softlibra31

[softlibra31]

I feel like im going to die from lust and iron deficiency

[softlibra31]

Thank you so much for sharing your gift to the world. The way you build such a clear picture in your writing is so impressive. I can see these characters in my mind so clearly it’s like I’m sitting with them in the restaurant. I literally get so excited when I see you update anything. Never stop writing! 🫶

GOOD GIRL GONE BAD | HARRY CASTILLO PART 2 of 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎

A DECENT THIEF, A SMITTEN BILLIONAIRE, ONE EMERALD RING, A SIMPLE CON JOB, ONE VERY INCONVENIENT ATTRACTION. SEX, LIES, LARCENY—ALL BEFORE THE SUN COMES UP. EASY PEASY... RIGHT?

-> READ PART 1 HERE. A.N. -> I think I'm going to make this a series because I'm loving my fuckass thief a little too much ;) W.C -> 15k+ C.W -> 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, humour, third person POV, fem reader, thief reader and she's a bad bitch, harry is fucking rich with a big dick that's what, harry gets amazing head, expensive dinner and under the table action, fast cars and late night drives, age gap, luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics, romcom everything.

TWO DAYS LATER...

Harry Castillo never did find her after that night, and the world, predictably, kept spinning.

That was a given—of course, the man never stood a chance. He hadn't even known her real name, let alone the life she lived between swiping his magnificent emerald ring and finagling for his sky-high penthouse suite.

The thing about rich men—a huge difference between the Hamptons-on-the-weekend rich and the take-the-G5-for-lunch-in-Marrakech rich—is that they get bored very fast. The money dulls their instincts, softens their hunger. So they go looking for novelty, for danger, bootlickers with sharp heels, lips that serviced them.

And that’s when these duds start collecting people, the same way other men collect watches. It’s not malice, necessarily. It’s just the casual entropy of having everything. Eventually, they start poking holes in the world to see what bleeds.

Harry, who had once been deliciously under her (and, yes, she had performed—thank you very much), was now officially behind her. Metaphorically. Spiritually... logistically?

Still, every so often in the last forty-eight hours, when sleeplessness licked at the fringes of her sanity, she’d think about that fantastic night. Him. His cologne. His million-dollar smile, his silky curls, that flex of muscles in his forearms. How he moved like a man who didn’t just fuck—he endured. Sex was a marathon he never lost. She might’ve bitten into a pillow just recalling it.

Now, as she scrubbed her coffee cup in her little walk-up, she mildly wondered why he hadn’t kicked down her door yet. No agents in Kevlar, no tactical ballet of flashlights sweeping her withering IKEA furniture.

Guess his precious emerald ring wasn’t priceless after all. Maybe he’d decided ‘Eve’ was.

Still, spectacular sex didn’t pay the Con Ed bill, and orgasms weren’t legal fees, not even ones that left her boneless. The hustle was a jealous god. Worship it daily or risk getting chewed up and spit back out. There were strictly no vacation days in this line of work.

She wiped her hands on the wet dishtowel and glanced out the window, onto her street. The city, even late afternoon, pulsed with potential scams, possibilities clothed as bad ideas. Nearly time to earn her penance.

Her taxes, of course, were a masterclass in creative fiction. Nowhere on the forms could she write ‘part-time righteous thief,’ even if the city owed her a medal for how cleanly she worked. By day (or whatever counted as ‘respectable daylight’ in her world), she was an actress—aspiring, which is really just code for ‘not yet a celebrity but unfathomably tenacious.’

And she was good, actually better than good. Unlike the legions of gullible hopefuls waiting tables and praying for callbacks, she didn’t just play the role; she became it.

That’s what theft had taught her: how to vanish into a character. A wealthy widow in a silk scarf. A ditzy sweetheart with a purse full of distractions. A lonely wife who despised her rich husband.

See, acting was easy. Being real was the trick.

Now... you might be wondering how she’s never been caught.

Simple answer. There were no larcenies, but borrowed realities. She slipped into them like new dresses, modelled them until they itched, then left them behind without creasing the seams. She understood people better than they understood themselves, and in a city built on a fancy facade, that made her the most honest liar in the room.

Between matinee shows and understudy rehearsals, buried someplace in the margins of a yawning Off-Broadway script where she played ‘The Mistress’ and occasionally ‘Dancer #2,’ she had begun her favourite kind of research: target acquisition.

This one was named Max.

Older, incredibly hot in the way girls liked their unruly men now. Ran a supposedly “disruptive” tech startup that had never once had to crawl through the dirt to breathe. Financed—predictably—by Mommy and Daddy’s hedge fund, equipped with pre-IPO arrogance, and a fake chip on his shoulder. He styled himself as a rebel: leather jacket, scruff at a precisely calculated millimetres, and a beast of a motorcycle. Everything about him screamed curated danger. Which, of course, made him exactly her type—for now.

Tonight, Max was hers.

She wasn't after his heart. Please, she had far more realistic goals: the chunky platinum bracelet and the possibility of a chain tucked beneath his shirt—a custom Cartier, if her Instagram sleuthing and zoom-enhanced screenshots were correct. Et voila, two months' rent, served on a dish. He liked his jewellery like he liked his women: slender, eye-catching, and stolen from someone else's better judgment.

She’d shown up at his hipster bar—the one with floating Edison bulbs and overpriced tequila, where the walls were made of raw brick and vintage vinyl records. It was much too loud, too try-hard for her taste. But it didn’t matter, she didn’t need to like it—she just needed to be seen in it. You know, gullible and pretty, a beaming sunflower among roses. The total ‘good girl’ package.

Max cornered her before she had to pretend to clumsily nurse her drink, took her hand, pressed too many kisses along her knuckles like some bad Bond villain, and crooned promises of a better night elsewhere.

“Preferably somewhere with horsepower,” he whispered to her.

She smiled—wide-eyed, toothy, assumingly earned. “Sounds fun.”

His bike was parked just on the edge of a downtown lot, under murky lighting that gave it a movie-magic feel. It was truly a prowling monster—chrome and matte black, roared like one, clearly built for showing off rather than comfort. Aerodynamics be damned.

He stopped, looked at her, and grinned. That grin—ugh, it came with a subscription to its own perfume.

“Hop on, baby girl,” he said, tugging her gently by the waist, and then—just like that—he lifted her. Hands under her thighs, strong enough to remind her why he was tolerable in the first place. Baby girl, because that was exactly the temperament she was going for tonight.

“Whoa—omigosh, okay,” she laughed, letting him guide her onto the seat.

She threw a leg over to straddle, at her own leisure, flashing just the right amount of white lace beneath her floral skirt, just enough to not seem cheap but stay rent-free in his imagination.

He stepped closer, thumb brushing along her knee. “You ever ridden one of these before?” he asked, leaning in.

“Only ponies at petting zoos,” she said sweetly. “But I always wanted to go... faster.”

He liked that. She could tell by the little shift in his posture, the spark behind his aviators. Max was predictable like that; he liked a good girl saying wicked things.

She tilted her head, letting her hair fall just so, lips parted. “Do I hold on to you, or just pray?”

“Oh, you’re gonna be holding on and praying,” he said, grin widening.

And then came a—HONK.

The burst of sound shattered the moment. She blinked, startled, nearly falling back on the seat. An old Civic lurched past behind them, the driver yelling about “blocking the fuckin’ exit, genius!”

She laughed again, this time without feigning. “Always this romantic?”

Max rolled his eyes, smoothing a hand down her thigh. “For the VIPs.”

“Lucky me,” she murmured, even as her eyes slid discreetly toward the glint of his chain peeking out beneath his collar. Just a little longer, and she’d be the one riding off into the night—with his jewellery in her bag and her name scrubbed clean from his memory by morning.

From her perch on the back of the bike, she leaned forward with ceremonious ease, reaching for the handlebars. Her hips tilted as she did it, bare thighs reflecting the bar's spotlight, skirting riding up a little, ass popping just enough to make a statement: yes, you’re looking—and I know exactly what you’re thinking.

She bit her bottom lip and looked back over her shoulder, coy. “So,” she murmured, fingers curling around the throttle, “do you race for pink slips on this thing?”

Max gave a breathy, wolfish laugh. He moved in, arms folding around her from behind, his chest pressing close to her spine. One hand came to rest on hers atop the handlebar, the other grazing up the bare skin of her back, fingers trailing higher, then lower. Stroking—feeling—bingo.

His breath brushed against her ear. “Why, d'you wanna race against me? I’ll let you win.”

She tilted her head, gave a breathy laugh, and let herself melt back against him just a little. Never all the way. Her game had rules, even if he didn’t know he was playing.

Max got bolder. His other hand slipped lower, gathering the hem of her skirt. Fingertips dragging along her thigh, seeking heat.

But—HONK. HONK. HONK.

A barrage of honks snapped the moment in half. Three sharp, urgent blasts. She couldn’t help it anymore—she burst out laughing, tipping forward against the tank of the bike, shaking her head.

“Is this your version of foreplay?” she teased, pulling her skirt back down with a small tug, as if nothing had happened. “Public inconvenience. Not a fan.”

Max growled low in his throat. “They’re just jealous.”

She gave him a saccharine smile over her shoulder. “Of you, or of me?”

He winked. “Me, of course.”

The fourth honk was belligerent. HOOOOOOONK!

Ouch. Then came the headlights—full beam—washing over them in artificial daylight, crisp, priceless and thoroughly unimpressed. It wasn’t some angry delivery driver anymore. This elegant machine… it was matte black, sleek, elongate, idling behind them like a lioness waiting to pounce.

A Maybach.

She blinked once, twice, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden flood of light. The newest version of the Maybach didn't simply hint at wealth—it was a chauffeur’s dream. Quiet luxury for the chronically privileged.

Max cursed under his breath, shading his eyes like he was confronted by a UFO beam. He glanced over his shoulder, irritated, but still kept one hand possessively on her thigh as if this wasn’t rapidly becoming someone else’s scene.

“Jesus. Just go around, asshole! There's plenty of space!” Max barked at the Maybach, all puffed up with that predictable strain of man-to-man testosterone, chest out like a bantam rooster.

The Maybach, as expected, didn’t budge. It was too refined to engage.

And then, almost politely, the headlights blinked once. A statement. Get the fuck out of the way.

She felt it immediately—that flux in atmosphere, the hair-raising dissonance that told her this wasn’t just a gridlock spat. The stillness of that car held tension. Consideration. This wasn’t some rando being petty, nor was it some impatient Wall Street exec late to a mistress.

This was a message wrapped in two tons of German—maybe—engineering.

And that was when the unease hit. A slow coil in her gut, skin prickling—she didn’t like this at all.

Another night, she’d have flipped the bird and blown a kiss just to stir the pot. But no, she had to remember she was in character. Tonight, she was soft, sugary, a blooming daisy of a girl who wouldn’t know a red flag if it wore a name tag.

“Let’s go for a ride, Max,” she coaxed, curling a finger into his jean pocket. “Forget the guy.”

He shook his head, jaw tight. “I wanna show this fucker who he messed with.”

Oh, boy. She didn’t even need to check the Maybach again to know that was a bad idea. The worst ideas always started with a man trying to measure his dick through tinted glass.

She reached for the softest note in her vocal library, brushing concern into every syllable. “Now you’re scaring me.”

That actually did it. Men like Max lived to feel strong in the presence of fragility. He turned, gentling to her innocence, rubbing her cheek like she was some porcelain doll.

While pressing a protective kiss to her forehead, he murmured, “I got you. Let’s get out of here.”

He handed her a helmet that reeked of weed, sweat, and barely-laundered masculinity, and slid onto the bike. She scooted behind him, skirt shifting up her thighs, heels tucked close, her arms looping around his waist in an affectionate tangle.

He revved the engine and glanced over his shoulder, grin too cocky. “Ready, baby?”

She giggled on cue, tightening her arms around him. “Ready!”

He snapped his visor down, and then they were off—rocketing through Manhattan like two kids who’d stolen a joyride and didn’t know the ending yet. And she had to admit: not bad for her first time on a motorbike.

She really hadn’t expected to enjoy it this much—the wind in her hair, the lights blurring past as if they were fireflies on speed, the rush of every pothole and sharp turn pushing her against Max’s back—an accident she allowed to look intentional. New York, past dark, always had this unpredictable mysticism. Once the neon bleed from storefronts flickered across her skin, setting the mood, tonight, for a moment, she let herself buy into the fantasy: wide-eyed good girl on the back of a powerful motorbike, arms flung up in joy, laughing into the wind like the lead in some Sundance film with a dream pop soundtrack that critics would call “raw and luminous.”

She hooted once, purely for the drama of it. Let the East River eat its heart out. Besides, fairytales like this always ended in red lights.

Eventually, laughing with her, Max pulled them over on the bridge—Williamsburg or somewhere, she didn’t care—and let the engine hum under them like a resting animal. She slid off first, not without pressing a thank-you kiss to his neck, stretching her legs, smoothing down her skirt. The view was... unexceptional. The city sparkled behind layers of industrial haze, scaffolding, and distant sirens. Honestly, this metropolis functioned better as a grey area.

Max wasn’t looking. He was busy trailing his mouth down her throat, hands already staking claims. He wanted her so bad, it was hilarious.

“How about,” he murmured, lips dragging up her ear, “this weekend, you and I go somewhere fun? Catch some sunshine, lie around...”

She let him spin her around, let her back meet the cold, rusted metal of the railing. One arm curled over his shoulder, a hand gently pushing back his hair in that sweet, absent way men misread as affection.

“Mhm?” she prompted, humouring him.

His fingers found the hem of her skirt, slipped under to trace the expanse of her thigh. “Hawaii.”

She raised a brow, stroked her nose along his lazily. “I was thinking... south of France.”

He snorted, bit her earlobe. “Cute.”

No, she was seriously serious. But that was the thing about these people—they loved a girl with charm, but not too much ambition. Not unless it was sexy, and not unless it served them. Bigoted freaks.

And then—HOOOOOOOONK!

That long, low, obnoxiously entitled sound, once more, ripped through the stillness of the bridge, a gunshot made of money.

Max pulled back, agitated. “What the actual fuck!”

She turned away from the yell, wincing, her heart already beginning to drop.

Because there, idling just yards away, was the same Maybach, sinister as hell. The headlights blinked once, just like before. An unhurried black peak of patience and confidence.

“Don’t,” she said quickly, placing a hand on Max’s chest as he began to step forward. “It’s not worth it. Max, please.”

But the transformation had already happened. He’d gone from laid-back bad boy to territorial bulldog. “Is this fucking guy following us? Is he serious?”

“Max,” she tried again, keeping her voice low, cajoling, “don’t engage. Just—come on, let’s go.”

But the car door opened. The rear door. Oh, shit. Not good.

And out stepped—Harry Castillo.

Definitely not good.

Motherfucker. She meant that to herself, really. Her stomach pivoted a full, elegant tilt. Imagine a ballerina swan-diving off a rooftop—all graceful and doomed.

He didn’t walk out of that Maybach. He emerged—materialised, Armani loafers first, like a curse come due. Like she’d whispered his name into too many mirrors or said it once too long in her head.

He looked exactly the same as the last time she’d seen him, sitting in that lobby bar, two nights ago: devastatingly tailored, cruelly composed, eyes still infinite, dark curls coifed to imperfection, a man who never had to chase anything in his life.

Except, still, apparently, her.

She had to laugh internally. Really? You didn’t think he’d find you?

The man probably had satellites in space. Facial recognition. Twenty computers running scans by techie nerd slaves. A team of lawyers who could tell her what colour socks she wore to her nanny job.

And now, there he was, looking at her—not like a man scorned, not like a lover lost. All private equities and precision grooming. Standing center-frame, accomodated under his own damn headlights like the lead in a noir thriller. Broad shoulders barely contained in that Zegna suit. Ultimate Roman nose. Knife-cut jaw. The faintest shadow of disdain.

