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societyfolklore · 3 months ago

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Open Up Baby

Title: Open Up Baby Pairing: Tony Stark x Female Reader

Summary: Tony Stark straps you into a StarkTech-compatible bench for a private demonstration of his newest toys- complete with biometric feedback,

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, SMUT… BDSM/Restraints/Bondage, custom tech ball gag, toys (Egg vibe, anal beads, dildo) Overstimulation, Toy fucking/Machine-assisted thrusting, Filthy talk (Tony can't shut up), AI assists with data tracking, clinical observation, forced openness, Sensory overload

A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for April Kinky Bingo… Well this one turned into a whole thing.. Square: B2- Open Up Baby Card Number: KB003

You were already strapped to the bench- back arched, thighs spread wide in glossy chrome stirrups, wrists bound snug in Stark-grade cuffs that didn’t budge an inch. The synthetic leather beneath you was cool against your skin, but your body was already starting to heat with anticipation. The bench itself shifted slightly with every movement, like it was reading your tension, calibrating every twitch of your muscles into data Tony could access later.

You could hear the soft hum of the room’s ambient systems, the low mechanical whirrs, the faint electric pulse of tech running in standby, and underneath it all, Tony’s voice. He hummed absently as he moved around you, flicking through translucent holoscreens that floated in the air, readable only to him. Light glinted off his arc reactor through the thin black shirt he wore, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, veins flexing with every subtle flick of his fingers.

He looked like a scientist. Or a surgeon. No, a goddamn artist.

“You look tense,” he murmured, stepping in close, his fingers grazing your jaw with a feather-light touch. “That won’t do. We need to get a clean read. No clenched teeth, no locked jaws. Just you- open and…relaxed.”

He held up a sleek piece of tech. A mix of leather and metal. To you it looked like a ball gag. That wasn’t just a gag. It was his gag. Something custom. Personal. Laced with Stark Industry Tech.

“Open up, baby. Gotta install the biometric reader. It’s not science without a baseline.”

You hesitated, lips twitching. Just for a second. But he didn’t push. He just waited you out, smirk deepening, one brow arched like he had all the time in the world. That cocky, knowing gaze made you squirm even before anything touched you. Your breath hitched. And then you parted your lips.

“There we go,” he said, tone thick with approval as he slid the gag into place. It clicked against your teeth, snug and firm. A soft vibration flickered across your tongue as it locked in pushing the muscle down.

Friday’s voice chimed in overhead, calm and clinical.

“Gag calibration complete. Biometric sync active. Tracking vocal response, saliva levels, and tongue pressure.”

Tony leaned down, brushing his lips across your cheek in a whisper of a kiss. “Good girl. Now let’s get to work.”

He started with the egg.

Sleek. Silver. Pulsing faintly in his hand like it had a heartbeat of its own. The metal shimmered under the clinical lights, smooth and polished, shaped with the kind of precision that only Stark could deliver. He turned it over once, twice, like he was admiring a prized gadget- one that he was particularly proud of.

He showed it to you like a doctor unveiling a revolutionary new tool- calm, confident, deeply amused. Except this wasn’t a sterile exam room, and the look in his eyes wasn’t professional. His smirk told you he already knew what kind of mess this thing would reduce you to.

"This is your warm-up," he said, voice low and playful. "Phase One. Internal warming protocol. Testing receptivity. Calibration through heat and pulse response."

You whimpered into the gag. Of course you were excited- he’d been teasing you with this little 'demonstration' all week. Whispering promises in your ear, tapping out reminders on your thigh, dropping technical jargon laced with filth that left your core throbbing before he’d even touched you. Now that it was finally happening, your whole body was buzzing with need.

He didn't wait. He moved closer, one gloved hand parting your thighs a little further, the other settling between them. The bench adjusted beneath you, lifting your hips another inch to meet his touch perfectly. His fingers dipped between your folds- testing your wetness, teasing you just enough to make your body jerk in its bonds.

"Already responsive," he muttered, half to himself, half to Friday. "She’s going to be a dream to log."

He slid the egg in with two fingers, slow and deliberate. The cool metal kissed your entrance, making you flinch slightly- it was colder than you expected, stark contrast against your heated skin. Your walls instinctively tried to resist, clenching down, but his fingers were patient, coaxing you open, parting you around the sleek, unyielding toy.

The egg slid upward, heavy and smooth. As it moved deeper, your body yielded to it, the slow stretch making your breath catch. Its contours were designed to press into every sensitive spot, and you could feel your muscles fluttering around it, trying to accommodate the sudden fullness. As he pushed it deeper, you could feel every inch of it being swallowed by your body, your slick muscles tightening, fluttering around the intrusion.

He pushed the egg up high inside you, then paused, his finger still inside you too. "Squeeze for me," he ordered. You did, instinctively, your walls closing down as you used your pelvic floor, and Tony gave the platic string attached a soft tug.

The stretch, the resistance- it was delicious. The egg stayed locked in place. You couldn’t push it out if you tried. He smiled, clearly pleased.

"Perfect. Secure fit," he murmured. "Wouldn’t want it popping out mid-test."

It settled deep inside you, a sinful throb blooming in your core. Then it pulsed- just once, a quick flutter that made you jolt.

"There we go," he breathed, watching the screen light up with new data. "Didn’t even turn it on yet and she’s already going. Fuck, I love this job."

You were barely processing the first toy when he reached for the second.

Beads. Tapered, growing in size, each one gleamed under the soft blue lighting like tiny pieces of futuristic art. You squirmed, thighs pressing together, but it was no use- Stark had seen your reaction.

Tony laughed- low and delighted.

"Didn’t know we were going there, huh?" He nudged your knees apart again, voice dipping to a darker octave. "Come on, baby. I want you to open up for me. Let’s see what this one does..."

You shook your head slightly. Whimpered into the gag. Wide eyes watching him as you tried to protest around the ball gag in your mouth.

Tony turned to the tray beside him, selecting a small, frost-blue tube of gel. "Wouldn't be very considerate to skip prep," he muttered, more to himself than to you. He uncapped the tube and squeezed a slow, deliberate line of the slick, glistening substance along the length of the beads. The gel shimmered faintly under the light, warming as it reacted with the ambient temperature.

He coated each bead carefully, fingers moving with methodical ease, making sure the entire string was evenly slicked. "Lubricated. Body-safe. Custom formula," he said with a wink. "Slippery enough to slide in smooth- sticky enough to stay in place until I say otherwise."

Then he held the beads up for you to see, the string dangling between his fingers. You tensed instinctively.

"Oh no. You’re freezing up. Can’t test properly if you don’t behave. Legs. Open."

You didn’t.

Tony tsked, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment. Then he grabbed your chin, firm and steady, tilting your head so your eyes locked with his.

"Don't think so much. That’s not what good test subjects do."

Click.

The bench tilted beneath you without warning. Your hips rolled upward, knees falling further apart as the restraints auto-adjusted. You were fully exposed now- helpless. Wide open.

"You know I can override those restraints, right? I built them. Now be a good girl and show me everything."

He dipped his finger back into the gel and brought it to your ass, pressing a cool dollop directly to your tight, puckered entrance. The sudden chill made you flinch, but it was followed by the warm glide of his fingertip as he gently teased the gel in slow circles.

"You tense here, too," he said, amused. "Don't worry. This formula warms up just like you do."

He rubbed it in carefully, working the gel into your rim with delicate, coaxing pressure. The sensation tingled- both from the temperature shift and the way his finger circled and pressed until your body finally began to relent.

Then he lowered the beads between your cheeks and began to press them in- one at a time. The first slid in easily, the gel working its magic, cool and slick. The second made your breath stutter. The third had your whole body tensing as your hole stretched just enough to accommodate the new pressure.

Each one pulled a different, desperate noise from you- somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, caught in the back of your throat and forced through the gag in broken fragments.

By the time the third bead settled inside you, you felt full. Stretched in ways that left you panting, your back arching hard off the bench. Everything was working together- the deep pressure of the egg nestled high in your core, the hum beginning to buzz through your clit like a phantom, and now the slow, firm intrusion of the beads pressing against nerves that had you seeing stars. You struggled to catch your breath, the gag forcing each inhale to be short and choppy. Air hissed through your nose while your mouth flooded with saliva, spit slipping from the corners of your lips in thick strands that slid down your neck and onto your chest. The overwhelming heat of arousal and frustration tangled in your gut, building like steam with nowhere to escape. The restraint of it made the fire inside you burn hotter.

Your muscles clenched involuntarily, your hips rocking against the air, chasing friction that didn’t come. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t beg. Just drool, tremble, and take everything he gave you.

"Mmm. That moan? That was bead three. She likes that one, Friday."

"Confirmed," the AI replied. "Pelvic floor tension rising. Heart rate increasing."

"Good. Means it’s working."

The egg began to heat. The beads hummed in sync, and you felt everything shift- internally and externally- as pleasure bled into pressure, and pressure into overload. You were trembling now, thighs twitching again, trying to close- but the bench held you wide, utterly exposed.

"Heart rate’s spiking..." Tony’s voice was pure, filthy glee. "Oh, she’s gonna break soon. Look at her squirm."

You rutted against the air, clit untouched and screaming for attention. Your walls fluttered around the egg, your ass clenching down against the beads as the different pulses overlapped and collided. It was all too much and somehow not enough. You needed more and needed it to stop, all at once.

You tried to breathe, but the gag made it impossible to take anything but shallow, panting gasps. Each exhale was laced with a moan. Drool spilled freely down your chin, dripping warm across your face and neck. You were flushed, messy, wrecked- and he hadn’t even touched your clit.

Your back arched violently off the bench, cords of heat coiling through your belly and thighs. It felt like your body was unraveling, muscles tight and desperate, nerve endings screaming with pleasure.

Tony leaned in again, voice dark and syrup-smooth. "We’ve got her plugged, egged, and ready to combust. Think she can handle the next phase?"

Friday answered, "Orgasm build-up at 87%."

"Perfect." He tapped a command into the air. "Now let’s push her."

The egg pulsed deeper. The beads vibrated sharper. You cried out- moaning, writhing, the gag muffling it into raw, incoherent noise. You couldn’t form words. Couldn’t beg. Just sob through the pressure building to a breaking point.

"Baby, this is science. Filthy, beautiful science."

It hit you like a wave- white-hot and all-consuming. Your legs shook violently in the stirrups, muscles spasming as your body locked around the egg and beads pulsing inside you. Every nerve ending fired in chaotic pleasure, overwhelming your senses. You tried to scream, to sob, but the gag reduced it to a shattered, strangled cry that vibrated through the tech, each desperate noise dutifully logged.

Drool spilled in long, wet strands down your chin as your back bowed hard off the bench, your whole body trembling under the assault of pleasure. Your cunt clenched tight around the egg, milking it involuntarily, while your ass throbbed with each hum of the vibrating beads. Everything inside you was pulsing, moving, grinding you down into submission.

Tony watched, transfixed, his gaze locked on your ruined, shaking form. “There she goes - God, I should patent that moan.”

Your eyes rolled back. You could barely breathe. You could only tremble and leak and convulse as the orgasm tore through you. The bench beneath you vibrated subtly with your body’s response.

Friday: "Orgasm confirmed."

Tony waited until you were trembling, your breathing uneven, your thighs still twitching with aftershocks that rippled through your overstimulated body. Sweat slicked your skin in a thin, glistening sheen, catching the light as your chest heaved with broken gasps around the gag. Your limbs strained weakly against the restraints.

Then- slowly, methodically- he reached between your cheeks and took hold of the first bead. He didn’t rush. He eased it out one at a time, each slick orb dragging along your inner walls with a sticky, stretching glide. You shuddered at the sensation- the unbearable emptiness that bloomed in the wake of each removal. Your ass clenched reflexively around the loss, trying to hold onto what had filled you so completely. But he kept going.

The final bead popped free with a slick, obscene sound. Your hips jolted involuntarily, your back arching once more as your body spasmed again, clinging to the ghost of sensation.

Friday's voice crackled overhead. "Anal pressure reduced. Sphincter still contracting. She’s experiencing post-orgasmic muscle spasms."

Then came the egg.

He curled his fingers inside you, tugging the retrieval loop with a firm, practiced motion. The egg slipped free, wet and shiny, your cunt fluttering uselessly around the sudden void. The stretch, the drag, the warmth- it all left you aching. You cried into the gag, overwhelmed by the emptiness and the continued tremors in your muscles. Your thighs kicked slightly, your knees drawing in as far as the restraints would allow.

"Vaginal walls contracting. Core temperature still elevated. She's not done trembling yet," Friday observed, calm as ever.

Tony held both toys in one hand now- wet, warm, shining. He looked down at you with naked satisfaction.

"That’s some damn good tech," he said. "But we’re not done."

From the tray, he lifted his final piece.

A dildo- sleek, deep grey, Stark-stamped at the base. Modeled after him, and you knew it. Maybe a little bigger. Slightly wider at the base, with delicate ridges along the underside that hinted at something extra. Your breath caught just looking at it.

“This one’s special, baby. Built it from memory- well, from yours,” Tony said, rolling it in his hand. “Temperature regulated, pressure-sensitive, and the best part? The internal sensors sync to your contractions. It responds to you. The more you clench, the deeper it drives. A perfect loop.”

You whimpered around the gag, heart fluttering.

He moved between your spread legs and lined it up against your soaked, fluttering entrance. You were already sensitive- still trembling from the last orgasm- and when the wide tip pressed in, you nearly cried. It stretched you slowly, steadily, a little more than you were used to. Your slick walls resisted at first, clenching down instinctively, but Tony was patient, guiding it with precise control.

“There you go,” he coaxed, voice smooth but sharp-edged with amusement. “That’s it. Take all of it. Come on, baby- I know you can..”

His tone dipped into a purr. “There you go. Taking it like you need it. Bet you love being filled up with Stark-grade tech, huh?”

Your back bowed off the bench as he pushed it in, inch by inch, your pussy yielding to every contour, forced to accommodate the full shape of it. The fullness was delious, your body stretched taut around it. Your eyes rolled back as the final ridge slipped inside, the toy settling deep.

“There,” he said, watching your reactions with fascination. “Fills you out just right. And now... we see what she can really do.”

The base clicked into a pulse pattern, and the toy began to move inside you- slow at first, deliberate, like it was learning your shape. You could feel every textured ridge of the shaft as it rubbed against your inner walls, dragging across oversensitive flesh, sparking little detonations of pleasure with every pass.

Then it pulsed- long and low, a rhythmic thrum that radiated from base to tip, sending heat spiraling through your belly. With every thrust, the toy seemed to stretch you deeper, nudging a spot that made your toes curl and your thighs twitch against the restraints. Your pussy clenched around it reflexively, triggering the internal sensors Tony had mentioned. And just like that, the toy responded- pressing harder, thrusting deeper, faster.

