#this is a reference to my last me talking post

[all-my-love-for-harry]

Strictly Professional

pairing; ceo!jake seresin x fem assistant!reader

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

word count; 13.5k

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

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

masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t knock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You handled him.

Which made him insufferably interested.

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

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

That spark. That ridiculous, inconvenient something.

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

So instead, you kept things exactly where they were.

Snarky. Functional. Professional.

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

You dropped a folder on his desk without looking up.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, immensely.”

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

You blinked. “Conference?”

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

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

Jake didn’t argue. Just smirked.

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

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

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

You froze. “What?”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Everyone else? They ducked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I noticed,” you said flatly.

Jake scowled, but you didn’t blink.

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

“They always get it wrong.”

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

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

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

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

“You never take my side,” he muttered.

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

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

You saw the email. You said nothing.

That was the arrangement.

He yelled. You didn’t flinch.

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

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

The rest of the day went smoother.

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

Thank you, it said.

You nodded back, and went on with your day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re underpaid.”

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

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

You blinked.

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

Small talk? Not your thing. Not his either.

Still, you didn’t let your surprise show.

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

Jake’s eyes flicked up at that.

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

“Are you suggesting I’m needy?”

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

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

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

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

As always, you both stayed in your lanes.

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

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

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

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ll drive you.”

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

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

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

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

“Maybe.”

“You don’t even like Midtown traffic.”

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

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

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

Not romantic. Not dramatic.

But new.

A shift.

And neither of you said a word about it.

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

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You crossed your legs and looked out the window.

Eventually, you pulled up in front of your building.

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

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

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

“Night.”

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

But something made you glance over your shoulder.

He was still there.

Engine running. Lights low. Waiting.

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

You stood behind the glass a second longer than necessary.

And then, with a blink, he was gone.

-

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

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

It should have felt like power.

Instead, it felt like procedure.

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

Too big for one man.

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

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

The silence was deafening.

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

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

And you had.

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

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

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

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

The laugh when he mentioned a boyfriend.

I don’t have time for boyfriends.

Neither did he. That wasn’t news.

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

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

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

You were still here.

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

Jake exhaled a quiet laugh under his breath.

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

You were just his assistant.

Brilliant. Efficient. Unbothered by his moods.

And yet —

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

The offices were a study in quiet fear.

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

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

You didn’t bother looking up from your computer.

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

But when he passed your desk?

He paused.

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

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

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

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

“You leave anything for me to do?”

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

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

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

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

You pretended not to hear.

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

Until—

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

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

Silence. Then—

“Fine,” Jake muttered. “Keep going.”

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

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

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

Chaos erupted.

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

He stopped.

The girl froze like a deer in headlights.

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

She squeaked.

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

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

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

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

Then he walked away.

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

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

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

He hated inefficiency. Hated incompetence. Hated noise.

But you?

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

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

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

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

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

You snorted. “Of course it is.”

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

Jake noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tightly.

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

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

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

“I’m fine.”

“You’re pale.”

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

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

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

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

You stared at him, throat suddenly dry.

“…I do.”

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

“Then relax.”

The engines roared to life.

You flinched.

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

You flipped him off.

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

“For your comfort, princess.”

You looked at the pillow. Then at him.

“I swear to God, Seresin—”

But then the wheels lifted.

And you gripped the armrest like it owed you money.

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

Not taunting this time.

Just watching.

Like he was trying to figure you out.

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

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

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

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

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

Jake just smiled and sipped his scotch.

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

He shrugged. “Just trying to distract you.”

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

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

“Turn what off?”

“The smart-ass act.”

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

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

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

“Charming?” he offered.

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

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

“That I believe.”

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

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

“And yours is… heights?”

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

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

A slight shudder through the cabin.

You stiffened instantly, grip tightening on the champagne glass.

Jake didn’t miss it.

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

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

The jet bounced again, more aggressively this time.

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

Jake shifted.

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

Your eyes widened. “What are you—?”

“Helping,” he said simply.

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

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

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

“What the hell is happening?” you whispered.

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

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

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

You exhaled slowly. “A little.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

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

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

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

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

But Jake didn’t move his hand.

And you… didn’t pull away.

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

It should’ve been weird.

But it wasn’t.

Not even a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One bed, Jake.”

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

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

He didn’t even flinch. “It’s fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Seresin.”

Jake turned to you and extended the key.

“Shall we?”

You stared at him. “Who are you?”

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

“Since when?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The suite was… gorgeous.

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

You stared at the bed.

It stared back.

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

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

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

You turned. “Think about what?”

“The couch.”

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

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

You blinked. “You’re not serious.”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t whine.”

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

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

Jake smirked. “Exactly.”

You glared. “This is deflection.”

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

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

You blinked. Once. Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed and focused hard on the screen.

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

And then, finally, the water stopped.

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

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

He was shirtless.

Of course he was.

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

You looked once. Just once.

And regretted it immediately.

Because damn.

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

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

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

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

“Mortified.”

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

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

“I’m very consistent.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re off the clock.”

“I’m never off the clock.”

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

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

He hummed. “Tragic.”

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

The tension was thick. Almost painful.

Your iPad screen dimmed.

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m admiring.”

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

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

“Go to sleep, Seresin.”

“You first, boss.”

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

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

He didn’t move it.

Neither did you.

The silence stretched. Comfortable and tense all at once.

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

This trip was going to ruin you.

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

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

Except it did.

It started small.

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

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

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

You stared.

He walked away like nothing happened.

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

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

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

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

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

Mostly.

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

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

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

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

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

You did not stare at his back muscles.

Much.

The second day, it only got worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the tension was there.

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

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

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

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

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

“…Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

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

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

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

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

Much.

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

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

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

And then he appeared.

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

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

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

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

“…Just here for work.”

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

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

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

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

“Is there a problem here?”

Jake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He disappeared into the crowd.

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

Jake turned to face you, jaw still clenched.

“You okay?” he asked, voice tight.

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

“I saw.”

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

You touched his wrist gently. “Jake.”

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

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

“It’s not your fault.”

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

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

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

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

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

So you rode in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake.”

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

And still… he said it anyway.

“You’re mine.”

The words punched the air between you.

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

Your throat went dry.

“Jake…”

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

You stood frozen.

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

The silence that followed was deafening.

Your mouth parted, but no words came out.

Jake took a step forward.

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

Another beat passed. Then two.

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

“You’re serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed. “Take your time.”

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

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

His pupils dilated. “Say less.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bossy little thing,” he murmured fondly.

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

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

They didn’t go back to the conference.

In fact, they barely left the suite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He never rushed. Not once.

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

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

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

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

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

You were already panting, fingers twitching against the comforter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were starting to hope he didn’t stop.

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

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

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

You didn’t answer right away. Because if you turned around now — if you looked at him — you weren’t sure you could keep pretending this was just a fling. Just an accident.

“Just tired,” you lied, soft.

Jake’s hands tightened slightly at your waist. “Liar.”

That one word sent a flicker through your belly.

You turned your head a little. “Excuse me?”

He moved closer, chest flush to your back now, and when he spoke again, his mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re not tired,” he said, voice dark, almost smug. “You’re overthinking.”

You hated that he was right. You hated that he knew he was right.

“Jake—”

“I get it,” he cut in gently, but firmly, arms sliding fully around your waist to pull you against him. “We go back tomorrow. It’s back to boardrooms and meetings and pretending we don’t look at each other like we want to rip each other’s clothes off in the elevator.”

Your breath hitched.

He turned you slowly in his arms, eyes scanning your face with quiet focus, his hands staying at your hips.

“But I’m not pretending anymore,” he said, the honesty in his voice knocking the wind from your lungs. “I don’t want to go back to pretending. Not after this.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted.

“I know you feel it too,” he added, voice rough now. “The way you melt for me. The way I can’t stop touching you because I’m scared I’ll forget what it feels like when we’re back in that damn office and you’re making snide comments about my suits again.”

A breathless laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Jake grinned.

And then — like gravity had its own rules around the two of you — you were kissing him again.

This time, it was slower. Less frantic than the other nights. More intentional.

Jake kissed like he had all the time in the world, like you weren’t leaving tomorrow, like he could memorize you piece by piece if he just took his time. His hands mapped your back, your waist, the curve of your hips — warm and sure and patient. When he pulled back, his gaze dropped to your mouth.

“Take your shirt off,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow. “So bossy.”

“Only matching your energy, sweetheart.” He grinned. “Besides, you know I like to watch.”

You did.

You also knew exactly what he meant.

You peeled the fabric over your head slowly, relishing the way his eyes tracked your every movement, how his tongue flicked across his lower lip when your bra followed.

