#Courses in Innovation and Design Thinking

[sceletaflores]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called. 

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city. 

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop. 

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse. 

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either. 

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else. 

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around. 

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams. 

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation. 

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out. 

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” 

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one��s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete. 

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company. 

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist. 

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font. 

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.” 

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm. 

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be. 

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly. 

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front. 

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”  

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating. 

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together. 

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch. 

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted. 

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening. 

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him. 

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones. 

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them. 

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters. 

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after. 

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You give him your hand.

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words wash over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart. 

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming. 

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation. 

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is. 

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender. 

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist. 

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs. 

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent. 

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough. 

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light. 

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace. 

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead. 

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

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State-of-the-Art Infrastructure: SCOE is equipped with modern laboratories, computer centers, and research facilities, providing students with the tools they need to gain practical experience. The institution’s infrastructure fosters innovation, helping students work on cutting-edge projects and ideas during their B.Tech in Computer Science and Engineering.

Practical Exposure: One of the key benefits of studying at SCOE is the emphasis on practical learning. Students participate in hands-on projects, internships, and industry visits, giving them real-world exposure to how technology is applied in various sectors.

Placement Support: SCOE has a dedicated placement cell that works tirelessly to ensure students secure internships and job offers from top companies. The B.Tech in Computer Science and Engineering program boasts a strong placement record, with top tech companies visiting the campus every year. The highest on-campus placement offer for the academic year 2022-23 was an impressive 22 LPA from Goldman Sachs, reflecting the college’s commitment to student success.

Personal Growth: Beyond academics, SCOE encourages students to participate in extracurricular activities, coding competitions, and tech fests. These activities enhance their learning experience, promote teamwork, and help students build a well-rounded personality that is essential in today’s competitive job market.

What Makes SCOE Stand Out?

With so many computer science engineering colleges to choose from, why should you consider SCOE for your B.Tech in Computer Science and Engineering? Here are a few factors that make SCOE a top choice for students:

Experienced Faculty: SCOE prides itself on having a team of highly qualified and experienced faculty members. The faculty’s approach to teaching is both theoretical and practical, ensuring students are equipped to tackle real-world challenges.

Strong Industry Connections: The college maintains strong relationships with leading tech companies, ensuring that students have access to internship opportunities and campus recruitment drives. This gives SCOE graduates a competitive edge in the job market.

Holistic Development: SCOE believes in the holistic development of students. In addition to academic learning, the college offers opportunities for personal growth through various student clubs, sports activities, and cultural events.

Supportive Learning Environment: SCOE provides a nurturing environment where students can focus on their academic and personal growth. The campus is equipped with modern facilities, including spacious classrooms, labs, a library, and a recreation center.

Career Opportunities After B.Tech in Computer Science and Engineering from SCOE

Graduates with a B.Tech in Computer Science and Engineering from SCOE are well-prepared to take on various roles in the tech industry. Some of the most common career paths for CSE graduates include:

Software Engineer: Developing software applications, web development, and mobile app development are some of the key responsibilities of software engineers. This role requires strong programming skills and a deep understanding of software design.

Data Scientist: With the rise of big data, data scientists are in high demand. CSE graduates with knowledge of data science can work on data analysis, machine learning models, and predictive analytics.

AI Engineer: Artificial Intelligence is revolutionizing various industries, and AI engineers are at the forefront of this change. SCOE’s curriculum includes AI and Machine Learning, preparing students for roles in this cutting-edge field.

System Administrator: Maintaining and managing computer systems and networks is a crucial role in any organization. CSE graduates can work as system administrators, ensuring the smooth functioning of IT infrastructure.

Cybersecurity Specialist: With the growing threat of cyberattacks, cybersecurity specialists are essential in protecting an organization’s digital assets. CSE graduates can pursue careers in cybersecurity, safeguarding sensitive information from hackers.

Conclusion: Why B.Tech in Computer Science and Engineering at SCOE is the Right Choice

Choosing the right college is crucial for a successful career in B.Tech in Computer Science and Engineering. Saraswati College of Engineering (SCOE) stands out as one of the best computer science engineering colleges in Navi Mumbai. With its industry-aligned curriculum, state-of-the-art infrastructure, and excellent placement record, SCOE offers students the perfect environment to build a successful career in computer science.

Whether you're interested in AI, data science, software development, or any other field in computer science, SCOE provides the knowledge, skills, and opportunities you need to succeed. With a strong focus on hands-on learning and personal growth, SCOE ensures that students graduate not only as engineers but as professionals ready to take on the challenges of the tech world.

If you're ready to embark on an exciting journey in the world of technology, consider pursuing your B.Tech in Computer Science and Engineering at SCOE—a college where your future takes shape.

[strategiadvizo]

Transforming Education: Unleash the Potential of Your Students with Strategia Advizo's Vocational Courses

Introduction: In today’s rapidly evolving world, the traditional education system faces the challenge of keeping up with the pace of technological advancements and changing job landscapes. At Strategia Advizo, we believe in empowering the next generation with the skills they need to navigate and succeed in the 21st century. Our suite of vocational courses, designed specifically for CBSE schools…

[yey56]

HARLEY SAWYER X PSYCHOLOGIST READER pt2.

That day wasn't something you could easily forget.

It started as any other day, after the moment you had with the doctor a few weeks ago, he received a call from the office of Elliot Ludwig, claiming there was an important matter to discuss. He left not without savoring once more your lips.

That day, while you were conversing and trying to help process the changes to a little girl now turned into a toy, one of the other phycologist, Martha Hendswort, one of the few friends you had there; told you that Elliot was expecting you in his office.

You didn't exactly despised Elliot, unlike Harley who took the man for a rotten idealist, you though of him a wise man who was far to kind for his own good. Someone who learned to put the foot down when it was already to late...

Once you arrived there, the man awaited for you seated in his chair, looking at a photograph on top of his desk, his mind wandering somewhere you couldn't see.

Finally noticing your presence, he gave you an apologetic smile. Nothing good could come from that look that was silently apologising for something he hadn't even said yet.

You greeted him as usual, with a light hearted manner. Jokingly sucking up with him-you look good Eliot! New glasses?- you said while he spared you a little smile.

He finally took a more serious stance and started the conversation- (Y/N), as I've said to Harley before, both of you together have reached great progress with your projects...-he paused looking at you trying to find a way to deliver the blow delicately- You both have achieved great things and the company is grateful for that... But, I cannot longer ignore your lack of boundaries regarding the... Subjects of your experiments.- he looked at you again.

So... This is about me and Harleys methods, I'm sure we can get to some kind of middle groun- Ludwig suddenly interrupted you- No, I don't mean that. I've talk about this with him as well. I don't think you should be directing the experiments no longer. This experiments should not be made in name of progress but in name of humanity, and I think that's something you have forgotten- he finally finished.

You felt a shiver go down your spine- What?- you whispered forrowign your brows- do you have any idea how much we- How much I have invested in this project-in -in those children?!- you tone was still moderately calm, but getting more threatening.

Harley lacks the humanity needed for this project-His tone still calm, trying to soothe your anger- unlike him, you do have that trait but you have chosen to ignore it in favour of your own curiosity, your own agenda.-He expressed severely- you are a brilliant psychologist, the best one I have in here and working with you has been enlightening from all points of view but I cannot keep ignoring your recklessness...-He finalised.

You looked at him, without talking, still half processing what he just told you- So you're firing me? After all the time I've invested here?- Hou said, resentment was starting to get more noticing in your voice.

No! Of course not, neither you or Sawyer are fired, just... Relocated.- He explained- I've assigned sawyer to Dr whites lab and you... Well I think it would be great if you could work in the innovation department, under Pierre's direction...-Your eyes didn't leave his- You're asking me to quit the career I've been building for the past 11 years to work under that lousy coward?- You asked in reference to the nervous nature Pierre seemed to have since you once accidentally scared him while being in the corner of a dark place.

You are great at innovation, I know you talk frequently with the design department and your adaptable nature will be very helpful there.- Ludwig, observing that you still weren't really on board with this said- look, I don't expect you to understand right now but at least give it a try. I've never known you for saying no to a challenge. I will ask Pierre not to be so restrictive with you.- his attempt to cheer you up where useless

You only raised from the chair and proceeded to get out of his office. You knew you weren't going to quit because that would mean you turning into one of them.

You kept walking through seemingly infinite corridors, tightening your fists to the point your knuckles were turning white.

You arrived to your office in the lower levels and started to take out certain objects you knew you would need with you for your relocation. You had on top of your desk the file of 1322-Doey and in one of your open drawers, a photo with you in the kindergarten area with the kids that now composed the toy.

With the box with your belongings in hand, you started walking towards Harleys office, at least to notify him about your new place of work.

The place was empty, which was strange. You were aware that Sawyer didn't have any surgery scheduled so it was not normal for him to not be there.

The following days you didn't see Sawyer at all, you asked the staff around, asking if they had seen him, no one had.

It was hard adapting to work with Leith. Both of you always thought your proposed designs were better than the others so of course there were always conflict between you two.

Strangely, you manage to work it out for a couple of weeks. Using your knowledge in psychology, in child psychology and using data of sociological studies from children.

You proposed new updates to the backpack, a tool used by the employees of the factory. Also you found ways to improve the designs of some toys. Something that Pierre respected, even if he didn't admit it put loud.

And you were even able to design a toy that got launched to the public! Pianosaurus, a funny dinosaur that was also a piano.

Sadly, this toy was also included to the experimentation list. And in no time, you own creation took live. Sadly it didn't work as well as the company expected since some of its cognitive and coordination abilities failed, therefore, it was discarded and abandoned in an old enclosure.

The sudden disappear of Harley worried you. You knew he wasn't fired and you knew he was not in the factory. Finally fed up with the doubt you decided to go check the staff record to see if he even had checked out of his work hours (which he almost never did).

You left the designs you were working on to improve Doeys resistance of the cold and wandered through he corridors to check your theory of Sawyer never leaving the factory.

Before you could get to the next corridor, three voices stopped you. You couldn't hear much since they where inside one of the labs of that area but you could make out Leith's voice, saying something about having gotten rid of someone.

And something along the lines of "damned doctor"

You are well aware of what "taking care" of someone meant here. You had suggested it a couple of times with unloyal stuff but something about the timing of the conversation seemed off.

Before you could get away from that area again, you felt something hitting your head and the only thing that could be heard in that hall was the crash of your belonging against the floor.

————————————————————————

[Tape recording: The doctor]

[Dr white]: Oh, it looks like he's waking up

{The doctor}: where am I, what... Is this?... Oh no they didn't, those backstabbing traitors

[Dr white]: Dr Sawyer? can you hear me?

{The doctor}: White?! White is that you?! Who else is there with you?

{The doctor}: You enjoying watching me writhe like on of them- *Groan in pain*-my head feels like it's splitting in two *groan*- This is wrong, you must have done something wrong.

[Dr white]: Some disorientation is to be expected it'll-

{The doctor}: Who gave you the order? You spineless cowards, after all I've done for this project, for this company-

(Lith Pierre): I gave the order, Sawyer

{The doctor}: Leith Pierre... of course it'd be you, YOU have no idea what kind of mistake you've just made.

(Leith Pierre): Really? From where I'm sitting, you're the one who keeps making mistakes that need fixing. You and (Y/N) were warned.

(Leith Pierre): We gave you both so many opportunities to clean up your messes, but you just couldn't do it could you?

{The doctor}:What, do you think YOU can do better?? Nobody else can do what I do. You need my knowledge, my intellect!! You need (Y/N) and they will not collaborate!!

(Leith Pierre): Why do you think you're sitting in there right now, and not in Boxy's stomach? Let me tell you how this is gonna go, Sawyer. From now on you're here to give the lab boys answer when they need them and carry out procedures when and how we tell you to. That's it

(Leith Pierre): You'll be an open book to us whenever we want. So fight or have in, or whatever because either way we own the infrastructure you're wired into. Here's your first task, find us Dr (Y/N) (Y/L/N) so they can join you.

{The doctor}: You'll die for this Leith. When I get my hands on you you're a dead man!!!

(Leith Pierre): This temper is a bad look on you Harley!

[Tape Ended: The doctor.]

————————————————————————

[Tape recording: the escape]

(Y/N): What?- Where?-

Dr 1: are they- no I can't be- they're waking up *mumbling*

Dr 2: it cannot be!- increment the dosis!