It wasn’t just fucking you- it was reading you, syncing to the wild flutter of your muscles, pulsing in tandem with your arousal.

“Look at her,” Tony murmured, grinning as he watched the toy disappear again and again between your legs. “Every little squeeze makes it work harder. You’re doing this to yourself, baby. And I haven’t even touched your clit yet.”

You’d been so consumed by the thrusting inside you, by the stretch and pulse of the toy, that you hadn’t even noticed Tony move. But suddenly, he was there- looming over you, and the egg was pressed directly to your clit.

The sensation was immediate and brutal.

Your entire body jolted. The contact felt almost painful, your nerves raw and exposed, the stimulation electric. You tried to buck away, hips arching, thighs trembling, but you had nowhere to go.

Tony caught you effortlessly. One hand shoved the egg against your swollen clit, refusing to relent, while the other pressed down on your thigh to keep your knees from closing.

“Uh uh. None of that,” he said smoothly. “You don’t get to hide from this, baby. You earned it.”

You sobbed into the gag, thrashing your hips side to side, but the bench and Tony’s hands made escape impossible. Every attempt to squirm just sent the dildo thrusting deeper inside you, and the egg grinding cruelly over your clit.

“You’re not gonna break,” he whispered, teasing. “You’re gonna burn for me.”

"Don’t you dare run from it. look at me."

He was holding you still- one hand clamped over your thigh to keep your legs spread, the other pressing the egg mercilessly to your clit. You were trembling in his grasp, utterly helpless against the merciless pairing of his tech and his control.

"You’re gonna come again for me, sweetheart. Real data’s in the repeat response," he said, eyes locked on yours, voice both commanding and hungry.

The dildo thrust deep, the ridges grinding against your most sensitive spots as your walls clamped down. The egg buzzed brutally against your swollen clit, so overstimulated you couldn’t tell whether you were trying to run from it or chase it. Every jolt of pleasure lit your nerves like lightning- white-hot and impossible to hold back.

Your body jerked, hips spasming, thighs trembling violently as the sensations overloaded you. Your entire body was working against you- every clench, every twitch, every gasp just triggered the toy to go deeper, harder, faster. You weren’t riding it anymore- it was riding you, and Tony just watched with that devilish smirk, keeping you wide open.

“That's it. Shake for me. Scream into that gag. Show me what science can do.”

The climax tore through you without mercy- harder, deeper, a violent unraveling of every nerve as your body convulsed around the relentless rhythm of the tech inside you. You didn’t just come; you shattered, splintering open in a release so intense it blurred your vision, your mind, your ability to distinguish pleasure from pain. Your vision shattered into sparks, your scream muffled into a raw, hoarse noise behind the gag. Your body thrashed in the restraints, muscles locking as the orgasm ripped through you, longer and sharper than the last.

Friday: "Second orgasm confirmed. Neural spike significant. Subject approaching physical limit."

He slowed the toy, letting it ease to a stop deep inside you before withdrawing it carefully, letting you feel every last ridge dragging along your raw, overstimulated walls. Then, with a gentleness that almost contrasted the torment he’d just put you through, he removed the egg from your clit. The instant the contact broke, your whole body sagged in the restraints with relief and exhaustion. You were shaking, barely breathing- every inch of you buzzing, nerves fried and twitching from the overload.

You could taste salt on your lips- your own tears and spit, your jaw aching from clenching around the gag. You were drenched, body glistening with sweat, your skin flushed and hypersensitive to the air.

He removed the gag last. Your jaw fell slack with a wet, trembling gasp, strands of spit clinging to the corners of your mouth. You blinked up at him, vision hazy, lips wet and parted.

Tony gazed down at you, eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction, his mouth tugging into a crooked grin that said told you so. He looked like a man admiring his finest creation- smug, yes, but also thoroughly entertained by the glorious, twitching mess sprawled out beneath him.

“You did good, baby. Fucking beautiful. But next time?”

He leaned close, brushing a kiss to your temple- slow, deliberate, his breath warm against your damp skin.

“Think I’ll need to design something that gets you to squirt. Can’t let a variable like that go untested. Wouldn’t be very Stark of me to stop now, would it?”

He turned with a little flourish, tapping the screen with a flick of his fingers, not bothering to look back.

“Friday, save this session. Label it: Successful. Prepare files for Phase Two.”

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sharieb · 12 days ago

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hello! just wanted to say I LOVEEE the way you do non-mc content. that being said could i request a headcanon on: lets say non-mc and the LI’s broke up because the dudes were still hung up on MC (they end up regretting it lol). then later on see non-mc in public who has moved on to someone else who is doing everything they guys failed to do.

The One Who Never Got It Right

Pairing: LADs x Non-Mc reader Genre: Angst (Breakup regrets) Writer's notes: Thought I could be getting more fluffs to do, but instead I got slapped in the face with this one, welp, no rest for the wicked, I guess 😅

He sees you across the bustling Skyhaven terminal—laughing, radiant, clinging to the arm of someone who isn’t him.

The man by your side is kind-eyed, attentive. He holds your bag, listens intently, and actually smiles when you talk. He doesn’t look distracted or distant—he’s there. Present.

Caleb halts mid-stride, fingers curling around the edge of his datapad. For a moment, it’s like the mission debrief in his hand doesn’t even exist.

He remembers every time he cut conversations short, gave you half his presence, let you walk beside him in silence because his mind was always elsewhere—on MC.

He thought you didn’t notice. That you’d wait. That maybe you’d always be around until he figured himself out.

Now you’re smiling in ways he never earned.

The worst part? You glance his way. See him. Then look away just as easily, returning to your conversation without missing a beat.

He used to be the safe place. Now, he's just a distant name in your past.

Later that night, he types a message to you. Deletes it. Writes it again.

In the end, he just stares at your contact photo for hours, then shuts off the holoscreen. And for the first time in a long time, Caleb can’t strategise his way out of the ache in his chest.

Mission Log 6.14.3A — Deleted Draft I saw her today. Not MC. Her. The one who asked me to be present. To try. To stop living like the past was all I had left. I thought letting her go would make me noble. Thought I was sparing her the weight of being second to a ghost. But maybe she wasn’t second. Maybe I just never gave her the space to be first. And someone else did. I hope he keeps holding her the way I never learned how to. I hope he never makes her feel like a placeholder. …I hope she never looks back.

He saw you at a gallery opening.

You're dressed in something elegant, arm-in-arm with a gentle-faced man who looks at you like you're art incarnate.

The moment hits him like a palette knife to the ribs.

You’re glowing—not in a spotlight way, but in a quiet, contented kind of joy he never could give.

He flashes his usual grin to the crowd, but his fingers twitch at his side.

Because of that new guy? He’s whispering something in your ear. And you’re laughing. That laugh used to belong to Rafayel, once.

But he made jokes about still missing MC. Let you hear silence when you needed security. Let you fade beside someone else’s memory.

Now?

Someone else painting you with attention. Frames you with love.

He downs his champagne and pretends to care about the next exhibit, but he draws you three times from memory that night.

None of them capture your smile the way he just did.

He doesn’t stop drawing until dawn. Each page is more desperate than the last.

Sketchbook Entry — Page Torn Out She asked me once what I thought love looked like. I told her it was impossible to capture - always shifting, always out of reach. But she caught it. She was it. And I? I framed her in glass and called it finished. She wanted a mess. Partnership. Splattered hands and stained shirts. I gave her monologues and empty wine glasses. I thought she was a phase. A warm red before I returned to ash. But she was permanent. I saw her smile today. It wasn’t for me. And for once, I couldn’t paint a damn thing.

He was leaning on the railing of a shadowed walkway, scanning the crowd below on a recon run, when he spotted you.

You're tucked into the side of someone unfamiliar—someone laughing with you, their hand laced with yours, feeding you a bite of something sweet.

The softness on your face is devastating. It used to be his. It was once the only softness he’d let himself keep.

He stays hidden, watching.

That guy kisses your knuckles. And you smile like you trust him completely.

His chest tightens, fingers twitching. He almost drops the comms unit in his hand.

You’d begged him once to try, to stop comparing you to MC. To see you. He hadn’t known how to let go back then. Now?

He’s thinking about how that man just wiped whipped cream from your lip without flinching—and how he never even learned your coffee order.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, pushing off the railing.

But he doesn’t go down there. He’s already done enough damage.

And this time… someone else didn’t waste the chance. He hates it. He admires it.

Mostly, he regrets that it wasn’t him who made you stay.

Encrypted Voice Log – Never Sent SYLUS.ENTRY_097.BURNOUT Timestamp: Corrupted “She looks better without me. You’d think that’d piss me off, wouldn’t you?” “It doesn’t.” “Not really.” “He holds her like he’s not afraid she’ll disappear. Like he’s not too busy sharpening knives to hold her with both hands.” “I didn’t know how to do that. Couldn’t stop chasing shadows.” “I told myself she was a game. A way to forget.” “But she was never small. Never temporary. She waited for me to look up. I never did.” “He did.” [long pause] “She’s not coming back. Good. Let her stay gone. Let her stay whole.”

It’s late in the museum observatory, and Xavier’s here to recalibrate a projection model—until he looks down from the upper dome and sees you.

You're walking hand-in-hand with someone else through the starlit halls. Laughing. Calm.

The person beside you spins you under their arm, and you twirl without hesitation, radiant under the artificial cosmos.

He stands frozen in the upper dome, unseen.

You once asked Xavier to dance. He hesitated, too quiet and too caught up in thoughts of MC to say yes.

But that stranger below? He didn’t hesitate at all.

And you look so light in his arms. So free.

Xavier leans his forehead against the glass, breathing deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear him.

His star map reboots beside him, scattering constellations. But for the first time, he doesn’t reach out to correct them.

Because he knows now, you weren’t meant to orbit him forever.

And you didn’t. You became your own universe. One that he was never brave enough to explore.

Private Memoir Entry – Unpublished I was always afraid I’d look at her and see someone else. So I never truly looked. Not the way she deserved. She asked me once if I was choosing to heal with her or without her. I said, “Without.” She nodded. Didn’t cry. Just left. And now I’ve healed. Or so I pretend. But sometimes I think healing isn’t a choice. Sometimes it’s a cost. I gave up the one person who saw me in the shadows and stayed. And someone else saw her light and danced into it.

You’re seated in a corner café with a man Zayne doesn’t recognise—easy smiles, shared laughter, his coat wrapped around your shoulders.

Zayne was on his way to deliver lab files to the main district med unit but now… he can’t move.

His gaze locks on the way the man leans in to tuck your hair behind your ear. How your eyes crinkle with joy.

It’s the kind of comfort Zayne never offered you—not because he didn’t care, but because he was too distracted chasing clarity with MC.

You once told him you felt like his second choice. He never answered that. And now, someone else treats you like you're the only choice.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t approach.

But that image burns in his mind for weeks. It replays in the sterile quiet of his clinic, on late nights when no one needs stitching up.

And when he returns home, he finds one of your old letters still tucked inside his medical textbook.

He rereads it, fingers trembling, and realises too late—he could’ve loved you right, if only he’d let himself try.

His next patient finds him staring into nothing, stethoscope in hand, utterly elsewhere.

Medical Log – Never Filed Patient: N/A Status: Unreachable Treatment note: Emotional detachment leads to unintentional abandonment. Prognosis: Permanent loss. Notes: She used to come into my clinic with little things. Fake injuries. Paper cuts. Just to be near me. I knew. And I let her pretend. I let myself believe I had time. That once I stopped thinking about MC, I could finally give this girl the pieces I hadn’t sealed away. But healing is slow. And people… they don’t always wait for your hands to stop trembling. She’s warm now. She’s whole. And I still wear gloves to hold my regrets.

#love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #lad x non mc #lads x non mc #caleb x non mc! reader #rafayel x non! mc reader #sylus x non! mc reader #xavier x non mc! reader #zayne x non mc! reader #non mc reader #lads angst

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matcha3mochi · 19 days ago

Text

PROTOCOL Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: love and deepspace is my addiction guys LOL anyways enjoy!!

wc: 3,865

chapter 1 | chapter 2

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Akso Hospital looms in the heart of Linkon like a monument of glass, metal, and unrelenting precision. Multi-tiered, climate-controlled, and fully integrated with city-wide telemetry systems, it's known across the cosmos for housing the most advanced medical AI and the most exacting surgeons in the Union.

Inside its Observation Deck on Level 4, the air hums with quiet purpose. Disinfectant and filtered oxygen mix in sterile harmony. The floors are polished to a mirrored sheen, the walls pulse faintly with embedded biometrics, and translucent holoscreens scroll real-time vitals, arterial scans, and surgical priority tags in muted color-coded displays.

You’ve been on the floor since 0500. First to check vitals. First to inventory meds. First to get snapped at.

Doctor Zayne Li is already here—of course he is. The man practically lives in the operating theatres. Standing behind the panoramic glass that overlooks Surgery Bay Delta, he looks like something carved out of discipline and frost. His pristine long coat hangs perfectly from squared shoulders, gloves tucked with methodical precision, silver-framed glasses reflecting faint readouts from the transparent interface hovering before him.

He’s the hospital’s prized cardiovascular surgeon. The Zayne Li—graduated top of his class from Astral Medica, youngest surgeon ever certified for off-planet cardiac reconstruction, published more than any other specialist in the central systems under 35. There's even a rumor he once performed a dual-heart transplant in an emergency gravity failure. Probably true.

He’s a legend. A genius.

And an ass.

He’s never once smiled at you. Never once said thank you. With other staff, he’s distant but civil. With you, he’s something else entirely: cold, strict, and unrelentingly sharp. If you breathe wrong, he notices. If you hesitate, he corrects. If you do everything by protocol?

He still finds something to critique.

"Vitals on Bed 12 were late," he said this morning without even turning his head. No greeting. Just judgment, clean and surgical.

"They weren’t late. I had to reset the cuff."

"You should anticipate equipment failures. That’s part of the job."

And that was it. No acknowledgment of the three critical patients you’d managed in that hour. No recognition. No room for explanation. He turned away before you could blink, his coat slicing behind him like punctuation.

You don’t like him.

You don’t disrespect him—because you're a professional, and because he's earned his reputation a hundred times over. But you don’t like how he talks to you like you’re a glitch in the system. Like you’re a deviation he hasn’t figured out how to reprogram.

You’ve worked under strict doctors before. But Zayne is different. He doesn’t push to challenge you. He pushes to see if you’ll break.

And the worst part?

You haven’t.

Which only seems to piss him off more.