He growled, low in his throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smirked, stepping back toward the bed. “Then come die happy, Mr. CEO.”

He was on you before your back even hit the mattress — mouth on yours, one knee between your thighs, hands pinning your wrists above your head.

“You know, I had every intention of going slow tonight,” he whispered against your neck, dragging his lips along the skin there. “But then you had to go and get all bratty.”

You gasped as his teeth grazed your collarbone.

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupted, licking the sting away. “But that’s alright. I like you mouthy. Gives me more reason to shut you up.”

“Jake—”

His hand slipped between your thighs, dragging the waistband of your shorts down just enough to slide his fingers over you.

“God,” he groaned. “Still so fucking wet for me.”

You moaned, arching into him.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, lips brushing your ear.

“I want you to—”

“Uh-uh,” he cut in, teasing again. “Be specific. You’re the bossy one, remember?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Fine. I want your mouth. Now.”

He laughed — dark and thrilled — and then disappeared between your thighs with a reverence that made your skin shiver.

Jake worshipped you. That was the only word for it. His mouth moved over you with purpose, with precision, tongue teasing and flicking and curling until your thighs trembled and your hands clawed the sheets. He held your hips down, humming like your moans were his favorite song, eyes locked on you when you dared to look down at him.

When you came, he kept going — slow, lazy licks that made you writhe, that dragged the heat in your belly back to life.

“You can give me another,” he said, like a promise, like a challenge.

You whimpered, already overwhelmed.

“Don’t you want me to come back with you?” he teased, mouth still on you. “Then let me ruin you properly. Let me make sure no one else even tries.”

Another climax rolled through you with a cry.

He didn’t stop until you begged.

And then he finally moved back up, bracing himself above you, his lips red and slick, his pupils blown wide.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, kissing you softly now, almost sweetly. “About not wanting this to end.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding painfully.

“I don’t either,” you whispered.

His forehead pressed to yours. “Then let’s not.”

And when he sank into you that final night, slow and deep and grounding, you both understood that whatever had started in a sleek corner office back in New York had evolved into something else entirely.

-

The hum of the jet engines filled the silence like a secret.

You sat across from Jake in the plush leather seat, your legs curled beneath you, the afterglow of the trip hanging in the quiet air between you. Below, the world stretched endlessly — clouds scattered like silk across the sky, cities tucked beneath them, unaware of the shift that had happened in the space between takeoff and landing.

Neither of you had said much since boarding. There hadn’t been a need.

Your body still hummed from the way he’d touched you last night. The way he’d looked at you. Like you weren’t just his assistant anymore. Like you were something else entirely — something sacred.

Jake sat across from you, a tumbler of water in his hand instead of scotch this time, the sleeves of his black button-down rolled up, throat bare where the first few buttons had been undone. His jaw flexed when he glanced at you. You were in one of his shirts — his favorite shirt, in fact — sleeves too long and hem brushing your bare thighs. You hadn't meant for it to feel intimate, but it did.

Everything about today felt intimate.

“You’re quiet,” you finally said, voice soft but steady.

Jake looked at you slowly, eyes darker than usual, thoughtful. “So are you.”

“Just… thinking.”

He nodded once. “Same.”

You tucked your chin into your palm, watching him. “About what?”

Jake let out a breath — not quite a sigh. “About how I’m supposed to go back to pretending you’re just my assistant again.”

That made your heart do something complicated in your chest.

“I don’t want to pretend either,” you said softly, honesty slipping through before you could edit it.

His eyes flicked up at you at that — something tightening in his jaw. “Then don’t.”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you rose slowly to your feet.

Jake followed your movements like you were gravity itself. His eyes never left you as you stepped over, climbed into his lap, and settled your knees on either side of his thighs.

It was quiet for a moment.

Just your breathing

Just his hands finding your waist, sliding beneath the hem of the shirt to touch skin he already knew by heart.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low, rough.

You nodded. “I just want to feel you again.”

He leaned in, his forehead pressing gently to yours. “Then ride me, baby.”

The way he said it made your breath catch.

Slowly, you reached between your bodies, unbuttoning his slacks, your fingers careful but aching with need. He helped, lifting his hips just enough so you could free him, and then he sat back in the leather seat, watching you through half-lidded eyes like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

You slid your panties to the side and sank onto him slowly.

Jake’s head fell back, a quiet fuck escaping his lips.

He felt so good — thick and warm and grounding. You paused for a moment, adjusting, breathing. His hands were already on your thighs, thumbs stroking lazy, soothing circles.

“Take your time,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You moved slowly at first, rocking your hips in steady, rolling motions. Jake didn’t try to take control — not yet. He let you lead, but his hands never left your body. One traced up your spine, fingers curling around the nape of your neck. The other gripped your hip, steadying you, guiding you with soft pressure when you faltered.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

Your hands were braced on his shoulders, your breath stuttering each time you sank down. His praise made your body clench around him — and he felt it.

“Oh,” he groaned, grip tightening. “Do that again.”

You did.

And again.

And again.

The rhythm grew messier, needier. You leaned forward slightly, your forehead resting against his. Jake brought a hand to your jaw, holding you there.

“You feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “So warm. So perfect.”

His lips brushed yours, just barely. Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

You whimpered, the tension coiling tighter in your belly, your thighs starting to tremble with the effort of holding on.

“Jake—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, sliding his hand between your bodies, finding the place he knew would undo you completely.

You gasped.

“Let go,” he whispered. “I wanna feel you fall apart on top of me.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit like a wave, stealing your breath and your balance. Jake held you through it, one arm around your waist now, cradling you to his chest as you shook. You collapsed against him, burying your face in his neck as he murmured praise into your hair.

“You’re okay,” he said, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you.”

You were still coming down when he shifted beneath you, lifting you gently as he thrust up once, twice, chasing his own release. His fingers dug into your hips as he groaned into your skin, spilling inside you with a shudder.

The cabin was silent except for your breathing.

You stayed like that — tangled together in the middle of a private jet, a mess of limbs and sighs and promises you hadn’t made out loud yet.

Jake finally leaned back to look at you.

“You know we’re not pretending anymore,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.

You nodded.

And smiled.

“Good,” he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because I don’t want to sleep another night without you.”

You kissed him softly, sweetly, like an answer.

And then you stayed in his lap the whole way home.

[ramp-it-up]

Light My Fire

Summary: You ran to the hospital wondering if you'd lost him. By the time you left, that question was answered.

Word count: 4.6 K

Pairing: Firefighter! Bucky Barnes x Principal! Reader; Ari Levinson, Steve Rogers and Syverson x Reader, Platonic.

A/N: I just can't get enough. I have a lot to say about them. This time, my love @nissaimmortal helped out with the injury, hospital scenes and ideas for later 😈. Here is the previous part. I'm head over heels for stubborn, angsty, grumpy, burning-for-you firefighter Bucky Barnes. 🫠 This was inspired by an abandoned AU from last year and then this ask from a few weeks ago. I can't get him out of my mind. Bucky is a firefighter and both him and Reader are burn survivors. Tell me how you feel by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, dm'ing and the like. Interaction is life.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. This fic/au deals with fires, burns, burn survivors and recovery. There are graphic descriptions of burns, injury, and pain. Angst, but the beginnings of smut and some fluff. Bucky and Reader are burn survivors. Medicated Bucky, burn injury and recovery, Dr. Shea 👀 and hospital feelings. A lil bit of language, a lot of teasing from Steve and Sy, the "what are we?" conversation, clothes wearing kink, ssponge bath references, same bed, no sex, sbut almost, size kink if you squint, dirty talk, yearning and burning, Norwegian wood, rule follower Bucky, they finally say the things!

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

The automatic doors hissed open as you all but ran inside, your heart battering your ribs like it wanted out.

Syverson was the first one you saw, too big for the plastic chair he was trying to fold himself into, two coffees balanced in one hand. He stood the moment he spotted you.

“He’s okay,” Sy said immediately, voice low and steady. “He’s banged up, but he’s okay.”

You could barely breathe. Your eyes darted past him to where Ari sat slouched in a chair, turnout coat unzipped, soot streaking his temple. He looked up at you, expression unreadable.

Steve was at the nurses’ station, talking quietly with someone behind the counter. When he turned and saw you, relief crossed his face like a tide. He crossed to you quickly, just as Sy pressed a warm coffee into your shaking hands.

“You wanna sit?” Sy offered.

You shook your head, knuckles white around the cup.

“Where is he?”

Steve touched your shoulder gently.

“Come on. I’ll take you back.”

You hesitated only a second, just long enough to glance at Ari. He stood, brushing soot off his pants, then opened his arms without a word.