She had to actively fight the instinct to let her eyes drop between his legs. There, her favourite friend was, that mythic thing that had ruined her body for all other men.

Harry’s massive dick, the economic downturn of her emotional stability. You just have to appreciate a pleasure to behold, literally, at any expense.

But she wasn’t scared of Harry Castillo (or his dick, for that matter. Definitely not.) But she was scared of what followed him—men in suits, invisible networks, hushed conversations that ended with ankle monitors or body bags.

Look, she hadn’t stolen just any ring.

That fucking ring.

Emerald, antique, high-pedigree luxury brand, ancestral to the Castillo empire. Retail price? Such a tacky question. Black-market price? High enough to set off alarms from here to Thailand the moment she tried to fence it.

And now it hung around her neck. Half a million dollars on a second-rate chain. Against her skin. Her not-so-lucky charm. She hadn’t even been able to pawn the damn thing. It sang out trouble every time she bent over and felt it swing.

And Harry… well, he wasn’t looking at anything but her.

Which finally reminded her of Max. Right. Him. Still in attendance.

“Friend of yours?” he asked, tension doctoring his voice, his manhood beginning to sense it was no longer the biggest personality on this bridge.

Harry stopped beside the bike, arms unwound at his sides, the illustration of unbothered dominance. He smiled—politely. The way you smile at a child holding a sharp object.

“Are we friends, sweetheart?” he asked, voice like old bourbon, brows creasing.

Sweetheart. The death knell, and her thighs clenched reflexively. It hadn't just haunted her—it had reigned over her the past few nights. The same voice that had murmured filth into her ear two days ago. The voice that held elevator doors open while promising he’d find her.

And find her, he did.

That morning, in the afterglow of her escape, she took the subway home. A jarring transition—metal bars and flickering fluorescents after marble floors and velvet shadows. The silence was different here from the schmancy hotel. Lonely. Awful.

She had clutched her coat tighter around her, the ring—Harry's ring—tucked deep in the lining, out of sight but burning against her, whipping a second heartbeat.

She told herself not to give in, that she was done playing that role, and she was the one in control. That this wasn’t going to get under her skin.

Ten minutes after changing into homewear, choking down old cereal, she had crumbled into her bed, slid her impatient hand under her shorts, and her fingers were inside her.

Her calves were quivering, her breath hitching in little gasps as she ground against the little circles of her knowledgeable hand, trying to chase the shape of his body from memory. Harry wasn’t there, but he was—in every detail. The heat of his mouth, his hand wrapped around her breasts, the scrumptious way he filled her with that dignified cock of his—slow at first, then rough, snapping his hips up into hers. The way his voice got like a caress over her skin, low drawl and dark worship, every groaned sweetheart and baby was an affirmation.

The first orgasm hit shamefully fast, and she hated the way her body answered to his even when he wasn’t around to make demands.

The second one was slower, needier, drawn out like a confession. She brought herself there—teeth sunk into the corner of her pillow, a low whimper pressed into cotton—imagining the exact way he groaned when she swallowed, tightened around him, how he held her face when he kissed her one last time.

When she finally came, it rolled through her like a storm. Her toes curled and pointed. Her eyes snapped open. Her spine arched and her chest heaved, and she swore she could still feel the ghost of his hands squeezing on her tits.

Afterwards, she lay in the dark, one arm flung over her face, body singing, satisfied and ruined, but her mind didn’t quiet. Her eyes were wet, though she wouldn’t admit it to herself. Maybe it was the heat of frustration.

And still, her fingers had lingered at the curve of her thigh, debating going back for a third. Because he was the only thing that made her feel like this in a really long time. This desperate, this tempted, this berserk for a man.

And now he was here. In the flesh.

Max, tragically oblivious to nuance—bless him and the cocktail of ketamine confidence and startup scramble sloshing through his veins—tried again.

“You know her, man?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Of course not. The man moved like punctuation: purposely, only when it mattered, and never to explain himself to idiots in leather jackets and bootcut jeans. His gaze flicked toward Max, cold and brief, confirming the source of an unpleasant smell.

He drawled that voice again, “She’s—”

She panicked. Nope. Not happening. That word—whatever it was—was going to ruin everything for her.

She cut in fast. “He’s my dad!”

Silence.

A cosmic silence that might precede a solar eclipse, or a smiting. Her pulse fluttered, but she didn’t let it show.

Harry’s blink was criminally slow. His right eye twitched—he really was gorgeous when he was restraining homicidal rage.

And for a second, she thought maybe she could sell it. Maybe Max would be dumb enough to swallow it whole. Until Harry’s jaw flexed with such epic, generational disappointment that she had to follow up.

She offered, as sweetly as arsenic, “Stepdad. Technically.”

Still nothing from either of the dumbasses. Except the murderous, taught twitch in Harry's jaw that persisted.

She could’ve stopped there and let it simmer. But no, she was on a roll, so she might as well juggle the knives while blindfolded.

She slipped from Max's side, wedge heels clicking lightly on the concrete, and made her way to Harry's—hips swaying like this was her runway, not the walk of shame. (Which, frankly, it was.) She nudged her arm into his, gently, teasing.

“Yeah,” she said brightly, pitching her voice just loud enough for Max to hear. “Been that way for sometime now. I even call him… Papi.”

Harry’s lips parted. “Jesus.”

She beamed up at him, casually chucking his chin. “Look at my Papi. He just loves it.”

Then, just for him, smile endearing, her eyes slicing into his, a plea laced with a threat, conveying a message, ‘Play along or I swear to god, I'll sell the ring to someone who makes NFTs.’

Harry broke, and she felt that little exhale of surrender, her heart quieting. She always knew how to find the seam and pry it open.

“Ye—”

“I think,” she said, cutting him off again, “he just got really worried that I was with a guy who drives a motorcycle. Probably why he followed us. Right?”

Harry’s sigh was biblical. “Right.”

She flashed Max an outlandish smile. “He’s just so protective of me.”

Harry muttered something under his breath—it sounded suspiciously like ‘not from motorcycles, from syphilis.’ But he kept it under control.

Max nodded, clearly recalibrating, trying to navigate whatever Freudian mess he’d just been handed. “Huh. Tight family.”

You have no idea, she thought. Tight like a noose.

Then Harry—with all the calm of a man choosing which blade to use—turned to her, one hand casually resting on the open car door. “Get in the car.”

She raised a brow. “What if I like it here?”

Harry’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “Then I’ll put you inside myself, sweetheart. And you will like that.”

Max blinked.

She blinked.

Everyone blinked.

It wasn’t a suggestion. But the way he said it—lazy, low, the vaguest husk in his voice—made it sound like he was inviting her into a hotel bed, not his luxury sedan.

She hesitated, just long enough to feel her own nerves flicker. Every atom of her body screamed don’t. Her spine tensed, her breath caught. Her instincts did what they always did when danger showed up in a bespoke LV suit: calculate.

Because she wasn’t just nervous about Harry. She was nervous about what she was still willing to do for the ring. The stupid, gaudy, exquisite thing, nestled like a vice between her breasts. Dollars and dollars of regret strung around her neck like a dare. It was untouchable, unsellable. But unfinished.

And if there was one thing she did not ever do, it was leave a job incomplete. That was the difference between girls who handled cons and girls who got caught.

So she turned.

Max, dear, dumb Max, was still standing there blinking as if Harry had shaken his snow globe. A golden retriever of a man—tail wagging, unaware of the incoming truck. Poor baby.

She stepped into his space, ran her fingers through his hair, thick and slick with too much product. He grinned, warm, doped up on whatever startup serotonin and weed vape was still sloshing in his bloodstream. She tugged lightly, just enough for the illusion to hold—and to keep him still while she worked.

“Your Papi is crazy,” he whispered.

She pouted. “My Papi gets possessive.”

Then she kissed him. A just-there kiss that was more sleight of hand than affection, a big smokescreen. As her lips grazed his, her eyes slid sideways—past his shoulder, past the fog of cologne and naivete—to find Harry.

His arms crossed, face unreadable, but she could see it—the coiled silence that came before a tsunami. A cool exterior stretched tight over a woodland gone ablaze.

She smiled against Max’s mouth.

And then she opened hers wider, let her tongue slide deeper, brought Max's arm around her waist, pushed out a soft, breathy moan that was pure theatre—every inch of it aimed at Harry, like an arrow dipped in gasoline.

She could feel the heat of his glare sear the air between them, almost hear the crack of his patience splitting clean down the middle. That sexy, murderous calm he wore like his perfect suit. The quiet, intoxicating fury of a man used to control. She wanted to shatter that. Hence.

Poor sweet idiot Max thought that this was his win. When in truth, she was just using his mouth as her mirror, reflecting what she would like Harry to know. No one owned her unless she let them.

So she pushed her lips to Max like a queen bestowing favour. Slid one arm around his neck, the other deftly trailing down, fingers slipping against the back of the chain—click—and the clasp gave. The necklace dropped soundlessly into her palm, and just like that, mission: salvaged.

“I had so much fun with you tonight, Max. Will you call me?” she asked, brushing her lips with his, eyes wide with fake vulnerability, lashes at full-performance flutter.

“Don’t have your number,” he murmured, but—like a party trick—produced a business card from his jeans. Two fingers, smug grin.

He tucked it between her bra and blouse with a wink. The card brushed right over where the ring rested. Perfect. Layered lies, that always got her off.

“Go, baby girl,” he said, “before your dad pulls out a Glock on us.”

She almost lost it all to a snorting laugh. He was just so damn sincere. He honestly thought this was edgy roleplay and not a real-life power struggle with a man who could and maybe would pull a Glock.

He was sweet. And, like most sweet things in her life—disposable.

She turned, chain coiled in her fist like a snake, the heat of Max's lips fading, and walked back toward the Maybach, hips swinging just a little extra, enough to prove she wasn’t scared, and just to dare Harry to make a scene.

Harry, ever the gentleman—or sociopath—opened the door for her.

And as she passed him, his hand landed squarely on her ass.

Not what you’d expect from a stepfather. Unless, of course, you subscribed to very specific corners of the internet smut where shame and power blurred together with a click.

Because this wasn’t a grope. It was a claim.

Calculated, possessive, and arrogant as hell. His fingers squeezed in with the confidence that came from knowing every inch of her—past tense be damned. Smug fucking bastard.

Her spine straightened instinctively. Her breath caught—in that white-hot fuse of adrenaline and indignation. The gall of him. The sheer, effortless nerve. Sliding back into her orbit like he’d always been allowed there, her body was a place he still paid taxes on.

She said nothing, but her lips curved faintly.

Touché, Papi.

She slid into the leather seat, the door thunking shut behind her like the closing of a vault.

Harry moved with that predatory grace—shoulders fluid, jaw sharp with purpose. The chauffeur didn’t need a cue; whether machine or man, the car cruised forward like it knew his mind.

As they rolled past the curb, she glanced back.

Max was still standing there, his hands in his pockets, reeling. His mouth hung open slightly, one combat boot half-scuffed on the pavement like he’d tried to follow, like a man trying to figure out whether he'd just been mugged, ghosted, or seduced. (Newsflash: all three.)

His eyes met hers through the tinted window. She smiled sweetly.

He raised a hand to wave—slowly, hesitantly, like a puppy who didn’t know if he was still welcome. Such a cute little puppy.

She blew him a kiss.

Then turned her head just as he caught it, head forward, game face on, as the Maybach slid into traffic.

Because the ring was around her neck, her spoils of the night in her palm, and Harry—Harry fucking Castillo—was beside her.

If she thought this was over, she was sorely mistaken.

Proving that Harry Castillo was still a man—and, more damningly, still hers in some subterranean, unspoken crevice of himself—he couldn’t stop looking.

Not that he tried. Subtlety had never been his vice of choice.

His gaze, unapologetically male, raked down her legs, bared now without the safety net of stockings. She’d swapped the Louboutins for a pair of espadrille wedges that gave her just enough height to twist the knife. Her dress was floral—floral, for fuck’s sake. A dizzy little number with a cinched waist, soft cotton and a neckline that walked the line between innocent and criminal negligence. Her hair was different, too—soft waves framed her face and shoulders, and a thin, delicate braid spun across the back of her head like she was auditioning to be in a fairytale.

Last time he'd seen her, she'd looked like sex in a red wine glass. Now she was practically Thumbelina in a sundress. He wasn’t fooled, and neither was she.

She knew what she looked like—played it quite successfully, even—and yet somehow, Harry was still the one twitching in his own car.

She could feel the air crackle in the car every time his gaze dipped. The anticipation coiled tenser every time she adjusted the elastic bust or crossed one leg over the other. Not even for his benefit—but Jesus, it was working anyway. That was the thing—she wasn’t trying to seduce him. That ship had sailed, sunk, and was now rotting on the ocean floor with all the other men who’d thought they could handle her.

On a less desperate note, it was her first time in a Maybach. Hopefully, also her last.

It was more of a rolling reliquary for titans chasing immortality through market share and unresolved daddy issues. The leather was too plush, the silence too padded. Everything about it exclaimed power, permanence, and ownership. She wouldn’t lounge in these private-jet-on-wheels seats like some arm candy with Stockholm Syndrome, so she perched instead—like she might bolt at any second or bite you for trying.

At her feet, two chrome-plated champagne flutes sparkled like tiny totems of excess. The mini-fridge hummed softly under the console. And of course, there was a mounted touchscreen display for ‘mood lighting.’ She wondered what ‘mood’ it glowed when someone was being interrogated by an ex-one-night-stand-slash-target.

She stared at all the luxuries for a moment, counting up the invisible zeroes. How many zeroes did it take to turn a car into his bastion?

Harry finally spoke to break the five-minute silence, his voice low, amused, a touch accusatory, but still he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

“What’s your winnings on this one?”

He was reclining a little ways from her, and his dark eyes were still somewhere south, too—pretending not to enjoy he way the dress hugged her chest too much, and failing with flair.

She turned just enough to see that. She toyed with a fingernail, let it hover innocently near her lips.

“Nothing major, Papi.”

His brows lifted, just a tick. A man politely pretending to be surprised. He looked away, scoffing under his breath. “You’re allergic to 'nothing.'”

God, he was so painfully predictable. She offered a sugar-slick smile and sang out, “A tiiiny necklace. And... a ring.”

His posture stiffened a fraction. Alert, now. His eyes, the very shade of dark rum and worse decisions, cut to hers. “Collecting trophies now, are we?”

“Maybe.” She tilted her head. “Or planning a garage sale. Depends on the market.”

Harry leaned toward her, eyes hardening like he was ready to shift into another register. “Don’t fuck with me, Eve.”

His gruelling scowl was almost convincing—if her name had actually been Eve. That meant he still didn’t know who she really was. Not her name, not her history—so what was this, then? Some twisted coincidence? A brush with fate? Had he really followed her across town, all smooth in his black Maybach, chasing nothing more than a memory? No plan, no confirmation—just a vague pull and a hunch?

If so, it was almost laughable. Almost romantic, too. But mostly dangerous.

So, she leaned in, too, because it was fun to play. Her voice dropped half a note. “I already did fuck with you.”

Harry exhaled, long and frayed at the edges, and ran a hand down his face like she was a stain he could wipe away.

“Sweetheart,” he muttered, and it landed somewhere between a threat and a bribe, “if you give me that ring, I’ll take you to Fifth Avenue right now. You want two more? A whole fucking hand? A bracelet to go with it? Done. My card and Cartier Building are yours.”

She leaned back, arms crossed, biting her lip to contain amusement. It was almost too easy. Men... just dangle a little sex, a little danger, and they’d throw diamonds at you like Mardi Gras beads.

She allowed herself a small laugh—cruel, delighted. “Are you trying to buy me off with guilt jewellery? A shiny booby prize?”

“I’m trying to stop you from being stupid.”

Her lips thinned into a surgical smile. “If you wanted me rational, Harry, you should’ve fucked an accountant.”

Harry gave a pleased, filthy little hum. “Do you still have it?”

