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sceletaflores · 19 days ago

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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 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 washing 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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djarinova · 24 days ago

Text

five times he wordlessly knows what you need and one time words are all he has — din djarin

˗ˏ✎ synopsis: a collection of moments between you and din that show your developing relationship and his ability to know what you need without so much as a word.

˗ˏcontent - pre relationship, slow burn, mutual feelings but they go unspoken, little bit of angst in the final part (reader is surrounded by mercenaries), canon typical violence, cute mando family moments

˗ˏwords - 882 + 1018 + 765 + 849 + 827 + 1438

˗ˏnotes - i started this in dec and got alll the way to the last part and my ability to write for him just disappeared... but im back babey (semi inspired by a conversation me and @stevebabey had before christmas)

one, the blanket —

Another shiver rakes your body, your skin prickles with bumps as it tries to help warm you, but you're too drawn into what's in front of you to notice. The child is ready and waiting for his last meal of the day, and as he stretches his little arms out towards your hand you see his mouth open with the tiniest yawn you've ever seen, and your heart sores. The little man is tired, you can see it in his movements—much slower than usual and lacking their typical cheekiness.

"It's okay buddy, you're almost there now, just a couple more bites and I'll get you all wrapped up for bed." You yawn, the child's tiredness is infectious, and you laugh a little at the way his eyes light up when you mention bed.

It’s not long before your promise is fulfilled. The child ate up every last bit of his dinner and he was so polite and well mannered that you gave him a glass of warm milk before tucking him into his soft sheets. He asked—although perhaps asked is the wrong word—for a bedtime story and of course you happily obliged. You read a short one, one of his favourites, and he was out like a light before you even made it halfway through the book.

You had wandered back to the makeshift dinner table and were now clearing up the plate, spoon and cup that had been left behind in the wake of the meal. There wasn't a lot of mess, so you let your mind wander as your hands got to work wiping and cleaning and washing. You spare only a second thought to the mandalorian, you know he's up in the cockpit at the moment, he so rarely shows himself during the child's dinner time—he proves to be a distraction more than anything else, to both you and the child—but it's clear to you that he wishes to be more present during meal times. Sometimes you think about how heavy the weight of his creed must be, and how it must hurt that he can't sit and eat with his family—the child... and you hope yourself—at mealtimes.

A deep thudding stirs you from your thoughts, your eyes feel heavy and the whip of wind is rattling against the outside of the crest—you must have landed somewhere, too preoccupied to notice. You turn your head towards the sound and you see the mandalorian disappearing down the hallway. He pokes his head through one doorway, as silently as he can, checking on the little one. You can hear the lightest of snores if you listen closely, and a smile graces your features at the thought of the mandalorian watching over the child as he sleeps.

The door to the child's sleeping quarters shuts softly, and the mandalorian spares a quick glance over to you—although you don't believe he will actually be able to see you properly, you still smile—before turning the other way and disappearing down the hallway. You lose sight of him quickly, and although you hear the far away sound of a door opening and closing you don't give it much thought.

You've just about finished clearing up when the sound of footsteps comes back into focus again. You don't turn to look this time, you've just got one last glass to put back in its place and then you'll be free to put yourself to bed for the night. You hear the mandalorian scuffling around behind you, then a soft pat, and then the sound of footsteps continues and he's leaving again, disappearing back down the hallway as fast as he had arrived. You're puzzled, but don't pay it too much mind. He's tired, and you all have a busy week ahead, you need all the rest you can.

You sigh, a good sigh, one that says ah, finally, I have finished my little tasks and I'm free to rest. The wind whips against the side of the crest again and it sends another shiver over you.

God, when did it get so cold?

You stretch your arms out in front of you, trying to get your muscles to relax a little and–my god, my hands! they're freezing!

You turn, intent on getting yourself into bed as fast as you can, when a flash of blue invades your periphery. You look around, as if trying to find the owner of this mysterious blue square or perhaps looking to make sure they wouldn't catch you as you wander slowly towards it. (Of course, you know who the owner is, if it's not yours—and it isn't—then there aren't really many other options for whose it can be). It’s possible, you suppose, that it could just be an old rag used for cleaning, or maybe discarded material from one of the mandalorian's old capes, although it's more likely to b—

Oh.

It's a blanket. Soft, navy, and a little tatty on the edges, but it's definitely a blanket.

You shiver again.

But... Did I forget that I brought that out with me? Surely I would've–

Oh.

A second realisation hits you.

Your cheeks warm and suddenly all of the Mandalorians shuffling and disappearing into doorways makes sense.

He was looking for this blanket.

Looking for this blanket, for you.

two, the breakfast —

Your eyes flutter open, and the gentle, warm light from the corridor floods your vision as you slowly sit up in your bed. You blink at the clock on the shelf next to your head, and it blinks back at you:

0822

You yawn. It's not late by any meaning of the word, but it's enough of a lie-in that your heart thumps a little faster than normal at the thought of the child patiently waiting for you to get him his breakfast. Mando would be busy by now; flying and plotting a course in the cockpit, talking with people about possible jobs on the spare comm-link in the far left side of the crest, cleaning his weaponry, or one of the other hundreds of things he busies himself with on the days he finds himself without a bounty to chase. You know he'd love to spend his mornings with the little fellow, talking with him and feeding him and cleaning up after him. But Mando's never been one for slow mornings, always preferring to get up and immediately start trying to provide.

You burrow to the bottom of the small cabinet by your bed, rooting around for a fresh set of clothes. You suppose it's possible that the child won't have even woken up yet, last night wasn't the easiest night for him. It was the first night in a while that bedtime had fallen while the crest was still mid-flight, which meant that Mando was tied up in the cockpit and you were on bedtime duty solo. And, to be fair to the little man, he had done well to begin with, you barely even noticed a change from his normal bedtime behaviour until the crest went through what you can only think to describe as a heavy patch of turbulence and then it all went a bit lopsided from there.

His blanket slipped out from his grasp, just as he was drifting off. The chill must have woken him up and even though the blanket was only separated from him for a few seconds it had snapped him back to being wide awake and you had had to calm him down once the ship began to shake again. The metal walls had been creaking, it had been loud enough to freak you out as well, so you tucked yourself up next to the child and ran your hand soothingly up and down his side while reciting to him his favourite type of story—a story about the brave, strong Mandalorian who fights bad guys and keeps his family safe on his big, fun spaceship.

You think you managed to get yourself to bed at just after 3 o'clock this morning. Mando was still flying the ship when you tucked yourself into your own bed and you had wondered briefly about when he planned to sleep before your tiredness had overtaken you and you had drifted off.

The smell of food is the first thing you notice as you slip out of your room. It's not strong, nor is it a burning smell, but it's there, and it's food, and it makes you uneasy.

Your emotions hit you in waves, first, the panic (that the child has somehow gotten his way into the kitchen and is making food on his own), then the anxiety (that he will end up hurting himself and all because you had slept in), next the guilt (that you had allowed yourself to be selfish and now the child was potentially in danger) and then, finally, the relief.

You sigh heavily when the kitchen comes into view. There is the child, happily playing with his homemade spaceship toy, there is a three quarters empty plate lying an arms length away from him on the table and there's a glass of juice placed next to it.

He is fine.

"Morning." Mando says. His voice is deep and it sends heat across your face.

"Good morning." You reply, smiling at them both.

Your eyes meet Mando's visor and he nods at you before turning away, busying himself once again. You walk gently towards the child and he coos as you sit in the seat next to him. You now realise that the scattered bits of food left on his plate are bits of pancake, blueberry pancakes by the look of it, and you feel your stomach pang with jealousy.

"And how was your breakfast this morning little one?" You run a finger behind his ear, which earns you a delighted giggle. "It looks delicious."

You turn your head back towards Mando, about to ask him if he has had anything to eat yet, and if he managed to sleep last night at all, but when you look over to where he was a moment ago you are surprised to find that he has disappeared. Your eyebrows furrow, a question ghosts your lips, and you're about to stand when your eyes glance upon something perched on the table.

A full plate of food is sat merely an inch from the tip of your fingers.

You glance around the room again, but you know Mando has already slipped away to some remote corner of the ship. Your stomach growls, and you suddenly realise just how hungry you truly are.

The food is for you, there's no question. The plate is coupled with your favourite caffeinated beverage and the pancakes are garnished with a singular piece of fruit—the one you had ogled at during your last market visit.

You didn't know Mando had gone back for that...

You had wondered that afternoon why he had left you and the child at the baked goods stall, he so rarely leaves the two of you unattended while you are out. You had thought maybe he was getting word on a bounty and didn't want the child to overhear. But as you stare now at the mouth watering piece of orange fruit in front of you, you can't help the warm feeling that blossoms in your chest.

I never even told him this was my favourite fruit. How did he know?

three, supply run —

There's something wrong.

You can't quite put your finger on it, but in the last few weeks you have felt… off. The bed you sleep on that usually has you drifting off within minutes now feels lumpy and hard. The blanket that never fails to give you comfort now makes you agitated and irritated. Your favourite part of the day, meal time during the evening, now leaves a sour taste in your mouth (and it's not the food).

Something is wrong. You just feel wrong.

And you know Mando has noticed. You catch him staring at you when he thinks you're not looking, when he thinks you're too preoccupied to notice him. He's always watched over you and the child, he's your protector, and he knows that if you’re safe then the child is safe too. But it's different now, not bad, just... different. His gaze isn't fleeting anymore, you think it watches you as you move about the crest, just trying to go about your day—help the child, prep the crest, sort through the mess of Mando's inventory—and it makes your chest ache.

You feel something tickle your cheeks as you move silently towards the cockpit. Tears sweep across your skin, as warming as they are confusing. The child is resting peacefully in his cot and it gives you some extra time to mull over your supposed wrongness. And, unsurprisingly, that makes you feel worse.

You can tell by how the crest is moving that you're about to land somewhere, you should probably pause and take hold of something for balance, but something deep inside you is spurring you forwards, telling you to keep moving towards the cockpit. And so you do.

The light is harsh as you enter through the doorway, it takes your eyes a second to adjust to the change. Mando huffs out a small greeting and you do the same. You take a step forward, about to ask where the pilot has landed the crest today, and what his business will be here, when your eyes finally pay attention to the view in front of you.

"Mando... are we in my hometown?" Your voice is thick with emotion, you swallow hard in an attempt to regain control over your voice, but your waterline is already lined with tears and they're threatening to fall fast.

He doesn't look at you, still fiddling with the controls as he docks the ship and sets her to park. "I–" He coughs, something burns within his chest. His focus is still on the console and so his words tumble out in a rather clunky way. "I... I–it was just an–uh, yeah–I thought that it'd be a good stop for supplies." He finishes. His cheeks feel hot and he's worried that he just made a complete fool of himself, but when he turns to face you—the crest now completely still and parked—he finds your eyes are still trained on the view from the window.

He notices the tear stains on your cheeks, and the way you are trying too hard to steady your breathing, but he says nothing. He brushes past you on his way out of the cockpit and his breath hitches, his fists tighten and you apologise in a dazed way as he steps around you.

The opening beeps of the cockpit door snap you out of your trance and your eyes flick around the room wildly. You brush your tears away, hoping that Mando didn't see them—but deep down, knowing that it would've been impossible for him not to—and your eyes meet his visor again. You're shocked to find him already looking at you, or more accurately, you're shocked that he didn't turn his head away when he saw your head moving around to face him.

"Supplies, you say?"

Your voice already sounds brighter to Mando's ears, and he smiles to himself—thankful just this once that you can't see past his metal headgear. You are able to read him better than anyone else he knows, and a little voice in the back of his head is telling him that the look on his face right now would be impossible to read as anything other than what it is—adoration.

Mando nods before turning away, leaving you alone in the cockpit while he preps the few things needed for a market visit. And you sigh, mind reeling over the possibilities of showing Mando your home again, already feeling lighter than you had a mere 5 minutes ago, and your wrongness is now being drowned out as you follow the mandalorian's footsteps and exit the cockpit.

four, the chores —

You finish wiping the blade and place it down gently onto the fabric you had laid over the table. The pile of assorted guns and daggers, along with the three spears and singular pulse rifle, is rather large now. The two small, circular shields (that you've never once seen be used by anyone) are also polished, although you were unable to pop out the large gashed dent that covers almost the entire left side of one of them.

You feel a slight twinge in your foot, the beginning of a cramp, and you jump up quickly, shaking your leg wildly and trying to stop the string of curses that are desperate to leave your lips. The room is oddly silent, apart from your grunts of pain, the music box sits an arms length away, you must not have noticed when the record stopped... You hesitate, torn between hitting replay and leaving it silent, but the decision is made for you when you look at the clock and see just how late it is.

I've been working for... how long?!

Your heart suddenly thumps wildly, your foot cramp long forgotten, and you move quickly from the table to the weaponry, your arms full with as much as you can manage to carry.

God, how could that have taken so long? I've still got to change the sheets on all of our beds, give the child a bath, wipe up the cooking area and oil up a few of the door hinges!

Your movements are hurried, and you manage to get everything back into its rightful place within 5 minutes (although you do almost lose a finger once or twice). You rush towards the basket that holds your bedding... but you don't see any.

Huh?

You bury your hands between the odd capes and spare blankets, searching for those familiar sets of bedding, and your hands come back empty. You huff, confused and a little ashamed that you've somehow misplaced the bedding, and you decide to just go to the kitchen and start wiping up instead, to take your mind off of it.

But when you get to the kitchen, the whole place is spotless! The cooker is polished and the plates and bowls from breakfast and lunch are all clean and placed back in their spots in the cupboard (and you definitely know this, because you checked each and every cupboard and counted the number of dishes... twice!). Even the sink is empty!

You spin around on your heel, deciding to go find the child, who should be in his playroom this time of the day, and take him to the washroom for his bath. Safe in the knowledge that at least this will be one thing you are actually able to do, and still confused as to why you haven't been able to complete anything else on your checkless since lunchtime...