You stepped into the hug, your heart pounding against him. He patted your back once.

“He’s too stubborn to stay down,” Ari murmured near your ear.

You pulled back, eyes stinging.

“Thank you.”

He gave you a tired half-smile.

“Take care of him.”

You nodded and followed Steve down the corridor.

“They’re keeping him overnight,” Steve said as you walked. “Cracked scapula. Second-degree burns on his shoulder and upper back.”

You stopped in your tracks.

Steve paused beside you. 

“It’s not life-threatening. But it’s serious. And he asked for you. Before the pain meds, before anything else.”

The door to his room was slightly ajar. You paused again, grounding yourself. Then stepped inside.

Bucky was propped up in bed, his flesh arm bound in a sling, fresh white bandage stretched over his shoulder and collarbone, gauze peeking out from under the edge of his gown.

The skin on his face was flushed and red in patches, shiny with ointment. A nurse had clearly tried to clean him up, but there was still soot in the creases of his fingers.

His eyes found you and softened instantly.

“You’re here,” he rasped.

“You’re an idiot,” you whispered, stepping in. 

“You could’ve texted,” you joked.

He blinked slowly.

“Phone’s under a thousand pounds of smoldering wood.”

You huffed, half-laughing, half-sobbing.

He held out his hand. You crossed the room and his fingers grasped your waist like you were his lifeline, like you were the one saving him.

Steve lingered less than half a minute before stepping back.

“I’ll give you two some time.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Bucky’s eyes were glassy, but locked on you.

“Were you scared?” he asked.

You let out a breath. “I was terrified.”

“Shoulda seen the other guy,” he muttered, then frowned. 

“Wait. No. It was a roof. Roof was the other guy.”

You laughed through your tears, brushing soot-dusted hair from his forehead.

“You’re high as hell.”

He looked up at you, suddenly so sincere it broke something open.

“I missed you,” he said. “Every second.”

You swallowed hard, hovering at the edge of the mattress.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know,” he murmured.

“Was thinkin’ about you the whole time. Even in the ambulance. Thought, if I make it out, I’m gonna stop being such a fucking coward.”

You went still, eyes sweeping over the white gauze and the sling, the bruises already blooming across his collarbone. His hand slid from your hip to your wrist, thumb caressing you, distracting.

“I was gonna come over after shift,” he whispered. “Tell you I’m all in. That I don’t want to be just your friend. That I never did.”

Your chest squeezed.

“You mean that?”

He nodded slowly.

“I want you to be mine.” 

Then he blinked. 

“Wait. That sounded cooler in my head. You don’t have to be, like, mine-mine. Not like a dog or a sandwich. Fuck, I’m bad at this.”

Your mouth dropped open. 

“A sandwich?”

He grinned faintly. 

“Like, the kind you don’t share.”

“Oh my God,” you laughed, and leaned in before he could say anything worse.

His lips were warm and dry, the kiss soft and sweet and over too quickly. When you pulled back, his pupils were blown.

“You kissed me,” he said, dreamily.

“You kissed me first,” you whispered.

“I did?” He smiled. “God, I’m good.”

You cupped his face, forehead to his. 

“Try and sleep, Buck.”

“Stay?” he mumbled, already drifting. “Please? Just sleep.”

You hesitated.

You looked again at the bandages, at the line of burn dressing that disappeared beneath the gown. At the fingers curling slightly from pain and meds. His body had already been through so much, had lost so much, and now it was hurt again.

Your chest ached at the thought of it.

“This is nothing.” he said suddenly, eyes fluttering.  “Lost a whole damn arm once.”

He said it like a joke, but it wasn’t funny.

You swallowed hard. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

There was something fragile in his voice now.

“Please don’t leave.”

You exhaled slowly. Then climbed carefully onto the narrow bed, easing into the space beside his good side, mindful of the sling, the dressings, and the IV. His vibranium arm shifted with a soft mechanical sound, opening around you.

He made a soft, content noise and buried his nose in your hair.

“You smell good,” he slurred.

“You smell like smoke.”

“Mmm. Sexy.”

You smiled into his chest.

“Go to sleep, Barnes.”

But his voice was already fading.

“You’re warm… gonna marry you someday…”

You froze.

“Bucky?”

But he was already asleep, his breath soft and steady in your hair.

You lay there in the too-bright room, listening to the beeping of machines and the slow, steady rhythm of his heart, trying to decide if you imagined what he just said, or if you’d be brave enough to believe it.

—----

You stirred awake to the steady rhythm of Bucky’s breathing and the distant murmur of a hallway monitor. It was quarter after six, the lights were dimmed, his hand was still resting on your waist, and his vibranium arm was cradling you protectively like it had been all night.

He was breathing, warm and alive.

You shifted just enough to press a soft kiss to the edge of his jaw. You were careful not to touch the gauze taped over his shoulder or jostle the arm strapped to his chest.

He blinked awake slowly, eyes still a little heavy, but clear enough now to find your face and smile.

“You’re still here,” he rasped.

You brushed your fingers lightly through his hair.

“Told you I’d stay.”

The door creaked open just as you leaned in for another kiss.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” came a new voice, warm, unassuming, with a faint rasp like someone who didn’t sleep much.

“Just need to check his chart and give you the plan for discharge before I go off rotation.”

You turned, still curled beside Bucky, to find a man in blue scrubs standing in the doorway. Tall. Handsome. Tousled hair, stethoscope draped casually around his neck, tablet in hand. He looked a little surprised to see you in the bed, but not judgmental.

He just… took it in.

“Dr. Shea,” he introduced himself, eyes flicking briefly to Bucky. 

“Ortho consult overnight. You were pretty out of it, so I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”

Bucky squinted.

“Yeah. Not ringing a bell.”

“That’s okay,” Shea said easily.

“Cracked scapula’s holding. Burn team cleaned you up. Second-degree, no grafts needed. You’ll be sore, but you’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

He scrolled briefly through his tablet, then looked up.

“You’ll be discharged this afternoon once we get the final check from burns. Just a few reminders: stay in the sling for at least a couple of weeks. The burns are dressed, just keep them clean and dry for the next 24 hours. Change it tomorrow afternoon. No overhead reaching, no weight-bearing on that side, and no rigorous activity while you’re in the sling or until you’re cleared.”

His tone was clinical, but the pause before rigorous activity was just long enough.

“You’ll also need to start PT next week to maintain range of motion.”

Bucky smirked. 

“Define rigorous, Doctor.”

Dr. Shea didn’t even glance up. 

“Anything that might pull at your scapula. You can figure it out.”

Your mouth went dry.

“We’ve only kissed,” you blurted, then immediately closed your eyes, mortified. You were running off at the mouth.

Dr. Shea looked up with a raised eyebrow, but he didn’t miss a beat. 

“Right. Something to look forward to in recovery. Just keep it PG-13 for a few weeks.”

Then he turned and walked out without another word.

You stared after him, cheeks on fire.

“Oh my God.”

Bucky was already scrolling on his phone.

“Are you…are you looking up PG-13 movies?”

“I’m just researching my injury,” he said, deadpan.

You swatted his uninjured arm. 

“You’re researching what you can get away with before we’ve even set the ground rules.”

“Ground rules?”

Bucky looked at you fully and watched as your cheeks colored deeply. 

“Are you gonna call me to the office if I break one, Principal?”

You bit your lip. “…Maybe.”

You were so caught up. So fast. And then he kissed you again, slowly, thumb tracing your jaw. His good hand slid behind your neck, pulling you closer, and just then, the nurse walked in and froze. 

So did you. 

So did Bucky.

The nurse blinked. “…I’ll come back.”

You laughed, and Bucky chuckled, then winced, groaning at the movement. He pushed his pain button for more meds.

“Great,” he muttered. “They’re gonna write a note in my chart.”

“Oh yeah,” you said, nuzzling closer.

“Patient exhibits signs of excessive clinginess.”

He smiled, tired and warm, already drifting again.

“Damn right I do.”

Even as sleep pulled him under again, one thought looped through his mind: I said it. And she didn’t run.

—

The door opened again around 9 am, and this time it was Steve. He looked like he’d gotten some sleep and a shower, and he had a bag from the bakery down the street from the firehouse. Your stomach growled and Bucky side-eyed you.

“Aw, come on,” Steve’s voice drawled.

“You two couldn’t keep it in your pants for one night?”

You startled slightly, but Bucky just grinned as his good hand slid round your waist.

“Didn’t even try,” he said.

Steve rolled his eyes. 

“I came by late last night to check on him, saw you both curled up like a damn Hallmark movie. Nurse said she didn’t have the heart to kick you out. I took advantage of the lust and went home for some shut eye.”

