#at least now I have a good chair and a real computer at work so that won't make things worse at least

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: I Want to Retire - Idia Shroud x reader

You write a novel that reads like a dumpster fire and while trying to delete the draft, you accidentally get isekai’d into it. Now, as the villainess you have to get Idia Shroud on your side as well as survive high society. You have your work cut out for you.

Series Masterlist

You’ve lived a life. A noble life, full of honor, glory, and caffeine-fueled late-night writing sessions.

You're an aspiring author.

An aspiring author who, unfortunately, just created the most stupid novel plot of all time.

At least, that’s how it feels. You sit back, staring at your screen, utterly defeated as your latest creation flickers mockingly before you.

You’ve named it: "The Battle for Genius Prince Idia’s Hand" (working title, don’t judge). And wow, it’s a mess.

Here’s the breakdown of your disaster:

You’ve got your heroine—a girl so sweet she’s practically made of sugar, like one of those cookies that look good but crumble the second you bite into them. Naturally, she’s fighting for the affection of your male lead, Prince Idia, who is a socially awkward, genius mechanic prince (because you thought it’d be fun to make him hot and bad with people).

Then there’s the villainess. Ah, the villainess. She’s smart, sharp-tongued, and has enough sass to level a small city. Her entire personality? Sabotage. And she’s also after Idia—because apparently, that’s the only thing women in this story care about. (You regret this immensely.)

But oh no! Plot twist! Idia gets kidnapped by some unnamed evil force (you’ll figure it out later). The heroine? Well, instead of rescuing him, she falls for some Bland Prince. You don’t even know why. You think his name might be Greg. Or Gerald. Honestly, he’s that unremarkable.

Meanwhile, the villainess doesn’t even care anymore about Idia. Instead, she’s full-on dedicated to ruining the heroine’s new, bland romance because… well, that’s her whole schtick.

It’s… awful.

You sit back, hands in your hair, groaning aloud. “What is this? Who would even read this?”

You glance at your notes. They’re a chaotic mess of random scribbles: “Idia = genius, but hates people,” “Villainess needs more fire,” and “Heroine? Too boring. Spice her up. Maybe dragons?”

Yeah. This isn’t working.

You slump in your chair, utterly defeated. The characters are good, great even! But the plot? Oh, the plot is a dumpster fire. No, worse. It’s a flaming dumpster floating down a river of bad decisions. You can’t believe you spent hours writing this.

That’s it. You’re scrapping the entire thing. You’ll keep the characters, sure. But the story? Gone. Deleted. No one needs to suffer through this mess.

Determined, you crack your knuckles and reach for the keyboard, ready to hit the big red “DELETE” button on your disasterpiece.

“Say goodbye to this trash heap,” you mutter, “and hello to some actual good writing.”

But, alas, the universe has other plans.

Just as your finger hovers over the delete key, the worst possible thing happens. Your elbow, as if possessed by the forces of chaos itself, nudges the precariously balanced coffee cup on your desk. The liquid inside, which you had so carefully placed right next to your laptop like a ticking time bomb, tips. In slow motion, you watch the dark, caffeinated doom spill over the edge and land directly onto your keyboard.

“No, no, no, no, NO!” you shout, lunging forward, but it’s too late.

The coffee floods your keys like a tidal wave of misfortune. Your laptop makes a sickening little noise, a soft bzzt, and the screen flickers ominously. You sit there, frozen in horror, watching your computer sizzle as if it’s been cursed by the gods of terrible life choices.

And then—just when you think it couldn’t get worse—it gets worse.

There’s a small, but very real, spark. You flinch back, because nothing good ever comes from sparks. The screen flickers violently, the keys start to buzz, and then—before you can even process what’s happening—you feel it.

ZAP!

Electricity courses through your body. Your vision flashes white, your muscles seize, and in one horrifyingly comedic moment, you realize you’re being electrocuted by your own laptop.

You’d scream if you could, but all you manage is a high-pitched whimper before everything goes black.

Dead. You’re dead. Killed by your own coffee and a poorly thought-out novel. Fantastic.

You blink your eyes open, your head pounding like you’ve been hit with a ton of bricks—or, more likely, an electrical charge. Slowly, your vision clears, and you find yourself… staring at an unfamiliar, ornately decorated ceiling.

Where the hell are you?

You sit up with a groan, and that’s when it hits you: the bed. It’s massive, plush, and absurdly luxurious—definitely not your usual ratty mattress. Panic sets in, and you scramble out of bed, only to catch your reflection in a nearby mirror.

It’s not your reflection.

Oh.

Oh, Shit.

Staring back at you is her. The villainess. The sharp-tongued, drama-fueled antagonist of your novel. The one with a penchant for ruining lives and stealing the spotlight. The one you made up.

You gasp, gripping the sides of the mirror. “No. NO.” You stare at the dark hair cascading over your shoulders, the perfectly arched brows, and the terrifyingly intense smirk that seems to have a life of its own. “Why am I her? Why this of all characters?”

You step back from the mirror and slap your cheeks, half hoping that’ll wake you up from this fever dream. It doesn’t. You’re still stuck in the body of the villainess, and with each passing second, reality—or whatever twisted version of it this is—sinks in deeper.

“Of course,” you mutter, throwing your hands up in frustration. “Of course this is my life now. I write the dumbest novel in existence, and this is what I get.” You pace in front of the mirror, ranting to no one in particular. “Who even thinks it’s a good idea to make me the villainess? Me?! I didn’t sign up for this!”

After a few minutes of thoroughly berating yourself—and by extension, the cosmic forces that brought you here—you finally stop, resting your hands on your hips.

“Okay. Fine. FINE. I’ll play your stupid game, universe.” You throw one last glare at your reflection. “But I’m not tormenting the heroine. Nope. She can have her stupid one-sided rivalry for all I care. I want nothing to do with this mess.”

The decision made, you shake your head and take a deep breath. “Alright, what’s next?” You glance around the villainess’s extravagant room, trying to figure out your next move. And then, a lightbulb goes off in your head.

Prince Idia.

In your novel, he’s socially awkward, reclusive, and definitely doesn’t deserve to get caught up in this disaster. He’s just collateral damage in your sorry excuse for a plot, and honestly? You feel kinda bad about it.

You snap your fingers. “That’s it. I’ll find Prince Idia. Save him or something. Maybe I can even get a reward for rescuing a royal!” You’re feeling pretty good about this plan—much better than sticking around and causing drama with the heroine, at least.

With a dramatic flourish (you are still the villainess, after all), you head for the door, ready to track down Idia and redeem yourself in whatever twisted way you can manage. Who knows, maybe this whole situation won’t be as bad as you thought.

Or… maybe it’ll be even worse. But you’ll cross that bridge when you get to it.

After what feels like hours of arguing with your stubborn, uptight butler—who is absolutely convinced that your decision to head straight for the abandoned palace at the edge of town is the worst idea you’ve ever had—you finally break free.

“If anyone was kidnapped, that’s where they’d be!” you shout over your shoulder as you march toward your carriage, ignoring his protests about "safety" and "reckless behavior."

Butler or not, you’re on a mission. And after a bumpy ride to the palace, here you are, standing at the entrance, waiting for the traps or menacing guards to pounce.

...Nothing.

It’s strangely anticlimactic, actually. You push open the door, expecting maybe a cackle or some ominous fog. But no, just dust and an eerie silence. You frown, stepping cautiously inside.

“What kind of royal abduction is this? Budget cuts?”

Just as you’re about to chalk this whole thing up to a monumental waste of time, you hear it—a low curse, followed by the distinct sound of tinkering. You freeze, listening closer.

Definitely someone messing with something.

Your hand instinctively reaches for your trusty gun (bless past-you for deciding guns belonged in this novel), and with practiced ease, you pull it out and slam open the nearest door.

"Hands up!" you yell, pointing the barrel directly at—

A very, very scared Prince Idia, crouching beside what looks like a half-assembled mechanical gadget. His wide, shocked eyes meet yours, and he lets out a startled yelp, nearly knocking over the tools scattered around him.

"Wh-What the hell?!" you blurt, lowering the gun slightly. This was not the daring rescue scene you imagined.

Idia flinches, awkwardly raising his hands. “I—uh, I don’t know who you are, but how did you even find me?!” he stammers, looking at you like you just kicked his favorite gaming console.

"How did I—? Are you kidding me?" You gesture dramatically with the gun, still in shock. "I’m one of the people you were supposed to choose from! Remember? The whole ‘Battle for the Hand of Prince Idia’ thing?”

He blinks at you, deadpan. “Oh… Oh, no,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Absolutely not. I’m not going back. I staged this whole thing for a reason.” He crosses his arms, stubborn. “I’ll just stay here with my gadgets. You can go back to… whatever you do.”

You stare at him, flabbergasted. “What do you mean you staged this?” You glance around the dusty, decrepit palace. “This is your brilliant escape plan? Hiding out in the palace equivalent of a haunted IKEA?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, it’s quiet, it’s out of the way, and no one bothers me here. I didn’t get kidnapped, okay? I just—didn’t want to deal with all the royal court nonsense.” He shrugs, as if staging a fake kidnapping is the most logical thing in the world.

“You do realize that Ortho is still at the palace, right? Your little brother? Alone? Without you?” You raise an eyebrow, watching the slow dawning horror creep across Idia’s face.

“Yeah, so?” He huffs. “He’s the Crown Prince now. I’m sure he’s fine—"

“Bro,” you interrupt, “have you seen high society? Ortho’s gonna get eaten alive. Not to mention the other princes aren’t just gonna let him waltz around with a crown on his head without making his life miserable.”

Idia’s eyes go wide, his brain clearly working overtime as the realization hits him like a ton of bricks. “Oh… Oh no. I didn’t think of that.”

You nod sagely. “Yeah. Big oops.”

He stares at the ground, looking like he’s physically shrinking under the weight of his own bad decisions. And then—something unthinkable happens.

“Help me,” he says, his voice desperate. He looks up at you with pleading eyes. “Please. I’ll—I’ll make you anything you want, build you gadgets, whatever you need! Just help me navigate high society while I… hide in the shadows or whatever.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Are you… Are you asking me to pose as your fake fiancée?”

Idia flushes crimson, his hands flailing. “N-No! Well, maybe? Yes. I mean, yeah, but it’s not like I want to—" He groans, burying his face in his hands. “Just… ugh. Yes. Please.”

You cross your arms, tapping your chin. “Hmm. Fake engagement, huh? Alright, but only if you give me a beach house when this farce is over and Ortho officially takes the crown.”

Idia looks up at you, blinking in surprise. “A beach house? That’s your condition?”

You smirk. “Hey, I know what I want. So, do we have a deal?”

He hesitates for a moment, but then sighs, defeated. “Fine. You get the beach house. Just… make sure no one talks to me. Or atleast, you have to handle almost all the talking.”

With a satisfied nod, you extend your hand. “Deal.”

Idia, still red-faced and awkward, shakes your hand. You can’t help but wonder what sort of chaos you’ve just agreed to—but at least you’re getting a beach house out of it.

Sneaking Idia back to your manor wasn’t the most glamorous affair. He insisted on wearing a cloak, “for dramatic effect,” even though the streets were practically empty.

"You know, for a guy who's supposed to be a genius, you're real bad at blending in," you deadpan as he stumbles over his own cloak.

"It’s supposed to make me inconspicuous," Idia mutters, pulling the hood down further. "People see a cloak, they assume you’re some weirdo and leave you alone. It’s basic stealth mechanics."

“Uh-huh. And tripping on it helps too?”

“Shut up.”

Once inside the manor, you sit him down to discuss the details of how you’re going to spin this whole ‘rescue’ thing. Idia, now a little more at ease, starts fiddling with some gadget he pulled from one of his cloak’s hidden pockets. You can't tell if he's actually paying attention, but you figure you’d better get started.

"Okay," you say, leaning in like you’re about to hatch the greatest scheme of your life. "We need a story. Something grand. Heroic. Full of intrigue, mystery—"

“Or we could just say I, uh, got lost?” Idia offers halfheartedly. “And you happened to find me by accident. That sounds more plausible.”

You shoot him a look. "Idia, this is high society. No one ‘just gets lost for 3 months.’ We need something more exciting. Like, I fought off a band of rogue kidnappers—"

“Did you now?”

“And there was this epic battle—"

“With what? Your sense of direction?”

You glare. “Focus. We need an alibi."

Idia sighs. “Fine, whatever. Make it sound cool, but not too cool. If it’s too impressive, people will start thinking I owe you something.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I already have an idea of what you owe me,” you say, smirking.

His eyes narrow in suspicion, but you move on.

"Alright, so I 'bravely' tracked you down to the abandoned palace—"

"Because obviously that's where I'd be hiding," Idia interrupts sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"—and I singlehandedly defeated a gang of ruthless kidnappers, saving you from a life of captivity. You, overwhelmed by my gallantry, are forever in my debt—"

Idia snorts. "Forever in your debt? Yeah, right. You're more likely to find me dead than in your debt."

“Just go with it. It’s a good story.”

Eventually, you both settle on a suitably ridiculous tale where you, after days of tireless investigation, heroically rescued him from an evil plot to overthrow the royal family. It's unnecessarily elaborate, full of conveniently absent witnesses and a dramatic escape from a non-existent dungeon. The whole thing’s so ridiculous, you almost feel bad for making anyone listen to it.

“Right,” you say, standing up. “Now we just need to sell this at court.”

When you arrive at the palace, Idia hangs back while you step forward, playing your part as the "heroic rescuer." Ortho’s the first one to spot you, and when his eyes land on Idia, they widen with shock and excitement.

“Brother!” Ortho shouts, practically flying over to tackle Idia in a hug. “I knew you’d come back!”

Idia, not really one for public displays of affection, awkwardly pats Ortho’s head. “Yeah, yeah, don’t make a big deal out of it,” he grumbles, though you can see the tiny smile tugging at his lips. “I was, uh, working on some top-secret stuff. Y’know, important genius-level projects.”

Ortho beams. “That sounds just like you!”

You have to hold back a snicker. Yeah, real “top-secret.” Like avoiding social interaction at all costs.

Soon, you’re ushered into the royal court. The king—who clearly knows something is up—doesn't look remotely surprised by the "revelation" that Idia was never actually kidnapped. But, because royal politics are weird, he plays along.

“So, Prince Idia,” the king says, raising an eyebrow, “I suppose you’ll want the Crown Prince title back now that you’ve returned?”

Idia freezes, panic flashing in his eyes. "Uh, absolutely not. Hard pass. Nope. Ortho’s got it handled, right? He can keep the whole… crown… thing.”

Ortho nods eagerly from behind him. “I’ve got it covered!”

The king sighs but nods. “Very well. And what about you?” He turns to you. “Surely, a brave soul such as yourself deserves a reward.”

Here it comes. You’ve rehearsed this with Idia, but now that you’re on the spot, you can’t help the dramatic flair in your voice as you clasp your hands together and say, “All I ask… is for Prince Idia’s hand.”

The king looks thoroughly amused, while Idia, beside you, is turning a very interesting shade of red.

“What?” Idia hisses under his breath. “That was not the line.”

You grin, leaning closer. “Yeah, but you have to admit, it’s funnier this way.”

To his credit, Idia doesn’t collapse on the spot, though he does look like he’s reconsidering his life choices.

Meanwhile, from across the room, you catch the third prince—your so-called "male lead"—glaring daggers at you. He looks like he's about to burst a blood vessel, while the heroine next to him is scandalized beyond belief.

“B-but Idia’s hand was supposed to be won!” she protests, clearly flustered.

You tilt your head innocently. “Oh? Not satisfied with the third Prince?” you ask, batting your lashes at her.

Her face goes red, and the Bland Prince—whoever he is—looks equally scandalized.

Next to you, Idia quietly high-fives you behind his back.

“Nice one,” he whispers.

As you both walk away from the court, Idia glances over at you, his usual sarcasm softened by relief. “You know, I really thought I’d end up hating this whole scheme, but you’re not bad at playing the part.”

You chuckle, nudging him. “Told you it’d be fun. And now I get a beach house, so it’s a win-win.”

Idia sighs but can’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t make me go to any more parties, okay?”

“Deal.”

You’re sitting across from Idia in the study, supposedly "spending time together" to prove to the world how deeply smitten you both are. In reality, though, you’re plotting out your beach house retirement plan, while Idia is hunched over his latest gadget, muttering like a mad scientist.

"Okay, so if I tweak this—boom, self-repairing AI drone. Easy. The idiots at court would never get it," he whispers to himself, eyes glued to the wires and gears he's fiddling with.

You’re busy doodling floor plans of your dream beach house, adding an extra pool for fun. “Yeah, totally, sweetheart,” you mumble, pretending to listen. This fake relationship thing is going swimmingly.

That’s when the door flies open, and in waltzes the male lead—of course he doesn't knock. The guy practically drips entitlement as he saunters in, admiring himself in the reflection of a spoon he’s for some reason carrying.

Without missing a beat, you and Idia scramble to look like actual lovers. You slide closer to him, casually tossing an arm over his shoulders, and he—already flustered—just stiffens like he’s been caught in a trap.

“I see you two are enjoying each other’s company,” the male lead says, not even looking up from his spoon reflection. “I came to invite you to the tea party. You know, with all the nobles. The whole ‘Idia’s too traumatized to socialize’ excuse isn’t gonna fly anymore. It’s been three months.”

Idia’s eyes widen, and you can practically hear his soul leave his body. You give him a reassuring nudge.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper. “I’ll do all the talking. You just have to sit there, sip tea, maybe nibble on a pastry, and nod at Ortho. I’ve got the rest covered.”

Idia doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “Sure, sure, as long as I don’t have to, like, interact.”

The two of you arrive at the tea party, and the moment you step into the garden, you realize you're absolutely screwed. It’s not a tea party at all—it’s some weird medieval Olympics with archery targets set up, and a bunch of nobles are taking turns shooting arrows while their wives cheer them on.

“What… is this?” you whisper, horrified. “Why are there archery targets at a tea party? Is this... a misogyny power trip?”

Idia looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. He’s already backing away slowly, trying to make his great escape, but you grab him by the back of his cloak before he can bolt.

He shoots you a look like you’ve just committed the ultimate betrayal. “This... is not a tea party. You said tea and pastries. Where are the pastries?!”

“I didn’t know!” you hiss back. “I thought we’d just sip tea and gossip about whose cousin married whose horse!”

Before either of you can make another move, the heroine spots you and immediately latches onto your arm, dragging you to the tea table. At the same time, the male lead grabs Idia and hauls him over to the archery side.

"Wait—no—uh—" Idia stammers, but he’s already been thrown into the testosterone-fueled chaos of nobles trying to outdo each other.

Thinking fast, you impulsively declare, “I’ll be the one doing the archery! For my fiancé, of course. You know, because those thugs that kidnapped him? They had bows too!”

Idia, catching on, immediately puts on his best terrified expression. “Y-Yeah! Bows! I’m… I’m still traumatized! Please don’t make me relive it.”

The crowd collectively gasps, and you inwardly pat yourself on the back. Nailed it.

Somehow, despite knowing absolutely nothing about archery, you end up winning the whole thing. Turns out, none of the nobles have actually seen a bow before. You didn’t even hit the bullseye—you just got the arrow near the target, which was apparently enough to impress them.

The prize? A complex-looking mechanical device, something straight out of Idia’s dream workshop. You look at it, completely clueless, before handing it over to him.

“Uh, here. I have no idea what to do with this.”

Idia stares at the device, his eyes wide in disbelief. “You’re… giving it to me?” He looks touched but also suspicious. “You’re not gonna ask for some crazy favor in return?”

You shake your head. “Nah. It’s all yours. Consider it a thank-you for not leaving me to deal with this disaster alone.”

He blinks, clearly not used to receiving gifts without strings attached. “Well… uh, thanks. And… good job on the archery. You, uh, really sold the ‘traumatized fiancé’ bit.”

Before you can respond, the rest of the nobles start talking about "true love," and you can practically feel the heroine’s eyes boring holes into you. She’s fuming, glaring at the male lead—who, by the way, didn’t win—and looks like she’s about five seconds away from tearing out her hair.

You shoot her a smug grin, thoroughly enjoying her frustration. Idia, who’s been watching the whole thing with mild amusement, lightly bumps you with his elbow.

“Thanks for… you know, saving me from whatever that was. And for giving me this… thing,” he says, holding up the device.

“No problem,” you reply, smirking. “I think we’re pulling off this whole ‘smitten lovers’ thing pretty well.”

Idia snorts, trying to suppress a smile. “Yeah, well, if you keep dragging me to ‘tea parties’ like this, we’re gonna need to come up with a better plan. Preferably one where I don’t have to socialize with archery-obsessed nobles.”

“Deal,” you laugh. "Next time, I'll find a real tea party."

"Please don't."

You’re lounging on a comfy chair, lazily chatting with Ortho, who’s happily explaining some new contraption he and Idia worked on. You’re half-listening, more focused on sipping tea and enjoying the rare moment of peace in this chaotic castle.

That is, until Idia suddenly appears in front of you, looking unusually determined. He stands there, awkwardly shifting his weight, before thrusting his hand out in front of you.

Without thinking, you blink up at him and, in your confusion, place your chin on his outstretched palm. You give him a questioning look, waiting for further instruction.

Idia’s face immediately flushes a deep red. “W-What are you doing?! That’s not—I didn’t—gah!”

Ortho’s trying not to laugh, but it’s clear he’s barely holding it together.

“What?” you ask innocently. “You held out your hand, so I thought…”

Idia runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered, before spluttering, “I—no, I was asking for your gun!”

“Oh. Right.” Without hesitation, you hand him the trusty weapon you always keep on hand, because at this point, you’ve learned to never question what Idia needs. It’s always better that way.

“Thanks,” he mutters, grabbing it like he’s on a mission and rushing off to whatever secret lair he retreats to.

You glance at Ortho, who’s giggling to himself. “Do you think I should be worried about that?”

“Nah,” Ortho says with a cheerful shrug. “He’s probably just making modifications. He’ll be fine!”

The next day, your luck runs out. Just when you were hoping for another peaceful afternoon, the heroine arrives for a surprise visit, dragging along her little posse of noble followers. You’re seated in a stiff parlor chair, forced to endure the barrage of small talk and fake smiles, feeling as if the universe is punishing you for all the nonsense you wrote in that novel.

One of the heroine’s cronies leans in with a sickeningly sweet voice, “Oh my, Lady Heroine, I just love your new gown. You look positively radiant. Unlike some people who seem to… dress for comfort, I suppose.”

You shoot her a withering glare, but it’s hard to focus when the heroine herself joins in, adding with a falsely sympathetic tone, “It must be so difficult for you, pretending to fit into high society. I can’t imagine how exhausting it must be, keeping up appearances.”

You’re just about to snap back when, suddenly, the door bursts open. In comes Idia, holding your gun, looking both determined and completely out of his element. For a brief, terrifying moment, you wonder what kind of chaos he’s about to unleash.

Before you can ask, he walks straight over to you and hands it to you, his expression serious. “Here. I finished the modifications.”

Your jaw drops as Idia starts rattling off a list of improvements. “So, I increased the firepower by 30%, added a cooling mechanism so it doesn’t overheat, and now it’s got an auto-targeting system that can scan multiple threats at once. Oh, and I swapped the trigger to be more responsive, so you won’t have any lag—”

You can’t help but notice how animated he looks. His usual deadpan expression is replaced by a lively spark in his eyes as he talks about all the intricate details. He’s completely in his element, and you find yourself enchanted by the way he speaks. It’s rare to see him so passionate, so alive.

The moment is shattered when he finally notices the others in the room. His face drains of color, and he gives a forced smile that screams I don't want to be here. Without another word, he turns on his heel and flees the room. But you notice something strange—he had been holding your hand the entire time. His grip, tight and warm, leaves a lingering sensation even after he’s gone.

You’re left holding your newly modified gun, your face heating up as you process what just happened. The heroine's entourage are all staring at you with wide eyes, as if they’ve just witnessed the most romantic moment of the century. Even the butler, who’s usually the epitome of professionalism, is grinning like he’s just uncovered the secret to eternal happiness. The maids nearby are giggling behind their hands, clearly entertained.

You glance down at the gun, then back to where Idia disappeared. Great, you think to yourself. How am I supposed to survive this?

As if reading your mind, the heroine gives you a smug smile. “It seems your fiancé is quite… attached. How charming.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the sudden rush of blood to your cheeks. “Yeah, he’s a real romantic,” you mutter sarcastically.

But even as you try to brush it off, your thoughts keep returning to that sparkle in Idia’s eyes, the way he had held your hand, and the way his enthusiasm had made your heart skip a beat. Maybe this royal con is going to be more complicated than you expected… but also, maybe not as bad as you feared.

Dragging Idia to get fitted for the imperial ball is like trying to drag a cat into a bathtub. He’s actively resisting, feet planted as you haul him toward the tailor with all the enthusiasm of a man being led to the gallows.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” he groans, leaning back so far you think he might just throw himself on the floor in protest. “An angel loses its wings every time you make me do this. Do you want heaven to be wingless? Is that what you want? To singlehandedly destroy heaven?”

“I’m aiming to open a black market for wings, yes,” you say, deadpan, yanking him forward. “The profits will be incredible.”

“You’re a menace,” he mutters, shuffling along behind you, still resisting like a particularly stubborn mule. “Just put me in a broom closet with a bag of chips and leave me there. I don’t need to go to this ball. No one wants to see me.”

“I do,” you quip. “I’m dragging you into society, one unwilling step at a time.”

By the time you actually manage to get him dressed, you feel like you’ve aged five years. But when you take a step back to admire the result, it’s worth it. Idia looks stunning, even if he’s fidgeting like his clothes are secretly made of fire ants. He’s basically the human version of a rare collectible: usually hidden away, but absolutely jaw-dropping when you finally get to see him.

“Alright, Prince Drama,” you say, exhaling, “I’m going to get dressed. Try not to set anything on fire while I’m gone.”

When you return, you immediately notice something’s up. Ortho’s whispering something to Idia, and whatever it is, it’s causing a nuclear-level blush to spread across his face. He’s stiff as a board, and when he turns around and sees you in your ball attire, he goes straight from “mildly panicked” to “catastrophic system error.”

Without warning, he chucks a flower at you. Just full-on throws it like it’s a projectile weapon.

“Here,” he croaks out, his voice cracking halfway through.

You blink, catching the flower mid-air with one hand. “Uh, thanks? Were you... trying to plant this on me?”

Idia’s face somehow manages to get even redder. “No—I mean yes—I mean—” He looks around for help, but Ortho just gives him an unhelpful thumbs up from the corner.

You grin, deciding to help the poor guy out. “Why don’t you pin it in my hair instead?”

His hands shake as he fumbles with the pin, and you’re pretty sure he’s using every ounce of self-control not to stab you in the scalp. You bite your lip, trying not to laugh, but the whole situation is just too funny. Especially when Ortho gives you a conspiratorial wink from behind Idia’s back like he’s this close to winning a bet.

The ball itself is, as expected, a social hellscape. You and Idia survive by sticking together like conjoined twins, fending off the waves of nosy nobles and fake smiles. You can practically see the stress radiating off of Idia, his expression one of pure misery.

And then, the king makes his grand address, signaling the start of the first dance. You feel Idia stiffen beside you.

“Oh no,” he mutters, “Oh no. This is where it all goes downhill. I’ll trip, I’ll break my leg, and then they’ll throw me in the royal dungeon for embarrassing the family.”

“Relax,” you say, squeezing his hand. “It’s just one dance. I’ll lead, you follow. Easy.”

“I hate this,” he mumbles as you drag him onto the floor. “I hate everything about this. I should have just set myself on fire and gotten out of it that way.”

But despite his protests, you manage to lead him through the first few steps of the waltz. To your surprise, he’s not completely hopeless. He stumbles a little at first, but with you guiding him, he starts to get the hang of it.

“You’re doing great,” you say encouragingly.

“Stop lying,” he grumbles. “I’m one misstep away from taking us both out like a bowling ball hitting pins.”