You watch him now from the break table near the edge of the deck, your synth-coffee going tepid between your hands. He’s reviewing scans on a projection screen—high-res, rotating 3D models of a degenerating bio-synthetic valve. His eyes, a pale hazel-green, flick across the data with sharp focus. His arms are folded behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

He hasn’t noticed you.

Correction: he has, and he’s pointedly ignoring you.

Typical.

You take another sip of coffee, more bitter than before. You could head back to inventory. You could restock surgical trays. But you don’t.

Because part of you refuses to give him the satisfaction of leaving first.

So you stay.

And so does he.

Two professionals. Two adversaries. One cold war fought in clipped words, clinical tension, and overlapping silence.

And the day hasn’t even started yet.

The surgical light beams down like a second sun, flooding the operating theatre in harsh, clinical brightness. It washes the color out of everything—blood, skin, even breath—until all that remains is precision.

Doctor Zayne Li stands at the head of the table, gloved hands elevated and scrubbed raw, sleeves of his sterile gown clinging tight around his forearms. His eyes flick up to the vitals screen, then down to the patient’s exposed chest.

“Vitals?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation. “Steady. HR 82, BP 96/63, oxygen at 99%, no irregularities.”

His silence is your only cue to proceed.

You hand him the scalpel, handle first, exactly as protocol demands. He doesn’t look at you when he takes it—but his fingers graze yours, cold through double-layered gloves, and the contact still sends a tiny jolt up your arm. Annoying.

He makes the incision without fanfare, clean and deliberate, the kind of cut that only comes from years of obsessive mastery. The kind that still makes your gut tighten to watch.

You monitor the instruments, anticipating without crowding him. You’ve been assisting in his surgeries for weeks now. You’ve learned when he prefers the microclamp versus the stabilizer. You’ve memorized the sequence of his suturing pattern. You know when to speak and when not to. Still, it’s never enough.

“Retractor,” he says flatly.

You’re already reaching.

“Not that one.”

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

His tone is ice. “Cardiac thoracic, not abdominal. Are you even awake?”

A hot flush rises behind your ears. He doesn’t yell—Zayne never yells—but his disappointment cuts deeper than a scalpel. You grit your teeth and correct the tray.

“Cardiac thoracic,” you repeat. “Understood.”

No response. Just the soft click of metal as he inserts the retractor into the sternotomy.

The rest of the operation is silence and beeping. You suction blood before he asks. He cauterizes without hesitation. The damaged aortic valve is removed, replaced with a synthetic graft designed for lunar-pressure tolerance. It’s delicate work—millimeter adjustments, microscopic thread. One wrong move could tear the tissue.

Zayne doesn’t shake. Doesn’t blink. He’s terrifyingly still, even as alarms spike and the patient's BP dips for three agonizing seconds.

“Clamp. Now,” he says.

You pass it instantly. He seals the nicked vessel, stabilizes the pressure, and the monitor quiets.

You exhale—but not too loudly. Not until the final suture is tied, the chest closed, and the drape removed. Then, and only then, does he speak again.

“Clean,” he says, already walking away. “Prepare a report for Post-Op within the hour.”

You stare at his retreating back, fists clenched at your sides. No thank you. No good work. Just a cold command and disappearing footsteps.

The Diagnostic Lab is silent, save for the low hum of scanners and the occasional pulse of a vitascan completing a loop. The walls are steel-paneled with matte black inlays, lit only by the soft glow of holographic interfaces. Ambient light drifts in from a side wall of glass, showing the icy curve of Europa in the distance, half-shadowed in space.

You stand alone at a curved diagnostics console, sleeves rolled just above your elbows, eyes locked on the 3D hologram spinning in front of you. The synthetic heart pulses slowly, arteries reconstructed with precise synthetic grafts. The valve—a platinum-carbon composite—is functioning perfectly. You check the scan tags, patient ID, op codes, and log the post-op outcome.

Everything’s clean. Correct.

Or so you thought.

You barely register the soft hiss of the door opening behind you until the room shifts. Not in volume, but in pressure—like gravity suddenly increased by one degree.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Zayne.

“Line 12 in the file log,” he says, voice low, composed, and close. Too close.

You blink at the screen. “What about it?”

“You mislabeled the scan entry. That’s a formatting violation.”

Your heart rate ticks up. You straighten your spine.

“No,” you reply calmly, “I used trauma tags from pre-op logs. They cross-reference with the emergency surgical queue.”

His footsteps approach—measured, deliberate—and stop directly behind you. You sense the heat of his body before anything else. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel him standing there, like a charged wire humming at your back.

“You adapted a tag system that’s not recognized by this wing’s software. If these were pushed to central review, they’d get flagged. Wasting time.” His tone is even. Too even.

Your hands rest on the edge of the console. You force your shoulders not to tense.

“I made a call based on the context. It was logical.”

“You’re not here to improvise logic,” he replies, stepping even closer.

You feel the air change as he raises his arm, reaching past you—his coat sleeve brushing the side of your bicep lightly, the barest whisper of contact. His hand moves with surgical confidence as he taps the air beside your own, opening the tag metadata on the scan you just logged. His fingers are long, gloved, deliberate in motion.

“This,” he says, highlighting a code block, “should have been labeled with an ICU procedural tag, not pre-op trauma shorthand.”

You turn your head slightly, and there he is. Close. Towering. His jaw is tight, clean-shaven except for the faintest trace of stubble catching the edge of the light. There’s a tiredness around his eyes—subtle, buried deep—but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. He’s so still it’s unnerving.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—how near he is.

You, however, are all too aware.

Your voice tightens. “Is there a reason you couldn’t point this out without standing over me like I’m in your way?”

Zayne doesn’t flinch. “If I stood ten feet back, you’d still argue with me.”

You bristle. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“And yet,” he replies coolly, “I’m the one correcting your data.”

That sting digs deep. You pull in a breath, clenching your fists subtly against the side of the console. You want to yell. But you won’t. Because he wants control, and you won’t give him that too.

He lowers his hand slowly, retracting from the display, and finally—finally—steps back. Just enough to let you breathe again.

But the tension? It lingers like static.

“I’ll correct the tag,” you say flatly.

Zayne nods once, then turns to go.

But at the doorway, he stops.

Without looking back, he adds, “You're capable. That’s why I expect better.”

Then he walks out.

Leaving you in the cold hum of the diagnostic lab, your pulse racing, your thoughts a snarl of frustration and something else—unsettling and electric—curling low in your gut.

You don’t know what that something is.

But you’re starting to suspect it won’t go away quietly.

You sit three seats from the end of the long chrome conference table, back straight, shoulders tight, fingers wrapped just a little too hard around your datapad.

The Surgical Briefing Room is too bright. It always is. Cold light from the ceiling plates bounces off polished surfaces, glass walls, and the brushed steel of the central console. A hologram hovers in the center of the room, slowly spinning: the reconstructed heart from this morning’s procedure, arteries lit in pulsing red and cyan.

You can feel sweat prickling at the nape of your neck under your uniform collar. Your scrubs are crisp, your hair pinned back precisely, your notes immaculate—but none of that matters when Dr. Myles Hanron speaks.

You’ve only spoken to him a few times. He’s been at Bell for twenty years. Stern. Respected. Impossible to argue with. Today, he's reviewing the recent cardiovascular procedure—the one you assisted under Zayne’s lead.

And something is off. He’s frowning at the scan display.

Then he looks at you.

“Explain this inconsistency in the anticoagulation log.”

You glance up, already feeling the slow roll of nausea in your stomach.

Your voice comes out measured, but your throat is dry. “I followed the automated-calibrated dosage curve based on intra-op vitals and confirmed with the automated log.”

Hanron raises a brow, his tablet casting a soft reflection on the lenses of his glasses. “Then you followed it wrong.”

The words hit like a slap across your face.

You feel the blood drain from your cheeks. Something sharp twists in your stomach.

“I—” you begin, mouth parting. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening on the datapad in your lap, legs crossed too stiffly. Your body wants to shrink, but you force yourself not to move.

“Don’t interrupt,” Hanron snaps, before you can finish.

A few heads turn in your direction. One of the interns frowns, glancing at you with wide eyes. You stare straight ahead, trying to keep your breathing even, your spine straight, your jaw from visibly clenching.

Hanron paces two steps in front of the display. “You logged a 0.3 ml deviation on a patient with a known history of arrhythmic episodes. Are you unfamiliar with the case history? Or did you just not check?”

“I did check,” you say, quieter, trying to keep your tone professional. Your hands are starting to sweat. “The scan flagged it within range. I wasn’t improvising—”

“Then how did this discrepancy occur?” he presses. “Or are you suggesting the system is at fault?”

You flinch, slightly. You open your mouth to say something—to explain the terminal sync issue you noticed during the last vitals run—but your voice catches.

You’re a nurse.

You’re new.

So you sit there, every instinct in your body screaming to speak, to defend yourself—but you swallow it down.

You stare down at your datapad, the screen now blurred from the way your vision’s tunneling. You clench your teeth until your jaw aches.

You can’t speak up. Not without making it worse.

“Let this be a reminder,” Hanron says, turning his back to you as he scrolls through another projection, “that there is no room for guesswork in surgical prep. Especially not from auxiliary staff who feel the need to act above their training.”

Auxiliary.

The word burns.

You feel heat crawl up your chest. Your hands are shaking slightly. You grip your knees under the table to hide it.

And then—

“I signed off on that dosage.”

Zayne’s voice cuts clean through the air like a cold wire.

You turn your head sharply toward the door. He’s standing in the entrance, posture military-straight, coat half-unbuttoned, gloves tucked into his belt. His presence shifts the atmosphere instantly.

His black hair is perfectly combed back, not a strand out of place, glinting faintly under the sterile overhead lights. His silver-framed glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, catching a brief reflection from the room’s data panels, but not enough to hide the expression in his eyes.

Hazel-green. Pale and piercing

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed past you, locked on Hanron with unflinching intensity—like the man has just committed a fundamental breach of logic.

There’s not a wrinkle in his coat. Not a single misaligned button or loose thread. Even the gloves at his belt look placed, not shoved there. Zayne is, as always, polished. Meticulous. Icy.

But today—his expression is different.

His jaw is set tighter than usual. The faint crease between his brows is deeper. He looks like a man on the verge of unsheathing a scalpel, not for surgery—but for precision retaliation.

And when he speaks, his voice is calm. Controlled.

His face is unreadable. Voice flat.

“If there’s a problem with it, you can take it up with me.”

The silence in the room is instant. Tense. Airless.

Hanron turns slowly. “Doctor Zayne, this isn’t about—”

“It is,” Zayne replies, tone even sharper. “You’re implying a clinical error in my procedure. If you’re accusing her, then you’re accusing me. So let’s be clear.”

You can barely process it. Your heart is thudding, ears buzzing from the sudden shift in tone, from the weight of Zayne’s voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. You look at him — really look — and for once, he isn’t focused on numbers or reports.

He’s solely focused on Hanron. And he is furious — not loudly, but in the way his voice doesn’t rise, his jaw locks, and his words slice like ice.

Just furious—in that cold, calculated way of his.

“She followed my instruction under direct supervision,” he says, voice steady. “The variance was intentional. Based on patient history and real-time rhythm response.”

He pauses just long enough to let the words land.

“It was correct.”

Hanron doesn’t respond right away.

His lips press into a thin line, face unreadable, and he shifts back a step—visibly checking himself in the silence Zayne has carved into the room like a scalpel.

“We’ll review the surgical logs,” Hanron mutters at last, voice clipped, his authority retreating behind procedure.

Zayne nods once. “Please do.”

Then, without fanfare, without another word, he steps forward—not toward the exit, but toward the table.

You track him with your eyes, unable to help it.

The low hum of the room resumes, like the air had been holding its breath. No one speaks. A few nurses drop their eyes back to their datapads. Pages turn. Screens flicker.

But you’re frozen in place, shoulders still tight, hands clenched in your lap to keep them from visibly shaking.

Zayne rounds the end of the table, his boots clicking softly against the metal flooring. His long coat sways with his movements, falling neatly behind him as he pulls out the seat directly across from you.

And sits.

Not at the head of the table. Not in some corner seat to observe.

Directly across from you.

He adjusts his glasses with two fingers, expression cool again, almost as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just dress down a senior doctor in front of the entire room on your behalf.

He doesn’t look at you.

He opens the file on his datapad, stylus poised, reviewing the surgical results like this is any other debrief.

But you’re still staring.

You study the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his hands, the way his eyes don’t drift—not toward Hanron, not toward you—locked entirely on the data as if that can contain whatever just happened.

You should say something.

Thank you.

But the words get stuck in your throat.

Your pulse is still unsteady, confusion mixing with the low thrum of heat behind your ribs. He didn’t need to defend you. He never steps into conflict like that, especially not for others—especially not for you.

You glance away first, eyes back on your screen, unable to ignore the twist in your gut.

The room empties, but you stay.

The echo of voices fades out with the hiss of the sliding doors. Just a few minutes ago, the surgical debrief room was bright with tension—every overhead light too sharp, the air too thin, the hum of holopanels and datapads a constant static in your head.

Now, it’s quiet. Still.

You sit for a moment longer, fingers resting on your lap, knuckles tight, back straight even though your entire body wants to collapse inward. You’re still warm from the flush of embarrassment, your pulse still flickering behind your ears.

Dr. Hanron’s words sting less now, dulled by the cool aftershock of what Zayne did.

He defended you.

You hadn’t expected it. Not from him.

You replay it in your head—his voice cutting in, his posture like stone, his eyes locked on Hanron like a scalpel ready to slice. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at you.

But you felt it.

You felt the impact of what it meant.

And now, as you sit in the empty conference room—white walls, chrome-edged table, sterile quiet—you’re left with one burning thought:

You have to say something.

You rise slowly, brushing your palms down your thighs to wipe off the sweat that lingers there. You hesitate at the doorway. Your reflection stares back at you in the glass panel—eyes still a little wide, jaw tight, posture just a bit too stiff.

He didn’t have to defend you, but he did.

And that matters.

You step into the hallway.

It’s long and narrow, glowing with soft white overhead lights and lined with clear glass panels that reflect fragments of your movement as you walk. The hum of the ventilation system buzzes low and steady—comforting in its monotony. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint trace of ozone from high-oxygen surgical wards.

You spot him ahead, already halfway down the corridor, walking with purpose—long coat swaying slightly with each step, back straight, shoulders squared. Always composed. Always fast.

You hesitate. Your boots slow down and your throat tightens.

You want to turn back, to let it go, to pretend it was just professional courtesy. Nothing more. Nothing personal.

But you can’t.

Not this time.

You quicken your pace.

“Doctor Zayne!”

The name catches in the air, too loud in the quiet hallway. You flinch, just a little—but he stops.

You break into a small jog to catch up, boots tapping sharply against the tile. Your breath catches as you reach him.