“Who says I do?”

“You do,” he insisted, like it was gravity. “You wore it out of that suite like a goddamn medal.”

She turned back to the window. The city was starting to rise in the distance, blurred under bridge lights. “Maybe I pawned it. Maybe I mailed it to your ex-girlfriend, little miss matchmaker. Maybe it’s at the bottom of a koi pond in Brooklyn.”

He just stared at her, no humour or patience left.

She shifted in her seat, her sundress sliding higher, not for him, but his inhale still snagged. Luxury-wrapped warfare, and she was fully fucking armed.

She was dismantling him, with bare legs and a grin that said, ‘You wanted this. I want it more now.’ And somewhere deep in that beautiful bastard brain of his, Harry knew it.

The Maybach hummed like a well-fed predator through the avenues, insulated from honks and heat. Outside was chaos, inside was gloved luxury, stitched leather, and two people pretending they weren’t seconds from lunging across the seat.

Harry's hand rested like a loose threat on the centre console. Still watching her, cataloguing every inch as if she weren’t already in his bloodstream, whether he liked it or not.

“You know,” he said finally, voice cool, “I’ve handled mergers with less resistance. And, never so deep in stalker territory that they know about my exes.”

She examined her nails, chipped from the subway turnstile. “Well, curiosity never killed anyone. And you know,” she countered, “I’ve handled richer men with worse cars.”

He glanced around the cabin, unimpressed. “That’s not even true.”

“It’s sadly true,” she said, biting back a grin.

He snorted because a real laugh would be too generous. His eyes dragged over her once more.

“That ring,” he said, finally, “wasn’t for sale or for taking.”

She feigned shock, clutching her imaginary pearls. “So possessive. I thought you evolved past that.”

Harry leaned forward, entirely implying a threat. “You don’t even know what it is.”

She met his eyes, head tipped. “I know it’s worth enough to make you beg.”

“Do you think this is funny?”

“I think it’s hilarious. And useful.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, and a smile nearly escaped. “Jesus. You’re not even trying to tempt me, and somehow it’s working.”

That earned him a slow, wicked smile. “Good.”

And that was the problem. She wasn’t trying from the start of this. She was just being—aggravating, hungry, radiant—and it was working. She knew it was, she saw it in the way his jaw kept flexing like he wanted to kiss her stupid and strangle her at the same time. He hadn’t touched her since that little performance at the curb, but she could still feel his hand, ghosted and smug across her ass. An assertion. A pushpin.

He cracked a bit of tension in his neck. “You keep that ring, Eve, and you’re in deep shit. I don’t bluff.”

“No, you just hold women against their will in your little jet-car and call them sweetheart like it’s 1942. Very romantic.”

He turned toward her, elbow on the backrest, his voice silken steel. “You’re not even scared.”

“Nope,” she said, flicking her eyes toward him. “I’m starving.”

He blinked at her, thrown for a second.

Then she added, sweet as syrup: “And I’m guessing you’re not dumb enough to threaten me on an empty stomach.”

Harry leaned back, assessing her like an appraiser with a looted painting. “You’re doing a lot of talking for someone exceptionally screwed.”

“Oh, Harry.” She leaned in across the console, chin in her hand, close enough that her breath brushed his jaw. “I’m only proposing a dinner. In exchange for what you want. Seems generous, considering the resale value of your little emotional support ring.”

His jaw flexed. “It’s not emotional.”

“Of course not,” she said, settling back. “Just as priceless as your ego.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And need I remind you, this is extortion?”

“No,” she chirped brightly. “That’s dinner with a woman far out of your tax bracket.”

“Sweetheart, you—”

She shrugged one bare shoulder, calm as a cat sunning itself on a windowsill. “Come on. You missed me. Admit it. You just didn’t know where to find me.”

“I did, too, find you,” he shot back.

She lifted one perfectly arched brow. “After I’d finished with Max. Lucky break.”

“Greased Lightning, sure,” he muttered. “Real prize. Had his hand halfway up your skirt, tongue on your tonsils.”

She pointed an accusatory finger. “Slut-shaming me isn’t the persuasive tactic you think it is, mister.”

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, ravenous eyes wandering up from the hem of her dress to her legs. “Not shaming. Just saying—you have interesting taste in rebound mechanics.”

“You jealous?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head.

His silence was golden; she wanted it in her palms.

“I was,” he said finally. He said it like it hurt to admit.

She flashed all her teeth, brilliant and wicked. “Aw, my Papi. Feeling things for me.”

Without warning, Harry leaned across the console—a fluid, avaricious shift that closed the space between them.

A flinch would give her away. Her chin still rested delicately in her hand, fingers curled beneath it like a bored schoolgirl. Her eyes sharpened, her mouth twitched, she didn’t move exactly, but every cell in her was suddenly keyed in.

He dragged a knuckle down the line of her jaw, featherlight—and of course it was that territorial, ravenous touch of his. As though he was checking to see if she still had skin, if it still responded to him. Yes, it did, and she hated that he knew.

“You really let him touch you like that? Right in front of me?” he murmured, fingers down the expanse of her throat, words curling with conversational filth. “You have no idea how easy it'd be to take you somewhere dark, pull those panties aside and remind you who makes you come.”

Her breath caught—a moment of restraint slipping because the sharp, vivid mental picture bloomed uninvited.

He was close enough now for her to smell the faint trace of his cologne—the same bergamot, wood and fresh banknotes—and underneath that, worse: familiarity. She hated that she remembered how he smelled. She hated it more than it still made her soaked in her best pair of panties.

Yet, she didn’t lean away. She didn’t so much as bat an eye when his fingers grazed her collarbone, dipping lower. She let him find the chain—let him think he was in control for a beat too long.

“You really want to see if it’s there?” she asked softly, teasing, a whisper with claws.

He took the bait, all male and smug, lifting the chain from between her breasts like he was unveiling buried treasure.

And there it was.

His precious ring.

That big, fat emerald swung like a pendulum between them—silent, supine, damning. She watched his eyes lock on it, and the flicker of recognition sharpen into a darker emotion. Greed. Frustration. Lust. Who knew—with Harry, the difference was academic.

He stared at it like it was a rib she’d stolen from his body while he slept.

“Ben,” he said, voice a velvet growl, never taking his eyes off her.

“Sir,” the driver answered with CIA-level readiness. As if he wasn’t listening to foreplay masquerading as directions.

“Miss... Eve is feeling famished. Spring Street, please. Sixth Avenue. Thanks.”

“Copy,” Ben muttered, keying his mic on his wrist. Then, under his breath, too low for the intercom or for his passenger's ears: “Yeah, sure. Let’s get her something to eat before she swipes your socks, too.”

Upon his command, the Maybach veered off course. Even at the razor's edge, Harry had it in him to be the well-mannered rich boy he was raised to be.

And, honestly, saviour Ben deserved hazard pay for the things he heard behind tinted glass. He must've thought that these two were sick with tension. She stole his ring, and he changed course for dinner. That was either love or capture-bonding... with a tip included.

She smiled at the road ahead. A sinful thing that unfolded like a plan, because yes, this was exactly why she’d kept the ring. Not for the money, though, it was easily six figures. Not even for the power, not in the obvious way.

But because he wanted it back, and wanting made Harry sloppy.

It made him touch. It made him chase. It made him reckless and sweet and very, very red-blooded, dumb male. Which meant she’d already won. Before the wine or the check arrived at whatever overpriced hole they were headed to.

She was still the one who dictated the terms. And Harry—poor, rage-polished, ring-hungry Harry—was already halfway back on the leash.

She crossed one leg over the other, reclined just a touch deeper into the seat, and gave him that look—You can have me or the ring. But only if you beg.

He still thought he had the upper hand. Wasn’t it just so cute?

Just the same, Big Dick Castillo brought his A-game for dinner.

The restaurant wasn’t just high-end—it was the kind of place that required two weeks’ notice, a powerbroker’s name on the reservation, and a tolerance for quirky food that looked like modern art. The hostess notably buttered him up, simpered away, took his coat, and called him Mr. Castillo.

“Been here before?” Harry asked as they were guided to their booth.

She didn’t answer, only let her eyes sweep the place—white linen tablecloths, waiters gliding past, a floral arrangement taller than her ego.

She wasn’t dressed for this. Too much skin, not enough couture. The jute of her espadrille heels was scuffed, her clutch was vintage in the wrong way, and her dress—while cute—read detrimental in a room full of tasteful dialogue and five-figure watches. She wished she hadn’t given away the flying fuck she’d reserved for Harry.

So instead, she slid into the booth, crossed her legs slowly, and leaned back like fuck it, let them all look. She’d never belonged in rooms like this, but she knew how to survive them.

Two Michelin stars. Or was it three, maybe? The lighting was gloomy, the cutlery artisanal, and the food came served under glass domes, wreathed in mist like a gothic séance. Every plate looked like a photograph from an art film: uni foam over wild nettle jelly, soil-infused mushroom consommé, whale fat ice-cream (yes, that.) There was no fixed menu—just blind trust in the chef, a man in clogs and tattoos who barely acknowledged them.

This was indulgent, out of her league, so of course she pretended to be unimpressed, like it was routine—hair touched up in the restroom, lips glossy again with the applicator of a stolen Chanel lipstick, heels clicking on imported Italian tile, seated next to a man who could pay her rent for the rest of her life and still have cash left to purchase a moiety of New York.

She even sneaked a photo of the dessert course when Harry got up to take a call, because come on. When else did she get plated edible Parmesan air on gold-rimmed porcelain?

Her last meal had been oatmeal with water, for crying out loud. Not milk. Water.

You could always ask why she didn’t just marry rich. She was beautiful enough to hoodwink them, so why not find a bored billionaire, play the long con, inherit the empire, and vanish somewhere scenic—the Amalfi Coast, or whatever place rich widows went to drink too much rosé—and feign rebirth? And sure, she’d considered it more than once. She wasn’t above strategy.

But something in her—call it pride, call it defiance, hunger for independence—refused to take the easy exit. And maybe one day she would. Maybe she’d settle for a gorgeous, uncomplicated Harry Castillo with deep pockets and no prenup, let herself be worshipped into early retirement. Just not yet.

She was still young, still electric, still drop-dead sexy. There was too much potential and too much fun to be had. Why skip to the end when she could win first? Use her beauty and her brains, pull strings, stay one step ahead of men with power.

Now, in the curved booth, a gilded lamplight spotlit above them, sitting beside her—never across, god forbid—was her latest complication.

Of course, Harry sat next to her, because across meant distance. Across meant restraint, and that would imply boundaries. This man didn't know how to spell the word, let alone observe it. He sat close enough that his thigh occasionally bumped hers. His scent was dark, warm, invasive, the same Jean Paul le Castillo, again, and his attention was even worse. Fork in one hand, wine glass in the other, and that goddamn heinous, hungry look in his eyes as he stared at her lips like it owed him answers.

The new ring—a ruby the size of a small nation—winked on his ring finger, gaudy and melodramatic. It clinked against his glass as he reached forward. His shirt sleeve inched up just enough to reveal his Hublot—black steel, custom dial, subtle as a gun to the temple. And paired with that bracelet, Damascus steel, he was cosplaying the final boss of Grand Theft Auto.

Her thighs pressed together. Inexcusable. Her hormones were staging a mutiny.

She’d spent the fundamental part of her life making sex a transaction. A leverage, a blade, for which men paid in obsession. And now, with him, her instincts were starting to betray her. Lust came up uninvited, and that wasn’t part of the plan.

Harry made her forget where the end was, made her want to tear off her own armour just to climb into his lap and beg. Before then, out of the blue—

“So, how many men came before me?”

He didn’t clarify. Lovers? Marks? The poor bastards who’d mistaken her for a doormat?

She took a slow sip of water, letting the silence stretch long enough to tighten the air. One brow ticked upward. “You want a number, or just a vague estimate that’ll challenge your gall? And also, ruin your appetite.”

He smirked, impressed. “I want honesty.”

She tilted her head. “Ooh, that's a new kink.”

“I’m possessive,” he admitted, pretty garish on his part. “Big difference.”

“Mm.” Her smile curved, feline. “Possessive is only sexy when the person saying it isn’t two drinks away from growling.”

“It’s sexy when it comes with dinner like this.” He waved his hand at the table.

She leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, her heel dangling just a little. “You’re trying to get in my head.”

“I’m trying to understand you.”

“Why? You already got the ring. It's right in front of you. All polished and accounted for.”

He reached across the table and let his knuckle trace her cheekbone, then followed the angle of her jaw like he was mapping her. Shiftless, patient.

“You used it to bait me into dinner,” he said, a thumb stroking at her glistening lip. “Could’ve handed it over in the car. Hell, you could’ve pawned it, vanished. But you didn’t. So... you want me, too.”

She grinned at that—wide, unapologetic, teeth and trouble. “You’re adorable when you think you’re in charge.”

His gaze sharpened, darkened. But not in anger—he was starved. Amused, too. “What do you want from me, then?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, humming. “A better quality of dessert. Maybe something shiny to take home.”

“To wear or to sell?”

She pushed her bottom lip out. “Depends on whether you make me laugh.”

He shook his head, chuckling into his wine glass. “You’re the hysterical one, sweetheart.” He swallowed his sip, humming, “Do you ever think of doing anything else? Something legit?”

She pretended to think, tapping a finger against her chin. “You mean wait tables? Or marrying a hedge fund vampire who forgets my birthday every year but I have to offset with a wealth of blowjobs?”

He looked at her—a quiet examination that wasn’t judgment, as if wondering what it would take for her to stop running.

“I think you’re more priceless and smarter than you let on, or the little games you play.”

She laughed softly at that—a sound that had just the right amount of sadness tucked in the corners. “Yeah, well. The games pay the bills. And at least I get to choose the rules.”

Harry leaned in, an elbow resting on the table, voice a shade lower now—meant just for her. “You know, you don’t have to play a game to have me take you out. I would've abandoned an intergalactic arms deal if you wanted me here tonight.”

She burst with a giggle, and it was cute how much he took pride in making her laugh. She eventually locked eyes with him and said, calm and clean:

“But it’s so much more satisfying when I win first.”

That made him laugh. A proper, wrecked laugh dropped from his throat, and it surprised even him.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, still half-winded. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met who could rob me blind and make me this hard at the same time.”

She bit her lip—as though it weren’t the exact effect she’d planned down to the second. Spoon clinked softly against the plate as she set it down with ceremony, eyes gleaming.

“I wanna see it,” she whispered, scooting closer to him on the leather booth, until her side was flush against his.

“Eve, sweetheart,” he warned.

She smoothed her lips against his jaw, playing a good little girl. “Show me. Please.”

Her fingers found the zipper of his tailored trousers, the expensive ones, that held shape like a secret. And it was amazing—how hard he was, how her palm couldn’t quite span the bold swell beneath, and how he throbbed to her touch.

She dragged her hand down, watching his face tighten—like a crackling electrical wire. His jaw flexed. His gaze darted briefly to the corners of the restaurant, the other elitist millionaires, scanning for anyone who might recognise the man unravelling.

Then he leaned in. A husky, thrumming caution. “If I knew you were going to get like this, I’d have asked for a private room.”

She stuck out her tongue, childish. “No fun.”

He laughed under his breath and traced a big fingertip down her cheek. “Tell me you missed me.”

“I did miss you,” she said like the sweetheart she was, and the best part was—it was true. Truth spoken with the cadence of a lie. Or a dare. “I thought you’d find me sooner. I waited for you.”

“Duty calls.” His voice dipped, like he hated saying it. “I'm sorry, honey. I was out of town yesterday.”

That explained everything and nothing. She was not satisfied.

She didn’t stop either, her hand kept its lazy rhythm over his bulge, like she was idly petting a wild animal. “I couldn’t sleep at night, Harry.”

His fathomless eyes were trained on her mouth. “Why not?”