The music continues, and with every turn and spin, you notice the room around you fading into the background. For a moment, it’s just you and Idia, navigating the intricate steps of the dance together. He’s still anxious, but he’s keeping up, and more importantly, you can tell he’s starting to trust you. He’s letting you take the lead, and for someone like Idia, that’s huge.

From Idia’s perspective, this entire ball is a waking nightmare. He’s completely out of his element, surrounded by people he’d normally go to great lengths to avoid. But then there’s you. You’re handling everything with this... ease, this grace that he can’t even begin to comprehend. You’re not just dancing with him, you’re actively navigating the minefield of court politics like it’s no big deal.

And you don’t need to do this. This isn’t your problem—it’s Ortho’s succession, not yours. But you’re here, by his side, going all out to make sure Ortho’s future is secure. Idia’s heart twists in his chest. He doesn’t get it. You’re way too cool for this. Too cool for him. You wink at him mid-spin, and he feels like his brain’s short-circuiting.

"Oh no. I like them. Like, really like them. And soon, they’ll be gone. This whole engagement is just for show. After Ortho’s investiture, we’ll go back to our separate lives, right?"

He swallows hard, trying not to freak out, but it’s too late. He’s in way too deep.

After the dance, you lead him off the floor and start mingling with the other nobles, making alliances and doing your whole “political mastermind” thing. Idia stands awkwardly to the side, trying to blend into the wallpaper, but his eyes keep following you. You don’t have to do all this for Ortho, but you are. And that’s... that’s really cool. He admires you, he can’t help it.

And then—oh no. The lower nobles. They spot him and beeline toward him like sharks smelling blood. Before he can make a break for it, they swarm around him, throwing party invitations at him like confetti.

“Prince Idia, you simply must attend our garden soirée next week,” one of them gushes, eyes sparkling.

“And our evening gala!” another pipes up. “You’ll be the guest of honor, of course!”

Idia’s face goes pale, and he shoots you a look that screams, HELP ME.

You swoop in like a knight in shining armor. “Ah, yes, well, unfortunately, Idia can’t attend. He’s... uh... allergic to sunlight.”

The nobles stare at you, blinking in confusion. Idia stares at you too, his expression a mix of disbelief and amusement.

“Allergic to... sunlight?” one noble repeats, frowning.

You facepalm. Smooth. “I mean... it’s a joke! Ha! Obviously! What I meant to say is... uh...” You scramble for an excuse. “I need a nap.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I—uh—can’t sleep without him,” you blurt out. “It’s, uh, a couple thing.”

The nobles blink at you again, thoroughly bewildered.

You grab Idia’s arm, muttering, “We’re leaving,” and make a quick exit, practically dragging him behind you.

As soon as you’re out of earshot, you let out a groan. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that. ‘Allergic to sunlight’? Really?”

Idia is doubled over laughing, completely losing it. “You what?!” he howls. “You need a nap? And you can’t sleep without me?!”

“Shut up!” you say, cheeks burning. “I was trying to save you!”

“You saved me? More like doomed me!” He wheezes between laughs, clutching his stomach. “Oh man, you are terrible at this. You make me look good, and that’s saying something.”

You glare at him, but his laughter is so infectious that you can’t stay mad. And honestly? He looks free. Unbridled, even. It’s the first time you’ve seen him laugh so openly, so without reservation, that it almost makes you forget how embarrassing the situation was.

Almost.

It's finally time for Ortho's investiture, and to say you feel unprepared would be an understatement. Not for any political reason—you've long since mastered the art of navigating court intrigue. No, the issue is far more personal, far more heart-wrenching. After today, once Ortho is declared Crown Prince, Idia will no longer have any excuse to stay in the spotlight. He'll retreat, back into the shadows, probably even fake his own kidnapping to get out of any future public events. And you?

You'll finally get that peaceful beach house you’ve been dreaming about.

But the thought doesn’t feel like a reward. It feels bitter. You don’t want that beach house—not if it means losing Idia. The man who’s wormed his way into your heart with his sarcasm, awkwardness, and hidden kindness.

But you know he’s not someone you can tie down. Idia doesn’t do well with permanence. And as much as your heart begged to hold on to him, you also know he’d likely slip through your fingers if you tried.

So you do what any self-respecting person would in this situation: put on a brave face, slip into your formal attire, and prepare to smile your way through heartbreak.

When you walk out to greet Idia, he’s already dressed in his formal robes, looking every bit the reluctant royal. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, but he says nothing, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

You muster up the strength to smile and reach for his hand. “Ready?”

He nods, but neither of you can meet the other’s eyes.

From Idia’s perspective, today should feel like a victory. He’s been planning for Ortho’s investiture for months, and now that the day is finally here, he should be feeling nothing but relief. But no—he’s filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. It’s not about Ortho. His little brother is brilliant, and Idia knows the kingdom is in good hands.

No, what he’s not ready for is letting you go.

If someone had told him a year ago that he would care about someone—want someone—so desperately, he would’ve locked them up in a mental facility. But here he is, standing on the precipice of his worst nightmare.

You, who shine in every public setting, who effortlessly charm everyone around you, are going to move on. He knows he can’t tie you down with his reclusive lifestyle, his constant desire to escape from the world. How could he? You’re everything he’s not—bright, resplendent, beloved. He can’t ask you to give up your life for him.

But when you come out and take his hand, his heart skips a beat. Neither of you are able to look each other in the eye, but the gesture says more than any words could.

The investiture itself goes off without a hitch. Ortho’s speech is flawless, full of the hope and wisdom of a ruler who will no doubt lead the kingdom into a golden age. You’re so proud of him—of the boy who’s become like a little brother to you.

But even as you smile and clap with the rest of the court, you feel a heaviness in your chest that has nothing to do with the political spectacle unfolding before you.

A few tears slip down your cheeks, and you don’t even know if they’re from the overwhelming pride you feel for Ortho or the quiet heartbreak you’ve been trying to suppress all day.

Before you can wipe them away, Idia silently hands you his handkerchief. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at you, and that just makes the ache in your heart a little worse.

You take it with a quiet, “Thanks,” dabbing at your eyes, and you both stand there in tense silence, watching as the formalities continue around you.

Once the investiture concludes and the guests filter out, you and Idia retreat to a balcony to catch your breath. The sky is darkening, and the cool evening breeze does little to soothe the heaviness you feel in the pit of your stomach.

Idia breaks the silence first. "I've, uh... already arranged the beach house. It’s in your name now."

You blink, looking over at him. His voice cracks slightly, and when you finally turn to face him fully, you realize that he looks like the very picture of heartbreak. He’s not meeting your eyes, staring out into the distance as if it’ll keep him from falling apart.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Idia... do you want me to leave?”

He freezes, still not looking at you. "I... I want you to be happy. I mean, that's the whole point, right? The beach house, everything—you’ve been wanting that for ages."

“I didn’t ask if you wanted me to be happy,” you say quietly. “I asked if you want me to stay or go.”

The silence between you stretches, heavy and suffocating. You hold your breath, waiting for him to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“I... I don’t know what I’m gonna do if you’re not here anymore.”

That’s all the confirmation you need. Before he can say anything else, you step forward, cupping his face and pulling him into a kiss. For a split second, he stiffens, shocked, but then he melts into it, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

It’s everything you needed and more—sweet, desperate, and filled with all the words neither of you have been able to say. When you finally pull away, you rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing heavily.

��Come with me,” you whisper. “To the beach house. We can... we can figure everything out from there.”

Idia lets out a watery laugh, one that’s half-disbelief, half-relief. “You really want a shut-in like me hanging around your dream house? You’re gonna get sick of me in a week.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “I don’t think I could ever get sick of you. So... what do you say?”

He hesitates for a moment, then gives a small nod, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Yeah... okay. I’ll come with you.”

And just like that, the weight that’s been pressing down on your chest all day lifts. It’s not the end—it’s a new beginning. One where you and Idia don’t have to part ways, where you can move forward together.

As you both stand there on the balcony, holding each other close, the world feels a little less daunting, and the future a little brighter.

The grand hall is slowly emptying out, nobles drifting away after offering their congratulations to Ortho. You and Idia maneuver through the lingering crowd, dodging overly-friendly dukes and avoiding eye contact with barons hoping to extend the festivities.

Idia clings to your arm like a cat being dragged to the vet, mumbling, “Please tell me we’re not about to be emotionally ambushed again.”

You smirk. “Relax. It’s just Ortho.”

“Yeah, that’s what you always say before things get sentimental and I have to deal with ‘feelings.’”

You spot Ortho standing near the dais, still wearing the ceremonial robes from his investiture. Despite the long night, he looks bright-eyed, waving cheerfully at some departing courtiers. When he catches sight of you two, his face breaks into the biggest grin, and he hurries over like an eager puppy.

“There you are!” Ortho beams, practically glowing with excitement. “I was worried you left without saying goodbye.”

“Us? Leave without saying goodbye?” you tease. “What kind of villains do you think we are?”

“Exactly the kind who would sneak away in the middle of a banquet,” Idia mutters under his breath. “And you know what? That plan still sounds great.”

Ortho rolls his eyes fondly. “You’re impossible, brother.”

“Only when I’m awake.”

“Anyway,” you cut in, shooting Idia a playful glare before turning back to Ortho, “we wanted to talk to you before we go.”

Ortho’s smile falters, just a bit. “You’re leaving already?”

You nod, squeezing Idia’s arm. “Yeah. We’re heading to the beach house.”

Ortho tilts his head, curious but not upset. “You’re moving there?”

“For a while, yeah,” you explain gently. “Idia and I need a break from all the court politics. But don’t worry. We’ll visit you. Often.”

Idia shifts beside you, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh... It’s not like I’m leaving forever or anything. Just... you know, temporarily escaping society.”

Ortho laughs, but there’s a softness in his gaze now. “I get it. I don’t blame you for wanting to leave all this behind for a bit.”

You take a step closer, voice lowering. “And hey... I know you’ve got a lot on your plate now. But we’re still family. If you need anything—anything—we’ll be here for you.”

Ortho’s grin returns, full force. “I know. I’m really glad you two have each other. Honestly, I was worried for a long time that Idia might never find someone willing to put up with him.”

“Gee, thanks,” Idia deadpans. “Glad my personal development arc has been so inspiring for you.”

“But seriously,” Ortho says, his expression softening again. “Thank you. You’ve done more for us than you had to. I know you could have just... gone back to your world or left things as they were. But you stayed. And you helped him.”

Oh no. Not this again. That suspicious prickle starts in your eyes, and you blink rapidly to fend off the tears. Not now. Not in public.

“You’re not... making me cry,” you insist, even as your voice wobbles. “This is just... allergy season.”

“Oh no, it’s happening,” Idia groans dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t cry. If you cry, Ortho’s gonna cry, and if Ortho cries, the nobles will definitely blame me.”

“Shut up, you big baby,” you sniffle, swatting his arm before pulling Ortho into a hug. “Come here, you. Group hug, now.”

Ortho barely has time to react before you’ve wrapped him up in your arms. He laughs, squeezing you back. You reach out blindly and grab Idia’s sleeve, yanking him into the fray.

“Wait—wait, what—!” Idia stumbles forward, sandwiched awkwardly between you and Ortho. “This is... I don’t...”

“Shhh,” you whisper, patting his back. “Feel the love.”

“This is emotional ambush!” Idia protests, voice muffled against your shoulder. “I want it on record that I was forced into this.”

“Noted,” Ortho says with a laugh, hugging both of you tighter. “But you’re not getting out of it.”

For a moment, the three of you just stand there, huddled together in a ridiculous knot of limbs, nobles glancing your way but tactfully avoiding comment.

Idia mutters into your ear, “This... this is basically treason against introverts.”

You grin. “Consider it penance for being emotionally stunted.”

“You’re both the worst,” he grumbles, but his arms stay wrapped around you.

Eventually, you pull back, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. “We’ll be back soon, Ortho. I promise.”

“I know.” Ortho smiles warmly, giving you one last squeeze. “And when you do, I’ll make sure you never have to attend another dull court event again.”

Idia perks up at that. “Oh. Now that’s what I call incentive.”

With one last shared laugh, the three of you break apart. Ortho steps back, standing tall and proud in his new role, though his smile still holds all the warmth of a little brother seeing his family off.

“Take care of him,” Ortho says quietly, glancing meaningfully at you.

“I plan to,” you reply, meeting his gaze with a small, reassuring smile.

“And you,” Ortho adds, looking at Idia. “Don’t screw this up.”

Idia gapes, indignant. “I—why does everyone assume I’m the one who’s going to screw it up?!”

You and Ortho exchange amused glances before both of you answer in perfect unison:

“Because you will.”

Idia groans. “Yeah, okay. Fair.”

With that, you bid Ortho one final goodbye, tugging Idia along before anyone else can rope you into small talk. As you leave the grand hall and step out into the cool night air, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

Idia sighs in relief. “Well, that’s over. Time to hibernate for the next decade.”

You chuckle, lacing your fingers through his. “Hibernation in the beach house?”

“Hell yeah.”

And with that, the two of you set off into the night, leaving the court behind—for now.

Oh, what happened to the heroine and the male lead, you ask? Let’s rewind a few months before Ortho’s investiture—back when they were still blissfully unaware of the elaborate downfall that awaited them.

You knew that the heroine and the male lead would try to make a spectacle of themselves during Ortho’s rise to power. The way they pranced around, flaunting their superficial charm and good looks like they owned the place—it was insufferable. And, of course, they were always scheming in the background, hoping to secure power and glory for themselves. You couldn’t stand it.

So, you set up the perfect trap.

It began at a lavish gala, one of those unnecessarily extravagant events where nobles gathered to network, gossip, and throw subtle insults at each other. You arrived fashionably late, as any proper duchess would, with Idia reluctantly in tow, mumbling under his breath about how every social event felt like “one of those long quests with zero rewards.”

“The rewards are emotional, Idia,” you whisper, linking arms with him.

“Yeah, emotional damage,” he mutters.

You suppress a smile, but your mind is elsewhere. Tonight is the night. You had planted the seeds weeks ago, a few well-placed rumors, some whispered insinuations, and a letter you’d accidentally left behind in a well-trafficked corridor. It was all coming together like a beautifully chaotic symphony, and now, the climax.

You spot the heroine first, her radiant smile masking the venom beneath. She’s making a grand entrance, arm-in-arm with the male lead, who, as always, looks like he’s stepped straight out of a romance novel. His hair is perfect, his jawline sharp enough to cut through glass. But you know better. They’re both so predictable.

“They’ve arrived,” you murmur to Idia.

He gives you a blank stare. “Yeah, cool, I’m just here to not die of social exhaustion. Whatever you’re planning... don’t tell me. I don’t wanna be involved.”

“Suit yourself,” you reply with a grin.

You watch them mingle, waiting for the right moment. And there it is—the heroine, attempting to cozy up to the king, laughing a little too loudly at one of his mediocre jokes. You slip through the crowd, making your way to where a certain nosy noblewoman is holding court. A noblewoman known for her love of gossip and her even greater love of ruining people’s lives with it.

Perfect.

You lean in, feigning concern. “Oh, My Lady... I probably shouldn’t say this, but I heard the strangest thing about the heroine. You won’t believe it.”

Her eyes gleam with curiosity. “Do tell, my dear.”

“Well,” you drop your voice to a whisper, “there’s talk that the heroine and the male lead are involved in some... unsavory business dealings. Something about embezzling funds from the royal coffers for their own gain? I don’t know how true it is, of course... but it would explain some things, wouldn’t it?”

You leave the rest unsaid, letting her imagination do the rest. The best part? It’s all technically true. You had orchestrated it so well, the heroine and the male lead had no idea that their “private” meetings and “innocent” financial maneuvers were anything but secret.

She gasps, her fan snapping shut. “I knew there was something off about them! Oh, the gall! I must inform the king immediately!”

And just like that, the gossip spreads like wildfire. Within minutes, the entire room is buzzing with scandalous whispers. The heroine and the male lead notice the shift, the way people start looking at them, and for the first time, they’re on the back foot. They try to smile, but their unease is palpable.

You sit back, watching the chaos unfold, sipping your wine as nobles begin to distance themselves from the pair, shooting them suspicious glances.

Idia sidles up next to you, looking around at the suddenly tense atmosphere. “What... what did you do?”

“Who, me?” You bat your eyelashes innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He gives you a side-eye. “You’re terrifying.”

“You knew that when you asked me to be your fake fiancée.”

The next day, official inquiries are launched into the heroine and the male lead’s finances, and though they try to clear their names, it’s no use. The damage is done. Their reputations are ruined beyond repair, and they’re forced to withdraw from court life entirely. A fitting end for their ambitions.

Which brings you to the present...

It’s a peaceful morning in your beach house, and you’re sitting on the veranda, enjoying your coffee while the sun rises over the horizon. The sound of waves crashing against the shore is your only company, and for once, there’s no looming political intrigue or royal drama to worry about.

That is, until Idia stumbles out of the bedroom, his hair a messy blue cloud, his eyes half-closed with sleep. He groans as he sees you, one hand on the wall to steady himself. “Why are you up so early? It’s like... the middle of the night.”

“It’s 10 AM,” you reply with a laugh.

“Exactly,” he grumbles, shuffling over to you. Without another word, he flops down beside you, his head immediately finding its way to your neck. He nuzzles into you, muttering something unintelligible, and you chuckle softly, patting him on the cheek.

“You’re such a big baby in the morning,” you tease, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

Despite being married for the past two years, Idia’s face turns tomato-red every time you do something affectionate. He blushes furiously now, burying his face in the crook of your neck to hide it.

“Y-You’re unfair,” he mumbles, voice muffled. “Saying stuff like that... it’s embarrassing.”

You grin. “But you’re so cute.”

“I’m not cute. I’m a grown man. And you’re a villain for making me get up before noon.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his messy hair. “Maybe, but I’m your villain. So deal with it.”

Idia groans dramatically but makes no effort to move away, too comfortable where he is. You continue sipping your coffee, enjoying the moment of peace, when he finally speaks again, a little softer this time.

“Y’know... you really did a number on the heroine and the male lead. They’re still laying low, huh?”

“Maybe the rumor I spread was truly a masterpiece,” you say with a smirk, remembering how perfectly everything had gone according to plan.

Idia snorts. “A masterpiece of destruction, maybe.”

You chuckle, pressing another kiss to his forehead. He sighs contentedly, the two of you basking in the quiet comfort of your shared life. It’s moments like this that remind you just how far you’ve come together, from court intrigue and scandal to peaceful mornings at your beach house.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

For the next part,

[satansdarlin]

Marigold Margins: Chapter one

Wayne Enterprises CEO!Tim Drake x Fem!reader

Notes: a thank you to my lovely gf for beta reading this for me, this has been set up to at least to have ten chapters but I might combine some into one. Tim and the reader are both in their early twenties between 21-25ish. (Also indi and scarlet might be the yns of their own up coming stories :^ if yall would be interested). Drop a comment or a reblog! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Warnings: mentions of cheating, slightly toxic work environment, dick being shameless and trying to set you and Tim up, timmy being cute

Word count: 8.4K

Rating: T

Shit, your feet hurt like a bitch. Your heels clicked against the marble floor, each step sending sharp reminders of the blisters forming on your skin. The golden stilettos had seemed like the perfect accent to your outfit this morning - now they felt like an exercise in masochism. Fashion over comfort: the eternal struggle.

"Morning, Gary," you called out to the janitor, who was already familiar with your early arrivals.

He paused his work, offering a knowing smile. "Good morning, miss. Mr. Drake hasn't made it in yet."

"Thanks for the heads up." You appreciated Gary's small kindnesses - they were rare enough in this department, where your rapid promotion to executive secretary had earned you more enemies than friends.

The executive elevator hummed to life as you pressed the button for the top floor. While waiting, you shifted your weight, trying to ease the pressure on your aching feet. Tension. The word perfectly described your entire situation at Wayne Enterprises. Was the forty-dollar hourly rate worth it? Absolutely. What secretary made that kind of money, complete with generous paid leave? But loving the job? That was... complicated.

The work itself came naturally to you. The real challenge was Timothy Jackson Drake himself. Everyone knew about him - Gotham's wonder boy, the youngest CEO in the country, part of the infamous Wayne family. But after a year as his secretary, you'd learned there was more to him than the nepotism narrative suggested. He'd earned his position through genuine brilliance and dedication. That same drive, however, meant he had... expectations. While never openly cruel, he could be relentlessly demanding.

The elevator announced your arrival with a soft chime. Your morning routine unfolded with practiced efficiency: lights on, computers booting up, files arranged on your desk. The coffee maker gurgled to life, filling the office with its rich aroma. You prepared Mr. Drake's desk with military precision - work files stacked just so, his favorite mug ready, a banana and granola bar positioned nearby (which he'd likely ignore until you forced lunch upon him).

Settling at your desk, you dove into the morning's emails and calls. The sound of dragging footsteps announced Tim's arrival, and you glanced up to find him looking like he'd just crawled out of bed - or perhaps never made it there at all. He mumbled something vaguely resembling gratitude before shuffling into his office, his silhouette visible through the frosted glass partition that separated your workspace from his. You watched as he slumped into his chair, took a long drink of coffee, and gradually transformed from zombie to CEO. It was a fascinating metamorphosis you'd witnessed countless times. The way his shoulders would straighten, how his eyes would sharpen from bleary to laser-focused. Even his typing changed - from hunt-and-peck to a rapid-fire staccato that filled the office.

"Meeting minutes from yesterday?" His voice carried through the intercom, significantly more human than his earlier greeting.

"Already uploaded to the shared drive and hard copies are in the blue folder on your desk," you replied, allowing yourself a small smile. After a year, you'd learned to anticipate his needs with almost supernatural accuracy.

"The Robertson contract?"

"Legal returned it this morning. I've highlighted the changes they suggested in yellow. Green tabs mark where you need to sign."

There was a pause, then: "What would I do without you?"

"Drown in paperwork and caffeine withdrawal," you answered before you could stop yourself. These little moments of casual banter were dangerous - they made it too easy to forget he was Timothy Drake-Wayne, your boss, and not just Tim, the overworked genius who occasionally made you laugh.

The intercom crackled with what might have been a chuckle. "Fair enough."

The morning proceeded with its usual rhythm until your phone buzzed with a text from Bruce Wayne's secretary. Your stomach dropped as you read the message: the Wayne patriarch was making one of his surprise visits. These always put Tim on edge, though he'd never admit it.

You pressed the intercom. "Mr. Wayne will be here in fifteen minutes."

The typing sounds from Tim's office stopped abruptly. Through the frosted glass, you could see him run a hand through his hair - a nervous tell you'd picked up on months ago.

"Right," he said, voice tight. "Can you-"

"I'll get fresh coffee, clear your schedule for the next hour, and make sure the quarterly reports are ready," you interrupted, already standing. "And yes, I'll grab you a proper breakfast from the café downstairs. You'll need more than a forgotten granola bar for this."

Another pause. "Have I mentioned you're terrifying sometimes?"

"Only when necessary, sir." You slipped on your torturous heels again, ignoring the protest from your feet. Bruce Wayne's visits always meant a performance - from everyone.

As you rushed to prepare for the impromptu meeting, you couldn't help but wonder what drama today would bring. Bruce Wayne's "casual visits" were never actually casual, and being caught in the crossfire between two of Gotham's most powerful men was not how you'd planned to spend your morning.

But then again, when did anything at Wayne Enterprises go according to plan?

You stood up when the elevator binged, quickly tapping the intercom to alert Tim with a short chirp. Your hands clasped professionally in front of you as your eyes landed on Mr. Wayne, himself. The man commanded attention without even trying, filling the space with his presence in a way that made your spacious reception area feel suddenly cramped.

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne. Mr. Drake is in his office." Your greeting was the perfect blend of professional courtesy and careful distance. Your gaze slid over to Samantha, Mr. Wayne's assistant, and you felt your smile tighten imperceptibly. She returned it with one of her trademark saccharine smiles, so sweet it could rot teeth. The fakeness radiated off her like cheap perfume.

Last thing you needed was another gentle lecture from Tim about "trying" to be nice to her. You still remembered his exact words from last time: "I know she's... difficult, but we need to maintain good relations with Bruce's office." Easy for him to say – he didn't have to deal with her passive-aggressive emails and tendency to "accidentally" schedule conflicts with Bruce's calendar.

Bruce Wayne nodded in acknowledgment, his steel-blue eyes taking in every detail of the office with that unnerving intensity he was famous for. "Thank you. The quarterly reports?"

You smoothly retrieved the leather portfolio from your desk. "All prepared, sir. I've included the updated projections you requested, along with the comparative analysis from last quarter." You handed it to him with practiced grace, careful to maintain eye contact for exactly the right amount of time – long enough to show confidence, short enough to show deference.

"Excellent." He accepted the portfolio, and you caught the slight raise of his eyebrows – approval? surprise? With Bruce Wayne, it was impossible to tell.

Samantha's voice cut through the moment like a dulled knife. "I hope those numbers match what we have downstairs. It would be... awkward if there were any discrepancies." Her tone suggested she'd enjoy nothing more.

You felt your smile freeze in place. "Everything has been triple-checked against the master database, of course." And quadruple-checked, because you'd learned early on that giving Samantha any ammunition was like handing matches to a pyromaniac.

The sound of Tim's office door opening saved you from further interaction. He emerged looking every inch the CEO – tie straight, jacket buttoned, not a hair out of place. The transformation from his earlier zombie state was complete.

"Bruce," he greeted, managing to make the single syllable sound both warm and professional. "I wasn't expecting you today."

"Best meetings are the unexpected ones," Bruce replied with that particular smile that always made you wonder if he actually believed that or just enjoyed keeping everyone on their toes.

You caught Tim's slight shoulder tension as he gestured toward his office. "Shall we?"

As they moved past your desk, Tim gave you the briefest of glances – a look you'd learned to interpret over months of working together. This one clearly said: "Hold all calls unless the building's on fire, and maybe even then."

Samantha lingered, adjusting her designer handbag with deliberate slowness. "I'll need copies of all correspondence between our offices from the last month," she announced, as if she hadn't already received them twice.

"I'll have those ready by the time the meeting concludes," you replied smoothly, silently adding 'you insufferable paper-pusher' in your head.

As she finally followed the men into Tim's office, you sank back into your chair, already pulling up the correspondence files. At least you'd had the foresight to grab that extra shot of espresso in your morning coffee. Something told you this was going to be a long day.

Eventually, as you'd expected, Samantha was ushered out of the room to give the two men privacy. The glass frosted further, obscuring Bruce and Tim from view – a clear signal that whatever discussion followed would be more about family than business. You mentally added "pick up comfort donuts" to your afternoon agenda, already knowing Tim's favorites: chocolate-glazed for regular bad days, Boston cream for family drama.

The rhythmic clicking of your keyboard filled the silence, punctuated only by Samantha's restless shuffling. She cleared her throat with obvious intent, and you looked up, raising an eyebrow in what you hoped was a passably polite expression.

"You know we've never actually talked," she began, voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Which is so weird considering aren't we the same age?"

You bit back the urge to point out that she was actually five years your senior and somehow acted a decade younger. The irony wasn't lost on you.

"How did you exactly get this job?" she pressed on, tilting her head in practiced curiosity. "I always heard Mr. Drake was... picky."

Your eye twitched at the obvious implication, but you maintained your composure. Years of advanced placement courses had taught you patience, if nothing else. "Mr. Drake hand picked me for this job," you responded, keeping your tone professional and detached.

She gasped with theatrical surprise, as if this wasn't common knowledge in the Wayne Enterprises gossip circuit. "Really? Do you mind if I ask why?"

'Yes,' you thought, but instead rolled your head side to side, releasing some tension with a satisfying pop. "No, I don't mind. Mr. Drake chose me because he met me through the Martha Wayne scholarship. I was looking for a job during that time and my professors recommended me for the position."

You deliberately omitted how Tim had tracked your academic career with interest long before that – how you'd graduated high school two years early, earned a full ride to Gotham University, and excelled in advanced courses he'd specifically recommended. Let her draw her own conclusions; you had nothing to prove to Samantha or anyone else.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken questions. You could practically see her trying to piece together a narrative that fit her preconceptions, one that wouldn't force her to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, you'd earned your position through merit rather than whatever implications she was so eager to make.