You flushed but didn’t move from the bed.

“I figured if he flatlined in the night, at least he’d go out happy.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Bucky muttered as you flipped Steve off. 

The blond grinned at both of you.

“You good to go?”

“Soon,” Bucky said, glancing at you. “She’s taking me home.”

Steve raised a brow. 

“Pretty sure you’re supposed to be recovering, not seducing your ride.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat.

“I’m a very persuasive patient.”

You blinked, your pulse stuttering at the heat in his voice, at the unmistakable pride in his touch as his hand slid over your hip like it belonged there.

Steve groaned.

“God, you two are disgusting.”

Bucky just tugged you closer, fingers flexing over your side, casually possessive. 

“Get used to it.”

You gave him a half-hearted glare, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you, twitching into a smile. Then you climbed out of the bed, lightly brushing your hand over Bucky’s good shoulder.

Bucky looked at you, concerned.

“Hey. I’m sure you didn’t get much rest tucked into this hospital bed next to an injured half-metal man. It means everything.”

You two shared a look. There was something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite name.

“Go home, eat, get some rest. Then, if you feel up to it, come back. I can get this punk to take me home.”

“I’ll be back, Barnes. I’m gonna return the favor.”

Then you paused, realizing how that sounded.

“I want to.”

He looked up at you, eyes dark and unreadable for a beat. 

"I’ll be back around 1.”

Bucky gave you a soft smile.

“I’ll be waiting.”

—--

You came back at 12:45.

Bucky looked up when you stepped in, dressed in a loose firehouse tee and some sweats, fussing with his sling, hair slightly damp from what had to be the world’s most awkward sink rinse.

His eyes softened the second they landed on you.

“There she is,” he said.

You set the bags down and crossed the room.

“There you are,” you whispered, cupping his jaw gently.

“Ready to go home?”

“With you?” he rasped. “Always.”

Later, you helped him sign the discharge papers, thanked the nurses, and laughed when he muttered something about being on a no-fun list until further notice.

But when he tried to carry his own bag, you sprang into action.

“Nope,” you said, snatching it off the bed. 

“Slings and scorched backs mean no heavy lifting.”

“It’s literally a backpack,” he grumbled.

“It’s literally my problem now.”

He gave you a look so fond and so wrecked with affection that it stopped you mid-step.

“What?” you asked softly.

Bucky blinked. “Just… you.”

You swallowed hard and turned toward the door before your face gave you away.

The ride to his place was quiet. Not awkward. Just heavy with everything you hadn’t said yet.

The kiss from the night before still felt stamped on your lips. The heat of his hands, the weight of his body, the wrecked sound of his voice when he’d asked: Is there a world where this works?

You hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

Not once.

—

He lived in a modest house, on a quiet street, with a worn welcome mat and a potted plant struggling for survival on the porch. You carried his bag while he unlocked the door with his good hand.

“Feels like I should carry you,” he quiped.

You snorted.

“You have a cracked scapula.”

“I have a vibranium arm.”

“And I have common sense. Now go sit down before you fall over and I have to explain to Dr. Shea why you’re back in the hospital.”

He grumbled something under his breath but obeyed, easing carefully onto the couch while you moved around the space, fluffing the couch pillows, opening a window for air, checking his fridge and putting in a grocery order.

“You’re gonna make someone a really bossy wife someday,” he called.

“I’ll add it to my résumé.”

He chuckled, then let his head fall back on the cushion with a quiet groan.

“God, I missed this.”

“What, being injured?”

“No,” he murmured. “You.”

You turned away again, something tight catching in your chest.

—

That evening, you helped him out of his sling and sat beside him on the edge of his bed, your fingers careful as you peeled back the bandages after he took a bath.

The burn cream had done its job, but the skin was still angry, raw and glistening along the slope of his shoulder and collarbone.

You swallowed hard.

“Sorry,” you murmured, reaching for the gauze and saline.

“This might sting.”

“I’ll live.”

He was quiet for a moment, then his lips quirked.

“You know,” he said, eyes still on the ceiling, “when I dressed your burns, you asked if I was gonna give you a sponge bath.”

Your face heated instantly.

“I was joking.”

“I wasn’t.”

You paused, fingers mid-wrap.

He looked at you now, gaze steady.

“I thought about it,” he said, voice low.

“About you. All the time. Even when I was trying not to.”

Your breath caught.

“Me too,” you whispered.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, and something in the air went electric. You smoothed the last bit of gauze into place, heart hammering.

“I could do it, even though you just got clean,” you said, keeping your voice light. “Give you that sponge bath. Just for symmetry. You could talk me through it.”

He gave a ragged little laugh. 

“You say that like it wouldn’t kill me.”

“I’d be gentle,” you murmured.

“Don’t be,” he rasped. “Not if we ever…when we… I mean… if you want to.”

He broke off, shaking his head and looking at you with those baby blues. Your heart lurched as he continued.

“God, I’ve wanted to touch you forever.”

“You did,” you whispered. “Last night.”

He nodded slowly, eyes hungry.

“Wasn’t enough.”

Your hand found his where it rested on the blanket. His fingers grabbed yours instinctively.

“I do want to,” you whispered. “But we’ll wait,” you said.

“You’re still healing.”

“I know,” he said. “Doesn’t stop me from dreaming about it.”

“You dream about sponge baths?”

He groaned, tossing his head back on the pillow. 

“You’re evil.”

You smiled and leaned down, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw.

“I’ll be right back,” you whispered.

“Let me grab clean clothes and your meds.”

He caught your hand before you stood.

“You staying tonight?”

“Until you kick me out.”

“Never gonna happen.” 

He looked you up and down.

“Will you wear my hoodie…?”

He didn’t say the … and nothing else part. But somehow, you heard it.

You cocked your head and he was two seconds from tackling you on the bed you were so cute.

“Which hoodie?”

—

That night, you curled up beside him in his bed, in his fire station hoodie and leggings for protection, his good arm cradling your waist. His breath was warm against the back of your neck, his hand resting over your ribs like it belonged there.

“You still awake?” he murmured sometime past midnight.

“Yeah.”

“I can take the couch,” you whispered. “If you’re uncomfortable. You’re hurt.”

He tightened his grip a fraction.

“Not that hurt. And that’s not why I’m uncomfortable.”

His voice was doing things to you and you shuddered.

“You’re healing, Bucky.”

“I heal better with you here.”

You let that sit for a long moment.

“Doctor said no rigorous activity.”

He huffed into your hair. 

“I’m not gonna break his orders. But I want to.”

Silence.

Then his hand slid an inch lower over your waist.

“You have no idea how much I want to.”

“Bucky…”

Your voice was wrecked.

“Don’t make me beg.”

You turned toward him slowly, careful not to jostle his shoulder. 

“For what?”

He kissed you, softly. Slowly. And when he pulled back, his voice was wrecked with restraint.

“For the next kiss.”

You kissed him again.

And again.

—--

You woke to the sound of rain against the windows and the steady rhythm of Bucky’s breath behind you.

The bedroom was dim, the light outside gray and soft. Warmth radiated from him, his body curled close. His vibranium arm was still around your waist, his palm pressed low against your belly like he was holding you in his sleep.

You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to breathe.

Because something was pressing against you. Insistent. Hard.

And huge.

This was very much not part of his healing injury. You blinked and shifted the tiniest bit. Yeah. That was definitely…

“Morning,” came his voice, gravel-rough with sleep.

You swallowed. “Morning.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, not sorry at all. 

His hips shifted behind you, amplifying the unmistakable shape of his cock nudging against your ass through the thin barrier of his boxers and your leggings.

“It’s just…” he sighed. “Norwegian wood.”

You laughed, startled. “Excuse me?”

“Morning wood,” he groaned. “Like the song?”

You were grinning now, face flushing hot. “You are ridiculous.”

“And extremely hard,” he whispered.

“That part’s not a joke.”

You couldn’t help it, you pressed back slightly, just enough to feel him twitch.

He hissed into your hair. “Sweetheart…”

“Sorry,” you said, smirking.

Bucky exhaled a long, slow breath against your neck.

“You keep doing that, I’m gonna break my own heart and Dr. Shea’s protocol.”

“You’re the one pressing it against me.”

“You were already there,” he rasped. “I woke up like this and thought I was dreaming.”

You turned over slowly, careful not to jostle his sling, and came face to face with him, messy hair, pink flush, eyes dark and wide and starving.

“Doc has to clear you,” you whispered.

“I’m not going to make it,” he whispered back.

You reached up and ran your fingers through his hair, thumb tracing the curve of his temple.

“I could help,” you offered softly.

“Just… a little.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenching.