Zayne turns toward you, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed in that ever-present, analytical way of his. The glow of the ceiling lights reflects off his silver-framed glasses, casting sharp highlights along the edges of his jaw.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

You stop a foot away, heart thudding. You don’t know what you expected—maybe something colder. Maybe for him to ignore you entirely.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I just…” Your voice is quieter now. Careful. “I wanted to say thank you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is steady. Measured.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence,” he says calmly. “That includes false accusations.”

You blink, taken off guard by the directness. It’s not warm. Not even particularly kind. But coming from him, it’s almost intimate.

Still, you can’t help yourself. “That wasn’t really about incompetence.”

“No,” he admits. “It wasn’t.”

The hallway feels smaller now, quieter. He’s watching you in full. Not scanning you like a chart, not calculating — watching. Still. Focused.

You nod slowly, grounding yourself in the moment. “Still. I needed to say it. Thank you.”

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the warmth in your cheeks, of the way your hands twist at your sides, of how tall he stands compared to you, even when he’s not trying to intimidate.

And he isn’t. Not now.

If anything, he looks… still.

Not soft. Never that. But something quieter. Less armored.

“You handled yourself better than most would have,” he says after a moment. “Even if I hadn’t said anything, you didn’t lose control.”

“I didn’t feel in control,” you admit, a breath of nervous laughter escaping. “I was two seconds from either crying or throwing my datapad.”

That earns you something surprising—just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Neither would’ve been productive,” he says.

You roll your eyes slightly. “Thanks, Doctor Efficiency.”

His glasses catch the light again, but his expression doesn’t change.

You glance past him, down the corridor. “I should get back to my rotation.”

He nods once. “I’ll see you in the lab.”

You pause.

Then—because you don’t know what else to do—you offer a small, genuine smile.

“I’ll be there.”

As you turn to leave, you feel his eyes on your back.

477 notes · View notes

nekonaps0 · 1 month ago

Text

Wait... Are you a lesbian??

✦Characters: Ace Trappola, Sebek Zigvolt, Jack Howl ,Ruggie Bucchi, Epel Felmier, Ortho Shroud

✦fem!reader

✦Sooo it’s pride month so I thought it would be funny if I write how some of the boys would react if the reader told them that she’s a lesbian after they think she has a crush on someone in their dorm

Ace Trappola

Ace had been teasing you nonstop for days.

“C’mon, just admit it already,” he grinned. “You’ve been eyeing Cater-senpai all week, haven’t you? Or is it Trey? You’ve got that look in your eyes—”

You finally cut him off with a snort.

“I’m a lesbian, Ace.”

He blinked. “…Wait. Oh. OH.”

He threw his head back with a groan.

“You mean I wasted prime teasing material on a false lead?! Ugh, I need a refund.”

But then he grinned again, nudging your arm.

“Okay, okay… sooo…. Looking for girls?.”

After that he becomes your wingman way too enthusiastically if you ever glance at a pretty girl in the hallway

Jack Howl

Jack had noticed you lingering around Leona more than usual. He didn’t say anything at first. But one day during training, he finally asked,

“Are you interested in someone from Savannaclaw?”

You shook your head with a smirk. “I’m a lesbian, Jack.”

Jack froze.

“…Oh.”

He nodded slowly, taking that in with his usual serious expression.

“Thanks for telling me. Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

After that, nothing changed in the best way. He treated you with the same quiet respect as always, but if anyone made weird comments or assumptions, Jack was quick to step in.

“She’s not interested. Back off.”

No drama. Just quiet loyalty.

Epel Felmier

Epel was convinced you liked Vil. “I mean, everyone does, right?” he muttered under his breath one day.

“The guy stupidly perfect. Even you keep staring at him during lunch.”

You laughed. “Epel, I’m a lesbian.”

He froze mid-chew. “…Oh, for real?”

You nodded.

He blinked again, then grinned. “Sick. No wonder you’re cool”

From then on, he’s kind of proud about knowing. You’re the first person he ever knew who was openly queer, and he brags about it a little like,

“Yeah, my friend a badass. You got a problem with it?”

After that, he doesn’t make it weird. And if anyone says anything dumb? He’s suddenly way more serious.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek was 100% sure you had a crush on Malleus.

“I HAVE SEEN THE WAY YOU LOOK AT THE YOUNG MASTER,” he accused one afternoon. “DO NOT THINK YOUR ADMIRATION ESCAPES ME!”

You calmly folded your arms. “Sebek. I’m a lesbian.”

Silence….

Complete, stunned silence.

Sebek stood there, mouth opening and closing.

“I… I see. Then… then your loyalty must be of a platonic nature,” he said with a strained kind of drama, like he’d just reworked his entire worldview in under ten seconds.

He cleared his throat. “It is… admirable. Yes. Of course.”

After that, he tries to act as if nothing happened, but you swear he lowers his voice when he tells people,

“She has no interest in men. Her standards are clearly too high.”

He respects it once he adjusts and will viciously defend you from creepy guys.

Ortho Shroud

It started with a very enthusiastic theory.

“You’ve been coming to Ignihyde a lot lately!”

Ortho said, floating at your side with a digital sparkle in his eyes. “You laugh at my brother’s jokes a lot which is statistically rare and you asked him about his game library!”

He spun in a little circle. “I calculate a 79.8% chance you might have a crush on Nii-san!”

You blinked, surprised. “Oh, no—it’s nothing like that. I’m a lesbian, Ortho.”

Ortho paused mid-spin, freezing in place for a solid two seconds.Then:

“Oh! Thank you for telling me!”

He processed it instantly, and his voice was still cheerful, but now a little more thoughtful. “I didn’t realize! That’s really cool! I’ll update my social database!”

A small notification popped up on the holoscreen near his head

“Are you comfortable sharing that with others?” he asked sincerely. “Or should I keep it private?”

You smiled at his consideration. “Keep it between us for now.”

He nodded with a big grin.

“Understood! And for the record! I support you 100%. Love is awesome in all forms!”

Then his expression turned curious.

“Also, I now realize I’ve been filtering my matchmaking algorithms too narrowly! I’ll expand the parameters! Maybe there’s a girl you think is cute?? Want help analyzing compatibility?”

You laughed. “Maybe later.”

From then on, Ortho not only respects your identity but enthusiastically celebrates it. He even adds a rainbow sparkle animation to your contact card in his system (discreetly, of course).

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie noticed you watching someone in the dorm and put two and two together.

“Ey… you got your eyes on someone in Savannaclaw, huh? Better spill before Leona catches wind and starts teasing you.”

You snort and shake your head.

“Not unless one of you turned into a girl when I wasn’t looking. I’m a lesbian.”

Ruggie stares for a beat, then laughs. “HA! Man, I feel dumb now.”

He throws an arm around your shoulder in a friendly way.

“You had me thinkin’ you were down bad for Jack or something.”

Then, teasing smirk: “You know, I should’ve guessed. You never once looked at anyone like they was worth the trouble.”

Afterward, nothing really changed he was still relaxed with you no assumptions, no pressure. Just chill friendship and lowkey protective vibes if anyone makes comments.

..............................................................................................................................

578 notes · View notes

deliciousangelfestival · 27 days ago

Text

The Director's Obsession - Phase 1

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Word Count: 4,598

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Chapters:

Phase 1, Phase 2 , Phase 3 , Phase 4 , Phase 5 , Phase 6 , Phase 7 , Phase 8 , Phase 9 , Phase 10 , -

Headcanons

Phase 1: The First Date

You barely have time to breathe. The last report for Phase 1 isn’t even cold on your desk when Director Krennic barges in with his usual dramatic sweep of his cape. The pristine white uniform almost glows under the sterile lights of the ISB Headquarters. He doesn’t bother knocking; he never does.

"There you are," he announces, like he’s surprised you’re working. "We need to push forward on Phase 2. Immediately."

You look up from your datapad, blinking. "Director, Phase 1 was finalized yesterday. The metrics haven't even stabilized yet."

"I know," he replies, his voice smooth, but edged with impatience. "Which is why Phase 2 is crucial. The rebel movements are growing bolder. The citizens need to feel safe. The Empire needs them to believe. And you," his eyes narrow slightly, "are the one who can make them believe."

Of course. Always you.

Phase 2. The next wave of carefully curated propaganda was to make the citizens embrace the Empire’s iron grip as if it were a warm blanket. Stormtroopers patrolled every sector, ensuring safety, order, and control.

"You want me to make them love seeing armored men with blasters on every street corner," you say flatly.

"Precisely," Krennic smiles, as though it's the simplest thing in the galaxy. "I trust your... creative talents."

And then, as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone. The cape swishes. The door hisses closed. You let out a long breath.

You don’t even get a chance to relax before your comm buzzes. It's Agent Dedra from across the floor. Again.

"Another visit from your work husband, I see," Jung drawls, voice dripping with amusement.

You rub your temples. "He's not my…"

"Oh, we know, we know.. Professional. Completely official. That's why Krennic only visits your office three times a day. I mean, he’s practically redecorating in there."

"Maybe we should get him a desk next to yours," Dedra adds. "Save him the walk."

"I swear to the Emperor," you mutter. "If you two don’t find something useful to do,"

"Oh, we’re very productive, we’re conducting a psychological study on how much attention one director can lavish on a single ISB officer before HR gets involved."

"I’m taking bets. I give it a week before he brings caf and calls it a 'collaboration session.'"

You groan. This is your life now.

You lean back in your chair and stare at the towering holoscreen of Phase 2’s draft campaign. Smiling citizens, loyal soldiers, protective Stormtroopers, the illusion of safety wrapped in polished armor.

"You’re just jealous," you shoot back finally, trying to reclaim some dignity. "He doesn’t visit you because you’re both insufferable."

Jung whistles. "You wound me."

Dedra chuckles. "Don’t worry. We’ll save you a seat at the wedding."

You slam the comm shut before they can continue.

Another sigh escapes you. The weight of the work presses in, heavy as ever. Phase 1 drained you dry, and now Phase 2 threatens to pull even more from you. But there’s no choice. Not with Krennic watching. Not with the Empire demanding results.

You glance at the door, half-expecting him to appear again.

The cape. The stare. The impossible expectations.

And you? You’re just trying to survive another day.

******

You barely have time to enjoy the brief silence after finishing Phase 1. The reports are still warm on your datapad when the summons arrives.

Director Krennic.

Of course, it’s him.

You drag yourself up from your desk, already knowing what this will be about before you even enter the meeting room. Krennic stands there like a monument in white, immaculate uniform, that damned cape swaying slightly as he shifts his weight. His hands are clasped behind his back, his posture as severe as his demands.

"You’ve done excellent work on Phase 1," he begins, voice smooth as polished durasteel. "The citizen morale reports have improved significantly. Public compliance is up. But now we move to Phase 2."

You bite your inner cheek, holding back the groan building in your throat. "Phase 2 Director?"

"Yes." He steps forward, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a state secret. "The rebel activity is escalating. Skirmishes, propaganda, and underground broadcasts. They’re infecting the citizens with fear and uncertainty."

He pauses, eyes narrowing. "Fear must be replaced with security. Confidence. They need to see the Stormtroopers not as enforcers, but as guardians. The face of order. Of peace."

You inhale, steadying yourself. "Director, I just finalized Phase 1 last week. The teams haven’t even stabilized the implementation yet."

"Exactly," he cuts in, smiling faintly. "Which is why we must strike now. While the momentum is ours. You have the skill to turn this tide. You always have."

Always me.

You leave the meeting more tired than when you entered. Another mountain of sleepless nights waiting. Phase 2 isn't just another propaganda wave. This time, you have to convince the entire citizenry that armed soldiers patrolling their streets is a comforting sight. That a government capable of planetary destruction is their protector.

You barely return to your office when the teasing begins.

Agent Dedra Meero is already leaning casually by your desk, sipping her coffee like she has all the time in the galaxy.

"Phase 2, huh?" she smirks. "Our golden star shines again."

"You could volunteer to help, you know," you mutter, sliding into your chair.

"And rob you of all the attention?" she laughs. "Perish the thought."

From behind her, Jung appears, balancing a datapad with a ridiculous grin. "How many times did he visit you this week?"

"I’m not counting."

"Seven," Jung answers for you. "Seven times. And it’s only midweek."

You roll your eyes, already regretting not locking the door.

Then Major Partagaz strolls by, overhearing just enough to chime in. "I never thought I’d see the day when Krennic made personal visits to ISB Headquarters," he remarks dryly. "The man barely acknowledged this department existed before you arrived."

"It’s called 'oversight,'" you reply, trying to sound more annoyed than amused.

"It’s called devotion," Jung teases.

Dedra leans in, lowering her voice dramatically. "He's your work husband at this point."

You stiffen. "Don’t."

But it's too late.

"You know," Jung adds with mock-seriousness, "we were thinking of organizing a little congratulatory party for you. Maybe get Krennic a desk right here. Right next to yours. Save him the commute."

"You could share office supplies," Dedra snickers.

"Maybe even a caf machine," Jung says. "Personalized mugs, his and hers."

Partagaz lets out a short huff, the closest thing to a laugh he ever gives. "Focus on your actual assignments," he mutters before walking off. But even he seems mildly entertained.

And then, as if summoned by the Force itself, the lift doors hiss open, and in steps Director Krennic.

The teasing evaporates like mist. Everyone straightens, faces suddenly blank and professional. Only your pulse remains elevated.

"Ah," Krennic greets with his usual calculated smile. "I trust you’re making progress."

You force a nod. "Of course, Director."

His eyes flick to the others, a silent dismissal, before landing back on you. "Good. I’ll be expecting a preliminary outline by tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Of course.

"Naturally."

He leaves without another word, his cape sweeping behind him like the final stroke of a signature.

The second he’s out of earshot, Dedra leans closer. "Work husband," she whispers.

You sigh, rubbing your temples. "I hate all of you."

Jung laughs. "You love us. Not as much as he loves visiting you, but close."

*******

The days blurred together. Work. Report to Krennic. Work. Report again.

Phase 2 was eating you alive.

You barely saw the sun anymore, not that it mattered. Your life was reduced to the narrow stretch between your apartment and the ISB headquarters. If there was a rebellion raging out there, you wouldn’t have known. You were too busy trying to make citizens adore the very soldiers that patrolled their streets like silent sentinels.

And Krennic?

Oh, Krennic was thriving.

He had a special gift for pulling you out of every moment of rest. Once, you dared to take a lunch break, an actual sit-down meal in the cafeteria.

That’s when the call came.

“Director Krennic requires your presence immediately,” the officer said, looking at you like you were a fugitive caught mid-bite.

You shoved your tray aside and ran, practically sprinting through the sterile halls, your boots echoing with every step as you reached his office.

Krennic barely looked up from his datapad. “I trust the break was refreshing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I was three bites in.”