Before she could formulate another sugar-coated barb, your phone buzzed with an incoming email. The subject line made you suppress a smile: it was from Tim, sent from his phone.

"If you'll excuse me," you said, turning back to your computer with practiced dismissal, "I have some urgent matters to attend to."

You could feel her hovering, reluctant to give up her fishing expedition. But years of dealing with Gotham's elite had taught you the art of creating an impenetrable wall of professional busy-ness. After a few more moments, she finally retreated to one of the waiting area chairs, her designer heels clicking in defeat.

Opening Tim's email, you found a single line: "Order lunch in. This might take a while."

You glanced at the frosted glass of his office, wondering what family drama was unfolding behind it. In your year working here, you'd learned to read the signs: the level of frosting on the glass, the tension in Tim's shoulders, the particular way Bruce Wayne's visits seemed timed to maximize inconvenience. Something was definitely up, and judging by the atmosphere, it was bigger than the usual Wayne family dynamics.

"The Martha Wayne scholarship?" Samantha's voice dripped with faux interest, her voice cutting through your thoughts like nails on a chalkboard. "That must have been... nice. Getting a free ride like that."

Your fingers paused briefly over your keyboard before resuming their steady rhythm. Two could play at this game. "It was an honor," you replied evenly. "The foundation only selects the top 1% of applicants. I'm sure you're familiar with the process, working so closely with Mr. Wayne."

Her smile flickered for just a moment. "Oh, I handle more of the... executive side of things."

"Of course." You kept your eyes on your screen, responding to an urgent email from R&D while she processed your subtle jab.

"Still," she persisted, examining her manicured nails, "it must be challenging, working for someone so... young. Especially given your... background."

You felt your jaw clench but maintained your professional demeanor. "Mr. Drake's age has nothing to do with his capabilities. He's one of the most brilliant minds in Gotham's business sector." Your tone carried just enough edge to make it clear you wouldn't tolerate any disparagement of Tim.

"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it," Samantha backpedaled, though her smirk suggested otherwise. "It's just that some of us had to work our way up the traditional path. But I suppose there are... other ways to advance."

You actually had to bite your tongue to keep from pointing out that her "traditional path" had involved an uncle on the board of directors. Instead, you smiled pleasantly and reached for your coffee. "Everyone's path is different. For instance, I started in the scholarship program at fifteen, finished my degree at twenty, and earned this position through academic excellence and practical capability. But you're right – there are many ways to advance."

The subtle emphasis on your achievements made her shift uncomfortably in her chair. Before she could respond, your intercom buzzed.

"Miss (L/N), could you send in the Miller files?" Tim's voice was perfectly professional, but you caught the underlying tension.

"Right away, Mr. Drake." You stood, gathering the requested documents, grateful for the interruption. As you moved toward his office, you called back to Samantha, "Please excuse me. Duty calls."

You could feel her glare burning into your back as you approached Tim's door, but you kept your posture straight and your stride confident. You'd worked too hard to let someone like Samantha make you doubt your place here, even for a second.

Besides, you had more important things to worry about – like what kind of family drama was causing that muscle in Tim's jaw to twitch visible even through the frosted glass, and whether you should upgrade those comfort donuts to a full stress-eating care package. You handed him the files before going back to your desk.

Your phone buzzed against the desk, the screen lighting up with a notification that made your stomach turn.

Text notification: 1

Asshole: hey bbg can we talk? I know you're probably still mad at me…

You swiped away Josh's message with perhaps more force than necessary. Josh. Your sweet, charming, lying ex-boyfriend who apparently thought "probably still mad" was an adequate response to finding him in bed with your supposed best friend. You'd been playing an exhausting game of dodge-the-ex across Gotham for weeks now, removing yourself from your usual haunts just to avoid his attempts at "explaining." The mere thought of him made your skin crawl.

"Whose that? Your little boyfriend?" Samantha's sugary voice cut through your thoughts like nails on a chalkboard. How someone could have such a grating voice was beyond you.

"Ex. Ex-boyfriend," you corrected automatically, then mentally kicked yourself for engaging. You shook your head, redirecting to safer, professional territory. "I'd rather not talk about it. Do you think you could send over the info for the upcoming Christmas gala when you get back to your office?"

Samantha's face fell into an exaggerated pout at your deflection, clearly disappointed at being denied fresh gossip fodder. You could practically see her filing away this nugget of personal information for future use. Nothing stayed private for long in Wayne Enterprises, but you'd be damned if you gave her the satisfaction of spreading this particular story.

Your phone buzzed again, and you flipped it face-down with a bit more force than necessary. The movement caught Samantha's attention, her eyes lighting up with predatory interest.

"Bad breakup?" she pressed, leaning forward slightly. "Those are always so... difficult. Especially when you have to maintain a professional image at work."

The implied threat in her words – that she could make this gossip very public, very quickly – wasn't lost on you. But you'd handled worse than Samantha's attempts at social manipulation.

"The Christmas gala details?" you repeated, your tone making it clear the previous topic was closed for discussion. "Mr. Drake needs to review the schedule, and I'd like to avoid any potential conflicts with Mr. Wayne's calendar."

Her lips pursed at your professional pivot, but before she could attempt another probe into your personal life, the sound of approaching footsteps from Tim's office made you both straighten instinctively. The frosting on the glass cleared as Bruce emerged first, his expression unreadable as always. Tim followed, and your trained eye caught the tension in his shoulders, the slight clench of his jaw that spelled out family drama in neon letters.

"I'll expect those reports by Friday," Bruce stated, though something in his tone suggested this wasn't really about reports at all.

"Of course," Tim replied, professional mask firmly in place. Only someone who knew him well would catch the slight strain in his voice.

Samantha jumped to attention, gathering her things with practiced efficiency. "I'll send over the gala information this afternoon," she chirped, finally, blessedly ready to leave.

You watched as Bruce and Samantha departed, waiting until the elevator doors closed before turning to Tim. He was still standing there, staring at the closed elevator doors as if they held the secrets of the universe.

"I ordered Thai from that place you like," you said softly. "And I can have someone grab those donuts from downtown if-"

"You're a lifesaver," he interrupted, running a hand through his carefully styled hair, completely destroying its professional arrangement. "But can we... can we not eat in the office?"

You blinked in surprise. In all your time working here, Tim had never suggested leaving the office for lunch. "Of course. Where would you prefer?"

"The roof?" He looked almost sheepish suggesting it. "I just... I need air that doesn't smell like Wayne Enterprises for a few minutes."

Your phone buzzed again – probably Josh – but you ignored it. "I'll grab the food when it arrives. You should go up now, get some fresh air."

He nodded, already loosening his tie as he headed for the stairwell. Twenty minutes later, you found him sitting on the maintenance ledge, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, looking more like a college student than a CEO.

"One Pad Thai with extra peanuts," you announced, settling down beside him with the takeout bags. "And yes, I grabbed extra spring rolls."

"You know me too well," he managed a small smile, accepting the container you handed him. "I'm sorry about..." he gestured vaguely with his chopsticks, "all that."

"Family's complicated," you offered, carefully keeping your tone neutral as you opened your own lunch.

"Bruce wants me to relocate to the Metropolis office," he said suddenly, staring out at the Gotham skyline. "Says it would be 'good for my professional development.'"

You nearly choked on your spring roll. "Metropolis?"

"Yeah." He stabbed at his noodles with more force than necessary. "Because apparently running the Gotham office isn't enough of a challenge."

"That's ridiculous," you said before you could stop yourself. "You've increased productivity by 40% since taking over, our client retention is at an all-time high, and the employee satisfaction surveys-"

"Have you been memorizing my achievements?" He turned to look at you, a hint of amusement breaking through his stress.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "It's my job to know these things."

"Right. Your job." Something flickered across his face too quickly to read. "Speaking of jobs... you'd have to come too, you know. To Metropolis. If I agreed."

Your heart did a complicated flip in your chest. "Are you... considering it?"

"No," he said quickly, then paused. "Maybe. I don't know." He set down his food and turned to face you fully. "Would you? Come to Metropolis, I mean? If I asked?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications neither of you were ready to address. Your phone buzzed again in your pocket, but for once, you didn't even notice.

You hummed softly, letting your gaze drift over Gotham's sprawling landscape. From this height, you could actually see past the city's ever-present smog, though any true Gothamite knew the city's real beauty emerged after dark. The endless sea of lights, the way the neon cut through the darkness – it was home, or at least it had been.

Your phone buzzed again, another message from Josh joining the pile. You glanced down at the string of notifications, each one a reminder of how quickly your social circle had imploded. Some friends they'd turned out to be – taking his side, sending nasty messages about how a "prude" like you had it coming. The betrayal still stung, but maybe not as sharply as it should. Maybe that said something about how ready you were to leave it all behind.

Your parents had always encouraged you to spread your wings beyond Gotham's borders anyway. "The world's bigger than Crime Alley," your mom used to say. You slipped the phone back into your pocket, silencing the ghosts of relationships past.

"Yeah, I'd come with you," you said finally, turning back to Tim with a slight smile. "It's my job to be at your side during all the professional hours anyway."

Something shifted in his expression at your words. "'Professional hours,'" he repeated, as if testing the phrase. "Right. Because that's what this is about. Professional... obligations."

The way he said it made your heart skip a beat. There was a weight to his words that seemed to encompass more than just office dynamics and working relationships. The autumn breeze picked up, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city below, and you found yourself hyperaware of how close you were sitting, how his rolled-up sleeves revealed surprisingly toned forearms, how his hair was still slightly mussed from running his hands through it.

"Tim," you started, then caught yourself. "Mr. Drake-"

"Don't," he interrupted softly. "Don't do that. Not up here." He gestured to the expanse around you. "We're literally above all that right now."

Your phone buzzed again, and this time Tim noticed your slight wince. "Everything okay?"

"Just..." you waved a hand dismissively, "ex-boyfriend drama. Nothing important."

His expression darkened slightly. "Josh?" At your surprised look, he added quickly, "I... might have overheard some break room gossip. About what happened."

"Great," you muttered, heat rising to your cheeks. "Good to know my humiliation made it all the way to the executive floor."

"Hey," his voice was gentle but firm, "you're not the one who should be humiliated. He's the idiot who-" he cut himself off, jaw clenching. "Sorry. Not my place."

"No, it's..." you found yourself smiling despite everything, "it's kind of nice. Hearing someone take my side for once."

The look he gave you then made your breath catch. "I'm always on your side," he said quietly, and somehow you knew he meant more than just the Josh situation.

You forced yourself to take a steady breath, trying to calm your racing heart. No. Absolutely not. You were not going to develop feelings for your boss. It didn't matter that Tim was barely a year older than you, or that his disheveled appearance right now made him look unfairly attractive, or that the way he was looking at you made your stomach do flips. This was a completely professional relationship and it would stay that way. You cleared your throat and offered him a carefully measured smile.

"Well, if we do end up moving to the Metropolis office, I'd have to start looking at apartments over there," you murmured, already running calculations in your head. Even with your generous salary, Metropolis real estate prices were notorious. Maybe you could find something affordable downtown, though the commute would be rough. Your inner penny-pincher was already cringing at the potential security deposits and elevated cost of living.

"About that," Tim straightened slightly, his expression shifting to something you couldn't quite read. "Wayne Enterprises has corporate housing in Metropolis. High-rise apartments, actually. Usually reserved for executives and their... key personnel."

The way he said 'key personnel' made your pulse jump again. Traitor heart.

"Key personnel?" you echoed, trying to keep your tone light.

"Well," he shifted slightly closer, and you caught a whiff of his expensive cologne mixed with coffee, "can't have my irreplaceable assistant living in some sketchy downtown apartment, can I?"

"I'm hardly irreplaceable," you protested weakly, even as your brain helpfully reminded you that no other assistant had lasted more than three months before you.

Tim's expression turned serious. "You are, though. You're the only one who's ever..." he paused, seeming to choose his words carefully, "understood. The job. The pressure. Me."

The last word hung in the air between you, loaded with unspoken implications. You became acutely aware of how close you were sitting, how easy it would be to just lean a little closer, how his eyes seemed to darken as they met yours.

Your phone buzzed again, shattering the moment. Tim's gaze flickered to your pocket, then back to your face, something almost like frustration crossing his features.

You sighed, glancing down at your persistently buzzing pocket. "I should probably..." you mumbled, finally pulling out your phone. You knew Josh well enough to know he wouldn't stop until you dealt with him directly. Your face twisted in disgust as you scrolled through the barrage of messages – a nauseating mix of sweet manipulation ("baby, please, we can work this out"), degrading insults, and crude comments about your intimate life together. The last ones made your skin crawl, especially his boasts about being the 'only one who could make you feel that good.' Gross.

You could feel Tim's eyes on you as you stared at the screen, trying to formulate a response that wouldn't just feed into Josh's need for attention. The weight of Tim's gaze was different from the usual scrutiny you felt in the office – more protective than professional.

"Maybe you should just block him?" Tim suggested, his voice carrying an edge you rarely heard. The CEO tone, as you privately called it – the one that made board members squirm.

You shook your head, words tumbling out before you could stop them. "No way. I need him to see I can live without him." The admission hung in the air, more vulnerable than you'd intended. Your fingers hovered over your phone's keypad as you entered your passcode, very aware of how childish that might sound to someone like Tim.

But when you glanced up, there was no judgment in his expression – just something fierce and protective that made your breath catch. He shifted closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body in the cool rooftop air.

"He already sees it," Tim said quietly, his eyes fixed on your face. "Every day you walk into this building, every meeting you handle perfectly, every time you prove you're exactly where you belong – that's you living without him. And doing it better than he could ever imagine."

The intensity in his voice made you look up, and suddenly you were trapped in his gaze, your phone temporarily forgotten in your hands. This wasn't your boss speaking anymore – this was something else entirely, something that made your heart race and your professional boundaries start to blur.

Your breath caught as you suddenly became hyperaware of every point of contact between you – his fingers wrapped gently but firmly around your bicep, his head tilted toward yours, close enough that you could see the flecks of blue in his eyes. "Mr. Drake, I-"

He rolled his eyes, but there was a playful warmth in the gesture that made your stomach flip. "Tim. Just Tim for right now."

Your lips parted to respond, but the creak of the rooftop door shattered the moment. Dick Grayson, the eldest Wayne sibling, emerged into the afternoon light, and Tim immediately pulled back, professional distance snapping into place like a shield. The sudden absence of his warmth left you feeling oddly bereft.

"Hey Timbo, sorry to interrupt your lunch but I need a favor." Dick's trademark charming smile did nothing to soften Tim's exasperated expression.

"Sure, just let me finish my food-" Tim paused, catching something in Dick's expression. "This is kind of favor you need now?" When Dick nodded apologetically, Tim grumbled but began closing his takeout container.

Before standing, he turned back to you, placing his hand over your phone. His eyes locked with yours with an intensity that made your knees weak despite sitting down. "Block him." It wasn't a request – it was pure CEO Tim Drake, the voice that brokered no argument. "We won't have room for people like him if we move to Metropolis, am I understood?"

The 'we' in that sentence felt weighted with possibility, but you pushed that thought aside. "Yes, Mr. Drake."

You watched as he gathered his things, noting how his professional mask slipped perfectly back into place, though something in his eyes remained softer when he looked at you. As he followed Dick toward the door, you could have sworn you saw him shoot his brother an irritated look.

Your phone buzzed again in your hands, but this time, instead of anxiety, you felt a surge of determination. Tim was right – you didn't need Josh's validation. With steady fingers, you pulled up his contact information and hit 'block.'

The city stretched out below you, Metropolis somewhere beyond the horizon, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like you could breathe properly.

.

.

.

Red and blue lights pulsed across your face as the bass thundered through your chest, making your ribs vibrate with each beat. The news of the Metropolis transfer was official now – you and Tim would be heading the new office. You couldn't quite suppress the smug satisfaction you'd felt watching Samantha's face fall when the announcement was made, her practiced smile cracking just slightly at the edges.

Now, though, you were somewhat regretting sharing the news with your family. Your elder sisters had immediately sprung into celebration mode: Indi, the successful Gotham model, had easily swept you all past the velvet ropes of one of the city's hottest clubs, while Scarlet had managed a few congratulatory drinks before motherhood called her home to your nephew.

That left you nursing a dirty triple Shirley temple (which had been a mouthful to order over the deafening music) and hugging the wall like it was your job. From your vantage point, you could see Indi on the dance floor, practically melded to some guy she'd been flirting with all night. The sequins on her dress caught the strobing lights, making her look like some sort of disco ball goddess – exactly the kind of attention-grabbing presence she was known for.

You took another sip of your drink, the cherry sweetness a sharp contrast to the adult addition of vodka. The music shifted, something with a heavier beat that made the crowd surge with renewed energy. You checked your phone out of habit – no more texts from Josh, thank god, but there was a work email notification that made your heart skip:

From: Timothy Drake-Wayne

Subject: Tomorrow's Schedule Change

Time Sent: 10:47 PM

Your finger hovered over the notification, debating whether to open it. Tim had been... different since that day on the roof. Not obviously so – you both maintained perfect professionalism in the office – but there were moments: lingering glances, fingers brushing when passing documents, the way he'd started saying your name just a touch softer than necessary.

As you hesitated to open it someone bumped into you, luckily you saved your drink from spilling all over the black halter dress you were wearing showing off your back.

“I'm so sorry, I didn't-” the masculine voice was cut off as you looked up and you both stilled. Seeing Tim out of a suit was jarring, seeing tim out of a suit and in a club? That was wild.

“Mr. Drake!”

“We are out of work. Just tim” he sighed at you but it was almost in a pleased exasperation.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Drake but you'll have to try harder than that,” The teasing words slipped out before you could stop them. Tim blinked and then a wry smirk pulled on his face.

Tim's eyes darkened at your challenge, that CEO intensity suddenly focused entirely on you. "Try harder?" He stepped closer, just shy of improper, voice dropping low enough that you had to lean in to hear him over the music. "What exactly would that take?"

The bass pulsed through your bodies, and you were acutely aware of how different this felt from your usual office dynamics. Here, in the strobing lights and thundering music, with your back exposed by the halter dress and his suit traded for dark jeans and a fitted black henley, the careful professional distance you maintained seemed to blur and shift.

"Tim!" A familiar voice cut through the moment. Dick Grayson emerged from the crowd, another brother – Jason – trailing behind him. "Thought I saw you come this way." His eyes landed on you, and his grin widened. "Well, well. Fancy meeting you here."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, suddenly very conscious of how close you and Tim were standing. "Mr. Grayson," you managed, trying to sound professional despite the club setting.

"Oh god, not you too," Dick groaned. "It's just Dick, please. We're not at work."

"Leave her alone," Jason cut in, giving you a knowing look. "Some of us appreciate proper manners." He turned to Tim with a smirk. "Though I gotta say, baby bird, running into your secretary at a club? That's some rom-com level timing."

"Assistant," you and Tim corrected simultaneously, then shared a quick glance that made Dick's grin grow impossibly wider.

"Right, assistant," Jason drawled, making the word sound far more suggestive than it had any right to be. "The one Bruce mentioned is moving to Metropolis with you?"

The music shifted again, something slower but still thrumming with energy. Tim's jaw tightened slightly at the mention of Bruce, and you found yourself unconsciously shifting closer, a movement that didn't go unnoticed by his brothers.

"Speaking of Metropolis," Dick's eyes gleamed with mischief, "I hear the nightlife there is pretty tame compared to Gotham. You two might have to make your own entertainment."

"Dick," Tim's voice carried a warning edge that made you think of board meetings and difficult clients.

"What? I'm just saying, all those late nights in the office..." Dick trailed off suggestively.

You took a long sip of your drink, using the moment to steady yourself. "I should probably find my sister," you said, looking for an escape from this increasingly dangerous conversation. "She tends to get... ambitious when left unsupervised too long."

"The model?" Jason asked, eyebrows rising. "Tall, sequined dress, currently wrapped around that guy by the DJ booth?"

You turned to look where he was pointing, and sure enough, there was Indi, having apparently upgraded from her previous dance partner. "That's her."

"Runs in the family, huh?" Dick muttered, too quiet for anyone but Jason to hear, though the sharp look Tim shot him suggested he'd caught it too.

"I'll walk you over," Tim said suddenly, placing a hand on the small of your back. The touch sent electricity down your spine, his fingers warm against your exposed skin.

As you moved through the crowd, Tim's hand stayed steady on your back, guiding you through the press of bodies. The contact felt simultaneously too much and not enough, and you found yourself hyperaware of every brush of his fingers, every slight pressure as he steered you around dancing couples.

"I didn't know you came to places like this," you said, having to lean close to his ear to be heard over the music. His cologne filled your senses, different from his usual office scent – something darker, spicier.

He leaned down, his breath tickling your ear as he replied, "I don't, usually. Dick dragged me out to 'celebrate' the Metropolis news." His tone on 'celebrate' suggested this wasn't entirely voluntary. "Though it's looking up now."

The implications in that last statement made your heart race, and you were grateful for the dim lighting hiding your blush. You were nearing the DJ booth now, Indi's sequined dress acting like a beacon in the strobing lights.

Tim's hand slipped from your back as you reached the edge of the dance floor, and the loss of contact felt almost physical. You turned to face him, finding his eyes already on you, intense despite the chaotic lighting.

"About that email," he said, stepping closer to be heard over the music. "I was wondering if you'd like to-"

"Baby sis!" Indi's voice cut through whatever Tim was about to say. She detached herself from her dance partner, practically bouncing over to you. "There you are! And with company?" Her eyes raked over Tim appreciatively. "Very nice company."

"Mr. Drake-Wayne," you introduced formally, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism even as Indi's eyebrows shot up in recognition.

"Your boss?" she stage-whispered, not nearly as quietly as she probably thought. "The one you're moving to Metropolis with?" Her grin turned predatory. "Oh, this is interesting."

You felt your face flame. "Indi-"

"Dance with us!" she declared, already reaching for both you and Tim. "Consider it a pre-Metropolis celebration!"

The music swelled, and you found yourself being pulled onto the dance floor, Tim's amused expression the last thing you saw before the crowd swallowed you up. His hand found yours in the chaos, steady and warm, and suddenly the bass didn't seem quite so overwhelming.

As Indi disappeared back into the crowd, presumably to find her previous dance partner, you felt Tim pull you closer, his other hand finding its way back to your exposed back.

"So," he said, mouth close to your ear, "about that email..."

Your heart thundered in time with the music as you waited for him to continue, but a commotion near the bar caught your attention. Your eyes widened as you recognized a familiar figure being escorted out by security.

"Is that...?" Tim followed your gaze.

"Josh," you confirmed, watching as your ex-boyfriend was firmly guided toward the exit, his protests lost in the music. "I didn't even know he came here."

Tim's hand tightened slightly on your back. "Want me to have security make sure he stays out?"

The protective edge in his voice made something warm bloom in your chest. "No," you said, surprising yourself with how much you meant it. "He's not worth the effort anymore."

Tim's eyes softened as he looked at you, and suddenly the club, the music, even Josh's dramatic exit – it all faded into background noise. "Good," he said quietly, though you heard him perfectly despite the chaos around you. "Because I was thinking..."

The music shifted again, something slower, more intimate, and Tim pulled you imperceptibly closer.

"Yes?" you prompted, your heart racing as his hand traced small circles on your back.

"Maybe we should discuss those Metropolis arrangements... over dinner?"

The implications in his tone made it clear this wasn't about corporate housing or office logistics. You looked up at him, finding nothing but sincerity in his eyes, and felt a smile tug at your lips.

"That would be highly unprofessional, Mr. Drake," you said, but there was no real protest in your voice.

His answering smile was worth every HR regulation you were about to break. "I thought you told me to try harder, hm?"

And there, in the middle of a Gotham nightclub, with your ex being thrown out and your sister probably watching with glee, you finally let yourself lean into the warmth of Timothy Drake-Wayne's embrace.

"Dinner sounds perfect," you whispered, "Tim."

His smile could have lit up all of Gotham.

That's how you and Tim had gotten swept over into a booth and were actually just talking for once. Well. You both might have been a bit tipsy.

“Honestly Josh wasn't even my worst ex. There was this one girl, Maxine. Max and I dated for like all of college but she'd never bring me home or anything cause she was still closeted and stuff which I mean I get it. I didn't come out til I was like sixteenish luckily my family had enough things to worry about with my sister scarlet becoming a mom that one of us being bi-sexual was kinda glossed over. But anyway Max ended up breaking up with me and getting engaged to just some guy within like a month.” Your hands moved as you spoke, nearly sloshing your drink but Tim steadied it for you and gave a sympathetic nod.

“I get that,” he murmured. Your eyes trailed over the crowd again silently checking up on your sister. You nearly spat your drink out causing Tim to also look over. “I think your brother is trying to serenade my sister.”

You watched in horror and slight pride as indi and dick were clearly flirting with each other on the other side of the club.

“Probably planning how to embarrass us next too,” Tim hummed his hand resting on your thigh.

You let out a soft laugh, not moving away from his touch. "Oh god, can you imagine the family dinners? Indi would absolutely weaponize her model status to terrorize Bruce Wayne."

Tim's thumb traced absent patterns on your thigh, sending little sparks of electricity through your body. "Honestly? I'd pay to see that. Bruce needs someone to ruffle his feathers occasionally." His eyes sparkled with mischief. "Though I have to say, you've been doing a pretty good job of that yourself."

"Me?" You blinked in surprise, taking another sip of your drink.

"Mmhmm." Tim shifted closer, his shoulder pressing against yours in the intimate space of the booth. "The way you handle Samantha? Your complete overhaul of the filing system? That presentation you gave last week?" His voice dropped lower. "Bruce hasn't been this impressed by anyone since Barbara Gordon herself."

The comparison to the legendary Barbara Gordon – now CFO of Wayne Tech – made you flush with pride and embarrassment. "I just do my job."

"No," Tim's voice was serious now, though his hand remained warm on your thigh. "You do so much more than that. You..." he paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. "You make everything better. Easier. Not just the work stuff, but..." he gestured vaguely with his free hand, "everything."

The vulnerability in his voice made your heart clench. You'd never seen him quite like this – guard down, words flowing freely, eyes soft in the dim club lighting. It was a far cry from the composed CEO who commanded boardrooms and managed million-dollar deals.

"Speaking of making things better," you said, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy moment, "remember that time you caught me stress-eating donuts in the supply closet after the Johnson meeting?"

Tim's laugh rumbled through his chest. "And instead of being professional about it, I just sat down and asked for one?" His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Best decision I ever made. Though I still maintain Boston cream is superior to your chocolate glazed preference."

"Excuse you, chocolate glazed is a classic for a reason." You nudged his shoulder playfully, then froze as you caught sight of Dick and Indi again. "Oh my god, they're exchanging numbers."

Tim followed your gaze and groaned. "Dick's never going to let this go. He's probably already planning double dates."

The casual way he said 'double dates' made your stomach flip. "Is that what this is?" you asked before you could stop yourself. "A date?"

Tim's hand tightened slightly on your thigh as he turned to face you fully. The booth suddenly felt much smaller, more intimate. "Do you want it to be?"

Your breath caught as you met his gaze. There was no trace of the CEO now – this was just Tim, looking at you like you were something precious and dangerous all at once.

"I..." you started, then jumped as someone slid into the booth opposite you.

"Baby bird!" Jason's voice cut through the moment like a knife. "And the assistant who's definitely just an assistant." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Tim's hand didn't move from your thigh, though you saw his jaw clench slightly. "What do you want, Jason?"

"Can't a guy check on his baby brother?" Jason's grin was positively feral. "Especially when said brother is getting cozy with his very attractive employee in a very public place?"

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, but before you could formulate a response, Indi appeared at the table, Dick in tow.

"Sister swap!" she announced cheerfully. "Dick's taking me to this amazing late-night food truck, and you" she pointed at you with a perfectly manicured finger, "are coming with us because I refuse to eat street food alone with a strange man, even if he is unreasonably attractive."

"Hey!" Dick protested, though he was grinning.