“You know how much I missed you? How I was touching myself, wishing it was you inside me?” Her voice turned to silk—sinful, edged with heat, weaponised.

He exhaled sharply, words ghosting over her ear. “Prove it.”

She smiled, slow and wicked, like she’d been waiting for that line all night. With one last stroke, she removed her hand, pursuing her fingers up his jaw—lingering just enough to make his breath hitch. Down the line of his neck, across the snow-white shirt that skirted right around his shoulders, over that infuriatingly sculpted bicep, tough forearm, wrist—the original blueprint of sex—until she led his hand beneath her skirt, just enough to tilt the balance of power.

His long, large fingers took charge from there. They swept her panties aside without an afterthought and found her soaked right through and aching. Home turf, indeed.

A single long finger teased upward through her slick folds, the dewy little bead he wanted to tease all night. Her hips twitched, seeking more; she bit down on a moan that would’ve embarrassed her in any other life. But not here, not when she had the upper hand.

“Making such a mess,” he murmured, and started to push right in.

She caught his wrist—gently, firmly—and pulled his hand away. She wasn’t done playing. “Then let me clean up.”

Bringing his fingers to her mouth, ever so slowly, let her lips part just enough to catch one finger and draw it in. Her eyes never left his as she tasted herself on her tongue.

Harry’s nostrils flared. His jaw twitched, a visible glitch in his otherwise polished self-control. She could virtually hear the recalibration transpiring behind his eyes—an expensive machine overheating under pressure.

“You ever heard of taking turns?” he rasped, voice sandpapered and low.

She hummed into his finger with a grin.

Her tongue curled around the length of his finger in lazy, loving worship. She let her teeth graze the bone, just enough to sting, pulled away with a wet, filthy pop—then slid her hand back to the heat pressed against his trousers.

Still gloriously hard. Harder, maybe.

He made a sound. Barely audible, but visceral—her rich boy was about to snap.

“Mm, I missed my friend,” she teased, palm grazing along the thick outline of him, the way you'd check the heft of a stolen gold bar. “We need to take care of you.”

“Not in here,” he gritted, eyes flicking toward the very public preposterous restaurant, as if remembering too late they were still surrounded by pristine cutlery, half-finished wine glasses, and utterly oblivious millionaires.

She leaned in, voice sugarcoated and silk-wrapped. “Why not? Afraid the waitstaff will find out their favourite industrialist menace is getting head under the table?”

“Sweetheart,” he ground out, jaw tight, “you’re going to get us thrown out.”

She gasped, scandalised. “Oh, no. Not banned from a place where the peach coulis costs more than the average rent.” Her fingers traced the outline of him again, sinfully curious. “But it’s cute that you think I care.”

He gripped the table’s edge. “Outside.”

She leaned closer and click—her teeth snapped together in a playful bite.

What followed was a blur—his credit card swiped on the reader, the receipt signed with a flourish so fast it might’ve been a stock ticker. Between curt commands to the valet and a quiet, untamed “stand by for now,” to his head of security, there were brushes, glances, touches: her fingers sinking just beneath his waistband as he tipped the maître d’, his palm skating down her bare back where her dress dipped scandalously low. Every pass of skin-to-skin felt like a dare, an escalation, a lit fuse.

By the time they ducked into the alley behind the block—dimly illumined in cinematic amber—the anticipation between them had pulled taut enough to hum. The distant purr of traffic and the faint hiss of steam from a nearby vent were the accurate background noise to a heist in progress.

Harry didn’t even get the chance to lean to get her lips before she shoved him against the wall—decisive, insolent, the brick groaning against his back. Her eyes sparkled with that delicious edge, knowing she’d rehearsed the choreography in her dreams: a two-day fantasy played out frame by frame.

And he knew exactly what she was saying, without a single word. You’re mine right now.

Her hands slid up around his neck, fingers weaving into the short curls at his nape, nails just sharp enough to sting. She made him hiss through his teeth—and she smiled at that, feral satisfaction flashing across her lips. How could a man like the great Harry Castillo—so composed, so powerful, so painfully in control—still be reduced to deprived flesh under her touch?

“What did you say to me?” she panted. “That you'd drag me somewhere dark, pull my panties aside, and remind me who makes me come?”

His grin crooked sideways, as if it physically hurt to hold back a groan. “Still sounds like a solid plan to me.”

They let the words hang in the air between them, as her hips crushed into his, allowing him to feel the slow roll of her body against his, just so he damn sure remembered. She pulled back to lock eyes with him, and his expression was glowing with wicked amusement.

“Because that got me so wet,” she added, one brow lifting. “Truly. I’m so touched.”

He gave a rough laugh, hands twitching on her body. “Touched? If you keep grinding like that, I will absolutely bless the whole city block.”

She wrinkled her nose, displeased. “That's really gross, baby.”

He wrinkled his nose back at her. “Just get a move on. With you, my witty repartee functions scramble themselves.”

“That's really hot, baby.”

Then those same hands wandered. Down his collarbone, over his chest. She moved with the assurance of someone who’d mapped this terrain before, who knew every button as if it were a checkpoint on her way to spoils.

When she was rewarded with her kiss, it was a signature scrawled in heat—messy, urgent, binding—and branding him under his clothes, where no one could see. Oh, he’d feel it.

Then her fingers were at his belt.

A low, delighted laugh escaped her. Her rhythm was impatient, rhythm-less. Zipper down, cock out. Just as big, flushed dark, curving, and thick as she remembered him. She wrapped her awaiting palm around him, unmistakably reacquainting herself with an old luxury.

God, how she’d missed this. The raw him of it. The racy confidence, the amused shock in his eyes when she got ahead of him. The twitch in his cock, like it recognised her touch better than his.

“Omigod, Harry,” she breathed, eyes darting between his and the absurd girth in her grip. Imagine a sexy, artisanal baguette. If anything, French cuisine has never sounded more decadent.

“How are you still so hard?”

His head thunked back against the bricks, and a choked laugh dragged out of him. “And?”

She giggled, softer this time. “That’s... honestly, a little heroic. Amazing.”

He groaned, the edge in his voice splitting wide open. “I swear to god—I’m going it blow it right in your hand.”

She slowed her stroke, her hand sliding between his jacket and shirt to clamp down on his waist. “Oh no, baby. You don’t get to tap out when I’ve barely started. You’re gonna see the credits after the feature.”

She gripped him tighter, thumb sweeping the crown. His hips jerked—reflexive, needy.

She knew the tells better than most men knew their passwords. The tight clench of his thighs, the way his hips twitched in expectation, that little flicker in his jaw when he was fighting not to fall apart too soon. And then the low, involuntary groan he gave when she added that precise twist at the top.

So she did it again. And again. More intended, more viciously gentle. Until his body was practically quavering under her rhythm.

That’s when he saw it.

The ring.

His ring.

Gleaming like a petite green sin in the dim alley light—bold, unrepentant, perched snug between the ridges of her knuckles. She must’ve slipped it from its chain and onto her finger when he wasn’t looking—when his pants had come down, when his brain had gone sideways. It shone against her skin with all the drama of a closing argument, catching the movement of her hand every time it slid up and down his cock. Brazen. Ridiculous. Glorious.

He stared, eyes gone wide, chest heaving like he’d just run a fucking marathon in velvet loafers. Pure disbelief tempered only by the rising surge of pleasure threatening to knock him flat.

Her decadent grin spread wider. That same tilt she used before she broke into something expensive. Criminal.

“Look how gorgeous your ring looks on my hand, baby,” she purred, constricting her grip just enough to make him feel it. Then one long, mean stroke—merciless as it was smooth—had him grunting like she’d punched the air out of him.

Sugar in her tone, filth in the intent—“Right while I’m holding your cock.”

That almost undid him. It actually did... just not in the way she expected.

His hips bucked involuntarily—hard—one palm slapping against the wall beside them like he ought to brace against her, or the gravity of her power.

And she could feel it—how close he was, how his body betrayed him completely.

“Careful now,” she whispered, breath hot against his throat. “You’re gonna come all over your ring.”

“Fuck,” he hissed. “I need you.”

His palm found her waist first, then higher—greedier—spanning the swell of her breast, fingers slipping beneath the delicate strap of her dress. He touched her like a man unravelling, desperate to memorise her with his hands before he lost himself completely. She didn’t stop him or bother to slow down.

Ladies, listen up. You let him spiral, let him lose the plot. It, therefore, generates all these amazing results. First of all, you feel like a goddamn goddess.

If anything, the heat of his palm rolling over her chest, thumb brushing the peak of her nipple, made her hand tighten at the base of him, a lazy drag of friction that made his breath catch and his teeth bare. Good, she thought. He’d looked so calm at dinner—composed, controlled, smug. It was time she rattled that composure down to the bones.

His mouth landed near her jaw, warm and unravelling, his breath skipping against the sensitive shell of her ear.

“Christ, baby,” he gulped down. “You’ll kill me.”

“Just a little,” she whispered, a threat swathed in lace.

He gripped the back of her neck now—firm, desperate, tethering. But she could feel the tremble run through him, the growing urgency that turned every touch into a grasp, every kiss into a plea.

And when she felt that telltale twitch in her palm—close, so fucking close—she sank to her knees in one fluid, irreverent motion.

“Eve!” He growled.

“Might want to hold on for this,” she murmured, reaching out and dutifully closing his hand around her hair. Her personal hairband.

His head tipped to the wall with a dull thud, and his breath was knocked right out of him.

She took him into her mouth—no tease, no soft open. Just the hot, wet seal of her lips around him, engulfing pressure sliding down with a purpose that made men remember you. Her hand twisted at the base as her tongue flattened along the underside, every flick and hollow of her cheeks perfectly paced, free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently—almost as if she knew his body better than he did. Her hand stroked what she couldn’t take yet (a lot of it), but she was nothing if not determined, easing deeper, working her gasps and gags, her throat fluttering as she swallowed around him.

Then she pulled back just enough to kiss the tip, run her tongue around it in a slow, devastating circle, and whisper, “Look at me.”

When he did, wrecked and glassy-eyed, and nearly lost it when he saw the glint of the emerald—his emerald—catching the amber haze of the streetlight, shining vulgar and perfect as she worked him over with both mouth and hand, while that gem flashed in and out of sight like punctuation to her rhythm.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he gritted, hands flying into her hair, helpless to the thrusts into her mouth.

And still, she smiled around him with her eyes. Because down here, on her knees, oh-so-submissive, she fucking owned him. For a single second, she was entitled to billions and billions of dollars.

He let go with a broken sound, head tilted back, hands fastened in her hair. His release hit like a convulsion—deep, violent, ragged, unstoppable—and she took it. All of it.

She kept her lips closed around him, swallowed him down like a secret, let him spill hot down her throat, held still through every violent aftershock until he finally stopped pulsing against her tongue. Only then did she let him slide from her mouth, returning a relic to the altar.

As she littered a few kisses to his hipbone, above her, he was heaving. A ruin of breath and bone, one palm braced against the bricks, the other still fisted in her hair—completely, exquisitely unravelled.

Because for all his suits, his smirks, his predator calm, his moneyed arrogance, his big dick, and relentless pursuit—this was the real him. The one leaning against a piss-stained alley wall, jaw slack, pupils blown, chest rising like he’d been resuscitated by her mouth alone. That wide-eyed, blown-open stare—cracked devotion dressed as disbelief.

Ragged. Gutted. Hers.

She sat back on her heels, knees aching, throat raw, but her chin still tipped with defiance. The streetlamp lit her up from the side, catching the gleam of spit at the corner of her bruised lips, the waterline of her eyes, and the vulgar glint of his emerald still perched like a trophy on her finger.

She didn’t wipe her mouth or fix her hair. She wanted him to see it—the wreckage, the proof still painting her skin.

Look what you made me do, her body said. Now look what I did to you.

“To clarify,” she said, breath still ragged, eyes sharp with mischief. “Was that your soul I just sucked out or are you always this dramatic post-nut?”

He barked a laugh, dragging one trembling hand through his sweat-mussed hair, the other still propping him upright. “You are fucking unbelievable,” he panted.

“Mm.” She rose slowly, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulders and dusting her knees. “Takes one to chase one.”

But just as she turned to make her exit with all the flair of a woman who had already won, his hand caught her jaw.

He wasn’t anywhere near done with her.

He pulled her back around for a feral kiss, so strangely intimate, still so insatiate beneath the smug exterior. Tasting himself, tasting them, tongue plunging, moustache tickling, chasing whatever high was lost into her throat once more.

His other hand plunged low and hiked her thigh up around his hip in one swift motion, dragging her flush against him, pinning her, crowding her into the wall. She gasped at the feel of him again, already half-hard and thoughtless, thrusting up into the soaked heat of her panties, all the way through the flimsy lace and cotton barriers.

He broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against her gasping open mouth, “Let me return the favour, sweetheart. I'm a stickler for settling debts.”

“You're hard again?” she giggled, disbelieving. Her hand snuck back to confirm the evidence. “It's been two seconds.”

He grinned, teeth flashing. “It’s the new suit. Gets me going. You like?”

“Jesus, Harry,” she muttered, impressed. “This is either compulsive or Olympic. Have you been microdosing Viagra?”

“I’m just really, really motivated when I see you.”

She gave him a slow stroke through the fabric, lips parted in faux wonder. “Oh, I noticed. Your amazing dick has the recovery rate of a Marvel superhero.”

That husky, ruined laugh of his rang smoke signals all the way to her down there.

She will not deny it: she wanted to let him fuck her. She had been patient was a really long time (read, really two days.) That was practically monastic discipline.

She wanted to be slammed into that wall, chest down, hands crushed in the small of her back, and torn apart. She wanted him to slide into her fast, unrelenting, to fill her in one breathless, punishing thrust and ruin all the good work she’d done painting herself as unfuckwithable. She knew just how soaked she was, how badly her body wanted to cave in and make it impossible for him to forget her.

Instead, she pulled back far enough to break away from him. Her hands stayed on him whilst his desperate lips mouthed up her jaw and ears—one over his feverish heart, the other tenderly cradling his jaw.

Seemingly, fucking around and finding out included taking the win with her. So, she grinned, bright and goddamn invincible.

“Easy, big guy,” she murmured, dragging a lithe finger down his nose and lips. “You blow your load again, what’s left for the encore?”

He stared at her like she was both his best miracle and worst menace.

Then she dropped her leg, smoothed the hem of her dress, and leaned in one last time—her mouth teasing at the shell of his ear—and kissing the coarse arc of his cheek.

“Now, you owe me a ride.”

She hadn’t meant “ride” in the literal sense. But, of course, her recently sucked off, hedge-fund god had taken it that way.

Now here she was, waiting on a curb like a stranded groupie, knees hugged to her chest, fingers picking absently correcting her reapplied gloss, watching him pace twenty feet away, swirling through Important Business like he ran the New York Stock Exchange and the moon phases at the same time. Corporate acrobatics, last-minute deals, numbers, names, mergers.

Harry Castillo was the storm with no centre indeed. Elegant, effusive chaos.

She studied him, inventorying the little habits, just for herself to overthink later.

The way he loosened his collar half an inch, the fabric of his dress shirt tugging tight across his shoulder blades. The way he tilted his phone between his shoulder and ear to glance at his watch, never missing a beat in the conversation, another phone cradling market tickers and colour-coded blocks that meant nothing to her but had his full attention. The clipped, fricative syllables he used when someone tried to talk over him. The furrow of his brows. The press of his thumb and forefinger into his temple, as if the numbers both gave him migraines and fed his soul.

She wasn't supposed to notice this much, or even care. He was a depleted target.

After all, for her bravado, her games and schemes, she witnessed it in him: the sheer momentum of him. The time and tension. The experience that streaked his hair a little, crinkled at his eyes. He was the exemplar of hard work, empire-building and sleepless nights.

It was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen in any gentleman.

Yet, he made her feel small. Smaller than the filthy alley, the incredible sex, and the swagger had made her feel. It was that old, low-grade hum of self-loathing which unfurled in quiet moments when her five-dollar acrylics started to chip and bleed, and her bank account re-enacted a crime scene.