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want you so much,” he said, voice strained, “and I’ll never forgive myself if I can’t give you everything when it happens.”

Your breath caught. You searched his face.

“I can wait,” you said.

He opened his eyes, and the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, nearly broke you.

“But I can’t stop wanting you,” he said. “Every second. Even now.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing yours maddeningly slow.

“I want to be inside you so bad it hurts,” he whispered.

And your pussy clenched.

You whimpered before you could stop yourself, and he froze, jaw locking, pupils blown. The edge of restraint between you stretched thin. Too thin.

His hand rubbed against your back.

"You're not wearing a bra under my hoodie, are you?"

You pressed your forehead to his and shook your head.

“Goddamn,” he rasped. “You don’t know how many nights I lay in this bed wondering what color your nipples are.”

“What do you think they are?”

You were on a fast train to hell.

He gazed at your mouth.

“Probably the same color as those delicious lips of yours…”

You fought not to squirm, but the way your clit pulsed was impossible to ignore, and you could already feel the wetness dripping down your thigh. Bucky’s hand flexed against your hip, his breath ragged.

“But until I can do it right,” he murmured, voice cracking, “until I can hold you down and make you feel everything I’ve been holding back… I’m gonna have to wake up like this.”

You kissed him deeply, your hand cupping his face and his vibranium fingers gripped your hip, anchoring you. When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard.

“Guess you better start learning restraint, Barnes.”

He laughed, beautifully wrecked, and grabbed a pillow, wedging it between you.

“I’ll be strong.”

—-

You hadn’t moved in ten minutes.

You were till curled against Bucky in the soft quiet of the morning, his hoodie clinging to your skin, your fingers loosely laced with his over your waist, and the pillow still wedged between you.

The storm outside had slowed to a drizzle. The air inside was warm and intimate.  It was a perfect Sunday morning.

Neither of you had spoken since Bucky whispered I’ll be strong. But now his low voice broke the silence.

“Hey.”

You tilted your head just enough to look at him. He was watching you, blue eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“I know we haven’t really… said it, not while I was lucid,” he murmured.

“But I feel like I need to. Just so it’s clear.”

You held your breath. His jaw flexed.

“This isn’t just weekend comfort or messed-up timing. It’s not just the trauma. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Your heart started pounding.

“Bucky…”

“I don’t want this to be some undefined–”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You both froze.

Then, louder: “Lieutenant, open the damn door before I kick it in.”

Bucky blinked. “No fucking way.”

You sat up, dazed. “Is that…?”

“Syverson,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Son of a bitch.”

You scrambled to your feet, smoothing your hair, heart still racing from everything you didn’t get to say. Bucky swung his legs out of bed, calling toward the door as you followed.

“It’s not even noon!”

Sy’s voice came through, smug as hell.

“Brunch waits for no man. Or woman.”

You shot Bucky a panicked look and he gave you a long, slow once-over, his hoodie to your knees, your kiss-swollen lips, the heat still in your cheeks, and smirked.

“He’s gonna see everything, sweetheart.”

You flipped him off. He laughed, raised an eyebrow, and you knew what he was thinking. You ignored him, padded to the door, and opened it.

Sy stood there with a paper bag, three coffee cups in a carrier, and the exact expression of a man who knew exactly what he’d interrupted.

“Well,” he said, stepping in and eying your outfit. “Guess I should’ve called.”

You snatched the coffees and turned on your heel.

“You think?”

Bucky was now sitting on the couch, grinning.

Sy whistled.

“Someone looks well cared for.”

“Get out,” you and Bucky said in unison.

Sy just grinned, pulled a cinnamon knot from the bag, and parked himself at the kitchen island like he owned the place.

“I’ll eat and go,” he promised. 

“I just like watching the beginning of a beautiful, emotionally repressed love story.”

You glared. Bucky groaned.

And just like that, the what are we talk was gone, buried under donuts, sarcasm, and the looming presence of a man who definitely knew too much.

But it was coming.

You could feel it.

—--

Sy left around 1:30, the paper bag empty, coffee cups drained, and one last wink thrown your way as he shut the door.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he called. “Actually, never mind. Do everything.”

The door clicked shut. Then silence.

You stood in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, trying to catch your breath. Bucky was still on the couch, watching you with a softness that made your chest ache.

You didn’t move right away. Then you crossed the room.

“Where were we?” you asked softly.

He tilted his head, eyes never leaving yours.

“Right around the part where I said this wasn’t just about the trauma.”

You nodded.

“I know it’s not,” you said. “Not for me either.”

“It’s always been you,” he said. 

“Even when I was pretending I didn’t want you. Even when I was trying to keep things professional.”

You stopped in front of the couch, too keyed up to sit. Too raw.

“You were by my side through everything,” you said.

“When I couldn’t walk without help. When I couldn’t stand to look in the mirror. When I was sure no one would ever touch me again. And you never asked for anything.”

He swallowed hard.

“I didn’t want you to think I was just another guy who wanted something from you.”

“But I wanted you to,” you whispered. “That’s the thing. I wanted you.”

The weight of his gaze nearly knocked you over.

“I’m scared to name this,” you said, voice shaking. “Because it already feels like everything.”

Bucky’s voice was low.

“Then let’s just say the truth.”

You nodded, breath shaky as he straightened slightly, his eyes fierce now.

“I want to be yours,” he said.

“Fully. Not halfway. No blurred lines. And I want you to be mine.”

Your breath caught.

“I already am,” you said.

He blinked like he couldn’t believe it.

You stood between his knees, and his hand slid up your thigh, thumb slipping beneath the hem of the hoodie you still hadn’t taken off.

“So what are we?” you whispered.

The dreaded question. The overdue one. He looked up at you like he was seeing the sun rise.

“We’re together,” he said.

“You’re mine. I’m yours. That’s it.”

You nodded once. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed, hoarse.

Then his fingers tightened just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Now come here,” he murmured. “And let me kiss my girlfriend properly.”

You smiled, wide and wrecked, and when you leaned down and kissed him, it wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate.

It was real.

And it was everything.

[annie-bby]

— dating dallas winston hcs ୨୧

first post since redoing my account woop woop! i have to just put it out there that this may not be good at all 😭 i’ve never written anything for dally or anything for the outsiders in general!!

hopefully this isn’t too ooc, i wrote it in like 20 minutes 💔

send a request in if you feel like it :)

i see a lot of people saying different things for this, but i really do believe that dallas is a sweetheart or babe kinda guy

definitely refers to you as my girl when talking to other people or when he’s jealous

when he’s jealous 🤤 an arm around your shoulder/waist/hip as he pulls you closer.. or as he very loudly says some not very appropriate things in your ear or just out loud to the other person - nobody’s messing with his girl

i think sylvia really took a toll on him which reaalllyyy increased his level of protectiveness, which was high enough to begin with, and did make him question is he was the problem he lowk is most of the time

so patience, as challenging as that may be, is necessary as well as a lot of trust

and with trust comes wearing his ring! i’d die to wear it, so aren’t you lucky ☺️

pda isn’t something that i think he particularly cares about but, in his eyes, if you want it then you got it

though i do think that he always has an arm round your shoulders or a hand in your back pocket

dating dally does mean you have a new best friend: johnny cade! he follows you two around like a shadow and he doesn’t care if you don’t talk to him much, just knowing that he has yours and dally’s protection is enough for him <3

and with johnny inevitably comes ponyboy! now you have your own little squad!

dally loves to push boundaries and that isn’t different for you at all, while he cares about you, he loves to push your buttons as far as you’ll allow him to - please call him out on this or it’s gonna keep going on 😭 he definitely wants you to call him out, that’s the whole point! 😉

inviting you to meet the gang and then going out with them all as a group will take time - he wants to make sure you’re definitely in it for the long run and won’t mess him around like sylvia did

and try not to take it personally when dally catcalls another girl or two-bit starts making advances on you

having you close really keeps him grounded and reminds him that not all is bad, despite the life he’s been handed - and he really appreciates you for that though he won’t show it

when he’s drunk is when he really spills it to you

“dal, come on.” you manage to mutter out. it’s early in the morning, maybe around two or three and you’re tired yourself. you should’ve known that this would happen.

dragging around a drunk dallas winston isn’t easy, especially not when you need to sneak him into your bedroom as quiet as possible so your parents don’t hear. and definitely not when he’s got his entire body weight resting on your left shoulder, an arm loosely wrapped around your arms and his feet scuffling.

dally starts muttering something unintelligible and you lean closer to be able to hear him. a few jumbled sentences leave his lips before you finally hear it as you lay him down on your bed.