You felt Tim's hand squeeze your thigh once before reluctantly withdrawing. "Rain check on that answer?" he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

Your heart did a complicated flip in your chest as you nodded. As you slid out of the booth, letting Indi pull you toward the exit, you couldn't help but look back. Tim was watching you go, something intense and promising in his expression that made your skin tingle.

"So," Indi linked her arm through yours as you emerged into the cool Gotham night, Dick and Jason trailing behind you. "Want to tell me why you never mentioned how hot your boss is? Or why his hand was very obviously on your thigh for the past hour?"

"Or why you're both looking at each other like you're starring in your own personal rom-com?" Dick added helpfully.

You groaned, but couldn't quite suppress your smile. "Can we just focus on finding this amazing food truck you mentioned?"

"Oh honey," Indi's grin was wicked, "you really think we're letting this go? You're about to move to Metropolis with that man. This is prime sisterly interrogation material."

As your sister dragged you through the neon-lit streets of Gotham, Dick and Jason providing running commentary on the best late-night eateries, you found your thoughts drifting back to the booth, to Tim's touch, to that unanswered question hanging between you.

Your phone buzzed in your purse:

From: Tim

Message: Dinner tomorrow? Somewhere without nosy siblings?

You bit your lip to hide your smile as you typed back a response:

To: Tim

Message: Only if you promise to let me order chocolate glazed dessert.

His reply was immediate:

From: Tim

Message: Deal. Though I still say Boston cream is superior.

"Oh my god, you're texting him already, aren't you?" Indi peered over your shoulder. "This is adorable. Dick, look how adorable they are!"

"I hate all of you," you declared, but your grin betrayed you.

"No you don't," Dick said cheerfully. "Just wait until family game night. Bruce is going to have an aneurysm."

As your sister and the Wayne brothers debated the merits of various food trucks, your phone buzzed one last time:

From: Tim

Message: For the record? I definitely want it to be a date.

The Gotham night suddenly felt a lot warmer.

"You know, we do have another sister-"

"Indi! Stop it!"

You lunged for your eldest sister, but she was already showing Dick and Jason photos of Scarlet on her phone. Running a hand down your face, you fought the urge to text your other sister a warning about Indi's matchmaking schemes.

"Scarlet might actually kill you, you know," you deadpanned. Indi just shrugged, elegant and unrepentant in her sequined glory.

"That girl needs more to life than her shop and Harkin," she stated with a dramatic eye roll, scrolling to another photo.

"Harkin brings up my point. She's a mom, Indi. She can't just—"

"Lalalala can't hear you!" Indi sang out, covering her ears like a child rather than the successful model she was.

"I swear you are not the oldest out of all of us," you muttered, watching as Dick and Jason peered at the phone with increasing interest. "She runs a successful business, has an adorable kid, and is actually happy. Why are you like this?"

Dick looked up from the phone, his expression thoughtful. "The flower shop on Kane Street? With the blue awning?"

"You know it?" you asked, surprised.

"Bruce gets arrangements from there sometimes," Jason supplied, then smirked. "Though I'm betting he'll be ordering a lot more now that his son's dating the owner's sister."

"We're not—" you started automatically, then stopped, thinking of Tim's text burning a hole in your phone. Were you? The memory of his hand on your thigh, his quiet question in the booth, made your cheeks warm.

"Oooh, she's blushing!" Indi crowed triumphantly. "And here I thought Scarlet would be the one to snag a Wayne. She always was the pretty one—"

"Shut up," you groaned, snatching her phone. "Scarlet will murder us both if she finds out you're showing her photos to random men in clubs."

"Random men?" Dick pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I'll have you know we are now practically family. In fact..." He plucked Indi's phone from your grasp with surprising agility and continued scrolling. "As your future brother-in-law, I think I have a right to know all about my new sisters."

"Oh my god," you muttered, watching helplessly as Indi and Dick huddled over the phone, Jason offering commentary that was absolutely not helping.

Your phone buzzed again:

From: Tim

Message: Everything okay? Jason just sent me a very cryptic text about flower shops.

You looked up to find Jason watching you with a knowing smirk. "Did you seriously just text him?"

"Someone's gotta keep baby bird in the loop," he shrugged. "Besides, your sister's shop really does do nice arrangements. Bruce wasn't lying about that."

"The pink roses last month were from there," Dick added absently, still scrolling with Indi. "The ones for that charity gala?"

You remembered those roses. Scarlet had spent hours getting the gradient just right, each bloom a slightly different shade of pink fading to white. She'd been so proud of that order, even if she hadn't known it was for Wayne Enterprises.

"Speaking of flowers," Indi's eyes gleamed dangerously, "didn't Scarlet just hire that new delivery guy? The one with the motorcycle?"

"Indi, I swear to god—"

Your phone buzzed again:

From: Tim

Message: Should I be worried that Dick just asked Alfred for the flower shop's number?

You typed back quickly:

To: Tim

Message: Your brothers are conspiring with my sister. Send help.

His response was immediate:

From: Tim

Message: On my way. Though I should warn you, once Dick gets an idea in his head...

You looked up to find Indi and Dick exchanging contact information, presumably to better coordinate their matchmaking schemes, while Jason watched the whole thing with undisguised amusement.

To: Tim

Message: Too late. I think we're going to be seeing a lot of family dinners in our future.

From: Tim

Message: Good thing I like your family then. Even if Indi is currently plotting with Dick to revolutionize Wayne Enterprises' floral arrangements.

Despite everything, you couldn't help but smile. Your ridiculous family and his ridiculous brothers, all tangled up in each other's lives now. It should have been terrifying, but somehow...

"See?" Indi nudged you, having apparently finished her plotting with Dick. "This is what happens when you finally let yourself have some fun. Now come on, that food truck isn't going to wait forever."

As you let yourself be pulled along the Gotham streets, your phone warm with Tim's messages in your hand, you thought maybe – just maybe – your sister had a point.

Even if you'd never, ever admit it to her face.

.

.

.

Taglist:

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[daceydeath]

I Want to Watch (Part 8)

Pairing: Wooyoung x Reader x Mingi Word Count: 2.2K (unedited) Genre: Absolute Filth 🔞 Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Explicit Activities

a/n: Sorry that this one took me such a long time to update xx

Wooyoung wants to expand on your exploration maybe a different location or member will help with that.

“How would you feel about maybe making this experiment a little more risky?” Wooyoung asked after watching you finish drying your hair. Your date had been interrupted by a rain shower which had left you needing to dry your outfit and your hair so you didn’t look like a total mess.

“Riskier how Woo?” you narrowed your eyes in the mirror at him as he stepped into the bathroom to wrap his arms around your waist.

“I was thinking maybe we leave the dorm, maybe use a few other locations?” he kissed your cheek while you put the hairdryer down on the bathroom counter. 

“I am not letting you watch San fuck me in the park or anthing like that” you rolled your eyes but still melted against his hard chest.

“No! I’m not letting random people see you” he pouted against the skin of your neck making you giggle. “I was thinking maybe private locations in other places like maybe the studio or the dressing room?” he continued his voice low as he kissed a line down your neck.

“The studio should be alright, aren’t they sound proof?” you hummed his continual kisses and touches making you pliable in his hands.

“They are and they will be very private” he chuckled, reading your compliance as approval. “Because I think we should try it out now”.

“Really? I think I would like that” you bit your lower lip as his hands ran lower to skim across the silk underwear you were wearing.

“You should get dressed than baby, I have a surprise for you” he smirked, pressing his fingers against your folds teasingly “We will leave in 10”. You almost cursed him when he suddenly let you go to grab his phone and organize a ride for you to the studio but you knew the wait would be worth it, your boyfriend knew that the risk of getting caught turned you on so you were happy to let him change things up.

Holding Wooyoung’s hand you let him lead you through the KQ offices towards the studios, it was fairly late and most people had left for the night but you knew at least someone was waiting for you and Wooyoung to arrive. Knocking softly you were slightly confused that you weren’t at the practice room thinking that was where you would be meeting tonight but your train of thought ended when the door swung open revealing Mingi his hair messed up from running his hands through it repeatedly while he worked making him look far younger and softer.

“What are you guys doing here?” Mingi asked looking at Wooyoung clearly unsure about your presence.

“You texted me remember?” Wooyoung laughed quietly walking into the studio which was dimly lit with purple lights with the exception of Mingi’s computer which glowed brightly.

“Dude I didn’t think you were fucking serious” Mingi muttered looking like a deer in headlights as he moved aside to let you in gesturing for you to grab a seat.

“Well if you aren’t interested”Wooyoung shrugged, sitting in Mingi’s chair and swinging it around “We will just head to the dance studio and forget this ever happened”.

“Wait” Mingi stopped him instantly “You’re being real right now?”.

“Yes Min we are” you chimed in looking up at him with the biggest doe eyes you could, he was the only member you had not let fuck you and you were not going to let it slip through your fingers if Wooyoung’s reaction was anything like when you had played with Yunho.

“So I can do anything I want to you?” Mingi’s voice dropped as desire began seeping into his words. You nodded, licking your lips and smiling up at him.

“Anything you want man, just don’t hurt her and it’s all good” Wooyoung smirked his eyes darkening as you squirmed on the spot Mingi was looking at you like you were the only woman he had even seen and the effect on you was instant, the fabric on you underwear getting damper by the second. Mingi sauntered towards you, the hardening cock in his pants obvious as he stopped just a step away from you.

“How about you suck his cock baby? See if you can take all of it in your pretty little mouth” your boyfriend cooed as Mingi offered you his hand so you could stand up pulling you against him easily.

“Do you want me to suck your cock Min?” you breathed as he cupped your face and pressed his lips to yours, his plush lips soft as they slid against your own.

“Fuck yeah darling” he grinned sitting down on the couch and throwing one of the cushions between his wide spread legs for you to kneel on.

“Such a gentleman” you giggled, sinking to your knees and letting your hands trace his thighs with your fingertips. You looked up at Mingi through your lashes, his eyes grew even darker as you let your hands drift to his fly. Mingi grinned, covering your hand in his and unzipping his jeans slowly, his half hard cock pushing against his boxers a small dot of precum already staining the fabric. Shimmying down Mingi’s jeans and boxers enough to free him from them you grasped him tightly stroking him teasingly before you leant forward to drag your tongue along the vein that ran along the side of his dick. 

“Such a good girl baby” Wooyoung praised making you whimper softly. You had suspected that Mingi would be big but now that his cock was almost in your mouth you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were going to struggle taking him. Mingi groaned musically, encouraging you to keep going, letting your tongue circle the blushing tip as you collected enough saliva in your mouth to help you suck him off properly. Slowly taking him into your mouth you flattened your tongue and allowed your lips to stretch to fit him as far into your mouth as you could.

“S..s..shit” Mingi whined as the head of his cock hit the back of your throat “Your mouth is perfect darling”.

“Be good and choke on him baby” Wooyoung teased playfully, moving so he could watch you struggle to take any more of his friend's length. Bobbing your head you swallowed a few times to help relax your throat allowing Mingi to slide a little further into you making both him and Wooyoung groan as you gagged and gurgled around him, your hand moving to slide along the last few inches as your drool dripped from the corners of your mouth. 

“So fucking good” Mingi stuttered his words sounding broken as you continued moving your head up and down his length. His hand came to lightly grasp your throat, moaning loudly when you tried to take even more of him. “Fuck I can feel it your throat”. 

You could feel your underwear sticking to you, every sound Mingi made was making it harder for you to concentrate, humming around him you felt his hips buck slightly forcing your nose to hit his pubic bone and choke you again forcing you to breathe through your nose. Mingi moved his hands to hold your head, one hand winding loosely into your hair. With his hand no longer around your throat Wooyoung replaced it with his swearing roughly as he felt Mingi fucking into your throat as tears began falling from your eyes.

“Fuck, so good, fuck darling, fuck” Mingi started chanting his voice tight as you felt him stiffen on your tongue before he came hard pulling your face hard against his abdomen. “FUCK” thick ropes of his cum filling your throat and mouth as he pulled you off of him, you swallowed pitifully not able to stop his seed spilling out of your mouth splattering your chest and running down your chin.

“Such a messy girl” your boyfriend tutted looking at you with hooded eyes as you whimpered softly pressing your thighs together tightly.

“Sorry Min” you rasped, letting him wipe the tears still clinging to your lashes “I didn’t mean to spill it”.

“Guess we're just going to have to make sure it all stays inside next time” Wooyoung mocked you in a sing-song voice while Mingi manhandled you into his lap. Mingi’s plush lips crashed into yours again roughly, not seeming to care that you had his seed all over your lips and chin, his tongue sliding against yours while he held you closely, his large hands sliding under your dress to squeeze your hips bruisingly 

“Wanna fuck you darling, will you let me?” he smirked, kissing his way down your neck.

“Please Min” you mewled, grinding yourself against his still hard member and soiling your underwear further. Moving quickly he tugged your dress over your head, his breath hitching when he saw the sheer bar you were wearing leaning you back he pressed his face between your tits licking and sucking across the fabric until he tugged on your nipple with his teeth making you keen.

“You make the best fucking noises. Shit man I gotta record this” Mingi babbled his large hand sliding down your body to press against your core his eyes almost rolling back when he felt how wet they were.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you darling” he whispered devilishly pushing your underwear aside and plunging two of his long beautiful fingers into you moaning when they slid in without any resistance his cold rings making you hiss as they touched you hot slit. 

“Fuck” Wooyoung mumbled the chair squeeking softly as he moved in it.

“More Min please more” you pleaded needily rolling your hips to fuck yourself on his fingers. Mingi almost growled, pushing a third finger into you, massaging your walls and sending sparks of pleasure through you with each caress of his fingers.

“Little bit longer darling” Mingi snickered his voice dark and rough “got to get you ready for me”. You choked out a broken groan as he pushed them deeper into you stretching your walls with his ministrations. “Look so hot like this, dripping all over me”.

“Fuck Mingi” you whimpered grinding against him his thumb now rubbing tight circles on you clit and making you see stars, your thighs began to tremble as your orgasm neared making you pant and whine in Mingi’s lap. Only for him to pull his fingers from you with a loud squelch making you wail as you high faded away.

“You are only allowed to cum on my cock darling” he murmured crashing his lips into yours while he guided himself to your entrance slowly sinking into you.

 “Oh my god” you called throwing your head back as his brushed against your cervix still not totally sheathed into your desperate walls, with a sharp snap of his hips Mingi filled you completely splitting you in half and making you scream as the pleasure spiked with pain made you cum hard around him you vision going dark as you weakly rolled your hips.

“Fuck yes darling” Mingi grunted holding you tightly and thrusting his hips against you roughly bouncing you as he prolonged your orgasm for as long as he could your fluttering walls squeezing him. “So perfect for me”.

“Min, Min, Min” you quietly sobbed letting his pound into you the loud slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls.

“Such a little slut aren’t you baby?… holy shit” Wooyoung grunted harshly, his breath ragged as he finished himself on his hand. Threading your fingers into Mingi’s hair you pulled him closer to you so you could kiss him swallowing the beautiful little noises he made as he began rolling his hips harder chasing his own high. 

“I’m going to fill you up darling, want me to knock you up?” He grunted pounding into you harshly, his mouth moving down your neck to nibble at your shoulder.

“Fuck yes Mingi, please, get me pregnant” you purred painting heavily as you felt the fire reigniting in your veins. Mingi’s feral growl as he help your hips still so he could fuck even deeper into you and his cock hitting your cervix making you cry out again your whole body going rigid as you spasmed around him. His teeth sank into your shoulder when his hips stuttered before hot ropes of his thick cum painted your walls white filling you so much you thought your stomach must have started bulging. You fell limply against his chest which was still covered in his shirt, your eyes closing as you tried to catch your breath.

“You alright baby?” Wooyoung asked sweetly moving from the chair to grab a bottle of unopened water that was sitting in a small fridge by the door.

“Mmmhmm” you hummed softly, not moving as Mingi panted raggedly.

“I didn’t hurt you did I?” Mingi mumbled helping Wooyoung lift your head up so you take a sip of water.

“No” you shook your head slowly. Both the boys smiled brightly, Wooyoung helping you off Mingi’s lap as Mingi switched your places, cleaning himself up and fixing his pants before disappearing to the bathroom to get some wet paper towels to clean you up. 

“Do you want to stay and we can go grab something to eat when I’m done?” Mingi asked your boyfriend moving to help Wooyoung once again maneuver your jelly limbed body into his lap so he could hold you.

“Yeah, we will” Wooyoung chuckled. “She can get clingy afterwards. Took me almost an hour to peel her off San once”. 

“Shut up Wooyo” You pouted, sipping the water he had given you.

“Cute” Mingi laughed, turning back to his computer to finish writing his rap.

a/n: Thank you for reading my lovelies as always I and grateful for your support, likes, reblogs and comments.

Taglist (open): @christopher-bangnaldoskzz @armystay89 @damnyouficc @roamingpolar

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[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for making a joke about my sex life to a student? 😏🐓 Nsfw text obv i know the title sounds bad but please read everything

I (Transmasc, 25) work on a school, very open as being gay, pride pins and it all, not as a teacher but I take care of computers, textbooks and the library. The younger folk seem to like me, but it's in high school folks things get ugly. Most just don't care about me, which I can't judge, being a teen sucks. Some hate me for telling them to go back to class. The ones that like me (mostly queer/autistic folk) like me for real.

There's this one boy (he's either 16 or 17 so he's NOT a kid) that always makes fun of me, is always skipping classes, is mean to everyone, implied a old teacher she should be better off dead, bothers everyone, talk loudly and complains about everything on his sight.

And he is. Very bigoted. I saw him more than once hurting the girls he studies with (slapping/punching) and caling the whores and more, telling them to suck him off, ride his dick, gag on his cock, etc, saying very hurtful things on gay men/anyone he deemed gay, and principal can only call his parents so many times before the parents stop showing and taking the concerns seriously. This is an ongoing issue since 6th grade, as far as I know. He hates my guts since I've called the principal on him more than once for going off on me telling me to fuck myself for asking him to go back to class.

My main strategy with him is ignoring him and the second one is answering as I don't understand him. Perks of being autistic I guess, being able to do this with a straight face. So: he calls me a chicken, I tell him they're my favorite farm animal, how did he guess? They're so amazing and cute. He tells me the lunch is gross, I say they can buy their lunch to bring if they want to, school food isn't that good (not true, the school food is amazing. Most students eat more than one plate). The computers are too slow, I ask him to please be patient cause they're old men that don't like to work, be nice to them :(. Guy says that the classes sucks, I tell him that the complaint box is at (governor's address) but yea they suck but at least he has only one year left.

This is where I might be the asshole, because I hurt myself going up and down a chair to organize some textbooks and I already have severe hip/knee pain so this only made me hurt worse so I am already pretty grumpy. A teacher asks for a banner of a periodic table and I have to find the table and go up a chair to hang it, and in the process, I let out a moan of pain becaude my knees dream of my downfall, and the teacher asks me if I am okay, so I tell yea, my hips and knees just hurt like a bitch. And this one student tells me "why, are you beaten up from taking cock in your ass?" And I breath deeply and answer "If it was from fucking I would be damn happy, but it's only from working. Anyways teacher here you go (with the periodic table)" and the teacher looks me with a surprised expression and all the class is silent and uncomfortable so I just left. Now the student can't look in my eyes but at least they're not talking to me anymore and the teacher hasn't said anything. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[saioratral]

PARING: yuuta okkotsu x f!reader

PROMPT: stories- not a reality SYNOPSIS: giving my readers a reality check of who they are following

WARNING: insecurities and the biggest warning, me NOTE: i make a pretty good plot, netflix should be knocking on my door. wrote this to fuel my favourite emotion: depression <33 genuinely dont give two fucks if anyone reads this. i dont need comfort messages/asks or the 'don't say that about yourself ☹️' bullshit- im not asking for that + it's not gonna change how i see myself

the room didn’t even feel like a room to anyone who stepped inside. clothes messily placed on her chair, but she didn’t mind. her gaze was locked on the computer screen, her fingers moving across the keyboard as though they knew the layout better than her textbooks

she typed again, her imaginary life with yuuta. the little cottage by the river, ducks swimming by- according to her notes. her fictional self is her favourite self. she loves writing about her muse, yuuta being her escape from her heavy thoughts 

but behind the screen, she was just a mess. she covers her insecurities with flattering words. how could she be pretty when the world only saw the mess of her real self? her online persona was a carefully constructed lie, a shield to keep others from seeing the truth. after all, why should she look ugly to them? she didn’t want to scare anyone away

little miss perfect, pretending to be smart for others. that’s all she’s good at anyways, people would remember her at least, use her and not discard her when they got bored. "grow a spine," they told her every day. but she didn’t. she carried no opinions, just a deep need to fit in

what she wanted, more than anything, was to be loved. to have friends, to be someone’s favorite girl, like the main character of a shoujo anime

she imagines herself in yuuta's arms, feeling his comfort, his imaginary embrace making her feel wanted. together, they watch the sunset from the window, the soft glow of the fading light making life seem perfect. next, they’re in the kitchen, she sits on the counter while yuuta mixes batter for her favorite cake. he let her taste it, but only if she kissed him in return

the scene shifts. now, they were in a fancy, high rise building for dinner. she’s wearing a pink dress, hair tied up with a matching ribbon. she’s so pretty in his eyes, the candle light dinner gets better and better and soon they are on their way home. yuuta’s jacket draped over her shoulders as they walked beneath the streetlights, stumbling upon an empty playground

she sits on the swings, pushing herself back and forth, a wide grin on her face. yuuta sits on the swing beside her, holding her heels in his hand as he watches her joy. he really does love her smile, she looks so beautiful in his heart eyes- of course she would be. she’s the writer. it was her world. she decides what happened next

call her a pick me, call her lazy, call her ungrateful, call her selfish, call her ugly, call her boring, call her cringe, make fun of her taste- she’s just a girl sitting in her room, writing silly fics about her yuuta for a mere 2 digit following of strangers 

© saioratral 2024-25 -- do not repost, translate, alter, etc on any platform without permission. Any characters used in my work do not belong to me, they are created by their original creator. all images used are from pinterest

[evanpeterswhoresblog]

Behind the Crime

Warren Lipka x f!reader

warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, oral male receiving, dominate warren, underage drinking, underage smoking, use of marijuana, rough sex, hint of choking, talk of robbery, um yeah i think that’s it

summary: from the moment you were brought into the heist, you knew working with warren was going to be hard…

word count: 3.4k

a/n: sorry for not posting guys i have not been on the grind lately. i watched this movie and omfg evan was so attractive i just needed to write. if you’re the real warren lipka just scroll this is about evan…

~~~

You sit back in your chair, the crew members adjusting your mic. You’re starting to regret doing this interview, but it’s too late to back out now. Everything’s already set up, the camera is about to be rolling. The interviewer is sitting a few feet away from you, notes in his hand. He waits for you to give him the signal that you’re ready. You nod, he begins.

“So, y/n, how did you become involved with the group?” He asks.

“I was first approached by Spencer when I was eating lunch outside one day...”

~~~

You were sitting alone, the cool fall breeze almost too cold to be comforting. You didn’t pay much mind to it though, you were more focussed on your studying. You were flipping through the pages of another history article when suddenly there was a presence beside you. Looking up at them as soon as you noticed, you recognized the boy as someone from your class.

“Can I help you?” You asked, your tone polite.

He looked nervous as if he were about to ask you out. “Hi, uh, I don’t know if you remember my name, I’m Spencer we have Art History together.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen you,” you replied. “Do you need help with the homework or something?”

“No, I actually wanted to talk to you about something else, if you’re not busy or anything,” he said, his voice quiet.

You look away for a second before replying. “Sure, sit down if you want I’m not busy.”

He smiled at you before quickly sitting at the spot across from you. He put his bag on the table, you could see him take a deep breath. Was he really going to ask you out? You thought he was cute, but definitely not your type. You started to pray he wouldn’t say anything along those lines.

“I started to ask around a week or two ago about people who are good with computers and stuff, a lot of people told me you were the best person to go to,” he started. He lacked confidence in his voice, you felt bad for the poor guy but paid close attention to his words. “I need some... help with cameras.”

“What kind of cameras?” You asked, intrigued.

What he was saying was true, you were decently good with computers. You mostly would hack into places and disable things you didn’t like, like the cameras on the public library computers. It wasn’t anything illegal, at least you didn’t think it was illegal. It probably was, but you didn’t care.

“Just you know cameras in... semipublic places...”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like what kind though? Phone, laptop, desktop, security?”

“Security,” he answered quietly. “But before you say no listen, how does a couple hundred thousand dollars' worth of payment sound?

“What?”

“I won’t tell you the details till I know you’re on board but let's just say something is going down and we need help with the cameras. The pay would be huge and all you’d have to do is just mess with some cameras for like twenty minutes.”

You only stared at him; your mouth slightly hung open. Was he being serious? Was he really asking you to join him in a potential robbery that would pay hundreds of thousands of dollars? You never would’ve expected to be asked such a question on a cloudy Thursday at lunch. You shut your book completely and look around to make sure nobody is close.

“This money, it’s guaranteed?”

He nods. “As long as we get the job done, you’ll have it.”

You knew it was crazy, you knew whatever was going to happen would either result in you going to prison or having to run off into hiding. But the thought of being able to pay all your student loans off and have extra money to live off of was more appealing. Hacking into cameras wasn’t that hard, and it wasn’t going to hurt anyone. Unless it was.

“If you’re trying to get me to make sure a murder or rape isn’t on camera I’ll snitch,” you warned him.

“Oh no, nothing like that is happening at all. It’s just you know a robbery,” he replied, his expression genuine.

You nodded your head, convinced whatever he was asking couldn’t be that bad. “Okay, yeah, I’ll do it.”

~~~

“What was your first impression of the guys?

You smile. “They were really cool, funny, just overall really fun people to hang out with.”

“Do you remember the first time you met all of them?”

“Of course, like it was yesterday...”

~~~

The house you sat in front of didn’t look like a typical criminal's house. It looked like an average American’s family house actually. You were parked out on the road outside the house Spencer told you to go to, you were meeting the rest of the people involved with the robbery. It had been about ten minutes of you sitting out there debating whether or not to go in before you got a text from Spencer asking where you were. You sighed, praying to God this decision was the right one before getting out of your car.

You knocked on the front door with a shaky fist. You started to regret your decision, you thought about turning around and leaving, but the door was opened before you could act on it. An older woman stood in front of you, she looked to be in her 50s.

“Oh, you’re very pretty,” she said, making your cheeks turn red. “You’re here to see Warren, right?”

You had no idea who Warren was, but you nodded. The lady's smile grew, and she opened the door for you and ushered you inside. She directed you to the basement entrance, asking you a million questions you had no answers to. After those few but excruciating painful minutes though, you walked down the basement stairs and finally caught sight of Spencer.

There were three other guys in the room and all of their eyes were on you. Two, along with Spencer, were sitting on a couch. One of them was skinny with glasses, the other muscular with no glasses. They didn’t grasp your attention though. The last guy who was standing did. He had long dark curly hair, and eyes to match. His eyes met yours before you watched them slowly move up and down your body. You didn’t know how to react.

“Guys, this is y/n,” Spencer said, breaking you out of your thoughts.

“Hello, I’m Eric,” the guy with glasses introduced himself.

“Chas,” the muscular guy spoke, not paying much attention to you. “Are you sure this was a good idea, Spence? How much do we really know about this chick? No offense.”

“Shut up, we agreed,” Spencer hissed. He waved you over and you complied, walking to the couch and sitting on the end beside him.

The standing guy took a step forward and held out his hand to you. You looked up at him before accepting his handshake. His hand was rough, you liked the feeling of it in yours. “I’m Warren and you are our cameraman or woman I guess.”

You laughed. “I guess.”

“How much has Spencer told you?” Warren asked after letting go of your hand and stepping back. It was then you noticed the maps on the wall with drawings all over them, the layout looked familiar.

“Just that I need to hack some cameras and that it’ll pay me a lot,” you answered. “I don’t even know what you guys are stealing.”

“Well y/n, I’m sure you’ve been to your own school's library right?”

You nodded.

“Have you ever taken a tour of the library’s rare book collection?”