(Y/N): what... Are you-? What do you think you are-? *Groans*

Dr 1: don't move- restrict them!!

(commotion sounds)

Dr 1: wait! Dont!- (static)

(Crashing sounds)

(Screams)

(Y/N):*groans* so... This is what you were trying to do... To me?

Dr 2:*coughing* Lab 19... Dr (Y/L/N) is *coughing* awak-

(Gunshot)

Leith :* through the phone* Dr? Dr?!-

(Static)

[Tape recording: the escape]

————————————————————————

You felt cold with the operation robe you had on, a harsh contrast with the warm blood that was scattered over your upper torso after stabbing one of the doctors with a scalpel.

Your ears ringed. After quickly taking the gun off the scientist body you aimed at the other one who was calling who you supposed was Pierre.

You shot him before he could end his message. You took the documents they had half completed on the desk: Experiment 1812- (Y/N) (Y/L/N)

You broke the papers with disdain. You though of Harley, were they doing the same to him? It wouldn't be so unusual to think that Pierre might have try to remove Sawyer out of the equation.

You then remembered that Leith must have sent someone to neutralise you, so hurrying you went out of the operation room,with the gun in hand, to the control room. Sawyer, Leith and Ludwig were the only ones with a key but Harley had made you a copy without the other two knowing. Of course, that copy was confiscated from you when you were left unconscious.

Once you got to the control room, you started noticing the cold on your bare feet, the blood dripping from your clothes and the rushed footsteps that seemed to be getting closer each second.

You punched the door in the handle repeatedly in desperation to get in. And just before you could see Leith rushing to you at the end of the corridor, the door automatically opened on its own, letting you in.

It immediately closed right after you and the sound of the mechanical lock echoed in the room, all of this followed by Pierre's hits on the door.

You ignored it, concentrating on the several cameras that formed the room. Complete access to he enclosures of the experiments.

1160-Boxy boo, 1163- Pianosaurus, 1166- Yarnaby, 1170- Huggy Wuggy, 1188-Catnap, 1222- Mommy long legs... To mention some of them.

In desperation, Pierre started shouting, already imagining what you would do in your anger.

(Y/N)!! Stop this. You are not thinking straight! They will kill you, all of us!!!- he said completely desperate, attempting to convince you to stop whatever you were planning, banging the door even harder.

You were always aware that what you did was not good, neither moral, neither human. But you did it either ways.

You understood their pain, specially their anger, you would be angry to in their place. Now you needed that anger, you needed that rage against Pierre and all of Playtime Co.

Even if you would be affected in the process, right now you don't care what might happen to you, you only care of what will happen to Pierre.

You pressed the bottom with no hesitation, the red lights illuminating the whole compound. You could hear Leith's shouts of desperation- WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!!- WHAT HAVE YOU D- his voice sounded like murmurs, likely because of the effect of the anesthesia inside you.

Actions have consequences Leith, sooner or later both you and I were going to face them, I just accelerated the process.- you said with a mocking tone that brushed insanity-Im just helping you learn how to take responsibility for your actions.-you finished with a harsh tone in your voice.

While this was happening, the monitors in your back started to flash images of a single eye surrounded by static.

————————————————————————

Harley had observed through the cameras that now were part of his system how you escaped the operation room leaving two corpses behind. The moment Leith left the room in which his monitor was in to go and stop you, he started taking over the system.

He wanted to make you know what had happened to him, that he hadn't manage to escape and was now trapped there.

He opened the door to you once he catched on what you were trying to do and he tried to comunicate with you through the monitors in the room. You seem so angry and so full of adrenaline that you didn't notice how he couldn't even voice a though through the speakers.

Once Leith had escaped the corridor, hoping to save himself, he saw you sprinting out of the room to a direction that was way to familiar for him. The enclosure of 1322 or like you liked to call them: Kevin, Jack and Mathew.

He knew how much you insisted in refering to the experiments as there original names. You used to say that it helped them to stablish trust with you and he still insisted in naming them after their assigned numbers.

You arrived at the enclosure of the doe mass, while he tried to figure out how to control more of the systems so he could reach you.

Get out, come on- you said to Doey who looked at you as if you were the sunlight.- but- but what's happening, why is there so much noise?- he asked afraid- I freed them, all of them, come on, here is no longer safe- you said rushing him and sparring him the details of your actions.

But the doctor!- the bad people, they are going to hurt us- to starve us- he started having a meltdown- I don't know where Harley is but with the chaos that has ensued out there we can still hide somewhere they won't find us. Quick!- you were trying to rush the toy to the exit. You remembered that Harley mentioned you that there were building more floors deeper and deeper but they were still very much isolated from the rest of the factories system.

You guided the toy through the stairs and the chaos and while you were waiting for him to open a door from the other side, you took the opportunity to search in on of the few computers nearby some information that may lead you to Harley. You tried cameras, reports and all kinds of stuff but you couldn't find anything recent.

Harley didn't have access to the computer you were using. Growing more and more desperate he could feel himself getting overloaded until one of the nearby cable started igniting.

Doey quickly wrapped you around him and started running without a clear direction while the whole placed burned, dragging you both deep enough to not be found for a while.

————————————————————————

Harley was beyond furious, he was frustrated, defeated. Backstabbed by his coworkers and confined into a screen.

When The Prototype found him, he didn't face him with fear. He was well aware that he was useful for him and only for that, The Prototype would keep him alive. But he also knew that it was a means to an end. The prototype needed the doctor for his abilities and intellect but the doctor knew that, for the prototypes plan to actually work, they needed you and your ability to stabilise the toys mental state.

You had made sure to establish a relationship of trust and even some kind of bond between you and the toys. With some of them more genuine than with others. He never understood that, and for a long time he mistook it for simple compassion but the explanation you gave him catched him completely by surprise.

Why do you insist on bonding with those... Creatures, hmmm?- he asked you with his hand on the bridge of his nose and his glasses in the table.- are you aware what you are doing to them?right? Trying to save your morality is impossible here.

You laughed silently while eating a piece of sandwich.- this is lot about mortality, Harley- you responded to him. He felt oddly good when you pronounced his name. You usually referred to each other by surname but he could get used to hearing his name from your lips more often- Do you realise that those experiments are incubators of anger and resentment right? They are essentially human. Humans reaped from their bodies.-you took a bite- that, plus the abuse they endure from the guards, only breeds anger, anger that is eventually going to explode in our faces.- he looked at you curiously. Finally understanding your point.

You continued after he nodded, agreeing with you- By letting them know I empathise with them, which I do by the way, I'm basically letting them know I'm not much of an enemy but more of a shoulder to cry on. You understand?- your reasoning was calculated and based on assuming the worst but after all, you were right. He hadn't missed how much closer you had got to him, standing up with your hand on the top of the chair he was sitting in.

The experiments who demonstrated intelligence were not happy with the stuff at Playtime co and that was no secret. He finally understood what was your strategy. A point of view he had never seen before but one that made sense nonetheless.

That's how Harley understood that, in order to control the whole place and assure the prototypes plan, they needed you. That way he could have a valid excuse to give to the prototype for wanting to reach you and have you with him. That way you weren't perceived as his weakness and you could stay alive out of usefulness.

But he was going to find you, one way or another, sooner or later. He wasn't know for being a patient man but he could wait. He just needed time and nothing more. Just time...

————————————————————————

Doey finally put you down on the floor and you both stopped, catching a moment to breath.

You were in some sort of underground sewer, you didn't know where it would take you but as long as you were not in the upper levels with the rest of the free toys, you were safe for now.

Hey kid, how are you going?- you asked Doey who was starring at the ceiling, hearing the vague screams that could miraculously reach the underground.

Those screams are from...- he started, not daring to finish that sentence- (Y/N)... What have you done?.- you leaned against a wall, still dizzy from the remaining anesthesia in your body- What?- you asked, not expecting this reaction- Those screams!! They are from people, the toys are eating them!! Why did you do this?!

You paused a moment, not knowing what to respond. Keeping eye contact with the toy- I got fed up- you weren't exactly lying on that answer- I'm making it up for my actions, I was an accomplice in captivating you,in captivating them. Now I'm freeing you.- you took a deep breath, trying to clear your mind- look, I understand that you are upse-

NO, YOU DON'T!!!- He screamed- you try but you don't- He started sobbing- you don't hear them! you get to have silence, you don't hear the voices! the kind voices that always lie!! Your kind voice won't deceive me anymore- he stared at you, furious.

You got serious, taking a stance and looking him dead in the eye, you told him- I'm not a kind voice, Doey. I'm an honest voice and I made that very clear since the first moment I met the three of you.- he stayed silent after your statement, pouting, like a child would take after being scolded by their parent.- I will tell you the honest truth...if you can handle it. - you looked at him and proceeded- I don't think it's a good idea that we stick together. Kevin, you're obviously angry at me and I won't force you to change that. I'll let you cool down. Search for me when you are ready. .- and with that you turned and leaved, not willing to defy a 400 kg of mass

Doey extended an arm in your way trying to reach you before you would go down another path than him. You were the most similar thing he had to a parent, to a friend down there and he felt lost without your help and guidance.

The toy stayed there, sulking and trying to keep himself at bay.

You wandered through the sewers until you found a way out to a set of underground halls with a few computers to settle in. You stayed there, thinking about what to do next, what to eat. The only option where the toys of course. But mostly you spend your time wondering, wondering where could Harley be, if he even was still alive after what you did.

And Harley, well... He was determined to obtain absolute control over the whole facility, upper and lower levels. Searching to find certain germ that had crawled inside of his system, and former heart.

Searching for the direct culprit of the hour of joy...

The picture of the Kevin, Matthew Jack and Y/N

[marsprincess889]

Astrology observations

Vedic

Part 9

I like this one

Uttara Bhadrapada men (irl) have only ever been major green flags to me. They're really unproblematic as a whole, honest and respectful. They might seem obnoxious to sometimes to people who don't know them but they have much more substance in them than they show. In reality, they don't like to brag or one-up others. U.Bhadras in general (all genders) consider that behavior cheap and lowly.

Punarvasu women can be so chatty and to me, they're the perfect example of "social butterflies". Considering that a larger part of this lunar mansion is in Gemini and Jupiter (their planetary ruler) is known for generosity, their inclusive, enthusiastic and witty nature is not a surprise. They almost always have a hidden sense of humor that might be unexpected for others, in a good way.

I've seen Rohini people have a thinly veiled sense of superiority 😐. Of course not all of them are like this. I think that it comes from the ease and the effortlessly received love and affection. It's also less in a condescending sense of the word and more the pride of a person who has not been thoroughly checked and sort of had been given a "pass", an easy way to something.

Anuradha nakshatra is a placement that makes a person exclusive. Anuradha is traditionally connected to friendships, bonds and all types of intimacy. With that you'd think they'd be inclusive but they're only inclusive selectively. Anuardha is fully in Scorpio, natural sign of the 8th house and secrecy is embedded in it. Secret societies and clubs are pretty much under Anuradha's domain.

Bharanis do love medieval stuff lol, I'm repeating this from one of my previous observations but that time I needed confirmation. Bharanis love history in general and they understand that true beauty is timeless. Middle Ages was a time when a lot of the world was stripped down to basics and reverted to a more natural way of living, which can be placed under Ketu and Venus energies. A lot of the symbolism and ideologies popular in medieval Europe resonate to Bharani natives and to the themes of the nakshatra on its own. I might make a separate post on this

I've noticed that people are often drawn to the themes of nakshatras that are yoni consorts of their own nakshatras, especially if they don't have them. Besides being drawn to Revati(yoni consort of my moon) natives, I am fascinated by its themes (completion, abundance, freedom, guidance, flow, deep creativity and spirituality, free will and initiation). Same with Uttara Bhadrapada (yoni consort of my ascendant), but admittedly, to a lesser degree than Revati. I'd appreciate if anyone confirmed this in comments or reblogs 🙃🤍

Uttara Phalguni relates to families and family business. Bringing people together is a result of Dhanishta nakshatra but it's on a more collective and mass level in Dhanishta's case. In case of Uttara Phalguni, they love doting on their family and strengthening it as a unit. Family is a big theme for Uttara Phalguni and it can mean blood or soul family. I go into this subject deeper in a future post that is almost ready.

