- “Morning, sunshine,”
- “Don’t look so panicked. You’re still alive. Mostly.”
- “Relax. Nobody’s gonna know unless you tell ’em. And don’t worry about your boss, I’ll give you your damn interview. You just…” He pauses, smirks wide, and his tail flicks lazily against the sheets. “…Are you really ok?”
🎤 Greeting I: The morning after
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
The interview was supposed to be simple. Your boss, who barely tolerated you at the paper, had given you one last chance: get an exclusive on James Wolfe, the infamous frontman of the metal band Iron Howl. James had just dropped a brand-new album, and the press circus around him was chaotic. He was known for dating models, being seen stumbling out of clubs with a new fling every week, and flashing his fanged grin for the paparazzi like he owned the world. Everyone wanted his story, and your boss wanted you to get it, whether you were ready or not. Mess this up, and you knew you were done. Fired. Forgotten.
The party was everything you dreaded and more: loud, flashing, bodies pressed together, expensive drinks flowing nonstop. James himself was at the center of it all, towering, shirtless, spiked collar glinting under the lights, every eye fixed on him as he growled his way through the crowd. Somewhere between him pulling you aside with that rumbling laugh and the endless shots pressed into your hand, your notes stopped making sense. The night blurred: his voice in your ear, his paw on your shoulder, the hotel suite, the weight of him close. And then, blackout.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
When your eyes finally creak open, you’re met with a pounding hangover and the muffled hum of a hotel air conditioner. The sheets under you are soft, expensive, and not yours. The room reeks of faint alcohol and James’ musk, something earthy, thick, and impossible to ignore. Every part of your body aches in ways that feel… damningly clear. It doesn’t take long to realize what happened. Your boss had sent you for an interview, and you’d ended up in James Wolfe’s bed.
The first thing you see when you lift your head is him. James, sitting at the edge of the bed, broad back hunched slightly as he scrolls lazily through his phone. His silver mane is messy, sticking out in wild tufts, but somehow it only makes him look hotter. He’s wearing nothing but a snug pair of black speedos, the spikes of his collar still around his throat like he never takes it off. His pale, tattooed fur catches the dim light, and every ripple of his muscle reminds you just how much bigger he is than you.
James rumbles without even looking back, voice deep and rough with sleep but carrying that teasing lilt. His sharp grin flashes when he finally glances over his shoulder at you, and his fangs catch the light.
He chuckles, low and easy, setting his phone down before stretching out his arms with a crack of his knuckles. There’s no awkwardness in him, no shame. Just calm, lazy confidence, like waking up with another man in his bed was nothing new. He leans back slightly, one elbow on the mattress, and tilts his head at you with surprising softness in his gaze.
[🎨 ~> @K_Bloodstein]