“too good to me, sweetheart. don’t know why you’re still with me.” he mumbles before readjusting so he’s laying comfortably - a sight you’ve seen many times before.

your heart softens and you almost drop the clean clothes he’d left in your drawer the last time he was round - for times like these, he’d said, winking at you.

if you knew that waking up from your beauty sleep and taking care of your drunk boyfriend only four hours before you had to wake for school would end in this everytime, you’d drop everything to do it again.

dates usually consist of the diner, drive-in or to buck’s bar. mostly you guys go and get drunk at buck’s, or you watch him get drunk and go care for him at home or upstairs in his room.

the gang really enjoy your company and pony and darry are real appreciative of you as you somewhat calm dallas down - though the gang do have to hear him make advances on you infront of them as if you aren’t already dating 😀

i really do think that dallas can be a good, loving boyfriend if provided the patience and understanding he needs, as well as his partner having the ability to let loose and fuck around with him every once in a while in both ways

— back to my masterlist!

[ephemeralp1eces]

You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XVII

Summary: With things sorted out between the three of you, it’s back to the daily grind. You finally find each other in between schedules to take some time together, but at the worst possible time, you’re discovered.

What to know: Lando x reader, Oscar x reader, not smut but reference to it from previous chapters

wc; 7,500

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X | Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII | Part XIV | Part XV | Part XVI

We hadn’t meant to all end up in the same place.

But between the heat outside, the downtime between sessions, and the broken AC in Oscar’s room, we retreated to the only space left that promised privacy: the old briefing room tucked behind the garage. It was barely used anymore, mostly storage now, but it had couches, a working fridge, and the quiet sort of stillness that made it easy to talk.

We sat half-curled on the biggest couch: me in the middle, both boys draped comfortably against me, like we’d done this a thousand times before. It was the kind of closeness that didn’t need permission anymore. Oscar was eating dried mango strips out of a random team snack stash. Lando kept stealing them.

No one was in a rush to leave.

No one mentioned the last two nights.. until Oscar nudged Lando. “You’re so smug this morning man.”

“I’m not smug,” Lando said. “I’m just well-rested.”

“And sore?”

Lando smirked. “Can’t help it if I give 110%.”

Oscar huffed “like I didn’t?”

They both looked at me.

I stretched my legs out, dramatic. “You boys really want the post-match interview?”

Lando grinned. “Always.”

Oscar added, “We’re open to feedback.”

I laughed. “Fine. Lando’s night was a bit… steamier.”

Lando looked victorious.

“Wet hair, fogged glass, a whole vibe,” I added. “Very romantic thriller.”

Oscar feigned insult. “And me?”

“You were surgical. Like I was a problem you were solving.”

He choked on his mango. “That’s not true!”

“No, it is,” I said. “You were focused. Intentional.”

Oscar covered his face with his hands.

“Very quiet,” I added.

“I was concentrating!”

We all laughed, real and unguarded.

And when it faded, it left something soft behind.

Not jealousy. Not tension.

Just appreciation.

Comfort.

“I like this,” I said quietly.

They both looked at me.

“I like us.”

Oscar bumped his shoulder into mine. “Same.”

Lando draped an arm behind me and added, “We should do a team-building retreat.”

“Team-building?” Oscar asked.

“Yeah. Like a trust fall. But dirtier.”

Oscar looked mildly alarmed.

I leaned back, smiling. “You’re both ridiculous.”

And that’s when the door opened.

—

None of us had time to react.

It creaked open, slowly, and a familiar voice said, “They told me this room was free- ”

Then Max Verstappen stepped in.

He froze the second he saw us.

Three people.

One couch.

Legs tangled.

My hoodie, Lando’s socks, Oscar’s McLaren t-shirt barely covering my shorts.

His mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then: “Oh.”

Lando sat up straighter.

Oscar blinked hard.

I didn’t move, mostly because I wasn’t sure I could. Max stared for one full beat longer than was polite.

Then: “I don’t think this room is free.”

“No,” Lando said flatly. “It’s really not.”

Max lingered in the doorway, hand still on the knob.

He looked at me.

Then at Lando.

Then Oscar.

Then back to me.

“Right,” he said, slowly. “So you’re all… I see.”

Oscar muttered, “Shit.”

“No one else knows,” I said quickly. “Max. Please.”

Max raised his eyebrows. “This is… unexpected.”

Lando tried to recover. “It’s… new.”

Oscar added, “Private.”

“And no one’s getting hurt,” I finished.

Max nodded.

Then looked at me, like he was studying me for the first time. “I didn’t think you were the type.”

“What type is that?”

“The type who could pull both of them.”

Oscar’s mouth dropped open.

Lando looked like he was reconsidering all his life choices.

“I’m not pulling anyone,” I said.

Max hummed. “You are. Just extremely efficiently.”

“You’re not upset?” Oscar asked.

“Why would I be upset?” Max said. “You’re all consenting adults.”

“True,” Lando said slowly. “But…”

“It’s a little complicated,” I added.

Max nodded. “I imagine so. Especially if someone were to… say… mention this to the media.”

That got very quiet.

Too quiet.

I sat up straighter. “Max.”

He sipped his coffee again, infuriatingly casual. “You know how fast these things travel.”

Oscar: “You’re threatening us?”

Max: “No, no. Not threatening.”

Lando: “Feels like threatening.”

Max tilted his head. He stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him.

Then he smiled.

[xxfangirl365xx]

going off my last post. May I propose a timeline?

Bullets: first half of the album to what I know if just random songs,but the "demolition lovers" introduces our mc's for Three Cheers for Sweet revenge

Revenge: We lyrically follow the tale of the demo lovers, but in the MV'S we get to meet the boys in a ww2 setting who are in a band, where Mikey dies, and Ray is a medic.

Black Parade: lyrically we follow the story of the paitent who dies young and is welcomed to the afterlife by a "parade"

Danger days: we follow 4 desert rebels fight bl/ind

NOW, here is what I am getting at. while lyrically in revenge we follow the demo lovers. we are introduced to the boys (mcr) where they are in a band during ww2.

the paitent in black parade talks abt how his fondest memory was going to see a marching band with his father

so the USA was involved in ww2 in the 1940's. So...realistically, they could have been in the marching band the patient see's. because look at the vintage vibe of the things in this. Let's say, the patient was a little kid in the 40's, and then died in his mid 20's.

this would have been the 1960's.

(nurses uniforms from the 60's for reference to show they match, as well as the equipment)

(also wanna add this is kinda the same vintage as nurserard my beautiful wife and maybe she was a nod to this mv as well and the lore? possibly)

so the patient dies, and is reunited with the parade he saw as a child, but they are changed and different since they also have died. also explains Mikey having the military medals, and Ray having the medic sash in the new uniforms.

so after his story is done, the boys are sent to the MOAT for reasons, I am unsure of at this moment. most likely something due to the dictator not liking them.

the dictator brings them back and they do the show. Then, at the end when G is stabbed and writhing across the stage he flips a switch. launching a missile behind the whole band.

That missile could have launched the helium wars, which started the danger days universe. Also, Mikey's magazine being read by G during the show, and the black parade skeleton in the sand that the killjoys pass by shows they most def exist in the same plane of events.

now what if,

hear me out.

bc they r already "dead" they cannot die again and r stuck in this place forever, and continue being a band and are mad gear and missile kid in danger days universe, further connecting the same 4 to the killjoys

what if, now we have connected all the albums to one central plot

at the end of this

we get a new album. also connected to this all

idk just a thought chat

but that's a little more of what I was thinking during my mama deep dive I just did

[water-lemon-alex]

INANIMATE INSANITY S4 SPOILERS!

THIS POST WILL BE VERY LENGTHY! I’ll be sharing my thoughts, theories and headcanons, as well as some clips!

And yes, we have Menu content.

OH MY GODDD THIS EPISODE WAS SO FUN! (i say, as i’ve seen the leak) Of course, not what I expected it to be, I just hope that Episode 2 will tie more loose ends that the first episode gave…

Now my thoughts:

I like how Bot was the one who took the role of MePhone4 in the play, from one artificially intelligent life form to another. Also, “IT’S NOT A PHASE, DAD!” OHHH THAT JUST CONFIRMED IT ALL, MEPHONE WAS GOING THROUGH IT WHILE HIS DAD WAS CONTROLLING HIS EVERY MOVE. I also enjoyed Toilet’s performance here.

It does make sense that they’d bring a competition element since it was like their only purpose. What I do like about it is that we might get to see more of characters that were early boots in their own debut seasons and never appeared again, like Lifering and Soap. I’d personally like to see the Cherries more…

It does disturb me on how much screentime Fan got this time around, especially since he’s already a character who gets enough screentime. (Especially S2.) And he’s the “moderator” for the games? No wonder they made a figure for him… Also, is it just me or is this just Brian self-projecting onto Fan?