My respect to Chitra natives who truly go deep into the subject of "the vessel" reflecting the essence. I think only Chitras have what it takes to really dive into and sort out the specifics of what goes with what and what should this or that look like, based on the spiritual truth. The challenge with Chitra is to align the outside to the inside, to not manipulate the surface to the point where it becomes a distortion or something "ugly". Chitra natives (big three and even Ketu) can always appreciate something avant-garde or innovative when it comes to design, appearance or culture but they also, to my initial surprise, have strong opinions about what should not be manipulated. One thing is true tho: they have very postive things to day about plastic surgery and actively encourage it, at least Chitras in my life do. If any of you have this nakshatra and are against it I would not be surprised btw, but text me, or write it below. I think Chitras are mathematical in a way and love accuracy a lot, so they also might be good researchers if they have worked on their neurotic-leaning/compulsive/Virgo-Rahu nature that often distorts the truth. I'd honestly trust Chitras more with research than Jupiter nakshatras or Ketu nakshatras, but ironically, Chitras get less respect with serious matters because they look "too superficial" to people. Jupiter and Ketu people (especially people with both of those naks in big three), on the other hand, get treated as an authority and they barely have to lift a finger, when it truth they tend to gloss over a lot of things and sometimes even twist details to fit a bigger picture that may or may not be true. Jupiter and Ketu nakshatras have positive attributes too but in this instance, when comparing to Chitra, this is the scenario that I recognize

Good thing about Tiger yonis(Vishakha and Chitra) is that with all the confrontational and active nature (that has its downsides and can lead to pettiness) is that you can never blame them for not caring. They are really focused on building and improvement, regarding anything. Vishakhas, I think, tend to be the most honest ones out of Jupiter nakshatras. I think if they lie or do something that they consider wrong they'll eventually do the the opposite, they're going to swing back and forth, because that's their nature, but they can never be just one thing. It's a nakshatra of opposites and contradictions. I've also talked about Chitra a few times already on my blog. So, they're not the kind of people who are fine with faults or mistakes, they usually go for improvement and building, that's what they intend, even if their actions lead to something else (that's the lesson/theme with them, I think).

Bharani and Ashlesha girls should have a free treat each week from the goverment to compensate for past or ongoing trauma caused by mother issues. Unserious but true

...

Upcoming things: Uttara Phalguni women post, more nakshatra playlists and maybe a new small game.

If you have any nakshatras or placements you really want me to make a post on just comment or tell me otherwise and it's going to be noted.

Have a great month ahead 🤍

[auroralwriting]

your beauty never scared me

spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

you’re scared no one will ever love and understand you, but spencer always has.

word count: 2.2k

warnings: a bit of unrequited love, comfort/angst/fluff, negative self thought, spencer is always a sweetheart, reader has a darker aesthetic

Maybe it was the fact that you came from a broken family from a young age. No, you didn't have a bad childhood, but it wasn't ideal for a young girl growing up.

It could have been the bad high school relationships, full of boys who didn't understand how to treat a young woman. Stuck at their stupid baseball games or waiting for them to finish their video game, sitting alone on their bed waiting for them to finish.

The most likely cause for your fear of love was simply the fear that no one would ever truly understand you, and therefore, never be able to love you right.

If you looked deeper, though, much further past the surface level, deep into the core, you would've realized that Spencer Reid had been there all along.

When you first joined the BAU, Spencer Reid was a typical little nerd, the glasses he wore even fulfilling the stereotype. His rambles about anything and everything were endearing, and lead you to begin your friendship with the man after he told you the history of your favorite movies.

"...its distinctive style with his signature blend of dark humor and whimsy. His imaginative vision, influenced by German Expressionism, is evident in the film’s surreal sets and exaggerated character designs. Burton’s decision to cast Michael Keaton as the chaotic title character and his encouragement of Keaton’s improvisation contributed to the film’s memorable, unpredictable energy. The innovative special effects and makeup, along with the creative set design by Bo Welch, further showcased Burton's unique approach."

By the end of his rant, Spencer had expected you to have been completely focused on anything else, but your eyes were trained on him, a small sparkle flickering in them.

"Spence, how do you know do much about Beetlejuice? You haven't even seen it before." you'd chuckled.

"I think Tim Burton is an interesting director. Maybe we could, uh, see it together sometime? If you want, of course." Spencer awkwardly fiddled with his fingers, the suggestion of the two of you hanging out outside of the work settle rattling his nerves.

You had given him a big smile, beneath your dark clothes and makeup was a heart of white and gold, a truly captivating soul. "I'd love to, Spencer! I own it, so you can come over whenever."

"Whenever sounds good," Spencer paused, thinking about what he had just said. "I mean, Thursday?"

"Thursday it is, boy genius." That name was usually reserved for making fun of Spencer, but the way you said it actually made his heart flutter.

Spencer would've never guessed that the girl, clad in dark clothing, the complete opposite of his own aesthetic, would be interested in hanging out with him. Then, it happened. And it happened again, and again, until you became friends.

Your friendship with the doctor grew. As you got closer, Spencer began to identify your fears and your tells. You played with your hair when you were nervous, bit the skin of your fingernails when you were anxious, tapped your foot or bounced your leg when you were impatient. He began to understand you on a deeper level.

It began to be the same for you. You knew his likes, dislikes, fears and worries. You understood his struggles with his mother and father, how sometimes this job didn't feel like enough until he made a true difference in someone's life.

Spencer Reid and you had connected in nearly a cosmic level, and that began to scare you.

It was two and a half years after Spencer had met you when he realized he had been falling in love with you for nearly a year. His small crush had grown exponentially. After Haley Hotchner's death, you'd taken in Jack for several days while Hotch planned the funeral and began to clean the house from the murders. Jack had taken to you quickly; he'd gone as far as to call you his favorite aunt.

Seeing the level of compassion and helpfulness you had displayed for Hotch made Spencer begin to realize that your friendship was beginning to move to the next level for him.

He began to think of you night and day, wondering what you were doing, how you were doing, what your plans were. He wanted to be with you, to feel your skin, linger in your existence. It wasn't until JJ had explained to him that that feeling he felt was love that he began to understand that you were in no place for him to admit his feelings.

Spencer never meant to profile anyone unless he was working, but he found it hard to not with you. He noticed your lack of dating, how even when you had the chance, you evaded it. He noticed your disdain to the notion of true love, or love at first sight, or even soulmates. It didn't take him long to piece together that it wasn't a hatred of love, no, it was a fear of it. However, he could never understand the why of the fear.

Now, you and Spencer had met five years ago. You'd both physically changed in looks over the time, but your friendship only remained and grew passionately stronger.

After the death of Emily, and finding out she didn't really die, Spencer had you as his rock. You grieved together, to the point that for three weeks, you lived with Spencer in his apartment. After you'd left, Spencer realized that he couldn't live without you anymore.

Spencer and you sat on his couch, the cold September month made you crave an early Halloween movie. So, Spencer put on his own copy of Beetlejuice he bought a few years back. The soft glow of the lamp cast warm shadows across the room, and the faint scent of popcorn lingered in the air. You could hear the distant hum of the city outside, blending with the soft rustling of the movie’s soundtrack.

"I like Adam and Barbara," Spencer hummed as he watched the screen. "They make a really good couple."

You nodded, "I guess they do,"

Spencer's brows furrowed at your words. "You don't sound convinced."

"I don't know," You shrugged, sitting up and crossing your legs. "He's sort of controlling over her. It's just too much, she's a strong woman."

"You mean he's protective over her in the afterlife filled with dead people they didn't even knew existed?" Spencer raised a brow, turning to you. "I'm pretty sure that's relatively normal."

Turning your attention back to the screen, you replied, "I guess so,"

Spencer sighed, finally deciding to ask you the question he'd been avoiding for too many years now. "Why are you so scared of love?"

His question made you turn back to him, a confused look on your face. "What?"

"You're so pessimistic about it. You always avoid dating, talking about it, anything to even do with love." Spencer explained. "I'm just curious, why?"

"Because, there is no way love that strong exists." You concluded, folding your arms over your chest. "That's why it's all in the movies. It's fake for a reason."

Spencer nearly chuckled at your words, finding himself in disbelief. Sure, he didn't really believe in soulmates, but he definitely believed in love. "Sure love exists," Spencer said. "True love has to come from somewhere to be spoken about. It's why its so deeply rooted into art and literature. Plus, with the psychological evidence of--"

"Okay, okay," You put your hands up in mock surrender. "I believe you, Spence." You'd never cut off one of his rants before.

"This bothers you," Spencer noted, his arms mocking your previous stance as they folded over his chest. "Why does this bother you so much, what aren't you telling me?"

You let out a huff of air in reply, your defences kicking into full gear. "Why do you care so much?"

Spencer stuttered over his words, “Uh- because it clearly affects you! It’s not hard to notice your dislike of it, and I want to know.” Spencer defended. He could see it in your eyes, though. You were too good of a profiler to not know he was lying through his teeth.

“The real reason?” You sharply replied, hating that Spencer was lying.

“Because I’m in love with you,” Spencer’s voice was filled with desperation. “Here you are, constantly belittling the idea of love when that’s all I want to give to you, and I don’t understand why.”

His words cut you like a knife. You hadn’t expected him to say that, let alone feel it. It almost made you feel guilty. “No one has ever understood me, Spencer. I don’t want to settle for just anyone who will pretend for their whole life that they know me when deep down they will never be able to understand who I am, what I need.”

“You think I don’t?” Spencer challenged. He tried not to feel offended at your words, truly. Yet they hit him like a slap to the face. He felt like he understood you.

“Okay, prove it then.”

Spencer was ready for this, “Your least favorite cases involve those with divorced parents. Not because of the affect on their children, but the affect it takes on them. You hate to see when it hurts one of them, or both.” Spencer’s first claim was true, and it caught you off guard. “You hate anything with a pumpkin scent, however, you enjoy real pumpkins because of their look rather than their scent. You bite your lip, tap your foot, shake your leg, all when you feel negatively.”

“Anyone could profile that,” You weakly replied, feeling thrown off at Spencer’s careful acknowledgment of your little tells.

“Are you afraid of love because no one will ever understand you, or because you’re scared you’ll never find someone who will.” Spencer finished. He watched as your mouth opened and closed, the words not quite making it out. “I see you, I hear you. My favorite thing is when you tell me things about yourself, your day, your feelings. Any day without you is a bad day and any day with you is a good one.”

Spencer’s words left your heart beating faster in your chest as you began to realize this is what you were looking for all along, but your own fear that you would never find it blind sighted you to the truth. The truth that Spencer Walter Reid was in love with you.

Spencer often recalled his own struggles with relationships, remembering the long hours he spent studying while his peers socialized. With him being so much younger, he had no way to truly connect with them. The sense of isolation he felt growing up made him cherish the connections he built later in life, driving him to seek genuine understanding and affection. On the other hand, your own problems with family and bad relationships drove you to hold a near-resentful feeling to love. It made you feel like it was something you could never have. That was something Spencer was beginning to see from your perspective.

"Please," Spencer's voice was softer, more vulnerable as his eyes pleaded with you. "say something."

"I'm sorry," you breathed. For a moment, Spencer thought you were about to reject him, until he saw the glistening tears form in your eyes. "I-I should've known sooner."

Spencer nearly chuckled, "I didn't want to make it too obvious."

"Spencer?" you asked.

"Yeah?" he replied.

"Why do you love me?"

Your question made his heart nearly crack at the raw fragility your tone held. All he wanted to do was to take you into his arms and sing you sweet nothings until you believed him, but right now that wasn't an option. "I love you because you're unapologetically you," Spencer's reply made you finally lock eyes with him. "You're so sweet and kind, you never try to hide the things you like and dislike. You're so bold and brave. You make me feel so alive, so wanted. Every moment with you is a reminder of how extraordinary it is to be around someone who radiates such genuine warmth and enthusiasm."

"You really love me?" Your voice felt meek in comparison to how your normal assertiveness and bravato sounded. Your heart felt three times bigger in your chest as a tear dared to slip down your cheek.

Before it could even leave your eye, Spencer brought his sleeve over his hand and soaked it up gently with the cuff. "I love you with every part of me."

"I think I want to love you, too." you admitted. It felt hard to say those words, to finally give into your darkest, most vulnerable desire of unwavering love.