She was what she was. High school dropout, actress by ambition, hustler by necessity. Her résumé was an unconsolidated array of lies, fake eyelashes, and second jobs that paid in tips and IOUs. She didn’t articulate ‘Bloomberg,’ didn’t know what ‘price reflecting risk’ meant, and had never owned anything sparklier than a gold-plated nameplate necklace she hocked at sixteen.

She looked down at it now—his emerald ring glinting like she belonged under it's cocky gleam. Laughable, really. She twisted it round slowly, scrutinising the way it caught the streetlight as it threw new tints of the spectrum right into her undeserving eyes.

A low, motorised purr broke through her spiral.

She glanced up, confused at first, like the street itself had growled.

Something was coming. A fast, smooth statement. Sleek, angular, low-slung, orange—a tropical fruit had a baby with a warning sign. A McLaren, maybe? As far as her fluency in Car and Driver went, she could tell that thing had arguments about acceleration. Seriously, it belonged on a racetrack, not a city street. It was impractical, unreasonable, and utterly excessive—just like Harry.

As the car slid to a stop at the curb, she watched one of the suited security detail break formation and approach it while a man in gloves stepped out and performed a silent, expensive transaction with a key fob. And she—still on the curb, blinking—realised that she had been excluded from this entirely.

Oh, she wasn't part of this mean machine.

She was luggage. Really hot luggage in a pretty dress.

“It’s a platform play, but we can bolt on 2–3 tuck-ins within 18 months.” Harry was still speaking into his phone, utterly unfazed by the gravity-defying spaceship that had just landed in front of them. He was simply striding toward it like it was a goddamn Toyota.

Her stare ping-ponged between him, the security guy, the McLaren, and back to Harry. Soon, a slow surge of realisation struck her.

This was for her.

This was what happened when she joked about owing her a ride after blowing his mind (and him) in an alleyway. For one stupefied, unguarded second, she believed it—she might actually be fucked.

“We'll get this in front of IC and revert. Thanks, Mark.” A crisp click ended Harry's call, and the phones vanished into his jacket, so he turned his full attention to her.

He offered his hand, palm up, fingers splayed—infuriatingly gentlemanly. And the grin that spread across his face was downright criminal, that it should’ve come with a warning label.

“I believe I owe you a ride,” he rumbled.

She took one look at the orange beast purring by the curb and immediately shot up to her feet, cupping her hands around her mouth to control a shrill squeal.

“Harry,” she breathed.

He raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart.”

“I should’ve given you head the first time we met.”

He snorted. “Oh, I remember. But you needed dental insurance before taking on the full... package?”

Every ounce of self-respect fled her system.

“I was joking!” she gasped, eyes locked on the car. “I mean, I’d give you your ring back—but you didn’t have to get me a sports car! This is insane. This is—”

She clapped her hands once, spun on her heel, convulsing, fanning a hand at her face. “—so goddamn sexy I might cry. Look at her! She has curves! She’s shiny! She’s so my type!”

Harry watched, entirely too amused and pleased with his own theatrics. His shoulders started to shake with deep, husky laughter.

“I hate to spoil your greedy little soul, but I just wanted a nightcap.” He tapped the hood of the car. “It was gathering dust, I figured you would appreciate—”

“I appreciate, I really, really appreciate.” She grinned, bouncing a little in place, pitch rising with every word. “Oh, we are breaking so many traffic laws tonight. We’re gonna crash this thing straight into an uppity country club.”

She bounced toward the passenger side like a kid on Christmas morning, ready to yank open the door—

“Other side.”

She halted mid-motion, narrowed her eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

He raised the key fob near his head, pushed a button—and the car croaked an obedient electronic chirp as the driver’s side door lifted vertically, like a butterfly wing.

“You’re driving us tonight,” he informed.

She stared at him, attempting to render his words to her reality. She really must've blown off the one little screw that held his common sense together.

Her heart slammed against her ribs with a cocktail of adrenaline, arousal, and unbidden panic. And with it came the reveal of: “Harry. I haven’t driven anything in years.”

“Good,” he said, strolling about to the passenger side, leather shoes scuffing. “You’ve got experience.”

She scoffed. “What... and if I kill us?”

He shrugged with that aggravating impassivity. “For what I’m worth, they’d better build a memorial—not leave me smeared on the freeway.”

The key was dropped into her hand, and she looked down at it, then at the car—her reflection warped across its polished surface.

For a moment, it began flickering behind her eyes—that horrified, disbelieving piece of her that still didn’t think she deserved to touch a machine this exquisite, let alone drive it. A thief, a fake—what business did she have behind the wheel of a seven-figure car?

Despite that, she smiled. Well, that was not her now. She was made of wicked chaos, pink Chanel gloss, and full-figured hunger.

“Well, buckle up,” she said, ducking and gliding behind the wheel, basically stepping into her final form. “If we die, I’m haunting you with blue balls in the afterlife.”

He laughed, following her in. “Duly noted, sweetheart.”

And the door hissed shut, sealing her in.

One thing you needed to know about this city—laid out like a glittering, fatigued whore at her feet—was that even the rats had a hustle.

So before you judged her for jumping at the wheel of a hypercar she didn’t own, playing the coquette in knockoffs, maybe ask yourself this: what would you do, if a million-dollar engine thrummed at your fingertips and the man beside you looked at you like a sex god personified?

“If it was up to me, I wouldn’t give these nobodies no sympathy,” SZA whispered through the surround speakers, truth bleeding from her voice like philosophies.

She mouthed along to the words, head bobbing between the headrest, legs up on the dash.

She’d meant to steal one little big ring, and a few hours of air conditioning and affection. But somehow, she’d ended up here—idling by Riverside in a car that purred with decadent control, less an animal’s snarl, more a savvy grin. A flick of her foot on the pedal had set it forward like a breath—no lurch, no grunt. Just a seamless glide, the motion of a motor made to conquer without show.

New York City arrayed as circuitry in front of them—vast, shining, veined with red brake lights and screw-ups. They had chased the fringes of midnight toward a lookout she hadn’t been to in years, one of those places you only returned to when you had something to prove. Not anymore, the McLaren did it for her.

Her fingers traced the stitched grooves of the steering wheel, supple black leather, and the centre console illuminated the space like the cockpit of a fighter jet: chrome, carbon fibre, touchscreens glowing like digital seduction. Even the whole cabin smelled like ozone, leather and aerospace engineering. Every inch of it whispered, you don’t belong here.

Yeah, she didn’t. Her fingernails still had dirt under them. Her shoes were vintage consignment pretending to be Gucci. Her confidence, like most things in this city, was counterfeit—but expensive-looking.

And goddamn, did she look good pretending.

She glanced at the rearview mirror. The black sedan behind them hadn’t moved out of formation since the restaurant. No hazard lights, no overt tailing. Harry’s version of subtlety: a ghost that reeked of payroll.

Then her ex-target's voice cut through the hum of the engine.

“So,” he said, so offhandedly it almost sounded bored—if not for the fact that he was watching her like a man circling a flame. “Cartier or Harry Winston before closing time? I did promise you a handful of rings.”

She glanced over at him, lips quirking.

This man. This ludicrous, outrageous man. He had no idea the effect he had on her. Or maybe he did—and that was half the danger.

Here she was, fresh off scamming him into a disgustingly expensive dinner, jacking his family heirloom right under his nose, and now she was joyriding his million-dollar toy while he reclined in the passenger seat like some amused villain who’d already won.

She snorted, not bothering to hide the laugh. “I just need to say this out loud for the universe: I am using the absolute hell out of you.”

Harry leaned his head back, one arm slung behind her seat, the other lazily adjusting the cuff of his blazer. “If anything,” he said, “I’m disappointed you’re not using me more.”

She raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t enough?”

“Hardly. If I were in your little shoes,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her strappy knockoffs, “we'd already be popping a bottle of Dom on a jet, halfway to Geneva right now.”

Her laugh cracked out before she could stop it. “Wow. Talk dirty to me, Papi.”

Grinning that tongue-in-cheek smile of his, he reached for her feet, pulling them up into his lap without asking. Scud dusted his sleek custom trousers, but he only focused on tracing lazy circles along her calf—intimate, absentminded, entitled, so domestic.

He toyed with the buckle of her shoe, lifting it with an index finger. “Speaking of, we need to get you a new pair. Maybe a dozen. You’ve got the legs for it.”

“Jimmy Choos,” she said, going along with it.

“Done.”

“And while you’re at it, maybe a penthouse on the east side?”

“Take mine.” Then added, “Conditionally.”

She shook her head, smiling. “Still trying to bankroll what you can’t own.”

He kissed the inside of her ankle, exactly where she’d dabbed perfume to mask the shoe funk. “Still stealing what you secretly want to keep.”

Her heart thudded—almost annoyed at the betrayal. That little jump, that involuntary jolt at his voice, his closeness. As if her body hadn’t gotten the memo that she was supposed to be in control.

She let her head tip lazily toward him, eyes half-lidded. “You really want to be used by me?”

He leaned in, that sinuous way he did everything, as though gravity didn’t apply to him quite the same. “Only you.”

God knows she'd heard every variation of flattery laced in a threat—but that wrecked, gruff tone of his crushed under her ribs she didn’t care to name.

She held his gaze for a second too long, the moment coiling tight between them, breath warming the space where danger meets desire. She could taste it. This thing between them. It was scorched sweet.

He tilted his head, that lazy confidence coiled behind his jaw like a spring. “You’re the only one who uses me right, sweetheart. You do it selfish. And it works.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, because it was. But more so because it was true. In the non-tragic fucked-up way that made her heart twitch in a place she didn’t like to acknowledge.

“Is it?” he leaned in, letting his knuckles graze the inside of her thigh. “Because it sounded a hell of a lot like a compliment to me.”

She tilted her head with that dangerous little smirk, which usually preceded theft or sex.

“Tell me what you think I want from you,” she said, the implication lingering like steam off an expensive glass.

He didn't miss a beat; he met her gaze, dead-on. “Comfort. Sex. Money. Exactly in that order.”

Well. That was blunt. But she mostly got used to the sting.

It wasn’t a wrong guess, but it wasn’t the whole picture, either. That was the problem with men like Harry; they saw the silhouette and thought they interpreted the sculpture.

She projected that image—Eve, a loose, cocky, precocious thief in a pretty dress. It was the only currency that worked in most rooms. But… a part of her wanted to be seen through it, not as it. Charming fun. Clever girl. Desirable for more than how easily she slipped a watch off a man’s hand or a moan from his throat.

She inhaled through her nose, lips parting like a question left unsaid. “You really think that’s all I am?”

“I think you’ve figured out how to get what you want,” he said, his hand slipping casually down to the arch of her ankle. “And I respect the hell out of it.”

It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t the yes she’d been half-daring him to say, either.

She looked away, a flick of her lashes down, forming a curtain between them. The lights of the city glimmered past the windshield, multicoloured, a little blurred. She didn’t even realise she’d gone quiet until—

His fingers clicked in front of her face. She blinked, coming back to herself, and turned just in time to catch his smirk.

“Earth to Eve?”

She sat up a little straighter, drawing her legs out over his lap in an easy stretch, avoiding a pang that was still ringing somewhere in her ribs. Her heel grazed the far car door, the other foot resting right where he wanted her. She could work with that.

She smiled—bright, artificial, wicked. “Hm?”

“Where’d you go, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Back to our suite,” she lied, sugar-tipped, curling his hand between her bare knees. She guided it higher until his fingers found the hem of her dress and slipped beneath, “First, I want to know something.”

Thin lace. Warm skin. Low hum of history.

His palm cupped her, long fingers pressing against the soaked scrap of fabric as if he wasn’t already fluent in the language of her thighs. And still, she caught it—that stutter in his breath, the falter in his cool. Good. Let him lose his balance a little. She liked him like that.

“Does this question have to do with you coming on my hands?” he rasped.

She laughed, full-throated and bright, head tilted back like she'd just heard a good joke. “Don’t you want your ring back?”

He blinked, stunned, stupidly handsome. But before he could fathom a reply, she caught his hand in both of hers and pressed the car’s key fob into his palm. Then, with a magician’s flair—wrist tilted just so, fingers guiding the moment like sleight-of-hand, let the reveal land—there it was.

The emerald, back on his ring finger like it had never left. Gleaming.

“We’re even,” she said casually, all silk and smoke, like she hadn’t rehearsed that little flourish hours ago.

He gave a disbelieving laugh, a sound of him still catching up, halfway between fury and foreplay. She thrived with that sound on him—surprise laced with surrender.

“And this?” He gestured between them, a vague sweep of his hand as if it incorporated the entire cyclone.

“A draw, maybe,” she sang out. Then—after a beat—“Unless you want to raise the stakes.”

But his eyes flicked to hers—amusement glinting in the depths of them.

“You know,” he drawled, slow as molasses and twice as rich, “I promised myself I wouldn’t let you walk away tonight. I even…”

He undid his blazer button with a flick of his thumb, rolled the sleeve back, shirt cuff—pressed, white, expensive. Bare wrist, no watch.

The custom Hublot was missing. Only the steel bracelet jangled noiselessly, missing its pair.

Her smile bloomed—teeth and mischief. Pure delight with a cherry on top.

He looked at his wrist again, as if it might’ve reappeared, then at her. Half-outraged (you little shit), half-astonished (I really want to fuck you), and completely turned on. Her man.

“Way ahead of you, honey,” she whispered. Winking, but not bothering to show the prize. That wasn’t the point. She never flashed what she’d already claimed.

Theft was foreplay, and proof was irrelevant. And didn’t it feel good being her?

And the fact that somewhere between the appetiser and the edge of his self-control, he couldn’t stop chasing her even as she’d slipped through his fingers and walked off with both the crown and the kingdom.

In that moment, she felt like a force of nature. Beautiful, smug and completely untouchable.

And yet... she knew how this would go. How she’d go home eventually, peel off her heels, strip the night away, and set the Hublot down on her dresser like a trophy, her evidence of reality, even though it would never match anything she owned—too masculine, too boorish, too expensive.

And she’d lie awake, wondering if Harry was laughing right now, alone in his too-big bed, in a penthouse that echoed with emptiness. Or perhaps giving security some nondescript bullshit line like, “Don’t chase her. I'll find her soon.”

Now, she languidly drew her legs back into the footwell, all part of the final act. One last fluid exit, stage left. She reached for her satchel that she'd slotted somewhere by the console.

The butterfly door hissed open with a smooth hydraulic sigh, too much preposterous sex appeal. But before she could duck out, Harry’s warm, possessive hand caught her wrist.

“Give me something in return,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. Like if she didn’t, he’d unravel.

She turned, one brow lifting with theatrical grace—that signature look—you don’t know who you’re playing with, do you?

“I gave you something mind-blowing an hour ago,” she muttered, chin tilting.

He smirked, but didn’t let go. “Something of yours, sweetheart.” His gaze dropped to where her purse was on her lap, then climbed again, a lazy drag that felt like fingertips down her spine.

“I’m a materialist, too. You know that.”

That made her laugh, laced with irony only women like her could master—mostly weapon, all charm.

What was he, Prince Charming? Did he want a glass slipper, a trace of perfume, a lock of hair? Did he expect her to leave behind some totem of surrender, some girlish trace he could pine over, so he could come chasing after her with keen, awaiting arms and an incurable erection?

Oh, this poor man. Wrong fairytale.

His lopsided smile twitched, as if he were biting the inside of his cheek just to keep himself in check, which also made her hesitate for half a second.

Just long enough for a thought to flicker through her. Unserious. Wildly inappropriate. Which, of course, meant it was perfect.

She shifted in her seat with catlike precision, eyes holding his, lifting her hips just enough to hook her thumbs beneath the waistband of her panties—white lace, delicate, and soaked through in the patternings that would make anyone blush. They slid down in an inching, methodical glide—past her soft thighs, her knees, her calves, her ankles—until she held them between two fingers. A peace offering. A punchline. A poem in cursive.