But the child is not in his playroom. And now you're really worried. You race around the ship, sticking your head into every room you can think of, only to find the child is not in any of them. Your feet refuse to stand still and they carry you (almost subconsciously) towards the washroom, and as you get closer and closer you begin to hear the familiar sounds of an excitable child and the splashing that comes along with said child in a bath.

The door opens with a whack! and you grimace at how loudly the sound echoes through the room. Mando turns towards you, he is kneeling next to the tub, his armour is nowhere to found and he instead dawns a loose undershirt, a pair of dark trousers and his beskar helmet.

"Sorry." You whisper, as if trying not to wake a sleeping baby. Your eyes flit from Mando to the child, and back again. "You're bathing him."

Mando nods.

"You didn't ha—"

Oh.

And that's when it dawns on you.

"And you also changed the bed sheets?" You question, although you think—hope (dreading the potential embarrassment that will come if you’re wrong)—you already know the answer.

"Yes." He replies. He's not looking at you but it feels like his eyes are looking straight through you.

"And the kitchen..."

"Yes, that was me."

"Oh. Okay, thank you." Your voice is small, but it's hard to fight the smile growing on your face.

Mando turns to look at you briefly, "you don't need to thank me," and then he's gone again, back to giving his full attention to the little guy hiding amongst the bubbles.

"I-" You start, but you don't know what to say. Thank you anyway? I owe you one? You didn't need to do that for me?

Your thoughts swirl. There is so much you could say to Mando right now, and lord knows there are plenty of other things you could busy yourself with, but the look on the child's face when he saw you enter had your heart glowing and the opportunity to sit and enjoy a nice—if slightly wet—moment with Mando in relaxed mode was something you couldn't turn down.

five, babysitting —

Breathe... Just breathe. You tell yourself over and over again.

She's not even technically late yet, you and Mando—Din, to you now—had agreed on a midday pick up and here you were at... a quarter to the hour freaking out over nothing. He trusts her, he's known her for years at this point and hell, even you've met her– what... 2? 3 times now?

Everything is fine.

So why do you feel so on edge?

You hear the familiar clanging of the ship door as it opens, followed by echoing footsteps and the beeps of the door closing. Din comes to rest next to where you stand, his shoulder almost touches yours and you know, even without looking, that his eyes are trained on you right now with that familiar tilt of the head that he does so often.

Din can sense your nerves, even before he saw you he could tell something was different this time. He usually comes down to the bottom of the ship and finds you tinkering with something during the last few minutes of the child's miscellaneous playdates. He usually walks out of the ship door with you and wanders down the ramp while you perch on the edge with your legs dangling down beneath you. Sometimes he strikes up a conversation, other times you ramble about the child, and occasionally the two of you wait in a comfortable silence.

But not this time.

He felt uneasy when he came towards the ship door and he didn't spot you, even more so when he came outside to wait with you at the bottom of the ramp and you didn't say as much as a word to him.

He sees the anxiety you feel, it's written on your face as plain as day. You keep readjusting how you stand—left foot crossed in front of the right, then both feet facing straight with your knees in line and then back to left foot in front of the right—and whenever you do pause your movements Din can see your ankle bouncing up and down. You've had your arms crossed in front of your chest since he came to join you and your finger keeps tapping your elbow in a rather rhythmic pattern.

Tap. Taptaptap. Tap tap.

You know you shouldn't be as worried as you are, after all, you have no legitimate reason to feel so scared. Peli is a perfectly safe person for the child to be with, she invited him over for a playdate with her two young nieces—and you've actually met them, and they are quite sweet, if not a little excitable (but what kid isn't?)—and she's even babysitted him before as well, when you and Din have had to go away for a bounty together.

The thumping in your chest begins to get louder and it feels as though your heart is about to leap out from your throat. You can barely breathe. Your chest starts to heave and your knuckles turn white from how hard you are gripping onto your shirt sleeves. You don't know what—

Something touches your arm and you almost yelp in surprise. You glance to your right, ready to jump or flee or fight. But all you see is Din's helmet, head tilted, looking at you. You can only imagine the expression on his face—pity? Confusion? Sympathy?

You straighten your head. His hand doesn't leave your arm.

You take a deep breath.

Just beyond the nearest hill the faintest outline of a person begins to appear. They walk slowly, but undoubtedly in your direction, and they seem to be holding two things. One is a bag, you think. And the other is...

"They're back," you sigh, your voice is small but excited, and full of relief.

The tension is already beginning to lift from your shoulders. Din's hand is still resting on your arm, and if you hadn't been so distracted by the figure in front of you, and if you hadn't been wearing such a thick jacket, you would have felt his thumb rubbing small circles delicately across your arm. He only does it for a few short seconds, but he does it nonetheless.

Once Peli comes into better view you give her a wave and a smile, she waves back and then the child's hand peaks out of his sleeve and he waves back as well. It's enough to cause the smile on your face to widen, and you even let out an almost silent chuckle. Din slips his hand from your arm wordlessly, thinking that you probably wouldn't want his touch any longer and he takes a step away from you just as Peli arrives. He gives her a quick nod and then leaves the two of you to exchange pleasantries, quietly sneaking off to the crest's ramp and not so sneakily opening the crest door—the clanging is an issue; he wonders briefly if he should ask Peli to fix it soon.

six (one b), the bad job —

Din knew something wasn't right with this mission from the get go. There was something shifty about how the guy had spoken, demanding repeatedly about how both Din and you were necessary for what was needed. The man—Din has forgotten his name now, like it even mattered to begin with—had approached him just after he'd been turned down by another barman when he'd asked about possible jobs. The man was fast. Too fast. But Din had brushed it off at the time, too keen to get the job, too keen to earn some money again, too keen to get you and the child off this godforsaken planet.

Too keen to notice when the barman had signaled to the guy sitting at the table by the door, a small wink and a thumb pointed unsubtly in the Mandalorians direction.

“Din–Din, please. Are you there?” You curse, smacking the comm link against the wall and hoping the whack isn't hard enough to break the stupid little device.

“Ar–there–I–ca–hea–” Din’s voice hisses through the comm, followed by a high pitched whining noise that makes you jump back in surprise.

A strangled laugh escapes your throat, it’s thick with fear, and a half conscious thought flits across your mind—that if someone was listening and trying to find your location that the sound of your laughter would be a dead give away, and you’d be… well–dead.

You smack the comm against the wall twice more, for good measure.

“I’m here, Din, please–Maker–please hear me.” You beg, your voice is hoarse.

Multiple nearby blaster shots cause your head to snap upwards, sure that if you could just see the end of the alleyway, hear the sound of people milling around the market, smell the fresh baked goods at the stalls, your heart wouldn't be beating as fast as it is right now.

But the thing that would reduce your anxiety the most, allowing you to take a breath or a moment to recompose yourself, would be if you were able to see Din.

"I hear you, I'm here." Din's voice breaks through the blaster noise.

Another shot lands to your right and you retreat further into the corner between the wall and the crate that you're crouched behind. Your dominant hand holds your blaster tightly, your knuckles are pale. The cool metal against your palm keeps you focused, as you rise onto your knees to get a better aim another shot races past your ear. You waste no time in firing a returning shot and the stupid bastard goes down within 2 seconds.

Serves him right for not ducking down after firing at me, amateur.

“Cyar'ika?"

You're about to respond when you hear a loud crash. The loose pebbles on the street floor start to vibrate, sending a shiver down your spine. The noise is almost loud enough to drown out your own thoughts. Your resolve cracks when you realise the reason for the sudden lack of shots fired.

They've got a heavy repeating blaster cannon. And they're somehow pushing it down the alley you're trapped in.

"Din, I-" You cough, a lousy attempt to get your voice under control. "I don't want to die."

Your voice cracks on the last word, your mouth is suddenly as dry as a rock in the desert.

It feels like eternity before you hear Din's voice again, your only company the static sound from the comms and the low rumbling as the cannon makes it way closer to you. There's nowhere for you to run, you can't press yourself any further backwards, you have no jet pack, no grenades, no fire blaster and you never even said goodbye to the kid. God.

Tears fill your eyes, you bring a shaky hand towards your face, about to confess through the comm link something that you wish you'd had the guts to confess when you weren't 2 inches from death, when the familiar static is interrupted.

"You're not going to die, cyar'ika, I won't let that happen. I'm going to get you out of this, even if it kills me."

"Din, please-" You start, about to beg him to stay away, to tell him to think of Grogu. He can't lose his mother and father figure in one day, he just can't.

"Don't tell me to stay away." He interrupts, his voice hoarse, "this is my fault, if I'd been more careful, done my duty, then you would never have been put in this position-" He cuts himself off, you hear him take a deep breath.

"But-" You try.

"No," his voice is firm, "I'm coming for you and I'll be leaving this planet with you. The child still needs you and... I still need you."

If you had the capacity to think about anything other than the group of mercenaries currently moving towards you, then you might have questioned the last part of Din's sentence. You might have blushed and wondered at what he could mean, you may have even considered the possibility of him returning your feelings... But the sudden silence around you had your thoughts billowing towards one conclusion, and it wasn't good.

"Din... The cannon–god, help me–the cannon–they"ve stopped pushing it. I can hear them readying it."

You gulp and ready your blaster, not willing to go down without a fight.

"When I tell you to duck, you duck, okay?"

"What?" You question.

"I told you, I'm getting you out of here." Din curses and you hear the sound of blaster shots again, but this time they're coming though the comms link.

"Din, what are you doing? Maker! I told you to protect the child!" You try, pleading to the stubborn mandalorian.

"The child is safe. It's your turn now." He states, giving you almost no room to argue.

Almost.

The blaster shots continue over the comm link. You hear the mercenaries up the alleyway begin to ready their cannon, but before they have a chance to fire—

"Duck! Now." Din demands.

You obey immediately, falling backwards onto your ass and tucking your head between your knees. Your blaster still sits in your hand.

The muffled sound is hard to place but the vibrations through the floor and the dust movements between your legs are easy to follow. You lift your head and rise to your knees just as a dark figure emerges from the cloud of dust. You drop your gun immediately when your anxiety ridden brain finally allows you to recognise the familiar glint of beskar in front of you.

You jump to your feet and slam yourself against the mandalorian with no regard to your body. His armour is hard, it almost knocks the wind out of you, but no pain or threat of attack could have stopped you from seeking out your chosen solace once you locked eyes on him.

"I'm here, cyar'ika, I'm here." He pauses and hesitates for only a moment before wrapping his arms around you.

From what he can see of you you seem to be mostly unharmed, just a few small scrapes across your arms and a large bruise across your cheek. He knows you'll need a cool press against your face soon or you'll run the risk of the bruise swelling badly, but the cuts are manageable and he'll be able to leave them a little longer before dealing with them.

"You're okay," he whispers.

You're unsure if he's reassuring you or reassuring himself, but you nod.

"Yeah, I'm okay. We're okay." You whisper against his chest.

Din swallows, his fear about your safety finally easing, his chest suddenly feeling not as tight as it had 5 minutes ago.

"Hold on, it's time I take you home."

You nod again, squeezing your arms tighter around Din's waist and looping them through the holsters and belts he wears at his sides. As the two of you begin to rise you manage to catch a glimpse of the alleyway. It's as you expected. The bodies of the four mercenaries lie surrounding their weapon, and the weapon itself has been blasted into several small pieces, one of which is lodged into the chest of the one that was closest to it.

You shudder, turning your head away from the mess as you continue to rise higher and higher.

The higher you fly the more the ache and anxiety in your chest eases. And when you land aboard the razor crest and lay your eyes on Grogu you find the only pain left is physical, and you're finally able to take a breath—unaffected by the anxiety and adrenaline of battle, safe and content with your family once again.

divider by @/saradika-graphics

#oh din ☹️☹️☹️🥺#i love him too much #Husband no.1 always #this was so fun to write and the last part makes me sooo happy #idk why #im just rrly happy with how it turned out #sage.fics #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fic #din djarin imagines #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin imagine #the mandalorian fic

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seokminfilm · 1 month ago

Text

heaven knows — joshua hong

PAIRING 𐂴 joshua hong x reader

TAGS & WARNINGS 𐂴 non-idol au, seminary student joshua, hurt/comfort (??), secret relationship, mentions of church, joshua is the pastor's son, mutual pining, physical touching (ex: hugging, holding hands), pet names (joshua calls reader baby), they are not slick your honor everyone knows they're in love

SUMMARY 𐂴 heaven knows how badly you wanted the world to know that you were joshua hong's.

LYR'S SIDENOTES 𐂴 my sweet sweet kae (@kyeomviiee) had made a post on wanting a secret relationship-trope joshua fic and ofc i had to give her what she wanted 🤷 this fic is gonna be close to me for a lot of reasons (one of the main reasons being the fic is set in a church setting), so i hope you guys love it as much as i loved writing it!

NOW PLAYING 𐂴 pioneers (for king & country, courtney, moriah) & headliner (seventeen)

WORD COUNT 994 𐂴 FOR @kstrucknet

dating joshua hong came with its own adventure.

you and him had started out as childhood friends, joshua three years older than you. the two of you grew up in church together, going to his house every sunday afternoon to eat dinner with his family. the two of you had done everything from sharing clothes to sleeping in the same room; you had even seen him naked once.

your respective families trusted the two of you together so much that they let you sleep in the same bedroom and watch each other change, and it was normal to you—the relationship you had with joshua was normal, in your eyes.

that was, until it wasn't. you and joshua had grown up to be teens, and had fallen in love in the process.

the whole congregation saw how you looked at joshua, noticing how you giggled with your friends in the front row as joshua strummed his acoustic guitar while leading the church in a few songs. they noticed how you always went to sit with him at community picnics, and how often you complimented his polo shirts and khaki pants every sunday.

and they saw how joshua always made sure to give you his jackets when you were shivering during his father's sermons. they saw how his ears would turn red when he'd see you prancing around with your friend group during youth nights on wednesdays.

all of this to say, you and joshua were destined to be together from the start.

the only problem was that you couldn't truly be together.

since you and he had been friends for so long, everyone had cemented it in their minds that you would never become anything more than friends.

both of your parents had strong rules when it came to dating, and joshua was in seminary, training to be the youth pastor. he was a busy man, and so were you—you had your own projects and goals you were supposed to be achieving.

that didn't stop you from saying yes to him when he asked you to be his girlfriend one wednesday night after he drove you home. from then on, you were joshua's, and he was yours.