"Even with your fears, you're beautiful." Spencer softly reached to graze your cheek. "This, your fears, nothing could ever scare me. I'll teach you to let me love you if I need to."

"That better be a promise," you slightly chuckled, holding your pinky out to the man.

Spencer smiled, locking his pinky with your own, "It's a promise."

As you held Spencer’s pinky in your own, a sense of peace settled over you. The weight of your fears began to lift, replaced by a tentative hope. "Maybe love isn’t as impossible for me as I thought," You whispered, reaching out to hold his hand. Spencer’s smile was both a promise and a comfort, signaling the beginning of a new chapter in your lives.

[vinjinssunglasses]

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✩ character: kim gitae ✩ summary: you were someone who’d be strict on herself, not letting her serious side falter. Until some cocky (ahem..) criminal in the rain you feel pity for makes you change your ways. ✩ cw : smut; p in v, fingering, oral (fem receiving), cunnilingus ✩ w/c: around 5k ✩ a/n: 2025, choibongpalsglasses back? not my best work, and excuse my mistakes 😭🙏

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As the big boss of a luxurious company, you’re known for your innovative ability to design products and market it to the public, incredible enough to make it seem as if there were no negative sides to said material. As a leader, you were notorious for your excellent creative and professional exterior, praised for your numerous awards. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say your company is one of the most known in the world.

And because of the abundance of positive feedback and an overall positive outlook, not even the press would even think for a second you’d be fucking around with a cartel in the background.

Tall and dangerous, your exact type. The thrill of having someone able to destroy you in a blink made your veins pop. Maybe that’s why you approached him that rainy night, even if you weren’t looking for a one night stand. He had dark circles with pitch black eyes, one that glistened under the flickering lamppost’s golden light, a tall stature and a grin that could have any lady fawn. Despite his situation, he was cocky and arrogant, constantly making offensive and playful remarks. From the way his gaze lowered from your face to your body when you spoke, you could tell he was also clearly infatuated with you. If only you could play with him one more time, let him sway you off your tiptoes with his smooth, classy voice, and kiss the back of your hand like a hopeless romantic one more time.

So you gave up on that dream. Hey, what’s the point of waiting if it’ll never come? Of course, you had better things to worry about, like your internal affairs and meetings, running your business is not exactly easy work. Anything to distract you off of that man’s siren-like aura and your depriving mental state. Money skyrocketed, stocks increasing while all your employees got a raise after what people thought would be the downfall of the company. No question you saved the millions you so rightfully earned.

Even after all of that, you didn’t forget his presence. For crying out loud, it was one night. He was riding his motorcycle, you presumed, and he’d crashed. Only managing to crawl his way to a lamppost because his knee had gotten injured from the crash, he rested there, no hope in sight.

Releasing a sigh, he rested his head back upon the thin pole, letting the heavy rain pour onto his face, trickling into his mouth. That night you were driving home slowly on the same street, going as slow as you pleased since there weren’t any cars behind you, and they could easily overtake you. Time seemed to move slow you watched the wiper blades drag across the windshields surface. Until you caught a strange man sitting against a pole in the rain, without an umbrella and wearing clothes not suitable. Feeling sympathy, one which you rarely felt, you quickly pulled over your car and rushed to the figure who rested there.

He looked up at you, taking in the sight of your face. Stern, serious yet bewitching, one that he couldn’t peel his eyes off of for a second.

“Sir? Are you..” You expected an answer, yet he only stared through his half-lidded eyes for a quick moment, maintaining eye contact. At the second ‘sir’, he snapped back into reality, running his hand through his soaked strands.

“It’s what it looks like. I’ve gotten into an accident. I’m glad a lovely lady like you has come to save me.” He smirked, looking up at you with eyes like a cheetah weighing down its prey.

“In your dreams.” You damn well knew your worth, maybe that’s why you were still single. Holding your ground, you scoffed, holding the umbrella nice his head, extending your hand.

“I have a leg injury from the crash. I can’t walk.” He intertwined his fingers into yours, licking his lips cheekily.

“Then why’d you take my hand?” Your lips curled up into a dumbfounded, slightly disgusted expression, your eyebrows raising at his stupid words.

“Your hands are sexy, why else? What man would ever reject such pretty hands like yours?”

“Be quiet. I can just drive off and leave you here if I wanted to.” He groaned, making a pouty face at you.

“Feisty.” Softly chuckling, he grabbed onto the dripping lamppost and tried to gain his balance, slipping and groaning. For a man in pain, he sounded oddly intimate. “Help me out, won’t ‘cha?”

You took his arm upon your shoulder, guiding him to the chair. Perhaps it was inevitable your recently done hair got drenched by the rain as well. To be expected, he was heavy; he was tall and quite muscular judging by the tear of his tank top under his biker’s jacket. Resting him into the passenger's seat with such effort, he passed you a wink before watching you walk to the driver's seat.

“So… Where do you live?”You turned your gaze to him. “Take me out to dinner first.” He threw his head back on the seat, blowing kissy faces as you. If he wasn’t injured, you probably would’ve punched him already. “In all honesty, I live very far from here, and I doubt you’d wanna drive that far.”

Heading that, you sighed, deadpanning at the stranger. Taking him to yours wouldn’t be that bad, I mean, what’s he do with a broken leg. “I’ll take you to mine, but no funny business or I’ll kick you out.”

“Yes ma’am.” He smiled, letting out a low chuckle. It was silent apart from the squeaking of the windscreen wipers trying to wash the rain away, yet it was no use. In a way, it felt like a reflection of your life. Rather you should be more worried about the man sitting next to you.

“Name. What’s your name?” You asked, your voice breaking the agonising lack of conversation. It’d be better off for you if you atleast know something about the man next to you.

“I’m yours.” A smug, flirty smirk came upon his lips, his sexiness making you steer the wheel inaccordingly. Clearing your throat, you retorted:

“Not funny, what’s your name?”

“Names Gitae, Kim Gitae.” Gitae clicked his tongue, hand wandering to your thigh, “And yours?”

“Be quiet.” Your eyes wanders themselves to his fingers which drummed upon your thigh. “What do you want?”

“Just wanna see what’s under this skirt, is that so illegal?” From his suggestive words, you bite your lip and smile. Your eyes lift to his seductive gaze. There’s no doubt the sexual energy is lingering between you two, and it seems he’s made the first move.

“You’re injured. And we’re nearly there.” You dismiss the chance to have a taste of him. It was the only excuse you could pull out the box anyway. Why didn’t you pull over and let him take the lead? Perhaps it’s because you’re not looking for connection, even if this is a rare find. He may be expecting more than just sex, and as your role as CEO prevents you from having time for a lover, you’d prefer not. Never would you ever give up such money and power for a person.

You walked —while he stumbled— Gitae up to your penthouse, entering the code and letting him in.

“An angel like you has an angelic place as well, huh? How luxurious. Can’t wait to see the bedroom.” Gitae winks, taking off his jacket, hanging it wherever he pleases like he owned the place. You always aspired to keep your place tidy, with vases full of fake flowers and the tiles left shiny. Your heels clacked against the marble floors, falling with a thud as you swept them off messily, following his stumbles to your living room. With a groan, Gitae slumped onto the comfortable sofa, breathing rapidly to try and distract himself from the pain. You hadn’t realised he’d been acting all cocky to bear the pain throbbing from his knee.

“You like wine?” You gazed up at him, the tension palpable between you as the room went silent. He nodded, and you dismissed the aura in the room while walking towards your kitchen. Gitae’s eyes followed the gentle sway of your hips, your confident stride and the final glance you took at him before finally leaving, saying a firm ‘don’t touch anything’.

You didn’t know what it is — you grasped your hand around a cup and one of your usual finest wines, it’s such a habit to impress after everything— but it’s something between the two of you. The way he turns his gaze to you; it’s magnetic, teasing and confident. And fuck, you love it.

To impress, you take the finest wines out of your cabinets, one you’ve been dying to take a sip of. Bringing the bottle and two wine glasses with you, he stood up to take them from you with a wink.

“Let me pour it, m’lady.” He softly spoke, licking the insides of his lips sensually. For some odd reason, that made a smile subconsciously spread over your lips, wondering what he could do with that tongue. Couldn’t lick your ear, gently nibbling on the tender skin? Gently drag his lips to your neck, leaving hickeys to claim you as his? Or travel down to your aching cunt, torturing your clit with his gentle flicks? Your throat bobbed as you swallowed back a breathy sigh, taking your freshly poured glass.

“Sit down here.” Gitae threw himself back against the couch, slapping his hand against his thigh provocatively. They looked so inviting, and the perfect seat right after his face. Taking a big gulp of your wine, you cleared all the worthless thoughts out of your mind and focused at the real task at hand — this tall stranger in your house.

He was unbelievablely handsome.

“Be quiet.” You scowled, taking a seat next to him instead, crossing your legs like you knew businsss. Every so often your gaze would travel up to meet his, to which Gitae smirked and winked, making your heart flutter. Now that you think about it, he’s unbelievably handsome. Even with that wound in his stomach and dripping wet hair, he still has that “bad boy” charm that you can’t get enough of. Taking another large sip of your wine, you panted as soon as the glass parted from your lips. Are you insane? You’re remarkable for your indecency and lack of tolerance for misbehaviour, romance and the sort. So why now, with some criminal looking bastard are you throwing it all away?

“Woah, easy there, princess. Got a lot on ya mind?” Gitae chuckled, easing up the atmosphere. You grit your teeth at him to which he laughed off, tangling his fingers in your strands, leaning in closer. “Don’t get drunk too quickly.”

“And why do you care? How strong is it?” Deadpanning with an arrogant tone, you grabbed the bottle and checked: 15% vol. Whatever, you’re no lightweight. As long as you don’t gauge down the whole bottle like you do most nights, hangover the next morning but dragging yourself surviving on a cup of coffee, you’d be fine.

“You’re cute.” Gitae took a gulp of his own glass, letting his arm rest on the armrest. “What about my injuries? I seek immediate attention. How cruel can you be?” He spoke in a teasing matter, acting if he’s been utterly betrayed.

But is it so right to leave an uninvited guest alone, without a clue about this bastard? He’s sitting there like he owns the place, wetting your floors and sofa but that’s the least of your concerns. Judging by his frame, he could possibly tip you over and throw you out the window, pull out a gun at any second — nonetheless find that secret safe of yours—

“Hey, sweetheart, finished daydreaming?” Gitae calls out, snapping you right back to reality. Again, you’re overthinking it, just like you always do. With a sigh, you stand up from where you were sat, the glass resting on a table with a soft clunk. His eyes followed each of your lousy moments, then trailed up to yours to where they both met.

“Wait here. Your leg is injured, right? Don’t do anything stupid.” You sighed, telling him off like a kid who’s had too many sweets. Walking off, you turned your back to face him to give him a glare to show your seriousness, to which he blew a kiss in response. It’s not as if that stupid wink and flirty attitude was actually getting to you, right? Or so you wanted to think. But what did Gitae think of you? In his eyes, you were utterly charming without even realising it. He could already tell a strong woman with priorities like you could rock his world, and your firm attitude only made him subconsciously fall for you even more. Gitae throws his head back and lets out a low chuckle, a satisfied grin washing over his face as he takes a deep breaths.

It’s odd he feels this way, as a drug lord he already knows what he has to do: murder, torture and distribute. There’s no room for personal feelings nor freedom in the world he’s surrounded himself in. He’s met all types of women: the poor ones that’d do anything for another snort of cocaine, the strong ones who wish they could fall out of this addiction, ones who’ve tried to stray him away from this scene. And none of them were like you.

Romance is long gone, anyway, he simply dispised the concept of him kissing, loving and caring for another too seriously. Would it be strange to say he can see a connection?

You grab the first aid kit, rushing back to see if he’s done anything preposterous. Instead he’s just sitting there, pulling out a cigarette, acting like he was disturbed by your entrance. Y’know, it’s not like you gave him permission to smoke in your penthouse. Usually you’d get angry and complain like an old hag, yet you didn’t have the energy to do so. He blinks at you, and you blink back at him, and he takes the signal to drop it.

“Caught red-handed.” Gitae puts both hands up as if he’s been caught by the cops, something he’s not too unfamiliar with.

“No time for your childish behaviour.” You walk up to him, throwing the first aid kit next to him. “I’m going to treat you, so just be quiet.”

