now, cutting me off. She stood arbubtly. Her face was tense. “I can’t go back over this summer. It happened, it was confusing, and it’s over. Martin is who I want to be with. He’s my fiancé.” She emphasized the word. “I’m sorry if you misunderstood things, I really am. But you need to accept that.” She turned sharply, heading for the door. “I think it’s better if we just… don’t talk about this again.” The front door clicked shut behind her, leaving me shivering on the porch, the silence deafening.

I sat there, frozen—not from the cold. Rejection washed over me, sharp and cold. This was a mistake. Why did I listen to Liz? Why did I let myself hope? My eyes burned, and my throat felt tight.

Pulling myself together felt like a huge effort. I needed to move, to breathe air that didn’t feel like failure. A walk. Down to the stables. Maybe the familiar smell of horses and hay would help clear my head.

Water splashed under my boots as I followed the path, trying to think about anything else—the lights, the smell of pine,—anything but the conversation that had just crashed. I was thankful for the winter in California. Although sometimes chilly, right now it was raining, unlike the snowstorm I left behind at home.

When I reached the stable, lamplight spilled from the open doorway. Surprisingly, I wasn’t alone. Someone was just inside, checking a stall door. He turned as my shadow fell across the light. My breath caught.

“Martin,” I managed, surprised to see him so soon. I hadn’t even processed Chessy’s rejection, let alone prepared to face her fiancé. “Hello.”

Martin looked up, surprised at first, then smiled warmly. He was genuinely nice—open and friendly.

“Y/n! Hey!” he greeted warmly, stepping forward. “Didn’t realize you’d arrived. Welcome back to Parker Knoll!” He offered a hand, and I took it, hoping mine wasn’t shaking too much. His grip was firm and friendly. “Chessy mentioned you were trying to make it for Christmas, glad it worked out.”

“Hi, Martin,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just got in a little while ago.” The casual mention of Chessy felt like a punch.

“Good timing,” he said, gesturing back towards the stall. “Just doing a final check on Jupiter for Chess. She worries about him when it rains this much.” He chuckled. “You settling in okay? Can I help you find anything?”

His easy manner, his casual mention of caring for Chessy’s horse, his complete obliviousness to what had just happened on the porch—it was almost too much to take. I needed to leave, quickly.

“Oh, no, I’m fine, thanks,” I replied quickly, putting my hands in my pockets. “I just… wanted to see the horses. Say hi.” I glanced at Jupiter’s stall, avoiding Martin’s eyes. “It’s, uh, colder than I thought. I think I’ll go back inside and grab another layer.” It was a weak excuse.

“Good idea,” Martin agreed easily. “Probably wise. Well, hey, it’s really great to finally see you again.” His smile didn’t waver. “Guess I’ll see you back at the house? Maybe Liz has that mulled wine ready.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, already backing towards the stable door. “See you.”

I practically ran back up the puddled path, my heart pounding from the cool wind and the confusing mix of Chessy’s rejection and Martin’s kindness. Reaching the yard, I leaned against an old oak tree, gasping for air that didn’t smell like horses or disappointment. What now? How was I supposed to get through Christmas here, under the same roof as both of them, carrying this secret?

You’ll have to stop the world just to stop the feeling

#chessy x reader #the parent trap #fanfic #archive of our own #lisa ann walter #gxg #wlw post #angst #slow burn #panerasboxfic #writing #reader insert #chessy #stop the world: chessy

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