"you did amazing as always," your voice is soft, shy as you up to meet joshua on stage. church had just ended, and he was packing up his guitar, smiling at you as his eyes crinkled in the prettiest way.

you quickly glance behind you, checking the rows of chairs behind you; they're all empty, meaning almost everyone has left by now.

now, it was just you and joshua.

"aww, thank you—," joshua wanted to say 'baby' at the end of that sentence, but bit his tongue: you had noticed how joshua winced slightly when he caught himself using the pet name.

chuckling softly, you find yourself staring at joshua's hands, taking note of how they curl around the neck of his guitar and flex as it's placed in the case.

"you think your parents are gonna let you take me home again?" you ask shyly, face heating up at the memories of last time.

joshua had the job of taking you home after sunday night's service, but the two of you stopped for ice cream and stargazing on the way back, almost two hours late from the time you originally gave to your parents. your parents weren't mad, but they did ask lots of questions.

how you were supposed to explain that the two of you quickly finished your ice cream cones before promptly having a kissing session in joshua's back seat?

that's just it—you would never explain.

"of course they will! look, I apologized profusely the first time, and plus—" joshua shrugs, sealing up his guitar case as he takes your hand discreetly, pressing you against him to come closer to you as he whispers, "i want to drive you home tonight, baby."

giggling, you nod, daring to reach up and cup joshua's plush cheek as you whisper, "i want you to take me home."

after a few minutes of comfortable silence, joshua closes up the rest of the equipment, the two of you are out of the church's locked doors, piling into joshua's car as he lets his head hit the back of the seat.

a weight looks lifted off of his shoulders, and he looks at you, smiling at the soft expression on your face as he speaks. "something is on your mind, isn't it? wanna talk about it?"

silently looking out of the window into the sunny sunday sky, you sigh, buckling yourself in as you stare down at your sandals.

"i don't know, i just...i'm so tired of hiding our relationship, shua." you breathe out, finally getting to use the nickname you had made for intimate moments like this. joshua instantly softened at your words, eyes pinned to you as you study his soft features and glowing face.

"i want everyone to know that i'm yours and you're mine. i know you're trying to please your parents, and you should be doing that because they're your parents, but...." you trail off, letting joshua pick up the pieces of your thoughts as you fall silent.

"heaven knows how badly i want to choose you out loud, just as you want to choose me. i want everyone to know, baby," joshua sighs, and you can hear the stress in his voice as he frowns at you slightly.

"just..give me time, okay? i'm going to make this right, i promise." the tone in joshua's voice is firm, warmly spreading through your body as you nod. your worry seems to dissolve into thin air with his statement, and you leave the church's parking lot with a clean consciousness.

with joshua's large hand on your thigh, the windows rolled down, and music that feels like summertime surrounding your body, the world seems to get a little clearer, and heaven knows you're thankful for it.

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themeraldee · 3 months ago

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Mind Over Matter

[Masterlist] [AO3]

18+ Only | 4k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Supe!Reader with telepathic and mind-altering powers. Less established relationship and more fuck buddies. Lewd mental images. Office sex (kind of?). Exhibitionism (also kind of?) Overstimulation. Creampie.

Summary: As the only telepathic, mind-altering member of the Seven you take Homelander for a vivid ride in his mind during an important meeting. Homelander can't handle being reduced to less than his perfect manicured self and he decides to teach you a lesson.

Written for this request💚(thank you for the inspo!)

Boring. Boring. Mind-numbingly fucking boring.

Ashley’s testing out her new ‘VP of Hero Management’ wings that Homelander graciously gifted her and what does she do with them? She parades around the meeting room, putting up a front of a resilient and driven businesswoman while on the inside her heartbeat is in the hundred-tens and her muscles are strung so tight he could shatter them with a flick of a finger.

Now she’s wasting their time with this? So much for filling in Madelyn’s boots with someone capable.

He rolls his eyes.

She’s pitching ideas for the last missing member of the Seven, one they’ve been lacking since Translucent’s funeral. His eyes quickly flit to you sitting to his right side, taking up Deep’s mantle ever since his timely departure. At least you’ve proven yourself to be a worthy member with some quality skillset.

But these fucking options? What is this? When did good old classic superheroes turn into strange curiosities fit for a circus freak show. First an animal whisperer and now another invisible freak?

Looking around the rest of the room, he grits his teeth. The rest of the team doesn’t even fucking care. Why does it always have to be him, maintaining the standard everyone should adhere to?

“Nope. Not happening.” He dismisses the presented slide with disdain.

“S-sir, we could really do with the boost in our 18-32 demographic. Invisi-lass has already hit 20 million followers on Instagram. Our forecast shows an uptick of 5%.” Each stutter of her voice is even more grating on his ears than the obnoxious click of her stilettos.

“Right, a bunch of fucking pre-teen girls wishing they could disappear like her. Fantastic. They’re not gonna come out in support of us, Ashley.” He’s had enough of everyone else thinking they know what’s best for the team, what’s best for him. “Instead it will hurt the biggest demographic—my demographic—because everyone can clearly see that we only care about optics. A female majority in the Seven? Give me a fucking br—”

Moan. That was a fucking moan. Homelander whips his head around to look at the rest of the room to see anyone else reacting. Nobody is paying fucking attention. His mind is playing tricks on him.

He looks at you again. Even you’re making him look bad, sitting at your spot at the Seven’s table all uninterested just like the rest of them.

“Sir?” Ashley’s voice rings the clearest.

“I said no. We don’t need Translucent 2.0. Find something better—” He chokes on the last letter, eyes widening a fraction when he hears the distinctive sound of fingers running up and down a wet pussy.

It’s the loudest thing in his head. Jesus Christ, if that doesn’t make his cock throb.

“Find someone better.” He repeats with a scathing enough look that Ashley—nor anyone else—dares question his restlessness.

The squelch of a soaked cunt is still loud in his ears, the brazen repetition of the lewd noise tinges the tips of his ears pink. He swallows, shaking his head clear of the sound instead trying to focus on the rest of the presentation.

The intermittent nature of the sound is enough to disturb his attention. He throws you a cautionary glare. Not that it does much besides egg you on. The teasing tilt to your lips makes him want to get up and teach you a lesson.

The sound of soft groans in his head makes Homelander squeeze the armrest, just about stopping himself from ripping it clean off.

Ashley clicks a button on her remote and the screen changes. Moan. Homelander’s barely paying attention to the new recruit candidate. They are as unremarkable as the others.

“Homelander.” You sneaky devil. You’ll pay for that one for sure. Timing that sinful pleasure-infused sound of his name at the same time as Ashley asks for his opinion.

He barely grits out an irritated no. His tongue flits out to wet his lips as his mind fills with the images of a sopping wet set of lips eagerly waiting for his rapt attention.

It takes him everything to stop the wanton moan from escaping his lips when he turns to look at you but instead the image of you naked from the waist down, sitting on top of the table right in front of him steals his mind away from reality.

He has to shake his head clear before he gets lost in the vivid image you’ve planted in his head. Oh now you’ll definitely get what’s coming to you.

It’s impossible to escape the literally mind-fucking you’ve trapped him in now. Thank fuck for the hard cup in his suit. Without it he’d be flashing a hefty erection to the rest of the team.

If he wasn’t horny out of his mind he’d be impressed with how far you’ve come with your skillset since you’ve become a part of the team. What started as implanted ideas and fleeting moments you’ve turned into vivid and believable scenes, an outright reshaping of his view of reality. The way you could easily manipulate what someone saw—or believed they saw—was pretty fucking hot if he had to say so himself.

His voice quivers when he denies yet another proposal but nobody dares pull him up on it.

The image of your legs spread right in front of him is inescapable. He sees bare thighs sticking to the table top. Along with a mouth-watering pool of slick right where you sit as your fingers go to town, pushing into your cunt with a need he can’t believe he can’t exploit.

He’s stopped staring at the screens Ashley presented on as she moved onto stats and ratings. While it just comes across as uninterested to anyone else, he wants to look at that exact spot you’ve planted yourself onto in his mind. It makes it more vivid. His mouth is fucking dry. How can you present the oasis and not let him have a sip.

He’s shifting in his seat, each movement aiding in feeling a sliver of friction against his cock. He feels how obscenely he’s leaking. Embarrassing, what you do to him. What he lets you do to him.

The images and visions you send into his mind are nearing crescendo. Each of Ashley’s words is punctuated by a lewd sound. Moan. Filthy noise of your plunging fingers. Groan. His fucking name.

No.

He can’t have you enjoy yourself with your shitty little smirk while he’s fighting for his fucking life.

“Enough.” It comes out weak, but to the unknowing it just sounds exasperated. When nobody moves or says anything he repeats himself.

“That’s enough Ashley.” He’s too frustrated to put on the cheerful aura. Too worked up to perform. “Just-just come back when you’ve got something useful. Don’t waste my time with more of these good-for-nothings.”

Ashley’s polite, business curated smile drops and she tightens her lips into a fine line, turning the screens off with an affirmative, “yes, sir.”

He stands up from his seat after he pushes his chair back. He shakes the image from his head.

“Everyone. Out!” He repeats, motioning with both hands towards the exit with a sweeping gesture.

The rest of the team clearly doesn’t care. They barely paid any attention to begin with. All dealing with their insignificant issues in their insignificant little lives. Even after he brought them all to glory they’re still not grateful.

He feels his own heartbeat rise with frustration, the sick feeling taking over.

His vision turns red when the doors take their sweet time opening fully. He’s ready to laser them off the hinges. Upon opening Ashley gets out first, thank fuck, rushing to keep out of the way as fast as possible.

“And where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Homelander stands behind you, both gloved hands land on your shoulders hard, squeezing with a moderate strength. For all your mind-fucking powers you’re still fairly fragile.

The room empties out, doors shutting behind them.

“Well,” he lets you turn around just in time to see that bratty smirk, “you did say ‘everyone out’. I’m just following orders, sir.” Youuu make him want to strangle and kiss you at the same time.

“Really? This is what you’re going with? Brave. Your sassy attitude isn’t gonna soften the blow sweetheart.” He cups your face pulling you closer to his face. Your hands automatically rest on his biceps, whether for support or as a feeble attempt to push him away he doesn’t really care.

“If you think it’s fun to fuck around—well—then I’m sure you won’t mind if I fuck you riiiight here.” He pushes you back against the table with each step forward, effortlessly hoisting you up with a little throw, making you land on the hard surface.

“See, honey,” he pinches your chin with his thumb and forefinger and he tilts your head a little to the left. “That camera in the upper corner? Yep that one.” He points at it with his finger just to be sure.

“Now that camera is gonna record eeevery little moan and whimper along with your embarrassing little faces.” He chuckles with his lips closed, already terribly amused at your wide-eyed expression. You make it too easy.

“I was going to keep it to myself, wipe the recording, that sorta thing.” He pulls off his gloves, noticing your eyes follow each movement of his hands as if to brace yourself for what’s to happen.

As you should.

“But then I thought that I might be better off just accidentally sending it to everyone at Vought. So everyone can see what a nasty little slut you are.” His one hand cups your crotch through your uniform. He barely needs his super hearing to catch the squish of wet flesh when his finger presses in the middle.

“Be real, did you really think I would let this slide?”

“I was just doing you a favour!” You squirm under his hand, trying to worm your way further away from him. “You were clearly bored out of your mind.”

Homelander pulls you close, sucking on his teeth with a disapproving shake of his head.

His bare fingers pinch the smooth stretchy fabric of your costume right at your crotch. With his second hand joining the cause he rips the material apart like tissue paper, grabbing the new frayed edges and ripping a hole big enough for the tear to span the top of your pubic bone to the middle of your ass crack.

“Homelander! What the fuck!?” Oh finally, you’re realising the severity of your actions. He grins, ripping the next layer, your colour matching panties, down the middle—making them effectively crotchless.

God it’s so satisfying to see you try to force your legs closed. As well as wedging your hand down the middle. It’s all pointless anyway.

“Come on, don’t cover up. You were so happy to show off all your best assets earlier, gorgeous. Where’s that energy now?” He teases you. He’s being an asshole and he knows it. It’s all so worth it, especially when your eyes flicker to the camera.

“Eyes down here darling.” He pushes your head back down, not giving you a second to spare before he’s capturing your lips with his. And for all your embarrassment in the moment you still give as good as you get. Really, he thinks this always ends up being some of your hottest sex.

The kiss is messy, pulling and tugging at each other's lips, tongues wet and hot against each other in between the greedy nips and bites at the other ones lips. There’s no time and space for gentle and loving in this moment. He has to stop himself from not shattering your jaw with his hand as he kisses you like a starving man. Each wet kiss and moan makes his cock throb, balls heavy and aching, bordering on painful.

Homelander can’t really wait much longer. He's not gonna get blue-balled by your stupid powers. His cock has been begging for some sweet relief quite some time now.

Reluctantly he pulls away, hands going to his pants. He leaves his belt on, pulling the zipper down from underneath it, pushing all layers down in one fell swoop.

And wow, already he’s really raring to go. His cock bounces up when it’s released from its fabric prison, grazing your hot flesh on the way up. His mind gets shot with a fuzzy feeling he’s not used to.

He rests both arms on the table, leaning in close to you with a groan. “Stop that.” He rests his forehead against yours with a hiss. “None of your tricks.”

“It’s not a trick. It’s not made up. It’s-it’s what I feel. I’m sharing it with you.”

Eyes widening as he pulls back a bit, staring you up and down with a confused look. So what, you can now broadcast your pleasure? Straight to his pleasure receptors? What in the—

“You can do that?” It’s unbelievable really.

Nevertheless, Homelander hooks his arms under your thighs pulling you closer to the edge and forcing you down on your back, no matter how much you try to stay up propped by your arms.

“It’s new to me too…” You say a little out of breath as your back hits the table top.