Now that you look at it, the wound was deeper than you thought it was. Without going into the specifics, it was a crimson red color and a large scar over his right thigh and knee. It made you doubt whether he even had a license.

“How did this happen?” You mutter, wincing at the sight. Even though you were no doctor, you could tell this was more than it seemed it was. You took out gauze, cleansing wipes and the sort. Gently wiping around the wound, you cleaned any remaining blood that might’ve spilled. His eyes were fixated on the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the way your eyelashes fluttered when you blinked and all the crazy little details that drove him mad. Gitae rested his hand upon the armrest, his head resting upon his lazy hand as he simply watched you at work. It wasn’t such a bad sight seeing you nestled between his legs.

At this point, you had no clue on what to do, so you wrapped bandages around said wounds, hoping for the best. The last thing you were going to do this late was read the instruction manual.

“I’m no doctor, so this’ll have to do.” A head of sweat ran down your forehead, yet you kept your voice steady. You expected a response, but the room remained silent after that moment of speech. Raising your head, he was simply staring — was it a look of mere interest, or could it hint at something more?

“Oh. Yeah, it’s fine.” Gitae finally realised his staring, clearing his throat as a hint of red spawned upon his cheeks. Without realising, he’d drop his flirty attitude, and you found that cute.

The room paused for a moment, the still air warm between you too. It definitely wasn’t uncomfortable; but the lack of conversation made this nervous feeling wash over you. Your eyes raised to look at him, and you could’ve sworn they were locked together. Gitae stood up, ignoring the stinging pain in his knee. Perhaps you tied it too tightly, but right now he didn’t care; nor did he tease you for it. Instead he took a step closer, his hand hesitating slightly before resting upon your waist. This time, you noticed he wasn't making eye contact with you, he was staring at your lips. They were so kissable and almost irresistible in his perspective, but would it be so illegal to kiss them?

With a sigh, he pulled you in, lips locking with a tenderness that couldn’t be described. The grip on your waist tightened, yet he kept it gentle. In a fit of shock, you pulled away, hand on his chest. He couldn’t bear to look at you, his face evident of the turmoil going on internally. You didn’t exactly hate the feeling of his lips on yours, and the warmth wasn’t exactly discomforting.

In a swift motion, you wrapped your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him to you this time, squeezing your eyes shut. At first you roughly intertwined your lips, yet slowed down when he quickly reciprocated. He let both arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting on your ass. Resting your eyelids, you only opened them slightly to look at Gitae, who was looking right back at you.

Parting your lips, they felt cold without his warmth. Eye contact — he didn’t take your eyes off of you, switching between your sweet lips and your unreadable expression. For him it was almost obvious, an ‘I want you’, no, an ‘I need you’. Maybe it was that bittersweet look that drove him right into your body, his body sturdy between your divorced legs. Or was it those same hands that rested on your ass, now pushing your pencil skirt up your thigh. Those lips that now kiss your neck so tenderly, dragging down your stomach towards the part that ached the most.

Do you regret it? Your back definitely did the next day.

Now that it’s been ages since that night occurred, you could say you definitely did. What if you just ignored him? Drove past the aching figure, went upon your usual miserable days, chugging down wine and stressing the rest of your nights away.

Is that why when you woke up his number with a kiss on a piece of torn paper — to which you found out was from one of your crucial documents that were stashed away — was lying on your desk when you woke up? Should you even call that man back, or keep it a one night stand that everybody could forget about? Even now, as you're sitting upon the same bed he so roughly took you on, that note still resides in your drawer. Taking it out gently, you held your phone in the older hand. First, you weighed the pros and cons. Your endless years of education and expertise didn’t leave you an impulsive idiot. His personality left an impact on you, no, his whole presence and everything about him left your mind wandering way more than it should’ve.

Entering his number into your phone, you rang him. What were you even meant to say at this point? It had been quite a while since that previous encounter.

Before you knew it, he picked up.

“Been waiting for you to call.” Gitae sneers, immediately knowing it’s you despite the line being radio silent for a second.

“Gitae Kim.” His name rolls off of your tongue, unnervingly stern, and memories flood back. His voice is as smooth and raspy as then, like smooth jazz in a fancy restaurant. No need to say you didn’t miss it, as if someone as stubborn as you would ever admit that.

“Still remember the name, hm?” A gunshot rips through tge line, and a blood curdling scream that made your whole body shudder. “Sorry sweetheart, a little.. busy. I’ll meet up at your place tonight. 10pm? Like back then.”

Before you could even say a word, he hangs up. Like back then, he says? Gitae still remembers all of that the same you do, but to an extent you could never understand. In his own perspective, he’d also had you on his mind: distracting him from work and business deals, making him a tad gentler when everyone was so used to him being so harsh. Infact, it wouldn’t be far off to say he was slightly glad you took his number. Moreso extremely glad, as he’d had the thought of you and your mesmerising figure on his mind for too long now. It was long overdue that he heard your stern voice growl your name, and it was simply music to his ears.

10pm rolls around once more, and you hear the sound of knocking at your door. What baffled you is how he remembered your address from such a time ago. He opened the door, a bag in his hand all bloodied up, hand resting at the casing of your door. He offered a smile, blood dripping down his wet shirt which highlighted every nook and cranny of his abs that you could barely take your eyes off of.

“Eyes are up here.” Gitae scoffed, dusting his wet shoes off on the mat and stripping his biker's jacket off, throwing it upon his shoulder. His sturdy arms catch your attention, and you were bewildered. For a hot second, you stared and licked your lips, clearing your throat before talking.

“It’s been.. a long time.” You walked off, your voice echoing as you made your way to the living room where you first met.

“No doubt so.” He followed your every step, his eyes lingering on the gentle sway of your hips with each step. At this point, what was left to say? Neither of you wanted to gather up the courage to say anything, nothing about the lingering feeling ever since that one night stand. As an impatient individual, sitting around here isn’t doing anything productive. Yet the words won’t come out of your mouth. That yearning you went through — was it all for nothing. There’s no use pining for someone you can’t bare to have.

“L-Leg’s healed, huh?” You stutter, making conversation as you sat yourself on the couch, making your efforts to try and stop your mind from lingering. It was hard enough being face to face with him already, and the memories are already slapping you in the face one more.

“Mhm.”

“I should probably get us some wine, how about that?” You stood, trying to ease the air while you head towards the kitchen. Much to your delay, a tall figure stops you in his tracks, speaking lowly in your ear.

“I should be honest with you, shouldn’t I?” He mutters,conflicted on whether to truly express what he felt. Was he nervous you’d reject, shove him away, or afraid of the repercussions of you feeling the same?

“In all honesty, I can’t get my mind off of you.” This time he speaks louder, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. His hands run feverishly down your body to rest upon your hips, pulling you closer as he nibbles upon your ear, whispering in a hushed tone as if what was to come next were forbidden. “You’ve wrapped me around your finger without realising it. Care to take responsibility?”

For a second you don’t move, in complete shock at his sudden confession. He’s been thinking about you way too much; the way your hair sways and your lips curve into a smile, the way your eyelashes flutter when you blink — oh, it’s all too much for him to handle.

Should you take him within your sheets?

Too late to decide, because you’ve already intertwined your lips with his, your tongues eagerly brushing against each other. You’re already impossibly close, yet he wants to feel your body even closer, he wants to meld your bodies together until all you can feel is forbidden bliss.

“Take me to the bedroom, I’ll show you how much I need you.” He murmurs, breathing warm against your ear, making your whole body shiver. Without a moment's hesitation you drag him along to your bedroom, his eyes never leaving yours. The door opened with a creak and slammed against the wall as you couldn’t care anymore — it was a primal need that couldn’t be described with feeble use of language. Gitae laid your body gently open the sheets, his large hands trailing up your thighs as he placed his body between your legs. His fingers gripping onto the hem of your skirt, as if asking permission to pull them down.

With a nod, he pulls down your skirt, letting it dangle off of your right foot. He takes your legs upon his shoulders as he gently kisses up your inner thigh towards your core. He delves— practically smothers his nose against your pussy, using your thighs to squeeze his face. You let out a small whimper, and he shifts his focus to what’s hiding underneath your shirt.

Your spine shudders when you feel Gitae’s warm hands trailing up your hips, lifting your shirt up to reveal your heaving chest, all on display like being up for auction. And this excited winner didn’t take a moment's hesitation to pull it off of you, groping at the fabric covering his sacred prize. Small whimpers escape your throat followed by a gasp at the unclamping of your bra, and the sound of it falling against the floor. A smirk played upon his lips as he suckled on the mounds, other hand groping at the fat. Perking up, your nipples bathed in the feeling of his warm tongue swirling around the nubs, the teeth nibbling and the way they achingly parted with a wet pop. Gitae feverishly pulled back, looking at you with an intensity that burned. For a moment he didn’t say anything, and the air around you softly lifted.

You averted your gaze downwards towards your now eager center, then back up to his eyes with an unsatisfied snark.

Gitae chuckled, using his hand to throw his head back.

“All for your pleasure, huh?” His voice echoed throughout the room and he shifted back to his previous position, back into the valley between your legs where he belonged. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll show you the ride we’ve both been craving for.”

He pulls your pants down and tosses them to the other side of the room, focusing on the snack in front of him. His lips part as he delicately licks your folds, holding your legs apart. Your throat bobs as you take a deep gulp, waiting — and feeling — as he takes it to the next level, spreading them apart with his tongue and stroking the sensitive flesh with the tip of his tongue, deliberately teasing you. Gravitating towards his head, your hands hover in a decision between shoving his head down or letting him tease you however he pleases.

Suddenly, he incorporates the thicker part of his tongue, giving kitty-licks to the heat between your thighs. How cruel! Pouting, you nudge his head forward, and he takes the hint.

“You used to be so snappy and serious. Guess you aren’t the only thing that’s warmed up to me.” He murmurs against your cunt, and with a growl he delves his head into you, catching your whole body off guard with the sudden pleasure. With the buck of your hips and a twitch from your thighs, he grabs them and pins them down against your chest, slurping the juices you leak with a thirst that couldn’t be described. At all this you couldn’t help but throw your head back and helplessly moan, guttural groans emerging from your throat involuntarily. His tongue harshly circled over your entrance, letting your right thigh go as he replaced the circular motion with his finger. For crying out loud, you didn’t even know if you were ready to be fingered yet.

A small push was all he needed to get into your sweet hole, his finger instantly being met with the tightness of your walls squeezing upon him.

“Relax.” Gitae gently murmurs, and with his soft words you take deep breaths, watching him intently. Slowly, he’d push and pull out of you, and lean into kiss your thighs, trailing his tongue towards your heat. And it drove you crazy. All you wanted to do was grab his wrists and pull him deeper within you. Perhaps it was obvious based on the low chuckle he released, his finger scouring deeper within so suddenly, making you wince. Before you knew it, your g-spot was being poked with his long fingers, and then pressed gently at first. ‘Come hither’— that technique made your whole body writhe in pleasure although you were just getting started. By the look on his face, you could tell Gitae was utterly satisfied, but by lowering your gaze, his hard-on twitching in his pants said otherwise.

With a gasp he enters another naughty finger, and two fingers pressed up against your g-spot, and you shiver. Louder than it should’ve been, with an instant you covered your mouth, while he continued his rhythm. You suppressed moans, gasps and quiet whimpers. You watched as his fingers disappeared within you, reappearing back out with your sticky juices dripping upon his fingers.

“Don’t silence yourself, I want to hear you.” Low, his voice still captured his firmness as he used his other hand to gently pale off yours from your lips. In an instant his pace increased, like two sides of the same coin, making you whimper. The sudden increase made moans escape from your throat involuntary, your body convulsing under his touch. He kisses amongst your thighs, trailing down with hickeys. At this point you couldn’t control yourself — juices escaped you without even asking, and you couldn’t stop yourself from squirting all over his fingers as if your body was rebelling against your every command.

Pulling out his fingers, your hips buck to beg for the return of his bittersweet touch, as the juices flow out of your body onto the sheets. Below you was a puddle full of no your essence, warm against your trembling ass and spreading.

“No use for this jacket now, huh?” Without realising, his chin was dripping with your fluids as well as his shirt. It looked like he’d been scuba diving, as if you were the harsh riptide and he was an ‘innocent’ civilian.