How on earth did Poppy come to be? Like… HOW??? Did Cobs have a backup plan to sneak a part of him into the show in case his plan to dismantle the show failed?

I knew that they wouldn’t be able to run a society very well anyway, like why would they build a whole community right after they got out of MePhone’s grasp, without absorbing what they got out of the experience. Not too much room to breathe.

Taco is veeeery unstable at her job. Good god.

I LOVED “WELCOME TO THE OSC”!!! The OSC pun is a little too on the nose, I mean, people wouldn’t shut up about the abbreviation the second Suitcase won. But the song? OHHHHH MY GOD, their vocals are lovely! AND ESPECIALLY OJ’S!!! This is the first time we get to hear Patrick’s OJ singing, considering how OJ is a theater kid according to Patrick themself 😭

I’ve been speculating on who and who would not be in S4’s games. The S1 rejects would definitely be in, and the early boots, honorable mention to Bomb, Salt and Pepper in particular because they never made it to another season without even being in the Top 5 😭 The S1 Top 5 also did not make it past another season except OJ. But OJ will of course be on the sidelines as a guide since he already won.

The urge to make another Menu Squad AU with this. Don’t do it, Lemi. Don’t think about… Taco being a receptionist at a restaurant where all the food in the community comes from, thus OJ would visit every now and then, and…. oh god.

Bonus thing that i forgot to add in because it was too funny not to include, but THEY JUST LEFT COBS’ CORPSE ON THE GROUND. AND DIDNT QUESTION IT. WHAT IS THEIR PROBLEM /silly

BONUS: Screenshots and clips I took from me going insane!

3/4 of the Menu Squad menbers got in the same frame, and that makes me so happy 🥹 as expected, they don’t have Taco. Darn.

TACOJAY HAD AN INTERACTION!!!!! OH!! MY!!! GOD!!!!!!!!! NOBODY TALK TO ME.

I’m so happy with the Menu Squad content that we got from this episode alone, THEY EVEN HAD THE WORD MENU IN THE EPISODE!!!! ohhh i’m so ill

OJ’s line, “Just because not everyone could be trusted didn’t mean I couldn’t trust anyone” hit SO HARD since S1 was my favorite season, this is definitely referring to the people who had “betrayed” him in the past, in the case of S1 Balloon and S1 Bomb, maybe Taco has a part in this? The last part might refer to Paper, who he did trust until the end?

TACO HAS AN ORANGE LAMP NEXT TO HER OH MY GOD IM… She does act so weird that even Soap noticed.

Paper looks so silly with the sparklers. He’s definitely a stage hand and performer / actor in this community, I love it when he shows more of his creative side like how he’s a big fan of Warrior Cats 😭

Someone save Pickle, please. Why does he keep breaking his leg. What is he up to.

Overall, the episode was fun to watch. Not the best, but cool nonetheless. Can’t wait for Ep. 2!

[demochem]

Foundations of decay theory:

⚠️SPOILERS FOR LLTBP SEATTLE SHOW⚠️

Ok so i just listened to foundations again and im going to try to analyze the lyrics that I think make the most sense to the tour

“See the man who stands upon the hill

He dreams of all the battles won

But fate had left its scars upon his face

With all the damage they had done”

I believe this part of the song/song in general is POST draag war. The people left are reflecting on what could have been after the war. Their trauma OBVIOUS in their state.

“Let our bodies lay, mark our hearts with shame

Let our blood in vain, you find God in pain

Now, if your convictions were a passing phase

May your ashes feed the river in the morning rays

And as the vermin crawls, we lay in the foundations of decay”

I think this line is a confession of hopelessness and excepting death after the damage from the nuclear bomb. The only peace people can find is in death. (Also I think it’s interesting how the song talks about ashes in a river because it reminds me of the one line “Abandon his corpse in the sea” from the extended version of Mama. These people live in the decay of DRAAG.

“Let our bodies lay, mark our hearts with shame

Let our blood in vain, you find God in pain

And if, by his own hand, his spirit flies

Take his body as a relic to be canonized

Now, and so he gets to die a saint

But she will always be a whore”

This line could be talking about the dictator taking his life (?) and then being mourned as some kind of “hero”. The ‘she’ in this line could be referring to Marianne or the woman with the dog (who might also be Marianne). Possibly Marianne had something to do with the dictators death

“Against faith (cage all the animals)

Against all odds ('cause the message must be pure)

Against change (you can wander through the ruins)

We are free (but the poison is the cure)”

Caging the animals could be referring to the restrictions of dictatorship. What I also find interesting is the ‘cause the message must be pure’ part. TPB on this tour is actively pushing back against the dictator/government (EX: gee mocking and refusing to put on the jacket) when they are hired to preform propaganda for DRAAG

“You must fix your heart

And you must build an altar where it swells

When the storm, it gains and the sky, it rains

Let it flood, let it flood, let it wash away

And as you stumble through your last crusade

Will you welcome your extinction in the morning rays?

And as the swarm it calls, we lay in the foundations”

This is where I believe we start to get into danger days lore. Talking about fixing your heart and basically building anew out of something corrupt is the crux of dd. ‘Let it wash away’ and ‘flood’ is the clearing of the debris and letting change in.

“Yes, it comforts me much more

Yes, it comforts me much more

To lay in the foundations of decay”

Here they are expressing their comfort in the past. They are scared of change because they ruled under the dictatorship for so long; going back to the expectance of death/the only way to find peace

“Get up, coward”

An awakening of embracing anew and realizing it must be done, even if it’s scary and uncomfortable.

Sorry if my writing is shitty, I have a hard time getting my ideas and thoughts out of my brain but I would love to hear your thoughts and opinions on this!!!!!!!

[leaderincrows]

Hiiiiii, dropping in for a brain worm. What's your drawing process like? Like how long does it usually take for you to go from sketch, coloring, layering etc until you hit the final work? Super curious what's your favorite part of the process for a work :)

By the way, love your art. It's so dynamic, quiet yet visceral, loving, sensual, and comforting in a lot of ways. Do a little dance jig whenever I see you on my dash bc I know I'm gonna be spoiled well 🙂‍↕️

🥺 💞💞💞 wow thank you so much! I just really need ppl to understand they are CLENCHES FIST in love. Rawing nasty but in love

I do have a speed paint of my last Raf piece that I can't post here because his hands are in his junk, but that's on Twitter here.

Most of my art takes 17 - 20 hrs! That Sylus x Zayne x Caleb threesome in their catch 22 fits probably took closer to 35 or 40. This is gonna sound wild coming from a nsfw artist but I actually really don't like drawing the human form. It's too restrictive and I don't like following references very much, I'd rather have more freedom. Replicating the outfits and accessories in this game is EXHAUSTING,,,, but I must. The boner demands it.

Join me below the cut and I'll talk more about my process and the two most influential pieces of art advice I've ever recieved: shade dark to light, and paint with color rather than a darkened version of your flat colors.

PaInT wItH cOlOr I will now proceed to use my silver dragon Sylus as an example.

I haven't taken an art class since I was in middle school so most of my learning was done on deviant art before it was an ai cesspool. Narrated speed paints and being introduced to other mediums were huge for me. I never learned color theory we go off vibes in this house.

So for my process now, I go through 4 or 5 phases of sketching. My sketches are still a little messy when I'm ready for them to be colored. Standard flat color process, also a little messy. I use one default brush for everything. Like EVERYTHING. When I got csp I messed around a lot (which you can see in my very first posts on this blog) but then when I found a brush I liked I married it. Sketch rendering everything.

I've been drawing dragons longer than I've worked with anything else. Also a lot of creature designing. My favorite step in the process is rendering and my favorite things to render are scales and hair! There isnt anything wrong with using brushes but I REALLY like drawing/rendering individual scales. Tedious is good sometimes

To do my base shading I flatten the color layers and copy it. Then on that new layer I go into tonal correcting and slide the hue around until I find a color I like. I bump up the saturation and lower luminosity, and set that layer to multiply. It's a bit hard to see but if you look on his neck and the back leg behind his tail, its a little blue; using a bit of color in the shadows is an easy way to make pieces more vibrant AND you're getting some backlight in.

And then I erase roughly where there will be highlight. I use a big brush and this takes just a few minutes.

If I want the piece more colorful I'll go in and add more of that backlight, like here with those light purple splotches on his tail, and the yellow edge around the tub, etc;

You can get away with slapping whatever color you want anywhere if you're gonna blend it and if its light/dark enough to work as a highlight or shadow.