Immediately he grips the base of his cock, flicking the head up and down your slit. The pay off is immediate. His mind buzzes with pleasure he’s never felt before. Is that what it feels like when he teases your clit?

He can’t wait to eat you out with this new party trick.

Greedy for more of that sparkling pleasure he rubs his cock against your clit with more urgency than you’ve ever seen him do before. Look, he’s always been a good lover to you, making sure you finish each time. But this? This feeling? This more than reassures that you’ll get your fill and more.

The possibilities this opens up are endless. Already curious to find out what else the rest of your body feels like he reaches out to unzip the top part of your uniform, pulling down the fabric of your bra so he can suck on your nipple as he bends over your body.

God, look at him. He feels like a teenage boy touching a woman’s body for the first time.

His eyes widen immediately as his tongue circles your nipple—both, for good measure. You’re so sensitive. His nipples are nowhere near this level of tingling when you give them some love.

That’s it. He can’t wait. He needs to know what it feel like to have his cock stretch you out. Fill you over and over again.

He nearly comes at the thought of getting to feel that sensation first-hand. His hand trembles when he pulls back to stand somewhat straight as he positions his cock to kiss your entrance. The wet squelch of the two meeting makes you flush. He can feel how hot you’re getting.

“Fuuuck me—you’re even wetter than you were in your little fantasy. Lucky me.” His eyes flutter shut as he pushes into the intense wet heat inch by glorious inch.

And this already feels orgasmic. The hot squeeze of your soft walls is unlike anything in the world. Or… so he thought until a second ago. Somehow it feels even better from your side. This new trick of yours will definitely become his favourite.

It’s really no surprise you jump on his dick anytime the situation allows these days because holy shit is this how it really feels?

You broadcast all that you’re feeling into his brain, tapping straight into the pleasure centre and lighting it up like a Christmas tree on Times Square. The thick glide and fill is unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. It actually makes him a little dizzy. Having the dual sensation of your wet pussy clinging to him all while enjoying your side of getting filled is guaranteed to make him bust in no time.

“F-ffuck you're perfect… Jesus a-hah…that's so fucking tight and wet.” He’s really losing his mind now. For a second it feels like he’s the one getting embarrassed on camera with how thoroughly this is reducing him to a bunch of moans and mumbles. But at least he’ll have a fun memory to look back on.

So he makes the best of it.

This is where all his bravado and cocky words just stop. There’s nothing else on his mind now except the feeling of two hot bodies getting off together.

His hips thrust into you with jagged snaps, unwilling to stay out of your warmth any longer than necessary. His one arm is wrapped around your thigh, pulling you even closer to him as he continuously pumps his hips into you.

The room is a mix of grunts and moans, squeaky sounds of the table legs being pushed forward with each thrust. The huge V-shaped table stands no chance against the hurried and desperate drive of Homelander’s hips.

He takes his free hand to your clit. Immediately hit by what feels like a bolt of lightning inside his brain.

He whines needily, forcing his hand to focus on rubbing your clit in a solid rhythm.

It doesn’t help that you sing for him prettily, little sweet moans as he’s setting your sensitive clit on fire.

He can't resist anymore. The feeling of your clit getting stimulated with his fingers, all while getting your insides massaged with each pass of his cock is enough to make his mind melt. If you weren't his favourite before you definitely are now.

What catches him off guard is your climbing climax. That feeling is familiar yet foreign and interesting enough to add to his own pleasure. And with that there's nothing he can do to hold back. His balls ache too much.

With a whimpered cry he feels the pull of his orgasm taking over. His hips stutter into a pathetic tempo as his cock pulses with his orgasm, unloading one spurt of come into you after another.

“God–fuck s’rry…sorry. I couldn’t—ah, couldn't hold back.” He’s gasping for air, the most he’s ever been winded after sex.

But there's no way he's going to let you go until he feels your orgasm through your powers. He needs it.

“Don't stop, please.” You whimper, the pleading sending a pulse of heat down his gut.

He tries to match the same pace from earlier as much as he's capable. He's still hard inside you. The shivers up his spine from your climbing orgasm are keeping him on the razor's edge of too much stimulation.

The steady rubbing of your clit makes him grit his teeth, the pleasure of it makes him want to drool and roll his eyes back.

“N’t g’nna” He mumbles through his teeth, watching with wide eyes as you suck on your own fingers, using the wetness to rub and pinch your nipples of your bouncing tits.

He watches as your moans get higher, pushed out in between gasps for air as you arch against the tabletop, your body pulsating and straining against his.

And then he feels it. For a little while he thought you wouldn't be able to have enough control of your powers to transmit the feeling to him, exhausted after a vigorous fucking to give him what he's here for.

But you do. A burst of hot pleasure melts in between each crevice of his mind, suffocating him with how obscenely strong it feels. The way it reaches into each fingertip and limb makes him nearly fall over on top of you and go limp.

He sucks in the saliva when he feels it gathering on his tongue, his eyes blown black and his body feeling like it's dealing with the aftershocks of electrocution. It's only then he realises he can feel his cock throb and pulse, the tell-tale sign of having just come. Again.

He sucks in a big gulp of air and he pulls out. His cock has reached its oversensitivity limit and now every pulse of your pussy sends a shiver of pain-laced pleasure up his spine.

“What the fuck was that?” He asks, exhausted and falling back into his chair, for once with a heaving chest and gasps for air. It takes a lot to get him winded. Somehow you managed that. Your only response is a weak laugh.

He'd be embarrassed with how ruined you made him feel if his entire nervous system wasn't buzzing with the signals that amount to three orgasms in the span of five minutes.

He pushes his softening cock back into his underwear. Not wanting it to smear the leftover dribbles of come into the fabric of his suit.

Looking at you like this makes him especially glad to have made you the centrepiece in the camera angle. You've propped yourself up on your elbows, catching your own breath. But Homelander can't quite look away from the mess he's made of you.

Your pussy is swollen with the effort, blood rushing underneath the surface. Nice and stretched for his size now, perfect for round two—well, three really—as the small gaping entrance leaks his come in dribbles, collecting on the table. Just like your slick was in the fantasy visual you fed him earlier.

You should be happy he's a generous enough man to make your dreams come true.

Clearing his throat he goes “you're gonna have to clean that up.” His signature sharp grin makes itself known, beyond pleased with the effect he's got on you. Even though you’re the one who started this, abused him with your telepathic powers in ways nobody else would ever dare. You can bet on him being the one to finish it.

“Huh? With what!” You bite back when you gain some functions back. Sitting up on the table properly. You rush to zip your uniform back up again, not wanting to have anyone else see you as exposed as you are.

“Your tongue for all I care. Can't have you leaving a mess like that.” He stands up, stretching himself tall, puffing his chest out as if his own cock didn't leave a mess in his underpants.

“How the fuck am I meant to walk anywhere like this? Could you not have just pulled my pants down? Fucking asshole.” You mutter as you hop off the table, ripping the rest of your tattered underwear off so you can wipe as much of the milky white stain and shove the sopping wet fabric into your pocket.

Oh, kitty has claws. Cute.

You stand up straight in front of him, or as straight as you can seeing as you're clutching your pussy so you can’t leak any of his essence down your legs. Or the ground.

Good girl, keeping it all in there like you should.

“Oh please, you loved it.” The sheepish little ‘maybe’ that escapes your lips is all he needs to kiss you silly. His signature wet and loud kiss that makes your mind hazy each and every time.

He pulls back after one last, surprisingly soft, kiss.

Homelander knows the toll your mind powers have on you, you're tired, overworked and overly sensitive. It’s your only weakness as far as he’s concerned—apart from him of course. And contrary to your belief he does have a particularly soft spot for you.

He unclasps his cape, wrapping it up around your middle as a cover-up. He picks you up into his arms, bridal style, carrying you effortlessly as he makes his way around the 99th floor, towards his penthouse.

“Hope you've got a clear schedule because I want you to show me what else you've learned to do without telling me.”

And while originally he threatened you with leaking the footage, he doesn't particularly want you to fill the daydreaming heads of every Joe in the company. He's sure you would. Though the footage will certainly come in handy for a good old Friday movie night in.

For now though? Your job will be to warm the other side of his bed while you get your rest. After that? You're really gonna have to reconsider your stance on a public relationship because there's no way he's not gonna make you his.

Taglist (you can add(or remove) yourself to be tagged when I publish a new fic):

@infinetlyforgotten | @rafecamsgirlll | @nervoussystemss | @hom3landr

@mrsdesade | @nommingonfood | @littlegaaby | @jokesonyoupup

@natliecole

#ahhhhhhh this was so fun to write!!!#feel like I sprinted all while writing this lmao #also my first supe!reader entry! I always said that I'm not fond of them but I think I just haven't come across powers I liked.#this one really tickled my fancy tho #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander #homelander fanfiction #my writing #the boys fanfiction #homelander smut #fic request #supe!reader

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arget-star · 3 months ago

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some Dad!Sakura thoughts based off this ask :) (written with f!reader in mind!)

tw: mentions of pregnancy, having a child

-It takes a LOOOOOONG time for Sakura to not immediately shrug off the idea of fatherhood. The number of (positive) father figures in his life is 0, nor did he ever imagine himself as being a dad.

-When he does come to terms with the idea, it scares the absolute shit out of him. What do you mean he'll be entrusted with the care and raising of a tiny baby?

-This man is literally ?????? for most of your pregnancy. Doesn't understand why you're craving ice cream and pizza at 3am but he'll make damn sure you get what you want some how, some way. Grumbles a little as he's putting his shoes on and gives you an extra peck on the forehead when he comes back home. (Asks his friends for advice a lot. Will deny it if confronted. You are frequently sending thank you texts to everyone.)

-Secretly loves it when you silently plop your feet in his lap for a massage. Nearly combusts the first time he feels the baby kick. Always asks before putting a hand on your belly (dummy) and in fact turns a charming shade of pink when he does.

-Sakura.exe stops working the first time he holds his baby. Just stares at this itty bitty little face and prays to whoever is listening that baby's hair and eye color is normal. (Even if baby inherits Sakura's heterochromia, he will teach them how to fight/defend themselves and you bet your ass any snot nosed bullies will have Sakura to deal with.) ("Sakura you cannot beat up a six year old." "They made our baby cry! Where's their dad?")

-All jokes aside, Sakura really is such a loving dad. No, he doesn't always handle situations correctly and he gets frustrated easily, especially early on, but his baby will never go a day doubting they are loved and in a safe environment. Sakura raises his voice to be heard over a tantrum one (1) time and feels like the world's worst father. Apologizes to baby, to you, to baby again. Once baby is calmed down, you then calm down your husband who has not said a word since The Incident.

-He will do anything--anything--for his child(ren). Never passes up a chance to say he loves them or he's proud of them.

-(It's not uncommon for Sakura and your little one to play fight around the house. Until one of them breaks a lamp and you forbid them from roughhousing inside)

#char writes #as always this got longer than intended RIP #.sakura haruka #wind breaker x reader #just to be safe :)#this was very fun though!! thank you anon much to think about now #i kept these ones pretty generic bc i genuinely cannot decided if #1) i want sakura to be a girl dad #2) there are different ways things can go if baby inherits his heterochromia (i lean more that yes all his kids do in varying degrees)#tw: pregnancy #wbk x reader

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6okuto-moved · 1 year ago

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MAKE A WISH!

gn!reader | vry short but Happy Birthday Iwaizumi Hajime (30) Athletic Trainer 😭😭🩷🩷🩷

“get ready to make a wish,” you quietly sing-song as you attempt to use the wand lighter in your hand.

hajime takes a deep breath, twisting the bracelet around his wrist as he walks around the counter to reach you. “don’t think i have one.”

“oh, come on, you have to want something. actually i know you want something- i saw you eyeing that hoodie a while ago.”

“can i wish for that now that you know?”

“i don’t know, though. just don’t tell me when you actually blow out the candles.”

the wicks’ flames flicker to life, small lights on a similarly small cake you bought at the grocery store on your way home. there'd be a bigger one later, you're sure—his friends and teammates wouldn't let his birthday pass without celebration. but everyone's schedules lined up best on the weekend, so today, june 10th, was yours alone to share.

you're making sure the candles aren’t slanted when an arm wraps around your waist. a chaste kiss is planted on your cheek, pulling your attention from the cake to the sickeningly handsome face and soft smile beside you.

you press a kiss of your own to hajime’s lips and smile back. “hello there.”

“hey.” he looks at the hastily written “hajime day! <3” on top of the cake. “hajime day?”

“mhm, it’s your day, so sit.”

snaking out of his hold, you pull the closest chair and gently push him into it. your boyfriend softly chuckles, but lets you maneuver him in front of the cake.

your own chair scrapes against the kitchen tile as you sit next to him. “’kay, ready?”

hajime raises a brow. “for what—”

you clap your hands. “happy birthday to you—”

“oh, babe—”

“happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear hajime,” you drag out the last vowel and lean in close, grabbing his hand in yours. “happy birthday to you.”

red tints the birthday boy’s ears and cheeks, and his lips wobble between a smile and fake grimace as you grin. “wish time!"

you squeeze his hand and tease, “i won't be offended if you wish for the hoodie and not eternal happiness with me, just so you know.”

he snorts. “thanks for your kindness.”

a comfortable quiet fills your home as hajime looks down at the cake—the slightly bigger eye of the smiley face, and wobbly ‘3’ of the text heart—then the rest of the kitchen where your matching mugs hang, and the calendar has today circled and starred in bright red.

and then he looks at you, still smiling as you wait for him to think of something he could possibly want more than coming home to you,

and there isn't anything, really.

(at least not until saturday when he's sure his team will tell him to wish for win after win this season.)

so he blows out the candles, and rubs the back of your hand still holding onto his, and even if he doesn't tell you what he wished for, he thinks you both know it anyway.

“okay, i know you probably wished for eternal happiness with me or whatever, but just in case you wished for the hoodie—” you stand up and speed walk to the couch.

hajime blinks. “are you serious?”

he hears the sound of a gift bag before he sees it.

“it was supposed to be like, ‘ooh, look, the magic of a birthday wish!’”

“babe.”