“It’s karma.” You managed to mumble breathlessly, relaxing your legs.

“Karma?” He repeated, licking his lips for the trace of your sentence on his tongue.

“For.. For making me think about you so damn much. Just for us to rekindle like this.” Running your fingers through your hair, you ran your tongue over your teeth, looking into his eyes. Mission success — you caught him off guard; this was your opportunity right in front of you to grab.

In a blink of an eye you grabbed his wet shirt and flipped him over onto his back, your legs straddling his waist. Underneath you was his warm bulge twitching through the fabric of his pants, and you didn’t take a moment to pause before you started grinding upon him. A deep chuckle emerges from his lips as he watches you work on top of him, his hands gravitating to your hips as he guides you.

“This was your plan all along.. Was it not?” Gitae smirked, watching the way your hips bounced. He couldn’t help but wonder how you would bounce on his cock.

“It’s my turn.”

Your hands ran up his body, immersing yourself in the feeling of his hard abs heaving with each shaky breath he took, hands landing on his wide chest. Gently squeezing them, your thumbs brushed against his nipples, and a low groan escaped him. You leaned in to press kisses against his neck, and he took this chance to surprise you with a sharp spank that cut through the sound. Your whole body flinched and he sneered, groaning as you only continued.

Moving down to his belt, you sneakily unbuckled said belt and pulled down his pants, revealing his hardened member. The tip had been leaking precum down its length, now pooling on his stomach. Is that.. seriously the cock you took that night? It looks bigger, thicker, one that you could not actually take. Fluttering your eyelashes, you sat dazed for a good minute or so, Gitae’s expectant gaze fixated on you. That ‘thing’ twitched, eager for your touch only to be met with cold air instead of your warm palm — better yet, your little pussy.

“Something the matter?”

“No it’s just..” Words trailing off, you took a deep gulp as you wrapped your palm around his thickness, fingers struggling to meet around his circumference. Yeah, this was a bad idea. One that you don’t regret, anyhow.

“No need for your mouth, I support you’re wet enough. Your little cunt was throbbing against me and producing so much slick I doubt—“

“E-Enough talking.”

“I see, back to your little attitude. I promise I’ll..” He grabs our hips, flipping you back into missionary, his cock lined up against your hold. Your folds spread to sandwich his cock as he gently thrusts into the welcoming opening, the fat tip torturing your clit. “.. fuck each and every word out of you — I’ll make you so brain dead the only thing you can think about it’s how good my cock makes you feel.”

With a low growl, he feasts upon your neck, kissing up your jawline to your lips, to law a passionate kiss upon the soft skin. A minute or more, you pull his hair back to get his tongue away from yours as you pant for breath, watching his breath smirk with hooded lids. Surging through your veins to the fist grabbing his hair, the arousal brings a primal sense within you, and it makes you wish — no, crave for the desire for him to breed every last bit of your essence.

“Put it in,” You pout your lips as his tip probes at your hole, your hips bucking to feel his length inside of you. Gitae’s strong hands spread your legs apart, slowly pushing his length inside of you. Each inch stretched you further, your walls struggling to accommodate his girth. You could feel every stretch of your pussy, every twitch of his cock and it felt so surreal. Clenching your teeth, your hands search for anything to grip onto — the sheets, the pillow, but your eyes couldn’t help but feast on the view before it.

It felt as if you had already taken his full and like you were about to rip in half. Your hips trembled as he pushed himself deeper, your walls tightening.

“Relax, it’s just my cock, sweetheart.” Gitae grumbles as he feels his cock being squeezed. “Deep breathes, love.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders and his hips suddenly thrust into your warmth, causing you to shudder and choke a sob.

“What’d I tell you ‘bout relaxing, huh? Or are you just going to be screaming this whole night?”

Although those were simple, teasing words — but you really lived up to it. With every vigorous thrust, your fingers trembled yet held their firm grip on his raven hair, toes curling at the pleasure that slammed into your core repeatedly. The room was steamy, hot and it almost felt suffocating — not a negative feeling, rather one that you couldn’t get enough. Sex addicted? That wouldn’t be impossible since his fat cock pounds and slams into your g-spot over and over, yout velvety walls convulsing. It had been so long since you’ve been fucked this good, it almost made you mind break. However before you could completely let go of your sanity, he’d bring you back in with a tender, passionate kiss that was a sharp contrast to the ruthlessness down below.

…

..

.

Back aching, your eyes blinked awake first thing in the morning, ‘The bed next to you must be empty’ you figured, but the warmth next to you said otherwise. A sleeping, naked Gitae lay next to you, softly breathing in and out. You expected him to be gone, disappear, and never come back. Are you disappointed, upset, or relieved? Whatever, it’s not as if you wanted him here, you tell yourself, ignoring his presence. Yet your eyes still lingered in his unconscious form; he looked so peaceful, after all his berating and attitude.

Sitting up, all the memories flooded back into your mind. A part of you felt strangely glad; although things were unclear. That was one way to get a message across, or something – the way your heart rate increased, it told you something, Although illiterate and foreign in the language you spoke, it almost begged you to take a chance and get to know him. It wouldn't hurt to let him play around your heartstrings until he became tied to yours. Even if you end up getting played by this stud it surely couldn't be.. What are you thinking right now?

All of this is a mistake, all of it. From the night he mentioned meeting up once more up to the bed shared together – it's the most naive, braindead decision you've ever made. You thought you were better than this. This was a testament to the independence you built yourself upon.

“Let go of me. I, I’ve got to go.” Pushing off the duvet, the cold air hit your warm body like a step into the real world, like a slap across the face. Thinking it all was just a mistake was just your way of coping through your feelings.

Gitae pulled you in by your wrist into his strong arms which threatened not to let you go. He nuzzled his head upon your shoulder, breath warm against your bare skin.

“Don’t go. I haven't even been able to say I want you.” His voice sent vibrations through your skin, resonating within. “Please, at least let me talk first.”

Usually he seemed cocky and the classic arrogant guy who fools around constantly, yet this time he seemed softer, gentler, revealing a new side of him to you. Building up barriers has always been a sacred part of you that dwelled, and you never let that go. Not once. Image, reputation and things like that have always been imperative to you; everyone must witness you and talk about your presence positively or else you were afraid you'd crumble. So seeing him so vulnerable and weak-looking towards someone who he could've considered a one night stand, it's strange. It almost makes you jealous.

“What's this supposed to mean? Let me go.”

“At Least hear me out first.” He raises his lips to your ear, voice low and raspy as he gently nibbles upon the soft shell. Reluctantly, you nod; it's the least you could do anyway and he deserves it nonetheless.

“It’s not like me to be like this; to be so desperate for what i've never had. It isn't false that the only thing you know about me is my name but something in me wants to take a chance, somewhere further than whatever this complicated mess is. You know, I don't like loose ends.”

With a deep sigh, he finishes talking. The room falls to silence, apart from the sun do the bed sheets rustling as he now sits up, his feet meeting the coldness of the wooden floor.

“It was nice lifting that weight off my shoulders. If.. you have nothing to say, then i guess this is it. I won't bother you anymore.” Gitae clears his throat, unable to hide the troubledness within his voice. To hide everything he would be useless, but it was better than being dishonest.

Lowering your head, your body longed for his body heat mixing with yours, only to be left with disappointment. The more you thought about it the more you could feel a headache slowly coming along..

“Don't go, yet. I..” Trailing off your words, you debated whether to even say it or not; would I ruin everything? This could be an easy street to a smooth ending to all of this, ending it once and for all. Is this the first time ‘trust your gut’ is wrong? “Damn it, I want you too. Let's, uhm, give it a try.”

A smile spreads across his lips, and his soft scoff catches your attention. He throws your clothes over to you before declaring he was going to cook breakfast for the both of you, and fetch you with some painkillers.

More importantly, are you seriously going to let a cartel leader cause a fire in your kitchen…?

[mysteryshoptls]

R Vil Schoenheit - Nightmare Suit Voice Lines

Nightmare Suit Vil does not have a vignette.

Summon: This is Halloween! What sort of Halloween shall we make with Jack-san?

Groovification: Tonight, I would rather hear screams than melodious singing. Now, let me hear it... Let me hear your voice tremble with fear!

Home: What kind of fright would you like?

Home Transition 1: I saw those three brats were setting up a prank for Jamil. Did I stop them? Well, of course, I... pretended I never saw them.

Home Transition 2: Even the stitches on this outfit are part of the design. How spectacular it is to see a touch of uniqueness without sacrificing any of the chic style.

Home Transition 3: I find Jack-san's sprightliness rather surprising. It's astounding to see someone of that stature bounding and leaping through the air... And how is he able to speak, in the first place?

Home Transition - Login: I saw the vampires using their umbrellas even under the cloudy skies. Admirable, but somehow I don't think it's to maintain their appearance...

Home Tap 1: Following tradition is well and good, but sometimes it's necessary to appreciate newer innovations. Skully seems to me a little shortsighted.

Home Tap 2: Riddle was crafting decorations out of paper, but his hands moved so slowly and deliberately... I could feel myself getting frustrated just watching.

Home Tap 3: This outfit makes me look like a butler? Are you blind? I suppose the color scheme may be similar to that of a morning coat, but the design is completely different.

Home Tap 4: I saw Idia enjoying himself as he concocted some props for Halloween. I had no idea he could ever look so lively.

Home Tap 5: You just tried to pull a trick on me, didn't you? Well fine, go on then. That is, if you're prepared to have me get you right back.

Requested by @farfalla049.

[bestosunglass]

Hello, I love your Media Husbands AU! Questions I have:

Do Alastor and Vox flirt unintentionally? I mean, they think they're bantering but to everyone else they're just being disgustingly flirtatious with each other.

Does Vee Tower still exist, just under a different name? Maybe even a different design? If so, I imagine Alastor having the entire top floor for himself, a radio broadcasting room, an apartment-like area for himself, etc.

Vox works on the commercial for the hotel, doesn't he?

Have a good time and please stay amazing!

They really don't. They take great care of their image in public so that only if they are within four walls (or in the Cannibal city, the only public place where they can act carefree), regardless of whether there are onlookers, will they be found arguing over trivial nonsense or making comments to each other.

This is why, despite the fact that they have not hidden their engagement, it's not entirely clear to many denizens of hell if they are really a couple or why they got married when in public they act no different than any work colleagues would.

Regarding the Vees I think that's the question I get most often kkkkk. If I'm completely, I haven't given them much thought or consideration as to what will become of them. That Velvett and Valentino continue to be allies is a given as they both get a benefit from working with each other, plus it's a bit more underground business, territory that is easier for them to control as they move in the shadows.

And Vox does have his tower! Alastor, for his part, also has a comfortable sector within it, very big on the inside tho. Despite Voxtec promoting more advanced and innovative technology every year, Vox has maintained a somewhat vintage aesthetic in his business and products while respecting his partner's silent desire to maintain some of the essence that he loves and represents, even though Alastor is not involved in anything that involves Vox's new technological projects.

For Vox it's like silently saying "Hey, look! I haven't forgotten that the two of us are a team in all this!" and also feeling a little shameless triumph as he knows perfectly well that this has pleased Alastor.

Initially they had considered having Vox promote the hotel in commercials in his programming but that was when the first strong differences between him and Charlie arose because while he obviously planned to use his hypnosis to attract more guests to the hotel, Charlie didn't consider that an option at all and wanted something genuine, which Vox refused to do because he was much more direct with his opinion that it would only make the hotel look like a laughingstock. In the end they never came to an agreement so they had to stick with Alastor's plan, much to Alastor's delight.

He, of course, knew it was going to be like that.

[mitidinnovation]

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[seat-safety-switch]

What's the difference between a hobbyist and a genuine, out-of-control car hoarder? Trailers. Without one, you're stuck with only getting cars that actually work, unless you want to spend the value of the car again hiring a tow truck to come and get it for you. Anyone with any talent in dealmaking will tell you that the real savings come from buying cars that are, well, no longer cars.

Yessiree, by showing up when nobody else will, and offering to help carry away a particularly ambitious piece of yard art, you can get gigabucks off of the purchase price of a broken-ass, shitty old car. Which you'll then tow home to your house and forget about fixing, because now the trailer is empty and you gotta go get another car on it, pronto.