You nodded again.

Warren smirked. “Then you know exactly what we’re stealing.”

Your face fell and you immediately looked at Spencer and the rest of the guys. “Are you serious? You guys want to steal historic books?”

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Chas mumbled from his chair.

“Shut up Chas,” Warren quickly snapped. He looked back at you, his dark eyes engulfing yours completely. “We’ve been planning this out for months, and you are the last piece to our puzzle y/n. Think about how much you’ll be earning.”

You didn’t say anything. Maybe it was a bad idea.

~~~

“Chas eventually stopped being cold to me, I actually think in the end he became my closest friend in the group,” you say, finishing your story.

The interviewer gives you a look. “Well, besides Warren right?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you reply, a confused look on your face.

“I have to ask if the stories are true, you know about you and him. The other guys say something changed between the two of you after a party you all attended. I mean, didn’t the police even question if your involvement had a deeper meaning than simply the money?”

You shake your head, giving your best performance. “Me and Warren were only ever best friends, there was never a deeper meaning behind anything.”

~~~

Music was pumping through your body, from the tips of your toes to the top of your head you could feel it. It had been a few weeks since you met the guys, and they all wanted to do something fun before the heist. So, a frat party was naturally the easiest option. That’s where you were now, already two shots and half a joint in. You didn’t know where Spencer, Nick, and Warren were, but Chas was dancing with you.

Though the two of you got off on the wrong foot, you and Chas quickly learned how well you get along. He was a good friend, all of the guys were. You liked how easily they could make you laugh and brighten your mood. They were all good people who you enjoyed being around.

Warren was the only one that you felt different for. You didn’t know why, but from the first day you met you knew your feelings for him would be different than the other three. The way he looked at you alone was completely different than the others. There was always something darker in his eyes, something you knew wasn’t supposed to be there for simply a friend. Every time the two of you looked at each other, your stomach filled with butterflies. You wanted it too. But in those first few weeks, nothing had happened. No matter how much either of you wanted it.

After some minutes of you and Chas dancing, Warren and Spencer appeared. They asked if the two of you wanted to go out and smoke, you both agreed and followed them outside the back. Not too many people were in the backyard, but there were enough for there to be a bonfire going. The four of you found an empty spot near the fire and sat down. Warren took out a joint and lit it before passing it around.

“Where’s Nick?” You asked after taking a hit.

Spencer shrugged. “Probably with the weird kids doing weird stuff.”

“He’s not that weird,” Chas replied. “He’s just awkward.”

You watched as Warren took another long hit of the joint. Because of the weed and alcohol, you found yourself even more attracted to him than when you were sober. You wanted so desperately to run your fingers through his hair, you wanted to hear his voice as you touched him. He suddenly met your gaze, his lips curled up into a mesmerizing smile. You wanted to kiss him. It was too much for you to handle.

You swallowed and stood up, brushing the dirt off your shorts. “I need to um use the bathroom.”

You didn’t wait for any of their replies. Instead, you rushed back into the house straight to the kitchen. You poured yourself a shot, downing it before giving it a second thought. You needed these feelings to go away. How were you supposed to work with Warren if you couldn’t even look at him without thinking about having sex with him? It made you feel awful. A hookup couldn’t be the reason the robbery went bad, you refused to let that happen.

After another shot, you started to forget about your feelings. In fact, you started to forget about Warren completely. All you felt was the burning sensation of the alcohol in your stomach and chest, it felt good. You stumbled out of the kitchen and into the hallway, grabbing the railings of the staircase for support. Suddenly, you felt a presence next to you, their hand on your back.

“Y/N, are you good?” It was Warren.

You turned your head and looked at him, God how could he look even better? “No- I’m not okay.”

“You’re wasted, you need some water,” he said. He moved his hand around your waist and pulled you up straight. You felt like you were on fire. “Come on, back to the kitchen.”

“Why are you here? I just- I just wanna forget about you,” you mumbled.

He started helping you walk back to the kitchen. “What? Why would you want to forget about me?”

“Because... I want you but I can’t have you. I thought you- felt the same that’s why it’s been so hard to resist,” you spoke, stumbling over your words. “I can’t look at you without thinking about you fucking me.”

Even in your drunken state, you could still see the cockiness on Warren’s face. He lifted you up onto the kitchen counter effortlessly before turning and getting you a cup of water. You leaned your head back against one of the cabinets, your head was spinning. You couldn’t think straight.

“Drink,” Warren’s voice filled your ears.

You lifted your head and grabbed the solo cup from his hand, downing the water faster than ever. When you finished, you threw the cup to the floor, your eyes meeting Warren’s once again. He was standing close enough that if you reached, you could touch him.

Perhaps it was because of the alcohol, or perhaps it was because of how long you’d felt the tension between you two, that gave you the courage to gently place your hand on the top of his head. His hair was soft, just like you’d expected it to be. You smiled and played with his curls. He didn’t object, you were glad. You needed this.

“Do you want me?” You asked, your voice barely audible against the loud music.

“What do you think?”

You shrugged. “I thought so, but I could always be wrong.”

“Maybe I should make it clearer,” he said. He grabbed your wrist and pulled your hand off his head before stepping closer to you. “If this house wasn’t crowded, I’d fuck you right here, right now.”

Your heart was racing, your cheeks bright red. You couldn’t believe this was happening. Warren was still holding your wrist, it sent electric shocks throughout your body. His eyes began to shift from your eyes to your lips and so on. You swallowed; a lump had formed in your throat.

“There’s probably an empty room somewhere,” you mentioned. “You could take me to one of them and show me you mean what you say.”

Warren raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, you’re pretty drunk.”

“I’m not- I swear. I consent, I’ll remember all of this in the morning,” you replied quickly.

“All right.”

Before you could say anything else, Warren scooped you into his arms and began to carry you through the house. You didn’t know whether to pretend you were drunk so it wouldn’t look suspicious or stay awake to also not make it look suspicious. You chose to stay awake and within minutes you and Warren were alone in a bedroom, your lips connected.

The kiss was fast and rough, everything you expected from him. His arms were wrapped around your waist, he towered over you. You wasted no time, immediately kicking off your shoes and pushing Warren back until he fell onto the bed. He pulled you on top of him, guiding your hips in slow motions over his clothed erection. You felt like you were on fire, you needed more.

You broke this kiss and leaned back so you were straddling him. You pulled off your shirt and bra, Warren followed your actions. Once your eyes fell upon his toned abdomen, you audibly moaned. You quickly leaned down again and kissed his chest, beginning a trail down his body. Each breath that left his mouth made your pussy drip even more. And when you reached his navel, his breaths turned into soft whispers.

“Keep going.”

“Please.”

“I’ll do anything.”

When you no longer had any skin left to kiss you looked back up at him, his eyes were already on you. He got your signal and instantly pulled his shorts and boxers off, leaving him completely naked. You weren’t surprised at his size; you had a feeling he’d be big. You started off by slowly stroking him with your hand, the expressions on his face already enough to make you cum.

After a minute or so of that, you bent down and pressed a small kiss to his tip. You loved the way his leg twitched. It made you proud. So, you took him into your mouth. He gasped, one of his hands finding its way to the back of your head. He didn’t push you; he only twirled your hair back into a ponytail-like style and gripped it tight. You moved your head up and down, taking as much of him in your mouth as you could. You were never a fan of giving head to guys, but with Warren, it was a different story.

Not much time passed before Warren pushed you gently, telling you he wasn’t going to last much longer. You didn’t care, you wanted him to finish in your mouth. But he told you he wanted to have sex, so you stopped. You peeled off your shorts and underwear before you climbed back onto him. His naked body against yours felt unreal, you were almost convinced this was all part of your drunken imagination.

However, when Warren pulled your head down and began to kiss your lips again, you knew it had to be real. His hands gripped your ass, kneading and playing with your skin. You positioned his tip at your entrance, you were so wet you didn’t need any lube. You broke the kiss and looked into his eyes, you wanted to know it was okay. He gave you a nod and so you began to push yourself down on him.

He filled you well, just the perfect amount. You had thrown your head back, a moan escaping your lips. You hadn’t had sex in months, and this was the perfect way to break that streak. You started to move your body forward and backward while simultaneously going up and down. Warren’s grip on your ass tightened with each movement you made.

“Fuck baby,” he moaned. “You do it so well.”

Your confidence was boosted; you began to move faster. This only lasted a few minutes though, much to your dismay. You weren’t too athletic; you didn’t have good stamina. Warren noticed this, and without saying anything he flipped your bodies. Once on top of you, he began violent thrusts. You almost screamed from the pleasure; you’d never felt anything remotely close to it in your life. He hit your cervix each time, it made your back arch off the mattress and your nails dig into his back.

“Warren,” you whimpered. “Oh, fuck Warren.”

One of his hands wrapped around your neck. He didn’t squeeze, he just rested it there. You felt the knot in your stomach form at this. It felt so good to be dominated by him. It had been your dream for weeks, and it had finally come true. You closed your eyes and let the feeling of Warren fucking you fill your senses.