“Well, consider those bites a luxury. We’re not running a leisure cruise, Specialist.” He waved a hand as though dismissing the concept of meals entirely. “The sooner we stabilize Phase 2, the sooner you can resume... chewing.”

You wanted to throw something at him. Preferably his datapad.

Instead, you returned to your desk and drowned yourself in revisions, graphs, focus group data, and holovid drafts. The hours ticked by, your apartment becoming little more than a place to sleep for a few hours before dragging yourself back to ISB Headquarters.

Until one evening, when you handed him your final report, something unexpected happened.

“You’ve done well," Krennic said, scanning the summary with an approving nod. "Impressively well. Effective messaging, clear results, stabilized compliance... yes."

You held your breath. Was this… praise?

"You’ve earned a day off."

You blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"A full day," he repeated, smiling like he was offering you a rare antique. "I suggest you take advantage before I change my mind."

For a full minute, you just stood there. Surely, it was a trap. A test. But no, the next morning, your schedule was blank.

*****

Your friend Mia nearly fainted when she heard.

"Finally!" she exclaimed through your comm. "Do you know what that means?"

"Can I sleep?"

"No. It means you need entertainment. And lucky for you, I’ve arranged a blind date."

You froze. "Mia,"

"Don’t fight me on this. You need air, conversation, and let’s be honest, your social life’s been nothing but work and a bunch of uptight ISB agents for months."

You hated that she was right.

So that’s how you found yourself in a proper dress for the first time in months, sitting across from Malcolm, your date, at a very nice restaurant. He was Navy, tall, polite, and, thank the stars, had no idea about your work.

It felt... nice. Simple.

You sipped your wine, relaxed for the first time in what felt like an eternity. You even laughed, genuinely laughed, at one of his jokes.

“I have to admit, it’s refreshing to talk to someone outside of the fleet for once,” Malcolm smiled. “And you, you have this calm, professional charm. I like it.”

You smiled, blushing a little. “Occupational hazard.”

He reached for the menu again. "Shall we order dessert?"

That’s when it happened.

A sudden chill ran up your spine, that instinctive sensation you learned to never ignore.

Your eyes wandered across the room. Five tables ahead, seated perfectly in your line of sight, was a familiar figure.

Dear stars.

Of all places.

Director Krennic.

Sitting with Major Partagaz.

Krennic's posture was relaxed, but his sharp eyes had already landed on you the moment you looked up. The brief flicker of surprise on his face vanished, replaced by something else entirely.

Amusement.

You tried to look away, pretend you hadn't noticed, but it was too late. He stood.

"No," you whispered under your breath. "No, no, no, stay seated. For once in your life,"

But of course, he approached.

The sound of his polished boots was like an executioner’s drumbeat.

Krennic stopped at your table, his eyes briefly scanning Malcolm before landing back on you.

"Him?" he repeated, his voice dripping with disdain, eyes narrowing at Malcolm as though inspecting defective equipment. “Him?”

He scoffed, almost laughing under his breath, then gave you one final glance that said more than words could: This is the best you could find?

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the heavy silence behind him.

Your date blinked, utterly humiliated. "What... was that?"

You swallowed hard, your face burning. “That was... work.”

Malcolm’s expression hardened. "You have some complicated office politics." He grabbed his coat. "You know what? I’m not interested in being part of... whatever that was."

And just like that, your first night out in months ended with your date walking out the door.

You sat there for a long moment, staring at the half-empty wine glass.

Of course.

Because even on your day off, Krennic found a way to ruin it.

*******

You were left standing there, alone, humiliated, abandoned at the table like some rejected charity case. Your fist clenched as you allowed yourself one brief, venomous glare toward Krennic, who sat there as if nothing had happened. He was calmly discussing something with Partagaz, sipping his wine, completely unaffected by the disaster he had just casually caused.

Of course. Why would he care?

You grabbed your jacket, forcing your breathing to steady as you headed for the door. But as you passed the cashier, the young clerk stopped you.

"Miss... excuse me," he said awkwardly, lowering his voice. "Your... companion hasn’t paid yet."

You blinked. "What?"

You glanced back toward the empty chair where your date had been. The plate of half-eaten food mocked you.

You sighed heavily. "Unbelievable."

You pulled out your credits, practically tossing them onto the counter. The night was a complete waste of time, of food, of hope.

And then, as if summoned by your suffering, you heard his voice beside you.

"So," Krennic drawled smoothly, watching as the waitress helped adjust his cape, "the man just left? Turned out he’s more dramatic than I thought."

You didn't answer. You didn’t have the energy.

Partagaz was standing just behind him, his gaze briefly meeting yours with something close to... pity. His eyes said it without words: Sorry.

You rolled your eyes. You weren’t looking for sympathy.

"Wait," Krennic said, just as you reached for the door handle.

You froze. Slowly, you turned.

“A man shouldn’t leave you alone. Especially in that dress.” His voice lowered slightly, as though it was meant only for you. “Let me drop you off.”

Partagaz huffed behind him. “What about me?”

Krennic didn’t even turn around. “Go call a taxi.”

The Major rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as he walked away. "Fine."

You sighed again, heavier this time, and pulled the door open. ‘Fine. At least I don’t have to walk my shame home.’

You followed him to the black Imperial transport waiting just outside, the glossy surface reflecting the streetlights. The driver opened the door without a word, and for the first time, you found yourself sliding into the passenger seat of Director Krennic’s vehicle.

It was… immaculate. The interior smelled faintly of expensive leather and sterilized perfection. Of course it did.

As the door hissed shut behind you and the car pulled away, the silence between you hung thick for a moment before he, predictably, broke it.

"You have interesting taste," he said, glancing sideways at you with a little smirk. "Navy lieutenant? Really?"

You shot him a look. "It’s called trying to have a life."

"Is that what you call it?" he said lightly. "It looked more like a charity event. He didn’t even have the courtesy to cover the bill."

You glared ahead, jaw tightening. "I wasn’t aware my personal life was part of your department’s jurisdiction."

"Everything is part of my jurisdiction," Krennic replied smoothly, folding his gloved hands in his lap. "Especially when it concerns my top officer."

Your head snapped toward him. "I’m not your officer."

"Semantics." His voice remained calm, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "You belong to the Empire. And by extension, to me."

You exhaled sharply through your nose. "You have no idea how incredibly inappropriate you sound right now."

He chuckled. "Perhaps. But not inaccurate." He let the words hang before his tone shifted, the playful edge dimming, replaced by the familiar cold professionalism you knew too well. "You’ve done well on Phase 2. But don’t let distractions pull you off course. We still have work ahead. The rebel sympathizers aren’t slowing down. Neither can we."

You stared out the window, your reflection staring back at you in the glass. "I know my job, Director."

"I know you do," he said quietly. "That’s why I tolerate your… outside hobbies."

You couldn’t stop the dry laugh that escaped you. "One failed date qualifies as a hobby?"

"In your case?" Krennic smiled faintly. "Yes."

The rest of the ride passed in silence, but his presence weighed heavily beside you, like always. Calculating. Watchful. Amused.

As the car pulled up to your apartment complex, the driver opened the door. You stepped out, wrapping your coat tighter against the chill.

Krennic leaned slightly toward your open doorframe. "Next time," he said softly, "choose better company."

The door closed before you could respond, and the transport glided away into the night, leaving you standing alone under the flickering streetlamp. The moment his car disappeared into the night, you couldn’t hold it in anymore. You punched the air with both fists, your voice breaking the silence of the street.

"Arrgh!"

The fury bubbled inside you. That man never let you breathe. Not at work. Not at lunch. Not even on your first date in months. You stormed into your apartment, tossed your jacket aside, and glanced at the clock.

At least you’d make up for it with some sleep.

You took a long, hot shower, trying to wash off the frustration and Krennic’s smirk from your skin. Then you climbed into bed, shutting your eyes tight, letting yourself drift into sleep. Finally, you escaped. In your dreams, there was no Empire, no propaganda deadlines, no Director Krennic. Just quiet, peaceful nothingness.

*******

Morning arrived too quickly, but you felt surprisingly refreshed. You followed your usual routine. Breakfast. A light run. Shower. Coffee. Uniform. And then off to ISB headquarters.

The moment you stepped onto your floor, you felt it. The air was… different.

Your colleagues were eyeing you with strange, knowing looks. As if you were carrying some kind of secret you hadn’t shared yet. You tried to ignore it, walking straight to your desk, but the weight of their stares kept pressing.

Jung was the first to speak. He leaned over from his desk, lowering his voice but loud enough for others to hear.

"I heard Director Krennic offered you a ride home last night."

You closed your eyes for a brief second. So they knew.

"Yes. After he ruined my date," you replied, trying to sound casual.

Dedra’s head snapped up from her datapad. "Date?"

You sighed. There was no escaping it now. You told them everything. How your friend set you up with a Navy officer named Malcolm. How you finally had a night off after finishing Phase 2. How did you go to a fancy restaurant? How, against all odds, Krennic and Partagaz were there too.

You continued. How Krennic noticed you first. How he walked right up to your table, sized up your date like some superior officer inspecting unfit troops. How he scoffed. How Malcolm walked out, embarrassed and annoyed.

By the time you finished, their reactions came flooding in.

"Ooooh..." Jung leaned back, grinning.

Dedra raised an eyebrow. "I can't believe he just walked up to your table like that. Unbelievable."

"Oof. Rough," another agent muttered.

There were a few low whistles, some snickering. The entire office found this far more entertaining than any report they were working on.

At that moment, Major Partagaz walked in holding a datapad. His sharp eyes scanned the room before settling on you.

"So," Partagaz said, his voice smooth and neutral, "did Krennic stay over at your place afterward?"

You blinked, your jaw dropping slightly. "What? No!"

His eyes narrowed slightly, amused. "You went straight to sleep then?"

You raised both hands. "Yes. I went home. Alone. Straight to sleep. Don’t twist it."

The smirks were everywhere now, but before you could scold them further, the room’s atmosphere shifted again. You felt him before you saw him.

Director Krennic entered the room, walking with his usual polished arrogance, coat perfectly tailored, posture impeccable. He glanced around, reading the faces, noticing the barely-contained grins, but pretending not to care.

"My, my," he said in his cool voice, lips curling into a faint smirk. "What lively conversation so early in the morning."

He looked at you directly, eyes glinting with mischief.

"I do hope no one’s discussing personal matters during work hours. After all," his voice lowered just enough for only you to catch it, "we wouldn’t want to mix business with pleasure, would we?"

The ISB agents tried their best to suppress laughter. You pressed your lips into a tight line, biting back every insult you wanted to throw at him.

This man was impossible.

"Now," Krennic clapped his hands once, addressing the room like nothing unusual had happened, "Phase 3 awaits us. I trust you’re all ready?"

He didn’t wait for an answer. His eyes met yours one more time, and for a brief second, his smile widened like he’d won some invisible game.

You exhaled slowly, muttering under your breath. "Stars help me."

*******

Krennic stood behind his desk, skimming through the latest reports you handed him. His gloved fingers danced over the datapad, eyes narrowing slightly as he read through the results of Phase 3. You waited, arms crossed, heart beating a little too fast. You weren’t nervous about the data; you knew the numbers were good. You were nervous because this was Krennic, and he always managed to turn every conversation into something personal.

Finally, he set the datapad down with a quiet tap.

"Acceptable." His voice was calm, but the faint smirk on his lips betrayed his usual arrogance. "The citizen morale is responding well to your campaigns. The imagery of Stormtroopers as guardians of peace is spreading. The people are beginning to trust the Empire’s strength once more."

You allowed yourself a small breath of relief. Maybe this time, finally, you would get a break.

But of course, it never worked like that with Krennic.

"I hope you’ve also taken my advice to heart," he added, with that same smug grin. "About finding a man who deserves you."

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop yourself. "Director, are we done?"

"For now." He waved his hand dismissively. "You may leave."

You didn’t waste a second. You turned on your heel and walked out of his office, leaving his smirk behind you. Stars, that man could get under your skin like no one else.

You had hoped that Phase 3 would mean you’d finally earn another day off, like you did after Phase 2. Instead, less than twenty-four hours later, you received the message.

The Emperor requested your presence.

You stared at the message for a long moment, unable to fully process it. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a summons.

Then, of course, Krennic appeared.

"I see you’ve been invited," he said smoothly, as if this was just another routine briefing. "Naturally, I’ll be accompanying you."

"But the Emperor asked for me." You frowned.

"And I am responsible for you," he said. "I discovered you. Groomed you. Your success reflects on my leadership. This is as much my audience as it is yours."

You didn’t argue. What would be the point? Once again, Krennic made everything about himself.

******

The following morning, you stood side by side with him as the shuttle glided toward the Imperial Palace. The air inside was cold and clinical. No one spoke. Krennic looked utterly at ease, as if this was just another meeting. You, however, kept your breathing steady, forcing yourself to appear calm.

As you stepped out onto the landing platform, two Royal Guards awaited you, their crimson armor gleaming under the harsh lights. Without a word, they led you through towering black corridors, polished to perfection. The air smelled faintly metallic, sterile, like power itself.

Finally, you entered the throne chamber. The tall columns, the eerie silence, the shadows, all pressed against you like a physical weight. And there, seated atop the raised platform, cloaked in darkness, sat Emperor Palpatine.

His yellow eyes gleamed beneath his hood as his withered hands rested on the armrests.

You bowed immediately, head lowered. Krennic followed, slightly more theatrical in his movement.

"Rise," Palpatine commanded, his voice low and rasping. "My child... I have watched your work with great interest."

You straightened, standing tall under his gaze. His presence was suffocating yet mesmerizing.

"Your propaganda efforts are effective. The citizens are responding. Their trust in the Empire grows stronger. You have... talent."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." You forced your voice to be steady.

Krennic, of course, couldn’t stay silent.

"Naturally, my Lord," he said with that unmistakable tone of self-importance, "I was the one who found her. Saw her potential. Polished her skills. She was... raw, once. But under my guidance, she shines."

Palpatine turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing, studying Krennic. The corner of his pale lips curled ever so slightly.

"Good," the Emperor rasped, his voice echoing. "Then your judgment has served the Empire well, Director Krennic."

Krennic’s chest seemed to puff out just a fraction more. You fought the urge to roll your eyes right there in front of the Emperor.

Palpatine’s attention returned to you.

"Your work is not finished. The rebels grow bolder. We must tighten our grip before they become... dangerous. You will continue your efforts. Do not fail me."

"Yes, Your Majesty," you answered, bowing once more.

"Excellent," Palpatine whispered, his voice trailing off like a shadow.

As the guards signaled the audience was over, you turned to leave with Krennic walking beside you, his mood practically glowing.