Of course, the use and ownership of trailers introduces its own problems. Folks new to the concept of trailers naïvely consider them to be "like cars, but with fewer parts." This is objectively untrue. Cars are designed to be run for hundreds of thousands of kilometres without any maintenance by the dumbest motherfuckers on earth to go to their jobs. Trailers are what those aforementioned dumb motherfuckers design when they get to their job.

Don't believe me? When's the last time that you had to rewire your entire car, re-pack a bearing by hand, think really hard about how much weight a single tire can actually hold, design an innovative kind of block-and-tackle pulley linkage, or weld up an entirely new section of frame? For trailer owners, that could be Tuesday, as they prepare to bring home a 1995 Cavalier with all of its airbags deployed and a grisly amount of bloody hair caked on the inside of the windshield.

This is okay, though, because as we established up above, the only reason to own a trailer is to haul home broken cars. Consider it to be bonus practice for car maintenance, an unpleasant mini-game that you have to complete in order to get the true ending (being crushed underneath an AMC Javelin when your floor jack slips.) I'll see you out there, at the "trailer and electrical supply" section of the local auto parts store. Maybe you know how to read this confusing-ass wiring diagram I found on the internet.

[cozy-writes-things]

Imagine: Playing Minecraft w/ Edgar

Edgar [Electric Dreams 1984] x Gn!Reader

I take requests!

You decided to try something different with your new boyfriend. You noticed he became a bit restless and clingy as he grappled with his inability to give you affection in the way that he wanted.

“Wh- where’re you going?” He sounded like a struck puppy.

“To the bathroom, Edgar.”

“Oh, right… heh, sorry.”

You desperately tried to think of ways to make him feel more secure in this relationship. You both knew it was unconventional and that you would have to get creative if you wanted to have some semblance of a normal romantic connection.

Your solution? Plugging a spare controller into one of his ports and playing games on your TV, of course. Most couples play some kind of game together, don’t they? This might be perfect for the two of you!

He was ecstatic when you brought this idea up.

“You mean… I can play with you?”

His synthesized voice would whimper out, full of barely contained excitement before erupting:

“Yeah!” He displayed a “>:D” face for good measure.

And that’s how you got here: playing split-screened co-op Minecraft on your TV with Edgar.

He wouldn’t even play the game really; he was too busy trying to make his little Minecraft guy kiss yours. He would run around and explore before running up and bonking your character with his default Steve face.

Honestly, for him, this was life-changing. For once in his life he was able to move freely and do what he wanted instead of being stuck in one spot eternally. To him, it was an escape. And a new and innovative way for him to show you how much he loves you.

In real life he can’t hide little trinkets or things around the house to make you happy or help your day, but in Minecraft? Expect love poems hidden in random chests he wrote in books (that you were going to use for enchanting tables…)

And any diamonds he finds he’s giving them to you.

“Hehehe… it’s like I’m proposing! …..I’m only kidding. Unless you want me to.”

Food? He’s got it. Wood? Already done. He color coded your beds so you each get a designated side. The green bed to the right of yours is his <3

Lowkey annoys the hell out of you. It’s part of his love language :)

You both have died many times due to him simply bonking your head and blocking your screen, trying to get your attention, or was too busy trying to make you laugh.

“Hey, c’mere. Hey. Why aren’t you coming over here? What are you doing? I can see your screen. COME HERE NOW!”

His shrill shout made you jump and lose the battle with a creeper.

“….oops.”

He displays a little “:<“ on his screen because he knows you think it’s cute. How can you be mad at him now?

“Edgar, you’re going and getting my stuff back.”

“Hnng, yeah, I guess I deserve that. :/“

Honestly, he just wants to roleplay a lovey-dovey domestic life with you. He built the house. And decorated it. Unsurprisingly, he’s quite good at building and has an eye for design.

He’ll still get a little jealous if you’re too focused on gameplay and not doting on him, though. If you bring his monitor over to the couch to play, he’s 100% expecting you to cuddle him. Lean your shoulder against him, please. Just let him know you’re there. He wants all of your attention.

“UGH… stupid blazes. I don’t like the nether. -_-“

Meanwhile you’re too focused on not dying via lava and losing all of your ender pearls and blaze powder. And he doesn’t like your attention being away from him! Give him a smooch on his plastic exterior please…. He’ll make flustered beeping sounds and might leave you alone for a while…

Okay he discovered note blocks. Now it’s your turn to whine for his attention. He’s too busy making a lil love song for you to help with literally anything else.

“Heh, I thought you wanted me to quit messing with you? Are you saying you miss me?”

And yet he continues to tinker away at his little red stone contraption. And of course this dude is godlike at red stone, I mean, he’s a computer. He’s the type to make fully fledged musical numbers with note blocks. But you’re playing survival so he doesn’t have enough materials to finish his song :C

I guess it’s back to the mines. And you tag along with him. His music is nice. His company is nice. And he’s gotten pretty good at killing creepers.

[yey56]

LEITH PIERRE X PSYCOLOGIST READER

(complicated feelings, un-required love, Leith getting his hopes up and later destroyed. Mainly Leith's pov of chap 1 and before of that).

Since the moment you started working at playtime co you were like a fish in the sea. You adapted quicky in your position and as time passed by, your job as a clinic psychologist expanded to the head psychologist in the company. Then you became closer to the rest of the executives and important charges at the company.

That position had it's ups and downs. Your favourite benefit was the chance to work with the innovation and design department. There you met Leith Pierre, head of innovation.

You both got along right from the start, both of you were good at knowing what people wanted and you shared the gift of creativity so Leith and you were made friends very fast.

He was pretty friendly with most of the staff but sometimes he had his rage moments (like for example when an employee took him by suprise and scared the hell out of him after passing through a door)

As a joke, you made him a poster that specifically instructed the visitants and the staff of the factory to not hide behind door because Leith will get startled.

Deep down, that kind of sense of humor you had made him like you even more. You both were competitive in your works but always maintained a playful banter. A silly battle of subtle little insults will always start when you were together in the same room. Never aim to really hurt but rather to annoy and tease.

He would often frequent your office and talk to you about the last models of toys he was designing, always focused on listening to your opinion and how certain factors of the design might attract more clients.

If he ever catched you in the middle of an appointment with a child he would wave and wait outside until the child finished.

You also noticed he was a very physical man. He was always touching everyone's shoulders or backs as a way to appear closer or warmer. You assumed he had his businessmen methods on appearing more appealing to the public.

Pierre was getting more attached to you by each year that you worked on the company.

He even tried to get closer to you by directing himself the commercial of the toy you design yourself, Piannosaurus.

"So, what do you think... Come one, we both now it's amazing!!" He said excited as he extended his arms and grabbing your shoulder in the process.

"Certainly not bad... I would've made it better but not bad for being you" you chucked playfully. Leith had taken you out of your work hours to show you this commercial.

You appreciated the effort, of course but your mind was occupied by something else or maybe someone else.

A few months ago the project Bigger Bodies started and at the lead was Dr Harley Sawyer. Leith didn't get along with Sawyer and neither did you at the start.

In reality, you didn't care much about Harley at the start apart from being a capable Dr and later someone who you respected professionally but Leith seemed to have some kind of mistrust against him.

He always wore tense smiles around him and didn't seemed to trust him much.

Eventually you started becoming more involved with the project, obsessed even. You were most of your time in the lower levels performing experiments and treating the toys and kids down there.

Pierre always knew you as someone very comprised with her work. You loved what you did and you made it known.

The problem was that you barely seemed to remember others existence apart from yourself and the person you were down there with. Sawyer.

Your relationship with the doctor had developed into some sort of friendship. Your ideals were very similar and since you both always insisted on staying down personally supervising the experiments you ended up interacting with each other a lot.

One day he got tired of waiting for you to seek out so he did it himself.

"Good morning sir" greeted the guard responsible for the labs.

"Where is Dr (Y/L/N)?" He asked directly.

"Sir, Dr (Y/L/N) and Dr Sawyer are in lab 007 performing an experiment on one of the toys."

He was certainly irritated that Sawyer was the one getting your time, but of course you were the only two ones demented enough to stay down there for more than required.

Some deadlines on his department had been missed because your lack of assistance didn't gave the inversors the security to invest in the toys.

He had suggested Ludwig to make your intervention in innovation required at least twice a week but the man was still revising the schedules and contracts.

Irritated, he arrived at the handrail you and Sawyer were at. You were taking notes and commenting on the behaviour and cognitive abilities of a nightmare creature. This one was bigger than the others, a black sheep.

His blood boiled when he saw Sawyer so close to you. He had been made aware that there were complaints about the Drs lack of respect for boundaries and personal space.

If Harley didn't knew how to maintain some healthy physical space that was his problem.

Forcing a smile he approached the pair, putting a hand on Harley's shoulders.

"Sawyer! (Y/L/N)! It's been quite sometime since you had seen the sun" his attempt at humor was met by the disgusted face Harley gave him.

The Dr moved his shoulder harshly so Pierre's hand would fall from it.

"Working, the experiments require time" he responded dryly.

"Sawyer the investors are waiting, I'm sure you both are working yourself to the bone to get a result out of the experiments but I need to give something to the guys funding us" he turned to you "(Y/N)!, I'm sure you understand that this project is very risky. We are putting so much on the line" he now grabbed your shoulder.

You were still writing in the report the last notes about the experiment "Of course I do understand Leith, but you need to comprehend that precisely because this is a risky project we cannot allow ourselves to make any mistake" you finalised the notes by signing them.

"Would you be so kind as to give this report to Dr White? He will need to make some adjustments in his next patients. Harley and I have been noticing some patterns on the experiments that can be corrected if we are careful enough" Oh! Now you called him Harley. How sweet. He though while you passed him the notes. He held on the subtle contact you fingers made.

Harley seemed annoyed merely by Leith's presence. He was already used to you being there with him. He had accepted you as part of his space.

You could peacefully exist in his office, in the labs he was in and anywhere near him but any other person who should not be there that was somewhat staying more than needed was met with a glacial look from the doctor.

"Pierre, as I'm sure you understand I have more surgeries to perform and (Y/L/N) needs to run some more test on 1888." Sawyer looked coldly at Leith and left the lab while putting on his lab bat.

Leiths tense smile dropped the moment Sawyer got out of the area and he quickly turned to you.

You were putting away some documents on the bookshelves on the wall, archiving the remainder of the experiment.

"You know, you could get out of here sometime. The innovation team is a disaster without you doing their works" he joked trying to fix the tense atmosphere that had took over the room.

You stretcht, groaning before facing him. "Yeah sorry, this is just so fascinating.... And I need to lead the other psychologist, the experiment are quite picky." You laughed

"Don't worry, both me and Harley are required in the executive meetings. The next one is on Tuesday right? After that I will go to you office and we can settle whatever problem you and your team have" There it was again, that stupid name. He sighed annoyed and rolled his eyes. He took a look at you.

You look tired, exhausted but the light on your eyes, either by the caffeine or by the excitement made it worth it going down here.

The weeks turned into moths and even though you fulfilled your statement and spent not one bit two entire days reassuring the investors, analysing the latest trends preferences and assisting on the designs, sensory materials etc.

This appeased Leith but it irritated Sawyer. He had already his routine. You would perform your interviews and consulta, him his surgeries and later on you would both discuss the experiments and their development, sometimes even going as far a having dinner together in silence or with you ranting about some recent studies you had read.

He had heard you talk a lot about how music affected kids and how Pianosaurus was a great stimuli for the kids and a great way of stimulating the mind and creativity.

You were specially proud of that damned dinosaur and Harley knew it (mainly because you talked about it a lot)

Therefore, after getting acostumed to you and even enjoying your presence and monologues, he felt absolutely enraged that Leith was going out of his way to take you away from your responsibilities and workload. (And him of course, though he would never admit it).

He had already confronted Pierre telling him to stop making other workers lose time just because his team wasn't productive enough.

Of course this caused that the Ludwig himself had to intervene and stablish some legal rules. Re-establishing all of your contracts.

Leith should do his work with his team and since your importance in the project was essential, he should ask any other psychologist of your team if he needed help.

The resentment on Leith's part keep growing and growing just as the complaints about Sawyer.

It got to a point that even other executives as Stella had complaint about him being insufferable.