When you came, you practically screamed his name. You swore you could see stars. You’d never experienced an orgasm so hard in your life. Warren came a few seconds after you, you felt his dick pulsing inside you. He collapsed on you. You didn’t care about how his weight crushed you, you still held him as the two of you began to come down from your highs.

~~~

As the crew packs up, you remain in your chair, staring blankly out one of your windows. The interviewer is still across from you, but you don’t notice until he speaks.

“Just tell me one thing, off the record,” he says, grabbing your attention. “Did you love him?”

A small smile grows on your lips. “With all my heart.”

[cameronspecial]

Assisting In Deception (Part 1)

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: People saying bad stuff about Rafe.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 2.4K 

Summary: A wedding and rumours lead Y/N and Rafe in need of a partner.

Masterlist

The sound of the keyboard as Rafe types is the only thing that can be heard when Y/N enters the room. She places his coffee in front of him and opens the planner she designated for work as she sits on a chair facing his desk. “You have appointments at eleven, two, and five for today. I’ve booked your haircut at three tomorrow and your dad called saying he wants you to call him when you get off of work. Is there anything else you need me to do, right now?” she questions, leaving a checkmark beside each reminder she informed him about. Rafe takes a second to look up from his computer, “No, assuming you put all of that in my digital calendar with more information. That’s all, thank you.” He returns to work and Y/N retreats back to her desk outside of his office. 

Rafe Cameron is a cold and distant boss. He is polite, but he never smiles. Everyone in the office is scared of him, except for Y/N. Her kind and warm personality makes him not as stern with her, but it doesn’t mean she has the privilege of getting past his hard exterior. No one knows anything about him. However, this doesn’t stop her from developing a tiny crush on her boss. She knows it is a cliche, but she recognizes it is probably only because he is handsome and polite. Even if it was based on real emotions, she would never try to develop a romantic relationship with him. She doesn’t believe in love anyway. 

Y/N is taking calls for him when he leaves his office. “I’m going for lunch,” he informs her and she gives him a nod to signal she heard him. He is watching her as he waits for the elevator. “I’m not sure if Mr. Cameron can fit you in today. He already has meetings up until six today. No, he normally doesn’t go to meetings after that time, Mr. Rosa,” Y/N begins, but upon hearing the name, Rafe flashes seven fingers to her. “Actually, I just checked with Mr. Cameron and he is fine with the meeting beginning at seven. Is that okay for you? Great. Have a good day, Mr. Rosa. Thank you.” Y/N goes to get her lunch but is immediately stopped by another call coming through. Rafe observes from the elevator that she takes the call and doesn’t go to lunch. 

——

When Rafe returns from lunch, Y/N is still on a phone call with the same client as when Rafe left. He takes note of that and reminds himself to have a chat with the client about holding up the phone line around lunchtime. She watches as Rafe approaches the desk and gives her attention to him, waiting for him to tell her what he needs. Instead, he places a paper bag on her desk and takes the phone from her. “Hello, Mrs. Matthews. Ms. Y/L/N has been very polite by letting you take up her lunch hour, but right now, I’m letting her go on lunch, so you can call back tomorrow. Thank you, goodbye,” he hangs up the phone and sets it to voicemail, then turns his attention towards Y/N. “I’ve bought you lunch, please, eat it. Take an hour and don’t call back Mrs. Matthews until tomorrow. I know you feel bad, but she never has anything important for me. And next time, just tell the client that you have lunch. If they have problems, then direct them to me.” 

He enters the office and she opens the bag to see what he got her. Inside, she finds the creamy mushroom gnocchi from her favourite Italian place. She has it at least once a month when she treats herself to lunch that is not leftovers from the night before. Y/N didn’t know that he noticed. She moves a strand of hair behind her ear and heads to the break room to enjoy her lunch. 

——

Y/N returns from lunch and is just settling down at her desk when Jenna approaches her. “Hey, how was your lunch?” Jenna asks. Y/N knows Jenna wants something so cuts to the chase, “What do you need?” Jenna gives Y/N relieved eyes at not having to keep up the charade. “Could you please tell him some contractors have been saying some pretty bad stuff about him on the news this morning? The media is going crazy about it,” Jenna begs, widening her eyes and pouting like a puppy dog. 

“Why me? Aren’t you the head of PR? Last time I checked, that’s in your job description.”

“It is, but he’s scary. He doesn’t get as mad at you as he does with anyone else. Maybe he has a crush on you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s because I don’t dance around telling him the truth. He likes my honesty.”

“Yeah, yeah, but can you pleaseeee do it? I’ll buy your coffee for the whole week if you do.”

“Fine, but I want that coffee. What have they been saying about him?”

“That he has a heart of stone, he’s rude and has secret children that he makes the mothers keep a secret.”

“Damn, that’s a lot. Only the first thing is kinda true, but the others are like so far out there. He barely leaves his office. How is he supposed to father children? I guess that’s why his dad wanted him to call him.” 

“Probably, thank you so much. I owe you.”

Jenna runs back to the elevator to head down to the PR offices and Y/N makes her way into Rafe’s office. She doesn’t stick to pleasantries as she knows he has a meeting soon. “Contractors have been on the news all day saying crude things about you. PR wants a meeting to do damage control. You know before random women start popping up saying that you are their baby daddy,” she tells him, hoping the joke will soften the news. Rafe looks up from his computer with a confused look on his face, “They are saying I fathered children? Obviously, they don’t know me well enough to know that I barely leave my office.”

“That’s what I said, but it’s what I’ve been told to tell you. Do you want me to cancel your other meetings this afternoon so you can head to PR?”

“Yes, please. Why are you telling me this and not Ms. Walsh?” 

“Uh, she had to get everything ready for the meeting. She had her assistant relay the message to me.”

“I see. So it wasn’t Ms. Walsh that I heard a few minutes ago.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then I guess you’ll need someone to get you coffee for the next week.” 

Her eyes widen at being caught in the lie and quickly leaves the office after his teasing. He only ever teases her. 

——

Y/N leaves work at five o’clock on the dot after being told by Rafe that it is okay to leave. Before she left, he was still in the meeting with the PR team. She wonders what they could possibly be talking about to be in a meeting for so long. She enters her apartment to find Juni at the small kitchen island. Their small New York apartment doesn’t have much, but the view is incredible. It almost makes the absurd rent worth it. “So your hot boss was on the news today, Sweetie. How is he? Does he really have a million baby mamas?” Juni jests, pointing her pen at her roommate. Y/N just shakes her head at her friend, “He’s still in a meeting with the PR team. You know none of that is true, Juni. He literally never leaves his office, so unless he can get his work pregnant, then he is the father of nothing.”

Juniper Cresswell has been Y/N’s best friend since they were ten years old. Juni had just been adopted by the Cresswells and started attending the same school as Y/N. The pair instantly bonded over not having a traditional family. Y/N’s mother, Phoebe, had her at a young age and her biological father was non-existent in her life. Her mom did get remarried though to Nate and they had Nancy two years later. Nate treated her like his own daughter and even changed his last name to Phoebe’s so that they could all have the same last name. Y/N grew up in Queens and when she moved out, she was able to rent an apartment close to home with Juni. 

The knock on the door and the quick opening of it pull the attention of the girls. Standing at the entryway is Alexander. “Sup neighbours. How was our day?” he questions, leaving the doorway to sit at the kitchen island with the girls. “Mine was good. I got to help a mom get custody of her children from her wealthy asshole ex-husband, who only wanted the kids to get back at his ex-wife,” Juni retells, going back to her paperwork. Y/N walks over to him, “It was okay. Mr. Cameron got me lunch and he is being accused of having more children than Nick Canon.” This causes Juni to look up from her work, which goes unnoticed by Y/N because she is going through the mail that Alexander brought up. “How come you didn’t tell me your hot boss got you lunch, Sweetie?” Juni interrogates. Y/N stops at one particular letter, “Because it’s not that big of a deal. He knew I couldn’t eat mine. A client wouldn’t let me get off of the phone.” 

Alexander and Juni give each other a look and then stare at her as she ignores them. She opens the pink envelope to find a wedding invitation from her cousin. Francine has been dating Gwen for eight years now, so it isn’t a surprise that she is getting married. Y/N loves her cousin, but she can’t help groaning. She hates the idea of having to go to another family event alone. She doesn’t mind being single, the issue is that family events come with constant badgering from relatives. Why are you still single? Don’t you want to start your family soon? Aren’t you lonely? You only have a few more years to have a baby. Juni looks over Y/N’s shoulder to see the invitation. “Ooh, another event you have to go to by yourself,” Juni wisecracks, taking the invitation out of Y/N’s hand to show Alexander. She gives him a pleading look that asks if he could go with her. He shakes his head with pity, “Damn, I wish I could go with you, but that’s when I have to get my wisdom teeth removed.” 

Y/N turns to Juni in the hope of finding someone to be a buffer at the wedding. Juni sadly makes her lose that hope. “Sorry, Sweetie. That’s my dad’s birthday. My mom is planning a big party and everything.” The other girl sighs, resting her chin on her hand, “I guess I’ll just fly solo. Again.” Juni shrugs, “You never know. Maybe you’ll meet a handsome stranger, who you fall so head over heels for that you’ll be married before Francine.”

——

The PR meeting finishes at eight and Rafe is home a half hour later. It was an unproductive meeting of just going around in circles with the same weak idea of him making donations to various organizations and suing the contractors for defamation. Donating probably isn’t going to do much in the eyes of the public; they would say he is doing it just for how it would look during a so-called scandal. Suing won’t do much because the damage is already done. Dax greets Rafe at the door with an excited wag of the tail. “Hey bud, I miss you,” Rafe pets the German shepherd, moving over to the kitchen to get something to eat. 

He gets Dax’s food ready first and watches as the dog devours the food soon after it is placed in his bowl. Rafe then moves over to the stove to make himself grilled salmon, fondant potatoes and steamed broccoli. He makes his way to the living room and turns on the TV. He quickly changes the channel from the news, which has his face plastered on it. He knows his issues aren’t the worst problem in the world. He’s a wealthy, white, male; this society is designed for him, but he can’t help feeling disappointed that people would blindly believe things about him they hear on TV, especially if they aren’t true. Rafe had to deal with enough prejudices when he was growing up and he went through a little bit of a wild phase. He might have been a little rebellious, but not so much that he should have been judged harshly by the media. 

He settles on the couch, remembering he has to call his dad. He takes his phone out, dialling the number he needs. The phone stops ringing after a few seconds, “I know most of what they are saying is not true, but we need to workshop how we are going to fix this.” Rafe shakes his head at his dad’s direct approach. 

“Hello to you too, Dad. And Jenna thinks it would be good if I make some donations and sue the contractors.”

“Okay, that’s all fine, but you need to do something more. It’s too bad that you don’t have a girlfriend. You could show just how dedicated you are to her and that might distract the media.” 

Rafe frowns at his dad’s slight disappointment and quickly wants to rectify the issue, “Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’m dating someone.”

“Really? Since when? How come you haven’t told me about her?”

“Um, we’ve been dating for about a month. And I haven’t told you because I wanted to see where it is going. But it’s going good so I guess this is as good of a time as ever.”

“This is great, Rafe. How about I come over later this week and we can talk to the PR team about making appearances with your new mystery girl? Talk to your girl about this too. Tell her how important this is going to be for your media image. ”

Rafe nods at his father's suggestion, “Yeah, Dad. That sounds great. I’ll see you later, bye.” Ward utters his own goodbyes and hangs up his phone. Rafe moans, sitting back on the couch. He looks at his now cold dinner in dissatisfaction. “What am I going to do now?” he whispers to himself. 

Taglist: @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @aprilrudgate @loving-and-dreaming @victory-in-the-llama

[amarachno]

There is something… Wrong… With Drake. Its decidedly unsettling. There is something unnatural about the boy and Damian is unsure why they all ignore it. The Drake boy was always weird but this was different. It had started after they had all returned home from patrol one day. Something about Drake was making the hair on Damian’s arms stand at its end. He did not appreciate the way Drake was looking at him. It felt as though he was being looked at the same way a cat looks at an injured bird.

Damian had tried to talk to Pennyworth about it soon after Father’s return from the timestream but all he had managed from the butler had been, “Master Damian, calling Master Timothy an ‘Uncanny Horror from the pits’ is quite rude and I hope you never mention such a sentiment again.”

So obviously the… Thing… could manipulate minds. No matter! Damian would handle it. The first step? Kill it.

Its a good thing Damian has trained from birth in the League of Assassins. Although, his past attempts had unfortunate results —meaning none— but Damian would persevere. Perhaps keeping a closer eye on It would provide some insight.

Whatever had replaced Drake was terrifying. It. Never. Slept. And it always knew when Damian was watching it. The worst part? It was trying to spend TIME with him. Damian could barely stand to be within five feet of it. Its skin pale, hair pitch black, and its eyes- horrifying. When Damian first arrived at the manor, Drake had clear blue eyes. Now, they appeared dull and glassy. The color seeming as though it leaked out into the Thing’s hideous purple eyebags. Its skin seemed too loose and Its joints bent and stretched grotesquely.

The Thing turned its chair around, taking a break from staring at the computer in the cave. It stretched its spindly arms above its head, arms bending too far in the other direction. It turned to where Damian was hidden in a ledge in the roof of the Batcave.

“Heyyy Damian.” The Thing slurred, its speech slow and unclear. “If you want’d ta watch m’ do casework ya could’ve joined me”

Damian recoiled further into what should have been a flawless hiding space. He wanted to snap back that he didnt need Its company but his tongue seemed glued to the too of his mouth.

The Thing looked right at where Damian had hidden away. “Aww B’by Bat!” It cooed softly, “Come on down. Lets go g’t some hot chocolate from Alfie!”

Damian pressed tighter to the wall, attempting to force out a sentence. “That is quite alright, Drake. I am fine here.” He said attempting to sound steady.

“Well, suit yourself! Gonna go up now.” The Thing stumbled toward the stairs, its footsteps silent even as it walked unsteadily.

Damian didn’t leave his spot until Richard arrived in the cave two hours later.

Poison may actually work, Damian decided. Theoretically. The Thing was only inhabiting Drake’s body. Perhaps if the body died then so would the… Whatever it was. Damian is so prepared, father should be impressed- or he would be when that cursed being was out of the house. But what if someone else drank from the cup meant for Drake? Father would not tolerate a mission gone wrong, especially if Grayson or Pennyworth were harmed.

Then Damian remembered Drake’s travel cup, the one it took to work. That was simple enough. Sneak out to Its car, put the poison in the straw, get out. Yes finally a decent plan. Or at least Damian thought so.

Damian’s plan went off without a hitch. He had gained access to the security cameras within Wayne Enterprises and watched Drake drink the entire cup of poisoned coffee. The issue? The poison had no effect. Not even a stomach ache. Clearly the Thing was immune to poisons.

Perhaps silver would deal some damage.

Damian decided to purchase a silver knife. He had tested it and everything! It was real silver. Much of his savings from his allowance had been spent on the thing but this would be worth it.

People were getting suspicious though. Of Damian. Not of The Thing, to be clear.

How idiotic were these people! And they called themselves ‘Detectives’. No matter, Damian could handle this!

In the books that Damian had found, They mentioned fire as a potential weakness to supernatural creatures. If the silver knife did nothing, Damian would fall back and begin plan C. C for Cocktail. Molotov cocktail, to be exact.

Unfortunately, neither plans B nor C would come to fruition. Damian had been caught before he could even attempt either plan.

“Hey Dami, are you feeling okay?” Richard asked from behind Damian.

Damian didn’t scream. He didn’t! He also didn’t drop his book in surprise.

Richard surged forward to grab Damian before he fell from his spot on top of the T-Rex. “Hey bud, its okay. Its just me.” He soothed, wrapping his arms around Damian and carrying him off the T-Rex. “Why don’t you tell me whats going on?”

Damian gasped wriggling out of Dick’s arms to grab his sketchbook/impromptu demon hunting memoir off the ground where it fell. He clutched the book in his arms. “Nothing is wrong, I was simply lost in thought. You may go.” Damian snapped out, legs shaking and breath uneven.

Dick furrowed his brow, “Ive never seen you this shaken up before, Bitty Bat. Come here, we can talk about this upstairs over some cocoa.”

Damian’s eyes widened, if he could convince Richard then surely the Thing could be taken care of. “Very well, if we must.”

Dick smiled gently, though it seemed a little shaky. ”Up we go then!” Dick exclaimed, grabbing Damian and hoisting him onto his shoulders.

“Richard! this is unbecoming!” Damian squawked, holding onto Dick’s head so he wouldnt fall off.

Instead of replying, Dick just began making airplane noises, running toward the entrance to the manor.

It would have been a sweet moment, had The Thing not been standing right behind the grandfather clock. His sudden appearance had startled Damian so badly he fell backwards off Dick’s shoulders.

Damian braced for impact, expecting to head his head and then tumble down the concrete stairs- only, that didnt happen. The Thing threw itself backwards into the ground, his upper half on the stairs and his lower half on the floor. Damian fell heavily onto the Creature, knocking the wind out of It.

“OH MY GOD! ARE YOU TWO OKAY??!” Dick screeched at the top of his lungs. He picked Damian up off of The Thing and resting him on his hip, offering his other hand to ‘Drake’. Unfortunately, Damian’s adrenaline kicked in.

“PUT ME DOWN THIS INSTANT!” Damian bellowed, squirming out of Dick’s grip. “ITS GOING TO KILL US! WE ANGERED IT AND WE NEED TO GO!” Damian began pulling Dick toward the door of the study.

Alarmed, Dick turned to look closer at Damian. His face was pale, eyes wide and glancing frantically around the room and then back at Tim. Damian was sweating, looking as if he were seconds from bursting into tears. “What are yo-“

“It knows i know” Damian gasped out, pulling desperately at Dick’s arm. “ITS GOING TO KILL ME! WE NEED TO GET SOMEWHERE SAFE!”

Damian was working himself into a panic. Dick threw an apologetic glance at Tim who was brushing himself off and looking bewildered at Damian. Dick turned toward the door, allowing Damian to drag him where he wanted to go.

As soon as Damian was out the door, he took off running, forcing Dick to run with him. They got inside Damian’s room and Dami immediately began barricading the door.

“Damian, what’s going on?” Dick questioned softly.

Instead of answering, Damian started rushing around his room. He pulled the silver knife out from between his mattress and the boxspring, grabbed a lighter and what looked like a molotov cocktail from the top of his closet.

Dick was becoming more alarmed by the second. Why in tarnation did Damian have a molotov cocktail just sitting around??? Dick quickly snatched both objects away from Damian, setting them on top if the highest shelf in the room. It wouldn’t stop Damian for long but it would give Dick some time.

When both objects where taken from Damian, he stopped in his tracks, looking fearfully at Dick. “Did it- Are you…” Damian began sobbing. “I don’t want to die. Please don’t kill me, please! I’ll be an asset to you! I swear it! I’ll be good!” Damian’s pleading and sobbing was met with Dick gently hugging Damian to his chest. And like a puppet with its wires cut, Damian passed out into Dick’s arms.

“Oh shit!” Dick exclaimed. He felt at Damian’s forehead, flinching back at how hot he felt. Dick grabbed his phone and called Bruce. “Hey Bruce, I’m gonna need you to come home. Somethings wrong with Damian.” Dick set Damian on the bed and got to work un barricading the door.

“What happened?” Bruce questioned, sounding more like Batman than Bruce. “Is everyone okay?”

“Dick relayed the events that happened that afternoon while getting Damian down to the cave. He was tucked in to a bed in the med bay, a cold rag set on his forehead.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” Bruce murmured into the phone. “Im on my way now. I’ll be there in 15.”

“Bruce, that’s a 30 minute drive.” Dick said incredulously.

“Hnn” Bruce grunted, hanging up.

Dick pinched two fingers to the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. he turned to see Tim waiting in the doorway.

“Is he okay?” Tim questioned softly.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what happened.” Dick replied tiredly.

Tim sighed, “I noticed he was acting a little weird, but I kind of just thought I had pissed him off?” Tim said. “He’s been following me around recently. And I think he poisoned my coffee? I mean, maybe it wasn’t him. But, the other day, my coffee tasted weird, I drank it anyway of course, but I felt really sick that night. It probably didn’t work because I built my poison resistance up while I was looking for Bruce but-“ Tim cut off his rambling, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

Dick sighed, putting his face in his hands. “I don’t know what to do, Tim. We were making a lot of progress, before. But now I might need to set the ‘Days Since Last Familicide’ dry erase board back to zero.” Dick said tiredly. “I thought I had finally made him feel safe here.”

Tim looked off to the side, “What if its not either of your faults?” He offered, tilting his head. “Maybe he got injured and never told anyone. here why don’t I draw his blood and I’ll run it through. we’ll be able to tell if he’s been injured or injected with something.”

Dick agreed and Tim ran Damian’s blood. While they waited, sat by Damian’s side and ran his hands through the kid’s hair. Soon enough, the test results were done and Bruce got back.

“Good timing, Bruce.” Tim called, “I was just about to go through the results” he added.

Bruce stalked forward, standing next to Damian and feeling his forehead and cheeks. “When did this fever start?” Bruce questioned softly.

“I dont know, B. I only realized when he passed out earlier.” Dick replied.

Bruce turned and walked towards the computer where the results were, looking through the blood test to figure out what was wrong.

“Bruce, it looks like he got hit with fear toxin.” Tim pointed out. “ Maybe a new strain, a slow-acting one. That would explain why he’s been acting so weird recently. Did you fight Crane on patrol last week?”

Bruce slapped his hand over his face, slowly dragging it down. “We found one of his abandoned labs. We split off for about 10 minutes to check out different rooms. He said he didn’t find anything though.” Bruce said guilty.

Dick cried out, “Bruce that was so stupid! And you didn’t even check him for anything afterwards?”

Bruce shook his head. “I owe him an apology.” He said sadly. He walked over and administered an antidote.

“Well, theres no use dwelling on it now.” Tim pointed out. “Dick and Bruce, you can stay here and wait for the kid to wake up. He seemed the most freaked out by me so I think I’ll go upstairs. I don’t think I’ve slept this week anyway.” Tim muttered that last part, but Bruce and Dick heard it anyway.

“Timmy, what have I told you about staying up that long?” Dick admonished.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll sleep now I guess. If im not awake in 20 hours, wake me up. I have presentations to put together for next week.” Tim said exasperated.

Bruce waved him off, “I’ll take care of it, Chum.”

Tim shot a thumbs up over shoulder and then walked out of the cave.

with the antidote administer, the only thing left to do was wait. When Damian woke up. He began trying to explain that Tim had been taken over by some creature, though, all his evidence was debunked.

“Drake looks like a corpse!” Damian exclaimed.

“Yeah I’ve been telling him to go out in the sun more often. He also just told us he hasn’t slept yet this week and its Friday.” Dick explained calmly.

“Okay, then what about the weird way he moves? I’ve seen him stretch his limbs bend the wrong way” Damian pleaded.

“Tim is hyper mobile, Dami. His joints just do that. It’s honestly a little freaky so I get it. I mean, mine are bendy and all, but not that way.” Dick replied patiently.

Damian looked down, ashamed. “How did he survive the poison? That was League specific.”

Dick thought about his answer for a moment, “Apparently, while he was looking for Bruce, Tim trained up his poison tolerance. I don’t know why he did that or how he got his hands on league poison.”

Damian shoved his face into his hands. “I was going to stab him with a silver knife… and then said him on fire.” Damian said, embarrassed.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Bruce finally spoke up. “All of that is on me. I should’ve had you decontaminated and tested after patrol last week. If I had, then you wouldn’t of had to spend this week scared.”

“I wasn’t scared!” Damian claimed, his face burning.

“Sure bud, but it’s okay if you were.” Dick said gently. “But anyway. We can talk about this later. For now, why don’t I get Alfred to bring you something to eat.”

“That would be acceptable, I suppose.”

——

(later over comms)

Tim: Yo Jason I gotta tell you how I wouldve been murdered this time

Jason: How?

Tim: Demon Brat made me my very own molotov cocktail!

Jason: *dies of laughter* HOLY SHIT!

Damian: Cease this senseless mockery!

Jason: No, kid, its badass *laughs more* priceless.

[velvet-games]

this was gonna just be an extension of this drabble, but it ended up being a sequel to this lol. I'll publish them as two chapters of one work on ao3 if I don't end up hating it after a day.

Vox slammed his face into the keyboard, unable to focus for the fiftieth time in the last hour. “Do you really have to be here?”

“Of course not!” Alastor grinned, the edges of his mouth almost running off the sides of his face. “I’m just here to make this as difficult as possible for you.” He rolled over to lay on his stomach, a position that couldn’t have been comfortable considering how bony his ribs were and how hard the metal table under him was. 

“Right. Well, at least you’re being honest,” Vox grumbled. He looked up at the screen. The setup wasn’t even close to what they had at V Tower, but Lucifer “I’ve literally never touched a computer ever because I locked myself in my room for 50 years” Morningstar could only do so much for the spare room they put Vox in. At least Lucifer had been apologetic enough to manifest a shark. Well, duck-shark. Shark-duck? The thing had a beak and wings and was currently flapping happily in a too-small tank in the middle of the room. 

Alastor rested his chin on his hands, legs swinging behind him like this was a sleepover he couldn’t wait to share gossip at. “Soooo, how is the presentation coming along?”

“It’s going great, Bambi!” Vox replied through gritted teeth. “Your commentary is greatly improving the quality of this video that I am very excited to be working on.” He considered whether he could stretch the definition of “working with the Vees” to exclude giving Velvette a hint to say Alastor had rabies on stream that day, but the pain in his side and Alastor’s serrated teeth five feet away from him squashed the thought after about five seconds. 

“Oh, stop it,” Alastor said cheekily, like he’d just been given a compliment. “All credit goes to that delightfully wicked head of yours, my friend!”

Vox dragged his hands over his face, screen briefly sliding over to an old tab before he switched it back again. “I am actually never going to finish this,” he muttered under his breath. “Don’t you have other shit to be doing right now? I thought you were the fucking hotelier.”

“Oh, I just insisted to Charlie that it was very important for me to watch over our new guest! I know better than anyone what you’re like when you’re up to no good; we are best friends, after all.”

That … stung a little, actually. Vox finally gave up, slumping right out of his chair and sitting on the ground. Because he was right; Alastor did know better than anyone. God, Vox had been so ready to show that son of a bitch everything, every tic and every tell, when they’d first met. And they weren’t best friends. Despite the very convincing declaration they made of their “making up” in front of Charlie, they weren’t friends at all. Was the stab wound bleeding again?

“Are you sure that knife wasn’t angelic steel?” Vox asked miserably. “I think my stitches just popped.”

“Absolutely certain,” Alastor replied. “You’re just a wimp.” He considered for a moment, tapping his chin with a finger. “Or Lucifer is just really bad at healing. Oh, or he hates you! Neither would be surprising.”

Vox unbuttoned his suit and pulled up his vest. “Alastor, I’m actually bleeding.”

“What, is that an invitation?” Alastor asked, tongue poking out while his face made an expression worryingly close to hunger. Vox did his best not to react to that. “Oh, fine. I’ll go get the supplies.”

Vox let himself slide all the way to the floor, looking up at the blinding fluorescent lights during the five minutes it took for Alastor to come back. His touch was surprisingly gentle on Vox’s skin, hands quick and practiced in replacing the stitches. 

“I’m beginning to think you’re doing this on purpose,” Alastor said. “What, desperate for my hands on you?”

Vox just blinked tiredly up at him. “Your eyes are real pretty.”

Alastor sighed, tying the last stitch. “I greatly enjoy the concept of you impotently adoring me while I offer nothing in return, but you openly expressing infatuation is disgusting.”

“Alastor, I was having the worst week of my life even before you blew up my house and stabbed me. Can you just. Not be an asshole for two seconds.”

“What, did Valentino break up with you again?” Alastor asked, but he sounded tired too. 

“Yes. Plus bullshit at the company. Also, I found out my wife actually did end up down here somehow and an exorcist killed her before I could see her again. I never got to apologize.”

“I didn’t know you had a wife.”

“Yeah, well.” Vox winced as he started to sit up, and Alastor placed a hand at the small of his back as support. “Not exactly a pleasant memory.”

“And what, you decided to weaponize your vulnerability at this moment to garner sympathy? Surely you know by now that my remorse is a very small, very dry pond that I reserve for people far more deserving than you.”

“Why do you assume everyone’s as much of a manipulative asshole as you are?”

“Oh, am I not talking to the demonic overlord that hypnotizes people into buying his brainless bargain bin products?”

“Fuck off.” They sat in irritated silence for a while. A minute later, Alastor seemed to get bored and started buttoning up Vox’s shirt again, pulling his vest down before Vox grabbed his wrist. Alastor wrenched his hand out of his grasp. 

“I didn’t know you were capable of apologizing. Properly, anyway.”

“She deserved better than me.”

“Oh, not again with the disingenuous self-deprecation.” Alastor rolled his eyes, but his tone was quickly becoming genuinely bitter instead of unbothered and entertained. 

“And you with the projection! I am actually capable of love, you heartless freak,” Vox spat. Alastor visibly clenched his jaw at that, which brought some sliver of pleasure to Vox’s frankly very depressing headspace. “She offed herself and I didn’t call the police in time to save her. Too busy having a panic attack about all the blood on the floor, I guess.”

“My, how times have changed.”

“They have, haven’t they?” Vox eyed Alastor, who had his brows furrowed and was now picking at a frayed edge on his coat. They indulged in another minute of silence. “You know, I actually haven’t produced a video by myself in like … at least 15 years.” Before Alastor could make another snide comment about Vox’s very sensible decision to delegate tasks more efficiently, Vox said, “I still direct everything! Almost everything. Whatever. I just. I feel like I’ve forgotten how to write a script.”

“Then improvise. You had plenty of great lines about how irrelevant I am and how little you care about me during our little scuffle months ago.”

“My hatred for you caused a burst of inspiration hitherto undreamt of.”

Alastor finally pulled out the loose thread he’d been tugging at and stood up, extending a hand. “I’ll help you write.”

—

It was a nightmare at first. Alastor was less interested in writing than just making fun of everything Vox came up with, which led to an argument that very nearly popped Vox’s stitches again. Eventually, mercifully, Alastor rolled his eyes after 30 minutes of watching Vox try not to injure himself out of frustration, pulling the typewriter (old man refused to touch the laptop) toward himself and actually starting to bounce ideas off of Vox.

“I mean, their whole thing is that they’re overconfident narcissists, right?” 

“It takes one to know one.” Alastor grinned.

Vox ignored him. “So we need to stroke their egos–”

“Make us sound like poor old souls in dire need of an angel’s insufferable savior complex,” Alastor finished.

“Exactly.” Vox scrubbed through some of his surveillance footage on the hotel. The amount of video he had of Alastor compared to the rest of the crew was … maybe a little disproportionate. But who wouldn’t want 20 different angles of the radio demon sitting down to drink tea? “Uh. How do we do that?”

“Well, we also need to consider the fact that they haven’t lifted a finger to ‘help’ us since the birth of Hell. They’re only concerned now because their reputation is on the line.”

“Aha! Fear! Primary emotion we target in the news broadcasts.”

Alastor rolled his eyes. “Yes, because journalism is as dead as we are,” he said. But his smile was wide.

“So we make ‘em scared. Bruise their fragile egos with the idea that they could be seen as incompetent or powerless. Then we swoop in and offer the solution: They can play the hero, flowers and applause and all, if they help.”

“Precisely.” Alastor’s eyes were bright. “So we start with Pentious. They’re already censoring his existence because he’s proof that they were wrong; we rub it in their faces that it was always clear he was redeemable, but Heaven was just too blind to see it. The villain in our underdog’s story.”

And on they went. Alastor’s smile was becoming worryingly genuine, and Vox started to feel a pit in his stomach. It was so easy. The conversation flowed just like they had during those late nights soaked with alcohol and happy tears, ink smudging under their fingertips as they drafted the most ridiculous, most unusable, most compelling scripts known to demonkind. It was like nothing had changed, like Alastor hadn’t devalued everything Vox had worked for, like Vox hadn’t made a fool of himself trying to get Alastor to act like he cared. Like they hadn’t both begged each other to give up who they were, just to feel like this again. Together. In sync.

Vox finally lost it when Alastor complimented the editing style.

“WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP??” Vox stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over behind him. 

Alastor just stared for a moment. He tilted his head. “I take full responsibility for the reasons why what I’m about to say may seem improbable, but I really did mean that as a compliment. It wasn’t back-handed.”

“No, what!?” Vox tried to even out his breathing, pulling up his chair so he could sit back down again. “Fuck, I-I can’t stand you.”

“Hm. That does seem to have been a pattern in our relationship. Can you be more specific about how I offended you this time?”

“You’re just being really fucking annoying.”

“You seemed to enjoy me ‘being really fucking annoying’ two minutes ago. What changed?”

“Nothing! I just remembered – I …” Vox let out a shaky breath, voice lowering. “I just remembered how nice this was.”

Alastor raised a brow. “... And that caused you to scream and knock over your chair like a toddler?”

“No! I mean, yes?” Vox sighed. “I just … can’t I fucking hate you in peace? You’re just reminding me why – why I still–” His eyes darted around wildly, looking anywhere but Alastor’s face. “You just make it so fucking complicated.”

There was a long, torturous silence before Alastor responded. “Why you still … what?”

Vox finally looked up. “Why I still love you,” he said, words quiet and muffled by static. “Why I still want us to work together, why I still want to wake up next to you every damn day–” His voice cracked, and a beat passed as he swallowed, trying and failing to regain some semblance of composure. “Why I’m still not over the fact that you’ll never want any of that too.”

Alastor’s expression was unreadable, every part of his body completely, eerily still. “Don’t cry over spilled milk, dear,” he finally said. His voice was quiet, surprisingly clear. “We’re working together right now, aren’t we? Allow yourself to enjoy it, and whatever happens next will happen.” He touched Vox’s knee briefly, claws angled away so they didn’t catch the fabric of his slacks. “You … reminded me of something too.”

[eyneyke]

Sam is back live! pt.2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x PewDiePie!sibling Summary: What if Felix had a genius brother who works as a RedBull's engineer and is also secretly dating Max part 13 of A Calm to my Storm Masterlist

The live stream continued with Felix, Jack, and Sam all settling into a game of Rocket League, a fan favourite for chaos and competitiveness. As usual, Felix was super into it, but Sam? Sam was absolutely crushing him, and the fans were loving it.

Felix groaned into his mic after another spectacular goal by Sam. “Are you serious right now? I picked you up from the airport, and this is how you repay me?”

Sam smirked, his voice calm and nonchalant. “Maybe if you didn’t suck so bad, this wouldn’t be happening.”