"See?" he whispered with that infuriating smirk. "You're becoming quite the star of the Empire. And you owe it all to me."

You let out a quiet breath, focusing your gaze ahead.

"Director," you replied, voice flat. "Don’t push your luck."

His chuckle followed you down the corridor.

The car hummed softly as the palace lights disappeared behind you. You sat beside Krennic, arms folded, staring out the window as the stars stretched across the sky like distant promises. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke.

Then you finally broke the silence.

"You know," you said, "since the Emperor was quite pleased with my work, I think I deserve a reward."

Krennic glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his signature smirk already forming. "A reward?"

"Yes." You arched a brow. "Like a day off."

"A day off?" He chuckled, shifting in his seat as if the idea itself amused him. "So you can have another date?"

You rolled your eyes. "I want a social life too, Director. You do realize I’m not one of your droids, right?"

He made a show of pretending to consider it, tapping his gloved finger against his chin dramatically. "Hm. Fine. You may have a day off."

You looked at him, slightly suspicious. "That easy?"

"Of course." His grin widened. "You’ve earned it. And besides, I’m curious to see what kind of disaster your next date will become."

You let out a groan and sank back into the seat, muttering, "Stars save me."

Sorry if I tagged you without permission. If you want to be removed, please let me know.

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My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing are on Kindle. Check it out!

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velvetinks · 2 months ago

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Kept in the shadows

Anakin Skywalker x f!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of war, emotional vulnerability, tension with the Jedi Order, kissing, suggestive references (but not explicit)

You married Anakin Skywalker in secret.

Not for glory. Not even for rebellion.

You married him because he looked at you like the galaxy disappeared when you were in the room. Because even a Jedi, trained to sever all ties, reached for your hand like he’d die without it.

You married him quietly. No witnesses. Just a vow between two trembling mouths under a low Coruscant sky. And then… he went back to war.

He came when he could.

Never through the front door. Never when the Senate could see.

He had codes you memorized. Times when the Temple thought he was in the Outer Rim, but his ship never left orbit. You’d meet him in your modest little apartment where no one thought to look for a Jedi.

Tonight, he’s late. Again.

You’re pacing. The holoscreen flickers with news of battles far away. The galaxy feels impossibly large when you’re waiting on one man in a black cloak to find his way back to you.

Then the door hisses open.

And he’s there.

Helmet off, curls a mess, armor scuffed and dirt-stained. He looks exhausted — but when he sees you, something in him softens.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, like the word saves him.

You don’t even think. You rush forward, and he catches you, arms strong and desperate around your waist, his face buried in your neck. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. You hold him like you know he might.

“You’re late,” you murmur.

“I came as fast as I could.” His voice cracks. “There was a skirmish near Dantooine. We barely made it out.”

You pull back just enough to cup his jaw. He leans into it.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” he lies.

You can see the fresh bruises. The tightness in his shoulders. But you know he won’t let you worry. He’d rather bleed in silence than make you fear for him.

“I hate this,” you whisper.

“I know.” His voice is hoarse. “But I love you.”

And then he kisses you.

Desperate, aching, soft at first — like he doesn’t want to hurt you — but growing deeper the longer your fingers stay tangled in his curls. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize you. Like you’re the only real thing left in his life full of politics and death and rules he was never meant to follow.

You don’t sleep that night. Not much, anyway.

You stay curled in each other’s arms, tangled in sheets and moonlight, whispering things that you could never say under the Temple’s cold watch.

“I dream about you on the battlefield,” he tells you, voice barely above a whisper.

“I wait for you through every war report,” you whisper back.

“I don’t know how long I can keep doing this,” he admits. “Keeping you in the dark. Pretending you don’t exist when the Council looks at me.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you say. “Just come back. That’s all I ask.”

His hand drifts to your bare shoulder, fingers tracing your skin like it’s a prayer.

“I’ll always come back,” he promises.

But even then, in the stillness, you feel it.

The shift. The storm coming.

Because love this fierce… this forbidden… it can’t stay hidden forever.

#anakin skywalker #star wars anakin #anakin x reader #anakin x you #star wars x reader #star wars #anakin skywalker x reader

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cupcakeshakesnake · 5 months ago

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Last night I dreamt that I time-traveled to the year 2389 and befriended a girl there. I asked her some questions. Here's what I remember.

Q: Will there be any big wars in the early 21st century? A: Yes. You're not very far from it. It'll be short, though.

Q: I thought there would be flying cars, hoverboards, holoscreens, stuff like that. Why isn't the technology much different from my time? A: ¯\_(:/)_/¯

Q: What happened to the Mars colonization project? A: Some people thought to be from Mars walked up with a note saying "Thank you" and nothing else. The passive-aggressiveness scared everyone away.

Q: Do you have memes? A: (She showed me some videos on YouTube. One of them was Other Friends from Steven Universe mashed up with a pop song I did not recognize. They were pretty funny. I noticed that one of them were uploaded in 2030.)

Q: What happened to the moon? Shouldn't it be higher up in the sky? A: It got destroyed so we made a new one. It comes down for maintenance.

#snake talks #text post #unreality #dreams #tw unreality

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writtencrone · 18 days ago

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Captain, oh my Captain.

Oc x male reader or, Scary-General-Who-Is-Actually-Kind-Of-ALoser-Top-OC x Power-Bottom-esque-kind-of-go-with-the-flow-or-are-you-dissasociating-reader In an alternate future, were aliens and humans walk the same planet and Earth is under the rule of a benevolent Emperor... When your family falls into dire straights you attempt to auction off your body for a quick cash grab. Instead, a retired General and left-hand of the Emperor is enamoured by your body heat. You end up signing a year long contract to be his personal heat patch for the twelve-hour of the nights.

Or, when a seemingly cold and serious general is actually a loser and you bear witness to his full goofiness in all the best (and worst) ways.

Includes - mentions of derealisation, dubious consent at first tbh, jerking off (both of you!!! eventually...), propaganda, allusions to war, genetic programming, allusions to trauma, also expressive top oc . He does... grab your dick and squeeze ? Not in the pleasurable way, in like, turn up the thermostat way. Brief mentions of killing people. English is nawt really my first language, so have some mercy! Comment to be added to a taglist for future works - or just pt 2!

w/c 5.2 k

Humanity had made contact with aliens two-thousand years ago. History had never been your strong suit, but you know that Earth lives in the Emperor's heart as a safe-zone, and for it urbanisation had boomed to accommodate the different species feeling from the outer edges of the warring universe.

That's why you chose architecture – born and raised in a city where buildings towered to the sky, you had a love for simple architecture.

“Good teeth,” the Appraiser observed. “Could use some flossing - but all intact.”

That felt oddly targeted, so you try to stifle your malcontent feelings. You've succeeded in stifling every other part of you so far – the feeling of the Appraiser's thumb lifting your lip, his nails grazing against your gums through the thin latex.

The harsh lights of the exam rooms, the metal edges of the doctor's seat digging into your thighs and the cold seeping through the light blue scrubs. Somewhere in the distance, a thin beeping noise was taking account of someone's heartbeat and a holoscreen silently broadcasted the latest news from across the galaxy.

What you can't ignore is why you're doing this. Your brother had a problem. Growing up, you were both big nerds. In some ways, you felt strangely responsible for introducing him to gacha games. By the time you even knew about the obsession he had harboured, it was too late. He owed a little over a hundred thousand to some shady credit card businesses.

So, paying back that and the interest - coupled with the cost of sending your brother to some counselling for his addiction - left you in dire straits. Your brother had begged you not to tell your parents, and even if you did they would only be in the same position as you.

So you, an intern at an Architects office, who's thankful just for being paid at all, decided to sell your body.

There were plenty of human fetishists out there - especially since there was a general desire for people who looked 100% human, no modifications, no alien features. There was something to be said in this about the concept of purity, but you had someone's thumb in your mouth so you had nothing to say at all. Other than you wanted the starting bid to commence at 150,000, and see how it climbs.

“Your history cleared out as well,” The Appraiser beamed from three of its mouths. “Although your diet is immensely paltry.”

Ah, good old surveillance state. You lay back down the seat, the thin paper crinkling beneath your back.

“So, when will I get paid?”

The Appraiser took off his latex gloves with a snap and binned it with a gleeful hum.

“We take our cut right out of the check, then it’s deposited right into your account.”

Then it will be scattered to lenders and doctors offices and to your parents. You’ll never really have it. This whole experience felt so distinctly unreal, but under the fluorescent light you could see everything starkly.

Then you’re taken backstage, right before it’s your turn. You watch the Auctioneer sell off a vapor-mined jewel for just under 800,000 and you realise — this is happening. It’s going to be you out there in a minute. Then, before you can come to grips with that someone has you by the arm and is shoving you forward into your uncertain future.

You thought that the auction would be something out of a bad wattpad novel. That you’d be carted onto stage in a cage, weighed down by chains, and a spotlight gleam onto you. Below in the audience, and above in the pulpits, shadowy figures wearing masks and five piece suits would appraise you whilst synchronising their champagne sips.

The stage wasn’t as high as you thought it would be, and you have to be yourself to walk out. You’re wearing the same scrubs you were before. People are wearing masks, but the place isn’t as dimly lit as you thought it would be – although, there are a few shadows with legs sticking out. Premium seats. The Auctioneer is some strange flamingo-alien fusion with a gaudy top-hat.

“And, here’s Lot 384. A Human Male’s virginity! Foreplay sold separately. “ The crowd chortled, and you felt your face flush more from shame than any actual embarrassment. “Bidding commences at 120. Do I see a 130?”

Then the Auctioneer peeled off, speaking so quickly you only caught on when the price capped at 180.

“185? Do I hear 185?”

You pick at a piece of lint on your cuff, and wonder what you’ll have for breakfast when this is all over. You sort of almost wish they had chained you, or cuffed you, added to the ambience of all of this.

“Ohoho, a venerable guest wishes to sample the product?” You jolted, looking up. From one of the shadows, a slender hand rose above everyone's heads. “Ordinarily we do not allow for this, but as a venerable guest we—”

Your blood rushes to your ear. What exactly does sampling mean here? Voyeurism wasn’t on the table here — what was off the table? You’re wishing now that you hadn’t stayed so quiet, that you had laid out more rules, that you had thought this through.

A figure rose from the darkness, only he wasn’t wearing a typical suit. He was dressed in full military regalia, bright blue against the aliens' greying skin. Probably alien-human, if the fact he had two legs, two arms, and a head all of human proportion told you anything. Granted, then you noticed the tail. The man was tall, this dawned on you with every step, and you don’t — you —

He’s here already, and you’re hugging yourself. His shoes click against the wooden stairs, and the temperature dips. Goosebumps stand to attention when this man approaches - and you’re half sure that if you don’t run your goosebumps will take off down the stage and through the doors.

The man looms over you, and takes your face in his hands. It’s not a sexy thing when he pinches your chin between his thumb and index finger, raising your face to meet him — no. He puts both of his calloused hands on each side of your face and smushes it together. It feels cold, rough, and impractical. Then he claps his hands around your shoulders, and stares you down.

The man has blue eyes and black hair that's pulled back. His features are measured, evenly spaced, and betray nothing about what he’s thinking of. It’s his skin that alienates him (plus the tail, that swishes side to side now like an erratic pendulum).His eyes were blown wide – like addicts in shows or movies.

“Good,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly smooth. There’s a scar peeking out from under his straight collar. “200.”

“Wuh!” The Auctioneer sputtered.

“220,” the General continued, and someone in the crowd laughed. “Subject to amendments.”

Your eyes dart over to the Auctioneer – what does that mean?

“Sold? To the good General.”

He never told you his name. In the end, he moved and began to walk off the stage. When he was halfway down the aisle, he turned, and raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Sir, ordinarily, we wait until after the auction—”

“250 and he leaves with me now.”

You hurry after him before the Auctioneer can say anything. You feel the hall's attention turn to you, and you shudder. Somehow, you still feel the generals cold hands on you.. He stops only to gather his coat from an usher, folding it over his arm. He doesn’t look at you again, not until you’ve walked out through an exit you didn’t know existed into a dingy alleyway and slides into the back. You shuffle in afterwards, the night was warm.

“From now on, until next year this date, you will sleep with me. You will meet all my needs, and you will stay the night.”

You blinked. “What?”

Yeah, he had paid off your immediate debts and probably your college debt. It was maddening.

“Sex, every night?” You asked, to clarify. The car was moving, and the city lights were a blur outside the tinted windows.

The General looked at you as if you were a creature of lower intelligence, his pupils shrunk.

“Who said anything about sex?”

The General was a strange man. For starters, he was large. Tall, muscular, handsome. He seemed genetically engineered to be both the ideal man and soldier. The only signs of inhumanity stemmed from his desaturated skin, his blue-ish tones.

His house was also surprisingly simple, although you were getting the rising suspicion that he was a bit more important than you had first assumed.

The first night was weird. You didn’t have pyjamas, but he wordlessly offered you a set of your own – plaid – all in his size so it drapes off of you. You showered, and decided that although you were fine going topless you weren’t sure that the General. Well, you didn’t even know what the Good General wanted with you.

You laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling above. It’s a kingsized, the thread count probably belonged to a tax bracket miles above yours. Everything about the room was anonymous yet dark – the bed was beige and slightly elevated compared to the rest of the room. Below (by a few inches) there was a taupe rug and the floors were hard wood – oh, and there was a whole armchair, sofa and coffee table set.

The General walked in just as you began to appreciate the nice mullioned windows. He said nothing, looked down, undressed, and crawled into bed where he laid down like he was imitating a pole. Then he commanded.

“Warm me.”

You sat up, staring down at this intimidating man, and – gleaning from what facts you had – put a hand on his shoulder and sincerely asked.

“Hey, what do you want me to do?”

At first you assumed ‘no sex’ meant nothing penetrative which at first was fine, but there were a lot of less savoury ways to have sex without any actual insertion – so now all you could do was ask.

“Warm me,” he said. Then, he grabbed your arm with a steel-clad grip and dragged you into his side. “Wrap your arms around me. Warm me. For this night, and the next three-hundred and fifty-five.”

His skin was cold, almost clammy. You shiver around him. “So—”

“No more questions,” He mumbled. “Sleep. Now.”

You didn’t sleep. You lay awake in the dark as the General’s tense muscles softened and he dozed off . 220,00 divided by 365… meant somewhere between 5-6 thousand a night. It’s more than you made at your job in months – oh, your job. There were so many details that needed to be worked out, but that’s for tomorrow. Now your brain is eaten by the soft white noise, and sometime after 3 you dozed off.

You wake up at six to see the General’s great figure getting dressed – it’s a little six, if the clock on the bedside table tells you anything.