“did you wish for the hoodie, and be honest because i can still do the joke—”

#haikyuu x reader #iwaizumi x reader #haikyuu fluff #iwaizumi fluff #reader u will always be silly and fun 2 me. i will always write u 2 be silly and fun #half aday later.... seeing nobody told me where my grammatical error was. NOOOOOO #NIBDOY LOOK AT ME 😭😭😭😭😭

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celestie0 · 5 months ago

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u bitches arent ready for when i drop the ihm gojo ex wife lore chapters i just prewrote some of those scenes and i am physically ill picturing him being so domestic w another woman like this

i fear my haters had a point 😂😂 /j

#im just joking #i’m actually really enjoying layering on this extra dimension to his character #i see him so much more differently now that i’ve kinda solidified all of his lore stuff #in a good way i think #more depth #i think i’ll write him better bc of this #i always had a rough idea #but really getting into his headspace about what went down in his marriage #fun stuff #but yea if i have any overly jealous readers #theyre going to literally skin me alive im sorry #just know that he chooses reader in the end and will be head over heels for her #srry

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smallestapplin · 1 year ago

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Hello! you can make Yandere Blurr, Pharma and Tyrest x Cybertronian female reader wife

I always did like them crazy. Also I apologize I don't feel confident in writing Tyrest, even reading and reading his wiki I can't get a good read on his character QwQ

🔞Warnings : toxic behavior, threats, talks of harm, implied noncon, past murder. I wrote little scenarios too ^^ 🔞

Blurr

- Blurr is a puppy, if you could place him in a category. He is always so happy to see you, always at your side attached to your hip, and if he's on a mission he gets it done in record speeds just to run back to base for you, yelling your name and tackling you into a hug.

- He's so sickeningly sweet to you, always showing up for you, helping you work, and always does something spontaneous to keep you on your pedes!

- You'd never believe a soul that Blurr could harm friends or allies, not unless you saw it for yourself. He is always such a sweetie, and the reason you agreed to bond your spark to his.

- You even told Bee you just couldn't believe him without evidence "I know Blurr can get a bit sassy, but threaatening to crush your spark in his servos? That's just not like him."

- Blurr knows this, he's not dumb, he knows you placed your blind trust and faith in him, and he will do whatever it takes to keep it that way. It's why he glares, snaps, and makes snide comments to any boy getting too close to you. Even puts on the waterworks, crying about how mean the bot you finished speaking to is, just to make you comfort him and avoid that bot unless for work.

- He loves you, he loves you so so much and never fails to tell you or show you.

- But sometimes it's overwhelming, you never get a moment to yourself, you are never alone to collect your thoughts or to process your feelings on anything, Blurr is right there, cooing at you and nuzzling his helm into your neck cables.

- Even though you're tired, you never ask him to leave you alone, last time you sighed and asked for space he was sobbing, clinging to you harder, pleading with you to not leave or abandon him, that he can't live without you.

- "I want you, i need you! I-I can't live without you! I don't know what I'd do without you- pleasepleaseplease don't leave me, I love you!" Over and over and over again. It had you worried and guilt ridden, leaving you to never mention space again.

- You even apologized to him after that, never meaning to upset him.

- It's like he's draining your battery dry, sucking away your life force.

- But you stay by his side like a dutiful wife, helping him on missions when it's needed, smiling when he comes back, kissing him any chance you get.

- You feel like you're drowning in his love, suffocating you.

- Even as you lay in your shared berth, wide awake, Blurr sleeps in a peaceful stasis laying on top of you.

You sigh, your neck cables stiff from such a long time staring at your data pad and working on reports, but you're glad you got a large chunk of it done, you can finally go to your habsuite and relax.

Your spark clenches at the sound of rapidly approaching pedesteps. You try to hide your exhaustion, just in time to turn around and get a blue glob lunging for you.

You catch your husband with ease, use to his antics by now.

"Ohhhh I missed you so much! The mission was terribly boring but nothing I couldn't handle. Have you eaten yet? I want to have energon with you."

He speaks so fast, excitement showing in his words.

"M'sorry Blurr, I was just about to go to our habsuite and go down for a cycle. Prowl has been on my aft about reports, and I'm tiring."

He looks so crushed, his face plate a mix of sadness and rage.

"He's so pushy and such a workaholic! I have half a processor to go into his office and give him a piece if my brain module! I can't believe that guy, pushing my poor wife for his stupid reports."

He goes on such a long rant about Prowl, pointing out everything the bot has done wrong or the frankly harsh things he's said, you hate to admit that Blurr has a point but you are fond of Prowl.

He's rough around the edges but a nice friend to you when he opens up.

"Blurr, sweetie, it's fine really. Prowl has been swamped with reports and I don't mind helping. He's actually a nice bot once you get through his walls."

Blurr's expression looks like you just shot him. He clings to you, digits practically sinking into your back strut.

"Y-you've been hanging out with him without me?"

"It's just for work. Blurr, you know I love you and would never dream of leaving you, but I'd like to have some friends, even if they are just work friends."

Your spark aches at the sight of his optics welling up with liquid.

You just know you're going to have to start comforting him and avoid Prowl at all costs if it makes him this upset.

Pharma

- lying to yourself in hopes you'd believe it. Pharma is a menace, you tried so hard to be kind to him, yet your kindness is what lead you here, bound to him in everything but your spark, it's at least the only thing he can't force upon you, no matter how many times he opens your spark chamber.

- No matter how many times he's tried to force the bond, always so calmly muttering his love for you, it never works.

- You once had such a fiery spirit, such a fiercely protective and loyal bot before Pharma got his servos on you. He broke you. The last time you managed to escape him and find help, he just killed them, toyed with them for fun no matter how much begged him to spare them. New parts for him.

- You never forgave yourself for being the reason those innocent bots met their ends, and Pharma takes great pleasure in that. You curl into such a cute ball and silently cry yourself into stasis, with him right behind you, curling around you and buring his face plate into the back of your neck. You want to scream, to sob, to upchuck and empty your tanks at the disgust of feeling his touch. His arms around your waist, holding you so tenderly, rubbing his thumb across your mesh like he's been an adoring lover this entire time.

- If you leave he will just find you.

- "What, you're not going to run again? My, but it was such a fun game we played!" He laughs.

- Pharma flips between knowing you don't love him in return, but not caring as he loves you and that's all that matters, to having moments of truly believing you're just playing games with him, such a playful darling he has! You just want to keep your marriage exciting, right?

- You try to lie to yourself, that you do love him, you love being at his side, you love ensuring he has plenty of energon, you love him.

- You miss the old him, the old Pharma you married, the old Pharma you promised to spark bond with once he returned form work but he never came back. Only for him to come back some years later to...being like this.

- He's draining, but he always makes sure you've eaten today, always makes sure you're safe, always makes sure he's kissed you and said he's loved you today.

- You can't fight him forever, you both know that.

- Why keep fighting when you can be a good little wife and accept his love?

Everyday it's the same, every cycle is new but nothing changes, you're still in the same dark abandoned building. You avoiding leaving your makeshift habsuite and a few other areas, not wanting to hear anything Pharma is doing further in the back.

You don't want to hear screams that get cut short, and the whirl of a saw.

You don't want to hear or see anything, you just want to pretend this is all a nightmare, but you know you can't wake up from it.

You just want a sense of normalcy back, to be back at your nice home on Cybertron before the war, laughing with coworkers and friends, greeting your husband with a smile.

Now you can barely stand to look at him without fear gripping your spark.

He's not the bot you married.

You lay on your berth, back facing the door as you don't want to see him, you don't even want him to see your face you don't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear.

Your body trembles hearing his pedesteps growing closer. You will your body to freeze and squeeze your optics shut, just in time for the door to open. Pharma pauses in the doorway, looking over your resting form.

You've been going into stasis a lot more than usual, and a lot more than is recommended, but he can't be too upset with you, after all you look adorable when you're resting.

He moves quietly throughout the room, cleaning up the energon from his face, servo, and saw, knowing you don't like him leaving such a mess.

"I know you're awake, Dear."

You bite your derma holding back a whimper, but remain unmoving

"I'm worried you're sleeping too much, that's usually the first sign something is wrong. Funny how you could be sick, and don't you come to me with it, I am trained in this you know."

You can hear the smile in his voice, as if he didn't kills bots just to meet a quota, tortured someone you called friend, and then all of this.

You'd rather die than let him know anything.

"Are you truly so tired you can't tell me? No matter, I'll find out next cycle, yeah? I'll let you get some rest."

Your optics widen as he lays down behind you, his saw moving to rest under his helm, and his free arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

Your back against his Chassis, his face into the back of your neck, pressing feather light kisses across your cables.

Pharma hums, chuckling softly at the feeling of your body shaking. His servo tightens its grip on you, keeping you flushed with him.

"So cute, I wish you'd let me dissect you to figure out what makes you so irresistible."

He laughs at hearing your involuntary whimper.

"No, I could never, but I'd much rather you be my pretty nurse."

You just want to go home and away from this monster.

#yandere #tw.yandere #implied noncon #tw.murder #transformers x reader #yandere transformers #transformers Blurr x reader #cybertronian reader #transformers Pharma x reader #mdni #yandere pharma x reader #yandere Blurr x reader #transformers x cybertronian reader #I love writing human reader and cybertronian reader :3 it's always so much fun

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sugarcoated-lame · 8 months ago

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Fanfic Covers

thank you so much for the tag, my dear jana @guiltyasdave this was so much fun!! 🧡

this amazing penguin classic front cover template is by @saradika 💕

the works:

easy like sunday morning (joel miller x f!reader)

into the woods (joel miller x f!reader)

wake up call (joel miller x f!reader)

always a bridesmaid (jake seresin x f!reader)

hourglass (bradley bradshaw x f!reader)

warmth (bob floyd x f!reader)

no pressure tags: @sebsxphia @pedrospatch @sunlightmurdock @joelsdagger @hangmanssunnies @mrsmando @itsokbbygrl @gracieheartspedro @tonysopranosrobe @rhettabbotts @honeyedmiller @topherwrites @floydsglasses @floydsmuse @elusive-honeydew @aurorawritestoescape @ohtobeleah @almostfoxglove @joelsmochi @mayhem24-7forever @amanitacowboy @iknowisoundcrazy @wethairjoel @roosterbruiser @bradshawsbitch @roosterforme @punk-in-docs @joelslegalwhre @blue-aconite @whatislovevavy @glowingxeyes @magneticecstasy (sorry if you’ve already been tagged 🧡)

this was so much fun, i’d love to see all of yours! 🫶🏼

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sunnydbeam · 3 months ago

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If Y/N had a bad day or was sick, how would the guys react? Who would be more likely to do something about it? I can only imagine something very wholesome out of this!

So this sat in my inbox for a while, but I finally got around to writing something about it! Sorry for the late reply!

______

"What if?" I: Not at home

Gamma Code AU

• Word count: 4,784 • [ Beta x Reader x Gamma] Platonic or romantic. Fluff. • CW: mild language, mild angst, hurt/comfort.

Link to AO3

______

It’s written all over your face, undeniable and frankly embarrassing that you can't hide it in the slightest. Head bowed, hair disheveled, eyes dull behind exhausted lids – you know full well you resemble a miserable creature starved of motivation and sleep. Yet, you care little that your current appearance is more zombie than human.

Stumbling, you collapse heavily into your chair, burying your face in your hands. The pain is a relentless jackhammer against your skull, making it impossible to keep your eyes open for long. Why on earth did you drag yourself here, knowing deep down this was more than just seasonal allergies? Everyone asked you that, a question you couldn't quite answer.

You lean back, tilting your head against the chairrest. Eyes squeezed shut, you still feel the ambient light piercing your thin lids like needles. An anguished groan escapes your lips.

Three hours left on your shift. The thought is agonizing. You’re far too embarrassed to ask the manager to leave early, not when you insisted coming in was the right decision, despite every sign screaming otherwise.

"Ugh…" you whimper softly.

Time melts into a hazy continuum, but through the fog of discomfort, you're vaguely aware of someone speaking to you. You try to ignore it, but the voice persists, gentle yet insistent.

A subtle movement beside you, then a light pressure on your shoulder, almost like a tentative massage. It's followed by a dizzying whirl as your chair abruptly spins, your eyelids flying open to meet a pair of wide, luminous blue eyes mere centimeters from your flushed face. You yelp, startled, instinctively trying to push back, but large, firm hands immediately clamp onto the chair, steadying it, and preventing you from tipping over.

"I— I apologize! I didn't mean to startle you…"

This time, you truly look. The large, purple robot is kneeling before you, his four arms outstretched, hands gripping the sides of your chair as if bracing against its imminent collapse. He seems to tremble slightly, his usual friendly expression warped into a nervous grimace, a mask of perpetual anxiety as if bracing for a reprimand he hasn't yet earned. But God knows, you don't have the heart for that. Not with Beta.

"Sorry," you murmur, rubbing your temples, the ache flaring. "You just surprised me."

It's not unusual to feel a flicker of nervousness around him sometimes – a primal awareness of your own fragile, fleshy body compared to his powerful frame – leading to exaggerated reactions. But Beta has always been too gentle, too considerate for those worries to take deep root.

Beta tilts his head, those blue optics scanning you like an open book, making you feel momentarily exposed. He knows. He sees your pitiful state and likely has a dozen observations ready. But, to your relief, his expression softens into a subtle, warm smile. His grip on the chair loosens, then releases it entirely. Two hands rest on his knees, while the other two carefully extend towards you, a silent question seeking permission.

"You're not feeling well, are you, sweetie?" His voice is soft, melodic. "That's awful… Are you sick?"

Oh, that robot is impossibly sweet every time he speaks. It still catches you off guard, given everything. You have no illusions about his artificial nature; rather, it’s something in his intuitive, caring manner that's undeniably charming. It's in the way Beta chooses his words so meticulously, clearly intending to evoke warmth without a hint of condescension. He almost always succeeds. Why that matters so much to him, or even to you, remains a puzzle you haven't tried to solve.

But lately, that once-clear line dividing your perception of true life and sentience feels increasingly blurred.