But oh, Harry saw. His pupils expanded. His jaw ticked. There was the faintest inhale—so minor you could miss it if you weren’t looking for it.

And then she twirled them once, dainty and devilish, before looping the lace over the rearview mirror, letting them hang there like some heretical pair of fuzzy fucking dice.

“Fits right in your pocket,” she said with a girlish grin. “Low-upkeep. No batteries required.”

“I was hoping for your number,” Harry murmured, voice dragging a beat slower now, eyes still on the lace dangling from the mirror. “But I’ll have to look into your file for that. Might gild this.”

“Or sniff it like a sick fuck, I won't judge,” she replied, grinning as her fingers skimmed his jaw, affectionate enough to confuse.

Then she leaned in, cupped his jaw, and embossed a gentle kiss to his cheek. Absolute mockery to his devastation. She didn’t pull back right away; her lips hovered near his ear, voice dropping a fraction.

“You said file,” she murmured, the piece clicking into place. “That means you’ve been digging.”

His grin didn’t twitch. “You gave me a fake name, stole from me, then disappeared. What wronged man wouldn’t?”

Of fucking course.

That name. The one she’d given him in a silk-wrapped lie, born over fine liquor and misdirection. Eve—first woman, first sin, first scam. She’d let him keep it mostly because it worked, fit her like one of his tailored suits: sharp, pricey, vaguely challenging.

But Harry Castillo wasn’t stupid. Two days were plenty of time for a man like him to trace her name, her past, even her blood type if he really wanted. She knew the kind of resources he had, which meant either he’d been telling the truth—he had been out of town—or he’d been playing a longer game. And if he was playing, she needed to know the rules.

When she pulled back just enough to study his face, his eyes held hers with an agonising grace.

“Mm,” she mused. “And what’d you find?”

“I’m not a man who gives away his sources.”

She bit her lip. “But you’ve read it.”

His hand flexed on the leathered console, as if he were cogitating some undecipherable truth in his wide palm. “Skimmed,” he admitted. “Certain... hidden highlights.”

That made her laugh. “Did it come with a caution label?”

“Countless,” he said mordantly. “In red, underlined.”

She giggled, a little proud. “Bet you liked that so much it got you hard.”

He looked at her for a long, unreadable second. “You made sure of that.”

She smirked. “So, what else do you know?”

He let his miles-deep eyes trace her as though he were approximating her against intel he had in his desk somewhere. Fact versus sensation. Biography versus influence.

Finally, he said, “Enough to want more.”

“Of me?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Of the truth,” he said simply.

The way he said it got her wavering, which was no easy feat from someone like him. There was no flirtation or ploy involved. Harry was... interested. Still playing the game—but this time, one she hadn’t mapped out entirely.

So she flashed him a smile—bright, effortless, razor-edged. “Good luck with that,” she said breezily. “I charge by the minute.”

Then that smirk ghosted onto his face again—annoyingly familiar, dangerously fond. “I could pick up the tab for the rest of your life, sweetheart.”

Fuck, she wasn't kidding when she said that made her wet to her toes.

She was thinking through it all now. About files, how much he knew, about why the idea of being read like a dossier made her feel more exposed than when she’d dropped her panties for him.

He knew enough to chase, not enough to catch. Until then, that was the only leverage she had left on him.

“Thanks for your time, Mr Castillo,” she added, and that was the sting, of course it was—a jab at the custom Hublot she’d stolen straight off his wrist mid-handjob. She’d pocketed his time, and now she was thanking him for it. Full circle.

She slid out of the car, the hem of her dress flirting with indecency, heels tapping against the pavement, ass bared to the breeze like the night had to feel her too, and the wind responded—chasing her like it wanted to finish what they’d started.

She didn’t look back until she was halfway across the lot, because you know, lesson learned: drama demands distance.

Then she turned—just her head.

Harry was standing outside the car now, one hand braced against the hood like he needed it to stay upright. His thumb stroked at his smirking lower lip like he was trying to remember what just happened—and whether he wanted it to happen again. Shirt collar askew, hair messy from her hands, sweat matted, chest heaving, ring back on his finger—

He looked like debauchery on pause. A wealthy man wondering if, possibly, he’d just met the devil and preferred it to all the angels that roamed.

She gave him a smug, little fingers-only wave. Fucking couture.

The exit mask mattered. The smoking, final walk away in heels someone else paid for, hips swinging like a metronome wound up on spite and superiority.

Another dumbass bites the dust.

You need to know that, at the end of the day, Eve didn’t just chew on any apple. She carved it into slices, served it on stolen silver, and made sure God was watching.

Her bittersweet punishment was history.

Because temptation lingered, smiling when it burned, knowing where you kept your heart vaulted, and it definitely never forgot who bit first.

© damneddamsy

scam ideas for part 3? I'm thinking of the club and a bigshot entrepreneur 👀

taglist 🫶 { @oolongreads (you are my one and only), @woodxtock (my baby girllll, my whole life), @divine-timings , @jodiswiftle (BAY-BEH!), @bensonispunk @brittmb115 , @for-a-longlongtime (honey, thank you so much for the rants), @pedritotito , @desuidesu , @bluelightwrites , @isa942572 , @mallingcalling-blog , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @itstokyo-cos , @holholliday , @i-workwithpens , @any-corrie , @yourallaround-simp , @directfromreynaldo , @tezooks , @yungsuesi-blog , @czessianna , @aleariixx , @noisynightmarepoetry , @th3mrskory , @monamedeiros12 , @oliveksmoked , @gothcsz , @itstheanxietyforme , @lowrisemiller } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you for your support! 🌻🦋

[softlibra31]

[softlibra31]

Hew-wee.

Honestly, I barely remember how to work Tumblr. I fear my posts will look like GARBAGE, but we'll see if I can get back into it.

I don't want to bore anyone with mindless chatter. Life has been landing haymakers for the past...two years? What is TIME. New job, a surgery, lost 95 pounds, a parent was diagnosed with cancer, same parent finished treatment, a wind storm tore our house up in August and we just got it renovated last week, endless cycles of clinical depressive episodes - honestly this year has been kind of a blur. But the whole time, I'm still hanging on to TLM. 🥹✊🏻

I don't want to make promises or give anyone some kind of timeline. I've broken so many of those to y'all and to myself. That being said, with the announcement of the movie, I'm feeling a renewed encouragement to keep going, and to make time for writing more routinely. With my dear loved one's help, we've been doing writing sprints (specific Mando related), and it has helped like you wouldn't believe!

For everyone who's sent me messages, comments, and even just positive vibes - thank you so, so much. I may not respond, but believe me when I say that I do read them all. I cherish every single one.

I hope you all have been able to find joy and comfort this holiday season, alone or with friends or family. I appreciate this space as a place of kindness and of happiness, and that's all because of how lovely you are. Thank you, always. 🩷

[softlibra31]

And I whisper to myself, I am safer alone.

Wasted, Marya Hornbacher / . / . / . / painting by Mladen Ilic / Paul Auster / Letters To Milena, Franz Kafka / Wide Sargasso Sea, Jean Rhys / The Departure Of The Train, Clarice Lispector / Beau Taplin

[softlibra31]

Never, not for one second, think it is a coincidence that israel commenced an invasion on Rafah on the day of a highly-televised, media-clogging, celebrity spectacle.

All eyes on Rafah.

[softlibra31]

btw with art when people say 'youve got to do it scared' 'youve got to draw bad' 'youre not gonna know how to do it until you do it' it sounds like bullshit but its true. 90% of art is just getting over the fear that it's not going to be good enough to deserve to be made in the first place. but you're here. you're alive and, with no need to justify that, you're going to make art. it's just part of being alive. you'll spend so long worrying you aren't doing it good enough that you'll look back and realized you didn't live a single day of it.

[softlibra31]

“All of a sudden two decades have passed and you still have not kissed anyone with tongue, or kissed anyone at all for that matter, or had a 3 AM conversation with someone who would rather look into your eyes for ten minutes straight than talk. You have never worn a lover’s sweater or “forgotten” it at home in your bedroom just so you would have an excuse to see them again. You have never even stood face-to-face with someone who makes your hands shake so hard it feels like they’re both having a separate anxiety attack. This causes you much guilt and self-blame and sadness but above all, an overwhelming curiosity. Are you really that ugly, that unwanted, that uninteresting, that boring, that no one, absolutely no one, has ever looked at you like the only thing on earth? The answer is no. The better answer is that someone out there, somewhere in the world, is “wondering what it’s like to meet someone like you,” and they have two decades worth of love stored in their veins like a shoot-‘em-up drug, and they’re just about ready to inject it into someone else’s bloodstream. All you have to do is roll up your sleeves and wait for it to happen. At times you felt so lonely you could stand at the edge of a cliff with nothing beneath you but air and grass and a long, long way down, and you’d still feel emptier than that canyon itself. Maybe you even danced with yourself alone in your room a few times, arms outstretched around a ghost, pretending someone else’s hands were on your waist, someone else’s eyes boring into yours. Or maybe you fell temporarily in love with strangers on public transportation, fell in love with anybody who so much as accidentally brushed your hand on the way past. For you, falling in love with dozens of people a day was a coping mechanism for not having anyone to love you in return. But people are not eggs and falling in love with a dozen of them does not mean your shell will remain uncracked. One day you’re going to hit the point where you’re so desperate for human contact that you’re going to snap in half and all your love will bleed out like egg yolk. But someone out there is eating a bowl of Ramen noodles right now, or putting on slippers, or settling into bed. They are doing all the normal things that you’ve done in your own life. They are just like you. They have cellulite and extra fat in all the wrong places and goals and fears and doubts and bad handwriting. The truth is that they are just like you, and being just like you, they’re looking for a lover too. They’re what you might call a soulmate. They think they’re all alone in feeling the way they do, but you’re really both two halves of a whole. And one day you’ll meet them, bump into them on the street, and your two halves will be put together, and you’ll make one.”

— Writings For Winter - For Twenty Year-Olds who have never been loved  (via beepboopboopbeep)

[softlibra31]

I’d like to participate in the match game!

My placements:

Sun in Leo 10h

Moon in Taurus 7h

Rising in Libra

Mercury in Leo 10h

Virgo Venus 12h

Mars in Leo 10h

Saturn in Gemini 9th

Jupiter in Cancer 10h

Thank you! :)

Libra Sun, Aquarius Rising or Capricorn Rising and Aries Moon or Scorpio Moon

[softlibra31]

keeping up with the kardashians (2007-2021) the last of us, s1e7, "left behind" (2023-)

[softlibra31]

I Only See Daylight

Chapter Seven

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader (AFAB)

Rating: E (eventually)

Chapter warnings/tags: injuries, stab wounds, mentions of paid sex, creepy guy but nothing creepy actually happens, protective!din, slow burn, bonding

Chapter Length: 7k

Previous Chapter | Series Masterlist | Full Masterlist

notes: happy thursday, friends, i hope you enjoy! longer chapter this week, and the next one is longer still :D

luck of the draw only draws the unlucky; so i became the butt of the joke

This is the second time you’ve waited at the ship while Mando completes a mission. 

You have officially decided that you don’t like it. 

Caring about someone, as it turns out, comes with a lot of worry; especially when you know that he’s out there doing something dangerous, and you have no idea how you can help. You don’t even know who he’s after, where he’s going. He doesn’t come back with people or bodies, so you know it’s not regular bounties that he’s getting. All he tells you is that there are people who are after the kid, loose ends from whatever journey they’ve been on, and that he has to make sure they never become a problem. 

He doesn’t tell you why people are after the kid, but it’s not hard to put two and two together, knowing what he’s capable of. People probably want him for those magical healing abilities. 

And, besides, you don’t feel you can ask Mando for all the information. He’s done enough for you already. And you don’t know if you could handle having him reject you, so you just don’t ask. 

But you are an over-thinker. Always have been. So when he’s out on these missions, and you wait at the ship with Grogu, the horrifying images that your mind so helpfully conjures when he’s out for just a little too long plague you until your heart races and you almost descend into full blown panic. Two things stop you from going that far:

One, the kid. You have to make sure he feels safe. Mando is trusting you with him, and the weight of that trust isn’t lost on you.

Two, embarrassment. You’ve barely known the guy four weeks. It doesn’t make sense for you to be this invested. 

The sun will soon be setting on Coruscant. Mando said he’d be back before day’s end. To distract yourself, you sit in the cockpit with the kid, gazing out at the city in front of you. 

You always dreamed of seeing this place. It’s even busier than you could have ever imagined. In the daylight, it looks like trillions of little ants are whizzing through the sky in traffic lanes, and the buildings and streets are crawling with people, the walls all the same shade of light beige. It’s hectic, but pretty amazing to see. You’re grateful, though, to be safe in the ship. There are too many people out there. And if anywhere has people that will recognise you—it’s Coruscant. 

As the day turns to dusk, the kid falls asleep in your arms, and you sit in the pilot’s chair, willing Mando to appear through the crowds at the docks or the streets beyond. He’s easy to spot, even amongst this unique type of chaos. 

You find a new distraction: looking for lights as they turn on in each building. There are so many, and just when you think that there can’t be any more, another twinkle will appear in a tiny window or along a street edge. It’s turning into quite the pretty picture, all the lights zooming in the sky from people’s speeders, the tall buildings and the short blending together to make something enchanting. The people start to disappear in the darkness; from the comfortable quiet of the cockpit, you could let yourself imagine that there’s no chaos out there at all. 

You’re getting worried now, though. Your bottom lip is starting to hurt from chewing it. The kid is still fast asleep in your arms, which is probably a good thing, because you’re not sure you can hide your anxiety anymore. 

Mando said he’d be back hours ago. You don’t even know where he went. You couldn’t report him as missing even if you did. 

Kriff. Kriff, kriff, kriff.

What if he doesn’t come back? What if he’s dead, or been captured? What if you and the kid are stuck here forever, and are never going to see him again, the shiny beskar and his gloved hands; what if you never hear his voice again? One of his rare, lovely laughs? What if—

The hiss of the boarding ramp lowering has you shooting out of the chair so quickly that you’re surprised it doesn’t wake the kid. You rush through to the living quarters, manage to fumble down the ladder with Grogu in one arm, not having it in you to be embarrassed by how urgent you must look.

When your feet land on the deck, you turn around, and there he is. 

The door hisses shut behind him and you hear the click as it locks.

He’s leaning against the wall with all his weight. One hand is lifted to grasp at his ribs, and it takes your anxiety-ridden brain a minute to catch up on the fact that it’s not shadows on his gloves—it’s blood.

“Mando!” You say, just a little too loudly. The kid doesn’t stir, so you gently place him in his hammock, and close the door to the bed quarters before rushing over to Mando. 

“I’m alright,” he says, but he sounds strained. His right pouldron is pressed into the wall, blood staining his hand where it holds the rib underneath. 

You rush to him, your hands flailing about a bit, not sure where to put them, or if you should put them anywhere— “Sit down,” you instruct, helping him over to the nearest crate. He limps, grunting softly in pain as he sits down. “What happened? Where’s your med kit?” 

He gestures to the locker behind you, right beneath the ladder. You’re there and back in a flash, kneeling down in front of him and tearing open the medpack. “The guy had friends,” Mando says, like that’s an explanation. 

“They shot you?” 

“Knife. To the ribs.” 

“Kriffing hells,” you shuffle closer, trying to inspect the wound. He’s still holding it with his gloved hand, the light brown leather completely covered now in dark red blood. Your hands hover above him. “Can I…?” 

He nods, and pulls his hand away. 

Fuck. It’s a five inch long gash, an inch across. Seeping fresh blood, dripping down the small piece of skin that you can see where the flight suit has been slashed. Reaching into the med pack, you pull out some gauze, and immediately press it into the wound, applying as much pressure as you can. It must hurt like fuck, but all he shows of it is a soft grunt, tilting his head away from you like he’s embarrassed of it.