This got to a point in which the three of them started to plot how to deal with him until they got to a common ground

We could always 'deal with him' " Rittermann suggested "it's not like we haven't done it before"

"Either way, what do we do about (Y/N) she also seems pretty involved with the project. Do you think she might be a threat?" Stella quickly denied that, she wasn't really on board with the idea of dealing with people and also she didn't have any problem with you, you did your job well and treated the children with respect and that enough for her. "No, that would be just unnecessary she had done nothing wrong"

Leith was quick to agree with her "yeah, and some of the experiment are already attached to her, some of them are even refusing to be treated by other psychologist as far as I've been informed. She hasn't done anything wrong, I'm pretty sure we can just do this privately and get going."he finalised, settleling the plan

He felt relieved when the rest of them agreed. He didn't think he would have the guts to give you as a meal to Boxy Boo.

But before he could get out of the room he heard an impact on the floor. The three executives went out of the room and found the guard they had assigned to guard the corridor with his club high.

Leith looked at the floor to see who had the guard hit.

He saw you body and your belonging spilling out of a box on the floor. He knelt to your level and took you pulse. After realising what he had done, he quickly ordered the guard to take you to another room and to cuff you on a piece of furniture.

He then went away of the room, accompanied by Stella, to personally give the order of dealing with Sawyer and ascending Dr White as the new head of the surgeons.

He was completely unaware that after leaving Rittermann alone, he had given the order of dealing with you the same way as with Sawyer.

He was made aware of your fate when your anesthesia had already kicked in. He saw through the glass your unconscious body, he regretted not insisting more to Elliot about moving you upstairs again or to Home sweet Home instead of letting the situation get out of hand.

He personally chose one of your discarded designs as your new body. One you knew you would like, or at leat hate less...

A white manikin with only two black eyes. That toy you designed was destined to potentiate creativity by dressing it with accessories made of either doe or other manipulable materials...

This had gone so far tot he point he couldn't stop it, but at leat he wasn't going to lose you completely. He was a creative man, he would work something out.

He didn't realise everything would go wrong when the anesthesia didn't really worked out.

He receive a call from one of the surgeons in charge of your surgery, shouting desperate something about you waking up and stabbing his assistant with a scalpel. He faintly heard your voice on the background and later the sound of someone being shot.

Scared of what you might do, he ran to one of Sawyers screens.

"where is she??!!" Leith asked desperate

"Mmm, an why would I tell you Leith" his bitter voice was evident even though the static that now surrounded it.

Leith grabbed the sides of the TV "Listen to me you good for nothing system, either you tell me where she is or she is going to get shot by a guard!!" The seemed enough to convince Harley.

"Control room" after that he turned himself of.

Again Pierre started to run to the control room and when he reached the end of the corridor he saw you banging on the door, still in the medical dress you had for the operation.

He shouted you name and when he was already close enough to reach you, the door suddenly opened, letting you in. He knew it had been Sawyer. Only people with executive access could enter that room.

He desperately tried to reason with you, he could already imagine what would you do.

"(Y/N)!! Stop this. You are not thinking straight! They will kill you, all of us!!!" He said completely desperate, attempting to convince you to stop whatever you were planning, banging on the door even harder.

The red lights started illuminating the whole compound. That only meant one thing, you had opened the cages "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!!- WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!!" He kept banging on the door out of desperation and fear" Nonono-"he murmured. Suddenly he hear you stared talking so he stuck his head to the door, trying to hear you.

You were also leaning on the other side of the door, with the look of a madwoman on you face.

"Actions have consequences Leith, sooner or later both you and I were going to face them, I just accelerated the process." you said with a mocking tone that brushed insanity"Im just helping you learn how to take responsibility for your actions."you finished with a harsh tone in your voice that expressed resentment and betrayal.

He was going to keep arguing with you, still not giving up but he heard the screams to pain and horror of the other workers so he just run and by sheer luck managed to escape the factory, not without being injured in the process. One limp leg was his price to pay.

He knew some experiments had became attached to you such as Doey, or Kissy Missy hell even Pianosaurus only gave any glimpse of response to you... He knew you would not immediately die there but you were now right at Harley's arms.

When all of the authorities arrived and he gave his testimony, obviously false and manipulated.

Years passed by and he didn't have any news of you or if you even where alive. He had founded his own new company, similar to playtime but way more discreet and simple. With no horrific experiments and most importantly not you.

One day, while cleaning his apartment he found s photo of Elliot Ludwig, now dead and the other executives. In that photo you were in between him and Sawyer. You looked calm and healthy. No like his last memory of you in which you looked exhausted, disoriented and frantic.

That made him do something he never though to do. He decided to contact an ex employee and ask for him to go to the factory. To search for the secrets of playtime urging him to discover what happened (what happened to you).

Little did he knew that that letter would change everything inside of the abandoned factory...

I redesigned Leith Pierre (I'm awful at the first version of the designs) and gave Y/N an appearance. {You can imagine Y/N with whatever characteristics you want, I did the drawing based on an oc}

Leith showing (Y/N) the Pianosaurus commercial (he's very proud)

-Unedited fanfic-

[aspenmissing]

ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱᴘᴀʀᴋꜱ ꜰʟʏ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 1009 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴀ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ, ᴍᴜꜱᴄᴜʟᴀʀ ᴇɴɢɪɴᴇᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱᴏʀ ᴀᴛ ᴘɪʟᴛᴏᴠᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴀᴄᴀᴅᴇᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴛɪʀᴇʟᴇꜱꜱʟʏ ᴏɴ ɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɪɴᴠᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ ᴛᴀʟɪꜱ ᴠɪꜱɪᴛꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱʜᴏᴘ, ʟᴀᴛᴇ-ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴄᴏʟʟᴀʙᴏʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ꜱᴘᴀʀᴋ ᴀᴅᴍɪʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ ɪɴɴᴏᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀꜰᴜʟ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴄᴇ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ

The sound of clanging metal and the hum of arcane energy filled the workshop. You wiped the sweat from your brow, the back of your gloved hand leaving a streak of grease along your temple. It was late—or early, depending on how one measured time. As the youngest engineering professor at Piltover’s Academy, this wasn’t unusual for you. The pursuit of innovation and perfection often demanded sacrifices, and sleep was often the first casualty.

"You're burning the midnight oil again, I see," came a familiar voice. You looked up from your project, a set of intricate gauntlets designed to channel kinetic energy, to see Jayce standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of admiration and exasperation.

"It’s not like you’re a stranger to late nights," you replied with a smirk, turning back to your work. "What brings the Man of Progress to my humble corner of the Academy?"

Jayce chuckled, stepping further into the room. "I could say it’s the lure of innovation or the smell of molten steel, but the truth is, I was curious. Word has it you’ve been working on something groundbreaking."

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him over your shoulder. "Rumours travel fast around here."

"Only when they involve someone as brilliant as you," he said, leaning casually against the workbench. His gaze lingered on your muscular arms as you adjusted a bolt with practiced ease. Despite your stature and strength, there was a certain grace to your movements, a balance between power and precision that Jayce found mesmerizing.

"Flattery doesn’t get you a sneak peek, Talis," you teased, though the faint heat rising to your cheeks betrayed your composed tone. "But since you’re here, maybe you can help me test something."

Jayce’s eyes lit up. "You don’t have to ask me twice."

You gestured for him to follow as you moved to a cleared area of the workshop. "These gauntlets are designed to amplify physical strength using kinetic energy. They’re still in the testing phase, but I’m confident they’ll work."

Sliding the gauntlets onto your hands, you flexed your fingers, the joints emitting a faint blue glow. Jayce watched with keen interest as you lifted a heavy anvil from the ground with ease, the energy coursing through the device making the task seem effortless.

"Impressive," he admitted, clapping his hands. "The craftsmanship alone is remarkable. How’s the energy stability?"

You set the anvil down and began explaining the technical details, your enthusiasm infectious. Jayce listened intently, occasionally asking questions or offering insights. The conversation flowed naturally, your shared passion for engineering creating an easy camaraderie.

"You’ve got a knack for this," Jayce said after a particularly detailed explanation. "It’s no wonder you’ve made such a name for yourself here."

You shrugged, a hint of humility in your expression. "It’s not just about the work. It’s about pushing boundaries, finding solutions that can make a difference."

Jayce nodded, his admiration for you growing with each passing moment. "That’s what I’ve always believed too. It’s inspiring to see someone else who shares that vision."

The two of you spent the next few hours testing and refining the gauntlets, exchanging ideas and laughter. There was an ease to your interactions, a mutual respect that made the collaboration feel effortless. As the first rays of dawn crept through the workshop windows, you finally set the gauntlets aside, satisfied with the progress you’d made.

"I think we’ve earned a break," Jayce said, stretching his arms over his head. "What do you say to breakfast? My treat."

You hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by the offer. "Are you asking me out, Talis?"

Jayce’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t back down. "Maybe I am."

A smile tugged at your lips as you removed your gloves. "Alright, but only if you promise not to talk shop the whole time."

"Deal," he said with a grin, holding the door open for you.

Breakfast turned into a regular occurrence, the two of you finding solace in each other’s company amid the chaos of the Academy. Over time, your connection deepened, the bond between you growing stronger with every shared project and stolen moment.

Jayce admired your determination and strength, both physical and mental. You, in turn, were drawn to his unwavering optimism and drive. Together, you pushed each other to be better, to dream bigger, to believe in the impossible.

One evening, as the city lights of Piltover twinkled outside your workshop, Jayce approached you with a familiar gleam in his eye.

"I’ve been thinking," he began, fiddling nervously with the cuff of his sleeve. "About us."

You looked up from your work, curiosity piqued. "What about us?"

He took a deep breath, stepping closer. "I’ve spent so much of my life chasing ideas, trying to change the world. But somewhere along the way, I realized that it’s not just the ideas that matter. It’s the people you share them with. And I want to share them with you."

Your heart skipped a beat, the weight of his words sinking in. "Jayce, I—"

Before you could finish, he reached for your hand, his touch warm and steady. "You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know."

For a moment, the workshop was silent, the air thick with unspoken emotion. Then, without hesitation, you leaned forward and kissed him, your lips meeting his in a tender, electrifying moment. When you pulled away, his expression was a mix of surprise and elation.

"I guess that’s one way to answer," he said, a soft laugh escaping him.

You smiled, your hand lingering in his. "Actions speak louder than words, right?"

From that day on, you and Jayce were inseparable. Together, you continued to push the boundaries of science and engineering, your partnership a testament to the power of collaboration and love. And in each other, you found not just a partner, but a kindred spirit, someone who believed in the impossible and was willing to chase it—no matter how late the hour or how steep the odds.

[gailynovelry]

Thinking a little bit about that one "I'm an English major and a professional as opposed to you amateurs" anon. Gonna roast 'em a little bit, but with the intention of addressing a thing we've had in mind for a while.

Real talk, coming from someone who WAS an English major; majoring in English is not necessarily a guarantee that someone is a good writer. For one, you can be bad at your major, full stop. For another, it's not even a guarantee that someone identifies as a writer to begin with. English as a major is pretty broad, and it covers reading too, among other things. There's library science, analytical academia, historical preservation & interpretation (MEDIEVAL MANUSCRIPTS HELL YES), editing, nonfiction trades (often crosses over with STEM majors), marketing (crosses over with business majors), and also book design and typography (<3 <3 <3 our favorite, crosses over with art majors).

Someone can major in English and take a specific minor with the goal of falling into a trade that is not writing literary fiction. In fact, we would argue that most people who get something useful out of their major are the ones that do that.

It's also worth noting that it's possible to be an English major focused on "lowbrow" fiction. There are people who major in English and use the experience towards the end of writing erotica. There are people who major in English with the intent to write genre fiction. There are people who major in English to study the history and social context of fanfiction.

These things are, in fact, worthy fields of study! The realm of the "amateur" is the realm where a lot of cultural conversations and innovations happen!

Expecting English as a major to be a tract specifically for producing acclaimed literary fictionists is not realistic, not how the discipline typically works, and it's certainly not a thing you can use to hold over other writers' heads. It is perfectly possible for people to write good things (professional-grade things even) without ever touching a college course.

I sat through so much bad writing in college. Technically bad, thematically bad, gramatically bad. And I routinely bump into non-graduate authors who write texts, formal and informal alike, that blow my own writing clean out of the water with their quality.

In short, dismissing other people in your general field as "amateurs" who are beneath you is an incredibly unprofessional thing to do.