“I will have the kitchen make you breakfast, you can eat with the servants. Be in bed for seven tonight,” He says, and you’re just now realising that this is real. Then, after selling your body, you’d go to work.

Your feet met the cold hardwood panels, and you patted the space where the General had been before. Cold. As if he had never been there.

“Okay,” you say, because you forget that there’s anything else to say, and drag yourself to your shower. You’ll loop back to your apartment to pick up your clothes, but until then you wore the General’s plaid pyjama set.

You stopped at the doorway. “Thanks…? Hey, what’s your—”

Before you can say name, he had stepped out of the room with the click of his shiny shoes.

Technically, you hadn’t done anything shameful but that doesn’t make the walk downstairs any less — awkward. You have to ask one of the whispering maids – some wasp-manatee-esque alien– for the directions to the kitchen. You go from tall ceilings and wide rooms to the cramped single-file halls of the servant quarters.

You sit in the kitchen, at a small wooden bench, and spoon at some porridge. It has a thin consistency, and you’re regretting coming down here. Everyone is working, yes, but they look at you with some intrigue and distrust. This must have been the position of nannies, not quite gentry and not quite – uhm. Employed. What you and the General had was more of a freelance thing.

No one approaches you, until the Bodyguard does. Or, really, Lapdog is better. He has the face of a very angry beagle despite being human with some modification. His teeth are sharper, his eyes are bright yet grey, his arm is metal and those steel metacarpals are curled around the hilt of his sword. He looks like he would very much like to strike you down.

“You…” He snarled.

“... Morning?”

He slams his hand down on the table, and the cutlery shakes. “You don’t deserve to share a bed with the General! The General is so great, so revered! Blablahblahblha…” for five whole minutes until you get up, deposit your dishes in the sink, and stroll out.

“I’m not done with you! You!! How dare you – imbecile, normy!”

What’s his problem…

It’s all a bit surreal, but somehow you manage. You always do.

–

The General was so large that you could lay on him like a mattress, and sometimes he'd let you do that. Other times, he would simply wrap his arms around you and doze off whilst resting his head against your shoulder or your stomach.

Once, he hadn't touched you at all. He simply lay with his back to you. When you did nothing he turned around with a fierce glare then turned again.

Unsure, but scared, you wrapped your arms around him from the back. Your body pressed against his.

If you didn't know better, you could say that the General wanted to be spooned. You, however, had a contract and a nagging security guard that informed you - insistently - that this was not the case. That the General merely wanted a heating patch. Still, you wrapped your arms around his wide chest, fingers barely meeting in the middle, and fitted your body into the crooks and dents of his.

The one consistent string through this was this: he was gone by seven in the morning.

These days you brought an overnight bag with your office clothes so you could be out by morning, and you don’t avoid the Lapdog’s barking anymore.

Few words are spoken, and the General is a man of fewer still. When life at work encroaches on your second job, you’re left sitting up at bed and typing away.

Tak tak tak

The blue light of the screen is a lighthouse in the dimness of the room. The curtains are already drawn across the windows, but light from the dimming sky filtered in.

The general stepped out of the shower wearing only his black underwear that you were sure was somehow military issued. He tried to go to sleep, somehow, by lying beside you and wrapping his arms around your side, burying his head into your hip.

Tak tak tak

“What are you doing?” He grumbles.

He’s never home at seven - not usually. When he is, he’s not in bed by nine. Those two hours of laying in bed are just for you to get the sheets toasty - like pre warming an oven.

“Work,” you mumble. “Ah, my seniors are bastards. Evil. Even the juniors. It’s a small office, so they just load everything onto the intern. I need it to, if I want to be taken on in a full-time basis. Ah, I hate this. Why can’t the weekend come sooner…”

Your eyes flick down to meet the scrutiny of his gaze.

“Sorry, I’ll try to finish up soon.”

“Where do you work?” He asked, and you realised that this is probably the first conversation you’re having with him since this all began.

“Just a small firm called [ insert organisation name ]. It’s a firm of architects, I hope to qualify in the coming years,” you hesitate. “What about you?”

“I work for the Ministry of State Affairs. We handle festival planning and internal security.”

“Oh, wow,” You say. “Must be busy. What did you do before… this?”

He shifted now, furrowing his head into the pillows. “I was a soldier, then I worked up to become a General.”

“Sounds tough.”

Tak tak tak

“It’s what I was made for.”

“That’s what dreams are about, I suppose,” You say under your breath, but you feel him stiff beside you.

“No. I was literally made to be a soldier. I was programmed as a fetus to be the best specimen for the Emperor, and raised to be his loyal soldier. Also, I don’t dream. They took that part out of me.”

Your typing stops. With all the borderline crazy around here, you really shouldn’t be surprised by the prospect of genetically augmented soldiers. Instead, you’re just sort of disappointed that the world let it get to this point.

“How old are you then?”

“Classified.”

You baulk. “Okay, yeah.”

He seems to be compelled to speak more freely now, his hands drawing circles just above your hip. Your flesh goosebumps, and you shudder.

“I started to fight in his wars when I was sixteen, in earthen years. I befriended him for a little while, back when he used to do the press tours. Where he’d visit us. I was so loved in those moments, it almost made everything worth it…”

You listen to him trail off, unsure of what to say. This was light years out of your ballpark, and sometimes people just need to talk.

“Now there are no more wars, no more enemies — none for me, at least. And I’m abandoned to office work and to assign guard rotas.”

He scoffs, and you feel his cool breath amongst your leg.

“I’m sorry,” you say, because there’s nothing else to say.

“Don’t be,” Is his only response. “Just stay still, and stay warm.”

You go back to your work, to your brief, with this sudden sense that you understand a little bit more now. Those things are a little bit easier to understand or digest. The General curls into your side.

Then your laptop beeps and you tut. “Do you have a laptop charger?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In my study,” he remarks, then he looks up at you. “I didn’t say you could use it. Only that I had one.”

Maybe not. Maybe it’s for the best that the General is a silent beast, otherwise he’s just a beast. You click your tongue, save your work twice over, and close the laptop.

“You know, that’s a bit rude.”

The General had the audacity to look a little offended – the summer sun had set, so the sky was still a profound blue and darkening.

“It’s my charger, I think I can decide who uses it and who doesn’t.”

“Yeah, well, it’s still rude,” you point out, and make as much effort to elaborate as he does to ask — which is to say none. You slide into bed, irritated, and drift off.

When you wake up earlier than you intended, the General is still curled against your body. This time he’s hugging your arm, his weight numbing it. Even on the weekends, the General normally woke up earlier. Yet, the clock to your side told you it was six and he was still asleep.

You try to close your eyes, reconciling the facts that Saturdays were no longer a part of your “you” time – coupled with the fact you couldn’t stay up into the wee hours of the dawn partaking in debauchery. You couldn’t stay up necessarily – at all —

Well, you hadn’t tried to. Maybe if you got one of those light filters, the hulking figures beside you wouldn’t be so opposed to it. Idly, you shifted and tried to regain some function in your arm when —

You felt something cold and hard rub against your hip.

It was bound to happen, too, presumably, men with penises ™ , sleeping next to one another. Mother nature would call, morning wood would rise. You just wish he was awake to politely excuse himself and deal with it in his own time.

Granted, he is a bit clueless for a guy who had supposedly killed people.

Had he killed people? You watch him slowly wake up, and maybe the question is a bit heavy for a first thing in the morning situation. There was already one heavy thing against your thigh. He was a General, but before that a soldier. You try not to think about it too hard, closing your eyes, but not before you ask.

“What are you? Like, species wise.”

The general shifted, his length was on you now but he was off your arm.

“I told you, I was genetically engineered to be a soldier. Specifically, I specialised in Arctic climate special operations until I was appointed General.”

You were sure that just the existence of Arctic special Operations was in violation of some galactic treaty, but you didn’t care.

“Are you going to deal with your raging hard on, or?”

“It goes away on its own,” the General murmured, pulling you close.

You crack your eyes open just a little and ask, tentatively. “I can handle it for you.”

Why you were offering to jerk off someone you were previously considering to have killed people is something beyond you – but you’re not sleeping, and honestly this might just pay off. The General gives you a blank look, before shrugging and saying.

“Yeah, sure.”

His length was cold and heavy in your palm. It was also quite…honestly. Not that bad. You’re on your knees, in between his legs and his underwear dangled somewhere down by his ankles.

The tip was flushed blue and almost pointy, the slit strange and long across the top. Gentle, you rub your thumb over the long slit, coaxing precum out. You hear a loud, lascivious moan from above — and honestly you would have sooner believed that some high deity had made that noise than the General had your eyes not flicked upwards and seen the look on his face.

Words cannot describe the utter ecstasy on the general's face. Slowly, you bring your head closer to the member and lick across the side - testing, and his eyes roll back into his head. He lets out a shaky whimper, his hands coming up to his face.

“Don’t,” you whisper, your breath ghosting along his length. The General’s leg jolts under your hand. “Let me see, please.”

You think for a moment that he will deny you. He is, after all, a man who has led armies into a raging battlefield. A man who has crawled home victorious each and every time. Instead, he lowers his hands and fists at the bed sheets.

Oh. Oh. This is going to be good. You move your hands to cover his length, one jerks him off whilst the other plays with his tip. You have half a mind to reach for his balls, but you think he’s not quite ready.

Those moans —- those moans! They pour from his mouth like the gentle stream of water, and you see his back arch deliciously. Every noise, movement, twitch, spurs you on further. He was falling apart in your hands. He whines, and you hear him sob something along the lines of “don’t stop” mixed with “it’s so so soo much—”.

It takes about a minute for him to start moving his hips in rhythm with your hands, chasing after the release. The thing is you’re not even doing anything special, but he’s drooling and you’re sort of ecstatic about this — you’re definitely hard. Now you see why people get off on this stuff.

It takes about two minutes for him to start letting out keening whines about feeling something coming, and just as his moans crescendo your bob down and put his tip in your mouth. You thought the moans pouring out before were lewd – the sound the General made then was positively porn. It was nearly a scream.

His cum is normal. If Normal meant transparent and tasting like something that came out of a hospital IV drip. You gag at the copious amounts of it. It dribbled and fell to the floor, fell onto your shirt, and you’re glad you didn’t do this on the bed. You’re forced to swallow and you take his softening cock out of your mouth with no small amount of gratification. You look up at the General, who’s freaky blue eyes stare you down – pupils blown wide, just like the night he first saw you, and you lick your lips.

–

The next night you have your phone with you and you’re reading some semi-obscure 90 chapter manhwa when the General, resting his head in the crook of your neck, asks.

“What is that?”

“It’s a comic,” you say, trying to sound casual.

“No it’s not, this scrolls,” He murmurs, his lips against your exposed skin. “Comics take full pages, and — the art is different.”

“Okay, so—” And that’s how you spend roughly ten minutes explaining what manhwa was and the transmigration genre to the General.

“Would you do it?” the General asks, he’s sitting up now and looming over your shoulder. “If you had the chance — stay in some fictional world rather than come home.”

The way he says it rubs you the wrong way. To some extent, this nightlife of yours was a fantasy life something you slipped into without the help of some lazy truck driver. On the other hand, the General spoke very compassionately. As if this was your home, not merely his house.

It would be best to clear things up. Instead, you say.

“I don’t know. Depends on the world. Have you ever killed people?”

“Yes,” he says a little bit too quickly.

“Ah,” you say. Because, what else is there to say? “What’s your name?”

He doesn’t answer you this time, instead he slips down back into the bed. You assume that’s the end, and continue reading your little story for a solid half an hour until the General stirred beside you.

“You're not warm enough,” He muttered, his voice gravelly with sleep.

Then he reached down and squeezed your length through your pyjamas. Or, rather, he tried to decapitate your penis. You screamed and flailed from the shock of the pain.

“Oh my— LET GO OF ME YOU MANIAC!!!” You shrieked, turned and slapped his body and arms a few times in your panic.

“My dick isn't a thermostat – stop it!!” You sobbed, then you howled something better not repeated.

The sheer ache radiating from your nether regions was not pleasurable. His grip lessened, then went slap, his fingers grazed against your thigh. You rolled away from him, putting as much distance as the bed allowed, and he made a strange keening sound.

“Don't you know how to jerk yourself off? Apply the same principles – also, ask before you do that!” You bellowed.

You were half sure the house had heard you, and you could picture the stares you would receive the next morning. Right now, you were curled around your family jewels and wondering if you would ever live a pain free life again. The General loomed from behind.

“I don’t.”

“I think you broke my penis,” you groaned. “I’ll need to buy a new one. Also, what do you mean?”

“I don’t know how to pleasure myself,” He said, and you’re sure you hear something like pride in his voice.

Your shock defeated your pain, so you rolled over to stare at him.

“So, when you get hard you just…?”

“A shower and reciting the national anthem calms it down.”

You choke on a laugh, until you look at his blue eyes and remember that the General never tells jokes.

“No, you jerk it to the national anthem?” You baulk. “You’re insane.”

“I do not ‘jerk’ it. I overcome it.”

You snort. “Haha, cum. Wait, so, what did you think --- happened, the other day. When I jerked you off?" "I thought that was sex." You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. "Well, I guess it's a form of sex. But it's not, like, sex in the conventional way. I'll tell you more about that later -- you have to fix this." By this you meant your penis, by fix you didn't exactly imagine the two of you facing each other whilst sat upright and getting your penises out. Time and time again, life takes you down dangerous routes.

This all somehow spirals to you tugging down your trousers, and he his. Your cocks were flush against each other – and honestly? Alien dick gives people self-esteem issues. Not you, though. This guy was grown in a lab, so someone in that lab thought ‘ah, yes, big dick genes, hmm…’ and no one asked them if they had anything better to do with their life.

You lean back on your hands, suddenly flush. The General had turned on the bedside lamp, so you could see eachother and the shadows threw themselves across his sharp features. He’s pretty, you realise, not just handsome. It’s something about the slant of his cheekbones, or the length of his lashes as they flutter. As he slowly gyrated his hips against yours. You moan quietly.

His hand is as callous as the first time you met him, and you find yourself playing instructor.

“Try to wrap your hand around both of us – use both if it’s easier. Probably is. Damn, we could use some lube – maybe baby oil – mmph – see that precum building at the tip of your — yeah – oh, just smear some of that – yeah, like that. You’re getting the hang of it, keep going.”

You threw your head back as pleasure began to ebb from below. It came in rolling waves, from his hands touching your length to yours rubbing against his. You let out a whimper – there’s something especially exciting about doing this ordinarily solitary act with someone else. To have someone else devoted to your pleasure, even if he’s clumsy with it. You breath shakily, small sounds making way for fuller moans making way for whines for more – more more—

When you come your eyes flutter shut, so you miss the slight movement of the General looming over you. You were only just coming down from your high, when you were pulled into his embrace. The cum was cooling and sticky between you both, and you whined as your exposed length made contact against his.