“How much does it hurt?” 

“I’ve had worse,” he says. “It’s just a scratch.” 

“Mando, it’s going to need sutured,” you correct him, slightly incredulous. Your wrists start to ache from the pressure you’re holding, but you don’t care. It doesn’t matter. His blood is on your hands, getting under your fingernails. All that matters is stopping it. 

“Dank farrik,” he curses, clenching his blood-covered fist in his lap. 

“Did you get the guy?” You ask, shifting a little in your place to get a better angle. “He’s not, like, coming after you, is he?” 

“No. He and his friends are dealt with.” 

“Good,” you breathe out in relief, and turn back to your task. Your fingertips are brushing against his skin. It’s a damn shame you can’t appreciate that. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he says after a minute more of direct pressure. His voice still sounds strained, like he’s trying his hardest to keep the pain from it. 

You scoff. “Yes, I do. You can’t suture this wound yourself where it is.” 

“You know how to suture?” 

“I do,” carefully, you pull away the gauze, relief flooding through you when you see that the worst of the bleeding has stopped. Throwing the bloody fabric to the ground, you reach for the cleaning alcohol in the medpack, and cover more bandages in it. “Sorry, but this is going to hurt,” you apologise, looking up to his visor, waiting for his approval. “I don’t trust that they didn’t use a dirty blade.” 

Resigned, he nods, and gestures with his red glove for you to continue. 

Cringing, you press the soaked gauze to the wound. A hiss comes from his helmet, his chest tensing like he’s holding his breath. You feel his muscles flexing, holding taut against the pain. 

Then, you prepare the sutures. It’s been a while since you’ve done this. The last time was when you first escaped, and you cut your arm on some barbed wire on your way out of the house. Once you were safely on the shuttle, you sat and sutured with one hand, tying the knot with your mouth. 

Mando’s breathing is laboured as he slouches weakly on the crate. He holds open the hole in the fabric, allowing you the best access he can. 

“Sorry,” you soothe when the needle goes through a particularly sore bit. “Almost done, I promise.” 

He nods in your peripheral vision. 

Once he’s sewn up, you grab a bacta patch and stick it over the wound. Then, resisting the urge to run your fingertip around the edges of it, you gently remove his hand from its hold on the flight suit’s tear, and flatten down the fabric as best you can. 

He sighs, relieved that it’s over. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Of course. I’m just sorry you got hurt.” 

“Not your fault,” he grunts as he pushes off the crate so he’s sitting up more, instinctively bringing his hand up to hold at the wound. “I’m sorry it took me longer than I said.”

You nod, remembering how worried you were. (Maybe you were right to be.) “Complications,” you say, smiling a little, shrugging a shoulder. 

“They seem to like me,” he quips. 

You laugh, too, just relieved that he’s back, he’s safe, he’s not bleeding out.

“Where’s Grogu?” 

“He’s asleep. Fell asleep in my arms a while back. I put him in his hammock when you came in.” 

Mando nods. He’s looking at you, intent. You find the courage to hold his gaze. 

Then, it hits you what just happened. Arguably the least important part of what just happened, but that’s probably why it’s only coming up now—you just touched his skin. 

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Your eyes shift from his visor to his ribs, to where your fingers just were, ghosting over his skin without a second thought, without a moment to appreciate it. He was so warm. Your fingertips can still feel him. Like they never moved away. 

As if catching you staring, Mando shifts. He doesn’t look away from you, doesn’t try to get you to look away from him. 

“I was worried about you,” you confess into the quiet, still staring at his ribs. “You said you’d be back before sundown.” 

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called you on the commlink to let you know.”

You shake your head, “No, I understand. You were busy…” 

“No,” he sits up just a little closer, barely grunting in pain this time. “No, I should’ve let you know. It wasn’t fair to let you worry.” 

Wide-eyed under his gaze, you stare up into his visor, feeling your tongue dart out to wet your bottom lip. Distantly, you wish that it was him doing it. His tongue, his mouth, his lips. You just felt his skin. His bare skin. And you didn’t even think that was something that he was allowed… “I’m sorry if I overstepped. You know, touching you. If that’s against your Creed.…”

He’s still for a moment, but then he shakes his head. “It’s not.” 

“So…you’re allowed to show your skin, just not your face?” 

The familiar quirk of his helmet. “By Creed, it's not ideal, but when needed, yes. But just by my own rules…depends who I’m with.” 

You swallow, mouth suddenly dry. “With me…?” 

“I suppose I’m alright with it,” his voice is curved with a smirk. “If I must.”

You try to laugh, because it is funny, and you love it when he jokes with you, when he teases. But the self-doubt in you creeps in, weaving its way around the springing hope in your chest that maybe he’d be okay with showing you more skin someday. 

“You’d tell me if I overstepped,” you say, searching, “wouldn’t you?” 

As if sensing your sudden nervousness, his helmet looks straight at you again, and he leans in closer, hovering just in front of you. If it wasn’t for the beskar, you’d be able to feel his breath. “I would,” he says lowly. “You’d tell me if I did, too?” 

Wordless, you nod.

And then, something happens. 

Something so fleeting, so brief, that you could have imagined it. 

He reaches out with his non-bloodied hand, and brushes his fingers over your temple, pushing back a piece of hair. 

Then, it’s gone. Like it never even happened. 

But he’s still there. His face, so close to yours. If you could, you’d look at his lips. 

You swallow again, heavy, and you could swear that his visor twitches down, like he’s watching the movement in your throat. Kriff. You must be imagining things. There’s no way. 

“Are you hungry?” 

You’re startled to hear his voice, though it’s not unwelcome. “Yes,” you answer. “Always.” 

A breathy chuckle comes through his helmet. He stands up with his hand back on his ribs, and you hear the change in his breath, the hitch in it as he tenses his muscles to try and hide his discomfort. “I’ll make you something,” he says. “I was going to take you to a restaurant tonight, give you something other than my shitty cooking. But after the scene I caused, we should probably move on.” 

You nod in response, but it takes a minute for his words to actually catch up to you.

I was going to take you to a restaurant.

“Surely there are other restaurants on this planet,” you feign confidence, following him towards the ladder. 

“So you do want a break from my cooking?” 

“Absolutely. It’s horrible, being cooked for every night. Just really unpleasant.” 

A chuckle, a shake of his helmet.

You grin at the back of his head.

“I’ll take you to a restaurant one day,” he promises, and starts to haul himself up the ladder, his arms clearly struggling against the strain of his injury. “Promise.” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” you say, and that’s a promise, too.

-

There were a few places you saw in a book in Nevarro’s library that caught your eye. Some for good reasons, some for bad. 

One of the ones you definitely wanted to steer clear of was Canto Bight. 

But, apparently, that’s exactly where Mando needs to go for his next target. 

Which, given the pressing circumstances, you’re all for. Surprisingly. It’s Mando who isn’t. 

“This is one of the people after the kid, right?” You ask, staring at the holomap of the planet that floats on the cockpit’s panel. 

“Yes,” Mando says. “But if he sees me coming, he’ll either start a firefight, or flee. We can’t have that kind of heat at a casino.” 

“Isn’t there a time when he won’t be at the casino?”

“Doubtful.” 

“But he’s a bounty hunter, right? Can you not get him while he’s out hunting?” 

“I could. But he goes off the grid when he’s working. The only place we know he’ll always come back to is the Bight casinos.” 

You frown, chewing your bottom lip in thought. “I guess you going undercover isn’t an option,” you say. 

He shakes his head. 

Grogu is sitting in the copilot chair, playing with his favourite little silver ball. He loves that thing. He’s cooing to himself, probably coming up with some imaginative use for it. 

It’s still horrifying to you that there are people after him. 

A thought comes to your mind; one that, at first, you don’t know how it got there. It’s silly. It’s dangerous. You have absolutely no experience with this kind of thing, have only ever been to four places in your entire life, and all that time was spent either trying to survive your family or trying to survive being alone. 

So offering to go undercover for Mando is definitely not a good idea.

But the kid. 

He looks at you like he knows what you’re thinking—maybe he actually does, kriff—and his eyes are so big, so innocent, his ears tilting as he seems to listen to your very thoughts. He’s an innocent little creature. Mischievous and troublesome as hell, sure, but he’s not got a bad bone in his body. How could he, with someone like Mando raising him? 

After everything the two of them have done for you, this is only right. 

Crazy. 

But right.

They are your friends. For that, and for the same reason you helped Mando in the first place, you have to protect them. 

“I could help,” you say into the thoughtful quiet. 

Mando turns his head to you. “How?” 

“I could…go in there.” 

“Undercover?” 

“…Yeah. You know, lure him somewhere private. You could wait for me to bring him to you.” 

Mando is silent for a long minute. Then, he turns away. “No.” 

“What? Why?” 

“I won’t put you at risk.” 

“You’re not. I’m the one volunteering.” 

“No.” 

“Mando,” you sit forward in your chair just a little, and look down at the kid, only feeling your resolve grow stronger the more you see him. “You’re injured, and you can’t go into the casino without alarm bells going off. From what I see, the guy loves a lady by his side. I could be that lady for the night. Lure him somewhere quiet, where you’ll be waiting to take him out. I can be pretty persuasive…” 

“No.” 

“Come on!” You exclaim. “I’d be safe, with you looking out for me.” 

“It’s not necessary. I’ll find another way.” 

“You just said the only place you know he’ll be is at the casino. He won’t expect you to attack him there. It makes sense to do it like this.” 

“I work alone.” 

You raise an eyebrow, feeling challenged all of a sudden, like maybe he doesn’t trust you to do this. And you don’t know why you’re fighting so hard to put yourself in a situation like that; to literally become an accessory to a murder. 

Actually, no, you do know why. Because Grogu is at stake here. There are people after him, and Mando is doing his best to make sure he stays safe, but if you can help then why shouldn’t you? (And, maybe it’s also because you want to prove that you can. To Din, and to yourself.)

Besides. It’ll be better than sitting in this ship, worrying that Mando is dead.

“You might work alone,” you say, “but it’s alright to accept help for once.” 

“You’re fighting awful hard for something dangerous.” 

“I’m fighting awful hard for him,” you say, not even needing to gesture to Grogu, because you know that Mando will know who you mean. “I know you are, too. And after everything you guys have done for me, please, I want to help. I promise I’m not a liability; I can handle high pressure situations.”

Mando is still. Quiet. 

“And, hey, if it all goes wrong, at least you won’t have to worry about carting me around everywhere anymore.” 

The helmet whips around to look at you, followed by his entire chair turning towards you. “You’re not cargo,” he says, sounding genuinely frustrated, a bite to his voice that you’ve never heard before. “I’m not trying to get rid of you at the first chance I get; it wouldn’t be a good thing for something to happen to you.” 

A smile twitches at your lips. You’ll admit; the joke was a thinly-veiled attempt to get some validation that he does, in fact, want you around. “Mando,” you say, softening your tone, “please, let me help you; let me help him. He’s…he’s special. We can’t let anything happen to him.”

He’s quiet again, though this time it’s less like he’s stewing and more like he’s processing your words. His hands are spread out on his armoured thighs, fingers splayed across the beskar. You’re so determined to do this that you don’t even let his—quite frankly indecent—pose distract you for once. 

He sighs just a little. His hands slide up and down the beskar plates. “And if he’s not interested in being distracted?” 

“I’ll find another way. Lure him with some spice, or something.”

“Because you have plenty of that to go around,” he deadpans. His head is tilted to the side a little, challenging. Goddammit, now you are distracted by him. Because he’s sitting there, legs spread wide with his hands pressed against his thick thighs, leaning back against the pilot’s chair with his chest just right there on full display, inviting, head tilted like he’s challenging you. It’s moments like these that you thank the Maker he’s covered in armour. Because if you could see even a slight hint at the fact there’s flesh and muscle under there, you might just fall apart at the seams. Starting with between the legs. 

Now is not the time.

“I don’t want to use you as bait,” he protests, softer now, almost…scared? “You deserve better than that.” 

A sad smile finds its way onto your mouth. You know he means it, but you don’t agree. “I’ve been used as worse,” you confess, quiet, not quite aware of what you’ve said before it’s too late.

Tension attaches itself to his shoulders, his fingers clenching on cool metal. “What?” 

“Nothing. Nothing. I just meant—it’s alright. I’ll know that I’m safe, because you’ll be nearby.” 

He pauses, then sighs. “Are you sure about this?” 

“Yes,” you say. Then, reaching across to rub your finger on Grogu’s nose, “It’s for him. We have to keep him safe. If we know of someone who wants to hurt him, we have to stop them.” 

He doesn’t move a muscle, but something in the air around him shifts. It’s too subtle to put a finger on it. And you can’t read his face. 

“Thank you,” he says. “For doing this.” 

You look back to the kid. Find yourself smiling. “He’s worth it,” you say, and mean it.

When Mando speaks, his voice sounds different, almost choked. “He is.” 

-

There’s a reason you didn’t want to come to this place.

It’s loud, bright, and far too fucking busy. 

The air stinks of liquor and spice, loud with the shrill sounds of various gambling games, cheers of celebration and yells of defeat. You truly never understood the thrill of gambling. Perhaps it’s because your whole life felt like a gamble up until you left.

The guy Mando’s after is easy to find. He’s standing at the head of the roulette table, but every five minutes he walks off with a different woman from every species you can think of; then he comes back after a half hour with lipstick on his face and neck and redness in his cheeks, looking very proud of himself. The women who he left with never look quite as satisfied upon their return, though; just disappointed. Which is unsurprising, given his clear bravado that is based on nothing but the fact he’s wearing expensive clothes and jewellery. You’ve met men like him before. Cocky, totally unaware of other people, just after the next place he can find a bit of a high before moving on to the next one. 

You were engaged to be married to someone like that.

The thought makes you shudder as you stand at the roulette table, and you force the memory away as he places another bet. The line of women around the table is getting shorter, and you realise why there are so many of them when you see him slip credits into the pockets of each one before he walks away with them. Looks like he pays them a pretty penny, too. In your head, you think, Good for them.

Just not good for him. Not for long.

Turns out, distracting him is easy. Mando has had eyes on the place the entire evening, and the only thing stopping you from completely losing your mind in the loudness has been his voice in your ear the whole time. He’s tracking where the target is taking the women, and tells you once you’re attached to his shoulder that he’s waiting in the bathroom for your moment alone. 

The target slips some credits into your pocket, and you give him a sultry smile, taking a hold of his tie and pulling him back towards the bathroom. (The bathroom? Really? Classy.) 

“If he touches you…” Mando’s voice comes through your ear, low and threatening. 

“We’re on our way,” you say in a sing-song voice, pretending you’re saying it to the target, walking backwards and keeping your eyes locked on his the entire time. His pupils are blown wide, the whites of his eyes bloodshot. His hands snake over your waist, cold and clammy on the red sequin dress you’re wearing. He bites his blue lips, looks you up and down like you’re a prize.

“They’re bringing all the best ladies in here tonight…” he leers down at you. 

As you cross the threshold into the bathroom, you kick the door closed behind him, giving him a teasing giggle as you pull at the lapels of his suit jacket. His hands slide around to the small of your back and jerk you in closer to him. 

Mando is behind the privacy screen in the corner of the room. You know because he told you two minutes ago when he arrived.

“This place is filthy,” he’d said in your ear, “he could at least clean up between visits.” 

“Come on, pretty lady,” the target grins lopsidedly at you, and one of his cold hands slides up your ribs, caressing your face. You pull him backwards towards the screen, needing to get him close enough for Mando to push the blaster to his skull. “Teasin’ me, huh? Oh, I like when they do that…” 

The click of a blaster's safety switch, then the shine of it in your peripheral vision. Its barrel presses against the target’s forehead as his eyes turn from lustful to alert, widening as his hands instinctively fly up into the air in surrender. 