Jack burst into laughter, barely keeping up with the game. "Dude, Sam’s out here absolutely destroying you after hours of flying. I’m not even trying, and he’s still carrying the team."

Felix scoffed. “He’s supposed to be jet-lagged. You should be weak, Sam!”

The chat went wild:

User 163: “Sam is ruthless!!”

User 164: “Felix, just accept defeat at this point lol.”

User 165: “Jetlagged? More like jetlag who?”

User 166: “Sam might be Pewds' brother, but he’s a god at Rocket League too??”

User 167: “Sam should stream on his own 😭.”

---

Sam let out a low chuckle as he scored another goal. “Felix, I flew halfway around the world and got dropped off by Verstappen himself. You think a little Rocket League is gonna phase me?”

Felix fake gasped, clutching his heart. “Wow. Betrayed by my own brother and Max. This is my life now.”

Jack wiped tears from his eyes from laughing. “Dude, I think I love Sam more than I love you at this point, Felix.”

Felix gave an exaggerated sigh, reading the chat as he spoke. “Yeah, yeah. You guys all love Sam. Fine, whatever, I have Marzia. At least I’m here for you every week. He just swoops in, breaks my computer, scores a bunch of goals, and then dips.”

Sam laughed again, shrugging. “I’ll be back to fix your trash setup in a few days anyway.”

The chat was relentless:

User 168: “Sam’s out here with the big brother energy 😂.”

User 169: “Felix: ‘betrayed by my brother and Max.’”

User 170: “Is Sam even human? Who is this man??”

User 171: “Sam needs to join Felix's streams more often! I’d tune in every time!”

User 172: “Sam out here destroying lives in Rocket League AND Grand Prix's.”

Despite getting absolutely demolished by Sam, Felix managed to keep the banter light, still enjoying the vibe. After a particularly rough loss, Felix threw his hands up in mock defeat. “Okay, that’s it. I give up. Sam, you win. You happy now?”

Sam leaned back in his chair, completely unfazed. “Yep. Always fun winning.”

Jack snorted. “Felix, you didn’t stand a chance. Even if I was actually trying, you’d still lose. Sam’s got them fast reflexes.”

Felix squinted at the chat, clearly looking for something to redeem himself. “Yeah, well, I’m reading the chat, and someone says I’m better at… uh, talking.”

Sam quirked an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Congrats, Felix. You can talk. Shame it doesn’t help in Rocket League.”

The chat went crazy again:

User 173: “LOL Sam’s ruthless!!”

User 174: “He just wrecked Felix in every way possible😂”

User 175: “I love how Sam’s so chill about it all.”

User 176: “The Kjellberg family rivalry is REAL.”

User 177: “Felix trying to flex his talking skills because he lost at Rocket League.”

---

Jack jumped in again, trying to hold back more laughter. “Okay, okay, but seriously, Sam. What’s your secret? How are you so good at everything?”

Sam shrugged. “Eh, I just play games to relax. Besides, I’m used to pressure. It’s nothing compared to what I deal with with usually during weekends.”

Felix rolled his eyes at that. “There it is. Bringing it up again like it’s not going to make people in the comments crazy.”

Jack perked up. “You can’t blame him! I’d brag about that too. You work with Max Verstappen on a daily basis!”

Sam just smirked. “Hey, I’m not the one who brought up Max this time.”

Felix leaned into the mic dramatically. “The internet is obsessed with you and Max. I can’t escape it. Every time we do a stream now, you guys just keep dragging Max into this.” He started reading more chat comments, clearly trying to find something to mess with Sam.

User 178: “MAX AND SAM FOREVER”

User 179: “Sam definitely tells Max about this stuff lmao.”

User 180: “Sam should drag Max into a stream next time 👀.”

User 181: “Felix, we just want Sam and Max content, deal with it.”

---

Felix rolled his eyes again. “Alright, chat. I get it, you love Max, and you love Sam. But can we focus on the fact that I’m still the one here hosting this thing?”

Sam snorted. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you win next time.”

Jack was dying of laughter, tears in his eyes as he barely managed to speak. “Felix, just accept it. Sam’s the new star of your streams. People only tune in now because of him.”

Felix sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. I’ll let him take over my entire career. You win, chat. You win.”, but Sam countered him with a big smile."Nah, no thanks. I don't have time for one more career"

The chat erupted once again, full of love for Sam and teasing Felix:

User 182: “Felix losing to Sam in everything now😂”

User 183: “This is the best stream ever. Sam’s so chill, and Felix is losing his mind.”

User 184: “Sam should have his own channel!!”

User 185: “Felix and Sam need to stream together more often!!”

User 186: “Jack’s having the time of his life 😂.”

---

Even though Felix got absolutely destroyed in the game, the stream was a massive hit. Fans adored the playful banter, and Sam’s cool, laid-back attitude had become a major draw. With Jack fueling the chaos and Felix playing along with the jokes, it was clear that fans couldn’t get enough of Sam Kjellberg.

Felix read one last comment from the chat with a smirk, his eyes narrowing at his screen. "Alright, alright, I see you guys want more Sam content. Maybe I’ll let him come back if he promises not to crush me in every game next time."

Sam just leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "Whatever makes you feel better."

The chat, as expected, went absolutely wild:

User 186: “SAM THE LEGEND.”

User 187: “No promises? YES PLEASE 😂.”

User 188: “We demand more Sam!!”

User 189: “Best Kjellberg stream in ages! Sam is a legend.”

---

The stream wrapped up with Sam casually obliterating Felix in every game, but the banter and fun between the brothers, with Jack thrown in for extra chaos, had made it one of the most entertaining lives yet.

And as usual, the internet was left thirsting for more Sam content—both in gaming and in F1.

[eggwishing]

LORD alfuckingmighty i don't think there is a single string of words i could piece 2gether to properly describe the absolute magnificence of ur art . you have such a vast understanding of art & so many of its intricacies. ur character designs are ALWAYS incredible, so so endearing & memorable. every time i see one i get incredibly excited & am strangled by the urge to make fanart because just. oh my god. you have some of the BEST color work i have ever fucking seen like it is genuinely fucking spectacular what you are able to create & look good with combinations of colors i would NOT think to place in the way you do if i were given the same palette. i feel like calling your doodles just "doodles" is like, WRONG, because every single one is something u could spend ages looking at on its own. i'd pick favorites to describe but we would be here for hours . you have the insane ability to keep your style consistent but are able to stretch it & change it for whatevers appropriate/the receive your desired result for the particular drawing and its just SO. SO. COOL. take literally all of this and add it to the fact that you can fucking ANIMATE !!! while still keeping all of these features of ur style intact and that fact is just OTHERWORLDLY to me in the best way possible . not only that but ur stories r always so very intriguing and it makes me SOO ANGRY that oc artwork & original stories dont receive the same attention as fandom work or otherwise because i swear 2 fucking god you go absolutely ABOVE and beyond in terms of creativity for ur stories & DESERVE THE RECOGNITION AAAAAAAAUUUUUUGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRORWGGGGGGGGGGGGRWGGGGGGGGGGRGGGGGGGGGRGGGGGGGGGGGGGRGGGGGGGGGGGGGG okay im done. i hav been up for almost 24 hours and saw one of ur drawings and got real emotional ihope uhave an awesome day eebrt i hope to be at least 10th place in ur list of biggest fans .

oh my god . I'm responding to this on a computer which doesn't have any of my usual images OR emojis that I would usually throw at you like. I don't know Someone who's really really REALLY good at throwing stuff. so I'll just use my words. THANK YOU SO MUCH !!!!!! this means the absolute world to me.. I did not expect to be blasted in the face by one million kisses when I checked my inbox, I had to sit back in my chair like WOW.... I love you .... I love youuuu...... thank you so much for the encouragement, I've been feeling not so confident And kind of afraid (leaving to study animation in college very soon) for the last few days n your words are lifting me out of the void like bingbong's rocket from inside out. not gonna lie your comments are one of the highlights of posting on Tumblr, I love reading them so much when you reblog my stuff. they're beautiful and always make me feel better when I'm feeling down... you were there from the days of homestuck dragons... you were always there for my ocs... You are a "real one." If I had a heart locket I'd print out your icon and put it in there along with all the other people I treasure ^_^ so yeah, definitely in the ranks... when I'm up on stage wearing a solid gold tuxedo (they had to wheel me in because I could not walk in the Solid Gold Tuxedo) and giving my speech to the world before I take it over my i will start by saying First of all I'd like to thank Mel Tumblr user Melissa-titanium On Tumblr for always hyping me up... could not have made it this far without him. And then I'd press the doomsday button and blow up every world leader.

I wish I could respond with something that appropriately returns the energy of what you sent me, but this is all I've got. Just know I am vibrating in my chair right now... hope you got some sleep!!!!! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

[welcome-back-to-hoimycraf]

SO EXCITED TO BE POSTING THIS EEEEEEEEEE

this is my gift for @bigb-enthusiast for the @mcyt-yaoi-exchange! i know there's not enough skizzb in the world so i decided to deliver >:) based on my friend's fic, the boogey!! it's SO good, go check it out, but doesn't have to be read to read this fic! (it helps and gives context, but other than that this can totally be standalone!) thank you to rain @deityoftherain, kai @kaihuntrr, and kai @Kaije224 from the yaoi event server for betaing! ALSO. I FUCKING GOT HIT BY THE AO3 WRITER'S CURSE. A FUCKING ONCE IN A LIFETIME HURRICANE DEVASTATED MY STATE WHILE WRITING THIS????? EVEN AS I'M WRITING THIS AUTHOR'S NOTE, I DON'T HAVE ELECTRICITY OR AC LMAOOOO BUT WE STAY SILLY!!!!! THE YAOI GRIND STOPS FOR NOTHING, NOT EVEN A HISTORICALLY DAMAGING HURRICANE

BigB sat at his desk, numbly staring at the unmoving red dot on his computer- the dot that represented Skizz. 

Skizz had sacrificed himself- gotten attacked by that thing that had been downing heroes left and right. It wasn’t safe to be patrolling right now, not with the Boogey on the loose. The thing, that mass of purple goop that’d been causing so many missing people and infection cases, was still roaming the city. No one knew what it was, where it came from, or what it could do. He’d told Skizz not to go on this mission! He slammed his fist down on the table, ripping off the headset that still had Phoenix's panicked voice coming through. It was of no use to him anymore. Skizz was unconscious. Skizz had tranquilized himself…. 

And now there was no telling what would happen to his husband. 

B slumped back into his uncomfortable swivel chair, rubbing his hands too harshly into his eyes to stop the tears from spilling. Vague, muffled shouting leaked from the headphone’s speakers that BigB couldn’t exactly make out. He knew Phoenix was trying to talk to him, to get him to help, but the words were all jumbled together. Everything felt floaty. B could barely think through the fog plaguing his mind.   

This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real. 

…What was he supposed to do now?

—----

BigB had rushed to the hospital as soon as he was told where Skizz had been admitted. The nurse at the front desk had notified him of Skizz’s condition. Her words still echoed in his mind.

“Comatose,” she’d said. Medically induced. It was the best way to deal with the Boogey’s infected patients that had been admitted, she explained. There was no cure. B had known that long before this. Something in him had still hoped that fact would have changed in the half-hour drive to the hospital. He still felt the numbness washing over him as he was informed.

On top of that, he wasn’t even allowed to see his husband. The nurse had told him that no one was to enter infected patients’ rooms besides permitted staff. That the risk of contagion was too great for visitors. That didn’t make him want to bust down the door to Skizz’s room any less. 

The best solution he could come up with was throwing himself into his work. At least working at the Traffic City Hero Agency gave him a way to actually help Skizz. He couldn’t imagine being a civilian who’d lost a loved one to the infection, unable to do anything useful- or even know what happened to them. B was never more grateful to be privy to top secret information than he was now.  

His workload was mentally exhausting, but that was preferred. Anything to keep his thoughts from straying to Skizz…. 

It mostly consisted of desperate research. Double and triple-checking databases of wanted criminals, missing persons’ reports, and infection cases. Something had to lead him to the Boogey. If not… he wasn’t sure what he would do with himself. 

The smaller portion of his work was helping Lizzie. 

Her and Joel had recently lost their spouse, Etho, to the Boogey as well- which B could grimly relate to. Joel channeled his grief into anger, taking any excuse he could find for field work. Any excuse to get his fists dirty and feel something- even if that usually translated into the sting of wounds and the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. While his methods seemed extreme, it was clear that Lizzie was taking the loss harder. 

Etho had been defending her when they were downed. They’d lost themself to the infection for her. B remembered the aftermath, when she had returned from the mission essentially hysterical. He couldn’t blame her.

Etho’s spouses didn’t even have the comfort of knowing they were safe in a hospital bed, asleep and blissfully unaware. They were still out there, somewhere. No one knew if they were hurt- or hurting someone through the influence of the Boogey.

Skizz was out of B’s expertise, but Etho was out of his grasp completely. It wasn’t like he- or the agency, even- could do much to help them. Even if they did somehow find and incapacitate them, what was the point? It’d prevent further harm, yes, but they’d still be infected. B couldn’t do anything to save either of them.

BigB did his best to lighten the burden on Lizzie’s shoulders, but there was only so much he could do. He didn’t do field work like her, which only left the half of her job she did at the agency- and even then, she didn’t let him take on too much. 

Lizzie insisted he was working himself to the bone, that Skizz would want him to take breaks. 

BigB told her she should worry more about her bloodied and battered husband and her missing spouse than her overburdened coworker. He only half regretted it. 

—----

Life was hard, without Skizz. 

BigB wasn’t aware of how much Skizz’s ever-cheerful energy truly got him through each and every day. Each evening when he arrived home, the house felt… cold. Empty. There was no life behind the front door. Not anymore. 

Everything felt broken. 

B fell into the familiar motions of making dinner. Pasta. Skizz’s favorite. He always loved alfredo- loves alfredo. 

He made enough for the both of them, purely on instinct. He used to make them at least one meal every day. 

The familiarity was nice. 

Skizz would always mention loving coming home to the smell of something delicious cooking, and B was happy to give him that. Cooking was a big thing in his family, a show of love and care for those closest to you, and he’d always be more than glad that Skizz loved what he made. The man did his fair share, though, chopping vegetables and washing dishes with nothing but a content smile.

He didn’t realize when his tears sizzled into the pan where the garlic was sauteing. 

Skizz’s arms never wrap around his waist. Skizz’s cheek never rubs up against BigB’s neck to tease him with his stubble. Skizz’s mischievous fingers never pluck a noodle straight from the pot for “testing”. 

BigB’s dinner tasted rancid on his tongue.

—----

Two weeks in, B had given up breaks. 

B’s eyes burned from both the restless nights of sleep and the too-bright screen of the laptop he’d been staring at for far too long. The all-too-familiar ache in his back had returned with a fierce passion because of his near-constant hunch over his keyboard. The dull pain was a welcome change from the numbness.

He couldn’t remember Lizzie coming in, but the sandwich sitting on his desk proved his memory wrong. A turkey club. From his favorite café. B didn’t have to wonder how she knew that information for long- it was the last thing he’d eaten with Skizz.

His husband had barged into the meeting room with a dopey smile on his face, holding a paper bag above his head triumphantly. Skizz’s expression had quickly transformed from accomplished to sheepish when he noticed the debriefing he’d clearly interrupted. Lizzie had giggled at Skizz’s attempt at a peace offering, which consisted of handing BigB one of the contents from the bag.

They had ended up pausing the meeting for a lunch break. Skizz chatted with Lizzie and Zomblaze about their favorite restaurants. B could still see the way Skizz’s eyes lit up when given the opportunity to talk about his husband’s interests. He still remembered the feeling of Skizz’s lips pressed to his temple as he said his goodbyes.  

And he still remembered Skizz wearing his hero outfit when he left the conference room- a nasty gash on the pleasant memory, reminding BigB of what would happen next.

The sandwich still sat on his desk, untouched. It had long gone stale at this point. He wasn’t hungry, anyway. He hadn’t been for days.

—----

Lizzie asked him, unprompted , if he was alright when he entered the agency that morning, stopping him in his tracks. It took B a moment to process her question, and even longer to notice her furrowed brow. He followed her gaze to the long scratch along his bicep, dried blood flaking across his skin and closing the wound. B had completely forgotten about it.

He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten it exactly. His memory from last night was hazy, blurry. All he could remember was the scarlet running down his arm and dripping onto the white tiles of the bathroom floor. A clumsy injury while cleaning, perhaps?

He had never ended up bandaging it, too tired to even give it a second glance. 

Lizzie snapped BigB out of his thoughts as she took his hand, gently turning his arm over for a better look and taking in the streaks running down it. There were dried drips on his pants. He supposed he hadn’t bothered to change before heading to bed last night- or leaving the house that morning. 

“This isn’t healthy , B,” she whispered out. He could hear the way her voice trembled. 

He didn't have the strength to meet her eyes. 

“...What’s new?” He couldn’t help but scoff. 

B was glad they were alone in the small breakroom, he did not want to have this conversation in front of their coworkers. 

Lizzie’s pinched expression quickly transformed from worried to determined. “You can’t work in this state, BigB,” she sighed. “I’m taking you home to patch you up, and then you’re resting- whether you like it or not!”

The man barely had time to open his mouth in protest before being literally dragged back out the door. His objections fell on deaf ears, though he didn’t know what else he expected. He knew Lizzie well enough to know that once she was set on a goal, she’d never stop until it was achieved. 

Her and her spouses’ home wasn’t far, it was much closer than his and Skizz’s. B vaguely remembered overhearing a conversation in the break room a few years ago- something about when the Honeybees were buying their first home together. It’d been not long after the three got married, if he recalled correctly. They’d picked the house for its proximity to the Agency, apparently. 

…He couldn’t remember where he was going with that.

Their house was almost as suffocatingly empty as his, now, though. Lizzie had lost Joel as well, almost a week after B had lost Skizz, and about two weeks after Etho. Heroes were dropping like flies all around the city due to the Boogey. No progress had been made to find them. 

He felt bad, of course, but it wasn’t like there was much he could even do. He didn’t do field work, and Lizzie’s spouses’ trackers had been destroyed soon after they’d gotten infected. They’d left little to no evidence as to their current location.

He couldn’t help them- just like how he couldn’t help Skizz...

Lizzie led BigB up the stairs, mentioning something about a med kit. He didn’t hear it over the anger bubbling in his ears. 

He couldn’t save any of them.

Of course he couldn’t.

"I don't need your help, Lizzie," he couldn't keep from sneering out, ripping his hand from her grasp. Latent rage boiled in his chest. He was a grown man, he could handle himself! He didn’t need Lizzie to take him home and clean him up like she was his mother!

She gripped the bannister, turning to face him with the same stubborn expression he'd seen on her countless times in front of her spouses. "Yes, you do need my help, BigB." He could feel her eyes falling to the long cut along his arm. He quickly moved to cover it. "We both need help. We need all the help we can get." 

B suddenly found the stairs beneath his feet extremely interesting. 

Lizzie sighed, her tone softening. "...Listen," she stepped down to his level, gently taking his hands in hers. He still couldn’t meet her eye. He didn’t want to. "We're both going through a hard time right now. It’s not good for us to push people away in our states- especially each other.” B’s heart broke slightly at the small crack in her usually strong, if a little uncertain, voice.

He surprised himself when a watery laugh escaped his lips. "You may be right, but that doesn't mean I like to admit it." 

“I’m usually right.” 

B could hear the weak grin in her tone.

The rest of the walk to the bathroom was draped in a slightly awkward silence, neither one able to look the other in the face. B couldn’t think of anything to say. What exactly would he say? ‘Yeah, sorry about your spouses possibly being gone forever- my husband is, too!’

That didn’t seem like a good conversation starter, did it?

“...Do you want to talk about it?” Lizzie asked quietly as she bandaged his wound. He couldn’t remember sitting on the toilet lid, nor his coworker pulling out the medical supplies. The world had started to blur out a long, long time ago. 

“No.” Even though BigB knew she would understand, he couldn't. He couldn't talk about it without breaking down. He had a mask to hold up, even if she'd already seen it crack. 

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to put it back up if it came down. 

She seemed to let the subject drop. 

Lizzie ended up leading him to her room and forcing him to sit on her bed once he was all bandaged up, demanding he finally get some sleep. He was too mentally weak to protest. 

She turned to leave the room when given no response, but was stopped by a hand grabbing her arm. She struggled to slip out, but B’s grip on her elbow didn't waver, though he did loosen it so as to not hurt. "If I’ve gotta take a sick day, you do too," he grumbled, and Lizzie could already see his eyes drooping. 

Her eyebrows furrowed together. He’d seen that too many times today. "No, B, I can't. I've got to make progress on this case, I-" Before she could let out another half-baked, hypocritical excuse, Lizzie was dragged forward onto her own sheets. 

"Nope!" 

She sat up quickly, her fists balled into the honeybee-embroidered blankets. “If I find this monster, I can bring our spouses back-“ 

BigB finally sighed, looking her in the eye for the first time since that morning. Her rambling, uncontrolled train of thought was way too similar to his own. He’d spent days convincing himself that he should give up his needs in favor of doing anything he could to help Skizz, but he knew it wasn’t good for him. He knew, yet he couldn’t gather the courage to stop. At least, not on his own. “We can’t help them if we’re exhausted… no matter how much I don't like to admit it... we've gotta take breaks, Liz." 

She giggled wetly after a moment, relaxing back into the pillows. "Are we gonna ignore this advice and go right back to the unhealthy habits once we wake up?" 

BigB's smile was strained as he responded. "I expect nothing less."

—----

B jumped at the loud bang sounding throughout the empty conference room. His head shot up to find Lizzie standing across the large table from him. She’d dropped a large stack of papers on the wood, looking pretty proud of herself. 

It was pretty weird that he hadn’t noticed her come in- he must’ve been caught up in his work. Where the heck did she come from?

“This is all the info I’ve found on the Boogey so far,” she explained, rolling a chair back and plopping down. The hero kicked her feet up on the table confidently, which put a slight smile on B’s face. He didn’t realize how much he missed Lizzie’s big ego. 

“Seems like a good place to start,” he hummed, leaning over to drag the pile to his side. “Though, most of this will probably be stuff I’ve already looked over- no offense,” he sighed, twirling the end of his pen between his teeth in concentration.

Lizzie shrugged. “None taken. You’re probably the nicest supervisor I’ve ever had,” she snickered. 

BigB let out a bit of a half-laugh to let her know he’d heard her quip, though most of his attention was absorbed by the information he’d been given. He was right about it being a good chunk of stuff he’d already seen, either from looking over other people’s research or from doing his own. One did catch his eye, though.

“There’s been more sightings?” B raised an eyebrow at the police report detailing some civilian’s story about purple sludge and a suspicious figure. Seemed to be in some part of town that had been abandoned a long time ago. If he remembered correctly, it had been evacuated due to a gas leak and never fully recovered. Most of the buildings had been left to rot.

Lizzie nodded vigorously. “I’ve been triangulating sightings to try and pin down a possible headquarters of the Boogey- or wherever it may have come from. If it’s a lab experiment like some are theorizing, it could be returning to where it was made after its prowls!” 

B’s eyebrows raised. “I… never thought of doing it that way before….” Gears were already turning in his head, half-formed ideas of how to use this information surfacing in his mind. He tapped his pen against the table rapidly with his success. “Lizzie, you’re a genius!”

The hero grinned with a faux confidence, though he found a hint of genuine pride in herself at his words. “You know me- genius of the agency!” She giggled. 

He stood up quickly, shutting his laptop and grabbing the documents he needed. “Do you mind if I take some of these?” He looked back up to his coworker, holding up a few of the papers he planned on snatching. 

Lizzie shook her head, though her eyes were slightly wide. “Take all you need.”

“Thanks-” B barely got the word out between his racing thoughts. He gathered all of his items and headed out the door, making a beeline straight to his office. This could be a breakthrough.  

—----

He woke up in the hero agency. 

It was way too warm in the small, cramped room he was given years ago. Something about a "promotion" that gave him no better pay and a shit load more to add to his plate. Light streamed in between the closed blinds from the sole, tiny window at just the right angle to hit his eyes. 

B didn't remember falling asleep. 

His laptop had been closed at some point, which he assumed was done by someone else. His suspicions were confirmed when he spotted a water bottle left on his desk. The sticky note on it read, ‘Hydrate or Diedrate! -Z’ 

B wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth, a smile creeping across his lips. Zomblaze must’ve stopped by after he’d fallen asleep. She didn’t like to admit it, but she cared about the people at the agency- Well, some people at the agency. BigB supposed he’d been added to their list. 

He ran his fingers along the fabric falling from his sides. That was new. 

A blanket had been draped over his shoulders while he slept. It was covered in embroidered honeybees.

—----

BigB’s heart was beating out of his chest.

His leg bounced up and down furiously with his pent up anxiety. Lizzie, Zomblaze, and that vigilante, Phoenix, they’d recruited had just left the conference room- leaving him with the biggest breakthrough of his career.

They’d identified the Boogey. A young girl named Gem, the profile had said. She was, quite possibly- very possibly, his way of getting Skizz cured. 

The idea seemed too good to be true. 

Zomblaze and Lizzie had gone out to track down Gem’s brother, Scott, and get any information they could about helping her. From what the trio had recounted, it sounded like she had been infected herself rather than being the cause of the infection. 

B’s mind was racing with possibilities.

Having Skizz back might be closer than he thought. 

—----

Zomblaze had burst into the conference room, making BigB shoot up from his chair. “Do you have any information?” He couldn’t help but shout. Volume control was the last thing on his mind at this point. 

She nodded quickly. “I have terms for a compromise.”

B’s memories blurred after that. 

He’d agreed to Scott’s terms with barely a second thought. They seemed reasonable enough, and he was desperate- anything to see Skizz again- hell, he’d probably risk his own life if that meant Skizz would be safe. His thoughts were racing. He hadn’t been this close to having his husband back in weeks- he’d begun to lose hope. 

Hours of paperwork, discussions, and frantic texts with Zomblaze turned into one big blend of moments BigB had already started to forget while he was experiencing them. Only one thing remained a constant in his thoughts. 

Skizz.

He drove to the hospital Gem had been admitted to the next day (Was it the next day? He wasn’t sure anymore). B was sure that driving in his weird, trance-like state definitely wasn’t safe, but he ignored it. Skizz was so, so close- He couldn’t give up now. 

Flashes of front desk nurses and sterile, white walls swam through his head before finally becoming a clear image of the door to the room Skizz was being kept in. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the handle, hesitating for a brief moment as it hovered over the doorknob. Why was he nervous? Scratch that- he knew exactly why he was nervous. 

What if they couldn’t cure him?

What if they couldn’t save him?

What if he–

Gem being admitted to help with the infection came with no guarantee that any of her victims could be saved. That any of them could survive. There was always the possibility that attempting to cure them could just as well kill them. It was all up in the air. 

B took a deep breath, the nurse’s gaze on his back burning into his very being, and opened the door. 

The room was dim, barely any light besides the faint blinking and screens of machinery. The distinct rumble of a ventilator filled the room, accompanied by the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor. 

And there, in the middle of it all, laid his husband. 

It was hard to recognize him beneath the large amount of purple goop pulsing over his skin, but it was definitely Skizz. BigB could recognize that tousled hair and unkempt beard anywhere. The familiarity almost buckled his knees, but he held strong. He had to be strong. 

He wasn’t sure what else he could be.

—----

It had taken a few hours for news to arrive, but B had never been more relieved.

Gem had been brought to a stable enough condition to start ridding patients of infection. The nurse had said that they were prioritizing healing heroes first, and B almost cried with the weight that lifted itself from his chest. 

Skizz would be okay. Just a bit longer. 

BigB got his first look at Gem besides her outdated profile when she entered the room. She looked awful, which he couldn’t blame her for. Being the main infected for so long had practically turned her into a walking corpse. Her cheeks were pale and sullen, and her orange hair was so brittle it looked like it could be snapped in half. B’s heart went out to the poor girl. 

Skizz’s healing process was… horrific. But when it was over… there he was. His husband, conscious and breathing and alive, sat right in front of him. It took everything in B’s power to keep himself from trembling with relief in front of the love of his life. 

He was able to keep his mask intact when Skizz panicked over the IV, his fear of needles kicking in as strong as ever- even after almost dying. He was able to keep his mask intact when the two were left to reunite and just be together after so long. He was able to keep his mask intact when they picked up their usual banter on the way to the parking lot only an hour and a half later, thanks to Skizz’s inhumanly-fast immune system. 

He had to stay strong for Skizz. 

Skizz was the one who had gone through this, not him. If anyone should break down, it would be his husband. He had to be there to support him if needed. 

They kept up idle conversation on the drive home, B catching Skizz up on all he missed while hospitalized. It was so familiar, yet so unfamiliar all the same. Skizz’s crooked smile, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, even the stupid, loveable way he talked- it was all too much. The moment didn’t seem real. The casual domesticity he’d missed so much had just been… returned to him so nonchalantly. 

He almost expected the universe to be pulling a trick on him- that he’d look to his right and find Skizz gone again. 

But he was right there with him the whole drive home.

—----

Skizz was still there when he woke up in the morning. 

Having him back was... weird. 

BigB hated to admit to himself how used to living without his second half he’d gotten. Waking up every day to an empty bed and a cold home became his new normal, after a while. 

Skizz did his best to hide how he felt, but BigB could always see right through him. Skizz felt guilty. Guilty for leaving his husband behind to pick up the pieces. Guilty for not being there when B needed him most. He'd always put too much on himself, his heart too big for his own good. 

B could tell that Skizz was still tired, despite what he said about his powers making it better. He'd been home for a few days, and his recovery was still in the early stages. He couldn’t walk long distances, and manual labor was out of the question. Skizz insisted he was fine, but the deep eyebags he fostered said otherwise. 

B didn’t blame him for being practically bed-ridden, but something in him was… resentful. He longed for normalcy. He wasn’t bitter at Skizz, gods no, just at their situation. He prayed for his husband to have a fast recovery.

—----

The sweet, chocolatey scent of BigB’s favorite cookies, a fragrance he could always pinpoint, was a nice surprise when he walked in the door after a long day at the agency. Something seemed… off about it, though. Almost… sour? He quickly shrugged his shoes off by the door, padding over to the kitchen to peak inside.

Skizz sat on a bar stool in front of the counter, facing away from the doorway. He was hunched over something B couldn’t quite make out, muttering to himself. Both he and the kitchen were dusted in a thin layer of debris from what BigB assumed was a baking fiasco. A tray of misshapen, over-cooked “cookies” sat on a tray atop the oven, still steaming (or smoking, rather).

“Skizz?” B asked softly.

The man in question jumped, swearing in shock, and turned to face his husband. “B- Boppers! When’d you get here? I didn’t hear you come in,” Skizz rambled out, frozen like a deer in headlights. It was obvious he’d been trying to surprise B with his favorite cookies, but it hadn’t worked out. He found it strange, though. Skizz had perfected that recipe years ago, hadn’t he?

BigB made his way over, placing a hand on Skizz’s shoulder to rub circles into the skin there. “Just got home,” he hummed, twitching the corners of his lips up into a soft, if not tired, smile. “Whatcha makin’?”

At his question, Skizz visibly deflated. “Well, I tried to do something nice for you and make your favorite cookies,” he nodded toward the open cookbook he’d been scanning. “Thought I couldn’t screw it up,” he sighed, rubbing a hand across his face, “but it all fell through,” Skizz admitted in a mutter, hanging his head. “Had to resort to pulling out the recipe book to remember how to do it right. Turns out I just made you charcoal!” 

B got a good chuckle out of that remark, at least. “I don’t mind, hun,” he promised, running his fingers through Skizz’s untamed, wild mess of hair. “We can just make more- together this time.” 

“Back hurts,” his husband whined, pressing his head into BigB’s chest. 

B’s eyebrows furrowed. “When did that start?” This was new- part of Skizz’s recovery journey after being comatose for so long. It was concerning to say the least, considering Skizz’s powers, but neither of them had yet to bring up their worries. 

“After I’d been in here cooking for an hour,” Skizz mumbled, letting out a mirthless chuckle. “M’ back and feet still hurt, even after I sat down.”

“That's okay, baby, the thought was enough.” BigB leaned down to press a kiss against Skizz’s crown, smoothing out his flyaway hairs. “How about we just get cleaned up, yeah? I’ll deal with the kitchen, you go take a shower.”

Skizz hesitated for a moment. “I-....” He paused, sighing. “I took my ring off to bake, but I can’t find it anymore,” he admitted. It sounded like he was almost worried, as if BigB would be mad at him for losing his ring. 

That was concerning. 

B hummed to himself for a moment. “That’s alright- wanna look for it while I start cleaning up?”

With Skizz’s nod as confirmation, the two split to do their parts. BigB took to dumping the unsalvageable lumps of borderline ash that were supposed to be cookies. He was tempted to make a joke about the state of them, but decided now wasn’t the time. Skizz was obviously upset, and there was no need to make it worse. 

He’d just started to get the water going for doing the dishes when Skizz’s frustrated muttering emanated from the other side of the kitchen. B glanced over to his husband. “You alright?”

The man groaned in annoyance. “I can’t find this stupid thing!” He stood up from his hunched position where he’d been checking under the counters, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. 

B set the dirty mixing bowl in the sink, turning off the water. “Want me to help look for it? You can go-”

“I don't need help- I can do this myself, I'm not an idiot!" Skizz snapped, his hands splayed against his face in the way that told BigB that the situation had really upset him. 

Almost as soon as the words had come out of his mouth, his husband was already apologizing. “...I’m sorry, B, I didn’t mean to yell at you.” Through his shame, Skizz made his way over so he could wrap his arms around his partner’s waist and bury his head into the nape of B’s neck. 

BigB squeezed Skizz tight around the shoulders, making sure not to touch him with his hands, still dirty from the dishes, and rest his chin atop Skizz’s head. “It’s alright, baby, you’re frustrated. You’ve been upset with your recovery, you’re not used to it. I understand.”

Skizz took a deep breath, pulling back to look BigB in the eye, even through the tears he was trying to blink away. “I…” His words faltered for a moment before he took a deep breath and picked back up where he’d left off. “I felt bad for not even being able to do something simple for my husband after all you’d done for me. I know this recipe is important to you, and I wanted to make it as… as an apology for being gone.” 

A silence settled over the kitchen with the admittance. If B’s heart hadn’t shattered before, it definitely had now. 