Receiving no verbal response from your foggy mind, his eyes shine brighter with concern.

"You should have stayed home."

"Mm… I know…" You mumble, the admission tasting like defeat.

You grumble under your breath, and Beta offers another small, sympathetic smile.

"May I touch you?"

"… Uh, what…?"

Blinking, puzzled, you watch as Beta carefully removes one glove, revealing the intricate mechanics beneath, and looks at you with a soft, pleading expression.

"Your face," he clarifies, gesturing with his bare mechanical hand.

Though still disoriented, you manage a small nod. The cool, smooth fingertip, tinged with a neon purple, gently brushes against your cheek. You instinctively close your eyes, letting out a sigh you immediately feel embarrassed about. When you cautiously peek at Beta, he doesn't seem fazed, his focus absolute. With immense care, his large hand cups your face, sliding upward to rest against your forehead.

Oh. He's taking your temperature. That makes sense.

A fresh wave of embarrassment washes over you, realizing your subconscious craving for simple physical contact.

"You have a high fever, Angel," he observes softly. "I'll take you to the recovery room. I’ve heard they have a very comfortable, fluffy couch and soft blankets, perfect for a nap during break time."

You almost want to laugh at how endearingly he phrased that.

"But first stop, the infirmary," he adds firmly.

Without further warning, Beta scoops you effortlessly into his arms. A small, surprised gasp escapes you, which he seems to absorb as he cradles you securely against his chest, a gesture meant to reassure you. Being carried by a robot is a novel experience, and the distance from the solid ground feels disconcertingly vast.

"They’re going to scold me…" You mutter against the slightly rubbery texture of his hazmat suit.

You hear him chuckle, a sound still strangely localized, not resonating from his chest as you might expect.

"That would be logical," he says, his voice soft, almost playful. "But don't worry too much. I won't let them be too harsh with you, sweetie."

You snort, which turns into an abrupt sneeze, burying your face against him again. A gloved hand settles on the back of your head, fingers gently, tenderly stroking through your hair. He pushes open a door, entering a room bathed in light so jarringly bright you groan, squeezing your exhausted eyes shut tighter. You dissolve into a fit of coughing and sneezing, feeling utterly wrecked by this flu.

Lost in your misery, you're barely aware of the worried glances Beta casts down at you, nor how steadfastly he refuses to put you down while the nurse examines you and dispenses some painkillers. You do get scolded, but Beta keeps his word, defending you with absurdly sweet excuses about you being an exemplary worker, too responsible to miss a day even when clearly unwell. Still, leaving isn't an option now. Not like this, without someone ensuring you make it home safely. You feel perilously close to fainting.

So, Beta proceeds with his plan, heading towards the recovery room, you still cradled in his arms. Some colleagues shoot you curious glances; others stop you both, their voices laced with concern as if there's something inherently unsettling about seeing you carried, vulnerable, by a robot. A few even offer to take over. You have to summon the patience to reassure them, insisting Beta's company is perfectly fine, that there's nothing to fear. Throughout these exchanges, Beta's eyes briefly divert as his head slightly bowed. He never utters a word.

It must be tough, you think fleetingly, being judged simply for being different. Being perceived as some kind of monster.

You know he feels it.

Beta knows that you know.

His gaze returns to you, softening instantly. He pulls you a fraction closer against his chest, his hold firmer now, as if afraid you might slip away, vanish, and he'd never get to hold you again. There's a unique quality to Beta's hugs – laced with an anxious undercurrent, a fear of crushing your fragility, yet overwhelmingly full of affection, as if trying to shield you completely within his embrace.

He enters the recovery room. Your tired eyes flutter open, vaguely scanning the surroundings. To your immense relief, the room is empty. The next thing you know, Beta is gently depositing you onto a plush couch, then hurrying towards some nearby cabinets, searching for the blankets he mentioned. You hear a soft, happy humming sound when he finds them. Moments later, he's back, carefully tucking the soft fabric around you, right up to your chin. You gratefully sink into the cushions.

"I’ve never been in here before," he reflects, his voice quiet. "It’s nice."

"Hm… I don’t come here often either…" You reply, your voice muffled.

He looks down at you, his large frame looming slightly. It’s a touch intimidating, but you bite back the comment, not wanting to make him anxious. Instead, you quickly ask, "Are you going to stay?"

Your face flushes instantly, heat rising that you hope the fever masks effectively. Why did that sound so needy?

Beta smiles, a tender, understanding expression.

"I can, if you want me to."

Somehow, that makes it even more embarrassing. But Beta doesn't laugh; he just seems to find your flustered state endearing. He sits down carefully beside you on the couch. Even seated, he's significantly taller, and his weight causes the cushions to dip, drawing you slightly closer to his side.

A dense, slightly awkward silence settles between you. You can't help but notice the way Beta looks at you – calm, thoughtful, as if carefully weighing his next move. You cough again, your head swimming.

He shifts, and in one smooth motion, you're drawn onto his lap. Four arms gently envelop you, holding you as if you were the most precious, fragile thing in his universe. You don't know why. You don't understand it. But somehow, it feels… right.

Maybe it's like this for everyone he interacts with. A loving robot shouldn't be such an alien concept. But emotions aren't typically associated with circuitry and code, yet Beta… Beta is a being of circuits and code who feels, sometimes overwhelmingly so.

You dislike the word 'machine' when thinking of him.

You remain still, your body limp and weak. But even if you had the strength, you wouldn't fight this. Not when, finally, you feel so at ease. The blanket cocoons you, warm and secure. One of his hands moves soothingly along your back, tracing patterns up to your nape. Long, gloved fingers gently tangle in your hair, massaging your scalp, combing through the strands up to your crown. He leans his face close, murmuring against your tousled hair.

"Shh… You can rest now. You’ll feel better…" He closes his eyes briefly. "Humans feel better when they sleep, don't they?"

It’s strange seeing him so calm, so centered. Usually, he's a bundle of nerves – jumpy, anxious, always seeming to anticipate the worst possible outcome. That’s the Beta you know most of the time. This quiet optimism feels almost foreign, yet it brings an unexpected peace. If Beta is this calm, perhaps it’s because he genuinely feels comfortable with you.

The thought warms your chest.

"We’re going to get in trouble for this…" You sigh, the words punctuated by a sniffle as you battle a congested nose. "They’re already so hard on you…"

Beta’s soft chuckle vibrates slightly against you, somehow. You can't quite gauge if it holds amusement or disbelief.

"They’ll understand," he replies lightly. "Helping is also part of my job description."

"Don’t take this the wrong way," you begin carefully, glancing up at him sideways, "but you’re… way too calm right now."

Beta tilts his head again, his hood dipping slightly, casting his face in shadow. The Beta you’re used to would have likely flinched at the implied scrutiny. He makes a small, strangled sound and looks away, suddenly tense and nervous again.

Ah, there he is.

"I was just trying… uh… I read that staying calm can help others feel calm too," he mumbles, fidgeting slightly. "If it bothers you, I—"

"No, it’s fine! I promise it’s fine. I was just curious…" You interrupt quickly, rubbing your head as the headache threatens a resurgence. You push the pain aside. "Actually… I’m glad to see you relaxed."

A soft, fascinating purple hue washes over Beta’s face. You still marvel at your ability to elicit such a reaction from him; it's simultaneously hilarious and utterly adorable.

You sit in comfortable silence as Beta's hand resumes its slow, circular motions across your back and shoulders, gradually lulling you toward sleep. Your eyelids grow heavy, protesting the effort to stay open. Your body trembles slightly, the fever playing tricks, making you feel chilled despite your internal heat. But wrapped in the blanket, held securely in the arms of someone who cares, the world feels a little less harsh. More comfortable, warmer. And blessedly, you're not facing this alone in the cold silence of your empty home.

Beta glances aside, his expression thoughtful, distant. Perhaps he could make you some tea? Or order it from the café? Honey and ginger, he recalls reading somewhere, is good for a sore throat. And food? What do humans eat when they're sick? Soup is the only thing that comes immediately to his processor.

Lost in these considerations, Beta looks down and realizes you’ve already drifted off. His eyes widen slightly, and a soft, almost silly smile spreads across his features.

Humans look so cute and peaceful when they sleep.

He watches your finally relaxed face with fascination: the way your disheveled hair curtains your closed eyes, your lips slightly parted, breathing slow and even, though still a bit heavy. Your rosy cheek is pressed trustingly against his chest. Beta feels something akin to melting just looking at you as if you are the loveliest sight he has ever seen. And crucially, you allowed yourself this vulnerability, with him. He, a being who often feels like an outsider, is regarded with suspicion even by his creators. But you… You always manage to make him feel accepted, special, as normal as any human among them. Like one of your own.

Beta feels fortunate for that.

He gently traces your cheek with one fingertip, a subtle, exploratory touch, slowly mapping the contours of your face. Up across your cheekbone, towards the delicate skin of your eyelid, his touch feather-light so as not to wake you. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, studying your features – so different from his own – with intense care.

"So peaceful…" he breathes, the sound barely audible. "Precious…"

He notices a subtle shift in your expression – eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks, eyebrows knitting almost imperceptibly, lips forming a vague pout – yet you remain asleep. The robot can’t quite interpret these micro-expressions, assuming humans generally look untroubled in sleep. But suddenly, you no longer look quite serene, and an uncomfortable static prickles through his circuits, a warning that something is amiss. Beta feels an urgent need to fix it.

"Poor thing… You’re in so much pain, aren't you? Your breathing is strained, your body tense, trembling…" he whispers, instinctively tightening his hold, trying to envelop you completely. "What should I do? What ought I to do?"

Panic begins to bubble beneath his calm facade. He's confused, terrified, but desperately trying not to wake you. Truthfully, he's never cared for a sick human before, striving with all his processing power not to overreact. But oh, he was sure your skin wasn't burning quite this intensely just moments ago.

"The infirmary… Maybe we should go back, hm? The painkillers don't seem to be working effectively…"

The robot presses his face briefly against the crown of your head, mimicking a sigh.

"Aha! There you are."

Beta’s head snaps up, gaze darting towards the doorway. Gamma stands there, greeting him with a wide, toothy grin, hands planted firmly on his hips, surveying the scene with mock judgment.

"What's that suspicious package you've got there?" Gamma raises a metallic eyebrow, sauntering closer. Beta offers a nervous grimace. "Yeah, it looks suspiciously alive!"

"Please keep your voice down; they're trying to sleep," the purple robot half-whispers, half-reproves, his anxious blue eyes flicking between you and his newly arrived companion. Gamma claps his hands over his mouth in mock horror, though the sharp grin remains visible beneath.

"I was wondering what I saw flickering on the security cameras."

"W-what?" Beta stammers, optics widening.

Gamma muffles a laugh. "Kidding! I don't have access to the cameras. Though, I won't deny, catching this would have been pretty damn funny." The neon-green robot teases, but his usual antics fail to truly rattle Beta this time. Gamma's gaze sweeps the room, landing on the couch with keen interest. "Whoa, didn't know we had one of these here. Quite the find." He stops beside the couch and crouches down, folding his tall frame close to the ground, an attempt to seem less imposing, even though you're asleep. He looks at you and tilts his head, his grin softening into something gentler.

"So," he asks, his voice lowered to an even, quiet tone, "what’s the issue? Sick or something?"

Beta adjusts the blanket around you, his expression pensive as he looks down at your sleeping form before nodding.

"I just thought… it would be nice to keep them company," he murmurs nervously, bracing for a potential reprimand. "I apologize if my absence caused any inconvenience."

"You're adorable," Gamma laughs, a genuine sound that makes Beta blush faintly purple again. "Relax. I'll tell them you were on a recharge cycle. No problem."

Beta looks genuinely, pleasantly surprised.

"Th-thank you."

"Uhm… Consider it a favor. Now you owe me," Gamma replies with a cheeky green smirk, eliciting a small sound of indignant surprise from Beta. "Seriously, though, you could have invited me. You two look ridiculously comfortable over here; I'm getting jealous."

The purple robot looks away, face flushing deeper, shoulders tense. Two of his hands fidget nervously with the edge of the blanket covering you.

"If… if you want to…"

"Aw, hell yeah. My actuators were getting a little stiff anyway." Gamma straightens up, looking down at you with those inscrutable, mismatched eyes. His smile softens once more. "Yeah, probably the only human around here I wouldn't actively wish a headache upon, y'know?" He strolls over to a nearby water dispenser, carefully filling a flimsy disposable cup, holding it with exaggerated care as if terrified of crushing the tiny object. It looks absurdly small in his large hand, but he manages to return without spilling a drop, simultaneously wheeling a small side table closer with one foot. He makes a show of checking an imaginary watch on his wrist. "Anyway, looks like we've got about an hour and a half before the café gets swarmed by hungry organics. Might as well take advantage of this wonderful couch and leave all the grunt work to Alpha."

"He’s going to be furious," Beta points out hurriedly, apprehension coloring his tone.

"Pretty sure he can handle it. Besides, that sounds like a 'future us' problem," Gamma responds dismissively, shrugging with a sly, cat-like grin. He settles onto the couch next to Beta, leaning in towards you, almost as if intending to scoop you up himself. Instead, he props his head on one hand, studying your face intently, whispering conspiratorially near your hair, "What's one or two wasted hours of productivity when you've got another eight thousand seven hundred and fifty-eight left in the year to catch up?"

Gamma places the cup of water on the small table, his mismatched eyes scanning your curled-up form with an expression that borders on tenderness. One long finger gently prods your cheek, lingering for a moment. His smile widens, looking immensely pleased with himself.

"Ah, see? Infrared vision is remarkably useful for diagnostics~"

Beta looks at him, eyes wide with surprise.

"I— I hadn't considered that!"

"That's because I'm the genius."

Gamma idly plays with a strand of your hair, tousling it slightly before smoothing it back. There's a subtle tension in his movements, suggesting a desire to be careful not to wake you, yet simultaneously wanting you to somehow know he stayed too, offering his own form of company. "Fever's dropped. Perfect, perfect."