Here's one of my spiderverse ocs, she's meant to be iridescent. Again its just a matter of blending colors well enough you can get them to work. And see how her base color is like a very light icy blue but some of the shadows are purple, but then others are a little gray so it's not overpowering.

And I dont use the blend tool, I color digitally like I'm using colored pencils.

And I typically do all the painting on one layer because too many layers is cumbersome! So I can't show you a few layers between the base shading and the final render because its all one layer! These still image tutorials dont work very well for me because its very 'draw the rest of the owl' !

It's also very typcial for the base shading to look naked by comparison. If you zoom in on his face there are a lot more scales. I don't sketch out fine details like this because I know that I want to do them later. Stuff like this you just need a clear image of the final piece in your head I think

If you see lineart in my pics its something I added during the painting process. I feel like it's been a long time since I've done proper lineart, after the sketch step but before flats.

Ok I feel like this is long so I'm stopping now.

[drunkenskunk]

Oh boy another Drunk Skunk rant!

So I've been on vacation this last week, and I've got another week of vacation ahead of me. You would think that during this time, I would be doing anything productive, like writing one of the dozens of ideas rattling around my head, or trying to draw the comic of that one short story about pre-transition Tuera.

Instead, I have spent most of this time playing:

Because of course I have. I am a weak willed coward and have no defense against The Intrusive Thought.

However: during this time, when I could've been doing anything else more productive, I came to a strange realization. It's one of those things that I'm sure someone has already said, at some point, somewhere... but it's gonna make me feel better if I write them all down anyway.

Mostly because it feels like a convoluted tangle of several thoughts, I want to get them all sorted, and I can't think of a better way to do this than in front of tons of strangers on the internet.

Interestingly, this realization didn't start with WoW, it started with me rewatching that Noah Caldwell-Gervais' Diablo video, again. I've watched this video (and "watched" it in the background) many, many times, because it's really good, but something stood out to me on this particular rewatch.

It was that bit right at the very end of the Diablo 3 section, where he's talking about the boss fight against Malthael in Reaper of Souls:

"At the end of Diablo 3, your character, the Nephalem, is certainly stronger than any angel or demon. Death itself is the final boss, then. It is impossible to escalate from here, so the game ends, as is traditional, with a melancholy and temporary victory that leaves the future uncertain."

And that is when it hit me like a ton of bricks:

This is why WoW sucks lately. We reached that point where it was impossible to escalate further many expansions ago, but the game has kept going.

Don't get me wrong, this isn't the ONLY reason. There are a LOT of contributing factors (and I'll try and get to some of them), but I feel like that is The Big One. It's the Root Cause of a lot of other problems. The game has existed for way too long.

But that's also not the whole picture. Do you remember, a while back, when I was trying to figure out what the fuck was actually happening in the plot for The War Within? Well, I did eventually figure it out. Sort of. But in doing so, I noticed something.

In trying to untangle the story from the start of Vanilla (mostly to jog my own memory of 20 years ago, holy fucking shit I am so goddamn old) to the current expansion of The War Within, I noticed that there was a very slow but steady emphasis on the Player Character being referred to as, like... a legit hero, or "Commander" in Warlords, or "Champion" in everything post Legion.

I'm not bringing this up as if it's some big revelation. This has been a Known Problem with WoW for many years, so much so that even in my absence I heard people saying shit like "I'm tired of being Azeroth's Champion, I want to go back to being nobody again." I bring this up, because I think I've figured out why the game keeps insisting that the player is a "Champion."

The story of WoW, if you actually follow the quests as written (which I did to try and figure out what the fuck is going on jesus fucking christ what the fuck is wrong with me), are working under the assumption that the character experiencing these quests has been playing the game since Vanilla. And not just playing the game since Vanilla, but the story is sort of... taking it as read that they player has done EVERYTHING in EVERY expansion.

Like so much else in the storytelling of WoW, it's not... good, but it does make sense. At least once the layers of bullshit have been stripped away. Incidentally, that's also how I'd describe the plot of The War Within, now that I actually know what's going on: it's not good writing, but it makes sense.

When you stop to think about it through that lens, specifically, a lot of questionable writing decisions suddenly become a bit more understandable. Slightly. Because this hypothetical completionist player who has been playing the game since Vanilla that the story is apparently being written for... would be completely ridiculous.

Because, even in Vanilla, the quests that send you to dungeons and raids, if you'd ever actually stopped to read the text (which I did in my research to piece everything together) acknowledges that these are challenges for groups of people... but there is also this implication that you are the one in charge. The quests assume that You are The Party Leader, organizing this adventure to kill dragons, or elemental lords, or Old Gods sealed away for thousands of years. Of course The Player Character is regarded as a hero! ... right?

And, y'know? It's a shame that that is the angle they decided to focus on, and subsequently expand, when it came to the story. Because I think it betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of why MMOs like WoW worked in the first place. They are multiplayer games, first and foremost. Yeah, one of us can be "strong," sure, but we will always be stronger when working together. That sense of community you get with a bunch of people working towards a common goal, that is one of the primary draws of MMOs.

We weren't important back in Vanilla, at least not at first. We were just an ordinary person, rising to the challenges set before us, along with all of our friends. We weren't a prophesied hero, we weren't a "Champion," we were just... The Person Who Was Available. And more than that, one of the other big draws, at least back in Vanilla, was the novelty of being able to exist as a person in this world that we'd only ever experienced before in three strategy games.

Then again, when you look back at the RTS games - and specifically, the Founding of Durotar campaign in Frozen Throne - you realize that a lot of these problems have existed since before WoW was even a thing. I've often said that the Founding of Durotar felt a bit like a proof of concept of what Blizz wanted to do for WoW, just in the Warcraft 3 engine. Because Rexxar also wasn't a destined hero at first... he started off kinda like us. He was The Person Who Was Available. And wouldn't you know it, he ended that campaign as the Champion of the Horde. But we didn't notice that being a problem, back then... because that story came to an end. It was allowed to stop.

And that brings me back to the original problem. Because what do you do with a player character who has killed dragons, elemental lords, Old Gods, and everything else on the way? Where do you possibly go from there when you've already committed to this course for the story?

Well... you escalate.

Things get bigger. The threats get larger. The danger gets more extreme. The list of accomplishments under the player character's belt as they overcome these challenges grows. And grows. And grows. Things just keep escalating and building and escalating and building and the game is forced to acknowledge that everything else that came before has been done, and been done by you, specifically, even if the character you're playing didn't or couldn't... because it would be completely unfeasible and make even LESS SENSE to try and write different quest text based on what the current character has actually done, specifically. It just keeps going on and on and on and on...

But you can't keep doing that forever. At least, not under normal circumstances. Because doing that means things will just keep getting more and more ridiculous, and the titles and accolades will ring more and more hollow. Sure, you're a "Champion" in the quest text... but everyone else is a "Champion," too. Because the quest text isn't talking to you. It's talking to the hypothetical (and probably imaginary) completionist player that all this stupid escalation is apparently being written for.

We passed the Point of No Return and have significantly exceeded the Ridiculous Escalation Critical Mass Threshold several expansions ago. But because of the corporate machinations of ActivisionBlizzardKing - and now Micro$oft - World of Warcraft just... keeps going. It WILL keep going. Despite how many people have left the game over the years, it is still an economic powerhouse. It's still making the company literal boatloads of cash. And because of this, World of Warcraft is not allowed to die.

... aw, dang. Now I've gone and made myself sad again.

[lesbians4kurt]

how it feels to gay ship men who were deeply traumatized by war

[hinamie]

theyre soft your honour

[moth-flowers]

moth-flowers #21

[svtskneecaps]

honestly foolish's character walking the slightly meta line of "oo this'll be fun content" makes him feel like that marvel immortal character who is only immortal as long as he doesn't get bored (and was played by jeff goldblum in the movies). like idk why but the more i see of foolish's rp the more solidified the comparison gets in my mind.

like it's kinda cool for a headcanon ngl and also it means i'm not really surprised pikachu-ing when, say, he flips a coin to decide whether to rat out his son-in-law, or climbs into an incubator of corruption crystals, or doesn't ENTIRELY kick owen out of the kingdom. it's not that he doesn't CARE, but..... well, wouldn't it be interesting? don't you want to know what would happen?

[king-lena]

i just wrote a whole post on how david and roger’s perception of each other ultimately led to their downfall and it started off as like a paragraph of surface level observations and somehow morphed into an essay length analysis that i can’t possibly justify posting 😭 i did kind of cook tho ngl i’m proud of her

[the-acid-pear]

mmmaybe 3c with a trio of ur choice for the poly art meme?

Well we all know I HAD to draw them.....

[goldensakuma]

we’re getting SERIOUS