“My name is Valentine,” he whispered, pressing you against his chest. “Valentine Adonus Soaring Through the Blue Moons.”

Alien names. You know you should be a bit more concerned about these bedsheets, but your eyes flutter shut and you humm, content.

“Change the sheets, then let’s go to sleep.”

-- kya thank you for reading to the end !! If you want to be tagged for ch 2 then comment below!! Next chapter, you will meet the emperor, explore your emotional connection with the General and wonder if he feels the same, and maybe be manhandled who knows..who knowss Also reader may try to gain more sentience and understanding of their own agency?

#bottom male reader #male oc #x bottom male reader #x bottom reader #x reader #x male reader #oc x reader #oc x male reader #original character #crack treated a bit too seriously #Smut #straight jorking it #mlm #nawt safe for work guys #oc x bottom male reader

118 notes · View notes

lyn31 · 2 months ago

Note

Hi! Your writing is amazing and wholesome! I have a request if you don’t mind.

Can you write one where MC is visually paired/blind and feels guilty for relying on Zayne to take care of her? Like she’s no longer employed as a hunter and needs a lot of help with day to day things. MC feels like she’s burdening Zayne but he’s happy she trusts him to rely on him.

This could be amazing as a hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending piece. Thank you for your time! 🩵

Thank youuuuu 💕 I'm glad you're enjoying my writing but also how are you guys saying my writing is so wholesome and then asking just the saddest thing 🥹 and here I am enabling you guys ahahahaha

But anyway, what a request, from someone with such a shit eyes and cannot do anything without my glasses, losing my sight is one of the thing I'm afraid the most... So this was really hitting me... Although it wouldn't be the same, I try my best! Hope you like it! 🥹🫶🏻 Let me know what you think! 💕

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Seeing You

Summary

After a mission leaves you in the dark, with only the sound of your own breath to anchor you, Zayne is there—steady, patient, and always present—even when you can’t see him. You’re learning to navigate the silence, the hesitation in your steps, and the quiet adjustments he makes to help you find your way, but the weight of needing him still feels too heavy.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader CW: Losing eyesight, adjusting emotional and physically, hurt/comfort, establish relationship, sad and sweet!

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It’s been three months since that mission. Three months since the blast knocked you backward. It went dark—and stayed dark.

No light. No outlines. No vague movement. Just the memory of color and the sound of your own breath in the void it left behind.

You’re curled up on the couch now, knees tucked under your chin, your fingers absently worrying at the hem of your sweater. You’re still not used to the silence—not the real kind, but the kind that comes when you can’t anchor yourself to anything. You can’t scan your surroundings. You can’t gauge the time by the position of the sun through the windows. You can’t even see Zayne, though you know he’s there.

You hear the soft click of the stove turning off. The scent of shrimps and roasted vegetables still hangs in the air, rich and warm and a little bit sweet—he made your favorite again, not that you’d asked. You don’t really ask for anything these days.

A gentle scrape of a spoon against ceramic, the low thud of a cabinet closing. He moves around the kitchen quietly, but not in a way that hides him. You can always tell where he is now—by the soft brush of his clothes when he passes, the steadiness of his breathing, the tiny pauses he makes when he’s about to speak but lets you take the lead instead.

You shift, reaching out for the coffee table you know is just a foot or so away, fingertips hovering in the air like you’re afraid of touching wrong. You’ve done that more than once—brushed too hard, bumped too fast, knocked over whatever he’d set down for you.

You pull your hand back and curl into yourself instead.

You used to be a Hunter. You used to walk into danger without flinching, shout orders without second-guessing. Now you hesitate before every step, memorize the number of paces from the couch to the kitchen, trace the edges of every wall and object like they’re foreign terrain.

And Zayne—he just keeps showing up. Cooking meals. Leaving your mug always in the same spot. Letting you listen to the news through his holoscreen instead of reading reports. Helping you dress without saying a word about it, even though you know he notices when you pause—fingers lingering over the curve of your waist or the scar near your collarbone, trying to remember what you look like now.

You hate needing this much. You hate how fragile it makes you feel.

You sink deeper into the cushions and let out a breath that feels too heavy for your chest.

Zayne doesn’t say anything. Just sets a bowl on the coffee table—gently, like he knows you’re listening—and walks around to sit beside you. The couch dips under his weight. His presence radiates calm, a low thrum of quiet strength, and part of you wants to lean into it. But you don’t.

Because he’s still whole. And you… you don’t know what you are anymore.

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The kitchen still smells like the meal Zayne made earlier. You’d insisted on rinsing the dishes yourself, even after your hand brushed the edge of a plate too fast and sent it clattering. That one hadn’t broken. This one does.

You’re trying to find the sink. Your fingers skim the counter, the edge of the drying rack, too fast, too eager to prove you still can. And then—

Glass hits tile.

It shatters loud, sharp, immediate.

Somewhere beneath your ribs, your breath catches. You freeze.

And then the tears start. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just this slow, helpless stream that slips out before you can pull yourself together. You press your palm flat to the countertop, jaw trembling, but the pressure doesn’t ground you like it’s supposed to.

You don’t even hear Zayne coming.

One moment you’re alone, holding your breath like you can rewind time if you just stay still. The next, he’s there.

You feel the air shift before you hear the soft rustle of his sleeves, the quiet clink as he picks up the larger pieces, careful and methodical.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, though your voice cracks. “I didn’t cut myself.”

But he doesn’t take your word for it. His hands find yours gently, his cool touch steady against your skin—unmistakably him. His thumbs brush across your knuckles as he turns them over, checking for blood. You feel his breath when he exhales, low and steady, like he’s trying to pass the calm into you.

And maybe that’s what undoes you.

“I hate this,” you manage, your voice tight, hoarse with the effort not to break further. “I can’t do anything, Zayne. You’re always cleaning up after me. I can’t fight. I can’t even walk across the room without bumping into something.”

You expect silence. Or worse—reassurance that sounds like pity. But when Zayne answers, his voice is low and even, every word weighted with quiet conviction.

“You don’t have to fight for anyone right now,” he says. “You just have to let yourself heal.”

You open your mouth—to argue, maybe. But he’s not finished.

“And I’m not cleaning up after you,” he adds, his hands still around yours. “I’m just… here. With you.”

His tone doesn’t shift, doesn’t soften with sympathy or hesitation. It’s not a line he practiced, or a comfort he thinks you want. It’s just truth. Plain and steady.

You don’t know what to say to that. Not yet. But you lean forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder, and he lets you stay there as long as you need.

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You’ve stopped asking.

Not just for the little things, but for the bigger ones, too. Not like before, when the silence came from grief. Now it’s sharper—calculated. You tell yourself if you just manage on your own, even a little, you’ll stop feeling so heavy in the space between you and Zayne.

It’s not that you don’t need help—god, you do—but there’s something in you that can’t bear the sound of your own voice when you ask for it. When you ask where something is, when you hear the pause in Zayne’s breathing because he knows you’re trying to do it alone again.

You’ve memorized every corner of the apartment now. Counted the steps between walls. Traced the edges of cabinets and drawers like braille. And still, you trip. You reach too far. You knock things down.

You never say anything when it happens. Just sweep up what you can and pretend nothing’s wrong.

Until tonight.

Zayne’s shift ran late. You told him not to worry, that you’d be fine, that you might even be asleep when he got back. But sleep doesn’t come. Only noise—quiet and sharp—the kind glass makes when it slips from trembling fingers and meets tile.

You’re on the floor when he walks in. Knees tucked underneath you, hands moving gently over the broken dish like you could will it back together by touch alone. Your fingers skim each shard carefully, as if mapping it with memory might fix the cracks.

You don’t even look up when the door opens.

You whisper, like you’ve been holding the words in for hours.

“I thought if I just tried harder…” Your voice is barely audible. “Maybe I wouldn’t need you so much.”

Zayne doesn’t speak right away. No gasp, no rush to fix it. Just the soft thud of his coat sliding off, the quiet tap of shoes being set aside, and then—

He kneels beside you. Not in front of you, not across—just next to you.

His hands find yours gently. Thumb brushing the back of your wrist, then his fingers closing around yours to ease the shards from your grip. You feel the sting now—tiny cuts you didn’t notice in your panic, dull and blooming with heat.

Still, he doesn’t scold. Doesn’t even sigh.

He just wraps his arms around you, slowly, like he’s giving you time to lean in if you want to. You do.

“You’re not weak for needing someone,” he says, voice low against your ear. “You’re brave for letting me in. For trusting me with this part of you.”

You press your face into his shoulder and breathe—finally, deeply, like your chest had been locked shut for days.

“You are never a burden,” Zayne murmurs. “If anything, I’m grateful you let me be here.”

He holds you tighter—not caging, just certain.

“You’re still you,” he adds. “You always will be.”

You don’t answer right away. Your throat aches too much to speak, and your hands are still trembling. But you nod, barely, and he feels it.

He stays with you on the floor until the shaking stops. Until your breathing slows. Until you’re ready to let him help you up—not because you can’t, but because you don’t have to do it alone.

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It’s been weeks since that night on the floor. Weeks since you let Zayne pull you close and whisper the words you needed to hear, the words you didn’t know you were waiting for.

Things don’t always feel easier, but they feel different now—less like the weight of your injury is pulling you under, and more like you’re learning how to breathe again. Zayne’s been a constant, never pushing, always there with quiet reassurance and those small adjustments that mean more than you ever expected.

He’s marked the apartment with subtle cues—soft fabric along the edge of the counter so you can feel it with your fingertips, a slight texture on the edge of the hallway wall that helps guide you without needing to ask. He’s arranged things so you can always find what you need without fumbling too long. The light switch for the bathroom has a tiny bump on it, and the door to the bedroom has a narrow line of tape so you know where it opens.

It’s not about making you reliant on him—it’s about helping you find a new way to move, to navigate.

And then there’s the audio device. You don’t know exactly when he got it, but one day he’s setting it up on the desk, programming it with your Hunter files. You can still help with missions, still offer advice, analyze strategy—all with just your voice. He never calls it retirement. Always, it’s a new way to fight.

It’s not the same as holding a blade or charging into the field, but your voice still cuts through static, still steadies others when they’re lost. Maybe it was never about the way you fought—maybe it was always about why.

You’ll never get used to how much he sees you, even when you can’t see yourself.

Today, you’re standing in the living room, fingers tracing the edge of the couch. The room is quiet, but it’s a good quiet. The kind that means you’re not trying to force yourself into something you’re not anymore. You’re just… moving forward.

You reach out instinctively. You know the kitchen is just a few steps away, and you trust the path Zayne’s mapped for you. One step, two steps, and then—

The edge of the doorway. Your shoulder brushes the frame but doesn’t slam into it. Not this time.

You stop. A soft laugh escapes you, more of a breath than anything, and you take another step, slowly, just to test it. And then you do laugh, quietly, like it’s a secret you’re finally letting go of.

“That’s the first time I didn’t smack into the doorway,” you say, almost in disbelief.

You pause, listening. Zayne’s footsteps are familiar now—the soft tap of his sandals against the floor, the subtle shift in the air when he’s near. And then, you feel him there, close enough that his warmth almost brushes against you.

Without a word, his lips find your temple, pressing gently, a quiet reassurance that you don’t need to see to feel. His presence wraps around you, steady and constant.

“Proud of you,” he murmurs, voice low and sure. “Told you—you’ve never stopped moving forward.”

You let the words settle, his touch grounding you in a way that’s become as familiar as his voice. You can’t see him, but you can feel him in everything—his pride, his belief in you, the quiet patience that’s helped you find your footing again.

And maybe, just maybe, in this moment, you’re starting to believe in yourself again too.

The days are different now. The apartment feels smaller somehow, not in a suffocating way, but like it’s been rearranged, reorganized—not just by Zayne, but by the new rhythm of your life. You’re adjusting, one step at a time. And it doesn’t hurt as much anymore to ask for help, to trust that you’re not a burden. You’ve found a way to move with it, to move with him.

But today, Zayne’s quiet about something.

It’s only when you’re halfway through the process of organizing some files on the desk that you hear his footsteps shift on the floor, the faint sound of him standing still just to your side. His voice breaks the quiet, steady and calm. “Pack a bag. We’re going somewhere.”

You pause, fingers stilling on the papers. “Where?”

“Just trust me.”

The bags are packed without much question. A couple of hours later, you’re in the back of the car, the hum of the engine the only sound filling the air between you. You don’t ask more questions. You just let him drive, let him take you wherever it is he’s planned for you. When you reach the cottage, the quiet of the countryside surrounds you like a soft blanket.

It’s peaceful. Still.

And when you step out of the car, the air smells different—fresher, richer, filled with the scent of trees and earth. Your fingers brush through the grass as you step forward, the slight give beneath your feet grounding you in a way the city never could.

Zayne’s there to guide you, his hand just a breath away, his touch cool and steady as it always is. He doesn’t say much, letting the place speak for itself.

He leads you slowly, guiding you toward the water. You hear it before you feel it—the soft, rhythmic lapping just ahead—and that’s when you stop, sinking to the ground. Not falling this time—just grounding yourself, steady on your own feet. Zayne follows, settling beside you in the grass.

The air is warmer here, touched by the water’s presence. You can’t see it, but you feel it—the subtle pull of the surface, the gentle ripple that hums through the space like a heartbeat. You reach out beside you, and his hand finds yours without hesitation. Cool, steady, familiar. His fingers wrap around yours like an answer.

“You don’t have to see to know you’re in the right place,” Zayne says quietly, his voice like the rest of the world—calm, patient, and full of certainty.

You nod, letting your fingers drift out to feel the warmth of the air on your skin, then moving up to trace the curve of his jaw. His face is familiar beneath your touch, every line etched in a way that’s become a part of you. Your breath catches for just a moment, the weight of everything you’ve been through settling over you.

“As long as you’re here, I already know,” you whisper, feeling the words more than speaking them.

Zayne’s other hand moves to yours, stilling it for a moment, then pulling you gently against him. His lips brush your temple, light and soft like a promise.

“I’ll always be here,” he murmurs, his voice deep, steady. “Always.”

You don’t need to see it to know it’s true. The world is full of so much more than what you can see. The warmth, the trust, the unspoken bond between you—it’s all here. In this moment. And for the first time in a long while, it feels like everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be.

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Notes

Before I got teary eyes, this one is water work 😭 I cannot even imagine... too scary man, and I know I'm the one writing their exact reaction and dialogue but man... Zayne... where do I find this man??? He's not outside that's for damn sure 😦 I say it before but I really am my biggest fans, I like my joke, I like my story first so yk 😩🤣 Alright serious now, hopefully y'all enjoy this 💕

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