Mando steps out from behind the screen. You step back, letting him stand in front of the target where you once were. Now, you stand behind the wall of beskar.

The target’s face straightens in recognition. “Mando,” he says. “Funny seeing you here. Never took you as the type to have a partner.”

A partner. 

The helmet tilts towards you just a little. “Are you okay?” He asks. 

You look at him, surprised. You didn’t expect to be on the list of priorities. “I’m good.”

He looks back to the target, the barrel of his blaster still pressed to the centre of his forehead. “You know why I’m here,” Mando says. He holds out his hand, palm facing the ceiling. “Give me the tracking fob.” 

The guy laughs, high-pitched and trying not to sound like he’s nervous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mando.” 

“The fob. Give it to me.” 

“I don’t have it.” 

“Where is it?” 

Instead of answering Mando’s question, the man’s eyes float over his shoulder and back to you. His pupils go wide again, and he licks his thin bottom lip, then pulls it between his teeth. “Maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement,” he says with a leer at you and a dreadfully-executed wink. “With your…partner.” 

Mando shoves the blaster against his head, forcing him to stumble back a few feet. Mando follows him, keeping the barrel pressed in the same place, “I have a blaster to your head, and you think you’re in a position to make agreements? Look at me.” 

He doesn’t. 

“Look at me,” Mando says again, his tone lowering in pitch.

The man is still looking at you. You’ve never seen this kind of brazen audacity before. The man literally has his death pressed to the centre of his forehead, the Mandalorian in control of whether he lives or dies telling him to not look at you, and yet he’s just grinning across Mando’s shoulder. The look he gives you is sickening and, though you hadn’t minded his hands on you when you knew you were going to escape any second, now it’s like you can still feel them clutching at you and you wish you never had. 

“Last chance,” Mando warns. “Look at me. Not at her. Or I will make you regret it.” 

The man laughs. 

And then, it all happens very quickly. 

Mando doesn’t fire the blaster.

Instead, he tackles the guy into the wall, so rough and sudden that it makes you jump backwards. The guy yelps in surprise, Mando’s forearm now pressed against his neck. Mando shoves his knee up into the guys groin, and he groans in response, eyes squeezing shut. 

“Where,” Mando growls, “is the tracking fob?” 

Winded, the guy pants for a second. Surely, you think, he’s going to tell him now. It would be crazy not to. 

Except, this guy is crazy. Not only is he crazy, but he thinks nothing can touch him. 

So he looks at you again. This time, his hand moves at his side. 

You only see him reaching for a knife when it’s already too late. He throws it across the room at you, flicking it so quickly and expertly that it happens in a blur, and before you know it there’s a searing pain in your shoulder blade as you distantly hear the sound of metal piercing your flesh. 

“Ah!” You cry out and stumble backwards. 

Hearing your shout, Mando turns to look at you, and in his moment of distraction the target takes the opportunity to use the hand that threw the knife to punch Mando in the side, unknowingly hitting the wound on his ribs. 

Mando stumbles backwards. 

There’s a knife sticking out of your shoulder, and the man isn’t running away when he has the chance. 

Unbelievably, ridiculously, he starts towards you. 

Before he can even take two steps, the sound of a blaster echoes through the room. His face goes blank, a fresh, still burning-orange circle shot right through his forehead. 

He falls to the ground like a piece of card blown by the wind, and you only just manage to scramble backwards to stop him landing on you. 

A bounty tracking fob falls from a hidden jacket pocket.

Mando is by your side in an instant, holstering his blaster. His gloved hands hover over your shoulder, which currently doesn’t even really hurt, the adrenaline carrying you through it. “Hey, did he hurt you anywhere else? How bad are you bleeding?” He checks the back of your shoulder, making sure the blade didn’t go all the way through. It didn’t, thank the Maker. 

“I’m—I’m okay,” you stammer weakly, one hand clutching the skin around your wound. 

“The knife is keeping in the blood,” he says, “but we’ll need to remove it. I’m going to look for some med supplies—”

As he turns to stand up, you reach out your good arm and take a quick hold of his hand, pulling him back. “Not here,” you request, beg, “please, not here. Not in front of his…his body. Take me back to the ship.” 

“Cyar’ika…” 

You don’t have time to question the nickname right now, “Please, Mando, I can’t—I can’t. Get me out of here, please.” 

He only hesitates for a second before he’s nodding and reaching down to help you up. Pain sears through your shoulder as you stand, your arm not stable enough to stop from jolting the wound. 

Thankfully, it’s so busy in this place that no one notices the two of you stumbling from the bathrooms. Once you’re clear of that area, Mando leads you down back corridors and rooms, and you try to contain your pained whimpers as each step jolts the blade in your flesh. 

“It’s alright, it’s okay, we’re almost there,” he shushes you all the way, keeping you close by him, almost flinching every time someone dares come near the two of you.

It doesn’t take long to get back to the ship. He docked somewhere secluded, paid for a security-protected landing pad and a child-minder to watch the kid.

A child-minder who looks very alarmed when the ship door hisses open and in the two of you stumble, blood slowly seeping from your shoulder and down your arm. 

Mando dismisses them, tells them to leave. 

Once the ship is locked down again, he gently lowers you onto one of the crates—the same one he sat on when he was injured, funnily enough—and rushes for a medpack. “I’m sorry, Cyar’ika, I have to take the knife out,” he says, tone so thick with apology that it almost renders you breathless. 

Well, more breathless than you already are. 

The adrenaline is starting to wear off now, pain getting more and more intense. It throbs, deep and extending far over your chest and arm. 

He takes hold of your good hand, and lifts it onto his shoulder. Not the pouldron; the soft bit between the beskar and his helmet, where only his flight suit separates you from his skin. Tilting his head to meet your glazed eyes, he says, “Just look right at me. Squeeze as hard as you need to,” he pats your hand, then moves away from it, “and look at me. Right at me, okay?” 

Bracing yourself as he grasps the knife’s handle, you nod, staring into his visor with wide eyes. More than ever before, you wish you could see his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you think he’s apologising for the pain, but then, “I’m sorry you can’t look right in my eyes, Cyar’ika, I truly am…” 

You realise you’d said it out loud.

Beneath the pain of your shoulder comes guilt in your stomach, for putting your selfish wishes on him. 

He doesn’t pay it any more mind though, “But I’m here, and you’re going to be okay. I promise. Just look at me. Ready?” 

You nod. 

He pulls, and, kriff, nothing could have prepared you for the pain. 

Without Mando’s soft hands and words of comfort, you’re not sure you could’ve handled much more of that.

But now you’re okay. 

The wound has been fully dealt with: cleaned, sewn up, treated with bacta, and wrapped with a big bandage all the way around your shoulder and the top of your arm. It works mostly to reduce your arm’s mobility, so it doesn’t jolt the wound. 

You feel bruised, and tired. But the kid’s here, fast asleep in his hammock behind the bedroom door. You’ve got the tracking fob. The guy who did this to you is dead. 

You’re okay. 

Mando, on the other hand, doesn’t seem okay right now. 

His calmness in the face of the crisis has worn off, and now he’s pacing back and forth, one hand on his hip as his head shakes over and over. 

“Mando…” you say softly, trying to sit up better on the crate, “what’s wrong?” 

He almost laughs. It’s a bitter and breathy sound, and you don’t like it. “What’s wrong?” He repeats. “I know I don’t have to explain that to you.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“I knew this would happen,” he mutters, almost like he’s just saying it to himself. “I knew you could get hurt. This was why I didn’t want your help, I knew you’d be in danger, I shouldn’t have let you…” his voice is deep, filled with bitterness and scolding, though only for himself. 

“I’m alright, Mando,” you say. “It’s alright. Just take a breath.” 

“A breath?” He whips around to face you, stopping in his tracks. “Look at you—you’re hurt! It could’ve been so much worse, I let you in there with that—that shabuir—”

“I knew the risks,” you say, shifting uncomfortably. 

“So did I, and I let you do it anyway. Maker, I knew this was a bad idea, I knew it!” 

Definitely too quickly in your current state, you stand up, coming closer to him than you’d intended. “I knew the risks,” you say again firmly, “I knew. You didn’t let me do anything. I insisted on doing this, because I wanted to help. And if I had to do it again, and have it happen the exact same way? I would.” 

Somehow, his incredulousness seeps through his body language, his expressionless face. “I shouldn’t have let this happen,” he argues, raising his voice now, “I knew I’d put you in danger, I should’ve just done the job myself, waited for him to come out of hiding—”

It could be the pain in your shoulder, the dull ache that’s spreading through your entire body, you’re not sure; but there are tears welling in your eyes, stinging in your nose. “Are you angry with yourself,” you start, “or me?” 

“I don’t—I don’t know.” 

You take a step back, hurt. “We did the mission, didn’t we?” You ask tearily. “We got the fob, the kid’s safe. I’m fine, Mando, I’ll heal…” 

“You’re hurt, Cyar’ika! I promised you my protection!” 

Frustrated, and fucking exhausted, you throw your hands out to the side in exasperation. You’re going round in circles. “Mando, I don’t know what you want me to say! What’s done is done, it’s over, and I’m going to be okay!” 

“That’s—that’s not the point…” 

You take a step closer again. “Then what is the point? Because all this yelling at me is going to achieve absolutely nothing—”

“I’m not yelling at you!” 

“It seems like you are!” 

“I’m not!” 

Anger is starting to stir in your own veins now, making the pain in your shoulder even more intense, throbbing faster as your heart rate increases. You don’t need this right now, it’s actually the last fucking thing you need—“Well, then stop yelling in front of me! Go yell at yourself somewhere else, and let me fucking rest. I’m in pain, Mando, and I can’t deal with whatever this—” you gesture vaguely to his form, “—is right now!” 

Something in him deflates. 

His shoulders slump just slightly, and one of his feet steps backwards, like he’d lost his balance for a second. Honestly, he looks a bit like someone just slapped him back into sense. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, so quiet compared to a moment ago, “Shit, I’m sorry, Cyar’ika, I shouldn’t have raised my voice…” 

If you could, you’d fold your arms over your chest. “No. You shouldn’t.” You say, firm. 

He holds out one of his hands, almost like a gesture of pleading, or reasoning. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m sorry.” 

You stare at him for a long moment. His hand is still extended, and you wonder if maybe he wants you to take it. Surprisingly, you’re not sure if you want to. Which is alien in itself, because when have you not wanted Mando to ask you to hold his hand? 

But right now, you’re upset. You get that Mando is too, that he’s shaken after what happened. Later, you’ll feel honoured that he’s gotten this worked up over you getting hurt. (You’ve never even heard him raise his voice before.) But right now, getting yelled at was not what you needed, and you’re fucking tired. 

“What does it mean?” You ask. Quiet. Not looking at him. 

“What?” 

“That thing you call me,” you reply. “Don’t tell me it’s been an insult all this time and you just called me it when you were apologising.” A wry, tired smirk tilts your lips. 

He shakes his head. You’re not sure what this particular head shake means, so you just watch, and wait. Refusing to leave this spot until he tells you the damn truth. 

“Just tell me, Mando. You owe me it now.”

A sigh comes through his helmet. His shoulders slump with it. He looks away, hanging his head as though he’s…ashamed? Embarrassed? “Sweetheart,” he breathes. The word comes so quietly, so tentatively, that you’re not sure he even said it at all.

You raise an eyebrow. “What?” 

“It means ‘sweetheart’.” He says again, though this time he looks at you, the dark visor meeting your eyes.

Oh. 

Oh. 

A new feeling in your chest, then. Something light, bright. You straighten your posture, suddenly wide-eyed and lost for words. The air in the room shifts in an instant, from tense and fraught to tender, intimate. 

He called me sweetheart. 

You’re saved from having to say something when the bed chamber door hisses open. Standing there, right at the foot of Mando’s bed, is Grogu. His eyes are wide and filled with tears, ears tilted all the way down to the ground. 

“Kriff,” Mando curses, heading over to him. “He probably heard that whole thing.” 

Maybe if he hadn’t just told you that he’s been calling you sweetheart all this time, you’d say something like, “And who’s fault is that?” 

But, right now, you can’t even form a word, let alone a sentence. And you don’t want to give him attitude or snark. In fact, you don’t know what you want to give him. (Well, that’s not entirely true…) Since he just gave you the truth, even though it meant admitting something like that. Or, at least, it felt like he admitted something. 

Sweetheart. 

Immediately, your brain rationalises it. 

He probably calls everyone that. 

(You know that that’s objectively not true.) 

It’s probably just a slip of the tongue. 

(He doesn’t do those. Every word out of his mouth is purposeful.) 

It was probably just to calm me down. 

(You didn’t even know what it meant until you forced it out of him.) 

No, there’s no explaining this any other way. Either he’s being cruel by calling you something so soft and not meaning it, or he has something like the same feelings you do. 

And he is not a cruel man. 

Mando'a translation: Shabuir - extreme insult, "jerk" but much stronger.

Notes: ahhh i hope you enjoyed!! as always i appreciate any interaction but reblogs help so much with my engagement and comments/thoughts/streams of consciousnesses make my lil heart happy :) next chapter is a long one so buckle up for that one. see you monday :)

take care of yourself!

taglist: @toobsessedsstuff @granillx @keepingitlokiii @shoe1412 @kiruoris @quentinor @yourunstablegf @moonknight-s-cumdump @senassn @samanthacookieone @local-fanfic-addict @your-slutty-gf @brilliantopposite187 @whenpugzfly @elsasshole @moony-toasts @julesjewelss36 @jbcalway @mxlsmith @indec1sive @lordhavemurthy @booktvmoviefangirl

[softlibra31]

please reblog i wanna see something. also say if you would survive just cuz XD

[softlibra31]

OMG look at them!

[softlibra31]

I Only See Daylight - Masterlist

-title from “daylight” by taylor swift, the soundtrack to this fic-

want to be on the taglist? let me know!

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader (AFAB)

Series Info: Ongoing, set after The Mandalorian season 2/The Book of Boba Fett.

Summary: You’ve stayed in one place all this time, knowing that any move to leave could lead Them to find you.

But despite your desperate need to stay alone, to stay safe, when a Mandalorian and his child crash land in your middle-of-nowhere home needing help, you can’t turn them down. Not even when they offer to take you to see the Galaxy, no matter how dangerous it may be.

Tags/Warnings: slow burn, eventual smut, post-canon, trauma, past emotional/physical abuse, religious trauma, cults, scars, negative self-image, din working out his shit, reader working out her shit, found family, injury, heavy angst but also lots of fluff and love

Notes: each chapter will have individual warnings/tags. this is slow burn, will probably end up being around 80-90k words. expect fluff, smut, angst, and appearances from mando’s friends :)

Chapter One

[softlibra31]

i hate doing this. i hate typing this. i don't like asking for help, it makes me want to vomit. but i've been out of work since the end of November and i'm trying to keep hope that one of these hundreds of job applications i've put out will result in an interview and an offer but i'm really losing hope.

they gave me a severance just enough to cover a couple of months of rent and i finally was able to file for unemployment after waiting for the state to fix something all this time but with my insurance having lapsed, i have been hit with a $400 medical bill on top of my existing $600 bill. if i don't pay something by February 5, they'll refuse to prescribe the medicine that allows me to function until i do and i'll have to start the whole process of adjusting and evening out on it again. this doesn't really feel like an option as i am only just now starting to feel normal after i was threatened with involuntary hospitalization and COVID.

anyway, i do have a Ko-Fi but if you would prefer to send through PayPal or Venmo, pls message me privately for that information as those usernames are my full government name.

[softlibra31]

pedro pascal stans post a picture and be like “sugar daddy🥵 dilf 🥵dom😫 spit in my mouth🥺 punch me in the stomach 🥵yes sir im your whore🥵” and its a picture of a man who looks like he would make it to the quarter finals of the great british bakeoff and then lose. 

[softlibra31]

just as i suspected…i wanna fuck that old man