Beta lets out a quiet sigh of relief at that, pulling you closer, protectively against his chest. Gamma watches him for a long moment, head tilted.

"So… you gonna hug me like that too, or do I have to beg?"

Beta would have choked if his respiratory system worked that way.

"I… Umm… I—I don’t know… I mean…" Beta seems utterly mortified, flustered beyond words. "W-why would you want to…?"

His reaction seems disproportionately funny to his companion.

"The real question is… " Gamma leans in, raising his eyebrows dramatically, " Why wouldn’t I want to?"

Beta makes a muffled, strangled noise, and Gamma finally bursts into unrestrained laughter, no longer bothering to keep his voice down. He wants to wake you now, eager to see the inevitably perplexed expression on your face when you find yourself sandwiched between two massive robots cuddling you like a shared teddy bear. So funny.

And, admittedly, adorable.

"Maybe I should—" Beta starts.

"Leave it to me."

Without any warning, Gamma grabs Beta firmly by the shoulders and gives a sharp tug. The motion jostles Beta's hood back, causing his purple rays to flare outwards, inadvertently smacking Gamma right across the face.

Gamma lets out an exaggerated yelp of pain, the sudden noise jolting you awake, while Beta dissolves into mortified sobs and a rapid-fire barrage of apologies.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

"Damn, Beta, you pack some serious hidden weaponry there!"

Meanwhile, you blink, consciousness returning like a slow-motion wave crashing over you.

You have never felt so utterly confused and disoriented in your entire life. Your small, blanket-wrapped body feels like the filling in a very strange, very large robotic sandwich. They’re being careful, you register dimly, not crushing you, but their towering figures loom over you as they seem to bicker about the recent assault, momentarily oblivious to your awakening.

"W-where the hell am I…?" you murmur, voice thick with sleep and confusion.

"In the paradise of my arms, obviously," Gamma replies instantly, his grin back in place, the earlier slap forgotten. Beta, however, still looks borderline traumatized by the incident. "Surprise!" Gamma continues cheerfully. "Decided I wanted my own human plushie too, but Beta here wasn't sharing. Rude."

The poor purple robot just gives you an anxious, apologetic look, optics wide, seeming perpetually on the verge of tears. You feel your face heat up again at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"Guys… this is… really strange…" You mumble, rubbing your temple. You do feel marginally better, though. The sleep, despite being punctuated by vague fever dreams, was surprisingly deep. You have hazy recollections of gentle pressure, comforting weight, large hands holding you with unexpected tenderness, and soft, murmured words that felt like a warm shield against the discomfort. It was strangely restorative. “You two are lucky that I trust you both enough.”

Beta is now a complete mess of embarrassment, looking like he wishes the floor would swallow him whole. Gamma, conversely, seems utterly unfazed, laughing heartily. He gives your head a few friendly pats like one might pet a dog.

"You're welcome!" he teases.

Beta shyly holds out a small pill and the cup of water Gamma had placed on the table earlier, avoiding direct eye contact. As you take them, he fidgets nervously with the edge of the blanket still draped over you.

"P-please drink this… before you go home."

You feel a pang of sympathy for him now.

Offering a small smile, you swallow the pill. It scrapes slightly against your still-raw throat but goes down easily enough. Gamma makes a sound like snapping his fingers.

"Alrighty! Now that our precious human is awake, I think it's high time you drank your magic robot tea and then skedaddled home to sleep in your own soft, warm bed, instead of being draped over the hard, cold chassis of two poor robots desperately craving validation and affection."

You raise an eyebrow at him, unable to tell if he's being serious or deeply sarcastic. Beta’s immediate, unbridled reaction, however, strongly suggests the latter might hold a kernel of truth.

He practically throws you into Gamma’s arms, scrambling off the couch and dashing towards the café area, calling back, "I’ll go get the tea!”. All you see is a purple and yellow blur disappearing around a corner, his two flexible grabber appendages flailing behind him like overexcited tails, narrowly missing several chairs.

An awkward silence descends as you realize you are now solely in Gamma’s lap. You sniffle, then sneeze, fumbling in your pocket for a tissue.

"What a weird day…" You whisper, mostly to yourself.

The silence stretches in response.

When you look up, Gamma’s mismatched eyes are fixed on you with an intensity you’re not accustomed to seeing from him. They gleam, a deep, assessing green; they seem to judge, penetrate, yet hold you captive, making it impossible to look away. His hand comes up, fingers firmly grasping your chin, tilting your head back slightly. His thumb traces the faint line of a scar near the right corner of your lower lip, a mark barely visible but not missed by his scrutinizing gaze.

"What was the point," his voice is suddenly low, resonant, cutting through the quiet room, "of dragging yourself here when you knew you’d only be inefficient?" The reproachful tone lands like a physical blow, stinging your chest. "Suffering, far from home? Why? Nobody pins a medal on you for martyrdom. Are you some kind of masochist?"

His words slice deeper than you expected, hitting a nerve you didn't know was exposed.

"I didn't come here… intending to be a burden," you manage, your voice trembling slightly. "I just…"

But the words die in your throat.

Gamma remains silent, his gaze unwavering, first on the tiny scar, then locking onto your eyes, waiting. All you can do is stifle a sob, hot tears welling up unexpectedly.

It must be the lingering fever, you tell yourself, or perhaps the accumulated exhaustion from the preceding days. But a sense of powerlessness washes over you – the dizziness, the melancholy that descends when you contemplate the tangled mess of past choices, the things that might have been, the decisions made and unmade. It hurts with a sharp, selfish pang because you know, deep down, that your actions often stem from a desperate search for something, anything, to fill the echoing void in your existence. Because, subconsciously, you ignored all logic and dragged yourself here, yearning for mere crumbs of the connection that feels so distant in your life. Because buried beneath layers of denial, you knew they wouldn't leave you alone. Because you crave the simple, fundamental comfort of affection and care.

Because at home, there's no one.

It’s a selfish desire, isn't it? To simply matter to someone. And even if this fragile connection feels illusory at times, who is the universe to deny you the right to cling to those who are here, offering solace, even if just for a fleeting moment? Who is to deny you the right to feel content and at peace?

Gamma’s intense gaze softens. His gloved thumb gently brushes against your damp skin, wiping away a stray tear tracking down your cheek. A small, conciliatory smile touches his lips.

"Foolish human," he grumbles, but his eyes now hold a mischievous glint, something that strongly resembles affection. "You’re damn lucky we all trust you enough."

Fresh tears spill over, fueled by embarrassment and a confusing surge of relief. Gamma lets out a chuckle.

"Thank you… guys…" You manage between sniffles.

"Yeah, yeah. Now you owe me," he repeats, the teasing tone returning.

You snort, a watery smile finally breaking through. Whether any of this is 'real' in the conventional sense… You find you no longer care to dissect it. Whatever this is, whatever complex web of programming and emerging sentience is unfolding around you, it’s already more than you ever dared to ask for.

"B-Beta is taking a long time…" you murmur after a moment, wiping your eyes.

"Maybe he hasn't decided on the optimal tea blend yet," Gamma opines dryly, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

Meanwhile, unseen by either of you, the tall purple robot remains partially hidden. Peeking cautiously from behind a large column, a steaming cup held carefully between two large hands, his default expression of faint anxiety is starkly contrasted by the sweet, gentle smile slowly blooming across his face. Blue eyes gleam with an undeniable light as they fixate on you, a soft blush coloring his cheeks.

"If only you knew, Angel," he breathes to himself, adjusting his hood, "that all of us share the same dream… and someone just like you is the only data stream appearing in them."

______

#as always i apologize for any mistakes #this is not intended to be serious but chill tho #I BELIEVE it at least flows acceptably??#huehue #dear lord i had so much fun writing Gamma #he is a menace #such a silly guy #Biohazard oc #GC Biohazard #GC Beta #GC YN #eclipse x reader #Gamma Code AU #Gamma Code fic #GC what if #GC short stories #dca fandom #dca community #asks

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jesuistrestriste · 9 months ago

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sage i DESPERATELY need Artemis Donaldson angst.

Like you only call him that when your mad or upset with him. Just the thought makes him wanna sob profusely. along with even the hint of a raised voice? oh yeah he’s on the floor crying

art wasn’t sure how the fight even started.

it was a cold morning and you two had decided to stay in for the day and sit down and chat.

and, more specifically, it had turned into a chat about his tennis career and how the trajectory of it had been affecting your guys’ relationship.

it wasn’t meant to be a serious conversation, and it even started out light and with laughter..!

but then you made a comment about how it seemed like his recent losing streak was making him more closed-off, and art… well.. he got defensive.

he didn’t mean to, but he’s been more sensitive about his losses lately. he scoffed and bit back at you, “… i mean… i don’t know… i don’t exactly feel like you’ve been super supportive.”

and you can’t help but stare at him from the other side of the kitchen table, your face now scrunched up subtly into an expression that can only be perceived as bewilderment and confusion. and maybe a bit of resentment.

“uh.. what? you don’t think i’ve been supportive?”

art looks down at his hands resting over the tabletop, his brows raising slightly as his lips part while he finds his words. god, his walls are building back up in record time. he loves you more than life itself, but right now he feels like he’s being backed into a corner.

he feels like he’s being chastised by the one person he craves reassurance from.

“not really. i— okay, like, i know you’re helping me find new trainers and getting me on that creatine bullshit, but.. i need you to tell me i’ll get better, and not just tell me how ‘sad’ it is that i lost…” he scoffs.

you shake your head and huff, your brow furrowed as you feel your heartbeat pick up in pace. he’s never been like this before with you.

“i…” you rub your temple, “im not going to coddle you. that’s not me, it never was. i love you, but im also trying to be a little tough on you here—”

your words reach his ears, but he’s already in his head. his cheeks are flushing red with growing frustration and need, and he shakes his head. he cuts you off.

“nope, no no, no—“ he frowns, looking to your eyes, “i, god, i just need you to be a little sympathetic..! it’s like, i beat myself up enough already WITHOUT you getting on my back—!”

“Art,” you try to calm him down and bring him back, feeling attacked by his words and expectations, but he’s spiraling fast.

“—and it’s so frustrating to get off the courts and have that sinking feeling in my gut because i KNOW that you’re gonna get this disappointed look on your face like you think i’m a lost cause..!”

the tips of his ears are pink and he’s not even looking at you anymore. you scoff, shaking your head as you study his fidgeting frame while his hands raise to gesture to his invisible complaints.

“—i just need you to be a little compassionate with me from time to time, is that fucking wrong?”

“Art—“ you say, your tone firmer and louder, but he’s still rambling on.

“like, fuck! i can’t take it sometimes..! i really can’t, you just— i’m—“ he leans over the table, his elbows propping up his palms so that he can push his forehead into them, “i’m so tired, and i feel like nothing is ever gonna be enough to satisfy you—!”

“ARTEMIS..!”

your stern shout of his full name snaps him so fast out of his stupor that he nearly gets dizzy. it rings through his ears and clings to his throat, sliding down and burning in his chest. you never use his name like that. not unless he’s really, truly messed up..

he lifts his head in an instant, and the look on your face is what does it. the pain, the hurt, the confusion, the guilt, the anger. it’s written all over your features and it’s overwriting all of his perfect memories of your happy, beautiful image. he did this. he made you feel like you weren’t doing enough.. and all because he’s struggling with his own emotions so badly that he can’t bottle them up anymore.

he swallows the lump in his throat, desperately trying not to fall apart, but it’s far too late for that now.

he feels the sting in his eyes and the heat creeping up his neck, and then a choked-off sob escapes his lips before he can stop the tears from spilling. they roll down his cheeks and then he’s leaning back in his chair and covering his face with his hands.

and now your own breathing has stopped. you stand up from your chair and walk over to his side, knowing that he needs you more now than ever. even if he just criticized your character for a good long while. he needs you.

you place a hand on his upper back as it shakes, and his shoulders hitch as he starts to sob harshly. sniffling and hiccuping as he leans in and pulls his touch from his face to wrap his arms around your waist. he pushes his nose into your stomach; aching cries being muffled by your shirt.

“i’m, i’m sorry, im so sorry, im sorry, im sorry” he whimpers, his digits fisting the fabric of your top like he’s scared you’ll pull away soon.

your other hand moves up to his short blonde hair, stroking it as you frown and look down to him clinging to you. “shhh…” you whisper

he just shakes his head against your frame and sobs harder, “i didn’t— i didn’t mean it, i—im sorry, i didn’t really—i didn’t mean any of that, im just so—“

“tell me…” you say gently, tenderly, but it only makes him feel worse. he thinks he doesn’t deserve your kindness after all he just said.

“i’m so… s-sad..” he sobs softly and painfully, like he’s been holding it in for years. like he’s a young kid back at the mark rebellato tennis academy and he just lost an important match for the first time. the disappointment on patrick’s face. the guilt making him cower slightly while the other doubles team shrieks with victory. all of it. everything he’s ever done to make you or someone else feel let down. it’s all coming out now. and he can’t stop it.

his words cause your heart to shatter, and you slowly stroke the back of his head before you lean down to kiss the top of it, “oh, baby,” you whisper, concern and sympathy lacing your syllables. art sniffles.

“i’m sorry.”

you shake your head and whisper down to him, “i get it.. i.. i’m so sorry that i didn’t know you were dealing with all of this…”

“… well, i didn’t say anything.”

“i should have pressed harder when i realized you seemed more quiet around the apartment.”

“it’s not your fault.”

“it’s not yours either, art..”

he squeezes his eyes shut tight, two more fat tears slipping down. he nods, even if he doesn’t believe that he agrees.

two more kisses grace the top of his head, and then he’s pulling back and lifting his face to look up to yours. his eyes are lidded and red, his nose tinted the same hue, and he sniffles once more. cheeks streaked with salty regret. his hands slide up your lower back, his chin on your abdomen, “… thank you…

… i love you.”