BigB blinked away tears of his own. He cupped Skizz’s face, ignoring his dirty, wet hands, and pulled the man into a fierce kiss he hoped conveyed all the reassurances he could muster. It was sweet and chaste, and when he pulled back he ran his thumb along Skizz’s cheekbone. “You’re too sweet,” B whispered, a watery laugh escaping his lips. “Now, let’s go start that bath, ‘kay?”

—----

Their bed had never been more comfortable. Something about not noticing things until they were gone, something BigB was far too bad at poetry to explain. He didn’t need poetry to simply bask in the love spilling from every part of his being, though. 

He and Skizz were sat up beneath the covers, B rubbing his husband’s shoulders. Skizz had mentioned something about them being sore from his cooking earlier as they crawled into bed, and BigB happily suggested to help. Skizz had always said he gave the best massages, anyway. 

“...I missed this,” he murmured, half asleep, into the back of Skizz’s neck. He hadn’t even realized he’d started talking before the words came out of his mouth. 

Skizz was silent for a moment, probably expecting that B would continue, but decided that wasn’t the case. “Wanna elaborate, hun?” He asked, and BigB could hear the smile in his tone. 

B hummed to himself for a second, trying to form his words in his foggy, sleep-clouded brain. “I… I missed just this- this domesticity,” he sighed, struggling to come up with the right phrasing. “Something simple, like this quiet night where we’re just… together.”

Skizz shifted to face him, taking BigB’s hands from his shoulders to hold in his own. “Aw, I missed you too, sweetheart,” he cooed, cupping B’s face and pressing their foreheads together. His tone was light, yet his words brought a heaviness to the air that hadn’t been present before. A heaviness that held all the unspoken apologies, explanations, and conversations too hard to bring up between them. 

Now that the topic had been broached, BigB was urged to keep going. There was an opening he could finally fill.  "I-I missed hearing your voice... it would get so lonely hearing nothing but my own lungs-" His voice wavered, and he could feel Skizz’s arms moving to embrace him in one of his signature bone-crushing hugs. “You weren’t there to- to pick me up after bad days, or make me smile. Everything was so empty without you- Just- gods, I missed you so much, Skizz.” B surged forward, wrapping Skizz as tight as he could around his middle, almost as if he was scared of losing him again. He couldn’t lose him again- he couldn’t, he couldn't, he couldn’t- 

A moment of heavy silence passed between them before Skizz spoke again, "...I may have been the one infected, sweetheart, but you were the one who had to live with it. Your suffering isn’t negated because I'm struggling too.” 

Something in BigB broke at that, the tears finally flowing freely. Years worth of effort to build up a perfect mask of calm collectedness, broken with just a few kind phrases. Was it unfair, or had it been a long time coming?

“This isn’t my battle to fight, Skizz,” he choked out in reply, pulling back and taking in the man’s concerned expression. “You were the one who was injured, not me. You were the one affected by this. You still are.”

Skizz reached a hand up to wipe away some of the wetness from B’s face, blinking rapidly himself. “That’s not true.” His usually strong voice came out a whisper. “I was asleep the whole time, for goodness sake. If anyone’s taken this hard, it’s been you, B. I may be dealing with the after-effects, but you had to deal with the grief.”

B couldn’t even respond, his ability for speech taken over by heavy sobs. Skizz was right, though, wasn’t he? BigB had been denying himself the ability to grieve through his belief of not deserving it- all of his pent up emotions finally breaking through his carefully crafted dam. 

Skizz took his heaving as an acceptance, running a careful hand through BigB’s hair. “It'll be difficult, Boppers, I know it is, but I love you and I’m here for you. We can heal from this trauma together, okay love?" 

Together. 

They were together.

After all this time, maybe, maybe things would be alright. 

They had to be alright, after all.

They had each other.

And that’s all they needed.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Rumours (Kerry Weaver x f!Reader)

Synopsis: There's a very annoying rumour going around County

Words: 2.7k

Warnings: none

AN: I've been watching ER recently and this was an idea I just had to get out.

“So?”

You looked up from your paperwork, the fries in your hand suspended halfway between the plate and your mouth. Abby had slid into the chair across from you and was looking at you expectantly.

“So…?” you asked.

“You and Weaver,” she prompted.

“Me and Weaver what?” you asked.

“You went out with her last night, right?” she asked, stealing some of the fries from your plate.

“We clocked off at the same time and happened to both want dinner so we went to MacGoo’s, yes,” you replied, “nothing as salacious as you’re implying.”

She squinted at you and you waited. You didn’t have the answers she wanted and even if you did, you weren’t going to give them to her. Kerry, at the very least, wouldn’t appreciate it if you did. 

“But you’re close with her,” she said, stealing more of your fries.

You smacked her hand, shoving the last few into your own mouth. 

“We’re friends. If you want to continue asking about our relationship, maybe ask Kerry about it,” you said, standing from your seat, “I’m sure she’d love to give you some answers.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, following you as you began to make your way back to emergency, “what’s going on with you two?”

“I just told you. We’re friends,” you said, closing the file with a snap. 

“Fine, be like that,” Abby said, peeling away from you. 

You ignored it, continuing on, having more work than time and no reason to consider that it was going to be anything more than that quick conversation. No one else would be asking about you and Kerry. 

“So you and Weaver, huh?” Lydia asked as you checked over an injured ankle. 

“We happened to have dinner at the same table. Do all the nurses think it was a date?” you asked.

“Not in so many words,” she replied.

“Then you can spread the word that it wasn't anything more than two friends eating at the end of their shifts,” you said.

Hopefully that would nip it in the bud.

“I hear you’ve tamed the beast,” Jerry said as you were typing something into the computer at the counter. 

“I’ve done what now?” you asked, only half listening.

“You and Weaver,” he said.

You let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. A headache was building and you were beginning to think this rumour was getting out of control. When you looked at him he was grinning at you.

“Are friends,” you said.

“You’re the only one she doesn’t argue with. And she lets you tell her when she’s being too hard on everyone. Your opinion matters to her,” he said.

“Because we’re friends,” you replied.

“You make her laugh,” he said.

“I’m sad for your friends if you can’t make them laugh,” you said, “seriously, what is with everyone today?”

“We thought maybe you’d stopped pining for each other and had finally given in last night,” he said.

“Pining?” 

You didn’t get an answer from him as you were rushed into Trauma 1. 

Taking a five minute break to down some coffee, you stood in the break room, watching it brew. It had been a busy day and you still had another few hours to go. Taking your first sip, you let out a contented sigh.

“Weaver in here?” 

You turned, shaking your head.

“Not unless she’s hiding in the fridge,” you said.

Elizabeth closed the door with a long breath, shutting the ER out on the other side.

“Good,” she said.

“Just brewed some coffee if you need some,” you said, sinking down onto the couch.

“Oh thank god,” she said.

She waited until she was sitting with her own cup before asking.

“I heard about you and Kerry,” she said.

“Yeah, there’s a real case of that going around,” you muttered.

“Oooh, trouble in paradise?” she asked.

“The rumour mill seems to enjoy misinformation today,” you said, “there is nothing going on with me and Kerry.”

“That’s not what I heard,” she said, “and you know I’m hardly her biggest fan but it’s about time you did something about that.”

“About what?” you asked.

“You know.” She was smiling at you like you were both in on the joke.

“I really don’t,” you said.

“Oh come on,” she laughed, “neither of you are very subtle about it.”

“About what?” you asked again.

“The fact you’re both obviously smitten with each other,” she said.

You stared at her, waiting for her to break out in laughter again and tell you she was kidding. She looked back, waiting as well. When nothing happened a look of confusion passed over her face.

“You did know, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Kerry and I are friends,” you replied, “that’s it.”

“With all those lingering looks and shared smiles? I think there might be something more there,” she said, leaning towards you. 

“There is nothing more there,” you groused, voice hardening, “so you can tell everyone to keep their noses out of our business.”

You left her there, taking your coffee back out onto the ward. Glaring, you strode away, needing a moment.

“Hey, you okay?” Kerry asked, falling into step beside you.

“You’d think with all the work we have to do there wouldn’t be time for talking,” you said, “but that would be too much to ask for.”

“People have been whispering,” she said.

“You’ve noticed it too, huh?” She gave you that look, the penetrating one that let you know nothing went unnoticed by her, “anyone said anything to you?”

“Not a word,” she replied.

“Of course not,” you muttered.

“Anything I should know about?” she asked.

“No, just a passing flight of fancy,” you replied, “I’m going for a smoke break.”

“You don’t smoke,” she said.

“Maybe I’m trying to start,” you said, pushing outside.

You took a moment, leaning against the wall as you tried to ignore what Elizabeth had said. And the implications from Jerry. And the rumour going around the entire ER. 

Only were they so wrong? Sure, Kerry was one of the few people who made getting through your 12 hour shifts bearable. And okay, did your heart flutter every time you saw her? Yeah, but that didn’t mean anything other than you liked seeing her. And okay, sure, you’d had a few dreams about her but that never meant much. 

You slumped against the wall. Who were you kidding? You’d been falling in love with Kerry Weaver from the moment you’d met her. Hard headed and stubborn, passionate and brilliant, beautiful beyonds words, how could you not? The worst part was everyone else had figured it out when you’d been doing your best to keep it hidden. Especially from Kerry. 

You were such a fuck up.

“Your five minutes are up.”

Kerry did not sound pleased with you.

“Sure,” you said, pushing off the wall.

“This rumour thing is really getting to you, huh,” she said, hand on your arm keeping you from moving past her.

“They’re talking about us,” you told her, not sure it was worth hiding it anymore.

“Oh.” She didn’t sound surprised.

“You don’t care?” you asked.

“You grow used to being the one everyone is talking about,” she said, “so why do you care?”

“Do you know what Elizabeth Courday said?” you asked her, not waiting for an answer, “that we’re smitten with each other. And Jerry said we were pining after one another.”

“And you're listening to Jerry now?” she asked.

“Not for anything good.”

“Don’t listen to the gossip. It’ll make your life easier,” she said.

You passed her your half drunk cup of coffee and moved past her, ignoring the way she drained it before following you. You flung yourself into work, pushing thoughts of Kerry to the side, not needing to deal with it, not wanting to deal with it.

“What time are you off?” Kerry asked, stopping you in the hall a little while later.

“Seven,” you replied.

“Dinner?”

“Sure.”

Someone shoved at Kerry’s shoulder as they ran past. Your arm curled around her waist, steadying her.

“Hey,” you shouted at the retreating back.

You looked back to Kerry, only then realising how close she was, her body practically pressed into yours. 

“You okay?” you asked, trying to ignore the way her curves felt against you.

“Fine, fine,” she said, but you noticed she wasn’t trying to get out of your hold.

It wasn’t until Abby walked past, raising her eyebrows at you, that you let her go. Not that she seemed in a hurry to be released. And you missed the feeling more than you felt comfortable with. 

Forcing yourself through the rest of the day, the thought of dinner with Kerry was the only thing making it bearable. Which was probably something you should investigate but you didn’t want to. It would only make the whole thing worse. 

Grabbing your bag from your locker, you let your hair down and ran your fingers through it. A wolf whistle had you rolling your eyes.

“Getting all pretty for your girl?” 

“Malik, I swear to god,” you said, turning to look at him.

“Word is she’s taking you out again tonight. Getting pretty serious,” he said.

“This place,” you said, “we’re just friends.”

“If my friends looked at me the way she looks at you, my life would be a lot more fun,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Just that she looks at you like she wants to sink her teeth into ya,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I think if she hears you talking like that she’ll want to take a bite out of you,” you snapped. 

“Ready?” Kerry asked, pushing open the door.

“Yeah,” you said, ignoring the look Malik was giving you.

“Have fun, you two,” Randi called after the two of you.

“So it didn’t get any better, huh?” she asked.

“Turns out talking in the hallway is the same as taking out a billboard when it comes to news around here,” you said. 

“Our dinner plans are news?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t think so but given how it’s spiralled into the story of the day…”

“Is it really that bad?” she asked.

“Five separate people have talked to me about it,” you said, “no matter how many times I told them we were just friends.”

“Then you did all you could,” she said, “should be done by tomorrow.”

You were certain that wasn’t true. 

“Magoos?” you asked.

“Nah, I got some chicken I need to cook tonight,” she said, “did you drive in?”

“No. Took the L like usual,” you replied.

“Come on then.”

You followed her to her car, mind still on the day you’d had. She turned the radio up, giving you the space to think without interruption. You stared out the window, able to see her face in the reflection if you looked extra hard.

Which was something you found yourself doing a lot over the last few months. Staring at her, watching her, trying not to be a creep but finding it difficult to look away. No wonder everyone in the ER had picked up on your feelings. You’d been pining. You were smitten. And everyone knew it. 

“You’re being very quiet,” Kerry said after you’d been let into her home.

“Long day,” you replied.

“Because of the gossip?” she asked.

You hummed in agreement as you fell onto her couch. She looked down at you for a moment before lowering herself beside you.

“You have to let it go in one ear and out the other,” she said, “you won’t survive long at County if you don’t.”

“It’s easier when it’s something ridiculous,” you replied.

“And this isn’t?” she asked.

You looked at her, really looked at her, and thought that maybe she was the only one who didn’t know. That you’d succeeded in keeping it hidden from her. You let out a long breath, laughing at the end as you fell back. You stared up at the ceiling, wondering how you’d gotten to this point, still laughing. 

“Am I missing the joke?” she asked.

“Yeah,” you said, “yeah, I think you are.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

You rolled your head towards her, finding her watching you with a twinkle in her eye and a small smile on her face. It made your heart skip a beat.

“I think if I do, I’ll ruin everything,” you said.

Her eyebrows drew together and the smile dimmed just a bit before her gaze dropped. You looked back up to the ceiling, letting out another long breath.

“Maybe I should go,” you said.

“No, don’t.”

A warm hand was placed on your cheek, turning your head back towards her. She was looking at you, features soft, lips parted, eyes smouldering. And then she was leaning in and her lips were brushing against yours and you were certain your heart had stopped. 

She drew away, looking unsure when your eyes fluttered open. 

“Sorry, I-”

With both hands on her cheeks, you pulled her in, crushing your lips to hers, cutting off whatever she was about to say. The little noise of surprise she made was gratifying, especially when it turned into a whimper. She pressed closer, her fingers finding a home in your hair as you kissed her deeper. You found yourself being pinned against her couch cushions, her tongue in your mouth, kissing you like you were the air she breathed and she was drowning. 

You drew back, eyes scanning over her face. Her skin was flushed, her lips kiss stung, her eyes bright. She kissed you again, humming when you kissed her back. You broke away, laughing, pressing your forehead to hers. 

“Not so ridiculous after all,” she murmured. 

“So I don’t need to let you in on the joke?” you asked.

“I think I’ve figured it out,” she replied.

When she kissed you again, it was softer, sweeter and you didn’t get the chance to kiss her back before her lips were trailing down your throat, open mouthed kisses pressed to your skin. You lent your head back, giving her more room, your hands slowly trailing down her spine.

“Kerry,” you sighed.

Her tongue flicked over your skin and you groaned. You felt when she smiled before her teeth nipped at you. The laugh that tumbled over your lips was surprising. She sat back, looking disgruntled.

“That wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for,” she said.

“No, no, it’s not your fault,” you said, “it’s something Malik said.”

“Oh yeah? What’d he say?” 

“Just that you look at me like you want to sink your teeth into me,” you said.

Her fingers pushed some of your hair behind your ear and she softened before your eyes.

“I suppose there might be some evidence for his observation,” she conceded.

“What about Jerry’s observation about pining?” you asked, leaning into her touch.

“I’m not sure I’d use that word,” she said.

“How about smitten?” 

She gave you an indulgent smile, thumb running over your cheekbone. 

“I suppose I could be amenable to that term,” she said.

“Elizabeth will be so happy,” you said.

“Never mind then .”

You laughed, leaning into her, kissing her again, long and slow, taking your time. She melted against you and you thought you could do this forever. You could stay in this moment with her and never grow tired of it. 

It took a while for the two of you to get to dinner and you never ended up going home. 

“Saw you left with Weaver last night,” Abby said, finding you in the lounge the next morning. 

“And?” you asked.

“Twice in a row,” she said.

“Just ask what you want to ask,” you demanded.

“That hickey from her?” she asked.

Your hand slapped to your neck and her laugh was delighted. Looking in the mirror, there was no hickey there. Just bare skin, clean of any mark, and a joyful Abby behind you.

“Just friends my ass,” Abby cackled before leaving.

The rumour mill was not going to get better any time soon.

[silvyadrakkon]

3 Under-Discussed Writer’s Block Busters

You all know me as an artist, but my first love will always be writing. And writer’s block is REAL. 

So I thought I’d throw out a few of my moderately unusual writer’s block busters to help my fellow authors.

Of course, the most common “answers” to writer’s block are:

Just keep writing, even if you don’t want to. (Something is better than nothing.)

Write now, edit later. (Leave your perfectionism at the door.)

Find what makes you most creative. (Play music, write during the same time of day, find good snacks, write in the right setting, and so on).

These are definitely helpful tips—things you 100% want to do whether you have writer’s block or not, but they’re not much use against more stubborn forms of creative constipation.

That’s where my three failsafe fix-its come in. They have always worked for me, no matter the situation. 

1. Change your writing method.

Story time! I haven’t been able to write for personal prodjects on a computer for four years—about as long as I’ve been writing and editing for my career. I associate my computer with business—even now that I’m between jobs.

My creativity freezes up whenever I try to work on one of my stories, and I get really distracted. Eventually I end up down a rabbit hole looking up limnic eruptions or different types of crocodiles, having only written a paragraph of a completely unrelated story. 

I swapped to hand-writing stuff just after my son was born, and that worked for a long time. I filled several notebooks with some great content (that will eventually be ready for you to read). But then my kid started walking, and I became his favorite chair.

If I have a pen, my kid wants it. And he won’t take a decoy pen. He specifically wants the pen in my hand, so writing when he’s awake is kind of out of the question. (I can only draw when he’s awake because I can balance my tablet on the back of our sofa.) Plus, those of you with munchkins know that you’re generally doing other responsible adult things when the kiddo is asleep, making writing then rather difficult.

I learned I can get a lot of writing done on my phone in the Apple Notes app. It sure beats doom-scrolling Tumblr and is a vast improvement over my retro minesweeper game when I’m spending some quality time in the bathroom. It’s also something I can write with when standing up, sitting on the couch, or hiding behind the baby gate on our stairs.

Can’t get the words out on Google Docs? Switch to Microsoft Word. Getting distracted on your computer? Handwrite your story—in a notebook or even on colorful construction paper. Don’t be afraid to experiment, even across the same story.

2. Get a second opinion.

I have a character floating around my WIPs who’s an absolute blast to write (I can unleash my full punning arsenal), but he’s also an ENFP, meaning we see the world in completely different ways. I often find myself stuck on how he would get out of the really nutty situations he often gets himself into. Thankfully, my ESFJ husband has really strong Extroverted Intuition (an ENFP’s dominant Jungian function), so I can often turn to him and ask, “What would be the dumbest could-work way you’d fix this problem?”

Asking for a second opinion is surprisingly low on most writer’s block fix-it lists, but it is by far one of the most helpful. I’ve been my mom’s developmental story consultant since I could read, and it’s been a great way for her to really churn out the novels. (It’s also a great motivation to finish your story because at least one person will be wanting to read it when you’re done.)

Even if you don’t take someone’s advice, it might still spark something that’ll propel your story forward.

3. Change your story’s direction.

Adapted from The Writing Life by Annie Dillard

Writing, in many ways, is a lot like digging a silver mine. As you rummage around your own head for precious nuggets (those really impactful scenes readers remember forever), you’re setting up a sturdy narrative shaft, using exposition and rising action to fortify walls so your story doesn’t collapse on itself.

Experienced miners know when a shaft isn’t structurally sound. They won’t willingly enter or work on a mine that could cave in on them, gauging the safety of the mine through small clues—clues their demanding boss is completely blind to. 

Your creative subconscious is a miner, and you, its employer. While not always, writer’s block could be an early sign that your story is about to collapse. Perhaps you’ve accidentally let a plot hole grow too large to fill with easy edits, or maybe the way you’re taking your story will fall flat, leaving you and your readers unsatisfied. Sure, you can force your creative subconscious to continue, but you’ll end up with a lot of unusable content in the end.

If you think you’re in a mine shaft writer’s block scenario, go back several plot points and start writing in another direction. If that doesn’t work, go back a few more plot points. While doing so may temporarily upset the plans you had for the novel, it will let you continue writing in peace and produce a better finished product.

[madude21]

Over time

Suzanne loved being pregnant with her bosses baby. Not only was he a good lover but also a great boss. When she started at a tech company she never imagined she would have it so easy.

At first she was just a regular secatatary, taking calls, scheduling meetings, and all the boring paper work no one wanted to do. After awhile she was sick of it and went to her boss ,Jack, to ask for a more important position.

She never really thought anything of him until she saw how dirty he really was. One day, as she approached his corner office she saw that it was locked and started to head back to her desk. Bit before that she heard a muffled "AAAHHH" sound.

Fearing her boss was in trouble she unlocked the door to help him. When the door was opened she saw Jack rubbingone out to his computer."GET THE HELL OUT" he yelled.

She quickly shut the door and stated back to her desk. So many thoughts were going through her head as she tried to forget about what she saw. Not 5 minutes had passed before Jack called her back into his office.

"I'm sorry you had to see that Suzanne, I know it was wrong and I'll think twice before trying that again. But please can we keep this between us, my dad would kill me if he found out what I did at his company" he explained

"I think we should get you a new lock. I got into your office with just a paper clip" Suzanne said in a calm voice. "What, why are you thinking about the door Suzanne"

"You can call me Suzie, and I think you're dad is the least of your worries". He gulped "I'm done for ain't I?" He asked with fear in his voice. "Now ever since I started here you've treated me fair and I think we can reach a fair agreement"

Jack thought the worst as he started to worry about what Suzie was planning. "what did you have in mind?"he asked in a shaky voice. "I know there a new branch management position open, I would like to have it" Suzie said smirking. "Done, it's yours" Jack said hoping that it was all. "There is one other thing". Susie got up and walk towards Jack with malicious intent.

"I want you put a baby's in me" Susie demanded. "What did you say?" Jack wanted to make sure that this was real. "With all this work I've been doing I haven't been able to really live a social life and I want to become a mother before it's too late". Jack was astonished, he didn't really have a social life either because he grew up rich and was basically raised by tutors. "I... uh... don't know what to say". "Don't say anything, just sit there and look pretty" Suzie bent over and took her panties off and dropped on the floor infront of him. Jack's heart raced as he couldn't believe what was happening right now. "Are we really doing this, right here, right now?". Susie ignored his words and started to unbuckle his pants. Jack was in shock, he knew that this was wrong but he was afraid of what she might do if he stopped her.

"just relax and try to be quiet this time" she put her leg over his chair, as her wet pussy hovered over his cock, she guided his dick inside her. "mmnng" she moned softly as to not draw any attention. Jack was enjoying himself until "hnnng" he didn't last long. Susie felt his worm cum inside her "that's ok boss, I got what I wanted". She got off him, turned around and bent over to pick he panties up.

"I'm not done yet" jack grabbed her wrist, his cock was still hard and his confidence had grown. "I don't mind making sure I'm pregnant" she leaned on his desk and presented her cum filled pussy. "I'm gonna enjoy this" he whispered in her ear as he started ramming his hips against her ass. His dick reaching deep inside her. They didn't care how loud they were, they fucked each other all morning that day.

That was 9 months ago and now Suzie sat in her own office with her beautifully round belly. Jack had her office custom made so that their coworkers were deaf to the sounds of their "one on one meetings". Jack entered her office and locked the door "thought we could have some fun before the meeting. How's my son doing". "he has been causing some trouble in there, I think he wants his daddy". Suzie bent over on here chair, awaiting Jack's dick. "You shouldn't even be working being a week overdue, but I can't deny that ass" Jack began fucking her. Wrapping his hands around her plump baby bump and feeling and his son kicking much more than usual "he's really fussy today huh?". Jack turned Suzie so that he could get a better grip of her belly "not so rough today" Suzie begged."I'll try" Jack responded as he pulled her belly aggenst his hips.

They made love for 20 minutes before the pains began. "Aaagh" " are you alright?" "Yes it's nothing, just don't stop". Jack continued, he couldn't resist her jucy pussy as it was extra wet today. " oh god, unnnggg" Suzie's water broke and soked her carpet floor. "Was that the baby" jack asked, worried. "No I just camed" she lied.

"Are you sure, that's a lot of juice" "yeah I've been drinking a lot of liquids" Susie didn't want to miss this meeting, she had to be present not because she needed to but she wanted to see Jack get his promotion. "I'll be fine I can last an hour before the baby comes" she thought. " you go get ready for the meeting, I'm going to clean up this mess and" she was interrupted by a painful contraction. "Are you ok" jack asked "just Braxton hics, nothing to worry about. You go I'll see you at the meeting" she said rushing him out the door. "Please, I want to see Jack inherent the company, just stay in there for a little while"

At the meeting, she was lucky to be seated at the far side, away from Jack. The CEO and Jack's dad, the owner and founder, sat at the other end of the table. As the meeting began the time between her contractions grew smaller. "It's only an hour, I can make it" she said as she felt her baby pushing against her cervix. The meaning was like any other boring corporate meeting. They started by sharing quarterly reports and future contracts. She couldn't focus on anything they were saying as she tried so hard to stay silent.

"Finally it was time for Jack to receive his promotion. Jack's father got up to address the room "now on to more exciting news, I think it's time to welcome our new CFO Jack" everyone in the room started clapping and as they did Suzie was able to let out a small whimper of pain as she felt like pushing. As the noise died down Jack started to speak "I am very honored to have this position and I would like to thank my branch manager, this could have happened without you Suzanne and I would like to thank you for all your hard work". She stood up trying very hard not to scream "thank you all for supporting me... I know times been tough but together we can-mnngg-get through it". She sat down quick, and as she did another contraction hit her.

When the meeting was overly quickly waddled to her office. She knew that she wasn't going to make it to the hospital and laid on the floor to push. A couple of minutes I'd pass and she could feel her baby halfway up the birth canal. Suddenly Jack swung the door opened " I knew it, why didn't you tell me?". "Just shut up and help me deliver this baby,I'm so close" she said pushing her baby. "No son of mine is being born in an office" Jack stuff cheese fingers inside Suzie and started to push their son back. "NNOOO, STOP" Suzie cried out in vain. "now I'm going to carry you and you're going to keep your legs shut until we get to the hospital, understood? " Suzie nodded.

The trip to the hospital was excruciating. Jack would constantly stick his fingers inside Suzie to make sure his baby stayed inside. Every time Suzie pushed he pushed back. But right as they got into the parking lot Suzie was able to push her babies head out. "PLEASE JUST LET ME FINNISH" "NO, YOU BETTER START WAIT TILL THE DELIVERY ROOM" Jack pulled her up. It was hard to walk when there was a baby in between her legs. Jack manage to find a wheelchair and sat her down. When they got to the lobby Jack yelled for the doctor's help but in vain because with one final push his son was born.

[criminal-mids]

#7 - Hoodie

Prompt: Borrowed Hoodie 

Sickie: Garcia

Caretaker: Morgan 

Word Count: 1,411

“Hah? What? Since when!?”

Garcia can’t believe it. She swears she hadn’t heard a word of this until now, and she usually keeps a tab on office renovation schedules because she knows the noise bothers Reid.

“Listen, lady, we’re just the repair guys, it’s not our fault your bosses didn’t tell you. Take it up with them. We still have our job to do. Feel free to work somewhere else.”

“Some- this is my place!” Garcia tries not to shriek, but she can’t help it when they’re shoving her oh-so-carefully painted minifigures aside for their dusty work bags. She rolls her chair over just in time to prevent an elf from being crushed and scoops the rest of her plastic children into her skirt, just to be safe.

“And the aircon is old and falling apart, it's an OSHA violation waiting to happen. If you wanna be in here when it causes a spark, be my guest.”

“UGH!”

The repair only takes a half hour, and truthfully, she is grateful, grumble as she may. A fire or even too much smoke could kill her hard drives.

The real problem is when they finish.

“Um, could you turn the heat up a bit, please?” Even through her chattering teeth, she tries to be kind to the repairmen. She knows how hard they work.

“Sorry, ma’am, not yet. We’re still workin’ out some kinks. The HVAC’s been updated and we’re still trying to patch in the new system and the old system together. As I said before, other parts of the building will be warmer, but hey, you’re welcome to remain in your fortress of solitude if you want.”

She suppresses the urge to roll her eyes.

‘Can’t they see I’ve got a complicated setup?’

But, she shows no outward aggression. She’s not really that upset, just cold. “It’s fine. Thank you for your help. Could you at least tell me when it’ll be fixed?”

“Sometime in the next few days.”

She can tell that’s as good as she’s getting so she nods and waves as they head out.

Instead, she directs her ire towards the faulty machine itself.

“If I could hack you I would, but you're older than me, so you're safe . . . for now.” She holds up the minuscule screwdriver from her glasses repair kit as she glares at the aircon.

- She was being dramatic before, but she really is well and chilled now.

‘Ugh. Isn’t this just Bonita?’

“I’m a California girl, I wasn't meant for the cold.” She whines to her screens.

‘If I catch a cold, I’ll really be annoyed. And everyone knows my brain goes to complete mush when I’m sick. I’m useless. I can’t afford to be out of commission, not when the team seems busier than ever. Maybe I should move outside. I can always come back in here real quick if I need more computing power. The team’s still on the jet, so I’ve got some time to compile files.’

-

“Garcia, we need a list of all homicides involving victims with cuspids removed. Go back at least 10 years. We think this may be our unsubs signature.” Hotch’s voice is firm, but calm, as usual.

“You got it, cap’”

‘All those records, I’ll need my office for that, ah, oh well.’

She hurries back to her little corner of Quantico, opening the door to find that it has, somehow, gotten colder.

Still, she sits down and gets to work.

-

Just as she hits send and gets up to retreat to the land of warmth, her screen dings.

It’s Rossi this time.

“What can I do for ya, Italian amor?” Penelope finds it hard to keep a cheery tone with the cold blasting at her, making her lips quiver, but she hopes she manages.

Her effort is wasted because Rossi ignores the quip, pressing straight to business. Another request that requires her big screens.

“All these records are from the way back when before our good friend the internet. They’re unorganised at best. Combining through all of them will take a while, I’ll pull as many as I can, and send them to you as I get them.”

“Good.”

He hangs up. She sits back down, huffing.

“Potential OSHA violation? This is an OSHA violation right here!” She mutters, pulling her cardigan around herself. 

‘If I’d known I’d be working in Antarctica today I would’ve worn a jumper.’

Nevertheless, she begins.

—

Her hands are freezing, her fingers stiff and every click of the keyboard takes conscious effort. Okay, maybe she’s being dramatic, but she’s a California girl! Can you blame her?

Just when she thinks she’s done, more files under the search parameters come up. It’s unusually demoralising.

‘If only I had a jumper or something. Note to self, pack extra clothes for future emergencies. . . . Wait, emergencies! That's it!’

She springs up, with newly formed determination, and heads out to the bullpen.

She has a destination in mind, but as she draws closer, doubt creeps in.

‘I hope he won’t mind. Is this creepy? No, it’ll be fine, I’ll wear it, then put it right back like nothing ever happened at all. That’s what I’ll do.’

She reassures herself as she approaches Morgan’s desk. Everyone has two go bags, just in case they don’t have time to wash one set of clothes before departing again.

Garcia knows that in this bag she’ll most likely find one of Morgan’s many grey or black hoodies. And she’s right.

It’s right on top. She takes it gingerly, slipping it on, careful not to disturb her hair ornaments. It’s warm and soft.

With the extra layer, her office feels almost normal. 

Her typing speed quickens again until she’s at normal capacity. Rossi gets the data within the next 15 minutes.

She sighs, happy with her work.

And, now that she takes time to notice it, ‘This hoodie does smell nice.’

She catches herself, then remembers she’s alone and takes another deep sniff. Morgan’s detergent has a pleasant smell that reminds her of him. Yeah, this was a good decision.

—

“Give us the best you got, pumpkin.” Morgan teases

“Oh, that’s for your ears only, handsome.” 

“I know. I’m going to transfer to video call, so you better be decent.”

“Never.” She teases with a theatrically breathy sigh.

The video chat opens revealing the team gathered around a desk, and maps in front of them.

“So Garcia, what did you find on-”

Prentiss cuts Reid off, “Wait, is that Morgan’s hoodie?”

Penelope blanches. “Wh-hat?” After a second of hesitation, she looks down, hoping by some miracle that all she’ll find is her cardigan and dress, but she already knows. She can still smell the detergent. “Oh, I- they were fixing the aircon in my office and it’s colder than the Fortress of Solitude in here so I just . . . I honestly don’t know what I was thinking! I wasn’t, I was just really cold! I can take it off. Let me just . . .” She fumbles with the hoodie, starting to pull it over her head.

“Slow down, baby girl. You look even cuter when you’re in my clothes, and I can’t have you catching a cold now can I, hmm?”

Penelope makes a noise somewhere between a squeak and squeal. “ . . . okay.”

Rossi clears his throat loudly, “Now, tell us what you found, we’re running out of time to find Kate.”

“Yes, at your service.” Still shaken, but with a new warmth in her chest, she continues.

—

“Baby girl, you in here?” Morgan’s familiar warm timbre drifts in from the door over the audio of an RPG game.

“Yes.” She blushes fiercely.

“I talked to Max and he said the system would be back to normal by tomorrow.”

“Oh, thank god. . . . I guess I should give this back to you then.” The end of the sentence is noticeably less enthusiastic than the beginning.

“Well, I was actually thinking you should keep it. Gotta mark my territory, don’t I?”

Penelope giggles, getting up to hug him.

He smells even nicer in person . . . like home, sometimes more so than the dozens of candles that fill her flat.

“Yeah.” then softer, “I’d wear a collar for you, Derek Morgan, you know that.”

“Tempting, but that can wait till tomorrow, it’s late, and even girl geniuses need their sleep.”

What a day, huh? And tomorrow she could come back to a warm office. Gideon was right, like he always said, life really is about the small things.