#angst #🌸 - ask prompts #💌 - mutuals #venus i will always always always write for ur artemis donaldson headcanon #<3 #it’s so precious to me #i feel like this wasn’t super cohesive but #he’s so sad and and :(( it’s fun to write him being consoled #also i wrote so much more that i thought i did…..#art donaldson x you #art donaldson x reader

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syntheticsymp · 9 days ago

Note

Reader having an alter

okay this gave me an idea esp after reading your recent fic-

Separated from the nikto pet series, what about a soldier reader who's alter is a happy go lucky person but is still equally threatening?kinda like thanos from squidgames when he gets high lol

I did some research into squid games and thanos because of this ask, and now I am fighting the urge to dye my hair purple. Thank you for introducing me to thanos I am adding him to my collection of psychos asap

---

At first, Nikto hated you.

You were so happy all the time, bouncing around KorTac base, making conversation with a bright smile. Everyone liked you, hell, you even got that weird recluse Konig to talk to you.

But smiles don't win wars, and they won't save you on the battlefield. From what Nikto had seen, you'd probably try to befriend the enemy and get shot in the face. It was almost a pity that you were going to die so soon, but then again, Nikto couldn't feel pity for you when you signed up for this job.

Soon, you were deployed on your first mission. It was nearly a month without you with no word from the squad. Eventually, it was reported that your entire team was Killed in Action. Nikto shrugged it off, it happened all the time in his line of work. Just another mission gone south, nothing to freak out over.

But a week later, you showed up. Covered in blood, still sporting that stupid smile.

Rumors got out not long after Shepard ushered you away. Apparently, after your team had gotten killed, you played dead until you could go in and finish off the enemies. The recruits said you had wiped out an entire base after being shot multiple times.

Nikto didn't believe it for a second. But that didn't stop him from being curious.

Once you were fully healed, you were put back on the field. Since your last mission hadn't finished you off, he had assumed this one would. He was once again proven wrong.

Every mission you had been sent on had been a suicide mission.

And every time you came back.

It was weirdly infuriating. It just didn't make sense. The same person who smiled and waved at him in the hall for no reason, the one who brought the team coffee using money from their own waller, the one who had talked recruits through panic attacks and lit up whatever room they were in could not be the same person described on the field. There had to be something else going on.

Requesting you on his team for the next mission was the first time he had ever asked anyone to accompany him. And everything went as expected. The helicopter ride over he had barely kept from throwing you over the side because of your cheerful chatter, and gearing up had been no different.

It was only once you stepped foot in the building you were infiltrating that a switch in your mind seemed to flip. The air around you even felt different. The energy that usually surrounded you turned sour, dangerous.

The mission was a simple operation. Clearing out a base of terrorists, leaving no one behind. Every operative approached these differently, some choosing stealth to sneak in undetected, others going around the back to take the enemies by surprise.

You did neither. In fact, you did something even he wasn't crazy enough to do.

You walked in through the front door and started shooting.

No prelude, no hint of fear as you watched the bodies hit the ground. You holstered your gun as soon as you had the opportunity, instead choosing to tackle the soldiers with your knives or bare hands, tearing into them however was bloodiest.

Nikto could kill so easily because he felt nothing.

But you?

You enjoyed every bit of the carnage in front of you.

The rest of the mission was a blur. Nikto hardly even had to do anything, since you were taking all the good kills. The enemies never stood a chance against you. It finally clicked into place how you had kept surviving, refusing to die like a cockroach, clearing out your enemies like an exterminator. It was brutal, and he was fascinated. There weren't many people he actually saw as an equal, but he might have to make an exception for you.

However, the real kicker was on the ride home. You were sitting, completely drenched in blood, humming some happy toon that was getting on Nikto's nerves as you dug around in your pockets. You were back to normal like nothing had happened in the first place, and he had no idea what to make of it.

Then you produced a handful of little white things from your pocket. It took a moment for him to realize that they were teeth. Human teeth.

"I picked some trophies up on the way out!" you said like it was the most normal thing in the world. This was something he would do. Not you. "Do you want one? That way we can remember our first mission together."

Sentimental drivel. But he took one regardless, offering a small grunt as a thank you. You gave him the least bloody one, keeping the teeth with gums still attached and blood stained for yourself. God only knows what you were going to do with them, but Nikto wanted to learn.

...

Now, when you waved to him in the halls, he'd dip his head ever so slightly. You had earned his respect on the field, moreso than any other operative in this place. And his alters, well, they couldn't help being curious as to what else you were capable of behind that bright smile.

#i love her actually #psycho reader is always so fun to write #tw violence #nikto #nikto imagine #synthanswers #cod nikto #nikto x you #nikto x reader

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ragnarockz · 4 days ago

Note

I'm begging you to write another g!pAgnes × reader fic I'M BEGGING YOU PLS

Tip Jar 💰

Hey, anon! While I've actually never written g!pAgnes that doesn't mean I can't start RIGHT now 👀😤💙

Music inspo: forwards beckon rebound - Adrianne Lenker, Sour Patch - Ruby Waters, Did I Say Too Much - The Beaches, Takes One to Know One - The Beaches, She's Kerosene - The Interrupters, Short Skirt/Long Jacket - CAKE, Knocking at the Door - Arkells

Thunder booms as a flash of lightning lights up Agnes' bedroom. You glance quickly at the window before tossing another sweater into the pile for donation. Sure, Agnes has a big enough house but you hadn't realize how much stuff you actually owned and how much of it would actually fit here upon moving in.

You had decisions to make as you tried on and mulled over each article of clothing. Was it worth shoving back into the closet? The dresser? You launch another shirt into the ever growing pile that'll soon be hauled away by you and Agnes on the weekend.

You dig into another bag; definitely older and filled with clothes you've almost forgotten about. Old sweatshirts from college, a t-shirt from a family vacation you had begged your Mom to buy you and, one remaining set of your high school uniform. You pull out the polo and the kilt and give it a good shake to try and get the wrinkles out of it from being in storage from so long.

So long pangs in your heart a little; the passage of time had been truly bitter sweet for you.

You give the uniform a half smile as you sigh out and try to relax your shoulders. You were such a different person back then; the same but different. Going with the flow and trying to fit in; no one knew you truly. You wore your heart on your sleeve and kept yourself hidden away because you were unsure of the consequences. You knew Agnes felt the same and it was something you both had bonded over many times before.

The leagues it both took you both to finally get to a place of familiarity and having some sense of being comfortable with yourself.

None of that happened over night and it was still a challenge, a struggle. There were days where you both felt inadequate in yourselves. You quickly shed the boxer shorts you had taken from Agnes' pile to throw on that morning and one of her tank tops; undressing to pull over the polo shirt and hike up the kilt over your hips.

"Didn't know Halloween came early..."

You whip your head to look over your shoulder at Agnes who's propped up against the door frame with her hands on her hips. She's licking her lips as her eyes graze over your body and decide to rest on your kilt. You feel your face flush and instinctively move your hands down to smooth the backside; your hands tracing the curve of your ass.

"...Guess it still fits..."

Agnes nods as she swallows hard and you stare at her neck; watch the muscle bob under her skin. You sigh silently and feel that flush spread downwards and in between your legs. It's only that you're aware the kilt doesn't have built in shorts anymore. You had cut them out back in tenth grade.

Agnes doesn't reply as she pushes herself off of the frame and takes big strides over to you. You continue to stare at her over your shoulder as she comes up behind you and wraps her arms around your waist. You instantly lean your head back into her neck and breathe in hard to take in her cologne; something musky with a hint of spruce. Her lips have already found your earlobe as she bites gently and tugs with her teeth.

Your body reacts before your mind does as you push your ass back into her crotch and feel how painfully hard she is against her track pants. You moan and she whispers sweet nothings against your ear as she pushes her hips into your backside; forcing you to walk towards her bed.

You've played this game many, many times with Agnes before.

"Tell me how badly you want me, Daddy..."

You whisper from parted, wet lips as your eyelids gently close. Agnes' fingers are digging into your hips; just above the buckles of your kilt. You can feel her short nails already fiddling with the tiny belt as she tries to push them loose. You moan again and she laughs against your ear; wet and hot and dangerous because of course, she's slipping away from having any sense of control now.

You had no idea your high school uniform would be such a turn on for her.

But Agnes never really tells you, not right away. You chalk it up to her finding it hard to put her emotions into words; wanting to show you what she's feeling inside. And she does, of course, by the way her right hand snakes to your behind until they're up and under the hem of your kilt and grabbing your ass.

You open your legs a little which, of course, is an invite for Agnes to slip her hand between your legs and cup you. She presses her palm, her fingers against your underwear and you can feel them sticking to her skin. You're already wet and this does nothing but rile her up even more.

"I need to fuck you so bad...just like this, exactly like this..."

Agnes grunts into your ear as her left hand leaves your hip to, what you already know, pull her track pants and boxers down just enough to take her cock out.

You whine in anticipation, in impatience and push your head back a little further against her neck. You can feel her neck becoming moist with your ragged breaths as she uses her upper body to bend you over. She's laughing under her breath still as she feels you squirm against her; getting wetter with every passing second until she brings her right hand back to your kilt to flip the back hem up and over your hips.

Your backside is fully exposed to her now; her hand still cupping you between your shaking legs. You feel those blunt nails gently scratch against your skin as she uses her fingers to pull your underwear to the side now; the cool air of the room hitting your wet skin. You moan and you hear her coo somewhere behind you; almost trying to sooth you down before she pulls away completely.

The absence of her weight, her touch hits you like a slap in the face but you know she's sauntered off to her bedside table. You take this opportunity to catch your breath and readjust yourself a little better against her bed. You hear the snap of latex and then the drawer closing and Agnes' footsteps coming back behind you. You bite your lip as you lift your chin so your words don't come out muffled.

Because god, do you want Agnes to hear what you have to say.

"You sure you don't wanna try and knock me up this time around?"

The air in the room stills before you suddenly feel her hand between your legs once again; cupping your bare skin as she presses harder. You choke back a sob as you let your face drop to her bed.

"Gotta be a sin of some kind to get you pregnant while you're wearing that kind of a uniform...wouldn't it, Baby?"

You can only moan in response as you spread your legs a little wider and feel the head of her cock teasing your folds; daring to push inside of you. You feel added wetness against your skin; the lubrication from the condom slicking you up a little more. You mumble a string of curses before Agnes slowly pushes her erect cock into your cunt.

The sensation that blooms inside of you is a release of pressure you hadn't realized was building. It evaporates for a mere second before you clench your walls around Agnes' cock in a plea that you crave more of her. The pressure returns in a different form; hunger and an itch that needs to be scratched. You want that dull, aching throb taken care of.

You push you body back in one hard motion which, takes all of Agnes up inside of you. Your bodies collide and her left hand shoots out to press down into your lower back. She lets you ride her, milk her in the way you need it. She watches you lose yourself over her, against her, on her as you roll your hips back to fuck yourself with her cock that twitches every now and again deep inside of you. The moan you let out is loud and pitchy; cutting the air in hopes that your sounds set Agnes off herself.

It does, of course, because you know Agnes better than you know yourself.

Her groans are deep and raw, unfiltered as she presses her palm down onto your skin as she tries to hold you. She knows there's no stopping you now as you completely take over. She knows she's merely an instrument for you now even though she was the one who initialized it all. She allows her fantasy and turn-ons to turn into yours; something that was once so mundane and routine as a uniform becoming and object of unhinged desire.

"That's it, Baby...you fuck yourself good on my hard cock...look how well you take it, Babe...fuck..."

Your movement picks up in speed, almost losing yourself in your greed. You feel the sensation of just her head inside of you and you whine; that beautiful burning pain and mixes with pleasure as it hits at an angle that's neither comfortable or uncomfortable. You try to catch your breath and feel Agnes' hand now rubbing small circles on your lower back. She's allowing you to make the next move whatever it may be. You choose the level of pleasure here and now.

Maybe you surprise her as you pull away so far that you're now left empty. You can hear Agnes catching her breath behind you before she takes a wobbly half step backwards to give you space. It takes you a moment to catch your own breath before you turn against her bed; legs wobbly as you face her now. She's absentmindedly stroking her hardened cock into her hand as she stares at you with half-lidded eyes. You see nothing but love, compassion and, desire. It makes your heart hammer against your chest and your stomach somersault.

"Let me say thank you..."

Your whisper as your gaze lingers on Agnes' cock; tracing the veins you can barely see through the sheath of the condom. You slowly peel the polo shirt off of you before you sink down until you're on your knees in front of her. Her hand suddenly stops stroking herself and you can tell she's holding her breath as you shift a little closer and reach out with your hands to bring them around her legs to pull her a little closer to you. She obliges with a half-step forward to close that gap between your mouth and her cock. Her eyebrows quickly raise in consideration as she looks down at you and her words tumble out of her mouth hastily.

"Letmejust...takethisoffso...youcantasteme..."

You watch in awe as Agnes drags her hand up to the base of her cock; fingers teasing through her pubic hair. She finds the ridge of the condom with her fingers and drags it down her shaft until she's taken it off completely. You take Agnes in with your eyes and a sudden pool of saliva fills your mouth.

Your mouth opens before you even tell your body to do so.

Agnes takes another half-step towards you as her free hand finds the back of your head and her fingers rake through your hair to guide your mouth to her.

Your first thought it always just how good Agnes tastes in your mouth; something you didn't know you could crave until you started being intimate with her. She said the same thing about you whenever you rode her face or she had herself down between your legs. You couldn't get enough of the other.

Your cheeks hollow and your tongue slides underneath her shaft as you take more of Agnes' hard cock into your mouth. You make sure to hum, something she's moaned about loving as the vibrations rock right through her. You can feel your own cum dripping down your inner thigh.

Your nose buries deep into Agnes' pubic hair as she pulls you in closer with an inclination to have you choking on her in your throat. Your vision blurs as you blink away the tears that prick your eyes. You moan again and hope, fucking pray, that she gets the hint.

And Agnes does, because she knows you better than she knows herself. You feel the sweet and salty taste of Agnes inside of your mouth as you feel her body relax against you and her fingers loosen their grip on your hair. She cums into your mouth; down your throat and lets out a strangled sigh of relief.

Your mind makes a mental note to keep your old school uniform. It'll have a nice spot in the closet next to Agnes' things as a constant reminder of how much she loves it.

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